LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY ESTATE OF HUBERT ORRISS DE WITT'S ACTING EDITION. Bulwee's Plays BEING THE COMPLETE DRAMATIC WORKS LORD LYTTON, (SIK EDWARD LYTTON BULWEB, BABT.) COMPRISING THE LADY OF LYONS. MONEY. RICHELIEU. THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. WALPOLE. NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. FROM THE ORIGINAL TEXT, AS PRODUCED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF THE AUTHOR AND MR. MACREADY. fen ^ntirely New ^cting ^dition. WITH ADDITIONAL STAGE DIRECTIONS, ACCURATELY MARKED— FULL CAST OF CHARACTERS — SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY — COSTUMES — BILL FOR PRO- GRAMMES— STORY OF THE PLAY, AND REMARKS. EDITED By JOHN M. KINGDOM, Author of " Marcoretli," "The Fountain of Beauty," "A Li/t't Vengeance," " Tancred," etc. NEW YORK: ROBERT M. DE WITT, PUBLISHER, No. 33 Rose Street. (BETWEEN DUANE AND FRANKFORT STREETS.) Copyright, 1875, by Robert M. De Witt. THE LADY OF LYONS. Copyright, 1875, by Robert M. De Witt. 2 THK LADY OF LYONS. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Loudon, 1838. Claude Melnotte Mr. Macready. Colonel Damas Mr. Barti.ey. Bsauseant Mr. Elton. Glavis Mr. Meadows. Mons. Deschappelles Mr. Stkickland. Landlord Mr. Yarnold. Gaspar Mr. Didde a r. Captain Gervais (1st Officer) Mr. Howe. Captain Dupont (2d Officer) Mr. Pritchard. Major Desmoulins (3d Officer) Mr. .Roberts. Notary Mr. Harris. Servant Mr. Bender. Pauline Miss Helen Faucit. Madame Deschappelles Mrs. Clifford. Widow Melnotte Mrs. Griffiths. Janet Mrs. East. Marian Miss Garrick. Old Park Theatre, May 14, 1838. Mr. Edwin Forrest. Mr. Placide. Mr. Richikgs. Mr. Wu. Wheatley. Mr. Clarke. Mrs. Richardson. Mrs. Wheatley. Miss Cushman. TIME IN REPKESENTATION— THREE HOURS. SCENERY. The scene is laid in France, in the city of Lyons and the neighborhood, during the. period of 1795 to 1798 ACT I., Scene 7.— Room in the house of M. Deschappelles at Lyons. Garden scene background. .. | Window. | .. 4th Groove. 4th Groove. r. 2 e. Sofa. * Table. Chair * O Table. * Chair. l. 2 e. The flats in the 4th grooves represent one side of a handsomely furnished room ; in the centre a large window, open, beyond which are beautiful gardens. The wings correspond with the room. A rich sofa placed in an oblique direction, r. C. Near r. 2 e. a small table, r. h. of sofa, with notes, letters, and bouquet of flowers in vase upon it. Rich table and chairs, L. c. (Scene //.—Exterior of a small village inn, in the 2d grooves. The left half of the THE LADT OF LYONS. scene represents a portion of the inn ; casement and practicable door ; above it 13 painted the sign of the inn, " The Golden Lion ; " the right half of the scene repre- sents open country, with the city of Lyons in the distance; a working moon to be used in Act HI. but not in this scene. Scene 111.— Interior of the Widow Melnotte's cottage. 4th Groove. .. | Window. | . . | Door. | ith Groove. Stairs. B 3E."| I Mantel- R. 2 e. piece. Table. Easel. Chair. Chair. Door. L. -I E. L. 1 E. In the 4th grooves the flat represents one side of a neat and homely cottage. R. u. e. a flight of stairs, projecting some distance on the stage, leading to the upptr rooms. Door l. f. Practicable lattice window, c. f., with curtains drawn b.icK. Door l. h., between 2 E. and 3 e. Painter's easel with pictures upon it, brushes, etc., placed c, in a slanting direction towards the window, covered by a curtain. Chairs l. c. and r. c— plain oaken chairs. Mantel-piece r. h., between 2 e. and 3 e., and over it, fencing foils, crossed. Flowers on the mantel-piece and at the win- dow, through which flower garden is seen; underneath the window an oaken table with guitar and portfolio upon it. Everything has a neat and clean appearance. ACT II., Scene /.—The gardens of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons. The flats placed in the 4th grooves represent beautiful gardens. Wings 11. H., to correspond. From l. s. e. up to the flats a portion of the house is shown, and another portion in continuation, l. h. f., with entrance -ways l. 3 e. and l. u. e. A CT 111., Scene /.—Exterior of the Golden Lion Inn. Same as Scene II., Act I., only that it is now evening and the moon rises during the progress of the business of the Scene. Scene //.—Interior of the Widow Melnotte's cottage, as before. Window. Door. 4th Groove.- Stairs. 3e. I 4th Groove. Chair. * L. 3 E. B. 2 e. Table. f Chair. Door. Mantel- piece. r. 1 E. ■l. 2. E. l. 1 E. In the 4th grooves one side of the apartment as before, but the window curtains are drawn. A ch_air between the door and window, another L. u. u. E. A table c, with cloth, plates, etc., spread for supper. Candlestick and lighted candle. A chair on either side, r. c. and l. c. ACT IV., See ne /.— Same as the last, but the cloth and supper things have leen removed and in their place writing materials ; the candle remains. ACT V., Scene /.—A street in Lyons. The old French style of houses, in 2d grooves 4 TDK LADY OF LYONS. Scene //.—Room in the house of M. Deschappelles— as before, but not so rich- ly furnished. 4th Groove | I ! I *tb tiroove. Window. Door. B. 3 E. L- 3 B. Chair.* Chair.* n. 2 e. :••: l. 2 e. : : Chair.* Table. k. 1 e. Chair.* l. 1 e. In the 4th grooves the scene represents the side of the apartment. "Window, c. f., garden beyond. D. l. f. A table and chairs e. c, with writing materials upon it. Chairs l. 2 e. and l. v. e. COSTUMES. Claude Melnotte.— Act J.— Loose blouse, blue, with waist belt, cap, and loose, light trousers, and shoes — but all of good quality. Act II. — Dark green coat with broad facings, broad black braid across breast and cuffs ; knee breeches, dark silk stockings, shoes and buckles, black hat, turned up with a side loop. Act ///.^-Same with the addition of a cloak. Act 1\— Blue military coat with broad tails, broad lappels faced with white and trimmed with lace, and also cuffs, epaulettes; white small clothes and knee boots fitting to leg, belt and tri- colored sash, and sword, three-cornered hat with tri-colored knot. Moustache ; complexion bronzed, and military cloak. Colonel Dajias. — Act I. — Blue coat and vest, trimmed with lace, broad lappels and cuffs, dark pantaloons and tight boots ; tri-colored knot on three-cornered hat. Act V. — Similar dress to Claude's, with the exception of the cloak. Beauseant. — Act I. — Dark claret-colored coat, reaching to the knee, broad lappels and facings braided, and also on the cuffs ; pantaloons and high boots, after the Hessian style, fitting close to the leg ; three-cornered hat with tri-color. Act V. — Similar kind of coat, 'white knee-breeches, stockings, and shoes with buckles ; three-cornered hat and rosette. Glavis.— Act I. — Similar to Beatjseant's, but not quite so good in appearance. Mons. Deschappelles. — Act I. — Dark gray surtout coat, reaching to the knees, broad lappels, silk facings and braid, as also on cuffs, knee-breeches, three-cor- nered hat and rosette. Act V. — A similar dress, but rather mean in appearance. landlord.— Blue blouse, loose breeches, and gaiters, white apron, and half sleeves, white, from wrist to elbow. Gasp ar.— Coarse blouse or short jacket, wide trousers, shoes, and cap of liberty. / Similar dresses to Col. Damas, but not so heavily orna- Capt. Dupont. > . , . ' _. V mented or rich looking. Major Desmotjlins. j Notary. — Black stuff gown, fastened round the waist and reaching nearly to the feet, skull cap with broad top, black pantaloons, stockings and shoes. Servants.— Similar to Gasper. Pauline.— Act. /.—Rich silk dress (any color), high waisted, arms bare, lace shawl or scarf over shoulders, rose in hair, which is worn plain, small bonnet. Act 11. —Similar costume, but of different material. Act V.— Plain dark dress, meaner ia appearance than before, edged with white trimmings, neck and sleeves. THE LADY OF LYONS. 5 Madame Deschappelles.— Act /.—Rich green silk dress, trimmed with lace, small bonnet, black lace scarf. Act V.— Plain black dress, moderately trimmed with lace. Widow Me lnotte.— Plain brown stuff dress, neat white cap and apron, shoes with buckles Janet. ) Dresses of plain materials, white caps and aprons, blue stockings and Marian. \ shoes. PROPERTIES. ACT I., Scene. 1.— Eich sofa; two tables; three or four chairs ; bouquet of flowers in vase ; letters and notes. Scene 2.— A bill of fare. Scene 3.— An old-fashioned oaken table ; portfolio ; guitar ; painter's easel ; brushes and palette ; painting on it of a female bust, covered by a curtain ; two or three vases of flowers in the latticed window and on the mantel-piece ; two old-fashioned chairs ; rifle for Claude ; letters for Gaspab and Beausbant's servant. ACT II., Scene 1. — Fan for Mad. Deschappelles; diamond ring and snuff-box for Claude ; letters ; two swords. ACT III., Scene 1. — Purse with money for Beauseant. Scene 2. — Old-fashioned oak table ; four chairs ; tablecloth, plates, etc. ; candle and candlestick. ACT IV., Scene 1.— Same as last scene, except that the cloth and plates have been removed ; writing materials ; pistol for Beauseant ; folded paper for Claude. ACT V., Scene 1, — Snuff-box for Deschapelles. Scene 2.— Table, not very rich- looking, and four chairs; folded paper for M. Deschapelles; marriage con- tract, papers and bag for Notary ; writing materials ; bundle of banknotes for Beauseant ; pocket-book and notes for Claude. STORY OF THE PLAT. In the year 1795 there resided in the quaint old city of Lyons in France a wealthy family by the name of Deschappelles. The husband had amassed a large fortune as a silk manufacturer, and had passed through the early part of the Revolution with- out sustaining any noticeable loss. Madame Deschappelles, as frequently the case, was the ruler of the house ; and the success of her husband in amassing wealth had put into her head very high and aristocratic notions far beyond her position, and certainly not in keeping with the Republican spirit of the times. They had but one child, Pauline, a girl of such surpassing and attractive loveliness, that old and young —rich and poor— all paid homage to her as the Beauty of Lyons. For her, Madame Deschappelles was fully determined a brilliant marriage should be brought about. It was true that the aristocracy of France had been cleared out, the Revolution had reduced every one to a common level, only one degree of rank was known, that of " citizen," but the designing mother conceived it to be possible to catch some foreign prince or nobleman who might be travelling incog. ; no matter how it was to be brought about, nothing less than a prince was to possess the hand of the rich and beautiful Lady of Lyons, Amongst the numerous suitors, who had made an offer of his heart and fortune, and had been rejected, was a Mons. Beauseant, who, if his deceased father had not been deprived of his title, would have been a Marquis, but as he was not one, he fell below Madame Deschappelles' standard of perfection, and in spite of the temp- tation of his great wealth, his offer was refused. It is at this point the play com- mences. Smarting severely under the indignity he considered he had suffered by receiving a refusal from a merchant's daughter, and the ridicule he wojild be exposed to 6 THIS LADY OF LYONS. throughout the city when it became known, he resolves to be revenged, to seek some plan to humble her pride severely ; an opportunity soon presents itself. On journeying from Lyons to his chateau, he meets with one of his friends, M. Glavis, to whom, whilst baiting his horses at the Golden Lion Inn, a few miles from the city, he reveals all that has taken place and his intentions. As he is doing so, he is interrupted by loud shouts of " Long live the Prince." This cry of " Prince," when royalty and nobility no ionger existed, astonishes him, and he calls out the landlord of the inn to give an explanation. From this source he finds that the so called prince is the pride of the village— Claude Melnotte— the only son of a deceased gardener, who had left him pretty well off, with a mother who doated upon him. Upon the father's death, a great change was observed in Claude. He threw up his trade, took to reading and studying much, hired a professor from Lyons, and soon became an accomplished scholar, a skillful fencer, a musician, and an artist. Hand- some, strong, and brave, the lads of the village swore by him and the girls prayed for him. They called him " Prince " because he was at the head of them all, had a proud bearing, wore fine clothes, and, in fact, as they said, " looked like a prince." Beauseant further learned that it was reported and believed, Claude Melnotte was madly in love with the Beauty of Lyons— the seeds of the passion having been first planted when he worked with his father in M. Deschappelles' garden ; and that upon his father's death, it wis the ambitious hope of winning her had induced him to seek the education and accomplishments which he had so successfully done. It was believed, however, that the Beauty of Lyons had never seen him, to know of, or to encourage, his love. The idea at once strikes Beauseant that here are the means of revenge. He will induce Claude to pass himself off as a foreign prince, travelling quietly for pleasure, provide him with money, jewels, horse3, carriages, servants ; introduce him as such to the Deschappelles family, m ike him propose to Pauline, and, by working upon the ambitious pride of her mother, bring about a marriage ; then strip him of his borrowed plumes and crush the haughty beauty. Accordingly he sends a letter to Claude requesting him to come to the inn. After his success in winning the rifle prizes at the village festival, Claude returns to his mother's cottage, elated with joy, but his mind is still occupied with the grand desire of his existence— to be worthier to love Pauline. In vain does his lov- ing mother point out the absurdity of his hopes. Useless — day and night he thinks and dreams of her ; every morning he sends her the choicest flowers he can pick ; he has painted her image from memory ; nay, more, that morning he has gone to the fullest extent ; he has set forth his worship in poetry, signed his own name, and sent the verses to her by a trusty messenger. Alas ! a fearful blow awaits him. His messenger returns not only bringing back the letter which had been thrown at his feet, but also the galling news that he had been driven from the door with kicks and blows. Crushed and bewildered, Claude's every hope seems blasted, when Beau- seant's letter is brought in. It promises success (the writer telling him he knows his secret), upon condition that he will undertake to bear his bride to his mother's cottage on the wedding night. Is revenge or love the stronger ? Half frenzied as he is, he goes with the messenger and the compact is made. By well contrived means, he is introduced into the family of the Deschappelles ns the Prince of Como, travelling incognito, for fear of the interference of the Re- publican government, and by his presumed rank but real attraction and accomplish- ments, very soon secures the love of Pauline and the consent of her parents to a union. His conduct, however, does not please Colonel Damas, a rough and ready soldier, and cousiu to Pauline ; he suspects there is some deception, and to test him, ad- dresses him in Italian, a language which Claude is, unfortunately, not master of; he evades it as best he can, but only to convince the Colonel of the correctness of his suspicions, and he determines to insult him and force him to fight. With the infatu- ated mother and daughter, Claude is more successful ; they do not see any absolute reason why an Italian Prince is bound to speak or understand his native tongue. THE LADY OF LYONS. 7 He further enchants Pauline, by the description lie gives, not of his own palace on the lake of Coino, but of a palace of eternal love and summer, joy and happiness — one of the most exquisite pieces of poetry ever written. Beauseant now claims from him the fulfillment of the bond ; he hesitates. Beau- seant points out to him, that Dumas suspects him, the police will be set to work, arrest will follow, he wiil be sent to jail as a swindler, and Pauline will despise and execrate him. He consents, and is left alone — Damas returns, and insists, now that the ladies are not there, upon crossing swords with him. Excitedly, Claude accepts the offer, after a few passes disarms the Colonel, and generously returns him his sword. Delighted with his skill and gentlemanly bearing, the officer prom- ises that if Claude should ever want his assistance or friendship, be he a prince or not, he shall have it. Immediately, upon quitting Claude, Beauseant finds means to fi'oat a story that the republican authorities are looking after the prince ; consequently an immediate marriage is absolutely necessary ; this is agreed to and it takes place. By a strange chance, the carriage conveying Claude and his bride to his mother's cottage, according to the bond with Beauseant, breaks down, near the Golden Lion Inn, and they are obliged to alight and seek shelter there. They are exposed to the half-suppressed smiles and ridicule of the landlord and his servants, who, of course, recognize Claude, though not openly ; all of which is a great mystery to Pauline, and the more so, when Claude induces her to continue the journey on foot, as she believes him to be strange to the place : but the climax is reached, and her agony intensified, when she is led into the humble dwelling of the Widow Meluotte. Light breaks upon her — the veil is lifted from her eyes : she has been deceived — all is revealed — and in bitter language she reproaches him for his conduct. In a speech of most beautiful pathos and faultless construction, Claude pictures to her the story of his love, his hopes and sufferings, and lays at her feet his hus- band's rights, declaring that a marriage so brought about is null and void, accord- ing to the laws of France — that under his aged mother's care she shall, that night, sleep in peace and safety, and in the morning he will restore her to her father, pure and unsullied as he had received her. "With broken-heart and fevered brain, he writes to M. Deschappelles, and in the morning awaits patiently his arrival. Beauseant takes the opportunity to call, to gloat over the misery he has created, and in the excitement of his triumph, goes so far as to insult Pauline, but the strong arm of her husband hurls him oil, and he re- treats with threats of renewed vengeance. M. Deschappelles arrives, and Claude, after a brief explanation, places in his hands a full confession of the fraud that has been practiced, and his consent to a divorce — that pure and spotless he yields her back, and in a distant land he intends to mourn his sin, and pray for peace and forgiveness. Here comes forth a fine burst of mater- nal love ; in sorrow or in guilt, the widow will not disown her son : for no divorce can part them. This noble feeling arouses the woman and the wife in Pauline, and throwing herself into Claude's arms, she implores him to take her to his bosom. Her parents threaten to discard and disinherit her — Claude is inexorable ; he refuses firmly. Colonel Damas is charmed with his noble bearing, he tells him he is leaving that day to join the Army of Italy, and offers to take him. It is done ; fame or death are before him ; with a bitter struggle, Claude Melnotte sets out for the army. Two years and a half elapse. Time has worked changes with all. M. Deschappelles has suffered such heavy reverses that he stands upon the brink of ruin. Beauseant, aware of this, offers to help him in return for Pauline's hand ; to save her father from destruction she consents to the marriage. Claude, under the assumed name of Morier, has passed safely through the cam- paign, and returns wealthy, renowned, and with the rank of Colonel. Damas learns of the intended marriage, and he suggests that Claude, who, with his altered ap- pearance, through hard service and change of dress, is not likely to be recognized, should be present at the signing of the contract of marriage — to take a last fare- b THE LADY OF LYONS. well ; to this he agrees. Damas introduces hiru as his most particular friend and as a bosom comrade of Claude. Pauline eagerly, appeals to him to bear to Claude her undying love, and tells him of the reason that she is making the sacrifice of all earthly happiness. Beauseant produces the roll of notes he is ready to hand over upon the signing of the contract. Pauline is about to do so, when Claude, seizing the contract, tears it into pieces, at the same time throwing to the merchant twice the proffered amount. Beauseant retires defeated and angered ; with the others all is happiness. Claude has blotted the stain from his name and redeemed his honor ; Pauline has regained her husband ; the merchant is restored to his high position ; and even Madam Deschappelles admits ; •' A Colonel and a hero ! Well, that's something !" REMARKS. As "good wine needs no bush " so any panegryic upon the brilliant writings of Lord Lytton (but who will always be better known and spoken of as " Bulwer'" — >Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer)-»-is perfectly unnecessary. The hold that his works have taken in America is very great, and his reputation is daily increasing. For a long time yet across the Atlantic, will live the name and works of James Fenimore Cooper, and equally so on this side rise those of Bulwer. Nor is this to be wondered at, when the most glowing enconiums possible have been passed upon him in every circle. Blackivood's Magazine said of him ; " To Bulwer, the author of ' Pelham,' ' The Caxtons ' and ' My Novel,' we assign the highest place among modern writers of fiction. There is always power in the creation of his fancy : he is always polished, witty, learned. Since the days of Scott were ended, there is, in our own opinion, no pinacle so high as that on which we hang our wreath to Bulwer." And the great American author, Edgar A. Poe, spoke of him thus : " Who is there uniting the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the fancy, and the learn- ing of Bulwer? In a vivid wit — in profundity and a gothic massiveness of thought — in style— in a calm certainty of definitiveness of purpose — in industry, and, above all, in the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable faculties of mind, he is unequalled." Such are specimens of the universal opinion entertained of the author of " The Lady of Lyons " " Richelieu " and " Money," Plays which will retain their posi- tion on the stage for years and years to come, and which will be published in this series, in the order named : The period chosen for the incidents of the present play, is some years after the commencement of the Revolution in France. Arising chiefly from oppressive taxa- tion, a spirit of discontent had long been growing up amongst the middle and lower classes against the sovereign power and the aristocracy. Political intrigues and crafty, remorseless schemes fed and fanned the fl ime which spread throughout the country with fearful and terrible rapidity. Many of the people and their leaders lost their heads by wild and ferocious delirium ; the royal family and hundreds of the nobility and gentry lost theirs by the guillotine. And so, in one continual scene of tumult, riot, debauchery and blood, year after year had passed on — now one party ruling, and now another, until at the period when the play commences, the governing power consisted of a body of men, or deputies, chosen from the people — and termed " The Directory " — all of them " Citizens," the only term recognized- all degrees of nobility and rank having been abolished. The author's good judgment is most felicitously shown in selecting France and this period for the action of his play. Its emotional style is precisely of the nature to be found in that country, and the events then in progress enabled him to send his THE LADY OF LYONS. 9 hero into the array and raise him naturally, and with a rapidity that was then not at all uncommon, to honor and wealth, instead of resorting to the old stagey devices of "unexpected fortune," " death of a wealthy uncle in India," and other reasons ad libitum and ad nauseam. Auy and every position was open to a daring and suc- cessful soldier. Napoleon Bonaparte progressed from an artillery lieutenant to First Consul and Emperor; Claude Melnotte was more modest in his ambition, he was content to stop at Colonel. Though very beautiful, in many respects, the play is undoubtedly to some extent faulty and forced in construction, yet, at the same time, the quickness of action, telling points, and beauty of language, rivet and please an audience and push aside any imperfections. It is a curious fact, but fact it is, that very few good poets or novelists make good playwrights, their works require more excision and reforming than those written direct for the stage by practical dramatic hands. The Lady of Lyons, as acted, dif- fers much from the dramatic poem as originally published. Upon the first production of this play, at Covent Garden Theatre Royal, Lon- don, in 1838, it had the advantage of being most effectively cast — and probably never since have all the parts been so well and evenly filled. It must, however, be remem- bered, that the author knew what the company could do, and had them in mind when he wrote the play. Every person engaged, rose afterwards to a leading posi- tion in the profession. Mr. Macready, the representative of the hero of the play, was in every respect admirably adapted to the part. Educated for the bar, he quit- ted that profession for the stage, and combining a fine appearance with high intel- lect, an excellent voice and good elocution, ae was all that the author could desire. He continued his successful career for mmy years! "and held his position against all comers. Mr. Elton made one of the best Bcauseants ever seen upon the stage. He steadily increased his laurels, and at the time of his lamented death (he was lost at sea) he occupied a position in the gallery of public favorites. Mr. Diddear made a hit in the small but telling part of Caspar, and afterwards led a good career. Claude Melnotte is a fine drawn character. It depictures well high ambition, ardent love, and at the same lime a deep sense of true nobility and honor. His pride, his consciousness of possessing sterling merit worthy of the best of women, are for the moment crushed by the insulting treatment to his messenger, and the scornful rejection of his verses. It is at this opportune moment for evil, that the tempter comes, and he falls an easy victim to Beauseant's artful plans. But the principles of reason and honor revive ; his eyes open to the discovery of the cruel fraud he has committed, and the grievous wrong and sacrifice he was about to cause for his own selfish ends. In true and pure nobility of spirit, he restores Pauline to her parents; lost to him forever unless he should succeed in the path of glory. This character has always been a great favorite with leading actors. Macready was followed by Charles Kean, Phelps, Creswick, James Anderson, and a host of others, by all of whom it was well rendered, and last, though by no means least, Barry Sul- livan, who may be considered at the present period, the best Claude Melnotte on the English stage. The celebrated French actor, M. Fechter, also appeared in it, and in aversion upon which he exercised his high tilents and skill, by making various little practical alterations, he met with very great success, as he does in most of his parts. Pauline is a sweet but somewhat curious type of woman. She has a warm, loving and sensitive heart, much injured by the lofty aspirations and vanity instilled into her by her flattering and ambitious mother. Not only by his presumed rank, but by his warm and passionate love and glowing language, Claude has won her affec- tions, and though the fearful discovery of his deceit crushes them for the time, the true woman speaks forth and remains firm to the end. She is willing to give her hand to save her father from ruin, but, heart and soul, her love is Claude's. Miss Helen Faucit was everything that could be desired to realize the author's picture. Young, beautiful, and accomplished, she made a great hit, and for many years afterwards held firm ground in public favor. Her intellect, beauty, talent and 10 THE LADY OF LVO> T S. purity, won for her, as a husband, an accomplished scholar, gentleman, and lawyer (Mr. Theodore Martin), and there has, perhaps, never boeu a finer scene than when she took her farewell of the stage. In Colonel Damas we have a well-drawn specimen of an honest and blunt soldier. He openly expresses his disapprobation of the scheming 1 high notions of his rela- tives, and with the keenness of a well-trained soldier, he sees through the duplicity of Claude. But, rough as he is, he is open to conviction, and the skill and gallant bear- ing of his adversary wiu his admiration, his assistance and friendship. It is a capi- tal part, giving ample scope for a good actor to make it a most effective one. The Widow Melnotte is a neat little genial part. It is very touching when well played — the forcible points of maternal love are strongly and judiciously shown. M. Deschappelles is simply a man of business ; little sentiment or affection enters into his mind ; his wife " rules the roost," and he looks after the money. Madame Deschappelles is an excellent specimen of a vain, ambitious woman, whose only heaven seems to be " princes " or " lords.'' To the shrine of one or the other she is r jady to sacrifice her daughter, and has carefully schooled her thoughts in that direction. Beauseant is a crafty, self-inflated, and designing mm; without principle, and presuming upon his father's former aristocratic position and his own wealth, he thinks, like many of a similar class in the present day, that they are sufficient to ensure success in everything he may undertake, and compliance with all his wishes — without the slightest regard to the claims of merit and the principles of honesty and integrity. Even the landlord of the inn is a very neat little part, and can be made much of in the hands of a careful actor. 'Touching upon this, I remember an anecdote told me in England by the late "William Searle, who occupied a very fair position in his profession. He was well educated, but like many young men at that time starting in the profession, he had, in travelling through the country, very much trouble to make both ends meet when business was not good — very often to slip away at nights and leave his lodgings unpaid. Upon one occasion, the company he was with was broken up. He sought, of course, a new engagement ; he was but little known, and after a few words with the manager of another company, the question was ab- ruptly put to him, " Can you do the Landlord in the Lady of Lyons J" To which he promptly and wittily replied, " I should say so, undoubtedly ; I have done a good many landlords in my time, and never once failed." He was engaged. Now let us cross the water and come home. The eminent and great actor, Edwin Forrest, had appeared in London, in October, 1836, at the Theatre Boyal, Drury Lane, as Spartacus in Dr. Bird's tragedy of th3 Gladiator, and achieved a decided success. He was intensely pleased with the production of the Lady of Lyons— his keen intellect and high genius at once Baw and appreciated the beauty of the concep- tion, and that its success here was as certain as in England. He returned to New York, and produced it at the Old Park Theatre, May 14, 1838, himself, of course, playing the hero. All the genius, energy, ability, and talent of this truly great ac- • tor were concentrated on the part; and from all the authorities I have looked at, it was a grand success, and I have little doubt his rendering of the character was equal to that of Macready 's. Throughout the play he appears to have been well supported by an attractive and efficient Pauline, as also by an excellent Damas, Beauseant, and Madame Deschappelles. Taken altogether, it must have been cast almost as effectively as upon its first production. So successful was it, that the first three nights' takings are said to have realized $4,200. Mr. Forrest made this all through his life a f ivorite character, following it afterwards with Bulwcr's succeeding plays of Money and Riehelieu. Mr. G. V. Brooke was another fine delineator of the character ; indeed, it was al- most the last he played in England previous to his departure for Australia in the unfortunate steamer, the London, which was wrecked in the Bay of Biscay, Jan. 11, 186G, when he and nearly all on board perished. Mr, P. B. Conway, so recently deceased, also p'ayed the character at the Broad- 1HE LADY OF LYONS. 11 way Theatre, with considerable success. He had been educated in England previ- ously in an exeeleut school, having had much experience in Dublin with Miss Helen Faucit (the original l'auline), and in London with the accomplished, beauti- ful, and versatile actress, Madame Vestris. Mr. Thomas Placide, who played Colonel Damas, was a gentleman of much ex- perience, having made his first appearance at the Park Theatre in 1S23, and after- wards he visited England ; his performance of the part is well recorded. Mr. llichiugs, who filled the character of Beauseant, was an old stager at the Talk Theatre, having first appeared there upon his arrival from England in Sept., 1821, as Harry Bertram, in " Guy Manneriug." He continued a great favorite in the city until 1839, when he left for Philadelphia. He rendered the character of the rejected suitor in a style quite equal to the original. Mrs. Wheatley's Madame Descheppelles is recorded as a finished piece of acting. She was one of the best representatives of old women upon the American stage. Possessed of remarkable study, she mastered the most difficult compositions with astounding rapidity, and her vivid and life-like acting was of a character that once seen could never be forgotten. Indeed, from all accounts, her Madame Deschap- pelle3 was a perfect gem. One of the sweetest Paulines was Miss Laura Addison. She made a great hit in England, and first appeared at the Broadway Theatre, New York, in Sept., 1851. Twelve months afterwards she died on board the steamer Oregon, on her passage from Albany to New York, and her sudden demise created a great sensation. She was buried in the Marble Cemetery, Second street, New York ; foul play was sus- pected, but a post-mortem examination showed that congestion of the brain was the cause of her death. It is impossible to give anything like a list of those who have taken the leading characters. As Claude, besides those previously named, we have seen Charles Dil- lon, J. C. Freer, D. W. Osbaldiston, Watkins Burroughs, T. C. King, George Van- denhoff, Herman Vezin, E. L. Davenport, and a host of others. As Pauline, Miss Elsworthy, Miss Vincent, Mrs. C. Dillon, Kate Saxon, Kate Reignolds, Mrs. H. Vezin (formerly Mrs. Charles Young), Mrs. Mowatt, Mrs. J. B. Booth, and Mrs. Sinclair Forrest, etc., etc. Wherever and whenever produced, and even with the drawback of an inferior cast, the intrinsic merits of the three plays are such that they have been and always will be successful. It is to me quite certain that not one jot of their brilliancy and effect has been lost by their transfer to the American boards. J. u. k. 12 THE LADY/ OF LYONS. BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, Etc. The events of this Play take place at the city of Lyons, in France. Period, 1795 to 1798. ACT I . Scene I.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MONS. DE-CIIAPPELLES. The Beauty of Lyons — The Mysterious Flowers — An Offer of Marriage — The Refusal. Scene II.— EXTERIOR OF "THE GOLDEN LION INN," WITH DISTANT VIEW OF THE CITY OF LYONS. The Rejected Suitor— Plans for Revenge— The Slcp-y of Claude Melnotte, the Gardener's Son — His Love for the Beauty of Lyons — The Letter and the Trap. Scene III.— INTERIOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTES COTTAGE. Claude Melnotte, the " Prince '" of Riflemen— A Story of Ambition — An Artist's Love and a Painter's Idol — The Poetry of Love — Indignity and Disgrace -The Scheme of Revenge begins to Work — The Letter and the Snare — The Bird Caught. ACT II. Scene I.— THE GARDENS OF MONS. DESCHAPPELLES' HOUSE, AT LYONS. The Plot Succeeds— The Gardener's Sort Changed into a Prince— Free Gifts — A Dream of Love and Fairyland — Darkness Approaches— A Forced Marriage with the Beauty of Lyons — A Duel and a Generous Adversary —Threatened Arrest and a Hasty Marriage—" Woo, Wed, and bear her Home," so runs the Bond. ACT III. Scene I.— EXTERIOR OF "THE GOLDEN LION INN." MOON- LIGHT. The Mask falling off— Departure of the Pretended Prince and his Bride for Home. Scene IL— INTERIOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTES COTTAGE. Humble Preparations for a Wedding Supper — Surprise and Explanations — The Fraud Detected — A Thrilling Story of Love — A Bride but no Wife. ACT IV. Scene I.— INTERIOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTE'S COTTAGE. MORNING. Claude's noble Sacrifice and Devotion — A Mother's holy Love — Triumph of the Rejected Suitor — A Libertine's Attack — A Husband to the Rescue — The Last Embrace — The Fraud Confessed — Claude Consents to a Divorce — Devotion of the Beauty of Lyons — " Too late! I achieve Rank and Fame, or fall upon the Field!" — Departure of Claude for the Army of Italy. TWO TEARS AND A HALF ELAPSE. THE LADY OF LYONS. 13 ACT V. Scene I.— A STREET IN LYONS. Return from the War — The Mysterious Colonel — Honor, Fame and Fortune — Divorce of the Beauty of Lyons — A Plan for the Last Look of Love. Scene II.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MONS. DESCHAPELLES. Preparations for the Marriage of Pauline and the Rejected Suitor — A Daughter's Heart Sold to Save a Ruined Father — The Mysterious Colo- nel Again — " He is a Friend of Claude Melnotte " — Story of a Woman's Love — Pauline's Confession — " Tell him I love him, but a father calls upon his child to save him. We shall meet again hi heaven!" — The Stakes are Doubled and Claude toins the Race — A Wife Regained — A Parent's Honor Saved — Unity of Love and Pride — Happy Re-union of Claude Melnotte and THE LADY OF LYONS. EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. E. 3e. B.3&. / / / (SCENE. \ L. 3 E. \ \ L. 22. L. IE* R. B. 0. 0. ti, 0. "L. AUDIENCE. l. Left. l. o. Left Centre. l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. L. 3 e. Left Third Entrance. L. u. e. Left Upper Entrance (wherever this Scene may be.) D. L. c. Door Left Centre. C. Centre. E. Eight. B. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. B. 2 E. Eight Second Entrance. B. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance. B.-U. E. Eight Upper Entrance. D. e. o Door Right Centre. 14 1HE LADY OF LYONS. AUTHOR'S PREFACE. An indistinct recollection of the very pretty little tale, called "The Bellows- Mender," suggested the plot of this Drama. The incidents are, however, greatly altered from those of the tale, and the characters entirely recast. Having long had a wish to illustrate certain periods of French history, so, iu the selection of the date in which the scenes of this play are laid, I saw that the era of the RepuLIic was that in which the incidents were rendered most probable, in which the probationary career of the hero could well be made sufficiently rapid for dramatic effect, and in which the character of the time itself was depicted by the agencies necessary to the conduct of the narrative. For during the early years of the first and most brilliant successes of the French Republic, in the general ferment of society, and the brief equalization of ranks, Claude's high-placed love, his ardent feelings, his unsettled principles (the struggle between which makes the passion of this drama), his ambition, and his career, were phenomena that characterized the age, and in which the spirit of the nation went along with the extravagance of the individual. The play itself was composed with a twofold object. In the first place, sympa- thizing with the enterprise of Mr. Macready, as Manager of Covent Garden, and be- lieving that many of the higher interests of the Drama were involved ia the success or failure of an enterprise equally hazardous and disinterested, I felt, if I may so presume to express myself, something of the Brotherhood of Art, and it was only for Mr. Macready to think it possible that I might serve him in order to induce me to make the attempt. Secondly, in that attempt I was mainly anxious to see whether or not, after the comparative failure on the stage of " The Duchess de la Valliere," certain critics had truly declared that it was not in my power to attain the art of dramatic construc- tion and theatrical effect. I felt, indeed, that it -was in this that a writer, accus- tomed to the narrative class of composition, would have the most both to learn and a?)learu. Accordingly, it was to the development of the plot and the arrangement of the incidents that I directed my chief attention -and I sought to throw whatever belongs to poetry less into the diction and the ' ' felicity of words " than into the con- struction of the story, the creation of the characters, and the spirit of ^he pervading, sentiment. The authorship of the play was neither avowed nor suspected until the play had established itself in public favor. The announcement of my name was the signal for attacks, chiefly political, to which it is now needless to refer. "When a work has outlived for some time the earlier hostilities t>f criticism, there comes a new race of critics to which a writer may, for the most part, calmly trust for a fair considera- tion, whether of the faults or the merits of bis performance. THE LADY OF LYONS ; OR, LO YE AKD PRIDE. ACT I. SCENE I. — A room in the house of M. Deschappelles, at Lyons. Pau- line reclining on a sofa, k. ; Marian, her maid, finning her, r. Flow- ers and notes on a tabic beside the sofa ; Madame Deschappelles seated at a table, l. c. The gardens are seen from the open window. Mme. Deschap. Marian, put that rose a little more to tlie left (Ma- rian alters the position of a rose in Pauline's hair) Ah, so ! that improves the hair — the tournure, the/c ne sais quoi ! You are certainly very hand- some, child! — quite my style— I don't wonder that you make such a sensation ! — old, young, rich, and poor do homage to the Beauty of Lyons ! Ah, we live again in our children — especially when they have our eyes and complexion ! Pauline {languidly) Dear mother, you spoil your Pauline, (aside) I wish I knew who sent me these flowers. Mme. Deschap. No, child. If I praise you, it is only to inspire you with a proper ambition. You are born to make a great marriage. Beau- ty is valuable or worthless according as you invest the property to the best advantage. Marian, go" and order the carriage ! [Exit Marian, r. 3 e. Pauline. Who can it be that sends me, every day, these beautiful flowers ? How sweet they are ! Enter Servant, l. 2 e. Servant. Monsieur Beauseant, madam. Mme. Deschap. Let him enter. [Exit Servant) Pauline, this is an- other offer ! — 1 know it is ! Your father should engage an additional clerk to keep the account book of your conquests. Enter Beauseant, l..2 e. Beauseant. Ah, ladies, how fortunate I am to find you at home. (aside) How lovely she looks ! It is a great sacrifice I make in marry- ing into a family in trade ! — they will be eternally grateful ! (aloud) Madam, you will permit me a word with your charming daughter? (ap- proaches Pauline, who rises disdainfully) Mademoiselle, I have ventured to wait upon you, in a hope that you must long since have divined. Last night, when you outshone all the beauty of Lyons, you completed your conquest over me. You know that my fortune is not exceeded by any 16 THE LADY OF LYONS. [-VCT I. estate in the province — you know that, but for the Revo'ution, which has defrauded me of my titles, I should be noble. May I s then, trust that you will not reject my alliance ! 1 oiler you my bnnd and heart. Pauline (aside). He has the air of a man who confers a favor, (aloud) Sir, you are very condescending — I thank you humbly ; but, being duly sensible of my own demerits, you must allow me to decline the honor you propose, (curtsies, and funis away.) Beac. (a). Decline! impossible! — you are not serious Madam, suffer me to appeal to you. I am a suitor for your daughter's hand — the settlements shall be worthy her beauty and my station. May I wait on M. Deschappelles 1 Mme. Deschap. M. Deschappelles never interferes in the domestic arrangements — you are very obliging. If you were still a marquis, or if my daughter were intended to marry a commoner, why, perhaps, we might give you the preference. Beau. A commoner ! — we are all commoners in France now. Mme. Deschap. In France, yes ; but there is a nobility still left in the other countries in Europe. We are quite aware of your good qualities, and don't doubt that you will find some lady more suitable to your pre- tensions. We shall be always happy to see you as an acquaintance, M. Beauseant! — My dear child, the carriage will be here presently, (goes to Pauline.) Beau. Say no more, madam ! — say no more ! (aside) Refused ! and by a merchant's daughter ! — refused ! It will be all over Lyons before sunset! 1 will go and bury myself in my chateau, study philosophy, and turn woman-hater! Refused ! They ought to be sent to a mad- house ! (aloud) Ladies, I have the honor to wish you a very good morn- ing. [Exit, l. 2 e. Mme. Dkscuap. How forward these men are! — I think, child, we kept up our dignity. Any girl, however inexperienced, knows how to accept an offer, but it requires a vast deal of address to refuse one with proper condescension and disdain. I used to practise it at school with the dancing-master. Enter Damas, l 2 e. Damas (a). Good morning, cousin Deschappelles. Well, Paulir.e, are you recovered from last night's ball 1 So many triumphs must be very fatiguing. Even M. Glavis sighed most piteously when you de- parted ; but that might be the effect of the supper. Paulink. M. Glavis, indeed ! Mme. Deschap. M. Glavis? — as if my daughter would think of.M. Glavis ! Damas. Hey-day ! why not 1 His father left him a very pretty for- tune, and his birth is higher than yours, cousin Deschappelles. But perhaps you are looking to M. Beauseant — his father was a marquis be- fore the Revolution. Pauline. M. Beauseant! Cousin, you delight in tormenting me ! Mme. Deschap. Don't mind him, Pauline! CousimDamas, you have no susceptibility of feeling — there is a certain indelicacy in all your ideas. M. Beauseant knows already that he is no match for my daugh- ter ! Damas. Pooh! pooh! one would think you intended your daughter to marry a prince ! Mme. Deschap. Well, and if I did ? — what then 1 Many a foreign prince Damas (interrupting her). Foreign prince! — foreign fiddlestick! — you ought to be ashamed of such nonsense at your time of life, (crosses r.) ACT I.] THE LADV OF LYONS. 17 Mke; Desciiyp. My time of life ! That is an expression never ap- plied to any lady till she is sixty-nine and three-quarters, and only then by the clergyman of the parish ! Enter Servant, l. 2 e. Servant. Madam, the carriage is at the door. [Exit, L, 2 e. Mme. Deschap. Come, child, put on your bonnet — you really have a very thoroughbred air — not at all like your poor father, (fondly) Ah, you little coquette ! when a young lady is always making mischief, it is a sure sign that she takes after her mother ! Pauline. Good day, cousin Damas — and a better humor to you. {go- ing back to the (able, and taking the flowers) Who could have sent me these flowers? [Exeunt Pauline and Madame Desciiappellek, l. 2 e. Damas. That would be an excellent girl if her head had not been turned. I fear she is now become incorrigible ! Zounds, what a lucky fellow I am to be still a bachelor! They may talk of the devotion of the sex — but the most faithful attachment in life is that of a woman in love — with herself. [Exit, l. 2 e. SCENE II. — The exterior of a small village inn — sign " The Golden Lion " — a few leagues from Lyons, which is seen at a distance. Beau, (behind the scenes, r.). Yes, you may bait the horses ; we shall rest here an hour. Enter Beauseant and Glavis, r. Glavis. Really, my dear Beauseant, consider that I have promised to spend a day or two with you at your chateau — that I am quite at your mercy for my entertainment — and yet you are as silent and as gloomy as a mute at a funeral, or an Englishman at a party of pleasure. Bead. Bear with me! — the fact is, that 1 am miserable. Gla. You, the richest and gayest bachelor in Lyons ? Beau. It is because I am a bachelor that I am miserable. Thou knowest Paulina — the only daughter of the rich merchant, M. Deschap- pelles? Gla. Know her 1 — who does not ? — as pretty as Venus, and as proud as Juno. Beau. Her taste is worse than her pride, {drawing himself up) Know. G'avis, she has actually refused me ! Gla. (aside). So she has me ! — very consoling ! In all cases of heart- ache the application of another man's disappointment draws out (he pain and allays the irritation, (aloud) Refused you ! and wherefore! Beau. I know not, unless it be because the Revolution swept away my father's title of Marquis — and she will not many a commoner. Now, as we have no noblemen left in France — as we are all citizens and equals, she can only hope that, in spite of the war, some English Milord or German Count will risk his life, by coming to Lyons, that this fill: du Ro'.nrier may condescend to accept him. Refused me, and with scorn ! By Heaven, I'll not submit to it tamely; I'm in a perfect fever of mor- tification and rage. Refuse me, indeed ! (crosses r.) Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow — I will tell you a secret. For the same reason she refused me ! Beau. You!— that's a very different matter! But give me your hand, Glavis — we'll think of some plan to humble her. Mille diabics ! I should like to see her married to a strolling player ! (crosses l ) 18 'CHE LADY OF LYONS. [ACT I. Enter Landlord from the Inn, l. d. in f. Landlord. Your servant, citizen Beauseant — servant, sir. Perhaps you will take dinner before you proceed to your chateau ; our larder is most plentifully supplied. Beau. I have no appetite. Gla. Nor I. Still it is bad travelling on an empty stomach. What have you got ] {takes the bill of fare from the Landlord, who has crossed c. Shout without : t: Long live the Prince ! — long live the Prince ! ") Bead. The Prince ! — what Prince is that 7 I thought we had no princes left in France. Land. Ha, ha ! the lads always call him Prince. He has just won the prize in the shooting match, and they are taking him home in triumph. Beau. Him ! and who's Mr. Him ? Land. Who should he be but the pride of the village, Claude Mel- notte ] Of course you have heard of Claude Mehiotte ? Gla {giving back Ihe bill of fare). Never had that honor. Soup — rag- out of hare — roast chicken, and, in short, all you have! Beau. The son of old Melnotte, the gardener ] Land. Exactly so — a wonderful young man. Beau. How wonderful ? Are his cabbages better than other people's ? Land. Nay, he don't garden any more ; his father left him well off. He's only a genius. Gla A what ? Land. A genius! — a man who can do every thing in life except any- thing that's useful — that's a genius. Beau. You raise my curiosity — proceed. Land. Well, then, about four years ago, old Melnotte died, and left his son well to do in the world. We then all observed that a great change came over young Claude ; he took to reading and Latin, and hired a pro- fessor from Lyons, who had so much in his head that he was forced to wear a great full-bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a fencing-master, and a dancing-master, and a music-master ; and then he learned to paint ; and at last it was said that young Claude was to go to Paris, and set up for a painter. The lads laughed at him at first ; but he is a stout fellow, is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and soon tau°ht them to laugh the wrong side of their mouths ; and now all the boys swear by him, and all the girls pray for him. Beau. A promising youth, certainly ! And why do they call him Prince ] Land. Partly because he is at the head of them all, and partly be- cause he has such a proud way with him, and wears such fine clothes — and, in short, looks like a prince. Beau. And what could have turned the foolish fellow's brain ? The Revolution, I suppose % Land. Yes — the revolution that turns us all topsy-turvy — the revolu- tion of Love. Beau. Romantic young Corydon ! And with whom is he in love 1 Land. Why — but it is a secret, gentlemen. Beau. Oh, certainly. Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, good soul, that it is no less a person than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Deschappelles. Beau and Gla. Ha, ha ! Capital! (Beauseant crosses to Glavis.) Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as 1 stand here. Beau. And what does the Beauty of Lyons say to his suit ? Land. Lord, sir, she never even condescended to look at him, though when he was a boy he worked in her father's garden. ACT I.] THE LAD! OF LYONS. 19 Beau. Arc you sure of that! Land. His mother says that Mademoiselle does not know him by Bight. Beau, (taking Glavis aside). I have hit it — I have it — here is our re- venge ! Here is a prince for our damsel. Do you take me ? Gla. Deuce take ine if I do ! Beau. Blockhead ! — it's as clear as a map. What if we could make this elegant clown pass himself off as a foreign prince ? — lend him money, clothes, equipage for the purpose? — make him propose to Pauline ? — marry Pauline? Would it not be delicious ? Gla. Ha, ha ! Excellent! But how shall we support the necessary expenses of his highness ] Beau. Pshaw! Revenge is worth a much larger sacrifice than a few hundred louis; as for details, my valet is the trustiest fellow in the world, and shall have the appointment of his highness's establishment. Let's go to him at once, and see if he be really this Admirable Crichton. Gla. With all my heart; but the dinner? Beau. Always thinking of dinner ! Hark ye, landlord; how far is it to young Melnotte's cottage? 1 should like to see such a prodigy. Land Turn down the lane — then strike across the common— and you will see his mother's cottage. [Mrit, r>. f. Beau. True, he lives with his mother, (aside) We will not trust to an old woman's discretion; better send for him hither. I'll just step in and write him a note. Come, Glavis. Gla. Yes; Beauseant, Glavis & Co , manufacturers of princes, whole- sale and retail — an uncommonly genteel line of business. But why so grave ? Beau. You think only of the sport — I of the revenge. [Exeunt within the inn, c in f. SCENE III. — The interior of Melnotte's cottage ; flowers placed h there ; a guitar on an oaken table, with a portfolio, etc. ; a picture mi an easel, covered by a curtain ; fencing-foils crossed over the mantel-piece ; an attempt at refinement in spite of the homeliness of the furniture, etc. ; a staircase to the right conducts to the upper story ; D. L. F. ; practicable win- dow, C. F. The Widow descends the stairs during the shouts. (Shout without, distant, l. u. e.). " Long live Claude Melnotte !" " Long live the Prince !" Widow Melnotte. Hark! there's my dear son — carried off the prize, I'm sure; and now he'll want to treat them all. (shouts nearer, " Long live the Prince.") Claude Melnotte (without, l). What! }*ou will not come in, my friends? Well, well — there's a trifle to make merry elsewhere. Good dav to you all — good day! ('Shouts, "Hurrah! Long live Prince Claude!") Enter Claude Melnotte, l. d. in p., with a rifle in his hand. K goes to the Widow, and kisses her. Mel. Give me joy, dear mother — I've won the prize — never missed one shot ! Is it not handsome, this gun ? Widow. Humph! Well, what is it worth, Claude? Mel. Worth ! What is a ribband worth to a soldier? Worth I every- thing ! Glory is priceless !" 20 THE LADY OF LYONS. [,VCT I. Widow. Leave glory to great folks. Ah, Claude, Claude ! castles in the air cost a vast deal to keep up. How is all this to end 1 What good does it do thee to learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on the guitar, and fence, and dance, and paint pictures 1 All very fine ; but what does it bring in 1 Mel. Wealth ! wealth, my mother ! Wealth to the mind — wealth to the heart— high thoughts — bright dreams — the hope of fame — the am- bition to be worthier to love Pauline. Widow. My poor son ! — the young lady will never think of thee. Mel. Do the stars think of us 1 Yet if the prisoner see them shine into his dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from their lustre 1 Even so from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget my chains, (puts down his gun and cap near (lie staircase, R. u. e., the W 'mow takes a chair and sits it. c. Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain) See, this is her image — painted from memory. Oil, how the canvas wrongs her ! (takes up the brush and throws it aside) I shall never be a painter. I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above all art. I would turn soldier — France needs soldiers ! — but to leave the air that Pauline breathes ! What is the hour 1 — so late 1 {takes a chair and sits, h. c ) 1 will tell thee a, secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I have sent every day the rarest flowers to Pauline 1 — she wears them. I have seen them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled with odors ! I have now grown more bold — I have poured worship into poetry — I have sent the verses to Pauline — I have signed them with my own name. My messenger ought to be back by this time. I bade him wait for the answer. Widow. And what answer do you expect. Claude? Mel. \rises). That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor trou- badour: _ " Let me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful !" She will admit me. I shall hear her. speak — I shall meet her eyes — I shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate themselves into blushes. Then, — then, oh, then — she may forget that I am the pea- sant's son ! (crosses to l.) Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude. Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that desert is the true rank. She will give me a badge — a flower — a glove ! Oh, rapture ! (crosses n.) I shall join the Armies of the Republic — I shall rise — I shall win a name that beauty will not blush to bear. I shall return with the right to say to her, " See, how love does not level the proud, but raises the hum- ble!" Oh, how my heart swells within me! Oh, what glorious pro- phets of the future are youth and hope! (knock at the D. in f.) Who's there 7 Gaspar (without). Gaspar. Mel. Come in. {the Widow t opens the door.) Enter Gaspar, d. in f. Mel. Welcome, Gaspar. welcome. Where is the letter? Why do you turn away, man 1 Where is the letter? (Gaspar gives him one) This ! This is mine, the one I entrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it] Galpar. Yes, I left it. Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else! Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honored. For thy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no Frenchman can bear without disgrace. Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar ! Disgrace 1 ACT I.] THE LAD? OF LYuNS. 21 Gaspak. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey to lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for. Mel. It reached her. then — you are sure of that! It reached her — well, well ' Gaspar. It reached her. and was returned to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte ? with blows ! Death ! are we slaves still, that we are to be thus dealt with, we peasants 7 Mel. With blows 7 No, Gispar, no; not blows. Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame to bear them. The lackey who tossed thy letter into the mire swore that his lady and her mother never were so insulted. What could thy letter contain, Claude 7 Mel. {looking over the letter). Not a line that a serf might not have written to an Empress. No, not one. Gaspar. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if thou wilt pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude 7 Mel. {wringing Gaspar's hand). Forgive me, the fault is mine ; I have brought this on thee; I will not forget it; thou shalt be avenged. The heartless insolence ! Gaspar. Thou art moved, Melnotte ; think not of me ; I would so through fire and water to serve thee ; but — a blow ! It is not the bruise that galls— it is the blush, Melnotte. (going ) Mel. Say, what message 7 How insulted 7 AVherefore 7 What the offence 7 Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter of the rich merchant 7 Mel. Well 7 Gaspar. And are you not a peasant — a gardener's son 7 that was the offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen ; blows ! [Exit, d. in f. Widow. Now you are cured, Claude. Mel. (tearing "the letter). So do 1 scatter her image to the winds — I will stop her in the open streets — I will insult her — I will beat her me- nial ruffians — I will (turns suddenly to Widow) Mother, am I hump- backed — deformed — hideous ? Widow. You ! Mel. A coward — a thief — a liar 7 Widow. You ! Mel. Or a dull fool — a vain, drivelling, brainless idiot 7 Widow. No, no. Mel. What am I then — worse than all these 7 Why, I am a peasant. What has a peasant to do with love 7 Vain revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on the great 7 Oh, that we — we, the hewers of wood and drawers of water — had been swept away, so that the proud might learn whnt the world would be without us ! (2 )ac€S ^ ie ^ a 9 e excitedly. Knock at the d. in f.) Enter Servant jrom the Inn, d. in f. Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. Mel. A letter ! from her perhaps — who sent thee? Sei;v. (it.). Why, Monsieur — I mean Citizen Beauseant, who stops to dine at the Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau. Mel. Beauseant ! (reads) "Young man, I know thy secret — thou lovest above thy station ; if thou hast wit, courage, and discretion, I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes ; and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou 22 THE LADY OF LTOXS. [,VCT II. lovest ; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serious — if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of tliis letter to thy friend and patron, Charles Beauseant." Can 1 be- lieve my eyes 1 Are our own passions the sorcerers that raise up for us spirits of good or evil? 1 will go instantly. [Exit Servant, d. in f. Widow. What is this, Claude 1 Mel. "Marry her whom thou lovest"—" bear her to thine own home." Oh, revenge and love; which of you is the stronger? {gazing on the picture) Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the canvas; weak fool that I am, do I then love her still ? No, it is the vision of my own romance that I have worshipped; it is the reality to which I bring scorn for scorn. Adieu, mother ! I will return anon. (Exit Widow up the staircase) M} r brain reels — the earth swims before me. (looks again at the letter) " Marry her whom thou lovest." No, it is not a mockery ; I do not dream ! [Exit, d. in f. CURTAIN. ACT II. SCENE. I. — The gardens of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons — the house seen at the back of the stage. Enter Beauseant and Glavis from the house, l. s. e. Beau. Well, what think you of my plot ? Has it not succeeded to a miracle 1 The instant that I introduced his Highness the Prince of Como to the pompous mother and the scornful daughter, it was all over with them; he came — he saw — he conquered ; and, though it is not many days since he arrived, they have already promised him the hand of Pau- line. Gla. It is lucky, though, that you told them his highness travelled incognito, for fear the Directory (who are not very fond of princes) should lay him by the heels; for he has a wonderful wish to keep up his rank, and scatters our gold about with as much coolness as if he were watering his own flower-pots. Beau. True, he is damnably extravagant ; I think the sly dog does it out of malice. However, it must be owned that he reflects credit on his loyal subjects, and makes a very pretty figure in his fine clothes, with my diamond snuff-box. Gla. And my diamond ring ! But do you think he will be firm to the last ? I fancy I see symptoms of relenting ; he will never keep up his rank if he once lets out his conscience. Beau. His oath binds him ! he cannot retract without being for- sworn, and those low fellows are always superstitious ! But, as it is, I tremble lestlie be discovered ; that bluff Colonel Damas (Madame Des- chappelles' cousin) evidently suspects him ; we must make haste and conclude the farce ; I have thought of a plan to end it this very day. Gla. This very day ! Poor Pauline ! her dream will soon be over. Brau. Yes, this day they shall be married; this evening, according to his oath, he shall carry his bride to the Golden Lion, and then pomp, equipage, retinue, and title all shall vanish at once ; and her Highness the Princess shall find that she has refused the son of a Marquis, to marry the son of a gardener. Oh, Pauline ! once so loved, now hated, ACT II ] TnE LADY OF LTOXS. 23 yet still not relinquished, thou shalt drain the cup to the dregs — thou shalt know what it is to be humbled ! (they go l.) Enter from the house, l. s. e., Melxotte, as the Prince of Como, leading in Pauline ; Madame Deschappelles. fanning herself ; one? Colonel Damas. Beauseant and Glavis bow respectfully. Pauline and Mel- notte walk apart. Mme Dkschap. Good morning, gentlemen; really I am so fatigued with laughter; the dear Prince is so entertaining. What wit be has ! Any one may see that ho lias spent his whole life in courts. Damas (r.). And what the deuce do you know- about courts, cousin Deschappelles 1 You women regard men just as you buy books — you never care about what is in them, but how they are bound and lettered. 'Sdeath, I don't think you would even look at your Bible if it had not a title to it. Mme. Deschap. (r. c.'>. How coarse you are, cousin Damas ! quite the manners of a barrack — you don't deserve to be one of our family : really, we must drop your acquaintance when Pauline marries. I cannot pat- ronize any relations that would discredit my future son-in-law, Prince of Como. Mel. fa. advancing). These are beautiful gardens, madam. Mme. Deschap. Does your highness really think so ? Mel. They are laid out in the best taste ; who planned them ? (Beau- seant and Glavis retire.) Mme. Deschap. A gardener named Mclnotte, your highness — an hon- est man who knew his station. I can't say as much for his son — a pre- suming fellow, who — ha, ha ! actually wrote verses — such doggerel ! — to my daughter. Pauline. Yes, how you would have laughed at them, Prince ! you who write such beautiful verses! Mel. This Melnotte must be a monstrous impudent person ! Damas. Is he good-looking ? Mme Deschap. I never notice such canaille — an ugly, mean-looking clown, if I remember right. Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he was wonderfully like his high- ness. Mel. (taking snuff). You are complimentary. Mme. Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas! like the Prince, indeed ! Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our beautiful Prince! I'll never speak to you again, cousin Damas. (Pauline, Madame Deschap- ples, and Damas retire, r. Beauseant and Glavis advance, l.) Mel. (aside). Humph — rank is a great beautifier ! I never passed for an Apollo while I was a peasant ; if I am so handsome as a prince, what should I be as an emperor! (aloud) Monsieur Beauseant, will you hon- or me '? (offers snuff.) Beau. No, your highness ; I have no small vices. Mel. Nay. if it were a vice, you'd be sure to have it. Monsieur Beau- seant. (Madame Deschappelles and Pauline advance, a. c.) Mme. Dksciiap. Ha ! ha! how very severe — what wit ! Beau, (in a rage, and aside). Curse his impertinence. Mme. Deschap. (a). What a superb snuff-box ! Pauline (r. a). And what a beautiful ring ! Mel. You like the box — a trifle — interesting perhaps from associations — a present from Louis XIV. to my great-great-grandmother. Honor me by accepting it. Beau, (plucking him by the sleeve). How — what the devil! my box — 24 THE LADY OF LYONS. [ACT II. are you mad 1 It is worth five hundred 1 iuis. (Madame Deschapplles shows the box to Damas.) Mel. {unheeding him, and turning to Pauline). And you like this ring 1 Ah, it has, indeed, a lustre since your eyes have shone on it. {placing it on her finger) Henceforth hold me, sweet enchantress, the Slave of the Ring. Gla. (puliing him). Stay, stay — what are you about! My maiden aunt's legacy — a diamond of the first water. You shall be hanged lor swindling, sir. Mel. {pretending not to hear). It is curious, this ring; it is the one with which my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, married the Adriatic ! (Mad AMR and Pauline examine the ring, and retire, vi.) Mel. (to Beauseant and Glavis). Fie, gentlemen ! princes must be generous, (turns to Damas, who is it. c, and loho watches them closely) These kind friends have my interest so much at heart, that they are as careful of my property as if it were their own. Beau, atid Gla. (confusedly). Ha! ha! very good joke that (appear to remonstrate ivith Melnotte in dumb show.) Damas. What's all that whispering 1 I am sure there is some juggle here; hang me, if I think he is an Italian after all. Gad, I'll try him. Servitore umillissimo, Eccellenza.* (Claude looks at Beauseant for in- formation.) Mel. Hum — what does he mean, I wonder 1 Damas. Godo di vedervi in buona salute. f Mel. Hem — hem! (crosses, k. ) Damas. Fa be] tempo — che si dice di nuovo 1$ Mel. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish ? Damas. Oil, oh ! only Italian, your highness — the Prince of Cotno does not understand his own language ! Mel. Not as you pronounce it; who the deuce could 1 ( goes up, c.) Mme. Deschap. Ha ! ha ! cousin Damas, never pretend to what you don't know. ( goes to Melnotte.) Pauline. Ha! ha! cousin Damas ; you speak Italian, indeed ! (makes a mocking gesture at him, and joins !\J Melnotte and Madame Descuap- pelles.) Beau, (to Glavis). Clever dog ! how ready ! Gla. (l.) Ready, yes; with my diamond ring ! Damn his readiness. (thei/ retire a few paces.) Damas. Laugh at me ! laugh at a colonel in the French Army ! — the fellow's an impostor ; I know he is. I 11 see if he understands fighting as well as he does Italian, (goes up to him, and touches him upon the shoul- der. Melnotte bows to the Ladies and comes fonoard) Sir, you are a jackanapes ! Can you construe that] Mel. No, sir ; I never construe affronts in the presence of ladies ; by- and-by I shall be happy to take a lesson — or give one. Demas. I'll find the occasion, never fear! Mme. Deschap. Where are you going, cousin 1 Damas. To correct my Italian. [Exit into house, l s. e. Beau. (,'o Glavis). Let us after, and pacify him ; he evidently sus- pects something, (going.) Gla. Yes ! — but my diamond ring ! Bkau. And my box ! We are over-taxed fellow-subjects ! we must stop the supplies, and dethrone the prince. Gla. Prince ! — he ought to be heir-apparent to King Stork. * Your Excellency's most bumble servant. 1 1 am glad to see you in good healtb. X Fine weatber. TV'bat news is tbere ; AC I' II.] HIE LADY OF LTOKS. 25 Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis into house, l. s e. 27m Ladies and Melnotte advance. Mme. Deschap. (k). Dare I ask your highness to forgive my cousin's insufferable vulgarity 1 Pauline (l.). Oh, yes ! — you will forgive his manner for the sake of his heart. Mel. (a). And the sake of his cousin. Ah, madam, there is one comfort in rank — we are so sure of our position that we are not easily affronted. Besides, M. Damas has bought the right of indulgence from his Friends by never showing it to his enemies. Paul. Ah! he is indeed as brave in action as lie is rude in speech. He rose from the ranks to his present grade, and in two years ! Mel. In two years ! — two years, did 3-011 say 1 Mme. Deschap. (aside). I don't like leaving girls alone with their lov- eis ; but, with a prince, it would be so ill-bred to be prudish. [Exit into house, l. s. e. Mel. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position lo^ merit — not birth. Pauline. Why, yes; hut still Mel. Still what," Pauline? Pauline. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past. Mel. True ; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline ! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity. Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; lut you. prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race! Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pen- sioner on the dead ! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regard- ed as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth ! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers — it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen 1 myself have planted my own ashes may repose ! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes ! Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, aud think that tliou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como ; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didsl swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline ; and when thou describes! them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness. . Mel. Nay, dearest, nay. if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen !* A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows As I would have thy fate ! * The reader will observe that Helnotte evades tlie request of Pauline. He pro- ceeds to describe a home, which he does not say l.e possesses, but to which he would 1 a 1 Ler, " could InvefulJUl its prayers," This caution is iuteuded as a reply to 11 sa- gacious critic who censures the description Ix cause it is not an exact aud prosaic in- ventory of the characteristics of the Lake of Comol When Melnotte, for instance, talks of birds '• that syllable the name of Pauline " (by the way, a literal translation from an Italian poet), he is not thinking of ornithology, but probably of the " Ara- bian Nights." lie is venting the extravagant but natural enthusiasm of the poet and the lover. 26 THE L.YDY OF LYONS. [a CI [I, Pauline. My own clear lore ! Claude and Pauline pace the stage during this speech, and at the end Mel- notte stands L. Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vinos, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition, save To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books That were not tales of love — that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens, We'd guess what star should be our home when love . Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 1' the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture 1 Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent ton«U' j ! Am I not blest 1 And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline ? Mel. (bitterly). Oh, false one ! It is the prince thou lovest, not the man ; If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue ; Pauline, That is not love ! [crosses n.) Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince ! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride ; But now — oh ! trust me — couldst thou fall from power And sink Mel. • As low as that poor gardener's son Who dared to lift his eyes to thee 1 Pauline. Even then. Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep 13 woman's love ! We are like the insect*, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame ; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more ; and by the fatal light We cling till death ! (embrace.) Mel. Angel ! (aside). conscience ! conscience ! It must not be — her love hath grown a torture Worse than her hate. I will at once to B?auseanf, And - ha ! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. I have business with these gentlemen — I — I Will forthwith join you. ACT II ] THE LADY OF LYONS. 27 Enter Beauseaxt and Glavis ; thoj bow to Paulixk, and nmain up stage. Pauline. Do not tarry long ! [Exit into house; l. s. e. Beauseaxt and Glavis advance. Mel. (a). Release me from my oath — I will not marry her ! Beau. Then thou art perjured. (Glavis stands l.) Mel. No, [ was not in my senses when I swore to thee to marry her ! I w T as blind to all but her scorn — deaf to all but my passion and my rage ! Give me back my poverty and my honor. Beau. It is too late — you must marry her ! and this day. I have a story already coined, and sure to pass current. This Damas suspects thee — lie will set the police to work — thou wilt be detected — Pauline will despise and execrate thee. Thou wilt be sent to the common jail as a swindler. Mel. Fiend ! (crosses to r.) Beau. And in the heat of the girl's resentment (you know of what re- sentment is capable), and the parents' shame, she will be induced to marry the first that offers — even perhaps your humble servant. Mel. You! No; that were worse — for thou hast no mercy ! I will marry her — I will keep my oath. Quick, then, with the damnable in- vention thou art hatching — quick, if thou wouldst not have me strangle thee or myself, (retires, r ) Gi.a. What a tiger ! Too fierce for a prince — he ought to have been the Grand Turk. Beau. Enough — I will use dispatch ; be prepared. [Exeunt Beausbakt and Glavis into house, l. s. e. Melxotte advances, n. Enter Damas, from the house, l. s. e., with two swords. Damas. Now, then, sir, the ladies are no longer your excuse. I have brought you a couple of dictionaries ; let us see if your highness can find out the Latin for bilbo. Mel. Away, sir ! I am in no humor for jesting. Damas. I see you understand something of the grammar; you de- cline the noun-substanlive " small-sword " with great ease; but that won't do — you must take a lesson in parang. Mel. Fool ! (crosses, l.) Damas. Sir, as sons take after their mother, so the man who calls me a fool insults the lady who bore me; there's no escape for you — fight you shall, or Mel. (l.). Oh, enough ! enough — take your ground, (they fight; Da- mas is disarmed. Melxotte takes up the sword and returns it to Damas respectfully) A just punishment to the brave soldier who robs the State of its best property — the sole right to his valor and his life. Damas (r.). Sir, you fence exceedingly well ; you must be a man of honor — I don't care a jot whether you are a prince ; but a man who has carte and tierce at his finger's ends must be a gentleman. Mel. (aside). Gentleman! Ay, I was a gentleman before I turned conspirator ; for honest men are the gentlemen of Nature ! (aloud) Colo- nel, they tell me you rose from the ranks. Damas. I did. Mel. And in two years ! Damas. It is true ; that's no wonder in our army at present. Why, the oldest general in the service is scarcely thirty, and we have some of two-aud-twenty. 28 THE LA.DT OP LYONS. [ACT II. Mel Two-and-twenly ! Damas. Yes; in the French Army, now-a-days, promotion is not a matter of purchase. We are all heroes, because we may be all generals. We have no fear of the cypress, because we may all hope for the laurel. Mel. A general at tvvo-and-twenty ! (turning to Damas) Sir, I may ask you a favor one of these days. Damas. Sir, I shall be proud to grant it. (Melnotte retires) It is as- tonishing how much I like a man after I have fought with him. [hides the swords, r.) Enter Madame Desciiappelles and Brauseant. from house, l. s. e. Beauseant crosses behind to n. Mme Desciiap. Oh, prince — prince ! What do I hear 1 You must fly — y° u mast quit us ! Mel. I! Beau. Yes, prince ; read this letter, just received from my friend at Paris, one of the Directory ; they suspect you of designs against the Republic ; they are very suspicious of princes, and your family take part with the Austrians. Knowing that I introduced your highness at Lyons, my friend writes to me to say that you must quit the town im- mediately, or you will be arrested — thrown into prison, perhaps guillo- tined ! Fly! I will order horses to your carnage instantly. Fly to Marseilles ; there you can take ship to Leghorn. Mme. Desciiap. ADd what's to become of Pauline 1 Am I not to be a mother to a princess, after all 1 Enter Pauline and Monsieur Desciiappelles, from house, l. s. e. Pauline (throwing herself into Melnotte's arms). You must leave us. Leave Pauline ! Beau. Not a moment is to he wasted. M. Desciiap. (a). I will go to the magistrates, and inquire Beau. Then he is lost ; the magistrates, hearing he is suspected, will order his arrest. Mme. Descuap. And I shall not be a princess-dowager ! Beau. Why not? There is only one thing to be done — send for the priest — let the marriage take place at once, and the prince carry home a bride, (crosses to l.) Mel. Impossible! (aside) Villain! Mme. Deschap. What, lose my child ] Beau, And gain a princess! Mme. Deschap. Oh, Monsieur Beauseant, you are so very kind, it must be so — we ought not to be selfish, my daughter's happiness at stake. She will go away, too, in a carriage and six ! Pauline. Thou art here still — I cannot part from thee, my heart will break. Mel. But you will not consent to this hasty union 1 — thou wilt not wed an outcast — a fugitive 1 Pauline. Ah ! if thou art in danger, who should share it but Pauline 1 Mel. (aside). Distraction ! If the earth could swallow me ! M. Desciiap. Gently! gently! The settlements — the contracts — my daughter's dowry ! Mel. The dowry ! I am not base enough for that; no, not one far- thing! Beau, (to Madame). Noble fellow ! Really your husband is too mercantile in these matters. Monsieur Desciiappelles, you hear his ACT III.] THE LAD5T OF LYONS. l29 liiylmess ? we can arrange the settlements by proxy 'tis the way with people of quality. M. Descuap. But Mme. Deschap. Hold your tongue ! Don't expose yourself. Beau. 1 will bring the priest in a trice. Go in all of you and pre- pare : the carriage shall be at the door before the ceremony is over. Mme. Descuap. Be sure there are six horses, Beauseant ! You are very good to have forgiven us for refusing you ; but you see — a prince. Deau. And such a prince ! Madame. I cannot blush at the success of so illustrious a rival, (aside) Now will I follow them to the village, enjoy my triumph, and to-morrow, in the hour of thy shame and grief, I think, proud girl, thou wilt prefer even these arms to those of the gar- dener's son. [Exit, l. s. e. Mme. Deschap. Come, Monsieur Deschappelles, give your arm'to her highness that is to be. M. Deschap. I don't like doing business in such a hurry; 'tis not the way with the house of Deschappelles and Co. Mme. Deschap. There, now, you fancy you are in the counting- house, don't you ? {pushes him to Paulixe.) Mil. Stay, stay, Pauline — one word. Have you no scruple, no fear ? Speak — it is not yet too late. Pauline. When I loved thee, thy fate became mine. Triumph or danger — joy or sorrow — 1 am by thy side. Damas. Well, well, Prince, thou art a lucky man to be so loved. She is a good little girl in spite of her foibles — make her as happy as if she were not to be a princess. Come, sir, I wish you joy — young— tender — lovely — zounds ! I envy you. (slapping him on the shoulder.) Mel. (who has stood apart in glocmy abstraction). Do you ■? Wise judges we are of each other. " Woo, wed, and bear her home !" So runs the bond To which I sold myself — and then — what then 1 Away — I will not look beyond the hour. You envy me— I thank you — you may read My joy upon my brow — I thank you, sir ! If hearts had audible language, you would hear What mine would answer when you talk of envy ! [Exeunt into house, l. u. e. ACT III. SCENE I. — The exterior of the Golden L'on — time, twilight. The moon rises during the scene. Enter Landlord and his Daughter fmm the Inn, l. n. p. Land. Ha — ha — ha ! Well, I never shall get over it. Our Clande is a prince with a vengeance now. His carriage breaks down at my inn — ha — ha ! Janet. And what airs the young lady gives herself ! "Is this the best room you have, young woman?" with such a toss of the head. Laxd. Well, get in, Janet ; get in and see to the supper ; the servants must sup before they go back. [Exeunt, l. d. f. 80 THE LADY OF LYOKS. [ACT ILL Enter Beauseant and Glavis, l. n. Beau. You see our princess is lodged at last — one stage more, and she'll be at her journey's end — the beautiful pa'ace at the foot of t lie Alps — ha — ha ! Gla. Faith, I pity the poor Pauline — especially if she's going to sup at the Golden Lion, (makes a ivry face) I shall never forget that cursed ragout. Enter Melnotte from the Inn, l. d. f. Beau. Your servant, my Prince ; you reigned most worthily. I con- dole with you on your abdication. I am afraid that your lrighness's re- tinue are not very faithful servants. I think they will quit you in the moment of your fall — 'tis the fate of greatness. But you are welcome to your fine clothes — also the diamond snuff-box, which Louis XIV. gave to your great-great grandmother. Gla. And the ring, with which your grandfather the Doge of Venice married the Adriatic. Mel. I have kept my oath, gentlemen — say, have I kept my oath 1 Beau. Most religiously. Mel. Then you have done with me and mine — away with you. Beau. How,.knave ? Mel. Look you, our bond is over. Proud conquerors that we are, we have won the victory over a simple girl, compromised her honor — embittered her life — blasted, in their very blossoms, all the flowers of her youth. This is your triumph— it is my shame ! {turns to Beauseant) Enjoy thy triumph, but not in my sight. I was her betrayer — I am her protector! Cross but her path— one word of scorn, one look of insult —nay, but one quiver of that mocking lip, and I will teach thee that bitter word thou hast graven eternally in this heart — Repentance ! Beau. His highness is most grandiloquent. Mel. Highness me no more! Beware! Remorse has made me a new being. Away with you ! There is danger in me. Away ! Gla. (aside). He's an awkward fellow to deal with; come away, Beau- seant ! Beau. I know the respect due to rank. Adieu, my Prince. Any commands at Lyons 1 Yet hold— I promised you 200 louis on your wedding-day; here they are. Mel. {dashing the purse to the (/round). I gave you revenge, I did not sell it. Take up your silver, Judas; take it. Ay, it is fit you should learn to stoop. Beau. You will beg my pardon for this some aav. (aside to Glavis) Come to my chateau— I shall return hither to-morrow, to learn how Pauline likes her new dignity. Mel. Are you not gone yet 1 Beau. Your highness's most obedient, most faithful Gla. And most humble servants. Ha — ha ! • [Exeunt Beauseant 'and Glavis, n. Mel. Thank Heaven I had no weapon, or I should have slain them. Wretch ! what can I say ? Where turn 1 On all sides mockery— the very boors within— (laughter from the Inn) 'Sdeath, if even in this short absence the exposure should have chanced. I will call her. We will go hence. I have already sent one I can trust to my mother's house. A here, at least, none can insult her agony— gloat upon her shame ! Ihere alone must she learn what a villain she has sworn to love. As he turns to the door, Pauline enters from the Inn, l. d. f. ACT III.] THE LADr OF LYONS. 31 Pauline. Ah ! my lord, what a place ! I never saw such rude peo- ple. I think the very sight of a prince, though he travels incognito, turns their honest heads. What a pity the carriage should break down in such a spot ! You are not well — the drops stand on your brow — your hand is feverish. Mel. Nay, it is but a passing spasm ; the air Pauline. Is not the soft air of your native south, (pause) How pale he is ! — indeed thou art not well. Where are our people ? I will call them, {going.) Mel, Hold ! I — I am well. Pauline. Thou art ! Ah ! now I know it. Thou fanciest, my kind lord — I know thou dost — Thou fanciest these rude walls, these rustic gossips, Brick'd floors, sour wine, coarse viands, vex Pauline ; And so they might, but thou art by my side, And 1 forget all else. Enter Landlord from d. p., the Servants peeping and laughing over his shoulder. Land. My lord — your highness — Will your most noble excellency choose Mel. Begone, sir ! [Exit Landlord, laughing. Pauline. How could they have learn'd thy rank ? One's servants are so vain ; nay, let it not Chafe thee, sweet Prince ! — a few short days and we Shall see thy palace by its lake of silver, And — nay, nay, spendthrift, is thy wealth of smiles Already drain'd, or dost thou play the miser ? Mel. (r. c). Thine eyes would call up smiles in deserts, fair one. Let us escape these rustics ; close at hand There is a cot, where I have bid prepare Our evening lodgment — a rude, homely roof, But honest, where our welcome will not be Made torture by the vulvar eyes and tongues That are as death to Love ! A heavenly night ! The wooing air and the soft moon invite us. Wilt walk 1 I pray thee, now — I know the path, Ay, every inch of it ! Pauline. What, thou ! methought Thou wert a stranger in these parts 1 Ah, truant, Some village beauty lured thee ! — thou art now Grown constant 1 Mel. Trust me. Pauline. Princes are so changeful ! Mel. Come, dearest, come. Pauline. Shall I not can our people To light us ? Mel. Heaven will lend its stars for torches! It is not far. Pauline. The night breeze chills me. Mel. Nay, Let me thus mantle thee ; (throtvs his cloak over her) it is not cold. Pauline. Never beneath thy smile! Mel. (aside), Heaven ! forgive me! [Exeunt, B. 32 THE LADY OF LYONS. [ACT III. SCENE II. — Melnotte's cottage — Widow bustling about — a table spread for supper. Widow So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blot- ted that I can scarcely read it. to say he would be here almost immedi- ately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth ; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice ; which her love only could forgive. Well, I do cot wonder at it ; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good, {knock at d. in f.) Ah ! here they are. Enter Melnotte and Pauline from d. in f. ; he places /it's cloak and hat on a chair. Widow. Oh, my boy — the pride of my heart ! — welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so ! (Melnotte comes down l.) Pauline (r.). Good woman, I really — why, Prince, what is this >. — does the old lady know you ? Oh, I guess you have done her some ser- vice. Another proof of your kind heart ; is it not ? Mel. (l.). Of my kind heart, ay ! Pauline. So you know the Prince 1 Widow. Know him, madam 1 Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not ! Pauline (cross/s to Melnotte). Can we stay here, my lord ? I think there's something very wild about her. (Melnotte passes her round to l.) Mel. Madam, I — no, I cannot tell her : what a coward is a man who has lost his honor ! Speak to her — speak to her — (to his mother) te!l her that — Heaven, that 1 were dead ! {crosses r.) Pauline. How confused he looks ! — this strange place ! — this woman — what can it mean ? — I half suspect — who are you, madam 1 — who are you 7 cjn't you speak ? are you struck dumb 1 Widow (c ). Claude, you have not deceived her ? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all. Pauline. All ! what ! My blood freezes in my veins ! AVidow. Poor lady — dare I tell her, Claude 1 (Melnotte makes a sign of assent) Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents 7 Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte "? Pauline. Your son! hold — hold! do not speak to me. (approaches Melnotte, and lags her hand on his arm) Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak — one word — one look — one smile. I cannot believe — I who loved thee so — I cannot believe that thou art such a — No, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word ! Speak. Mel. Leave us. (crosses to Me Widow and sinks into a chair) Have pity on her, on me ; leave us ! Widow. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame ! thee of whom I was so proud ! [Exit, d. l. h. Pauline. Her son — her son ! (Melnotte rises, brings forward the chair, motions Pauline to be seated ; she proudly d dines. \ Mel. Now, lady, hear me. Pauline. Hear thee ! Ay, speak — her son ! have fiends a parent? speak, That thou mayst silence curses — speak ! Mel. No, curse me ; Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. ACT III ] THE LADY OF LIONS. 33 Pauline {laughing wildly). " This is thy palace, where the perfume 1 light Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth F the midst of roses !" Dost thou like the picture ? (crosses, l.) This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom. fool — dupe — wretch ! I see it all. The by-word aril the jeer of every tongue In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch Of human kindness ? if thou hast, why, kill me, And save thy wife from madness, {crosses, r.) No, it cannot — It cannot b3; this is s >me horrid dream ; 1 shall wake soon, (touching him) Art flesh 1 art man 1 or bat Ttie shadows seen in sleep I It is too real. What have I done to thee ? how siuu'd against thee, That thou shouldst crush me thus ? Mel. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride — That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee ; I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, an I wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. And from that hour I grew — what to the last I shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from kings, Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre. My father died; and T, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate ; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart — Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, And every muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. 1 thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy — of thee. And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty ! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes I Men call'd me vain — some mad — I heeded not ; But still toil'd on — hoped on — for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy thee ? 34 THE LADY OF LY/ONS. [ACT III. Pauline. Why do I cease to hate him ! Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name — appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; That very hour — when passion, turn'd to wrath, Resembled hatred most — when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm — It turned and stung thee ! {throws himself into chair, l. c.) Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge 1 Oh, how I loved this man ! — a serf — a slave ! Mel. Hold, lady ! (starts up) No, not a 6lave ! Despair is free I will not tell thee of the throes — the struggles — The anguish — the remorse. No. let it pass ! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline ! {approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand. Pauline. No, touch me not ! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant ; And I — Heaven ! — a peasant's wife ! I'll work — Toil — drudge — do what thou wilt — but touch me not ! Let my wrongs make me sacred ! Mel. Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam ; at the altar My vengeance ceased — my guilty oath expired ! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband — nay, thou need'st not shudder ! — Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy — unfulfill'd — A bond of fraud — is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep — sleep in peace To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine. Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved — so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature! (goes ton. l. h. and calls) Ho ! my mother ! Enter Widow, d. l. h. Conduct this lady (she is not my wife ; She is our guest — our honor'd guest, my mother) To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue ACT IV.] THE LADY OF LIONS. 35 Never, beneath my father's honest roof, E'en villains dared to mar ! Now, lady, now, I think thou wilt believe me. (takes her hand and leads her to the Widow) Go, my mother ! Widow. She is not thy wife! (on the stairs.) Mel. Hush, hush ! for mercy's sake ! Speak not, but go. Widow ascends the stairs, r. u. e. Papline follows, weeping — turns to look back. Mel. (throws himself upon his knees beside the chair, a). All angels bless and guard her ! curtain. ACT IV. SCENE I. — Tlie cottage as before — Melnotte seated before a table — writing implements, etc. (Dag breaking ; he rises and goes to the fool of the staircase, and listens.) Mel. Hush, hush ! — she sleeps at last ! — thank Heaven, for a while she forgets even that 1 live ! Her sobs, which have gone to my heart the whole, long, desolate night, have ceased! — all calm — all still ! (sits and writes) I will go now; I will send this letter to Pauline's father; when he arrives I will place in his hands my own consent to the divorce, and then, France ! my country ! accept among thy protectors, thy de- fenders — the Peasant's Son ! Our country is less proud than custom, and does not refuse the blood, the heart, the right hand of the poor man. Enter Widow, dotcn the staircase, R. u. E. Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill ; but sin brings its own punish- ment. In the hour of thy remorse, it is not for a mother to reproach thee. Mel. What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has been grievously injured. For the sake of thy son's conscience, respect, hon- or, bear with her. If she weep, console — if she chide, be silent. 'Tis but a little while more — L shall send an express fast as horse can speed to her father. Farewell! I shall return shortly. Widow. It is the only course left to thee — thou wert led astray, but thou art not hardened. Thy heart is light still, as ever it was when, in thy most ambitious hopes, thou wert never ashamed of thy poor mother. Mel. Ashamed of thee ! No, if I yet endure, yet live, yet hope — it is only because I would not die till I have redeemed the noble heritage I have lost — the heritage I took unstained from thee and my dead father — a proud conscience and an honest name. I shall win them back yet — Heaven bless you! [Exit, d. in v. Widow. My dear Claude ! How my heart bleeds for him. {the Widow draws back the window curtains, removes the candle from the tail", an* off, d. l. n.) 36 THE L.VDT OF LYONS. [_.VCT IV. Pauline looks down from the stairs, and. after a pause, descends. Pauline. N>>t here! — lie spares me that pain at least; so far lie is considerate — yet the place seems still more desolate without him Oil, that I could hate him — the gardener's son ! — and yet how nobly he — no — no — no, 1 will not be so mean a thing as to forgive him ! Re-enter Widow, d. l. n. Widow. Good morning, madam ; I would have waited on you if I had known you were stirring. Pauline. It is no matter, ma'am — your son's wife ou^ht to wait on herself. Widow. My son's wife — let not that thought vex you, madam — he tells me that you will have your divorce. And I hope I shall live to see him smile again. There are maidens in this village, young and fair, mi lam, who may yet console him. Pauline I dare say — they are very welcome — and when the divorce is got — he will marry again. 1 am sure I hope so. {weeps.) Widow. He could have married the richest girl in the province, if he had pleased it ; but his head was turned, poor child ! he could think of nothing but you. {weeps ) Pauline. Don't weep, mother. Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I know, but love is so head- strong in the young. Pauline. So, as you were saying — go on. Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma'am — he was not in bis right senses. Pauline. But he always — always {sobbing) loved — loved me then 1 Widow. He thought of nothing else. See here — he learnt to paint that he might take your likeness, (uncovers the picture) But that's all over now — I trust you have cured him of bis folly — but, dear heart, you have had no breakfast ! Pauline. I can't take anything — don't troub'e yourself. Oh, if ho were but a poor gentleman, even a merchant; but a gardener's son — and what a home ! Oh, no, it is too dreadful. (Pauline sits l. of the table. Beauseant opens the lattice and looks in, f.) Beau. So — so — the coast is clear ! I saw Claude in the lane — I shad have an excellent opportunity, (shuts the lattice and knocks at the d. in f.) Pauline [starting). Can it be my father ? he Ins not sent for him yet. No, he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid of me. Widow. It is not time for your father to arrive yet ; it must be some neighbor. Pauline. Don't admit any one. Widow opens the d. in f., Beauseant pushes her aside, and enters. Ha ! Heavens ! that hateful Beauseant ! This is indeed bitter ! Beau. Good morning, madam! 0, widow, your son bejs you will have the goodness to go to him in the village— he wants to speak to you on particular business; you'll find him at the inn, or the grocer's shop, or the baker's, or at some other friend's of your family — make haste. Pauline. Don't leave me, mother — don't leave me ! Beau, (with great respect). Be not alarmed, madam. Believe me your friend — your servant. Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even in this house! Go, madam, ACT IV.] THE LAD5T OF LYOXS. 37 if your son wishes it ; I will not contradict bis commands whilst, at least, he has still the right to be obeyed. Widow. I don't understand this ; however, I shan't be long gone. [Exit, d. in f. Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your visit — you wish to exult in the humiliation of one who humbled you. Be it so; I am prepared to endure all — even your presence ! Beau. You mistake me, madam — Pauline, you mistake me ! I come to lay my fortune at your feet. You must already be disenchanted with this impostor ; these walls are not worthy to be hallowed by your beauty ! Shall that form be clasped in the arms of a base-born pea- sant .' Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly with me — my carriage waits without — I will bear you to a homo more meet for your reception. Wealth, luxury, station — all shall yet be yours. 1 forget your past dis- dain — I remember only your beauty, and my unconquerable love ! Pauline. Sir ! leave this house — it is humble ; but a husband's roof, however lowly, is, in the eyes of God and man, the temple of a wife's honor! Know that I would rather starve — yes — with him who has betrayed me, than accept your lawful hand, even were you the prince whose name he bore. Go. Beau. What, is not your pride humbled yet ? Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosperity in affliction becomes vir- tue. Beau. Look round ; these rugged floors — these homely walls — this wretched struggle of poverty for comfort — think of this! and contrast with such a picture the reflnemeut, the luxury, the pomp, that the wealthiest gentleman of Lyons offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear me. Pauline. Oh! my father — why did I leave you? — why am I thus friendless ? Sir, you see before you a betrayed, injured, miserable wo- man — respect her anguish ! Beau. No, let me rather thus console it ; let me snatch from those lips one breath of that fragrance which never should be wasted on the low churl thy husband. Pauline. Help! Claude! — Claude! Have I no protector 1 Beau. Be silent! (Melnotte appears at the d. f. Seeing Beauseant, he pauses at the threshold. Beauseant shows pistol) See, I do not come unprepared even for violence. I will brave all things — thy husband and all his race — for thy sake. Thus, then, I clasp thee ! (Melnotte rushes forward. ) Mel. (dashi)uj him to the other end of the stage). Pauline — look up, Pau- line ! thou art safe. Beau. Dare you insult a man of my birth, ruffian ? {levelling his pistol.) Pauline. Oh, spare him — spare my husband ! Beauseant — Claude — no — no — ( faints ) Mel. Miserable trickster ! shame upon you! brave devices to terrify a woman ! Coward ! — you tremble — you have outraged the laws — you know that your weapon is harmless — you have the courage of the mountebank, not the bravo ! Pauline, there is no danger. Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman — as it is, thou art beneath me. Good day, and a happy honeymoon, {aside) I will not die till I am avenged ! [Exit, d. in f. Mel. I hold her in these arms — the last embrace ! Never, ah ! never more, shall this dear head Be pillow'd on the heart that should have sheltered And has betrayed! Soft — soft! one kiss — poor wretch! No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now ' One kiss — so ends all record of my crime ! 38 THE LADY OF LYONS. [ACT IV. It is the seal upon the tomb of hope, By which, liUe some lost, sorrowing angel, sits Sad memory ever more ; — she breathes — she moves — She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to shudder Beneath the touch of my abhorred love. ( places her in a chair) There — we are strangers now ! Pauline. All gone — all calm — Is every thing a dream ? thou art safe, unhurt — I do not love thee ; but — but I am a woman, And — and — no blood is spilt 1 Mel. (r.). No, lady, no; My guilt hath not deserved so rich a blessing As even danger in thy cause. Enter Widow, from d. in r. ; comes down c. Widow. My son, I have been everywhere in search of you ; why did you send for me 1 Mel. I did not send for yon. Widow. No! but I mu t tell you that your express has returned. Mel. So soon ! impossible ! Widow. Yes, he met the lady's father and mother on the road ; they were going into the country on a visit. Your messenger says that Mon- sieur Deschappelles turned almost white with anger when he read your letter. They will be here almost immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude ! what will they do to you 1 How I tremble ! Ah, madam ! do not let them injure him — if you knew how he doated on you! Pauline. Injure him! no, ma'am, be not afraid, (the Widow goes up to the widoiv) My father ! how shall I meet him ? how go back to Lyons ? the scoff of the whole city ! Cruel, cruel Claude, {in great agitation) Sir, you have acted most treacherously. Mel. I know it, madam. Pauline (aside). If he would but ask me to forgive him ! (aloud) I never can forgive you, sir. Mel. I never dared to hope it. Pauline. But you are my husband now, and I have sworn to — to love you, sir. Mel. That was under a false belief, madam. Heaven and the laws will release you from your vow. Pauline. He will drive me mad ! if he were but less proud — if he would but ask me to remain — hark, hark — I hear the wheels of the car- riage — sir — Claude, they are coming ; have you no word to say ere it is too late ? Quick — speak 1 Mel. I can only congratulate you on your release. Behold your pa- rents ! Enter Monsieur and Madame Deschappelles and Colonel Damas, d. in f. M. Deschap. My child ! my child ! {goes to Pauline.) Mme. Descuap. Oh, my poor Pauline ! what a villainous hovel this is ! Old woman, get me a chair — I shall faint — I certainly shall. What will the world say ? Child, you have been a fool, (sits l. c.) A mother's heart is easily broken. Damas (n.). Ha, ha ! most noble Prince — I am sorry to see a man of your quality in such a condition ; I am afraid your highness will go to the House of Correction. ACT IV.] TUK LADY OF LYONS. 39 Mel. (k. c). Taunt on, sir; I spared you when you were unarmed — I am unarmed now. A man who has no excuse for crime is indeed de- fenceless ! Damas. There's something fine in the rascal, after all ! {retires and crosses behind to l.) M. Deschap. (l. c). Where is the impostor] Are you this shame- less traitor 1 Can you brave the presence of that girl's father] Mel. Strike me, if it please you — you are her father. Pauline. Sir — sir, for my sake ! — whatever his guilt, he has acted no- bly in atonement. Mme. Deschap. Nobly! Are you mad, gill] I have no patience with you — to disgrace all your family thus! Nobly ! Oh, you abomi- nable, hardened, pitiful, mean, ugly villain ! {crosses to Melnotte and back again to l ) Damas (l.). Ugly! Why, he was beautiful yesterday ! Pauline. Madame, this is his roof, and he is my husband. Respect your daughter, or let blame full alone on her. Mme. Deschap. You — you! Oh, I'm choking (retires and sits l. u. e.) M. Deschap. Sir, it were idle to waste reproach upon a conscience like yours — you renounce all pretensions to the person of this lady ? Mel. I do. (gives a paper) Here is my consent to a divorce — my full confession of the fraud which annuls the marriage. Your daughter has been foully wronged — I grant it, sir ; but her own lips will tell you that, from the hour in which she crossed this threshold, I returned to my own station, and respected hers. Pure and inviolate, as when yestermorn you laid your hand upon her head and blessed her, I yield her back to you. For myself — I deliver you for ever from my presence. An out- cast and a criminal, I seek some distant land, where 1 may mourn my sin, and pray for your daughter's peace. Farewell — farewell to you all, forever ! Widow. Claude, Claude, you would not leave your poor old mother ] She doeo not disown you in your sorrow — no, not even in your guilt. No divorce can separate a mother from her son. (embraces Claude.) Pauline. This poor widow teaches me my duty. No, mother — no, for you are now my mother also — nor should any law, human or divine, separate the wile from her husband's sorrows. Claude — Claude — all is forgotten — forgiven — I am thine forever ! {throws herself passionately into his arms.) Mme. Deschap. What do I hear? Come away, or never see my face again. M. Deschap. Pauline, we never betrayed you — do you forsake us for him? Pauline (going back to her father). Oh, no — but you will forgive him, too ; we will live together — he shall be your son ! M. DEScnAP. Never! Clin. r. c- Door Bight Centre. O MONEY. BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, Etc. The events of this play take place in London. Period, the present century, ACT I. Scene I.— DRAWING-ROOM IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. The Scheming Baronet and his Daughter — Death of a Rich Indian Cousin — The Poor Secretary and the Poor Ward — The Story of Evelyn's Love — Offer of Hand and Heart — Clara's Rejection — A Tale of Sorrow — The Reading of the Will — " 1 leave all the residue of my fortune to Alfred Evelyn." ACT II. Scene I.— AN ANTE-ROOM IN EVELYN'S NEW MANSION. The Troubles of Riches - Specimen of a Political Economist — Election Prospects — Bribery and Corruption — A Game of Battledore and Shuttle- cock — The Story of Evelyn's Life and Struggles — The Mysterious Let- ter — " Who sent it ? Clara or Georgina ? " Scene II.— DRAWING-ROOM AT SIR JOHN VESEY'S. Mr. Graves and his " Sainted Maria" — A Dangerous Widoio — The Baronets Cunning — An Artful Trick to Entrap Evelyn — The Portait — The Bait Caught — The Letter was from Georgina — She Sent her Savings to Re- lieve Distress — The Offer of Hand and Fortune to Georgina — Evelyn is Accepted — Clara's Agony — " With my whole heart I say it — be happy !" ACT III. Scene I.— DRAWING-ROOMS IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. Clouds in the Horizon — Extravagance and Gambling — Rocks Ahead — Clara's Departure from England — The Warning Voice of Love, as a Sister — " Let us part friends!" — Suspiciotis of Truth — Graves' Story of Georgina's Flirtations — A Trap Set for the Trapper. Scene II.— BOUDOIR IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. A Widower and Widow in Love — The Temptations of a Charming Woman — A Cure for Melancholy — Dancing and a Sweet Voice — Unpleasant Interruption. Scene III.— GRAND SALOON AT EVELYN'S CLUB HOUSE. A Gentleman and a Gambler — Captain Deadly Smooth's Good Luck — Plot and Counterplot— Infatuation in Gaming— Loss after Loss — Evelyn's Ruin Ajyproaching. MONEY. 7 ACT IV. Scene I.— ANTE-ROOM IN EVELYNS HOUSE. Morning Calls — Debt Against Debt—Novel Mode of Payment by Increasing — Not Quite Sharp Enough. Scene II.— SPLENDID SALOON IN EVELYN'S HOUSE. The Plot Tliickens — Evelyn is Drifting Wrong — Suggcstionsfor Assist- ance—" Will Georgian help me? — £10,000 for a time will save me" — An Answer Deferred— Unpleasant Duns and a Sherrijfs Officer- Failure of Evelyn's Bankers— Clamorous Creditors— Pleasure Against Charity — Desertion of Friends as the Money goes Down ! ACT V. Scene I.— A ROOM AT THE CLUB. More News of the Downfall — A Friend in the Scheme — Gcorgina's Old Love — The Eccentric Baronet — Political Intrigues — The Mine is Ojiening. Scene II.— DRAWING-ROOMS IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. A Devoted Heart — A Woman in Distress — The Old Love Revived — If he Can be Saved he Shall — Departure of Clara to see Evelyn. Scene III.— SPLENDID SALOON IN EVELYN'S HOUSE.' Money Works Wonders — A Change Jvoni Respect to Infamy — "Tis the way of the World — £10,000 placed at Evelyn's Bankers — Save/ — "'Tis Georgina'sact—the die is cast!" — Lovers Alone— The Story of Clara's Life— The Reasons for Rejection — Hope for the Future — Too Late!— Evelyn Elected a Member of Parliament— The .Mine is Sprung— Startling A'ews—Georgina Marries Sir Frederick Blount! " Who, then, sent the money to my bankers?"— The Mystery Solved —The Letter Explained— Clara Douglas .'—Acceptance of Evelyn — The Scheme at an End— He was Never Ruined— Only a Plot to Show the Value of MOJVE Y. MONEY. THE STOUT OF THE PLAY. In the centre of the most fashionable part of London there resided, at the com- mencement of the play, Sir John Vesey, Baronet, ex-Member of Parliament, etc., Fellow of ever so many societies, and President of ever so many Corporations ; in fact, a man surrounded by all the attributes of wealth and high political and social position. Outwardly well polished, he had naturally a large and influential circle of admiring friends and cringing flatterers ; wealth and position; like honey, attract many flies— and an artifice he resorted to of jetting it mooted about that he was hoarding up his money, gradually acquired him the name of " Stingy Jack," and stimulated a belief, in some persons, and confirmed the opinion of others, that he really was a most highly honorable and wealthy gentleman, though somewhat eccentric, and that his only daughter, Georgina, was a rich heiress. The fact, however, was just the reverse. He had been, and was, playing a very deep game indeed ; he was in every respect an unprincipled and unsubstantial man, —a living specimen, though more advanced in years, of Dickens' ever to be remem- bered character, Montague Tigg, alias Tigg Montague. The members of Sir John Vesey's household were Georgina, his daughter ; Lady Franklin, his half-sister and a widow ; Clara Douglas, a poor orphan cousin and his ward, and Alfred Evelyn, another poor cousin, who acted as his private secretary. As to Sir John himself— his father for services rendered in the army obtained a title, but expended all available means in keeping it up, consequently the only for- tune he could leave his son was the title. But this worthy son was not to be so easily foiled. On the strength of his parent's services, he obtained a pension of £400 a pear, which was quite sufficient trading capital for a man of Sir John's ad- venturous disposition and tactics. On .£400 he took credit for £800 ; upon which credit he married a woman with £10,000, and increased his credit to £40,000. Then it was that he worked his artful scheme and paid a highly respectable but impover- ished gentleman so much per week to mix in society and constantly allude to him as " Stingy Jack," upon the principle that if a man of position is called " stingy" he is presumed to be " rich," and to be presumed " rich," is to be universally respected. Working the wires thus, he had been elected a member of Parliament, and re- mained so until a fitting opportunity arrived, when he resigned his seat in favor of a member of the Government, who, in return, gave him a sinecure appointment, bringing in about £2,000 a year ; all of which, and more raised upon the strength of it, he expended annually in keeping up appearances, in the hopes of bringing about a wealthy match for his daughter. Of Georgina little can be said, except that she was quite obedient to her father's wishes, though at the same time a little artful and self-willed. Her mother died young, and therefore the male parental guidance had its effect in moulding her to his views. Lady Franklin was generous, kind, wealthy, and middled-aged— without any fam- ily, and therefore her half-brother had induced her to take off his hands the burden of his ward. Clara Douglas was an orphan of his cousin ; her mother died young, and her father at his death left her to the care of Sir John as her guardian, but hav- ing no wealth, that was all he did leave him, and therefore to a man of Sir John's temperament it was by no means an agreeable bequest. It was not long, however, before he found a way to transfer the charge to Lady Franklin. Alfred Evelyn was left fatherless when a hoy and his mother sacrificed everything she could to give him education. From school he proceeded to college, where he became a " sizar."* * " Sizar " is a term used in the University of Cambridge, in England, to denote a body of students, next below the pensioners, who eat at the public table free of expense, after the fellows of the college have taken their meals. In former times they had to wait at table during the meal hours, but this custom has been done MONET. y One day, a young lord struck liira, he returned the insult by horsewhipping his assailant The then great difference between rich and poor was too strong for the affair to be passed over, so poor Evelyn was expelled the college and all his ambi- tious hopes blasted. Coming to London, lie toiled and toiled to the best of his ability to earn a scanty subsistence for himself and mother, and so long as she lived he labored strenuously and successfully, but with her death, ambition seemed to expire also. As a last resource, he consented to become the ill-paid secretary and hanger-on to his cousin, Sir John Vesey ; but there was a magnet in the house which attracted him ; he loved Clara Douglas, and to be near that loadstone he sank his pride. He prepared Sir John's speeches, wrote his pamphlets, made up his calculations, composed epitaphs, condensed the debates in Parliament, and even executed various orders for the ladies, in bringing home dresses, novels, music, securing boxes at the opera, etc., — all done probably upon a salary less than was paid to Sir John's coach- man. Such, then, were the constituent elements of the Baronet's household at the opening of the play. Sir John has just received a letter from Mr. Graves, an eccentric, but well-mean- ing middle-aged gentleman, who never ceases to express, with a melancholy air, the loss he experieuced by the death of his late wife; whom he invariably terms, with uplifted eyes, his " Sainted Maria," though very probably, if the truth were known, she had led him anything but a happy life, and her departure from this world was more of a blessing than a misfortune ; at least, so many persons said, and more believed. Mr. Graves informs Sir John that a Mr. Mordaunt, to whom Georgina is the near- est relation, is dead ; that, having been appointed executor, and having since his ■wife's death lived only in apartments, he proposes to read the will that day at Sir John's house, and will come with Mr. Sharp, the lawyer, for that purpose. This is great news to Sir John — Mr. Mordaunt was reputed to be worth half a million sterling ; Georgina is the nearest relation— there could surely be nothing therefore to prevent her coming in for the bulk of his fortune. Lady Franklin and Clara arrive ; to the surprise of the worldly-minded Sir John, his half sister is not in mourning, but poor Clara is, explaining in the genuine feel- ing of her nature, that although only a third cousin of the deceased, he had once assisted her father, and the quiet mourning robes she had obtained were all the respect and gratitude she could show. There are other distant relatives interested in the will ; Mr. Stout, a political economist, Lord Glossmore, a sort of butterfly nobleman : and Sir Frederick Blount, a foppish boronet, who, as Lady Franklin facetiously observes, " objects to the letter r as being too wough and therefore droops its acquaintance." Alfred Evelyn, in the meantime, has arrived, and sits at the table absorbed in reading ; so, when the conversation flags, a general attack is made upon him to know if he has executed various commissions, and what has delayed him. He takes the opportunity to explain to Sir John, that his prolonged absence has been occasioned by his having gone to 'visit a poor woman who was his nurse, and his mother's last friend ; that she is very sick, nay, dying, that she owes six months rent, and he appeals to Sir John for assistance. It is refused ; but Georgina overhears it, and her first impulse is to assist him, but then she might not have the fortune, her allowance is very little, and she must purchase a pair of earrings she has seen ; she, however, inquires the address of the nurse. Upon this point the play hinges. Evelyn is misled by her unsolicited generosity, and gives it, and as Georgina reads it aloud, Clara silently takes a note of it, places all her little money in an envelope — but how to direct it ? Evelyn would know her handwriting, and that must not be, so she appeals to Lady Franklin, who promises that he shall not know away with some years. The term so applied to them w;is probably derived from this ancient occupation, as the tood they had to supply when so engaged was called " size." It may well be imagined how naturally a spirit like Evelyn's recoiled at the position. __ . — 10 MONEY. it, that her ward shall direct it, and she will herself furnish the money, as it is more than Clara can spare. Sir Frederick Blount arrives, and in his stupid, foppish way, addresses many very ridiculous observations to Clara, which produces some excellent by-play and sarcas- tic remarks from Evelyn, who, though apparently sitting at the table reading, is watching with a keen and jealous eye every movement of the idol of his affections- Sir Frederick being called away, they are left alone, and in the most exquisite And perfect language, he tells the story of his love. But what is his horror and dismay to meet a calm, yet firm, refusal! Clara sees that, poor as they are, it would only be a marriage of privation and of penury — a life of days that dread the morrow — her love is his— she can submit to suffer alone, but bring him into it also, she cannot. Mr. Graves and Mr. Sharp the lawyer arrive, and the reading of the will com- mences. Much disappointment, but more amusement, is created by the peculiarity and smallness of the bequests ; the largest being one of £10,000 to Georgina Vesey. " What can the old fool have done with his money ?" exclaims Sir John, losing all control. The climax soon comes ; the deceased bequeaths the entire residue of his immense fortune to the only relative who never fawned upon him, and who, having known privation, may the better employ wealth — Alfred Evelyn ! Congrat- ulations on every side are unbounded, but the voice of her he loves is silent. Evelyn is speedily installed in the first style of position ; his patronage is sought by every one ; tradesmen, electors, artists, and every rank of persons — but this does not prevent his dispensing charity with a liberal hand, for which he secures the services of Mr. Sharp. To Graves he tells the story of his life and love, and further, that in the letter which the lawyer gave him after the readiug of the will, there was a request from Mr. Mordaunt — but not imposing any condition — asking as a favor, if he had formed no other attachment, to choose as his wife, either Georgina or Clara, who was the daughter of a dear friend of the deceased. He still loves Clara, but her rejection overcomes him ; besides, he has obtained the letter, written in a disguised hand, sending money to, and saving his nurse. His heart yearns to believe that it was Clara's doing, but he cannot conceive how she should know the address, besides the amount was too much for her to send. He also tells Graves, that determined to be revenged upon Clara for refusing him, he has bribed Sharp, the lawyer, to say that the letter he gave him contained a codicil to the will, bequeathing Clara £20,000 ; so that she will be no longer a dependent, and that she will owe her release from almost beggary and insult, unknowingly, to the poor scholar whom she had rejected. With this joyous and noble feeling he determines to visit Lady Franklin, and see if he can possibly ascertain by whom the money was sent to his nurse. Consequent upon her unlooked-for wealth, Clara is now admired by all, even by Sir Frederick. Lady Franklin always assures her she believes Evelyn still loves her, and begs permission to tell him who sent the money to the nurse, otherwise he might imagine it came from Georgina. Sir John Vesey happens to overhear this remark, and determines to improve upon it, to secure Evelyn for his daughter. Clara makes Lady Franklin promise never to reveal the secret — most reluetantly she obeys. Sir John questions his daughter ; she had taken down the address, intending to, but did not, send the money. That is quite enough ground for Sir John to work upon. A new character now comes upon the scene, Captain Dudley Smooth, but who, in consequence of his fashionable manners and abilities, unusual success at the gaming table, and skill as a duellist, had acquired the name of " Deadly " Smooth, and he is of course soon one of the friends of the wealthy Evelyn. Sir Frederick Blount also seeks Evelyn's aid to promote his suit with Clara, tell- ing him that he finds Georgina had a prior attachment, which prior attachment was no other than Evelyn himself, and therefore he must give her up and try his luck with Clara. Evejyn agrees to help him, and urges his merits in a bantering tone. Observing Sir Frederick's attentions, Georgina determines to flirt with Evelyn, and MONEY. 11 Sir John seizes the opportunity to introduce to his notice a portfolio of her draw- ings : turning them over one after another until up cornea a portrait of — Alfred Evelyn ! lie is astonished and confused. Can she really love him ? A thought strikes him— carelessly he asks her if she has yet purchased a guitar she spoke of some months since. Now is the time for the master stroke, so taking him aside, Sir John hints that she had applied the money in charity; that she did not wish it known, and had employed some one else to direct the letter. The blow is well stuuck, the shaft strikes home ; such benevolence, and such love as to draw his portrait ; Clara had refused him, how could he do otherwise than offer to Georgiua I He frankly tells her of his love for another, deep and true, but vain; that he cannot give her a first love, but he does offer her esteem, gratitude, hand and fortune. It is accepted. Poor Clara overhears all, and sinks on her chair fainting; he rushes to her side, and she rallies sufficiently to exclaim, " With my whole heart I say it — be happy — Alfred Evelyn 1" The time for the wedding is somewhat delayed, much to Sir John's annoyance, and Georgina complains that Evelyn's visits are not so frequent, nor his manners so cheerful as they used to be — indeed, her former admirer, Sir Frederick, was far more attentive and amusing. Sir John does not half like the way Evelyn is going on. Fine houses in London, and in the country balls, banquets, expensive pic- tures, horses, liberal charities, everything tending to diminish rapidly the largest fortune. In addition to which, it is reported, he has taken to gambling, and is nearly always in company with Captain Deadly Smooth, against whose arts, no young man of fortune had been known to stand long. Sir John determines that it is absolutely necessary to bring about an early settle- ment, and to further this, he thinks it best to get Clara away. He speaks to her upon the subject, and she consents to leave England rather than cloud his daugh- ter's hopes, and to that effect promises to write a letter. As she is finishing it, Evelyn calls to see Georgina, who is out, and, as they are alone, Clara tells him of her intended departure. In a scene of the most choice and beautiful language, replete with exquisite pathos, she breathes her thanks for past kindness, and now, that he is betrothed to another, her love — as a sister — dictates to her to remonstrate with him upon his parade, and luxuries, and follies. But he tells her that this casting aside of his high qualities, this dalliance with a loftier fate, was her own work. It is impossi- ble adequately to describe the pure and beautiful language of this scene— the skillful mingling of love and reproaches — and the bitter parting — as friends! As he is recovering from the blow, Graves meets him, and tells him that he knows for a fact, Sir Frederick has proposed to Clara and been refused; nay, more, that Georgina is not in love with him, but only with his fortune ; and that she plays affection with him in the afternoon, after she has practiced with Sir Frederick in the morning. And further, that Sir John is vastly alarmed at his gambling pro- pensities, and his connection with Captain Smooth, so much so, that he intends visiting the club that evening to watch him. A light breaks upon Evelyn, and he assures Graves that if these stories are true, the duper shall be duped, and he will extricate himself; to this end, he determines to shape his plans. One of the liveliest scenes in the play here follows between Lady Franklin, who is really in love with the solemn and melancholy Graves. She so talks and works upon his feelings, that he gradually relaxes his staid demeanor, and actually joins her in a dance, her own sweet, merry voice supplying the music. In the midst of their meriment they are interrupted and confused by the sudden entrance of Sir John, Blount and Georgina. It is the finest piece of comedy ever put upon the stage, and affords scope for excellent acting. We are now introduced to the club. Evelyn arrives, and requests Smooth to play with him, and be loses game after game. Watching his opportunity, he takes the Captain aside and acquaints him with a plot he has formed to test the truth of his 12 MuNKY. suspicions of the intentions of Georgina and her father — into this scheme, Smooth readily enters, and returning to the table, they renew their play. S;r John arrives, and watches with the most intense excitement, game after game lost, with con- stantly increasing stakes. In apparent agony, Evelyn rises from the table, declar- ing that the work is ruinous, and he will play no more. All the members crowd round the Captain to ascertain the extent of his winnings ; the only answer they get is an offer to purchase from one of them a furnished house which he has to sell for j£15,000, which, from his manner, he leads them to believe, is a mere trifle. They catch the bait, and at once imagine he must have won double and treble that sum. Sir John's consternation is fearful, but ttfe more so when he sees Evelyn, apparently under the influence of too much wine, take hold of Smooth's arm, and declare they must now make a night of it. In the morning, Glossmore and Sir Frederick call upon Evelyn to settle some small accounts with him. He still carries on the deception, and not only excuses paying them, but works a trick between them, by which he secures a further check from each, and makes a present to one of a horse he buys on credit from the other. He goes further than this ; not only does he borrow £500 from Sir John, but he also tells him that he has sold out of the funds sufficient money to pay the balance for the purchase of an estate ; that the mouey is laying at his bankers, but he cannot touch it for any other purpose, or the estate will be lost, and the deposit money he has paid forefeited. He alludes, therefore, to Georgina's j£10,000 legacy, and man- aging cleverly to get Sir John out of the way, he speaks to her upon the subject. He tells her of his position, that they may probably have to retrench and live in the country, and suggests that she should lend him the jE10,000 for a few weeks to meet some pressing claims ; without confidence there can be no joy in wedlock. She hesitates, then promises he shall hear from her. Smooth, Glossmore and others now arrive, and, still carrying on the deception, he appears most servile and cringing to the Captain. In a well constructed scene, he calls the attention of all to his unexpected accession to wealth twelve months since, and claims their good opinion for the way in which he has acted — they^.11 outwardly approve, but inwardly they earnestly wish they had back their various loans. Their nervous excitement is increased by news being brought that the bankers with whom he banked have suspended payment, and they very much doubt his assur- ance that he had not much money there. This is followed by several tradesmen applying for their bills, and then by the entry of a sheriff's officer to serve him with a summons. All this is too overpowering — Sir John vehemently demands his j£500, and the others join chorus. Graves is overcome ; he tells Evelyn to go into dinner, and he will settle with the officer. Delighted at this generosity, Lady Franklin ingenuously exclaims, "I love you for that !" and poor Graves loses his usual solemn- ity in the pleasure he experiences at this avowal. Again Evelyn appeals to Georgina ; he shall hear to-morrow ; but Sir John can restrain himself no longer, and he commands her, as his " poor, injured, innocent child," to take the arm of Sir Frederick Blount. The doors are thrown open, and Evelyn invites all his friends to the dinner prepared for them ; but in doing so, he appeals to them, in mockery, to lend him jEIO for his poor old nurse. This is too much, and he then bitterly reminds them that in the morning they lent him hun- dreds for pleasure, but now they refuse him a trifle for charity, and he commands them to go. Smooth alone remains, and being joined by Graves, the three repair to the table " to fill a bumper to the brave hearts that never desert us !" Events now approach a climax. Graves and Lady Franklin have become more intimate and confidential. He tells her he is certain that Evelyn still loves Clara, but doubts if she cares tor him. Lady Franklin, on the other hand, assures him that ever since she has heard of Evelyn's distress, she has been breaking her heart for him. Clara arrives, having been to her bankers, for what purpose she declines to say ; but she says she has heard that Jtl 0,000 would relieve Evelyn, and probably Georgina would lend him the amount. Graves much doubts such generosity in a woman, but MONET. 13 he hints that he knew of greater generosity in a man, who, rejected in poverty, by one as poor as himself, when he became rich, through a well invented codicil, had made the worn in rich. A light dawns upon Clara, she will see Evelyn and know the truth. Evelyn's scheme has thus far succeeded. Upon Graves offering to aid him all he c in, he is so pleased that he reveals his true position, and assures him that scarcely a month's income of his large fortune has been touched ; it was merely a ruse to see whether a woman's love was given to " man " or " money." If Georgina should prove by her answer her confidence and generosity, then, though his heart should break, lie would nv.irry her ; on the other hand, should she decline, there would be hope for explanations with Clara. A letter is brought in, and upon opening it, he finds a notice that j£10,000 has been paid into the bank to his account. This decides the matter— the die is cast, and Georgina wins. Lady Franklin arrives with Clara, and compelling Graves to withdraw, leaves her and Evelyn together. In brilliant and telling language, the true and noble sentiments of Clara are revealed ; explanation upon explanation follows, and the ardent love of both is powerfully and touchingly portrayed ; but it is too late ! Evelyn, still believing that it is Georgina who has assisted him, asserts, that by every tie of faith, grati- tude, loyalty and love, he is bound to another! Sir John hurries in, stating that he has an offer from Georgina to advance the money, and is astounded when Evelyn tells him the amount has been already paid into his bankers. Then Sharp arrives with the news that Evelyn has been elected a Member of Parliament, and he also informs Sir John that the loss by the failure of the bank was only jE'200 or so, and that Evelyn has always been living within his income. This is indeed good news, and Sir John is in ecstacies, when his daughter and Sir Frederick arrive; but before he can speak, Evelyn addresses her, desiring to know if she has assisted and trusted him purely and sincerely. She cannot comprehend him, and tells him, that following the principles she once heard uttered, " what is money without happi- ness ?" she had'that morning, promised her hand to Sir Frederick Blount ! Utterly astounded, Evelyn produces the letter — Lady Franklin reads it — the money had been paid in by " a friend, to Alfred Evelyn ;" the same name used in sending the money to the old nurse, and she at once proclaims both as Clara's acts. In an ecstacy of delight, Evelyn offers love and fortune ; this time he is not rejected. The solemn Graves forgets his " sainted Maria," and joins hands with Lady Franklin, and all but Sir John realize the combination of happiness and — Money ! REMARKS. In introducing the third, in the new series of Bulwer's plays, it is a labor of love. The recollections of its excellent production, and of witnessing it afterwards upon almost every occasion of its reproduction in London, bring to mind old associ- ations that are agreeable, yet saddening; for many of those who filled the puts, and whose company was ever welcome, both on and off the stage, are now no more. Of all Bulwer's plays, this is, undoubtedly the best— it is more than fine— it is a splendid comedy, so telling, and so true to life in all the principles, and in the delin- eation of characters with which a wayfarer through the worid constantly meets. It makes such a powerful appeal, in presenting the spectacle of a man endowed with intellect, education, and gentlemanly bearing, occupying a subordinate position, but expected to be of the greatest usefulness upon all occasions, at the same time receiv- ing less pay than the tall footman of the establishment, and considerable fewer perquisites than the favorite butler ; a position from which he is only released by a most unexpected stroke of fortune. The conception and the execution of the plot are, in my opinion, perfect. All the W MONEr. observations touching upon falsity, pride, deceptive appearances, worldly schem- ing-, pure affection, hypocrisy, are painted and well drawn, so admirably depictured, that they cannot fail to tell. Upon reference to the remarks and dates in the previous plays, it will be found that only about eleven months elapsed between the production of the Lady of Lyons and Richelieu, whereas, between that play and this, nearly double that period passed away, and certain it is, that the author made good use of it, by producing a work, both in plot and language, very far surpassing all his previous efforts, and giving to the world one of the finest comedies, if not the finest, in the English 1 m- gunge. He had again the good luck to be supported by the highest professional material •available tor carrying out his ideas, and it can be stated, from personal knowledge of all the ladies and gentlemen engaged in the play, that the characters were well suited to the actors, and the actors to the characters ; consequently, nothing could be more felicitous or so likely to ensure success, as the result proved. Again he had for his hero, Alfred Evelyn, Mr. Macready, the hero of his previous p' a ys, ar >d for his heroine, Clara Douglas, Miss Helen Faucit, who had contributed so largely to previous successes. As was noticed in the remarks to the Lady of Lyons and Kichelieu, those plays had the benefit of being supported by actors, all of whom afterwards attained lead- ing positions in the profession ; so was it with this play. On its first production there was a concentration of talent, blooming, half blooming, and about to bloom, that ensured a proper rendering of a meritorious play. It will be observed, that the scene of triumph was changed from the Theatre Royal, G'ovent Garden, to the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, London; and that of the ladies and gentlemen who had played in the author's previous productions^ only four bad parts in this, viz : Miss H. Faucit, Mr. Macready, Mr. F. Vining, and Mr. Howe. But the others were a little host. Mr. Walter Lacy, one of the finest, and most gentlemanly actors on the stage ; Mr. B. Webster, a. great actor, and for many years lessee of the Haymarket, Adelphi, and Princess' Theatres, in London, where he is still playing, at an advanced age, and who is celebrated for having brought out, at the Adelphi lheatre, in conjunction with Madame Celeste, a very large number of first class dramas—" The Hop Pickers," — " The Harvest Home," — " The Green Bushes," and farces innumerable. Mr. Wrench and Mr. Oxberry, low comedians of the first class ; the latter, a gentleman of much intellect and edu- cation, as his " Dramatic Budget " will testify. Mr. O. Smith, who for many years played the " villain " in all domestic dramas, with unqualified success, so good was his make up, and so well adapted for such character, his cool, deep voice. Mrs. Glover, a most amiable and accomplished lady t who was for many years a stock member of the Haymarket Company, and as famous in London, for her admirable delineation of ladies of middle and more advanced age, as Mrs. Wheately was in this country. Lastly, Miss P. Horton, who was afterwards, for many years without a rival, as the chief burlesque and extrava- ganza actress in London. She married Mr. T. G Reed, a celebrated musical direc- tor and composer, and together they carried on for many years a beautiful little theatre in Regent street, London, where they produced a number of musical pieces of the highest class; it was like a handsome drawing-room, and was known as " The Gallery of Illustration." Poor Mrs. Glover met with a melancholy end. Upon the occasion of her farewell benefit in London, July 12th, 1850, she was so overcome by the reception given to her, and the emotions at quitting forever the scene of so many triumphs, and of long standing associations— for the Haymarket Company was termed " the happy family "—season after season for many years rarely witnessing any change amongst the members — that she sudden y became speechless, and three days afterwards, July 15th, 1850, she expired. Of Mr. O. Smith's popularity and fame, for his deep voice and demoniacal laugh, 1 may mention a little incident. Some years since, I produced in London an extrav- MONKY. 15 aganza called " The Three Princes," and 1 am happy to say it met with the greatest possible success. I introduced in it an allusion to his voice. The evil genius of the piece threatens utter annihilation to one of the princes, to which the reply came : " Destroy me, kin and kith ! You speak exactly like the Adelphi Smith !" and so well and so widely known was the actor and his voice, that during a run of nearly two hundred nights, the allusion and imitation never once failed to bring forth a hearty laugh. With reference to the character of Sir John Vesey, it is interesting to observe that " truth is stranger than fiction." He says, in the first scene, " If you have no merit or money of your own, you must trade on the merits and money of other people.'' In a recent great law case in England, " The Ticliborne Case,'' the trial of which lasted nearly twelve months, an old pocket book was produced in evidei , in which the claimant to the title and estates (afterwards, sentenced to fourteen years imprisonment for perjury and forgery) had written "some people has plenty of money and no brains, and some people has plenty of brains and no money," therefore, he held it was the duty of the latter to prey upon the former. He was evidently a vulgar disciple of the Sir John Vesey school, of which there are speci- mens to be met with everywhere. Mr. Macready was followed iu the character of Alfred Evelyn, by all those who had followed him in the Lady of Lyons ; Charles Kean, Phelps, Anderson, Creswick, and a host of others previously mentioned, who were as successful in this as in the previous plays. As before stated, Money was first produced in America at the Old Park Theatre, New York, Feb. 1st, 1841, with an excellent cast. Mr. llield, who played the hero, was a gentlemanly and intellectual actor; he made a great hit, and for many years afterwards repeated the character with con- tinued success. Mr. Chippendale as Sir John Vesey, and Mrs. Chippendale as Georgina, were also most successful, whilst Mrs. Maeder as Clara Douglas, and Mrs. Vernon as the warm hearted Lady Franklin, added greatly to the triumph of the play. It was afterwards produced at the Chatham Theatre, situated on Chatham street between Roosevelt and James streets, and at the Broadway, which was situ- ated on Broadway between Pearl street and Anthony (now Worth) street, with the following cast : Chatham Theatre, Broadway Theatre, Sept.. 4, 1843. Nov. 4, 1S47. Alfred Evelyn Mr. Hiki.d. Mr. G. Vandenhoff. Sir John Vesey Mr. Greene. Mr. II. Wallack. Lord G'.ossmore Mr Booth, Jr. Mr. Fredericks. Sir Frederick Blount Mr Field. Mr. Lestkh. Stout ....Mr. Collins. Mr. E. Shaw. Chaves Mr. Burton. Mr. Vache. Captain Dudley Smooth Mr. Stevens. Mr. Dawson. Clara Douglas Mrs. G.Jones. Miss F. Wai Lady Franklin Mrs. Livers. Mrs. Winstani.it. Georgina Miss Kiriiy. Mrs. Sf.koeast. And also on September 1G, 1857, at Burton's New Theatre, when Mr. Murdoch played Alfred Evelyn, Mr. Burton, Graves, and Mrs. W. 11. Smith, Lady Franklin. But perhaps as fine and almost as good a representation of the comedy was that produced at "Wallack's Theatre, New York, Jan. 17, 1874, with the following excel- lent cast : 16 MONET. Alfred Evelyn . Mr. Lester Wallace. Sir John Vesey Mr. J. "W. Carroll. Lord Glossmore Mr. J. W. Ferguson. Sir Frederick Blount Mr. W. It. Floyd. Benjamin Stout Mr. Johs Brougham. Graves Mr. Harry Beckett. Captain Dudley Smooth Mr. J. B. Polk. Mr. Sharp Mr. G. F. Biownb. Old Member Mr. T. C. Mills. Clara Douglas Miss Jeffreys Lewis. Lady Franklin Madame Ponisi. Georgina Miss Dora Goi.dtfiwaite. Having been present upon innumerable occasions of the representations of this play, and witnessed the performance of nearly all the Alfred Evelyns on the London boards, I have no hesitation in saying I never, as a whole, saw the play better mounted or acted. The Alfred Evelyn of Mr. Lester Wallack will bear comparison with any ; if we could only have the pleasure of making him a few years younger it would enhance the beauty of the performance ; but one could afford to put aside that little drawback ; it was fully compensated for by the fine delivery of the text, and the intellect and bearing of one of nature's nobleman, such as Alfred Evelyn is supposed to be, and the actor is. Mr. John Brougham's Stout, Mr. Harry Beckett's Graves, Mr. W. R. Floyd's Sir Frederick Blount, were all most admirably rendered. Miss Jeffreys Lewis made an excellent Clara Douglas, and as Lady Franklin, Madame Ponisi well sustained her reputation, whilst Miss Dora Goldthwaite as Georgina was all that was needed. Indeed all engaged were good. As I have said in my former remarks, so I say of this play— not one jot of brilliancy and effect has bean lost in transferring it to the American boards. J- M - K - MONEY. ACT I. SCENE I. — A drawing-room in Sir John Vesey's house ; folding doors c, tvhich open on another drawing-room. To the right a table, with the Morning Post newspaper, books, etc. ; to the left, a sofa and writing table. The furniture tasteful and eostlg. Sir John and Georgina discovered, u. c. Sir John {reading a letter edged with black). Yes, he says at two pre- cisely. " Dear Sir John, as since the death of my sainted Maria," — Hum ! — that's his wife ; she made him a martyr, and now lie makes her a saint ! Geor. Well, as since her death 1 — Sir J. {reading). " I have been living in chambers, where I cannot so well invite ladies, you will allow me to bring Mr. Sharp, the lawyer, to read the will of the late Mr. Mordaunt (to which I am appointed execu- tor) at your house — your daughter being the nearest relation. I shall be with you at two precisely. — Henry Graves." Geor. And you really think I shall be uncle Mordaunt's heiress ] And that the fortune he made in India is half a million 1 Sir J. Ay ! I have no doubt you will be the richest heiress in Eng- land. But sit down, my dear Georgy — my dear girl. (Georgixa sits r. h. of table, Sir Jjhn l. h.) Upon this happy — I mean melancholy — occa- sion, I feel that I may trust you with a secret. You see this fine house — our fine servants — our fine plate — our fine dinners ; every one thiuks Sir John Vesey a rich man. Geor. And are you not, papa 1 Sir J. Not a bit of it — all humbug, child — all humbug, upon my soul ! There are two rules in life — First, men are not valued for what they are, but what they seem to be. Seconbly, if you have no merit or money of your own. you must trade on the merits and money of other people. My father got the title by services in the army, and died pen- niless. On the strength of his services I got a pension of £400 a year; on the strength of £100 a year I took credit for £800 ; on the strength of £800 a year I married your mother with £10,000 ; on the Btrength ol £10,000 I took credit for £40,000, and paid Dicky Gossip three guineas a week to go about everywhere calling me " Stingy Jack !" Geor. Ha ! ha ! A disagreeable nickname. Sir J. But a valuable reputation When a man is called stingy, it is as much as calling him rich ; and when a man's called rich, why Ik's a man universally respected. On the strength of my respectability I wheedled a constituency, changed my politics, resigned my seat to a minister, who, to a man of such stake in the country, could odor nothing 18 MONEY. [ACT I. less in return than a patent office of £2,000 a year. That's the way to succeed in life. Humbug, my dear — all humbug, upon my soul ! Geor. I must say that you Sir J. Know the world, to be sure. Now, for your fortune — as I spend more than my income, I can have nothing to leave you; yet, even without counting your uncle, you have always passed for an heiress on the credit of your expectations from the savings of " Stingy Jack." Apropos of a husband; you know we thought of Sir Frederick Blount. Ge >r. Aii, papa, he is charming. Sir J. Hem ! He was so, my dear, before we knew your poor uncle was dead ; but an heiress such as you will be should look out for a duke. Where the deuce is Evelyn this morning ? {rises, puts back the chair, goes to l. table, marks the letter and puts it in his pocket.) Geor. I've not seen him, papa. What a strange character he is — so sarcastic; and yet he can be agreeable, {pats buck her chair and then goes u. i Sir J. A humorist — a cynic ! One never knows how to take him. My private secretary — a poor cousin, has not got a shilling, and yet, hang me, if he does not keep us all at a sort of a distance. Geok. -But why do you take him to live with us, papa, since there's no good to be got by it 'i Sin J. There you are wrong ; he has a great deal of talent; prepares my speeches, writes my pamphlets, looks up my calculations. Besides, he is our cousin — he has no salary ; kindness to a poor relation always tells well in the world ; and benevolence is a useful virtue — particularly when you can have it for nothing. With our other cousin, Clara, it was different; her father thought fit to leave me her guardian, though she had not a penny — a mere useless encumbrance ; so, you see, I got my half-sister, Lady Franklin, to take her off my hands. Geor. How much longer is Lady Franklin's visit to be ? (at table r., takes up paper, reads until she speaks to Evelyn.) Sir J. I don't know, my dear ; the longer the better — for her hus- band left her a good deal of money at her own disposal. Ah, here she comes ! Enter Lady Franklin and Clara, c. r. My dear sister, we were just loud in your praises. But how's this — not in mourning ? Lady F. Why should I go in mourning for a man I never saw ! Sir J. Still there may be a legacy. Lady F. Then there'll be less cause for affliction ! Ha, ha! my dear Sir John, I'm one of those who think feelings a kind of property, and never take credit for them upon false pretences, (crosses to table l., sits.) Sir J. (aside, l.). Very silly woman ! (aloud) But, Clara, I see you are more attentive to the proper decorum ; yet you are very, very, very dis- tantly connected with the deceased — a third cousin, I think i Clara. Mr. Mordau"t once assisted my father, and these poor robes are all the gratitude I can show him. (goes to l. table and sits.) Sir J. (aside). Gratitude ! humph ! 1 am afraid the minx has got ex- pectations. Lady F. So, Mr. Graves is the executor — the will is addressed to him ? The same Mr. Graves who is ajways in black, always lamenting his ill-fortune and his sainted Maria, who led him the life of a dog? Sir J. The very same. His liveries are black — his carriage is black — he always rides a black galloway — and faith, if he ever marry again, I think he will show his respect to the sainted Maria by marryiug a black woman. ACT I.] 19 Lady F. Hi ! ha ! we shall see. (aside) Poor Graves, I always liked him; he made au excellent hushand. {down c.) Enter Evelun, c. l., seats himself l. of r. table, and takes up a book unob- served. Sir J. What a crowd of relations this will brings to light! Mr. Stout, the Political Economist — Lord Glossmore Lady F. Whose grandfather kept a pawnbroker's shop, and who, accordingly, entertains the profoundest contempt for everything popular, parventf, and plebeian. Sir J. Sir Frederick Blount Lady F. Sir Fwedewick Blount, who objects to the letter r as beiug too wongh, and therefore dwops its acquaintance ; one of the new class of prudent young gentlemen, who, not having spirits and constitution for the hearty excesses of their predecessors, intrench themselves in the dig- nity of a lady-like languor. A man of fashion in the last century was riotous and thoughtless — in this he is tranquil and egotistical. He never does anything that is silly, or says anything that is wise 1 bag your pardon, my dear : I believe Sir Frederick is an admirer of yours, pro- vided, on reflection, he does not see "what harm it could do him" to fall in love with your beauty and expectations. Then, too, our poor cousin the scholar — (L'lau a touches Lady Franklin, and points co Eve- lyn. All turn and look at /urn) Oh, Mr. Evelyn, there you are! (resumes her seat.) Sir J. {going up to Evelyn, r. a). Evelyn — the very person I wanted ; where have you been all day ? Have you seen to those papers ? — have vim wriiten my epitaph on poor Mordaunt ? — Latin, you know 1 — have you reported my speech at Exeter Hall? — have you looked out the de- bates on the Customs 1 — and — oh, have you mended up all the old pens in the study ? Geor. (r. of r. table). And have you brought me the black floss silk 1 — have you been to Store's for my ring 1 — and, as we cannot go out on this melancholy occasion, did you call at Hookham's for the last H. B. and the Comic Annual > Lady F. {rises and goes to Evelyn). And did you see what was really the matter with my bay horse '! — did you get me the opera-box 1 — did you buy my little Charley his peg-top 1 Evelyn {always reading). Certainly, Paley is right upon that point ; for, put the syllogism thus — (looking up) Ma'am — sir — Miss Vesey — you want something of me V — Paley observes, that to assist even the unde- serving tends to the better regulation of our charitable feelings. — No apologies — I am quite at your service, (shuts the book and comes forward.) Sin J. Now he's in one of his humors ! Lady F. (down f..). You allow him strange liberties, Sir John. Eve. (a). You will be the less surprised at that, madam, when I in- form you that Sir John allows me nothing else. I am now about to draw on his benevolence. Lady F. I beg your pardon, sir, and like your spirit. Sir John, I'm in the way, I see; for I know your benevolence is so delicate thai you never allow any one to detect it ! [Retires and goes off, c. l. Eve. I could not do your commissions to-day — I have been to visit a poor woman, who was my nurse and my mother's last friend. She is very poor — very — sick — dying — and she owes six months' rent ! Sir J. (l ). You know I should be most happy to do anything fur yourself. But the nurse — (aside) Some people's nurses are always ill ! {aloud) There are so many impostors about ! We'll talk of it to-morrow, 20 MONET. [ACT I (Evelyn got* to the table, l.) This mournful occasion takes up all of my attention, (looking at his ivatch) Bless me ! so late! I've letters to write, and — none of the pens are mended ! [Exit, r. Geor. {taking out her purse, r.). 1 think I will give it to him — and yet if I don't get the fortune after all ! — Papa allows me so little ! — then I must hav3 those earrings, {puts up the purse) Mr. Evelyn, what is the ad- dress of your nurse ? Eve. (writes at l table, ami gives it — aside). She has a good heart with all her foibles ! (aloud) Ah! Miss Vesey, if that poor woman had not closed the eyes of my lost mother, Alfred Evelyn would not have been this beggar to your father. Geor (reading). "Mrs. Staunton, 14 Amos street, Pentonville." (Clara, at the table, writes down the address as she hears Georgina read it.) Geor. I will certainly atteud to it — (aside) it I get the fortune. i^Eve- lyn goes up r. ) Sir J. (■ailing, without). Georgy, I say ! Geor. Yes, papa! [Exit, r. Evelyn has sealed himself again at the fable— 10 the right. — and leans his face on his hands. Clara. His noble spirit bowed to this ! Ah, at least here I may give him comfort, (sits down to write) But he will recognize my hand. Me-enler Lady Franklin, c. Lady F. (looking over her shoulder). What bill are you paying, Clara 1 — putting up a bank-note ? Clara. Hush! — 0, Lady Franklin, you are the kindest of human be- ings. This is for a poor person — I would not have her know whence it came, or she would refuse it ! Would you? — No — No — he knows her handwriting also ! Lady F. AVill I — what"? — give the money myself ? — with pleasure! Poor Clara — why, this covers all your savings — and I am so rich ! Clara. Nay, I would wish to do all myself ! It is a pride — a duty — it is a joy ; and I have so few joys ! But hush ! — this way. (they retire into the inner room and converse in dumb shoiv.) Eve. (seated). And thus must I grind out my life for ever! I am am- bitious, and Poverty drass me down ; I have learning, and Poverty makes me the drudge of fools ! I love, and Poverty stands like a spec- tre before the altar ! But no, no — if, as 1 believe, I am but loved asain, I will— will — what? — turn opium eater, and dream of the Eden I may never enter? (Lady Franklin and Clara advance, c.) Clara. But you must be sure that Evelyn never knows that I sent this money to his nurse. Lady F. (to Clara). Never fear — I will get my maid to copy and di- rect this — she writes well, and her hand will never be discovered. I will have it done and sent instantly. [Exit, r. Clara advances to the front of stage, and seats herself, r. c ; Evelyn read- ing. Enter Sir Frederick Blount, c. l. ; he comes down, l. c. Blount. No one in the woom ! — Oh, Miss Douglas ! Pway don't let me disturb you. Where is Miss Vesey — Georgina ? (taking Clara's chair 'as she rises.) Eve. (looking up, gives Clara a chair, and reseats himself. Aside) Inso- lent puppy ! ACT I.] MONET. 21 Clara. Shall I tell her you are here, Sir Frederick? Blount. Not for the world. Vewy pwetty girl this companion! (sits l. c.) Clara. What did you think of the Panorama the other day, Cousin Evelyn ! Eve. (reading). " I cannot talk with civet in the room, A fine puss gentleman- that's all perfume !" Rather good lines these. Blount. Sir ! Eve. (offering the look). Don't you think so 1 — Cowper. Blount, (declining the book). Cowper ! Eve. Cowper. Blount (shrugging his shoulders, to Clara). Stwange person, Mr. Eve- lyn ! — quite a chawacter ! — Indeed the Panowama gives you no idea of Naples — a delightful place. I make it a wule to go there evewy second year — I'm vewy fond of twavelling. You'd like Wome (Rome) — had inns, but vewy fine wuins; gives you quite a taste for that sort of thing ! Eve. (reading). " How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home !" Blount. Sir 1 Eve. Cowper. Blount (aside). That fellow Cowper says vewy odd things ! Humph ! it is beneath me to quawwell. [aloud) It will not take long to wead the will, I suppose. Poor old Mordaunt ! — I am his nearest male welation. He was vewy eccentwic. (draws his chair nearer) By the way, Miss Douglas, did you wemark my cuwicle ? It is bwinging cuwieles into fashion. I should be most happy if you will allow me to dwive you out. Nay — nay — I should, upon my word, (trying to take her hand.) Eve (starting up). A wasp! — a wasp! — just going to settle. Take care of the wasp, Miss Douglas! Blount. A wasp — where ! — don't bwing it this way — some people don't mind them ! I've a particlar dislike to wasps ; they sting damna- bly ! Eve. I beg pardon — it's only a gadfly. Enter Page, r. Page. Sir John will be happy to see you in his study, Sir Frederick. [Exit Page, c. l. Blount. Vewy well, (rises and goes r ) Upon my word, there is some- thing vewy nice about this girl. To be sure I love Georgina — but if this one would take a fancy to me — (thought/ all g) — Well, I don't see what harm it could do me! Auplaisir? [Exit, r. Clara takes her chair to R. o/l. table. Eve. Clara! Clara. Cousin! (coming forward, l.) Eve. And you, too, are a dependant 1 Clara. But on Lady Franklin, who seeks to make me forget it. Eve. Ay, but can the world forget it ? This insolent condescension — this coxcombry of admiration — more galling than the arrogance of con- tempt! Look you now — Robe Beauly in silk and cashmere — hand Vir- tue into her chariot — lackey their caprices — wrap them from the winds — fence them round with a "olden circle — and Virtue and Beauty are as 22 MONEY. [ACT I, goddesses both to peasant and to prince. Strip them of the adjuncts — see Beauty and Virtue poor — dependant — solitary — walking the world defenceless ! oh, then the devotion changes its character — the same crowd gather eagerly around — fools — fops — libertines — not to worship at the shrine, but to sacrifice the victim ! Clara. My cousin, you are cruel !— I can smile at the pointless inso- lence. Eve. Smile — and he took your hand! Oh, Clara, you. know not the tortures that I suffer hourly ! When others approach you — young — fair — rich — the sleek darlings of the world— 1 accuse you of your very beauty — I writhe beneath every smile that you bestow. (Clara, about to speak) No — speak not — my heart ha3 broken its silence", and you shall hear the rest. For you I have endured the weary bondage of this house — the fool's gibe — the hireling's sneer — the bread purchased by toils that should have led me to loftier ends ; yes, to see you — hear you — breathe the s.ime air — he ever at hand — that if others slighted, from one at least you might receive the luxury of respect — for this — for this I have lingered, suffered, and forborne. Oh, Clara ! we are orphans both — friendless both ; you are all in the world to me ; {she turns away) turn not away — my very soul speaks in these words — I love you! {kneels.) Clara. No — Evelyn — Alfred — no! Say it not; think it not! it were madness. Eve Madness ! — nay, hear me yet. I am poor, dependant — a beg- Ear for bread to a dying servant. True! But I have a heart of iron. I have knowledge — patience — health — and my love for you gives me at last ambition ! I have trifled with my own energies till now, for I de- spised all things till I loved you. With you to toil for — your step to support — your path to smooth — and I — I, poor Alfred Evelyn — promise at last to win for you even fame and fortune ! Do not withdraw your hand — this hand — shall it not be minel Clara. Ah, Evelyn ! Never — never! {crosses to r.) Eve. Never ? {rises.) Clara. Forget this folly ; our union is impossible, and to talk of love were to deceive both ! Eve. {bitterly). Because I am poor ! Clara. And I too ! A marriage of privation — of penury — of days that dread the morrow ! I have seen such a lot ! Never return to this again. Eve. Enough — you are obeyed. I deceived myself — ha — ha ! I fan- cied that I too was loved. I, whose youth is already half gone with care and toil — whose mind is soured — whom nobody can love — who ought to have loved no one ! Clara (aside). And if it were only j. to suffer, or perhaps to starve ! Oh, what shall I say 1 {aloud) Evelyn — cousin! Eve. Madam. Clara. Alfred — I — I Eve. Reject me 1 Clara. Yes. It is past! [Exit, r. Eve. Let me think. It was y T esterday her hand trembled when mine touched it. And the rose I gave her — yes, she pressed her lips to it once when she seemed as if she saw me not. But it was a trap — a trick — for I was as poor then as now. This will he a jest for them all ! Well, courage ! it is but a poor heart that a coquette's contempt can break, (retires up to the table, r.) Enter Lord Glossmore, preceded by Page, c. l. Page. I will tell Sir John, my Lord. {Exit, r. Evelyn takes up the newspaper.) act i.] Mo>-F.r. 23 Gloss. The secretary — hum! Fine day, sir; any news from tli3 east 1 Eve. Yes — all the wise men have gone hack there ! Servant, c. l., announaa Mr. Stout, r. Gloss. Ha! ha! — not all, for here comes Mr. Stout, the great politi- cal economist. Enter Stout, c. l. Stout (r. c ). Good morning, Glossmore. Gloss, (l.). Glossmore ! — the parvenu ! Stout. Afraid I might he late — heeu detained at the vestry — aston- ishing how ignorant the English poor are ! Took me an hour and a half to beat it into the head of a stupid old widow, with nine children, that to allow her three shillings a week was against all rules of public morality. (Evelyn* rises and comes dozen, r.) Eve. Excellent — admirable — your hand, sir ! Gloss. What ! you approve such doctrines, Mr. Evelyn 1 Are old women only fit to be starved 1 Eve. Starved! popular delusion! Observe, my lord, (crosses, c.) to squander money upon those who starve is only to afford eucouragement to starvation ! Stout. A very superior person that ! Gloss. Atrocious principles ! Give me the good old times, when it was the duty of the rich to succor the distressed. Eve. On second thoughts, you are right, my lord I, to<>, know a poor woman — ill — dying — in want. Shall she, too, perish .' Gloss. Perish ! horrible — in a Christian country ! Perish ! Heaven forbid ! Eve. (holding out his hand). What, then, will you give her? Gloss. Ahem ! Sir, the parish ought to give. Stout. By no means ! Gloss. By all means ! Stout. No! — no! — no! Certainly not ! (with great vehemence.) Gloss. No ! no ! But I say, yes \ yes ! And if the parish refuse to maintain the poor, the only way left to a man of firmness and resolution, holding the principles that I do, and adhering to the constitution of our fathers, is to force the poor on the parish by never giving them a farth- ing line's self. Stout. No!— no! — no! Gloss. Yes ! — yes ! — yes ! Eve. Gentlemen ! — gentlemen ! — perhaps Sir John will decide, (point- ing to Sin John as he enters, and retires to table, takes up a book, reads, i Enter Sin John, Lady Franklin*, Georgina, Blount, Page, r. Page gves off, c. l. Lady Franklin goes to table, l., and sits. Sir J. How d'ye do 1 Ah ! how d'ye do, gentlemen 1 This is a mos) melancholy meeting ! The poor deceased ! what a man he was ! Blount (r.). I was chwistened Fwederick after him ! He was my first cmisin. Sir J. (a). And Georgina his own niece — next of kin! an excellent man, thou"h odd— a kind heart, but no liver ! I sent him twice a year thirty dozen of the Cheltenham waters. It's a comfort to reflect on these little attentions at such a time. Stout. And I, too, sent him the parliamentary debates regularly, 24 MONEY [aci I. bound in calf. He was my second cousin — sensible man— and a fol- lower of Malthus ; never married to increase the surplus population, and fritter away his money ou his own children. And now Eve. He reaps the benefit of celibacy in the prospective gratitude of every cousin he had in the world ! Lady F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sir J. Hush ! hush ! decency, Lady Franklin ; decency ! Enter Page, c. l. Page. Mr. Graves — Mr. Sharp. Sir J. Oh, here's Mr. G.-aves ; that's Sharp the lawyer, who brought the will from Calcutta. Enter Mr. Graves, and Mr. Sharp, who goes immediately to h. table, and prepares his papers. Chorus of Sir John, Gloss.more, Blount, Stout. Ah, sir — ah, Mr. Graves ! (Georgina holds her handkerchiej to her'cyes.) Sir J. A sad occasion ! Graves. But everything in life' is sad. Be comforted, Miss Vesey ! True, you have lost an uncle ; but I — I have lost a wife — such a wife ! — the first of her sex — and the second cousin of the defunct ! Enter Servants, c. Excuse me, Sir John; at the sight of your mourning my wounds bleed afresh. (Servants hand round wine and cake.) Sir J. Take some refreshment — a glass of wine. Graves. Thank you! — (Very fine sherry !) Ah! my poor sainted Maria ! Sherry was her wine ! everything reminds me of Maria ! Ah, Lady Franklin ! you knew her. Nothing in life can charm me now. (aside) A monstrous fine woman that ! Sir J. And now to business, {they each take a chair) Evelyn, you may retire. {All sit. Servants retire, c. Evelyn rises.) Sharp (looking at his notes). Evelyn — any relation to Alfred Evelyn? (to Evelyn, who is going, c.) Eve. The same. Shap.p. Cousiu to the deceased, seven times removed. Be seated, sir ; there may be some legacy, though trifling; all the relations, however distant, should be present. (Evklyn reluctantly resumes his seat.) Lady F. Then Clara is related — I will go for her. [Exit r. Geor. Ah, Mr. Evelyn ! I hope you will come in for something — a few hundreds, or even more. Sir J. Silence ! Hush ! Wugh ! Ugh ! Attention ! WJule the Lawyer opens the will, re-enter Lady Franklin and Clara. They cross behind the characters to L., up the stage, and sit. Disposition of Characters. Evelyn. Lady Ft.anklin, Clara. Sir John. Stout. Glossmore. Blount. Georgina. Graves. Sharp. r. L. ACT I.] MONET. Sharp. The will is very short — being all personal property. He was a man that always came to the point. Sir J. I wish there were more like him ! (groans and shakes hi's head.) Shakp (reading). " I, Frederick James Mordaunt, of Calcutta, being, at the present date, of sound mind, though infirm body, do hereby give, will, and bequeath — Imprimis, To my second cousin, Benjamin Stout, E-q., of Pall Mall, London — (Stout puis a large silk handkerchief to kis eyes. Chorus exhibit lively emotion) Being the value of the Parliamentary Debates with which he has been pleased to trouble me for some time past — deducting the carriage thereof, which he always forgot to pay — the sum of £14 2s. 4d." (Stout removes the handkerchief ; Chorus breathe more freely!) Stout. Eli, what 1— £14 ? Oh, hang the old miser ! Sir J. Decency — decency ! Proceed, sir. Go on, sir, go on. Sharp. " Item. — To Sir Frederick Blount, Baronet, my nearest male relative — " (Chorus exhibit lively emotion.) Blount. Poor old boy ! (Georgina puts her arm over Blount's chair.) Sharp. " Being, as I am informed, the best-dressed young gentleman in London, and in testimony to the only merit I ever heard he possessed, the sum of £500 to buy a dressing-case." (Chorus breathe more freely ; Georgina catches her father's eye, and removes her arm.) Blount (laughing confusedly). Ha! ha! ha! Vewy poor wit — low! — vewy — vewy low ! Sir J. Silence, now, will you 1 Go on, sir, go on. Sharp. " Item. — To Charles Lord Glossmore — who asserts that he is my relation — my collection of dried butterflies, and the pedigree of the Mordaunt s from the reign of King John. (Chorus as before.) Gloss. Butterflies! — Pedigree! — I disown the Plebeian! Sir J. (angrily). Upon my word, this is too revolting ! Decency ! Go on, sir, go on. Sharp. " Item. — To Sir John Vesev, Baronet, Knight of the Guelph, F.R.S., F.S.A., etc." (Chorus as before") Sir J. Hush ! Now it is really interesting ! Sharp. " Who married my sister, and who senv.s me every year the Cheltenham waters, which nearly gave me my death, I bequeath — the empty bottles." Sir J. Why, the ungrateful, rascally old Lady F. Decency, Sir John — decency ! Chorus. Decency, Sir John — decency ! Sharp. "Item. — To Henry Graves, Esq., of the Albany — " (Clwrus as before.) Graves. Pooh ! gentlemen — my usual luck — not even a ring, I dare swear. Sharp. " The sum of £5,000 in the Three per Cents." Lady F. I wish you joy ! Graves. Joy — pooh ! Three per Cents. ! Funds sure to go ! Had it been land, now — though only an acre! — just like my luck. Sharp. " Item. — To my niece, Georgina Vesey (chorus as before.) Sir J. Ah, now it comes ! Sharp. " The sum of £10,000 India Stock, bein come in for Qroginhole, eh ''. Gloss, (l. c ). What — could you manage it? {aside) Why, he must have won his whole fortune. Smooth. C'e cher, Charles! — anything to oblige. Gloss. It is not possible he can have lost Groginhole ! Stout. Groginhole ! What can he have done with Grosinhole ! Glossmore, present me to Smooth. Gloss. What! the gambler — the fellow who lives by his wits ] Stout. Why. his wits seem to be an uncommonly productive capital ! I'll introduce myself, (crosses to Smooth) How d'ye do, Captain Smooth? We have met at the club, I think — I am charmed to make your acquain- tance in private. I say, sir, what do you think of the affairs of the nation? Bad! very bad — no enlightenment — great fall off in the reve- nue — no knowledge of finance! There's only one man who can save the country — and that's Popkins ! Smooth. Is he in Parliament, Mr. Stout 1 What's your Christian name, by-the-bye 1 Stout. Benjamin — No; — constituences are so ignorant they don't un- derstand his value. He's no orator : in fact, be stammers a little — that is, a great deal — but devilish profound. Could not we ensure him for Groginhole? Smooth. My dear Benjamin, it is a thing to be thought on. {they re- tire.) Eve. {advancing). My friends, pray be seated, (they sit*) I wish to consult you. This day twelve months I succeeded to an immense it come, and as, by a happy coincidence, on the same day I secured your esteem, so now I wish to ask you if you think I could have spent that income in a way more worthy your good opinion. Gloss. Impossible! excellent taste — beautiful house ! Blount. Vewy good horses — {aside, to Glossmore) — especially t! e gway cab. Lady F. Splendid pictures ! Graves. And a magnificent cook, ma'am! Smooth (thrusting hishandsinto his pockets). It is my opinion. Alfred — and I'm a judge — that you could not have spent your money better. Omnrb (except Sir John). Very true! Geor. Certaiuly. (coaxingly) Don't retrench, my dear Alfred ! Gloss. Retrench! nothing so plebeian ! Btout. Plebeian, sir — worse than plebeian — it is against all rules of public morality. Every one knows, now-a-days, that extravagance is a * All sit thus. Sib Frederick. Glossmore. Stout. Sk oth. Georgina. Lady Franklin. ■ vs. Graves. Si b. l. 50 MOHEY. L ACI 1V - benefit to the population — encourages art — employs labor — and multi- plies spinning- jennies. Eve. You reassure me! I own I did .think that a man worthy of friends so sincere might have done something better than feast — dress — drink — play Gloss. Nonsense — we like you the better for it. (aside) I wish I had my ,£600 back, though. Eve. And you are as much my friends now as when you offered me £10 for my old nurse'? Sir J. A thousand times more so, my dear boy. (Omnes approve.) Enter Sharp, r. Smooth But who's our new friend 1 Eve. Who 1 the very man who first announced to me the wealth which you allow I have spent so well. But what's the matter, Sharp ] (crosses to Sharp, who whispers to him.) Eve. (aloud). The bank's broke ! {all s' art up.) Sik J. Bank broke — what bank Y (coming down, c.) Eve. Flash, Brisk and Co. Sir J. But I warned you — you withdrew 1 Eve. Alas! no ! Sir .7. Oil ! Not much in their hands 1 Eve. Why, 1 told yott the purchase-money for Groginhole was at my bankers' — but no, no ; don't look so frightened ! It was not placed with Flash — it is at Hoare's — it is, indeed. Nay, I assure you it is. A mere trifle at Flash's, upon my word, now ! Don't groan in that way. You'll frighten everybody! To-morrow, Sharp, we'll talk of this ! One day more — one day, at least for enjoyment, (walks to and fro.) Sir J. Oh ! a pretty enjoyment! Blount. And he borrowed £700 of me ! Glos-s. And £600 of me ! Sir J. And £500 of me ! Stout. Oil! a regular Jeremy Diddler ! Stout (to Sir John). I say, you have placed your daughter in a very unsafe investment. Transfer the stock. Sir J. (going to Georgina). Ha! I'm afraid we've been very rude to Sir Frederick. A monstrous fine young man ! Enter Tore, with a letter, r. Tore {to Evelyn). Sir, I beg your pardon, but Mr. MacFinch insists on my giving you this letter instantly. Eve. (reading). How! Sir John, this fellow, MacFinch, has heard of my misfortunes, and insists on beina paid — a lawyer's letter — quite inso- lent. Here, read this letter — you'll be quite amused with it. Tore. And, sir, Mr. Tabouret is below, and declares he will not stir till he's paid. [Exit, k. Eve. Not stir till he's paid ! What's to be done, Sir John >. Smooth, what is to be done 1 Smooth (seated, c.). If he'll not stir till he's paid, make him put up a bed. and I'll take him in the inventory, as one of the fixtures, Alfred. Eve. It is very well for you to joke, Mr. Smooth. But Enter Sheriff's Officer, giving a paper to Evelyn and whispering. Eve. What's this? Frantz, the tailor. Why, the impudent scoun- All up the stage, l. and l. c. ACT IV.] MONEY. 51 diel ! Faith, this is more tlian I bargained for — Sir John, I'm arrested. Stout. He's arrested, (slapping Sir John on the back with ylee) old gentleman ! Bill I didn't lend him a farthing. Eve. And for a mere song — £150! Sir John, pay this fellow, will you ? or see that my people kick out the bailiffs, or do it yourself, or somethiug — while we go to dinner. Sir J Pay— kick— ill be d— d if I do ! Oh, my £500 ! my £500 ! Mr. Alfred Evelyn. I want my £500! (Graves and Lady Franklin come forward r. c.) Graves. I'm going to do a very silly thing — I shall lose both my friend and my money — just like my luck — Evelyn, go to dinner — Ell settle this for you. Lady F. I love you for that ! Graves. Do you? then I am the nappiest — Ah! ma'am, I don't know what 1 am saying I (Lady Franklin retires, r. Exeunt Graves and Of- ficer, r ) Eve. (to Georoina, who is l. c). Don't go by these appearances! I repeat, £10,000 will more than cover all my embarrassments. I shall hear from you to-morrow 1 Geor. Yes — yes ! [going, r.) Eve. But you're not going 1 You, too, Glossmorel you, Blount 1 — you, Stout '. — you, Smooth .' Smooth. No. I'll stick by you as long as you've a guinea to stake ! Gloss. Oh, this might have been expected from a man of such am- biguous political opinions ! (crosses, r.) Stout. Don't stop me, sir. No man of common enlightenment would have squandered Ins substance in this way. Pictures and statues — baugh ! (crosses, n.) Eve. Why, you all said I could not spend my money better ! Ha! ha! ha! — the abiimlest mist ike — you don't fancy I'm going to prison — Ha! ha! Why don't you lauuh, Sir John 1 ? — ha! ha! ha! (goes up the stage. Sir Joun crosses to r. c.) Sir J. Sir, this horrible levity ! Take Sir Frederick's arm, my poor, injured, innocent child. Smooth. But, my dear John, they have no right to arrest the dinner. The C. doors are thrown open by two Servants, a handsome dining-room is discovered, and a table elegantly set for ten jjersons. Enter Toke, c. Toke. Dinner is served. Gloss. ( pausing). Dinner ! Stout. Dinner! a very good smell ! Eve. (to Sir John). Turtle and venison, too. (they stop irresolute) That's right — come along — come along — but one word first, Blount — Stout — Glossmore — Sir John — one word first; will you lend me £10 tor my old nurse? (they all fall buck) Ah, you fall back! Be- hold a lesson for all who build friendship upon their fortune, and not their virtues. You lent me hundreds this morning to squander upon pleasure — you would refuse me £10 now to bestow upon benevoleuce. Go — we have done with each other — go. [Exeunt, indignantly, r., all but Evelyn and Smooth. Re-enter Graves, r. Graves. Heyday! what's all this ? Eve. Ha ! ha ! — the scheme prospers — the duper is duped ! Come, my friends — come; when the standard of money goesdown, in the great 52 MONEY. [ACT V. battle between man and fate — why, ft bumper to the brave hearts that- refuse to desert us. [Exeunt, c. door. Smooth and Graves. Ha ! ha ! ha ! {ring down when Evelyn is seated.) CURTAIN. ACT V. SCENE I. — ****'« Club; Smooth, Glossmore— four other Members discovered. * Gloss. Will his horses be sold, think you ? Smooth. Very possibly, Charles — a fine stud — hum — ha ! Waiter, o "lass of sherry ! (Smooth m at breakfast at the l. table, where the Old Mem- ber sal.) Enter Waiter, c, with sherry. Gloss. They say he must go abroad. Smooth. Well; 'tis the best time of year for travelling, Charles. Gloss. We are all to be paid to-day ; and that looks suspicious ! Smooth. Very suspicious, Charles ! Hum ! — ah ! Gloss, [rises and crosses to Smooth^. My dear fellow, you must know the rights of the matter; I wish you'd speak out. What have you really won 1 Is the house itself cone 1 Smooth. The house itself is certainly not gone, Charles, for I saw it exactly in the same place this morning at half-past ten — it has not moved an inch. (Waiter gives a letter to Glossmore .) Gloss, {reading). From Groginhole — an express ! What's this 1 I'm amazed! (reading) "They've actually, at the eleventh hour, started Mr. Evelyn ; and nobody knows what his politics are ! We shall be btat ! — the Constitution is gone — Cipher!" Oh! this is infamous in Evelyn! Gets into Parliament just to keep himself out of the Bench ! Smooth He's capable of it. Gloss. Not a doubt of it, sir ! Not a doubt of it ! The man saves himself at the expense of his country — Groginhole is lost. There's an end of the Constitution ! [Exit, c. Enter Sir John and Blount, c, talking. Sir J. My dear boy, I'm not flint! I am but a man! If Georgina really loves you — and I am sure that she does — 1 will never think of sac- rificing her happiness to ambition — she is yours ; I told her so this very morning. Blount {aside). The old humbug ! Sir J. She's the best of daughteis! Dine with me at seven, and we'd talk of the settlements. (Waiter brings a billon a salver to Smooth; he pays it ) Blount. Yes; I don't care for fortune — but Sir J. Her £10,000 will be settled on herself — that of course. Blount. All of it, sir 1 Weally, I Sir J. What then, my dear boy ? I shall leave you both all I've laid by. Ah, you know I'm a close fellow ! " Stingy Jack," — eh ? After * This Scene is frequently omitted. ACT V.] MONEY. 53 all., worth makes the man! (Waiter removes breakfast things and cloth from Smooth's table.) Smooth, [rises). And the more a man's worth, John, the worthier man lie must be. (Exeunt, Members and .Smooth, c. Sir John takes up a newspaper and reads.) Blount (aside). Yes; he has no other child! She must have all his savings ; I don't see what barm it could do me. Still, that £10,000 — 1 want that €10,000; if she would but wun off one could get wid of the settlements. Enter Stout, c. (wiping his forehead), and takes Sir John aside, l. Stout. Sir John, we've been played upon ! My secretary is brother to Flash's head clerk ; Evelyn had not £300 in the bank! Sir J. (a). Bless us and save us ! you take away my breatli ! But then — Deadly Smooth — the execution — the — Oh, he must be done up ! Stout. As to Smooth, he'd " do anything to oblige." All a trick, d •- pend upon it. Smooth has already deceived me, for before the day's over, Evelyn will be member for Groginhole. I've had an express from Popkins ; he's in despair ! not for himself — but for the country, Sir John, — what's to become of the country 1 Sir J. But what could be Evelyn's object ? Stout. Object ? Do you look for an object in a whimsical creature like that? — a man who lias not even any political opinions! Object! Perhaps to break off his match with your daughter ! Take care, Sir John, or the borough will be lost to your family. Sir J. Aha ! I begin to smell a rat. Stout Do you \ Sir J. But it is not too late yet. Stout. My interest in Popkins made me run to Lord Spendquick, the late proprietor of Groginhole. I told him that Evelyn could not pay the rest of the money ! and he told me that Sir J. What? Stout. Mr. Sharp had just paid it him; there's no hope for Popkins! England will rue this day. (goes to table and looks at papers.) Sin J. Georgina shall lend him the money ! iY/lend him — every man in my house shall lend him — I feel again what it is to be a father-in-law — Sir Frederick, excuse me — you can't dine with me to-day. And, on sec- ond thoughts, I see that it would be very unhandsome to desert poor Evelyn, now he's down in the world. Can't think of it. my dear boy — can't think of it ! Very much honored, and happy to see you as a friend. Waiter, my carriage! Urn! What, humbug Stingy Jack, will they 1 Ah ! a good joke, indeed. [Exit, c. Blou.vt. Mr. Stout, what have you been saying to Sir John 1 Some- thing about my chawacter ; I know you have; don't deny it. Sir, I sh.ill expect satisfaction ! Stout. Satisfaction, Sir Frederick ? Pooh, as if a man of enlighten- ment had any satisfaction in fighting! Did not mem ion your name ; we were talking of Evelyn. Only think — he's no more ruined than you are. Blount. Not wuined ! Aha, now I understand ! So, so ! Stay, let me see — she's to meet me in the square. ( pulls out his watch ; a very small one. ) Stout ( pulling out his own ; a very large one). I must be off to the ves- try. [ Exit, c. Blount. Just in time — ten thousand pounds! 'Gad, my blood's up, and I won't be tweated in this way if he were fifty times Stingy Jack ! [ Exit, c. 54 MONEY. [ACL' V. SCENE IT. — The drawing-rooms in Sir John Vesey's house. Enter Lady Franklix and Graves, l. GiiAVES. Well, well, I am certain that poor Evelyn loves Clara still, but you can't persuade me that she cares for him. Lady F. She has been breaking her heart ever since she heard of his distress. Nay, I am sure she would >>ive all she has, could it save him from the consequences of his own folly. Graves. 1 should just like to sound her. Lady F. (ringing the bsll). And you shall. I take so much interest in her, that I forgive your friend everything but his offer to Georgina. Enter Page, r. Where are the young ladies 1 Page. Miss Vesey is, I believe, still in the square ; Miss Douglas is just come in, my lady. Lady F. What ! did she go out with Miss Vesey 1 Page. No, my lady ; I attended her to Drummond's, the banker. [Exit, r. Lady F. Drummond's ! Enter Clara, r. Why, child, (crosses to Iter) what on earth could take you to Drummond's at this hour of the day ? Clara (confused). Oh, I — that is — I — Ah, Mr. Graves! (crosses to Graves) How is Mr. Evelyn ] How does he bear up against so sudden a reverse 1 Graves. With an awful calm. I fear all is not right here! (touching his head) The report in the town is, that he must go abroad instantly — perhaps to-day. (crosses to c.) Claua (a). Abroad! — to-day! Gkavks (l.). But all his creditors will be paid; and he only seerns anxious to know if Miss Vesey remains true in his misfortunes. Clara. Ah ! he loves her so much, then ? Graves. Urn ! That's more than I can say. Claua. She told me last night, that he said £10,000 would free him from all his liabilities — that was the sum, was it not 1 Graves. Yes ; he persists in the same assertion. Will Miss Vesey lend it ? Lady F. (aside, r.). If she does, I shall not think so well of her poor dear mother ; for I am sure she'd be no child of Sir John's! Graves. I should like to convince myself that my poor friend has nothing to hope from a woman's generosity. Lady F. Civil! And are men, then, less covetous ? Graves. I know one man at least, who, rejected in his poverty by one as poor as himself, no sooner came into a sudden fortune than he made his lawyer invent a codicil which the testator never dreamt of, be- queathing independence to the woman who had scorned him. Lady F. And never told her ? Graves. Never ! There's no such document at Doctors' Commons, depend on it. You seem incredulous, Miss Clara ! Good day! (crosses, r.) Clara (following him). One word, for mercy's sake ! Do I understand you right 1 Ah, how could I be so blind 1 Generous Evelyn ! Graves. You appreciate, and Georgina will desert him. Miss Douglas, ACT T.] MONET. 55 he loves you still. If that's not just like me ! Meddling with other people's affairs, as if they were worth it — hang them! [Exit, r. Claka Georgina will desert him. Do you think so"? Lady F. She told me last night that she would never see him again. To do her justice, she s less interested than her father — and as much attached as she can be to another. Even while engaged to Eve- lyn, she has met Sir Frederick every day in the square. Clara. And he is alone — sad — forsaken — ruined. And I, whom he enriched — I, the creature of his bounty — I, once the woman of his love — 1 stand idly here to content myself with tears and prayers ! Oh, Lady Franklin, have pity on me — on him ! We are both of kin to him — as re- lations we have both a right to comfort ! Let us go to him — come ! Lady F. No! it would scarcely be right — remember the world — I cannot ! Clara. All abandon him — then I will go alone ! (crosses, k.) Lady F. Alone — what will he think ? What but Claka. What but — that, if lie love me still, I may have enough for both, and I am by his side ! But that is too bright a dream. He told me I might call him brother! Where, now, should a sister be 1 But — but — I — I — I — tremble! If, after all — if — if — In one word, am 1 too bold ? Tne world — my conscience can answer thai — but do you think that he could despise me ? Lady F. No, Clara, no ! Your fair soul is too transparent for even lihertines to misconstrue. Something tells me that this meeting may make the happiness of both. You cannot go alone. My presence jus- tifies all. Give me your hand — we will go together. [Exeunt, r. SCENE III. — A room in Evelyn's house, same as last of Act IV. Eve- lyn discovered at table, r. Eye. Yes; as yet, all surpasses my expectations. I am sure of Smooth — I have managed even Sharp; my election will seem but an escape from a prison. Ha ! ha ! True, it cannot last long ; but a few hours more are all I require, and for that time at least I shall hope to be thoroughly ruined, {rises and goes l.) Enter Graves, r. Well, Graves, and what do people say of me ? Graves. Everything that's bad ! Eve. Three days ago I was universally respected. I awake this morning to find myself singularly infamous. Yet, I'm the same man. Gkaves. Humph ! why, gambling Eve. Cant! it was not criminal to gamble — it was criminal to lose. Tut ! — will you deny that if 1 had ruined Smooth instead of myself, every hand would have grasped mine yet more cordially, and every lip would have smiled congratulation on my success ? Man — Man — I've not been rich and poor for nothing. The Vices and the Virtues are written in a language the world cannot construe ; it reads them in a vile translation, and the translators SiTe— failure and success! You alone are unchanged. Graves. There's no merit in that I am always ready to mingle my tears with any man. (aside) I know I'm a fool, but I can't help it. (aloud) Hark ye, Evelyn. I like you — I'm rich; and anything I can do to get you out of your hobble will give me an excuse to grumble for the rest of my life. There, now 'tis out Eve. (touched). There's something good in human nature, after all ! 56 MONEY. [ACT Y. My dear friend, I will now confide in jou ; I am not the spendthrift you think me — my losses have been trifling — not a month's income of my fortune. (Graves shakes him heartily by the hand) No! it lias been but a stratag ?m to prove if the love, on which was to rest the happiness of a whole life, were given to the Money or the Man. Now you guess why I hive asked from Georgina this one proof of confidence and affection. — Think you she will give it? Graves. Would you break your heart if she did not? Eve It, is vain to deny that I still love Clara; our Irst conversation renewed feelings which would task all the energies of my soul to con- qu >r. No ! the heart was given to the soul as its ally, not as its traitor. Ghavks What do you intend to do 1 Evk. This: — If Georgina prove, by her confidence and generosity, that she loves me for myself, 1 will shut Clara for ever from my thoughts. 1 am pledged to Georgina, and I will carry to the altar a soul resolute to deserve her affectio i and fulfill its vows. Graves And if she reject you ? Eve. U o yf tl fyi). If she do, I am free once more! And then — then I will dare to ask, for I can ask without dishonor, if Clara can explain the past and bless the future ! (crosses, r.) Enter Servant, r., with a letter on a salver ; Evelyn takes it. Exit Ser- vant, r. Eve. (after reading it). The die is cast — the dream is over. Generous girl ! Oh, Georgina ! I will deserve you yet. Graves Georgina! is it possible 1 Eve. And the delicacy, the womanhood, the exquisite grace of this ! How we misjudge the depth of the human heart! How, seeing the straws on the surface, we forget that the pearls may lie hid below ! I innginerl her incapable of this devotion. Gravrs. And 1, too. Evk. It were base in me to continue this trial a moment longer; I will write at once to undeceive that generous heart, (goes to r. table and writes.) Graves. I would have given £1,000 if that little jade Clara had been beforehand. But just like my luck; if I want a man to marry one wo- man, he's sure to marry another on purpose to vex me. Eve. Graves, willyou ring the bell ? (Graves rings bell, l.) Enter Servant, r. Take this instantly to Miss Vesey ; say I will call in an hour, (exit Ser- vant) And now Clara is resigned forever. Why does my heart sink wit'iin me? Why, why, looking to the fate to come, do 1 see only the memory of what has been ? (goes toward* l.) G saves. You are re-engaged then to Georgina? Eve. Irrevocably. Enter Servant, r., announcing Lady Franklin and Miss Douglas. Lady F. My dear Evelyn, you may think it strange to receive such visitors at this momont; but, indeed, it is no time for ceremony. We are your relations — it is reported you are about to leave the country — we come to ask frankly what we can do to serve you ! Eve Madam — I Lady F. Come, come — do not hesitate to confide in us; Clara i= less ACT V.] MONEY. 57 a stranger to you than I am ; your friend here will perhap.s let me con- sult with him. (cross- s and speaks aside to Graves) Let us leave them to themselves. Graves. You're an angel of a widow ; but you come too late, as what- ever is good for anything generally does, (they retire into the inner-room, oi'.i of sight, the doors of which should be partially open.) Eve. (l ). Miss Douglas, I may well want words to thank you ! this goodness — this sympathy Clara (b., abandoning herself to her emotion'). Evelyn! Evelyn! Do not talk thus! Goodness! sympathy — I have learned all — alt! It is for me to speak of gratitude '. What! even when I had so wounded you — when you believed me mercenaiy and cold — when yon thought that 1 was blind and base enough not to know you for what you are; even at that time you thought but of my happiness — my fortunes — my fate! — And to you — you — I owe all that lias raised the poor orphan from servi- tude and dependence ! While your words were so bitter, your deeds so gentle! Oh, noble Evelyn, this then was your revenge. Eve. You owe me no thanks — that revenge was sweet ! Think you it was nothing to feel that my presence haunted you, though you knew it not? — that in things the pettiest as the greatest, which that L'oid could buy — the very jewels you wore — the very robe in which, to other eyes, you might seem more fair — in all in which you took the woman's young and innocent delight — 1 had a part — a share ! that, even if separated forever — even if another's — even in distant years — perhaps in a happy home,.listening to sweet voices that might call you " mother !" — even then should the uses of that dross bring to your lips one smile — that smile was mine — due to me — due as a sacred debt, to the hand that you rejected — to the love that you despised ! ClA3A. Despised ! See the proof ihat I despise you — see ; in this hour, when they say you are agaiu as poor as before, I forget the world — my pride — perhaps too much my sex ; I remember but your sorrows — I am here ! Eve. And is this the same voice that, when I knelt at your feet— when I asked but one di the hope to call you miue — spoke only of poverty, and answered, li Never ?' Clara. Because I had been unworthy of your love if I had insured your misery! Evelyn, hear me! My father, like you, was poor — gen- erous; gifted, like you, with genius — ambition ; sensitive, like you, to the least breath of insult. He married, as you would have done — mar- ried one whose only dower was penury and care ! Alfred, I saw that genius the curse to itself — I saw that ambition wither to despair — I saw the struggle — the humiliation — the proud man's agony — the bitter life — the early death — and heard over his breathless clay my mother's groan of self-reproach! Alfred Evelyn, now speak! Was the woman you loved so nobly to repay you with such a doom 1 Eve Clara, we should have shared it. Clara. Shared .' Never let the woman who really loves comfort her selfishness with such delusion ! In marriages like this, the wife cannot share the burden ; it is he — the husband — to provide, to scheme, to work. to endure — to grind out his strong heart at the miserable wheel ! The wife, alas ! cannot share the struggle — she cau but witness the despair ! And therefore, Alfred. I rejected you. Eve. Yet you believe me as poor now as I was then 1 Clara. But Jam not poor; we are not so poor. Of this fortune, which is all your own — if, as I hear, one-half would free you from your debts, why, we have the other half still left. Evelyn, it is humble — but it is not penury. You know me now. 58 HOHEY. [.ACT V. Eve. Know you ! Bright angel, too excellent for man's harder nature to understand— at least it is permitted me to revere. Why were such blessed words not vouchsafed to me before ? — why, why come they now — too late 1 Oli, Heaven — too late ! Clara. Too late ! What, then, have I said 1 Eve. Wealth! what is it without you"? With you, I recognize its power ; to forestall your every wish — to smooth your every path — to make all that life borrows from Grace and Beauty your ministrant and handmaid ; — why, that were to make geld indeed a god ! But vain — vain — vain ! Bound by every tie of faith, gratitude, loyalty, and honor, to another ! Clara. Another ! Is she, then, true to your reverses ? I did not knowthis — lixlee.l I did not ! And I have thus betrayed myself ! {aside) 0, shame ! l.e must despise me now ! ^Clara goes up and sits at tabic, it.) Enter Sin John, r. ; at the same time Gi:aves and Ladv Franklin ad- vance from the inner room. Sir J. (with dignity and franlness). Evelyn, I was hasty yesterday. You must own it natural that I should be so. But Georgina has been so urgent in your defence — (as Lady Franklin comes down, r.) Sister, just shut the door, will you 1— that I cannot resist her. What's money without happiness '? So give me your security ; for she insists on lend- ing you the £10,000. Eve. I know, and have already received it. Sir J. (c. — aside). Already received it ! Is he joking 1 Faith, for the last two days I believe I have been living amongst the Mysteries of U lo'pho ! (aloud) Sister, have you seen Georgina 1 Lady F. (r.). Not since she went out to walk in the square. Siu J. {aside). She's not in the square, nor the house — where the deuce can the girl be 1 Eve. 1 have written to Miss Vesey — I have asksd her to fix the day for our wedding. Sir J. {joyfully). Have you? Go, Lady Franklin, find her instantly — she must be back by this time; take my carriage— it is but a step — you will not be two minutes gone, (aside) I'd go myself, but I'm afraid of leaving him a moment while he's in such excellent dispositions. Lady F. (repulsing Clara, who rises to follow). No, no ; stay till I re- turn. [Exit, r. Sir J. And don't be down-hearted, my dear fellow ; if the worst come to the worst, you will have everything 1 can leave you. Meantime, if I can in any way help you Eve. Ha ! — you ! — yen, too 1 Sir John, you have seen my letter to Miss Vesey ? — (aside) or could she have learned the truth before she ven- tured to be generous ? Sir J. No ! on my honor. I only just called at the door on my way from Lord Spend — that is, from the City. Georgina was out ; — was ever anything so unlucky? (Voices without — "Hurrah — hurrah! Blue for ever !") What's that 1 Enter Sharp, r. Sharp. Sir, a deputation from Groginhole — poll closed in an hour — you are returned ! Holloa, sir — holloa ! Eve. (aside). And it was to please Clara ! Sir J. Mr. Sharp — Mr. Sharp — I say, how much has Mr. Evelyn lost by Messrs. Flash and Co. 1 Sharp. Oh, a great deal, sir — a great deal ! ACT V.] MONEY. 59 Sir J. (alarmed). How ? — a great ileal ! Eve. Speak the truth, Sharp — concealment is all over, [goes up the stage. ) Sharp. £223 63. 8.1. — a great sum to throw away ! Sir J. Eh ! what, my dear boy 1 — what V Ha! ha! all liumbu_r, was it 1 — all humbus ! So, Mr. Sharp, isn't he ruined, after all ? — not the least wee, rascally little bit in the world ruined'? Sharp. Sir, lie has never even lived up to his income. Sir J. Worthy man ! 1 could jump up to the ceiling ! I am the hap- piest father-in-law in the three kingdoms. (Jcnock'ng, n.) And that's my sister's knock, too ! Clara {rises, r.). Since I was mistaken, cousin — since now you do not need me — forget what has passed ; my business here is over. Farewell ! Eve. Could you but see my heart at this moment, with what love, what veneration, what anguish it is filled, you would know how little, in the great calamities of life, fortune is really worth. And must we part now, — ii'.iv, when — when — I Enter Lady Franklin and Georgina, r., followed by Blount, icho looks s/ig and embarrassed ; Clara retires and goes to l. table. Graves. Georgina herself — then there's no hope. Sir J. (l — aside). What the deuce brings that fellow Blount here? (aloud) Georgy, my dear Georay, I want to Eve. (a). Stand back, Sir John ! Sir J. But I must speak a word to her — I want to Eve. Stand back, I say — not a whisper — not a sign. If your daugh- ter is to be my wife, to her heart only will 1 look for a reply to mine. — Georgina, it is true, then, that you trust me with your confidence — your fortune? It is also true, that when you did so you believed me ruined ? Oh, pardon the doubt! Answer as if your father stood not there — an- swer me from that truth the world cannot yet have plucked from your soul — answer me as woman's heart, yei virgin and unpolluted, should answer to one who has trusted to it his all ! Geor. (r. c. — aside). What can he mean 1 Sir J. (l. c. — making sii/ns). She'll not look this way — she will not — hang her — II km ! Eve. You falter. I implore — I adjure you — answer ! Lady F. Spealt ! (Sir John makes an effort to speak ; Evelyn observes it.) Evf. Silence, Sir John ! Geor. Mr. Evelyn, your fortune might well dazzle me, as it dazzled others. Believe me, I sincerely pity your reverses. Sir J. Good girl! — you hear her, Evelyn. Geor. What's money without happiness 1 Sir J. Clever creature ! — my own sentiments! Geor. And so, as our engagement is now annulled Eve. Annulled ! Geor. Papa told me so this very morning — I have promised my hand where I have given my heart — to Sir Frederick Blount. (Clara goes down, l.) Sir J. I told you — I — No such thing — no such thing ; you friqhten her out of her wits — she don't know what's she's saying ! (goes up and over to R.) . Eve. Am I awake 1 But this letter — this letter, received to-day Lady F. > looking over the fatter). Drummond's — from a banker ! Eve. Real— read ! 60 MONEY. [ACT V. Lady F. " £10 000 just placed to your account — from the same un- known friend to Evelyn." Oh, Clara, I know now why you went to Drummond's this morning. Eve. Clara ! What ! — and the former note with the same signature, on the faith of which I pledged my hand and sacrificed my heart Lady F. Was written under my eyes, and the secret kept that Eve. I see it all — how could I be so blind? I am free ! — I am re- leased ! — Clara, you forgive me 1 — you love me 1 — you are mine ! We are rich — rich ! I can give you fortune, power — I can devote to you my whole life, thought, heart, soul — 1 am all yours, Clara — my own — my wife ! (kneels; she gives him Iter hand ; they embrace.) Sir J. (to Gkorgixa). A pretty mess you've made, to humbug your own father ! And you too, Lady Franklin — I am to thank you for this ! (Evelyn places Clara in a chair tip l.) Lady F. You've to thank me that she's not now on the road to Scotland with Sir Frederick. I chanced on them by the Park just in time to dis- suade and save her. But, to dp her justice, a hint of your displeasure was sufficient. Geor. [half -sobbing). And you know, papa, you said this very morn- ing that poor Frederick bad been very ill-used, and you would settle it all at the club. Blount. Come, Sir John, you can only blame yourself and Evelyn's cunning device. After all, I'm no such vewy bad match ; and as for the £10,000 Eve I'll double it. Ah, Sir John, what's money without happiness? (slaps Sir John on the shoulder and retires.) Sir J. Pshaw — nonsense — stuff! Don't humbug me ! Lady F. But if you don't consent, she'll have no husband at all. Sir J. Hum ! there's something in that, (aside to Evelyn) Double it, will you'? Then, settle it all tightly on her. Well — well — my foible is not avarice. Blount, make her happy. Child, I forgive you. (pinching her arm) Ugh, you fool ! (Blount aWGeorgina go up, l.) Gravks (comes forward with Lady Franklin). I'm afraid it's catch- ing. What say you 1 I feel the symptoms of matrimony creeping all over me. Shall we, eh ? Frankly, now, frankly Ladv F. Frankly, now, there's my hand. Graves. Accepted. Is it possible ? Sainted Maria ! thank Heaven you are spared this affliction ! (goes up c.) Enter Smooth, r. Smooth. How d'ye do, Alfred 1 I intrude, I fear ! Quite a family party. Blount. Wish us joy, Smooth — Georgina's mine, and Smooth. And our four friends there apparently have made up another rubber. John, my dear boy, yon look as if you had something a* stake on the odd trick, (crosses to l.) Sir J. Sir, your very — Confound the fellow — and he's a dead shot, too ! Enter Stout and Glossmore hastily, talking with each other, r. Gloss. My dear Evelyn, you were out of humor yesterday — but I for- give you. (Evelyn takes his hand.) Stout. Certainly ! (Evelyn crosses, c.) what would become of public life if a man were obliged to be two days running in the same mind 1 — I rise to explain. Just heard of your return, Evelyn. Congratulate you. ACT V.] MONET. 61 The great motion of the session is fixed for Friday. We count on your vote. Progress with the times. Gloss. Preserve the Constitution ! Stout. Your money will do wonders for the party ! Advance ! Gloss. The party respects men of your property. Slick fast ! Eve. I have the greatest respect, I assure you, for the worthy and in- telligent flies upon both sides of the wheel ; but whether we go too fast or too slow doe3 not, I fancy, depend so much on the flies as on the Stout f! mtleman who sits inside and pays the post-hoys. Now, all my politics as yet is to consider what's best for the Stout Gentleman ! Bth. Meaning John Bull. Ce chcr, old John! (Evelyn crosses to i and takes his hand.) Eve. Smooth, we have yet to settle our first piquet account and our last. And I sincerely thank you for the service you have rendered to me, and the lesson you have given these gentlemen, {returns to c. ; all the characters take their positions for the end. Turning to Clara) Ah, Clara, you — you have succeeded where wealth had failed ! You have reconciled me to the world and to mankind. My friends — we must con- fess it — amidst the humors and the follies, the vanities, deceits, and vices that play their parts in the greit Comedy of Life — it is our own fault if we do not find such natures, though rare and few, as redeem the rest, brightening the shadows that are flung from the form and body of the time with glimpses of the everlasting holiness of truth and love. Graves. But for the truth and the love, when found, to make us tol- erably happy, we should not be without Lady F. Good health ; Graves. Good spirits ; Clara. A good heart ; Smooth. An innocent rubber; Geor. Congenial tempers ; Blount. A pwoper degwee of pwudence ; Stout. Enlightened opinio Gloss. Constitutional principles ; Sir J. Knowledge of the world ; Eve. And — plenty of money ! Disposition of the Characters at the fall of the Curtain. BLOl'NT. Clara. Evelyn. Lady Franklin. Gbokgina. Glossmore. Stout. Graves. Smooth. Sir John, r. l. CUETAIX. RICHELIEU COPTBIGHT, 1875, BY ROBERT M. DE WlTT. IUCIIELIEU. ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS. Theatre Royal, Covent Wallaces Old National Garden, London, Theatre, JVetv York, J 839. S pt 4, 1339. Louis XIII., King of France Mr. Elton. Mr. Walton. Gaston, Duke of Orleans (Brother to the King) Mr. Diddear. Mr. Powell Baradas (the King's Favorite) Mr. Wabds. Mr. G. Jameson. Cardinal Richelieu Mr. Macready. Mr. Edwin Forrkst. The Chevalier de Mauprat Mr. Anderson. Mr. J. W. Wallace, Jr. The Sieur de Beringhen (in attendance on the King— one of the Conspir- ators) Mr. F. Vining. Mr. Horncastle. Clermont (a Courtier) Joseph, a Capuchin Monk (Richelieu's Confidant) Mr. Phelps. Mr. A. J. Neafie. Frangois (First Page to Richelieu) Mr. Howe. Mrs. W. Sefton. Huguet (an Officer of Richelieu's House- hold Guard— a Spy) Mr. G. Bennett. First Courtier Mr. Roberts. } Mr. Matthews. First, Second, and Third Secretaries / .. ,., ____ of State. i w it- \ Mr. Yarnold. Governor of the Bastile Mr. Waldron. Jailer Mr. Ayltffe. Julie de Mortemar (an Orphan, Ward to Richelieu) Miss Helen Faucit. Miss V. Monier. Marion de Lorme (Mistress to the Duke of Orleans, but in Richelieu's pay). Miss Charles. Mrs. Rogebs. Courtiers, Pages, Conspirators, Officers, Soldiers, etc. TIME IN REPRESENTATION-THREE HOURS AND A QUARTER. SCENE.— Paris and the vicinity. PERIOD.— 1642. SCENERY. ACT I., Scene 1.— Handsomely furnished room in the house of Mabion de Losses. Entrance 3d Grooves. Table and E. 2 e. « \_J # Chairs. -3d Grooves. with curtains. Table and * V ) * l. 2 e. Chairs. B. 1 E. At b. c. a handsome gilded table and four chairs; l. c. another table and two 1UCIIELIEU. 6 unairs ; wine, fruit, goblets, etc , on table r. o. The flats (in 3d grooves) represent a handsome chamber, d. l. f., concealed by curtains. Scene //.—Room in the Cardinal's l'alace. oth G. | Clock | | Door. | 5th G. * in recess. * Statue. Statue. Chair. # : : Door concealed by arras. E, 4 E. : Table. : l. -4 e. Door. .• Footstool. . • Screen. r. 3 E. * * . L. 3 E. s,,it..i armor D and sword rests. B. 2 E. L. 3 E. L. 1 E. The walls are hung with tupestry in the 5th grooves. A large screen placed in a slanting direction, it. v. e. A dour behind the arras, l. u. e. ; door l. h. f. ; a rude flock in recess, c., over it a bust; weapons and banners hung about; statues at back, it. c, l. c, and l. u. , a suit of armor r. c, and leaning ou a rack or support near it a short sword and a lar-e two-handed sword of the period ; a large antique table with cover, c, upon which are books, papers, etc. ; hand bell ; R. h. of table a high antique arm-chair, with crimson seat and back ; by the side of it a footstool. ACT II, Scene /.—Apartment in De Haupkat's new house. The flats in 3d grooves, and the wings represent the interior of a richly decorated apartment, large c isements r. c. and l. o., hung with tapestry, and painted so as to represent being seen through the glass the gardens and domes of the Luxembourg* Palace. Scene //.—Same as Act I., Scene II. ACT 111., Scene /. — Richelieu's Castle at Ruelle. The scene represents a large chamber iu the Gothic style; large doors c. of F , which are in the 4th grooves; doors i.. h. and r. h. between 2 and 3 E. ; window L. c. f., through which the moonlight shines now and then ; the next scene closes in on 3d grooves. Table c, and chairs. Scene /T.—Room in the house of C >unt de Baradas, in the 3d grooves ; merely a representation of a richly-furnished apartment. A CT IV., Scene /.—The Gardens of the Louvre. The flats in 4th grooves and the wings represent beautiful gardens; vases, fountains, etc., extending in perspective. ACT V, Scene /.—A corridor in the Bastile. The flats in the 2d grooves repre- sent massive, dismal-looking stone walls ; door l. f., with bolts and lock ; door r. f. Scene II —The King's closet in the Louvre. The wings represent the sides of a gorgeously fltted-up apartment. Folding-doors r. f., and the left half of fiats rep- resent in perspective a succession of rich rooms or gallery, so that on entering the King and suite appear to have traversed these apartments. Two richly gilded chairs at 3 e., both sides ; afterwards moved to r. o. and l. c. COSTUMES. Compiled Expressly for this Edition from the bfsl French works. Louis.— A complete suit of black velvet ; shoes, roses, and a black plume ; the Cross of St. Louis on his cloak and suspended round his neok. Gaston. — Claret-colored doublet, cloak, and breeches ending with lace ; loose boots of buff leather ; hat and plume ; Cross of St. Louis upon the cloak, and the or- der round the neck. 4 RICHEHKU. De Beringhes, 5 Clermont, and £ Similar styles, but of various colors. COUKT. 3 Baradas. — Green velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, slashed with yellow satin, trimmed with gold; shoes and roses ; cloak with Star of St. Louis on it, order round the neck Cardinal Richelieu'.— Scarlet cassock ; tippet of white fur lined with scarlet ; red stockings, shoes, and skull cap; a rich robe for the first dress. De Maupisat. — \st Dress ; Plain dark velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, terminat- ing with lace ; lace ruffles and collar ; flip boots; hat and plume. 2d Dress : Rich blue velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, slashed with white satin and trimmed with gold and lace; lace collar, ruffles, and lace at end of breeches ; shoes and roses; hat and feathers. 3d Dress: Complete suit of steel armor. Atli Dress : Same as 2d Dress. Joseph — A monk's brown frock, girdle, flesh-colored stockings, and plain sandals Huguet.— Buff jerkin, large red breeclies, heavy boots and giuntlets; a gorget and morion ; a bandoleer across the shoulder. Francois. — 1st Dress : White and red doublet, cloak, and breeches, slightly trim- med with gold ; shoes. 2d Dress : Buff-ro!ored jerkin and breeches, steel back and breast plates ; cross belt and waist belt, sword and boots and spurs. 3d Dress : Plain jerkin and breeches, with shoes and rosettes ; cap with rosette. Capt. of Archeks —Green jerkin and breeches; waist belt, buff gloves, and boots; hat and feather. Secretaries of State. — Black velvet doublets, cloaks, and breeches ; lace collars and cuffs ; shoes and rosea. Governor of Basti i.e.— Dark-colored doublet and breeches ; belt, shoes, and roses. Jailer. — Dark-colored plain jerkin and breeches, with waist-belt and boot-;. Guards. — Doublets with loose sleeves ; breeches, stockings, and high shoes with rosettes ; the letter " L " and a crown embroidered on the breast ; hat and feath- ers. Pages. — Scarlet and purple doublets, cloaks, and breeches, slightly trimmed with gold ; shoes and rosettes. Julie.— White satin, trimmed witli blue and silver; a handsome travelling wrapper for 3d Act. Marion de Lorjie. — Amber and gold ; very rich in jewels and ornaments ; a veil for the 2d Act. PROPERTIES. ACT I., Scene 1. — Two richly-giUled tables and six chairs ; wine, fruits, and goblets ; dice and box; pieces of gold; swords for all; four arquebuses; parchment for Baradas. Scene 2.— A large screen; large table and cover; books, papers, writing materials ; quill pens ; a rude surt of clock ; massive antique chair with crimson seat and back; footstool : busts; statues; weapons and banners scat- tered about and against the wall ; suit of armor ; a long sword and a two-han- dled sword ; small bell on table ; carbine for Huguet. ACT II., Scene 1.— Large sheet of paper with seal attached for Baradas; parchment scroll for him; table napkin for De Berisghen. Scene 2.— As in Act I., Scene 2, but with purse and gold on table. • ACT III., Scene 1.— Antique table with chairs ; books; purse with gold pieces for Franc us ; lamp on table ; suit of armor and sword for De Mauprat ; antique couch and fittings. Scene 2.— Parchment for Baradas ; cross-bows for Archers. ACT IV., Scene 1.— Aiquebuses for Guards ; parchment for warrant. ACT V., Scene 1.— Keys for Jailfb ; folded paper as a passport; sealed packet for De Beringhf.n. Scene2.— Watch for Baradas ; papers and large portfolios for the three Secretaries ; two gilded chairs ; parchment as before, and also sealed packet. KICnELIEU. TEE STORY OF THE PLAY. The openingof the play occurs during the reign of Louis XIII., King of France, at a period when the Cardinal Richelieu had risen high into power, having gradu- ally but firmly worked his way up in a progressive journey of many years. But the weakness of the monarch, and the grand intellect, coupled with firmness, indeed, severity, of the minister operated to produce a spirit of discontent in the court, which had culminated in a powerful conspiracy, not for the love of nation, but for personal aggrandizement. Upon this state of things starts the play. Some idea of the character of the Cardinal, and the position of affairs, both before and at this time, are shown in the elegant "preface" of the distinguished author, and by the " Remarks " which accompany the present edition. At the commement of the play, Gaston, Duke of Orleans, brother to the King, has formed a conspiracy for his dethronement, and possessing power, rank, and influ- ence, has enlisted on his side, not only Baradas, the King's favorite, and one of his chief officers, but many other courtiers and presumed supporters of the crown; not the least amongst them being the Due do Bouillon, one of the great leaders of the French Army, then operating against the Spaniards ; tor it is upon his support and that of his soldiers, that the hopes of the conspirators rest— hence, the importance attached to the " dispatch " introduced in the play. The meetings are held at the house of Marion de Lorme, a fascinating beauty, mistress of the Duke of Orleans, but hone-tly in the service and pay of the Cardinal. It is at oue of these meetings the play opens. Biradas reveals to Orleans the proposed scheme for the Due do Bouillon forsak- ing his allegiance to the King of France — joining his troops with those of his enemy, the King of Spain ; then marching on to Paris— dethroning the King, appointing Orleans Regent — and Baradas and the other lords members of the Council, when they would carry out more fully a preliminary treaty with Spain for an increase of wealth and power— and he produces the parchment to be signed by all who join in the compact. The Duke of Orleans suggests, however, that Richelieu, with his well-known argus eyes and secret powers and appliances, might gain information of their schemes, and then — •' pood bye to life !" Such a suggestion, however, B ir idas meets boldly, and suggests, that whilst the dispatch, when duly signed, is sent to the Due de Bouillon, the Cardinal, must, by some trusty hand, be sent to Heaven. To consider further, a meeting tor the morrow is appointed. Amongst the comp iny present is a young courtier — the Chevalier de Mauprat— gay, dashing, brave, and of good birth, in fact, a Don Caesar de Bazan of that period. He has been induced to play— lost all — and there is nothing left but his honor and his sword. The courtiers, therefore, having no more money to gain, leave him to himself; but Btradas, keen-sighted and foreseeing, detects the presence of some grievance on his mind which will make him a ready tool for the purposes of the con- spiracy, and remains to question him. He s ion learns that hating the Cardinal, and under the influence and control of the Duke of Orleans, De Mauprat, some time previously had joined iu a revolt against the King, in the Provinces, and aided by a number of daring, reckless spirits like himself, had gone so fir as to seize upoa a small town and hoist the flag of rebellion. Orleans, when he found affairs getting had, and that he would be compelled to retre it, insisted that this had been done without his order or authority, an 1 consequently, when he and his companions, be- ing compelled to yield, receivel a general amnesty, the name of De Mauprat was erased from the pardon, Richelieu telling him to go and join the army then fighting against the Spaniards, and m -vt a Boldier's fate rather than end his life upon a traitor's scaffold, beneath the headsman's axe. He proceeds to the seat of war, fights valiantly, and returns ; not to meet praise from the Cardinal, but the severest cen- sure, with an intimation that though he has escaped the sword the axe may one day fill. G RICHELIEU. Upon this information, Baradas endeavors to induce him to side against the Car- dinal, but De M mprat knows his immense powjr and is proof against the tempta- tion ; whereupon, B iradas hints artfully, that he loves the beautiful Julie de Slor- temar, an orphan, under the Cardinal's protection, of whom he is himself deeply- enamored. The shot is well aimed ; Ue Mauprat confesses to possess an antipathy to Richelieu, and at the same time admits his love for Julie — at this moment the order for his arrest arrives, and before further treaty can be made, he is conducted away. Baradas rejoices ; in youth, strength valor, and now in love he had always been De Mauprat's inferior— but with his rival removed, success lay before him. Although the King, it was rumored, also loved Julie, he was determined to wed her— to be- come Minister of France — and by the aid of the parchment, when signed, and the assistance of the Due do Bouillon and the Spanish Army lie would accomplish ; dethrone the King, and " all in despite of my Lord Cardinal." The scene then shifts to Richelieu's palace, where Joseph, a Capuchin monk, and his confidant, is acquainting him of the traitorous plot that is in progress -the par- ties concerned in it, and further, that the King has been charmed by Julie. Riche- lieu is grieved to hear this, b it with a firm conceit and consciousness of his extraor- dinary power, he declares emphatically that the King must have no goddess but the State — and that State must be— himself ! Nothing daunted, Joseph asserts that the King, to conceal his love, and to bring Julie near him, intends to cause her to be married to Baradas. Richelieu determines to thwart this sacrifice, and vows that the only clasp round the neck of Baradas shall bo the axe, and not the arms of his ward. Julie arrives, and dispatching Joseph to his prayers, Richelieu feelingly tells her of her father's friendship, who, dying bequeathed her to Ins care, and that she shall find in him a second father, who will coufer upon her a dowry of wealth, rank, and love worthy of the highest station. He closely and skillfully questions her of the attentions paid her by the King, Baradas and other courtiers, but without produc- ing any effect, when Huguet, one of his officers, but also a spy against him, announ- ces that the Chevalier de Mauprat waits an audience. Julie, thrown off her guard, starts at the name, and the Cardinal quickly detects the implied confession of love. He commands her to look higher for a match, and warns her that if she hates his foes, she must hate Be Mauprat ; but she makes such an earnest appeal that his sternness is disarmed, and he consents to blot out his name from his list of foes. Dismissing her into an adjoining chamber, he summons De Mauprat to his pres- ence ; earnestly he reminds him of all the past events, and rebukes him bitterly for having since his return passed his time in wild and reckless living, and in a keen and smartly-telling speech, shows him that to live upon the means and labors of others, without the prospect of repaying them, is simply trickery and theft. His debts must be paid; but when De Miuprat, answering boldly, says that he is ready to do so, but he should be glad to know where he can borrow the money, the humor of the Cardinal is touched, his severity relaxed, and he perceives at once that the Chevalier is exactly the man to serve the schemes he has in view, and prove a friend. In one of the finest speeches in the play he tells him, though men say he is cruel, he is not so ; he is just, and portrays how he has reconstructed France, and from sloth and crime, raised her to wealth and power; that France needs his aid — and though he came to meet him as a foe, he shall depart as a friend, with honor and wealth in store. De Mauprat is, very naturally, completely astounded at this sud-> den change ; under arrest, he came to the interview with the belief that after it, he should proceed to the Bastile and thence to the scaffold ; instead of which, there comes an offer of friendship and favor, nay, more, the Cardinal tells him he is aware of his love for Julie, and offers her in marriage. De Mauprat, feeling that the sen- tence of death still hangs over him, and that honor forbids the wedding, refuses. In apparent anger, the Cardinal directs his removal to the adjoining chamber (whither he has already sent Julie), and with mock solemnity bids him prepare to behold his execution— that his doom will be private — and to seek speedily for Heaven's mercy. RICHELIEU. / Summoning' Joseph, the Cardinal gives orders for the preparation of the neces- sary deeds, and the arrangement of his house near the Luxembourg Palace, as a bridal present for his ward. Returning, overwhelmed with surprise and joy, De Mauprat and Julie receive his congratulations, and upon their departure, another brief but eloquent and thrilling speech, tells of the great man's power and his soul- binding, ardent love for his country. " France ! I love thee ! All earth sha 1 never pluck thee from my hand 1 My mistress, France — my wedded wife — sweet France, "Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ?" But the course of true love never did run smooth, and De Mauprat's case is no ex- ception. Baradas has learned of the marriage — Lold the King, thus making him a foe to the husband, and exercising his influence, procures a royal warrant, fori i l- dicg De Mauprat communicating with Julie by word or letter, and so to continue until the formal annulment of the marriage is obtained, it being illegal. The sen- tence of death was still in force; Julie was a lady of the Court, and as such, accord- ing to the laws of France, could not lawfully be married without the King's permis- sion. Armed with this order, Baradas repairs to De Mauprat's house immedi itely after the wedding, and meeting him, artfully and skillfully points out, that all which has taken place is only part of a wily, ambitious scheme of Richelieu's — the King loves Julie— to encourage this will increase the Cardinal's position and power— to avoid scandal she must first be married to some one, and in selecting T>3 Mauprat, he had gratified two passions — ambition, by the grandeur of his ward, and vengeance by the dishonor of his foe. So skillfully, and with such subtlety is the story to.'d that De Mauprat believes it; his anger is unbounded— again the tempter strikes, calling upon him to join the conspiracy ; with Richelieu dead, and Baradas Prime Minister, all will be forgotten Maddened with the thoughts of how basi ly he has been deceived, De Mauprat refuses to listen, and quits the spot ; but not to escape. Another meeting is to take place to-night, when the compact is to be signed by all the League and forwarded to the Due de Bouillon. Baradas determines that of this dispatch De Mauprat is to know nothing— he shall merely be posted as a sentry at the door— but he shall, be the murderer of the Cardinal. At this moment, De Mauprat returns in a perfect- state of frenzy. He has seen the King's carriage pass, mkI in the blindness of his passion, imagines he saw within it — Julie ! Baradas promptly seizes the golden opportunity, and assures him that it was so. Mad with vengeance, De Mauprat believes him, consents to join the conspiracy, and swears that only the blood ot Richelieu can obliterate the stain cast upon his honor. In the meanwhile, Joseph has learned more of the proceedings, the plot for the as- sassination, and the intended meeting. The story rouses up all the latent energy of ■ he great Minister ; he speaks in glowing terms of the exploits of his youth, and bids his page bring to him the double-handed sword he once wielded with such force and skill. Alas ! the strength of youth has fled. Sinking into his chair, he grasps his pen— that is now his weapon— and ruled by a master hand— " The pen is mightier than the sword 1" Marion arrives with further news of the meeting, and with the intimation that the Duke of Orleans had requested her to find a messenger upon whose fidelity she could rely, to convey dispatches that night to the Due de Bouillon; and she had promised to send her brother. This is hut a subterfuge to assist the Cardinal, to whom she leaves the selection; he chooses his favorite page, Francois, as being voung, unnoted, faithful, brave, ambitious, lie instructs him to arm himself, fol- low Marion, obtain the packet, and upon the fleetest steed he can procure, bring it to the Castle of Ruelle, whither the Cardinal intends to go for safety. He then questions Joseph as to the' faithfulness of Huguet, who, unnoticed, enter.-, and 01 I - hears their conversation, by which he learns that certain honors he is expecting are to be promised to him but not granted. Breathing vengeance he retires unob- served ; but returns shortly to receive instructions from the Cardinal to take steps b RICH ELI KU. for guarding every outlet and passage of the Castle. "With triple walls, draw-bridge and portcullis, Huguet assures him that he can with twenty men hold out for a month against all comers, and he promises they shall be well chosen— from the con- spirator's ranks. It is midnight, and the Cardinal is at his castle, buried in deep meditation and waiting with great anxiety the coming of Francois. He does not wait long — Fran- gois arrives, and falling at his feet, with bitter anguish tells him of the loss of the dispatch. Baradas had objected to his receiving it, but Orleans overcame his scru- ples, and giving it to him with a purse of gold, bade him hasten forward, promising him thousands more, when Bouillon's trumpets should sound through the streets of Paris. As he mounted his horse, Marion came to him in the dark, and told him to speed well, for Orleans had sworn that before the morning dawned, Richelieu should cease to live. She fled, and at the same momeut, a hand of iron fell upon him, and ere he could draw his sword, the packet was wrested from his keeping, whilst some one exclaimed, in a hoarse voice : " The spy is spared — the steel is for his lord !" Although almost overwhelmed, Richelieu, in the greatness of his powerful intel- lect, is not subdued. The dispatch may yet be recovered ; and telling Frangois he has lost that which would have saved his country and made him great, he bids him away, and strive to regain it ; never to see him again until, by recovering it, he has acquired the right to do so — always bearing in mind there is no such word as "fail." After his departure, Julie reaches the castle. In bitter anguish, she informs Richelieu that scarcely was she married when the King summoned her to the palace — told her the ceremony was unlawful— compelled her to remain — had even sought her chamber, making overtures she had indignantly repulsed. Not content with this, Baradas had approached her, and declared his love, but finding himself repulsed and defeated, he told her that De Mauprat was aware of the King's passion, and had only married her to further his own ends, by placing her in the King's power. In the moment of agony, she applied to the Queen, revealing everyihing, and by her aid, she was enabled to quit the palace. Hastening home — she found no home — all was desolate — no husband was there to meet her — and not being aware of his arrest, she believed him guilty, and had fled to the Cardinal for protection. Richelieu can hardly bring his mind to suspect De Mauprat; he endeavors to soothe Julie, and conducts her to rest. The conspirators have entered the castle, and upon returning to the chamber, he meets De Mauprat, disguised in a suit of armor with his vizor down, who seizes him. In vain he calls for his guards 1 With a vigorous effort he releases himself, and in a fine burst of passionate eloquence, he tells him that Rich- elieu dies not by the hand of man — that there is no fiend created who would be a parricide of his native land by daring, in killing Richelieu, to murder France. In bitter terms, De Mauprat taunts him with having spared a young soldier, then given him a mock pardon— and afterwards an angel for a bride, only to heap upon him dishonor and disgrace. No mercy could now be expected — retribution for the young soldier must follow, and the avenger was himself — De Mauprat. But the grand old Minister is cool and undaunted ; with stern dignity he orders his as- sailant to kneel and crawl for pardon ; he tells him that what he had done was to save Julie from the King, by giving her a brave and noble husband ; that she had been sheltered by him when her husband should have done it, and that she was now in the adjoining chamber j from whence she enters to the amazement of the Cheva- lier. In a few words the fearful deception is explained, and the treachery of Baradas revealed. De Mauprat informs the Cardinal of his danger — that his guards are not his trusty soldiers, but disguised conspirators of whom Huguet is captain. Loud shouts of " Death to the Cardinal !" are heard ; quick as lightning, De Mauprat and Julie hurry him away, and when Huguet and the other conspirators rush into the chamber, De Mauprat reappears from an adjoining room, and guarding the doorway, so that none may pass, he points to a couch at the other side of the room, upon which the Cardinal is laying apparently dead. He tells them that he strangled him so sottly in his sleep, that all the world will say he died a natural death from ex- K.CHELIEC. [) hausted nature, and he bid* them hasten to Paris with the news, wi.ils; he r m liua to lull suspicion and prepare for the interment. The intelligence is swiftly borne to Baradas— now is the time for him to turn — Julie must be lecovered — he has obtained anotlier warrant for the arrest of De Maupraf — Marion de Lorme is in prison— and when Huguet, full of haste, i ishes in to tell him of the murder, he oils the guard, and in spite of his struggles, and in spite of his attempts to inform bim that lie has something of importance to commu- nicate — in fact, the missing packet — be is borne away to the Bastile. Francois re- turns to tell of the loss, and from the circumstance of the man who took the dis- patch, from him being in armor, suspicion at once falls upon De Mauprat, whom Baradas tells Francois to find without the leas f . delay. Fortune throws them to- gether in a remote part of the palace gardens — and Francois making known who he is, De Mauprat tells him that whilst watching at the house, thinking he was a spy, he had seized the packet — and that since then he he bad given it to — Ilu. would have said — but at that moment he catches sight of Baradas approaching — drawing his sword, he rushes to attack him, but is seized by the guards, and pre- vented completing his story. But the dead come to life — astonished and amazed, they behold Richelieu appear upon the scene. Taking the writ, lie appeals to the King for clemency, but without success, nnd De Mauprat is led off, not, however, be- fore he tells Francois that he gave the packet to Huguet. In a speech of magnificent force and eloquence, Richelieu calls upon the King to bear in mind all be has done for him, and for France— to do him justice— and to grant him protection. In vain the appeal; only when he sees bim throw off his haughty bearing and kneels at the throne, will the King listen to his entreaties. Now is the moment that Richelieu feels the bitterness of the struggle— yesterday he was the Cardinal King, the lord of life and death — to-day, a very weak old m m. Only the possession of the dispatch can save him. Returning to the palace, the King sends Clermont with an order for Julie to pre- sent herself before him, but she refuses to go, and in this Richelieu upholds her. B 11 ' adas arrives with a stern and positive command, when in one of the fine- most telling speeches in the play, Richelieu hurls defiance at the King, and dares him to take her from his protection under the penalty of the curse of Home. The excitement is too much, and the Cardinal sinks exhausted beneath it. Baradas believes that De Mauprat has the dispatch, but he does not like to have him searched, fearing that if it should be found upon him open, as it undoubt- edly would be, the contents would be read and male use of against his party, lie cannot yet visit him personally, being obliged to keep close to the King night and day, to prevent any of the Cardinal's friends approaching him and whispering in his ear words which might disturb his influence and thwart his schemes. He Looka upon Huguel's story as a mere trick to secure a respite, but to make sure, he sends De Beringben to look into the matter. Francois, too, determined to redeem his honor, tries his utmost to obtain admission to Huguet, and for that purpose hovers about the prison gates, pretending to be his son. Joseph also makes every effort, but not even the threats of punishment from the church can move the Governor to depart from the rules. " Fortune favors the brave," and so it does in this o ise — 1 ' ■ Beringhen arrives with an order to visit the prisoner, and being won over by the pathetic appeal of the presumed son, agrees to let him accompany bim. Thrown off his guard by the order, and De Beringhen 's entreaties that the boy may have a last word with his parent, the < iovernor tacitly consents, hinting that if when his lordship comes out the boy should slip in without his noticing him it is net his fault — it he does not see it, he cannot help it, and he will therefore go his rounds. De Beringhen enters the prisoner's cell, and with beating heart, does 1 look through the key-hole. He hears high words between De Beringhen and Hu- guet — the cell is dimly lighted — they struggle in spite of Huguet 's chains— but De Beringhen secures the packet. Franjois hides behind the door, and lets him pass into the dark corridor when, dagger in hand, he springs upon him, tears the packet from his grasp and makes his escape. 10 KICnELIEU. In the last scene, we find the Court r.nd all the leading conspirators assembled, laying plans for future operations. The King-, thinking she has changed her views, grants an audience to Julie, hut she comes to appeal for her husband's pardon, which she does in exquisitely written, eloquent, and fervent language. The King is moved, and directs Baradas to speak with her. He does so, and of- fers that if she will annul the marriage and become his wife, the same day shall Dj Maupratbe free. With scorn and indignation, the chance is rejected, upon which he summons the guards and their prisoner, who assures Julie that life is short but love is immortal. As he is being led off, the Cardinal arrives, supported by Joseph, and apparently sinking fast. He appeals to Baradas in his present high position, to grant him one favor— De Mauprat's life. But the stakes are too heavy — "My head," replies the Minister, " I cannot lose one trick." Seizing the opportunity of the King's return, the Cardinal, to the amazement of all assembled, announces his resignation, and calls upon his under secretaries to read (heir reports. They show such a state of trouble, revolt, and ruin in all the surrounding countries, whilst France alone is firm, made so, by Richelieu's skillful hand, that the King shudders to think there is no master mind like his to succeed him; At this moment, Francois enters, and as he hands the dispatch to Richelieu ob- serves lowly, " I have not failed." In an instant it is placed in the King's hands. "With horror and dismay the conspirators hear it read, and their names repeated. The hour of triumph is too much for the Cardinal, who sinks exhausted, as a.l think, dying. The King passionately implores him to live, if not for his sake, for his country — tor France ! Like a magician's charm does the word fall upon his ears, and with a superhuman power, all his latent energies revive. Orders are sent forth for the arrest of the Due de Bouillon at the head of his army —one by one, the con- spirators are dispatched to their doom— the death writ of De Mauprat thrown to the winds — happiness restored — and the Cardinal Minister, greater than ever, exclaims ; '• My own dear France— I have thee yet — I have saved thee ! I clasp thee still — it was thy voice that call'd me Back from the tomb ! What mistress like our country V BE3IABKS. The few observations addressed to the reader of the Lady of Lyons (the first of the present new series of Bulwer's plays) are sufficient notes of the merits and high in- tellectual attainments and ability of the distinguished author of the two plays. So enthusiastically was the Lady of Lyons received, so decided was its success in London and the Provinces, as well as in the United States, that he was encouraged speedily to attempt another play. Choosing for his theme a broader and a grander basis, he selected the History of France at a great and momentous period, to fur- nish the requisite materials. "Within twelve months after the successful launch of the Lady of Lyons, viz: in March, 1839, the literary and dramatic world were gratified by the production of one of the finest written and most skillfully constructed historical plays at any time offered to the public. It was produced at the same establishment — the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London — and by a comparison of the cast of characters, it will be seen that many of the leading actors in that play appeared in this — in parts, equally, if not more, effective ; at any rate of a different and more powerful nature, calling forth all their energy and ability, and judging from the criticisms of the time, they were not found wanting. In the United States, where it made its appearance very soon afterwards, only one RICHELIEU. 11 of the actors in the Lady of Lyons appeared in Richelieu— but he wus a host in himself — Edwin Forrest. The author's preface to this play is more lengthy than to the former one, and is so beautirully and ;0 clearly worded, that it would be the height of presumption to attempt to iuterfere with it. But a succinct account of the events previous to the commencement of the play, and the exact position of the chief persons, may prove interesting and afiord the reader additional means for obtaining a clearer and more thorough knowledge of the story, and a keener and higher appreciation of the author's powers of dealing with his subject. On the 13th of May, 1G10, whilst Henry IV., King of France, was proceeding in his carriage through the Rue de la Ferroniere, a man named Francois Ravaillac, mounted upon the wheel and aimed a deadly blow at his side, a second followed, which reached his heart, and he immediately expired. Louis XIII., who succeeded, was then nine years of age, and measures were instantly taken for placing the Regency in the hands of his mother, Mary De >I ■■■'• i- cis. It was not long, however, before matters assumed a very different aspect to that which had previously existed.. The government of a woman, and that woman a foreigner, could not maintain the lofty tone and vigor which had marked the reign of Henry. The Queen was a per- son of weak character and narrow understanding, ruled entirely by favorites and confidants. The usual consequences ensured— rival factions and internal disorder. In 1614, Louis attained his majority, when the body of Deputies and others known as the States General were assembled, and as one of the representatives of the clergy, then appeared Armand Duplessis de Richelieu, at that time Bishop of Lucon. To strengthen the government, it was determined to marry the young king to the Infanta Anne of Austria, a measure violently opposed by the Prince of Conde, then in great power, but warmly supported by the Queen Mother and Richelieu, who was silently, but surely, working his way to power, and by his advice, the Court took the bold step of arresting the Prince of Conde, and others of the nobility saved themselves by flight ; riots took place in the City, but were soon suppressed, and Richelieu, for his good services, was made Secretary of State. He was a firm ally of the Queen Mother, supporting her strongly against all oppos- ing factions. The military successes were great, but notwithstanding this, the Gov- ernment fell into a lamentable state of weakness. The King's chief advisers all stood in awe of Richelieu, whose commanding genius was apparent ; but in spite of all opposition, the Queen Mother compelled Louis, in 1622, to make Richelieu a cardinal. Affairs grew worse and more unsteady, the King disliked the Cardinal, but under the importunities of the Queen Mother, he summoned him to his Council. He had not been in office six months before Lis supremacy was universally recognized ; the irresistible energy of his character, and extraordinary capacity for government, won their way. Attaining this high posi- tion, he started principles which he pursued vigorously through life, the annihila- tion of the Huguenots as a political party, the complete subjugation of the nobility to the royal authority, and the restoration of France to her predominant influence throughout Europe. The first plot against him was in 1626, by Gaston, the King's only brother, and then Duke of Anjou ; but being detected, and being a mixture of weakness, coward- ice and baseness, he betrayed his accomplices, for which the King was weak enough to make him Duke of Orleans and give him large revenues. Richelieu had his revenge by the execution or banishment of the other conspirators, and the triumph over this plot established his supremacy. From step to step he rose to greater fame, and notwithstanding his exalted rank and ecclesiastical character, he personally ui dertook the military operations at the siege of La Rochelle, and proved he pos- sessed all the qualities of a great commander. In 1G29, he was iuvested with the aaost extraordinary powers under the title of "Lieutenant General, representing the King's person." He assumed the supreme command of the army, and during 1630 fortress after fortress, in Italy and Savoy, fell before the French forces. 12 KICHELIEU. In 1637 another conspiracy was formed against him by the Duke of Orleans, which only failed through iudecisiou. Richelieu was ill, a council was held at his resi- dence ; unsuspectingly he descended the staircase surrounded by the conspirators, and at this moment his fate hung upon a thread. Gaston's nerve failed him, lie hesitated to give the appointed signal, the others would not strike without orders, so the Cardinal escaped. Well might the noble author of the play put into the mouth of his hero the words : " Armand de Richelieu dies not by the hand Of man — the stars have said it— and the voice Of my own prophetic and oracular soul Confirms the shining Sibyls !" In the year 1638, Richelieu received a severe blow by the death of his confidant, the Capuchin Joseph du Tremblay, who was a personage scarcely less remarkable in his own line, than Richelieu himself. He had been employed in all the most difficult and political negotiations of the time, performing his duties with unswerv- ing fidelity to his master and the interests of France. lhe King's health, always feeble, was now much impaired, and Richelieu began to reckon with certainty upon obtaining the Regency. But another attempt against him was to come. He had placed near the King, in the quality of Equerry, a gay and brilliant young nobleman, the Marquis of Cinq Mars, who quickly ingratiated himself with Louis, so much so, as to force his way into the Council Chamber, from which Richelieu at last sternly excluded him. From that moment, Cinq Mars exert- ed all his influence to ruin the Cardinal — enlisting all the Minister's ancient ene- mies, more or less, in the plot. Louis was attacked with a fit of illness, and to strengthen their position, in case of his death, they entered into a treaty with the Court of Spain, to assist them with troops and money, in return for which the King of Spain was to receive back all the places conquered by France. In 1642, Louis and Richelieu, both in feeble health, journeyed towards the army of the south, but Richelieu became so unwell that he was compelled to remain at Narbonne, while the King went on. But Louis soon tired of command; he found, that in the absence of Richelieu, he could depend upon no one for the conduct of affairs, and a messenger was dispatched to the Cardinal, assuring him that he stood higher than ever in the King's favor. At this moment, by a singular stroke of good fortune, Richelieu received from some unknown hand, a copy of the treaty — it was laid before the King — arrests ordered — additional powers given to Richelieui and while Louis returned to Paris, the Cardinal embarked in a magnificent barge upon the Rhone, dragging in a boat behind him, Cinq Mars, and Frangois du Thou, son of a celebrated historian of the time, and proceeded to Lyons, where they were tried and executed, Sept. 12th, 1642— the contemptible Duke of Orleans betraying his associates as usual, by acknowledging the treaty. He was, however, deprived of his dignity and domains, and banished, as was the case also with the Due de Bouillon. Everywhere now was Richelieu triumphant, but the end came. On returning to Paris, the ravages of a mortal disease, from which he had long suffered, reached a climax. On his death-bed he called God to witness that lie had pursued no other object than the welfare of the church and of the kingdom ; and being asked whether he forgave his enemies, he replied he never had any except those who were enemies of the State. He died Dec. 4th, 1642, at 58 years of age, and in May, 1643, Louis XIII. followed him. Upon these facts (but as the author frankly observes, taking a little liberty with dates, etc.), is the play founded — a p'.ay, which is replete with action, interest and poetry. It is interesting to compare these historical facts with the story of lhe play, and see with what skill and ingenuity the author has constructed it. Resuming the remarks, all the actors mentioned in the " Remarks" to the Lady of Lyons as appearing as Claude Melnotte, followed Macready's steps in this play, and it is therefore unnecessary to repeat here the observations regarding them which RICHELIEU. 13 appear in those remarks, as they are equally applicable to their delineation of the character of Richelieu. It was the same, also, in the United States. The play was produced at Wallack's Old National Theatre, New York, on Sept. -1th, 1839, with the great Edwin Forrest as the hero, and his keen appreciation and masterly execution of the telling beau- ties of the character, secured for him a success and fame unprecedented. He was followed by many others, well known to fame, and lastly by Mr. E. L. Davenport, who must be admitted to be as good a Richelieu as any on the stage, and probably the best in the United States. The character of Richelieu, it will be observed upon close scrutiny, requires very great ability and power on the part of the actor to portray it with effect. There are so many sides of the wily but fearless old Cardinal— craftiness, courage, humor, in- firmities, vanity, and potency of will, even to the very last all these passions require clean and delicate handling. There is little doubt that Macready on the English and Edwin Forrest on the American boards were two of the finest representatives of Richelieu on the stage, and that the present ones are Mr. Phelps (who was the original Joseph in the first representation in London) and Mr. E. L. Davenport. The part of De Mauprat was originally filled in London by Mr. James Anderson, who afterwards rose to be himself a fine delineator of the leading character of the play, as well as of a large range of other characters. Indeed, that was the case with many others of the actors in the origiual cast. Then again the elegant and accomplished Miss Helen Faucit, who had made such a hit the preceding year as Pauline, in the Lady of Lyons, once more established herself as a great favorite in the part of Julie de Mortemar. There was probably also never a finer Joseph on the stage than Mr. Phelps, now the English father of Tragedians. So it will be seen that, as in the Lady of Lyons, not only was the leading character sustained by the greatest actor of the day, but he was well and effectively supported in every part by x>ersous who must have rendered the characters well, as they afterwards ad- vanced to the first rank of the profession. At the Old National Theatre, Mr. J. W. Wallack, Jr., in the character of De Mauprat made a great hit. He was handsome in face and person, like all of the family, and capable, like most of his name, of appearing to the best possible ad- vantage where action, fine and correct attitude and spirited declamation are needed. De Mauprat is brave, gay, and spirited — he is prompt to anger, easily aroused when he feels his honor at stake, and as easily subdued when convinced that he is in error. It is very probable that the stage has never had a finer De Mauprat than Mr. J. W. Wallack, Jr. He married a Miss Waring in 1842, visited London in 1851, succeeding Mr. Macready at the Haymarket Theatre, and he was afterwards man- ager of the Marylebone Theatre there. Miss Monier, the original Julie here, was one of the most beautiful and accom- plished girls of the period, and the daughter of parents who had been attached to the American stage for years. In 183G, after an absence of eight years, she reap- peared in New York (where she had previously played as a child), and a more love- ly face and form seldom graced the stage. For a short time she was the proprietor of a little theatre on Broadway, opposite St. Paul's Church, called " Miss Monier's Dramatic Saloon." In 1838 she succeeded Miss E. Wheat ley at Wallack's, where she remained until its destruction in 1839. She afterwards married Captain Wynne of the British Army, appeared at Drury Lane Theatre, London, in July, lSlfi, as Mrs. Haller in "The StraDger," and then retired. So much for the original Julie, De Mauprat, and Richelieu. J. m. k. 14 EIClIELIKU. BILL FOR FRO GRAMMES. The events take place in the city of Parii, and the environ?, and at the Castle of Ruelle, two leagues from Paris. Period, 1642. ACT I.-Tlie First Day. Scene I.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MARION DE LORME. The Meeting of the Conspirators — The Female Spy — The Chevalier de Matt- prat's Last Stake — The History of a Court Gallant A Cardinal's Trick — Arrest of the Chevalier — A Rival's Triumph. Scene II —A ROOM IN THE CARDINALS PALACE. Richelieu and his Priestly Confidant — The Cardinal's Ward — A Story of Love — A Lesson to Youth — From an Enemy to a Friend — From a Lover to a Husband. ACT II.— The Second Day." Scene I.— APARTMENT IN THE CHEVALIER DE MAUPRAT'S NEW HOUSE. A Bride but no Wife — The Royal Warrant — The King Loves Julie — The Trap Baited for a new Victim — The King Against the Cardinal — A Husband's Jealousy — The Compact of Death'! Scene II.— A ROOM IN THE CARDINAL'S PALACE. The First Story of the Conspiracy — Which is to Win? — The Prowess of a Youthful Knight, but now an aged Minister — " The pen is mightier than the sioord" — The Story of Marion de Lorme — The Tale of Treachery Divulged — The Trusty Messenger shall be the Page Francois — An Officer and a Traitor — The Prey upon the Alert. ACT III.-The Second Day. Itlidnisrut. Scene I.— RICHELIEU'S CASTLE AT RUELLE. The Story of the Lost Dispatch — Away on the Search — There's no such word as "Fail" — The Story of an Insulted Wife — A Libertine King and a False Friend — The Mysterious Visitor — The Story of Vengeance and of Death — Discovery of the Snare — Approach of the Conspirators — The Flight and Supposed Death of Richelieu. Scene II. — Triumph of Baradas — Again the Lost Dispatch — The Chevalier de Mauprat Suspected — To-morrow France is Ours ! ACT IV.-Tlie Third Day. Scene 1.— THE GARDENS OF THE LOUVRE. The King and the Conspirator — The Page and the Chevalier — Again the Lost Dispatch — The Mystery — The false Friend — Arrest of the Chevalier de Mauprat again — The Dead come to Life — The Appeal for Mercy— Again the Dispatch — An Appeal for Justice — The Star of Richelieti on the Wane — " Yesterday the Cardinal King ; to-day a very iveak old man." — The King's commands to Julie — The Cardinal's Holy Shelter — " Power is my Stake, thy head is thine " — Wlio xoill Win the Trick ? KICHELIEU. 15 ACT V.-'l'he Fourth Day. Scene I.— A CORRIDOR IN THE BASTILE. Again the lost Dispatch— Father Joseph's attempt Foiled — A Page's Cunning — Filial Affection — A Courtier Snared — The Seizure — The Struggle and the Dispatch Secured. Scene II.— THE KING'S CLOSET AT THE PALACE OF THE LOUVRE. Conspiracy in the Ascendant — A If'ife's Appeal for Pardon — A Royal Favor- ite's Offer — The Hand or the Grave — "J or thy Husband ? " — Virtue and Firmness- 1 — Richelieu to the Rescue — The Resignation — The Sinking Minister — "All is Safe!" — The Conspirators Gain — The Last Moment — Arrival of the Page with the lost Dispatch — " i" have not failed" — Denouncement of the Traitors — Pardon of the Chevalier de Mauprat — Arrest of the Conspirators and Triumph of the Cardinal RICHEL IEU. EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. B.3 B.3Z. / J / SCENE. \ L. 3 B. \ \ i»2z. \ L. IE, C. Z. 0. AUDIENCE. L. Left. L. c. Left Centre. l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. L. 3e. Left Third Entrance. L. U. E. Left Upper Entrance (wherever this Scene may be.) X>. h. c. Door Left Centre. Centre. Bight. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. 2 e. Right Second Entrance. 3 E. Right Third Entrance. v. e. Right Upper Entrance a. c Door Bight Centre. 1G men ii.ii. c. AUTHOR'S r BEE ACE. Thf. administration of Cardinal Richelieu, whom (despite all his darker qualities) Voltaire and History justly consider the true architect of the French monarchy, and the great parent of French civilization, is characterized by features alike tragic and comic. A weak king— an ambitious favorite ; a despicable conspiracy against the minister, nearly always associated with a dangerous treason against the State — these, with little variety of names and dates, constitute the eventful cycle through which, with a dazzling ease, and an arrogant confidence, the great luminary fulfilled its destinies. Blent together, in startling contrast, we see the grandest achieve- ments and the pattie.it agents— the spy— the mistress— the capuchin— the destruc- tion of feudalism -the humiliation ot Austria— the dismemberment of Spain. Richelieu himself is still what he was in his own day— a man of two characters. If, on the one hand, he is justly represented as indexible and vindictive, crafty and unscrupulous ; so, on the other, it cannot be denied that he was placed in times in which the long impunity of every license required stern examples— that he was be- set by perils and intrigues, which gave a certain excuse to the subtlest inventions of self-defence -that his ambition was inseparably connected with a passionate love for the glory of his country -and that, if he washer dictator, he was not less her bene- factor. It has been fairly remarked, by the most impartial historians, that he was no less generous to merit than severe to crime— that in the various departments of the State, the Army, and the Church, he selected and distinguished (lie ablest aspir- ants-that the wars which he conducted were, for the most part, essential to the preservation of Fiance, and Europe itself, from the formidable encroachments of the Austrain House— that, in spite of those wars, tl* people were not oppressed with exorbitant imposts— and that he left the kingdom he had governed in a more flour- ishing and vigorous state than ai any former period of the French history, or at the decease of Louis XIV. The cabals formed against this great statesman were not carried on by the patriot- ism of public virtue, or the emulation of equal talent ; they were but court struggles, in which the most worthless agents had recourse to the most desperate means. In each, as I have before observed, we see combined the twofold attempt to murder the minister and to betray the country. Such, then, are the agents, and such the designs, with which truth, in the Drama as in history, requires us to contrast the celebrated Cardinal— not disguising his foibles or his vices, but not unjust to the grander qualities (especially the love of country), by which they were often dignified, aud, at times redeemed. The historical drama is the concentration of historical events. In the attempt to place upon the stage the picture of an era, that license with dates and details which Poetry permits, and which the highest authorities in the Drama of France herself have sanctioned, has been, though not unsparingly, indulged. The conspiracy of the Due de Bouillon is, for instance, amalgamated with the denouement of The Day of Dupes; and circumstances connected with the treason of Cinq Murs (whose brilliant youth and gloomy catastrophe tend to subvert poetic anl historic justice, by seduc- ing us to forget his base ingratitude and his perfidious apostasy) are identified with the fate of the earlier favorite Baradas, whose sudden rise and as sudden fall passed into a proverb. I ought to add, that the noble romance of " Cinq Mars " suggested one of the scenes in the fifth act ; and that for the conception of some portion of the intrigue connected with De Mauprat and Julie, I am, with great alterations of inci- dent, and considerable if not entire reconstruction of character, indebted to an early and admirable novel by the author of " Picciola." London, March, 1839. RICHELIEU ; OE, THE COJSTSPIKACY. ACT I. FIRST DAT. SCENE I. — A handsomely furnished room in the house of Marion de Loeme ; entrance l. c, hung with tapestry ; a table r. (with wine, fruits, etc.). at ivhich arc seated Baradas, l of table, four Courtiers, splendidly dre-sed in the costume of 16-41-2; the Duke of Orleans seated r. ; Marion de Lormf. s anding at the back of his chair, offers him a gobht, and then retires. At another table, l., De Beringhen, De Mauprat, playing at dice ; Clermont and other Courtiers looking on. Orleans (b. of table, drinking). Here's to our enterprise ! Bakadas (l. of table, glancing at Marion). Hush, sir ! Orleans {aside). Nay, Count, You may trust her ; she doats on me ; no house So safe as Marion's. Bar Still, we have a secret. And oil and water — woman and a secret — Ave hostile properties, (noise oj playing at l. table.) Orleans. Well — Marion, see How the play prospers yonder. [Marion goes to the l. table, looks on for a few moments, then exits, l. c. Bar. (producing a parchment). I have now All the conditions drawn ; it only needs Our signatures ; upon receipt of this (Whereto is joined the schedule of our treaty With the Count-Duke, the Richelieu of the Escurial) Bouillon will join his army with the Spaniard, March on to Paris — there dethrone the King ; You will be Recent ; I, and ye, my Lords, Form the new Council. So much for the core Of our great scheme, (noise at l. table.) Orleans. But Richelieu is an Argus 5 One of his hundred eyes will light upon us, And then — good-bye to life Bar. To gain the prize We must destroy the Argus. Ay, my Lords, The scroll the core, but blood must fill the veins, Of our design ; — while this dispatch'd to Bouillon, Richelieu dispatch'd to heaven ! The last my charge. Meet here to-morrow night. You, sir, as first 18 BICHKLIEU. [ACT I. In honor and in hope, meanwhile select Some trusty knave to bear the scroll to Bouillon ; Midst Richelieu's foes I'll find some desperate hand To strike for vengeance, while we stride to power. Orleans. So be it; to-morrow, midnight. — Come, my Lords. Exeunt Orleans and the Courtiers in h s train, l. c. Those at 'he l. ta- ble >ise, salute Orleans, and re-seat themselves. De Ber. Double the stakes. De Map. Done, (throws.) De Ber. Bravo ! faith, it shames me To bleed a purse already at its last gasp. De Map. Nay, as you've had the patient to yourself So long, no other doctor shall dispatch it. (De Mauprat throws. | Omne*. Lost! Ha, ha ! — poor De Mauprat ! De Be ii. One throw more 1 De Mau. No; I am bankrupt, (pushing gold) There goes all — except My honor and my sword, (they >ise ; he crosses r. ) Cler. Ay, take the sword To Cardinal Richelieu ; he gives gold for steel, When worn by brave men. De Mau. Richelieu ! De Ber. (to Baradas). At that name' He changes color, bites his nether lip. Even in his brightest moments whisper " Richelieu,' And you cloud all his sunshine. Bar. I have mark'd it, And will learn the wherefore. De Mau. (going to table, r. ). The Egyptian Dissolved her richest jewel in a draught ; Would I could so melt time and all its treasures, And drain it thus, (drinking.) De Bek. Come, gentlemen, what say ye, A walk on the parade? Cler. Ay; come, De Mauprat. De Mau. Pardon me;»we shall meet again ere night-fall. De Ber. Come, Baradas. Bar. I'll stay and comfort Mauprat. De Ber. Comfort ! — when We gallant fellows have run out a friend, There's nothing left — except to run him through .' There's the last act of friendship. De Mau. Let me keep That favor in reserve ; in all besides Your most obedient servant. [Exeunt De Beringhen, etc., L. c. Bar. (l. c). You have lost — Yet are not sad. De Mau. Sad ! Life and gold hath wings, And must fly one day ; open, then, their cages And wish them merry. Bar. You're a strange enigma — Fiery in war — and yet to glory lukewarm ; All mirth in action — in repose all gloom — Fortune of late has sever'd us — and led Me to the rank of Courtier, Count, and Favorite, You to the titles of the wildest gallant ACT I.] RICHELIEU. 19 And bravest knight in France ; are you content? (Maoprat goes up and sits l. of r. table) No ; — trust in me — some gloomy secret De Mau. Ay — A secret that doth haunt me, as, of old, Men were possess'd of fiends ! (rises) Where'er I turn, The grave yawns dark before me ! (crosses l.) I will trust you ; — Hating the Cardinal, and beguiled by Orleans, You know I joined the Languedoc revolt — Was captured — sent to the Bastile Bar. But shared The general pardon, which the Dnke of Orleans Won for himself and all in the revolt, Who but obey'd his orders. De Mau. Note the phrase ; — " Obey'd his orders." Well, when on my way To join the Duke in Languedoc, I (then The down upon my lip — less man than boy) Leading young valors — reckless as myself. Seized on the town of Faviaux, and displaced The Royal banners for the Rebel. Orleans (Never too daring), when I reach 'd the camp, Blamed me for acting — mark — without his orders ; Upon this quibble Richelieu razed my name Out of the general pardon. Bar. Yet released you From the Bastile De Map. To call me to his presence, And thus address me — " You have seized a town Of France, without the orders of your leader, And for this treason, but one sentence — Death." Bar. Death ! De Mau. " I have pity on your youth and birth, Nor wish to glut the headsman — join your troop, Now on the march against the Spaniards — change The traitor's scaffold for the soldier's grave — Your memory stainless — they who shared your crime Exiled or dead — your king shall never learn it." Bar. Well ? De Mau. You heard if I fought bravely. When the Cardinal Review'd the troops — his eye met mine — he frown'd, Summon'd me forth — " How's this?" quoth he; " you have shunn'd The sword — beware the axe — 'twill fall one day !" He left me thus — we were recall'd to Paris, And — you know all ! Bar. And knowing this, why halt you, Spell'd by the rattle-snake — while in the breasts Of your firm friends beat hearts, that vow the death Of your grim tyrant 1 Wake ! Be one of us ; The time invites — the King detests the Cardinal, Dares not disgrace — but groans to be deliver'd Of that too great a subject — join your friends, Free France, and save yourself. Be Mac. Hush ! Richelieu bears A charm'd life — to all, who have braved his power, One common end — the block. 20 lMClll.LIl U. [ACT I. "Au. Nay, it' ho live, The block your doom ! De Map. Better the victim, Count, Than the assassin. France requires a Richelieu, But does not need a Mauprat. Truce to this — All time one midnight, where my thoughts are spectres. What to me fame ? What love 1 {crosses gloomily to k. I Bar. Yet dost thou love not ? De Mau. Love 1 I am young Bar. And Julie fair ! (De Mauprat sinks into a (hair, r. Aside) It is so, Upon the margin of the grave — Lis hand Would pluck the rose thai 1 would win and wear. De Mau. {starting up gayly). Since you have one secret, take the other; Never Unbury either ! Come {crosses i., and takes his hat from table) while yet we may, We'll bask us in the noon of rosy life — Lounge through the gardens — flaunt it in the taverns — Laugh —name -drink — feast— if so confined my days, Faith, I'll enclose the nights ! [goes to Baradas, who is r.) Pshaw ! not so grave ; I'm a true Frenchman ! Vive la bagatelle ! A* they are going out, enter HuGOET and four ArQURBUSIERS, L. <\ ; they range at the back of the entrance. Euoi the eh a nbcr. Huguet. Messire de Mauprat — 1 arrest you! Follow- To the Lord Cardinal. De Mau. (r c). Yon see. my friend, I'm out of my suspense — the tiger's play d Long enough with bis prey. {giv< I to IItouet; Farew -11 ' Hereafter Siy, when men name me, " Adrien de Mauprat Lived without hope, and perished without fear." [Exeunt De Mauprat, Huguet, etc., l. c. Bar. Farewell — I trust forever ! I design'd thee For Richelieu's murderer — but, as well his in irtyrl In childhood you the stronger — and I cursed you! In youth the fairer — and I cursed you still ; And now my rival ! While t!ie name of Julio Hung on thy lips — I smiled — for then 1 saw, In my mind's eye, the cold and grinning Death Hang o'er thy head the pall ! By the King's aid I will be Julie's husband! — in despite Of my Lord Cardinal ! — by the King's aid I will be Minister of France ! — in spite Of my Lord Cardinal ! And then — what then 1 The King loves Julie — feeble Prince — false master — {producing the parchment) Then, by the aid of Bouillon, and the Spaniard, I will dethrone the Kin;* ; and all — ha — ha — All, in despite of my Lord Cardinal. [Exit, l. SCENE II. — A room in ths Palais Cardinal, the ividls hung with arras. A large screen, R. U. e., a door behind the arras. L u. e. — doors L n an I r. h. A table covered with books, papers, etc., c A rude clock in a recess. Busts, statues, bookcases, weapons of different period*, and ban- ACT I.] RICHELIEU. 21 tiers suspended over Richelieu's chair. A panoply, a small and a two- handed sword, R. Richelieu and Joseph, r. d. Rich. And so you think this new conspiracy The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox 1— Fox! Well, I like the nickname ! What did Plutarch Say of the Greek Lysander ? Joseph. I forget. Rich. That where the Lion's skin fell short, he eked it Out with the fox's ! A great statesman, Joseph, That same Lysander ! j 0Sg Orleans heads the traitors. Rich. A very wooden head then ! Well 1 j os# The favorite, Count Baradas Bjch. A weed of hasty growth ; First gentleman of the chamber— titles, lands, And the King's ear! It cost me six long winters To mount as high as in six little moons This painted lizard But I hold the ladder, And when I shake— he falls ! What more ? Jos. Your ward has charmed the King Rich. 0ut on J' ou ■ Have I not, one by one, from such fair shoots Pluck'd the insidious ivy of his love 1 And shall it creep around my blossoming tree Where innocent thoughts, like happy birds, make music That spirits in heaven might hear 1 The King must have No goddess but the State— the State— that's Richelieu ! (crosses and sits r. of table.) Jos. (l.). This is not the worst— Louis, in all decorous, And deeminn; you her least compliant guardian, Would veil his suit by marriage with his minion, Your prosperous foe, Count Baradas ! Ha, ha ! I have another bride for Baradas. Jos. You, my Lord 1 p lICHi Ay — more faithful than the love Of fickle woman — when the head lies lowliest, Clasping him fondest. Sorrow never knew So sure^a soother — and her bed is stainless ! Enter Francois, l. d. Fr^n. Mademoiselle de Mortemar. Rich. Most opportune— admit her. (Exit, Francois, l d.) In my closet You'll find a rosary, Joseph ; ere you tell Three hundred beads, ?11 summon you. (Joseph going c.) Stay, Joseph ; — I did omit an Ave in my matins — A grievous fault ; — atone it for me, Joseph ; There is a scourge within ; I am weak, you strong. It were but charity to take my sin On such broad shoulders. Jos (aside) Troth a pleasant invitation ! [Ex t Joseph, d. l. h. Rich. 22 KICllKLIl r. [aci I. Enter Julie de Mortemar, l. d. She goes to Richelieu and sits at his feet, it. Rich. That's my sweet Julie ! Julie. Are you gracious 7 May I say " Father 7 " Rich. Now and ever ! Julie. Father ! A sweet word to an orphan. Rich. No ; not orphan While Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well; My friend, ere 1 had flatterers (now, I'm great, In other phrase, I'm friendless) — he died young In years, not service, and bequeath'd thee to me; And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy Thy mate amidst the mightiest. Drooping ? — sighs 7 Art thou not happy at the conrt 7 Julie. Not often. Rich, (aside). Can she love Baradas 7 (aloud Thou art admired — art young; Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty — Ask thee to sing to him 7 — and swear such sounds Had smooth'd the brows of Saul 7 Julie. He's very tiresome. Our worthy King. (Richelieu, during this dialogue, is writing.) Rich. Fie ! kings are never tiresome, Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants Charm ladies most! — De Sourdiac, Cinq Mars, or The favorite, Baradas 7 Julie. A smileless man — I fear and shun him. Rich. Yet he courts thee 7 Julie. . Then He is more tiresome than his Majesty. Rich. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowers Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath Thy heart hears Summer whisper! Enter Huguet, l. d. Huguet. The Chevalier De Mauprat waits below. Julie (starting up). De Mauprat ! Rich. Hem ! He has been tiresome too. Anon. [Exit Huguet, l. d. Judie. What doth he ! — I mean — I — Does your Eminence — that is — Know you Messire de Mauprat 7 Rich, (writing). Well !— and you- Has he address'd you often ? Julie. Often ! — no — Nine times — nay, ten ; the last time by the lattice Of the great staircase, (in a melancholy tone) The Court sees him rarely. Rich (writing). A bold and forward royster 7 Julie. Se ? — nay, modest, Gentle, and sad, metbinks. ACT I.] BICHEL1ETJ. 23 Rich, [writing). Wears gold and azure ? Julie. No; sable. Rich. So you note his colors, Julie 1 Shame on you, child ; look loitier. By the mass, I have business with this modest gentleman. Julie. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no cause. Rich. No cause — you hate my foes 1 .Iulie. I do ! Rich. * Hate Mauprat 1 Julie. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father. Rich. Adrien! Familiar ! Go, child ; (Julie crosses toh.) no — not that way; wait In the tapestry chamber ; I will join you — go. Julie [crosses to r., then pauses). His brows are knit; I dare not call him father ! But I must speak — Your Eminence — { approaches him timidly.) Rich, {sternly). Well, girl ! Julie (kneels). Nay, Smile on me — one smile more ; there, now I'm happy. Do not rank Mauprat with your foes ; he is not, I kuow he is not; he loves France too well. Rich. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes 1 So be it. I'll blot him from that list. Julie. That's my own father. [Exit, n. d. Rich, {ringing a small bell on the table). Huguet ! Enter Huguet, l. d. De Mauprat struggled not, nor murmured 1 Huguet. No ; proud and passive. Rich. Bid him enter. Hold ; Look that he hide no weapon. Humph ! despair Makes victims sometimes victors. When he has enter'd Glide round unseen — place thyself yonder, (pointing to the screen) Watch him ; If he shows violence — let me see thy carbine. (Huguet gives it to him) So, a good weapon — if he play the lion, Why — the dog's death, (returning the carbine.) Huguet. I never miss my mark. Exit Huguet, l. d. ; Richelieu resumes his pen, and slowly arranges the papers before him. Enter De Mauprat, preceded by Huguet, who then retires behind the screen, R. u. e. Rich. Approach, sir. (De Mauprat advances) Can call to mind the hour, Now three years since, when in this room, methinks, Your presence honor'd me ? De Mau. (l. c). It is, my Lord, One of my most Rich, (dryly). Delightful recollections. Dk Mau. (aside). St. Denis ! doth he make a jest of axe And headsman 1 Rich, (sternly). I did then accord you A mercy ill requited — you still live 1 24 RICHELIEU. [ACT I. De Mac. To meet death face to face at last. Rich. Messire de Mauprat, Doom'd to sure death, how hast thou since cousumed The time allotted thee for serious thought And solemn penitence 1 De Mau. {embarrassed). The time, my lord 1 Rich. Is not the question plain 1 I'll answer for thee. Thou hast sought nor priest nor shrine; no sackcloth chafed Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and the death's head Have not, with pious meditation, purged Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou hast not done Brief told ; what done, a volume! Wild debauch, Turbulent riot — for the mom the dice-box — Noon claim'd the duel — and the night the wassail ; These, your most holy, pure preparatives, For death and judgment. Do I wrong you, sir 1 De Mau. I was not always thus — if changed my nature, Blame that which changed my fate. Were you accursed with that which you inflicted — By bed and board, do^g'd by one ghastly spectre — The while within you youth beat high, and life Grew lovelier from the neighboring frown of death — Were this your fate, perchance, You would have err'd like me ! Rich. I might, like you, Have been a brawler and a reveller ; not, Like you, a trickster and a thief. De Mau. (advancing threateningly'). Lord Cardinal ! Unsay those words! (Huguet delibcratdg raises the carbine.) Rich, {waving bis hand, aside). Not so quick, friend Huguet ; Messire de Mauprat is a patient man, And he can wait. (Huguet recovers, and withdraws behind the screen.) {aloud) You have outrun your fortune — I blame you not, that you would be a beggnr — Each to his taste. But I do charge you, sir, Thatb?ing beggar'd, you would coin false moneys Out of that crucible, called debt. To live On means not yours — be brave in silks and laces, Gallant in steeds — splendid in banquets — all Not yours — given — uninherited — unpaid for ; This is to be a trickster ; and to filch Men's art and labor, which to them is wealth, Life, daily bread — quitting all scores with — " Friend, You're troublesome !" Why this, forgive me Is what — when done with a less dainty grace — Plain folks call " theft .'" You owe eight thousand pistoles Minus one crown, two liards ! De Mau. {aside). The old conjurer ! Rich. This is scandalous, shaming your birth and blood. I tell you, sir, that you must pay your debts. De Mau. (advancing boldly to the table). With all my heart. My lord. Where shall I borrow, then, the money 7 Rich, (aside, and laughing). A humorous dare-devil — the very man To suit my purpose — ready, frank, and bold. (aloud) Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel — I am not — I am just! I found France rent asunder — The rich men despots, and the poor banditti — ACT I.] EICHELIEU. 25 Sloth in (he mart, and schism within the temple ; Brawls festering to a rebellion ; and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. I have re-created France ; and, from the ashes Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, Civilization, on her luminous winj>s, Soars, Phoenix-like, to Jove ! What was my art? Genius, some say — some, Fortune. Witchcraft some. Not so — my art was Justice ! (rises) Force and fraud Misname it cruelty — you shall confute them ! My champion you ! You met me as your foe ; Depart, my friend— you shall not die." Fiance needs you. You shall wipe off all stains — be rich, be honor'd, Be great De Mauprat /«#« o« his /.nee. Richelieu takes his hand.) I ask, sir, in return, this 1 and, To gift it with a bride, whose dower shall match, Yet not exceed her beauty. (Richelieu raises him.) De Mau. I, my lord ! {hesitating) 1 have no wish to marry. Ricu. Surely, sir, To die were worse. De Mau. Scarcely ; the poorest coward Must die — but knowingly to march to marriage — My Lord, it asks the courage of a lion! Rich. Traitor, thou triflest with me! I know all ! Thou hast dared to love my ward — my charge. De Mau. A s rivers May love the sunlight ! — basking in the beams, And hurrying on — Ricn. Thou hast told her of thy love ? De Mau. My Lord, if I had dared to love a maid, Lowliest in France, I would not so have wronged her, As bid her link rich life and virgin hope Witli one, the deathman's gripe might, from her side, Pluck at the nuptial altar. Rich. I believe thee, (sits) Yet since she knows not of thy love, renounce her — Take life and fortune with another ! — Silent ? De Mau. Your fate has been one triumph — you know not How bless'd a thing it was in my dark hour To nurse the one sweet thought you bid me banish. Love hath no need of words ; nor less within That holiest temple — the Heaven-builded soul — Breathes the recorded vow. Base knight — false lover Were he, who barter'd all thai soothe in grief, Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. Revoke your mercy ; I prefer the fate I look'd for ! Rich. Huguet! (Huguet comes forward, a.) to the tapestry chamber Conduct your prisoner, (to Maupkat) You will there behold The executioner ; — your doom be private — And Heaven have mercy on you ! (De Mauprat crosses slowly to r. ; pauses; then goes to Richelieu ) De Mau. When I am dead, Tell her I loved her. 26 EICHICLIEU. [ACT I. Rich. Keep such follies, sir, For fitter ears ; — go Dk Mau. Does he mock me ? [Exeunt De Macprat and Hcooet, r. d. Rich. Joseph, Come forth. Enter Joseph, r. c, down l. Methinks your cheek hath lost its rubies ; I fear you have been too lavish of the flesh; The scourge is heavy. Jos. Pray you, change the subject. Rich. You good men are so modest ! — Well, to business ! Go instantly — deeds — notaries! — bid my stewards Arrange my house by the Luxembourg — my house No more ! — a bridal present to my ward, Who weds to-morrow. Jos. Weds, with whom 1 Rich. De Mauprat. Jos. Penniless husband 1 Rich. Bah ! the mate for beauty Should be a man, and not a money-chest! (rises) Who else, Look you, in all the court — who else so well, Brave, or supplant the favorite; — balk the King — Baffle their schemes ; — I have tried him. He has honor And courage ; — qualities that eagle-plume Men's souls — and fit them for the fiercest sun, Which ever melte 1 the weak waxen minds That flutter in the beams of gaudy Power! Besides, he has taste, this Mauprat. When my play Was acted to dull tiers of lifeless gapers, AVho had no soul for poetry, I saw him Applaud in the proper places; — (crosses l.) trust me, Joseph, He is a man of an uncommon promise ! Jos. And yet your foe. Rich. Have I not foes enow 1 Great men gain doubly when they make foes friends. Remember my grand maxims : — First employ All methods to conciliate. Jos. Failing these 1 Rich, (fiercely). All means to crush ; as with the opening, and The clenching of this little hand, I will Crush the small venom of these stinging courtiers. So, so, we've baffled Baradas. Jo~. And when Check the conspiracy ? Rich. Check, check 1 Full way to it. Let it bud, ripen, flaunt i' the day, and burst To fruit — the Dead Sea's fruit of ashes ; ashes Which I will scatter to the winds, (crosses and sits r. of table) Gi, Joseph. [Exit Joseph, l. d. Enter De Maupkat and Julie, r. d ; they kneel. De Mau. Oh, speak, my Lord — I dare not think you mock me. And yet Rich. How now ! Oh ! sir — you live ! ACT II. J RICHELIEU. 27 Dk Mau. Why, no, methinks, Elysium is not life ! Jolie. He smiles ! — you smile, My father ! From my heart for ever, now, I'll blot the name of orphan ! Rich. Rise, my children, For ye are mine — mine both ; — and in your sweet And young delight — your love — (life's first-born glory) My own lost youth breathes musical! {they rise.) De Map. I'll seek Temple and priest henceforward ; — were it but To learn Heaven's choicest blessings. Rich. Thou shalt seek Temple and priest right soon; the morrow's sun Shall see across these barren thresholds pass The fairest bride in Paris. Go, my children ; Even /loved once ! (they cross l.) Be lovers while ye may ! As they are yoiny, Richelieu touches Mauprat on the right shoulder, and beckons him forward. How is it witb you, sir ? You bear it bravely , You know, it asks the courage of a lion. [Exeunt Julie and De Mauprat, l. d. Oh, godlike Power ! Woe, Rapture, Penury, Wealth — Marriage and Death, for one infirm old man Through a great empire to dispense — withhold — As the will whispers ! And shall things — like motes That live in my daylight — lackeys of court wages, Dwarfd starvelings — manikins, upon whose shoulders The burthen of a province were a load More heavy than the globe on Atlas — cast Lots for my robes and sceptre 1 France ! I love thee ! All Earth shall never pluck thee from my heart ! My mistress France — my wedded wife — sweet France, Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ! [Exit Richelieu, r. d. curtain. ACT II. SECOND DAT. SCENE I. — A splendid apartment in De Mauprat' s new house. Casements opening to the gardens, beyond which are seen the domes of the Luxem- bourg Palace. Enter Bakadas, l. h. Bar. Maupral's new home — too splendid for a soldier ! But o'er his floors — the while I stalk — methinks My shadow spreads gigantic to the gloom The old rude towers of the Bastile cast far Along the smoothness of the jocund day. Well, thou hast 'scaped the fierce caprice of Richelieu ; But art thou farther from the headsman, fool 1 28 RICHELIEU. [vcr II Thy secret I have whisper'd to (lie King — Thy marriage makes the King thy foe ! Thou stand st On the abyss — and in the poo] below I saw a ghastly, headless phantom mirror'd — Thy likeness ere the marriage moon hath waned. Meanwhile — meanwhile — ha — ha, if thou art wedded, Thou art not wived, {retires, l.) Enter De Mauprat, splendidly dressed, a. ; crosses to l., and baelc to u. De Mat. Was ever fate like mine 7 So blest, and yet so wretched ! Bar. (comes forward, i ). Joy, De Mauprat — Why, what a brow, man, for your wedding day ! De Mat. You know what ehanced between The Cardinal and myself? Bar. This morning brought Your letter — faith, a strange account! 1 laugh'd And wept at once for gladness. De Map. We were wed At noon ; the rite perform'd, came hither — scarce Arrived, when Bar. Well ? De Mac Wide flew the doors, and lo, Messire de Beringhen, and this epistle ! Bar. 'Tis the King's hand — the royal seal ! De Mac. Read— read— Bah. {reading). " Whereas Adrien de Mauprat, Colonel and Chevalier in our armies, being already guilty of High Treason, by the seizure of our town of Faviaux. has presumed, without our knowledge, consent, or sanc- tion, to connect bunself by marriage with Julie dc*Mortemar, a wealthy orphan attached to the person of her Majesh — Wo do hereby proclaim and declare the said marriage contrary to law. On penalty of death, A lrien de Mauprat will not communicate with the said Julie de Morte- ni ir, by word or letter, save in the presence of our faithful servant, the Sieur de Beringhen, and then with such respect and decorum as are due to a Demoiselle attached to the Court of France, until such time as it may suit our royal pleasure to confer with the Holy Church on the for- mal annulment of the marriage, and with our Council on the punishment to be awarded to Messire de Mauprat, who is cautioned for his own sake to preserve silence as to our injunction, more especially to Mademoiselle de Mortemar. " Given under our hand and seal at the Louvre. " Louis " [returning the letter). Amazement ! Did not Richelieu say the Kins Knew not your crime 1 De Mau. He said so. Bak. Poor De Mauprat ! See you the snare, the vengeance worse than death, Of which you are the victim 1 De Mau. Ha ! Bar. {mide). ■ It works ! (aloud) What so clear ? Richelieu has but two passions De Mau. Richelieu ! Bar. Yes ! Ambition and revenge — in you both blended. A.CI II.] EICHELIEU. 29 First for ambition — Julie is his ward, Innocent — docile — pliant to his will — He placed her at the court — foresaw the rest — The King loves Julie ! Dr Mau. Merciful Heaven ! The King ! Bar. Such Cupids lend new plumes to Richelieu's wings ; But the Court etiquette must give such Cupids The veil of Hymen — (Hymen but in name). He looked abroad — found you his foe — thus served Ambition — by the grandeur of his ward, And vengeance — by dishonor to his foe ! De Map. Prove this. Bar You have the proof — the royal letter — Your strange exemption from the general pardon. Known but to me and Richelieu : can you doubt Your friend to acquit your foe 1 De Map. I see it all! Mock pardon — hurried nuptials — False bounty — all — the serpent ot that smile ! Oh ! it stings home ! {crosses, l.) Bar. You yet shall crush his malice ; Our plans are sure — Orleans is at our head ; We meet to-night ; join us, and with us triumph. De Mad. Ta-night ? But the King f— but Julie 1 Bar. The King, infirm in health, in mind more feeble, Is but the plaything of a minister's will Were Richelieu dead — his power were mine; and Louis Soon should forget his passion and your crime. (De Mauprat goes to l.) But whither now ? De Mau. I know not ; I scarce hear thee ; A little while for thought ; anon I'll join thee ; But now, all air seems tainted, and I loathe The face of man. [Exit De Mauprat, l. Bar. Start from the chase, my prey, But as thou speed'st the hell-hounds of revenge Pant in thy track and dog thee down. Enter De Bicrinohen, r., his mouth full, a napkin in his hand. Du Ber. Chevalier, Your cook's a miracle — what, my host aone ? Faith, Count, my- office is a post of danger — A fiery fellow, Mauprat ! touch and go — Match and saltpetre — pr-r-r-r — ! B\r. You Wdl b3 released ere long. The King resolve3 To call the bride to Court this day. DsBiiK. Poor Mauprat! Yet since you love the lady, why so careless Of the King's suit? Is Louis still so chafed against the Fox For snitching yon fair dainty from the Lion 1 Bar Si chafed, that Richelieu totters. Yes, the King Is half conspirator against the Cardinal. Enough of this. I've found the man we wanted — The man to head the hands that murder Richelieu — The man whose name the synonym for daring. 30 BicnKLimr. [act ii. De Ber. {aside). He must mean me. {aloud) No, Count, I am — I own, A valiant dog — but still Bar Whom can I mean But Mauprat] Mark, to-night we meet at Marion's, There shall we sign ; thenco send this scroll, {showing it) to Bouillon. You're in that secret — [affectionately) one of our new Council. De Ber. But to admit the Spaniard — France's foe — Into the heart of Fiance — dethrone the King — It looks like treason, and I smell the headsman. Bar. Oh, sir, too late to falter ; when we meet We must arrange the separate — coarser scheme, For Richelieu's death. Of this dispatch, De Mauprat Must nothing learn. He only bites at vengeance, And he would start from treason. We must post him Without the door at Marion's — as a sentry. [aside) So. when his head is on the block — his tongue Cannot betray our most august designs. De Ber. I'll meet you if the King can spare me. (aside) No 1 I am too old a goose to play with foxes, I'll roost at home, {aloud) Meanwhile in the next room There's a delicious pate, let's discuss it. Bar. Pshaw ! a man filled with a sublime ambition Has no time to discuss your pat6s. De Ber. Pshaw ! And a man filled with as sublime a pate Has no time to discuss ambition. Gad, I have the best of it ! [Exit, r. Bar. Now will this fire his fever into madness! All is made clear ; Mauprat must murder Richelieu — Die for that crime — I shall console his Julie — This will reach Bouillon — from the wrecks of France I shall carve out — who knows* — perchance a throne! All in despite of my Lord Cardinal. Enter De Mauprat, l. De Mau. Speak ! can it be ? Methousht, that from the terrace I saw the carriage of the King— and Julie ! No ! — no ! my frenzy peoples the void air With its own phantoms ! Bar. Nay, too true. Alas ! Was ever lightning swifter, or more blasting, Than Richelieu's forked guile 1 De Mac. I'll to the Louvre Bar. And lose all hope ! The Louvre ! — the sure gate To the Bastile ! De Mau. The King Bar. Is but the wax, Which Richelieu stamps ! Break the malignant seal, And I will raze the print. De Mau. Ghastly Vengeance ! To thee, and thine august and solemn sister, The unrelenting Death, I dedicate The blood of Armand Richelieu ! When Dishonor Reaches our hearths Law dies, and Murther takes The angel shape of Justice ! {crosses r.) '.] RICHELIEU. 31 Bar. . Bravely said ! At midnight— Marion's ! — Nay, I cannot leave thee To thoughts that De Mau. Speak not to me ! — I am yours ! — But speak not ! There's a voice within my soul, Whose cry could drown the thunder. Oh ' if men Will play dark sorcery with the heart of man, Let they, who raise the spell, beware the Fiend ! [Hxennt, r. SCENE II — A room in the Palais Cardinal (as in the First Act . Riche- lieu and Joseph, l. d. Francois discovered arranging the footstool. Jos. (l.). Yes ! — Huguet, taking his accustom 'd round — Disguised as some plain burger — heard these rufflers Quoting your name ; — he listen'd — ' Pshaw!" said one, " We are to seize the Cardinal in his palace To-morrow !" — " How '?" the other ask'd. — " You'll hear The whole design to-night; the Duke of Orleans And Baradas have got the map of action At their fingers' end."- — ' So be it," quoth the other; "I will be there — Marion de Lorme's — at midnight !" Rich. I have them, man. — I have them ! Jos. So they say Of you, my Lord ; — believe me, that their plans Are mightier than you deem. You must employ Means no less vast to meet them ! Rich. Bah ! in policy We foil gigantic danger, not by giants, But dwarfs. The statues of our stately fortune Are sculptured by the chisel — not the axe ! Ah ! were I younger — by the knightly heart That beats beneath these priestly robes, I would Have pastime with these cut-throats ! Yea — as when, Lured to the ambush of the expecting foe — I clove my pathway through the plumed sea ! Reach me yon falchion, Francois — not that bauble For carpet-warriors, — yonder — such a blade As old Charles Martel might have wielded when He drove the Saracen from i ranee. (Francois brings him one of the long two-handed sivords worn in the middle ages) With this I, at Rochelle, did hand to hand engage The stalwart Englisher — no mongrels, boy, Those island mastiffs — mark the notch — a deep one — His casque made here, — I shore him to the waist ! A toy — a feather — then ! (tries to wield, and lets it fall) You see, a child could Slay Richelieu now. (retires to the table and sits r.) Fran, (his hand on his hilt). But now, at your command. Are other weapons, my good Lord. Rich, (ivho has seated himself as to write, lifts the pen). True — This ! Beneath the rule of men entirely great The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold The arch-enchanter's wand ! — itself a nothing! — But taking sorcery from the master-hand To paralyze the Caesars — and to strike The loud earth breathless ! — Take away the sword — 32 BICHKLIKtT. [aCI II. States can be saved without it ! {looking at the clock. .Frahcois re- places the sword) "fis the hour — Rnire, sir. FrAN$OIS crosses behind and exits, n. d. Three knocks are heard, h. V. E. Richkliku repeats them. A door concealed in the arras is opened cau- tiously. Enter Marion de Lobmb, l u. e. Jos. [amazed). Marion de Lonne ! (she passes behind to the r. of Richelieu.) Rich. Ili^t I Joseph, K sep guard. (Joseph retires, d. it.) My faithful Marion ! Marion [kneeling). Good, my Lord, They meet to-night in my poor hoase. The Duke Of Orleans heads them. Rich. Yes — go on. Mar. His Highness Much questioned if I knew some brave, discreet, And vigilant man, whose tongue could keep a secret, And who had those twin qualities for service, The love of gold, the hate of Richelieu. Rich. You ?— Mar Made answer, " Yes— my brother; bold ami trusty; Whose faith my faith could pledge;" — the Duke then bade me 11 ive him equipp'd and arm'd — well-mounted — ready This niglit 'part for Italy. Rich. Aha! — His Bouillon too turn'd traitor? So, methought! — What part of Italy 1 Mar The Piedmont frontier, Where Bouillon lies encamp il. Rich. Now there is danger G ent danger ! If he tamper with the Spaniard, An 1 Louis list not to my counsel, as, Without sure proof, he will not — France is lost. W hat more 7 Mar. Dark hints of some design to seize Your person in your palace. Nothing clear — His Highness trembled while he spoke — the words Did choke each other. Rich. So ! — who is the brother You recommended to the Duke ? Mar. Whoever Your Eminence may father ! Rich. Darling Marion ! (rises and goes to the table, and returns tcith a large purse of gold) There — pshaw — a trifle! [gives the purse to Marion) You are sure they meet 1 — the hour 1 Mar. At midnight. Rich. And You will engage to give the Duke's dispatch To whom I send 1 Mar. Ay, marry ! Rich. (aside). Huguetl No; He will be wanted elsewhere — Joseph 1 — zealous, But too well known — too much the elder brother! Mauprat — alas — it is his wedding day — Francois ? — the man of men ! — unnoted — young — ACT II.] RICHELIEU. 33 Ambitious, {goes to the door) Franqois ! Enter Francois, b. d. Follow this fair lady ; (Find him the suiting garments, Marion), take My fleetest steed ; arm thyself to the teeth ; A packet will be given you — with orders, No matter what ! The instant that your hand Closes upon it — clutch it, like your honor, Which Death alone can steal, or ravish — set Spurs to your steed — be breathless, till you stand Again before me. (Francois is going) Stay, sir! You will find me Two short leagues hence — at Ruelle, in my castle. Young man, be blithe — for — note me — from the hour 1 grasp that packet — think your guiding star Rains fortune on you. Fran. If I fail Rich. Fail— fail ? In the lexicon of youth, which Fate reserves For a bright manhood, there is no such word As— fail ! (You will instruct him further, Marion., (Marion crosses behind to l. u. e.) Follow her — but at a distance — speak not to her, Till you are housed. Farewell, boy ! Never say " Fail" again. Fran. I will not ! Rich, (patting his locks). There's my young hero ! [Exeunt Francois and Marion, l. u. e. So they would seize my person in this palace "? I cannot guess their scheme — but my retinue Is here too large ! a single traitor could Strike impotent the fate of thousands. Joseph, Enter Joseph, k. d. Art sure of Huguet 1 Think — we hanged his father ! Jos. But you have bought the son — heaped favors on him ! Rich. Trash! — favors past— that's' nothing, {crosses, l.) In his hours Of confidence with you, has he named the favors To come — he counts on 1 Jos. Yes — a Colonel's rank, And letters of nobility. Here Huguet enters, l. d., as to address th-e Cardinal, icho does not perceive h im. Rich. What, Huguet !— Huguet {aside). My own name, soft! {retires and listens.) Rich. Colonel and nobleman! My bashful Huguet — that can never be ! We have him not the less — we'll promise it ! And see the King withholds ! Ah, Kings are oft A great convenience to a minister ! No wrong to Huguet either. Moralists ;54 EICHELIEU. [ACT II. Say, Hope is sweeter than possession ! Yes ! We'll count on Huguet ! Huguet. Ay, to thy cost, thou tyrant ! [Exit, l. d. Rich. You are right ; this treason Assumes a fearful aspect — Dut, once crushed, Its very ashes shall manure the soil Of i>o\ver ; and ripen such full sheaves of greatness, That all the summer of my fate shall seem Fruitless beside the autumn. Jos The saints grant it ! Ricu. {solemnly). Yes — for sweet Fiance, Heaven orant it ! my country, For thee — thee only — though men deem it not — Are toil and terror my familiars ! I Have made thee great and fair — upon thy brows Wreath'd the old Roman laurel ; at thy feel Bow'd nations down. No pulse in my ambition Whose beatings were not measured for thy heart ! And while I live — Richelieu and France are one. (crosses to R.) Enter Huguet, l d. Huguet. My Lord Cardinal, Your Eminence bade me seek you at this hour. Ricu. [crosting^ 0.). Did I "? True, Huguet. So you overheard Strange talk amongst these gallants 1 Snares and traps For Richelieu 1 Well — we'll balk them ; let me think — The men-at-arms you head — how many 1 Huguet. Twenty My Lord. Rich. All trusty ? Huguet. -Ay, my Lord. Rim. Ere the dawn be gray. All could be arm'd, assembled, and at Ruelle In my own hall 1 Huguet. By one hour after midnight. Rich. The castle's strong. You know its outlets, Hucruet ? Would twenty men, well posted, keep such guard That not one step — (and Murther's step is stealthy) — Could glide within — unseen 1 Huguet. A triple wall — A drawbridge and portcullis — twenty men Under my lead, a month might hold that castle Against a host. Rich. They do not strike till morning, Yet I will shift the quarter. Bid the "rooms Prepare the litter — I will hence to Ruelle While daylight lasts — and one hour after midnight You and your twenty saints shall seek me thither! You're made to rise ! You are, sir ; eyes of lynx, Eats of the sta«, a footfall like the snow; You are a valiant fellow — yea, a trusty, Religious, exemplary, incorrupt, And precious jewel of a fellow, Huguet ! If 1 live long enough — ay, mark my words — If I live long enough, you'll be a Colonel — Noble, perhaps ! One hour, sir, after midnight. ACT III.] BICHKLIKU. Huguet. You leave me dumb with gratitude, my Lord ; I'll pick the trustiest — {aside)— Marion's house can furnish. [Exit Huguet, l d. K, 1CH . Good — all favors, If Franqois be but bold, and Huguet honest. Huguet — 1 half suspect — he bow'd too low — 'Tis not his way. Jos. This is the curse, my Lord, Of your high state— suspicion of all men. Rich, (sadly). True— true— my leeches bribed to poisoners— pages To strangle me in sleep. My very King (This brain the unresting loom, from which was woven The purple of his greatness) leagued against me. Old— childless— friendless— broken— all forsake- All— all— but Jos. What ? Rich. The indomitable heart Of Armand Richelieu ! (crosses r.) J. s And Joseph Rich (after a pause). You Yes, I believe you — yes — for all men fear you — And the world'loves you not. And I, friend Joseph, I am the only man who could, my Joseph, Make you a Bishop. Come, we'll go to dinner. And talk the while of methods to advance Our Mother Church. Ah, Joseph— Bishop Joseph ! [Exeunt, k. 35 ACT III. SECOND DAY (MIDNIGHT). SCENE I. — Richelieu's Castle at Ruelle. A Gothic Clwmber. Moonlight at the window, occasionally obscured. Large doors c. ; small doors k. and l. Rich, (reading). '• In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels That life should soar to nobler ends than Power." So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist ! ! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell ; Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd Upon the dark and stormy tides where life Gives battle to the elements — Ye. safe and formal men, Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great, Ye cannot know what ye have never tried ! Speak to me, moralist !— I'll heed thy counsel. Were it not best Enter Francois hastily, and in part disguised, d. l. s. e. Rich. ( flinging away the book). Philosophy, thou best! Quick— the dispatch ! Power— Empire ! Boy— the packet! 36 BICtlELllX. [A.CC II. Fi:an. [kneeling). Kill me, tny Lord ! Rich. They knew tliee — they suspected— They gave it not Fran. He gave it — he — the Count Da Baradas — with his own liand he gave it! Rich. Baradas ! Joy ! out with it! Fran. Listen, And then dismiss me to the headsman. Rich. Ha ! Go on. Fran. They led me to a chamber — There Orleans and Baradas — and some half-score, Whom I know not — were met Rich. Not more! Fran. But from The adjoining chamber broke the din of voices, The clattering tread of armed men ; at times A shriller cry, that yell'd out, " D^ath to Richelieu I" Rich. Speak not of me ; thy country is in danger! Fran. Baradas Questional me close — demurr'd — until, at last, O'erruled by Orleans — gave the packet — told me That life and death were in the scroll — this gold — [showing purse.) Rich. Gold is no proof R«>'N. And Orleans promised thousands, When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets of Paris Rang out shrill answer. Hastening from the house, My footstep in the stirrup, Marion stole Across the threshold, whispering, " Lose no moment Ere Richelieu have the packet ; tell him too — Murder is in the winds of Night, and Orleans Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall be clay." She said, and trembling fled within ; when, lo ! A hand of iron griped me; thro' the dark Gleam'd the dim shadow of an armed man ; Ere I could draw — the priz9 was wrested from me, And a hoarse voice ^asp'd — " Spy, I spare thee, for This steel is virgin to thy Lord !" with that He vanish'd Scared and trembling for thy safety, I mounted, fled, and kneeling at thy feet Implore thee to acquit my faith — but not, Like him, to spare my life. Rich. Who spake of life ? I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine honor — A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives ! (rises) Begone ' — ecle?m lliine honor — back to Marion — Or Baradas — or Orleans — track the robber — Regain the packet — or crawl on to Agp — Age and gray hairs like mine — and know, thou hast lost That which had made thee great and saved thy country, (crosses, R. Francois rises) See me not till thou'st bought the right to seek me. Away ! — Nav, cheer thee, thou hast not fail'd yet — There s no such word as fail ! " Fran. Bless you, my Lml, For that one smile ! [Exit, l. d. Rich. He will win it yet. [ACr III. RICHELIEU. 37 Francois ' — He's gone. My murder ! Marion's warning ! This bravo's threat ! for the morrow's dawn! I'll set my spies to work — I'll make all space (As does the sun) a Universal Eye — Huguet shall track — Joseph confess — ha ! ha ! Strange, while I laugh'd I shudder'd — and e'en now Thro' the chill air the beating of my heart Sounds like a death-watch by a sick man's pillow ; If Huguet could deceive me — hoofs without — The gates unclose — steps nearer and nearer ! Enttr Julie, l d. s. e. Julie. Cardinal ! My father! {falls at his feet.) Rich. Julie at this hour! — and tears ! What ails thee 1 Julie. I am safe ; I am with thee ! — Rich. Safe ! Julie. That man — Why did I love him 1 — clinging to a breast That knows no shelter? Listen — late at noon — The marriage-day — e'en then no more a lover — He left me coldly — well — I sought my chamber To weep and wonder— but to hope and dream. Sudden a mandate from the Kins — to attend Forthwith his pleasure at the Louvre. Rich. ~ Ha ! You did obey the summons ; and the King Reproach'd your hasty nuptials'? Julie. ■ Were that all ! He frown'S and chid ; proclaim'd the bond unlawful ; Bade me not quit my chamber in the palace, And there at night — alone — this niaht — all still — He sought my presence — dared — thou read'st the heart, Read mine ! I cannot speak it ! Rich. He a king — You — woman ; well — you yielded ! Julie. Cardinal — Dare you say " yielded ?'' — Humbled and abash'd, He from the chamber crept — th 's mighty Louis ; Crept like a baffled felon ' — yielded ? Ah ! More royalty in woman's honest heart Than dwells within the crowned majesty And sceptred anger of a hundred kings! Yielded ! — Heavens !— yielded ! {aoes l.) Rich. To my breast. — close — close! {they embrace) The world would never need a Richelieu, if Men — bearded, mailed men — the Lords of Earth — Resisted flattery, falsehood, avarice, pride As this poor child with the dove's innocent scorn Her sex"s tempters, Vanity and Power ! He left you— well "? Julie. Then came a sharper trial ! At the King's suit the Count de Baradas Sought me to soothe, to fawn, to flatter, while On his smooth lip insult appear'd more hateful. 38 lilCHELlEP. [aCX III. Stung at last By my disdain, the dim and glimmering sense Of Ids cloak'd words broke into bolder light, And then — ah ! then, my haughty spirit fail'd me! Then I was weak — wept — oh ! such bitter tears ! For (turn thy face aside, and let me whisper The horror to thine ear) then did I learn That he — that Adrien — my husband — knew The King's polluting suit, and deemed it honor ! Th>n all the terrible and loathesotne truth Glared on me; — coldness, waywardness, reserve — Mystery of looks — words — all unravell'd — and I saw the impostor, where I had loved the god! Ricu. I think thou wrong'st thy husband — but proceed. Julie. Did you say '• wrong'd " him 1 — Cardinal, my father, Did you say " wrong'd 1" Prove it, and life shall grow One prayer for thy reward and his forgiveness. Rich. Let me know all. Julie. To the despair he caused The courtier left me ; but amid the chaos Darted one guiding ray — to 'scape? — to fly — Reach Adrien, learn the worst — 'twas then near midnight ; Trembling I left my chamber — sought the Queen — Fell a her feet — reveaPd the unholy peril — Implored her aid to flee our joint disgrace. Moved, she embraced and soothed me — nay, preserved ; He, word sufficed to unlock the palace gates ; I hasten' d home — but home was desolate — No Adrien there ! Fearing the worst, I fled To thee, s directed hither. As my wheels Paused at thy gates — the clang of arms behind — • The ring of hoofs Rich. 'Twas but my guards, fair trembler. (So Huguet keeps his word, my omens wrong'd him.) Julie. Oh, in one hour what years of anguish crowd ! Rich. Nay, there's no danger now. Thou needst rest, (takes a lamp from the table, c.) Come, thou shalt lodge beside me. Tush ! be cheer'd, My rosiest Amazon — thou wrong'st thy Theseus. All will be well — yes, yet all well. [Exeunt through a side door. r. s. e. Enter Huguet — De Mauprat, l. d., in complete armor, his vizor dowt . The moonlight obscured at the casement. Huguet. Not here ! De Mau. Oh, I will find him, fear not. Hence and guard (crosses, r... The galleries where the menials sleep — plant sentries At every outlet — Chance should throw no shadow Between the vengeance and the victim ! Go — Huguet. Will you not want A second arm ? De Mau. To slay one weak old man 1 Away ! No lesser wrongs than mine can make This murder lawful. Hence ! Huguet. A short farewell ! [Exit Huguet, l. d. De Mauprat conceals himself , r. ACT III.] RICHELIEU. °" Re-enter Richelieu, not perceiving De Mauprat, r. d. Rich. How heavy is the air ! {goes to the table and puts down the lamp.) The very darkness lends itself to fear-r To treason De Mau. And to death ! ■ RlCH My omens lied not ! What art thou, wretch 1 De Mau Thy doomsman! Rich. (De Mauprat seizes him). Ho, my guards ! Huffuet ! Montbrassil ! Vermont ! DeMau Ay thy spirits Forsake thee, wizard ; thy bold men of mail Are my confederaUs. Stir not ! but one step, And know the next— thy grave ! Ricu Thou best, knave ! ' I am old, infirm— most feeble— but thou liest! (Richelieu throws him off) Armand de Richelieu dies not by the hand Of man— the stars have said it— and the voice Of my own prophetic and oracular soul Confirms the shining sibyls ! Call them all— Thy brother butchers ! Earth lias no such fiend- No ! as one parricide of his fatherland, Who dares in Richelieu murder France ! {goes l.) De Mau. Th y stars Deceive thee, Cardinal ; In his hot youth, a soldier, urged to crime Against the State, placed in your hands his life— You did not strike the blow— but o'er his head, Upon the gossamer thread of your caprice, Hover'd the axe. One day you summon'd— mock'd him with smooth pardon- Bade an angel's face Turn Earth to Paradise Rich Wel1 ! De Mau. w . as this mercy 1 A Caesar's generous vengeance ? Cardinal, no ! Judas, not Caesar was the model ! You Saved him from death for shame ; reserved to grow The scorn of living men — A kind convenience — a Sir Pandarus To his own bride, and the august adulterer! Then did the first great law of human hearts, To which the patriot's, not the rebel's name, Crown' d the first Brutus, when the Tarquin fell, Make Misery roval— raise this desperate wretch Into thy destiny ! Expect no mercy! Behold De Mauprat ! {lifts his vizor.) Rich. To thy knees, and crawl For pardon, or, I tell thee, thou shalt live For such remorse, that, did I hate thee, I Would bid thee strike, that I might be avenged! It was to save my Julie from the King, That in thy valor I forgave thy crime ; It was, when thou— the rash and ready tool- Yea of that shame thou loath'st— didst leave thy hearth 40 BlCHKLIfc-U. [ACI III. To the polluter — in these arms thy bride Found the protecting shelter thine withheld, (goes to side door, r. ) Julie De Mauprat — Julie! (Mauprat crosses to l. ) Enter Julie. Lo, my witness ! De Map. (l.). What marvel's this ? I dream ! my Julie — thou! Julie (l.). Henceforth all bond Between us twain is broken. Were it not For this old man, 1 might, in truth, have lost The right — now mine — to scorn thee ! Rich. I c). So, you hear her 1 De Mau. Thou with some slander hast her sense infected ! Julie. No, sir ; he did excuse thee. Thy friend — Thy confidant — familiar — Baradas — Himself reveal 'd thy baseuess ! De Mau. Baseness: Rich. Ay ; That thou didst court dishonor. De Mau. Baradas ! Where is thy thunder, Heaven 1 Duped — snared — undone — (sheaths his sword) Thou — thou couldst not believe him ! Thou dost love me ! Julie (aside). Love him ! Ah ! Be still, my heart ! (aloud) Love you I did ! — how fondly Woman — if women were my listeners now — Alone could tell ! For ever fled my dream ; Farewell — all's over ! Rich. Nay, my daughter, these Are but the blinding mists of daybreak love Sprung from its very light, and heralding A noon of happy summer. Take her hand And speak the truth, with which your heart runs over — That this Count Judas— this Incarnate Falsehood — Never lied more, than when he told thy Julie That Adrien loved her not — except, indeed, When he told Adrien, Julie could betray him. (Mauprat crosses to Julie.) Julie (embracing De Mauprat). You love me, then! — you love me' — and they wrong'd you ! De Mau. Ah ! couldst thou doubt it 1 Rich. Why, the very mole Less blind than thou ! Baradas loves thy wife ! — Had hoped her hand— aspired to be that cloak To the King's will, which to thy bluntness seems The Centaur's poisonous robe — hopes even now To make thy corpse his footstool to thy bed ! Where was thy wit, man ? — Ho ! these schemes are glass ! The very sun shines through them. De Mau. 0, my Lord, Can you forgive me 1 Rich. Ay, and save you ! De Mau. Save ! — Terrible word !— O, save thyself ; — these halls Swarm with thy foes ; already for thy blood Pants thirsty Murder ! (draws his sivord.) ACT ITI.] RICHELIEU. 41 Julie. Murder! Ricu. Hush ! put by The woman. Hush ! a shriek— a cry— a breath Too loud, would startle from its horrent pause The swooping Death ! Go to the door, and listen ! „ Now for escape ! (crosses r. Julie kneels at the door listening.) De Mau. None— none ! Their blades shall pass This heart to thine ! Rich, [dryly). An honorable outwork, But much too near the citadel. I think That I can trust you now ; {slotvly, and gazing on him) yes, I can trust you. How many of my troop league with you ? De Mau. A11 ■'— We are your troop ! Rich. And Huguet ? De Mau. Is our captain. {watches the door and stands prepared for defence.) Rich. A retributive Power ! This comes of spies ! All "? then the lion's skin's too short to-night — Now for the fox's ! — (murmurs without.) Julie. A hoarse, gathering murmur! — Hurrrying and heavy footsteps ! r ich . Ha ! — the posterns ! De Mau. No egress where no sentry ! Rich. Follow me— I have it ! — to my chamber — quick ! Come, Julie ! Hush! Mauprat, come ! [Exit Julie, De Mauprat, and Richelieu, c. d. murmurs at a distance). Death to the Cardinal ! Rich, (without). Bloodhounds, I laugh at ye !— ha ! ha !— we will Baffle them yet. Ha ! ha ! Huguet (tvithout). This way— this way ! Enter Hcguet and the Conspirators, l. u. e. Huguet. De Mauprat's hand is never slow in battle ; Strange, if it falter now ! Ha! gone ! First Con. Perchance The fox had crept to rest ; and to his lair Death, the dark hunter, tracks him. Enter De Mauprat, throioing open the doors of the recess, c, in which there is a bed, whereon Richelieu lies extended. Ds Mau. Live the King ; Richelieu is dead ! Huguet. You have been long. D E Mau. I watch'd him till he slept. Heed me. No trace of blood reveals the deed ; — Strangled in sleep. His health hath long been broken- Found breathless in his bed. So runs our tale, Remember ! Back to Paris — Orleans gives Ten thousand crowns, and Baradas a lordship, To him who first gluts vengeance with the news That Richelieu is in heaven ! Quick, that all France May share your joy ! 42 BICtl-ELlEU. [ACT III. Huguet. And you 1 De Mau. Will stay, to crush Eager suspicion — to forbid sharp eyes To dwell too closely on the clay ; prepare The rites, and place hilll Oil his bier— this my task. I leave to you, sirs, the more grateful lot Of wealth and honors. Hence ! Huguet. I shall be noble ! De Mau. Away ! First Con. Ten thousand crowns ! Omnes. To horse ! — to horse ! [Exeunt Conspirators, l. s. e. De Mauprat stands on guard, SCENE II. — A room in the house of Count de Baradas. Orleans and De Bbbinghbn, r. De Ber. I understand. Mauprat kept guard without ; Knows naught of the dispatch — but heads the troop Whom the poor Cardinal fancies his protectors. Save us from such protection ! Enter Baradas, r. Bar. Julie is fled ; — the Kins, whom I now left To a most thorny pillow, vows revenge On her — on Mauprat — and on Richelieu ! Well ; We loyal men anticipate his wish Upon "the last — and as for Mauprat — {showing a writ.) De Ber. H" m ! They say the devil invented printins ! Faith ! He has some hand in writing parchment — ih, Count? What mischief now 1 B AR . The Kins, at Julie's flight Enraged, will brook no rival in a subject — So on this old offence — the affair of Faviaux — Ere Mauprat can tell tales of us, we build His bridge between the dungeon and the grave. Oh ! by the way — I had forgot your highness, Friend Huguet whispered me, " Beware of Marion ; I've seen her lurking near the Cardinal's palace." Upon that hint, I've found her lodgings elsewhere. Orleans. You wrong her, Count. Poor Marion ! she adores me. Bar. {apologetically'). Forgive me, but Enter Page, r. p AGE . My Lord, a rude, strange soldier, Breathless with haste, demands an audience. Bar. So ! The archers 1 p AGE . In the ante-room, my Lord, As you desired. B A r. 'Tis well — admit the soldier. [Exit Page r. Huguet — I bade him seek me here. Enter Huguet, r. [Ad III. RICHFLIKTX. 43 Huguet. My Lords, The deed is done. Now, Count, fulfill your word, And make me noble ! Bar. Richelieu dead 1 — art sure 1 How died he ? Huguet. Strangled in his sleep — no hlood, No tell-tale violence. Bar. Strangled 1 — monstrous villain ! Reward for murder ! Ho, there ! (stamping.) Enter Captain xoith five Archers, r. Hctguet. No, thou durst not ! Bar. Seize on the ruffian — bind him — gag him — (they seize him) Off To the Bastile ! Huguet. Your word — your plighted faith ! Bar. Insolent liar ! — ho, away ! Huguet. Nay, Count ; I have that about me which Bar. Away with him ! [Exeunt Huguet and Archers, r. Now, then, all's safe ; Huguet must die in prison, So Mauprat — coax or force the meaner crew To fly the country. Ha, ha ! thus, your highness. Great men make use of little men. De Ber. My Lords, Since our suspense is ended — you'll excuse me ; 'Tis late — and entre nous, I have not supp'd yet! I'm one of the new Council now, remember ; I feel the public stirring here already ; A very craving monster. An revoir ! [ExitDp, Berixghen, r. Orleans. No fear now, Richelieu's dead. Bar. And could he come To life again, he could not keep life's life — His power — nor save De Mauprat from the scaffold — Nor Julie from these arms — nor Paris from The Spaniard — nor your highness from the throne ! All ours ! all ours ! in spite of my Lord Cardinal ! Enter Page, r. Page. A gentleman, my Lord, of better mien Than he who last Bar. Well, he may enter. [Exit Page, r. Orleans. Who Can this be ? ^ Bar. One of the conspirators ; Mauprat himself, perhaps. Enter Francois, r. Fran. My Lord Bar. Ha, traitor ; In Paris still 1 Fran. The packet — the dispatch — Some knave play'd spy without and reft it fwm me, Ere I could draw my sword. 44 HICHELIEU. [ACT IV. Bar. Played spy without ! Did he wear armor ? Fran. Ay, from head to heel. Orleans. One of our band. Oh, Heavens ! Bar. Could it be Mauprat? Kept guard at the door — knew naught of the dispatch — How he ? — and yet, who other ? Fran. Ha, De Mauprat ! The night was dark — his vizor closed. Bar. 'Twas he! How could he guess? — 'sd^ath ! if he should betray us. His hate to Richelieu dies with Richelieu — and He was not great enough for treason. Hence! Find Mauprat — beg, steal, filch, or force it back, Or, as I live, the halter Fit an. By the morrow I will regain it, (aside) and redeem my honor ! [Exit Francois, r. Orleans. Oh, we are lost Bar. Not so ! But cause on cause For Mauprat's seizure — silence — death ! Take courage. Orleans. Should it once reach the King, the Cardinal's arm Could smite us from the grave. Bar. Sir, think it not! I hold De Mauprat in my grasp. To-morrow, And France is ours ! [Exeunt, l. ACT IV. THIRD DAY. SCENE I. — The Gardens of the Louvre. Orleans, Baradas, De Ber- inghen, Courtiers, etc., r. s. e. Orleans (l. a). How does my brother bear the Cardinal's death ? Bar. (r. a). With grief, when thinking of the toils of state; With joy. when thinking on the eyes of Julie ; — At times he sighs, "Who now shall govern France ?"' Anon exclaims, " Who shall baffle Louis ?" Enter Louis and other Courtiers, r. s. e. {They uncover.) Orleans. Now, my liege, now, I can embrace a brother. Louis. Dear Gaston, yes. I do believe you love me; — Richelieu denied it — sever'd us too long. A great man, Gaston ! Who shall govern France ? (crosses L. and back to c.) Bar. Yourself, my liege. That swart and potent star Eclipsed your royal orb. He served the country, But did he serve, or seek to sway the King ? Louis. You're right — he was an able politician — Dear Count, this silliest Julie, I know not why, she takes my fancy. Many ACT IV.] RICHELIEU. 45 As fair, and certainly more kind ; but yet It is so. Bar. Richelieu was most disloyal in that marriage. Louis, {querulously). He knew that Julie pleased me ; a clear proof He never loved me ! Bab. Oh, most clear ! — But now No bar between your lady and your will ! This writ makes all secure ; a week or two In the Bastile will sober Mauprat's love, And leave him eager to dissolve a hymen That brings him such a home. Louis. • See to it, Count. [Exit Baradas, r. I'll summon Julie back. A word with you. [Takes aside First Courtier and De Beringuen, and exeunt, l. s. e. Enter Francois, r. u. e. Fran. All search, as yet, in vain for Mauprat ! Not At home since yesternoon — a soldier told me He saw him pass this way with hasty strides ; Should he meet Baradas — they'd rend it from him — And then — Oh, sweet fortune, smile upon me — I am thy son !— if thou desert'st me now, Come, Death, and snatch me from disgrace. [Exit, l. Enter De Mauprat, r. u. e. De Mau. Oh, let me — Let me but meet him foot to foot — I'll dig The Judas from his heart ; — albeit the King Should o'er him cast the purple ! He-enter Francois, l. u. e. Fran. - Mauprat ! hold ! — Where is the De Mau. Well ! What would'st thou 1 Fran. The dispatch ! The packet. Look on me — I serve the Cardinal — You know me. Did you not keep guard last night By Marion's house 1 De Mau. I did ; — no matter now ! — They told me he was here ! (crosses to l. and up the stage.) Fran. joy ! quick — quick — The packet thou didst wrest from me 1 De Mau. The packet !-— What, art thou he I deemed the Cardinal's spy 1 — (Dupe that I was) and overhearing Marion Fran. The same — restore it! — haste! De Mau. I have it not; — Methought it but reveal'd our scheme to Richelieu, And, as we mounted, gave it to Enter Baradas, r. Stand back 1 46 RiciiKi.ni'. [.\cr iv. Now, villain! now — I have thee! (to Francois) Hence, sir: — Draw ! Fran. Art mad 1 — the King's at band ! leave Aim to Richelieu ' Speak — the dispatch — to whom De Mau [dashing him aside, and rushing to Baradas). Thou triple slan- derer ! I'll set my heel upon thy crest ! (a fete passes.) Fran. Fly— flv ! The King !— Enter, l. s. e., Louis, Orleans, De Berixohex, Courtiers, etc. ; Cap- tain and Guards hastily, i. r v.. The CAPTAIN and Gdards range r., Courtiers l , King l. c, Baradas l. c, De Mauprat r. Louis. Swords drawn — before our very palace ! — Have our laws died with Richelieu ] Bail (r. of the Kino). Pardon, Sire, — My crime hut self-defence, (aside to Kino) It is De Mauprat. Louis. Dare he thus brave us ? (Baradas goes to the Captain, and gives the writ.) De Mau. Sire, in the Cardinal's name Bar. Seize him — disarm — to the Bastile! De Mauprat resigns his sword. Enter Richelieu and J oskph, followed hj Arquebusiers, l. v. b. Bar. The dead Returned to life ! Louis (l. a). What ! a mock death ! this tops The Infinite of Insult. De Mau. (r.). Priest and Hero ! — For you are both — protect the truth ! Rich, (taking the writ from the Captain). What's this ? De Ber. (,l.). Fact in Philosophy. Foxes have got Nine iives, as well as cats ! Bar. Be firm, my liege. Louis. I have assumed the sceptre — I will wield it! Jos. (down r ). The tide runs counter— there'll be shipwreck somewhere. Baradas and Orleans keep close to the King, whispering and prompting him when Richelieu speaks. Rich. High treason ! — Faviaux ! still that stale pretence ! My liege, bad men (ay, Count, most knavish men !) Abuse your royal goodness. For this soldier, France hath none braver — and his youth's folly, Misled (to Orleans) — (by whom pour Highness may conjecture !) Is long since cancell'd by a loyal manhood. I, Sire, have pardon'd him. Louis. And we do give Your pardon to the winds. Sir, do your duty ! Rich. What, Sire ? — you do not know — Oh, pardon me — You know not yet, that this brave, honest heart Stood between mine and murder ! Sire, for my sake— For your old servant's sake — undo this wrong. See, let me rend the sentence. Louis (taking the paper from him). At your peril ! ACT IV.] EICHELIEU. 47 This is too much. Again, sir. do your duty ! (Maupeat is about to expostulate.) Rich. Speak not, but go — I would not see young valor So humbled as gray service. De Mau. Fare you well! (kisses Richelieu's hand) Save Julie, and console her. Fran, (aside to Mauprat, as he is being led off). The dispatch ! Your fate, foes, life, hang upon a word — to whom ? De Mau. To Huguet. [Exeunt De Mauprat and Guard, l. u. e. Bar. (aside to Francois). Has he the packet 1 Fran. He will not reveal — {aside) Work, brain — beat heart! — " There' a no such word as fail !" [Exit Francois, r. u. e. {All the Courtiers have closed round the King, shutting Riciiklieu out.) Rich, (fiercely). Room, my Lords, room! The Minister of France Can need no intercession with the King, {they fall back.) Louis. What means this false report of death, Lord Cardinal 1 Rich Are you then anger' d, Sire, that I live still 1 Louis. No ; but such artifice Rich. Not mine — look elsewhere ! Louis — my castle swarm'd with the assassins. Bar. (advancing, r.). We have punished them already. Huguet now In the Bastile. Oh, my Lord, we were prompt To avenge you — we were Rich. We 1 Ha ! ha ! you hear, My liege ! What page, man, in the last Court grammar Made you a plural 1 Count, you have seized the hireling ; — Sire, shall I name the master ? Louis. Tush ! my Lord, The old contrivance — ever does your wit Invent assassins — that ambition may Slay rivals — (Baradas crosses behind to the King.) Rich. Rivals, Sire, in what 1 Service to France? I have none I Lives the man Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems Rival to Armand Richelieu ? Louis. What, so haughty ! Remember he who made can unmake. Rich. N^ver ! Never ! Your anger can recall your trust, Annul my office, spoil me of my lands, Rifle my coffers — but my name — my deeds, Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre ! Pass sentence on me, if you will ; from Kings, Lo ! I appeal to Time ' Louis (turns haughtily to the Cardinal). Enough ! Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. To your own palace. For our conference, this Nor place — nor season. Rich. Good, my liege, for Justice All place a temple, and all season, summer ! Do you deny me justice ? Saints of Heaven ! He turns from me ! Do you deny me justice ? For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt Empire, The humblest craftsman — the obscurest vassal — The very leper shrinking from the sun, Tho' loathed by charity, might ask for justice ! 48 SiciiEHEtr. [act iv. Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien Of some I see around you — Counts and Princes — Kneeling for favors ; — hut, erect and loud, As men who ask man's rights I my liege, my Louis, Do you refuse me justice — audience even — In the pale presence of the baffled Murttierl Lonis. Lord Cardinal — one by one you have sevcr'd from me The bonds of human love. All near and dear Mark'd out for vengeance — exile or the scaffold. You find me now amidst my trustiest friends, My closest kindred — you would tour them from me; They murder yon, forsooth, since me they love! Eno' of plots and treasons for one reign ! Home! — Home! and sleep away these phantoms! (the Kino and all the Court cross to r.) Rich. Sire! I — patience, Heaven ! — sweet Heaven ! — from the foot Of that Great Throne, these hands have raised aloft On an Olympus, looking down on mortals And worshipp'd by their awe — before the font Of that hisjh throne— spurn you the gray-hair'd man, Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety 1 Louis. No ; when we see your Eminence in truth At the/ooiof the throne— we'll listen to you. [Exit Louis, r , followed by Cocrtikrs Orleans. Saved ! Bar. For this, deep thanks to Julie and to Mauprat ! [Exeunt Baradas and Orleans, r. Rich. Joseph — did you hear the King 1 Jos. (doivn l ). I did— there's danger ! Had you been less haughty Rich. And suflfer'd slaves to chuckle— " See the Cardinal — How meek his Eminence is to-day" — I tell thee This is a strife in which the loftiest look Is the most subtle armor Jos. But Rice. No time For ifs and buts. I will accuse these traitors ! Francois shall witness that De Baradas Gave him the secret missive for De Bouillon, And told him life and death were in the scroll. I will — I will ! (crosses, r ) Jos. Tush ! Franqois is your creature ; So they will say. and laush at you ! — your witness Mtist be that same dispatch ! Rich. Away to Marion ! Jos. I have been there — she is seized — removed — imprison'd — By the Count's orders. Rich. Goddess of bright dreams, My country — shalt thou lose me now, when most Thou need'st thy worshipper ? My native land ! Let me but ward this dagger from thy heart, And die — but on thy bosom ! Enter Julie, l. s. e. Julie. Heaven ! I thank thee ! It cannot be, or this all-powerful man ACT IV.] BIOHELIEU. 49 Would not stand idly thus. Rich. What dost thou here 1 Home ! Julie. Home ! — is Adricn there ?— you're dumb— yet strive For wqj'ds; I see them trembling on your lip, But choked by pity. It teas truth — all truth ! Seized — the Bastile— and in your presence, too ! Cardinal, where is Adrien 1 Think — he saved Your life — your name is infamy, if wrong Should come to his ! Rich, Be sooth'd, child. Julie. Child no more. I love, and I am woman ! Where is Adrien 1 Let thine eyes meet mine ; Answer me but one word — I am a wife — I ask thee for my home — my fate — my all ! Where is my husband ? Rich. You are Richelieu's ward, A soldier's bride; they who insist on truth Must out-face fear — you ask me for your husband 1 There — where the clouds of heaven look darkest, o'er The domes of the Bastile ! Julie. 0, mercy, mercy ! Save him, restore him, father ! Art thou not The Cardinal King ? — the Lord of life and deatli — Art thou not Richelieu V Rich. Yesterday I was ! To-day, a very weak old man ! To-morrow, I know not what, (crosses, l.) Julie (to Joseph). Do you conceive his meaning ! Alas I cannot. Jos. (r). The Kins is chafed Against bis servant. Lady, while we speak, The lackey of the ante-room is not More powerless than the Minister of France. Enter Clermont, r. Cler. Madame de Mauprat ! Pardon, your Eminence — even now I seek This lady's home — commanded by the King To pray her presence. Julie {dinging to Richelieu). Think of my dead father — And take me to your breast. Rich. To those who sent you — And say you found the virtue they would slay Here — couch'd upon this heart, as at an altar. And shelter'd by the wings of sacred Rome ! Begone ! Cler. My Lord, I am your friend and servant — Misjudge me not ; but never yet was Louis So roused against you — shall I take this answer 1 It were to be your foe. Rich. All time my foe. If T, a Priest, could cast this holy sorrow Forth from her last asylum ! 50 RICHELIEU. [aCI IV. CiiER. He is lost! [Exit Clermont, u. Rich. God help thee, child! — she hears not ! Look upon her! The storm, that rends the oak, uproots the flower. II i i ither loved me so ! and in thai When friends are brothers ! She has been to me S 'other, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears 1 Oh! shame, shame! — dotage! {places her in the anna of Joseph.) Jos. Tears are not for eyes • That rather need the lightning ! which can pierce Through barred gates and triple walls, to smite Crime, where it cowers in secret! The dispatch! Set every spy Id work — the morrow's sun Must see that written treason in your hands, Or rise upon your ruin. Rich. Ay — and close Upon my corpse— I am nut made to live — Friends, glory, France, all reft from me — my star Like some vain holiday mimicry of lire, Piercing imperial heaven, and falling down Rayless and blacken'd, to the dust — a thing For all men's feet to trample I Yea ' — to-morrow Triumph or death ! Look up; child ! Lead us. Joseph ! .Jv they are going up c, enter Babadas and I'i: Bebixohen, r. Bar. (r. a). My Lord, the King cannoi believe your Eminence Sj far forgets your duty, and his greatne As to resist his mandate ' Pray you, madam, Obey the King — no cause for fear ! Julie (l. ). My lather ! R i i. (c). She shall not stir ! Bar. You are not of her kindred — An orphan Rich. And her country is her mother. Bar. The country is the King. Rich. Ay, is it so 1 Then wakes the power which in the a_e of iron Bursts forth to curb the great, and raise- the low. Mark, where she stands — around her form I draw The awful circle of our solemn church ! Set but a foot within that holy ground And on thy head — yea, though it wore a crown — I launch the curse of Rome ! Bar. I dare not brave you. I do but speak the orders of my King, The church, your rank, power, very word, my Lord, Suffice you for resistance — blame yourself, If it should cost your power. Rich. That my stake. Ah ! Dark gamester ! what is thine ? Look to it well — Lose not a trick — By this same hour to-morrow Thou shalt have France, or I thy head ! Bar. (aside to De Beringhex). He cannot Hive the dispatch \ Jos. (aside, on Richelieu's r.). Patience is your game; Reflect, you have not the dispatch ! Rich. 0, monk ! ACT V.] SICHELIEU. 51 Leave patience to the saints — for I am human ! (to Jdlie) Did not thy father die for France, poor orphan 1 And now they say thou hast no father ! Fie ! Art thou not pure and goodl — if so, thou art A part of that — the Beautiful, the sacred — Which, in all climes, men that have hearts adore, By the great title of their mother country ! Bah. (aside). He wanders ! Uicu. So cling close unto my breast, Here where thou droop'st lies France ! I am very feeble — Of little use it seems to either now. Well, well — we will go home, (they go up the stage.) Bar. In sooth, my Lord, You do need rest — the burthens of the State O'ertask your health ! Rich, (to Joseph, pauses). I'm patient, see ! Bar. (aside). His mind And life are breaking fast. Rich, (overhearing him). Irreverent ribald ! If so, beware the falling ruins ! Hark ! I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, When this snow melteth there shall come a flood ! Avaunt ! my name is Richelieu — 1 defy thee! Walk blindfold on ; behind thee stalks the headsman. Ha ! ha ! — how pale he is. Heaven save my country ! (falls back in Joseph s arms. Julie kneels at his side, Baradas and De Ber- inghen stand R. CURTAIN. ACT V. fourth day. SCENE I. — The Bastile — a corridor ; in the background the door of one of the condemned cells. Enter Joseph, and Jailer, with a lamp, r. d. f. Jailfr. Stay, father, I will call the governor. [Exit Jaileu, l. Jos. He has it then — this Huguet — so we learn From Francois — Humph ! Now if I can but gain One moment's access, all is ours ! The Cardinal Trembles 'tween life and death. His life is power ; Smite one — slay both ! No iEsculapian drugs, By learned quacks baptized with Latin jargon, E'er bore the healing which that scrap of parchment Will medicine to ambition's flagging heart. France shall be saved — and Joseph be a bishop. Enter Governor and Jailer, l. Gov. Father, you wish to see the prisoners Huguet And the young knight De Mauprat 1 Jos. So my office, And the Lord Cardinal's order, warrant, son ! 52 RICHELIEU. [ACT "V Gov. Father, it cannot be ; Count Baradas Has summon'd to the Louvre Sieur de Mauprat. Jos. Well, well ! But Huguet ( lo\ . Dies ;it noon. Jos. At noon! No moment to delay the pious rites, Which fit the soul lor death. Quick— quick — admit me ! Gov. You cannot enter, monk 1 Such are my orders. Jos. Orders, vain man — the Cardinal still is Minister. His orders crush all others. Gov. [lifting his hid). Save his King's ! See, monk, the royal sign and seal atti.vd To the Count's mandate. None may have access To either prisoner, Huguet or De Mauprat, Not even a priest, without the special passport Of Count de Baradas. I'll hear no more ! Jos (aside) Just Heaven! and are we baffled thus? Despair ! {aloud) Think on the Cardinal's power— bewaie his anger. Gov. I'll not be menaced, priest. Besides the Cardinal Is dying and disgraced — all Paris knows it. You hear the prisoner's knell ! {bell tolls, l. ) Jos. 1 do beseech jou — The Cardinal is not dying. Bui one moment, And hist — five thousand pistoles ! (Jo v. How ! a briue — And to a soldier, gray with years of honor ! Begone 1 Jos. Ten thousand — twenty ! Gov. Jailer— put This monk without our walls. Jos. By those gray hairs — Yea, by this badge, {touching the cross of St. Louis, icom by the Governor) The guerdon of your valor — By all your toils — hard days and sleepless nights — Borne in your country's service, noble son- — Let me but see the prisoner ! Gov. No ! Jos. He hath Secrets of State — papers in which Gov. (interrupting). I know — Such was his message to Count Baradas ; Doubtless the Count will see to it. Jos. (aside). The Count! Then not a hope ! (aloud) You shall Gov. Betray my trust ! Never — not one word more. You heard me, jailer ! Jos. What can be done 1 Distraclion ! Dare you refuse the Church her holiest rights 1 Gov. I refuse nothing — I obey my orders. Jos. And sell your country to her parricides ! Oh, tremble yet — Richelieu Gov. Begone ! Jos Undone! [Exit Joseph, r. d. f. Gov. A most audacious shaveling — interdicted Above all others by the Count. Jailer. Oh, by the way, that troublesome young fellow, ACT V.J KICm.LIEU. 53 Who calls himself the prisoner Huguet's son, • Is here again — implores, weeps, raves to see him. Gov. Poor youth, I pity him ! Enter De Beringiien, followed by Francois, e. d. f. De Ber. (to Francois!. Now, prithee, friend, Let go my cloak ; you really discompose me. Frax. (r.). No ! they will drive me hence ; my father ! Oh ! Let me but see him once — but once — one moment ! De Ber. {to Governor). Your servant, Mesgire; this poor rascal, Huguet, lias sent to see the Count de Baradas, Upon State secrets, that afflict his conscience. The Count ctfn't leave his Majesty an instant ; I am his proxy. Gov. (l. c). The Count's word is law. (beckons Jailer to un- lock L. D. F. Again, young scapegrace ! How com'st thou admitted 1 De Ber. (r. a). Oh ! a most filial fellow ; Huguet's son ! I found him whimpering in the court below. I pray his leave to say good bye to father, Before that very long, unpleasant journey, Father's about to take. Gov. The Count's Commands are strict. No one must visit Huguet Without bis passport. De Ber. Here it is ! [shows a paper) Pshaw ! nonsense ! I'll be your surety. See, my Cerberus, He is no Hercules ! Gov. Well, you're responsible. Stand tbere, friend. If, when you come out, my Lord, The youth slip in, 'tis your fault. De Ber. So it is ! [Exit, l. d. ¥.,folloived by the Jailer. Gov. Be calm, my lad. Don"t fret so. I had once A father, too ! I'll not be hard upon you, And so stand close. I must not see you enter. You understand ? Re-enter Jailer, l. d. f. Come, we'll go our rounds ; I'll give you just one quarter of an hour ; And if my lord leave first, make my excuse. Yet slay, the gallery's long and dark ; no sentry Until we reach the gate below. He'd best Wait till I come. If he should lose the way, We may not be in call. Fran. I'll tell him, sir. [Exeunt Governor and Jailer, r. He's a wise son that knoweth his own father. I've forged a precious one ! So far, so well ! Alas ! what then ] this wretch hath sent to Baradas — Will sell the scroll to ransom life. Oh, Heaven ! On what a thread hangs hope! (listens at door, l.) Loud words — a cry ! (looks through the key- hole.) 54 BIC1IELIKU. [ ACT T. They struggle ! Ho — the packet! (tries to open the door.) Lost ! He has it — The Courtier has it — Huguet, spite his chains, Grapples! — well done ! Now — now! (draws back.) The gallery's long — And this is left us ! [drawing dagger, and standing behind r. door.) Re-enter De Beringiikn. with the packet. Victory ! (passes off at r. d. f.) Yield it, robber! (following him) Yield it — or die! (ashort struggle, without.) De Ber. (without.) Oil! ho !— there*! SCENE II. — The King's closet at the Louvre. A suite of rooms in perspec- tive at one side. Enter Baradas and Orleans, r. c. Bar. (r.). All smiles! the Cardinal's swoon of yesterday Heralds his death to-day. And yet, should this accuva'd Do Mauprat Have given our packet to another — 'Sdeath ! I dare not think of it ! Orleans (l.). You've sent to search him. Bar. Sent, sir, to search 1 — that hireling hands may find Upon him, naked, with its broken seal, That scroll, whose every word is death ! No — no — These bands alone must clutch that awful secret. I dare not leave the palace, ni<>ht or day, While Richelieu lives — his minions — creatures — spies — Not one must reach the King ! Orleans. What hast thou done? Bar. Summon'd De Mauprat hither. Orleans. Could this Huguet, Who pray'd thy presence with so fierce a fervor, Have thieved the scroll 1 Bar. Huguet was housed with us, The very moment we dismiss'd the courier. It cannot be ! a stale trick for reprieve. But, to make sure, I've sent our trustiest friend To see and sift him. Hist — here comes the King. How fare you, Sire 1 Enter Louis, followed by Pages, and Court, l. c. Louis. In the same mind. I have Decided ! Yes, he would forbid your presence, My brother — yours, my friend — then Julie, too ! Thwarts— braves — defies — {suddenly turning to Baradas We make you Minister. Gaston, for you — the baton of our armies, You love me, do you not! Orleans. Oh, love you, Sire? (aside) Never so much as now. (retires, l. u. e., Courtiers sur- round him.) Bar. May I deserve Your trust (aside) until you sign your abdication. ACT T.] EICHELIEU. 5£ (aloud) My liege, but one way left to daunt de Mauprat, And Julie to divorce. We must prepare The death-warrant; what, tho' sign'd and seal'd 1 we can Withhold the enforcement. Louis. Ah, you may prepare it ; We need not urge it to effect. Bar. Exactly ! No haste, my liege, (looking at his watch, and, aside) He may live one hour longer. Enter Page, l. u. e. Page. The Lady Julie, Sire, implores an audience. Louis. Aha! repentant of her folly ! Well, Admit her. [Exit, Page, l. u. e. Bar. Sire, she comes for Mauprat 1 s pardon, And the conditions Louis. You are Minister— We leave to you our answer. As Julie enters l. u. e., the Captain of the Archers enters r. door, and whispers Baradas. Capt. The Chevalier De Mauprat waits below. Bar. {aside). Now the dispatch. [Exit with Officer, n. Julie (l. c). My liege, you sent for me. I come where grief Should come when guiltless, while the name of King Is holy on the earth ! Here, at the feet Of Power, I kneel for mercy. Louis (r. c). Mercy, Julie, 1 s an affair of state. The Cardinal should In this be your interpreter. Julie. Alas ! I know not if that mighty spirit now Stoop to the things of earth. Nay, while I speak, Perchance he hears the orphan by the throne Where Kings themselves need pardon ! 0, my liege, Be father to the fatherless ; in you Dwells my last hope. Enter Baradas, r. Bar (aside). He has not the dispatch ; Smil'd, while we search'd, and braves me — Oh ! Louis {gently). What would'st thou 1 Julie. A single life. You reign o'er millions. What Is one man's life to you'? — and yet to me 'Tis France — 'tis earth — 'tis everything — a life — A human life — my husband's ! Louis (aside). Speak to her, I am not marble Give her hope — or — (retires; speaks to Orleans and Courtiers.) Bar. Madam, Vex not your King, whose heart, too soft for justice, Leaves to his ministers the solemn charge. 5G EICHKLIKU. L ACT v - Julie. You wire his friend. Bar. I was before I loved tliee. Julie. Loved me ! Bar. Hush, Julie ; could'st Ihou misinterpret My acts, thoughts, motives, nay, my very words, Here — in this palace 1 Julie. Now I know I'm mad ; Even that memory fail'd me. Bar. I am young, Well-horn and brave as Mauprat — tor thy sake I peril what he has not — fortune — power ; All to great souls most dazzling. I alone Can save thee from yon tyrant, now my puppet! Be mine ; annul the mockery of this marriage, And on the day I clasp thee to my breast De Mauprat shall be free. Julie. Thou durst not speak Thus in his ear. (pointing to Louis) Thou double traitor! tremble. I will unmask thee. Bar. I will say thou ravest. And see this scroll ! its letters shall be blood ! Go to the King, count with me word for word ; And while you pray the life — I write the sentence! Julie. Stay, stay ! (rushing t> the King) You have a kind and princely heart, Tho' sometimes it is silent ; you were born To power — it has not flush'd you into madness, As it doth meaner men. Banish my husband — Dissolve our marriage — cast me to that grave Of human ties, where hearts congeal to ice, In the dark convent's everlasting winter — (Surely eno' for justice — hate — revenge) — But spare this life, thus lonely, scathed, and bloomless ; And when thou stand'st for judgment on thine own, The deed shall shine beside thee as an angel. Louis {much affected). Go, go, to Baradas ; annul thy marriage, And Julie (anxiously, and ivatching his countenance). Be his bride ! Louis. Yes! Julie. Oh thou sea of shame, And not one star ! The King goes up the stage, and passes through the suite of rooms at the side, in evident emotion. Exeunt King and Court, r. u. e. Bar. Well, thy election, Julie ; This hand — his grave ? Julie. His grave ! and I Bar. Can save him. Swear to be mine. Julie. That were a bitterer death ! A vaunt, thou tempter. I did ask his life A boon, and not the barter of dishonor. The heart can break, and scorn you ; wreck your malice ; Adrien and I will leave you this sad earth, And pass together hand in hand to Heaven ! Bar. You have decided. ACT V ] RICHELIEU. 57 Beckons in Captain, who enters r.; Baradas whispers to him and he (joes off quickly, e. Listen to me, Lady ; I am no base intriguer. I adored thee From the first glance of those inspiring eyes ; With thee entwined ambition, hope, the future. I will not lose thee! I can place thee nearest — Ay, to the throne — nay, on the throne, perchance ; My star is at its zenith. Look upon me ; Hast thou decided 1 Julie. No, no ; you can see How weak lam; be human, sir — one moment. Baradas stamps his foot, De Mauprat is brought on guarded, r. ; Guards range r. Bar. Behold thy husband ! Shall he pass to death, And know thou could'st have saved him 1 Julie, (l.). Adrien, speak, But say you wish to live ! if not, your wife, Your slave — do with me as you will, (crosses to him.) De Mau. (r. '. Oh, think, my Julie, Life, at the best, is short — but love immortal ! Bar. (talcing Julie's hand). Ah, loveliest Julie. Go, that touch has made me iron. We have decided {embracing Mauprat) — death ! Bar. (to De Mauprat). Now say to whom Thou gavest the packet, and thou yet shall live. De Mau. I'll tell thee nothing. Bar Hark — the rack ! De Mau. . Thy penance For ever, wretch ! What rack is like the conscience 1 Bar. (giving the tvrit to the Officer, who is r. c). Hence, to the heads- man! (the doors are thrown open, c. The Huissier announces " His Eminence the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu.") Enter Richelieu, r. c, attended by Pages, etc., pale, feeble, and leaning on Joseph, followed by three Secretaries or State, attended by Sub- Secretaries with papers, etc. Julie (rushing to Richelieu). You live — you live — and Adrien shall not die ! Rich. Not if an old man's prayers, himself near death, Can aught avail thee, daughter ! Count, you now Hold what I held onfearth — one boon, my Lord, This soldier's life. Bar. The stake — my head — you said it. I cannot lose one trick. Remove your prisoner. Julie (r. of Richelieu). No ! no ! Enter Louis from r. u. e., attended by Court. Rich, {to Officer^. Stay, sir, one moment. My good liege, Your worn out servant, willing, Sire, to spare you Some pain of conscience, would forestall your wishes. 5S EICHEL1FU. [AC! V. I do resign my office. Omnes. You ! Julie. All's over ! Rich. My end draws near. These sad ones, Sire, I love them. I do not ask liis life ; but suffer justice To halt, until 1 can dismiss bis soul, Charged with an old man's blessing. Louis (k. c. . Surely ! (De Mai'pkat goes behind, to the l. of Richelieu., Bak. (on the a. of the King). Sire Louis. Silence— small favor to a dying servant. Rich. You would consign your armies to the baton 0: your most honored brother. Sire, so be it ! Your Minister, the Count de Baradas ; A most sagacious choice ! Your Secretaries Of State attend me, Sire, to render up The ledgers of a realm. I do beseech you, Suffer these noble gentlemen to learn The nature of the glorious task that waits them, Here, in thy presence. Louis. You say well, my Lord. Approach, sirs, (to Secretaries, as he seats himself. Pages place a chair for the King, it. C. ) Rich. I — I — faint — air — air! (Joseph and a Gentle- man ass'st him to a chair, placed by Pages, l. c.) I thank you — Draw near, my children. Bar. (aside). He's too weak to question, Nay, scarce to speak ; all's safe. Julie kneeling beside the Cardinal ; the Officer of the Guard behind Mauprat. Joseph near Richelieu, watching the King. Louis seated R. c. Baradas at the back of the King's chair, anxious and disturbed. Orleans at a greater distance, careless and triumphant. As each Secretary advances in his turn, he takes the portfolios from the Sub-Secretaries. First Sec. [kneeling). The affairs of Portugal. Most urgent, Sire. ( gives a paper) One short month since the Duke Braganza was a rebel. Louis. And is still ! First Sec. No, Sire, he has succeeded! He is now Crown'd King of Portugal — craves instant succor Against the arms of Spain. Louis. We will not grant it Against his lawful King. Eh, Count ? Bar. No, Sire. First Sec. But Spain's your deadliest foe ; whatever Can weaken Spain must strengthen France. The Cardinal Would send the succors — (solemnly) — balance, Sire, of Europe ! (gives another paper .) Louis. The Cardinal — balance ! We'll consider — Eh, Count ? Bar. Yes, Sire — fall back. First Sec. (rises). But Bar. Oh! fallback sir. (Secketaky botes and retires.) Jos. Humph ! ACT V.] RICHELIEU. 59 Second Sec. (advances and kneels). The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent, (gives paper) Charles The First has lost a battle that decides One half his realm — craves moneys, Sire, and succor, Louis. He shall have both. Eh, Baradas 1 Bar. Yes, Sire. (aside) Oh that dispatch ! — my veins are fire ! Rich. ( feebly, but ivith great distinctness). My liege — Forgive me — Charles's cause is lost. A man, Named Cromwell, risen — a great man — your succor Would fail — your loans he squander'd ! Pause — reflect Louis. Reflect. Eh, Baradas 1 Bar. Reflect, Sire. Jos. Humph ! Louia (aside). I half repent! No successor to Richelieu! Round me thrones totter — dynasties dissolve — The soil he guards alone escapes the earthquake ! Jos. (to Richelieu). Our star not yet eclipsed — you mark the King ? Oh ! had we the dispatch ! Enter a Page, l. u. e. Rich. Ah !— Joseph !— Child- Would I could help thee ! [Page whispers Joseph, who exits hastily, l. u. e. Bar. (to Secretary). Sir, fall back! Second Sec. (rises). But Bar. Pshaw, sir ! [Second Secretary bows and retires, l. c. Third Sec. (mysteriously, kneels). The secret correspondence, Sire, most urgent — Accounts of spies — deserters — heretics — Assassins — poisoners — schemes against yourself! (gives paper. Secretary rises.) Louis. Myself! — most urgent! (the King seizes thai paper and drops the others.) Re-enter Joseph ivith Francois, whose pourpoint is streaked with blood. FRANgois passes behind the Cardinal's Attendants, and, sheltered by them from the sight of Baradas, etc., falls at Richelieu's feet. Fran. (l. of Richelieu). My Lord! I have not fail'd. (gives the packet.) Rich. Hush ! (looking at the contents.) Third Sec. (to King). Sire, the Spaniards Have reinforced their army on the frontiers. The Due de Bouillon Rich. Hold ! In this department — A paper — here, Sire — read yourself — then take The Count's advice ou't. (the King takes the paper and goes l.) Enter De Beringhen, l. u. e., hastily, and draivs aside Baradas, and whispers. Bar. (bursting from De Beringhen). What! and reft it from thee ! Ha ! — hold ! (going towards the King). Jos. (l. a). Fall back, son, it is your turn now ! 60 EICHELIEC. [ACT V. Louis (reading, pacing the stage from l. to it.). To Bouillon — ami signd'd Orleans — Baradas, too ! — league with our foes of Spain — Lead our Italian armies — wliat ! to Paris ! Capture the King — my health requires repose — Make me subscribe my proper abdication — Orleans, my brother, Recent ! Saints of Heaven ! These are the men I loved ! (Richelieu falls back.) Jos. See to the Cardinal ! Bau. (r a). He's dying— and I shall yet dupe the King! Locis (rushing to Richelieu). Richelieu! — Lord Cardinal ! — 'tis /resign. Reign thou ! Jos. [behind the chair). Alas! too late — he faints' Louis (a. of Richelieu). Reign, Richelieu ! Rich (feebly). With absolute power • Louis. Most absolute ! Oh ! live ! If not for me — for France ! Rich France ! Louis Oh ! this treason ! The army — Orleans — Bouillon — Heavens ! — the Spaniard ! Where will they be next week 1 Rich, (starting up, seizing the paper and throwing it on the ground). There, — at my feet! (to First and Second Secretary) Ere the clock strike — the Envoys have their answer ! [Exit Secretaries, l. d. e. (to Thif.d Secretary, with a ring) This to De Chavigny — he knows the rest — No need of parchment here — he must not halt For sleep — for food — In my name — Mine ! — he will Arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head Of his army ! (Exit Third Secretary, l. u. e.) Ho, there, Count tie Baradas, Thou hast lost the stake! Away with him ! (as the Guards open, Baradas passes through the line. Exeunt,!.) Ha! ha! — (snatching De Maupkat's death-warrant from the Officer as he passes) See here, De Mauprat's death-writ, Julie ! Parchment for battledores ! Embrace your husband — At last the old man blesses you ! Julie (l. c). 0, joy ! You are saved ; you live — I hold you in these arms. De Mau. Never to part Julie. No — never, Adi ien — never ! Louis, (peevishly, r. c). One moment makes a startling cure, Lord Car- dinal. Rich. Ay, Sire, for in one moment there did pass Into this wither'd frame the might of France ! — My own dear France — I have thee yet — I have saved thee ! I clasp thee still ! — it was thy voice that call'd me Back from the tomb ! — What mistress like our country 1 Louis. For Mauprat's pardon — well ! But Julie — Richelieu, Leave me one thing to love ! Rich. A subject's luxury ! Yet if you must love something, Sire — love me! Louis (smiling in spite of himself ). Fair proxy for a young fresh Demoi- selle ! Rich. Your heart speaks for my clients. Kneel, my children ; Thank your King. (Richelieu passes up the stage; the Court bow.) ACT V.J BlCHKLrEU. 61 Julie. Ah, tears like these, my liege, Are dews that mount to Heaven. Louis. Rise — rise — be happy, (retires.) (Richelieu comes forward and beckons to De Beringhen.) De Bek. ( fall 'eringly ; r.). My Lord — you are — most happily — recover'd Rich. But you are pale, dear Beringhen ; — this air Suits not your delicate frame — I long have thought so ; — Sleep not another night in Paris. Go — Or else your precious life may be in danger. Leave France, dear Beringhen ! De Ber. St. Denis travelled without his head. I'm luckier than St. Denis. [Exit De Beringhen, r. Rich, (to Orleans). For you repentance — absence — and confession ! [Exit Orleans, r. (to Francois, who is r. c.) Never say fail again. Brave boy ! (to Joseph, crosses to c.) He'll be — A Bishop first. Jos. (r. c). Ah, Cardinal Rich. (c). Ah, Joseph ! (the YLwhg advances, r. c. ) (to Louis, as De Mauprat and Julie converse apart) See, my liege — see thro' plots and counterplots — Thro' gain and loss — thro' glory and disgace — Along the plains, where passionate Discord rears Eternal Babel — still the holy stream Of human happiness glides on ! Louis. And must we Thank for that also — our Prime Minister 1 Rich. No — let us own it : — there is One above Sways the harmonious mystery of the world, Even better than prime ministers ; — Thus ends it. Position of the Characters at the fall of the Curtain. Pages. Courtiers. Courtiers. Louis, Richelieu. c. Francois. Julie. r. c. l. c. Joseph. Mauprat. The Characters are supposed to face the Audience. CURTAIN. THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. COPXBIGHT, 1875, BX ItOBEltT M. Dfi WlTT. TIIK K1UUIFCL UK I It. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Lycrum Thtatre. London, Oct. 3, 1868. Vyvyan (Captain of the Privateer Dreadnauglil) Mr. Ban dm as s. Sir Grey de Malpas (the Poor Cousin) Mr. Hermans Vezin. Wrecklyffe(* Gentleman turned Pirate) Mr. Lawlor. Lord Beaufort (Lady Montreville's Son) Mr. Neville. Sir Godfrey Seymour (a Magistrate) Falkner. > ,. . _. ,, ( Mr. Lin Rayne. > (\ yvyan s Lieutenants) < ., .__ .__ Harding, j C "*r. Anderson. Marsden (Seneschal of the Castle) • Mr. David Evans. Alton (a Village Priest) Mr. Bash. Potter. Bub-Officer of the Dreadnaught Mr. Everard. Servant to Lady Montreville Mr. W. Templeton. Lady Montreville (a Widowed Countess) Mrs. Hermann Vezin. Eveline ( her Ward ) Miss Mii.ly Palmer. Halberdiers, Retainers, Sailors, Peasantry, Servants, etc., etc. TO ALL FRIENDS AND KINSFOLK THE AMERICAN COMMONWEALTH, THIS DRAMA IS DEDICATED, WITH AFFECTION AND RESPECT. London. Sept. 28, 1868. PREFACE. Many years ago this Drama was re-written from an earlier play by the same Au- thor, called " The Sea Captain." the first idea of which was suggested by a striking situation in a novel by M. A. Dumas -Le Capitaine Paul). The Author withdrew " The Sea Captain " from the stage (and even from printed publication), while it had not lost such degree of favor as the admirable acting of Mr. Macready chiefly con- tributed to obtain for it • intending to replace it before the public with some import- ant changes in the histrionic cast, and certain slight alterations in the conduct of the story. But the alterations once commenced, became so extensive in character, diction and even in revision of plot, that a new play gradually rose from the foun- dations of the old one. The task thus undertaken, being delayed by other demands upon time and thought, was scarcely completed when Mr. Macready's retirement from his profession suspended the Author's literary connection with the stage, and " The Rightful Heir " has remained in tranquil seclusion till this year, when he submits his appeal to the proper tribunal ; sure, that if he fail of a favorable hear- ing, it will not be the fault of the friends who take part in his cause and act in his behalf. '1HK 1UG1I FCL HE1K. SCENERY. ACT I.— Scene I.— Castle Ruins in 4th grooves. Wall. Door. Wall. Set stones. Wall. Arch door. On flat, view of the sea ; l. side, cliffs and castle ; set wall, ruined, 10 to 12 feet high, along 3d grooves and l. 1 and 2 e.; open archway l. 1 e. set ; low set wall e. 2 e.; a heap of set stones up c, to aid effect of picture ; a set tree up u. c. ; sky sinks and borders ; curtain for covering the change of scene : dark velvet, heavily fringed and bordered deeply with fold, in two parts, to draw up and to each side ; with coat of arms, royal English white lion and red griffin guarding shield and crown, in tapes- try ; over date in old English, 1588. Scene II.— Castle gardens in 5th grooves. C : Sea. : D Lime- : * light. : [] f f — 1 B F [] . Archway. Platform. : Steps. Seat. F [] On flat foreground, dark blue sea, blending with the canvas down in u. e. ; uppej two-thirds light ; bright sky ; l. side, d., set wall of castle in u. e. ; 3 e., set wal with open archway ; 1st and 2d grooves wings, walls ; all this side is dark ; r. side. 4 THE R1GUTFUL HEIR. c , set wall continuing the castle, supposed to be off u. 1 and 2 e.'s ; the set end w..u a cliff, running down into the sea ; B. 2 and 3 e., set platform, reached by broad steps, six feet above stage level ; A, a box, with large box-wood tree, trimmed into fantas- tic shape in the fashion of the Elizabethan age; n. 2 groove wing, tree, run in to mask end of platform ; 11., a fountain, playing in an oval basin ; in front of the bisin a half-ring of cauvas down, covered with flowers and moss; E E, two can- vases covered with flowers, for flower-beds ; a garden scat to b. 1 ; F, F, F, F, stat- ues, three-quarter life size ; the upper pair kneeling satyrs, the front pair nymphs erect; limelight l. U. e., lighting up R. side. ACT IT. — Scene I.— Interior, in 2d grooves; Gothic architecture; it. on f., wide hearth, with earl's coronet and shield on the keystone ; k. on f., portrait of man, half length, to resemble the personator of Vyvtan in face ; the painting on flat mikes the stage seem to be part of the chamber thereon represented ; open n. and L. ; table and three chairs on at C, table has blue cloth, corded with gold and trimmed with red fringe ; chairs have an old English M, surmounted by a coronet, in dead gold, on the back, inside. Scene II. — Court-yard and Castle. Exterior, in 5th grooves. Trap open. Open. [] c IVickinT. Light • | Ooen [ .... [ J C archway. Steps. Open. [1 c Cresset or beacon-basket on wing. Sky on flat ; the lower two-thirds is hidden by the set walls n. in 4th grooves, and in 3d grooves, c. to l. ; l. side, 3 e., backing of wall, to large open archway in 3 g. set 1 and 2 e. closed in; small open archway in l. 1 e. set; dark, except l. 3 e., where there is a light ; r. side 3 and 4 e., castle wall, ending in cliff over the sea ; open trap, for the ditch, between platform (ten feet above stage level) and set wall ; steps to platform 2 e. ; wings are walls ; sky sinks and borders ; C, C, C, C, cannon on block carriages, the front pair pointed at each other, the upper pair pointed front ; tree up R. ef o., reaches to top of walls. ACT III.— Scene I.— Rocky landscape, sea and cliff, in 2d grooves ; flat to roll up ; view of sea, l. side ; cliff running out over the water; all of 2 e. to sink and carry down the set rocks built up on it ; along 1st grooves, low flat of rocks, to sink ; sky sink and borders ; trees and rocks for wings ; sunset effect by limelight, L. tj. e. Scene II.— Same as Act II., Scene II. ; sunset effect l. o. e. ; stage dark. ACT IV. Scene I. Same as Act II., Scene I. ; table and chairs not on ; a chair and a settee L. THE KIGHTFUL HEIR. Scene II. — Cliff and Sea, in 4th grooves 20 ft. Platform. : - A Moon. : Steps. : Open. '• Profile Rocks. Platform, 3 feet above | 13 | stage level. > ' 15 it. Platform. : — • Steps. ■ Profile Rocks. • Limelight for moonlight, l. v. e. ; sea on flat, with full moon at c. ; the wing run in on 4th groove, e., is a profile edge of cliff; by having a piece stand out half way up its height, the piece will seem to be the base of another cliff, still "further out in the sea ; l. side, rocky cliff, covering in all ; 1 e., set steps, leading from off down upon stage ; sky wings, except l. 1 g. , which is rocks ; n. side, a series of rocks, forming steps and platforms ; all practicable ; A, a tree on the platform edge, joined to a piece facing the platform, so that, on Vyvyan seizing it, his weight brings it down, forces it to draw the piece joining it to L., and deposits him in open trap C, in 3 e. ; B, a trap-net used in this scene. A First movement ; tree describes segment of circle. k A Tree. Cliff- piece. Stage line ight brings the cliff-piece forward. Second movement ; tree and cliff- piece drop Yyvyan into trap. 6 THE ltlGHTFCL HEIR, ACT V.— Scene I.— Same as Act IV., Scene II. ; Trap B (see Act IV., Scene II. i is open ; dark. Scene II. — Interior, in 1st grooves; deep sink, rafters and ceiling j window n. c. in F. open ; two chairs. Scene III. -Hall in 5th grooves; closed in b. and l. ; upper e. gallery to beai weight of spectators; large archway in its front, 4th grooves ; l. 2 e., dais, with can- opy over; royal arms behind chair; table L. O. ; arch it. 3 e. ; bannerets hung from wall; stained glass window in flat. COSTUMES. Vyvyan.— Act I. : Black hard felt hat, four or five inches high in the crown, with a white ostrich feather; steel gorget, polished; three yards long scarlet sash, six inches wide, fringed with gold at the end, from left shoulder to right hip, tied behind, with loose ends ; buff leather jerkin, sleeveless • belt around waist ; rapier, black and steel sheath, cut steel hilt ; doublet and loose breeches of slate blue, striped up and down with black cord on the doublet, striped in chevron on the breeches ; buif boots pulled up to above the knee ; small satchel of buff leather, hung on right side, with dagger under it ; short curl block wig, rather short ; moustache and imperial ; make-up after pictures of Essex, Ral- eigh or Drake. Act II. — Scene I. : Gorget and jerkin removed. Scene 11. . Red Bcarf ; sword like the other, in similar sheath, for throwing aside. Act 111. and IV.: Same .is last ; hat, no sword. Act V. : Half armor: helmet, with vizor to close ; white plume ; blue sash ; steel-plated gauntlets, right hand one to be thrown on stage ; high russet boots ; thigh armor in plates. Grey df. Mali'ar.— Face made up for rale, cold, passionless expression, prematurely aged ; moustache and imperial. Act 1. : Brown doublet, striped with yellow cord; slate-colored tights ; shoes. Scene II. : Same; fur cloak, with hanging sleeves ; flat cap ; cane. Act V. : Same as first dress ; cane. "Wrecklyffe.— Black wig, long loose hair; moustache, with flowing ends; chin beard ; scar across right eyebrow and cheekbone ; steel cap ; long, narrow mantle of dark glazed sea-green water-proof, worn carelessly over one arm and about the body ; short cutlass ; brace of brass-mounted pistols stuck in belt; arms bare to the elbow; seaman's sleeveless jacket worn loosely over a breast-plate, tarnished. Godfrey Seymour.— Old man; white wig and moustache- black velvet skull-cap, red velvet doublet, with hanging sleeves, trimmed with gold lace; slate-col- ored tights ; velvet shoes. Beaufort. — Act I. : Handsome suit, blue and gold ; sword : blue velvet round cap, with white plume russet boots drawn up to above the knee. Act V. : Red and black doublet ; red tights ; black velvet shoes ; long dark mantle, with sleeves, trimmed deeply with ermine ; face pale. Falkner.— Plumed hat ; back and breast-plates sword ; high boots. Harding. — Like Falkner, with variation in color of his doublet sleeves, of feather of his hat, etc. Alton. — Long white beard ; white wig; dark cowl and long gown. Act V. : Skull- cap ; staff. Marsden.— Long white hair, white moustache and chin heard; handsome laced suit; doublet; trunk hose; velvet shoes, slashed and puffed ; long white staff, with gilt coronet on top. IHE HIGUiTUL HEIK. 7 Servant. -Gray livery, turned up with orange. Sailors. - In Guernsey shirts, with belts supporting cutlasses and pistols ; high boots ; jackets gathered in at the waist by sashes ; tights and shoes. Servants. — Like first servant. Clerk to Seymour.— In black. Halberdiers. — Steel caps; back, breast and thigh plates; boots; halberds for them. Villagers.— As usual. Lady Montreville. — Fair-haired; make up after portraias of Queen Elizabeth; if the ruff does not look becomingly, have a deep ruined lace collar open in front ; jewelled stomacher ; bodice cut square at the bosom ; with lace let in ; velvet body and skirt, with deep border jewelled cross to long necklace ; ear- rings ; wedding-ring; velvet band, with jewelled beading, on the head, just behind the front puffs of the hair. Act V.: Dark velvet skirt and body ; the bodice faced in the front with white lace, crossed with violet braid. Eveline. — Hair puffed in front, and in loose ringlets in a bunch at back of head ; string of pearls three times around the neck, ending in locket and cross ; blue body and skirt ; skirt opens in front and shows white under-skirt ; trimmed with gold cord. Act V. : White satin dress ; face pale, with the white on the cheeks to come off and show color under, at a touch of hand dampened by a breath. Village Girls.— As usual. Waiting Women for Lady Montreville.— As usuaL PROPERTIES, {See Scenery). Act I.— Scene T. : Spade ; coin for Vyvyan ; weapons for sailors. Scene II. : A hand- ful of flowers for Eveline to enter with, ready r. 1 e. ; cane for Malpas. Act II. — Scene I. : Table and three chairs ; on table a two-handled silver goblet ; cups and plates of fruit for three. Scene II. : Four cannon in block carriages, not to be touched ; a cresset or beacon basket, at end of a rod, hung out from i:. 1 E. ; sheet of printed paper, foolscap size. Act HI.— Scent I.: Staff; roll of MSS. tied up, for Alton. Scene II. : Sword hilt in sheath, for Vyvvan to throw aside. Act ir.-Scene I. : MSS. roll, as in Act III., Scene I., for Vyv- yan to enter with, ready r. Scene II. : Profile miniature ship, to work from r. to L. u. e. line. Act Y.— Scene I. : Canes, as before, for Malpas and Alton. Scene II. • Salver ; gold cup, jewelled ; letter, with sealed silk band, to be opened on stage ; handful of flowers for Eveline to enter with, ready R. Scene III. Table ; chairs ; quflls, inkdishes, paper, books, on table ; halberds lor Halberdiers. TIME OF PLAYING— TWO HOURS AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. NOTE. The few " cuts " are marked by enclosure between quotations, as ' THE KIGU1FLI. IIEIIi. STORY OF THE PLAY. Several years previous to the opening of the drama, very few of England's proud and wealthy nobles could boast of a fairer name, broader lands, or a more ancient pedigree than the Earl of Dartford. Left early iu years a widower, his entire affec- tion was centered upon an only daughter, the Lady Geraldine, for whom he destiued a brilliant and powerful alliance. It so happened, however, that attached to the Earl's household was a young page, who, though his origin was somewhat lowly as compared with that of those by whom he was surrounded, could fairly boast of a comely form combined with intellect, gentleness, and courage. Despite the differ- ence in rank, constant association brought about a unity of sentiment between the handsome page and the fair Geraldine, which speedily ripened into love, and was hallowed by a secret marriage. Their meetings remained undetected for some time, until oue unfortunate evening, when a kinsman of the Earl's tracked the bridegroom to the lady's chamber. As ill news speeds apace so sped the kinsman to his noble relative with the fearful intelligence of his child's presumed dishonor. With all the direful anger of a ruined house maddening his actions, the Earl, seizing his sword, hastened to his daughter's apartment, and forcing the door which was barred against his entrance, was prepared to inflict instant death upon the cause of his disgrace. But no culprit was there to meet his angry gaze ; no one upon whom he could wreak his deadly vengeance— the only occupant of the chamber was his daughter, and she lay senseless upon the floor. But the wide opened casement told a tale that could deceive no one. Whoever had been there previously had by that means made his escape, hoping to save the lady's honor; only, however, to meet a certain death. The chamber was situated in the highest part of the castle, overlooking a long and steep descent of rocks, down which it was highly dangerous to pass with the best possible assistance— without it, fatal. The morning told the tale ; the page's body was discovered at the foot of the rocks, fearfully mangled ; a hasty midnight burial soon concealed his shattered remains and hid the bride's secret from the outer world. After a few days of continued insensibility, a child was born, which was speedily removed to the shelter of Alton, the Earl's priest, and who being entirely depen- dent upon his noble patron, was easily bound to inviolable Becrecy. The only wonder is that the infant was not destroyed, and thus all traces of the presumed crime obliterated. Fate, however, willed otherwise. The Lady Geraldine recovered! and often visited the priest's abode to bless and caress her offspring, and she placed in the holy man's keeping every proof that might at some future period be requisite to substantiate the infant's claims. But as the progress of time wears off the keen edge of sorrow, so fared it with the Lady Geraldine. A lordly suitor came — ambition was grafted in her mind and soon brought forth its fruits ; and forced by the surrounding circumstances of a haughty and threaten- ing father, and the entreaties of a wily kinsman, she stifled a mother's feelings, for- sook her child, and became the wife of the Earl of Montreville. New ties produced new affections, and the second nuptials brought another son, for whom the mother's love became warmer and more enduring than for her first-born. The poor priest, alarmed at the change, and fearing the direst results if his secret was divulged, ob- served the strictest silence, and continued for years to rear as one of his own, the infant entrusted to his care, until at a youthful age, the boy was enticed on board a vessel which happened to touch upon the coast, and borne away. This, however, was not the work of chance, but was really accomplished by the designs of a poor cousin of the family, Sir Grey de Malpas, who hoped some future day to obtain pos- session of the title and estates. At his instigation, Wrecklyffe, who had lost the fortune and position of a gentleman, and mixed himself up in piratical pursuits, sought the hamlet where the priest resided, and by his rough yet gallant bearing) so well adapted for winning the admiration of a youth of spirit, and his stories of THE HIGHIFCL HEIK. 9 danger, enterprise, and wealth soon secured a strong hold over his intended prize, and induced him to board his vessel and join in a cruise to the regions of affluence he had depicted. Days afterwards, when far at sea, the true character of the ship was revealed, The pirate's flag was hoisted, and the captain in brief words told his captive that there was a choice of lite or death before him— to join the pirate crew, or seek a last resting place in the ocean ; confessing that he had been well paid to get him out of the way. But the noble spirit of the youth was aroused by the desperate nature of the position in which he found himself; it was but the work of an instant to snatch a cutlass from the hands of a sailor near him, and in a moment more the pirate lay upon the deck weltering in blood. The scowling crew at first cried out for vengeance, but Wrecklyffe, who was second in command, was deeply imbued with a supersti- tious belief that it was unlucky to shed blood on board a ship unless in actual fight- ing, and he therefore managed to restrain their fierce anger, and directed them to seize the youth and bind him to a single plank. So soon as this was done he was cist over the vessel's side, and thus left to the m rcy of the elements and Qod ; all Bail was set, and very soon the little craft, which had promised to be the means of conveying him to a haven of happiness and prosperity, was lost to sight. For two days and nights was he tossed upon the waves until lie lost all consciousness ; when he came to, he found that he had been discovered and rescued by one of the Queen's ships on her voyage to meet the Spanish cruisers. With health restored, he was installed amongst the crew, and by his gallant and courageous bearing soon won a foremost position. During the vessel's cruise, he was instrumental in saving the lives of the Lady Eveline and her father from a band of Algerine pirates, and during the time she remained on the ship a mutual attach- ment sprung up between them, promising, if fate so willed it, a happy union at some future day. Vows of constancy and truth were exchanged when she was trans- ferred to a homeward-bound ship. Time worked many changes ; the Earl of Dart- ford died; the Earl of Montreville also passed away, and the son of the second marriage succeeded to the estates, and became Lord Beaufort of Montreville. Eve- line's father also was summoned to join his ancestors, and being related to the Mon- treville family, she became the ward and companion of the widowed Countess, in which position she inspired the young lord with strong feelings of love, though her heart remained true to, and silently yearned after, her sailor lover, who, under the name of Vy vyan, had risen to the rank of captain in command of the Dreadnaught, one of the smartest of the royal privateers. Such then is the previous history of the characters who figure at the opening of the play. Sir Grey de Malpas has been installed as steward ; still, the chains of poverty gall him, but he consoles himself by believing that he shall one day realize the ambition of his life, the title and revenues of the earldom, to which he is next in the succession upon the failure of the direct issue. But sore troubles are in store for him. Whilst working in the castle grounds his reveries are wofully disturbed by the sudden appearance of Wrecklyffe, whom he at first fails to recognize, and from whom he learns, to his dismay, not only that the boy still lives, but that Wrecklyffe, whilst secreting himself amongst the rocks that morning, has actually seen him approaching the castle. Whilst speaking he perceives Vyvyan approach- ing, and, pointing him out to Sir Grey, they withdraw to talk over the past, and lay down plans for the^uture. Vyvyan is waiting orders to sail forth to meet the armament which Spain is fitting out for an intended attack upon England, and he takes the opportunity of his ship being at anchor in an adjacent bay to visit Montreville, and also to seek an inter- view with the priest, and endeavor to obtain from him the secret of his birth and such proofs as he may possess. With this object he bids Falkner, one of his lieu- tenants, seek out Alton, and inform him of his safe arrival and of his intended visit. These instructions are overheard by Sir Grey, who determines to prevent the inter- view. It so nappens that this day is the anniversary of the first son's birth, and a dream 10 THE BXGimUL HEIR. ■which the Countess has had culls the circumstance most forcibly to her mind ; but the thought thut the ocean, in proving to be, as she imagines, his winding sheet, has wiped out shame and slander, tends to soothe and soften thoughts that might otherwise be distressing. She derives further support and joy, however, from the pride with which she sees Lord Beaufort increasing day by day in comely looks and gallant, princely bearing, entertaining for him an almost idolatrous love ; but she is vexed at his avowal of his love for Eveline, having determined he should make a far more exalted m itch. Whilst pondering over this obstacle to the fulfillment of her designs, Sir Grey seeks an interview, and in bitter and vindictive language con- veys to her the startling intelligence that her first-born lives. With gloating re- venge he points out to her how he has suffered the stings of poverty, and pictures how, if the elder son should prove lii-s rights, Lord Beaufort must descend from his haughty state, and feel some of the pangs and sufferings he has himself endured. In agonizing terror she offers to give him gold in abundance to aid her in prevent- ing this ; but scornfully rejecting it, he tells her how that when young he pined for gold, and sought her father's help to wed the ward he loved ; but the only answer he received was, " Toor cousins should not marry." And again, in later years, when seeking to join the company of knights and gen- tlemen, her father's reply was, " He had need of his poor cousin At home, to be his huntsman and his falconer." Even now, he reminds her, he is compelled to sit at the second table, bear the jokes of the menials, and submit tamely to the whims and caprices of the young lord. He consents, however, ultimately, to assist, promising he will only ask for payment when the work is done. The meeting which now takes place between Vyvyan and Eveline is, as may well be imagined, a joyous one, but slightly clouded by the picture Eveline draws of the haughty bearing of the Countess. Vyvyan, however, bids her cheer up, and de- scribes to her in glowing terms a fanciful home of happiness and bliss that will re- pay all their cares and suffering, leading her away to dream of every joy, and forget for the time that they are orphans. Returning from their consultation, Sir Grey arranges to send a trusty messenger to the priest, and force from him whatever proofs he may possess, and he abjures Lady Montreville to nerve herself to meet Vyvyan as a perfect stranger, detaining him as long as possible. Sir Grey has scarcely departed, when Eveline and Vyvyan return, and it requires very powerful efforts on the part of the Countess to meet his gaze, and request him to accept the hospitality of the castle. During the interview which follows Vyvyan, at the earnest suggestion of Eveline, who thinks that the mournful tale of his e irly years will secure him a friend, de- scribes the story of his past life, in language and incident well chosen and vigorously rendered. His ardor and enthusiasm enchant Eveline, and Lady Montreville, per- ceiving how devotedly they are attached to each other, determines to turn it to ad- vantage by bringing about a speedy secret marriage, and an immediate departure, so as to prevent, or, at least, to delay considerably, Vyvyan's interview with the priest. But ere she can thoroughly mould her plans into shape, the pent-up feel- ings of a mother struggle to be free, and she hurriedly leaves to shed in solitude bit. ter, scalding tears for the child she dare not acknowledge. In the course of wandering through the grounds Vyvyan and Eveline are observed by Lord Beaufort, to whom no introduction has yet been made. In the angry flash- ing of his haughty eye at perceiving a stranger walking with his cousin, Sir Grey quickly detects the rousing of jealousy, and determines to take advantage of it, and therefore tells him that during his absence the Countess had received the stranger as a guest and as a wooer of his cousin, and pretending not to know his name, sug- gests that Beaufort should inquire of Eveline herself. Angrily striding up to Vyv- yan, he accosts him in haughty, overbearing terms, and when met with a reply as to the gallant calling he follows, he commands him not to presume too much, but to THI'I KIGUXFt'L HEIR. 11 seek the steward of the castle, and by him be lodged with those who are more his equals. The insult thus offered calls forth a bitter reply from Vyvyan, and an en- counter is only prevented by the arrival of Lady liontreville, and even then, when leaving-, Beaufort whisper* threateningly to Vyvyan, "Again, and soon, sir 1 rl Drawing her guest into conversation, Lady Montreville gleans from him that the object of his visit was twofold— to claim Eveline as his bride, and to discover, if Heaven so willed, a parent's heart ; but if his country should be in danger, that call must be the first obeyed. In the promotion of these intentions the Countess warmly acquiesces. She points out the fiery temper of Beaufort, and urges Vyvyan to consent to a marriage that very night, promising a handsome dowry, and then to sail away at once, thus putting miles of distance between himself and bride and his jealous rival; and she promises further to use all her power and wealth in tracing out his parents. It is a heavy trial, and she almost betrays herself, when Vyvyan passionately implores her to find him a mother with eyes like her own, and when she kisses him, he pictures to her an angel's hand lifting up the veil of time, and revealing to him a face like hers bending over his infant couch. Falkner now returns with tidings from the English Admiral Drake that the Spanish fleet, known as the Armada, has set sail ; and he also brings word that the priest has ample proofs of Vyvyan's birth, and will meet him with them at St. Kal- ian's Cliff — a lone spot in the neighborhood where they are not likely to be observed. Vyvyan determines to see Eveline and then the priest, whilst his trusty lieutenant, Falkner, calls the crews together, and gets the vessels ready for sea. By the activity of Falkner in reaching Alton before Sir Grey's agent, his designs to obtain the papers are thwarted, and consequently, at the meeting which takes place between Alton and Vyvyan, the latter learns the particulars of his birth, and, with a throbbing heart, hastens to seek Lady Montreville, and claim a mother's fond embrace. In the meantime she makes Sir Grey acquainted with her plans, and she also seeks Lord Beaufort to sound him as to his feelings should reverses overtake him. Proudly he upbraids her for such fancies, and in glowing terms portrays the high position that he holds — the ancient name he bears in trust for sons unborn — and so warmly and boldly is the picture drawn, that remorse is stilled within the mother's bosom, and she swears to know no other son, closing the gates of feeling against the stranger guest. Vyvyan makes Eveline acquainted with his sudden departure, and whilst doing so is interrupted by the arrival of Lord Beaufort and Sir Grey de Malpas. The latter artfully draws Eveline aside, whilst Beaufort, writhing with anger and jealousy at the new proofs of love he has witnessed, demands of Vyvyan to name the spot and hour where they shall meet again. To this Vyvyan readily consents, and names . St. Kinian's Cliff, determining to go there unarmed, and, after revealing the newly discovered secret, to embrace, and not to fight, a brother. Sir Grey now sees that he has succeeded in raising a storm, but the ultimate re- sult, skillful schemer as he is, is not quite clear to him ; help, however, is at hand. Wrecklyffe has overheard the appointment, and he tells Sir Grey that he will be there to have revenge upon Vyvyan, who had caused him to be branded with the name of felon. Sir Grey at once perceives a way to work out his schemes ; he be- seeches Wreeklvff; to hold back and let Vyvyan first meet Beaufort, to watch them, and if Beaufort should slay Vyvyan, who will be unarmed, not to prevent it nor assist. Wrecklyffe suggests that this is murder, which is precisely what Sir Grey intends it should be, for then the murderer would die beneath the headsman's axe, and, the two lives thus removed, Sir Grey d ■ Malpas would be Lord of Montreville, in which case he promises to make Wrecklyffe the richest squire in all his train. The scheme savors well of success to the outcast pirate, but he suggests that Beau- fort may fail or relent. For this emergency Sir Grey is prepared. Should such an event occur, Wrecklyffe could then gratify his revenge. Vyvyan's corpse would be found upon the spot where Beaufort, armed, had arranged to meet him, and suspi- cion would fall, with almost unerring certainty, upon Beaufort, when the secret of 12 THK lUGUlFUL HKIE. his presumed victim's birth and rivalry in love were known. 'Wrecklyffe is satis- fied, and departs with the firm determination that by the hand of himself or Beau- fort, that nigbt, the unsuspecting Vyvyan dies. Then, in a well-conceived and fiuely-expressed soliloquy, Sir Grey pictures his rise from poverty to wealth, and as he retires, chuckling with delight over his cunning scheme, he observes : " U ick, conscience, back ! Go scowl on boors and beggars ! Koom, smiling flatterers, room for the new Karl !" Before setting out, Vyvyan determines to seek an audience of Lady Montreville, and acquaint her with the information he has gained. She nerves herself to the trial ; vehemently accuses him of being an imposter, and calls upon her attendants to cast him forth, but when they come to do her bidding she falters ; the image of her husband stands before her, and she cannot give the order. Left alone, she describes in an agony of grief the sufferings she has endured ; her belief in his death, and the growth of her stroug affection for Beaufort. She pictures the desolation that will now be wrought by this sudden rising from the grave, as it were, and proffering him wealth in abundance, implores his acceptance, and, blessed with Eveline's love, his renunciation of his mother forever. All this he rejects ; he wi I never renounce her ; but for the papers, the proofs of birth, he will treat them as worthless; no lands and noble title did lie seek, but the richest prize of all, a parent's love ; and he asks only that he may be able to say in years to come that lie received a mother's blessing. The victory is gained, and with a passionate embrace, the weeping Countess invokes the blessing of Heaven upon her first-born. Then shines forth the true nobility of Vy vyan's nature ; he stifles his emotion ; a single kiss declares the seal of secrecy upon his lips ; that henceforth he will be dead to her, and whilst he receives a fer- vent prayer for his welfare, he bids her farewell tor ever. Beaufort is punctual in his appointment at St. Kinian's Cliff, though he is very nearly forestalled by Wrecklyffe, who conceals himself amongst the rocks as he hears the shouts of the approaching Vyvyan. The pent-up anger of Beaufort bursts forth upon his arrival, and as lie seizes Vyvyan he reminds him that though he may pre- sume upon his youthful years, his playmates have been veterans, his toy a sword, and his first lesson valor. But Vyvyan is immovable to anger, and bids him strike and then tell his mother that he pardoned and pitied him. At this moment the signal guns are heard calling all hands to the ships, and pushing him aside, Vyvyan endeavors to force his path towards the buy. Exasperated almost to madness, Beaufort with drawn sword im- pedes the attempt, presses him to the edge of the lofty overhanging cliff, and calls upon him to stand or die. It is in vain that Vyvyan urges him to forbear ; every vein runs fire ; he is lost to all reason ; lie presses still closer, Vyvyan catches hold of the bough of a tree for support, and as Beaufort raises his sword to strike, the treacherous branch gives way beneath Vyvyan's weight, and he is cast over the edge of the precipice. "With a cry of horror at the sudden disappearance of his rival, Beaufort falls senseless ; at the same moment, Wrecklyffe hurries from his hiding- place and hastens down the sides of the cliff, determined to complete the deed should any signs of life remain. Twelve months elapse, and no tidings have been heard of either Vyvyan or the pirate ; people imagine they must have gone off in the ships ; but to Sir Grey their disappearance is easily accounted for. Wrecklyffe must have seen, and perhaps as- sisted, in the murder of Vyvyan, and then been well paid to depart. Of Beaufort's guilt, Sir Grey has no doubt ; he has been seized with a fixed melancholy, lonely, wandering habits, and a mind always ill at ease; and the grief and seclusion of Lady Montreville confhm Sir Grey's views. But how to prove the fact? "Where is the evidence to back up the charge ? " How cry, * Lo ! murder !' yet produce no corpse ?" Whilst thus debating, the priest arrives with the intelligence that Falkner has just returned from his voyage, and that Vyvyan did not accompany him. The old man's heart is bowed with grief as he hints that murder must have been at work ; an idea which Sir Grey repudiates with affected indignation, but suggests that a THE RIGHTFUL HF.Ili. 13 careful search should be made and the assistance obtained of Sir Godfrey Seymour, a great magistrate of the neighborhood Falkner now arriving with some of his crew, learns the full particulars of the rivalry and challenge of Beaufort. Th» hour, night — the meeting place, the very spot on which he is now standing ; crags, caves and chasms below, with gushing streams, and ledges jutting out, forming slender and half-hidden resting places ; might not in one of these the bones of Vy_ vyan rest ? With the brave and faithful sailor thought is action, and ere the others can surmise his intention, he disappears from amongst them and attempts the per- ilous descent of the cliff, watched, with straining eyeballs, by Sir Grey, who prays that some evidence may be found to support the charge he intends to make. The grief and ngony Lady Montreville endures from the change which has taken place in Beaufort is almost unbearable ; her heart bleeds as she sees him throw aside all the pursuits in which he once so spiritedly indulged ; moving about with hollow tread and listless gaze, as though life had ceased to possess for him a single charm. His reason seems impaired, for when she tells him that the Queen has been pleased to appoint him one of her chosen knights, and that the noblest gentleman in the land, the Earl of Essex, is on his way from his victory over the Spaniards, and intends to pay him a visit," it fails to arouse his wonted ardor and enthusiasm, and he coldly and sternly refuses to welcome Essex or to put on his knightly trap- pings. The spirit of madness seems to be working through the household, for poor Eveline appears stricken down, wandering about the place, singing dolefully : — " Blossoms, I weave ye To drift on the sea, Say when you find him "Who sang ' Woe is me 1' " as she casts the garlands upon the waters without, and watchps the waves toss them to and fro, with a sort of childish glee. All this, not particularly pleasant domestic felicity, is interrupted by the arrival of Sir Godfrey Seymour, who, having been made acquainted with the particulars of Vyvyan's disappearance, has summoned a court of justice to be held in the great hall of the castle, and commanded the attendance of the persons interested. It is pretty certain to all that in this inquiry the truth will be elicited, for Sir Godfrey Seymour bears a high repute as being not only a stern but a very shrewd judge ; and when the announcement is made that the plume and various gems and ornaments known to belong to Vyvyan have been found amongst a heap of human bones discovered at the bottom of the precipice, Sir Grey's heart beats with delight at the prospective certainty of success. Falkner is a stern accuser, but at the same time is much moved by the deep re- morse which Beaufort exhibits, and he makes an earnest appeal to him to confess that, in jealous phrenzy, swords were drawn, and they fought as man to man. But the young lord is silent, and his mother urges him to remember his birth and rank, to remain firm and unmoved, and to confess nothing. The trial proceeds, and it seems clear that jealousy was the cause of the quarrel, upon which grounds the judge appears inclined to deal leniently with the accused, when Sir Grey, seizing the opportunity, forces the priest to the witness stand, and the seciet of Vyvyan's birth is revealed. The shock is too great for Beaufort, and, rejecting the accusation of assassin, proclaims himself a fratricide. But Eveline, firm in faith of the won- drous power which has hitherto preserved Vyvyan, still believes that he is living, whilst the distracted mother endeavors to shield her son by suggesting that the law wiil spare him if it can be shown that she had urged him to do the deed. It is in vain ; Sir Godfrey is inflexible, and, sternly chiding, commits her and her son to the custody of the future earl, Sir Grey de Malpas, to be hold as prisoners for further trial. The triumph of the arch-schemer, however, is very brief, for, before lie can re- move the accused, the attendants announce the approach of a knight belonging to the cavalcade of the Earl of Essex, then in the vicinity of the castle, and who, hear- ing of the proceedings going on, is hastening to the hall, and follows the messenger 14 THE KIGiIlU'L HKIIl. upon the scene. Fully equipped, and with his vizor down, none can recognize the new-comer, wlin, quickly understanding the position of affairs, throws down his gauntlet as a challenge to any one who da.es assert that Beaufort and his mother are guilty. He then relates the circumstances of the meeting; the breaking of the bough ; that Vyvyan's fall wan broken by a bush-grown ledge, upon which he lay lor some minutes iusensible, and that, when recovering, he saw upon a crag near him the pirate, Wrecklytfe, with uplifted steel, prepared to slay him ; but ut that instant the crag gave way, and the would-be assassin fell to the bottom of the abyss. As soon an lie could gather strength, Vyvyan crawled down the rocks, and reached the dying man in sufficient time to receive his confession of the murderous trap that had been prepared. Staggered and bewildered at this recital, Sir Grey sum- mons up all his courage, and, drawing his sword, asserts vehemently that Vyvyan died by Beaufort's hand, as he is prepared to prove ; but the knight calmly bids him write the lie upon the face of truth, and, raising his vizor, gives convincing proof of the innocence of the accused by discovering himself us the missing Vyvyan. .Sinking senseless and defeated into the arms of the attendants, Sir Grey de Malpas finishes his career of villainy. Vyvyan briefly explains by what means, finding his vessel gone, he had joined the army of the K til of Essex, and won his way to fame, receiving the honor of knighthood. Then, embracing with joy his faithful Eveline and stricken mother, he proclaims his will that his erring brother shall share with him his fortune and his parent's love, although to the title and estates of Montre- ville he alone becomes Tub Rightful Heib, REMARKS. Is the year 1839, the noble author of the " Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu " made another venture to obtain the favorable applause of the play-going public, by pro- ducing a piece called " The Sea Captain," the idea of which had been suggested by a Ktrikiug situation in one of Alexandre Dumas' novels, " Le Capitaine Paul." In October of that year, the eminent tragedian, Mr. Macready, resigned his labors at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Loudon, and transferred himself to the Thea- tre Royal, Haymarket, then under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster, with whom he entered into an engagement at a salary of JC100 per week (about 500 dol" 1 us). The manuscript of the new play was put into his hands for perusal, and meeting with his approval, was at once placed in rehearsal, in which the author assisted. It received, as a matter of course, from an actor and manager of such skill and liberality as Mr. Webster, every attention possible as regards mounting it on the stage, and it was also well cast. Mr. Macready enacted the part of Norman, a character corresponding to that of Vyvyan in the present play, and all the other parts were filled by the best available talent of the profession. It was produced October 30, 1839, and was received with a very fair degree of en- thusiasm, Mr. Macready being honored with a call upon the occasion. The general opinion, however, was not a very flattering one, and what favor it did receive was solely due to his admirable acting. It was played occasionally afterwards, but only for a brief period. Following up the plan pursued with the author's pluvious plays, this one, as with them, was very soon transplanted in the United Stales. In the middle of the fol- lowing year, the Sea Captain's flag was hoisted on this side of the Atlantic— the play being produced at the Park Theatre, New York, on June 9, 1840, upon the oc- casion of Mr. Hield's benefit, when the leading characters were cast as follows: — Norman Mr. Cues wick. Lord Ashdale Mr. Wheatlby. Sir Maurice Beevor Mr. Hi eld. Giles Gaussen Mr. Rich is gs. Lady Arundel Miss Cushman. Violet Miss S. Cushman. THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 15 The above characters corresponding to those in the present play of Vyvyan, Lord Beaufort, Sir Grey de Malpas, Lady Montreville, and Eveline. But although, as will be seen, il had the support of some of the best actors and actresses upon the stage, it was very tamely received, and, I believe, never acted again. As before observed, the excellent acting of Mr. Maeready secured for the piece a short run, but it was one of such doubtful favor th:it the author withdrew the play from the stage ( md even from printed publication) intending to replace it before the public with some important changes in the histrionic cast, and certain slight alterations in the conduct of the story. But these alterations became so extensive in character, diction, and even in revision of plot, that a new play gradually rose from the foundations of the old one. The task thus undertaken was much delayed by other demands upon the author's time and thought, and it was scarcely com- pleted when Mr. Macready's retirement from his profession suspended the author's literary connection with the stage, and "The Rightful Heir" remained in tranquil seclusion until 18G8. In that year, the Lyceum Theatre, London, was under the management of Mr. E. T. Smith, who had for many years previously been one of the most enterprising and successful managers of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Having secured the services of Mr. B:indmann, an actor of much excellence and fame, he opened negotiations with the author, which resulted in the production of the piece on October 3, 1868. Mr. Bandmann was supported by an excellent and good working company, including such well-known talented professionals as Mr. Herman Vezin and his wife (formerly a Mrs. Charles Young), Mr. Neville (a most panistaking actor, who has since risen to a very high position in London), and Mr. Basil Potter, than whom there were few mure clever in high class melo-drama, es- pecially of the French school. Iu dio. not, however, have a very successful career, and I am not aware of its being played afterwards in England or on the American stage. One little gratifying incident in connection with the piece may be mentioned. Upon its publication, the author took the opportunity to make known his good feel- ing towards the people of the United States, for the appreciation bestowed upon his previous productions, and at the commencement of a brief preface he staled that he dedicated the drama " To all friends and kinsfolk in the American Commonwealth, with affection and respect." As the noble author observes that he set to work to alter " The Sea Captain " and produced a new play, so might similar labor be bestowed upon the present piece with a corresponding result, and by judicious alterations and curtailment of some of the lengthy speeches and scenes, with the introduction of a few new incidents, there is little doubt an excellent drama could be produced. The chief fault is that the plot is too commonplace and of the old melo-dramatic type to create any very great interest ; nevertheless it affords scope for some very beautiful speeches and, sentiments; as an artist would say, the diessy and showy verbiage is hung upon a very weak lay figure. The character of Vyvyan is very ably drawn, but his departure after escaping so miraculously from death, and being cognizant of his rank and birth, as also passion- ately in love, is a very great stretch of dramatic license. The character of Lady Montreville is also very admirably drawn. Believing her first-born dead, and gradually drifting out of a state of remorse and suffering into one of peace and affection for her second son, it is naturally a fearful struggle for her to proclaim to the world her shame, and to disinherit and cast forth as a beggar, as it were, the young noble who had been reared with all the care and luxury that pride and wealth could bestow. The scene in which this struggle is portrayed (Act 1, Scene 1) is a very lengthy one, but for vigorous and appropriate language of the finest class, will bear comparison with any of the author's compositions. So also will the first scene in the Second Act, where Vyvyan, at the request of Eveline, relates to Lady Montreville the story of his early life. The great fault, however, of both these scenes is the extreme length ; the idea and language are unexceptionable. 16 THE RIGH1FUL HEIK. Another fine piece of descriptive poetry is the imaginary home for a sailor's bride i which Vyvyan pictures to Eveline in the Second Scene of the First Act, and which very much resembles, in idea and execution, a similar but grander flight of poetic fancy in the Second Act of the Lady 01 Lyons. The character of Alton, the priest, is very neatly drawn, and his story of Vyvy- an's birth (Act III, Scene 1), couched in easy and appropriate language. Sir Grey de Malpas, the leading villain of the drama, is skillfully depicted ; his sarcastic remarks upon the poverty he endures aud the insults to which he is sub- jected, are pointedly given, and his interview with Lady Montreville and the solilo- quy upon his anticipated succession to rank and wealth are finely described. Lord Beaufort, proud and impetuous, is also well done, as is the blunt but faith- ful friend of Vyvyan, Falkner. Eveline is tame ; she is made, for what reason one fails to see, a sort of melo-dramatic Ophelia, with nothing of much importance to do or say. Altogether, however, the play reads well, and though there is the drawback of a rather weak, improbable, and commonplace plot, there is much beauty of languago and many telling points. J. m. k. BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, ETC. The events of the Flay take place at, and in the vicinity of, the Castle of Montre- ville, on the coast of England, in the years 1J83-9, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. ACT I. Sck.ne I.— RUINS NEAR THE CASTLE OF MONTREVILLE. The Poor Cousin — A Strange Wreck from the Sea — Arrival of Captain Vyvyan on a Love Cruise — The Secret of Birth — The Hour to Solve the Mystery. Scene II.— GARDENS OF THE CASTLE. A Mother's Love for the Living and the Dead— Eveline's Sony of Woe— In- sult to the Poor Cousin — Story of the Missing Heir of Montreville — The Proofs Exist — The Compact! — Poetry of Love, and the Bright Home for a Sailor's Bride — Dismay of Lady Montreville. ACT II. Scene I.— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. The Mother and her First-born — Vyvyan's Vivid Story of His Life — The Plot to Destroy him. Scene II.— THE CASTLE YARD. Interview between Beaufort and Vyvyan — The Sailor and the Gallant — The Quarrel — A Rival in Fortune, Name, and Love— A Hasty Marriage and a Quiet Departure — The Snake in the Grass — Proclamation of Queen Elizabeth against the hivasion by Spain — The Call to Arms — Prepara- tions for Battle. THI2 UIGHTFCIi UEIE. .17 ACT III. Scene I.— ROCKY VIEW ON THE COAST. The Priest Reveals to Vyvyan the Secret of his Birth—" The Proofs?"— " Are Here ! " — " Noio then to Find and Claim a Mother ! " Scene II.— EXTERIOR OF THE CASTLE. The Poor Cousin and the Pirate— The Schemers Outwitted— Preparing for Defence — Pride and Poverty — The Challenge! — The Lord and the Sai- lor — " We meet again, no Living Eye to see us ! " — A Pirate's Revenge — Plotting for Murder. ACT IV. Scene I.— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. Postponement of the Wedding — The Lost Son — Heart-rending Appeal to a Mother — A Parent's Agony — Struggle between Pride and Affection — Priceless Value of a Mother's Blessing. Scene II.— CLIFFS AND ROCKY PASS ON THE COAST. The Rival in Love and Fortune — The Pirate on the Watch — The Trap for the Unarmed Sailor — The Quarrel — The Pursuit— Life on the Edge of a Rock — The Fatal Trap — The Broken Bough — Vyvyan is hurled from the Cliff ! Twelve months elapse between these Acts. ACT V. Scene I.— CLIFFS AND ROCKY PASS. The Schemer's Success — The Poor Cousin future Lord of Montr eville — Vyv- yan's Fate — Suspicion Points to Beaufort — The Search for the Corpse — " Bring up but Bones, and Round the Skull Til Wreath my Coronet .'" Scene II.— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. Beaufort's Remorse — A Distressed Mind and a Mother's Grief— Dis- covery of Proofs of Guilt — The Summons to the Hall of Justice. Sckne III.— THE GREAT HALL IN THE CASTLE OF MONTRE- VILLE. The Court Assembled — The Charge of the Poor Cousin — The Accusation — Proofs of Murder — The Secret of Birth Revealed— The Suspected Fratricide — An Unlooked-for and Mysterious Visitor— The Tables Turned—" The Bones are those of Wrecklyffe, the Intended Assas- sin, and thou, Sir Grey, the Schemer .'"—Confusion of Villainy and Triumph of Innocence — Unity of Mother and Brothers— True Love Rewarded — Joyous Recognition of Vyvyan as THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. ACT I. SCENE I. — Castle Ruins in 4th grooves. Music. Discover Sir Gkey, digging, up c, throivs down his spade and comes down c Sir Grey. T cannot dig. Fie, what a helpless thing Is the white hand of well-born poverty ! And yet between this squalor and that pomp {looks up l.) Stand but two lives, a woman's and a boy's — But two frail lives. I may outlive them both. (r. c.) Enter Wrecklyffe, l. 1 e. "Wreck. Ay, that's the house— the same; the master changed, But less than I am. Winter creeps on him, Lightuiug hath stricken me. Good-day. SlR G - Pass on. No spendrift hospitable fool spreads here The board for strangers. Pass. Wreck. Have years so dimmed Eyes once so keen, De Malpas 1 Sir. G. (after a pause). Ha ! Thy hand. What brings thee hither 1 Wreck. « Brings me 1 " say " hurled back." First, yellow pestilence, whose ghastly wings Guard, like the fabled griffin, India's gold ; Unequal battle next ; then wolfish famine ; And lastly storm (rough welcome to England) Swept decks from stern to stem; to shoie was flung A lonely pirate on a battered hulk ! One wreck rots stranded ;— you behold the other. Sir G. Penury hath still it's crust and roof-tree— share them. Time has dealt hardly with us both, since first We two made friendship— thou straight-limbed, well-favored, Stern-hearted, disinherited dare-devil. Wreck. And thou 1 Sir G. (smiles). A stroke paints me. My lord's poor cousin. How strong thou wert, yet I could twist and wind thee Kound these slight hands; that is the use of brains 20 TUB KIGHTFPL HEIR. Wreck. Still jokes and stings] Sir. G. Still a poor cousin's weapons. Wreck. Boast brains, yet starve 1 Sir G. Still a poor cousin s fate, sir. Pardon my brains, since oft' thy boasts they pardoned ; (Sad change since then), when millers aped thy swagger. And village maidens sighed and, wondering, asked Why heaven made men so wicked — and so comely. Wreck, (grteffty). 'Sdeath ! Will thuu cease ? Sir G. That scar upon thy Front bespeaks grim service. Wreck. In thy cause, l)e Malpas ; The boy, whom at thine instance 1 ailured On board my bark, left me this brand of Cain. Sir G. That boy— Wreck. Is now a man, (Sir Grey starts) and on these shores. This morn I peered from yonder rocks that hid me, And saw his face. I whetted then this steel: Need'st thou his death ] In me behold Revenge ! Sir G. He lives — he lives ! There is a third between The beggar and the earldom. Wreck, (looks n ). Steps and voices ; When shall we meet alone 1 Hush ! it is he. Sir G. He with the plume 1 Wreck. Ay. Sir G. Quick ; within. Wreck. And thou f Sir G. I dig the earth ; see the grave-dialer's tool, {goes tip v.. c ) [Exit Wreckylffe, d in 3 c, set fiat. Enter Harding end Sailors, r. 1 e. Hard. Surely r twas here the captain bade us meet him While he went forth for news 1 First Sailor. He comes. Enter Yyyyan. l. 1 e. Hard. Well, captnin. What tidings of the Spaniard's armament ? Vyv. Bad, fo- they say the fighting is put off. And storm in Biscay driven back the Dons. This is but rumor — we will learn the truth. Harding, take horse and bear these lines to Drake — (gives paper If yet our country needs stout hearts to guard her. He'll not forjret the men on board the Di eadnaiight. Thou canst be back ere sunset with his answer, And find me in von towers of Montreville. \Erit Hakdino. r. 1 e. Meanwhile make merrv in the hostel, lads, And drink me out these ducats in this toast :— (gives coin) " No foes be tall eno' to wa"le the moat Which w tell me of thy mother; I never knew one, but I love to mark The quiver of a strong man's bearded lip When his voice iingers on the name of mother. Thy mother bless'd thee p ALK Yes, T (falters and turns aside.) Pshaw ! methought Her joy was weeping on my breast again ! Vyv. I envy thee those tears. F ALK Enough of me ! ' Now for thvself What news 1 Thy fair betrothed— The maid we rescued from the turband corsair With her brave i'ather in die Indian seas- Found and still faithful 1 y y v Faithful I will swear it ; But not yet foui.d. Her sire is dead— the stranger Sits at his hearth— and with her next of kin, Hard by this spot— yea, in yon sunlit towers (points up l.) Mine Eveline dwells. Falk Thy foster father, Alton, Hast thou seen him 1 Vyv Not yet. My Falkner, serve me. His house is scarce a two hours' journey hence, The nearest hamlet will afford a guide ; Seek him and break the news of my return, Say I shall see him ere the day be sped. And, hearken, friend (good men at home are apt To judge us sailors harshly), tell him this— On thenar seas his foster son recalled Prayers taught by age to childhood, and implored Blessing on that gray head. Farewell! ( Falkner exits r. 1 E.) Now. Eveline. [Exit, Vyvyan l. 1 e. Sir G. (comes down l. c ). Thou seekest those towers— go ! 1 will meet thee there. He must not see the priest— the hour is come Absolving Alton's vow to guard the secret ; Since the bov left, two : scutcheons moulder o'er The dust of tombs from which his rights ascend ; He must not see the priest— but how loteslall him !— Within ! For there dwells Want, Wits counsellor, Harboring grim Force, which is Ambition's tool. [Exit Sir Grey, d m 3 G. flat Drop Curtain for change. Music during watt. 22 I'HE RIGHTFUL HEIB. Scene changes to SCENE II. — Castle Gardens m 5th grooves. Enter, r. c e., Lady Montreville, by steps to c. Lady M. Tins were his birthday, were he living still! But the wide ocean is his winding sheet, And his grave — here! (hand to heart) I dreamed of him last night. Peace! with the dead, died shame and glozing slander; In the son left me still, 1 clasp a world Of blossoming hopes which flower beneath my love, And take frank beauty from the llatteiing day. And but my Clarence — in his princely smile How the air brightens. Enter Lord Beaufort and Marsden, l. 8 E. Lord B. (to Marsden). Yes, my gallant roan, And stay — he sure the falcon, which my lord Of Leicester sent me ; we will try its metal, (goes up R. c.) Mars. Your eyes do bless him, madam, so do mine : A gracious spring ; Heaven grant we see its summer ! Forgive, dear lady, your old servant's freedom. Lady M. Who loves him best, with me ranks highest. Marsden. [Exit Marsden. l. 2 e. Clarence, you see me not. Lord B (comes down). Dear mother, welcome, (r of Lady M. Why do I miss my soft-eyed cousin here 1 Lady M. It doth not please me, son, that thou should'st haunt Her steps, and witch with dulcet words her ear. Eveline is fair, but not the mate for Beaufort. Lord B. Mate! Awful word! Can youth not gaze on beauty Save by the torch of Hymen 1 To be gallant, Melt speech in sighs, or murder sense in sonnets ; Veer with each change in Fancy's April skies, And o'er each sun-shower fling its fleeting rainbow. All this Lad? M. (gloomily). Alas, is love. Lord B. No ! Love's light prologue, The sportive opening to the serious drama; The pastime practice of Don Cupid's bow, Against that solemn venture at the butts At which fools make so many random shafts, And rarely hit the white ! Nay, smile, my mother ; How does this plume become me 1 Lady M. Foolish boy ! It sweeps too loosely. Lord B. Now-a-days, man's love Is worn as loosely as I wear this plume — A glancing feather stirred with every wind Into new shadows o'er a giddy brain, Such as your son's. Let the plume play, sweet mother. Lady M. Would I could chide thee t (to r. c.) Lord B. Hark, I hear my steed ACT i. 03 Neighing impatience ; and my falcon frets Noon's lazy air with lively silver bells ; Now, ma !am, look to it — no smile from me When next we meet. — no kiss of filial duty, Unless my fair-faced cousin stand beside you ; Blushing " Peccavi" for all former sins — Shy looks, cold words, this last unnatural absence. And taught how cousins should behave to cousins. [Exit Lord Beaufort, l. 2 B. Lady M. Trifler ! And yet the faults that quicker; fear Make us more fond — we parents love to pardon, {goes up c.) Enter Eveiine, b. 1 E., weaving flowers — not seeing Lady Montreville, Evel. (singv). Bud from the blossom, And leaf from the tree, . Guess why in weaving I sing " Woe is me ! u (goes up c. to wall.) Tis that I weave you To drift on the sea, And say, when ye find him, Who sang i: Woe is me ! " {easts garland over wall, blows a kiss, and comes down c.) Lady M. A quaint but mournful rhyme. Evel. You, madam ! — pardon! Lady M. What tells the song 1 Evel. A simple village tale Of a lost seaman, and a c azed girl, His plighted bride — good Marsden knew her well, And oft-times marked her singing on the beach, Then launch her flowers, and smile upon the sea. 1 know not why — both rhyme and tale do haunt me. Lady M. Sad thoughts haunt not young hearts, thou senseless child. Evel. Is not the child an orphan 1 (both at c, she r. r,f Lady M.) Lady M. In those eyes Is there no moisture softer than the tears Which mourn a father 1 Roves thy glance for Beaufort 1 Vain girl, beware ! The flattery of the great Is but the eagle's swoop upon the dove, And, in descent, destroys Evel Can you sp»ak thus, Yet bid me grieve not that I am an orphan 1 [Exit, thought f ally. L. 2 E. Lady M. (aside). I have high dreams for Beaufort; bright desires ! Son of a race whose lives shine down on Time From lofty tombs, like beacon-towers o'er ocean, He stands amidst the darkness of my thought, Radiant as Hope in some lone captive's cell. Far from the gloom around, mine eyes, inspired, Pierce to the future, when these bones are dust, And see him loftiest of the lordly choirs Whose swords and coronals blaze around the throne, The guardian stars of the imperial isle — Kings shall rpvan> his mother. (seals h rself in gar Jen seat thoughtfully ) 04 THE EIGHTFUL HEIE. Enter, r 1 e., Sir Grey, speaking to Servant. Sir G. What say'st thou 1 Servant {insolently). Sir Grey — ha! ha! — Lord Beaufort craves your pardon, He shot your hound — its bark disturbed the deer. Sir G. The only voice that welcomed me ! A dog — Grudges he that 1 (r. c.) Servant. Oh, sir, 'twas done in kindness To you and him ; the dog was wondrous lean, sir ! Sir G. I thank my lord ! [Exit Servant, r. 1 e., laughing. So my poor Tray is killed ! And yet that dog but barked — can this not bite 1 {approaches Lady Montreville, vindictively in a whisper.) He lives ! Lady M. He ! who 1 Sir G. The heir of Montreville! Another, and an eluer Beaufort, lives ! (Lady M. rises.) {Aside.) So — the fang fixes fast — good — good ! (l. c. front.) Lady M. Thou saidst Ten years ago — " Thy first-born is no more — Lied in far seas." Sir G. So swore my false informant. But now, the deep that took the harmless boy Casts from its breast the bold-eyed daring man. Lady M. Clarence ! My poor proud Clarence! (c ) Sir G. (l. c. front). Ay, poor Clarence ! True ; since his father, by his former nuptials, Had other sons, if yon, too, own an elder, Clarence is poor, as poor as his poor cousin. Ugh ! but the air is keen, and Poverty Is thinly clad ; subject to rheums and agues, {shivers) Asthma and phthisic, {coughs) pains in the loins and limbs, And leans upon a crutch, like your poor cousin. If Poverty begs. Law sets it in the stocks ; If it is ill, the doctors mangle it ; , If it is dying, the priests scold at it ; And, when 'tis dead, rich kinsmen cry, " Thank heaven ! " Ah ! If the elder prove his rights, dear lady, Your younger son will know what's poverty ! Lady M. Malignant, peace ! why doest thou torture me 1 The priest who shares alone with us the secret Hath sworn to guard it. Sir G. Only while thy sire And second lord survived. Yet, what avails In law his tale, unbacked by thy confession ? Lady M. He hath proofs, clear proofs. Thrice woe to Clarence ! Sir G. Proofs — written proofs 1 Lady M. Of marriage, and the birth ! Sir G. Wherefore so long was this concealed from me ? Lady M. {haughtily). Thou wert my father's agent, Grey De Malpas, Not my familiar. Sir G. ( proudly). Here, then, ends mine errand, {going l.) Lady M. Stay, sir — forgive my rash and eager temper ; Stay, stay, and counsel me. What! sullen still! Needest thou gold 1 befriend, and find me grateful. act r. 25 Sir G. Lady of Montreville, T was once young, And pined for gold, to wed the maid I loved: Your father said, " Poor cousins should not marry,' 1 And gave that sage advice in lieu of gold. A few years later, and I grew ambitions, And longed for wars and fame, and foolish honors : Then I lacked gold, to join the knights, mine equals, As might become a Malpas, and your kinsman: Your father said he had need of his poor cousin At home to be his huntsman, and his falconer ! Lady M. Forgetful! After my first fatal nuptials And their sad fruit, count you as naught Sir G. My hire ! For service and for silence ; not a gift. Lady M. And spent in riot, waste, and wild debauch! Sir G. True ; in the pauper's grand inebriate wish To know what wealth is, — tho' but for an hour. Lady M. But blame you me or mine, if spendthrift wassail Run to the dregs 1 Mine halls stand open to you ; My noble Beaufort hath not spurned your converse ; You have been welcomed Sir G. At your second table, And as the butt of unchastised lackeys ; While your kind son, in pity of my want, Hath this day killed the faithful dog that shared it. 'Tis well ; you need my aid, as did your father, And tempt, like him, with gold. I take the service; And, when the task is done will talk of payment. Hist ! the boughs rustle. Closer space were safer ; Vouchsafe your hand, let us confer within. Lady M. Well might I dream last night! A fearful dream. [Exeunt Lady Montreville and Sir Grey, by steps, and off v.. 2. B. conversing. Enter Eveline, l. 2 e. Evel. Oh, for some fairy talisman to conjure Up to these longing eyes the form they pine for ! And yet, in love, there's no such word as absence ; The loved one glides beside our steps forever; (seated in garden- seat.) Its presence gave such beauty to the world, That all things beautiful its tokens are, And aught in sound most sweet, to sight most fair, Breathes with its voice, and haunts us with its aspect. Enter Vyvyan, l. 3 e. There spoke my fancy, not my heart ! Where art thou, My unforgotten Vyvyan 1 Vyv. (kneels to her). At thy feet! ( pauses and rises) Look up — look up ! — these are the arms that sheltered When the storm howled around ; and these the lips Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss Of parting lingered, as the fragance left By angels, when they touch the earth and vanish. Look up ; night never hungered for the sun As for thine eyes my soul ! 2-& $HE ElC*TFUL TIT.jn. Evel. {embraces Vyvyan). Oh ! joy, joy, joy I Vyv. Yet weeping still, tho' leaning on my breast! My sailor's bride, hast thou no voice but blushes 1 Nay from those drooping roses let me steal The coy reluctant sweetne is ! Evel. And, methought I had treasured words, 'twould take a life to utter When we should meet agaiu ! Vyv. Recall them later. We shall have time eno', when life with life Blends into one ; — (Eveline looks R.) why dost thou start and tremble ? Evel. Methought I heard her slow and solemn footfall ! (rises.) Vyv. Her ! Why, thou speak'st of woman : the meek word Which never chimes with terror. Evel. You know not The dame of Montreville. (c.) Vyv. (r. of Eveline). Is she so stern? Evel. Not stern, but haughty ; as if high-born virtue Swept o'er the earth to scorn the faults it pardoned. Vyv. Haughty to thee ] Evel. To all, e'en when the kindest ; Na} , I do wrong her; never to her son ; And when those proud eyes moisten as they hail him, Hearts lately stung, yearn to a heart so human ! Alas, that parent love ! how in its loss All life seems shelterless ! Vyv. Like thee, perchance, Looking round earth for that same parent shelter, 1 too may find but tombs. So, turn we both, Orphans, to that lone parent of the lonely, That doth like Sorrow ever upward gaze On calm consoling stars ; the mother Sea., Evel. Call not the cruel sea by that mild name. Vyv. She is not cruel if her breast swell high Against the winds that thwart her loving aim To link, by every raft whose course she speeds, Man's common brotherhood from pole to pole ; Grant she hath danger — danger schools the brave, And bravery leaves all cruel things to cowards. Grant that she harden us to fear, the hearts Most proof to fear are easiest moved to love, As on the oak whose roots defy the storm, All the leaves tremble when the south-wind stirs. Yet if the sea dismay thee, (right arm around Eveline's waist) on the shores Kissed by her waves, and far, as fairy isles In poet dreams, from this gray care-worn world, Blooms many a bower for the Sea Rover's bride. I know a land where feathering palm-trees shade To delicate twilight, suns benign as those Whose dawning gilded Eden ; Nature, there, Like a gay spendthrift in his flush of youth, Flings her whole treasure on the lap of Time. There, atjeeped in roseate hues, the lakelike sea Heaves to an air whose breathing is ambrosia ; And, all the while, bright-winged and warbling birds, ACT I. 27 Like happy souls released, melodious float Thro' blissful light, and teach the ravished earth How joy finds voice in Heaven. Corne, rest we yonder, And, side by side, forget that we are orphans ! [Vyvyan and Eveline exeunt, l. 1 e. Enter Lady Mosttreville and Sir Grey, r. 2 e., and down the steps. Lady M. Yet still, if Alton sees Sir G. Without the proofs, Why, Alton's story were but idle wind ; The man I send is swift and strong, and ere This Vyvyan (who would have been here before me But that I took the shorter path) depart From your own threshold to the priest's abode, Our agent gains the solitary dwelling, And Lady M. But no violence ! Sir G. Nay, none but fear — Fear will suffice to force from trembling age Your safety, and preserve your Beaufort's birthright. Lady M. Let me not hear the ignominious means ; Gain thou the end ; — quick — quick ! Sir G. Ai;d if, meanwhile. This sailor come, be nerved to meet a stranger ; And to detain a guest. Lady M. My heart is wax, But my will, iron. — Go. (r. c. by seat.) Sir G. {aside.) To fear add force — And this hand closes on the proofs, and welds That iron to a tool. [Exit Sir Grey, r. I b. Enter Vyvyan and Eveline, l. 1 E., up to l. c. Evel. Nay, Vyvyan — nay, Your guess can fathom not how proud her temper. Vyv. Tut for her pride ! a king upon the deck Is every subject's equal in the hall. I will advance, (he to/covers.) Lady M. (aside). Avenging angels, spare me ! (r/reat emotion, unable to took at Vyvyan. J Vyv. Pa-don the seeming boldness of my presence. Evel * Our gallant countryman, of whom my father So often spake — who from the Algerine Rescued our lives and freedom. Lady M. Ah ! Your name, sfr? Vvv. The name I bear is Vyvyan, noble lady. Lady M. Sir, you are welcome. Walk within, and hold Our h oins your hostel, while it lists you. Vyv - Madam, I shall be prouder in all after time For having been your guest. Lady M How love and dread *Lady M. Vyvyan. Eveline. e. ofo. o. l. c. 28 THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. Make tempest here ! I pray you follow me. [Exit Lady Montrf.yillk, r. 2 3. Vw. A most majestic lady — her fair face Made my heart tremble, and called back old dreams : Thou saidst she had a sou 1 Evel. Ah, yes. Vy v. In truth A happy man. Evel. Yet he might envy thee : Vyv. Most arch reprover, yes. As kings themselves Might envy one whose arm entwines his all. [arm around Eveline, exeunt B. 2 e. Music. ACT II. SCENE I. — Room in Id grooves. Discover Lady Montreville and Vyvyas seated at table, and Evelinb l. c. front* Vyv. Ha ! ha ! In truth we made a scurvy figure A Iter our shipwreck. Lady M. You jest merrily On your misfortuues. Vyv. 'Tis the way with sailors : Still in extremes. Ah ! I can be sad sometimes. Lady M. That sigh, in truth, speaks sadness. Sir, if I In aught could serve you, trust me. Evel. Trust her, Vyvyan. Methinks the mournful tale of thy young years Would raise thee up a friend, wherever pity Lives inlhe heart of woman. Vyv. Gentle lady, The key of some charmed music in your voice Unlocks a haunted chamber in my soul ; And — would you listen to an outcast's tale, 'Tis briefly told. Until my fifteenth year, Beneath the roof of a poor village priest, Not far from hence, my childhood wore away ; Then stirred within me restless thoughts and deep; Throughout the liberal and harmonious nature Something seemed absent,— what, I scarcely knew, Till one calm night, when over slumbering seas Watched the still heaven, and down on every wave Looked some soft lulling star— the instinctive want Learned what it pined for ; and I asked the priest With a quick sigh — " Why I was motherless 1 " Lady M.* : table. : *Vyvyan. *EVELIKE. AT.T II. 29 Lady M. And he 1 — Vyv. Replied that — I was nobly horn, And that the cloud which dimmed a dawning sun, Oft but fere told its splendor at the noon. As thus he spoke, faint memories struggling came — Faint as the things some former life hath known. Lady M. Of what 1 Vyv. (rises, keeps his eyes on Lady M ). A face sweet with a stately sorrow, And lips which breathed the words that mothers murmur. Lady M. (aside). Back, tell-tale tears ! (weeping.) Vyv. About that time, a stranger Came to our hamlet ; rough, yet, some said, well-born ; Roysterer, and comrade, such as youth delights in. Sailor he called himself, and naught belied The sailor's metal ringing in his talk Of EI Dorados, and Enchanted Isles, Of hardy Raleigh, and of dauntless Drake, And great Columbus with prophetic eyes Fixed on a dawning world. His legends fired me — And, from the deep whose billows washed our walls, The alluring wave called with a Siren's music. And thus 1 left my home with that wild seaman. Lady M. The priest, consenting, still divulged not more? Vyv. No ; nor rebuked mine ardor. " Go," he said, " The noblest of all nobles are the men In whom their country feels herself ennobled.'' Lady M. (aside). I breathe again, (aloud) Well, thus you left these shores Vyv. Scarce had the brisker sea-wind filled our sails, When the false trailor who had lured my trust Cast me to chains and darkness. Days went by, At leng'h — one belt of desolate waters round, And on tl>e decks one scowl of swarthy brows, (A hideous crew, the refuse of all shores) — Under the flapping of his raven flag The pirate stood revealed, and called his captive. Grimly he heard my boyish loud upbraidings And grimly smiled in answering: " I, like thee, Cast off, and disinherited, and desperate, Had but one choice, death or the pirate's flag Choose thou — I am more gracious than thy kindred • I proffer life; the gold they gave me paid Thy grave in ocean ! " Lady M. Hold ! The demon lied ! Vyv. Swift, as I answered so, his blade flashed forth ; But self-defence is swifter still than slaughter ; I plucked a sword from one who stood beside me, (gesture of parrying a thrust and replying by a down cut) And smote the slanderer to my feel. Then ail That human hell broke loose; oaths rang, steel lightened; When in the death-swoon of the caitiff chief, The pirate next in rank forced back the swarm, And — in that superstition of the sea Which mnkes the sole religion of its outlaws — Forbade my doom by bloodshed — griped and bound me To a slight plank ; spread to the winds the sail, gfj THE RIGHTFUL II LIK. And left me on the waves alone with God. Evbl. Pause, (standing beside Vyvyan) Let my hand lake thine — feel its warm life, And, shuddering less, thank Him whose eye was o'er thee. Vyv. That day, and all that night, upon the seas Tossed the frail barrier between life and death; Heaven lulled the gales ; and when the stars came forth, All looked so bland and gentle that I wept. Recalled that, wretch's words, and murmured, "All, E'en wave and wind, are kinder than my kindred !" But — nay, sweet lady Lady M. {sobbing). Heed me not. (with an effort) Night passed Vyv. Day dawned ; and, glittering in the sun, behold A sail — a tlag ! Evel. Well— well? Vyv. Like Hope, it vanished! Noon glaring came — with noon came thirst and famine, And with parched lips I called on death, and sought To wrench my limbs from the still' cords that gnawed Into the flesh, and drop into the deep: An 1 then — the clear wave trembled, and below I saw a dark, swift-moving, shapeless thing, With watchful, glassy eyes ; — the ghastly shark Swam hungering round its prey — then life once more Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze And lilted hair I floated on, till sense Grew dim. and dimmer ; and a terrible sleep (In which still — still those livid eyes met mine) Fell on me — and Evel. Quick — quick ! Vyv. I woke, and heard My native tongue! Kind looks were bent upon me. I lay on deck — escaped the ravening death — For God had watciied the sleeper. Evel. Oh, such memories Make earth, forever after, nearer heaven ; And each new hour an altar for thanksgiving. Lady M. Breaji not the tale my ear yet strains to listen. Vyv. True lion of the ocean was the chief Of that good ship. Beneath Ids fostering eyes, Nor all ungraced by Drake's illustrious praise, And the frank clasp of Raleigh's kingly hand, I fought my way to manhood. At his death The veteran left mo a more absolute throne Than Csesar filled — his war-ship ; for my reaini Add to the ocean, hope — and measure it ! Nameless, I took his name. My tale is done — And each past sorrow, like a wave on shore, Dies on this golden hour, (goes l. with Eveline, tenderly.) Lady M. (observing them). He loves my ward, Whom Clarence, too — that thought piles fear on fear j Yet, hold — that very rivalship gives safety — Affords pretext to urge the Secret nuptials, And the prompt parting, ere he meet with Alton. I — but till Nature sobs itself to peace, Here's that which chokes all reason. Will ve not ACT II. , ul Taste summer air, cooled through yon shadowy alleys'! Anon I'll join you. [E x u Lady Montreville, r. 1 e. Vyv. We will wait your leisure. A most compassionate and courteous lady How could st thou call her proud ? EvEL - Nay, ever henceforth, For the soft pity she has shown to thee, I'll love her as a mother. Vyv# Thus I thank thee, {kissing her hand.) or , pl . T p Tr [Exeunt, l. 1 e. OC.hJN.fcj II. — Castle yard, in bth grooves. Enter Sir Grey De Malpas, l 2 e. Lord B. (speaking off l. 2 e.). A noble falcon ! Marsden, hood him gently. Enter Lord Beaufort, d. in 3 g. set. Good-day, old knight, thou hast a lowering lock, As if still ruffled by some dire affray With lawless mice, at riot in thy larder. Sir G. Mice in my house ! magnificent dreamer, mice ! The last was found three years ago last Christmas, Stretched out beside a bone ; so lean and wo;n With pious fast — 'twas piteous to behold it; 1 canonized its corpse in spirits of wine, And set it in the porch — a solemn warning To its poor cousins ! {aside) Shall I be avenged 1 He killed my dog too. Enter Vyvyan and Eveline, r. 2 e., remaining up r. on platform. Lord B. (l. c). _ Knight, look here !— A stranger, And whispering with my cousin. SirG. (l. c. front, aside). Jealous 1 Ha! Something should come of this : Hail, green-eyed fiend ! {nloud) Let us withdraw— tho' old, I have been youu" • The whispered talk of lovers should be sacred. Lord B. Lovers ! Sir G. Ah ! true ! You know not, in your absence Your mother hath received a welcome guest In your fair cousin's wooer. Note hiniwell, A stalwart, comely gallant. LoRD B - Art thou serious ? A wooer to my cousin— quick, his name ! Sir G. His name 1 — my memory doth begin to fail me Your mother will recall it. Seek — ask her (Vyvyan and Eveline come down r. c.) Lord B. {to a). Whom have we here 1 Familiar sir, excuse me I do not see the golden spurs of knighthood. Vyv.* Alack, we sailors have not so much gold That we should waste it on our heels ! The steeds We ride to battle need no spurs, Sir Landsman ; •Eveline. Vyvyau. Beaufobt. Sib Grey 32 FEE RIGHTFUL HEIR. Lord B. And overleap all laws ; (sneeringly) raethinks thou art One of those wild Sea Rovers, who Vyv. {quickly). Refuse To yield to Spain's proud tyranny, her claim To treat as thieves and pirates all who cross The line Spain's finger draws across God's ocean. We, the Sea Rovers, on our dauntless decks Carry our land, its language, laws, and freedom; We wrest from Spain the sceptre of the seas, And in the New World build up a new England. For this high task, if we fulfill it duly, The Old and New World both shall bless the names Of Walter Raleigh and his bold Sea Rovers. Lord B. Of those names thine is Vyv. Vyvyan. Lord B. Master Vyvyan, Our rank scarce fits us for a fair encounter With the loud talk of- blustering mariners. We bar you not our hospitality ; Our converse, yes. Go ask the Seneschal To lodge you with your equals ! Vyv. Equals, stripling ! Mine equals truly should be bearded men, Noble with titles carpet lords should bow to — Memories of dangers dared, and service done, And scars on bosoms that have bled for Enaland ! Sir. G. Nay, coz, he has thee there, (restraining Beaufort from drato- ing sword.) Thou sbalt not, Clarence. Strike me. I'm weak and safe — but he is dangerous. Enter Lady Montrf.ville, r. 1 e., as Lord Beaufort breaks from Sir Grey and draws his stvord. Evel. Protect your guest from your rash son. Lady M. Thy sword Drawn on thy (c.) Back, boy ! I command thee, back! To you, sir guest, have I in aught so failed, That in the son you would lebuke the mother? Vyv.* Madam, believe, my sole offence was this, That rated as a serf, I spoke as man. Lady M. Wherefore, Lord Beaufort, such unseemly humors 1 Lord B. (drawing her aside). Wheiefore 1 — and while we speak his touch profanes her ! Who is this man ? Dost thou approve his suit 1 Beware ! Lady M. Yon would not threaten Oh, my Clarence, Hear me — you Lord B. Learned in childhood from my mother To brook no rival — and to curb no passion. Aid'st thou yon scatterling against thy son, Where most his heart is set 1 ? Lady M. Thy heart, perverse one 1 Thou saidst it was not love. •Eveline. Vyvyan. Lady M. Beaufort. Sir Grey. . R. R. C. C. L. C. L. ACT II. 33 Lord B. That was before A rival made it love — nay, fear not mother, If you dismiss this insolent; but. mark me, Dismiss him straight, or by mine honor, madam, Blood will be shed. Lady B. Thrice miserable boy ! Let the heavens hear thee not ! Loud B. (whispering to Vyvyan as he crosses r.) Again, and soon, sir ! [Exit h 1 e. LidyM. {seeing Sir Grey). Villain! — but no. I dare not yet up- braid (aloud) After him, quick ! Appease, soothe, humor him. Sir G. Ay, madam, trust to yoar poor cousin. [Exit n. I e Lady M. (aside). Eveline, Thou lov'st this Vyvyan 1 Evel. (aside). Lady— I— be saved My life and honor. Lady M. (aside). Leave us, £ entlc child, I would confer with him. May both be happy ! Evel. (Jo Vyvyan). Hush! she consents; well mavst then bid m< love her. [JErft- Eveline, l. 1 e. Lady M. Sir, if I gather rightly from your speech, You do not mean long sojourn on these shores'? Vyv. Lady, in sooth, mine errand here was two-fold. First, to behold, and, if I dare assume That you will ratify her father's promise, To claim my long affianced ; j.«u to learn If Heaven vouchsafe me yet a parent's heart. I gained these shores to hear of war and danger — The long-suspended thunderbolt of Spain Threatened the air. I have dispatched an envoy To mine old leader, Drake, to crave sure tidings; I wait reply : If England be in peril, Hers ray first service ; if, as rumor runs, The cloud already melts without a storm; Then, ray bride gained, and my birth tracked, I sail Back to the Indian seas, where wild adventure Fulfills in life what boyhood dreamed in song. Lady M 'Tis frankly spoken'— frankly I reply. First — England's danger; row. for five slow years Have Spain's dull trumpets blared their braggart war, And Rome's gray mor.k craft muttered new crusades; Wed, we live still— and all this delude dies In harmless spray ou Enijland s scornful cliffs. And, trust rae sir, if war beleaguer England, Small need of ona man'.* valor : lacked sha soldiers, Methink3 a Mars would strike in childhood's arm, And woman bo Beilona ! Vyv. Stately matron, So would our mother country speak and look, Could she take visible image ! Lady M. Claim thy bride With ray assent, and joyous grauilalion. She shall not go undowried to your arms. Nor deem me wanting to herself and yon If I adjure prompt nuptials and departure. Beaufort — thou see'st how fiery is his mood— vj. UIIE UlGitXi' UL I1EIK. In my ward's lover would avenge a rival : Indulge the impatient terrors of a mother, And quit these shores. Whv not this night 1 Vyv. This night 1 With her— my bride 1 Lady M. So from the nuptial altar Pledge thou thy faith to part — to spread the sail And put wide seas between my son and thee. Vyv. This night, with Eveline! — dream of rapture! {changes look from joy lo pain) yet — My birth untracked — Lady M. Delay not for a doubt Bliss when assured And, heed me, I have wealth To sharpen law. and power to strengthen justice; I will explore the mazes of this mystery ; I— I will track your parents. Vyv. Blessed lady ; My parents ! — Find me one with eyes like thine, (Lady M. starts } And we e she lowliesl of the hamlet born, I would not change with monarchs. Lady M. (csid, ). Can I hear this 1 (aloud) Your Eveline well nigh is my daughter; you Her plighted spouse ; pray you this kiss— (> sweet! ( Vyvyas smlcn on one hici as Lady M. /asses his forehead.) Vyv. Ah. as I kneel, and as thou bendest o'ei me, Methinks nn angel's hand lifts up the veil Of Time, the great magician and I see Above mine infant couch a face like thine. Lady M. Mine, stranger! Vyv. {rising'). Pardon me ; a vain wild thought T know it is ; but on my faith, I think My mother was like thee. Lady M. Peace, peace ! We talk And fool grave hours away. Inform thy bride ; Then to thy bark, and bid thy crew prepare; Meanwhile, I give due orders to my chaplain. Beside the altar we shall meet once more , — (voice breaks) And then — and then — Heaven's blessing and farewe'l ! [Rnt Lady Moxtreville, l. 1 e., wildig. Vyv. Most feeling heart ! its softness hath contagion. And melts mine own ! Her aspect wears a charm That half divides my soul with Eveline's love! Strange .' while 1 muse, a chill and ominous awe Creeps thro' my veins! Away, ye vague forebodings I Eveline ! At thy dear name the phantoms vanish, And the glad future breaks like land on sea, When rain-mists melt beneath the golden morn. Enter, d. hi 3 g. set, Falkner. Falk. Ha ! Vyvyan ! Yyv. Thou! Talk. Breathless with speed to teach thee, 1 guessed thee lingering here. Thy ioster sire Hath proofs that clear the shadow from thy birth.. Go — he awaits thee where yon cioud-capt rock act ii. 35 Jags air with barbed peaks — St. Kinian's Cliff. [Shouts off l., faintly. Vtv. My birth ! My parents live ? Falk. I know no more. Enter, d. in 3 g. set, Harding. Hard. Captain, the rumor lied. I bring such news As drums and clarions and resounding anvils Fashioning the scythes of reapers into swords, Shall ring°froiu Thames to Tweed. y yv The foeman comes ! Hard, {gives letter). These lines will tell thee ; Drake's own hand. [Goes up l. c- Vyv. (reads). "The Armada Has left the Groyne, and we are ranging battle. Come ! in the van I leave one gap for thee/' Poor Eveline ' Shame on such unworthy weakness ! Falk. Time to see her and keep thy tryst with Alton Leave me to call the crews and arm the decks. Not till the moon rise, in the second hour After the sunset, will the depponing tide Floa' us from harbor — ere that hour be past Our ship 'hall wait then by St. Kinian's CI ff. Small need. to pray thee not to miss* the moment Whose loss would lose thee honor. Vvv. Tf I come not Ere the waves reel to thv third signal gun. Deem Death alone could so delay from duty. And step into mv post as o'er my corpse. Falk. Justly, my captain thou relink 1 st my warning. And couldst thou fail us, 1 would hold the signal As if thy funeral knell — crowd every sad, And know thy soul Vvv. Was with my country still, (shouts off J..) Enter, d. tn 3 g. set, Sub-officer, Sailors, Retainers, and Villagers confusedly. Sub-officer (with broadsheet). Captain, look here. Just come! Vtv. The Queen's Address From her own lips to the armed lines at Tilbury. Voices. Read it sir. read it — Vtv, Hush then, (reads) " Loving people, Let tyrants fear ! I, under Heaven, have placed In loyal hearts my chiefest strength and safeguard, Beii g resolved in the midst and heat of the battle To live and die amongst you all , content To lay down for my God and tor my people My life blood even in die dust : I know I iiave the body of a feeble woman. Bui a King a heart a King of England's too ; Aid think loul scorn that Parma, Spain, or Europe, Dare lo invade the borders of my realm ! Where England fights— with concord in the camp, Trust in the chief, and valor m the field, Ill THE KIGHTFUL IIEIE. Swift be her victory over every foe Threatening her crown, her altars, and her people.'' The noble Woman King ! These words of fire Will send warm blood through all the veins of Freedom Till England is a dream ! Uncover, lads ! God and St. George ! Hurrah for England's Queen ! {Cheers, all cheer.} Villagers. ****** Villagers. Falkner.* *Vyvyan. * Harding. quick curtain. ACT III. SCENE I. — Rocky Landscape in Id grooves. Discover Alton and Vyvyan, seated c, on low rocks. Alton. And I believed rhem when they said " Ho died Tn the far seas." Ten years of desolate sorrow Passed as one night — Now thy warm hand awakes me. Vyv. Dear friend, the sun sets fast. Ai.i')N. Alas! then listen. There was a page, fair, gentle, brave, but low-born — And in those years when, to young eyes the world, With all the rough disparities of fortune, Floats level thro' the morning haze of fancy, He loved the heiress of a lordly house : She scarce from childhood, listening, loved ajiain, And secret nuptials hallowed stolen meetings — 'Till oue — I know not whom (perchance a kinsman, Heir to that house — if childless died its daughter) Spied — tracked the bridegroom to the bridal bower, Aroused the sire, and said, "Thy child's dishonored! " Snatching his sword, the father sought the chamber ; Burst the closed portal — but his lifted hand Escaped the crim \ Cold as a fallen statue, Cast from its blessed pedestal forever, The bride lay senseless on the lonely floor By the ope'd casement, from whose terrible height The generous boy, to save her life or honor, Had plunged into his own sure death below. Vyv. A happy death, if it saved her he loved ! Alton. A midnight grave concealed the mangled clay, And buried the bride's secret. Few nights after, Darkly as life from him had passed away, Life dawned on thee — and, from the unconscious mother, Stern hands conveyed the pledge of fatal nuptials To the poor priest, who to thy loftier kindred Owed the mean roof that sheltered thee. ACT Ui. Vtv. 01), say I have a mother still ! Alton Yes ! Vtv. (with joy). Oh ! Alton. She survived — Her vows, thy birth, by the blind world ungues^ed; And, after years of woe and vain resistance, Forced to a lordlier husband's arms. Vyv. " My soul Ofttimes recalls a shadowy mournfulness, With woman's patient brow, and saddest tears Dropped fast from woman's eyes ; — they were my mother's. Alton. In stealth a wife — in stealth a mother ! yes, Then did she love thee, then aspired to own In coming times, and bade me hoard these proofs For that blest day." Alas ! new ties Brought new affections — to the secon 1 nuptials A second son was born ; she loved him better, Better than thee — than her own soul ! Vyv. Poor mother ! Alton. And haughtier thoughts on riper life arose, And worldly greatness feared the world's dread shame. And she forsook her visits to thy pillow, And the sire threatened, and the kinsman prayed, Till, over-urged by terror for thy safety, 1 took reluctant vows to mask the truth And hush thy rights while lived thy mother's sire And he, her second unsuspecting lord. Thus thy youth, nameless, left my lonely roof The sire and husband died while thou wert absent. Thou liv'st — thou hast returned ; mine oath is freed; These scrolls attest my taie and prove thy birthright — Hail, Lord of Beaufort — Heir of Montreville! Vtv. 'Tis she — 'tis she ! At the first glance I loved her ! And when I told my woes, she wept — she wept ! This is her writing. Look — look where she calls me ' : Edmond and child." Old man, how thou hast wronged her Joy — joy ! I fly to claim and find a mother ! [Exit Vtvyan, l. 1 e. Alton. Just power, propitiate Nature to that cry. "And from the hardened rock, let living streams Gush as in Horeb ! Ah, how faintly Hags, Strained by unwonted action, weary age ! I'll seek the neighboring hamlet — rest and pray." [Exit Alton, r. 1 b. SCENE II.— Castle Exterior as in Scene II, Act II. Sunset. Enter Sir Gret and Wrecklyffe. d. in 3 g. flat. Sir G. The priest has left his home 1 Wreck. The hour I reached it. Sir G. With but one man 7 Did'st thou not hound the foot-track s Wreck. I did. Sir G Thou didst— and yet the prey escaped ! I have done. 1 gavsj Ihee thy soul's wish, lovenge, Revenge on Vyvyati — and thou leav'st his way 38 THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. Clear to a heighf as high from thy revenue As is yon watch-tower from a pirate's gibbet. Wreck Silence! thou Sir. G {haughtily). Sir! Wreck (subdued and cowed). Along the moors I track'd them. But only came in sight and reach of spring Just as they gained the broad and thronging road, Aloud with eager strides, and clamorous voices — A surge of t-umult, wave to wave re booming How all the mi^ht of Parma and of Spain Hurried its thunders on. {gas gradually down during this scene.) S IR G. bu\t, what to us Parma and Spain 7 The beggar has do country ! Wreck. But deeds like that which thou dost urge me to Are not risked madly in the populous day. T come to thy sharp wit for safer orders. Silt G. My wit is dulled by time, and must be ground Into an edge by thought. Hist ! — the door jars, She comes. Skulk yonder — hide thee — but in call ! A moment sometimes makes or rnarreth fortune, Just as the fiend Occasion springs to hand — Be thou that fiend ! [Wrecklyffe exits up r. c. Enter Lady Montreville, l. 1 e. Lady M. Look on me ' What, nor tremble? Couldst thou have deemed my father's gold a bribe For my son's murder] Sold to pirates ! Cast On the wild seas ! Sik G. How ! I knew naught of this. If such the truth, peace to thy father's sins, For of those sins is this. Let the pasl sleep, Meet present ills — the priest hath left his home With Vyvyan's comrade, and our scheme is foiled. Lady M. I will, myself, see Alton on the morrow — Edmond can scarce forestall me: for this night Fear sails with him to the far Indian main. Sir G. Let me do homage to thy genius. Sorceress, What was thy magic 1 Lady M. Terror for my Cla'ence, And Edmond's love for Eveline. Sir G. {aside). I see ! Bribed by the prize of which she robs his rival ! This night — so soon ? — this night — Lady M. I save n1 ^' ClareDce \ Till then, keep close, close to his side. Thou hast soothed him 1 Sir G. Fear not — these sudden tidings o.f the foe With larger fires have paled receding love — But where is Vyvyan 1 Lady M. Doubtless with his crew, Preparing for departure. Lord B. {without). This way, Marsden. Enter, l. 2 e., Lord Beaufort with Marsden and armed Attendants. Lord B [to R ! Rennir yon broken parapets at dawn ; Yonder the culverins .—delve down more sharply ACT III. 39 That bank ; — clear out the moat. Those trees — eh — Marsden, Should fall 1 They'd serve to screen the foe ! {comes to c.) Ah, mother, Make me a scarf to wear above the armor In which thy father, 'mid the shouts of kings, Shivered French lances at the Cloth of Gold. Mars. Nay, my young lord, too vast for you that armor. Lord B. No ; you forget that the breast swells in danger, And honor adds a cubit to the stature. Lady M. Embrace me, Clarence, I myself will arm thee. Look at him, Marsden — yet they say I spoil him ! Sir G. (draws Lady M. to l. c, and whispers). I mark P the distance swift disordered strides, And the light bound of an impatient spirit; Vyvyan speeds hither, and the speed seems joy. He sought his crew — Alton might there await hiin. Lady M* His speed is to a bride. Sir G. Ay, true — old age Forgets that Love's as eager as Ambition j Yet hold thyself prepared. Lady M. (to herself.) And if it were so ! Come, I will sound the depths of Beaufort's heart ! And, as that answers, hush or yield to conscience. Lead off these men. [Exeunt Sir Grey and Attendants, d. in 3 G. fiat. (to Marsden) Go, meet my this day's guest, And see he enter through the garden postern. [Exit Marsden, l. 1 b. Clarence, come back. Lord B. (peevishly.) What now 1 (r.) Lady M. Speak kindly, Clarence. Alas, thou'lt know not till the grave close o'er me, How I did need thy kindness ! Lord B. Pardon, mother, My blunt speech now, and froward heat this morning. Lady M. Be all such follies of the past, as leaves Shed from the petals of the bursting flower. Think thy soul slept, till honor's sudden dawn Flashed, and the soil bloomed with one hero more ! Ah, Clarence, had I, too, an elder-born, As had thy father by his former nuptials ! — Could thy sword carve out fortune 7 Lord B. Ay, my mother ! Lady M. " Well tho bold answer rushes from thy lips ! " Yet, tell me frankly, dost thou not, in truth, Prize over much the outward show of things ; And couldst thou — rich with valor, health and beauty, And hope — the priceless treasure of the young — Couldst thou endure descent from that vain height Where pride builds towers the heart inhabits not ; To live less gorgeously, and curb thy wants Within the state, not of tin' heir to earls, But of a simple gentleman 1 Lord B. If reared to it, Perchance contented so ; but now — no, never ! Such as I am, thy lofty self hath made me ; Ambitious, haughty, prodigal ; and pomp 40 'JUL, RiUa'iJfO'L UKIli. A part of my very life. If I could fall From my liigh state, it were as Romans fell, On their swords' point! Lady M. (in horror). Jh ! Lord B. Why is your cheek so hueless ? Why daunt yourself with airiest fantasies 1 Who can deprive me of mine heritage — " The titles borne at Palestine and Crecy 1 The seignory, ancient as the throne it guards," That will be mine in trust for sons unborn, When time — from this day may the date be far ! — Transfers the circlet on thy stately brows (Forgive the boast ') to no unwoithy heir. Lady M. (aside). My proud soul speaks in his, and stills remorse ; I'll know no other son ! {aloud) Now u<>. Lord Beaufort. Lord B. So formal — fie! — has Clarence then offended 1 Lady M. Offended ? — thou ' Resume thy noble duties, Sole heir of Montreville ! [Exit Lord Bkaufokt, l. 2 e. My choice is made. As one who holds a fortress for his king, I guard this heart for Clarence, and I close Its gates against the stranger. Let him come. [Exit, L. 1. E. Enter, d. in 3 G.flat, "Vyvyan and Eveline. Evel. I would not bid thee stay, thy country calls thee — But thou hast stunned my heart i' the midst of joy With this dread sudden word — part — part ! Vyv. Live not In the brief present. Go forth to the fu ure ! Wouldst thou not see me worthier of thy love 1 Evel. Thou canst not be so. Vyv. Sweet one, I am now Obscure and nameless. What if at thy feet I could lay rank and fortuue 1 Evel. These could give To me no bliss save as they bless thyself. Into the life of him she loves, the life Of woman flows, and nevermore reflects Sunshine or shadow on a separate wave. Be his lot great, for his sake she loves greatness ; Humble — a cot with him is Arcady ! Thou art ambitious ; thou wouldst arm for fame, Fame then fires me too, and without a tear I bid thee go where fame is won — as now : Win it and I rejoice ; but fail to win, Were it not joy to think I could console 1 Vyv. Oh, that I could give vent to this full heart ! Time rushes on, each glimmering star rebukes me — Is that the Countess yonder 1 This way — come, (up c.) [31oonlight falls on l. side now. Enter Lord Beaufort and Sir Grey, l. 1 e. Lord B Leave England, say'st thou — and with her 1 Sir G. Thou hast wrung act nr. 41 The secret from me. Mark — I have thy promise Not to betray me u> thy mother. Lord B. Ah ! Thought she to dupe me with that pomp of words, And blind ambition while she beggar'd life 1 No, by yon heavens, she shall not so befool me ! Sib G. Be patient. Had I guessed how this had galled, I had been dumb. Lord B. Stand from the light ! Distraction ! She hangs upon his breast ! (/tarries to Vyvyan, and then un- covering with an attempt at courtesy, draivs him to front ) Lord B. Sir, one word with you. This day such looks and converse passed between us As men who wear these vouchers for esteem, Cancel with deeds. Vyv. (aside). The brave boy ! How I love him ! Lord B. What saidst thou, sir 1 Evel. (approaching). Oh, Clarence. Lord B. Fear not, cousin. I do but make excuses for my i udeness At noon, to this fair cavalier. Sir G. If so, Let us not mar such courteous purpose, lady. Evel. But — Sir G. Nay, you are too timid ! (draws Eveline up l ) Lord B. Be we brief, sir. You quit these parts to-night. This place beseems not The only conference we should hold. I pray you Name spot and hour in which to meet again, Unwitnessed save by the broad early moon. Vyv. Meet thee again — oh, yes ! Lord B. There speaks a soldier, And now I own an equal. Hour and place 1 Vyv. Wait here till I have Lord B. No, sir, on thy road. Here we are spied. Vyv. So bj it, on my road. (aside) [There where I learned that heaven had given a brother, There the embrace.] Within the hour I pass St. Kinian's Cliff. Lord B. Alone 1 Vyv. Alone. Lord B. Farewell! Sir. G. (catchmg at Lord Beaufort as he goes out.) I heard St Kinian's Cliff. I'll warn the Countess. Lord B. Do it, and famish ! Sir G. Well, thy fence is skillful. Lord B. And my hand firm. SirG. But when ? Lord B. Within the hour \ [Exit Lord Beaufort, l. 1 e. Evel. I do conjure thee on thine honor, Vyvyan, Hath he not — Vyv. What? (r. c.) Evel. Forced quarrel on thee 1 (c.) Vyv. Quarrel That were beyond his power. Upon mine honor, No, and thrice no ' 42 THE IUGI1TFUL HEIB. Evel. I scarce dare yet believe thee. Vyv. Why then, I thus defy thee still to tremble. Away this weapon, {throwing sword off it. 1 e.) If I meet thy cousin, Both mast b;> safe, for one will be unarmed. Evel. Mine own frank hero-lover, pardon me ; Yet need'st thou noL Vyv. Oh, as against the Spaniard, There will be swoids enow in Vyvyan's war-ship — But art thou sure his heart is touched so lightly 1 Evel. Jealous, and now ! Vyv. No, the fair boy, 'lis pity! Enter Maksden, l 2 e., Mars.* My lady, sir, invites you to her presence; Pray you this way. Evel. Remember — 0, remember, One word again, before we part; but one! Vyv. One word. Heaven make it joyous. Evel. Joyous! Vyv. Soft, let me take that echo from thy lips As a «ood omen. How my loud heart beats! (aside.') Friend, to your lady [Exeunt Vyvyan and Maksden, l. 1 e. Evel. Gone ! The twilight world Hath its stars still — but mine ! Ah, woe is me ! [Exit Eveline, l. 1 e. Sir G. Why take the challenge, yet cast off the weapon i Perchance, if, gentle, lie forbears the boy ; " Perchance, if worldly wise, he fears the noble ; Or hath he, in his absence, chanced with Alton 1 It matters not. Like some dark necromancer, I raise the storm, then rule it thro' the fiend! Where waits this man without a hope 1 Wreck, (coming down c). Save vengeance ! Sir G. Wert thou as near when Beaufort spoke with Vy vyan 1 Wreck. Shall I repeat what Vyvyan said to Beaufort 1 Sir G. Thou know'st ■ Wreck. I know, that to St. Kinian's Cliff Will come the man whose hand wrote " felon" here. (touches face.') Sir G. Mark, what 1 ask is harder than to strike ; 'Tis to forbear — but 'tis revenge with safety. Let Vyvyan first meet Beaufort ; watch what pass, And if the boy, whose hand obeys all passion, Should slay thy foeman, and forestall thy vengeance, Upon thy life (thou know'st, of old, Grey Malpas) Prevent not, nor assist. Wreck. That boy slay Vyvyan ! Sir G. For Vyvyan is unarmed. Wreck. Law calls that — murder! Sir G. Which by thy witness, not unbacked by proof, Would give the murderer to the headsman's axe, And leave Grey Malpas heir of Montreville, And thee the richest squire in all his train. * Vyvyan. Evel. Maksden. Sib Grey. c. l., up. 43 Wreck. I do conceive the scheme. But if the youth Fail or relent • S IR G. I balk not thy revenge. And, if the corpse of Beaufort's rival be Found on the spot where armed Beaufort met him, To whom would justice track the death blow 1 — Beaufort! Wreck. No further words. Or his, or mine the hand, Count one life less on earth ; and weave thy scheme — As doth the worm its coils — around the dead. [Exit Wrecklyffe, d. vi 3 a. f.nt. Sir G. " One death avails as three, since for the mother Conscience and shame were sharper than the steel." So, I o'erleap the gulf, nor gaze below. On this side, desolate ruin ; bread begrudged j And ribald scorn on impotent gray hairs ; The base poor cousin Boyhood threats with famine — Whose very dog is butchered if it bark : — On that side bended knees and fawning smiles, Ho ! ho ! there — Room for my lord's knights and pages I Room at the Court — room there, beside the throne! Ah, the new Earl of Moutreville ! His lands Cover two shires. Such man should rule the state — A gracious lord — the envious call him old ; Not so — the coronet conceals gray hairs. He limp'd, they say, when he wore hose of serge. Tut, the slow march becomes the robes of ermine. . Back, conscience, back ! Go scowl on boors and beggars- Room, smiling flatterers, room for the new Earl ! (comes down front, proudly, as falls the) CURTAIN. ACT IV. SCENE I. — Same as Scene L, Act II. Discover Lady Montreville, r. Enter Vyvyan, l. Lady M. Thou com'st already to demand thy bride 1 Yyv. Alas ! such nuptials are deferred. This night The invader summons me — my sole bride, Honor, And my sole altar — England ! (aside) How to break itl Ladt M. My Clarence on the land, and thou on sea, Both for their country armed ! Heaven shield ye both ! Yyv. Say you that ? Both ? — You who so love your son 1 Lady M. Better than life, I love him ! Yyv. (aside). I must rush Into the thick. Time goads me ! (aloud) Had you not Another son 1 A first born 1 Lady M. Sir! Vyv. A son, On whom those eyes dwelt first — whose infant cry Broke first on that divine and holiest chord 44 THE l.U.Ull-TL IiEIR, In the deep heart of woman, which awakes All Nature's tenderest music ] Turn not from me I know the mystery of thy mournful life. Will it displease thee — will it — to helieve That son is living still 1 Lady M. Sir — sir — such license Expels your listener, {turns e.) y yv No, thou wilt not leave me 1 I say, thou wilt not leave tne — on my knees (kneclin/) I say, ihou ahalt not leave me ! Lady M. Loose thine hold ! Vyv. Jam thy son — thine Edmond — thine own child ! Saved from the steel, the deep, the storm, the battle; Rising from death to thee — the source of life ! Flung by kind Heaven once, more upon thy breast, Kissing thy robe, and clinging to thy knees. Dost thou reject thy son 1 Lady M. I have no son, Save Clarence Beaufort. Y: v Do not — do not hear her, Thou who, enthroned amid the pomp of stars, Dost take no holier name than that of Father ! Thou hast no other son 1 0, cruel ODe ! Look — look — these letters to the priest who reared him — See where thou call'st him " Edmond " — " child " — <: life's all ! Can the words be so fresh on this frail record, Yet fade, obliterate from the undying soul ] By these — by these — by all the solemn past, By thy youth's lover— by his secret grave, By every kiss upon thine infant's cheek — By every tear that wept his fancied death — Grieve not that still a first-born calls thee " mother! Lady M. Rise. If these prove that such a son once lived, Where are your proofs that still he lives in you 1 Vyv. There ! in thine heart ! — thine eyes that dare not face me ! Thy trembling limbs, each power, each pulse of being, That vibrates at my voice ! Let pride encase thee With nine-fold adamant, it rends asunder At the great spell of Nature — Nature calls Parent, come forth ! Lady M. {aside) Resolve gives way ! Lost Clarence ! {he rises) What! " Fall as Romans fell, on their swords' point 1 '■ No.Clarence.no! {turning fiercely) Imposter ! If thy craft Hath, by suborning most unworthy spies, Sought in the ruins of a mourner's life Some base whereon to pile this labored falsehood, Let law laugh down the fable — Quit my presence. Vyv. No. I will not. Lady M. Will not ! Ho ! Vyv. Call your hirelings, And let them hear me. {to r. c ) Lo, beneath thy roof, And on the sacred hearth of sires to both, Under their 'scutcheon, and before their forms Which from the ghostly canvas I invoke To hail their son — 1 take my dauntless stand, Armed with my rights ; now bid your menials thrust From his own hearih the heir of Montreville ! ACT IT. Enter Servants i, 45 Lady M Seize on (eloping her hands before her face.) Out— oiiL! (aside i His father stands before me Iu the son's image No. I dare not ■ First Servant , Madam. D ; d you not summon us « y yv Tliey wai'. vour mandate, Lady of Moatrevilie. Lady M Icaiiednct. Go! ^ ADY 1V1 [Exeunt Servants, l. Art thou my son ? If so. have mercy, Edmond ! Lei Heaven attest with what remorseful soul I yielded to mv ruthless fathers will, And with coid'lips profaned a second vow. I had a child— I was a parent true j But exiled from the parent s paradise. Not mine the frank K>v in the face of day. The pride, the boast the triumph, and the rapture ; Thy couch was sought as with a felons step, And whispering nature shuddered at detection. Ah, could'st thou gruess what hell to loftier minds It is to live m one eternal lie Yet spite of all, how dear thou wert ' Vtv . , Iwas1 Is the time past forever 1 What my sin ! Lady M. I loved thee till another son was born, A blossom 'mid the snows Thou wert afar, Seen rarelv— alien— on a stra.gers breast Leaning for life, {with great feeling) But this thrice-blessed on« Smiledln mine eyes, took being from my breast, Slept in mine arms ; here love asked no concealment— Here the tear shamed not— here the kiss was glory— Here I put on my royalty of woman— The guardian, the protector ; food, health, life — It clung to me for all. Mother and child, Each was the all to each. Vtv. 0- prodigal, Such wealth to him, yet naught to spare to me ! Lady M. My boy grew up, my Clarence. Looking on him Men prized his mother more— so fair and stately, And the world deemed to such high state the heir ! Years went ; they told me that by Nature's death Thou hadst in boyhood passed away to heaven. I wept thy fate ; and long ere tears were dried, The thought that danger, too, expired for Clarence, Did make thy memory gentle. Vyv. Do you wish That I were still what once you wept to deem me 1 Lady M. I did rejoice when my lip kissed thy brow; I did rejoice to give thy heart its bride ; I would have drained my coffers for her dowry ; But wouldst thou ask me if I can rejoice That a life rises from the grave abrupt To doom the life I cradled, reared, and wrapt From every breeze, to desolation 1 — No 1 4G THK LtiGJJU I L ;. lli.lU. Vvv What would you have me do 1 Lady M. Accept the dowry And blest with Eveline's love, renounce thy mother Vvv Renounce thee ' No — these lips belie not Nature ' Never ' Lady M. Enough — I can ho mean no more. E'en in the prayer that asked his life. Go, slay it. Vvv. Why must uiy life slay his \ Lady M. * Since his was shaped To soar to power — not grovel Lo dependence — And I do seal his deaih-wiii when I say, " Down to the dust, Usurper , bow the knee And sue for alms to the true Lord of Beaufort.'' Those w rds shall not be said — 1 11 find some nobler. Thy rights are clear. The law might long defer them — I do forestall the law. These lands he thine. Wait not my death to lord it in my hall . Thus I say not to Clarence, " lie dependent'' — But I can say, " Share poverty with me." I go to seek him; at his side depart ; He spurns thine alms ; I wronged thee — take thy vengeance! Vyv. Merciless — hold, and hear me — I — alms ! — vengeance ! — True — true, this heart a mother never cradled, Or she had known it better. Lady M. Edmond ' Vyv. Hush ! Call me that name no more — it dies forever! Nay, 1 renounce thee not, for that were treason On the child 8 lip. Parent, i enounce — thy — child! As for these nothings, (giving papers) take them: if you dread To find words, once too fond, they're blurr'd already — You'll see but tears : tears of such sweetness, madam. I did not think of lands and halls, pale Countess, I did but think — tnese arms shall clasp a mother. " Now they are worthless — take them. Never guess How covetous I was — how hearts, cast off, Pine for their rights— rights not of parchment, lady." Part we, then, thus 1 No, put thine arms around me ; Let me remember in the years to come, That I have lived to sav, a mother blessed me ! (kneels.) Lady M. Oh, Edmond, Edmond, thou hast conquered ! Thy father's voice !— his eyes ! Look down from heaven, Bridegroom, and pardon me ; I bless thy child ! Vyv. Hark ! she has blessed her son ! It mounts to heaven, The blessing of the mother on her child ! Mother, and mother -.—how the word thrills thro' me ! Mother again, dear mother ! Place thy hand Here — on my heart Now thou hast felt it beat, Wilt thou misjudge it more 1 Lady M. Oh ! Vyv. Recoil'st thou still 1 Lady M (breaking from him). What have I done ! — betrayed, con- demned my Clarence ! (to B., frantically.) Vyv. (c). Condemned thy Clarence ! By thy blessing, No ! That blessing was my birthright. I have won That which I claimed. Give Clarence all the rest. Silent, as sacred, be the memory ACT IV. 47 Of this atoning hour. Look, evermore (kissing Iter) Thus — thus I seal the secret of thy first-born ' Now. only Clarence lives ! Heaven guard thy Clarence ! Now deem me dead to thee. Farewell, farewell ! [Exit Vtvtah, l. Ladt M. (rushing after him). Hold, hold— too generous, hold ! Come back, my son! \Exit Lady Montreville, l. Scene changes to SCENE II. — Sea and Rocks in 4th grooves. Enter Lord Beaufort, l. 1 e. Lord B. And still not here ! The hour has long since passed. I'll climb yon tallest peak, and strain mine eyes Down the "sole path between the cliff and ocean. {goes tip steps R., and off n. 2 E.) Enter Wrecklyffb, l. 1 e. Wreck. The boors first grinned, then paled, and crept away ; The tavern-keeper slunk, and muttered " Hangdog ! " And the she-drudge whose rough hand served the drink, Stifled her shriek, and let the tankard fall ! It was not so in the old merry days : Then the scarred hangdog was " fair gentleman." And — but the reckoning waits. Why tarries ho 1 (beat on bass drum, with diminuendo beats, for signal gun, and its echo.es.) A signal ! Ha ! Vyv. (offi>.) I come, I come! Wreck, (grasping his cutlass, but receding as he sees Beaufort entet r. I e.) Hot lordling ! 1 had well nigh forestalled thee. Patience ! [Exit around set rock, h. c. Lord B. (r. 2 e., on platform.) Good! From crag to crag he bounds — my doubts belied him ; His haste is eager as my own. Enter Vyvyan, l. 1 e., crossing and going up R. steps. Sir, welcome. (both on first platform, r. u. E.) Vyv. Stay me not, stay me not ! Thou hast all else But honor — rob me not of that ! Unhand me ! Lord B. Unhand thee 1 yes — to take thy ground and draw. Vyv. Thou know'st not what thou gayest. Let me go ! Lord B. Thyself didst name the place and hour : Vyv. For here I thought to clasp — (aside) I have no brother now ! Lord B. He thought to clasp his Eveline. Death and madness! Vyv. Eveline ! Thou lov'st not Eveline. " Be consoled. Thou hast not known affliction — hast not stood Without the porch of the sweet home of mpii ; Thou hast leaned upon no reed that pierced the heart ; Thou hast not known what it is, when in the desert 48 TUE IilGHTFUX II KIR. Tlie hopeless find ihe fountain.'' Happy boy, Thou hast not loved Leave love to man and sorrow! Lord B. Dost thou presume upon my years ? Dull scoffer! The brave is man betimes — the coward never. Boy if I be, my playmates have been veterans ; My toy a sword, and my first lesson valor. And, had I taken challenge as thou hast, And on the ground replied to bold defiance With random words implying dastard taunts, " With folded arms, pale lip, and haggard brow," I'd never live to call myself a man. Thus says the boy, since manhood is so sluggard, Soldier and captain. Do not let me strike thee ! Vtv. Do it, — and tell thy mother, when thy hand Outraged my cheek, I pardoned thee, and pitied. Lord B. Measureless insult ! Pitied! (drum for gun as before.) Vy v. There again ! And still so far ! Out of my path, insane one! Were there naught else, thy youth, thy mother's love Should make th^3 sacred to a warrior's arm — Out of my path. Thus, then, (suddenly lifts, and puts him aside.) Oh, England— England ! Do not reject me too ! — I come ! I come ! (up the steps to upper platform.) Lord B. Thrust from his pathway — every vein runs fire ! Thou shalt not thus escape me — Stand or die ! (sword in hunt, drives Vyvyan to the edge of the cliff, and he grasps, for support, the bough of tree.) Vyv. Forbear, forbear! Lord B. Thy blood on thine own head ! (drum for gun as before. As Beaufort lifts his sword and strikes, Vyvyan retreats — ihe bough breaks, and Vyvyan swings L., and down into centre trap.) ^ Wreck, (rises r. c. by trap). Is the deed done 7 If not, this steel completes it. (waves cutlass and exit down trap. Lord Beadfort sinks on his knee in horror. Work ship on R. to L., across.) SLOW CURTAIN. ACT V. SCENE I.— Same as Act IV., Scene II. Enter Sir Grey de Malpas, l., leaning on cane. Sir G. A year — and Wrecklyffe still is mute and absent, Even as Vyvyan is ' Most clear ! He saw, And haply shared, the murderous deed of Beaufort ; And Beaufort's wealth hath bribed him to desert Penury and me. That Clarence slew his brother I cannot doubt. He shuts me from his presence ; But I have watched him, wandering, lone, yet haunted- ACT v. 49 Marked the white lip and glassy eves of one For whom the grave lias ghosts, and silence, horror. His mother, on vague pretext of mistrust That I did sell her first-born to the pirate. Excludes me from her sight, hut sends me alms Lest the world cry, ' : See, her poor cousin starves ! " Can she guess Beaufort's guilt ] Nay ! For she lives ! I know that deed, which, told unto the world, AVould make me heir of Montreville. 0, mockery ! For how proceed 1 — no proof ! How charge 1 — no witness ! How cry, " Lo ! murder! " yet produce no corpse ! Enter Alton, r. Alton Sir Grey de Malpas ! I was on my way To your own house. Sir G. Good Alton — can I serve you 1 Alton. The boy I took from thee, returned a man Twelve months ago: mine oath absolved. Sir G. 'Tis true. Alton. Here did I hail the rightful lord of Montreville, And from these arms he rushed to claim his birthright. Sir G. (aside). She never told me this Alton. That night his war-ship Sailed to our fleet. I deemed him with the battle. Time went ; Heaven's breath had scattered the Armada. I sate at my porch to welcome him — he came not I said, " His mother has abjured her offspring, And law detains him while he arms for justice." Hope sustained patience till to-day. Sir G. To-day 1 Alton. The very friend who had led me to his breast Returns and Sir G. (soothingly.) Well 1 Alton. He fought not with his country. Sir G. And this cold friend lets question sleep a year 1 Alton. His bark too rashly chased the flying foe ; Was wrecked on hostile shores; and he a prisoner. Sir G. Lean on my arm, thou'rt faint. Alton. Oh, Grey de Malpas, Can men so vanish — save in murderous graves! You turn away. Sir G. What murder without motive 1 And who had motive here! Alton. Unnatural kindred. Sir G. Kindred ! Ensnare me not ! Mine, too, that kindred. Old man, beware how thou asperse (pause) Lord Beaufort ! Alton. Beaufort! Oh, horror! How the instinctive truth Starts from thy lips ! Sir G. From mine 1 Alton. Yes. Not of man Ask pardon, if accomplice Sir G. I, accomplice ! Nay, since 'tis my good name thou sulliest now— This is mine answer : Probe ; examine ; search ; And call on justice to belie thy slander. Go, seek the aid of stout Sir Godfrey Seymour ; 50 I'HE KlGfiXTOI HEIE. A dauntless magistrate ; strict, upright, honest ; {aside). At heart a Puritan, and hates a Lord, "With otlier slides that tit into my grooves. Alton. He bears with all the righteous name thou giv'st him, Thy zeal acquits thyself. Sir G.. And charges nor.e. Alton. Heaven reads the heart. Man can but track ihe deed. My task is stern. [Exit Alton, l. Sir G Scent lies — suspicion dogs, And with hot breath pants on the flight of conscience. Ah ! who comes here 1 Sharp wit, round all occasion! Enter Falkner with Sailors, l. Falk. Learn all you can — when latest seen, and where — Meanwhile I seek yon towers. [Exeunt Sailors, l. Sin G. Doubtless, fair sir, I speak to Vyvyan's friend. My Mime is Malpas — Can it be true, as Alton doth infoim me, That you suspect your comrade died by murder 1 Falk. Murder ! Bib <1. And by a rival's hand 1 Amazed! Yet fjirely so I did conceive the priest. Falk. Murder! — a rival !— true, he loved a maiden! Sir G. In yonder halls! Falk. Despair! Am I too late For all but vengeance ! Speak, sir — who this rival ] Sir G. Vengeance ! — fie — seek tho.-e towers, and learn compassion. Sad change indeed, since here, at s lent night, Your Vyvyan met the challenge of Lord Beaufort. Falk. A challenge 1 — here ? — at night 1 Sir G. Yes, this the place. How sheer the edge ! crag, cave, and chasm below ! If the foot slipped, — nay, let us think slipped heedless, — Or some weak wounded man were headlong plunged, "What burial place more secret ? Falk. Hither, look ! Look where, far down the horrible descent, Through some fresh cleft rush subterranean waves, How wheel and circle ghastly swooping wings ! Sir G. The sea-gulls ere a storm, Falk. No! Heaven is clear ! The storm they te\\, speeds lightning towards the guilty. So have I seen the foul birds in lone creeks Sporting around the shipwrecked seaman's bones. Guide me, ye spectral harbingers ! {down c trap. Music.) Sir G. From bough To bough he swings — from peak to slippery peak I see him dwindl ns down ; — the loose stones rattle ; He falls — he falls — but 'lights on yonder ledge, And from the glaring sun turns steadfast eyes N Where still the sea-gulls wheel ; now crawls, now leaps ; Crags close around him — not a glimpse nor sound ! 0, diver for the dead ! (sinks doivn as if watching Falkner then rises) Bring up but bones, And round the sku'l I'll wreathe my coronet. [Exit, k. ACT T. Scene changes to SCENE II. — Interior in 1st grooves. Enter Lady Montreville and Marsden, l. Lady M. Will he nor hunt nor hawk'? This constant gloom! Canst thou not guess the cause 1 He icas so joyous ! Mars. Young plants need air and sun ; man's youth the world. Young men should nine for action. Comfort, madam, The cause is clear, if you recall the date. Lady M. Thou hast marked the date ? Mars. Since that bold seaman's visit. Lady M. Thy tongue runs riot, man. How should that stranger — I say a stranger, strike dismay in Beaufort 1 Mars. Dismay ! Not that, but emulation! Lady M. Ay ! You speak my thoughts, and I have prayed our Queen To rank your young lord with her chivalry ; This day mine envoy should return. Mars. This day 1 Let me ride forth and meet him ! Lady M. Go ! [Exit Marsden, l. 'Tis true ! Such was the date. Hath Clarence guessed the secret — Guessed that a first-born lives 1 I dread to question! Yet sure the wronged was faithful, and the wrong Is my heart's canker-worm and gnaws unseen. Where wanderest thou, sad Edmond 1 Not one word To siy thou liv'st — thy very bride forsaken, As if love, frozen at the parent well-spring, Left every channel dry ! What hollow tread, Heavy and weary falls 1 Is that the step Which touched the mean earth with a lightsome scorn, As if the air its element 1 Enter, Beaufort, r., in mantle. 4 Lord B. Cold ! cold ! And yet I saw the beggar doff his frieze, Warm in his rags. I shiver under ermine. For me 'tis never summer — never — never ! Lady M. How fares my precious one 1 Lord B. Well ; — but so cold. Ho ! there ! without ! Enter Servant, l. Wine ! wine ! [Exit Servant, l. Lady M. Alas ! alas ! Why, this is fever — thy hand burns. Lord B. That hand ! Ay, that hand always burns. Re-enter Servant, l., with wine in goblet, on salver. Look you — the cup 52 THE KIGHIFLL HEIR. The wondrous Tuscan jeweller, Cellini, Made for a king ! A king's gift to thy father ! What 1 Serve such gaads to me ! Lady M. Thyself so ordered In the proud whims thy light heart made so graceful. Lord B. Was I proud once "? Ha ! ha ! what's this 1 — not wine 1 Servant. The Malvoisie your lordship's friends, last year, Esteemed your rarest. Lord B. How one little year Hath soured it into nausea ! Faugh — 'tis rank. Lady M. (to Servant). Send for the leech — quick — go. [Exit Servant, l. Oh, Clarence ! Clarence ! Is this the body's sickness, or the soul's ! Is it life's youngest sorrow, love misplaced'! Thou dost not still love Eveline 1 Lord B. Did I love her 1 Lady M. Or one whose birth might more offend my pride 1 Well, I am proud. But I would hail as daughter The meanest maiden from whose smil<> thy lip Caught smiles again. Thy smile is day to me. Lord B. Poor mother, fear not. Never hermit-monk, Gazing on skulls in lone sepulchral cells, Had heart as proof to woman's smile as mine. Lady M. The court — the camp — ambition Enter Marsden, with a letter, R. Mars. From the Queen ! (while the Countess reads, Marsden, turning to Lord Beaufort) My dear young lord, be gay ! The noblest knight, In all the land, Lord Essex, on his road From conquered Cadiz, 'with the armed suite That won his laurels," sends before to greet you, And prays you will receive him in your halls. Lord B. The flower of England's gentry, spotless Essex ! Sully him not, old man, bid him pass on. Lady M. Joy, Beaufort, joy ! August Elizabeth Owns thee her knight, and bids thee wear her colors, And break thy maiden lance for England's lady. Lord B. I will not go. Barbed steeds and knightly banners- Baubles and gewgaws ! Mars. Glorious to the young. Lord B. Ay — to the young ! Oh, when did poet dreams Ever shape forth such a fairy land as youth ! Gossamer hopes, pearled with the dews of morn, Gay valor, bounding light on welcome peril, — Errors themselves, the sparkling overflow, Of life as headlong, but as pure as streams That rush from sunniest hill-tops kissing heaven, — Lo ! that is youth. Look on my soul, old man, Well — is it not more gray than those blanched hairs 1 (falls in seat, c.) Lady M. He raves. Heed not his words. Go speedy the leech ! [Exit Marsden, r., quickly, (aside). I know these signs — by mine own soul I know them ; This is nor love, nor honor's sigh for action, aqj: t. 53 Nor Nature's milder suffering. This is guilt ! (sits, l. c.) Clarence— now, side by side, I sit with thee ! Put thine arms round me, lean upon my breast- It is a mother's breast. So, that is well ; Now— whisper low— what is thy crime 1 Lord B. (bursting into tears). Oil, mother 1 Would thou hadst never borne me ! Lady M Ah > "«S ratetul ! Loud B ' No— for thy sake I speak. Thou— justly proud, For 'thou art pure ; thou, on whose whitest name Detraction spies no soil— dost thou say 1: crime ' Unto thy son ; and is his answer tears 7 Enter Eveline, r., weaving flowers as in Act I. Evel. Blossoms, I weave ye To di ift on the sea, Say when ye find him Who sang :1 Woe is me ! " (approaching Beaufort) Have you no news 7 T ^ i> Of whom 1 Evel Of Vyvyan 7 Lord B. That name I Her reason wanders ; and oh, mother, When that name's uttered— so doth mine— hush, hush it. (Eveline goes to window, and throws garland through) Lady M. Kill me at once— or when I ask again, What is thv crime 7— reply, "No harm to Vyvyan! Lord B. (breaking away). Unhand me ! Let me go ! [Exit Lord Beaufort, l., wildly. Lady M ™ s P ulse beats slill! Nature rejects me ! Evel. Come, come— see the garland, It dances on the waves so merrily. Enter Marsden, r. Mars, (drawing aside Lady ML). Forgive this haste. Amid St. Kini- a'n's Cliffs Where, once an age, on glassy peaks may glide The shadow of a man, a stranger venturing Hath found bleached human bones, ai.d to your hall, Nearest at hand, and ever famed for justice, Leads on the crowd, and saith the dead was Vyvyan Evel. Ha ! who named Vyvyan 7 Has he then come back 7 Mars. Fair mistress, no. LAD y M. ^ °n this terrible earth Pity lives still— lead her away. Be tender. Evel, (approaching Lady M.). I promised him to love you as a mo- Kiss me%nd trust in Heaven ! He will return ! [Exeunt Eveline ana Maksden, r. Lady M. These horrors are unreal. Servant. Enter Servant, r. Noble mistress. 54 THE EIGMFUL HEIli. Sir Godfrey Seymour, summoned here in haste, Craves your high presence in t tie Justice Hall. Lady M. Mine — mine 1 Where yuest Lhou ? Servant. Sir Godfrey hade me Seek my young lord. ■*L»t>y M. Stir not. My son is ill. Thyself canst witness how the fevei — {hurrying r.) Marsden f Enter Marsden, r. . My stricken Clarence ! — In his state, a rumor Of — of what passes here, might blast life — reason : Go, lure hitn hence — if he resist, use force As to a maniac. Ah! good old man, thou lov'sthim; His innocent childhood played around thy knees — I know I can trust thee — Quick — speak not : — Save ! [ Exit Marsdsh, l. (to Servant) Announce my coming. [Exit Servant, r. This day, life lo shield The living son : — Death, with the dead, to-morrow ! [Exit Lady Montreville, r. SCENE III.— Castle Ball, in 5th grooves. Discover Sir Godfrey Seymour seated, l. Clerk, at table, empl writing. Sir Grey de Malpas standing up i., near 8m Godfrey. Falkner, l. c. Halberdiers, Servants. Sir Godf. (to Falkner). Be patient, sir, and give us ample? \u - oof To deem yon (indistinguishable hones The relics of your friend. Falk. That gentleman Can hack my oath, that those, the plume, tire gem Which Vyvyan wore — I found them on the cliff. Sir Godf. Verily, is it so 1 Sir G. (with assumed re uctance"). Sith law compel me — Yes, I must vouch it. Enter Servant, r. 2 e. Servant (placing a chair of state). Sir, my lady comes. Sir G. And her son. Enter, r. 2 e., Lady Montreville, and seats herself, r. c. Sir Godf. You pardon, madam, mine imperious duties, And know my dismal task Ladt M. Pray you he hrief, sir. Sir Godf. Was, this time year, the captain of a war-ship, Vyvyan his name, your guest 1 Lady M. But one short day — To see my ward, whom he had saved from pirates. Sir Godf. I pray you, madam, in his converse with you Spoke he of any foe, concealed or open, AVhom he had cause to fear 1 Lady M. Of none ! Sir Godf. Nor know you Of any such ] ACT V. „ OD LADY M. (after a pause). I do not. Sir Godf. (aside to Falkxeii). Would yott farther Question this lady, sir] Falk. No. she is a woman, And mother; let her go. I wait Lord Beaufort. Sir Godf. Madam, no longer will we task you:- p esence. Enter Lord Bbaufort, c. d. r., breaking from Marsden, and other At- tendants. Lord B. Off, dotard, off! Guests in our hali! Lady M. He is ill. Sore ill — fierce fever — I will lead him forth. Come, Clarence ; darling come ! Lord B. Who is this man ? Falk. The friend of Vyvyan, whose pale hones plead yonder. Lord B. I — I will go. L t's steal away, my mother. Falk. Lost friend, in war, how oft thy word was " Spare." — Methinks I hear thee now. (draws Lord Beaufort to r. c.) Young lord, 1 came Into these halls, demanding blood for blood — But thy remorse (this is remorse) disarms me. Speak ; do but say — (look, I am young myself, And know how hot is youih ;) speak — do but say, After warm wn-l-i. struck out from jealous frenzy, Quick swords were drawn: Man's open strife with man — Passion, not murder : Say this, and may law Pardon thee, as a soldier does ! Sir Grey (to Marsden). Call Eveline, She can attest our young lord's innocence. [Exit Marsdf.n, Falk. He will not speak, sir, let my charge proceed. Lady M. (aside). Wha e'er the truth — of that — of that hereafter, Now but remember, child, thy birth, thy name ; — Thy mother's heart, it beats beside thee — take Strength from its pulses. Lord B. Keep close, and for thy sake I will not cry — " 'Twas passion, yet still, murder ! " Sir Godf. (tvho hns been conversing aside with Sir Grey). Then jealous love the motive 1 Likelier that Thau Alton's wilder story. Enter Eveline and Marsden, c. d. r. Sweet young madam, Tf I be blunt, forgive me ; we are met On solemn matters which relate to one Who, it is said, was your betrothed : Evel. To Vyvyan ! Sir Godf. 'Tis also said, Lord Beaufort crossed his suit, Ani your betrother resented. Evel. No ! forgave. Sir G. Yes, when you feared some challenge from Lord Beaufort, Did Vyvyan not cast down his sword and say, " Both will be safe, for one will be unarmed 1 (great sensation through the hall.) Falkner and Sir Godfrey. Unarmed ! Evel. His very words ! 56 TliK lUCJUTFUL H.EIB. Falk. Oh, vile assassin ! Sib Godf. Accuser, peace ! This is most grave. Lord Beaufort, Upon such tokens, with your own strange bearing. As ask appeal to more august tribunal, You stand accused of purposed felon muider On one named Vyvjan, Captain of tlie Dreadnought — " Wouldst thou say aught against this solemn charge? " Evel. Murdered ! — he — Vy vyau ! Thou his murderer, Clarence, In whose rash heat my hero loved frank valor 1 Lo ! I, to whom his life is as the sun Is to the world — with my calm trust in Heaven Mantle thee thus. Now, speak ! Lady M. (aside). Be firm — deny, and live. Lord B. (attempting to be haughty). You call my bearing " strange 1 " — what marvel, sir I Stunned by such charges, of a crime so dread. What proof against me 1 (Siu Grey meets Alton up r. i h i keeps him in talk ) Lady M. Words deposed by whom] A man unknown ; — a girl's vague fear of quarrel — His motive what 1 A jealous anger ! Phantoms ! Is not my son mine all! And yet this maid /plighted to another. Had 1 done so If loved by him, and at the risk of life ? Again, I ask all present what the motive 1 Alton, (comes down with Sir Greyj.* Bank, fortune, birthirght. Miserable woman ! Lady M. Whence coiu'st thou, pale accuser? Alton. From the dead! Which of ye two will take the post I leave 1 Which of ye two will draw a.Mile that veil, Look on the bones behind, and cry, " I'm jjuiltiess ? " Hast thou conspired with him to slay r thy first-born, Or knows he not that Yyvyan was his brother ? (Lady Montkl- ville swoons. Eveline rushes to Lady Montreyille.) Lord B. My brother ! No, uo, uo ! (clutching holu of Sir Grey.) Kins- man, he lies ! Sir G. Alas! (r. front.) Lord B. Wake, mother wake. I ask not speech. Lift but thy brow — one flash of thy proud eye Would strike these liars dumb ! Alton. Read but those looks To learn that thou art Lord B. Cain ! (grasping Falkner) Out with thy sword — (l.) Hew off this hand. Thou calledst me " assassin ! " Too mild — say "fratricide ! " Cain, Cain, thy brother! (falls sobbing, c. front) Evel. It cannot be so ! No. Thou wondrous Mercy, That, from the pirate's knife, the funeral seas And all their shapes of death, didst save the lone one, To prove to earth how vainly man despairs While God is in the heavens— I cling to thee, As Faith unto its anchor ! (to Sir Grey) Back, false kinsman! I tell thee Vy vyan lives — the boy is guiltless ! ♦Evel. Lady M. Beatjf. Alton. Sib Grey. Sia Godfeey. k- R- c. c. l. c. L. 4.cr v. 57 " Falk. Poor, noble maid ! How my heart bleeds for her ! " Lady M. (starting up). Sentence us both! or stay, — would law con- demn A child so young, if I had urged him to it 1 Sir Godf. Unnatural mother, hush ! Sir Grey, to yon, Perchance ere long, bv. lives too justly forfeit, Raised to this earldom, 1 entrust these — prisoners, (motions to Halberdiers, who advance to arrest Beaufort, who rises, and Lady Montreville.) Mars. Oh, day of woe ! Sir G. Woe — yes ! Make way for us. (trumpet.) Enter Servant, c. d. b. Seavant. My lord of Essex just hath passed the gates ; But an armed knight who rode beside the Earl, After brief question to the crowd without, Sprang from his steed, and forces here his way ! (trumpet flourish.) Enter Vyvyan, c. d. r., sn armor, his visor three parts down. Vyv. Forgiveness of all present ! Sir Godf. Who art thou 1 Vyv. A soldier, knighted by the hand of Essex Upon the breach of Cadiz. Sir Godf. What thy business 1 Vyv. To speak the truth. Who is the man accused Of Vyvyan's murder'? Sir G. You behold him yonder. Vyv. 'Tis false. Sir G. (r. front). His own lips have confessed his crime. Vyv. (throwing down his gauntlet, to r.). This to the man whose crush- ing lie bows down Upon the mother's bosom lhat young head ! Svy you " confess'd! " Oh, tender, tender conscience! Vyvyan, rough sailor, galled him and provoked ; He raised his hand. To the sharp verge of the cliff Vyvyan recoiled, backed by an outstretched bough. The bough gave way — he fell, but not to perish ; Saved by a bush-grown ledge that broke his fall ; Long stunned he lay ; when opening dizzy eyes, On a gray crag between him and the abyss He saw the face of an eld pirate foe ; Saw the steel lifted, saw it flash and vanish, As a dark mass rushed thro' the moonlit air Dumb into deeps below — the indignant soil Had slid like glass beneath the murderer's feet, And his own death-spring whirled him to his doom. Then Vyvyan rose, and, crawling down the rock, Stood by the foe, who, stung to late remorse By hastening death, gasped forth a dread confession. The bones ye find are those of Murder's agent — Murder's arch-schemer — Who 1 Ho ! Grey De Malpas, Stand forth ! -Thou art the man ! Sir Grey, {aside, vehemently). Hemm'd round with toils, O 1HE UIGH'ITUL lliAli. Soul, crouch no more ! (aloud) Base hireling, di ff thy mask.. And my sword writes the lie upon tliy front. By Beaufort's hand died Vyvyan — {draws sword.) Vtv. As the spell Shatters the sorcerer when his fiends desert him, Let thine own words bring doom upon thyself ! Now face the front on which tr> write tiie lie. (removes hemlet, taken nicety by Pages. Sir Grey drops his sword and staggers buck into the arms of Marsden and ALTON, K. front. ) Evel. Thou liv'st, thou liv'st — (removes white from her checks and shows the color.) Vtv. (kneeling to her, a). Is life worth something still 1 Sir Grey. Air, air — my staff — some chord seems broken here, (press- ing his heart.) Marsden, your lord shot his poor cousin's dog ; In the dog's grave — mark ! — bury the poor cousin, (sinks ex- hausted, and is borne out, r. 2 e.) Vyy. Mine all on earth, if I may call thee mine. Eyel. Thine, thine, thro' life, thro' death — one heart, one grave! " I knew thou wouldst return, for I have lived In thee so utterly, thou couldst not die And I live still. — The dial needs the sun ; But love reflects the image of the loved, Tho' every beam be absent ! — Thine, all thine ! " Lady M. My place is forfeit on thy breast, not his. (pointing tc Beaufort.) Clarence, embrace thy brother, and my first-born. His rights are clear — my love for thee suppressed them — He may forgive me yet — wilt thou ? Beau. Forgive thee ! Oh mother, what is rank to him who hath stood Banished from out the social pale of men, Bowed like a slave, and trembling as a felon ? Heaven gives me back mine ermine, innocence ; And my lost dignity of manhood, honor. I miss naught else. — Room there for me, my brother ! Vyv. Mother, come first ! — love is as large as heaven ! " Falk. But why so long Vtv. What ! could I face thee, friend, Or claim my bride, till I had won back honor 1 The fleet had sailed — the foeman was defeated — And on the earth I laid me down to die. ' The prince of England's youth, frankdiearted Essex, Passed by But later I will tell you how Pity woke question ; soldier felt for soldier. Essex then, nobly envying Drake's renown. Conceived a scheme, kept secret till our clarions, Startling the towers of Spain, told earth and time How England answers the invader. Clarence," Look brother — I have won the golden spurs of knighthood ! For worldly gifts, we'll share them — hush, my brother ; Love me, and thy gift is as large as mine. Fortune stints gold to some ; impartial Nature Shames her in proffering more than gold to all — Joy in the sunshine, beauty on the earth, And love reflected in the glass of conscience; Are these so mean 7 Place grief r.nd gui t beside them, ACT V. 59 P: * Decked in a sultan's splendor, and compare ! The world's - most royal he-itage is his Who most enjoys, most loves, and most forgives. All form picture. Music. * * * * * * Villagers, Servants. Marsden. Sir Godfrey. * Vyyyan. Lady M. * Alton. * Eveline. * Beaufort. CURTAIN (slow). EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. / a. 3e. / B. 13. / / SCENE. \ \ \ \ L. IB. AUDIENCE. h. Left. L. 0. Left Centre. l. 1 e. <• Left First Entrance. I.. 2 e. Left Second Entrance. l. 3 e. . Left Third Entrance. l. v. e. Left Upper Entrance (wherever this Scene may be.) v. l. c. Door Left Centre. C. Centre. B. Eight. e. 1 e. Eight First Entrance. b. 2 e. Right Second Entrance. B. 3 e. Eight Third Entrance. b. u. e. Eight Upper Entrance. d. b. c. Door Bight Centre. WALPOLE. Copyright, 1875, bt Robert M. De "Witt. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Thf .Right Hon. ?m Robert Walpoi.b (Member of the English Parliament, Chan- cellor of the Exchequer, and Trime Minister to King George the First). Johs Veasey (also a Member of Parliament, and his Confidant). Sklden Blount (another Member of Parliament, and a very active and powerful Leader of a Party in strong opposition to Walpole). Sir Sidnky Bm.i.air (another Member of Parliament— a fashionable and wealthy young Baronet, and also an opponent to Walpole). Lord Nitusdai.e (t young Scotch Nobleman— a firm Jacobite Supporter of tho ' Pretender). First Jacobite Loud ) _ _ Second Jacobite Lord , l Su PP° rter8 ot the Pretender). UVOS. Wilmot (an Orphan, and the Protege of Selden Blount). Mrs. Vizard (a widowed matronly Lady, having charge of Lucy, and in the pay of Selden Blount, at the same time not objecting to assist the Jacobite Party). Coffee-House Loungers, Waiters, Footmen, Servants, Newsmen, etc. PERIOD — 1717— the commencement of the reign of George 1., King of England. SCENERY (English.) ACT /.—Tom's Coffee-House, in, London in 4th grooves. Open. : Table. ; Table. ! Table. : : : : c Closed in. ; Table and Chairs. Fireplace. ( *l l» Table and Chair*. *LZN B Open. Opan. The walls in panelling, dark red oak u few named oil paintings, portrait ol Queen Anne, Marlborough, Charles I., alter Vandyke, the Batue 01 liienneiUi, etc. ; BWt- uette of Bacchus, print of Sir Walter Raleigh smoking; a iraiuea set ui cimons to- bacco-pipes arranged as a trophy ; East Indian curiosities ; a stuffed raccoon, a handbill on a nail: " Distressed Mother. ...His Majesty's Servants.... Prices of the Places," a handbill " £25 Reward. Whereas certain know u tor their excess- es Mohocks did set upon maltreat.... rolled the said Sarah Frost, in a hogshead, down Holborn Hill.... on the night of...." Old muskets and swords crossed, over fireplace, under a map. A, A, A, A, partitions of panelled oak, five feet high, making small rooms or " boxes," of the space between them, in which is a table with a seat running around three sides of each box. C, stairs leading off up from, stage. K. u. e., open for Waiters to exit as to kitchen, for coffee, etc. L. 2 f.., double door. B, a bar, with oyster patties, meat pies, newspapers, books, tobacco jars, red, with gilt Arms of Great Britain on them, and " Tom's " in black letters • a public snuff-box, large. E, a cheval glass, on a stand, in which the Loungers loob before going off l. d. Curtains to th - boxes, red. ACT II. -Sc ne i— Room in 2d grooves writing materials, etc. Scene //.—Room in 2d grooves. AYALPOLK. 3 Portraits on wall ; rich tables ; ch iir- ; Secret Door. Door, j Window Door. A, a clock. Balcony outside of window. Stone ///.—Outside of a House, court and garden wall in 5th grooves. Open. £. A Landscape. ■ ; : '; Wall. A a :: * * * * * : : . . .Tree. Wall. Door. Window. Open. •••Tree. 3 Wall. Tree. 2 On flat, view of housetops, with a park of trees between. 4th groove Una, a row of biue posts, set near enough to prevent a cart passing between them, four feet high. L. v. e., closed m by a garden wall or hedge. L. 1 and 2 E., a garden wall, six feet high, With spikes on top, and a creeping plant, R. 3 E., a low wall. E. 1 and 2 ^., a set house front, on the ground floor a window, 1 e., and d. 2 e. above it, a practica- ble window with balcony. B, iron railing, with posts to the door, with lamps, and iron sockets, such as were used as extinguishers for torches. ACT III.— Seine /.—St. James's Park in 1st grooves (or can be painted on canvas to roll up) ; two benches to be pushed on n. and L. Sunset effect. Tree wings. Sky sink and borders. Scene //.—Same as Scene /., Act II., in 2d grooves. Scene ///.-Samo as Scene II., Act II., but set in 3d grooves instead of 2d. PROPERTIES. ACT 1 • Trays ; plates ; blue china cups and saucers ; chocolate dishes : eatable ; a joint of meat, a ham, some preserves, on bar ; pipes, tobacco, etc. Act II.- Scene 1st Writing materials, books and papers on table ; three chairs. Scene id : A purse, filled ; poker ; hand-bell. Scene 3d: Pebbles. Act ZH.-Scene 1st: Note Scene 2d: Note as before candles in candle-sticks ; book on table ; hand-bell pocket-book. Seme 3d: Lamr ; miniature for Lucy ; note-book ; key. "WAirOI.F. COSTUMES. Walpole.— Act I : Square-cut coat and long-flapped waistcoat of dark-colored cloth , the cuffs of the coat broad and trimmed with lace ; silk hose drawn up high over the knees so as to join the breeches, of a similar material to the coat, underneath the waistcoat flaps ; while lace neckcloth with long ends ; three- cornered hat, black, with the sides turned up; long curled wig; high-heeled shoes, and buckles; fob watch, seals, snuff-box, and court sword. Act I!. : A rich suit of similar style to the above of dark-blue velvet, embroidered with gold ; lace ruffles, etc. ; white silk stockings. Act III. : Same as Act 1, with a dark-colored roquelaure to throw over him. Selden Blount. — A similar style of dress to that worn by Walpole, of a claret- colored velvet ; black silk stockings ; lace ruffles ; court sword ; high-heeled shoes, etc. , rich snuff-box. Bellair. — A rich showy dress of the same style, but of light-blue velvet, with rich lace ruffles and lace neckcloth ; richly-embroidered waistcoat ; light-colored wig; laced hat; white silk stockings, with breeches of the same material as the coat; high-heeled shoes, and buckles; handsome court sword, and jewelled snuff-box. Lord Nithsdale. — Scarlet velvet coat, waistcoat, and breeches; black silk stock- ings; shoes and buckles; wig of long black hair like a woman's ; lace ruffles and neckcloth ; a gray gown with red flowers upon it, and a black cloth mantle, trimmed with ermine, for the disguise in Scene 2, Act 2, to be followed by a dark gown, and a mantle with a hood to it. Veasey.— A similar style of dress to Walpole's dress in Act 1, but of black cloth or quiet-colored material, with black silk hose, shoes, buckles, hat, sword, etc. Jacobite Lords.— Similar dresses to Lord Nithsdale; short wig : swords; hats, and short cloaks of dark velvet to throw over their dresses. Loungers in the Coffee Uodse. — Dresses of various materials, but all of a similar style, some more showy than others ; wigs, some long and some short; swords, gold-headed canes, etc., so as to give variety to the scene. Footmen and Servants. — Silk stockings, shoes, and buckles; black, and blue breeches; claret-colored coats, with silver buttons; white neckcloths; short wigs. Waiters. — Black sleeveless waistcoats and knee-breeches, of dark material ; white stockings ; shoes and buckles ; long white aprons, white neckcloths, and long skirts to coats. Lucy Wilmot. — Plain embroidered silk dress of amber color, with looped skirt ; white petticoat ; shoes and buckles ; loose sleeves, with lace undersleeves ; hair in curls. Mrs. Vizard. — A full old-fashioned style of dress, of dark flowered silk ; shoes and buckles; cap trimmed with lace; small shawl to throw over shoulders; small lace trimming to the sleeves ; a small patch of black court-plaister near the mouth and on one cheek ; hair bound up in close curls. In the 3d Act, cloak, with hood. TIME OF PLAYING— ONE HOUR AND THREE QUARTERS. WALPOLK. STORY OF THE FLAT AND REMARKS. In the present instance, dealing -with an unacted play, it has heen thought desir- able and advisable to deviate from the plan previously followed of giving the Story and Remarks separately, and in this case to amalgamate them as being a course more likely to supply a better understanding of the plot of the piece, the characters introduced, and the position of affairs at the period selected tor the story of the comedy. The scene is laid in London in the year 1717, in the third year of the reign of George the First. For years the whole country had been put to much trouble by attempts made both iu Scotland and England, as also in France, to place upon the throne, one Charles Stuart, who claimed to be a lineal descendant of James the Second, King of England (who abdicated the throne in 16S8), and who, as such descendant, considered himself entitled to wear the crown. He was known throughout the country by the cognomen of " The Pretender," and his adherents were denominated "Jacobites," from Jacobus, the Latin for James. His claims were supported by numerous pow- erful factions both in France and other countries, and by many noblemen and gentle- men of wealth and distinction ; but although his cause was honestly and bravely advocated, it was compelled to succumb to the sovereign power, and was finally ex- tinguished. So far then as is necessary to explain the terms used in the play in con- nection with the character of Lord Nithsdale and his confederates ; the next point to be touched upon is the political position. The >egislature of England is divided into two parts: the House of Lords, com- posed of members of the peerage, who are entitled to that position by right of birth, royal decree, or from occupying the position of a Bishop or Archbishop of the Pro- testant church ; and the House of Commons, which is composed of gentlemen elected by the people of the various towns and cities. They amount (at the present time) to over 600 in number, and so long as they hold the appointment (to which, it may be mentioned, there is no pay attached, the honor of the position and the patronage it affords being considered an ample equivalent for the expenses of election and the labor attending the performance of the duties belonging to it) they are entitled to put the letters M.P. after their name, signifying their position as Members of Parlia- ment. The House of Commons has absolute control over the expenditure of the funds of the country, the levying of taxes, and the collection of the National Beve- nues from all sources ; hence it is, no matter which political party is in power, the leader of that party is generally appointed to the post of Chancellor of the Exche- quer, or First Lord of the Treasury, and holds the position of Prime Minister, or chief adviser to the reigning sovereign. After all the elections have been made, the members assemble, and continue sit- ting in Parliament for a certain number of years (at the time of the play it was three, it is now seven), at the end of which period it is dissolved, and a new election takes place all over the country, which is termed a " General Election." This, however, only applies to the House of Commons, the members of the House of Lords holding their positions for life. But instead of waiting for the natural expiration of the term for sitting, the Prime Minister, if he should be defeated upon any important question, has the power of causing the House of Commons to be dissolved, and a general election to be had before the specified time, in the hopes of turning out some of his opponents and bringing in persons who are favorable to him, so that when the new Parliament meets, he can be certain of a sufficient number of votes to carry any measures he may propose. These explanations are necessary to show the im- mense power wielded by Walpole and the meaning of his allusion to a general elec- tion in the first scene of the Second Act. Again, the members of both Houses of Parliament are divided into different par- ties, bearing names identifying the particular principles they advocate. At the period in question, there Were only two classes, known as Whigs and Tories : terms which originated in England during the reign of Charles the First or Second. Those who supported the king in his high, exacting, and oppressive claims were called Tories, G KICHELIEU. Upon this information, B iradas endeavors to induce him to side against the Car- dinal, but 1)3 Miuprat knows his immense powjr and is proof against the tempta- tion ; whereupon, B iradas hints artfully, that he loves the beautiful Julie de Mor- temar, an orphan, under the Cardinal's protection, of whom he is himself deeply enamored. The shot is well aimed ; De Mauprat confesses to possess an antipathy to Richelieu, and at the same time admits his love for Julie — at this moment the order for his arrest arrives, and before further treaty can be made, he is conducted away. Baradas rejoices ; in youth, strength valor, and now in love he had always been DeMauprat's inferior— but with his rival removed, success lay before him. Although the King, it was rumored, also loved Julie, he was determined to wed her— to be- come Minister of France— and by the aid of the parchment, when signed, and the assistance of the Due de Bouillon and the Spanish Army he would accomplish ; dethrone the King, and " all in despite of my Lord Cardinal." The scene then shifts to ltichelieu's palace, where Joseph, a Capuchin monk, and his confidant, is acquainting him of the traitorous plot that is in progress -the par- ties concerned in it, and further, that the King has been charmed by Julie. Riche- lieu is grieved to hear this, bat with a firm conceit and consciousness of his extraor- dinary power, he declares emphatically that the King must have no goddess bul the State— and that State must be— himself ! Nothing daunted, Joseph asserts that the King, to conceal his love, and to bring Julie near him, intends to cause her to be married to Baradas. Richelieu determines to thwart this sacrifice, and vows that the only clasp round the neck of B iradas shall be the axe, and not the arms of his ward. Julie arrives, and dispatching Joseph to his prayers, Richelieu feelingly tells her of her father's friendship, who, dying bequeathed her to his care, and that she shall rind in him a second father, who will confer upon her a dowry of wealth, rank, and love worthy of the highest station. He closely aud skillfully questions her of the attentions paid her by the King, Baradas and other courtiers, but without produc- ing any effect, when Huguet, one of his officers, but also a spy against him, announ- ces that the Chevalier de Mauprat waits an audience. Julie, thrown off her guard, starts at the name, and the Cardinal quickly detects the implied confession of love. He commands her to look higher for a match, and warns her that if she hates his foes, she must hate De Mauprat ; but she makes such an earnest appeal that his sternness is disarmed, and he consents to blot out Ins name from his list of foes. Dismissing her into an adjoining chamber, he summons De Mauprat to his pres- ence ; earnestly he reminds him of all the past events, and rebukes him bitterly for having since his return passed his time in wild and reckless living, and in a keen and smartly-telling speech, shows him that to live upon the means and labors of others, without the prospect of repaying them, is simply trickery and theft. His debts must be paid ; but when De M uiprat, answering boldly, says that he is ready to do so, but he should be glad to know where he can borrow the money, the humor of the Cardinal is touched, his severity relaxed, and he perceives at once that the Chevalier is exactly the man to serve the schemes he has in view, and prove a friend. In one of the finest speeches in the play he tells him, though men say he is cruel, he is not so ; he is just, and portrays how he has reconstructed France, and from sloth and crime, raised her to wealth and power; that France needs his aid — and though he came to meet him as a foe, he shall depart as a friend, with honor and wealth in store. De Mauprat is, very naturally, completely astounded at this sud- den change ; under arrest, he came to the interview witli the belief that after it, he should proceed to the Bastile and thence to the scaffold ; instead of which, there comes an offer of friendship and favor, nay, more, the Cardinal tells him he is aware of his love for Julie, and offers her in marriage. De Mauprat, feeling that the sen- tence of death still hangs over him, and that honor forbids the wedding, refuses. In apparent anger, the Cardinal directs his removal to the adjoining chamber (whither he has already sent Julie), and with mock solemnity bids him prepare to behold his execution— that his doom will be private — and to seek speedily for Heaven's mercy. RICHELIEU. / Summoning Joseph, the Cardinal gives orders for the preparation of the neces- sary deeds, and the arrangement of his house near the Luxembourg Palace, as a bridal present for his ward. Returning, overwhelmed with surprise and joy, De Mauprat and Julie receive his congratulations, and upon their departure, another brief but eloquent and thrilling speech, tells of the great man's power and his sou!- binding, ardent love for his country. " France ! I love thee ! All earth aha 1 never pluck thee from my hand ! My mistress, France — my wedded wife — sweet France, Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ?" But the course of true love never did run smooth, aud De Mauprat's case is no ex- ception. Baradas lias learned of the marriage — told the King, thus making him a foe to the husband, and exercising his influence, procures a royal warrant, fori i 1- dicg De Mauprat communicating with Julie by word or letter, and so to continue until the formal annulment of the marriage is obtained, it being illegal. The sen- tence of death was still in force; Julie was a lady of the Court, and as such, accord- ing to the laws of France, could not lawfully be married without the King's permis- sion. Armed with this order, Baradas repairs to De Mauprat's house immediately after the wedding, and meeting him, artfully and skillfully points out, that all which has taken place is only part of a wily, ambitious scheme of Richelieu's — the King loves Julie— to encourage this will increase the Cardinal's position and power— to avoid scandal she must first be married to some one, and in selecting Da Mauprat, he had gratified two passions — ambition, by the gTandeur of his ward, and vengeance by the dishonor of his foe. So skillfully, and with such subtlety is the story to'd that De Mauprat believes it; his anger is unbounded— again the tempter strikes, calling upon him to join the conspiracy ; with Richelieu dead, and Baradas Prime Minister, all will be forgotten Maddened with the thoughts of how basely he has been deceived, De Mauprat refuses to listen, and quits the spot; hut not to escape. Another meeting is to take place to-night, when the compact is to be signed by all the League and forwarded to the Due de Bouillon. Baradas determines that of this dispatch De Mauprat is to know nothing — beshall merely be posted as a sentry at the door — but he shall be the murderer of the Cardinal. At this moment, De Mauprat returns in a perfect state of frenzy. He has seen the King's carriage pass, and in the blindness of his passion, imagines he saw within it — Julie ! Baradas promptly seizes the golden opportunity, and assures him that it was so. Mad with vengeance, De Mauprat believes him, consents to join the conspiracy, and swears that only the blood of Richelieu can obliterate the stain cast upon his honor. In the meanwhile, Joseph has learned more of the proceedings, the plot for the as- sassination, and the intended meeting. The story rouses up all the latent energy of .he great Minister ; he speaks in glowing terms of the exploits of his youth, and bids his page bring to him the double-handed sword he once wielded with such force and skill. Alas ! the strength of- youth lias fled. Sinking into his chair, ho grasps his pen — that is now his weapon— and ruled by a master hand — " The pen is mightier than the sword 1'' Marion arrives with further news of the meeting, and with the intimation that the Duke of Orleans had requested her to find a messenger upon whose fidelity she could rely, to convey dispatches that night to the Due de Bouillon ; and she had promised to send her brother. This is but a subterfuge to assist the Cardinal, to whom she leaves the selection ; he chooses his favorite page, Francois, as being voung, unnoted, faithful, brave, ambitious. He instructs him to arm himself, fol- low Marion, obtain the packet, and upon the fleetest steed lie can procure, bring it to the Castle of Ruelle, whither the Cardinal intends to go for safety. He then questions Joseph as to the faithfulness of Huguet, who, unnoticed, enters, and over- hears their conversation, by which he learns that certain honors he is expecting are to be promised to him but not granted. Breathing vengeance he retires unob- served ; but returns shortly to receive instructions from the Cardinal to take steps 8 WALPOLE. Commons, where the members have the pleasure occasionally of badgering and bait* ing the Prime Minister. Veasey perceives very plainly there is no chance of winning him over in that way, and retires to consider what other scheme is likely to suit hia leader's purpose. At an interview which follows, between Bellair and Blount, the former jokes the latter upon having seen him the previous evening, muffled up in his cloak, huir.\ing up the court leading to Mrs. Vizard's house. Blount is astounded at Bellair having any knowledge of this person, but the more so when he mentions the name of the young lady in her charge, and relates the circumstances under which he became acquainted with her, confessing frankly that he is deeply in love with her, and that although forbidden the house, he visits the neighborhood every day and exchanges salutations from the window. ITe begs Blount — who admits that he knows the par- ties—to make him acquainted with her history; but Blount excuses himself, assur- ing Bell lir that she is of very humble origin, and vastly beneath him in position. But the young baronet is not to be put off so easily ; he aassures Blount that his love is genuine and honorable, and he makes him promise to mention the matter to Lucy and to plead his cause Walpole's plan for the escape of Nithsdale turns out as he expecteded, and he is just in receipt of the information when Blount calls upon him, and lie takes the opportunity of soiinding him. This interview is most admirably described ; in witty, sharp, and well chosen lan- guage, W'alpo'.e boldly opens up his plan for saving the nation, offering place and patronage in return for the support of Blount and his party, and pushing pen and paper towards him to write his own terms. Blount does so, and with a low bow hands his reply to Walpole, striding haughtily away. To his chagrin, the minister finds written down : " 'Mongat the men who are bought to save England inscribe me, And my bribe is the head of the man who would bribe me !" But Walpole is not to be beaten so easily ; certainly to threaten impeachment and desire the forfeit of his head is rather high, and, at the same lime, rather objec* tionable ambition, and he observes, facetiously: " So he calls himself honest ! What highwayman's worse Thus to threaten my life when I offer my purse ? Hem ! he can't be in debt, as the common talk runs, For the man who scorns money has never known duns ; And jet have him I must ! Shall I force or entice? Let me think— let me think ; every man has his price." It so happens that Mrs. Vizard's house is not only an asylum for Lucy, but is also a meeting place for some of the Jacobite leaders. Accordingly, upon making his escape, disguised in his wife's garments,* Nithsdale is conducted there by his con- federates, who represent him as the wife of one of their party now in exile, and that they are seeking to hide her until sunset, when she will be able to make her way down to the river and get on board a vessel bound for France. Mrs. Vizard agrees to this, and they arrange to send a carriage at sunset, when a stone thrown up at the window shall be the signal that a trusty messenger is in waiting. They are interrupted by a knocking at the door, and effect a hasty retreat by a secret passage, as Mrs. Vizard conceals Nithsdale, and calmly receives the un- looked for visit of Selden Blount. In a very tew words he tells her he has heard of the occurrence which took place on the return from church, and directs that Lucy shall be sent to him and that they shall be left alone. In a very pretty speech, he points out to his protege the danger of an intimacy with such a gay gallant as Sir Sid- * The visit of Lord Nithsdale's wife, as mentioned in the play, is not historically correct. He and six other lords were arrested for treason as supporting the rebel- 1 ion, all but one pleaded guilty. Nithsdale and two others were ordered for immedi- ate execution ; but the night before he had the good fortune to escape in clothes which his mother brought him. The others were beheaded the next morning. WALPOLK. 9 ney Bellair, anil pictures to her the joy and happiness of a beautiful cottage and gardens where, as soon as lie is daily freed from the toil of business, he can share with her love, name and fortune. Completely overcome by this sudden avowal, Lucy withdraws to her chamber, whilst Blount considering the matter settled, bids Mrs. Vizard prepare for departure, as he is going at once in search of a parson. At this moment a newsman passing through the street, calls out the intelligence of the escape of Nithsdale, and the offer of one thousand guineas for his apprehension. As she listens to the description of the dress, it strikes Mrs. Vizard that her guest is the escaped lor.l, and she determines to lock up both him and Lucy whilst she has- tens logive the infoimation and secure the reward. Bat Lucy, overhearing Blount tell Mrs. Vizard to lock the door safely, slips out and conceals herself behind the window curtains as her guardian carefully fastens the door of the empty chamber. As soon as she is gone, Lucy is alarmed by a violent rapping at the outer door of the apartment, and before she can recover from her fright, it is burst open and Nithsdale appears. In a few hurried words he excuses his disguise to Lucy, as his companions did to Mrs. Vizard, and urges her to furnish him with other clothes ; she tells him that her chamber door is fastened, when, with an abruptness which startles her, he produces a very effective key in the shape of a poker which has already opened one door and now does duty a second time. He obtains a hood, gown, and mantle, for which he warmly thanks and kisses Lucy, who, astonished and be- wildered at his Amazonian conduct, innocently remarks, " What a wonderful girl !" , Bellair, anxious to know the result of Blount's labors in his behalf, hastens in his carriage towards Mrs. Vizard's house, and leaving it close by, meets with Blount, who is vainly endeavoring to rind a parson. Blount assures him that Lucy has rejected his off t and promised her hand to another, and leaving him to reflect upon the intelli- gence, goes upon his search. But Bellair determines to know the truth from Lucy's own lips, and accordingly, as he perceives some one at the window, throws up a pebble. This is the agreed Jacobite signal, so Nithsdale jumps down into the arras of Bellair, who, believing it to be Lucy, attempts a kiss, only to receive a smart box on the ears. Although somewhat staggered at such a reception, he vows that he will not be baffled, and raises the hood ; a struggle follows, and he declares unless an explanation is given that he will call for the watch. Nithsdale speaks out boldly, and avows that he owes his life to Lucy, imploring him to save or sell him quickly Bellair determines to do the former, and though he thus risks his own life by aiding the escape of a rebel, the mention of Lucy's name overcomes all scruples ; lie escorts Nithsdale to the carriage and starts him off to the river side. Returning he meets Lucy at the window, and earnestly pleading his love, vowing eternal constancy and truth, he gains her promise to elope with him that night. Blount succeeds at last in finding a parson, and he determines that after a brief honeymoon lie will return to his seat in Parliament, and there taunt Walpole with the bribes he offered. Whilst thus laying down plans for future action, Bellair, full of gayety and delight, happens to meet him and tells him of his plans for running off with Lucy, and begs him to attend at his house and give her away, having arranged for two of his aunts to be present at the ceremony. At this moment one of the Jacobite lords enters, and requesting a few minutes private conversation with Bel- lair, hands to him a letter of thanks from Nithsdale. Veasey arriving, observes the two in conversation, and knowing the Jacobite, watches them closely. Bellair tells Blount, never suspecting him, to beware of Mrs Vizard, as she has attempted to surrender Nithsdale, whom he confesses to having assisted in his escape, in proof of which he shows the letter just rec-ived. Blount reads it carefully, advises him to be cautious in concealing it, and pretending to place the important document in Bellaii's pocket, but letting it drop, as the young baronet hurries away, picks it up. Now then is the time to turn the tables upon his rival ; he informs Veasey of the discovery he has made, and it is determined that a warrant shall be at once issued for the arrest of Bellair, which will enable Blount to secure Lucy. 10 KICHELIETJ. In the last scene, we find the Court and all the leading conspirators assembled, laying plans for future operations. The King-, thinking she has changed her views, grants an audience to Julie, but she comes to appeal for her husband's pardun, which she does in exquisitely written, eloquent, and fervent language. The King is moved, and directs Baradas to speak with her. He does so, and of- fers that if she will annul the marriage aud become his wife, the same day shall D j Maupratbe free. "With scorn and indignation, the chance is rejected, upon which he summons the guards and their prisoner, who assures Julie that life is short but love is immortal. As he is being led off, the Cardinal arrives, supported by Joseph, and apparently sinking fast. He appeals to Baradas in his present high position, to grant him one favor — DeMauprat's life. But the stakes are too heavy — ''My head," replies the Minister, " I cannot lose one trick." Seizing the opportunity of the King's return, the Cardinal, to the amazement of all assembled, announces his resignation, and calls upon his under secretaries to read 1 heir reports. They show such a state of trouble, revolt, and ruin in all (he surrounding countries, whilst France alone- is firm, made, so, by Richelieu's skillful hand, that the King shudders to think there is no master mind like his to succeed him. At this moment, Francois enters, and as he hands the dispatch to Richelieu ob- serves lowly, " I have not failed." In an instant it is placed in the King's hands. "With horror and dismay the conspirators hear it read, and their names repeated. The hour of triumph is too much for the Cardinal, who sinks exhausted, as a 1 think, dying. The King passionately implores him to live, if not for his sake, for his country — for France ! Like a magician's charm does the word fall upon his ears, and with a superhuman power, all his latent energies revive. Orders are sent forth for the arrest of the Due de Bouillon at the head of his army —one by one, the con- spirators are dispatched to their doom— the death writ of De Mauprat thrown to the winds — happiness restored— and the Cardinal Minister, greater than ever, exclaims ; " My own dear France— I have thee yet — I have saved thee ! I clasp thee still — it was thy voice that call'd me Back from the tomb ! What mistress like our country ?" REMARKS. The few observations addressed to the reader of the Lady of Lyons (the first of the present new series of Bulwer's plays) are sufficient notes of the merits and high in- tellectual attainments and ability of the distinguished author of the two plays. So enthusiastically was the Lady of Lyons received, so decided was its success in London and the Provinces, as well as in the United States, that he was encouraged speedily to attempt another play. Choosing tor his theme a broader and a grander basis, he selected the History of France at a great and momentous period, to fur- nish the requisite materials. Within twelve months after the successful launch of the Lady of Lyons, viz: in March, 1839, the literary and dramatic world were gratified by the production of one of the finest written and most skillfully constructed historical plays at any time offered to the public. It was produced at the same establishment — the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London — and by a comparison of the cast of characters, it will be seen that many of the leading actors in that play appeared in this — in parts, equally, if not more, effective ; at any rate of a different and more powerful nature, calling forth all their energy and ability, and judging from the criticisms of the time, they were not found wanting. In the United States, where it made its appearance very soon afterwards, only one. RICHELIEU. 11 of the actors in the Lady of Lyons appeared in Richelieu— but he was a host in himself — Edwin Forrest. The author's prefaoe to this play is more lengthy than to the former one, and is so beautifully and ?o clearly worded, that it would be the height of presump; attempt to interfere with it. But a succinct account of the events previous to the commencement of the play, and the exact position of the chief persons, may prove interesting and afford the reader additional means for obtaining a clearer and more thorough knowledge of the story, and a keener and higher appreciation of the author's powers of dealing with his subject. On the 13th of May, 1610, whilst Henry IV., King of France, was proceeding in his carriage through the Rue de la Ferroniere, a man named Francois Ravaillac, mounted upon the wheel and aimed a deadly blow at his side, a second fol I which reached his heart, and he immediately expired. Louis XIII., who succeeded, was then nine years of age, and measures were instantly taken for placing the Regency in the hands of his mother, Mary De Medi- cis. It was not long, however, before matters assumed a very different aspect to that which had previously existed.. The government of a woman, and that woman a foreigner, could not maintain the lofty tone and vigor which had marked the reign of Henry. The Queen was a per- son of weak character and narrow understanding, ruled entirely by favorites and confidants. The usual consequences ensured — rival factions and internal disorder. In 1614, Louis attained his majority, when the body of Deputies and others known as the States General were assembled, and as one of the representatives of the clergy, then appeared Armand Duplessis de Richelieu, at that time Bishop of Lucon. To strengthen the government, it was determined to marry the young king to the Infanta Anne of Austria, a measure violently opposed by the Prince of Conde, then in great power, but warmly supported by the Queen Mother and Richelieu, who was silently, but surely, working his way to power, and by his advice, the Court took the bold step of arresting the Prince of Conde, and others of the nobility saved themselves by flight ; riots took place in the City, but were soon suppressed, and Richelieu, for his good services, was made Secretary of State. He was a firm ally of the Queen Mother, supporting her strongly against all oppos- ing factions. The military successes were great, but notwithstanding this, the Gov- ernment fell into a lamentable state of weakness. The King's chief advisers all stood in awe of Richelieu, whose commanding genius was apparent ; but in spite of all opposition, the Queen Mother compelled Louis, in 1622, to make Richelieu a cardinal. Affairs grew worse and more unsteady, the King disliked the Cardinal, but under the importunities of the Queen Mother, he summoned him to his Council. He had not been in office six months before Lis supremacy was universally recognized ; the irresistible energy of his character, and extraordinary capacity for government, won their way. Attaining this high posi- tion, he started principles which he pursued vigorously through life, the annihila- tion of the Huguenots as a political party, the complete subjugation of the nobility to the royal authority, and the restoration of France to her predominant influence throughout Europe. The first plot against him was in 1626, by Gaston, the King's only brother, and then Duke of Anjou ; but being detected, and being a mixture of weakness, coward- ice and baseness, he betrayed his accomplices, for which the King was weak enough to make him Duke of Orleans and give him large revenues. Richelieu had his revenge by the execution or banishment of the other conspirators, and the triumph over this plot established his supremacy. From step to step he rose to greater tame, and notwithstanding his exalted rank and ecclesiastical character, he personally ui dertook the military operations at the siege of La Rochelle, and proved he pos- sessed all the qualities of a great commander. In 1629, he was invested with the Most extraordinary powers under the title of " Lieutenant General, representing the King's person." He assumed the supreme command of the army, and during 1630 fortress after fortress, in Italy and Savoy, fell before the French forces. 12 WALPOLE. Suffering — The Portrait — Joyful Recognition of Lucy as tin Minister's Niece — The Test of Affection and the Trial of Honor — Blount's Offer of Love Refused — Arrival of Bellair — Explanations and Promises — The Reward of Virtue and Faith — Union of Bellair and Lucy — Opposition Votes Secured — The Struggle for Power Won — And Triumphant Success of WALPOLE. EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. E.3t ' / SCENE. e. 2 a. / \ L. 3 E. \ \ L.2E. L. IE. C. t. O. L. AUDIENCE. ■L, Left. l. G. Left Centre. l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. i.. 2 e. Left Second Entrance. l. 3 e. Left Third Entrance. l. v. e. Left Upper Entrance (wherever this Scene may be.) v. l. c. Door Left Centre. c. Centre. n. Eight. R. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. R. 2 E. Eight Second Entrance R. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance. R. U. E. Eight Upper Entrance. v. i.. c- Door Eight Centre. WALPOLE ACT I. SCENE—Tom's Cofee-housc, in 4th grooves- At bach, Gentlemen seated in the (liferent " boxes." Enter Walpole, l. v., and Veaset, r. 2 E-, down steps, both to c. front. Veasey Walpole. Veaset. Walpole. Veaset. "Walpole. Veaset. Walpole. Veaset. Walpole. Veaset. Walpole. Veaset. Walpole Veaset. Walpole Ha! ood day, my dear patron. Good day, my dear friend ; You can spare me five minutes ? Five thousand. Attend ; I am just from the kins, and I failed not to press him To secure to his service John Veasey. God bless him ! George's reign, just begun, your tried worth will distin- guish. Oh, a true English king ! Tho' lie cannot speak English. You must find that defect a misfortune, I fear 1 The reverse; (smiles) for no rivals can set at his ear. It is something to be the one public man pat in The new language that now governs England, dog La. in. II mpy thing for these kingdoms that yon have that gift, Or alas > on what shoals all our counsels would dntt. (jauntily). Yes, the change from Queen Anne to King George, we must own, Renders me and the Whigs the so'e props of the throne. For the Tories their Jacobite leanings disgrace, And a Whi<* is the only sa:e man for a place. And the Walpoles of Houghton, in aU their relations, Have been Whigs to the backbone for thiee Generations. Av my father and mother contrived to produce Their eighteen sucking Whigs for the family use, Of which number one only, without due reflection. Braved the wrath of her house by a Tory connection. But, by Jove, if her Jacobite husband be living, I will make him a Whig. How? By something worth giving ; ' For I loved her in boyhood, that pale pretty sister ; 14 WALFCLE. And in counting the Walpoles still left, I have miss'd her. (pauses in emotion, but quickly recovers himself) What was it I said ? Oh — the State and the Guelph, For their safety, must hencetorth depend on myself. The revolt, scarcely quenched, has live spaiks in its ashes ; Nay, fresh seeds for combustion were sown by its flashes. Each example we make dangerous pity bequeathes ; For no Briton likes blood in the air that he breathes. Veaset. Yes ; at least there's one rebel whose doom to the block Tho' deserved, gives this soft-hearted people a shock. Walpole. Lord Nithsdale, you mean; handsome, young, and jusli wedded — A poor body — 'twould do us much harm if beheaded. Veaset. Yet, they say, you rejected all prayers for his life. Walpole. It is true ; bin in private I've talked to his wife ; She had orders to see him last night in the Tower, And Veaset. Well?— Walpole {looking at hit watch). Wait for the news — 'tis not yet quite the hour. Ah! poor England, I fear, at the General Election, Will vote strong in a mad anti-WhiguHi direction. From a Jacobite Parliament we must defend her, Or the King will be Stuart, and Guelph the Pretender. And I know but one measure to rescue our land From the worst of all ills— Civil War. (solemnly). True ; we stand At that dread turning-point in the life of a State When its free choice would favor what freedom should hate ; When the popular cause, could we poll ) opulation Would be found the least popular thing in the nation. Scarce a fourth of this people ate sound in their reason But we can't hang the other three-fourths for high tteason ! Tell me, what is the measure your wisdom proposes 1 In its third year, by law, this Whig Parliament closes. But the law ! What's the law in a moment so critical 1 Church and Stale must be saved from a House Jacobiiical. Let this Parliament then, under favor of Heaven, Lengthen out its existence from three yeais to seven. Brilliant thought! could the State keep is present directors Undisturbed for a time by those rowdy e ectors, While this new German tree, just transplanted, takes root, Dropping down on the lap of each friend golden fiuit, Britain then would be saved from all chance of reaction To the craft and corrup'ion of Jacobite faction. But ah ! think you the Commons would swallow the question ? That depends on what pills may assist their digestion. I could make — see this list — our majority sure, If by buying two men I could sixty secure; For as each of these two is the chief of a section That will vote black or white at its leader's direction, Let the pipe of the shepherd but lure the bell-wether, And he folds the whole flock, wool and cry. altogether. Well, the first of these two worthy members you guess. Vrasey. Sure, you cannot mean Blount, virtuous Selden Blount 1 Walpole. Yes. Veaset Walpole, Veaset. Walpole. Veasey. Walpole. Veaset. Walpole. ACT I. 15 Walpole. What ! your sternest opponent, lialf Can, lialf Brutus, He, whose vote incorruptible Just now would suit us : Veasey. Walpole. Veasey. Walpole For a patriot so staunc'.i could with dauntless effrontery — Sell himself? Why, of course, for the good of his country. True, his price will be high — lie is worth forty votes, And his salary must pay for the change in their coats. Prithee, has not his zeal for his tatherland — rather Overbut thened the lands he received f oin his father 1 Well, 'tis whispered in clubs that his debts somewhat tease I.im. Imu^t sea him in private, and study to ease him. Will you kindly arrange that he cdi upon me At my home, not my office, to-day— just at three! Not a word that can hint of ihe object in view Sty some (slight pause) bill in the House that concerns him and you ; And on which, as distinct from all party disputes, Members meet without tearing each other like brutes. Lucky thought ! — Blount and I both agree in Committee On a bill for amending the dues of the City And the Government wants to enlighten its soul On the price which the pub] c should pay lor its coal. We shall have him, tnis Puritan chief of my foes. Now the next one to catch is tie clnef of the Beaux ; All our young members mimic h's nod or his lau^h ; And if Blount be worth forty votes, he is worth half. Eh ! Bellair. whose defence of the Jacobite peers Walpole. Thrilled the Hou-e ; Mr. Speaker him-elf was in tears. Faith, I thought he : d have beat us. (taking snuff.) Veasey. Th.it fierce peroration Walpole. Which compared me to Nero — supeib (brushing the sniff from his luce lappet) declamation ! Yes ; a very fine speaker. Of that there's no doubt For he speaks about things he knows nothing about. But 1 still to our party intend to unite him Secret Service Department- Bellair — a small item. Nay, you j ist— for this gay maiden knlsht in debate, To a promise so brilliant adds fortune so great Walpole That he is not a man to be bought by hard cash ; But he's vain and conceited, light-hearted and rash. Every favorite of fortune hopes still to be greater, ADd a beau mu-t want something to turn a debater. Hem ! I know a Duke's daughter, youus. sprightly and fair ; She will wed as I wish her ; hint that to Bellair ; Ay, and if he will put himself under my steerage, Say that with the Duke's daughter I throw in the peerage. Veasey. {thoughtfully). Those are baits that a vain man of wit may seduc. Walpole. Or, if not, his political creed must be loose; To some Jacob te plot he will not be a stranger, And to win h.m securely Veasey. We'll get him in danger Hist ! Veasey. Walpole. Veasey. Veasey. Walpole Veasey. Enter Bellair, humming a tune, l. d. 10 WALPOLE. Walpole. Good-morning, Sir Sidney ; your speech did you credit ; And whatever your party, in tune you will head it. Your attack on myself was exceedingly sinking, Though the subject you cho >se was not quite to my likii.g. Tut ! I never bear malice, l'ou hunt ? Bellair. Yes, of la e Walpole. And you ride as you speak 1 Belliar. Well, in both a light weight. Walpole. But light weights have the odds in their favor, I fear. Come and hunt with my barriers at Houghton this year; I can show you some sport. Bellaik. Sir, there's no doubt of that. Walpole. We will turn out a fox. Bellair. {aside). As a bait for a rat ! Walpole. I expect you next autumn ! Agreed then ; good-day. [They salute ; exit Walpole, l. d. Bellair. Well, I don't know a pleasanter man in his way ; 'Tis no wonder his friends are so fond of their chief. Veasey. That you are not among them is matter for grief. Ah, a man of such stake in the land as yourself, Could command any post in the court of the Guelph. Bellair. No, no ; I'm appalled. Veasey. By the king ? Cnn you doubt him ? Bellair. I'm appalled by those Gorgons, the ladies about him. Veasey. Good! ha, ha! yes, in beauty his tag e mny be wrong, But he has what we want, sir, a gove nment strong. Bellair. Meaning petticoat government ? Mii.e loo is such, But my ruler-* don'i frighten their subj cis so much. Veasey. Nay, your rulers 1 Why plural] Legitimale sway Can admit but one ruler to love Bellair. And obey. What a wife ! Constitutional monarchy F Well, If I choose my own sovereign I might not rebel. Veasey. STou may choose at your will ! With your parts, wealth, con- dition, You in marriage could link all ihe ends of ambition There is a young beauty — the highest in birth And her father, the Duke Bellair. Oh, a Duke! Veasey. Knows your worth L'strn ; Walpole, desiring to strengthen the Lords With the very best men whom the country affords, His implied to his Grace, that his choice should he clear. {carelessly) If you wed the Dukes's daughter, of course you're a pee:. Bellair. With the Lords and the lady would Walpole ally me? Veasey. Yes; and if I were you Bellair He would certainly buy me ; But I,— being a man (draws himself up haughtily) Veasey. No offence. Why that frown ] Bellair {relapsing into his habitual ease). Nay, forgive me. Tho' man, I'm a man about town ; And so graceful a compliment could not offend Any man about town, from a Minis' er's friend. Still, if not from the frailty of mortals exempt, Can a mortal be templed where sins do not tempt ? Of my rank and my fortune I am so conce ted, That I don't, with a wife, want those blessings repealed. And tho' flattered to learn I should strengthen the Peers — Give me still our rough House with its laughter ami cheers. Let the Lords have their chamber — I grudge not its poweis; But for badgering a Minister nothing like ours ! Whisper that to the Minister ; — sir, your obedient, {turns away, u-.to Gentlemen at table.) Veaset {aside). Humph! I see we must hazard the ruder expedient. If some Jacobite pit for his feet we can d ; g, He shall hang as a Tory, or vote as a Whig. (Veaset re- tires up stage ) Bellair {seating himself, r. c. front). Oh, how little these formalist middle-aged schemers Know of us the bold youngsters, half sages, half dreamers ! Sages half! Yes, i ecause of the time rushing on, Part and parcel are we ; they belong to time gone. Dreamers half 1 Yes, because in a woman's fair face We imagine the heaven thev find in a place. At this moment I, courted by Whig and by Tory, For the spangles and tinsel which clothe me with glory, Am a monster so callous, I should not feel sorrow If an earthquake engulfed Whig and Tory to-morrow " What a heartless assertion ! " the aged would say ; True, the young have no heart, for they give it away. Ah, Hove ! and here — joy ! comes the man who may aid me. Enter Blount, l. d. Blount {to Coffee-house loungers, who gather round him as he comes down the stage). Yes, sir, just from Guildhall, where the City has paid me The great honor 1 never can merit enough, Of this box, dedicated to Virtue {Coffee-house loungers gather around) Veaset. And snuff. Blount. Yes, sir, Higgins the Patriot, who deals in rappee, Stored that box with pulvillio, superfluous to me ; For a public man gives his whole life to the natioD, And his nose has no time for a vain titillation. Veaset. On the dues upon coal — apropos of the City — We agreed Blount. And were beat; Walpole bribed the Committee. Veaset. You mistake ; he leans tow'rds us, and begs you to call At his house — three o'clock. Blouxt {declaiming as if in Parliament). But I say, once for all, That the dues Veaset. Put the case as you only can do, And we carry the question. Blount. I'll call, sir, at two. Veaset. He said three. Blount. I say two, sir ; my honor's at stake, To amend every motion that Ministers make. (Veaset retires into the background.) Blount, {advancing to Bellair). Young debater, your hand. One might tear into shreds All your plea for not cutting off Jacobite heads ; But that burst against Walpole redeemed your whole speech. 18 'WAl.rOLE. Be but lionest, and high is the f ime you will reach. Bellair. (r. a). Blount, your praise would delight, but your caution offends. Blount (c.i. 'Tis my way — I'm plain spoken to foes and to friends. What are talents but snares to mislead and pervert you, Unless they converge in one end — Public Virtue! Pine debaters abound ; we applaud and despise them; For when the House die rs them the Minister buys them. Come, be honest, I say, sir — away with all doubt ; Public Virtue commands ! Vote the Minister out ! Bellair. Public virtue when construed means private ambition. Blount. This to me — to a Patriot Bellair In fierce opposition ; But you ask for my vote. Blount. E iglund wants every man. Bellair Well, tho' Walpole can't buy me, I think that you can. Blount, I saw you last evening cloaked up to your chin, But I had not a guess who lay, perdu, within All those bales of broadcloth — when a gust, of wind rose, And uplifting your beaver it let out your nose. Blount, (somewh it confusedly). Yes, I always am cloaked — half disg::'sed when I so Certain rounds — reil charity hides ilself so ; For one good deed concealed is worth fitly paraded. Bellair. Finely siid Qu'tting, doubtless, the poor you had aided, You sh >t by me before I had time to accost you, Down a court which contains but one house ; — there I lest you. Blount. One house ! Bellair. Where a widow named Vizard Blount, (aside). I tremble. Yes Bellair. Resides with an angel Blount, (aside). 'Twere best to dissemble. With an angel ! bah ! say with a girl — what's her name? Bellair. On this earth Lucy Wilmot. Blount. Eh !— Wilmot ? Bellair. The s-ame. Blount, (after a short pause). And how knew you those ladies 1 Bellair. Will you be my friend 1 Blount. 1 ? of course. Tell me all from beginning'to end. Bellair. On, my story is short. Just a fortnight ago, dining home tow'rds the night from my cfub Blount. Drunk ? Bellair. So, so. " Help me, help !" cries a voice — 'lis a woman's — I run — Which may prove I'd drunk less than 1 often have done. And I find — but, de ir Blount, you have heard the renown Of a set calle 1 the Mohawks ? Blount. The scourge of the town. A lewd band of night savages, scouring the street, Sword in hand, — and the terror of all whom they meet Not as had as themselves ;—you were safe, sir; proceed. Bellair. in the m'dst of the Mohawks I saw her and freed Blount. You saw h'r — Lucy Wilmot— at night, and alone 1 Bellair. No, she h id a protector — the face of that crone. Blount. Mistress Vizard 1 ACT I. 19 Bellair, Blount. Bellair, Blount. Bellaia. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. The same, yet, tho' strange it appear, When the rogues saw her face they did not fly in fear. Brief — 1 came, siwand conquered — but own, on the whole, That my conquest was helped by the City Patrol. I escorted them home — at their threshold we part And I mourn since that night for the loss of my heart. Did you call the next day to demand back that treasure ? Yes. And saw the young lady 1 I had rot that pleasure; I saw the old widow, who told me politely That her house was too quiet for visits so sprightly ; That young females brought, up in the school of propriety Must reg ird ad young males as the pests of society. I will spare you her lectures, she showed me the door, And closed it. You've seen Lucy Wilmot no mo:e 1 Pardon, yes — very often ; that is once a day. Every hou e has its windows Ah ! what did you say ? Well, by words very little, but much by the eyes. Now instruct me in turn, — from what part of the skies Did my angel descend ? What her parents and race ? She is well-born, no doubt — one sees that in her face. What to her is Dame Vizard — that awful duenna, With the look of a griffiness fed upon senna 1 Tell me all. Ho there ! — drawer, a bottle of clary ! [Exit, Waiter, r. u. e- Leave in peace the poor girl whom vou never could marry. Why? Her station's too mean. In a "small country town Her poor mother taught music. Her father 1 Enter Waiter, r. u. e., and places wine and glasses on the table. R. c. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. Blount. Bellair. Unknown. From the mother's deathbed, from the evil and danger That might threaten her youth, she was brought by a stran- ger. To the house of the lady who Showed me the door ? Till instructed to live like her mother before, As a teacher of music. My noble young triend, To a match so unmeet you could never descend. You assure me, I trust that all thought is dismist Of a love so misplaced. No — ( filling Blount's glass) — her health ! You persist? Dare yon, sir, to a man of my teuets austere, Even to hint your design if your suit persevere ? What! — you still would besiege her? Of course, if I love. I am virtue's defender, sir — there is my glove, {flings down his glove, and rises in angry excitement.) Noble heart ! T esteem you still more for this heat, In the lis*, of mv sins there's n » ro»m fo" deceit ; 20 WALPOLE. And to plot against innocence helpless and weak — I'd as soon pick a pocket ! Blount. What mean you then ? Speatc. Bellair. Blount, I mean you to grant me the favor 1 ask. Blount. What is that ? Bellair. To yourself an agreeable task. Since you know this Dame Vizard, you call there to-day, And to her aud to Lucy say all L would say. You attest what 1 am — fortune, quality, birth, Adding all that your friendship allows me of worth. Blount, I have not a father; I claim you as one; ■ You will plead for my bride as you'd speak for a son. All arranged — to the altar we go in your carriage, And I'll vote as you wish the month after my marriage. Blount {aside). Caii I stifle my fury f Enter Newsman, with papers, l. d. Newsman. Great news! (music, animated, piano.) Bellair. Silence ape ! (coffte-house loungers rise and crowd round the Newsman, l. c. — Veasey snatching the paper.) Omnes. Read. Veasey ^reading through the music). " Lord Nithsdale, the rebel, has made his escape. His wife, by permission of Walpole, last night, Saw her lord in the tower "(great sensation.) Bellair (to Blount). You will make it all right. Veasey (continuing^. "And the traitor escaped in her mantle and dress." Bellair (to Blount). Now my. fate's in your hands — I may count on you. Blount (loudly). Yes. (music forte.) quick curtain. ACT II. SCENE I. — A room in Wapole's house. Discover Walpole and Veasey seated at table. Walpole. And so Nithsdale's escaped ! His wife's mantle and gown ; Well — ha, ha ! let us hope he's now out of this town, And in safer disguise than my lady's attire, Gliding fast down the Thames— which he'll not set on fire. Veasey. All your colleagues are furious. Walpole. Ah, yes ; if they catch him, Not a hand from the crown of the martyr could snatch him ! Of a martyr so pitied the troublesome ghost Would do more for his cause than the arms of a host. These reports from our agents, in boro' and shire, Show how slowly the sparks of red embers expire. Ah ! what thousands will hail in a general election The wild turbulent signal for Veasey. Fresh insurrection. ACT IT. 21 Walople. (gravely). Worse than that ; Civil War !— at all risk, at all cost, We must cany this bill, or the nation is lost. Vkasey. Will not Tory and Roundhead against it unite ? Walpole. Every man has his price ; I must bribe left and right. So you've failed with Bellair — a fresh bait we must try. As for Blount [Exit Veasev r. Walpole. Enter Servant, l. Servant. Mr. Blount. Walpole. Pray admit him. Good-bye. Servant bows in Blount, l. Blount. Mr. Walpole, you ask my advice on the dues Which the City imposes on coal. Walpole. (motions Blount to take seat, l, c). Sir, excuse That pretence for some talk on more weighty a theme, With a man who commands Blount, (aside). Forty votes. Walpole. My esteem. You're a patriot, and therefore I courted this visit, Hark ! your country's in danger — great danger, sir. Blount {drily). . ^ Isit1 Walpole. And I ask you to save it from certain perdition. Blount. Me !— I am Yes, at present in hot opposition. But what's party 1 Mere cricket — some out and some in ; I have been out myself. At that time I was thin. Atrabilious, sir,— jaundiced ; now rosy and stout, Nothing pulls down a statesman like long fagging out. And to^come to the point, now there's nobody by, Be as stout and as rosy, dear Selden, as I. What ! when bad men conspire, shall not good men combine 1 There's a place— lie Pay mastership— just in your line ; I may say that the fees a e ten thousand a year, Besides extras — not mentioned, (aside) The rogue will cost dear. What has that, sir, to do with the national danger To which You're too wise to be wholly a stranger. Need I name to a man of your Protestant true heart AH the risks we yet run from the Pope and the Stuart ? And the indolent public is so unenlightened That 'tis not to be trusted, and scarce to be frightened. When the term of this Parliament draws to its close, Should King George call another, 'tis filled with his foes. You pay sofdiers eno' if the Jacobites rise Walpole. But a Jacobite house would soon stop their supplies. There's a General on whom you must own on reflection, The Pretender relies. Whol The General Election. That election must come ; you have no other choice. Would you juggle the People and stifle its voice ? Walpole. That is just, what young men fresh from college would say And the People's a very aood thing in its way. But what is the People ?— ihe mere population ? Blount. Walpole Blount. Blount. Walpole. Blount. 22 WALPOLE. No, the sound-thinking part of tliis practical nation, Who support peace and order, and steadily all poll For the weal of the land ! Blount (aside). In plain words, for Bob Walpole. AValpole. Of a people like this I've no doubt, or mistrusiiugs. But I have of the tools who vote wrong at the hustings. Sir, in short, I am always frank-spoke:) and hearty, England needs all the patriots that go with your party. We must make the three years of this Parliament seven, And s'ave off Civil War. You agree 1 Blount (rises). Gracious heaven ! Thus to silence the nation, to baffle its laws. And expect Selden Blount to defend such a cause ! What could ever atone for so foul a disgrace? Walpole. Everlasting renown — (aside) and the Paymaster's place, Blount. Sir, your servant — good day; I am uot what you thought; I am honest (going l.) W t alpole. Who doubts it 1 (rises.) Blount. And not to be bought. Walpole (stays Blount at l. c). You are not to be bought, sir — as- tonishing man ! Let us argue that point, (to c.) If creation you scan, You will find that the children ot Adam prevail O'er the beasts of the field but by baiter and sale. Talk of coals — if it were not for buying and selling, Could you coax from Newcastle a coal to your dwelling ? You would be to your own tellow-men good for naught, Were it true, as you say, that you're not to be bought. If you find men worth nothing — say, don't \ on despise them ? And what proves them worth nothing ? — why nobody buys them. But a man of such worth as yourself? nonsense — come, Sir, to business ; I want you — I buy you ; the sum 1 Blount. Is corruption so brazen 1 are nnnners so base 1 Walpole (aside). That means he don't much like the Paymaster's place. (with earnestness and dignity ) Pardon, Blount. I spoke lightly ; but do not mistake, — ■ On mine honor the peace of the land is at stake. Yes, the peace and the freedom ! Were Hampden himself Living still, won d he side with the Stuart or Guelph ? Wh n the Cassars the freedom of Rome overthrew, All its forms they maintained — 'twas its spirit they slew! Shall the fre°dom of England go down to t;.e grave 1 ...-, No ! the forms let us scorn, so the spirit we save. Blount 1 ." England's peac? and her freedom depend on your bill? Walpole (seriously). Thou know'st it — and therefore Blount. My aid you ask still ! Walpole. Nay, no longer 7 ask, 'tis thy country petitions. Blount. But you talked ab >ut terms. Walpole (pushing pen and paper to him). There, then, write your condi- ditions. (Blount writes, folds the paper, gives ii to Wal- pole, boivs and exit. L. D.) Walpole. (reading). " 'Mongst the men who are bought to save Eng- land inscribe me, And my bribe is the head of the man who would brile me." Eh ! my head ! Thafs atub lion much too high-reaching ; I suspect that t!;e crocodile hiuts at impeaching. ACT II. 23 And he calls hi nisei f honest ! What highwayman's worse ? Thus to Uneaten my life when 1 offer my purse. Km! he can't br in debt, as the common talk runs, For the man who scorns money has never known duns. And yet have him I must ! Shall I force or entice ? Let me think — let me think ; eve- y mnn has his {.rice. [Exit Walpole, slowly, n. Scene changes to SCENE II. — A room in Mrs. Vizabd's house. Enter Mrs. Vizard, r. Mrs. Vizard. : Tis the day when the Jncohite nobles bespeak This safe room for a chat on affairs once a-week. {knock with- out, L.) Ah, they come. Enter, d. f., two Jacobite Lords, and Nithsdale, disguised as a worn rw. First Lord. Ma'am, well knowing your zeal for our king, To your house we have ventured this lady to bring. She will quit you at sunset — nay. haply, much sooner — For a voyage to France in some t usty Divch schooner. Hist! — her husband in exile she sops to lejoin, And our homes are so watched Mrs. Viz. That she's safer in mine. Come with me. my dear lady, I have in my care A young ward First L. Who must see her not! Till we prepare Her departure, conceal her lmm ail pryinj* eyes ; She is timid, and looks on new faces as spies. Sen 1 your servant on business that keeps her away Until nightfall; — her trouble permit me to pay. (giving a purse. ) Mrs. Viz. Nay, my lord, I don't need First L. Quick — your servant release. Mrs. Viz. I will send her to Kent with a note to my niece. [Exit, Mrs.Vizard, r. First L. (Jo Nithsdale). Here you are safe; still I tremble until you are freed ; Keep slurp watch at the window — the signal's agreed. When a pebble's thrown up at the pane, you will know 'Tis my envoy ; — a carriage will wait you below. Nithsdale. And, if, ere you can send him, some peril befall ? First L- Risk your flight to the inn near the steps at Blackwall. Re-enter Mrs. Vizard, r. Mrs. Viz. She is gone. First L. Lead the lady at once to her room. Mrs. Viz. (opening l. d.). No man dares enter here. Nithsdale (aside). Where she sleeps, I presume. [Exeunt Mrs. Vizard and Nithsdale, l. d. Second L. You. Lucy (aside). What means he 1 His words and bis looks are alarming ; (aloud) Mr. Jones, you're too good ! Blount. What, to find you so oharmn g 1 Yes; tho' Fortune has placed my condition above you, Yet Love levels all tanks. Be not staitled — I love you. From all dreams less exalted your fancies arouse ; The poor orphan 1 raise to the rank of my spouse. Lucy (aside). Wnat ! His spouse ! Do I dream 1 Blount. Till that moment arrives, Train your mind to reflect on the duty of wives. I must see Mistress Vizard, and all things prepare ; To secure our retreat shall this day be my care. And — despising the wretch who has caused us such sorrow — Our two lives shall unite in the cottage to-morrow. Lucy. Pray excuse me — this talk is so strangely Blount. Delightful! Lucy (aside), I am faint ; I am all of a tremble ; Low frightful ! [Exit, R. D. ACT II. 27 Blount. Good ; my mind overawes her ! From fear love will grow. And by this Lime to-morrow a fig for the beau, {calling off, r.) Mistress Vizard ! Enter Mrs. Vizard, r. d. Blount. Guard well my dear Lticy to-day, For to-morrow I free you, and bear h°r away. I agree with yourself — it is lime she were married, And I only regret that so long I have tarried. Eno' ! I've proposed. Mrs. Viz. She consented 1 Blount. Of course ; Must a man like myself get a wife, ma'am, by force ? (voice of Newsman, at back, and the ringing of hand-bell) Great news, (crosses l. to r., while crying out ) Mrs. Viz. (running to the window, listening and repeating). What! "Lord Nithsdale escaped from the Tower." (Nithsdale peeps through l. d. " In his wife's clothes disguised ! the gown gray, with red flower, Mantle black, trimmed with ermine " My hearing is hard. Mr. Blount, Mr. B ount ! Do you hear the reward ? Blount. Yes; a thousand Mks Viz. What ! guineas? Blount. Of course ; come away. I go now for the parson — do heed wh.it I say. (Nitusdali* shakes his fist at Mrs. Vizafd, and retreats) We shall marry to-morrow — no witne-s but you; For the marriage is private. I'm Junes still. Adieu . [Exit Blount, d. f. Lucy peeps out r. d. Mas. Viz. Ha ! a thousand good guineas ! (looks l. d.) Re-enter Blount, d. f. Blount. Guard closely my treasure. That's her door ; for precaution just lock it. Mrs. Viz. With pleasure, (as she shows out Blount, d. f., Lucy slips out r. d. and goes up l.) Lucy (tries l. d.). Eli ! locked up ! No, 1 yet may escape if I hide, (gets behind the window-curtains, up R.) Re-enter Mrs. Vizard, d. f. Mrs. Viz. Shall I act on this news 7 I must quickly decide. Surely Nithsdale it is ! Gray gown, sprigged with red ; Did not walk like a woman — a stride, not a tread (locks r. t> ) Both my lambs are in fold ; I'll steal out and inquire. Robert Walpole might make the reward somewhat higher. [Exit Mrs. Vizard, d. f. Lucy (looking out of window). Shedias locked the street door. She has gone with the key, And the servant is out. No escape ; woe is me ! How I love him, and yet I must see him with loathing. Why should wolves be disguised in such beautiful clothing 7 Nithsdale (knocking violently at h. d ). Let me out. I'll not perish en- trapped. Fiom your snare 28 WALfOLE. Thus I break {bursts open l. d., and comes down brandishing a poker.) Tieacherous hag ! Lucy. Tis the wolf. Spare me ; spare ! (kneeling c., and hiding her face.) Nithsdale. She's a witch, and has changed herself? Lucy. Do not come near me. Nithsdale. Nay, young lady, look up ! Lucy. 'Tisawoman! Nithsdale. Why fear me 1 Perchance, like myself, youre a prisoner ? Lucy. Ah, yes ! Nithsdale. And your kinsfolk are true to the Stuart, I guess 1 Lucy. My poor father took arms for King James. Nithsdale. So did I. Lucy. You! — a woman ! How brave. Nitusdale. For that crime I must die If you will not assist me. Lucy. Assist you — liow ? Saw Nitusdale. That she-Judas will sell me, and uoes to betray. Lucy. Fly ! Alas ! she has locked the street-duor ! Nitusdale. Lady fair, Does not Love laugh at locksmiths ? Well so does Despair ! (glancing at the window) Flight is here. But this dress my detection ensures. If I cou'd but exchange hood and mantle for yours' Dare 1 ask you to save me ! Lucy. Nay, doubt not my will ; But my own door is locked. Nithsdale (raising the pokcr\. And the key is heresi\\\. (bursts R. d. open and exits, r. d.) Lucy. I have read of the Amazons ; this must be one! Nithsdale (entering by r. d-, with hood, gown, and mantle on his arm) I have found all I nee I for the risk I must run. Lucy. Can I help you 1 Nithsdale. Heaven bless thee, sweet Innocence, no. Haste, and look if no backway is open below. Stay ; your father has served the king over the water ; And this locket may please your brave father's true daughter. The gray hair of p tor Charles, interwined with the pearl. Go ; vouchsafe me this kiss. (kUses her hand, and exits, l. d.) Lucy. What a wonderful girl ! [Exit, b. d. Scene changes to SCENE III, — Exterior of Mrs. Vizard's house. Enter Blount, l. 3 e , to h. c. front. Blount. For the curse of celebrity nothing atones. The sharp parson I call on ,as simple John Jones, Has no sooner set eyes on my popular front, Than he cries, " Ha ! the Patriot, the great Selden Blount !" Mistress Vizard must hunt up some priest just from Cam, Who may gaze on these features, nor guess who I am. (knocks at d. f. in l 2 e. set. ) Not at home. Servant out too ! Ah ! gone forth, I guess, ACT II. 29 To enchant the young bride with a new wedding-dress. I must search for a parson myself. Enter Bellair r d. e., and through posts. Bellair. {slapping Blount on the shoulder). Blount, your news 1 Blount. You ! and here, sir ! What means Bellair. My impatience excuse. You have seen her 1 Blount. I have. Bellair. And have pleaded mv cause: And of course she consents, for she loves me. You pause. Blount. Nay, alas ! my dear friend Bellair. Speak, and tell me my fate. Blount. Quick and rash though your wooing be, it is too late ; She lias promised her hand lo another. Bear up. Bellair. There is many a slip : twixt the lip and the cup. Ah ! my rival I'll fight. Say his name if you can. Blount. Mr. Jones. I am told he's a fine-looking man. Bellair. His address? Blount. Wherefore ask 1 You kill her in this duel — Slay the choice of her heart ; Bellair Of her heart ; you are cruel. But if so, why, Heaven bless her ! Blount. My arm — come away ! Bellair No, my carriage waits yonder. I thank you. Good-day. [Exit, l. 3~e. Blount. He is gone ; I am safe — (shaking his left hand with his right) wish you joy, my dear Jones ! [Exit, r. u. e. Nithsdale, disguised in Lucy's dress and mantle, opens the upper window. Nithsdale. All is still. How to jump without breaking my bones 1 {try- ing to flatten his petticoats, and with one leg over the balcony) Curse these petticoats ! Heaven! out of all my lost riches, Why couldst thou not save me one thin pair of breeches ! Steps ! {gets back — shuts the ivindow.) Re-enter Bellair, l d. 3 e. Bellair. But Blount may be wrong. From her own lips alone Will I learn, {looking up at the window) I see some one ; I'll venture this stone, (picks uv, and throws a pebble at upper window.) NiTnsDALE (opening the ivindow}. Joy ! —the signal ! Bellair. Tis you ; say my friend was deceived. (Nithsdale nods) You were snared into Nithfdale. Hush ! Bellair. Could you guess how I grieved! But oh ! fly from this jail ; I'm still full of alarms. I've a carriage at hand ; trust yourself to these arms. Nithsdale tacks up his petticoats, gets down the balcony backwards, setting his foot on the area rail. Bellair. Powers above !— what a leg ! 30 WALPOLE. Lord Nitusdale turns round on the rail, rejects Bell air's hand and jumps down. Bellair. my charmer ! one kiss, Nithsdalb. Are you out of your senses ? Bellair {trying to p/dl uo her hood). With rapture ! Nithsqale (striking him). Take tliis. Bellair. What a fist ! If it hits one so hard before marriage, What would it do after ? Nithsdalk. Quick — where is the carriage ? Now, sir, give me your hand. Bellair. I'll be harmed if I do Till I snatch my first kiss ! (lifts the hood and recoils astounded) Who the devil are you '. (Nitusdale tries to gel from him. A struggle. Bellair prevails.) Bellair (a). I will give you in charge, or this moment confess How you pass as my Lucy, and wear her own dress ? Nitasdale (aside). What! His Lucy ? I'm saved. To her pity I owe This last chance for my life ; would you sell it, sir ] Bellair. No. But your life ! What's your name ? Mine is Sidney Bellair. Nitusdale. Who in Parliament p'eaded so nobly to spare From the axe Bellair. The chiefs doomed in the Jacobite rise 1 Nitusdale (with dignity). I am Nithsdale. — Quick — sell me or free me — time Hies. Bellair. Come this way. There's my coach, (points l.) I will take you myself Where you will ; — ship you off. Nitusdale. Do you side with the Guelph ? Bellair. Yes. WLat then ' Nitusdale. You would risk your own life by his laws Did vou ship me to Fiance. They who fight in a cause S.iould alone share its perils. Farewell, generous stranger! (goes up.) Bellair. Pooh ! no gentleman leaves a young lady in danger ; You'd be mobbed eie you got h • I f a yard through the town ; Why that stride and that calf — let me settle your gown. (clinging to him and leading him l , and speaking as they exeunt l. 3 e. No, no ; I will see you at least to my carriage, (offh.) To what place shall it drive ? Nitusdale (offh ). To Blackwall. Lucy appears at the window. Lucy. Hatefn' marriage ! But where's that poor lady 1 What !— gone ? She is free \ Could she leap from the window 1 I wish I were she. (retreats.) He-enter Bellair, l. 3 e. Bellair. Now she's safe in ray coach, on condition I own, Not flattering, sweet creature, to leave her alone. Lucy (peeping). It is he. ACT ir. :i Bellair, Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. I.UCY Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Lucy. Bellair. Luci Ah ! If Lucy would only appear ! (stoops to pick up a stone, and in the net to fling as Lucy reappears) my Lacy ! — mine angel ! Why is lie so dear ? Is it true ? Fiom thai lace am I evermore banished ?. In your love was the dream of my life ! Is it vanished ? Have you pledged to another your hand and your heart"? Not my heart. Oh, not that. But your hand 1 By what art, By what force, are you won heart and hand to dissever, And consent to loathed nuptials thai part us forever ] Would that pain you so much 1 Can you ask ? Oh, believe me, You're my all in the world ! I am told you deceive m° ; That you harbor designs which my lips dare net name, And your words full of honor veil thoughts full of shame Ah, sir ! I'm so young and so friendless — so weak ! Do not ask for my heart if you take it to break. Who cm slander me thus ! N^t my friend, I am sure, His friend ! Can my love know one feeling impure When I lay at your feet all I have in this life Wealth and rank name a 1 d honor— and woo you as wife? As your wife ! All about you seems so much above My mean lot And so worthless compared to your love. You reject, then, this suitor? — my hand you accept ? Ah ! but do you not see in what prison I'm kept ? And this suitor You hate him ! Till this day, say rather — - What? 1 loved him. You loved ! As I might a grandfather. He has shielded the orphan ; — I had not a notion That he claimed from me more than a givn lchild's devotion. And my heart ceased to beat between terror and sorrow When he said he would make me his wife and to-morrow. Ply with me, and at once ! She has locked the street-door. And my angel's not made t > jump down from that floor. Listen — quick ; I hear voices ; — I save you ; this night I'll arrange all we need both for wedlock and flight. A^. what time afier dark does your she dragon cose Her swi et eyes, and her household consign to repose '/ About nine in this season of winter. What then ? By the window keep watch. When the clock has struck ten A slight stone smites the casement; below I attend. You will see a safe ladder; at ones you descend. We then reach your new home, pr'.est and friends shall be theie. Proud to bless the young bride of Sir Sidney Bellair. Hush ! the steps come this way ; do not fail ! She is won. [Exit Bellair, l. r>. Stay ; — I tremble as guilty. Heavens ! what have 1 done ? CURTAIN. ;>'2 WAU'OLE.' ACT III. SCENE I.— SI. James's Pari:. Enter Blount. Boont. So the parson is found and ilie cottage is hired — Every fear was dispelled when my rival retired. Even my stern mother country must spare from my life, A brief moon of that honey one tastes with a wife ! And then strong as a giant, recruited by sleep, On corruption and Walpole my fury sh .11 sweep, 'Mid the cheers of the House I will state in my place How the bribes that he proffered were flung in his f ce. Men shall class me amid those examples of worth Which, alas ; became daily more rare on this earth; (takes seat on bench, l) And Posterity, setting its brand on the front Of a Walpole, select for its homage a Blount. Enter Bellair, v..,gayly singing. Bellair. "The dove builds where the leaves are still geen on the tree " Blount (rising). Ha ! Bellair. " For May and December can never agree." Blount. I am glad you'\e so quickly got over that blow. Bellair. Fallala ! Blount (aside). What this levity memis I must know. (aloud) The friend I best loved was your father, Bellair — Let me hope your strange mirth is no laugh of despair. Bellair. On the wit of the wisest man it is no stigma It' the he irt of a girl is to him an enigma ; That my Lucy was lost to my arm* you believed — Wish mo joy, my dear B ount, you were grossly deceived. She is mine ! — What on earth are you thinking about ? Do you hear 1 Blount. I am racked ! Bellair. What? Blount. A twinge of the gout (reseating himself.) Pray excuse me. Bellair. Nay, rather myself I reproach For not heeding your pain. Let me call you a coach. Bl<>unt. Nay, nay, it is gone. I am eager to hear How I've been thus dece.ved — make my blunder more cbar. You have seen her? Billair. Of course. From her own lips leather That your good Mr. Jones might be Lucy's grandfather. Childish fear, or of Vizard — who seems a virago — Or the old man himself Blount. Oh ! IJellair. You groan ? Blount. The lumbago ! Bellair. Ah ! they say gout is shifty — now here and now there. Blount. Pooh ! — continue. The girl then act in. 33 Bellair. I fo" nd in despair. Bat no matter — all's happily settled at last. Blount. Ah ! eloped from ihe house 1 Bell.ur. No, the door was made fast. But to-night I would ask you a favor. Blount. What? Say. Bellaib. If your pain should have left you, to give her away. For myself it is meet that I take every care That my kinsfo k shall haH the new Lady Bellair. I've induced my two aunts (who are prudish) to grace With their presence my house, where the nuptials take place. And to act as her father there's no man so fit As yourself, dear old Blount, if the gout will pernnit. Blount. 'Tis an honor Bellair. Say pleasure. Blount. Great pleasure ! Proceed. How is she, if the door is still fast, to bo freed? Is the house to be stormed? Bellair. Nay ; I told you before That a house has its windows as well as its door. And a stone at the pane for a signal suffices, While a ladder Blount. I see. {aside) What infernal devices ! Has she no maiden fear Bellair. From the ladder to fall 1 Ask her that — when we meet at my house in Whitehall. Enter First Jacobite Lord, l. Lord {giving note to Bellair). If I err not I speak to Sir Sidney Bellair J Pray vouchsafe me one moment in private, {draws him aside, l.) Blount. Despar! How prevent 1— how forestall ? Could I win but delay, I might yet brush this stinging fly out of my way. While he speaks, enter Veaset, b. Veaset. Ah ! Be'.lair whispering close with that Jacobite lord Are they hatching some plot 1 {hides between wing and scene, b., listening.) Bellair {reading). So he's safely on board Lobd. And should Fortune shake out other lots from her urn, We poor friends of the Stuart, might serve you in turn. You were talking with Blount— Selden Blount— is he one Of your friends 1 Bellaib. Ay, the truest. Lobd. Then warn him to shun That vile Jezahel's man trap — I know he goes there. Whom she welcomes she sells. Bellair. I will bid him beware, {shakes hands.) [Exit Jacobite Lord, l. Bellair {to Blount). I have just learned a secret, 'tis fit I should tell you. Go no more to old Vizard's, or know she will sell you. Nithsdale hid in her house when the scaffold he fled. She received him, and went for the price on his head ; 34 WALPOLE. Blount. Bellair Blount. Bellair Blount Bellair Blount. Bellair Blount. Bellair Blount. Bellair Blount But — the droilest mistake— of that tale by-and-bye— He was freed ; is sate now ! Who delivered liitn? I. Ha ! you— did ! See, he sends me this letter of thanks. (reading). W. ieii invites you to join with the Jacobite ranks. And when James h.ts hid kingdom 'i'nat chance is remote ; Hints an earldom for you. Bah ! Take care of this note, (appears to thrust it into Bell air's coat-pocket — lets it fall and pats his foot on it.) , Had 1 guessed that the hag was so greedy of gold, Long ago I had bought Lucy out of her | u >ld ; But to-night the dear child will be free from her power. Alien ! I expect, then Hold ! at what hour ? By the window at len, self and ladder await her ; The wedding — eleven ; you will not be later. [Exit, R (picking up the letter). Nithsdale's letter. Bright thought ! — and what luck ! I see Veasey. uter Bellair, r. Bellair. Blount, I say. w 11 o'd Jones be to-morrow uneasy ? Can't you fai cy Ids face 1 Blount. Yes ; ha ! ha ! Bellair. I am off [Exit, r. Blount- What! shall I Selden Blount, be a popp'rijay's scoff ? Mr. Veasey, your servant. Veasey. I trust, on the whole, That you've settled with Walpole the prices of coal. Blount. Coala be — lighted below ! Sir, the country's in danger. Veasey. To that fact Walpole says that no patr ot's a stranger. Blount. With the safety of England myself I will task, If von hold your> elf licensed to srant what I ask. Veasey. Whatsoever the terms of a patriot so staunch, Walpole gives you — I speak as his proxy — carte blanche. Blount. If J. break private ties where the Public's at stake, Still my friend is my fiend ; the condition I make Is to '.^ep him shut up from all share in rash strife, And secure him from danger, to fortune and life. Veasey. Blount — asreed. And this friend ! Scarce a moment ago I marked Sidney Bellair in ctose talk with Blount. I know. There's a plot to be checked ere it start into shape. Hark ! Bellair had a hand in Lord Nithsdale's escape ! Veasey. That's abetment of treason. Blount. Bead this, and attend, (gives Niths- dale's note to Bellair. which Veasey reads) Snares atrocious ate s»H to entrap my poor friend In an outbreak to fo'low that Jacobit -'s fight Veasey. In an outbreak 1 Where 1— when ? Blount. Hush! in L~>r don to-night act in. 85 He is thoughtless and young. Act on this information. Quick, arrest him at once; and watch over the nation. Veaset. No precaution too greal against men disaffected. Blocxt. And tne law gives you leave 10 confine the suspected. Veasey. Ay, this nole will suffice lor a warrant. Be sine, Ere the dock strike the quarter, your friend is secure. [Exit Veasey, k. Blodnt. Good; my rival to-night will be swept "from my way, And John Jones shall wake easy euo' ihe next day. Do I sti 1 love this girl ? No, my hate is so strufig, That to me, whom she mocks, she alone shall belong. 1 need trust to that saleable Vizard no more. Ha ! 1 stand as Bellair the bride's window before. Oh, when love comes so late how it maddens the brain, Between shame for our folly, and rage at our pain ! [Exit, l. Scene changes to SCENE II. — Boom in Walpole's house. Enter Walpole. k. Walpole. So Lord Nithsdale's. shipped off. There's an end of one trouble When his head's at Boulogne the reward shall be double (seating himself, R. c , takes up a book — glances at it, and th/ows it down) Stuff'! I wonder what lies the Historians will tell When they babble of one Robert Walpo'e ! Well, well, Let them sneer at his nlun lers, declaim on his vices, Cite the rogues whom he purchased, and rail at the prices, They shall own that all lust for revenge he withstood ; And, if lavish of gold, he was sparing of blood ; That when E gland was threatened by France and by Rome, He foiced peace from abroad and encamped at her home And th* Freedom he left rooted firm in mild laws, May o'ershadow the faults of deeds done in her cause ! Enter Veasey, l. Veasey {giving note). Famous news ! see, Bellair has delivered himself To your hands. He must go heart and soul wiih the Guelph, And vote straight, or he's ruined. Walpole {reading). This note makes it clear That he's guilty of Nithsdale's escape. Veasey. And I hear That to-night he will head som? tumultuous revolt, Unless chained to his stall like a mischevious colt. Walpole. Your informant ? Veasey. Guess! Blount; but on prom'se to save His young friend's life and fortune ! Walpole. What Blount says is grave. He would never thus speak if not sure of this fact, {signing warrant) Here, then, take my Stale warrant ; but cautiously act. Bid Bellair keep his house — forb:d exi:s and entries ; — To make sure, at his door place a couple of sentries. >6 "WALPOLE. Say I mein liim no ill ; but those times will excuse Much less gentle precautions than those which I use. Stay, D.nne Vizard is waiting without ; to her den Nithsd.ile fled. She came here to betray him Veasev. What then ? Walpole. Why, I kept her, perforce, til I sent on the sly, To prevent her from hearing Lord Nitlisdale's good-bye. When my a'nent arrived, I m delighted to say Tha^ the cig % -wire< were broken. — the bird flown away ; But he found one poor captive imprisoned and weeping ; I must learn how that captive came into such keeping. Now, then, off — nay, a moment ; you would not be loth Just to stay with Bellair 1 — I may send for you both. Veasey. With a host more delightful no mortal could sup, But a guest so unlooked for Walpole Will cheer the boy up ! [Exit Veasey, l. Walpole {ringing hand-bell). Enter Servant, l. Usher in Mistress Vizard. [Exit Servant, who ushers in Mrs. V'zard. — Then exit Servant. Walpole Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz Walpole Mrs. Viz Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Mrs. Viz. Walpole Mrs. Viz. Walpole. Quite shocked to detain you, But I knew a mistake, if there were one, would pain you. Sir, mistake there is not ; that vile creature is no man. But you locked the door ? Fast. Then, no doubt, 'tis a woman, For she slipped thro' the window. No woman durst ! Nay. Wh -n did woman want courage to go her own way 1 You jest, sir. To me 'tis no subject, for laughter. Po not weep. The reward ? We'll di-cuss that hereafter. You'd not wrong a poor widow who brought you such news? Wrong a widow ! — there's oil to put i'i her cru e. {giving a pocket-book) Meanwhile, the tried agent dispatched to your house, In that trap found it poor little terrified mouse, Which did call itself " Wilmot '' — a name known to me, Pray, you. how in your trap did that mouse come to be 1 {hesitatingly). Sir, believe me Speak truth — for yonr own sake you ought. By a gentlermn. sir, to my house she was brought. O.i ! some Jacobite kinsman perhaps ? Bless you, no ; A respectable Roundhead. You frighten me so. A respectable Roundhead entrust to your care A young girl whom you guard as in prison ! — Beware ! 'Gainst decoy for vile purpose the law is severe. Fie ! you libel a saint, sir, of morals austere. Do you mean Judith Vizard 1 I mean Selden Blount. I'm bewildered ! But why does this saint (no affront) To your pious retreat a fair damsel confide! ACT III. 37 Mrs. Viz- To protect her as ward till lie claims her as bride. Walpole. Faith, his saintship does well until that day arrive To imprison the ruaid he proposes to wive. But these Roundheads are wont but with Roundheads to wed, And the name of this lady is Wilmot, she said. Every Wilmot I know of is to the backbone A rank Jacobite ; say can that name be her own 7 Mrs. Viz. Not a doubt ; more than once I have heard the girl say That her father had fought for King James on the day When the ranks of the Stuart were crushed at the Boyne. He escaped from the slaughter, and fled to rejoin At the Court of St. Germain's his new-wedded bride. Long their hearth without prattles s ; a year ere he died, Lucy came to console her who mourned him, bereft Of all else in this world. Walpole (eagerly). But the widow he left ; She lives still 1 Mrs. Viz. No ; her child is now motherless. Walpole (aside). Fled ! Fled again from us, sister ! How stern are the dead ! Their dumb lips have no pardon ' Tut ! shall I build grief On a guess that perchance only fools my belief? This may not be her child, (rings. ) Enter Servant, l. My coach waits 7 Servant. At the door. Walpole. Come ; your hous<» teems with secrets I long to explore. [Exeunt Walpole and Mas. Vizard, l. — Exit Servant, l. Scene changes to SCENE III. — Mrs. Vizard's house, as before. A lamp on a table, r. c. Enter Lucy, r. d. Lucy. Mistress Vizard still out ! (looking at the clock) What ! so late 7 my heart ! — How it beats ! Have I promised in stealth to depart 7 Trust him — yes ! But will he, ah ! long after this night, Trust the wife wooed so briefly, and won but by flight? My lost mother ! (takes a miniature from her breast) Oh couldst thou yet counsel thy child ! No, this lip does not smile as it yesterday smiled. From thine heaven can no warning voice come to mine ear; Save thy chi'd from herself; — 'tis myself that I fear- Enter Walpole and Mrs. Vizard, through the secret door Mrs Viz. Lucy, love, in this gentleman (curtsey, my dear) See a friend. Walpole. Peace, and leave us. [Exit Mrs. Vizard, b. Walpole (a). Fair girl, I would hear From yourself, if your parents 38 WALPOLE. Lucy ^r. a). My parents; Oh say Did you know them 1— my mother? Walpole. Tlie years roll away. I behold a gray hall hacked by woodlands of pine ; I behold a fair face —eyes and tresses like thine — By her side a rude boy full of turbulent life, All impatient of rest, and all binning for strife — They are brother and sister. Unconscious they stand — On the spot where their paths shall divide — hand in hand. Hush! a moment, and lo ! as if lost amid night, She is gone from his side, she is snatched from his sight. Time has flowed on its course — that wild boy lives in me ; But the sister I lost ! Does she bloom back in thee ! Speak — the name of thy mother, ere changing her own For her lord's — who her parents ? Lpct, I never have known. When she married my father, they spurned her, she said, Bade her hold herself henceforth to them as the dead ; Slandered him in whose honor she gloried as wife, Urged attaint on his n.une, plotted snarts for his life ; And one day when I asked what her line?.ge, she sigln d '• From the heart they so tortured their memory has died." Walpole Civil war slays all kindred — all mercy, all ruth. Lucy. Did you know her 1 — if so, was this like her in youth ? (giv- ing miniature.') Walpole. It is she ; the 1 ps speak ! Oh, I knew it .' — thou art My lost sister restored ! — to mine ; rms, to mine heart. That wild brother the wrongs of his race shnll atone ; He has stormed his way up to the foot of the throne. Yes ! thy mate thou Khali choose 'mid the chiefs cf the lar.d. Dost thou shrink ? — heard I right ? — is it promised this hand ? And to one, too, of years so unsuited to thine? Lucy. Dare I tell you 1 Walpole. Speak, sure that thy choice shnll be mine. Lucy. When my mother lay stricken in m lid and in frame, All our scant savings gone, to our > ucc r there came A rich stranger, who lodged at the inn wh nee they sought To expel us as vagrants. Their mercy i e bought ; Ever since I was left in the wide world alone, 1 have owed to his pity -this root' Walpole. Will you own What you gave in return 1 Lucy. Grateful reverence. Walpole. And so He asked more ! Lucy. Ah ! that more was not mine to bestow. Walpole. What ! your heart some one younger already had won. Is he handsome ? Lucy Oh, yes ! "VALPt.i.,,. And a gentleman's son ? Lucy. Sir, he looks it. Walpole. His name is Lucy. Sir Sidney Bellair. Walpole. Eh ! that brilliant Lothario ? Dear Lucy, beware ; Men of temper so light may mike love in mere sport. Where on earth did you m ->et ?- in what terms did he court 1 ACT III. 39 Why so troubled ? Why turn on the timepiece your eye 1 Orphan, trust me. Lucy. I will. I half promise! to fly Walpole. With Bellair. {asile) He shall answer for this wilh his life. Fly to-nigbt as his — what! Lucy. Turn your face — as his wife. (Lucy sinks down, buryinj her face in her hands.) Walpole. {going to d. f) Jasper — ho! Enter Servant, d. p., as he writes on his tablets. Take my coach to Sir Sidney's, Whitehall. Mr. Ve.xsey is there ; give him this — that is all. {tearing out the leaf from the tablet and folding it up) Go out the back way ; it, is nearest my carriage.* {opens the secret door l. in p , through which exit Servant) I shall very soon know if the puppy means marriage. Lr/CY. Listen ; ah ! that's his signal ! {tap at window.) Walpole. A stone at the pane ! But it can't be Bellair — he is safe. Lucy. There, a sain ! Walpole {peeps out of window). Ho ! — a ladder ! Niece, do as I bid you ; confide In my word, and I promise Sir Sidney his bride ! Ope the window and whisper, " I'm chained to the floor; Pray come up and release me." Lucy {calls out of window). " I'm chained to the floor. Pray, come up and release me." Walpole. I watch by this door. [Exit, b. d., and peeps out. Blount enters through window. Lucy. Saints in Heaven, Mr. Jones ! (l. c.) Walpole {asidey Selden Blount, by old N!ck ! Blount. What ! vou are not then chained ! Must each word be a trick ? Ah ! you looked for a gallant more dainty and trim ; He deputes me to say he abandons his whim ; By his special request 1 am here in his place, Saving him from a crime and yourself from disgrace. Still ungrateful, excuse for your folly I make — Still the prize lie disd dns to my heart I can take, Fly with me, as with him y<>u would rashly have fled ; — He but sought to degrade you, I seek but to wed. Take revenge on the f tlse heart, give bliss to the true ! L7C7. If he's false to myself, I were falser to you, Could I say I forget him ? Blount. You will, when my wife. Lucy. That can never be Ll"Unt. Never! L UC y. One love lasts thro' life ! Blount. Traitress ! think not this insult can tamely be borne *In obeying this instruction, the servant would not see the ladder, which (as the reader will learn by what immediately follows) is placed against the baieony in the front of the house. 40 WALPOLE. Hearts like mine are too proud for submission to scorn. You are here at my mercy — Lliat mercy has died ; You remain as my victim or part as my bride, {lock* l. d.) See, escape is in vain, and all others desert you ; Let these arms be your refuge. Walpole {tapping him on the shoulder). Well said, Public Virtue ! Blount, slupijied, drops the key, which Walpole takes up, stepping out into the balcony, to return as Blount, recovering himself, mikes a rush at the window. H'alpole {stopping him). As you justly observed, ' See, escape is in vain " — I have pushed down the ladder. Blount {laying his hand on his sword). 'Sdeath ! draw, s i ! Walpole. Auauuii From (hat worst of all blunders, a profitless crime. Cut my innocent throat ? Fie ! one sin at a time. Blount. Sir, mock on, I deserve it; expose me to shame, I've o'erthrown my life's labor, — an honest man's name. Lucy {stealing up to Blount). No ; a moment of madness can not sweep a way All I owed, and — forgive me — have failed to repay, {to Wal- pole ) Be that moment a secret. Walpole. If woman can keep one, Tiien a secret's a secret. Gad, Blount, you're a deep one ! {knock at d. f — Walpole opens it.) Enter, d. f., Bellair and Veasey, followed by Mrs. Vizard. Bellair. {not seeing Walpole, who is concealed behind the door which he opens, and hurrying to Blount). Faithless man, canst thou look on my face undismayed ? Nithsdaie's letter disclosed, and my friendship betrayed I What ! and here too ! Why here ? Blount {aside). I shall be the town's scoff. Walpole {to Bellair and Veasey). Sirs, methinks that you see not that lady — hats off. I requested your presence, Sir Sidney Bellair, To make known what you owe to the fiiend who stands there. For that letter disclosed, your harsh language recant — Its condition your pardon; — full pardon I grant. He is here— you ask why ; 'tis to sive you to-night From degrading your bride by the scandal of flight, {drawing him aside) Or — hist ! — did you intend (whisper close in my ear) Honest wedlock with one so beneath you I fear ? You of lineage so ancient Bellair. Must mean wh it I say. Do their ancestors teach the well-born t > betray ? Walpole. Wed her friendless and penniless 1 Bellair. Ay. Walpole. Strange caprice ! Deign to ask, then, from Walpole the hand of his niece. Should he give his conseut, thank the friend you abuse. ACT III. 41 Bellair (embracing Blount). Best and noblest of men. my blind fiirv excus\ Walpole. H rk ! her father's lost lands may yet serve for her dower. Bi:llair. All the earth his no lands worth the bloom of this flower. Lucy. An! too soou fades the flower. Bellair. True, I alter the name. Be my perfect pure chrysolite — ever the same. Walpole. Hold ! I know not a chrysolite from a carbuncle, (Kith in* sinwitmg blandishment of voice and look) But my nephew-in-law should not vute out his uncle. Bellair. Robert Walpol >, at last you have bou!_hl me, I fear. Walpole. Every man his his price. My majority's clear. If, ■ (crossing quickly to Blount J Dear Blount., did your goodness not rank with the best, What you feel ns reproach, you would treat as a jest. Rai*e your head — and with me keep a laugh for the ass Who has never <2<>ne out of his wits for a lass ; Live again for your country — reflect on my bill. Blount (ivith emotion, grasping Walpole's hand). You are generous ; I thank you. Vote with you 1 — I will ! Veaskt. How dispersed are the clouds seeming lately so sinister! Walpole. Y. s, I think that the glass stands at Fair — for the Minister. Yeasey. Ah ! what more couM you do for the People and Throue 1 Walpole. Now I'm safe in my office, I'd leave well alone. Servants at Back. Mrs. Vizard. Bellair. Luct. Blount. Veasey. AValpole. CURTAIN. NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. COPTBIGHT, 1875, BY EODKBI M. DE WlTT. NOT. SO B\D AS Wi: 3E1 M. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Burton's Theatre, Xew, Thta /i/iir- l'ork, Aug. 29, 1851. ket, London, Feb. 1-, '• The Duke of Middlesex ( i peer attach- ed to the son of James II., com- monly called the First Pretender.. Mr. Moorhousb. Mr. Stcart. The Eirl of Loftus (also a peer attached to the son of Junes II Lord Wilmot (a young man at the head of the Mode more than a cen- tury ago, son to Lord Loftu*) Mr. Dyott. Mr. LZXQH Mi'iirat. Mr. Shadowly Softhead (a young gel - tleman from the city friend and double to Lord Wilmot) Mr. Bcuto*. Mr. Kkbley. Hardman (a rising Member of Parlia- ment, and adherent of Sir Robert Walpole) Mr. Blanh. Mr. Barky Sullivan. Sir Geoffrey Thornside (a gentleman of good family and estate) Mr. B. Wf.b-tku Mr. Goodenougli Easy (in business, highly respectable, and a friend of Sir Geoffrey) Mr. J. IJi-nn. Mr. Bcckstom. Colonel Flint (a Fire-eater) Mr. Jacob Tonson (a Bookseller) Smart (Valet to Lord Wilmot) Hodge (Servant to Sir Geoffrey Thorn- side) Paddy O'Sullivan (Mr. Fallen's Land- lord) Mr. David Fallen (Grubb Street Au- thor and Phamphleteer) Mr. Parday. Mr. Howe. First Watchman Lucy (Daughter to Sir Geoffrey Thorn- 8 'de) Miss Weston. Hiss Ross Bennett. Barbara (Daughter to Mr. Easy) Miss M. Barton. Miss Amelia Vimno. Lady Ellinor (the Lady of Deadman's Lane) Coffee House Loungers, Drawers, Newsmen, Watchmen, etc. PERIOD— 1720.— REIGN OF GEORGE I. SCENE— LONDON. TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS AND A QUARTER. The events of the Play are supposed to take place between the morning of one day and the afternoon of the second day following. SCEXERY. ACT I., Scene /.—Lord Wilmot's apartment in St. James's. A handsomely fur- nished apartment richly carpeted, closed in, set scene. In 4th grooves the flats rep- resent one side with folding doors, c. Gilded panels and large paintings. Doors NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. E. 3 E. and l. 3 e. in a slanting direction ; near each of them two rich gilt tablea upon which are books and papers ; on either side of the tables similar kind of chairs and also between the doors ; the panels on either side are hung with pictures. Handbell on table, r. 2 e. Everything betokens a rich and elegantly furnished apartment. ACT II., Scene I.— Library in the house of Sir Geoffrey TnoRssiDE. Flats in 4th grooves represent one side of the apartment with dark and heavy looking oak pan- els, partly gilded ; the sides represent the same. At the back, c, a large window opening nearly to the ground. Doors i.. 3 e. and r. 3 e. ; the scene beyond the win- dow represents a garden wall, with vines, etc., trained up it. Antique tables, with books and papers, r. 2 e. and l. 2 e. ; antique high-backed chairs with velvet seats on either side of the tables. ACT HI., Scene 1 —Will's Coffee House. | Door. Door. i : O ; : Box and Table. o Box and Table. Door. O * Chair. Table. Box and Table. r.'2e. — Chair. * O : : Table. •'•• Box and Table. R. 1 E.- The fiats set in the back grooves represent dark oak panelling, decorated with paintings. In the centre a doorway, panelling of passage beyond ; on either side of the doorway two partitions four or five feet high, forming a sort of open box, and between them a table, with a seat running round three sides of the box, leav- ing one side open to the audience. Doors r. v. e. and I.. U. E. Nearer the audience R. and l., a similar sort of box, with the seat running round two sides only, the sides next the centre of the stage and facing the audience being open. Over the. door in the centre are the gilded arms of England, and on the panels of the room are various placards— "Army Increase," "More Treason," "Defeat of the Minis- try," "More Jacobite Plots," "One Thousand Guineas Reward," etc. Writing materials in the open box, r. Two small round tables and chairs near the open boxes, B. and L., with newspapers, etc. Scene //.—Library in Sir Geoffrey's house. Flats as in Act 2, Scene 1, but set in 2d grooves. Chair pushed on k. 2 E. Scene HI. — An old fashioned street scene set in 4th grooves. The corner of a gloomy-looking house, r. 3 e., apparently the beginning of an alley, upon the corner of it is inscribed " Deadman's Lane." Belonging to it in a slanting direction is a heavy-looking doorway, over which is fixed a massive crown and portcullis. ACT IV., Scene /.—Library in Sir Geoffrey's house, as in Act 3, Scene 2. Scene 11.— David Fallen's garret. The flats set in the back grooves represent the side of a dilapidated garret : a low small casement with broken and patched panes, O. A cupboard, r. c. A low bedstead with blanket and scanty bedding, l. u. e. Two or three old pictures on the wall. Door b. 3 e. Common table and two chairs near the window ; writing materials. 4 NOT SO BAD AS WK SEEM. Scene III.— The Mall. The fiats in the 3d grooves represent rows of trees ana gravelled walk ; the wings to correspond. ACT V., Scene /.—Old Mill near the Thames. The flats in the 2d grooves repre- sent river banks, with an old mill and outbuildings. s If we succeed, you restore the son ot a Stuart ; if we fail, you will go to the scaffold by the side of John, Duke of Middlesex !" Strange as it may seem, however, Wilmot cannot see the particular advantage 01 honor in thus running the risk of putting an end to his you.hful and at present pleasurable career; consequently 1 e very respectfully declines the offei but he learns enough to lead him to suspect that his father, Lord Lottus, ,s mixed up in Man has his Price." NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. on the inquiry, and to apply to the poor author, D#vid Fallen, who, it is well known, is more or less concerned in all the schemes of the Pretender's party. Hardman is in love with Lucy, and half suspects that Wilmot is also, and so before he departs on the mission he throws out a hint—" One is always safe from a rival, both in love and ambition, if one will watch to detect and then scheme to destroy." Wilmot is really in love with Lucy, and determines to put Sir Geoffrey on a wrong scent with regard to his passion, and therefore he induces Shadowly Softhead, though not with- out some difficulty, to make pretended love to her, whilst he will do the same to- wards Barbara Easy, of whom Softhead is deeply enamored, and then when oppor- tunity occurs matters can be reversed ; as Wilmot wittily observes, they can " change partners, hands across, down the middle, and up again." Sir Geoffrey in his retirement has grown suspicious, petu ant, and irritable, and this disposition is not improved by the rustic bluntness of his eccentric attendant, Hodge, whom he has brought to London from his country house. For some few days he has been much annoyed by nosegays being thrown in at the window, in which he is convinced there is some attempt upon his life ; then again, when he walks in the garden, he feels sure that some one, or something, is watching from the window of the lone house in Deadman's Lane. Another great source of annoy- ance is the frequent calling of Wilmot, who, as he says, pretending to have saved Lucy from footpads, persists in repeating the calls daily, only an excuse, he is con- fident, for making love to her, which angers him much, as he has not the slightest liking or respect for a lord ; all of which he reveals to Goodenough Easy. The arrival of the young ladies, accompanied by Wilmot and Softhead, affords an opportunity for some amusing by-play, by means of which Wi'mot skillfully plays upon Sir Geoffrey and then upon Easy, so that he induces the latter to take the former into an adjoining room to talk over his views with regard to Lucy, thus leav- ing Softhead and Barbara to a battle of love, and giving Wilmot an opportunity to make Lucy acquainted with the visit from a friend of her mother's. The arrival of Hardman breaks up the meeting, and although partners are changed as arranged, Hardman is very suspicious, but having ascertained from David Fallen that Wilmot's father really is mixed up in treasonous plots, he deter- mines to use that knowledge as a hold upon the son, should occasion need. Barbara confides to Wilnot her love for Softhead and her father's dislike to him for having quitted the sober business city life in which he was reared, to ape and imitate the man of fashion and the ways of those far above him in rank and position, for which reason their union has been forbidden. But Wilnot Cheers her up and promises to work a great change in the steady young city merchant, and although Barbara de- clares that her father is one of the soberest men living, and exceedingly severe against a cheerful glass, Wilnot determines to lead him into a tipsy bout and turn the incident to advantage. At a meeting the same evening, at Will's Offee House, a noted resort for all the giy young lords, politicians, authors, and noted men of the day, Easy is induced to be a visitor. Hardman is there also, to have have a further interview with David Fallen ; so also are Lord Loftus and the Duke, who choose the place for meeting as from its publicity they are less likely to excite suspicion than in using a more pri. vate one. , Loftus expects a messenger from the Pretender, and leaves it to Fallen to name the meeting place and time, which he fixes for the ensuing day at an old secluded mill on the banks of the river Thames. As soon as they are gone, he tells Hard- man what has taken place, and urges him to save the infatuated noblemen from danger and not to destroy them, observing, that though he is resigned to the name of starving poet and hireling, he is not, and cannot be, to that of butcher. In warm language he tells how he commenced life in devotion to two causes — t.he throne of the Stuarts and the glory of Letters. Politicians of both sides served him alike ; no matter which was in power, he starved; and he is now in that position ; he is paid for information and scurrilous pamphlets, from which source he ekes out a scanty subsistence. NOT SO BAD as we seem. 9 Hardman at this moment is very much disposed to throw up his post, for, believ- ing he has a claim upon the prime minister lor past services, he has applied to him for a vacant official appointment, only, however, to meet with a refusal from Wal- pole, which so angers him that he is almost inclined to forsake his allegiance ; but a little reflection bids him wait. Wilmot now appears upon the scene to put his scheme into operation. Accom- panied by his idolizing double, Softhead, he invites the leading members of the com- pany to a grand dinner, and artfully contrives that there shall be just one wanting to complete the party. Of course his eye drops upon Easy, and in spite of his pro- testations that he is unused and objects to such scenes, he is compelled to agree to make up the number, which brings forth another side to his character ; with the excitement of the scene, he forgets his previous steady going merchant principles and speaks boastingly to acquaintances around him of the honor, ability, and pleas- antry of his friend, Lord Wilmot. Now is the time for looking after the memoirs, so Wilmot broaches the subject to Tonson (a celebrated publisher and an employer of distressed and suffering, but tal- ented, authors at starvation prices), and from him he finds that they are in the posses- sion of David Fallen, who refuses to part with them, although Tonson has offered the magnificent sum of two hundred guineas. This is good news for Wilmot, who obtains the poet's address and determines to visit him at his house, alone. Tonson also speaks of the subject to Hardman, expatiating warmly upon the ex- treme attractiveness of the papers it they could only be secured for publication ; a full account of the love adventures of Lord Mowbray ; such a confession about the beautiful LadyMorland; satires upon the Duke ; Jacobite family secrets ; ever so much scandal ; would sell like wildfire ; such glorious nuts for the public to crack ! But to all this Hardman turns a deaf ear. Now Tonson's great fear is that one Curll, a most unscrupulous publisher, author and trafficker in literary matter, should forestall him in the possession of these me- moirs and force them upon the market in spite of all the trouble he has taken, and he therefore mentions the subject to Wi'.mot, begging him to be upon his guard and not let the secret of the ownership get wind. This gives a new idea to Wilmot ; he once dressed like and imitated this Curll so well that the great poet Pope was him- self deceived, and ordered him out of the room, so he determines again to adopt this disguise to assist him in dealing with Fallen, and not to appear in his proper person. Observing Hardman somewhat moody, he learns from him the minister's refusal of the sought for place, which if he had secured would have given him courage to ask for and obtain the hand of the lady he loves ; and his spirits are by no means cheered up when Wilmot avows to him his own love for Lucy. Hardman, however, is not to be so easily baffled, the knowledge of the treason of Lord Loftus and the Duke is in his keeping, for which he can demand from Wilmot any price he pleases, and he determines that such price shall be his resignation of the hand of Lucy. With dissembling friendship he bids him adieu : — "To-day I'm your envoy; to-morrow your master." Now Wilmot is half jesting; he sees that every man's character has different sides to it, and he thinks it too cruel a joke that for want of the official appointment Hardman should lose the chance of winning the woman. Wilmot has a very scarce and valuable painting by the celebrated artist Murillo ; the weak side of Walpole's character was a strong infatuation for paintings. The game is quite clear ; Wilmot Will make him a present of the painting in exchange for the appointment — in fact, he will bribe the Prime Minister— Walpole shall have the Murillo, and Hardman shall have the place, and the wife, if he can win her. In an interview which takes place in Sir Geoffrey's library, Lucy alludes to the visits of Wilmot under pretence of loving Barbara, and affectionately urges him to forbid them, confessing that they make her too happy, and yet may grieve him. The old baronet is struck with this token of affection ; she must be his child ; how to console her? "By speaking of my mother," timidly suggests Lucy. The fath- er's brow darkens as he forbids her ever to mention the name of one who had dis- 10 NOT SO BAD AS AVE SEEM. honored him. "It is false !" speaks a low voice, and the masked female disappears from the window of the apartment where she had been a spectator of the scene. At this moment Hardman arrives with the news that Wilmot is not in love with Bar- bara, but with Lucy, and whilst the baronet informs him that he already knows it, and they agree that the nosegays and the w.itcli kept on the house are evidently part of a plan to entrap her, the masked female glides past the window. With a startled cry Hardman, who observes the movement, leaps out in pursuit; carefully tracks her to the house in Deadman's Lane, and determines that the morrow shall solve the mystery. Wilmot's dinner takes place as arranged, and so skillfully does he carry out his plans that he works Easy into a glorious state of jovial exhilaration, in which he declares his undying antipathy for lords, and binds himself irrevocably to accept Softhead as his son-in-law ; thus Wilmot achieves (success for his plot number one. Scenes of rough play in the streets between young sparks and the night watchmen were common occurrences at the period of the play ; indeed, it was not considered the proper thing to wind up an evening's carousal without something of the kind. As a matter of course Wilmot takes care that his party shall be no exception to the custom, and he therefore leads his friends into such a scene, as it happens, in the vicinity of Deadman's Lane. Goodenough Easy, under the influence of his fre- quent draughts, fcrgets his civic dignity, and bestriding a fallen watchman, affords much amusement by fancying himself the chairman of a jovial meeting and the watchman's body the table. The arrival of the other members of the watch how- ever interrupt his delusion, and he is borne away to the watch-house, still shouting, however, the glorious principles of the constitution and the pride he feels at the ex- alted position to which he has been raised — the shoulders of the watchmen. Wil- mot, having taken Softhead aside, now points out to him the lone house, and so works upon his fears by the picture he draws of things within, that when the masked lady suddenly appears, he darts away frightened out of his wits. She beckons, and Wilmot follows her into the house. Hardman now takes an opportunity of an interview with Sir Geoffrey to ask for Lucy's hand. He relates in glowing terms his career from boyhood ; his struggles for fortune and fame ; with all of which the barouet is of course acquainted ; but when he tells him that not an hour previously he had received the appointment which had been refused, the baronet is sorely puzzled to know who could have done that. However, charmed by his frankness, Sir Geoffrey gives his consent, if Lucy so inclines, and then tells him that upon examining the nosegays thrown in at the window he finds they are made up in the very form in which he used to make up those he sent to his wife in the days of their courtship. He tells him also of his supposed dishonor, and reveals his true name— Morland — and that of the presumed seducer. Tonsou's words about the memoirs flash to Hardman's recollection, and he determines to seek an interview with David Fallen. Wilmot is not slow on the same track. Disguising himself as Mr. Curl], he visits Fallen in his wretched garret, when the forlorn poet is about to pawn the last blan- ket he possesses to obtain food for his children. He offers three hundred guineas for the memoirs, but, poor as he is, Fallen refuses ; honor and poverty are still left to him. He relates how they were given to him by Lord Mowbray on his death-bed ; that they contain a confession as to the lady he once foully injured, which would serve to clear the name he himself had aspersed, and that they had been received with n promise to seek her and place them in her hands to enable her to establish her innocence. She was of a Jacobite family, and as a Jacobite agent Fallen was supposed to have the best chance of tracing her ; he exerted himself to the utmost, but only to hear that she had died in France. Having thus failed, he was deter- mined that no money should induce him to open up the secrets of homes to public scoff and ridicule. For a moment baffled, the prize seems lost, when Wilmot informs him he comes from Lord Mowbray's brother, the Duke of Middlesex. This only makes matters worse. Fallen relates in bitter words the circumstances under which he met the Duke some years previously, when a kind word, a nod of recognition NOT SO BAD as we seem. 11 would have made his fortune. He had inscribed to the Duke a new poem, took it to his house and waited in the hall, when the great man appeared and said : " Oh, you are the poet? take this," extending his alms as if to a beggar. "You look very thin, sir; stay and dine with my people." He meant his servants ! Fallen points out that these memoir< mide public, would make the Duke the jeer of his own lac- keys ; but he will be no tool for working out a dead brother's revenge, and his pride prevents him receiving money. Charmed by the nobility of Fallen's conduct, Wilmot tells him who he is, that the Duke is his father's friend, and ought to possess the papers as a family secret, and expresses warmly his admiration for one who, in the midst of poverty, cou:d spurn a bribe to his honor, but who might now humble by such a valuable gift, the great and haughty noble, who had insulted him by alms. Fallen surrenders the memoirs, and Wilmot departs, promising him for life a yearly sum equal to that which he h..d refused as a bribe. Hardman arrives only to find the true nature of the documents ; that Lady Mor- land's letter was with them, and that they are now on their way to the Duke. Baf- fled in this, there is left yet the meeting with the Pretender's agent. If he can only obtain the treasonous dispatch, he will force the memoirs from the Duke ; the masked female must be Lady Morland ; establish her innocence and he wins Lucy. Wilmot places the documents in the hands of the Duke, and then sends a letter to Lucy to meet and accompany him to the lone house. Acting upon his knowledge of the meeting-place and the password, Hardman obtains the dispatch, and upon the Duke's arrival he reveals to him his knowledge of all that has passed respecting his brother and Lady Morland, and that he knows of the papers being in his possession, and the nature of them. Hi appeals to him, not as a proud peer of England, but as a man, to surrender the pipers, and by so doing restore a wife to the husband she loves and forgives — to the girl for whom her heart yearns. Pride struggles with honor and justice in the breast of the haughty nobleman, but the latter triumphs, and he takes his leave, promising to meet Hard- man forthwith and hand over to him the memoirs. In a state of the greatest alarm, Softhead arrives with the information that he has seen Lucy and Wilmot enter the lone house at Deadman's Lane. Enraged at being thus forestalled, Hardman gives him a note to the justice to send and post officers at the door to await his orders, and also a message to Sir Geoffrey to meet him there ; aid hastening thither, he arrives shortly after Wilmot has united mother and daughter. In vehement language he reminds him of his love for Lu<*y ; he tells him that instead of sounding his father, he has detected him in what history and party feeling call zeal, but the law high treason! produping the dispatch calling for arms and money to dethrone the king, signed by the Duke and Lord Loftus. Astounded by the intelligence, Wilmot locks the door and attempts to secure the paper, but Hardman coolly informs him that officers are waiting below, and the effort is futile. He then pictures his love for Lucy, and that he had schemed to save his father, not to injure him; had the dispatch fallen into the hands of a spy the result would have been very different, and he now only asks that lie may himself place it in the hands of Lord Loftus, with such words as will save him and others from similar perilous hazards in the future. Wilmot departs therefore to secure the presence of his father and the Duke. As soon as he is gone, Hardman seeks an interview with Lucy, in which he de- clares his love, telling her of her father's wish, and that he will soon dispel all the clouds which have darkened his life, and make her mother the pride of their home. She blesses him tor the promise, but w.irns him that her heart may not go with her hand. He is content ; he will try and win it. Her lather is coming full of sus- picion ; she must appear as his betrothed and accepted ; he will restore her mother's name ; secure her parents' reunion ; her hand the pledge— she gives it. Followed by Easy, Softhead, and Barbara, Sir Geoffrey bursts into the room in search of Wilmot, by whom he thinks his daughter has been taken off and find- ing Hardman there, believes that he has been the means of saving her from disgrace. 12 NOT SO BAD AS AVE SEEM. Then comes to light the whole secret of Hardman's past career, of the unknown hand that raised him, and, more astounding than all, the fact that he owes his offi- cial appointment to Wilruot. He is overwhelmed at such generosity, and informs Kir Geoffrey why Lucy was brought there. With indignation at the snare laid to bring him and his wife together, Sir Geoffrey is about to depart, when the Duke arrives with the memoirs, which he hands over to H mlm an. The inspection of them and of the letter convinces Sir Geoffrey of his wife's innocence, and with a burst of joy he receives her in his arms. But Hardman's task is not yet done. He gives up the dispatch, with the information that the cause is hopeless, the Pretender hav- ing abjured his faith and fled to Rome. He feels that Lucy's heart yearns towards Wilmot, so taking her hand he places it in his, remarking to Sir Geoffrey, " You placed her happiness in my charge— here, she loves and is loved." The fever is catching, and as Softhead always liked to imitate a lord, he suggests being married to Barbara. To this, however, Mr. Goodenough Easy strongly ob- jects, but Wilmot slyly reminds him that when he was chairman of the impromptu meeting of the previous night lie had promised, nay, insisted upon it, that Softhead should be his son-in-law, and offers to explain to the company the circumstances. This is too much for Goodenough Easy, so he consents. All are made happy — treason is crushed — love is promoted — and the conclusion is arrived at by allthe party assembled, that, with all their faults, they are not so bad as they seem. REMARKS. " Not so bad as we seem " was written by the author more with a view to its pro- duction in private on a special occasion than to its representation upon the stage ; hence it is that many of the ideas are elaborately worked out, and many of the in- cidents, slight in themselves, unduly and needlessly extended. The late Duke of Devonshire was, and had been for many years of his life, a warm and earnest patron of Literature and the Drama. To all who were connected with those professions he evpr extended a genial and noble sympathy, and was always ready to befriend every member, high or low, of what he was pleased to call his •' brotherhood." He was also the founder of an institution for rendering assistance to any one of the class who should unfortunately, as was too often the case, be in need of it. Having made arrangements to give a grand entertainment to Her M.tjesty, Queen Victoria, at his palatial house in London, Bulwer readily entered into his desire to make the occasion one worthy of note, arid accordingly constructed the present play. It was produced in a theatre especially erected for the purpose, fitted up in the most complete and costly manner, and was performed before the Queen and one of the most noble and brilliant audiences ever assembled ; all the parts being filled by amateur ladies and gentlemen of eminent position and ability. The result may well be imagined : the sparkling wit, refined language and polished manners of all the actors naturally met with approval from such a select audience, and it was duly announced as being a great and decided success. But when the composition was submitted to a public ordeal, and its merits judged by a severer tribunal, the weak nature of the plot, the undue extension of the details, and a faulty construction, caused it to fail in producing a confirmatory verdict. The American stage bore oft the palm of making the first attempt to test the mer- its of the new work by its production in public, bringing it out at Burton's Cham- bers Street Theatre on August 29th, 1851. It was well mounted, but to no good- lack of interest, want of incident, and the absence of effective situations were not to be atoned for by fine language and occasionally long speeches ; the consequence was an unsatisfactory reception, and an eirly withdrawal. It should be noted, however, that while the cast of the characters embraced the names of several excellent players, NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 13 scarcely any of them had a part suitable to their peculiar talents. Burton, Dyott, Dunn, Uiaiul, and Parday were admirable actors in their respective lines; but in this cast they were singularly out of their proper places. Two years afterwards the Loudon stage made the attempt, by producing it at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, where it had the advantage of actors in every respect admirably adapted to the characters personated, bicked up by the best mounting possible. Like the attempt in New York, it met with very little favor, was with- drawn after a short run, and has not been produced since. That this was a true test of the merits of the play is beyond a doubt ; for all that professional ability could do to ensure success was unquestionably done. It is a curious fact that everyone of the actors engaged, rose afterwards to the top of the profession in their several branches; one more especially, Mr. Barry Sullivan, who his attained a most dis- tinguished positiou amongst the many candidates for high histrionic honors. All of them too, curiously enough, became lessees and managers of the principal London theatres. It seems to have been the author's aim to present each of the personages in a par- ticular style, aud to change him into quite an opposite one. In Hardman he represents a young, energetic, and talented man, overcoming every obstacle in his path of ambition, and achieving all that he desires ; loving warmly, and yet so moved by the generosity of his rival, and a sense of honor, that when he becomes aware that the heart of the girl he adores is not his, though her hand may be, for services rendered to her father, he does not hesitate to sacrifice his own desires for her happiness, and surrenders her to Wilmot, knowing their affec- tion to be warm and mutual. Again, he secures the treasonous secret of Lord Lof- tus and the Duke to further his designs in winning Lucy, but throws over his in- tentions and saves them from an untimely death. The Duke of Middlesex is the type of a prou>l, haughty, and conceited class, of whom, at that period, there were many representatives; but on the other side of his character there is a spirit of honor and chivalry in him highly to be commended. The production of the Confession and Memoirs of his brother, Lord Mowbray, is certain, by the exposure of their loose and scandalous contents, to bring ridicule and shame upon himself and the family name ; his vauity consequently recoils at the prospect, but when he learns that a woman's honor is at stake, and the salva- tion of a wife and mother is to be achieved, he hesitates no longer ; like a true- hearted man and a gentleman he agrees to surrender the document quite regardless whether the result be unpleasant to him or not. Thus we see the different sides to his character. Lord Wilmot is like many young men of that, and even of the present, day — wealthy, light-hearted, and gay. His passion for Lucy is of very rapid growth, and he is one of those persons who strike quickly. Smitten by her charms, he soon tells his love, although aware of the existence of a prior canJidate. Yet, in spite of his affecti n, there is such a feeling of generosity in him th it he grieves to see his rival disappointed in a chance of winning her, so he sets to work and procures for him the official appointment he had failed to obtain, although it is likely to raise him consid- erably in the eyes of his ladylove, and render him a more formidable opponent. Here again we have different sides of another character. Mr. Goodenough Easy has but one idea of the proper course of life to pursue— trade. He was born and bred in business in the city, and there he must remain and die believing that a man has no right to move out of the sphere in which he entered life. But even he has to change his character and ideas, and to give way to the in- fluence of rank and position, aud actually boasts of the pride he feels in the new- made friendship of a lord, yielding most amiably to his wishes. As for Shadowly Softhead, he represents a class of which we constantly meet speci- mens ; but there is nothing particularly new or striking in his character, or in that of either of the ladies, to call for any special notice. David Fallen, the poor poet, is a prettily conceived character. The description of his career in Act IV. is well drawn, and is a truthful illustration of the life of 14: NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. m iny talented men in the last century. Might we not also say in this 1 Notwith- standing ail the vicissitudes, tria s, and Bufferings through which he has passed, honor remains intact. Finding the original purpose for which he was intrusted with Lord Mowbray's Memoirs and Confession cannot he carried out, he does not hesitate 10 give them up to the Duke, rather than allow the secrets of a high family and a home to be scattered abroad, bringing scandal and disgrace upon all its mem- bers. Sir Geoffrey Thornside, after all he has endured, is, as we might naturally expect, a suspicious, discontented, and irritable old gentleman ; his mind fixed upon one point— a firm conviction of his wife's guilt, which nothing can move. But this char- acter also has to undergo a change and exhibit another side, so when the time comes to make all things clear, the old love comes up as bright as ever, and every trouble vanishes. There are not many telling situations in the play, nor any particular display of fine writing, until towards the end, in the Fourth and Fifth Acts. It bears evident sigus of hurried composition, and it would be difficult for any one to believe, by a perusal of the work, supposing him, of course, to be ignorant of the fact that it had em in ited from the same source as Itichelieu, Money, and the Lady of Lyons. There is, however, groundwork for a neat drama by using some little excision and making a few alterations in the arrangement of the incidents. The female parts are very tame; indeed, there are no very strongly marked and distinctive characters in it, drawn in the brilliant colors which distinguish other productions of the noble author. The imaginary chairmanship of Easy in the Third Scene of Act III. is ludicrous. The interview between Lord Wilmot and David Fallen is very well done, and the bitter feelings with which the latter relates the circumstance of the iusult he re- ceived from the Duke are excellently rendered. So also is that portion of the Third Scene in Act IV., where Wilmot describes to Softhead his interview with the Prime Minister, AValpole, and how he managed to obtain from him the place for Hardman in exchange for his Murillo painting. In the hands of an able actor this can cer- tainly be made the gem of the play. The language is witty, sharp, and well chosen, and if delivered clearly, rapidly, and judiciously, the speech cannot fail to ensure applause. But perhaps the neatest portion of the composition is that entitled " David Fallen is Dead !'" intended as a sort of key to the play. It was to have been spoken at the original amateur performance ; not being ready, however, it did not appear until the work was published, when it was introduced as an after scene — as an acted epilogue. The idea is a novel one, and the language well chosen, witty, appropriate, and telling. At any rate, the design of the play is a good one, and if not carried out so well and effectively as it might be, the principle is established that there are " many sides to a character," and that all of us are " Not so Bad as we Seem." J. m. k. NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM'. 15 BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, ETC. The events of the Play take place in London. Period — 1720. ACT I. Scene I.— LORD WILMOT'S APARTMENT IN ST. JAMES S. /he Mysterious Lady — The Invitation — An Ambitious Citizen — Haughty Nobility and an aspiring Youth — A Small Man and a Great Mind - Memoirs of a Gay Nobleman — The Jacobite Plot — Treason and its Ad- herents — The Compact. ACT II. Scene I.— LIBRARY IN THE HOUSE OF SIR GEOFFREY THORNSIDE An Irritable Master and his Country Servant — Suspicions and Fears — The Mysterious Nosegay — Poison in Flowers — An exalted Trader — A Ruse of Love — A Declaration of Affection — The Rival Lovers — Hardman and Wilmot — The Conspiracy. ACT III. Scene I— WILL'S COFFEE-HOUSE. Nobility, Wit, and Learning — Poetry and Wine — Plot and Counterplot — The Noble Conspirators — A Jacobite Agent — The Secret Dispatch — The Meeting Betrayed— A Poet's Story of Politics and Starvation — Coyifes- sions of a Seduce) — A Dinner for Six — The Trap Laid. Scene II.— LIBRARY IN SIR GEOFFREY'S HOUSE. Father and Daughter — A Masked Listener — The Mysterious Voice — The Baronet's Suspicions of a Wife's Honor — The Interruption — The Put- suit of the Unknown. Scene III.— OLD STREET IN LONDON AND DEADMANS LANE. Tracking the Masked Lady — The Result of the Dinner— Wine and its Ef- fects — Mr. Goodenough Easy as Chairman — An Election for the City — A Living Table — ^4 March to the Watch-house — A Softhead by Name and Nature — The Masked Lady again — Wilmot in Pursuit. ACT IV. Scene I.— LIBRARY IN SIR GEOFFREY'S HOUSE. Hardman' s Story of his Life and Career — Sir Geoffrey Reveals his True Name and the Secret of his Dishonor — Hardman on the Track for the Memoirs and Confession of the Culprit. Scene II.— THE GARRET HOME OF DAYID FALLEN. Poetry and Poverty — Milk Scores in Arrear — A Warm-hearted Irishman — The Hunt for the Memoirs — The Poet's Story of Indignity and Insult— Nobility of Nature — The Bribe Refused — Heroic Example of Generosity — Wilmot obtains the Memoirs — Hardman Defeated — " Now then for the Treasonous Dispatch ! " Scene III.— THE MALL. 1%S D::fce a:id the Memoirs — How Wilmot bribed the Prime Minister — Value aof Painting — Lu ■■/ o:i f'e way to her Mother. 16 NOT SO BAD AS WK SKESI. ACT V. Sckne I.— OLD MILL ON THE BANKS OF THE THAMES. Hardman secures the Dispatch — Proofs of Treason — The Story of Lad// MorlancP8 Wrongs— The Injured Wife and a Seducer's Confession — A Rival in Love — Officers ordered for Dead-man's Lane. Scene 1!.— APARTMENT IN THE LONE HOUSE IN DEADMAN'S LANE. T7ie Meeting of Mother and Daughter— Hardman in Pursuit— The Dis patch to the Pretender— A Fathers Treason and a Son's Ruin— A Lover s Appeal— An Enraged Parent— The Story of the Unki.own Benefactor— Proofs of Innocence — Reunion of Husband and Wife — A Noble Sacrifice— Lovers made Happy — Treason Destroyed— All Prove they are not so Bad as tr.ey Seem ! EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. SCENE. \ C.2e. \ L. 3e. E. 13. \ L.2E, L. 1 E. / e. z. o. AUDIENCE. l. Left. l. c. Left Centre. l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. l. 2 e. Left Second Entrance. l. 3 e. Left Third Entrance. L. V. E. Left Upper Entrance (wherever this Scene nay be.) P. L. c. Door Left Centre. c. Centre. r. Eight. it. 1 e. Eight First Entrance. li. 2 e. Eight Second Entrance. it. 3 e. Eight Third Entrance. K. v. e. Eight Upper Entrance. d. r.. c- Door Right Centre. NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM; OR MANY SIDES TO A CHARACTER. ACT I SCENE I. — Lord Wilmot's apartment in St. James's. Enter Smart, c. d. l., showing in Lady Ellinor, masked. Smart. My Lord is dressing. As you say, madam, it is late. But though he never wants sleep more than ouce a week, yet when he doas sleep, I am proud to say he sleeps better than any man in the three kingdoms. Lady E. I have heard much of Lord Wilmot's eccentricities — but also of his generosity and honor. Smart. Yes, madam, nobody like him for speaking ill of himself and doing good to another. Enter AVilmot, r. d. Wilmot. ' : And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake." Any duels to-day, Smart 1 No — I see something more dangerous — a woman, (to Smart) Vanish [exit Smart, c. d. Places a chair, l. c, for Lady E. She sits and he also, near her) Madam, have I the honor to know you 1 Condescend 10 remove your vizard. (Lady E. lifts her mask. Aside) Very line woman, still — decidedly dangerous, (aloud) Madam, allow me one precautionary observation — My affections are engaged. Lady. So 1 conjectured ; for I have noticed you from the window of my house, walking in the garden of Sir Geoffrey Thornside with his fair daughter; and she seems worthy to fix the affections of the most fickle. Wil. My dear madam, do you know Sir Geoffrey ? Bind me to you for life, and say a kind word to him in my favor. Lady E. Can you need ii 1 — young, highborn, accomplished Wil. Sir Geoffrey's very objections against me. He says I am a fine gentleman, and has a vehement aversion to that section of mortals, be- cause ha implies that a tine gentleman once did him a mortal injury. But you seem moved — dear lady, what is your interest in Sir Geoffrey or my. -elf ? Lady E. You shall know later. Tell me, did Lucy Thornside ever speak to you of her mother ? Wil. Only to regret, with tears in her eyes, that she had never known a mother — that lady died, I believe, while Lucy was but an infant. Ladj" E. When you next have occasion to speak to her, say that you have seen a friend of her mother, who has something to impart that may contribute to her father's happiness and her own. 18 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEKM. [ACT I. Wil. I will do your bidding tins day, and Soft, (icithout). Oh, never mind announcing me, Smart. Lady E. (starting up). I would not be seen bere — I must be gone. Call on me at nine o'clock this evening ; this is my address. Softhead, enters c. d. l., as Loud Wilmot is protecting Lady E.'s re- treat, and stares aghast. Wil. (aside). Do not fear him — best little fellow in the world, ambi- tious to be thought good for nothing, and frightened out of his wits at the sight of a petticoat, (aloud, as he attends her out) Allow me to escort your ladyship. [Exits, c d. l., with Lady E. Soft. Ladyship! lucky dog. But then lie's such a villain ! Wil. (retaining, and looking at card). Very mysterious visitor — sign of Crown and Portcullis, Deadman's Lane — a very funereal residence, (ob- serving his visitor apparently for the first time) Ha, Softhead ! my Pylades — my second self ! Annua Soft, (astonished, not understanding Latin). Enemy ! Wil. Dimidium mew. Soft, (aside). Dimi ! that's the oath last in fashion, I warrant, (aloud, with a swagger and a slap on Wilmot's back) Dimidum mete ! how d'ye do ? But what is that lady ? — masked too 1 Oh, Fred, Fred ; you are a mon- ster ! Wil Monster! ay, horrible! That lady may well wear a mask. She has poisoned three husbands. Soft. Dimidum mar. Wil. A mere harmless gallantry has no longer a charm for me. Soft. Nor for me, either ! (asnle) Never had. Wil. Nothin2 should excite us true men of pleasure but some colos- sal atrocity, to bring our necks within an inch of the gallows. Soft, (aside). He's a perfect demon ! Alas, I shall never come up to his mark ! He-enter Smaut. Smart. Mr. Hardman, my Lord. Wil. Hush ! Must not shock Mr. Hardman, the most friendly, oblig- ing man, and so clever — will be a minister some day. But not of our set. Enter Hardman, c d. l. Exit Smart. Hard. And how fares my dear Lord I Wil. (a). Bravely — and you 1 Ah! you men who live for others have a hard life of it. Let me present you to my friend, Mr. Shadowiy Soil head, (ihey salute each other.) Hard. (l. c ) The son of the great clothier who has such weight in the Guild 7 I have heard of you from Mr. Easy and others, though never so fortunate as to meet you before, Mr. Softhead. Soft (bowing, r. c.). Shadowiy Softhead — my grandmother was one of the Shadowlys — a genteel family that move about court. She mar- ried a Softhead Wil. A race much esteemed in the city. Hard, [turning aside and glancing at painting, L.). A new picture, my Lord ] I'm no very great judge — but it seems to me quite a master- piece Wil. I've a passion for art. Sold off my stud to buy that picture. (aside) And please my poor father, (aloud) 'Tis a Murillo. Hard. A Murillo ! you know that Walpole, too, has a passion for NOT SO BAD AS WE SKEM. 19 ACT I.] nictures In despair at this moment that he can't find a Murillo to hang up in hi; gallery. If ever you want to corrupt the Prime Minister's vir- tue vou have only to say, " I have got a Munllo. Wil WeH if. instead of the pictures, he'll just hang up the men he has bought, yon may tell him he shall have my Munllo for nothing ! Hard Bou-dit? now really, my Lord, this is so vulgar a scandal against Sir Robert. Let me assure your Lordship-— Wtt. Lordship ! Plague on these titles among friends. Whj , if the Duke of Middlesex himself-commonly styled "the Proud Jake - who said to his Duchess, when she astonished his dignity 01 e da v i.th a kiss, " Madam, my first wife was a Percy, and she uevei took such a ' BtawTHa! ha! well, if " the Proud Duke-— -" Wil. Could deign to come here, we would say, How d je do, m } d ^OF T ! d So e we X would, Fred! Middlesex. Shouldn't you like to know ' Habd M i r have known one or two-in opposition ; and had rather too "so^ToomuchofaDuke: La! I could never have eno' of a Duke! • , , Hard. You may live to think otherwise. Re-enter Smart. • Smart. His Grace* the Duke of Middlesex. Enter Ddke, c. d. l. Exit Smart. Dcke Mv Lord Wilmot, your most obedient servant. wT(S). Now then, courage! {.loud) Hdw d'ye do, my dear Mid- dl DuK ? E . "How d'ye do?" "Middlesex!" Gracious 'Heaven; what will this aoe come to! (sits in chair, c.) VIZ (aside, crossing over to Softhead). Well, it t nay be the fashion, —yet, I could hardly advise you to adopt it. Soft. But if Fred Hard Oh ! certainly Fred is an excellent model—— Soft. Yet there's something very awful in a live Duke. Hard Tut, a mere mortal like ourselves, after all. Soft. D'\ e really think so 1— upon your honor 1 Hard Sir, I'm sure of it— upon my honor, a mortal ! Duke (turning stiffly round, and half rising from Ins chair m majestw con- de,ce,2n Yol- Lordship's friends ? A good day to you, gentlemen. Xf" And a good day to yourself. My Lord Du-I mean, my dear bU DoKf " S"-<< boy^L !"-" dear !" I must be in a dream. wIl (to Softhead) Apologize to the Duke. { to Habdmas) Then ... j <•„ „f dy like him. Wil. (aloud). Well met, my dear Hardman. So you are intimate here 1 Hard. Ay ; and you 1 Wil. An acquaintance in its cradle. Droll man, Sir Geoffrey ; I de- light in odd characters. Besides, here are other attractions, (returning to Barbara.) Hard, (aside). If he be my rival ! Hum ! I hear from David Falleu 28 NOT SO BAD AS "WE SEEM. [ACT III. that his father's on the brink of high treason ! That secret gives a hold on the son. (joins Lucy.) Wil. (to Barbara). You understand ; 'tis a compact. You will favor my stratagem ? Bar. Yes ; and you'll engage to cure Softhead of his taste for the fashion, and send him back to — the city. Wil. Since you live in the city, and condescend to regard such a monster ! Bah. Why, we were brought up together. His health is so delicate; I should like to take care of him. Heigho ! I am afraid 'tis too late, and papa will never forgive his past follies. Wil. Yet papa seems very good-natured. Perhaps there's another side to his character ? Bar. Oh, yes ! He is such a very independent man, my papa ! and has such a contempt for people who go out of their own rank, and make fools of themselves for the sake of example. Wil. Never fear; I'll ask him to dine, and open his heart with a cheerful glass. Bar Cheerful glass ! You don't know papa — the soberest man ! If there's anything on which he's severe, 'tis a cheerful glass. Wil. So so ! does not he ever — get a little excited ? Bar. Excited ! Don't think of it ! Besides, he is so in awe of Sir Geoffrey, who would tease him out of his life, if he could but hear that papa was so inconsistent as to — as to Wil. As to get — a little excited 1 (aside) These hints should suffice me ! 'Gad. if I could make him tipsy for once in a way ! I'll try. (cloud) Adieu, my sweet Barbara, and rely on the zeal of your faithful ally. Slay ! tell Mr. Easy that he must lounge into Will's. I will look out for him there in about a couple of hours. He'll meet many friends from the city, and all the wits and fine gentlemen. Aliens! Vive la joe ! Softhead, we'll have a night of it ! Soft. Ah ! those were pleasant nights when one went to bed at half after ten. Heigho ! (as Hardman hisses Lucy's hand, Wilmot gayly kisses Barbara's — Hardman observes him with a little suspicion — Wilmot returns his look lightly and carelessly — Lucy and Barbara conscious ACT III. SCENE I. — Wilts Coffee Hoiae ; occupying the depth of the stage. Jacob Tonson and various groups ; some sealed in boxes, some standing. In the half-open box at the side, r., David Fallen, seated writing. Enter Easy, c. d. l., speaking to various acquaintances as he passes round. Easy. How d'ye do 1 Have you seen my Lord Wilmot ? Good day. Yes ; I seldom come here ; but I've promised to meet an intimate friend of mine — Lord Wilmot. Servant, sir ! — looking for my friend Wilmot. Oh ! not come yet ! — hum — ha ! — charming young man, Wilmot ; head of the mode ; generous, but prudent. I know all his affairs, (mixes with the group, conversing with Toxson, etc.) Enter Newsman, c. d., ivith papers. Newsman. Great news ! great news ! Suspected Jacobite Plot ! Fears ACT III.] NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 29 of Ministers ! Army to be increased ! Great news! (Coffee-house frequent- ers gather round Newsman — take papers — form themselvis into fresh groups about the stage.) Enter Hardman, l. 2 e. Hard I have sent off my letter to Sir Robert Walpole. This place, h^ must give it; the first favor I have asked. Hope smiles ; lam an peace with all men. Now to save Wilmot's father, (approaches the box at which David Fallen is writing, and stoops down, as if arranging his buckle; to Fallen) Hist,! Whatever the secret, remember, not a word save to me. ( passes up the stage, and is eagerly greeted bg various frequenters of the Coffee house.) Enter Lord Loftus, c. D. l., and advances to the half open box, L. Lord Loftus. Drawer, 1 engage this box ; give me the newspaper. S i — '• Rumored Jacobite Plot. ' The Duke of Middlesex enters c. d l., and proceeds to join Loftus. Duke. My dear Lord, I obey your appointment. But is not the place you select rather strange 1 Lof. Be seated, I pray you. No place so fit for our purpose. First, because its very publicity prevents all suspicion. We come to a coffee- house, where all ranks and all parties assemble, to hear the news, like the rest. And, secondly, we could scarcely meet our agent anywhere else. He is a Tory pamphleteer ; was imprisoned for our sake in the time of William and Mary. If we, so well known to be Tories, are seen to confer with him here, 'twill only be thought that we are suggesting some points in a pamphlet. May 1 beckon our agent? Duke. Certainly. He risks his life for us ; he shall be duly rewarded. Let him sit by our side. (Lord Loftus motions to David Fallen, who takes his pamphht and approaches open' y) I have certainly seen somewhere before that very thin man. Be seated, sir. Honorable danger makes ail men equal. Fal. No, my Lord Duke. I know you not. It is the Earl I confer with, (aside) I never stood in his hall, with lackeys and porters. Duke (to Loftus). Powers above! That scare-crow rejects my ac- quaintance ! Portentous ! (stunned end astonished.) Lof. Obscve Duke, we speak in a sort of jargon. Pamphlet means messenger, (to Fallen aloud) Weil, Mr. Fallen, when will the pamph- let he ready ? Fal. (aloud). To-morrow, my Lord, exactly at one o'clock. Duke (still bewildered). I don't understand Lof. (aside). Hush ! Walpole laughs at pamphlets, but would hang messengers, (aloud) To-morrow, not to-day ! Well, m<>re time for Fal. Subscribers. Thank you, my Lord, (whispering) Where shall the messenger meet you ? Lof. At the back of the Duke's new house there is a quiet, lone place Fal. ( whispering). By the old mill near the Thames 1 I know it. The messenger shall be there. The signal word " Marston Moor." No con- versation should pass. But who brings the packet] That's the first step of danger. Duke (suddenly rousirg himself, and with dignity). Then 'tis mine, sir, in right of my birth. Fal. (aloud). I'll attend to all your Lordship's suggestions ; they're SO NOT SO BAD AS WK SEEM. [ACT III. excellent, and will starile this vile administration. Many tbanka to your Lordship, (returns to his table and resumes his writing. Groups point and murmur, Jacob Tonson and Easy advance. | East. That pestilence scribbler, David Fallen ! Another libellous pamphlet as bitter as the last, I'll swear. Ton Bitter as gall, sir, I am proud to say. Your servant, Jacob Tonson, the "bookseller — -at your service. I advanced a pound upon it. [they continue talking an ' mingle with the others) Duke (to Loftds) I will meet yon in the Mall to-morrow, a quarter : f'tc-r one precisely. We may go now? {they rise and go towards c. D., Loftus in front) Powers above — his mind's distracted — he walks out be- fore me ! Lof. [drawing back at the door). I follow you Duke. Doke. My* dear friend — if you really insist on it. [Exeunt, c. D. L., bowing. Dkawer enters, R. d , with wine, etc., which he places on the table, b. Hard. Let me offer you a glass of wine, Mr. Fallen, (aside to him) Well 7 (sits urn,- Fallen. F all EN, who has been writing , pushes the paper towards him.) Bard, (reading). "At one to-morrow — by the old mill near the Thames -Marston Moor — the Duke in person." So! We must save these men. I will call on you in the morning, and concert the means. Fal. Yes; save, Dot destroy, these enthusiasts. I'm resigned to the name of hireling — not to that of a butcher ! Hard. You serve both Whig and Jacobite; do you care then for either? I al. Sneering politician ! what has either cared for me? I entered the world, devoted heart and soul to two causes — the throne of the Stuart, the glory of Letters. I saw them both as a poet. My father left ine no heritage but loyalty and learning. Charles the Second praised my verse, and I starved ; 3 imps the Second praised my prose, and I starved; therein of King William — I passed that in prison. Hard. But the ministers of Anne were gracious to writers. Fal. And offered me a pension to belie my past life, and write Odes on the Queen who had dethroned her own father. I was not then dis- enchanted — I refused. That's years ago. If I starved, I had fame. Now came my worst foes, my own fellow writers. What is fame but a fashion? A jest upon Grub Street, a rhyme from young Pope, could jeer a score of gray laborers like me out of their last consolation. Time and hunger tame all. 1 could still starve myself; I have six children at borne — they must live. Hard, (aside). This man has genius — he might have been a grace to his age. I'm perplexed, (alonl) Sir Robert Fal. Disdains letters — I've renounced them. He pays services like these. Well, I serve him. Leave me ; 20 ! Hard, (rising, aside). Not so bad as he seems —another side to the character. Enter Drawer, l. d., with a letter to Hardmax. Hard, (aside). From Walpole ! Now then! my fate — my love — my fortunes ! East, (peeping over Hardman's shoulder). He has got a letter from the Prime Minister, marked "private and confidential." (great agitation) After all, he is a very clever fellow. (Coffee-house frequenters evince the readiest assent, and the liveliest admiration.) ACT III. J KOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 31 Hakd. (advancing and reading the letter). " My clear Hardrnan, — Ex- tremely sorry. Place in question absolutely wanted to conciliate some noble family otherwise dangerous.* Another time, more fortunate. Full}' sensible of your valuable service. — Robekt Walpole." — Refused ! Let him look to himself! I will — I will — alas! he is needed by my country ; and I am powerless against him. (seats himself.) Enter Wilmot and Softhead, c. d. l. Wil. Drawer ! a private room — covers for six — dinner in an hour !f And — drawer ! Tell Mr. Tonson not to go yet. Softhead, we'll have an orgie to-night, worthy the days of King Charles the Second. Softhead, let me present you to our boon companions — my friend, Lord Stron»- bow (hardest in drinker England); Sir John Bruin, best boxer in England — threshed Figs ; quarrelsome but pleasant ; Colonel Flint — finest aen- tleman in England and, out and out, the best fencer ; mild as a lamb, but can't bear contradiction, and on the point of honor, inexorable. Now for the sixth. Ha, Mr. Easy ! (I ask him to serve you) Easy, your hand ! So charmed that you've come. You'll dine wit!) us — give up five invitations on purpose. Do — sans ciremonie. Easy. Why, really, my Lord, a plain, sober man like me would be out of place Wil. If that's all, never fear. Live with us, and we'll make another man of you, Easy. Easy. What captivating familiarity ! Well, I cannot resist your Lord- ship, (strutting down the room, and speaking to his acquaintances) Yes, my friend Wilmot — Lord Wilmot — will make ma dine with him Pleasant man, my friend Wilmot. We dine together to-day. (S fthead retires to the background with the other invited guests ; but truing hard to escape Sir John Bruin, the boxer, and Colonel Flint, the fencer, fas' ens himself on Easy with an air of patronage.) Wil. (aside). Now to serve the dear Duke, (aloud) You have not yet bought the Memoir of a late Man of Quality. Ton. Not yet, my Lord ; just been trying ; hard work, (wipes his fore- head) But the persim who has it is luckily very poor ! one of my own authors. Wil. (aside). His eye turns to that forlorn-looking spectre I saw him tormenting, (aloud ) That must be one of your authors ; he look so lean, Mr. Tonsou. Ton. Hush; that's the man ! made a noise in his day ; David Fallen. Wil. David Fallen, whose books, when I. was but a schoolboy, made me first take to reading — not as task-work, but pleasure. How much I do owe him ! (bows very low to Mr. Fallen.) Ton. My Lord bows very low ! Oh, if your Lordship knows Mr. Fallen, pray tell him not to stand in his own light. I would give him a vast sum for the memoir — two hundred guineas ; on my honor I would ! (whispering) Scandal, my Lord ; sell like wild-fire. — I say, Mr Hard- man, I observed you speak to poor David. Can't you help me here ! (whispering) Lord Henry de Mowbray's Private Memoirs! Fallen has them, and refuses to sell. Love Adventures; nuts for the public. Only * As Walpole was little inclined to make it a part of his policy to conciliate those whose opposition miuht be dangerous, while he was so fond of power as to be jeal- ous ot talent not wholly subservient to him, the reluctance to promote Mr. H-ird- mm, implied in the insincerity of his excuse, may be supposed to arise from his knowledge of that gentleman's restless ambition and determined self-will. t It was not the custom at Will's to serve dinners ; and the exception in favor of my "Lord Wilmot proves his influence as a man a la mode. 32 NOT SO BAD A3 WE SEEM. [ACT III. just got a peep myself. But such a confession about the beautiful Lady Morland. Hard. Harm Lady Morland ! Ton Besides — shows up bis own brother! Jacobite family secrets. Such a card for the Whigs ! Hard. Confound the Whigs! What do I care 1 Wil. I'll see to it, Tonson. Give me Mr. Fallen's private address. Ton. But pray be discreet, my Lord. If that knave Curll should get wind of the scent, he'd try to spoil my market with my own author. The villain! Wil. (aside). Curll 1 Why, I have mimick'd Curll so exactly that Pope himself was deceived, and. stifling with rase, ordered me out of the room 1 have it! Mr. Curll shall call upon Fallen the first thing in the morning, and outbid Mr Tonson. [aloud) Thank you. sir. (taking the address) Moody, llardman 1 som* problem in political ethics ? Fouturn away — you have a grief you II not tell me — why, this morning I asked you a favor; from that moment I had a right to your confidence, for a favor degrades when it does not come from a friend. Hard. You charm, you subdue me, and I feel for once how neces- sary to a man is the sympathy of another. Your hand, Wilmot. This is secret — I, too, then presume to love. One above ine in fortune ; it may be in birth. Bui a free state lilts those it employs to a par with its nobles. A post in the Treasury of such nature is vacant ; 1 have served the minister men say, with some credit; and 1 asked for the gift with- out shame — 'twas my due. Walpole needs the office, not for reward to the zealous, but for bribe to the doubtful. See, (giving letter) "Noble family to conciliate." Ah, the drones have the honey ! Wil. (re "ling and returning the letter). And had you this post, you think you could sain the lady you love 1 Hard. At least it would have given me courage to ask. Well, well, well, — a»truce with my egotism, — you at least, my fair Wilmot, fair in form, fair in fortune, you need fear no rebuil where you place your affections, Wil Why, the lady's father sees only demerits in what you think my advantages. Hard. You mistake, I know the man much better than you do ; and look, even now he is gazing upon you as fondly as it on the coronet that shall blazon the coach of my lady, his daughter. Wil. Gazing on me? — where 1 Hard. Yonder — Ha! is it not Mr. Easy, whose Wil Mr. Easy ! you too taken in ! Hark, secret for secret — 'tis Lucy Thornside I love, Hard. You — stun me! Wil But what a despot love is, allows no thought not its slave! They told me below that my father had been here ; have you seen him ? Hard. Ay. Wil. And sounded ? IIakd. No — belter than that — 1 have taken precautions. I must leave you now ; you shall know the result to-morrow afternoon, (aside) Your father's life in these hands — his ransom what I please to demand. — Ah, joy ! I am myself once again. Fool to think man could be my friend ! Ah, joy ! born but for the strife and the struggle, it is only 'mid foes that ray invention is quickened! Half-way to my triumph, now that I know the rival to vanquish ! (to Fallen) Engage the messenger at one, for- get not. Nothing else till I see you (to Wilmot) Your hand once again. To-day I'm your envoy ; (aside) to-morrow your master. [Exit, c. D. l. Fallen folds up papers and exits, c. d. l. ACT III.] NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEJT. 33 Wil. The friendliest man that ever lived since the days of Damon and Pythias: I'm a brule if 1 don't serve him in return. To lose the woman he loves for want of this pitiful place. Saint Cupid forbid ! Let me consider! Many sides to a character — I think I could here hittheri?ht oue better than Hardman. Ha! ha! Excellent! My Murillo ! I'll not sell myself, but I'll buy ihe Prime Minister ! Excuse me, my friends ; urgent business ; I shall be back ere the dinner hour ; the room is prepared. Drawer, show in these gentlemen ; Hardman shall have his place and his wife, and I'll bribe the arch-briber! Ho! my lackeys, my coach, there! Ha, ha ! bribe the Prime Minister! There never was such a fellow as I am for crime and audacity. [Exit Wilmot, c. D. L. Col. Flint. Your arm, Mr. Softhead. Soft. And Fred leaves me in the very paws of this tiger! [Exeunt, c. d. l., as the scene closes in. the loungers making way for them. , SCENE II. — The Library in Sir Geoffrey's house. Enter Sir Geoffrey, l. 1 e. Sie Geof. I'm followed! I'm dogged ! I go out for a walk unsuspi- ciously ; and behind creeps a step, pit, pat ; feline and stealthy ; I turn, not a soul to be seen — I walk on ; pit, pat, stealthy and feline ! turn again ; and lo ! a dark form like a phantom, muffled and masked — just seen and just gone. Ouf ! The plot thickens arouud me — I can struggle no more, (sinks into seat, r.) Enter Lucy, l. 1 e. Who is there 1 Lucy. But your child, my dear father. Sik Ge«'F. Child, ugh! what do you want] Lucy. Ah, speak to me gently. It is your heart that I want: Sir Geof. Heart — I suspect I'm to be coaxed out of something! Eh; e!i ! Why she's weeping. What ails thee, poor darling 1 (rises.) Lucy. So kind. Now 1 have courage to tell you. I was sitting alone, and I thought to myself — " mv father often doubts of me — doubts of all " Sir Geof. Ugh — what now] Lucy. " Yet his true nature is generous — it could not always have been so. Perhaps in old times he has been deceived where he loved. Ah, his Lucy, at least, shall never deceive him." So I rose and lis- tened for your footstep — I heard it — and I am here — here, on your bosom, my own father ! Sir Geof. You'll never deceive me — right, right — go on, pretty one, go on. (aside) If she should be my child after all ! Lucy. There is one who has come here lately — one who appears to displease you — one whom you've been led to believe comes not on my account, but my friend's. It is not so, my father ; it is for me that he comes. Let him come no more — let me see him no more — for — for — I feel that his presence might make me loo happy — and that would grieve you, my father ! (Lady Ellixor appears at the window watching. \ Sir Geof. (aside). She must be my child! Bless her! (aloud) I'll never doubt you again. I'll bite out my tongue if it says a harsh word to you. I'm not so bad as I seem. Grieve me ? — yes, it would break my heart. You don't know these gay courtiers — I do ! — tut — tut — tut — don't cry. How can I console her 1 Lucy. Shall I say 1 — let me speak to you of my mother. 34 NOT SO BAD AS AVE SEEM. [ACT III. Sir Geof. {recoiling). Ah! Lucy. Would it not soothe you to hear that a friend of hers was iu London, who Sat Geof. {changing in his tvholc deportment). I forbid you to speak to me of your mother — she dishonored me Lady E. [in a low voice of emotion). It is false ! {she disappears, r.) Sir Geof. {starting). Did you say "false V Lucy {sobbing). No — no — but my heart said it ! Sir Geof. Strange ! or was it but my own fancy 7 Lucy. Oh, father, father! How I shall pity you if you discover that your suspicions erred. And again I say — I feel — feel in my heart of woman — that the mother of the child who so loves and honors you was innocent. Hardmax {without, l.). Is Sir Geoffrey at home 7 Lucy starts up and exits, r. 1 e. Twilight ; during the preceding dialogue the stage has gradually darkened. Enter Hardman, l. 1 e. Hard. Sir Geoffrey, you were deceived ; Lord Wilmot has no thought of Mr. Easy's daughter. Sir Geof. I know that — Lucy has told me all, and begged me not to let him come here again. Hard, (joyfullg). She has ! Then she does not love this Lord Wil- mot 7 But still be on your guard against him. Remember the arts of corruption — the emissary— the letter — the go-between — the spy ! Sir Geoff. Arts! Spy! Ha! if Easy was right after all. If those flowers thrown in at the window ; the watch from that house in the lane ; the masked figure that followed me; all bode designs but on Lucy Hard. Flowers have been thrown in at the window 7 You've been watched 7 A masked figure has followed you? One question more. All this since Lord Wilmot knew Lucy 7 Sir Geof. Yes, to be sure ; how blind I have been ! (Lady Ellinor appears again, R.) Hard. Ha! look yonder! Let me track this mystery; (she disap- pears, l.) and if it conceal a scheme of Lord Wilnot's against your daughter's honor, it shall need not your sword to protect her. \Tushes open the iffindot/D, leaps out, and exits. L. Sir Geof. What does he mean 7 Not my sword 7 Zounds! he don't think of his own ! If he does, I'll discard him. I'm not a coward, to let other men risk their lives in my quarrel. Served as a volunteer un- der Marlbro', at Blenheim ; and marched on a cannon ! Whatever my faults, no one can say I'm not brave, {starting) Ha! bless my life! What is that 7 I thought I heard something — I'm all on a tremble ! Who the deuce can be brave when he's surrounded by poisoners — fol- lowed by phantoms, with an ugly black face peering in at his window 7 Hodge, come and bar up the shutters — lock the door — let out the house- dog ! Hodge ! Hodge ! Where on earth is that scoundrel 7 [Exit-, L. 1 E. SCENE III. — The Streets. la perspective an alley, inscribed Deadman's Lane. A large, old-fashioned, gloomy house in the corner, with the door on the stage, above which is impanelled a sign of the Crowt and Portcullis. Lady Ellinor, masked, enters, L. 1 E.— looks round, pauses, and enters the door, R. Dark ; lights down. Enter Hap.dman. i.. 1 e. A.CT III.] NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 35 Hard. Ha ! enters that house. I have my hand on the clue ! some nretext to call on the morrow, and I shall quickly unravel the skein. F [Exit, r. 2 e. Goodenough Easy [singing tvithout, l.) " Old King Cole "Was u jolly old soul, And a jolly old soul was he Eutrs, l 3 e., with Lord Wilmot and Softhead ; Easy, his dress disor- dered, a pip' in his mouth, in a state of intoxication, hilarious, musi- cal, and oratorical; Softhead in a state of intoxication, abject, re- morseful, and lachrymose ; Wilmot sober, hut affecting inebriety. " He c-Oled for his pipe, and he called lor his bowl, And he called lor his fiddlers three." Wil. Ha, ha ! I imagine myself like Bacchus hetween Silenus and his— ass ! Easy. Wilmot, you're a jolly old soul, and I'll give you my Barhara. Soft, blubbering). Hegh 1 hegh ! hegh ! Betrayed in my tenderest affections. Wil. My dear Mr. Easy, I've told you already that I m pre-engaged. Easy. Pre-engaged ! that's devilish unhandsome ! But now I look at you, you do seem double ; and if you're double, you're not single ; and if you're not single, why, you can't marry Barbara, for that would be bigamy ! But I don't care ; you're a jolly old soul ! Wil. Not a bit of it. Quite mistaken, Mr. Easy. But if you want, for a son-in-law, a jolly old soul — there he is ! Soft. < bursting out afresh). Hegh! hegh! hegh! Easy. Hang a lord ! What's a lord ? I'm a respectable, independent family Briton ? Softhead, give us your fist ; you're a jolly old soul, and you shall have my Barbara ! Soft Hegh ! hegh ! I'm not a jolly old soul. I'm a smtul, wicked, miserable monster. Hegh ! hogh ! Easy. What's a monster? I like a monster ! My girl shau t go a- be« A* WR BERK. [ACM I >'. Yet aspiring even thou to the haul of your heiress, I wrote to Sir Robert for ;i place just vacated by a man of high rank, who is raised t.> the p lerage. Be refused. Sir G bop. Of course, [aside) I suspect he's very rash and presuming. 1 1 a it i >. To-day the refusal is retracted — the office is mine. Snt (Jr. n'. "■' lit ! I had no band in thai ! Hard I am now one — if not of the highest — yel still o < of thi eminent through which the Majesty ol England administers her laws. And, with front erect, 1 fay to you — as I would to the first peer of the realm—" I have no charts of brond lands, and n<> will of proud lather-. Bat alone and unf.ien led I have fought my way against Fortune. Did your ancestors more ! My country lias tru lei the new man to her councils, and the man « hom she honors is the i qual of all." Sir Gbof. Brave fellow, your Hand. Win Lucy's consent, and you have mine. Hush! do thanks! Now listen ; [ have told you my dark Btory -these flowers cannot come from Wilm.it. 1 have examined them again — they are made up in the very form of the |> isies I ha I the folly to Ben I, in the days of our courtship, to the wife who afterwards betray- ed m ■ Haed, Be not so sure that she betrayed. No proof but the boast of a profligate. Sra Geop. Who had been my intimate friend for years— so that, torture! i am haunted with the doubt whether mv heiress be my own child !— and to whom by the confession of a servant she sent n letter in secret the very day on which I struck the mocking boast from the vil- lain's lips in a public tavern Ah, he was always n wit and a scoffer— perhaps it is from him that these flowers an- sent, in token of gibe and insult. He h is discovered the man he dishonored, in spite of the change of name Haiid You changed your name for an inheritance. You have not told ui" ib it which you formerly bore. Snt Geop. Mm land. Hard. Morland? Ha — and the seducer's Sir Ge ip. Lord Henry de Mowbray Hard. The reprobate brother of the Duke of Middlesex. He died a few months since. Sir Geo f (daggering) Died too ! Both dead ! Hard. (asde). Tonson spoke of Lord Henry's Memoir — Confession about Lady Morland in Fallen's hands I will go to Fallen at once. (aloud) You have given me a new clue. I will follow it up. When can I see you again ' Sik'Geof." I'm going to Easy's — you'll find me there all the morning. But don't forget Lucy — we must save her from Wilmot. Hard. Fear Wilmot no more. This day he shall abandon his suit. [Exit Hardman, L. 1 E. Sir Geop. Hodge! Well— well Enter Hodge, r. 1 e. Hodge, take your hat and your bludgeon — attend me to the city, {aside) She'll be happy with Hardman. Ah ! if she were my own child after all ! [Exeunt Sir Gegffrry and Hodge, l. 1 e. SCENE II — David Fallen's Garret. The scene resembling that of Ho- garth's " Distrcst Poet " Fallen discovered seated at tabic. Fal. (opening the casement). So, the morning air breathes f:edi ! One ACT IV. J KOT SJ BAD AS Tfii SEEM 39 inomenL's respite from drudgery. Another line to this poem, ray grand bequest to ray country! All! this description; unfinished; good, good. " Methinks we walk in dreams on 1 iky land, Where— golden ore— lies mix'd with '' * Enter Paddy, k. d. Paddy. Please, sir. the milkworaan's score! Fal. Stay, stay; — " Lies mixed with — common sand !" Eh 1 Milkwoman'? She must be paid, or the children — I — I — (fum- bling in his pocket, and looking about the table) There's another blanket on the bed ; pawn it. Paddy. Agh, row, don't be so ungrateful to your ould friend, the blanket. When Mr. Tonson, the great bookshiller, tould me, says he, '• Paddy, I'd give two bunder gould guineas for the papursh Mr. Fallen has in his disk !" Fal. Go, go ! {knock without, n.) Paddy. Agh, murther! Who can that be distarbin' the door at the top of the mornin' ? [Exit, r. d. Fal. Oh! that fatal Memoir! My own labors scarce keep me from starving, and this wretched scrawl of a profligate worth what to me were Golconda ! Heaven sustain me ! I'm tempted. Re-enter Paddy, with Wilmot, disguised as Edmund Curll. Paddy. Stoop your head, sir. 'Tis not a dun, sir; 'tis Mr. Curll ; says lie's come to outbid Mr. Tonson, sir. Fal. Go quick ; pawn the blanket. Let me think my children are fed. {exit Paddy, k. d.) Now, sir, what do you want ? Wil. {taking out his handkerchief and whimpering). My dear, good Ml*. Fallen — no offence — I do so feel for the distresses of genius. I am a bookseller, but I have a heart — and I'm come to buy Fal. Have you? this poem? it is nearly finished — twelve books — twenty years' labor — twenty-four thousand lines ! — ten pounds, Mr. Curll, ten pounds 1 Wil. Price of Paradise Los' I Can't expect such juices for poetry now-a-days, my dear Mr. Fallen. Nothing takes that is not sharp and spicy. Hum! I hear you have rome most interesting papers; private Memoirs and Confessions of a Man of Quality recently deceased. Nay, nay, Mr. Fallen, don't shrink back ; I'm not like that shabby dog, Ton- son. Three hundred guineas for the Memoir of Lord Henry de Mow- bray. Fal. Three hundred guineas for that-garbage ! — not ten for the poem ! — and — the children ! Well ! (goes to the cupboard and take out the Me- moir in a portfolio, splendidly bound, with the arms and supporters of the Mowbrays blazoned on the sides) All! — but the honor of a woman — the secrets of a family — the Wil. {grasping at the portfolio, which Fallex still detains). Nothing sells better, my dear, dear Mr. Fallen ! But how, how did you come by these treasures, my excellent friend ? Fal. How? Lord Henry gave them to me himself, on his death-bed, * As it would be obviously presumptuous to assign to an author so eminent as Mr. David Fallen any verses composed by a living writer, the two lines iu the text are taken from Mr. Dryden's Indian Emperor. 40 NOT SO BAD A3 WE SKKM. [ACT IY. Wir.. Nay; what could he give thera for but to publish, my sweet Mr. Fallen ? no doubt to immortalize all tho lailies who loved him. Fal No, sir; profligate as he was, and rile as may be much in this Memoir, that was not his dying intention, though it might be his Bret. There was a lady he had once foully injured — tlie sole woman he bad ever loved eno' for remorse. This Memoir contains a confession that might serve to clear the name he himself had aspersed ; and in the sud- den repentance of his last moments, he bade me seek the lady and place the whole in her hands, to use as best might serve to establish her inno- cence. W'il. How could you know the lady, my benevolent friend ? Fal. I did not; but she was supposed to be abroad with her father — a Jacobite exile — and 1, then a Jacobite agent, had the best chance to trace her. Wil. And you did 1 Fai,. But to hear she had died somewhere in France. Wil. Then, of course, you may now gratify our intelligent public, for your own personal profit. Clear as day, my magnanimous friend ! Three hundred guineas ! I have 'em here in a bag ! {shows it.) Fal. Begone! 1 will not sell a man's hearth t<> the public. Wil. {aside). Noble fellow! {'ilowl) Gently, gently, my too warm, but high-spirited friend! To say the truth, I don't come on my own ac- count. To whom, my dear sir, since the lady is dead, should be given these papers, if anfll for a virtuous, but inquisitive public? Why, surely to Lord Henry's nearest relation. I am employed by the rich Duke of Middlesex. Name your terms. Fal. Ha! ha! Then at last he comes crawling to me, your proud Duke? Sir, years ago, when a kind word from his Grace, a nod ol his head, a touch of his hand, would have turned my foes into flatterers, I had the meanness to name him my patron — inscribed to him a work, took it to his house, and waited in his hall anion.; purlers and lackeys— till, sweeping by his carriage, he saiJ, " Oh, you are the poet ? take this , ' and extending his alms, as if to a beggar. "Ton look very thin, sir; Stay and dine with my people " People— his servants ! Wil. Calm yourself, my good Mr. Fallen ! 'Tis his G: ace's innocent way with us all. Fal. Go! let him know what these memoirs contain ! They would make the Proud Duke the butt of the town — the jeer of the lackeys, who jeered at my rags; expose his frailties, his follies, his personal secrets. Tell him this ; and then say that my poverty shall not be the tool of his brother's revenge ; but my pride shall not stoop from its pedestal to take money from him. Now, sir, am I right '! Reply, not as tempter to pauper ;' but if one spark of manhood be in you, as man speaks to man. Wil. {resuming his own manner). I reply, sir, as man to man, and gen- tleman to gentleman. 1 am Frederick. Lord Wilmot, Pardon this im- posture. The Duke is my father's friend. I am here to obtain, what it is clear that he alone should possess. Mr. Fallen, your works first raised me from the world of the senses, anil taught me to believe in such no- bleness as I now hope for in you. Give me this record to take to the Duke — no price, sir; for such things are priceless — and let me go hence with the sight of this poverty before my eye<. and on my soul the grand picture of the man who has spurned the bribe to his honor, and can humble by a gift the great prince who insu'ted him by alms. Fal. Take it — take it ! {(fives the port/olio) I am save 1 from tempta- tion. God bless you, young man ! Wil. Now you indeed make mo twofold your debtor — in your books, ACT IV. J NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 41 the rich thought ; in yourself the heroic example. Accept from my superfluities, in small part of such debt, a yearly sum equal to that which your poverty refused as a bribe from Mr. Tonson. Fal. My Lord — my Lord ! (bursts into tears.) Wil. Oh, trust me the day shall come, when men will feel that it is not charity we owe to the ennoblers of life — it is tribute ! When your Order shall rise with the civilization it called into being, and shall refer its claim to just rank among freemen, to some Queen whom even a Mil- ton might have sung, and even a Hampden have died for. Fal. 0, dream of my youth ! My heart swells and chokes me ! Enter Hardmax, r. d. Hard, (aside). What's this 1 Fallen weeping? Ah! is not that the tyrannical sneak, Edmund Curlll Wil. i changing his tone to Fallen into one of imperiousness). Can't hear of the poem, Mr. Fallen. Don't tell me. Ah, Mr. Hard-nan (concealing the portfolio), your most humble ! Sir — sir — if you want to publish some- thing smart and spicy — Secret Anecdotes of Cabinets — Sir Robert Wal- pole's Adventures with the La lies — I'll come down as handsomely as any man in the Row — smart and spicy Hard. Offer to bribe me, you insolent rascal ! Wil. Oh, my dear, good Mr. Hard man, I've bribed the Premier him- self. Ha! ha! Servant, sir ; servant. [Exit, r. d. Hard. Loathsome vagabond ! My dear Mr. Fallen, you have the manuscript Memoir of Lord Henry de Mowbray. I know its great value. Name your own price to permit me just to inspect it. Fal. It is gone ; and to the hands of his brother, the Duke. Hard. The Duke ! This is a thunder-stroke ! Say, sir ; you have read this Memoir — does it contain aught respecting a certain Lady Mor- land 1 Fal. It does. It confesses that Lord Henry slandered her reputation as a woman in order to sustain his own as a seducer. That part of the Memoir was writ on his death-bed. Hard. His boast, then Fal. Was caused by the scorn of her letter rejecting his suit. Hard. What joy for Sir Geoffrey ! And that letter 1 Fal. Is one of the documents that make up the Memoir. Hard. And these documents are now in the hands of the Duke 1 Fal. They are. For, since Lady Moiiand is dead Hard. Are you sure she is dead "? Fal. 1 only go by report Hard. Report often lies, (aside) Who but Lady Morland can this mask be 1 I will go at once to the house and clear up that doubt my- self But the Duke's appointment ! Ah ! that must not be forgotten ; my rival must be removed ere Lucy can be won. And what hold on the Duke himself to produce the Memoir, if I get the dispatch, (aloud) Well, Mr. Fallen, there is no more to be said as to the Memoir Your messen- ger will meet his Grace, as we settled. 1 .'hall be close at hand; and mark, the messenger must give me the dispatch which is meant for the Pretender. [Exit Hardmax, r. d. Re-enter Paddy. Paddy. Plase, sur, an' I've paid the rank score Fal. (interrupting him). I'm to be rich— so rich ! 'Tis my turn now. I've shared your pittance, you shall share my plenty, (sinks down on chair seizing Paddy's hand and shaking it heartily as the s^ene closes in.) 42 NOT so BAD as tt'l. si:KM. [ACT IT. SCENE III.— Tin Mall. Enter Softhead, l. 8 b., Am arms folded, and in deep thought, at though forming a virtuous resolution. Soft. Little did I foresee, in the days of my innocence, when Mr. Lillo road io me his affecting tragedy of George Barnwell,* how I myself was to be led on, step by step, t<> the brink of deeds without a name. Dead- L ane — that funereal apparition in black— a warning to Btartle the must obdurate conscience. Enter Easy, b. 8 e., recently dismissed from the Watch-house; si skulking , •>'. EAST. Not a coach on tin- stand ! A pretty pickle I'm in if any one sees in"' A sober, respectable man like mo. to awake in tlie watch- house, be kepi there till noon among thieves and pickpockets, and al last to be lined five shillings for druukei ss and disorderly conduct ; all from dining with a lord who had no thoughts of making Barbara my Lady after all ! Donee take trim ! {discovering Softhbao, aside) Softhead ! how shall 1 escape him 1 Soft, {asid ■ »j East). Easy! What a fall ! I'll appear not to remember. Barbara's father should not feel degraded in the eyes of a wretch like myself! {aloud) How d'ye do, Mr. Easy 1 Von re out early, to day. Easy, [aside). Ha ! He was so drunk himself he has forgotten all about it. {aloud) Yes, a headache. You were so pleasant at dinner. I wanted the air of the park. Soft. Why, yon look rather poorly, Mr. Easj ! Easy. Indeed, I feel bo. A man in business can't afford to be laid up — so I thought, before I wont homo to the city, that I'd just look into — Ha, ha ! a seasoned toper like you will laugh when I toll you — I thought I'd just look into the 'pothecary's ' Soft. Just been there myself Mr Easy, {showing a phinl.) Easy (rrgarding it with mournful disgust). Nut taken physic since I was a boy ! It looks very nasty ! Soft. 'Tis worse than it looks! And this is called Pleasure! Ah, Mr. Easy, don't give way to Fred's fascination; you don't know how it ends ! Easy. Indeed I do. {aside) It ends in the watch-house, (aloud) And I'm shocked to think what will become of yourself, if you are thus every ni°ht led away by a lord, who Soft. Hush! talk of the devil— look ! he's coming up the Mall! (Softhead retires back.) Easy. He is ? then I'm off; I see a sedan-chair. Chair! chair! stop —chair! chair! [Exit, n. 2 e. Enter Wilmot andDvKT. with portfolio, L. 3 E. Duke (looking at portfolio). Infamous, indeed ! His own base lie against that poor lady, whose husband he wounded. Her very letter attached to it. Ha! — what is thisl Such ribaldry on me! Gracious * We have only, I fear, Mr. Softhead's authority for supposing George Barnwell to be then written ; it was not acted till some ) ears alterwavds. ACT IV.] NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 43 Heaven ! My name thus dragged through the dirt, and by a son of my own house! Oh ! my Lord, how shall I thank you 1 Wil. Thank not me ; but the poet, whom your Grace left in the ball. Duke. Name it not — I'll beg his pardon myself! Adieu; I must go home and lock up this scandal till I've leisure to read and destroy it ; never again shall it come to the day ! And then, sure that no blot shall be seen in my 'scutcheon, 1 can peril my life without fear in the cause of my kins. [Exit Duke, r. 2 e. Wil. {chanting). " Gather your rosebuds while you may, For time is still a-flying." Since my visit last night to Deadman's Lane, and my hope to give Lu-v such happiness, I feel as if I trod upon air [discovers Softhead) A'i. Softhead ! why, you stand there as languid and lifeless as if you were capable of — fishing .' Soft. I've been thinking — {advances.) Wil. Thinking ! you do look fatigued ! What a horrid exertion it must have been to you ! Soft. Ah ! Fred, Fred, don't- be so hardened. What atrocity did you perpetrate last night ? Wil Last night 1 Oh, at Deadman's Lane; monstrous, indeed. And this morning, too, another ! Never had so many atrocities on my hands as within the last twenty-four hours But they are all nothing to that which I perpetrated yesterday, just before dinner. Hark ! I bribed the Prime Minister. Soft. Saints in heaven ! Wil. Ha ! ha ! Hit him plump on the jolly blunt side of his char- acter ! I must tell you about it. Drove home from AVill's ; put my Murillo in the carriage, and off to Sir Robert's — shown into his office, — " Ah ! my Lord Wilmot," says he, with that merry roll of his eye ; ' : this is an honor, what can I do for you'! " — " Sir Robert," says I, " we men of the world soon come to the point ; 'tis a maxim of yours that all have their price." — " Not quite that," says Sir Robert, " but let us sup- pose that it is." Another roll of his eye, as much as to say, " I shall get this rogue a bargain!" — "So, Sir Robert," quoth I, with a bow, " I've come to buy the Prime Minister." — "Buy me," cried Sir Robert, and he laughed till I thought he'd have choked ; " my price is rather high, I'm afraid." Then I go to the door, bid my lackeys bring in the Murillo. " Look at that if you please ; about the mark, is it not 1 ? " Sir Robert runs to the picture, his breast heaves, his eyes sparkle ; " A Murillo ! " cries he, " name your price !" — " I have named it." Then he looks at me so, and I look at him so ! — turn out the lackeys, place pen, ink and paper before him; "That place in the Treasury just vacant, and the Murillo is yours." — " For yourself? — I am charmed," cried Sir Robert. "No, 'tis for a friend of your own, who's in want of it." — 'Oh, that alters the case; I've so many friends troubled with the sain° sort of want." — " Yes, but the Murillo is genuine, — pray, what are the friends 1 " Out laughed Sir Robert, " There's no resisting you and the Murillo together! There's the appointment. And now, since your Lordship has bought me, I must insist upon buying your Lordship. Fair play is a jewel." Then I take my grand holiday air. "Sir Rob- ert," said I, " you've bought me long ago. You've given us peace where we feared civil war ; and a Constitutional King instead of a des- pot. And if that's not enough to buy the vote of an Englishman, believe me, Sir Robert, he's not worth the buying." Then he stretched out his bluff, hearty hand, and I gave it a bluff, hearty shake. He got the Mu- 44 NOT SO CAD AS WK Si IM. [ACT IT. rillo — Hardman the place. And here stand I, the only man in all Eng- land who can boast tliat he bought the Prime Minister! Faith, you may well call me hardened ; I don't feel the least bit of remorse. Soft. Hardman ! you sot Hardman the place 1 Wil. I did not say Hardman Soft. You did say Hardman. But as 'tis a secret that might get you into trouble, I'll keep it. Yet, Dimidum mac, that's not behaving much like a monster ? Wil. Why, it does seem betraying the Good Old Cause — but if there's honor among thieves, there is among monsters; and Hardman is in the same scrape as ourselves — in love — his place may secure him the hand of the lady. But mind — he's not to know I've been meddling with his affairs. Hang it ! no one likes that. Not a word then. Soft. Not a word. My dear Fred, I'm so glad you're not so bad as you seem. I'd half a mind to desert you; but I have not the heart; and I'll stick by you as long as I live! Wil. (aside). Whew! This will never do ! Poor dear little fellow! I'm sorry to lose him ; but my word's passed to Barbara, and 'tis all for his good, (aloud) As long as you live! Alas ! that reminds me of your little affair. I'm to be your second, you know. Soft. Second ! — affair ! Wil. With that fierce Colonel Flint. I warned you against him ; but you have such a deuce of a spirit. Don't you remember 1 Soft. No; why, what was it all about ? Wil. Let me see — oh, Flint said something insolent about Mistress Barbara. Soft. He did 7 Ruffian ! AVil. So — you called him out ! But if you'll empower me in your name to retract and apologize Soft. Not a bit of it. Insolent to Barbara ! Dimidum meat. Pd fight him if he were the first swordsman in England. Wil. Why, that's just what he is ! Soft. Don't care; I'm his man — though a dead one. Wil. (aside). Hang it — he's as brave as niy?elf on that side of his character. I must turn to another, (aloud) No, Softhead, that was not the cause of the quarrel — said it to rouse you, as you seemed rather low. The fact is that it was a jest on yourself that you took up rather warmly. Soft. AVas that all — only myself 1 Wil. No larger subject ; and Flint is such a good fencer ! Soft. My dear Fred, I retract, I apologize; I despise duelling — ab- surd and unchristianlike. Wil. Leave all to me. Dismiss the subject. I'll settle it ; only, Soft- head, you see our set has very stiff rules on such matters. And if you apologize to a bravo like Flint; nay, if you don't actually, cheerfully, rapturously fight him — though sure to be killed — I fear you must resign all ideas of high life ! Soft. Dimidum mee, and I need them not. But I say to you, (taking ont watch and looking at it) that ere the hand on this dial moves to that near point in time, your love will be hopeless and your suit be withdrawn. Wil. The man's mad. Unless, sir, you wish me to believe that my life hangs on your sword, I cannot quite comprehend why my love should go by your watch. Hakd. 1 command you, Lord Wilmot, to change this tone of levity ; I command it in the name of a life which, I think, \ r ou prize more than your own — a life that is now in my hands. You told me to sound your father. I have not done so — I have detected Wil. Detected! Hold, sir! that word implies crime Hard. Ay, the crime of the great. History calls it Zeal. Law styles it High Treason. Wil. What do I hear ? Heavens ! — my father ! Sir, your word is no proof? Hard. But this is ? {producing the acquisition to the Pretender) 'Tis high treason, conspiring to levy arms against the Kimz on the throne — hero called the Usurper. High tieason to promise to greet with banner and trump a pretender — here called James the Third. Such is the purport of the paper I hold — and here is the name of your father. ACT T.J NOT SO 1UD AS Wl! SEEM. 49 Wfl. (aside). Both are armed and alone, (locks tlie outer door by which he is standing. ) Hard, (aside). So, I guess his intention, (crosses to r., and opens the icindow and looks out) Good, the officers are come. Wil. What the law calls high treason I know not ; what the honest call treason I know. Traitor, thou who hast used the confidence of a son against the life of a father, thou shalt not quit, these walls with that life in thy grasp — yield the proof thou hast plundered or forged, (seizes him.) Hard. 'St! the officers of justice are below; loose thine hold, or the life thou demandext falls from these hands into theirs. Wil. (recoiling) Foiled ! Foiled ! How act ! what do 1 And thy son set yon bloodhound on thy track, my father ! Sir, you are my rival ; I guess the terms you now come to impose ! Hard. I impose no terms. What needs the demand 1 Have you an option 1 I think better of you. We both love the same woman ; I have loved her a year, you a week ; you have her father's dislike, I his consent. One must yield — why should 1 1 Ru le son of the people though I be, why must I be thrust from the sunshine because you cross my path as the fair and the high-born ] What have I owed to your or- der or you 1 Wil. To me, sir ? Well, if to me you owed some slight favor, 1 should scorn at this moment to speak it. Hard 1 owe favor, the slightest, to no man ; 'tis my boast. Listen still, I schemed to save your father, not to injure. Had you rather this scroll had fallen ftito the hands of a spy 1 And now, if I place it in yours — save your name from attainder, your fortunes from confiscation, your father from the axe of the headsman — why should I ask terms 1 Would it be possible for you to say, " Sir, 1 thank you; and in return I would do my best to rob your life of the woman you love, and whom 1 have just known a week V Could you, peer's son, and gentleman, thus reply — when, if I know aught of this grand people of England, not a mechanic who walks thro' yon streets, from the loom to the hovel, but what would cry "Shame!" on such answer 1 Wil. Sir, I cannot argue with, I cannot rival the man who has my father's life at his will, whether to offer it as a barter, or to yield it as a boon. Either way, rivalry between us is henceforth impossible. Fear mine no more! G've me the scroll — I depart. Hakd. (aside). His manliness moves me! (aloud) Nay, let me pray your permission to give it myself to your father, and with such words as will save him, and others whose names are hereto attached, from such perilous hazards in future. Wil. In this, too, 1 fear that you leave me no choice; I must trust as I may to your honor ! but heed well if Hard. Menace not ; you doubt, then, my honor 1 Wil. (with suppressed passion). Plainly, 1 do; our characters differ. I had held myself dishonored for ever if our positions had been reversed — if I had taken such confidence as was placed in you — concealed the rivalry — prepared the scheme— timed the moment — forced the condition in the guise of benefit. No, sir, no; that may be talent, it is not honor. Hard, (aside). This stings! scornful fool that he is, not to see that I was half relenting. And now I feel but the foe ! How sting asain ? I will summon him back to witness himself my triumph, (aioud) Stny, my Lord ! (writing at the table) You doubt that I should yield up the docu- ment to your father? Bring him hither at once! He is now at my house with the Duke of Middlesex ; pray them both to come here, and give this note to the Duke, (with a smile) You will do it, my Lord 1 50 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. [ACT V. Wil. Ay, indeed — and when my father is safe, I will try to think that. I wronged you. {aside) And not one parting word to — to — 'Sdeath — I am unmanned. Show such emotion to him — No, no! And if I cannot watch over that gentle life, why, the angels will ! {aloud, as he unlocks the door) I — I go, sir — fulfill the compact ; I have paid the price. [Exit, L. D. Hard. He loves her more than I thought for. But she ? Does she love him 1 {goes to the door at back) Mistress Lucy ! {leads forth Lucy, d.f.) Lucy. Lord Wilmot gone ! Hard. Nay, speak not of him. If ever he hoped that your father could have overcome a repugnance to his suit, he is now compelled to resign that hope, and for ever. (Lucy turns aside, and weeps quietly) Let us speak of your parents — your mother Lucy. i, yes — my dear mother — I so love her already. Hard. You have heard her tale ! Would you restore her, no blot on her name, to the hearth of your father"? Lucy. Speak ! — speak ! — can it be so 1 Hard. If it cost you some sacrifice ? Lucy. Life has none for an object thus holy. Hard. Hear, and decide. It is the wish of your father that J should ask for this hand Lucy. No ! — no ! Hard. Is the sacrifice so hard ! Wait and hear the atonement. You come from the stolen embrace of a mother ; I will make that mother the pride of your home. You have yearned for the love of a father ; I will break down the wall between j ourself and his heart — I will dispel all the clouds that have darkened his life. Lucy. You will ? — you will? blessings upon you. Hard. Those blessings this hand can confer ! Lucy. But — but — the heart — the heart — that docs not go with the hand. Hard. Later it will. I only pray for a trial. I ask but to conquer that heart, not to break it. Your father will soon he here — every mo- ment I expect him. He comes in the full force of suspicion — deeming you lured here by Wilmot — fearing (pardon the vile word) your dis- honor. How explain ? You cannot speak of your mother till I first provj her guiltless. Could they meet till I do, words would pass that would make even union hereafter too bitter to her pride as a w r ornan. Give me the power at once to destroy suspicion, remove fear, delay other explanations. Let me speak — let me act as your betrothed, your accepted. Hark! voices below — your father comes! I have no time to plead ; excuse what is harsh — seems ungenerous Sir Geof. (without, l.). Out of my way ! — loose my sword ! Lucy. Oh, save my mother ! Let him not see my moiher ! Hard. Grant me this trial — pledge this hand now — retract hereafter if you will. Your mother's name — your parents' reunion ! Ay or no ! — will you pledge it ? Lucy. Can you doubt their child's answer 1 I pledge it ! Enter Sir Geoffrey, l. d., struggling from Easy, Softhead, and Barbara. Sir Geof. Where is he 1 where is this villain 1 let me get at him ! What, what ! gone 1 {falling on Hardman's breast) Oh, Hard man! You came, you came ! I dare not look at her yet. Is she saved 1 Hard. Your daughter is innocent in thought as in deed — I speak in the name of the rights she has given me ; you permitted me to ask for her hand, and here she has pledged it ! ACT V.] NOT SO BAD AS AVE SEEM. 51 Sir Geof. {embracing her). my child ! my child ! I never called you that name before. Did I ? Hush ! I know now that thou art my child — know it by my anguish— know it by my joy. Who could wring from me tears like these but a child? Easy. But how is it all, Mr. Hardman ? you know everything! That fool Softhead, with his cock-and-bull story, frightened us out of our wits. Soft. That's the thanks I get ! How is it all, Mr. Hardman i Sir Geof. Ugh, what so clear 1 He came here— he saved her ! My child was grateful. Approach, Hardman, near, near. Forgive me if your childhood was lonely ; forgive me if you seemed so unfriended. Your father made me promise that you should not know the temptations that he thought had corrupted himself— should not know of my favors, to be galled by what he called my suspicions — should not feel the yoke of dependence ; — should believe that you forced your own way through the world — till it was made. Now it is so. Ah, not in vain did I par- don him his wrongs against me; not in vain fulfill that sad promise which gave a smile to his lips in dying ; not in vain have I bestowed benefits on you. You have saved— 1 know it — I feel it — saved from in- famy — my child. Lucy. Hush, sir, hush ! (throws herself into Barbara's arms.) Hard. My father! Benefits! You smile, Mr. Easy. What means he ! No man on this earth ever bestowed benefits on me ! Easy. Ha ! ha! ha! Nay, excuse me; but when I think that that's said by a clever fellow like you — ha! ha ! — the jest is too good ; as if any one ever drove a coach through this world but what some other one built the carriage, or harnessed the horses ! Why, who gave you the education that helped to make you what you are ? Who slyly paid Ton- son, the publisher, to bring out the work that first raised you into no- tice ? Who sent you the broker with the tale of the South Sea Scheme .' From whose purse came the sum that bought your annuity? Whose land does the annuity burthen ? Who told Fleece'em, the borough- monger, to offer you a seat in Parliament? Who paid for the election that did not cost you a shilling ? — who, but my suspicious, ill-tempered, good-hearted friend there ? And you are the son of his foster-brother, the man who first wronged and betrayed him ! Soft. And this is the gentleman who knows everybody and every- thing < Did not even know his own father ! La ! why, he's been quite a take-in ! Ha ! ha ! Easy. Ha! ha! ha! Hard. And all the while I thought I was standing apart from others — needing none ; served by none ; mastering men ; moulding them — the man whom my father had wronged went before me with noiseless beneficence, and opened my path through the mountain I fancied this right hand had hewn ! Sir Geof. Tut ! I did but level the ground ; till you were strong eno' to rise of yourself; I did not give you the post that you named with so manly a pride ; J did not raise you to the councils of your country as the " equal of all !" Soft. No ! for that you'll thank Fred. He bribed the Prime Minister with his favorite Murillo. He said you wanted the post to win the lady you-loved. Dimidum met -I think you might have told him what lady it was. Hard. So ! Wilmot ! It needed but this ! Easy. Pooh, Mr. Softhead ! Sir Geoffrey would never consent to a lord. Quite right. Practical, steady fellow is Mr. Hardman ; and as to his father, a disreputable connection — quite right not to know him ! All you want, Geoffrey, is to secure Lucy's happiness. 52 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. [ACT V. Sir Geof. All! That, now, is his charge. Hard. I accept it. But first 1 secure yours, my benefactor ! This house, in which you feared to meet infamy, is the home of sorrow and virtue ; the home of a woman unsullied, but slandered — of her who, lov- ing you still, followed your footsteps ; watched you night and day from yon windows ; sent you those flowers, the tokens of innocence and youth ; in romance, it is true — the romance only known to a woman — the romance only known to the pure ! Lord Wilmot is guiltless ! He led your child to the arms of a mi ther. Sir Geof. Silence him! — silence him ! — 'tis a snare! I retract! He shall not have this girl ! Her house! Do I breathe the same air as the woman so loved and so faithless 1 Lucy. Pity, for my mother ! No, no ; justice for her ! Pity for yourself and lor me! Sin Geof. Come away, or you shall not be my child, I'll disown you. That man speaks Enter Wilmot, Duke, with portfolio and papers, and Lord Loftus, l. d. Hard. I speak, and I prove, (to the Duke) The Memoirs, (giant ing over them) Here is the very letter that the menial informed you your wife sent to Lord Heriiy. Read it, and judge if such scorn would not goad such a man to revenge. What revenge could he wield 1 Why, a boast ! Sir Geof. (reading). The date of the very day that he boasted. Ha, brave words! proud heart! I suspect! — I suspect ! Hard. Lord Henry's confession. It was writ on his deathbed. Lof. 'Tis his hand. I attest it. Duke. I, too, John, Duke of Middlesex. Sir Geof. (who has lien reading the confession). Heaven forgive me ! Can she ? The flowers ; the figures; the — How blind I've been ! Where is shel where is she ? Yon said she was here ! (Lady Ellinor appears at r>. f.) Ellinor ! Ellinor ! to my arms — to my heart — 0, my wife ! Par- i.on ! Pardon! (embracing her rapturously.) Lady E. Nay, all was forgiven when I once more embraced our child. Hard, (to Loftus and Duke). My Lord, destroy this Requisition ! When you signed it, you doubtless believed that the Prince you would serve was of the Church of your Proiestant lathers'? You are safe evermore ; for your honor is freed. The Prince has retired to Rome, and abjured your faith. I will convince you of this later. (Duke and Softhead continue to slum each other with mutual apprehension.) Easy (to Wilmot). Glad to find you are not so bad as you seemed, my Lord; and now that Lucy is encased to Mr. Hard man Wil. Engaged already ! (aside) So ! he asked me here to insult me with his triumph ! (aloud) Well ! Hard. Lucy, your parents are united — my promise fulfilled ; permit me — {takes her hand) Sir Geoffrey, the son of him who so wronged you, and whose wrongs you pardoned, now reminds you, that he is entrusted with the charge to ensure the happiness of your child ! Behold the man of her choice, and take from his presence your own cure of distrust. With his faults on the surface, and with no fault that is worse than.that of concealing his virtues; — Here she loves and is loved ! And thus I discharge the trust, and ensure the happiness ! (takes Lucy's hand and places it in Wilmot's.) Sir Grof. How 1 Lady E. It is true — do you not read in her blush the secret of her heart ? ACT v.] NOT SO BAD AS "WE SEEM. 53 Wil. How can I r.ccept at the price of Hard. Hush ! For the third time to-day, you have but one option. You cannot affect to be generous to me at the cost of a heart all your own Take your right.. Come, my Lord, lest 1 tell all the world how vou bribed the Prime Minister. " Soft, (who has taken Easy aside). But, indeed, Mr. Easy, I reform ; I repent. Mr. Hardman will have a bride in the country — let me have a bride in the city. After all, 1 was not such a very bad monster. Easy. Pooh ! Wou't hear of it ! Want to marry only just to mimic mv Lord. Bar. Dear Lord Wilmot ; do say a good word for us. Easy. No, sir ; no! Your head's been turned by a lord. Wil. Not the first man whose head has been turned by a lord, with the help of the Duke of Burgundy— eh, Mr. Easy ! I U just appeal to Sir Geoffrey. Easy. No— no— hold your tongue, my Lord. Wil. And y< u insisted upon giving your daughter to Mr. Softhead ; forced her upon him. Easy. I— nevei ! When 1 ? Wil. Last ni^ht, when you were chaired member for the City ot London. I'll just explain Ihe case to Sir Geoffrey Easy. Confound it— hold— hold ! You like this young reprobate, Barbara 1 Bar. Dear papa, his health is so delicate. I should like to take care of him. Easy. There go, and take care of each other. Ha ! ha ! I suppose it ii all for the best. D-oke takes forth, and puts on, his spectacles ; examines Softhead curiously —is convinced that he is human, approaches, and offers his hand, which Softhead, emboldened by Baubara, though not without misgivings, • accepts (/wDukg shakes h>'s hand — does the same with Barbara, and passes to the left where Lord Lqftvs joins him. A great deal of dry stuff, called philosophy, is written about life. But the" grand thing is to take it coolly, and have a good-humored indul- gence Wil. For the force of example, Mr. Easy, (bowing to him.) Soft. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Wil. For the follies of fashion, and the crimes of monsters like my- self, and that terrible Softhead! Sir Geof. Ha! ha! Hard. You see, my dear Wilmot, many sides to a character ! Wil. Plague on it, yes ! But get at them all, and we're not so bad as we seem Soft'. No, Fred, not quite so bad. W r iL. Taking us as we stand — Altogether ! Position of Characters. Wilmot and Lucy. Hardman. Softhead and Barbara. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Ellinor. Easy. Duke and Lord Loftus. CURTAIN. 54 NOI SO BAD AS WE SEEM. "DAVID FALLEN IS DEAD! ,: OR, A KEY TO THE PLAY. (an after scene by way of an EPILOGUE.) {Intended to have been spoken by the Original Amateur Performers.) SCENE. — Wilmot's Apartment. Wilmot, Sir Geoffrey, Softhead, Easy, and Hardman, seated at a table. Wine, fruits, etc. Wil. Pass the wine — what's the news 1 Easy. Funds have risen to-day. Sir Geof. I suspect it will rain. Easy. Well, I've got in my hay. Hard. David Fallen is dead ! Omxes. David Fallen ! Wil. Poor fellow ! Sir Geof. I should like to have seen him ! Soft. 1 saw him ! So yellow ! Hard. Your annuity killed him ! Wil. How 1 — how ? to the point. Hard. By the shock on his nerves — at the sight of a joint. A very great genius Easy. I own — now he's dead, That a writer more charming Wil. Was never worse fed ! Hard. His country was grateful Soft, (surprised). He looked very shabby! Hard. His bonei Soft. You might count them ! -i Hard. Repose in the Abbey ! Soft, {after a stare of astonishment). So thai is the way that a country is grateful ! Ere his nerves grew so weak — if she'd sent him a plateful. Easy (hastily producing a long paper). My Taxes ! Your notions are perfectly hateful ! (pause. Evident feeling that there's no getting over Mr. Easy's paper.) Wil Pope's epigram stung him. Hard. Yes, Pope has a sting. Wil But who writes the epitaph 7 Hard. Pope ; a sweet thing ! Wil. 'Gad, if I were an author, I'd rather, instead, Have the epitaph living — the epigram dead. If Pope had but just reconsidered that matter, Poor David Soft. Had gone to the Abbey mucli fatter ! Easy. He was rather a scamp ! Wil. Put yourself in his place. not so bad as \ve seem. 55 Easy {horror-struck). Heaven forbid ! Hard. Let us deem him the Last of a R.iee ! Sue Geof. But the race that succeeds may have little more pelf. Hard. Ay ; and trials as sharp. I'm an author myself. But the remedy 1 Wherefore should authors not build East. An almshouse ? Hard. No, merchant, their own noble guild ! Some fortress for youth in the battle for fame; * Some shelter that Age is not humbled to claim ; Some roof from the storm for the Pilgrim of Knowledge. Wil. Not unlike what our ancestors meant by — a College ; Where teacher and student alike the subscriber, Untaxing the Patron East. The State Hard. Or the briber Wil. The son of proud Learning shall knock at the door And cry This* is rich, and not whine That\ is poor. Hard. Oh right ! For these men govern earth from their graves — Shall the dead be as kings, and the living as slaves 1 Easy. It is all their own fault — they so slave one another ; Not a son of proud Learning but knocks — down his brother ! Wil. Yes ! other vocations, from Thames to the Border, Have some esprit de corps, and some pride in their order ; Lawyers, soldiers, and doctors, if quarrels do pass, Still soften their spite from respect to their class ; Why should authors be spitting and scratching like tabbies, To leave but dry bones Soft. For those grateful cold Abbeys 1 Hard. Worst side of their character ! Wil. True to the letter. Are their sides, then, so fat, we can't hit on a better ? Hard. Why — the sticks in the fable — our Guild be the tether. Wil. Ay; the thorns are rubbed off when the sticks cling together. Soft, {musingly). I could be — yes— I could be a Pilgrim of Knowledge, If you'd change Deadman's Lane to a snug little College. Sir Geof. Ugh ! stuff— it takes money a College to found. Easy. I will head the subscription myself — with a pound. Hard. Quite enough from a friend ; for we authors should feel We must put our own shoulders like men to the wheel. Be thrifty when thriving — take heed of the morrow Easy. And not get in debt Sir Geof. Where the deuce could they borrow 1 Hard. Let us think of a scheme. Easy. He is always so knowing. Wil. A scheme! I have got one ; the wheel's set a-going ! A play from one author. Hard. With authors for actors Wil. And some benefit nights Both. n For the world's benefactors. Sir Geof. Who'll give you the play ? it will not be worth giving, Authors now are so bad ; always are while they're living ! Easy. Ah ! if D.ivid Fallen, great genius, were he Omnns. Great genius! Hakd. A man whom all time shall revere ; Soft, {impatiently). But he's dead. * The head. t The pocket. 56 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. Omnes. {lugubriously). He is dead ! Easy. The true Classical School, si: ! Ah ! could he come back ! Wil. He'll not be such a fool, sir. {taking Hardman aside, whispers.) We know of an author. Hard, (doubtfully). Ye — s — s, David was brighter. Omnes. But he s dead ! Hard. Tliis might do — as a live sort of writer. Easy. Alive ! that looks bad. Soft. Must we take a live man 1 Wil. To oblige us he'll be, sir — as dead as he, can ! Soft. Alive ; and will write, sir » Hard. With pleasure, sir. Soft. Pleasure ! Hakd. With less than your wit, he has more than your leisure. Coquettes with the Muse Sir Geof. Lucky dog to afford her ! Wil. Can we get his good side ? Hakd. Yes, he's proud of his order. Wil. Then he'll do! Sir Geof. As for wit — he has books on his shelves. Hard. Now the actors 1 Wil. By Jove, we'll act it ourselves. (Omnes atjirst surprised into enthusiasm, succeeded by great consternation) Sir Geof. Ugh, not I ! Soft. Lord ha' mercy ! Easy. A plain, sober, steady Wil. I'll appeal to Sir Geoffrey. There's one caught already ! This suspicious old knight; to his blind side direct us. Hard. Your part is to act Wil. True ; and his to suspect us. I rely upon you. Hard, {looking at his watch). Me ! I have not a minute ! Wil. If the play has a plot, he is sure to be in it. Come, Softhead ! Soft. I won't. I'll go home to my mother. Wil. Pooh ! monsters like us always help one another. Sir Geof. I suspect you will act. Soft. Well, I've this consolation — Still to imitate one Hard. Who defies imitation. Wil. Let the public but favor the plan we have hit on, And we'll chair through all London — our Family Briton. Sir Geof. What 1 — what ? Look at Easy I He's drunk, or I dream Easy (rising). The toast of the evening — Success to the Scheme. CURTAIN. THE DUCHESS DE LA YALLIERE. COPVBIGHT, 1875, BY RoBEHT M. De "WlTT. THE DUCHESS DE LA YALLIEKE. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Theatre. Royal, Covent Parle Theatre, Nexu Garden, London, York, Mai/ Jan. 4, 1837. 13, 1887. Louis the Fourteenth, King of France ..Mr. Vandenhoff. Mr. Mason. The Duke de Lauzun Mr. W. Farren. Mr. Chippendale. The Count de Gramraont Mr. Fritchard. Mr. Nixsen. The Marquis Alphonso de Bragelone (Betrothed to Louise de la Valliere)Mr. Macready. Mr. Fredericks. Bertrand (Armorer to the Marquis) Mr. Tilbury. Mr. Isherwood. Gentleman in Attendance Mr. Russell. First, Second, and Third Courtiers Maria Theresa, Queeen of France Mrs. Archer. Louise (afterwards Duchess) de la ValliereMiss Helen Faucit. Miss Ellen Tree. Madame de la Valliere (her mother) Mrs. "W "West. Mrs. Wheatleigh. Madame de Montespan (Rival of the Duchess, and one of the King's Mistresses Miss Telham. Mrs. Durie. First, Second, and Third Ladies of the Court and Maids of Honor to the Queen The Lady Abbess (Superioress of the Convent of the Carmelites) Courtiers, Gentleman of the Chamber, Priests, Nuns, Ladies, Maids of Honor, etc. TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS AND THIRTY MINUTES. SCENE.— The Chateau de la Valliere some leagues from Paris ; the Palaces of Fontainebleau and Versailles ; and the Convent of the Carmelites in the vicinity of the Chateau. PERIOD— 1672-1674. SCENERY. ACT I., Scene J.— The Chateau de la Valliere and Convent of the Carmelites in the distance. In a slanting direction, l., the entrance and a part of the buildings of an old Chateau ; the back scene represents woods and vineyards, and through the openings a river. The turrets of the Carmelite Convent are seen at the back, r., in the distance. Scene //.—Armory in the Castle of Bragelone. The fiats in the second grooves represent heavy grained stone archways and pillars, upon which appear to be hang- ing various pieces of armor and different weapons. Scene ///.—Antechamber in the Palace of Fontainebleau. The flats in the sec- ond grooves represent the interior of a rich -apartment. Scene IV.— Gardens of the Palace of Fontainebleau. The stage is thrown open to the full extent ; the wings represent branches of trees hung with colored lamps- vases of flowers on pedestals are placed, at pleasure, about the stage ; the flats rep- resent in perspective a continuation of the gardens, 'with fountains. In the centre, at the upper part of the stage, a large pavilion, with gilded pillars and dome with trellis-work. It is made to open out, and when open there is seen inside a figure representing the Goddess of Fortune with'an illuminated wheel at her feet— at either side of her a gilt vase, over which preside two figures emblematical of Merit and Honor. ACT 11., Scene /.—Gardens of the Palace of Fontainebleau. The flats in the third THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. .3 grooves represent, in perspective, beautiful gardens, fountains, statuary, etc. The wings in the second grooves project some distance on the stage, and are cut repre- senting slender trees entwining. A rustic bench in a slanting position, l. 2 E. Scene II.— Cabinet of the King at Fontainebleau. The flats in the fourth grooves represent a richly decorated aparlment. An antique table, o., far back so as to al- low of the next scene closing in— papers and writing materials on the table — chairs B. and i . of table. Scene 111.— Cloisters of a Convent. The flats representing heavy stone walls close in on the third grooves. Long windows, through which flashes of lightning are seen. ACT III, Scene A— Antechamber in the Palace of the Duchess de la Valliere at Versailles. The flats in the second grooves represent the interior of a handsome apartment. Scene II.— Saloon in the King's Palace. The flats in the fourth grooves represent a magnificently decorated room. An arched entrance, c, with rich heavy curtains. Doors r. 2 e. and l. 2 e. A richly-gilded table, b., with chess-board and pieces — chairs to match r. and l. of table. Another table, l., with writing materials upon it, and two chairs. A candelabra lighted upon each table. Scene III. — The Gardens of Versailles. The flats as in Act II., Scene I., placed in the second grooves. Scene IV.— Grand Saloon in the Palace of Versailles. The flats in the fourth grooves represent a magnificent apartment ; a large archway, c, beyond which, rep- resented in perspective, a suite of apartments of similar style. ACT IV., Scene 7.— The Gardens at Versailles. The flats, as in Act II., Scene I., placed in the second grooves. Scene II.— Private apartment in the Palace of the Duchess de la Valliere. A richly-decorated saloon ; the flats in the fourth grooves. Folding doors o. Doors L. 3 k. and r. 3 e. Small gilt tables and chairs b. and l., opposite the doors. ACT V., Scene I. — The Gardens at Versailles. Same as Act IV., Scene I., but in the front grooves. Scene II. — The old Chateau de la Valliere. The same as Act I., Scene I. Scene III. — Exterior of the Convent of the Carmelites. The flats in the second grooves represent the Gothic entrance of the Convent. Massive doors, c, partially open. Windows illumined r. and L. Scene IF.— Interior of the Chapel of the Carmelite Convent. The whole stage is thrown open, and represents the pillared and vaulted aisles of a Gothic chapel. In the centre at the back appears the altar, with raised steps approaching to it, fitted up in a gorgeous manner with figures, etc., lit up with tapers ; from the arched roof hang down lights ; priests and officials walk to and fro swinging censers. PROPERTIES. ACT I., Scene 1.— Bell to sound for vespers. Scene 2.— Long and heavy sword for Bebtuand ; letter for servant ; bugle. Scene 4.— Various jewels and rich orna- ments, a heavy diamond bracelet ; vases, flowers, and pedestals ; colored lamps. A CT II., Scene 1. — Rustic bench ; miniature handsomely set with jewels. Scene 2. — An antique table and two chairs ; papers and writing materials. Folded parch- ment for the King. Scene 3. — Tolling bell ; trumpet ; thunder ; lightning. ACT 111., Scene 1.— Two richly-gilded tables and four chairs; chess-board and pieces; two candelabras, lighted ; writing materials ; letter. Scene 4.— Folded parchment for memorial. ACT IV., Scene 1. — Two small gilt tables ; four chairs ; faded scarf for Bbagklone ; golden goblet and salver. ACT V., Scene 2.— Bell for vespers ; glove for Duchess. Scene 3.— Letter for Lau- zun. Scene 4.— Organ ; swinging censers with incense ; lights suspended along the aisle, and tapers placed on and about the altar. 4 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. COSTUMES. Compiled expressly for this Edition from the best French authorities. Louis. — A richly-embroidered purple velvet loose waistcoat, or jacket body without sleeves, fastened at the throat and loose downwards ; rich lace collar, full lawn shirt, sleeves puffed with purple ribbons and finished with lace ruffles; a short skirt of purple velvet, with embroidery and lace fringed at the bottom ; full leg- gings of black silk ; high-heeled shoes ; bands of purple satin ribbon gartered round the knees, with rosettes or drooping ends, and bows or rosettes on shoes. Auburn colored hair in long ringlets. A richly-embroiderel sash from the left shoulder to below the right hip, from which hangs a rich court sword in an al- most horizontal position. Broad hat with feathers on either side. The Order of Saint Esprit on left breast. An embroidered overcloak trimmed with ermine in Act 2, Scene 3, and in Act 5. Lauzun. — Short velvet coat (any color), with embroidered cuffs, rich lace ruffles and collar, with silk bows. Long curl wig. Hat wide, and partially looped up on one side, with feathers. A gold embroidered silk sash from the right shoulder to low down on the left hip, from which hangs a court sword in an almost hori- zontal position. Silk stocking* and high-heeled shoes, with large silk bows. An overcloak in Act 2, Scene 3, and in Act 6, Scene 3 and last Scene. De Grammont.— A Similar dress. Bragelone. — Act 1 : Suit of plain armor, consisting of coat of mail, with half sleeves, thigh pieces, and buff leather arm pieces, and leggings and garters with buff leather shoes, and spurs ; steel helmet, with vizor raised ; sword and cross- belt. Act 2, Scene 1 : Rich blue velvet coat embroidered with gold both back and front and round the cuffs, with large lace ruffles and collar. An under-skirt of silk. Full and loose half-breeches of silk, fastened at the knee with garters of colored silk and long ends or rosettes. Silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, with broad lappets or rosettes of silk. Long curl wig, and hat slightly looped up, with fe.ithers. Richly embroidered sash, reaching across to left hip, and sword hanging almost horizontally. Act 4 : A monk's lon<^ gown of dark serge, fastened round the waist with a band of same material; black stockings and sandals ; cowl to gown, and bald wig. Bertrand. — Buff leather jerkin and breeches; gaiters and high-heeled shoes, lace collar, waist-belt, and short wig. Gentleman. — A loose coat of velvet, embroidered, and reaching to the knees, with sleeves embroidered and looped with ribbons; loose and full half-breeches, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with lappets or bows ; long curl wig. Courtiers. — Similar dresses to Lauzun and Bragelone, but not of such rich de- scription. The dresses should be varied, however, by some of them wearing silk tights and large deep lace ruffles round the knees. The hair in curls ; shoes and rosettes; swords. Priests.— Long and lull black gown=, with tight sleeves, over which are suspended lawn robes, fastened at the neck, with large sleeves ; some of them weiring slightly embroidered or ornamental robes ; silk stockings and sandals ; full hair. Louise. — Act 1, Scene 1 ; Plain velvet bodice with lace up the front, loose sleeves, with muslin under sleeves ; long sweeping skirt. Sleeves and neck trimmed with lace; bracelets and necklace; hair in curls; low hat and feathers; rich silk scarf. Scene 4: A handsome velvet bodice with gold embroidery, trimmed at neck and sleeves with lace and ribbons; long skirt of blue silk richly orna- mented with gold, embroidery and puffings of ribbons ; high-heeled shoes and rosettes ; hair in curls. Act 2, Scene 3 : A full cloak thrown over dress and fas- tened at the neck and waist with silk cords. Act 3, Scene 2 : Rich velvet bodica coming ffown in a peak in front and then sloping off on either side to form a train. The skirt portion edged round with puffs of amber silk ; the bodice is laced together in front with gold and silver cords ; short sleeves, half way be- tween shoulder and elbow, bound round with puffs of ribbon, and continued in THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKEE. 5 loose white under sleeves of lace, and rows of lace round the neck; rich satin under skirt and train ; high-heeled shoes, and bows; bracelets and necklace; hair in long curls ; hat with feather, when needed.* Act 5, Scene 2 : Similar dress to Act 1, Scene 1, with cloak as in Act 2. Scene 3 : Hat and feathers, and gloves. Scene 4 : Rich bridal costume of white satin bodice, full sleeves, skirt and train, trimmed with wreaths of flowers and rosettes round the bead ; under skirt of white silk; high-heeled white leather shoes; followed, in the change, by a plain black loose robe, with white collar and cuffs, and the hair without any ornaments. The Queen.— A similar costume to the Dcchess, but varied in the color and ar- rangement, and more highly ornamented with a greater display of jewelry ; high-heeled shoes ; hair in curls. De Montespan. — A similar costume, but varied during the play in each Act. A braast knot of colors in Act 3, and in the last Act a light overcloak, hat and leathers ; high-heeled shoes ; hair in curls. Madame de la Vallifre. — A full-bodied dark velvet dress, with short sleeves trimmed with lace, and lace round the neck ; velvet train, trimmed with rib- bons, and under skirt of dark silk ; high-heeled shoes ; fan ; hat and feathers. Ladies of the Court asd Maids of Honok. — Similar dresses in construction and arrangement to those previously described, but not of such rich material or so highly ornamented. All the ladies wear long curls, high-heeled shoes, and ro- settes, and in Act 3 breast-knots. STOBY OF THE FLAY. Some years previous to the commencement of the play, Madame de la Valliere had been left a widow by the untimely death of the Lord de Valhere in one of the battles which took place during the campaign between the French and the Dutch. One daughter was the only offspring of the marrhge, and upon her was bestowed all that a mother's care and affection could provide. Beautiful, warm-hearted, and loving, it may easily be imagined how great was the treasure the widow possessed, and with what fear and trembling she received an intimation that the reigning sov- ereign, Louis the XIV., desired the presence of her daughter at court. Of the state of affairs at the period selected for the incidents of the play, and of the character of Louis, a very good idea may be gathered from the " Remarks " which will be found hereafter. Occupying a time-honored chateau, Madame and Louise de la Valliere were happy and contented; and the latter had the additional happiness of a lover, Alphonse Marquis de Bragelone, one of the most noble and gallant knights of the period. "When quite a stripling, he had bravely won his spurs, by saving De Valliere's stan- dard from the grasp of the enemy, and upon another occasion, he threw himself in front of the king, and received in his breast a stab, in spite of his coat of mail, which would probably have terminated the monarch's life. Bragelone was one who never left debts unpaid, and he discharged this by cleaving in two the head of his assailant. His courage and skill gained him the friendship of his peers, and combined with his handsome and gallant bearing, the love and admiration of the softer sex ; it was not long, therefore, before he found great favor in the eyes of the beautiful Louise de la Valliere. True love, it is known, never runs smooth ; the king's wish was law, and Louise was bound to go to the court. The play opens on the evening previous to her departure, when, accompanied by her mother, she is taking a parting view, perhaps forever, of the abode of childhood, youth and innocence— naturally, the scene is an affecting and trying one ; the mother * The design of this dress is taken from an old painting of the Queen, Maria The- resa, but it is thought proper to adapt it to the Duchess, she being the conspicuous character of the play. (» THE Dt' CHESS DE LA VALLIERE. lias every faith and confidence in her child; a firm belief, that by instinct she will shrink from wrong; and that the thought of a parent's love, and the voice of a pure conscience, will guide I fir safely through all temptations, even through those at that time existing in the gayest and most profligate court in Europe. Louise bids her look well after the poor peasants, who will miss her in the winter, and her birds, and then comes the germs of danger — the story of the visions she has frequently bad of royalty, love, and empire. The mother endeavors to convince her it is mere imagination, conjured up by her father's stories, who, in her early years, was always instilling into her mind the old knightly faith of France, " To honor God, and love. Che king." Louise admits it might be so, but thinks it strange to have had the dream so often. The arrival of her lover, Bragelone, prevents further discussion. lie, too, has been summoned away ; not to court, but to the wars, and he rejoices that when she is gone he will not be left behind, alone to haunt the spots they had so often sought together, and mourn her absence day after day. In warm language, he relates to her the story of his love and its growth — the idolatry of his passion, and points out to her the vast difference between his own honest heart, that never wronged a friend or shunned a foe, and that of the courtiers she will meet, mere minions of the king ; proud to the humble, servile to the great. With a strangely mingled feeling, that she does, and yet she does not, love Bragelone, she binds her scarf across his coat of mail, and bids him farewell. In due course, she reaches the court, where her grace and beauty attract the admir- ation of all, of the king more especially. A letter from her mother, to Bragelone, informs him of all this, and he is so proud of her triumph, that he vows the king, for the favor and praise he h is bestowed upon the idol of his love, shall find in him henceforward, a tenfold better soldier. Telling his joys to the old family armorer, Bertrand the faithful retainer is proud, indeed, to learn the secret of his master's love, and is half wild with glee, at the prospect of a marriage, and nursing upou his knee an infant likeness of his young lord. Gossip and scandal are not long, however, before they attack Louise. The sub- ject of her early visions are formed into reality by the gorgeous scenes surrounding her. When first beholding the king's portrait, young, gallant, and handsome as he is, a vague feeling of a wild, romantic fancy for him, not yet ripened into actual love, steals over her, and the passion becomes stronger when they meet. The courtiers, but more especially, the wily Duke de Lauzun, are pleased with this. According to his views, the king must have a mistress, and by that mistress he must mount to fame and power. A brilliant fete which takes place in the gardens of the Fontaine- bleau palace, affords him an excellent opportunity of furthering his projects. In the confidence of the king, they converse freely, respecting Louise ; and in honeyed words, the Duke tells him of the court gossip. Louise approaching, they draw aside, and overhear her describe to the 'adies of the court, in the most glowing language, her admiration of the king. The ladies retire, to join in the dance, and she is about to follow, when he intercepts her, and the Duke judiciously slips away. Thus left alone, the king, in passionate language, declares his love. A strong struggle rends her heart ; she implores him to unsay his words, and reminding him that she is but a poor, simple girl, who, though she loves her king, loves honor more, flies from his presence. Her coyness only increases the intensity of his passion, and another oppor- tunity is soon afforded him to further show her the ardor of his love. Amongst the varied amusements is one, the Temple of Fortune, presided over by Merit and Honor. Each person draws a ticket from the vase of Merit, and preserving it to Honor, receives in return some article of jewelry which is presented to the presumed object of affection. The king draws a magnificent diamond bracelet, every eye is upon him, each lady hoping to be the happy recipient of the royal favor ; quickly and gallantly he clasps it upon the arm of Louise, and the first step towards the path of sin is taken. Strange rumors reach Bragelone, of the sudden advancement of Louise at court ; insinuations are strongly uttered that she is the king's chosen favorite, and although the young knight cannot bring himself to believe that it is needed, he determines to THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. 7 seek her; to warn, advise, protect, and, if required, to save her. Arriving at Fon- tainebleau, in strolling through the gardens, he encounters Lauzun, who relates to him the gossip of the court, and throws out broad hints as to the chastity of Louise. The indignation of Bragelone is aroused ; although a rough, stern sold.er, taught from youth to maintain his words by his sword, he restrains himself, and implores Lauzun to unsay the story ; meeting with a refusal and a repetition, they fight, and though Bragelone disarms him, l.e scorns to take his life. They separate, hut Bra- gelone, returning to the spot, comes unexpectedly upon Louise, who is gazing with admiration upon a portrait of tiie king, and breathing his name in tender accents. Bragelone speaks to her with all his fervent love ; he pictures to her in vivid terms, the image of what she was, and what he is now led to believe she is. With true indignation, she denies the charge; still he insinuates its truth, telling her how deeply and devotedly he loved her, but now that confidence and hope have fled, his heart is crushed, and life bath charms no more. She beseeches him not to be hasty in his judgment ; she will fly back to the old chateau and quit the court forever. Still doubting, he reminds her that even there the king can reach, and that there is only one safe place of shelter left — the house of God. In great agony she half-con- sents, but urges that she should see the king once, more, to take a last farewell ; Bra- gelone reminds her, most touchingly, of the love of her mother, who is then blessing Heaven for her birth, but to-morrow may be wishing she were dead. The scruples of Louise are vanquished by this touching appeal, and she flies with Bragelone. At an interview between the king and Lauzun, to whom he is giving the lands and lordship of one of the French provinces as a token of his gratitude for the zeal with which the wily courtier serves him, Louis again tells him of the depth of his love for Louise ; during which, news is brought him of her flight. In a torrent of passion, he proclaims that she is, to him, more than his crown, from which not all the arms of Europe dare take a single jewel, and that all who stand between him and her are traitors to the throne. Louise reaches in safety the Convent of the Carmelites ; but she cannot command peace of miud or repose. She feels that she loves the king, though it is guilty so to do, and she would not, if she could, be happy and forget him. Sounds of alarm at this moment ring through the building, and the king, accompanied by Lauzun, arrives to claim, if needs be, to compel, the return of Louise. Surrouuded by affrighted nuns, the Lady Abbess reminds him that the walls of the holy building are sacred against the power of the strongest monarch. But Louis is not to be thwarted, and notwithstanding the threatened curses of the church of Koine, he claims the right to converse with Louise alone ; she has not yet taken the vows, she is a fatherless child over whom, as one of his court, he lawfully has control, and there- fore he commands a private interview. Most reluctantly the Lady Abbess yields, and left alone, he appeals passionately to Louise to retrace her steps. At first she firmly resists his importunities, but his solemn declaration of true, undying, and enduring love, which he, the proudest and most powerful monarch in Europe, offers to her on his knee, are too flattering tributes to her vanity ; she acknowledges her love for him and yields, returning to the court to — fall. In a brief period, wealth, position, and splendor are bestowed upon Louise : but, as so frequently the case, they bring neither happiness nor friendship. She is raised to the rank of a Duchess and soon finds a powerful rival, in the person of Madame de Montespan, one of the maids of honor, a woman of almost equal beauty, but not of such genuine tenderness and devotion as Louise. Madame de Montespan is art- ful, intriguing, and ambitious ; and she finds a ready helpmate in L uizun, who has assisted her in her schemes on more than one occasion. He willingly joins his forces, as he has not found in the Duchess the friendship and support he had been expect- ing to receive from her so soon as she attained a high position. Madame de Mon- tespan had once loved Lauzun, she might even love him now, but she lovesambition and power more. She needs a guide, but once successful in her schemes, she must have no partner; then, witli all his haughty air, the will bind him in her charms — she will lead but not be led. 8 THE DUCHESS D2 LA VALUERE. An opportunity too soon occurs to put their schemes in motion, and work the downfall of the Duchess. During one of their private hours of enjoyment, over a game of chess, the king tells Louise of sad news he lias received, and that both him- self and Frarcc mourn the loss of one of his bravest subjects, who should have died a marshal had not death struck so soon. With true and innocent sympathy she inquires his name, that she, too, may mourn his untimely end; and it is in vain she endeavors to conceal her emotion, when, the answer comes, " Bragelone !" The king questions her, and she does not attempt to conceal from him that they were betrothed in youth ; then flashes across his mind with all the weight of truth, Lauzuu's assertions, that Louise loved another, and that it was not the king who had won her virgin heart. Jealousy, disappointed pride, and anger, are alternately aroused : he reproaches her bitterly for sorrowing over lost virtue; forgetting that she is placed next in rank to the latest, but not the least, of the great Bourbon race of kings, and he sternly commands her to greet him for the future with smiles, and not wi h tears. Dissembling, however, they separate, she in the belief that the storm has blown over — he, to consult his wily favorite, Lauzun, and with the assis- tance of his wit and knavery, endeavor to find some new attraction in the place of her whom he had so ardently Bought, but of whom he now grows weary. At this unfortunate moment for the Duchess, Madame de Montespan arrives, and learning that the king has gone off in anger, quickly perceives the value of the opportunity fortune has thrown in her way. There is a great fete in preparation, and as she serves the queen, and will consequently meet the king before sunset, she suggests that Louise should write to him, and promises herself to place the letter in bis hands. The gentle and unsuspecting Duchess falls into the snare; she teils Madame de Montespan of the discovery of her love for Bragelone, and gives her the letter to the king, with heart-felt joy, at having found in the hour of trouble so true a friend. The clue thus found, Madame de Montespan determines to follow up until it leads the Duchess to destruction — herself to favor, and, perhaps, the throne. During the progress of the lete, the king reveals to Lauzun his fancy for Madame de Montespan, and the wily courtier perceiving she is approaching, withdraws so as to leave them together. With well assumed diffidence, and deceptive modesty of demeanor, she presents the letter. The king is struck with her beauty, which had hitherto escaped his notice ; she perceives the impression she has made, and so art- fully constructs her speech, that she rouses an ardent passion within him, which he openly declares. Following up the advantage thus gained, she rejects his offers, and hurriedly retreats, thus making him still more anxious to secure a successor to the Duchess. A further opportunity occurs to contribute to her downfall. A courtier, believing in her influence and power with the king, presents a memorial for a vacant appointment as colonel in the royal guards. Louise, however, tells him that merit, rather than favor, should obtain the post, and declines to interfere; not so, however with Madame de Montespan who observes the chance, takes the paper and prom- ises the king shall see it and grant the request. In an interview that follows, this is achieved, even in the presence of Louise, who sees witli grief and anguish, the mastery that her rival is assuming. And yet another blow falls. A knightly tour- nament is to be held, at which each combatant is to wear the colors of the lady lie now chooses. Louise, in her confiding nature, believes that the king will, as hither, o, receive hers; but when she takes the breast-knot from her bosom, and offers it, he turns aside, and selects one from Madame de Montespan. The Duchess is crushed, but the wi y Lauzun bids her conceal her emotion, and artfully suggests how differ- ently he would have acted. As quickly as the Duchess rose to wealth and power, so does Madame de Montes- ] an rise. Now is the time for Lauzun to act ; he is very poor, his creditors very pressing, the Duchess is rich and a valuable prize— though a blemish exists, it is obscured by her wealth ; why should he not marry her 1 Warily, and cautiously, he mentions the subject to the king, who at first receives the proposition with anger, love still lingering in his breast : but ultimately he gives his approval to the suit. Madame De la Valhere is dead, and the sorrows and sufferings of the Duchess are THE DUCHESS DS LA VALLIERE. 9 increased by the knowledge that she is now alone in the world. A visit from Lau-- zun gives her a momentary hope of joy ; believing he brings a message from the king, but this is soon dispelled ly the proffer of Lauzun's hand. Bowed down by grief and shame, there is still some honesty and virtue left, and learning that the king himself has encouraged, even wished for the union, Bhe indignantly rejects the offer, and bids him, as the king's friend, depart ; not wishing to see him so debased as to be refused by the cast-off mistress of his master. Immediately after this interview, Bragelone, whose reported death is untrue, arrives in the garb of a Franciscan Friar, and craves an audience of the Duchess. In the course of this interview, he acquaints her with the particulars of her lover's supposed death — he depicts the fervency of his affection, and the crushing blow that fell upon him wheu he received the tidings of her fall from virtue. In agony, she listens to the story of his sufferings, and he hands her a faded scarf, the one she had twined around his coat of mail. An inward, undefined feeling prompts her to ask who he is, and he tells her, " Bragelone's brother," upon which she implores him to be a friend to the friendless. This he promises, and further informs her, that as a priest, lie had engaged to wait until her guilty fame was tarnished, then to seek her, and lead her to repentance and atonement. In the deepest agony she listens to the story of her mother's death, which had been hastened by her shame; that on her death-bed, in the once joyous home of honor, peace and purity, the mother was about to curse, when Bragelone, who attended her whilst life held out, arrested her lips, and her dying breath yielded forth a blessing In frantic anguish, the Duchess can bear no more, and rushes madly from the room. Ere Bragelone can depart, the king arrives, and the friar boldly reproaches him with his perfidious conduct. He pictures his greatness, as viewed in the world, and then paints him as he appears before an humble minister of Heaven. " You are the king who has betray'd his trust — Beggar'd a nation, but to bloat a court, Seen in men's lives the pastime to ambition, Look'd but on virtue as the toy for vice ; And, tor the first time, from a subject's lips, Now learns the name he leaves to Time and God 1" Angered, as the king is, the friar is undaunted ; more powerful, more eloquent and more impassioned in his language, he warns him to beware of the consequences of his cruelty, voluptuousness, and vice, and leaves him astounded at the truthful, but audacious speech. A good draught of wine soon nerves the king for his interview with the Duchess, in which he urges the marriage with Lauzun. She tells him of the refusal, and that she has made iinother choice, of which he shall be in due time informed; thus satisfied, he departs. Bragelone returns ; her struggles have been great, but the desire for repentance has triumphed, and she agrees to accompany the friar to the Convent of the Carmelites. The news of the second flight of the Duchess creates much sensation, but Madame de Moutespan asserts that a month's fasting and penance will send her back again. Matters have not gone on well with the new mistress and Lauzun ; he is chafed at her constant allusions to his love for the Duchess, and she, by his retort, that it is something to love the only woman whom the king had ever honored. She threatens to exert her influence, and procure his banishment ; and thus forewarned, he deter- mines to increase the coldness with which the king has already begun to look upon his new mistress, observing, with appropriate sarcasm : "The war's declared — 'tis clear that one must fall, I'll be polite— the lady to the wall !" Upon leaving the palace, Bragelone, still unknown, conducts the Duchess to the old chateau, to take a farewell look of the former abode of childhood, purity, and happiness. It is too severe a trial, and she swoons in his arms. As he bends over and imprints a kiss upon her lips — " A brother's kiss— it has no guilt; Kind Heaven, it has no guilt !" 10 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. he breathes aloud her name. Slowly reviving, she hears and recognizes him ; he passionately tells her that his last task before death, is to lead her soul to peace, and on the day that she takes the veil, one more, one last meeting, and then — she to a convent, he to a hermit's cell without. The king has undergone another change ; the coarseness and artfulness of Madame de Montespan, as compared with the gentleness and innocence of the Duchess, have displeased him, and he sends a letter to Louise full of his old affection : but it is too late, she is firm in her resolution. He is not, however, to be thwarted thus, and he hurries forward to stop the ceremony, and secure, if possible, her return. In the meantime, the tables are shifting between LauzuD and Madame de Mon- tespan. He exerts his power and influence with success, and at the very moment that she is congratulating herself uion her agreeable progress so far, and again threatens Lauzun, her tall is consummated by his producing a letter from the king, excusing her further attendance at court, and banishing her from Paris. Tims far successful, Lauzun hastens to join the king in his efforts to secure the Duchess. Reaching the convent, and forcing their way to the altar, through the crowd assembled to witness the imposing ceremony, Bragelone stops the king's advance, calling upon the priests of Heaven to complete their task, and invoking the curse of the Church upon him who would interfere. Before the ceremony is over, the king obtains an interview with the Duchess ; in the most humble and imploring language, he confesses his errors, and beseeches her to return ; renewed love, wealth, power, rank— all shall be lavished upon her. Too late ! Her reply is : " For Louis Heaven was left — and now I leave Louis, when tenfold more beloved, for Heaven !" The end is reached. The church claims as her own, the beautiful mistress of Louis the XIV., King of France; and the world, with all its glories, pomp, and vanities, are forever shut out from the gaze of— The Duchess de la Valliere! REMARKS. Pursuing the plan adopted in the historical play of Richelieu, a brief notice of the royal personage who tigures so conspicuously in this play, and of the position of affairs at the period, will, it is hoped, prove interesting. Louis XIII. (who figures in Richelieu), died iir 1043, leaving one son, aged five years, over whom he appointed a Council of Regency, consisting of his queen, Anne of Austria, the Duke of Orleans, Cardinal Mazarin (a staunch disciple of, and suc- cessor to, Richelieu), the Prince of Conde, and others. But immediately after his death, the Queen took steps to do away with all her deceased husband's arrange- ments ; she procured his will to be cancelled by the Parliament, and assumed the supreme authority of government, bestowing, to the surprise of all, upon Cardinal Mazarin, the faithful adherent and follower of Richelieu, her persevering enemy, the office of Prime Minister. During this regency, which lasted for a period of nearly eighteen years, there was a constant succession of wars, intrigues, and civil dissensions, which were not put an end to, and indeed, then only temporarily, until 16G0, when Louis XIV., then twenty- two years of age, was married to Maria Theresa, the Infanta of Spain ; and imme- diately upon the death of Cardinal Mazarin, in the year following, personally assumed the supreme direction of affairs. From all accounts, he was well qualified for the task. He possessed a sound, though not a bril'iant intellect ; a firm and resolute will ; considerable sagacity and penetration; much aptitude for business; industry, and perseverance. Mazarin said of him : " There is enough in him to make four kings and one honest man." Louis imbibed the most extravagant ideas of the nature and extent of the royal prerogative. Regarding his authority as delegated immediately from Heaven, he strove to concentrate in himself individually, all the powers and functions of govern- ment. According to his view, the sovereign was not only the guardian and dispen- THE DUCHESS D3 LA VALLIEKE. 11 Ber, but the fountain and author of all law, and of all justice. His fixed principle was, " The State is myself; " and the peculiar position in which he found the affairs of the kingdom, enabled him almost literally to verify this lofty maxim. Never, in the whole history of the world, was there a more complete, nor a more favorable or successful specimen of absolute irresponsible monarchy than that which he estab- lished. During the early years of his reign, Louis lived in habits of unrestrained licen- tiousness. He formed an attachment for Maria di Mancini, a niece of Cardinal Mazarin; but the wily minister had no faith in the happiness of such a union, neither was it suited to his political intrigues and designs, so the young lady w;is removed from court, and t'.ie marriage with the Infanta of Spain brought about- This union, however, in no way checked the lax principles of morality in Louis ; it is doubtful, indeed, if he entertained any red affection for his wife; if he did, he did not allow either that feeling, or one of respect even, to prevent his openly indulg- ing in licentious pursuit?. It is recorded, on the best authorities, that his first object of serious attachment was Louise de la Valliere, the heroine of this play, who, after having borne liim two children, retired into a convent. This incident the author has selected for his subject, and it will be seen how well and truly lie depicts the character of the king — strictly in keeping with that derived from the best authori- ties, as above described. He omits, however, all mention of the children ; and the banishment of Madame de Montespan, as stated in the play, is merely a dramatic liberty with truth ; the records refer to nothing of the kind ; on the contrary, they show that immediately upon the retirement of the Duchess de la Valliere, Madame de Montespan continued to retain the royal affections and became the mother of eight children, who were all declared legitimate and intermarried with some of the noblest families in the realm. In 1678, when forty years of age, Liuis became enamored with Fran^oise D'Au- bigne, grand-daughter of the great Trotestant historian, and, who afterwards became so celebrated as Madame de Maintenon. She had been recommended to Madame de Montespan as governess to her children, in which cap icity the King saw her con- stantly, and by degrees she acquired an influence and control over him which lasted until his death. Amidst all these licentious intrigues, the queen could not have led a very happy life ; however, she does not appear to have taken it very much to heart ; she lived for twenty-three years after her marriage, and died in 1683. The year fol- lowing, the king was secretly married to Mudame de Maintenon by his confessor, La Chaise, in the presence of the Archbishop of Paris ; but the marriage was never acknowledged, in consequence of which, her position at court was rather anomalous and equivocal, but her influence over the royal mind in private was unbounded, extending to all subjects, domestic, political, and religious. After a constant succession of intrigues and wars, during which occurred some of the greatest and most splendid battles upon record, Louis XIV. closed his career in 171-3, having consequently reigned seventy-two years, the longest period of kingly rule upon record. As a general rule, the first dramatic productions of an author, no matter whit liis position in the other varied paths of literature may he, is seldom, or ever, attended with success ; and notwithstanding the high intellect, cultivation and ability of the eminent writer of the present play, it was no exception to this general rule. In all first productions, there is almost invariably found a weakness of plot, and a want of consistency in the arrangement and a crudeness of construction, which can only be overcome by practice and observation, and the opposite of which cannot be born wiih the genius of the author. The story worked out in the Duchess de la Valliere is simple, and although it is sufficient for an excellent reading play, it is not sufficiently interesting, nor filled enough with good roints and situations, to make it an interesting and attractive play in a theatrical sense. That this view is a true one, and that the talented author himself so felt, is verified by his observations in the preface to the succeeding production of his pen, the Lady of Lyons, in which, after admitting the comparative 12 THE DUCHES.S DE LA VALLIERE. failure of the present piece upon the stage, he slates that one of his reasons for making a second attempt was to see whether certain critics had truly declared that it was not in his power to attain the art of dramatic construction and theatrical effect. He admits that he felt it was in this that a writer accustomed to the narra- tive class of composition, had much both to learn and unlearn, and accordingly, he had directed his chief attention to the development and a careful arrangement of the incidents, tin owing whatever belonged to poetry less into the diction and the " felic- ity of words," than into the construction of the story, the creation of the characters, and the spirit of the prevailing sentiment. Rut, although thus deficient as a dramatic work, there are unquestionably many beauties in the language of the present play, which, as before observed, render it an entertaining work for perusal. For instance, in the opening scene, the conversation between mother and daughter; the story of her dreams of ambition, and the inter- view between her and her lover, Bragelone, are prettily rendered ; the conversation between Bragelone and the armorer, Bertrand, in a subsequent scene, is character- istically and well drawn ; and though the part of the armorer is but a small one, it is capable of being made a very telling and effective one, and a neat little picture in any representation of the play. The meeting of Bragelone and Louise after her arrival at court, and his endeavors to get at the truth of the evil rumors he has heard, is also well drawn : but more particularly good is his short speech upon the strength and purity of his love. Ag lin, also, is this the case, in the third act, when the king discovers the love of Louise for Bragelone, and the meeting between her and the latter character. But i rubably the linest written and most effectively drawn portion of the whole play, is the scene in the fourth aef, between the king and Bragelone, in hischaraeU r of the Franciscan friar, in which, in well-chosen, eloquent, and powerful language, he vehemently upbraids the king for his base conduct, in having raised a maiden to a Duchess, to gratify his desires : trampled, without thought or regret, upon her gallant, father's memory as a brave and loyal subject; tarnished her mother's stain- less honor as a matron, and rendered her home and expiring life desolate; and crushed the hopes and anticipated happiness of her atfimeed husband, who had served him well, and saved his life. From this subject, Bngelone dashes fiercely and rapidly into a review of the king's principles, and pictures to him the scenes of gayety, flattery, and licentiousness then surrounding him, and which had so long existed, and those which may await him — a scaffold where the palace rises — the axe — the headsman— 'and the victim! It is hardly possible for any writer to equal, much less to surpasj the beauty and sarcastic keenness of the language here used ; it is, most undoubtedly, the most brilliant portion of the play, and in the hands of a hue actor, must invariably make a hit. Other good portions could be selectid, but it is the lack of interest and faulty dramatic construction, that mars and damages this otherwise fine play. However pleasingly the speeches read, they are too prosy for the stage; and we do not meet with the noble and beautiful sentiments expressed in the perfectly eloquent and poetical language which mark the noble author's sub- sequent productions. Nothing in the play will bear comparison with the love scenes in the Lady of Lyons, or the jealousy and indignation ot De Mauprat, in Richelieu. One great point, however, must not be overlooked. It is not often the case, that in selecting a great historical personage like Louis XIV. for one of the principal char- acters in a play, that the author adheres strictly to the authentic recoids of the habits, life, and disposition of that person. Jn the presei t instance, nothing has been omitted, or aught exaggerated, and the character of Louis" the Great" is n« finely painted by the pen of the renowned scholar and yctt, asit has been portrayed by that of the great historians, who were contemporaneous with the king. If the play were redue d to about two-thirds of its present length and slightly re- arranged, it would make a very fair acting drama ; but I am not r.ware of its ev< r having been played in such a way, or in any other shape than in its entirety, as fiist produced in London, when, although it had the grand support of the eminent trage- dian, Mr. Macready, the beautiful and accomplished Helen Faucit (as to whom, see the remarks to the Lady of Lyons), Mr. Vandenhoff, and other excellent actors, it failed to prove a success. This was the case also in New York, upon its productien at the Park Theatre, in 1837. although it was well mounted and well cast, having the great actress, Miss Ellen Tree (afterwards Mrs Charles K>an), in the part of tl.e Duchess. It was this want, of success, which induced the author to turn his atten- tion directly to a closf 1 study of the principles of dramatic construction, and which he mastered with progressively, grand, and perfect results, as the undying repu- tation of his subsequent plays, the Lady of Lyons, Hichelieu, and Money will prove. J. M. E. THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 13 BILL FOll PROGRAMMES. All I. Scene I.— THE CHATEAU DE LA VALLIERE AND CONVENT OF THE CARMELITES. Mother and Daughter — The Evening of Departure for the Court — Story of a Lover — The Scarf of Beauty Scene II— ARMORY IN THE CASTLE. OF BRAGELONE. A Faithfd Servant — Tiles of Heroism and Daring -News of Louise de la Val Here's Arrival at Court — Anticipations of Marriage — An Ar- morer's Joy. Scene III.— APARTMENT IN THE PALACE OF FONTAINE- BLEAU. Gossip of the Court — A Wily Courtier — Wit and Cunning beat Sword and Spear — The King must have a Mistress -It must be Louise. Sc se IV— GARDENS 0? THE PALACE ILLUMINATED FOR A ROYAL FETE, Tlie King and his Courtiers — The Monarch caught by the Maid — Scan- dal amongst the Ladies of Honor — Rivalry and Jealousy — The Jung's Declaration of Love — The Wheel of Fortune— Royal Gift to Louise — Envy and Constcrnat'on. ACT II. Scene I —GARDENS OF THE PALACE OF FONTAINEFLEAU. A Lover s Search — The Tale of Scandal — Louise i; tki King's Favorite — Tlie Quarrel and the Duel— The Portrait— Unexpected Interrup- tion— A Lovers Appeal — "Fly before you fall! Mother! Honor! Duty ! all call upon thee ere too late " — She yields ! — Flight of Louise and Bragelonc. ScenkIT.— THE KINGS CABINET AT FONTAINEBLEAU. .1 Noble Gift to the Wily Courtier, Lauzun — The King reveals his Love — News of Louise'' s Flight— Anger of the King, and Orders for Pursuit. Scene III —CLOISTERS OF A CONVENT. Distress of Louise— The S'gnul of Alarm-Arrival of the ICnganl Lau- zun — The Lady Abbess or the King— Convent or Court— Appeal of Love, and Departure for the Palace once more. ACT III. Scene I. —ANTECHAMBER IN THE PALACE OF THE DUCHESS DE I A VALLIERE AT VERSAILLES. A Rise in Rank but a Full from Virtue— Louise now a Duchess — Tlie Conspiracy — The Wily Courtier and Maid of Honor — Woman against Woman — The Compact to the Death ! Scene IE— SALOON IN THE KING'S PALACE. A Royal Game of Chess — Story of the Death of the Bravest Knight in France* Bragelone — Agitation of Louise — Ths King's Suspicions — The Quarrel — Disgrace Apirroaching — A Rival Mistress and a False Friend — The Trap laid — An Unsuspecting Victim — The Fatal Letter. 14 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. Scene III.— THE GARDENS OF VERSAILLES. A Court Serpent -A False Messenger— The Star of Louise is Falling — The King finds a new Mistress. Scene IV.— GRAND SALOON IN THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. A Royal Gathering— Jealousy begins the Game — Proposal for a Knightly Tournament — The Colors of Louise Refused— Triumph of Madame d e Montespan, and Betrayal of Louis . ACT IV. Scene I.— THE GARDENS AT VERSAILLES. Lauzun lays Flans for Marrying the Duchess — She still Loves the King — His Victim, not his Mistress. Scene II.— PRIVATE APARTMENT IN THE PALACE OF THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. Desolation of Louise— A Mother's Death — Lauzun pleads Jti.i Sail — Virtue not yet Dead — A Rejected Lover — Arrival of a Holy Friar — Interview with the Duchess — Story of Bray elone's Love and Forgiveness— A Mo- ther's hist words changed from Curses to Blessings — Agony of Louise — Arrival of the King — Anger at a Monk's Reproaches — The Warning Voice of the Church — " Beware, Proud King ! Beware /'"— Louise Con- sents to Wed. ACT V. Scene I.— THE GARDENS AT VERSAILLES. Stori/ of the Flight of the Duchess — Lauzun and the King's new Mistress — Reproaches and Revenge — " You've played the Knave and Throicn away the King." Scene II.— THE OLD CHATEAU DE LA VALLIERE AND ('(IN- VENT OF THE CARMELITES .4 Last Visit to the Home of Childhood and Virtue— The Disclosure — Brag- clone still Lives .'-The Priest's Vows — The World is Lost, brt the Con- vent and the Monastery remain. Scene III.— EXTERIOR OF THE CONVENT OF THE CARMEL- ITES. " Ere the Clock strikes Louise takes the Veil ! " — Lauzun and Madame de Montespan — Plot against Plot — Banishment of the neio Favorite — A Woman's Curse. Scehb IV.— INTERIOR OF THE CHAPEL OF THE CONVENT. Preparation for Taking the Veil — Arrival of the King — A Last Appeal— "Thy Rival Banished, no other Love but Thee!" — Too late! Repent- ance Triumphs ! The Life of Sin is Ended! The Passage to the Outer World forever Closed — A List Farewell, and Heaven claims the Sacri- THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [For Stage Directions see page 68.] THE DUCHESS DE LA YAEEIEKE. PROLOGUE. To paint the Past, yet in the Past portray Such shapes as seem dim prophets of to-day ; — To trace, through all the garish streams of art, Nature's deep fountain— woman's silent heart ;— On the stirr'd surface of the soften'd mind To leave the print of holier truths hehind ;— And, while through joy or grief— through calm or strife, Bound the wild Passions on the course of life, To share the race— yet point the proper goal, And make the Affections preachers to the soul ;— Such is the aim with which a gaudier a»e Now woos the brief revival of the stage ; — Such is the moral, though unseen it flows, In Lauznn's wiles and soft La Valliere's woes; Such the design our Author bjldly drew, And, losing boldness, now submits to you. Not new to climes where dreamy fable dwells— That magic Prospero of the Isle of Spells — Now first the wanderer treads, with anxious fear, The fairy land whose flowers allured him here. Dread is the court our alien pleads before ; Your verdict makes his exile from the shore. Yet, e'en if banish'd, let him think, in pride, He trod the path with no unhallow'd guide ; Chasing the light, whose face, thoush veii'd and dim, Perchance a meteor, seem'd a star to him, Hoping the ray might rest where Truth appears Beneath her native well— your smiles and tears. When a wide waste, to Law itself unknown, Lay that fair world the Drama calis its own ; When all might riot on the mines of Thought, And Genius starved amidst the wealth it wrought ; He who now ventures on the haunted soil For nobler laborers won the rights of toil. And his the boast— that Fame now rests in ease ^ 15 16 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. Beneath tlie shade of Iter own laurei-tiees. Yes, if with all the critic on their brow, His clients once have grown his judges now, And watch, like spirits on the Elysian side, Their brother ferried o'er the Stygian tide, To where, on souls untried, austerely sit (The triple Miuos)— Gallery— Boxes— Pit— 'Twill soothe to think, howe'er the verdict end, In every rival he hath served a friend. But well we know, and, knowing, we rejoice, The mightiest Critic is the public voice. Awed, yet resign 'd, our novice trusts in you, Hard to the practised, gentle to the new. Whate'er the anxious strife of hope and fear, He asks no favor — let the stage be clear. If from the life his shapes the poet draws, In man's deep breast lie all the critic's laws; If not, in vain the nicely-poised design, Vain the cold music of the labor'd line, Before our eyes, behold the living rules ; — The soul has instincts wiser than the schools I Yours is the great Tribunal of the Heart, And touch'd Emotion makes the test of Art. Judges august! — the same in every age, "While Passions weave the sorcery of the Stage — While Nature's sympathies are Art's best laws — -To you a stranger has referr'd his cause ; — If the soft tale he woos the soul to hear Bequeaths the moral, while it claims the tear, Each gentler thought to faults in others shown He calls in court — a pleader for his own ! THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. ACT I. SCENE I. — Time — sunset. On the foreground, l., an old chateau ; beyond vineyards and noods which present through their openings, vicivs of a river, reflecting the. sunset. At a distance, r , the turrets of the Convent of the Carmelices. Madame and Mademoiselle de la Valliere enter from chateau. Mdlle. de la V. 'Tis our last eve, my mother ! Mme. de la V. Thou regrett'st it, My own Louise ! albeit the court invites thee — A court beside whose glories, dull and dim The pomp of Eastern kings, by poets told ; A court Mdlle. De la V. In which 1 shall not see my mother! Nor those old walls, in which, from every stone, Childhood speaks eloquent of happy years ; Nor vines and woods, which bade me love the earth, Nor yonder spi: es, which raised that love to God. (the vesper belt tolls) The vesper bell ! — my mother, when, once more, I hear from those gray towers that holy chime, May thy child's heart be still as full of heaven, And callous to all thoughts of earth, save t!u;se Which mirror Eden in the face of Home ! Mme. de la V. Do I not know thy soul 1 — through every snare My gentle dove shall 'scape with spotless plumes. Alone in courts, I have no fear for thee ; Some natures take from Innocence the lore Experience teaches; and their delicate leaves, Like the soft plant, shut out all wrong, and shrink From vice by instinct, as the wise by knowledge ; And such is thine ! My voice thou wilt not hear, But Thought shall whisper where my voice would warn, , And Conscience be thy mother and thy guide ! Mdlle. de la V. Oh, may I merit all thy care, and most Thy present trust! Thou'lt write to me, my mother, And tell me of thyself; amidst the court My childhood's images shall rise. Be kind To the poor cotters in the wood — alas ! They'll miss me in the winter ! — and my birds 1 — Thy hand will feed them 1 18 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALUERS. [ACT L Mme. dk la V. And that noble heart That loves thee as my daughter should be loved — The gallant Bragelone 1* — should I hear Some tidings Fame forgets — if in the din Of camps I learn thy image makes his solace, Shall I not write of Aim ? Mdlle. de la V. {with indifference). His name will breathe Of home and friendship — yes ! Mme. de la V. Of naught beside 1 Mdlle de la V. Nay, why so pressing ? — let me change the theme. The king — you have seen him — is he, as they say, So fair — so stately ! Mme. de la V. Ay, in truth, my daughter, A king that wins the awe he might command. Splendid in peace, and terrible in war ; Wise in council — gentle in the bower. Mdlle. de la V. Strange, that so often through mine early dreams A royal vision flitted— a proud form, Upon whose brow Nature had written "empire ;" While, on the lip, — love, smiling, wrapp'd in sunshine The charmed world that was its worshipper — A form like that which clothed the gods of old, Lured from Olympus by some mortal maid — Youthful it seemed — but with ambrosial youth ; And beautiful — but half as beauty were A garb too earthly for a thing divine — Was is not strange, my mother ? ' Mme. de la V. A child's fancy, Breathed into life by thy brave father's soul. He taught thee, in thy cradle yet, to lisp Thy sovereiun's name in prayer — and still together, In thy first infant creed, were link'd the lessons " To honor God and love the king ;" it was A part of that old knightly faith of France Which mnde it half religion to be loyal. Mdlle. de la V. It might be so. I have preserved the lesson, E'en with too weak a reverence — Yet, 'tis strange ! A dream so oft renew'd ! Mme de la. V. Here comes thy lover ! Thou wilt not blame him if his lips repeat The question mine have asked ? Enter Bragelone, r. 2 e. Alphonso, welcome ! Brage. My own Louise !— ah ! dare I call thee so * War never seem'd so welcome J since we part, Since the soft sunshine of thy smiles must fade From these dear scenes, it soothes, at least to think I shall not linger on the haunted spot, And feel, forlorn amidst the gloom of absence, How dark is all once lighted by thine eyes. (Madame de la Valliere retires into the chateau.} Mdlle. de la V. Can friendship flatter thus — or wouldst thou train My ear betimes to learn the courtier's speech 1 * The author has, throughout this play, availed himself of poetical license to give to the mme of Bragelone the Italian pronunciation, and to accent the final e. ACT '•] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. Brage. Louise! Louise ! this is our parting hour; Me war demands— and thee the court allures. In such an hour, the old romance allow'd The maid to soften from her coy reserve And her true knight, from some kind words, to take Hope's talisman to hattle— Dear Louise ! Say, canst thou love me ? Mulls de la V. Sir— I— love-methinks It is a word that Bi;age - Sounds upon thy lips Like " land " upon the mariner's, and speaks Of home and rest after a stormy sea. Sweet girl, my youth has pass'd in camps ; and war Hath somewhat scathed my manhood ere my time Our years are scarce well-mated ; the soft spring Is thine, and o'er my summer's waning noon Grave autumn creeps. Thou say'st " I flatter "'—well Love taught me first the golden words in which The honest heart still coins its massive ore. But fairer words, from falser lips, will soon Make my plain courtship rude. Louise ! thy sire Bethroth'd us in thy childhood ; I have watch'd thee Bud into virgin May, and in thy youth Have seeni'd to hoard my own ! I think of thee ! And I am youthful still ! The passionate prayer— The wild idolatry— the purple light Bathing the cold earth from a Hebe's urn ; Yea, all the soul's divine excess which youth Claims as its own, came back when first I loved thee ! And yet so well I love, that if thy heart Recoil from mine— if but one single wish, A shade more timid than the fear which ever Blends trembling twilight with the starry hope Of maiden dreams, would start thee from our union — Speak, and my suit is tongueless ' Mdlle.de la V. Oh, my lord! It to believe all France's chivalry Boasts not a nobler champion — if to feel Proud in your friendship, honor'd in your trust If this be love, and I have known no other Why then Brage. Why then, thou lov'st me? Mdlle. de la V. (aside). Shall I say it ? I feel 'twere to deceive him. Is it love? Love, no, it is not love ! {aloud) My noble lord, As yet I know not all mine own weak heart • I would not pain thee, yet would not betray! Legend and song have often painted love, And my heart whispers not the love which should be The answer to thine own— thou hadst best forget me ' Brage. Forget ! Mdlle. de la V. I am not worthy of thee ' Brage Hold , My soul is less heroic than I deem'd it. Perchance my passion asks too much from thine And would forestall the fruit ere yet the blossom Blushes from out the coy and maiden leaves. 19 20 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT L No ! let me love ; and say, perchance the time May come whe i thou wilt bid me not forget thee. Absence may plead my cause ; it hath some magic ; I fear not contrast with the courtier herd ; And thou art not Louise if thou art won By a smootli outside and a honey'd tongue. No! when thou seest these hunters after power, These shadows, minion'd to the royal sun — Proud to the humble, servile to the great — Perchance tbou'lt learn how much one honest heart, That never wrong'd a friend or shunn'd a foe — How much the old hereditary knighthood, Faithful to God, to glory, and to love, Outweighs a universe of cringing courtiers ! Louise, I ask no more — I bide my time 1 Re-enter Madame de la Valuere/tow the chateau. Mme. de la V. The twilight darkens. Art thou, now, Alphonso, Convinced her heart is such as thou wouldst have it? Brage. It is a heavenly tablet — but my name G>od angels have not writ there ! Mme. de la V. Nay, as yet, Love wears the mask of friendship ; she must love thee. Brage. (half incredulously) . Think'st thou sol Mme. de la V. Ay, be sure ! Brage. I'll think so too. (turns to Mademoiselle de la Valliere) Bright lady of my heart ! (aside) By Heaven ! 'tis true ! The rose grows richer on her cheek, like hues That in the silence of the virgin dawn, Predict, in blushes, light that glads the earth. Her mother spoke aright — ah, yes, she loves me ! (aloud) Bright lady of my heart, farewell ! and yet Again farewell ! Mdlle. de la V. Honor and health be with you ! Mme. de la V. Nay, my Louise, when warriors wend to battle, The maid they serve grows half a warrior, too ; And does not blush to bind on mailed bosoms The banner of her colors. Brage. Dare I ask it ? Mdlle. de la V. A soldier's child could never blush, my lord, To belt so brave a breast; — and yet — well, wear it. (placing hey scarf around Bragelone's hauberk.) Brage. Ah ! add for thy sake. Mdlle. de la V. For the sake of one Who hoMors worth, and ne'er since Bayard fell, Have banners flaunted o'er a knight more true To France and Fame ; Brage. And love ? Mdlle. de la V. Nay, hush, my lord; I said not that. Brage. But France and Fame shall say it ! Yes, if thou hear'st men speak of Bragelone. If proudest chiefs confess he bore him bravely, Coma life, come death, his glory shall be thine ; And all the light it brrowed from thine eyes, ^ CT I.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VAXLIERE. 21 Shall gild thy name. Ah, scorn not then to say, " Ho loved me well ! " How well ! God shield and bless thee ! [Exit Bragelone, s. 2 e. Mdlle. de la V. {aside). Most worthy love! why can I love liim not ! Mme. he la V. Peace to his gallant heart! when next we meet, May I have gained a son — and thou Mdlle. de la V. {quickly). My mother, This night let every thought he given to thee! Beautiful scene, farewell — farewell, my home! And thou, gray convent, whose inspiring chime Measures the hours with prayer, that morn and eve Life may ascend the ladder of the angels, And climb to heaven ! Serene retreats, farewell ! And now, ray mother — no ! some hours must yet Pass ere our parting. Mme. de la V. Cheer thee, my Louise! And let us now within ; the dews are falling — Mdlle. de la V. And I forget how ill thy frame may bear them. Pardon! — within, within! [stopping short, and gazing fondly on Madami: de la Valliere) Your hand, dear mother ! [Exeunt into chateau. SCENE 11.— An old armory, of the heavy French Architecture preceding the time of Francis the First, in tlie castle of Bkagelone. Bertrand, the armorer, employed in polishing a sword, enters, l.Ie, Ber. There now ! I think this blade will scarcely shame My gallant master's hand ; it was the weapon, So legends say, with which the old Lord Rodolph Slew, by the postern gate, his lady's leman ! Oh, we're a haughty race — we old French lords; Our honor is unrusted as our steel, And, when provoked, as ruthless ! Enter Bragelone, r. 1 e., without sword. Brage. Ah, old Bertrand ! Why, your brave spirit, 'mid these coats of mail, Grows young again. So ! this, then, is the sword You'd have me wear. God wot ! a tranchant blade ! Not of the modern fashion. Ber. My good lord, Yourself are scarcely of the modern fashion. They tell me, that to serve one's king for nothing, To deem one's country worthier than one's self, To hold one's honor not a phrase to swear by — They tell me now, all this is out of fashion. Come, take the sword, my lord ; {offering it) you have your father's Stout arm and lordly heart ; they're out. ol fashion, And yet you keep the one — come, take the other. Bkage. Why, you turn satirist! {takes the sword,) jj er . Satirist! what is that 1 Brage. Satirists, my friend, are men who speak the truth That courts may say, they do not know the fashion ! Satire on Vice is Wit's revenge on fools That slander Virtue, {examines sword) How now ! look ye, Bertrand ! Methinks there is a notch here. 22 THE DUCHESS DE EA VAELIERE. [ACT I. Bbb. • Ah, my lord ! I would not grind it out ; — 'twas here tlie blade Clove through, the helmet, e'en to the chin, Of that irreverent and most scoundrel Dutchman, Who sUibb'd you through your hauberk-joints — what time You placed your breast before the king. Bkaok. Hence, ever Be it believed, that, in his hour of need, A king's sole safeguard are his subjects' hearts ! Ila ! ha ! good sword ! that was a famous stroke ! Thou didst brave deeds that day, thou quaint old servant, Though now — thou'rt not the fashion, (hands bock the sword.) Bbr. Bless that look, And that glad laugh ! • they bring me back the day When first old Bertrand arm'd you for the wars, — A fair- faced stripling; yet, beshrew my heart, You spun 'd that field before the bearded chins, And saved the gallant Lord La Valliore's standard, And yet you were a stripling then . Brage. La Vallicre ! The very name goes dancing through my vein:,. Bertrand, look round the armory. Is there naught I wore that first campaign 1 Nay, nay ! no matter ! I wear the name within me. Hark ye, Bertrand ! We're not so young as then we were ; when next We meet, old friend, we both will end our labors, And find some nook, amidst yon antique tropies, Wherein to hang this idle mail. Bun. Huzza! The village dames speak truth — my lord will marry ! And I shall nurse, in these old wither'd arms, Another boy — for Fiance another hero. Ha ! ha ! I am so happy ! Brage. Good old man ! Why this looks like my father's hall — since thus My father's servants love me. Ber. All must love you! Br. age. All — let me think so. [bugle without, L.) Hark, the impatient bugle ! I hear the neigh of my exultant charger, Breathing from far the glorious air of war. Give me the sword ! (lakes it, and girdles it on.) Enter Servant, l. 1 E., with a letter, which he hands to Bragelone, and exits. Her mother's hand — " Louise, Arrived at court, writes sadly, and amidst The splendor pines for home," — I knew she would ! My own Louise ! — " speaks much of the king's goodness ; " Goodness to her ! — that thought shall give the king . A tenfold better soldier ! — " From thy friend, Who trusts ere long to hail thee as her son." Her son ! — a blessed name. These lines shall be My heart's true shield, and ward away each weapon. He who shall wed Loui?e has conquer'd Fate, And smiles at earthly foes, {bugle without, l.) Again the bugle ! Give me your hand, old man. My fiery youth AC! I.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKKE. 23 Went not to battle with so blithe a soul As now burns in me. So ! she pines for home— I knew she would — I knew it ! Farewell, Bertrand ! [Exit Bkagelone, l. j !■:. Bee. Oh! there'll \>3 merry doings in the ball When my dear lord returns. A merry wedding ! And then — and then— oh, such a merry christening! How well I fancy his grave, manly face Brightening upon his first born. As he is going, re-enter Bragelose. I j rage. Ho, there ! Bertrand! One charge I had forgot— Be sure they train The woodbine richly round the western wing— My mother's old apartment. Well, man, well ! Dj you not hear me V Ber. You, my lord ! the woodbine 1 Brage. Yes ; see it duly done. I know she loves it ; It clambers round" her lattice. I would not • Have on? thing absent she could miss. Remember. [Exit Bkagelone, l 1 v.. Ber. And this is he whom warriors call " the Stern !" The dove's heart beats beneath that lion breast. Pray Heaven his lady may deserve him ! Oh, What news for my good dame !— i' faith, I'm glad I was the first to learn the secret. So, This year a wife — next year a boy ! I'll teach The voting rogue how his father clove the Dutchman Down to the chin ! (chuckling merrily) Ha, ha ! old Bertrand now Will be of u-e again on winter nights — I know he'll be the picture of his father. [Exit Bertrand, l. X e. SCENE III — An antechamber in the Palace of Fontaineblcau. Enter Lauzux, l. 1 e , and Grammont, r. 1 e. L\u. Ah, Count, good day ! Were you at court last night 1 Guam. Yes ; and the court has grown the richer by A young new beauty. Lau. So ! her name ? Gram. La Valliere. Lau. Ay, I have heard ! a maid of honor 1 Gram. Yes. The women say she's plain. Lau. The women? oh, The case it is that's plain — she must be lovely. G.iam. The dear, kind gossips of the court declare The pretty novice hath conceived a fancy — A wild, romantic, innocent, strange fancy — For our young king ; a girlish love, like that Told of in fairy tales ; she saw his picture, Sigh'd to the canvas, murmur'd to the colors, And fell in love with carmine and gambose. L\u. The simple dreamer ! Well, she saw the king "? Gram. And while she saw him, like a ro^e, when May Breathes o'er its bending bloom, she seem'd to shrink 24 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAEEIKRE. [ACT L Into lier modest self, and a low sigli Shook bluslies i sweetest rose-leaves \) from her beauty. Lao. You paint it well. Guam. And ever since that hour She bears the smiling malice of her comrades With an unconscious and an easy sweetness ; As if alike her virtue and his greatness Made love impossible ; so down the stream Of purest thought, her heart glides on to danger. Lau. Did Louis note her 1 — Has he heard the gossip ? Guam Neither, melhinks ; his Majesty is cold. The art of pomp, and nut the art of love, Tutors his skill — Augustus more than Ovid. '.At/. The time will come. The king as yet is young, Flush'd with the novelty of sway, and fired With the great dream of cutting Dutchmen's throats ; A tiresome dream — the poets call it " Glory." Guam. So much the better — 'tis one rival less ; The handsome king would prove a dangerous suitor. Lau. Oh, hang the danger ! He must have a mistress ; 'Tis an essential to a court; how many Favors, one scarcely likes to ask a king, One flatters from a king's inamorata ! We courtiers fatten on the royal vices ; And, while the king lives chaste, he cheats, he robs me Of ninety-nine per cent. ! Gram. Ha! ha! Well, duke, We meet to-night. You join the revels? Till then, adieu. Law. Adieu, dear count. [Exit Grammont, l. 1 e. The king Must have a mistress; I must lead that mistress. The times are changed — 'twas by the sword and spear, Our fathers bought ambition — vulvar butchers ! But now our wit's our spear — intrigue our armor ; The antechamber is our field of battle ; And the best hero is — the cleverest rogue ! [Exit Lauzun, k. 1 e. SCENE IV. — Night — the garden of the Eontaiwbleau, brilliantly illuminated with colored lamps — Fountains, vases, and statues in perspective* — A pavilion in the background — to the right, the Palace of Fontaincbleau, illu- minated. Enter Courtiers, Ladies, etc., h. u. e., and Lauzun, c. A dance. Enter Louis, r. u. e., folloived bg Courtiers, etc. Louis. Fair eve and pleasant revels to you all ! Ah, duke — a word with you! (Courtiers give way.) Thou hast seen, my Lauzun, The new and fairest flowret of our court. This youngest of the graces — sweet. La Valliere, Blushing beneath the world's admiring eyes 1 Lau. {aside). So. so! — he's caught! (aloud) Your Majesty speaks warmly ; Your praise is just — and grateful Tiie effect of the scene should be principally made by jets-d'eau, waterfalls, etc. ACT I.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VAXlLLEKE. 25 Louis. Grateful ? Lau. Ay. Know you not, Sire, it is the jest, among The pretty prattlers of the royal chamber, That this young Dian of the woods has found Endymiori in a king — a summer dream, Bright, but with vestal fancies ! Scarcely love, But that wild interval of hopes and fears Through which the child glides, trembling to the woman ? ' Louis. Blest thought ! Oh, what a picture of delight Your words have painted. Lau. While we speak, behold, Through yonder alleys, with her sister planets, Your moonlight beauty gleams. Louis. 'Tis she — this shade Shall hide us — quick ! (enters one of the bosquets* l. 2 E.) Lau. (following him). I trust my creditors Will grow the merrier from this night's adventure. Enter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, e. u. e., and Maids of Honoh. They advance. First Maid. How handsome looks the Duke de Guiche, to-night ! Second Maid. Well, to my taste, the graceful Grammont bears The bell from all. Third Maid. But, then, that charming Lauzun Has so much wit. First Maid. And which, of all these gallants, May please the fair Valliere most 1 Mdlle. de la V. In truth, I scarcely mark'd them ; when the king is by, Who can have eye, or ear, or thought for others 1 First Maid. You raise your fancies high ! Siccond Maid. And raise them vainly ! The king disdains all love ! Mdlle. de la V. Who spoke of love ? The sunflower, gazing on the Lord of Heaven, Asks but its sun to shine ! AVho spoke of love 1 And who would wish the bright and lofty Louis To stoop from glory 1 Love should not confound So great a spirit with the herd of men. Who spoke of love First Maid. My country friend, you talk Extremely well ; but some young lord will teach you To think of Louis less, and more of love. Mdi le de la V. Nay, e'en the very presence of his greatness Exalts the heart from each more low temptation. He seems to walk the earth as if to raise And purify our wandering thoughts, by fixing Thought on himself — and she who thinks on Louis Shuts out the world, and scorns the name of love ! First Maid. Wait till you're tired, (music) But hark ! the music chides us For wailing this most heavenly night so idly. Come, let us join the dancers ! [Exeunt Maids, l. 2 and 3 e. * Bosquet is a small arbor or shady retreat. 26 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT It As La Valliere follows, the King steals from the bosquet, and takes her hand, while Lauzun retires in the opposite direction. Lotus. Sweet La Valliere ! Mdlle. de la V. Ah ! Locus. Nay, fair lady, fly not, ere we welcome Her who gives night its beauty ! Mdlle. de la V. Sire, permit me ! My comrades wait me. Louis. What ! my loveliest subject So soon a rebel ? Silent ! Well, be mute, And teach the world the eloquence of blushes. Mdlle. de la V. I may not listen Louis. What if /had set Thyself the example 1 What if /had listen'd, Veil'd by yon friendly boughs, and dared to dream That one blest word which spoke of Louis absent Might charm his presence, and make nature music ? Mdlle. de la V. You did not, Sire ! you could not! Louis. Could not hear thee ! Nor pine for these divine, unwitness'd moments, To pray thee, dearest lady, to divorce No more the thought of love from him who loves thee. And — faithful still to glory — swears thy heart Unfolds the fairest world a king can conquer! Hear me, Louise. Mdlle de la V. No Sire ; forget those words ! I am not what their foolish meaning spoke me, But a poor simple girl, who loves her king, And honor more. Forget, and do not scorn me ! • [Exit Mademoiselle de la Valliere, l. '2 v.. Louis. Her modest coyness fires me more than all Her half unconscious and most virgin love ! Enter Courtiers, Maids of Honor, Ladies, Guests, etc., l. c. Lauzun advances, Grammont and Montespan enter, r. c. Well, would the dancers pause awhile? Lau. E'en pleasure Wearies at last. Louis. We've but to change its aspect And it resumes its freshness. Ere the banquet Calls us, my friends, we have prepared a game To shame the lottery of this life, wherein Each prize is neighbor'd by a thousand blanks. Methinks it is the duty of a monarch To set the balance right, and bid the wheel Shower naught but prizes on the hearts he loves. What ho, there ! with a merry music, raise Fortune, to show how Merit conquers Honors ! [music.) The pavilion at the back of the stage opens, and discovers the Temple of For- tune superbly illuminated. Fortune ; at her feet, a wheel of light ; at either hand, a golden vase, over each of which presides a figure — the one representing Merit, the other Honor. Louis. Approach, fair dames and gallants ! Aye, as now, ACT n.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEEE. 27 May Fortune smile upon the friends of Louis! [the Courtiers and Ladies group around the vases. From the one over which Merit presides they draw lots, and receive in return from Honor, various gifts of Jewels, etc.) Enter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, at the back of the stage, and advan- ces, L. Louis [to Mademoiselle de la Vallierej. Nay, if you smile not on me, then the scene Hath lost its charm. Mdlle. de la V. Oh, Sire, all eyes are on us ! Louis. All eyes should learn where homage should be render'd. Mdlle. de la V. I pray you, Sire Lau. Wilt please your Majesty To try your fortune ? Louis. Fortune ! Sweet La Valliere, I only seek my fortune in thine eyes, (music. Louis draws, an i receives a diamond bracelet. Ladies croivd round ) First Lady. How beautiful ! Second Lady. Each gem is worth a duchy ! Third Lady. Oh, happy she upon whose arm the king Will bii.d the priceless band! Louis (approaching Mademoiselle de la Valliere). Permit me, lady ! [clasps the bracelet.) Lau. Well done— well play'd ! In that droll game call'd Woman, Diamonds are always trumps for hearts. First Lady. Her hair's Too light ! Second Lady. Her walk is so provincial ! Third Lady. D'ye think she paints ? Lac. Ha, ha ! What envious eyes, What fawning smiles await the king's new mistress ! ACT II. SCENE I. — TJie gardens of the Fontainebleau. Enter Bragelone, l. u. e. Brage. (advancing). Why did we suffer her to seek the court ? It is a soil in which the reptile Slander Still coils in slime around the fairest flower. Can it be true 7 — Strange rumors pierced my tent Coupling her name with — pah — how foul the thought is ! — The maid the king loves ! — Fie ! I'll not believe it ! I left the camp — sped hither ; if she's lost, Why then — down — down, base heart ! wouldst thou suspect her Thou— who shouldst be her shelter from suspicion ? But I may warn, advise, protect, and save her — Save — 'tis a fearful word ! Enter Lauzun, r. u. e. Lau. Lord Bragelone ! 28 THE DUCHESS DE LA V.VLUKRE. [ACT XI. Methought your warrior spirit never breathed The air of palaces ! No evil tidings, I trust, from Dunkirk ? Brage. No. The Jlcur-de-lis Rears her white crest unstain'J. Mine own affairs Call me to court. Lau. Affairs 1 I hate the word ; It sounds like debts. Brage. (aside). This courtier may instruct me. (aloud) Our king — he bears him well ? Lau. Oh, bravely, Marquis ; Engaged with. this new palace of Versailles. It costs some forty millions ! Brace Ay, the people Groan at the burthen. Lau. People — what's the people ? I never heard that word at court ! The people ! Brace. I doubt not, duke. The people like the air, Is rarely heard, save when it speaks in thunder. I pray you grace for that old fashion'd phrase. What is the latest news ? Lac. His Majesty Dines half an hour before his usual time. That's the last news at court ! — it makes sensation ! Brage. Is there no weightier news 1 I heard at Dunkirk How the king loved a — loved a certain maideu — The brave La Valliere's daughter. Lau. How, my lord, How can you vegetate in such a place ? I fancy the next tidings heard at Dunkirk Will be that — Adam's dead ! Brage. The news is old, then ? Lau. News ! news, indeed ! Why, by this time, our lackeys Have worn the gossip threadbare. News ! Brage. The lady (S'.ie is a soldier's child) hath not yet bartered Her birthright for ambition 1 She rejects him ? Speak ! — She rejects him 7 Lau. Humph ! Brage. Oh, duke, I know This courtier air — this most significant silence — With which your delicate race are wont to lie Away all virtue ! Shame upon your manhood ! Speak out, and say Louise La Valliete lives To prove to courts — that woman can be honest ! Lau. Marquis, you're warm. Brage. You dare not speak; I knew it! Lau. Dare not 1 Brace. Oh, yes, you dare, with hints and smiles To darken fame — to ruin the defenceless, Blight with a gesture — wither with a sneer! Did I say " dare not ?" — No man dares it better ! Lau. My lord, these words must pass not ! Brage. Duke, forgive me ! I am a rough, stern soldier — taught from youth To brave offence, and by the sword alone Maintain the license of my speech. Oh, say — ACT H.j THE DUCHESS DE LA VAELIEEE. 29 Say but one word— say this poor maid is sinless, And, for her father's sake — [her father loved me !) I'll kneel to thee for pardon ! Lau. Good, my lord, I know not your interest in this matter ; 'Tis said that Louis loves the fair La Valliere ; But what of that — good taste is not a crime ! 'Tis said La Valliere does not hate the king ; But what of that — it does but prove her — loyal ! 1 know no more. I trust you're satisfied ; If not Bragk. Thou liest! Lau. Nay, then, draw ! \thcg fight — after a few passes Lauzcx is d sunned.) Brage. {picking up Lauzuh's sword). There, take Thy sword. Alas ! each slanderer wears a weapon No honest arm can baffle — this is edgeless. ( Lauzun receives sword.\ [Exit Bkagelone, r. u. e. Lau. Pleasant ! This comes, now, of one's condescending To talk with men who caunot understand The tone of good society. Poor fellow ! [Exit Lauzun, r. u. e. Enter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, l. u. e. Mdlle.de la V. {advancing to c ). He loves me, then ! He loves me ! Love! wild word ! Did I say love ? Dishonor, shame, and crime Dwell on the thought! and yet — and yet — he loves me ! Re-enter Bragelone. He pauses. She takes out the King's picture. Mine early dreams were prophets! (Brageloxe advances) Steps! The king 1 Brage. No, lady ; pardon me — a joint mistake ; Ton sought the king — and 1 Louise Li Valliere ! Mdlle. de la V. You here, my lord ! — \ou here! Brage. There was a maiden Fairer than many fair ; but sweet and humble, And good and spotless, through the vale of life She walk'd, her modest path with blessings strew'd (For all men bless'd her) ; from her crystal name, Like the breath i' the mirror, even envy passed ; I sought that maiden at the court; none knew her. May I ask you — where now Louise La Valliere ? Mdlle. Dr la V. Cruel — unjust! You were my father's friend, Dare you speak thus to me 1 Brage. Dare ! dare ! 'Tis well ! Y<>u hav? learnt your state betimes Mdlle. de la V. My state, my lord 1 I know not by what right you thus assume The privilege of insult ! Brage. Ay, reproach ! The harlot's trick — for shame ! Oil, no, your pardon ! You are too high for shame; and so — farewell ! Mdlle. de la V. My lord ! — my lord, in pity — No — in justice, Leave me not thus ! Brage. Louise ! 30 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT H. Mdlle. de la V. Have they belied me 1 Speak, my good lord ! What crime liave I committed 1 Brage. No crime— at courts! 'Tis only Heaven and Honor Tlut deem it aught but — most admired good fortune ! Many, who sweep in careless pride before The shrinking, spotless, timorous Li Vail. ere, Will now fawn round thee, and with bended knees Implore sweet favor of the kind's kind mistress. Ha ! ha ! this is not crime ! Who calls it crime ? Do prudes say " Crime ?" >, bribe them, and they'll swear Its name is greatness. Crime, indeed ! — ha, ha ! Mdlle. de la V. My heart finds words at length ! 'Tis false ! Brage. 'Tis fal ■■■ : Why, speak again ! Say once more it is false — "His false — again 'tis fake .' Mdlle. de la V. Alas ! I'm wretched ! Bragg. No, lady, no ! not wretched, if not guilty ! (Mademoiselle i>3 la Yalliere, after walking to and fro in great agitation, m u herself on the bench, l.. and covers he? face with her haiidt ) (aside) Are these the tokens of remorse? No matter ! I love 1 her well! And love is pride, not love, If it forsake e'en guilt amidst its sorrows ! (aloud) Louise! Louise! Speak to thy friend, Louise ! Thy father's friend — thine own! Mdlle. DE la V. This bated court! Why came I hither'? Wherefore have I close! My beart against its own most pleading dictates ? Why clung to virtue, if the brand of vice Sear my good name 1 Brage. That, when thou pray'sf to Heaven, Thy soul may ask for comfort — not forgiveness ! Mdlle. de la V. {rising, eagerly). A blessed thought ! I thank thee ! Brage. (a). Thou art innocent! Thou hast denied the king 1 Mdlle. de la V. (l c ) I have denied him. Brage. Curst be the lies that wrong'd thee ! — doubly curst The hard, the icy selfishness of soul. That, but to pander to an hour's caprice, Blasted that flower of life — fair fame ! Accurst The king who casts his purple o'er his vices ! Mdlle. de la V. Hold ! — thou maligu'st thy king! Brage. He spared not thee ! Mdlle. de la V. The king — Heaven bless him ! Brage Wouldst Ihou madden me 1 Thou! — No — thou lov'st him not I — thou hid' at not thy face ! Woman, thou tremblest ! Lord of Hosts, for this Hast thou preserved me from the foeman's sword, And through the incarnadined and raging seas Of war upheld me — made both life and sou! The sleepless priests to that fair idol — Honor "? Was it for this ? 1 loved thee not, Louise, As gallants love 1 Thou wert this life's ideal, Breathing through earth the lovely and the holy, And clothing Poetry in human beauty ! When in this gloom}* world they spoke of sin, I thought of thee, and smiled — for thou wert sinless! ACT H.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALL1ERE. 31 And when they told me of some diviner act That made oar nature noble, my heart whisper'd — " So would have done Louise !" — "i'was thus I loved thee ! To lose thee. I can bear it ; but to lose, With thee, all hope, all conn" lence of viitue — This — this is hard ! Oh ! I am sick of earth ! {paces to and fro ) Mdlle. de la V. Nay, speak not thus — be gentle with me. Gome, I am not what thou deem'st me, Bragelone ; Woman I am, and weak. Support, advise me! Forget the lover, but be still the friend. Do not desert me — thou ! Bkage. {stopping suddenly). Thou lov'st the king ! Mdlle. de la V. But 1 can fly from love. Brage. Poor child ! And whither 1 Mdlle. de la V. (appealingly, laying her hand upon his arm). Take me to the old castle, to my mother ! Brage. The king can reach thee there ! Mdlle. de la V. He'll not attempt it ! Alas ! in courts, how quickly men forget ! Brage. Not till their victim hath surrender'd all ! Hndst thou but yielded, why thou might'st have lived Beside his very threshold, safe, unheeded ; But thus, with all thy bloom of heart unrifled — The fortress storm'd, not conquer'd — why man's pride, If not man's lust, would shut thee from e.seape ! Art thou in earnest — wouldst thou truly fly From gorgeous infamy to tranquil honor, God's house alone may shelter thee! Mdlle. dg la V. The convent ! Alas ! alas ! to meet those eyes no more ! Never to hear that voice ! Brage. {departing). Enough ! Mdlle. de la V. Yet, stay ! I'll see him once ! One last farewell — and then — Yes, to the convent ! Brage. I have done — and yet, Ere I depart, (takes off scarf and offers it) take back the scarf thou gav'st me. • Then didst " thou honor worth !" now, gift and giver Alike are worthless. Mdlle. de la V. Worthless ! Didst thou hear me 1 Have I not said that Brage. Thou wouldst see the king ! Vice first, and virtue after ! O'er the marge Of the abyss thou tremblest. One step more, And from all heaven the angels shall cry, " Lost /" Thou ask'st that single step ! Wouldst thou be saved ? Lose not a moment. Come ! Mdlle. de la V. (in great agony). Beside that tree, When stars shone soft, he vowed for aye to love me ! Brage. Think of thy mother ! At this very hour She blesses Heaven that thou wert born — the last Fair scion of a proud and stainless race. To morrow, and thy shame may cast a shade Over a hundred 'scutcheons, and thy mother Feel thou wert born that she might long to die ! Come ! 32 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIXIEKE. [ACT U. Mdlle de la V. I am ready — take my hand, (as she puts out her hand, her eye falls on the bracelet) Away ! This is his gift ! And shall I leave him thus ? Not one kind word to break the shock of parting — Brage. An I break a mother's heart I Mdlle de la V. Ba still ! Thou'rt man ! Thou canst not feel as woman feels ! — her weakness Thou canst not sound. Louis, Heaven protect thee ! May f;ite look on thee with La Valliere's eyes ! Now [ am ready, sir. Thou'st seen how weak Woman is ever where she loves. Xow, learn, Proportion'd to that weakness is the strength With which she conquers love ! Louis ! Louis ! Quick ! take me hence! (clasping his arm and bending down her head) Br age. {aside). The heart she wrongs hath saved her ! And is that all ! — The shelter for mine age — The Hope that was the garner for affection — The fair and lovely tree, beneath whose shade The wearied soldier thought to rest at last, And watch life's sun go calm and cloudless down, Smiling the day to sleep — all, all lie shatter'd ! No matter, (aloud) I have saved thy soul from sorrow, Whose hideous depth thy vision cannot fathom. Jov ! — I have saved thee! Mdlle. dk la V. Ah ! when last we parted I told thee, of thy love I was not worthy. Another shall replace me! Brage. (smiling sadly) . Hush! Another? No ! (replacing scarf) See, 1 wear thy colors still ! Though Hope Wanes from the plate, the dial still remains, And takes no light from stars I I — /am nothing ! But thou — Nay, weep not ! Yet these tears are honest ; Thou hast not lived to make the Past one blot, Which life in vain would -eep away ! Poor maiden I I could not cheer thee then. Now, joy ! — I've saved thee ! [Exeunt Mademoiselle de la Valliere and Bragelone. r. it. e. SCENE II. — The King's cabinet at Eontainebleau ;* Table c, covered wit/) papers, the King seated r. of table, writing. Enter Lauzun, l. 2 e. Louis. Lauzun. I sent for you. Your zeal has served me, And I am grateful. There, this order gives you The lands and lordship of De Vesci. Lad. (advances, kneels ami receives the parchment). Sire, How shall I thank your goodness 1 Louis. Hush !— by silence! Lau. (rising, aside). A king's forbidden fruit has pretty windfalls ! Louis. The beautiful Louise ! I never lovsd Till now. * To some it miy be interesting to remember that this cabinet, in which the most powerful of the Bourbon kings is represented as rewarding the minister of his pleas- ure, is the same as that in which is yet shown the table upon which Napoleon Bona- parte (son of a gentleman of Corsica), signed the abdication of the titles and domin- ions of Charlemagne I ACT H.] THE DUCHESS DE EA VAEEIEHE. 33 Lau. She yields not yet 1 Louis. But gives refusal A voice that puts e'en passion to the blush To own one wish so soft a heart denies it ! Lau. A woman's No ! is but a crooked path Unto a woman's Yes ! Your Majesty Saw her to-day 1 Louis. No ! — Grammont undertakes To bear, in secret, to her hand, some lines That pray a meeting. — I await his news, (continues writing.) Lau. (aside, advancing, l. c). I'll not relate my tilt with Bragelone. First, I came off the worst. No man of sense Ever confesses that ! And, secondly, This most officious, curious, hot-brained Quixote Might make him jealous ; jealous kings are peevish ; And, if he fall to questioning the lady, She'll learn who told the tale, and spite the teller. Oh ! the great use of logic ! (crosses to r.) Louis. 'Tis in vain T strive by business to beguile impatience ! How my heart beats ! — Well, couut 1 Enter Grammont, l. 2 e. Gram. Alas, my liege ? Louis. Alas ! Speak out ! Gram. The court has lost La Vallieie ! Louis (starting »;;). Ha ! — lost ! Gram. She has fled, and none guess whither. Louis, (advancing quickly to c). Fled! I'll not believe it ! — Fled ! Lau. (r. c). What matters, Sire ? No spot is sacred from the king ! Louis {passionately, walking to and fro). By Heaven, I am a king ! — Not all the arms of Europe Could wrest one jewel from my crown. And she — What is my crown to her 1 1 am a king! Who stands between the king and her he loves Becomes a traitor — and may find a tryrant ! Follow me ! [Exit Louis, l. 1 e. Gram. Who e'er heard of Maids of Honor Flying from kings 1 Lac. Ah, had you been a maid, How kind you would have been, you rogue ! — Come on ! [Exeunt Lauzun and Grammont, l. 1 e. SCENE III. — The cloisters of a Convent — Night — Thunder and lightning, the latter made visible through the long oriel tvindows. Mademoiselle de la Valliere enters, wearily, l 2 e. Mdlle. be la V. Darkly the night sweeps on. No thought of sleep Steals to my heart. What sleep is to the world Prayer is to me — life'3 balm, and griefs oblivion ! Yet, e'en before the altar of my God, Unhallow'd fire is raging through my veins — Heav'n on my lips, but earth within my heart — 34 THE DUCHESS DL LA VALUEBE. [ ACT II. And while I pray his memory prompts the prayer, And all I ask of" Heaven is, " Guard my Louis ! " Forget him — that I dare not pray ! I would not, E'en if I could, ba happy, and forget him! {thunder) Roll on, roll on, dark chariot of the storm, Whose wheels are thunder — the rack'd elements Can furnish forth no tempest like the war Of passion in one weak and erring heart ! (the bell tolls one) Hark ! to-night's funeral knell ! How through the roar Of winds and thunder thrills that single sound, Solemnly audible ! — the tongne of time, In time's most desolate hour— it bids us muse On worlds which love can reach not ! Life runs fast To its last sands ! To bed, to bed !— to tears And wishes for the grave !— to bed, to bed! (i trumpet is heard without, L.) Two or three Nuns enter, h. 2 f.., and hurry across the stage. First Nun. Mcst strange ! Second Nun. In such a night, too ! The great gates That ne'er unclose save to a royal guest, Unbarr'd ! (Nuns draw aside towards r. 1 e.) Mdlle. de laV. What fear, what hope, by turns distracts me ! (the trumpet sounds again.) FtusT Nun. Hark ! in the court, the ring of hoofs ! — the door Creaks on the sullen hinge ! Lau. (without). Make way— the king ! Enter Louis and Lauzun, l. 1 e. Mdlle. de la V. (rushing forward). Oh, Louis— oh, beloved ! (then paus- ing abruptly) No, touch me not ! Leave me ! in pity leave me ! Heavenly Father, I fly to thee ! Protect me from his arms — Protect me from myself ! Louis. Oh bliss ! Louise ! Enter Abbess and Nuns, r. 1 e. Abbess. Peace, peace ! What clamor desecrates the shrine And solitudes of God ? Lau. (l. c). Madam, your knee — The king ! Abbess. The king ! — you mock me, sir ! Louis {quitting Mademoiselle de la Valliere). Behold Your sovereign, reverend mother ! — We have come To thank ycu for your shelter of this lady, And to reclaim our charge Abbess. My lie2e, these walls Are sacred even from the purple robe And sceptred hand. Louis. She hath not ta'en the vow ! She's free — we claim her ! — she is of our court ! Woman, — go to ! Abbess. The maiden. Sire, is free ! Your royal lips have said it ! — She is free ! ACT II.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKSE. 35 And if this shrine her choice, whoe'er compels her Forth from the refuge, doth incur the curse The Roman Church awards to even kings ! Speak, lady — dost thou claim against the court The asylum of the cloister ? Louis. Darest thou brave us ? Lau. (aside to Louis). Pardon, my liege ! — reflect ! Let not the world Say that the king Louis (aside to Lauzun). Can break his bonds! — Away! I was a man before I was a king! (aloud, approaching Mademoi- selle DE LA VALLIERE) Lady, we do command your presence ! (lowering his voice) Swec ! Adored Louise ! — if ever to your ear My whispers spoke in music — if my life Be worth the saving, do not now desert me ! Mdlle. de la V. Let me not hear him, Heaven ! — Strike all my senses ! Make — make me dumb, deaf, blind — but keep me honest ! Abbess. Sire, you have heard her answer ! Louis (advancing passionately, pauses, and then with great dignity). Abbess, no ! This lady was intrusted to our charge — A fatherless child ! — The king is now her father ! Madam, we would not wrong you ; but we know That sometimes most unhallow'd motives wake Your zeal for converts ! — This young maid is wealthy, And nobly born ! — Such proselytes may make A convent's pride but oft a convent's victims ! No more ! — we claim the right the law awards us, Free and alone to commune with this maid. If then her choice go with you — be it so ; We are no tyrant! Peace! — retire ! Abbess. My liege ! Forgive Lodis. We do ! Retire ! [Lauzun, the Abbess, etc., withdraw, n. 1 e. Louis (a). We are alone ! Mdlle. de la V. Alone ! — No, God is present, and the conscience ! Louis. Ah ! fear'st thou, then, that heart that would resign E'en love itself to guard one pang from thee 1 Mdlle. de la V. I must speak ! — Sire, if every drop of blood Were in itself a life, I'd shed them all For one hours joy to thee ! But fame and virtue — My father's grave — my mother's lonely age — These, these — (thunder) I hear their voice! — the fires of Heaven Seem to me like the eyes of angels, and Warn me against myself ! — Farewell ! Louis. Louise, I will not hear thee ! What! farewell ! that word Sounds like a knell to all that's worth the living ! Farewell ! why, then, farewell all peace to Louis, And the poor king is once more but a thing Of stale and forms. The impulse and the passion— The blessed air of happy human life — The all that made him envy not his subjects. Dies in that word ! Ah, canst thou — dar'st thou say it? Mdlle. de la V. Oh, speak not thus ! — Speak harshly ! threat, com- mand ! — 36 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAELIKRE. [ACT m. Be all the king ! Louis {kneeling}. The king ! he kneels to thee! Mdlle. dk la V. I'm weak ! — bo generous ! My own soul betrays me; But thou betray me not ! Louis. Nay, hear me, sweet one ! Desert me not this once, and I will swear To know no guiltier wish — to curb my heart — To banish hope from love — and nurse no dream Thy spotless soul itself shall blush to cherish ! Hear me, Louise — thou lov'st me 1 Mdlle. dk la V. Love thee, Louis ! Lnuis. Thou lov'st me — then confide ! Who loves trusts ever ! Mdlle. de la V. Trust thee! — ah ! dare I ¥ Louis (rising an.l clasping her in his arms). Ay, till death ! What ho ! Lauzun ! I say ! Lauzun re-enters quickly, and advances. , Mdlle. de la V. No, no 1 Louis. Not trust me, dearest ? She falls on his shoulder. The Abbess re-enters followed og Nuns. Abbess. Still firm ! Lau. (l.). No, madam ! Way there for the king ! ACT III. SCENE I.— An antechamber in the palace o/ Madame la Duchess de la Valliere, at Versailles. Enter Lauzun, l. 1 e., and Madame de Montespan, r. 1 e. Lau. Ha t my fair friend, well met — how fairs Athene ? Mme de Mox. Weary with too ranch gayety ! Now, tell me 1 Do you ne'er tire of splendor ? Does this round Of gaudy pomps — this glare of glitt'ring nothings — Does it ne'er pall upon you ? To my eyes 'Tis as the earth would be if turf'd with scarlet, Without one spot of green. Lau. We all feel thus Until we are used to it. Art has grown my nature, And if I see green fields, or ill-dress'd people, I cry " How artificial !" With rae, " Nature " Is " Paris and Versailles." The word, " a man," Means something noble, that one sees at court. Woman's the thing Heaven made for wearing trinkets And talking scandal. That's my state of nature ! You'll like it soon ; you have that temper which Makes courts its element. Mme de Mon. And how 1 — define, sir. Lau. First, then — but shall I not offend ? Mme. de Mon. Be candid. I'd know my faults, to make them look like virtues. Lau. First, then, Athene, you've an outward frankness. ACT in.] THE DUCHESS DS LA VAUJKRE. D?ceit in you looks lionester than truth. Thoughts, at court, like faces on the stage, Require some rogue. You rogue your thoughts so well That one would deem their only fault, that nature G tvo them too bright a bloom ! Mmr. de Mow. Proceed ! Lau - t , . Your wit Is ot the true court breed— it plays with nothings ; - Just bright enough to warm, but never burn— = Excites the dull, but ne'er offends the vain. You have much energy ; it looks like feeling ! Your cold ambition seems an easy impulse ° Your head most ably counterfeits the heart, But never, like the heart, betrays itself ! Oh ! you'll succeed at court— you see I know you ! Not so this new-made duchess— youncr La Valliere Mmk. de Mon. The weak, fond fool ! Lac * „ . , Yes, weak— she has a heart : Yet you, too, love the king! Mme. de Mon. ' And slie does not , bhe loves but Lows /—I but love the king ; Pomp, riches, state, and power— these, who would love not I Lau. Bravo ! well said ! Oh, you'll succeed at court ! I knew it well ! it was for this I chose you— Induced your sapient lord to waste no more Your beauty in the shade— for this prepared The duchess to receive you to her bosom, Her dearest friend ; for this have duly fed The king's ear with your praise, and clear'd your way To rule a sovereign and to share a throne. Mme. de Mon. I know thou hast been my architect of power • And when the pile is built, — Lau. (with a smile). Could still o'erthrow it It thou couldst play the ingrate ! Mme. de Mon. I i nay j Lau - _, . ' Hear ms ! Lach must have need of each. Long live the kin* ! Slill let his temples ache beneath the crown. But all that kings can give— wealth, rank, arid power- Must be for us— the king's friend and his favorite Mme. de Mon. But is it easy to supplant the duchess ] All love La Valliere ! Her meek nature shrinks E'en from our homage ; and she wears her state As if she pray'd the world to pardon greatness. Lac. And thus destroys herself I At court, Athene, Vice, to win followers, takes the front of virtue,' And looks the dull plebeian things called moral To scorn, until they blush to be unlike her. Why is Da Lauzun not her friend 1 Why plotting For a new rival 1 Why ?— Becanse I)? Lauzun Wins not the power he look'd for from her friendship ! She keeps not old friends— and she makes no new ones ' For who would be a friend to one who deems it A crime to ask his Majesty a favor 1 14 Friends " is a phrase at court that means promotion ' Mme. de Mon. Her folly, I confess, would not be mine. But grant her faults— the king still loves the duchess ! 37 ;5S THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKKI. [ACT LH. Lap. Since none are by, I'll venture on a treason, And say, tlie kind's a man— and men will change ! I have his ear, and you shall win his eye. 'Gainst a new lace, and an experienced courtier. What chance hath this poor, loving, simple woman I Besides, she has too much conscience tor a king ' He likes not to look up, and feel how low, E'en on the throne thai overlooks the world, His royal greatness dwarf-' beside that heart That never stoop'd to sin, save when it loved him ! Mmk. de Mon. You're eloquent, my lord ! ) ;A1 , Ali ! of such natures You and I know hut little ! [atide) This must cease, Or [ shall all disclose my real aim-, ! (aloud) The king is with the duchess I VlMK. DE MON. Ye8. La... As yet She doth suspect you not ! Mmk. de Mon. Suspect !— the puppet ! No ; but full oft, her head upon my bosom, Calls me her truest friend— invites me ever To amuse the king with my enlivening sallies — And still breaks off, in sighing o'er the past, To wish her spirit were as blithe as mine, Ami fears her Louis wearies of her sadness. Lad - . So, the plot ripens — ere the king came hither, I had prepared his royal pride to chafe At that sad face, whose honest sorrow wears Reproach unconsciously ! You'll hear the issue ! Now then, farewell ! — We understand each other ! [Exit Lauzitn, b. 1 b. Mmk. de Mon. And onco I loved this man — and still might love him, But that I love ambition ! Yes, my steps Now need a guide ; but once upon the height, And I will have no partner ! Thou, lord duke, With all thine insolent air of proud protection, Thon shalt wait trembling on my nod, and bind Thy fortune to my wheels ! man ! — vain man ! Well sung the poet — when this power of beauty Heaven gave our sex, it gave the only sceptre Which makes the world a slave ! And I will wield it ' — [Exit Madame de Montesp.vn, l 1 e. SCENE IX. — The Scene opens and discovers the King , and the Duch^s di? la Valliere at chess. Louis (r.). But one move more ! Ditch, de la V. (l.). Not so ! I check the king. Lruns- A vain attempt — the king is too well guarded ! There, check again ! Your game is lo>t ! Dorm, dh la V. As usual, E'en from this mimic stage of war you rise Ever the victor, (they leave the table and advance.) Louis 'Twere a fairer fortuoe, My own Louise, to reconcile the vanqutsh'd ! DtroH. de la V. (sadly). My best loved Louis ! Louis (a). Why so sad a tone? ACT HI.] TH3 Dt/CHESS DE LA VALLIKKE. 39 Nay, smile, Louise ! — Love tljiuks himself aggrieved If Care casts shadows o'er the heart it seeks To fill with cloudless sunshine! Smile, Louise ! E'en unkind words were kinder than sad looks. There — now thou gladd'st me ! Duch. de la V. (l. c). Yet, e'en thou, methought, Didst wear, this morn, a brow on which the light Shone less serenely than its wont ! Louis. This morn ! Ay, it is true! — this morn I heard that France Hath lost a subject monarchs well might mourn ! Oh ! little know the world how much a king, Whose life is past in purchasing devotion, Loses in one who merited all favor And scorned to ask the least ! A king, Louise, Sees but the lackeys of mankind. The true Lords of our race — the high chivalric hearts — Nature's nobility — alas, are proud, And stand aloof, lest slaves should say they natter ! Of such a mould was he whom France deplores. Duch. de la V. Tell me his name, that I, with thee, may mourn him. Louis. A noble name, but a more noble bearer ; Not to be made by, but to make, a lineage. Once, too, at Dunkirk, 'twix me and the foe, He thrust his gallant breast, already seamed With warrior wounds, and his blood flow'd for mine. Dead — Ins just merits all unrecompensed ! Obscured, like sun-light, by the suppliant clouds ! He should have died a marshal ! Death did wrong To strike so soon ! Alas, brave Bragelone ! Duch. de la V. (starting). Ha ! — did I hear aright, my liege — my Louis. That name — that name ! — thou saidst not " Bragelone V" Lobis. Such was his name, not often heard at court. Thou didst not, know him 1 What ! thou art pale ! thou weep'st. Thou art ill ! Louise, look up ! (supporting her.) Duch. le la V. (aside). Be still, Conscience ! I did not slay him ! (aloud) Died too soon ! Alas ! He should have died with all his hopes uublighted, Ere I was — what I am ! Louis. What mean these words 7 Duch. de la V. How did death strike him ? What disease 1 Louis. 1 know not. He had retired from service ; and in peace Breathed out his soul to some remoter sky ! France only guards his fame ! What was he to thee That thou shouldst weep for him ? Duch. de la V. Hast thou ne'er heard We were betrothed in youth ? Louis (agitated and aside). Lauzun speaks truth ! I'd not her virgin heart — she loved another ! yaloud) Betrothed ! You mourn him deeply ! Duch. pe la V. Sire, I do That broken heart — I was its dream — its idol ' And with regret is mingled — what repentance 1 Louis (coldly). Repentance, madam 1 Well, the word is gracious ! Duch. de la V. Pardon ! oh, pardon ! But the blow was suddeL ; How can the heart play courtier with remorse 1 40 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALUKIJE. [act in. Louis. Remorse! — again. Wliy be at once all honest, And say you love me not ! Ducii. dk LA V. Not love you Louis ? Louis. No;, it' you feel repentance to liave loved ! Ducu de la V. What ! think'st tliou, Louis, I should love tbee more Did I love virtue less, or less regret it ? Louis. I pray you truce with these heroic speeches ; They please us in romance — in life they weary. Ducii. de la V. Louis, do I deserve this 1 Louis. Rather, lady, Do /deserve the mute reproach of sorrow ] Still less these constant, and never-soothed complaints, This waiting-woman jargon of " lost virtue." Ducii. dk la V. Sire, this from you ! Louis Why, oft, could others hear thee, Well might they deem thee some poor village Phoebe, Whom her false Lubin hud deceived, &nd left, Itobb'd of her only dower ! and not the great Duchess La Valliere, in our realm of Frauce, Second to none but our anointed race ; The envy of the beauty and the birth Of Europe's court — our city of the world ! Is it so great disgrace, Louise La Valliere, To wear, unrivall'd, in thy breast, the heart Of Bourbon's latest, nor ber least of kings 1 Duoh. de la V. Sire, when you deigned to love me, I had hoped You knew the sunshine of your royal favor Had fallen on a lowly (lower. Let others Deem that the splendor consecrates the sin ! I'd love thee with as pure and proud a love, Jf thou hadst beeu the poorest cavalier That ever served a king. Thou Unow'st it, Louis ! Louis. I would not have it so! my fame my "lory, The purple and the orb, are part of me ; And thou shouldst love them for my sake, and feel I were not Louis were I less the kin™. Still weeping ! Fie ! I tell thee tears freeze back The very love I still would bear thee ! Ducii. de la V. " Would still /"—didst thou say " still ?" Louis. Come, lady ! Woman, to keep her empire o'er the heart, Must learn its nature — mould into its bias — And rule by never differing from our humors. Duch. dk la V. I'll school my features, teach my lips to smile, Be all thou wilt ; bat say not "still," dear Louis ! Louis. Well, well ! no furlli jr words ; let peace be with us. {crosses to L.) (uside) By Heaven, she weeps with yet intenser passion ! It must be that she loved this Bragelone, And mourns the loftier fate that made her mine ! (aloud) This gallant soldier, madam, your betrothed, Hath some share in your tears 1 Duch. de da V, (it. c). Oh. name him not ; My tears are all unworthy dews to fa'l Upon a tomb so honored ! Louis. Grant m3 patience ! These scenes are very tedious, fair La Valliere. In truth, we kings have, in the council-c'.ianiber, ACT HE.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VAELIEKE. 41 Enough to make us tearful — in the bower We would have livelier subjects to divert us. Duch. de la V. Again forgive me ! I am sick at heart ; I pray your pardon ; — these sad news have marr'd The music of your presence, and have made me Fit but for solitude. I pray you, Sire, Let me retire ; aud when again I greet you, I'll wear the mien you'd have me ! Louis. Be it so ! Let me no more disturb you from your thoughts ; They must be sad. So brave — and your betrothed ! Your grief becomes you ! Duch. de la V. You forgive me, Louis 1 We do not part unkindly ? Louis. Fair one, no ! [Exit La Valliere, l. d. She was my first love, and my fondest. Was ! Alas, the word must come — I love her yet, But love wanes glimmering to that twilight — friendship ! Grant that she never loved this Bragelone ; Still, tears and sighs make up dull interludes In passion's short-lived drama! She is good, Gentle, and meek — and I do think she loves me, (A truth no king is sure of!) — But, in fine, 1 have begun to feel the hours are long Pass'd in her presence ! What I hotly sought, Coldly I weary of. I'll seek De Lauzun ; 1 like his wit — I almost like his knavery ; It never makes us yawn, like high-flown virtues. Thirst, hunger, rest — these are the wants of peasants ; A courtier's wants are titles, place, and gold ; But a poor king, who has these wants so sated, Has only one want left — to be amused ! [Exit Louis, r d. Re-enter the Duchess de la Vallieke. Duch. drlaV. Louis ! dear Louis ! Gone ! alas ! and left me Half in displeasure — 1 was wrong, methinks, To — no ! — I was not wrong to feel remorse, But wrong to give it utterance ! Enter Madame de Montespan, c. l. Mme. de Mon. (looking round, then advancing). What ! alone, Fair friend 1 I thought the king Duch de la V. Has gone, in anger ; Cold, and in auger. Mme. de Mon. What, with thee, dear lady ? On the smooth surface of that angel meekness I should have thought no angry breath could linger. But men and kings are Duch. de la V. Hush ! I was to blame. The king's all goodness. Shall I write to him ? Letters have not our looks — and, oh, one look ! How many hardest hearts one look hath won, A life consumed in words had woo'd in vain ! 42 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEBE. [ACT LEL Mme. de Mon. To-night there is high revel at the court , There you may meet your truant king. Duch. de la V. To-night ! An age ! How many hours to-night 1 Mme. de Mon. You know My office makes my home the royal palace ; I serve the queen, and thus shall see your Louis Ere the sun set. Duch. de la V. You ! — happy you ! Mme. de Mon. Perchance (The king is ever gracious to your friends, And knows me of the nearest), I might whisper, Though with less sweet a tone, your message to him, And he your dove, and hear you hack the olive I Ducn. de la V. My kind Athene ! Mme. de Mom. Nay, 'tis yours the kindness, To wear my love so near your heart. But, tell me, Since you accept my heraldy, the cause Of strife between you in this court of love. Duch. de la V. Alas ! 1 know not, save that I offended I The wherefore hoots the heart that loves to know ? Mme. de Mon. Not much, I own, the poor defendant — woman, But much the advocate ; 1 need the brief. Ducn. de la V. Methinks his kingly nature chafes to see It cannot rule the conscience as the heart ; But tell him, ever henceforth I will keep Sad thoughts for lonely hours — Athene, tell him, That if he smile once more upon Louise, The smile shall never pass from that it shines on ; S.iy — but I'll write myself, (sits down to table and writes.) Mme. de Mon. (aside). What need of schemes — Lauzun's keen wit — Athene's plotting spirit ? She weaves herself the web that shall ensnare her ! Duch. de la V. (rises, advances and gives letter). There; back these feeble words with all thy beauty. Thy conquering eyes, and thy bewitching smile. Sure never suit can fail with such a pleader ! And now a little while to holier sadness, And thine accusing memory, Bragelone ! Mme. de Mon. Whom speak you of? — the hero of the Fronde 1 Who seem'd the last of the old Norman race, And half preserved to this degenerated age The lordly shape the ancient Bayards wore ! Duch. de la V. You praise him well ! He was my father's friend, And should have been his son. We were affianced, And — but no more ! Ah ! cruel, cruel Louis ! You mourn'd for him — how much more cause have I ! Mme de Mon. {quickly). What ! he is dead ] your grief the king resented ? Knew he your troth had thus been plighted ? Duch. de la V. Yes ; And still he seem'd to deem it sin to mourn him ! Mme. de Mon. (aside). A clue — another clue — that I will follow, Until it lead me to the throne I (aloud) Well, cheer thee ; Trust your true friend ; rely on my persuasion. Methinks I never task'd its powers till now. Farewell, and fear not ! Oil ! I'll plead your cause, ACT HI.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 43 As if myself the client, [aside) Thou art sentenced i [Exit Madame ds Montespan, e. d. Duch. de la V. 'Tis a sweet solace still to have a friend — A friend in woman ! Oh, to what a reed We bind our destinies, when man we love ! Peace, honor, conscience lost — if I lose him, What have 1 left 1 How sinks my heart within me ! I'll to my chamber ; there the day of tears Lends night its smile ! And Fm the thing they envy ! [Exit Duchess de la Yalliere, l. d. SCENE III.— The gardens of Versailles. Lauzun, Grammont, and Couutiers enter, l,1e. Lad. 'Tis now the hour in which our royal naster Honors the ground of his rejoicing gardens By his illustrious footsteps — there, rny lords, That is the true style-courtier ! Gram. Out upon you ! Your phrase would suit some little German prince, Of fifteen hundred quarterings and five acres, And not the world's great Louis ! 'Tis the hour When Phoebus shrinks abash'd, and all the stars Envy the day that it beholds the king ! Enter Louis, r. 1 e. Louis. My lords, Pray you be cover'd. Hark ye, dear De Lauzun. [Exeunt the Courtiers, r. 2 e., as the King takes Lauzun aside. The fair De Montespan 1 Lau. Is worth the loving ; And, by mine honor, while we speak she comes ! A happy fortune. Sire, may 1 withdraw 1 [Exit, r. 2 e. Enter Madame de Montespan, r. 1 e. Salutes the King and passes on. Louis. Fair madam, we had hoped you with you brought Some b'ight excuse to grace our cheerless presence With a less short-lived light ! You dawn upon us Only to make us more regret your setting. Mmk. de Mon. Sire, if I dared, I would most gladly hail A few short moments to arrest your presence, And rid me of a soft, yet painful duty. Louis. 'Tis the first time, be sure, so sweet a voice E'er craved a sauction for delighting silence. Speak on, we pray thee ! Mme. de Mon. Gracious Sire, the duchess, Whom you have lately left, she fears, in anger, Besought me to present this letter to you. Louis (takes the letter, and aside). She blushes while she speaks ! 'Tis passing strange, I ne'er remark'd those darkly-dreaming eyes, That melt in their own light ! (reads, and earelessly puts up the let- ter) It scarcely suits Her dignity, and ours, to choose a witness 4A THE DUCHESS DE LA VAT.T.TKBE. [ACT HL To what hath chanced between us. She is good, But her youth, spent in some old country castle, Knows not the delicate spirit of a court. Mmk. de Mox. She bade me back her suit. Alas ! my liege, Who can succeed, if fair La Valliere fail 1 Louis. She bade thee ! — she was prudent! Were I woman, And loved, I'd not have chosen such a herald. Mhb. de M'>n. Love varies in its colors with all tempers ; The duchess is too proud to fear a rival, Too beautiful to find one. May I take Some word of comfort back to cheer her sadness, Made doubly deep by thoughts of your displeasure, And grief for a dear friend 7 Louis. Ay, that's the sadness ! Mme. de Mon. He was a gallant lord, this Bra»elone, And her betrothed. Perchance in youth she loved him, Ere the great sun had quenched the morning star ! Lodis. She loved him — think'st thou so 7 Mme. de Mon. {dissimulating). Indeed I know not ; But I have heard her eloquent in praise. And seen her lost in woe. You will forgive her? Louis Forgive her — there's no cause ! Mmk. de Mon. Now, bless you, Sire, For that one word. My task is done. Louis. Already 1 Mmk. de Mon. What can I more ? Oh, let me hasten back ! What rapture must be hers who can but (ill An atom of the heart of godlike Louis ! How much more the whole soul ! — To lose thy love Must be, not grief, but some sublime despair, Like that the Roman felt who lost a world ! Louis [aside). By Heaven, she fires me ! — a brave, royal spirit, Worthy to love a king ! Mme. de Mon. To know thee hers, What pride — what slory ! Though all earth cried " Shame !" Earth could not still the trumpet at her heart, That, with its swelling and exultant voice, Told her the earth was but the slave of Louis, And she the partner ! And 0, hour of dread ! When (for the hour must come), some fairer form Shall win thee from her — still, methinks, 'twould be A boast to far posterity to point To all the trophies piled about thy throne, And say — ,; He loved me once !" — 0, sire, your pardon ; I am too bold. Louis, {aside). Why, this were love, indeed, Could we but hope to win it. And such love Would weave the laurel in its wreaths of myrtle. {aloud) Beautiful lady! while thou speak'st I dream What love should be — and feel where love is not ! Thou com'st the suitor, to remain the judge ; And I could kneel to thee for hope and mercy. Mme. de Mon. Ah, no — ah, no — she is my friend. And if She loves not as I love — I mean, I might love — Still she believes she loves thee. Tempt me not. Who could resist thee ! Sire, farewell ! [Exit Madame de Moxtespan, r. 1 e. ACT III.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 45 Lonis. Her voice Is hush'd ; but still its queen-like music lingers In my rapt ears. I dreamt Louise had loved me ; She who felt love disgrace ! Before the true, How the tame counterfeit grows pale ami lifeless. By the sad brow of yon devout La Valliere I feel a man, and fear myself a culprit ! But this high spirit wakes in mine the sense Of what it is — I am that Louis whom The world has called " The Great!"— and in her pride Mirror mine own. This jaded life assumes The zest, the youth, the glory of excitement ! To-night we meet again — speed fast, dull hours ! [Exit Louts, k. 1 e. SCENE IV.— Grand saloon in the Palace of Versailles — in the background the suite of apartments is seen in perspective — the Queen, Duchess de la Valliere, and Madame de Montespan are discovered together with Courtiers, Ladies, etc. First Cour. {approaching the Duchess de la Valliere, as she is advanc- ing). Madam, your goodness is to Fiance a proverb ! If I might dare request, this slight memorial You would convey to our most gracious master ? The rank of colonel in the royal guard Is just now vacant. True, I have not served ; But 1 do trust my valor is well-known ; I've killed three noted swordsmen in a duel — And for the rest, a word from you were more Than all the laurels Holland gave to others. Duch. de la V. My lord, forgive me! I might ill-deserve The friendship of a monarch, if, forgetting That honors are the attributes of merit ; And they who sell the service of the public For the false coin, soft smiles and honey'd words Forged in the antechambers of a palace, Defraud a people to degrade a king ! If you have merits, let them plead for you ; Nor ask in whispers what you claim for justice, {retires toward* l.) Mme. de Mon. {advancing r , to Couutier, as the Duchess de la. Val- liere turns away). Give me the paper. Hush! the king shall see it! (takes the paper, places it in her bosom and retires towards R. Music.) Enter the King, c, with Grammont, Lauzun, and other Courtiers. He pauses by the Queen, and accosts her respectfully in dumb show. Gram, (l., aside). With what a stately and sublime decorum His majesty throws grandeur o'er his foibles ; He not disguises vice ; but makes vice kingly — Most gorgeous of all sensualists ! Lau. {aside). How different His roval rival in the chase of pleasure, The spendthrift, sauntering Second Charles of England ! Gram, {aside). Aye, Jove to Comus ! Lau. {aside). Silence ! Jove approaches ! 46 THE DTJCHE8S DB LA VATiTiTKBK. [aci The crowd breaks up into grottpt ; tin Kim; panes slowly from each till l.c joins the Duchess DB LA Vau.h SB ; the CouaTIBRS retire. Louis. Why, this is well. I thank you. Duch. de la V. Aud forgive me 1 L (Tis Forgive yon ! 7ou mistaki ; wounded feeling Is not displeasure. Let this pass, Louise. Viinr lovely friend bas a most heavenly smile ! l-i< :i. de i a V. Ami a warm heart. In truth, my liege, I'm glad Von see her with my eyes. Louis. Yi>u have no friend Whose face it glads me more to look upon, {aside, and gating on Mad AH K I>K Montkbp iH What thrilling eyes ! {aloud My thanks are due to her For, with the oil of her mellifluous voice, Smoothing the waves the passing breeze had ruflled. {erauet t o k , joint Madam a dr Mohtkbpah, and leads her throt crowd 1 1 the back of the stage, where they enter into eonvt • idiiI afterwards the tlwwt him the paper.) Lau. (advances to the DoCHESS). ^ 'our grace resolves no more to be content Eclipsing others. Vou eclipse yourself. Duch. de la V. 1 though) you were a friend, and not a flatterer. Lau. Friendship would lose its dearest privilege If friendship were forbidden to admire ! Why, e'en the king admires your grace's friend — Told me to-day she was the lovelies! lady The court could boast. Nay, see how, while they speak, Be gazes on her. How his breathing fans The locks that shade the roses of her cheek ! Duch. de la V. Ha ! (aside) Nay, be still, my heai'l Lau. It is but friendship ; But it looks wondrous warm ! Duch. nr. la V. (aside). He cannot mean it ! And yet — and yet — he lingers on her hand — He whispers ! Lau. How the gossips gaze and smile ! There'll be much scandal. Duch. dk la V. Luizun — what — thou thinkst not — No, no, thou canst not think Lau. That courts know treachery, That women are ambitious or iii>mi false ; I will not think it. Pshaw ! Duch de la V. (aside). My brain swims round ! Louis, of late, hath been so changed. How fair She looks to-night — and oh, she has not fallen ! (aloud) He comes — he nears us — he has left her. Fie ! My foolish fancies wronged him ! Lau. (aside). The spell works. Mme. de Mon. (as the King quits her, to First Courtier, fffv'ng lim back the paper). My lord, your suit is granted. First Cour Blessings, madame ! (the other Courtiers come round Vim.) Second Cour. Her influence must be great. I know three dukes Most pressing for the post. Thiiid Cour. A rising sun, Worthier of worship than that cold La Yalliere. The king as well, methinks, might have n» mistress, ACT in.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. '17 As one by whom no courtier grew the richer, (the Coukturs group round Madamb De Montespax ) Louis {advancing). My lords, you do remember the bright lists Which, in the place termed thenceforth " The Carrousel,"* We sometime held 1 — a knightly tournament, That brought us back to the age of the First Francis ! Lau. Of all your glorious festivals, the greatest ! Who but remembers 1 Duch. de la V. (aside). Then he wore my colors. How kind to bring back to my yearning heart That golden spring-time of our early loves ? Lor/is. Next week we will revive the heroic pageant. Proud plumes shall wave, and levell'd spears be shiver'd ; Ourself will take the lists, and do defy The chivalry of our renowned France, In honor of that lady of our court For whom we wear the colors, and the motto Which suits her best — " Most bright where all are brilliant !" Gram. Oh, a most kingly notion ! Louis. Ere we part, Let each knight choose his colors and his lady. Ourself have set the example, (the Courtiers mingle ivith the Ladies, e'c., many Ladies give their colors.) Ditch, de la V. (timidly). Oh, my Louis ! I read thy heart ; thou hast chosen this device To learn thy poor La Valliere to be proud. Nay, turn not from my blessings. Once before You wore my colors, though I gave them not. To-night I give them ! — Louis loves me still ! (takes one of the knots from her breast, and presents it.) Louis. Lady, the noblest hearts in France would beat More high beneath your badge. Alas ! my service Is vow'd already here, (turning to Madame de Montesfan, and placing a knot of her colors over his order of iSnint Esprit. ) Ditch de la V. How! How! (the King converses apart with Madame de Moktespan.) Lau. (aside, to the Duchess de la Valliere). Be calm, your grace; a thousand eyes Are on you. Give the envious crowd no triumph. Ah I had my fortune won so soft, a heart I would have Duch. le la V. (aside, to Lauzun). Peace! — away 1 Betray'd! Un- done ! (sinks almost exhausted, but Lauzun catches and sup- ports her.) * The Place, du Carrousel was so named from a splendid festival given by Louis. Oa the second day, devoted to knightly games, the king, who appeared in the char- acter of Roger, carried off four prizes. All the crown jewels were prodigalized on his arms and the trappings of his horse. 48 THE DUCHESS DE L.V VA.LLIKHE. [ACT IV. ACT IV. SCENE I.— The gardens at Versailles. Enter Lapzpn, n. 1 b. Lap. So far, so prosperous. From the breast of Louis, The blooming love it bore so long a summer Falls like a fruit o'er-ripe ; and, in the court, And o'er tin' king, this glittering Montespan Queens it without a rivai — awes all foes, Ami therefore makes all frioods. State, office, honors, Reflect her smile, or fade before her fro WD. So far, s<> well! Enough for Bfontespan. Poor Lmzrm now — I love this lair La Valliore, As well, at least, as woman's worth the loving ; And if the jewel has one trifling flaw, The gold 'tis set in will redeem the blemish. The king's no niggard lover ; and her wealth Is vast. I have the total in my tablets — (Besides estates in Picardy an 1 Provence.) I'm very poor — my creditor! very pressing. I've robb'd the duchess of a faithless lover, To give myself a wife, and her a husband. Wedlock's a holy thing — and wealth a good one ! Enter Lopis, L. 1 E., and crosses toward* ir., whilit tpeakiny, Lopis. The day is long — I have not seen Athene. Pleasure is never stagnant in her presence ; But every breeze of woman's changeful skies Ripples the stream, ami freshens e'en the sunshine. Lap. (l. oX 'Tis said, your Majesty, "that contrast's sweet," And she you speak of well contrasts another, Whom once Lopis (r. c ). I loved ; and still devoutly honor. This poor La Valliere ! — could we will affection, I would have never changed. And even now I feel Athene has but charm' d my senses. And my void heart still murmurs for Louise ! I would we could be friends, since now not lovers, Nor dare be happy while I know her wretched. Lap. Wearies she still your Majesty with prayers, Tender laments, and passionate reproaches 7 Lopis. Her love outlives its hopes Lap. An irksome task To witness tears we cannot kiss away, And with cold friendship freeze the ears of love ! Lopis. Most irksome and most bootless ! Lap. Haply, Sire, In one so pure, the charm of wedded life Might lull keen griefs to rest, and curb the love Thou fliest from to the friendship that thou seekest ? Lopis. I've thought of this. The Duke de Longueville loves her, And hath besought before her feet to lay His princely fortunes. ACT TV.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLlKRE. Lau. (quickly). Ha !— and she— Loms. Rejects him. Lau. Sire, if love's sun, once set, bequeaths a twilight, 'Twould only hover o'er some form whom chance Had link'd with Louis— some one (though unworthy) Whose presence took a charm from brighter thoughts That knit it with the past. Louis. Why, how now, duke ! — Thou speak'st not of thyself] j iAU 1 dare not, Sire ■ Louis. Ha, ha !— poor Lauzun— what ! the soft La Valliere Transfer her sorrowing heart to thee ! Ha, ha ! Lau. My name is not less noble than De Longueville's ; My glory greater, since the world has said Louis esteems me more. L 0UISi Esteems /—No— favors ! ' And thou dost think that she, who shrunk from love, Le3t love were vice, would wed the wildest lord That ever laugh'd at virtue ? (crosses.) Lau Sire, you wrong me, Or else you (pardon me) condemn yourself. Is it too much for one the king calls frend To aspire to one the king has call'd Louis (l. c, sharply). " ' Sir > ho,d ! I never so malign'd that hapless lady As to give her the title only due To such as Montespan, who glories in it— The last my mistress ; but the first my victim ; A nice distinction, taught not in your logic, Which, but just now, confused esteem and favor. Go to ! we kings are not the dupes you deem us. (crosses.) Lau. (aside). So high 1 I'll win La Valliere to avenge me, And humble this imperial vanity. (aloud) Sire, I offend ! Permit me to retire, And mourn your anger ; nor presume to guess Whence came the cause. And, since it seems yom- favor Made me aspire too high, in that I loved Where you, Sire, made love noble, and half dream d jligU Je— nay, am not— wholly there disdain'd— Louis. How, duke 1 L AC I do renounce at once The haiiTh'y vision. Sire, permit my absence. Louis Lauzun!' thou hintest that, were suit allowd thee, la Valliere might not scorn it — is it so 1 Lau. I crave your pardon, Sire. - L 0UIS Must I ask twice ? Lau. I do believe, then, Sire, with time and patience, The duchess might be won to— not reject me ! Louis. Go, then, and prove thy fortune. We permit thee. And, if thou prosperest, why then love's a riddle, And' woman is— no matter! Go. my lord ! We did not mean to wound thee. So, forget it ! Woo when thou wilt— and wear what thou canst win. Lau My gracious liege, Lauzun commends him to thee ; And'if one word, he merit not, may wound him, He'll th'nk of favors words can never cancel. Memory shall med'ciue to his present pain. 49 f, ) THE DUCHESS DS LA V ALU ERE, [ACT IV. God save you, Sire — [aside) to be the dupe I deem you ! [L'x I Lauzun, l. 1 B. Louis. I love her not; and yet methinks, am jealous ! Lauzun is wise and witty — knows the sex ; What if she do 1 No ! I will not believe it. And what is she to me ? — a friend — a friend ! And I would have her wed. 'Twere best for both— A balm for conscience — an excuse for change ! 'Twere best — 1 marvel much if she'll accept him ! [Exit Louis, it. 1 e, SCENE II. — A private apartment in the Palace of the Ducuxss de la V.\r. liere. The Ducuess discovered seated, u. Ditch, de la V. He loves me, then, no longer! All the words Earth knows shape but one thought — " He loves no longer !" Where shall I (urn 1 My mother — my poor mother ! Sleeps the long sleep ! 'Tis better so ! Her life Ran to its lees I will not mourn for her. But it is hard to be alone on earth ! This love, for which 1 gave so much, is dead, Save in my heart ; and love, surviving love, Changes its nature, and becomes despair ! Ah, me ! — ah me ! how hateful is this world ! Enter Gentleman of the Chambek, l. d. Gent. The Duke de Lauzun ! Duch. de la V. (rising). News, sweet news of Louis! Exit Gentleman, l. d. Enter Lauzun, l. d. Lau. Dare I disturb your thoughts ? Duch. de la V. My lord, you're welcome ! Came you from court to-day ? {they advance.) Lait. (l. a). I left the king But just now, in the gardens. Ducu. de la V. (eagerly). Well ! Lau. He bore him With his accustom'd health ! Duch. de la V. Proceed. Lau Dear lady, I have no more to tell. Duch. de la V. (aside). Alas ! (aloud 1 ) No message ! # Lau. We did converse, 'tis true, upon a subject Most dear to one of us. Your grace divines it ? Duch. de la V. (joyfully). Was it of me he spoke 1 Lau. Of you /spoke, and he replied. I praised your beauty — Duch. de la V. You praised ! Lau. Your form, your face — that wealth of mind Which play'd you not the miser and conceal'd it, Would buy up all the coins that pass for wit. The king, assenting, wish'd he might behold you As happy — as your virtues should have made you. Duch. de la V. 'Twas said in mockery ! Lau. Ladv, no ! — in kindness. ACT IV. J THE DUCHESS DE LA VAEEIERE. 51 Nay, more (he added), would you yet your will Mould to bis wish Duch. de LA V. -H** wish ! — the lightest ! Lap. Ah ! You know not how my heart throbs while you speak ! Be not so rash to promise ; or, at least, Be faithful to perform ! Duch. de la V. You speak in riddles. Lau. Of your lone state and beautiful affections, Form'd to make Home an Eden, our good king, Tenderly mindful, fain would see you link Your -lot to one whose love might be your shelter. He spake, and all my long-conceal'd emotions Gush'd into words, and I confess'd — lady, Hear me confess once more — how well I love thee ! Ditch, de da V. You dared ? — and he — the king Lau. Upon me smiled, And bade me prosper. Duch. de la V. Ah! {trembles, and covers her face with hands.] Lau. Nay, nay, look up ! The heart that could forsake a love like thine Doth not deserve regret. Look up, dear lady ! Duch. de la V. He bade thee prosper ! Lau. Pardon ! My wild hope Outran discretion. Duch. de la V. Louis bade thee prosper ! Lau. Ah, if this thankless — this remorseless love Thou couldst forget ! Oh, give me but thy friendship, And take respect, faith, worship, all, in Lauzun ! Duch. de la V. Consign me to another ! Well, 'tis well ! Earth's latest tie is broke — earth's hopes are over ! Lau. Speak to me, sweet Louise ! Duch. de la V. So, thou art he To whom this shatterd heart should be surrender'd 1 And thou, the high-born, glittering, scornful Lauzun Wouldst take the cast-off leman of a king, Nor think thyself disgraced! Fie! — fie! thou'rt shameless! (crosses, in an agony of grief.) Lau. (r. a). You were betray'd by love, and not by sin, Nor low ambition. Your disgrace is honor By the false side of dames the world calls spotless. Duch. de la V. (l. a). Go, sir, nor make me scorn you. If I've err'd, I know, at least, the majesty of virtue, And feel — what you forget. Lau. Yet hear me, madame ! Duch. de la V. Go, go ! You are the king's friend — you were mine ; I would not have you thus debased — refused By one at once the fallen and forsaken ! His friend shall not be shamed so ! [Exit the Duchess de la Vallieke, k. d. Lau. {passing his hand over his eyes). I do swear These eyes are moist ! And he who own'd this gem Casts it away, and cries "divine " to tinsel ! So falls my hope ! My fortunes call me back To surer schemes. Before that ray of goodness How many plots shrunk, blinded, into shadow ! Lauzun forgot himself, and dreamt of virtue ! [Exit Lauzun, l. d. 52 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT IV. Gentleman of the Chamber enters, d. f., followed by Bragelone as a Franciscan friar. Gent. The duchess gone ! I fear me that, to-day, You are too late for audience, reverend father. Brage. (a). Audience! — a royal phrase ! — it suits the duchess. Go, son ; announce me. Gent. By what name, my father 1 Bkage. I've done with names. Announce a nameless monk, Whose prayers have risen o'er some graves she honors. Gent, {aside). My lady is too lavish of her bounty To these proud shavelings ; yet, methinks, this friar Hath less of priest than warrior in his bearing. He awes me with his stern and thrilling voice, His stately gesture, and imperious eye. And yet, I swear, he comes for alms ! — the varlet ! Why should I heed him 7 Brage. Didst thou hear ? Begone ! [Exit Gentleman, it. d. Yes, she will know me not. My lealest soldier, One who had march'd, bare-breasted, on the steel, If I had bid him cast away the treasure Of the o'er-valued life; the nurse that rear'd me, Or mine own mother, in these shroudlike robes, And in the immature and rapid age Which, from my numb'd and withering heart, hath crept Unto my features, now might gaze upon me, And pass the stranger-by. Why should she know me, If they who loved me know not ? Hark ! I hear her : That silver footfall ! — still it hath to me Its own peculiar and most spiritual music, Trembling along the pulses of the air, And dying on the heart that makes its echo ! 'Tis she ! How lovely yet ! Re-enter the Duchess de la Valliere. OaCH. de la V. {bending). Your blessing, father. Brage. Let courts and courtiers bless the favor'd duchess : Courts bless the proud; Heaven's ministers, the humble. Duch. de la V. {aside). He taunts me, this poor friar ! {aloud) Well, 1113 father, I have obey'd your summons. Do you seek Masses for souls departed ? — or the debt The wealthy owe the poor 1 — say on ! Brage. {aside). Her heart Is not yet harden'd ! {aloud) Daughter, such a mission Were sweeter than the task which urged me hither : You had a lover once — a plain, bold soldier ; He loved you well ! Duch. de la V. Ah, Heaven 1 Brage. And you forsook him. Your choice was natural — some might call it noble ! And this blunt soldier pardon'd the desertion, But sunk at what his folly term'd dishonor. Duch. de la V. father, spare me ! — if dishonor were, It rested but with me. ACT IV.] THE DUCHESS Dii LA VAULT ERE. 53 Brage. So deem'd the world, Bat not that foolish soldier ! — he had learn'd To blend his thoughts, his fame, himself, with thee; Thou wert a purer, a diviner self ; He loved thee as a warrior worships glory ; He loved thee as a Roman honor'd. virtue ; He loved thee as thy sex adore ambition ; And when Pollution breathed upon his idol, It blasted glory, virtue, and ambition, Fill'd up each crevice in the world of thought, And poison'd earth with thy contagious shame ! Duch. de la V. Spare me ! in mercy, spare me ! Buage. This poor fool, This shadow, living only on thy lisht, When thou wert darken'd, could but choose to die. He left the wars ; — no fame, since thine was dim ; He left his land ; — what home without Louise 1 It broke — that stubborn, stern, unbending heart — It broke ! and, breaking, its last sigh — forgave thee ! Dl-ch. de la V. And I live on ! Brage. One eve, methinks, he told me, Thy hand arouod his hauberk wound a scarf ; And thy voice bade him " Wear it for the sake Of one who honor'd worth ! " Were those the words ? Duch. de la V. They were. Alas! alas! Brage. He wore it, lady, Till memory ceased. It was to him the token Of a sweet dream ; and, from his quiet grave, He sends it now to thee, i produces faded scarf from beneath his robe) Its hues are faded. Duch. de la V. Give it me ! — let me bathe it with my tears ! Memorial of my guilt — Brage. (in a soft and tender accent). And his forgiveness ! Duch. de la V. That tone ! ha ! while thou speakest, in thy voice, And in thy presence, there is something kindred To him we jointly mourn ; thou art Brage. His brother ; Of whom, perchance, in ancient years he told thee ; Who, early wearied of this garish world, Fled to the convent shade, and found repose. Duch. de la V. (approaching). Ay, is it so ? — thou'rt Bragelone's brother ? Why, then, thou art what he would be, if living — A friend to one most friendless ! Bi:age. Friendless — Ah, Thou hast learnt, betimes, the truth, that man's wild passion Makes but its sport of virtue, peace, affection ; And br<- iks the plaything when the game is done 1 Friendless ! — I pity thee ! Duch. de la V. [clasping him, appe dingly) Oh ! holy father, Stay with me ! — succor me ! — reprove, but guide me ; Teach me to wean my thoughts from earth to heaven, And be what God ordain'd His chosen priests — Foes to our sin, but friends to our despair. Brage. Daughter, a heavenly and a welcome duty, But one most rigid and austere ; there is No composition with our debts of sin. God claims thy soul ; and, lo ! his creature there I 54 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT IV. Thy choice must be between them — GoJ or man, Virtue or guilt ; a Louis or Ducn. Li! la V. A Louis ! Not mine the poor atonement of the choice ; I am, myself, the Abandon'd One! Bkage. I know it ; Therefore my mission and my ministry. When lie who loved thee died, he bade me wait The season when the sicklied blight of change Creeps o'er the bloom of Passion, when the way Is half prepared by sorrow to repentance, And seek you thou — lie trusted not in vain ; Perchance an idle hope, but it consoled him. Ddch. de la V. No, no ! — not idle — in my happiest hours, When the world smiled a void was in this heart The world could never fdl ; thy brother knew me ! BaAOE. I do believe thee, daughter. Hear me yet ; My mission is not ended; When thy mother Lay on the bed of death (she went before The sterner heart the same blow broke more slowly) — As thus she lay, around the swimming walls Her dim eyes wander'd, searching through the shadows, As if the spirit, ha.f-redeom'd from clay, Could force its will to shape, and, from the darkness, Body a daughter's image — (nay, be still ') Thou wert not there — alas ! thy shame had murder'd Even the blessed sadness of that duty ! But o'er that pillow watch'd a sleepless eye. And by that couch moved one untiring step, And o'er that suffering rose a ceaseless prayer ; And still thy mother's voice, when'er it call'd Upon a daughter — found a son ! Pitch, de LA V. {overcome with emotion, she buries her fare in her hands and sinks upon her knees before him). 0, Heaved ' Have mercy on me ! Brage. Coldly through the lattice Gleam'd the slow dawn, and from their latest sleep, Woke the sad eyes it was not thine to close ! And the thin hairs — grown gray, but not by Time — Of that lone watcher — while upon her heart Gush'd all the memories of the mighty wrecks Thy guilt had made of wdiat were once the shrines For Honor, Peace, and God ! — that aged woman (She was a hero's wife) upraised her voice To curse her child ! Ditch, de la V. Go on ! — be kind, and kill me ! Brage. Then he, whom thoughts of what he was to thee Had made her son, arrested on her lips The awful doom, and, from the earlier past, Invoked a tender spell — a holier image ! Painted thy gentle, soft, obedient childhood — Thy guileless youth, lone state, and strong temptation ; Thy very sin the overflow of thoughts From wells whose source was innocence ; and thus Sought, with the sunshine of thy maiden spring, To melt the ice that lay upon her heart, Till all the mother flow'd again ! ACT IX.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALXJEKE. 55 Doch. de la V. And she ! Brage. Spoke only once again !— she died— and bless' d thee Duoh. de LA V. [vehemently, springing up). No more ! I can no move !— my heart is breaking ! {rushes off, i*. d.) Brage. The angel hath not left her !— if the plumes Have lost the whiteness of their younger glory, The wings have still the instinct of the skies, And vet shall bear her up ! Louis (without, l ). We need you not, sir ; Ourself will seek the duchess ! Brage. {takes the stage l.). The king's voice ! How my flesh creeps !— my foe, and her destroyer ! The ruthless, heartless— (his hand seeks rapidly and mechanically for his sword-hilt) Why, why !— where's my sword 1 0, Lord ! I do forget myself to dotage ; The soldier, now, is a poor helpless monk, That hath not even curses. Satan, hence ! Get thee behind me, Tempter!— there, I'm calm, (crosses to r.) Enter Louis, c. d., and advancing. Louis. I can no more hold parley with impatience, But long to learn how Lauzun's courtship prospers. She is not here. At prayers, perhaps. The duchess Hath grown devout, (observing Bragelohe) A friar ! — Save yoa, father ! Bkage. I thank thee, son. Louis (c, aside). He knows me not. (aloud) Well, monk, Are you her grace's almoner ? B RAGE . Sire, no ! (the King starts.) Louis. So short, vet know us 1 Brage. (advances to k. c). Sire, I do. You are The man Louis, (indignantly). How, priest '.—the man ! Brage .' T],e worcl °ff ends y° u • The king, who raised a maiden to a duchess. That maiden's father was a gallant subject ; Kingly reward — you made his daughter duchess. That maiden's mother was a stainless matron ; Her heart you broke, though mother to a duchess ! That maiden was affianced from her youth To one who served you well — nay, saved your life ; His life vou robb'd of all that gave life value ; Arid yet— you made his fair betroth d a duchess ! You are that king. The world proclaims you " Great ; " A million warriors bled to buy your laurels; A million peasants starved to build Versailles : Your people famish ; but your court is splendid ! Priests from the pulpit bless your glorious reign ; Poets have sung you greater than Augustus ; And painters placed you on immortal canvas, Limn'd as the Jove whose thunders awe the world ; But to the humble servant of Heaven You are the king who has betray'd his trust — Beggar'd a nation but to bloat a court, Seen in men's lives the pastime to ambition, Look'd but on virtue as the toy for vice ; .. i THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEBE. [\C£ l»*. And, for the first time, from a subject's lips, Now learns the name he leaves to Time and God ! Louis. Add to the bead-roll of that king's offences, That when a foul-mouth'd monk assumed the rebel, The monster-king forgave him. Hast thou done 1 Bhage. Your changing hu^s belie your royal mien ; III the high monarch veils the trembling man ! Louis. Well, you are privilege 1 ! It ne'er was said The Fourteenth Louis, i;i his proudest hour. B >w'd not his sceptre to the Church's crozier. Brage. Alas ! the Church! "fis true, this garb of serge Dares speech that daunts the ermine, and walks free Where stout hearts tremble in the triple mail. But wherefore ?— Lies the virtue in the robe, Which the moth eats 1 or in these senseless beads ? Or in the name of Priest 1 The Pharisees II id priests that gave their Saviour to the cross ! No ! we have high immunity and sanction, That Truth may teach humanity to Power, Glide through the dungeon pierce the armed throng, Awaken Luxury on her Sybarite couch, A id, startling souls that slumber on a throne, Bjw kings before that priest of priests— tub Conscience ! {they cross. ) L:>uis (r. c. — aside). An awful man !— unlike the reverend crew Who praise my royal virtues in the pulpit, And — ask for bishoprics when church is over ! Bit age. (l. c .). This makes us sacred. The profane are they Honoring the herald while they scorn the mission. The king who serves the Church, yet clings to Mammon ; Who fears the pastor, but forgets the flock ; Who bows before the monitor, and yet Will ne'er forego the sin, may sink, when age Palsies the lust and deadens the temptation, To the priest-ridden, not repentant, dotard, — For pious hopes hail superstitious terrors, An 1 seek some sleek Iscariot of the Church, To sell salvation for the thirty pieces ! Louis {aside). He speaks as one inspired ! Buage. {crosses). Awake! — awake! Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream That earth was made for kings— mankind for slaughter — Woman for lust — the people for the palace ! Dark warnings have gone forth ; along the air Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne ! Behold the young, the fair, the haughty king ! The kneeling courtiers, and the flattering priests ; Lo ! where the palace rose, behold the scaffold — The crowd — the axe — the headsman— and the victim ! Lord of the silver lilies, canst thou tell If the same fate await not thy descendant ! If some meek son of thine imperial line May make no brother to yon headless spectre ! And when the sage who saddens o'er the end Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest he find The seeds, thy wars, thy pomp, and thy profusion Sow'd in a heartless court and breadlcss people, ACr IV.] THE DUCHESS DE IiA VATiLIERE. 57 Grew to the tree from which men shaped the scaffold — And the long glare of thy funeral glories Light unborn monarchs to a ghastly grave ! Beware, proud king ! the Present cries aloud, (moves up the stage whilst speaking) A prophet to the future ! Wake ! — beware ! [Exit Bragelone c d Louis, (uneasily). Gone ! Most ill-omen'd voice and fearful shape ! Scarce seeni'd it of the earth ; a thing that breathed But to fulfill some dark and dire behest ; To appal us, and to vanish. — The quick blood Halts in my veins. Oh ! never till this hour Heard I the voice that awed the soul of Louis, Or met one brow that did not quail before My kingly gaze ! ( pacing to and fro) And this unmitred monk ! I'm glad that none were by. — It was a dream ; So let its memory like a dream depart. I am no tyrant — nay, I love my people. My wars were made but for the fame of France ; My pomp! why, tush ! — what king can play the hermit ! My conscience smites me not ; and but last eve I did confess, and was absolved ! A bigot ; And half, methinks, a heretic ! I wish The Jesuits had the probing of his doctrines. Well, well, 'tis o'er ! — What ho, there ! Enter Gentleman op the Chamber, l. d. Wine ! Apprise Once more the duchess of our presence — Stay ! Yon monk, what doth he here 1 Gent. I know not, Sire, Nor saw him till this day. Louis. Strange ! — Wine ! [Exit Gentleman, r. d. Re-enter the Duchess de la Valliere. (c.) Well, madam, We've tarried long your coming, and meanwhile Have found your proxy in a madman monk, Whom, for the future, we would pray you spare us. Re-enter Gnntleman, with goblet of wine on salver, the King drinks. Gentleman, r. d. So, so ! the draught restores us. Fair La Valliere, Make not yon holy man your confessor ; You'll find small comfort in his lectures. Ducu delaV. (r. a). Sire, His meaning is more kindly than his manner. I pray you, pardon him. Louis. Ay, ay ! No more ; Let's think of him no more. You had, this mom, A courtlier visitant, methinks — De Lauzun 1 Ducu. de la V. Yes, Sire. Louis. A smooth and gallant gentleman. 58 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEEE. [ACT IV. You're silent Silence is assent ! 'tis well ! Duch. DE LA V. (aside), Down, my full heart ! (aloud) The duke declaims your wish Is that — that I should bind this broken heart And — no! I cannot speak! (with great and sudden energy) You wish me wed, Sire ? Louis. 'Twere best that you should wed? and yet, De Lauzun Is scarce the happiest choice. — But as thou wilt. Ducu.de la V. "'Twere best that I should wed?" — thou saidst , Louis; Say it once more ! Louis. In honesty, I think so. Duch. de la V. My choice is made, then — I obey the fiat, And will become a bride ! Louis. The duke has sped ! I trust he loves thyself, and not thy dower. Duch de la V. The duke ! what, hast thou read so ill this soul That thou couldst deem thus meanly of that book Whose every page was bared to thee 1 A bitter Lot has been mine — and this sums up the measure. Go, Louis ! go ! — All glorious as thou art — Earth's Agamemnon — the areat kine LA Yalliere and Bragelone from the Chateau. Ducii. de la V. Once more, ere yet I take farewell of earth, I see mine old, familiar, maiden home! All how unchanged ! — The same, the hour, the scene, The very season of the year ! — the stillness Of the smooth wave — the stdlness of the trees, Where the winds sleep like dreams ! and, oil ! the calm Of the blue heavens around yon holy spires, Pointing, like gospel truths, through calm and storm, To man's great home ! Brage. (aside). Oh ! how the years recede ! Upon this spot I spoke to her of love, And dreamt of bliss for earth ! (the vesper bell tolls.) Ducu. de la V. Hark ! the deep sound, That seems a voice from some invisible spirit, Claiming the world for God. — When last I heard it Hallow this air, here stood my mother, living ; And I — was then a mother's pride ! — and yonder Came thy brave brother in his glittering mail ; And — ah ! these thoughts are bitter! — were he living, How would he scorn them ! Brage. (ivho has been greatly agitated'). No! — ah, no ! — thou wrong'st him ! Duch. de la V. Yet, were he living, could I but receive From his own lips my pardon, and his blessins, My soul would deem one dark memorir.l 'rased ACT V.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLLERE. Gl Out of the page most blister'd with its tears ! Brage. Then have thy wish ! and in these wrecks of man Worn to decay, and rent by many a storm, Survey the worm the world callM Biagelone. Duch. de la* V. Avaunt !— -avaunt !— I dream !— the dead return'd To earth to mock me ! — No ! this hand is warm ! 1 have one murther less upon my soul. I thank thee, Heaven! — {swoons.) Brage. (supporting her). The blow strikes home; and yet What is my life to her ? Louise !— She moves not ! She does not breathe; how still she sleeps' I saw her Sleep in her mother's arms, and then, in sleep She smiled. There's no smile now ! — poor child ! {kissing her) One kiss ! It is a brother's kiss — it has no guilt ; Kind Heaven, it has no guilt. — I have survived All earthlier thoughts ; her crime, my vows, effaced them. A brother's kiss! — Away ! I'm human still ; I thought I had been stronger ; God forgive me ! Awake, Louise !— awake ! She breathes once more ; The spell is broke ; the marble warms to life ! And I — freeze back to stone ! Duch. de la V. [reviving). I heard a voice That cried "Louise !" — Speak, speak ! — my sense is dim, And struggles darkly with a blessed ray That shot from heaven. — My shame hath not destroy'd thee ! Brage. No !— life might yet serve thee!— and I lived on, Dead to all else. 1 took the vows, and then, Ere yet I laid me down, and bade the Past Fade like a ghost before the dawn of heaven, One sacred task was left. — If love was dust, Love, like ourselves, hath an immortal soul, That doth survive whate'er it takes from clay ; And that — the holier part of love became A thing to watch thy steps — a guardian spirit To hover round, disguised, unknown, undream'd of, To soothe the sorrow, to redeem the sin, And lead thy soul to peace ! Duch. de la V. bright revenge ! Love strong as death, and nobler far than woman's ! Brage. To peace — ah, let me deem so !— the mute cloister, The spoken ritual, and the solemn veil, Are naught themselves— the Huguenot abjures The monkish cell, but breathes, perchance the prayer That speeds as quick to the Eternal Throne ! In our own souls must be the solitude ; In our own thoughts the sanctity ! — 'Tis then The feeling that our vows have built the wall Passion can storm not, nor temptation sap, Gives calm its charter, roots out wild regret, And makes the heart the world-disdaining cloister. This— this is peace ! but pause ! if in thy breast Linger the wish of earth. Alas ! all oaths Are vain, if nature shudders to record them — The subtle spirit 'scapes the sealed vessel ! The false devotion is the true despair ! Duch de la V. Fear not !— 1 feel 'tis not the walls of stone, I',.! THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLJKlii:. [AC1 V. Told beads, nor murmur'd hymns, that bind the heart, Or exorcise the world ; the spell's the thought That where must weak we'v banish'd the temptation, And reconciled, wliat earth would st ill divide, Tli*> human memories and the immortal conscience. Bkage Doubt fades before thine accents. On the day That gives thee to the veil we'll meet once more. Let mine be man's last blessing in this world. Oh ! tell me then, thou'rt happier than thou hast been ; And when we part, I'll seek BOine hermit cell Beside the walls that compass thee, and prayer, Morning and night, shall join our souls in heaven. Duch. DE la V. Yes, generous spirit ! think not that my future Shall be repining as the past. Thou livest, And conscience smiles a^ain. The shatter'd bark Glides to its haven. Joy ! the land is near ! [Exit into the chateau, dropping her glove as she go Hit ace. So, it is past! — the secret is disclosed ! The band she did reject on earth has led her To holier ties. I have not lived in vain ! Yet who had dream'd, when through the ranks of war Went the loud shout of " France and Bragelone !" That the monk's cowl would close on all my laurels 1 A never-heard philosopher is life! Our happiest hours are sleep's — and sleep proclaims, Did we but listen to its warning voice, That rest is earth's elixir. Why, then, pine That, ere our years grow feverish with their toil, Too weary-worn to find the rest they sigh for, We learn betimes the moral of repose ? I will lie down, and sleep away this world. The pause of care, the slumber of tired passion, Why. why defer till nioht is well-nigh spent ? When the brief sun that silt the landscape sets, When o'er the music on the leaves of life Chill silence falls, and every fluttering hope That voiced the world with son« has gone to rest, Then let thy soul, from the poor laborer, learn " Sleep's sweetest taken soonest !" (as he moves aioag, hi* eyefaUt upon the glare ; lie takes it tip) And this hath touch'd her hand — it were a comfort To hoard a single relic ! (kisses the glove, and then suddenly throw* it away) No ! — 'Tis sinful! [Exit Bragelone into chateau. SCENE III. — The exterior of the Gothic Convent of the Carmelites — The windows illnmhied — Music heard from within. Enter Coprtiecs Ladiks, Puiests, etc. R. 1 E.. and v. 1 e , and pass through the door of the chapel, in the centre of the building. Enter Lapzpn, l.Ie., Grammont, R. 1 E. Lap. Where hast thou left the king ? Gbam. Not one league hence. Lap. Ere the clock strikes, La Valliere takes the veil. Guam. Great Heaven ! — so soon ! — and Louis sent me on To learn how thou hadst prosper'd with the duchess. He is so sanguine — this imperious king, ACT V. j THE DUCHESS DE I*A VALEIERE. 63 Who never heard a " No " from living lips ! How did she taUe his letter 1 Lau. In sad silence ; Then mused a little while, and some few tears Stole down her cheeks, as, with a trembling hand, She gave me back the scroll. Gram. You mean her answer. Lau. No ; the king's letter. " Tell him that I thank him ; " (Such were her words ; ) " but that my choice is made ; And e'en this last assurance of his love I dare not keep ; 'tis only when I pray, That I may think of him. This is my answer." Gram. No more 1 — no written word 1 Lau. None, Grammont. Then She rose and left me ; and I heard the bell Calling the world to see a woman scorn it. Gram. The king will never brook it. He will grasp her Back from this yawning tomb of living souls. The news came on him with such sudden shock; The long noviciate thus abridged ! and she — Ever so waxen to his wayward will ! — She cannot yet be marble. Lau. Wrong'd affection Makes many a Niobe from tears. Haste, Grammont, Back to the king, and bid him fly to save, Or nerve his heart to lose, her. I will follow, — My second charge fulflll'd. Gram. And what is that ? Lau. Revenge and justice! — Go ! [Exit Grammont, r. 1 e. (looking through the doors) I hear her laugh — I catch the glitter of her festive robe ! Athene comes to triumph — and to tremble ! Madame de Montespan and Courtiers enter, l. 1 e. The Courtiers go into the convent. Mme. de Mon. (aside). Now for the crowning cup of sparkling fortune ! A rarer pearl than Egypt's queen dissolved 1 have immersed in that delicious draught, A woman's triumph o'er a fairer rival ! (as she turns to enter the convent she perceives Lauzun) What ! you here, duke ! Lau. Ay, madame ; I've not yet To thank you for — my banishment ! Mme. de Mon. The Ides Of March are come — not over ! Lau. Are they notl For some they may be ! You are here to witness Mme. de Mon. My triumph ! Lau. And to take a friend's condolence. I bear this letter from the king ! ( produces letter.) Mme. de Mon. (taking it). The king ! (reads the letter) "We do not blame you; blame belongs to love, And love had naught with you." — What ! what ! 1 tremble ! " The Duke de Lauzun, of these lines the bearer, Confirms their purport: from our royal court We do excuse your presence." Banish'd, duke ? C4 THE DUCHESS EE EA VALLIKKE. [ACT V. Is that the word ?— What, banisb'd ! Lau. Hush! — you mar The holy silence of the place. Tis ti ue ; You read aright. Our gracious king permits you To quit Versailles. Versailles is not the world. Mme. de Mon. Perdition! — banish'd ! Lau. You can take the veil. Meanwhile, enjoy your triumph ! Mme. de Mon. Triumph ! — Ah ! She tiiumphs o'er me to the last. My soul Finds hell on earth — and hers makes earth a heaven ! Lad. Hist ! — will you walk within? Mme. de Mon. 0, hateful world ! What ! — hath it come to this 1 Lau. You spoil your triumph ! Mme. de Mon Lauzun, I thank thee — thank thee — thank — and curse thee. [Exit Madame de Montkspan, r. 1 e. Lau. (looking after her, with a subdued laugh). Ha, ha ! — the broken heart can know no pang Like that which racks the bad heart when its sting Poisons itself. Now, then, away to Louis. The bell still tolls ; there's time. This soft La Valliere ! The only thing that ever baffled Lauzun, And felt not his revenge ! — revenge, poor soul ! Revenge upon a dove ! — she shall be saved From the pale mummies of yon Memphian vault, Or the great Louis will be less than man — Or that fond sinner will be more than woman. [Exit Lauzun, r. 1 e. SCENE IV. — Tlic interior of the Chapel of the Carmelite Convent. On (he foreground, Courtiers, Ladies, etc. (ail kneeling except the officials). At the back of the stage the altar, only partially seen through the surrounding throng. Kneeling at the altar the Duchess de la Valliere, attended by the Lady Abbess and Sisters, etc. The officials pass to and fro, swinging the censers— The stage darkened — Lights suspended along the aisle, and tapers b>/ the altar. As the scene opens, solemn music, to which is chaunted the following HYMN: Come from the world, O weary soul. For run the race and near the goal I Flee from the net, O lonely dove, Thy nest is built the clouds above 1 Turn, wild and worn with panting fear, And slake thy thirst, thou wounded deer, In Jordan's holy springs 1 Arise ! O fearful soul, nrise I For broke the chain and calm the skies ! As moth fly upwards to the star, The light allures thee from afar. Though earth is lost, and space is wide, The smile of God shall be thy guide, And Faith and Hope thy wings I As the Hymn ends, Bragelone enters, l. u. e., and stands apart in the back- ground. All rise. First Cour. Three minutes more, and earth has lost La Valliere ! ACT V.J THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLXERE. 65 Second Cour. So young ! — so fair ! Third Coun. 'Twas whisper'd that the king Would save her yet ! First Cour. • What ! snatch her from the altar 1 He durst not, man ! Enter Louis, Grammont, and Lapzun, r. 1 e. Louis. Hold ! we forbid the rites ! All fall back r. and l. As the King advances hastily up the aisle, Brage- LONE advances and places himself before him. Back, monk ! revere the presence of the king ! Brace. And thou the palace of the King of kings ! Louis. Dotard ! we claim our subject. Brage. She hath pass'd The limit of your realm. Ye priests of Heaven, Complete your solemn task! — The church's curse Hangs on the air. Descendant of Saint Louis, Move — and the avalanche falls ! The Duchess de la Valliere, dressed in the bridal and gorgeous attire assumed before the taking of the veil, descends from the altar, and advances. Duch. de la V. No, holy friend ! I need it not ; my soul is my protector. May, thou mayst trust me. Brage. {after a pause). Thou art right. — I trust thee ! Louis [leading the Duchess de la Valliere to the front of the stage). Thou hast not ta'en the veil \ — E'en Time had mercy. Thou art saved ! — thou art saved ! — to love — to life ! Duch. de la V. (c). All, Sire I Louis (l. c). Call me not Sire ! — forget that dreary time When thou wert. duchess, and myself the king. Fly back, fly back, to those delicious hours When / was but thy lover and thy Louis ! And thou my dream— my bird — my fairy flower — My violet, shrinking in the modest shade Until transplanted to this breast — to haunt The common air with odors ! Oh, Louise ! Hear me ! — the fickle lust of change allured me, The pride thy virtues wounded arm'd against Ihee, Until I dream'd I loved thyself no longer ; But now this dread resolve, this awe of parting, Re-binds me to thee — bares my soul before me — Dispels the lying mists that veil'd thine image, And tells me that I never loved but thee ! Duch. de la V. I am not then despised ! — thou lov'st me still I And when I pray for thee, my heart may feel That it hath nothing to forgive ! Louis. . Louise ! Thou dost renounce this gloomy purpose ? Duch. dr la V. Never I It is not gloomy ! — think'st thou it is gloom To feel thnt, as my soul becomes more pure, (,'•, TIIE DUCHESS DE LA Y.U.I. I l-.i:M. [ACT V. Heaven will move kindly listen to the prayers Tliat rise for thee ?— is that thought gloom, my Louis 1 Locis. Oli! slay me not with tenderness ! Return! And if thy conscience .startle at my love, Be still my friend — my augel ! Ddoh. de la V. I a ii weak, But in the knowledge of my weakness, Btrong ! I could not breathe the air that's sweel with thee, Nor cease to love ! — in flight my only safety ; And were that flight not made by solemn vows Eternal, it were bootless; for the wings Of my wild soul "know but two bournes to speed to — Louis and heaven ! And, ohl in heaven at last My soul, ansinning, may unite with Louis! Louis. I do implore thee ! Duch. de la V. No; thou canst not tempt me ! My heart already is tho nun. Louis. Thou know'st not I have dismissal thy rival from the court. Return ! — though mine no more, at least thy Louis Shall know no second love 1 Duoh. r»K la V. What! wilt thou, Louis, Renounce for me eternally my rival, And live alone for Louis. Thee ! Louise, I swear it ! Duch. de LA V. (raising her arms tj heaven). Father! at length, I dare to hope for pardon, For now remorse may prove itself sincere ! Bear witness, Heaven ! 1 never loved this man So well as now ! and never seem'd hit love Built on so sure a rock ! Upon thine altar I lay the offering. I revoke the past ; For Louis, heaven was left — and now I leave Louis, when tenfold more beloved, for heaven ! Ah ! pray with me! Be this our latest token— This memory of sweet moments — sweet, though sinless! Ah ! pray with me! that I may hive till death The thought — " we pray'd together for forgiveness !" Louis. Oh ! wherefore never knew I till this hour The treasure I shall lose ! I dare not call thee Back from the heaven where thou art half already ! Thy soul demands celestial destinies, And stoops no more to earth. Be thine the peace, And mine the penance ! Yet these awful walls, The rigid laws of this severest order, Yon spectral shapes, this human sepulchre — And thou, the soft, the delicate, the highborn, ' The adored delight of Europe's mightiest king — Thou canst not bear it ! Duch. de la V. I have borne much worse — Thy change and thy desertion ! — Let it pass ! There is no terror in the things without ; Our souls alone the palace or the prisou ; And the one thought that I have fled from sin Will fill the cell with images more glorious, And haunt its silence with a mightier music, Than ever throng'd illumined halls, or broke ACT V.J THE DUCHESB DE LA VAULIERE. 67 From liarps by mortal strung ! • Louis. I will not hear thee ! I cannot orave these thoughts. Tby angel voice But tells me what a sun of heavenly beauty Glides from the earth, and leaves my soul to darkness. This is my work ! — 'twas I for whom that soul Forsook its native element ; for me, Sorrow consumed thy youth, and conscience gnawed That patient, tender, unreproachful heart. And now this crowns the whole ! the priest — the altar — The sacrifice — the victim ! Touch me not ! Speak not! I am unmann'd enough already. I — I — I choke ! These tears — let them speak for me. Now ! now thy hand — farewell ! farewell, forever ! [Exit Louts, R. 1 B. Duch. de la V. Be firm, my heart, be firm ! {after a pause, turning to Bragelone, who advances, c, with a slight smile) 'Tis past ! we've conquer'd ! The Duchess re-ascends the altar, Bragelone with head bent down walking part of the way by her side, then pausing, l. — the croivd close around and shut her out; during which she puts on the convent dress. Music. Hark ! to the nuptial train are open'd wide The Eternal Gates. Eosanna to the bride ! Gram. She has ta'en the veil — the last dread rite is done. Abbsss {from the altar). Sister Louise ! before the eternal grate Becomes thy barrier from the living world, It is allow'd thee once more to behold The face of men, and bid farewell to friendship. Bra ?e. {aside). Why do I shudder 1 why shrinks back my being From our last gaze, like Nature from the Grave 1 One moment, and one look, and o'er her image Thick darkness falls, till Death, that morning star, Heralds immortal day. I hear her steps Treading the mournful silence ; o'er my soul Pauses the freezing time. Lord, support me ! One effort more — one effort ! — Wake, my soul ! Tis thy last trial ; wilt thou play the craven ] (crosses towards l.) Th< crowd give way ; the Duchess de la Valliere, in the habit of the Carmelite nuns, passes down the steps of the altar, led by the Abbess. As she pauses to address those whom she recognizes in the crowd, the chorus chaunis : — Sister, look and speak thy last, From the world thou'rt dying last ; While iarewell to life thou'rt giving, Dead already to the living. Duch. de la V. [coming to the front of the stage, sees Lauzun, r.). Lauzun ! thou serv'st a king, vvhate'er his fault, Who merits all thy homage ; honor — love him. His glory needs no friendship ; but in sickness Or sorrow Icings need love. Be faithful, Lauzun ! And, far from thy loud world, one lowly voice Shall not forget thee. 68 THE JL>UCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. [ACT V. Brage. (c. l. — aside). All the strife is hush'd ! My heart's wild sea lies mute ! Duch. de LA V. (approaching Bragelone, and kneeling to him). Now! friend and father, Bless the poor nun ! Bragk. As Duchess of La Valliere Tliou wert not happy ; as the Carmelite Sister, Say — art thou happy 1 Duch. de la V. Yes ! Brage. (laying his hand on her head). Father, bless her I CHORUS. Hark ! in heaven is mirth I Jubilate I Grief leaves guilt on earth ! Jubilate ! Joy for sin forgiven ! Jubilate 1 Come, O Bride of Heaven ! Jubilate ! {Curtain fails slowly.) EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. SCENE. B.3r 8.2 s. / B. O. 0. ATJDIENCE. \ \ L.2E, liB. l. Left. l. c. Left Centre. l. 1 e. Left First Entrance. l. 2 e. Left Second Entrance. l. 3 e. Left Third Entrance. L. v. e. Left Upper Entrance (wherever thi3 Scene may be.) o. l. c. Door Left Centre. c. Centre. e. Eight. r. 1 e. Eight First Entrance. r. 2 e. Right Second Entrance. r. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance. b. u. e. Eight Upper Entrance, d. r. c- Door Right Centre. THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara JTHIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. Series 9482 Mi wm, fc: