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 '^^mrn^r- 
 
 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 llllUi, "' 
 
 *> *t 
 
 
 OV 'W 
 
 v . 
 
 "Sfitoti 
 
 ui. /LJuyL/vAU
 
 THE 
 
 POSTHUMOUS 
 
 DRAMATICK WORKS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ.
 
 THE 
 
 POSTHUMOUS 
 
 DRAMATICK WORKS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR G. AND W. NICOL, BOOKSELLERS TO 
 
 HIS MAJESTY, PALL-MALL; 
 
 BY W. BULMER AND CO. CLEVELAND-ROW. 
 
 1813.
 
 A I P* 
 
 V.I 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 1 hese Dramas, which are now presented to 
 the Public, were originally intended by my late 
 beloved Father, as a bequest to me, together 
 with his other posthumous works; but the 
 unfortunate circumstances, which clouded the 
 latter years of his life, induced him to yield to 
 the opinion of many of his friends, who had 
 frequently urged him, to resort to the publica- 
 tion of them by subscription. This mode, 
 however reluctantly, he at last consented to 
 adopt, and it was partially crowned with suc- 
 cess ; some friends being found who generously 
 contributed to the undertaking; and here I must 
 notice with gratitude the Earl of Lonsdale, the 
 late Right Hon. Spencer Perceval, Sir James 
 Graham, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Wm. 
 Long, Mr. Thomas Greene, &c. &c. 
 
 5741 7-* 
 
 LIBRARf
 
 11 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The work was in preparation, and intended 
 for publication, in the spring of 1811, when 
 after a sudden and short illness, death stopt the 
 fertile pen of their author, while he was em- 
 ployed in completing the now-unfinished drama 
 of Demetrius, which I have given genuine to 
 the Public, conceiving it would prove more 
 acceptable, even in its present defective state, 
 than had its catastrophe been supplied by 
 another ; in this opinion, the friends I have 
 consulted have coincided, as well as in my wish 
 of publishing the Dramas, without any subse- 
 quent revisal, or addition from any other hand, 
 how capable soever of the task. I have said 
 thus much as some excuse to those friends, who 
 I am sensible would readily have offered their 
 service, to produce these Dramas in a more 
 perfect state. But the feelings of a Daughter, 
 wishing to publish the posthumous works of a 
 revered Father, in the precise state she found 
 them, I flatter myself will sufficiently account 
 to delicate minds, for this determination. Find^ 
 ing myself totally unable to put the work to the 
 press, after the severe and afflictive loss I had 
 sustained, I was under the necessity of continu- 
 ing the subscription in my own name, to enable 
 me to do so; and I embrace this method of
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. . Ill 
 
 returning my sincere acknowledgments, to those 
 who have favoured this undertaking. It has 
 given me real gratification, to have it at length 
 in my power, to fulfil the intentions and wishes 
 of my late beloved Parent, towards his Sub- 
 scribers. Indeed I may truly say to be able to 
 do so, has shed the brightest beam of comfort 
 that has cheered my heart, during the many 
 dark hours of severe suffering and affliction, 
 which I have experienced, since it pleased 
 Providence to deprive me of his paternal care. 
 
 FRANCES MARIANNE JANSEN. 
 
 Hastings, June 1, 1813. *
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 pag 
 
 The Sybil, or the Elder Brutus ; a Tragedy, - 1 
 
 The Walloons; a Comedy, - - - 71 
 
 The Confession; a Play in Five Acts, - - 155 
 
 The Passive Husband ; a Comedy, - - 227 
 
 Torrendal ; a Tragedy, - - 303 
 
 Lover's Resolutions, - - 373 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Alcanor ; a Tragedy, ' - - - - \ 
 
 The Eccentric Lover ; a Comedy, - - 61 
 
 Tiberius in Capreae, - - - - 131 
 
 The Last of the Family ; a Comedy, - - 195 
 
 Don Pedro ; a Play in Five Acts, - - 273 
 
 The False Demetrius, - - - - 345
 
 THE 
 
 SYBIL, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE ELDER BRUTUS. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Crudelis ubique 
 Luctus, ubique payor et plurima mortis imago. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 .
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sextus Tarquinius. 
 
 Lucius Junius Brutus. 
 
 Titus, his son. 
 
 Collatinus. 
 
 Valerius Poplicola. 
 
 Vitellius. 
 
 Centurion. 
 
 Prefect, of the Guard. 
 
 Roman Soldier attending on Tullia. 
 
 Lucretius. 
 
 Tullia, wife ofTarquin. 
 
 Tarquinia, his daughter. 
 
 Priestess of Rhcea. 
 
 The Cumcean Sybil. 
 
 First Temple Virgin of Rhcea. 
 
 Roman People, Soldiers, Virgins of Rhcea, Servants 
 of Collatinus, Senators, and Ghost of Servius 
 Tullus, late King of Rome. 
 
 SCENE, Rome. 
 
 B*
 
 
 '
 
 THE 
 
 SYBIL, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE ELDER BRUTUS. 
 
 m 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 A Square before the Palace ofTarquin, A number, 
 oj common people collected together are discovered 
 upon the drawing up of the curtain. 
 
 First Roman. 
 
 Will any body say to me that he has seen this 
 thing ? 
 
 2 Rom. What thing, neighbour, are you speak- 
 ing of? 
 
 1 Rom. Marry, sir, a thing to puzzle those 
 that be wiser than either you or me A woman 
 if indeed that can be a woman, which every 
 body talks of and nobody hath seen ; whose 
 prophecies are in* every man's mouth, yet no 
 man is bold enough to say he has heard them, 
 or aver that he believes in them. 
 
 2 Rom. If it is the Sybil you are speaking of 
 
 1 Rom. It is the Sybil we are speaking of; 
 who speaks of any other thing ? 
 
 2 Rom. Then I am he that hath seen her, and 
 these are the ears that have heard her prophecy."
 
 6 THE SYBIL, 
 
 1 Rom. May we believe you? 
 
 2 Rom As you list for that ; but I will rehearse 
 to you the manner of it, then judge ye for your- 
 selves. Certain idle fellows of the city, to the 
 number of a score or upwards, had collected 
 themselves in the square of the Capitol for the 
 purpose of making mockery of a poor witless 
 ideot, whom you all know, Lucius Junius by 
 name. For this unmanly pastime of theirs, I 
 was reproving them somewhat angrily, when lo! 
 in a moment there stood before my eyes a female 
 figure, tall and comely in person, wild in her 
 attire, and of an aspect such as awed me to 
 behold. The scoffers fled ; I kept my post and 
 silently awaited the event, perceiving she ad- 
 dress'd herself to speak " Thou hast well done," 
 she cried, " honouring a fool, for, mark my words 
 A fool shall set Rome free." This said, she 
 vanish'd from my sight. 
 
 1 Rom. I'll mock no more at Junius for one. 
 
 3 Rom. Nor I, but reverently accost his wor- 
 ship as oft as I encounter him. 
 
 4 Rom. This will bring fools in credit with 
 the people. 
 
 1 Rom. And humble those that in their self- 
 esteem are oracles of wisdom. 
 
 3 Rom. Look, look ! what comes ? 
 
 % Rom. It is the Sybil; it is she herself! 
 Run, run, and save yourselves. How her eyes 
 glare ! she's terrible to look at. 
 
 1 Rom. Oh ! that I were fool enough to be in 
 her favour, and not so over-wise as to run away 
 from her ! [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 The Sybil. 
 Awake, ye torturers of the human heart 1
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 7 
 
 Start from your iron beds and come on earth, 
 Ye furies, that with scorpions sting the soul I 
 I, the Cumaean prophetess, the Sybil, 
 Fate's awful harbinger, invoke your presence. 
 The winds, which in my native caves are pent, 
 Blow me from the iEolian shores to Rome 
 O'er the curl'd waves, which my light feet ne'er 
 
 touch 'd. 
 This is thy palace, Tarquin! hither late 
 I broughtthe mystic volume, which thou, wretch, 
 Three times repuls'd and scorn'd the friend ly fates. 
 The last sun rises on thy bloody house. 
 Come night, and this proud palace shall be ashes. 
 Did not my warning voice cry out A fool, 
 A fool shall set Rome free? Behold, he comes ! 
 Brutus, the fool predicted He shall seize 
 The dagger reeking from Lucretia's wound, 
 And with that violated matron's blood 
 Cement the fabric of immortal Rome. [Exit. 
 
 Scene changes. A state Apartment in the Palace 
 of Tarquin. 
 
 Tullia, and Sextus Tarquinius. 
 
 Tul. Away ! thou'rt mad. 
 
 Sex. I've privilege for that; 
 I am in love. 
 
 Tul. Yes, with thy kinsman's wife : 
 Out on thee, wanton ! 
 
 Sex. With the wife of Jove, 
 So she'll put by her cloud and take the form 
 Of my Lucretia. 
 
 Tul. Thy Lucretia ! thine ! 
 Is Collatinus dead ? Thus would'st thou sport 
 With a chaste matron's fame? 
 
 Sex, Is't nothing, .then,
 
 S THE SYBIL 
 
 To be the son of Tarquin, and a prince? 
 To have powers, opportunities and means, 
 With strong desires to push them on? Ye Gods, 
 Give reason to mechanics ! I'll be mad, 
 Mad as my mother Tullia. 
 
 Tul. Peace, reviler ! 
 When was I mad? 
 
 Sex. When was you mad, good mother? 
 When with ambition's phrenzy in your soiil, 
 And all Rome's empire in your view, you drove 
 Your chariot wheels o'er your dead father's body 
 Up to the shouting Forum. 
 
 Tul. Twas the cause, 
 The cause, my Sextus ; and for this base clay, 
 How differs it from the dull earth we tread on, 
 When the life's gone ? 
 
 Sex. Nay, if you talk of cause, 
 Mine is a cause to bring the Gods amongst us : 
 Why, Jove, the king of Gods, hath left Olympus, 
 And turn'd himself into a grazing beast 
 For one not half so fair as my Lucretia. 
 
 Tul. Into what beast, what reptile art thou 
 chang'd ? 
 Why art thou not at Ardea ? Why not foremost 
 To mount the breach,and shew these sullen nobles, 
 Who murmur at our greatness, that the race 
 Of Tarquins reigns by valor as by might. [Trumpet. 
 Hark ! 'tis thy father's trumpet welcome, Sol- 
 dier ! 
 
 Enter Vitellius. 
 
 What tidings from our royal lord and husband? 
 
 Vit. Health and a happy greeting Your 
 brave sons, 
 Titus and Aruns, are return'd from Delphi. 
 
 Tul. Where are the princes ?
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 9 
 
 Vit. In the camp at Ardea. 
 The king determines with tomorrow's sun 
 To mount the breach. You are expected, Sextus. 
 
 Sex. Love hath his duties, sir, as well as war. 
 Have our wise brothers brought their fool from 
 Delphi ? 
 
 Vit. I left him with the pages in the court 
 Hustling for drachmas. 
 
 Tul. Whom ? What fool ? 
 
 Vit. A man, 
 Who, when he had a name, was Lucius Junius : 
 A braver citizen Rome never boasted, 
 And wise and learn'd withal; now chang'd, alas! 
 A spectacle which humbles me to look on. 
 
 Sex. Now, by the Gods ! I much desire to see 
 him. 
 I want a fool, a ready antick thing, 
 To run on errands, and to make me sport. 
 
 Tul. What pleasure can such spectacles afford? 
 
 Sex. Oh, there is much good moral in a fool ; 
 Besides, I dreamt of such a thing last night, 
 And I will see him. 
 
 Tul. If thou wilt, thou must. 
 But is he harmless in his moody humours ? 
 
 Sex. Tame as my horse, which, tho' devoid of 
 reason, 
 Shall turn, shall stop, and at my angry bidding 
 Shall kneel tijl I am throned on his back ; 
 And this shall Junius; the like instinct stiri 
 Him and my horse no more. 
 
 Tul. Set him before us. [Exit Vitellius. 
 
 He turn'd to folly on his brother's death : 
 That brother Tarquin kill'd. If there's on earth 
 A thing I dread, it is a fool. The Sybil, 
 Whose mystic book at such a price we bought, 
 Augur'd the race of Tarquins should be kings, 
 Till a fool drove us hence, and set Rome free.
 
 10 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Sex. A very foolish augury, good mother, 
 For Sabine superstition only fit. 
 But these are not good Numa's nursing days; 
 The world is grown from infancy to manhood. 
 Stand hut our power till Junius pull it down, 
 And it shall be immortal Lo ! he comes: 
 This dread prediction of the frantic Sybil, 
 This scourge of kings, this terror of the Tarquins, 
 Rome's great deliverer. 
 
 Vitellius brings in Lucius Junius 
 
 Tul. Gods, is this the man, 
 This Lucius Junius? 'Tis a goodly prison 
 For beggary to dwell in ; a rich tomb 
 To harbour uought but emptiness. O Nature, 
 That thou should'st be thus prodigal in matter, 
 And yet forget a mind ! Will he speak to us 
 If we do question him ? 
 
 Vit. I think he will : 
 Yet sometimes, when the moody fit doth take him, 
 He will not speak for days ; yea, rather starve 
 Than utter nature's cravings : then anon 
 He'll prattle shrewdly, with such witty folly 
 As almost betters reason. 
 
 Tul. Hark thee, fellow ! 
 How art thou call'd ? 
 
 L. Jun. A fool. 
 
 Tul. Fool, for thy nature ; 
 Thou answer'st well, but I demand thy name. 
 
 L. Jun. Nothing but fool. 
 
 Tul. His faculties are brutish ; 
 Brutus shall be thy name. 
 
 L. Jun. Thanks to your grace ! 
 
 Sex. Dost like thy new name, gentle Brute? 
 
 L. Jun. So well,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. li 
 
 Who will may take the fool : I care not who 
 Your Highness, an it like you. 
 
 Sex. I the fool ! 
 Sirrah, good words, or I will have thee beaten. 
 
 L. Jun. A fool thou wilt not beat a brute 
 thou dar'st not, 
 For the dull ass will kick against his striker, 
 If struck too harshly. 
 
 Tul. Let me hear no more ; 
 There's mischief in his folly. Send him hence. 
 
 Sex. Nay, let us hear him, for the fool's sen- 
 tentious. 
 I'll search him with more questions. Hark thee, 
 
 Brutus, 
 Thou wast at Delphi with our princely bro- 
 thers 
 Stand the brave pair in health ? 
 
 L. Jun. Praise to the Gods ! 
 They stood where others fell. 
 
 Sex. What dost thou mean ? 
 Explain thyself. 
 
 L. Jun. They bore away the prize 
 From fourteen Grecian cities. 
 
 Sex. Hah ! what prize ? 
 
 L. Jun. The prize for drinking. 
 
 Sex. Is it truth he speaks ? 
 
 Vit. I am his witness. 'Twas at Bacchus' feast 
 Giv'n by Hipparchus the Athenian tyrant 
 Two Thericlean cups of mighty girth, 
 That would have puzzled Bitias. Oh! the Greeks 
 Drink deep, and dance more than our Salian 
 
 priests. 
 I saw their comic scoffers mount the car, 
 With lees of wine besmear'd, in antick sport 
 Mocking the crowd T'was a rare mummery. 
 
 Sex. Why then we might have kept our fool 
 at home,
 
 H THE SYBIL, 
 
 For Greece is stock'd already. Tell us now 
 What said the Pythia to our prodigy, 
 The snake i'th' Capitol? 
 
 L. Jun. An ugly reptile ; 
 She will'd us not to speak of it The Gods 
 Endure it not ; Hercules was scar'd i'th' cradle, 
 And young Apollo, since he fought the Python, 
 Cannot abide to look upon a snake. 
 
 Tul. Put you none other questions to Apollo ? 
 
 [To Vitellius. 
 
 Vit. Your sons did ask who should be chief in 
 Rome. 
 
 Tul. Hah ! what replied the oracle to that? 
 
 Vit. With pains and strugglings the prophetic 
 dame 
 This destiny reported from her God : 
 "Great and most glorious shall that Roman be, 
 Who shall first greet his mother with a kiss !" 
 
 Sex. Hail, mother ! [Salutes the Queen. 
 
 L. Jun. Woe for me, I have no mother 
 And yet I kiss'd her first. 
 
 Tul. Thou kiss'd her? thou? 
 
 L. Jun. Yea, madam, for just then my foot 
 did slip 
 In the fresh blo6d of a new-slaughter'd victim, 
 And falling I did kiss my mother Earth. 
 
 Tul. Oh, that the earth had swallow'd thee 
 outright 
 Till thou had'st kiss'd the center! I perceive 
 The Gods are leagu'd with folly to destroy us. 
 My very blood chills at my heart Away ! [Exit. 
 
 Sex. Hark thee, thou Brutus, I in part suspect 
 Thou ap'st this folly ; if I find thee trifling, 
 Or juggling with the Pythia for predictions, 
 By all the Gods, I'll have thee flay'd, thy skin 
 Strip'd into thongs to strangle thee withal, 
 Dissembling varlet ! [Seizes him.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. IS 
 
 X. Jun. Take away your hands; 
 They come too near my throat. {They struggle. 
 
 Vit. My lord, forbear ! 
 Threat'ning a fool you do but wrong yourself. 
 
 Sex. But that I love his son, the noble Titus, 
 My dagger should have pierc'd his throat ere 
 
 now, 
 And sent him to his mother Earth for ever. 
 He shall be watch 'd. Vitellius, follow me. [Exit. 
 
 Vit. The Gods restore thee, Brutus, to thyself, 
 And us to thee ! Farewell ! [Exit, 
 
 L. Jun. A little longer, 
 A little longer yet support me, patience ! 
 The day draws on : it presses to the birth 
 I see it in the forming womb of time 
 The embryo liberty. Hah ! 'tis my son 
 Down, rebel nature, down ! 
 
 Titus enters. 
 
 Tit. Welcome to Rome ! 
 Would I might welcome thee to reason tool 
 Ah, woe is me, that ever I was born 
 To call thee father; rather would I cross 
 My direst foe on earth than meet this ruin. 
 Yes, thou hast lips that utter, limbs that move, 
 An outward form and fashion of a man, 
 But where's the light o' the building, where's 
 
 the soul, 
 Which should inform those lips, direct those 
 
 limbs, 
 And lead thee back to the lost road of glory ? 
 
 L. Jun. Give me thy hand nay, give it me 
 
 Tit. What would'st thou? 
 Speak to thy son. 
 
 L. Jun. I had a thing to say, 
 But I haye lost it. Let it pass no matter.
 
 14 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tit. Look not upon me with those eyes, hut 
 speak ; 
 Utter thy cravings Art at ease poor creature ? 
 Who injures, who annoys thee ? Tell thy friend. 
 How can I serve thee ? What dost lack ? 
 
 L. Jun. Preferment. 
 Thou can'st do much at court. 
 
 Tit. Ah! this is nothing. 
 
 L. Jun. So much the fitter for a fool's petition, 
 And a court promise. 
 
 Tit. Oh, this trifling racks me. 
 
 L. Jun, Lend me thine ear : I'll tell a secret 
 to thee 
 Worth a whole city's ransom. This it is ; 
 Nay ponder it and lock it in thy heart i 
 There are more fools, my son, in this wise world 
 Than the gods ever made. 
 
 Tit. Say'st thou, my father ? 
 Expound this riddle. If thy mind doth harbour 
 Aught that imports a son like me to know, 
 Or knowing to atchieve ; if there be aught 
 Of grace or comfort to be done to thee, 
 Or to thy weeping country, so it stand 
 Within the order of things possible, 
 How hard soe'er, declare it. 
 
 L. Jun. Now, my son, 
 Should the great Gods, who made me what thou 
 
 seest, 
 Repent, and in their vengeance cast upon me 
 The burden of my senses back again 
 What would'st thou say ? 
 
 Tit. Oh, my lamented father, 
 Would the kind Gods restore to thee thy reason 
 
 L, Jun. Then, Titus, then I should be mad 
 with reason. 
 Had I the sense to know myself a Roman, 
 This hand should tear this heart from out my ribs,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 15 
 
 Ere it should own allegiance to a tyrant. 
 If, therefore, thou dost love me, pray the Gods 
 To keep me what I am Where all are slaves, 
 None but the fool is happy. " 
 
 Tit. We are Romans, 
 Not slaves. 
 
 L. Jun. Indeed ! why, who art thou ? 
 
 Tit. Thy son. 
 Dost thou not know me ? 
 
 L. Jun. You abuse my folly. 
 I know thee not Wert thou my son, ye 
 
 Gods ! 
 Thou would'st tear off this sycophantic robe, 
 Tuck up thy tunic, trim these curled locks 
 To the short warrior cut, vault on thy steed ; 
 Then, scampering thro' the city, call to arms 
 And shout for liberty 
 
 Tit. Defend me, Gods ! [Starts. 
 
 L. Jun. Hah ! does it stagger thee ? 
 
 Tit. For liberty ? 
 Said'st thou for liberty ? It cannot be. 
 
 L. Jun. Indeed ! 'tis well No more. 
 
 Tit. What would my father ? 
 
 L. Jun. Begone, you trouble me. 
 
 Tit. Nay, do not scorn me. 
 
 L. Jun. Said I for liberty? I said it not: 
 The awful word breath'd in a coward's ear 
 Were sacrilege to utter. Hence, begone ! 
 Said I you were my son ? 'Tis false : I'm foolish ; 
 My brain is weak and wanders; you abuse it. 
 
 Tit. Ah, do not leave me ; not in anger leave 
 me! 
 
 L. Jun. Anger ? what's that ? I am content 
 with folly ; 
 Anger is madness, and above my aim. [Music, 
 Hark ! here is music for thee, food for love, 
 And beauty to serve in the rich repast.
 
 16 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tarquinia comes. Go, worship the bright sun, 
 And let poor Brutus wither in the shade. [E.vif. 
 Tit. Oh, truly said 1 bright as the goldeu sun 
 Tarquiuia's beauty beams, and I adore. 
 
 Soft music. Tarquinia enters, preceded by Dam- 
 sels bearing a Crown of gold, some with Censers, 
 8$c. proper for the Ceremonials of a dedication to 
 Fortune. 
 
 What dedication or what holy service 
 Doth the fair client of the Gods provide, 
 Decking their shrines, and with these dulcet 
 
 sounds 
 Making the fane harmonious? Mighty Jove, 
 Is there in thy celestial synod one, 
 Who will not listen to Tarquinia's prayer? 
 
 Tar. I go to Fortune's temple, there to kneel 
 Before the blazing altar, and suspend 
 Upon the votive shrine this golden crown. 
 While incense fills the fane, and holy hymns 
 Are chanted for my brothers' safe return, 
 When the consenting Goddess smiles upon me, 
 What shall I ask for Titus ? 
 
 Tit. Though the Goddess, 
 In her blind bounty, should unthrone the world, 
 To make me one vast empire, my ambition, 
 If by thy love unblest, would slight the gift : 
 Therefore of Fortune I have nought to ask, 
 She hath no interest in Tarquinia's heart; 
 Nature, not Fortune, must befriend me there. 
 
 Tar. Well hast thou said : Chance rules not 
 my affections ; 
 And, as 1 think thy heart like mine is true, 
 Truth with its own reflection must agree, 
 Honour to honour, love accord to love, 
 And I to Titus.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 17 
 
 Tit. Oh, support me, Gods ! 
 Am I so blest above all human kind ? 
 Pitied, approv'd, belov'd ? And may this heart, 
 So long the victim of conflicting passions, 
 At length repose in hope ? 
 
 Tar. Now hear and mark me 
 Impressions, which low minds are taught to hide, 
 My soul, superior to reserve, avows ; 
 Fearing no insult I affect no art : 
 Thy gentle manners, Titus, have endear'd thee, 
 Although a subject Roman, to Tarquinia : 
 My brother Sextus wears thee next his heart; 
 The queen herself of all our courtly youth 
 First in her favour holds the noble Titus : 
 And though my royal father well may keep 
 A jealous eye upon thy Junian race, 
 A race unfriendly to the name of King, 
 Yet thee he cherishes, with generous joy 
 The monarch sees thy early virtue shoot, 
 And with a parent's fondness rears its growth. 
 
 Tit, Sweet fruits are sometimes couch'd in 
 bitter rinds, 
 So is my love within a hostile name ; 
 But neither name, nor nature, nor the voice 
 Of my lost father, could he wake to reason, 
 Not all the wrongs that tyranny could pile 
 On my afflicted head, not all the praise 
 That patriot gratitude could shower upon me, 
 Can shake the faithful purpose of my heart, 
 To sever it from love and my Tarquinia. 
 
 Tar. Tis well 1 but ere you bind my faith, 
 reflect! 
 You say your father, should he wake to reason, 
 Could not divide you from me; have you set 
 His awful form in a prospective view ? 
 Can you resist the terrors of his voice, 
 If in a tone oracular he warn you 
 voi. i. C
 
 18 THE SYBIL, 
 
 To shake off this soft passion ? Who can say 
 When this new inspiration may arouse him? 
 
 Tit. The time I know not, but myself I know: 
 This life may he extinguished, and the heart 
 Must cease to beat, when death will have it so; 
 But whilst I live, I live to thee alone. 
 
 Tar. Approve that firmness in the shock of 
 trials, 
 And if my love can recompense thy virtue, 
 Nor tortures, nor temptations, nor the wreck 
 Of Rome and empire shall divide me from thee. 
 To this I pledge my hand. Now to the temple. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. J9 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The Capitol. The Equestrian Statue of Tarquin. 
 
 Night. 
 
 The Sybil. 
 
 Now, in this dead and secret hour of night, 
 Tarquin, on hellish violation bent, 
 With silent tread steals to the innocent couch 
 Of chaste Lucretia Think not, ravisher, 
 Indignant virtue shall survive pollution; 
 By her own hand a Roman wife can fall. 
 Now, Brutus, throw thy mask of folly off; 
 Father of freedom, Rome's deliverer, rise; 
 Put fire into the languid souls of men, 
 Let loose your ministers of wrath amongst them, 
 And mark this hideous night with ruin, Gods ! 
 Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove, 
 Nor let that vaunting tyrant proudly ride 
 In presence of thy temple. Strike him down, 
 Ye lightnings! lay his trophies in the dust, 
 And vindicate the majesty of justice. 
 Hark! 'tis begun ! flash, ye blue, forked fires! 
 Loud-bursting thunders, roar ! and tremble, 
 Earth ! [Exit 
 
 [Thunder and Lightning during which the 
 Statue of Tarquin is struck down to the 
 Earth. 
 
 Sextus Tarquinius and Vitellius. 
 
 Fit. Was ever night so dreadful? 
 Sar. None so blest :
 
 20 THE SYBIL, 
 
 A proud reluctant beauty I have master'd, 
 And the kind Gods I thank them for the favour 
 With their own music crown my triumphs 
 Hark ! [Thunder. 
 
 Vit. What do I see ? your father's statue fallen, 
 Unhors'd and headless Gods, avert the omen ! 
 The Capitol's great founder laid thus low- 
 By Jove's own thunder at the basest foot 
 Of the proud pile he rear'd. 
 
 Sex. Oh, father Tarquin, 
 Put from all use religion amongst men ; 
 Down with the shrines of the unthankful Gods, 
 Who, whilst we rear immortal fanes to them, 
 Strike at our brittle trophies, nor allow us 
 The frail memorial of a few short years. 
 
 Vit. The elements are out of course, the hea- 
 vens, 
 As if in anger at the impenitent earth, 
 On the Tarquinian mount rain'd blood. 
 
 Sex. Away ! 
 Haunt me no more with omens I'm secure;. 
 The proud, the virtuous, the untam'd Lucretia 
 Is let these conscious lightnings tell you what 
 The torches of accommodating night, 
 That usher'd. Jove to Semele The moon, 
 She too amidst the tumult, she at times 
 Her maid'nish mantle put aside and gaz'd, 
 Wishfully gaz'd loud thunders roll'd the whilst, 
 And echo'd heavenly plaudits to my joys. 
 
 Vit. What hast thou done ? declare ! 
 
 Sex. What have I done ? 
 What the sun does, that amorous reveller, 
 When through the harrier of the frozen north 
 Flaming he bursts: Springand the laughing Hours 
 Look on, and scatter roses in the lap 
 Of marriageable Earth : he all the whilst, 
 With glowing cheeks and kisses kindling fire,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 21 
 
 r 
 
 Rifles her sweets ; the winter in her veins, 
 The snows that on her unsmircht bosom lie, 
 Melt at the quick'ning touch So came the son 
 Of Tarquin, burning fierce with hot desires, 
 To chaste Lucretia's chamber 
 
 Vit. Oh, no more ! 
 Imagination cannot feign an act 
 So horrible as this. I tell thee, Prince, 
 If thou hast wrong'd this matron 
 
 Sex. If I've wrong'd her 
 If be accurst henceforth all peevish scruples, 
 All honourable folly ! Still I press'd, 
 Still she refus'd, and ran through all the maze 
 Of womanish evasion: Fir'd at length 
 I threaten'd force ; she rail'd, aud in a tone^ 
 Of high declamatory virtue call'd 
 On heav'n and earth I seiz'dher frantic then, 
 And louder than the Pythian priestess grown, 
 She shriek'd out Collatinus! Husband, help! 
 A slave rush'd in I sprung upon the caitiff, 
 And drove my dagger through his clam'rous 
 
 throat; 
 Then turning to Lucretia, now half dead 
 With terror, swore by all the gods at once, 
 If she resisted, to the heart I'd stab her, 
 Yoke her fair body to the dying slave, 
 And then, with dreadful imprecations, after 
 Rivet pollution to her name for ever. 
 
 Vit. Oh deed, that whelms in ruin all your 
 hopes, 
 And gives your name to general execration 
 Till time shall be no more : Take leave of peace, 
 Bid honour, empire, Rome farewell for ever. 
 Hark, they are up! That yell of female slaves 
 Bursts from Lucretia's house She dies, she dies ! 
 And see the frantic husband ! 
 
 Sex, Mad as Nessus.
 
 22 THE SYBIL, 
 
 A single arm cannot oppose a host ; 
 Courage must yield to numbers Give him way ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Collatinus, followed by Valerius and sundry 
 others. 
 
 Col. Friends, citizens of Rome, avenge my 
 cause ! 
 Shake off inglorious sleep and seize your arms 
 Lucretia dies she bleeds for Rome and you. 
 Revenge, revenge ! 
 
 Val. My noble friend and kinsman, 
 To you and to your cause Valerius vows 
 Faith and affiance, till this direful act 
 Shall be aton'd with judgment on th' offender; 
 But let me counsel you to calm this passion; 
 Loud cries avail us nothing. 
 
 Col. Call my slaves, 
 Provide me lights, and on a funeral bier 
 Place her pale corpse, and so let ail go forth. 
 It cannot be but dead Lucretia's wound 
 Shall plead most eloquently. 
 
 Vat. Be it so! 
 Retire we for that purpose. 
 
 Brutus appears. 
 
 Col. Hah ! what's that ? 
 L. Jun. A thing not worth a name. 
 Val. 'Tis Lucius Junius : 
 Pass on and stay him not The hour is precious. 
 [Exeunt Col. Val. and Servants. 
 L. Jun. [contemplating the fallen Statue. ] Fall'n 
 idol, art thou laid thus low? Tis well. 
 For this I thank you, Gods, that when you point 
 Your shafts at human pride, it is not chance,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 25 
 
 'Tis wisdom levels the commission'd blow. 
 But I, a thing of no account, a slave 
 I to your forked lightnings bare my bosom 
 In vain for what's a slave, a dastard slave, 
 A fool, a Brutus? Hark ! the storm rides on, 
 The scolding winds drive through the clattering 
 
 rain, 
 And loudly screams the haggard witch of night. 
 Why should this Collatings quit his pillow 
 And breast the thunder, when his soft-arm'd wife 
 Might wrap him in Elysium? As I pss\l 
 His doors but now, the south indeed blew high, 
 And yet methought I heard a screaming yell 
 Louder than all the storm. My thoughts grow 
 
 wild, 
 Engender with the scene, and pant for action. 
 With your leave, Majesty, I'll sit beside you 
 
 [Sits on the fatten Statue* 
 And ruminate awhile Oh ! for a cause, 
 A cause, just Gods ! Soft you, what stir is this? 
 
 Valerius enters with Attendants. 
 
 Val. By Numa's altar on the Caelian mount 
 Dwells Caius Quintius the pontifical: 
 Bear him this writing Be not put aside 
 With the stale shifts of lazy servitors, 
 But do thine errand boldly This to Tatius ! 
 This to my son-in-law Fabricius! This, 
 And above all, to the plebeian Decius ; 
 You'll find him at the house of Servius Cotta. 
 In the old square west of Diana's grove 
 By Rhea's fountain Haste and tell my friends 
 With Collatinus I expect their coming. 
 Pray them to use their earliest speed. Away ! 
 
 [Exeunt attendants severally, 
 
 L. Jun. Valerius Hoa !
 
 24 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Val. Who calls me ? 
 
 L. Jun. Brutus. 
 
 Val. Go! 
 Get thee to sleep. [Val. is departing. 
 
 L. Jun. Valerius ! 
 
 Val. Peace ! I say, 
 Thou foolish thing. Why dost thou call so loud? 
 
 L. Jun. Because I would be heard. The time 
 may come 
 When thou shalt want a fool. 
 
 Val. Prithee, begone! 
 I have no time to hear thy prattle now. 
 
 L. Jun. By Hercules, but you must hear. 
 
 [Rises and advances. 
 
 Val. You'll anger me. 
 
 L. Jun. Waste not your noble anger on a fool. 
 'Twere a brave passion in a better cause. 
 
 Val. Thy folly's cause enough. 
 
 L. Jun. Rail not at folly. 
 Tis a convenient cloak to hide a slave : 
 Cast off this idle trick of anger from you; 
 Dance to the music of your chains, as I do, 
 A merry measure, laugh aloud and live, 
 Not by your wits, that were to starve in Rome, 
 Where the whole mass and congregation breathes 
 Exquisite folly ; each sense savours of it, 
 Sight, taste, touch all is fool There's but one 
 
 wise, 
 And him the Gods have kill'd. 
 
 Val. Kill'd whom ? 
 
 L. Jun. Behold ! 
 Oh ! sight of pity Majesty in ruins 
 Down on your knees; down to your kingly idol ! 
 
 Val. Let slaves and sycophants do that ; not I. 
 
 L. Jun. Wilt thou not kneel ? 
 
 Val. Begone ; you trouble me. 
 Valerius kneels not to the living Tarquin.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 25 
 
 L. Jun. Indeed ! belike you wish him laid as 
 low. 
 
 Val. What if I do? 
 
 L. Jun. Jove tells thee what to do 
 Strike ! Oh ! the difference 'twixt Jove's wrath 
 
 and thine ! 
 He at the crowned tyrant aims his shaft, 
 Thou, mighty man, would'st frown a fool to 
 
 silence, 
 And spurn poor Brutus from thee. 
 
 Val What is this ? 
 Let me look nearer at thee. Is thy mind, 
 That long lost jewel, found, and Lucius Junius 
 Dear to my heart restor'd ? or art thou Brutus, 
 The scoff and jest of Rome, and this a fit 
 Of intermittent reason r 
 
 L. Jun. I am Brutus. 
 Folly, be thou my Goddess ! I am Brutus. 
 If thou wilt use me, so ! If not, farewell. 
 Why dost thou pause? Look on me! I have 
 
 limbs, 
 Parts and proportions, shoulders strong to bear, 
 And hands not slow to strike. What more than 
 
 Brutus 
 Could Lucius Junius do? 
 
 Val. A cause like ours 
 Asks both the strength of Brutus and the wisdom 
 Of Lucius Junius. 
 
 L. Jun. Tell not me of wisdom ; 
 If there be no part that a fool can act, 
 A very foolish cause you have, good cousin. 
 Hah ! what slow-moving train of fiery shapes 
 Visits the sleeping night? Is mine eye faithful, 
 Or was it but the error of the time ? 
 And hark ! a groan. Who and what are they ? 
 
 Val. Romans; 
 Sad, mournful men, a family of woe;
 
 26 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Thy friends and kinsmen once. Oh ! Brutus, 
 
 Brutus, 
 Wert thou not soul-enslav'd, to all sense lest, 
 More dull and sordid than the trodden earth, 
 They have a tale to tell 
 
 [The Body of Lucretia is brought in upon a bier, 
 attended by a numerous train bearing torches. 
 
 Collatinus and other Romans. 
 
 L. Jun. Stand, hoa ! there ; stand ! 
 Your burden of mortality set down, 
 And answer yield me what dead thing you carry; 
 Why at this hour come ye like spectres rather 
 From fiery Phlegethon, than men and Romans? 
 Speak ; Brutus questions. 
 
 Col. Noisy fool, avaunt! 
 Thrust him aside, and pass. 
 
 Val. Do him no wrong ; 
 But if thy griefs will let thee, pause awhile, 
 And as thy friends and neighbours stand around 
 
 thee, 
 Kind-hearted Romans, whom thy loud lament- 
 
 ings, 
 Spite of Jove's thunder, have this night unhous'd, 
 Speak thy full sorrows ! 
 
 Col. Set the body down- 
 Hard task and heavy, Romans, you impose; 
 But since it is your pleasure to demand 
 Why we your peaceful slumbers have invaded 
 With cries above the storm Simply 'tis this 
 Lucretia's dead Bear with me for a while 
 
 [IVeeps. 
 
 L. Jun. Lucretia dead ! 
 
 Col. There on that bier she sleeps 
 Never again to wake ; a beauteous flower, 
 An innocent sweet rose, by trie rude hand
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 27 
 
 Of violence pluckt up Oh Gods, oh Gods! 
 
 She was the mark and model of the time, 
 
 The mould in which each female face was form'd 
 
 To look like her ; she was the very shrine 
 
 And sacristy of virtue: every knee, 
 
 Whilst the Gods went unworshipt, bent to her: 
 
 You all can witness, when that she went forth 
 
 It was a holiday in Rome ; old age 
 
 Forgot its crutch, labour its task, all ran, 
 
 And mothers turning to their daughters cried 
 
 There, there's Lucretia ! Give me, ye blest 
 
 Powers, 
 A daughter like Lucretia, other boon 
 I ask not, great Disposers ! 
 
 L. Jun. Under favour, 
 You straggle from the point at which we stick. 
 Speak of the manner of her death, soj)lease you; 
 Leave numb'ring her perfections, which we knew, 
 And knew as numberless, as if you strove 
 To sum up grain by grain the countless sand 
 On the surf-beaten shore These things to tell 
 
 us 
 Argues no thrift of words. 
 
 1 Rom. Hear the fool, neighbours, 
 How gravely he declaims 
 
 2. Rom. And wisely too. 
 Since he hath been at Delphi he speaks oracles. 
 
 3 Rom. Can this be Lucius Junius ? 
 
 1 Rom. List again ! 
 
 L. Jun. If Nature's hand hath cropt this early 
 flower, 
 Why do we grieve? for it was Nature's giving; 
 And these deep sobs wrung from your bleeding 
 
 heart 
 She, your stern creditor, exacts as usance 
 For her imparted loan. In one plain word, 
 If she came fairly by her death, declare it,
 
 28 THE SYBIL, 
 
 And so dismiss us to our beds at once 
 From the night air If not, proceed ! 
 
 Col. Oh friends, 
 This night, this fatal night, from Ardea's walls 
 Wing'd with fond speed I came. I found her, 
 
 Romans, 
 Not deckt as she was wont with nuptial smiles, 
 Love's proper greeting, but transform'd with woe, 
 A spectacle to start from : On her cheek, 
 In place of rosy health, a turbid spot 
 Of livid purple burn'd, in her sunk eyes 
 Despair sate deep-engulph'd ; rous'd at my cries 
 She rais'd her head, and in a voice once sweet 
 And tunable as young Apollo's lyre, 
 Now hoarse and crackt with horror, bade me fly, 
 Fly her polluted arms, which damned lust 
 And brutal violation had defiPd. 
 
 L.Jun. Hah! violation Do we dwell in dens, 
 Caverns and rocks, or amongst men in Rome? 
 Lives he who wrong'dLucretia? Speak; declare! 
 
 1 Rom. How steadily he questions ! 
 
 2 Rom. Mark his eye, 
 
 What a new form he wears ! Answer to Brutus. 
 
 Col. He lives who did the wrong. 
 
 L. Jun. Oh shame, shame, shame ! 
 Romans, your courage sleeps. 'Tis not fornothing 
 The Thunderer keeps this coil above your heads. 
 Rise, snatch your arms, and you, much injur'd 
 
 Roman, 
 Give us to know the wretch, who dar'd defile 
 This lifeless innocent. 
 
 Col. Sextus Tarquinius. 
 
 L, Jun. To the moon, folly? Vengeance, I 
 embrace thee ! 
 
 Col. Hah! 'tis the inspiration of the Gods 
 Speaks with thy organs. Can'st t|.iou pardon, Brutus, 
 What in the phrenzy of my grief I utter'd ?
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 29 
 
 L. Jun. I heeded not your phrenzy, nor your 
 grief; 
 Your cause, your cause is all. How died Lucretia? 
 
 Col. By her own hand she died 
 
 L. Jun. Heroic matron ! 
 
 Col. Here is the dagger ! On its bloody point 
 Her life's last drops yet hang 
 
 L. Jun. Give me the dagger ! 
 Come, let me grasp it Hail, thou sacred wea- 
 pon, t 
 Virtue's deliverer, hail ! With this sharp steel, 
 Empurpled with the purest blood on earth 
 I cut your chains of slavery asunder. 
 Hear, Romans, hear ! did not the Sybil tell you, 
 A fool should set Rome free? I am that fool; 
 Brutus bids Rome be free. 
 
 Col. Oh glorious Brutus, 
 Thus let me press thee to my aching heart; 
 Thus weeping on thy neck adore the Gods, 
 Who have restor'd thee to avenge my wrongs, 
 And in my wrongs my country. 
 
 L. Jun. Peace ; be still. 
 Think not to melt me by this woman's wailing. 
 No; one perpetual, one relentless frown 
 Shall sear up this fixt brow, nor shall my heart 
 E'er beat a peaceful measure, these rude locks 
 Feel the disposer's touch, till I have buried 
 This dagger in the lewd adulterer's heart. 
 
 1 Rom. Live, Brutus, valiant Brutus ! Down 
 
 with Tarquin ! 
 
 2 Rom. We'll have no Tarquins. We will have 
 
 a Brutus. 
 
 3 Rom. Let's to the Capitol, and shout for 
 
 Brutus. 
 L. Jun. I your king ! 
 Brutus your king ! no, fellow citizens, 
 If mad ambition in this guilty frame
 
 SO THE SYBIL, 
 
 Had strung one kingly fibre, yea but one, 
 By all the Gods, this dagger which I hold 
 Should rip it out, tho' it entwin'd my heart. 
 
 Val. Then I am with thee, noble, noble Brutus! 
 Brutus the new restor'd, Brutus by Sybil, 
 By Pythian prophetess foretold, shall lead us. 
 L. Jun. Now take the body up ! Bear it be- 
 fore us 
 To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our 
 
 torches, 
 And in the blazing conflagration rear 
 A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send 
 Her soul amongst the stars. On ! Brutus leads 
 you.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 31 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 A Court belonging to Tarquin's Palace. In the 
 front a grand entrance, with Jo/ding Gates closed, 
 
 Tullia with a Soldier. 
 
 Tul. Where is the prefect, who commands our 
 guards ? 
 Why don't you sally and disperse these rioters ? 
 Sold. Madam, the insurgents have repuls'd 
 your guard ; 
 The western gate is forc'd ; Flavius Corunna, 
 The captain of the watch, is kill'd amongst them. 
 Tul. Go, tell the carrion slaves if they persist 
 I'll have their heads upon the gates this night; 
 But if they'll come like sober citizens 
 At noon, the prsetor shall redress their wrongs. 
 
 [Exit Soldier. 
 Sextus enters. 
 
 Tul. You have done well, sir ! was it not enough 
 To have your range through all our willing dames, 
 But you must 9tain an honourable bed, 
 And force our noblest matron? 
 
 Sex. What's my crime r 
 What have I done but what Rome's founder did ? 
 Our Sabine mothers made not half this coil, 
 When by their lusty ravishers compell'd 
 They peopled Rome by rapes. 
 
 Tul. Lucretia's dead. 
 
 Sex. The more fool she to die for such a toy. 
 
 Tul. I tell thee, madman, thou hast torn by 
 the roots
 
 52 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Thy father's empire up. Where are thy senses ? 
 Dost thou not see ; canst thou not hear ? All 
 
 Rome 
 Is up in arms and thundering at our gates 
 For just revenge. 
 
 Sex. Revenge ! Our slaves our masters ? 
 Imperial Deities, revenge for slaves ? 
 Give them the torture ; send them to the Furies, 
 And let them learn revenge of those who teach it. 
 
 Roman Soldier returns. 
 
 Sold. All's lost ! The palace is in flames ; nor 
 threats, 
 Nor supplications move ; the frantic throng 
 Madder than bacchanalians toss their brands 
 And spread the blaze around ; they thirst for 
 
 blood, 
 Prince, for thy blood. 
 
 Sex. My blood ! By father Mars, 
 They shall not buy a drop from out these veins, 
 But at a price shall make them rue the purchase. 
 
 [Draws his sword and rushes out, followed by the 
 soldier. 
 
 Tul. Gods! whither shall a frantic mother fly? 
 Accursed seige of Ardea ! Oh, one cohort, 
 That I had here one cohort! Tarquin, Tarquin, 
 Where art thou? save thy wife, thy son, thy city ! 
 Ah ! if amidst my legions I might fall, 
 Death were not then inglorious ; but to perish 
 By the vile scum of Rome, hunted by dogs, 
 Baited to death by brawling base mechanics 
 Shame insupportable ! 
 
 Titus enters. 
 Tit. What is this rage ?
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 33 
 
 Whence are these rioters that storm your 
 palace ? 
 
 Tul. Rome as one man revolts. Heav'n guard 
 our lives ! 
 Why come you thus alone ? Where is Tarquinia ? 
 
 Tit. Lo, where she stands immovable, aghast, 
 Listening the shock. I do but fly for succour. 
 Where is the prince ; where's Sextus ? 
 
 Tul. Where ? Oh heavens ! 
 His madness hath undone us. Where is Sextus? 
 Perhaps ev'n now the barbarous ruffians hurl 
 
 him 
 Alive into the flames, or piecemeal drag 
 Along the streets his mangled trunk 
 
 Tit. No more. 
 Let me go forth. 
 
 Vitelltus meets and stops him, 
 
 Vit. Turn, noble Roman, turn; 
 Set not your life upon a desperate stake. 
 Fly, seize the moment, wretched queen, and fly ! 
 Hark, they are at your gates 1 [A shout. 
 
 Tul. Is my son slain ? 
 
 Vit. Furious he sprang upon the rabble throng, 
 And hew'd his desperate passage ; but the time 
 Admits no further question Save yourself ! 
 
 Tul. I was not born to fly. Let the tide enter: 
 Let the vile rabble look upon the eyes 
 Of majesty, and tremble. 
 
 Vit. They are mad ; 
 Nay, more than mad : 'Tis phrenzy multiplied, 
 When a fool leads them on. 
 
 Tul. Hah ! say what fool ? 
 
 Vit. Your new-nam'd fool, your Brutus. 
 
 Tit. Death ! my father 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tul. Oh Sybil! Oh my fate! Farewell to 
 greatness ! 
 I've heard my doom. Tis past. 
 
 Tit. Earth, earth inclose me ! 
 Where shall I hide my shame? 
 
 Tul. Haste to Tarquinia. 
 If there be yet a spark of nature left 
 In thy stern father's bosom, call it forth, 
 And keep destruction off 
 
 Tit. Or die defending. [Exit. 
 
 Tul. It comes, it bursts upon us See ! we fall, 
 [The Gate is burst open, and a magnificent 
 edifice is discovered inflames. 
 We sink. Rome's glory moulders into ashes ; 
 Round her gilt domes the serpent flames ascend 
 And hiss her to perdition. Open, earth, 
 Yawn to the pit of Acheron, and gulph 
 Me and mankind at once. Come, snaky Furies, 
 Lash us with fire from Pluto's hottest forge, 
 And desolation swallow all things up. 
 
 [Brutus is seen amidst the ruins with followers. 
 Hah ! art thou come ? Do I behold thee, Brutus ? 
 Horrid prediction! Fool, that art my fate; 
 
 [He advances. 
 Vulture of Caucasus, that gnaw'st my heart ! 
 Barbarian, stop ! what seek'st thou? 
 
 L Jun. Justice; vengeance. 
 
 Tut. Vengeance on whom ? 
 
 L Jun. Thee and thy guilty race. 
 Lucretia's murder'd spirit will have vengeance: 
 A husband frantic with his wrongs, a father 
 Broken with grief and bending to his grave, 
 These and a suffering nation cry for justice. 
 
 Tul. Is this your justice ? Look upon these 
 flames. 
 Have I deserv'd this? Hath your absent king?
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 35 
 
 L. Jun. Tarquins, we cast you from us. Where 
 is Sextus ? 
 Yield up your son and live. 
 
 Tul. Thou fool unnatural ! 
 Senseless of soul, dost think I am that monster 
 To yield my son to thee ? No, not for worlds ; 
 Not for a thousand lives, had I so many; 
 Nor could I if I would : Thank'd be the Gods, 
 There lives of my brave race to crush thy treason, 
 Audacious rebel ! 
 
 L. Jun. Seize the parricide ! 
 
 ]They advance and surround her. 
 
 Tul. Avaunt! I am your queen. 
 
 L. Jun. They have no queen. 
 You reign no longer. In those fires you see 
 The funeral pile of royalty. 
 
 Tul. Away! 
 Give me a sword, and let me fall like Tullia. 
 
 L. Jun. No, we reserve our swords for nobler 
 uses 
 Than to make war with women : To the Tarquins, 
 To your adulterous son we leave that shame. 
 
 Tul. If then 'twill better sate thy cruelty, 
 Precipitate me quick into those flames, 
 And with the wreck of empire mix my ashes. 
 
 L. Jun. Nor that, nor other death expect from 
 us. 
 Take her to Rhaea's temple, take her hence, 
 And lodge her with her ancestors. 
 
 Tul Ye Gods, 
 My father's sepulchre I'll not approach it. 
 
 L. Jun. 'Twill furnish wholesome recollection. 
 Hence! 
 
 Tul. Not to that fatal place send me not 
 thither. 
 
 L. Jun. 'Tis fixt. 
 
 Vit. Will Brutus hear an ancient friend? 
 DS
 
 36 THE SYBIL, 
 
 L. Jun. Brutus will hear ; but Brutus owns no 
 friend, 
 ^That leagues not with him in the cause of justice. 
 
 Tut. Choose the most loathsome dungeon 
 there confine me, 
 Or give me death instead. My heart recoils 
 Against that temple. 
 
 L. Jun. There, and only there, 
 By your dead father's tomb, you must abide 
 The judgment of the state. 
 
 Tul. Then by the Gods, 
 Whom for the last time I invoke, whose shrines 
 I've incens'd o'er and o'er, though now forsaken, 
 Now at my utmost need Nor earth, nor air, 
 Nor the wide sea from its unbounded stores, 
 Shall minister support ; if no means else 
 Of ready death present themselves, I'll starve; 
 No particle of food shall pass these lips, 
 Till, in the void of nature, hungry madness 
 With blank oblivion ent'ring shall confound 
 And cancel all perception Now lead on ! 
 
 [Exeunt Tul. and Fit. with guards. 
 
 Valerius to Brutus. 
 
 L. Jun. Hail to my friend ! smile not these 
 ruins on thee ? 
 
 Val. Yes, Brutus ; yet it is not in these fires, 
 The yells of dying wretches, nor the crash 
 Of falling palaces Valerius joys ; 
 It is the day-spring of reviving freedom, 
 The dawn of brighter hopes that chears my 
 
 bosom, 
 And makes these terrors pass away like clouds 
 Before the uprising sun. 
 
 L. Jun. For me, Valerius, 
 Come danger in what hideous Ihape it may,
 
 
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 37 
 
 Come death, I reck not, so I may bequeath 
 To my son's sons deliverance and redemption 
 From the dire race of Tarquin. We have now 
 Far overleapt discretion, and must swim 
 To the glad shore, where beck'ning fortune stands, 
 Or perish in the gnlph wherein we've plung'd. 
 
 Veil. Then let us on together, noble Brutus, 
 And breast the torrent. Our assembled friends 
 With Tarquin's spoils have rear'd a mighty pile 
 For dead Lucretia. They expect our coming. 
 
 L. Jun. Proceed : I'll follow thee. [Exit Val. 
 
 Titus meets Brutus as he is going off. 
 
 Tit. Turn, Oh my father, 
 And look upon thy son. 
 
 L. Jun. What wouldst thou ? speak ! 
 
 Tit. Yes, if amidst these horrors I can find 
 Courage to give my agonies a voice. 
 
 L. Jun. No more of this be brief and to the 
 point. 
 
 Tit. If thou hast reason, oh, have mercy also! 
 But if in madness thou hast done this deed 
 
 L. Jun. I am not mad but as the lion is, 
 When he breaks down the toils, that tyrant craft 
 Hath spread to catch him. Think not we will 
 
 suffer 
 These monsters to profane the air of heaven 
 With their unholy breath. Is there a heart 
 Within one Roman bosom does not pant 
 With ardour to avenge Lucretia's death ? 
 
 lit. Justice demands atonement for the deed; 
 But is this justice? 
 
 L. Jun. At the birth of freedom 
 Frantic and wild are the first struggling throes, 
 That cast the mighty embryo on the world : 
 Cradled in blood the herculean infant lies,
 
 38 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Till with maturer years he casts the slough 
 And film of imperfection ; Peace and justice 
 And comely order welcome his approach, 
 And loves and graces triumph in his train. 
 
 Tit. What mighty project labours in thy bosom ? 
 Horror pervades my soul. 
 
 L. Jun. The time is short, 
 And other calls than nature's must be serv'd. 
 There is some lurking passion at thy heart, 
 Something which sets thy faculties at variance, 
 And leaves but half a soul for Rome and me. 
 Art thou my son ? 
 
 Tit. Be witness for me, nature, 
 I am; but, till the Gods restor'd thy reason, 
 I was an orphan with a living father 
 
 L. Jun. Go on; confess thy weakness and 
 dismiss it. 
 
 Tit. Twas in the sleep of my dear father's 
 reason, 
 When Tarquin's freedman in a saucy mood 
 Vented vile jests at thy unhappy weakness, 
 Stung to the quick, I snatch'd a weapon up 
 And f el I'd him to my foot. 
 
 L. Jun. Why, 'twas well done. 
 The knave was saucy and you slew him On ! 
 
 Tit. 'Twas on this very spot Tarquinia stood, 
 And when her wrathful father had denounc'd 
 Immediate death on this my filial act, 
 She, with the tongue of interceding pity, 
 And tears that stream'd in concert with her suit, 
 Implor'd, prevail'd, and gave me life and love. 
 
 L. Jun. 'Tis well 1 behold, I give her life for life : 
 Rome may be free altho' Tarquinia lives. 
 This I concede ; but more if thou attemptest, 
 If, in dishonour of my great design, 
 Mine and thy fame thou damn'st at this great 
 hour
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 39 
 
 With any boyish weakness if thou waverest 
 By all the Gods !-*-Nay, it" thou dost not take 
 Her image, tho' with smiling Cupids deck'd, 
 And pluck it from thy heart, there to receive 
 Rome and her glories in without a rival, 
 Thou art no son of mine, thou art no Roman 
 Nay, mark me, Titus ! thou art lost thou'rt 
 
 dead. [Exit. 
 
 Tit. Where is that power in nature, that can 
 
 pluck 
 Her image from my bosom ? Can the voice 
 Of a descended God command it from me? 
 It cannot be : these horrors that surround me, 
 This awful interdiction, the dread frown 
 Of a stern father, now transform 'd from less 
 To more than man, all, all in vain conspire 
 To tear away her chains ; a look, a word, 
 The gentlest breath, that whispers to my ear 
 The music of her voice, enslaves my sense, 
 And charms down all resistance. Hah 1 she 
 
 comes, 
 And sorrowing comes Had I not love enough 
 Without the aid of pity to augment it ? 
 Fatally sad she looks 
 
 Tarquinia enters. 
 
 Tarquinia, speak ! 
 Speak, thou too beauteous mourner ! 
 
 Tar. I attend 
 To know if this sad crisis will decide 
 For truth or treason ; if the son of Brutus 
 Will take me to his pity and protection, 
 Or stab with perfidy the heart that loves him. 
 
 Tit. Cruel suspicion ! Do my eyes inspire 
 Thoughts of such horror ? beam they not upon 
 thee
 
 40 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Unutterable fondness ? Oh ! thou dear one, 
 I live but to preserve thee. * 
 
 Tar. To what end 
 Am I preserv'd ? I will not breathe the air 
 That rank rebellion taints, nor live one hour 
 Longer than Tarquin's daughter ought to live. 
 
 Tit. Banish these gloomy thoughts : dear to 
 my soul 
 Your honour as your person. You are free : 
 I have my father's sanction for your safety. 
 
 Tar. Insolent sanction ! Thou should'st not 
 have ask'd 
 My life of Brutus. 
 
 Tit. Not have ask'd thy life ? 
 Say rather I should not have been his son : 
 But 'twas the will of nature, and has made me 
 So hateful to thee, thou would'st sooner die 
 Than live in safety, at my suit preserv'd. 
 
 Tar. I scorn a life that is preserv'd by Brutus; 
 I scorn to outlive parents, brothers, friends, 
 And stand like some lone column in a desart, 
 Pointing where late a princely city rose. 
 No ; ITi not live a solitary relict, 
 A walking pageant to swell out the train 
 Of some proud demagogue, whom I must thank 
 For charitable air ; I'll die with those 
 Whom this dire night hath murder'd. 
 
 Tit. Who are murder'd ? 
 Whom hath the sword of Brutus slain ? Not one 
 Of all thy kindred 
 
 Tar. Say'st thou? Lives my mother? 
 
 Tit. She lives and Sextus, even he escapes 
 The storm, which he has rais'd, and flies to 
 Ardea. 
 
 Tar. Speed him, ye winds, with eagle swift- 
 ness thither ! 
 And may those thunders, that now shake the wall*
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 41 
 
 Of tottering Ardea, like a whirlwind burst 
 
 On this devoted city, whelm its towers, 
 
 And crush the traitorous hive beneath their 
 
 ruins. 
 Now, Titus, where is now thy promis'd faith? 
 Did'st thou not swear no dangers should divide 
 us? 
 
 Tit. I did ; and, constant to my oath, behold me 
 Thy faithful guardian in this night of terrors. 
 
 Tar, Be still my guardian ; snatch me from 
 these terrors, 
 Bear me to Ardea, be the friend of nature, 
 And give the rescued daughter to the arms 
 Of her protecting parent ; thus you gain 
 The praise of men, the blessing of the Gods, 
 And all that honour, all that love can grant. 
 
 Valerius enters. 
 
 Vol. Hah ! art thou found ? Hear me, thou 
 son of Brutus ! 
 I come to thee at thy great father's bidding 
 Hear and obey ! He wills thee to repair 
 To Mars's fane, where Rome's chief citizens 
 Assemble, to elect the public Guardians 
 Of peace and justice. How shall I report ? 
 
 Tit. Say, when the son of Brutus hath obey'd 
 The calls of mercy, he'll attend on those 
 Of justice and his father. 
 
 Val. Hah ! no more ? 
 
 Tit. Valerius, I well know, would not exact 
 From his own son other reply than this. 
 
 Val, Beware ! remember as a friend I've 
 warn'd you. (Exit. 
 
 Tit. Oh my distracted heart I where shall I 
 turn me? 
 
 Tar, By all the guardian deities, whose shrine*
 
 42 THE SYBIL, 
 
 I've incens'd daily for thy sake, my Titus; 
 By all the demons, who prepare the heart 
 To rush upon the self destroying stroke, 
 The same dire moment, which gives thee to 
 
 Brutus, 
 Gives me to death. 
 
 Tit. Oh thought of horror ! Gods, 
 Can ye inflict distress deeper than mine? 
 
 Tar. Why do you waver ? Cast away this 
 
 weakness ; 
 Be glorious in your cruelty, and leave me. 
 Lo ! I am arm'd Farewell ! How I have lov'd 
 
 you 
 My death shall witness,howyouhavedeceiv'dme 
 Let your own conscience tell. Now to your 
 
 father ! 
 Now go and mingle with those murderers; 
 Go, teach those fiends what perjury can do, 
 And shew your hands bath'd in Tarquinia's blood; 
 The filial deed shall welcome you to Brutus, 
 And fill his gloomy soul with savage joy. 
 
 Tit. Take, take me hence for ever ! Let me 
 
 lose 
 In these dear arms the very name of son, 
 All claims of nature, every sense but love. 
 Tar. The Gods that guard the majesty of 
 
 Rome, 
 And that sweet Power, whose influence turns 
 
 thy heart 
 To pity and compliance, shall reward 
 And bless thee for the deed. 
 
 Tit. Can he be blest 
 On whom a father's direful curse shall fall ? 
 Tar. A madman's imprecation is no curse. 
 Tit. Can he have peaceful dreams, whose very 
 
 blood 
 Against the fountain of his life rebels ?
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 43 
 
 Oh ! I have heard a voice, I have beheld 
 A countenance so awfully severe, 
 'Twill never from my memory. 
 Tar. Be a man ! 
 
 Tit. Yes, whilst thy love upholds me I can 
 stand 
 Against the world's contempt ; remember only 
 For whose dear sake I am undone ; remember 
 My heart was honour's once. 
 
 Tar. And shall be ever. 
 Come, I will shew thee where bright honour 
 
 grows, 
 Where thou shalt pluck it from the topmost 
 
 branch, 
 And wear it in its freshest fairest bloom. 
 
 [Exeunt. 

 
 44 THE SYBIL, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 A Street in Rome with the Temple of Mars in view. 
 
 The Sybil. 
 
 Hail, Rome! arise, thou mistress of the world! 
 From her Cumean cavern once again 
 The Sybil hails thee with prophetic voice. 
 Tarquin, the seventh and the last of kings, 
 Pass off, begone ! The fool, the fool expels thee. 
 Thus, thus I cast a spell into the air 
 Lo ! the charm works ; the sun himself is sick, 
 And dimly glimmers through a lurid cloud. 
 The Fates will have more blood. Hide, hide thine 
 
 eyes, 
 Oh mother Nature ; weep thyself to water, 
 Ere the terrific vision bursts upon thee, 
 And the stern father dooms his son to death 
 Oh justice, horrible to human feelings! 
 And now behold ! the father falls he dies 
 Brutus himself expires Th' adulterous prince 
 And the fierce consul meet, they fight, they fall 
 See where they lie ! their broken arteries spout, 
 And the parent earth drinks up their mingling 
 
 blood. 
 And you, ye senators in Mars's fane, 
 First-born of freedom, here assembled, hail ! 
 From farthest Gauges to the western isles 
 Your's.is the world. Prepare your necks, ye 
 
 nations, 
 Stoop to the yoke The Sybil's word is fate. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 45 
 
 Valerius with a Centurion Lucretius meets 
 
 him. 
 
 Lucre. Hail, venerable Roman ! are the people 
 Still sitting in assembly ? 
 Val. They have chosen 
 A senate othe prime nobility, 
 And nominated Consuls for the year 
 Great Brutus and thy injur'd son-in-law, 
 With every office, form and ordination, 
 That constitute a state for peace or war. 
 
 Lucre. Prais'd be the Gods ! sorrowing I have 
 inurn'd 
 Lucretia's chaste remains, and from her ashes 
 Now see the phoenix liberty arise. 
 What more hath life to give? 
 Val. Live for thy country. 
 Within this temple Rome's first senate meets: 
 There, on the awful stage where wisdom acts, 
 Reverend with years, Lucretius will complete 
 And round the sacred circle. 
 
 Lucre. Ah, Valerius, 
 What can a sorrow-broken heart conceive 
 Worthy of Rome and Brutus ? Yet I'll enter. 
 Wilt thou not lead the way ? 
 
 Val. Some business waits me, 
 Which being dispatch'd I'll follow [Exit Lucre, 
 
 Now, Centurion, 
 Are all things well ? 
 
 Cent. All things are well. Last night 
 It was my fortune on the watch to encounter, 
 And with some loss to take an armed band 
 Of citizens, revolting to the army 
 Of your dethroned tyrant. 
 Val. Call forth Brutus,
 
 46 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Call forth the Consul, Lictors 1 
 
 [Lictors enter the temple. 
 'Tis to Brutus, 
 His Country's father, you must make report. 
 Oh shame ! that any should be found so lost 
 To glory. Where have you bestow'd your pri- 
 soners ? 
 But hark! the Consul comes Tohim your answer 
 Will be address'd more fitly. 
 
 Brutus comes forth preceded by his Lictors bearing 
 thefasces. 
 
 Health to Brutus ! 
 Shame and confusion to the foes of Rome ! 
 Now without preface, soldier, to your business. 
 
 Cent. As I kept watch before the Latian gate, 
 Ere break of day, an armed company 
 Burst on a sudden through the barrier guard, 
 Pushing their course for Ardea. Straight alarm'd 
 I wheel'd my cohort round and charg'd them home: 
 Sharp was the conflict for a time and doubtful, 
 Till, on the seizure of Tarquinia's person, 
 A young patrician 
 
 L. Jun. Hah ! patrician ? 
 
 Cent. Such 
 His dress bespoke him, though to me unknown. 
 
 L. Jun. Proceed ! What more ? 
 
 Cent. The lady being taken, 
 This youth, the life and leader of the band, 
 His sword high waving in the act to strike, 
 Dropt his uplifted weapon, and at once 
 Yielded himself my pris'ner Oh Valerius, 
 What is amiss that thus the Consul changes? 
 
 L. Jun. Why do you pause ? Go on ! 
 
 Cent. Their leader seiz'd,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 47 
 
 The rest surrendered. Him a settled gloom 
 Possesses wholly, nor as I believe 
 Hath a word pass'd his lips, to all my questions 
 Still obstinately shut. 
 
 L. Jun. Set him. before me. [Exit Centurion. 
 
 Val. Oh ! my brave friend, horror invades my 
 heart. 
 
 L. Jun. Peace, peace ! contain thyself. 
 
 Val. I know thy soul 
 A compound of all excellence, and pray 
 The mighty Gods to put thee to no trial 
 Beyond a mortal bearing. 
 
 L. Jun. No, they will not 
 Nay, be secure they cannot. Prithee, friend, 
 Look out, and if the worst that can befal me 
 Be verified, turn back and give some sign 
 What thou hast seen Thou canst excuse this 
 
 weakness, 
 Being thyself a father. [Val. gives the sign. 
 
 Hah ! enough : 
 I understand thee Since it must be so, 
 Do your great pleasure, Gods ! Now, now it 
 comes ! 
 [Titus and Tarquinia are brought in guarded. 
 
 Tit. My father ! Give me present death, ye 
 Powers ! 
 
 Cent. What have I done ? Art thou the son 
 of Brutus ? 
 
 Tit. No, Brutus scorns to father such a son. 
 Oh! venerable judge, wilt thou not speak? 
 Turn not away ; hither direct thine eyes, 
 And look upon this sorrow-smitten form, 
 Then to thine own great heart remit my plea, 
 And doom as nature dictates. 
 
 Val. Peace, you'll anger him 
 Be silent and await ! Oh suffering mercy, 
 Plead in a father's heart and speak for nature !
 
 48 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tar. Oh, earth, earth, earth ! if in thy bound- 
 less stores, 
 Parent of all things living, thou hast treasure! 
 One healing drop of mercy, on the heart 
 Of this relentless father let it fall, 
 And melt the rock within him. Turn him, Gods, 
 Turn him to what yourselves delight in most, 
 To pity, to forgiveness. Ye blest stars, 
 Whom grateful mortals rais'd to the bright 
 
 spheres 
 In which ye shine, and gave you names in 
 
 Heaven, 
 Mildly benignant as ye are, ye will not 
 Withhold your influence : And thou, changeful 
 
 moon, 
 Thou, that can'st sway our senses at thy will, 
 Make wisdom foolish, and make folly wise, 
 Oh, virgin Goddess, as thou hast restor'd 
 The long-lost mind of Brutus, touch it now 
 With mercy mild as thine own silver beams ! 
 [Brutus turns away from his son, waves his hand to 
 the Centurion as a signal to remove him to a 
 further dista?ice i and then addresses himself' to 
 Valerius. 
 L. Jun. Valerius ! 
 
 Val. What would'st thou, noble Roman ? 
 L. Jun. 'Tis said thou hast pull'd down thine 
 house, Valerius, 
 The stately pile that with such cost was rear'd. 
 Val. I have, but what doth Brutus thence 
 
 infer ? 
 L. Jun. It was a goodly structure : I remember 
 How fondly you survey'd its rising grandeur, 
 With what a fatherly delight you summon'd 
 Each grace and ornament, that might enrich 
 The child of your creation, till it swell'd 
 To an imperial size, and overpeer'd
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 49 
 
 The petty citizens, that humbly dwelt 
 Under its lofty walls in huts and hovels, 
 Like emmets at the foot of tow'ring iEtna: 
 Then, noble Roman, then with patriot zeal, 
 Dear as it was and valued, you condemn'd, 
 You levell'd the proud pile ; and in return 
 Was by your grateful countrymen sirnam'd. 
 And shall to all posterity descend 
 Poplicola. 
 
 Val. Yes, Brutus, I conceive 
 The awful aim and drift of thy discourse, 
 But I conjure thee to reflect 
 
 L. Jun. Away ! 
 Doth no one but Valerius love his country 
 Dearer than house, or property, or children ? 
 Come to the Senate, there thou'lt see if Brutus 
 Earn not a name as glorious as Poplicola. 
 Soldier, mean while guard faithfully your pris'ner; 
 The Senate will determine on his fate. [Going. 
 
 Tar. Stop, turn and hear the daughter of your 
 king ! 
 I speak for justice mercy thou hast none. 
 If it be treason in a night like this, 
 When Tarquin's palace blazes to the skies, 
 And you, the masters and the lords of Rome, 
 Bid murder scour the streets if then to fly, 
 When you have fir'd the roof upon the heads 
 Of undefended women, be a crime 
 To your new state and self-created Senate, 
 I am your criminal ; single in guilt, 
 Singly I claim your judgment 
 
 L. Jun. You have said : 
 Here let your plea conclude. 
 
 Tar. For him your son 
 By tears, entreaties, by the threats of death, 
 With dagger drawn and pointed at my heart, 
 By the resistless energy of love, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE SYBIL, 
 
 By gratitude's strong call, I drew him off 
 From your stern summons to defend and save 
 A helpless fugitive And doth there live, 
 Who calls himself a man, that had done less 
 For a fond woman ? I preserv'd his life, 
 Who shall condemn him for protecting mine ? 
 L. Jun. We try the crime ; the motive Heav'n 
 will judge. 
 My honour he hath stabb'd I pardon that. 
 He hath done more, he hath betray'd his coun- 
 
 . try-- 
 That is a crime which every honest heart, 
 That beats for freedom, every Roman feels, 
 And the full stream of justice must have way. 
 Tar. Because thy soul was never sway'd by 
 love 
 Can'st thou not credit what his bosom felt ? 
 L. Jun. I can believe that beauty such as 
 thine 
 May spread a thousand fascinating snares 
 To lure the wavering and confound the weak ; 
 But what is honour, which a sigh can shake ? 
 What is his virtue, whom a tear can melt ? 
 Truth, valour, justice, constancy of soul 
 These are the attributes of manly natures : 
 Be woman e'er so beauteous, man was made 
 For nobler uses than to be her slave. 
 
 Tar. A glorious cause no doubt you take in 
 hand, 
 And most auspiciously your freedom dawns, 
 Hard, unrelenting man ! Are these the fruits 
 Of filial piety, and hath thy son 
 Wearied the Gods with prayers, till they restor'd 
 A mind, and gave thee reason ? Would to Hea- 
 ven, 
 They'd giv'n thee mercy too ! 'twould more 
 become thee
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 51 
 
 Than these new ensigns, Brutus ; more than all 
 Thy lictors, haughty Consul, or thy robes 
 Dipt in the blood oh horror! of a son 
 
 L, Jun. No more By all the Gods, I'll hear 
 no more. 
 
 Tit. A word for pity's sake Before thy feet, 
 Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels. 
 Love is my plea ; a father is my judge ; 
 Nature my advocate I can no more : 
 If these will not appease a parent's heart, 
 Strike thro' them all, and lodge your vengeance 
 here. 
 
 L. Jun. Break off ! I will not, cannot hear 
 thee further. 
 The affliction nature hath impos'd on Brutus, 
 Brutus will suffer as he may Enough 
 That we enlarge Tarquinia. Go, be free ! 
 But go from Rome, go to your father's court; 
 There your bright eyes may play their harmless 
 
 fires 
 Around the flattering circle, here your beauty 
 With mortal anguish wrings the parent's heart, 
 And death and ruin ambush in your smiles. 
 Lictors, secure your prisoner ; point your axes, 
 And follow to the temple : For the lady, 
 Be it your care, Centurion, to provide 
 Safe conduct out of Rome. Now to the Senate. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Vol. Ill -fated youth, I have a father's heart 
 Within this breast, that melts at your contrition, 
 And fain would be your advocate with Brutus, 
 Yet trembles at the rigour of his justice. 
 Be patient, and in nature place your hope. [Exit. 
 
 Cent. Come, lady, you must part. 
 
 Tar. Part 1 must we part ? 
 You shall not tear him from me ; I will die 
 Embracing the sad ruin I have made. 
 
 E2
 
 52 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Cent. You've heard the Consul. 
 
 Tar. Thou hast heard the King, 
 Fought for him whilst he led you on to conquest. 
 Thou art a soldier, and should'st spurn an office, 
 Which malefactors, tho' condemn'd for murder, 
 Would rather die by torture than perform. 
 
 Tit. Hear, I conjure thee, hear ! If thou dost 
 wish 
 That I should meet the peril of my fate 
 With any manly firmness, or dost cherish 
 A hope, how faint soe'er, that I should 'scape it, 
 By that hope I conjure thee to accord 
 To Brutus, and accept his promis'd safeguard. 
 Your words, your looks, your beauty feeds his 
 
 wrath ; 
 In that fair face he reads my guilty love, 
 And pity flies his heart; let passion pause; 
 Leave me to solitude, to silence leave me; 
 Then nature's gentlest whispers may be heard. 
 
 Tar. Say'st thou? Conduct me to the dreariest 
 waste 
 That ever melancholy madness trod, 
 And let my swelling heart in silence burst ; 
 Plunge me in darkneis, shroud this fatal form 
 In everlasting night, I am content. 
 Lo ! I obey This is the test of love; 
 This is the sacrifice-- 1 part to save thee. 
 
 Tit. See, I am warn'd farewell, my life's last 
 
 joy I '. 
 
 When my eyes lose thy image, they may look 
 
 On death without dismay. To those blest 
 
 Powers, 
 
 Who gave thee every virtue, every grace, 
 
 That can ensure perfection, I commit thee. 
 
 [Exit with Lictors. 
 
 Tar. Tis past! Now, misery, I am all thine 
 
 own. [Exit with Centurion,
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 53 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 The Temple of Rhcea with the tomb ofServius Tullus, 
 late King of Rome. Lamps burning. 
 
 Priestess of Rhaia, Virgins of the Temple. 
 
 Priest. Daughters of Rhaea; since the lords of 
 Rome 
 Have to your holy hands consign'd the charge 
 Of their now captive queen, inform your priestess 
 How your sad prisoner abides her durance. 
 Is her great soul yet humbled, or indignant 
 Doth it still breathe defiance and contempt? 
 
 1 Virg. Sullen and silent she resolves on death: 
 She will not taste of nourishment. 
 
 Priest. Alas ! 
 I cannot doubt but you have urg'd her to it. 
 
 1 Virg. Much, but to none effect Lo ! here 
 
 are viands [Pointing to a table. 
 
 All means have been attempted See, she comes ! 
 
 Tullia enters. 
 
 Tul. When the breath stops, the body shall 
 have peace ; 
 But who can tell me where the soul shall go ? 
 Which of you, virgins, can resolve that question? 
 
 Priest. I pray you, royal lady, be entreated 
 To take some nourishment. 
 
 Tul. I tell you no. 
 The wants of nature are below my thoughts : 
 I am myself a spirit ; I live on air, 
 And meditation is my proper diet. 
 
 Priest. Think what a train of weary hours 
 have pass'd 
 Since you had taste of food.
 
 54 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tul. Tis well ! so many 
 Being gone by, the fewer are to come. 
 
 P?iest. If it were only in regard of us, 
 Not of yourself, consent. 
 
 Tul. Kind -hearted souls ! 
 Carry your trenchers to the hungry cells 
 Of starving debtors, so your charity, 
 Wasted on me, shall cheer a thankful heart. 
 
 Priest. How can you live to meet your royal 
 husband, 
 To fold your children in your arms again, 
 If you resist support ? 
 
 Tul. Hah ! well remember'd 
 What news from Ardea? Will he march for Rome? 
 Hark ! do you hear his trumpet? Is he coming? 
 Uncover! This is hope, and worth the feeding 
 What have you done? Oh, this is luxury. 
 Methinks you take me for a queen, when thus 
 You tempt my palate. Who serv'd in these 
 dainties ? 
 
 Priest. Your willing ministers, the sisterhood 
 Of your own Goddess Rhsea. 
 
 Tul. Why 'tis well. 
 But doth your king know of this bounty, virgins ? 
 
 Priest. What king ? We comprehend you not. 
 
 Tul. What king? 
 Brutus, the king of Rome. Knows he of this ? 
 
 Priest. What shall we say ? Yes, Brutus knows 
 of this. 
 
 Tul. And would he I should eat ? 
 
 Priest. He would. 
 
 Tul. Amazement! 
 Doth he not wish my death ? 
 
 Priest. By these means never: 
 He wills you to support life's fainting frame 
 With all due nourishment. 
 
 Tul. Merciful villain !
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 55 
 
 Detested be the nourishment he gives ! 
 
 All food he touches turn to poison, Gods, 
 
 Though it lay waste creation. Subtle traitor ! 
 
 Yes, he would have me live to page his triumphs : 
 
 I know the utmost of his mercy No; 
 
 I will not live ; I will not page his triumphs ; 
 
 I'll starve, I'll die the death Bearoffyour viands; 
 
 I will not taste, though immortality 
 
 Were grafted to each atom Take them hence ! 
 
 Priest. If suchbeyourresolve, letthe crime fall 
 On your own head ! We are free. 
 
 Tul. Hark, what is that ? 
 Heard you that groan ? 
 
 Priest. It is your fancy's coinage; 
 We heard no groan. 
 
 Tul. Again ! Tis deep and hollow : 
 It issues from the vault Set the door open ! 
 Unbar it, I command you. By the Gods, 
 The voice is more than human which I hear 
 Open, I say ! 
 
 Priest. It is your father's tomb. 
 
 Tul. My father ! righteous Gods, I kill'd my 
 father, 
 Andthesedeepgroansarehis. Daughters of Rh&a, 
 Have you not heard the parricidal act ? 
 Was it not told you how I drove my steeds 
 Spangled with blood across my father's trunk, 
 Dragging his breathing carcass at my wheels ? 
 Yes, I did this I was the wretch who did it ; 
 I did not think of heaven and heavenly justice, 
 Ambition was my God Now, now it comes 
 Horrible retribution ! 
 
 Priest. Wretched daughter, 
 If thou hast done this deed, prepare thy spirit 
 By wholesome meditation for atonement, 
 And let no passion interrupt the task 
 Of penitence and prayer.
 
 56 THE SYBIL, 
 
 TuL I'll pray no more. 
 There is no mercy in the skies for murder, 
 Therefore no praying, none ; 'tis all in vain : 
 I have a plea for my impenitence 
 Madness : I tell thee, woman, I am mad ; 
 These groans have made me mad ; all the night 
 
 through 
 They howl'd distraction to my sleepless brain. 
 You've shut me up with Furies to torment me, 
 And starv'd me into madness. I am famish'd ; 
 Hunger hath made me furious Oh, some food 
 For charity some food ! 
 
 Priest. Behold 'tis here ! 
 Tis at your lips, and courts you to receive it, 
 
 Tul. 'Tis false ! it is no food ; 'tis all a cheat 
 Invented to torment me ; should I taste 
 Or touch it only, instantly your spirits 
 Would howl and hiss me into worse perdition 
 Than hell hath yet a name for I'll go forth 
 Ah no, I'm giddy Sick to death and giddy 
 Sleep, sleep, relieve me ! Lead me to the couch. 
 [They lead her to a Couch on which she reclines. 
 
 Priest. A sleep which is death's prelude falls 
 upon her; 
 Or is it death itself? She breathes. How awful 
 Is that still pause the ling'ring spirit makes 
 Before it wings its flight ! Mark, virgins, mark! 
 Now to the altar of your Goddess Rhasa, 
 And there with expiatory hymns and prayers 
 Invoke a requiem to her parting soul. 
 
 [Exeunt Priestess and Virgins. 
 
 Solemn Music at a distance. When it ceases, the 
 
 Sybil appears. 
 
 . 
 
 Syb. Sleep'st thou, detested parricide? Sleep 
 on!
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 57 
 
 Though wasted Nature slumbers, conscience 
 
 wakes, 
 And the grim Furies haunt thy soul with dreams, 
 Worse than thy waking terrors. See, she shakes ! 
 Death's pangs convulse her heart. Yet, ere she 
 
 die, 
 By dread commission from the avenging Fates 
 I must command this stony vault to open, 
 And give its miserable relics up. 
 Come forth, thou phantom of a murder'd king, 
 And look upon thy daughter ! Hah ! 'tis here ! 
 [Ghost of Servius Tullus comes forth. 
 Wake, impious daughter, and behold thy father ! 
 
 [Tullia starts out oj sleep. 
 Tul. Strike me, great Gods, oh, strike me with 
 
 your bolts ! 
 What do I see ? 'Tis he ; it is my Father ! 
 Do I yet live? Am I awake ? Begone ! 
 Wilt thou not hence ? Take off thine eyes ; they 
 
 kill me. 
 Nay, then 'tis done Earth, earth, receive and 
 
 hide me. [Shefalls to the ground and expires. 
 Syb. Hence, shadowy terror, hence ! The 
 
 fates dismiss thee. 
 Death strikes his victim, and my task concludes. 
 
 [Curtain falls.
 
 58 THE SYBIL, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The interior of the temple of Mars. Brutus seated 
 in the Consular chair. Titus is brought in by the 
 Lictors with their axes turrfd edge-ways towards 
 him : At a signal from Brutus they withdraw. 
 Titus approaches his father. 
 
 L. Jun. Prisoner, approach, we now forego 
 the names 
 Of son and father, sad exchange ! to meet 
 As criminal and judge. Nay, do not kneel ! 
 Man doth not owe to man such low submission. 
 
 Tit. But guilt to virtue doth; repentance owes 
 Prostration to the Gods, and thou, oh Brutus, 
 Art like a God on earth. Not to Rome's Consul, 
 But Rome's deliverer, bend I the knee. 
 
 L. Jun. Stand up and hear me. Tis a dread 
 commission 
 I now must open Traitors, who conspire 
 Against mature societies, may urge 
 Their acts as bold and daring ; and, tho' villains, 
 Yet are they manly villains But to stab 
 The cradled innocent as thou hast done, 
 To strike thy country in the mother-pangs 
 Of struggling child-birth, and direct thy dagger 
 To freedom's infant throat, is deed so black, 
 That my foil'd tongue refuses it a name. 
 
 Tit. Let me supply it Death. 
 
 L. Jun. Oh Gods, oh Gods ! 
 
 Tit. Nay, do not shrink ; I am not yet so far 
 Apostate from my great original, 
 As to survive disgrace. 
 
 L. Jun, Thou hast pronounc'd
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 59 
 
 The fatal word that Justice must decree 
 Hard word, and painful for a father's tongue 
 Thou art my son. 
 
 Tit. No, I have lost the name. 
 I was thy son, and had my father deem'd me 
 Worthy to share his thoughts, had I but known 
 The secret of his heart, 1 had devoted 
 My soul to honour and escap'd this ruin. 
 
 X. Jun. Ah, Titus, 'twas because I mark'd your 
 weakness ; 
 You were a courtly, young, ambitious lover, 
 The friend of Sextus, and I fear'd to trust you. 
 
 Tit. Wisely you acted for the general good : 
 Had I deceiv'd you Rome had lost a father, 
 Now losing me she has little to lament. 
 
 X. Jun. Justice demands that I should wield 
 her sword 
 With an impartial hand : whom can I strike, 
 If I should spare my son ? But when I make 
 This sacrifice to justice, it is not 
 That Brutus feels less than a father feels, 
 But that he does all that a Roman should. 
 And now 'tis past Go 
 
 Tit. Whither? 
 
 X. Jun. Must I add 
 To public execution ? 
 
 Tit. Say not that : 
 Shall thy son suffer like a common felon ? 
 
 L. Jun. How else do traitors surfer? 
 
 Tit. Shameful fate ! 
 My head struck off, and my disjointed limbs. 
 
 X. Jun. Stop ! What hast thou to urge ? If 
 thou hast aught, 
 Rigour admits that I should hear the plea. 
 Speak ! 
 
 Tit. I had once a hope 
 
 X. Jun. What was thy hope?
 
 60 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Tit. That I might fall as noble Romans fall, 
 By my own sword. 
 
 L. Jan. Let me reflect ! Away I 
 It is the trick and sophistry of mercy; 
 It mocks at justice and defrauds the law. 
 
 Tit. Nor law nor justice should have more 
 than life, 
 And with the body kill the spirit too. 
 I have a weapon here, a bosom friend, 
 That could have marshall'd me a secret road, 
 Without a father's privilege, to death ; 
 But I resolv'd the wond'ring world should see - 
 The unshaken firmness of a patriot's soul : 
 And, careful of thy fame, reserv'd the blow, 
 Till at thy feet I might receive my doom, 
 And, dying, float them with my filial blood. 
 
 L. Jun. Stop thy rash hand ! Give me some 
 pause for thought ! 
 Put back thy weapon Oh ! that I could find 
 Some course to satisfy my country's honour, 
 And save thy forfeit life ! but 'twill not be. 
 Yet I will grant thy pray'r A shameful death 
 Thou shalt not suffer. In the public square 
 Before the people Oh support me, Gods ! 
 Give me a voice to speak ! Thou must ascend 
 The scaffold there prepar'd ; then in the view 
 Of Rome's appeased citizens, then, Titus 
 Strike at thy heart. 
 
 Tit. Upon my knees I thank thee ! 
 Thus let me press thy venerable hand, 
 And print my life's last gratitude upon it ! 
 
 L. Jun. Arise, arise ! You come too near my 
 heart. 
 
 Tit. What signal shall there be when I may 
 strike ? 
 
 L. Jun. When I come forth, and from the 
 temple porcb
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 6l 
 
 Hold up my hand, then need I add the rest? 
 Remember ! 
 
 Tit. Righteously. 
 L. Jun. Farewell for ever ! 
 Lictors, attend ! conduct your prisoner forth; 
 And, whilst you march with slow and solemn 
 
 step, 
 Let the funereal minstrels, as they are wont, 
 Sound their sad prelude to the mournful act. 
 [litus is carried out by the Lictors ; a dead march, 
 which gradually dies away as it becomes more 
 distant. Brutus remains seated in a melancholy 
 posture on his tribunal. 
 v L. Jun. [rising.] How heavily these melan- 
 choly sounds 
 Ring out the knell of death ; and now they 
 
 cease 
 Thy pilgrimage, poor youth, is at an end : 
 A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink 
 Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth 
 No thought of man can fathom. Nowthoustand'st 
 Upon thy grave with sorrow-smitten eye, 
 And dagger underneath thy mantle grasp'd, 
 Watching my signal Now vindictive justice 
 Bids me go forth This silence is my summons. 
 Hard, hard condition mine ! Limbs, bear me up 
 Against this shock of nature, to support 
 The dreadful office, which the Gods impose 
 On me their trembling minister, whose heart 
 They should have cas'd in marble; and made dead 
 To human feelings, ere they bade me meet 
 A spectacle, that harrows up the soul 
 With terror and dismay There lies the road 
 -*fhat I must take One effort, and 'tis past. [Exit. 
 [Whilst Brutus is off the Stage, a deep and 
 distant groan is heard, and he re-enters 
 the temple in great agitation.
 
 62 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Brutus re-enters. 
 
 Oh agonizing sight ! The deed is done : 
 Justice is satisfied ; my son expires. 
 
 Valerius to Brutus. 
 
 Val. My friend, where art thou ? Let my arms 
 enfold 
 And comfort thy brave heart ; let me partake 
 Thy manly sorrows : Brutus is not childless ; 
 Each grateful Roman henceforth is thy son. 
 
 L, Jun. Come, gallant friend, it were not fit 
 you knew 
 What passes here ; for you and I must act 
 Like men in whom the common herd can spy 
 No gust nor flaw of passion, to unstring 
 The nerves that now should brace them to the 
 
 pitch : 
 This is no time for "wailing and lamenting; 
 Tarquin will march for Rome for, do him right, 
 The man is no mean soldier. 
 
 Val. We must shape 
 Our measures to like promptitude with his : 
 Great enterprises only are achiev'd 
 By great and noble darings. We must face 
 The peril of the attempt, as men resolv'd 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
 L. Jun. Ah my brave friend, 
 Were life as stale and wearisome to all 
 As 'tis to Brutus, we should entertain 
 War as a mistress ; where the battle burns 
 There we should throng, there we should choak 
 
 their ranks 
 With piles of slain and torrents of our blood, 
 And welcome victory in the arms of death.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 63 
 
 Collatinus the Consul, with Senators and others, 
 who support Titus. 
 
 Col. Consul, behold thy son! a few short 
 moments 
 Are left of life, and 'tis his last request, 
 That at thy feet he may have leave to die. 
 
 L. Jun. And have I no friend left to strike a 
 sword 
 For very charity into this heart ? 
 Why do you heap these agonies upon me, 
 And call me Consul ? Who will watch for Rome, 
 When you have kill'd your centinel? Ap- 
 proach, 
 Thou bleeding ruin, thou last mangled wreck 
 Of all my joys, that were embark 'd with thee ; 
 And perish'd in the surge, that was thy grave. 
 Can'st thou speak to me? 
 
 Tit. Venerable judge, 
 Father of Rome and freedom, may this blood, 
 By thy commandment spilt, wash out my crime. 
 And shall this heart, before its pulses stop, 
 Be blest with thy forgiveness ? 
 
 L. Jun. All the peace 
 That my forgiveness can bestow I grant; 
 The Gods will give the rest : in this sad heart 
 No record will remain of thy offence ; 
 Thy punishment hath cancell'd that, and now 
 Nought but thy early virtues, the fair promise 
 Of my fond hopes, all blasted in the bud, 
 Shall dwell in my remembrance Hah! he dies! 
 Support him in your arms The quivering lids 
 Close on his sightless eyes : convulsion tears 
 His laboring heart ; it rises to his throat 
 He gasps, he writhes in anguish he expires ! 
 
 [Titus falls into the arms of the people.
 
 64 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Val. Bear him away ! quench not the light of 
 Rome, 
 That yet survives in Brutus. Valiant Consul, 
 Great above men in sorrows as in soul, 
 Rouse from the meditation on this scene, 
 And cheer thy drooping friends. 
 
 L. Jun. Approach, my friends, 
 Ye that are fathers, and be taught by me 
 To reverence justice. Mark if I bestow 
 One tear upon the dead. I'll not embalm 
 His body with the brine which hirelings shed, 
 To trick their funeYals forth with purchas'd woe: 
 If I make salt this earth, 'twill be with blood, 
 The blood of Tarquins, hot libidinous blood, 
 Not with weak women's tears ; let grief stand off, 
 Till nobler guests are serv'd. 
 
 
 
 Centurion enters. 
 
 Cent. Health to the Consul ! 
 The king draws down his powers upon your town. 
 As with Tarquinia I was on my way, 
 Our party by a cohort in the van 
 Of the main army was constrain'd to halt, 
 And question'd of our purpose : This explain'd, 
 Sextus Tarquinius, arm'd from heel to head, 
 Rode forth and bade me render up to him 
 The lady under guard ; I did When he, 
 Their greeting past, dismiss'd me with these 
 
 words 
 This courtesy, said he, which I accept 
 From your revolting masters as a pledge 
 Of their return to duty, hath so far 
 Unedg'd my sword, that I will come to Rome 
 Prepar'd to treat of peace and composition, 
 And, ere I strike, to hear 
 
 L. Jun. Arm, warriors, arm !
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 65 
 
 Put not your faith in Tarquins; if they treat, 
 'Tis only when they tremhle. Friends, go forth, 
 Marshal our city's force without the walls, 
 And let our trumpets answer to their tongues, 
 When they would parley. Sound out an alarm ! 
 [Trumpets. Brutus, Collatinus, tyc. exeunt. 
 
 Manent Valerius and Centurion. 
 
 Cent. Nohle Valerius, may I crave your ear 
 To a few words apart ? 
 
 Veil. Speak and be brief. 
 
 Cent. If Brutus may be wrought to interchange 
 A hostage with the king, I have the word 
 Of Tarquin's daughter for a peaceful truce, 
 With pardon and redress of all that's past. 
 
 VaL What hostage would the king demand of 
 Brutus ? 
 
 Cent. Titus his son, whom in a luckless hour 
 I made my prisoner Hah ! you shake your head: 
 Is there no hope lie will be mov'd to staunch 
 The blood, that else in torrents must be spilt? 
 
 VaL Titus is dead. 
 
 Cent. Then, Discord, to thy work ! 
 The sword is out We conquer or we die. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene without the walls of Rome. Trumpet sounds 
 a parley. Brutus, follow 'd by Valerius and other 
 armed Romans. 
 
 L. Jun. Look out, and say what company is 
 that 
 Whose trumpet sounds a parley By the Gods, 
 I will not trust these Tarquins with the hearing. 
 No other conference shall they hold with Brutus 
 Than shield to shield and sword oppos'd to sword, 
 
 vol. i. F
 
 66 . THE SYBIL, 
 
 Amid the din of battle. Good Valerius, 
 Advance and stop these parleyers 
 
 Tarquinia with Vitellius and others. 
 
 Tar. Where is Brutus ; 
 Where is the Consul ? Oh, redeem the time, 
 Save your devoted town, your children, wives, 
 Your altars from destruction ! In my hand 
 I hold the sacred instrument of peace, 
 Stampt with the royal signet to assure 
 The credit of the deed. If you have wrongs, 
 Here's that will heal your wrongs; if doubts or 
 
 fears, 
 Here's evidence to make suspicion blush. 
 Scorn not this embassy because I bear it, 
 Who than a woman fitter to assuage 
 The angry feuds of men, and into love 
 Convert your hatred ? 
 
 L. Jun. Messenger more fair 
 Your father could not send, I do admit ; 
 But holding no allegiance to the sender, 
 And resolute to cast our tyrant off, 
 We pray you to avoid so rude a brawl, 
 As needs will follow, when our noisy trumpets 
 Charge to the onset and bray out for battle. 
 
 Tar. If you reject us in the fond belief 
 That fear provokes this embassy, look out 
 And scan your danger well, ere you defy it. 
 Will you not hear me, Brutus? In one word 
 The truce is seal'd. Give up your son a hostage, 
 And I, the daughter of a king, commit 
 My life into your keeping. 
 
 L. Jun. That we gave you 
 When both were living Titus is no more. 
 
 [Exeunt L. Jun. Val. $c. 
 
 Tar. Monster of cruelty ! Unnatural father !
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 67 
 
 Thou murderer, what hast thou to do with peace, 
 Hated by Gods and men ? Why do I live? 
 Come to my heart, deliverer ! [Offers to kill herself. 
 
 Vit. Stop thy hand ! 
 Hence, hateful weapon ! Why this desperate act? 
 Will it revive the dead ? Will Brutus feel 
 The dagger that destroys thee? Will it seat 
 Thy father on his throne? 'Twill tear his heart 
 With agonies, and quench the glorious hope 
 Of Victory, now hovering on the wing 
 'Twixt eitheir host. Behold how many heroes 
 Assemble to revenge the death you mourn 
 And see ! a warrior comes, whose glittering form 
 Brings light and life to chase despair away. 
 
 Sextus Tarquinius and Soldiers. 
 
 Se.v. How now, my sister ! why thus plung'd 
 in grief? 
 Brave natures face misfortune, cowards fly it. 
 Not in the round of habitable earth 
 Was there a man I lov'd like Titus Junius. 
 I know the fatal story He is slain ; 
 Our Mother too, after strange sort is dead ; 
 I hate a preface to a tale of horror 
 So now thou hast it all. 
 
 Tar. Immortal Powers, 
 Who on your suffering creature cast this load 
 Of misery, to your all-commanding will 
 Submissive I bow down my vassal neck, 
 Nor murmur at your providence Behold 
 A wretch, on whom the brightest hopes had 
 
 dawn'd, 
 Now whelm d in dark despair ; a heart, in which 
 Affection glow'd, and every tender string 
 Thrill'd with the touch of sympathy, now torn 
 And rent with agony ; a form, alas ! 
 
 F<2
 
 68 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Which flattery said you moulded with some 
 
 care, 
 Now scorn 'd and cast without remorse away, 
 Like sherds that shiver in the potter's hand: 
 If still it be your pleasure to take hence 
 All that makes life a blessing, and yet bid 
 Your ling'ring victim live, I will obey, 
 Till, soften'd by my patience, you relent, 
 And mercifully end my woes in death. 
 
 Sex, Haste thee, Vitellius, lead her to the fane 
 Of Jyno Sospita ; there she may rest 
 In safety till this storm of grief subsides. 
 
 [Exit Vitellius with Tarquinia. 
 What means the king that he delays his march? 
 Go one of you, and from yon rising ground 
 Look out, and make report what you espy. 
 
 [Exit Soldier. 
 Hah ! who art thou? 
 
 Brutus, Valerius, and other Romans. 
 
 L. Jun. Brutus, the foe of tyrants. 
 Yield, ravisher ! behold thou art inclos'd. 
 Let these disarm and pass : their lives we scorn; 
 Thou, violator of the marriage bed, 
 Thou must atone to justice. 
 
 Sex. Sound to arms ! 
 Call up the king to action 
 
 L. Jun. Call the king? 
 Where is your vigilance ? Your king is fled ; 
 Your soldiers are dispers'd ; they pile their arms, 
 And shout for liberty. 
 
 The Soldier returns. 
 
 Sol. Oh fatal truth ! 
 All, all is flight, confusion, and revolt.
 
 OR THE ELDER BRUTUS. 69 
 
 Sear. Dastard, 'tis false : my Romans cannot 
 
 fly- 
 Hear me, thon Brutus! life to life I dare thee 
 In equal combat, branding thee a traitor, 
 The assassin of a son, whom, oh dire murderer 
 Thou didst deserve as much as thou dost heaven. 
 
 L. Jun. Tho' thy base deed, defiler, well might 
 warrant 
 Contemptuous seizure, yet this bold encounter 
 Shall to no other chastisement expose thee 
 Save as this arm shall punish I accept 
 Thy challenge, ravisher, and wield a sword 
 Edg'd with Lucretia's wrongs. 
 
 VaL What is't you do ? 
 Consul, remember Rome. 
 
 L. Jun. Remember Rome ! 
 It is for Rome I strike ; it is your cause, 
 Ye Gods, and to your justice I commit it. 
 Valerius, by our friendship I conjure thee, 
 Come not betwixt us Romans, I command you, 
 Stand all aloof; if I am here to fall, 
 Give honourable passage and protection 
 To this bold son of Tarquin conquering me, 
 He will deserve to live. 
 
 Sex. 'Tis fairly said ! 
 Thus to the manes of thy murder'd son 
 I make libation of thy blood 
 
 [They fight and Brutus is wounded. 
 Break off! 
 Thou'rt wounded breathe awhile. 
 
 L. Jun. Gods, can there be 
 Such noble bearing in a cause so vile? 
 
 Val. Brutus, you bleed apace. 
 
 Sex. Go, stop your sluices, 
 And come afresh. I scorn a fainting foe, 
 
 L. Jun. Foil'd by a stripling! I disdain the 
 thought. [Theyjight and Sextus falls.
 
 70 THE SYBIL, 
 
 Val. Oh, nobly fought ! He falls, he faints, 
 he dies 
 Freedom and Rome survive. 
 
 [Vitellius runs in and receives Septus in his arms 
 
 as he is Jailing. 
 Vit. Peace, nor insult 
 The brave, tho' vanquished See, the hero dies ! 
 The mightiest of the race of Tarquin dies. 
 
 [Septus dies. 
 Val. Short are the conqueror's triumphs 
 Help to save him ; 
 Friends, Romans, countrymen, your Consul falls, 
 The pillar of your nation is o'erthrown. 
 
 [Brutus sinks to the ground. 
 L. Jun. Mourn not for me ! The interposing 
 Gods 
 Have snatch'd a sorrow- wounded soul to rest. 
 I've liv'd enough for fame, for Rome and free- 
 dom ; 
 And, when I'm dead, pluck forth this heart, my 
 
 friends : 
 You'll find in mournful colours pictur'd there 
 The dear-lov'd image of a dying son 
 Farewell to all! Lucretia is reveng'd 
 Valerius, reach thy hand my friend 'tis past! 
 
 [Dies,
 
 THE 
 
 WALLOONS. 
 
 A COMEDY.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Solomon Dangle. 
 
 Davy Dangle 
 
 Father Sullivan 
 
 Daggerly 
 
 Dreiincourt 
 
 Montgomery 
 
 Pat Carey 
 
 Bumboat 
 
 Tipple 
 
 Joyce 
 
 Servant 
 
 Officers, 8$c. 
 
 Lady Dangle 
 
 Agnes 
 
 Kitty Carrington 
 
 Mrs. Partlett 
 
 SCENE. Sir Solomon's House, near Plymouth. 
 Time, Part of Two Days.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Let cynic pride with supercilious air, 
 Arraign the venial failings of the fair ; 
 To night withjuster aim our Poet shews 
 In female hearts what genuine virtue glows. 
 Not that stern passio?i, that unlovely flame, 
 Which sear'd the bosom of the Spartan dame, 
 Who saw, nor shed one sad maternal tear, 
 Her slaughter 'd son extended on the bier : 
 Then cold and careless pressed the nuptial bed, 
 Or to her couch the casual stranger led ; 
 And dead to each soft feeling, ask' 'd from fate 
 Another boy, to perish for the State. 
 Round British nymphs more winning graces move, 
 They melt with pity, and they glow with love. 
 Yet while their bosoms own the tender f re, 
 Their generous minds can check each fond desire ; 
 The promised joy with patriot zeal forego, 
 Nor own a lover in their country's foe. 
 Nor, Britons, you our moral scenes despise, 
 Still from the Stage does true instruction rise. 
 Let no mean thought your ardent souls engage, 
 Nor party rancour, nor religious rage; 
 But all alike with generous warmth embrace, 
 Whose kindred virtues speak their British race : 
 In every age, in every state we find, 
 One passion govern every gallant mind. 
 Tho' wealth allure, t ho' just resentment move, 
 That ruling passion is their country's love. 
 Then rush, united ! midst the war's alarms, 
 And face, unmov'd, the hostile world in arms. 
 Lives there a youth will shun the noble strife, 
 Or doubt in such a cause to stake his life, 
 Who hears me now the glorious prize proclaim, 
 His mistress' favour, and his country' s fame.
 
 the 
 
 WALLOONS. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 Sir Solomon Dangle's. 
 
 Father Sullivan discovered sitting in a Chair, 
 Lady Dangle on her knees, by the side of it. 
 
 Father S. Come, come, daughter, I'll not abate 
 an item of your penance, 'tis a slight fine for a 
 long renewal, a mere pepper-corn homage to 
 the lord of the manor. 
 
 Lady D. Ah, Father Sullivan, you are a hard 
 man. [Rises. 
 
 Father S. I'm an easy man, too easy, o' my 
 conscience What, be content; you have wip'd 
 off a long chalk with a few tears, all is well; 
 think no more of what is past, you are a free 
 woman. 
 
 Lady D. A foolish one I am, to make a losing 
 bargain in iniquity; you share half the profits 
 of the stock, and I pay all the debts of the 
 partnership ; I never heard of any penances of 
 your performing. 
 
 Father S. Physicians take no physic. 
 
 Lady D. No, in faith, they satisfy themselves 
 with the fee, but my stomach will bear no more 
 dosing; I'll recreate myself awhile in the clear
 
 78 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 climate of a free country; air and exercise will 
 keep me in health without the quackery of pe- 
 nance. If I had confest to my husband, I had 
 come off as easily. 
 
 Father S. But you have no husband at hand 
 to confess to. Woman, woman, you forget 
 yourself: I am no saint, as yet at least I am 
 none ; but you have frowardness enough to 
 provoke me, if I was one Come, madam, I 
 must talk to you in another strain nay, and 
 you must hear me too. You are not the wife 
 of one husband, as I take it. 
 
 Lady D. Bigamy is no sin in the Decalogue, 
 I don't find it in the Tables. 
 
 Father S. But you may tumble upon it in the 
 Statutes, you may read it in the black letter, 
 and a Chancery decree is as hard of digestion 
 as the tables of stone. You talk to me as if I 
 was not privy to your marriage in Portugal; not 
 content with being Mrs. Drelincourt there, you 
 must be Lady Dangle here, and lead your poor 
 Sir Solomon in a noose up and down this man- 
 sion at pleasure. The Church of Rome put one 
 string to your bow, and the Church of England 
 put another. 
 
 Lady D. Then you'll confess at least I have 
 the old proverb for my security. 
 
 Father S. But your second is a slip knot in 
 the fingers of the law, daughter of mine, and 
 then where's vour expedient? 
 
 Lady D. Ready at hand ; no longer off than 
 your neck, good father ; whilst that knot holds, 
 your life is sale ; slip it, and it shall strangle 
 you ; there's a gibbet tor treason, as well as a 
 black letter for bigamy when I lose the name 
 of Dangle, Sullivan have a care you don't find it. 
 
 Father S. What, my letters to France, my
 
 THE WALLOONS. 79 
 
 foreign correspondence? Cases of conscience, 
 points of casuistry; nothing more, upon th^ 
 faith of my order. 
 
 Lady D. But I have no faith in your order ; 
 I am rather dispos'd to trust the evidence of 
 my own senses : don't we live here in the 
 neighbourhood of Plymouth? Have I not copied 
 reams of paper for you, with the returns of the 
 dock, and conditions of the ships, the destina- 
 tion of the fleet, the 
 
 Father S. The devil you have ! and who's the 
 traitor then, yourself or I? did'st think I was 
 fool enough to trust my neck in your keeping? 
 a son of St. Francis to be duped by a woman ? 
 No, no, my lady, turn informer when you 
 will, I put you at defiance You have none of 
 my hand-writing in evidence. 
 
 Lady D. Humph, that's true ; What are we 
 doing after all ? Partners in the game, betraying 
 each other's hand : a mighty foolish business 
 on both sides. 
 
 FatherS. Come, let's be friends. 
 
 Lady D. Why, who began first ? Not I. 
 
 Father S. What matters who began the quar- 
 rel, when both are interested to make an end of 
 it? Give me your hand. 
 
 Lady D. There 'tis. 
 
 Father S. A truce. 
 
 Lady D. An everlasting league. 
 
 Father S. Offensive and defensive : United 
 thus, our firm is current as the Bank. Here are 
 you jointur'd in the terra firma of Old England, 
 mistress of a noble house, mounted with retinue 
 like a princess of the blood of France, a splendid 
 equipage, an ample fortune, a commodious hus- 
 band, a paradise about you,
 
 SO THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Lady D. And a subtle tempter at my elbow 
 under the cowl of a friar. 
 
 Father S. Call me rather an indulgent con- 
 fessor, a devoted friend, a 
 
 Lady D. Devil luring with forbidden fruit 
 oh, you're a line one: but I have no time for 
 trifling now; I have had a letter from Lisbon, 
 it tells me Drelincourt has taken into the Spanish 
 service. 
 
 Father S. Why that's good news ; a separation 
 for life ; there's an end of all danger from that 
 quarter; so much for one of your husbands. 
 Now could you bring sir Solomon to give his 
 daughter Agnes to your nephew Patrick 
 
 Enter Servant, with Letter. 
 
 Serv. Please you, my lady, a letter for his re- 
 verence. [Gives letter and exit. 
 
 Father S. This letter threatens you with a 
 visitor. 
 
 Lady D. Who is that ? 
 
 Father S. My colleague in London, the man 
 of information, he that made the cypher for 
 Mons. de Sartine Daggerly. 
 
 Lady D. Daggerly ! I should be glad you 
 would not bring him into my family. 
 
 Father S. What's to be done when the man 
 invites himself? he's upon his way from Ply- 
 mouth, and will be here within the hour; the 
 fellow is indispensable. Apropos, I have news 
 here for sir Solomon, Daggerly writes me that 
 the Milford frigate is arriv'd with a Spanish 
 prize full of officers, captur'd off Cadiz; now it 
 runs in my head, that sir Solomon's son David 
 went out in this very frigate.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 81 
 
 Lady D. It may be so, it happen'd before my 
 
 time ; he has never heard from the boy since I 
 
 knew him. Come, I shall lose my walk, take 
 
 your hat, and go with me, 'tis a lovely morning. 
 
 [Exeunt, she leaning on his arm. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Partlett, Tipple, and Joyce: 
 
 Tip. And could you in your conscience believe, 
 Mrs. Partlett, that our old master sir Solomon 
 would be taken in after this fashion by an out- 
 landish I was going to say whore of Babylon, 
 but I won't call names. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Names, Mr. Tipple ! her name 
 isn't up in this neighbourhood for nothing : as 
 for master,since Mr. Davy went out of the house, 
 and this woman came into it, he has never had 
 a happy day ; if he had the plague he could not 
 be in a worse condition : every body pities him, 
 but nobody ventures near him. 
 
 Tip. He was a famous man at quarter sessions 
 in my first lady's time ; then the neighbours were 
 entertain'd, and the credit of the house was kept 
 up as it should be : now the grass might grow 
 under the beer barrels, if huntsman and I didn't 
 keep the path open. 
 
 Joyce. Not a man in this shire, nor the next 
 to it, cheer'd a hound better than Sir Solomon ; 
 now the poor gentleman can no more speak to a 
 dog, than a dog can speak to him. 
 
 Mrs. Part. To morrow, come the day, will be 
 three long years, since master Davy went to sea ; 
 merry rest his heart, if he were amongst us, he 
 would make the house alive again. 
 
 vol. I. G
 
 82 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Joyce. What though he was a little unlucky, 
 and run from jschool, and wouldn't take to his 
 book learning, he was sharp enough at other 
 matters; there wasn't a hound in the pack, nor 
 a whelp in the kennel, but he knew his tongue 
 as well as if he had been his feeder. 
 
 Tip. He was always at his gambols in the 
 kitchen, or in the pantry, or the servants' hall ; 
 the familiarest creature in life; always on his 
 tricks with the maids, or the justice folks, or 
 his worship himself. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Ah 1 
 
 EnterDAVY Dangle, follow' 'd ^j/Bumboat, with 
 
 a Bundle slung on a crook over his shoulders. 
 
 I 
 
 Davy. Avast hailing ! don't you know me, 
 mother Partlett ? . 
 
 Mrs. Part. Master Davy, as I'm a living wo- 
 man. 
 
 Davy. Why aye to be sure I am You may see 
 that without spectacles. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Oh lud, oh lud ! I'm beside myself 
 with joy. [Embraces hinu 
 
 Davy. Heave off your grappling hooks, and 
 give me sea room veer away more cable, old 
 girl, and let me swing How is it, friend Tipple ? 
 Ah, Joyce, we have an entapis once again after 
 a plaguy long chase. 
 
 Bumb. Seventeen leagues and a half by the 
 log ; Cape Finisterre bearing east, north-east, 
 and by east, upon the weather bow, when we 
 first set top gallants to give chase to the Spa- 
 niard. 
 
 Davy. Why, who's talking of the Spaniard, lub- 
 ber? what tack are your wits upon now, Bumboat? 
 we are come to an anchor, and your small venture
 
 THE WALLOONS. 83 
 
 of brains is out upon a cruise. Come, clown with 
 your trumpery lower away handsome How- 
 does father do, I ask you ? what cheer over head? 
 where's sister Agnes ? shew that fellow to a warm 
 birth by the kitchen fire, I'll rig myself iu the 
 galley, I've a better jacket in the bundle. Go 
 along, Bumboar, and make ready. 
 
 Tip. Welcome, welcome, master Davy: the 
 tap shall run old October for this fortnight. 
 
 Joyce. Lord love him, he's as humoursome as 
 ever: come along, brother, follow. 
 
 [Exeunt Serva?its and Bumboat. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Lackaday, master Davy, a woeful 
 change in this house since you left it. 
 
 Davy. What's the matter now ; has father kickt 
 the bucket ? 
 
 Airs. Part. I don't know what that may be, an 
 like you, but Sir Solomon has married another 
 wife, 
 
 Davy. Is that all ? and what's become of sister 
 Agnes ? Is she come to her moorings under Cape 
 Rugg, or out upon a cruise yet ? 
 
 Mrs. Part. Miss Agnes is single, and as pretty, 
 and as gay, and as good-humour'd as ever : but 
 poor Sir Solomon 
 
 Davy. Is not the wisest of his name ; I never 
 thought he was and my mother-in-law is a 
 termagant. 
 
 Mrs. Part. That she is, and a papish, which is 
 more; and she keeps a huge lazy fellow of a 
 friar in the house, one father Sullivan. 
 
 Davy. Does she so? 'tis all before the wind 
 with father then I see, he may e'en take in his 
 small sails before the mast, when she has got 
 such a bouncing driver at her poop. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Driver indeed ? they drive at a 
 fine rate truly, they have drove every thing out 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 of the window in this poor house ; there's the 
 billiard-chamber turn'd into a chapel, would you 
 think it? all the fine old brown wainscot stript 
 off, the arras that I have brush'd these forty 
 years unript, and a parcel of trumpery paper 
 pasted up in its stead ; the canopy bedsteads 
 that went up to the cieling with plumes and 
 tassels at the top, laid smack and smooth, and 
 cramm'd into corners. 
 
 Davy. Aye, aye, they were too taunt; 'twas 
 well consider'd. 
 
 Mrs. Part. Then my mistress wants to make 
 a match with your sister and her nephew Pat 
 Carey, and my poor master he's persuaded into 
 any thing. 
 
 Davy. But what says Agnes to the matter ? Is 
 she agreeable ? 
 
 Mrs. Part. Agreeable ! Lackaday, she hates 
 him, and is as melancholy on the occasion as 
 midnight besides, for a fine, young,buxom thing 
 like miss to take up with such a whipster as Pat 
 Carey, a rickety bandy brat, that does not come 
 up to her apron string a tadpole of a fellow 
 with a head like a moon lanthorn, with no better 
 reversion than a horsepond for his inheritance, 
 a notable match indeed for the loveliest young 
 lady in the whole county of Devon. 
 
 Davy. Don't you break your head about that 
 business, mother, leave me to clap a whiff in his 
 ensign, never fear; I have a letter in my pocket 
 will do his business; seal'd orders for another 
 course than what he steers, from a lover worth 
 a round dozen of such land lubbers as him. Well, 
 Quarter Master, are all things ready in the 
 kitchen?
 
 THE WALLOONS. 85 
 
 Enter Bum boat. 
 
 Bum. Aye, aye, master, all ready. 
 
 Davy. Bear a hand then, I must dowse these 
 old trowsers and bend a new suit of rigging, be- 
 fore I hail the fine folks above stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Part. He looks charmingly ; he's the 
 head and shoulders taller than he was before he 
 went to sea. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Sir Solomon, Lady Dangle, and Father 
 Sullivan, from Garden, through a Glass door. 
 
 Lady D. Positively. Sir Solomon, this garden 
 front is the most ridiculous thing upon the face 
 of the earth ; 'tis masonry run mad ; such a 
 jumble of windows, and doors, and buttresses, 
 shouldering one another out of all proportion, 
 garnished with weathercocks, and spouts, and 
 battlements, like a twelfth cake, with a whole 
 rookery of chirnnies on the top, the Rock of Lis- 
 bon is not more irregular. 
 
 Sir S. Come, come, you have made a tolerable 
 morning's work, there is the dove-house and 
 the dog-kennel under order of execution ; the 
 gable end of the parish church sentenc'd without 
 reprieve ; I would fain have pleaded benefit of 
 clergy for that, but to no purpose, 'tis a lost 
 cause, and the sin of heresy into the bargain 
 let me see, there was something else ay, the 
 pear tree wall against the rabbit warren but 
 that has escap'd with transportation, whilst the 
 apple-tree orchard, like the protestant martyrs 
 by wicked queen Mary, is condemn'd to the
 
 86 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 flames Pretty well all this for one short turn 
 upon the terrace in a summer's morning. 
 
 Lady D. One should rather take it for a frosty 
 morning by the sharpness of your wits. 
 
 Sir S. And 'tis well I have 'em, for at this rate, 
 by my troth, I shall have little else to live by 
 why I'm not the Prince of Conde\ nor 
 John o' Gaunt, nor Friar Bacon, not I, there's 
 a bottom to my purse, as well as an end to my 
 patience. 
 
 Lady D. Well, Sir Solomon, if you have no 
 taste to see my improvements, or no candour to 
 acknowledge them, it's not my fault, nor will it 
 ever be my concern. 
 
 Sir S. Oh yes, my lady, I see 'em, feel 'em, and 
 confess 'em ; meet 'em at every turn, hear of 'em 
 in all companies, and carry 'em about me where- 
 ever I go ; I am improv'd out of my house, and 
 at this rate shall be improv'd out of my estate; 
 have I ever possest a comfort within these doors 
 that has not suffer'd some improvement? there 
 was the little green parlour, which I cali'd my 
 study, where I hung my fowling pieces and dog- 
 couples, a place I could call my own, where I 
 could ask a favourite fox hound to take a snap 
 with me on occasion, whidh I may'nt do in any 
 of your apartments, why 'tis in improvement, a 
 colony of tame pigeons, and a huge aviary of 
 small birds have taken possession, and the old 
 tenant is ejected. 
 
 Father S. In truth, madam, Sir Solomon has 
 his grievances. 
 
 Sir S. As to what your reverence has under 
 settlement, grace forbid I should complain of 
 that : 'twas indeed a snug chamber where I ad- 
 minister'd Burn's Justice, or a tankard of beer 
 to my neighbours according to their different
 
 THE WALLOONS. 87 
 
 occasions ; parson and I have play'd many a 
 batch at back gammon, and smoak'd many a 
 pipe together, but your reverence has improv'd 
 it with so many death's heads and marrow-bones, 
 that neither of us care much for coming into 
 their company. 
 
 Father S. As to me, Sir Solomon, if I have en- 
 croached upon any of your enjoyments I can 
 readily dispense with 'em; I covet no man's goods. 
 
 Sir S. Such of my goods as you occupy are 
 totally at your reverence's service. 
 
 Father S. Nor do I wish to be hook'd into any 
 family dispute between man and wife. 
 
 Sir S. Tis much more considerate, and like a 
 spiritual peace-maker, to comfort either party 
 separately 'Gad I'll pluck up a little courage, 
 now son David is come home but where is he? 
 Ben ! Will ! Harry ! Where are all my fellows ? 
 
 Lady D. What is all this racket for, in the 
 name of wonder? 
 
 Sir S. A trifle ! nothing but my son come 
 home after three years absence, the heir appa- 
 rent of this crooked old castle ; "twill serve him 
 for ballast upon his next voyage; he won't find 
 a hovel on his estate to shelter a cow, when 
 your ladyship has finish'd your improvements of 
 it; o'my conscience I believe I shall volunteer 
 the next trip with him myself, Your ladyship 
 has turn'd my beds into hammocks, 'tis only 
 changing my parlour for a cabin, and the thing 
 is done. 
 
 Enter Davy, 
 
 Davy. Father ! 
 
 Sir S. Davy ! my son Davy ! how dost thou, 
 my brave boy ?
 
 88 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Davy. Brave and hearty, thank you father 
 Servant, madam, humble servant, doctor. 
 
 Father S. You are welcome home, young gen- 
 tleman. [Exeunt Sullivan and Lady Dangle. 
 
 Davy. Thank you : What, they won't bring 
 to: not they, egad, they stand right on. 
 Father, is that the woman you have married ? 
 
 -Sir S. Aye boy, that's she. 
 
 Davy. She carries her ports high and what's 
 he that has her under convoy ? 
 
 Sir S. Her confessor, her 
 
 Davy I Say no more, father, I apprehend you : 
 one of the Pope's gallies; a'goes monstrously by 
 the head. 
 
 Sir S. No, no, 'tis I that go by the head, Davy. 
 
 Davy. Oh, that's it He has got foul of your 
 carv'd work, has he, the thief? If I had him 
 aboard, he should soon have a wife of his own. 
 
 Sir S. What dost thou mean by that, boy ? 
 
 Davy. Why, I'd marry him to the gunner's 
 daughter, as they call it, warm his hide with a 
 round dozen or two, that's what I would do for 
 him. But where's sister Agnes all this while? 
 
 Sir S, Who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Send my daughter hither, tell her her brother is 
 arriv'd. 
 
 Serv. My young lady is out a w T alking. 
 
 Sir S. Go in search of her. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Davy. But where did you come athwart my 
 lady, father? 
 
 Sir S. Why as luck would have it, in Lisbon, 
 Davy ; a fever I caught at an election dinner, 
 settled on my lungs, and I was fain to go to 
 Lisbon in the packet for my recovery Agnes
 
 THE WALLOONS. $9 
 
 went with me, we lodg'd in a house with this 
 gentlewoman ; she spoke English, and I could 
 not speak Portugueze, and in short, Davy, so it 
 happen'd, I know not how but I married her. 
 
 Davy. Ay, natural enough in a port but you 
 are not tackt in the lungs still, father ? Your 
 pipe seems clear enough now. 
 
 Sir S. Yes, yes, my lad, now death would be 
 my deliverance, I'm in no danger of it but 
 you don't tell me how you like the sea, Davy ? 
 
 Davy. Very well in fair weather ; just like 
 matrimony. 
 
 Sir S. And have you brought home any prize- 
 money ? 
 
 Davy. Not much of that, father. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. One Mr. Daggerly and a young lady 
 desire to wait upon your worship. 
 
 Sir S. Shew them in. [Exit Serv. 
 
 Davy. Who's that I wonder ? 
 
 Sir S. A friend of our priest's ; I've a swarm 
 of 'em about me; the crows will flock to the 
 carcass of an ass. 
 
 Enter Daggerly and Kitty Carrington. 
 
 Dag. Sir Solomon, I kiss your hands. I beg 
 permission to present my niece, Miss Carrington. 
 Kitty, make your reverence to the gentlemen. 
 I impose a dreadful task, Sir Solomon, on the 
 modesty of my nature, when I am compell'd to 
 be my own introduction ; but my friend, Mr. 
 Sullivan, I perceive, is elsewhere. 
 
 Davy. He has got a sheathing of copper, not- 
 withstanding all his modesty. Servant, Miss.
 
 90 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Kitty. Humble servant, sir. Pray you now, 
 what may it be o'clock? I'm as hungry as a hawk. 
 
 Dag. Kitty, Kitty, recollect yourself! 
 
 Kitty. Why so I do, uncle, but we have been 
 so jolted, and jostled in that filthy diligence. 
 
 Dag. Hush, child, hush. 
 
 Sir S. You are from London, sir ? 
 
 Dag. I am from the metropolis, sir; a tour of 
 curiosity brought me into these parts ; I am 
 prodigiously fond of a sea port ; there is some- 
 thing peculiarly animating in the contemplation 
 of our naval armaments ; I have an enthusiasm 
 for my country, and the fitting out of a fleet is 
 a spectacle I delight in this young gentleman, 
 I perceive, is in the service, your son, I pre- 
 sume, sir Solomon. 
 
 Sir S. My son at your service. 
 
 Dag. I know a little of the navy myself; we 
 have had hard gales in the Channel. 
 
 Davy. Fisherman's gales, south-west, and by 
 south. 
 
 Dag. An apt navigator, I perceive you can 
 box your compass ; there's a frigate come in 
 with a Spanish prize. 
 
 Davy. So they say. 
 
 Dag. Cruelly maul'd ; they say the Spaniard 
 would have taken her if a line of battle ship had 
 not come in sight. 
 
 Davy. Aye, aye! 
 
 Dag. Nay, I am well assur'd she struck her 
 colours, that our people ran from their guns, and 
 the captain took 'em down with his own hand. 
 
 Davy. And do you believe it ? 
 
 Dag. Why should I not? 
 
 Davy. Because it's a lye, and so I tell you. 
 
 Dag. A lye, youngster ! 
 
 SirS. Davy,Davy, youdon'tknow what you say.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 91 
 
 Davy. The devil I don't, father, when I was in 
 the action myself: what does he know of the 
 matter, for to go to tell me what I saw with my 
 own eyes. The Spaniards fought their ships well, 
 like brave fellows, I don't say to the contrary, 
 I should be a scrub if I did ; but we fought a 
 little better, else we should never have taken 
 her. Why she over- rated us out of the world ; 
 and as for another ship of ours in sight, why I 
 won't call it a lye, because it's not polite, but 
 it's an errant flam, d'ye see. 
 
 Sir S. And wast thou in the fight, my brave 
 boy ? You never told me of this, Davy. 
 
 Davy. Why should I, father? what signifies 
 talking of those things? for my part'tis nothing, 
 we do as we are bid but when the courage of 
 my captain comes to be overhaul'd, as if he 
 had dows'd the colours, d'ye see, its false rec- 
 koning, and so I'll maintain it to the best he 
 that ever wore a head. 
 
 Sir S. And so thou shalt, my boy, it does thee 
 credit, and if this gentleman is a true English- 
 man, he will like thee the better for it. We 
 have the world for our enemies, the least we 
 can do is to stand by each other but here 
 comes my lady. 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan a/i^Lady Dangle. 
 
 Dag. Your ladyship's most obedient. 
 
 Father S. My dearest friend, let me take you 
 in my arms Who's this young lady with you, 
 Mr. Daggerly ? 
 
 Dag. My niece Carrington, you have often 
 heard me talk of my niece. 
 
 Father S. [apart.] Your niece, indeed ! 
 
 Lady D. Mr. Sullivan, you can amuse your
 
 m THE WALLOONS. 
 
 friend till dinner time by shewing him the 
 
 house ; this young lady will be glad to visit her 
 
 apartment. Come, miss, I'll shew you the way. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Dangle and Kitty. 
 
 Dag. Harkee, Kitty, carry yourself discreet- 
 ly A ward of mine, Sir Solomon, a child of my 
 own training, a sheet of white paper for inno- 
 cence. 
 
 Sir S. If a man was to draw a bill upon her 
 paper tho', I'm mistaken if she would refuse 
 payment upon sight. Come, Davy, we will leave 
 the friends to themselves. Every man to his 
 own vocation till dinner time. 
 
 Davy. Never fear but we shall rendezvous, on 
 the signal for anchoring in Table Bay. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Solomon and Davy. 
 
 Father S. And is this young woman that you 
 travel with, a necessary part of your equipage? 
 
 Dag. Indispensible ! a girl of her sort answers 
 a double purpose, cheers the hours of a man of 
 business, and blinds the eyes of the inquisitive 
 and curious ; when I saunter carelessly thro' 
 the dock with my girl upon my arm, who will 
 think that I am at that instant taking measures 
 of its destruction? 
 
 Father S. I differ from you in opinion, and 
 see more danger in the expedient than discre- 
 tion; but we'll talk more upon that subject in a 
 fitter place. I always thought your vices would 
 follow you to the grave, now I perceive they 
 are likely to lead you thither. [Exeunt.
 
 THE WALLOONS. <)S 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 Sir Solomon's. 
 Enter Davy and Agnes. 
 
 Agnes. At last we're alone, and now for my 
 letter a thousand welcomes, my dear boy, and 
 a thousand, thousand thanks I thought they 
 never would have arisen from table. 
 
 [reads letter. 
 
 Davy. 'Tis a perilous long scrawl ; I can't for 
 the heart of me conceive what folks in love can 
 write about. Well, to be sure, I hate it mortally, 
 I never could bring myself to send the scrape of 
 a pen to father since I've been out not one : 
 if a body keeps up a fairish reckoning, that's 
 well enough for one I think : why, to be sure, he 
 must have copied out of the log-book, what else 
 can a man in a ship have to write about ; does 
 he tell you any thing of the gale of wind we 
 had off Ushant ? 
 
 Agnes. Breezes, Davy, breezes, zephyrs that 
 waft the soft sighs of love, as tender as the 
 breath of man e'er drew, and you shall hear 
 them ; listen, my dear boy, listen and you shall 
 hear the sweetest words. 
 
 Davy. But indeed I wont ; I'd rather hear the 
 howling of a cottage cur ; if you are pleas'd I'm 
 content; that's enough; Montgomery is an 
 honest fellow, and a brave heart, and a seaman's 
 friend; and though he mounts a Spanish cockade, 
 has a blind side towards Old England d'ye see, 
 and for that I like him; therefore, sister, if 
 you're agreed, make short work of it, open your
 
 9h THE WALLOONS. 
 
 mind to father, and there's an end: aftef 
 making such a wise match for himself, he can't 
 complain of yours. 
 
 Agnes. That will bear a doubt, but marrying 
 Montgomery is out of the question. 
 
 Davy What, you won't have hire because his 
 father forfeited his estate, 
 
 Davy. No, Davy, no, that will never be my 
 objection to Montgomery I have a soul above 
 such considerations. 
 
 Davy. Why I hope you have, Agnes but then 
 dy'e see, it can be nothing else than his religion. 
 
 Agnes. I could get over that too in a husband, 
 provided he was as well dispos'd to toleration, 
 as I am. Montgomery is a man of sense, and 
 has suffer'd enough for his religion to be sincere 
 in it; I can make no objection to him on that 
 score. 
 
 Davy. Why no, Agnes, in your way he may be 
 as fit for service, but in ours it won't do to be 
 praying to Santiago and San Antonio, when one 
 good seaman in foul weather is worth two saints 
 in any weather. 
 
 Agnes. It may be so but don't think I would 
 marry any man in the uniform of an enemy ! 
 I would die first his poverty I would share, 
 his religion let him keep to himself but Eng- 
 land is my country, and I will never renounce 
 it but here comes a husband of my good mother- 
 in-law's recommending, behold a sample of her 
 choice 
 
 Enter Pat Carey. 
 
 Now, cousin Carey, who sent you out upon dis- 
 covery ? what cat's in the barn, that your owl 
 flies out at the window ?
 
 THE WALLOONS. 95 
 
 Pat, Be quiet, miss Agnes, and let me pass 
 about my business, you're for ever a jeering and 
 flouting at me. 
 
 Agnes. Oh you unthankful thing you, did not 
 I stand between you and a good horse-whipping 
 t' other day, when father Sullivan surpriz'd you 
 in the heretical act of reading Bell and the Dra- 
 gon, to the maids in the laundry? and what book 
 have you got under your arm now ? the Calendar 
 of Compliments. 
 
 Pat. Tis no such thing ; so let me go I do 
 desire of you. 
 
 Agnes. But I will see what it is ; do you know 
 what it is to pique a lady's curiosity. 
 
 Pat. Not I, I never had nothing to say to 
 none of them; but if you must know, 'tis a 
 Thomas Aquinas, burst it, I've a whole page to 
 get by heart before vespers : I would it was iu 
 the fire for me. 
 
 Davy. Give me, and I'll heave it overboard in 
 a hurry ; there it goes ; he never took such a 
 jump in his life. 
 
 Pat. The lud ha' mercy on my poor bones ; 
 they'll rattle for this. 
 
 Davy, Never fear, my stout fellow, I'll stand 
 by you What, 'tis time to ha' done being a 
 school-boy. Snap your fingers at daddy Sullivan ; 
 value him not a rope's end. 
 
 Pat. Aye but it's a godly book, and it's a sin 
 for to throw it out of the window. 
 
 Agnes. Not at all, if he's a true saint, he would 
 "light on his legs, though he tumbled from the 
 top of the house. 
 
 Pat. But will you stand by me, cousin Agnes, 
 and you, master Davy ? 
 
 Davy. To the last; pluck up a good heart and 
 fear nothing.
 
 96 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Pat. Why, there then let him sowse, and get 
 up as fast as he can By jingo this is rare, I'm 
 glad you're come amongst us Oh, but I forget 
 to tell you, miss, your father wants you to play 
 a tune to him in the music rooms, he bid me 
 send you to him out of hand. 
 
 Agnes. And if you had not done it, 't would 
 be more than that head of thine is worth. 
 
 [Exit Agnes. 
 
 Pat. But you'll not flinch me after all, cousin 
 Davy? 
 
 Davy. True blue never flinches ; though his 
 mettle be heavier than ours, we are two to one, 
 and that you know is odds Never fear but we 
 will pepper his running rigging We'll make 
 him scud I warrant you. 
 
 Pat. He hits woundy hard ; he has got a back- 
 handed flick with him, that makes one's ears 
 sing Miserere for an hour: then he jerks me in 
 such short ribbers De Profundis, that one's guts 
 set up a howl as if a pack of hounds were in 'em 
 he can tip you the fifth button to a hair. 
 
 Davy. Is that his game? Why then, d'ye see, 
 we'll fortify the bread room with a can of stout 
 rumbo ; our way at sea is to clear ship for action, 
 by land they fight best with full stomachs. 
 
 Enter Kitty Carrington. 
 
 Kitty By my faith I'm glad I've found you : 
 never was so tir'd in my born days : mercy be 
 good unto me, what a stiff starch'd piece of for- 
 mality this lady of yours is ! Why I had quite 
 and clean other notions of the country, than I 
 find it: I thought it was all joy and jollity, that 
 you all talk'd and laugh'd, and drank at one and 
 the same time; that your dinners consisted of
 
 THE WALLOONS. 97 
 
 roast beef, fat turkies and plum-puddings, with 
 buckets of beer, and bowls of punch I could 
 swim in that a country squire was a sleek, rosy, 
 round-fac'd man, sitting in his elbow chair, with 
 his family about him, smother'd in the smoke of 
 his tobacco pipe; but I find it clear another 
 case ; my lady as prim as if she was sitting for 
 her picture Sir Solomon as melancholy as a 
 moulting chicken, and every body in the 
 dumps, and the country the completest bore in 
 the universe. 
 
 Davy. Come then, my lass, you shall go with 
 us into the cable-tier; and we'll have a little 
 chat over a tiff of grog. 
 
 Kitty. Any where rather than back again to 
 the parlour. A quaker's meeting, or a methodist 
 conventicle, is a merry meeting compared to 
 that. 
 
 Davy. You shall mess with us in a snug birth 
 of my own ; 'tis Saturday night, and that's a rule 
 with us at sea to drink our wives and mistresses; 
 now you shall be both one and t'other. 
 
 Kitty. How can that be, I would fain know? 
 
 Davy. Why you shall be his wife and my mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Kitty. That's what you sailors call working 
 double tides, is it not? What say you to that, 
 young Obadiah. 
 
 Pat. So my aunt consents, I shall not gainsay 
 it. Love begets love, they say, and you are 
 civiller to me by one half than my cousin Agnes : 
 she has seen the world, and sets me at nought. 
 She's a wit, and calls names, but you're good- 
 natur'd, and no whit wiser than myself. 
 
 Kitty. Aye, that you learnt from my uncle 
 yonder, he's always snubbing one, and calling 
 one fool before company: but I'll tell you a 
 
 vol. 1, H
 
 98 THE WALLOONS, 
 
 secret he's no uncle of mine I'll play him a 
 trick before I'm a day older, mark my words 
 for that. 
 
 Davy. And I'll make one in the fray; come, let 
 us go and hatch mischief. 
 
 Pat. Oh ! if I could but hamper that old hob- 
 goblin of a friar, how I would make him roar for 
 it ! Huntsman and I once put a hedge-hog in 
 his bed, but I don't know how it happened, he 
 was never a whit the worse for it, whilst Dolly 
 the chambermaid was laid up with a sore foot 
 for a fortnight. 
 
 Kitty. Do you know, I don't think you alto- 
 gether so intolerable, to be sure you are of the 
 shortest, but that I could eke out in time ; face 
 about So, what journeyman botcher cas'd you 
 in this doublet You've a ragged head of hair of 
 your own Faugh ! 
 
 Pat. Tis rather of the straightest : but that 
 comes of Betty the laundress not allowing me a 
 night-cap; but aunt says I shall have side curls, 
 and a false tail, upon Michaelmas day. 
 
 Davy. And that's a bloody day in the goose's 
 calendar. Come, about ship ! Let us get our 
 liquor on board, and then for a cruize against 
 the enemies of fun and good fellowship Make 
 sail, my good boy, I'll take the nymph frigate in 
 tow Come, my brave girl 1 give a round turn 
 to your hawsers and scud. [He takes her arm, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 EnterFather Sullivan tfwdDAGGE&LY. 
 
 Dag. I found two of them that.spj^f* English, 
 they told me they had been taken <M' the port 
 
 *
 
 THE WALLOONS. 99 
 
 of Cadiz ; both are men of sense, and the elder 
 an officer of rank and experience ; I sounded 
 them at first warily, and at a distance, but 
 finding them, upon discourse, men to my mind, 
 made, as if by measure, for my purpose, I open'd 
 to them the whole of our design. 
 
 Father S. Did you so, Mr. Daggerly, then I 
 think you went great lengths upon a short ac- 
 quaintance, greater than any prudent man is 
 warranted to go ; you say they spoke English 
 were they native Spaniards ? 
 
 Dag. I did not ask the question ; but should 
 think by their dialect they were not. 
 
 Father S. Why, then, I tell you, and remem- 
 ber what I tell you, if they have a drop of 
 English blood in their veins, they are not fit 
 associates in our design. 
 
 Dag. What then do you say to me, who am 
 an Englishman ? 
 
 FatherS, That's an interrogatory to which I 
 decline an answer. Remember, this project of 
 setting fire to the shipping is a cockatrice of 
 your own hatching, and the only help I can sub- 
 scribe to your undertaking is my prayers : unless 
 indeed you should need any spiritual assistance 
 before you are run up to the yard-arm in a 
 noose. 
 
 Dag. Do you run back from your engage- 
 ments ? Do you start and fly off in the crisis of 
 projection? And do you think to palm that 
 sorry fetch upon one of my experience, upon 
 one that knows you ? Has the gold of France 
 stuck to my fingers only, and not fill'd your 
 palm ? Vulture as thou art, when I have pick'd 
 it up by grains, thou hastgorg'd it by mouthfuls. 
 
 Father S. 'Tis false ! You swallow it as deep 
 as hell, greedy as the grave, but lifeless as th
 
 100 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 corpse that fills it. Then you have the carnal 
 petulance of a monkey ; witness this trollop 
 whom you rail about. Are you a man of great 
 occasions, you an engine in the hand of fate to 
 maim the empire at a blow? Holy St. Francis, 
 what a stroke to set this fleet blazing! what a 
 bonfire for the foes of Britain, for France, for 
 Europe, for the world, for, on my conscience, it 
 is all in league against them. 
 
 Dag. Fine talk, and that's your fort I've long 
 remark'd it, you have words at will, but, in the 
 day of danger, you can turn and double, and go 
 every way except right on I can liken thee to 
 nothing better than a piper, uttering fine tones 
 when slightly touch'd, but griped too hard, the 
 hollow reed is shiver'd and becomes unservice- 
 able. 
 
 Father S. What are your services, I fain 
 would ask ? 
 
 Dag. Better in all respects than yours. 
 
 Father S. 'Tis false. A newspaper retail of 
 threadbare information, a string of paltry essays, 
 which our common article-mongers shall give 
 you cheaper and better in the open market of 
 treason : you are no more than a petty pilferer 
 at a fire, snatching by pi tee-meal what you 
 should demolish in the gross: the mere hen- 
 roost robber of the state. 
 
 Dag. Don't provoke me, Sullivan, your life is 
 in my power; and if it were not tor that cloak 
 thou hast borrowed of religion, I'd drag thee by 
 the throat to the gallows, thou Jesuit in the 
 frock of a friar.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 101 
 
 Enter Lady Dangle hastily. 
 
 Lady D. Bless me, gentlemen Is any thing 
 the matter? 
 
 Father S. As how, my dearest daughter, what 
 should be the matter ? 
 
 Lady D. You were very loud, I protest I 
 thought you were at high words with each 
 other. 
 
 Father S. Ha ! ha! ha ! how natural was your 
 mistake : my friend Mr. Daggerly was plea- 
 santly recounting an adventure on the road, and 
 the gentle susceptibility of your nature con- 
 strued it into a quarrel. 
 
 Lady D. And was that all ? 
 
 Father S. Nothing in life more certain. 
 
 Lady D. Upon your word ? 
 
 Father S. Upon the word and veracity of a 
 priest : a droll rencontre on the road ; if you'll 
 go back to the drawing room, I'll repeat it to 
 you after my way, and I'm mistaken if you do 
 not join as heartily in the laugh as either of us : 
 come, my good friend, you deserve to hear your 
 story murder'd by my telling, for fright'ning her 
 ladyship but harkee, Daggerly, pitch your voice 
 a note lower when you tell tnat story another 
 time a full note lower do you mind hang dog. 
 [Aside. Exeunt Father S. and Lady D. 
 
 Dag. Hell-hound ! oh that I had my fingers 
 at his wind-pipe. [Exit Dag. following. 
 
 Enter Agnes and Servant. 
 
 Agnes. Where is the foreign officer who deli- 
 ver'd this note to you ? 
 
 Serv. I left him at the garden-lodge, he said
 
 10* THE WALLOONS. 
 
 he would wait there for your answer ; he is at- 
 tended by a serjeant . 
 
 Agnes. Did you carry no message to my father ? 
 
 Serv. None; he desired the note might be 
 given into no hands but yours. 
 
 Agnes, [aside.'] I'm puzzled how to act. It 
 pains me to deny myself, and yet I don't know 
 how I can with propriety receive his visit. At 
 the garden-lodge you say ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, madam. 
 
 Agnes. Present my compliments to captain 
 Montgomery: say that I am walking out, and if 
 it is agreeable to him to take a short turn in the 
 shrubbery, I'll meet him in the horn bean walk 
 you can shew him to the place go, deliver 
 what I tell you. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Garden. 
 
 Enter Montgomery meeting Agnes, runs and 
 kisses her hand. 
 
 Mont. I am blest to meet you : this concession 
 was most kind the same sweet nature that I 
 knew at Lisbon, with beauty more matur'd. 
 
 Agnes. But you, methinks, are alter'd. 
 
 Mont. By the addition of my chains. 
 
 Agnes. By the addition of an hostile uniform : 
 the livery of the house of Bourbon; we've ene- 
 mies enough, God knows, and you have added 
 to the number, a generous one no doubt, but 
 still an enemy. 
 
 Mont. A prisoner, if you please, for such I am 
 in every sense; how can I be an enemy on this
 
 THE WALLOONS. 103 
 
 ground, where the brother has possession of my 
 sword, and the sister of my soul. 
 
 Agnes, But an exchange may set you free. 
 
 Mont. In one sense only ; in the other, I am 
 everlastingly enslaved. 
 
 Agnes. I'm sorry for it. 
 
 Mont. You've made a better choice ; you've 
 wisely banish'd from your thoughts an outlaw'd 
 adventurer, a wretch whose sole inheritance is 
 an attainder; one, whom an unhappy attachment 
 to bis religion, compels him for support to bathe 
 hit sword, ho we'er reluctant, in the bowels of his 
 country. 
 
 Agnes. You was not in the Spanish service, 
 when I knew you at Lisbon. 
 
 Mont. I was then supported by the precarious 
 bounty of an uncle in London ; that resource 
 stopt, and, as I was not born for carrying burdens, 
 I carried arms; the service of Spain offer'd, and 
 I enter'd a cadet in the Walloons. Can you con- 
 demn me? I serve for bread, and not by choice. 
 
 Agnes. O Montgomery ! Montgomery ! but 
 go on. 
 
 Mont. I was bound with a party of recruits 
 to Minorca, when your frigate brought us to 
 action off the coast of Spain ; we were evidently 
 superior, yet the fight was obstinately maintain'd. 
 O my Agnes, suffer me so to call you once more, 
 what I felt when I saw the English colours fly, 
 and heard the English sailors cheer, no language 
 can express. Desperate at length they grappled 
 and boarded us, a youthful hero, in the ardor of 
 attack, was amongst the first that leap'd upon 
 the gangway ; he fell in the attempt, and I had 
 him down at the point of my sword ; his early 
 courage, his defenceless posture, or call it rather 
 the immediate influence of thy guardian angel,
 
 104 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 stopt the stroke He was the brother of my 
 Agnes. 
 
 Agnes. May Heaven reward your magnanimity, 
 and may no British weapon ever find your heart! 
 Suffer me, I beseech you, to present you to my 
 father. I have very little interest in this family, 
 but such obligations cannot pass without acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 Mont. Excuse me for the present ; I am here 
 under guard, and must return immediately. One 
 thing I cannot excuse myself from mentioning 
 to you under the seal of secrecy, and in the way 
 of prevention against alarm, which is, that you 
 have a traitor in your house. 
 
 Agnes. A traitor ! 
 
 Mont. An incendiary of the blackest sort; a 
 visitor in your family : one Daggerly. 
 
 Agnes. The villain! I can readily believe it; 
 but how have you discovered him ? 
 
 Mont. He has been tampering with the co- 
 lonel of my company, a fellow-prisoner of mine, 
 but one too well attach'd to England to conspire 
 with assassins for its destruction; I will not 
 trouble you with a long story, but he has im- 
 peach'd him to the commandant at Plymouth, 
 and will be here upon assignation before sun-rise 
 to-morrow ; when, upon getting the proofs in his 
 hands, the traitor will be arrested on the spot. 
 I am sure you will not suffer this affair to pass 
 your lips ; I shall accompany him, when that is 
 over, you will honour my friend and me by pre- 
 senting us to your father ; and I am bold to 
 say, a worthier man than Don Vincente, Europe 
 does not contain. 
 
 Agnes. I am all astonishment ! and who is this 
 brave enemy who is this good Don Vincente ? 
 
 Mont. An exil'd Briton like myself.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 105 
 
 Agnes. O England ! England ! when wilt thou 
 awake from this unnatural lethargy ! 
 
 Mont. I shall have more to tell you then, and 
 something to surprise you; something, let me 
 hope, to please you; when next we meet, per- 
 haps I shall not be the enemy of England. 
 
 Agnes. You are the friend, the guardian of it; 
 and its gratitude, I will believe it, shall restore 
 you what your fathers not yourself have forfeited. 
 
 Mont. We'll hope the best If I might natter 
 myself your heart was vacant 
 
 Agnes, No, 'tis full ; it overflows with grati- 
 tude, with admiration ; melted with pity, and 
 
 Mont. Oh stop not I'm agoniz'd to hear you 
 conclude. 
 
 Agnes. Oppress'd with love. 
 
 Mont. Thus, thus let me express my joy ; I 
 cannot hold it back ; it rushes on my heart and 
 I must give it vent or die. 
 
 [Falls on his knees, seizes both her hands, she 
 drops on his neck and weeps. 
 
 Agnes. Oh, sir, you're noble ; I have said too 
 much : release me, or I faint farewell. 
 
 Mont. To morrow. 
 
 Agnes. Till then farewell. 
 
 Mont. One word, and then I go. If our in- 
 telligence involves a priest retain'd in your fa- 
 mily, I hope he is no friend of yours. 
 
 Agnes. My friend ! my horror my aversion. 
 
 Mont. Till then farewell; may every saint in 
 Heaven be your guard. [Exeunt severally.
 
 105 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Chamber. 
 
 Davy, Pat, and Kitty, at a Table with Glasses, 
 8$c, Tipple, Joyce, and Servants attending. 
 
 Tip. Lord love him how comical he is ! This 
 is rare now, the old house looks as it should do. 
 He makes my eyes run over with laughter. 
 
 Joyce, Merry rests his heart ! Mine leaps five- 
 barr'd gates with joy. 
 
 Kitty. Davy- 
 
 Davy. What say'st thou, my doxy ? 
 
 Kitty. Make Pat sing me that song again, that 
 you taught him, about the fight at sea. 
 
 Serv. Do, do, master Pat, sing it once again. 
 
 Davy, Hawl in the slack then, boys. Hand 
 us a tiff of grog : why, Pat, your eyes are set in 
 your head Dowse the glims, my heart, and;turn 
 in ; all hands to sleep, like a Dutchman in a 
 trade wind. 
 
 Kitty. No, no, the song, the song. 
 
 Davy. Then hang my old hat upon your bulk- 
 head ; here goes Messmates, turn yoar wig; 
 Off with the old jig. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 
 'Twas up the wind three leagues and more. 
 
 We spied a lofty sail ; 
 Set your top-gallant sails, my boys 7 
 
 And closely hug the gale.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 107 
 
 Nine knots the nimble Milford ran, 
 
 Thus, thus the master cried, 
 Hull up she rais'd the chase in view, 
 
 And soon was side by side. 
 
 , 2. 
 
 Dowse your Dutch ensign, up St. George> 
 
 To quarters now all hands ; 
 With lighted match beside his gun, 
 
 Each British warrior stands. 
 Give fire, our gallant captain cries, 
 
 'Tis done, the cannons roar, 
 Stand clear, Monsieurs, digest these pills 
 
 And then we'll send you more. 
 
 Our chain-shot whistles in the wind, 
 
 Our grape descend like hail ; 
 Hurrah, my souls ! three chearing shouts, 
 
 French hearts begin to quail. 
 And see 'tis done, she strikes, she yields ; 
 
 Down, haughty flag of France : 
 Now hoard her, boys, and on her staff 
 
 The English cross advance. 
 
 4. 
 
 There let it ever fly, my hearts, 
 
 To awe these Gallic slaves, 
 So freely toss the can about, 
 
 For Britons rule the waves, 
 There let it ever fly, 8$c. 8$c. 
 
 [A violent knocking at the door. 
 Davy. A hoy ! there ! who's without ? 
 Father S. [without.] Open the door, 'tis I.
 
 108 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Tip. Mercy upon us, 'tis Mr. Sullivan Away, 
 away ! [Servants exeunt with glasses hastily. 
 
 Davy. A topsail vessel, by the Lord Harry : 
 clear the ship, my brave boys. 
 
 Father S. [without.] Open the door, I say; or 
 I'll burst it 
 
 Pat. Old Father Francis ! Let him enter, I'll 
 keep my post. 
 [Sits at table with Davy's hat on. Davy opens t he door. 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan. 
 
 Davy. There, sir, we've no close quarters : 
 how do you like us now you see us ? 
 
 Father S. Here's the whelp that I am in search 
 of. Why, you ungracious imp, are these your 
 frolics ? Sirrah, you are tipsey 
 
 [Sullivan shakes Pat by the shoulder. 
 
 Pat. Well, and what do you infer from that ? 
 That I have been drinking, I suppose. 
 
 Father S. That you'll be scourg'd, you impi- 
 ous prophaner of a peaceful family : is this the 
 education I have 1 given you? are these your 
 vespers ? 
 
 Pat. Yes, and the more shame yours for in- 
 terrupting my devotions. 
 
 Father S. This comes of keeping company 
 with reprobates and roysters He was an inno- 
 cent lad, young man, till you came into the 
 house Evil communication corrupts good man- 
 ners. 
 
 Davy. Aye, so they say that you cribb'd out 
 of the copy book. 
 
 Father S. I'll copy this fellow Sirrah, where's 
 my Thomas Aquinas ? 
 
 Pat. Where I wish you'd follow him. 
 
 Father S. And where is that, graceless ?
 
 THE WALLOONS. 109 
 
 Pat. Hoisted out at the window. If you'll 
 jump after him, you'll overtake him on the 
 garden steps. 
 
 Father S. Shall I so you unfledg'd cuckoo- 
 shall I so. [Sullivan pulls Pat out of the chair, 
 
 he falls on the ground. 
 
 Pat. Help, Christian people '.for the love of 
 mercy, help! 
 
 Enter Lady Dangle, and Servants zvith lights. 
 
 Lady D. What is the cause of all this outcry? 
 
 Davy. Cause enough, my lady ; this two-handed 
 son of the church has kill'd your nephew. 
 
 Lady D. The Lord be good unto me Help 
 me to lift him up ; here, chafe his temples with 
 lavender water ; I don't see any bruises he has 
 about him. Where are you hurt, my dear? 
 
 Pat. Inward bruises ! Inward bruises ! he 
 knock'd me down like a calf. 
 
 Father S. 'Tis false In short the truth speaks 
 for itself, you see the lad is tipsey. 
 
 Pat. Giddy with my fall, no more As for 
 tipsey, that's a fetch of his own ; where should 
 we get liquor? who should give it us; I'll be 
 judg'd by the servants, if we've had a drop since 
 dinner. * 
 
 Serv. Not a drop, not a drop. 
 
 All. A clear case. 
 
 Father S. A most audacious falsehood ! they'll 
 witness any thing for him, or against me. 
 
 Lady D. Take him to his chamber. 
 
 Davy. Aye, take him to the doctor to be drest. 
 
 Pat. Thank you, but I have had my dressing 
 by the doctor already ; leave my bodily wounds 
 to get well of themselves but to take away my 
 reputation to say I was tipsey ! oh, shocking
 
 110 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 and abominable ! it cuts me to the heart, father, 
 to think what you must have upon your con- 
 science If your reverence preaches against 
 lying any more, I hope the devil will make one 
 of your congregation, for there's nobody but 
 the old one himself can come within a bar's 
 length of you at that sport. 
 
 iScrv. Poor thing ! Poor thing ! 
 
 [Exeunt Pat, Davy, and Servants. 
 
 Lady D. And now, Mr. Sullivan, you have 
 taken your leave of my nephew's tuition. 
 
 Father S. With all my heart, madam, and of 
 your house too. 
 
 Lady D. And pray, miss, how came you in 
 this company ? 
 
 Kitty. Meaning me, madam ? 
 
 Lady D. You, madam. 
 
 Kitty. Because I preferr'd their merry meet- 
 ing to the grave solemnity of a silent meeting. 
 
 Lady D. If my company does not suit, you 
 had best resort to what you like better; you'll 
 find society at Plymouth, more to your taste, 
 mine is no disorderly family ; I keep no house 
 of entertainment for travellers of your de- 
 scription. 
 
 Kitty. No, in truth; I find no entertainment 
 in it. 
 
 Lady D. Saucy minx ! [Exit Lady Dangle. 
 
 Kitty. Ha ! ha ! ha ! bellweather ! Well, sir, 
 and what is your pleasure? am I to undergo 
 your discipline as well as my lady's ? 
 
 Father S, No; I admire your spirit. 
 
 Kitty. Indeed ! 
 
 Father S. What's more, I am charm'd with 
 your wit. 
 
 Kitty. My wit ! 
 . Father S. And let me whisper in your ear, I
 
 THE WALLOONS. Ill 
 
 like your person. Quit this Daggerly you are 
 in company with, and attach yourself to me; nay, 
 never hesitate, I know you know you are no 
 niece of his : come, walk this way I've some- 
 thing to impart to you. 
 
 [Exeunt Sullivan and Kitty.
 
 112 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 ACT III. ' 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan and Daggerly. 
 
 Father S. We are more private in this room ; 
 and now, Mr. Daggerly, if I was a man new or 
 unknown to you, I might expect to find some 
 want of credit for what I am about to say; but 
 having been long acquainted, I persuade myself 
 you will believe me when I tell you that I am 
 incapable of malice and dissimulation ; the infir- 
 mities of human nature who is free from ? and 
 I am free to own a hastiness of temper is my 
 fault; a sudden susceptibility; a momenta^ 
 spark ; no more if I have offended you, I ask 
 your pardon; give me your hand. I hope we 
 are friends. 
 
 Dag. Why to be sure, if what you say but 
 in matters of honour I am nice to a degree 
 however, an apology from a gentleman to a gen- 
 tleman, there is no holding out against that 
 there is my hand, and where I give my hand, I 
 give my heart I believe there does not live a 
 man of a more forgiving temper than myself. 
 
 Father S. Humility becomes me ; it is the 
 characteristic of my profession; but let me say 
 for myself, that sulienness and revenge never had 
 place in my bosom ; no, what you see me, that 
 I am, a plain, warm man, that love my friend, 
 incapable of dissimulation ; be my failings what 
 they may, I thank providence, hypocrisy is not 
 amongst the number. 
 
 Dag. Fair reck'nings make long friends. 
 
 Father S. And so they do ; fair dealing is the
 
 THE WALLOONS. lis 
 
 best, and that reminds me, my good friend, that 
 I have some property of yours on account. Your 
 quarterage is yet unpaid. I've bills upon our 
 house in town to the amount here, will you take 
 them ? 
 
 Dag. As you please for that ; I never doubted 
 your punctuality Stay, let me see ; heyday ! this 
 overpays me. 
 
 Father S. No matter, what's a trifle between 
 friends ? let it lie over, we can settle balances 
 at any future time. 
 
 Dag. I will express it so in my receipt. 
 
 FatherS. What talk you of receipt? I will 
 not hear of it. I take receipts of my tradesmen; 
 in transactions of honour, honour is my acquit- 
 tance And now to business ; have you resolv'd 
 upon your plan of operation ? 
 
 Dag. I think I have digested it pretty tho- 
 roughly, and with the assistance of these Spa- 
 niards, I do not see where it can fail. 
 
 Father S. That's well, that's very well ; 'twill 
 be a blow ; a brain-blow to this sinking country ; 
 this fleet that's now collected is her grand effort. 
 
 Dag. Yes, and her last ; and sometimes, let me 
 own it to you, father, that consideration staggers 
 me. 
 
 - 
 
 Father S. As how, good friend ? 
 
 Dag. I know not how it is, it touches me with 
 something like remorse. 
 
 Father S. A weakness, think no more of it. 
 
 Dag. No, no, you've satisfied me on that point 
 before; but sometimes involuntary thoughts will 
 disturb the tenor of the firmest resolutions. 
 
 Father S. Why so they will ; but recollect 
 that if, by a stroke like this, you cut the sinews 
 of the war, you prevent the effusion of Christian 
 blood -: what are these armaments but engines of 
 
 YOL. I. I ^
 
 114 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 destruction, and who will arraign the man that 
 strikes a sword out of the hands of an assassin? 
 When are you to meet these Spaniards? 
 
 Dag. To-morrow hy day break in the hazel 
 copse at the bottom of the garden; I settled time 
 and place with Montgomery, who was here not 
 many hours ago. 
 
 Father S. Who is Montgomery? 
 
 Dag. One of the Walloon officers we were 
 speaking of; did I never mention his name to 
 you before? 
 
 Father S. Never. 
 
 Dag, Nor Drelincourt, the other? 
 
 Father S. Are you sure that is his name ? 
 
 Dag. I am sure he says it is. 
 
 Father S. Of what age may he be ? 
 
 Dag. About my age Are you acquainted 
 with him, that you enquire about him ? 
 
 Father S. [aside.'] That's more than I'll confess 
 to you. I am not ; did you inform these officers 
 of my being a party in the project? 
 
 Dag. I did. 
 
 Father S. And what said they on the occa- 
 sion ? 
 
 Dag. It has escap'd me what they said, but I 
 think Drelincourt made a trite observation, that 
 there was no plot without a priest in it. 
 
 Father S. It were much to be wish'd,methinks, 
 that you would put your thoughts in writing ; 
 precision in orders is the soul of enterprize ; 
 these men are strangers to the place, and a mis- 
 take on their part may be fatal to the whole; let 
 me recommend it to you to make a kind of pre- 
 cis of the project you have time for this before 
 you sleep there are materials in your bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 Dag. I think you are in the right I'll do it.
 
 THE WALLOONS. i]5 
 
 Father S. Do so Nay, man, put a good face 
 upon the business. 
 
 Das:. I think I do my heart is full, farewell. 
 
 r n x T\ 
 
 [Exit Dag. 
 FatherS. Remember So much for Bucking- 
 hamThis Drelincourt is certainly the husband 
 of my lady Dangle ; how strangely incidents 
 combine and double in my plot. I never can 
 believe these officers are hearty in the cause, 
 nay, I am sure, they will impeach the leaky 
 fellow, and hang him : I know the principles of 
 Drelincourt too well to trust him; though dis- 
 qualified by his religion, and outlaw'd for his 
 loyalty, still the blockhead is an Englishman in 
 -spite of common-sense : I must be beforehand 
 in discovery, and this booby justice of peace, 
 Sir Solomon, is commodious enough for my pur- 
 pose : as for her double-dealing ladyship, so 
 snappish, and so insolent of late, I'll lower her 
 tone apropos, she's here. 
 
 
 
 Enter Lady Dangle. She crosses. 
 
 . 
 
 Humph, she's resolv*d to bear it through My 
 lady, stop a moment will you not vouchsafe a 
 word- a look? am I so out of favour, so undone 
 in your esteem ? 
 
 Lady D. I beg, sir I desire, Mr. Sullivan 
 
 Father S. And I beg too I have desires nay 
 frown not, peaceable, conciliating desires they 
 are; you have accus'd me wrongfully about your 
 nephew, what of that? I am willing to ask pardon 
 for the wrong I have receiv'd, since you are the 
 offender. 
 
 Lady D. Come, come, I know 
 
 Father St What is it you know ? 
 12
 
 116 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Lady D. That you are insinuating, subtle, 
 flexible, and false. 
 
 Father S. And you are soft, easy, good-natur'd, 
 and undone. 
 
 Lady D. What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Father S. In a word you are Mrs. Drelin- 
 court ! Good night. 
 
 Lady D. Stay, sir, explain your meaning. 
 
 Father S. Nay, nothing, but when you are dis- 
 
 Eos'd to receive the visit of an old acquaintance, 
 ere is one at hand, no further off than Plymouth. 
 
 Lady D. You speak in riddles. 
 
 Father S. Your husband Drelincourt's among 
 the Spanish prisoners now the riddle's solv'd 
 upon the sacred honour of my function I speak 
 truth I see you doubt me still, but you may 
 satisfy yourself to-morrow. I give you joy. 
 What are the vanities of this world to you? the 
 calm retirement of a Spanish convent suits your 
 temper better; now your pride, your passions, 
 conscience, will be put to rest. Farewell. 
 
 Lady D. Tormentor, stay ! O Sullivan, if you 
 have sense of pity, if my bounty, if my weakness 
 ever touch'd your heart, or stirr'd it in my favour, 
 extricate me at this horrid crisis. \Kneels. 
 
 Father S. O you are much too humble, pray 
 you rise; what is it you would have me do? 
 
 Lady D. Conceal me, shelter me from this 
 disgrace : if Drelincourt should claim me, wit- 
 ness not against me. You have the proofs, and 
 only you. 
 
 Father S. I understand you you would have 
 me forsworn. Not I, for the world ; I have not 
 such a pliant conscience; no, I am not so insi- 
 nuating, subtle, flexible, nor false. 
 
 Lady Z). Cruel ! consider what I've been to 
 you.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 117 
 
 Father S. I'll tell you what you've been ; my 
 tyrant and my slave; all things by turns, but 
 all things in extremes. You drew my character, 
 now take your own ; you have been wavering, 
 weak, perverse, and foolish. Your fondness has 
 been freakish, your courtesy offensive, and your 
 humility insulting; you are not only a double 
 wife but a double woman ; you have more faces 
 than you have husbands, more follies than you 
 have faults, and more malice than the devil 
 And yet perhaps I may be brought to serve you. 
 
 Lady D. Do that and share my fortune. 
 
 Father S. A small part will serve my turn ; 
 but I'll not trust to promises I am resolv'd to 
 quit this kingdom, and retire to France, imme- 
 diately, to-morrow my absence sets your heart 
 at rest, equip me for my journey, give me cash. 
 
 Lady D, Most readily : what will content 
 you? " 
 
 Father S. You've made a purse, I know you 
 have ; examine your scrutore : go, get you 
 hence, and fetch me what you have hoarded 
 from your gull, your Solomon. 
 
 Lady D. But will you then be faithful ; will 
 you not betray me after all ? 
 
 Father S. I'll not be haggled with upon con- 
 ditions. Go. [Exit Father S. 
 
 Lady D. I must obey him, for the villain has 
 me every way in his power ; I must buy out his 
 mercenary malice at the price of all my industry 
 has scrap'd together ; and, for the first time, sa- 
 crifice my interest to my reputation : If I could 
 retaliate, upon the score of treason, I would 
 gladly trap him in his own snares ; but he has 
 cunningly contriv'd it so, that the attempt must 
 criminate myself if he retires to France, the 
 purchase of his absence cannot be too dear:
 
 118 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 
 
 I'll be assur'd that Drelincourt's in England first, 
 and for that purpose 
 
 Enter Sir Solomon and Davy. 
 
 Ah ! you startle me ! 
 
 Sir S. I interrupt your meditations. 
 
 Lady D. Not in the least ; or if you did, it's 
 an interruption I must always profit by. 
 
 Sir S. Your most obedient and I think it 
 happy that I have found you in a disposition so 
 obliging. 
 
 Lady D. It is my duty to be found so always. 
 
 Sir S. I hope you're serious ; for I own I have 
 thought that word was out of use, in your lady- 
 ship's lips at least. 
 
 Davy. Come, father, bear down at once, you 
 are fairly to windward ; all this is mere manoeu- 
 vring. 
 
 Sir S. I have a little proposal to submit to 
 you, my dear; a small thing, that for form's 
 sake I consult you upon, not in the least doubt- 
 ing your most ready concurrence. 
 
 Lady D. Without more preface, what may 
 that small thing be, Sir Solomon ? 
 
 Sir S. Nay, in truth, it is not so much my re- 
 quest as my son David's. 
 
 Lady D. If anything can add to the pleasure 
 I shall take in obeying your commands, my dear, 
 it must be the consideration that he has an inte- 
 rest in the request. 
 
 Davy. Why that's fair, and enough said so 
 in short, my lady, father desires you would con- 
 sent to my inviting the two Spanish prisoners, 
 Drelincourt and Montgomery. 
 
 Lady D. Invite them to this house? 
 
 Davy. That's all ; I've a sailor here is stepping
 
 THE WALLOONS. 119 
 
 to Plymouth, and will carry the message in a 
 hurry. 
 
 Lady D. But I am in no such hurry to send 
 it: I would have Sir Solomon understand him- 
 self and me a little better; I would have a few 
 words in private with him, before such steps are 
 taken. Would you turn your house into a bar- 
 rack ? they have quarters provided for them 
 without your trouble ; I desire no such visitors 
 in my family. 
 
 Davy. Father, the wind's about; heave out 
 your best bower, or we're all aground. 
 
 Sir S. You surprise me, Lady Dangle; is this 
 fair proceeding ? do I object to your acquain- 
 tance? for instance, Daggerly and his niece, 
 are they of my inviting? Sullivan, is he my 
 visitor? am I to have no voice in the house? 
 Is there a neighbouring gentleman who has not 
 left me off? Even the parson has forsaken my 
 house ; the very rats have quitted the wreck. 
 
 Lady D. And a happy riddance you have of 
 them ; what in the world was your house when 
 I first came to it, but the resort of country 
 squires, and poaching attorneys; a mob of linsey 
 woolsey grooms, and a kennel of fox hounds? 
 The feast of the Lapithse was not more barba- 
 rous. 
 
 Davy. What feast was that, father ? 
 
 Sir S. Your ladyship is beyond me now but 
 this I know, that you found me a very happy 
 man ; living at my ease in the centre of my 
 tenants and acquaintance, leading a very jocund, 
 jovial, innocent life ; my hall resounded then 
 with laughter and festivity ; the cloyster of the 
 Carthusians is not now more melancholy ; roast 
 beef is driven out, and saints and soup maigre 
 have taken possession of it.
 
 120 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Lady D. 'Twas a den of drunkenness, Sir 
 Solomon, I have reform'd it to a scene of 
 decorum. 
 
 Sir S. 'Twas Christmas, and you have turn'd it 
 into Lrnt ; in this country, madam, popularity 
 depends upon the spigot; that indeed you have 
 stopt ; you have reform'd me out of all men's 
 good opinion : curse on such reformation, say I. 
 
 Lady D. Sir Solomon, you are determin'd to 
 he the death of me; I perceive you are throwing 
 yourself into one of your tantrums; if you 
 begin swearing, I shall take my leave of you : A 
 but remember, as sure as ever these Spaniards 
 enter one door, I will go out of another. 
 
 [Exit Lady Dangle. 
 
 Davy. So, she's off, and we are in possession 
 of the field, away with her, say 1 luff up, 
 father, stand to it handsomely, and the day is 
 your own. 
 
 Sir S. I think I've done pretty well, Davy, 
 for one bout. 
 
 Davy. Aye, aye, she's before the wind, 
 never stand here knotting and splicing, but to 
 it again here comes sister Agnes. 
 
 Enter Agnes. 
 
 Sir S. How now, my child, what's the best 
 news with thee ? 
 
 Agnes. I met my lady in tears what is the 
 matter? 
 
 Davy. A little bit of a tussle with father, d'ye 
 see, that's the whole of it. 
 
 Sir S. You have unhappily been witness of 
 many such in short, daughter, this woman's 
 temper is insupportable; my life is miserable; 
 no humble cousin to a rich old maid, ever liv'd
 
 THE WALLOONS. 12 1 
 
 more under the harrow, than I to my lady- 
 Dangle : but I'm justly punish'd ; your mother 
 was an angel : I had one great prize in the 
 lottery of lvf'e, and embarking in it again am 
 undone. 
 
 Davy. Bad luck now, father, better another 
 time. 
 
 Sir S. You can remember, child, what artifice 
 she us'd to hook me in: a wiser man might have 
 been deceiv'd by her. 
 
 Agnes. Certainly the widow Carey at Lisbon, 
 was a very different woman from Lady Dangle 
 in England. 
 
 Sir S. Would you believe that she opposes 
 my inviting the Spanish prisoners violently 
 opposes it? nay, declares she will leave the 
 house upon their coming into it. 
 
 Agnes. And what can you wish for more? let 
 her put her threats in execution. 
 
 SirS. Humph! 
 
 Davy. Aye, let her bolt ; I'll cast an old shoe 
 after her, for one. 
 
 Sir S. Tis for the credit of our country that 
 our prisoners should report well of us : I have 
 no acquaintance with these officers, speak nei- 
 ther French nor Spanish, and can at best but 
 entertain them with dumb shew. 
 
 Agnes. How so, sir? surely you remember 
 young Montgomery, that you was so fond of at 
 Lisbon. 
 
 Sir S. Montgomery ! is he one of them ? is he 
 in the Spanish service ? 
 
 Davy. Why aye, to be sure he is, did'nt I tell 
 you so before, father ? now, Agnes, if I was you, 
 I would tell all and about it ; what signifies min- 
 cing the matter He's in love with sister, and 
 sister's in love him now the mischief's out.
 
 122 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Sir S. Is this true, daughter ? 
 
 Davy. Look ye there now, how you stand, 
 simpering, and sideling, as if you was before a 
 justice ? Can't you speak out, Agnes? there's 
 neither sin nor shame in the case, as I take it ; 
 is there, father? 
 
 Sir S. I don't know what to say to that ; 
 we've had enough of foreigners, methinks. 
 
 Agnes. Montgomery is not a foreigner. 
 
 Sir S. But he's a beggar. 
 
 Davy. Pray, father, had my lady any fortune? 
 
 Sir S. But he's a Catholic. 
 
 Davy. Pray, father, what religion is my lady 
 of? 
 
 Sir S. Hold thy tongue, boy, on that subject; 
 one fool in a family is one too many : I would 
 not compel your choice, daughter, but I would 
 resist your ruin. 
 
 Agnes. And whatever my dear father opposes, 
 I most solemnly promise and declare I will 
 never do; neither will I ever marry any man, 
 who carries arms against my country. 
 
 Sir S. That's my good girl ; spoke like my 
 own daughter now let Montgomery come 
 when he will, I have nothing to fear : you never 
 deceiv'd me yet, Agnes, and I am sure you 
 never will. Come, children, let's to supper. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Hall in Sir Solomon's House. 
 
 Enter Pat. 
 
 Pat. Gemini ! how my head turns round ! 
 It whirligigs like a top ; now cannot I tell for
 
 THE WALLOONS. 133 
 
 the life of me, whether it is love or liquor that 
 has set my brains a gallopping at this rate : here 
 comes miss Kitty, I'll ask her opinion ; she, 
 belike, knows more of the matter than I do. 
 
 Enter Kitty. 
 
 O you young sparkling rogue, I'm glad I've 
 caught you, and alone too Hush, let me shut 
 the door; -now don't be frighten'd. 
 
 Kitty. Lord love you, master Pat, what should 
 frighten me ? be at no pains about that. Speak 
 your mind. 
 
 Pat. And so I will, i'fackins; I am terribly in 
 love with you. I know it, and what is more, I 
 suspect it : first and foremost, d'ye see, because 
 I'm grievously fall'n away within this half hour, 
 and have no stomach for my supper ; secondly, 
 and so on, because I've a perilous swimming in 
 my eyesight, every thing is turn'd upside down 
 and topsy-turvy ; so that I walk on my hands, 
 with my heels where my head should be. 
 
 Kitty. Don't you go about to say such things 
 of me, master Pat ; you know you have been 
 drinking and rioting with Davy Dangle, and 
 now you would lay your ears, and your eyes, 
 your heels and your head at my door : shame 
 upon you ; how am I in fault ? 
 
 Pat. Why don't you remember you gave me 
 a box on the ear, for attempting to kiss you in 
 the blue bed chamber : at that moment I began 
 to fall in love with you, aye, and the same cuff 
 on the ear clos'd the bargain. 
 
 Kitty. Well, if you are in love with me, what 
 must 1 do to cure you of it? 
 
 Pat. Marry me.
 
 1*4 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Kitty. That's a comical receipt, methink.s : 
 what will your aunt say to that? 
 
 Pat. Oh, but we'll not call her into council: 
 we'll have a post-chaise as well as other people: 
 I hope, miss Kitty, you can have no objection to 
 running off with me. 
 
 Kitty. No, to be sure ; I'll do it, if it were 
 only to be reveng'd on my lady. When will you 
 be ready ? 
 
 Pat. To morrow morning before light. 
 
 Kitty. But I bargain for four horses. 
 
 Pat. Oh, that's half the battle : aunt paid my 
 quarterage this very day. 
 
 Kitty. And how shall I be dress'd for the 
 frolic ? who would give a farthing for running 
 off, unless it was in a fancy habit. 
 
 Pat. That's true, and now I think of it, the 
 players are at Plymouth : what do you think of 
 Polly ? I should make a monstrous good Mac- 
 heath. 
 
 Kitty. You Macheath, indeed ! why that's a 
 woman's part, you simpleton. I'll tell you what 
 I'll do, and there's an end ; borrow Davy's 
 uniform. 
 
 Pat. A rare thought; we'll let him into the 
 secret. 
 
 Kitty. With a smart cock'd hat, I shall make 
 a pretty little dapper fellow : I love a sailor 
 dearly Do you think we shall be pursued? 
 
 Pat. I hope so ; 'tis a pity we are both 
 orphans, that we can't have an advertisement 
 from our disconsolate parents. 
 
 Kitty. Our disconsolate friends will do as 
 well : most parents are in the secret themselves. 
 Then there comes out a description of our 
 persons in the papers, and that reads so charm- 
 ingly A young lady, not an hundred miles
 
 THE WALLOONS. 125 
 
 from Plymouth, ran away from her disconsolate 
 friends, upon a matrimonial trip to Scotland 
 She was dress'd then comes in the best of it, 
 in a sea officer's uniform, a smart hat, and 
 cockade, black velvet stock, her hair braided 
 and turn'd up with a comb, and a hanger, in a 
 belt, slung across her shoulders. 
 
 Pat. I hope to my heart, that Daggerly and 
 Father Sullivan will break their necks in pursuit 
 of us. 
 
 Kitty. But mind you now, Mr. Pat, I bargain 
 against coming back in the Diligence together ; 
 for you know now, that nothing in this life 
 should tempt me to marry such a little, ugly, go 
 by the ground as yourself, but the love of 
 frolic. 
 
 Pat. And what do you suppose persuades me 
 to dance after such a wild goose as you are, 
 Kitty, but the love of the chase? the bird, d'ye 
 see, is but a goose when caught, but there's fun 
 in running after it. 
 
 Kitty. So far we're agreed then, and now let's 
 find out master Davy : of a certainty, he must 
 have been a good friend to matrimony, that first 
 invented running off to Scotland. Let's be gone. 
 
 Pat. Miss Kitty, one kiss to seal the bargain. 
 
 Kitty. Hold there, master Pat ; he that takes 
 earnest before-hand, seldom stands to his bar- 
 gain in our way of business: so come along 
 without it. {Exeunt. 
 

 
 126 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan, with a paper, and 
 Daggerly. 
 
 Father S. Now, Mr. Daggerly, now your 
 embryo hath a shape ; here I can see the minia- 
 ture of manhood ; these tables I am perfect in : 
 here lies the heart of Britain, through these 
 arteries runs the life-blood that scarce feeds her 
 faint emaciated frame ; in these ships, these 
 warlike armaments, I trace the nerves that yet 
 enable her to raise her shield against a host of 
 foes, that crowd and press upon her; here yawns 
 the grave behind her, dark and deep she 
 totters on the brink, strike, and she falls for 
 ever; strike, and behold the gold of France as 
 rich as Danae's shower fills up the piece, and 
 rolls in floods upon you. 
 
 Dag. Aye ! Floods of promises ; but what 
 ensues if the performance fails ? 
 
 Father S. What most men shrink from, some 
 men bravely meet, and no man can escape. 
 
 Dag. 'Tis true, but I'm provided ; here's my 
 remedy [shews a pistol] It's partner's at your 
 service. 
 
 Father S. I thank you; but I'm arm'd in mv 
 philosophy! And do you always carry those 
 things charg'd about you ? 
 
 Dag. Always ; they serve a double purpose ; 
 to defend my life, or on occasion to dismiss it : 
 and I must wonder, Sullivan, how you possess 
 yourself in such tranquillity. 
 
 Father S. By ancient habits of reflection, by 
 a soul superior to the shifts and turns of fortune.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 127 
 
 Dag. Now would I give the world for your 
 composure. You amaze me ; but you was not 
 born in England, you have no compunction, I 
 am distracted, agoniz'd, and being scarce myself, 
 I am but half a villain. 
 
 Father S. Pish, 'tis ridiculous timidity. 
 
 Dag, No, sir, but something presses on my 
 mind. 
 
 Father S. What's that ? 
 
 Dag. I take you for my friend ; nay, I per- 
 suade myself, I am sure you are my friend. 
 
 Father S. No doubt I am what then ? 
 
 Dag Then like a friend receive what I shall 
 tell you. This is a damning business we're upon; 
 nay, do not think I'll flinch from it ; no, I'll not 
 go back ; but, Sullivan, I'll now reveal the only 
 secret I have ever held back from you I was, 
 not long since, in the confidential pay of this 
 country, and upon the rupture with France, pro- 
 pos'd to my employers a project of a similar 
 nature with this I am now upon ; and I must still 
 believe Brest would have been in flames as Ply- 
 mouth may to-night : but, would you think it, 
 Sullivan? they rejected it with manly indignation! 
 you will call it indolence, and want of enter- 
 prize. I thought it such, and turned my baffled 
 purposes to t'other side but now, I know not 
 how it is, the act seems noble; my conscience 
 turns perversely in my face, and I must glory in 
 the country I destroy. 
 
 Father S. Is this the wondrous offspring that 
 your mountain labours with ? I'll tell you what, 
 I have look'd deeply into human nature, and I 
 see in you a little shamefac'd hypocrite at work ; 
 close to your heart, you think it conscience, but 
 I call it cowardice. 
 
 Dag. You'll anger me !
 
 128 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Father S. I care not if I do, 'twill rouse you : 
 what are those resources of self-murder that you 
 carry with you? symptoms of a timorous spirit, 
 give 'em up traitors that will impeach you 
 witnesses that will depose against you; the ar- 
 mour of a man is resolution ; a naked savage is 
 an hero; entrench a soldier to the teeth, you 
 make a coward of him come, by our friendship, 
 by your own safety, by our common cause. 
 
 Dag. Either you have some wondrous faculty, 
 or I am influenc'd by some under spirit that has 
 sworn allegiance to your over-ruling genius. 
 Take 'em. 
 
 Father S. I thank you ; now, like Cortez, you 
 have burnt your ships, and cut off the tempta- 
 tion to retreat ; but you are disturb'd, go to your 
 chamber and compose yourself; I'll call upon 
 you at the hour appointed. Go. 
 
 Dag. You'll come to me when the Spaniards 
 are arriv'd ? 
 
 Father S. Without fail : you may depend upon 
 me. 
 
 Dag. I trust to you entirely be careful of 
 the paper, as you regard my life. [Exit Dag. 
 
 Father S. This rascal is honest, just as 
 atheists are religious. He gives testimony to 
 truth, as he would deliver his purse to a high- 
 wayman ; and puts down to charity what he pays 
 to compulsion. I hate such mongrels in iniquity, 
 lurchers that forsake the pack, and lie in wait to 
 snap upon the game,when nobler animals have run 
 it down. This fellow's of a mawkish composition, 
 like medicines sweeten'd to deceive a child. 
 Honey in the mouth, but physic in the bowels. 
 His paper lays him at my mercy, and now that 
 I've disarm'd him I'll hequeath him to the gal- 
 lows ; and I do it, not only because I know these 
 

 
 THE WALLOONS. 129 
 
 "Walloons will impeach his plot, but to revenge 
 upou him what his folly blabb'd about his French 
 intrigues. So much for that : now for this fool- 
 ish woman ; I have little time to spare to her. 
 
 Enter Lady Dangle. 
 
 Well, madam, have you thought of what I told 
 you? 
 
 Lady D. Have you determined on leaving 
 England ? 
 
 Father S. You answer me, it seems, by interro- 
 gatories. 
 
 Lady D. I claim to treat with you upon con- 
 ditions. 
 
 Father S. But what if I require you to surren- 
 der at discretion ? as I take it, lady Dangle, you 
 are fairly at my mercy ; I believe you find 'twas 
 truth I told you : Drelincourt's in England but 
 come I can remember former things, though 
 you are short of memory; we have been friends, 
 I'll be sincere and brief: the Lisbon packet lies 
 at Falmouth, isityourpleasure I depart to-morrow? 
 
 Lady D. I understand you this is what you 
 want. 
 
 Father S. How much has your munificence 
 provided ? let me see. 
 
 Lady D. Would it were poison to your touch. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Father S. You drive hard bargains, madam ; 
 you purchase your redemption cheaply but no 
 matter. 
 
 Lady D. But you'll set off to-morrow; that 
 you promise me? 
 
 Father S. No sooner for your urging it but 
 yet I'll go. I see your husband coming; I have 
 business with him, leave us. > 
 
 vol. 1. K
 
 130 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Lady D. You'll not betray me, Sullivan ? 
 
 Father S. Psha ! you're an idle woman ; I have 
 other matters to discuss with him ; your silly 
 business is dismiss'd. 
 
 Lady D. I stand on thorns till he's gone. 
 
 [Exit Lady D. 
 
 Enter Sir Solomon. 
 
 Sir S. You was in conversation with my wife; 
 I hope I do not interrupt any serious business ? 
 
 Father S. Not at all ; we had finish'd what we 
 were upon. 
 
 Sir S. I am sorry to hear it; for either you 
 have been too scanty in your admonitions, good 
 father, or she has fail'd to profit by them as she 
 ought. 
 
 Father S. I am concern'd you should think 
 there is a fault on either side : has any new 
 complaint arisen? 
 
 Sir S. They multiply so fast, I know not how 
 to answer you : 'tis not for me to pry into the 
 secrets of your ministry, father, but I am fearful 
 lady Dangle is not fair in her confession ; for if 
 she were, I think your wisdom would apply some 
 remedy against relapses. She is now a perfect 
 mistress in the art of matrimonial teazing ; if it 
 be right a husband should enjoy no earthly com- 
 fort, and malice be a merit, lady Dangle may in 
 time be calendar'd among the Saints : in short, 
 father, I am completely miserable, and your 
 charge has the sole credit of making me so. 
 
 Father S. Sir Solomon, I'll be sincere with 
 you ; but let us in the first place be private ; 
 suffer me to secure the door. I have long been 
 witness of your chagrin, but it is easier to lament 
 than remedy it : let me ask you once again, if
 
 THE WALLOONS, 131 
 
 anything has lately happen^ more thant com- 
 mon. 
 
 Sir S. I think not, unless I was to mention 
 the circumstance of her opposing my desire to 
 invite the Walloon officers to my house. 
 
 Father S. In that she was peremptory? 
 
 Sir S. Violent, not to be mov'd. 
 
 Father S. She has a reason foir that you* are 
 not aware of. 
 
 Sir S. It may be so ; I am very little acquainted 
 with her reasons ; she seems generally to act 
 without reason, in her conduct towards me. 
 
 Father S. I may conclude, then, you are hear- 
 tily weary of her society. 
 
 Sir S. As sick as Pharaoh was of the plagues 
 of Egypt. 
 
 Father S. And would be thankful to the man 
 that could release you from it. 
 
 Sir S. As thankful as poor Friday was to Ro- 
 binson Crusoe. 
 
 Father S. I am weary of it too. I'll tell you, 
 sir, it is a rule with me, when I perceive a mind 
 incorrigible, to surrender it to its impenitence; 
 I leave your house to-morrow. 
 
 Sir S. Are you serious ? 
 
 Father S. Irrevocably fixt : *ti not my habit 
 to make speedy resolutions, or revoke 'em when 
 I toave made 'em. 
 
 $r S. The worse luck mine : what a tug 
 against tide shall I have to myself, when you 
 lay down the oar. 
 
 Father S. As I shall manage it, perhaps not. 
 I shall speak freely to you. I am dispos'd to 
 render you an essential service ; and, sacred as 
 we hoid all secrets utter'd by the penitent in 
 their confession, yet, if the crime is glaring, 
 and the criminal persist in the commission of it, 
 
 K2
 
 132 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 'tis our duty to disclose it, and redress it openly. 
 And let me tell you, sir, a sin so flagrant is in 
 habitual practice in your house, I dare not any 
 longer trust myself beneath this roof. 
 
 Sir S. Providence defend me ! what is't you 
 mean? 
 
 Father S. To be plain, Adultery. 
 
 Sir S. Monstrous and abominable ! but who is 
 the committer of it? 
 
 FatherS. You. 
 
 SirS. I? 
 
 Father S. Both of you. 
 
 Sir S. If his infallible holiness the Pope was 
 to swear to the charge, he could not make out 
 above half of it. 
 
 Father S. And I repeat the charge against you 
 both. 
 
 Sir S. Prove it. 
 
 Father S. Nothing so easy : the lady you call 
 your wife, is married to another man ; she has a 
 prior husband living. 
 
 Sir S. A prior husband living ! mercy of mer- 
 cies ! if this should be true don't make a fool 
 of me, good father, don't make a fool of me. 
 
 Father S. Tis true, you shall see him face to 
 face; I'm not an idle talker, am I now thy friend? 
 
 Sir S. My friend ? You are the lamp of Alla- 
 din; no Genii in a fairy tale, no poet in his 
 fifth act, nor minister on his dismission, ever 
 dealt out favours so profusely : but who is the 
 husband ? for in the midst of my joy, though 
 repriev'd at the foot of the gallows, bear me 
 witness that I pity from my soul the poor man 
 that is to be executed in my stead. 
 
 Father S. That man is Drelincourt, one of 
 your Walloon prisoners : he is coming to your 
 house : for the present, carry yourself to your
 
 / 
 
 THE WALLOONS. 133 
 
 lady as usual, and as much better as you can; 
 let nothing that you've heard escape you, and 
 question me no further other matters demand 
 your attention ; your house not only harbours 
 an adultress, but a traitor, an incendiary, your 
 guest, this Daggerly. 
 
 Sir S. And why then, give me leave to ask, 
 did you invite him to my house? 
 
 Father S. The best may be deceiv'd ; let it 
 suffice, I have proof positive here in my hand, 
 the whole delineation of his plot, written by 
 himself: I'll swear to his writing, and can col- 
 late it with his letters. 
 
 Sir S. I'm all astonishment : instruct me what 
 to do. 
 
 Father S. Your part is plain ; you act in the 
 Commission of the Peace; receive my deposition, 
 and issue your warrant for his apprehension, here 
 in your house. 
 
 Sir S. In my own house ? immediately ! 
 
 Father S. Without a moment's loss, you have 
 a constable in the parish, send for him instantly, 
 but do it quietly, without a bustle ; go to your 
 office silently, make no disturbance, I'll meet 
 you there. Away. 
 
 Sir S. I'll do as you would have me; but I'm 
 in such a flurry, I scarce can find the way. 
 
 FatherS. What, man, compose yourself, the 
 burden of the business lies with me. 
 
 Sir S. Why, now, I rather think the man that 
 is to be hang'd has some share of it : I wish he 
 had prov'd Lady Dangle's husband, for in that 
 case, of two evils, the gallows would have been 
 the least. 
 
 Father S. I'll go down the back stairs, and 
 meet you at your office so, so, quietly. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir S. and Father S.
 
 134 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Garden. 
 Enter Davy and Pat. 
 
 Davy. And so this is the scheme, friend Pat, 
 your addle-head has been hatching, to run away 
 with Daggerly's girl ? 
 
 Pat. Yes, this is the scheme, Davy ; how do 
 you like it? 
 
 Davy. O wondrously, you're making a plaguy 
 long voyage to prove yourself a tool at the end 
 of it ; why, who set up this deviFs dance in 
 your noddie, that nothing should serve you, but 
 to thrust your ears into the noose of cuckoldom? 
 Kitty Carrington indeed! carry her to Scotland! 
 carry her to the Pike of Teneriffe as soon ; why 
 what signifies making a fool of yourself, and 
 fancying you sail under orders for the virgin 
 islands ? no such thing. 
 
 Pat. All's one for that, dy'e see, when the 
 frolic's afoot ; but you'll not spoil sport by 
 peaching, cousin Davy ? 
 
 Davy. Who, I peach? Irons could not force 
 that out of me : as for veering away a little bit 
 of advice, d'ye see, that's all fair; if you don't 
 like it, coil it up again, and there's an end. 
 
 Pat. And you'll lend Kitty your jacket, waist- 
 coat, and breeches ? 
 
 Davy. Why, to be sure I will but harkee, 
 messmate, I've given you a piece of my mind, but 
 if you like a salt eel better than fresh provisions, 
 there's an end of it, and so good bye to you. 
 
 Pat. Good bye, cousin Davy. Jealous of my
 
 THE WALLOONS. 135 
 
 good fortune, but I'm too cunning to be out- 
 witted. {Exit Pat. 
 
 Enter Montgomery. 
 
 Davy. Captain Montgomery. 
 
 Mont. What, my gallant boy ! give me your 
 hand, my hearty fellow : I have news will please 
 you, you must take leave of the cable tier, and 
 mount another uniform : your brave captain has 
 represented your behaviour in boarding our 
 frigate, and a commission is come down for your 
 promotion out of course; you are now a lieutenant 
 on your old quarter deck. 
 
 Davy. Why, if it be so, captain, it is their 
 kindness, more than my deserts, as a body may 
 say : they might have found a better man, and 
 not have gone far a-field to seek for him, 
 methinks. 
 
 Mont. Ah, Davy, Davy, yours is indeed a 
 service; but I'll draw no comparisons, I've 
 done with Spain, and 'tis not fair to quit it and 
 abuse it too. 
 
 Davy. Better and better still; you've done 
 with Spain ? then before George that's the best 
 news I have heard this day ; give me your hand ; 
 why then the king has one more brave subject 
 than he had. 
 
 Mont. Yes, heav'n be prais'd, my natural sove- 
 reign now is my liege lord, and legal master. 
 
 Davy. So you will strike the red cockade ; 
 oh, Montgomery, I know somebody that will 
 sing jubilate for this. 
 
 Mont. I've other news, but that I keep for 
 my belov'd Agnes. Is Mr. Daggerly still in 
 your family ? 
 
 Davy. Yes, yes, he's here; but come, you
 
 13(5 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 wish to see my sister ; she's now alone, and I'll 
 conduct you to her; my lady keeps her room: 
 father and the priest are in close quarters ; Dag- 
 geriy is lock'd into his chamber, and the coast 
 is clear, follow me. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Chamber. 
 
 Daggerly seated at table, with Papers. 
 
 Dag. How it stings me ! curse on't ! it is im- 
 possible to keep it off conscience, thou devil 
 eternal, will nothing silence thee, will nothing 
 smother thee? I have deceiv'd myself, there is 
 an immortality, and thou art ! O God ! I do 
 repent. [Starts up.] Impossible! I sink beneath 
 the weight of crimes; I cannot stir the load 
 that lies upon my soul ; I sweat with terror; I 
 am lost for ever. Hell, if thou dost exist, I 
 come I will dispatch myself outright ! where 
 are my pistols ? Madman, fool, they are gone, 
 I am disarm 'd who's there ? what noise is that? 
 I am betray 'd where are my papers? hark! 
 [gentle rapping at the door.] Who are you ? what 
 do you want ? I am busy. 
 
 Father S. [without.] Open the door, 'tis I 'tis 
 Sullivan. 
 
 Dag. Have patience, I beseech you. 
 
 [Huddles up his papers. 
 
 Father S. Why don't you let me in ? 
 
 Dag. Who are you ? 
 
 Father S. A friend be quick. 
 
 Dag. I come, I come, 'tis he : I recollect ; is 
 all well, Sullivan?
 
 THE WALLOONS. 137 
 
 Father S. All's well ; make haste, I say. 
 Dag. There then, now enter. [Opens door. 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan. 
 
 O my friend ! 
 
 Father S. What ails you, sir ? 
 
 Dag. I cannot tell you ; I have been in tor- 
 ments, but the sight of you revives me. Why 
 would you leave me to myself ? I'm better now 
 you're here ; speak to me, but let it be of com- 
 fort : let me hear your voice, by all that's 
 sacred, you amaze me, Sullivan, your eye is 
 fix'd, compos'd ; your step is firm, undaunted ; 
 are you more thau man ? 
 
 Father S. 'Tis plain that you are less : now 
 were it charity, mere Christian charity, to take 
 your life. 
 
 Dag. Indeed, good friend, I wish'd for death, 
 but now. 
 
 Father S. Then take your wish. Surrender ! 
 
 [Presents a pistol. 
 
 Dag. What is't you mean ? 
 
 Father S. To hang you. Officers of justice, 
 enter. 
 
 Enter Officers. 
 
 There's your prisoner, execute your warrant. 
 Dag. O Sullivan, can this be so ? 
 
 [Drops on his knee, but rises suddenly, and 
 
 takes out his papers, which Sullivan 
 
 snatches from him. 
 
 Father S. Secure his papers ! ha ! the bills I 
 
 gave you, these are my property : 'tis well I've 
 
 found them. Come, officers, dispatch : the 
 
 coach is at the door ; to prison with him. Nay, 
 
 no railing or if you must, rail at yourself
 
 138 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 you would have been a villain upon record, but 
 the fool preponderates, and now, you're nothing 
 but a simple knave. 
 
 Dag. Devil ! deceiver ! have you no remorse? 
 you that are guiltier than myself, have you no 
 feeling ? You that seduc'd me, traitor? 
 
 Father S. Psha ! 'tis thus superior understand- 
 ings treat their little worthless agents. You 
 know me not : nor could you reach my motives 
 if you did ; I am not what I seem. Away with 
 him. 
 
 Dag. Stop for a moment. That you have 
 brought me to the punishment I merit, galls me 
 not so severely, Sullivan, as the apprehension 
 that you have thereby escap'd it: since you 
 have moulded me into your plots and con- 
 spiracies, lifejias been insupportable ; and it is 
 not now so much my complaint that I am sacri- 
 fic'd, as that you are sav'd : still it is some con- 
 solation to think, that in destroying me you 
 disappoint yourself; your triumphs, and those 
 of France are blasted : and amidst all my crimes 
 this mitigating thought, perhaps, may interpose 
 to rescue me from utter execration, that I die, 
 exulting in the deliverance of my country. 
 
 [The Officers take off Daggerly. 
 
 Father S. Now, France, thy scheme is blasted, 
 curse upon his folly i this was a necessary act of 
 self-defence, here my commission ends : I now 
 must enter on another service. [Exit,
 
 THE WALLOONS. 139 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 A Garden. 
 Enter Montgomery and Agnes. 
 
 Mont. Yes, my Agnes, the generosity of my 
 sovereign has revers'd the family attainder, and 
 by my uncle's will I am heir to an ample pro- 
 perty ; such are the good tidings I have this 
 day receiv'd ; but what are these ? till this dear 
 hand shall seal the bond of my felicity, 'tis blank 
 and waste. 
 
 Agnes. And how are you convinc'd that I am 
 fomi'd to make you happy ? what is the secu- 
 rity you build on, that you pass judgment on 
 my merits with such positive assurance. 
 
 Mont. How can I better answer than in the 
 language of the poet : 
 
 " Tve looked thee over with a lover's eye, 
 
 " Thou hast no faults, or I no faults can spy, 
 
 " Thou'rt all perfection, or all blindness I." 
 
 Agnes. You do well, Montgomery, to take 
 poetry in aid when you resort to flattery ; but 
 it is not so much your blindness to the truth, as 
 our artifice in disguising it, that misleads your 
 judgment. 
 
 Mont. If there were oracles on earth, and it 
 was religion to believe in them, they could not 
 shake my mind from the persuasion it is fix'd in. 
 
 Agnes. And what is apter to misjudge than 
 prepossession? You've only look'd upon the
 
 140 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 fairer side, believe me; the lover sees no other 
 in his first advances : let the husband turn the 
 picture, and the reverse too frequently revolts 
 him with disgust. 
 
 Mont. I own it, and these cautions which you 
 feign to be dictating to me, I take for granted 
 are in reality address'd to yourself: 'Tis well 
 consider'd, and becomes the prudence of your 
 character. 
 
 Agnes. My prudence ! 'tis amongst my fail- 
 ings that I have no prudence; as a proof of it, I 
 am open to confess there never was a day, an 
 hour, since first I knew Montgomery, save only 
 whilst he was in arms against my country, that 
 I would not readily have married him, though 
 poverty in all its worst extremes had been my lot. 
 
 Mont. Most generous confession ! my life ! 
 my soul ! now am I justified in my devotion? 
 
 Agnes. But, valuing your repose above my 
 own, I made a sacrifice of all that in the world 
 I had held dear, and parted from you with an 
 aching heart. [IVeeps. 
 
 Mont. O my Agnes, what a portion in time's 
 treasure have we lost ! but let us snatch the 
 remnant, and may Heaven prolong it whilst you 
 call it happy ! 
 
 Agnes. That only can terminate when you 
 cease to be; now leave me to myself; I'm 
 little us'd to happiness, and this has been too 
 much ; let me retire : but may our separation be 
 a short one. Montgomery, you'll not despise 
 me for my sincerity, nor think more lightly of 
 the heart you won, because I could not hold it 
 out against you. 
 
 Mont. May I be banish'd from mankind, when 
 I abuse such generous sincerity ! And will you 
 leave me ?
 
 THE WALLOONS. 141 
 
 Agnes. For a few minutes only \ look, your 
 friend is coming. [Exit Agnes, 
 
 Enter Drelincourt. 
 
 Mont. O, Drelincourt, my friend, support me ! 
 
 ~Drel. What is the matter ? 
 
 Mont. Joy, joy in the excess ; and that, like 
 grief, can only be discharg'd upon a heart like 
 yours : bear it, partake it, for it overwhelms my 
 bosom, turns my brain, and only can be vented 
 by my tears. 
 
 Drel. I comprehend it all ; and as your hap- 
 piness flows in, my own afflictions give way, and 
 are no more remember'd. The lady who departed 
 on my coming 
 
 Mont. Is my wife ; our hearts are wedded, 
 and for ever one. 
 
 Drel. May Heav'n confirm their union! Yes, 
 my brave friend, I know thee well ; and we 
 have worn out many a chearless day together ; 
 we have look'd death and danger in the face, 
 and I have seen thee meet the shock with a 
 compos'd, intrepid spirit: from that moment I 
 have held thee to my heart, and never shalt 
 thou lose that hold, till it shall beat no more. 
 
 Mont. And when you know my Agnes, Dre- 
 lincourt, you'll place her there beside me ; let 
 us follow : how many hours have past, do you 
 think, since she went from me ? 
 
 Drel. As lovers count their hours, some three 
 or four. 
 
 Mont. Come, then, I'm all impatience till I 
 present you to her; nay, man, for pity's sake, 
 make haste. 
 
 Drel, O love and youth V how fast you fea-
 
 142 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 ther-footed beings post upon the stretch of ex- 
 pectation. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Father Sullivan. 
 
 Father S. There the informers go. Tis well 
 I lost no time in the prevention of their purpose ; 
 they have enter'd the house, I knew they would 
 impeach him: honourable fools! what has their 
 country done for them ? and what is that incu- 
 rable disease, that inborn amor patriae of a Briton* 
 that no corrosive can burn it out of him ? Give 
 him a naked hovel on an English heath, the 
 surly mastiff turns into his native straw, and 
 growls defiance from his den. It is not so with 
 me, my arteries, like theirs, are fed with British 
 blood, but injuries have turn'd it into gall; and 
 if I could extinguish this proud Island at a blow, 
 I have revenge enough to urge me to the deed. 
 But hark, who's here? I'll step aside. 
 
 Enter Pat, and Kitty drest in uniform. 
 
 Pat. Fairly bolted ! clear off, by all that's 
 lucky 1 O Jupiter Ammon, what a tuning will 
 my aunt keep, up stairs and down stairs, when 
 she misses her lost sheep 1 Such a hue and cry 
 through the parish, plumbing of wells, and dragg- 
 ing of ponds : rare work for the crier. Kitty, 
 what will uncle Daggerly say to all this ? 
 
 Kitty. Who cares ? not I. His family feelings 
 won't break his heart : he has not been my uncle 
 above three days. 
 
 Pat. Married your aunt three days ago. 
 
 Kitty. Married my aunt, you gudgeon no ! 
 he's only my travelling uncle, just as you will ba 
 my travelling husband.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 143 
 
 Pat. Oho ! that's it. Why then, if I am to be 
 only your travelling husband, let us set out upon 
 our journey without loss of time: the post-chaise 
 is at the bottom of the park. 
 
 Father Sullivan comes forward. 
 
 Father S. Is it so, sirrah ? but I shall put a 
 spoke in your wheel at least. 
 
 Pat. Oh the vengeance ! am I trapped ? good 
 Mr. Sullivan, have pity on my youtn, I am but 
 a young beginner. 
 
 Father S. Stay where you are, I must have a- 
 word with this volunteer. 
 
 Kitty. Well, sir, what is your pleasure with mej? 
 
 Father S. You have a post-chaise in waiting. 
 
 Kitty. I have. 
 
 Father S. It must carry me on my way towards 
 Falmouth. Daggerly is seiz'd, Lady Dangle on 
 the Aving, you are blown, and I am on my depar- 
 ture. 
 
 Pat. And what's to become of me? hang my- 
 self on the trees, and make a dinner for the kites- 
 
 Father S. I have no time to waste on such a 
 subject ; get back to your aunt ; but if you, who 
 seem equipt for elopement, have a mind to take 
 your chance with me, there is a place in the 
 chaise at your service ; I offer you this, child, 
 in mere pity and sincerity of heart; if you are 
 otherwise determined, shift for yourself. Come, 
 resolve ; there is no time to be lost. 
 
 Kitty. You hear what he says, Pat; have you 
 the heart to stand by me ? 
 
 Pat. Who I ? lud a mercy, do but look at 
 him ; my ribs ake at the very sight of him. 
 
 Kitty. Why a barn-door fowl will fight for his 
 walk, but you are bred on a dunghill. Come, Mr,
 
 144 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Sullivan, I accept your offer, because I have no 
 other choice left ; but never hope to make prize 
 of this uniform, when there is a man to defend 
 it. [En* 
 
 Father S. Go, get you home, you simple gull, 
 and tell your aunt the legacy I left her, by res- 
 cuing her booby from the hands of a harlot. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Pat. The murrain go along with you for an 
 old mischief-making interloper, and the pesti- 
 lence to boot ! ah, master Davy, I'm rejoic'd to 
 see you ; for the love of good-fellowship, make 
 after that wicked priest, and recover Kitty from 
 his clutches. 
 
 Enter Davy with Bumbo at, fyc. 
 
 Davy. Heyday, you are beside yourself; speak 
 in plain English. 
 
 Pat. Why, father Sullivan is gone off with 
 Kitty Carrington. 
 
 Davy. Well, and who is the gainer by that ? I 
 give him joy of his bargain. 
 
 Pat. He is carrying her away to Falmouth ; 
 the post-chaise is waiting, and you may take 
 leave of your uniform. 
 
 Davy. Say you so? is she cas'd in my doublet? 
 
 Pat. To be sure she is : did'nt you lend it to 
 her? 
 
 Davy. About ship then! that uniform never 
 goes into a French port, with my consent : what 
 point did he steer to ? 
 
 Pat. Follow me, we'll quickly overtake him. 
 
 Davy. Bumboat, pipe all hands to quarters, 
 and run him right aboard. 
 
 Bum. Ay, ay, master, we'll soon fetch him up 
 with a wet sail. [Exeunt.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 145 
 
 Drelincodrt and Montgomery meeting Sir 
 Solomon. 
 
 Mont. Sir Solomon, give me leave to introduce 
 Colonel Drelincourt to you. 
 
 SirS. I rejoice to see you, good sir ; be assur'd 
 I rejoice to see you Go, go, Montgomery, leave 
 us old folks to ourselves, you have better attrac- 
 tions in another place. [Exit Mont.] You are 
 heartily welcome to Dangle Hall ; I should be 
 happy you would make my house your own ; but 
 alas, I am here but a tag in office, a mere cipher 
 in the accompt, a thing upon sufferance, nothing 
 more. 
 
 Drel. I am sorry to hear it, Sir Solomon ; how 
 comes this to pass ? 
 
 Sir S. By the most natural consequence in life, 
 Colonel I am married : my wife plays first 
 fiddle, I am but an underling ripieno. in the 
 band : ah, sir, things go ill with a garrison when 
 the white flag flies on the citadel. 
 
 Drel. 'Tis an ugly signal, I confess ; but the 
 law is a good casemate, and the strong holds of 
 a husband can't easily be forc'd by a wife, if he 
 is resolv'd to stand manfully on his defence. 
 
 Sir S. The strong holds of a husband, quotha! 
 what are they ? her holds are stronger than 
 mine. You are married yourself, Colonel, are 
 you not? J 
 
 Drel. I am, to my sorrow. 
 
 Sir S. Why there it is now, and if a man like 
 you is married to his sorrow, what the devil 
 should I be married to ? sorrow and sadness into 
 the bargain. 
 
 Drel. But when I found I could not live in 
 peace with my wife, we parted by consent. 
 
 vol. i. L
 
 145 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Sir S. And perhaps it was the only thing you 
 ever did by consent. And was your wife a ter- 
 magant ? 
 
 Drel. A devil. 
 
 Sir S. O Lord, but mine's a legion of 'em ; a 
 huge two-handed domineering dame, out of all 
 sight above my match ; she was slim and slender, 
 poverty-struck, when I married her, humble as 
 a trout; but good commons have run her up to 
 a size above all land carriage ; if I was to pass 
 her by the waggon, I should be ruin'd by the 
 new tax. Lookee, Colonel, lookee, there she 
 goes ; that's she. [Points to the window. 
 
 Drel. Providence defend me ! 
 
 Sir S. And me too for the love of mercy ; if 
 you start, I may well stare. 
 
 Drel. Is that woman your wife? 
 
 Sir S. Yes ; and I am afraid I am her husband, 
 unless you are so kind to take her off my hands. 
 
 Drel. Where did you meet her? how did you 
 engage with her ? are you actually married to 
 her? 
 
 Sir S. Infandum Regina, jubes renovare do- 
 lorem. Married her in Portugal, a plague upon 
 all warm climates and blue skies ; the pure air 
 of Lisbon put the freak into my head, and the 
 fogs of England put it out again, with repentance 
 in its stead. 
 
 Drel. Your deliverance is at hand ; honour 
 obliges me to avow her for my wife, and your 
 contract is dissolv'd. 
 
 Sir S. Come to my arms, come to my arms ! 
 a reprieve, a reprieve ! where are my children ? 
 where are my servants, my tenants, my neigh- 
 bours? I proclaim a general jubilate i 11 the fa- 
 mily; my horses shall neigh in concert, and my 
 hounds open in full cry in the chorus ; the vizen
 
 THE WALLOONS. 147 
 
 is bolted, and we run off hot on the entapis : I 
 shall love a Spaniard the longest hour I have to 
 live ; take every thing I have ; carry away my 
 castle like a shell upon your back ; leave me in 
 the worst ditch on my estate, and I'll thank you 
 for the exchange. 
 
 Drel. You are in luck, I must confess : I shall 
 take her back to Lisbon, put her into the con- 
 vent of Repentants, then return to England, 
 where the bounty of my sovereign has restor'd 
 me to the privileges and comforts of a Briton. 
 
 Sir S. I can't speak with you; I am dumb 
 with ec stacy. 
 
 Enter Agnes and Montgomery. 
 
 O my dear children, the happiest event in nature 
 for your poor father ! I've slipt my skin like a 
 snake, and am a new creature ; ask me no ques- 
 tions how and about it, but Lady Dangle is 
 Colonel Drelincourt's wife : he has got the wo- 
 man, and I am in Paradise without her. 
 
 Agnes. Is it possible ? has she made a double 
 marriage ? 
 
 Sir S. Yes, and 'twas the best action of her 
 life. 
 
 Mont. O, my poor Colonel, have you stumbled 
 on your wife again after all ! 
 
 Sir S. Yes, but the grand stumble was at 
 starting: take warning, Montgomery, there is 
 no such loop-hole for you to creep out of: but 
 however, I will not discourage a young man 
 from taking a bold leap, because an old fool like 
 me has broken his neck in the attempt. 
 
 Mont. Sir Solomon, have I your permission to 
 present miss Agnes to Colonel Drelincourt ? 
 
 Sir S. No, let me join your hands, and thus 
 L2
 
 148 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 present you both Now have I no other quarrel 
 with you, Montgomery, but for your not de- 
 manding my daughter before you was restor'd 
 to your estate ; then I could have shewn the 
 sincerity of my approbation by the disinterest- 
 edness of my choice. 
 
 Enter Davy. 
 
 
 Davy. Put Solomon at the bottom of that 
 sentence, father, for he never utter'd a wiser in 
 his life. Ahoy ! you Bumboat, bring yourself 
 this way You've got these folks in safe hold? 
 
 Enter Bumboat. 
 
 Bum. Safe enough, master, never fear ; cock- 
 swain and his crew have 'em in keeping. 
 
 Sir S. What's the matter now, Davy ? more 
 adventures on foot ? 
 
 Davy. Only stopt his reverence on the smug- 
 gling tack with Kitty, till he can shew clear- 
 ances. 
 
 Sir S. What dost thou mean, boy ? if Father 
 Sullivan, is moving off with Kitty Carrington, 
 we'll readily give up one to be quit of the other. 
 
 Davy. Say you so ? then open the cage and 
 let them fly : Bumboat, release your prisoners. 
 
 Drel. Hold, if you please ; this Sullivan has 
 been an accessary in Daggerly's plot, and though 
 I am little vers'd in your laws, Sir Solomon, I 
 am of opinion you should bring him to examina- 
 tion before the Commandant at Plymouth ; at 
 least, as I take it, you cannot convict Daggerly 
 without his evidence. 
 
 Sir S. That's true, that's true, by all means 
 keep him in safe holding.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 149 
 
 Enter Pat, hastily. 
 
 Pat. Mercy o' me, my aunt is in such a fury! 
 I beseech your worship to stand by me. 
 
 Sir S. You apply to the wrong person for 
 protection ; but what's the matter ? you seem 
 frighted out of your wits. 
 
 Pat. Oh yes, they are lost, and out of sight 
 a long while since. 
 
 Sir S. But how have you provok'd your aunt? 
 what is your fault ? 
 
 Pat. No fauitin life; nothing, an't please you, 
 but an innocent desire to see the world with 
 Kitty Carrington. 4 
 
 Sir S. Why you was not going to elope, sirrah, 
 was you ? 
 
 Pat. How could I help it ? all the house was 
 on the wing ; every body pairing off in couples, 
 two and two ; nothing going forward but mar- 
 rying or hanging ; so I thought out of two evils 
 I would chuse the least but I hear my lady 
 coming, for the love of mercy stand between 
 me and her fingers. [Exit Pat hastily. 
 
 Drel. Suppose we desired the young people to 
 retire ; she is this instant entering 'the room. 
 
 SirS. By all means Go, my dears But you'll 
 stand by me. [Exeunt Mont. Agnes, and Davy. 
 
 Drel. Fear nothing, stand your ground. 
 
 Enter Lady Dangle ; she comes unexpectedly 
 up to Drelincourt. 
 
 Lady D. Where is that profligate, that impu- 
 dent Who are you ? What have we here? Ah! 
 
 Sir S. You've seen that gentleman before, I 
 believe.
 
 150 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 Drel. Your humble servant, Mrs. Drelincourt; 
 well met in England, madam ; you have esta- 
 blish'd yourself in a very comfortable house : 
 I presume you are upon a visit in this family. 
 
 Sir S. Yes, and she will make it a tolerable 
 long one, if your coming does not put an end 
 to it. 
 
 Drel. I request you, madam, to get yourself 
 in readiness for departure this evening ; small 
 preparation will suffice ; you need not encumber 
 yourself with much baggage; the convent of 
 Repentants will provide you with a habit; you 
 will be suitably furnish'd with what you most 
 stand in need of; frequent fastings, humiliating 
 penances, and painful vigils. 
 
 Lady D. Who are you, sir, that talk to me in 
 this manner ? what madman has broke into my 
 house to insult me ? Sir Solomon, I claim your 
 protection. 
 
 Drel. Come, come, this affectation won't 
 serve you; Sir Solomon, I demand of you the 
 surrender of my wife. 
 
 Sir S. I never answer'd a demand with so good 
 a will; take her. 
 
 Lady D. Hold, let me speak with you apart. 
 
 Sir S. Well, what are your commands ? 
 
 Lady D. Sir Soloman, if you have any sense 
 of pity, any spark of affection left, I do conjure 
 you to protect me : I will be grateful to you for 
 it, loving and obedient ; I own my faults and 
 will amend 'em ; I know at times, my dear, I 
 have not been so gentle as I ought. 
 
 Sir S. Very true, my dear, I can recollect 
 some instances of what you say. 
 
 Lady D. But I'll be evermore your tender 
 dutiful wife, if you'll forgive what's past. 
 
 Sir S. That is really very well said ; let me
 
 THE WALLOONS. 151 
 
 recommend to you to repeat it to that gentle- 
 man, his right is prior to mine. 
 
 Lady D. He has no right; he cannot prove 
 his marriage : if you will protect me, 'tis not in 
 the power of man to force us asunder. 
 
 Sir S. But will you really be so dutiful and 
 obliging in future ? 
 
 Lady D. I solemnly protest to you I will. 
 
 Sir S. Indeed ! then I should be the basest of 
 men to deprive Colonel Drelincourt of such a 
 blessing. I give you joy, sir, you have done 
 wonders ; Mrs. Drelincourt is become a miracle 
 of complacency, and meekness ; you have no 
 need to look out for a convent, she is fairly one 
 of the Repentants already. 
 
 Lady D. Sir Solomon, I perceive you have 
 neither mercy nor manhood, and if you was now 
 to offer me your protection, I would reject it 
 with scorn. Colonel Drelincourt, I am at your 
 disposal. 
 
 Drel. Well, madam, I will repeat no past 
 grievances. 
 
 Lady D. Nor will I defend past errors ; I shall 
 only observe, that I did not connect myself with 
 him, till I was abandon'd by you ; I mention 
 this, not so much in extenuation of my conduct, 
 as in justification of my taste. 
 
 Drel. 'Tis .true I did abandon you, but as I 
 mean you should hear no reproaches but what 
 come from yourself, I forbear to remind you of 
 the occasion of it ; you will recollect, however, 
 that I left all my worldly means in your disposal, 
 and went a beggar, into foreign service, for a 
 peaceable subsistence. 
 
 Lady D. Deal by me as you may, I acknow- 
 ledge, Drelincourt, you are a man of honour and 
 integrity. I have only one question to ask for
 
 152 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 the sake of justice ; did Sullivan betray me to 
 you ? aye or no ? 
 
 Sir S. I am not bound to secrecy ; he did 
 betray you. 
 
 Lady D. Then I am at liberty to retort his 
 treachery ; cunning as he is, his malice has over- 
 shot its mark ; but is he yet within your reach? 
 
 Sir S. He is under custody in my house : and 
 look ! they are bringing him this way. 
 
 Father Sullivan is brought in by Bumboat and 
 Sailors. 
 
 Father S. Well, sir, you see me here under 
 custody in a free country. I demand of your 
 wise worship by what authority these people 
 have presumed to arrest and detain my person. 
 
 Sir S. Colonel, what shall I answer to that ? 
 
 Drel. Suffer me to speak to him : Mr. Sullivan, 
 you are suspected as an accomplice in Daggerly's 
 plot, and therefore you are detain'd. 
 
 Father S. I am an evidence ; but is it your 
 practice, Sir Solomon, to imprison your wit- 
 nesses? 
 
 Lady D. No, sir, but fresh matter, new con- 
 spiracies may come to light, in which you are a 
 principal. You can recollect this hand-writing; 
 these letters should have come to your hands, 
 as I take it, but fortunately within this hour 
 they fell into mine: you have betray 'd me, 
 Sullivan, now I have repaid you interest upon 
 interest. 
 
 FatherS. Death and destruction ! give 'em to 
 me, let me read 'em. 
 
 Lady D. That were a foolish deed : no, sir, 
 you'll hear 'em, that will be enough. 
 
 FatherS. Confusion! She has trapp'd me.[Aside.
 
 THE WALLOONS. 153 
 
 Drel. Hah ! do you start? the law has caught 
 you then at last. 
 
 Father S. Are you, that was so late the outcast 
 of this kingdom and its laws, become the assertor 
 of them ? Despicable man, I would not change 
 condition with you ; no : in injuries I am your 
 equal, but in resentment of them your superior; 
 I am, like you, a subject born, exil'd like you 
 for my religion, but where I found protection, 
 thither I transferr'd my allegiance. Now you 
 will trouble me with no farther questions, for 
 I'm not dispos'd to answer. 
 
 Sir S. I'm heartily rejoic'd to hear it ; come, 
 Colonel, let us pass him over to those, who can 
 better deal with him : he is a pestilent fellow, 
 and I would he was once fairly out of my house. 
 
 Drel, Take him hence, my lads ; there are 
 officers from Plymouth in attendance, and I 
 will accompany you thither myself. 
 
 Father S. Ridiculous! contemptible! well, 
 madam, you are now reveng'd ? 
 
 Lady D. Why would you urge me to it ? Why 
 provoke me to retaliate ? 
 
 Father S. Psha ! you have two husbands, as I 
 take it; I have but half as many lives, do you 
 call that retaliation ? Come. 
 
 [Exit Father S. attended. 
 
 Sir S. A welcome riddance ! 
 
 Drel. And now, Sir Solomon, this melancholy 
 business past, the happier scenes that shall suc- 
 ceed, will brighten by the contrast. See, they 
 open to your view. 
 
 Enter Montgomery, Agnes, and Davy. 
 
 Joy to you both ! Montgomery, ma; 
 your betrothed experience that happi 
 
 may you and 
 iness which
 
 154 THE WALLOONS. 
 
 I have miss'd : this, I am bold to tell you, 
 madam ; that the man, my friend, whom you 
 have honour'd by your choice, has a heart to 
 merit all that fortune, beauty, virtue can 
 bestow. 
 
 Mont. I thank you, Drelincourt, but 'tis my 
 heart and not my tongue must tell you what I 
 feel Sir Solomon, we ask your blessing. 
 
 Sir S. Take it, my dears, and with it, all that 
 I possess amongst you. Davy, my brave fellow, 
 what say'st thou ? wilt thou give thy father an 
 elbow chair by the chimney side, and hear him 
 tell old stories in a winters evening? 'tis all 
 that I desire for the rest of my days. 
 
 Davy. Aye, will I father : and many and 
 happy may they be ! In the mean time though 
 I'll take another spell against the monsieurs; our 
 brave admiral has fill'd the port with prizes, and 
 I would fain make fellow in the fray. 
 
 Sir S. And may victory follow thee and thy 
 country wherever thou goest! 
 
 Mont. O Drelincourt, my gallant friend, I 
 cannot part with you : stay and partake my 
 happiness; that, by our joint example, England's 
 truant sons, seeing what ready reconciliation 
 waits them, may return, and make our re-united 
 empire once again a family of peace.
 
 
 THE 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 Irritat, mulcct, falsis terroribus implet. Hob.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop. 
 
 The Earl of Leicester. 
 
 >ir Hugh de Lacy. 
 
 Imbrose, a monk. 
 
 Andrew, servant Jo Sir Walter. 
 
 Peter, a soldier. 
 
 Sir Reginald, sirnamed De Tours. 
 
 jrriffith, squire to Sir Hugh de Lacy. 
 
 Lady Scroop. 
 
 Lady Adela de Bellamont, daughter to the Earl of 
 Leicester. 
 
 Knights, Monks, fyc. 
 
 The knight wore a white habit and a full red cross, charged 
 in the midst with a white scallopc. Instituted by Richard I.

 
 THE 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene, a Grove of Trees, under which Sir Walter 
 Scroop is discovered sitting and reading. Lady 
 Scroop enters, and after observing him some 
 little time, approaches and addresses him. 
 
 Lady S. Aye ! there he sits a melancholy 
 man, feeding on what consumes him I'll accost 
 him Sir Walter Scroop, Sir Walter Scroop, what 
 are you about ? 
 
 Sir W. Reading my offices. 
 
 Lady S. I would you were performing them. 
 All, all is lost, and you sit reading what will 
 that do for you ? 
 
 Sir W. Teach me to bear my loss but that 
 is a lesson you won't let me learn so farewell 
 to my book ! Now, Lady Scroop, what would 
 you have me do? 
 
 Lady S. Go to your castle, and convoke your 
 people, to make a thorough search amongst the 
 ruins. Good chance but something may be yet 
 recover'd ; and though 'twere little, where so 
 much is lost that little will be welcome. 
 
 Sir IV. What can be lost when Adela is sav'd ? 
 
 Lady S. And whom have we to thank for that ? 
 
 Sir W. Heaven's providence.
 
 160 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Lady S. Well, that is first of all ; who can 
 deny it ? But when you are so thankful for her 
 safety, can you forget the gallant youth, who 
 risk'd his life to snatch her from the flames? 
 
 Sir JV. No ! I do not forget that Adela was 
 sav'd by Reginald. 
 
 Lady S. Then why not give him what he sav'd ? 
 
 Sir IV. Away ! you are mad. 
 
 Lady S. Give him but what his courage has 
 preserv'd, his virtues merit, and his heart adores; 
 and that is Adela. 
 
 Sir IV. And who is Adela ? and who am I, to 
 give the daughter of the Earl of Leicester to 
 Reginald, an unknown, nameless foundling? my 
 Lady Scroop, my Lady Scroop, let me hear no 
 more of this, as you respect my honour, con- 
 science, and my peace of mind. 
 
 Lady S. Well ! I have done. 
 
 Sir IV. See that you have ; and never let that 
 wish or pass your lips, or harbour in your heart, 
 whilst you have life. 
 
 Lady S. We'll drop the subject. Only be 
 content. I do not wish to press into your secrets. 
 
 Sir IV. You know that Adela is Leicester's 
 daughter ; you know that nothing more is known 
 of Reginald, but as the child of parents, who 
 through shame or poverty expos'd him as a 
 foundling, and threw him on my pity for sup- 
 port. What is there else to know ? what other 
 secrets have I conceal'd ? 
 
 Lady S. That is for you to answer, not for me. 
 What secrets you entrust to me I keep, what 
 you withhold I do not seek to know Let that 
 suffice but look ! here comes the good father 
 Ambrose. I'll leave you with him. May his 
 holy comfort lighten your heavy heart ! 
 
 {Exit Lady S.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 161 
 
 Friar Ambrose enters to Sir Walter. 
 
 SirJV. Hail, father! 
 
 Amb. Peace be with you ! Sir Walter Scroop, 
 here is a holy man upon his pilgrimage, and late 
 From France, who brings you tidings of the Earl 
 of Leicester He would be private with you. 
 
 Sir IV. Let him come. lam alone: no one 
 shall interrupt us. [Edit Ambrose. 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop alone. 
 
 i 
 
 Tidings of Leicester ! Ah, ill-fated Earl, 
 Why, why art thou not here to save thy daughter, 
 Whose heart unconscious feeds a hapless passion 
 For Reginald Oh horror for the son 
 Of her own mother. Heaven avert the crime 
 Hateful to God and man ! Ungrateful Queen, 
 'Tis in your cause the noble Leicester surfers ; 
 Oh, Richard, Coeur- de-lion truly nam'd, 
 Wliy do you not restore your exil'd friend? 
 But see, the pilgrim comes Heaven's grace de- 
 fend me, 
 He comes in likeness of the Earl himself; 
 His air, his step 'Tis he ! my honour'd lord ! 
 
 Earl of Leicester enters habited like a Pilgrim. 
 
 Earl of L. Hah! is it so, my old and valued 
 friend, 
 Am I so little chang'd by ten years exile, 
 That, soon as seen, I'm known, ev'ri in this garb? 
 Well, be it so ! Justice at length relents, 
 And Leicester soon will be himself again. 
 But more of this hereafter My fond heart, 
 A father's heart, yearns to embrace my child. 
 
 vol. i. M
 
 162 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Sir TV. You'll find her fair and good as she h 
 
 lovely. 
 Earl of L. I met her on my way. I found her 
 
 fair, 
 Blooming, and full of grace. I could not speak, 
 And she, who knew me only as a pilgrim, 
 Turn'd, bow'd, and bade God bless me as wc 
 
 pass'd. 
 The reverend father stood in mute amaze 
 To see my bosom labour, and the tears 
 Gush from my eyes, yet modestly forbore 
 Enquiry of the cause ; so on we pass'd 
 To this umbrageous grove, where the cool breeze 
 Hath fann'd my fainting spirits into life. 
 
 Sir W. You met the Lady Adela, my lord? 
 'Twas not with my connivance she went forth. 
 Was she alone, or how was she attended ? 
 
 Earl of L. Of her own sex attendant she had 
 
 none ; 
 A youth, who on his mantle wore the cross, 
 Walk'd by her side 
 
 Sir W. Oh, my thrice honour'd lord, 
 For Heaven's sweet sake, command her to avoid 
 That dangerous youth, ere love ensnares her heart; 
 Chaste as the unsunn'd snow your daughter is, 
 But Leicester's heiress must not so descend 
 From her high privilege, to waste a thought 
 On him, whose unknown parent, when she dropt 
 Her infant at my door, gave him indeed 
 The name of Reginald, but left his birth 
 A secret wrapt in mystery and darkness. 
 
 Earl of L. What you relate of this mysterious 
 
 youth 
 Is not entirely new ; much I have heard, 
 That does you honour, for the noble breeding 
 Which you have giv'n him. I have heard withal 
 That at the seige of Tours, this Reginald,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 163 
 
 Whom you have father'd, was the first to mount 
 The desperate breach ; for which heroic act 
 Prince Richard knighted him upon the field. 
 
 Sir W. Upon the very breach 
 
 Earl of L. And this brave Knight, 
 Belov'd by Adela, by you approv'd, 
 And for his valour honour'd by his King, 
 Is your own son Avow him, and receive 
 My child, the dearest object of my love, 
 And the best gift my friendship can bestow. 
 
 Sir TV. Not for ten thousand worlds Forbid 
 it, Heaven ! 
 Conscience, and truth, and nature, cry against it. 
 By every blessed saint in Heav'n I swear 
 He's not my son ; if I should say he were, 
 'Twould be a perjury as deep as hell. 
 Brave though he be and virtuous, (for I scorn 
 To set him forth for other than he is) 
 Sooner than give my sanction to that crime, 
 This hand should lodge this dagger in my heart. 
 
 Earl of L. Patience, good friend! you are by 
 much too warm. 
 
 Sir TV. Can friendship be too warm? Till it 
 be known 
 What parents gave this nameless foundling birth, 
 The Earl of Leicester cannot call him son. 
 The kingly sword may with a touch confer 
 A title on the merest son of earth, 
 But true nobility is of itself, 
 And holds its honours, not by grace or sufferance, 
 But by inherent property and right. 
 
 Earl of L. True, an appeal like this, when 
 calmly urg'd, 
 Weighs more with me than vehemence of words. 
 Now, if you guess where these young lovershaunt, 
 Conduct me thither. 
 
 Sir TV. This way we shall meet them. [Exeunt. 
 M 2
 
 164 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Peter and Andrew enter. 
 
 And. Come hither, Peter; did you note that 
 stranger, who pass'd us but this minute with Sir 
 Walter? 
 
 Peter. Yes, he is a pilgrim. 
 
 And. No more a pilgrim than yourself. I've 
 said it. 
 
 Peter. He is dress'd like a pilgrim. 
 
 And. Pooh, how you babble! hold your tongue 
 and listen. Which is the fitter person, do you 
 think, to treat of matters secret and profound, I, 
 or your silly self? 
 
 Peter. You, master Andrew, you. Talk on, 
 I pray you ; I dearly love to hear you talk. 
 
 And. Humph! I don't much dislike to hear 
 myself. You must perceive there is a certain 
 thing, which I possess in reasonable abundance, 
 and you stand much in need of I mean wisdom. 
 Now there are three ways of acquiring wisdom 
 experience is the first you have none of that 
 books are the next but them you cannot read 
 the third and last, and best of all the three, is 
 genius; of that, friend Peter, you have not one 
 grain. How lucky then for you that I am here 
 to drop a little sense into your noddle ! 
 
 Peter. Pray, master Andrew, hav'nt you just 
 now a drop or two in your own? 
 
 And. No matter. Open both your ears, and 
 edify. I told you that the stranger was no pil- 
 grim ; and why? because I knew him for the 
 Earl of Leicester. Now there's a secret ; see 
 you keep it close. 
 
 Peter. And why is it a secret? 
 
 And. Hav'nt I said enough ? Must I explain 
 to you, that old King Henry banish'd the Earl
 
 THE CONFESSION. 1 Go- 
 
 of Leicester for good cause; and young King 
 Richard, for no cause at all, unless it be to pil- 
 lage his estates, keeps him in banishment ? Now 
 there you have it; and what are you the wiser 
 for all this? 
 
 Peter. Not much, in troth. Tis no concern 
 of mine. 
 
 And. There you are out. It is concern of 
 your's, for you shall find the Earl will make short 
 work with your Sir Reginald, and drive him out 
 to those same holy wars, of which thou can'st 
 discuss the why and wherefore, about as learnedly 
 as thou can'st calculate eclipses, or chop logic. 
 
 Peter. Well; I can fight; will not that 
 serve ? 
 
 And. Yes, it will serve to prove thou art a 
 dolt, to run thy head against a Saracen, and ask 
 him civilly to knock thy brains out. 
 
 Peter. But how if I knock his ? 
 
 And. He'll thank you for it ; for then you waft 
 him in a whiff to Paradise; you give him black- 
 eyed girls, and beds of roses, wheie he quaffs 
 coffee, that flows by in rivers, under the branches 
 of pistachio trees. 
 
 Peter. Ah, master, you're too eloquent for 
 me ; but this I know, if my young master, brave 
 Sir Reginald, is to be turn'd adrift, there will be 
 water shed by some bright eyes, that shall be 
 nameless. 
 
 And. Torrents of tears, and hurricanes of sighs: 
 You may quote me for that. Bad times are 
 coming on ; sorrowful times. 
 
 Peter. Oh lud, how I hate sorrow ! 'Tis so 
 dull ; I never could abide it. 
 
 And. No, nor will ever feel it. Now I hate 
 sorrow too; but what do I? Ev'n what a 
 wise man should comfort myself, as you per-
 
 166 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 ceive, in time, that I may have wherewith to 
 comfort others. 
 
 Peter. Aye, you find all your comfort in the 
 cellar. 
 
 And. Well, and a blessing on his heart who 
 built it ! he must have known the worth of wine, 
 whorear'd such sturdy arches to protect his liquor. 
 
 Peter. You was there all the time the castle 
 was on fire. 
 
 And. Where could I be so well ? I quench'd 
 my thirst, and others burnt their fingers Hold ! 
 who comes here? 
 
 Sir Hugh de Lact enters. 
 
 Sir H. The good-day to you, worthy gentle- 
 men ! if you have knowledge of a certain knight, 
 Sir Walter Scroop by name, I shall esteem it an 
 act of courtesy to bring me to him. 
 
 And. Puissant sir, I am the man to serve you, 
 being familiar with the knightly person of Sir 
 Walter Scroop, whereas this honest soldier only 
 waits upon his horse. 
 
 Sir H. Adjust your own precedencies, only 
 be pleas'd to give me quick dispatch, as bearing 
 from the Queen commands of no small moment. 
 
 And. I am her highness's obsequious slave, 
 and will incontinently give dispatch to you, 
 being a man as loyally dispos'd, though I say it 
 of myself, as any subject in the realm of England. 
 Sir, 1 perceive you're for the holy wars ; truly 
 a most praise- worthy enterprize, for which his 
 holiness the Pope will bless you, being a mortal 
 foe to Mahomet, although himself a preacher up 
 of peace. 
 
 Sir H. At present, with your leave, we'll quit 
 the Pope, and go in search of Sir Walter.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 167 
 
 And. This way, so please you. The grove is 
 intricate ; I'll be your guide. -Peter, you know 
 your place. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes and discovers the Castle of Sir Walter 
 Scroop in ruins, by jire. Adela is standing in 
 a pensive posture, contemplating the ruins. The 
 Earl of Leicester, preceded by Sir Walter 
 Scroop, enters, and upon seeing his daughter 
 stops short. 
 
 Sir TV. Lo, where your daughter stands. 
 
 Earl of L. Hush, hush, he still. 
 [Adela advances towards the Castle, and kneels. 
 
 Lady A. All gracious Providence, whose 
 mercy sav'd me from these devouring flames, 
 which, but for thy vouchsafement, and the 
 courage of my deliverer, had amidst these ruins 
 mingled my ashes, deign to accept my praises ! 
 And oh ! whilst here thy rescued creature, kneel- 
 ing, calls to mind the horrors of that moment, 
 may I not, without offence, put up a prayer for 
 him, who was thy timely messenger to save me? 
 And, as it was the hand of Reginald that snatch'd 
 me from these fires, so shall no other haud but 
 his e'er lead me to thy sacred altar 
 
 Sir TV. [advancing.] Stop! 
 
 Lady A. [rises and turns to Sir Walter ] Why 
 should I stop ? To him, and him alone, I plight 
 my faith, and call on Heaven to register my vow. 
 
 Sir JV. Recall it ! Supplicate to be absolv'd 
 from that rash vow, and fall upon your knees 
 once more to Heaven, or you are lost for ever. 
 
 Lady A. I had been lost, inevitably lost, 
 And left my reliques in that flaming mass, 
 Had not the generous Reginald preserv'd me.
 
 16*8 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 This your own eyes beheld, your lips confess'd, 
 Your conscience witnesses. What is my crime? 
 If chaste affection, purity of heart, 
 And the full sense of honour, be no crimes, 
 How am I lost ? 
 
 Sir fV. Tis not to me alone 
 You vent these warm effusions. Be advis'd : 
 Look round, examine before whom you speak, 
 Ere you speak that, of which you may repent. 
 Lady A. Your warning comes too late; you 
 
 brought this stranger, 
 A pilgrim, as it seems, unseen of me, 
 To steal upon my privacy, and catch 
 The secret aspirations of my soul, 
 Whilst I pour'd forth my conscious vows to 
 
 him, 
 With whom alone its inmost thoughts repose. 
 Was that fair dealing? 1 hough disastrous times 
 Made me your charge, and threw 'me on your 
 
 care, 
 I am the daughter of the Earl of Leicester: 
 My noble father would not treat me thus. 
 
 Sir IV. You are the daughter of the Earl of 
 
 Leicester 
 That is confest ; but what is Reginald ? 
 
 Lady A. What is he ? By his virtues more 
 
 ennobled 
 Than all, who, in themselves obscure and mean, 
 Have nothing but an ancestry to boast of. 
 He on the splendour of his own achievements 
 Erects his title, in despight of birth ; 
 They wear their lazy honours by descent. 
 
 Earl of L. Urge her no more I know your 
 
 father well, 
 His thoughts are open to me as my own. 
 Would you persist in what you now have vow'd, 
 If he were present?
 
 THE CONFESSION. 169 
 
 Lady A. Tis a strong appeal 
 To one, who would not grieve his wounded 
 
 heart 
 For the world's worth ; yet could I not depart 
 From what I've pledg'd in hearing of high 
 
 Heaven, 
 Though his thrice-honour'd person stood before 
 me. 
 Earl of L. Do you retain no memory of his 
 
 person ? 
 Lady A. Alas, alas ! when fortune tore him 
 from me, 
 So young was I, that in my mind I kept 
 No register of forms, however dear. 
 My father, from his country long estrang'd, 
 Is lost to my remembrance. 
 Earl of L. This will help it. 
 
 [Produces a picture. 
 Here is his portraiture Not as he was, 
 When in his happier days, but as he is; 
 An exile, and a pilgrim, like to me. 
 Take it; compare it! 
 
 Lady A. Like to you Oh Heaven ! 
 If this be Leicester's likeness, you oh you 
 Are Leicester's self You are my long-lost 
 father 
 [She sinks gradually on her knee, as she speaks. 
 Let me not kneel in error Oh declare ! 
 Are you indeed my father? 
 Earl of L. To my heart, 
 My throbbing heart, I press thee; oh my child! 
 I am, I am thy father 
 
 Sir IV. Cease, my lord; 
 Break off! We are observ'd. 
 
 [Sir Hugh de Lacy appears at the side scene, 
 
 brought in by Andrew. They speak apart. 
 
 And. There is Sir Walter Scroop ; you can't
 
 170 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 mistake him. He in the pilgrim's habit is no 
 pilgrim ; he is the banish'd Earl of Leicester; I 
 tell you that, so it remains a secret. The lady is 
 Adela de Bellamont, his daughter, a piece of rare 
 humanity, worthy your notice farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 Sir Hugh de Lacy advances. 
 
 Sir H. Sir Walter Scroop, the Queen, our gra- 
 cious regent, 
 Sends you kind greeting; and whereas she holds 
 Your faithful services in high regard, 
 In her free bounty to repair the loss 
 Of this fair castle, she bestows upon you 
 Her house of Feversham to hold in fee, 
 With all that it contains. 
 
 Sir IV. A princely boon, 
 For which I do remain her humble beadsman, 
 To the last hour of life. 
 
 Sir H. I have besides, 
 News not less welcome to your friendly ear 
 For the brave Earl of Leicester a full pardon, 
 With restitution of his manors, rents, 
 Castles, and royalties; to the extent 
 Of all that he enjoy'd, when, in defence 
 Of the attainted honour of the Queen, 
 Enrag'd he drew his sword : for which the King, 
 Our second Henry, banish'd and despoil'd him. 
 If now he hears me, and in doubt conceals 
 His noble person in the homely garb 
 Of a poor pilgrim, he will cast it off, 
 And let an old true friend, who shares his joy, 
 Enfold him in his arms. 
 
 Earl of L. Come to my heart ! 
 Thus, thus enfolded, Leicester lives again. 
 Brave Knight, throughout all Christendom ac- 
 knowjedg'd
 
 THE CONFESSION. 171 
 
 Mirror of chivalry, behold I cast, 
 At thy command, these pilgrim weeds away; 
 And to my queen, the gracious Eleanor, 
 Devote myself her ever-bounden knight: 
 Again to draw my sword in her defence, 
 If slander calls it forth, in her good cause 
 Content to suffer banishment or death. 
 
 Sir H. Then buckle on your armour, gallant 
 lord, 
 And join your peers at Vergelay, where France 
 Holds friendly congress with ourEno-lish kinar. 
 
 mi 
 
 There you shall find us; thither we are bound, 
 And good Sir Walter Scroop must be content 
 To part from Reginald. 
 
 Sir W. Heav'n knows how gladly : 
 Now, now I live again. [Aside. 
 
 Sir H. His king expects 
 The youthful hero, whom, from helm to spur 
 All bath'd in gore, he knighted on the breach. 
 The gallant Richard in the blood, that flow'd 
 From his gash'd cuirass, dipt his sword, and drew 
 Across his buckier thrice the streaming blade ; 
 Then bade him rise, Sir Reginald de Tours, 
 And gave him licence evermore to wear 
 That brave device emblazon'd on his shield. 
 
 Lady A. Do you note that, my father ? 
 
 Sir H. Now to you, 
 Most fair and noble lady, I am charg'd 
 With a commission from our gracious Queen -- 
 A broider'd scarf, by her own lingers wrought, 
 She sends by me, commanding you to invest 
 With that her princely gift your own true 
 
 knight ; 
 Who, when the savage flames embay'd you 
 
 round, 
 Bravely to save your life expos'd his own, 
 As did your father his, when evil tongues,
 
 372 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Than fire more fierce, conspir'd to blast her 
 fame. 
 Lady A. To the commands of my benignant 
 Queen, 
 Her humble handmaid, I profoundly bow. 
 But if, when summon'd to invest her knight, 
 My quivering nerves disgrace the awful task, 
 Let this reflection mitigate my fault 
 The hands will tremble when the heart dissolves. 
 Sir TV. Enough ! and hark, the convent bell 
 proclaims 
 An hour past noon [A distant clock strikes one.] 
 
 Whilst, issuing from the gate, 
 An armed warrior this way bends his steps. 
 
 Sir H. 'Tis he; 'tis Reginald ! he turns aside; 
 My soul's in arms to greet him Let us follow ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 

 
 THE CONFESSION. 173 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 A Chamber. Sir Hugh de Lacy, and Reginald. 
 
 Sir H. To part from those, who well deserve 
 our love, 
 Is no slight task, no trivial sacrifice; 
 But we are soldiers, and when duty calls, 
 All those fine chords, that twine about the heart, 
 In honour's grasp are feeble as the threads, 
 Which the light spicier weaves upon the grass : 
 Therefore, my hero, let us live to day 
 As for ourselves, to-morrow for our fame. 
 
 Sir R. Oh brave De Lacy, oh my more than 
 father, 
 To-morrow, and as many more to-morrows 
 As in the book of fate are number'd out 
 For my allotment, I devote as due 
 To him, whose badge I wear, and to my King, 
 Who bought me at a price so far beyond 
 The measure of my worth; but as the soldier, 
 Who never heard the trumpet sound to battle, 
 At the first charge may tremble, even so, 
 In love a novice, I approach the hour, 
 That takes me hence, with terror and dismay. 
 
 Sir H. Love is no hero's passion. 
 
 Sir R. Virtuous love, 
 And such is mine to Adela, inspires 
 Virtuous ambition. 
 
 Sir H. In the warrior's eye 
 The fire should never languish; to his heart, 
 Wrapt in its iron case, no fond desire, 
 No soft unmanly passion should approach : 
 The feeble darts that love's weak urchin throws,
 
 174 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Pierce not that bosom from whose temper'd 
 
 mail 
 The blunted spear rebounds, and, if it pants, 
 It pants for glory, or with anger swells. 
 
 Sir R. I Must lions chief, I know it is not here, 
 In Feversh .'tin's soft shades, that glory dwells, 
 But in the dusty plains of Palestine, 
 Where Saludin draws out his turban'd host. 
 The soldier's music is the battle's shout, 
 The clashing cymbal and the neighing steed; 
 To see a wood of spears uprear'd in air, 
 Their broad blades glittering in the golden sun, 
 As they were tipt with fire ; whilst over all 
 The red-cross banner waves, and victory soars. 
 If these are objects glorious in his eyes 
 Who never lov'd, how must they lire my soul, 
 Whose great ambition is to earn a name, 
 That Leicester's daughter may not blush to 
 
 share r 
 Sir H. Leicester, indeed, might boast as high 
 
 descent 
 As any subject in our English realm ; 
 If Leicester, so illustrious in himself, 
 For valour and for virtue so renown'd, 
 Had need of such poor aids; but when you say 
 Your great ambition is to earn a name, 
 Have you forgot De Tours r Is that a name 
 Which any noble maid might blush to share? 
 Sir R. The hunter names his hounds, so may 
 
 the Kin 
 His soldiers: chance, that gave, may take 
 
 away 
 That fleeting favour, and the day may come, 
 That some ignoble mother, when she sees 
 Her beggar's brat a prosperous gentleman, 
 May let her vanity outrun her shame, 
 And claim me as her base-born progeny.
 
 THE .CONFESSION. 175 
 
 Sir H, No, no, that claim will never rise to 
 light ; 
 Seal'd to perpetual silence, it must sleep, 
 Under the guard of honour. If the name 
 Of her, who gave you being, were pronoune'd, 
 The blood, that circles in your veins, would 
 
 stop, 
 And cause the pulses of your heart to cease 
 With wonder and amaze. 
 
 Sir R. I now perceive 
 You, that have been the patron of my fame, 
 My father let me call you, are possess'd 
 Of the important secret, which to impart 
 If prayers could move you, I would kneel to 
 
 know. 
 Look at this cross ! the symbol of my faith, 
 Is this dishonour's badge? Why am I held 
 Worthy to wear it ; if unworthy deem'd 
 To hold in trust a circumstance, on which 
 My every hope of happiness, perhaps 
 The very safety of my soul depends ? 
 
 Sir H. Urge me no more ; nor time nor place 
 accord, 
 Nor is thy heart prepar'd to entertain 
 The awful wonder, till, at distance thrown 
 From all that here surround us, seas shall roll, 
 And mountains rise, and nations intervene 
 Twixt thee and Adela; then, as we pace 
 The sacred soil, which our Redeemer trod, 
 I will unfold : Till then forbear thy suit, 
 Avoid conjecture, 'twill destroy thy peace ; 
 And above all, beware Sir Walter Scroop! [Exit, 
 
 Sir R. How awfully those warning words con- 
 firm 
 What Nature hath impress'd upon my heart 
 Beware Sir Walter Scroop And see, he comes !
 
 76 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Sir Walter and Lady Scroop enter. 
 
 Sir TV. My son, since all-disposing fate ordains 
 That we must part, my consolation is, 
 Your virtues have repaid me all the cares 
 That your whole life hath cost me : you go forth 
 Grac'd with the royal favour of your Queen, 
 Nobly appointed in a cause as noble. 
 New scenes of glory wait you in the East, 
 Where the prime spirits of the Christian world 
 With rival zeal will wage their holy war. 
 
 Lady S. Can any war be holy ? 
 Men may wage war for plunder, for revenge, 
 For their ambition ; but to fight for Him, 
 Who fought not for himself, to my humble reason 
 Cannot be reconcil'd. 
 
 Sir R. Had Heav'n endow'd 
 Its creatures with benevolence like your's, 
 War never had been known ; the sword had slept. 
 But if God gives me victory in the battle, 
 For your dear sake I will remember mercy, 
 And spare my fallen foe. So, when withdrawn, 
 Perhaps for ever, to far distant climes, 
 I still shall keep your image in my sight, 
 Still lay your bright example to my heart, 
 And profit by the lessons you have taught. 
 
 Lady S. Child of my love, my pray'rs shall 
 tell to Heaven 
 What my tongue dare not, what it cannot speak. 
 Go, and if just the cause in which you figh^, 
 Conquest will follow your triumphant arms ; 
 But if the fathers of the Church mistake 
 The peaceful spirit of our meek religion, 
 And draw the sword to slaughter guiltless men, 
 Whose only error springs from education, 
 Vain will be all your efforts. But I've done
 
 THF CONFESSION. 177 
 
 'Tis not a woman's province to discuss 
 Questions of this high import. 
 
 Sir W. Truly said. 
 So, even so, my good old mother talk'd, 
 When for the first time I went forth to battle; 
 And mothers so will talk to the world's end ; 
 Yet nations will fall out, and men will fight, 
 In spite of all that peacemakers can say. 
 
 A Messenger enters. 
 
 Mess. Sir Knight, you are expected at the 
 convent : 
 The Earl of Leicester waits. 
 
 Sir R. I shall attend. [Exit Messenger. 
 
 To both my generous friends at once farewell ! 
 I now anticipate that painful word, 
 Lest, when to-morrow comes, and brave De Lacy 
 Points to the harbour, where our galley rides, 
 My tongue should fail me, and the fervent thanks, 
 Which my full heart conceives, die on my lips. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Sir Walter and Lady Scroop. 
 
 Sir W. Weep not, my gentle Margaret; dry 
 your tears! 
 For mark how happy fortune smiles upon us. 
 Thanks to the bounty of our Queen, we change 
 A ruin'd castle for a royal palace. 
 To-morrow Reginald embarks for France; 
 To-morrow we to Feversham repair, 
 Therefore farewell to all my cares to-morrow. 
 I keep it as a double holiday, 
 A day the whitest in the calendar. 
 
 Lady S. So you are happy, I shall be content. 
 
 Sir W. I know your goodness, and severely feel 
 My temper's past defects. Oh, 'twas unkind, 
 
 vol. i. N
 
 178 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 It was inhuman, with remorse I own it, 
 
 To hurt a heart so tender and so true. 
 
 Why did I not confide to you the secret, 
 
 That sour'd my nature, and destroy W my peace? 
 
 Lady S. Ah, why indeed ? I am your wife, and 
 scorn 
 To he the hase betrayer of your trust. 
 
 Sir JV. Then hearmy story, and let that atone 
 You may remember, more than twenty years 
 Have pass'd, since Henry, in despite of Rome, 
 Drove the arch prelate Becket from his see: 
 'Twas then the Earl of Leicester was dispatch'd 
 To calm the angry Pontiff hard the task, 
 And twelve long months of absence had elaps'd, 
 Whilst here at Feversham his countess liv'd 
 In solitude with the neglected Queen, 
 Our royal Eleanor 
 
 Lady S. I well remember, 
 Whilst faithless Henry haunted Woodstock bower, 
 His slighted consort pass'd the dreary time 
 Unnotic'd and forlorn. 
 
 Sir TV. It was the hour 
 Of midnight, when a summons from the palace 
 Rous'd me from sleep; I follow'd my conductress, 
 Who led me to the chamber of a lady, 
 Within whose arms a smiling cherub lay : 
 'Twas Leicester's consort, and her new-born babe, 
 Our darling Reginald 
 
 Lady S. Oh, horror, horror ! 
 Brother of Adela Unhappy son 
 Of her, whom living we esteem'd a saint, 
 Whom Leicester follow'd to the grave with tears 
 And sighs, that melted the beholders hearts. 
 But say, what further evidence of guilt? 
 Did she confess it ? 
 
 Sir TV. Hear the rest, and judge. 
 Languid and faint, with trembling voice she said
 
 THE CONFESSION. 179 
 
 " If ever pity touch'd your manly heart, 
 As a true knight, I do conjure you take 
 This helpless innocent, protect his life, 
 And save a wretched mother from disgrace !" 
 What need of words? I took the lovely babe, 
 Bound to concealment, reard him as you know, 
 And never hath the secret pass'd my lips, 
 Till now that in your bosom I repose it. 
 
 Lady S. This could not be a secret from the 
 Queen, 
 For they were fast and undivided friends. 
 
 Sir W. Right sure she knows it, and I put the 
 favours 
 Now shower'd on us to Reginald's account. 
 
 Lady S. So it should seem, and yet 'tis some- 
 what strange 
 The Queen should be so lenient to a crime, 
 And so indignant of the imputation, 
 When pointed at herself One question more 
 Who is the father? 
 
 Sir IV. That eludes conjecture : 
 There I am wholly lost. 
 
 Lady S. Turn, turn the hearts 
 Of these unconscious lovers, gracious Heaven I 
 Now bear him hence, ye waves ! waft him, ye 
 
 winds, 
 Till on the shores of Palestine he lands, 
 There in the blood of infidels to quench 
 The incestuous flame, that demons, who delight 
 In Virtue's fall, have kindled in his breast. 
 
 Sir W. Enough ! 'tis done. To-morrow he 
 departs. 
 Retire, my love, and calm your troubled thoughts. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 180 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Scene changes to a Hall in the Convent of Feversham. 
 
 The Earl of Leicester alone. 
 
 Ye sacred walls, by my forefathers rear'd 
 In the first William's day, with filial awe 
 Once more I visit you. Amongst their tombs 
 Silent I walk, as fearing to offend 
 With my rude steps their venerable shades. 
 
 Ambrose enters with Adela. 
 
 Amh. Illustrious patron of our ancient house, 
 Beheld this noble maid, whose inmost thoughts 
 I've search'd, and find them pure, though sorely 
 
 rent 
 With agony for loss of him she loves. 
 You were a husband once, your heart hath felt 
 Those strong affections, which, if rudely cross'd, 
 Bear down the soul with overwhelming woe, 
 Ev'n to the loss of reason, you can judge 
 With candour, you with mercy can decide. 
 Her conscience is my charge, her choice is yours. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Leicester and Adela. 
 
 Earl of L. Come hither, Adela ! that holy man 
 Speaks as he feels, but he is not a father. 
 To him the world is nothing ; names, degrees, 
 And titles, are but feathers in his scale ; 
 Virtue alone he weighs 
 
 Lady A. W T hat else is worthy ? 
 
 Earl of L. Beware, my child, how you indulge 
 such thoughts, 
 As bear a show of metaphysic truth,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 181 
 
 But, when applied to practice, mock your reason. 
 We, that are call'd to fill distiiiguish'd parts 
 On the world's stage, must so deport ourselves 
 As not to languish in the world's esteem. 
 You are my only stay : on you devolves 
 The fortune of my house : you have a name ; 
 What name hath Reginald? 
 
 Lady A. De Tours. A name 
 Above all names, ennobled by his king, 
 Earn'd by his sword, emblazon'd in his blood, 
 And written on his shield in characters 
 So legible, that all the world may read. 
 
 Earl of L. True; these are honours that his 
 
 valour won, 
 And worthily he wears. These you record 
 In glowing language ; why not add to these 
 The royal trophy by De Lacy brought, 
 The scarf, by which you must prepare to deck 
 The knight, whom kings applaud and queens 
 
 adorn ? ; 
 With all these honours grac'd, let him go forth, 
 Let Palestine besav'd, and he is yours. 
 
 Lady A. Ere Palestine is sav'd, I shall be lost. 
 Eanl of L. Your mother was as precious to 
 
 my sight 
 As Reginald to yours, yet at the call 
 Of honour, I left all my heart held dear. 
 
 Lady A. You did, my father; but you carried 
 
 with you 
 The consciousness of having leftitochance 
 No power to cancel that heart-binding bond, 
 Which holy church had sea-i'di" 
 
 Earl of L. She lov'd my fame; 
 She was Lord Pembroke's daughter, nobly born. 
 Lady A. And yet you lov'd her from a nobler 
 
 motive 
 Her virtues and endowments.
 
 182 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Earl of L. Ah my child, 
 Now as I turn my tearful eyes upon thee, 
 Methinks I see her. 
 
 Lady A. Would to Heaven you did ! 
 Her gentle shade would plead with such a look 
 Of soft seraphic pity, you would melt, 
 And own that he alone, who sav'd the life 
 Of your poor Adela, deserves her love. 
 
 Reginald enters to them. 
 
 Earl of L. Welcome, brave Reginald ! at 
 length we meet, 
 And face to face I see the valiant knight, 
 Who to his followers, in the breach at Tours, 
 Trac'd out the road to conquest in his blood. 
 
 Sir R. Praise from the man, who is himself 
 adorn'd 
 With glory's brightest wreath, is praise indeed. 
 
 Earl of L. I hear the King has called a gallant 
 band 
 Of chosen knights, to be his body's guard, 
 And fellows in the field. 
 
 Sir R, I hear the same. 
 
 Earl of L. I'm told withal that you are nam'd 
 as one 
 In this heroic list, and that the scarf 
 By the queen-mother sent you, is the badge 
 Of your election. 
 
 Sir R. When that sacred scarf, 
 Is wrapt aroundi me by an angel's hand, 
 If my heart so enfolded, does not feel 
 A hero's fire, I must be less than man. 
 
 Earl of L. Go then, and tear the charmed 
 standard down 
 Of haughty Saladin ; go, make his moons 
 Stoop in the dust before the conqu'ring cross.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 183 
 
 Like a true knight, in danger'* front. oppose 
 Your new-emblazon'd shield before the breast 
 Of your brave King; while infidels, who dream 
 The gates of Paradise are 'opening to them, 
 Infuriate rush to meet predestin'd death. 
 Then come with all your laurels blooming fresh, 
 And hy the honour that is in me Hah ! 
 . 
 Ambrose the Monk enters. 
 
 We are prevented 
 
 Lady A. No upon my knees 
 I do implore you, fill the sentence up, 
 Complete the promise; let not honour's name 
 Be pledg'd, to vanish like an idle word ; 
 But, in the hearing of this holy man, 
 Oh, speak your purpose, speak! 
 
 Amb. If I offend, 
 Let me depart. 
 
 Lady A. No, no, you can't offend. 
 My father is not angry; he is kind, 
 Generous, and full of pity 
 
 Earl of L. Cease, my child ; 
 Give me your hand And now, if Reginald, 
 With heart affianc'd to this noble maid, 
 Upon the faith of a true knight, will swear 
 To do her loyal service in the wars, 
 Keeping his honour pure, his love entire, 
 And so returning shall demand her hand 
 In holy wedlock, solemnly I pledge 
 My sacred word, on him I will bestow her. 
 The word has pass'd ; the holy man has heard it; 
 Now let him witness and record my vow. 
 
 Sir R. Oh, lead me to the altar ; let me swear 
 In hearing of high Heaven 
 
 Amb. Be patient, son! 
 The church is occupied, the choir attends
 
 184 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 To chant their office as the form directs, 
 Whilst Adela invests you with the scarf, 
 Thereto deputed by the royal sender. 
 
 Lady A. Ah, cruel father, why with this delay 
 Torture my throbbing heart ? Why interpose 
 To dash my hope, just springing to the birth ? 
 Take me, oh take me to some darkling cell, 
 There in conventual-gloom let me abide, 
 Till light and life and Reginald return. 
 
 Earl of L. No, Adela, the father counsels 
 well. 
 'Twere fit that vows so solemn should be pledg'd 
 Before the altar; first array your knight 
 With all the forms that chivalry prescribes ; 
 Then, by the hand of his dear mistress deckt 
 With honour's brightest trophy, let him kiss 
 The sacred shrine, and with the double tie 
 Of love and of religion bind his oath. 
 
 .hi. 
 
 
 
 
 
 i
 
 THE CONFESSION. 185 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 ACT III. 
 
 Sir Walter and Lady Scroop 
 
 i 
 
 Lady S. Certain it is he has pledg'd himself 
 to Reginald to gfive him Adelato wife, when he 
 returns from Palestine, and the war shall be 
 over. 
 
 Sir W. Who tells you this ? 
 
 Lady S. Adela herself. 
 
 Sir W, Well, let that pass. So long as the 
 Earl of Leicester confines himself to -promises, I 
 shall be silent. Nothing short of the last neces- 
 sity, nothing less than the irresistible call upon 
 my conscience to prevent the horror of an in- 
 cestuous marriage, shall force the secret from 
 me. I have had dispatches from the Queen 
 within this hour. 
 
 Lady S. I understand a courier has been with 
 
 yOU. ' ' '"' :.'.:..:. . 'I'ii'yt') 
 
 Sir TV. Yes, and with fresh injimctkms to 
 observe the strictest secrecy from all the parties, 
 she adds fresh bounties to ensure my silence. 
 She graciously informs me, it is in contempla- 
 tion to create me Lord Scroop of Feversham, in 
 consideration of my loyalty, and the care i have 
 bestow'd upon the education of Reginald ; and 
 to this she subjoins, that " whatever may be my 
 conjectures as to the authors of his birth, let 
 them on no account transpire, as I regard her 
 favour." 
 
 Lady S. There is a mystery in all her Majesty's 
 proceedings with respect to Reginald, that I 
 cannot fathom. The eagerness with which she
 
 186 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 recommends this marriage, is what I cannot find 
 a motive for. 
 
 Sir W. I only know what motives govern me; 
 of her's I cannot judge. Promises, such as 
 Leicester has referred to the termination of the 
 war, will not force me upon discovery ; but, if 
 melted by the entreaties of his daughter, daz- 
 zled by the graces of Reginald, or deluded by 
 the sophistry of Father Ambrose, he should des- 
 perately attempt to join their hands in holy 
 wedlock ; I will rescue the altar from propha- 
 nation. and my own Conscience from responsibi- 
 lity, at whatever peril. 
 
 Lady S. To execute that duty faithfully, you 
 mu>t closely watch the motions of the monk ; I 
 know how much he has at heart the consumma- 
 tion of this dreadful match. Adela has access 
 to him on the plea of confession at all hoursj 
 Reginald has been lodg'd in the convent^ ever 
 since we were redue'd to t;tke refuge in this 
 small habitation Recollect that Adela is to give 
 thescarf to her knight this. very evening a dan- 
 gerous ceremony. What could possess the Queen 
 to impose that upon a sister, which is only the 
 office of a mistress to her lover? 
 
 Sir JV. That is with the queen to answer 
 
 Andrew enters, followed by Peteb. 
 
 . 
 
 Sir JV. How now, Andrew ! why this inter- 
 ruption ? 
 
 And. So please you, Sir Walter, tins poor 
 fellow, Peter by name, son of your old servant 
 Deborah, who acts as dry nurse to your hens 
 and chickens, has conceiv'd a most pious incli- 
 nation for the holy wars, and hopes you will be 
 pleas'd to dispense with his vassalage, and favour
 
 THE CONFESSION. 187 
 
 him with a discharge. Peter, stand forward and 
 make your bow. 
 
 Sir W. I recollect him now about the castle. 
 
 Peter. Yes, I have been about the castle, man 
 and boy, ever since I was born. 
 
 Lady S. And what has put it into your head, 
 Peter, to turn soldier ? 
 
 And. Ever since he notic'd a Saracen's head 
 upon a sign-post he has been seiz'd with a moist 
 inveterate resolution to drive them out of 
 Palestine. 
 
 Peter. Yes, I should like to drive them out* 
 and list myself under Sir Reginald. I'll tight 
 for him whilst I have breath in my body. 
 
 Sir IV. Make out his discharge, and give him 
 a noble in his pocket to drink the health of his 
 brave commander. 
 
 And. Oh lord, sir, give him nothing to drink, 
 Peter is an honest fellow, and knows by expe- 
 rience that honesty is its own reward. He is 
 quite satisfied of that, having had the honour of 
 working for you, without pay, these many years 
 past. 
 
 Sir W. Do as you are order'd, and let me not 
 
 be troubled with your foolish comments. Come, 
 
 Lady Scroop ; we have business of another sort. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Walter and Lady Scroop. 
 
 Manent Andrew and Peter. 
 
 Peter. Master Andrew, a word with you, under 
 favour. 
 
 And. Say on, my lad of valour; speak thy 
 mind, thou terrible antagonist of the Sultan 
 Saladin. 
 
 Peter. Aye, there you've hit upon it; that's 
 the pinch. I would fain know the right of it^
 
 188 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 that I may have wherewith to talk a bit to 
 mother, who is cruelly set against that Holy 
 Land. 
 
 And. Out upon her, foolish woman, she little 
 knows what comforts wait you in that charming 
 country. 
 
 Ptter. I pray you let me know of what sort 
 they are, for I dearly love to have my comforts 
 about me. You have been amongst those same 
 Saracens, master Andrew, and have the gift of 
 describing; I beseech you, make me a little 
 acquainted with tnem. 
 
 And. Oh, as for that, you'll soon get acquainted 
 with them, friend Peter; they are not at all 
 ceremonious; they have a familiar way of salu- 
 ting you with their battle-axes, and few Chris- 
 tian sculls are obdurate enough to stand out 
 against them. 
 
 Peter. If that be all, let 'em come on. I can 
 handle the battle-axe perhaps as well as they 
 can. 
 
 And. They have also a way of handling the 
 sabre, which chops off the head at a stroke. 
 When that happens, the man who has lost his 
 head, seldom makes any use of his body after- 
 wards. 
 
 Peter. No, he dies, we'll suppose. Well, be it 
 so : a man can die but once, that's my comfort. 
 
 And. If a Saracen takes you prisoner, he will 
 allow you the honour of making your public 
 entry, sitting upon the back of a scurvy ass, 
 with your face towards the crupper, and your 
 ignoble parts towards Mecca; in this posture 
 he will entertain you with a flogging, during 
 which you cut capers, to the infinite recreation 
 of all true believers in their false prophet. 
 
 Peter. Let 'em flog; let 'em flay me; they
 
 THE CONFESSION. 189 
 
 can do no more, and I dare say I can bear it. 
 When I run, they, are welcome to catch me ; 
 whilst I stand still, they shall not have me for a 
 little so no more of that. Whilst we fare well, 
 our hearts won't fail, and soldiers make their 
 quarters good : please God and the king, we 
 shall live upon the fat of the land. 
 
 And. Yes, upon fat crows, and fat kites ; you 
 will live sumptuously upon rats and mice; dine 
 deliciously upon frogs and newts, and rotten 
 biscuit, that the weevils have mumbled into 
 dust, with water soup out of the ditches, to 
 wash it down, and pig-nuts for a desert, if you 
 have the luck to find 'em. 
 
 Peter. Never fear me ; I am one of those 
 that love to live well, but, if provisions run 
 short, there is nothing like content. 
 
 And. Then for lodging ; you have the earth 
 for your bed, a stone for your pillow, and the 
 sand for your coverlid. 
 
 Peter. And that is altogether as good as a 
 blanket ; so I shall lie warm at least, which is a 
 luxury I delight in; so now, master Andrew, I 
 thank you heartily for your good news, and if 
 you have any commands where I am going, let 
 me know 'em, for I shall be off to-morrow. Now 
 let us look out for the Saracen's head, take a 
 parting flaggon to our next merry meeting, and 
 keep it up till we have turn'd our noble into 
 nine-pence. 
 
 And. Weil said, my honest fellow ; thou hast 
 the spirit of a true man of Kent, and let Saladin 
 and his Saracens look to it. Come on ! 
 
 [Exeunt arm in arm.
 
 190 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Scene changes to the Convent. 
 Sir Hugh de Lacy and Ambrose the Monk. 
 
 Sir H Father, we know what care you have 
 
 bestowM 
 On our young hero, Reginal de Tours, 
 From infancy to manhood, training on 
 His ductile mind to Virtue's full expanse. 
 Nor I, alone, who love him as a son, 
 But Eleanor, our gracious Queen, has kept 
 A faithful register of your deservings, 
 Which will not pass without their due reward. 
 Amb. They are rewarded, sir, when nam'd by 
 
 you; 
 They also are repaid by the delight, 
 With whirl) I see my pupil rise to fame, 
 Right nobly won and royally bestow'd : 
 But when you tell me that my gracious Queen 
 Deigns to remember me, a poor recluse, 
 That has renoune'd the world, and by the world 
 Conceives himself forgotten, I must wonder, 
 That midst so many great and public cares, 
 Object so mean can occupy a thought. 
 
 Sir H. You must not say you have renoune'd 
 
 the world, 
 Whilst it has claims upon you. You have made 
 Your pupil virtuous, you must make him happy. 
 Amb. Oh that I could ! behold me grey with 
 
 years : 
 What is my life, unless I live for him ? 
 Why beats this heart, why toils this aching brain, 
 But for his sake? I am a man of peace, 
 And boasting ill becomes an humble monk; 
 But, in the cause of that beloved youth, 
 Place me in danger's front, I'll not go back.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 191 
 
 Sir H. Do you not see bow ardently he loves 
 The peerless daughter of the Earl of Leicester ? 
 Did he not snatch her from the blazing ruins 
 Of yonder castle? does he not deserve her? 
 Amb. He does deserve her, and she meets his 
 
 love. 
 Sir H. Who then forbids their union ? does 
 the pride 
 Of Leicester rouse at his mysterious birth ? 
 Amb The Earl of Leicester, with a noble can- 
 dour, 
 Has promis'd him his daughter, when the war, 
 In Palestine now kindled, shall be quench'd. 
 Sir H. But who can promise when that time 
 shall be? 
 None but the great Disposer of events. 
 Torrents of Christian blood shall first be spilt, 
 Ere that fierce conflagration shall be quench'd. 
 I know the power of Saladin how vast; 
 Though all the kings of Europe shall combine 
 To shake his mighty empire, their own thrones 
 Shall be the first to tremble with the shock. 
 Where is the period then of war like this, 
 And what is happiness delay'd but pain? 
 Why does not Leicester join their hands this 
 night? 
 Amb. That is at once my council and my wish. 
 Sir H. Then might the wedded Adela embark 
 With other noble matrons for Messina, 
 Where Richard's fleet and army will repose 
 Till the confederates shall collect their force. 
 Amb. Propose the marriage then ; who like 
 yourself, 
 With influence only second to the Queen's, 
 Can so persuade; or, if occasion need, 
 Who with such high authority control ?
 
 192 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Sir H.. If then the Queen through me should 
 speak the word, 
 Would you obey it? 
 
 Amb. I could not refuse, 
 Knowing the honour of Sir Hugh de Lacy. 
 
 Sir H. But if herself should speaks 
 
 Amb. Behold me ready ! 
 
 Sir H. Be ready then for in this scroll she 
 speaks. 
 Take it, peruse it ; 'tis address'd to you ; 
 By her own hand 'tis written; on the wax 
 Her royal seal is stampt And know withal, 
 When the contents are satisfied, I hail you 
 Abbot of Tewkesbury, and mitred lord. [Exit. 
 
 Ambrose alone. 
 
 Abbot of Tewkesbury ! a princely boon, 
 
 And doubly grateful as my native spot. 
 
 But on what terms ? A Queen not over chaste, 
 
 A lady once divorc'd and twice arraign'd, 
 
 May dictate terms to make my conscience start, 
 
 My holy function blush Why then at once, 
 
 Guilty ambition, hence ! Now to the test 
 
 [Opens the packet and reads. 
 
 " To the Right Holy Father Ambrose of 
 Tewkesbury, greeting 
 
 " When this shall be delivered to you by 
 my faithful servant. Sir Hugh de Lacy, let it be 
 your warrant forthwith to join the hands of Re- 
 ginald de Tours, my knight at arms, and Adela 
 de Bellamont, my well-belov'd, in holy wedlock, 
 without let or gainsay, such being my pleasure, 
 and their lawful inclinations. If Leicester, who 
 owes me for no less than life and fortune, be-
 
 THE CONFESSION. 193 
 
 comes contentious upon the matter of Reginald's 
 mysterious birth, so as to be no otherwise ap- 
 peas'd, deliver to him in secrecy the letter herein 
 enclos'd ; if not, forbear, as you respect my fa- 
 vour, to violate the seal 
 
 Your's, in all honourable service, 
 
 ELEANOR, Regent." 
 
 It shall be so ! I spy no flaw in this, 
 No just impediment, that should arrest 
 The consecration of their mutual love. 
 
 Reginald enters. 
 
 How now, my son ! why that disorder'd brow ? 
 
 Sir R. As I was passing hither, in the cloister 
 I met Sir Walter Scroop. He seiz'd my hand, 
 And bade me stop : silent awhile he stood, 
 And gaz'd upon me ; then, as one surpriz'd 
 By sudden transport, threw his arms around me, 
 And press'd me to his heart. At length he cried 
 Let me not seem unkind, when I confess, 
 Such, are the terrors that alarm my soul 
 For one so justly dear, so truly good, 
 That I shall bless the hour that takes you hence. 
 
 Amb. His reason wanders ; many a time he 
 has talk'd 
 In the same strain to me. Did you reply ? 
 
 Sir R. I simply ask'd him to disclose the cause, 
 That so disturb'd his peace. 
 
 Amb. Tis all in vain. 
 I've made the same enquiry o'er and o'er, 
 It only feeds his phrenzy. 
 
 Sir R. So it seem'd ; 
 For on my question, with disorder'd look, 
 He wildly answer'd Would I know the cause 
 
 vol. 1. O
 
 J94 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 That rais'd the storm of passions in his heart, 
 
 I must betake me to the silent vault 
 
 Where sleeps the wife of Leicester, and invoke 
 
 Her spirit to awake and find a voice. 
 
 This said, an instant horror seem'd to strike 
 
 His trembling frame ; he started, and was gone. 
 
 Amb. Let this suffice. You need no other proof. 
 I saw him when his castle was on fire : 
 Congeal'd with horror and amaze he stood, 
 And in those moments, whilst you rush'd through 
 
 flames 
 To save the dying Adela, despair, 
 That fixt him motionless, had seiz'd his brain ; 
 And now, when fearful recollection strikes 
 His shatter'd senses, he conceals himself 
 Amongst the tombs, and communes with thedead. 
 Therefore it is he raves of Leicester's wife ; 
 For there he mostly haunts. 
 
 Sir R. I think, indeed, 
 It is the horror of that dismal night 
 That has derang'd his mind ; for sure till then 
 A kinder gentleman there did not live, 
 To me at least the best and warmest friend ; 
 But now how chang'd, how sullen and morose 
 To all around him ! Most of all to me; 
 For now, when even Leicester smiles upon me, 
 He, still professing friendship, still opposes 
 All that my most inveterate foe could urge 
 To thwart my hopes of Adela. 
 
 Amb. Your hopes 
 Shall become certainties this very night. 
 
 Sir R. Father, what mean you ? 
 
 Amb. To obey the voice 
 Of Nature, and to circumvent the plots, 
 That now are hatching to defeat those hopes, 
 Which, built on promises, are built on air. 
 But Heav'n, whilst I keep guard upon its altar,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 195 
 
 Shall not be mock'cl by promises, or plots, 
 Man's weak devices Adela, come forth ! 
 
 Sir II Hah, Adela ! 
 
 Amb. Be calm ! and see, she comes. 
 
 Adela enters. 
 
 Lady A. Father, what cause so urgent ? Gra- 
 cious Heaven, 
 Is it for him, for him that I am summon'd ? 
 What has befallen him ? Oh, quickly speak ! 
 
 Amb. Be not alarm'd Sir Reginald de Tours, 
 By that heroic title, greater far 
 Than any from inheritance deriv'd, 
 By the resplendent trophies that you wear 
 On your emblazon'd shield, and, more than all, 
 By that your sacred Cross I do adjure you, 
 Look on this noble maiden ; and declare 
 If in true faith and purity of soul, 
 By chaste and holy love alone inspir'd, 
 You have assail'd and won her virgin heart. 
 
 Sir R. Need I reply ? To Heav'n and you are 
 known 
 Each secret thought within my heart conceiv'd; 
 And, as I've lodg'd her heav'nly image there, 
 What foulness can inhabit where she dwells ? 
 
 Amb. Enough ! now hear me. Holy Church, 
 whose rites 
 My part is to administer, in me 
 Speaks ; and by me consents to join your hands 
 In the pure bond of wedlock Let not doubt 
 Perplex your minds : upon myself I take 
 The peril of the act. This night you wed, 
 This hour, this instant 
 [A short but solemn strain is heard as at a distance. 
 
 But I'm summon'd. Hark ! 
 They have begun to celebrate their mass 
 
 OS
 
 196 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 For Leicester's safe return. That service past, 
 Come to the private chapel, and be secret. [Exit. 
 
 Reginald and Adela. 
 
 Sir R. My Adela, my soul's supreme delight, 
 How I respect thee, honour and adore thee, 
 Words are too weak to tell. Thou'st heard the 
 
 monk ; 
 A man too wise to sport with idle words, 
 Too just to deal in fallacies and plots, 
 Yet I conjure thee weigh what he proposes 
 With what thy father promis'd, and decide 
 As fits the dignity of Leicester's daughter. 
 
 Lady A. What is my father's promise? Can I 
 weigh 
 A vapour, a deceitful, distant spark, 
 Glimmering, but not with hope; a treacherous 
 
 light, 
 That only serves to lure me to my grave ? 
 If in my father's promise I confide, 
 To-morrow we must part ; you to the east, 
 Where every morning's sun will rise in blood; 
 I to a convent's solitary gloom, 
 Nightly to wander by the moon's pale beam 
 Midst hollow vaults, that echo to my groans, 
 Till melancholy and despair shall end me. 
 
 Sir R. Then let the holy father join our hands, 
 And honour's plea stand by till love be heard. 
 Then shall my wedded Adela ascend 
 The vessel, that transports her husband hence; 
 And noble Leicester, when upon our knees 
 Suppliant we fall, and with our mingling tears 
 Bathe his paternal feet, shall feel his heart 
 Melt to forgiveness, and confess thy life 
 Was worth preserving, though with honour's loss. 
 
 Lady A. He is a hero; he has been a husband:
 
 THE CONFESSION. 197 
 
 We shall not part unblest ; he will forgive us : 
 By bis own sufferings taught, he knows to feel 
 When others suffer. I have pray'd for mercy ; 
 Before the shrine of my protecting saint 
 I sent up my petition, when the voice 
 Of the good Ambrose rais'd me from my knees. 
 That mercy I had ask'd of Heav'n, through him, 
 My earthly saint, descending, was transfus'd, 
 And reach'd me in the hour of my affliction. 
 Sir R. Prepare to meet him then for, hark ! 
 he comes 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop enters. 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop ! 
 
 Sir IV. Unwelcome though I am, 
 Once more I seek you 
 
 Sir R. You have found me, sir. 
 
 Sir IV. I have ; and still shall haunt you, still 
 shall walk 
 My ghostly rounds within these hallow'd walls, 
 At once to guard the living and the dead 
 From the unseen destruction, tnat will burst 
 Like thunder, if, though warn'd, you still per- 
 sist 
 To feed and cherish a forbidden flame. 
 
 Sir R. Sir Waiter, with some trouble I for- 
 bear 
 To notice your intrusion as I might, 
 Were not my anger temper d by compassion 
 For the sad state to which vour mind, of late 
 So luminously furnish'd, is reduc'd. 
 But tempt me not. I am no more than man, 
 And these are dangerous trials. 
 
 Sir IV. Threaten not ; 
 For that is insult, which I never answer
 
 W$ THE CONFESSION. 
 
 But with defiance and contempt. Behold ! 
 Here is my bosom strike! 
 
 Lady A. Forbid it, Heaven ! 
 My generous, kind protector, fear him not: 
 He would not harm you for the worth of worlds. 
 Cover that honour'd bosom. Let me breathe 
 My peace into it; oh ! let me allay 
 The storm that ruffles it, and thus protect 
 Him, whose unwearied care protected me. 
 
 Sir TV. Angelic innocence, sweet pitying 
 saint, 
 For your compassion, thanks. But let him strike; 
 Let his sword pierce my heart ! It will be mercy, 
 For then thou wilt not, can'st not take a hand 
 Dipt in my blood, but must abhor the monster, 
 Who stabb'd his benefactor in revenge 
 For his too anxious effort to preserve him. 
 
 Sir R. You give too hard a name to my of- 
 fence. 
 I never struck an enemy unarm'd, 
 How should I stab a friend ? within this hour 
 Twice you have come upon me by surprise. 
 Your talk has been mysterious, wild, abrupt; 
 No argument, nor method of discourse. 
 And now you break into those sacred moments, 
 Too few to waste, too precious to be lost. 
 If aught is doing that you wish undone, 
 Or aught neglected you would have me do, 
 Speak your full mind ; discharge your troubled 
 
 thoughts, 
 And be yourself again. 
 
 Sir W. Lo, I am calm ; 
 And now, the whilst our noble Leicester makes 
 His votive offerings at Saint George's shrine, 
 If my sweet Adela will recollect 
 There is a poor deserted thing at home, 
 Who nurs'd her as a mother, and now longs
 
 THE CONFESSION. 199 
 
 To embrace her darling, I should fondly hope 
 She will not think the minutes much mispent, 
 Which she devotes to one, who dearly loves her. 
 Lady A. Your gentle lady merits all my love, 
 And all my gratitude : with every wish, 
 That she conceives, my duty shall comply. 
 Proceed! I follow Reginald, remember! 
 
 [Exeunt,
 
 200 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 A Sacristy, or Chapel, in the Convent of Fever sham. 
 
 Leicester enters. 
 
 Once more I've visited the house of death, 
 Where sleep the ancient fathers of my race, 
 Patriots and heroes great in peace and war; 
 There, o'er the tomb of the departed chief, 
 The plumed casque that brac'd his conqu'ring 
 
 brow, 
 And time-worn banner, once so proudly borne, 
 (Their tatter'd remnants now with dust besprent) 
 Serve but to shew how death's terrific power 
 Mocks at our frail memorials. Oh, thou King ! 
 The last which Time shall conquer, why so 
 
 awful 
 Here in thy dark domain, where silence reigns, 
 When in the battle's din J've heard thy scream* 
 Rending the air, and fac'd thee undismay'd ? 
 As I pass'd onwards through the vaulted aisles, 
 A chilly horror seiz'd on all my frame ; 
 Cold damps bedew'd my brow : methought I 
 
 felt 
 The marble pavement, upon which I stood, 
 Tremble beneath my feet. I look'd, and lo ! 
 I was then treading on the very stone, 
 That cover'd the remains of my dead wife. 
 Oh horror, horror ! her beloved name 
 Was trampled by my sacrilegious feet. 
 Instant I knelt, I sunk upon the spot, 
 I hid my face between my hands, my tears 
 Water'd the pavement, my whole heart dissolv'd 
 In agonizing woe
 
 THE CONFESSION. 201 
 
 Ambrose the Monk appears. 
 
 Earl of L. How now! why this ? 
 Who and whence art thou ? 
 
 Amb. My thrice-honour'd lord, 
 The brethren of the convent have perform'd 
 Their solemn service for your blest return. 
 
 Earl of L. Where are your masses for her 
 soul, who was 
 The very soul, that gave this body life, 
 And dying carried with her all its joys? 
 Why have you buried her in silent earth? 
 Where is the epitaph, that speaks her praise 
 And my affliction ? Where the stately tomb, 
 Around whose sculptur'd sides, angels attend 
 With wings outspread to waft her soui to bliss ? 
 Is this your care for the lamented wife 
 Of him, who, though in exile, would have risk'd 
 The forfeit of his life to close her eyes, 
 Had not Death struck her with so swift an 
 
 arrow, 
 That, ere I knew the danger, all was lost ? 
 
 Amb. My lord, your humble beadsmen have 
 not ceas'd 
 To chaunt their requiems o'er your lady's grave; 
 Nor have they scrupled, from their public stock, 
 To rear a costly ccenotaph, the which, 
 Far in advance, but waits the master's hand 
 To perfect its adornments, and record 
 To all posterity the honour'd name 
 Of Leicester's consort, noble Pembroke's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Earl of L. In honouring her they take the 
 surest course 
 To bind me to their service, and I blush 
 For my unjust complaint. It now remains
 
 202 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 To ask their gracious leave for the investment 
 Of our young Knight, within these sacred walls, 
 In form and order, as may best become 
 The wearer and the donor of the scarf. 
 
 Amb. The holy brotherhood are all prepar'd 
 To give the ceremony such display 
 As may evince their duty to the Queen, 
 And grace the hero, destin'd to obtain 
 The beauteous hand that decks him for the 
 
 fight. 
 Earl of L. You were his teacher, you array'd 
 
 his mind 
 In that rich clothing, which so far outshines 
 The bonow'd splendour of exterior show. 
 But zeal for those we love sometimes regards 
 The claims of others with too little care ; 
 And friendship cunningly inclines the beam, 
 Whilst hood-wink'd justice cannot spy the 
 
 fraud. 
 Now tell me, if you were as much my friend 
 As you are his, would you not pause in doubt 
 Upon the measure, which you now promote? 
 Would you, as counsel to the Earl of Leicester, 
 Advise him to bestow his only child, 
 The heiress of his honours, on that youth 
 Mysterious and unknown ? Nay, let me add, 
 Denounc'd by Scroop in such emphatic terms, 
 As seem to indicate a conscious dread 
 Of some tremendous secret unreveal'd. 
 
 Amb. To these in order I admit my zeal 
 In its full force, but I deny its power 
 To warp my mind against the truth and you. 
 For Reginald, I hold him so ennobled 
 In his own virtue, that I know no name 
 Or title, which, although by birth obscure, 
 He by his character would not exalt; 
 Therefore I hold him worthy to obtain
 
 THE CONFESSION. 203 
 
 That hand in marriage, which your promise 
 
 gives. 
 As for Sir Walter Scroop and his protest, 
 I think him either wandering in his reason, 
 Or dark in his designs, and what is dark 
 I've rarely fail'd to find is foul withal. 
 If he knows aught, that should forbid the mar- 
 riage, 
 Why does he hide it; if not, wherefore hint it? 
 
 Earl of' L. You've said it, and I close with 
 your reply ; 
 Determined that if Reginald returns 
 From Palestine, his honour unimpeach'd, 
 He weds my daughter. 
 
 Amb. Bear with me awhile 
 Have you cousider'd how, by this delay, 
 You risque the health, the happiness, the life 
 Of your beloved daughter? 
 
 Earl of L. Hah! the life ? 
 
 Amb. Hear me with patience ! I did say the 
 life; 
 And, knowing all the force of her affection, 
 I do repeat, and seriously affirm 
 My full conviction, that I've us'd no word 
 Too strong for the occasion. 
 
 Earl of L. That she loves him 
 I cannot doubt. 
 
 Amb. Her's is no common love, 
 Be sure of that ; no momentary passion. 
 The blood of Leicester and of Pembroke glows 
 In her high-swelling heart, and ere it bends 
 To the strong gust of sorrow, it will break. 
 JBut see ! they come I could have spar'd them 
 now. [Aside.
 
 201 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Reginald and Adela enter. 
 
 Lady A. My father here ! We are betray 'd, my 
 Reginald. 
 The monk, the monk, has fail'd us. [Apart. 
 
 Sir R. Be compos'd ! 
 Illustrious lord, we are not unprepar'd 
 For this encounter, nor have fai to seek 
 For him, whom we must thank for the occasion. 
 As for myself, my course of life is known ; 
 But where to search for those, who gave me life, 
 If there be one that knows, I am not he. 
 Lost to all filial feelings, nature still 
 Speaks in my heart, alive to all the claims 
 That man is heir to : beauty charms my sight, 
 Virtue my soul ; but when they both unite 
 In this fair creature, should I be a man, 
 If I did not confess and feel their power ? 
 This is at once my crime and my defence. 
 Conscious of my obscurity, I strive, 
 I struggle with my passion, but in vain ; 
 Destin'd at once to love and to despair. 
 
 Earl of L. Now, daughter, on your part pur- 
 sue the strain 
 Of fair confession. I am turn'd to hear. 
 
 Lady A. My part is easy, for my plea is short. 
 As by his courage I was sav'd from death, 
 So, if bereft of him, it had been well 
 That I had died at once, nor been reserv'd 
 For torments worse than those which I escap'd. 
 
 Earl of L. But you agnize in me a^ father's 
 right 
 To guide your judgment, and approve your 
 choice. 
 
 Lady A. When banishment bereft me of your 
 care,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 205 
 
 I was an orpharrwith a living father : 
 
 My mother too was lost; Heav'n claim'd its 
 
 saint, 
 And took her up from this had world to bliss. 
 The Lady Scroop (may blessings light upon 
 
 her!) 
 Was kind and tender She was humble also ; 
 She taught me where to place my just regards, 
 And virtue for its own sake how to prize. 
 Then, then it was this noble hero came, 
 With all his laurels clustering on his brow, 
 And, with the love of glory at my heart, 
 (To which, as Leicester's daughter, I was born,) 
 1 gave that heart to him, who, if the world 
 Had been the prize for valour, would have won it. 
 Earl of L. And he shall win fresh laurels to 
 
 adorn 
 The nuptial couch, that waits his glad return. 
 Sir R. Here I must claim your patience, and 
 
 demand 
 Of that good father if he has divulg'd 
 The secret purpose that has brought us hither. 
 Amb. No, no, my son. Where would your 
 
 question point? 
 Sir R. To that tribunal, which in every heart 
 Conscience erects, and at whose bar arraigns 
 The meditation of each guilty thought. 
 My lord, I have no claim upon your promise, 
 For I came hither to espouse your daughter, 
 Thereto encourag'd by this pious man. 
 He'll not deny it. 
 
 Amb. No ; I meet the charge, 
 And trust the motive justifies the deed. 
 Earl of L. Can any motive justify a fraud ? 
 Amb. Was it in Reginald a fraud to save 
 Your daughter from the flames? By the like 
 
 fraud
 
 206 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 I purpos'd to preserve and bless her life. 
 If nothing but your promise were oppos'd 
 'Twixt life and death, death would have been 
 
 her lot. 
 I search'd her heart, was inmost with her 
 
 thoughts; 
 You only scann'd her with a stranger's eye. 
 If more there needs for my defence, the Queen 
 Stands in the peril, and avows the fraud, 
 If such it can be call'd when own'd by her. 
 
 Earl of L. Have you the proof of this? 
 
 Amb. I have the proof 
 Imperative, by noble Lacy vouch'd. 
 
 EarlofL. If thisSir Hugh de Lacy shall attest, 
 And the Queen wills it so, so let it be ! 
 I am content : in me is no delay. 
 But first in order let the fair betroth'd 
 Fulfil the royal mandate, and array 
 Her Knight, or e'er she weds him. That per- 
 form 'd, 
 Prepare the altar; let the rites proceed. [Exit. 
 
 Sir R. Now, Adela, with honour unimpeach'd, 
 And a clear conscience, I embrace my blessing. 
 
 Lady A. Thus twice by Heav'n and you pre- 
 served, I claim 
 The right, which other loyal wives enjoy, 
 To share the voyage with my wedded knight. 
 
 Sir R. Father, your pardon! I confess Iwrong'd 
 
 you, 
 When, on the sight of Leicester, I believ'd 
 You had disclos'd the purpose of our meeting. 
 Amb. No more of that : your error has been 
 happy, 
 And I forgive it ; but on this condition, 
 That you attend me to the oratory ; 
 That so, with hearts prepar'd, you may approach 
 The sacred altar, thereto join your hands. [Exeunt.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 207 
 
 Scene, as at the opening of. the play, 
 Andrew an d Griffith meeting. 
 
 Grif. I pray you, honest friend, am I in my 
 right way to the convent? 
 
 And. Truly, sir, I should doubt it. You are 
 in your right way to the H )ly Lan I, I perceive, 
 but whether that will lead you to the conveut 
 may deserve some pause. 
 
 Grif. My question was a simple one. Don't 
 let me spend more time upon your answer than 
 I should save by your information. 
 
 And. You shall lose neither time nor patience 
 by me, sir ; for I will attend you to the very 
 convent's gate. I have been a soldier myself, 
 and the very sight of a soldier exhilarates my 
 heart. May I request the communication of 
 your name and rank ? 
 
 Grif. My name is Griffith, at your service : I 
 have the honour to be attach'd to Sir Hugh de 
 Lacy, as his body-squire, and my business is 
 with him. 
 
 And. Sir Hugh de Lacy is a valorous gentle- 
 man; a more accomplish'd knight Christendom 
 does not boast. He was governor of Ireland, 
 and I remember to be told, that when O Ruark, 
 the Irish chieftain, drew him to a parley, and 
 treacherously attempted to knock out his brains 
 with his battle-axe, a gallant Welshman of your 
 name thrust his rapier through the body of the 
 assassin, and laid him dead at his feet. 
 
 Grif. He did. That Welshman was my father ! 
 
 And. Blessed be Saint David for his sake ! 
 Sir, I kiss the very hem of your garment with 
 the most profound respect.
 
 203 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 
 
 Grif. By no means : only put me in my way 
 to the convent; we can discourse as we walk. 
 
 And. We can so, and truly I shall be happy 
 to know your sentiments of this war, that is 
 about to be set on foot in Palestine. 
 
 Gr'if. The war in Palestine will be a bloody 
 war. 
 
 And. You are right, perfectly right. Wars 
 are apt to be bloody. I have been in Palestine ; 
 these eyes have seen Jerusalem. 
 
 Grif. I almost doubt if mine will see the con- 
 vent. 
 
 And. They need not, sir, for look ! your knight 
 is coming. I told you you would lose no time 
 with me. 
 
 Sir Hugh de Lacy and Sir Walter Scroop. 
 
 Sir H. Griffith, well met ! What tidings of 
 our knights ? 
 
 Grif. All ready, all accoutred bright in arms, 
 To grace the ceremony, that invests 
 Their brave associate with the royal scarf; 
 They only wait till you shall give the word. 
 
 Sir II. Bear them my greetings back, and say 
 the hour 
 Is now at hand to put themselves in march. 
 Tell them withal, that for their courtesy 
 I render them my thanks with all my heart, 
 In brotherly regard, and will report 
 This their kind service, as it well deserves, 
 To the Queen-regent, my most gracious mistress. 
 
 Grif. This I shall do. What farther? 
 
 Sir H. Nothing more. 
 Farewell, brave Griffith ! Useyourbestdispatch. 
 
 [Exit Grif. 
 
 And, Most puissant and magnanimous knight,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 20a 
 
 I humbly crave your pardon, upon the very 
 knees of my heart, for the deficiency of my 
 respect, when you were pleas'd to command my 
 services to conduct you to Sir Walter Scroop ; 
 at which time I had not cognizance of your il- 
 lustrious and princely person. 
 
 Sir H. friend, your behaviour needed no apo- 
 logy. 
 
 And. Oh, my thrice-honour'd sir, if I had 
 known it was Sir Hugh de Lacy I was speaking 
 to, I would have strove to put my language into 
 better trim; fori may say without offence to 
 any, there is not in the realm a man, who holds 
 your excellency in more true respect. 
 
 Sir W. Silence that foolish tongue,- and know 
 your distance ! you have said enough. Depart ! 
 
 And. That you should think I have said 
 enough, I do not marvel, having yourself said 
 nothing till this moment. But I depart, and 
 humbly take my leave. \Exit, 
 
 Sir H. Sir Walter Scroop, it moves my wonder 
 much, 
 Whilst all these honours fall so thick upon you, 
 You are not happy ? what's the cause of this ? 
 
 Sir W. Our spirits rise and fall without a cause. 
 
 Sir H. The health indeed is out of fortune's 
 reach. 
 But you are thankful to the bounteous Queen. 
 
 Sir W. Heaven knows my heart. 
 
 Sir H. Lord Scroop of Feversham 
 A princely mansion and a rich domain 
 These are no trivial boons 
 
 Sir W. Far, far above 
 My mean deservings. 
 
 Sir H. I wo'nt call them such. 
 Your loyalty has stood the test of time 
 In various trials ; but I'll not disguise 
 
 vol. 1. P
 
 210 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 How much her Highness holds you in esteem 
 For your paternal care of the young knight, 
 Whose fortune she espouses. 
 
 Sir JV. What I've done 
 For him, in Christian charity I've done 
 As for a creature thrown upon my mercy. 
 I look'd not to her favour for reward. 
 
 Sir H. And yet, without expecting it, you find 
 Your charity is no unfruitful virtue. 
 This creature, that was thrown upon your mercy, 
 Has brought good fortune with him to your house, 
 And gives no less protection than he finds. 
 
 Sir JV. The Queen is wondrous kind. Were 
 she his mother, 
 She could not be more zealous. 
 
 Sir H. Hah ! his mother? 
 You say that by the way of illustration ; 
 But 'tis too bold a figure. Such a word, 
 Dropt in the ears of babblers, might induce 
 Dangerous conjectures. 
 
 Sir JV, Misconceive me not, 
 Where the deep secret of his birth is buried, 
 There I have left it. 
 
 Sir H. Let it there abide 
 Till his great deeds shall throw concealment off, 
 And he stand forth confest in all his fame. 
 
 Sir JV. That day will never come. 
 
 Sir H. That day is come ; 
 If Leicester makes conditions for his daughter, 
 And states his high nobility debas'd. 
 
 Sir JV. He must not dare to think of Leicester'? 
 daughter. 
 
 Sir H. Not dare to think ! Let me not meet 
 the man, 
 Yourself excepted, who dares tell me that. 
 
 Sir JV. Be witness for me, truth, I did not court 
 This painful subject: It was forc'd upon me.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 211 
 
 But if the Earl of Leicester gives his daughter 
 To the mysterious youth, whom I have foster'd, 
 He is disgrae'd, undone, and lost for ever. 
 Sir H. I'll hear no more. You neither know 
 
 of whom 
 You speak these words, nor who I am that hear 
 
 them. 
 
 The Earl of Leicester enters. 
 
 Earl of L. How now, my friends I why do 
 
 your eyes exchange 
 Those angry glances? what has pass'd between 
 
 you ? 
 Sir H. Whate'er it was, your coming has dis- 
 
 pers'd it, 
 For in the presence of an honour'd friend 
 Anger has time to cool. 
 
 Earl of L. Heaven's grace forbid 
 The falling out of friends, each to the other 
 So dear, and both to me so truly kind. 
 In you, Sir Walter, and your worthy Lady, 
 I see the guardians of my long-lost child ; 
 You nurs'd her native virtues, but you left 
 Her gentle heart accessible to love. 
 From you, Sir Hugh de Lacy, I receiv'd 
 The first impressions, that dispos'd my mind 
 Towards the young hero, of whose gallant deeds 
 You made such fair report. In him I saw 
 That courtly 'haviour and becoming grace, 
 That mark the august and sacred character 
 Of chivalry, and when I heard my child 
 With artless innocence confess her love, 
 I listen'd without anger, and forgave her; 
 Nay, more I promis'd, when the war was over, 
 I would confirm her choice, and join their hands. 
 
 P2
 
 212 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Sir H. And where's the man, who will presume 
 to say, 
 That Leicester is degraded by that choice ? 
 You're silent, sir [To Sir Walter. 
 
 Earl of L, Be patient, my good friend ! 
 No man will say it; 'twould be now too late. 
 My sacred word is pledg'd They wed this night. 
 
 Sir IV. Angels of mercy, interpose to save 
 them ! 
 
 Sir H. There is my gage ! I hurl it to the 
 ground 
 With indignation, and demand the lists 
 Against the man, who dares to breathe a word 
 Injurious to Sir Reginald de Tours ; 
 Whom I pronounce a true and noble knight, 
 In all points worthy of great Leicester's choice 
 [Sir Walter Scroop turns away and exit. 
 Lo where he goes ! Tis so detraction shrinks 
 When truth provokes the appeal. 
 
 Earl of L. Redoubted knight, 
 If you regard me, take your gauntlet up. 
 Let us not stain our festival with blood. 
 
 Sir H. My heart goes with my hand in what 
 I've done ; 
 Why should I draw it back ? Not I alone, 
 The Queen herself, who by her scarf creates 
 Sir Reginald the Servant of her love, 
 Is pledg'd in honour to defend her knight. 
 
 Earl of L. And who but Leicester shall defend 
 the Queen ? 
 I hold that right as mine. Leave Scroop to me. 
 If, as report suggests, he is infirm 
 Of mind and craz'd, he may demand your pity, 
 He cannot stir your anger. 
 
 Sir H. On that plea 
 I take my gauntlet up. And now, my lord,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 213 
 
 Confiding in your word, (as who may not ?) 
 I shall convoke our knights, who wait my call, 
 To grace the nuptials of your noble daughter 
 With their companion, Reginald de Tours. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 214 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 A Cloister belonging to the Convent. 
 Sir Walter and Lady Scroop. 
 
 SirJV. I'll not be follow'd. Leave me. 
 
 Lady S. Oh, for mercy 
 Hear me, direct me, save me from despair. 
 This dreadful secret weighs my nature down ; 
 My soul sinks under it. 
 
 Sir IV. You wrung it from me; 
 In an unguarded moment you surpriz'd me. 
 Sorrow had seal'd my bosom, till the news 
 Of Reginald's departure burst upon me 
 In one short gleam of joy ; then, then it was 
 You sooth'd me into folly, and betray'd me. 
 
 Lady S. You do me wrong. Your secret is 
 secure. 
 I've had the poor devoted victims with me ; 
 Witness'd their fond endearments, seen their 
 
 transports, 
 Heard them announce theirnow-impendingdoom, 
 And not betray'd you. 
 
 Sir TV. That avails me nothing : 
 Whilst I forbore to speak, I had my choice 
 Still to be dumb, but w hen I let you share 
 My secrets, I compell'd you to partake 
 The horrors of concealment, and embark'd 
 Your conscience in like peril with my own. . 
 Single in guilt, perhaps 1 had preferr'd 
 Remorse to ruin, splendid misery 
 To honourable death. But now 'tis done; 
 All shall come out. I will not sink your soul
 
 THE CONFESSION". 215 
 
 To save my wretched life : therefore away I 
 I wait for Leicester here : I stand to guard 
 This passage to the altar, and present 
 My bosom to De Lacy's fierce assault. 
 
 Lady S. What do you tell me? oh, too much, 
 too much ! 
 Or fly your danger, or let me partake it. 
 
 Sir W. No ; I've already done the fatal i]ee<], 
 That draws inevitable ruin on us. 
 Farewell to all our honours, all our hopes ! 
 To the stern dictates of imperious conscience 
 I sacrifice the world and all its joys. 
 
 Lady S. I will not, cannot leave you thus dis- 
 tress'd. 
 
 Sir W, This last, this fond embrace, and then 
 no more. 
 I have now strung my spirit to the pitch, 
 And will not suffer weakness to approach me 
 In the soft form of woman. Fare thee well ! 
 Begone at once, for by my soul I swear, 
 If you persist, 'twill be to see me fall 
 By my own sword. 
 
 Lady S. Heaven's mercy be your guard ! [Exit. 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop alone. 
 
 Nature, religion, laws divine and human, 
 
 Cry out on incest, and denounce these nuptials. 
 
 What then, what then ? They know not their 
 
 offence ; 
 And where there is no consciousness of guilt, 
 No punishment can follow the commission. 
 There's hope for them ; but hope includes not me. 
 Man cannot penetrate the thoughts of man, 
 But there is one, to whom all thoughts are known, 
 And in whose sight all secrets stand confest. 
 He, ere pollution shall approach his altar,
 
 216 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Can call the self-accusing spirit up. 
 Give insubstantial air a shadowy form, 
 And rescue nature from the impending curse. 
 Rise then, dead Adela, awake from sleep, 
 Thou, that art here entomb'd, ascend to sight, 
 Shade of a conscious mother 
 
 Lady Scroop appears. 
 
 Hah ! begone ! 
 
 Have I not warn'd you hence ? why do you come 
 
 To fright imagination, and enhance 
 
 The terror of my thoughts ? 
 
 Lady S. Be not amaz'd. 
 I come not to alarm you, but to guard ; 
 To give 3'our spirit time for recollection, 
 And wake you from your trance Leicester ap- 
 proaches. [Exit Lady S. 
 
 Sir Walter Scroop. 
 
 Now then, my heart, be firm ! vain terrors, hence ! 
 And thou, my evil genius, that art busy 
 With thy accurst temptations to seduce 
 My conscience from its properties, avaunt ! 
 Yes, thou unsparing monitor, thou just 
 But merciless remembrancer, I know 
 Not all the world can bribe thee to withdraw 
 Thine arrows from my bosom, and allow 
 Sweet sleep to enter, till I have fulfill'd 
 Thy strict commandment; nor can I acquit 
 My account with Heaven till I am clearwith thee. 
 Now, Leicester, I am ready Lo, he comes
 
 THE CONFESSION. 217 
 
 Earl of Leicester enters. 
 
 Earl of L. You're happily encounter'd, good 
 Sir Walter. 
 I've much desir'd this meeting Ah, my friend, 
 Give me your hand All is not well, I fear ; 
 You are not chearful as you wont to be. 
 When every face is lighted up with smiles, 
 You damp our joys with sullenness and sorrow. 
 
 Sir W. It is not that I've lost the sense of joy, 
 Or ceas'd to sympathize in what concerns you, 
 If I am sad : not so, my honour'd lord ; 
 Your happiness is dear to me as ever ; 
 Believe me on my word. But above all, 
 Let not De Lacy, or the Monk, persuade you 
 That I have lost possession of my mind, 
 And gone astray from reason. They will tell you 
 That I am mad ; it is themselves are mad, 
 When they would tempt you to this fatal act. 
 
 Earl of L. Though I could well conjecture 
 what you mean 
 By fatal act, yet, if you mean me well, 
 Deal fairly with me. I am sick of hints ; 
 I abhor mystery. Honesty disclaims it. 
 
 Sir W. Then arm yourself with patience; 
 good my lord, 
 As I am mov'd by friendship, when I tell you 
 You must adjourn these inauspicious nuptials 
 To future time, and some far-distant chance, 
 That never shall take place. 
 
 Earl of L. Away ! you're mad. 
 
 Sir TV. Unless 'tis madness for your sake to 
 suffer 
 These pangs, with which you wring confession 
 
 from me, 
 And sacrifice my peace of mind to yours,
 
 218 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 I am not mad. I know I must abide 
 De Lacy's vengeance, Eleanor's displeasure, 
 With loss of all my hopes, my friends, my for- 
 tune, 
 Perhaps my life itself; and yet I swear 
 You must not, shall not wed vour Adela 
 To Reginald de Tours. 
 
 Earl of L. Is he not worthy ; 
 Is he not virtuous, brave? did not the sword 
 Of Richard knight him in the breach at Tours? 
 Doth not the Queen array him with her scarf? 
 Do not De Lacy, Ambrose, press the nuptials ? 
 Though of mysterious birth, does he not carry 
 The mark of true nobility upon him ? 
 
 Sir TV. All, all, that can compose and build 
 him up 
 To human excellence, he does contain 
 And centre in himself. Virtuous and brave 
 He surely is ; and nobly born withal, 
 Alas, too nobly There the sorrow lurks, 
 There the deep secret lies, which to uproot 
 Unseats my very heart. 'Twas in the year, 
 When you were on your embassy to Rome, 
 That Reginald was born. 
 Earl of' L. Go on : proceed ! 
 Sir TV. The Queen, our regent, then was in 
 disgrace ; 
 And Henry, who was moving for divorce, 
 Kept her imprison'd here at Feversham. 
 Earl of Z. 'Tis fresh in my remembrance. 
 
 Pass that over ! 
 Sir TV. The Lady Leicester, your departed 
 wife, 
 Shar'd her confinement, chear'd her solitude, 
 And liv'd an inmate with her in the castle. 
 Earl of L. They were the truest, dearest friends 
 on earth ;
 
 THE CONFESSION. 219 
 
 It seem'd as if one heart inspir'd them both. 
 Eighteen long months my Aclela remain'd 
 In solitude, and led a widow'd life, 
 Whilst at the sovereign Pontiff's court I plied 
 My long depending inauspicious suit. 
 
 Sir W. Twas then that Reginald first saw the 
 light. 
 In the mid-hour of night I was awaken'd, 
 And secretly conducted to the palace. 
 A female, whom I knew not, led me on 
 By various turnings to a lady's chamber : 
 She held her new-born infant in her arms, 
 And fervently implor'd me to protect him. 
 I took him, rear'd him, lov'd him as my own; 
 'Twas Reginald, 'twas this unconscious son 
 Of a mysterious mother 
 
 Earl of L. Stop ! Tis she, 
 In whose defence, on my anointed King 
 Furious I drew my sacrilegious sword. 
 Oh my prophetic soul, it is confirm'd! 
 What need of words? For tell-tale nature speaks, 
 And in a mother's fondness finds the source 
 Of all the multitude of honours shower'd 
 On this descendant from a race of kings. 
 No more These vaulted cloisters shall not catch 
 The echo of a name, that should be sacred. 
 
 Sir W. No, you must seek a name more sacred 
 still, 
 More hard for me to speak, and you to hear. 
 Think only what your horror would have been, 
 Had you permitted them to join their hands, 
 And found one common mother of them both. 
 
 Earl of L. Why that is she that lies in holy 
 earth ; 
 That is dead Adela 
 
 Sir W. Oh fatal truth ! 
 She was the mother
 
 220 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Earl of L. I will have conviction. 
 Tear up the pavement; drag her from her coffin, 
 And let me see her heart. I will be satisfied. 
 Where is the wretch, the villain that sedue'd 
 her ? 
 Sir W. My lord, my lord, these transports 
 will unfit you 
 For that immediate duty, which demands 
 Your instant presence to forbid the nuptials. 
 Earl of L. Are they not married r That im- 
 patient monk, 
 Hath he not solemniz'd th' incestuous rites ? 
 Sir W. No, be assur'd. Let us not waste the 
 time, 
 But haste, and save them. 
 
 Earl of L. Oh, my heart, my heart ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene draws off, and discovers the Abbey Church of 
 the Convent. 
 
 Sir Hugh de Lacy and Reginald. 
 
 Sir H. Here, whilst our brave companions of 
 the cross 
 Dispose themselves in march, I must arrest 
 Your fond impatience for a few short minutes, 
 And call your best attention to the matter, 
 Which I shall now unfold. 
 
 Sir R. I have an ear 
 For ever open to your sage advice, 
 A heart for ever ready to obey you. 
 
 Sir H. You see these knights, the noblest in 
 the realm, 
 What honours they intend you. Tis the Queen 
 That prompts them to this service ; 'tis for her 
 They deign to move in a dependent sphere,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 2*1 
 
 Like satellites around your splendid orb. 
 Was ever knight so graced as you will be, 
 When, by the hands of love and beauty deck'd, 
 Upon your mailed cuirass you display 
 In glittering folds the favours of a queen ? 
 
 Sir R. I'm lost in wonder, nor can trace a 
 cause 
 Why all these bounties should descend on me, 
 But that our gracious Queen is mov'd with pity 
 For a deserted creature. 
 
 Sir H. Let your reason 
 Resolve these questions, ere you talk of pity 
 Why are you now permitted to espouse 
 The wealthiest heiress in the realm of England? 
 Why, but because the Queen protects your suit? 
 Leicester's recall'd from exile, all his honours 
 Restor'd, his fines and forfeitures revers'd, 
 What are they but the price for his consent ? 
 The princely largess she bestows on Scroop, 
 And Ambrose from an humble monk become 
 A mitred abbot can you fail to find 
 The source of all these bounties in yourself? 
 How can affection speak in plainer terms, 
 And what more can the fondest mother do 
 For a beloved son ? 
 
 Sir R. What can I say ? 
 I will not talk of gratitude ; I feel it. 
 
 Sir H. There is yet more Scroop will oppose 
 your marriage ; 
 But Scroop's deceiv'd, and does not know your 
 
 parents. 
 She, that impos'd you on him for her son, 
 Is long since dead ; but she, that bore you, lives, 
 And will avow you. 
 
 Sir R. Oh, reveal her to me, 
 And be my more than father ! 
 
 Sir H. Were I less,
 
 222 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Or other than by nature what I am, 
 I should be much unworthy such a son. 
 
 Sir R. Sir ! I must hope you cannot mean to 
 mock me. 
 How must I understand those awful words ? 
 
 Sir H. I am your father, but you must reserve 
 Your knees for her, who has the better claim : 
 Stand not as one amaz'd; but hear me further 
 Dear to my soul thou art, and whilst these arms 
 Enfold and press thee to a father's bosom, 
 Oh ! recollect 'twas virtue made thee great. 
 Keep her, my son, for ever in thy sight ! 
 When fortune in full splendour bursts upon thee, 
 Undazzled by the blaze, recal to mind, 
 When first adventuring forth into the world, 
 There was a path to lazy pride unknown, 
 A path, which none but virtuous heroes trod, 
 That led thee up to fame. 
 
 Sir R. Oh, guard me still! 
 And, if the false lights of a treacherous world 
 Mislead and puzzle my uncertain course, 
 Then, then come forth, recal my devious steps, 
 And put me in the glorious track again ! 
 
 Sir H. Be sure of that, my son ; and, as this 
 arm, 
 Whilst at thy side I fought, hath thrown my 
 
 shield 
 Before thy gallant breast, and on its orb 
 Receiv'd the javelin, that was hurPd at thee, 
 So to temptation's shafts will I oppose 
 My counsel, and protect thee from disgrace. 
 
 Sir R. I feel my danger. When I was obscure, 
 A thing whom no one own'd, I was as proud 
 As conscience would allow of, and aspir'd 
 To make myself a station with the best. 
 But now, when brought from darkness into light, 
 I see that fame is no inheritance,
 
 THE CONFESSION. 225 
 
 That honour can't descend, but must be earn'd; 
 And in proportion as the name you give 
 Is loftier far than any I could gain, 
 So is my task the harder to deserve it. 
 
 Sir & Break off, my son. Behold where 
 Leicester comes. 
 
 Leicester followed by Scroop. 
 
 Earl of L. Where is my daughter? I forbid 
 the nuptials : 
 
 They are profane, unnatural, and accurst. 
 
 Avoid the altar ; fly ! What dost thou here ? 
 
 Begone, thou son of an adulterous mother ; 
 
 Begone, and never let me see thee more! 
 
 Sir H. Leicester, forbear ! You know not what 
 you say. 
 
 You are deceiv'd. Scroop is himself deceiv'd. 
 
 Both are in error. With a single word 
 
 I could convince you but the monk ap- 
 proaches 
 
 Ambrose enters, and after him Lady Scroop 
 with Ad el a follow. 
 
 Father, deliver what you "have in charge 
 
 From the Queen-mother to the Earl of Leicester, 
 
 And let her speak 
 
 [Ambrose delivers a seaVd paper to Leicester, 
 Leicester opens and reads, 
 Earl of L. Oh Heaven and earth } 
 This paper superscribed, The Confession 
 Of the unhappy, guilty Eleanor 
 Brings with it peace to me and all. 
 Attend, whilst I unfold the important scroll. 
 " Let none persuade you to suspect your wife :
 
 224 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 " She is a saint in bliss. I am the mother 
 " Of Reginald de Tours Lacy the father. 
 " The wrongs I suffer'd from the faithless King, 
 M If judg'd with candour, might extenuate, 
 ' But Heaven alone can pardon my offence." 
 Oh ! bless'd confession I which gives happiness 
 To those whose virtues merit the heav'n-born 
 
 .? ift! 
 Join, join your hands, ye consecrated pair ! 
 
 Father and son, thrice welcome to my arms. 
 
 O, Scroop, when now all mystery is dispell'd, 
 
 Let all mistakes be buried in oblivion. 
 
 From deepest sorrow I emerge to joy : 
 
 Darkness is banish'd, and a glorious light 
 
 Beams from the throne on this illustrious youth. 
 
 Amb. Joy to my Reginald ! We've seen him 
 rise 
 To honours nobly earn'd, and ere he knew 
 The greatness he was born to, make himself, 
 By his own virtues great, till he became 
 The founder of his own nobility. 
 
 Sir TV, O Reginald, what bliss will now be 
 mine, 
 When at the nuptial altar I behold 
 That happy union, which I blindly strove, 
 In conscience, though in error, to prevent. 
 
 Sir R. So many are my blessings, and so vast 
 My debt of gratitude, I must entreat 
 That you will judge me not by my professions, 
 But by the test of actions, and believe me 
 In words alone defective, not in heart. 
 Here is my guardian angel ; whilst I keep 
 And merit this protection, I am safe. 
 
 Lady S. Oh, my beloved Adela, to tell 
 What agonies have rent this tortur'd heart 
 For your dear sake, exceeds the power of words. 
 But all is past; the sorrows that bedew'd
 
 THE CONFESSION. 225 
 
 Those beauteous eyes with tears,are nowdispers'd 
 Like clouds, that flit before the uprising sun, 
 When Nature bursts in all her charms upon us. 
 
 Lady A. That you, so gentle and so full of pity, 
 Have not to witness and bewail my fate, 
 I am most happy : much it glads me also, 
 That now my noble father will confess 
 His daughter is not humbled by her choice : 
 But it was Reginald, obscure, unknown, 
 The virtuous hero, whom I lov'd and honour'd 
 For merits all his own. Crowns could not add 
 One atom to the stature of his fame, 
 One feather to his weight in my esteem. 
 Had he been conscious of his high descent, 
 He might have been less humble, I less fond, 
 And each o'erlook'd by each, had never met. 
 
 Earl of L. Enough, my friends 1 for now the 
 altar waits ; 
 Its holy ministers prepare to chant 
 Their choral strains, as chivalry directs. 
 That ceremony past, the Knight, array'd 
 In all his royal honours, shall from me 
 Receive his blooming bride, and whilst the priest 
 His nuptial benediction shall pronounce, 
 The attendant warriors shall attest that none 
 But hand so brave should join with hand so fair. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 THL 
 
 PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 QS
 
 aai 
 
 8<j 

 
 DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 
 
 Sir Toby Truckle 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Starling. 
 
 Runic. 
 
 Lord Glenandry. 
 
 Clifton. 
 
 Patrick Malooney. 
 
 Lady Truckle. 
 Matilda. 
 Mrs. Lofty.
 
 
 : . 
 .9M
 
 : 
 
 THE 
 
 PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 Patrick alone. 
 
 Well, to be sure it must be for the pleasure of 
 my good company, that misfortune sticks so 
 close to me. Oh that I could shake the foul 
 witch off my back. I am tir'd of her. But go 
 your ways, old time ; sorrow can't last for ever, 
 nor you neither. A blessed piece of luck was 
 mine to find myself in this big castle, till my 
 poor master, in the folly of his dotage, tackled 
 himself to a tear-cap of a wife, and suffer'd her 
 to hoist the petticoat on the flag-staff of his 
 citadel. Out upon him for it! By the life of 
 me, this poor passive Sir Toby Truckle has no 
 more manhood in him than my mother. Ah, 
 here he comes, Heaven help him, silly gentle- 
 man ! 
 
 Sir Toby enters. 
 
 
 True. How now, Patrick, where's my lady ? 
 
 Pat. Gone out in the coach. 
 
 True. I'm glad of it ; 'tis a fine morning, and 
 a little airing will do her good : poor love, her 
 nerves are all to pieces.
 
 232 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Pat. The Devil mend 'em, say I ! [Aside. 
 
 True. What's that you mutter? 
 
 Pat. Nothing but my prayers. 
 
 True. Sirrah, 'tis false. You never say your 
 prayers. 
 
 Pat. Yes, I do, backwards : It is a penance 
 set me by the priest. 
 
 True. Come, I know better, and I fairly warn 
 you, if you don't keep a good tongue towards 
 my lady, you will be stript and tuin'd out of 
 this house barefoot, as you came into it. 
 
 Pat. Mighty well ; I am us'd to it. I can find 
 my way home again without the help of shoes, 
 thanks to my education : I am a true Connaught- 
 boy for that. Ah, sweet little Ireland, why did 
 I ever run away from you ? To be sure I had a 
 reason when I did it, but it has slipt my memory, 
 and that's about the same case as if I had forgot 
 it. 
 
 True. You are a silly, thoughtless fellow, and 
 your zeal for your poor master wrtl be the ruin 
 of you; you know I can't protect you, if you 
 provoke the displeasure of my lady. 
 
 Pat. I know that well ; this scurvy thread- 
 bare jacket is a witness I have no protector but 
 your honour. My lady's servants lead a glorious 
 life, live full, drink freely, game, swear, kiss 
 the maids, have all the pretty luxuries and fre- 
 doms, that gentlemen of their cloth should have; 
 whilst I, who have a little taste for all these 
 things, am glad to scrub shoes, clean clogs, whet 
 knives, and scout on errands to earn the scraps 
 and heel-taps of their leaving. 
 
 True. Ah, my poor fellow, times go hard with 
 thee, but they may mend. My Lord Glenandry's 
 coming. 
 
 Pat. Arrah, long life to him ! he is your friend;
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 233 
 
 the benediction of good old Saint Patrick be 
 round about him, and all the other saints ; if I 
 knew their names, I would not fail to call upon 
 them And does my dear young master, Mr. 
 Clifton, come with him ? 
 
 True, Clifton comes with him. 
 
 Pat. Humph ! then we are in deep water and 
 afloat. 
 
 True. Hold your tongue, fellow, I will have 
 no mutiny ; my friends know better than to in- 
 terfere in family affairs. 
 
 Pat. Oh if you find contentment, that's enough. 
 Your family affairs are in safe hands. If being 
 quit of all authority in your own house is hap- 
 piness, you have it. 
 
 True. I'll hear no more of this Go, get my 
 horse, I shall ride out and meet my Lord Gle- 
 nandry and his nephew Clifton. 
 
 Pat. Ride out! Indeed you will not. 
 
 True. Why not? 
 
 Pat. Because another person has rode out be- 
 fore you, and made free to take your horse. 
 
 True. What person takes my horse without my 
 leave ? 
 
 Pat. One, that takes every thing without your 
 leave, but his departure. A mighty free and 
 easy gentleman, Mr. Starling. 
 
 True. Did you tell him the horse was saddled 
 for me r 
 
 Pat. He saw that plain enough, and was at all 
 the trouble of letting out your stirrups. 
 
 True. You are a jackanapes begone ! Here 
 comes Mr. Starling from his airing. Now we 
 shall hear.
 
 234 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Starling enters. 
 
 Star. How do, how do? fine morning fresh 
 air took a spanking gallop nothing like it 
 clear'd my head, but damn your horse ! 
 
 Pat. Damn his rider, if you please. 
 
 True. Begone, I say ! the fellow's mad : will 
 nothing stop his tongue out of my sight* im- 
 pertinence ! 
 
 Pat. Meaning me, your honour ? 
 
 True. Whom else should I mean? 
 
 Pat. Nay, I did'nt know but the gentleman 
 might come in for a share of it I am gone. 
 
 {Exit Pat. 
 
 Star. Your fellow is a wit, Sir Toby. 
 
 True. He is a fool, Mr. Starling, and not worth 
 your notice. But what has happen'd to my horse 
 that you should give him so bad a word ? 
 
 Star. A vile garron a rank tumble-down. 
 Ecce signum ! roll'd me in the dirt broke his 
 knees and cut a star in his own forehead with a 
 flint, that might have made a hole in mine. A 
 filthy beast ! never mount upon his back again, 
 Sir Toby, whilst you have life. 
 
 True. Methinks you have taken care I never 
 shall : but this misfortune, Sir, you make so light 
 of, is a serious one to me. 
 
 Star. Think no more of it. Laugh at care, as 
 I do ; copy me always happy ; that's your true 
 philosophy. 
 
 True. I can't copy your philosophy. I have a 
 heart. 
 
 Star. So have I : what then ? I keep that mu- 
 tinous member to its duty make it work at the 
 pump, and not presume to steer the ship. 
 
 True. Your rule may be a good one, but my
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 23$ 
 
 amusements are not so many, that I can lose any 
 one without regretting it. 
 
 Star. My clear good friend, let nothing dis- 
 compose you. Contentment is always in our 
 power, and our tempers are of our own making. 
 Look at me ! what am I by Nature? a mere 
 lump of clay ; experience is the potter, that 
 moulds me into human shape. If 1 have no other 
 prerogative but that of strutting on two legs, I 
 am only a man by courtesy, and, wanting the 
 plumage of a bird, can scarce he rank'd above a 
 goose. 
 
 True. All this may be very fine, but I don't 
 see the application of it. You must have liv'd 
 long enough in this family, Mr. Starling, to un- 
 derstand my situation in it. 
 
 Star. Perfectly, my good friend, and contem- 
 plate all your enjoyments with suj>reme satis- 
 faction. An excellent wife, a lovely daughter, 
 a plentiful fortune, and an elegant table there- 
 fore, do you see, here I am, ever at your elbow, 
 always at your service. 'Tis not in the charms 
 of my own snug independence, to seduce me 
 from you ; not all the pressing invitations of my 
 thousand noble friends can persuade me to de- 
 sert you. 
 
 True. Oh, pray don't disoblige your noble 
 friends ; I have had a very large proportion of 
 your favour ; I would not wish to engross it all. 
 
 Star. You are kind ; I feel your candour, and 
 it attaches me the closer to you. In short, my 
 friendship is such, that I throw aside the rest of 
 the world, and devote myself to you without 
 requiring any return ; and though my house, 
 my fortune, my all are at your service, I am not 
 offended that you make no use of them but 
 look ! my lady is return'd from her airing.
 
 236 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Lady Truckle enters. 
 
 True. Joyful sight ! Welcome, my lady : I 
 rejoice to see you looking so well. 
 
 L. True. Aye, so you always say ; but I am 
 never well. 
 
 True. Indeed ! Good lack, I was in hopes 
 your airing would have reviv'd your spirits. 
 
 L. True. No, no, Sir Toby, it has sunk my 
 spirits, extinguished every spark of hope that 
 ever this wretched place of yours can be reform'd 
 to any thing that may resemble comfort. As for 
 elegance, that is out of question ; the barbarous 
 taste of your ancestors has put a negative upon 
 that to all posterity : they have positively plac'd 
 your castle in the vilest sink they could pick 
 out of all your whole domain. 
 
 True. That is no fault of mine, my lady, nor 
 is it in my power to remedy it. 
 
 L. True. No, truly, you have neither the art 
 to improve nature, nor the nature that can be 
 improv'd by art. 
 
 True. Right, madam, I and my castle are 
 alike in that, too homely to content your lady- 
 ship, and too much depress'd to admit of being 
 rais'd. 
 
 L. True. Ah ! you have hit upon a compa- 
 rison: I have found it out long ago Heyday, 
 Starling, what have you been doing with your- 
 self? 
 
 Star. Sir Toby's cursed horse had well nigh 
 broke my bones. 
 
 L. True. Execrable beast ! Why didn t you 
 take my gray mare ? 
 
 True. Why didn't you, Mr. Starling, when 
 you know to a certainty she is the better horse ?
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 237 
 
 L. True. Humph! that is your opinion 
 Where's Leonard ; where's my son ? 
 
 Star. Close at his books with Runic his pre- 
 ceptor : it is their hour for study. 
 
 L. True. Yes, yes, they know the value of 
 their time, and turn each hour to profit. You 
 are a judge of learning, Mr. Starling ; you are a 
 scholar. What do you think of Leonard ? Does 
 he come on? 
 
 Star. Rapidly. His education was a little 
 overlook'd at first 
 
 L. True. That was his father's fault. 
 
 True. No doubt of it. 
 
 L. True. How can you tell ? What should you 
 know of it ? 
 
 True. I only know it coudn't be your lady- 
 ship's. 
 
 L. True. In points of scholarship, my good 
 Sir Toby, you might be silent without loss of 
 information to your company, or credit to your- 
 self but I am speaking now to Mr. Starling 
 What book is my son now reading with his 
 tutor ? 
 
 Star. Ovid, Madam. 
 
 L. True. Pray, didn't Ovid write something 
 about love ? 
 
 Star. Ovid wrote a great deal about love ; no 
 less than the whole art of it. 
 
 L. True. I always suppos'd love had some 
 dealings with nature ; I did not know it was the 
 subject of art If it is, methinks he might find 
 better instructors in that art than old Runic 
 don't you think so, my good Toby ? 
 
 True. *I don't know what to think : I never 
 read a single line of Ovid, and am as little fitted 
 to give lectures in the art of love as Runic is.
 
 38 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 L. True. That is unlucky, as your fair daugh- 
 ter seems to need a lecture. You are her father ; 
 why do you permit her to hesitate and trifle 
 with her happiness ? Where will she find a match 
 in all respects so suitable, as with my son a 
 sober, modest, prudent, pious youth ? Marry 
 her to him, and you ensure your daughter's hap- 
 piness, ,and make Our house a house of harmony. 
 Do this, and you and I are friends for ever ; if 
 not, I shall believe that you are in the secret of 
 some lectures, and in the practice of some arts, 
 Sir Toby, that you won't own. 
 
 True. My lady, I-I-I should think 
 
 L. True. Well, what should you think r 
 
 Star. Suffer me, dear madam, to interpose on 
 behalf of my friend, Sir Toby, and request you 
 will hear him with more patience. I am satisfied 
 he can make a very good defence. 
 
 True. I beg your pardon, Mr. Starling ; I am 
 satisfied I shall make a very bad one, for I have 
 only to remark to my lady, that when she calls 
 upon me to exert my authority, she should 
 direct me where I am to look for it. [Exit. 
 
 L. True. The man's a fool. 
 
 Star. But that's no fool's remark. 
 
 L. True. Can you suppose I would endure the 
 frivolities of such a silly old coxcomb, if it was 
 not that I am labouring to accomplish this great 
 purpose for my son? but alas! Starling, how 
 to obtain this heiress Leonard makes no way, 
 and she, unluckily, inherits neither the folly, 
 nor the flexibility of her father. 
 
 Star. No, o' my conscience, she is. a deep one, 
 and a determin'd one. 
 
 L. True. Do you suppose she has any other 
 attachment ?
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 239 
 
 Star. None that I can discover; yet I have 
 made love to her confidante in the hope of find- 
 ing out her secrets. 
 
 L. True. Don't, don't make love to that wench. 
 I can't bear the thought of your lowering your- 
 self to flatter such a trollop, and if you persist, 
 I shall infallibly turn her out of doors. 
 
 Star. My dear lady, this is quite ridiculous 
 by my soul it is. What is the girl to me but as 
 she may assist your purposes ? 
 
 L. True. No matter ; if I never gain my pur- 
 poses but by such means, I had rather they were 
 lost. In short, I positively prohibit you from 
 ever speaking to that girl again. 
 
 Star. Are you in earnest? are you in your 
 senses? i 
 
 L. True. Serious, and sound in mind. I do 
 forbid you ever to interchange a word, a look, 
 which may bring on a moment's dalliance with 
 that pert, vain hussy. 
 
 Star. How long have I been married to you, 
 madam ? Sure you mistake me for Sir Toby 
 Truckle. 
 
 L. True. You'll break my heart, unfeeling as 
 you are. 
 
 Star. Harkye, my lady, when you are in these 
 humours, I have but one way to keep any terms 
 with you, and that is by avoiding you. \Exit. 
 
 Lady Truckle. 
 
 L. True. Begone, vile man, I'll never see you 
 more. No, no, sir, I'll not suffer you to stay ano- 
 ther hour, no, not another instant within these 
 doors [Meets Runic,
 
 240 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Runic enters. 
 
 Run. Why so, my lady? How have I offended? 
 
 L. True. You ! You offended ! 
 
 Run. How have I incurr'd this vehement dis- 
 pleasure ? Am I to blame if your son's faculties 
 don't profit by my teaching ? If he is dull and 
 stupid, can I help it? 
 
 L. True. You, you are dull and stupid, not 
 my son. 
 
 Run. Madam, that charge cannot apply to me, 
 nor ever was imputed but by you. 
 
 L. True. Then why did you come in my way? 
 why did you crawl out of your hole, you book- 
 worm ? Is that old pedant's gown and conjurors 
 cap a proper dress to appear before a lady ? 
 
 Run. 'Tis very well; then give me my dis- 
 charge, and seek abetter master for your booby. 
 
 L. True. Dotard, I neither saw you, spoke of 
 you, nor thought of you. My anger was directed 
 at another. 
 
 Run. Oh, then I cry you mercy. I protest I 
 thought it was to me that you address'd it. I 
 am sure the torrent met me at the door. 
 
 L. True. Why did you put yourself in the 
 way of it ? It was the wretch going out of the 
 door, not you coming into it, that mov'd my 
 anger It was that impudent Starling 
 
 Run. Oh the villain, oh the vagabond ! dismiss 
 him, drive him out, let him pack up his wallet 
 and begone. 
 
 L. True. He shan't stay another hour, another 
 instant I'll not endure him in my sight. 
 
 Run. No, no, no, Starling's a foul bird, a lazy 
 pilfering knave, like the cuckow, building no 
 nest of his own, but stealing into others and 
 plundering them of their comforts and repose.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 241 
 
 L. True. He does, he does, and though he 
 vapours about his independence, I dare say he 
 has not a toot of land upon earth. 
 
 Run. Not a single sod of grass upon the face 
 of the whole habitable globe : a fellow so incu- 
 rably undone, that he has not in his contempla- 
 tion the possible reversion of a single guinea: a 
 jackanapes, that pretends to be a wit, a man of 
 genius 
 
 L. True. Come, come, he has wit, he has 
 genius. 
 
 Run. Yes, he has wit enough to chatter non- 
 sense to a chambermaid, and as much genius as 
 serves him to tell lies, and make mischief in a 
 family. 
 
 L. True. Upon my word you are very bitter ; 
 but he has earn'd it at your hands, for he makes 
 as free with you. 
 
 Run. With me does he make free ? What 
 does the puppy say of me ? 
 
 L. True. He says you have no more instruc- 
 tion in you than a way- post, which barely serves 
 to tell the right hand from the left That you 
 are an author he admits, for he maintains you 
 have written more than you ever read, and more 
 than any body else will read ; he does not deny 
 that you are a critic, for to that he says your 
 ignorance is no obstacle ; and for your preten- 
 sions to be call'd a philosopher, he asserts they 
 are about as good as those which a monkey has 
 to pass muster for a judge, only because he has 
 the wrinkles of one. 
 
 Run. Does Starling say all this of me? A 
 blockhead, that has no more brains than an, 
 Egyptian mummy; an ignoramus that can't 
 spell one page of Greek, and would as soon 
 unravel the labyrinth of Crete, as conjugate a 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 single verb I'll punish him; I'll epigrammatise 
 the silly dunce ; I'll post him up in a lampoon, 
 that shall Mac-Flecknoe him to all posterity. 
 
 L. True. He gives you credit for it ; he admits 
 your skill in libelling ; he says your pen has the 
 property, like the camera obscura, of turning 
 every object upside down that comes within 
 its range. 
 
 Run. Fools have had their flatterers, and pick- 
 pockets their historians. Starling has malice 
 enough to conceive all the ill of me which you 
 relate, but he has not wit enough to clothe it 
 in the words which you have given it. I shall 
 therefore humbly take my leave of a family, 
 where authorities are all revers'd; where women 
 govern men, and favourites govern women, 
 whilst honest folks are made to sufTer for their 
 quarrels. In short, madam, I shall no longer 
 sacrifice my time, and your money, to the 
 fruitless task of teaching Latin to a pupil, who 
 lias not yet been taught to speak his mother- 
 tongue. 
 
 L. True. Prithee, good philosopher, moderate 
 your passion Look, here my Leonard comes 
 Can't you take, in good part, a little harmless 
 raillery. If I've offended you, I'm sorry for it. 
 Run, Enough, lady, more than enough ; I'm 
 satisfied. 
 
 Leonard enters. 
 
 L. True. Now, son, what's your business ? 
 
 Leon. Now, mother, what's your pleasure ? 
 
 L. True. My pleasure is that you should be 
 wise and happy. 
 
 Leon. I hope my happiness won't depend on 
 tlmt ; for of whom am I to learn wisdom ?
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 213 
 
 L. True. Of your tutor, of this learned pre- 
 ceptor, who is versed in all the wisdom of the 
 ancient Greeks. 
 
 Leon. Law, mother, don't you know the 
 Greeks had only sevfin wise men amongst them 
 all? What is that to the present times, when 
 there are seventeen in this house wise enough 
 to outwit the master of it ? Why look at Starling! 
 Isn't he a wise fellow ? To be sure he is, else how 
 should he contrive to make a fool of you? 
 
 Run. Have a care, pupil ; it does mot become 
 a son to say such words to his mother. 
 
 Leon. Then why does my mother say such 
 words to her husband ? Answer me that, old 
 boy. 
 
 Run. Neither does the scholar speak in such 
 terms to his master. The Grecian youth were 
 modest in the presence of their teadhers. 
 
 Leon. But we are wiser than the Greeks; 
 didn't I tell you so ? If age has made you wise, 
 why shoudn't it make the world so ? And if I 
 am old enough to take a wife, don't you think 
 I am able to walk without a leading string ? 
 Besides, it lowers me in the eyes of miss 
 Matilda. What matters it for me to construe 
 Ovid, if I can't find out the art of making love 
 to please her? But here is one a-coming, who 
 will teach me in an hour more than I can learn 
 of this plaid night-gown in a twelvemonth. 
 
 L. True. Who is coming, child ? 
 
 Leon. Why, Clifton who but he? And he's 
 my friend, and when he is come, we will throw 
 awav old books, and turn over a new leaf. 
 
 R$
 
 244 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Servant enters. 
 
 Serv. Please your ladyship, the Lord Glenan- 
 dry is arriv'd, and Mr. Clifton. 
 
 Leon. There, there ! Now, mother, you shall 
 see such happy doings 
 
 L. True. Glenandry and Clifton ! I did not 
 wish for their company. I know not who. in- 
 vited them 
 
 Leon. I did Sir Toby did every body did 
 all the house invited them, all the house is happy 
 at their coming. Come away, mother Philo- 
 sopher, cast your old skin, and put yourself into 
 clean linen and a whole coat; throw off your cap, 
 and give your brains a holiday turn your 
 gravity into good humour, and your face will be 
 brighten'd by it, as rusty iron is by scouring. 
 
 
 
 ,
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 245 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Sir Toby Lord Glenandry Clifton. 
 
 True. My very good lord, and my very best 
 friend, I am overjoy 'd to see you. Clifton, here's 
 my hand, my heart is in it. 
 
 Z. Glen. Friend Toby, I thank you. I am a 
 man of few professions. Tis enough: I've said it. 
 
 True. If you had not said it, you are welcome 
 again and again. I pray you to be perfectly at 
 home in my poor cottage. 
 
 Z. Glen. Sir, you shall not call it a cottage in 
 my hearing ; it is a palace. I, myself, am owner 
 of a stately castle, but it would be libelling a 
 cottage to call it by that name ; for the lapse of 
 ages, and the poverty of its possessors, have let 
 in the winds and weather, and kept all else from 
 entering, but those who will accept of a warm 
 welcome, and can put up with a cold lodging. 
 
 True. I should be one of that description, were 
 I within reach of it, and if I live to travel to 
 the Highlands 
 
 Z. Glen. You will be a lucky man, if you live 
 to travel out of them. 
 
 True. A little change of scene, however, 
 woudn't be amiss 
 
 Clif. And a short absence from my lady, Sir 
 Toby 
 
 True. Any absence from her, friend Clifton, 
 would seem short. 
 
 Z. Glen. Come, we'll not talk of our troubles. 
 Where's my pretty rose-bud ? Where's my god- 
 daughter, Matilda?
 
 U6 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 True. I dare say she is at her toilette ; when 
 she has plum'd her wings, she'll soon fly to you. 
 
 L. Glen. How floes honest Leonard come on? 
 Has my lady lick'd young Bruin into shape? 
 Do you know, Toby, I don't think him per- 
 fectly intolerable. 
 
 True. Tis a good condition'd cub, that's the 
 truth of it. 
 
 Clif. 'Tis well you acknowledge it, for Bruin 
 is my very hearty friend, and if any body bela- 
 bours him, I shall take up the cudgels in his 
 cause. 
 
 True. There's no love lost between you. 
 Here he comes, with my empress in his hand. 
 
 Clif. And followed by the old philosopher. 
 Persecution lead* the van, and melancholy mar- 
 ches in the rear. 
 
 Leonard and Lady Truckle enter. 
 
 Leon. My dear, dear friend [runs to Clifton 
 and embraces him.] Let me snatch you to my 
 heart, which jumps for joy to meet you. My 
 lord, I kiss your shoe-strings there's a courtly 
 phrase Fire and faggot! Are you going to 
 fight, that you're bedizen'd out in regimentals ? 
 
 L. Glen. That's as it may be. Here we are, 
 my boy ! and with my lady's leave we come to 
 ask a soldier's ration of her hospitality. We are 
 station'd on your coast, and have billetted our- 
 selves on your castle for a day or two. 
 
 L. True. The lord Glenandry must be always 
 welcome ; Sir Tobv's friends are mine. 
 
 True. I humbly thank your ladyship. 
 
 L. True. I am also very happy to see Mr. 
 Clifton If we did not welcome our brave defen- 
 ders, we should not merit their protection.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 247 
 
 Leon. By Saint George and the dragon, 
 mother, if Clifton turns out into the field, I'll 
 not hide in the house, dam'me, I'll make one 
 amongst them. 
 
 Run. Fie, pupil, fie upon you! bona verba, 
 puer, bona verba. 
 
 Leon. Bonus, bona,bonum that's good, which 
 you are not puer, pueri, that's a boy, which I 
 am not ; so your Latin does not hit either of us, 
 and is good for nothing Oh, Clifton, do you 
 know that I'm in Ovid ; there's a liquorish poet 
 for you; makes old Runic's mouth water. Mark, 
 Avhat a flashy coat the old boy has got on ! 
 There's a cut of Queen Anne for you ! The coat 
 is fresh and flourishing, but the botcher that 
 cut it out is dust and ashes years ago. 
 
 L True. Child, child, your spirits run away 
 with you. 
 
 Leon. How can I help it? Clifton looks so 
 queer, I can't keep my countenance. 
 
 Clif. Hush, my good fellow, hush ! Age must 
 be respected in whatever apparel. 
 
 Leon. Indeed ! then I ask pardon of Runic's 
 old coat for laughing at it. 
 
 Run. You see, my lord, what discipline we 
 are in. I blush that this should pass before 
 your lordship, but I cannot help it. I have 
 laboured to no purpose ; some understandings 
 won't receive instruction; impressions will not 
 be retain'd in water. 
 
 L. Glen. Be at no concern about me, my good 
 sir; this is not the first time you and I have 
 met. Though a man of arms from my childhood, 
 I respect your learning, and hope to edify by 
 your conversation ; neither do I the less esteem 
 you for being born, like myself, on the other 
 side the Tweed
 
 248 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Run. Tis true, my lord, we are countrymen, 
 and when your lordship's ample patrimony was 
 forfeited, my small inheritance was sacrific'd to 
 the same cause. 
 
 L. Glen. Aye, aye, brother-sufferer, we must 
 thank the country, that allows us to atone for 
 the errors of our ancestors And whilst you 
 embellish it with your talents, I'll defend it 
 with my life. 
 
 Leon. That's a good one; there's a mouthful 
 of moonshine for old Runic, he'll swallow it, 
 and be satisfied. But look, Clifton, look ! Here 
 she comes in the full blaze of beauty Stand 
 clear, and keep a guard upon your heart, or she'll 
 snap it out of your ribs at a glance. 
 
 Matilda enters, 
 
 CliJ. Ye Gods, what beauty ! Houries of Para- 
 dise, you're all eclips'd ! [Aside. 
 
 L Glen. Matilda, my sweet lassie, come to 
 your god -father and take a blessing Bless you, 
 my child ! be good as you are fair, and you will 
 teach us how to guess at angels. 
 
 Mat. My lord Glenandry ever is most kind, 
 except when he forgets how very vain his 
 flattery must make me. 
 
 L. Glen. Child, I can't flatter: here's your fa- 
 ther knows I have been too plain a speaker all 
 my days ; therefore I am, as I have always been, 
 a rough old Highlander with empty pockets 
 
 True. You honour truth, I full well know, 
 my Lord, and all men honour you. 
 
 L. Glen. Enough, my friend, more than enough 
 for me. Be pleas'd to say a word for this young 
 soldier, to your fair daughter, and let him pay 
 his homage.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 249 
 
 True. Daughter, this gentleman js Mr. Clifton ; 
 by his mother's side nephew to the Lord Gle- 
 nandry, and by his father's of a respectable 
 
 L. True Bless me, Sir Toby, where's the ne- 
 cessity to give the gentleman's genealogy to 
 your daughter? his name will sure suffice for 
 the common purposes of introduction. 
 
 L. Glen. Madam, Sir Tobv knows how vain I 
 am of my nephew, and politely flatters me by 
 announcing him as such. 
 
 Leon. And if he'll he pleas'd to add that Clifton 
 is my friend, I shall be vain too. 
 
 L True. Hold your tongue If your Lordship 
 can be gratified by any flattery of Sir Toby's, 
 I'm happy you are pleas'd ; only I thought he 
 had surfeited you before. Pray don't let me 
 stop so interesting a subject Proceed, Sir Toby, 
 with your narrative : 1 shall, for one, be happy 
 to attend to such an orator, on such a theme. 
 
 Leon. Now, mother, if I may be so bold, that's 
 a mere flam of yours to flout a gentleman, and 
 put him down in company of his friends : though 
 I'm no conjuror, I can find that out. 
 - L. True. Who bade you speak, dunce? 
 
 Leon. I can discover too, dunce as I am, you 
 are not pleas'd with anybody's praises, but your 
 own; else, if you were, I could amuse your ears 
 from this time till to-morrow, with the praises 
 of this good fellow, and not tell one lie. 
 
 L. True. Be silent, sirrah ! remember I'm your 
 mother. 
 
 Leon, Yes, and by the same token I am your 
 son and that I had rather be, begging Sir 
 Toby's pardon, than your husband. 
 
 L. 'True. Was ever the like heard? will you 
 bear this, Sir Toby? will you bear it ?
 
 250 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 True. Madam, I'm us'd to bearing; I can 
 bear anything. 
 
 Leon. More shame for you : oh, was I you, Sir 
 Toby, how I'd tickle her. 
 
 L. True. My Lord Glenandry My Lord Gle- 
 nandry 
 
 X. Glen. Madam 
 
 L. True. I should have expected }-ou would 
 not have been a silent hearer of such saucy lan- 
 guage to a mother. 
 
 L. Glen. I never was a husband, and don't see 
 much reason to regret it at present. 
 
 Leon. There, mother, there ! you'll put mar- 
 riage out of fashion, and stop the procreation of 
 mankind. 
 
 L. True. And where are you all this while, you 
 pedagogue, you dronish, drowsy lump of dumb 
 philosophy ? why don't you stir, why don't you 
 rouse yourself, and call your booby to account 
 for this? 
 
 Run. Madam, when you call to recollection 
 what is becoming your own character, none here 
 present will offend against it. 
 
 L. True. You are a fool; I'll appeal to none 
 of you ; you are all in a league and you, miss, 
 you however you affect to stare and start, and 
 play off your pretty flutterings you shall re- 
 pent 
 
 Leon. Bear up, mother. You don't come on 
 in this quarter. Here are two of us to turn out 
 for Matilda, and two to one are odds at any 
 game. 
 
 L. True, Harkye, Sir Toby ! If this house is 
 mine, I shall expect to see it clear'd of your 
 companions ; till then, I'll neither cat, drink, 
 sleep, or lodge beneath your roof
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 251 
 
 Leon. Good news ! we shan't be the less merry 
 for the lack of your society. 
 
 L. True. This day shall prove if I am mistress, 
 aye or no. [Exit* 
 
 Leon. Whuh ! there she goes. She has bolted, 
 and is off. 
 
 Mat. Alas, my Lord, I'm sorry you and Mr. 
 Clifton should receive this greeting in my father's 
 house. 
 
 Leon. This ! this is nothing but a breeze to 
 what we have sometimes. Is it, Sir Toby? 
 
 True. I wish I had a little of your spirit; I 
 am so much asham'd, I cannot speak. 
 
 L. Glen. Come, cbme, 'tis more than time to 
 speak, friend Toby. You must speak, you shall 
 speak, and to the purpose. 
 
 Run. His Lordship gives good counsel You 
 must speak. 
 
 True. Then it must be only in your ear, my 
 Lord. 
 
 L. Glen. Be it so ! Let us take a cool walk in 
 the garden, and leave the young folks to them- 
 selves. Friend Leonard, thou art a gallant fel- 
 low ; give me thy hand ! 
 
 Leon, There it is, my Lord hand and heart. 
 All I say is, let every man be master in his own 
 house ; it is not fit that I, my mother's son, 
 should eat Sir Toby's roast, and turn the spit 
 against him. That would be scandalous 
 wouldn't it, Clifton ? 
 
 Clif. Right, my hero ! nature speaks with 
 thee, and truth, however told, is always eloquent. 
 
 L. Glen. Come, my good friend, give me 
 your arm. Let us sally. 
 
 {Exeunt L. Glen, and True* 
 
 Leon. Runic, my heart, I hope you bear no 
 malice. If I've cross'd you, I ask your pardon.
 
 252 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Run. Enough! 'tis forgiven. Salva est res. 
 
 Leon. Very good, that's as much as to say 
 there is a salvo for every thing. Now do you 
 see, if you are for sheering off, don't let us stop 
 you. 
 
 Run. A hroad hint, pupil, that you wish me 
 
 gone. Well, 'tis my time for meditation, and I 
 
 now have seen enough to illustrate by example 
 
 furens quid foemina possit. [Exit. 
 
 Leonard, Clifton, Matilda. 
 
 Leon. Now we three will have our own talk, 
 and be comfortable. 
 
 Mat. You must pardon me ; I cannot stay 
 with you; I must positively be going. 
 
 Leon. Look ye there now ; there's a kick-up 
 for all comfort. Clifton, can't you think of 
 something to amuse Miss Matilda with? tell 
 her about your battles ; talk to her about fight- 
 ing. All ladies like a soldier's story. No matter 
 whether they are true, only make 'em terrible. 
 
 Mat. I should doubt if Mr. Clifton has any- 
 thing so terrible to tell, as the battle just now 
 over; in which, it seems, Leonard, you bore the 
 brunt of the action, and Mr. Clifton got off un- 
 hurt. 
 
 Clif. Not so, madam ; it was impossible for 
 me to behold it, and escape unwounded. 
 
 Leon. I told you so, Matilda he pitied your 
 poor father; there is not a kinder heart in crea- 
 tion, though he has the courage of a tiger. 
 
 Clif. It is not courage, if I have it, that can 
 defend my heart from the impression it has re- 
 ceived. That must remain with it for life. 
 
 Leon. No come, Clifton, that is a small 
 stretch upon the truth, I'm afraid. My mother
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 253 
 
 is a trimmer, to be sure, and 'tis painful to hear 
 how she belabours poor Sir Toby ; but out of 
 sight is out of mind with me Isn't that natural, 
 Miss Matilda? 
 
 Mat. I have been told so, but perhaps Mr. 
 Clifton's nature may differ from yours in that 
 particular. 
 
 Cllf. I am sensible it does. By all that's lovely 
 I have seen that object, of which my mind will 
 never lose the image to the last hour of my ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Leon. Well, if my mother's image was to haunt 
 me but half a quarter of that time, my friend, I 
 should be cruelly weary of it. If you had said 
 as much of Matilda, and sworn by all that's lovely 
 to the truth of it, I should have had no scruple 
 to believe you. 
 
 Mat. Oh, that would be preposterous, to sup- 
 pose your friend should apply such expressions 
 to me upon our very first meeting. 
 
 Leon. No, no, I don't say he would, because, 
 though you are very handsome, he is very bash- 
 ful, and would be asham'd to tell you so. 
 
 Mat., Are you sure of that? a soldier, and 
 bashful ? 
 
 Leon. Extremely so, though I can witness how 
 he was struck at the first glance of you ; for I 
 was at his elbow but that's neither here nor 
 there : Clifton's a man of honour, and I shall 
 tell him how things stand between you and me, 
 bye and bye, when I have him in a corner. 
 
 Mat. Yes, yes, he'll believe every word you 
 tell him upon that subject, I dare say but don't 
 quite persuade him I am dying for you Don't 
 do that 1 
 
 Leon. No, no, that's nonsense dying for love 
 is out of question yet I am far gone, and could
 
 254, THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 give you a proof of it upon paper nay, and 
 'tis in rhyme too ; for you must know, Clifton, 
 I have been dabbling in the love poets, and 
 have penn'd a little specimen all out of my own 
 fancy. 
 
 Mat. Bless me, Leonard, have you paid ho- 
 mage to the Muse ? 
 
 Leon. To the Muse? no, I have nothing to 
 say to the Muse, 'tis all about you here 'tis ! 
 shall I read it? 
 
 Mat. By all means read it and with good 
 emphasis. 
 
 Leon. I'll read it as well as I can here goes 
 only remember I am the person speaking, and 
 you are the person spoken of Listen 
 
 " How fair she is I can't declare ; 
 " The reason is, she is so fair: 
 " How much I love I cannot tell, 
 " The reason is, I love so well." 
 
 Clif. Bravo, poet ! This is rhyme and reason 
 too. 
 
 Leon. Isn't it The reason is, I love so well 
 You see I give a reason for every thing. 
 
 Clif. Which is more than most poets do. 
 
 Leon. Is it good ? 
 
 Clif. Incomparable. 
 
 Leon. Miss Matilda, do you like it ? 
 
 Mat. I am charm'd with it. But methinks 
 you did not set it off in the reading : suppose 
 you gave it to your friend to repeat: he'll do it 
 more justice. 
 
 Leon. With all my heart. I shall be glad to 
 hear it again. I'm a true poet for that, never 
 tir'd of my own compositions here, Clifton, let 
 us see what you can make of it. 
 
 \
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 9,55 
 
 Clif, Have patience for a moment I must 
 con it over now then to you, madam ! 
 
 " If what I think I might declare, 
 " I'd say you are divinely fair; 
 " If what I feel I dar'd to tell, 
 " I'd say none ever lov'd so well." 
 
 Mat. Humph ! there's no parrying that. [Aside* 
 
 Leon, The dickens, Clifton, what are you 
 ahout? you have read 'em wrong let me see 
 the paper The vengeance, here they are ! 
 couldn't you read 'em as they are written ? you. 
 have made nonsense of 'em. 
 
 Mat. Certainly he has, for he has robb'd thera 
 of their reason. 
 
 Clif. Not of their love, I hope. 
 
 Mat. No surely ; love and reason seldom go 
 together. 
 
 Leon. I can't tell what you are at. You puzzle 
 me If my lines were good at first, I can't think 
 why you alter'd them. 
 
 Mat. In the true spirit of criticism to make 
 them worse for no other purpose. However, 
 Leonard, as I shall put all the fine things he 
 says to me, to your account, you need not be 
 afraid of employing him as your spokesman. 
 
 Leon. Oh then by the living I'll rest my own 
 imagination, and employ his but whither m)w, 
 Matilda? Wherefore are you going? 
 
 Mat. To rest, like you, my "fancy, and give 
 time to your ingenious friend to rest his. I 
 rather think, considering his exertions, a sober 
 hour or two of recollection will not be misap- 
 plied. 
 
 Leon. I'll talk him over then, and send him to 
 vou.
 
 256 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Mat. As you will for that. Furnish him only 
 with a brief, and if his extreme bashfulness don't 
 stand in his way, I don't think you can find an 
 abler advocate. [Exit. 
 
 Leon. There, there, you see we're all agreed, 
 this is just as I could wish it. Now, my good 
 fellow, here lies my case in a very few words. I 
 am to marry Matilda as soon as I'm of age : that's 
 settled. I have one more year to be dependant 
 on my mother, and wind up my education - 
 That you know is Runic's concern ; I need not 
 fuss myself about that. 
 
 Clif. No, surely, if it will go on of its own 
 accord. 
 
 Leon. It will ; but look'ye now, I've no vast 
 turn for books, and perhaps they do no good. 
 
 Clif. If you have no turn for them, perhaps 
 they do not. 
 
 Leon. Very well then, here am I living like a 
 toad under a harrow, with my mother, and 
 spunging upon Sir Toby that isn't what I like. 
 My passion is to be a soldier, like you : can't 
 you make my lord, your uncle, get me a com- 
 mission ? I should be happy to be in the ranks 
 with you, and fight by your side. 
 
 Clif. Thank you, my brave fellow, for your 
 zeal, but what's to be done with Matilda in the 
 mean while? 
 
 Leon. That's the Very point I'm coming to; 
 there you must stand in my place, do you see, 
 and keep her steady. You heard her say I coudn't 
 find an abler advocate; and I am prepar'd to 
 say I can no where find a better friend. 
 
 Clif. If I were not your friend after this mark 
 of your confidence, I should be a very base 
 poltroon ; but you seem to forget that I am not 
 the fittest person iu the world to undertake this
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 257 
 
 trust First, as I am a soldier, and at my coun- 
 try's call Secondly, as I am a young man like 
 yourself, and, it may be, not less sensible to the 
 attractions of beauty, and the allurements of 
 love. 
 
 Leon. What then, what then? you could drive 
 love out of your thoughts for my sake, as well 
 as I could out of mine, for yours. 
 
 Clif. It might be a dangerous trial for either 
 of us. 
 
 Leon. Not at all, not at all. Put me to the 
 test. 
 
 Clif. lam not quite so sure of myself : Matilda 
 is very captivating. 
 
 Leon, Yes, she's a fine girl, a very fine girl 
 but what of that ? There are many fine girls in 
 the world, and few good friends. I'll flinch no 
 danger for the friend that I love. 
 
 Clif. Thou art a noble fellow, and thy honest 
 heart shall never be wounded by me. Let me 
 only have another interview with thy lovely 
 mistress, and if I cannot serve thee, I promise, 
 on my honour, I will not betray thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 258 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 f 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 
 Scene, a Garden. 
 
 Sir Toby and Lord Glenandry. 
 
 
 
 True. You are right, my lord a booby as I 
 was, a blockheadly ass, to think of marrying 
 again, when I had no more need of a wife than 
 a bear has for a blanket. But she took me in 
 with her temper, which was all milk and roses, 
 whilst I courted her ; all smiles and dimples in 
 the days of dalliance, till in the extravagance 
 of my folly I was persuaded that she lov'd me, 
 and began to think she had discover'd graces I 
 was not conscious of possessing. 
 
 L. Glen. Guineas, my good Sir Toby, were 
 the graces she discover'd, and the smiles and 
 dimples she display'd were caus'd by the attrac- 
 tions which you carried, not in your person, but 
 in your pockets. 
 
 True. I believe so, my lord, for though she 
 has long since lost all affection for my person, 
 she has retained her passion for my property, 
 and gone pretty deep into it, let me tell you. 
 Yes, yes, I pass for nothing but a cypher in the 
 account, dust in the scale, a thing that goes for 
 nought. All is my lady's, she commands on 
 deck, I only tug the oar : her voice is para- 
 mount; rings round the house, rattles in every 
 ear mine is never heard, Heaven help me, but 
 \n sighs, and those I'm fain to vent in holes and 
 corners, where she's out of hearing. One ragged
 
 V 
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND: 259 
 
 servant, and one wretched horse, is all my state 
 and equipage 
 
 L. Glen. Damnation, Toby, were I in your 
 place 
 
 True. The very devil could not put you-in a 
 worse. 
 
 L. Glen. No matter, were she twin sister to 
 Glendower, with all his imps and devils at her 
 beck, I would compel her to obey my will. 
 
 True, But how if she would not ? 
 
 L. Glen. I'd starve her, shut her up, divorce 
 her. In short, I'd either break her spirit or her 
 neck. 
 
 True. Lord love you, break her spirit ! Tame 
 a tiger, turn aqua vita; into water-gruel, make 
 me a warrior and a hero like yourself then 
 your work is but half done, then you must stand 
 a battle for your freedom ; then you must fight 
 it out, for she'll not yield whilst she has hands 
 or tongue to stir against you. 
 
 L. Glen. You are too passive ; only be a man, 
 and vou will find her nothing but a woman. 
 
 True. And what is more invincible than 
 woman ? We can't for honour's sake employ our 
 weapons, and when we only fight them with 
 their own, they are sure to conquer us. 
 
 Patrick runs to them. 
 
 Pat. Ah, by the living Powers, they're down 
 upon us. Stand for your life, Sir Toby, now or 
 never. 
 
 True. What is the matter, Patrick ? Why, you 
 are all over blood. 
 
 Pat. You may say that it is a bloody matter. 
 The Devil rules the mast, and the cooks ricje 
 upon their spits like witches. Oh that I had had a 
 
 S 2
 
 260 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 bit of Irish timber, to have put a simple question 
 to their heads ! 
 
 L. Glen. Speak to the purpose, man, if fear 
 will let you. 
 
 Pat. Fear! No, the devil of a fear have I; or, 
 if I had, I'd sooner keep it to myself than bring 
 it into your lordship's company, noble general, 
 where fear was never yet, nor ever will be. 
 
 L. Glen. I have accus'd you falsely, I per- 
 ceive ; for you're an Irishman, and of course are 
 not afraid of seeing your own blood : I only 
 hope it really is your own. 
 
 Pat. Every atom of it ; and was my father's 
 before it was mine; and he wasuot sparing of it 
 neither, for he spilt every drop of it in battle 
 over and over again. 
 
 L. Glen. So much for your father's battles, 
 now for your own. 
 
 Pat. The holy Saint Patrick give a thousand 
 years to my lord general, for the gracious things 
 he has said of my own dear country ! Whereby 
 I had hop'd to have been bless'd with your noble 
 honour's remembrance, having serv'd in your re- 
 giment in America, and fitt by your side at the 
 battle of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 L. Glen. Patrick Mahoony; I recollect you 
 now full well, fellow soldier. 
 
 Pat. May it never be a lessening to your 
 lordship's honour to call a poor private, fellow 
 soldier; and may no soldier be asham'd to look 
 his officer in the face, when his servitude is 
 over ! 
 
 L. Glen. Now to your story tell us what has 
 happen'd. 
 
 Pat. Why then 'tis all a tantarum of my lady's. 
 Wou'd you believe it, she has stopt the spits, 
 forbid the dinner, lock'd the cellar doors, and
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 26 1 
 
 warn'dthe housemaids not to sheet the beds at 
 peril of their places. There's a frolic ; there's 
 a conundrum with the devil to it ! So there- 
 upon, do you see, I spoke my mind amongst 'em 
 pretty freely, and damn'd 'em all for fools and 
 sycophants in humouring such a cursed cat-o- 
 mountain. But though I spoke as civilly as might 
 he, whuh ! such a clatter cooks and scullion- 
 wenches, housemaids and laundry-maids at once 
 upon me a regiment of tear-coats blood and 
 oons ! no chance in life amongst so many claws 
 to 'scape a scratching. 
 
 L. Glen. Well, brother soldier, wounds are no 
 disgrace, when gain'd in battle. Get you gone 
 and dress them, and as I see you've suffer'd in 
 your rigging, my nephew is provided to supply 
 you. The rest your master will adjust. 
 
 True. Alas ! I know not how. 
 
 L. Glen. Send him away, however, and we'll 
 consult upon it. 
 
 . True. Go, my poor fellow, make your peace 
 amongst them. 
 
 Pat. Ah, blood ! there never can be peace or 
 plenty, whilst such a Jezebel is let to rule. [Exit. 
 
 True. What's to be done ? 
 
 L. Glen. Any thing rather than starve. 
 
 True. I have no power to right myself: the 
 servants won't obey me. 
 
 L. Glen. Till you dislodge your shrew, or tie 
 her tongue up, you can have no power, no peace. 
 Who is this gentleman ? 
 
 Starling walks towards them. 
 
 True. By all my hopes, 'tis Starling. He's my 
 friend ; his influence with my lady can do much : 
 I'll move him to assuage her [Meets him.
 
 262 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 L. Glen. Unhappy man, no human means can 
 help him. His mind has lost all energy. [Aside. 
 
 True. Oh, my dear Ned, you come upon a 
 wish 
 
 Star. Indeed ! Who's that ? 
 
 True. I'm overjoy 'd to see you 
 
 Star. Hold a moment : Isn't that the Lord 
 Glenandry ? 
 
 True. It is, it is what then? I have business 
 for you. 
 
 Star. Let business wait I must be known to 
 him present me to his lordship 
 
 True* My dear, dear fellow, help me out this 
 Once, and I'll present you then as my best friend. 
 
 Star. I'll present myself My Lord Glenandry, 
 my right noble lord, permit me to assure you 
 there's not a man in England more respects you 
 than Edward Starling Ned with my familiars, 
 and to your lordship any thing, and all things. 
 
 L. Glen. Sir, I am proud to know you, as the 
 friend of this much injur'd gentleman, Sir Toby. 
 
 Star. Yes, my good lord, I am Sir Toby's 
 friend his fast, his faithful friend. 
 
 L. Glen. He wants a friend, and you may just 
 now render him a most material piece of service. 
 
 Star. Proud to do it, my lord ever ready to 
 serve my friends No man does more good of- 
 fices, and makes less parade of them than myself, 
 though I say it. 
 
 L. Glen. If you did not say it, Sir, we should 
 not be the less dispos'd to believe it. At present 
 I believe your friend has nothing else to require 
 of you, but to allay a small disturbance in his 
 family, where I am given to understand your 
 influence is predominant. 
 
 Star. Not so, my lord, not quite so but what 
 is the business, and how am I to set about it ?
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 2(53 
 
 L. Glen. Simply, Sir, to bring my lady to her 
 reason, the servants to their duty, and restore 
 your friend to his tranquillity. 
 
 True. That's all, Ned there, you have the 
 whole of it. 
 
 Star. Sir! and my lord! all human power 
 is limited to say that I'll engage to bring my 
 lady to any state of mind resembling reason, 
 would be to say that I will melt the Glacieres, 
 remove Mount Caucasus, control the winds, and 
 perform labours, that would break the backs of 
 Hercules, or Theseus, or any of the demi-gods 
 and heroes, who fought their way into the con- 
 stellations. 
 
 L. Glen. Do what you can however if not 
 all, do something. A man of your address need 
 not despair. In every human heart there must 
 be found some fibre not quite petrified, some 
 string, that still will vibrate ; no one shall per- 
 suade me it can be absolute and perfect stone 
 but come, we'll not lose time in these discussions 
 Let us walk towards the house. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene Lady Truckle's Apartment, 
 Lady Truckle, and Lofty her Woman. 
 
 L. True. I'll have that Irishman turn'd out of 
 doors. 
 
 Mrs. L. I hope your ladyship wo'nt do that 
 poor fellow ! it was but natural in him to speak 
 up for his master. 
 
 L True. Hey-day, Mrs. Lofty, do you dispute 
 my orders ? 
 
 Mrs. L. I shall hardly do that, my lady
 
 264 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 nobody in this house, I should think, will oppose 
 your authority. I only beg leave to observe, 
 that if you turn Patrick away, Sir Toby, for 
 aught I can see, must wait upon himself. 
 
 L. True. You are very considerate for Sir Toby, 
 methinks : 'tis more than Sir Toby is for you, or 
 me, or any one bringing his Myrmidons into 
 the house to turn it upside down, confound all 
 order, and provoke the son to rise against the 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. L. To be sure, my lady, whoever has 
 done that, there is no excuse to be made for 
 such behaviour. 
 
 Mrs. L. None, none ; now, Lofty, you talk 
 sense This Lord Glenandry this old High- 
 lander Can't you see what it is that brings 
 him hither? The carcase lures the eagle. All 
 a plot to foist his nephew in upon Sir Toby, and 
 snap the heiress : a piece of Scottish cunning, to 
 patch up the tatters of his rebel confiscations 
 with a good English rent-roll : that's his pro- 
 ject, and my blind booby Leonard does not spy 
 the trap that's set to catch him. 
 
 Mrs. L. Oh the wretches ! If such are their 
 designs, they don't deserve to be let sleep be- 
 neath this roof one night. 
 
 L. True. Nor shall they, traitors Hark ! who's 
 at the door ? Look out, I'll not admit Sir Toby. 
 
 [Lofty goes to the door. 
 
 Mrs L. Madam, 'tis Mr. Starling Will you 
 see him ? 
 
 L True. No, he's a traitor, and the worst of 
 traitors. I'll never see him more. 
 
 Mrs. L. Men are but men ; none are without 
 their failings, and if he's penitent, why 'tis but 
 Christian charity to hear him. 
 
 L. True, You're a good creature, Lofty, and
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 265 
 
 for this once, at your intercession, I'll give the 
 wretch a hearing* So you may let him in. 
 
 Mrs. L Yes, I know that, and I may leave 
 him with you. [Exit, 
 
 Starling enters. 
 
 L. True. I am astonish'd at your confidence. 
 What do you want? how dare you to come hither? 
 Don't hope that I'll forgive you : say what you 
 will, I'll not believe a word. I let you in only 
 to humour Lofty, and because 'tis matter of in- 
 difference to me, whether I am alone, or in the 
 company of one, on whom I do not waste a 
 thought. 
 
 Star. Come, come, my lady, I'm in no fault, 
 therefore I ask no pardon. Sit down, and let me 
 talk to you 
 
 L. True. Assurance ! I sit down with you ? 
 
 Snar. You sha'nt refuse me Aye, you may 
 flame; when you flame, I am warm'd. Tis then 
 I love you most. Give me a Semele, whose 
 haughty spirit invites the flame by which she is 
 consum'd. A tame soft thing, made up of milk 
 and gruel, is but a mess, where every beggar's 
 cur may come and gorge his brutal appetite, till 
 he revolts and nauseates what he fed on. 
 
 L. True. What is all this ? why all this rhap- 
 sody? 
 
 Star. Will you sit down and hear? you know 
 I love you more than all the world, and fear you 
 less than anybody in it. Therefore sit down, for 
 by the powers of love, I will be heard. 
 
 L. True. Let go my hand, then Don't be so 
 ridiculous, and I'll sit down There Now what 
 have you to say ? 
 
 Star, You charg'd me wrongfully about that
 
 266 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Lucy. 'Tis only with proud people I am proud ; 
 therefore I ahswer'd to your sharp rebuke in 
 terms as sharp. It anger'd me to find you could 
 suspect me of such low intrigues. 
 
 Z. True. Well, if I may believe this was your 
 motive, and that you really scorn such mean 
 attachments 
 
 Star. From my heart I scorn them. 
 
 L. True. Then I acquit you. 
 
 Star. Thus we seal our peace [Kisses her 
 hand.] And now, my dearest lady, hear me fur- 
 ther. You must not be so hard upon Sir Toby 
 You must not, by my soul ! It is not for your ho- 
 nour or your safety to drive him to extremities. 
 
 L. True. Away ! If this is all you have to tell 
 me, I'll hear no more. 
 
 Star. Nay, but a little reason in your wrath. 
 Be absolute in power, only don't quite dis- 
 grace him in the eyes of his illustrious visitor. 
 Hold fast the sceptre ; keep it firm in hand, but 
 don't strike lest you shatter it in pieces. 
 
 L. True. Qo, get you gone ; I've done with 
 you for ever. 
 
 Star. Not so, not so. Convince me of my 
 error, and I'll acknowledge it. 
 
 L. True. You silly man, how can you not per- 
 ceive the ruin you are drawing on yourself? 
 Who but yourself will suffer, if this lord, this 
 second-sighted Scot, is let to stay, and by his 
 cunning, undermine my power. My booby son 
 already has revolted, and is their own; their 
 next prize will be Matilda, and who can tell but 
 they may spur that sluggish ass, Sir Toby, till he 
 kicks off his burden ? Then what are you ? The 
 victim of your own folly. 
 
 Star. I see it, dearest lady, by this light ! I 
 see it, and retract all I have said.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 267 
 
 L. True. Go, then, and send Sir Toby to me ; 
 for since you have been drown in to mediate, 
 I must, to give you credit with your client, in 
 some way strike upon a change of measures, 
 milder in appearance, but not less efficacious in 
 result. 
 
 Star. By heavens, I stand in admiration of 
 you, and am as much enchanted with your wit 
 and intuition, as I am ashamed of my own dul- 
 ness and stupidity. 
 
 L. True. Why certainly you are a dear dull 
 soul, that is the truth of it. But thrust yourself 
 into no more commissions, and cautiously avoid 
 that Highland chief; whose sight is as keen as 
 his climate, whose ambition is as towering as his 
 mountains, and in whose heart rebellion springs 
 spontaneous and self-sown. Now get you gone, 
 I must digest my measures. 
 
 Star. When shall we meet again ? 
 
 L. True. I know not; here I shall remain all 
 day, and never quit my chamber till the house 
 is cleared of these intruders. 
 
 Star. May I not visit you in your retirement? 
 
 L. True. I'll think of it, and as I may deter- 
 mine, you shall be advis'd of it by faithful Lofty 
 She has got the key. 
 
 Star. And that commands the avenues to hap- 
 piness, that mocks the paradise of Mahomet. 
 
 L. True. Nonsense ! The tomb of Mahomet, 
 and not his paradise, will be a better picture of 
 your state; for I will neither raise you up to 
 happiness, nor sink you to despair. Not a word 
 more begone ! [Exeunt severally.
 
 268 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Scene the Garden. 
 Leonard, Clifton. . 
 
 Leon. Now, my good fellow, we have pounded 
 her. The walk is barricadoed on both sides ; 
 she can't escape us here, unless she had wings. 
 
 Clif. Are you quite sure she has not ! Angels 
 have them ; why may not she ? Leonard, I think 
 I never can incur the charge of double-dealing 
 with the friend that trusts me ; Yet, if any 
 thing could make me dread it, it would be the 
 consciousness of what I felt in presence of 
 Matilda. 
 
 Leon. Oh, never fear ; I warrant you have felt 
 as much or more for others of her sex, and been 
 no worse for it. 
 
 Clif'. No, on my honour. 
 
 Leon. What, then you prefer her to all the 
 pretty women you have seen ? 
 
 Clif. Decidedly ; without any competition. 
 
 Leon. Then, I suppose, in your opinion, Clif- 
 ton, I am the happiest dog this day alive. 
 
 Clif. If you think of her as I do, you are. 
 
 Leon. You have heard, no doubt, that she's a 
 tempting prize, heiress of all Sir Toby's great 
 possessions? 
 
 Clif. I've heard as much ; but were these all 
 her charms, I could withstand her easily, being 
 contented with my competency, and not ex- 
 tremely anxious to encrease it. 
 
 Leon. Why then 'tis clear you like her for her- 
 self, and therein we agree. I have enough, were 
 I but happy, and were I not, money won't make 
 me so. 
 
 Clif. You say 'tis settled that you are to marry
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 269 
 
 her ; if so, why do you wish to engage me in a 
 struggle the most severe that honour can be put 
 to? Sure it can't give you any real pleasure to 
 torture me with envy. 
 
 Leon. No, hang it, that is scandalous to think 
 of. I only wish that you should see more of her, 
 and know her better. It may be your cure. 
 
 Clif. Why truly, Leonard, if I should discover 
 that she had chang'd one grace of nature's giving, 
 for the proud glances, which those minions deal, 
 who bury their attractions in their coffers, fare- 
 well, Matilda! 
 
 Leon. You have hit the case at once ; there 
 lies the block at which I stumble. I suspect she 
 flouts me because, do you see, I am a homebred 
 fellow, ill-drest and awkward, stupid as you see 
 me; with no wit, art, or genius to amuse her; 
 nothing" to recommend me but a heart, which, as 
 it harbours no deceit itself, would fain not be 
 deceiv'd. Look at her, therefore, for my sake, 
 my friend ; she cannot blind your eyes as she 
 can mine, for you are skilful in the ways of 
 women ; I know them only by the worst of sam- 
 ples my domineering mother. 
 
 Clif. Honest, honest heart ! I'll do thee jus- 
 tice, suffer what I may. 
 
 Leon. I'm sure you will ; I know you are my 
 friend, not from the merits that you find in me, 
 but from your own benevolence, and because 
 you see how much I love you. So if you find 
 occasion in your talk to give me a kind lift in 
 her good liking, so it be fair withal, and nothing 
 more than such poor qualities as I possess can 
 warrant and make good, why, you will do it 
 So there's an end I'm off, for she's in sight. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Clif. Oh! who could injure such simplicity.
 
 270 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Matilda approaches to Clifton. 
 
 Mat. Didn't I catch a glimpse of Leonard 
 with you? 
 
 Clif. He had just left me as you came in 
 sight. 
 
 Mat. Why did he so ? 
 
 Clif. Because his generous confidence allows 
 me to avail myself of this fortunate occasion to 
 tender you my apologies for an error, into which 
 I have been unknowingly surpriz'd. 
 
 Mat. What error, Mr. Clifton, do you charge 
 yourself with ? 
 
 Clif. The error of an act that had been base 
 in the extreme, if ignorance of your peculiar 
 situation had not conceal 'd it from me. 
 
 Mat. What peculiar situation am I in? You 
 make your mystery only more obscure. 
 
 Clif, I understand the friend, who just now 
 left me, is to be made the happiest of mankind ; 
 and by the truth that's in me, I conceive so 
 highly of the intrinsic goodness of his heart, 
 that 1 should hold myself in just abhorrence for 
 suffering those sensations to transpire, which 
 honour would have warn'd me to repress, if I 
 had been appris'd of your engagement. 
 
 Mat. You know the nature, then, of my en- 
 gagement ? 
 
 Clif. In general only, not by circumstance. 
 
 Mat. I'll tell you then. My father, as you see, 
 is under the dominion of a tyrant, sinking be- 
 neath the burden of a yoke, he has not strength 
 to bear, nor courage to throw off. One hope he 
 had, one sacrifice to make, that seem'd to pro- 
 mise freedom and redemption : I was to be the 
 victim ; I was to marry Leonard ; to the son of
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 271 
 
 her first husband my unhappy parent was to en- 
 gage his daughter and estate. 
 
 Clif. And were these terms impos'd upon your 
 father, or freely tender'd ? 
 
 Mat. Can you ask that question ? Surely you 
 know they were impos'd upon him. 
 
 Clif. Not I, so help me, truth ! 
 
 Mat. Has Lord Glenandry never told you 
 that ? 
 
 Clif. Never. 
 
 Mat. You much surprise me ; but to end my 
 story Penetrated by the sufferings of my father, 
 and by his importunity besieg'd, I did but 
 wherefore should I boast myself? What did I 
 more than many others would, and all should do? 
 I sacrificed myself to save a father. 
 
 Clif. Is it indeed a sacrifice ? Leonard, if not 
 adorn'd with all the graces, is blest with many 
 virtues. 
 
 Mat. Grant him a thousand virtues, add to 
 them (what he has not) accomplishments as 
 many, I must for ever see my father's tyrant 
 reflected in his image, and be wretched. 
 
 Clif. You cut me to the heart. As Leonard's 
 friend, what is there I can do for mutual expla- 
 nation? 
 
 Mat. Nothing. A promise cannot be revok'd 
 by me it cannot ; but consult your uncle. He 
 knows the nature of the sacrifice, which my 
 poor father made to purchase peace. Ask him 
 of that You say he has never told you. 
 
 Clif. Never, upon my honour. 
 
 Mat. If you're sincere in that assertion, ask 
 him ; prevail with him to tell you what he knows 
 of that obscure transaction. 
 
 Clif. You have rais'd my curiosity to the 
 height. I'll never quit him till I know the secret.
 
 272 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Mat. And when you know it, if you still re- 
 tain the impressions which you profess to have 
 felt, perhaps you will, like me, lament a promise 
 that enslaves a heart, as sensible to feel, and not 
 less pain'd by feeling those impressions than 
 your own. [Exeunt,
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 273 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Runic, and Mrs. Lofty. * 
 
 Mrs L. So, Mr. Runic, if you were as chang'd 
 in countenance as in kindness, I should not know 
 you. Time was you would look in upon us now 
 and then, and take a jelly or a cup of tea, and 
 condescend to chat with us poor folks ; but now 
 you pass us by, and look so proud. 
 
 Run. I am no whit less humble than I should 
 be ; for, to speak truth, the conduct of your lady 
 is so outrageous, and, as I believe, so criminal 
 withal, that I do not chuse to give my company 
 or countenance to those that are in confidence 
 with her. There is my answer to your charge, 
 Mrs. Loft}' ; it is a plain one, and you are free 
 to tell it to your unworthy mistress. 
 
 Mrs. L. I shan't do that; I am no mischief- 
 maker, Mr. Runic. 
 
 Run. You can make none that I'm concern'd 
 about ; for I don't care how soon she is inform'd 
 that I despise her. 
 
 Mrs. L. Aye, you are a gentleman, and speak 
 your mind. I'm but a servant, and must hold my 
 tongue. 
 
 Run. Yes, if you've sold your liberty of speech, 
 you will be silent. 
 
 Mrs. L. Servants should be so. 
 
 Run. They should be honest too, and not 
 cabal against their masters. Wicked schemes 
 may prosper for a short time ; but when they are 
 found out, the shame they fix upon the plotters 
 of them will be perpetual. The day is not far 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 off, depend on it, when all these evil doings 
 of your lady will be laid open : then Starling, 
 you, and all that shar'd her favour, will share 
 her fall. 
 
 Mrs. L. Nay, that is certain ; I expect no 
 less: she drives so furiously, no one is safe, that 
 has to do with her; for my part, I dislike her 
 goings on as much as you can, but how to act 
 Will you advise me, sir? 
 
 Run. A better counsellor will do that for you. 
 
 Mrs. L. Who can be a better ? 
 
 Run. Conscience: Consult that friend ; if it 
 reproaches you with being privy to those guilty 
 meetings, that dare not face the light, you can't 
 but know, they are the criminals who shelter 
 vice, not those who expose it. 
 
 Mrs. L. Well, to be sure you learned men are 
 wizzards, and if my thoughts were in a book 
 before you, you could not see them clearer. Ah 
 my good sir, it is in vain to counterfeit with you ; 
 there are sad doings in this family ; and, as you 
 rightly say, the wicked must be brought to 
 shame at last and that of course must be my 
 lady's fate then what becomes of me, if I am 
 found to have known her evil courses, and con- 
 ceal'd them ? 
 
 Run. Ruin'd without redemption, sham'd, dis- 
 grac'd, discarded without pity 
 
 Airs. L. Oh, frightful ! that's the very end of 
 all things, and what I have been turning, in my 
 thoughts all this day long this is not right, said 
 I this is not as it should be Here am I eating 
 my poor master's bread, and opening the door 
 for the thief that plunders him but look ! talk 
 of a certain person and he appears Farewell at 
 present; we will meet again, and then Til tell 
 you more. [E.vit.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 275 
 
 Starling enters, and is passing over. 
 
 Run. Whither so fa6t, whither away so fast ? 
 A word with you, Mr. Starling 
 
 Star. My dear, dear Runic, any other time a 
 volume, I am now upon the wing to find Sir 
 Toby. 
 
 Run. You cannot find Sir Toby, for Sir Toby 
 will not be found. He and the Lord Glenandry 
 are gone forth, and far a-field by this time, 
 Heaven knows where : your search is therefore 
 fruitless, so I pray you lend me your ears, and 
 what I'll pour into them may prove a grand spe- 
 cific, to preserve them whole and secure from 
 danger of excision. 
 
 Star. What danger are they in, except of 
 being bor'd with your long-winded prose? 
 
 Run. You are merry, sir merry at my ex- 
 pense ; but I forgive you ; for to do you justice, 
 your wit is of that merciful description, it has 
 not heart and soul to hurt a fly. My lady told 
 me many pleasant things, not one of which 
 I credit you for saying ; or if you did, I know 
 you've not the courage to avow it else I would 
 Jet you know I have a sword 
 
 Star. I know it well; I know you have a 
 sword, , and also know it is the only thing about 
 you that has a point or carries any edge but to 
 convince you that I have some courage, I'm free 
 to own that I retorted on you for your acrimo- 
 nious criticisms of my late publication. 
 
 Run. It defied criticism : it was rank nonsense. 
 Stajr. 1 don't want any body to tell me that. 
 I write professedly rank nonsense. 
 .* Run. Why do you so r 
 Star. .Because I write to live, awl 'tis the rea- 
 T2
 
 2?6 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 diest money at the market. Was Aristotle now 
 to set up school, we'd kick him out of it, and 
 maintain to his heard, that we can fahricate a 
 perfect whole, although without beginning, end, 
 or middle. 
 
 Run. Oh then, ingenious sir, it should appear 
 you're wiser than the Greeks. 
 
 Star. And honester or woe betide us. Wit- 
 ness the master of them all, old Homer, who has 
 been now convicted of having forg'd the siege 
 of Troy upon us, for which your friend, that gave 
 false evidence, merits the pillory. 
 
 Run. What friend do you allude to? 
 
 Star. Your friend Pythagoras, that cried 
 down beans, and spoilt the sale of bacon. 
 
 Run. Ridiculous! How is Pythagoras con- 
 cern'd about the siege of Troy ? 
 
 Star. Didn't the knave pretend that he was 
 there in person of Euphorbus ? Shame upon him, 
 he set up a false alibi What have you to say for 
 him ? 
 
 Run. A true disciple of Pythagoras lets folly 
 talk, and keeps contemptuous silence; but 
 hark ye, sir, we'll leave the Greeks and Trojans 
 to fight it out, and call up a new question. 
 
 Star. What is your question? State it. 
 
 Run. What sort of principle do you conceive 
 that man to possess, who undermines the autho- 
 rity, betrays the tru:t, and abuses the hospitality 
 of the benefactor, from whom he receives daily 
 favours, and to whom he makes daily professions 
 of inviolable attachment ? 
 
 Star. Go to your books, and seek of them an 
 answer. I have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Run. Pardon me, sir, you have much to do 
 with it Your meetings with Sir Toby's shrewish 
 wife are known, and will be trac'd to your con-
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 277 
 
 viction, unless you have the address to ward the 
 blow, by turning .over to the injurd party. 
 
 Star. What meetings have I had with Lady 
 Truckle, except to serve Sir Toby ? Who dares 
 to accuse me ? 
 
 Run. I dare : I am the man, that will accuse 
 you. 
 
 Star. Do so here comes Sir Toby I am 
 ready. 
 
 Sir Toby enters. 
 
 True. My dear dear Starling, have you seen 
 my lady? Have you appeas'd her? Give me 
 some good news, for I have no hope but in your 
 mediation. 
 
 Star. There, Mr. Runic, now produce your 
 charge. 
 
 True. What charge, what charge ? 
 
 Star. The blackest, and the falsest. He charges 
 me with base ingratitude to you, my benefactor 
 and my frieud Am I ungrateful ? Speak ! 
 
 True. No, no Ungrateful ! Runic does but 
 jest. 
 
 Star. He further says that I betray your trust, 
 abuse your hospitality, and conspire with Lady 
 Truckle to overthrow your authority Am I this 
 villain? Answer! 
 
 True. No, no, 'tis all a flam, a false alarm of 
 Runic's to make sport with you. I have nothing 
 to accuse you of, but much to thank you for, if 
 you have made my peace with my lady. 
 
 Star. Your peace is made. 
 
 True. Then you are the best friend I have in 
 all the world. 
 
 Star. Do you hear that, Master Runic ? 
 
 Run. Yes, yes, I hear it. 
 
 Star. And are you now conviue'd?
 
 278 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Run, Fully convinc'd, and know not which is 
 most to be admir'd Sir Toby's intuition, or 
 your honesty ; but 'tis my maxim Qui vult (le- 
 apt, decipiatur. [Exit. 
 
 True. What is the English of that? 
 
 Star. Simply, that he has been in a deception, 
 and now is undeceiv'd but come, I must con- 
 duct you to your lady. 
 
 True. Ah, my good friend, what could I do 
 without you? ' [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 Leonard and Clifton enter. 
 
 Leon. Now, my dear fellow, here we are toge- 
 ther, snug and secure I long to hear how you 
 came off with missHow are you ? Heart- 
 whole? Has she drawn the arrow, or does it 
 stick ? 
 
 Ciif. Why should you wish to know ? That's 
 to myself. 
 
 Lean* Nothing is to yourself that I Can share 
 in. Besides, you promis'd me to deal sincerely, 
 and tell me all that pass'd. 
 
 Clif. You shall know all : Honour demands 
 that of me; and as my dealings have been fair 
 and open, I have no concealments, nothing to 
 hold back that it concerns you to be inform'd of 
 but as to that same arrow, my good friend, 
 we'll leave it where it was. 
 
 Leon. Ah ! now I see you are but half my 
 friend, whilst I am wholly yours. You'll just do 
 what you bargain'd for, and no more. You'll 
 not confide in me 'tis very well. 
 
 Clif, Nay, don't be angry with me.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. Q79 
 
 Leon. No, I am angry with myself for con- 
 ceiving you could ever think of me, as I do of 
 you. I know I am your inferior in so many 
 points, that I ought not to expect you would 
 produce me amongst your fine acquaintance, 
 where my awkward manners would disgrace you 
 but still I hop'd, however low you held me in 
 point of understanding, you would find no cause 
 to doubt my heart. 
 
 Clif. Nor do I, by my soul ! I think your 
 heart the seat of truth, of honour and bene- 
 volence. 
 
 Leon, Oh, now you say too much. I am only 
 honest as far as my small judgment can distin- 
 guish the right from wrong. 
 
 Clif. And is not that enough to shew you upon 
 what motives I decline your question ? How can 
 it gratify your friendly feelings to know what 
 passes in my secret thoughts about a lady, for 
 whom if I have unfortunately conceiv'd a liking, 
 you of all men are the last, to whom in delicacy 
 I should reveal it ? 
 
 Leon. Why so? What have I done? 
 
 Clif. What have you done? Need you be put 
 in mind of your own happiness? Have you not 
 the lady fast bound by promise ? 
 
 Leon. Does she acknowledge the promise? 
 
 Clif Yes, and will fulfil it. 
 
 Leon*' Why that's fair and honest. Then she's 
 a woman of her word, you see. 
 
 Clif I did not doubt it, and you may believe 
 I did not strive to unsettle her good faith. 
 
 Leon. No, hang it, that had been a sneaking 
 trick quite out of character. Starling mightplay 
 that game; Clifton disdains it. So then she'll 
 marry me, it seems I have her sure she holds 
 to her engagement?
 
 280 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Clif. Religiously. 
 
 Leon. That's light And I suppose forsees a 
 world of happiness in store with such a wcll- 
 pair'd mate. I'm just the very man that hits her 
 fancy. Should you have believ'd it? 
 
 Clif. I wish to believe the time may shortly 
 come when you will be so. The more she 
 knows of you the more she will approve you. 
 
 Leon. Oh, then she is not dying for me at 
 present? 
 
 Clif. Not absolutely dying. 
 
 Leon. Perhaps, if she was free to chuse again, 
 she thinks that she might mend her choice. 
 
 Clif. Perhaps she does, but that is with herself. 
 
 Leon. It is so; and perhaps again it may be 
 her peculiar way of thinking, to fancy such a 
 clown as you might suit her better than such a 
 gentleman as me. 
 
 Clif. I cannot speak to that. 
 
 Leon. Oil, I ask pardon. That is another of 
 your secrets which you keep to yourself You 
 will permit me, however, to suppose that such a 
 thing is possible. 
 
 Clif. Urge me no further I have done you 
 justice. 
 
 Leon. Thank you, my boy. You've given me 
 a good woid : she must be charm'd with that. 
 You have also told me just what I knew before 
 Thank you for that. If you hear more of the 
 same sort of news, you'll tell it me with the same 
 fidelity And look, she's coining fare you well! 
 I'll leave you. 
 
 Clif. Hold ! I'll not be left with her again. 
 
 Leon. Chuse for vourseif I'm ofT. 
 
 [Exit hastily.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 281 
 
 Matilda enters to Clifton*. 
 
 Mat. Leonard again! I'm destin'd to break 
 up your conferences. Have you seen your 
 uncle ? 
 
 Clif. I have not met him, and my patience is 
 tortur'd the meanwhile. 
 
 Mat. I have the very letter which he wrote 
 to my poor passive father, when he had made 
 the fatal compromise, by which lam bound to e 
 the wretched wife of that poor youth, who never 
 can know happiness with me. 
 
 CliJ. Let me peruse it ; let me see that letter. 
 
 Mat, I cannot give it you indeed I cannot. 
 
 Clif. Then read it to me You can sure do that. 
 
 Mat. That's worse Oh, Clifton, you, of all 
 men living, are he to whom I could not read that 
 letter. 
 
 Clif. Indeed ! Have I an interest in that 
 letter. 
 
 Mat. How can I say what interest you may 
 take in what I deem the greatest of misfortunes? 
 'T would be presumption in me to suppose that 
 you must sympathize in my affliction. 
 
 Clif'. Must 1 not sympathize with her, in whom 
 my whole soul but I will not speak ; I will not 
 violate my word to Leonard Loveliest of 
 women, and for ever lost ! If, as your scruples 
 lead me to suspect, I had a name and interest in 
 that letter before 1 knew you, and my uncle then 
 forbore to tell me of my unknown loss ; judge 
 what would he my agony now to read it, when 
 I have seen you, look d away my heart, and never 
 can efface the deep impression, which you have 
 planted there. 
 
 Mat. Take it, however; read it when I'm
 
 232 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 absent, and when you meet a name, that I will 
 own would have been dear to me above all names, 
 if you indeed feel all that you profess, we shall 
 be mutually the most wretched beings, that ever 
 cruel honour tore asunder. 
 
 Clif. I have, like you, betroth'd myself to 
 Leonard : he has a heart for friendship ; but the 
 man exists not, that can behold such beauty and 
 resign it. 
 
 Mat. Or if he could, his mercenary mother, 
 whose soul is wedded to Sir Toby's coffers, has 
 me in fetters. The fatal bond of promise, guarded 
 by law and sanctified by honour, is in her hands, 
 and what her avarice covets, her power will 
 command but hark! what's that? Some spy 
 is on the watch : this house is full of ears. Away, 
 away ! we've talk'd too long already. 
 
 Clif. Farewell. I will believe the guardian 
 angel, that has thy happiness in charge, will save 
 ihee. [Exeunt. 
 
 Leonard enters. 
 
 Leon. Now. had that Clifton been sincere with 
 me, I were the meanest scoundrel in creation for 
 list'ning to his talk; but I suspected what I've 
 heard, and as he would not trust me with his heart, 
 i (rusted my own ears with his discourse Oh by 
 Saint Barnabas, I'll fit him for his tricks ! I'll 
 pay him off for all his double-dealing; I'll let 
 nim know that I can mark my game, as cun- 
 ningly as he can I'll to my mother, get the 
 staff in hand then I am for him. [Exit. 
 
 Scene changes. Sir Toby and Lady Truckle. 
 
 L. True. You see, Sir Toby, I am fair and open. 
 I put myself and son into your hands. Only make
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 283 
 
 good the contract you have sign'd ; marry the 
 parties, and in that very hour I resign all autho- 
 rity and rule into your daughter's hands. The 
 humble cottage, which I have fitted up for my 
 retreat, shall then be all I will retain for life. 
 
 True, My lady, I consent. Have you the bund? 
 
 L. True. Yes, yes, I have the contract in safe 
 keeping Assure yourself of that ; and here it is. 
 
 True. You will not in mean time dislodge my 
 guests 
 
 L. True. I'll not disturb them for this day, Sir 
 Toby; but, mark my words to-morrow they 
 depart. 
 
 True. 'Tis their intention, madam. 
 
 L, True. Let them keep it. 
 
 True. When shall I break your, pleasure to my 
 daughter? 
 
 L. True. Not till that Clifton's gone, by any 
 means besides, I must communicate with my 
 son j I must reprove him ; he has much dis- 
 pleas'd me. 
 
 True. If he has half my dread of your displea- 
 sure, he'll easily be wrought to make submis- 
 sion. Has your ladyship any further commands 
 at present ? 
 
 L, True. None; you may go and be merry with 
 your friends ; only be wise withal if you know 
 how. 
 
 True. I'll do my best to gain your approbation. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Leonard enters. 
 
 Z. True. Oh thou ungracious boy ! Oh thou 
 reviler of a tender mother, whose careful days 
 and sleepless nights are pass'd in meditations for 
 thy good, ungrateful ! What can you say to me, 
 that may atone ?
 
 84 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Leon. If I was eloquent, I'd make a speech ; 
 if hypocritical, I'd squeeze out tears; but being 
 neit. er, I can only fall upon my marrow- bones, 
 and ask your pardon. Pray, pray forgive me ! 
 
 L. True. Rise, you are forgiven. I cannot long 
 be angry with my Leonard. 
 
 Leon. No, your poor Leonard is so very peni- 
 tent, and you have 'such a soft and tender heart, 
 that I was sure you couldn't hold out long. 
 
 L. True. But you must never treat me so again. 
 
 Leon. Oh never, never utter a bad word, as I 
 hope to be married. 
 
 L. True. Do you then hope it ? Are you eager 
 for it? 
 
 Leon. Sharp as a hungry tiger Oh my dear 
 mother, when I have got Matilda, and (what is 
 better far) Sir Toby's fortune; there'll be a happy 
 fellow ! then you must think I shall be rich and 
 great, tind my own master 
 
 L. True. Aye, and I hope prudent and wise' 
 withal. 
 
 Leon. Never doubt me ; I am well born for 
 that. No wife shallJerry me; I am too much my 
 mother's son to suffer it. No, no, I'll follow your 
 receipt exactly : I'll manage my good dame by 
 the same rule, as you do your good man: isn't 
 that right? 
 
 L. True. Well, we shall see ; but have you 
 gain'd Matilda? 
 
 Leon. Leave that to me. I have her in a noose. 
 
 L. True. It would be better, if you had her 
 heart. 
 
 Leon. Do you think so? Woman's love is trou- 
 blesome. A fond wife is for ever in the wav, and 
 interrupts our amusements. You are not over 
 fond of your Sir Toby, and yet how happily you 
 live together !
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 285 
 
 L. True. That's nothing to the purpose. I sus- 
 pect that Clifton, whom you think so much your 
 friend, is playing false with you. 
 
 Leon. Do you indeed ! Oh the egregious thief! 
 But let him play, I have him on the hook pro- 
 vided you have only kept that what-d'ye-call it, 
 that secures my marriage. 
 
 L. True. Kept it, my child ! No doubt but I 
 have kept it if you mean the bond and solemn 
 obligation of the contracting parties here it is. 
 
 Leon. Yes, yes, that's it. The very thing I 
 want. Give me but that in hand, and I defy him. 
 
 L. True. No, no, 'tis safe with me : so long as 
 I retain, and can produce it, Sir Toby will not 
 venture to dispute it. 
 
 Leon. Oh if he did, I'd deal with him : you 
 don't know what a spirit I possess. But let me 
 read it ; let me con it over. It is but right, you 
 know, that every man should be acquainted with 
 his own security. 
 
 L. True. Well, there it is, if you can make it 
 out. 
 
 Leon. I warrant Heyday ! here's a crooked 
 scrawl these e's are s's, and the r's are q's. This 
 will require some spelling : I must take this into 
 my reading room 
 
 L. True. No, no, I will not trust it out of 
 sight. 
 
 Leon. Oh monstrous, mother, not to trust your 
 son. Don't you suppose I know the value of it. 
 Bless your dear soul, I prize it as my eyes : 'tis 
 this that puts Matilda in my power, gives me 
 Sir Toby's wealth, all that I can wish 'tis this 
 that lays my rival at my feet, possest of this, 
 I now can look that Clifton in the face, who 
 dar'd to call my spirit into question, and treat 
 him in the manner he deserves Oh rnv dear
 
 286 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 mother, let me embrace you for this precious 
 gift ! 
 
 L. True. Tis not a gift, my child, it is a trust, 
 a sacred trust, on which your all depends. 
 
 Leon. Right, my dear mother, 'tis a sacred 
 trust, and I will put it to a sacred use.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. S7 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Lord Glenandry meeting Clifton. 
 
 Clif. My lord, well met. We have miss'd you 
 all this morning. 
 
 L. Glen. Yes, Clifton, I have acted the old sol- 
 dier, and when I could not keep the field with 
 honour, have prudently withdrawn myself from 
 trouble ; and made a short excursion with old 
 Runic, to fill up time, and leave Sir Toby to patch 
 up a peace as speedily as he could for he that 
 can't give battle, must submit to let the con- 
 queror dictate. 
 
 Clif. Aye, 'tis a wretched, hen-peck'd, heart- 
 less creature, who has so long submitted to his 
 tyrant, that nothing can redeem him. 
 
 L. Glen. I don't know that; I should not quite 
 despair, if he had any spark of manhood left. 
 
 Clif. He does not merit to be call'd a man, much 
 less a father, who, for the purchase of a few hours 
 peace, could pledge his daughter's happiness for 
 ever. 
 
 L. Glen. It must be own'd, that matches so 
 contracted are rarely happy, and I much suspect 
 Matilda would gladly catch at any lawful means, 
 that could release her from that obligation. 
 
 Clif. So they were fair and honourable in their 
 nature, I think she would embrace them ; though 
 injustice to Leonard I must say, he has as good 
 a title to be happy as honest nature can bestow 
 upon him. 
 
 L. Glen. But honesty alone, with clownish 
 manners and an uncultivated understanding, will 
 never suit Matilda.
 
 288 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Clif I know your lordship once had other 
 wishes, and rated me so much above my merits, 
 as to account me worthy of that honour, for 
 which, in gratitude, I am ever hound/ 
 
 L. Glen. Who told you this? who divulg'd 
 this secret? 
 
 Clif. Matilda had the goodness to impart to 
 me your letter to her father on that subject. 
 
 L. Glen. Surely Matilda, when she shew'd that 
 letter, either suppos'd you indifferent to the con- 
 tents, or had not much consideration for your 
 feelings, if you were not. 
 
 Clif Oh, my dear uncle, she is all perfection, 
 and I have lost a blessing past compute. 
 L Glen. You love her, Clifton? 
 Clif. Oh, to distraction love her 
 L. Glen. And she returns your love? 
 Clif. We are both unfortunate. Would I had 
 never seen her. 
 
 Runic enters. 
 
 L. Glen. So, my good friend, what news? 
 
 Run. When you had left the cottage, which 
 my lady has fitted up, and where, as we sus- 
 pected, she holds her meetings with that fellow 
 Starling, I straightly question'd the old dame 
 about them. At first, she had her lesson and 
 evaded ; but when I threatened her, and repre- 
 sented the ruin she was drawing on herself, she 
 waver'd, was alarm'd, and in conclusion gave up, 
 and made confession so complete of that bad 
 woman's guilt, that if Sir Toby will but face the 
 question, I am full arm'd with proofs to bear him 
 through it. 
 
 L. Glen. I never doubted what would be the 
 result of your inquiries; but how far to push 
 them will merit some reflection on our part.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 289 
 
 Run. My lord, I am challenged to produce my 
 proofs; my honour is committed, and I must 
 either shew this woman's baseness, or pass for a 
 defamer. 
 
 L. Glen. Tis not an enviable office, however, 
 to dabble in the dirt of such a business; but we 
 shall see 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Lofty appears. 
 
 What does this woman want? she beckons you 
 
 Run. Oh, Mrs. Lofty, what are your commands? 
 
 Loft. A word in private with you, if you please. 
 
 [Exeunt Runic and Lofty. 
 
 L. Glen. Now, Clifton, does not this discovery 
 inspire some better hopes ? 
 
 Clif. If 'tis a point with you to save Sir Toby, 
 and if he's willing to be sav'd, it does. 
 
 L. Glen, But may it not be turn'd to your ad- 
 vantage, by rescuing Matilda from her marriage ? 
 
 Clif. I cannot see it in that light, my lord. I 
 cannot comprehend how the exposure of this bad 
 woman's guilt could free Matilda from a solemn 
 promise in favour of her son, nor do I think that 
 son should suffer for his mother's crimes. 
 
 L. Glen. But what, if terror might induce the 
 mother to give the contract up? 
 
 Clif. What if it did ? her act could not dissolve 
 it; nor would I take Matilda on those terms, 
 much as I love her, much as I adore her cer- 
 tain it is, that she regrets her fate ; but I am not 
 so base, so lost to honour, as to concur in any 
 operations for traversing her promise to Leonard, 
 whose fair and open dealings claim from me a 
 conduct no less candid on my part. 
 
 L. Glen. I see your delicacy, nephew, and re- 
 spect it. 
 
 VOL, I, V
 
 Q0 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Runic enters hastily. 
 
 Run. I have it, my good lord, I have it here 
 in scriptis signatum et sigillatum Listen, I be- 
 seech you, to this grand and imperial epistle, 
 which our female Tiberius writes a Capreis 
 
 " Runic, it seems, suspects us Runic shall be 
 " discharged. You say our assignation for this 
 " evening must not take place : I say it must, it 
 " shall. Guarded by faithful Lofty, and seeur'd 
 " by locks and bolts, we may defy discovery. 
 " Come therefore, and fear nothing. Come, I 
 " say, or tremble at the vengeance I will take. 
 "The marriage is in train; when that is over, 
 " all points are gain'd, and I am yours for 
 
 " ever."- 
 
 How say you now, my lord? will not this bring 
 her towering spirit down? it will, it must. We 
 have her on her knees. 
 
 L. Glen. 'Tis very strong and this she writes 
 to Starling ? 
 
 Run, Even this, which her compunctious con- 
 fidante betrays But look, Sir Toby comes 
 
 L. Glen. And Starling with him put the letter 
 by, and not a word about it. 
 
 Sir Toby enters, followed by Starling. 
 
 True. Ah, my dear lord, I'm overcome with 
 shame, to think our harmonv should have been 
 interrupted by these domestic jars but you are 
 ever kind to your poor friend, and Clifton too, 
 I hope, will overlook it. 
 
 L.Glen. If you're contented, all is well with us. 
 
 True. This worthy gentleman has made my 
 peace.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. $i 
 
 L. Glen. Tis a good thing to have a friend, 
 Sir Toby. 
 
 Ttmc. It is indeed ; I find the sweets of it. By- 
 Mr. Starling's means, I hope to pass one happy 
 day in your society. 
 
 Star. I trust, you have many happy days ia 
 store. My efforts sha'n't be wanting. 
 
 L. Glen. Why that is kind And now, good 
 sir, I have a boon to beg. 
 
 Star. My lord, command me. What is it, I 
 pray you? 
 
 L. Glen. Simply, that you will undertake for 
 fne what you have executed so well for your 
 friend procure an audience for me of my lady, 
 that I may pay my court, and make my peace. 
 
 Star. Oh, my good lord, you condescend too 
 far. I'm positive my lady don't requite it; and, 
 if her health permitted her to quit her chamber, 
 she would wait on you. 
 
 L. Glen. By no means ; I shall much prefer the 
 honour of waiting upon her, and if you'll mediate 
 for me that permission, and take me in your hand, 
 you'll much oblige me. 
 
 Star. My lord, my lord, I fly at your command. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 L. Glen. Runic, a word with you Give me 
 the letter Don't hint a syllable of this to Sir 
 Toby. [Apart. 
 
 Rim. Upon my honour, no there is the letter. 
 
 L. Glen. Now, my good friend, if you are thus 
 thankful for one day of peace with your oppres- 
 sor, what will you say to me, if I can set you. 
 clear of her for life ? 
 
 True. What will I say, my lord? run mad for 
 joy but that can never be ; that happy hour is 
 not for me. My liberty is lost, and (which i$ 
 worse) my daughter's. 
 
 U2
 
 292 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Run. Whose fault was that, Sir Toby, but your 
 own ? 
 
 True. You don't know what it is to be a hus- 
 band. 
 
 Run. Say rather you forgot you were a father. 
 
 L. Glen. Hold, you are too severe. If I, who 
 am the uncle of this gentleman, do not complain, 
 who has a better right ? 
 
 True. Oh, that I had the power to call him son I 
 
 Starling enters. 
 
 Star, My Lord Glenandry, when it is your 
 pleasure, I will attend upon you to my lady. 
 
 L. Glen. Be pleas'd to lead the way Runic, 
 remember! [Exit with Starling. 
 
 Run. Sir Toby, will you trust yourself with 
 me; and wait my lord's return? 
 
 True. Most readily Ah Clifton, that I might 
 but see the day, when I may say, Matilda is your 
 own ! 
 
 Clif. That day can never be. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Toby and Runic. 
 
 Leonard comes in. 
 
 Leon. What day can never be ? There's an old 
 saying Every dog has his day, and this is mine. 
 This is my holiday, and here's the almanac, that 
 marks it down in black and white for ever. Oh, 
 I could kiss this paper, I could hug it. There is 
 a name in it as dear to me as my own eyes Do 
 you guess whose it is? 
 
 CUf. Your own perhaps Matilda's and your 
 own. 
 
 Leon. You're right, my heart! You've jump'd 
 at once upon it. I am set down upon this pre-
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 293 
 
 cious paper the happiest rogue alive. I know 
 you envy me ; but I can't help it, Clifton, I can't 
 help it. You must come with me, and partake 
 my transport. 
 
 Clif. Impossible. You must excuse me. 
 
 Leon. I can't excuse you, by my soul I can- 
 not. You'll kill me, if you refuse me Nay, I'll 
 kill myself, and haunt you when I'm dead for 
 your unkind ness. Ghosts are in fashion now, 
 and I'll be with you. Come, be persuaded 
 there's a dear good fellow ! You will not sure 
 refuse to see Matilda I know you like her; 
 she's a charming girl, and (which is more) likes 
 you I'm sure she does Come, I'm not jealous 
 let me beg you'll see her You have her heart; 
 I have her upon paper. 
 
 Clif'. You're a strange being, Leonard, and 
 provoke me to risk what honour never should 
 encounter Yet I'll go with you. 
 
 Leon. That's my noble fellow Damme, I'll 
 make you dance upon your head. [Exeunt, 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 Lady Truckle to her Lord Glebtandry and 
 Starling, 
 
 L. Glen. I thank your ladyship for thus ad- 
 mitting me in company with this gentleman, 
 who, both as criminal and witness,knows the truth 
 of what I shall advance. Your agents have be- 
 tray'd you ; nay, you have betray'd yourself, for 
 I have here your letter to this favour'd gentle- 
 man, stopp'd on its passage, and in my possession; 
 it puts you at my mercy, but I doubt not you 
 will be wise, and not provoke my justice. I am.
 
 94 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 your husband's friend, but I'm a soldier, and 
 though I give no quarter to resistance, I spare 
 the weak and fallen. 
 
 L. True. I am yet to learn, my lord, what right 
 you claim to tamper with my people as a spy, 
 whilst you are treated as a guest and friend; nor 
 can I see how it becomes a soldier to act the 
 paltry part of an informer. 
 
 L. Glen. Spare your reproaches, madam, if you 
 please, and understand yourself as well as me. I 
 am no spy, nor am I yet intitled to be call'd an 
 informer, your husband being still in ignorance 
 of your proceedings. But, if you force me into 
 active measures, I shall not think my character 
 degraded by rescuing an opprest and iujur'd hus- 
 band, and publishing your guilt to all the world 
 As for you, sir 
 
 Star. Oh, pray, my lord, forbear to urge my 
 failings; I confess them freely, and throw my- 
 self at once upon your mercy. 
 
 L. Glen. You have done well, sir, and I hope 
 my lady will recollect herself, and do the same. 
 
 L. True. Let me know what it is that you ex- 
 pect ; for if I must be ruin'd by concessions, I'll 
 sooner face your charge and brave my danger. 
 
 L. Glen. Give up your power, and set your 
 husband free Retire, and separate upon terms 
 proportion'd to your pretensions and Sir Toby's 
 means. Your character shall then have all pro- 
 tection that we can give it, you must add the 
 rest by your own future conduct and discretion. 
 Thus may you save yourself, your son, and this 
 unhappy man, whose ruin else will be inevit- 
 able. 
 
 L. True. Guilty or not, it is in vain to struggle; 
 you have me in your toils. Consult my husband, 
 Jet me know his terms; I put myself into your
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 295 
 
 lordship's hands, until I leave this house ; (which 
 I propose to do to-morrow morning.) [Exit, 
 
 Star. My lord, I hope you'll hear one word in 
 mitigation. 
 
 L. Glen. A thousand, sir, if less will not suffice. 
 
 Star. I am not guilty, neither is my lady. 
 What we had been to-morrow, I'll not say. 
 
 L. Glen. Sir, if I might believe you, it would 
 be most welcome information. 
 
 Star. By all that's sacred, I declare the truth. 
 
 L. Glen. How came my lady then not to assert 
 her innocence? 
 
 Star. My lady had her motives. I hope you'll 
 not compel me to disclose them. A separation 
 has been long her object, and when her tyranny 
 could not provoke Sir Toby to propose it, she 
 became desperate ; and had my scruples, or, if 
 you will, my fears been less repulsive, she would 
 have gone the length of a divorce. Therefore 
 she kept no check upon her servants, and hence 
 it is they have adjudg'd her guilty. 
 
 L. Glen. I understand her motives Are you 
 now prepar'd to break off all connection with 
 this lady ? 
 
 Star. Most peremptorily, and for ever. 
 
 L. Glen. Then follow me, and if you are sin- 
 cere, I'll turn your steps into the road of honour. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 Leo hard, followed by Clifton, leads in Matilda. 
 
 Leon. Now mind, Matilda, here I have you 
 safe, bound hands and feet in fetters; and I've 
 brought this man to witness how I mean to treat 
 you. In the first place, because I know you
 
 296 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 think me an awkward clownish fellow, I intend 
 to case myself forthwith in Clifton's livery, and 
 buy the privilege of being shot at. I am resolv'd 
 in short to be a soldier, and fight myself into 
 some reputation. 
 
 Mate So far, so good. What next? 
 
 Leon. The next thing is, that when I take the 
 field, 1 must not be encumber'd with a wife, 
 whining and whimpering as you would be; for 
 that, as Clifton knows, would damp my fire, and 
 melt my heart, which must be pity-proof, and 
 hard as adamant so, do you see, I mean to take 
 a furlough by myself of half a dozen years or so, 
 before I buckle to the marriage yoke. 
 
 Mat, What's to become of me in the mean 
 time ? 
 
 Leon. In the mean time, because I scorn the 
 trick of holding any lady's heart by law, which 
 I believe is only to he held by love and liking; 
 here I give you up this paper, on condition that 
 you'll transfer your promise, therein made, to him, 
 whom I have therein nam'd that's fair Isn't 
 it, Clifton ? Now I'm even with your for alter- 
 ing my verses. 
 
 CliJ. My heart's too full ; I cannot speak my 
 feeliugs. 
 
 Leon. Well! have you look'd it over? Now 
 don't think, because I give you up to this brave 
 fellow, that I dou't know the value of my gift. 
 If you don't take.it on the terms I offer, by Gog 
 and Magog I'll exact the bond in my own right ; 
 for, next to Clifton, I account myself the best 
 in titled to your hand and heart. 
 
 Mat. Oh Leonard, Leonard, what shall I say 
 to you? Thou art a noble fellow. 
 
 Leon. I'm not a noble fellow, take that with 
 you A noble fellow never yet gave up a lovely
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 297 
 
 girl, as I have given up you : a noble fellow 
 never thinks his friend superior to himself, as I 
 do Clifton a noble fellow never lurks and lis- 
 tens to private conversation, as I did, when you 
 and Clifton open'd your fond hearts to one an- 
 other but I'm reveng'd upon you both at last 
 for not confiding in me There's the bond ! If 
 you will pay it to my order, well 1 If not, I'll 
 sue it out from you in person. I leave you to 
 adjust it as you may. [Exit hastily* 
 
 Clif. Did ever friendship soar to such a pitch? 
 Was ever generosity like this ? 
 
 Mat. According to the value that you set upon 
 the gift, so is the giver's bounty. 
 
 Clif. What estimate can reach the value of a 
 gift, that is inestimable? But will the mistress 
 of my soul accord to the conditions Leonard has 
 impos'd ? 
 
 Mat. They're very hard, but how can I evade 
 them, unless, like him, you will release me also? 
 
 Clif' Release you ! Oh, that these fond arms 
 could hold you for ever to a heart that doats 
 upon you ! 
 
 Mat. Why this is not releasing me, it must be 
 contest, unless it is from life by over-squeezing 
 So pray take pity on me, and give your pri- 
 soner a little air after my tortures Come, you 
 may follow, but I'll not trust you even with my 
 hand. 
 
 Clif. You can't be cruel; those soft melting 
 eyes, like a chastising angel's, beam with pity, 
 and smile upon the object which they punish. 
 
 [Exeunt,
 
 98 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 Sir Toby and my Lady with Lord Glenandry. 
 
 True. Why to be sure, my lady, in your pre- 
 sence 'tis not polite to say that I am happy. Yet 
 I hare got the words upon ray tongue, and they 
 will out. I am the happiest fellow, at this mo- 
 ment, in the three kingdoms. 
 
 L. True. You are very welcome to all the hap- 
 piness that you can find, provided you make 
 good the terms agreed on. Those sign'd and 
 seal'd, we part upon the instant, and why we ever 
 came together, I don't know. Our tempers could 
 not mix. 
 
 True. Indeed they could not, your ladyship's 
 had the property of rising to the top, mine of 
 sinking to the bottom : you say truly, they could 
 neyer mix. 
 
 Leonard enters, 
 
 Leon. Here am I, good folks ! whether merry 
 or melancholy I cannot exactly say, but some- 
 what savouring of both Glad to have left a 
 good fellow happy, but sorry to have given a 
 pretty girl away. Tore George, I believe I must 
 rejoice in my generosity, and repent of it after- 
 wards. Ah mother, thank you for the bond ; I 
 have given it to Matilda Ah, Sir Toby, thank 
 you for your daughter, I have given her to Clif- 
 ton And here they come May I perish, if I 
 don't believe their's is one of the few matches 
 that are made in heaven : they look as happy as 
 if they belong'd to it don't they ?
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 299 
 
 Clifton and Matilda enter. 
 
 Clif. Sir Toby, at your feet I implore a con- 
 firmation of that blessing, which the generosity 
 of this best of benefactors has bestowed upon me. 
 
 True. O lord, O lord, O lord, I shall run mad 
 with joy. 
 
 L. Glen. If this be so, my friend, I am in a 
 fair way to keep you in countenance; you'll have 
 company in your madness. 
 
 L. True. Harkye, son of mine, have you ac- 
 tually given up the obligation I put into your 
 hands. 
 
 Leon. Given it up ! no ; I made it more an 
 obligation than I found it. Here lies the case, 
 mother, strange as it may seem, there's no ac- 
 counting for the whims of women ; so, do you 
 know, though I am M'hat you see, an Apollo for 
 wit and beauty, and your son (which is a great 
 recommendation), yet this silly girl thought 
 little about me, and a great deal about Clifton 
 What could I do with her? I could not take a 
 wife without a heart, so I chose to keep a heart 
 without a wife. 
 
 L. True. 'Tis no matter, you was born a fool, 
 and you will die a fool. Your father was one 
 before you. [Exit. 
 
 Leon. So I should suspect by the choice he 
 made. 
 
 Runic enters. 
 
 Ah, old Runic, are you here ? philosophers are 
 not such rarities as you would make of them. 
 Which of your old Greeks would have given up 
 Matilda ? Drown it there is not one of your 
 seven wise men would have been fool enough to 
 have done it.
 
 SOO THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 
 
 Run. If you have done this, pupil, you have 
 done a thing unparallel'd in history. 
 Leon. In Ovid's History of Love, I believe, 
 there is nothing like it, so throw away your 
 books ; I told you we were wiser than the an- 
 cients. I'll read no more of them Come, Sir 
 Toby, call about you ; let us go to dinner. 
 
 True. Egad, and I will call about me, now my 
 lady is dispos'd of and we will have a merry 
 meal. I'm as little fond of books as you are, 
 Leonard ; learning comes by labour, but eating 
 and drinking come by inspiration Holla! who's 
 there ? Who waits ? Where are you all ? 
 
 [Two livery Servants run in, and after them 
 Patrick smartly dressed. 
 
 Pat. Ready, so please you ! Stand by, under- 
 strappers ! lam his honour's gentleman don't 
 you perceive it? I wonder what can make you 
 so officious. There, there ! abscond, and wait 
 till you are wanted [Puts them out. 
 
 True. How's this, how's this? Patrick, and out 
 of livery ? 
 
 Pat. You may say that; I was out of livery 
 afore I had given over to be in it: so, do you 
 see, I was embolden'd by my modesty to make 
 a little kind of round-about, that went straight 
 forward to the point of favour with his kind 
 honour Clifton, to bestow this bit of drapery on 
 your humble servant The blessing on his heart, 
 'twas done at once; for, Take this key, he cried, 
 my honest fellow, unlock my trunk, and pick 
 out the suit you think will best become you, to 
 attend upon your lovely mistress so when I had 
 my choice thus freely given, I thought I would 
 make free to choose the best. 
 
 L. Glen, Spoke like an honest soldier, and an 
 old one.
 
 THE PASSIVE HUSBAND. 301 
 
 Mat. In my opinion, Patrick, a plainer suit 
 would have become you better. 
 
 Pat. Ah, don't say that don't let me hear you 
 say that rose-colour is not becoming, lady, when 
 your own pretty lips bear witness to its beauty. 
 
 True. Well answer'd, Patrick ! You have long 
 partook your master's sorrows, it is but justice 
 you should share his joys ; and now the only 
 question is, whether Clifton, who has gain'd a 
 wife, or I, who have got rid of one, is happier of 
 the two. 
 
 Clif. What happiness on earth can be so great, 
 as the possession of a heart like this ? 
 
 L. Glen. Then guard it, Clifton, for in times 
 like these virtue neeols every prop that we can 
 give it The world, broke loose from order, arms 
 against it; the law, scarce equal to the task alone, 
 looks to the Muse for succour; and if she, se- 
 due'd by fashion, hath this night held up a false 
 and specious mirror, dash it from you and break 
 the charm : for we appeal to Nature, and by her 
 candid verdict stand or fall. 
 
 I
 
 

 
 TORRENDAL. 
 
 A TRAGEDY,
 

 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Duke 0/Xourland. 
 Torrendal. 
 
 Baron Vanhoven. 
 
 Murinski. 
 
 Lodowick. 
 
 Adam. 
 
 A Monk. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Guards, c. 8$c. Servants of the Baron, S$c. 
 
 Alicia, Countess Torrendal. 
 Baroness Vanhoven. 
 Marian, Wije to Lodowick. 
 
 SCENE, Courland. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 X
 

 
 TORRENDAL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene, the interior of a Cottage in Courland, belong- 
 ing to Lodowick the Wood- cutter. He is sitting 
 in his Chair dosing. Marian Ms Wife enters, and 
 walking up to him, shakes him by the Shoulder, 
 
 Lodowick, Marian. 
 
 Mar Rouse yourself Lodowick, you have dropt 
 asleep, and your pipe is out. 
 
 Lod. Aye, dame, 'tis dead, and turn'd to ashes. 
 
 Mar. Shall I fill it afresh? 
 
 Lod. No, let it be. 
 
 Mar. Shall I fetch you something to wet your 
 lips ? You are weary, poor fellow. 
 
 Lod. Not a drop. What's the hour? 
 
 Mar. Past nine, and a dark night. 
 
 Lod. Is Torrendal come in ? 
 
 Mar. No, he is yet out, wandering about the 
 forest. I have set a candle in the upper window. 
 
 Lod. You have done right. He must needs 
 want a guide, whose senses are so totally astray, 
 that when he is out of sight 'tis but a chance if 
 ever he's seen more. 
 
 Mar. Alas, poor man, if we can't cure him of 
 these rambling fits, some night or other he'll be 
 trapp'd by robbers, and leave his wretched bones 
 in this wild forest. 
 
 Lod, Robbers ! who'll rob him ? Every body 
 X 2
 
 303 TORRENDAL. 
 
 
 
 flies him he's such a spectacle. Six months and 
 more he has been feeding upon little else but 
 sighs and groans for an abandon'd wife, not 
 worth a thought. 
 
 Mar. Ah, Lodowick, he cannot shake her from 
 his thoughts. Some sorrows yield to time; his 
 never will : body and mind they have destroy 'd 
 him wholly. 
 
 Lod. Yes ; sorrow is slow poison ; he sinks un- 
 der it. It grieves my heart to see him pine away 
 day after day, and take no nourishment. If we 
 set meat before hirn, he'll not touch it : the wild 
 roots of the forest are his food, and better beve- 
 rage than the brook affords ne'er moistens his 
 parch'd lip. The time has been, when I remem- 
 ber him as fine a man as ever stepp'd the earth, 
 " the handsome Torrendal the gallant Cour- 
 lander," so he was call'd. 
 
 Mar. He was, he was. I never shall forget 
 the day he enter'd Mittau with the troops that 
 serv'd in Poland you was in his train aye, that 
 you was and rode a stately charger, though now 
 you are fain to hoof it to the copse on your bare 
 brogues, and labour for your living. 
 
 Lod. Well, we must take what providence 
 decrees; murmuring won't mend it. Count Tor- 
 rendal was once a happy man ; we liv'd with him, 
 and led a happy life; now he is miserable, and 
 lives with us. So the world goes and for my- 
 self, I care not ; so let it go ! I have nothing to 
 complain of: I have my senses, and an honest 
 wife; he has thrown his wits away upon a wanton. 
 Mar. Aye, shame upon her! she is a wicked 
 woman, that I will say a base deceitful woman 
 is she not? when I reflect how happily they 
 liv'd together, how good, how kind to her he ever 
 was, I am astonish'd how she could be brought
 
 TORRENDAL. 309 
 
 to abandon so excellent a husband, and become 
 mistress to the Duke of Courland. 
 
 Lod. Wife, 'tis a rule with me never to wonder 
 at what a woman does. The Countess Torrendal 
 has only shewn the world she had more vanity 
 than virtue, and why her husband should, from 
 that discovery, lose his reason, puzzles my wits 
 as much as it does his but hark ! he's at the 
 door. [A knocking is heard. 
 
 Murinski calls from without, 
 
 Mur. Within there cottagers ! 
 
 Mar. That's not our master's voice. Do not 
 go out unarm'd ; take your sword with you ! 
 
 Lod* Pooh! what are you afraid of? Who's at 
 the door? 
 
 Mur. [from without] A traveller, that has lost 
 his way and is benighted. 
 
 Lod. Enter! 
 
 [Opens the door and admits Murinskt. 
 
 Mur. I thank you. Twas a kindly deed, when 
 moon and stars are wanting, to hang out that 
 charitable light; it augurs well of your philan- 
 thropy. 
 
 Lod. It augurs only that the night is dark, and 
 we've a friend abroad in this wild place, whom 
 we are expecting. Did you meet any person 
 hereabouts ? 
 
 Mur. I met a man, who pointed out your cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Mar. Where have you left him ? What have 
 you done with him ? 
 
 Mur, Suspect me not, good dame. I am a 
 gentleman, by name Murinski, in the especial 
 service of the duke. 
 
 Lod. Were you the duke himself, you should
 
 SIO TORRENDAL. 
 
 not stir out of these doors till I am satisfied my 
 friend is safe. If, as you say, he pointed out the 
 cottage, why did he not come with you? 
 
 Mar. He did, till some few paces from your 
 door he struck into the wood and disappear'd. I 
 call'd to him, but to confess the truth, his ges- 
 ture was so wild, his voice so stern, and his tall 
 figure, through the misty gloom, so strikingly 
 terrific, I was not over-anxious to detain him, 
 he being arm'd withal, and I defenceless. 
 
 Lod. You have seen enough to guess at bis 
 misfortune : he is derang'd in mind. 
 
 Mur. I did suspect it. Nothing could I wring 
 from him by the way, but broken murmurs in a 
 hollow voice, and sighs between that seem'd to 
 rend his breast. His step was slow and solemn, 
 ill adapted to my impatience, and I own my 
 heart shook with alarm, when, stopping on the 
 sudden, he seiz'd my wrist, and in a tone, that 
 seem'd more like the scream of pain than human 
 speech, demanded "Was I married?" To which, 
 when I gave answer I was not ff Tis well for 
 " you," he cried, " that you are not, else had I 
 " beat your brains out with this club, in very 
 " charity to save your wits." 
 
 Lod. Aye, that's the pinch ; there is the point 
 that wrings him But hark ! he is coming. 
 
 [Torrendal strikes the door mtk his club-stick. 
 Pray you, stand aside; wait, till we see what 
 humour he is in. Marian will speak to him 
 
 [Marian opens the door, Torrendal enters. 
 
 Afar. Oh welcome, welcome ! we have been 
 looking for you this long long hour. Where, in 
 the name of wonder, have you been rambling at 
 this time of night? 
 
 Tor. Where the wolf rambles up and down 
 the forest.
 
 TOR REN DAL. 311 
 
 Night is my clay ; I walk not in the sun, 
 For fear my shadow, falling on the bosom 
 Of mother Earth, should turn her milk to gall. 
 The tears I shed are cankerous as the drops 
 Of rain distilling from that pois'nous tree, 
 Beneath whose shade no vegetation lives. 
 Here, Lody, put my staff into its place 
 I met a traveller Hah ! there he is . 
 How fare you, sir? you journey in the dark. 
 It is surprising, with how little light 
 Some men will find their way through this blind 
 world. 
 Mur. What do I see? CanTorrendal be living? 
 That voice, that air, that form and yet how 
 chang'd I 
 Tor. Heaven keep your wits ! what is that dis- 
 turbs you ? 
 Do you see aught in me to move your wonder ? 
 Mur. Much to engage my pity. 
 Tor. Why, what ails me ? 
 My wounds are out of sight. If I'd as many 
 As there are stars, so they were in my flesh, 
 I would not wince ; but stab me in my spirit, 
 Who can heal me ? What say'st thou, Lodowick ? ; 
 Thou art a wood-cutter, the foe of nature, 
 It is thy trade to murder vegetation ; 
 Didst ever know the tree that fail'd to die, 
 When thy sharp axe had cut it to the heart ? 
 
 Lod. Come, sir, we'll call to mind the good 
 old maxim " Repeat no grievances" 
 Tor. Right ! you are right ; we'll hold to that 
 good maxim, 
 And make our griefs our sport : I'll be as merry 
 As misery can make me. Tales of woe, . 
 That wring the whimpering tear from reason's 
 
 eye, 
 Madness shall laugh at. I'm in cue for mirth. ;
 
 312 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Lod. Then happy be the hour! let us to supper! 
 Our fare is homely, but our welcome's hearty : 
 Marian has oaten cakes and roots on the fire; 
 Shall we go set them out ? 
 
 Tor. By all means, Lody; set out what you have. 
 Nature gives largely; we can spare a part. 
 And harkye, my good wench, this man is weary; 
 Spread him my bearskin for his bed to-night. 
 I can read soldier in his face, and that's a billet 
 For bed and board in every house he enters 
 Go ; leave me with him ! 
 
 Mar. I will, I will. Heaven comfort your kind 
 heart. [Exeunt Marian and Lodowick. 
 
 TORRENDAL, MlJRINSKI. 
 
 Tor. Ah, will that pray'r be heard ? Now, sir, 
 I know you. 
 When I was Torrendal, and had a heart, 
 I shar'd it with Murinski 
 
 Mur. Ob, my friend, 
 If I have held that trust in happier days, 
 *Tis now, when Torrendal has need of comfort, 
 I would fain share his heart and its afflictions. 
 
 Tor. No, no, forget me; I am gone to ruin; 
 I am as one that's dead and out of memory, 
 And when I throw these wither'd arms about you, 
 I press you to a cold and lifeless corpse, 
 That chills you with its touch. [Embraces him. 
 
 Mur. It warms, it cheers me, 
 It gives a spring to all those tender cords, 
 That early friendship twin'd about my heart. 
 
 Tor. Do you still hold your station with the 
 duke? 
 
 Mur. I do. 
 
 Tor. Then wherefore ask to know my sorrows? 
 They are before you every hour in sight
 
 TORRENDAL. 313 
 
 Each moment that you meet that shameless duke 
 And my false wife must give them to your view. 
 You best can witness how I lov'd Alicia, 
 You then can best conjecture what I suffer. 
 
 Mur. I hope you mean never to see her more. 
 
 Tor. I see her every where, by night, by day, 
 Sleeping or waking, still her vision haunts me; 
 I saw her in the forest where you met me ; 
 She was then with me, walking by my side : 
 There is no place secure; darkness can't hide her, 
 Nor solitude, nor silence can exclude her. 
 
 Mur. Do these good cottagers, with whom you 
 harbour, 
 Know you for Torrendal ? 
 
 Tor. They, and none else. 
 I know there is a rumour of my death ; 
 I humour that report. You must be secret 
 
 Mur. As your own thoughts. 
 
 Tor. What brings you to these parts ? 
 
 Mur. I'm sorry you inquire, for I must tell you. 
 The Duke of Courland meditates a visit 
 To the old baron of Vizinga castle. 
 
 Tor. We shall be neighbours Comes my mi- 
 sery with him ? 
 Yes, yes, she comes ; I see her in his train : 
 He travels in his proper state of splendour, 
 With his full equipage of crimes about him. 
 Now let Vanhoven conjure all his demons; 
 And preternat'ral wonders aid the skill 
 Of this far-fam'd magician. 
 
 Mur. I have heard 
 Most wond'rous fables told of this impostor. 
 
 Tor. It is an age of wonders, and Vanhoven 
 The wonder of the age. If you' ve a friend 
 In t'other world, whom you would wish to see, 
 Vanhoven is your man to call him up, 
 Though he were bedded in the Baltic wave,
 
 314 TORRENDAL. 
 
 And he shall come in person, or by proxy, 
 No matter which There is a curious fellow; 
 Adam by name, an imp of the old wizzard, 
 Who shall act Caesar's ghost so like to Caesar, 
 That Brutus, were he living, should not know him 
 From the true ghost, that met him at Philippi. 
 
 Mur. How far from hence does this Vanhoven 
 dwell ? 
 
 Tor. Scarce three bow-shots from hence his 
 castle lies, 
 A mould'ring monument of ancient days, 
 Buried in swamps, through which no trodden path, 
 No smoking chimney lures the traveller; 
 His hall ne'er echoes with the festive song, 
 But from the hollow tower the night bird screams, 
 And croaking ravens chorus to the yell 
 Of the starv'd watch-dog howling to the moon : 
 There, in his moated fortress deep entrench'd, 
 In feudal state the musing baron sits, 
 Whilst his torn banners, hanging by the wall, 
 Recall, in retrospection, times foregone 
 Pondering his spells, he sits ; at dead of night 
 The neighb'ring peasant hears, or thinks he hears, 
 Deep sighs and dismal groans of troubled ghosts 
 Torn from their peaceful graves Such is Van- 
 hoven, 
 Fit host, I ween, for his unholy guests. 
 
 [Adam walks in cloked, and carrying a lantern, 
 which he deliberately extinguishes, and puts by. 
 
 Mur. Soft, who comes here ? what solemn 
 thing is this, 
 That stalks in as by right, and gives no warning? 
 
 Tor. This is the fellow that 1 told you of, 
 Death's major-domo, he that keeps the key 
 Of all the cells, charnels, and catacombs 
 Where ghosts are quarter'd How now, master 
 Adam !
 
 TORRENDAL; 315 
 
 What business brings you here, and why that 
 lantern ? 
 Adam. My business is with Lodowick the 
 woodman; 
 And for the lantern, I must needs want light,' 
 When neither moon nor stars are in the skies. 
 Tor. Can phosphorus want light? Let the stars 
 go to bed ; 
 Let the good housewife Night put out her candles, 
 You, and the self-illuminated owl. 
 May travel without lanterns Hoa! within there 
 
 [Calls for Lodowick. 
 
 Mur. I understand, grave sir, that you belong 
 
 To the great sage, whose fame the world resounds 
 
 with, 
 Baron Vanhoven 
 
 Adam. I'm his servant, sir. 
 Mur. The wisdom that you carry in your looks, 
 Shews you a servant worthy such a master. 
 Adam. Sir, I'm not wise, not positively wise. 
 Tor. No, but he follows wisdom at the heels, 
 As a cur does a beggar; 
 
 With the next turn he'll catch her by the skirts 
 This mummery disgusts me Let us leave him 
 Here, Lodowick, where are you? You are 
 wanted 
 
 [Exeunt Torrendal and Murinski. 
 
 [As Torrendal arid Murinski are going out, they 
 
 meet Lodowick, who comes from the inner room, 
 
 Lodowick, Adam. 
 
 Lod. Ah, master Adam, what is your good 
 pleasure ? 
 
 Adam. Hear me, thou vassal of the great Van- 
 hoven ! . 1 
 The Duke of Courland and his peerless mistress
 
 
 
 316 TORRENDAL. 
 
 are coming to Vizinga. You must up, and drive 
 the forest by the peep of day. 
 
 Lod. Why must I drive the forest? 
 
 Adam. To kill him venison for his princely 
 guest. 
 
 Lod. I'll kill him a wild boar; methinks, friend 
 Adam, the flesh of swine will better suit his 
 highness, and breed a chyle more generous and 
 congenial than flesh of timorous deer What 
 have those peaceful creatures done, that I should 
 kill them ? 
 
 Adam. What have they done, that you should 
 let them live ? 
 
 Lod. They are my friends ; they visit me at 
 my work, and when the echo of my hatchet lures 
 their harmless curiosity, they come and stand, 
 and gaze with such a listening look, that I can 
 fancy myself another Orpheus, and my rude tool 
 a lyre. 
 
 Adam. Fancy yourself what you are, the vassal 
 of the Lord Vanhoven, and let those friends of 
 yours, that are so fond of music, dance into his 
 kitchen, or, take my word, friend Orpheus, he'll 
 make you dance out of this house to the tune of 
 an ejectment. 
 
 Lod. I hope he'll not do it ; my father, and my 
 father's father have held it for a pretty many 
 years. 
 
 Adam. If you had held it from the days of 
 Noah, you will be ousted, so I tell you, friend, 
 unless you stir betimes, and bring us something 
 to set the spits a turning. Lay down your hat- 
 chet, and take up your gun; that's music we 
 have some ear for. What, what ! princes must 
 fare like princes ; courtiers palates must be tick- 
 led with savoury sauces, and favourite ladies 
 must have favourite bits partridge or quail, or
 
 TORRENDAL. 317 
 
 a nice thrush in vine-leaves must be serv'd up to 
 the all-powerful countess. 
 
 Lod. To her ! to Courland's mistress ! Let her 
 fast, and physic her hot blood with such poor 
 fare as may beget repentance, and atone to an 
 unhappy husband, in whose heart her gross adul- 
 teries have planted daggers. 
 
 Adam. What's that you talk of? Are you mad 
 or drunk, or both at once, to give your tongue 
 such license? Adulteress! she cannot be, for 
 Torrendal is dead. 
 
 Lod. Ob, is he so? It had escap'd my memory. 
 Adam. If you escape the gallows, I shall won- 
 der. Why, you are worse than your mad guest 
 himself. I'll stay no longer in your company; 
 I have given you your orders; so remember; I 
 have done with you. 
 
 Lod. Stop ! you have drawn me unawares to 
 say more than I ought in prudence to have said. 
 If you are dispos'd to take advantage of it, I am 
 at your mercy ; you may cite me before the 
 baron, and he may cite me before the duke, and 
 there will be an end ; your spite can go no fur- 
 ther : the worst that can befall me, will be to 
 suffer for my affection to a noble master, for 
 such was the Count Torrendal to me. 
 
 Adam. Well, well ! that's some excuse : you 
 lov'd your master, and resent his wrongs. I shan't 
 betray you ; but take better heed how you make 
 othe,r people's cause your own. And now I've 
 often thought to ask you, Lodowick, who is 
 this strange mysterious man, who has liv'd with 
 you for months, and no one knows by his true 
 name? 
 
 Lod. Who is he ? 
 
 Adam. Aye, who is he, and how do you con- 
 trive to keep an idler at your cost, who strolls
 
 518 TORRENDAL. 
 
 about, and never, as I am told, has turn'd his 
 hand to any useful labour ? 
 
 Lod. He was not bred to labour, and, had he 
 been, he is too ill to work. 
 < Adam. Then why do you maintain him ? 
 
 Lod. Because when I was poor, and he had 
 plenty, I was maintain'd by him. As for who he 
 is, and what he is, you will excuse me: he is an 
 innocent man, and an injur'd man. 
 
 Adam, A crazy one, I believe. 
 
 Lod. The greater his misfortune; he thinks 
 much, and is at times derang'd ; but he is now 
 calmer, and more compos'd than I have known 
 Jhim for months foregone. 
 
 Adam. Well, I'll not trouble you with more 
 questions Give me your hand ! You have said 
 enough. Good night ! remember me to Marian. 
 
 Lod. Thank you, friend Adam ! I'll be with 
 you early, and bring you something, if my gun 
 don't fail me. 
 
 Adam. Do so; it will be welcome, for we are 
 unprovided : between you and me, honest Lodo- 
 wick, in our castle the larder is the emptiest 
 room in the house, and the kitchen is the cool- 
 est; the very rats are upon short allowance. 
 Therefore bring something with you by all means 
 Come, you shall light my lantern atyour candle, 
 and then once more Good night. [Exeunt,
 
 TORRENDAL. 319 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene, an Apartment in the Castle of Vizinga : the 
 Style that of ancient Architecture. 
 
 Baron Vanhoven and Baroness. 
 
 Van. Here, madam, read this letter from the 
 duke ; read it, and see what honours he intends 
 us. 
 
 Bar. Excuse me : I am not gratified by his 
 flattery; if you are, read it yourself. 
 
 Van. Well, so I will ; but why do you pro- 
 nounce it to be flattery ? Does not philosophy 
 merit respect r 
 
 Bar. Ah, my good baron, your philosophy is 
 something so mysterious and so dark, that my 
 common sense can't comprehend it but read 
 your letter, if you please I'll hear it. 
 
 Van. Do so ! attend ! Tis written all through 
 with his highness's own hand [Reads. 
 
 To the Baron Vanhoven. 
 
 [Secret and confidential, .] 
 " Learned Sir ! 
 " I am on my way to visit you, drawn by the 
 " report of your miraculous performances, to the 
 " castle of Vizinga, as suitors were of old to the 
 " Oracle of Delphi. I bring with me a fair client 
 " to your shrine, the relict of the deceased Count 
 " Torrendal. She has scruples of much moment 
 " to refer to you, the which if you can resolve to 
 " her satisfaction and repose, you will establish 
 " the fame of your philosophy in its fullest lustre,
 
 S<20 TORRENDAL. 
 
 " and shew yourself to be that illuminated sage, 
 " which some want faith to believe you are, but 
 " which I am willing to hope you will approve 
 u yourself to be. 
 
 " Yours, in all worthy service, 
 
 " Courland." 
 
 Well, baroness, what have you to say to this ? 
 
 Bar. Nothing, for I can discover nothing in 
 that letter, but danger to you, and disappoint- 
 ment to the writer of it. 
 
 Van. What danger do you apprehend to me ? 
 Explain yourself! 
 
 Bar. I don't wish to explain myself; perhaps 
 I cannot, at least to your satisfaction I am sure I 
 cannot. There is so much credulity in mankind 
 now towards things incredible, and so little faith 
 in things worthy to be credited, that it is very 
 possible they may expect of you something that 
 you cannot perform, and ought not if you could. 
 
 Van. What do you suppose it is they may ex- 
 pect of me ? 
 
 Bar. Tis hard to say what an imperious liber- 
 tine, and an ambitious woman, may expect : one 
 thing you are warn'd of the lady has doubts; 
 and well she may : conduct, like her's, will na- 
 turally entail some scruples on the conscience ; 
 these you are to have the honour of appeasing : I 
 know not what resources you may have in your 
 philosophy; but, for my part, I can't conceive 
 what honour it will gain by finding salvos for 
 adultery. 
 
 Van. What do you know of my philosophy? 
 
 Bar. But little, yet too much: this, however, 
 I kuow, (and you who are a husband won't dis- 
 pute it) wives should be honest. 
 
 Van. Yes, and those wives, whom nature stints
 
 TORRENDAL. 321 
 
 in beauty, are honest by their fate. The Coun- 
 tess Torrendal can plead temptations, that few, 
 if any, who arraign her conduct, would have 
 withstood. 
 
 Bar. Temptations! What should tempt her to 
 abuse so excellent a husband ? All the world 
 pities him, and condemns her. 
 
 Van. What does she care about the world's 
 opinion, and how is he the better for its pity ? 
 The gentleman is dead. 
 
 Bar. I understand that is not quite so certain; 
 this may be amongst the lady's scruples, that 
 she may think your art can ascertain. 
 
 Van. Well, madam, if she does, I am prepar'd. 
 
 Bar. Ah, baron, baron, 'tis a fatal omen for 
 the world's peace, when men take up such arro- 
 gant opinions; and think themselves illuminated 
 beings, when they have shut their eyes against 
 that light, which heaveu, in mercy, had reveal'd 
 to save them. But I have done ; thank heaven, 
 my humble task is simply to prepare you food 
 and lodging foryourexpected guests the sooner 
 that task is discharg'd, the better so farewell. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Van. Well ! Socrates was married, so am I. 
 She has guess'd right, however, at the motives 
 of Courland's visit ; I shall be requir'd to raise 
 the ghost of Torrendal 
 
 Adam appears. 
 
 Van. Adam, come in! I have something to 
 impart to you. Shut the door! Adam, I have 
 reason to suspect this visit of the Duke of Cour- 
 land's, will call upon us to exert our art ; if so, 
 I would wish to set our mystery off in its best 
 form. 
 
 vol. i, Y
 
 222 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Adam. Well, sir, we have got a famous appa- 
 ratus. 
 
 Van. For common purposes we are provided, 
 but not for all Suppose I should be put to raise 
 a certain ghost 
 
 Adam. We have shadows for the, purpose. 
 
 Van. But shadows should be like their sub- 
 stances. The death of Torrendal is yet in doubt 
 What if the duke command me to exhibit his 
 apparition? I don't know his person; who will 
 describe him to me? 
 
 Adam. Lodowick, your vassal; the wood-cut- 
 ter, that lives here in your forest : he was ser- 
 vant to the count for years. 
 
 Van. Find out that Lodowick immediately, and 
 send him to me. 
 
 Adam. So please you, sir, he is gone out to 
 shoot game for the castle but his friend is here; 
 the guest he harbours in his house is walking 
 now hard by 
 
 Van. Weil, if he is, what knows he of the 
 matter? 
 
 Adam. Tis hard to say, most venerable sir, 
 what he does not know. 
 
 Van. Indeed! I'm told he is unsound of mind. 
 
 Adam. He may be so at times, or he may seem 
 so to those who cannot rightly comprehend him. 
 
 Van. That's true, that's true. Genius appears 
 like madness to the vulgar. You have rais'd my 
 curiosity to see him Adam admit him instantly. 
 
 [Exit Adam. 
 Vanhoven alone. 
 
 How many a man, in this misjudging world, 
 By loftiness of thought, or depth of study 
 ..In, sciences abstruse, appears insane, 
 Wild, and eccentric to the level eye
 
 TORRENDAL. 303 
 
 Of common observation! One of these 
 
 This man, perchance, may be Hah ! he appears 
 
 Tor ren dal enters. 
 
 My servant tells me you attend to see me 
 
 Tor. I covet that high honour Who does not, 
 That has respect for science ? 
 
 Van. I'm told you dwell 
 With Lodowick, my vassal 
 
 Tor. Sapient baron, 
 Under your sage protection I am harbour'd, 
 By your poor vassal in his humble cottage. 
 I have known better days but they are past. 
 
 Van. Your phrase bespeaks you of no vulgar 
 breeding, 
 And what I had in mind to ask of him, 
 You can perhaps resolve It has been told me, 
 This Lodowick, with whom you sojourn, liv'd 
 And serv'd in Poland with Count Torrendal 
 Know you if this be so ? 
 
 Tor. Sir, so it is. 
 
 Van. I never saw the person of the count: 
 He could describe him to me. 
 
 Tor. I should think so. 
 
 Van. But can you say (for that imports me 
 most), 
 If Lodowick was with him when he died ? 
 
 Tor. Died ! 
 
 Van. What alarms you ? Torrendal is dead 
 Know you not that ? 
 
 Tor. Yes Torrendal is dead 
 His nobler part is perish'd He is dead. 
 ' Van. You knew him, I should guess 
 
 Tor. I knew him once 
 No one could know him now He's greatly 
 
 chang'd 
 
 Y2
 
 324 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Van. All men are chang'd by death. 
 
 Tor. And some by sorrow. 
 Death cannot quench the soul as misery can ; 
 The worm preys only upon carcases : 
 Misery can make the living man a corpse, 
 And render frightful the fairest work of heav'n. 
 
 Van. Do you now speak of Torrendal as living? 
 
 Tor. No, no, I told you Torrendal is dead. 
 Who ever lov'd as he did, and outliv'd 
 The loss of what he lov'd? Is there in man 
 That heart, which injuries deep as he has suffer'd, 
 And fell ingratitude cannot destroy? 
 
 Van. You're speaking of his wife 
 
 Tor. Aye, of his wife 
 
 Van. Of her, who now is Courland's reigning 
 mistress 
 
 Tor. Of her of her of her. 
 
 Van. You are much mov'd. 
 
 Tor. Not much not much. Dark deeds will 
 come to light. 
 For sure I am, lord baron, there is kept 
 A register of every secret crime ; 
 That whatsoever we have lost on earth, 
 By man's injustice, shall be found in heav'n ; 
 The injured husband's soul shall rest in peace. 
 But for this woman 
 
 Van. You seem to know the tale 
 So variously related ; some acquit, 
 And not a few condemn her. She is coming 
 Here to Vizinga: 'tis a princely visit, 
 Unsought and unexpected, for I give 
 My thoughts to study. 
 
 Tor. Yes, and wonderous things 
 Are bruited of your studies : it is said 
 That you unlock the graves, and, by your spells, 
 Call up the spirits of departed men, 
 Though buried fathoms deep at the sea-bottom.
 
 TORRENDAL. 325 
 
 This is most wonderful But, mighty seer, 
 Are there no spirits, who resist your spells? 
 
 Van. The spirits of the dead, as of the living, 
 Are various in their kinds ; some will oppose 
 And mutiny against the potent spell, 
 That in the end constrains them to appear. 
 
 Tor. Of what degree are these ? 
 
 Van. I'll tell thou that When injuries have 
 been done 
 To the deceas'd, and I call up their spirits 
 In presence of the persons who have wrong'd 
 
 them, 
 So strong must be the charm, that shall enforce 
 The angry and reluctant ghost to rise, 
 And, when he comes, 'tis with threat'ning face, 
 And yeli so hideous, as must needs appall 
 The stoutest heart with terror and amaze 
 For instance in the dreadful case of murder, 
 The scene is more than nature can abide. 
 
 Tor, I can believe it : let me then suppose 
 An injur'd husband rising from the grave 
 Upon the call of his adulterous wife 
 
 Van. The adulterous wife might die upon the 
 spot. 
 
 Tor. She might but would she ? No, they do 
 not die 
 Of such slight cause ; their consciences are sear'd, 
 And 'tis not sounds or shadows can affright them. 
 They only tremble at the living husband, 
 The dead is out of thought. If your frail guest 
 Would see the shadow of her injur'd lord, 
 You need not tax your art to raise his ghost, 
 Any stale mummery will pass on her, 
 Who only wants to sanction her offence, 
 And hold a show of conscience to the world. 
 
 Van. Who you may be, I know not; your dis- 
 course
 
 326 TOR REN DAL. 
 
 Betokens observation, and a judgment 
 That, little dazzled by exterior seeming, 
 Looks deep into the heart I now must leave you. 
 To-morrow I would fain renew our talk, 
 So each to other shall be better known. 
 
 Tor. I'm yours, at any hour. 
 
 Van. I'm with the sun ; 
 His orient beams ne'er find these eyelids clos'd 
 In dull ignoble sleep. With the first dawn 
 I will expect you at the castle gate ; 
 There shall be found, who will conduct you to me. 
 Till then, farewell ! 
 
 Tor. I humbly take my leave. [Exit. 
 
 Van. Why do they say this man is craz'd ? 'Tis 
 false ; 
 His reason is disturb'd, but not destroy'd : 
 As glass, when broken into fragments, seems 
 More sparkling than when perfect and entire, 
 So do his wits break out in brighter gleams, 
 Wand'ring and wild, than when by judgment 
 fixt. i [Exit. 
 
 . 
 Scene changes to another Apartment in the Castle 
 of Vizinga. 
 
 Baroness Vakhqven and a Monk. 
 
 Bar. Father, I want your counsel how to act 
 in a divided duty, The Duke of Courland is ex- 
 pected here, and brings his favourite mistress, 
 Countess Torrendal. My honour and my con- 
 science both revolt against the company of that 
 bad woman. My husband mocks these scruples, 
 and requires me to entertain her Must I obey 
 him ? 
 
 Monk. No, you must not : I warn .you to
 
 TOURENDAL. 327 
 
 beware : if he has made, as I suspect he has, an 
 impious compact with the evil spirits, at his soul's 
 peril, it cannot be for any worthy purpose that 
 Courland brings his guilty mistress hither; there- 
 fore, daughter, separate yourself in time from 
 their society, for, I predict, their witchcrafts and 
 adulteries will draw some just afid dreadful judg- 
 ment down ere they depart. 
 
 Bar. I fearfully expect it. Thanks, good 
 
 father! give me your prayers, and take me to 
 
 your peace. Let us withdraw : we fall on evil 
 
 times. [Exeunt. 
 
 Adam enters. 
 
 Adam. The baron in his conjuring room, the 
 baroness with her confessor, the Duke of Cour- 
 land at the door, and nobody to receive him but 
 I, Adam, and only I Well, here he comes a 
 
 prince is but a man. 
 
 m 
 
 Duke of Courland, Countess Torrendal, 
 Attendants. 
 
 Duke. At length we have conquer'd all our dif- 
 ficulties, and with much toil and labour, through 
 ways so wild arid rugged, as would have baffled 
 travellers less zealous, reach'd the mansion of the 
 omniscient sage but where's our host to give us 
 welcome ? Does the baron know of our arrival? 
 
 Adam. Most gracious prince, I have sent to 
 give him notice. The baron occupies a distant 
 quarter, and had withdrawn to study. 
 
 Duke. We can excuse him, sir ; he is a philo- 
 sopher and not a courtier but look ! he comes 
 

 
 328 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Vanhoven enters and makes a profound reverence. 
 
 Baron Vanhoven, we are come thus far to lay a 
 trouble on you; but as the feast we look for 
 don't consist in table dainties, we have so con- 
 triv'd to take you by surprise, that we may levy 
 simply a soldier's ration on your castle, and no 
 more. 
 
 Van. Your highness does me infinite grace, 
 and I pray you to accept the homage of a poor 
 hermit, who has nought to offer but cordial wel- 
 come to his homely cell. 
 
 Duke. In point of solitude, it may resemble 
 what you are pleased to style it; but,, when found, 
 it is a stately castle. 
 
 Van. Tis like its owner, old and out of fashion. 
 
 Count. It is the seat of science, and so far it 
 may be said to be out of fashion. 
 
 Duke. I once had wrote you letters, learned 
 sir, inviting you to court ; but, when I weigh'd 
 the value of your time, I thought the sacrifice a 
 public loss, and therefore came with this my fair 
 companion, that I might have to say I had seen 
 Vanhoven, the wonder of the age. 
 
 Van. Your highness flatters your poor host too 
 highly. Time, and a patient thought, will teach 
 us something; and sages, who by study have dis- 
 cover'd the wond'rous powers and properties of 
 nature, will do those things that make the vul- 
 gar stare, and set them down for sorcerers and 
 magicians. 
 
 Duke. This modest answer raises my high opi- 
 nion of your great merits : I must now remind 
 you, that all men, who possess superior talents, 
 must pay a tax to curiosity, and you, of all men 
 living in these times, stand at the highest rate
 
 TORRENDAL. 329 
 
 in that assessment. Now, baron, you must know 
 that I have vested all such my right and title in 
 this lady, whom I shall leave with you to state 
 her claims, and that your conference may not be 
 disturb'd, be pleas'd to shew me where I may 
 withdraw. 
 
 Van. This door, sir, opens to a gallery There's 
 space at least, but little to amuse. Is it your 
 pleasure to enter ?r Your highness commands 
 here : my duty is to obey. 
 
 Duke. I leave my pledge with you. We shall 
 soon meet again. [Exit with Attendants. 
 
 * 
 Vanhoven, Countess Torrendal. 
 
 Van. Now, lady, speak your pleasure ! We are 
 private. 
 
 Count. It may be so ; but there is nothing 
 here, 
 That marks the school of the philosopher ; 
 No mystic books, no symbols of your art : 
 This is a room of state ; it is not here 
 That you perform those wonders, that excite 
 The world's amazement, and my anxious hopes. 
 W T here is your place of study ? Shew me that. 
 
 Van. Instruction is not limited to place : 
 Plato could teach in groves, and Socrates 
 Could moralize even in the public streets. 
 
 Count. But Socrates had private intimations 
 From his familiar demon So have you 
 Those awful visions, those mysterious meetings, 
 There, there it is I am curious to be present. 
 
 Van. That curiosity you might repent of. 
 
 Count. I come to know my fate ; disclose that 
 to me, 
 And in whatever terrors you may clothe 
 The revelation, I am arm'd to meet them.
 
 530 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Van. Then tell me what it is that you would 
 know : 
 Let me have clear perception of your wishes. 
 
 Count. 'Tis said, that by your spells you can 
 call up 
 The spirits of the dead from out their graves, 
 And shew them in their proper form and feature 
 To such as you admit into your circle 
 I solemnly adjure you to declare 
 If this, which I have heard, he true or false. 
 
 Van. Excuse, me, lady ; these are mysteries 
 I may not speak of: you must wave that question ; 
 You may proceed to others; well assur'd 
 That w hat I *>hall attempt, I can perform. 
 
 Count. Resolve me then if Torrendal be dead 
 
 Van. What proof do you require? 
 
 Count. Ocular proof. 
 
 Van. You're a bold woman. Would you see 
 his ghost? 
 
 Count. Stop! give me time: fix not your eyes 
 upon me ; 
 You stagger my resolve. 
 
 Van. What are these doubts ? You know that 
 he is dead ; 
 Why then disturb his spirit? Let him rest. 
 
 Count. If I had peace, his spirit should have 
 rest, 
 But I am rack'd with terror and suspense. 
 The man that brought me tidings or his death, 
 Might be impos'd upon, might be suborn'd, 
 He did not see him dead ; no one is found 
 To vouch that fact by evidence of sight. 
 
 Van. But what is the report? Where did he die? 
 
 Count. In Lithuania. 
 
 Van. By what kind of death ; 
 Natural, or violent ? 
 
 Count. 'Tis said he sicken'd,
 
 TORRENDAL. 331 
 
 And died by slow disease; but from the hour 
 In which he left me, by the duke's command, 
 To serve in Poland, not a word e'er reach'd me 
 By letter, or by message, to relieve 
 Myanxiousheart: twelvetedious months roll'd on, 
 And all was silent, cruel, cold neglect; 
 Can you then wonder if I fly to you, 
 Whose spell the tenants of the grave obey, 
 To call that awful apparition forth, 
 And end at once my life or my suspense ? 
 
 Van. That spectre will be terrible to sight, 
 The weakness of your sex may sink before it. 
 
 Count. If you have look'don spectres, andout- 
 liv'd it, 
 Ev'n so may I ; therefore prepare your spell, 
 For I'm resolv'd. The peril of the act 
 Be on my head ! 
 
 Van. Then let me warn the duke, 
 And I no longer will oppose your wish. 
 
 Count. So let it be ! Where shall we meet, 
 and when ? 
 
 Van. When darkness thickens, and the even- 
 ing star 
 Trims his pale lamp, will be the hour to meet : 
 The place, my cell, beneath the western tower ; 
 There you must come in silence and alone, 
 If come you will in spite of my protest ; 
 And when the ghost of him, that was your husband, 
 Torn from the bowels of a distant grave, 
 In shadowy terror stalks around the circle, 
 Where you stand trembling 
 
 Count. Break off your description ! 
 Leave me to meditation 
 
 Van. Heaven direct 
 That meditation, and divert your thoughts 
 From this ill-omen'd enterprise ! Farewell ! 
 
 [Exit.
 
 332 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Countess Torrendal. 
 
 Why do I pause ? There is no cure for conscience, 
 
 Nothing to save my honour, and build up 
 
 My fortune into greatness, but this ghost : 
 
 Let me be once assur'd that he is dead, 
 
 And I am Courland's consort, not his mistress : 
 
 Ambition thus in me becomes a virtue; 
 
 And what have I to fear from him when dead, 
 
 Whom living I ne'er wrong'd, but truly lov'd, 
 
 Till absent he forgot me ? then, indeed, 
 
 When I had lost his heart, I lost myself, 
 
 And Courland triumph'd Now, if some should 
 
 ask 
 What kind of spirits are they, good or evil, 
 Which minister their aid to this magician, 
 Is that for me to answer ? No, for him. 
 If, by his power, with these, to me unknown, 
 He can compel my husband's ghost to rise, 
 How terrible soever, let him come, 
 'Tis but his shade, and I will look upon him.
 
 TOR REND AL. 353 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Lodowick's Cottage. 
 Torrendal sitting Marian in attendance. 
 
 Mar. Good master, you have slept. 
 
 Tor. I have, good mistress ; 
 The humming of your wheel lull'd me to sleep. 
 
 Mar. Marry, my wheel has wrought a blessed 
 work, 
 Heav'n's mercy heal you ! 
 
 Tor. If I am not heal'd, 
 It was at least a merciful delusion, 
 That led me to believe it. I have dreamt, 
 And in my vision a wing'd cherub came, 
 Who on my throbbing temples laid his hand, 
 Moist with celestial dew; methought the touch 
 Thrill'd every nerve, and to my brain so swift 
 The magic virtue ran, that I was heal'd. 
 
 Mar. Oh joyful hearing ! as the truth is in me, 
 I have not seen your features so compos'd 
 This many and many a day. 
 
 Tor, Be not deceiv'd ; 
 This visitation is not for my cure, 
 But my correction : 'tis a quick'ning call, 
 Rousing my torpid faculties to action, 
 With reason lent me for a time to guide them. 
 
 Mar. What do you mean ? 
 
 Tor. That I have now my senses 
 But as a loan, which providence imparts 
 To arm me for the task I have in hand. 
 
 Mar. Ah, sir, sir, sir, do you relapse so soon ? 
 Have you forgot your dream ? Your looks are 
 
 chang'd ; 
 They terrify me now.
 
 334 TOR REN DAL. 
 
 Tor. Go, call your husband ; 
 Tell him I'd speak with him. Kind, friendly 
 
 creature, 
 I would not harm thee for the worth of worlds; 
 But when the tempest tears the forest up, 
 The shatter'd oak may fall, and in its wreck 
 Whelm the poor lamb, that fled to it for shelter. 
 Go, send your husband to me. [Exit Marian. 
 
 _ 
 
 TORRENDAL aloiit. 
 
 What ! shall adultery pass unreveng'd ? 
 
 Shall a man take my wife from me and live ? 
 
 I can bear poverty, and cold, and hunger, 
 
 And be as patient as I ought to be ; 
 
 But, when a shameless villain stains my honour, 
 
 Then to be tame, what is it but to abet 
 
 The crime we dare not punish? 
 
 I know there is a law for our redress, 
 
 But when the culprit is above the law, 
 
 A man's own spirit must be his avenger, 
 
 And his own sword becomes the sword of justice. 
 
 Lodowick enters. 
 
 Lod. Now, my good master, what has pass'd 
 with Marian 
 To ruffle and disturb you ? Let me hear it 
 Nay, if you chafe your forehead, I can guess 
 How it is with you Pray you now, sit down, 
 And I'll sit by you. 
 
 Tor. Lodowick ! [They sit. 
 
 Lod. Say on. I'm all attention. 
 
 Tor. 'Tis not possible 
 That I and Courland both survive this night: 
 If I am lost, what will become of thee ? 
 
 Lod. Think not of me. I have made up my mind.
 
 TORRENDAL. S35 
 
 Tor. Thou art a hero, Lodowick ; I know it 
 But Marian, your poor Marian Ah, that touches; 
 That makes you shake your head that sorrow 
 
 sinks 
 Deep in your heart, and brings the waters up 
 I would weep too, but that my brain on fire 
 Dries up the fountain that should feed my eyes, 
 And I can't shed one tear Still I've a soul, 
 That feelingly conceives all I should say 
 At our last parting, but I cannot speak it- 
 Here, take this casket ! It will keep off want. 
 Give it to Marian, and when night comes on, 
 Fly, for your lives. 
 
 Lod. No. 
 
 Tor. What means no ? 
 
 Lod. I never can, I never will desert you : 
 As for this casket, 
 
 I'll place it, where I hope, with heav'n's permis- 
 sion, 
 You may resort to find it. 
 
 Tor. You are a strange being 
 
 Lod. Lam an honest one. 
 Say only, do you mean the duke should die? 
 
 Tor. Wretch, monster, murderer of my bosom's 
 peace ! [Starts up. 
 
 Lod. Think no more of him He will hunt to 
 day; 
 I know each haunt and covert of the forest 
 
 Tor. What do you mean ? you have once lent 
 your bosom 
 To the sword's point for me, but 'twas in battle, 
 Twas when I thought myself the happy husband 
 Of a beloved wife, and I forgave you; 
 But, now, when I am weary of the world, 
 There's no redemption left for me but death. 
 To undermine the virgin's chastity, 
 The parent's peace, the wife's fidelity,
 
 336 TORRENDAL. 
 
 The husband's honour, these are modern arts, 
 Events too trivial to create surprise, 
 And crimes too common to extort a blush 
 I am not made for such a world as this. 
 
 Lod. Then seek a better, sir, and let me follow 
 you, 
 For now I am convinc'd there is no hope 
 To turn your thoughts from vengeance to con- 
 tempt. 
 Tor. No, no, contempt can film a shallow wound, 
 Deep ones will rankle where it cannot reach. 
 You know in what obscurity I found 
 This false unfaithful woman a poor orphan, 
 One, who with beauty to inflame desire, 
 Had poverty to expose her to seduction ; 
 I felt the passion, but disdain'd the crime. 
 When I had put necessity aside, 
 And she was free to choose, I made my suit ; 
 We married, and she knows not to this hour 
 Whose hand it was that rescued her from want. 
 Lod. That was indeed a gen'rous noble act. 
 Tor. Three years she led a life wi thoutreproach ; 
 So fond was I, my very soul was love : 
 At length the war in Poland call'd me from her; 
 The Duke of Courland, with dissembled friend- 
 ship, 
 Profess'd to pity me, and at our parting 
 Begg'd I would trust my wife to his protection : 
 His age, his station, his imposing gravity, 
 Conspir'd to blind me I bequeath'd her to him, 
 And mark what misery he has heap'd upon me ! 
 
 Marian enters hastily. 
 
 Mar. Sir, sir, the baron the great Lord Van- 
 hoven
 
 T O R R E N D A L. 337 
 
 . 
 The Baron enters. 
 
 Tor. Leave us ! [Exeunt Lodowick and Marian. 
 You're welcome, sir, to this poor cottage- 
 It is a wholesome practice, now and then, 
 To cast a look on humble poverty, 
 And see how very little will suffice 
 For simple nature, where contentment is. 
 What is your pleasure ? 
 
 Van. First, accept this purse 
 
 Tor. Excuse me, sir ; money I never lov'd, 
 And since I have been taught to live without it, 
 It would but trouble me. 
 
 Van. Give me your hand ! 
 You are no common person, I perceive : 
 You should be one of us 
 
 Tor. I shall be soon, when you and I are pent 
 In the dark house together. 
 
 Van. What d'ye mean ? 
 I am not dying. 
 
 Tor. No, nor yet far off: 
 As for myself, being a ghost already, 
 You cannot keep me long out of my grave. 
 
 Van. I understand you now, and you have 
 struck 
 Upon the very business brings me hither; 
 The lady favourite will see her husband 
 
 Tor. Well, let her see him ! 
 Only let me be there, and she shall see him. 
 
 Van. What do you mean ? Are you of the 
 illumm'd ? 
 
 Tor. Not I ; not I Only let me be there, 
 I may help on the process. 
 
 Van. How can that be, 
 Seeing you know it not? 
 
 Tor. Describe it to me! 
 
 vol. i. Z
 
 333 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Van. Then mark me Wheii the chamber is 
 prepar'd, 
 And all my magic apparatus fixt, 
 The parties enter Silence is commanded, 
 And I withdraw to pray 
 
 Tor. Whom do you pray to, 
 And for what do you pray ? 
 
 Van. Be not curious. 
 When incantations have arous'd the spirits, 
 Their coming is announc'd by various sounds; 
 The air is troubled, and the chamber shakes : 
 With horrid yells the evil demons come ; 
 The good and friendly with harmonious strains, 
 And voices sweet as the JEolian lyre 
 
 Tor. There is variety in that at least. 
 
 Van. Hear me ! for now the crisis is at hand ; 
 This is the shock Cold sweat bedews my brow, 
 My knees shake under me, and all my frame 
 Is paralyz'd with horror; bars and bolts 
 Cannot fence off the energetic spirits, 
 Full of the spell ; the chamber doors burst open, 
 And the ghost enters 
 
 Tor. That will be a meeting 
 Of flesh and spirit curious to behold. 
 Where will this scene be acted ? 
 
 Van. In my cell, 
 Under the western turret. 
 
 Tor. At what hour ? 
 
 Van. An hour past midnight. 
 
 Tar. May not I be present? 
 
 Van. Can you be secret? 
 
 Tor. As the grave nay more 
 For you can open graves, but not one thought, 
 That's buried in this bosom. 
 
 Van. You may come ; 
 But come alone Be faithful, and farewell!
 
 TORRENDAL. 339 
 
 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Oh thou, that in my vision I beheld, 
 Cherub divine, let fall one healing drop 
 Of that sweet balm, in which thy wings are dipt, 
 And touch these aching temples yet again 
 With thy letha;an hand ; strengthen my heart 
 For this expected meeting ; let not rage 
 Possess me wholly, keep alive one spark 
 Of pity and compassion, to remind me 
 That even madness should respect a woman. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 An Apartment in the Baron's Castle. 
 
 Countess Torrendal alone. 
 
 The evil that we feel, is but a feather, 
 If weigh'd against the evil that we dread. 
 Though 'tis beyond the compass of my reason 
 To comprehend the power, by which this sorcerer 
 Performs the feats, that are reported of him, 
 Does that impeach his power? No, it does not : 
 How many thousand wonders in creation 
 Mock the philosophy of reasoning man ! 
 Put this into the number, and it adds 
 No more than one drop to the boundless ocean. 
 
 Duke o/*Courland enters. 
 
 Duke. Now, by my life, Alicia, it repents me 
 That we came hither; three times since the 
 
 morning 
 Have I surpris'd you thus alone, withdrawn 
 From our society and wrapt in thought. 
 
 Z2
 
 540 TOR REN DAL. 
 
 Where are those smiles, that dimpled on your 
 
 cheeks ? 
 Those eyes, whence ambush'd Cupids took their 
 
 aim, 
 And launch 'd their arrows at beholders hearts? 
 Let us begone at once. 
 Count. Not for the world. 
 Duke. Why? what good purpose can our stay 
 effect ? 
 Why did we quit the pleasures of the court, 
 To visit this old wizzard in his cell? 
 
 Count. The pleasures of the court! No, call 
 them rather 
 The agonies, the torments which to escape, 
 Hither I come ; and, rather than remain 
 In painful ignorance of what I am, 
 Urge on the revelation of my fate, 
 With all its horrors Is not this a cause ? 
 
 Duke. You thought it such, and therefore I 
 embrac'd it; 
 But first consider if you have need to fly 
 To spells and charms, and next be well assur'd, 
 Ere you proceed to drag the shrouded corpse 
 Out of his grave, that you have nerves to meet 
 
 him. 
 I should have thought, convinc'd that he is dead, 
 You might be well content to let him sleep. 
 Count. If he is dead, we cannot harm his 
 spirit, 
 If he is living, I shall sleep no more. 
 
 Duke. Why should you doubt against the evi- 
 dence 
 Of living witnesses, who, from all quarters, 
 Confirm the death of Torrendal ? Oh, why 
 Ransack the graves, where dull oblivion sleeps, 
 And fly to old Vanhoven and his magic, 
 Only to puzzle that, which needs no proof?
 
 TORRENDAL. 341 
 
 Count. Where are those witnesses, of whom you 
 speak? 
 I never saw them, never question'd them. 
 You tell me he is dead ; but conscience says 
 I should have paus'd upon that information. 
 
 Duke. Did you not pause ? Yes, tantalizing 
 fair one, 
 How many sighs it cost me to persuade 
 And soften that hard heart, yourself can witness. 
 
 Count. Alas, how cheaply can seduction furnish 
 Those feign 'd unfeeling sighs, which only serve 
 To flatter and betray ! Such were your sighs 
 But what are those heart-rending agonies 
 Your victim suffers, what those sighs she vents 
 For ruin'd honour and lost peace of mind ! 
 Those, those are deep indeed. 
 
 Duke. No more of this. 
 Your conduct, my Alicia, needs no plea; 
 And, if it did, your husband's gross neglect, 
 The solemn promise of my hand in marriage, 
 And your unshaken patience till his death, 
 Must silence all reproach. 
 
 Count. Here then we quit 
 This painful and unprofitable subject 
 And look ! Murinski comes to call you forth 
 To your field sports 
 
 Murinski enters. 
 
 Duke. I shall not hunt to-day. 
 My spirits are opprest, I know not why, 
 And at my heart I feel a sad foreboding, 
 As if some dreadful thing were coming on. 
 
 Count. If it will come, it will What says Mu- 
 rinski ? 
 
 Mur. I'm no diviner, madam. 
 
 Count. No, nor yet
 
 542 TORRENDAL. 
 
 A lover of the chase, else, I should think, 
 You'd recommend diversion of the spleen 
 By cheering exercise, as nature's remedy. 
 
 Mur. I am a soldier, and my course of life 
 Has never given me leisure to seek out 
 Other pursuits, than were impos'd upon me 
 By duty and my calling. 
 
 Count. I believe you, 
 And say it to your face, 
 You're a bad courtier. 
 
 Duke. Then take him well to task, and teach 
 him better 
 I leave him in your hands and so farewell ! 
 
 [Edit Duke. 
 
 Murinski, Countess. 
 
 Count. Murinski, there is something at your 
 heart, 
 That lies too deep for my discovery. 
 When I was simply a plain soldier's wife, 
 We were the best of friends, what is the reason, 
 When I have now some power, and much good 
 
 will 
 To serve your fortune, you stand off at distance, 
 And seem to slight my favour? 
 
 Mur. You have said it : 
 I am a sorry courtier. 
 
 Count. Come, come, that general answer will 
 not serve ; 
 You must be more explicit. 
 
 Mur. I shan't please you. 
 
 Count. You do not, when you practise these 
 evasions. 
 Tell me at once the cause of your reserve ! 
 
 Mur. Then I must fairly own myself unworthy 
 Of your protection, for 'tis my misfortune
 
 TORRENDAL. 343 
 
 To love the memory, and lament the fate 
 Of an unhappy friend, whom you forget. 
 
 Count. Do I forget? No, from the grave I call 
 him: 
 Hither I come here, to the gates of death, 
 To him, whose powerful spell can bid them open, 
 And let the incarcerated spirit forth, 
 Behold I come If it is your misfortune 
 To bear him iu remembrance, it is mine 
 Not to forget the agonies I suffer'd, 
 When fatal proof that I was quite forsaken 
 Rent my distracted heart, and with despair, 
 Mingling revenge, compell'd me to accept 
 Those guilty honours, which, whilst he surviv'd, 
 Faithless although he was, I still withstood. 
 Mur. To proofs, if proofs you have, I must 
 submit; 
 But to reports and tales, by which too many 
 Contrive to damn the fame of absent men, 
 I yield no credit From his boyish days 
 I knew your husband ; honour rui'd his heart, 
 And the whole tenor of his life was truth. 
 
 Count. Go on, go on ! for every word you utter 
 Sinks deep into my heart. I never knew him 
 But as the noblest, gentlest, best of men : 
 But from the clay he left me, to the hour 
 Which clos'd his life, no word of kind remem- 
 brance, 
 By letter or by message, ever reach'd me ; 
 So chang'd were his affections, he renounc'd me, 
 Set me aside, revok'd his nuptial oath, 
 And died the husband of another wife, 
 
 Mur. Stop there ! If those who tell you of his 
 marriage, 
 Tell of his death, I hold them false in both. 
 You should have listen'd to those tales with 
 caution :
 
 344 TORUENDAL. 
 
 When you can give me proof of his decease, 
 I have a certain record to produce, 
 Which might, perhaps, awaken some sensations 
 More to his honour than to your repose 
 
 Count. What record ? Let me know it, I con- 
 jure you. 
 
 Mur. The nightbefore he went tojoin the army, 
 He put a sealed paper in my hand, 
 Of which the substance was a free bequest 
 Of his whole property, without conditions, 
 To you and your disposal Of this trust 
 I am the keeper Wealthy he was not, 
 For ere he married you, he had bestow'd 
 Half of his property upon an orphan. 
 
 Count. What do I hear? I tremble whilst I ask 
 Who was that orphan ? 
 
 Mur Need you to be told 
 That orphan was yourself? 
 
 Count. Oh, heaven and earth ! 
 
 Mur. He never told you this ? 
 
 Count. Oh, never, never. 
 
 Mur. Of this truth, I stand 
 The living witness, for my hand convey'd 
 The secret bounty, and my heart alone 
 Was privy to the motive that inspir'd it: 
 His generous mind disdain'd to court your praise, 
 Or bribe your gratitude, whilst he aspir'd 
 To merit your free choice. 
 
 Count. Oh why, just Heaven, 
 Did he conceal this from me, why did you ? 
 What guilt, what misery had I then escaped ! 
 
 Mur. If I could have suppos'd he had con- 
 ceal'd it, 
 I had not nam'd it now. 
 
 Count. Lost, lost for ever ! 
 If any guardian spirit had but whisper'd 
 This secret in my ear, I had been sav'd ;
 
 TORRENDAL. 345 
 
 If you, if Torrendal had but reveal'cl it, 
 
 I should not be the guilty thing I am : 
 
 That gratitude, which now hath been my ruin, 
 
 Would then have been my rescue Wretched 
 
 Alicia! 
 Deluded, credulous woman, I'm hetrayVl, 
 Lur'd into vice by what had been my virtue : 
 That artful duke permitted me to thank him, 
 To call him benefactor, frieud, preserver, 
 And in the grateful weakness cf my heart 
 Precipitate myself into his snares 
 Deceiv'd in this, I may be so in all; 
 If more you know of my long-absent husband, 
 Living or dead, declare it! 
 
 Mur. I have done. 
 What I have told incautiously escap'd me; 
 When more you ask, I must decline to answer. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Countess Torrendal. 
 
 Rise then, O Torrendal, rise from the grave, 
 And let this awful night decide my doom ! 
 If with terrific mien and angry brow 
 Threat'ningyou come, the same mysterious power, 
 That gives to incorporeal air a form, 
 May also give a voice, and what the living 
 Cannot, or will not tell, the dead may utter ; 
 Then with suspended breath, in mute attention, 
 Lost to the sense of every other object, 
 I'll stand and gaze, and listen to the tale, 
 Till, when the sad recital you shall close, 
 And vanish from my sight, my conscious heart 
 Shall vent one dying groan, and burst asunder.
 
 346 TORRENDAL. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Lodowick's Cottage. Lodowick enters with his 
 Gun, and is met by Marian. 
 
 Mar. So, master, what have you been doing 
 with your gun at this late hour? 
 
 Loci. Nothing. I simply carry it for defence. 
 
 Mar. I scarce believe you. Put it aside, how- 
 ever, and I'll talk to you. 
 
 Lod. There Now what would you ? 
 
 Mar. Count Torrendal is shut up in his cham- 
 ber 
 
 Lod. Well ! what of that ? 
 
 Mar. How quick you are. Don't think to 
 blind me, Lodowick ; I am sure there is some 
 project in your head, when you go out at this 
 time of the evening, arm'd with your gun. You 
 have not struck a stroke of work this whole 
 day, but have been prowling up and down the 
 forest I know you have. What have you been 
 about? 
 
 Lod. Beating the woods for game. 
 
 Mar. Never tell me; your dogs have beeji tied 
 up; I guess what game it is you have been beating 
 for. You never kept a secret from me yet, and, 
 as I hope, I never have betray'd one. 
 
 Lod. No, no, my honest Marian, were all wives 
 faithful to their trust as you are, I had not now- 
 gone arm'd, as you have seen me ; Count Tor- 
 rendal had kept his senses, that fine mind, so 
 fraught with genius, had not been overthrown. 
 Can you suppose that Courland shall escape 
 us?
 
 TORRENDAL. 347 
 
 Mar. Can I suppose that you will turn assas- 
 sin? 
 
 Lod. We kill things venomous, we crush the 
 serpent, the watchful shepherd destroys the wolf 
 that ravages his fold, and shall we spare this 
 wretch ? No, no, we will not but look ! our 
 master comes stand aside, Marian ! He seems 
 much disorder'd 
 
 Torrendal in his proper dress as the Count. 
 
 Tor. There, there it is again ! a floating ball 
 Of vaporous tire, that dances in the air, 
 And now 'tis seen no more 
 Ev'n so my senses come and go by fits ; 
 Sometimes a lucid gleam of light revives me, 
 And then it vanishes, and all is dark 
 Oh, my distracted brain ! It whirls, it wanders 
 Ah, Lody, art thou here? I'm much disturb'd 
 
 Lod. If there be any thing I can do for you, 
 Behold me ready with my life to serve you. 
 
 Tor. The killing recollection of the day, 
 When last I wore this dress, was all too much: 
 It was the day I parted from Alicia. 
 Methought I felt her hanging on my neck 
 In all the frenzy of dissembled woe ; 
 I look'd to see, if her false tears, that stream'd 
 Upon my mantle, had not left behind 
 Tracks of the scalding venom, that compos'd 
 
 them : 
 The faint remembrance of a certain pledge, 
 Bestow'd at parting, struck upon my mind ; 
 I search'd, and found, appending to my robe, 
 Her miniature enamell'd to the life 
 Heav'ns ! what was then my agony ! my eye 
 Glanc'd on her image, and my brain caught fire, 
 Frantic I rent the faithless bauble off,
 
 348 TORRENDAL. 
 
 And dash'd it on the floor Alas, alas ! 
 
 Time was I should have worshipp'd what I spurn'd. 
 
 Mar. Ah, my good lord, indulge not these 
 reflections ; 
 They are the food, that melancholy feeds on, 
 Till, surfeited with sorrow, the heart sickens, 
 And the soul dies within us. 
 
 Tor. How is this, Lodowick ? 
 Did not I give you means for her escape? 
 Why have you been thus careless of her safety? 
 Send her away ! 
 
 Loci. Marian, you must withdraw 
 
 Mar. Now, in his utmost need, must I desert 
 him ? 
 
 Loci. Only withdraw 
 
 Mar. Heav'n in its mercy save him ! 
 
 [Exit Marian. 
 
 Tor. The evening star is up, and night comes on. 
 I must away 
 
 Lod. Whither, and what to do? 
 
 Tor. I have ask'd my heart that question; I 
 have sought 
 Counsel of heav'n by prayer I have weigh'd 
 Forbearance in one scale ; revenge in the other 
 Mercy with justice, and the upshot is, 
 Justice prevails Lo ! I am arm'd for vengeance ! 
 
 Lod. A dagger! put it up. No, no, my lord, 
 We'll use no daggers : I have speedier means. 
 He would not hunt to-dav : I know not why : 
 Had he once stept without the castle gates, 
 I'd mark'd him for my own. 
 
 Tor. You shall not do it: 
 You have a virtuous wife, for whom to live ; 
 I've liv'd to see the wreck of every blessing, 
 And having nothing left, can lose no more. 
 Therefore no words I go to meet the duke ; 
 My honour is engag'd to the magician ;
 
 TOR REN DAL. 349 
 
 I've one ingredient more than he's aware of 
 To mingle with his spell a villain's blood 
 And doubt me not, but I will make a ghost 
 Ere he can raise one Silence ! no opposing ; 
 Else will the storm, now lull'd, burst out afresh, 
 And tear my brain to atoms. 
 
 Lod. I have done. 
 
 Tor. 'Tis well. 
 
 Lod. Permit me only to attend you 
 
 Tor. Can you be firm ? Can you possess your 
 spirit, 
 Nor let the horrors of the scene appall you, 
 Though incantations shake the solid earth, 
 And ghosts were rent from out their yawning 
 
 graves 
 With yells, that, echoing through the charmed air, 
 Pluck the stars down upon you. 
 
 Lod. Let them come ! 
 Fools gaze at falling stars, and, as for ghosts, 
 Can I be scar'd with shadows of the dead, 
 Who fear no living man ? Doubt not of me; 
 When you advance I will not lag behind. 
 
 Tor. Then we're agreed. Now, vengeance, to 
 thy work ! [Exeunt. 
 
 An Apartment in the Baron's Castle. 
 Van ho v en, Baroness. 
 
 Van. Now, madam, wherefore, and with whom, 
 have you been closeted this many an hour? 
 
 Bar. My confessor has been with me. 
 
 Van. Oh, has he so? Women and monks keep 
 the world still in dotage. The time will be, when 
 our enlighten'd sect shall teach them better 
 things.
 
 350 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Bar. Heaven in its mercy keep that time at 
 distance, 
 Or take me from the world before it comes ! 
 Your sect indeed ! we do not need their help 
 To make that worse which is too bad already. 
 
 Van. Speak reverently of my sect you had 
 best. 
 
 Bar. I know my peril, and I know their power; 
 But, notwithstanding, I am bold to tell you, 
 You will repent the business of this night. 
 
 Van. What know you of this night, or any night, 
 Day, hour, or minute, that is yet to come, 
 Blest or unblest? Can you expound the signs? 
 Can you interpret the hermetic code, 
 Cast horoscopes, or read the stars Away ! 
 You are an idle woman : I predict 
 This night will be auspicious to my fame. 
 Go; leave the room. I have business with my 
 servant. 
 
 Adam enters. 
 
 Ba?\ Infatuated man ! will nothing warn you 
 Till infamy and ruin burst upon you? 
 Then you will rue this folly, then your spirit 
 Will be as abject, as 'tis now presumptuous. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Vanhoven, Adam. 
 
 Van, Well, Adam, is the laboratory ready, and 
 all the apparatus set in order? 
 
 Adam. All ready, and in order, potent sage. 
 When ghosts obey you, how should I stand out ? 
 
 Van. This curious lady will not be content un- 
 less she sees the process. 
 
 Adam. She shall see it, and hear it too. I have 
 overhaul'd the machinery, and if it is your plea-
 
 TORRENDAL. 351 
 
 sure to be accompanied in your incantations with 
 groanings and noises under ground 
 
 Van. Surely it is, wheu was it not my plea- 
 sure ? 
 
 Adam. Oh, then I'll do it to your heart's con- 
 tent in the true style of the infernal spirits ; I 
 have also music for the good ones : if fire and 
 smoke are wanted, I have rosin, sulphur, and 
 phosphorus in short, the circle is chalk'd out, 
 the black hangings are put up, the lamps lighted, 
 the cauldron drugg'd, the green dragon display'd, 
 and death drawn out of his case, a beautiful like- 
 ness, and what I dare say the company will see 
 with as much satisfaction as they would the ori- 
 ginal itself. 
 
 Van. All this is very well; but get back to your 
 post as quickly as you can, for it is now the hour 
 we should expect the lady Away, away ! The 
 duke himself is coming. [Exit Adam. 
 
 Duke o/Xourland enters. 
 
 Duke. Vanhoven ! 
 
 Van. Sir. 
 
 Duke. The countess has prevail'd ; 
 I've yielded my consent. Are you prepar'd 
 To do the fearful thing that she requires? 
 
 Van. I am prepar'd ; but let it be remember'd 
 I do not court the orifice, royal sir : 
 I have your highness's command to obey her, 
 And if she will persist to urge the spell, 
 The spectre of her husband will appear. 
 
 Duke. What shape will he assume? 
 
 Van. Such as he was, 
 Such he will be. 
 
 Duke. I envy her not the interview ; 
 She's a bold woman, if she looks upon him,
 
 352 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Van. Your highness then will not attend the 
 
 process 
 Duke. Not present, but at hand. I've plac'd a 
 guard 
 Within your call, ready for all occasions; 
 Give but the signal, I'll be instant with you. 
 If, by your spell, you can return her to me, 
 Convinc'd her husband Torrendal is dead, 
 You'll do me noble service so farewell ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene, without the Castle. 
 
 Torren dal folloived by Lodowick, 
 
 Tor. Why do you follow me? Go home, go 
 home ! 
 I cannot suffer it. I charge you, leave me. 
 
 Lod. Well, if I must, I must and yet 'tis hard, 
 Having kept pace so far, I must now stop 
 Short of the end, and part perhaps for ever. 
 Tor. Give me thy hand ! If, for the last time, 
 now 
 We part no more to meet in this bad world, 
 Tis not for ever; where our finite ends 
 Our infinite begins; there is to come 
 That which shall never cease, that which no time, 
 No thought of man can measure, or compute : 
 There we may meet again Therefore farewell, 
 Thou honest heart Peace! not a word Tis past. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Lo do wick alone. 
 
 Lod. Well, well, it must have way I cannot 
 help it. 
 I knew that when the fatal moment came 
 That we must part, I could not stand the shock :
 
 TORRENDAL. 553 
 
 My "heart 'gave warning as we walk'd together, 
 
 And many a tear of sorrow by the way 
 
 Fell unperceiv'd, but not a word had I 
 
 To give one thought expression ; he too held 
 
 Obstinate silence till we reach'd this spot, 
 
 The period of his journey perchance his life. 
 
 Officer and Guard of Soldiers enter and seize him. 
 
 Offi. Who are you, friend, and what do you do 
 here? 
 
 Lod. Nothing. 
 
 Offi. That answer won't suffice Once more 
 your name and business ? 
 
 Lod. My name is Lodowick ; that is soon told ; 
 my business, being none, I cannot tell it. Now, 
 who are you, that put these questions to me? 
 
 Offi. We are the Duke of Courland's body- 
 guard ; and you must go with us. 
 
 Lod. Well ; if I must, it will not be the first 
 time I've march'd with soldiers. Shew me to the 
 duke ! 
 
 Offi. Search him first ; examine, if he has no 
 secret weapons His language is suspicious 
 And look ! I've found this dagger in his bosom. 
 
 Lod. Well, it was in my bosom, and you found 
 it ; where is the great discovery in that? 
 
 Offi. Take him away, and hold him in safe 
 keeping. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene, the western Tower of' the Castle; Moonlight. 
 
 Vanhoven enters alone. 
 
 Van. Oh, Rabbi Abraham, Geber, Flamel, Bell- 
 men, 
 vol. i. A a
 
 354 T O R It E N D A L. 
 
 Ye magic masters, now direct and guide me I 
 Weak minister were I without your aid. 
 Whence are these omens, that conspire to shake 
 
 me? 
 As I came forth, my wife, in wild amaze, 
 Seizing my robe, and dropping on her knees, 
 Conjur'd me to desist I put her from me; 
 Whereat she rose, and, with uplifted hands, 
 Mad as the Pythian prophetess, exclaim'd 
 "Go,desperate man,this nightyourimpioilsorgies 
 " Shall draw a dreadful judgment on your house, 
 " And bloody shall the consummation be" 
 I.heard, but staid not; when, upon the instant, 
 The night-bird scream'd amain, the watch-dog 
 
 howl'd, 
 And utter'd forth a yell, so like the wailings 
 Of tortur'd spirits, that it chill'd my blood. 
 
 [Clock strikes one. 
 Hark 1 the clock warns me that my hour is come 
 Where is my proselyte ? Where is the stranger, 
 That promis'd to attend ? Adam, come forth ! 
 
 Adam comes forth. 
 
 Adam. Master, what would you ? From beneath 
 the wings 
 Of the all-potent dragon I come forth 
 To know your pleasure All things are prepar'd. 
 Van. That's well, that's well. 
 Adam. You tremble, mighty sir. 
 Van. Do I ? The night-air chills me through 
 my mantle, 
 And my flesh shivers Let me have your arm 
 Now we will enter Hark, I hear the steps 
 Of one approaching On, good Adam, on ! 
 [They enter the Tower, and the lights immediately 
 appear in the windows of the Magic Chamber.
 
 TORRENDAL. 355 
 
 ToRufcNDAL enters alone. 
 
 tor. The Gizzard is at work. His lamps are 
 
 burning, 
 And his charrh'd cauldron, fed with sulph'rous 
 
 drugs, 
 Makes foul the wholesome air, till the moon sickens 
 With his accursed spell Be firm, my heart ! 
 For now, (if such permission be to man) 
 The evil spirits muster at his call, 
 And hell-engender'd thoughts are wafted round 
 By the contagious blasting of their breath. 
 I will no longer bide within their sphere, 
 Lest my weak brain should suck the poison in, 
 And, on the sight of my adulterous wife, 
 Tempt me to draw this murderous dagger forth, 
 And plunge it in her heart Oh save me heaven ! 
 In mercy save ! I turn to thy protection. [Exit. 
 
 The Countess, as she enter % sees and watches TOR- 
 RENDAL. 
 
 I 
 
 Count. That that Oh,that is he .'The moon- 
 beam now 
 Strikes on his passing figure Tis no shadow 
 'Tis he 'tis Torrendal ; it is my husband, 
 His form, his air, his slow and stately step 
 Oh turn, and, if thou'rt living, spedk to me ! 
 If dead, the dead have spoken 
 
 Torrendal is seen again. 
 
 Hah ! he turns ; 
 My voice has reach'd him Whatsoe'er thou art, 
 Spirit or substance, of the air or earth, 
 Real or spell-created, yet thou wear'st 
 
 A a 2
 
 356 TORRENDAL. 
 
 A form and feature awfully so like 
 
 To what I lov'd and lost, that I will kneel 
 
 And worship thee in sorrow 
 
 [She kneels Torrendal approaches. 
 
 Tor. Rise, Alicia ! 
 Him, that you seek, you see your living husband. 
 The heart, your cruelty has rent, yet beats, 
 And reason, which at times forsakes me, serves 
 Now to demand, what tempted you to wrong me; 
 Why, when your bosom seem'd the native soil 
 Of purity and truth, did you invite 
 A devil to sow it with the rankest seeds 
 Of treach'ry and pollution r 
 
 Count. Strike, oh strike ! 
 That guilty bosom now invites your sword. 
 
 Tor. No, not for worlds I've pledg'd myself 
 to heaven, 
 And, what I've sworn to guard, will not destroy. 
 Oh, faithless, cruel, and perfidious woman, 
 What can you urge to palliate your offence ? 
 I never gave you cause to treat me thus ; 
 I never wrong'd you, my unbroken faith, 
 Firm to this hour as truth itself, remains : 
 In perfect love, through all vicissitudes 
 Of good or adverse fortune, I preserv'd 
 And treasur'd up your image in my heart; 
 When in my tent, upon the eve of battle, 
 I sought my God in pray'r, for you, my soul, 
 Its first, most fervent aspirations breath'd ; 
 Nor in the fight, while death and slaughter rag'd, 
 Nor after, when with shouts we rent the air 
 For victory gain'd, did I forget Alicia. 
 
 Count. Indeed! Is't possible? Have I been 
 dup'd 
 By the vile arts of an insidious villain, 
 And lur'd to my destruction? I was taught 
 To think you false, nor, from the hour we parted,
 
 TORRENDAL. 357 
 
 To this sad moment, has a word e'er reach'd me, 
 To tell me I was yet in your remembrance. 
 
 Tor. In camp, in city, station'd, or on march, 
 I seiz'd on every opportunity 
 To write, remonstrate, and bewail your silence. 
 At length, to all hope lost, my senses wand'ring, 
 And my heart torn with anguish, I address'd 
 A mournful letter, blotted with my tears, 
 To that vile duke, imploring him to tell me 
 What fatal chance - 
 
 Count. Oh, infamy more base, 
 Malice more black than ever yet was hatch'd 
 In heart of demon ! he suppress'd it all 
 
 Va# hovent comes forth. 
 
 Tor. How now ! Disturb us not 
 
 Van. Illustrious lady, 
 The spell is cast. What stays you ? 
 
 Tor. Hence ! be gone ! 
 Your spells and sorceries are not needed now. 
 
 Van. Hah! is it you ? Behold, the duke ap- 
 proaches 
 I must escape in time [Exit hastily. 
 
 The Duke enters. 
 
 , 
 
 Duke. What do I- see? May I believe my eyes? 
 It is the very form of Torrendal 
 
 lor. Wretch, I am Torrendal. 
 
 Duke. W here are my guards ? 
 
 [The Guards enter, the Duke shrinks back. 
 
 Tor, Detected, trembling dastard, reptile-like, 
 Do you shrink back and crouch into your shell, 
 When challeng'd forth to meet an equal foe ; 
 One robb'd of more than half his natural powers 
 By wrongs, by miseries you have pil'd upon him ? 
 What do you start from ? Are you valiant only
 
 353 TOR HEN DAL. 
 
 Against the feeble sex ? Have you no weapons 
 But slanders, perjuries, and lies to wound with? 
 And are you leagued only to do the work, 
 And learn the cozening trices of petty devils? 
 
 Duke. Can you hear this, and not avenge me, 
 soldiers ? 
 
 Tor. If you are soldiers, give a soldier passage; 
 Open your files, or, single as I am, 
 I will assail him in the midst of you. 
 Nay then defend yourself 
 
 [He rushes upon theGuard, ana \ strikes at theDuke, 
 in which action be is disarmed by the Soldiers. 
 
 Duke. Stop, stop his hand I 
 
 Tor. Ye are not soldiers, ye are slaves. 
 
 Duke. Out with your swords! Put him to in- 
 stant death ! 
 
 Count. Oh, hold, hold, hold ! The sword that 
 pierces him, 
 shall pass through me. 
 
 Duke. Alicia, are you mad? 
 Would you protect a traitor, an assassin? 
 
 Count. He, an assassin I No, 'tis you, 'tis I 
 We are assassins Look at him, Oh look ! 
 How sunk his eyes, how ghastly wan his cheek! 
 Famine and sorrow have consum'd his heart, 
 And turn'd his brain that noble mind is lost; 
 He's not himself; how then can he be judg'd 
 For actions not his own? . 
 
 Duke. Lo, where his dagger, 
 
 
 Aim'd at my heart, and, only turn'd aside 
 
 By this good friend, has, rent and gash'd my robe 
 
 Do you not see it? 
 
 Count. Yes, I see it clearly. 
 He rent your garment, you have torn his heart. 
 
 Duke. Take him away. Justice demands the 
 traitor; 
 And he shall die the death.
 
 TORRENDAL. 359 
 
 Tor. Yes, you may now 
 Enjoy the luxury of protracted vengeance, 
 Load me with fetters, prison me in darkness, 
 Arraign me as a traitor and assassin, 
 And, to complete the mockery of justice, 
 Pass sentence on my life : when you've done this, 
 You have done all there closes my account 
 Then be prepar'd, adulterer, for thine own. 
 
 Duke. I'll hear no more. Away with him ! he 
 dies. 
 
 Count, Stop yet a moment-r-Grant a moment's 
 pause 
 Oh Torrendal, oh husband, turn not from me ! 
 Have pity for a sinful, suffering creature. 
 I do not dare to raise my eyes for hope, 
 And ask forgiveness, but I'll humbly kneel 
 To beg you will not spurn my wretched corpse, 
 When, on the bloody scaffold at your feet, 
 Writhing in agonies of death I fall, 
 And my soul sinks whilst yours ascends to heav'n. 
 
 Tor. Live, and repent ! I do not fear to die, 
 For when the world has thrown aside all order, 
 Heav'n lost its worship, guilt forgot its shame 
 And man his nature, who would wish to live ? 
 
 [He is taken off by the Guard. 
 
 Count. I'll follow him to death^- 
 
 Duke. Away ! you're mad. 
 
 [The Countess follows Torrendal y the Duke turns 
 away, and departs with his Attendants on the 
 onvosite side.
 
 360 TORRENDAI* 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Duke flfCoURLAND, Murinski. 
 
 Duke, Murinski, you amaze me : it should seem 
 As if you thought my life might be attempted, 
 And the assassin pardon'd Here ! behold, 
 See where his poniard pass'd Was not this stab 
 Aim'd at the heart within ? 
 
 Mur. So it appears. 
 
 Duke. Appears ! it speaks, it marks the full 
 intent 
 Of a determin'd vengeful murderer; 
 And shall he live? Why do you purse your brow, 
 And shake your head, as if in discontent 
 At what my justice dooms ? Utter your thoughts; 
 Keep not this sullen silence. 
 
 Mur. I lament 
 That you should not conceive it for your honour 
 To judge the miseries of mankind with mercy, 
 And take the plea of madness in excuse 
 For what a madman does : there have been princes 
 As sacred as yourself, who have endur'd 
 The stab of phrenzy, and exacted nothing 
 From justice, but security in future 
 For others and themselves. 
 
 Duke. You have said enough 
 To raise my admiration of the virtues 
 Both of the great example you refer to, 
 And your own eloquence in the defence 
 Of a convicted traitor. This might seem 
 As if you lov'd the cause, which you espouse 
 With so much warmth, but that I recollect 
 You've been the bosom friend of Torrendal;
 
 TORRENDAL. 361 
 
 Therefore whilst prejudice inspires your plea, 
 Justice will bar my ears against the voice 
 Of such an advocate. You have been heard ; 
 Your sentiments are known you may withdraw. 
 
 [Exit MurinskL 
 
 Baroness Vanhoven enters, followed by the Baron. 
 
 Bar. Hear me, my gracious lord 
 
 Duke. Ere I do that, 
 Say, are you not the lady of that baron, 
 Who stands abash'd behind you? 
 
 Bar. Sir, I am. 
 
 Duke. You may proceed. 
 
 Bar. If I forbore to pay 
 My thankful duty when your highness deign'd 
 To visit this lone mansion, 'twas because 
 My heart presag'd, with horror, the disgrace 
 That would in time befal that impious sect, 
 Of which my husband was, but is no longer, 
 A much-deluded follower. My lord, 
 His vanity misled him to affect 
 Powers, which no mortal, but by heav'n's appoint- 
 ment, 
 Yet ever did, or ever can possess. 
 
 Duke. That he is innocent of all capacity 
 To call up spirits and disturb the dead, 
 I well believe ; that he is quite as harmless 
 In what regards the living, I must doubt, 
 Till time discloses : all, that yet appears, 
 Is, that his sovereign, underneath his roof, 
 Has had his life attempted by a ruffian, 
 Whom he employ 'd and train'd to play the ghost 
 In his mock magic. 
 
 Van. No, upon my life : 
 Heaven knows my heart, I harbour'd no offence 
 Against your royal person, and the laws
 
 562 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Of sacred hospitality The man, 
 Who now turns out to he Count Torrendal, 
 Was only known to me as a craz'd fellow, 
 Who sojourn'd with one Lodowick, a woodman. 
 
 Duke. That Lodowick is seiz'd. Bring him 
 before us ! 
 
 Van. I never knew Count Torrendal by person. 
 This Lodowick, if he'll speak, can witness for me, 
 And so can Torrendal, that I am clear 
 Of all collusion in this black affair. 
 
 Lobowjck is brought in. 
 
 Duke. Now, fellow; you are seiz'd as an ac- 
 complice ; 
 Your intercourse with Torrendal is known ; 
 If you would gain your pardon, make confession 
 Of all you know touching this trait'rous plpt. 
 
 Lod. I've been a soldier, sir, and serv'd your 
 ., highness 
 In many an action : it was once my fortune, 
 When Torrendal, my captain, was unhors'd, 
 Wounded, and on the ground, to save his life, 
 And cover him in battle ; from that day 
 He took me to himself, made me his servant, 
 I had almost said his friend : after the war, 
 Being disbanded, and the count in Poland, 
 Hither J came, and having serv'd my country 
 With my best strength, deem'd it my second 
 
 duty 
 To give the remnant to my aged parents : 
 In this retreat my noble master sought me 
 In his affliction If your highness thinks 
 It was a crime in me to give him shelter, 
 It is a crime of which I can't repent 
 ^Vs for the baron here, I do believe, 
 Nay, I ajn sure, he did pot know the count.
 
 TORRENDAL. 363 
 
 Duke. Baron and lady, I have done with you, 
 You may retire. [Exeunt Vanhoven and Baroness, 
 
 I've yet another question 
 And on your conscience answer it in truth ! 
 Do you conceive the countess was consenting, 
 And party in the attempt upon my life ! 
 
 Lod. No, on my soul. I would she were as 
 clear 
 Of every other guilt. 
 
 Duke. Why did you hide 
 That dagger in your bosom ? 
 
 Lod. To defend, 
 At my life's peril, my distracted master. 
 
 Duke. You are a dangerous man. 
 
 Lod. I have been, sir, 
 When | have met your enemies in arms, 
 And in my course of duty am not clear 
 From shedding human blood; but never yet, 
 Ev'n in the heat of battle, have I fail'd 
 To spare the life of him, who ask'd it of me. 
 
 Duke. You spoke but now of your distracted 
 master 
 Why did you so ? Is Torrendal insane H 
 
 Lod. Oh yes, yes, yes. His mind is overthrown. 
 
 JQuke. How ? by What means ? 
 
 Lod. When you ask that of me, 
 A plain blunt soldier, you must hear the truth 
 Boldly averr'd You and his guilty wife 
 Have wreck'd his senses, and destroy'd his peace. 
 
 Duke. Hence from my sight! be gone; I'll 
 hear no more 5 [Exit Lodowick with guard. 
 And see, Alicia Now, be firm my heart 1 
 
 Countess enters. 
 
 Alicia, you have seen my life attempted, 
 And, in the immediate terror of the moment,
 
 36*4 TOR REN DAL. 
 
 Have stood betwixt the assassin and my ven- 
 geance ; 
 It was a woman's fear, and I forgave it. 
 
 Count. You're infinitely kind : I came to thank 
 you. 
 
 Duke. You answer calmly, and it much con- 
 tents me. 
 
 Count, Oh, I am very calm. 
 
 Duke. Then, with like calmness, 
 I will proceed to reason on th' events 
 Of this disastrous night: Vanhoven's magic 
 Is, as you see, a despicable cheat ; 
 Yet has it serv'd to terminate those doubts 
 That hung upon you, and obscur'd your hopes. 
 
 Count. Yes, I can now unravel all the plan, 
 Which, with unwearied pains, you have pursued 
 To make me what I am. I find him living, 
 Who you persuaded me to think was dead ; 
 I see that all his faithfulness, his truth, 
 His untold bounties, shower'd in secret on me, 
 Have either been distorted into crimes, 
 Or else assum'd as merits of your own ; 
 And nothing now is wanting, but to take 
 His forfeit life, and stamp a damning act, 
 Devils would start from, with the name of jus- 
 tice. - , 
 
 Duke. Why this is railing, madam, and not 
 reason : 
 You said you would be calm. 
 
 Count. And I am calm. 
 
 Duke. We have been friends 
 
 Count. Yes, yes, we have been friends, 
 Close, conscious friends, that have conspir'd to- 
 gether, 
 And know each other's hearts. I will not speak 
 To you of mercy You shall never name 
 Peace, or a word of comfort more to me.
 
 TORRENDAL. 365 
 
 Duke. Why this despair? You still preserve 
 your place 
 In my affections, and where love inhabits 
 Why should you doubt if mercy may be found ? 
 Count. Where love inhabits? Love! I thought 
 that word 
 Was sacred only to the hallow'd lips 
 Of the chaste virgin and unblemish'd wife. 
 There was a time I felt its influence here ; 
 Oh ! that was happy ! 'twas my fostering angel, 
 And underneath its wings all, all was peace ; 
 But it is gone ; a cruel falcon came 
 And drove my dove away Tis gone for ever. 
 [A Soldier enters, speaks apart to the Duke, whilst 
 Alicia had withdrawn to the back part of the 
 Stage. 
 Duke. Say'st? 'Tis well I'll see him once 
 again [Exit Guard' 
 
 Now, my Alicia, now thy fortune hails thee 
 Duchess of Courland Torrendal is dying 
 
 Count. Dying! Eternal infamy light on thee; 
 And as thou'st shut out mercy from thy heart, 
 Heav'n, from all mercy, shuts out thee. 
 
 Torrendal is led in between two of the Guard. 
 
 Hah! 'tis my husband Angels spread your wings 
 To waft his spirit to those realms of glory, 
 To which all earthly splendour, when compar'd, 
 Is as a glow-worm to the mid-day sun. 
 
 Tor. Peace, peace ! Be silent ! you, my Lord 
 of Courland, " 
 You, that delight in blood, should entertain 
 Assassins more expert; the coward stabber, 
 You sent to murder me, has only mangled, 
 
 Duke. Whether he struck by my command, or 
 not, ... ...
 
 366 TORRENDAL. 
 
 I am not careful how the world may judge; 
 For, if he did, it is but blow for blow, 
 And universal justice warrants that. 
 
 Tor, Yes, for they tell me that my dagger's 
 point, 
 When levell'd at your heart, has rent your robe : 
 *Twas done in phrenzy, for the injury 
 From you I had sustain'd ; yet I am glad 
 My hands are clear from spilling blood so foul; 
 And though I have the melancholy plea 
 Of a distracted brain for my acquittal, 
 I leave it to the searcher of all hearts ; 
 I urge it not on you. When every conscience 
 Shall give its secrets up, there stands a witness. 
 Who must depose the truth. 
 
 Count. Oh, hear me now, 
 Whilst yet my senses hold, in pity hear me ; 
 For I have sinn'd in error, and been plung'd 
 In this foul ruin more by others craft 
 Than my own nature : when I fell from virtue, 
 'Twas not ambition, 'twas not vanity ; 
 A thousand thousand times unmov'd I saw 
 That base seducer kneeling at my feet; 
 My heart was still my husband's Nay, when time 
 Roll'd on in cold neglect, and not one line 
 Of consolation ever reach'd my hand. 
 
 Tor. Day after day I urg'd my fond complaints 
 Sir, what became of these ? Oh, shame to honour! 
 
 Count. Blush, blush, if shame can reach you ! 
 Even then 
 Had any friend of honour intefpos'd, 
 I had not been the guilty thitig I am : 
 Then was the timfc Murinski should have urg'd 
 The secret bounties, you had left untold, 
 And he was privy to-^Alas for me ! 
 I never knew the Wond'rous debt I ow'd you. 
 Oh, fatal ignorance ! I sufFer'd him
 
 TORRENDAL. 367 
 
 To steal those praises, that were due to you, 
 And, cheated into gratitude, Was lost. 
 
 Tor. Enough ! Oh, prince, are these the glo- 
 rious acts, 
 Which heav'n requires of those Whom it ap- 
 points 
 To be 1 the friends and guardians of mankind ? 
 Look at the wreckof that once-beauteous creature, 
 How sad, how wan, how chang'd from what she 
 
 was 
 Be it your boast to have betray'd the friend, 
 That trusted to you his heart's dearest treasure ; 
 'Tis mine, that even now, whilst in my flesh 
 I Weaf the stab 3 011 gave irie, rack'd with pain, 
 My senses Wand'ring, and the ebbing stream 
 Of my life-blood, cold, gathering at my heart, 
 I yet survive to tell thee to thy face 
 Thou art a villain 
 
 Dukti Villain ! Stop his tongue; 
 Away with him to death ! He, that strikes short 
 A second time* shall answer with his life. 
 Be gone ; depart let none presume to speak. 
 
 [Torrendal is taken off by the Soldiers. 
 [The Countess remains, 
 Duke. Why do you stay ? 
 Count. Mercy !^- 
 
 Duke. I'll hear no more. [Exit hastily. 
 
 Count. Nor shall you Aid me now, vindictive 
 justice ! 
 And let this dagger plead, since mercy cannot. 
 
 [She rushes out after him. 
 [She returns holding the dagger. 
 'Tis done ! he reel'd, he fell without a groan; 
 There, where he fell, he lies Go, get thee hence, 
 Thou bleeding witness of a fearful deed ! 
 
 [Throws the dagger away. 
 Oh, that I only could have kill'd his crimes,
 
 368 TORRENDAL. 
 
 And spar'dhim life to make his peace with heaven! 
 Hark, what is that? What noise? And here comes 
 
 one, 
 A holy man Make haste, make haste, good 
 
 father ! 
 There's one within, if his soul is not fled, 
 Has need enough of prayers Go in, go in ! 
 [The Monk, who had entered during this speech, 
 goes into the Duke's Apartment. 
 
 The Scetie changes. 
 
 A gloomy Chamber or Prison, belonging to the Castle. 
 Torrendal is discovered in the hands of the Soldiers. 
 
 Tor. Why do you pause? Behold, I bare my 
 bosom 
 Already gash'd and bleeding : here beneath 
 A heart yet beats, that panted once for glory, 
 A soldier's heart If thou hast been a soldier, 
 Do thy work fitly, do it manfully ; 
 Strike at my heart, but strike me not in malice : 
 I never did thee wrong 
 
 M u a i nt s k i enters, followed by Lo d o w i c k. 
 
 Mur. Break up your guard ! 
 Soldiers, your duke and sovereign is no more. 
 I am your captain, and on me devolves 
 To answer for your prisoner [Soldiers withdrazc. 
 Oh, my friend, 
 
 Heard you the welcome tidings that I bring? 
 Courland is dead I come to set you free. 
 
 Tor. Your rescue comes too late ; death sets 
 me free, 
 Lo, where his shaft has enter'd !
 
 TORRENDAL. 369 
 
 Mur. No, my hero, 
 You have stood many a ruder shock than this ; 
 We'll heal this gash this is a shallow wound, 
 Tor. Tis deeper than you think for. Ah ! my 
 friend, 
 My honest Lody, hast thou found me out ? 
 Thy master's sorrows will be soon at rest. 
 
 Lod. Oh, how this rends my heart ! Come, let 
 us bear you 
 Into a fresher air We may find help : 
 Lean on my arm 
 
 Tor. It has already sav'd me; 
 It can do so no more ; yet, as it was 
 My first support, so shall it be my last. 
 
 {They lead him out. 
 . .- 
 
 Scene changes to a Chamber, in which is a State- 
 Bed, or Couch, and over it a Canopy with a Cur" 
 tain drawn before it, concealing the Body of the 
 Duke of Courland. 
 
 i 
 The Countess discovered. 
 
 Count Either it is the error of my senses, 
 And those, which I have look'd on, are but 
 
 shadows, 
 Or else some strange contagious horror strikes 
 All that have life, and palsies every tongue. 
 They come, they pass, and, in their passing, snatch 
 A fearful glance at the blood-sprinkled corpse 
 Of their dead prince ; but no one stops to ask 
 Who did the murderous deed. I saw the monk 
 Stand by the body, muttering to himself 
 His solemn offices for the soul's peace : 
 He turn'd a look on me, and wav'd his head 
 In silent reprobation, yet he spoke not : 
 
 yol. 1. B b
 
 
 370 TORRENDAL. 
 
 Murinski follow'd him no horrors avv'd; 
 Eager he gaz'd upon the prostrate corpse; 
 Then stooping laid his hand upon the heart. 
 To be resolv'd it* life's last pulse had stopt ; 
 Whereof assur'd, he beckon'd to the guard 
 To take the body up then with the air 
 And speedy step of one, who seem'd intent 
 To spread some happy tidings, he departed. 
 
 Baroness Vanhoven and Monk enter. 
 
 Bar. Where is the desperate maniac, that has 
 murder'd 
 The Duke of Courland underneath my roof? 
 
 Count. Oh, then I find it was not all a vision, 
 For here is one at last has found a voice. 
 But hush ! be silent Look, he comes, he comes ! 
 
 Torrendal led in by Murinski and Lodowick. 
 
 Oh, pity me, my husband, turn your eyes 
 
 In pity on a poor distracted creature ! 
 
 How now ! what ails him ? Why d'ye bear him up? 
 
 Ah ! he is dying. Look ! there's blood upon him ! 
 
 But I have slain the wolf that tore his flesh 
 
 There, there he lies ! 
 
 [She runs, draws the curtain rapidly aside, and 
 discovers the body of the Duke laid out on the 
 bed or couch. 
 Dead, dead You see him dead ; 
 Touch him, he's cold call him, he cannot hear 
 Accuse him, he can't answer If you ask 
 Who kill'd him, it was I 'twas I who did it 
 He had no mercy for my injur'd husband, 
 I, I had none for him 
 
 Tor. Peace ! Hear me speak ! 
 'Tis with my dying voice I now appeal
 
 TORRENDAL. 571 
 
 To Heaven's blest mercy, not for thee alone, 
 (Thy phrenzy ev'n an earthly judge would spare) 
 But also for the soul of that sad wretch, 
 With whose dead corpse I bury all resentment, 
 And so may Heaven to me like pardon deal, 
 As I to him ! 
 
 Count. Oh, hast thou not a pardon 
 Left to bestow on thy repentant wife ? 
 That I may lay it to my sinking heart, 
 And at my death's hour meditate upon it. 
 
 Tor. Oh, that these drops, which fond remem- 
 brance wrings 
 From my now-closing eyes, had power to blanch 
 Thy faded virtue, and restore it pure 
 As from the Maker's hand ! Now, bear me up ! 
 I yet would speak Oh, ye frail, faithless wives, 
 Let this sad story sink into your hearts, 
 And leave an awful lesson to the world, 
 What fools in nature, and what slaves to sin 
 Those wretches are, who sacrifice their peace 
 To a seducer, and then trust his honour 
 To bear them up against the stings of conscience, 
 The scorn of virtue, and the wrath of heaven. 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
 BbS
 
 
 .. 

 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Ne nunc quidam, cum accursor ultra ?
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Earl of Burville. 
 
 Lieut. General Highmore. 
 
 Major Manford. 
 
 Mapletoft. 
 
 Tim Mapletoft, his nephew. 
 
 Worthington, nephew to Mrs. Mapletoft. 
 
 David, an old servant to Manford-. 
 
 Ben, servant to Mapletoft. 
 
 Servant to Lord Burville. 
 
 Lady Caroline Malcolm. 
 
 Mrs. Mapletoft. 
 
 Fanny Rivers. 
 
 Mistress of the Lodging-house. 
 
 SCENE, London. 
 


 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene, a Chamber in a Lodging-house^ 
 Major Manford and David. 
 
 Man. Methinks, David, considering this uni- 
 form has seen some service, it looks tolerably 
 fresh. 
 
 Dav. I am not of that opinion, I don't think 
 it worthy of your honour; for look, there's a 
 patch in the skirt of it. 
 
 Man. Aye, there was a reason for that. 
 
 Dav. I know it. Twas a shot-hole ; what of 
 that ? Who wants to make a parade of it ? The 
 botcher should have fine-drawn it. 
 
 Man. He should. Your observation's right. 
 Have you been to the agent ? 
 
 Dav. Not I. Hadn't time to go. I've been 
 otherwise employ'd. 
 
 Man. How have you been employ'd ? 
 , Dav. Sitting for my picture. 
 
 Man. Why you ridiculous old coxcomb ! sit- 
 ting for your picture ! And my ingenious Miss 
 has been exercising her art upon that old wea- 
 ther-beaten, war-worn face 
 
 Dav. Even so, and very like it is. 
 
 Man. So much the worse ; she's a monkey for 
 her pains. 
 
 Dav. That may be, but I know one who would
 
 378 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 put a value upon that old weather-beaten face, if 
 the owner of it were in his grave. 
 
 Man. Indeed ! who may that be? 
 
 Dav. Yourself. I know that Major Manford's 
 heart is kind to his old David, notwithstanding 
 I am rough and crabbed. Tis my nature ; that's 
 enough. By the way, your honour, this same 
 Mapletoft, that lodges in the house with us, is 
 but a queer old fellow as I take it. 
 
 Man. And are you not a queer old fellow, as 
 I take it ? therefore you are fit companions for 
 each other. 
 
 Dav. I don't think that. He has no talk in 
 him ; not a word to say for himself in our way, 
 Major. 
 
 Man. Hold your silly tongue, and don't talk 
 about your betters. The man is a very good man 
 See who is upon the stairs : I hear somebody 
 coming. Lord Burville ! 
 
 David goes to the door, and Lord Burville enters. 
 
 
 
 Your most obedient servant, my Lord Burville. 
 To what am I indebted for this visit? 
 
 L. Bur. Allow me a few minutes of your pri- 
 vacy, and I'll inform you. 
 
 Man. Leave the room [Exit David.] Will your 
 lordship be seated ? [They sit, 
 
 L. Bur. Major Manford, I will not take up 
 your time in recapitulating past events, equally 
 known, and equally painful to us both. Two years 
 are now past since my daughter Caroline's un- 
 happy marriage with Sir Richard Malcolm broke 
 off all engagements between you and her ; you 
 went on distant service, whilst she remain'd the 
 victim of his intolerable temper. At length she 
 fled to me ; they were separated, and soon after
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 379 
 
 he ended his miserable days. This event took 
 place about a year ago, and the notoriety of it 
 probably reach'd you. 
 
 Man. I certainly did hear of it. 
 
 L. Bur. I trust you also heard, that not the 
 slightest imputation of misconduct attach'd to 
 Lady Caroline [Manford bows.] I now proceed 
 to, my immediate business Your long and ho- 
 nourable attachment to her is not forgotten ; her 
 heart, still faithful to its first impressions, reverts 
 to you with superadded fondness. I have now 
 seen my error, and anxious to atone for it, tender 
 you my daughter. 
 
 Man. There was a time, my lord, when such 
 an offer would have made me too happy for a 
 mortal ; I must suppose there hardly liv'd a man, 
 who would not proudly, joyfully have embrac'd 
 it. That time is past. I must decline it now. 
 
 L. Bur. Decline it ! Why, what motives can 
 you have ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! for my motives don't inquire of 
 them. 
 
 L. Bur. You are not married ? 
 
 Man. No. 
 
 L. Bur. Nor otherwise attach'd 
 
 Man. To my profession only. You may go on 
 and question me ; so long as what you ask suits 
 me to answer, I'll give you honest truths. 
 
 L. Bur. You lov'd my daughter. 
 
 Man. That requires no answer. 
 
 L. Bur. Whilst I was adverse to your suit, you 
 sought her ; now I am friendly to it, why refuse 
 her? 
 
 Man. That goes to motives ; I have already 
 pass'd that question by. 
 
 L. Bur. You can't suspect her honour; that 
 has stood investigation, and is clear. You cannot
 
 380 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 think the worse of her, because, in duty to her 
 father, she obey'd, and suffer'd by obedience. 
 
 Man. That is a merit on her part towards you, 
 which does not rest with me, my lord, to appre- 
 ciate. 
 
 L' Bur. However slightly you may think of 
 me, you can't but own my family is noble. 
 
 Man. You told me once I was too poor, my 
 
 lord. I have not added to my stock one guinea. 
 
 When a man is to be weigh'd against money, put 
 
 all his laurels into the scale, they are but feathers. 
 
 [He rises, and after a while sits down again. 
 
 L. Bur. You are too warm, too high upon that 
 question. I do not weigh your merit against 
 money : or, if I did, my daughter has enough for 
 your scale and her own, to make them balance. 
 Will that apology appease your anger. 
 
 Man. I am not angry, I am only firm. 
 
 L. Bur. Well, sir, if I had sinned against you 
 ten times over, concession could not well go 
 lower Your humble servant [Rises to go.] I 
 shall tell my daughter But hold perhaps 'tis 
 not too great a favour to ask, if you will call on 
 her yourself. 
 
 Man. No, no, that must not be. 
 
 L. Bur. Have you a heart ? By heaven I al- 
 most doubt it. Sir, I must tell you now (for 'tis 
 in vain to disguise from you every particular) 
 she lives but on the hope of my success, and I 
 should fear, in reporting your stern refusal, I 
 might destroy my daughter. There are things 
 have come to light, that call upon your honour, 
 not less than on your mercy, to protect her. 
 
 Man. What things are they, that call upon my 
 honour? 
 
 L. Bur. Letters. 
 
 Man. There are no letters of mine, at least;
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 381 
 
 for never did I write one line to her, since she 
 abandon'd me for thafwretch Sir Richard ; I have 
 heard of letters, but I plead to none. 
 
 L. Bur. Grant that you wrote no letters. 
 
 Man. It shall be granted ; for it is the truth, 
 and I own it. 
 
 L. Bur. Patience, if you please I grant the 
 letters all were of her own writing the effu- 
 sions of a suffering heart, that sued for pity and 
 implor'd your sympathy. 
 
 Man. I never open'd one. She was a wife. 
 
 L. Bur. The more my sorrow, and I should 
 have hoped the greateryour commiseration would 
 have been ; but I'm mistaken : I thought I had 
 been talking to a man. I find I have been plead- 
 ing to a rock. [Exit. 
 
 
 Manford alone. 
 
 [After a pause.] Bear up, proud heart! for bet- 
 ter 'twere to burst, than to debase thyself by 
 mean submission to a capricious woman's veering 
 humour A creature soil'd and sated to a surfeit 
 with those disgustful vanities, which her per- 
 verted taste preferred to solid, virtuous, dignified 
 contentment. She spurn'd me from her; she 
 invites me back. Shall I be so lur'd by a wan- 
 ton's whistle? No, I will not. That haughty 
 earl now stoops : Why does he so ? because he 
 vainly hop'd my poverty would tempt me to take 
 the leavings of Sir Richard Malcolm Not I, not 
 I, not I 
 
 Fanny Rivers enters. 
 
 Fan. May I come in ? 
 
 Man. Yes, yes, you may come in. .
 
 382 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Fan. I have brought you David's portrait 
 How do you like it ? [Shews a drawing. 
 
 Man. Very well, as a specimen of your art and 
 his ugliness. Wonderful to say, you have made 
 it quite as frightful as the original. * 
 
 Fan. Ah, now you are in one of your grave 
 fits. I wish I knew the way to fetch you out 
 of it. 
 
 Man. The way is not to notice it, or attempt 
 it. You have been visiting old Mapletoft. 
 
 Fan. Tis a good creature. I have been sing- 
 ing to him. 
 
 Man. Mere waste of breath. The owl has no 
 ear for the song of the nightingale. 
 
 Fan. He begg'd it of me What was I to do ? 
 
 Man. Just what you did, my child, and when- 
 soever the talents you possess can furnish plea- 
 sure, without diminution of your dignity; as you 
 have done to Mapletoft, do to others. 
 
 Fan. I thank you. I shall follow your instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 Man. Fanny, you know how truly I regard 
 you^for your poor brother's sake. He was a 
 gallant officer, and my friend. With his last 
 breath he recommended you to my protection. 
 We have fared upon our little, as we could. Some 
 taste for drawing, and a pleasing voice, have been 
 resources, which your humble nature has not 
 disdain'd to turn to some account. 
 
 Fan. Yes, and look here what Mapletoft has 
 siven me. [Shews a purse. 
 
 " Man. Well ! 
 
 Fan. Did I do wrong to take it ? 
 
 Man. No, my child. There is more honour 
 due to you for your humility, than praise to him 
 for his munificence. You did right not to refuse 
 his present.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 383 
 
 Fan. I am so happy when you approve of me 
 
 Man. Fanny, I do conjure and strictly charge 
 you never to let your thoughts present me to 
 you in any other light, than as your brother's 
 honourable friend, and your inflexibly sincere 
 protector. Your beauty moves in me no other 
 feelings, but an increased solicitude and care to 
 guard your innocence. Your pretty actions, with 
 all those kind attentions that you pay me, are 
 but remembrancers to whisper to me, that when 
 a soldier to a soldier gives the charge of virtue, 
 'tis a pledge so sacred, that but to look upon it 
 with an eye of longing, is enough to warn that 
 man that there is something mischievous within 
 him, which, if he means to keep his honour pure, 
 he must at once expel. Nay, do not weep this 
 is not chiding; 
 
 Fan. No, you don't chide ; but still you make 
 me weep. 
 
 Man, Why do I make you weep ? 
 
 Fan. Because, I think, perhaps, I have done 
 wrong, and could not help it ; nay, perhaps, again 
 I may do wrong, and with the same unconscious- 
 ness of my offence. 
 
 Man. Come, we'll converse no longer on this 
 subject, I have no head for arguing just now, 
 and for my heart I have felt it lighter than it 
 is at present So you shall sing me into better 
 spirits; and we'll have tea, and send for Maple- 
 toft ; his harmless nonsense of all narcotics is the 
 most lethaean. [Exeunt.
 
 384 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Scene changes to Mapletoft's Apartment. 
 
 . 
 
 Mapletoft and Mrs. Mapletoft. 
 
 Map. No, no, dame Deborah, since this great 
 fortune has come bounce upon us, we'll do the 
 tasty thing, and live geuteely. 
 
 Mrs. Map. How shall we live geuteely? Who'll 
 live with us, but such as come to pillage and 
 make game of us ? Sam Mapletoft, Sam Maple- 
 toft, I tell you, you never will shake off your 
 homely breeding. Tis in the bone of you, and 
 will not out. 
 
 Map. Well, well, though a man can't new make 
 himself, he may mend himself. I think I get on 
 in my talk pretty well. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Aye, if* you didn't get on so fast, 
 it would be all the better ; I wish, my good man, 
 you could once be convinc'd, that when you've 
 literally nothing to say, you have positively the 
 best reason in the world for saying nothing. 
 
 Map. Why that's very well; but consider, 
 consider I have some little right to talk; 'tis 
 but loss of time at the worst, and I can afford to 
 lose that : my fortune is not to make ; I have 
 money in my pocket. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Aye, money, money don't make us 
 wiser Look at Major iVlanford, listen to him. 
 
 Map. Well, I do listen, and I do like him, like 
 him mainly. He's a fine man, and I'm fond of 
 his company; and he seems very well pleas'd 
 with mine, for I talk to him about country mat- 
 ters, and tell him how to manage an estate. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Unluckily, he has no estate to ma- 
 nage.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 385 
 
 Map. And I have no battles to fight, yet he 
 tells me of his battles So we're pretty much on 
 the square for that. Every man in his own way. 
 Now here'll be nephew Timothy, I look for him 
 every hour. He is a mighty talker. Then we 
 shall hear something. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Yes, we shall hear much, under- 
 stand little, and profitless. But he is your nephew, 
 /have no share in him. 
 
 Map. No, no, Jack Worthiman is your nephew, 
 and he'll be up, I reckon, before night. I gave 
 him an invitation, for he's a hearty fellow, and I 
 shall be glad to see him. Jack knows horses and 
 dogs, and sheep and bullocks, but books books, 
 Lord love him, he knows no more about them 
 than I do. Now Timothy knows every thing 
 
 Mrs. Map. Or pretends to know 
 
 Ben enters, and afterwards Timothy. 
 
 Ben. 'Squire! Master Timothy is com'd. Here 
 he is. [Exit. 
 
 Tim. Honour'd uncle, your faithful ! Aunt, your 
 humble ! Rejoice to see you. Had your letter 
 per post, 26th ultimo? Struck work directly : left 
 the shop to the foreman ; hadn't time to say 
 Good bye to any body : all the town cried out, 
 Where's Tim Mapletoft agoing? Jump'd into my 
 gig ; was off in a crack, and behold here I am. 
 
 Map. But where's the need of all this haste, 
 friend Timothy ? If you had staid to set your 
 shop in order, and had not come these two days, 
 we might have outliv'd it 
 
 Tim. I believe it, and many many more days 
 besides, for I never saw you look better in all 
 my life, uncommonly well, I do protest and vow 
 And you, madam, quite fresh and blooming. 
 
 VOL. I. C C
 
 386 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Aye, you are the very quintessence 
 of all politeness. Your dealings lie so much with 
 the ladies, that you understand how to flatter 
 them. 
 
 Tim. Why to be sure, in our way of business we 
 must lay out a pretty many eye-traps for the 
 ladies Millinery and mercery, hosiery and hat- 
 tery, drapery of all sorts, from the silver muslin 
 to the Russia tick The best quality for ten miles 
 round frequent my shop The elegant Miss Fig- 
 gins have new nam'd it The School of the 
 Graces. 
 
 Map. Well, never mind your shop, just now ; 
 you are not in it ; so don't talk about it. I was 
 willing to catch a sight of you as I pass'd through 
 London, and perhaps to settle a few matters be- 
 fore I go down into the North. 
 
 Tim. Good ! the sooner matters are settled the 
 better ; and London is no place for you : quite 
 out of your element here, I should suppose. I 
 reckon you're going to visit your new concerns. 
 
 Map. Even so. 
 
 Tim. Under favour, uncle, was this gentleman, 
 who left you his property, any relation of our 
 family? 
 
 Map. None ; he had no relations that I can 
 hear of. He was a poor orphan parish-boy, when 
 I took pity on him, and gave him his outset in 
 the world. Industry, and a lucky stroke in bu- 
 siness, made his fortune rapidly. He died un- 
 married in the prime of life, and rememb'ring 
 one good turn deserves another, as the proverb 
 has it, left the bulk of his fortune to your humble 
 servant. 
 
 Tim. He did right. I commend him. Grati- 
 tude, gratitude I hold to be one of the genteelest 
 virtues a man of fashion can possess. It puts me
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. S87 
 
 in mind of a famous good story I was telling to 
 Sir William Woodcock, the other day. 
 
 Map. No, don't let it put you in mind of any 
 story, for I've no time to hear it. Your aunt and 
 I are engaged to visit a worthy gentleman, who 
 lodges in the same house with us, and 'tis now 
 time for us to be going And look ! here comes 
 his servant to tell us so. 
 
 David enters. 
 
 Dav. Major Manford and Miss Rivers are 
 expecting the pleasure of your company above 
 stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Map, Come, Mapletoft, let us get rid of 
 his jargon, and hear reason and good sense 
 instead. 
 
 Map. Hark 'ye, friend Timothy, you will stay 
 where you are ; we are not upon those terms with 
 Major Manford to take you with us. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Neither wou'd the history of your 
 shop be discourse exactly calculated for the 
 entertainment of Miss Rivers. 
 
 Tim. My shop, Madam ! Miss Rivers might 
 perhaps find better entertainment in my shop, 
 than any discourse cou'd give her; but I don't 
 intrude ; my company has been sought after by 
 hundreds, that are at least equals of Major Man- 
 ford and Miss Rivers. 
 
 . Map. Come along, dame ! Friend Timothy, spite 
 of thy learning thou art a puppy, thou hast ever 
 been a puppy, and I suppose thou wilt ever be a 
 puppy. [Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Mapletoft. 
 
 Tim Mapletoft and David. 
 
 'JTim. [To David as he is going out.] A word with, 
 
 Ccg
 
 38* LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 you friend. You hear that old fellow ? Do you 
 know why he takes those freedoms with me? 
 Because I am his nephew. And why, think you, 
 do I put up with them ? Because he's my uncle. 
 Now you are a man who look as if you had seen 
 the world, your master most probably has seen 
 it also ; don't you suppose the company of a 
 person like me, must be much more acceptable 
 to a person like your master, than that old crab 
 my uncle ? 
 
 Dav. You have question'd me, now let me ask 
 you one question in my turn. How long have 
 they let you out of the hospital ? 
 
 Tim. Hospital! What do you take me to be, 
 that I shou'd have any thing to do with the 
 hospital ? 
 
 Dav. I take you to be crazy. 
 
 Tim. And I take you to be a very impertinent 
 fellow. 
 
 Dav. Well, but don't tell me so, for I'm not a 
 very patient fellow. 
 
 Tim. Oh ! very well. Then I'll have nothing 
 more to say to you, but amuse myself with a 
 walk, whilst my uncle makes his visit. How long 
 have I been out of the hospital, indeed 1 A fine 
 joke ! A pretty question truly from a fellow of 
 his servile degree, to a person of my endowments. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dav. If that whelp has any ears, I suspect by 
 the itching of my fingers, I shall shortly have a 
 pluck at 'em. 
 
 Ben runs in. 
 
 Ben. Ah! Brother David, give me hold of your 
 hand You won't flout me, though I be but a 
 clown, for I do love a soldier hugely, that's the 
 truth on't.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 389 
 
 Dav. Well you're a hearty fellow, but your 
 Timothy, your mountebank, I've a rod in soak 
 for him. 
 
 Ben. Dang it, don't you spare him A cross 
 grain'd cranky toad as ever crawl'd. 1 hates him 
 heartily, and so does mistress, and now her 
 nephew, master Johny Worthiman, is corned to 
 town, all will go smoothly. Aye, he's a right 
 one, he's clean another thing from that proud 
 whelp. I pray you, stay till he comes up ; he is 
 only snapping a bit in the kitchen And look 
 ye ! he is here already. 
 
 Worthiman enters. 
 
 Worth. So ; here I am, and this is London. 
 Joy go with it ! Brother soldier, how are you; 
 how are times with you ? 
 
 Dav. Thank you, noble captain, I'm content. 
 
 Worth. That's well ; but I'm no captain. 
 Honour enough for me to side a private in a brave 
 troop of yeomen ; I am an Isle of Thanet man, 
 do you see But surely, surely, I shou'd know 
 your face. Was'nt you with Captain Manford in 
 my house during the embarkation? 
 
 Dav. To be sure I was, and you are our kind 
 host Mr. Wprthiman ; Lord, Lord, how glad my 
 Major will be to see you ! I'll run up and tell him. 
 
 Worth. Is Captain Manford in this house ? 
 
 Dav. Yes, and will be in this room in a whiff, 
 but he is Major now ; remember that. [Exit. 
 
 Worth. A finer fellow never drew a sword. Is 
 uncle Mapletoft with him? 
 
 Ben. \es, and your aunt too. Your cousin 
 Timothy is in town. 
 
 Worth. My cousin ! No, we're neither kin nor 
 kind. He is too great a man for me : I have 
 nothing to do with him.
 
 390 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Major Manford to Worthiman. 
 
 Man. Worthiman, my dear friend, my hospit- 
 able host, how glad I am to see you. How are 
 all friends in the Island ? how are your horses, 
 your cows, your pigs, your poultry ; how is your 
 cherry-cheek'd dairy maid; but above all, my 
 hero, how are your gallant yeomen and their 
 noble Captain? 
 
 Worth. All brave and hearty Major I'm to 
 call you. Well, I'm proud to see you. They told 
 me you was wounded. 
 
 Man. A trifle, a trifle tumbled down and got 
 up again You and I, Jack, don't give in for a 
 knock-down blow Do we, my heart? 
 
 Worth. No, no, no ; that won't do, will it ? 
 And when will you come and see us? I'venurs'd 
 up the cropt mare for you ; she's in topping 
 order. Lawk-a-day, I wish I was out of this town. 
 
 Man. You are but just come into it. We shall 
 find something to amuse you. You like a good 
 song for instance, don't you ? 
 
 Worth. Dearly. 
 
 Man. And if a good girl sings it, and a pretty 
 girl, you wou'd like it none the less. 
 
 Worth. A great deal the better. There is not 
 a fellow in England fonder of a good girl, and 
 more shy of a bad one. Zooks, I never go near 
 none of 'em ! 
 
 Man. That's well. Follow me then, and I'll 
 carry you to one of the right sort. By my soul, 
 Worthiman, to fall in thus unexpectedly with a 
 kind friend, whom I am so very much oblig'd to, 
 is a pleasure I have not felt this many and many 
 a day. [Exeunt.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 391 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Earl of Burville's House. 
 Lord Burville and General High mo re. 
 
 L. Bur. Well, my good brother, I have now 
 repeated to you every circumstance, and, as 
 nearly as I cou'd recollect, every word, that 
 pass'd during my interview with Major Manford. 
 Give me leave to ask if you paid any attention 
 to it? 
 
 Gen. Profound. 
 
 L. Bur, I am glad of it, for it is highly inte- 
 resting to me, and I really fear'd your thoughts 
 were otherwise employ 'd, as you never made the 
 smallest remark, or express'd the slightest 
 emotion. 
 
 Gen. I hope not; to interrupt a gentleman in 
 his story is not my practice, and to be mov'd, 
 or, as you term it, to express emotion, is not my 
 character. I am immoveable. 
 
 L. Bur. But you have an opinion. 
 
 Gen. As yet none. I am not hasty in forming 
 opinions, for when once that is done I never alter 
 them. I am unchangeable. 
 
 L. Bur. Then I believe, General, I need trouble 
 you no farther, but may go to my daughter. 
 
 Gen. Certainly you may; but you will not 
 trouble me if you do not talk to me. I am 
 meditating. 
 
 L. Bur. [Aside.] What shall I do ? I am un- 
 willing to carry bad news to poor Caroline, and
 
 S9Q LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 I am curious to discover what the result of these 
 profound meditations may be. 
 
 Gen. My Lord and brother, I have made up 
 my opinion. Give me a pinch of snuff, if you 
 please This it is. When Major Manford offer'd 
 himself to your daughter, you had a right to 
 refuse him. When you offer'd your daughter to 
 Major Manford, he had a right to refuse you. I 
 am peremptory. 
 
 L. Bur. Is that all you have to say upon the 
 subject ? 
 
 Gen. That is not all. I have to say, that the 
 Earl of Burville has lower'd himself extremely. 
 I blush for him. He might as well have cried 
 his daughter at the cross. 
 
 L. Bur. What cou'd I do? She is broken- 
 hearted, she is dying. 
 
 Gen. Ladies never die of broken hearts. I 
 have decided. 
 
 L. Bur. Have you decided upon any thing 
 else ! 
 
 Gen. I have decided that your honour is at issue, 
 and you must act with energy in the support of 
 it. When you separated your daughter from Sir 
 Richard Malcolm, it was a point of law; the 
 sword had nothing to do with it. But when the 
 fellow's dirty business was over, I felt it incum- 
 bent on me to quarrel with him, and for the 
 honour of my family, I insulted him in the lobby of 
 the Opera House. It was unavoidable, and, to do 
 the fellow justice, he seem'd to think so himself, 
 for he took it patiently. 
 
 L. Bur. I presume you wou'd not have me 
 make the same experiment upon Major Manford. 
 
 Gen. No, no; you have not those lengths to 
 take with Major Manford, seeing he is an officer
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 39s 
 
 and a gentleman. But as you have lower'cl your- 
 self in his eyes, you must strive to regain his 
 good opinion by seeking occasion to affront him. 
 There is no doubt but he will fight you, when, I 
 flatter myself, you will have an opportunity of 
 re-establishing your reputation. I have said it. 
 Xou have my advice. Good day to you. [Exit, 
 
 Lord Bukville. 
 
 You are a madman, o' my conscience, a rank 
 madman, and I am a fool for condescending to 
 consult you. 
 
 Lady Caroline enters. 
 
 L. Car. Oh ! my father, how could you be so 
 long return'd, and not tell me what has pass'd 
 with Major Manford ? 
 
 L. Bur. Because I had nothing to tell you that 
 would give you comfort. He is inflexible. 
 
 L. Car. He has reason. I expected it. I love 
 him the better for his inflexibility, because I 
 honour him the more. 
 
 L. Bu?\ To relate what I said to him, would 
 be too painful, to repeat what be said to me, 
 would be too humiliating. In short, there is no 
 hope. 
 
 L. Car. I do not seek to eucourage any hope. 
 I deserve none, and am reconciled to despair. It 
 is all at an end. I know my fate, and am pre- 
 pared to support it. I take for granted he will 
 marry Fanny -Rivers ; I can't suppose he would 
 let her live with him, if he was not engaged to 
 her. 
 
 L. Bur. I put that question to him He replied, 
 that he was engaged to his profession.
 
 594, LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 L. Car. Ah, that's equivocal ; she may be call'd 
 a part of his profession. I understand she is the 
 sister of a brother officer, and bequeath'd to his 
 protection. Generous Manford ! his heart is ho- 
 nour's sanctuary; no baseness can dwell there. 
 He will protect the relict of his friend thrice 
 happy girl ! he'll marry her. 
 
 L. Bur. As I went down the stairs, I cross'd 
 upon her. She's very beautiful. 
 
 L. Car. Yes, yes, I doubt it not. Any features 
 that nature has not marr'd, will appear beautiful, 
 when the heart's gladden'd with the blest assu- 
 rance of being destined to a man like him. I had 
 that conscious source of beauty once ; she has it 
 now. Therefore she flourishes, and I am faded. 
 
 L. Bur. My child, my child, you agonize my 
 heart, to think that I have been the cause of 
 this. 
 
 L. Car. No ; I acquit you. 'Twas not in your 
 nature to be my tyrant ; 'twas not in your power. 
 If I lov'd you too well not to obey you, though 
 I am ruin'd, why do I regret it? Henceforth, 
 my lord, I will be quite resign'd. You shall not 
 have the pain to hear one sigh, for fear you should 
 interpret it as a reproach Now tell me, how is 
 my lost friend in health ? 
 
 L. Bur. Well, it should seem. A few shades 
 darker for his expedition. 
 
 L. Car. That is no detriment But, he was 
 wounded. Is he well of that ? 
 
 L. Bur. Perfectly, I should suppose. I saw no 
 signs to the contrary. 
 
 L. Car. I knew, I knew my Manford was a 
 hero. Oh, that I might but see him once again! 
 
 L. Bur. I wish'd him t<r come to you, and 
 humbly ask'd it of him as a favour 
 
 L. Car. Well
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 595 
 
 L. Bur. He refused it. 
 
 L. Car. In what way ? Angrily ? 
 
 L. Bur. No, no, not angrily ; but with great 
 emotion. 
 
 L. Car. There's hope in that there is a gleam 
 of hope in that emotion. Oh ! my lord, my lord, 
 if you could but describe his manner to me, I 
 would not quite despair. But hold I do con- 
 jure you not to attempt it. You may give his 
 words ; you cannot give his voice ; you may de- 
 scribe his action ; to be felt, it must be seen, and 
 no eyes but my own can, in that action, see and 
 read his heart. I beg you'll leave me to reflect 
 awhile. 
 
 L. Bur. Most readily, my child Alas ! poor 
 thing, how she loves him still ! [Aside, and exit. 
 
 Lady Caroline alone. 
 
 No; that won't do; I must not press upon 
 him ; there is an indelicacy in that and might 
 offend him I'll not venture that If I must not 
 aspire to that noble heart, I will at least not for- 
 feit his respect The people, where he lodges, 
 keep a shop. I know the house, and if I had it 
 watch'd till he was out, I might drop in and see 
 this famous beauty. 'Tis said she sings enchant- 
 ingly, and I was told her drawings are exhibited 
 for sale If that be so, I'm free to purchase of 
 her ; but I won't let her know me I have a pro- 
 ject forming in my thoughts; but I must shape 
 it, and consult my father. [Exit,
 
 396 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Major Manford's Apartments. 
 Manford and David. 
 
 Man. Have you clean'd those pistols, as I bade 
 you? 
 
 Dav, I have, your honour. 
 
 Man. Have you loaded them ? 
 
 Dav. I had no orders. 
 
 Man. Load 'em. 
 
 Dav. I will. May I be so bold as to ask, if 
 your honour is going to turn out r 
 
 Man. Don't be inquisitive. Do as I bid you. 
 
 J)av. I shall v do as you bid me, and I won't be 
 inquisitive; but, if your honour takes the field, 
 I shan't keep in the house. That's all. [Exit, 
 
 Man. There is a certain General Highmore, a 
 crazy fighting fellow; and so quarrelsome, that 
 he is hardly fit to go loose in civilized society. I 
 think it probable, Lord Burville's visit may de- 
 volve upon me a favour of the like sort from 
 his sword -and-pistol brother, this same crack'd- 
 brain'd man of war. 
 
 Worthijjan looks in, 
 
 JVor. Oh, I'm glad you are alone. I want to 
 speak to you. I am thinking, Major, that I had 
 best turn short about, and go home again. I have 
 seen you, and I have seen my relations, and I 
 have nothing more to do in town. 
 
 Man. What's the matter now ? 
 
 JVor. Nay, nothing, but that I shall be much 
 better in the country. London don't suit me. 
 I believe the air don't agree with me. It has a 
 strange effect upon my spirits.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 397 
 
 Man, Well, but you'll stay and hear anothef 
 song. 
 
 Wor. No, no ; I won't hear any more songs, if 
 you please. I rather believe I have heard one 
 too many ; it is so unlike the songs we sing in 
 the country, it puts me out of conceit with 'em. 
 Besides, it raises ugly notions in me: it causes 
 me to envy you, Major Manford, and that, I take 
 it, is as bad a thing as can belong to me. 
 
 Man. You need not envy me, my friend, for 
 I am neither maker of the songs, or the lover of 
 the songstress. 
 
 Wor. How ; What ! Not the lover of what is 
 So lovely! I beg your pardon, major; but I think 
 you can't be in earnest. 
 
 Man. Upon my honour, I'm sincere, t told 
 you Fanny Rivers's situation, as to me ; and now 
 I tell you the true state of my heart as to her. 
 
 Wor. Well, you amaze me. I was not ten 
 minutes in her company before But what am I 
 talking of? A dunce, a dunderhead, that has 
 not three ideas plague on't,a pretty fool I should 
 beNo, no, I'll go home again : I've nO plot 
 upon uncle Mapletoft's fortune ; besides, he is, 
 in fact, no uncle of mine I wouldn't give that 
 [snaps hisjingers.~\ for his fortune. Major, I'll go 
 home again. 
 
 David enters. 
 
 Dav. A gentleman desires to see you, who calls 
 himself Lieutenant-General Highmore I dont 
 recollect any such general in our campaigns. 
 
 Man. No matter what you recollect. Shew 
 the gentleman up. [Exit David.'] Wor'thiman you 
 must leave us. 
 
 Wor. Yes, I mean to leave you ; but mayn't I 
 go and take leave of Miss Fanny ? she ask'd me
 
 398 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 as I came up the stairs. But I was daunted then, 
 and came to you. I am in better heart now. 
 
 Man. Go, go, my good fellow ; she'll welcome 
 you My visitor is coming. [Exit Worthiman. 
 
 General Highmoue enters. 
 
 Gen. Your most humble servant, Major Man- 
 ford ! I presume I need not announce myself to 
 you. 
 
 Man. General Highmore, I believe 
 
 Gen. The same. My brother, the Earl of Bur- 
 ville, has inform'd me of his conference with you : 
 he has been express and circumstantial. You 
 have done no more than what you had a right to 
 do, in refusing my niece ; but my brother is 
 degraded by the manner of your doing it you 
 comprehend me, sir? 
 
 Man. Not very clearly. 
 
 Gen. I am not apt to be obscure. I will en- 
 deavour to be more explicit. The Earl of Bur- 
 ville must not be treated by Major Manford, in 
 the way that Major Manford has been pleased to 
 treat him. 
 
 Man. I thought you said that I had done no 
 more than I had a right to do. 
 
 Gen. True, as to fact, not to form. My bro- 
 ther has deposited his reputation in your hands, 
 and I must have it back again, as pure as when 
 he committed it to your keeping. Am I perspi- 
 cuous? 
 
 Man. No, I protest you have fairly puzzled 
 me. It should seem to me, that this is not your 
 affair, but Lord Burville's. Do you bring me any 
 message from him ? 
 
 Gen. No, sir, I bring no message. I am prin- 
 cipal.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 399 
 
 Man. Oh, then I understand you. Lord Bur- 
 ville has nothing to say to me, but you have. 
 You are his champion, and are come to demand 
 an apology, or provoke a rencontre? [The Gene' 
 ral nods assent.] You shall be satisfied directly. 
 Your character is so well known, as a profess'd 
 duellist, that I have nothing more to do than to 
 call for my pistols, and take my distance. That 
 shall be near enough, I promise you : I never 
 did turn out, and one of us, at least, shall never 
 turn back again. 
 
 Gen. Are you so bloody, sir? 
 
 Man. Spare your remarks. I won't be trifled 
 with. You shall have no apology. What have I 
 done to you, or to your brother, or to your niece, 
 that should provoke you to attempt my life, or 
 wantonly expose your own ? Do you think a 
 soldier, who has fought the enemies of his nation 
 in a climate, whose sun smites with blindness, 
 and whose blasts are pestilential, is to be driven 
 into any measures by the terror of a duel? Ded- 
 man ! fetch my pistols. [David looks in, and exit. 
 
 Gen. You are warm, sir : you are also vocifer- 
 ous, and high in mouth. 
 
 Man. Never mind what I am. Look to your- 
 self. I execrate a duellist; I regard him as a 
 mad dog, and will put him to death in self-de- 
 fence with as little remorse [David returns with 
 the pistols.] Oh ! very well ! They are loaded, are 
 they not? 
 
 Dav. Aye, aye, sir, and prim'd too. They are 
 in beautiful order. 
 
 Man. Lock the door. Put them on the table. 
 Now take your choice, sir, and examine your 
 pistol. 
 
 Dav. [To the General.] I am sure you'll like it, 
 General; feather spring, take notice.
 
 400 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Gen. Major Manford, give me leave to observe, 
 that you are a considerable deal too quick in this 
 business. In the first place, I have given you no 
 absolute challenge ; in the next place, if I had, 
 I never fail to give a gentleman time to settle 
 his affairs. 
 
 Man. Pooh ! I have none to settle. I have 
 done my duty to my king and country : I have 
 a clear conscience, and I appeal to heaven, that 
 this duel is not of my own seeking. 
 
 Gen. Is it of mine ? 
 
 Man. What else did you come here for? 
 
 Gen. Simply to expostulate about my brother. 
 
 Man. Did he desire you to do that? 
 
 Gen. I cannot say he did. 
 
 Man. Did Lady Caroline ? 
 
 Gen. No, most incontrovertibly no. 
 
 Man. 'Tis clear then what you came for To 
 discover the temperature of my spirit, and regu- 
 late your own accordingly. It is not so my ge- 
 neral would have done. He was no duellist. He 
 died for England ; but not by English hands, as 
 you or I must, if you choose to persist. 
 
 Gen. Sir, I am not contentious without cause. 
 Your language is too high. 'Tis you, yourself, 
 that urge this duel on me. My courage has been 
 tried, as well as yours. We neither of us can 
 gain by this rencontre. 
 
 Man. If you think so, a few words may pro- 
 bably dismiss it. 
 
 Gen. I am not verbose. But for apologies, I 
 never make them. You have been ill-treated, I 
 confess that; and therefore make allowances for 
 warmth. Now, sir, as no living being can wave 
 a duel with greater impunity than I can, I tender 
 you my hand. If you decline it, I take your 
 pistol.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 401 
 
 Man. Oh, your hand, your hand ; I'll never 
 turn out with a brother soldier, if I can help it. 
 Thus we seal our peace. 
 
 Gen. And establish our friendship. Any mes- 
 sage to my lord and brother? 
 
 Man. You brought me none from him. 
 
 Gen. Any to the Lady Caroline, my niece ? 
 
 Man. For the same reason, none. 
 
 Gen. I understand you. Yon have taken your 
 resolutions. In the like case, I should be, in the 
 like manner, pertinacious. Adieu! y \Exit. 
 
 Dav. I thought thatstiff-back'd fellow wouldn't 
 fight. Shall I draw the charges, Major? When 
 you offer'd him so civilly to take a pistol, I won- 
 der how he could find in his heart to refuse 
 you. 
 
 Man. Put the pistols by, and no comments 
 upon what has pass'd. I am going out. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 Worthiman and Fanny. 
 
 Fan. Surely, that General makes a long visit to 
 the Major. 
 
 JVor. He's gone, and the Major has walk'd out. 
 
 Fan. I am afraid then your politeness to me 
 has kept you at home. 
 
 JVor. Politeness ! No, Miss Fanny, I have no 
 claim to that. My manners are not suited to the 
 politeness of high life, and my amusements are 
 of a very different sort from what are call'd the 
 pleasures of the town. 
 
 Fan. I dare say they are much more rational, 
 and much more eligible. Time don't hang heavy 
 on your hands, I can well believe. 
 
 vol. i. D d
 
 402 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Worth. Why, I have a good deal of occupation 
 put of doors, and 'tis well I have, for there's little 
 within to chear me; no mother, no sister, no 
 wife And as for reading, my education has not 
 look'd that way ; though I can take up a hook 
 now and then, and shou'd much oftener, if I had 
 a sensible companion to encourage me in it. 
 
 Fan. The Major tells me that you have a 
 delightful situation, and a very comfortable 
 mansion At least you made it such to him. 
 
 Worth. I wish to my heart he may have lik'd 
 it well enough to come again And, oh Miss 
 Fanny, if you wou'd condescend to visit a plain 
 yeoman with him The Lord have niercy upon 
 me ! what a happy fellow you wouM- make me 
 Dearest heart alive, how I wou'd strive to find 
 some entertainment for you! Let me see, let me 
 see, perhaps you like riding. 
 
 Fan. Of all things. A horse is my delight. 
 
 TVorth. Then, I can suit you The gentlest, 
 prettiest creature and will carry you so safe and 
 easy How I shall fondle it for your sake ! But 
 do you really think the Major will like to come? 
 
 Fan. I am very certain he can come to no one 
 he likes so well. 
 
 Worth. You charm me to hear you say so. 
 Perhaps you take pleasure in a garden. I have 
 abundance of flowers. I am very fond of them 
 myself. 
 
 Fan. You can't be more so than I am. In short 
 the pleasures of the country, are the only plea- 
 sures I can truly taste. 
 
 Worth. Lord, Lord, how proud and happy you 
 have made me ! how I will work to get the gar- 
 den gay against you come And the roan-horse 
 No body shall back him from this day forward, 
 but myself I'll break him to the side-saddle, I'll
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 403 
 
 make his mouth as light as a feather. I turn my 
 back on no body for that. And I'll have such 
 beds of flowers And, let me see, I'll paper Yes, 
 that I will, Til paper the brown oak parlour. 
 
 Fan. No, don't do that; don't paper the brown 
 oak parlour. 
 
 Worth. Shan't I? I am afraid you'll think it 
 gloomy suppose I painted it? 
 
 Fan. High treason. You'll spoil it if you paint it. 
 
 Worth. Then I won't touch it. If I had only 
 something* of your doing; any one of your cast- 
 off drawings to hang up How I should doat 
 upon it ! 
 
 Fan. If that wou'd please you, any of my 
 drawiugs are at your service. None can be too 
 good for Major Manford's friend. 
 
 Worth. You are too good. Your kindness 
 overpowers me. I must not stay with you. I 
 beg your pardon I know I am not worthy to 
 approach you. Heaven in its mercy bless you 
 and protect you ! [Edit. 
 
 Fan. What a kind soul that is ! Yes, yes, I see 
 he merits the esteem of my belov'd protector. 
 
 The Mistress of the Lodgings, followed by Lady 
 Caroline. 
 
 ...... 
 
 Mist. Miss Rivers, this lady desires to be in- 
 troduced to you She has been looking at your 
 drawings, and wishes to communicate her opinion 
 of them. {Exit. 
 
 Fan. The lady does me honour. Have you seen 
 any of my humble performances, Madam, that 
 you approve of?. 
 
 L. Car. All ; I approve of all : but drawing is 
 not your only talent; I understand you are 
 musical. 
 
 Dd %
 
 404 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Fan. Simply an amateur, Madam ; not a pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 L. Car. You sing, I am told. 
 
 Fan. I attempt it, when my friends condescend 
 to desire it 
 
 L. Car. When I may deserve that title, I hope 
 I may enjoy that gratification. I have seen your 
 collection below stairs, which I am to account 
 with you for. I understand you have other 
 drawings which you do not expose for sale. 
 
 Fan. A few portraits of my friends. Wou'd 
 you wish to see them ? 
 
 L. Car, You wou'd very much oblige me. 
 
 Fan. [Opens her port-folio.'] This was my deceas'd 
 brother. I believe it resembles what he was. 
 
 L. Car. A most interesting countenance. It 
 resembles you. 
 
 Fan. I have been told so. I wou'd the like- 
 ness held throughout. It never fell to my lot to 
 experience equal perfection in a human being, 
 except in one man, one friend in my affliction, 
 and, thank Heaven, he is living. 
 
 L. Car. You have the portrait of that friend, I 
 hope. 
 
 Fan. Yes, yes, I have that treasure. If the 
 evil day shou'd ever come when I shall lose that 
 friend. You weep How happens it you are so 
 tender, to weep for one you never saw before ? 
 
 L. Car. Go on, go on 1 Don't ask me why I 
 weep. Describe his virtues, tell me all his 
 bounties, then let me see if you have skill to 
 paint the graces of his person. 
 
 Fan. Ah, then I see you know him. 
 
 L. Car. You have found me. I came to im- 
 pose upon you ; but I cannot. 
 
 Fan. You are Lady Caroline Malcolm. 
 
 L. Car. I am that unhappy one. [She sinks into
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 405 
 
 a chair."] Don't be alarm'd, my dear; I shall not 
 faint. I am recovering Don't shew me Man- 
 ford's picture if I ask you ; that might be danger- 
 ous ; never let me see him, whilst I have life. I 
 cannot be your rival ; therefore don't hate me, 
 for I will be your friend. I have taken all your 
 drawings ; never more shall you be so degraded. 
 Accept this pocket-book ; nay, I entreat you, I 
 insist upon it ; it will supply you till I have more 
 to give you. Will you admit me at this hour to- 
 morrow, and will you be alone? 
 
 Fan. I must consult the Major, and shew him 
 what you have been pleas'd to give me. 
 
 L. Car. Do so ; do every thing that he approves, 
 and then your conscience will approve of you. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 406 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Matletoft, Mrs. Mapletoft, Worth i man, 
 
 Tjm. 
 
 Map. Come along, gentlemen both. Here we 
 are all together ; a family party ; I and my dame, 
 my nephew and her nephew. Now to business. 
 Timothy Mapletoft, man-milliner and mercer, 
 hatter and hosier, and as many more et cameras 
 as may belong to you, I will begin with you. 
 
 Tim. Hear I am, uncle ; speak your pleasure. 
 
 Map. Timothy, I did never hear that your 
 mother's honesty was call'd in question, there- 
 fore I may conclude you are my own brother's 
 son ; and of course my nephew : the premises 
 being granted, I can't traverse the conclusion. 
 
 Tim. May I be further, uncle, if I don't think 
 the air of London has set a new edge upon your 
 wits. I never heard you hold forth so eloquently 
 before. 
 
 Map. Will you be silent ? If you will not, I 
 shall pass you by, and turn to Worthiman Being 
 my nephew, you are my next of kin ; being my 
 next of kin, you shou'd be my heir ; but whether 
 that will so turn out or not, depends upon your- 
 self. 
 
 Tim. Oh, then its all settled, for I have all the 
 good will in life that it shou'd so turn out, and 
 speedily. 
 
 Map. I am oblig'd to you ; but I don't mean 
 to leave this life one hour the sooner for your 
 wishing it. 
 
 Worth. You have overshot yourself, Timothy; 
 you had best mind your brief.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 407 
 
 Tim. Farmer Worthiman, mind your plough 
 and your pig-stye, and don't tutor me in the 
 graces. My uncle knows I did not wish to 
 shorten his days; I only wish'd him to shorten 
 his dicourse. 
 
 Map. And when did you ever speak, chattering 
 puppy, that every body didn't wish you to shorten 
 your discourse? stand aside, while I address my- 
 self to the farmer, as you call him John Worthi- 
 man, farmer, yeoman, volunteer ! what have you 
 to say for yourself? 
 
 Worth. Nothing. I have nothing to say for 
 myself. 
 
 Map. What ! have you nothing You that 
 employ the plough for the sustenance of your 
 countrymen, and carry a sword for their defence, 
 have you nothing to say for yourself And is this 
 man-milliner to say all? I wou'dn't be thought 
 to despise any one for his vocation ; a man may 
 measure out inkle and tape all the days of his 
 life, and be an honest member of the community, 
 but when he vapours over a character like yours, 
 my blood boils in my veins, and makes me elo- 
 quent Warthiman, I call upon you to speak. 
 
 JVorth. Uncle, I am no talker, and on this sub- 
 ject I choose to be silent. Timothy is your right 
 heir, I have no claim to one farthing of your 
 money. I said a foolish thing when I jested him 
 about minding his brief. I wish the words had 
 never pass'd my lips; I am asham'd of myself; 
 'twas unfair, and I ask his pardon. 
 
 Tim. Oh, very well, I am glad you take shame 
 to yourself. Now, uncle, I hope you will hear 
 me again. 
 
 Mrs. Map. Timothy Mapletoft, if you are 
 wise, say nothing. Depend upon it you will ruin 
 your own cause.
 
 408 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Tim. Thank you, good madam, but I know 
 what I'm about. I was not born yesterday. I 
 have carried on business in the capital of the 
 county where I live, with unrivall'd reputation. 
 My uncle himself has sate in my shop and wit- 
 ness'd the crowds of customers that flock'd to it. 
 He has seen me serve them with a dexterity and 
 address, that, I am sure, must have done me 
 honour in his opinion. He has been present at 
 the club when I have been call'd to the chair, 
 and elected toast-master; he has heard me give 
 my song, when the whole room has echoed with 
 applause of my falsetta-cadence at the close of 
 it Shall I give it you ? 
 
 Map. Keep your tongue still, and don't expose 
 yourself to the contempt of the company. 
 
 Tim. I may expose myself to the contempt of 
 this company, but I was not treated with con- 
 tempt by the company at the Hand and Colly- 
 flower assembly, when I was unanimously voted 
 M.S. Master of the Ceremonies. Cou'd Worthi- 
 man have executed that office ? Cou'd a grazier 
 have officiated for the Graces ? He cou'd not. 
 He may perhaps know his place in the manoeuvres 
 of a squadron, but, believe me, he wou'd have 
 been grievously out of the ranks in the evolu- 
 tions of a cotillion. 
 
 Map. Have you done ? 
 
 Tim. For the present. 
 
 Map. Then take my advice, and walk out into 
 the streets; ask the first man you meet, the way 
 to Lad-lane; betake yourself with all speed to 
 the Swan with two necks, secure an outside place 
 for to-morrow's stage-coach, seat yourself for 
 once on the roof, and let the penance you shall 
 there endure, work repentance for the folly you 
 have been guilty of. Take notice, I don't turn
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 409 
 
 you out of my house, but as you advis'd me to 
 shorten my discourse; I recommend you to 
 shorten your stay. 
 
 [Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Mapktoft. 
 
 Timothy, Worthiman. 
 
 Tim. You think, perhaps, you have vex'd me, 
 Mr. Worthiman ; that is not in your power. 
 You flatter yourself that you can blind my eyes; 
 that you cannot do. I understand your plot, be 
 assured. 
 
 Worth. What do you understand it to be ? 
 
 Tim. Nothing more than an ingenious device, 
 with your good aunt's assistance, to work me out 
 of my uncle's favour, and worm yourself into it. 
 
 Worth. I'll answer that in three words, and 
 then hold no further conversation with you on 
 the subject You are mistaken. 
 
 Tim. I'll tell you this, Sir, for your comfort 
 I am not, as you are, of a fighting profession. 
 There was a moment when I meditated to turn 
 out a volunteer as you have done : it might have 
 been a proud day for England if I had done so ; 
 but the corps wou'd not buy their plumes at my 
 shop, and I indignantly declined the service. I 
 do not wear a sword, else I shou'd call you out; 
 but I handle a pen, and you shall hear from me. 
 
 Worth. I hope so ; but let me hear from you 
 as a friend; above all things, keep your resolu- 
 tion, and don't call me out. We have been so 
 long expecting, and so constantly prepared to 
 obey the call, that if ever you were to make the 
 experiment upon me, I might perhaps take you 
 at your word, and in an unlucky moment, de- 
 prive the world of a man-milliner. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 410 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 1 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 MANFORD flW</WORTHIMAN. 
 
 Worth. Major, I want a bit of your advice. 
 Here am I every minute getting on faster and 
 faster at a teasing rate, and can't find out for the 
 life of me whether I'm in the right track or the 
 wrong. Now, if you know Miss Fanny's mind 
 about me, I think you wou'd not see me run my 
 head against a disappointment, and not warn me 
 of it. 
 
 Man. Certainly not ; but are you fairly in to 
 the full length of love, or only smitten with a 
 pretty face ? 
 
 Worth. Lord, with a face ! How can you talk 
 of that ? If Miss Fanny had no beauty, I shou'd 
 be in love with her for her modesty and good 
 nature, and all that. 
 
 Man. But as she has beauty, Worthiman, we 
 don't know how much all that wou'd go for 
 without it. 
 
 Worth. Well, well, she is out of sight so far 
 above me, that by my soul, I wou'd not be in 
 love with her if I cou'd help it; for I shoud'n't 
 like to make myself a puppy, and be sent about 
 my business by her : that wou'd hit hard. But 
 if you say to me John, get thee home ; thou 
 hast no chance ; why, I'll be off before you can 
 look round. 
 
 Man. I don't say that, nor do I say, go on, 
 unless you find yourself encouraged by her. 
 
 Worth, Why, sometimes I think yes, and some- 
 times no. She says she likes the country ; what 
 of that ? There are more countries in the world 
 than mine. She takes delight in flowers, and she
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 41 1 
 
 loves horses ; why, that's no proof that she loves 
 those who keep 'em. So you see, Major, I'm 
 hamper'd cruelly; and like enough, I, that have 
 been happy for my whole life past, may now be 
 miserable for my whole life to come. 
 
 Man. No, your own heart will always make 
 you happy. 
 
 Worth. Nay, I'm not sure that love has not 
 chang'd even that. I am no longer the contented 
 man that I have been, I never yet look'd over 
 my own hedge with envy on my neighbour's pro- 
 perty, but now, now I am the most dissatisfied 
 fellow breathing; I want to be richer, and greater, 
 and wiser, and every way better than I am, to be 
 worthy of Miss Rivers. 
 
 Man. Well, get you gone. I hear her coming 
 hither, and we must have some private conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Worth. Lord, Lord, what a nice creature she 
 is ! [Exit. 
 
 Fanny Rivers to Manford. 
 
 Fan. Was not that Mr. Worthiman ? 
 
 Man. Yes, that was Mr. Worthiman. He and 
 I have been in close conference ; and what do 
 you infer from that, Fanny? 
 
 Fan. Nay, nothing, Sir. What shou'd I infer? 
 
 Man. Why, you may suppose, if you please* 
 that you yourself was in part the subject of our 
 conference. I am apt to speak of you to those I 
 confide in, for I think of you very much, and 
 feel for you very sincerely. 
 
 Fan. You are ever good to me. 
 
 Man. I certainly have it most anxiously at 
 heart, to see you happy and establish'd. I know 
 your worth, and can estimate your beauty and 
 accomplishments at their full value. But what
 
 412 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 are these attractions, my poor Fanny, but aggra- 
 vated danger, were you to remain single, and 
 be out of my protection ? 
 
 Fan. Dear sir, don't speak of that, at least not 
 now, for I have something to impart to you, of 
 which my heart is full, and throbbing with im- 
 patience to unburden itself. Pray, do not start 
 at what I am about to tell you ; but give me time 
 to explain myself I have been visited by Lady 
 Caroline Malcolm 
 
 Man. Fanny 
 
 Fan. Remember my petition, and hear me. 
 She was introduced to me, as a purchaser of my 
 productions, and in the course of our conversa- 
 tion, you being mention'd, her agitation became 
 uncontrollable, and she discover'd herself to me. 
 
 Man. What caus'd her agitation ? 
 
 Fan. I had shewn her my brother's portrait, 
 and was about to shew her yours. She had anx- 
 iously desired to see it; but it was not pro- 
 duced. 
 
 Man. You have done wrong. 
 
 Fan. Then I have err'd in ignorance. Oh ! 
 sir, I never yet upheld my judgment against 
 yours ; but in this single instance conscience and 
 humanity plead for me. Picture to yourself a 
 being of her exquisite sensibility surprised into 
 a discovery, and fainting, as it were, in my very 
 arms. What was I to do ? Could I insult her 
 situation ? Was it for me to aggravate her afflic- 
 tion ? 
 
 Man. No, no, oh no ! I have wrongfully ac- 
 cused you. I should have pitied her, I should 
 have supported her How then could you do 
 less? 
 
 Fan. I'm glad you see my conduct in that light, 
 for if the forfeiture of your good opinion had
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 413 
 
 been attach'd to what I did, I must have sympa- 
 thized with one, whose agony arose from such a 
 cause. 
 
 Man. Fanny, for my sake, give no more de- 
 scriptions ; but, if you have any circumstance 
 untold, briefly relate it. 
 
 Fan. She presented me with this*. I have not 
 open'd it. [Shews the pocket- book. 
 
 Man. The pocket-book I gave her. Open it ; 
 come, come, untie it, and see what it contains. 
 
 Fan. Mercy defend me ! What can all these 
 be ? [Takes out bank-bills. 
 
 Man. Too much, too much I can't examine 
 them. Put 'em up again, put 'em up again. 
 
 Fan. Here is a writing. Shall I read it to you? 
 
 Man. I don't know Give me time. Read it 
 to yourself, and use your own discretion. 
 
 Fan. I must not read it to you. It is too flat- 
 tering. 
 
 Man. Give it me. [reads.] " Madam, I now 
 " restore to you the last memorial of an injured 
 " man, who, though for ever lost, will be for ever 
 " lov'd. It is not fit that I should keep a token 
 " of him, whom you deserve, and I do not. The 
 " sum inclos'd shall annually be repeated, whe- 
 " ther I live or die Yours, Caroline." Here, 
 take it, take it. [He rises. 
 
 Fan. What must I do with it ? 
 
 Man. How can I tell? Can't you perceive I 
 am not fit to answer you? Why do you urge such 
 questions ? [Exit. 
 
 Fanny alone. 
 
 Oh ! heav'ns, he is angry. No, that cannot be. 
 His noble heart is torn with struggling passions 
 And see ! he comes again.
 
 414 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Man ford returns. 
 
 Man. My dear, dear child, forgive those hasty 
 words ! I cannot pain thy gentle heart, my Fanny, 
 and be at peace one moment. 
 
 Fan. Enough, my generous friend, more than 
 enough. Tis done away. 'Tis past. 
 
 Man. You see, you know the cause. Fanny, 
 Fanny, how I have lov'd that woman ! 
 
 Fan. How you do love her ! Come, you must 
 forgive. Errors repented of, correct the heart. 
 
 Man. Hush! 
 
 Fan. No, sir, you are studious to point out my 
 happiness ; now let me shew you where your own 
 is fixt. 
 
 Man. What can you know of Lady Caroline r 
 She has a thousand captivating ways. You are 
 all credulity, and she can talk. 
 
 Fan. She can do more than talk. Here is a 
 witness [Shews the pocket-book.} and now, sir, I 
 must tell you, I expect her with every moment. 
 
 Man. What ! expect her here 1 Will she come 
 here again? I must not see her. 
 
 Fan. She does not look for it ; she does not 
 wish it; nay, she condition'd with me that I 
 should be alone. 
 
 Man. Oh, very well ! She does not wish to see 
 me 'Tis very well. I understand it all. 
 
 Fan. My dear, dear sir, what are you talking 
 of? 
 
 Man. Of nothing of a woman. I have done. 
 I am all over wounded, and am silent, whilst she 
 cries out, who has not got a scratch.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 415 
 
 Mistress of the House enters. 
 
 Mis. The lady, who was here yesterday, de- 
 sires to know if she can see Miss Rivers alone. 
 
 Man. Oh, yes, alone Miss Rivers is alone 
 The lady may come up. [Exit Mistress of' the 
 House.] She will not see me Well, well, that 
 ma^ be, as I shall please Fanny, we'll have no 
 more of these visits. [Exit. 
 
 Fanny alone. 
 . 
 I never saw him in this way before. I am so 
 terrified, I scarce know how I shall support my- 
 self in this dilemma. 
 
 Lady Caroline enters to Fanny Rivers. 
 
 -, 
 
 L. Car. I venture once more to intrude 
 upon you, Miss Rivers, for a few minutes. I 
 confess it was curiosity led me hither, for the 
 first time ; I now come to you for the last time 
 in friendship and affection, to renew the tender 
 of my services. Does Major Manford know that 
 I am with you ? 
 
 Fan. He does. 
 
 L. Car. Is he at home. ? 
 
 Fan. He is at home. 
 
 L. Car. Then, my dear, I have only to say to 
 you, that, resolv'd as I am to relinquish all hope 
 of conciliating Major Manford, the only conso- 
 lation I have left is, that of enabling you to make 
 him happy. 
 
 Fan. Lady Caroline, I beg pardon, but really 
 I don't clearly comprehend you. 
 
 L. Car. Nay, my dear, I presume you read my
 
 416 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 note, and have examined the contents of the 
 pocket-book. 
 
 Fan. Your note, madam, has been read, but 
 the amount of your donation has not been exa- 
 mined. 
 
 L. Car. You'll find it to be two hundred pounds. 
 That sum I mean to settle on you as an annuity ; 
 well knowing that those humble resources, which 
 you avail yourself of in your single state, Man- 
 ford's spirit would not suffer you to condescend 
 to, as his wife. 
 
 Fan. As his wife ! that I can never be. Lady 
 Caroline, you are in an error that has led you to 
 misapply your favours, you must allow me to 
 return them to you. 
 
 L. Car. Stop, if you please. Inform me first, 
 if you are well assured of what you tell me. 
 
 Fan. I tell you perfect truth. 
 
 L> Car. Have you Manford's permission for it? 
 Have you his word, his authority for what you 
 say? 
 
 Fan. All ; every thing, that can convince me 
 it is not in his contemplation, nor ever ought to 
 be in mine. 
 
 L. Car. Never ought to be ! Then you have 
 had hopes ? 
 
 Fan. None. His honour never suffer'd me to 
 have them. 
 
 L. Car. Tis wonderful. You certainly deserve 
 him. He must admire you, and I am persuaded 
 the only obstacle to your obtaining him is want 
 of fortune. That I have now supply 'd from my 
 abundance : take it, and be happy ! Comfort 
 enough for me that I have aton'd. 
 
 Fan. Madam, that offer is so truly noble, I 
 only wish, for your sake and for Major Manford's, 
 that he were present to have heard you make it.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 417 
 
 Man ford enters. 
 
 Man. My Lady Caroline, my servant tells me, 
 your father waits 
 
 L. Car. Sir ! Major Manford ! I'll attend my 
 father as soon as I am able. 
 
 Man. Ah, madam, these are unprofitable, pain- 
 ful visits. I should not so lament them, Lady 
 Caroline, if no one surfer'd by them but myself. 
 
 Fan. Alas, you frighten me, you look so pale, 
 my dear, dear sir, I'm sure you are not well. 
 
 Man. I am wounded both by friend and enemy 
 In spirit and in body. 
 
 L. Car. [runs to him,] Help, help ! he'll faint. 
 Call for some help directly Oh, Manford, Man- 
 ford, how my heart bleeds for you 1 
 
 Man. Don't be alarm'd, I thank you for your 
 kind and tender care of me. 'Twill soon be over. 
 I am recovering. 
 
 L. Car. Rest upon me! I can support you 
 still. 
 
 Man. If we poor soldiers could be so supported, 
 we should seek out for wounds, or perhaps feign, 
 them. 
 
 Worthiman and David enter. 
 
 But here's my friend, and honest David Tis not 
 the first time he has borne me otf. 
 
 Dav. Come, come, Major; I knew this wound 
 would trouble you. You must lie down upon the 
 couch awhile. 
 
 Man. Worthiman, I charge you take care of 
 Lady Caroline ; conduct her to her coach. Lord 
 Burviile waits. 
 
 L. Car. May I not stay with you ? 
 vol. i. E e
 
 418 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Man. No, no ; this soldier and my Fanny here 
 will take me to my chamber. Worthiman, be 
 careful of the lady. 
 
 [Fanny and David lead out Manford. 
 
 Lady Caroline and Worthiman. 
 
 L. Car. Heaven guard his life ! Ah, Mr. Wor- 
 thiman, you are his friend. You may return to 
 him ; I never must. 
 
 War. Don't say so, Lady Caroline. I can't hear 
 you speak so despairingly, and not feel for you. 
 My friend feels for you too : I am sure he does. 
 He couldn't be the brave man that he is He 
 couldn't be a man at all, if he did not. Don't 
 cry, don't cry ! I cannot bear to see it. Dry up 
 your tears, and get into the coach. I'll come and 
 tell you how he is directly Within an hour at 
 most. 
 
 L. Car. Will you indeed ? 
 
 JVor. I will, upon my soul; and bring you com- 
 fort too at least I hope so. 
 
 X. Car. Then you have a generous heart, and 
 I am with you. Give me your hand. 
 
 JVor. There it is A hard one but not such 
 my heart. [Exeunt.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 419 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Major Manford, Worthiman, and David. 
 
 Dav. I pray your honour not to think of going 
 out of doors as yet. 
 
 JVor. No, no, indeed, Major, you must be con- 
 tent to stay at home and nurse yourself. 
 
 Dav. I know the nature of those gun-shot 
 wounds. I have been seiz'd in the same way 
 many a time, when I thought myself quite well, 
 and all was over. After I got this knock upon 
 my skull, I had such vagaries in my head at 
 times, that people thought me crazy. Ah, Mr. 
 Worthiman, folks at home little think what we 
 poor soldiers suffer. 
 
 Man. John, have you sent to Lady Caroline, 
 to say that I'm recover'd ? 
 
 Wor. She shall be inform'd of it. 
 Dav. Please your honour, I am of opinion that 
 the best doctors in the world are women, espe- 
 cially if they are handsome. I never shall forget 
 the Serjeant's pretty wife, that brought me to, 
 when I was left for dead upon the sand hills 
 yonder. , 
 
 Man. Go, get you gone. Leave me with Mr. 
 Worthiman. 
 
 Dav. Well, I am glad you are come about 
 again, however. [Exit David. 
 
 Man. David chatters at random. But there is 
 meaning mix'd with his nonsense. His remark 
 about women is not far from the truth ; they are 
 no bad doctors, Worthiman, after all. I dare say 
 you would have taken my fit to have lain in 
 Fanny's arms, as I did in Lady Caroline's. 
 
 E e 2
 
 420 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 JVor. For half an hour of such delight, upon 
 my soul, I would have endured torments. By 
 the way, Major, I did not think, just then, that 
 you were very much to be pitied. 
 
 Fanny Rivers enters. 
 
 Fan. Ah, my dear sir, thank heaven you are 
 recover'd ! How you did frighten us ! Poor Lady 
 Caroline 
 
 Man. Well, if you please, poor Lady Caroline 
 though I was just then thinking of poor Fanny 
 I am free to own to you, I now begin to doubt 
 my resolution, and seriously suspect I must be- 
 take myself to the coward's resource, and run 
 away. 
 
 Wor, No, hang it, Major, better stand your 
 ground, and die a sturdy, valiant, married man, 
 than run away and linger out your life, a sneak- 
 ing bachelor. 
 
 Man. Worthiman, don't talk treason. I don't 
 want your counsel ; I only ask, if I come to your 
 door, whether you'll let me in. 
 
 Wor. Will I ! Oh ! hang it, Major, will I not, 
 come how you may; but if you bring my lady, 
 I've room for two. 
 
 Man. Well, never fear me. I shan't come 
 alone. This dear good girl will not desert her 
 friend, even in his flight. Will you make room 
 for her? 
 
 Wor. Jerusalem ! Make room I'll pull the 
 barns down, but I'll make room for her. Sulphur 
 and smoke, what a bright day will that be, when 
 I see her enter my humble cottage. She must 
 stoop that lovely head, if she has plumes upon 
 it, to enter my low doors. I am fain to do it, 
 when I have got my helmet on, myself. Take
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 421 
 
 notice, Miss Fanny, you said you lov'd a horse 
 didn't you say it? 
 
 Fan. I did, and I repeat it. 
 
 IVor. Well then, remember when the troop 
 turns out, and I am in the saddle on my charger, 
 you will love one of us. 
 
 Fan. True; but don't quarrel with your horse 
 about it. I shall wish well to both. 
 
 Man. Now then, my dear, no trifling ; you see 
 our friend here loves you at his heart. You would 
 not hurt him ; 'tis not in -your nature. If you are 
 not disposed to make him happy ; don't go to his 
 house and make him miserable. 
 
 Fan. Well, sir, after what you have said, I can't 
 plead ignorance of conditions ; so that if you 
 were this moment on your departure, and the 
 carriage at the door, I would, I would Worthi- 
 man, what do you guess I would do ? I would 
 get into it, and take the consequences. [Exit. 
 
 Manford, Worthiman. 
 
 Man. There, John ; I think this looks auspi- 
 ciously. If I can see you and my Fanny happy, 
 'twill be a balance against many sorrows. 
 
 TVor. I thank you, Major, but I check my joy, 
 because I think one friend should not be merry, 
 whilst t'other friend is sad. But still, I hope, 
 you're not resolv'd to leave that charming wo- 
 man, in whose fond arms you seem'd content to 
 die. Can you not also be content to live, and 
 let her live? You would not treat your enemy, 
 if he was at your feet, as you treat her. 
 
 Man. That's a strong charge. You have not 
 heard my wrongs. 
 
 JVor. Are any wrongs too great to be for- 
 given ?
 
 422 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Man. If you can prove, when I am once de- 
 ceived, I ought to trust the person that deceiv'd 
 me, you then, and not till then, may set up a de- 
 fence for her duplicity. 
 
 Wor. Well, Major, I was always taught to 
 think, that mercy and forgiveness were insepa- 
 rable from the character of a hero ; but, I per- 
 ceive, no man is a hero in every moment of his 
 life. 
 
 Man. Come, come, we*don't agree ; so let us 
 part, whilst we are friends. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene changes to Lord Burville's House. 
 
 Lord Burv i lle, General Highmore, Lady 
 
 Caroline. 
 
 
 
 Gen. My lord and brother, and my lady niece, 
 I am glad you lay aside all thoughts of Manford. 
 Tis not for your honour to entertain them ; 'tis 
 not for your repose. Observe, I don't speak 
 hypothetically. 
 
 L. Bur. You seldom do, and in this case, per- 
 haps, you have reason for your confidence. 
 
 Gen. I have. I've been with Manford ; I am 
 \a his bosom. We quarrell'd, I confess, and well 
 nigh fought ; but I saw reason, and for once I 
 was pacified. 
 
 L. Car. I am glad to hear it. 
 
 Gen. You may be glad, for you were the cause 
 of it. Now then, to avoid all future quarrels, I 
 must recommend a journey to the country with 
 all convenient speed. In that advice I am cate- 
 gorical. 
 
 L. Bur. But, brother, sure the town is big 
 enough for him and us; besides, it does not suit me. 
 
 Gen. It does not suit you ! Will Lord Burville
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 423 
 
 say it does riot suit him, when I say his reputa* 
 tion dictates his departure out of the sphere of 
 public observation? 
 
 Z. Bur. Genera], you are not a father, and I am. 
 I don't wish to carry the corpse of my daughter 
 into the country, so long as I can keep her alive 
 by staying in town. I am not quite so fond of 
 that sort of reputation, as you would have me to 
 be. To be more explicit with you, Caroline does 
 not quite abandon hope. 
 
 Gen. Hope is a cheat, a counterfeit, that palms 
 false coin upon us for true. When fortune is in 
 my power, I command her ; when she is not, I 
 never deign to court her. I am inexorable to 
 her flattery. 
 
 Z. Car. True, uncle, you are perfect in all 
 points ; I am a poor weak woman, as you see me, 
 aiming to catch at every straw that floats, in 
 hopes to save myself from deep despair. My 
 father, heaven reward him for his goodness, has 
 pity for me, and is patient. You, I know, have 
 great consideration for my honour; but, as you 
 never have experienc'd the strength of love, you 
 never have submitted to the weakness of pity. 
 
 Gen. No, madam, I have been no slave to love. 
 It was a flaw in Manford's character, a stain, a 
 blot, that glory has rubb'd out. I prob'd him to 
 the quick, and found him sound, immutably re- 
 solv'd not to relapse into his former weakness; 
 and I tell you, that, as you should not deceive 
 yourself with hope, you should not trouble him 
 with perseverance. If what I've said persuades 
 you to release him, 'tis well ; if not, I shall 
 uphold him in his resolution. This is my fixt 
 declaratory purpose, founded on judgment in- 
 controvertible. Good day to you! \Exit. 
 
 Z. Bur. Poor silly soul, how he does weary
 
 424 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 me with bis dogmatical nonsense ! Don't you 
 expect a messenger from Manford ? 
 
 L. Car. I do, and have given orders to let him 
 in. Tis Worthiman, the bosom friend of Man- 
 ford, I am expecting and behold, he's here I 
 
 Worthiman enters. 
 
 L. Car. You are punctual to your promise 
 Now, what news ? 
 
 JVorth. Good news. The Major has had no 
 relapse. 
 
 L. Car. Is he quite recover'd 
 
 Worth. I think so. 
 
 L. Bur. Sir, you are welcome : I rejoice to see 
 you, and cordially I thank you for your care of 
 my poor Caroline. 
 
 JVoath. My Lord, I'm proud to be of any ser- 
 vice to my Lady Caroline, or to your Lordship, 
 in my humble way. 
 
 L. Car. Pray, let me ask you, have you any 
 message ? 
 
 JVorth. From Manford, none. But I am not 
 out of hope, from what I see, things may be 
 coming round. My Lord, you'll pardon me for 
 my plainness with Lady Caroline, I'm under pro- 
 mise to tell the truth, and that suits me be^t. 
 
 L Bur. It suits me also, sir; so pray proceed. 
 
 JVorth. Nay, I have little more than what I've 
 told. I wou'd not flatter Lady Caroline, but yet 
 I cannot for my soul conceive how any man can 
 long hold out agaiiist her. I only guess at others 
 by myself. 
 
 L. Bur. Then you make flattering guesses, let 
 me tell you. 
 
 L. Car. Did your friend know that you were 
 coming hither?
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 425 
 
 Worth. I told him so. He charg'd me to report 
 to him if you were well, and found no ill effects 
 from your alarm. 
 
 L. Car. That was most kind. 
 
 Worth. I don't see that; I think he might have 
 said a good deal more, and not been overkind. 
 Yet, to do him justice, I do believe he felt more 
 than his words express'd. 
 
 L. Car. That, thnt was kinder still. 
 
 Worth. I can't discover any thing extraordi- 
 nary in that either, but your Ladyship knows 
 best. I'll now take my leave, and if any thing 
 material occurs, 1*11 be sure to come to you. 
 
 L. Car. Thank you, my good friend, hearlily 
 I thank you. My love to Fanny If Man ford 
 recollects to ask about me, tell him I'm well ; no 
 more. 
 
 Worth. You are right No more. If he comes 
 on no faster, 'tis not the lady's part to make the 
 play, as we say on the turf. Farewell, my Lord, 
 farewell, Lady Caroline ! If in vaiu for Man ford 
 your bright eyes glister, I know not of what 
 materials he is made Not human flesh and blood, 
 I should guess. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes. The Lodging- House. 
 
 Tim Mapletoft meeting David. 
 
 Tim. How do you do, courteous sir? I am 
 proud to meet you. I court your acquaintance, 
 for I perceive a great benignity and natural 
 sweetness in your attractive features. If your 
 occasions call you down to Maidstone, I'm in a 
 public line of business there, and shall be glad to 
 entertain you.
 
 426 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Dav, Oh, very well; I suppose you keep a 
 public-house of entertainment What's the sign 
 of it? * 
 
 Tim. The sign, the sign ! I don't hang out a 
 sign. I'm not a publican. I don't look like a 
 publican. 
 
 Dav. I don't know that you do. What are you 
 then ? A dancing-master ? 
 
 Tim, You are wider still ; though dancing is 
 my pastime ; it is not my profession. 
 
 Dav. Then dammee if I care what you are. 
 Only I'm sure you're not a gentleman. 
 
 Tim. So far you're right, for in the strictness 
 of speaking, I am both male and female; a man- 
 milliner Two sexes in one ; the judgment of 
 the man, and the genius of the milliner. 
 
 Dav. Oh, very well. I have but one character, 
 and I wou'd not change it for both your's. I am 
 a soldier; now, what do you want with me? 
 
 Tim. Your friendship and assistance; in return 
 for which I'll give you such a piece of nankeen 
 cloth, as shall set you up with pantaloons and 
 waistcoats as long as you live. 
 
 Dav. Well, how much friendship do you look 
 to have for your nankeen ? 
 
 Tim. As much as may facilitate my approach 
 to the object of my adoration. 
 
 Dav. And what kind of thing is the object of 
 your adoration ? 
 
 Tim. The most delectable of all things ; your 
 young mistress, the lovely and elegant Miss 
 Fanny Rivers. 
 
 Dav, What ! have you got a box of caps to 
 shew her? she won't buy of you ; she won't deal 
 with a man, that robs the poor women of their 
 trade. 
 
 Tim, I don't want her to buy ; I don't wish to
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 427 
 
 introduce my box. It wou'd only be in my way 
 when I throw my person at her feet. 
 
 Dav. Oh, now I understand you. You have 
 your person to dispose of, and you wish to throw 
 it at her feet. I'll accommodate you directly. 
 Have you got the nankeen ready ? I'll introduce 
 you without loss of time. 
 
 Tim. My dear, dear friend, I am everlastingly 
 bound to you. 
 
 T)av. Oh, not at all. 'Tis only one flight 
 higher in the two-pair-of-stairs. I'll show you 
 up to her apartment directly ; you need not 
 trouble your head how to come down again ; for 
 you'll return home by a short way out of the 
 window; you'll have a quick journey, for you'll 
 never touch ground till you find yourself in the 
 area. Now if you don't like to put yourself in 
 my hands, apply to my master. 
 
 Tim. No, no, I'm too wise for that. I'll run 
 no risques of that sort If the servant talks of 
 throwing me out of the window, the master can't 
 do less than kick me down the stairs. A fine 
 family I've got amongst but I can tell 'em, my 
 love is not to be slighted- Many a fair one 
 before now has sigh'd in secret and even if I 
 shou'd stoop to Dolly Dowlass, poor soul ! she 
 might be taught, under my tuition, to make a 
 genteel appearance. [Exit. 
 
 Man ford enters. 
 
 Man. David, the General is come again. Go, 
 and attend upon him. 
 
 Dav. I believe, I need not load the pistols this 
 time. [Exit.
 
 428 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 General Highmore enters. 
 
 Gen. Man ford, I'm yours. I won't repeat pro- 
 fessions. I am your friend, and come to give 
 you a proof of it. 
 
 Man. I never doubted you. But what has 
 occurr'd that calls for your good offices ? 
 
 Gen. I do not like the proceedings of my 
 family. The Earl of Burviile, though he is my 
 brother, is a weak man, I hardly know a weaker. 
 Sir, on my word, I say it to you in confidence, 
 though a peer of the realm, he has not the wit of 
 a wood- pigeon. 
 
 Man. You under value him : indeed you do. 
 
 Gen. Sir, give me leave I have been labour- 
 ing to set him right, but advice does him no 
 good. Nay, I rather think I have left him in 
 worse confusion than I found him. 
 
 Man. That is sometimes the case. 
 
 Gen. It is very. many times the case between 
 him and me. His head is not malleable; I can- 
 not hammer any sense into it. His faculties are 
 obtuse. 
 
 Man. To what particular instance of that do 
 you now refer? 
 
 Gen. Sir, I cannot prevail upon him to exone- 
 rate you from ail farther trouble or concern on 
 my niece's account, say what I will. 'Though 
 she weeps incontinently as soon as ever you are 
 nam'd, I cannot convince him that you are not 
 to be melted by her tears. 
 
 Man. I should be very sorry if you could. 
 
 Gen. Pardon me, sir, I should be very sorry if 
 I neglected any thing, that can make for your 
 repose, and settle so tedious a business. My 
 jrother, not content with tormenting others, 
 torments himself also. Because, Caroline has
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 429 
 
 calPd in her lawyer to make her will, he foolishly 
 conceives she will make her exit. I know that 
 has been said upon the coming in of the doctor, 
 but I never heard it applied to the lawyer. 
 
 Man. General, I must plainly tell you, the 
 greatest favour you can shew me, and the only 
 one, is to let your brother and niece act for them- 
 selves, and not trouble yourself to interfere any 
 farther between them and me. 
 
 Gen. I hope to do that effectually, for if my 
 advice is taken, you hear no more of Caroline, 
 and she goes out of town to-morrow. 
 
 Man. Then, sir, I follow her. 
 
 Gen. You follow her ! 
 
 Man. Yes, sir, I follow her. Upon the slightest 
 alarm, she supports me ; if I suffer, she is all 
 agitation, all alive to pity. Shall I sit still, while 
 she is on the rack ? No, sir, nor you, nor any 
 man alive, shall force her from me, when my 
 consolation is wanted to support her. 
 
 Gen. You astonish me : your mutability sur- 
 prises me. I leave you all resentment, I find 
 you all tenderness. I do not feel myself ex- 
 tremely well consider'd in all this. What fatality 
 attends me, that, wherever I turn, I find confu- 
 sion gathering all around me ? 
 
 Man. You bring it with you, General, you 
 don't find it. 
 
 Gen. You are not strictly courteous when you 
 say so. I leave you ; I withdraw ; you charge 
 upon me. My friendship is suspended ; it lies 
 over with other lesser points ad referendum. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Manfokd. 
 
 Man. That man has more persuasion in his blun- 
 ders, than others have in all their eloquence. [Exit.
 
 430 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Tim Mapletoft alone. 
 
 Tim. I have thought it over very coolly, and I 
 am quite positive I am in love with Fanny Rivers. 
 Her charms will make me happy, her wit will 
 make me gay, and her genius will make me rich. 
 What enchanting tambour waistcoats and em- 
 broider'd muslins shall I display upon my counter, 
 from patterns of her drawing ! I have penn'd her 
 a very elegant epistle Some passages, I confess, 
 are not quite new, but, if the author had not 
 thought of them, I should; so they are all the 
 same as my own. I left it on her table. It's a 
 good thought, and will save her all that pretty 
 confusion, which young ladies choose to be in, 
 when proposals are made to them. Yes, yes ; I 
 left it on her table -To Miss Fanny Rivers ; 
 these ! Zooks, here's my uncle. 
 
 Mapletoft enters. 
 
 Map. Timothy, you have got out of one scrape, 
 take care how you get into another. Remember 
 that humility becomes a man in your humble 
 station. 
 
 Tim. It does so, uucle. I'll be very humble. 
 
 Map. When you are in company with your 
 betters which you easily may don't be fond 
 of chattering. Silence will become you best. 
 
 Tim. It will so, uncle. I'll be very silent. 
 
 Map. When you are call'd upon to speak,
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 431 
 
 which is not likely to happen often Speak to 
 the point only, and speak modestly. 
 
 Tim. I will, uncle. I'll be very modest, and 
 go the point directly. 
 
 Map. Above all things, don't be so eternally 
 talking about your shop. When you are in it, 
 be in it; when you are out of it, be out of it. 
 
 Tim. Thank you, uncle. I'll be out of it alto- 
 gether, and never say another word about it. 
 Any thing more in my way, uncle ? I hope you 
 haven't done : I could hear you for ever. 
 
 Map. If you mind these few maxims, they 
 will do you no harm ; if you do not mind these, 
 more would do you no good. 
 
 Tim. Very true, uncle. More wouldn't do me 
 the least good. These are quite enough. 
 
 Map. The wisest step you can take, will be to 
 look out for a sober, staid, discreet woman, and 
 marry. 
 
 Tim. I will, uncle. I'll look out sharp for just 
 such a woman, and when I have found her, if 
 she happens to be very young and very pretty, 
 you know I can't help it : if she plays and sings 
 and draws, and has all the accomplishments in 
 the world, it won't be my fault. I need not like 
 her the less for that. I'll be sure to look about 
 me, and when I've settled it in my mind to marry 
 her, suppose I write her a letter, and leave it on 
 her table What do you think of that, uncle? It 
 shall be very humble; there shan't be a word of 
 the shop in it; no chattering, but to the point 
 directly. 
 
 David enters with a Letter. 
 
 Dav. Here, Mr. Timothy Mapletoft, man-mil- 
 liner, here's your letter that you left upon Miss
 
 432 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Fanny's table. It won't do. She sends it back 
 to you. 
 
 Map. A letter ! Sirrah, had you the assurance 
 to leave a letter on Miss Fanny's table ? 
 
 Dav. Yes, and to drop a few hints about you. 
 Read it, sir, read it. 
 
 Map. [Opens the letter, puts on his spectacles, and 
 reads.] "Adorable lady ! a glance from your bright 
 " eyes has lighted up the flames of love in my 
 " combustible heart" 
 
 Tim. That's not my own. I took that out of a 
 book. 
 
 Map. ft I am heir to a rich old uncle, who 
 " means, some time or another, to die, and leave 
 " me his fortune" 
 
 Tim. That is my own. 
 
 Map. So is not the fortune, or ever will be. 
 [Reads.] " These things being premised, I throw 
 '* myself at your feet, and wait your answer" 
 
 Tim. That's all, excepting name at the bottom. 
 I think, uncle, that is short, and to the point. 
 
 Map. I'll be short too Get out of my house ; 
 pack up your band-boxes and be off! that's to 
 the point. 
 
 Dav. Walk out, walk out, and be devoutly 
 thankful, that he who built the house, did not 
 forget to make a door, and thereby save you 
 from a flying leap over the iron spikes, which, 
 being only a man- milliner, and not a Mamaluke, 
 you might not have clear'd. [Exeunt.
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 433 
 
 . 
 
 i 
 Scene changes. 
 
 Manford and Worthiman. 
 
 Man. Well, my good friend, you have had a 
 long tete-a-tete with your beloved Fanny. Let 
 me hope all matters are adjusted to mutual satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Wor* No, Major, no. I'm terribly cast down. 
 She's very kind and good ; I can't deny it ; but 
 'tis a bitter waiting-job for me ; nay, I despair 
 of it altogether, for I conclude you never mean 
 to marry, and till that comes to pass, she is de- 
 termin'd to remain single. 
 
 Man. Is that her resolution ? 
 
 Wor. That is her resolution. Nothing can 
 move her. I'm sure I can't. She'll tell you so 
 herself. 
 
 Fanny Rivers enters. 
 . 
 
 Man, Fanny, what's this I hear of you ? You 
 will not marry Worthiman, unless I marr^ first 
 Absurd ! Why do you make these terms against 
 yourself, and. him and me, whose happiness is so 
 wrapt up in yours? 
 
 Fan. Sir, you have been the orphan's only friend, 
 my dear, my honour'd, my rever'd protector. 
 You sought out this gentleman, you threw him 
 in my way, and 'twas my fortunate chance to 
 gain his love. I know, I am assur'd, if you were 
 happy, I should be so. But, as I am persuaded 
 that cannot be your lot till you are reconcil'd to 
 Lady Caroline, I will never leave you with my 
 own will, and if you force me from you, it is not 
 Worthiman that shall protect me ; for recollect, 
 
 vol. i. Ff
 
 434 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 it was your own command, that I should not 
 enter his house to make him miserable. 
 
 Man. Fanny, your strong atid resolute appeal 
 strikes to my heart. When your humility as- 
 sumes this tone, 'tis fit that my pride should 
 understand itself, and stoop as it now does. It 
 lias led me too far.; I'd give this, arm' from off 
 this body to .call back that too hasty, that in- 
 sulting resolution, witih wiiich I have bppos'd the 
 meek advances, the penitence, the persevering 
 affections of Lady Garbling whose patience, if 
 she is not more than, {mortal, must be "wearied 
 out, and ttvrn'dto thafcred. 
 
 Fan. .No, oh my life ! Lett me go to her., sir. 
 
 Man. Go, Fanny,, go ^v wiben an angel ipleads, 
 who can despair? 
 
 Wor. Major, let me igo too. 
 
 Man. G<* both of you And, Fanny., take the 
 pocket-book. Tell her, I; wiish'd it only to be- 
 long to her, that has possession of my heart, and 
 as such beg her \feo keep lit. I shall follow you. 
 Farewell. [Exeunt. 
 
 . 
 . 
 Scene changes, Lord BiMwille's House. 
 ' i J 
 
 Lord BURVILLE, Ztf</$HCAJlOLiINE. 
 
 L.Car. My .father, my dear father, Lam come 
 to set you free from all that ;heavy load, which 
 I have laid .upon your patient spirit. You have 
 suffer'd much for your poor Caroline. I fled 
 from persecution, you receiv'd me ; and now, 
 when I'm rejected by .the (man, who should have 
 had more feeling, your arms are open to me. 
 Take me then entire, and may I prove that com- 
 forter to you, that you have .been to me ! From
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 435 
 
 tjij$ jtjnie forth, you shall not hear the name of 
 Manford pass my lips. 
 
 L. Bur. Come to my arms ! indeed, indeed, my 
 phild, we have bent the knee too long to that 
 proud idol. 
 
 L. liar. Spare him, however. He was deeply 
 hurt. High spirits will burst out into strong 
 flames, and great affection turns to great resent- 
 ment. Yet I should thiuk he might have been 
 appeased ; twice have, | visited Ins house, and 
 once you have waited on him. What else I've 
 done, becomes me not to name. Too much, per- 
 haps, for my own dignity I've stoop'd. If he 
 could feel, he must ere now have jgpl}. 
 
 Servant enters. 
 
 Serv. A lady and gentleman from Major Man- 
 ford's request to be admitted to your ladyship. 
 
 L. Car. What shall I say ? 
 
 ,t$ur. Admit them. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Z. Car. My lord, you'll have the goodness not 
 to leave me. 
 | 
 
 Worthiman and Fanny enter. 
 
 Fan. We have the honour of waiting upon you, 
 Lady Caroline, by the desire of Major Man- 
 ford. 
 
 L. Car. What is it, he has been pleas'd to 
 encharge you with to me ? 
 
 Fan. He hopes you'll let this little token rest 
 with you, to whom he first devoted it, and that 
 you'll still believe his heart goes with it Will 
 you not deign to take it ? [Offers the pocket-book. 
 
 L. Car. On these terms, how can I ? It is but 
 mockery to annex his heart to any thing he sends 
 
 Ff2
 
 
 
 436 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 to me except yourself, Miss Pcivers. However, 
 if you must return it back There is a table. 
 
 [Fanny deposits it. 
 
 Fan. I'm very sorry that my first commission 
 is so receiv'd, as to give little hope that what I 
 bave in further charge to ask, can meet with your 
 consent. 
 
 L. Car. What else have you to ask ? 
 
 Fan. Permission, that Major Manford may be 
 admitted to your ladyship. 
 
 L. Car. Oh, if you knew the agony it gives to 
 tear open a wound, staunch'd only, but not heal'd, 
 you would not ask it. No, no, you know too 
 weil how I have sunk myself in seeking him; 
 you cannot wish to humble me still lower ; for 
 your own sex's dignity you cannot. You, Mr. 
 Worthiman, will witness for me how eagerly I 
 
 but 'tis the worst truth that I ever witness'd. 
 
 L. Bur. If Major Manford 's visit is to* me, I 
 will receive him, but my daughter cannot. 
 
 L. Car. I presume, Miss Rivers, what I took 
 the liberty of inclosing in that pocket-book for 
 your acceptance, is return'd with it. 
 
 Fan. I believe so, madam. I've not examin'd 
 it. Will you be pleas'd to open it? 
 
 Z. Car Why should I ? I'm sure his pride has 
 spurn'd my humble offerings. 
 
 Wor. No, no ; if that gives you offence, 'tis I, 
 that am in fault there, not he ; I should be sorry 
 not to defend him where I can, with truth ; for 
 after all, by my soul, I never knew his equal. 
 
 L. Car. I stand corrected [Opens the pocket- 
 book.'] Ah ! what have we here ? Did you put 
 this in?
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 437 
 
 Fan. No, madam ; What is it? 
 
 L. Car. Uimself For never did I see a por- 
 trait so speakingly alive. Look here, my lord ! 
 the very man Is it not finely done? 
 
 L. Bar. I am no judge. Return it to Miss 
 Rivers. 
 
 L. Car. I should rather hope Miss Rivers will 
 allow me to keep it, it' it were only for the artist's 
 sake. 
 
 Fan. If you have nothing else but that in view, 
 you will return it for the artist's sake. 
 
 Servant enters. 
 
 Serv. Major Manford desires Mr. Worthiman 
 to be inform'd that he is waiting. 
 
 TVor. Very well, sir, I'll come to him. [Exit 
 Servant.] Now, Lady Caroline, if you are resolv'd 
 not to see him, send him his dismission by me, 
 and not by your servant. I am sure, with your 
 kind heart, you don't wish to take the most un- 
 gracious way of doing it. 
 
 L. Car. Indeed, sir, I do not. 
 
 TVor. Especially as he is just now not very 
 well 
 
 L. Bur. Does he suffer any ill effects from his 
 wound ? 
 
 Wor. No, no, my lord ; if you had seen him, 
 as I have seen, you would well know what sort 
 of wound it is he suffers by. Ah! I have seen 
 him in critical situations. I have had him in my 
 house, when a man wouldn't give a week's pur- 
 chase for his life. You recollect the time, my 
 lady, when he embark'd for Holland. 
 
 L. Car. Yes, yes, I recollect that time too well. 
 A fatal time to both of us it was. 
 
 Wor. Well, I don't speak for that. He had his
 
 438 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 share of it, that I can witness. I never saw a 
 man so heart- broketi. The first day that I no- 
 ticed him, was on the beach at Deal. He was 
 speaking to his soldiers, and they cheer'd him. 
 In all my days, I never saw the face and form of 
 man at once so noble and so pitiable. I couldn't 
 . stand it : I came up to him, and ask'd him if he'd 
 take a yeoman's welcome I had a house hard 
 by the town was crowded, and I could lodge 
 him comfortably at least He turn'd a look upon 
 me Gracious heaven ! I shall never forget it. 
 
 L. Car. No, no, I see it. She has caught it 
 here [Looking at the portrait.'] Go on, go on ! 
 
 Wor. Well! his commanding officer came up 
 to him They stepp'd aside. I thought I had 
 lost my man, and sorry enough I was. He came 
 back after awhile, and took me by the hand 
 His men were not to embark for a few days, and 
 he would pass them at my house. My heart 
 leap'd for joy. I had my horses waiting; we 
 mounted, and were off. He staid but three days 
 with me at that time; but when he came back a 
 wounded officer, I had him with me for a month 
 and he that lives with Manford for a month, 
 if he has any heart, will be his friend for life. 
 Now, Lady Caroline, if you dismiss him, though 
 'tis a painful office, let me take it. 
 
 L. Car. Ah, never shall you take a painful 
 office of my imposing; nor will I disguise how 
 grossly I deceive myself, in thinking I ever could 
 give Manford a repulse. My lord, my father, 
 will you not forgive me, if I consent to see him 
 once again ? 
 
 L. Bur. Act for yourself, my dearest Caroline; 
 but if you see him, let your interview be private. 
 I dare say Miss Rivers will be good enough to 
 excuse it. .
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 4S$ 
 
 Fan. Most readily, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt Lord fctirville and Fanny. 
 
 L. Car. Go then, and tell your friend that I 
 
 expect him. [Exit JVorthiman. 
 
 Lady Caroline. 
 
 Now, now, my heart, support me in this trial ! 
 If he comes, as I fear he does, to take his last 
 farewell, it had been better to have spar'd this 
 meeting. 
 
 MANfroiiD enters. 
 
 
 
 Man. Lady Caroline, I come to make a fair 
 confession to you. According to my sense of 
 what is honour, a breach of promise in a point 
 so sacred as that> where heaven is call'd upon to 
 witness our engagements, will warrant all the 
 firmest resolutions that we can take against a 
 second trust. Those resolutions I persisted in, 
 and thought that I was arm'd against vour efforts 
 to shake my constancy. I was mistaken. 
 
 L. Car. You may redeem your error. 
 
 Man. No, I cannot. I am no longer master of 
 my heart; whilst I was iii your arms> I left it 
 with you. Your tears, your tenderness, your 
 condescension) and great munificence to Fanny 
 Rivers, are mediators not to be withstood. When 
 I determin'd to reclaim my heart, I did not mean 
 ever to see you more. 
 
 L. Car. Now hear me on my part Upon the 
 first suspicion of a change in my behaviour, y6u 
 flew off, at once, and would not hear of any ex- 
 planation. The army was your refuge ; there 
 you gain'd the fame you sought, and, cover'd 
 with the shade of your own laurels, left me pierc'd 
 with thornsv Repeatedly I wrote; you never
 
 440 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 open'd one of my letters, and amongst the num- 
 ber you sent back This, which, if you had perus'd, 
 you would have found (if not a full defence) at 
 least a palliation of my conduct, sign'd and at- 
 tested by my dying husband. Here is the paper, 
 read it at your leisure ; it will unfold a system 
 of deceit, practis'd upon me to impress my mind 
 with doubts, and fabricated tales of you. 
 
 Man. Hah, Lady Caroline, I now perceive I've 
 been the slave of blind impetuous passion, whilst 
 you have been all patience and forbearance. 
 What can I say, what can I do to atone? Inflict 
 some penance on me, I beseech you. Punish this 
 proud heart, humble it to the dust. 
 
 L. Car. What can I do with it ? I cannot hurt 
 it. That is not in my nature. Yet I will strive 
 to teach it that contentment, which shall aspire 
 no higher, thau to live in love and harmony with 
 humble me, till glory calls you from me. Then 
 no showers from these fond eyes shall interpose, 
 to obscure the sun-shine of your fame My 
 country shall not say " That British matron 
 " (unworthy of the name) withholds my hero" 
 No, if you fall in arms, I can die with you. 
 
 Man. Oh, to my heart, my soul, dearer than 
 ever, thus let me hold you ! Oh, my Caroline, 
 my ever-lov'd lamented Caroline, you are, you 
 are my wife, a soldier's wife, that loves, yet sa- 
 crifices what she loves to a superior claim, the 
 call of honour. Where, where is your father? 
 
 Zorc?BuRviLLE,yb//or;e^^WoRTHiMAN ; FANNy, 
 and General Highmoee. 
 
 L. Bur. Here is her father, happy to embrace 
 and bless you both. Freely, joyfully with my 
 whole heart I give my blessing to you. Here is
 
 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 441 
 
 your friend too, and his fair elect ; and last, 
 though not in dignity the least, here is the hrave 
 Lieutenant-general, who thinks, although you're 
 but a wavering fellow, and don't know how to 
 hold a resolution, you might have chang'd it, and 
 had less excuse for it. 
 
 Man. The General knows my failings ; I don't 
 know his, unless, perhaps, a small propensity to 
 pull the noses of his fellow-subjects Fanny, I 
 hope I have now depriv'd you of all pretence to 
 tantalize your lover. 
 
 Fan. Why yes,. I rather think in our debate, a 
 reference to example may decide it. 
 
 Wor. Od'slife, I'll go and get the old house 
 ready. Thank the fates, the cropt mare is in the 
 stable ready for me. She'll go it in no time. 
 
 Fan. Yes, but take notice, you must not go 
 and paper the brown-oak parlour. 
 
 Wor. T won't; I won't 
 
 Fan. Nor daub it over with_paint; mind. 
 
 Wor. I'll be hang'd if I touch it. But I'll bar- 
 gain to have my lady and Manford stuck up over 
 the chimney. Then, when my friends and neigh- 
 bours are about us, and you sit by me, a sweet 
 smiling angel, I'll point up to my gallant Major, 
 and cry "There is the man to whom I owe this 
 " blessing !" Then, I suppose, I may kiss you 
 
 [Salutes her. 
 
 Fan. Yes, but not now. {Struggling. 
 
 Gen. Major ! introduce your friend ! 
 
 Man. General, this is John Worthiman, my 
 friend : one of that uncorrupted class of Kentish 
 yeomanry, which is at once the pride and support 
 of our country. You won't like him the less for 
 being my friend, nor think the worse of his taste 
 for being this lady's admirer. 
 
 Gen. As your friend, I doubt not but the gen-
 
 449 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 tleman has singular merit, as that lady's admirer 
 he has not the merit of being singular. If he 
 had not saluted the lady, as he did, J should not 
 have courted his acquaintance, I should have 
 held him phlegmatic and cold. 
 
 JVor. As you are neither, General, let mp in- 
 troduce you to the lady. 
 
 Gen. Ahem! [Takes out his handkerchief.'] Snuff 
 is a most uncomely ana 1 opprobrious fashion 
 Now, exquisite young lady, with permission 
 [Salutes her.] Lord Burville, I sha.ll marry. It is 
 conclusive. 
 
 L. Car. That's right, uncle ! We'll foot it most 
 merrily on your yredding-day. 
 
 Gen. No, there will be no footing on my wed- 
 ding-d^y, no. Scraping fiddlers, and no capering 
 misses. I must have time to ruminate in silence. 
 
 Mapletoft and Mrs. Mafletoft usher d in. 
 
 Serv. Mr. and Mrs. Mapletoft. [E,xit. 
 
 L. Bur. Come in, come in, my kind anfl wel- 
 come guests ! This is a happy house. We are all 
 married, or in the way to be married ; even the 
 General is ruminating upon it. I took the liberty 
 to send my coach. 'Twas infinitely kind in you 
 to come upon so short a summons.,. 
 
 Map. My lord, we are country folks, and don't 
 study ceremony. We respect Major Manford, 
 and we love the sweet young lady he has pro- 
 tected and been a brother to. I don',t mean, my 
 lord, to do a little for her and her spous,e, on the 
 wedding-day. Where my heart is open, I don't 
 shut my hand. Worthiman is not my nephew, 
 but my wife's. I have a nephew of my own, 'tis 
 true but he's no great things
 
 IvOVERS RESOLUTIONS; 44$ 
 
 
 Tim enters, carrying Band- boxes, 8$c. qfld 4resse<l 
 
 in his driving Coat for a Journey. 
 
 bj -i i'i 
 
 Tim* Yes, [but lie is thougjir and carries gr^at 
 things about him, which, methinks, you might 
 fca-ve taken into the coach with you, and not 
 oblig'd me to haul 'em through ^e streets to 
 tjbe amue<m.e,njt of the vulgar jxjpujace. You 
 have iturn'd ,me ,out of your house, you know, 
 and how am I to stow aJi these band-boxes in my 
 
 gig? 
 
 L. Bur. Ytw shall $ot stow them in your gig, 
 my good fellow, but stow them in my house, and 
 yourself at my supper, with the best fare the 
 house affords There shall not be one heavy 
 heart on this night, that I can lighten ! 
 
 Tim. There, there, uncle; there never was a 
 man of fashion, who did not take to me as natu- 
 rally as a water- spaniel does to a horse-pond. 
 
 L.Bur. Come, come, Mr. Mapletoft, I won't 
 hear a word against your nephew. He is my 
 guest, and in this house he shall eat, and drink, 
 and sleep, and do as he likes. I hope, I shall 
 never see a cloud upon any brow, which may be 
 in my power to dispel, for the rest of my life to 
 come 
 
 Man. That's right, my lord, that's noble. 
 Timothy is a good fellow, a man of fashions, 
 studies the fine arts, understands beauty, and 
 sings a good song. 
 
 Tim. Yes, that I do. Will you hear it ? I have 
 one ready; it's a very funny one; it will make 
 you die with laughing. 
 
 L. Bur. Save it, save it, my dear fellow, till 
 after supper. Now, Manford, you are the mas- 
 ter of this house. See that your friends want
 
 444 LOVERS RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 nothing. In giving you my Caroline, I have given 
 you my all. 
 
 Man. No, my dear lord, I will not rob you of 
 that sweet comforter, who should endear the 
 coming of your days. The greater her devotion 
 shall be to you, the dearer she will be to me. 
 Your approbation will be her greatest grace and 
 ornament. We have known sorrow : what the 
 world calls pleasure, we shall not court. Those 
 tender charities, those offices of friendship and 
 affection, that bring contentment and a peaceful 
 conscience, will be our best attainments. If we 
 keep these Resolutions, we shall act our parts with- 
 out reproach, and close them with applause. 
 
 
 
 London : Printed by W. Bulmer and Co. 
 Cleveland-row, St. James's.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the las. date stamped below. 
 
 K^C'D LD-URL 
 JUL 2 1 1994 
 
 NON-RENEWABLE 
 
 APR \ 2004 
 
 DUE 2 WKS FROM 
 
 DATE RECEIVED 
 
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