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 SERIES OF PLAYS 
 
 IIT WHICH 
 
 IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELINEATE 
 
 THE STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND. 
 
 EACH PASSION BEING THE SUBJECT 
 
 O F 
 
 A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY 
 
 BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 THIRD EDITION-, 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED*FOK. T. CADELL, JUN. AND W, DAVIES, IN THE ilFAND, 
 
 1800. 
 [ff. BaUiL'in and Son^ Printers^ Nevj BriJgf^stne: 1 
 
IXTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 T is natural for a writer, who is about to 
 submit his works to the Publick, to feel a strong in- 
 clination, by same Preliminary Address, toconciliate 
 the favour of his reader, and dispose him, if possible, 
 to peruse them with a favourable eye. I am well 
 aware, however^ that his endeavours are generally 
 fruitless: in his situation our hearts revolt from all 
 appearance of confidence, and we consider his dif- 
 fidence as hypocrisy. Our own word is frequently 
 taken for what w^e say of ourselves, but very rarely 
 for what we say of our works. Were the three plays, 
 which this small volume contains, detached pieces 
 only, and unconnected with others that do not yet 
 appear, I should have suppressed this inclination al- 
 together; and have allowed my reader to begin what 
 is before him, and to form what opinion of it his 
 taste or his humour might direct, without any pre- 
 vious trespass upon his time or his patience. But 
 they are part of an extensive design : of one which 
 as far as my information goes, has nothing exactly 
 similar to it in any language : of one which a whole 
 life's time will be limited enough to accomplish ; and 
 which has, therefore, a considerable chance of beino* 
 cut short by that hand which nothing can resist. 
 
2 INTEODUCTOKY DISCOURSE. 
 
 Before I explain the plan of this work, I must 
 make a demand upon the patience of my reader^ 
 whilst I endeavour to eoinmunicate to him those 
 ideas regarding hunian nature, as they in some de- 
 gree affect almost everyspcciesof n^orahvritings^but 
 particularly the Dramatick, that induced me to at- 
 tempt it ; and, as far as my judgment enabled me to 
 apply them, has directed me in the execution of it. 
 
 From that strong sympathy which most crea- 
 tures, but the human above all, feel for others of 
 their kind, nothing has become so much an object 
 of man's curiositv as man himself. We are all con- 
 scions of this within ourselves, and so constantly 
 do we meet with it in others^ that like every circum- 
 stance of continually rcpeatedoccurrence^ it thereby 
 escapes observation. Every person who is not defi- 
 cient in intellect, is more or less occupied in tracing 
 amongst the individuals he converses with, the varie- 
 ties of understand! ngand temper which constitute the 
 characters of men ; and receives great pleasure from 
 every stroke of nature that points out to him those 
 varieties. This is, much more than we are aware of, 
 the occupation of children, and of grown people 
 also, whose penetration is but lightly esteemed; 
 and that conversation which degenerates with them 
 into trivialand mischievous tattling, takes its rise not 
 tinfrec]uently from the same source that supplies the 
 rich vein of the satirist and the wit. That eagerness 
 so universally shewn tor the conversation of the 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. . 3 
 
 latter^ plainly enough indicates how many people 
 havebeen occupledin thesame way with themselves. 
 Let any one. In a large company, do or ,say what is 
 strongly expressive of ills peculiar character, or of 
 some passion or humour of the moment, and it will 
 be detected by almost every person present. How of- 
 ten may we see a very stupid countenance animated 
 with a smile, v/hen the learned and the v>'ise have 
 betrayed some native feature of their own minds 1 
 and how often will this be the case when they have 
 supposed it to be concealed under a very sufficient 
 disguise ! From this constant employment of their 
 minds, most people, I believe, without being con- 
 scious of it, have stored up in idea the greater 
 part of those strong marked varieties of human 
 character, which may be said to divideit into classes; 
 and in one of those classes they involuntarily place 
 every new person they become acquainted with. 
 
 I will readily allow that the dress and the manners 
 of men, rather than their characters and xlispositions 
 are the subjects of our common conversation, and 
 seem chiefly to occupy the multitude. But let it be 
 remembered that it is much easier to express our 
 observations upon these. It is easier to communi- 
 cate to another how a man wears his wig and cane, 
 what kind of house he inhabits, and what kind of 
 tabic he keeps, than from what slight traits in his 
 words and actions we have been led to conceive 
 certain impressions of his character : traits that will 
 
4 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 often escape the memory, when the opinions that 
 were founded upon them remain. Besides, in com- 
 municating our ideas of the characters of others, we 
 are often called upon to support them with more 
 expence of reasoning than we can well afford, but 
 our observations on the dress and appearance of men 
 seldom involve us in such difficulties. For these, 
 and other reasons too tedious to mention, the gene- 
 rality of people appear to us more trifling than they 
 are: and 1 may venture to say that, but for this 
 sympathetick curiosity towards others of our kind, 
 which is so strongly implanted within us, the atten- 
 tion we pay to the dress and manners of men 
 would dwindle into an employment as insipid, as 
 examining the varieties of plants and minerals, is 
 to one who understands not natural history. 
 
 In our ordinary intercourse with society, this 
 sympathetick propensity of our minds is exercised 
 upon men under the common occurrences of life, 
 in which we have often observed them. Here vanity 
 and weakness put themselves forward to view, more 
 conspicuously than the virtues: here, men encounter 
 those smaller trials, from v/hich they are not apt to 
 come of victorious; and here, consequently, that 
 which Is marked with the whimsical and ludicrous 
 will strike us most forcibly, and make the strongest 
 impression on our memory. To this sympathetick 
 propensity of our minds, so exercised, the genuine 
 and pure comick of every comjjosition, whether 
 drama, fable, story, or satire is addressed. 
 
INTrxODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 5 
 
 If man is an object of so much attention to man, 
 engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life^, how 
 much more does he excite his curiosity and interest 
 when placed in extraordinary situations of difficulty 
 and distress? It cannot be any pleasure we receive 
 from the sufferings of a fellow-creature which at- 
 tracts such multitudes of people to a publick exe- 
 cution, thouo'h it is the horrour we conceive for such 
 a spectacle that keeps so many more away. To see 
 a human being bearing himself up under such cir- 
 cumstances, or struggling with the terrible appre- 
 hensions which such a situation impresses, must be 
 the powerful incentive, that makes us press forward 
 to behold what we shrink from, and wait with trem- 
 bling expectation for what we dread. ^ For though 
 few at such a spectacle can get near enough to dis- 
 tinguish the expression of face, or the minuter parts 
 of a criminal's behaviour, yet from a considerable 
 distance will they eagerly mark whether he steps 
 firmly ; whether the motions of his body denote 
 agitation or calmness; and if the wind does but 
 
 * In confirmation of this opinion I may venture to say, that 
 of the great numbers who go to see a publick execution, there 
 are but very few who would not run away from, and avoid it, if 
 they happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We find people 
 stopping to look at a procession, or any other uncommon sight* 
 they may have fallen in with accidently, but almost never an 
 execution. No one goes there who has not made up his mind 
 for the occasion ; which would not be the case, if any natural 
 love of cruelty were the cause of such assemblies. 
 
6 INTRODUCTOKY DISCOURSE, 
 
 ruffle his garment^ they will, even from that change 
 upon the outline of his distant figure^ read some 
 expression connected with his dreadfid situation. 
 Though there is a greater proportion of people in 
 whom this strong curiosity will be overcome by 
 other dispositions and motives ; though there are 
 many more who will stay away from such a sight 
 than will go to it ; yet there are very few who will 
 not be eager to converse with a person who has 
 beheld it; and to learn, very minutely, every cir- 
 cumstance connected with it, except the very act 
 itself of inflicting death. To lift up the roof of his 
 dungeon, like the D'lahle Iwiieux^ and look upon a 
 criminal the night before he suffers, in his still 
 hours of privacy, when all that disguise is removed 
 which respect for the opinion of others, the strong- 
 motive by which even the lowest and w-ickedest of 
 men still continue to be actuated, would present 
 an object to the mind of every person, not with- 
 held from it by great timidity of character, more 
 powerfully attractive than almost any other. 
 
 Revenge, no doubt, firft began amongst the 
 favages of America that dreadful custom of sacri- 
 jQcing their prisoners of war. But the perpetra- 
 tion of such hideous cruelty could never have 
 become a permanent national custom, but for this 
 universal desire in the human mind to behold 
 man in every situation, putting forth his strength 
 against the current of adversity, scorning all 
 
IXTrxODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 7 
 
 bodily anguish, or struggling with those feelings 
 of nature, which, like a beating stream, will 
 oft'tifnes burst throuo-h the artidcial barriers of 
 pride. Before they begin those terrible rites 
 they treat their prisoners kindly ; and it cannot 
 be supposed that men, alternately enemies and 
 friends to so many neighbouring tribes, in manners 
 and appearance like themselves, should so strongly 
 be actuated by a spirit of publick revenge. This 
 custom, therefore, must be considered as a grand 
 and terrible game, which every tribe plays against 
 another ; where they try not the strength of the 
 arm, the swiftness of the feet, nor the acuteness 
 of the eve, but the fortitude of the soul. Con- 
 sidered in this light, the excess of cruelty exercised 
 upon their miserable victim, in which every hand 
 is described as ready to inilicSt its portion of pain, 
 and every head ingenious in the contrivance of it, 
 is no longer to be wondered at. To put into his 
 nieasure of misery one agony Icss^ would be, in 
 some degree, betraying the honour of their tiation, 
 would be doing a species of injustice to every hero 
 of their own tribe who had already sustained 
 it, and to those who might be called upon to Ao 
 so ; amongst whom each of these savage tormeiuors 
 has his chance of being one, and has prepared 
 himself for it from his childhood. Nay, it would 
 . be a species of injustice to the haughty victim 
 himself, who would scorn to purchase his place 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 amongst the heroes of his nation, at an easier 
 price than his undaunted predecessors. 
 
 Amongst the many trials to which the human 
 mind is subjected, that of holding intercourse, real 
 or imaginary, with the vyorld of spirits ; of finding 
 itself alone with a being terrifick and awful, whose 
 nature and power are unknown, has been justly 
 considered as one of the most severe. The work- 
 ings of nature in this situation, we all know, have 
 ever been the object of our most eager inquiry. 
 No man wishes to see the Ghost himself, which 
 would certainly procure him the best information 
 on the subject, but every man wishes to see one 
 who believes that he sees it, in all the agitation and 
 wildness of that species of terrour. To gratify 
 this curiosity how many people have dressed up 
 hideous apparitions to frighten the timid and super- 
 stitious ! and have done it at the risk of destroying 
 their happiness or understanding for ever. For the 
 instances of intellect being destroyed by this kind 
 of trial are more numerous, perhaps, in proportion 
 to the few who have undergone it, than byany other. 
 
 How sensible are we of this strong propensity 
 within us, when we behold any person under the 
 pressure of great and uncommon calamity ! Deli- 
 cacy and respect for the afiiicted will, indeed, make 
 lis turn ourselves aside from observing him, and 
 cast down our eyes in his presence ; but the first 
 glance we direct to him will involuntarily be one of 
 
 2 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. Q 
 
 the keenest observation, how hastily soever it may 
 be checked; and often will a returning look of in- 
 quiry miK itself by stealth with our sympathy and 
 
 reserve. 
 
 But it is not in situations of diffictilty and distress 
 alone, that man becomes the object of this sympa-* 
 thetick curiosity ; he is no less so when the evil he 
 contends with arises in his own breast, and no out- 
 ward circumstance connected with him either awa- 
 kens our attention or our pity. What human 
 creature is there, who can behold a being like him- 
 self under the violent agitation of those passions 
 which all have, in some degree, experienced, with- 
 out feeling himself most powerfully excited by the 
 sight ? I say, all have experienced : for the bravest 
 man on earth knows what fear is as well as the 
 coward; and will not refiase to be interested for 
 one under the dominion of this passion, provided 
 there be nothing in the circumstances attending it 
 to create contempt. Anger is a passion that at- 
 tracts less sympathy than any other, yet the un- 
 pleasing and distorted features of an angry man 
 will be more eagerly gazed upon, by those who are 
 no wise concerned with his fury or the objects of it, 
 than the most amiable placid countenance in the 
 world. Every eye is directed to him ; every voice 
 hushed to silence in his presence; even children 
 will leave off their gambols as he passes, and gaze 
 after him more eagerly than the gaudiest equipag^e. 
 
10 inteoductohy discourse. 
 
 The wild tossings of despair; the gnashing of hatred 
 and revenge ; the yearnings of affection, and the 
 softened mien of love; all the language of the agi- 
 tated soul, which every age and nation understand, 
 is never addressed to the dull or inattentive. 
 
 It is not ilierely under the violent agitations of 
 passion, that man so rouses and interests us ; even 
 the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the 
 restless eye, the muttering lip, the half-checked 
 exclamation, and the hasty start, will set our atten- 
 tion as anxiously upon the watch, as the first dis- 
 tant flashes of a gathering storm. When some 
 great explosion of passion bursts forth, and some 
 consequent catastrophe happens, if we are at all 
 acquainted with the unhappy perpetrator, how 
 jminutely shall we endeavour to remember every 
 circumstance of his past behaviour ! and with what 
 avidity shall we seize upon every recollected word 
 or gesture, that is in the smallest degree indicative 
 of the supposed state of his mind, at the time when 
 they took place. If we are not acquainted with 
 him, how eagerly shall we listen to similar recol- 
 lections from another ! Let us understand, from 
 observation or report, that any person harbours in 
 his breast, concealed from the world's eye, some 
 powerful rankling passion of what kind soever it 
 may be, we shall observe every word, every motion, 
 every look, even the distant gait of such a man, 
 with a constancy and attention bestowed upon no 
 
INTEODUCTOKY DISCOURSE. H 
 
 other. Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly on 
 our way, a feeling, will pass across our minds as 
 though we found ourselves in the neighbourhood 
 of some secret and fearful thing. If invisible, 
 wouldwenot follow^ him into his lonely h?.unts,into 
 his closet, into the midnight silence of bis cham- 
 ber? There is, perhaps, no employment which the 
 human mind will with so much avidity pursue, as 
 the discovery of concealed passion, as the tracing 
 the varieties and progress of a perturbed soul. 
 
 It is to this sympathetick curiosity of our nature,; 
 exercised upon mankind in great and trying occa- 
 sions, and under the infiaence of the stronger 
 passions, when the grand, the generous, and the 
 terrible attract our attention far more than the base 
 and depraved, that the high and powerfully tragick, 
 of every composition, is addressed. 
 
 This propensity is universal. Children begin to 
 shew it very early; it enters into many of their 
 amusements, and that part of them too, for which 
 they shew the keenest relish. It oftentimes tempts 
 them, as well as the mature in years, to be guilty of 
 tricks, vexations, and cruelty; yet God Almighty 
 has implanted it within us, as well as all our other 
 propensities and passions, for wise and good pur- 
 poses. It is our best and most powerful instruc- 
 tor. From it we are taught the proprieties and 
 decencies of ordinary life, and are prepared for dis- 
 tressing and difficult situations. In examining 
 
 6 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 Others we know ourselves. With limbs untorri^ 
 with head unsmittcn, with senses unimpaired by 
 despair^ we know what we ourselves might have 
 been on the rack, on the scaffold, and in the most 
 afflicting circumstances of distress. Unless when 
 accompanied with passions of the dark and malevo- 
 lent kind, we cannot well exercise this disposition 
 without becoming more just, more merciful, more 
 compassionate; and as the dark and malevolent 
 passions are not the predominant inmates of the 
 human breast, it hath produced more deeds — O 
 many more ! of kindness than of cruelty. It holds 
 up for our example a standard of excellence, which^ 
 without its assistance, our inward consciousness of 
 what is right and becoming might never have been 
 dictated. It teaches us, also, to respect ourselves, 
 and our kind ; for it is a poor mind, indeed, that 
 from this employment of its faculties, learns not to - 
 dwell upon the noble view of human nature rather 
 than the mean. 
 
 Universal, however, as this disposition undoubt- 
 edly is, with the generality of mankind it occupies 
 itself in a passing and superfieieal way. Though 
 a native trait of character or of passion is obvious 
 to them as well as to the sage, yet to their minds it 
 is but the visitor of a moment ; they look upon it 
 singly and unconnected : and though this disposi- 
 tion, even so exercised, brings instruction as well 
 as anmscment, it is chiefly by storing up in their 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 1^ 
 
 minds those ideas to which the instructions of others 
 Fcfer^ that it can be eminently useful. Those who 
 reflect and reason upon what human nature holds 
 out to their observation, are comparatively but few. 
 No stroke of nature which engages their attention 
 stands insulated and alone. Each presents itself to 
 them with many varied connections; and they 
 comprehend not merely the immediate feeling 
 which gave rise to it, but the relation of that feeling 
 to others which are concealed. We wonder at the 
 changes and caprices of -men ; they see in them 
 nothing but what is natural and accountable. We 
 stare upon some dark catastrophe of passion, as the 
 Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon ; they, 
 coiiceiving the track of ideas through which the 
 impassioned mind has passed, regard it like the 
 philosopher who foretold the phenomenon. Know- 
 ing what situation of life he is about to be throwa 
 into, they perceive in the man, who, like Hazael, 
 says, " is thy servant a dog that he should do this 
 thing ?" the foul and ferocious m.urderer. A man 
 of this contemplaUve character partakes, in some 
 degree, of the entertainment of the Gods, who 
 were supposed to look down upon this world and 
 the inhabitants of it, as we do upon a theatrical 
 exhibition ; and if he is of a benevolent disposition, 
 a good man struggling v;ith, and triumphing over 
 adversity, will be to him, also, the most delightful 
 spectacle. But though this eagerness to observe 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 their fellow-creatures in every sltuatloDj leads not 
 the generality of mankind to reason and reflect; 
 and those strokes of nature which they are so ready 
 to remark, stand single and unconnected in their 
 minds, yet they may be easily induced to do both : 
 and there is no mode of instruction which they will 
 so cfigerly pursue, as that which lays open before 
 them, in a more enlarged and connected view than 
 their individual observations are capable of supply- 
 ing — the varieties of the human mind. Above all^ 
 to be well exercised in this study will fit a man 
 more particularly for the most important situations 
 of lit'c. He will prove for it the better Judge, the 
 better Magistrate, the better Advocate; and as a 
 ruler or conductor of other men, under every oc- 
 curring circumstance, he will find himself the better 
 enabled to fulfil his duty, and accomplish his de- 
 signs. He will perceive the natural effect of every 
 order that he issues upon the minds of his soldiers, 
 his subjects or his followers; and he will deal to 
 others judgment tempered with mercy; that is to 
 say, truly just; for justice appears tons severe only 
 when it is imperfect. 
 
 In proportion as moral writers of every class have 
 ^exercised within themselves this sympathetick pro- 
 pensity of our nature, and have attended to it in 
 others, their works have been interesting and in- 
 structive. They have struck the imagination more 
 forcibly, convinced the understanding more clearly, 
 
intkoductohy discourse. 15 
 
 and more lastingly impressed the memory. If un- 
 seasoned with any reference to this^ the fairy bowers 
 of the poet, with all his gay images of delight, will 
 be admired and forgotten ; the important relations 
 of the historian, and even the reasonings of the phi- 
 losopher, will make a less permanent impression. 
 
 The historian points back to the men of other 
 ages, and from the gradually clearing mist in which 
 they are first discovered, like the mountains of a far 
 distant land, the generations of the world are dis- 
 played to our mind's eye in grand and regular pro- 
 cession. But the transactions of men become 
 interesting to us only as we are made acquainted 
 with men themselves. Great and bloody battles are 
 to us batdes fought in the moon, if it is not im- 
 pressed upon our minds, by some circumstances 
 attending them, that men subject to like weak- 
 nesses and passions with ourselves, were the com- 
 batants.* The establishments of policy make little 
 
 * Let two great battles be described to us with all the force 
 and clearness of the most able pen. In the first let the most 
 iidm'rable exertions of military skill in the General, and the 
 most unshaken courage in the soldiers, gain over an equal or 
 superiour number of brave opponents a complete and glorious 
 victory. In the second let the General be less scientifick, and 
 the soldiers less dauntless. Let them g-o into the field for a 
 cause that is dear to them, and fight with the ardour v.hich 
 »uch a motive inspires ; till discouraged with the many deaths 
 around them, and the renovated pressure of the foe, some 
 unlooked-for circumstance, trifling in itself, strikes their imagi. 
 
l6' INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE* 
 
 impression upon us, if we are left ignorant of the 
 beings whom they affected. Even a very masterly 
 drawn character will but slightly imprint upon our 
 memory the great man it belongs to, if,intheaccount 
 we receive of his life, those lesser circumstances are 
 entirely neglected, which do best of all point out to 
 us the dispositions and tempers of men. Some 
 slight circumstance characteristick of the particular 
 turn of a man's mind, which nt first sight seems^ 
 but little connected with the great events of his 
 life, will often explain some of those events more 
 clearly to our understanding, than the minute de- 
 tails of ostensible policy. A judicious selection of 
 those circumstances which characterize the spirit 
 of an associated mob, paltry and ludicrous as some 
 
 nation at once : they are visited with the terrours of nature ; their 
 national pride, the honour of soldiership Is forgotten ; they fly 
 like a fearful flock. Let some beloved chief then step forth, 
 and call upon them by the love of their country, by the memory 
 of their valiant fathers, by every thing that kindlfes In tlie 
 bosom of man the high and generous passions : they stop ; they 
 gather round Him ; and goaded by shame and indignation, 
 returning again to the charge, with the fury of wild beasts 
 rather than the courage of soldiers, bear down every thing before 
 them. Which of these two battles will Interest us the most ? 
 aud which of them shall we remember the longest ? The one will 
 stand- forth In the Imagination of the reader like a rock of the 
 desert, which points out to the far-removed traveller the country 
 through which he has passed, when Its lesser objects are obscured 
 in the distance; whilst the other leaves no traces behind it, but 
 in the minds of the scientiiick in war. 
 
II^TRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 1/ 
 
 of them may appear, will often times convey to our 
 minds a clearer idea why certain laws and privileges 
 were demanded and agreed to, than a methodical 
 explanation of thcircauses. An historian whohasexa- 
 mined human nature himself, and likewise attends 
 to the pleasure which developing and tracing it 
 does ever convey to others, will employ our under- 
 standing as well as our memory ivith his pages; and 
 If this is not done, he will impose upon the latter a 
 very difficult task, in retaining what she is con- 
 cerned with alone. 
 
 In argumentative and philosophical writings, the 
 effect which the author's reasoning produces on our 
 minds depends not entirely on the justness of it. 
 The images and examples that he calls to his aid, 
 to explain and illustrate his meaning, will very 
 much affect the attention w^e are able to bestow 
 upon it, and consequently the quickness v;ith which 
 we shall apprehend, and the force with which it will 
 impress us. These are selected fromi animated and 
 unanimated nature^ from the habits, manners, and 
 characters of men ; and though that image or ex- 
 ample, whatever it may be in itself, which brings 
 out his micaning most clearly, ought to be prefer- 
 red before every other, yet of two equal in this re- 
 spect, that which is drawn from the most interesting 
 source will please us the most at the time, and 
 most lastingly take hold of our minds. An argu- 
 ment supported with vivid and interesting illustra^ 
 
 c 
 
18 INTKODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 tioii will long be remembered when many equally 
 important and clear are forgotten ; and a work 
 where many suth occur^ will be held in higher es- 
 timation by the generality of men, than one, its 
 superiour, perhaps, in acuteness, perspicuity, and 
 good sense. 
 
 Our desire to know what men are in the closefe 
 as well as in the field, by the blazing hearth and 
 at the social board, as well as in the council and 
 the throne, is very imperfectly gratified by real 
 history ; romance writers, therefore, stepped boldly 
 forth to supply the deficiency ; and tale writers and 
 novel writers, of many descriptions, followed after. 
 If they have not been very skilful in their delinea- 
 tions of nature; if they have represented men and 
 women speaking and acting as men and women 
 never did speak or act; if they have caricatured 
 both our virtues and our vices ; if they have given 
 us such pure and unmixed, or such heterogeneous 
 combinations of character as real life never pre- 
 sented, and yet have pleased and interested us, let 
 it not be imputed to the dulness of man in discern- 
 ing what is genuinely natural in himself. There 
 are many inclinations belonging to us, besides this 
 great master-propensity of which I am treating. 
 Our love of the grand, the beautiful, the novel, and 
 above all of the marvellous, is very strong; and if 
 we are richly fed with what we have a good relish 
 for, we may be weaned to forget our native and 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. I9 
 
 favourite aliment. Yet we can never so far forget 
 it;, but that WQ shall cling to^, and acknowledge it 
 again, whenever it is presented before us. In a 
 work abounding with the marvellous and unnatu- 
 ral, if the author has any how stumbled upon aa 
 unsophisticated genuine stroke of nature, we shall 
 immediately perceive and be delighted with it, 
 though we are foolish enough to admire at the 
 same time, all the nonsense with which it is sur- 
 rounded. After all the wonderful incidents, dark 
 mysteries, and secrets revealed, which eventful 
 novel so liberally presents to us ; after the beautiful 
 fairy ground, and even the grand and sublime 
 scenes of nature with Vv'hich descriptive novel so 
 often enchants us; those works which most strongly 
 characterize human nature in the middling and 
 lower classes of society, where it is to be disco- 
 vered by stronger and more unequivocal marks, 
 will ever be the most popular. For though great 
 pains have been taken in our higher sentimental 
 novels to interest us in the delicacies, embarrass* 
 ments, and artificial distresses of the more refined 
 part of society, they have never been able to cope 
 in the publick opinion with these. The one is a 
 dressed and beautiful pleasure ground, in which 
 we are inchanted for a while, amongst the delicate 
 and unknown plants of artful cultivation ; the other 
 h a rough forest of our native land ; the oak, the 
 helm, the hazle, and the bramble are there; and 
 
 c 2 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY DISCOUKSE. 
 
 amidst the endless varieties of its paths we can 
 wander for ever. Into whatever scenes the no- 
 velist may cdnduct us, what objects soever he may 
 present to our view^ still is our attention most sen- 
 sibly awake to every touch laithml to nature; still 
 are we upon the watch for every thing that speaks 
 tons of ourselves. 
 
 The fair field of what is properly called poetry, 
 is enriched with so many beauties, that in it we 
 are often tempted to forget what we really are, and 
 what kind of beings we belong to. Who in the 
 enchanted regions of simile, m.etaphor, allegory and 
 description, can remember the plain order of things 
 in this cvery-day world? From heroes whose ma- 
 iestick forms rise like a lofty tower, whose eyes arc 
 lightening, whose arms are irresistible, whose course 
 is like the storms of heaven_, bold and exalted sen- 
 timents we shall readilv receive; and shall not exa- 
 mine them very accurately by that rule of nature 
 Vv'hich our own breast prescribes to us. A shepherd 
 whose sheep, with fleeces of the purest snow, 
 browze the llov.'cry herbage of the most beautiful 
 vallies ; whose flute is ever melodious, and whose 
 shepherdess is ever crowned with roses; whose 
 every care is lovC;, will not be called very strictly 
 to account for the loftiness and refinement of his 
 thoughts. The fair Nymph wlio sighs out her sor- 
 rows to the conscious and compassionate wilds ; 
 whose eyes <>:leam like the briirht drous of heaven ; 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 21 
 
 \?^'hose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may sav 
 what she pleases with impunity. I will venture, 
 however, to say, that amidst all this decoration and 
 ornament, all this loftiness and refmementj let one 
 simple trait of the human heart, one expression of 
 passion genuine and true to nature, be introduced, 
 and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of 
 reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it, 
 £idc away upon every side, like the rising exhalations 
 of the morning. With admiration, and often with 
 enthusiasm we proceed on our way through the 
 grand and the beautiful images, raised to our ima- 
 gination by the lofty Epiek muse; but what, even 
 here, are those things that strike upon the heart; 
 that wc {q.^\ and remember? Neither the descrip- 
 tions of war, the sound of the trumpet, the clanging 
 of arms, the combat of heroes, nor the death of li:ie 
 might^^, will interest our minds like the tail of the 
 feeble stranger, who simply expresses the anguish 
 of his soul, at the thouo;hts of that far-distant home 
 which he must never return to airain, and closes 
 his eyes amongst the ignoble and forgotten ; like tl}e 
 timid stripling goaded by the shame of reproach, 
 who uro-es his tremblino: steos to the fi2:ht, and falls 
 like a tender flower before the first blast of w^inter. 
 How often will some simple picture of this kind 
 be all that remains upon our minds of the terrifick 
 and magnificent battle, whose description we have 
 read with admiration ? How comes it that wc relish 
 
'Jj^ INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 SO much the episodes of an heroick poem? It can- 
 not merely be that we are pleased with a resting 
 place, where we enjoy the variety of contrast ; for 
 were the poem of the simple and familiar kind, and 
 an episode after the heroick style introduced into 
 it, ninety readers out of an hundred would pass 
 over it altogether. It is not that we meet such a 
 story, so situated, with a kind of sympathetick good 
 will, as in passing through a country of castles and 
 of palaces, we should pop unawares upon some 
 humble cottage, resembling the dwellings of our 
 own native land, and gaze upon it with affection. 
 The highest pleasures we receive from poetry, as 
 well as from the real objects which surround us in 
 the world, are derived from the sympathetick inte- 
 rest we all take in beings like ourselves; and I will 
 even venture to say, that where the grandest scenes 
 which can enter into the imagination of man, pre- 
 sented to our view, and all reference to man com- 
 pletely shut out from our thoughts, the objects that 
 composed it would convey to our minds little bet- 
 ter than dry ideas of magnitude, colour, and form; 
 and the remembrance of them would rest upon our 
 minds like the measurement and distances of the 
 planets. 
 
 If the study of human nature then, is so useful 
 to the poet, the novelist, the historian, and the phi- 
 losopher, of how much greater importance must it 
 be to the dramatick writer? To them it is a power- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 23 
 
 fill auxiliary, to him it is the centre and strength of 
 the battle. If characteristick views of human na- 
 ture enliven not their pages, there are many excel- 
 lencies with which they can, in some degree, make 
 up for the deficiency, it is what we receive from 
 them with pleasure rather than demand. But in 
 his works no richness of invention, harmony of lan- 
 guage, nor grandeur of sentiment will supply the 
 place of faithfully delineated nature. The poet and 
 the novelist may represent to you their great cha- 
 racters from the cradle to the tomb. They may 
 represent them in any mood or temper, and under 
 the influence of any passion which they see proper, 
 without being obliged to put words into their 
 mouths, those great betrayers of the feigned and 
 adopted. They may relate every circumstance, 
 however trifling and minute, that serves to develope 
 their tempers and dispositions. They tell us what 
 kind of people they intend their men and women 
 to be, and as such we receive them. If they are 
 to move us with any scene of distress, every circum- 
 stance regarding the parties concerned in it, how 
 they looked, how they moved, how they sighed, 
 how the tears gushed from their eyes, how the very 
 light and shadow fell upon them, is carefully de- 
 scribed, and the few things that are given them to 
 say along with all this assistance, must be very un- 
 natural indeed if we refuse to sympathize with them. 
 Bat the characters of the drama must speak directly 
 
^-4 INTKODUCTORY DISCOUFxSE. 
 
 for themselves. Under the influence of every pas- 
 sion, humour, and impression; in the artificial 
 veilings of hypocrisy and ceremony, in the openness 
 of freedom and confidence^ and in the lonely hour 
 of meditation they speak. Pie who made us hath 
 placed within our breast a judge that judges in- 
 stantaneously of every thing they say. We expect 
 to find them creatures like ourselves; and if they 
 are untrue to nature, we feel that wc are imposed 
 upon. 
 
 As in other works deficiency in characteristick 
 truth may be compensated by excellencies of a dif- 
 ferent kind, in the drama characteristick truth will 
 compensate every other defect. Nay, it will do 
 what appears a contradiction; one strong genuine 
 stroke of nature will cover a multitude of sins, even 
 against nature herself. When we meet in some 
 scene of a good play a very fine stroke of this kind, 
 we are apt to become so intoxicated with it, and so 
 perfectly convinced of theauthour's greatknowledge 
 of the human heart, that we are unwilling to sup- 
 pose the whole of it has not been suggested by the 
 same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning en- 
 thusiastick critieks have given themselves a great 
 deal of trouble in this way; and have shut their 
 eyes most ingeniously against the fair light of na- 
 ture for the very love of it. They have converted, 
 in their great zeal, sentiments palpably tldse, both 
 in regard to the character and situation of the per- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 25 
 
 sons who utter them, sentiments which a child or a 
 clown would detect, into the most skilful dcpict- 
 ments of the heart. I can think of no stron^rcr 
 instance to show how powerfully this love of nature 
 dwells within us."^ 
 
 Formed as we are with these sympathetick pro- 
 pensities in regard to our own species, it is not at 
 all wonderful that theatrical exhibition has become 
 the grand and flivourite amusement of every nation 
 into which it has been introduced. Savages will, in 
 the wild contortions of a dance, shape out some rude 
 story expressive of character or passion, and such a 
 dance will give more delight to his companions 
 than the most artful exertions of agility. Children 
 in their gambols will make out amimick represent- 
 ation of the manners, characters, and passions of 
 grown men and women; and such a pastime will 
 animate and delight them much more than a treat 
 of the daintiest sweetmeats, or the handlinp* of the 
 gaudiest toys. Eagerly as it is enjoyed by the rude 
 
 ■* It appears to me a very strong testimony of the excellence 
 of our great national Dramatist, that so many people hare been 
 employed in finding out obscure and refined beauties, in what 
 appear to ordinary observation- his very defects. Men, it may 
 be said, do so merely to shew their own superiour penetration and 
 ingenuity. But granting this ; what could make other men 
 listen to them, and listen so greedily too, if it were not that 
 they have received from the works of Shakspeare, pleasure far 
 beyond what the most perfect poetical compositions of a different 
 ciuracter can afford. 
 
0.6 INTReDUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 and the young, to the polished and the ripe in 
 years it is still the most interesting amusement. 
 Our taste for it is durable as it is universal. Inde- 
 pendently of those circumstances which first intro- 
 duced it, the world would not have long been 
 without it. The progress of society w^ould soon 
 have brought it forth ; and men in the whimsical 
 decorations of fancy would have displayed the cha- 
 racters and actions of their heroes, the folly and 
 absurdity of their fellow-citizens^ had no Priests of 
 Bacchus ever existed.'* 
 
 * Though the progress of society would have given us the 
 Drama, independently of the particular cause of its first com- 
 mencement, the peculiar circumstances connected with Its origin 
 have had considerable influence upon its character and style, in 
 the ages through which it has passed even to our day, and still 
 will continue to affect it. Homer had long preceded the drama- 
 tick poets of Greece ; poetry was in a high state of cultivation 
 M-hen they began to write ; and their style, the construction of 
 their pieces, and the characters of their heroes were different from 
 what they would have been, had theatrical exhibitions been the 
 invention of an earlier age or a ruder people. Their works were 
 represented to an audience, already accustomed to hear long 
 poems rehearsed at their publick games, and the feasts of their 
 gods. A play, with the principal characters of which they were 
 previously acquainted ; in which their great men and heroes, in 
 the most beautiful language, complained of their rigorous fate, 
 but piously submitted to the will of the gods ; in which sym- 
 pathy was chiefly excited by tender and affecting sentiments ; 
 in which strong bursts of passion were few ; and in which whole 
 scenes frequently passed, without giving the actors any thing to 
 do but to speak, was not too insipid for them. Had the drama 
 
 2 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 27 
 
 In whatever age or country the Drama might 
 have taken its rise, tragedy would have been the 
 first-born of its children. For every nation has 
 its great men, and its great events upon record; 
 and to represent their own forefiithers struggling 
 with those difficulties, and braving those dangers, 
 of which they have heard with admiration, and the 
 effects of which they still, perhaps, experience, 
 would certainly have been the most animating 
 subject for the poet, and the most interesting for 
 
 been the invention of a less cultivated nation, more of action and 
 of passion would have been introduced into it. It would have been 
 more irregular, more imperfect, more varied, more interesting. 
 From poor beginnings it would have advanced in a progressive 
 state ; and succeeding poets, not having those polished and 
 admired originals to look back upon, would have presented their 
 respective contemporaries with the produce of a free and unbridled 
 imagination. A different class of poets would most likely have 
 been called into existence. The latent powers of men are 
 called forth by contemplating those works in vv'hich they find any 
 thing congenial to theiF own peculiar talents ; and if the field, 
 wherein they could have worked, is already enriched with a 
 produce unsuited to their cultivation, they think not of entering 
 it at all. Men, therefore, whose natural turn of mind led them 
 to labour, to reason, to refine and exalt, have caught their 
 animation from the beauties of the Grecian Drama, and they 
 who, perhaps, ought only to have been our Cri ticks have become 
 our Poets. I mean not, however, in any degree to depreciate 
 the works of the ancients ; a great deal we have gained by those 
 beautiful compositions ; and what we have lost by them it is 
 impossible to compute. Very strong genius will sometimes break 
 through every disadvantage of circumstances : Shakspeare has 
 arisen in this country, and we ought not to complain. 
 
28 IxMXrtODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 his audience, even independently of the natural 
 inclination we all so universally shew for scenes of, 
 horrour, and distress^ of passion and heroick exer- 
 tion. Tragedy would have been the first child of the 
 Drama, for the same reasons that have made heroick 
 ballad;, with all its battles, murders, and disasters, 
 the earliest poetical compositions of every country. 
 We behold heroes and great men at a distance, 
 unmarked by those small but distinguishing 
 features of the mind, which give a certain indi- 
 viduality to such an infinite variety of similar 
 beings, in the near and familiar intercourse of 
 life. They appear to us from this view lile 
 distant mountains, whose dark outlines we trace 
 in the clear horizon, but the varieties of whose 
 roughened sides, shaded Vv'ith heath and brush- 
 wood, and seamed with many a cleft, we perceive 
 not. When accidental anecdote reveals to us^ 
 any VvTakness or peculiarity belonging to them, 
 we start upon it like a discovery. They are made 
 known to us in history only, by the great events 
 they are connected with, and the part they have 
 taken in extraordinary or important transactions. 
 Even in poetry and romance, with the exception 
 of some love story interwoven with the main 
 events of their lives, they are seldom more inti- 
 mately made known to us. To Tragedy it belongs 
 to lead them forward to our nearer regard, in all 
 the distinguishing varieties which nearer inspection 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. IQ 
 
 discovers ; with the passions, the humours, the 
 weaknesses, the prejudices of men. It is for her 
 to present to us the great and magnanimous hero, 
 who appears to our distant view as a superiour 
 beinir, as a God, softened down with those smaller 
 frailties and imperfections which enable us to glory 
 in, and claim kindred to his virtues. It is for her 
 to exhibit to us the daring and ambitious man 
 planning his dark designs, and executing his 
 bloody purposes, mark'd with those appropriate 
 characteristicks, which distinguish him as an indi- 
 vidual of that class; and agitated with those varied 
 passions, which disturb the mind of man when he 
 is engaged in the commission of such deeds. It is 
 for her to point out to us the brave and impetuous 
 warriour struck with those visitations of nature, 
 which, in certain situations, will unnerve the 
 strongest arm, and make the boldest heart tremble. 
 It is for her to shew the tender, gentle, and 
 unassuming mind animated with that fire which, 
 by the provocation of circumstances, will give 
 to the kindest heart the ferocitv and keenness of 
 a tiger. It is for her to present to us the great 
 and striking characters that are to be found 
 amongst men, in a way which the poet, tlie 
 novelist, and the historian can but imperfectly 
 attempt. But above all, to her, and to her only 
 it belongs to unveil to us the human mind under 
 the dominion of those strong and fixed passions, 
 
^0 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE, 
 
 which, seeiningly unprovoked by outward cir- 
 cumstances, will from small beginnings brood 
 within the breast, till all the better dispositions, 
 all the fair gifts of nature are borne down before 
 them. Those passions which conceal themselves 
 from the observation of men^ which cannot 
 unbosom themselves even to the dearest friend; 
 and can, often times, only give their fulness vent 
 in the lonely desert, or in the darkness of midnight. 
 For who hath followed the great man into his 
 secret closet, or stood by the side of his nightly 
 couch, and heard those exclamations of the soul 
 which heaven alone may hear, that the historian 
 should be able to inform us? and what form of 
 story, what mode of rehearsed speech will com- 
 municate to us those feelings, whose irregular 
 bursts, abrupt transitions, sudden pauses, and 
 half-uttered suggestions, scorn all harmony of 
 measured verse, all method and order of relation ? 
 On the iirst part of this task her Bards have 
 eagerly exerted their abilities: and some amongst 
 them, taught by strong original genius to deal 
 immediately \vith human nature and their own 
 hearts^ have laboured in it successfully. But-in 
 presenting to us those views of great characters, 
 and of the human mind in difficult and trying 
 situations which peculiarly belong to Tragedy, 
 the far greater proportion, even of those who may 
 be considered as respectable dramatick poets, 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 31 
 
 have very much failed. From the beauty of those 
 original dramas to which they have ever looked 
 back with admiration, they have been tempted 
 to prefer the embellishments of poetry to faithfully 
 delineated nature. They have been more occupied 
 in considering the works of the great dramatists 
 who have gone before them, and the effects pro- 
 duced by their writings, than the varieties of 
 human character which first furnished materials 
 for those works, or those principles in the mind 
 of man by means of which such effects wxre 
 produced. Neglecting the boundless variety of 
 nature, certain strong outlines of character, 
 certain bold features of passion, certain grand 
 vicissitudes, and striking dramatick situations 
 have been repeated from one generation to 
 another; whilst a pompous and solemn gravity, 
 which they have supposed to be necessary for 
 the dignity of tragedy, has excluded almost 
 entirely from their works those smaller touches 
 of nature, which so well develope the mind; and 
 by showing men in their hours of state and 
 exertion only, they have consequendy shewn 
 them imperfectly. Thus, great and magnanimous 
 heroes, who bear with majestick equanimity every 
 vicissitude of fortune ; who in every temptation 
 and trial stand forth in unshaken virtue, like a 
 rock buffeted by the waves: who encompast with 
 the most terrible evils, in calm possession of 
 
32 INTllODUCtORt DISCOURSE. 
 
 their souls, reason upon the difficulties of their 
 state; and^, even upon the brink of destruction, 
 pronounce long eulogiums on virtue, in the most 
 eloquent and beautiful language, have been held 
 forth to our view as objects of imitation and 
 interest ; as though they had intirely forgotten that 
 it is only for creatures like ourselves that we feel, 
 and therefore, only from creatures like ourselves 
 that we receive the instruction of example.'^ Thus 
 passionate and impetuous warriours, who are proud, 
 irritable, and vindictive, but generous, daring, 
 and disinterested; setting their lives at a pin's 
 fee for the good of others, but incapable of 
 curbing their own humour of a moment to gaia 
 the whole world for themselves; who will pluck 
 
 *■ To a being perfectly free from all human infirmity our 
 sympathy refuses to extend. Our Saviour h'msclf, whose 
 character is so beautiful, and so harmoniously consistent; in 
 whom, with outward proofs of his mission less strong than those 
 that are offered to us, I should still be compelled to believe, 
 from being utterly unable to conceive how the idea of such a 
 character could enter into the imagination of man, never touches 
 the heart more nearly than when he says, " Father, let this 
 cup pass f oni me." Had he been represented to us in all the 
 unshaken strength of these tragick heroes, his disciples would 
 have made fewer converts, and his precepts would have been 
 listened to coldly. Plays in which heroes of this kind are held 
 j(brth, and whose aim is, indeed, honourable and praise-worthy, 
 have been admired by the cultivated and refined, but the tears 
 cf the simple, the applauses of the young and untaught have 
 been wanting. 
 
 (5 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 33 
 
 the orbs of heaven from their places, and crush 
 the whole universe in one grasp, are called forth 
 to kindle in our souls the generous contempt of 
 every thing abject and base; but with an effect 
 proportionably feeble, as the hero is made to 
 exceed in courasie and fire what the standard of 
 humanity will agree to.* Thus, tender and 
 
 * In all burlesque imitations of trageviy, those plays in 
 which this hero is pre-eminent, are always exposed to bear the 
 great brunt of the ridicule, which proves how popular they 
 have been, and how many poets, and good ones too, have been 
 employed upon them. That they have been so popular, how- 
 ever, is not owing to the intrinsick merit of the characters they 
 represent, but their opposition to those mean and contemptible 
 qualities belonging to human nature, of which we are most 
 ashamed. Besides, there is something in the human mind, 
 independently of its love of applause, which inclines it to boast. 
 This is ever the att.^ndant of that elasticity of soul, which makes 
 us bound up from the touch of oppression j and if there is nothing 
 in the accompanying circumstances to create disgust, or suggest 
 suspicions of their sincerity, (as in real life is commonly the 
 case,) we are very apt to be carried along with the boasting of 
 others. Let us in good earnest believe that a man is capable of 
 achieving all that human courage can achieve, and we shall 
 suffer him to talk of impossibilities. Amidst all their pomp of 
 words, therefore, our admiration of such heroes is readily 
 extited, (for the understanding is more easily deceived than the 
 heart,) but how stands our sympathy affected ? As no caution 
 nor foresight, on their own account, is ever suffered to occupy the 
 thoughts of such bold disinterested beings, v/e are the more 
 inclined to care for them, and to take an interest in their fortune 
 tlirough the course of the play : yet, as their souls are unappalled 
 
 D 
 
04 INTnODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 patbetick lovers, full of the most gentle affectionSy 
 the most amiable dispositions, and the most 
 exquisite feelings; who present their defenceless 
 bosoms to the storms of this rude world in all 
 the graceful weakness of sensibility, are made 
 to sigh out their sorrows in one imvaricd strain 
 of studied pathos, whilst this constant demand 
 upon our feelings makes us absolutely incapable 
 of answering it.* Thus, also, tyrants are repre- 
 sented as monsters of cruelty, unmixed with 
 any feelings of humanity; and villains as delight- 
 ing in all manner of treachery and deceit, and 
 acting Vipon many occasions for the \ery love 
 of villainy itself; though the perfectly wicked 
 are as ill litted for the purposes of w\^rn- 
 ing, as the perfectly virtuous are for those of 
 
 b}' any thing ! as pain and death are not at all regarded by them ;. 
 and as we have seen them very ready to pkinge their own swords 
 into their own bosoms, en no very weighty occasion, perhaps, 
 their death distresses us but little, and they commonly fall unwept, 
 * Were it not, that in tragedies were these heroes preside^ 
 the same soft tones of sorrow are so often repeated in our ears, till 
 we are perfectly tired of it,, they are more fitted to interest us 
 than any other ; both because in seeing them, wc own the ties of 
 kindred between ourselves and. the frail mortals wc lament y and 
 isympaihize with the weakness of mortality unmixed with any 
 thmg to degrade or disgust ; and also, because the misfortunes^ 
 which form the story of the play, are frequently of the m.ore 
 familiar and domesrick kind. -A king driven from his throne,, 
 will not move our sympathy so strongly, as a private man torn 
 from the bosoni cf-his- familv. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 35 
 
 example.* This spirit of imitation, and attention 
 to effect, has likewise confined them very much 
 in their choice of situations and events to brins: 
 their great characters into action ; rebellions, 
 conspiracies, contentions for empire, and rivalships 
 in love have alone been thought worthy of trying 
 those heroes; and palaces and dungeons the only 
 places magnificent or solemn enough for them 
 to appear in. 
 
 They have indeed, from this regard to the 
 works of preceding authours, and great attention 
 to the beauties of composition, and to dignity of 
 design, enriched their plays with much striking 
 and sometimes sublime imagery, lofty thoughts, 
 and virtuous sentiments; but in striving so eagerly 
 to excell in those things that belong to tragedy 
 
 * I have said nothing here in regard to female character, 
 though in many tragedies it is brought forward as the principal 
 one of the piece, because what I have said of the above characters 
 is likewise applicable to it. I believe there Is no man that ever 
 lived, who has behaved in a certain manner on a certain occasion, 
 who has not had amongst women some corresponding spirit, who 
 •on the like occasion, and every way similarly circumstanced, 
 would have behaved In the like manner. With some degree 
 of softening and refinement, each class of the tragick heroes I 
 have mentioned has its corresponding one amongst the heroines. 
 The tender and pathetick no doubt has the most numerous, but 
 the great and magnanimous Is not without It, and the passionate 
 and impetuous boasts of one by no means Inconsiderable in num- 
 bers, and drawn sometimes to the full as passionate and impetuous 
 as itself. 
 
 B 2- 
 
36 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 in common with many other compositions, they 
 have very much neglected those that are peculiarly 
 her own. As far as they have been led aside from 
 the first labours of a tragick poet by a desire to 
 communicate more perfect moral instruction, 
 their motive has been respectable, and they 
 merit our esteem. But this praise- worthy end 
 has been injured instead of promoted by their 
 mode of pursuing it. Every species of moral 
 writing has its own way of conveying instruction, 
 which it can never, but with disadvantage, ■ 
 exchange for any other. The Drama improves 
 ug by the knowledge we acquire of our own 
 minds, from the natural desire we have to look 
 into the thoughts, and observe the behaviour of 
 others. Tragedy brings to our view men placed 
 in those elevated situations, exposed to those 
 great trials, and engaged in those extraordinary 
 transactions, in which few of us are called upon 
 to act. As examples applicable to ourselves, 
 therefore, they can but feebly affect us; it is 
 only from the enlargement of our ideas in regard 
 to human nature, from that admiration of virtue, 
 and abhorrence of vice which they excite, that 
 we can expect to be improved by them. But if 
 they are not represented to us as real and natural 
 characters, the lessons we are taught from their 
 conduct and their sentiments will be no more to 
 us than those which we receive from the pages of 
 the poet or the moralist. 2 
 
inthoductory discoursEo 37 
 
 But the last part of the task which I have 
 mentioned as peculiarly belonging to tragedy, 
 unveiling the human mind under the dominion 
 of those strong and fixed passions, which seemingly 
 unprovoked by outward circumstances, will from 
 small beginnings brood witliin the breast, till 
 all the better dispositions, all the fair gifts of 
 nature are borne down before them, her poets 
 in general have entirely neglected, and even her 
 first and greatest have but imperfectly attempted. 
 They have made use of the passions to mark 
 their several characters, and animate their scenes, 
 rather than to open to our view the nature and 
 portraitures of those great disturbers of the human 
 breast, with whom we are all, more or less, called 
 upon to contend. With their strong and obvious 
 features, therefore, they have been presented to 
 us, stripped almost entirely of those less obtrusive, 
 but not less discriminating traits, which mark them 
 in their actual operation. To trace them in their 
 rise and progress in the heart, seems but 
 rarely to have been the object of any dramatist. 
 We commonly find the characters of a tragedy 
 affected by the passions in a transient, loose, un- 
 connected manner; or if they are represented as 
 under the permanent influence of the more 
 powerful ones, they are generally introduced to 
 our notice in the very height of their fury, when 
 all that timidity, irresolution, distrust, and a thou- 
 
3S INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 sand delicate traits, which make the infancy of 
 every great passion more interesting, perhaps, 
 than its full-blown strength, are fled. The im- 
 passioned character is generally brought into view 
 under those irresistible attacks of their powfer, 
 which it is impossible to repell ; w^hilst those gra^ 
 dual steps that lead him into this state, in some of 
 which a stand might have been made against the 
 foe, are left entirely in the shade. These passions 
 that may be suddenly excited, and are of short 
 duration, as anger, fear, and oftentimes jealousy, 
 may in this manner be fully represented ; but 
 those great masters of the soul, ambition, hatred, 
 love, every passion that is permanent in its nature, 
 and varied in progress, if represented to us but in 
 one stage of its course, is represented imperfectly. 
 It is a characteristick of the more powerful passions 
 that they will increase and nourish themselves on 
 very slender aliment; it is from within that they 
 are chiefly supplied with what they feed on ; and 
 it is in contending with opposite passions and af- 
 fections of the mind that we best discover their 
 strength, not with events. But in tragedy it-i^ 
 events more frequently than opposite affections 
 \vhich are opposed to them ; and those often of 
 such force and' magnitude that the passions them- 
 selves are almost obscured by the splendour and 
 importance of the transactions to which they 
 are attached. Besides being thus confmcd and 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. SQ 
 
 fniitllated, the passions have been, in the greater 
 part of our tragedies, deprived of the very power 
 of making themselves known. Bold and figurative 
 language belongs peculiarly to them. Poets, ad- 
 miring those bold expressions which a mind, la- 
 bouring with ideas too strong to be conveyed in 
 the ordinary forms of speech, wildly throws out, 
 taking earthy sea, and sky, every thing great and 
 terrible in nature to image forth the violence of its 
 feelings, borrowed them gladly, to adorn the calm 
 sentiments of their premeditated song. It has 
 therefore been thought that the less animated parts 
 of tragedy might be so embellished and enriched. 
 In doing this, however, the passions have been, 
 robbed of their native prerogative; and in adorn- 
 ing with their strong figures and lofty expressions 
 the calm speeches of the unruffled, it is found that, 
 when they are called upon to raise iheir voice, the 
 power of distinguishing themselves has been taken 
 away. This is an injury by no means compen- 
 sated, but very greatly aggravated by embellish- 
 ing, in return, the speeches of passion with the in- 
 genious conceits, and compleat similies of preme- 
 ditated thought.* There are many other things 
 
 * This, perhaps, more than any thing else has injured the 
 higher scenes of tragedy. For having made such free use of 
 bold hyperbolical language in the inferiour parts, the poet when 
 he arrives at the highly impassioned sinks into total inability: 
 or if he will force himself to rise still higher on the vvijig, hi 
 
AO JNTRODUCTOEY DISOOURSB. 
 
 regarding the manner in which dramatick poets 
 have generally brought forward the passions in 
 tragedy, to the great prejudice of that effect 
 they are naturally fitted to produce upon the 
 mind, which I forbear to mention, lest they should 
 too much increase the length of this discourse ; 
 and leave an impression on the mind of my reader, 
 that I write more in the spirit of criticism than 
 becomes one, who is about to bring before the 
 publick a work, with, doubdess, many faults and 
 imperfections on its head. 
 
 From this general view, which I have endea- 
 voured to communicate to my reader of tragedy, 
 and those principles in the human mind upon 
 which the success of her efforts depends, I have 
 been lead to believe, that an attempt to write a 
 series of tragedies, of simpler construction, less 
 embellished with poetical decorations, less con- 
 strained by that lofty seriousness which has so ge- 
 nerally been considered as necessary for the sup- 
 port of tragick dignity, and in which the chief 
 object should be to delineate the progress of the 
 higher passions in the human breast, each play ex-i- 
 Libiting a particular passion, might not be unac- 
 ceptable to the publick. And I have been the 
 more readily induced to act upon this idea, be- 
 cause I am confident, that tragedy, written upon 
 
 fiies beyqnd nature altogether, into the regions of bombast an4 
 nonsense. 
 
INTRODUCTOKY DISCOURSE. 41 
 
 this plari;, is fitted to produce stronger moral effect 
 than upon any other. I have said that tragedy 
 in representing to us great characters struggHng 
 with difficulties, and placed in situations of emi- 
 nence and danger^ in which few of us have any 
 chance of being called upon to act, conveys its 
 moral efficacy to our minds by the enlarged views 
 which it gives to us of human nature, by the ad- 
 miration of virtue, and execration of vice which it 
 excites, and not by the examples it holds up for 
 our immediate application. But in opening to us 
 the heart of man under the influence of those pas- 
 sions to which all are liable, this is not the case. 
 Those strong passions that, with small assistance 
 from outward circumstances, work their way in the 
 heart, till they become the tyrannical masters of it, 
 carry on a similar operation in the breast of the 
 Monarch, and the man of low degree. It exhibits 
 to us the mind of man in that state when we are 
 most curious to look into it, and Is equally inte- 
 resting to all. Discrimination of character is a 
 turn of mind, tho' more common than we are aware 
 of, which every body does not possess; but to the 
 expressions of passion, particularly strong passion, 
 the dullest mind is awake ; and its true unsophis- 
 ticated language the dullest understanding will 
 not misinterpret. To hold up for our example 
 those peculiarities in disposition, and modes of 
 thinking which nature has fixed upon us, or which 
 
42 INtEODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 long and early habit has incorporated with our 
 original selves, is almost desiring us to remove the 
 everlasting mountains, to take away the native 
 land-marks of the soul; but representing the pas- 
 sions brings before us the operation of a tempest 
 that rages out its time and passes away. We can- 
 not, it is true, amidst its wild uproar, listen to the 
 voice of reason, and save ourselves from destruc- 
 tion ; but we can foresee its coming, we can mark 
 its rising signs, we can know the situations that 
 will most expose us to its rage, and we can shelter 
 our heads from the coming blast. To change a 
 certain disposition of mind which makes us view 
 objects in a particular light, and thereby, often- 
 times, unknown to ourselves, influences our con- 
 duct and manners, is almost impossible ; but in 
 checking and subduing those visitations of the 
 soul, whose causes and effects we are aware of, 
 every one may m^ake considerable progress, if he 
 proves not entirely successful. Above all, looking 
 back to the first rise, and tracing the progress of 
 passion, points out to us those stages in the ap- 
 proach of the enemy, when he might have been 
 combated most successfully; and where the suf- 
 fering him to pass may be considered as occasion- 
 ing all the misery that ensues. 
 
 Comedy presents to us men as we find them in 
 the ordinary intercourse of the world, with all the 
 weaknesses^ follies^ caprice^ prejudices and absur- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 43 
 
 dities which a near and familiar view of them dis- 
 covers. It is her task to exhibit them engaged in 
 the busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and 
 perplexing themselves with the endless pursuits 
 of avarice, vanity, and pleasure; and engaged 
 with those smaller trials of the mind, by which 
 men are most apt to be overcome, and from which 
 he, who could have supported with honour the 
 attack of greater occasions, will often times come 
 off most shamefully foiled. It belongs to- her to 
 shew the varied fashions and manners of the world, 
 as, from the spirit of vanity, caprice, and imitation, 
 they go on in swift and endless succession; and 
 those disagreeable or absurd peculiarities attached 
 to particular classes and conditions in society. It 
 is for her also to represent men under the influence 
 of the stronger passions; and to trace the rise and 
 progress of them in the heart, in such situations, 
 and attended with such circumstances as take off 
 their sublimity, and the interest we naturally take 
 in a perturbed mind. It is hers to exhibit those 
 terrible tyrants of the soul, whose ungovernable 
 rage has struck us so often with dismay, like wild 
 beasts tied to a post, who growl and paw betorc 
 us, for our derision and sport. In pourtraying the 
 characters of men she has this advantage over tra- 
 gedy, that the smallest traits of nature, v/ith the 
 smallest circumstances which serve to bring them 
 
44 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. ' 
 
 forth, may by her be displayed, however ludicrous 
 and trivial in themselves, without any ceremony. 
 And in developing the passions she enjoys a similar 
 advantage; for they often more strongly betray 
 themselves when touched by those small and fa- 
 miliar occurrences which cannot, consistently with 
 the effect it is intended to produce, be admitted 
 into tragedy. 
 
 As tragedy has been very much cramped in 
 her endeavours to exalt and improve the mind, by 
 that spirit of imitation and confinement in her suc- 
 cessive wTiters, which the beauty of her earliest 
 poets first gave rise to, so comedy has been led 
 aside from her best purposes by a different tempt- 
 ation. Those endless changes in fashions arid in 
 manners, which offer such obvious and ever-new 
 subjects of ridicule; that infinite variety of tricks 
 and manoeuvres by which the ludicrous may be 
 produced, and curiosity and laughter excited; 
 the admiration we so generally bestow upon sati- 
 rical remark, pointed repartee, and whimsical com- 
 binations of ideas, have too often led her to for- 
 get the warmer interest w^e feel, and the more pro- 
 iitable lessons we receive from genuine representa- 
 tions of nature. The most interesting and in- 
 structive class of comedy, therefore, the real cha- 
 racteristick, has been very much neglected, whilst 
 .satirical, witty, sentimental, and, above all, busy 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE, 45 
 
 or circumstantial comedy have usurped the ex- 
 ertions of the far greater proportion of Dramatick 
 Writers. 
 
 In Satirical Comedy, sarcastick and severe re- 
 flections on the actions and manners of men, in- 
 troduced with neatness^ force, and poignancy of 
 expression into a lively and well-supported dialogue, 
 of whose gay surface they are the embossed orna- 
 ments_, make the most important and studied part 
 of the work : Character is a thing talked of rather 
 than shewn. The persons of the drama are in- 
 debted for the discovery of their peculiarities to 
 what is said of them, rather than to any thing they 
 are made to say or do for themselves. Much in- 
 cident being unfavourable for studied and elegant 
 dialogue, the plot is commonly simple, and the few 
 events that compose it neither interesting nor strik- 
 ing. It only affords us that kind of moral instruc- 
 tion which an essay or a poem could as well have 
 conveyed, and, though amusing in the closet, is 
 but feebly attractive in the Theatre."^ 
 
 In what I have termed Witty Comedy, every 
 thing is light, playful, and easy. Strong decided 
 
 * These plays are generally the work of men, whose judge- 
 ment and acute observation, enable them admirably well to ge- 
 neralize, and apply to classes of men the remarks they have 
 made upon individuals ; yet know not how to dress up, with 
 any natural congruity, an imaginary individual in the attributes 
 they have assigned to those glasses. 
 
46 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 condemnation of vice is too weighty and materia! 
 to dance upon the surface of that stream, whose 
 shallow currents sparkle in perpetual sun-beams, 
 and cast up their bubbles to the light. Two or 
 three persons of quick thought, and whimsical 
 fancy, who perceive instantaneously the various 
 connections of every passing idea, and the signi- 
 fications, natural or artificial, which single ex- 
 pressions, or particular forms of speech can possibly 
 convey, take the lead thro' the whole, and seem to 
 communicate their own peculiar talent to every 
 creature in the play. The plot is most commonly 
 feeble rather than simple, the incidents being nu- 
 merous enough, but seldom striking or varied. 
 To amuse, and only to amuse, is its aim; it pre- 
 tends not to interest nor instruct. It pleases when 
 we read, more than when we see it represented; 
 and pleases still more when we take it up by acci- 
 dent, and read but a scene at a time. 
 
 Sentimental Comedy treats of those embarrass- 
 ments, difticulties, and scruples, which, though 
 sufficiently distressing to the delicate minds who 
 entertain them, are not powerfiil enough to gratify 
 the sympathetick desire we all feel to look into the 
 heart of man in difficult and trying situations, 
 which is the sound basis of tragedy, and are des- 
 titute of that seasoning of the lively and ludicrous, 
 which prevents the ordinary transactions of comedy 
 from becoming insipid. In real lite, those who, 
 
 6 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 47 
 
 from the peculiar frame of their minds, feel most 
 of this refined distress, are not generally communi- 
 cative upon the subject; and those who do feel 
 and talk about it at the same time, if any such 
 there be, seldom find their friends much inclined 
 to listen to them. It is not to be supposed, then, 
 long conversations upon the stage about small sen- 
 timental niceties, can be generally interesting. I 
 am afraid plays of this kind, as well as works of a 
 similar nature, in other departments of literature, 
 have only tended to encrease amongst us a set of 
 sentimental hypocrites; who are the same persons 
 of this age that would have been the religious ones 
 of another ; and are daily doing morality the same 
 kind of injury, by substituting the particular 
 excellence \vhich they pretend to possess, for plain 
 simple uprightness and rectitude. 
 
 In Busy or Circumstantial Comed}^ all those 
 ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, gover- 
 nantes, and chamber-maids; that ambushed bush- 
 fighting amongst closets, screens, chests, easy- 
 chairs, and toilet- tables, form a gay varied game 
 of dexterity and invention ; which, to those who 
 have played at hide-and-seek, w'ho have crouched 
 down, \vith beating heart, in a dark corner, whilst 
 the enemy groped near the spot; who have joined 
 their busy school-mates in many a deep-laid plan 
 to deceive, perplex, and torment the unhappy mor- 
 tals deputed to have the charge of them, cannot be 
 
48 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 seen with indifFerence. Like an old hunter, who 
 pricks up his ears at the sound of the chace, and 
 starts away from the path of his journey^ so, leav- 
 ing all wisdom and criticism behind us, we follow 
 the varied changes of the plot, and stop not for re- 
 flection. The studious man who wants a cessa- 
 tion from thought, the indolent man who dislikes 
 it, and all those who, from habit or circumstances, 
 live in a state of divorce from their own mindsy 
 are pleased with an amusement in which they have 
 nothing to do but to open their eyes and behold; 
 the moral tendency of it, however, is very faulty. 
 That mockery of age and domestick authority, so 
 constantly held forth, has a very bad effect upon 
 the younger part of an audience; and that conti- 
 nual lying and deceit in the first characters of the 
 piece, which i3 necessary for conducting the plot, 
 has a most pernicious one. 
 
 But Characteristick Comedy, which represents to 
 us this motley world of men and women in which 
 we live, under those circumstances of ordinary and 
 familiar life most favourable to the discovery of the 
 human heart, offers to us a wide field of instruc- 
 tion, adapted to general application. We find ia 
 its varied scenes an exercise of the mind analogous 
 to that which we all, lessor more, find out for our- 
 selves, amidst the mixed groupes of people whom 
 we meet with in society; and which I haye already 
 mentioned as an exercise universally pleasing to 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 4g 
 
 man. As the distinctions which it is its highest 
 aim to discriminate, are those of nature and not 
 situation, they are judged of by all ranks of men; 
 for a peasant will very clearly perceive in the cha- 
 racter of a peer, those native peculiarities which 
 belong to him as a man, though he is entirely at a 
 loss in all that regards his manners and address as a 
 nobleman. It illustrates to us the general remarks 
 we have made upon men; and in it we behold, 
 spread before us, plans of those original ground- 
 works, upon which the general ideas we have been 
 taught to conceive of mankind, are founded. It 
 stands but little in need of busy plot, extraordinary 
 incidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. 
 It naturally produces for itself all that it requires; 
 characters who are to speak for themselves, who 
 are to be known by their own words and actions, 
 not by the accounts that are given of them by 
 others, cannot well be developed without consi- 
 derable variety of judicious incident; a smile that 
 is raised by some trait of undisguised nature, and 
 a laugh that is provoked by some ludicrous effect 
 of passion, or clashing of opposite characters, will 
 be more pleasing to the generality of men, than 
 either the one or the other when occasioned by a 
 play upon words, or a whimsical combination of 
 ideas; and to behold the operation and effects of 
 the different propensities and weaknesses of men, 
 v/ill naturally call up in the mind of the spectator 
 
 E 
 
50 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 moral reflections more applicable, and more im- 
 pressive, than all the high sounding sentiments, 
 with which the graver scenes of Satirical and Senti- 
 mental Comedy are so frequently interlarded. It 
 is much to be regretted, however, that the eternal 
 introduction of love as the grand business of the 
 Drama, and the consequent necessity for making 
 the chief persons in it such, in regard to age, ap- 
 pearance, manners, dispositions, and endowments, 
 as are proper for interesting lovers, has occasioned 
 so much insipid similarity in the higher characters. 
 It is chiefly, therctbre, on the second and inferiour 
 characters, that the efforts, even of our best poets, 
 have been exhausted: and thus we are called 
 upon to be interested in the fortune of one man, 
 whilst our chief attention is directed to the charac- 
 ter of another, which produces a disunion of 
 ideas in the mind, injurious to the general effect of 
 the whole. From this cause, also, those charac- 
 teristick varieties have been very much neglected,, 
 which men present to us in the middle stages of 
 life ; when they are too old for lovers or the con- 
 iidents of lovers, and too young to be the fathers, 
 uncles, and guardians, who arc contrasted with 
 them; but when they are still in full vigour of 
 mind, eagerly engaged with the world, joining tho 
 activity of youth to the providence of age, and 
 offer to our attention objects sufficiently interesting 
 and instructive. It is to b^- regretted that strong 
 
 2 
 
INTrxODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 51 
 
 contrasts of character are too often attempted, in- 
 stead of those harmonious shades of it, which 
 nature so beautifully varies, and which we so 
 greatly delight in, whenever we clearly distinguish 
 them. It is to be regretted that in place of those 
 characters, which present themselves to the ima- 
 gination of a writer from his general observations 
 upon mankind, inferiour poets have so often pour- 
 trayed with senseless niinuteness the characters of 
 particular individuals. We are pleased with the 
 eccentricities of individuals in real life, and also in 
 history or biography, but in fictitious writings, we 
 regard them with suspicion ; and no representation 
 of nature, that corresponds not with some of our 
 general ideas in regard to it, will either instruct or 
 inform us. When the originals of such characters 
 are known and remembered, the plays in which 
 they are introduced are oftentimes popular; and 
 their temporary success has induced a still inferiour 
 class of poets to believe, that, by making men 
 strange, and unlike the rest of the world, they have 
 made great discoveries, and mightily enlarged the 
 boundaries of dramatick character. They will, 
 therefore, distinguish one man from another by 
 some strange whim or imagination, which is ever 
 uppermost in his thoughts, and influences every 
 action of his life; by some singular opinion, per- 
 haps, about politicks, fashions, or the position of 
 the stars; by some strong imaccountable iove for, 
 
 E 2 
 
52 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 one thing or aversion from another; entirely for- 
 getting, that such singularities, if they are to be 
 found in nature, can no were be sought for, with 
 such probability of success, as in Bedlam. Above 
 all it is to be regretted that those adventitious dis- 
 tinctions amongst men, of age, fortune, rank, pro- 
 fession, and country, are so often brought forward 
 in preference to the great original distinctions of 
 nature; and our scenes so often filled with 
 courtiers, lawyers, citizens, Frenchmen, &c. &c. 
 With all the characteristicks of their respective 
 conditions, such as they have been represented 
 from time immemorial. This has introduced a 
 great sameness into many of our plays, which all 
 the changes of new fashions burlesqued, and new 
 customs turned into ridicule, cannot conceal. 
 
 In comedy, the stronger passions, love excepted, 
 ^re seldom introduced but in a passing way. We 
 have short bursts of anger, fits of jealousy and im- 
 patience; violent passion of any continuance we 
 seldom find. When this is attempted, however, 
 forgetting that mode of exposing the weakness of 
 the human mind, which peculiarly belongs to her, 
 it is too frequently done in the serious spirit of 
 tragedy; and this has produced so many of those 
 serious comick plays, which so much divide and 
 distract our attention.* Yet we all know from 
 
 * Such plays, however excellent the parts may be of which 
 they are composed, can never produce the same strength and 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE, 53 
 
 our own experience in real life, that, in certain 
 situations, and under certain circumstances, the 
 stronger passions are fitted to produce scenes more 
 exquisitely comick than any other; and one well- 
 wrought scene of this kind, will have a more 
 powerful effect in repressing similar intemperance 
 
 unity of effect upon our minds which we receive from plays of a 
 simpler undivided construction. If the serious and distressing 
 scenes make a deep impression, we do not find ourselves in a 
 humour for the comick ones that succeed ; and if the com'ck 
 scenes enliven us greatly, we feel tardy and unalert in bringing 
 back our minds to a proper tone for the serious. As in tragedy 
 we smile at those native traits of character, or that occasional 
 sprightliness of dialogue, which are somerimes introduced, to ani- 
 mate her less interesting parts, so may we be moved by comedy ; 
 but our tears should be called forth by those gentle strokes of 
 nature, which come at once with kindred kindness on the heart, 
 and are quickly succeeded by smiles. Like a small sum.mer- 
 cloud, whose rain-drops sparkle in the sun, and which swiftly 
 passes away, is the genuine pathetick of comedy : the gathering 
 foreseen storm, that darkens the whole face of the sky, belongs to 
 tragedy alone. It is often observed, I confess, that we are more 
 apt to be affected by those scenes of distress which we meet with 
 in comedy, than the high-wrought woes of tragedy ; and I 
 beUeve it is true. But this arises from the woes of tragedy being 
 so often appropriated to high and mighty personages, and strained 
 beyond the modesty of nature, in order to suit their great dignity ; 
 or from the softened griefs of more gentle and familiar characters 
 being rendered feeble and tiresome with too much repetition and 
 whining. It arises from the greater facility with which we enter 
 into the distresses of people, more upon a level with ourselves ; 
 and whose sorrows are expressed in less studied and unnatural 
 language. 
 
54 INTRODUCTORY DISCOLfJiSE. 
 
 in the mind of a spectator^ than many moral 
 cautions^ or even, perhaps, than the terrifick 
 examples of tragedy. There are to be fonnd, no 
 doubt, in the works of our best dramatick writers, 
 comick scenes descriptive of the stronger passions, 
 but it is generally the inferiour characters of the 
 piece who are made the subjects of them, very 
 rarely those in v/hom we are much interested; 
 and consequently the useful effect of such scenes 
 upon the mind is very much weakened. This 
 general appropriation of them has tempted our 
 less-skilful Dramatists to exaggerate, and step, 
 in further quest of the ludicrous, so much beyond 
 the bounds of nature, that the very effect they 
 are so anxious to produce is thereby destroyed, 
 and all useful application of it entirely cut off; 
 for we never apply to ourselves a false representa- 
 tion of nature. 
 
 But a complete exhibition of passion, with its 
 varieties and progress in the breast of man has, 
 I believe, scarcely ever been attempted in comedy. 
 Even love, though the chief subject of almost 
 every play, has been pourtrayed in a loose 
 scattered and imperfect manner. The story of 
 the lovers is acted over before us, whilst the 
 charactcristicks of that passion by which they 
 are actuated, and which is the great master>spring 
 of the whole, are^ faintly to be discovered. We 
 arc generally introduced to a lover after he has 
 
INTRe-DUCTORY DISCOURSE. 55 
 
 long been acquainted with bis mistress^ and 
 wants but the consent of some stubborn relation, 
 reUef from some embarrassment of situation^ or 
 the clearing up some mistake or love- quarrel 
 occasioned by malice or accident, to make him 
 completely happy. To overcome these diiiiculties, 
 he is engaged in a busy train of contrivance and 
 exertion, in which the spirit, activity and inge- 
 nuity of the man is held forth to view, whilst the 
 lover, comparatively speaking, is kept out of 
 sight. But even when this is not the case ; when 
 the lover is not so busied and involved, this stage 
 of the passion is exactly the one that is least 
 interesting, and least instructive: not to mention, 
 as I have done already, that one stage of any 
 passion must shew it imperfectly. 
 
 From this view of the Comick Drama I have 
 been induced to believe, that, as companions to 
 the forementioned tragedies, a series of comedies 
 on a similar plan, in which bustle of plot, bril- 
 liancy of dialogue, and even the bold and striking 
 in character, should, to the best of the authour's 
 judgment, be kept in due subordination to nature, 
 might likewise be acceptable to the publick. I 
 am confident that comedy upon this plan is 
 capable of being made as interesting, as enter- 
 taining, and superiour in moral tendency to any 
 other. For even in ordinary life, with very slight 
 cause to excite thena, strong passions will foster 
 
65 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 themselves within the breast; and what are all 
 the evils which vanity, folly, prejudice, or pecu- 
 liarity of temper lead to, compared with those 
 which such unquiet inmates produce ? Were 
 they confined to the exalted and the mighty, td 
 those engaged in the great events of the world, 
 to the inhabitants of palaces and camps, how 
 happy comparatively would this world be! But 
 many a miserable being, whom firm principle, 
 timidity of character, or the fear of shame keeps 
 back from the actual commission of crimes, is 
 tormented in obscurity, under the dominion of 
 those passions which place the seducer in ambush, 
 rouse the bold spoiler to wTong, and strengthen 
 the arm of the murderer. Though to those with 
 whom such dangerous enemies have long found 
 shelter, exposing them in an absurd and ridiculous 
 light, may be shooting a finely-pointed arrow 
 against the hardened rock; yet to those with 
 w'hom they are but new, and less assured guests, 
 this may prove a more successful mode of attack 
 than any other. 
 
 It was the saying of a sagacious Scotchman, 
 ' let who will make the laws of a nation, if 1 have 
 the writing of its ballads.' Something similar to 
 this may be said in regard to the Drama. Its 
 lessons reach not, indeed, to the lowest classes 
 of the labouring people, who are the broad 
 foundation of society, which can never be gene- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 57 
 
 rally moved without endangering every thing 
 that is constructed upon it, and v/ho are our 
 potent and formidable ballad readers; but they 
 reach to the classes next in order to them, and 
 who will always have over them no inconsiderable 
 influence. The impressions made by it are com- 
 municated, at the same instant of time, to a 
 greater number of individuals than those made 
 by any other species of writing ; and they are 
 strengthened in every spectator, by observing 
 their etlects upon those who surround him» 
 From this observation, the mind of my reader 
 will suggest of itself what it would be unnecessary, 
 and, perhaps, improper in me here to enlarge 
 upon. The theatre is a school in which much 
 good or evil may be learned. At the beginning 
 of its career, the Drama was employed to mislead 
 and excite; and, were I not unwilling to refer 
 to transactions of the present times, I might 
 abundantly confirm what I have said by recent 
 examples. The authour, therefore, who aims in 
 any degree to improve the mode of its instruction, 
 and point to more useful lessons than it is generally 
 employed to dispense, is certainly praise-v/orthy, 
 though want of abilities may unhappily prevent 
 him from being successful in his efforts. 
 
 This idea has prompted me to begin a work 
 in which I am awnre of many difficulties. In 
 plays of this nature the passions must be depicted 
 
53 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE* 
 
 not only with their bold and prominent features^ 
 but also with those minute and delicate traits 
 which distinguish them in an infant, growing, 
 and repressed state ; which are the most difficult 
 of all to counterfeit, and one of which, falsely 
 imagined, will destroy the effect of a whole 
 scene. The characters over whom they are 
 made to usurp dominion must be powerful and 
 interesting, exercising them with their full measure 
 of opposition and struggle; for the chief anta- 
 gonists they contend with must be the other 
 passions and propensities of the heart, not outward 
 circumstances and events. Though belonging 
 to such characters, they must still be held to 
 view in the most baleful and unseductive lis:ht; 
 and those qualities in the impassioned which are 
 necessary to interest us in their fate, must not 
 • be allowed, by any lustre borrowed from them, 
 to diminish our abhorrence of gifdt. The second 
 and even the inferiour persons of each play, fas 
 they must be kept perfectly distinct from the 
 great impassioned one, should generally be repre- 
 sented in a calm unagitated state, and therefore 
 more pains is necessary than in other dramatick 
 \vorks to mark them by appropriate distinctions 
 of character, lest they should appear altogether 
 insipid and insignificant. As the great object 
 here is to trace passion through all its varieties, 
 and in every stage, many of which are marked 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE* dg 
 
 by sliades so delicate, that in much bustle of 
 events they would be little attended to^ or entire! >^ 
 overlooked, simplicity of plot is more nccessarj^ 
 than in those plays where only occasional bursts 
 of passion are introduced, to distinguish a cha- 
 racter, or animate a scene. But where simplicity 
 of plot is necessary, there is very great danger of 
 making a piece appear bare and unvaried, and 
 nothing but great force and truth in the deline- 
 ations of nature will prevent it from being tire- 
 some.* Soliloquy, or those overflowings of the 
 
 i 
 
 * To make up for this simplicity of plot, the shew and 
 .decorations of the theatre ought to be allowed to plays written 
 .upon this plan, in their full extent. How fastidious soever fome 
 poets may be in regard to thefe matters, it is much better to 
 relieve our tired-out attention with a battle, a banquet, or a 
 procession, than an accumulation of incidents. In the latter 
 case the mind is harassed and confused with those doubts, con- 
 jectures, and disappointments which multiplied events occasion, 
 an4 in a great measure unfitted for attending to the worthier 
 parts of the piece : but in the former it enjoys a rest, a pleasing 
 pause in its more serious occupation, from which it can return 
 again, without any incumbrance of foreign intruding ideas. 
 The shew of a splendid procession will afford to a person of the 
 best understanding, a pleasure in kind, though not in degree, , 
 with that which a child would receive from it ; but when it is 
 past he thinks no more of it ; whereas some confusion of cir- 
 cumstances, some half-explained mistake, which gives him no 
 pleasure at all when it takes place, may take off his attention 
 afterwards from the refined beauties of a natural and characteristick 
 dialogue. 
 
00 INTEODUCTORY DISCOUKSE. 
 
 perturbed soul, in which it unburthens itself of 
 those thoughts which it cannot communicate to 
 others^ and which in certain situacions is the only 
 mode that a Dramatist can employ to open to 
 us the mind he would ciisplay, must necessarily 
 be often, and to considerable length, introduced. 
 Here, indeed, as it naturally belongs to passion, 
 ' it will not be so offensive as it generally is in 
 other plays, when a calm unagitat^.-i person tells 
 over to himself all that has befallen him, and all 
 his future schemes of intrigue or advancement ; 
 yet to make speeches of this kind sufficiently 
 natural and impressive to excite no degree of 
 weariness nor distaste, will be found to be no 
 easy task. There are, besides these, many other 
 difficulties belonging peculiarly to this under- 
 takinp*. too minute and tedious to mention. 
 If, fully aware of them, I have not shrunk back 
 from the attempt, it is not from any idea that 
 my own powers or discernment will at all times 
 enable me to overcome them ; but I am em- 
 boldened by the confidence I feel in that candour 
 and indulgence, with which the good and enlight- 
 ened do ever regard the experimental efforts of 
 those, who wish in any degree to enlarge the 
 sources of pleasure and instruction amongst men. 
 It will now be proper to say something of the 
 particular plnys which compose this volume. But 
 in the first ph»ce I must observe, that as I pretend 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE.- 6l 
 
 not to hare overcome the difficulties attached to 
 this design^ so neither from the errours and de- 
 fe6ls^ which, in these pages, I have thought it 
 necessary to point out in the works of others, do 
 I at all pretend to be blameless. To conceive the 
 great moral object' -and outline of the story ; to 
 people it with various characters, under the in- 
 fluence of various passions ; and to strike out 
 circumstances and situations calculated to call 
 them into action, is a very different employment 
 of the mind from calmly considering those propen- 
 sities of our nature, to which dramatick writings 
 are most powerfully addressed, and taking a general 
 view upon those principles of the works of pre- 
 ceding authours. They are employments which 
 cannot well occupy it at the same time ; and ex- 
 perience has taught us, that criticks do not unfre- 
 quently write in contradiction to their own rules. 
 If I should, therefore, sometimes appear in the 
 foregoing remarks to have provided a stick where- 
 with to break mine own pate, I entreat that my 
 reader will believe I am neither confident nor 
 boastful, and use it with gentleness. 
 
 In the two first plays^ where love Is the passion 
 under review, their relation to the general plan 
 may not be very obvious. Love is the chief 
 groundwork of almost all our tragedies and 
 comedies, and so far they are not distinguished 
 from others. But I have endeavoured in both 
 
 6 
 
6'Z inthoductory discourse. 
 
 to give aii unl3rokcn view of the passion from It^ 
 beginning, and to mark it as I went along, with 
 those peculiar traits which distinguish its diiferent 
 stages of progression. I have in both these pieces 
 grafted this passion not on those open communi- 
 cative im])ctuous characters, who have so Ion o*- 
 occupied the dramatick station of lovers, but orv 
 men of a firm, thoughtful, reserved turn of mind, 
 with whom it commonly makes the longest stav, 
 and maintains the hardest struffde. I should be 
 extremely sorry if, from any thing at the con- 
 clusion of the tragedy, it should be supposed that 
 I mean to countenance suicide, or condemn those 
 customs whose object is the discouragement of 
 it, by withholding from the body of the self- slain 
 those sacred rites and marks of respect com- 
 monly shewn to the dead. Let it be considered, 
 that whatever I have inserted there, which can 
 at all raise any suspicion of this kind, is put into 
 the mouths of rude uncultivated soldiers, who are 
 roused with the loss of a beloved leader, and 
 indignant at any idea of disgrace being attached 
 to him. If it should seem in con si tent with the 
 nature of this work, that in its companion the 
 comedy, I have made strong moral principle 
 triumph over love, let it be remembered, that 
 without this the whole moral tendency of a play, 
 which must end happily, would have been 
 destroyed; and that it is not my i^titention to 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 63 
 
 encourage the indulgence of this passion, amiable 
 as it is^ but to restrain it. The last play, the 
 subject of which is hatred, will more clearly dis- 
 cover the nature and intention of my design. The 
 rise and progress of this passion I have been 
 obliged to give in retrospect, instead of repre- 
 senting it all along in its actual operation, as I 
 could have wished to have done. But hatred is 
 a passion of slow growth ; and to have exhibited 
 it from its beginnings would have included a 
 longer period, than even those who are least 
 scrupulous about the limitation of dramatick time, 
 would have thought allowable. I could not have 
 introduced my chief characters upon the stage as 
 boys, and then as men. For this pdssion must be 
 kept distinct from that dislike which we conceive 
 for another when he has greatly offended us, and 
 which is almost the constant companion of anger ; 
 and also from that eager desire to crush, and 
 inflict suffering on him who has injured us, which 
 constitutes revenge. This passion, as I have 
 conceived it, is that rooted and settled aversion, 
 which from opposition of character, aided by cir- 
 cumstances of little importance, grows at last 
 into such antipathy and personal disgust as makes 
 him who entertains it, feel, in the presence of 
 him who is the object of it, a degree of torment 
 and restlessness which is insufferable. It is a 
 passion, I believe, less frequent than any other of 
 
64 INTRODUCTORY DISG0UR3E. 
 
 the stronger passions, but in the breast vvher^ 
 it does exist, it creates, perhaps, more misery 
 than any other. To endeavour to interest the 
 mind for a man under the dominion of a passion 
 so baleful, so unamiable, may seem, perhaps, 
 reprehensible. I therefore beg it may be con- 
 sidered that it is the passion and not the man 
 which is held up to our execration ; and that 
 this and every other bad passion does more strongly 
 evince its pernicious and dangerous nature, when 
 we sec it thus counteracting and destroying the 
 good gifts of heaven, than when it is represented 
 as the suitable associate in the breast of inmates 
 as dark as itself. This remark will likewise be 
 applicable to many of the other plays belonging 
 to my work, that are intended to follow. A 
 decidedly w-icked character can never be interest- 
 ing ; and to employ such for the display of any 
 strong parsion would very m.uch injure instead 
 of improving the moral effect. In the breast of 
 a bad man passion has comparative!}^ little to 
 combat, how then can it shew its strength ? I 
 shall say no more upon this subject, but submit 
 myself to the judgment of my reader. 
 
 It mr y, perhaps, be supposed from my publish- 
 ing these plays, that I have written them for the 
 closet rather than the stage. If upon perusing 
 them with attention, tb^e reader is disposed to 
 think they are better calculated for the first than 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 65 
 
 the last, let him impute it to want of skill in the 
 authour, and not to any previous design. A 
 play, but of small poetical merit, that is suited 
 to strike and interest the spectator, to* catch the 
 attention of him who will not, and of him who 
 cannot read, is a more valuable and useful 
 production than one whose elegant and harmo- 
 nious pages are admired in the libraries of the 
 tasteful and refined. To have received appro- 
 bation from an audience of my countrymen, 
 would have been more pleasing to me than any 
 other praise. A few tears from the simple and 
 young would have been, in my eyes, pearls of 
 great price ; and the spontaneous, untutored 
 plaudits of the rude and uncultivated would 
 have come to my heart as offerings of no mean 
 value. I should, therefore, have been better 
 pleased to have introduced them to the world 
 from the stage than from the press. I possess^ 
 however, no likely channel to the former mode 
 of publick introduction ; and, upon further re- 
 flection, it appeared to me, that by publishing 
 them in this way, I have an opportunity afforded 
 me of explaining the design of my work, and 
 erlabling the publick to judge, not only of each 
 play by itself, but as making a part likewise of 
 the whole ; an advantage which, perhaps, does 
 more than over-balance the splendour and effect 
 of theatrical representation. 
 
 p 
 
6Q INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 It may be thought that with this extensive 
 plan before me, I should not have been in a hurry 
 to publish, but have waited to give a larger 
 portion of it to the publick, which would have 
 enabled them to make a truer estimate of its 
 merit. To bring forth only three plays of the 
 whole, and the last without its intended com- 
 panion, may seem like the haste of those vain 
 people, who as soon as they have written a few 
 pages of a discourse, or a few couplets of a poem, 
 cannot be easy till every body has seen them. 
 I do protest, in honest simplicity ! it is distrust 
 and not confidence, that has led me, at this early 
 Stage of the undertaking, to bring it before the 
 publick. To labour in uncertainty is at all times 
 mipieasant ; but to proceed in a long and difficult 
 work with any impression upon your mind that 
 your labour may be in vain ; that the opinion 
 you have conceived of your ability to perform it 
 may be a delusion, a false suggestion of self-love, 
 the fantasy of an aspiring temper, is most dis- 
 courao-ing and cheerless. I have not proceeded 
 so far, indeed, merely upon the strength of my 
 own judgment ; but the friends to whom I have 
 shewn my manuscripsts are partial to me, and 
 their approbation, which in the case of any indif- 
 ferent person, would be in my mind completely 
 decisive, goes but a little way in .relieving me 
 from, these apprehensions. To step beyond the 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 67 
 
 circle of my own immediate friends in quest of 
 opinion, from the particular temper of my mind, 
 I feel an uncommon repugnance : I can with 
 less pain to myself bring them before the publick 
 at once, and submit to its decision.* It is to 
 my countrymen at large I call for assistance. 
 If this work is fortunate enough to attract their 
 attention, let their strictures as well as their 
 praise come to my aid ; the one will encourage 
 me in a long and arduous undertaking, the other 
 will teach me to improve it as I advance. For 
 there are many errours that may be detected, and 
 improvements that may be be suggested in the 
 prosecution of this work, which, from the obser- 
 vations of a great variety of readers, are more 
 likely to be pointed out to me, than from those 
 of a small number of persons, even of the best 
 judgment. I am not possessed of that confidence 
 in mine own powers, which enables the concealed 
 genius, under the pressure of present discou- 
 ragement, to pursue his labours in security, 
 looking firmly forward to other more enlightened 
 times for his reward. If my own countrymen 
 
 * The first of these plays, indeed, has been shewn to two 
 or three Gentlemen v/hom I have not the honour of reckoning 
 amongst my friends. One of them, who is a man of distinguished 
 talents, has honoured it with very flattering approbation ; and, 
 at his suggestion, one or two slight alterations in it have been 
 jnade. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 with whom I live and converse, who look upon 
 the same race of men, the same state of society, 
 the same passing events with myself, receive not 
 my offering, I presume not to look to posterity. 
 
 Before I close this discourse, let me crave the 
 forbearance of my reader, if he has discovered 
 in the course of it any unacknowledged use of 
 the thoughts of other authours, which he thinks 
 ought to have been noticed ; and let me beg the 
 same favour, if in reading the following plays, 
 any similar neglect seems to occur. There are 
 few writers who have sufficient originality of 
 thought to strike out for themselves new ideas 
 upon every occasion. When a thought presents 
 itself to me, as suited to the purpose I am aiming 
 at, I would neither be thought proud enough to 
 reject it, on finding that another has used it 
 before me, nor mean enough to make use of 
 it without acknowledging the obligation, when 
 I can at all guess to whom such acknowledgments 
 are due. But I am situated where T have no 
 library to consult ; my reading through the whole 
 of my life has been of a loose, scattered, unme- 
 thodical kind, with no determined direction, and 
 I have not been blessed by nature with the advan- 
 tages of a retentive or accurate memory. Do 
 not, however, imagine from this, I at all wish 
 to insinuate that I ought to be acquitted of every 
 obligation to preceding authours; and that when 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. CQ 
 
 a palpable similarity of thought and expression is 
 observable between us, it is a similarity produced 
 by accident alone, and with perfect unconscious- 
 ness on my part. I am frequently sensible, from 
 the manner in which an idea arises to my imagi- 
 nation, and the readiness with which words, 
 also, present themselves to clothe it in, that I am 
 only making use of some dormant part of that 
 hoard of ideas which the most indifferent memo* 
 ries lay up, and not the native suggestions of 
 mine own mind. Whenever I have suspected 
 myself of doing so, in the course of this work, 
 I have felt a strong inclination to mark that sus- 
 picion in a note. But, besides that it might have 
 appeared like an affectation of scrupulousness 
 which I would avoid, there being likewise, most 
 assuredly, many other places in it where I have 
 done the same thing without- being conscious 
 of it, a suspicion of wishing to slur them over, 
 and claim all the rest as unreservedly my own, 
 would unavoidably have attached to me. If this 
 volume should appear, to any candid and liberal 
 critick, to merit that he should take the trouble of 
 pointing out to me in what parts of it I seem to 
 have made that use of other authours' writings, 
 which, according to the fair laws of literature, 
 ought to have been acknowledged, I shall think 
 myself obliged to him. I shall examine the 
 sources he points out as having supplied my own 
 
70 IN'TRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 lack of ideas; and if this book should have the 
 good fortune to go through a second edition, I 
 shall not fail to own my obligations to him^ and 
 the authours from whom I may have borrowed. 
 
 How little credit soever, upon perusing these 
 plays, the reader may think me entitled to in 
 regard to the execution of the work, he will not, 
 I flatter myself, deny me some credit in regard 
 to the plan. I know of no series of plays, in 
 any language, expressly descriptive of the dif- 
 ferent passions ; and I believe there are few plays 
 existing, in which the display of one strong passion 
 is the chief business of the drama, so written that 
 they could properly make part of such a series. 
 I do not thing that we should, from the works 
 of various authours, be able to make a collection 
 which would give us any thing exactly of the na- 
 ture of that which is here proposed. If the reader, 
 in perusing it, perceives that the abilities of the 
 authour are not proportioned to the task which 
 is imposed upon them, he will wish in the spirit 
 of kindness rather than of censure, as I most 
 sincerely do, that they had been more adequate 
 to it. However, if I perform it ill, I am still con- 
 fident that this (pardon me if I call it so) noble 
 design will not be suffered to fiill to the ground ; 
 some one will arise after me who will do it 
 justice ; and there is no poet, possessing genius 
 for such a work, who will not at the same time 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 71 
 
 possess that spirit ofjiistice and of candour, which 
 will lead him to remember me with respect, 
 
 I have now only to thank my r^eader, whoever 
 he may be, who has followed me through the 
 pages of this discourse, for having had the patience 
 to do so. May he, in going through what follows ' 
 (a wish the sincerity of which he cannot doubtj 
 find more to reward his trouble than I dare 
 venture to promise him ; and for the pains he has 
 already taken, and that which he intends to take 
 for me, I request that he will accept of my grate- 
 ful acknowledgments. 
 
 Note. — Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, gives peculiar 
 and appropriate distinction to the characters of his tragedies. The 
 remarks I have made, in regard to the little variety of character 
 to be met with in tragedy, apply not to him. Neither has he, 
 as other Dramatists generally do, bestowed pains on the chief 
 persons of his drama only, leaving the second and in feriour ones 
 insignificant and spiritless. He never wears out our capacity to 
 feel, by eternally pressing upon it. His tragedies are agreeably 
 chequered with variety of scenes, enriched with good sense, 
 nature, and vivacity, which relieve our minds from the fatigue 
 of continued distress. If he sometimes carries this so far as to 
 break in upon that serious tone of mind, which disposes us to 
 listen with effect to the higher scenes of tragedy, he has done so 
 chiefly in his historical plays, where the distresses set forth are 
 commonly of that publick kind, which does not, at any rate^ 
 jnake much impression upon the feelings. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE Plays contained in this volume were all laid 
 by for, at least, one year, before they were copied out to 
 prepare them for the press ; / have therefore had the ad- 
 vantage of reading them over, when they were in some mea- 
 sure effaced from my memory, a?id judging of them in some 
 degree like an indi-fferent person. The Introduction has not 
 had the same advantage ; it was copied out for the press im- 
 mediately after 1 had finished it, and I have not had courage 
 to open the hook, or read any part of it, till it was put into 
 my hands to he corrected for this edition. Upon reading it 
 over again, it appears to me, that a tone of censure and 
 decision is too often discoverable in it, which I have certainly 
 no title to assume. It was, perhaps, difficult to avoid this 
 fault, and at the same time completely to give the view I 
 desired of my motives and plan in this work ; but 1 sincerely 
 wish that 1 had been skilful enough to have accomplished it 
 without falling into this err our. Though I have escaped, as 
 Jar as I know, all censure on this account, yet I wish the 
 Public Ji to be assured, that lam both sensible oft and grateful 
 for^ their Jorbearance. 
 
BASIL: 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN, 
 
 Count Basil, a General in the Emperours service. 
 Count Rosinbekg, his Friend. 
 Duke of Mantua. 
 Gauriceio, his Minister, 
 
 Valtomer, 7 /.-o Mi m 
 
 T. > Tzvo Officers 0/ Basil s iroops, 
 
 JhEDERICK, ^ dJ j ± 
 
 Geoffry, an old Soldiery very much maimed in 
 
 the Wars, 
 Mirando^ a little Boy, favourite to Victoria* 
 
 WOMEN, 
 
 Victoria,, Daughter to the Duke of Mantua. 
 Countess of Aleini^ Friend and Governess to 
 
 Victoria. 
 Isabella^ a Lady attending upon Victoria. 
 
 Officers^ Soldiers, and Attendants, Masks, 
 
 Dancers, ^c. 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * The Scene is in Mantua, and its environs. 
 Time supposed to he the Sixteenth Century, when 
 Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at 
 the Battle 0/ Pa via. 
 
BASIL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — An Ope?i Street, crouded with People^ 
 ivho seem to he zvalting in expectation of some Show, 
 
 Enter a Citizek. 
 
 First Man, Well^ friend, what tidings of the 
 
 grand procession ? 
 Cit, I left it passing by the northern gate. 
 Second Man, I've waited long, I'm glad it comes 
 
 at lafl. 
 Young Man, And does the Princess look so 
 wondrous fair 
 As fame reports ? 
 
 Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, — > , ■ 
 Yet all the fairest beauties of the court 
 Are In her train. 
 
 Old Man, Bears she such ofF'rings to Saint 
 Francis' shrine. 
 So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says ? 
 — 'Twill drain the treasury ! 
 
 Cit, Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns 
 Her publick thanks to the good patron Saint, 
 Who from his sick bed hath restor'd her father. 
 Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands? 
 
76 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 She loves magnificence. — 
 
 (Discovering amongji the croud Old Geoffry.) 
 Ha ! art thou here, old remnant of the wars ? 
 Thou art not come to see this courtly show. 
 Which sets the young agape ? 
 
 Geof. I came not for the show; and yet^methinks. 
 It were a better jest upon me still, 
 If thou didst truly know mine errand here. 
 
 Cit. I pri'thee say. 
 
 Geof. What, must I tell it thee ? 
 
 As o'er my evening fire I musing sat 
 Some few days since, my mind's eye backward 
 
 turn'd 
 Upon the various changes I have passed — 
 How in my youth, with gay attire allur'd. 
 And all the grand accoutrements of war, 
 I left my peaceful home : Then my first battles. 
 When clashing arms, and sights of blood were new: 
 Then all the after-chances of the war ; 
 Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was. 
 When with an arm (I speak not of it oft) 
 Which now C pointing to his empty sleeve J thou 
 
 seest is no arm of mine. 
 In a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes. 
 And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; 
 For which good service, in his tented court. 
 My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me : 
 W hilst his fair consort, seated by his fide. 
 The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld, 
 Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd, — 
 Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — a snaile of praise— 
 
 Wellj, musing thus on all my fortunes past, 
 
 A neighbour drew the latchet of my door, 
 
 And full of news from town, in many words 
 
 Big with rich names, told of this grand procession. 
 
 E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul 
 
 To see the princess pass, if in her looks 
 
 I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. 
 
 This is the simple truth ; laugh as thou wilt. 
 
 I came not for the show. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer to Geof. Make way, that the procession 
 may have room : 
 Stand you afide, and let this man have place. 
 
 (Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put 
 another in his place.) 
 Geof, But that thou art the prince's officer, 
 I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. 
 Officer, What, wilt thou not give place ? the 
 prince is near. 
 I will complain to him, and have thee caged. 
 Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray; and vv'hen thou 
 dost. 
 Say that the private of the tenth brigade, 
 Who saved his army on the Danube's bank. 
 And since that time a private hath remain'd. 
 Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain ^ 
 Against thy insolence. Go tell him this. 
 And ask him then what dungeon of his tower 
 He'll have me thrust into. 
 
78 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cit. to Officer, This is old GeofFry of the tenth 
 
 brigade. 
 Offi. I knew him not : you should have told me 
 
 sooner. [Exit_, looking much ashamed. 
 
 Martial Miisick heard at a distance, 
 Cit, Hark^ this is musick of a warlike kind. 
 
 Enter Second Citizen. 
 
 To Sec. Cit, What sounds are these^ good friend, 
 which this way bear ? 
 
 Sec. Cit. The Count of Basil is upon his march. 
 To join the Emp'rour with some chosen troops. 
 And as an ally doth through Mantua pass. 
 
 Geof. I've heard a good report of this young 
 soldier. 
 
 Sec, Cit. 'Tissaid he disciplines his men severely. 
 And acts with them too much the old commander. 
 Which is ungracious in so young a man. 
 
 Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry ; 
 He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate 
 Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think 
 That e'en the very meanest simple craft 
 May not, but with due diligence, be learn'd. 
 And yet the nobler art of soldiership 
 May be attained by loit'ring in the sun } 
 Some men are born to feast^ and not to fight ; 
 Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field. 
 Still on their dinner turn — 
 Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home, 
 And v;ield a flesh-hook rather than a sword- 
 In times of easv service, true it is, 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEOr. 7^ 
 
 An easy careless chief, all soldiers love ; 
 But O ! how gladly in the day of batde 
 Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert. 
 And follow such a leader as Count Basil ! 
 So gathering herds^, at pressing danger's call. 
 Confess the master Deer. 
 
 (Mustek is heard again, and nearer. Geoffry walks 
 up and do%vn with a military triumphant step.) 
 
 Cit. What moves thee thus ? 
 
 Geof. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious 
 days. 
 My very limbs catch motion from the sound. 
 As they were young again. 
 
 Sec. Cit, But here they come. 
 
 Enter Count,. Basil, Officers a?id Soldiers in Pro- 
 cession, with Colours flying, and martial 7nusick. 
 When they have marched half way over the Stage, 
 an Officer of the Duke's enters from the opposite 
 side, and speaks to Basil, upon which h& 
 gives a sign with his hand, and the martial 
 musick ceases ; soft musick is heard at a little 
 distance, and Victoria, with a long procession 
 of Ladies, enters from the opposite side. The- 
 Ge7ieral, &c. pay obeisance to her, as she passes ; 
 she stops to returii it, and then goes off with her 
 tram. After which the military procession moves 
 m, and Exeunt, 
 
 Cit. to Geof What thinkst thou of the princess ? 
 
 Geof She is fair. 
 
 But not so fair as her good mother was. [Exeunt. 
 
80 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 A Puhlick Walk on the Ramparts of the Town, 
 
 Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and Fre- 
 derick. — Valtomer enters hy the opposite side 
 of the Stage, and meets them, 
 
 Valt. O I what a jolly town for way-worn 
 soldiers ! 
 Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fair. 
 From every house salutes you as you pass : 
 Light feats and jugglers' tricks attract the eye ; 
 Frolick, and mirth, musick in ev'ry street ; 
 Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire, 
 Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind. 
 To spy the fools a- gazing after them. 
 
 Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, 
 For Basil is of flinty matter made. 
 And cannot be allur'd — 
 
 'Faith Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us ; 
 Thou art his kinsmen, of a rank as noble. 
 Some years his elder too — How has it been 
 That he should be preferr'd ? I see not why. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! but I see it, and allow it well ; 
 He is too much my pride to wake my envy. 
 
 Fred. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration 
 
 Which raises him to such superiour height ; 
 
 And truly thou bast so infected us. 
 
 That I at times have felt me aw'd before him, 
 
 I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly ; 
 
 1 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. 
 
 Ros, Our talents of a diffrent nature are ; 
 Mine for the daily intercourse of life. 
 And his for higher things. 
 
 Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt ; I see it not ; 
 I'm sure I am as brave a man as he. 
 
 Ros, Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern 
 brav'ry, 
 And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well. 
 Give and receive as deep a wound as he. 
 When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords ; 
 For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind, 
 ^ O'erwatching all the changes of the field. 
 Calm and inventive midst the battle's storm. 
 Which makes his soldiers bold. — 
 There have been those, in early manhood slain, 
 Whose great heroick souls have yet inspired 
 With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops, 
 That to their latest day of bearing arms. 
 Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers braved 
 Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride. 
 As those who fought beneath them in their youth. 
 Such men have been ; of whom it may be said. 
 Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was cold. 
 
 F^alt, Yes, I have seen in the eventful field. 
 When new occasion mock'd all formed art. 
 E'en old commanders hold experience cheap, 
 And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. 
 
 Ros, One fault he has, I know but onlv one 
 His too great love of military fame 
 
82 BASIL t A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear 
 Unsocial and severe. 
 
 Fred. Well, I feel not undaunted in the field. 
 As much enthusiastick love of glory ? 
 Why am I not as good a man as he ? 
 
 Ros, He's form'd for great occasions, thou for 
 small. 
 
 Valt. Rut small occasions in the path of life 
 Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scattered. 
 
 Ros, By which you would infer that men like 
 Fred'rick, 
 Should on the whole a better figure make. 
 Than men of higher parts ; it is not so, 
 For some shew well, and fair applauses gain, 
 Where want of skill in other men is graceful. 
 Pray do not frown, good Frederick, no offence ; 
 Thou canst not make a great man of thyself^ 
 Yet wisely deign to use thy native powVs, 
 And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman. 
 But hush ! no more of this, here Basil comes. 
 
 Enter Basil, who returns their salute without 
 
 speaking, 
 
 Ros. What thinkst thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's 
 
 princess ? 
 FaJt, Fame prais'd her much, but hath not 
 prais'd her more 
 Than on a better proof the eye consents to. 
 With all that grace and nobleness of mien. 
 She might do honour to an EmpVour's throne ; 
 
 6 
 
basil: a tragedYo 8 
 
 <% 
 
 She. IS too noble for a petty court. 
 
 Is it not so, my Lord ? — (To Basil^ ivho only loivs 
 
 assent.) 
 
 Nay, she demeans herself with so mueh grace. 
 Such easy state, such gay magnificence. 
 
 She should be queen of revelry and show. 
 
 Fred. She's charming as the goddess of delight. 
 Valt. But after her, she most attracted me 
 Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last ; 
 For tho' Victoria is a lovely woman — - 
 
 Fred. Nay, it is treason but to call her woman ; 
 She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd. 
 But on my life, since now w^e talk of worship. 
 She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts ! 
 They sparkled so with gold and precious gems — - 
 Their value must be great ; some thousand crowns, 
 
 Ros. I would not rate them at a price so mean ; 
 The cup alone, with precious stones beset. 
 Would fetch a sum as great. That olive branch 
 The princess bore herself, of fretted gold. 
 Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more. 
 Because she held it in so white a hand. 
 
 Bas. (m a quick voice.) Mark'd you her hand ? 
 I did not see her hand. 
 And yet ^he v/av'd it twice, 
 
 Ros. It is a fair one, tho' you m.ark'd it not. 
 
 Fait. I wish some painter's eye had view'd the 
 group, 
 As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd ; 
 lie would have found wherewith t'enrich his art. 
 
 Ros. I wish so too ; for oft their fancied beauties 
 
 (? 2 
 
84 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Have so much cold perfection in their parts, 
 *Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood. 
 This is not truth^ and doth not please so well 
 As the varieties of lib'ral nature, 
 Where ev'ry kind of beauty charms the eye ; 
 Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent, 
 Ay, by the mass ! and snub-nos'd beauties too. 
 'Faith ev'ry woman hath some witching charm. 
 If that she be not proud, or captious. 
 
 Valt, Demure, or over-wise, or given to freaks. 
 
 Ros, Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good 
 Valtomer ! 
 Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n. 
 
 Vail. But I must leave you for an hour or so, 
 
 I mean to view the town, if aught worth notice, 
 
 Fred, Til go with thee, my friend. 
 Rqs, And so will I. 
 
 [Exeunt Valt, Fred, and Ros, 
 
 Re-enter Rosinberg. 
 
 Ros, I have repented me, I will not go ; 
 They will be too long absent. — (Pauses^ and hols 
 at Basil, who remains still musing without 
 seeing him.) 
 What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend ? 
 Bas. O 1 it is admirable, 
 
 Ros. How runs thy fancy ? what is admirable ? 
 Bas, Her form, her face, her motion, ev'ry thing ! 
 Ros. The princess ; yes, have we not prais'd 
 
 her much ? 
 Bas, I know you prais'd her, and her ofF'ringstoo ! 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 She might have giv'n the treasures of the east 
 Ere I had known it. 
 
 ! didst thou mark her when she first appeared ? 
 Still distant, slowly moving with her train ; 
 
 Her robe, and tresses floating on the wind, 
 Like some light figure in a morning cloud ? 
 Then as she onward to the eye became 
 The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew ! 
 That graceful bearing of her slender form ; 
 Her roundly-spreading breast, her tow'ring neck. 
 Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of youth — ■ 
 But when approaching near she tow'rds us turn'd^ 
 Kind .mercy ! what a countenance was there ! 
 And when to our salute she gently bow*d. 
 Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips ? 
 Soft sweird her glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too : 
 O ! how they smil'd ! 'twaslike the beams of heav'n! 
 
 1 felt my roused soul within me start, 
 lake something wak'd from sleep. 
 
 Ros. The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rers 
 wake 
 To care and misery ! 
 
 Bas, There's something grave apd solemn in 
 your voice 
 As you pronounce these words. What dost thou 
 
 mean ? < 
 
 Thou wouldst not sound my knell ? 
 
 Ros. No not for all beneath the vaulted sky ^ 
 But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips 
 Her praise displeases me. To men like you 
 If love should come, he proves no easv o-uest. 
 
60 BASIL : A TRAGEDV. 
 
 Bas, What, dost thou think lam beside myself^ 
 And cannot view the fairness of perfection 
 With tliat delight which lovely beauty gives. 
 Without tormenting me with fruitless wishes ; 
 Like the poor child who sees its brightened face, 
 And whimpers for the moon? Thou art not 
 
 serious? 
 From early youth, war has my mistress been. 
 And tho' a rugged one, FIl constant prove. 
 And not forsake her now. There may be joys 
 Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of thesoul, 
 Visit the lover's breast beyond ail others ; 
 E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! 
 But what of them ? they are not made for me-— 
 The hasty flashes of contending steel 
 Must serve instead of glances from my love. 
 And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar. 
 Ros. {taking his hand. ^ Now am I satisfied. For- 
 give me, Basil. 
 Bas. I'm glad thou art, we'll talk of her no 
 more* 
 Why should I vex my friend ? 
 
 Ros. Thou hast not giv'n orders for the march. 
 Bas. ril do it soon ; thou need'st not be afraid. 
 To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence. 
 Never perhaps to pass these gates again. 
 
 PtQs. With last night's close did you not curse 
 this town 
 That would one single day your troops retard ? 
 And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it. 
 As though it were the place that gave you birth ; 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. S7 
 
 As tbo' you bad around these strangers' walls 
 Your infant gambols play'd. 
 
 Bas. The sight of what may be but little priz'd^ 
 Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind, 
 When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again. 
 
 Ros. No, not a whit to wand'ring men like us. 
 No, not a whit ! what custom hath endear'd 
 We part with sadly, tho' we prize it not : 
 But what is new some powerful charm must own^, 
 Thus to affect the mind. 
 
 Bas, (hastily,) We'll let it pass — It hath no 
 
 consequence ; 
 Thou art impatient. 
 
 Ros, I'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only wish 
 Some other route our destin'd march had been. 
 That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue 
 With an untroubled mind. 
 
 Bas, O ! wish it, wish it not ! bless'd be that 
 route 1 
 What we have seen to-day, I must remember — 
 I should be brutish if I could forget it. 
 Oft in the watchful post, or weary march. 
 Oft in the nightly silence of my tent. 
 My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still ; 
 But it will pass before my fancy's eye. 
 Like some delightful vision of the soul. 
 To soothe, not trouble it. 
 
 Ros. What, midst the dangers of eventful war. 
 Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman ? 
 Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle. 
 As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria^ 
 
88 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And never stop to cry alack-a-day ! 
 For me there is but one of all the sex, 
 Who still shall hold her station in my breast^ 
 Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune ; 
 Because I'm passing sure she loves me well. 
 And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds 
 When rumour tells bad tidings of the war ; 
 Because I know her love will never change. 
 Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy, 
 
 Bas, Happy art thou 1 who is this wond'rous 
 woman ? 
 
 Ros, It is mine own good mother, fliithand truth ! 
 
 Bas, (smiling.) Give me thy hand ; I love her 
 dearly too. 
 Rivals we are not, though our love is one. 
 
 Ros. And yet I might be jealous of her love. 
 For she bestows too much of it on thee. 
 Who has no claim but to a nephew's share. 
 
 Bas. (going.) I'll meet thee some time hence. I 
 must to Court. 
 
 Ros. A. private confrence will not stay thee 
 
 long. 
 
 Y\\ wait thy coming near the palace gate. 
 
 Bas. 'Tis to the publick court I mean to go. 
 
 Ros. I thought you had determin'd otherwise. 
 
 Bas. Yes, but on farther thought it did appear 
 As though it would be failing in respect 
 At such a time— That look doth wrong me, 
 
 Eosinberg ! 
 For on my life, I had determin'd thus 
 Ere I beheld— Before we enter'd Mantua^ 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. SQ 
 
 Bat wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb. 
 And go with me thyself? 
 
 Ros, Yes, I will go. 
 
 {jis they are going Ros. stops , and looks at Basil.) 
 
 Bas. Why dost thou stop ? 
 
 Ros, 'Tis for my wonted caution^ 
 
 Which first thou gav'st me — I shall ne'er forget it! 
 'Twas at Vienna, on a pubHck day. 
 Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd ; 
 Thy stripHng's brow graced with its first cockade. 
 Thy mighty bosom swcU'd with mighty thoughts. 
 Thou'rt for the court, dear Rosinberg, quoth thou ! 
 Now pray thee be not caught with some gay dame. 
 To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself : 
 It is offensive in the publick eye. 
 And suits not with a man of thy endowments. 
 So said your serious lordship to me then. 
 And have on like occasions often since^ 
 In other terms repeated — 
 But I must go to-day without my caution. 
 
 Bas. Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now. 
 Did I not say we'd talk of her no more. 
 
 Ros. Well, my good friend, God grant we keep 
 our word ! 
 
 [EXEUJSTT. 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 Note. — My first idea when I wrote this play, was to represent 
 Basil as having seen Victoria for the first time in the procession, 
 that I might shew more perfectly the passion from its first be- 
 
go basil: athagedy. 
 
 ginning, and also its sudden power over the mind ; but I was 
 induced from the criticism of one, whose judgment I very much 
 respect, to alter it, and represent him as having formerly seen 
 and loved her. The first Review that took notice of this work 
 objected to Basil's having seen her before as a defect ; and, as 
 we are all easily determined to follow our own opinion, I have, 
 upon after consideration, given the play 'in'this edition, as far 
 as this is concerned, exactly in its original state. Strong in- 
 ternal evidence of this will be discovered by any one, who will 
 take the trouble of reading attentively the second scenes of the 
 first and second acts in the present and former editions of this 
 book. Had Basil seen and loved Victoria before, his first speech, 
 in which he describes her to Rosinberg as walking in the pro- 
 cession, would not be natural ; and there are, I think, other 
 little things besides, which will shew that the circumstance of 
 his former meeting with her is an interpolation. 
 
 The blame of this, however, I take entirely upon myself: 
 the Critick, whose opinion I have mentioned, judged of the 
 piece entirely as an unconnected play, and knew nothing of the 
 general plan of this work, which ought to have been commu- 
 nicated to him. Had it been, indeed, an unconnected play, 
 and had I put this additional circumstance to it with proper 
 judgment and skill, I am inclined to think it would have been an 
 improvement. 
 
 
basil: a tkagedy. 
 
 91 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE l.—^ Room of State. The Duke of 
 Mantua, Basil, Rosinberg, and a number of 
 Courtiers, Attendants, &c. The Duke and Basil 
 appear talking together on the front of the Stage, 
 
 Duke. But our opinions differ widely there ; 
 From the position of the rival armies, 
 I cannot think they'll join in battle soon. 
 
 Bas. I am indeed beholden to your highness^ 
 But tho' unwillingly, we must depart. 
 The foes are near, the time is critical ; 
 A soldier's reputation is too fine 
 To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud. 
 
 Duke. An untried soldier's is ; but yours, my 
 lord, 
 Nurs'd with the bloody fhow'rs of many a field, 
 And brightest sunshine of successful fortune, 
 A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown. 
 E'en Envy's sharpest blasts assail it not. 
 Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross! 
 1 feel too warm an interest in the cause 
 To stay your progress here a single hour. 
 Did I not know your soldiers are fatigu'd, 
 Andtwodays' rest would much recruit theirstrengtb. 
 
 Bas. Your highness will be pleas'd to pardon me; 
 My troops arc not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest 
 Is all our needs require. 
 
 Biike. Ah ! hadst thou come 
 
92 BASIL : A TEAGEBY. 
 
 Unfettered with the duties of command, 
 I then had well retain'd thee for my guest. 
 With claims too strong, too sacred for denial« 
 Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was; 
 Together many a rough campaign we serv*d ; 
 I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me 
 A son of his beneath my roof to see. 
 
 Bas. Were I indeed free master of myself^ 
 Strong inclination would detain me here ; 
 No other tie were wantinsr. 
 These gracious tokens of your princely favour 
 I'll treasure with my best rememb'rances ; 
 For he who shews them for my father's sake. 
 Does something sacred in his kindness bear. 
 As tho' he shed a blessing on my head. 
 
 Duke. Weil, bear my greetings to the brave 
 Piscaro, 
 And say how warmly I embrace the cause. 
 Your third day's march w^ill to his presence bring 
 Your valiant troops : said you not so, my lord ? 
 
 Enter Victoria, the Countess of Albini, 
 Isabella, and Ladies. 
 
 Bas. (vcJiQ changes countenance upon seeing them.) 
 Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well- 
 Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day. 
 Duke. Nay, that 1 know. I ask'd you, noble 
 Count, 
 When you expect th' Imperial force to join. 
 Bas. When it shall please your grace — I crave 
 your pardon — 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. QS 
 
 I somewhat have mistaken of your words. 
 
 Dzih, You are not well ? your colour changes, 
 Count, 
 What is the matter ? 
 
 Bas, A dizzy mist that swims before my sight — 
 A ringing in mine ears — 'tis strange enough — 
 'Tis slight — *tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already. 
 
 Duke, I'm glad it is. Look to your friend. 
 Count Rosinberg, 
 It may return again. — {To Rosinberg, who stands 
 
 at a little distance, looking earnestly at Basil. — ■■ 
 
 Duke leaves thein, and joins Victoria's party.) 
 
 Ros, Good heavens! Basil, is it thus with thee! 
 Thy hand shakes too ! (taking Ms hand) Would 
 we were far from hence. 
 
 Bas, I'm well again, thou need'st not be afraid. 
 'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd 
 With some slight weakness from our weary march. 
 Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly — 
 I cannot bear thine eyes. 
 
 The Duke, with Victoria and her Ladies, advance 
 to the front of the Stage to Basil. 
 
 Duke. Victoria, welcome here the brave Count 
 Basil. 
 His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg; 
 May you, and these fair ladies so prevail. 
 Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain. 
 To make them grace my court another dav. 
 I shall not be offended when I see 
 Your power surpasses mine. 
 
94 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vict, Our feeble efforts will presamptuous seem 
 In what your highness fails. 
 
 Duke. There's honour in th' attempt ; good 
 
 success to ye. — (Duke retires^ mid mixes with 
 
 the Courtiers at the bottom of the Stage.) 
 
 Vict. I fear we incommoded you, my Lord, 
 With the slow tedious length of our procession. 
 E'en as I pass'd, against my heart it went 
 To stop so long upon their weary way 
 Your tired troops. — 
 
 Bas. Ah! Madam, all too short! 
 
 Time never bears such moments on his win.o-. 
 But when he flics too swiftly to be mark'd. 
 
 Vict. Ah ! surely then you make too good 
 amends 
 By marking now his after-progress well. 
 To-day mAist seem a weary length to him 
 Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow. 
 
 Ros. They must not linger who would quit these 
 walls ; 
 For if they do, a thousand masked foes, 
 Some under show of rich luxurious feasts, 
 Gay, sprightly pastime, and high -zested game;— 
 Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is. 
 The very worst and fellest of the crew. 
 In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames. 
 Do such a barrier form t'oppose their way 
 As few men may o'ercome. 
 
 Isah. From this last wicked foe should we infer 
 Yourself have suffered much ? 
 
 Albin. No, Isabella, these are common words. 
 
basil: a tragedv. 95 
 
 To please you with false notions of your po\/r. 
 So all men talk of ladies and of love. 
 
 Vict, 'Tiseven so. If love a tyrant be. 
 How dare his humble chained votaries 
 To tell such rude and wicked tales of him ? 
 
 Bas, Because they most of lover's ills complain^ 
 Who but affect it as a courtly grace. 
 Whilst he who feels is silent. 
 
 Ros, But there you wrong me; I have felt it oft. 
 Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet. 
 Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl. 
 
 Alh'in. In all its strange effects^ most \vorthy 
 Rosinbcrg, 
 Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit. 
 Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue ? 
 
 Ros, No, Yaith, it never has. 
 
 Alhin. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! then thou hast never lov'd. 
 
 Ros. Nay, but I have, and felt love's bondage too. 
 
 Vict, Fye ! it is pedantry to call it bondage ! 
 Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars. 
 Deserve, methinks, that appellation more. 
 Is it not so, my Lord ? — (To Basil.) 
 
 Bas, O ! surely, Madam ; 
 
 That is not bondage which the soul enthralTd 
 So gladly bears, and quits not but with anguish. 
 Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men, 
 These are the fetters that enchain the mind. 
 But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd. 
 
 Vict, No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'^d. 
 To grant a lady's suit, unus'd to sue. 
 
 Ros, Your highness deals severely with us now,. 
 
Q6 basil : A TKAGEDY. 
 
 And proves indeed our freedom is but small. 
 Who are constraint, when such a lady sues, 
 To say it cannot be. 
 
 PlcL It cannot be! Count Basil says not so. 
 
 Ros. For that I am his friend, to save him pain 
 I take th' ungracious office on myself. 
 
 Ficf, How ill thy face is suited to thine office ! 
 
 Ros, f smiling. J Would I could suit mine office 
 to my face. 
 If that would please your highness. 
 
 Ficf. No, you are obstinate and perverse all. 
 And would not grant it if you had the pow'r. 
 Albini I'll retire ; come Isabella. 
 
 Bas. (aside to Ros. J Ah ! Rosinberg, thou hast 
 too far presum'd ; 
 She is offended with us. 
 
 Ros, No, she is not — 
 
 What dost thou fear ? be firm and let us go. - 
 
 Vict, (pointing to a door leading to other apart" 
 ■ 7?ients, by ivhich she is ready to go out,) 
 These are apartments strangers love to see ; 
 Some famous paintings do their walls adorn. 
 They lead you also to the palace court 
 As quickly as the way by which you came. 
 
 [Exit Vict, led out hy Ros. and followed hy Isab. 
 
 Bas, {aside, looking after them.) O ! what a fool 
 am I! where fled my thoughts ? 
 I might as well as he, now by her side 
 Have held her precious hand enclosed in mine; 
 As w^ell as he, who cares not for it neither. 
 O ! damn it, but he does ! that were impossible ! 
 
 5 
 
basil: a tragedy. gj 
 
 jilh'm. You stay behind, my Lord. 
 Bas, Your pardon^ Madam ; honour me so far — 
 
 [Exeunt, ha7idmg out Albini. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Gallery hung with Futures. Victoria dis^ 
 covered in conversation with Rosinberg, Basil, 
 Albini, and Isabella. 
 
 Vict, (to Ros.) It is indeed a work of wond'rous 
 
 art. 
 (To Isah.) You call'd Francisco here ? 
 Isab. He comes even now, 
 
 Rnter Attendant. 
 Vict, (to Ros.) He will conduct you to the 
 northern gall'ry ; 
 Its striking shades will call upon the eye, 
 To point its place there needs no other guide. 
 
 [Exeunt Ros. and Attendant. 
 (To Bas.J Loves not Count Basil too this charm- 
 ing art ? 
 It is an ancient painting much admir'd. 
 
 Bas. Ah 1 do not banish me these few short 
 moments : 
 Too soon they will be gone ! for ever gone ! 
 
 Vict. If they are precious to you say not so. 
 But add to them another precious day. 
 A Lady asks it. 
 
 Bas. Ah, Madam ! ask the life-blood from mv 
 heart ! 
 Ask all but what a soldier may not give. 
 
 H 
 
9S BASIL : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Vict, 'TIs ever thus when favours arc denied^ 
 All had been granted but the thing we beg ;. 
 And still some great unlikely substitute, 
 Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good 
 Is profer'd in the room of one small boon. 
 So keep your life-blood, genVous^ valiant lord. 
 And may it long your noble heart enrich, 
 Until I wish it shed. (Bas. attempts to speak.) Nay, 
 
 frame no new excuse ; 
 I will not hear it. 
 
 (She puts out her harid as if she ivould shut his 
 mouthy hut at a distance fror.i it \ Bas, runs 
 eagerly up to her and^ presses it to his lips.) 
 Bas, Let this sweet hand indeed its threat per« 
 form, 
 And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb ! 
 
 (Vict. looks stately and offended- — Basil kneels.) 
 O! pardon me, I know not what I do. 
 Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness ; 
 But only grant- — 
 
 Vict. What should I grant to him 
 
 Who has so oft my earnest suit deny'd ? 
 
 Bas. By heav'n I'll grant it ! I'll do any thing : 
 Say but thou art no more offended with me. 
 
 Vict, (raising Imi.) Well, Basil, this good pro- 
 mise is thy pardon. 
 I will not wait your noble friend's return 
 Snce we shall meet again. — 
 You will perform your word ? 
 Bas. I will perform it. 
 Vi6t, Farewell, my lord. 
 
 ^ [Exeunt, with her Ladies. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. QQ 
 
 Bas. (alone.) *^ Farewell, my lord/* O 1 what 
 
 delightful sweetness 1 
 The musick of that voice dwells on the ear ! 
 ^' Farewell, my lord 1" — Ay, and then look'd she 
 
 so — 
 The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, 
 Those dark blue eyes, command the inmost souL 
 Well, there is yet one day of life before me, 
 And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it. 
 Tho' but a partial sunshine in my lot, 
 I will converse with her, 2:aze on her stilL 
 If all behind were pain and misery. 
 Pain ! were it not the easing of all pain. 
 E'en in the dismal gloom of after years. 
 Such dear rememb'rance on the mind to wear ? 
 Like silvVy moon-beams on the 'nighted deep* 
 When heav'n's blest sun is gone. 
 Kind mercy ! how my heart within me beat 
 When she so swxetly pled the cause of love ! 
 Can she have lov'd ? why shrink I at the thought ? 
 Why should she not ? no, no, it cannot be — 
 No man on earth is worthy of her love. 
 Ah ! if she could^ hov/ blest a man were he ! 
 Where rove my giddy thoughts ? it must not be. 
 Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear; 
 Think of him oft, his absent fate enquire. 
 And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. 
 Yes, she v/ould mourn — such love might she 
 
 bestow ; 
 And poor of soul the man who would exchange it 
 For warmest love of the most loving dame 1 
 
 H !2 
 
100 3ASIL: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well ? 
 He will not say I have. 
 
 Enter Rosinberg. 
 
 Ros, Where Is the princess ? 
 I'm sorry I returned not ere she went. 
 
 Bas, You'll see her still. 
 
 Rgs, What^ comes she forth again ? 
 
 Bas, She does to-morrow. 
 
 Ros, Thou hast yielded then. 
 
 Bas, Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go : 
 It was Impossible I should not yield. i 
 
 Ros. O Basil ! thou art weaker than a child. 
 
 Bas. Yes, yes, my friend, but 'tis a noble weak- 
 ness ; 
 A weakness which hath greater things atchiev'd 
 Than all the firm determin'd strength of reason. 
 By heav'n ! I feel a new-born pow'r within me 
 Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been 
 Before this fated day. 
 
 Ros. Fated indeed ! but an ill-fated day. 
 That makes thee other than thy former self. 
 Yet let it work its will ; it cannot change thee 
 To ought I shall not love. 
 
 Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg ! thou art a noble 
 heart 1 
 I would not be the man thou couldst not love 
 For an Imperial Crown. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
BASIL : A TRAG&DY. 101 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Small Apartment in the Palace, 
 Enter Duke and Gauriecio. 
 
 Duke, The point is galn'd ; my daughter is 
 successful, 
 And Basil is detain'd another day. 
 . Gaur. But does the princess know your secret 
 aim ? 
 Duke. No, that had marr'd the whole ; she is a 
 woman ; 
 Her mind, as suits the sex^ too weak and narrow 
 To relish deep-laid schemes of policy. 
 Besides, so far unlike a child of mine, 
 She holds its subtle arts in high derision, 
 And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes. 
 Gauriecio^ could I trusty servants find, 
 Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrained 
 By silly superstitious child-learnt fears. 
 What might I not effect ? 
 
 Gaur. O any thing! 
 
 The deep and piercing genius of your highness. 
 So ably servM, might e'en atchieve the empire. 
 Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost o'erprize 
 my parts. 
 Yet mighty things might be — deep subtle wits. 
 In truth, are master-spirits in the world. 
 The brave man's courage, and the student's lorc^ 
 Are but as tools his secret ends to work, 
 Who h^th the skill to use them. 
 
102 basil: a tkageby. 
 
 This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well ? 
 Much have we gain'd but for a single day 
 At such a time to hold his troops detained ; 
 When, by that secret message of our spy, 
 The rival povv'rs are on the brink of action : 
 But might we more effect ? Know'st thou this 
 
 Basil ? 
 Might he be tampered with ? 
 
 Gaur, That were most dang'rous-— ^ 
 
 He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong 
 To such a high romantick pitch is wound^ 
 And all so hot and iiery in his nature. 
 The slightest hint, as tho' you did suppose 
 Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it. 
 Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. 
 
 Duke. But intVest, interest ! man's all-ruling 
 powV^ 
 Will tame the hottest spirit to your service. 
 And skilfully applied, mean service too. 
 E'en as there is an element in nature 
 Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil 
 The lowest uses of domestick wants. 
 
 Caur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a little 
 spark 
 On hidden fuel feeds his growing strength. 
 Till o'er the lofty fabrick it aspires 
 And rages out it's pow'r, may be subdued. 
 And in your base domestick service bound ; 
 But who would madly in its wild career 
 The fire of heav'n arrest to boil his pot ? 
 No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes. 
 
basil: A TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 Tho' you had all to give ambition strives for. 
 We muit beware of him. 
 
 Duke. His father was my friend^ — I w^ish'd to 
 gain him. 
 But since fantastick fancies bind him thus, 
 The sin be on his head^ I stand acquitted. 
 And must deceive him, even to his ruin, 
 
 Gaiir, I have prepar'd Bernardo for your service; 
 To-night he will depart for th' Austrian camp. 
 And should he find them on the evp' of battle, 
 I've bid him wait the issue of the :field. 
 If that our secret friends victorious prove. 
 With th' arrow's speed he will return again ; 
 But should fair Fortune crown Piscaro's arms. 
 Then shall your soothing message greet his ears ; 
 For till our friends some sound advantage gain. 
 Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. 
 
 Duke, Well hast thou school'd him. Did'st 
 thou add withal, 
 That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech. 
 With honied words of the moil dear regard. 
 And friendly love I bear him ? This is needful ; 
 And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid 
 Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse 
 The many favours on my house bestow'd 
 By his Imperial master, as a theme 
 On which my gratitude delights to dwell. 
 
 Guar, I have, an' please your highness. 
 
 Duke, Then 'tis well 
 
 Guar. But for the yielding up that little fort 
 There could be no suspicion. 
 
104 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 « • 
 
 Duke, My Governor I have severely punish'd 
 As a most daring traitor to my orders. 
 He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell_, 
 Why then should they suspect ? 
 
 Gaur. He must not live if Charles should prove 
 victorious. 
 
 Duke, He's done me service, say not so 
 Gauriecio. 
 
 Gaur, A traitor's name he will not calmly bear^ 
 He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live. 
 
 Duke, Well, if it muil — we'll talk of this again. 
 
 Gaur, But while with anxious care and crafty- 
 wiles, 
 You would enlarge the limits of your state, 
 Your highness must beware lest inward broils 
 Bring danger near at hand : your northern subjects 
 E'en now are discontented and unquiet. 
 
 Duke,'Wh?iiy dare the ungrateful miscreants th.us 
 return 
 The many favours of my princely grace J 
 'Tis ever thus indulgence spoils the base, 
 Kaising up pride, and lawless turbulence. 
 Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh 
 When morning shines upon it — 
 Did I not lately with parental care. 
 When dire invaders their destruction threaten'd, 
 Provide them all with means of their defence ? 
 Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust, 
 A body of their vagrant youth select 
 To guard my sacred person ? Till that day 
 An honour never yet allow'd their race. 
 Did I not suffer them upon their suit 
 
basil: a tragedy. 103 
 
 T'establish manufactures in their towns ? 
 And after all some chosen soldiers spare 
 To guard the blessings of interiour peace ? 
 
 Gaur, Nay, please your highness^ they do well 
 allow 
 That when your enemies, in fell revenge. 
 Your former inroads threatened to repay,] 
 Their ancient arms you did to them restore. 
 With kind permission to defend themselves. 
 That so far have they felt your princely grace 
 In drafting from their fields their goodliest youth 
 To be your servants. That you did vouchsafe. 
 On paying of a large and heavy fine. 
 Leave to apply the labour of their hands 
 As best might profit to the country's weal ; 
 And to encourage well their infant trade 
 Quartered your troops upon them — please your 
 
 grace. 
 All this they do mofl: readily allow. 
 
 Duke, They do allow it then, ungrateful varlets! 
 What would they have ? what would they have, 
 Gauriecio ? 
 
 Gatir. Some mitigation of their grievous burdens. 
 Which, like an iron weight around their necks. 
 Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth. 
 Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep. 
 Not stand erect, and view the sun of heav'n. 
 
 Duke. But they beyond their proper sphere 
 would rise ; 
 Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours : 
 Society of various parts is form'd; 
 
306 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment. 
 And we the mantling top which crowns the whole, 
 Cahn, steady labour is their greatest bliss, 
 To aim at higher things beseems them not. 
 To let them work in peace my care shall be^ 
 To slacken labour is to nourish pride. 
 Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools ; 
 What may this mean, Gauriecio ? 
 
 Gaur, They were resolv'd to lay their cause 
 before you, 
 And would have found some other advocate 
 Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd. , 
 Duke. Well, let them know some more conve- 
 nient season 
 I'll think of this, and do for them as much 
 As suits the honour of my princely state. 
 Their prince's honour should be ever dear 
 To worthy subjects as their precious lives. 
 
 Gaur, I fear, unless you give some special pro-? 
 mise, 
 They will be violent still — = 
 
 Duke, Then do it, if the wretches are so bold ; 
 We can retract it when the times allow ; 
 'Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo, 
 And come to me again. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Gaur. (solus.) O! happy people! whose indul« 
 gent lord 
 From ev'ry care, with which increasing wealth. 
 With all its hopes and fears doth ever move 
 The human breast, most graciously would free, 
 
basil: a tp.agedy. 3 0^ 
 
 And kindly leave ye nought to do but toil ! 
 
 This creature now, with all his reptile cunning. 
 
 Writhing and turning thro' a maze of wiles. 
 
 Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind. 
 
 And calls his sordid wish for territory, 
 
 That noblest passion of the soul, ambition ! 
 
 Born had he been to follow some low trade, 
 
 A petty tradesman still he had remain'd. 
 
 And us'd the art with which he rules a state. 
 
 To circumvent his brothers of the craft. 
 
 Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. 
 
 And yet he thinks, — ha, ha, ha, ha ! — he thinks 
 
 I am the tool and servant of his will. 
 
 Well, let it be ; thro' all the maze of trouble 
 
 His plots and base oppression must create, 
 
 I'll shape myself aw^iy to higher things. 
 
 And who v>^ill say 'tis wrong ? 
 
 A sordid being who expects no faith 
 
 But as self-interest binds, who would not trust 
 
 The strongest ties of nature on the soul 
 
 Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate ! 
 
 Were I like him I would despise this dealing ; 
 
 But being as I am, born low in fortune. 
 
 Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, 
 
 I must not scorn the steps which lead to it : 
 
 And if they are not right, no saint am I ; 
 
 I follow nature's passion in my breast. 
 
 Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
108 BASIL I A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 jfn jipartment in the Palace ; Victoria and 
 Isabella are discovered playing at Chess ; the 
 Countess Albini sitting hy them reading to herself. 
 
 Vict. Away with it, I will not play again ; 
 May men no more be foolish in my presence 
 If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat I 
 
 Isah, To swear that I am false by such an oath, 
 Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture 
 Would bring your highness gain. 
 
 Vict. Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple mald^ 
 For in the very forfeit of this oath. 
 There's death to all the dearest pride of women. 
 May man no more be foolish in my presence ! 
 
 Isah. And does your grace, hail'd by applauding 
 crouds, 
 In all the graceful eloquence addressed 
 Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths, 
 Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards 
 Those awkward proofs of admiration prize. 
 Which rustick swains their village fair ones pay ? 
 
 Vict, O ! love will master all the power of art, 
 
 Ay all ! and she who never has beheld 
 
 The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage. 
 
 Before the glances of her conqu'ring eye, 
 
 A very native simple swain become^^ 
 
 Has only vulgar charms. 
 
 To make the cunning artless, tame the rude. 
 
 Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul \ 
 
 5 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. IQQ 
 
 Yea^ put a bridle in the lion's mouth. 
 And lead him forth as a domestick cur, 
 These are the triumphs of all-pow'rful beauty ! 
 Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise. 
 Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service. 
 Attend her presence, it were nothing worth. 
 I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks. 
 And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame. 
 
 j^lb. {raising her head from her hook,) And is, 
 indeed, a plain domestick dame. 
 Who fills the duties of an useful state, 
 A being of lefs dignity than she 
 Who vainly on her transcient beauty builds 
 A little poor ideal tyranny ? 
 
 hah. Ideal too ! 
 
 Alh. Yes, most unreal pow'r ; 
 
 For she who only finds her self-esteem 
 In others' admiration, begs an alms. 
 Depends on others for her daily food. 
 And is the very servant of her slaves ; 
 Tho' oftentimes, in a fantastick hour. 
 O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert. 
 Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. 
 
 Vict, You are severe, Albini, most severe : 
 Were human passions plac'd within the breast 
 But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ? 
 All heavens gifts to some good end were giv'n. 
 
 Alh, Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. 
 
 Vict, Am I ungen'rous then ? 
 
 Alh. Yes 1 most ungen'rous. 
 
 Who, for the pleasure oi a little pow'r, 
 
110 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Would give most unavailing pain to those 
 Whose love you ne'er can recompence again. 
 E'en novv^ to-day, O ! was it not ungen'rous 
 Ta fetter Basil with a foolish tie^ 
 Against his will, perhaps against his duty ? 
 
 F'ic. What ^ dost thou think against his will, 
 iny friend ? 
 
 ^/Z\ Fall sure I am against his reason's will. 
 
 Fic. Ah ! but indeed thou must excuse me here. 
 For duller than a shelled crab were she^ 
 Who could suspect her powV in such a mind. 
 And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd. 
 But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me ? 
 Ah! well I read those looks 1 methinks they say. 
 Your mother did not so. 
 
 JIL Your highness reads them true, she did 
 
 not so. 
 If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts 
 
 She kept it low, withheld its aliment; 
 
 Not pampcr'd it with ev'ry motley food. 
 
 From the fond tribute of a noble heart 
 
 To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child. 
 
 PlcL Nay, speak not thus Albini, speak not thus 
 
 Of little blue-ey'd, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando. 
 
 He is the orphan of a hapless pair, 
 
 A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair. 
 
 Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad. 
 
 The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay. 
 
 And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep. 
 
 Besides, (io Isah.) I am the guardian of his choice, 
 
 When first I saw him — dost thou not remember ? 
 
basil: a tragedy. ill 
 
 jsai, 'Twas in the publick garden. 
 
 Hot, Even so ; 
 
 Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a roughsome quean^ 
 111 suited to the lovely charge she bore. 
 How steadfastly he fix'd his looks upon me. 
 His dark eyes shining thro' forgotten tears. 
 Then stretch'd his little arms and calFd me mother ! 
 What could I do ? I took the bantling home — - 
 I could not tell the imp he had no mother. 
 
 Alb. Ah ! there, my child, thou hast indeed no 
 blame. 
 
 T^ict, Now this is kindly said, thanks, sweet 
 Albini ! 
 Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt. 
 
 ! would that I were such as thou couldst love ! 
 Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother ! 
 
 Alb, (pressing her to her breast.) And do I not ? 
 all perfect as she was, 
 
 1 know not that she went so near my heart 
 As thou with all thy faults. 
 
 Vict, And sayst thou so ? would I had sooner 
 known I 
 I had done any thing to give thee pleasure. 
 Alb. Then do so now, and put thy faults away. 
 Vict. No, say not faults; the freaks of thought- 
 less vouth. 
 Alb. Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd., 
 . Vic, O ! say but foibles ' youthful foibles onlv 1 
 Alb, Faults, faults, real faults you must confess 
 
 they are. 
 Vict. In truth, I cannot do your sense the wrong 
 
 To think so poorly of the one you love. 
 
112 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Alb. I must be gone : thou hast overcome me now; 
 Another time I will not yield it so. [Exit. 
 
 Isah, The Countess is severe, she's too severe ; 
 She once was young though now advanced in years. 
 
 Vict, No, I deserve it all ; she is most worthy. 
 Unlike those faded beauties of the court, 
 But now the wither'd stems of former flowers. 
 With all their blossoms shed^ her nobler mind 
 Procures to her the privilege of man. 
 Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays. 
 Some few years hence, if I should live so long, 
 I'd be Albini rather than myself. 
 
 Isah. Here comes your little pet. 
 
 Vict, I am not in the humour for him now. 
 
 Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and 
 taking hold of her gowti, hut she takes no notice 
 of hiniy while he holds up his mouth to be kissed, 
 
 Isab, (to Mir.) Thou seest the princess ca'nt be 
 
 troubled with thee. 
 Mir, O ! but she will ! I'll scramble up her robe. 
 As naughty boys do when they climb for apples. 
 Isab. Come here, sweet child ; I'll kiss thee in 
 
 her stead. 
 Mir, Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee. 
 Would I were tall ! O ! were I but so tall ! 
 Isah, And how tall wouldst thou be ? 
 Mir, Thou dost not know ? 
 
 Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. 
 
 f^ict, (emhrasing him.) O I I must bend to this, 
 thou little urchin. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 1 13 
 
 Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit ? 
 Who does Mirando love ? (embraces him again). 
 Mir. He loves Victoria. 
 
 Vici. And wherefore loves he her ? 
 Mir. Because she's pretty. 
 
 Isah. Hast thon no little prate to-day, Mirando? 
 No tale to earn a sugar-plumb withal ? 
 
 Mir. Ay, that I have : I know who loves her 
 
 grace. 
 Vict. Who Is It pray ? thou shalt have conjfits 
 
 for it. 
 Mir. (looking slily at Iwr,) It is — it is — it is the 
 
 Count of Maldo. 
 Vict. Away, thou little chit, that tale Is old. 
 And was not worth a sugar-plumb when new. 
 Mir. Well then, I know who loves her highness 
 
 well. 
 Vict, Who is it then ? 
 
 Isah. Who is it, naughty boy ? 
 
 Mir. It is the handsome marquis of Carlatzi. 
 Vict. No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still ; 
 Twice have I paid thee for that tale already. 
 Mir. Well then, indeed— I know who loves 
 
 Victoria. 
 Vict. And who is he ? 
 Mir. It Is Mirando's self. 
 
 Vict. Thou little imp ! this story is not new. 
 But thou shalt have thy hire. Come let us go, 
 (jro run before us. Boy. 
 
 Mir. Nay, but I'll fliew you how Count Wolvgr 
 look'd, 
 
 I 
 
Ii4 basil: a targedy. 
 
 When he conducted Isabel from Court. 
 P'uL How did he look ? 
 
 Mir. Give me your hand: he held his body thus, 
 (putting himself in a ridicuhiis bowing posture.) 
 And then he whisper'd softly ; then look'd so ; 
 
 (ogling with his eyes affectedly.) 
 •Then she look'd so^ and smil'd to him again. 
 
 (throwing down his eyes affectedly.) 
 
 Jsah. Thou art a little knave, and must be whipped. 
 
 [Exeunt. Mirando leading o^^^ Victori^i affe6ledly. 
 
 ACT III. ' 
 
 SCENE I. — An open Street^ or Square* 
 
 Enter Rosinberg and Frederick, hy opposite 
 
 sides of the Stage, 
 
 Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of war^ 
 Another day to rest and pastime gives. 
 VLow is it now ? methinks thou art not pleas'd. 
 
 Ros. It matters little if I am or not. 
 
 Fred. Now pray thee do confess thou art asham'd : 
 Thou, who art wisely wont to set at nought 
 The noble fire of individual courage, 
 And call calm prudence the supcriour virtue, 
 What sayst thou nov/, my candid Rosinberg ? 
 When thy great captain, in a time like this, 
 Denies his weary troops one day of rest 
 Before the exertions of approaching battle. 
 Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit ? 
 
 Ros. Who told thee this ? it was no friendly tale. 
 
basil: ATRAGEDr. 115 
 
 And no one else besides a trusty friend. 
 
 Could know his motives. Then thouwrongst me too, 
 
 For I admire^ as much as thou dost,. Fred'rick, 
 
 The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour ; 
 
 But not like thee do I depreciate 
 
 That far superiour, yea that god-like talent, 
 
 Which doth direct that fire, because indeed 
 
 It is a talent nature has denied me. 
 
 Fred, Well, well, and greatly he may boast his 
 virtue. 
 Who risks perhaps th'Imperial army's fate. 
 To please a lady's freaks — 
 
 Ros, Go, go, thou'rt prejudlc'd : 
 
 A passion, which I do not chuse to name. 
 Has warp'd thy judgement. 
 
 Fred, No, by heav'n, thou wrongst me ! 
 
 I do, with most enthusiastick warmth, 
 True valour love ; wherever he is found^ 
 I love the hero too ; but hate to see 
 The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd. 
 
 Ros. Then mayst thou now these gen'rous 
 feelings prove. 
 Behold that man whose short and grizzly hair. 
 In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'ershades; 
 Where now the scars of former sabre wounds. 
 In hon'rable companionship are seen 
 With the deep lines of age ; whose piercing eye. 
 Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts 
 Its yet unquenched bcams^ as tho' in age 
 Its youthful fire had been again renew'd. 
 To be the guardian of its darken'd mate, 
 
Jl6 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 See with what vig'rous steps his upright form 
 
 He onward bears ; nay, e'en that vacant sleeve. 
 
 Which droops so sadly by his better side. 
 
 Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien. 
 
 This is the man^ whose glorious acts in battle 
 
 We heard to-day related o'er our wine. 
 
 I go to tell the General he is come. 
 
 Enjoy the generous feelings of thy breast, 
 
 And make an old man happy. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Geoffry. 
 
 Fred, Brave soldier, \tt me profit by the chance 
 That led me here ; I've heard of thy exploits. 
 
 Geof, Ah ! then you have but heard an ancient 
 tale. 
 Which has been long forgotten. 
 
 Fred, But true it is, and should not be forgotten ; 
 Tho' Gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame. 
 May dash it with neglect. 
 
 Geof. There are, perhaps, who may be so 
 ungen'rous. 
 
 Fred, Perhaps, sayst thou ? in very truth there are. 
 How art thou else rewarded with neglect. 
 Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps 
 Has been promoted ? it is ever thus. 
 Serv'd not Mardini in your company ? 
 He was, tho' honour'd with a valiant name, 
 To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier. 
 
 Geof, Your pardon, Sir, we did esteem him much. 
 Although Hiferiour to his gallant friend, 
 The brave Sebastian, 2 
 
basil: a tragedy. 1 17 
 
 Fred, The brave Sebastian ! 
 
 He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb, 
 And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword. 
 What, dost thou call him brave ? 
 Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk. 
 Like an old target, hack'd and rough with wounds, 
 Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he 
 Was with a smooth skin in his coffin laid, 
 Unblemish'd with a scar. 
 
 Geof. His duty called not to such desp'rate 
 
 service ; 
 For I have fought where few alive remain'd. 
 And none unscath'd ; where but a few remain'd. 
 Thus marr'd, and mangled; (Shewing his wounds.) 
 
 As belike you've seen, 
 O'summer nights, around th' evening lamp. 
 Some wretched moths, wingless, and half-consum'd^ 
 Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead — ' 
 In Savoy, on a small, tho' desp'rate post. 
 Of full three hundred goodly chosen men. 
 But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we 
 For ever after. They are all dead now : 
 I'm old and lonelv — w^e were valiant hearts — 
 Fred'rick Dewalter w^ould have stopp'd a breach 
 Against the devil himself I'm loneJy now I 
 Fred, I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrateful 
 
 chiefs 1 
 Why wert thou not promoted ? 
 
 Geof. After that battle, where my happy fate 
 Had led me to fulfil a glorious part, 
 Chaf'd with the gibing insults of a slave^ 
 
118 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'flte, 
 I rashly did affront ; oar cautious prince. 
 With narrow policy dependant made^ 
 Dar'd not, as I am told, promote me then. 
 And now he is asham'd or has forgot it. 
 
 Fred. Fye, fye upon it ! let him be asham'd ! 
 Here is a trifle for the — (Offtring him money,) 
 
 Geof, No, good sir, 
 
 I have enough to live as poor men do. 
 .When I'm in w^ant I'll thankfully receive 
 Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave. 
 
 Fred, You're proud^ old soldier. 
 
 Geof, No, I am not proud ; 
 
 For if I were, methinks I'd be morose, 
 And willing to depreciate other men. 
 
 Enter Rosenberg. 
 
 Ros, (clapping Geof. on the shoidder.) How goes 
 it with thee now, my good Field-marshal ? 
 
 Geof, The better that I see your honour well. 
 And in the humour to be merry with me. 
 
 Ros. 'Faith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd 
 thee too : 
 What is a good Field-marshal, but a man 
 Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind. 
 Doth marshal others on in glory's w^ay ? 
 Thou art not one by princely favour dubb'd. 
 But one of nature's making. 
 
 Geof. You shew, my lord, such pleasant courtesy, 
 I know not how — 
 
 Ros, But sec, the Gen'ral comes. 
 
basil: atp.agedy, iig 
 
 Enter Basil. 
 
 Ros, (pointing to Geof.) Behold the worthy 
 
 vet'ran. 
 Bas. (taking him hy the hand.) Brave hon'rable 
 man your worth I know. 
 And greet it with a brother-soldier's love 
 
 Geof. (tailing away his hand in confusion.) My 
 
 Gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour. 
 
 Bas. (takmg his hand again.) No, valiant soldier, 
 
 I must have it so; 
 Geof. My humble state agrees not w^ith such 
 
 honour. 
 Bas. Think not of it, thy state is not thyself. 
 Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down On thee ; 
 As the poor dwarf, pcrch'd on a pedestal, 
 O'erlooks the giant. 'Tis not worth a thought. 
 Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade. 
 Whose w^arhke feats child, maid, and matron know ? 
 And oft, cross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl, 
 The jolly toper to his comrade tells ? 
 Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door, 
 The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand 
 The many movements of the varied field, 
 In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates; 
 Whose bosoms glowing at the wond'rous tale. 
 First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life ? 
 Shame seize me, if I would not rather be 
 The man thou art, than court-created chief. 
 Known only by the dates of his promotion 1 
 
 r\y 
 
120 basil: a tragedy* 
 
 Geof. Ah 1 would I were, would I were joung^^ 
 again^ 
 To fight beneath your standard, noble genVal ! 
 Methinks what I have done were but a jest. 
 Ay, but a jest to what I now should do, 
 Were I again the man that I have been. 
 O ! I could fight ! 
 
 Bas. And wouldot thou fight for me ? 
 
 Geof, Ay^ to the death ! 
 
 Bas. Then come^ brave inan^ and be my cham- 
 pion still ; 
 The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts. 
 Come, noble vetVan, thou shalt fight for me. 
 
 fExiT with Geofiry. 
 
 Fred. What does he mean to do ? 
 
 Ros, We'll know ere long, 
 
 Fred, Our genVal bears it with a careless face 
 For one so wise. , 
 
 Ros. A careless face ! on what ? 
 
 Fred, Now feign not ignorance, we know it all. 
 News which have spread in whispers fi*om the court. 
 Since last night's messenger arrived from Milan. 
 
 Ros, As I'm. an honest man, I know it not ! 
 
 Fred, 'Tis said the rival armies are so near,, 
 A battle must immediately ensue. 
 
 Ros, It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not. 
 The Duke is of our side a sworn ally, 
 And had such messenger to Mantua come. 
 He would have been appriz'd upon the instant. 
 It cannot be, it is some idle tale. 
 
 Fred, So may it prove till we have join'd them too. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 121 
 
 Then heaven grant they may nearer still I 
 For O ! my soul for war and danger pants^ 
 As doth the noble lion for his prey. 
 My soul delights in battle. 
 
 Ros. Upon my simple word, Fd rather see 
 A score of friendly fellows shaking hands, 
 Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear ? 
 
 Fred. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Hos, Hast thou no fear of death ? 
 
 Fred. Fear is a name for something in the mind^ 
 But what, from inward sense I cannot tell. 
 I could as little anxious march to battle. 
 As when a boy to childish games I ran. 
 
 Ros. Then as much virtue hast thou hi thj 
 valour. 
 As when a child thou hadst in childish play. 
 The brave man is not he who feels no fear^ 
 For that were stupid and irrational, 
 But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues. 
 And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. 
 As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight^ 
 Away with them ! there is not in the crew 
 One valiant spirit — Ha ! what sound is this ? 
 
 (sliout'mg is heard without.) 
 
 Fred, The soldiers shout ; Fll run and learn 
 the cause. 
 
 Ros. But tell m.e first, how dids't thou love the 
 vet'ran ? 
 
 Fred. He is too proud ; he was displeas'd with me 
 Because I ofFer'd him a little sum. 
 Ros. Whatmoney ! O ! mostgen'rous noble spirit! 
 
12'Z BASIL : A TKAGEDYrf 
 
 Noble rewarder of superioiir worth ! 
 A halfpenny for BelHsarius ! 
 But hark ! they shout again — here comes Valtomen 
 
 (Shouting heard without.) 
 
 Enter Valtomer. 
 
 What does this shouting mean ? 
 
 Valt. O ! 1 have seen a sight, a glorious sight ! 
 Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it. ,., 
 
 Ros. How smile ? methinks thine eyes are wet 
 with tears. 
 
 Valt. (passing the hack of his hand across his eyes.) 
 'Faith so they are ; well, well, but I smil'd too. 
 You heard the shouting. 
 
 Ros. and Fred. Yes. 
 
 Valf. O ! had you seen it ! 
 
 Drawn out in goodly ranks, there stood our troops ; 
 Here in the graceful state of manly youth, 
 His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile, 
 Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave. 
 As tho' his soul, like an unsheathed sword, 
 Had thro' them gleam'd, our noble gen'ral stood ; 
 And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words, 
 The vet' ran shewing, his brave deeds rehears'd ; 
 Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak, 
 Beneath the shelter of some noble tree. 
 In the green honours of its youthful prime. 
 
 Ros. How look'd the vet'ran ? 
 
 Valt. O ! I cannot tell thee ! 
 
 At first he bore it up v/ith chearful looks, 
 As one who fain would wear his honours bravely. 
 
EASIL : A TRAGEDY. 123 
 
 And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face : 
 But when Count Basil, in such moving speech 
 Told o'er his actions past, and bad his troops 
 Great deeds to emulate, his countenance chang'd ; 
 High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been 
 By inward strong emotion half convuls'd ; 
 Trembled his nether lip ; he shed some tears. 
 The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; 
 Then hastily he brush'd the drops away, 
 And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd 
 
 voice. 
 As tho' he would some grateful answer make ; 
 When back with double force the whelming tide 
 Of passion came ; high o'er his hoary head 
 His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect. 
 In Basil's bosom hid his aged face. 
 Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks 
 A cry arose ; still louder shouts resound. 
 I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat 
 As it would strangle me ; such as I felt, 
 I knew it well, some twenty years ago, 
 When my good father shed his blessing on me : 
 I hate to weep, and so I came away. 
 
 Ros. {giving Valt. his hand.) And there take 
 thou my blessing for the tale. 
 Hark ! how they shout again ! 'tis nearer now. 
 This way they march. 
 
 Martial Musick heard. Etiter Soldiers vmrchincr in 
 order, hearing Geoffry i?t triumph on their 
 shoulders. After them enter Basil ; the whole 
 preceded hy a hand of musick. They cross over 
 the stagey are joined hy Ros. &c, and Exeunt. 
 
124 BASIL : A THAGEDr. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Gaukiecio and a Gentleman, talking' as 
 
 they enter, 
 
 Gaiir. So slight a tie as this we cannot trust. 
 One day her influence may detain him here. 
 But love a feeble agent may be found 
 With the ambitious. 
 
 Gent. And so you think this boyish odd conceit 
 Of bearing home in triumph with his troops 
 That aged soldier^ will your purpose serve ? 
 
 Gaiir, Yes, I will make it serve ; for tho' my 
 prince 
 Is little scrupulous of right and wrong, 
 I have possessed his mind, as tho' it were 
 A flagrant insult on his princely state 
 To honour thus the man he has neglected. 
 Which makes him relish, with a keener taste. 
 My purpos'd scheme. Come let us fall to work. 
 With ail their warm heroick feelings rous'd. 
 We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny. 
 Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite. 
 Thanks to his childish love, which has so well 
 Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools. 
 
 Gent, Ah ! but those feelings he has wak'd 
 within them. 
 Are gen'rous feelings, and endear himself. 
 
 Gaur, it matters not, tho' gen'rous in their 
 nature. 
 They yet may serve a most ungcn'rous end \ 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 125 
 
 And be who teaches men to think, tho' nobly. 
 Doth raise within their minds a busy judge 
 To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth. 
 And sound it in their cars how much Count Basil 
 Affe6ls all difficult and desp'rate service. 
 To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke ; 
 Having unto the Emperour pledg'd his word. 
 To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : 
 For which intent he fills their simple minds 
 With idle tales of glory and renown ; 
 Using: their warm attachment to himself 
 For most unworthy ends. 
 This is the busy time, go forth, my friend ; 
 Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups 
 Around tl:eir evening cups. There, spare no cost, 
 
 (gives him a purse,) 
 Observe their words, see how the poison takes. 
 And then return again. 
 
 Ge7it, I will, my lord, 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Suite of grand Apartments, with their wide 
 doors thrown open, lighted up with lamps, and 
 ^filled with company in masks. Rnter several 
 masks, and pass through the first apartment to 
 the other rooms. Then enter Basil in the disguise 
 of a wounded soldier. 
 
 Bas, (alone.) Now am I in the region of delight ! 
 Within the blessed compass of these walls 
 She is \ the gay light of those blazing lamps 
 
126 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor 
 Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now perhaps^ 
 Amidst that motley route she plays her part, 
 There will I go ; she cannot be conceal'd ; 
 For but the flowing of her graceful robe 
 Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, 
 Tho' in a thousand masks. Ye homelv weeds, — 
 
 (looking at his habit.) 
 Which half conceal, and half declare my state. 
 Beneath your kind disguise, O ! let me prosper. 
 And boldly take the privilege ye give : 
 Follow her mazy steps, croud by her side ; 
 Thus, near her face my listening ear incline. 
 And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek; 
 Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too ! 
 May it not be e'en so ? by heav'n it shall ! 
 This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after 
 Ye shall be treasured like a monarch's robes ; 
 Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept ; 
 And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye. 
 And gazing wistfully, this night recall. 
 With all its past delights. — But yonder moves 
 A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe ; 
 It moves not like the rest — it must be she ! 
 
 (Goes hastily into another apartment^ and mixes 
 with the masks.) 
 
 Enter Rosinberg fantastically dressed, with a 
 
 willozv upon his head, and scraps of sonnets, and 
 
 torn letters fluttering round his neck ; pursued 
 
 hy a group of masks from one of the inner 
 
 5 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 12/ 
 
 apartments^ mho hoot at him^ and push him about 
 
 as he enters. 
 
 \st Mask, Away, thou art a saucy jeering knavC;, 
 And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love. 
 
 Ros. Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me : 
 I am a right true servant of the fair ; 
 And as this woeful chaplet on my brow. 
 And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote, 
 A poor abandon'd lover out of place : 
 With any lover ready to engage. 
 Who will enlist me in her loving service. 
 Q( a convenient kind my talents are, 
 And to all various humours may be shap'd. '''^'i-^ 
 
 id Mask. What canst thou do ? ' ''-^ 
 
 3d Mask, Ay, what besides offending-'f- 
 
 Ros. O ! I can sigh so deeply, look so sad ; 
 pule out a piteous tale on bended knee ; 
 Groan like a ghost ; so very wretched be. 
 As would delight a tender lady's heart 
 But to behold. 
 
 Ist Mask, Poo, poo, insipid fool 1 
 
 Ros. But should my lady brisker mettle own. 
 And tire of all those gentle dear delights, 
 Such pretty litde quarrels Fd invent — 
 As whether such a fair-one (some dear friend !) 
 Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the soft maid. 
 With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick, 
 Have greatest cause of delicate distress : 
 Or whether — 
 
 \st Mask. Go, thou art too bad indeed ! 
 (aside.) How could he know I quarrcll'd with the 
 Count ? 
 
J2S BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 *ld Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's 
 fame ? 
 
 Ros, Yes, lovely shepherdess^ on evVy tree 
 I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound. 
 Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks. 
 Odes to her eye, 'faith ev'ry wart and mole 
 That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet ! 
 I'll make love-posies for her thimble's tdgo,^ 
 Rather than please her not. 
 
 Zd Mask. But for her sake what dangers wilt 
 thou brave ? 
 
 Ros. In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers less 
 Than other service, and were something loth 
 To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance ; 
 But if she'll wisely manage this alone. 
 As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself^ 
 And meet me fairly on the open plain, 
 I will engage her tender steps to aid 
 In all annoyance of rude briar or stone. 
 Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so. 
 Which that fair lady should unaided pass. 
 Ye gracious powers forbid 1 I will defend 
 Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buz—- 
 
 Ath Mask. Such paltry service suits thee best 
 indeed. 
 What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from 
 her? 
 
 Ros. Yes to recall me soon, sublime Sultana ! 
 For I can stand the burst of female passion. 
 Each change of humour and affected storm ; 
 Be scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent. 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 12Q 
 
 Recall'd, carress'd, chid and disgrac'd again ; 
 And say what maid of spirit would forego 
 The bliss of one to exercise it thus ? 
 O ! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb ! 
 
 4lh Mask, (heating him.) Well, bear it then, thou 
 hast deserv'd it well. 
 
 Ros. 'Zounds, lady ! do not give such heavy 
 blows ; 
 I'm not your husband, as belike you guess. 
 
 bth Mask. Come, lover, I enlist thee for my 
 swain. 
 Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows. 
 Nor thus assume my rights. 
 
 Rqs. Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress 
 prove ? 
 
 5ih Mask. Such as thou wouldst, such as thy 
 genius suits ; 
 For since of universal scope it is. 
 All women's humour shalt thou find in me. 
 I'll gently soothe thee with such winning smiles — 
 To nothing sink thee with a scornful frown : 
 Teize thee with peevish and affected freaks, 
 Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate ; 
 But still between the whiles I'll careful be. 
 In feigned admiration of thy parts, 
 Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, 
 To bind thy giddy soul with fiatt'ry's charm : 
 For well thou knowest that fiatt'ry ever is 
 The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning 
 Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps 
 So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste. 
 
130 BASIL : A TRAGEDr. 
 
 Thou canst not leave, tho' violent In extreme, 
 And most vexatious in her teazing moods. 
 Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul 
 Who did declare, when calmer reason ruPd, 
 Thou hadst a pretty leg. 
 
 Ros. Marry, thou hast the better of me there. 
 
 bth Mask, And more, I'll pledge to thee my 
 honest word, 
 That when your noble swainship shall bestow 
 More faithful homage on the simple maid. 
 Who loves you with sincerity and truth, 
 Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant 
 Who mocking leads you like a trammelled ass, 
 My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside. 
 And such a one become. 
 
 Ros. Well spoke, brave lady, I will follow thee. 
 (follows her to the corner of the stage.) 
 Now on my life, these ears of mine I'd give, 
 To have but one look of that litde face, 
 Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court 
 To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask ; 
 I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes, 
 A short and saucy nose ; now pri'thee do. 
 
 (iinmashng,) 
 
 Alb. (unmashlng.) Well, hast thou guess'd me 
 right ? 
 
 Ros, (bowing lozv.) Wild freedom chang'd to 
 most profound respect 
 Doth make an awkward booby of me now. 
 
 Alb. I've joined your frolick with a good intent, 
 
 For much I wish'd to gain your private car, 
 
 2 
 
basil: a tragedy. 131 
 
 The time Is precious, and I must be short. 
 
 Ros. On me your slightest word more pow'r 
 
 will have, 
 Most honoured lady, than a conn'd oration. 
 Thou art the only one of all thy sex, 
 Who wearst thy years with such a winning grace. 
 Thou art the more admir'd the more thou fad'st. 
 Alb, I thank your lordship for these courteous 
 
 words ; 
 But to my purpose — You are Basil's friend : 
 Be friendly to him then, and warn him well 
 This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay, 
 For if he does, there's mischief waits him here 
 May prove the bane of all his future days. 
 Remember this, I must no longer stay, 
 God bless your friend and you ; I love you both. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ros. (alone.) What may this warning mean ? I 
 had my fears. 
 There's something hatching which I know not of. 
 I've lost all spirit for this masking now. . 
 
 (throwing away his papers and his willow.) 
 Away ye scraps ! I have no need of you. 
 I would I knew what garment Basil wears ; 
 I watch'd him yet he did escape my sight ; 
 But I must search again and find him out. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Basil much agitated, with his mask in his 
 
 hand. 
 
 Bas. In vain I've sought her, follow'd ev'ry 
 form 
 
 K 2 
 
13^2 BASIL : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Where aught appeared of dignity or grace ; 
 I've listcn'd to the tone of ev'ry voice ; 
 I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask. 
 My ilutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare. 
 With the imagined rusthng of her robes, 
 At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night, 
 How art thou spent ! where are thy promised joys? 
 How much of thee is gone 1 O ! spiteful fate 1 
 And yet within the compass of these walls 
 Somewhere she is, altho' to me she is not. > 
 Some other eye doth gaze upon her form, 
 Some other car doth listen to her voice ; 
 Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss 
 My spiteful stars deny. 
 
 Disturber of my soul ! what veil conceals thee ? 
 What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour ; 
 
 * 
 
 O ! heav'ns and earth where art thou ! 
 
 Etiter Mask in the dress of a female conjuror. 
 
 Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant 
 soldier, 
 Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so ? 
 lias. Away, away ! I cannot fool with thee. 
 Mask. I have ^some potent drugs may ease thy 
 smart. 
 Where is thy v/ound ? is't here ? 
 
 (pointing to the bandage on his arm). 
 
 Bas. Poo, Poo, begone 1 
 
 Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my 
 
 hcait — 
 'Tis ev'ry where, where medicine cannot cure. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 Mask. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound 
 Which some ungrateful fair-one hath inflicted. 
 And I may conjure something for thy good. 
 
 Bas. Ah ! if thou couldst ! what must I fool 
 with thee ? 
 
 Mask, Thou must awhile, and be examined too. 
 What kind of woman did the wicked deed ? 
 
 Bas. I cannot tell thee. In her presence still 
 My mind in such a wild delight hath been, 
 I could not pause to picture out her beauty ? 
 Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair. 
 
 Mask. Art thou a soldier, and no weapon 
 bear'st 
 To send her wound for wound ? 
 
 Bas. Alas ! she shoots from^ such a hopeless 
 height, 
 No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far. 
 None but a prince may dare. 
 
 Mask. But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no 
 love. 
 
 Bas. I love, and yet in truth I had no hope. 
 But that she might at least with some good will, 
 Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindness. 
 Within her dear remembrance give me place. 
 This was my all of hope, but it is flown ; 
 For she regards me not ; desj)iscs, scorns me ; 
 Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart. 
 That would have bled for her. 
 
 (Mask, discovering herself to he \ ictoria, hy speak- 
 ing in her true voice). O I no, she docs not. 
 
 [Exit, hastily in, confusion. 
 
136 BASIL : A TKAGEDY. 
 
 Vict. So far thou'st read it well. 
 
 Bas. Ha ! have I well ? 
 
 Thou dost not hate me then ? 
 
 Vict, My father comes ; 
 
 He were displeas'd if he should see thee thus. 
 
 Bas. Thou dost not hate me, then } 
 
 Vict. Away! he'll be displeas'd — I cannot say — 
 
 Bas. Well, let him come, it is thyself I fear; 
 For did destruction thunder o'er my head, 
 Ey the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir 
 Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul 1 
 1'hou dost not hate me ? 
 
 Vict. Nay, nay, let got thy hold — 1 cannot hate 
 thee. (hreaks from him and exit.) 
 
 Bas. (alone.) Thou canst not hate me ! no, thou 
 canst not hate me ! 
 For I love thee so well, so passing well^ 
 With such o'erfiowing heart, so very dearlv. 
 That it were sinful not to pay me back 
 Some small, some kind return. 
 
 Enter Mirando, dressed like Cupid. 
 
 Mir. Bless thee, brave soldier. 
 
 Bas. What sayst thou, pretty child ? what play- 
 ful fair 
 Has deck'd thee out in this fantastick guise ? 
 
 Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the princess. 
 
 Bas. Thou art her fav'ritc then ? 
 
 Mir. They say I am : 
 
 And riow, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, soldier^, 
 I think in very truth she loves me well. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 137 
 
 Such merry little songs she teaches me — 
 Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest 
 Oft times on tip- toe near my couch she steals^ 
 And lifts the covering so, to look upon me. 
 And often times I feign as tho' I slept ; 
 For then her warm lips to my cheek she lays. 
 And pats me softly with her fair white hands ; 
 And then I laugh, and thro' mine eye-lids peep. 
 And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat ; 
 And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ros, What does she even so, thou happiest 
 child ? 
 And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so 
 
 dearly ? 
 Delicious urgin ! I will kiss thee too. 
 
 (Takes him eagerly up in his arms, and 
 kisses hhn,) 
 Mir, No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough. 
 So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so. 
 
 Bas, Sweet boy, w^hcre is thy chamber ? by 
 
 Victoria's ? 
 Mir, Hard by her own. 
 
 Bas. Then will I come beneath thy window 
 soon ; 
 And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing, 
 To lull thee to thy rest. 
 
 Mir, O ! no, thou must not ; 'tis a frightful 
 place. 
 It is the church-yard of the neighb'ring dome. 
 The princess loves it for the lofty trees^ 
 
138 basil: A tragedy. 
 
 Whose spreading branches shade her chamber 
 
 walls ; 
 So do not I ; for when 'tis dark o'nights 
 Goblins howl there, and ghosts rise thro' the 
 
 ground. 
 I hear them many a time when Fm a bed. 
 And hide beneath the cloaths my cow'ring head. 
 O ! is it not a frightful thing, my lord. 
 To v^ileep alone i' the dark ? 
 
 Bas, Poor harmless child ! thy prate is won- 
 drous sweet. 
 
 Enter a group of Mash. 
 
 1st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little 
 truant boy ? 
 Come play thy part with us. 
 
 Masks flace Mi ran do in the middle, and range 
 
 themselves round him, 
 
 SON G, A GLEE. 
 
 Child, with many a childish wile, 
 Timid look, and blushing smile, » 
 
 Downy wings to steal thy way, 
 Gilded bow, and quiver gay. 
 Who in thy simple mien would trace 
 The tyrant of the human race ? 
 
 Who is lie whose flinty heart 
 Hath not felt thy flying dart ? 
 Who is he that from the wound 
 Hath not pain and pleasure found ? 
 Who is he that hath not shed 
 Curse and blessing on thy head ? 
 
BASIL! A TRAGEDY. I39 
 
 Ah Love 1 our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, 
 A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! 
 Ah Love 1 our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane. 
 More hapless still are they who never felt thy pain ! 
 
 All the masks dayice round Cup'uL Then enter a 
 hand of satyrs, who frighten away Love and hk 
 "ootaj'ies, and conclude the sccne^ dancing in a 
 grotesque manner. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I,— The Street before Basil's Lodging, 
 Enter Rosinberg and two officers. 
 
 Ros, (speaking a^he enters,) Unless we find him 
 
 quickly, all is lost. 
 \st. Off. His very guards, methlnks, have left 
 their post 
 To join the mutiny. 
 
 Ros, (blocking very loud.) Holla ! who's there 
 within ? confound this door ! 
 It will not ope. O ! for a Giant's strength. 
 Holla, holla, within 1 will no one hear ? 
 
 Enter a Porter from the house, 
 
 Ros, (eagerly to the Porter,) Is he return'd, is 
 he return'd ? not yet ! 
 Thy face doth tell me so. 
 
 Port, Not yet, my lord. 
 
 Ros, Then let him ne'er return — — 
 
138 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Whose spreading branches shade her chamber 
 
 walls ; 
 So do not I ; for when 'tis dark o'nights 
 GobHns howl there, and ghosts rise thro' the 
 
 ground. 
 I hear them many a time when I'm a bed. 
 And hide beneath the cloaths my cow'ring head. 
 O ! is it not a frightful thing, my lord. 
 To sleep alone i' the dark ? 
 
 Bas, Poor harmless child ! thy prate is won- 
 drous sweet. 
 
 Enter a group of Mash. 
 
 1st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little 
 truant boy ? 
 Come play thy part with us. 
 
 Masks flace Mir an do in the middky and range 
 
 themselves round him, 
 
 SON G, — A GLEE. 
 
 Child, with many a childish wile, 
 Timid look, and blushing smile, ' 
 
 Downy wings to steal thy way, 
 Gilded bow, and quiver gay. 
 Who in thy simple mien would trace 
 The tyrant of the human race ? 
 
 Who is iie whose flinty heart 
 Hath not felt thy flying dart ? 
 Who is he that from the wound 
 Hath not pain and pleasure found ? 
 Who is he that hath not shed 
 Curse and blessing on thy head ? 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY. I39 
 
 Ah Love 1 our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, 
 A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! 
 Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane. 
 More hapless still are they who never felt thy pain I 
 
 All the mashs dayice round Cupid. Then enter a 
 hand of satyrs, who frighten away Love and hk 
 'votaries, and conclude the scene, dancing in a 
 grotesque manner. 
 
 ■kMl 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street before Basil's Lodging, 
 
 Enter Rosinberg and two officers. 
 
 Ros, (speaking a^he enters,) Unless we find him 
 
 quickly, all is lost. 
 \st. Off. His very guards, methinks, have left 
 their post 
 To join the mutiny. 
 
 Ros, (knocking very loud.) Holla ! who's there 
 within ? confound this door ! 
 It will not ope. O ! for a Giant's strength. 
 Holla, holla, within ! will no one hear ? 
 
 Enter a Porter from the house, 
 
 Ros. (eagerly to the Porter.) Is he return'd, is 
 he return'd ? not yet 1 
 Thy face doth tell me so. 
 
 Port, Not yet, my lord. 
 Ros, Then let him ne'er return 
 
140 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Tumulty dlF^grace and ruin have their way ! 
 I'll search for him no more. 
 
 Port. He hath been absent all the nighty my lord. 
 
 Ros. I know he hath. 
 
 id Of, And yet 'ti^ possible 
 
 He may have entered by the secret door ; 
 And now^ j)erhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd. 
 Is dead to ^^''x'j sound. 
 
 (Ros. witho2(t speaking rushes into ihs 
 house, mid the rest follow him.) 
 
 Enter Basil. 
 
 Bas, The blue air of the morning pinches 
 keenly. 
 Beneath her window all the chilly night 
 I felt it not. Ah 1 night has been my day, 
 And the pale lamp which from her chamber 
 
 gleam'd, 
 Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent 
 Than the red burning east. 
 
 Re-enter Rosinberg, ^c, from the house, 
 
 Ros. Himself! himself! He's here I he's here! 
 O ! Basil, 
 What fiend at such a time could lead thee forth ? 
 Bas. What is the matter which disturbs you 
 
 thus ? 
 Ros. Matter that would a wiser man disturb. 
 Treason's abroad : thy men have mutinied. 
 
 Bas. It is not so ; thy wits have mutinied^ 
 And left their sober station in thy brain. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 141 
 
 1st Off. Indeed^ my Lord, he speaks in sober 
 earnest. 
 
 Some secret enemies have been employ'd 
 
 To fill your troops with strange imaginations ; 
 
 As tho' their gen'ral would^ for selfish gain, 
 
 Their gen'rous valour urge to despVate deeds. 
 
 All to a man, assembled on the ramparts, 
 
 Now threaten vengeance^ and refuse to march. 
 
 Bas. What ! think they vilely of me ? threaten 
 too ! 
 O ! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought ! 
 Didst thou attempt (lo Ros.) to reason with their 
 
 folly ? 
 Folly it is ; baseness it cannot be. 
 
 Eos. Yes, truly, I did reason with a storm. 
 
 And bid it cease to rage 
 
 Their eyes look fire on him who questions them ; 
 The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath 
 Sound dreadful thro' the dark extended ranks, 
 Like subterraneous grumblings of an earthquake. 
 
 The vcng^eful hurricane 
 
 Does not with such fantastick writhings toss 
 The woods green boughs, as docs convulsive 
 
 rage 
 Their forms with frantick gestures agitate. 
 Around the chief of hell such legions throng'd. 
 To bring back curse and discord on creation. 
 
 Bas. Nay they are men, altho' impassion'd 
 ones. 
 I'll go to them — 
 
 Ilos. And v/e will stand by thee. 
 
J42 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 My sword is thine against ten thousand strong, 
 If it should come to this. 
 
 Bas, Noj never, never ! 
 
 There is no mean : I with my soldiers must 
 Or their commander or their victim prove. 
 But are my ofRcers all staunch and faithful ? 
 
 Ros, All but that devil, Fred'rick^ - 
 
 He, disappointed, left his former corps, 
 Where he, in truth, had been too long neglected. 
 Thinking he should all on the sudden rise. 
 From Basil's well-known love of valiant men ; 
 And now, because it still must be deferred. 
 He thinks you seek from envy to depress him. 
 And burns to be reveng'd. 
 
 BaSj Well, well This grieves me too 
 
 But let us go [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ir. 
 
 The ramparts of the Town. The Soldiers are dls^ 
 covered drawn up in a disorderly niariner, hollaing 
 and speaking big, and clashing their arms tumul- 
 tuously. 
 
 1st Sol. No, comrade, no, hell gape and swallow 
 
 me ! 
 If I do budge for such most dev'llsh orders. 
 2d. Sol. Huzza, brave comrades ! Who says 
 
 otherwise ? 
 3d. Sol. No one. huzza ! confound all treacherous 
 
 leaders ! 
 
 (The soldiers huzza and clash their arms.) 
 
J5ASIL : A TRAGEDY. H3 
 
 5th SoL Heav'n dart its fiery light'nlng on his 
 head ! 
 We're men, we are not cattle to be slaughtered ! 
 2d Sol. They who do long to caper high in air. 
 Into a thousand bloody fragments blown. 
 May follow our brave gen'ral. 
 
 \st SoL Curse his name ! 
 
 Fve fought for him till my strain'd nerves have 
 crack'd ! 
 id SoL We will command ourselves ; for Milan, 
 
 comrades. 
 5tJi SoL Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, 
 huzza 1 
 
 (j4ll the Soldiers cast ttp their caps 
 in the air, huzza.) 
 
 2d SoL Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits 
 us there, 
 And easy service : keep good hearts, my soldiers ! 
 The gen'ral comes, good hearts ! no flinching, 
 
 boys ! 
 Look bold and fiercely ; we're the masters now. 
 
 (They all clash their arms and put on a fierce 
 threatening aspect to recei've their General, who 
 now enters, followed by Rosinberg and Officers, 
 Basil walks close along the front ranks of the Sol^ 
 diers, looking at them very steadfastly ; then re- 
 tires a few paces hack, and rai.wig his arm, speaks 
 with a very full loud voice,) 
 
 has. How is it, soldiers, that I see you thu^, 
 Assembled here, UTisummon'd by command ? 
 
144 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (A confused murmur is heard amonost 
 the Soldiers ; some of them call out) 
 But we command ourselves ; we wait no orders. 
 
 (A confused noise of voices is heard ^ aiid 
 one louder than the rest calls out) 
 Must we be butcher'd^ for that we are brave ? 
 
 (A loud clamour and clashing of armSy 
 then several voices call out) 
 Damn hidden treach'ry ! we defy thy orders. 
 
 Fred'rick shall lead us now 
 
 (Other voices call out.) 
 We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march. 
 
 Bas. (waving his hand, and heckoni7ig them to hs 
 silent^ speaks with a very loud voice,) 
 Yes, march where'er ye list, for Milan march. 
 Sol. Hear him, hear him ! 
 
 (The muj'mur ceases — a short pause.) 
 Bas. Yes, march where'er ye list, for Milan 
 march, 
 But as banditti, not as soldiers go ; 
 For on this spot of earth I will disband, 
 And take from you the rank and name of soldiers. 
 
 (A great clamour amongst the ranks 
 
 some call out) 
 What wear we arms for ? 
 
 (Others call' out) 
 No, he dares not do it. 
 (One voice very loud) 
 Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil ! 
 
 (Several of the soldiers brandish their arms^ and 
 
 5 
 
basil: a tragedy. 145 
 
 tltr eaten to attack him; the Officers gather round 
 Basil, and draw their swords to defend him.) 
 Bas, Pat up your swords^ my friends, it must 
 not be. 
 I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone. 
 
 Eos, What, shall we calmly stand and see thee 
 
 butcher'd ? 
 Bas, f very earnestly.) Pat up, my friends. {^0^- 
 cers still persist.) What are you rebels too ? 
 Will no one here his gen'ral's voice Obey ? 
 I do command you to put up your swords. 
 Retire, and at a distance wait th' event. 
 Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine. 
 
 (Officers retire, 'Very unwillingly, Basil waves them 
 off with his hand till they are all gone, then walks 
 up to the front of his Soldiers, who still hold 
 themselves in a threatening posture.) 
 Soldiers ! we've fought together in the field. 
 And bravely fought i'the face of horrid death. 
 At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on ; 
 Nor do I know the man of all your bands. 
 That ever poorly from the trial shrunk. 
 Or yielded to the foe contended space. 
 Am I the meanest then of all my troops. 
 That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats. 
 To move me now ? Pat up those paltry weapons'^; 
 They edgeless are to him who fears them not : 
 Rocks have been shaken from the solid base ; 
 Bat what shall move a firm and dauntless mind r 
 Put up your swords, or dare the threaten 'd deed- 
 Obey, or murder me 
 
146 BASIL ; A TRAGEDYo 
 
 (A confused murmur — some of the soldiers 
 call eut.) 
 March us to Milan^ and we will obey thee. 
 
 (Others §all out,) 
 Ay, march us there, and be our leader still. 
 
 Bas. Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command 
 ye; 
 And where I do command, there shall you go^ 
 But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate 
 E'en half a furlong from your destin'd way. 
 To seize the golden booty of the east. 
 Think not to gain, or temporize with me ; 
 For should I this day's mutiny survive. 
 Much as Fve lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find me 
 Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance ; 
 Tremendous, cruel, military vengence. 
 There is no mean — a desp'rate game ye play. 
 Therefore I say obey, or murder me. 
 Do as ye will, but do it manfully. 
 He is a coward who doth threaten me, 
 The man who slays me, but an angry soldier. 
 Acting in passion, like the frantick son, 
 Who struck his sire and wept. 
 
 (Soldiers call oat,) It was thyself who sought to 
 murder us. 
 
 1^/ Sol. You have unto the Emp'rour pledg'd 
 your faith. 
 To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service : 
 You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood, 
 And we have shed our dearest blood for you. 
 
 Bas, Hear me, my soldiers 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEBY. 147 
 
 Q.d Sol. No, hear him not, he means to cozen 
 you. 
 
 Fred'rick will do you right — 
 
 f Endeavouring to stir up a noise and confusion 
 
 amongst them.) 
 Bus, What cursed fiend art thou, cast out 
 
 from hell 
 To spirit up rebellion ? damned villain 1 
 
 (Sei%es upon id soldier, drags him out from the 
 ranks, and wrests his arms from him ; then takes 
 a pistol from his side, and holds it to his head) 
 Stand there, damn'd, meddling villain, and be 
 
 silent ; 
 For if thou utt'rest but a single word, 
 A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech, 
 ril send thy cursed spirit from the earth. 
 To bellow with the damn'd ! 
 
 (The soldiers keep a dead silence — after a pause ^ 
 Basil resumes his speech.) 
 
 Listen to me, my soldiers — 
 
 You say that I am to the Emp'rour pledg'd 
 To lead you foremost in all despVate service. 
 For now you call it not the path of glory ; 
 And if in this I have offended you, 
 I do indeed repent me of the crime. 
 But new from battles, where my native troops 
 So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart. 
 And boasted of you, boasted foolishly, 
 I said fair glory's palm ye would not yield 
 To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms. 
 I swore the meanest man of all my troops 
 
 L 2 
 
148 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Would never shrink before an armed host. 
 
 If honour bade him stand. My royal master 
 
 Smil'd at the ardour of my heedless words. 
 
 And promised, when occasion claim'd our arms. 
 
 To put them to the proof. 
 
 But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love. 
 
 Safe and ignoble service — be it so — 
 
 Forgive me that I did mistake you thus. 
 
 But do not earn with savage mutiny, 
 
 Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march. 
 
 To join the royal army near its walls ; 
 
 And there with blushing forehead will I plead. 
 
 That ve are men with warlike service worn. 
 
 Requiring case and rest. Some other chief. 
 
 Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sounds 
 
 Will in your rearward station head you then. 
 
 And so, my friends, we'll part. As for myself^ 
 
 A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks, 
 
 I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fellows. 
 
 Than be the leader of a sordid band. 
 
 (A great tnurinur rises amongst the ranks ^ soU 
 dlers call out) 
 
 We will not part, no, no, we will not part. 
 
 (All call out together) 
 We will not part, be thou our gen'ral still. 
 
 Bas. How can I be your gen'ral ? ye obey 
 As caprice moves you ; I must be obey'd 
 As honest men against themselves perform 
 A sacred oath. — 
 
 Some other chief will more indulgent prove — 
 You're wcarv s:rown — I've been too hard a master. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 149 
 
 Soldiers, Thyself, and only thee, will wc obey. 
 Bas, But if you follow me, yourselves yc pledge 
 Unto no easy service : — hardships, toils. 
 The hotest dangers of most dreadful fight 
 Will be your portion ; and when all is o'er, 
 Each, like his genVal, must contented be 
 Home to return again, a poor brave soldier. 
 How say ye now ? I spread no tempting lure — - 
 A better fate than this, I promise none. 
 Soldiers, We'll follow Basil. 
 Bas. What token of obedience will ye give ? 
 
 (A deep pause.) 
 Soldiers, lay down your arms ! 
 
 (They all lay down their arms.) 
 If any here are weary of the service. 
 Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall have 
 A free discharge, and passport to their homes ; 
 And from my scanty fortune I'll make good 
 The well-earn'd pay their royal master owes them. 
 Let those who follow me their arms resume. 
 
 (They all resume their arms.) 
 (Basil, holding up his hands.) High heaven be 
 
 prais'd ! 
 I had been griev'd to part Vv'ith you, my soldiers. 
 Here is a letter from my gracious master. 
 With offers of preferment in the north. 
 Most high preferment, which I did refuse. 
 For that I would not leave my gallant troops. 
 
 (Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst 
 them.) 
 
i50 ^ basil: a tragedy. 
 
 (A great commotion amongst the soldiers ; majiy 
 of them quit their ranhs, and croud about 
 htm^ calling out,) 
 Our gallant gen'ral ! 
 
 (Others call out) 
 We'll spend our hearts' blood for thee, noble Basil ! 
 has. And so you thought me false ? this bites 
 to th' quick ! 
 My soldiers thought me false ! 
 
 (They all quit their ranks^ and croud eagerly 
 around him, Basil waving them off with, his 
 hands.) 
 Away, away, you have disgusted me \ 
 
 (Soldiers retire to their ranks.) 
 'Tis well — retire, and hold yourselves prepared 
 To march upon command ; nor meet again 
 Till you are summon'd by the beat of drum. 
 Some secret enemy has tampered with you. 
 For yet I will not think that in these ranks, 
 There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart. 
 
 (The soldiers hegin to march off^ and musick 
 strikes up.) 
 Bas, (holding up his hand.) Cease, cease trium- 
 phant sounds. 
 Which our brave fathers, men without reproach, 
 Rais'd in the hour of triumph ; but this horn- 
 To us no glory brings — 
 Then silent be your march — ere that again 
 Our steps to glorious strains like these shall move 
 A day of dattle o'er our heads must pass. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 151 
 
 And blood be shed to wash out this day's stain. 
 
 [Exeunt soldiers^ silent and dejected. 
 
 Enter Frederick, who starts hack on seeing Basil 
 
 alo7ie, 
 
 Bas. Advance, lieutenant ; wherefore shrink ye 
 back ? 
 Fve ever seen you bear your head erect. 
 And front your man, tho* arm'd with frowning 
 
 death. 
 Have you done ought the valiant should not do ? 
 I fear you have. (Fred, looks confused,) 
 
 With secret art, and false insinuation. 
 The simple untaught soldiers to seduce 
 From their sworn duty, might become the base. 
 Become the coward well ; but O ! what villain 
 Had the cursed pow*r t'engage thy valiant worth 
 In such a work as this ; 
 
 Fred. Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise 
 On a neglected pitiful subaltern ? 
 It were a libel on his royal master ; 
 A fool reproach upon fair fortune cast. 
 To call me valiant : 
 
 And surely he has been too much their debtor 
 To mean them this rebuke. 
 
 Bas» Is nature then so sparing of her gifts. 
 That it is wonderful when they are found 
 Where fortune smiles not ? 
 Thou art by nature brave, and so am I, 
 5ut in those distant ranks moves there not one 
 
 (Pointing ojfthe stage,) 
 
152 basil: a tragedy. ^ 
 
 Of high ennobled soul, by nature form'd 
 
 A hero and commander, who will;, yet. 
 
 In his untrophied grave forgotten lie 
 
 With meaner men ? I dare be sworn there doe$. 
 
 Fred, What need of words ? I crave of thee no 
 
 favour. 
 
 I have offended against armed law. 
 
 And shrink not from my doom. 
 
 Bas, I know thee well, I know thou fear'st not 
 
 death ; 
 
 On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast 
 
 Thou wilt engage him : and, if thy proud soul. 
 
 In sullen obstinacy scorns all grace, 
 
 E'en be it so. But if with manly gratitude 
 
 Thou truly canst receive a brave man's pardon. 
 
 Thou hast it freely. 
 
 Fred. It must not be. I've been thine enemy-— 
 
 I've been unjust to thee— 
 
 Bas, I know thou hast ^ 
 
 But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all. 
 
 Fred, My lord ! my genVal ! Oh I cannot 
 
 speak ! . 
 
 I cannot live and be the wretch I am ! 
 
 Bas, But thou canst live, and be an honest man 
 
 From crrour turn'd^ — canst live and be my friend. 
 
 (Raising Fred./rc*?;/ th^ ground.) 
 
 Forbear, forbear ! sec where our friends advance ; 
 
 They must not think thee suing for a pardon ; 
 
 That would disgrace us both. Yet, ere they come. 
 
 Tell me, if that thou may'st with honour tell, 
 
 What did seduce thee from thy loyal faith J 
 
 6 
 
basil: a tragedy. 153 
 
 Fred, No cunning traitor did my faith attempt. 
 For then I had withstood him : but of late, 
 I know no how — a bad and restless spirit 
 Has work'd within my breast, and made me 
 
 wretched. 
 Tve lent mine ear to foolish idle tales, 
 Of very zealous, tho' but new-made friends. 
 
 Bas. Softly, our friends approach — of this again, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in Basil's lodgings. Enter Basii* 
 
 and RosiNBERG. 
 
 Ros, Thank heaven I am now alone with thee. 
 Last night I sought thee with an anxious mind. 
 And cursed thine ill-timed absence — 
 There's treason in this most deceitful court 
 Against thee plotting, and this morning s tumult 
 JIath been its damn'd effect. 
 
 Bas, Poo, poo, my friend ; 
 
 The nature of man's mind too well thou know'st. 
 To judge as vulgar hood-wink'd statesmen do ; 
 Who ever with their own poor wiles misled. 
 Believe each popular tumult or commotion. 
 Must be the work of deep-laid policy. 
 Poor, mean, mechanick souls, who little know 
 A few short words of energetick force. 
 Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd. 
 The animating sight of something noble. 
 Some fond trait of the mem'ry finely wak'd. 
 
154 BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 A sound, a simple song without design. 
 In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions. 
 All grand events, have oft effected more 
 Than deepest cunning of their paltry art. 
 Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine. 
 Who loves not fighting, hath harangued his mates. 
 For they in truth some hardships have endured. 
 Wherefore in this should we suspect the court ? 
 Ros, Ah ! there is something, friend, in Man- 
 tua's court. 
 Will make the blackest trait of barefaced treason 
 Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye. 
 
 Bas. Nay, 'tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg, 
 Which makes thy mind so jealous and distrustful. 
 Why should the duke be false ? 
 
 Ros. Because he is a double, crafty prince — 
 Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly. 
 That he in some dark treaty is engaged. 
 E'en with our master's enemy the Frank. 
 Bas, And so thou think'st — 
 Ros, Nay, hear me to the end. 
 
 Last night that good and honourable dame. 
 Noble Albini, with most friendly art. 
 From the gay clam'rous throng my steps beguiled, 
 Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace. 
 Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend. 
 To tell him hidden danger waits him here. 
 And warn him well fair Mantua's court to leave. 
 She said she loved thee much; and hadst thou seen 
 How anxiously she urg'd — 
 
 Bas, ( inter ruptifig Mfn.J By heav'n and earth. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 155 
 
 There is a ray of light breaks thro' thy tale. 
 
 And I could leap like madmen in their freaks. 
 
 So blessed is the gleam ! Ah ! no, no, no ! 
 
 It cannot be, alas ! it cannot be. 
 
 Yet didst thou say she urged it earnestly ? 
 
 She is a woman, who avoids all share 
 
 In secret politicks ; one only charge 
 
 Her int'rest claims, Victoria's guardian friend — 
 
 And she would have me hence — it must be so. 
 
 O ! would it were ! how saidst thou, gentle Ro- 
 
 sinberg ? 
 She urged it earnestly — how did she urge It ? 
 Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus. 
 But tell me all her words — what said she else ? 
 
 Ros. O Basil ! I could laugh to see thy folly^ 
 But that thy weakness doth provoke me so. 
 Most admirable, brave, determin'd man 1 
 So well, so lately try'd, what art thou now ? 
 A vain deceitful thought transports thee thus. 
 Thinkst thou 
 
 Bas. I will not tell thee what I think. 
 
 Ros. But I can guess it well, and it deceives 
 thee. 
 Leave this detested place, this fatal court. 
 Where damn'd deceitful cunning plots thy ruin. 
 A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. 
 The time is critical. How wilt thou feel 
 When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear. 
 That brave Piscaro, and his royal troops, 
 Dur valiant fellows, have the en'my fought. 
 Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'ring here ? 
 
156 UASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Bas. Thou dost disturb thy brain with fancied 
 fears. 
 Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice 
 That one short day should be of all this moment 5 
 And yet this one short day will be to me 
 Worth years of other time. 
 
 Ros. Nay, rather say, 
 
 A day to darken all thy days beside. 
 Confound the fatal beauty of that woman. 
 Which has bewitch'd thee so ! 
 
 Bas, 'Tis most ungenVous 
 
 To push me thus with rough unspairing hand, - 
 Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. 
 It is unfriendly, 
 
 Eos. God knows my heart ! I would not give 
 thee pain ; 
 But it disturbs me, Basil, vexes me. 
 To see thee so enthralled by a woman. 
 If she is fair, others are fair as she. 
 Some other face will like emotions raise. 
 When thou canst better play a lover's part : 
 But for the present, — fye upon it, Basil ! 
 
 Bas. \¥hat, is it possible thou hast beheld. 
 Hast tarried by her too, her converse shared. 
 Yet talkst as tho' she were a common fair-one. 
 Such as a man may fiincy and forget ? 
 Thou art not, sure, so dull and brutish grawn ; 
 It is not so, thou dost belie thy thoughts, 
 And vainly try'st to gain me with the cheat. 
 
 Ilos, So thinks each lover of the maid he loves. 
 Yet in their lives some many maidens love. 
 
SASIL : A TRAGEDY. 157 
 
 Curse on it ! leave this town and be a soldier ! 
 
 Bas, Have done, have done ! why dost thou 
 bait me thus ? 
 Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosinberg. 
 What claim hast thou my actions to controul ? 
 ril Mantua leave when it is fit I should. 
 
 Ros, Then, 'faith ! 'tis fitting thou shouldst 
 leave it now ; 
 Ay, on the instant. Is't not desperation 
 To stay, and hazard ruin on thy fame, 
 Tho' yet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure. 
 No lover breathes without ? thou hast no hope. 
 
 Bas, What dost thou mean — curse on the 
 paltry thought ! 
 That I should count and bargain with my heart. 
 Upon the chances of unstinted favour. 
 As little souls their base-bred fancies feed ? 
 
 ! WTre I conscious that within her breast 
 
 1 held some portion of her dear regard, 
 Tho' pent for life within a prison's walls. 
 Where thro' my grate I yet might sometimes see 
 E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun ; 
 
 Tho plac'd by flite where som^ obstructing bound, 
 
 Some deep impassable between us roU'd, 
 
 And I might yet from some high tow'ring cliff, 
 
 Perceive her distant mansion from afar, 
 
 Or mark its blue smoke rising q,y^ and morn ; 
 
 Nay, tho' within the circle of the moon 
 
 Some spell did fix her, never to return. 
 
 And I might wander in the hours of night. 
 
 And upward turn my ever-gazing eye, 
 
158 basil: a tragedy; 
 
 Fondly to mark upon its varied disk. 
 Some little spot th^t might her dwelling be ; 
 My fond, my fixed heart would still adore 
 And own no other love. Away, away ! 
 How canst thou say to one who loves like me. 
 Thou hast no hope ? 
 
 Ros, But with such hope, my friend, how 
 stand thy fears ? 
 Are they so well refin'd ? How wilt thou bear 
 Ere long to hear that some high favour'd prince 
 Has won her heart, her hand, has married her ? 
 Tho' now unshackled, will it always be ? 
 
 Bas, By heav'n thou dost contrive but to tor- 
 ment ! 
 And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st. 
 There is malignity in what thou says't. 
 
 Ros. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, 
 That fain would save thee from the yawning gulph^ 
 To which blind passion guides thy heedless steps. 
 
 Bas, Go, rather save thyself 
 From the weak passion which has seiz'd thy breast, 
 T' assume authority with sage-like brow. 
 And shape my actions by thine own caprice. 
 I can direct myself — 
 
 Ros. Yes, do thyself. 
 
 And let no artful woman do it for thee. 
 
 Bas. I scorn thy thought: it is beneath my 
 scorn ; 
 It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman ! 
 O 1 she has all the loveliness of heav'n. 
 And all its goodness too ! 
 
basil: a tragedy. , I5g 
 
 Ros. I mean not to impute dishonest arts. 
 I mean not to impute — 
 
 Bas, No^ Yaith, thou canst not, 
 
 Ros, What, can I not ? their arts all women have. 
 But now of this no more ; it moves thee greatly. 
 Yet once again, as a most loving friend. 
 Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour, 
 A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame. 
 What noble spirits love, and well I know 
 Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place. 
 And give thy soldiers orders for the march. 
 
 Bas, Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me 
 thus, 
 Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too. 
 
 Ros. What, hath this passion in so short a space, 
 
 O ! curses on it ! so far changed thee, Basil, 
 
 That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth. 
 
 The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend ? 
 
 Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids 
 
 Would not have moved me thus to treat my friend. 
 
 My best, mine earliest friend I 
 
 Bas. Say kinsman rather, chance has link'd us so: 
 
 Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far ; 
 
 No act of choice did e'er unite our souls. 
 
 Men most unlike we are ; our thoughts unlike ; 
 
 My breast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! have I then so long, so dearly loved 
 thee; 
 
 So often, with an elder brother's care. 
 
 Thy childish rambles tended, shared thy sports ; 
 
 Fiird up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task ; 
 
 2 
 
l6o basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of 
 
 strength ; 
 With boastful pride thine early rise beheld 
 In glory's paths, contented then to fill 
 A second place, so I might serve with thee ; 
 And say'st thou now, I am no friend of thine ? 
 Well, be it so ; I am thy kinsman then, 
 And by that title will I save thy name 
 From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will ; 
 I'll lay mc down and feign that I am sick. 
 And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign, 
 For thy unkindncss makes me so indeed : 
 It will be said that Basil tarried here 
 To save his friend, for so they'll call me still ; 
 Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name 
 For such a kindly deed. — 
 
 (^Basil 'walks up and down in great agitation^ 
 then stops, covers his face ivilh his hands, 
 and seems to he overcome, Ilosinbcrg looks 
 at him earnestly, 
 
 O ! blessed heav'n, he weeps 1 
 (Runs lip to him, and catches him in his arms.) 
 O Basil ! I have been too hard upon (hce. 
 And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus ? 
 
 ^as, (in a convulsed broken voice.) I will re- 
 nounce — I'll leave — ■ 
 Ros, What says my Basil ? 
 
 Basl I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat of 
 bliss — 
 This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain — 
 
basil: a tragedy. l5l 
 
 Cast otT at once my little span of joy — 
 
 Bo wretched — miserable — whatever thoa wilt — 
 
 Dost thou forgive me ? 
 
 Ros. O mr friend ; my friend \ 
 
 I love rhce now nnorc than I ever laved tbee. 
 I must bo cruel to thee to be kind : 
 Each j)j: :: I see thee feel strikes thro' my heart; 
 Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit, 
 And meet the blow at once — thy troops are ready — 
 Let us depart, nor lose another hour. 
 
 (Basil shr'viks frr^m his an?is, an J looks at 
 him mth soniexvhat of an uphraiiimg, af 
 the same imie a sorrcrjcfid look). 
 Bas, Nay, put me not to death upon the 
 instant ; 
 m see her once agam, and then depart. 
 
 Ros, See her but once again, and thou art ruin'd! 
 It must not be — if thou reg^ardest me — 
 
 Bas. Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no 
 
 mercy 1 
 Ros. Ah I thou wilt bless me all thine after-life 
 For mhat now seems to thee so merciless. 
 
 Bas. (sitting down very dejectedly.) Mine after- 
 life ! what is mine after-life ? 
 ]Mv dav is closed ! the (jloom of nieht is come ! 
 A hopeless darkness settles o'er mv fate. 
 I've seen the last look of her heav'ulv eyes, 
 I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice, 
 Fve seen her fair form from ray sight depart ; 
 My doom is closed ! 
 
 M 
 
}62 ea^il: a tragedy. 
 
 Ros. (hanging over h'lm with pfy and affection.) 
 Alas ! my friend ! 
 
 Bas. In all her lovely grace she disappear'd. 
 Ah ! little thought I never to return ! 
 
 Ros. Why so desponding ? thing of warlike 
 glory. 
 The fields of fair renow^n are still before thee ; 
 Who would not burn such noble fame to earn ? 
 
 Bas, What now are arms, or fair renown to me? 
 Strive for it those who will — and yet a while 
 Welcome rough war, with all thy scenes of blood. 
 
 (starting from his seat.) 
 Thy roaring thunders, and thy clashing steel. 
 Welcome once more 1 what have I now to do 
 But play the brave man o'er again, and die ? 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Isah, (to Bas.) My princess bids me greet you, 
 
 noble Count 
 Bas, (starting.) What dost thou say ? 
 Ros, Damn this untimely message 1 
 
 Isab, The princess bids me greet you, noble 
 
 Count : 
 In the cool grove, hard by the southern gate. 
 She with her train — 
 
 Bas, What, she indeed, herself? 
 
 Isah. Herself, my lord, and she requests to see 
 
 you. 
 Bas, Thank hcav'n for this ! I will be there 
 
 anon. 
 
basil: a tragedy* i63 
 
 Rr>s. (taking hold of him.) Stay^ stay, and do not 
 
 be a madman still. 
 Bas, Let go thy hold ; what, must I be a brute, 
 A very brute to please thee ? no, by heav'n ! 
 
 (Breaks from him afid Exit.) 
 Ros, (striking his forehead.) All lost again ! black 
 curses light upon her ! 
 
 (Turning eagerly to Isab.) 
 And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here 
 To make appointments, honourable dame ? 
 
 Isah» Not so, my lord, you m.ust not call it so ; 
 The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria 
 Would have your noble gen'ral of her train. 
 
 Ros, Confound these women, and their artful 
 snares. 
 Since men will be such fools ! 
 
 Isah. Yes, grumble at our empire as your will — > 
 Ros. What, boast ye of it ? empire do ye call it ? 
 It is your shame ! a short-lived tyranny, 
 That ends at last in hatred and contempt. 
 
 Isah. Nay, but some women do so wisely rule, 
 Their subjects never from the yoke escape. 
 
 Ros. Some women do, but they are rarely found. 
 There is not one in all yonr paltry court 
 Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task. 
 'Faith ! of you all, not one, but brave Albini, 
 And she disdains it. — Good be with you, lady ! 
 
 (Going.) 
 Isah, O ! would I could but touch that stub- 
 born heart, 
 
 M 2 
 
i64 BASIL : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn. 
 
 [Exeunt severally^ 
 
 V 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 ji Summer Apartment in the Country, the 'window s 
 of which look to a forest. Enter Victoria in 
 a hunting dress, follozved by Albini and Isa- 
 bella^ speaking as they enter, 
 
 Vict, (to Alb.) And so you will not share our 
 sport to-day ? 
 
 Alb, My days of frolick should ere this be o'er. 
 But thou^ my charge, has kept me youthful still. 
 I should most gladly go, but, since the dawn^ 
 A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart, 
 I cannot hunt to-day. 
 
 Vict, I'll stay at home and nurse thee, dear 
 Albini. 
 
 Alb, No, no, thou shalt not stay. 
 
 Vict, Nay, but I will. 
 
 I cannot follow to the cheerful horn 
 Whilst thou art sick at home. 
 
 Alb, Not very sick. 
 
 Kather than thou shouldst stay, my gentle child, 
 I'll mount my horse, and go e'en as I am. 
 
 Vict, Nay, then I'll go, and soon return again. 
 Meanwhile, do thou be careful of thyself. 
 
 Isab. Hark, hark ! the shrill horn call us to the 
 field. 
 Your highness hears it ? (musick without,) 
 
 Vict, Yes, my Isabella, 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. l65 
 
 I hear It, and metbinks e'en at the sound 
 I vault already on my leathern seat. 
 And feel the fiery steed beneath me shake 
 His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth ; 
 Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace. 
 The low salute of gallant lords return ; 
 Who waiting round wi^^^h eager watchful eye. 
 And reined steeds, the happy moment seize. 
 
 1 didst thou never hear, my Isabell, 
 JIow noble Basil in the field becomes 
 13 is fiery courser's back ? 
 
 Jsal^, They say most gracefully. 
 
 ^il?. What, is the valiant Count not yet de- 
 parted ? 
 
 FIcL You would not have our gallant Basil go 
 When I have bid him stay ? not so, Albini. 
 
 j4Il?. Fye ! reigns that spirit still so strongly in 
 thee. 
 Which vainly covets all men's admiration^ 
 And is to others cause of cruel pain ? 
 O! would thou couldst subdue it! 
 
 Fict. My gentle friend, thou sbouldst not be 
 severe :. 
 For now in truth I love not admiration 
 As I was wont to do ; in truth I do not. 
 But yet, this once my woman's heart excuse. 
 For there is something strange in this man's love 
 
 1 never met before, and I must prove it. 
 
 ^/^. Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself. 
 And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell. 
 
l66 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Vkt, O no ! that will not be 1 'twill peace re- 
 store ; 
 For after this, all folly of the kind 
 Will quite insipid and disgusting seem; 
 And so I shall become a prudent maid. 
 And passing wise at last, (mus'ick heard without.) 
 Hark, hark ! again ! 
 All good be w^ith you ! I'll return ere long. 
 
 [Exeunt Victoria and Isabella. 
 Alh. (solus.) Ay, go, and evVy blessing with 
 thee go, * 
 
 My most tormenting, and most pleasing charge ! 
 Like vapour, from the mountain stream art thou, 
 Which lightly rises on the morning air. 
 And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze. 
 For ever varying, and for ever graceful. 
 Endearing, genVous, bountiful and kind; 
 Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise; 
 
 Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent; 
 
 And yet these adverse qualities in thee. 
 
 No dissonance, nor striking contrast make; 
 
 For still thy good and amiable gifts 
 
 The sober dignity of virtue wear not. 
 
 And such a 'witching mien thy follies shew. 
 
 They make a very idiot of reproof, 
 
 And smile it to disgrace — 
 
 What shall I do with thee ? — It grieves me much 
 
 To hear Count Basil is not yet departed. 
 
 When from the chace he comes, Fll watch his 
 steps. . ■ 
 
 And speak to him myself — 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. l67 
 
 O! I could hate her for that poor ambition 
 
 Which silly adoration only claims, 
 
 But that I well remember, in my youth 
 
 I felt the like — I did not feel it long : 
 
 I tore it soon, indignant from my breast. 
 
 As that which did degrade a noble mind. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A very heauf'iful Grove in the forest, Musick and^ 
 horns heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs 
 appear passing over the stage^ at a great dis- 
 tance. Enter Victoria, and Basil, as if just 
 alighted front their horses, 
 
 Vict, (speaking to attendants vjithoiit.) Lead on 
 our horses to the further grove. 
 And wait us there — 
 
 (to Bas. J This spot so pleasing, and so fragrant Is, 
 'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear 
 Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance. 
 And fliiries sport beneath the summer's moon : 
 I love to tread upon it. 
 
 Bas. O ! I would quit the chariot of a god 
 For such delightful footing ! 
 
 Vict. I love this spot. 
 
 Bas. It is a spot where one would live and die. 
 
 Vict. See, thro' tl:^ twisted boughs of those 
 high elms. 
 The sun-beams on thebright'ning foliage play. 
 And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brow^n. 
 Is it not beautiful ? 
 
i68 basil: a teagedy, 
 
 Bas. 'Tis passing beautifu! 
 
 To see the sun-beams on the foliage play, 
 
 (In a soft voice.) 
 And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 
 
 Vici, And here Fve stood full often^ and ad- 
 mired 
 The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool. 
 Of yon green willow, whose fair svveepy boughs 
 •So kiss their image on the glassy plain, 
 And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 
 
 Bas, And I too love to see its drooping boughs 
 So kiss their image on the glassy plain, 
 And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 
 
 Vict. My lord, it is uncivil in you thus 
 My very words with mock'ry to repeat. 
 
 Bus. Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat ? 
 I meant it not ; but when I hear thee speak. 
 So sweetly dwells thy voice upon mine hear. 
 My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone; 
 As mothers on their lisping infants gaze. 
 And catch their broken Vv'ords. I pri'thee, pardon ! 
 
 yict. But we must leave this grove : the birds 
 fly low ; 
 This should forbode a storm, and yet o'erhead 
 The sky, bespread with little downy clouds 
 Ot purest white, v/ould seem to promise peace. 
 How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds ! 
 
 Bas. Of a most dazzling brightness ! 
 
 Flct^ Nay, nay, a veil that tempers hcayen's 
 brightness. 
 Of softest, purest white« 
 
basil: a tragedy. 169 
 
 Bas, As tbo* an angel, in his upward flight. 
 
 Had left his mantle floating in mid-air, 
 
 FicL Still most unhke a garment^ small and 
 
 sever' d, 
 
 (Turning round, cjnd fiercehing that he is gaz^ 
 
 ing at her,) 
 
 But thou regard'st them not, 
 
 Bas. Ah ! what should I regard, where should 
 
 I gaze ? 
 
 For in that far-shot glance, so keenly waked. 
 
 That sweetly rising smile of admiration. 
 
 Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is. 
 
 Than if I gazed upon the blue serene. 
 
 Fict. Remember you have promised, gentle 
 
 Count, 
 
 No more to vex me with such foolish words. 
 
 Bas, Ah ! v;herefore should my tongue alone 
 
 be mute ? 
 
 When every look and every motion tell. 
 
 So plainly tell, and will not be forbid. 
 
 That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee ! 
 
 (Victoria looks haughty and displeased,) 
 
 Ah ! pardon me, I know not what I say. 
 
 Ah ! frown not tluis ! I cannot see thee frown. 
 
 I'll do whate'er thou v/ilt, I will be silent ; 
 
 ButO ! a reined tongue, and bursting heart. 
 
 Are hard at once to bear — wilt thou forgive me ? 
 
 Fict. We'll think no more of it ; we'll quit this 
 
 spot ; • 
 
 I do repent me that I led thee here. 
 
 But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend: 
 
 2 
 
170 easil: a teagedy. 
 
 Here, many a time we wander'd, arm in arm ; 
 
 We loved this grove, and now that he is absent, 
 
 I love to haunt it still. (Basil starts.) 
 
 Bas. Flis fav'rite path — a friend — here arm in 
 arm — 
 
 (Clasping his }ia7ids, and raising them to his 
 
 head.) 
 
 Then there is such an one! 
 
 (Drooping his head, and looking distractedly 
 upon the ground.) 
 
 I dream'd not of it. 
 J'lct, (pretending not to see him.) That little lane, 
 with woodbine all o'ergrovvn. 
 He loved so well 1 — it is a fragrant path, 
 Is it not, Count ? i 
 
 Bas. It is a gloomy one ! 
 
 Vict, I have, my lord, been wont to think it 
 
 cheerful. 
 Bas. I thought your highness meant to leave 
 
 this spot ? 
 Vict. I do, and by this lane we'll take our way ; 
 For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace. 
 And jisten'd to the woodlark's evening song. 
 
 Bas. What must I on his very footsteps go ? 
 Accursed be the c^round on which he trod ! 
 
 Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown_, 
 That be would curse my brother to my face ? 
 Bas. Your brother ! gracious god 1 is it your 
 brother ? 
 That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke. 
 Is he indeed your brother ? 
 
basil: a tragedy. 171 
 
 F7cf, He is indeed^ my lord. 
 
 Bas, Then heaven bless him ! all good angels 
 bless him ! 
 I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him ! 
 I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! 
 
 (IFalks up and down with a hurried step, 
 tossing about his arms in transport ; then 
 stops shorty and runs up to Victoria.) 
 Is it indeed your brother ? 
 
 Vict, It is indeed : what thoughts disturbed 
 
 thee so ? 
 Bas, I will not tell thee ; foolish thoughts they 
 were. 
 Heav'n bless your brother ! 
 
 Vict, Ay, heav'n bless him too! 
 
 I have but him ; would I had too brave brothers. 
 And thou wert one of them. 
 
 Bas, I would fly from thee to earth's utmost 
 bounds, 
 Were I thy brother — 
 And yet, methinks, I would I had a sister. 
 Vict. And vvherefore would ye ? 
 Bas, To place her near thee. 
 
 The soft companion of thy hours to prove. 
 And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. 
 Thou couldst not ch^de a gentle sister's cares. 
 Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war. 
 Uncertain talcs of dreadful slaughter bore, 
 Thou'dst gee the tear hang on her pale wan cheek. 
 And kindly say, how does it fare with Basil ? 
 
i7'*i EASiL; A TKAGEDY. 
 
 'Vict, No more of this — indeed there must no 
 
 more. 
 A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee. 
 But see where Isabella this way comes, 
 I bad a wish to speak with her alone. 
 Auend us here, for soon will we return. 
 And then take horse again. - [Exit. 
 
 Bas. (looking after her for some time.) See with 
 
 Avhat graceful steps she moves along, 
 Her lovely form in evVy action lovely. 
 If but the wind her ruffled garment raise. 
 It twists it into some light pretty fold, 
 Wliich adds new grace. Or should some small 
 
 mishap. 
 Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange. 
 What would in others strange, or awkward seem. 
 But lends to her some wild bewitching charm. 
 Sec, yonder does she raise her lovely arm 
 To pluck the dangling hcdge-flow'r as she goes ; 
 And now she turns her head, as tho' she view'd 
 The distant landscape; now methinks she walks 
 With doubtful ling'ring steps — will she look back? 
 Ah rjo ! yon thicket hides her from my sight. 
 Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still. 
 Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the Inst ! 
 And yet she said she would remember me. 
 I will believe it ; Ah ! I must believe it, 
 Or be the saddest soul that sees the light ! 
 ,But lo ! a messenger, and from the army ; 
 He brings me tidings ; grant they may be good 1 
 Till now I never fear'd what man might utter ; 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 173 
 
 I dread his tale, God grant it may be good ! 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 From the army ? 
 
 Mess. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Bas, What tidings brings't thou ? 
 
 Mess, Th' imperial army, under brave Piscaro, 
 Have beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. 
 
 Bcis, Ha ! have they fought ? and is the battle o'er ? 
 
 Mess, Yes, conquered ; ta'en the French king 
 prisoner, 
 Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman, 
 Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword 
 Till, being one amidst surrounding foes. 
 His arm could do no more. 
 
 Bas, What dost thou say ? who is made prisoner? 
 What king did fight so well ? 
 
 Mess, The king of France. 
 
 Bas, Thou saidst — thy words do ring so in mine 
 ears, 
 I cannot catch their sense — the battle's o'er ? 
 
 Mess. It is, my lord. Piscaro staid your coming, 
 But could no longer stay. His troops were bold. 
 Occasion press'd him and they bravely fought — 
 They bravely fought, my lord ! 
 
 Bas, I hear, I hear thee. 
 
 Accursed am I, that it should wring my heart 
 To hear they bravely fought ! — 
 They bravely fought, whilst we lay lingering here, 
 O ! what a fated blow to strike me thus ! 
 Perdition ! shame ! diso;race 1 a damned blow ! 
 
174 BASIL: A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Mess. Tea thousand of the enemy are slain ; ^ 
 We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 
 I viewed the closing armies from afar ; 
 Their close pike ranks in goodly order spread. 
 Which seem VI, alas ! when that the fight was o'er. 
 Like the wild marfhes' crop of stately reeds. 
 Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me ! 
 When to the f.eld I came, what dismal sights ! 
 What waste of life 1 what heaps of bleeding slain \ 
 
 Bas, W^ould I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse. 
 Amid those heaps ! they fought, and we w^ere 
 absent ! 
 (Walks about distractedly^ then stops short.) 
 Who sent thee here ? 
 
 Mess. Piscaro sent me to inform Count Basil 
 He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave 
 To march his tardy troops to distant quarters. 
 
 Bas. He says so, does he ? well, it shall be so. 
 
 ' (Tosshig his arms distractedly.) 
 I will to quarters, narrow quarters go. 
 Where voice of war shall rouze me forth no more. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mess. I'll follow after him, he is distracted; 
 And yet he looks so v/ild I dare not do it. 
 
 Enter Victoria as if frightened^ followed hy 
 
 Isabella. 
 
 T^ict. (to Isab J Didst thou not mark him as he 
 
 pass'd thee too ? 
 
 Isah. I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps 
 
 I had no time. 
 
 1 
 
BASIL: A TRAGEDY* l75 
 
 Vict. I met him with a wild disordered air. 
 In furious haste ; he stopp'd distractedly, 
 And gazed upon me with a mournful look. 
 But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou ? 
 
 (To the Messenge?',) 
 I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings. 
 
 Mess, No, rather good as I should deem it, 
 madam, 
 Altho' unwelcome tidings to Count Basil. 
 Our army hath a glorious battle won ; 
 Ten thousand French are slain, their monarch 
 captive. 
 Plct. (to Mess.) Ah there it is ! he was not in 
 the fight. 
 Run after him I pray — nay, do not so — 
 Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg, 
 And bid him follow him — I pray thee run ! 
 
 Mess. Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not 
 well, 
 I will conduct you hence, and then Fll go. 
 
 yict. No, no, I'm well enough, I'm ver}^ well, 
 Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. 
 
 [Exit Messenger. 
 
 ! what a wretch am I ! I am to blame 1 
 
 1 only am to blame ! 
 
 Isab. Nay, wherefore say so ? 
 
 What have you done that others would not do ? 
 Vict, What have I done ? I've fool'd a noble 
 heart — 
 I've wreck'd a brave man's honour ! 
 
 [Exit, leoMing upon Isabella. 
 
176 basil: a tragedt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A dark niglit ; no vioon^ hut a feiv Stars 
 glimmering ; the stage represents (as much as can 
 le discovered for the darkness) a church-yard with 
 fart of a chapel^ and a wing of the ducal pcilace 
 adjoining to it. Enter Basil, with his hat off^ 
 his hair and his dress in disorder y stepping slowly , 
 and stopping several times to listen^ as if he was 
 afraid of meeting any one. 
 
 Bas. No sound Is liere : man is at rest, and I 
 May near his habitations venture forth, 
 Like some unblessed creature of the night. 
 Who dares not meet his face. — Her window's dark ; 
 No streaming light doth from her chamber beam. 
 That I once more may on her dwelling gaze. 
 And bless her still. All now is dark for me ! 
 
 (Pauses for some time, and looks upon the graves.} 
 How happy are the dead, who quietly rest 
 Beneath these stones ! each by his kindred laid. 
 Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those, 
 Who when alive his social converse shared : 
 And now perhaps some dear surviving friend 
 Doth here at times the grateful visit pay. 
 Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er. 
 And bless his mem'ry still ! — 
 But I, like a vile outcast of my kind, 
 In some lone spot must lay my unburied corse. 
 To rot above the earth ; where, if perchance 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 177 
 
 The steps of human wand'rer e'er approach. 
 He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place. 
 With dark imaginations frightful made, 
 The haunt of damned sprites. O ! cursed wretch 1 
 r the fair and honour'd field shouldst thou have 
 
 died, 
 Where brave friends, proudly smiling thro' their 
 
 tears, 
 Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay ! 
 
 (A light seen in Victoria's windoiv.) 
 But ha ! the wonted, welcome light appears. 
 How bright within I see her chamber wall ! 
 Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves, 
 A slender woman's form : it is herself! . 
 What means that motion of its clasped hands ? 
 That drooping head ? alas is she in sorrow ? 
 Alas ! thou sweet enchantress of the mind. 
 Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence 
 
 bliss. 
 Art thou unhappy too ? I've brought thee vv^oe ; 
 It is for me thou weep'st ! Ah ! were it so, 
 Fall'n as I am, I yet could life endure. 
 In some dark den from human sight conceal'd. 
 So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal. 
 To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch ! 
 She weeps thy shame, she wxeps, and scorns thee 
 
 too. 
 She moves again ; e'en darkly imaged thus. 
 How lovely is. that form ! 
 
 (Pauses, still hohng at the window,) 
 To be so near thee, and for ever parted ! • 
 
17S basil: a tragedy. 
 
 For ever lost ! what art thou now to me ? 
 Shall the departed gaze on thee again ? 
 Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour. 
 Whilst thou perceiv'st it not^ and thinkst perhaps 
 'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by ? 
 
 (Pauses aga'm^ and gazes at the window ^ 
 till the light disappears,) 
 'Tis gone, 'tis gone ! these eyes have seen their 
 
 last ! 
 The last impression of her heavenly form : 
 The last sight of those walls wherein she lives : 
 The last blest ray of light from human dwelling. 
 I am no more a being of this world. 
 Farewell 1 farewell ! all now is dark for me 1 
 Come fated deed ! come horrour and despair 1 
 Here lies my dreadful way. 
 
 Enter Geoffry, fro?n hehind a tomb, 
 
 Geof, O ! stay, my general ' 
 Bas, Art thou from the erave ? 
 
 Geof, O 1 my brave general ! do you know me 
 not ? 
 I am old Gcoifry, the old maimed soldier 
 You did so nobly honour. 
 
 Bas. Then^ thy way^, for thou art honourable ; 
 Thou hast no shame, thou needst not seek the 
 
 dark 
 Like fallen, famelcss mien. I pray thee go ! 
 
 Geof. Nay, speak not thus, my noble general ! 
 Ah ! speak not thus ! thou'rt brave, thou'rt 
 honoured still. 
 
basil: a tRAGEDY. 17Q 
 
 Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd 
 To beo'ertbrown with one iinbappy cbance. 
 I've beard of thy brave deeds witb swelling hearty 
 And yet sball live to cast my cap in air 
 At glorious tales , of tbee~ 
 
 Bas^ Forbear^ forbear ! tby words but wring 
 
 my soul. 
 Geo/. O ! pardon me ! I am old maimed 
 GeofFry. 
 
 ! do not eo ! I've but one hand to hold thee. 
 
 (Lay big JioIdof^?iS\\ as he attempts to go away» 
 Basil stops, and looks round zip on. him with 
 softness.) 
 Bas, Two would not bold so well, old honour'd 
 vet'ran ! 
 What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 Geof. Return^ my lord^ for love of blessed hea- 
 ven. 
 Seek not such deperate ways ! w^here would you 
 go? 
 Bas, Does Geoffrey ask where should a soldier 
 go 
 To hide disgrace ? there is no pkce but one. 
 
 (Struggling to get free. J 
 Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not 
 To do some violence to thy hoary head — 
 What, wilt thou not ? nay, then it must be so, 
 
 (Breaks violently from him, and Exit.) 
 Geof, Cursed, feeble hand ! he's gone to seek 
 perdition ! 
 
 1 cannot run. O 1 curse that stupid hind, 
 
 N 2 
 
ISO basil: a tragedy. 
 
 He should have met iiic here ! holla^ Fernando ! 
 
 Enter Fernando. 
 
 We've lost him^ he is gone ! he's broke from me ! 
 
 Did 1 not bid thee meet me early here, 
 
 For that he has been known to haunt this place? 
 
 Fer. Whieh way has he gone ? 
 
 Geo/. Towards the forest, if I guess aright. 
 But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg, 
 And he will follow him : run swiftly, man ! 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Wood^ wild and savage ; an entry to a cave^ very 
 much tayigled with brushwood, is seen in the hack- 
 ground. The time represents the dawn of 7iiorn^ 
 ing, Basil is discovered standing near the front 
 of the stage in a thoughtful posture , with a cou- 
 ple of pistols laid by him, on a piece of projecting 
 rock ; he pauses for some time, 
 Bas, (alone.) What shall I be few short mo- 
 ments hence ? 
 
 Why ask I now ? who from the dead will rise 
 
 To tell mc of that awful state unknown ? 
 
 But be it what it may^ or bliss, or torment. 
 
 Annihilation, dark, and endless rest, 
 
 Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of 
 thoughr 
 
 Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change FU dare 
 
 Which makes me any thing but what I am. 
 
 .1 
 
basil: a tragedy. 181 
 
 I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of lire, 
 In frozen gulphs of cold eternal lie ; 
 Be toss'd aloft through tracks of endless void, 
 But cannot live in shcimc—( Pauses. J O ! impious 
 
 thought ! 
 Will the great God of mercy, mercy have 
 On all but those who are miOst miserable ? 
 Will he not punish with a pitying hand 
 The poor fair n, froward child? (Pauses.) 
 And shall I then against his will offend, 
 Because he is most good and merciful ? 
 
 ! horrid baseness ! what, what shall 1 do ? 
 I'll think no more — it turns my dizzy brain — 
 
 It is too late to think — what n^st be, must be — 
 
 1 cannot live, therefore I needs must die. 
 
 (Takes up the pstols^ arul walks up and do-it'?u 
 looking; w'tldlv around him. llmi d'ncouerlu'j 
 the caiie's moutli,) 
 Here is an£ntrv to some darksome cave. 
 Where an uncofRn'd corse may rest in peace. 
 And hide its foul corruption from the earth. 
 The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot, 
 I'M do it here. 
 
 (Enters the cave and Exit : a deep silence; then 
 the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, 
 and soon after, Enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, 
 two Officers and Soldiers, almost at the same 
 mmienty hy different sides of the stage.) 
 Ros. This way the sound did come. 
 Fait, How came ye, soldiers ? heard ye that 
 report ? 
 
iSS BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Isf Sol. We heard it^ and it seem'd to come 
 from hence. 
 Which made us this way hie. 
 
 Ros, A horrid fancy darts across my mind. 
 
 (A groan heard from the cave.) 
 (to Valt.) Ha ! heardst thou that ? 
 
 Valt. Methinks it is the groan of one in pain. 
 
 (A second groan.) 
 Ros. Ha ! there again ! 
 
 Valt. From this cave's mouth, so dark and 
 choak'd with weeds. 
 It seems to come. - 
 
 Ros. I'll enter first. 
 
 1st Off. My Loi'd, the way is tangled o'er with 
 briers ; 
 Hard by, a few short spaces to the left. 
 There is another mouth of easier access : 
 T pass'd it even now. 
 
 Ros. Then shew the way. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III.' 
 
 The Inside of the Cave\ Basil discovered lying on the 
 ground^ with his head raised a little upon a few 
 stones and earth, the pistols lying beside hmi, and 
 lloodiipon his breast. Enter Rosinberg, Valto- 
 MER, and Officers. Rosinberg, upon seei?ig 
 Basil, stops short with horrour, and remains mo- 
 tionless for some time, 
 
 Valt. Great God of heav'n ! what a sight is this ? 
 (Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down 
 hji his side.) 
 
basil: a tragedy. ]83 
 
 Ros. O Basil ! O n^y friend ! what hast thou 
 
 done ? 
 Bas. (Covering his face with his hand.) Why art 
 
 thou come ? I thought to die in peace. 
 Ros, Thou know'st me not — I am thy Rosin- 
 berg, 
 Thy dcarestj truest friend^ thy loving kinsman ? 
 Thou dost not say to me, Why art thou come ? 
 Bas. Shame knows no kindred : I am falFn^, dis- 
 grac'd ; 
 My fame is gone, I cannot look npon thee. 
 
 Ros, My Basil, noble spirit ! talk not thus ! 
 The greatest mind untoward fate may prove : 
 Thou art our gen'rous^ valiant leader stilly , 
 Fall'n as thou art — and yet thou art not fall'n ; 
 Who says thou art, must put his harness on, 
 And prove his words in blood. 
 
 Bas. Ah Rosinberg ! this is no time to boast 1 
 I once had hopes a glorious name to gain ; 
 Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire ; 
 The hour of trial came, and found me wanting. 
 Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten. — 
 And O ! my friend ! something upbraids me here, 
 
 (Laying his hand on his breast.) 
 For that I now remember how oft times, 
 I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth. 
 Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt ; 
 But thou wilt pardon me — 
 
 Ros. (takin Basil's hand, and pressing it to his 
 Ireast.) Rend not my heart in twain ! O 
 talk not thus ! 
 % 
 
184 basil: a Tf.AGEDY. 
 
 I knew thou vvert superiour to myself, 
 
 And to all men beside : thou wert my pride ; 
 
 I paid thee det' rence with a willing heart. 
 
 Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg ! 
 I feel my weakness now, I own my pride. 
 Give me thy hand, my time is near the close ; 
 Do this for me : thou know'st my love, Victoria — 
 
 Ros. O ! curse that woman ! she it is alone — 
 She has undone us all ! 
 
 Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death 
 To hear thee name her thus. O ! curse her not ! 
 The fault is mine -, she's gentle, good and blame- 
 less. — 
 Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil ? 
 
 Res, I will ! I will ! what wouldst thou have 
 me do ? 
 
 Bas. Sec her when I am gone ; be gentle with 
 her ; 
 And tell her that I bless'd her in my death ; 
 E'en in my agonies I loved and bless'd her. 
 Wilt thou do this ? — 
 
 Ros, ril do what thou desir'st. 
 
 Bas. I thank thee, Rosinberg ; my time draws 
 near. 
 
 (Raisiyig Ji'is Jiead a lit tie and percelvhtg OiHcers.) 
 Is there not some one here ? are we alone ? 
 
 Ros. (maVing a sign for tJie Officers to retire) 'Tis 
 but a sentry, to prevent intrusion. 
 
 Bas. Thou knows't this desp'rate deed from 
 sacred rites 
 Hath shut me out : I am unbless'd of men^ 
 
basil: a tragedy. 185 
 
 And what I am in sight of th' awful God, 
 
 I dare not think ; when I am gone, my friend, 
 
 ! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend 
 For an offending spirit ? — Pray for me. 
 What thinkest thou ? although an outcast here. 
 May not some heavenly mercy still be found ? 
 
 Ros. Thou wnlt find mercy — my beloved 
 Basil- 
 It cannot be tliat thou shouldst be rejected. 
 
 1 will with bended knee — I will implore — 
 
 It choaks mine uttrance — I will pray for thee — 
 Bas. This comforts mc — thou art a loving friend. 
 
 (y^ 7ioise without.) 
 Ros. (to Off. witJioiit.) What noise is that ? 
 
 V 
 
 Enter Valtomer. 
 
 yaJt. (to Ros J My lord the soldiers all insist to 
 enter ; 
 What shall I do ? thev will not be denied ; 
 They say that they will see their noble gen'ral. 
 Bas. Ah mv brave fellows ! do they call me so ? 
 Ros, Then let them come. 
 
 (Enter soldiers, who gather round Basil, and 
 look mournfully upon him ; he holds out his 
 hand to them with a faint smile.) 
 Bas. My gen'rous soldiers, this iskindlv meant. 
 Tm low i'the dust ; God bless you all, brave hearts ! 
 \st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble 
 gen'ral ! 
 We'll never follow such a leader more. 
 
189 BASIL : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 id Sol. Ah ! had you staid with u% my noble 
 gen'ral, 
 We would have died for you. 
 
 ('dd Soldier endeavours next to speak, hut cari^ 
 not ; and kneeling down hy Basil, covers his 
 face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his 
 face to the wall and weeps.) 
 
 Bas. (in a very faint broken voice.) Where art 
 thou — do not leave me, Rosinberg — ■ 
 Come near to me — these fellows make me weep 
 I have no power to weep— give me thy hand — 
 I love to feel thy grasp — my heart beats strangely — = 
 It beats as tho' its breathings would be few- 
 Remember — 
 
 Ros. Is there ought thou wouldst desire ? 
 
 Bas. Nought but a little earth to cover me. 
 And lay the smooth sod even with the ground — 
 Let no stone mark the spot — give no offence 
 I fain would say— what can I say to thee? 
 
 (A deep pause ; after a feeble struggle, Basil 
 expires.) 
 
 \st Sol. That motion was his last. 
 
 id Sol. His spirit's fled. 
 
 \st Sol. God grant it peace I it was a noble 
 
 spirit ! 
 Ath Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse 
 
 a braver. 
 \st Sol. Alas ! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him 
 
 more, 
 Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 187 
 
 ^dSol. And when that sounds it will not wake 
 
 a braver. 
 3d Sol. How pleasantly he shared our hardest 
 toil ; 
 Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made. 
 Ath Sol. Ay, many a time i'the cold damp plains 
 has he 
 With cheerful count'nance cried^ ^^ good rest my 
 
 hearts !" 
 Then wrapp'd him in hiscloak^ and laid him down 
 E'en like the meanest soldier in the iield. 
 
 (^Rosinberg all this time continues hanging over 
 the body, and gazing upon it. Valtomer 
 now endeavours to draw him away.) 
 Valt. This is too sad, my lord. 
 Ros. There, seest thou how he lies ? so fix'd^ 
 so pale ? 
 Ah ! what an end is this ! thus lost ! thus faH'n ! 
 To be thus taken in his middle course. 
 Where he so nobly strove ; till cursed passion 
 Came like a sun-stroke on his mid-day toil. 
 And cut the strong man down. O Basil ! Basil ! 
 Valt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow 
 
 here. 
 Ros. He was the younger brother of my soul,. 
 Valt. Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight. 
 Time calls us, let the body be removed. 
 
 Ros. He was — O ! he was like no other man ! 
 yalt. (still endeavouring to draw him away.) 
 Nay now forbear. 
 P.os, I loved him from his birth ' 
 
188 EASIL : A TEAGEDY. 
 
 Valt. Time presses^ let the body be rcmovecic 
 Ros. What sayst thou ? 
 
 VaJt, Shall we not remove him hence ? 
 
 Ros. He has forbid it^ and has charged me well 
 To leave his grave unknown ; for that the church 
 All sacred rites to the self-slain denies. 
 He would not give offence. 
 
 1st Sol. What ! shall our gen'ral like a very 
 wretch 5 
 Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground ? 
 No last salute to bid his soul farewell ? 
 No warlike honours paid ? it shall not be. 
 
 2d SoL Laid thus ? no by the blessed light of 
 heav'n ! 
 In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls, 
 He shall be laid ; in face of day be laid ; 
 And 'ho' black priests should curse us in the teeth^ 
 We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power 
 To grasp a muskets 
 ' Several Soldiers. Let those who dare forbid it I 
 Ros. My brave companions, be it as you Vv^ill. 
 (Spreading out his arms as if he woidd em.- 
 brace the soldiers. — -They prepare to remove 
 the body.) 
 Valt. Nay^ stop a Vvdiile^ we will not move it 
 now, 
 For see a mournful visitor appears. 
 And must not be denied. 
 
 Enter Victokia and Isabella. 
 Vict. I thought to find him hcre^ where hrshc 
 ilcd? 
 
basil: a tragedy. ISQ 
 
 (TiosmhQvg poinfs to the hody without spea¥ing\ 
 Victoria shrieks out, arid falls into the arms 
 of Isabella.) 
 Isah, Ay, my sweet gentle mistress ! this will 
 
 kill thee. 
 F^ict, (recovering.) Unloose thy hold^ and let mc 
 look upon him. 
 O 1 horrid, horrid sight ! my ruin'd Basil ! 
 Is this the sad reward of all thy love ? 
 O ! I have murder'd thee ; 
 
 (Kneels down hy the body, and bends over it.) 
 These wasted streams of life ! this bloody wound ! 
 
 (Laying her hand upon his heart.) 
 Is there no breathing here ? all still ! all cold ! 
 Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again. 
 And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee, 
 In spite of all reproach. Alas 1 alas ! 
 A lifeless corse are thou for ever laid. 
 And dost not hear my call — 
 
 Ros, No, madam ; now your pity comes too late. 
 Vict. Dost thou upbraid me ? O ! I have de- 
 served it ! 
 Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid ; 
 But woman's grief is like a summ.er storm. 
 Short as it violent is ; in gayer scenes. 
 Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze. 
 And play the airy goddess of tlie day, * 
 
 Thine eye, perchance, amidst the observing crowd. 
 Shall mark th' indignant fiice of Basil's friend, 
 And then it will upbraid. 
 
 Fict. No. never, never ! thus it shall not be. 
 
jgO basil: ATRAGEDi', 
 
 To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou goy 
 Where sad and lonely^, thro' the dismal grate 
 Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me. 
 Ros. Forgive me, heed me not ; Fm grieved at 
 heart ; 
 I'm fretted, galled, all things are hateful to mc. 
 If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee ; 
 I must forgive thee ; with his dying breath 
 He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts 
 Were love to thee ; in death he loved and blessed 
 
 thee. 
 
 (Victoria goes to throzv herself upon the body, 
 hit is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, 
 who support her in their arms, and endea- 
 vour to draw her away from it.) 
 Vict. Oh i force me not away ! by his cold corse 
 Let me lie down and weep. O 1 Basil, Basil ! 
 The gallant and the brave I hov/ hast thou loved 
 
 me ! 
 If there is any holy kindness in you 
 
 (To Isab. and Valt.) 
 Tear me not hence. 
 
 For he loved me in thoughtless folly lost, 
 With all my faults, most worthless of his love 5 
 And I'll love him in the low bed of death. 
 In horrour and decay. — 
 
 Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days 
 In humble pray'r for his departed spirit : 
 Could as his grave shall be my earthy bed. 
 As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence. 
 
easil: athageby. Igi 
 
 I will not go^ for grief hath made me strong. 
 
 (Struggling to get loose.) 
 
 Ros, Do not withhold her^ leave her sorrow free. 
 (They- let her go^ and she throws herself upon 
 the hody in an agony of grief.) 
 It doth subdue the sternness of my grief 
 To see her mourn him thus. — Yet I must curse. — 
 Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father. 
 Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck ! 
 
 Isah. If he has done it, you are well revenged. 
 For his dark plots have been detected all. 
 Gauriceio, for some int'rest of his own. 
 His master's secret dealings with the foe 
 Has to Lanoy betray'd ; who straight hath sent. 
 On the hehalf of his imperial lord, 
 A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua. 
 His discontented subjects aid him not; 
 He must submit to the degrading terms 
 A haughty conq'ring power will now impose. 
 
 Ros, And art thou sure of this ? 
 
 Isah. I am, my lord. 
 
 Ros. Give me thy hand, Fm glad on't, O ! I'm 
 glad on*t ! 
 It should be so ! how like a hateful ape 
 Detected, grinning 'midst his pilfer'd hoard, 
 A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds 
 Are open'd to the day ! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd ! 
 Scorn'd by the very fools vv'ho most admired 
 His worthless art. But when a great mind falls. 
 The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart 
 Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin ; 
 
192 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 With gentle censure using but his faults 
 As modest means to introduce his praise ; 
 For pity like "a dewy twilight comes 
 To close th' oppressive splendour of his day ; 
 And they who but admired him in his height. 
 His alter'd state lament^ and love him fall'n. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF BASIL. 
 
THE TRYAL: 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 o 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEK 
 
 Mr. Withrington. 
 
 Mr. Harwood. 
 
 Colonel Hardy. 
 
 Sir Loftus Prettyma^^". 
 
 Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mr. Royston. 
 
 Humphry. 
 
 Jonathan. 
 
 Thomas. 
 
 Servants^ &c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 ■^ ^ "-!> 7 J^leces to Withrington. 
 
 Mariane, i 
 
 Miss Eston. 
 
 Mrs. BettY;, Maid to Agnes. 
 
 *^=^ Scene in Bath, a7id zV/Mr. Withrington's 
 house y in the envii'ons o/^Bath, 
 
THE TRYAL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 > 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington's house: Enter 
 WiTHRiNGTOX and his Hvo Nieces hanging upon 
 his arms J coaxing him in a playful mariner ars they 
 advance towards the front of the Stage, 
 
 With. Poo, poo, get along, young gipsies, and 
 
 don't tease me any more. 
 
 Ag. So we will, my good Sir, when you have 
 
 granted our suit. 
 
 Mar, Do, dear uncle, it will be so pleasant ! 
 
 With. Get along, get along. Don't think to 
 
 wheedle me into it. It would be very pleasant, 
 
 truly, to see an old fellow, with a wig upon his 
 
 bald pate, making one in a holy-day mummery 
 
 with a couple of mad caps. 
 
 Ag. Nay, don't lay the fiult upon the wig, good 
 
 Sir, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and as saucy 
 
 looking as the best head of hair in the county* 
 
 As for your old wig, indeed, there was so much 
 
 curmudgeon-like austerity about it, that young 
 
 people fled from before it, as, I dare say, the birds 
 
 do at present, for I am sure that it is stuck up in 
 
 some cherry orchard, by this time, to frighten the 
 
 sparrows. 
 
 o 2 
 
igS THE TRYAL : A COMEUY. 
 
 IVilh. You are mistaken^ young mistress, it is 
 up stairs in my wig-box. 
 
 ^g. Well, I am glad it is any where but upon 
 your pate, uncle. (Turfi'mg his face toivards ^[3,- 
 riane.) Look at him, pray ! is he not ten years 
 younger since he wore it ? Is there one bit of an 
 old grumbler to be seen about him now ? 
 
 Mar, He is no more like the man he was than I 
 am like my god-mother. (Chipping Ins shoulder,) 
 You must even do as we have bid you, Sir, for this 
 excuse will never bring you off. 
 
 With. Poo, poo, it is a foolish girl's whimsy: Til 
 have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Ag. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle 
 guardian, and you must consent to it. For if I 
 am to marry at all, I am resolved to have a respect- 
 able man, and a man who is attached to me, and 
 to find out such a one, in my present situation, is 
 impossible, I am provoked beyond all patience 
 with your old greedy lords, and match-making 
 aunts, introducing their poor noodle heirs-appa- 
 rent to me, like so many dolts dressed out for a 
 race ball. Your ambitious esquires, and proud 
 obsequious baronets are intolerable, and your ra- 
 kish younger brothers arc nauseous : such creatures 
 only surround me, whilst men of sense keep at a 
 distance, and think me as foolish as the company 
 I keep. One would swear I was made of amber, 
 to attract all the dust and chaff of the community. 
 
 JVith, There is some truth in this 'faith. 
 
 Ag. You see how it is with me : so my dear 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 197 
 
 Io\ing good uncle (Coaxing him) do let Mariane 
 take my place for a little while. We are newly 
 come to Bath, nobody knows us : we have been 
 but at one ball, and as I went in a plain dress, and 
 Mariane looks so much better than me, she has 
 already been mistaken for the heiress, and I for her 
 portionless cousin : I have told you how we shall 
 manage it, do lend us your assistance ! 
 
 JVith, So in the disguise of a portionless spin- 
 ster, your are to captivate some man of sense, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Ag, I w^ould fain have it so, 
 
 TFith. Go^ go, thou art a fool, Agnes ! who will 
 fall in love with a litde ordinary girl like thee ? 
 why there is not one feature in thy face that a man 
 would give a farthing for. 
 
 Mar, You are very saucy, uncle. 
 
 Ag, I should despair of my beauty to be sure, 
 since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear 
 uncle ; yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a 
 great lady, and the prettiest lady that ever wore 
 silk, fell in love, once on a time, with Mr. Anthony, 
 and would have followed him to the world's end 
 too, if it had not been for an old hunks of a father, 
 who deserved to be drubbed for his pains, Pon't 
 you think he did, Sir ? 
 
 JVith, (endeavouring to look angry,) Old nurse 
 is a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. Til 
 hear no more of this nonsense. (Breaks from them 
 and goes towards to the door: they rwi after him, and 
 draw him hack again.) 
 
1Q8 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 ^g. Nay, good Sir, wc have not quite clone v/ith 
 you yet : grant our request, and then scamper oif 
 as you please. 
 
 Mar, I'll hold both your arms till you grant it. 
 
 IVilk. (to Mar.) And what makes you so eager 
 about it, young lady ? you expect, I suppose, to 
 get a husband by the trick. O fy, fy ? the poorest 
 girl in England would blush at such a thought, 
 who calls herself an honest one. 
 
 Ag. And Mariano would reject the richest man 
 in England who could harbour such a suspicion. 
 But give yourself no uneasiness about this, Sir, she 
 need not go a husband-hunting, for she is already 
 engaged. — (Mariane looks frightened, and makes 
 signs to Agnes over her uncle s shoulder^ which she 
 answers with a smile of encouragement.) 
 
 With. Engaged ! she is very good, truly, to 
 manage all this matter hcrselt, being afraid to give 
 me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what fool 
 has she picked out from the herd^ to enter into this 
 precious engagement with ? 
 
 Ag. A foolish enough fellow to be sure, your 
 favourite nephew, cousin Edward. 
 
 With. Hang, the silly booby ! how could he be 
 such an idiot ! but it can't be, it shan't be !■ — it is 
 folly to put myself into a passion about it. (To 
 Mariane, who puts her hand on his shoulder to soothe 
 him.) Hold off your hands, Ma'am I This is news 
 indeed to amuse me with of a morning. • 
 
 ^g. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more news \ 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY, IQQ 
 
 for they are not only engaged^ but as soon as he 
 returns from abroad they are to be married. 
 
 /Villi, Well, well, let them marry in the devil's 
 name, and go a begging if they please. 
 
 ^g. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a 
 begging ; they will have a good fortune to support 
 them. 
 
 IFil/i. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the lot- 
 tery, or find out the philosopher's stone^ and coin 
 their old shoes into guineas. 
 
 ^g. No, Sir_, it is not that way the fortune is 
 to come. 
 
 fFitli. No ; he has been following some knight- 
 errant, then, I vSuppose, and will have an island in 
 the South Sea for his pains. 
 
 ^g. No, you have not guessed it yet. (Sh-ok'mg 
 his hand gently.) Did you never hear of a good, 
 kind, rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. With- 
 rington ? he is to settle a handsome provision 
 upon them as soon as they are married, and leave 
 them his fortune at last. 
 
 With, (lifting up his hands.) Well, I must say 
 thou art the impudentest little jade in the king- 
 dom ! But did you never hear that this worthy 
 uncle of theirs, having got a new wig, which 
 makes him ten years younger than he was, is re- 
 solved to embrace the opportunity, and seek out a 
 wife for himself? 
 
 Ag. O! that is nothing to the purpose; for 
 what I have said about the fortune must happen, 
 though he should seek out a score of wives. 
 
200 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 With, Must happen ! but I say it shall not hap* 
 pen. Whether should you or I know best? 
 
 Ag, Why me, to be sure. 
 
 With. Ha, ha, ha ! how so, baggage ? 
 
 Ag, (resting her arm on his shoulder, looking arch-- 
 ly in his face.) You don't know perhaps, that when 
 I went to Scotland last summer, I travelled far, 
 and far, as the tale says, and farther than I can 
 tell, till I came to the isle of Sky, where Q\^xy 
 body has the second sight, and has nothing to do 
 but tear a little hole in a tartan-plaidy^ and peer- 
 ing through it, in this manner, sees G^^try thing 
 past, present, and to come. Now, you must know, 
 
 I gave an old v/oman half a crown and a roll of 
 tobacco for a peep or two through her plaid, and 
 
 what do you think I saw, uncle .^^ 
 
 With, The devil dancing a hornpipe, I suppose. 
 
 Ag, There was somebody dancing to be sure, 
 but it was not the devil though. Who do you 
 think it was now ? 
 
 With. Poo, poo 1 
 
 Ag, It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wedding, 
 leading dow^n the first dance, with the bride. I 
 saw a sheet of parchment in a corner too, signed . 
 with his own blessed hand, and a very handsome 
 settlement it was. So he led down the first dance 
 himself, and we all followed after him, as merry as 
 so many hay-makers. 
 
 With, Thou hast had a sharp sights fliith I 
 
 Ag. And I took a second peep through the 
 plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, Sir ? 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. !i01 
 
 With. Nay, prate on as thou wilt. 
 
 Ag, A genteel family house, where Edward and 
 Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up 
 and down in it. Some of them so tall, and so 
 tall, and some of them no taller than this. And 
 there came good uncle amongst them, and they all 
 flocked about him so merrily ; every body was so 
 glad to see him, the very scullions from the kitchen 
 were glad ; and methought he looked as well 
 pleased himself as any of them. Don't you think 
 he did, Sir ? 
 
 JVlih. Have done with thy prating. 
 
 Ag. I have not done yet, good Sir ; for I took 
 another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal 
 changed family indeed. There was a melancholy 
 sick bed set out, in the best chamber, every face 
 was sad, and all the children were weeping. There 
 was one dark-eyed rogue amongst them, called little 
 Anthony, and he threw away his bread and butter, 
 and roared like a young bull, for woe's me I old 
 uncle was dying. (^O^j"6^/''ui;2^ Withrington affected.) 
 But old uncle recovered though, and looked as 
 stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old wo- 
 man her plaidy, and would not look through any 
 more. 
 
 With. Thou art the wildest little witch in the 
 w^orld, and wilt never be ^t rest till thou hast got 
 every thing thine own wa}^, I believe. 
 
 Ag, I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle ! 
 (leaping round his 7ieck,) it shall be even so, and I 
 shall have my own little boon into the bargain. 
 
202 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY, 
 
 TVilh, I did not say so. 
 
 Jig, But I know it will be so^ and many thanks 
 to yoLi^ my dear good uncle ! (Mariane 'ventures 
 to come from hehind-, — Wirhrington looks gently to 
 her^ she holds out her hand^ he hesitaieSy and Agnes 
 joins their hands together, giving them a hearty 
 shake.) 
 
 IVith, Come^ come, let me get away from you 
 now : you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. 
 
 [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Mar, (embracing Agnes.) Well, heaven bless 
 thee, my sweet Agnes ! thou hast done marvels 
 for me. You gave me a fright though ; I thought 
 we were ruined, 
 
 A^, O ! I knew I should p*et the better of him 
 some way or other. What a good worthy heart 
 he has ! you don't knov/ how dearly I love this old 
 uncle of ours. 
 
 Mar, I wonder how it is. I used to think him 
 severe and unreasonable, with his fiddle faddle 
 fancies about delicacy and decorum 5 but since you 
 came amongst us, Agnes, you have so coaxed him, 
 and laughed at him, and played with him, that he 
 has become almost as frolicksome as ourselves. 
 
 Ag, Let us set about our project immediately. 
 Nobody knows us here but lady Fade and Miss Es- 
 ton : We must let them both into the secret: Lady 
 Fade is confined with bad health, and though Miss 
 Eston, I believe, would rather tell a secret than 
 hold her tongue, yet as long as there are streets 
 and carriages, and balls and ribbons, and parlours 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 10Z 
 
 and pantries to talk of^ there can be no great dan- 
 ger from her. 
 
 Mar. O ! we shall do very well. How I long 
 to frolick it away, in all the rich trappings of heir- 
 ship, amongst those sneaking wretches the for- 
 tune-hunters ! They have neglected me as a poor 
 girl, but I will play the deuce amongst them as a 
 rich one. 
 
 ^g. You will acquit yourself very handsomely, 
 I dare say, and find no lack of admirers. 
 
 Mar. I have two or three in my eye just now, 
 but of all men living I have set my heart upon 
 humbling Sir Loftus. He insulted a friend of 
 mine last winter, to ingratiate himself with an 
 envious woman of quality, but I will be revenged 
 upon him ; O I how I will scorn him, and toss up 
 my nose at him ! I hate him like a toad. 
 
 ^g. That is not the way to be revenged upon 
 him, silly girl ! He is haughty and reserved in his 
 manners ; and though not altogether without un- 
 derstandings has never suffered a higher idea to 
 get footing in his noddle than that of appear- 
 ing a man of consequence and fashion ; and though 
 he has no happiness but in being admired as a fine 
 gentleman, and no existence but at an assembly, 
 he appears there with all the haughty gravity, and 
 careless indifference of a person superiour to such 
 paltry amusements. Such a man as this must be 
 laughed at, not scorned ; familiarity and contempt 
 must be his portion. 
 
 M^r. He shall have it then. And as for his 
 
204 THE TJl^AL : A COMEBV, 
 
 admirer and imitator. Jack Opal, who has for these 
 ten years past so successfully performed every 
 kind of fine gentlemanship, that every new fool 
 brought into fashion, any kind of bad treatment, 
 I suppose, that happens to come into my head will 
 be good enough foi* him. 
 
 j4g. Quite good enough. You have set him 
 down for one of your admirers too ? 
 
 Mar, Yes, truly, and a great many more be-^ 
 sides. 
 
 ^g. Did you observe in the ball-room last 
 night, a genteel young man, with a dark-grey eye, 
 and a sensible countenance, but with so little of the 
 foppery of the fashion about him, that one took 
 him at a distance for a much older man ? 
 
 Mar, Wore he not a plain brownish coat ? and 
 stood he not very near us great part of the evening ? 
 
 ^g. Yes, the very same. Pray endeavour to 
 attract him, Mariane. 
 
 Mar, If you are very desirous to see him in my 
 train, I'll try him. 
 
 ^g. No, not desirous, neither. 
 
 Mar, Then wherefore should I try ? 
 
 ^g. Because I would have you try every art to 
 win him, and I would not have him to be won. 
 
 Mar, O ! I comprehend it now 1 This is the 
 sensible man we are in quest of. 
 
 ylg, I shall not be sorry if it proves so. I have 
 inquired who he is, as I shall tell you by and by, 
 ^nd what I have learned of him I like. Is not his 
 appearaace prepossessing, cousin Mariane ? 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 205 
 
 Mar. I don't know, he is too grave and digni- 
 fied for such a girl as thou art ; I fear we shall 
 waste our labour upon him. 
 
 ^g. But he does not look always so. He kept 
 very near me, if it did not look vain I should say 
 followed me all the evening, and many a varied 
 expression his countenance assumed. But when I 
 went away arm in arm with my uncle, in our usual 
 good-humoured way, I shall never forget the look 
 of pleasant approbation with which he followed me. 
 I had learnt but a little while before the mistake 
 which the company made in regard to us, and at 
 that moment the idea of this project came across 
 my rhind like a flash of lightning. 
 
 Mar\ Very well, gentle cousin, the task you 
 assign me is pleasing to my humour, and the idea 
 of promoting your happiness at the same time will 
 make it delightful. Let me see, how many lovers 
 shall I have — one, two^ three. (Counting on her 
 fingers,) 
 
 Ag, I can tell you of one lover more than you 
 wot of. 
 
 Mar, Pray who is he ? 
 
 Ag, Our distant cousin the great 'squire, and 
 
 man of business, from shire ; he writes to my 
 
 uncle that he will.be in Bath to-day, upon business 
 of the greatest importance, which he explains to 
 him in three pages of close written paper j but 
 whether he is to court me for himself, or for his 
 son, or to folicit a great man, who is here, for a 
 place, no mortal on earth can discover, 
 
 6 
 
206 THE TRYALl A COMEDY. 
 
 Mar, Well, let him come, I shall manage therrt 
 all. O ! if my Edward were here just now, how 
 he would laugh at us I 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser, Miss Eston. 
 
 Mar. Let us run out of her way, and say we 
 are not at home. She will sit and talk these two 
 hours. 
 
 Jg. But you forgot we have something to say 
 to her. (To the servant.) Shew her up stairs to 
 my dressing-room. 
 
 [Exit servant. 
 Mar. Pray let us run up stairs before her, or she 
 will arrest us here with her chat. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Miss Eston (without.) And it is a very bad thing 
 for all that ; I never could abide it. I wonder 
 your master don't stop (inters walking straight 
 across the stage, still speaking) up those nasty 
 chinks, there is such a wind in the hall, 'tis enough 
 to give one a hoarseness. By the bye Mrs, 
 Mumblecake is sadly to-day ; has your lady sent 
 to inquire for her William? I wonder if her 
 (Exit, still talking without) old coachman has left 
 
 her ; I saw a new face on the, &c. &c, 
 2 
 
THE TfiYAL:. A COMEDY. 20r 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The fields hefore Mr. Withrixgton's Jwuse. 
 Enter Agnes^ Mariane, a7id Miss Estox, who 
 seems still busy talking ^ from the house, and passing 
 over the Stage arm in arm, Exeunt. Enter, hy 
 the same side by which they went out, Sir Loftus 
 pRETTYMAN, and Harwood^ ivho stands look- 
 ing behind him, as if he followed something zvilh 
 his eyes very eagerly. 
 
 Sir Loft. (Adva7icing to the front of the stage^ 
 and speaking to himself) How cursedly unlucky 
 this is now ! if she had come out but a few mo- 
 ments sooner, I should have passed her walking 
 arm in arm with a British peer. How provokingly 
 these things always happen with me! (observing 
 Harwood.) What ! is he staring after her too ? 
 (aloud.) What are you looking at^ Harwood ? does 
 she walk well ? 
 
 Har, I can't tell how she walks, but I could stand 
 and gaze after her till the sun went down upon me. 
 
 Sir Loft. She is a fine woman^ I grant you. 
 
 Har. (vastly pleased.) I knew she would please, 
 it is impossible she should not! There is some- 
 thing so delightful in the play of her countenance, 
 it would even make a plain woman beautiful. 
 
 Sir Loft, She is a fine woman, and that is no 
 despicable praise from one who is accustomed t«^ 
 the elegance of fashionable beauty. 
 
208 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 Har, I would not compare her to any thing so 
 trifling and insipid. 
 
 Sir Loft, She has one advantage which fashion- 
 able beauty seldom possesses. 
 Har, What do you mean ? 
 Sir Loft. x\ large fortune. 
 
 liar, (looking disappointed.) It h not the heiress 
 I mean. 
 
 Sir Loft. Is it t'other girl you are raving 
 about ? She is showy at a distance, I admit, but as 
 awkward as a dairy maid when near you; and her 
 jfeongue goes as fast as if she were repeating a pater 
 noster. 
 
 Har, What, do you think I am silly enough to 
 be caught with that magpie ? 
 
 Sir Loft. Who is it then, Harwood ? I see no 
 body with Miss Withrington but Miss Eston, and 
 the poor little creature her cousin. 
 
 Har. Good god! what a contemptible perver- 
 sion of taste do interest and fashion create! But it 
 is all affectation. (Looking contemptuously at him.) 
 Sir Loft, (smiling contemptuously in return.) Ha, 
 ha, ha 1 I see how it is with you, Harwood, and I 
 beg pardon too. The lady is very charming, I 
 dare say ; upon honour I never once looked in 
 her face. She is a dependant relation of Miss 
 Withrington's, I believe : now I never take notice 
 of such girls, for if you do it once they expect you 
 to do it again. I don't choose that every little 
 creature should say she is acquainted with Sir 
 Loftus Pretty man ; I am sparing of my attentions. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 209 
 
 that she on whom I really bestov/ them may have 
 the more reason to boast. 
 
 Hiir. You are right, Prettyman, she who boasts 
 of yot-ir attentions should receive them all herself, 
 that nobody else may knov/ how little worth 
 
 they are. . . 
 
 Sir Loft. You are severe this morning, Mr. 
 tferwood, but you do not altogether comprehend 
 me, I believe. I know perhaps more of the polite 
 world than a studious Templar can be supposed to 
 do, and I assure you, men of fashion, upon this 
 principle, are sparing of their words too, that they 
 jBay be listened to more attentively when they do 
 speak. 
 
 Har, You are very right still, Sir Loftus ; for if 
 they spoke much, I'll be hang'd if they would gtt 
 any body to listen to them at all. 
 
 Sir Loft, (haughtily.) There is another reason 
 Vi\\y men of fashion are not profuse of their words, 
 inferiour people are apt to forget themselves, and 
 despise what is too familiar. 
 
 Har. Don't take so much pains to make me 
 comprehend that the more fools speak the more 
 people will despise them ; I never had a clearer 
 conviction of it in my life. 
 
 Sir Loft, (haughtily.) Good morning. Sir, I see 
 Lord Saunter in the other walk, and I must own I 
 
 4 
 
 prefer the company of one who knows, at least, 
 the common rules of politeness. [Exit. 
 
 Har, (alone.) What a contemptible creature it 
 is ! He w^ould prefer the most affected idiot, who 
 
210 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 boasts a little flishlon or consequence, as he calls 
 it, to the most beautiful native character in the 
 world. Here comes another fool, who has been 
 gazing too, but I will not once mention her before 
 him. 
 
 Enter Opal. 
 
 Oj). Good morning, Harwood, I have been for- 
 tunate just now ! I have met some fine girls, 'faith ! 
 
 Har. I am glad you have met with any thing 
 so agreeable.; they are all equally charming to 
 you, I suppose. 
 
 ^^ Op, Nay, Harwood, I know how to distinguish. 
 There is a little animated creature amongst them, 
 all life and spirit, on my soul I could almost be in 
 Jove with her. 
 
 Har, Ha 1 thou hast more discernment than I 
 reckoned upon. If that goose, vSir Loftus, did not 
 spoil thee, Jack, thou would'st be a very good 
 fellow after all. Why I must tell you, my good 
 Opal, that lady whom you admire, is the sweetest 
 little gipsey in England. 
 
 Op, Is she indeed ? I wish I had taken a better 
 look of her face then ; but she wears such a cursed 
 plume of blue feathers nodding over her nose, 
 there is scarcely one half of it to be seen. 
 
 Har, (staring- at him with astonishment,) As I 
 breathe ! he has fallen in love with the magpie 1 
 
 Op, And what is so surprising in this, pray ? 
 
 Does not all the world allow Miss Withrington 
 
 the heiress to be a fine woman ? 
 
 
 
THE TKYAL : A COMEDY. 211 
 
 ' Har, That is not the heiress, Jack, (pointmg off 
 the stage) the tall lady in the middle is her. But 
 if your Dulcinea could coin her words into far- 
 thino-s, she would be one of the best matches in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 Op, Pest take it ! she was pointed out to me as 
 Miss Withrington. Pest take my stupidity ! the 
 girl is well enough, buc she is not altogether — 
 
 ( Muuihling to himself.) 
 
 Har. So you bestowed all your attention on this 
 blue feathered lady, and let the other two pass by 
 unnoticed. 
 
 Op. No, not unnoticed neither: Miss With- 
 rington is too fine a figure to be overlooked any 
 where, and for the other poor little creature, who, 
 hung upon her arm so familiarly, I could not help 
 observing her too, because I Vv'ondercd Miss With- 
 rington allowed such a dowdy looking thing to 
 walk with her in publick. Faith ! Prettymanand I 
 locked a vulgar looking devil up in the stable the 
 other morning, who insisted upon going with us 
 to the pump-room : men of fashion, you know^ 
 are always plagued with paltry fellows dangling 
 after them. 
 
 Har, Hang your men of fashion ! mere paltry 
 fellows are too good company for them. 
 
 Op, Damn it, Harwood ! speak more respect- 
 fully of that class of men to whom I have the 
 honour to belons;. 
 
 Har. You mistake me. Opal, it was only the 
 
 men of fashion I abused ; I am too well bred lor 
 
 P2 
 
112 thetryal: a comedt, 
 
 speak uncivilly in your presence of the other ckss 
 you mentioned. 
 
 Op, I scorn your insinuation, Sir ; but whatever 
 class of men I belong to^ I praise heaven I have 
 nothing of the sour plodding book-worm abcnit me. 
 
 Har. You do well to praise heaven for the en- 
 dovi^ments it has bestowed upon you. Opal ; if all 
 men were as thankful as you for this blessed gift 
 <^f ignorance, we could not be said to live in an 
 ungrateful generation. 
 
 0^. Talk away, laugh at your own wit as much 
 as you please, I don't mind it. I don't troubk 
 my head to find out bons mots of a morning. 
 
 Har, You are very right, Jiick, for it would be 
 to no purpose if you did. 
 
 Op, I speak whatever comes readiest to me ; I 
 don*t study speeches for company, Har wood. 
 
 JHar, I hope so, Opal ; you would have a la- 
 borious life of it indeed, if you could not speak 
 nonsense extempore. 
 
 Op. (drawing hwiself up, and voalking hauglMy 
 io the other side of the stage',) I had no business 
 to be so familiar with him. Sir Loftus is right; a 
 reserved manner keeps impertinent people at a 
 distance, (uside — Turns about, makes a very stiff 
 low to Harwood, and Exit.] 
 
 Har. (alone.) I am glad he is gone . What do I 
 see ? (here Mariane, Agnes, and Miss Eston iralk 
 over the: bottom of the stage, attended hy Sir Loftus 
 d7id Opal, ami Exeunt by the opposite side, Har. 
 hpking after them.) Alas, now! that such impudent 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 213 
 
 fellcws should be so successful, whilst I stand gazing 
 at adistance ! howlightly she trips ! does she notlook 
 about to me? by heaven I'll run to her! (Ru7is to 
 the bottom of the stage^ and stops short.) Oh no ! 
 I cannot do it! but see, her uncle comes this wayj 
 He look'd so kindly at her, I could not help loving 
 him, he must be a good man ; I'll make up to him, 
 and he perhaps will join the ladies afterwards. 
 
 fExiT. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Lodging-house, Enter Royston 
 and WiJ^ivu^Y , foUoiJued hj Jonathan, carrying 
 a portmanteau. 
 
 Roy. What a world of business I have got upon 
 my hands ! I must set about it immediately. Come- 
 here, Jonathan ; I shall send you out in the first 
 place. 
 
 Jon. Well, Sir. 
 
 Roy. Take the black trunk, that is left in the 
 hall, upon your shoulder, Jonathan, and be sure 
 3^ou don't run against any body with it, for that 
 might bring us into trouble. And perhaps as you 
 go along, you may chance to meet with some of the 
 Duke of Begall's servants, or with some body whp 
 can tell you where his Grace lodges in this town, 
 and you may inquire of them, without saying I 
 desired you ; you understand me, Jonathan ? 
 
 Jon. O yes, your honour ! 
 
 Roy. But first of all, however, if you see any de- 
 
'214 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 cent bair-dresser's shop in your way, desire them to 
 send somebody here for my wig; and Hke enough 
 they may tell you, at the same time, where there is 
 an honest Town crier to be had; I'll have Phcbe's 
 black whelp cried directly: and hark ye, Jonathan, 
 you may say as thcugh the dog 'were your own, 
 you understand, they will expect such a devil of a 
 reward else; and pri'thec, man! step into the corn 
 market, if thou can'st find out the way, and 
 inquire the price of oats. 
 
 Jon. Yes, please your honour, but am I to go 
 trudging about to all these places with that great 
 heavy trunk upon my shoulder ? 
 
 Roy, No! numskull! did I not bid you carry it 
 to the Inn; where the London stage puts up? by 
 the bye you had better take it to the waggon — 
 but first ask the coachman, what he charges for the 
 carriage: you can take it to the waggon afterwards. 
 I will sutler no man to impose upon me. You 
 will remember all this distinctly now, as I have 
 told it you, Jonathan ? 
 
 yoyi, (counting to himself iipon his fingers.) O yes, 
 your honour! Til manage it all I warrant ! Exit. 
 
 Rov. What a world of business I have upon my 
 hands, Humphry I I am as busy as a minister of 
 state. 
 
 Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 
 
 Jon, La your honour! I have forgot all about 
 his Grace, and the black whelp. 
 
 Roy, Damn your muddle pate ! did not I bid 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 215 
 
 you inquire where his Grace lives^ and if you hap- 
 pen to see — 
 
 Jon, Ods bodickins ! I remember it every word 
 now ! and the whelp is to be call'd by the Town 
 erier, just as one would call any thing that is lost. 
 
 Roy, Yes^ yes, go about it speedily. [Exit Jon.) 
 Now in the first place, my good Humphry, I must 
 see after the heiress I told you of, and it is a busi- 
 ness which requires a great deal of management 
 too; for — 
 
 Re-enter Jonathan, Si:raichmg his head. 
 
 Damn that dunder-headed fool ! here he is again. 
 
 Jon, Your honour won't be angry now, but hang 
 me, if I can tell whether I aia to take that there 
 trunk to the coach, or the waggon. 
 
 Roy, Take it to the coach — no, no, to the wag- 
 gon — ryes, yes, I should have said — pest take it ! 
 carry it where thou wilt, fool, and plague me no 
 more about it. {Exit Jon.) , One might as well 
 give directions to a horse-block. Now, as I was 
 saying, Humphry, this requires a great deal of 
 management ; for if the lady don't like me, she 
 may happen to like my son : so I must feel my 
 way a little, before I speak directly to the purpose. 
 
 Humph, Ay, your honour is always feeling your 
 way. 
 
 Roy. And as for the Duke, I will ply him as 
 close as I can with solicitations in the mean time, 
 without altogether stating my request ; for if I get 
 
1l6 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 the lady, George shall have the office, and if he 
 gets the lady, I shall have the office. So we shall 
 have two chances in our favour both vvays^ my 
 good Humphry* 
 
 Humph. Belike, Sir, if we were to take but one 
 business in band at a time, we might come better 
 off at the lonrr run. 
 
 Roy. O ! thou hast no head for business, Hum- 
 phry : thou hast no genius for business, my good 
 Humphry, (smiling conceitedly.) 
 
 Humph. Why, for certain your honour has a 
 marvellous deal of wit, but I don't know how it is, 
 nothing that we take in hand ever comes to any 
 good ; and what provokes me more than all the 
 rest, isj that the more pains we take about it^ the 
 worse it always succeeds. 
 
 Roy. Humph ! we can't guard against every 
 Cross accident. 
 
 Humph. To be sure, Sir, cross accidents will 
 happen to every body, but certes ! we have more 
 than our own share of them^ 
 
 Roy. Well, don't trouble yourself about it r I 
 have head enough to manage my own afliiirs, and 
 more than my own too. Why, my lord Slumber 
 can't even grant a new lease, nor imprison a vaga- 
 bond for poaching, without my advice and direc- 
 tion : did I not manage all Mr, Harebrain's elec- 
 tion for him ? and, but for one of these cursed ac- 
 cidents or two, had brought him in for his Borough, 
 as neatly as my glove. Nay, if his Grace and I get 
 into good understanding together, there is no 
 
THE TKYAL : A COMEDY. 217 
 
 knowing, but I may have affairs of the nation upon 
 my hands. Ha, ha, ha ! poor Humphr}*, thou hast 
 no comprehension oC all this : thou think'st me a 
 very wonderful man, dost thou not ? 
 
 Humph. I must own I do sometimes marvel at 
 your honour. 
 
 Enler Mr. Withrington. 
 
 Roy, Ha ! how do you do, my dear cousin ? I 
 hope I have the happiness of seeing you in good 
 health : I am heartily rejoiced to see you, my very 
 good Sir. (Shaking- hm heartily by the hand,) 
 
 With, I thank you. Sir, you are welcome to 
 Bath ; I did not expect the pleasure of seeing you 
 here. 
 
 Roy, Why, my dear worthy Sir, I am a man of 
 so much business, so toss'd about, so harassed with 
 a multiplicity of affairs, that I protest, I can't tell 
 myself one day what part of the world I shall be 
 in the next. 
 
 With, You give yourself a great deal of trouble, 
 Mr. Royston. 
 
 Roy, O ! hang it ! I never spare myself: I must 
 work to make others work, cousin Withrington. 
 I have got a world of new alterations going on at 
 Royston-hall ; if you would take a trip down to 
 see them — 
 
 JVith. I am no great traveller. Sir. 
 
 Roy, I have ploughed up the bowling-green, 
 and cut down the elm-trees ; I have built new 
 
218 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Stables^ and fill'd up the horse-pond ; I have dug 
 up the orchard, and pulFd down the old fruit wall, 
 where that odd little temple used to stand. 
 
 With, And is the little temple pull'd down too ? 
 pray, what has become of your Vicar's sister^ Mrs. 
 Mary ? we drunk tea with her there, I remember; 
 is she married yet ? she was a very modest looking 
 gentlewoman, 
 
 Roy, So you remxmber her too ? well I have 
 pulFd down every foot of it, and built a new cart- 
 house with the bricks. — Good commodious stalls 
 for thirty horses, cousin Withrington, they beat 
 Sir John Houndly*s all to nothing ; it is as clever, 
 a w^eli-constructed building as any in the country. 
 
 With, Has Sir John built ^ new house in the 
 country ? 
 
 Roy. No, no, the stables I say. 
 
 With, O you are talking of the stables again. 
 
 Roy. But when I get the new addition to the 
 mansion-house finished, that will be the grand 
 improvement : the best carpenters' work in the 
 country, my dear Sir, all well season'd timber from 
 Norway. 
 
 Humph, It is part of a disputed w^'eck, Sir, and if 
 the law suit about the right to it turns out in my 
 master's favour, as it should do, it w^ill be the 
 cheapest built house in the county. O ! let his 
 honour alone for making a bargain. 
 
 With. So you have got a law suit on your hands, 
 Mr. Koyston ? I hope you are not much addicted 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 2\Q 
 
 to this kind of amusement ; you will find it a very 
 expensive one. 
 
 Eoy, Bless you, my good Sir, I am the most 
 peaceable creature in the world, but I will suffer 
 no man to impose upon me. 
 
 fFilh, (smiliNg.) But you suffer the women 
 sometimes to do so, do you not? 
 
 Humph. No, nor the women neither. Sir ; for it 
 was but th'other day that he prosecuted widow Gib- 
 son, for letting her chickens feed amongst his corn, 
 and it was given in his honour's favour, as in right 
 it should have been. 
 
 With, (archly.) And who was adjudged to pay 
 the expences of court, Mr. Humphry? 
 
 Humph. Ay, to be sure, his honour was obliged 
 to pay that. 
 
 With, (archly,) But the widow paid swingingly 
 for it, I suppose ? 
 
 Humph. Nay 'faith, after all, they but fined her 
 in a sixpence ; yet that always shew'd, you know, 
 that she was in the wrong;. 
 
 With. To be sure, Mr. Humphry, and the six- 
 pence would indemnify your master for the costs 
 of suit. 
 
 Humph. Nay, as a body may say, he might as well 
 have let her alone, for any great matter he made 
 of it that way ; but it was very wrong in her, you 
 know. Sir, to let her hens go amongst his honour's 
 corn, when she knew very well she was too poor 
 to make up the loss to his honour. 
 
 With. Say no more about it, my good Hum- 
 
2*20 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 phry; you have vindicated your master most ably, 
 and I have no doubts at all in regard to the pro- 
 priety of his conduct. 
 
 Hmiph. (very well pleased.) Ay^ thank God, I 
 do sometimes make shift in my poor way to edge 
 in a word for his honour. 
 
 Roy. (not so %v ell pleased.) Thou art strangely . 
 given to prating this morning, (lo Humph.) By the 
 bye, cousin Withrington, I must consult you about 
 my application to his Grace. 
 
 Humph, (aside to Koyston, pulling Mm hy the 
 sheve.) You forget to ask for the lady. Sir. 
 
 With, (turning round,) What did you say of his 
 Grace ? 
 
 Roy, No, no, I should — I meant — did I not say 
 the gracious young lady your niece ? I hope she is 
 well. 
 
 Wuh, (smiling.) She is very well ; you shall go 
 home with me, and visit her. 
 
 Roy. I am infinitely obliged to you, my worthy 
 good Sir, I shall attend you with the greatest plea- 
 sure. Some ladies have no dislike to a good look- 
 ing gentleman-like man, although he may be past 
 the bloom of his youth, cousin ; however, young 
 men do oftener carry the day : I believe, my son 
 George is a good likely fellow ; I expect him in 
 Bath every hour. I shall have the honour of fol- 
 lowing you, my dear Sir, Remember my orders, 
 
 Humphry. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 221 
 
 E7iter Harwood hastily, looUng round as if he 
 sought some one^ and was disappointed. 
 
 Har, (alone,) He is gone, I have miss'd the good 
 uncle of Agnes — what is the matter with me now, 
 that the sound of an old man's voice should agitate 
 me thus ? did I not feel it \vas the sound of some- 
 thing which belonged to her ? In faith ! I believe, 
 if her kitten was to mew, I should hasten to hold 
 some intercourse w^ith it. I can stay in this cur- 
 sed house no longer, and when I do go out, there 
 is but one way these legs of mine will carry me — 
 the allev which leads to her dwelllns; — Well, well, 
 I have been but six times there to-day already ; I 
 may have a chance of seeing her at last — I'll run 
 after the old gentleman even now — what a delight- 
 ful witch it is ! [Exit, hastily. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Withrixgton's house. Agnes a7id Mariaxe, 
 discovered, Marian e reading a letter, and Agnes 
 looking earnestly and gladly in her face. 
 
 Ag, My friend Edward is well, I see ; pray 
 what does the traveller say for himself? 
 
 Mar. (putting up the letter.) You shall read it all 
 by and by, every thing that is pleasant and kind. 
 
 Ag. Heaven prosper you both I you are happier 
 than I am with all my fortune^ Mariancy you have 
 a right true lover. 
 
 Mar, And so have you, Agnes : Harwood will 
 
 2 
 
222 THE TPtYAL: A COMEDY. 
 
 bear the trial : I have vvatch'd him closely, and I 
 will venture my word upon him. 
 
 j4g. (taking her in her arms.) Now if thou art 
 not deceiv'd, thou are the dearest sweet cousin on 
 earth I (Pausing and lookifig seriously.) Ah no ! it 
 cannot be ! I am but an ordinary looking girl, as 
 my uncle says. {JVith vivacity.) I would it were so! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Sir. Sir Loftus Pretty man and Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mar. I am at home. (Exit Servant.) I can't 
 entertain these fools till Ihave put up my letter : 
 do you receive them, I will soon return. [Exit. " 
 
 Enter Sir Lostus and Opal dress'd pretty much 
 alike. Sir Loftus makes a haughty distant how 
 to Agnes, a72d Opal makes another very like it. 
 
 Ag. Have the goodness to be seated Sir, (to Sir 
 Loftus) Pray, Sir, (to Opal, making a courteous mo^ 
 tion as if she wished them to sit down.) Miss With- 
 rington will be here immediately. (Sir Loftus makes 
 a slight low with out speaking ; Opal does the same, 
 and both saunter alwut zvith their hats in their hands.) 
 
 Ag. I hope you had a pleassnt walk after we 
 left you, Sir Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (looking affectedly, as if he did not un^ 
 derstand her.) I beg pardon — O ! you were along 
 with Miss Withrington. (MumUing some thing ivhich 
 is 7iot heard.) 
 
THE THYAL : A COMEDY. 223 
 
 Ag, (to Op.) You are fond of that walk, Mr, 
 Opal, I think I have seen you there frequently. 
 
 Op. Ma'am you are very — (mumbVing sometlimg 
 which is not heard ^ in the same matiner with Sir Lof- 
 tus, hut still more absurd.) I do sometimes walk — 
 (mumbling again.) 
 
 Ag. (to Sir Loft.) The country is delightful 
 round Bath. 
 
 Sir Loft. Ma'am ! 
 
 Ag. Don't you think so, Mr. Opal ? 
 
 Op. 'Pon honour I never attended to it. (A 
 Jong pause, Sir Loftus and Opal strut about 
 conceitedly. Enter Mariane, and both of them 
 run up to her at once^ with great alacrity and satis- 
 faction.) 
 
 Sir Loft. I hope I see Miss Withrington entirely 
 recovered from the fatigues of the morning ? 
 
 Mar, Pretty well, after the fatigue of dressing 
 too, which is a great deal worse. Sir Loftus, 
 (carelessly.) 
 
 Op. For the ball, I presume ? 
 
 Sir Loft. I am delighted — 
 
 Mar. (addressing herself to Agnes, without at- 
 tending to him.) Do you know what a provoking 
 mistake my milliner has made? 
 
 Ag. I don't know. 
 
 Sir Loft. I hope. Madam — 
 
 Mar. (to Ag.) She has made up my whole suit 
 of trimmings with the colour of all others I dislike. 
 
 Op, This is very provoking indeed, I would^ — 
 
 Mar. (still speaking to Ag. without attending /a 
 
*11'i THE THYAL : A COMEDO, 
 
 them.) And she has sent home my petticoat all 
 patched over with scraps of gold foil^ hke a may- 
 day dress for a chimney-sweeper. 
 
 Sir Loft, (thrusting in his face near Maria ne^ 
 and endeavouring to he attended to.) A very good 
 comparison, ha, ha! 
 
 Op, (thrusting in his face at the other side of her.) 
 Very good indeed, ha, ha ha ! 
 
 Mar, (still speaking to Agnes, who winks at her 
 without attendiitg to them.) I'll say nothing about 
 it, but never employ her again. 
 
 Sir Loft, (going round to her other ear, and 
 mahng another attempt.) I am delighted. Miss 
 Withrington. 
 
 Mar, (carelessly.) Are you. Sir Loft us ? (T^ 
 Agnes,) I have broken my fan, pray put it by with 
 your own, my dear Agnes ! (Exit Agnes into fh^ 
 adjoining room, and Sir Loftus gives Opal a signify 
 cant look^ upon which he retires to the bottom of the 
 stage, and, after sauntering a little there, Exit.) 
 
 Sir Loft, (seeming a little piqued.) If you would 
 have done me the honour to hear me. Ma'am, I 
 should have said. I am delighted to see you dress'd, 
 as I hope I may presume from it, you intend going 
 ^o the ball to-night. 
 
 Mar, Indeed I am too capricious to know whe- 
 ther I door not; do you think it will be pleasant? 
 
 Sir Loft, Very pleasant, if the devotions of a 
 thousand admirers can make it so. 
 
 Mar, O ! the devotions of a thousand admirers, 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. . 22S 
 
 .are like the good will of every body ; one steady 
 friendship is worth it all. 
 
 Sir Loft. From which may I infer, that one 
 faithful adorer, in your eyes, outvalues all the 
 thousand ? (affecting to he tender.) Ah ! so would 
 I have Miss Withrington to believe ! and if that 
 can be any inducement, she will find such a one 
 there, most happy to attend her. 
 
 Mar, Will she ? I wonder who this may be : 
 what kind of man is he, pray ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (with a conceited simper^ at the same 
 time in a pompous 7na7iner.) Perhaps it w^ill not be 
 
 boasting too much to say, he is a man of fashion, 
 
 and of some little consequence in the world. 
 
 Mar. Handsome and accomplished too, Sir 
 Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft. I must not presume. Ma'am, to boast 
 of my accomplishments. 
 
 Mar, (affecting a look of disappointment.) O ! 
 lud ! so it is yourself after all 1 I have not so much 
 penetration as I thought. (Yawning twice very 
 wide.) Bless me ! what makes me yawn so ? I 
 forgot to visit my old woman, who sells the cakes, 
 this morning, that must be it. (Yawning again.") 
 Do you love gingerbread. Sir Loftus ? (Sir Loftus 
 Vites his lips, and struts proudly away to the other side 
 of the stage, whilst Agnes peeps from the closet, and 
 makes signs of eticouragement to Mariane.^ 
 
 Mar, Well, after all, I believe, it will be plea- 
 sant enough to go to the ball, with such an accom- 
 plished attendant. 
 
 a 
 
226 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 Sir Loft, (taking encouragement^ and smotherhig 
 his pride.) Are you so obliging, Miss Withrington? 
 will you permit me to have the happiness of at- 
 tending you ? 
 
 Mar. If you'll promise to make it very agreeable 
 to me : you are fond of dancing, I suppose ? 
 
 Sir Loft, ni do any thing you desire me ; but 
 why throw away time so precious in the rough 
 familiar exercise of dancing? is there not some- 
 thing more distinguished, more refined^ in enjoying 
 the conversation of those we love ? 
 
 Mar. In the middle of a crowd. Sir Loftus? 
 
 Sir Loft. What is that crowd to us ? we have 
 nothing to do but to despise it : whilst they stare 
 upon us with vulgar admiration, we shall talk to- 
 gether, smile together, attend only to each other, 
 like beings of a superiour order. 
 
 Mar. O ! that will be delightful ! but don't you 
 think we may just peep slyly over our shoulder 
 now and then, to see them admiring us? (Sir 
 Loftus hites his lips again, and struts to the lot torn 
 cf the stage, whilst Agnes peeps out again from the 
 closet, and makes signs to Marianc.) 
 
 Mar. (carelessly pidling a small case from her 
 focht.) Are not these handsome brilliants^ Sir 
 Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Left, (very much struck zvilh the sparkling of 
 the diamonds, hut pretending not to look at them.) 
 Upon my word, Ma'am, I am no judge of trinkets. 
 
 Mar. they are clumsily set, I shall give them to 
 
 irv cousm. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 22/ 
 
 Sir Loft, (forgetting lilmself) Why, Ma'am, do 
 you seriously mean — They are of a most incom- 
 parable water! 
 
 Mar. (archly.) I thought you had not attended 
 to them. 
 
 Sir Loft, (tenderly.) It is impossible in the 
 presence of Miss Withrington, to think of any 
 thing but the cruelty with which she imposes 
 silence on a heart which adores her. 
 
 Mar. Nay, you entirely mistake me, Sir Loftus; 
 I /am ready to hear yoii with the greatest good 
 nature imaginable. 
 
 Sir Loft, It is a theme, perhaps, on which my 
 tongue would toa long dwell. 
 
 Mar, O! not at all; I have leisure and a great 
 deal of patience too at present; I beg you would 
 by no means hurry yourself. 
 
 Sir Loft, (after a pause, looking foolish arid em- 
 harrassed.) Few words, perhaps, will better suit 
 the energy of passion, 
 
 Mar. Just as you please. Sir Loftus, if you chuse 
 to say it in few words I am very well satisfied. 
 (Another pause. Sir Loftus ^ery much emharrassed.) 
 
 }27iter WiTHPaxGTON and Harwood : Sir 
 Loftus seems much relieved. 
 
 Sir Loft, (aside,) Heaven be praised! they are 
 come. 
 
 Mar. f/oWith.J I thought you were to have 
 brought Mr. Royston with you. 
 
 IVtth, He left us at a shop by the way, to in- 
 
228 THE teyal: a comedy. 
 
 quire the price of turnip seed ; but he will be here 
 by-and-by, if a hundred other things do not prevent 
 him. (Bozvs to Sir Loftus ; then turns to Harwood^ 
 and speaks as if he resumed a conversatmi which had 
 just been broken off, whilst Sir Loftus and Maria ne 
 retire to the bottom of the stage.) I perfectly agree 
 with you^ Mr. Harwood, that the study and prepa- 
 ration requisite for your profession is not altogether 
 a dry treasuring up of facts in the memory, as 
 many of your young students conceive : he who 
 pleads the cause of man before fellow-men. must 
 know what is in the heart of man as well as in the 
 book of records ; and what study is there in nature 
 so noble, so interesting as this ? 
 
 JIar. But the most pleasing part of pur task^ 
 my good Sir, is not the least difficult. Wherq 
 application only is v/anting I shall not be left be- 
 hind ; for I am not without ambition, though the 
 younger son of a family by no means afliuent ; 
 and I have a widow mother whose hopes of seeing 
 me respectable must not be disappointed, I as- 
 sure you there is nothing — (Listening.) 
 
 With, Go on, Mr. Harwod, I have great plea- 
 sure in hearing you. 
 
 Har. I thought I heard a door move. 
 
 With, It is Agnes in the next room, I dare say; 
 she is always making a noise. 
 
 Har. In the next room \ 
 
 With, But you were going to assure me — Have 
 the goodness to proceed. 
 
 Har, I was going "to say — I rather think I said 
 «= — I am sure™ (Listening again,) 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 229 
 
 tVith. Pool there is nobody there. 
 
 liar. Well, I Said — I think I told you — In 
 fliith my good Sir^ I will tell you honestly, I have 
 forgot what I meant to say. 
 
 WifJi. No matter, you will remember it again. 
 Ha, ha ha 1 it puts me in mind of a little acci- 
 dent w^hich happened to myself when I was in 
 Lincoln's Inn. Two or three of us met one even- 
 ing, to be cheerful together, and — (Whilst 
 Withrington hegms his story^ Agnes enters softly 
 from the adjoining closet, imperceived\ hut Harwood 
 on seeing her runs eagerly up to her, leaving With- 
 rington astonished, in the middle of his discourse.) 
 
 Har, (to Ag.^ Ha ! After so many filse alarms, 
 you steal upon us at last like a little thief. 
 
 Ag. And I steal something very good from you 
 too, if you lose my uncle's story by this interrup- 
 tion ; for I know by his face he was telling one. 
 
 With. Raillery is not always well-timed, Miss 
 Agnes Withrington. 
 
 ^g. Nay, do not be cross with us, Sir. Mr» 
 Harwood knew it was too good to be spent upon 
 one pair of ears, so he calls in another to partake. 
 
 With. Get along, baggage. 
 
 ylg. So I will uncle ; for I know^ that only 
 
 means with you that I should perk myself up by 
 
 your elbow. 
 
 With. Well, two or three of us young fellows 
 
 were met — did I not say— 
 
 Ag. At Lincoln's Inn. (Withrington hesitates,) 
 
 Har. She has named it, Sir. 
 
230 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY* 
 
 IFtth, I know well enono-h it was there. And 
 if I remember well^ George Biickner was one of us. 
 (Agnes gives a gentle hem to suppress a cough.) 
 
 Hur. (eagerly,) You was going to speak Miss 
 Withrington ? 
 
 Ag. No, indeed, I was not. 
 
 With, Well, George Buckner and two or three 
 
 more of us — We were in a very pleasant humour 
 
 that night — (Agnes making a slight motion of her 
 
 hand to fasten some pin in her dress,) 
 
 Har. (eagerly,) Do you not want something ? 
 (To Agnes.) 
 
 Ag, No, I thank you, I want nothing. 
 
 With, (half amused^ half peevish,) Nay, say 
 what you please to one another, for my story is 
 ended. 
 
 Har, My dear Sir, we are perfectly attentive. 
 
 Ag, Now, pray, uncle I 
 
 With, (to Ag.) Now pray hold thy tongue. I 
 forgot, I must consult the Court Calendar on 
 lioyston's account. (Goes to a table and takes up 
 a red hook which he turns over,) 
 
 Ag, (to Har.J How could you do so to my uncle ?. 
 I would not have interrupted him for the world. 
 
 Har, Ay, chide we well; I dearly love to be 
 chidden. 
 
 A'r. Do not invite me to it. I am said to have 
 
 o 
 
 a very good gitt that way, and you will soon 
 have too much of it, I believe. 
 
 Har, O no ! I would come every hour to be 
 chidden ! 
 
TKE tRYAL : A COMEDY. 231 
 
 jig. And take It meekly too ? 
 
 liar. Nay, I would have my revenge : I should 
 call you scolding Agnes, and little Agnes, and my 
 little Agnes. 
 
 ^g. You forget my dignity, Mr. Harwood. 
 
 Har. Oh ! you put all dignity out of counte- 
 nance ! The great Mogul himself would forget 
 his own in your presence. 
 
 u4g. Am I, as the good folks say, such a very 
 humbling sight ? But they are going to the gar- 
 den : I am resolved to be one of the party, f^s 
 she goes to join Sir Loftus and Mariane, who open 
 a glass door leading to the garden^ Harwood goes 
 before, walking backwards^ and his face tiirtied to 
 her.) You will break your pate presently, if you 
 walk with that retrograde step, like a dancing- 
 master giving me a lesson. Do you think I shall 
 follow you as if you had the fiddle in your hand ? 
 
 Har. Ah, Miss Withrington ! it is you who 
 have got the liddlc, and I who must follow. 
 
 [Exeunt into the garden. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Loftus from the Garden, looking 
 
 about for his hat. 
 
 Sir Loft. O ! here it is. 
 
 Enter Opal. 
 
 Op. What, here alone ? 
 
 Sir Loft. She is in the garden, I shall join her 
 immediately. 
 
 Op, All goes on well, I suppose ? 
 
232 THE THYA>Lt A COMEBY, 
 
 Sir LojL Why, I don't know how It is — ^no- 
 "body hears us? (Looking round.) I don't know 
 how it is^ but she does not seem to comprehend 
 perfectly in what light I am regarded by the 
 world ; that is to say, by that part of it which de- 
 serves to be called so. 
 
 Op, No 1 that is strange enough. 
 
 Sir Loft, Upon my honour, she treats me with 
 as much careless familiarity as if I were some plain 
 neighbour's son in the country. 
 
 Op, Ton honour this is very strange. 
 
 Sir Loft, I am not without hopes of succeeding; 
 but I will confess to you, I wish she would change 
 her manner of behaving to me. On the word of 
 ?i gentleman, it is shocking I Suppose you were to 
 give her a hint of the consequence I am honoured 
 with in the fashionable circles, that she may just 
 have an idea of the respect which is paid by every 
 well-bred person — You understand me. Opal ? 
 
 Op, O ! perfectly. I shall give her to know 
 that men like us, my dear friend, are accustomed 
 to be looked upon as a class of superiour beings. 
 
 Sir Loft, (not qidte satisfied,) I don't know — 
 Suppose you were to leave out all mention of 
 yourself — Your own merit could not fail to be in- 
 ferred. 
 
 Op, Well, I shall do so. 
 
 Sir Loft, Let us go to the garden. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Miss Eston, speaking as she enters, 
 I have been all over the town, and here am I at 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 233 
 
 last quite tired to death. How do you ? — (Look- 
 ing round.) O la ! there is nobody here. Mr. 
 Opal is gone too. Til wait till they return. (Takes 
 up a hooky then looks at her self in the glass yihen takes 
 up the hook again. Yawning.) 'Tis all about the 
 imagination, and the understanding, and I don't 
 know what — I dare say it is good enough to read 
 of a Sunday. ( Yawns, and lays it down.) O la \ 
 I wish they would come ! 
 
 Enter Roystox, and takes Miss Eston for Miss 
 
 WlTHRINGTON. 
 
 Roys, Madam, I have the honour to be your 
 very humble servant. I hoped to have been here 
 sooner, but I have been so overwhelmed with a 
 multiplicity of affairs ; and you knov/, Madam, 
 when that is the case — 
 
 Rst. (taking the word out of his mouth.) One 
 is never master of one's time for a moment. I'm 
 sure I have been all over the town this morning, 
 looking after a hundred things, till my head has 
 been nut into such a confusion 1 " La, Ma'am !" said 
 my milliner, "do take some lavender drops, you look 
 so pale." Why, says I, ^^ I don't much like to take 
 them, Mrs. Trollop, they an't always good." 
 
 Roys. No more they are. Ma'am, you are very 
 right ; and if a silly fellow% I know, had taken my 
 advice last year, and bought up the crops of la- 
 vender he would have made — 
 
 Est, (taking the word from hi?n again.) A very 
 good fortune^ I dare say. But people never will 
 
234 THE THYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 take advice, which is very foolish in them, to be 
 sure. Now I always take— 
 
 Eoys. Be so good as to hear me. Ma'am. 
 
 Est, Certainly, Sir; for I always say, if they 
 give me advice it is for my good, and why should 
 not I take it ? 
 
 Roys, (edging hi his ivord as fast as lie can.) 
 And the damn'd foolish fellow too ! I once saved 
 him from being cheated in a horse ; and — 
 
 Rst. La ! there are such cheats ! a friend of 
 mine bought a little lap-dog the other day — 
 
 Roys. But the horse. Ma'am, was — 
 
 Est. Not worth a guinea, I dare say. Why 
 they had the impudence to palm it on my friend — 
 
 Both sneaking together. 
 
 Est, As a pretty little dog, which had been bred 
 Roys. It was a good mettled horse, and might 
 E, up for a lady of quality, and when she had 
 R. have passed as a good purchase at the money, 
 E. just made a cushion for it at the foot of her 
 R. but on looking his fore feet — (Sto^s shorty 
 
 mid lets her go oti.) 
 
 E. own bed, she found it was all over mangy. 
 
 Fm sure I would rather have a plain wholesome 
 
 cat than the prettiest mangy dog in the kingdom. 
 Roys. Certainly, Ma'am. And I assure you the 
 
 |)orse — for says I to the groom — 
 
 Both speaking together. 
 Est. O ! I dare say it was — and who would 
 
The tryal: a comedy. 233 
 
 Kqys, What is the matter with this pastern, 
 
 E. have suspected that a dog bred up on pur- 
 
 E, Thomas ? it looks as if it were rubbed — fSloj>s 
 
 short again, and looks at her vfith astonishment as 
 
 she goes on talking.) 
 
 E, pose for a lady of quality, should be all over 
 so ? Nasty creature 1 It had spots upon its back as 
 large as my watch. (Taking up her watch.) O la 1 
 I am half an hour after my time. My mantua- 
 maker is waiting for me. Good morning, Sir ! 
 
 [Exit, hastily, 
 Roys, (looking after her.) Clack, clack, clack, 
 clack! What a devil of a tongue she has got ! 
 'Faith ! George shall have her, and I'll e'en ask the 
 place for myself. (Looking out.) But there is 
 company in the garden : I'll go and join them. 
 
 [Exit to the garden. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington's house. A loud 
 laughing vjithout. Enter Roystox, in a greai 
 
 rage. 
 
 Roys. Ay, ay, laugh away, laugh away. Madam ! 
 you'll weep by-and-by, mayhap. (Pauses and 
 listens \ laughing still heard.) What an infernal noise 
 the jade makes ! I wish she had a peck of chaff in 
 her mouth ! I am sure it is wide enough to hold it. 
 
236 THE TRYAL : A GOMEDY„ 
 
 Enfer Humphry. 
 
 Mumph. I have been seeking your bonoiir every 
 where — -Lord, Sir ! I have somethi-ng to tell you« 
 
 Roys, Confound your tales ! don't trouble me 
 with a parcel of nonsense. 
 
 Humph, (staring at him and hearing the laughing 
 without,) For certain, your honour, there's some- 
 body in this house merrier than you or I. 
 
 Roys. Damn you^ Sir ! how do you know I am 
 not merry ? Go home, and do what I ordered you 
 directly. If that fellow Jonathan is not in the 
 way, Fil horse-whip him within an inch of his 
 life. Begone, I say ; why do you stand staring at 
 me like a madman ? [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mariane a7id Agnes, hy opposite sides. 
 
 Mar, (holding her sides.) Oh how my poor sides 
 ach 1 I shan't be able to laugh again for a month. 
 
 Ag, You have got rid of one lover who v^ill 
 scarcely attempt you a second time. I have met 
 him hurrying through the hall, and muttering to 
 himself like a madman. It is not your refusal of 
 l^is son that has so roused him. 
 
 Mar, No, no, he began his courtship in a 
 doubtful way, as if he would recommend a gay 
 young husband to my choice ; but a sly compli- 
 ment to agreeable men of a middle age, brought 
 him soon to speak plainly for himself 
 
 Ag, But how did you provoke him so ? 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDy. !237 
 
 Mar, I will tell you another time. It is later 
 than I thought. (Looking ai her watch.) 
 
 Ag, Don't go yet. How stands it with you 
 and a certain gentleman I recommended to your 
 notice ? 
 
 Mar. O ! he does not know whether I am tall 
 or shorty brown or fair, foolish or sensible, after all 
 the pains I have taken with him : he has eyes, ears, 
 and understanding, for nobody but you, Agnes, 
 and I will attempt him no more. He spoke to 
 me once with animation in his countenance, and 
 I turned round to listen to him eagerly, but it was 
 only to repeat to me something you had just said, 
 which, to deal plainly with you, had not much wit 
 in it neither. I don't know^ how it is, he seemed to 
 me at first a pleasanter man than he proves to be. 
 
 jig. Oh ! say not so, Mariane ! he proves to 
 be most admirable ! 
 
 Mar, Well, be it so, he cannot prove better 
 than I wish him to do, and I can make up my list 
 without him. I have a love letter from an Irish 
 baronet in my pocket, and Opal will declare him- 
 self presently. — I thought once he meant only to 
 plead for his friend, but I would not let him off so, 
 for I know he is a mercenary creature. I have 
 flattered him a little at the expence of Sir Loftus, 
 and I hope, ere long, to see him get up for a great 
 man upon his own bottom. 
 
 j4g. So it was only to repeat to you something 
 that I had been saying ? 
 
 Mar, Ha I you are thinking of this still. I be- 
 
238 THE TI17AL : A COMEDY. 
 
 lieve indeed he sets down every turn of your eye 
 in his memory, and acts it all over in secret. 
 
 Ag, Do you think so ! give me your hand, my 
 dear Mariane, you are a very good cousin to me — 
 Marks every turn of mine eye ! I am not quite 
 such an ordinary girl as my uncle says — My com- 
 plexion is as good as your own Mariane, if it were 
 not a little sun-burnt. (Mariane smiles,) Yes, 
 smile at my vanity as you please, for what makes 
 me vain, makes me so good humoured too, that 
 I will forgive you. But here comes uncle. (Skip- 
 f'tng as she goes to meet hhn.) O 1 I am light as an 
 air-ball! (^£?2/^rMr.Withrington.) MydearSir,how 
 long you have been away from us this morning! \ 
 am delighted to see you so pleased and so happy. 
 
 With, (with a very sour face.) You are mis- 
 taken, young lady, I am not so pleased as you 
 think. 
 
 Ag, O no, Sir ! you are very good humoured, 
 Is'nt he, Mariane ? 
 
 With. But I say I am in a very bad hum.our. 
 Get along with your foolery ! 
 
 Ag. Is it really so ? Let me look in your face, 
 uncle ? To be sure your brows are a little knit, 
 and your eyes a little gloomy, but that is nothing 
 to be called bad humour; if I could not contrive 
 to look crabbeder than all this comes to, I would 
 never pretend to be ill humoured in my life. 
 (Mariane and Agnes take him hy the hands and 
 begin to play with him.) 
 
 With, No, no, young ladies, I am not in a 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY, 13^ 
 
 mood to be played with. I can't approve of every 
 farce you please to play off in my flimily, nor to 
 have my relations affronted, and driven from my 
 house for your entertainment. 
 
 Alar, hideed. Sir, I treated Royston better than 
 he deserved, for he would i>ot let me have time to 
 give a civil denial, but ran on planning settle- 
 ments and jointures, and a hundred things besides; 
 I could just get in my word to stop his career with 
 a flat refusal, as he was about to provide for our 
 descendants of the third generation. O ! if you 
 had seen his face then, uncle ! 
 
 fFi^h. I know very well how you have treated 
 him. 
 
 ^g. Don't be angry, Sir. What does a maa 
 hke Royston care for a refusal ? he is only angry 
 that he can't take the law of her for laughing at 
 him. 
 
 f-Fiili. Let this be as it may, I don't chuse to 
 have my house in a perpetual bustle from morn- 
 ing till night, with your plots and your pastimes. 
 There is no more order nor distinction kept up in 
 my house, than if it were a cabin in Kamschatka, 
 and common to a whole tribe. I can't set my nose 
 in a room of it but I find some visitor, or show- 
 man, or milliner's apprentice, loitering about : my 
 best books are cast upon footsools and window- 
 seats, and my library is littered over with work- 
 bags : dogs, cats, and kittens, take possession of 
 every chair, and refuse to be disturbed : kitchen 
 wenches flaunt up stairs with their new top-knots 
 
 7 
 
240 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 on to look at themselves in the pier glasses ; and 
 the very beggar children go hopping about my 
 hall^ with their half-eaten scraps in their hands^ a$ 
 though it were the entry to a work-house. 
 , u4g. (clapping Ms shoulder gently.) Now don't 
 be impatient, my dear Sir, and every thing shall 
 be put into such excellent order as shall delight 
 you to behold. And as for the beggar children, if 
 any of them dare but to set their noses within the 
 door, I'll — What shall I do with them. Sir ! (Pauses 
 &nd looks in his face^ which hegins to relent.) I 
 believe we must e'en give them a little pudding 
 after all. (Both take his hands and coa:c hint.) 
 
 iVith, Come, come, off hands and let me sit 
 down. I am tired of this, 
 
 jdg. Yes, uncle, and here is one seat, you see, 
 with no cat upon it. (Withrington sits down, and 
 Agnes takes a little stool and sits down at his feety 
 curling her tiose as she looks vp to him, arid making 
 a good humoured face.) 
 
 With, Well, it may be pleasant enough, girls, 
 but allow me to say all this playing, and laughing, 
 and hoidening about is not gentlewomanlike, nay, 
 I might say, is not maidenly. A high bred ele- 
 gant woman is a creature which man approaches 
 with awe and respect ; but nobody would think of 
 accosting you with such impressions, any more 
 than if you were a couple of young female 
 
 tinkers. 
 
 uig. Don't distress yourself about this, Sir, we 
 
 shall get the men to bow to us, and tremble bc~ 
 2 
 
THE tryal: a comedy, 241 
 
 '^ fore us too^ as well as e'er a hoop petticoat or long 
 ruffles of them all. 
 
 With. Tremble before you! ha, ha, ha! (to 
 Agnes.) Who would tremble before thee, dost 
 thou think ? 
 
 Ag, No despicable man, perhaps: What think 
 you of your favourite, Harwood } 
 
 With, Poo, poo, poo ! he is pleased with thee 
 as an amusing and good-natured creature, and 
 thou thinkest he is in love with thee, forsooth. 
 
 Ag, A good-natured creature ! he shall think 
 me a vixen and be pleased with me. 
 
 With. No, no, not quite so far gone, I believe. 
 Ag. I'll bet you two hundred pounds that it is 
 so. If I win you shall pay it to Mariane for wed- 
 ding trinkets ; and if you win you may build a 
 couple of alms-houses. 
 
 With, Well, be it so. We shall see, we shall 
 see. 
 
 Mar, Indeed we shall see you lose your bet, 
 uncle. 
 
 With, (to Mar.) Yes, baggage, I shall have 
 your prayers against me, I know. 
 
 Enter Seuvant, and announces Mr. Opal, Enter 
 
 Opal. 
 
 Op, (to Mar.) I hope I have the pleasure of see- 
 ing Miss Withrington well this morning. {Bo'u^s 
 distantly to Withrington, and still more so to Agnes^ 
 after the manner of Sir Loftus.) 
 
 R 
 
242 THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 
 
 With. Your servant, Sir. 
 
 Mar. {to Op.) How did you like the ball last 
 night? There was a gay, genteel looking com- 
 pany. 
 
 Oj). {with affected superiority.) Excepting Lord 
 Saunter, and Lord Poorly, and Sir Loftus, and one 
 or two more of us, I did not know a soul in the 
 room. 
 
 With. There were some pretty girls there, Mr. 
 Opal. 
 
 Op. I am very glad to hear it, 'pon honour. I 
 did not — {Mu7}ibling.) 
 
 With, {aside.) Affected puppv I I can't bear to 
 look at him. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. {assuming a gayer air as Withrington 
 goes out.) You will soon have a new beau to en- 
 rich your circle, Mr. Opal, the handsome and ac- 
 complished Colonel Beaumont. lie is just return- 
 ed from abroad, and is now quite the fashion at 
 court. {To Agnes.) Don't you think Mr. Opal 
 resembles him ? 
 
 j4g. O 1 very much indeed. 
 
 Op. {bowing 'very graciously.) Does he not re- 
 semble Sir Loftus too ? I mean in his air and his 
 manner. 
 
 Mar, O ! not at all ! That haughty coldness of 
 his is quite old fashioned now; so unlike the affa- 
 ble frankness so much admired in the Colonel: 
 you have seen him I presume ? 
 
 Op. I have never had that honour. 
 
 a 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 243 
 
 Mar, Then you will not be displeased at the 
 likeness we have traced when you do. 
 
 Op. (relaxing from his dignity, and highly pleas-" 
 ed.) The greatest pleasure of my life, Ma am, will 
 be to resemble what pleases you. (Mariane gives 
 Agnes the winky and she retires to the hoi torn of the 
 stage.) 
 
 Mar. You flatter me infinitely. 
 
 Op. Ah ! call it not flattery, charming Miss 
 Withrington ! for now I will have the boldness to 
 own to you frankly, I have been, since the first 
 moment I beheld you, your most sincere, your 
 most passionate admirer. Upon hon — {correcting 
 himself) 'faith I have ! 
 
 Mar. Nothing but my own want of merit can 
 make mc doubt of any thing Mr.Opal asserts upon 
 his honour or his- faith. (JTurning and walking to^ 
 wards the hottom of the stage , whilst O^^dX follows 
 her, stalking in dumb show ; then AgnQS joins them, 
 and they all come forward to the front ^ 
 
 Ag. (to Mar.) How much that turn of his head 
 puts me in mind of the Colonel 1 
 
 Mar. So it does, my Agnes. (To Opal.) Pray 
 have the goodness to hold it so for a moment ! 
 There now, it is jast the very thing. (Opal holds 
 his head in a constrained ridiculous posture, and the7i 
 rnakis a conceited bow.) His very manner of bow- " 
 ing too 1 one would swear it was the Colonel ! 
 
 Ag. Yes, only the Colonel is more familiar, 
 more easy in his carriage. 
 
 Op. O ! ISIa'am ! I assure you I have former- 
 
 K 2 
 
244 THE tryal: a comedy, 
 
 !y — It is my natural manner to be remarkably 
 easy — But I — (pauses.) 
 
 Mar. Have never condescended to assume any 
 other than your natural manner, I hope. 
 
 Op. O ! not at all, I detest affectation; there is 
 nothing I detest so much — But upon my soul ! I 
 can't tell how it is, I have been graver of late. I 
 am, indeed, sometimes thoughtful. 
 
 Mar. O (y upon it ! don't be so any more. It 
 is quite old fashioned and ridiculous now. {Tq 
 Agnes, winking at her.) Did you see my gloves 
 any where about the room, cousin ? 
 
 Op, I'll find them. {Goes to look for them with 
 great briskness — Servant announces Miss Eston.) 
 
 Op. Pest take her! I stared at her once in a 
 mistake^ and she has ogled and followed me ever 
 since. 
 
 Enter Miss Eston, r mining up to Marian e and 
 Agnes, a7id pretending not to see Opal, though 
 she cannot help looking askayice at him while sht 
 speaks. 
 
 Est. O my dear creatures! you can't think how 
 I have longed to see you. Mrs. Thomson kept 
 me so long this morning, and you know she is an 
 intolerable talker. (Pretending to discover Opal) 
 O ! how do you do, Mr. Opal ? I declare I did 
 not observe you ! 
 
 Op. {with a distant haughty how.) lam obliged 
 to you. Ma'am. 
 
 j^ 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 245 
 
 EsL I did see your figure, indeed, but I mistook 
 it for Sir Loftus. 
 
 Op. {correcting himself, arid assuming a cheerful 
 frank manner.) O Ma*am ! you are very obliging 
 to observe me at all. I believe Prettyman and I 
 may be nearly of the same height. {Looking at his 
 watch.) I am beyond my appointment, I see. Ex- 
 cuse me ; I must hurry away. [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Est. (looking after him ivith marks of disappoint' 
 mcnt.) I am very glad he is gone. He does so 
 haunt me, and stare at me, I am quite tired of it. 
 The iirst time I ever saw him, you remember how 
 he looked me out of countenance. I was resolved 
 before I came not to take notice of him. 
 
 Mar, So you knew you should find him here, 
 then. 
 
 Est. O la! one don't know of a morning who 
 one may meet; as likely him as any body else, 
 you know. I really wonder now what crotchet 
 he has taken into his head about me. Do you 
 know, last night, before twilight, I peeped past 
 the blind, and saw him walking with slow pensive 
 steps, under my window. 
 
 Mar. Well, what happened then ? 
 
 Est. I drew in my head, you may be sure ; but 
 a little while after, I peeped out again, and, do 
 you know, I saw him come out of the perfumer's 
 shop, just opposite to my dressing-room, where he 
 had been all the while. 
 
 Mar. Very well, and w^hat happened next ? 
 
 Est, La ! nothing more. But was it not very 
 
240 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 odd ? What should he be doing all that time in 
 that little paltry shop ? The great shop near the 
 Circus is the place where every body buys perfu- 
 mery. 
 
 Ag. No, there is nothing very odd in Mr. 
 Opal's buying perfumes at a very paltry shop, 
 where he might see and be seen by a very pretty 
 lady. 
 
 Est. {with Iter face hrighhiing u^,) Do you 
 think so ? O no ! you don't ? 
 
 Jg. To be sure I do. But I know what is very 
 strange. 
 
 Est, O la ! dear creature ! What is It ? 
 . Ag. He bought his perfumes there before you 
 came, when there was no such inducement. Is 
 not that very odd ? (^sion pauses^ a7id looks silly.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Withrington, hut upon perceiving 
 Eston, hows and retreats again, 
 
 ''^ Est. (recovering herself.) Ha ! how do you do, 
 Mr. Withrington ? I have just seen your friend. 
 Lady Fade. Poor dear soul ! she says — 
 
 IFilh. I am sorry, Ma'am, it is not in my power 
 at present — I am in a hurry, I have an appoint- 
 ment. Your servant, Ma'am. [Exit. 
 ' Est. Well, now, this is very odd ! Wherever I 
 "go, I find all the men just going out to some ap- 
 pointment. O, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Thom- 
 son has put a new border to her drawing-room, 
 just like the one up stairs. Has it not a dark blue 
 ground ? {To Mariane.) 
 
THE TRYAL ! A COMEDY. 247 
 
 Mar. I'm sure I cannot tell, let us go up stairs 
 and see. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before Mr. Withrington's House, Enter 
 
 Harwood. 
 
 Well^ here I am again, yet devil take me if I 
 can muster up resolution enough to touch the 
 knocker 1 What a fool was I to call twice this 
 morning ! for with what face can I now visit 
 her again ? The old gentleman will look strangely 
 at me ; the fine heiress her cousin will stare 
 at me ; nay, the very servants begin already to 
 smile with impertinent significance, as I inquire 
 with conscious foolishness, if the ladies are at 
 home. Then Agnes herself will look so drolly at 
 me — Ah ! but she will look so pleasantly too !— 
 'Faith ! Fll e'en go. (Goes to the door^ puts his 
 hand up to the knocker , stops short, and turns from it 
 again. Pauses.) What a fool am I, to stand think- 
 ing about it here. If I were but fairly in the room 
 with her, and the first salutation over, I should not 
 care if the devil himself made faces at mc. Oh no! 
 every body is good humoured, every thing is happy 
 that is near her ! the kitten who plays by her side 
 takes hold of her gown unchidden. How plea- 
 sant it is to love what is so blessed ! I w^ould hate 
 the fairest woman on earth if she were not of a 
 sweet temper. Come away, come aw^ay, every 
 thing favours me here, but my own foolish fancies. 
 
248 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 (As he goes to the door again, it opens, and enters 
 from the house^ Betty^ crying^ with a bundle in her 
 hand.) 
 
 Bet, O dear me ! O dear me ! 
 
 Har, What is the matter with you, my good 
 girl ? 
 
 Bet, Fm sure it was not my fault, and she has 
 abused me worser than a heathen. 
 
 Har, That is hard indeed. 
 
 Bet. Indeed it is. Sir; and all for a little nasty 
 essence bottle, which was litde better than a gen- 
 teel kind of a stink at the best, and I am sure I 
 did but take out the stopper to smell to it, when it 
 came to pieces in my hand like an tgg shell. If 
 bottles will break, how can I help it*? but la ! Sir, 
 there is no speaking reason to my mistress ; she is 
 as furious and as ill tempered as a dragon. 
 
 Har, Don't distress yourself. Miss Agnes With- 
 rington will make amends to you for the severity 
 of your mistress. 
 
 Bet, She truly ! she is my mistress herself, and 
 she has abused me — O dear me ! — If it had been 
 Miss Withrington, she would not have said a word 
 to me ; but Miss Agnes is so cross, and so ill 
 natured, there is no living in the house with her. 
 
 Har, Girl, you are beside yourself! 
 
 Bet, No, Sir, God be praised ! but she is beside 
 herself, I believe. Does she think I am going to 
 live in her service to be call'd names so, and com- 
 pared to a bhickamoor too ? If I had been waiting 
 maid to the queen, she would not have compared 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. lA^Q 
 
 me to a blackamoor, and will I take such usage 
 from her ? — what do I care for her cast gowns ! 
 
 Uar, Well, but she is liberal to )Ou ? 
 
 BeL She liberal ! she'll keep every thing that is 
 worth keeping to herself, I warrant ; and Lord pity 
 those who are bound to live with her ! I'll seek 
 out a new place for myself, and let the devil, if he 
 will, wait upon her next, in the shape of a blacka- 
 moor : they will be fit company for one another ; 
 and if he gets the better of her at scolding, he is a 
 better devil than I take him for. And I am sure. 
 Sir, if you were to see her — 
 
 Har. Get along ! get along ! you are too pas- 
 sionate yourself, to be credited. 
 
 BeL I know what I know, I don't care what no- 
 body says, no more I do ; I know who to com- 
 plain to. [Exit, gnojihling, 
 
 Har. (alone.) What a malicious toad it is ! I 
 dare say now, she has done something very pro-p 
 yoking. I cannot bear these pert chamber-maids, 
 the very sight of them Is offensive to me. 
 
 Enter Jonathan. 
 
 Jon. Good evening to your honour ; can you tell 
 me if Mr. Withrington be at home ? for as how, 
 my master has sent me with a message to him. 
 
 Har. (impaUenfly.) Go to the house and inquire,! 
 know nothing about it. (Jonathan ^(/^i- to the liouse.) 
 
 Har, (aJofie, after musing some time.) That girl 
 has put me out of all heart though, with her 
 
250 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY* 
 
 cursed stories, — No, no, it cannot be — it is impos- 
 sible ! 
 
 Re-enter Jonathan from the house, scratching his 
 head, and looking behind, 
 
 Jon. 'Faith there Is hot work going on amongst 
 them ! thank heaven I am out again. 
 
 Har, What do you mean ? 
 
 Jon. 'Faith! that little lady, in that there house, 
 is the best hand at a scold, saving Mary Macmur- 
 rock, my wife's mother, that ever my two blessed 
 eyes looked upon. Lord, Sir! (going nearer him) her 
 tongue goes ting, ting, ting, as shrill as the bell of 
 any pieman ; and then. Sir, (going nearer him) her 
 two eyes look out of her head, as though they 
 were a couple of glow-worms ; and then, Sir, he, 
 he, he ! (Laughing and going close up to him.) She 
 claps her little hands so, as if — 
 
 Har. Shut your fool's mouth and be damn'd to 
 you ! (Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a violent pas- 
 sion ; then leans his hack to a tree, and seems thought- 
 ful for some time and very much troubled.) 
 
 Enter Agnes from the house, ^with a stormy look on 
 
 her face. 
 
 Ag. So you are still loitering here, Harwood ? 
 jou have been very much amused I suppose, with 
 the conversation of those good folks, you have 
 talked with. 
 
 Har. No, not much amused. Madam, though 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY, 251 
 
 somewhat astonished, I own ; two much astonish'd 
 indeed, to give it any credit. 
 
 j4g, O ! it is true though ; I have been very- 
 cross with the girl, and very cross with every 
 body; and if you don't clear up that dismal face of 
 yours, I shall be cross with you too : what could 
 possess you to stay so long under the chcsnut-tree 
 a little while ago, always appearing as if you were 
 coming to the house^ and always turning back 
 again ? 
 
 Har, (eagerly.) And is it possible, you were then 
 looking at me, and observing my motions ? 
 
 uig. Indeed I was just going to open my window 
 and beckon to you, when that creature broke my 
 phial of sweet essence^ and put me quite out of 
 temper. 
 
 Har. Hang the stupid jade ! I could — 
 
 j4g. So you are angry too? O! well done I we 
 are fit company for one another, come along with 
 me, come, come ! (hiipatiefiily. As she turns to go, 
 something catches hold of her goiion.) What is this ? 
 confounded thing 1 (Pulls away her gown in a pas- 
 sion, and tears it.) 
 
 Har. (aside.) Witch that she is ! she should be 
 beaten for her humours. I vvill not go with her. 
 
 Ag. (looking behind.) So you won't go in with 
 me ? good evening to you then : we did want a 
 fourth person to make up a party with us, but since 
 you don't like it we shall send to Sir Loftus, or 
 Opal, or Sir Ulock O'Grady, or some other good 
 creature ; I dare say Sir Loftus will come. 
 
252 THE TRYAL : A COMEDT; 
 
 Har, (half aside.) Cursed Coxcomb ! If he sets 
 his snout within the door, I'll pistol him. 
 
 Ag, (overheaing him.) Ha ! well said ! you 
 will make the best company in the world. Come 
 along, come along ! (Hefollozvsher half unwillingly y) 
 why don't you offer your arm here ? don't you see 
 how rough it is ? (He offers his arm.) Poo, not that 
 arm ! (Offers her the other.) Poo, not so neither, 
 on t'other side of me. 
 
 Har. What a huraoursome creature you are ! I 
 have offer'd you two arms, and neither of them 
 will do ; do you think I have a third to oiler 
 you } 
 
 Ag, You are a simpleton, or you would have 
 half a dozen at my service. 
 
 [Exeunt hito the house. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Harwood's Lodnn^s, He is dis^ 
 covered walking about with an irregidar disturbed 
 stepjiis hair and dress all neglected and in disorder -y 
 he coiJies forward to the front of the stage, 
 
 Har, I have neither had peace nor sleep since I 
 beheld her ; O ! that I had never known her ! or 
 known her only such as my first fond fancy con- 
 ceived her! — I would my friend were come, I will 
 open my heart to him : he perhaps will speak com- 
 fort to me, for surely that temper must be violent 
 
 indeed, which generous affection cannot stibdae; 
 
 1 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 253 
 
 and she must be extravagant beyond all bounds of 
 nature, who would ruin the fond husband who 
 toils for her. No, no, nature makes not such but 
 when she sets her scowling mark upon their fore- 
 head to warn us from our ruin. (Pauses, walks up 
 and down y then comes forward again.) Insipid con- 
 stitutional good nature is a tiresome thing : passion 
 subdued by reason is worth a score of it — and pas- 
 sion subdued by love ? — O ! that were bettef still ! 
 — yesterday, as I enter'd her door, I heard her name 
 me to her cousin, with so much gentle softness in 
 her voice, I blest her as she spoke.' — Ah \ if this 
 were so, all might still be well ; who would not 
 struggle with the world for such a creature as 
 this ? — Ay, and I must struggle !— O ! that this 
 head of mine would give over thinking but for 
 one half hour 1 (Rings ths hell.) 
 
 Enter Thomas. 
 
 What brings you here, Thomas ? 
 
 Thorn. Your bell rung. Sir. 
 
 Har. Well, well, I did want something, but I 
 have forgot it. Bring me a glass of water. (Exit 
 Thomas. Harwood si Is down by a small zvrhlng- 
 table, and rests his head upon his hand. Re- enter 
 Thomas, with the water.) You have made good 
 haste, Thomas. 
 
 Thorn, I did make good haste. Sir, lest you 
 should be impatient with me. 
 
 liar, I am sometimes impatient with you, then ? 
 I fear indeed I have been too often so of late ; 
 
254 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 but you must not mind it, Thomas, I mean you 
 no unkindness. 
 
 Thorn. Lord love you, Sir ! I know that very well ! 
 a young gentleman who takes an old man into his 
 service, because other gentlemen do not think 
 him quick enough, nor smart enough for them, as 
 your honour has taken me, can never mean to show 
 him any unkindness, I know it well enough ; I 
 am only uneasy because I fear you are not so well 
 of late. 
 
 liar, I thank you, Thomas, I am not very well — 
 I am not ill neither ; I shall be better. (Fames,) I 
 
 think I have heard vou sav, you were a soldier in 
 
 ■J » ' rf 
 
 your youth ? 
 
 Thorn. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Har, And you had a wife too, a woman of fiery 
 mettle, to bear about your knapsack ? 
 
 Thorn, Yes, Sir, my little stout spirity Jane ; she 
 had a devil of a temper, to be sure. 
 
 Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding ? ^ 
 
 Thorn. Yes, to be sure I did, as it were, bear 
 her some kindness. 
 
 Har, I'll be sv^'orn you did ! — and you would 
 have been very sorry to have parted with her. 
 
 Thorn. "Why death parts the best of friends, Sir^ 
 we lived but four years together, 
 
 Har. And so your little spirity Jane was taken 
 so soon away from you ? Give me thy hand, my 
 good Thomas. (Tahes Ins hand and presses it.) 
 
 Thorn, (percehnng tears in his eyes.) Lord, Sir ! 
 don't be so distressed about it ; she did die, to be 
 
THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 255 
 
 sure ; but truly, between you and I, although I 
 did make a kind of whimpering at the first, I was 
 not ill pleased afterwards to be rid of her ; for, 
 truly, Sir, a man who has got an ill tempered 
 wife, has but a dog*s life of it at the best. — ^Will 
 you have your glass of water. Sir ? 
 
 Har. (looking at him with dissatisfaction,) No, 
 no, take it away ; I have told you a hundred times 
 not to bring me that chalky water from the court- 
 yard. (Turns away from him.) 
 
 Enter Colonel Hardy. — Har wood makes signs to 
 Thomas, and he goes out, 
 
 Har, My dear Colonel, this is kind ! I am 
 very glad to see you. 
 
 Col, It is so seldom that a young fellow has any 
 inclination for the company of an old man, that 
 I should feel myself vain of the summons you have 
 sent me, Avere I not afraid, from this dishabille^ my 
 dear Harwood, that you are indisposed. 
 
 Har, You are very good ; I am not indisposed. 
 I have indeed been anxious — I rested indifferently 
 last night — I hope I see you well. 
 
 Col, Very w^ell, as you may guess from the 
 speed I have made in coming to you. These legs 
 do not always carry me so fast ; but you have 
 something particular to say to me. 
 
 Har. I am very sensible of your friendship. — 
 
 Pray, Colonel, be seated. — (They sit down — a long 
 pause, — Colonel Hardy, like one expecting to hear 
 
 something ; Harwood^ like one who knows not hovj 
 
256 THE TKYAL t A COMEDY. 
 
 to hegin.) — There are moments in a man's llfe^ 
 Colonel Hardy, when the advice of a friend is of 
 the greatest value ; particularly one^ who has also 
 been his father's friend. 
 
 CoL My heart very warmly claims both those 
 relations to you, Harwood ; and I shall be happj 
 to advise you as well as I am able. 
 
 Ha7\ (after another pause,) I am about to 
 commence a laborious profession. — The mind is 
 iiaturall)? anxious. — (Pauses.) 
 
 Col. But you are too capable of exercising well 
 that profession, to suffer much uneasiness. 
 
 ILir. Many a man with talents superiour to 
 mine has sunk beneath the burden ► 
 
 Col. And many a man, with talents vastly in- 
 feriour to yours, has borne it up with credit. 
 
 Bar, Ah ! what avails the head with an es- 
 tra4iged heart ? 
 
 CoL You are disgusted then with your pro- 
 fession, and have, perhaps, conceived more fa- 
 vourably of mine ? I am sorry for it : I hoped to 
 see you make a figure at the bar ; and your mother 
 has long set her heart upon it. 
 
 Har. (with energy.) O, no ! she must not 1 
 she shall not be disappointed ! — Pardon me, my 
 expressions have gone somewhat wide of my 
 meaning. — 1 meant to have consulted you in re- 
 gard to other difficulties — 
 
 Col. And pardon me likewise for interrupting 
 you ; but it appears to me^ that an unlearned 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 257 
 
 soldier is not a person to be consulted in these 
 matters. 
 
 Har» It was not, altogether, of these matters 
 I meant to speak — But, perhaps, we had better 
 put it off for the present. 
 
 CoJ. No, no ! 
 
 Har. Perhaps we had better walk out a little 
 way : we may talk with less restraint as we go. 
 
 Col. No, no, there are a thousand impertient 
 people about. Sit down again, and let me hear 
 every thing you wish to say. 
 
 Har. ( pausing y hesitating , and much embarrassed.) 
 There are certain attachments in which a man's 
 heart may be so deeply interested — I would say so 
 very — or rather I should say so strangely engaged, 
 that — (hesitates and pauses.) 
 
 Col. O, here it is ! I understand it now. But 
 pray don't be so foolish about it, Harwood ! You 
 are in love ? 
 
 Har. (appearing relieved.) I thank your quick- 
 ness, my dear Colonel, I fear it is somewhat so 
 with me. 
 
 Col. And whence your fear ? Not from the 
 lady's cruelty ? 
 
 Har. No, there is another bar in my way, 
 which does, perhaps, too much depress my hopes 
 of happiness. 
 
 Col. You have not been prudent enough to fall 
 in love with an heiress ? 
 
 Har. No, my dear Sir, I have not. 
 
 CoL That is a great mistake, to be sure, Har- 
 
258 -THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 wood ; yet many a man has not advanced the less 
 rapidly in his profession, for having had a portion- 
 less wife to begin the world with. It is a spur to 
 industry. 
 
 Har. (looking pleased at him.) Such sentiments 
 are what I expected from Colonel Hardy ; and, 
 were it not for female failings, there vvould be 
 Jittle risk in following them. — I don't know how 
 to express it — I am perhaps too delicate in these 
 matters— We ought not to expect a fauUless 
 woman. 
 
 CoL No, surely ; and, if such a woman were 
 to be found, she would be no fit companion for us. 
 
 Har. (getting up, and pressing the ColoneTs hayid 
 hetween his.) My dearest friend ! your liberality 
 and candour delight me ! — I do indeed believe 
 that many a man has lived very happily with a 
 woman far from being faultless ! and, after all, 
 where is the great injury he sustains, if she should 
 bea little violent and unreasonable ? 
 
 CoL (starling up from his seat,) Nay, heaven 
 defend us from a violent woman ; for that is the 
 devil himself! — (Seeing Harwood's countenance 
 change) — What is the matter with you, Harwood ? 
 She is not ill-temper'd, I hope? 
 
 Har, (hesitating.) Not — not absolutely so — 
 She is of a very quick and lively disposition, and 
 is apt to be too hasty and unguarded in her emo- 
 tions. — I do not, perhaps, mak© myself com- 
 pletely understood. 
 
 CqL O 1 I understand you perfectly. — I have 
 
THE tryal: a comedy* '259 
 
 known ladies of this lively disposition, very hasty 
 and unguarded too in their demands upon a man's 
 pocket as well as his patience ; but she may be of 
 a prudent and economical turn. Is it so Har- 
 wood ? 
 
 Har. (throwing himself info a chair very much 
 distress d.) I do not say it is. Colonel. 
 
 Col, (putk}ig his hand kindly upon his shoidder.) 
 I am sorry to distress you so much, my dear friend, 
 yet it must be so. I see how it is with you : par- 
 don the freedom of friendship, but indeed an ex- 
 pensive and violent tempered woman is not to be 
 thought of: he who marries such a one forfeits 
 all peace and happiness. Pluck up some noble 
 courage, and renounce this unfortunate con- 
 nexion. 
 
 Har, (starting up.) Renounce it. Colonel 
 Hardy : Is it from you I receive so hard, so un- 
 feeling a request, who have suffered so much 
 yourself from the remembrance of an early at- 
 tachment ? I thought to have been pitied by you. 
 
 CoL I was early chagrined with the Vv^ant of 
 promotion, and disappointed in my schemes of 
 ambition, which gave my countenance something 
 of a melancholy cast, I believe, and the ladies 
 have been kind enough to attribute it to the effects 
 of hopeless love ; but how could you be such a 
 ninny, my dear Harwood .'^ 
 
 Har. I am sorry, Sir, we have understood one 
 another so imperfectly. 
 
 Col, Nay, nay, my young friend, do not carry 
 
 's 2 
 
200 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 yourself so distantly with me. You have sought 
 a love-worn companion, and you have found a 
 plain spoken friend. I am sorry to give you 
 pain ; deal more openly with me : when I know 
 who this bewitching creature is, I shall, perhaps, 
 judge more favourably of your passion. 
 
 Har, It is Miss Agnes Withrington. 
 
 Col. Cousin to Miss Withrington the heiress ? 
 
 Har, Yes It is she. What have I said to amaze 
 you ? 
 
 Col. You amaze me, indeed ! — That little — 
 forgive me if I were almost to say, — plain looking 
 girl ! Friendship would sympathize in your feel- 
 ings ; but, pardon me, Harwood, you have lost 
 your wits. 
 
 Har, I believe I have Colonel, which must 
 plead my pardon, likewise, for expecting this 
 friendship from you. 
 
 CoL You distress me. 
 
 Har, I distress myself still more, by suffering 
 so long the pain of this conversation. 
 
 CoL Let us end it, then, as soon as you please. 
 When you are m a humour to listen to reason, I 
 shall be happy to have the honour of seeing you. 
 
 Ha7\ When I am in that humour. Sir, I will 
 not balk it so much as to intrude upon your 
 time. 
 
 CoJ, Let me see you, then, when you arc not 
 
 in that humour, and I shall more frequently have 
 
 the pleasure of your company. (Both how coldly. 
 
 Exit, Colonel Hardy.) 
 
 1 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. Q.6i 
 
 Har, (alone.) What a fool was I to send for 
 this man ! — A Httle plain looking girl ! What do 
 the people mean ? They will drive me mad 
 amongst them. Why does not the little witch 
 wear high heels to her shoes, and stick a plume 
 of feathers in her cap ? Oh ! they will drive me 
 distracted ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE 11, 
 
 Mr. Withrixgton's house, Agnes discovered 
 emhr aider ing at a small table, Harwood standing 
 by hery and hanging fondly over her as she works, 
 
 Har, How pretty it is ! Now you put a little 
 purple on the fide of the flower. 
 
 Ag, Yes, a very little shade. 
 
 Har, And now a little brown upon that. 
 
 j4g. Even so. 
 
 Har, And thus you work up and down, with 
 that tiny needle of yours, till the whole flower is 
 completed. (Pauses, still looking at her working.) 
 Why, Agnes, you little witch ! you're doing that 
 leaf wronsf. 
 
 Ag, You may pick it out then, and do It better 
 for me. I'm sure you have been idle enough all 
 the morning, it is time you were employed about 
 something. 
 
 Har, And so I will, (sitting down by her, and 
 taking hold of the work.) 
 
 Ag, (covering the flower with her hand) O ! 
 nOj no ! 
 
262 THE TRYAL *. A COMEDY. 
 
 Har. Take away that little perverse band, 'an4 
 let me begin. (Putting his hand upon hers. 2^ 
 
 j4g. What a good for nothing creature yon are 1 
 you can do nothing yourself, and you vviil suffer 
 no body else to do any thing. I should have had 
 the v^^hole pattern finished before now, if you had 
 riot loitered over my chair so long. 
 
 Ha?'. So you can't work when I look over you ! 
 Then I have some influence upon you ? O you 
 sly girl ! you are caught in your own words at 
 last." 
 
 Ag. Indeed, Harwood, I wish you would go 
 home again to your law-books and ^^our precedent 
 hupting; you have mispent a great deal of time 
 here alreadv. 
 
 Har, Is it not better to be with you in reality 
 than only in imagination ? Ah ! Agnes ! you little 
 know what my home studies are. — Law% said 
 you ! how can I think of law, when your coun- 
 tenance looks upon me from every black lettered 
 page that I turn ? When your figure fills the 
 empty seat by my side, and your voice speaks to 
 me in the very mid-day stillness of my chamber ? 
 Ah ! my sweet Agnes ! you will not believe what 
 a foolish fellow I have been, since I first saw you. 
 
 j4g. Nay, Harwood, I am not at all incredulous 
 of the fact ; it is only the cause of it which I 
 doubt. 
 
 Har. Saucy girl ! I must surely be revenged 
 upon you for all this. 
 
 Ag. I am tired of this work. (Getting up.) 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 263 
 
 Har, 01 do not give over. — Let me do some- 
 thing for you — Let me thread your needle for 
 you — I can thread one most nobly. 
 
 ^g\ There then. (Gives him a needle and silk.) 
 
 Jiar. (pretending to scratch her hand with it.) So 
 ought you to be punished. (Threads it awkivardly.) 
 
 Ag, Ay, nobly done, indeed! but I shall work 
 no more to day. 
 
 liar. You must work up my needleful. 
 
 Ag. I am to work a fool's cap in the corner by- 
 ^nd- by, I shall keep your needleful for that. I 
 am going to walk in the garden, 
 
 }iar. And so am L 
 
 Ag. You are? 
 
 Har, Yes, I am. Go where you will, AgneSj 
 to the garden or the field, the city or the desert,, 
 by sea or by land, I must e'en go too. I will 
 never be where you are not, but when to be 
 where you are is impossible. 
 
 Ag. O ! there will be no getting rid of you at 
 this rate, unless some witch will have pity upon 
 me, and carry me up in the air upon her broom- 
 stick. 
 
 Har, There, I will not pretend to follow you ; 
 but as long as you remain upon the earth, Agnes, 
 hang me ! if I can find in my heart to budge an 
 inch from your side. 
 
 A^. You are a madman ! 
 
 Har, You are a sorceress ! 
 
 Ag, You arc an idler 1 
 
 Har, You are a little mo^ise ! 
 
204 THH tryal: a comedy. 
 
 ./4g, Come, come, get your hat then, and let 
 us go. (As'idey while he goes to the hottom of the 
 stage for his hat,) Bless me ! I have forgot to be 
 511-humour*d all this time. [Exit, hastily, 
 
 Har. (coming forward^ Gone for her shawl 
 I suppose. How delightful she is ! how pleasant 
 every change of her countenance ! How happy 
 must his life be, spent even in cares and toil, 
 whose leisure hours are cheer'd with such a crea- 
 ture as this ! 
 
 Ag, (without hi an angry voice.) Don't tell 
 me so ; I know very well how it is, and you shall 
 smart for it too, you Lizy, careless, impudent 
 fellow ! And, besides all this, how dare you use 
 my kitten so ? 
 
 Har. (who listened with a rueful face ^ Well, 
 now, but this is humanity : she will not have a 
 creature ill used. — I wish she would speak more 
 gently though. 
 
 Ag, (entering^ Troublesome, provoking, care- 
 less fellow ! 
 
 Har. It is very provoking in him to use the 
 poor kitten ill. 
 
 Ag* So it is ; but it is more provoking still to 
 mislay my clogs, as he does. 
 
 Enter Servant, with clogs. 
 
 Ser. Here they arc, Madam. 
 
 Ag. Bring them here Isay ; (looks at them.) 
 These are Miss Withrington's clogs, you block- 
 head ! (Throws them to the other side of the stage in 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. IGd 
 
 3 
 
 a passiofz.) I must go without them, I find. {To 
 Harvvood.) What are you musing about ? If 
 you don't chuse to go with me, good morning. 
 
 Uar. {sighing deeply.) Ah, Agnes! you know 
 too well that I cannot stay behind you. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. ' 
 
 Miss Withrington's Dressing-room, Enter Ma- 
 rian e, who turns hack again towards the door^ 
 and calls to Agnes without. 
 
 Mar, Agnes, cousin Agnes! where are you going? 
 
 Ag, {without,) I am returning to Miss Eston, 
 
 whom I have left in the parlour, talking to the dog. 
 
 Mar, Well, let her talk to the dog a little 
 
 longer, and let me talk to you. 
 
 Enter Agnes. 
 
 I have set Betty to watch at the higher windows 
 to give notice of Sir Loftus's approach, that we 
 may put ourselves in order to receive him ; for I ' 
 am resolved to have one bout more with him, and 
 discharge him for good : I am quite tired of him 
 now. 
 
 Ag, Do you expect him ? 
 
 Mar, I am pretty sure he will come about this 
 time, and I must be prepared for him. I have a 
 good mind to tell him at once, I despise him, 
 and that will be a plain easy way of finishing the 
 business. 
 
 Ag, No, no, my sweet Mariane! we must send 
 him oil with eclat. You have played your part 
 
266 THE TRYAL ; A COMEDY. 
 
 very well hitherto ; keep it up but for the last time, 
 and let Eston and I go into the closet and enjoy it. 
 ' Mar. Well then^ do so : I shall please you for 
 this once. 
 
 Enter Betty, in haste. 
 
 Bet. (to Mar.) Sir Loftus Is just coming up the 
 side path, Madam^ and he'll be at the door jiTi'- 
 jnediately, 
 
 .y4g. I'll run and bring Eston directly. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. (looking at the door of the closet.) Yes, it 
 is very thin : they will hear well, and see through 
 the key hole, 
 
 ^e-enter Agnes ivith Miss Eston, in a great 
 
 hurry. 
 
 Est. La ! I have torn my gown in my haste. . 
 
 Ag. Come along, come along! 
 
 Est. It is not so bad a tear though as Mrs* 
 Thomson got the— - 
 
 Ag. Come, come, we must not stay here, 
 {Pushes Eston into the closet^ and follows. Mariane 
 and Betty place a tahle with hooks and a chair ^ near 
 the front of the stage.) 
 
 Est. {looking from the closet.) La ! Mariane, 
 how I long to hear you and him begin. I shall be 
 so delighted 1 
 
 Mar. For heaven sake shut the door ! he will 
 be here immediately. (Shuts the door upon her^ 
 and continues to set the room in order.) 
 
 Est. {loo king out again.) La ! Mariane, do you 
 
 linow how many yards of point Lady Squat has 
 
 2 
 
THE TPxYAL : A COMEDY, ^Qj 
 
 got round her new— (Agnes /rowi hel/hid, claps her 
 hand on Eston's mouthy and draws her into the 
 closet, — Mariane sets herself hy the table ^ pretending^ 
 to read. Exit Betty, and enter Sir Loftus. a 
 servant announcing hnn.) 
 
 Sir Loft. You are very studious this morning, 
 Miss Withrington. 
 
 Mar. f carelessly. J Ha ! how do yo do ? 
 
 Sir Loft. You have been' well amus'd, I hope? 
 
 Mar. So, so. I must put in a mark here, and 
 not lose my place. (Looking on the table.) There 
 is no paper- — O, there is some on the other table : 
 pray do fetch it me ! (Pointing to a table at the 
 bottom of the stage. I am very lazy. (Sits down again 
 indolently.) 
 
 Sir Loft, (fetching the paper, and presenting it 
 with a condescending yet self-important air.) I have 
 the honour to obey you, Ma'am. 
 
 Mar. I thank you ; you are a very serviceable 
 creature, I am sure. 
 
 Sir Loft, (dravuing himself up proudly ^ but i??L~ 
 mediately correcting himself.) I am always happy to 
 serve Miss Withrins^ton. 
 
 Mar. O ! I know very well the obliging turn of 
 your disposition. (Tosses her arm upon the table 
 and throws down a book.) I am very stupid this 
 morning. (Sir Loftus picks up the book, and gives 
 it to her rather sulkily ; and she in receiving it drops 
 an ivory ball under the table.) Bless me ! what is 
 the matter with all these things ? pray lift it for 
 pie, good Sir Loftus ! I beiieve you must creep 
 
268 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 under the table for it though. {He sloops under 
 the tahle with a very had grace, and she slyly gives 
 it a touch with her footy which makes it run to the 
 other side of the stage.) Nay^ you must go farther 
 off for it now. I am very troubelsome. 
 
 Sir Loft, {goes after it rather unwillingly , and 
 f resenting it to her with still a worse grace.) Ma- 
 dam^ this is more honour than I — {mumhling.) 
 
 Mar. O, no ! Sir Loftus, it is only you that arc 
 too good. {Lolling carelessly in her chair.) It is 
 so comfortable to have such a good creature by 
 one ! your fine fashionable men are admired to be 
 sure, but I don't know how, I feel always restrain- 
 ed in their company. With a good obliging crea- 
 ture like you now, I can be quite at my ease ; I 
 can just desire you to do any thing. 
 
 Sir Loft. Upon my honour, Madam, you flatter 
 me very much indeed. Upon my honour, I must 
 say, I am rather at a loss to conceive how I have 
 merited these commendations. 
 
 Mar. O ! Sir Loftus, you are too humble, too 
 diffident of yourself. I know very well the oblig- 
 ing turn of your disposition to every body. 
 
 Sir Loft, {aside.) Damn it ! is she an idiot ? 
 {aloud.) Your good opinion, Madam, does me a 
 great deal of honour, but I assure you. Ma'am, it 
 is more than I deserve. I have great pleasure in 
 serving Miss Withrington ; — to be at the service 
 of every body is an extent of benevolence I by no 
 means pretend to. 
 
 Mar. Now why arc you so diffident, Sir Loftus ? 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 269 
 
 Did not old Mrs. Mumblecake tell me the other 
 day, how you ran nine times to the apothecary's 
 to fetch green salve to rub her monkey's tail ? 
 
 Sir Loft. She told you a damn'd lie then ! 
 {Biting his Up, and walking up and down with hasty 
 strides.) Damn it ! this is beyond all bearing ! I 
 run nine times to the apothecary's to fetch green 
 salve for her monkey's tail ! If the cursed hag says 
 so again FU bury her alive ! 
 
 Mar, Nay, don't be angry about it. Fm sure 
 I thought it very good in you, and I said so to 
 every body. 
 
 Sir Loftus. You have been obliging enough to 
 tell it to all the world too ? 
 
 Mar, And why should not I have the pleasure 
 of praising you ? 
 
 Sir Loft, Hell and the devil ! {fuming on his 
 heel, and striding up and down, and muttering as he 
 goes, whilst she sits carelessly with her arms crossed,) 
 
 Mar, My good Sir Loftus, you will tire your- 
 self. Had you not better be seated ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (endeavouring to compose himself.^ The 
 influence you have over me, Ma'am, gets the bet- 
 ter of every thing. I would not have you mistake 
 my character, however ; if love engages me in 
 your service you ought to so receive it. I have 
 been lest profuse of these attentions to women of 
 the very first rank and fashion ;. I might therefore 
 have hoped that you would lend a more favourable 
 ear to my passion. 
 
 Mar. Indeed you wrone me. You don't know 
 
2/0 Trie TRYAt : A COMEOt. 
 
 how favourably my ear may be disposed : sit dowfi 
 here and tell me all about it. (Sir Loftus revolt.^ 
 again at her famlliaritj, hit stifles his pride and sits 
 dozvn hy her.) 
 
 Sir Loft, Permit me to say, Madam, that it is 
 time we should come to an explanation of each 
 other's sentiments. 
 
 Mar. Whenever you please. Sir. 
 
 Sir Loft, (bowing.) I hope then, I may be al- 
 lowed to presume, that my particular attentions to 
 yoLl^ pardon me^ Ma'am^ have not been altogether 
 disagreeable to you. 
 
 Mar. O ! not at all^ Sir Loftus. 
 
 Sir Loft, (bowing again.) I will presume then 
 still farther, Ma'am, and declare to you, that from 
 the very day which gave birth to my passion, I 
 have not ceased to think of you with the most ar- 
 dent tenderness. 
 
 Mar. La ! Sir Loftus^ was it not of a Wednes- 
 day ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (fretted.) Upon my word I am not so 
 very accurate : it might be Wednesday, or Friday,, 
 or any day; 
 
 Mar. Of a Friday, do you think? it runs strangely 
 in my head that we saw one another first of a 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Sir Loft, (very much fretted.) I say, Tvla'am, the 
 day which gave birth to my love — 
 
 Mar. O ! very true ! you might see me first of 
 a Wednesday, and yet not fall in love with me till 
 the Friday. (Sir Loftus starts up in a passion, and 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 271 
 
 Strides up and down. — Marian e ris'mg from her seat 
 carelessly.) I wonder where William has put the 
 nuts I bought for Miss Eston's squirrel. I think 
 I hear a mouse in the cupboard. (Goes to the hot^ 
 torn of the room, and opens a small cupboard in the 
 wall, ivhilst Sir Loft us comes forward to the front.) 
 
 Sir Loft, (aside.) Damn her freaks ! I wish the 
 devil had the wooing of her ! (Pauses.) I must 
 not lose her for a trifle though • but when she is 
 once secured, Til be revenged ! I'll vex her ! I'll 
 drive the spirit out of her ! (Aloiid, as she comes 
 forward from the cupboard.) My passion for you. 
 Miss Withrington, is too generous and disinter- 
 ested to merit this indifference. 
 
 Mar, I'm glad they have not eat the nuts 
 though. 
 
 Sir Loft, (aside.) Curse her and her nuts ! I'll 
 tame her ! (aloud.) My sentiments for you, Ma'am, 
 are of so delicate and tender a nature, they do in- 
 deed deserve your indulgence. Tell me then^ 
 can the most disinterested^ the most fervent love, 
 make any impression on your heart ? I can no 
 longer exist in this state of anxiety I at your feet 
 let me implore you — (Seems about to kneel, but 
 rather unwillingly, as if he wished to be preve?ited.) 
 
 Mar, Pray, Sir Loftus, don't kneel there ! my 
 maid has spilt oil on the floor. 
 
 Sir Loft. Since you will not permit me to have 
 the pleasure of kneeling at — 
 
 Mar, Nay, I will not deprive you o{ the plea- 
 
27'2 THE TKYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 sure — ^There is no oil spilt here. {Pointing to a 
 ^art of the floor very near the closet door.) 
 
 Sir Loft. I see it would be disagreeable to you. 
 
 Mar, I see very well you are not inclined to 
 condescend so far. 
 
 Sir Loft, {kneeling directly.) Believe me, Madam, 
 the pride, the pleasure of my life, is to be devoted 
 to the most adorable — (Mariane gives a significant 
 cough J and Agnes and Eston hurst front the closet : 
 the door opening on the outside, comes against Sir 
 Loftus as he kneels, and lays him sprawling on 
 the fioor.) 
 
 Ag. Est. and Mar, [speaking together^ O Sir 
 Loftus ! poor Sir Loftus ! {All coming about him, 
 pretending to assist him to get up, hut in reality 
 hindering him,) 
 
 Sir Loft. Damn their bawling ! they will bring 
 the whole family here 1 
 
 Enter Mr. Withrington and Opal : Sir Loftus, 
 mad with rage, makes a desperate effort, and gets 
 upon his legs. Opal stajids laughing at him with- 
 out any ceremony, whilst he bites his lips, and 
 draws himself up haughtily. 
 
 Mar. (/o Sir Loft.) Vm afraid you have hurt 
 yourself? 
 
 Sir Loft, {shortly.) No, Ma'am. 
 
 j4g. Hav'nt you rubbed the skin off your shins^ 
 
 Sir Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft. No, Ma'am. 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 273 
 
 £st. Nor of your toes, Sir Loftus ? 
 
 Sir LofL No, Ma'am. 
 
 Jg, I am sure he has hurt his poor dear nose, 
 but he is ashamed to owq it. 
 
 Sir Loft, Neither toes nor nose! Devil take it ! 
 
 IFah. Get along, girls, and don't tormtint this 
 poor man any longer. I am afraid, Sir Loftus, 
 the young gipsies h^ve been making a fool of you. 
 
 Sir Loft. Sir, it is neither in your power nor 
 their's to make a fool of me. 
 
 0/). Ha, ha, ha, ha! 'Faith Pretty man ^ou must 
 forgive me ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! I never thought in 
 jTiy life to have caught you at such low prostra- 
 tions. But don't be so angry, man ! though you 
 do make a confounded silly figure, it must be con- 
 fessed. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Sir Loft, {to Op.) Sir, your impertinence and 
 yourself are equally contemptible: and I desire 
 you would no longer take the trouble of intruding 
 yourself into my company, nor of affronting me, 
 as you have hitherto done, with your awkward imi- 
 tation of my figure and address. 
 
 Op, What the devil do you mean ? I imitate 
 your figure and address ! I scorn to — I will not 
 deny that I may have insensibly acquired a little 
 of them both, for — for — (Hesitating,) 
 
 Ag, For he has observed people^laughing at him 
 of late. 
 
 Sir Loft, (timiing on his heel,) He is beneath 
 my resentment. 
 
 Mar, Be not §0 angry, good Sir Loftus ! let us 
 
!274 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 end this business for the present, and when I am 
 at leisure to hear the remainder of vour declara- 
 tions, which have been so unfortunately interrupt- 
 ed, ril send and let you know. 
 
 Sir Loft, No, Yaith, Madam! you have heard 
 the last words I shall ever say to you upon the sub- 
 ject. A large fortune may make amends for an 
 ordinary person, Madam, but not for vulgarity and 
 impertinence. Good morning ! {As he is going, 
 enter Servant.) 
 
 Ser. Lord Saunter and Colonel Gorget are 
 coming up stairs, to see how Sir Loftus Prettyman 
 does after his fall. 
 
 Sir Loft. Hell and damnation ! Fll go out by 
 the other door. 
 
 Mar, That door is locked ! you can't go that 
 way. 
 
 Sir Loft, ril burst it open then. {Rims to the 
 door: they all get about him to prevent him. 
 Sir Loftus struggling.) What is there no get- 
 ting out from this den of devils ? {Breaks from 
 iheyn, ajid Exit, leaving them laughing provokinglj 
 heJmid him.) 
 
 With, {shaking his head.) This Is too bad, this 
 is too bad, young ladies j I am ashamed to have 
 all this rioting and absurdity going on in my house. 
 
 Jg. Come away, uncle, and see him go down the 
 back walk, from the parlour windows. I'll warrant 
 you he'll stride it away most nobly. (Withring- 
 ton follows f shrugging up his shoidders.) 
 
 [EXKUNT. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 275 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington's Lihrary. Mi\ 
 WiTHKiNGTON discovered seated hy a table. 
 
 JVifh. Who waits there? {Enter Servant.) Tell 
 Miss Agnes Withrington I wish to see her. [Exit 
 servant.) What an absurd fellow this Harwood is, 
 to be so completely bewitched with such a girl as 
 Agnes ! If she were like the women I remember, 
 there would indeed be some — (Agnes entering 
 softly behind him, gives liwi a tap on the shoulder.) 
 
 Jg, Well, uncle, what are you grumbling 
 about ? Have you lost your wager ? Harwood has 
 just left you, I hear. 
 
 With, I believe you may buy those trinkum 
 trankum ornaments for Mariane whenever you 
 please. 
 
 Ag, Pray look not so ungraciously upon the 
 matter! But you can't forgive him, I suppose, for 
 being such a ninny as to fall in love with a little 
 ordinary girl, eh ? 
 
 With, And so he is a ninny, and a fool, and a 
 very silly fellow. 
 
 Ag, Do tell me what he has been saying to 
 you. 
 
 U^ith. Why, he confesses thou art ill-tempered, 
 that thou art freakish, that thou art extravagant ; 
 and that of all the friends he has spoken with upon 
 the subject, there is not one who will allov/ thee 
 beauty enough to make a good-looking pot-girl. 
 
 T 2 
 
'276 THE TRYAI,: A COMEI>Y. 
 
 u^g. Did he say so ? 
 
 IF/^/i. Why, something nearly equivalent to it, 
 Agnes. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there is 
 something about thee, so unaccountably delightful 
 to him, that, poor as thou art, he will give up the 
 foir hopes of opulence, and the pleasures of free- 
 dom, to watch for thee, drudge for thee, pinch 
 himself for thee, if thou wilt have the condescen- 
 sion, in return, to plague and torment him for 
 life. 
 
 ^g. Foolish enough indeed ! yet heaven bless 
 him for it! What a fortunate woman ami! I 
 sought a disinterested lover, and I have found a 
 most wonderful one. 
 
 I'Fi/h. I dare say you think yourself very fortu- 
 iLite. 
 
 y^^. And don't you, likewise, my good Sir? but 
 you seem displeased at it. 
 
 Wi^k. You guess rightly enough: I must speak 
 without disguise, Agnes, I am not pleased. 
 
 ^g. Ah ! his want of fortune — 
 
 Pf'^it/i. Pool you know very well I despise all 
 mercenary balancing of property. It is not that 
 which disturbs me. To be the disinterested choice 
 of a worthy man is what every woman, who means 
 to marry at all, would be ambitious of; and a point 
 in regard to her marriage, which a woman of for-- 
 tune would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But 
 there are men whose passions are of such a violent 
 over-bearing nature, that love in them, may be 
 considered as a disease of the mind ; and the ob- 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 2/7 
 
 jcct of it claims no more perfection or pre-eminence 
 *amongst women, than chalk, lime, or oatmeal 
 TTiay do amongst dainties, because some diseased 
 stomachs do prefer them to all things. Such men 
 as these we sometimes see attach themselves even 
 to ugliness and infamy, in defiance of honour and 
 decency. With such men as these, women of 
 sense and refinement can never be happy; nay, to 
 be willingly the object of their love is disrespect- 
 able. (Pauses.) But you don't care for all this, 
 I suppose ? It docs well enough for an old uncle 
 to perplex himself with these niceties : it is you 
 yourself the dear man happens to love, and none 
 of those naughty women I have been talking of, 
 so all is very right. (Pauses^ and she seems 
 thoughtful.) 
 
 Ag, (assuming a grave and more dignified air.) 
 No, Sir, you injure me : prove that his \o\q for 
 me is stronger than his love of virtue and I will — 
 
 With, What will you do, Airnes ? 
 
 Ag. I will give him up for ever. 
 
 With, Ay, there spoke a brave girl 1 you deserve 
 the best husband in Christendom for this. 
 
 Ag, Nay, my husband-hunting will end here. 
 If Harwood endures not the test, I will indeed re- 
 nounce him, but no other man shall ever fill his 
 place. 
 
 With. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. 
 (Walks up and down. She is thoughtfid.) You 
 are very thoughtful, Agnes ! I fear I have distres- 
 sed you. 
 
278 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 j4g. You have distressed me, yet I thank you 
 for it. I have been too presumptuous, I have 
 ventured farther than I ought. Since it is so, I 
 will not shrink from the trial. (Pauses.) Don't 
 you think he will go through it honourably ? 
 
 TVith. {shaking his head.) Indeed I know not— 
 I hope he will. 
 
 j4g. You hope ? I thank you for that word, my 
 dear Sir ! I hope he will too. (She remains thought* 
 flit : hti takes a turn or two across the stage.) 
 
 IVith. (clapping her shoulder affectionately.) 
 What are you thinking of, niece ? 
 uig. How to set about this business. 
 With. And how will you do it ? 
 Ag. I will write a letter to Lady Fade, asking 
 pardon for having told some malicious falsehoods 
 of her, to a relation on whom she is dependant, 
 begging she will make up the matter, and forgive 
 me, promising at the same time, most humbly, 
 if she will not expose me for this time, never to 
 offend so anv more. Next time he comes I will 
 make him direct the letter himself, that when it 
 falls into his hands again, he may have no doubt of 
 its authenticity. Will this do ? 
 
 With. Yes, very well. If he loves you after 
 this, his love is not worth the having. 
 
 u4g. Ah, uncle ! you are very hard hearted ! 
 But you are very right : I know you are very 
 right. Pray does not Royston lodge in the same 
 house with Harvvood ! 
 With. lie docs. 
 
THE tPvYAl: a comedy. 279 
 
 Ag. I wish, by his means, wc could conceal 
 ourselves somewhere in his apartments, where we 
 might see Harwood have the letter put into his 
 bands, and observe his behaviour. I don't know 
 any body else who can do this for us : do you think 
 you could put him into good humour again ? 
 
 IVith. I rather think I can, for he hath still a 
 favour to ask me. 
 
 Ag. We must give him a part to act ; do you 
 think he can do it ? 
 
 Ifah. He is a very blundering fellow, but he 
 will be so flattered with being let into the secret, 
 that I know he will do his best. 
 
 Enter Mariane. 
 
 Mar. What have you been about so long 
 together ? 
 
 With, Hatching a new plot, girl 1 and we set 
 about it directly too. 
 
 Mar, I am very sure the plot is of your own 
 hatching, then ; for I never saw Agnes with any 
 thing of this kind in her head, wear such a grave 
 spiritless face upon it before. 
 
 With, You are mistaken, Ma'am, it is of her 
 own contrivance, but you shall know nothing 
 about it. And I give you warning that this shall 
 be the last of them : if you have got any more 
 poor devils on your hands to torment, do it 
 quickly ; for I will have an end put to all tliis 
 foolery. I will have my family put in order again, 
 and well drefled people to drink tea with me, as I 
 
2Sa, THE tryal: a comedy, 
 
 used to have, instead of all this up and down ir^ 
 regular kind of living, which I abhor. 
 
 Mar, Very well, uncle, I have juft been fol- 
 lowing your advice. I have discarded Sir Uloc^ 
 O'Grady, and I have only now poor Opal to re- 
 ward for his services. I have got a promise 
 of marriage from him, in which he forfeits ten 
 thousand pounds if he draws back. I fhall torment 
 him with this a little. It was an extraordinary 
 thing to be sure for an heiress to demand, but I 
 told him it was the fashion ; and now that he has 
 bound himself so securely, he is quite at heart's 
 ease, and thinks every thing snug and well 
 settled. 
 
 Enier Roystox, a Servant announcing Mm, 
 
 With, Your servrait, Mr. Royston, I am very 
 glad to see you. Don't start at seeing the ladies 
 with me ; I know my niece, Mariano, and you 
 hi^ve had a little misunderstanding, but when I 
 have explained the matter to you, you will be 
 friends with her again, and laugh at it yourself. 
 
 Roy, (coldly.) I have the honour to wish the 
 ladies good morning. 
 
 PFith. Nay, cousin, you don't understand how 
 it is : these girls have been playing tricks upon 
 every man they have met with since they came 
 here ; and when that wild creature, (pointing to 
 Mariane,) was only laughing at the cheat she had 
 passed upon them all, which I shall explain to you 
 presently, you thought she was laughing at you. 
 
THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 281 
 
 Shake hands, and be friends with her, cousin ; 
 nobody minds what a foolish girl does. 
 
 Roy. (his face hightenhig up.) O ! for that 
 matter, I mind these things as little as any body, 
 cousin Withrington. I have too many affairs 
 of importance in my hands^ to attend to such little 
 matters as these. I am glad the young lady had 
 a hearty laugh with all my soul ; and I shall be 
 happy to see her as merry again whenever she has 
 a mind to it. I mind it ! no^ no, no ! 
 
 Mar. I thank you, Sir, and I hope w^e shall be 
 merry again, when you shall have your own share 
 of the joke. 
 
 Roy. Yes, yes, we shall be very merrv. By 
 the bye, Withrington, I came here to tell you, 
 that I have got my business with the duke put into 
 so good a train, that it can hardly misgive^ 
 
 With. I am happy to hear it. 
 
 Roy. You must know I have set very artfully 
 about it, cousin ; but I dare say you would guess 
 as much, he, he, he ! You know me of old, ch ? 
 I have got Mr. Cullyfool to ask it for me on his 
 own account ; I have bribed an old house-keeper, 
 who is to interest a great lady in my favour ; I 
 have called eleven tiiTies on his grace's half cousin, 
 till she has fairly promised to write to my lady 
 dutchess upon the business ; I have written to the 
 steward, and promised his son all my interest at 
 next election, if he has any mind to stand for our 
 borough, you know ; and I have applied by a 
 friend — no, no, he has applied through theme- 
 
582 . THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 
 
 dium of another friend, or rather, I believe, by 
 that friend*s wife, or aunt, or some way or other, 
 I don't exactly remember, but it is a very good 
 channel, I know. 
 
 E^ith, O ! I make no doubt of it. 
 
 Roy. Nay, my landlady has engaged her apo- 
 thecary's wife to speak to his grace's physician 
 about it ; and a medical man, you know, some- 
 times asks a favour with great advantage, when a 
 patient believes that his life is in his hands. The 
 duke has got a most furious fit of the gout, and it 
 has been in his stomach too, ha, ha, ha, ha 1 — 
 If we can't succeed without it, I have a friend 
 who will offer a round sum for me, at last, but I 
 hope this will not be necessary. Pray, do you 
 know of any other good channel to solicit by ? 
 
 PFith, Taith, Royston ! you have found out 
 too many roads to one place already ; I fear you'll 
 lose your way amongst them all. 
 
 Roy, Nay, nay, cousin, I won't be put off so. 
 I have been told this morning you are acquainted 
 with Sucksop, the duke's greatest friend and 
 adviser. Come, come ! you must use your in- 
 terest for me. 
 
 With» Well, then, come into the other room, 
 and we shall speak about it. I have a favour to 
 ask of you too. 
 
 Roy, My dear Sir, any favour in my power you 
 may absolutely command at all times. I'll follow 
 you, cousin. (Goes to the door w/V>^ Withrington 
 ivlth great alacrity^ Imty recollecting that lie has for- 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 1S% 
 
 gotten to pay his compliments to the ladies^ hurries hack 
 (iga'in^ andy after making several very profound bozvs 
 to them, follows Withrington into another room,) 
 
 Mar, (imitating him.) Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 j^g. Softly, Mariane ; let us leave this room, 
 if you must laugh, for he will overhear you, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 Royston's Lodgings : enter Royston", conducting 
 in Agnes, Mariane, and Withrington. 
 
 Roy, Now, pray compose yourselves, young 
 ladies, and sit down a little. V\\ manage every 
 thing : don't give yourselves any trouble ; Til set 
 the whole plot a going. 
 
 With. We depend entirely upon you, Royston* 
 Roy, I know you do, many a one depends upon 
 me, cousin Withrington. I'll shew you how Fll 
 manage it. Jonathan, come here, Jonathan ! (En^ 
 ier Jonathan.) Bring me that screen from the other 
 room. {Exit Jonathan.) We'll place it here, 
 if you please, cousin, and then you and the la- 
 dies can stand as snugly behind it, as kings and 
 queens in a puppet-show, till your time comes to 
 appear.' (Enter Jonathan with screen.) Come hi- 
 ther with it, Jonathan : place it here. (Pointing.) 
 No, no, jolter-head, nearer the wall with it. 
 (Going hehind it, and coming out again.) It will 
 do better a little more to this side, tor then it will 
 be farther from the window. 
 
284 THE tryal: a comedy, 
 
 Ag. O ! it will do very vvell_, Sir ; you take tea 
 much trouble. 
 
 Roy, Trouble, my dear Ma'am 1 If it were a 
 hundred tim.es more trouble, I should be happy 
 to serve you. I don't mind trouble, if I can get 
 the thing done cleverly and completely. That's 
 my way of doing things. No, it don't stand to 
 please me yet, it is too near the door now, and 
 the ladies may catch cold, perhaps. 
 
 j4g, (very uneafy.) Indeed, it stands very 
 well ! Harwood will be here before we are ready. 
 
 Roy, (to Jon.) Blockhead, that thou art ! can'st 
 thou not set it up even ? Now that will do. 
 (Getlhig heh'ind it,) This will do, (Coming out 
 again,) Yes, this will do to a nicety. 
 
 Mar, (aside,) Heaven be praised, this grand 
 matter is settled at last ! 
 
 . Roy, Now, he'll think it odd, perhaps, that I 
 bave a screen in my room ; but I have a trick for 
 that, ladies ; I'll tell him I mean to purchase lands 
 in Canada, and have been looking over the map 
 of America. (Agnes hols io Withrington very 
 uneasy,) 
 
 IVUlt, Don't do that, Royston, for then he will 
 examine the screen, 
 
 Roy, Or, I may say, there is a chink in the 
 M'all, and I placed it to keep out the air. 
 
 Ag, No, no, that won't do. For heaven's 
 sake. Sir ! 
 
 \..Roy, Then I shall just say, I love to have a 
 screen ia my room, fgr I am used to it at home.. 
 
I'HE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 285 
 
 Mar, Bless me Mr. Royston ! can't you juit 
 leave it alonc^ and he'll take no notice of it. 
 
 Roy, O ! if he takes no notice of it^ that is a 
 different thing, Miss Withrington ; but don't be 
 uneasy, I'll manage it all : I'll conduct the whole 
 business. 
 
 Ag. (aside to Withrington.) O 1 my good Sir ! 
 this fool will ruin every thing. 
 
 PVith, Be quiet, Agnes, we are in for it now. 
 
 Roy. Let me remember my lesson too. Hers 
 is the letter for him, with the seal as naturally 
 broken, as if the lady had done it herself Har- 
 wood will wonder, now, how I came to know 
 about all this. 'Faith ! I believe, he thinks me 
 a strange diving, penetrating, kind of a genius, al- 
 ready, and he is not far wrong, perhaps. You 
 know me, cousin Withrington : ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 You know me. 
 
 Ag. O ! I wish it were over, and we were out 
 of this house again ! 
 
 * Roy. Don't be uneasy. Ma'am, I'll manage 
 every thing. — Jonathan ! {Enter Jonathan,) don't 
 you go and tell Mr. Harwood that I have got 
 company here. 
 
 Jo7i. No, no, your honour, I knows better than 
 that; for the ladies are to be behind the screen, 
 Si-r,- and he must know nothing of the matter, to 
 be sure. Fficken ! It will be rare sport ! 
 
 Ag. {starting.) I hear a knock at the door. 
 
 Roy. It is him, I dare say ; run Jonathan. 
 
 [Exit Jonathan. 
 
THE TIl"i:AL: A COMEDr. 
 
 Ag, Come, come, let us hide ourselves. {All 
 get behind the screen hit Royston.) 
 
 Roy, Ay, Ay, it will do very well. {Looking at 
 the screen,) 
 
 Ag, (behind^ Mariane, don't breathe so loud. 
 
 Mar, (behind,) I don't breathe loud, 
 
 Ag, {behind.) Do uncle draw in the edge of 
 your coat. 
 
 J'Vlth, {behind.) Poo, silly girl ! they can't see 
 a bit of it. 
 
 Enter Colonel Hardy and Harwood. 
 
 Roy, Ha ! your servant, my dear Colonel. 
 How goes it, Harwood? I bade my man tell you I 
 was alone, and very much disposed for your good 
 company ; but I am doubly fortunate. {Bowirig 
 to the Colonel.) 
 
 Col, Indeed, Royston, I have been pretty much 
 with him these two days past, and I don't believe 
 he gives me great thanks for my company. I am 
 like an old horse running after a colt, the young 
 devil never fails to turn now and then, and give 
 him a kick for his pains. 
 
 Har. Nay, my good friend, I must be an ass's 
 colt, then. I am sure, I mean it not ; but I am 
 not happy, and fear I have been peevish with 
 you. 
 
 Roy. {attempting to look archly.) Peevish, and 
 all that, perhaps the young man is in love. 
 Colonel. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 287 
 
 Col. No more, if you please, Royston : we ar^ 
 to speak of this no more. 
 
 Enter Jonathak. 
 
 Jon, Did your honour call ? 
 
 Roy, No, sirrah. (Jonathan goes, as if he '•jcert 
 looking for something, and takes a sly peep behind 
 the screen, to see if they are all there.) What are 
 you peeping there for ? get along, you hound \ 
 Does he want to make people believe I keep rary 
 shows behind the wainscot ? (Exit Jonathan.) 
 But as I was a saying. Colonel, perhaps the young 
 man is in love. He, he, he ! 
 
 Col, No, no, let us have no more of it. 
 
 Roy, But Yalth, I know that he is so ! and I 
 know the lady too. She is a cousin of my ow^n, 
 and I am as well acquainted with her as I am 
 with my own dog. — But you don't ask me what 
 kind of a girl she is. {To the Colonel.) 
 
 Col. Give over now, Royston ; she is a very 
 good girl, I dare say. 
 
 Roy. Wei], you may think so, but — (Maki7ig 
 significant faces.) But — I should not say all I 
 know of my own cousin, to be sure, but — 
 
 Har. What are all those cursed grimaces for ? 
 Her faults are plain and open as her perfections: 
 these she disdains to conceal, and the others it is 
 impossible. 
 
 Roy, Softly, Plarwood ; don't be in a passion, 
 unless you would imitate your mistress.; for she 
 has not the gentlest temper in the world. 
 
288 THE TJRYAL : A COMED*^. 
 
 Har. Well, well, I love her the better for it. 
 I can't bear your insipid passionless women : I 
 would as soon live upon sweet curd all my life^ 
 as attach myself to one of them. 
 
 Roy, She is very extravagant. 
 
 Har, Heaven bless the good folks ! would they 
 have a man to give up the woman of his heart, 
 because she likes a bit of lace upon her petticoat ? 
 
 Roy. Well, but she is 
 
 Col. Devil take you, Royston I can't you hold 
 your tongue about her ? you see he can't bear it. 
 
 Roy, (making signs to the Colonel.) Let me 
 alone ; I know when to speak, and when to hold 
 my tongue, a& well as another. Indeed, Har- 
 wood, I am your friend ; and though the lady is 
 my relation, I must say, I wish you had made a 
 better choice. I have discovered something in 
 regard to her this morning, which shews her to 
 be a very improper one. I cannot say, however, 
 that I have discovered any thing which surprised 
 mc, I know her too well. 
 
 Har. (vehemently.) You are imposed upon by 
 some damn'd filsehood. 
 
 Roy. But I have proof of what I say ; the lady 
 who is injured by her gave me this letter to shew 
 to Mr. Withrington. (Taking out the letter.) 
 
 Har. It is some fiend who wants to undermine 
 her, and has forged that scrawl to serve her 
 spiteful purpose. 
 
 Roy. I siiould be glad it were so, my dear 
 
 5 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 2SQ 
 
 friend ; bat Lady Fade is a woman^ whose veracity 
 has never been suspected. 
 
 Har, Is it from Lady Fade ? Give it me ! 
 {Snatching the letter^ 
 
 Roy, It is Agnes's hand, is it not ? 
 
 Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it. 
 
 Roy, Read the contents, pray I 
 
 liar, " Madam, what I have said to the preju- 
 dice of your ladyship's character to your relation, 
 Mr. Worthy, I am heartily sorry for ; and I am 
 ready to beg pardon on my knees if you desire it ; 
 to acknowledge before Mr. Worthy himself, that 
 it is a falsehood, or make any other reparation, in 
 a private way, that you may desire. Let me, then, 
 conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and I 
 shall ever remain your most penitent and grateful 
 A. Withrington." 
 
 Roy, The lady would not be so easily pacified, 
 though ; for she blackened her character, in order 
 to make her best friend upon earth quarrel with 
 her; so she gave me the letter to shew to her uncle. 
 Is it forged, think you ? 
 
 Har, It is possible — I will venture to say — Nay 
 I am sure it is ! 
 
 Roy, If it is, there is one circumstance which 
 may help to discover the author ; it is directed by 
 a different hand on the back. Look at it. 
 
 Har, (in great ferturhation.) Is it ? {Turns 
 hastily the folds of the letter, hut his hand trembles 
 so much, he cantfnd the hack.) 
 
 CoL My dear Harwood ! this is the back of 
 
 u 
 
'IgO THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 the letter^ aiid methlnks the writing is somewhat 
 like your own. (Harwoood looks at it ; then stag-^ 
 ger'mg hack, throws himself info a chair ^ which 
 happens to he hehind him, and covers his upper face 
 ivith his hand.) 
 
 Col, My dear Harwood ! 
 
 Roy, Sec how his lips quiver, and his bosom 
 heaves ! Let us unbutton him ; I fear he is ofoine 
 into a fit. (Agnes comes from hehind the screen in 
 a fright, and Withrington putts her in again,) 
 
 Col, (with great tenderness.) My dear Har- 
 \Vood ! 
 
 Har, (with a hroken voice.) Fll go to mine own 
 chamber. (Gefs up hastily from his chair ^ and then 
 falls hack again in a faint ^ 
 
 Col, He's gone off! 
 
 Roys, Help, help, here \ (Running ahout.) Who 
 has got hartshorn, or lavender, or water ? help 
 here! (They all co)ne from hehind the fcene, Agnes 
 runs to Harwood, ajid sprinkles him over with la- 
 vender, ruhhiug his temples, &c, whilst Colonel 
 Hardy stares at them all in amazement.) 
 
 Ag, Alas ! we liave carried this too far ? Har- 
 wood ! my dear Harwood ! 
 
 Col. (to Roys.) What is all this ? 
 
 Roys. I thought we should amaze you. I knew 
 I should manage it. 
 
 Col, You have managed finely indeed, to put 
 Harwood into such a state with your mummery. 
 
 Jl^, Will he not come to himself again ! get 
 some water, Mariane— See how pale he is ! (He 
 
THE TKYAL : A COMEDY. 201 
 
 recovers,) O ! he recovers ? Harvvood! do you know 
 mt, Harwood ? 
 
 Har, {looking upon Agnes, and shrinking hack 
 from her.) Ha ! what has brought you here ? leave 
 me ! leave me ! I am wretched enough already. 
 
 Ag. I come to bruig you relief, my dear Har- 
 wood. 
 
 Har. No, Madam, it is misery you bring. We 
 mult part for ever, 
 
 Ag. O I uncle ! do you hear that ? He says we 
 must part for ever. 
 
 With, {taking hold of Agnes.) Don't be in such 
 a hurry about it. 
 
 Har. (rising up,) How came you here ? (jo 
 Withrington,) and these ladies ? 
 
 Roys. O ! it was all my contrivance. 
 
 With. Pray now, Royston, be quiet a little — 
 Mr. Har\vood, I will speak to you seriously. I 
 see you are attached to my niece, and I confess 
 she has many faults ; but you are a man of sense, 
 and with you she will make a more respectable 
 figure in the world than with any other. I am 
 anxious for her welfare, and if you will marry her, 
 I will give her such a fortune as will make it no 
 longer an imprudent step to follow your inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Har. No, Sir, you shall keep your fortune and 
 your too bewitching niece together. For her sake 
 I would have renounced all ambition ; I would 
 have shared with her poverty and neglect ; I would 
 have borne with all her faults and weaknesses of 
 
 u 2 
 
igi THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 nature, I would have toiled, I would have bled for 
 her; but I can neveryoke myself with unworthiness. 
 u4g. {wiping her eyes, and giving two skips upon 
 the floor.) O ! admirable ! admirable ! speak to 
 him uncle I tell him all, my dear uncle ! for I can't 
 say a word. 
 
 Coh {aside to Royston.) Is*nt she a little wrong 
 in the head, Royston ? 
 
 With, Give me your hand, Harwood : you are 
 a noble fellow, and you shall marry this little girl 
 of mine after all. This story of the letter and 
 Lady Fade, was only a concerted one amongst us, 
 to prove what mettle you are made of. Agnes, to 
 try your love, affected to be shrewish and extrava- 
 gant ; and afterwards, at my suggestion, to try 
 your principles, contrived this little plot, which 
 has juft now been unravelled : but I do assure 
 you, on the word of an honest man, there is not 
 a better girl in the kingdom. I must own, how- 
 ever, she is a fanciful little toad. (Harwood runs 
 to Agnes, catches her in his arms, and runs two or 
 three times round with her, then takes her hand and 
 kisses it, and then puts his knee to the ground.) 
 
 Har, My charming, my delightful Agnes ! Oh ! 
 what a fool have I been ! how could I suppose it ? 
 
 Ag. We took some pains with you, and it 
 would have been hard if we could not have de- 
 ceived you amongst us all. 
 
 Har, And so thou art a good girl, a very good 
 girl. 1 know thou art. Til be hang'd if thou 
 hast one foult in the world. 
 
THE TRYAL ! A COMEDY. 293 
 
 Wuh, No, no, Harvvood, not quite so perfect. 
 I can prove her still to be an arrant cheat : for she 
 pretended to be careless of you when sne thought 
 of you all the day long ; and she pretended to be 
 poor with an hundred thousand pounds, indepen- 
 dant of any one, in her possession. She is Miss 
 Withrington the heiress ; and this lady, {pointmg to 
 Mariane,) has only been her representative, for a 
 time, for reasons which I shall explain to you by- 
 and-by. (Harwood lets go Agnes's hand, atid steps 
 back some paces with a certain gravity and distance 
 in his air,) 
 
 With. What is the matter now, Harwood ? does 
 this cast a damp upon you ? 
 
 Roy. It is a weighty distress truly. Ha, ha, ha,ha 1 
 
 Col. By heaven this is good. 
 
 Ag. {going up to Harwood, and holding out her 
 hand.) Do not look so distantly upon me, Har- 
 wood. You was willing to marry me as a poor 
 woman ; if there is any thing in my fortune which 
 offends you, I scatter it to the winds. 
 
 Har. My admirable girl ! it is astonishment, it 
 is something I cannot express, which overcomes, 
 I had almost said distresses, meat present. {Pre- 
 senting her to the Colonel.) Colonel Hardy, this is 
 the woman I have raved about ! this is the woman 
 I have boasted of 1 this is my Agnes ! And this. 
 Miss Withrington, is Colonel Hardy, my own, and 
 my farther's friend. 
 
 j4g, {holding out her hand to the Colonel.) He 
 shall be mine too. Every friend of your's shall be 
 
294 THE TPvYAL : A COMEDY, 
 
 my friend, Harwood ; but the friend of your father 
 my most respected one. 
 
 JIar, Do you hear that, Colonel ? 
 
 Col. I hear it, my heart hears it, and blesses 
 you both. 
 
 Har. (to With.) My dear Sir, what shall I say 
 to you for all this goodness ? 
 
 Ag. Tell him he is the dearest good micle on 
 earth, and we will love him all our lives for it. 
 Yes, indeed, we will, uncle, (taking his hand.) "^^v^y 
 very dearly [ 
 
 Roys. Now, good folks, have not I matjaged it 
 cleverly ? 
 
 Mar, Pray let me come from the back ground 
 a little: and since I must quit all the splendour of 
 heiresship, I desire, at least, that I may have some 
 respect paid me for having filled the situation so 
 well, as the old Mayor receives the thanks of the 
 corpoiation, when the new Mayor— Bless me ! here 
 comes Opal ! I have not quite done with it yet. 
 
 With> Your servant, Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mar. (to Op.) Are you not surprised to find us 
 all here ? . 
 
 0^. Harwood I know is a very lucky fellow, but 
 I knew you were here. It is impossible, you see, 
 to escape me. But (half aside to Mariane.) I 
 wanted to tell you Colonel Beaumont is come to 
 Bath. Now I should like to be introduced to him 
 on his arrival. He v/ill be very much the fashion 
 I dare say, and I should like to have a friendship for 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY, ^Qd 
 
 liim. You understand me ? You can procure this 
 for me, I know. 
 
 JVith. Come, Mr. Opal^, you must join in our 
 good humour here, for we have just been making 
 up a match. My niece, Agnes, with a large 
 fortune, bestows herself on a worthy man, who 
 would have married her without one ; and, Ma- 
 riane, who for certain reasons has assumed her 
 character of heiress since we came to Bath, leaves 
 all her borrowed state, in hopes that the man who 
 would have married her with a fortune^ will not 
 now forsake her. 
 
 Op. (stamimring,) Wh — Wh — What is all t^'s ? 
 Roy, (half aside tp Opal.) You seem disturbed, 
 Mr. Opal ; you have not been paying your ad- 
 dresses to her, I hope. 
 
 Op, {aside to Royston.) No, not paying my ad- 
 dresses ; that is to say, not absolutely. I have 
 paid her some attention to be sure. 
 
 Roy, (nodding significanlly.) It is well for you it 
 is no worse, 
 
 M<ir, (iurn'mg to Opal, wJio holis vcfy much 
 frightened,) What is it you say ? Don't you think 
 I overheard it ! Not paid your addresses to me ! 
 Ol you false man! can you deny the declarations 
 your have made ? the oaths you have sworn ? O ! 
 you flilse man 1 
 
 Of, Upon honour, Madam, we men of fashion 
 don't expect to be called to an account for every 
 foolish thing we say. 
 
 Mar, What you have written then shall witness 
 
2g6 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 against you. Will you deny this promise of mar- 
 riage in your own hand-writing ? (Taking out a 
 paper,) 
 
 Roy. (aside to Op.) What, a promise of mar- 
 riage^ Mr. Opal ? The devil himself could not 
 have put it into your head to do a worse thing 
 than this. 
 
 Op, (very fright enedjmt making a great exertion,) 
 Don't think. Ma'am, to bully me into the match. 
 I can prove that promise to be given to you under 
 the false character of an heiress, therefore your 
 deceit loosens the obligation. 
 
 With, Take care what you say. Sir; ^to Op.) I 
 will not see my niece wronged. The law shall do 
 her justuce, whatever expence it may cost me. 
 
 Mar. Being an heiress, or not, has nothing to do 
 in the matter, Mr. Opal ; for you expressly say in 
 this promise, that my beauty and perfections alone 
 have induced you to eng-age yourself; and I will 
 take ail the men in court to witness, whether I 
 am not as handsomiC to-day as I was yesterday. 
 
 Op, I protest there is not such a word in the 
 paper. 
 
 Mar. (holding out the faper.) O base man ! will 
 you deny your own writing ? (Op. snatches the 
 paper from her, tears it to pieces.) 
 
 Mar. (garthering up the scattered pieces.) O ! 
 I can put them together again. (Op. snatching up 
 one of the pieces, crams it i?ito his mouth and chews 
 it.) 
 
 Roy. Chew fast. Opal ! she will snatch it out 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 297 
 
 of yonr mouth else. There is another bit for you. 
 (Offering him another piece.) 
 
 Mar, f bursting into a loud laugh^ in which all 
 the company join.) Is it very nice^ Mr. Opal ? 
 You munch it up as expeditiously as a bit of 
 plumb-cake. 
 
 Op, What the deuce does all this mean ? 
 
 With, This naughty girl, Mr. Opal, has only 
 been amusing herself with your promise, which 
 she never meant to make any other use of ; she is 
 already engaged to a very worthy young man, 
 who will receive with her a fortune by no means 
 contemptible. 
 
 Op, Well, well, much good may it do him : 
 what do I care about — (mumbling to himself,) 
 
 Roy, (clapping Opal's shoulder.) Ha, ha, ha ! 
 don't look so foolish, man ; you did not know a 
 word of all this, now. Ha, ha, ha ! how some 
 people do get themselves into scrapes! They have 
 no more notion of managing their affairs than so 
 many sheep. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Enter Humphry. 
 
 Humph, (to Roy.^ I would speak a word with 
 your honour. (PVhispers to Royston.) 
 
 Roy, (in a rage.) What I given away the place ! 
 It is impossible 1 It is some wicked machination ! 
 It is some damn'd trick! 
 
 With, Be moderate, Royston ; what has good 
 Mr. Humphry been telling you? 
 
 Roy, O I the devil of a bite ! his grace has 
 
"i<jS THE TRYALt A COMEDY. 
 
 given away the place to a poor simpleton, wlia 
 had never a soul to speak for him ! 
 
 IVtth. Who told you this, Mr. Humphry ? 
 Humph. Truly, Sir, I called upon his Grace's 
 gentleman, just to make up a kind of acquaintance 
 Vvith him, as his honour desired me, and he told 
 me it was given av/ay this morning. 
 Roy, What cursed luck ! 
 
 Humph, " Why," says I, ^^ I thought my master 
 was to have had it, Mr. Smoothly;" ^^ and so he 
 would," says he, '^ but one person came to the 
 Duke after another, teazing him about Mr. Roys- 
 ton, till he grew quite impatient; for there was 
 but one of all those friends," says he, winking 
 with his eye so, " who did speak at last to the 
 purpose ; but then, upon Mr. Suck sop's taking up 
 your master's interest, he shrunk back from his 
 word, which offended his grace very much." 
 Roy, Blundering blockhead! 
 Humph, " But after all," says he, " it might 
 have come round again, if the gout had not stung 
 him so v/ickedly, when in came the doctor, who 
 has promised to cure him these three weeks, and 
 only made him so much the worse; and upon his 
 his likewise presuming to teaze him about Mr. 
 Royston, befell into a violent passion, and gave 
 away the place directly to poor Mr. Drudgewell, 
 who had no recommendation at all, but fifteen 
 years hard service in the office." 
 
 Roy, Well, now ! well, now! you see how the 
 world goes ; simpletons and idiots carry every 
 ibine* be tore them. 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 299 
 
 TVith, Nay, Royston, blame yourself too. Did 
 not I tell you, you had found out too many roads 
 to one place, and would lose your v/ay amongst 
 them ? 
 
 Roy, No, no, it is all that cursed perverse fate 
 of mine ! By the Lord, half the trouble I have 
 taken for this paltry office, would have procured 
 some people an archbishoprick ! There is Har« 
 wood, now, fortune presses herself upon him, 
 and makes him, at one stroke, an idle gentleman 
 for life. 
 
 Har, No, Sir, an idle gentleman I will never 
 be : my Agnes shall never be the wife of any thing 
 so contemptible. 
 
 ^g, I thank you, Harwood; I do, indeed, look 
 for an honourable distinction in being your wife. 
 You shall still exert your powers in the profession 
 you have chosen : you shall be the weak one's 
 stay, the poor man's advocate ; you shall gain fair 
 fame in recompence, and that will be our nobility. 
 
 JVith. Well said, my children ! you have more 
 sense than I thought you had amongst all these 
 whimsies. Now, let us take our leave of plots 
 and story-telling, if you please, and all go to my 
 house to supper. Royston shall drown his disap- 
 pointment in a can of warm Negus, and Mr. Opal 
 shall have something more palatable than his last 
 spare morsel. [Exeunt. 
 
 THE END OF THE TRYAL. 
 
DE MONFOKT: 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 De Monport. 
 
 Rezenvelt. 
 
 Count FheberG; Friend to De Monfort and 
 
 Rezenvelt. 
 Manuel^ Servant to De Monfort. 
 Jerome^ De Monfort's old Landlord. 
 Grimbald, an artful knave. 
 Bernard^ a Monh 
 
 Monks, Gentlemen, Officers, Page, &c. &c, 
 
 IVOMEN. 
 
 Jake De Monfort, Sister to De Monfort. 
 Countess Freberg, Wife to Freberg. 
 Theresa^ Servant to the Countess. 
 
 Abbess, Nuns, and a Lay Sister, Ladies, &c. 
 Scene, a tozvn in Germany. 
 
DE MONFORT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Jerome's House. A large old* 
 
 fashioned Chamber. 
 
 Jer. (speahhig 'without.) This way, good masters. 
 
 Enter Jerome, hearing a Tight ^ and followed hy 
 Manuel, and Servants carrying luggage. 
 
 Rest your burthens here. 
 This spacious room will please the Marquis best. 
 He takes me unawares ; but ill prepar'd : 
 If he had sent, e'en tho* a hasty notice, 
 I had been glad, 
 
 Man. Be not disturb'd, good Jerome ; 
 
 Thy house is in most admirable order ; 
 And they who travel o'cold winter nights 
 Think homeliest quarters good. 
 
 Jer. He is not far behind ? 
 
 Man. A little way. 
 
 (To the Serva7its) Go you and wait below till he 
 arrives. 
 
 Jer. (shaking Manuel hy the ha?id,) Indeed, my 
 friend, I'm glad to see you here, 
 
304 DE monport: a tragedy. 
 
 Yet marvel wherefore. 
 
 Man. I marvel wherefore too, my honest Jerome ; 
 But here we are ; pri'thee be kind to us. 
 
 Jer. Most heartily I will. I love your master : 
 He is a quiet and a lib'ral man : 
 A better inmate never cross'd my door. 
 
 Man. Ah ! but he is not now the man he was. 
 Lib'ral he will, God grant he may be quiet 
 
 jfer. What has befallen him ? 
 
 Man. I cannot tell thee ; 
 
 But faith, there is no living with him now. 
 
 Jer. And yet, methinks, if I remember well, 
 You were about to quit his service, Manuel, 
 When last he left this house. You grumbled 
 then. 
 
 Man. I've been upon the eve of leaving him 
 These ten long years; for many times is he 
 So difficult, capricious, and distrustful, 
 He galls my nature — yet, I know not how, 
 A secret kindness binds me to him still. 
 
 Jer. Some, who offend from a suspicious nature, 
 Will afterwards such fair confession make 
 As turns e'en the offence into a favour. 
 
 Man. Yes, some indeed do so : so will not he : 
 He'd rather die than such confession make. 
 
 Jer. Ay, thou art right ; for now I call to mind 
 That once he wi-ong'd me with unjust suspicion. 
 When first he came to lodge beneath my roof; 
 And when it so fell out that I was proved 
 Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought 
 He would have made profession of regret ; 
 
 1 
 
i)E MONFORT : A TRAGEDY* 305 
 
 Sut silent, haughty, and ungraciously 
 
 He bore himself as one offended still. 
 
 Yet shortly after, when unwittingly 
 
 1 did him some slight service, o'the sudden 
 
 lie overpower'd me with his grateful thanks; 
 
 And would not be restrained from pressing on me 
 
 A noble recompense; I understood 
 
 His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well. 
 
 And took it as he meant. 
 
 Man. 'Tis often thus. 
 
 I would have left him many years ago, , 
 But that with all his faults there sometimes come 
 Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart. 
 As -might engage a harder churl than me 
 To serve him still. — -And then his sister too, 
 A noble dame, who should have been a queen t 
 The meanest of her hinds, at her command. 
 Had fought like lions for her, and the poor. 
 E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd her-^ 
 She would have grieved if I had left my Lord. 
 
 jfer. Comes she along with him ? 
 
 Man. No, he departed all unknown to her. 
 Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route ; 
 But well I knew it would afflict her much. 
 And therefore left a little nameless billet. 
 Which after our departure, as I guess, 
 Would fall into her hands, and tell her all. 
 What could I do ? O 'tis a noble lady ! 
 
 Jer, All this is strange — something disturbs his 
 mind— - 
 Belike he is in love. 
 
 X 
 
300 DB MONPORT ! A TRAGEDYd 
 
 Maft, No^ Jerome, no. 
 
 Once on a time I served a noble master, 
 Whose youth was blasted with untoward love, 
 And he with hope and fear and jealousy 
 For ever toss'd, led an unquiet life : 
 Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit. 
 His pale wan face such gende sadness wor'e 
 As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him ; 
 But Monfort, even in his calmest hour. 
 Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye 
 Which suddenly repels all sympathy. 
 
 no ! good Jerome, no, it is not love, 
 
 Jer, Hear I not horses trampling at the gate ? 
 
 (Listening,) 
 He IS arrived — stay thou — I had forgot — 
 A plague upon't 1 my head is so confused — 
 
 1 will return i'the instant to receive him. 
 
 (Exit hastily), 
 (A great hustle without. Exit Manuel with 
 lights, and returns again lighting in De 
 MoNFOPtT, as if just alighted from his 
 journey.) 
 Man, Your ancient host^ my lord, receives you 
 gladly. 
 And your apartment will be soon prepared. 
 De Mon, 'Tis well. 
 
 Man, Where shall I place the chest you gave 
 in charge ? 
 So please you, say my lord, 
 
 De Mon. (throwing himself into a chair.) Where- 
 e'er thou wilt. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 30? 
 
 Ma7i, I would not move that luggage till you 
 came. (Pointing to certain things,) 
 
 DeMon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble me 
 no more. 
 (Manuel, with the' assistance of other Servant r^ 
 sets about 'putting the things in order^ and 
 De Monfort remains sitting in a thoughtful 
 posture.) ^ 
 
 Enter Jerome, hearing wine, &c. 07i a salver. As 
 he approaches De Monfort, Manuel pdls him hy 
 the sleeve, 
 
 Man, (aside to Jerome.) No, do not now ; he 
 
 will not be disturb'd. 
 Jer, What not to bid him welcome to my 
 house. 
 And offer some refreshment ? 
 
 Man. No, good Jerome. 
 
 Softly a little while : I pri'thee do. 
 
 (Jerome walks softly on tiptoes, till he gets he* 
 hind De Monfort, then peeping on one side to 
 see his face.) 
 Jer, (aside to Manuel.) Ah, Manuel, what an 
 alter'd man is here! 
 His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale— • 
 He left this house a comely gentleman. 
 De Mon, Who whispers there ? 
 Man. 'Tis your old landlord, Sir. 
 
 Jer. I joy to see you here~I crave your pardon — - 
 I fear I do intrude. — 
 
308 DE MONPORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Be Mon. No, my kind host, I am obliged to 
 thee. 
 
 jer. How fairs it with your honour? 
 Be Mon. Well enough. 
 
 Jer. Here is a little of the fav'rite wine 
 That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me. 
 
 (Filh a glass,) 
 Be Mon, (after drwkhig.) I thank you, Jerome, 
 
 'tis delicious. 
 Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so. 
 Be Mon, And how does she ? 
 J^r, Alas, my Lord ! she's dead. 
 
 Be Mon, Well, then she is at rest. 
 Jer, How well, my Lord ? 
 
 Be Mon, Is she not with the dead, the quiet 
 dead. 
 Where all is peace ? Not e'en the impious wretch. 
 Who tears the coitin from its earthy vault. 
 And strews the hiQuld'ring ashes to the wind. 
 Can break their rest. 
 
 Jer, Woe's me ! I thought you would have 
 grieved for her. 
 She was a kindly soul I Before she died, 
 When pining sickness bent her cheerless head. 
 She set my house in order — 
 And but the morning ere she breath 'd her last. 
 Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine. 
 That should the Lord De Monfort come again 
 His cup might sparkle still. (De lAox\^oxt walks 
 
 across the stage, and wipes his eyes,) 
 Indeed I fear I have distress'd you. Sir; 
 
bemonfort: a tragedt. 309 
 
 f surely thought you would be grieved for her. . 
 De Mon. (taking Jerome's hand.) I am, my 
 
 friend. How long has she been dead ? 
 jfer. Two sad long years. 
 
 De Mon. Would she were living still I 
 
 I was too troublesome, too heedless of her. 
 Jer. O no ! she loved to serve you. 
 
 (Loud knocking without.) 
 De Mon, What fool comes here^ at such un- 
 timely hours, 
 To make this cursed noise ? (To Manuel.) Go to 
 the gate. [Exit Manuel. 
 
 All sober citizens are gone to bed ; 
 It Is some drunkards on their nightly rounds^ 
 Who mean it but in sport. 
 
 Jer, I hear unusual voices — here they come. 
 
 /2^-^«/^r Manuel, shewing in Count Free erg and 
 
 his Lady. 
 
 Freh, (running to emhrace De Mon.) My dearest ' 
 Monfort ! most unlook'd for pleasure ! 
 Do I indeed embrace thee here again ? 
 I saw thy servant standing by the gate, 
 His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings. 
 Welcome, thrice welcome here ! 
 
 De Mon. I thank thee, Freberg, for this friendly 
 visit, 
 .And this fair Lady too. (Bozving to the lady.) 
 
 Lady. I fear, my Lord, 
 
 We do intrude at an untimely hour : 
 
310 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 But now returning from a midnight mask, 
 My husband did insist that we should enter. 
 
 Freb, No, say not so ; no hour untimely call. 
 Which doth together bring long absent friends. 
 Dear Monfort, wherefore hast thou play'd so sly. 
 To come upon us thus all suddenly ? 
 
 De Mon, O ! many varied thoughts do cross our 
 brain, 
 Which touch the will, but leave the memory 
 
 trackless ; 
 And yet a strange compounded motive make 
 Wherefore a man should bend his evening walk; 
 To th' east or west, the forest or the field. 
 Is it not often so ? 
 
 Freh. I ask no more, happy to see you here 
 From any motive. There is one behind. 
 Whose presence would have been a double bliss ; 
 Ah ! hov^ is she ? The noble Jane de Monfort. 
 
 De Man. (confused,) She is — -I have — I left my 
 sister well. 
 
 Lady, (io Freberg.) My Freberg, you are heed- 
 less of respect : 
 You surely mean to say the I^ady Jane. 
 
 Freh. Respect ! No, Madam ; Princess, Em- 
 press, Queen, 
 Could not denote a creature so exalted 
 As this plain native appellation doth. 
 The noble Jane de Monfort. 
 
 Lady, (turning from h'wi displeased io Mon.) 
 you are fatigued, my Lord ; you want repose ; 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 311 
 
 Say, should we not retire ? 
 
 Freb, Ha ! is it so ? 
 
 My friend, your face is pale^ have you been ill ? 
 
 De Mo7u No, Freberg, no ; I think I have 
 been well. 
 
 Freb. (shaking his head.) I fear thou hast not, 
 Monfort — Let it pass. 
 We'll re-establish thee : we'll banish pain. 
 I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends, 
 And we shall spend together glorious hours. 
 That gods might envy. Little time so spent 
 Doth far outvalue all our life beside. 
 This is indeed our life, our v/aking life. 
 The rest dull breathing sleep. 
 
 De Mofi, Thus, it is true, from the sad years 
 of life 
 We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike, 
 Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten ; 
 Which thro' the dreary gloom of time o'erpast 
 Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. 
 But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls 
 Whose magick power creates them. Bless'd art 
 
 thou, 
 If, in the ample circle of thy friends. 
 Thou canst but boast a few. 
 
 Freh, Judge for thyself : in truth I do not boast. 
 There is amongst my friends, my later friends, 
 A most accomplish'd stranger. New to Amberg ; 
 But just arriv'd, and will ere long depart. 
 i met him in Franconia two years since. 
 He is so full of pleasant anecdote. 
 
312 pE MONF0RT : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 So rich^ so gay, so poignant is his wit. 
 Time vanishes before hinn as he speaks. 
 And ruddy morning thro' the lattice peeps 
 Ere night seems well began. 
 
 De Mon, How is he calFd ? 
 
 Frth, I will surprise thee with a welcome face i 
 I will not tell thee now. 
 
 Lady, {to Mon.) I have^ my Lord, a small request 
 to make. 
 And must not be denied. I too may boast 
 Of some good friends, and beauteous country- 
 
 w^omen : 
 To-morrow night I open wide my doors 
 To all the fair and gay ; beneath my roof 
 Musick, and dance, and revelry shall reign. 
 J pray you come and grace it with your presence. 
 DeMon. You honour me too much to be denied. 
 Lady, I thank you. Sir ; and in return for this, 
 We shall v/ithdraw, and leave you to repose, 
 Preh. Must it be so ? Good night — sweet sleep 
 to thee ! {To De Monfort.) 
 ' • De Mon, {io Freb.) Good night. {To Lady,) 
 Good-night, fair Lady. 
 Lady. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exeunt Freberg and Lady.] 
 Pe Mon. {to Jer.) I thought Count Freberg had 
 
 been now in France. 
 Jer. He meant to go, as I have been inform'd. 
 De Mon, Well^ well, prepare my bed ; I will to 
 rest, [Exit Jerome, 
 
BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 313 
 
 De Mon. {aside.) I know not how it Is^ my 
 
 heart stands back. 
 And meets not this man's love.r^Friends ! rarest 
 
 friends ! 
 Rather than share his undiscerning praise 
 With every table wit, and book-form'd sage. 
 And paltry poet puling to the moon, 
 I'd court from him proscription, yea abuse. 
 And think it proud distinction. [Exit, 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 A small Apartment in Jerome's House i a ialle and 
 hreakfast set out. Enter De Monport, followed 
 ly Manuel, and sets himself dovjn hy the tahle^ 
 with a cheerful face. 
 
 De Mon. Manuel, this morning's sun shines 
 pleasantly : 
 These old apartments too are light and cheerfuK 
 Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much ; 
 He serves as though he loved me. This pure air 
 Braces the listless nerves, and warms the blood : 
 J feel in freedom here. 
 
 (Filling a cup of coffee^ and drinhing.) 
 
 Man. Ah ! sure^ my Lord, 
 
 No air is purer than the air at home. 
 
 De Mon. Here can I wander with assured steps^ 
 Nor dread, at every winding of the path. 
 Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way. 
 To move — [Stopping short.) 
 
 Man, What says your honour ? 
 
314. IDE MONFORT: a TRAGECr, 
 
 There are no serpents In our pleasant fields, 
 
 De Mon, Think'st thou there are no serpents in 
 the world 
 But those who slide along the grassy sod. 
 And sting the luckless foot that presses them ? 
 There are who in the path of social life 
 Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun. 
 And sting the soul — Ay, till its healthful frame 
 Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease. 
 So deadly is the wound. 
 
 Man, Heaven g-uard your honour from such 
 horrid skathe ! 
 They are but rare, I hope ? 
 
 De Mon, (shaking his head,) We mark the hoi- 
 lov/ eye, the wasted frame. 
 The gait disturb'd of wealthy honoured men. 
 But do not know the cause. 
 
 Man, 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my 
 Lord ! 
 
 De Mon, I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well. 
 I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. 
 I go to revel it with sprightly dames. 
 And drive the night away. 
 
 {Filling another cup, and drinking.) 
 
 Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay. 
 
 De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, 
 honest Manuel, 
 Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse. 
 And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. 
 Here is one too, for Bremer ; he loves wine ; 
 And one for Jaques : be joyful all togethcn 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 315 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. My Lord, I met e'en now, a short way off. 
 Your countryman the Marquis Rezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon, (starting from his seat^ and letting the 
 cup fall from his hand.) Who, say'st thou ? 
 Ser, Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you. 
 
 De Man, Thou ly'st — it is not so-^-it is impos- 
 sible ! 
 Ser, I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself. 
 J)e Mon. Fool ' 'tis some passing stranger thou 
 hast seen. 
 And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd. 
 
 Ser, No other stranger could deceive my sight. 
 
 De Mon, (dashing his clenched hand 'violently 
 
 upon the tahle^ and ovei'tuniing every thing.) 
 
 Heaven blast thy sight ! it lights on 
 
 nothing good. 
 
 Ser, I surely thought no harm to look upon 
 
 him. 
 De Mon, What, dost thou still insist ? Him 
 must it be ? 
 Does it so please thee well ? (Servant endeavours 
 
 to speak.) Hold thy damn'd tongue I 
 By heaven I'll kill thee ! (Going furiously up to him.) 
 Man. (in a soothing "joice.) Nay harm him not,- 
 my Lord ; he speaks the truth ; 
 I've met his groom, who told me certainly 
 His Lord is here. I should have told you so. 
 But thought, perhaps, it might displease your 
 honour. 
 
3l6 BE MONFOKT : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 De Mon. (heco77mig all at once calm, and turnmg 
 sternly to Manuel.) And how dar'st thou 
 to think it would displease mc ? 
 What is't to me who leaves or enters Amberg ? 
 But it displeases me, yea ev'n to frenzy^ 
 That every idle fool iijust hither come 
 To break my leisure with the paltry tidings 
 Of all the cursed things he stares upon. 
 
 (vServant attempts to s^eak—T)Q Mon fort 
 stamps with his foot.) 
 Take thine ill-favour'd visage from my sight. 
 And speak of it no more. [Exit Servant, 
 
 And go thou too ; I choose to be alone. 
 
 [Exit Manuel. 
 (De Mcii'brt goes to the door hy which they 
 ivcfit out ; opens it, and looks.) 
 But is he gone indeed ? Yes, he is gone, 
 
 {Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks : 
 then gi"jes loose to all the fury of gesture y ajid 
 walks up and down in great agitation.) 
 it is too much : by heaven it is too much ! 
 He haunts me — stings me— like a devil haunts — 
 He'll make a raving maniack of me — Villain I 
 The air wherein thou draw'st thy fulsome breath 
 ' is poison to me-^— Oceans shall divide us ! (Pauses.) 
 But no ; thou think'st I fear thee, cursed reptile ; 
 And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. 
 Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight, 
 ril stay and face thee still. 
 
 (Knocking at the charaler door.) 
 Ha! Who knocks there ? 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. Si? 
 
 Freherg. (wiihout.) It is thy friend^ DeMonfort. 
 De Mon, (opening the door.) Enter^ then. 
 
 Enter Free erg. 
 
 Freh. (taking his hand kindly,) How art thou 
 now ? How hast thou past the night ? 
 Has kindly sleep refresh'd thee ? 
 De Mon. YeSj I have lost an hour or two in 
 sleep. 
 And so should be refresh'd, 
 
 Freh, And art thou not ? 
 
 Tky looks speak not of rest. Thou art disturb'd. 
 De Mon. No, somewhat ruffled from a foolish 
 cause. 
 Which soon will pass away. 
 
 Freh, (shaking his head.) Ah no, De Monfort! 
 something in thy face 
 Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not : 
 If any secret grief distract thy soul. 
 Here am I all devoted to thy love : 
 Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee ? 
 De Mon. I have no grief: distress me not, my 
 
 friend. 
 Freh, Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my 
 friend, 
 Would'st thou not open all thine inmost soul. 
 And bid me share its every consciousness ? 
 
 De Mon, Freberg, thou knows't not man ; not 
 nature's man. 
 But only him who, in smooth studied works 
 
318 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDT* 
 
 Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully. 
 
 In all the splendid foppery of virtue. 
 
 That man was never born whose secret soul. 
 
 With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts, 
 
 Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams. 
 
 Was ever opened to another's scan. 
 
 Away, away ! it is delusion all. 
 
 Freh, Well, be reserved then, perhaps Tqi 
 wrong. 
 
 De Man. How 2:oes the hour ? 
 
 Freh, 'Tis early : a long day is still before us, 
 Let us enjoy it. Come along with me ; 
 I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend. * 
 
 De Mon, Your pleasant friend ? 
 
 Freb* Yes, him of whom I spake. 
 
 (Taking his hand.) 
 There is no good 1 would not share with thee. 
 And this man's company, to minds like thine. 
 Is the best banquet-feast I could bestow. 
 But I will speak in mystery no more 
 It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt. 
 
 (De Mon. pulls his hand hastily from Freberg, 
 and shrinks hack.) Ha ! What is this ? 
 Art thou pain stricken, Monfort? 
 Nay, on my life, thou rather seem'st offended : 
 Does it displease thee that I call him friend ! 
 
 De Mon, No, all men are thy friends. 
 
 Freh. No, say not all men. But thou art 
 offended. 
 I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure ; 
 
DE MONFORT : A TEAGEDY. BIQ 
 
 But If his presence is not welcome here. 
 He shall not join our company to-day. 
 
 Dc Mon. What dost thou mean to say ? What 
 is't to me 
 Whether I meet with such a thing as Rezenvelt 
 To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never ? 
 
 Freh, In truth, I thought you had been well 
 with hin. 
 He prais'd you much. 
 
 De Mon, I thank him for his praise — Come, let 
 us move : 
 This chamber is confin'd and airless grown. 
 
 (Starting.) 
 I hear a stranger's voice ? 
 
 Freh. 'TIs Rezenvelt. 
 
 Let him be told that we are gone abroad. 
 
 De Mofi. (Proudly.) No ? let him enter. .^Who 
 waits there ? Ho ! Manuel ! 
 
 Enter Manuel, 
 
 What stranger speaks below ? 
 
 Mane The Marquis Rezenvelt, 
 
 I have not told him that you are within. - 
 
 DeMon, {angrily.) And wherefore dlds't thou 
 not ? Let him ascend. 
 {A long pause, De Mon fort walking up and 
 down with a quick pace.) 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt, and runs freely up to De 
 
 Monfort. 
 
 Rez, (roDe MonJ My noble Marquis, welconie ! 
 
520 I3E IvIONFGRT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mon. Sir, I thank yoit 
 
 Rez, {to Freb.) My gentle friend, well mete 
 
 Abroad so early ? 
 Freh. It is indeed an early hour for me. 
 How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits ? 
 
 Rez, Oy light as ever. On iny way to you. 
 E'en novv% I learnt de Mon fort was arrived. 
 And turn'd my steps aside ; so here I am. 
 ' {Bozving gaily to J^^yLonfoYi.) 
 
 De Mon. I thank yoU;, Sir ; yoit do me to much 
 honour. {Proudly,) 
 
 Rez. Nay, say not so ; not too much honour 
 surely. 
 Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you. 
 
 DeMon. {confused,) Having no previous notice 
 of your coming, 
 I look'd not for it. * 
 
 Rez. Ay, true indeed ; when I approach you 
 .next, 
 I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming, 
 And bow to you by sound of trumpet, Marquis. 
 De Mo?2, {to Freb. tur?zmg haiiglitlly from Ee- 
 zenvelt wi/7; affected indfference,) How does 
 your cheerful friend, that good old man ? 
 Frei* My cheerful friend ? I know not whom 
 
 you mean . 
 De Mo?i, Count Waterlan. 
 Freh, I knov/ not one so named. • 
 
 De Mon, {very confused.) O pardon me — it w^as 
 at Bale I knew him. 
 
 / 
 
 9. 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 321 
 
 Freh. You have not yet inquired for honest 
 Reisdale. 
 I met him as I came, and mention'd you. 
 Heseem'd amazed ; and fain he would have learnt 
 What cause procured us so much happiness. 
 He question'd hard, and hardly would believe, 
 i could not satisfy his strong desire. 
 
 Re%, And know you not what brings De Mon- 
 fort here ? 
 
 Freh. Truly, I do not. 
 
 Eez. O ! 'tis love of me, 
 
 i have but two short days in x\mberg been, 
 And here with postman's speed he follows me. 
 Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown. 
 
 Freb. (to DeMoUc) Is Rezenvelt so sadly miss'd 
 with you? 
 Your town so changed? 
 
 De Mon, Not altogether so ; 
 
 Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain 
 For fools to laugh at. 
 
 Re%, But he laughs not, and therefore he IiS 
 wise. 
 He ever frowns on them with sullen brow 
 Contemptuous ; therefore he is very wise. 
 Nay, daily frets his most refined soul 
 With their poor folly, to its inmost core ; 
 Therefore he is most eminently wise. 
 
 Freh. Fy, Rezenvelt ! you are too early eav* 
 Such spirits rise but v;ith the ev'ning glass \ 
 They suit not placid morn. 
 
 Y 
 
322 DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (To De Monfort, who^ after walking impa-^ 
 iiently up and doivn^ comes close to his ear^ 
 and lays hold of his arm,) 
 
 What would you, Monfort ? 
 De Mon. Nothing — what is*t o'clock ? 
 No^ no — I had forgot — 'tis early still. 
 
 (Turns away again.) 
 Freb. (to Rcz.) Waltser informs me that you 
 have agreed 
 To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth. 
 It is a dangerous task. 
 
 Rez. Yet I'll be honest: 
 
 I can but lose his favour and a feast. 
 
 (Whilst they speak, De Monfort walks up and 
 doivn impatiently and irresolute; at lasty 
 fulls the hell violently,) » 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 De Mon, (to Ser.) What dost thou want ? 
 
 Ser, I thought your honour rung. 
 
 De Mon, I have forgot — stay; are my horses 
 
 saddled ? 
 Ser. I thought, my Lord, you would not ride 
 to-day. 
 After so long a journey. 
 
 De Mon. (impatiently,) Well — *tis good. 
 Begone ! — I want thee not. fExiT Servant. 
 
 Rez. (smiling significantly,) I humbly crave your 
 pardon, gentle Marquis. 
 It grieves me that I cannot stay with you, 
 
DE MONFORt : A TRAGEDY. 323 
 
 And make my visit of a friendly length. 
 I trust your goodness will excuse me now ; 
 Another time I shall be less unkind. 
 (To Frebcrg.) Will you not go with me ? 
 
 Frel^, Excuse me, Monfort, Til return again, 
 
 [Exeunt Rezenvelt attd Freberg* 
 
 De Mon. (alone, tossing his arms distractedly,) 
 Hell hath no greater torment for th' accursed 
 Than this man's presence gives — 
 Abhorred fiend ! he hath a pleasure too^ 
 A damned pleasure in the pain he gives ! 
 Oh I the side glance of that detested eye ! 
 That conscious smile! that full insulting lip! 
 It touches every nerve : it makes me mad^ 
 What, does it please thee ? Dost thou woo my 
 
 hate.^ 
 Hate shalt thou have ! determined, deadly hate^ 
 Which shall awake no smile. Malignant villain 1 
 The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish^ 
 And thin the film that hides it. 
 Thy hateful visage ever spoke thy v/orth : 
 I loath'd thee when a boy. 
 That men should be besotted with him thus i 
 And Freberg likewise so bewitched is. 
 That, Hke a hireling flatt'rer, at his heels 
 He meanly paces, offering brutish praise^ 
 O ! I could cure him too ! [Exit. 
 
 f 2 
 
324 BE MOSTFaEX: A TEAGEDT. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A very sf Undid apartmeni in Count 
 Free erg's house ^ fancifully decorated. A wide 
 folding-door opened^ shews another magnificent 
 room lighted up to re ceirve company. Enter through 
 the folding doors the Count and Countess^ richly 
 dressed. 
 
 Freb, (looking round.) In truth, I like those de- 
 corations well : 
 They suit those lofty walls. And here, mylovc^^ 
 The gay profusion of a woman's fancy 
 Is well display'd. Noble simplicity 
 Becomes us less on such a night as this 
 Than gaudy show. 
 
 Lady. Is it not noble then ? (He shahs hk 
 head.) I thought it so ; 
 And as I know you love simplicity, 
 I did intend it should be simple too. 
 
 Freij. Be satisfy'd, I pray; we want to-night 
 A cheerful banquet- house, and not a temple. 
 How runs the hour ? 
 
 Lady. It is not late, but soon we shall be roused 
 With the :loud entry of our frolick guests. 
 
 Enter a Page, richly dressed. 
 
 Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall. 
 Who begs to be admitted to your presence. 
 Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends ? 
 Page, No, far unhke to them ; it is a stranger. 
 
BE MONPORT : A TRAGEDY* 325 
 
 Lady, How looks her countenance ? 
 
 Fage, So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, 
 I shrunk at first in awe ; but when she smiled. 
 For so she did to see me thus abash'dj, 
 Methought I could have compassed sea and land 
 To do her bidding. 
 
 Lady, Is she young or old ? 
 
 Fage, Neither^ if right I guess, but she is fair : 
 For time hath laid his hand so gently on her. 
 As he too had been awed. 
 
 Lady, The foolish stripling ! 
 
 She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large in stature ? 
 
 Fage, So stately and so graceful is her form, 
 I thought at first her stature was gigantick. 
 But on a near approach I found, in truth, 
 She scarcely does surpass the middle size. 
 
 Lady. What is her garb ? 
 
 Fage, I cannot well describe the fashion of it. 
 She is not deck'd in any gallant trim, 
 But seems to me clad in the usual weeds 
 Of high habitual state ; for as she moves 
 Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold. 
 As I have feen unfurled banners play 
 With the soft breeze. 
 
 Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy, 
 
 Jt is an apparition thou has't seen. 
 
 IPreh. (starting from his seaty where he has heen 
 
 sitting during the conversation between the Lady 
 
 and the Page.) It is an apparition he has seen. 
 
 Or it is Jane de Monfort, [^^^^ haitily. 
 
320 3DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 Lady, {displeased^ No ; such description surely 
 suits not her. 
 Did she inquire for me ? 
 
 Fage, She ask'd to see the lady of Count Fre* 
 
 berg. 
 Lady. Perhaps it is not she — I fear it is-— 
 Ha ! here they cpme. He has but guess'd too 
 well. 
 
 E^nter Freberg^ hading in ^k-^-e De Monfort. 
 
 Freh. {presenting her to Lady J Here, Madam, 
 welcome a most worthy guest. 
 
 Lady. Madam, a thousand welcomes ! Pardon 
 me ; 
 I could not guess who honoured me so far ; 
 I should not else have waited coldly here. 
 
 Jane. I thank you for this welcome, gentle 
 Countess, 
 But take those kind excuses back again ; 
 I am a bold intruder on this hour. 
 And am entitled to no ceremony. 
 J came in quest of a dear truant friend. 
 But Freberg has inform'd me — - 
 (I'o Freberg.) And he is well you say ? 
 
 Freh, Yes, well, but joylesSv 
 
 Jam. It is the usual temper of his mind ; 
 It opens not, but with the thrilling touch 
 Pf some strong heart-string o'the sudden press'd. 
 
 Freh. It nriay be so, Fv.e known him otherwise, 
 Jle is suspicious grown. 
 
DE MOXFORT : A TRAGEDY. 32? 
 
 Jane, Not so, Count Freberg, Monfort is too 
 noble. 
 Say rather, that he is a man in grief. 
 Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye; 
 And thou, less generous than beseems a friend. 
 Hast thought too hardly of him. 
 
 Frel), (howtng with great respect.) So will I say; 
 ril own nor word nor will, that can offend you. 
 
 Lady. De Monfort is engaged to grace our 
 feast. 
 Ere long you'll see him here. 
 
 Jane. I thank you truly, but this homely dress 
 Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these. 
 
 Frch, {pointing to her dress.) Such artless and 
 majestick elegance. 
 So exquisitely just, so nobly simple. 
 Will make the gorgeous blush. 
 
 Jane, {smilmg.) Nay, nay, be more consistent 
 courteous knight. 
 And do not praise a plain and simple guise 
 With such profusion of unsimple words. 
 I cannot join your company to-jnght. 
 
 Lady. Not stay to see your brother ? ] 
 
 Jane, Therefore it is I would not, gentle hos* 
 tess. 
 Here will he find all that can woo the heart 
 To joy and sweet forgetfulness of pain ; 
 The sight of me would wake his feeling mind 
 To other thoughts. I am no doting mistress. 
 No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith 
 Jiush to his arms and weep, I am his sister ; 
 
328 PE MGNFORT : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 The eldest daughter of his father's houses 
 Cahi) and unwearied is my love for him ; f 
 And having found him, patiently I'll wait^ 
 Nor greet him in the hour o{ social joy. 
 To dash his mirth with tears.— 
 The night wears on ; pernait me to withdraw. 
 Freb, Nay, do not, do not injure us so far ! 
 Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train. 
 Jane. You wear not masks to-night. 
 Lady, We wear not masks, but you may be con" 
 ceal'd 
 Behind the double foldings of a veil. 
 
 Jane, {after 'pausing to consider,) In truth, I feel 
 alittleso inclined, 
 Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him^ 
 And gently prove the temper of his mind ; 
 But for the means I must become your debtor. 
 
 {To Lady.) 
 Lady. Who waits? (E^^^^r ^^r Woman.) Attend 
 this lady to my wardrobe. 
 And do what she commands you. , 
 
 [Exeunt Jane and Waiting-woman. 
 Freh. {JooVing after Jane, as she goes oiU^ 'with 
 admiration.) Oh ! what a soul she bears i 
 see how she steps ! 
 Nought but the native dignity of worth 
 E'er tauglii the moving form such noble grace. 
 
 Lady, Such lofty mien, and high assumed gait 
 JVe seen ere now, and men have call'd it pride. 
 Freb. No, 'faith! thou neyer did'st, but oft in- 
 4ee4 
 
J}E MONFORT : A TRAGEDY, 32^ 
 
 The paltry imitation thou hast seen. 
 
 (Looking at her,) How hang those trappings on 
 
 thy motley gown ? 
 They seem hke garlands on a May-day queen^^ 
 Which hinds have dress'd in sport. 
 
 Lady, I'll doff it, then, since it displeases yoiu . 
 Freh. (softening,) No, no, thou'rt lovely still ia 
 every garb. 
 But see the guests assemble, 
 
 F^nter groups of well-dressed people, who pay their 
 compllments to Freberg and his Lady ; and fol- 
 lowed hy her pass into the inner apartjneyit, where 
 more company appear assenihling, as if by another 
 entry, 
 
 f'reh, (who remains on the front of the stage, with 
 afrie7id or two,) How loud the hum of this 
 gay-meeting croud ! 
 'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun. 
 Musick will quell the sound. Wr^o waits without r 
 JVTusick strike up. 
 
 (A grand piece of musick is playing, and when 
 it ceases, enter from the inner apartment 
 Rezenyelt, with several gentlemen, all 
 richly dressed,) 
 Frel, (to those just entered,) What, lively gal- 
 lants, quit the field so soon ? 
 Are there no beauties in that moving crowd 
 To fix your fancy ? 
 
 Rez, Ay, marry, are there ! men of ev'ry mind 
 ^ay in that moving crowd some fair one find. 
 
330 BE MONFOKT t A TRAGEDY* 
 
 To suit their taste^, tho' whimsical and strange^ 
 As ever fancy own'd. 
 Beauty of every cast and shade is there, 
 From the perfection of a fauhless form, 
 Down to the common^ brown^ unnoted maid. 
 Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown. 
 
 3 si Gent. There is, indeed, a gay variety. 
 
 Rez, And if the liberality of nature 
 Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms. 
 Blending in one the sweets of many plants^ 
 So obstinately, strangely opposite. 
 As would have well defy'd all other art 
 But female cultivation. Aged youth. 
 With borrowed locks in rosy chaplets bound, 
 Cloaths her dimi eye, parch'd lips, and skinny cheek 
 In most unlovely softness. 
 And youthful age, v^^ith fat round trackless face. 
 The down-cast look of contemplation deep. 
 Most pensively assumes. 
 Is it not even so ? The native prude. 
 With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth, 
 plays off the wild coquet's successful charms 
 With most unskilful pains ; and the coquet. 
 In temporary crust of cold reserve. 
 Fixes her studied looks upon the ground 
 Forbiddingly demure, 
 
 Freh, Fy ! thou art too severe, 
 
 Rez. - " Say, rather, gentle« 
 
 r faith ! the very dwarfs attempt to charm 
 With lofty airs of puny majesty, 
 Whilst potent damsels^ of a portly makcj 
 
 7 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 331 
 
 Totter like nurselings and demand the aid 
 Of gentle sympathy. 
 
 From all those diverse modes of dire assault. 
 He owns a heart of hardest adamant. 
 Who shall escape to-night. 
 
 Freh. (to De Mon. who has entered during 
 Rezenvelt's speech and heard the greatest 
 part of it,) Ha^ ha, ha, ha. 
 
 How pleasandy he gives his wit the rein. 
 Yet guides its wild career! 
 
 (De Mon. is silent.) 
 Rez, (smiling archly,) What, think you, Frcberg, 
 the same powerful spell 
 Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night ? 
 Or that De Monfort is a woman turn'd. 
 So widely from his native self to swerve, 
 As grace my gai'ty with a smile of his ? 
 
 J)e Mon. Nay, think not, Rezenvelt, there is no 
 smile 
 I can bestow on thee. There is a smile, 
 A smile of nature too, which 1 can spare. 
 And yet perhaps, thou will not thank me for it. 
 
 (Smiles contemptuously.) 
 Re^, Not thank thee ! It were surely most un- 
 grateful 
 No thanks to pay for nobly giving me 
 What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain. 
 For nature hath her smiles, of birth more painful 
 Than bitterest execrations. 
 
 Freh, These idle words will lead us to disquiet ; 
 Forbear, forbear, my friends ! Go, Rezenvelt, 
 
332 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Accept the challenge of those lovely dames. 
 Who thro' the portal come with bolder steps 
 Xo claim your notice. 
 
 (Enter a grouse of Ladies from the other apart ^ 
 
 nient. Rez. shrugs up his shoulders^ as if 
 
 unwiUing to go.) 
 ;ist Gent, (to Rez.) Behold in sable veil a lady 
 
 comes. 
 Whose noble air doth challenge fancy's skill 
 To suite it with a countenance as goodly. 
 
 (Pointing to Jane De Mon, who now enters iit 
 
 in a thick black veiL) 
 • P,e%, YeSj this way lies attraction. (To Freb.) 
 
 With permission, 
 
 (Going up to Jane.) 
 Fair lady, tho' within that envious shroud 
 Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us. 
 We bid you welcome, and our beauties here 
 Will welcome you the more for such conceal- 
 ment. 
 With the permission of our noble host — ^ 
 
 (Taking her hand^ ajid leading her to the front 
 
 of the stage.) 
 Jane, (to Freb.) Pardon me this presumption^ 
 
 courteous Sir : 
 I thus appear, (pointing to her veiJ^) not careless of 
 
 respect 
 Unto the gen'rous lady of the feast. 
 Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is. 
 That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow* 
 Within the friendly cover of its shade 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY, 333 
 
 I only wish;, unknown, again to see 
 One who, alas ! is heedless of my pain. 
 
 De Mon, Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil. 
 And give thy countenance to the cheerful light. 
 Men now all soft^ and female beauty scorn. 
 And mock the gentle cares which aim to please. 
 It is most damnable ! undo thy veil I 
 And think of him no more, 
 
 Jane. I know it well, even to a proverb grown. 
 Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight : 
 But he, who has, alas ! forsaken me. 
 Was the companion of my early days. 
 My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fcllow. 
 Within our op'ning minds with riper years 
 The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung : 
 Thro' varied life our pride, our joys w^ere one; 
 At the same tale we wept : he is my brother, 
 
 De Mon, And he forsook thee ? — No, I dare not 
 curse him : 
 My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. 
 
 Jane, Ah ! do not thus distress a feeling heart. 
 All sisters are not to the soul entwined 
 With equal bands ; thine has not watch'd for 
 
 thee. 
 Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shared thy weal and 
 
 woe. 
 As I have done for him. 
 
 De Mon. (eagerly,) Ah ! has she not ? 
 By heav'n ! the sum of all thy kindly deeds 
 Were but as chaff poised against the massy gold. 
 Compared to that which I do owe her love- 
 
334 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Oh pardon me ! I mean not to offend-— 
 
 I am too warm — but she of whom I speak- 
 
 Is the dear sister of my earHest love ; 
 
 In noble virtuous worth to none a second : 
 
 And tho' behind those sable folds were hid 
 
 As fair a face as ever woman own'd. 
 
 Still would I say she is as fair as thou. 
 
 How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng, 
 
 I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told 
 
 Her name and lineage! yet within her house. 
 
 The virgin mother of an orphan race 
 
 Her dying parents left, this noble woman 
 
 Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit. 
 
 Despising all the blandishments of love ; 
 
 Whilst many a youth his hopeless love conceard^ 
 
 Or, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. 
 
 Forgive, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting ! 
 
 In faith ! I mean you no discourtesy. 
 
 jfane, (off her guard, in a soft fiatural tone of 
 
 voice.) Oh no ! nor do me any. 
 De Man. What voice speaks now ? Withdraw, 
 withdraw this shade ! 
 For If thy face bear semblance to thy voice, 
 ril fall and worship thee. Pray ! pray undo ! 
 
 (Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch away the 
 veil, whilst she shrinks hack, arid Rezenvelt 
 steps between to prevent him.) 
 Rez. Stand off: no hand shall lift this sacred 
 
 veil. 
 De Mon, What, dost thou think De Monfort 
 fairn so low, 
 
BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 335 
 
 That there may live a man beneath heav'n's roof 
 Who dares to say he shall not ? 
 Rez, He lives who dares to say — 
 jfane. (throwing hack her veil, much alarm" 
 ed, and rushing hetiveen them,) Forbear, 
 forbear ! 
 
 (Kezenvelt, very much struck^ steps hack 
 respectfully, and makes her a low how, 
 De Monfort stands for a while motionless, 
 gazing upon her, till she, looking expressively 
 to him, extends her arms, and he, rushing 
 into them, hursts into tears, Freberg seems 
 very much pleased. The company then gather 
 ahout them^ and the Scene closes.) 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 De Monfort's apartments. Enter De Monfort, 
 with a disordered air, and his hand pressed upon 
 his forehead, followed hy Jane. 
 
 De Mon. No more^ my sister, urge me not 
 again : 
 My secret troubles cannot be reveaPd. 
 From all participation of its thoughts 
 My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. 
 
 Jane. What, must I, like a distant humble 
 
 friend, ^ 
 
 Observe thy resdess eye, and gait disturb 'd. 
 
 In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
 
 I turn aside to weep ? O no ! De Monfort ! 
 
 A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
 
"336 bE MONFORT ! A TEACEDt. 
 
 'fThy true intrusted friend I still shall be, 
 
 De Mo7i, Ahy Jane, forbear I I cannot e^eti td 
 thee. 
 
 Jam, Then fy upon it! fj upon it, Monfort! 
 There was a time when e'en with murder stain'dy 
 Had it been possible that such dire deed 
 GgqM e'er have been the crime of one so piteoUs> 
 Thou would'st have told it me. 
 
 De Mon, So would I now**— but ask of this no 
 morCi 
 All other trouble but the one I feel 
 I had disclosed to thee. I pray thee spare me^ 
 It is the secret weakness of my nature^ 
 
 Jane, Then secret let it be ; I urge no farther. 
 The eldest of our valiant father's hopes. 
 So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood^ 
 Like two young trees, whose boughs iri early 
 
 strength, 
 Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, 
 And brave the storm together — 
 I have so long, as if by nature's right, 
 Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, 
 I thought thro' life I should have so remain'd, 
 Nor ever known a change. Forgi;^e me, Monfort, 
 A humbler station will I take by thee: 
 The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps ; 
 The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought ; 
 The soother of those griefs I must not know^ 
 This is mine office now : I ask no more. 
 
 De Mon. Oh Jane! thou dost constrain mc with 
 thy love.!^ 
 
tJE MOrfPORT : A TRAGEDY. 33? 
 
 Wduld I could tell it thee ! 
 
 Jane, Thou shait not tell me. Nay I'll stop 
 mine ears^ 
 Nor from the yearnltlgs of affection wring 
 What shrinks from uttVance. Let it pass, my 
 
 brother, 
 ril stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee^ comfort thee ; 
 Pursue with thee the study of some art. 
 Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
 To steady thought progressive, driving forth 
 All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies ; 
 Till thou^ with brow unclouded, smilcst again ; 
 Like one who, from dark visions of the night. 
 When th* active soul within its lifeless cell 
 Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy press'd 
 Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed, 
 Wakes to the dawning morn^ and blesses heaven, 
 De Mon. It will not pass away: 'twill haunt me stilL 
 Jane, Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too ; 
 And be to it so close an adversary. 
 That, though I v/restle darkling with the fiend, 
 I shall o'ercome it. 
 
 De Mon. Thou most gen'rous woman ! 
 
 Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — ' 
 And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain i 
 He will not let me be the man I would. 
 
 jfane. What says't thou, Monfort ? Oh ! what 
 words are these ? 
 They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts, 
 I do beseech thee speak ! 
 
 (He shakes his head and turns from her ; sh$ 
 follow ing him.) 
 
 z 
 
338 DE MONFOET : A TRAGEDY^ 
 
 , By the aiFcction thou didst ever bear me. 
 By the dear mcin'ry of onr infant days ; 
 By kindred Hving ties, ay, and by those 
 Who sleep i'the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
 I do conjure thee speak! ' 
 
 (He zvaves her off with his hand, and covers 
 his face "with the other, still turning from 
 her.) 
 
 • Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
 
 {Assuming dignity.) Then, if affection, most un- 
 wearied love, 
 Tried early, long, and never wanting found, 
 O'er gen'rous man hath more authority, 
 More rightful power than crown and sceptre give, 
 I do command thee. 
 
 (He throws himself into a chair greatly agi- 
 tated.) 
 
 Dc Monfort, do not thus resist my love. 
 
 Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 
 
 (Kneeling.) 
 
 Alas ! my brother ! 
 
 (De Monfort starts up, atid catching her iJihis 
 
 arms, raises her up, then flaciJig her in the 
 
 chair, hie els at her feet.) 
 D^ il/{;?^ Thus let him kneel who should the 
 
 abased be, 
 And at thine honoured feet confession make. 
 I'll tell thee all — but oh ! thou wilt despise me. 
 For in my, breast a raging passion burns, 
 To which thy soul no sympathy will own. 
 A passion which hath made my nightly couch 
 A place of torment"; and the light of day, 
 
BE MONFORT : A TilAGEDY. SSQ 
 
 With the gay intercourse of social man, 
 Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. 
 
 Jane ! thou wilt despise me. 
 
 Jane, Say not so : 
 
 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
 A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
 No kindiv heart contemns. 
 
 De Mon. A lover, say'st thou ? 
 
 No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
 Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred 
 
 peace, 
 From social pleasure, from my native home^ 
 To be a sullen wand'reron the earth, 
 Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. 
 
 Jane. De Monfort^ this is fiend-like, frightful^ 
 
 terrible ! 
 What being, by th' Almighty Father form'd, 
 Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. 
 Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake. 
 Who art thyself his fellow ? 
 Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clench'd 
 
 hands : 
 Some sprite accurst within thy bosom mates 
 To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
 Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy breast : 
 'Tis the degraderof a noble heart ; 
 Curse it, and bid it part. 
 
 De Mon. It will not part. (His hand on his 
 
 breast.) 
 
 I've lodged it here too long; 
 
 With my first cares I felt its rankling touch, 
 
 z 2 
 
340 BE MOi^ForvT : a tragedy, 
 
 I loathed him when a boy. 
 
 Jan, Who dld*st thou say ? 
 
 De M.n, Oh ! that detested Rezenvelt! 
 E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
 Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse. 
 Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge. 
 And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd 
 From youth to man's estate, his narrow art. 
 And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd 
 In the affected carelessness of mirth. 
 Still more detestable and odious grew. 
 There is no living being on this earth 
 Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
 With all his gay and damned merriment. 
 To those, by fortune or by merit placed 
 Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune^ 
 He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men. 
 As nightly birds, roused from their murky hole?^ 
 Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
 I could endure it ; even as we bear 
 Th' impotent bite of some half* trodden worm, 
 I could endure it. But wlien honours came. 
 And wealth and new^-got titles fed his pride ; 
 Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth \m 
 
 praise. 
 And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him ; 
 Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it! 
 It drove me frantick. — What ! what would I 
 
 give ! 
 What would I give to crush the bloated toad^ 
 So rankJy do I loathe him 1 
 
DE MONFORT ! A TRAGEDY. 341 
 
 Jane, And would thy hatred crush the very man 
 Who gave to thee that Hfe he might have ta'en ? 
 That life which thou so rashly did'st expose 
 To aim at his ! Oh ! this is horrible ! 
 
 De Mon. Ha I thou hast heard it, then ? From 
 all the world. 
 But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 
 
 Jane, I heard a secret whisper, and resolved 
 Upon the instant to return to thee. 
 Did'st thou receive my letter? 
 
 Pe Mon, I did! I did! 'twas that which drove 
 me hither. 
 I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 
 
 Ja?ie, Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
 I ever left thy house ! these few past months, 
 These absent months, have brought us all this woe. 
 Had I remained with thee it had not been. 
 And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. 
 You dared him to the field ; both bravely fought ; 
 He more adroit disarm'd you ; courteously 
 Return'd the forfeit sword, which, so returned, 
 You did refuse to use against him more ; 
 And then, as says report^ you parted friends. 
 
 De Mon, When he disarm'd this cursed, this 
 Vv'orthless hand. 
 Of its most w^orthless weapon, he but spared 
 From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss 
 In seeing me thus fetter'd, shamed, subjected 
 With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ; 
 Whilst he securely sits w^ith gibing brow 
 And basely bates me, like a muzzled cut 
 
342 DE MONFOUT I A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Who cannot turn again. 
 
 Until that day^ till that accursed day^ 
 I knew not half the torment of this hell. 
 Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightr 
 Dings blast him ! 
 yam. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear! 
 Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head, 
 For this m.ost impious wish. 
 
 DeMon, Then let it light. 
 
 Torments more (qW than I have felt ah*eady 
 It cannot send. To be annihilated. 
 What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be no- 
 thing. 
 Were bl'ss to me, compared to what I am ! 
 
 Jane. Oh ! would'st thou kill me with these 
 
 dreadful words? 
 De Mon. (raising his arms to heaven.) Let me 
 but once upon his ruin look, 
 Then close mine eyes for ever ! 
 
 (Jane in great distress, staggers hack, and 
 supports herself upon the side scene. De 
 Mon. alarm d^ runs up to herzvith a soften d 
 voice.) 
 Ha! how is this? thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale. 
 What have I done to thee ? Alas, alas! 
 I meant not to distress thee. — O my sister! 
 
 Jane, (shaking her dead.) I cannot speak to 
 
 thee. 
 De Mon. I have kill'd thee. 
 Turn, turn thee not away ! look on mc still ! 
 
DE MONFOR.T *. A TRAGEDY. 343 
 
 Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my piide, my 
 
 sister ; 
 Look on me yet again. 
 
 Jane, Thou too, De Monfort, 
 
 In better days, were wont to be my pride. 
 
 De MoTi. I am a wretch, most wretched in 
 myself, 
 And still more wretched in the pain I give. 
 O curse that villain ! that detested villain 1 
 He hath spread misery o'er my fated life : 
 He will undo us all. 
 
 Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled 
 world, 
 And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 
 For then the helpmate of my toil wert thou. 
 But now the wain of life comes darkly on. 
 And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, 
 Blasting thy worth. — I cannot strive with this. 
 
 De Mon. (affect'ionately.) What shall I do ? 
 
 Jane, Call up thy noble spirit^ 
 
 Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue ; 
 And with the strength of heaven-endued man, 
 Repel the hideous foe. Be great ; be valiant. 
 O, if thou could'st! E'en shrouded as thou art 
 In all the sad infirmities of nature. 
 What a most noble creature would'st thou be ! 
 
 De Mon. Ay, if I could: alas! alas! I cannot. 
 
 Jane. Thou can'st, thou may'st, thou wilt. 
 We shall not part till I have turn'd thy soul. 
 
Enter Manuel. 
 
 pe Mon, Ha! some one enters? Wherefore 
 
 com'st thou here ? 
 Man. Count Freberg waits your leisure. 
 De Mon. (angrily,) Be gone, be gone !- — T can- 
 not sec him now. [Exit, Manuel, 
 Jane, Come to my closet; free from all mr 
 trusion, 
 I'll school thee their ; and thou again shall be 
 My wilHng pupil, and my genVous friend^ . 
 The noble Monfort I have loved so long, 
 And must not, will not lose, 
 
 De Mon, Do as thou wilt ; I will not grieve thee 
 more. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 Count Fkeberg's House, Enter the CoyNTES"?, 
 
 foUovjed hy the V age, and speaking as she enters, 
 
 Jjady. Take this and this. (Giving two fachis. J 
 And tell my gende friend, 
 I hope to see her ere the day be done. 
 
 Page, Is there no message for the Lady Jane? 
 Lady. No, foolish boy, that would too far ex- 
 tend 
 Your morning's route, and keep you absent long. 
 
 Page, O no, dear Madam! I'll the swifter run. 
 The summer s light'ning moves not as I'll move. 
 If you will send me to the Lady Jane. 
 
 Lady. No, not so slow, I ween. The spmrpefs 
 light'ning! 
 
©E MONFORT : A TKAGEDY. 34$ 
 
 Thou art a lad of taste and letters grown : 
 Would'st poetry admire, and ape thy master. 
 Go, go; my little spaniels arc unkempt; 
 My cards unwritten, and my china broke: 
 Thou art too learned for a lady's page. 
 Pld I not bid thee call Theresa here ? 
 page. Madam, she comes. 
 
 J^nter Theresa, carrying a rohe over Jier arm. 
 
 Lady, {t-o Ther*) What has employed you all 
 this dreary while ? 
 IVe waited long. 
 - Ther, Madam, the robe is finish'd, 
 
 Lady, Well, Jet me sec it. \ 
 
 (Theresa spreads out the rohe!) 
 {Impatiently to the Page.) Boy, hast thOu ne'er 
 
 a hand to lift that fold ? 
 3ee where it hangs. 
 
 (Page takes the other side of the role^ and 
 spreads it out to its full extent before her^ 
 whilst she sits dois^n and looks at it with 
 putch dissatisfaction!) 
 Ther, Docs not my lady like this easy form ? 
 Lady, That sleeve is all awry, 
 Ther. Your pardpn, Madam ^ 
 
 ^Tis but the empty fold that shades it thus. 
 I took the pattern from a graceful shape ; 
 'yhe Lady Jane De Monfort wears it so. 
 
 Lady, Yes, yes, I see 'tis thus with all of you* 
 "VV hate'er she wears is elegance and grace. 
 
346 "^E INfO^^FOKT : A TEAGEBr. 
 
 Whilst evVy ornament of mine, forsooth, 
 Muist hang like trappings on a May-da)' queen. 
 
 (Angnh lo the Page, wJio is smiling to Kunself.) 
 Youngster^ be gone ! Why do you loiter here ? 
 
 [Exit, Page. 
 TJier, What would you, Madam, chuse to wear 
 to-night ? . 
 One of your newest robes ? 
 
 Lady. I hate them all. 
 
 Thtr, Surely, that purple scarf became you well, 
 - With all those wreaths of richly hanging flowers. 
 Did I not overhear them say, last night. 
 As from the crouded ball-room ladies past. 
 How gay and handsome, in her costly dress, 
 ^The Countess Freberg look'd ? 
 '*. Lady, Did'st thou overhear it ? 
 
 l?her. I did, and more than this. 
 Lady. Well, all are not so greatly prejudiced; 
 All do not think me like a May-day queen, 
 ♦ Which peasants deck in sport. 
 
 Ther, And who said this ? 
 
 Lady, (putting her handkerchief to her eyes.) E'en 
 
 my good lord, Theresa. 
 Ther. Pie said it but in jest. He loves. you well. 
 Lady. I know as well as thee he loves me well ; 
 But what of that ! he takes in me no pride. 
 Elsewhere his praise and admiration go, 
 And Jane Dc Monfort is not mortal woman. 
 
 Ther. The wond'i'ous character this lady bears 
 For worth and excellence : from early youth 
 The friend and mother of her younger sisters^ 
 
DE MONFORT : A THAGEDY. 347 
 
 Now greatly married, as I have been told. 
 
 From her most prudent care, may well excuse 
 
 The admiration of so good a m.an 
 
 As my good master is. And then, dear Madam, 
 
 I must confess, when I mvsen did hear 
 
 How she was come thro' the rough winter's storm. 
 
 To seek and comfort an unhappy brother, . 
 
 My heart beat kindly to her. 
 
 Lady, Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find : 
 But wherefore may she not have come as well 
 Through v/intry storms to seek a lover too ? 
 
 Ther. No, Madam, no, I could not think of this. 
 
 Lady. That would reduce her in your eyes, 
 mayhap, 
 To woman's level — Now I see my vengeance I 
 I'll tell it round that she is hither come, 
 Under pretence of finding out De Monfort, 
 To meet with Rezenvelt. When Freberg hears it 
 'Twill help, I ween, to break this magick charm. 
 
 Ther. And say what is not. Madam ? 
 
 Lady, How can'st thou know that I shall say 
 what is not ? 
 'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth. 
 
 Ther. Ah no ! there is — 
 
 Lady. Well, hold thy foolish tongue. 
 
 Carry that robe into my cham.bcr, do : 
 I'll try it there myself, [Exeunt, 
 
348 »E MOKFORT I A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE L-=^De Monfort discovered sitting hy a 
 table reading, After a little time he lays doTvn his 
 look, and continues in a thoughtful posture. Enter 
 to him Jane De Monfort, 
 
 'Jan.. Thanks, gentle brother.-*-* 
 
 (Pointing to the hook.) 
 Thy willing mind has been right-well employ'd ; 
 Did not thy heart warm at the fair display 
 Of peace and concord and forgiving love? 
 
 X)e Mon, I kno\y resentment may to love be 
 turn'd 
 Tho' keen and lasting., into love as strong : 
 And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguined field 
 Have cast their brandished weapons to the ground. 
 Joining their mailed breasts in close embrace. 
 With gen'rous impulse fired. I know right well 
 The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven 
 Seventy times o'er from blessed heavenly love : 
 Tve heard of things like these : Tve heard and 
 
 wept. 
 But what is this to me ? 
 
 Jane, All, all, my brother ! 
 
 It bids thee too that noble precept learn. 
 To love thine enemy. 
 
 De Mon, Th' uplifted stroke that would a wretch 
 destroy. 
 Gorged with my richest spoil, stain'd with my bloody 
 
DEMONFORTi A TRAGEDY. 349 
 
 I would arrest and cry, " hold ! bold! have mercy." 
 But when the man nnofl adverse to my nature ; 
 Who e*en from childhood hath, with rude male- 
 volence, 
 Withheld the fair respect all paid beside. 
 Turning my very praise into derision ; 
 Who galls and presses me where'er I go. 
 Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my hearty 
 Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud. 
 And cries, '^ it is impossible T' 
 
 Jane, (shaking her head )—hh^ Monfort, Mon* 
 fort ! 
 
 De Mon, I can forgive th' envenom'd reptile's 
 sting, . 
 
 But hate his loathsome self. 
 
 Jane, And canst thou do no more for love of 
 heaven ! 
 
 De Mon. Alas ! I cannot now so school mv 
 mind 
 As holy men have taught, nor search it truly : 
 But this, my Jane, I'll do for love of thee ; 
 And more it is than crowns could win me to. 
 Or any power but thine. I'll see the man. 
 Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature ; 
 The stern contraction of my scowling brows, 
 That, like the plant, whose closing leaves do shrink 
 At hostile touch, still knit at his approach ; 
 The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught. 
 In imitation of disgustful things, 
 To pout and swell, I strictly will repress ; 
 And meet him with a tamed countenance. 
 
350 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 E'en as a townsman^ who would live at peace^ 
 And pay him the respect his station claims. 
 I'll crave his pardon too for all offence 
 My dark and wayward temper may have done. 
 Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor 
 For the forbearance I have cursed so oft : 
 Life spared by him, more horrid than the grave 
 With all its dark corruption ! This I'll do. 
 Will it suffice thee ? More than this I cannot. 
 Ja7ie. No more than this do I require of thee 
 In outward act, tho' in thy heart, my friend, 
 I hoped abetter change, and still will hope. 
 I told thee Freberg had proposed a meeting. 
 DeMon, I know it well. 
 
 Jane, And Rezenvclt consents. 
 
 He meets you here ; so far he shews respect. 
 De Mon. Well, let it be ; the sooner past the 
 
 better. 
 Jajie. I'm glad to hear you say so, for, in truths 
 He has proposed for it an early hour. 
 'Tis almost near his time; I came to tell you. 
 DeMon. What, comes he here so soon ? shame 
 on his speed ! 
 It is not decent thus to rush upon me. 
 He loves the secret pleasure he will feel 
 To see me thus subdued. 
 
 Jane. O say not so ! he comes with heart sincere. 
 De Mon. Could we not meet elsewhere ? from 
 home — i' the fields. 
 Where other men — must I alone receive him ? 
 Where is your agent^ Freberg, and his friends. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 351! 
 
 That I must meet him here ? 
 
 {Walks up and down very much disfurhed.) 
 Now did'st thou say ? — how goes the hour ? — e'en' 
 
 now ! 
 
 I would some other friend were first arrived. 
 Jane. See^ to thy wish come Freberg and his 
 
 dame. 
 De Mon. His lady too ! why comes he not 
 alone ? 
 Must all the world stare upon our meeting ? 
 
 Enter Count Freberg and his Countess. 
 Freh. A happy morrow to my noble marquis 
 And his most noble sister ! 
 
 Jane, Gen'rous Frcbcrg, 
 
 Your facCj mcthinks^ forbodes a happy mora 
 Open and cheerful. Wiiat of Rezenvelt ? 
 
 Freh. I left hin at his home^ prepared to follow: 
 He'll soon appear. {To De Monfort.j And now, 
 
 my worthy friend^ 
 Give me your hand; this happy change delights 
 me. 
 (De Mon fort gives him his hand coldly^ and 
 they walk to the bottom of the stage together, 
 in earnest discourse^ ^whilst Jane and the 
 Countess remain m the front. ^ 
 Lady. My dearest Madam, vvill you pardon me ? 
 I know Count Frebcrg's bus'ness withDeMonfort, 
 And had a strong desire to visit you, 
 So much I wish the honour of your friendship; 
 
 For he retains no secret from mine ear. 
 
 5 
 
352 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY^ 
 
 '^ane, (archly,) Knowing your prudence-^Yotl 
 
 are welcome. Madam, 
 So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be. 
 
 (De Monfort and Freberg reliirning towarcis 
 
 the front of the stage, still engaged in 
 
 discourse*) 
 Freh, He is indeed a ftian, within whose breast 
 Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat, 
 Tho' unadorned with that dignity 
 Which were their fittest garb. Now, on my life 1 
 I know no truer heart than Rezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon, Well, Freberg, well, there needs not 
 
 all this pains 
 To garnish out his worth ; let it suffice, 
 I am resolved I will respect the man. 
 As his fair station and repute demand. 
 Methinks I see not at your jolly feasts 
 The youthful knight, who sung so pleasantly. 
 Freh, A pleasant circumstance detains him 
 
 hence ; 
 Pleasant to those who love high gen'rous deeds 
 Above the middle pitch of common minds ; 
 And, tho' I have been sworn to secrecy. 
 Yet must I tell it thee. 
 This knight is near a kin to Rezenvelt, 
 To whom an old relation, short while dead, 
 A good estate bequeathed, some leagues distant, 
 ,$iv\t Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store, 
 Disdain'd the sordid love of further jrain. 
 And gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd 
 To this young man, blood of the same degree 
 
 7 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 353 
 
 To the deceased^ and low in fortune's gifts, 
 Who is from hence to take possession ofit^ 
 Was it not nobly done ? 
 
 De Mon. 'Twas right and honourable. 
 
 This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy: 
 There hangs a foggy closeness in the air ; 
 Dost thou not feel it ? 
 
 Freh. O no ! to think upon a gen'rous deed 
 Expands my soul^ and makes me lightly breathe. 
 
 De Mon. \¥ho gives the feast to-night ? His 
 name escapes me* 
 You say I am invited. 
 
 Freb, Old Count Waterlan. 
 
 In honour of your townsman's generous gift 
 He spreads the board. 
 
 De Mon, He is too old to revel with the gay. 
 
 Freh. But not too old is he to honour virtue. 
 I shall partake of it with open soul ; 
 For, on my honest faith, of living men 
 I know not one, for talents, honour, worth, 
 That I should rank superiour toRezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon. How virtuous he hath been in three 
 short days ! 
 
 Freh, Nay, longer, Marquis, but my friendship 
 rests 
 Upon the good report of other men; 
 And that has told me much. 
 
 (De Monfort aside ^ going some steps hastily 
 from Freberg, and rending his cloak with 
 agitatmi as he goes.) 
 Would he were come ! by heaven I would he were! 
 
 A A 
 
354 DE MONPORT: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 This fool besets me so. ^ 
 
 (Suddenly correcting himself, and joining the 
 
 Ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the 
 
 stage, he speaks to Countess Freberg with 
 
 affected cheerfulness.) 
 
 The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times. 
 
 Untarnished with the vigils of the night. 
 
 Lady. Praise us not rashly^ 'tis not always so. 
 
 De Mon, He does not rashly praise who praises 
 
 you; 
 
 For he were dull indeed-— 
 
 (Stopping shorty as if he heard something.) 
 
 Lady, - How dull indeed ? 
 
 De Mon. I should have said — It has escaped me 
 
 now-*— 
 
 (Listening again, as if he heard something,) 
 
 Jane (to De Mon.) What, hear you ought ? 
 
 De Mon, (hastily,) 'Tis nothing. 
 
 Lady (to De Mon.) Nay, do not let me lose it 
 
 so, my Lord. 
 
 Some fair one has bewitch'd your memory. 
 
 And robs me of the half-form'd compliment. 
 
 Jane, Half-utter'd praise is to the carious mind 
 
 As to the eye half-veiled beauty is, 
 
 More precious than the w^hole. Pray pardon him. 
 
 Some one approaches. (Listening.) 
 
 Freh, No, no, it is a servant who ascends ; 
 
 He will not come so soon. 
 
 De Mon, (off his guard.) 'Tis Rezenvelt : I 
 
 heard his well-known foot ! 
 
 From the first stair- case, mounting step by step. 
 
 6 
 
DE monport: a tragedy. 355 
 
 Freh, How quick an ear thou hast for distant 
 sound ! 
 I heard him not* 
 
 (De Monfort looks embarrassed, and is silent.) 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt. 
 
 (De Monfort, recovering himself^ goes up to 
 
 receive Rezenvelt, who meets him with a 
 
 cheerful countenance^ 
 
 De Man, (to Rez.) I am^ my Lord, beholden to 
 
 you greatly. 
 
 This ready visit makes me much your debtor. 
 
 Re%, Then may such debts between us, noble 
 
 Marquis, 
 
 Be oft incurred, and often paid again ! 
 
 (To Jane.) Madam, I am devoted to your service, 
 
 And ev'ry wish of your's commands my will. 
 
 (T(9 Countess.) Lady, good morning. (Ta Freb. 
 
 Well, my gentle friend, 
 
 You see I have not lingered long behind. 
 
 Freh. No, thou art sooner than I look*d for 
 
 thee. 
 Rez. A willing heart adds feather to the heel, 
 
 And makes the clown a winged Mercury. 
 
 De Mon, Then let me say, that with a grateful 
 mind 
 I do receive these tokens of good will ; 
 And must regret, that, in my wayward moods, 
 I have too oft forgot the due regard 
 Your rank and talents claim. 
 
 Rez, No, no, De Monfort, 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit, 
 Which makes me too neglectful of respect. 
 Let us be friends, and think of this no more. 
 
 Freh, Av, let it rest with the departed shades 
 Of things which are no more ; whilst lovely concord. 
 Followed by friendship sweet, and firm esteem. 
 Your future days enrich. O heavenly friendship! 
 Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men, 
 By thee conjoin 'd, to great and glorious deeds; 
 As two dark clouds, when mix'd in middle air. 
 The vivid lightning's flash, and roar sublime. 
 Talk not of what is past, but future love. 
 
 De Mon. {with dignity.) No, Freberg, no, it 
 
 must not. {To Rezenvelt.) No, my Lord, 
 I will not offer you an hand of concord. 
 And poorly hide the motives which constrain mc. 
 I would that, not alone, these present friends. 
 But ev'ry soul in Amberg, were assembled. 
 That I, before them all, might here declare 
 I owe my spared life to your forbearance. 
 {Holding out his hand.) Take this from one who 
 
 boasts no feeling warmth. 
 But never will deceive. 
 
 (Jane sjniles upon De Monfort zvith great 
 
 approbation, and Rezenvelt rims up to him 
 
 with open arms.) 
 Rez. Away with hands ! FIl have thee to my 
 
 breast. 
 Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit ! 
 
 De Mon. {shrinking hack from him.) Nay, if you 
 
 please, I am not so prepared — 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 357 
 
 My nature is of tempVature too cold — 
 
 I pray you pardon me, (Jane's countenance changes.) 
 
 But take this hand, the token of respect ; 
 
 The token of a will inclined to concord ; 
 
 The token of a mind that bears within 
 
 A sense impressive of the debt it owes you ; 
 
 And cursed be its power, unnerved its strength. 
 
 If e'er again it shall be lifted up 
 
 To do you any harm ! 
 
 Rez, Well, be it so, De Monfort, Fm contented; 
 ril take thy hand since I can have no more. 
 (Carelessly.) I take of worthy men whatever they 
 
 give. 
 Their heart I gladly take ; if not, their hand : 
 If that too is withheld, a courteous word. 
 Or the civility of placid looks ; 
 And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd, 
 'Faith, I can set me dow^n contentedly 
 With plain and homely greeting, or, ^^ God 
 
 save ye!" 
 De Mon. (aside, siari'mg aivay fro7n hhn some 
 
 paces.) 
 By the good light, he makes a jest of it ! 
 
 (Jane seems greatly distressed, and Freberg 
 endeavours to cheer her.) 
 Freb. (to Jane.) Cheer up, my noble friend ; aU 
 
 will go well ; 
 For friendship is no plant of hasty growth. 
 Tho' planted in esteem's deep-fixed soil, 
 The gradual culture of kind intercourse 
 Must bring it to perfection, 
 
358 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (To the Countess.) My love, the morning, now, is 
 
 far advanced ; 
 Our friends elsewhere expect us; take your leave. 
 Lady, (to Jane.) Farewell! dear Madam, till 
 
 the ev'ning hour. 
 Freh. (to De Mon.) Good day, De Monfort. (To 
 
 Jane.) Most devoutly yours. 
 Rez, (to Freb.) Go not too fast, for I will follow 
 you. 
 
 [Exeunt Freberg and his Lady. 
 (To Jane.) The Lady Jane is yet a stranger here : 
 She might, perhaps, in the purlieus of Amberg 
 Fine somewhat worth her notice. 
 
 Jane, I thank you. Marquis, lam much engaged; 
 I go not out to-day* 
 
 Re%, Then fare ye well ! I see I cannot now 
 Be the proud man who shall escort you forth. 
 And shew to all the world my proudest boast. 
 The notice and respect of Jane De Monfort. 
 De Mon, (aside impatiently,) He says farewell, 
 
 and goes not ! 
 Jane (to Rez.) You do me honour. 
 
 Rez, Madam, adieu ! (To Jane.) Good morn- 
 ing, noble Marquis. [Exit. 
 (Jane and De Monfort looli expressively to one 
 another^ without speaking, and then Exeunt, 
 severally,) 
 
DE MOXPORT : A TRAGEDY. SoQ 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A splendid Banquet Room, De Monfort, Re- 
 
 ZENVELT, FrEBERG;, MaSTER OF THE HoUSE, 
 
 and Guests, are discovered sitting at tahle, 
 with wine^ ^c, before them, 
 
 SONG.— A Glee. 
 
 Pleasant is the mantling bowl. 
 And the song of merry soul ; 
 And the red lamps cheery light, 
 And the goblet glancing bright; 
 Whilst many a cheerful face, around. 
 Listens to the jovial sound. 
 Social spirits, join with me ; 
 Bless the God of jollity. 
 
 Freh, (to De Mon. who rises to go away,) Thou 
 
 wilt not leave us, Monfort? wherefore so ? 
 
 De Mon, (aside to Freberg.) I pray thee take 
 
 no notice of me now. 
 
 Mine ears are stunned with these noisy fools ; 
 
 Let me escape. [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Master of the House, What, is De Monfort 
 
 gone ? 
 Freh, Time presses him. 
 
 Rez. It seem'd to sit right heavily upon him, 
 We must confess 
 
 Master (to Freb.J How is your friend ? he wears 
 a noble mien. 
 But most averse, methinks, from social pleasure. 
 Is this his nature ? 
 
360 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Freh. No, I've seen him cheerful, 
 
 And at the board, with soul-enliven'd face, 
 Push the gay goblet round. — But it wears late. 
 We shall seem topers more than social friends, • 
 If the returning sun surprise us here. 
 (To Mast.) Good rest, my gen'rous host ; we will 
 
 retire. 
 You wrestle with your age most manfully. 
 But brave it not too far. Retire to sleep. 
 
 Mast, I will, my friend, but do you still remaja 
 With noble Rezcnvelt, and all my guests. 
 Ye have not fourscore years upon your head ; 
 Do not depart so soon. God save you all ! 
 
 [Exit Master, leaning upon a Servant. 
 
 Freh, (to the Guests.) Shall we resume ? 
 
 Guests, . The night is too far spent, 
 
 Freh. Well then, good rest to you. 
 
 Rez, (to guests.) Good rest, my friends. 
 
 Exeunt all hut Freberg and Rezenvejt. 
 
 Freh. Alas! my Rezenvelt ! 
 I vainly hoped the hand of gentle peace. 
 From this day's reconciliation sprung, 
 These rude unseemly jarrings had subdued : 
 But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board. 
 Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold 
 
 things. 
 Too plainly told, 'twixtyou and Monfort pass, 
 That I must now despair. 
 
 Yet who could think, two minds so much refined. 
 So near in excellence, should be removed, 
 go far removed, in gen'rous sympathy ? 
 
DE MONFOKT ! A TRAGEDY, S6l 
 
 Rez. Ay, far removed indeed ! 
 
 Freh. And yet, methought, he made a noble 
 effort, 
 And with a manly plainness bravely told 
 The galling debt he owes to your forbearance. 
 
 Rez. 'Faith ! so he did ; and so did I receive It : 
 When, with spread arms, and heart c*en moved to 
 
 tc.ar,s, 
 I frankly profFer'd him a friend's embrace : 
 And, I declare, had he as such received it, 
 I from that very moment had forborne 
 All opposition, pride-provoking jest, 
 Contemning carelessness, and iiil offence; 
 And had caress'd him as a worthy heart. 
 From native weakness such indulgence claiming. 
 But since he proudly thinks that cold respect, 
 The formal tokens of his lordly favour 
 So precious are, that I would sue for them 
 As fair distinction in the publick eye, 
 Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all ; 
 And but that I do bear that noble won:ian. 
 His worthy, his incomparable sister, 
 Such fix'd profound regard, I would expose him ; 
 And as a mighty bull, in senseless rage. 
 Roused at the baiter's will, with wretched rags 
 Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows, 
 I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit. 
 With all his deep and manly faculties. 
 The scorn and laugh of fools. 
 
 Freb. F'or heaven's sake, my friend ! restrain 
 your wrath ; 
 
362 BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 For what has Monfort done of wrong to you. 
 Or you to him^ bating one foolish quarrel. 
 Which you confess from slight occasion rose, 
 •That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells. 
 So iix'd, so hopeless ? 
 
 Rez, O 1 from our youth he has distinguished 
 me 
 With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust. 
 For e'en in boyish sports I still opposed 
 His proud pretensions to pre-eminence ; 
 Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give 
 That fulsome adulation of applause 
 A senseless croud bestow'd. Tho' poor in fortune, 
 I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth : 
 But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd 
 E.iches and splendour equal to his own, 
 Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction. 
 Feeling inclined to be at peace with him, 
 And with all men besides, I curb'd my spirit. 
 And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful 
 
 rage, 
 From small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me. 
 And dared mc to the field. The rest you know. 
 In short, I still have been th' opposing rock, 
 O'er w4iich the stream of his o'erflowing pride 
 Hath foam'd and fretted. See'st thou how it is ? 
 
 Freh. Too well I see, and warn thee to beware. 
 Such streams have oft, by swelling floods sur- 
 charged. 
 Borne down with sudden and impetuous force 
 The yet unshaken stone of opposition. 
 
DE MONPORT : A TRAGEDY. 363 
 
 Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course. 
 I pray thee, friend, beware. 
 
 Rez, Thou canst not mean — he will not mur- 
 der me ? 
 
 Freh. What a proud heart, with such dark 
 passion toss'd. 
 May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive, 
 I will not dare to say. 
 
 Rez, Ha, ha ! thou knows't him not. 
 
 Full often have I mark'd it in his youth, 
 And could have almost loved him for the weak- 
 ness : 
 He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature. 
 To all infliction of corporeal pain, 
 To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood, 
 He cannot if he would. 
 
 Freh. Then (y upon thee ! 
 
 It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus. 
 But let us part ; we'll talk of this again. 
 Something approaches. — We are here too long. 
 
 Rez. Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your 
 call. 
 Here lies my way. Good night, [Exit. 
 
 Enter Grimbald. 
 
 Grim, Forgive, I pray, my Lord, a stranger's 
 boldness. 
 I have presumed to wait your leisure here, 
 Though at so late an hour. 
 
 Freh. But who art thou ? 
 
 Grhii, My name is Grlmbald, Sir, 
 
364 , DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 A humble suitor to your honour's goodness, 
 Who is the more emboldened to presume. 
 In that the Noble Marquis of De Monfort 
 Is so much famed for good and gcnVous deeds. 
 
 Freh. You are mistaken, I am not the man. 
 
 Grim. Then, pardon me ; I thought I could 
 not err. 
 That mien so dignified, that piercing eye 
 Assured me it was he. 
 
 Freh. My name is not De Monfort, courteous 
 stranger; 
 But, if you have a favour to request, 
 I ma}^, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit. 
 
 Grim. I thank your honour, but I have a friend 
 Who will commend me to DeMonfort's favour : 
 The Marquis Rczenvelt has known me long. 
 Who, says report, will soon become his brother. 
 
 Freh. If thou would'st seek thy ruin from Dc 
 Monfort, 
 The name of Kezenvelt employ, and prosper^ 
 But, if ought good, use any name but his. 
 
 Grim. How may this be ? 
 
 Freh, I cannot now explain, 
 
 Early to-morrow call upon Count Frcberg; 
 So am I call'd, each burgher knows my house. 
 And there instruct me how to do you service. 
 Good-night. [Exit. 
 
 Grim, (alone.) Well^ this mistake may be of 
 service to me : 
 A.nd yet my bus'ness I will not unfold 
 To this milrl^ ready, promise-making courtier ; 
 
 7 
 
 
DE MOKt'ORT: A TRAGEDY. 365 
 
 I've been bv such too oft deceived alreadv. 
 But if such violent ennnity exists 
 Between Dc Monfort and this Rezerivelt, 
 He'll prove my advocate by opposition. 
 For if De Monfort would reject my suit^ 
 Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems, 
 Being the man he hatCvS^ a cord as strongs 
 . Will he not favour me ? Til think of this. 
 
 [Exit* 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A h'ucer Apartment In Jerome's House, ivlth a 
 iv'ide folding glass door, looking into a garden, 
 where the trees and shrubs are hrown and leafless. 
 Enter De Monfort zvith his arms crossed, 
 with a thoughtful frowning aspect, and faces 
 slowly across the stage j J ewn\Q follow i?ig behind 
 him, with a timid step, De Monfort hearing 
 him, turns suddenly about. 
 
 De Mon, (angrily,) Who follows me to this 
 
 sequester'd room ? 
 Jer. I have presumed, my Lord. 'Tis somewhat 
 late: 
 I am inform'd you eat at home to-night; 
 Here is a lift of all the dainty fare 
 My busy search has found ; please to peruse It. 
 De Mon, Leave me: begone! Put hemlock in 
 thy soup, 
 Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore. 
 And I will mess upon it. 
 
366 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jer. Heaven forbid I 
 
 Your honour's life is all too precious, sure — 
 
 De Mon. (sternly.) did I not say begone ? 
 
 Jer, Pardon, my Lord, I'm old, and oft forget. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 t>d Mon, (looking after Jilnty as if his heart 
 smote him.) Why will they thus mistime 
 their foolish zeal, 
 That I must be so stern ? 
 O ! that I were upon some desert coast ! 
 Where howling tempests and the lashing tide 
 Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet ; 
 As the storm-beaten traveller droops his head, 
 In heavy, dull, lethargick weariness, 
 And, midst the roar of jarring elements. 
 Sleeps to awake no more. 
 What am I grown ? All things are hateful to me. 
 
 Enter Manuel. 
 (Stamping with his foot.) Who bids thee break 
 
 upon my privacy ? 
 Man. Nay, good, my Lord ! I heard you speak 
 aloud, 
 And dreamt not, surely, that you were alone. 
 De Mon, What, dost thou watch, and pin 
 thine ears to holes, 
 To catch those exclamations of the soul, 
 Which heaven alone should hear 1 Who hired 
 
 thee, pray ? 
 Who basely hired thee for a task like this ? 
 
 Man. My Lord; I cannot hold. For fifteen years. 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 367 
 
 Long-troubled years, I have your servant been. 
 Nor hath the proudest Lord in all the realm. 
 With firmer, with more honourable faith 
 His sov'reign served, then I have served you ; 
 But if my honesty is doubted now. 
 Let him who is more faithful take my place. 
 And serve you better. 
 
 De Mon. Well, be it as thou wilt. Away with 
 thee 1 
 Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me 
 To judge thy merit by. 
 
 Enter Jerome hastily, and pulls Manuel aivay, 
 Jer, Come, Manuel, come away ; thou art not 
 wise. 
 The stranger must depart and come again. 
 For now his honour will not be disturbed. 
 
 [Exit Manuel sulkily, 
 DeMon. A stranger said'st thou ? 
 
 (^Drops his hankerchief.) 
 Jei\ I did, good Sir, but he shall go away ; 
 You shall not be disturbed. 
 
 {^Stoopirig to lift the handkerhief.) 
 You have dropp'd somewhat. 
 DeMon, {preventi?7g him.) Nay, do not stoop, my 
 friend! I pray thee not! 
 Thou art too old to stoop. — 
 I am much indebted to thee. — Take this rinp* — 
 
 o 
 
 1 love thee better than I seem to do. 
 
 I pray thee do it— -thank me not. — ^What stranger? 
 
 Jan, A man who does most earnestly in treat 
 To see your honour, but I know him not. 
 
368 DE MONFORT ! A TKAGEDY, 
 
 De Moiii Then let him enter. [Exit Jerome. 
 
 A pause. Enter Grim bald. 
 
 De Mo7i. You are the stranger who would speak 
 with me ? 
 
 Grim, I am so far unfortunate, my Lord, 
 That, though my fortune on your ^vour hangs, 
 I am to you a stranger. 
 
 De Mon. How may this be? What can I do for 
 you ? 
 
 Grim. Since thus your Lordship does so frankly 
 ask. 
 The tiresome preface of apology 
 I will forbear, and tell my tale at once.— 
 In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth, 
 A careful penman in another's office ; 
 And now, my master and employer dead. 
 They seek to set a stripling o'er my head, 
 And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age. 
 Because I have no friend to take my part. 
 It is an office in your native town. 
 For I am come from thence, and I am told 
 You can procure it for me. Thus, my Lord, 
 From the repute of goodness which you bear, 
 I have presumed to beg. 
 
 De Mon. They have befool'd thee with a false 
 report. 
 
 Grim, Alas ! I see it is in vain to plead. 
 Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch. 
 Who has unfortunately for his weal. 
 Offended the revengeful Kezcnvclt. 
 
BE MONFORT: a TRAGEDYb 869 
 
 De Mon. What dost thou say? 
 
 Grim, What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid* 
 Who will believe my wrongs if I complain ? 
 I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe^ 
 Who will believe my wrongs ? 
 
 De Mon, (eagerly cakhlng him hy the coat.) 
 
 I will believe them ! 
 Though they were base as basest, vilest deedsj 
 In ancient record told, I would believe them! 
 Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness 
 That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. 
 Speak boldly, tell it all; for by the light! 
 I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend. 
 If he has done thee wrong. 
 
 Grim. Nay, pardon me, it were not well 
 advised. 
 If I should speak so freely of the man. 
 Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be. 
 
 De Mon, What canst thou mean by this ? 
 
 Grim, That Marquis Rezenvelt 
 
 Has pledged his faith unto your noble sister. 
 And soon will be the husband of her choice. 
 So I am told, and so the world believes. 
 
 De Mon, 'Tis false ! 'tis basely false I 
 What wretch could drop frOm his envenomed 
 
 tongue 
 A tale SO damn'd ? — It chokes my breath — 
 (Sta77iping with his foot.) What wfetch did tell 
 it thee? 
 
 Grim. Nay, every one with whom I have con- 
 versed 
 
 B B 
 
370 I>E MONPORT: a TKAGEDr. 
 
 Has held the same discourse. I judge it noto 
 But you, my Lord, who with the lady dwell. 
 You best can tell what her deportment speaks ; 
 Whether her conduct and unguarded words 
 Belie such rumour. 
 
 (De Monfort pauses, staggers backwards, and 
 sinks into a chair ; then startmg up hastily^ 
 De Mon, Where am I now? 'midst all the 
 cursed thoucrhts 
 That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd. 
 This never came before — — Oh, if it be! 
 The thought will drive me mad. — ^Was it for this 
 She urged her warm request on bended knee? . 
 Alas ! I wept, and thought of sister's love. 
 No damned love like this. 
 Fell devil ! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid 
 To work such sorcery ! (^Pauses.) I'll not believe it, 
 I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun 
 For such foul charge as this! Who waits without ? 
 (Paces up and down, furiously agitated^ 
 Grim, (aside.) What have I done ? I've carried 
 ' this too far. 
 I've roused a fierce ungovernable madman. 
 
 Eiiter Jerome. 
 
 Di Mon. (iri a hud angry voice.) Where did 
 she go, at such an early hour. 
 And with such slight attendance? 
 
 Jer. Of whom inquires your honour ? 
 
 5 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 371 
 
 De Mon, Why, of your lady. Said I not my 
 
 sister? 
 
 yer. The Lady Jane, your sister ? 
 
 De Mon. (in a faulter'mg voice.) Yes, I did call 
 
 her so. 
 Je7\ In truth, I cannot tell you where she went. 
 
 E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard-by, 
 
 I saw her through the garden -gate return. 
 
 The Marquis liezenvelt, and Freberg's Countess, 
 
 Are in her company. This way they come. 
 
 As being nearer to the back apartments; 
 
 But I shall stop them if it be your will. 
 
 And bid them enter here. 
 
 DeMon, No, stop them not. Iwill remain unseen. 
 
 And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little. 
 (Grimbald seems alarmed^ and steals off un- 
 noticed, De Monfort grasps Jerome 
 tightly hy the hand, and drawing hack with 
 him two or three steps, not to he seen from 
 the garden, waits In silence, with his eyes 
 fixed on the glass door.) 
 De Mon, I hear their footsteps on the grating 
 sand. 
 
 How like the croaking of a carrion bird. 
 
 That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear ! 
 
 And now she speaks — her voice sounds cheerly 
 too — 
 
 Cursed be their mirth !-— 
 
 Now, now, they come, keep closer still! keep 
 steady ! 
 
 (Tahing hold of Jerome with loth hands,) 
 BB2 
 
37 2 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 yer» My lord, you tremble much. . 
 
 De Mon, What, do I shake ? 
 
 yer. You do. In truth, and your teeth chatter 
 
 too. 
 De Mon, See ! see they come ! he strutting by 
 her side. 
 (Jane, Rezenvelt, a?id Countess Freberg aj)- 
 pear through the glass-door^ pursuing their 
 way up a short walk leading to the other 
 wing of the house.) 
 See, his audacious face he turns to her's ; 
 Utt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest. 
 And she endures it too — Oh ! this looks vilely ! 
 Ha ! mark that courteous motion of his arm — 
 What does he mean ? — he dares not take her 
 hand 1 
 (Pauses and looks eagerly.) By heaven and hell 
 he does ! 
 (Lettt7ig go his hold of Jerome, he throws out 
 his hands vehemently ^and thereby pushes him 
 against the scene,) 
 Jer, Oh 1 I am stunn'd ! my head is crack'd in 
 twain : 
 You honour does forget how old I am. 
 
 De Mon, Well, well, the w^all is harder than I 
 wist. 
 Begone, and whine within. 
 
 [Exit Jerome, with a sad rueful countenance. 
 (De Mon fort comes forward to the front of 
 the stage J and makes a long pause, expressive 
 of great agony of mind,) 
 
 7 
 
BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 373 
 
 It must be so ; each passing circumstance ; 
 
 Her hasty journey here ; her keen distress 
 
 Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I expressed; 
 
 Ay, and that damned reconciliation, 
 
 With tears extorted from me : Oh, too well ! 
 
 All, all too well bespeak the shameful tale. 
 
 I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoined. 
 
 The morning star mix'd with infernal fire. 
 
 Ere I had thought of this — 
 
 Hell's blackest magick, in the midnight hour. 
 
 With horrid spells and incantation dire^ 
 
 Such combination opposite, unseemly, 
 
 Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base,~ 
 
 Did ne'er produced. — But every thing is possible^ 
 
 So as it may my misery enhance ! 
 
 Oh ! I did love her with such pride of soul! 
 
 When other men, in gay pursuit of love, 
 
 Each beauty follow 'd, by her side I stay'd ; 
 
 Far prouder of a brother's station there. 
 
 Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast. 
 
 We quarrel'd once, and then I could no more 
 
 The alter'd coldness of her eye endure, 
 
 I slipped o'tip-toe to her chamber door ; 
 
 And when she ask'd who gently knocked — Oh ! oh! 
 
 Who could have thouo;ht of this ? 
 
 (Throws himself into a chair ^ covers his face 
 iJcilh his hand, ayid hursts into tears. After 
 sometime he starts up from his seat furiously.) 
 Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain ! 
 Detested cf my soul ! I will have vengeance ! 
 
374 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I'll crush thy swelling pride — I'll still thy vaunt- 
 
 ^ ing— 
 I'll do a deed of blood ! — Why shrink I thus ? 
 Ify by some spell or magick sympathy. 
 Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall 
 Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it. 
 
 (Throwing a dagger a gams t the wall,) 
 Shall groans and blood affright me? No, I'll do it. 
 Tho' gasping life beneath my pressure heaved. 
 And my soul shudderM at the horrid brink, 
 I would not flinch.- — Fy, this recoiling nature! 
 O that his sever'd limbs were strew*d in air. 
 So as I saw it not ! 
 
 (Enter Rezenvelt hehmd, from the glass-door, 
 De Monfort turns rounds and on seeing hint 
 starts hack, then drawing his sword^ rushes 
 furiously upon him.) 
 Detested robber 1 now all forms are over ; 
 Now open villany, now open hate! 
 Defend thy life ! 
 
 Rez, De Monfort thou art mad. 
 
 De Man. Speak not, but draw. Now for thy 
 hated life! 
 (They fight : Rezenvelt^^rr/Vj- his thrusts wiih 
 great skilly atid at last disarms him.) 
 Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee. 
 Rez, No, Monfort, but I'll take away your 
 sword. 
 Not as a mark of disrespect to you. 
 But for your safety. By to-morrow's eve 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 375 
 
 ril call on you myself and give it back; 
 And then, if I ann charged with any wrong, 
 Fil justify myself. Farewell, strange man 1 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 (De Men fort stands for some time qu'ile motion- 
 less, like one stupjied. Enter to him a 
 Servant : he starts.) 
 
 De Mon, Ha ! who art thou ? 
 
 Ser. 'Tis I, an' please you honour. 
 
 De Mon, (starmg wildly at him.) Who art thou ? 
 
 Ser, Your servant Jacques. 
 
 De Mon, Indeed I knew thee not. 
 
 Leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone. 
 Return and let me know. 
 
 Ser, Fle's gone already. 
 
 De Mon, How ! gone so soon ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, as his servant told me, 
 
 He was in haste to go, for night comes on. 
 And at the ev'ning hour he must take horse, 
 To visit some old friend whose lonely mansion 
 Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood ; 
 And, as he loves to wander through those wilds_, 
 Whilst yet the early moon may light his way. 
 He sends his horses round the usual road. 
 And crosses it alone. 
 
 I would not walk thro' those wild dens alone 
 For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard, 
 Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream ; 
 And things unearthly, stalking thro' the night. 
 Have scared the lonely trav'ller from his wits. 
 
 (I)QM.on(ovt stands fxed in thoughts 
 
Bf6 DE MOXFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I've ta'en your mare, an please you, from her field^ 
 And wait your farther orders. 
 
 (De Monfort heeds him not.) 
 Her hoofs are sound, and where the saddle gall'd 
 Begins to mend. What further must be done ? 
 
 (De Monfort still heeds him not,) 
 His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay ? 
 I)e Mon. (eagerly, as he is going. J He goes alone, 
 
 saidst thou ? 
 Ser. His servant told me so. 
 De Mon. And at what hour ? 
 
 Ser. He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve. 
 Save you, my Lord ! how changed your count'* 
 
 nance is ! 
 Are you not well ? ' 
 
 De Mon. Yes, I am well • begone. 
 
 And wait my orders by the city wall : 
 ril that way bend, and speak to thee again, 
 
 [Exit, Servant^ 
 
 (De Monfort ivalls rapidly iv:o or thee iimts 
 
 across the stage \ then seizes his dagger from 
 
 the wall ; locks steadjastly at its point ^ at;d 
 
 Exit, hastily.) 
 
DE monfort: a tkagedt. 377 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Moon-light. A wild path in a woody 
 shaded with trees. Enter De Monfort, with 
 a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, 
 upon his face ^ loohing behind him, and bending his 
 ear to the ground, as if he listened to something, 
 
 De Mon. How hollow groans the earth beneath 
 my tread ! 
 Is there an echo here ? Methinks it sounds 
 As tho' some heavy footstep followed rne. 
 I will advance no farther, 
 Deep settled shadows rest across the path, 
 And thickly-tangled boughs o'er-hang this spot. 
 O that a tenfold gloom did cover it ! 
 That 'midst the murky daikness I might strike; 
 As in the wild confusion of a dream, 
 Things horrid, bloody, terrible, do pass. 
 As tho' they pass'd not ; nor impress the mind 
 With the fix'd clearness of reality. 
 
 {An owl is heard screaming near him,) 
 
 (Starting.) What sound is that ? 
 
 {Listens and the owl cries again^ 
 
 It is the screech-owl's cry. 
 
 Foul bird of night! wr.at spirit guides thee here ? 
 
 Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horrour ? 
 
 I've heard of this. (Pauses and listens.) 
 
 How those falTn leaves so rustle on the path, 
 
 "With whisp'ring noise, as tho' the earth around me 
 
378 .BE MONFOKT : A TRAGEDY* 
 
 Did Utter secret things I 
 
 The distant river too, bears to mine ear 
 
 A dismal waihng. O mysterious night ! 
 
 Thou art not silent ; many tongues hast thou. 
 
 A distant gathering blast sounds through the wood^ 
 
 And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky : 
 
 ! that a storm would rise, a raging storm ; 
 Amidst the roar of warring elements 
 
 I'd lift my hand and strike ! but this pale lights 
 The calm distinctness of each stilly thing. 
 Is terrible. (Starting,) Footsteps are near — 
 He comes ! he comes ! I'll watch him farther on — 
 
 1 cannot do it here. [Exit, 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly 
 across the stage^ hut just as he is going off the 
 owl screams^ he sto^s and listens^ and the owl 
 screams again. 
 
 Eez, Ha ! does the night-bird greet me on my 
 way ? 
 How much his hooting is in harmony 
 With such a scene as this ! I like it well. 
 Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, 
 I've leant my back against some knotted oak. 
 And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call 
 He answ^er would return, and thro' the gloom 
 We friendly converse held. 
 Between me and the star-bespangled sky 
 Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave. 
 And thro' them looks the pale and placid moon. 
 How like a crocodile, or winged snake. 
 
DE MONFORT ! A TJRAGEDY. 379 
 
 Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky, length! 
 And now transform'd by the passing wind, 
 Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus. 
 Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue 
 Come swiftly after. — 
 
 A hollow murm'ring wind sounds thro' the trees; 
 I hear it from afar ; this bodes a storm. 
 I must not linger here — 
 
 (A bell heard at some distance,) 
 What bell is this ? 
 It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze. 
 Now, to a fearful superstitious mind. 
 In such a scene, 'twould like a death-kneil come : 
 For me it tells but of a-shelter near. 
 And so I bid it welcome. [Exit, 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 The inside of a Convent Chapel, of old Gothich archi- 
 tecture, almost dark ; two torches only are seen at 
 a distance, burning over a neiv-made grave. The 
 noice of loud wind, heating upon the windows and 
 roof, is heard. Enter two Monks. 
 
 1st Monk, The storm encreases : hark how dis- 
 mally 
 It howls along the cloisters. How goes time ? 
 Q.d Mon. It is the hour : I hear them near at 
 hand ; 
 And when the solemn requiem has been sung 
 For the departed sister, we'll retire. 
 Yet, should this tempest still more violent grow. 
 
380 DE monfokt: a tkagedy. 
 
 We'll beg a friendly shelter till the morn. 
 
 Ij/ Monk, See the procession enters: let us 
 join. 
 (The organ strikes up a solemn prelude. Enter 
 a procrss'ion of Nuns, with the Abbess, 
 hearing torches, After compassing the grave 
 twice, and remaining there some time, whilst 
 the organ plays a grand dirge ^ they advance 
 to the front of the stage,) 
 
 SONG BY THE NUNS. 
 
 Departed soul, whose poor remains 
 This hallow'd lowly grave contains ; 
 Whose passing storm of life is o'er. 
 Whose pains and sorrows are no more ! 
 Bless'd be thou with the bless'd above ! 
 Where all is joy, and purity, and love. 
 
 Let HIM in might and mercy dread, 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead ; 
 
 In whom the stars of heav'n rejoice, 
 
 And the ocean lifts its voice ; 
 
 Ehy spirit, purified, to glory raise. 
 
 To sing with holy saints his everlasting praise ! 
 
 Departed soul, who in this earthly scene 
 Hast our lowly sister been, 
 Swift be thy way to where the blessed dwell f 
 Until we meet thee there, farewell! farewell! , 
 
 Enter a Lay Sister, with a wild terrified look^ 
 her hair and dress all scattered, and rushes for- 
 ward amongst them, 
 
 Ahh, Why com'st thou here, with such disor-' 
 dcr'd looks. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEElY. 381 
 
 To break upon our sad solemnity? 
 
 Sist, Oh ! I did hear thro' the receding blasts 
 Such horrid cries ! they made my blood run chill. 
 
 j^Mk 'Tis but the varied voices of the storm. 
 Which many times will sound like distant screams: 
 It has deceived thee. 
 
 Ij/ Sist. O no, for twice it call'd, so loudly 
 caird. 
 With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature; 
 And murder! murder ! was the dreadful cry. 
 A third time it return'd with feeble strength. 
 But o'the sudden ceased, as tho' the words 
 Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throaty 
 And all was still again, save the wild blast 
 Which at a distance growl' d — 
 Oh ! it will never from my mind depart ! 
 That dreadful cry, all i'the instant still'd ; 
 For then, so near, some horrid deed was done. 
 And none to rescue. 
 
 ^bb. Where didst thou hear it ? 
 Sist. In the higher cells. 
 
 As now a window, open'd by the storm, 
 I did attempt to close. 
 
 1^/. Monk, I wish our brother Bernard were 
 arrived ; 
 He is upon his way. 
 
 Abb. Be not alarm'd; it still may be deceptioHo 
 'Tis meet w^e finish our solemnity. 
 Nor shew neglect unto the honoured dead. 
 
 (Gives a sign^ and the organ flays again : just 
 as it ceases a loud blocking is heard without.) 
 
382 DE MONFORT ; A TllAGEDY, 
 
 Abh, Ha ? who may this be f hush ! 
 
 (knocking heard again.) 
 id Monk, It is the knock of one in furious haste. 
 Hush ! hush ! What footsteps come ? Ha ! brother 
 Bernard. 
 
 Kilter Beknard learlvg a lantern. 
 
 1st Monk, See^ what a look he w^ears of stiffen'd 
 fear ! 
 Where hast thou been, good brother ? 
 Bern, I've seen a horrid sight ! 
 (All gathering round him and sneaking at once.) 
 
 What hast thou seen ? 
 Bern, As on I hastened, bearing thus my Hght, 
 Across the path not fifty paces offj 
 I saw a murder'd corse stretch'd on its back, 
 Smear'd with new blood, as tho' but freshly slain, 
 Abh, A man or woman ? 
 Ber7t, A man, a man ! 
 
 Abb, Did'st thou examine if within its breast 
 There yet is lodged some small remains of life ? 
 Was it quite dead ? 
 
 Bern, Nought in the grave is deader, 
 
 I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge 
 In any form so laid. — 
 A chilly horrour seized me, and I fled. 
 
 1st Monk, And does the face seem all unknown 
 
 to thee ? 
 Bern, The face ! I would not on the face have 
 look'd 
 For e'en a kingdom's wealth;, for all the world ! 
 
DE MONFOHT : A TRAGEDY. 383 
 
 no! the bloody neck, the bloody neck ! 
 
 (Shaking his head and shuddering with horroiir. 
 Loud knocking heard without.) 
 Sist. Good mercy ! who comes next ? 
 Bern, Not far behind 
 
 1 left our brother Thomas on the road ; 
 But then he did repent him as he went. 
 And threatened to return. 
 
 2d Monk, See^ here he comes. 
 
 Enter hrother Thomas^ ivith a wild terrified look, 
 
 1st Mo7ik, How wild he looks ! 
 
 Bern, (going up to him eagerly.) What, hast thou 
 seen it too ? 
 
 Thorn, Yes, yes ! it glared upon me as It pass'd 
 
 Bern. What glared upon thee ? 
 ( All gathering round T^hom^i^^ and speaking at once.) 
 
 O 1 what hast thou seen ? 
 
 Thorn, As, striving with the blast, I onward 
 came. 
 Turning my feeble lantern from the wind. 
 Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd, 
 Which paused and look'd upon me as it pass'd« 
 But such a look, such wildness of despair, 
 Such horrour-strain'd features never yet 
 Did earthly visage show. I shrunk and shudder'd, ' 
 If damned spirit may to earth return 
 I've seen it. 
 
 Bern, Was there blood upon it? 
 
 Thorn Nay, as it pass'd^ I did not see its form ^ 
 
384 DE MONFORT; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Nought but the horrid face* 
 
 Bern. It is the murderer. 
 
 1st. Monk. What way went it? 
 
 Thorn, I durst not look till I had pass'd it far. 
 Then turning round, upon the rising bank, 
 I saw, between me and the paly sky, 
 A dusky form, tossing and agitated. 
 I stopp'd to mark it, but, in truth, I found 
 'Twas but a sapling bending to the wind. 
 And so I onward hied, and look'd no more. 
 
 1st Monk. But we must look to't ; we must 
 follow it : 
 Our duty so commands. (To 2d Monk.) Will you 
 
 go, brother ? 
 (To Bernard.) And you, good Bernard ? 
 
 Bern. If I needs must go. 
 
 1^/ Monh Come we must all go. 
 
 Abb. Heaven be with you, then ! 
 
 [Exeunt Monks. 
 
 Sisf. Amen 1 amen ! Good heaven be with us 
 
 all ! 
 
 O what a dreadful night ! 
 
 Abb> Daughters retire; peace to the peaceful 
 dead 1 
 
 Our solemn ceremony now is finished. 
 
^' :&E MONFOUT : A TRAGEDY, 385 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 A large room in the Convent, very dark. Enter the 
 Abbess, Lay Sister hearing a light, and several 
 Nuns. Sister sets down the light on a table at 
 the bottom of the stage^ so that the room is still 
 very gloomy. 
 
 Abb. They have been longer absent than I 
 thought ; 
 I fear he has escaped them. 
 
 ^ St Nun. Heaven forbid! 
 
 Sist. N05 no, found out foul murder ever is. 
 And the foul murd'rer too* 
 
 id Nun. The good Saint Francis will direct 
 their search ; 
 The blood so near his holy convent shed 
 For threefold vengeance calls. 
 
 Abb. I hear a noise within the inner court — 
 They are return'd ; (listening ;) and Bernard's voice 
 
 I hear : 
 They are return'd. 
 
 Sist. Why do I tremble so ? 
 
 It is not I who ought to tremble thus. 
 id Nun. I hear them at the door. 
 Bern, {without) Open the door^ I pray thee, 
 brother Thomas ; 
 I cannot now unhand the prisoner. 
 {All speak together, shrinking back from, the door, 
 and staring upon one another.) He is v/ith 
 them ! 
 
 c c 
 
380^ BE monport: a tragedy. 
 
 {A folding door at the bottom of the stage is 
 opened^ and enter Bernard, Thomas, and 
 the other two Monks, carrying lanterns in 
 their hands y and bringing in De-Monfort. 
 They are likewise followed by other Monks. 
 As they lead forward De Monfort the light 
 is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely ; 
 but when they come to the front of the stage 
 they all turn the light side of their lanterns 
 on him at once, and his face is seen in all 
 the strengthened borrow of despair y with 
 his hands and cloaths bloody. 
 (Abbess and Nuns speak at once^ and start back.) 
 Holy saints be with us ! 
 Bern, {to Abb.) Behold the man of blood ! 
 Abb, Of misery too ; I cannot look upon him. 
 Bern, {to Nuns.) Nay, holy sisters, turn not thus 
 away. 
 Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you : 
 For from his mouth we have no utt'rance heard. 
 Save one deep groan and smother'd exclamation. 
 When first we seiz'd him. 
 
 Abb, {to De Mon.) Most miserable man, how art 
 thou thus ? {Pauses,) 
 
 Thy tongue is silent, but tliose bloody hands 
 Do witness horrid thino-s. What is thy name ? 
 De Mon. (roused ; looks steadfastly at the Abbess 
 for some time, the72 speaking in a short hurried 
 voice,) I have no name. 
 Abb, {to Bern.) Doit thyself; I'll speak to him 
 
 no more. 
 
 2 
 
BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 387 
 
 Sist, O holy saints ! that this should be the man 
 Who did against his fellow lift the stroke, 
 Whilst he so loudly calTd. — 
 Still in my ears it rings : O murder ! murder ! 
 De Mon. (starting.) Me calls again ! 
 Sist. No, he did call, but now his voice Is stilPd. 
 'Tis past. 
 
 De Mon. (in great anguish.) 'Tis past. 
 Sist. Yes, it is past! art thou not he who did it? 
 (De Monfort utters a deep groan, and is sup- 
 ported from falling hy the Moiiks, A noise 
 is heard without.) 
 Abh. What noise is this of heavy lumb'ring steps. 
 Like men who with a weighty burden come ? 
 
 Bern. It is the body : I have orders given 
 That here it should be laid. 
 
 (Entermen hearing the body of Rezenvelt, co» 
 vered with a white cloth, and set it down in 
 the viiddle of the room : they then uncover if, 
 De Monfort stands fixed and motionless with 
 horrour, only that a sudden shivering seems 
 to pass Gverhimwhen they uncover the corpse. 
 The Abbess and Nuns shrink hack and re- 
 tire to some distance, all the rest fixing their 
 eyes steadfastly upon De Monfort. A long 
 pause.) 
 Bern, (to De Mon.) See'st thou that lifeless 
 corpse, those bloody wounds ? 
 See how he lies, who but so shortly since 
 A living creature was, with all the powers 
 Of sense, and motion, and humanity 1 
 
 c c i 
 
388 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Oh ! What a heart had he who did this deed ! 
 
 1^/ Monk. (looking at the body.) How hard 
 
 those teeth against the lips are press' d. 
 
 As tho' he struggled still ! 
 
 id Monk. The hands^ too^ clench 'd : the last 
 
 efforts of nature. 
 
 (T)t ^lon(ort still stands motionless. Brother 
 
 Thonias then goes to the body, and raising 
 
 up the head a little^ turns it towards De 
 
 Monfort.) 
 
 Thorn. Know'st thou this ghastly face ? 
 
 T>e Mon. (putting his hands before his face in 
 
 violent perturbation.) Oh do not ! do not ! 
 
 Veil it from my sight ! 
 
 Put me to any agony but this 1 
 
 Thorn. Ha ! dost thou then confess the dreadAiI 
 
 deed ? 
 
 Hast thou against the laws of awful heav'n 
 
 Such horrid murder done ? What fiend could 
 
 tempt thee ? 
 
 (Pauses and looks steadfastly at De Monfort.) 
 
 De Mon. I hear thy words but do not bear their 
 
 sense — 
 
 Hast thou not covered it ? 
 
 Bern, (to Thorn.) Forbear, my brother, for thou 
 
 sees't rio-ht well 
 
 He is not in a state to answer thee. 
 
 Let us retire and leave him for a while. 
 
 These windows are with iron grated o'er ; 
 
 He is secured, and other duty calls. 
 
 Thorn, Then let it be. 
 
 1 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 389 
 
 Bern, (to Monks, ^c.) Come, let us all depart. 
 (Exeunt Abbess ajid ^i\r\s, followed hy the 
 Monks. One Monk lingering a little 
 behind.) . 
 De Man. All gone ! (Perceiving the Monk.) O 
 stay thou here ! , . 
 
 Monk. It must not be. 
 
 De Mon, ni give thee gold ; I'll make thee rich 
 in gold. 
 If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. 
 Monk. I must not, must not stay. 
 De Mon. I do conjure thee ! 
 
 Monk. I dare not stay with thee. (Going.) 
 
 De Mon, And wilt thou go ? 
 
 (Catching hold of him eagerly.) 
 O ! throw thy cloak upon this grizly form ! 
 The unclos'd eyes do stare upon me still. 
 O do not leave me thus 1 
 
 [Monk covers the hody, and Exit. 
 De Mo7i. (alone, looking at the covered hody, hut 
 at a distance.) Alone with thee ! but thou 
 art nothing now. 
 'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast ; 
 Would ! would it were to come ! — ■ 
 What fated end, what darkly gath'ring cloud 
 Will close on all this horrour ? 
 O that dire madness would unloose my thoughts. 
 And fill my mind with wildest fantasies, 
 Dark, restless, terrible ! ought, ought bat this ! 
 
 (Pauses and shudders.) 
 How with convulsive life he heav'd beneath me, 
 
SgO DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 E'en with the death's wound gored ! O horrid, 
 
 horrid ! 
 Methinks I feel him still. — What sound is that ? 
 I heard a smother'd groan. — It is impossible I 
 
 (Looking steadfastly at the body.) 
 It moves ! it moves ! the cloth doth heave and 
 
 swell. 
 It moves again ! — I cannbt suffer this — 
 Whate'er it be I will uncover it. 
 
 (Runs to the corpe, and tears off the cloth in 
 
 despair.) 
 All still beneath. 
 
 Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death. 
 How sternly fix'd ! Oh ! those glazed eyes ! 
 They look upon me still. 
 
 (Shr'mh hack with horrour.) 
 Come, madness ! come unto me senseless death ! 
 I cannot suffer this I Here, rocky wall, ' 
 Scatter these brains, or dull them ! 
 
 (Runs furiously, and, dashing his head against 
 
 the wall, falls upon the floor.) 
 
 Enter two Monks, hastily, 
 1st Monk. See; wretched man, he hath destroy 'd 
 
 himself. 
 2d Monk. He does but faint. Let us remove 
 
 him hence. 
 1st Monk. We did not wxll to leave him here 
 
 alone. 
 2d Monk, Come, let us bear him to the open air. 
 [Exeunt, hearing out De Monfort, 
 
BE MOXFORT : A TRAGEDY. SQl 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Before the gates of the Convent, 
 Enter Jane De Monfort, Free erg and 
 Manuel. As they are p-oceedmg towards the 
 gate, Jane stops short and shrinks hack, 
 
 Freb. Ha ! wherefore ? has a sudden ilhiess 
 
 seiz'd thee ? 
 Jane. No^ no, my friend. — And yet Fra very 
 faint— 
 I dread to enter here ! 
 
 Man, Ay! sol thought: 
 
 For, when between the trees^ that abbey tower 
 First shew'd its top, I saw your countenance 
 
 change. 
 But breathe a little here ; FII go before^ 
 And make inquiry at the nearest gate. 
 Ft eh. Do so, good Manuel. 
 
 (Manuel goes and knocks at the gate,) 
 Courage, dear Madam; all may yet be well. 
 Rezenvelt's servant, frightened with the storm. 
 And seeing that his master join'd him not, 
 As by appointment, at the forest's edge. 
 Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear 
 To an unfounded rumour. 
 He saw it not ; he came not here himself. 
 
 Jane, (looking eagerly to the gate, where Manuel 
 talks with the Porter.) Ha ! see, he talks 
 with some one earnestly* 
 
3Q2 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And see'st thou not that motion of his hands ? 
 He stands like one who hears a horrid tale. 
 Almighty God ! 
 
 (Manuel goes into the co?ivent,) 
 He comes not back ; he enters. 
 Freh, Bear up^ my noble friend, 
 Jane, I will, I will ! But this suspense is 
 dreadful. 
 (ji long pause. Manuel re-enters from tJw 
 convent, and comes forward slowly with a 
 sad countenance.) 
 Is this the face of one who bears good tidings ? 
 O God ! his face doth tell the horrid fact ; 
 There is nought doubtful here. 
 
 Freh. How is it, Manuel ? 
 
 Man, I've seen him through a crevice in his 
 door : 
 It is indeed my master. 
 
 (Bursting into tears.) 
 (^Jane faints^ and is supported hy Freberg. — 
 Enter Abbess and several Nuns from the 
 convent, who gather about her, and apply 
 remedies. She recovers.) 
 \st Nun. The life returns again. 
 id Nun, Yes, she revives. 
 
 Abb. (toYrth.) Let me entreat this noble lady's 
 leave 
 To lead her in. She seems in great distress : 
 We would with holy kindness soothe her woe. 
 And do by her the deeds of christian love. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 3^3 
 
 Freh, Madam, your goodness has my grateful 
 thanks. 
 [Exeunt, supporting Jane into the convent, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 De Monfort is discovered sitting in a thoughtful 
 posture. He remains so for some time. His face 
 afterwards begins to appear agitated, like one 
 whose mind is harrowed with the severest thoughts \ 
 then, starting from his seat, he clasps his hands 
 together, and holds them up to heaven, 
 
 De Mon. O that I ne'er had known the light of 
 
 day! 
 That filmy darkness on mine eyes had hung, 
 And closed me out from the fair face of nature ! 
 O that my mind, in mental darkness pent. 
 Had no perception, no distinction known. 
 Or fair, or foul perfection, or defect. 
 Nor thought conceived of proud pre-eminence ! 
 O that it had ! O that I had been formed 
 An idiot from the birth 1 a senseless changeling, 
 Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste. 
 Nor knows the hand who feeds him. — 
 
 (Pauses ; then, in a calmer sorrowful voice.) 
 What am I now ? how ends the day of life ? 
 For end it must ; and terrible this gloom. 
 The storm of horrours that surround its close. 
 This little term of nature's agony 
 Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past : 
 But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth 
 
394 '" DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness. 
 Like senseless clod that cloth no pressure feel 
 From wearing foot of daily passenger ; 
 Like steeped rock o'er which the breaking waves 
 Bellow and foam unheard ? O would I could ! 
 
 Enkr Manuel, wJw springs forward to his master^ 
 hut is checked upon perceiving De Monfort 
 draw hack and look sternly at hinu 
 
 Man, My lord, my master ! O my dearest 
 master ! 
 
 (De Monfort still looks at him without 
 speaking,) 
 Nay, do not thus regard me, good my Lord ! 
 Speak to me : am I not your faithful Manuel ? 
 De Mon, {in a hasty broken voice.) Art thou 
 
 alone ? 
 Man, No, Sir, the lady Jane is on her way ; 
 She is not far behind. 
 
 De Man, (jossing his arms over his head in an 
 agony,) This is too much ! All I can bear 
 but this ! 
 It must not be, — Run and prevent her coming. 
 Say, he who is detained a pris'ner here 
 Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing. 
 I am a man, of holy claims bereft ; 
 Out of the pale of social kindred cast ; 
 Nameless and horrible. — 
 Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone 
 Into a desolate and distant land. 
 
BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. ZQo 
 
 Ne'er to return again. Fly, tell her this; 
 For we must meet no more. 
 
 Enter J Ai^E De Monfort, hurst'mg into the cham^ 
 her, and followed hy Free erg. Abbess, and 
 several Nuns. 
 
 Jane. We must ! we must ! My brother, O my 
 brother ! 
 (De Monfort turns azvay his head and hides 
 his face with his arm. Jane stops shorty 
 and, making a great effort, turns to Frebergj 
 and the others who followed her ; and with 
 an air of dignity stretches out her hand, heck- 
 oning them to retire. All retire- hut Freberg, 
 who seems to hesitate.) 
 And thou too, Freberg : call it not unkind. 
 
 [Exit Freberg, Jane and De Monfort only 
 remain, 
 Jane. My hapless Monfort ! 
 
 (De Monfort turns round a?id looks sorrozvfully 
 
 upon her ; she opens her arms to him, and he,, 
 
 rushing into them, hides his face upon her 
 
 hreast and weeps.) 
 
 Jane. Ay, give thy sorrow vent : here mays't 
 
 thou weep. 
 De Mon. (in l^roken accents.) Oh 1 this, my 
 sister, makes me feel again 
 The kindness of affection. 
 My mind has in a dreadful storm been tost ; 
 Horrid and dark. — I thought to weep no more. — 
 
396 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I've done a deed — But I am human still. 
 
 Jane, I know thysufPrings: leave thy sorrow free: 
 Thou art with one who never did upbraid ; 
 Who mourns^ who loves thee still. 
 
 Ds Man, Ah ! say'st thou so ? no, na ; it 
 
 should not be. 
 (Shr inking from her.) I am a foul and bloody 
 
 murderer^ 
 For such embrace unmeet: O leave me ! leave me \ 
 Disgrace and publick shame abide me now ; 
 And all, alas ! who do my kindred own 
 The direful portion share.— Away, away 1 
 Shall a disgraced and publick criminal 
 Degrade thy name, and claim affinity 
 To noble worth like thine ? — I have no name — 
 I'm nothing, now, not e'en to thee ; depart. 
 
 (She takes his hand and grasping it firmly^ 
 
 speaks with a determined voice,) 
 Jane, De Monfort, hand in hand we have 
 
 enj<^y'd 
 The playful term of infancy together; 
 And in the rougher path of ripen'd years 
 WeVe been each other's stay. Dark lours our fate. 
 And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
 But nothing, till that latest agony 
 Which Sevres thee from nature, shall unloose 
 This fixed and sacred hold. *In thy dark prison- 
 house ; 
 In the tcrrifick face of armed law ; 
 Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
 1 never will forsake thee„ 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 397 
 
 De Mon. (looking at her with admiration.) 
 Heav'n bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane ! 
 I thought to sink beneath this load of ill. 
 Depressed with infamy and open shame ; 
 I thought to sink in abject wretchedness : 
 But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up, 
 And meet it bravely ; no unseemly weakness, 
 I feef my rising strength, shall blot my end. 
 To clothe thy cheek with shame. 
 
 Jane, Yes, thou art noble still. 
 
 De Mon. With thee I am ; who were not so with 
 thee ? 
 But ah, my sister I short will be the term : 
 Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond. 
 Where things unutterable wait the soul. 
 New from its earthly tenement discharged. 
 We shall be severed far. 
 Far as the spotless purity of virtue 
 Is from the murd'rer's guilt, flir shall we be. 
 This is the gtilph of dread uncertainty 
 From which the soul recoils. 
 
 Jane. The God who made thee is a God of 
 mercy ; 
 Think upon this. 
 
 DeMon. (shaking his head.) No, no ! this blood 1 
 this blood ! 
 
 Jane. Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be forgiv'n. 
 When humble penitence hath once atoned. 
 
 De Mon. (eagerly,) What, after terms of 
 Icugthen'd misery, 
 Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits. 
 
398 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDr. 
 
 Shall I again, a renovated soul, 
 
 Into the blessed family of the good 
 
 Admittance have ? Think'st thou that this may be ? 
 
 Speak if thou canst: O speak me comfort here? 
 
 For dreadful fancies, like an armed host, 
 
 Have push'd me to despair. It is most horrible — 
 
 speak of hope 1 if any hope there be. 
 
 (Jane is silent a?id looks serrozvfully upon him ; 
 then clasping her hands, and turning her eyes 
 to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer.) 
 De Mon. Ha 1 dost thou pray for me ? heav'n 
 hear thy prayer ! 
 
 1 fain v^'ould kneel — Alas ! I dare not do it. 
 
 Ja)ie, Not so ; all by th' jilmighty Father 
 
 forni'd 
 May in their deepest mis'ry call on him. 
 Come kneel with me, my brother. 
 
 (She kneels and prays to herself; he kneels ly 
 
 her^ and clasps his hand fervently, hut speaks 
 
 not, A noi&e of chains clanking is heard 
 
 without, and they hoth rise.) 
 De Mon, Hear'st thou that noice ? They come 
 
 to interrupt us. 
 Jane, (moving towards a side door.) Then let us 
 
 enter here. 
 De Mon, (catching hold of her with a look of 
 
 horrour.) Not there — not there — the corpse 
 
 — the bloody corpse 1 
 Jane. What, lies he there? — Unhappy Re- 
 
 i^envelt ? ' . 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. SQQ 
 
 De Mon. A sudden thought has come across 
 my mind ; 
 How came it not before ? Unhappy Rezenvelt ! 
 Say'st thou but this ? 
 
 Jane, What should I say ? he was an honest 
 man ; 
 I still have thought him such, as such lament him. 
 
 (De Monfort utters a deep groan. 
 What means this heavy groan ? 
 
 De Mon. It hath a meaning. 
 
 Enter Abbess and Monks, with two Officers 
 of justice carrying fetters in their hands to put 
 upon De Monfort. 
 
 Jan, (starting,) What men are these 1 
 
 \ St Off, Lady, we are the servants of the law, 
 And bear with us a power, which doth constrain 
 To bind with fetters this our prisoner. 
 
 (Pointing to De Monfort.) 
 
 Jane, A stranger uncondemn^? this cannot be. 
 
 1^/ Off, As yet, indeed, he is by law unjudged. 
 But is so far condema'd by circumstance. 
 That law, or custom sacred held as law. 
 Doth fully warrant us, and it must be. 
 
 Jane, Nay, say not so; he has no power 
 t' escape ; 
 Distress h,ath bound him with a heavy chain ; 
 There is no need of yours. 
 
 1st, Off. We must perform our office. 
 
 Jane. 01 do not offer this indignity! 
 
400 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 , Isf Off, Is it indignity in sacred law 
 To bind a murderer ? (To 2d Officer.) Come^ da 
 thy work. 
 Jane, Plarsh are thy words, and stern thy har- 
 den'd brow ; 
 Dark is thine eye ; but all some pity have 
 Unto the last extreme of misery. 
 I do beseech thee 1 if thou are a man — 
 
 (Kneeling to hhn.) 
 (De Monfort roused at this, runs up to Jane, 
 and raises her hastdy from the ground ; then 
 stretches himself up '{proudly.) 
 De Mon, (to Jane.) Stand thou erect in native 
 dignity ; 
 And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee. 
 Though cloath'd in power imperial. To my 
 
 heart 
 It gives a- feller gripe than many irons. 
 (Holding out his hands.) Here, officers of law, bind 
 
 6n those shackles. 
 And if they are too light bring heavier chains. 
 Add iron to iron, load, crush me to the ground ; 
 Na}^, heap ten thousand weight upon my breast. 
 For that were best of all. 
 
 (A long pause, whilst they put irons upon him. 
 After they are on, Jane looks at him sorrow- 
 fidly, and lets her head sink on her breast. De 
 Monfort stretches out his hand, looks at them ^ 
 and then at Jane ; crosses ihem over his breast ^ 
 and endeavours to suppress his feelings.) 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 401 
 
 Isl Off'. I have it_, too^ in charge to move you 
 hence, (To De Monfort.) 
 
 Into another chamber more secure. 
 De Mon. Well, lam ready. Sir. 
 (Approachmg Jane, whom the Abbess is en- 
 deavouring to comfort^ hut to no purpose.) 
 Ah! wherefore thus! most honoured and most 
 
 dear ? 
 Shrhik not at the accoutrements of ill. 
 Daring the thitig itself. 
 
 (Rndeavouring to look cheerful.) 
 Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand ? 
 
 (She gives him her hand, which he raises to his 
 lips.) 
 This was my proudest office. 
 
 [Exeunt, De Monfort leading out Jane. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A long narroxv gallery in the convent, with the 
 doors of the cells on each side. The stage dark- 
 ened, A Nun is discovered at a distance listen- 
 ing, Efiter another Nun at the front of the 
 stage., and starts hack, 
 
 ] st Nun. Ha ! who is this not yet retired to rest ? 
 My sister, is it you ? 
 
 (l?o the other, who advances,) 
 
 *ld Nun, Returning from the sister Nina's cell. 
 Passing yon door where the poor prisoner lies. 
 The sound of one who struggled with despair 
 Struck on me as I went : I stopp'd and listen'd ; 
 
 D D 
 
402 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 O God ! such piteous groans ! 
 
 li/ Nun, Yes/ since the ev'ning sun It hath 
 been so. 
 The voice of mis'ry oft hath reach'd mine ear. 
 E'en in the cell above. 
 
 id Ntin. How is it thus ? 
 
 Methought he braved it with a manly spirit. 
 And led, with shackled hands, his sister forth. 
 Like one resolved to bear misfortune boldly. 
 
 \ St Nun, Yes, with heroick courage, for awhile 
 He seem'd inspired ; but, soon depressed again. 
 Remorse and dark despair o'erwhelmM his soul. 
 And so he hath remain'd. 
 
 JBw/^r Father Bernard, advancing from the further 
 end of the Gallery hearing a crucifix, 
 1st Nun, How goes it, father, with your pe- 
 nitent ? 
 We've heard his heavy groans. 
 
 Bern, Retire, my daughters; many a bed of 
 death. 
 With all its pangs and horrour I have seen. 
 But never ought like this. 
 2d Nun, He*s dying then ! 
 Bs7Ji, Yes, death is dealing 
 
 with him. 
 From violent agitation of the mind, 
 Some stream of life within his breast has burst ; 
 For many times within a little space, 
 The ruddy tide has rush*d into his mouth. 
 God grant his pains be short ! 
 
DEMONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 403 
 
 \ St Nun, Amen^ Amen! 
 
 *ld Nun, How does the lady ? 
 Ber7u She sits and bears his head upon her lap ; 
 And like a heaven-inspired angel speaks 
 The word of comfort to his troubled soul : 
 Then does she wipe the cold drops from his brow, 
 With such a look of tender wretchedness. 
 It wrings the heart to see her. 
 
 1^/ Nun, Ha! hear ye nothing ? 
 
 Id Nun, (alarmed,) Yes, I heard a noise. 
 
 \s^ Nun. And see'st thou nothing ? 
 
 (Creeping close to her sister,) 
 
 Bern. 'Tis a nun in white. 
 
 Enter Lay Sister in her night chathsy advancing 
 from the dark end of the gallery, 
 
 (To Sister,) Wherefore, my daughter, hast thou 
 
 left thy cell ? 
 It is not meet at this untimely hour. 
 
 Sist, I cannot rest. I hear such dismal 
 sounds. 
 Such wailings in the air, such shrilly shrieks. 
 As though the cry of murder rose again 
 From the deep gloom of night. I cannot rest: 
 I pray you let me stay with you, good sisters ! 
 
 (Bell tolls,) 
 Nuns, (starting,) What bell is that ? 
 Bern, It is the bell of death, 
 
 A holy sister was upon the watch 
 
 D D a 
 
404 DE MONPORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 To give this iioLice. (Bell tolls again.) Hark \ 
 
 another knell ! 
 The wretched straggler hath his warfare closed ; 
 May heaven have mercy on him 1 
 
 (Bell tolls again.) 
 Retire^, my daughters ; let us all retire. 
 For scenes like this to meditation call. 
 
 [Exeunt, hell tolTmg again, 
 
 S C E N E IV. 
 
 A hall or large room i7i the convent. The bodies of 
 De Monfort and Rezenvelt are discovered 
 laid out upon a low table or platform, covered with 
 black. Free ERG, Bernard, Abbess, Monks^ 
 
 ^K^/NuNS attending. 
 
 Abb. (fo Freb.) Here must they lie, my Lord, 
 
 until we know 
 Respecting this the order of the law. 
 
 Freb. And you have wisely done, my rev'rend 
 
 mother. 
 (Goes to the table, and looks at the bodies, but 
 
 without uncovering: them.) 
 Unhappy men ! ye, both in nature rich, 
 With talents and with virtues w^ere endued. 
 Ye should have loved, yet deadly rancour came^ 
 And in the prime and manhood of yowr days 
 Ye sleep in horrid death. O direful hate ! 
 What shame and wretchedness his portion is 
 Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee ! 
 And who shall call him blameless who excites^ 
 
 Alt 
 
demonfobt: a tragedy. 405 
 
 Ungen'rously excites^ with careless scorn. 
 Such baleful passion in a brother's breast, 
 Whom heav'n commands to love ? Low are ye 
 
 laid : 
 Still all contention now. — Low are ye laid : 
 I loved you both, and mourn your hapless fall. 
 
 Abh* They were your friends, my Lord ? 
 
 Freh. I loved them both. How does the Lady 
 Tane ? 
 
 Ahh. She bears misfortune with intrepid soul. 
 I never saw in woman bow*d with grief 
 Such moving dignity. 
 
 Freh, Ay, still the same. 
 
 I've known her long ; of worth most excellent; 
 But in the day of woe, she ever rose 
 Upon the mind with added majesty. 
 As the dark mountain more sublimely tow'rs 
 Mantled in clouds and storm. 
 
 Enter Manuel and Jerome. 
 
 Man. (pointing.) Here, my good Jerome, here's 
 
 a piteous sight. 
 Jer, A piteous sight ! yet I will look upon him: 
 I'll see his face in death. Alas, alas ! 
 I've seen him move a noble gentleman ; 
 And when with vexing passion undisturb'd. 
 He look'd most graciously. 
 
 (Lifts up^in mistake the cloth from the lody of 
 Rezenvelt, and starts hack with horroiir.) 
 Oh 1 this was the bloody work ! Oh, oh ! oh, oh I 
 
i.06 DE MOXPORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 That human hands could do it ! 
 
 (Drops the doth again,) 
 Ma?2. That Is the murdered corpse here lies 
 De Monfort. 
 
 (Going to uncover the other body,) 
 jfer, (turning aivay his head.) No^ • no ! I 
 
 cannot look upon him now. 
 Man, Didst thou not come to see him ? 
 Jer, Fy ! cover him^ — inter him in the dark — 
 Let no one look upon him. > 
 
 Bern, (To Jer J Weil dost thou shew the abhor- 
 rence nature feels 
 For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well. 
 In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes ' 
 For one who, from the hand of fellow man. 
 Hath felt such cruelty. 
 
 (Uncovering the hody of Rezenvelt.) 
 This is the murder'd corse : 
 
 (Uncovering the hody ofDc Monfort.) 
 
 But see, I pray ! 
 Here lies the murderer. What thinkst thou here ? 
 Look on those features, thou hast seen them oft. 
 With the last dreadful conflict of despair. 
 So fix'd in horrid strength. 
 See those knit brows, those hollow sunken eyes ; 
 The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent ; 
 That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth appear/ 
 In agony, to gnash the nether lip. 
 Think'st thou, less painful than the murd'rer's 
 
 knife 
 Was such a death as this ? 
 
DE MONFORT : A TEAGEDY. 40/ 
 
 Ay, and how changed too those matted locks ! 
 
 Jer, Merciful heaven ! his hair is grisly grown. 
 Changed to white age, what was, but two days 
 
 since. 
 Black as the raven's plume. How may this be? 
 Bern, Such change, from violent conflict of 
 the mind. 
 Will sometimes come. 
 
 Jer. Alas, alas ! most wretched ! 
 
 Thou wert too good to do a cruel deed, 
 And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast sufFer'd for it. 
 God rest thy soul ! I needs must touch thy hand. 
 And bid thee long farewell. 
 
 (Laying Ins hand on De Monfort.) 
 Bern, Draw back, draw back: see Avhere th^ 
 lady comes. 
 
 Enter Jane De Monfort. Free erg, isoJio has 
 been for some time retired by himself to the bottom 
 of the stage ^ now steps forzvard to lead her in, but 
 checks himself on seeing the fxed sorrow of her 
 countenance, and draws back respectfidly. Jane 
 advances to the table, and looks attentively at the 
 covered bodies, Manuel points out the body of 
 De Monfort, and she gives a gentle inclination 
 of the head, to signify that she understands ¥mu 
 She then bends tmderly over /V, without speaking. 
 
 Man, (to Jane, as she raises her head.) Oh, 
 madam ! my good lord. 
 1 
 
408 BE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jane. Well says thy love, my good and faithful 
 Manuel ; 
 But we must mourn hi silence. 
 
 Man. Alas! the times that I have follovv'd him ! 
 Jane. Forbear, my faithful Manuel. For this 
 love 
 Thou hast my grateful thanks; and here's my 
 
 hand : 
 Thou hast loved him, and I'll remember thee. 
 Where'er I am ; in whate'er spot of earth 
 I linger out the remnant of my days, 
 I will remember thee. 
 
 Man. Nay, by the living God ! where'er you are, 
 There will I be. I'll prove a trusty servant: 
 I'll follow you, e'en to the w-orld's end. 
 My master's gone, and I indeed am mean. 
 Yet will I show the strength of nobler men, ; 
 Should any dare upon your honour'd worth 
 To put the slightest wrong. Leave you, dear 
 
 lady ! 
 Kill me, but say not this ! 
 
 (Throvcing himself at her feet.) 
 Jane, (raising hhn.) Well, then ! be thou my 
 servant, and my friend. 
 Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come? 
 I see thou art. How goes it with thine age ? 
 Jer. Ah, Madam ! woe and weakness dwell 
 with age : 
 Would I could serve you with a young man's 
 
 strength! 
 I'd spend my life for you. 
 
DE MOXFORT : A TRAGEDY. 40^ 
 
 Jane, .Thanks, worthy Jerome. 
 
 O ! who hath said, the wretched have no friends? 
 Fre}>. In every sensible and gen'rous breast 
 
 Affliction finds a friend ; but unto, thee. 
 
 Thou most exalted and most honourable. 
 
 The heart in warmest adoration bows. 
 
 And even a worship pays. 
 
 Jane, Nay, Freberg, Freberg ! grieve me not, 
 my friend. 
 
 He to whose ear my praise most welcome was. 
 
 Hears it no more ; and, oh our piteous lot ! 
 
 What tongue will talk of him ? Alas, alas! 
 
 This more than all will bow me to the earth ; 
 
 I feel my misery here. 
 
 The voice of praise was vvon^t to name us both : 
 
 I had no greater pride. , 
 
 (Covers her face with her hands, and hursts 
 into tears. Here they all hang about her : 
 Freberg supporting her te?iderly, Manuel 
 embracing her knees, and old Jerome catch- 
 ing hold of her robe affectionately. Bernard, 
 Abbess, Monks, and'^uns, likewise, gather 
 round her, with looks of sympathy.) 
 
 Enter Two Officers of law, 
 
 1st Off. Where is the prisoner ? 
 
 Into our hands he straight must be consign'd. 
 
 Bern. He is not subject now to human laws ; 
 The prison that awaits him is the grave. 
 
 1st. Off. Ha! sayst thou so ? there is foul play 
 in this. 
 
4rlO DE MONFORT ! A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Man, (toO^,) Hold thy unrighteous tongue^ or 
 hie thee hence. 
 Nor, in the presence of this honour'd dame, 
 Utter the slightest meaning of reproach. 
 
 \st Off, I am an officer on duty cali'd. 
 And have authority to say, ^^ how died he ?!' 
 
 C Here JauQ shakes off ^ lie zveakness of grief, and 
 repressing Manuel, who is about io reply to 
 the Officer, steps forzvard with dignity.) 
 
 Jane, Tell them, by whose authority you come^ 
 He died that death which best becomes a man 
 Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill 
 And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit, 
 A death that kills the noble and the brave. 
 And only them. He had no other wound. 
 
 1st Off And shall I trust to this ? 
 
 Jane, Do as thou wilt : 
 
 To one who can suspect my simple word 
 I have no more reply. Fulfill thine office. 
 
 \st Off. No, Lady, I believe your honour'd word. 
 And will no farther search. 
 
 Jane, I thank your courtesy : thanks, thanks to 
 all; 
 My rev'rcnd mother, and ye honour'd maids ; 
 Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends. 
 The blessing of the afflicted rest with you ! 
 And he, who to the wretched is most piteous. 
 Will recompense you. — Freberg, thou art good. 
 Remove the body of the friend you loved, 
 'TJs Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge : 
 'Tis meet that, with his noble ancestors. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 411 
 
 He lie entomb'd in honourable state. ' 
 
 And now, I have a sad request to make. 
 Nor will these holy sisters scorn my boon ; 
 That I, within these sacred cloister walls 
 May raise a humble, nameless tomb to him. 
 Who, but for one dark passion, one dire deed. 
 Had claim'd a record of as noble worth. 
 As e'er enrich'd the sculptured pedestal. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Note^ — The last three lines of the last speech are not in- 
 tended to give the reader a true character of De Monfortt 
 whom I have endeavoured to represent throughout the Play 
 as, notwithstanding his other good qualities, proud, suspicious 
 and susceptible of envy, but only to express the partial sen- 
 timents of an affectionate sister, naturally more inclined to 
 praise him from the misfortune into which he had fallen* 
 
 P X N I S. 
 
 ^ Since this edition" was given to the press ^ the Tragedy 
 ff De Mo n fort has ieen brought out at Drury-Lanc 
 Theatre t adapted to the stage by Mr. Kemble. / am in^ 
 finitely obliged to that Gentleman for the excellent powers he has 
 exertedy assisted by the incomparable talents of his sister, Mrs, 
 Siddons, in endeavouring to obtain for it that publick favour, 
 ivhich I sincerely wish it had been found more worthy of 
 receiving. 
 
 l^H^ Ba/dium and SoKt Printers, Kew Budgs-sirecii LoKdsn^'^ 
 
7 K40S6 
 
 io.rx Q 
 

 
 
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