T^' '^ * -«s> University of California • Berkeley Gift of MR. & MRS. PAUL DODD '///// i f^yl \. firi/z/y^) f>:^y./^/m^^ ^/f/iyiey R C €/pw ^a^^^^r^^^^ 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 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 'r ;)l ' '^\