Pass, PR-^QS.fe> Book THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF JOANNA BAILLIE. FIRST AMERICAN EDITION ONE VOLUME. PHILADELPHIA : CAREY <^' LEA. 1832. ("N BOSTON: PllINTED BV KANE 4c C< 127 WasliinRlon Slreet. NOTE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. . .IS is Ihe only editiou of Miss Baillie's works, which contains all her poetical writings. The Author herself has been consulted, through the kindness of a Friend, — and considerable pains have been taken to render this compilation uniform and complete. It includes the following articles not found in any previous collection of her poems : — ' The Martyr, A Drama,' — ' The Bride, A Drama,' — ' A November Night's Traveller,' — ' Sir Maurice, A Ballad,' — ' Address to a Steam Vessel,' — 'To Mrs. Siddons,' — 'A Volunteer Song,' — 'To a Child.' — An alteration of the tragedy of ' Rayner,' now first published from the manuscript of the Author, is likewise contained in this volume. The Publishers are gratified, in being thus enabled to fuinish a full collection of the various poetical writings, of an Author, so long known by her brilliant talents, and so highly esteemed for her moral purity and domes! ic worth. The utnio'l care has been taken to follow the Author's orthography, (hi oiigboul this volume. " the notes that run^ P'roiu the wild harp, whicli silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er j When she, the bold enchantress, came, With fearless hand, and heart on flame I From the pale willow snatched the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure. Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Monfort's hate and Basil's love. Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakspearo lived again. " Srn Waltek Scott. INDEX. Introductory Discourse --------9 PLAYS. Basil, A Tragedy 27 The Tryal, A Comedy 58 De Monfort, A Tragedy 85 The Election, A Comedy 113 Ethwald, A Tragedy _ _ , 141 The Second Marriage, A Comedy ..._.. 097 Advertisement to the Second Edition - - - - - 237 To the Reader 239 Rayner, A Tragedy 243 Alterations in the Tragedy of Rayner 271 The Country Inn, A Comedy - - - - - - - 273 Constantino Paleologus, A Tragedy - - - . . . 290 Orra, A Tragedy 342 The Dream, A Tragedy 367 The Siege, A Comedy 384 The Beacon, A Serious Musical Drama 407 The Bride, A Drama • . 421 Preface to the Martyr 439 The Martyr, A Drama 443 Note 459 To the Reader 460 Family Legend ....... 4(52 " " Epilogue. By Henry Mackenzie Esq. - - - 489 METRICAL LEGENDS. Preface to William Wallace 493 William Wallace 499 Notes 511 I Christopher Columbus 522 Notes 531 Lady Griseld Baillie 537 Notes 543 Appendix 547 FUGITIVE PIECES. Lord John of the East 557 Malcom's Heir - - - 558 Note 560 The Elden Tree - - 561 The Ghost of Fadon - 563 Note 564 A November Night's Traveller 567 Sir Maurice, A Ballad 569 Address to a Steam- Vessel 571 To Mrs. Siddons 573 A Volunteer Song 573 To A Child 574 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. It is natural for a writer, who is about to submit his works to the Public, to feel a strong inclination, by sonic Preliminary Ad- dress, to conciliate the favor of his reader, and dispose him, if possible, to peruse them with a favorable eye. I am well aware, however, that his endeavors are generally fruitless : in his situation our hearts revolt from all appear- ance of confidence, and we consider his ditH- dcnce as hypocrisy. Our own word is fre- quently taken for what we 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 unconnect- ed with others that do not yet appear, 1 should have suppressed this inclination altogether ; and have allowed my reader to begin what is before him and to form what opinion of it his taste or his humor might direct, Avithout any previous 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 lan- guage : of one which a whole life's time will be limited enough to accomplish ; and which has, therefore, a considerable chance of being cut short by that hand which nothing can resist. Before I explain the plan of this work, I must make a demand upon the patience of my reader, whilst I endeavour to communicate to him those ideas regarding human nature, as they in some degree affect almost every species of moral writings, but particularly the Dramatic, that induced me to attempt 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 creatures, but the human above all. feel for others of their kind, nothing has become so much an object of man's curiosity as man himself. We are all conscious of this within ourselves, and so constantly do we meet with it in others, that, like every circumstance of continually repeated occurrence, it thereby escapes observation. Every person who is not deficient in intellect, is more or less occu- pied in tracing amongst the individuals he converses with, the varieties of understanding and 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 trivial and mischievous tattling, takes its rise not unfre- 1 quently from the same source that supplies the rich vein of the satirist and the wit. That eagerness so universally shown for the con- versation of the latter, plainly enough indi- cates how many people have been occupied in the same way with themselves. Let any one, in a large company, do or say what is strongly expressive of his peculiar character, or of some passion or humor of the moment, and it will be detected by almost every person present. How often may we see a very stupid countenance animated with a smile, wlien the learned and the wise have betrayed some native ll'ature of their own minds ! and how often will this be the case when they have supposed it to be concealed under a very sufficient disguise I From this constant em- ployment of their minds, most people, I believe, without being conscious of it, have stored uj) in idea the grctater part of those strong marked varieties of human character, which may be said to divide it into classes; and in one of those classes they involuntarily place every new person they become ac- quainted with. I will readily allow that the dress and the manners of men, rather than their charac- ters and dispositions, are the subjects of our common conversation, and seem chiefly t& occupy the multitude. But let it be remem- bered that it is much easier to express our observations upon these. It is easier to communicate to another how a man wears his wig and cane, what kind of house he inhabits, and what kind of table 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 often escape the memory, when the opinions that were founded u[)on tlicm remain. Besides, in communicating our ideas of the characters of otJiers, we are often called upon to support thein 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 generality of people appear to us more trifling than they are : and I may venture to say, that, but for this sympathetic curiosity to- wards others of our kind which is so strongly implanted within us, the attention 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 sympathetic propensity of our minds is exercised upon men under the common oc- 10 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. currences of life, in which we liave often obsorvpcl them. Here, vanity and woaknesf? put themselves forward to view, more con- spicuously than the virtues ; here, men en- counter those smaller trials, from which tliey are not apt to come oft' victorioiis ; and liere, consequently, that which is marked with the whimsical and ludicrous v/ill strike us most forcibly, and make t!ie strongest impression on our memory. To this sympathetic pro- pensity oi'our minds, so exercised, the genuine and pure comic of every composition, wheth- er drainn, fable, story, or satire, is addressed. If man is an object of so mucli attention to man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life, how much more does he excite his curiosity and interest, when placed in extraor- dinary situations of difficulty and distress ? It cannot be any pleasure we receive from the sufferings of a fellow-creature v;hich attracts such nmltitudes of people to a public e.v- ocution, though it is the horror we conceive for such a spectacle that keeps so many more away. To see a human being bearing him- self up under such circumstances, or strug- gling with the terrible apprehensions v/hich Biich a situation impresses, must be the powerful incentive, that makes us press forward to beliold what we shrink from, and wait with trembling expectation for what we dread." For tliough few at such a spectacle can get near enough to distinguish the ex- pression of face, or the minuter parts of a criminal's behaviour, yet from a considerable distance will they eagerly mark vidiethcr he steps firmly ; whether the motions of his body denote agitation or calmness ; and if the wind docs but raffle his garment, they will, even from that change upon the outline of his distant figure, read some expression connected with his dreadful situation. Though tliere is a greater proportion of people in whom this strong curiosity will be overcome by other dispositions and motives ; though there are many more wlio will stay away from such a siglit than will go to it ; 3'et there are very few who will npt bo eager to converse with a person who iias beheld it; and to learn, very jninutely, every circumstance connected with it, except tlie very act itself of inflicting death. To lift up the roof of his dungeon, like the Diabic Boitcur, and look upon a criminal the night before he suffers, in his still hours of privacy, when all tliat disguise is removed which is imposed by respect for the opinion of others, the strong motive by * In confirmation of tliis opinion I niay veaturc to say, that of the great numbers who go to see a public execution, tliere are but very few who would not run away fi-om, and avoid it, if they happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We find people stopping to look at a procession, or any other uiiconimon sight, they may have fdlcn ill witli accidentally, but almost never an execu- tion. No one giies there who liis not made up his mind for the occasion; which would not be the case, if .-in'' n:itiir:il love of cruelty were the cause of such assemblies. which even the lowest and wickedest of men still continue to be actuated, would present an object to the mind of every person, not withheld from it bj' great timidity of character, more powerfully attractivi- than almost any other. Revenge, no doubt, first began amongst the savages of y\inerica that dreadful custom of sacrificing their prisoners of war. But the perpetration 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 strengtls against the current of adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, or struggling witli tliose feelings of nature, which, Hive a beating stream, will oil times burst througii the artificial barriers of pride. Before they begin those terrible rites they treat their prisoners kindly ; and it cannot he supposed that men, alternately enemies and friends to so many neighboring tribes, in manners and appearance like themselves, should so strongly be actuated by a spirit of public revenge. This custom, therefore, must be considered as a grand and terrible game, which every tribe plays against anoth- er ; where they try not the strength of the arm, the swiilness of the feet, nor the acutcness of the ej'o. but the fortitude of the soul. Considered in this light, the excess of cruelty exercised upon their miserable victim, in which every liand is described as ready to inflict its portion of pain, and every head ingenious in the contrivance of it, is no longer to be wondered at. To put into his measure of misery one agony less, would be, in some degree, betraying the honor of their nation., would be doing a species of injustice to every hero of tjieir own tribe who had already sus- tained it, and to those who might be called upon to do so ; amongst whom each of these savage tormentors 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 hau.ghty victim himself, who would scorn to purchase his place amongst the heroes of his nation, at an easier price than Ills undaunted predecessors. Amongst the many trials to which the hnman mind is subjected, that of holding intercourse, real or imaginary, with the world of spirits; of finding itself alone with a being terrific and awful, whose nature and power are unknown, hvas been justly considered as one of tlie most severe. The workings of nature in this situation, we all know, have ever been tlie object of our most eager inquiry. No man wishes to see the Ghost himself, which would certainly i)rocure 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 terror. To gratify this curiosi- ty how many people have dressed up hideous a[)paritions to frighten the timid and super- stitious ! and have done it at the risk of destroying their happiness or understanding f)r ever. For the instances of intellect beintj INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 11 destroyed by tliis kind of trial are more numerous, perhaps, in proportion to the fev/ wJio have undergone it, than by any other. How sensible are we of this strong propen- sity within us, when we behold any person under the pressure of great and unconnnon calamity ! Delicacy and respect for the af- flicted will, indeed, make us turn ourselves aside ft-oin observing him, and cast down our eyes in his presence ; bvit the first glance we direct to him will involuntarily be one of the keenest observation, how hastily soever it may be checked ; and often will a returning look af inquiry mix itself by stealth with our sympathy and reserve. But it is not in situations of difF.culty and distress alone, that man becomes the object of this sympathetic curiosity : he is no less so when the evil he contends v/itli arises in his own breast, and no outward circumstance connected with him either awakens our atten- tion or our pity. What human creature is there, who can behold a being like himself under the violent agitation of those passions which all have, in some degree, experienced, without feeling himself most powerfully ex- cited by the sight.' I say, all have experi- enced : for the bravest man on earth knows what fear is as well as the coward ; and will not refuse 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 tlian any other, yet the unpleasing and distorted features of an angry man will be more eagerly gazed upon, by those v/ho are no wise concerned v/ith his fu- ry or the objects of it, than the most amiable placid countenance in the world. Every eye is directed to him ; every voice hushed to si- lence in his presence : even children v/ill leave off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after liim more eagerly than the gaudiest equipage. Tiie wild tossings of despair : the gnashing of hatred and revenge ; the yearnings of affec- tion, and the softened rnien of love ; all the language of the agitated soul, wliicii every age and nation understand, is never addressed to the dull or inattentive. It is not merely under the violent agita- tions of passion, tliat man so rouses and in- terests us ; even the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the restless e3'e, the muttermg lip, the half-checked exclamation, and the hasty start, will set our attention as anxiously upon the watch, as the first distant flashes of a gathering storm. V/hen some great explo- sion of passion bursts forth, and some conse- quent catastrophe happens, if we arc at all acquamted with the unhappy perpetrator, how minutely shall we endeavour to remember ev- ery circumstance of his past behaviour i and with wJiat avidity shall we seize upon eve- ry recollected v/ord or gesture, that is in tlie smallest degree indicative of the supposed state of his mind, at the time when they took jjlace. If we are not acquainted with him, how eagerly shall we listen to similar recollections from another ! Let us under- stand, from observation or report, that any person harbours in his breast, concealed frem the world's eye. some powerful rankling pas- sion 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 other. Nay, should we meet him unex- pectedly on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds as though we found our- selves in the neighborhood of seme secret and fearful tiling. If invisible, would we not fol- low him hito his lonely haunts, into his closet, into the midnight silence of his chamber .' There is, perhaps, no employment which the human mind will with so nmch avidity pur sue, as the discovery of concealed passion, as the tracing the varieties and progress of a per- turbed soul. It is to this sympathetic curiosity of our nature, exercised upon mankind in great and trying occasions, and under the influence of the stronger passions, Vi'hen the grand, the generous, and the terrible attract our atten- tion far more than the base and depraved, that the high and powerfully tragic, of every com- position, is addressed. This propensity is universal. Children begin to shov/ it very early ; it enters into many of their amusements, and that part of them too, for which they show tlie keenest relish. It oftentimes tempts them, as well as the mature in years, to be guilty of tricks, vexations and cruelty; yet Gon Almighty has implanted it within us, as well as all our other propensities and passions, for wise and good purposes. It is our best and most pow- erful mstructor. From it we are taught the proprieties and decencies cf ordinary life, and are prepared for distressing and difficult situ- ations. In examining others we know our- selves. With limbs untorn, with head un- smitten, 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 malevolent kind, we cannot well exercise this disposition without becoming more just, more merciful, more compassionate ; and as the dark and malevolent )/assions are not the predominant inmates of the hvunan 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 conscious- ness of what is right and becoming might never have 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 un- doubtedly is, with the generality of mankind it occupies itself in a passing and superficial 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 12 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. a nioincnt; they look upon it, singly and un- connectod : and though this disposifioii, even so exorcised, brings instruction as well as anuisement, it is chiefly by storing up in their minds those ideas to which tlie instructions of others refer, tiiat it can be eminently use- ful. Those who reflect and reason upon what human nature holds out to their obser- vation, are comparatively but few. No stroke of nature whicli engages their attention stands insulated and alone. Each presents itself to them with many varied connections; and they comprehend not merely the imme- diate feeling which gave rise to it, but the re- lation of tiiat feeling to others which are con- cealed. We wonder at the changes and ca- prices of men ; they see in them nothing but what is natural and accountable. We stare upon some dark catastrophe of jiassion, as the Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon ; they, conceiving the track of ideas through wliicii the impassioned mind has passed, re- gard it like the j)hilosopher wlio foretold the phenomenon. Knowing what situation of life he is about to be thrown into, they per- ceive in the man, wlio, like Hazael, says, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing.'" the foul and fi-rocious murderer. A man of this contemplative 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 strug- gling with, and triumphing over adversity, will be to him, also, the most deliglitful spec- tacle. But though this eagerness to observe their fellow-creatures in every situation, leads not the generality of mankind to reason and reflect ; and those strokes of nature which they arc so ready to remark, stand sin- gle and unconnected in their minds, j'et tliey may be easily induced to do both ; and there is no mode of instruction which they will so eagerly pursue, as that which lays open be- fore them, in a more enlarged and connected view tlian their individual observations are capable of supplying — tlie varieties of the hu- man mind. Above all, to be well exercised in this study will fit a man more particularly for tlie most important situations of life. 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 occurring circumstance, he will find himself the better enabled to fulfil his duty, and ac- complish his designs. He will perceive the natural effect of every order tliat he issues upon the minds of his soldiers, his subjects, or his followers: and he will deal to others judgment tempered with uKU-cy; that is to say, truly just; for justice appears to us se- vere only when it is imperfect. In proportion as moral writers of every class have exercised within themselves this sympathetic ])ropensity of our nature, and have attended to it in otiiers. their works have been interesting and instructive. They have struck ,the imagination more forciblv. convinced the understanding more clearly, and more lastingly impressed the memory. If unseasoned with any reference to this, the fairy bowers of the poet, with all his gay im- ages of delight, will be admired and forgot- ten ; the important relations of the historian, and even the reasonings of tlie philosojjher, will make a less permanent impression. The historian points back to the men of other ages, and from the gradually cleaying mist in which tliey are first discovered, like the mountains of a far distant land, the gen- erations of the world are displayed to our mind's eye in grand and regular procession. But the transactions of men become interest- ing to us only as we are made acquainted with men themselves. Great and bloody battles are to us battles fought in the moon, if it is not impressed upon our minds, by some circumstances attending them, that men subject to like weaknesses and passions with ourselves, were the combatants.* The establishments of policy make little impres- sion upon us, if we are left ignorant of the beings whom tliey affected. Even a very masterly drawn character will but slightly imprint upon our memory the great man it belongs to, if, in the account we receive of his life, those lesser circumstances are entire- ly neglected, which do best of all point out to us the dispositions and tempers of men. Some slight circumstance characteristic of the particular turn of a man's mind, which at first sight seems but little connected with the great events of his life, will often explain * 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 admirable exertions of military skill in tlie Cleiieral, and the most un- shaken courage in the soldiers, gain over an equal or superior number of brave opponents a com- plete and glorious victory. In the second let the General be less scientific, and the soldiers less dauntless. Let them go into the field for a cause tliat is dear to them, and fight with the ardor which such a motive inspires , till discouraged with the many deaths around them, and the ren- ovated pressure of the foe, some unlooked-for circumstance, trilling in itself, strikes their imag- ination at once : they are visited with the ter- ors of nature ; their national pride, the honor 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 kindles in the bosom of man the high and generous passions : they gathered 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? and 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 arc ob- scured in the di.stance ; whilst the other leaves no traces behind it, but in the minds of the scien- tific in war. INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. IS some of tliose events more clearly to our un- derstanding, than the minute details of osten- sible policy. A judicious selection of tliose circumstances which characterize the spirit of an associated mob. paltry and ludicrous as some of them may appear, will oftentimes convey to our minds a clearer idea why cer- tain laws and privileges were demanded and agreed to, than a methodical explanation of their causes. An historian who has examin- ed human nature himself, and likewise at- tends to the pleasure which developing and tracing it does ever convey to others, will employ our understanding as well as our memory with 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 wri- tings, the effect which the author's reasoning produces on our minds depends not entirely on the justness of it. The images and exam- ples that he calls to his aid to explain and il- lustrate his meaning, will very much affl'ct the attention we are able to bestow upon it. and consequently the quickness with which we shall apprehend, and the force with which it will impress us. These are selected from animated and unanimated nature, from the liabits, manners, and characters of men ; and though that image or example, whatever it may be in itself, wliich brings out his mean- ing most clearly, ought to be preferred before every other, yet of two equal in this respect, 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 argument supported with vivid and inter- esting illustration will long be remembered when many equally important and clear are forgotten ; and a work where many such oc- cur, will be held in higher estimation by the generality of men, than one, its superior, perhaps, in acutencss, perspicuity, and good sense. Our desire to know what men are in the closet as well as in tlie field, by the blazing hearth and at the social board, as well as in the council and the throne, is very imperfect- ly 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 liave 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 unmix- ed, or such heterogeneous combinations of character as real life never presented, and yet have pleased and interested us, let it not be imputed to the dulness of man in discerning 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 beauti- ful, the novel, and above all of the marvel- lous, 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 favounite- aliment. Yet we can never so far forget it, but that we shall cling to, and acknowledge it again, whenever it is presented before us. In a work abounding with the marvellous- and unnatm-al, if the author has any how stumbled upon an unsophisticated genuine stroke of nature, we shall iimnediately per- ceive and be delighted with it, though we are foolish enough to adniixe, at the same time, all the nonsense with which it is surrounded.. After all the wonderful incidents, dark mys- teries, 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 whicji de- scriptive novel so often enchants vzs; those works which most strongly characterize hur- man nature in the middling and lower classes of society, where it is to be discovered by stronger and more unequivocal marks, will ever be the most popular. For though great pains have been taken in our higher senti- mental novels to interest us in the delicacies^ embarrassments, and artificial distresses of tlie more refined part of society, tliey have- never been able to cope in the public opin- ion with these. The one is a dressed and beautiful pleasure ground, in which we are enclianted for a while, amongst the delicate and unknown plants of artful cultivation: the other is a rough forest of our native land;, the oak, the elm, the hazel, and the bramble are tliere; and amidst the endless varieties, of its paths we can wander forever. Inta whatever scenes the novelist may conduct us, what objects soever he may present to. our view, still is our attention most sensibly awake to every touch faithful to nature ; still are we upon the watch for everything tliat speaks to us 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, metaphor, allegory, and description, can remember tlie plain order of tilings in this every-day world ? From heroes whose majestic forms rise like a lofty tower, whose eyes are lightning, whose arms are irresistible, whose course is like the storms of heaven, bold and exalted sentiments we shall readily receive ; and shall not examine them very accurately by that rule of nature which our own breast prescribes to us. A shepherd, whose sheep, with fleeces of purest snow, browze the flowery herbage of the most beau- tiful vallies; whose flute is ever melodious, and whose shepherdess is ever crowned with roses; whose every care is love, will not be called very strictly to account for the lofti- ness and refinement of his thoughts. The fair Nymph who sighs out her sorrows to the conscious and compassionate wilds ; whose eyes gleam like the bright drops of heaven ; whose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may say what she pleases with impunity. I wiU 14 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. vcnturo, however, to saj', that amidst all this decoration and ornament, all this lol'tiness and reJinement, let one simple trait ol'the hu- man heart, one expression of passion genuine and true to nature, be introduced, -and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst tlie false and nnnatural around it, fade away upon every side, like the rising exhala- tions of the morning. With admiration, and often with enthusiasm, we proceed on our way througli the grand and the beautiful im- ages, raised to onr imagination by tiie lofty epic muse: but what, oven liere, are those things that strike upon tlie heart ; tliat we feel and remember ? Neither the descriptions of war, the sound of the trumpet, the clang- ing of arms, the combat of heroes, nor the death of the mighty, will interest our minds like the fall of the feeble stranger, who sim- ply expresses the anguish of his soul, at the thoughts of that far-distant home which he must never return to again, and closes his eyes amongst the ignoble and forgotten ; like the timid stripling goaded by the shame of reproach, v/ho urges his trembling steps to the fight, and falls like a tender llower be- fore the first blast of winter. Hov.' often v/ill some simple pictures of this kind be all that remains upon our minds of the terrific and magnificent battle, whose description we have read with admiration ^ How comes it that Ave relish so much the episodes of an heroic jpoem.' It cannot merely be that we are pleased with a resting place v/licre we enjoy the variety of contrast ; for were the poem of the simple and familiar kind, and an epi- sode after the heroic style introduced into it, ninety readers out of a hundred would pass over it altogether. It is not tliat we meet sucli a story, so situated, with a kind of sym- pathetic good will, as in passing tlirough a country of castles and of palaces, we should pop uuav.'ares 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 sympa- thetic interest we all take in beings like ourselves : and I vi?ill even venture to say, that were the grandest scenes which can en- ter into the imagination of man, presented to our view, and all reference to man completely shut out from our thoughts, the objects that composed it would convey to our minds little better than dry ideas of magnitude, color, and form ; and the remembrance of them would Test upon our minds like the measurement and distances of the planets. If the study of human nature then, is so useful to tlie poet, the novelist, the historian, and the philosopher, of how much greater im- portance must it be to t!ie dramatic writer .'' To them it is a powerful auxiliary, to him it is the centn; and strength of tlie battle. If characteristic views of human n.ature enliven not their pages, there are many excellencies with which they can, in some degree, make lip for the deficiency : it is what wc receive from them with pleasure rather than demand. But in his works, no richness of invention, harmony of language, nor grandeur of senti- ment will supplv tile place of faithfully delin- eated nature. The poet and the novelist may represent to you their great characters 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 prop- er, without being obliged to put words into their mouths, those great betrayers of the feigned and adopted. They may relate every circumstance, hov.'cver trifling and minute, that serves to develope their tempers and dis- positions. 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 circumstance regarding the parties concerned in it, how they looked, how they moved, liow they sighed, how the tears guslied from their eyes, how the very light and shadow fell upon them, is carefully described ; and the few things tliat are given them to say along with all this assistance, must be very unnatural in- deed if we refuse to sympathize with them. But the characters of the drama must speak directly for themselves. Under the influence of every passion, humor, and impression ; in the artificial veilings of hypocrisy and cer- emony, in the openness of freedom and con- fidence, and in the lonely hour of meditation they speak. He who made us hath placed within our breasts a judge that judges instan- taneously of every thing they say. We ex- pect to find them creatures like ourselves ; and if they are untrue to nature, we feel that we are imposed upon. As in other works deficiency in character- istic truth may be compensated by excellen- cies of a different kind, in the drama, charac- teristic truth v^'ill compensate every other defect. Nay, it will do what appears a con- tradiction ; one strong genuine stroke of na- ture 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 intoxi- cated with it, and so perfectly convinced of the authors great knowledge of the human heart, that we are unv/illing to suppose the whole of it has not been suggested by the same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning enthusiastic critics have given themselves a great deal of trouble in this way ; and have shut tlieir eyes most ingeniously against tlie fair light of nature for the very love of it. They have converted, in their great zeal, sen- timents palpably false, both in regard to the character and situation of the persons who ut- ter them, sentiments which a child or a clown would detect, into the most skilful depict- ments of the heart. I can think of no strong- er instance to shov/ how powerfully this love of nature dwells witliinus.* *^ It appears to ino a very strong testimony of the excellence of our great national Dramatist, that so many people have been employed in find- INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 15 Formed as we are with these sympathetic propensities in regard to our own species, it is not at all wonderful that theatrical exhibition lias become the grand and favourite amuse- ment of every nation into which it has been introduced. Savages v.'ill, in the wild con- tortions of a dance, shape out some rude story expressive of character or p.assion, and sucli a dance, will give more delight to their coni- panion,? than the most artful exertions of agil- ity. Children in their gambols will make out a mimic representation of tlie manners, char- acters, and passions of gTown men and women; and such a pastime will animate and delight them much more than a treat of the daintiest sweetmeats, or the handling of the gaudiest toys. Eagerly as it i-; enjoyed by the rude and the young, to the polished and the ripe in years it is still the most interesting amuse- ment. Our taste for it is durable as it is universal. Independently of those circum- stances which first introduced it, the world would not have long been v;ithout it. The progress of society would soon have brought it forth ; and men, in the v.'himsical decora- tions 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." ing out obscure and refined beauties, in wliat ap- pear to ordinary observation his very defects. iVIen, it, may be said, do so merely to show their own superior 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 recQived from the works of Shak- spearc, pleasure far beyond what the most perfect poetical compositions of a diifereiit character can a.Tord.' * Though th.e progress of society would liavc given us the Drama, independently of the p^-.i-tic- ular cause of its first commencement, the pecu- liar 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, aiid still will continue to affect it. Ifomer had long preceded the dramatic poets of Greece ; poetry was in a high state of cultiva- tion when they began to write ; and their style, the construction of their pieces, and the charac- ters of their heroes were diflcrent from what they would have been, had theatrical exiiibitions 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 public games, and the feasts of their gods. A play, with the principal characters of which they were previously acquainted 5 in v.'hich their great men and heroes, in the most beautiful lan- guage, complained of their rigorous fate, but piously submitted to the will of the gods; in which sympathy was chiefly excited by tender and affecting sentiments ; in v/hich strong bursts of passion were few ; and in which whole scenes frequently passed, without giving tlie actors any thing to do but to speak, was not too insipid for them. Had the drama been the invention of a less cultivated nation, more of action and of pas- sion v.'oukl have been introduced into it. It would have been more irregular^ more imperfect, In whatever age or country the Drama might have taken its rise, I'ragedy would have been the first-born of its children. For every nation has its great anen, and its great events upon record ; and to represent their own forefathers struggling with those difficul- ties, and braving those dangers, of which tliej^ have heard v.'ith admiration, and the ef- fects of which they still, perhaps, experience, would certainly have been the most animat- ' ing subject for the poet, and the most inter- esting for his audience, even indcpinidentl'y of the natural inclination we all so universal- ly show for scenes of horror and distress, of passion and heroic exertion. Tragedy would have been the first child of the Drama, for the sanw reasons that have made heroic bal- lad, with all its battles, murders, and disas- ters, the earliest poetical compositions of eve- ry country. We behold heroes and great men at a dis- tance, unmasked by those small but distin- guishing features of the mind, which give a certain individuality to such an infinite vari- ety of similar beings, in the near and familiar intercourse of life. They appear to us from: this view like distant mountains, whose dark, outlines we trace in the clear horizon, but the varieties of whose roughened sides, shaded with heath and brushv/ood, and seamed with many a cleft, we perceive not. When acci- dental anecdote reveals to us any weakness or peculiarity belonging to them, we start upon it like a discovery. They arc made known to us in history only, by the great events tlicy are connected with, and the part they have taken in extraordinary or impor- tant transactions. Even in poetry and ro- mance, with the exception of some love story interwoven with the main events of their lives, thei^ arc seldom more intimately made known: to us. To Tragedy it belongs to lead them more varied, more interesting. From poor be- ginnings 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 contempo- raries with the produce of a free and unbridled imagination. A dhTerent class of poets would most likely have been called into e.Nistence. The latent powers of men are called forth by con- templating those works in which they find any thing congenial to their own peculiar talents ; and if the field, wherein they could have worked, is already enriched with a produce nnsuited to their cultivation, they think not of entering it at all. Men, therefore, whose natural turn of mind led them to labor, 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 Critics have become our Poets. I mean not, however, in any degree to depreciate the works of the ancients ; a great deal vv-e have gained by those beautiful composi- tions ; and what wc have lost by them it is impossible to compute. Very strong genius will sometimes brealc through every disadvantage of circumstances : Shakspeare has arisen in this country, and we ouirht not to com.plain. IG INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. forward to our nearer regard, in all the distin' ffuishing varieties which nearer inspection discovers ; with tlie psssions, the humors, the weaknesses, tlu^ prejudices of men. It is for her to present to us Uie great and magnani- mous hero, who appears to our distant view as a superior being, as a god, softened down with tliose smaller frailties and impertections which enable us to glory in, and claim kin- dred to his virtues. It is for her to exhibit to us the daring and ambitious man planning his dark di'signs, and executing Jiis bloody pur- poses, marked with tliose appropriate charac- teristics, which distinguisli him as an individ- ual of that class ; and agitated with those va- jried 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 warrior struck witii those visitations of nature, which, in certain situations, will unnerve the strongest arm, and make the boldest heart tremble. It is for her to show the tender, gentle, and unassum- ing mind animated with that fire which, by the provocation of circumstances, will give to the kindest heart tlie ferocity 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 po- «t, the novehst, and the liistorian can but im- perfectly attempt. But above all, to her, and to her only it belongs to unveil to us tlie hu- man mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed passions, which, seemingly unpro- voked by outward circumstances, will from small beginnings brood within tiie 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, oftentimes, only give their fulness vent in tlie lonely desert, or in tlie 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 thobc excla- mations of the soul which heaven alone may hear, tliat the historian should be able to iii- ibrm us ? and what form of story, what mode of reliearsed speech will communicate 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 first part of this task her Bards have eagerly exerted their abilities : and some amongst them, taught by strong original ge- nius to deal immediately witii human nature and tlieir own hearts, have labored in it suc- cessfully. 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 consid- ered as respectable dramatic poets, have very much failed. From tli<^ beauty of those orig- inal dramas to which tliey have ever looked back with admiration, they Iiave been tempt- ed 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 produced by their writ- inirs, than the varii'ties of human character which first furnished materials for those works, or those princijiles in the mind of man by means of which such effects were produc- ed. Neglecting the boundless variety of na- ture, certain strong outlines of character, cer- tain bold features of passion, certain grand vicissitudes, and striking dramatic situations, have been repeated from one generation to another ; whilst a pompous and solemn gravi- ty, which they have supposed to be necessary for the dignity of tragedy, has e?:cluded al- most entirely from tiieir 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 consequent- ly shown them imperfectly. Thus, great and magnanimous heroes, who bear with majestic equanimity every vicissitude of fortune ; who in every temptation and trial stand forth in unshaken virtue like a rock buffeted by the waves ; who, encompassed with the most ter- rible evils, in calm possession of their souls, reason upon the difficulties of their state; and, even upon the brink of destruction, pro- nounce long eulogiums on virtue, in tlie most eloquent and beautiful language, have been held forth to our view as objects of imitation and interest, as though they had entirely forgotten that it is only for creatures like our- selves that we feel, and therefore, only from creatures like ourselves that we receive the instruction of example." Thus passionate and impetuous warriors, who are proud, irri- table, and vindictive, but generous, daring, and disinterested; setting their lives at apin's fee for the good of others, but incapable of curbing their own humour of a moment to gain the whole world for themselves ; who will pluck the orbs of heaven from their places, and crusli the whole universe in one grasp, are called forth to kindle in our souls the gen- erous contempt of every thing abject and base; but with an effect proportionably feeble, as the hero is made to exceed in courage and * To a being perfectly free from all human infinuity our sympathy refuses to extend. Our Saviour himself, 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 lie says, " Father, let this cup pass from me." ll.ad he been represented to us in all the unshaken strcniith of thsce tragic heroes, his disciples would have made fewer converts, and liis pre- cepts would have been listened to coldly. Plays in which heroes of this kind arc held forth, and whose aim is, indeed, honorable and praise- worthy, have been admired by the cultivated and refined, but the tears of the simple, the applauses of the young and untaught have been wanting. INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 17 fire what the standard of }inmanity will agree to.' Thus, tender and pathetic lovers, full of the most gentle affections, the most amia- ble dispositions, and the most exquisite feel- ings; 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 unvaried strain of studied pathos, whilst tliis constant demand upon our feelings makes us absolutely incapa- ble of answering it.t Thus, also, tyrants are represented as monsters of cruelty, unmixed with any feelings of himianity ; and villains as delighting in all manner of treachery and deceit, and acting upon many occasions, for the very love of villany itself; though the perfectly wicked are as ill fitted for the pur- poses of warning, as the perfectly virtuous * In all burlesque imitations of tragedy, those plays in which this hero is pre-eminent, are al- ways exposed to bear the great brunt of the ridi- cule, 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 popalar, however, is not owing to the intrin- sic merit of tlic 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 some- thing in the human mind, independently of its love of applause, which inclines it to boast. This is ever the attendant of tliat elasticity of soul, whicli makes us bound up from the touch of oppression ; and if there is nothing in the ac- companying 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 excited, (for the- understanding is more easily deceived than the heart ;) but liow stands our sympathy affect- ed ? As no caution nor foresight, ou their own account, is ever suffered to occupy the thoughts of such bold disinterested beings, we are the more inclined to care for them, and to take an interest in their fortune through the course of the play : yet, as their souls are unappalied by anything; as pain and death are not at all re- garded by them ; and as we have seen them very ready to "plunge their own swords into their own bosoms, on no very weighty occasion, perhaps, their death distresses us but little, and they com- monly fall unwept. t Were it not, that in tragedies where tliese heroes preside, the same soft tones of sorrow are so often repeated in our ears, till v.'e are perfect- ly tired of it, they are more fitted to interest us than any other ; both because in seeing them, we own the ties of kindred between ourselves and the frail mortals we lament ; and sympathize with the weakness of mortality unmixed with any thing to degrade or disgust ; and also, because the mis- fortunes, which form the story of the play, are frequently ofthe more familiar and domestic kind. A king driven from his throne, v.'ill not move our sympathy so strongly, as a private man torn from the bosom of liis familv. are for those of example. t This spirit of imi- tation, and attention to effect, has likewise confined them very much in their choice of situations and events to bring their great char- acters 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 authors, and great atten- tion to the beauties of composition, and to dig- nity of design, enriched their plays with much striking and sometimes sublime imagery, lof- ty thoughts, and virtuous, sentiments ; but in striving so eagerly to excel in tliose things that belong to tragedy in common with many other compositions, they have very much neg- lected those that are peculiarly her oVv'n. As far as they have been led aside from the first labors of a tragic poet by a desire to commu- nicate more perfect moral instruction, their motive has been respectable, and they merit our esteem. But this praiseworthy end lias been injured instead of promoted by their mode of pursuing it. Every species of moral writing has its own way of conveying instruc- tion, which it can never, but witii disadvan- tage, exchange for any other. The Drama improves us 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 situa- tions, exposed to those great trials, and en- gaged in those extraordinary transactions, in wiiich 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 hu- man 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. :j: 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 ofthe above characters is like- wise applicable to it. I believe there is no man that ever lived, who has behaved in a cer- tain manner on a certain occasion, who has not had amongst women some corresponding spirit, wlio, on the like occasion, and every way simi- larly circumstanced, would have behaved in the like manner. With some degree of softening and refinement, each class of the tragic heroes I have mentioned has its corresponding one amongst the heroines. The tender and pathetic no doubt has the most numerous, but the great and magnanimous is not without it, and tlie pas- sionate and impetuous boasts of one by no means inconsiderable in numbers, and drawn sometimes to the full as passionate and impetu- ous as itself 18 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. But the last part of tlie task which I have mentioned as peculiarly belonging to trage- dy, unveiling the human mind under the do- minion of those strong and fixed passions, whicli, seemingly unprovoked by outward circumstances, will from small beginnings brood within the lireast, till all the better dis- positions, 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 disturb- ers of the human breast, with whom we are all, more or less, called upon to contend. With their strong and obvious features, tliere- fore, they have been presented to us, stripped almost entirely of those less obstrusive, 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 charac ters of a tragedy affected by the passions in a transient, loose, unconnected 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 timid- ity, irresolution, distrust, and a thousand del- icate traits, which make the infancy of every great passion more interesting, perhaps, than its full-blown strength, are fied. The im- passioned character is generally brought into view under those irresistible attacks of their power, which it is impossible to repel ; whilst those gradual steps tliat lead him into this state, in some of which a stand might have been made against the foe, are left entirely in the shade. Those 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, liatred, love, every passion that is permanent in its nature, and varied in progress, if rep- resented to us but in one stage of its course, is represented imperfectly. It is a charac- teristic 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 affections of the mind that we best dis- cover their strength, not with events. But in tragedy it is events more frequently than opposite affections which are opposed to them; and those often of such force and magnitude, tluit the passions themselves are almost obscured by the splendor and impor- tance of the transactions to which they are attached. Besides being thus confined and mutilated, the passions have been, in the o-reater part of our tragedies, deprived of the very power of making themselves known. Bold and figurative language belongs pecu- liarly to them. Poets, admiring those bold expressions wliich a mind, laboring with ideas too strong to be conveyed in the ordi- nary forms of speech, wildly throws out, taking earth, sea, and sky, every thing great and terrible in nsiture, to image forth the violence of its feelings, borrowed them gladly, to adorn the calm sentiments of their j)rcmed- itated song. It has therefore been tiiought that the less animaU^d parts of tragedy might be so embeUished and enriched. In doing this, however, the passions have been rob- bed of their native prerogative ; and in adorn- ing with their strong figures and lofty ex- pressions the calm speeches of the unruffled, it is found that, when they are called upon to raise their voice, the power of distinguish- ing themselves has been taken away. This is an injury by no means comjjensated, but very greatly aggravated, by embellishing, in return, the speeches of passion with the ingenious conceits, and complete similes of premeditated thought.* There are many other things regarding the manner in which dramatic poets have generally brought forward the passions in tragedy, to the greatest pre- judice of that effect they are naturally fitted to produce upon the mind, which I forbear to mention, lest they should too much in- crease 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 public a work, with, doubtless, many faults and imperfections on its head. From this general view, whicli 1 have en- deavoured 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 led to believe, that an attempt to write a series of tragedies, of sirn- pler construction, less embellished with poeti- cal decorations, less constrained by that lofty seriousness which has so generally been considered as necessary for the support of tragic dignity, and in which the chief object should be to delineate tlie progress of the higher passions in the human breast, each play exhibiting a particular passion, might not be unacceptable to the public. And I have been the more readily induced to act upon this idea, because I am confident, that tragedy, written upon this plan, is fitted to produce stronger moral effi;ct than upon any other. I have said that tragedy, in represent- ing to us great characters struggling with difficulties, and placed in situations of emi- nence and danger, in wliich few of us have any chance of lieing called upon to act, con- veys its moral efficacy to our minds by the "* This, perhaps, more than any thing else has injured the higher scenes of tragedy. For hav- ing made such free use of bold hyperbolical language in the inferior parts, tliQ poet, when he arrives at the highly impassioned, sinks into total inability : or if he will force himself to rise still higher on tlie wing, he flies beyond nature altogether, into the regions of bombast and ncJn- sense. INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 19 enlarged views which it gives to us of human nature, by the admiration of virtue and ex- ecration 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 passions to which all are liable, this is not the case. Those strong passions that, with small as- sistance 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 niind of man in that state when we are most curious to look into it, and is equally interest- ing to all. Discrimination of character is a turn of mind, though mor« common than we are aware of, wliich every body does not possess ; but to the expressions of passion, particularljr strong passion, the dullest mind i.s awake ; and its true unsophisticated lan- guage the dullest understanding will not misinterpret. To hold up for our example those peculiarities in disposition and modes of tlunking which nature has fixed upon us, or which 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 passions, brings before us the operation of a tempest that rages out its time and passes away. We cannot, it is true, amidst its wild uproar, listen to the voice of reason, and save ourselves from de- struction ; 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 com- ing blast. To change a certain disposition of mind which makes us view objects in a particular light, and thereby, oftentimes, un- known to ourselves, influences our conduct and manners, is almost impossible ; but in checking and subduing those visitations of tlie soul, whoso causes and eSects we are aware of, every one may make considerable progress, if ho 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 approach of the enemy, when he might have been combated most successfully ; and v.'here the suffering him to pass may be considered as occasioning 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, ca- price, prejudices, and absurdities which a near and familiar view of them discovers. It is her task to exhibit them engaged in the busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and perplexing themselves with the endless pur- suits of avarice, vanity, and pleasure; and engaged with those smaller trials of the mind, by which men are most apt to be over- come, and from which he, who could have supported with honor the attack of great oc- casions, will oftentimes come off" most shame- fully foiled. It belongs to her to show the varied fashions and manners of the world, as, from the spirit of vanity, caprice, and im- itation they go on in swift and endless suc- cession ; and those disagreeable or absurd pe- culiarities 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 situa- tions, 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 before us, for our derision and sport. In pourtraying the characters of men she has this advantage over tragedy, that the smallest traits of na- ture, with the smallest circumstances which serve to bring them forth, may by her be displayed, however ludicrous and trivial in . i themselves, without any ceremony. And in developing the passions she enjoys a similar advantage ; for they often more strongly be- tray themselves when touched by those small and famihar occurrences which cannot, con- sistently with the effect it is intended to pro- duce, be admitted into tragedy. As tragedy has been very much cramped in her endeavors to exalt and improve the mind, by that spirit of imitation and confinement in her successive writers, which the beauty of her earliest poets first gave rise to, so comedy has been led aside from her best purposes by a different temptation. Those endless chan- ges in fashions and in manners, which offer such obvious and ever-new subjects of ridi- cule; that infinite variety of tricks and manoeu- vres by which the ludicrous may be produced, and curiosity and laughter excited ; the admi- ration we so generally bestow upon satirical remark, pointed repartee, and whimsical com- binations of ideas, have too often led her to forget the warmer interest we feel, and the more profitable lessons we receive, from genu- ine representations of nature. Tlie most in- teresting and instructive class of comedy, therefore, the real characteristic, has been very much neglected, whilst satirical, witty, sentimental, and, above all, busy or circum- stantial comedy, have usurped the exertions of the far greater proportion of Dramatic Wri- ters. In Satirical Comedy, sarcastic and severe reflections on the actions and manners of men, introduced with neatness, force, and poignan- C}'' of expression, into a hvely and well-sup- ported dialogue, of whose gay surface they are the embossed ornaments, make the most important and studied part of the work: char^ acter is a thing talked of rather than shown. The persons of the drama are indebted 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 incident being unfavourable for studied and elegant dialogue, the plot is conmionly sim- ple, and the few events that compose it nei- 20 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. ther interesting nor striking. It only affords us that kind of moral instruction which an essay or a poem could as well have conveyed, and, tJiougij amusing in the closet, is but fee- bly attractive in the Theatre.* in what T have termed Witty Comedy, ev- ery thing isligiit, playful, and easy. Strong, decided condemnation of vice is too weighty and material to dance upon the surface of that stream, whose shallow currents sparkle in perpetual sunbeams, and cast up their bub- bles to the light. Two or three persons of quick thought, and whimsical fancy, who per- ceive instantaneously the various connections of every passing idea, and the significations, natural or artificial, which single expressions, or particular forms of speech can possibly con- vey, take the lead through 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 inci- dents being numerous enough, but seldom striking or varied. To amuse, and only to amuse, is its aim ; it pretends 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 accident, and read ibut a scene at a time. Sentimental Comedy treats of those embar- rassments, difficulties, and Scruples, which, though sufficiently distressing to the delicate minds who entertain them, are not powerful enough to gratify the sympathetic desire we all feel to look into the heart of man in diffi- cult and trying situations, which is the sound basis of tragedy, and arc destitute of that sea- soning of the lively and ludicrous, which pre- vents the ordinary transactions of comedy from becoming insipid. In real life, those who, from the peculiar frame of their minds, feel most of this refined distress, are not gen- erally communicative upon the subject; and tliose 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 conversa- tions upon the stage about small sentimental niceties, can be generally interesting. I am afraid plays of this kind, as well as works of a similar nature, in other departments of liter- ature, have only tended to increase 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 which they pretend to possess, for plain simple up- rightness and rectitude. In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, * These plays are generally the work of men, whose jiulginent and acute observation enable them admirably well to "cncralizc, 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 tile attributes they have assigned to those classes. governantes, and chambermaids ; that am- bushed 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, who have crouched down, with 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 mortals deputed to have the charge of them, cannot be seen with indifference. Like an old hunter, who pricks up his ears at the sound of the chase, and starts away from the path of liis journey, so, leaving all wisdom and criticism behind us, wc follow the varied chan- ges of the plot, and stop not for reflection. The studious man who wants a cessation fronr thought, the indolent man who dislikes it, and all those who, from habit or circumstances, live in a state of divorce from their own minds, 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 do- mestic authority, so constantly held forth, has a very bad effect upon the younger part of an audience; and that continual lying and deceit in the first characters of the piece, which is necessary for conducting the plot, has a most pernicious one. But Characteristic Comedy, which repre- sents to us this motley world of men and wo- men in which we live, under those circum- stances of ordinary and familiar life most fa- vourable to the discovery of the human heart, offers to us a wide field of instruction adapted to general application. We find in its varied scenes an exercise of the mind analogous to that which we all, less or more, find out for ourselves, amidst the mixed groups of people whom we meet witli in society ; and wliich I have already mentioned as an exercise uni- versally pleasing to man. As the distinctions which it .is its higliest 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 character of a peer those native peculiarities which belong- to him as a man, though ho is entirely at a loss in all that regards his manners and ad- dress as a nobleman. It illustrates to us the general remarks we have jnade 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 con- ceive of mankind, are founded. It stands but little in need of busy plot, extraordinary in- cidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. It naturally produces for itself all that it re- quires. Characters, who are to speak for them- selves, who arc 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 considerable va- riety of judicious incident: a smile that is raised by some trait of undisguised nature, and a laugh that is provoked by some ludi- crous effect of passion, or clashing of opposite" INtRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 21 chaj-acters, will be more pleasing to the gen- erality of men, than either the one ortheotli- er when occasioned by a play upon words, or a whimsical combination of ideas ; and to be- hold the operation and effects of the different propensities and weaknesses of men, will natu- rally call up in the mind of the spectator mor- al reflections more applicable, and more im- pressive than all the lugh-sounding senti- ments with wliich the graver scenes of Satir- ical and Sentimejital Comedy are so frequently interlarded. It is much to be regretted, how- ever, that the eternal introduction of love as tlie grand business of the Drama, and the consequent necessity for making the chief persons in it, such, in regard to age, appear- ance, manners, dispositions, and endowments, as are proper for interesting lovers, has oeca- Bioned so much iusipid snnilarity in tlie high- er characters. It is chiefly, theretbre, on the second and inferior chaiacters, that tlie eftbrts, even of our best poets, have been exhaust- ed : and thus we are called upon to be inter- ested in the fortune of one man, whilst our chief attention is directed to the character of (mother, which produces a disunion of ideas in the mind, injurious to the general effect of tiie wiiole. From this cause, also, tliose cliaracteristic varieties have been very much neglected, wliich men present t.i us in the middle stages of life ; when they are too old for lovers or the confidents of lovers, and too yomig to be the fathers, uncles, and guardi- ans, who are contrasted with them ; but when they are still in full vigour of mind, eagerly ■engaged with the world, joining the activity of youtli to the providence of age, and offer to our attention objects sulliciently interesting And instructive. It is to be regretted that .strong contrasts of character are too often at- tempted, instead of those harmoiiious shades of it, which nature so bcautitully varies, and v/hich we so greatly delight in, wheneverwe cleaj-ly distinguish tlieni. It is to be regret- ted that in place of tiiose characters, wliich present tlu-mselves to the imagination of a writer from his general observations upon mankind, inferior poets have so often pour- trayed with senseless minuteness the charac- ters of particular individuals. We are pleased with the eccentricities of individuals in real life, and also in histor}' or biography, but iu fictitious writings we regard tliem with sus- picion ; and no representation of nature, tliat corresponds not with some of our general ideas in regard to it, will either instruct or in- form us. When the original of such char- acters are known and remembered, the plays in which they are introduced are oftentimes popular ; and their temporary success has in- duced a stiU inferior class of poets to believe, that, by making men strange, and unlike the rest of the world, they have made great dis- coveries, and mightily enlarged the boun- daries of dramatic character. They will, therefore, ilistinguish one man from anotlier by some strange whim or imagination, which is ever uppermost in his thoughts, and influ- ences every action of his life ; by some singu- lar opinion, perhaps, about politics, fashions, or the position of the stars ; by some strontr unaccountable love for one thing, or aversion from another ; entirely forgetting that, such singularities, if they are to be found in na- ture, can no where be sought lor, with such probability of success, as in Bedlam. Above all it is to be regretted that those adventitious distinctions amongst men, of age, fortune, rank, profession, and country, are so often brought forward in j)reference to the great original distinctions of nature , and our scenes so often filled with courtiers, lawyers, citi- zens, Frenclimen, &c. &c. with all the char- acteristics 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 tlie changes of new fiishions burlesqued, and new customs tuined into ridicule, cannot conceal. In comedy, the stronger passions, love ex- cepted, are seldom introduced but in a pass^ ing way. We have sliort bursts of onger, fits of jealousy and impatience ; violent pas- sion of any continuance we seldom find. When this is attempted, however, forgetting that mode of exposing the weakness of the human mind, Avliich peculiarly belongs to her, it is too frequently done in the serious spirit of tragedy ; and tlii;^ has produced so many of those serious comic plays, wliich so mucii divide and distract our attention.* Yet we *■ Such plays, liowever cvcellent tlie parts may be of v.hich they are composed, can never pro- duce the same strength and unity of effect upon our minds which wo receive from plavs of a simpler undivided construction. If the serious and distressing scenes make a deep impression. we do not find ourselves in a humour for tbe comic ones that succeed} and if the comic scenes enliven us greatly, we feel tardy and unalert in bringing back our minds to a proper tone for the serious. As iu tragedy we smile at tliose native traits of character, or that occasion- al §prightliness of dialogue, which are sometimes introduced to animate licrkss 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 kind- ness on the heart, and are quickly succeeded by smiles. Like a small summer-cloud, whose rain- drops sparkle in tlie sun, and whicli swiftly passes away, is the genuine pathetic of comedy 5 the gathering foreseen storm, that darkens the whole face of the sky, belongs to tragedy nlone. It is often observed, I confess, that we are more apt to be affected by those scenes oi" distreES which we meet with in comedy, than the high- wrought woes of tragedy ; and I believe it is true. But this arises from the woes oi' tragedy being so often nppropriated 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 wo enter into the distresses of people, more upon a level with ourselves ; and whose sorrowa are expressed in less studied and unnatural language. INTROmCTORV DISCOUIlSl':. sill kiiiiw tVom our own t^xporifnco in roal life, (Iwif. iu corlniii situations, ami nndorror- tain ciivuinstnnco!', tlio stroiiijor passions nro liltod to pnnlui'o soonos nioro oxqnisitoly i-oiaio tliun any otIuM-: and on(> wvU-wtouoht si'ono of this kinil will liafr a nioro poworiiii ctlocf in roprossinjx similar inloniporanct^ in llic mind ot'asptH-iator.than n\any moral can- tionSj or ovon. porhaps, than the l(MTitic ox- nniplop oftrairrdy. Thciv arc to be t'oiind.no douH, in the wi>rks ot'onr bt-s^ dramatic writ- ers, coi'iic scenes «iosiMiptiv»> ot' the strono-er passions, but it is jjenerally tlie interior ehar- aoters ot'tho piece wlio an> made tJie subjects t>f tiietn. very rarely tliose in wliom wc aro nnich interested : and consequently the use- I'ul dVeel ot'snch scenes upon tlie n\ind is very much we:iJvened. This jyeneral appropriation ot'them has tempted our less skilt'ul Ovamat- ists to exuiio-erale, and step, in t\n-lher quest ot' tJie ludicrous, so nnich beyond the Ixnuuls of nature, that the very elVeetthey are so anx- ious to produce is theivby d(>stroyed, anil all >isi^t"ul a]>plic.ition ol"it entirely cut otl"; tor we never apply to ourselves a tiilse ivpre.seiJtat.ion ot' uaturv\ lint a eomplcMo exhibition of passion, with il.s varieties and pn\!vn>ss in tlie breast ot' man, has. 1 believe, scarcely ever been attempted in comedy. Kven love, thousrh tlie chiet' .subject ot' almost every play, has been pour- traved in a loose, scattered, and impert'ect inaimer. The story ol'tlie lovoi> is acted over liefore \is. whilst the cliuraeteristios of tliat pa.'^ion b\ which they are actuated, and which is tJio ji'veat inaster-spriniv of the whole, nn' I'.untly to be iliscovered. AVe are j^mio- nJlv intr^Hlueed to a lover after he has long Won acquainted witJi his luistn^ss. and wantjs hut the eonseut of some stubborn relation, iv- lief I'rom some enibavrassment of situation, or the eleariuii" up some mistake or love quarrel occrt.-'ioned bv malice or accident, to nialve him conipletrly liappv. To overcome these (jitliciil- ties. he is enijaged in a busy train of contri- vance .and exertion, in which the spirit, activi- ty, and iusJiMiuity of the man is held forth to view, wliiist t he iover.compar.-vtively sjH'akhijT. is kept out of sijrht. Hut even when tliis is not tlie case : wlien tlie lover is not so busied and involved, this sta^ of the i).ission i-; ex- actly tiie one that is least interestjuor. aiul least instructive : not to mention, as 1 liuve done alrvMdy. that one stajji" of ;uiy passion must Siiow it iinperl'eetly. From this viinv of the Comic Dr.ania. I have been induced to Ivlieve. that, as companions to the torenienlioued tjiujedies. a series of eoinedios on a similar plan, in which bustle of plot, brilliancv of diidoffue, aiul oven tlie lK»ld .and stxikiuo; in character, should, to the lu'st of the author's judijiueut. be kept in due subordination to nature, nught likewise W ac- ceptable to the public. I ain confident that comedy uinui this phm is capable of iKnnsf made ns inten'stin^. ;u»entortaininjr. and su- perior in moral tendeucv to any o'her. For eveji in ortliiuu'y life. witJi ver}' slight cause to excite them, etronst passions will foster theinselvos within tJie breast; and what are all the evils which vanity, foll\'. prejudice, or l)eculiarily ot'tiMiipcr lead to. compared with those wliieh siieli unquiet inmates produce f VN'(>re thev eouliiied to the exalted and th« niiiihtv. to liio-je eiiiifaired iu the jjreat I'vent:* of the world, to the inhabitiiutjsof palaces and c.Tinps. how happy, comparatively, would tJiis worhl be ! But many a miserable beinir, whom firm principle, timidity of character, or tlie fear of sliaiue keeps Kick from the actual commission of crimes, is tonneiited in obscu- rity, under the iloniinion of those passions which jil.ice tiie seducer in njubiish. rouse tlie bold spoiler to wronor, and strenorUieii the arm of the murderer. Thouoh to those vfitii whom such daiio-erous enemies have lono- found shel- ter, exposiii;:; them in an al>siinl and ridicu- lous li shootiuii a tinely-poinled arrow auainst the hardened rock ; yet to those with whom they are but new, ajul less assur- ed "uests. this may prove a inoi-e successful inotle of attack than any otJier. It Vwas the sayiiT by any other spe- cies of writing; and they are strengtJiened in everv spectator, by observing their etl'ects up- on thoise who surrouui! him. From this ob- servation. tJie mind of my rtviik^rwill suggt^st of itself what it would be unnecessary, and, perhaps, iniprojrer in me here to enlarg-e upon The tlieatre is a school iu which much good or evil may Iv learned. At the beginning of its career, tlie Drama was emploveil to mis- lead and excite; and. wen^ 1 not unwilling to n-fer to transavtions of the present times. 1 might abundantly confirm what 1 have siiid byrecent examples. The author, therefore, who aims in anv decree to improve the motle oi' its instruction, and point to more nset'ul lessons than it is generally eiiii>loyed to dis- pense, is certainly in-aiseworthy.tJiough want of abilities may Unhappily prevfnt lain from iKMno; successl'ul in his et^'orls. This idea has prompted me to b^gin a work in which 1 am awan^ of many difliculties. In plavs of fJiis nature the prsissions must be de- picted not oitly with their bold and prominent teatuivs. bnt also with fhase minute and del- icate traits which distiiiiruish tliem in an in- fant, growing and repressed state; whicli an' the most ditVicult of all to countert'eif, ajid one of which, lalselv iuiugined. will dc slrov tlie effect of a whole scene. The char- acters over whom they .are made to usurp INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE:. 23 (lomiriion must be poworf'ul ami interostinw, cxfTciHing tht-m with tlu-ir full ineasun' ot' opposition and strufrgle ; for tJio ehid" antag- onists they contend with must be the other passions and propensities of the heart, not outward circurnstanoos and events. Though hi'Uinir'injr to such characters, tliey must still be held to view in the most baleful and un- seduntive lijrht; and those qualities in the impassioned which are necessary to interest us in their fs-te, must not be allowed, by any lustre borrowed from them, to diminish our abhorrencx^; of guilt. The second, and even the inferior persons of each play, as they must be kept perfectly distinct from the great impassioned one, should generally be represented in a calm unagitated state, and therefore more pains are necessary than in other dramatic works to mark them by ap- propriate distinctions of character, lest they should appear altogether insi])id and insigni- ficant. As the great object here is to trace passion through all its varieties, and in every stage, many of which are marked by shades so delicate, that in much bustle of events they would he. little attended to, or entirely overlooked, simplicity of plot is more neces- sary than in those plays where only occasional bursts of passion are introduced, to distinguish a character, or animate a scene. But where simplicity of plot is necessary, there is very great danger of making a piece a[)pear bare and unvaried, and nothing but great force and truth in the delineations of nature will prevent it from being tiresome.* Soliloquy, or those overflowings of the perturbed soul, in which it unburtlw-ns itself of those thoughts which it cannot communicate to others, and which in certain situations is the only mode that a Dramatist can employ to open to us the mind he would display, must necessarily be often, and to considerable length, intro- duced. Here, indeed, as itnaturafly belongs * To make up for this simplicity of plot, the show and decorations of the theatre ought to he allowed to plays written upon this plaii"^ in their full extent. How fastidious soever .some poets may be in regard to these matters, it is much better to relieve our tired-out attention wjth a battle, a banquet, or a procession, than an accumulation of ineidents. In the latter case the mind is harassed and confused with those doubts, conjectures, and disappointments which multiplied events occasion, and in a great mea- sure 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 show of a splendid procession will afford to a person of the best understanding, a pleasure in kind,thouL'h not in degree, with that which a cbdd would receive from it; but when it is past he thinks no more of it; whereas some contusion of circumstances, some half-explained mi.stake, which gives him no pleasure at all when it takes place, may t.ake his attention afterwards from the refined beauties of a natural and character- istic dialogue. to passion, it will not bo so oO'ensive as it generally is in other plays, when a calm im- agitati'd ])crson tells over to himself all that has befallen him, and all his future schemes of intrigu/; or advancement; yet to make s]jeeches 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 diflicul- ti(.-s belonging peculiarly to this undertaking, too minutt^ and tedious to mention. If, fully aware of them, I have nfit 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 ani em- boldened by the confidence I feel in that candour and indulgence, with which the good and enlightened do ever regard the e.vperi- mental efforts of those who wish in any de- gree to enlarge the sources of ple.isure and instruction amongst men. It will now be prop<'r to say something of the particular plays which compose this vol- iiiuf. But in llui first place, I must observe, that as I pretend not to have overcome the difficulties attaclw^d to this design ; so neither from the errors and defects, which, in these pages, T have thought it necessary to point out ill the works of others, do I at all pretend to be blameless. 1o conceive the great moral object and outline of the story ; to peo- ple it with various characters, r.nder the in- fluimce of various passions ; and to strike out circumstances and situations calculated to call them into action, is a very diflerent em- ployment of the mind from calmly consider- ing those i)ropensities of our nature, to which dramatic writings are most powerfully addressed, and taking a general view upon tjiosc principles of the works of preceding authors. They arc employmimls which can- not well occupy it at the same time ; and ex- perience has taught us, that critics do not unfrequently write in contradiction to their own rules. If I should, therefore, sometimpB appear, in the iViregoing remarks, to have pro- vided a stick wherev/itn to broal: my own pate, 1 entreat that my reader will believe I am neither confident nor boastful, and use it with gentleness. In the first two plays, where love is the passion under review, their relation to the general [ilan may not be i,'ery obvious. Love is the chief ground-work of almost all our tr;!gedies and comedies, and so far they are not distinguished from others. But I have endeavored in both to give an unbroken view of the passion from its beginning, and to mark it as I went along, with those pecu- liar traits which disMnguish itsdiffcrentstages of progression. I have in both these pieces grafted this passion, not on tho.-'« open, com- municative, impetuous charactirs, who have so long occupied the dramatic station of lovers, but on men of a firm, thoughtful, re- served turn of mind, with v.-horn it commonly makes the longest stay, and maintains the hardest struggle. I should be extremely sorry if, fj-om any thing at the conclusion of at INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE, the tragedj", it should bo supposed tliat I mean to countenanco suicide, or ct)ndeinn tiioso customs whoso object is the disoour- ao-oment of it, by witlihoiding from the body of the self-slain those sacred rites and marks of respect commonly shown to the dead. Let it be considered, that whatever 1 have in- serted there, which can at all raise any suspi- cion of this kind, is put into the moui'.is of rude uncultivated soldiers, who arc roused with the loss of a beloved leader, and indignant at any idea of disgrace being attached to him. If it should seem inconsistent with the nature of this work, that in its companion, the come- dy, 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 intention to 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 discover the nature and in- tention of m\' design. The rise and progress of this passion I have been obliged to give in retrospect, instead of representing it all along in its actual operation, as I could liave wished to liave 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 liinitalion of dramatic time would have t.liought allowable. I could not liave introduced my chief chai-acters upon the stage as boys, and then as men. For this passion must be kept distinct from that dis- like which we conceive for anotlier when he has greatly offend(,>d us, a.nd which is almost the constant companion of anger; a'.id also from that eager desire to crush, and inflict suifering on him who has injured us, which constitutes revenge. This passion, as I have conceived it, is that rooted and settled aver- sion, which from opposition of character, aided by circumstances of little importance, grows G,t last into aueh antipathy and personal dia- g'.ist 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 insuff(!rable. It is a passion, I believe, less frequent than any otiier of the stronger passions, but in the breast wh.'re it does e.v- )st, it creates, perhaps, more misery than any other. To endeavor to interest the mind for a man under the dominion of a passion so baleful, so unamiable, may seem, perhaps, re- proliensible. I therefore beg it may be con- sidered, that it is the i>assion and not the man which is held up ta our execration; and that this and every other bad passion does more strongly evince its peraicious and dangerous n.alure, when we see it thus counteracting n.nd destroying the good gifts of Pleaven, than when it is represented as the suitable associ- ate, in the breast of inmates as dark as itself This remark will likewise be applicable to imny of the otlier I'lays belonging to my work, that are intended to follow. A deci- dedly wicked character can never be interest- ing; and to employ such for the display of any strong passion would very much injure, instead of improving, tlie moral cfR'ct. In the breast oi' a bad man passion has compara- tively little to combat; how then can it show its strength .■' I shall say no more upon this subject, but submit myself to tlie judgment of my reader. It may, perhaps, be supposed, from my publishing these plays, that I have written them for the closet rather than the stage. If, upon perusing them witli attention, the reader is disposed to think they are better calculated for the first than the last, let him impute it to want of skill in the author, and not to any previous design. A play but of small poetical merit, that is suited to strike and interest the sjjectator, to catch the attention of him who will not, and of him Avho cannot read, is a more valuable and useful production than one whose elegant and harmonious pages are ad- mired in t!ie libraries of tlie tasteful and refin- ed. To have received approbation 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 .is offerings of no mean value. 1 should, therefore, have been better pleased to have introduced thern to the world from the stage than from the press. I possess, howev- er, no likely channel to the former mode of public introduction: and, upon further reflec- tion, it appeared to me, that by publishing them in this way, I have an op;)ortunity af- forded me of explaining the design of my work, and enabling the jiublic 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 overbalance tlie splendor and effect of theatrical represen- tation. It may be thought, that witli this extensive plan before me, I should not have been in a hurry to publish, but have availed to give a larger portion of it to the public, v/hich would have enabled them to make a truer estimate of its merit. To bring 1 brtli only three plays of tlie whole, and the last without its intended companion, may seem like the haste of those vain people, who, as soon .as they have writ- ten a few pages of a discour.se, or .a i'ew coup- lets of a poem, cannot he easy till every body has seen them. I do prote.st, in honest sim- jilicity ! it is distrust and net confidence, that ha;s led me, at this early st fall 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. possess that spirit of justice and of candour, which will lead him to remember me with respect. I have now only to thank my reader, who- ever he may be, who has followed me through the pa^es of this discourse, for having had the patience to do so. May he, in going Note. — Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, gives peculiar and appropriate distinction to the character 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 inferiour ones insignificant and spiritless. He never wears out our capacity to feel, by eternally pressmg upon it. His tragedies are agreeably through what follows (a wish the sincerity of which he cannot doubt,) find more to re- ward his trouble than I dare venture to prom- ise him ; and for the pains he has already takj en, and those which he intends to take for me, I request that he will accept of my grate- ful acknowledgements. checquered 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 public kind, which does not, at any rate, make 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 ; I have therefore had the advantage of read- ing them over, when they were in some measure effaced from my memory, and judging of Ihem in some degree like an indifferent person. The Introduction has not had the same ad- vantage ; it was copied out for the press immediately afler I had finished it, and I have not had courage to open the book, or read any part of it, till it was put into my hands to be cor- rected for the third editioru Upon reading it over again, it appears to me that a tone of cen- sure 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 I sincerely wish that I had been skilful enough to have accomplished it without falling into this errour. Though I have escaped, as far as I know, all censure on this account, yet I wish the Publick to be assured, that I am both sensible of, and grateful for, their forbearance. BASIL: A TRAGEDY. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN. Co0NT Basil, Count Rosinberg, DcKE OF Mantua. Gauriceio, Valtomer, Frederick, Geoffry, MiRANDO, a General in the Empe- rour's service, his Friend. his Minister. f Two Offiicers of Basil's [ Troops. [an old Soldier very ' 7mich maimed in the ' icars. a little Boy , favourite to Victoria. WOMEN. Victoria, Countess or Albini, Isabella, C Daughter to the \ Duke of Mantua. C Friend and Gov- ^ ernessto Victoria. C a Lady attending ( upon Victoria. Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants, Masks, Dancers, <^c. f*f. The Scene is in Mantua, and its envi- rons. Time supposed to be the Sixteenth Cen- tury, ichen Charles the Fifth defeated Fran- cis the First, at the battle o/Pavia. ACT I. SCENE I. AN OPEN STREET, CROWDED WITH PEOPLE WHO SEEM TO BE WAITING IN EXPECTATION OF SOME SHOW. Enter a Citizen. First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the fraud procession .' left it passing by the northern gate. Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes at last. 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 .' She loves magnificence — ( Discovering amongst the croiod 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 come 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 back- ward turn'd Upon the various changes I have pass'd — How in my youth, with gay attire allur'd. And all the grand accoutrements of war, I lefl 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 (pointing to his empty sleeve) 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 ; Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side. 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 — 'T was a heait-kindling smile, — a smile of praise — Well, 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 pro- cession ; 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 tlie show. Enter an Officer. Officer to Geof. Make way that the proces- sion may have room : Stand you aside, and let this man have place. {Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put an- other in his place.) Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer, I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. 28 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. Officer. What, wilt thou not give place? the prince is near : 1 will complain to him, and have thee caged. Geo/. Yes, do couiplain, I pray; and when thou dost, Say that the private of the tenth brigade, Who sav'd his army on the Danube's liank, And since that time a private liath remained, Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain Against tliy insolence. Go tell hiin this, , And ask him then what dungeon of his tower He'll have me thrust into. 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 brave Count Basil is upon his march. To join the Emp'ror with some chosen troops, And as an ally doth through Mantua pass. Geof. I' ve heard a good report of tliis young soldier. Sec. Cit. 'Tis said he disciplines his men severely, And over-mucli the old commander is. Which seems 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. Cannot without due diligence be learn'd, And yet the noble art of soldiership May be attain'd 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 wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. In times of easy service, true it is. An easy careless chief all soldiers love ; But O! how gladly in the day of battle Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert. And follow such a leader as Count Basil ? So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call, Confess the master deer. (Musick is heard again, and nearer. GeofFry walks up and down rcith a military triumphant step. Cit. What moves tliee thus.' Geof. I've marcli'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 Bash., Officers and Soldiers in Pro- cession, with Colours flying, and martial mu- sick, Wlien they liavc marched half-way over the Stage, an Officer of the Duke's enters from the opposite side, and [speaks to Basil, upon which lie gives a sign with his hand, and the mi 'tial musick ceases ; soft musick is heard at a little distance and Victoria, with a long procession of Ladies, enters frcin the oppoaile side. General, &c. pay obeisance to her, as she pa?ses ; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which the military procession moves on, and Exeunt. Cit. to Geof. What think 'st thou of the princess ? Geof. She is fair, But not so fair as her good mother was. [Exeunt. scene ii. — a public walk on the ram- parts of the town. Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and Frederick. — Valtomer enters by the oppo- site side of the Stage, and meets them. Volt. O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers ! Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, From every house salutes you as you pass : Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; Musick and merriment 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 com- mand us. Thou art his kinsman, 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 admira- tion Which raises him to such superiour height ; And truly thou hast so infected us. That I at tunes have felt me aw'd before him, I knew not why. 'T is cursed folly this. Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. Ros. Our talents of a diff''rent nature are ; Mine for the daily intercourse of life. And his for higher things. Fred. Well, praise liira 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 aa 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 inspir'd With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops, BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 29 That to their latest day of bearing arms, Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride, As tliose v/ho fought beneath them in their )'outh. Such men have been; of whom it maybe said, Their sjiirits conquer'd when their clay was cold. Valt. Yes, I have seen in the eventful field, When new occasion mock'd all rules of art, E'en old commanders hold experience cheap, And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. Kos. One fault he has ; I know but only one ; His too great love of military fame Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft ap- pear Unsocial and severe. Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted in the field.' As much enthusiastic 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. But small occasions in the path of life Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd. 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 notfrown, good Fred'rick, no oifence : Thou canst not make a great man of thyself ; Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs. And prove an honor'd courtly gentleman. But hush! no more of this; here Basil comes. Enter Basil, who returns their salute .without speaking. Ros. What think'st thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's princess.' Valt. 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 honor to an emp"rours throne ; She is too noble for a petty court. Is it not so, my Lord.' — (To Basil, icho only botes assent.) Nay , she demeans herself with so much 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. jBut on my life, since now we talk of wor- ship, She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gills ! 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. Bos. (in a quick voice.) Mark'd you her hand .' I did not see her hand. And yet she wav'd it twice. Ros. It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not, Valt. I wish some painter's eye had view'd the group. As she and all Iver lovely damsels pass'd; He would have found wherewith t'enrich his art. Ros. I wish BO too; for oft their fancied beauties Have so much coid perfection in their parts, 'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood. Tliis 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 captions. Valt. Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks. Ros. Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good Valtomer ! Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n. Valt. But I must leave you for an hour or so; I mean to view the town. Fred. I'll go with thee. Ros. 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 looks at Basil, who remains still mu- sing tcithout seeing him.) What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend .' Bas. O it is admirable ! Ros. How runs thy fancy ? what is admi- rable .' 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- rings too ! She might have giv'n the treasures of the east, 30 BASIL ; A TRAGEDY. Ere I had known it. O ! didst thou mark her when she first ap- peared ? Still distant, slowly moving with her train ; Her robe and tresses floating on the wind, Like some light figure in a niorning 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 roundlj'-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 swell'd ^er glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too : how they srail'd ! 'twas like the beams of heav'n ! 1 felt my roused soul within me start, Like sometlring wai'd from sleep. Ros. The beams of heav'n do many slum- b'rers wake To care and misery ^ Bas. There's something grave and solemn ill 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 easy guest. Bas. What, dost thou think I am beside myself, And cannot view the fairness of perfection With that delight which lovely beauty gives, Without tormenting me with fruitless wisheS; Like the jMor child who sees its brighten'd face. And whimpers for the moon ? Thou art not serious. From early youth, war has my mistress been, And though a rugged one, I'll constant prove, And not forsake her now. There may be joys Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul, Visit the lover's breast beyond all others ; E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! But what of tiiem .'' 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. (takiii 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 proffer'd in the room of one small boon. So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, 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. (Slic pvts out her hand as if she would shut his mouth, but at a distance from it ; Bas. runs eagerly up to her, and jjr esses it to his lips. ) Bas. Let this sweet hand indeed its threat perform, And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb ! (Vict, looks stately and offended.— Basil kneels.) pardon me ! I know not what I do. Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness; But only grant — Vict. What should I grant to hiiii, Who has so oft my earnest suit denied .■' Bas. By heaven I'll grant it ! I'll do any- thing : Say but thou art no more offended with me. Vict, (raising him.) Well, Basil, this good promise is th}^ pardon. 1 will not wait your noble friend's return, Since we sliall meet again. — You will perform your word .' Bas. I will perform it. Vict. Farewell, my lord.* [Exit, icith her Ladies. Bas. (alone.) " Farewell, my lord." O! v/liat delightful sweetness ! The music of that voice dwells on the ear ! " Farewell, my lord ! " — Ay, and then look'd she so — The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul. Well, there is yet one day of life before me, And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it. Though but a partial sunshine in my lot, I will converse with her, gaze 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 remembrance on the mind to wear Like silv'ry 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 sweetly 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, how 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 inquire, And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. Yes, she would mourn — such love might she bestow ; S4 IJASIL: A TRACED V, And poor of soul the man who would ex- change it For warmest love of the most loving dame ! But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well ? He will not say I have. Enter Rosinberg. Ros. Where is tlio princess ? I'm sorry I return'd not ere she went. Bas. Youll see her still. Ros. Wl;at, conies she forth again ? Bas. She do.es to-morrow. Ros. Thou hast yielded then. Bas. Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go; It was impossible I should not yield. Ros. O Basil ! thou art wealier than a child. Bas. Yes, yies, my friend, but 'tis a noble weakness ; A weakness wliich hath greater things achiev'd Than all the firm determin'd strength of rea- son. 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 aught I shall not love Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg 1 thou art a noble heart ! I would not be the man thou couldst not love For an Impcrial'Crown. [Exeunt. Scene III. — a THE PALACE. SMALL APARTMENT IN Enter Duke and Gauriecio. Duke. The point is gained ; 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 higli derision, And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes. Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd By silly superstitious child-learnt fears, What might I not cflTect .' Gaur. O anything ! The deep and piercing genius of your highness. So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire. Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost o'pr- prize 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 lore, Are but as tools his secret ends to work , Who hatli the skill to use them. 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 detain'd ; When, by that secret message of our spy, The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action : But might we more effect .' Know'st thou this Basil ? Might he be tainper'd with ? Gaur. Tliat were most dang'rous. — He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong To such a high romantic pitcli is wound, And all so hot and fiery is his nature. The slightest hint, as thn' you did suppose Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it, Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. Duke. Butint'restjint'rest, man's all-ruling pow'r, Will tame the liottest 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 domestic wants. Gaur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a lit- tle spark. On hidden fuel feeds his growing strength. Till o'er the lofty fabrick it aspires And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd, And in your base domestic service bound ; But who would madly in its wild career The fire of lieav'n arrest to boil his pot .' No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes, Tho' you had all to give ambition strives for. We must beware of him. Duke. His father was my friend, — I wish'd to gain him : But since fantastic fancies bind him thus, The sin be on his head; I stand acquitted, And must deceive liim, even to his ruin. Gaur. I have prepared Bernardo for your service ; To night he will depart for tli' Austrian camp, And should he find them on the eve of battle, I've bid him wait the issue of tlie 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 frici>ds some sound advantage gain. Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. Duke. Well hast thou school'd him. Didst tliou add withal. That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech, With honied words of the most dear regard. And friendly love I bear him ? This is need- ful ; 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. Gaur. 1 have, an' please your highness. Duke. Then 'tis well. BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 3^ Gaur. But for the yielding up that Uttle fort There could be no suspicion. Duke. My Governor I have severely pun- ish'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 should Charles prove victorious. Duke. Yie'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 must — 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. What, dare the ungrateful miscreants thus return The many favours of my princely grace .' 'Tis ever thus indulgence spoils the base ; Raising 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 threat- en'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 suifer them, upon their suit, T' establish manufactures in their towns .' And after all some chosen soldiers spare To guard the blessings of interior peace 1 Guar. Nay, please your highness, they do well allow, That when your enemies in fell revenge Your former inroads threaten'd to repay. Their ancient arms you did to them restore, Witli 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 vouch- safe, 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, Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please your grace, All this they do most readily allow. Duke. They do allow it then ungrateful varlets ! What would they have.' what would they have, Gauriecio ! Guar. Some mitigation oftheir grievous burdens, Which, like an iron weightaround 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 b6yond their proper sphere would rise; Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours. Society of various parts is form'd ; They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment. And we the mantling top which crowns the whole. Calm, 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 convenient 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 ev6r dear To worthy subjects as their precious lives. Gaur. I fear, unless you give some special promise, 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. [Exit. Gaur. (solus) O happy people ! whose in- dulgent 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, And kindly leave you nought to do but toil ! This creature now, with all his reptile cunning. Writhing and turning through 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 op ression must create, I'll shape myself a way to higher things: And who will 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 1 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, 36 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. I must not scorn the stops which lead to it: i And if they arc not riglit, no saint am I ; I follow nature's passion in n\y breast, Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. [Exit. Scene IV. — An apartment in the PALACE. Victoria and Isabella are discovered playing at Chess; the Countess Alb in i sitting by 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 chc^at, an arrant cheat ! Isab. 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 maid ; 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 ! Isab. And does your grace, hail'd by ap- plauding crowds. In all the graceful eloquence address'd Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths, Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards. Those awkward proofs of admiration prize, Which rustic 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 tlic 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 the undaunted soul ; Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth. And lead him forth as a domestic cur, These are the triumphs of all-powerful 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. Mb. (raising Iter head from licr book.) And is, indeed, a plain domestic dame, Who fills the duties of an useful state, A being of less dignity than she, Who vainly on her transient beauty builds A little poor ideal tyranny .'' Isab. Ideal too ! .lib. 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 fantastic hour, O'er men she may a childisii pow'r exert, Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe ! Were human passions plac'd witliin the breast But to be curb'd.subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ! All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n. Jllb. Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. Vict. Am 1 ungen'rous then ? AU). Yes, most ungen'rous : Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r. Would give most unavailing pain to those Whose love you ne'er can recompense again- E'en now, to-day, O ! was it not ungen'rous To fetter Basil with a foolish tie. Against his will, perhaps against his duty i Vict. What, dost tliou think against his will, my friend ? Alb. Full sure I am against his reason's will. Vict. Ah ! but indeed thou must excuse me here ; For duller tlian a shelled crab were she. Who could suspect her pow'r 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 ! methinks they say, " Your mother did not so." Mb. Your highness reads them true, she did not so. If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts. She kept it \o\v, withheld its aliment ; Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motlej- food, From the fond tribute of a noble heart To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child. Vict. 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, (to Isab.) I am the guardian of his choice. 'When first I saw him — dost tliou not remem- ber .' IsaJb. Twas in the publick garden. Vict. Even so; Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a roughsoinef quean, 111 suited to the lovely charge she bore. How stoadfiistly he fixed his looks upon me, His dark eyes shining thro' forgotten tears, Then strelch'd his little arms and call'd 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. Vict. Now this is kindly said : thanks, sweet Albini ! Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt. O ! would that I were such as thou couldst love! Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother ! BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 37 yilb. (pressing her to her breast.) And do I not? all perfect as she was, I know not that slae went so near my heart As thou witli all thy faults. Vict. And say'st thou so? would I had sooner known ! I had done anything to give thee pleasure, jllb. Then do so now, and put thy faults away. Vict. No, say not faults; tlie freaks of thoughtless youth. ^Ib. Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd. Vict. O ! say but foibles ! youtliful foibles only I jilb. Faults, faults, rea2 faults you must confess they are. Vict. In trutli 1 cannot do your sense the wrong- To think so poorly of the one you love. .'ilb. I must be gone : thou hast o'ercome me now: Another time I will not yield it so. [Exit. Isab. The Countess is severe, she's too severe : She once was young tho' now advanc'd in years. Vict. No, I deserve it all; she is most wor- thy. 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 thaai myself. Isab. Here comes your little fav'rite. Vict. I am not in the humour for him now. Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice of him, as he holds up his mouth to be kissed. Isab. (to .ViVJ Thou seest the princess can't he troubled with thee. Mir. O but she will! I'll scramble up her robe, As naughty boys do when they climb for ap- ples. * Isah. Come here, sweet child; I'll kiss tliee in her stead. Mir. Nay, but T will not have a kiss of thee. Would I were tall! O were I but so tall! . Isab. And how tall wouldst thou be? Mir. Thou dost not know ? Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. Vict, {embracing him.) O'. I must bend to this, thou little urcliin. Who taught thee all tliis wit, this childish wit ? Whom does Mirando love? (embraces him tigain.) •WJr. He loves Victoria. Vict. And wherefore loves he her ? Mir. Because she's pretty. Isab. Hast thou no little prate to-day. Mi- rando ? No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal ? Mir. Ay, that I have : I know who loves her grace. Vict. Who is it, pray ? thou shalt have com- fits for it. Mir. (looking shjly at her.) 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-plum when new. Mir. Well then, I know W^ho loves her highness well. Vict. Who is it then ? Isab 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 ? MJr. It is Mirando's self. Vict. Thou little imp ! this story is not new, But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go- Go, run before us. Boy. Mir. Nay, but 111 shew you how Count Wolvar Jook'd, When he conducted Isabel from Court. Vict. How did he look? Mir. Give me your hand : he held his body thus ; (putting himself in a ridiculous borcing posture.) And then he whisper'd softly; thenlook'd so; (ogling icith his eyes affectedly. ) Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again. (throwing dozen his eyes affectedly.) Isab. Tliou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd. [Exeunt. Mirando leading out Victoria af- fectedly. ACT III. Scene I. — an opex street, or sq.uare. Enter Rosinberg and Frederick, by opposite sides of the Stage. Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of war, Another day to rest and pastime gives. How 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 superio-ar virtue. What say'st thou now, my candid Rosinberg, When thy great captain, in a time like this, Denies his weary troops one day of rest Before th' exertions of approaching battle. Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit .•' BASIL : A TRAGEDY Ros. Who told thee tliis ? it was no friend- ly tale ; And no one else, besides a trusty friend, Could kn'ow his'motives. Then thou wrongs't me too ; For I admire, as much as thou dost, Fred'rick, TIk? fire of valoar, e'en rash heedless valour; But not like thee do 1 depreciate That far superiour, yea, that godlike talent, Which dotli 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 prejudic'd : A passion, which I do not chusc to name, Has warp'd thy judgement. Fred. No, by hear'n thoiv wrono-'st 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. Kos. Then mayst tlioU now these gen'rous feelin'gs prove. Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'er- shades ; 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 eyebrow keenly darts Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age Its youthful fire had been again renew''d. To be the guardian of its darken'd mUte : 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 tlie man, whose glorious acts in battle We heard to-day related o'er our wine. I go to tell the gen'ral he is come : Enjoy the gen"rous feelings of thy breast, And maJie an old man happy. [Exit. Enter Geoffky. Fred. Brave soldier, let me profit by t'he chance That led me here ; I've heard of thy exploits. Geuf. Ah ! then you have but heard an a:i- cient tale. Which has been long forgotten. Fred. But true it is, and should not be for- gotten ; Tho' gon rals jealous of their soldiers' fame. May dash it with neglect. Geof. There arc, perhaps, wlio may be so ungcn'rous. Fred. Perhaps, say'st thou ? in very truth there are. How art thou else rewarded with neglect. Hiilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps ^I'as been promoted/' it is ever thus. Serv'd not Mardini m 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, Allho' inferiour to his gallant friend, The brave Sebastian. Fred. The brave Sebastian '. He was, as 1 am told, a learned coxcomb. And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword. What, dost thou call him brave ? Tlimj, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk, Like an old target, hack'd and rough with Wouilds, Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he Was with a smooth sicin in his coffin laid, Unblemish'd with a scar .■' Geof. His duty call'd not to such desp'rate service; For I have sought where few alive remain'd, And none unscath'd ; where but a tew re- main'd, Thus marr'd' and mangled ; (shoiolng his wounds.) as beliko you've seen, O' summer nights, around the 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 thrfee hundred goodly chosen men. But twelve were lefl,and right dear friends werci we For ever after. They are all dead now : I'm oldand lonely. — We were valiant hearts — Fred'rick Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now ! Fred. I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrate- ful chiefs ! Why wert thou not promoted .' Geof. After that battle, where my happy fate Had' led me to fulfil a glorious part, Chafd with the gibing insults of a slave. The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'- rite, I rashly did affront ; our cautious prince, With narrow policy dependant made, Dar'd not, as 1 am told, promote me then, And now he is asham'd or ha^forgot it. Fred. Fye, fye, upon it ! let hian bo asham'd: Here is a trifle for thee — {offering him montij.) Geof. No, good sir ; I have enough to live as poor men do. When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive, Becailse I'm poor, but not because I'm brave, Fred. You're proud, old soldier. Grof. No, I am not proud ; For if I were, methinks I'd be morose. And willing to depreciate other men. Enter Ro^inberg. Ros. (clapping Geo(. 071 the shoulder.) How goes it with thee now, my good Field- marshal ? Geof. The better that I sec your honour well, And in the humour to be merry with me. BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 39 Ros. 'Faith, by my sword, I'ye 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 way ? Thou iirt 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 see, the gen'ral comes. Enter Basil. Ros. (pointing to Geof.) Behold the worthy vet'ran. Bas. (taking him hy the hnml.) Brave hon- ourable man, your worth I know. And greet it with a brother soldier's love. Gcof. (taking aicaij his hand in confusion.) Mygen'ral,this>is too much, too much honour. Bas. (taking his hand again.) No, valiant soldier, 1 must have it so. Geof. My humble state agrees not with 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, perch'd on a pedestal, O.'erlooks the giant : 'tis not worth a thought. Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade. Whose warlike 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, Jn warlike terms to list'ning swains relates ; "Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous 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 cJiief, , Known only by the dates of his promotion ! Geof. Ah! would I were, would I were young again. To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral ; Methinks what Ihave 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.I Bas. And wouldst thou fight for me .'' Geof. Ay, to the death ! Bas. Then come, brave man, aiid be my champion still : The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts ; Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me. [Exit ivith Geoffry. Fred. What does he mean to do .■' Ros. We'll know ere long. Fred. Our gen'ral bears it ,with a careless face, JPor one so wise. Ros. A careless face ? on what ? Fred. Now feign not ignorance, we know it all. News which have spread in whispers from the court. Since last night's messenger arrived from Milan. Ros. As I'm anhcnest man, I know itnotj Fred 'Tis said the rival armies are so near A battle must inmiediately 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 — Then heaven grant they may be 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, I'd rather see A score of friendly fellows shaking hands, Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear.? Fred. What dost thou mean ? Rofi. Hast thou no fear of death ? Fred. Fear is a name for something in the mind, But wliat, 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 in thy valour. As when a child thou iiadst in childish play. The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational ; But he, whose nolsle soul its fear subdues. And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. As for your youth, whom blood and blows de- light, Away with them ! there is not in the crew One valiant spirit. — Ha ! what sound is this .'' {shouting is heard jcilhout.) Fred. The soldiers shout ;, I'll run and learn the cause. Ros. But tell me first, how didst thou like ■ the vet'ran ? Fred. He is too proud ; he was displcas'd with me, Because I offer'd him a little sum. Ros. What, money ! O ! most gen'rous no- ble spirit ! Noble rewarder of superiour worth ! A halfpenny for Belisarius ! But hark ! they shout again^ — here comes Valtomer. (Shouting heard vuthout.) Enter Valtomer. What does this shouting mean ^ Valt. O ! I 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 hands across his eyes.) 'Faith so they are ; well, well, but I smil'd too.i ; You heard the shouting. Ros. and Fred. Yes. 40 BASIL I A TRAGEDY. Vdlt. O had you seen it ! Prawn out in goodl}' ranks, tliero stood, our troops ; Hero, in tlie graceful state of manly youth, His dark face brighten'd with agen'rous smile. Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave, As tho' his soul, like an unsheathed sword. Had thro' them gloam'd, our noble gen'ral stood ; And to his soldiers, with lieart-raoving words The vet'ran showing', hisbravedcedsrehears'd; Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak, Beneath the shelter of some noble tree, In the grcon honours of its youthful prime. lios. How look'd; the veteran? Fait. I cannot tell thee ! At first he bore it up with cheerful looks. As one who fain would wear his honors bravely And gt-eet tho soldiers wilha comrade's face : But when Count Basil, in such movingspeech. Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance chang'd ; High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been By inward strong emotion half convuls'd j Trembled his netiier lip ; he shed some tears : The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; Then liastil}- he brush'd the drops awaj'. And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear- chokd voice. As tho' he would some grateful answer make ; When back with doubly 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 1 came away. Ros. (giving Valt. hit: hnntl.) And there, take thou my blessing for the tale. Hark how they shout again ! 'lis nearer now. This way they march. Martial Musick heard. Enter .Soldiers inarch- ing in order, bearing; Gkoffkv in triumph on their shoiddcrs. Alter tliem enter Basil ; the whole preceded by a baud of inusick. They cross over the stage, are joined by Ros. &c. and Exeunt. ScENK. II. Enter G.\ur.iF.cio and a Gkntlkman, talking as they enter. Gaur. So slight a tie as this we cannot trust : One day her influence rna}'^ detain him here. But love a feeble agent may bo found With the ambitious. Gent. And so you tiiiidi this boyish odd conceit Of bearing hom,e in triumph Vi-ithJiis troops I That aged soldier, will your purpose serve ? Gaur. Yes, I will make it serve ; for tho' my prmce Is little scrupulous of right and wrong, I have possess'd his mind, as tlu)' 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 all 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, wliich 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 ungen'rous end ; And he who teaches men to thnik, tho' nobly. Doth raise within their minds a busy judge To scan his actior>s. Send thine agents forth,, And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil Affects all difhcult and desp'rtate service. To raise Ids fortunes by some daring stroke ; Having unto the Emp'rour pledg'd nis word,. To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : For which intent he fills their simple minds With idle tales of glory and renewal ; 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 their ev'ning cups. Ther(>, spare no cost, {gives him a. purse.) Observe their words, sec how the poison takes. And then return again. Gdit. I will, my lord. (Exeunt severally.. • Scene III. a suite op grand apart- ments, WITH their wide DOORS THROWN OPEN, LIGHTED UP WITH LAMPS, AND FILLED WITH COMPANY IN MASKS. Enter several Masks, and pass through the first apartment to the other rooms. 1'lien enter Basil in the disguise of a wounded soldier.' Bas. (alone.) Now am I in the region of deligiit ! Within the blessed compass of tliese walls She is ; the gay light of those blazing lamps. Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor Is with her footsteps press'd> E'en now, perhaps, Amidst that motley rout she plays her part: ']'her<' will I go ; she cannot be couceal'd ; For but the flowing of her graceful robe Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 41 Tho' in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds, — {looking at his habit.) Which half conceal, and half declare my state. Beneath your kind disguise, O! letme prosper, And boldly take the privilege ye give : Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side ; Thus-, near her face my list'ning ear incline And feel her soft breath fan my glov/ing cheek, Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too I May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall ! This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after Ye shall be treasurd 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, andmix- es icith the inashs.) Enter RosiNBKRG, fantastically dressed, with a willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets, and torn letters fluttering round his neck ; pursued by a group of masks from one of the inner apartments, who hoot at him, and push him about as he enters. 1st Mask. Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave. 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. Of a convenient kind my talents are. And to all various humours may be shap'd. 2d Mask. What canst thou do ? 3d Mask. Ay, what besides offending ? Ros. O 1 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. 1st Mask. Poo, poo, insipid fool ! Ros. But sliould my lady brisker mettle own, And tire of all those gentle dear delights, Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent — As whether such a fair one (some dear friend) Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the sofl maid. With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick, Have greatest cause of delicate distress; Or \,'hetlier — 1st Mask. Go, too bad thou art indeed 1 {aside.) Hov.' could he knov/ I quarell'd with the Count ? 2d Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's fame ? Ros. Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry 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 5 That spots her snt-wy skin, shall have its sonnet ! I'll make love posies for her thimble's edge, Rather than please her not. 3d Mask. But for her sake what dangers wilt thou brave .' Ros. In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers less Than other service, and v/cre 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 brier or stone, Or crossing rill, some half- foot wide, or so, Which that fair lady should unaided pass. Ye gracious pow'rs forbid ! I will defend Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buz — 4th Mask. Such paltry service suits thee best indeed. What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from her ? Ros. Yes, to recall me soon, siiblime Sul- tana ! For I can stand the burst of female passion, Fii'li change of humour and affected storm ; B'i scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent, Fecall'd, caress'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 ! 4th 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. 5th Mask. Come, lover, I enlist thee for my swain ; Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows, Nor thus assume my rights. Ros. Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress prove .'' 5th 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 fi-ov.'n : Tease thee with peevish and affected freaks ; Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate ; But still between the v/hil'-^s I'll careful be, In feigned admiration of thy parts. Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, To bind thy giddy soul with flatt'ry's charm; For well thou know'st that flatt'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. Thou canst not leave, tho' violent in extreme. And most vexatious in her teasing moods. Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul. Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd 42 BASIL ! A TRAGEDY. Thou hatlst a pretty leg. Ros. Marry, thou liast the better of me there. 5th Mask. And more ; I'll pledge to thee my honest word, That when your noble svvainship 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 trammelFd ass, My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside, And such a one become. Ros. Well spoke, brave lady; I will follow thee. {follotcs 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 little 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. {iimnasking.) Mb. (unmasking.) Well, hast thou guess'd me right ? Roj. (bowing loic.) Wild freedom, chang'd ' to most profound respect. Doth make an awkward booby of me now. Mb. I've join'd your frolick with a good intent. For much I wish'd to gain your private ear. The time is precious, and I must be short. Ros. On me your slightest word more pow'r will have, Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration. Thou art the only one of all thy sex. Who wear'st thy years with such a winning grace, Thou art the moreadmir'd the more thoufads't. Mb. I thank your lordship for these courte- ous words ; But to my purpose— You are Basil's friend : Be friendly to him then, and warn iiim well This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay ; For if he does, there's mischiefwaits him here May prove the bane of all his future days. Remember this, I nmst no longer stay. God bless vour 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 willows.) Away, ytTscraps ! 1 have no need of you. I would I knew what garment Basil \vears : I watch'd him, yet he did escape my siglit; But I must search again and find him out. [Exit. Enter Basil niuc hagitated, with his mask in his hand. Bas. In vain I've sought her,follow'd ev'ry form Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace : I've hsten"d to the tone of ev'ry voice ; I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask ; My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare, With the imagin'd rustling of her robes, At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night, How art thou spent ! where are thy promis'd joys ? How much of thee is gone ! O spiteful fate ! Yet within the compass of these walls Somewhere she is, altho', tome she is not. Some other eye doth gaze upon her form, Some other ear 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 tliou.' Enter a Mask in the dress of a female conjurer. Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant soldier : Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so .' Bas. Away, away, 1 cannot fool with thee. Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease thy smart. Where is thy wound .' is't here .-" (^wintingto the handagc on his arm.) Bas. Poo, poo, begone ! Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my heart — 'Tis ev'ry where, where medicine cannot cure. Mash. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound Which some ungrateful ffiir one hath inflic- ted, 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 examin'd 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 naught 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 noliope, But that she might at least v.-itli some good will. Some gentle pure regard, some secret kind- ness. Within her dear remembrance give me place. This was my all of hope, but it is flown: For she regards me not; despises, scorns me : Scorns. I must say it too, a noble heart, That would have bled for her. (Mask, discovering herself to be "Victoria by speaking in her true voice.) O ! no, she does not. BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 43 [Exit hastily in confusion. Bos. (stands for a vwment rivettcd to the spot, then holds up both his hands in an ecstacy). It is herself! it is her blessed self! O ! what a fool am I, that had no power To follow her, and urge th' advantage on. Begone, unmanly fears ! I must be bold. Exit after her. A Dance of Masks. Enter Duke and Gauriecio, unmasked. Duke. This revelry, methinks, goes gaily on. The hour is late, and yet your friend returns not. Gaur. He will return ere long — nay, there he comes. Enter Gentleman. Duke. Does all go well .' (going close vp to him.) Gent. All as your grace could wish. For now the poison woriis, and the stung sol- diers Rage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled eyes, Swear vengeance on the chief who would be- tray them. That Frederick too, the discontented man Of whom your highness was so lately told, Swallows the bait, and does his part most bravely. Gauriecio counsel'd well to keep him blind, Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul ! He is so fiery he had spurn'd us else, And ruin'd all the plot. Duke. Speak softly, friend — I'll hear it all in private. A gay and careless face we now assume. Duke, Gaur. and Gent, retire into the inner apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily to the different masks as the^i puss them. Re-enter Victoria followed by Basil. Vict. Forbear, my lord; these words of- fend mine ear. Bas. Yet let me but this once, this once offend, Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me ; And if my words against all prudence sin, O ! hear tliem, as the good of heart do list To the wild ravings of a soul distraught. Vict. If I indeed should listen to thy words. They must not talk of love. Bus. To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee speak. To claim the soft attention of thine eye, I'd be content to talk of any thing. If it were possible to be with thee, And think of aught but love. Vict. I fear, my lord, you have too much presum'd On those unguarded words, which were in truth Utter'd at unawares, with little heed. And urge their meaning far beyond the right. Bas. I thought, indeed, that they were kindly meant, As tho' thy gentle breast did kindly feel Some secret pity for my hopeless pain. And. would not pierce with scorn, uno-en'rous scorn, A heart so deeply stricken. 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 ! lie '11 be displeased — I cannot say— Bas. Well, let him come : it is thyself i fear ; For did destruction thunder o'er my head. By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir, Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul ! Thou dost not hate me .' Vict. Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot hate thee. (breaks 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'erflowing heart, so very dearly, 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 say'st thou, pretty child I what playful fair Has deck'd thee o>it in this fantastick guise .-' Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the princess. Bas. Thou art her fav'rite, then ? Mir. They say I am r And now, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, soldier, I think in very truth she loves me M'ell. Such merry little songs she teaches me — Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest, Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals, And lifts the cov'ring so, to look upon me. And oftentimes I fein 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 eyelids peep, And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat; And then we so do laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Bas. What ! does she even so, thou happi- est child .'' And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so dearly .-' Delicious urchin ! I will kiss thee too. (takes him eagerly up in his arms, and kisses him.) Mir. No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough. So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so. Bas. Sweet boy, where is thy chamber .■' by Victoria's .' Mir. Hard by her own. 44 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. Bos. Then will I come beneath thy window soon : And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing, To lull thee to thy rest. JJir. 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, 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 I'm a bed. And hide beneath the clothes 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 wondrous sweet. Enter a group of Masks. 1st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little truant boy ? Come play thy part with us. Masks place Mirando in the middle, and range themselves round him. SONG.— 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 he whose flinty heart Hath not felt the flying dart ? Who is he that from the wound Hath not pain and pleasure found ? Who is he that hath not shed Curse and blessings on thy head ? Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! Ah Love ! o\ir weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, Morehaplessstillare they who never felt thy pain ! Ml the vtasks dance round Cupid. Then enter a hand of satyrs, who frighten uicay Love and his votaries ; and conclude the scene, dancing in a grotesque manner. ACT IV. Scene I. — the street before basil's LODGINGS. Enter Rosinberg and two Officers. Ros. {speaking as he enters. ) Unless we find him quickly, all is lost. 1st 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 yield. 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 ! Thy face doth tell me so. Port. Not yet, my Lord. Ros. Then let him ne'er return ! Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have their way ! I'll search for him no more. Port. He hath been absent all the night, my lord. Ros. I know he hath. 2d Off. And yet 'tis possible He may have enter'd by the secret door ; And now perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd, Is dead to ev'ry sound. (Ros. without speaking, rushes into the house and 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 ! 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! he's here i O Basil ! What friend 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 brjiin. 1st Off'. Indeed, my lord, he speaks jn sober earnest. Some secret enemies have been employ'd To fill your troops with strange imaginations. As tho' their gen'ra! would, for selfish gain. Their gen'rous valour urge to des'prate 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 {to Ros.) to reason with their folly .' Folly it is; baseness it cannot be. Ros. 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 earth- quake. ^ ■- ■_ — The venireful hurricane Does not with such fantastick writhings toss. The wood's green boughs, as does convulsive rage Their forms with frantic gestures agitate. Around the chief of hell such legions throng'.^ To brino- back curse and discord on creation. Bas. Nay, they are men, altho' impassion'd ones. I'll ofo to them — BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 45 Ros. And we will stri nd by thee. My sword is thine against ten thousand strong, If it should come to this. . Bas. No,. never, never ! There is no mean : I with my soldiers must Or their commander or their victim prove. But are my officers all staunch and faithful .'' Ros. All but that devil, Frederick—^ — He, disappointed, left his former corps, Where he, in truth, had been too long neg- lected. Thinking he should all on the sudden rise. From Basil's well-known love of valiant men ; And now, because it still must be deferr'd, He thinks you seek fromenvy to depress him, And burns to be reveng'd. Bas. Well, well^ — ^Tliis grieves me too — But let us go. Scene II. — the ramparts of the town. The Soldiers are discovered, drawn up in a dis- orderly manner, hollaing and speaking big, and clashing their arms tumultuously. 1st Sol. No, comrade, no; hell gape and swal- low me. If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders ! 2d Sol. Huzza ! brave comrads ! Who says otherwise .-' '3d Sol. No one, huzza! confound all treach'- rous leaders ! {The soldiers huzza and clash their arms.) 5th Sol. Heav'n dart its fiery lightning on his head ! We're men, we are not cattle to be slaugh- ter'd ! 2d Sol. They who do long to caper Mgh in air, ?nto a thousand bloody fragments blown, May follow our brave gen'ral. 1st Sol. Curse his name ! s I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves I' have crack 'd ! 2d Sol. We will command ourselves: for Milan, comrades. 5tk Sol. Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, huzza. {Ml the Soldiers cast up their caps in the air and 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 receive their general, telle now enters, followed by Rosinburg and Officers. Basil walks clo?e along the front ranks of the Soldiers, looking at lihcm very steadfastly ; then retires a few paces back, and raising his arm, speaks with a very full loud voice.) Bas. How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus, Assembled here unsummon'd by command.'' .{A confused murmur is heard amongst the Sol- diers; spmc of them call nut.) But we ourselves command : we wait no or- ders. {Jl confused noise of voices is beard, and one louder than the rest calls out) Must we be butcher'd for that we are brave ? {A loud clamour and, clashing of arms, then several voices call out.) Damn hidden treach'ry! wc- defy thy orders. Fred'rick shall lead us now (Others call out) We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march. Bas. (waving his hand,and beckoning them to be silent, speaks with a very loud voice.) Yes, march where'er ye list : for Milan march. Sol. Hear him,. hear him I , (The murmur 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 ranlis — 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 threaten to attack him ; the Officers gather round Basil, and draw their swords to de- fend him.) Bas. Put up your swords,: my friends, it must not be. I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone. Ros. What, shall we calmly stand and see thee butchered ^ Bas. (very earnestly.) Put, up, my friends. (Officers 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 pst cutining of their paltry art. Some drunken sohUer. eloquent with wine. Who loves not lighting, hatli harangued liis mates. For tliey in trutli somo hardships have en- dur'd : Wherefore in this should we suspect the court.' Ros. Ah ! tliere is sometliing, friend, in JMantna"s court, Will make the blackest trait of barefac'd trea- son. Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye. Bas^ Navi 'tis a weaknessin thee, Rosin- berg. Which makes thy mind so jealous and dis- trustful. 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 engagd. Eon 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 tlie gay clam'rous throng my steps be- guil'd. Unmask'd before me. and with earnest grace Entreated me. if 1 were Basil's friend. To tell him hidden danger waits him here. And warn him earnestly this court to leave. She said- she lov'd thee much : and hadst tliou seen How anxiously she urg'd — Bag. {intrrrttptlng him.) By lioav'n and eartli, There is a ray of light breaks thro' thy tale. And 1 could ier.p like madmen in their freaks. So blessed is the gleam ! Ah! no, no. no I It cannot be ! alas, it cannot be ! Yet didst thou say she urg'd it earnestl}- .' Slie 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 1 how saidst tliou, gentle Rosinberg .' She urg'd it eamestlv — how did she ur^e it.' Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus, But tell me all her words ! What said she .' Ros. O Basil ! I could laugh to sw^ thy folly^ But tiiat thy weakness doth provoke me so. Most admirable, brave, deterinin'd man I So well, so lately tried, what art thou now ' A vain deceitful thought transports tliee 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 dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin. A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. Tlie time is critical. How wilt thou feel When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear, That brave Piscaro, and his royal troops, Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought. Whilst we. so near at hand, lay loitring here .' Bas. Thou dost disturb thy brain with fan- cied feijrs. Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice, Tliat one short day should be of all tills mo^ ment; And j'et this one short day will be to me Worth years of other time. Ros. Na}-, rather say, A day to darken all thy days beside. Confound the tatal beauty of that woman, Which hatli bewitch'd thee so I Bas. Tis most ungen'rous To push me thus with rough unsparing hand, Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. It is unfriendly. Ros. God knows my heart ! I would not give thee pain ; But it disturbs me. Basil, vexes me. To see thee so entliralled by a women. ! If she is fair, others are fair as she. i Some other face will like emotions raise. ■ ^Vhen thou canst better play a lover's part : But for the present. — fye upon it, Basil ! I Bas. What, is it possible thou hast beheld, Hast tarried by her too, her converse shard, I Yet talk'st as tlio' she were a common lair one, I Such as a man may fancy and forget .' ! Thou art not. sure, so dull and brutish grown: It is not so ; thou dost belie thy thoughts. And vainly try'st to gain me with tlie cheat. Ros. So tliinks each lover of tlie maid he loves. Yet. in their lives, some many maidens love. Fve on it ! leave this town, and be a soldier ! Bas. Have done, have done I whv dost thou bate me tlius .' Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosin- berg. AN hat claim liast thou mv actions to controul .' Ill Mantua leave when it is fit I should. Ros. Then, faitli ! 'tis fitting tliou shouldst leave it now ; Av. on the instant. 1st not desperation To Slav, and hazard ruin on thy fame. Tho'vet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure. No lover breathes without .' tliou hast no hope. Bas. What, dost thou mean — curse o" " ; paltry thought ^ BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 49 That I should count and bargain with my heart, Upon the chances of unstinted favour, As httle souls their base-bred fancies feed ? ! were 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 fate where some obstructing bound, Some deep impassable between us roli'd, And I might yet from some high tow'ring cliff Perceive her distant mansion from afar, Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn ; Nay, tho' within the circle of the moon Some spell did fix her, never to return, And T might wander in the hours of night, And upward turn my ever-gazing eye, Fondly to mark upon its varied disk Some little spot tliat might her dwelling be ; My fond, my fixed lieart would still adore, And own no other love. Away, away ! How canst thou say to one who lovffs 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 torment, And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st ! There is malignity in what thou say'st. Ros. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, That fain would save thee from the yawning gulf. 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 OM-n caprice. I can direct ra3'S(4Jf. 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 ! ! she has all the loveliness of heav'n And all its goodness to ! Ros. I mean not to impute dishonest arts, 1 mean not to impute — Bas. No 'faith 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 prizcst 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, Begen'ral, and command my soldiers too. Ros. What, hath this passion in so short a space, O ! curses on it ! so far chang'd 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 mov'd me thus to treat my friend. My best, mine earliest friend ! Bas. Say kinsman rather ; chance has link'd us so : Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far ; No act of clioice did e'er unite our souls. Men most unlike we are ; our thoughts un- like ; My breast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine. Ros. Ah 1 have I then so long, so dearly lovd thee ; So often, with an elder brother's care. Thy childish rambles tended, sliar'd thy sports; Fili'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task ; 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 ; 1 am thy kinsman then, And by that title will I save thy name. From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will. I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick : And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign ; For thy unkindness 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. — CBasil walks up and down in great agitation, tkenstojjs, covers Ins face with his hands, and seems to he overcome. Rosinberg looks at him earnestly.) O blessed heav'n he weeps ! (Runs up to him, and catches him in his arms.) Basil ! I have been too hard upon thee. And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus .'' Bas. (in a convulsed broken voice.) I will renoiuice — I'll leave — Ros. What says my Basil .' Bas. I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat of bliss — This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain — Cast off at once my little span of joy — Be wretched — miserable — whate'erthou wilt — Dost thou forgive me .'' Ros. O m)' friend ! my friend ! 1 love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee. I must be cruel to thee to be kind : 60 BASIL I A TRAGEDY. Each pang I see tliee feel strikes thro' my heart ; Then spare us botli, call up thy noble spirit, And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are ready — Let lis depart, nor lose another hour. (Basil shrinks from his arms, and looks at hivi icith somcichat of an upbraiding, at the same time a sorrowful look.) Bos. Nay, put mc not to death upon the instant ; I'll see her once aorain, and then depart. Ros. See her but once again, and thou art ruin'd ! It must not be — if tliou regardest me — Bus. Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no mercy ! Ros. Ah I thou wilt bless me all thine after- life For what now seems to thee so merciless. Bas. (sitting dotcn very dejectedly.) Mine after-life ! what is mine after-life .' My day is clos'd ! the gloom of night is come ! A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate. I've seen the last look of her heavenly e)^es ; I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice ; I've seen her fair form from my sight depart : JVIy doom is clos'd ! Ros. (hanging over him tcith pity and affec- tion.) Alas ! my fi-iend ! Bas. In all her lovely grace she disappear'd. Ah ! little thought I never to return ! Ros. Why so desponding .'' think of warlike glory. The fields of fair renown 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.) Thv roaring tliunders, and thy clashing steel I Welcome once more ! what have I now to do But play the brave man o'er again, and die .' Enter Isabella. Isab. (to Bas.) My princess bids me greet you, noble Count : — Bas. (starting.) What dost thou say ? Ros. Damn this untimely message ! Isab. The princess bids me greet you, no- ble Count: In tlie cool grove, hai-d by tlie soutliern gate, She with her train — Bas. What, she indeed, herself.' Isab. Herself, my lord, and she requests to see j'ou. Bas. Thank heav'n for this ! I will be there anon. Ros. (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, and. Exit.) Ros. (striking his forehead.) All lost again ! ill fortune light upon her I (Turning eagerly to Isab.) And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here To make appointments, honourable dame .' Isab. Not so, my lord, you must 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 art- ful snares, Since men will be such fools ! Isab. Yes, grumble at our empire as you will- Eos. What, boast ye of it .' empire do ye call it ? It is your shame ! a short-liv'd tyranny, That ends at last in hatred and contempt. Isab. 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 your 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.) Isab. O would I could but touch that stub- born heart ! How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn ! [Exeunt sererally. Scene IV. a summer apartment in THE COTJNTRTj THE WINDOWS OF WHICH LOOK TO A FOREST. Enter Victoria in a hunting dress, followed by Albini and Isabella, speaking as they enter. Vict, (to Alb.) And so you will not shai-e our sport to-day .' .■ilb. 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 liunt to-day. Plct. Ill staj^ at home and nurse tliee, dear Albini. .4/6. No, no, tliou shalt not stay. Viet. Nay, but I will. I cannot follow to the cheerful horn Whilst thou art sick at home. 'lib. Not very sick. Ratlier 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 I the shrill horns call us to the field : Your highness hears it .' (musick icithout.) Vict. Yc-s, my Isabella; BASIL I A TRAGEDY. 61 I hear it, and methinks 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, Wha waiting round with eager watchful eye. And reined steeds, the happy moments seize. O ! didst thou never hear, my Isabell, How nobly Basil in the field becomes His fiery courser's back? Isah. They say most gracefully. Mb. What, is the valiant Count not yet de- parted ? Vict. You would not have our gallant Ba- sil go When I have bid him stay ? not so, Albini. Mb. Fye ! reigns that spirit still so strongly in thee, Which vainly covets all men's admiration, And is to others cause of cruel pain.' 1 would thou couldst subdue it 1 Vict. My gentle friend, thoushouldst 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. Mb. Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself, And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell. Vict. O no ! that will not be ! 'twill peace restore : 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. (musick heard icithout.) Hark, hark! again ! All good be with you ! I'll return ere long. [ExEDNT Victoria and Isabella. Mb. (sola.) Ay, go, and ev'ry 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, gen'rous, 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 tjiy 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 §mile 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, I'll watch his steps, And speak to him myself. — ! I could hate her for that poor ambition Which silly adoration only claims. But that I well remember, in my youth 1 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 beautiful grove IN the forest. Musick and horns heard afar off, whilst hunts, men and dogs appear passing over the stage, at agrcatdistance. Enter Vjctoria and Basil, as if just alighted from their horses. Vict, (speaking to attendants loithout.') Lead on our horses to the further grove, And wait us tliere. — (to Bas.) This spot so pleasing, and so fragrant 'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance. And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon; I love to tread upon it. Bas. O I 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' the twisted boughs of those high elms, Tlie sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play, And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. Is it not beautiful .' Bas. As tho' an angel, in his upward flight, Had left his mantle floating in mid air. Vict. Still most unlike a garment ; small and sever'd : (Turning round, and perceiving 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 wak'd, That sweetly rising smile of admiration. Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is, Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene. Vict. Remember you have promis'd, gentle Count, No more to vex me with such foolish words. Bas. Ah ! wherefore 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 I ('Victoria looks haughty and displeased.) Ah ! pardon me, I know not what I say. Ah! irown not thus! I cannot see thee frown. I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent: But O ! a reined tongue, and bursting heait, Are hard at once to bear. — Wilt thou forgive me .' Vict. 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; Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm : BASIL : A TRAGEDY. We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent, I love to liaunt it still. (Basil !>taiis. Bas. His fiivrite path — a friend — here arm in arm — (^Gasping his hands, and raising them, to his head.) Then there is such a one ! (Drooping his head, and looking distractedly upon the ground.) I dream'd not of it. Vict, (pretending not to sec him.) That little lane, with woodbine all o'crgrown, He lov'd so well ! it is a fragrant path, Is it not, Count ? Bas. It is a gloomy one ! Vict. I have, my lord, been wont to think it cheerl'ul. 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 listen'd to the woodlark's evening song. Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go ? Accursed be the ground on which he trod ! Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown. That he would curse my brother to my face ? Bas. Your brother ! gracious God, is it your brother ? That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke, Is he indeed your brother .' Vict. He is indeed, my lord. Bas. Then heaven bless him ! all good an- gels bless him ! I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him! I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! Walks up and do%on icith a hurried step, tossing about his arms in transport ; then stops short and runs up to Victoria.) Is it indeed your brother ? Vict. It is indeed : what thoughts disturb'd 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 two brave brothers. And thou wcrt one of them ! Bas. I would fly from thee to earth's ut- most bounds, Were I thy brother — And yet methinks, I would I had a sister. Vict. And wherefore would ye so .' Bas. To place her near thee, The soft companion of tliy hours to prove. And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares. Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war. Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore, Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek. And kindly say, How does it fare with Basil .' Vict. No more of this — indeed there must no A friend's remembrance I will'ever bear thee. But see where Isabella this way comes : I had a wish to speak with her alone ; Attend us here, for soon will we return, And then take horse again. [Exit. Bas. {loohivg after her for some time.) See with what graceful steps she moves along, Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely ! If but the wind her ruffled garment raise. It twists it into some light pretty fold. Which adds new grace. Or should some small mishap. Some tangled branch, her fair attire derange, What would in others strange, or awkward seem, But lends to her some wild bewitching charm. See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm To pluck the dangling hedge-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 no ! yon thicket hides her from ray sight. Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still, Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last ! 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 ! Till now 1 never fear'd what man might utter ; I dread his tale, God grant it may be good ! Enter Messengek. From tlie army .'' Mess. Yes, my lord. Bas. What tidings brings't thou .■' Mess. Th' Imperial army, under brave Pis- caro, Have beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. Bas. Ha ' have they fought ? and is the battle o'er.'' Mess. Yes, conquer'd 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 pris'ner .' 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 j^our 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. Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart BASIL t A TRAGEDY. 53 To hear they bravely fought ! — They bravely fought, whilst we lay ling'ring here. ! what a fated blow to strike me thus I Perdition ! shame ! disgrace I a damned blot\'! Mess. Ten thousand of the enemy are slain ; We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 1 view'd the closing armies from afar ; Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread, Which seem'd, alas ! when that the fight was o'er, Like the wild marshes' crop of stately reeds, Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me ! When to the field I came, what dismal sights ! What waste of life ! what heaps of bleeding slain ! Bas. Would I v/ere laid a red, disfigur'd corse, Amid those heaps ! they fought, and we were 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. (Tossing his arms distractedly.) I will to quarters, narrow quarters go, Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more. [Exit. Mess. I'll follov/ after him ; he is distracted : And yet he looks so wild I dare not do it. Enter Victoria as if frightened, followed by Is.^BELLA. Vict, (to Isab.) Didst thou not mark him as he pass'd thee too .■' Isab. I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps I had no time. Vict. I met him with a wild disorder'd air, In furious haste ; he stopp'd distractedly, And gaz'd upon me w^th a mournful look. But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou.' (To the Mcssencrer.) 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 mon- arch captive. Vict, (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 ran ! Mess. Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not well : I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go. Vict. No, no, I'm well enough; I'm very well : Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. [Exit Messenger. O what a wretch am I .' I am to blame ! I 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 leaning upon Isabella. ACT V. Scene I. — a dark night; no moon, but A FEW STARS glimmering; THE STAGE REPRESENTS (aS MUCH AS CAN BE DISCOVERED FOR THE DARKNESS) A CHURCH-YARD WITH PART OF A CHAP- EL, AND A WING OF THE DUCAL PAL- ACE ADJOINING TO IT. Enter Basil with his hat off, his hair and his dress in disorder, stepping slowly, and stopping several times to listen, as if he was afraid of meeting any one. Bas. No sound is here : 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 dotli from her chamber beam. That I once more may on her dwelling gaze. And bless her still. All now is