Book .572^ 
 
 i'id;si-;.NTi:i) iiY 
 
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 WITH A REPRINT OF HIS PLAY, "THE DEFORMED," 1830 
 
 BY 
 
 BRUCE WELKER McCULLOUGH 
 
 t 
 
 A THESIS 
 
 PRESENTED TO THE FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL IN 
 
 PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR 
 
 THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY 
 
 
 GEORGE BANTA PUBLISHING COMPANV 
 
 MENASHA. WISCONSIN 
 
 1917 
 
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 
 RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 WITH A REPRINT OF HIS PLAY, "THE DEFORMED," 1830 
 
 BY 
 
 BRUCE WELKER McCULLOUGH 
 
 A THESIS 
 
 PRESENTED TO THE FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL 'iN 
 
 PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR 
 
 THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY 
 
 GEORGE BANTA PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 MENASHA, WISCONSIN 
 
 1917 
 
.'^• 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ^6^a^ 
 
 \ 
 
 The University 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The following study was undertaken in the hope that it would con- 
 tribute somewhat to the knowledge of our early drama, the significance 
 of which, due in part to its inaccessibility, has not hitherto been fully 
 appreciated by students of our native literature. The material herein 
 dealt with is inaccessible to the general student, being confined largely 
 to original manuscripts and to a few early editions now very scarce. 
 
 I take particular pleasure in expressing my gratitude to Professor 
 Quinn, under whose general direction the work was done, for his helpful 
 suggestions and friendly interest throughout. For access to the unpub- 
 lished manuscripts of Smith's plays and to his published works I am 
 indebted to the courtesy of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, 
 and especially of the Assistant Librarian, Mr. Ernest Spofford. The 
 text of The Deformed is based upon the edition of 1830, the only edition 
 hitherto published, for which my thanks are due to the Ridgeway Branch 
 of the Philadelphia Library. I am indebted to Mr. WilHam Rudolph 
 Smith for several valuable letters, written to his great-uncle, Richard 
 Penn Smith, by Edwin Forrest and others, to which he kindly gave 
 me access. 
 
 Bruce Welker McCullough. 
 
 April, 1917. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 I. BIOGRAPHY 
 
 Richard Penn Smith was born in Philadelphia at the family home 
 on the southeast corner of Chestnut and Fifth streets, the third and 
 last son of William Moore Smith. His mother's maiden name was 
 Ann Rudulph. The diary of his grandfather, Rev. William Smith, 
 D.D., first Provost of the College of Philadelphia, bears the following 
 entry relating to his birth: "March 13th, 1799. The wife of my son 
 William Moore Smith, gave birth to a son, whom they call Richard 
 Penn Smith, after his honor Richard Penn, Esq."^ 
 
 The young Richard could look back upon a talented and refined 
 ancestry and enjoyed the advantages of a cultivated home life. His 
 grandfather, who had been educated in Europe, was for twenty-five 
 years Provost of the College of Philadelphia. He stood very high as a 
 scholar and writer and was an eloquent preacher. And we are told that 
 his son, William Moore Smith, enjoyed all the advantages of the most 
 liberal education which this country afforded at that time. He was 
 spoken of as a gentleman of the old school, who possessed a high degree 
 of culture and was a poet of considerable reputation in his day. In 
 early life he pubhshed a volume of poems, which was republished in 
 England. 
 
 The early education of Richard was received at Joseph Neef 's gram- 
 mar school, at the Falls of Schuylkill, where he remained until he was 
 ten years of age. During the last three years while at the Neef school 
 he and his brother, Samuel Wemyss, were also under the care of John 
 Sanderson, who in 1806 came to Philadelphia as private tutor to William 
 Moore Smith's children.^ 
 
 Upon leaving the Neef school the two brothers were sent to a school 
 at Mount Airy, kept by John T. Carre. After a few years spent there, 
 Richard, now in his teens, was sent to Huntingdon, Pa., and placed 
 under the care of John Johnson, a Presbyterian clergyman, who had 
 
 ' Horace Wemyss Smith: Life of Rev. William Smith, D. D., First Provost of the 
 College of Philadelphia. 1880. Vol. II. Page 411. 
 
 * Sanderson was an ardent student of the Latin and Greek classics. William 
 Moore Smith, upon one of his annual tours up the Juniata, had found him reading the 
 classics in the original. He took a fancy to him, and brought him to Philadelphia 
 as the tutor and companion of his two sons. While residing in the Smith family, 
 Sanderson designed The Lives of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, which 
 was the first attempt to combine their biographies. Richard Penn Smith contributed 
 the life of Francis Hopkinson to this work. 
 
2 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 established a school there, and was for many years well known as a 
 successful teacher of the Greek and Latin languages. In 1818 he 
 returned to Philadelphia and entered the ofhce of William Rawle to 
 study law, with David Paul Brown, Thomas White and Thomas S. 
 Smith as fellow students. Two years later he was admitted to practice 
 as a member of the bar.^ 
 
 The taste for letters shown by his father and grandfather soon 
 began to take possession of him. His first appearance as an author 
 was in the columns of the Union, where he published a series of moral 
 and literary essays under the title of the Plagiary. Near the close of 
 the year 1822 he purchased the newspaper establishment, then well- 
 known throughout the country as the "Aurora."^ 
 
 From all accounts he found the duties of an editor wearisome and, 
 after five years, abandoned them to resume the profession of law. All 
 of his biographers speak of his ability as a classical scholar and of his 
 decided bent for literature. The leisure hours that came with his return 
 to the profession of law were devoted to this favorite diversion. Morton 
 McMichael, a personal friend of Smith, wrote a short account of him 
 during his lifetime, which was later used as an introduction in The 
 Miscellaneous Works of the Late Richard Penn Smith collected and 
 published by his son Horace W. Smith in 1856, two years after his 
 father's death. McMichael has the following to say of his literary 
 tastes and acquirements: "His favorite study is the drama, and with 
 this department of literature he is thoroughly familiar. With the 
 dramatists of all nations he has an extensive acquaintance; and in the 
 dramatic history of England and France, he is profoundly versed. 
 Perhaps there are few who have studied the old masters in this art 
 with more devoted attention, and with a keener enjoyment of their 
 beauties." 
 
 An examination of the list of books comprising his library and sold 
 at auction after his death would seem to bear out his biographer's state- 
 ment, for surely a man's books may be said to reflect his tastes. First 
 of all his law library, consisting of over seventeen hundred volumes, 
 reminds us that literature was only his avocation. Of his general 
 library there were numerous works of biography, travel, history, and 
 poetry, but by far the largest collection devoted to a single subject was 
 that pertaining to the English drama, which contained over three 
 
 ' Horace W. Smith: Life of Rev. William Smith, vol. II. p. 526. 
 
 * James Rees (Colley Gibber): The Life of Edwin Forrest. 1874. p. 415. 
 
THE LIFE AISTD WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH "^ 
 
 hundred volumes. There were also a large number of French plays 
 and books relating to French drama.^ 
 
 On the 5th of May, 1823, Smith married Mrs. Elinor Matilda Lin- 
 coln. Of the five children born to this union, only one, Horace Wemyss, 
 lived to maturity. It was this son who afterwards edited the miscel- 
 laneous works of his father and wrote a life of his great grandfather, 
 Rev. William Smith, in two volumes. Mrs. Smith died in 1833, leaving 
 her husband alone with his only surviving son, Horace. A very close 
 companionship sprang up between them, of which the son gives the 
 following account: "Well do I remember how proud I was of him; he 
 took me with him wherever he went, and his associates and companions 
 (child as I was) became mine. James N. Barker, Robert M. Bird, 
 Joseph C. Neal, Edwin Forrest, James Goodman, Edgar A. Poe, Louis 
 A. Godey, William E. Burton, Robert T. Conrad, Joseph C. Chandler 
 and Morton McMichael were the literary magnates of Philadelphia 
 and of all that intellectual coterie my father's star was the brightest, 
 his wit the gayest, and his sarcasm the most cutting; as a writer he was 
 admired; as a dramatist, at that day the most successful in the country, 
 and with some fame as a poet, he was beloved as a companion and a 
 gentleman. "® 
 
 In 1836 he married Isabella Stratton Knisell and retired to the 
 family seat at the Falls of Schuylkill, near Philadelphia, where he lived 
 in comparative retirement. Five children were also born to this union. 
 He died August 12, 1854. 
 
 James Rees, in his Life of Edwin Forrest, has called attention to the 
 manner in which Richard Penn Smith was celebrated for his ready wit, 
 sarcastic humor, and repartee. Few are said to have had the courage 
 to measure lances with him in a battle of wits. 
 
 His journalistic training was doubtless responsible in part for his 
 great facility in composition. Rees is authority for the statement that 
 several of his pieces were written and performed at a week's notice. 
 The entire last act of William Penn was written on the afternoon of the 
 day previous to its performance. Yet this hasty production ran ten 
 successive nights, drawing full houses, and was afterwards revived 
 several times.' This very facility of composition, however, which 
 Smith's biographers have uniformly praised, was responsible for serious 
 
 ' These figures were obtained from an examination of the auctioneer's sale list. 
 •Horace W. Smith: Life of Rev. William Smith. Vol. II. p. 529. 
 ' James Rees: Tlie Life of Edwin Forrest, p. 417. 
 
4 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 defects in his work. Virtually everything he wrote shows evidence of 
 hasty composition, a fact which often resulted in lack of unity and 
 confusion of plot, unreal characters, and lack of finish and ease of style. 
 What a little working over would have accomplished for many of his 
 plays is illustrated by his play The Deformed, first written in 1825 and 
 called The Divorce. An attempt to place it upon the stage at that 
 time was unsuccessful. Five years later it was revised by the author, 
 met with hearty approval on the stage and remains, in my opinion, his 
 most artistic and effective production. 
 
 Most of Smith's writing was done between the years 1825 and 1835 
 before he had reached the age of thirty-six. His most significant contribu- 
 tion to literature was in the realm of the drama. He wrote twenty plays 
 of which fifteen were performed at various times at the Philadelphia 
 theatres and elsewhere. He did not confine himself to play writing, 
 but produced a novel, which had a wide sale, a large number of tales 
 and essay-like sketches, considerable verse, and some biography and 
 criticism. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 II. THE PLAYWRIGHT 
 
 The year 1825 may be said to mark a break in our dramatic his- "^ 
 tory. John Howard Payne's significant work was done and the last 
 production of James Nelson Barker appeared on the stage in 1824. 
 The foundation was being laid for a new school of dramatic writing 
 which had more completely assimilated its various foreign influences. 
 The most significant creative period our drama had yet seen was to 
 come between the years 1825 and 1860 with the development in Phila- 
 delphia of a school of romantic tragedy. To Richard Penn Smith, 
 somewhat of a transition figure, belongs the honor of ushering in this 
 school. 
 
 Despite the activity of our early playwrights foreign plays had 
 continued to dominate the stage. The number of American plays was 
 small in comparison with the total number of plays produced. The 
 majority of these foreign productions were new plays from England 
 unknown to the present generation. Titles that recur most frequently 
 in the stage histories of the time, however, belong to the Elizabethan 
 and Restoration periods of English dramatic history, alongside the 
 plays of Goldsmith and Sheridan. With such master-pieces the first 
 attempts of our native playwrights had to compete. The theatrical 
 managers, being able to get the best plays of English dramatists for 
 nothing, felt little disposition to risk hundreds of dollars on native 
 productions, which seldom outlived the first night unless aided by the 
 talent of an acknowledged star. 
 
 The revolt of the American colonies however had meant more than a 
 desire on the part of the colonists for self-government. The desire 
 for self-government rapidly grew into a desire for complete independence 
 of England, literary as well as social and political. The pride that 
 Americans were beginning to feel in America required them to stand 
 upon their own feet in all things. America, it was felt, was individual 
 and unique and should produce her own literature, untainted by old 
 world influences. Reviewers were ever wilhng and anxious to encourage 
 native authors. Though such an attitude often led to excess of praise 
 for everything American, it was decidedly beneficial in encouraging 
 our native literature. 
 
 The attitude is well expressed by James Kirk Paulding in an edition 
 of his comedies in which he says: 
 
J 
 
 6 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 "Hitherto the people of the United States have been almost entirely 
 dependant on foreign writers for this, one of the most influential of all 
 censors of public manners, morals and tastes, and it seems obvious that 
 the productions of foreigners, adapted to actions in a state of society 
 so widely different from that of our own country, can have little appli- 
 cation to us, either as republicans or patriots. Like every other people 
 we require a drama of our own, based on our manners, habits, character 
 and political institutions and such a drama it seems to us, if sustained 
 with sufficient spirit by American writers, would take root and flourish 
 in the United States. The foundation must be laid, however weak and 
 unfinished, and a hope, not indeed very sanguine, is entertained that 
 this experiment may at least be sufiiciently successful to stimulate 
 others better qualified to excel in this rather neglected species of lit- 
 erature. "^ 
 
 This desire for literary independence, admirable as was its inten- 
 tion to free us from the servile imitation of foreign models, often led 
 to exaggeration. With not only the people but the critics demanding 
 plays that would flatter the public self-love, it was but natural for the 
 playwright to fall into excesses. Too often his so-called independence 
 of England consisted merely in abusing her and glorifying self. Anyone 
 showing a desire for fairness was liable to criticism. Richard Penn 
 Smith's Eighth of January was criticized, by at least one reviewer, on 
 that account. Despite the fact that it was written frankly to appeal 
 to patriotism, to which appeal it owed its success, the reviewer criti- 
 cized its author for making the English miller so likable a figure. 
 
 As we have seen. Smith began his career as a writer by contributing 
 literary and moral essays to a newspaper. As early as 1820 he wrote a 
 long narrative poem, entitled Francesca da Rimini, the manuscript of 
 which still exists but which he did not publish because, as his son tells 
 us, he afterwards learned that Leigh Hunt had treated the same theme. 
 His editorship of the Aurora from 1822 to 1827 stimulated the writing 
 of verse and prose tales and sketches, much of which first appeared in 
 its columns. 
 
 In 1825 he wrote a farce entitled The Pelican, and a melodrama, 
 entitled The Divorce, neither of which ever saw the light. The latter 
 appeared in a revised form however five years later, as The Deformed, 
 or Woman's Trial. His only long novel. The Forsaken, he tells us, was 
 also written in 1825, though not published until 1831. 
 
 ^ James Kirk Paulding: American Comedies 1847. See preface. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 7 
 
 The year 1828 marks his first appearance as a playwright with the 
 performance of Quite Correct at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Phila- 
 delphia. Following this, the years 1829 and 1830 saw the production 
 of no less than eight plays from his pen. Others followed, a complete 
 list of which, with the place and date of publications and of first per- 
 formance is here given: 
 
 Quite Correct, Phila., 1835; Chestnut Street Theatre, Phila., May 
 27, 1828. 
 
 ■ The Eighth of January, Phila., 1829; Chestnut Street Theatre, 
 Phila., January 8th, 1829. 
 
 " The Disowned; or The Prodigals, Phila., 1830; Holiday Street Theatre, 
 Baltimore, Mar. 26, 1829. 
 
 A Wife at a Venture, Walnut Street Theatre, Phila. July 25, 1829. 
 
 The Sentinels; or The Two Sergeants, Walnut Street Theatre, Phila., 
 December 1829. 
 
 William Penn; or The Elm Tree, Walnut Street Theatre, Phila., 
 December 25, 1829. 
 
 The Triumph at Plattsburg, New York, 1917; Chestnut Street Thea- 
 tre, Phila., Jan. 8, 1830. 
 
 ' The Deformed, or Woman's Trial; Phila., 1830; Chestnut Street 
 Theatre, Phila., Feb. 4, 1830. 
 
 The Water Witch, or the Skimmer of the Seas, Chestnut Street Thea- 
 tre, Phila., Dec. 25, 1830. 
 
 Caius Marius, Arch Street Theatre, Phila., Jan. 12, 1831. 
 
 My Uncle's Wedding, Arch Street Theatre, Phila., Oct. 15, 1832. 
 
 Is She a Brigand? Phila., 1835; Arch Street Theatre, Phila., No- 
 vember 1, 1833. 
 
 The Actress of Padua, American Theatre, Phila., June 13, 1836. 
 
 The Daughter, Phila., 1836. 
 
 The Bravo. 
 
 The Bombardment of Algiers, probably never acted. 
 
 The Last Man, or The Cock of the Village, not acted. 
 
 The Pelican, not acted. 
 
 Shakespeare in Love, not acted. 
 
 The Solitary, or The Man of Mystery, not acted. 
 
 The Eighth of January, The Disowned, The Deformed and Is She a 
 Brigand? were published in individual editions. Quite Correct and Is 
 She a Brigand? were published in a collection of plays, entitled Alex- 
 ander's Modern Acting Drama consisting of the most popular plays pro- 
 duced at the Philadelphia Theatres and Elsewhere. Quite Correct was 
 
8 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 also published in a newspaper at the time of its popularity. The Daugh- 
 ter was included in a book of tales and sketches by Smith, entitled 
 The Actress of Padua. The play which is now most accessible to the 
 general reader is The Triumph at Plattsburg, which was first pubhshed 
 in 1917 in a volume entitled Representative American Plays collected 
 and edited by Prof. A. H. Quinn. 
 
 The original manuscripts of the following plays are in the Historical 
 Society of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia: Quite Correct, A Wife at 
 Venture, The Sentinels, William Penn, The Triumph at Plattsburg, The 
 Pelican, The Last Man, The Solitary, Shakespeare in Love, The Bom- 
 bardment of Algiers, The Divorce, and a fragment of The Bravo. The 
 Water Witch, My Uncle's Wedding, The Actress of Padua, and Caius 
 Marius, except for quoted passages, have not been preserved. 
 
 Morton McMichael, whose account of Smith was written during 
 his life-time, speaks of an unfinished play, entitled The Venetian. How- 
 ever he does not include The Bravo. James Rees and H. W. Smith, 
 each writing at a later date, say nothing of The Ventian but include 
 The Bravo. It is likely that The Bravo, the scene of which is laid in 
 Venice, was first called The Venetian. It was not unusual for managers 
 to change the titles of plays for advertising and other purposes. 
 
 Quite Correct was favorably reviewed by the papers and immediately 
 aroused interest in the new playwright. It is an adaptation of a story 
 entitled Doubts and Fears, by Theodore Hook, 1788-1841, an English 
 writer of novels of social life. Doubts and Fears is one of a series of 
 stories in nine volumes, by Hook, bearing the general title Sayings and 
 Doings, 1826-1829. According to an unverified statement accompany- 
 ing the play, Hook's story was based upon a comedy by Desaugiers 
 and Gentil, entitled VHotel Garni ou la Leqon singuliere. 
 
 An English play, entitled Quite Correct was put on at the Hay- 
 market, July 29, 1825, which, Genest says, was translated by Wallace 
 from a French piece, called the Slanderer. Wallace's version was 
 refused by the managers of Drury Lane. Caroline Boaden made some 
 slight alterations and added the character of Grojan who became the 
 central figure of the revised comedy, which was now put on at the Hay- 
 market and acted forty-eight times.^ 
 
 Ireland states that a comedy by Poole, entitled Quite Correct was 
 performed at the Park Theatre, New York, Sept. 18, 1826.^ He adds 
 
 *John Genest: Some Account of the English Stage. 1832. Vol. 9. p. 315. 
 a J. N. Ireland: Records of the New York Stage, 1866. Vol. I. p. 505. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHAIID PENN SMITH 9 
 
 the cast of characters which corresponds to the one given by Genest 
 and to the characters in Doubts and Fears. It is obviously the same 
 play and his statement that it was by Poole is probably an error. 
 
 Smith's version follows Hook's both in incidents and characters, 
 with only slight alterations. The scene is laid at a hotel in an English 
 watering place and the play derives its title from the efforts of the 
 fussy landlord to maintain the respectability of his establishment; 
 to be "quite correct" as he repeatedly says. The plot is concerned 
 with the reunion and reconciliation of a father with his long-lost wife 
 and daughter. A love story is woven in which ends happily when the 
 daughter turns out to be of noble parentage. It is a farce that ends in 
 melodrama. Broad humor and caricature in the early scenes gives way 
 to sentiment at the end. Aside from slight inconsistencies of plot, 
 perhaps its most serious defect lies in the early revelation of the point 
 upon which the plot turns. Consequently the elements of suspense and 
 climax, so essential to the success of such a play, are for the most part 
 lost. Mere dialogue without plot or incident may well have been 
 successful on the French stage, but when adapted for the English or 
 American stage its meagreness in surprises detracted from its effective- 
 ness. It proved very pleasing on the stage however and revealed 
 considerable skill on the part of its adaptor in the matter of stage effect. 
 
 The initial success of The Eighth of January, first produced at the 
 Chestnut Street Theatre, Jan. 8, 1829, is indicated in a statement in 
 the memoirs of Wemyss to the effect that it was produced to a house 
 of one thousand dollars, "the first and last of the same race."^ 
 
 It was written in celebration of the victory of Andrew Jackson over 
 the British forces, Jan. 8, 1815, in his defense of New Orleans at the 
 close of the War of 1812. So little time was given to its composition 
 that it was sent piecemeal to the theatre to be copied. The author 
 apologizes, in the preface, for its hasty composition but pleads in exten- 
 uation that the principal events in the history of our country should be 
 dramatized and exhibited at the theatres on days set apart as national 
 festivals. It quickly declined in favor and when acted the third night 
 for the author's benefit Durang reports that the house was not good. 
 On the evening of its first performance the Walnut Street Theatre, 
 not to be behind its rival, produced a parody, entitled The Glorious 
 
 * F. C. Wemyss: Twenty-Six Years of the Life of an Actor and Manager. 1847- 
 p. 165. 
 
10 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Eighth of January, which we are told was a ludicrous battle of New 
 Orleans.^ The cast of characters was as follows: 
 
 General Jackson Mr. Rowbotham 
 
 Colonel Kemper Mr. Darley 
 
 Sir Edward Packenham Mr. Wemyss 
 
 Colonel Thornton Mr. Grierson 
 
 McFuse Mr. Mercer 
 
 John Bull Mr. Warren 
 
 Charles, his son Mr. Southwell 
 
 Billy Bowbell Mr. J. Jefferson 
 
 Rifleman Mr. Heyl 
 
 Sergeant . Mr. Jones 
 
 Charlotte Mrs. Rowbotham 
 
 The play centers about John Bull, a tory miller, Charles, his son, who 
 has joined the American army, and General Jackson during the siege 
 of New Orleans. Jackson, in disguise, advances within the enemy's 
 line in quest of information. He is surrounded by the enemy, but is 
 warned by Charles in time to conceal himself in John Bull's mill. Soon 
 afterwards, when he is discovered and captured by some British soldiers, 
 he manages to free himself by signing a request for an armistice which 
 already bears the signature of the British commander. The last scene 
 depicts the progress of a battle which ends victoriously for the American 
 arms. It ends with some speechmaking followed by Jackson joining 
 the hands of Charles and his cousin Charlotte. 
 
 A humorous vein is introduced in the person of Billy Bowbell, a 
 simpleton who fancies that he is to marry Charlotte. The play bears 
 a comic opera-like resemblance to reality. The dialogue is packed 
 with exchange of compliments. John Bull is full to overflowing with 
 noble sentiments, as is also General Jackson, who gives expression to the 
 democratic ideals current at the time. 
 
 In his preface Smith acknowledges that he derived some assistance 
 in writing his play from a French play by Frederic. This was Frederic 
 Dupetit-Mere, 1785-1827, an extremely prolific writer of popular melo- 
 drama and vaudeville. Many of his pieces were written in collabora- 
 tion with various other playwrights of his time, but they were generally 
 published under the name of Frederic. Querard gives a list of fifty-one 
 plays thus produced.^ 
 
 A play by John Howard Payne entitled Peter Smink; or The Armis- 
 tice, first performed at the Royal Surrey Theatre, July 1822, bears 
 
 ^Charles Durang: The Philadelphia Stage, Second Series. Chap. 46. 
 «J. M. Querard: La France Litteraire. Paris, 1828. Vol. 2, pp. 690 ff. 
 
THE LIFE AND \MIITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 1 1 
 
 evidence of having been derived from the same source. Though its 
 scene is laid in the Frontiers of France, indicating that it was a more 
 direct adaptation, it depicts the same general situation. There are 
 a miller and his daughter, a French soldier in love with the daughter, 
 and a French general in disguise, who, upon getting into trouble similar 
 to Jackson's, escapes by the ruse of signing an armistice. It consists 
 of only one act and is a mere comic trifle. Smith adapted his model 
 to a different situation and introduced a great many original details. 
 
 His next venture upon the stage was The Disowned, first performed 
 at the Holiday Street Theatre, Baltimore, Mar. 26, 1829. It was acted 
 in Philadelphia in December of the same year.^ Wemyss, who pro- 
 duced it, tells us that it first appeared as The Prodigals, but he rechris- 
 tened it The Disowned in order to avail himself of the popularity of 
 Bulwer's novel of that name. Wemyss, Durang, and Rees are authority 
 for the statement that it and The Deformed were afterwards successfully 
 performed in London. 
 
 The Disowned shows a marked advance in its author's power as a 
 writer of drama. Like the earlier plays it is an adaptation, being 
 founded, as he acknowledges in the preface, upon a French play, entitled 
 Le Caissier, a drama in three acts, published in Paris in 1826 and written 
 by JousHn De La Salle (Armand-Francois), 1797-1863. 
 
 Many liberties were taken with the original in adapting it to the 
 American stage. The dialogue is simple and full of spirit and bears 
 evidence of taste and skill in the translation. There is no waste of 
 words and idle declamation. The story develops rapidly and the 
 catastrophe is striking. Following is the cast of characters as performed 
 at the Chestnut Street Theatre: 
 
 Duval (a banker) Mr. Hathwell 
 
 Gustavus St. Felix (his cashier) Mr. Southwell 
 
 St. Felix (Gustavus' Uncle) Mr. Jefferson 
 
 Malfoit ( a clerk) Mr. Wemyss 
 
 Bertrand Mr. Rowbotham 
 
 Andrew ( a servant) Mr. Murray 
 
 Notary Mr. McDougal 
 
 Amelia Mrs. Darley 
 
 Pauline (Duval's daughter) Mrs. Rowbotham 
 
 Madame Mercoeur Miss Hathwell 
 
 Justine (Amelia's maid) Miss Kerr 
 Soldiers, guests, servants 
 
 The scene of this tragic melodrama is laid in a village in France. It is 
 
 ' Durang: Second Series. Chap. 54. 
 
12 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 concerned with the efforts of Malfort, a villainous bank clerk, to marry 
 the banker's daughter, Pauline. He has done everything he can to 
 corrupt Gustavus, the favored suitor, having taught him to gamble 
 away the bank's funds, and introduced him to Amelia, a fascinating 
 widow. To further his schemes he employs Bertrand, a former com- 
 panion in rascality, who turns out to be the ne'er-do-well brother of 
 Amelia, and together they plot to kill the rich uncle of Gustavus. The 
 murder is frustrated by Amelia who, in saving the intended victim, 
 receives the dagger-thrust of her brother in her own breast. She dies 
 and the two criminals are caught. Bertrand is thoroughly repentant. 
 
 It is interesting to note the changes thought necessary by the adap- 
 tor, of which he apeaks in the preface. In the French version Amelia 
 is not killed but retires to a convent, and Bertrand is taken into cus- 
 tody "the same hardened wretch as he appears in the earlier scenes." 
 This ending did not suit Smith. Amelia is still alive and the man to 
 whom she is so devoutly attached marries another. Also the fact that 
 a blemish is thrown upon the character of Amelia seems to him to 
 diminish the interest awakened by her situation. The changes indicate 
 that Smith was a shrewd playwright who knew what his audience wanted. 
 
 As changed, the situation is rendered more striking and the play 
 possesses a greater sense of completeness. The willing self-sacrifice 
 of Amelia, the moral sentiments expressed by her and Bertrand, and 
 the assurance that Gustavus will soon assuage his grief in the charms of 
 Pauline: all these things point to a strong sentimental appeal which 
 the play must have had on the stage. 
 
 A Wife at a Venture was first performed at the Walnut Street Thea- 
 tre, July 25, 1829, with the following cast: 
 
 The Caliph Mr. Grierson 
 
 Mourad, his favorite Mr. Dickson 
 
 Salek, his friend Mr. Porter 
 
 Ibad, a physician Mr. Hathwell 
 
 Alcouz, the Cahph's jester Mr. J. Jefferson 
 
 Cadi Mr. Warren 
 
 Dennis O'Whack Mr. Greene 
 
 Hassan Mr. McDougal 
 
 Kasrak Mr. Watson 
 
 Darina Miss Kerr 
 
 Lira Mrs. WiUis 
 
 Rosella Miss Hathwell 
 
 It is a confused, oriental comedy, its scene laid in Bagdad, a fitting place 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 13 
 
 for such Strange incidents. The plot, which is intricate and not very 
 skilfully constructed, is concerned with the events that follow the 
 passage of a law by the Caliph that every true mussulman must marry, 
 become a soldier, or pay a fine of one-third his estate. The opening 
 scene in which Darina and Lira discuss their suitors owes something to 
 the famous scene in The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 This play was probably written several years before it first appeared 
 on the stage. The manuscript bears the dates 1818 and 1819 though 
 each has been crossed out. Internal evidence also seems to point to 
 an early composition. The tangled plot is constructed almost wholly 
 out of stock situations. They consist of a forged letter, royalty in 
 disguise, mistaken identity, a villainous guardian, a feigned marriage, 
 and a mystery surrounding the birth of a lady. Such things are the 
 stock in trade for writers of such jumbles of melodrama and comic 
 opera. 
 
 The dialogue is stagy and unnatural. When Salek employs his 
 feigned marriage to Darina to test the afifections of Lira, she reproaches 
 him in strong if not always elegant language. At first she is only cold 
 and indifferent and gives the following reply to his banter: "You do 
 not suppose I feel mortified at being fairly rid of your increasing impor- 
 tunities. " But she cannot hold out against his pleasantries and, losing 
 her womanly dignity, heaps such epithets upon him as "ungrateful, 
 false and perfidious," "barbarous and unfeeling." She characterizes 
 him as a "perjured, false-hearted lover," a "vile, abominable flatterer." 
 This is in the style of the period when the distressed heroine addressed 
 an ungallant suitor as "contemptible villain," or "base wretch." One 
 does not have to look beyond the novels of Cooper or Simms to find 
 such phrases. 
 
 The Sentinels; or, The Two Sergeants was first performed in Dec- 
 ember, 1829, at the Walnut Street Theatre." It was acted several 
 times. The manuscript gives the following cast of characters for a 
 performance in 1832 at the Chestnut Street Theatre: 
 
 Le Clair Mr. Greenwood 
 
 Felix Mr. S. Chapman 
 
 Morazzi Mr. Porter 
 
 Rabateau Mr. Allen 
 
 Gustavus Mrs. S. Chapman (?) 
 
 Adolph ;Miss Anderson 
 
 Valentine Mr. Greene 
 
 * Durang, Second Series, Chap. 51. 
 
14 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Sailor Mr. Bloom 
 
 Madame Bertrand Mrs. Stickney 
 
 Madame Derville Mrs. Greene 
 
 Lauretta Miss Chapman 
 
 It is probable that the date 1832 was affixed many years later by H. 
 W. Smith, who had failed to find a record of its earliest performance. 
 It is a pleasant, romantic comedy or melodrama on the theme of fidelity. 
 The two sentinels are as fast friends as Damon and Pythias, and their 
 story is somewhat similar. The plot is filled with romantic devices 
 that smack of the theatrical, but which must have been very effective 
 on the stage. 
 
 During the same month in which The Sentinels first appeared, a 
 new play upon a native theme, entitled William Penn; or, The Elm 
 Tree, was put on at the Walnut Street Theatre, December 25, 1829. 
 Here again the manuscript differs from Durang's account, giving a 
 performance at the Arch Street Theatre in 1832 as the first. 
 
 Durang gives the following account which indicates that it was 
 presented with considerable attention to its scenic effect: 
 
 "All the local scenes in and adjacent to our city, wherein the promi- 
 nent events in Penn's first interview with the Indians occurred, were 
 accurately taken and beautifully painted. The great elm tree, the 
 ship. Welcome, floating near the bank of the Delaware, under the 
 shadows of the majestic elm, were all beautifully depicted by the artist's 
 brush. "9 
 
 The cast of characters, which is altered somewhat from that given 
 in the imperfect manuscript, is as follows: 
 
 Europeans 
 "William Penn Mr. Kennedy 
 
 Hickory Oldboy, a Quaker Mr. Chapman 
 
 Timothy Twist, a tailor Mr. Lefton 
 
 Dennis O'Rudder, boatswain Mr. Greene 
 
 Indians 
 Malebore Mr. Porter 
 
 Tangoras Mr. Greenwood 
 
 Tammany Mr. Clarke 
 
 Manta Mr. Garson 
 
 Oulita Mrs. Greene 
 
 Whiska Miss Hathwell 
 
 The name of the heroine, Oulita, may have been suggested by a 
 play, entitled Oolaita, or The Indian Heroine, by Lewis Deffebach. 
 The two plays bear no other particular resemblance however. 
 •Durang, Second Series. Chap. 51. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 15 
 
 Smith's play is concerned with Penn's intervention to save the life 
 of an Indian chief from sacrifice to a hostile tribe. The first act gives 
 a portrayal of the Indian. It depicts his love, his desire for revenge, 
 his heroism and self-sacrifice. In the next scene Penn is presented 
 talking about the opportunities of the New World, a land in which he 
 hopes the poet's dream of Arcadian happiness may sometime be realized. 
 When appealed to, he speaks to a group of Indians who are preparing 
 to take the life of Tammany, an Indian chief, as a sacrifice, and his 
 power over them is so miraculous that after a few words, supplemented 
 by some opportune claps of thunder, they all but one throw away their 
 hatchets and Tammany is left unharmed. A new thread enters the plot 
 at this point in the appearance of a group of boisterous sailors, but 
 the remainder of the manuscript has been lost and the relation of this 
 scene to the main plot cannot be determined. 
 
 We are told that the play was written in great haste, a fact of which 
 the plot construction and dialogue bear evidence. The attempt to 
 make the Indians speak in the particular kind of figurative language, 
 filled with reference to objects in nature, that tradition has attributed 
 to them, is not always successful. For a young Indian lover to say 
 of his mistress that "the voice of Oulita is heard by the Sanbeccan as 
 the passing breeze by the famished wolf when he scents the blood of the 
 wild-deer" is in keeping with the tradition. But Oulita is made to 
 plead for her father, not in such picturesque similes, but in the artificial 
 and stilted language of any heroine in distress in the melodramas of 
 the period. Despite its shortcomings as drama however the piece 
 possesses a decided interest because of its attempt to portray a great 
 historical figure. 
 
 Only a few days after the appearance of William Penn, Smith pro- 
 duced another historical play, entitled The Triumph at Plattsburg, 
 first performed on January 8, 1830 at the Chestnut Street Theatre.^" 
 It was written in celebration of the fight in Plattsburg Bay, the greatest 
 naval battle of the War of 1812, which occurred September 11, 1814. 
 From Durang's account it must have been put on with considerable 
 scenic effect. Its patriotic appeal met with a warm response. Fol- 
 lowing is the cast of characters: 
 
 Major McCrea Mr. Foot 
 
 Captain Stanley Mr. Rowbotham 
 
 Andre Macklegraith Mr. Maywood 
 
 " Durang: Second Series. Chap. 55. 
 
16 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Captain Peabody Mr. J. Jefferson 
 
 Corporal Peabody Mr. McDougal 
 
 Dr. Drench Mr. Hatwell 
 
 Elinor McCrea Mrs. Roper 
 
 Mrs. Macklegraith Mrs. Turner 
 
 Lucy Miss Waring 
 
 Mrs. Drench Miss Armstrong 
 
 Stated briefly, the plot is concerned with the efforts of Major McCrea 
 to find his daughter EHnor who he thinks, has been seduced by a British 
 o£&cer. His hfe is endangered, but he manages to escape, taking with 
 him his daughter, who has turned up in search of her husband. He 
 then learns that his daughter's marriage is genuine. The remainder 
 of the play follows the progress of the battle, which ends with a "bril- 
 liant victory for the Americans" the closing scenes being more important 
 for their scenic effect than anything else. 
 
 The Philadelphia Daily Chronicle, on Feb. 4, 1830, bore the follow- 
 ing announcement of a new play to be performed at the Chestnut 
 Street Theatre: 
 
 "The Manager, ever anxious to encourage native talent, begs leave 
 to inform his fellow citizens that the greatest care and attention has 
 been bestowed upon the present drama, and that no effort has been 
 wanting to render it worthy their approbation and support. This 
 evening, February 4, will be performed an entire new drama, written 
 by R. P. Smith, Esq., of this city, author of The Disowned, Eighth of 
 January, etc., and which has been some weeks in preparation, called 
 The Deformed; or Woman's Trial." 
 
 Its success on the stage is thus recorded by Durang: 
 
 "This was a most excellent drama and deserves a lasting reputation 
 which it must obtain from refined taste and unprejudiced judgment. "^^ 
 It was repeated at various times and, according to Durang and Rees, 
 was successfully performed in London. Mrs. Thayer chose it for her 
 benefit performance March 18, 1839 at the Chestnut Street Theatre, 
 Philadelphia, upon which occasion she appeared as Oriana. 
 
 The Deformed is based upon the second part of The Honest Whore, 
 by Thomas Dekker. Smith was not the first American playwright to 
 adapt this comedy of Dekker's. A comedy by William Dunlap, entitled 
 The Italian Father, first performed at the Park Theatre, New York, 
 April 13, 1799, and published in 1820, sprang from the same source. 
 Thus when Smith came to write The Deformed he had the original and 
 
 " Durang: Third Series. Chap. 56. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 17 
 
 its previous adaptation before him, to each of which he makes due 
 acknowledgement. 
 
 Dunlap follows his model much more closely than Smith. The first 
 scene of Act Four and the first scene of Act Five, both of which are 
 relatively unimportant comic scenes, are the only scenes in The Italian 
 Father not to be found in some form, in Dekker. The second scene of 
 Act Two, both scenes of Act Three, the second scene of Act Four, and 
 the third scene of Act Five contain new elements, but are mostly taken 
 from Dekker. He adds very little to change the essential character of 
 the play. 
 
 But of the fifteen scenes in The Deformed only six are to be found 
 in either Dekker or Dunlap. The second scene of Act One, the second 
 and third scenes of Act Two, both scenes of Act Three, the second and 
 third scenes of Act Four, and the first two scenes of Act Five were 
 invented by Smith and develop what becomes the dominant theme of 
 the play. 
 
 Both Dunlap and Smith cut down the number of characters. The 
 twenty-one people of Dekker's play are reduced to ten in The Deformed. 
 The Duke takes the place of Hippolito in the other plays; Trebatzo 
 occupies the place of Friscobaldo in Dekker and of Michael Brazzo in 
 Dunlap; Beraldo and Astrabel, who get their names directly from The 
 Italian Father, are Matheo and Belief ront in the original play; Lodovico 
 occurs in all three plays. Of the remaining characters Oriana corres- 
 ponds to Infelice in Dekker's play and to Beatrice in Dunlap's; while 
 Claudio and Viola bear a slight relation to Carlo and Leonora, in Dun- 
 lap, they are virtually new characters; Adorni, the deformed, and his 
 wife, Eugenia, who is also a sister of Astrabel, are original creations. 
 
 Dekker's two plays, entitled The Honest Whore, each center about 
 the fortunes of Bellefront, a courtesan. In the earlier play her regenera- 
 tion is accomplished through her failure to gain the love of a man who 
 takes her passing fancy and his rebuke in pointing out to her her aban- 
 doned state. The second part portrays her effort to rehabilitate herself 
 and live as a virtuous woman and dutiful wife. The interest centers 
 about Bellefront and her father Friscobaldo. 
 
 In the similar efforts of Astrabel and her relationship with Trebatzo 
 this theme recurs in the The Deformed. But it is no longer the central 
 interest. About Adorni, whose great craving for love is only equalled 
 by an insane jealousy, due to his physical deformity, Smith weaves a 
 thread of incidents which form the dominant theme of the play. 
 
18 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 The dramatic situation is heightened by the creation of Eugenia, 
 another daughter to cause sorrow to Trebatzo by her seeming misdeeds. 
 Trebatzo's idea of having the Duke make love to Astrabel to test her 
 honesty is taken from Dunlap and extended to include Eugenia when 
 suspicion falls upon her. 
 
 One notable feature in The Deformed is the absence of a villain, a 
 conventionalized character thought necessary for the success of any 
 dramatic production by most playwrights of the time. His absence 
 marks a decided step in the direction of art. The play contains much 
 excellent blank verse. 
 
 The Water Witch; or The Skimmer of the Seas, a dramatization of 
 Cooper's novel, first performed at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Dec. 
 25, 1830, has not been preserved. The cast of characters, taken from 
 a play-bill, was as follows: 
 
 Tom Tiller Mr. Wemyss 
 
 Seadrift Mrs. Young 
 
 Alderman VanBeverout Mr. Roberts 
 
 Captain Ludlow Mr. Woodhull 
 
 Francois Mr. Drummond 
 
 Trysail, the master Mr. Darley 
 
 Zephyr Miss Kerr 
 
 Boatman Mr. Murray 
 
 Reef Mr. Eberle 
 
 Brom Mr. McDougal 
 
 Alida de Barberie Mrs. Willis 
 
 Durang speaks of the adaptation as being good, but not so good in all 
 acting particulars and effects as a version of the same subject which 
 was performed the next season at the Arch Street Theatre. ^^ The part 
 of Tom Tiller caused trouble. On the day before its intended produc- 
 tion, Charles Young refused to act the character on the ground that 
 he could not learn the words of the part. Wemyss was appealed to at 
 this late hour and undertook and carried off the part successfully. The 
 piece was afterwards compressed into two acts and played one night 
 more to show some of the marine effects. The ship fight was described 
 as terrific. 
 
 Two new versions of The Water Witch appeared the following year. 
 The Arch Street production, by James Wallace, was the more popular 
 and ran for a long season. It was said to be less prolix and dragging 
 
 '2 Durang: Third Series. Chap. 4. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 19 
 
 than Smith's. Another version by C. W. Taylor, known as the Bowery 
 version, was produced in New York. 
 
 Smith's next production marks definitely an attempt upon the part 
 of the author to enter a new field. Cams Marius represents the roman- 
 tic verse tragedy, written under the inspiration of Edwin Forrest, and 
 included among his prize plays.^^ 
 
 The references to the tragedy in the following letter from Forrest 
 are interesting: 
 
 Dear Smith : 
 
 I have rec'd the 4th and 5th acts of Marius but as yet have not perused them 
 aitenlively. The third act is yet wanting to complete the play. Could you send it 
 on so as to reach here by 12 o'clock Sat. next it would be well as on the afternoon of 
 that day I shall depart for Boston. However it makes no material difference for 
 by sending it addressed to the Park Theatre it would be forwarded with care to Boston. 
 I have increasing pride for the tragedy. It is destined to make a great hit. We must 
 take out time, however, to produce it, giving all the proper preUminaries such as re- 
 hearsal, costume, and the newspaper mention by implication tho' the latter if it was 
 not the fashion there would in my mind be no necessity; its own merit can stand the 
 hazard of the die — but of eulogy there must be the "due infusion." Before I leave 
 town I will leave the necessary instructions. 
 
 I forwarded you a pacquet this morning by the steamboat (care of Carey & 
 Lea) containing four volumes of Lexington and other Fugitive Pieces, by Prosper M. 
 Witmore. Will you be kind enough to deliver them according to their directions and 
 make what pubhc notice your various duties will permit, and further may I encroach 
 so much upon your time to discover whether Chandler, Walsh, Alexander, Rob't 
 Morris and Willis G. Clark have rec'd their copies of Lexington as the Carvills (book- 
 sellers) have forwarded them to their agent in Philada. for the above mentioned ind- 
 viduals. 
 
 I will have the parts of Marius copied for Boston, N. York, and Philada. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Edwin Forrest. 
 Rich'd P. Smith, Esq., 
 
 N. York 7th Oct. 1830. 
 
 My engagement here has been eminently successful. 
 
 In another letter written later he speaks of certain alteration and 
 says that he has not yet made up his mind whether to bring it out in 
 Boston or New York. He did, however bring it out at the Arch Street 
 Theatre, Philadelphia, Jan. 12, 183 1.^'* Weymss tells us that the same 
 play was placed in his hands in 1828 when Southwell was cast for the 
 hero but was not produced. Outside of a few extracts it has not been 
 
 "W. R. Alger: Life of Edwin Forrest, 1877. Vol. 1 Page 169. 
 " Wemyss: Theatrical Life, 1847. p. 188. 
 
20 THE LITE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 preserved. It was repeated on Jan. 14, and again on the 17th which 
 was the author's benefit night. 
 
 It was performed at the Park Theatre, New York, May 9, 1831, 
 thus cast: 
 
 Caius Marius Mr. Forrest 
 
 Granius Mr. Field 
 
 IMetellus Mr. WoodhuU 
 
 Sulpitius Mr. Barry 
 
 Sylla Mr. Richings 
 
 Cinna Mr. Nexsen 
 
 Antonius Mr. T. Placide 
 
 A Cimbrian Mr. Blakely 
 
 Martha Mrs. Sharpe 
 
 Metella Mrs. Wallack 
 
 Upon his return from a tour in the North, in which Caius Marius was 
 a companion piece in a repertoire with Spartacus, William Tell, Vir- 
 ginius, and Lear, Forrest again acted it in Philadelphia, November, 1831. 
 Durang gives the following account of its performance: 
 
 "The fable of this tragedy was founded upon the historical events 
 in the career of Caius Marius, the celebrated Roman who from a hum- 
 ble rustic became a general and consul, successfully defending his country 
 against hosts of barbarians; yet with all his patriotic and victorious 
 achievements, he became one of the most cruel and bloody tyrants 
 Rome ever beheld. When fleeing as a fugitive from Italy he sought 
 refuge in Africa and arriving at Carthage he sat amidst its celebrated 
 ruins as a signal monument of moral prostration, as the annihilated 
 marbles of its city declared its isolation and destruction. When thus 
 seen and spoken to, he answered the slave: 'Go tell your master you 
 saw Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.'" 
 
 "The play was dramatically constructed, with the vigor of language 
 and harmony of versification, eventualizing in poetic jus tic. It was 
 written with a view to the development of Forrest's peculiar powers, 
 which were well fitted to impart to the subject all its terrific historical 
 colorings. "^^ 
 
 The critics were unanimous in praising the literary quality of the 
 production. It was an attempt to combine Uterature and drama and 
 it is a misfortune that the manuscript was not preserved. 
 
 My Uncle's Wedding was first performed at the Arch Street Theatre, 
 October 15, 1832.^^ The manuscript of this play has not been preserved 
 
 " Durang. Third Series. Chap. 10. 
 " Durang. Third Series. Chap. 25. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 21 
 
 and I have found no comment on its performance more explicit than 
 that it was a pleasing and spirited little comedy. 
 
 Is She a Brigand? was first performed at the Arch Street Theatre, 
 Nov 1, 1833/^ with the following cast: 
 
 Colonel Herman Mr. Sprague 
 
 Lindorf Mr. Jones 
 
 Peter Schnaps Mr. T. Placide 
 
 Fribourg Mr. Horton 
 
 First Friend Mr. James 
 
 Second Friend Mr. Foster 
 
 Fritz Mr. Logan 
 
 Clara, Countess D'Albi Miss Riddle 
 
 Bridget, her maid Mrs. Jones 
 
 Mariette Mrs. Conduit 
 Soldiers, Villagers, and Guests. 
 
 It is a farce comedy which, as he states on the title page, was altered 
 from the French. What his exact source was I have not been able to 
 learn. 
 
 Mistaken identity is the central factor of the plot. Clara, Countess 
 D'Albi, is hastening to the chateau of Colonel Herman, her former 
 lover, in order to prevent his marriage, when she is mistaken for Clara 
 Wendell, a notorious brigand, and held up at a Swiss hotel. Realizing 
 that an attempt to establish her identity will delay her more, she con- 
 fesses that she is the brigand and claims that her band is already awaiting 
 her signal to attack and pillage the chateau of Colonel Herman. She 
 promises to place them all in the burgomaster's power if he will conduct 
 her there at once. The ruse works and she reaches her lover only to 
 find that his reported marriage was contrived to test her affections. 
 The burgomaster, who has been so completely duped, lamely excuses 
 himself by claiming that he has been aware of the real situation all 
 along and has taken this means of escorting Countess D'Albi in safety 
 to the chateau. 
 
 The plot is essentially farcial. Herman's unique method of testing 
 the affection of Clara betrays more faith than good judgment on his 
 part. And the picture of the sensitive and refined countess hastening 
 to prevent the marriage of her lover, with whom she has recently quar- 
 reled, is equally in the nature of farce. The most interesting personage 
 is the burgomaster, who is pompous, stupid and cowardly. His training in 
 Paris is an ill-fitting garment and his high opinion of himself as a gallant 
 
 1' Durang. Third Series. Chap. 30. 
 
22 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 only serves to render his oily gallantries the more odious to Clara. The 
 dialogue is lively and sparkling, and abounds in humor. The situation 
 is highly amusing and is at all times clear. 
 
 The earliest announcement I have found of a performance of The 
 Actress of Padua is a playbill announcing its performance at the American 
 Theatre, Philadelphia, June 13, 1836 with the cast here given: 
 
 Angelo Malipieri Mr. Conner 
 
 Homodei Mr. Muzzy 
 
 Anasfesto Mr. Moreton 
 
 Priest Mr. Brittingham 
 
 Black Page Miss Packard 
 
 Rodolpho Mr. J. G. Porter 
 
 Prior of St. Antoine Mr. Search 
 
 Troilo Mr. Cronta 
 
 Night "Watch Mr. Collingbourne 
 
 Tisbe (Actress of Padua) Miss Waring 
 
 Reginella Mrs. Dunham 
 
 Daphne Miss Charnock 
 
 Catherina Bragadina Mrs. Willis 
 
 It was published in narrative form in 1836 but has not been pre- 
 served in its dramatic form. A melodrama by Victor Hugo, entitled 
 Angelo, Tyran de Padoue is the source of Smith's production. Judging 
 from the narrative version his play must have been a comparatively 
 direct translation. The incidents in the narrative are the same and 
 much of the dialogue is taken directly from the French. 
 
 It is a stirring tale of love, jealousy and mystery in erotic Italy of 
 the sixteenth century. Its plot is laid in an atmosphere of crime and 
 intense passion. But La Tisbe, the actress, who is in the grip of this 
 passion, is a heroic figure. She remains loyal and faithful to her pledge 
 even when it means sacrificing her life to save a woman who has won 
 from her the only man she ever loved. 
 
 This play enjoyed the longest popularity of any of Smith's pro- 
 ductions. It was produced at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, 
 in 1851 with Charlotte Cushman in the title role. She appeared as 
 La Tisbe at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, September 29, 1851,^^ 
 and at the Broadway Theatre, May 8, 1852.^^ It was performed at 
 the New Bowery Theatre, Feb. 16, 1860, with Lucile Western as La 
 Tisbe and Helen Western as Catharina.^" Lucile Western again ap- 
 
 18 J. N. Ireland: Records of the New York Stage, 1867. Vol. 2. p. 600. 
 
 "Ireland: Vol. 2. p. 594. 
 
 ^''T. A. Brown: A History of the New York Stage, 1903. Vol. 2. p. 191. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 23 
 
 peared in the title role at Tripler Hall in the spring of 1863.^^ Further 
 
 notice is given in Brown of a performance of The Actress of Padua at 
 
 Daly's Broadway Theatre, Nov. 8, 1873, with Virginia Vaughan as 
 
 Tisbe.22 
 
 Minna Gale in the leading part.^ 
 
 The Daughter appears to have been among the last of Smith's plays 
 to appear on the stage. It is included by Rees and McMichael among 
 the acted plays but I have found no account of its performance. It was 
 dramatized from a French novel, published in 1808, entitled Le siege 
 de La Rochelle, ou le malheur de la conscience, by Madame de Genlis, 
 1746-1830, a French writer and educator who, in addition to several 
 ingenious books on education, wrote a large number of historical roman- 
 ces. The Daughter portrays the closing scenes of her highly-wrought 
 and sentimental novel. It bears no resemblance to a play by Sheridan 
 Knowles, entitled The Daughter and first performed at Drury Lane in 
 1836. 
 
 The characters of Smith's production are: 
 
 Count Rosenberg, husband of Euphemia. 
 
 Valmore, French Ambassador 
 
 Montalban, supposed father of Clara 
 
 Peter, Marcelle's son 
 
 Euphemia, sister of the Grand Duke of Lithuania. 
 
 Clara, under the name of Olympia 
 
 Marcelle, a cottager 
 Mystery, crime and intrigue are the materials that go into the con- 
 struction of this domestic drama. Its complicated plot centers about 
 a girl who has been unjustly convicted of killing her fiance's son. Silence 
 is enforced upon her by the fear that the man, whom she supposes to 
 be her father, is the real murderer. After having suffered much pain 
 and distress, she eventually comes into her own in discovering her real 
 father and mother and winning back her lost lover. The ending, which 
 is typical of this class of plays, is in accord with the wishes of Marcelle 
 who says, while thinking of Clara: "I can not bear the idea of crime 
 triumphing over persecuted virtue." 
 
 Like the majority of Smith's plays, and the other plays of the period. 
 The Daughter lacks naturalness. All the characters use the same kind 
 of stilted language. The humble cottager, Marcelle, employes cul- 
 
 ''^ Brown: New York Stage. Vol. 1. p. 456. 
 22 Brown. Vol. 2. p. 392. 
 
24 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 tivated phrases similar to those of Count Rosenberg, Montalban, the 
 villain, when accused of crime, replies thus: "Unworthy woman, are 
 you aware of the barbarity of your calumnious imputations, and the 
 punishment that you may invoke upon yourself?" 
 
 The characters are nearly all types in the conventional mould. 
 Montalban is a half-hearted villain who no sooner confesses than he 
 turnes moralist and declaims against the sin of avarice. Clara, the 
 heroine, suffers from an excess of virtue. Peter, the simple-minded 
 son of Marcelle, and the only character who does not succumb to the 
 gloom that enshrouds Clara's existence, keeps up his spirits by the 
 thought of good things to eat. 
 
 James Rees and H. W. Smith include The Bravo in the list of acted 
 plays. Apparently it was the last one to appear. It is a dramatiza- 
 tion of Cooper's novel of that title, a highly-wrought tale of mystery, 
 crime and revenge in Italy during the fifteenth century. The manu- 
 script has not been preserved. I give here a letter received by Smith, 
 which indicates the date and a probable performance. 
 
 New York 
 Sunday, 4th of Dec. 1836 
 My dear Sir: 
 
 If your intention and wish is still the same, and you will send me forthwith a 
 revised copy of your play of The Bravo, I shall be most happy to receive it, and will 
 give it my best attention, and will have it produced in the south to the best of my 
 ability, and with the best means the theatres can afford, and it mil have my best 
 wishes that its success may be "most best.''^ 
 
 If our friend, Maywood, will go to a little expense for it, I think it might be made 
 a good card to commence my May engagement with, — and as you will be on the spot 
 all the time, you can urge them on to exertion, and see that the scenery etc. be appro- 
 priate. I sail on the 12th. Let me hear from you by return. 
 
 My dear sir, 
 
 Your obliged friend, 
 J. W. Wallack. 
 
 The Bombardment oj Algiers, written in 1829, deals with a series of 
 incidents in the French conquest of Algeria. It is a translation of a 
 three-act melodrama by Frederic Dupetit-Mere, entitled Le Bom- 
 bardement d^ Alger, ou le Corsaire Reconnaissant, a second edition of 
 which was pubHshed in Paris in 1815.^ I have found no evidence that 
 Smith's translation was ever performed. A play, entitled Slaves in 
 Barbary; or The Bombardment of Algiers, dealing with the same theme 
 but written by John K. Kerr, was performed eleven times during Octo- 
 
 *^I. M. Querard: La France Litteraire. Vol. 2, p. 690. 
 
THE LITE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 25 
 
 ber, 1830, at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia.^ Kerr's version 
 doubtless came from the same French source as Smith's. The cast 
 of characters, while it does not wholly correspond, shows considerable 
 similarity, thus indicating a common source and similarity of theme. 
 The manuscript of Smith's play gives the following cast of characters: 
 
 Ismael Meramorte, Dey of Algiers 
 
 Grierson 
 
 Chevalier Choiseuil 
 
 Southwell 
 
 Barbuctar 
 
 Rowbotham 
 
 Osmin, a eunich of the harem 
 
 J. Jefferson 
 
 Almutacem 
 
 Murdock 
 
 Benjamin 
 
 Placide 
 
 Nilouf, chief of the eunichs 
 
 Hathwell 
 
 A crier 
 
 
 Valentine, Choiseuil's Wife 
 
 Mrs. Rowbotham 
 
 Slaves, guards, soldiers, sailors. 
 
 This cast, to which other names are added, appears to be merely a sug- 
 gestion of the author and not to refer to any actual performance. It 
 is a striking but wild and confused melodrama with a great deal of 
 fighting in the last act. There is no reason why it could not have been 
 made very effective on the stage. A vein of humor permeates a large 
 part of it. It is full of thrilling situations such as Valentine's escape 
 from the harem. She is captured and again escapes. The character 
 of Barbuctar adds to the heroic quality of the play. At the risk of 
 incurring the anger of the Dey he reveals to him the misery and dis- 
 satisfaction of his people and the falseness of his flatterers. The play 
 ends happily. Peace is restored; Choiseuil and his wife are re-united; 
 and Almutacem, the villain, is hauled away to pay for his crimes. It 
 is a typical melodrama. 
 
 The Last Man; or The Cock of the Village and The Pelican are trivial 
 farces which bear evidence of having been adapted from the French. 
 
 Shakespeare in Love is a direct translation of a French play by Alex- 
 andre Duval, entitled Shakespeare Amoureux. It is a short play of 
 only three characters, based upon a glaring anachronism in having 
 Shakespeare fall in love with an actress who is playing in Richard III. 
 Dunlap gives an anonymous play, bearing the same title as Smith's, 
 as having been acted in Boston before 1832.^ 
 It is likely that this was some other translation of Duval. 
 
 " Durang. Third Series. Chap. 11. 
 
 ^ Dunlap. History of the American Theatre, 1832. p. 407. 
 

 26 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 The Solitary; or The Man of Mystery is an unfinished melodrama, 
 dealing with Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, and in which crime, 
 mystery, and intrigue are the leading motives. 
 
 Smith's total contribution to the stage may be divided into five 
 classes; namely, melodrama, historical plays, tragedy, comedy, and 
 farce. Of these classes only the historical plays and verse tragedy are 
 sharply defined. The historical plays, three in number, are of particular 
 interest because of the historical scenes and incidents they represent. 
 Though written in haste and sometimes without due regard for the 
 niceties of dramatic art, they afford good examples of the remarkable 
 facility of the age in representing current events upon the stage. Their 
 significance is increased by the fact that they form Smith's most original 
 contribution. 
 
 erhaps his most pretentious effort to produce drama with a dis- 
 tinct literary quali ty was his verse tragedy, Caius Marius, unfortunately 
 lost to us. Its literary quality was uniformly praised by the reviewers. 
 
 The remaining three classes, comedy, farce, and melodrama, are 
 by no means clearly differentiated, but shade off into each other by 
 imperceptible degrees. Comedy mingles with melodrama in the two 
 farces, Quite Correct and 7^ She a Brigand? as it does in other of his 
 plays. 
 
 The one word that may be applied most uniformly to the plays is 
 melodrama. It pervades nearly all of Smith's work. It combines 
 with humor in A Wife at a Venture, and with tragedy in The Disowned 
 and The Actress of Padua. It invades the historical plays, notably 
 William Penn. In such plays as The Deformed and The Sentinels it 
 is at its best. 
 
 All of the extant plays are in prose except The Deformed which con- 
 tains both prose and verse. Considering that he practiced so little 
 in that form his blank verse possesses a high degree of flexibility and 
 naturalness and is not without beauty and distinction. 
 
 Sensational incident and broad humor mark the plays as a whole. 
 They are stories of passion, terror, or lively fun. Subtle distinctions 
 of character or shades of feeling are not to be found. Lavish senti- 
 ment, romantic background, conventional characters, cumbrous and 
 showy prose and violent action are the most striking characteristics. 
 
 The fact that Smith was an adaptor and translator led to a pre- 
 ponderance of foreign themes. Only three of his extant plays have 
 native settings. He was not without invention, however, and the 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 27 
 
 majority of things he adapted he made distinctively his own. In his 
 best productions he attains a natural and flexible style possessing 
 grace and beauty; his characters engage our interest and sympathy; 
 and his plots unfold swiftly and with dramatic intensity. 
 
 As a transition playwright, Smith ties the former period of imitation 
 to the new creative school of dramatists that was just coming into 
 existence in Philadelphia. Though much of his work harks back to 
 the time when adaptation was the customary practice among our play- 
 wrights, his best productions, notably Caius Marius, point forward 
 to the first great creative movement in our drama. This was the period 
 of romantic tragedy which produced such notable contributions to our 
 dramatic literature as The Gladiator and The Broker of Bogota by Robert 
 Montgomery Bird; Jack Cade, by Robert T. Conrad; and, as a climax 
 to the group, Francesca da Rimini, by George Henry Boker. 
 
28 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 III. NOVELIST AND CRITIC 
 
 Richard Penn Smith did not confine himself to drama as a field of 
 Hterary expression. Beginning with contributions to The Union and 
 The Aurora, he continued for many years to supply the various maga- 
 zines with valuable criticism of current Hterature. I have hitherto 
 referred to his biography of Francis Hopkinson in 1823. Other produc- 
 tions were The Forsaken, 1831; The Actress of Padua, a collection of 
 stories, 1836; Colonel Crockett's Exploits and Adventures in Texas, a 
 pseudo-autobiography, 1836; and a History of Philadelphia, about 1828. 
 A volume, entitled A Tale of a Tub, has been attributed to him. After 
 his death a volume, entitled The Miscellanious Works of the Late Richard 
 Penn Smith, was issued by his son. 
 
 The Forsaken is Smith's most pretentious literary performance. 
 It is his only long novel and its appearance was hailed in terms of loud 
 praise by the papers generally. The author tells us in the preface 
 that the story was written in the early part of the year 1825, at which 
 time he contemplated pubhshing it under the title of Paul Gordon. 
 
 The scene of the story is laid in and about Philadelphia during the 
 Revolution, and presents many historic incidents enacted during that 
 memorable period. The Battle of Germantown, the starved and 
 freezing soldiers at Valley Forge, the occupation of Philadelphia by the 
 British, and the festivities attending the departure of Sir William Howe 
 are some of the historic scenes that form the background of the story. 
 
 It owes something to Cooper and Scott but its inspiration seems to 
 come more particularly from the sentimental novel of intrigue that 
 so greatly influenced our earliest novelists. 
 
 A brief outline of the complicated plot reveals its highly-wrought 
 character. The story centers about Jurian Hartfield and two girls, 
 Miriam Grey and Agatha Morton, between whose love he vacillates. 
 Another person who figures very importantly is Paul Gordon, a high- 
 wayman, and the villain of the story. 
 
 A strange mystery hangs about the birth of Jurian, who as an infant 
 has been adopted by Captain Swain and his wife and reared by them. 
 He is a studious lad and, while at the Academy of Philadelphia, forms 
 an intimate friendship with Edward Morton, a classmate. Through 
 his friend he is introduced to the Mortons', a wealthy tory family in 
 Philadelphia, and a close intimacy grows up between him and Agatha, 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 29 
 
 Squire Morton's daughter. But he has already won the love and con- 
 fidence of jVIiriam, the daughter of Alice Grey, who keeps a humble inn 
 in Darby, near Philadelphia. 
 
 Paul Gordon also loves Miriam. He goes by the name of Jones 
 and, while not engaged in his profession of highway robbery, is an 
 unoffending servant of Squire Morton. In order to free himself of 
 his rival, he falsely leads Jurian to believe that Miriam has been dis- 
 loyal. This misunderstanding between Jurian and Miriam, whom he 
 has wronged, eventually leads to her disaster. Deserted by her lover 
 and haunted by shame and fear, she leaves home and wanders from 
 place to place in search of shelter, which is denied her, until she finally 
 gives birth to a dead child, of which Jurian is the father. She is found 
 in a demented state, with her dead babe lying in the snow, and is put 
 in prison, charged with infanticide. 
 
 In the meantime Jurian has learned that he is the illegitimate son 
 of Alice Grey, Miriam's mother. The horror that he and Miriam feel 
 when they discover that they are brother and sister is unspeakable. 
 But it is found that she is not the daughter of Alice Grey, and they are 
 spared the crime of incest. 
 
 Meanwhile Gordon has been betrayed, in Delilah fashion, by his 
 mistress and handed over to the authorities. He and Miriam are 
 lodged in the same prison, and both are convicted and sentenced to 
 death. She dies on the day of execution just before Jurian arrives with 
 a reprieve. 
 
 Jurian is now determined to leave the country, in which he has 
 suffered nothing but ill-fortune, but goes for a last sight of Agatha, who 
 has been all this time repining amid the overtures of British officers. 
 When she has Jurian in her arms once more she will not let him go 
 until her father has consented to their marriage. 
 
 Such a brief summary of the story must of necessity omit every- 
 thing but the bare outlines and gives an inadequate sense of the real 
 quality of the novel, which is rich in humor and adventure. While 
 the author lacks the skill of Cooper in throwing in an effective back- 
 ground, the novel is very effectually woven into its background of 
 life in Philadelphia. Its fighting and adventure and stilted language 
 is somewhat in the manner of Cooper. As is often the case in such 
 romances the best characterization is of the minor characters. 
 
 A genuine and spontaneous flow of humor enlivens many of its 
 chapters and marks its superiority to many of our early novels. Take, 
 
30 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 for example, the boasting of Corporal Drone, who carefully avoids 
 all danger, or the ludicrous mistakes of Rebecca, an elderly spinster, 
 who is continually introducing learned topics into her conversation, 
 in season and out of season. Sometimes there is a happy bit of charac- 
 terization as in the following description of Mauns, which smacks of 
 Irving: 
 
 "Mauns never relished a long story so much as when he had a 
 meerschaum in his mouth; accordingly Aoki, who was a very Arab in 
 the way of fiction, no sooner commenced, than our worthy began to 
 fix his pipe, and called for a coal of fire, aware that Aoki's story was 
 entitled to a patient hearing, and thus prepared he could have set out 
 the Arabial Nights without interruption other than that which might be 
 occasioned by knocking the ashes from his pipe and replenishing it 
 with tobacco." 
 
 Events that would inspire horror were legitimate material for the 
 novelist of this period. Horror is heaped upon horror until the sen- 
 sitiveness of the reader is dulled and little power of sympathy remains. 
 Seduction, duelling, robbery, war, ingratitude: such are the materials 
 that go into the making of the story. Sin pursues its victims relent- 
 lessly to the end. Vice, in the person of Gordon, is punished. Some 
 dissatisfaction was felt among the reviewers at the sad fate of Miriam 
 alongside the rich reward of Jurian, whose sins were more culpable. 
 So great a dissimilarity of fates did not satisfy the craving for poetic 
 justice. The ending does, however, conform to the requirements of 
 such a sentimental novel. Miriam finds relief from her grief in a death 
 which, at the same time, leaves Jurian free to pursue his more ambitious 
 and mature love for Agatha. 
 
 A tendency to moralizing sometimes impedes the progress of the 
 story, but on the whole it develops with rapidity and interest. Occa- 
 sionally the author lays aside his bookish style and writes with direct- 
 ness and forcefulness. So it is in the trial scene in which Miriam is con- 
 victed of concealing the murder of her child. Here the style, held in 
 check by an admirable restraint, is simple, condensed, and deeply 
 pathetic. 
 
 The Actress of Padua, in addition to The Daughter and The Actress 
 of Padua in narrative form, contains a large number of stories, several 
 of which had previously been published in magazines. A number of 
 them possess a graceful and pleasing style and light essay-like quality 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 31 
 
 that well repay reading. Others, in my mind less excellent, belong 
 to the school of horror that Poe was soon to raise to distinction. 
 
 To mention only a few of the stories, among which there is con- 
 siderable diversity. The Campaigner's Tale tells of a man who is shot 
 for insubordination in the army. The Last of the Tribe portrays an 
 Indian chief, condemned to death for committing murder — an act of 
 justice in accordance with the mandates of his tribe. Rather than 
 allow himself to be hanged he has his wives poison him and bury him 
 out of reach of the interference of the pale faces. Retribution, The Sea 
 Voyage and The Leper's Confession are somewhat in the manner of 
 Poe and Charles Brockden Brown, though they ante-date most of the 
 work of the former. Further relation to this school of writing is shown 
 by The Apparition, which is about a ghost that turns out to be a scare- 
 crow. Other stories follow, ranging from farce in A Tale of Hard Scrab- 
 ble, and broad humor in The Man with a Nose, which is reminiscent of 
 Irving, to melodrama in The Emigrant's Daughter, a tale of love, mys- 
 tery, and crime. 
 
 ^ In some ways the most remarkable of Smith's literary productions 
 is a pseudo-autobiography, entitled Colonel Crockett's Exploits and Ad- 
 ventures in Texas. It purports to be the memoirs of David Crockett, 
 the most famous frontiersman of his day who was killed in the massacre at 
 the Alamo, 1836, the same year in which the book was written. According 
 to the sub-title it contains a full account of his journey from Tennessee 
 to the Red River and Natchitoches, and thence across Texas to San 
 Antonio and includes many hair-breadth escapes along with a topo- 
 graphical, historical and political view of Texas. Fortunately this 
 promise is not kept and the Colonel exercises considerable freedom in 
 his chatty and, at the same time, racy narrative. He is depicted as a 
 blustering politician of Tennessee who, having been disappointed in 
 political hopes, decides to go to Texas. He gives a lively account of 
 his adventures, interspersed with humorous and satiric comments. 
 There is a breath of outdoor life; hunting, fighting, and adventures 
 with Indians. 
 
 It gained great popularity and, in 1837, was reprinted in London 
 where it was received favorably by the critics. The London Monthly 
 Review compared it to Goldsmith for pathos and to Swift for satire. 
 Chamber's Edinburgh Journal, completely deceived by its air of sin- 
 cerity, quoted from it as the best account of the then-existing state of 
 affairs in Texas. Fraser's Magazine devoted eighteen pages to a re- 
 
32 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 view commending it for its quaint humor and graphic description. 
 Its sly roguery was thought to be characteristic of American manners. 
 
 The author had never been to Texas and his account was plainly 
 exaggerated for humorous effect. Consequently it is amusing to read 
 the following comment by a London reviewer: 
 
 "We wish we had a few more such books — or rather, indeed, a 
 good many more such books — not occupied with romantic nonsense, 
 like the Bee-hunter and his Kate of Nacogdoches — nor traveUing into 
 Texas, or anywhere else out of the Union; but giving us sketches by 
 native hands of the actual manner in which they manage affairs in 
 the United States. If any stranger go among them and cannot find 
 everything bright and golden, if he see a single speck upon the white- 
 ness of their garments, an outcry is raised from New England to Florida, 
 and the unhappy author is assailed by a hundred angry pens, and threa- 
 tened with a hundred angrier cowhides."^ 
 
 The rest of Smith's work has less significance for us as literature. 
 The History of Philadelphia serves to indicate the versatility of its 
 author. It deals with such topics as the topography, commerce, manu- 
 factures, religious, charitable and educational institutions, the condition 
 of literature and kindred subjects. 
 
 A satiric essay, entitled A Tale of a Tub published in Philadelphia 
 in 1826, purporting to be by Democritus Americanus, has been attributed 
 to Smith though I have found no confirmatory evidence of his author- 
 ship. It begins as a satire directed against phrenology. From this 
 it proceeds to attack the method of the white man in wronging the 
 Indian out of his land, and ends with a protest against the slave traffic. 
 It seems unlikely that Smith, who showed little concern for the problems 
 of his day, should have written in such an outspoken, satiric vein. The 
 stories and sketches, published after his death, are similar to those in 
 The Actress of Padua. Generally speaking, they are more uniformly 
 moral in tone, some of them being simply moral fables or allegories. 
 
 Little can be said of Smith as a writer of tales that has not been 
 already said of him as a playwright. Sentiment occupies the same 
 dominant position as in the plays. Broad humor and violent action 
 invade the stories in much the same fashion. There are even more 
 horrible situations and there is a greater indulgence in moralizing. 
 
 Very much of the diction is stilted as it is in the plays. The memoirs 
 of Colonel Crockett, dashed off in imitation of an uneducated fron- 
 
 ' Frascr's Magazine. Vol. 16. p. 610. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 33 
 
 tiersman, are written in an admirably clear and vigorous style, unusual 
 for Smith. A sentence in the preface explains this. It purports to 
 come from a friend of Crockett, who, upon editing his memoirs sub- 
 sequent to his death, thus apologizes for the simple language of his 
 friend: 
 
 "His plain and unpolished style may occasionally offend the taste 
 of those who are stickers for classic refinement; while others will value 
 it for that frankness and sincerity which is the best voucher for the 
 truth of the facts he relates. " 
 
 It is unfortunate that Smith did not see fit to employ such a plain 
 and unpolished style in his more pretentious and serious productions. 
 For, when he donned the garb of respectability, he seemed to feel that 
 good taste required him to ornament his style. Consequently he 
 loaded his sentences with unwieldy, bookish words and strove for im- 
 pressive, high-sounding phrases. The result was often a turgid and 
 pompous style, unsuitable alike for narration or dialogue. 
 
THE 
 
 DEFORMED, 
 
 OSi 
 
 WOMAN'S TRIAL, 
 
 A PLAY, 
 
 IN PIVE ACTS. 
 
 BY RICHARD PENN SMITH, 
 
 A^lhor of the Disowned, EigWb of January, A Wife at a Venture, 
 Quite Correct, Sentinel, ice. &c. 
 
 As performed at the Cbesnut street Theatre— PblladclpW3- 
 
 ■♦■ 
 
 PHILADELPHIA EDITION. 
 
 C. ALEXANDER , ?}U 
 
 1830. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A large portion of The Deformed was written as early as the year 
 1825, when an unsuccessful attempt was made to introduce it upon the 
 stage. Aboat a year ago, at the request of a favorite performer, I was 
 induced to revise my almost forgotten manuscript; it was brought 
 forward, and its reception was such, as leaves no cause to regret that 
 I followed his advice. — The play is in imitation of the old English drama, 
 and the outline of some of the characters may be found in a coarse 
 comedy, by Deckar. Mr. Dunlap, of New York, built his Italian 
 Father upon the same comedy, which will account for the occasional 
 similarity between this production and that excellent drama. The 
 first scene, in the fourth act, is modelled upon a scene in the Italian 
 Father, and the incident of Beraldo seeking the Duke at the palace, to 
 chastise him is imitated from the same play. Those who are of opinion 
 that I have fallen short of my original, may safely proclaim it without 
 fear of contradiction. In submitting the following scenes to the press, 
 I must beg the reader to bear in mind that they were written rather for 
 the stage than for the closet, and that many passages which are vapid 
 in perusal, prove effective in performance. The Deformed is intended 
 as an acting play, and as such its merits and defects are to be tested. 
 
 R. P. S. 
 
 Philadelphia, May 1, 1830. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 37 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Duke of Florence Mr, Wemyss 
 
 Trebatzo, (a Nobleman) Foot 
 
 Adorni, (the Deformed) Maywood 
 
 Beraldo, (a Profligate) Rowbotham 
 
 Claudio Forbes 
 
 Lodovico Porter 
 
 Oriana, (Duchess of Florence) Mrs. Rowbotham 
 
 Eugenia, (Wife of Adorni) Roper 
 
 Astrabel, (Daughter of Trebatzo, and Wife of Beraldo) Greene 
 
 Viola Miss Waring 
 
 Soldiers, Senators, Nobles, &c., &c. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene 1 
 Outside of a Palace. Time — Sunrise. 
 
 Enter Lodovico and Claudio. — R. H. 
 
 Lodo. Here's a morning, Claudio, to tempt Jove from his Ganymede, 
 but, bright as it is, a plague of this early rising, say I. My head pays 
 for it. By my knighthood, if I were but Phoebus' charioteer, the 
 duke would not have had such a morning as this for his merry making. 
 I get up with clouds on my brow. 
 
 Clau. His grace is early abroad to celebrate the anniversary of 
 his wedding. 
 
 Lodo. Men rise by times who have been four years married, signer, 
 and this day completes that term of his probation. I have reason to 
 remember the time, for on that day the wings were cUpped of two as 
 brave spirits as any here in Florence. They could never soar above 
 the earth since. I mean his grace and poor Beraldo. 
 
 Clau. What, Beraldo, whom the late duke married, on compulsion, 
 to count Trebatzo's daughter? He was a wild blade, was he not? 
 
 Lodo. Indeed was he, but that marriage tamed him. And though 
 he was then high in favor at court, he has been travelling crab fashion 
 ever since. 0, it's a straight and easy course from the top of the hill 
 to the bottom! Poor Beraldo, once fortune's favorite — now hes in 
 
38 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 prison condemned to death for a mortal wound inflicted on one of the 
 roaring boys in a duel. 
 
 Claud. What was the cause of their quarrel? 
 
 Lodo. Faith, I know not, but 'tis said they found it at the bottom 
 of a flaggon of wine. Many a fight lies perdu there, signor, and Beraldo 
 was one who would drink to the dregs, but he would come at it. The 
 young duke once was of the same stamp also. Many a roaring set- 
 to have we had together; there was music in the trio, but they have 
 changed their merry note since their marriage. 
 
 Clau. Here comes the duchess and her party. She is indeed a 
 lovely creature. 
 
 Lodo. So was Scipio's wife to all the world, while he alone knew 
 where the sandal pinched him. 
 
 Clau. I have hear'd that she's of a jealous temper. 
 
 Lodo. So much so that his grace cannot stir a foot from her girdle 
 without being catechised. He has no more freedom than her hawk 
 when he flies hoodwinked with a string to his leg. So much for mat- 
 rimony. 
 
 Enter Oriana, Viola, Eugenia, Adorni and others. — R. H. 
 Ori. Good morning, gentlemen. The sun is fairly up. Where 
 tarries his grace, the duke? We should have been in the field an hour 
 since. 
 
 (Claudio and Lodovico court Viola. 
 
 Viola. You are fond of falconry, my lady? 
 
 Ori. And thou too girl, and hast, I perceive, but little mercy on thy 
 quarry. — Signor Adorni, sets the wind right? Shall we have sport 
 today? 
 
 Ador. I know not my lady. Those sports that depend upon the 
 shifting of the wind, it may not be safe to promise. 
 
 Ori. What, splenetic, while all around are smiling! Eugenia, 
 look to thy husband. Thou'rt to blame, girl, for suffering him to go 
 at large in such a humour. Lodovico, seek the duke and hasten his 
 departure. 
 
 {Exit Lodovico. — R. E. 
 Ador. {Apart) Her scoff! You see how it is, Eugenia! 
 Eug. Mistake her not. She did not mean to wound you. Be 
 more cheerful. 
 
 Enter the Duke, followed by Lodovico. — R. H. 
 Duke. I fear I have made you wait, love. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 39 
 
 Ori. Your grace was not wont to be the last. 
 Duke. Now then to horse, and let us spur on until we overtake 
 time. 
 
 Ori. That requires swift steeds, my lord. {Going. 
 
 Enter Astrabel with a paper, meeting them. — L. H. 
 
 Astra. I pray your grace's pardon, and beseech you read o'er this 
 wretched paper. 
 
 Duke. I am in haste; prithee, good woman, take some other time. 
 
 Astra. Did'st ever know a time unsuited to a gracious deed? Read 
 it for mercy's sake. 
 
 Duke. I am in haste. 
 
 Astra. So are the hours that bear Beraldo to the scaffold. 
 
 Duke. Beraldo! — Go on before. Lodovico attend the duchess; 
 I will but read and follow. 
 
 Lodo. Put on yellow, my lady — that letter's from a mistress. 
 
 Ori. Oh! sir, you cannot make me jealous. 
 
 Lodo. True, I cannot, but perhaps the duke may. 
 
 (Exeunt all but the Duke and Astrabel. — L. H. 
 
 Duke. Are you Beraldo's wife? 
 
 Astra. That most unfortunate woman. 
 
 Duke. I am sorry these storms have fallen upon him. The remem- 
 brance of former friendship still dwells strongly with me, and if it appear 
 that in fair fight he hurt his adversary, I will strain the law to save his 
 life. Tomorrow I will seek your house, and bring, I hope, joyful tidings. 
 Direct me to it. 
 
 Astra. I will enquire here, at your palace gate. 
 
 Duke. Not so. 
 
 Astra. In truth, our dwelling place would shame your highness. 
 
 Duke. So poor, too. What now? 
 
 Enter Lodovico. — L. H. 
 Lodo. My lady asks if your grace is coming. 
 Duke. Ride softly on before; I'll overtake her. 
 Lodo. She vows by hawk, and hound, and horse, she will not on a 
 foot without you. 
 
 (Exit Lodovico. — L. H. 
 
 Duke. I come, I come. Tomorrow I will see you. Commend me 
 to Beraldo. (She is going.) One word more. You are count Tre- 
 batzo's daughter? 
 
 Astra. I once did call him father, but now, such rude spots of shame 
 
40 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 stick on my cheek, that he knows me not by the name of daughter. 
 
 Duke. Thou wert his favorite child — and does he nothing for you? 
 
 Astra. All he should. When children start from duty, parents 
 may swerve from love. He nothing does, for nothing I deserve. 
 
 Duke. Shall I endeavor to restore you to his favor? 
 
 Astra. Oh! my lord! you may restore my husband from the jaws 
 of death — but to restore me to a father's love; 0! impossible! impossible! 
 
 {Burst into tears. Exit. — R. H. 
 Duke. It shall be put to trial, notwithstanding. She is fair and 
 seeming virtuous. How is this! the count 
 
 Enter Trebatzo. L. H. 
 Trebatzo in the vicinity of the ducal palace ! then miracles have not yet 
 ceased. 
 
 Treb. 'Tis now sometime since I stood in the sunshine of the court, 
 and I did not suppose that your grace would remember so slovenly an 
 attendant as old Trebatzo. 
 
 Duke. Oh! sir, our friends should be unto us as our jewels are: 
 valued as dearly, being locked up and unseen, as when we wear them. 
 
 Treb. Nobly said. It does my old heart good to see your grace, 
 at least once in a twelve-month, and that is my business abroad so early. 
 
 Duke. And trust me, I rejoice to see that the winter of life has not 
 yet chilled your blood. The sickle of time hath gone over you, but you 
 are still the same. 
 
 Treb. Fields are mown down and stripped bare, and yet they wear 
 green coats again. 
 
 Duke. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow which age has 
 written there. 
 
 Treb. My brow is somewhat furrowed, my lord, but my heart 
 shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry "hem" with a 
 clear voice, and look in the face of my fellow creature with a clear con- 
 science. 
 
 Duke. You are a happy man, sir! 
 
 Treb. Happy! 0! yes. I am not covetous; I am not in debt; 
 have fought by the old duke's side, but I have never cringed at his 
 feet. No man I fear; no man I fee. I would not die like a rich man, 
 to carry nothing away, save a winding sheet; but as a just man, who 
 leaves an unspotted name behind him, and like the swan goes singing 
 cheerfully to his nest. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 41 
 
 Duke. I repeat it, you are happy, and doubtless make those around 
 you so. Your wife and children. 
 
 Treb. My lord! — I have no wife — no children. 
 
 Duke. Is your wife dead, sir? 
 
 Treb. Yes! but she is still with me. Here; she's here. {Pointing 
 to his heart.) When a knave and a fool are married, they walk together 
 like bailiff and debtor; and when death comes they are separated. — 
 But a good couple are never parted. 
 
 Duke. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not? 
 
 Treb. O, yes, and have her still. Adorni's wife. — Thou knowest 
 her. The pride of your court; the solace of my age. 
 
 Duke. I meant not her. A younger daughter, if my memory fails 
 not. 
 
 Treb. {With emotion) O! my lord! this old tree had another branch, 
 and but one more growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was 
 straight. I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, kept it from the wind, 
 helped it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked. 
 The fruit it bore was bitter. I hewed it down! What's become of it 
 I neither know nor care. 
 
 Duke. Then can I tell you what's become of it. — That branch is 
 withered. 
 
 Treb. It was so long ago. 
 
 Duke. Her name, I think, was Astrabel. Her husband's — 
 
 Treb. Curse on him — name him not. 
 
 Duke. She is dead. 
 
 Treb. Hal dead! 
 
 Duke. Yes! what of her was left, not worth the keeping, e'en in 
 my sight was thrown into the grave. She's turned to earth, 
 
 Treb. Would she were turned to heaven! Peace be with her; 
 blessings be on her grave. Dead! Is she dead! well, well, I am glad 
 on't! No drunken reveller will now at midnight beat at her doors. 
 The grave will protect her from pollution — 'tis well. She will sleep 
 now — and in her grave, sleep all my shame and her own, and all my 
 sorrows and all her sins. 
 
 Duke. I am glad to see you -are not marble. 
 
 Treb. O, sir! this is the first tear I have shed since she deserted 
 me. 'Tis hot, scalding hot, and the heaps of ice about my heart, by 
 which a father's love was frozen up, are now dissolved to tears. My 
 poor misguided child, I feel too late that I am still thy father. But she 
 is dead. 
 
42 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Duke. Your unnatural rage is dead, and the better feelings of your 
 heart have resumed their dominion. Man is not man until his passion 
 dies. Your daughter's frailties are dead, but still she lives, graced with 
 every virtue, while poverty and despair are the sole companions of her 
 fire-side. 
 
 Treb. She lives then? I am sorry that I wasted tears upon a wan- 
 ton! but my handkerchief shall drink them up, and water wash out all 
 again. Is she poor? 
 
 Duke. Trust me, she is. 
 
 Treb. 'Tis well. It should be so. 'Tis ever thus with creatures 
 of her trade. 
 
 Duke. When did you see her last? 
 
 Treb. Seven winters have wasted away since my doors and my heart 
 have been closed against her, 
 
 Duke. Your doors, but not your heart. 
 
 Treb. Yes, my heart, the heart she trampled on. — Nay, plead not 
 for her. You know not what it is to be deserted by a favorite child. 
 
 Duke. To crown her woes her husband lies in jail condemned to 
 death. 
 
 Treb. Let him hang! One half of her infamy will then be out of 
 the world. Curse on him! 'Twas he who first taught her to taste 
 poison. 
 
 Duke. But your daughter. 
 
 Treb. She is no longer mine. 
 
 Duke. You are now beyond all reason. 
 
 Treb. Then I am a beast. Sir, sir — I had rather be a beast and not 
 dishonor my creation, than be a doating, fond, indulgent father, and 
 hug vice to my bosom, because it was of my own begetting. There 
 is one who may forgive her — I trust he will — but for me — I cannot, 
 I cannot. 
 
 Duke. Fare you well! I will no farther touch you. 
 
 (ExiL—L. H. 
 Treb. Alas, my girl! art you poor? Poverty dwells next door to 
 despair; — but there is but a thin and broken wall between them. Poor 
 Astrabel! I have kept thee from my heart too long; but thou hast now 
 rushed in and filled it to the overflowing. Yes — I will go to her. Shall 
 a silly bird peck her own breast to nourish her young, and a father see 
 his child starve? — That were hard. The pelican does it and shall not 
 I! — But how shall it be done? — I have it. — She shall drink of my wealth 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 43 
 
 as beggars do of the running stream by the highway, nor think of the 
 source whence it flows. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 An apartment in Adorni's house. 
 Enter Adorni and Claudio. — L. H. 
 Adorni. So wealthy and so beautiful, you say? 
 Clau. The fairest maid in Florence. Trust me, sir. 
 She needs no gloss that fortune can bestow 
 To make a king turn suitor. — Such a one. 
 That were another planet to be formed. 
 Might be transplanted to the firmament, 
 And outshine Venus. 
 Adorni. Of what age, good Claudio? 
 Clan. Neither a bud, nor yet a flower full blown. 
 Adorni. All things are beautiful! 
 Clau. How now, Adorni; 
 
 May not a man commend his mistress' charms 
 Without offence? A reigning belle, 'tis true, 
 Might have some cause to frown at what I've said — 
 But thou hast none. Shake off this peevish humour. 
 Thou art not jealous that my Viola 
 
 Should share my heart with thee? What ails thee, man? 
 Adorni. I look abroad, and all that strikes mine eye 
 Is beautiful. E'en things inanimate 
 That were created but to live a day, 
 And die; — the flower we tread upon 
 Betrays the labor of the skilful hand 
 That fashioned it. The sky is glorious 
 Passing all wonders. The birds that cleave the air, 
 Are beautiful in plumage and in form. 
 The living sea, when warring with the sky, 
 Making its weapons of the works of man, 
 That float upon its bosom, is sublime. 
 The countless things that grow beneath its surface, 
 Though made for man's use, seldom meet his eye, 
 Are moulded in a form to yield delight 
 When brought to view. The principle prevails, 
 
44 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 In heaven, earth, air, and to the caves of ocean — 
 
 All things are beautiful! — 
 
 Nature has lavish'd, with unsparing hand. 
 
 The choicest gifts upon her meanest works; — 
 
 But, in her boundless prodigality, 
 
 Not one has fallen here. I — I alone. 
 
 Move through this world of vast variety, 
 
 A species in myself — disown'd by all! — 
 
 As 'twere a foil to set off all beside; — 
 
 The sport of nature and the scoff of man. 
 
 Clau. Thou wrongst thyself to entertain such thoughts; — 
 Nature has been to thee most prodigal. 
 Thy birth is noble, and thy fortune great; 
 Thy mind accompHsh'd and thy taste refin'd. 
 
 Adorni. True, fortune placed me on a giddy height. 
 
 That all might gaze and wonder, and become. 
 However base, contented with their state. 
 The starving beggar as he craves an alms, 
 Receives it from my hands — and thanks his God, 
 That he was not thus stricken and deform'd: 
 Returning pity for my charity. 
 My taste, you say's refined. Is that a thing 
 To be rejoic'd at, since it teaches me 
 The grossness of my own deformity; 
 To hate myself and execrate my race? 
 
 Clau. Out on you; — this is madness. 
 
 Adorni. My mind's accompHsh'd — True, with patient toil, 
 I've studied night and day to make my own 
 Th' accumulated wisdom of the world; 
 Until the grave was gaping to receive 
 My wasted carcass. Yes; my mind has been 
 A fire that feeds on all within its reach. 
 And then consumes itself for lack of fuel. 
 But what of that! who estimates the mind 
 In this base world where earth alone can prosper? 
 Fools with fair forms, though sterile of all good. 
 As the parch'd desert, mount upon our necks 
 And are proclaim'd the master works of heav'n; 
 While those who're gifted with th' ethereal spark 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 45 
 
 That lights them to explore the universe, 
 Are pass'd unnoticed as the senseless clod 
 If cursed with such deformity as mine. 
 
 Clau. All do not judge thus blindly. Thy fair wife 
 Gave proof of this in making choice of thee. 
 
 Ador. Yes, she gave proof of more than this when she 
 Made choice of me. 
 
 Clau. For shame! I blush for you. 
 
 Ador. Twelve months have scarcely passed since she was priz'd 
 The treasure of the court — the cheering sun 
 That gave new life to all that came within 
 Her influence. Ay, from my lady's page 
 E'en to the duke, there was not one but felt 
 Most honor'd when he had the grace to touch 
 Her shoe-tie. The young Duke himself ne'er met her 
 Without smiling and kissing his hand to her. 
 All eyes were turn'd upon her as she mov'd 
 Like some bright comet that no cloud obscures 
 While all the firmament is hung with mourning. 
 And yet, though worshipp'd thus, she fixed on me, 
 As if I'd been Apollo in his prime. 
 And why was this! say, was it natural? 
 
 Clau. Thou art resolved to prove it otherwise 
 By showing what thou art. 
 
 Ador. Oh! woman, woman! 
 
 Whom gownsmen sagely call the greatest good 
 Bestow'd on man, though ancient records tell 
 How thy first fatal act 'mid Eden's bloom 
 Entail'd damnation on the heirs of heaven; — 
 By what name shall I call thee! 
 
 Clau. Why this bitterness? 
 
 Ador. Because I'm married, sir. 
 
 Clau. But to a wife 
 
 As pure and spotless as the virgin snow 
 That falls at midnight, when the frozen moon 
 Has crystalliz'd the world. 
 
 Ador. Ah say you so: then thou shalt try her virtue. 
 Clau. Fie, fie! 
 
48 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ador. Viola! — O, I remember now. 
 
 Was she not of the Duke's party this morning? 
 
 Clau. The fairest among them. 
 
 Ador. Then look to Lodovico and look closely; 
 
 Or rather break your chains. — A painted puppet, 
 As fickle as the wanton winds, that kiss 
 Alike the carcass and the blooming rose! 
 
 Clau. Your language is too harsh. — Though vain, imprudent- 
 She is most strictly virtuous. 
 
 Ador. As Caesar's wife! — Pshaw! Claudio; — 
 
 But say no more, thy folly plainly shows 
 The greatest curse that man can labor under 
 Is the strong witchcraft of a woman's eyes. 
 {Exeunt. — R. H. 
 
 END OF ACT I 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene 1 
 A chamber meanly furnished. 
 
 Enter Beraldo. — L. H. 
 Ber. At length I am in my own castle again, as free as nature made 
 me. How light I feel. No shackles on my limbs now. The heels of 
 Mercury are not more supple than my own. — Why Astrabel, ho! wife, 
 where art thou? 
 
 Enter Astrabel. — R. H. 
 
 Astra. Who calls? — O, my Beraldo! O, my husband! (Runs 
 into his arms) Wert thou in thy grave and art thou here again? 0, 
 welcome, welcome. 
 
 Ber. Art glad to see me. Bell? 
 
 Astra. What other joy have I on earth, Beraldo? My eyes over- 
 flow at this unlooked-for meeting. 
 
 Ber. Come, come, no tears, wife. Let us laugh and be merry. 
 'Tis not for us to draw a cloud before the sunshine. Cheer up, I have 
 had enough of watery eyes in the prison. Smile, smile, wife, I have 
 friends at court, I am free, I shall soar, I shall fly high again, fly high! 
 
 Astra. Beraldo! 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 49 
 
 Ber. Is it possible that these hmbs ever danced in fetters! That 
 this buoyant spirit was ever dampened by thp atmosphere of a prison! 
 That instead of nature's beauteous works I was doomed to behold misery 
 and despair, and the only sound that greeted my ears the groans of the 
 wretched, the clank of their shackles, and the grating of bolts and 
 bars! But, that is past. I breathe pure air again, and it is to my soul 
 as refreshing as wine, and I leap forth into the world a new born man. 
 O, 'twas a glorious world till laws were made to curse it, and hood- 
 winked Justice took her daily rounds to trample on the feeble. 
 
 Astra. Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. What sayest thou, sweet one? 
 
 Astra. Couldst thou not make a mirror of thy prison and therein 
 view the unsightly scars thy name and fortunes bear. 
 
 Ber. Faith, Bell, I need no glass to see them. 
 
 Astra. Then in viewing mend them. 
 
 Ber. A plague! — Have I turned my back upon a jail for this! — 
 Postpone thy lecture to some fitter time. Dampen not my wings now. 
 I shall soar again. I shall fly high. — O, for the mad rogues — the roaring 
 boys! I shall soon be among you again. 
 
 Astra. Thou dost not hear me. 
 
 Ber. Yes faith, I do. — {Not attending to her.) Ha! ha! Their 
 greeting will pour new life into my veins, and the streets shall re-echo 
 at midnight that Beraldo is no longer in prison. — I wonder how the 
 inside of a tavern looks! 
 
 Astra. Thou knowest too well Beraldo, and too dearly hast thou 
 paid for thy knowledge, with the loss of wealth, and time, and fair 
 fame. O, my husband, could'st thou be content with our humble home, 
 thou wouldst here find a friend more faithful than those who pledge 
 themselves in drunken oaths, and praise thee for thy failings. 
 
 Ber. I do believe thee; and I protest to thee I will turn over a new 
 leaf, but let me fly once more that I may feel that I am free. {Knock- 
 ing.) Who's there? 
 
 Astra. Some one knocks at the door. 
 
 Ber. I will be porter. I will stand at mine own door, and let the 
 world see that a jail cannot hold a brave spirit. 
 
 {Exit.—L. H. 
 
 Astra. How wild is his behaviour! O, I fear, the vices that were 
 but in the seed, have taken root and ripened in the prison. O ! my poor 
 husband! — But, come what will I must abide all storms. When with 
 
52 THE LIFE AND WTilTINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 (Trebatzo turns away and wipes his eyes. 
 
 Ber. His blessings! — An unforgiving, unfeeling villain! as proud as 
 Lucifer and merciless as hell. We may expect the devil to turn monk, 
 when he bestows a blessing. 
 
 Asira. For shame! This from you, Beraldo? 
 
 Treb. Thou speakest the truth, else he would not suffer his own 
 child to pine away in want, exposed to all the temptations that are 
 thrown in the pathway of the wretched. He is, indeed, an unrelenting 
 scoundrel. 
 
 Astra. Thou villain, curb thy licentious tongue. Is this the love 
 thou bearest thy master? — Out, thou dissembling Judas. 
 
 Ber. He speaks the truth. Thy father is — 
 
 Astra. (Interrupting him.) All that a father should be — at least, 
 to such a child as I have been. 
 
 Treb. Mine own girl yet. (Aside.) 
 
 Astra. (To Beraldo.) Art not ashamed to strike an absent man? 
 Art not ashamed to let this vile dog bark and bite my father thus? — 
 I will not bear it. — (To Trebatzo.) Out of my doors, base slave. 
 
 Ber. Thy doors! — Come hither, Pacheco. Heed not her anger, 
 it is me thou serv'st. Come hither. — Call you him a father that deserts 
 his child, and for the first fault too? And look you, such a child, as 
 earth cannot produce her paragon! — Out on such fathers! (Exit. — 
 R.H. 
 
 Astra. Ah! me! how is my poor heart shook and torn with passion. 
 (Sees Trebatzo. ) How now, sir ! 
 
 Treb. This is strange, mistress! Does my master often dye your 
 brow of this sad color? 
 
 Astra. Fellow, begone, for thou art as a spider in my eye, swol'n 
 with rank poison. To wrong men absent is to spurn the dead — and so 
 didst thou, thy aged master — my honored father. 
 
 Treb. Thou hast but little reason to take his part. He has deserted 
 thee. 
 
 Astra. 'Tis false! 'twas I deserted him! 
 
 Treb. He says you are a — 
 
 Astra. Let him say what he will — he is my father. 
 
 Treb. And dost thou not return his railings? 
 
 Astra. Yes — with blessings. How else should an offending child 
 return a father's railings. When for the earth's offence, heaven's 
 fiery bolts are driven downward through the marbled vault, is it fit 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 53 
 
 repentant earth should shoot again those darts against high heaven? 
 
 Treb. She carries mine own mind, my flesh, my blood, my bone. 
 {Aside.) In truth, mistress, the squibs that I threw against my good old 
 master, were but to try how your husband loved such crackers; but 
 it's well known by those who know me, that I love your father as my- 
 self. Say then thou wilt forgive me. 
 
 Astra. O, he that loves my father, need not fear resentment in 
 this bosom. That virtue quenches it. 
 
 Treb. Mine own girl still. {Aside.) 
 
 Astra. O! that my father knew me, and all that I've endured — 
 knew my heart and all its thoughts, and all its longings ! He then would 
 know, that though a star may shoot, it cannot fall. 
 
 {Exit.—R. H. 
 
 Treb. He shall know it — he does know it. Bless you, God bless 
 you! 
 
 {Exit.—L. H. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 The street before Viola's house. 
 Enter Beraldo. — R. H. 
 
 Ber. How nimbly the air plays! How refreshing! I feel as if I 
 could leap from my skin with joy. What a bright world it is we live 
 in! and how few make the discovery until they have lost sight of it. 
 How happy all things appear, and I among the happiest, though not 
 worth the scrapings of a beggar's wallet. But still I can walk abroad 
 and dance without being tripped by my shackles; and there's much in 
 that, to a man who has passed his probation in prison. Ha! here comes 
 one of the roaring boys — a fellow who will reap the enjoyment of ten 
 lives, while your plodder is studying to find out what there is worth 
 living for. 
 
 Enter Lodovico. — L. H. 
 
 Ha! mad rogue, by this hand I'm glad to see thee. 
 
 Lodo. Thou art familiar, fellow, stand aside. 
 
 Ber. Ha! how is this! have I so soon grown out of your remem- 
 brance? 
 
 Lodo. So soon! I have not seen a doublet of that cut these ten 
 years. 
 
 Ber. Look on me well, Lodovico. True, they have clipped my 
 
56 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ber. This is life, my little man of mettle! It makes the blood 
 stir, and tells us we are not made of wood and stone. 0! Lodovico! 
 I now feel that I live again. Bear up, boy, and fly high, fly high. 
 {Exeunt Lodovico and Beraldo. — R. H. 
 Clau. Go on Adorni to the place of meeting, 
 
 I will but change my rapier and then follow: 
 I dare not trust the temper of this blade. 
 Ador. A pleasant visit this, sir, to your mistress! 
 Clau. For ever cynical! 
 Ador. Invite her to the field. 
 
 That she may see how gracefully you fight 
 To win a prize so treasur'd. 
 Clau. Trifler away, I'll presently o'ertake you. 
 
 {Exit Adorni. — L. H. 
 Enter Viola from the house. 
 
 Viola. Claudio. 
 
 Clau. Who calls? 
 
 Viola. She who was not wont 
 
 To call that name a second time. How now? 
 Clau. I've been your dupe too long; at length the net 
 That folly wove around me is destroy'd. 
 And thou, false siren, now mayest sing thy strains 
 For other ears. 
 Viola. Can this be Claudio? 
 Clau. You well may question it. 
 Viola. Out on that frown, it ill becomes your brow, 
 
 And spoils its beauty. Let me smooth it pray. 
 Clau. 'Tis not within thy power. Give over trifling. 
 Viola. Thou art resolved then thus to scowl through life, 
 
 And look as fierce as Hector before Troy? 
 Clau. I am resolved to be thy fool no longer. 
 For thou hast ceased to be my Viola, 
 The modest, the immaculate; and some devil 
 Has ta'en the form of that unblemish'd beauty, 
 To do a fearful mischief. 
 Viola. I also 
 
 Have been deceiv'd; thou'rt not the man I thought thee. 
 Clau. In what, pray, am I changed? 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 57 
 
 Viola. I did suppose the gallant Claudio 
 
 Would have defied the devil and all his works, 
 
 But lo! he's frighten'd at a petticoat, 
 
 And dreads the witchcraft in it. Is this manly? 
 
 Clau. Have I not cause? 
 
 Viola. Why none that I'm aware of. 
 
 My garment is quite harmless, I assure you. 
 
 Clau. Lodovico! 
 
 Viola. Why this is worse and worse! 
 
 It is a man then who has roused your fears, 
 
 And not a devil in a female shape? 
 
 And such a man too! — Now, upon my life. 
 
 If this strange temper holds, I soon shall hear 
 
 That thou art jealous of my waiting maid 
 
 For pinning of my kerchief. 
 
 Clau. Faith I should be 
 
 If that same maid were dress'd in hose and doublet. 
 
 Viola. Yet, as she is, thou hast as much to dread 
 From her as from Lodovico. — For shame! 
 Art yet to learn, that there are human things 
 That were intended for no earthly use 
 But to cut capers at a lady's elbow. 
 Dangle her fan, sometimes draw ofif her glove. 
 And run her various errands that are deem'd 
 Too trifling for a lackey to attend to? — 
 And whose ambition never soars above 
 Holding her farthingale on holidays. 
 To keep it from the dust! — Out on thee, sir! 
 Jealous of such a thing! Thou'lt next become 
 Jealous of my lap dog. 
 
 Clau. I've been to blame. 
 
 Say, can you pardon me? 
 
 Viola. Perhaps I may. 
 
 Provided thou wilt let me smooth that brow, 
 Nor call my power in question. 
 
 Clau. O Viola! 
 
 Had I less faith than e'en a heathen hath, 
 I could not doubt it. 
 
60 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENlll SMITH 
 
 Clau. Command me as you list, for I'll devote 
 My life unto your service. 
 
 {Kisses her hand and exit. — L. H. 
 
 Ador. {rushes forward.) Traitor, libidinous traitor! 
 
 Was it for this he shunn'd the fight? O! devil! — 
 Was it for this! — unhand me, gentlemen; 
 I'll tear him piecemeal! Off — I'll have his heart — 
 His treacherous heart. O, that these bony hands 
 Were clutch'd around his heart. 
 
 {Sinks into their arms exhausted. 
 
 Lodo. What means all this? 
 
 Ber. Thou hast lived at court to little purpose, not to understand 
 natural philosophy, such as is taught in the shambles. Nothing more. 
 
 Eug. My noble lord. 
 
 Ador. Hence from my sight, thou venom to my eyes! 
 Would I could look thee dead, or with a frown 
 Might crush thy prostituted form to atoms, 
 That the four winds might hurl them through the world 
 And spread disease that kills whate'er it touches. 
 
 Ber. Nay, bear your wrongs, sir, with more fortitude. 
 
 Ador. She was unspotted as an angel's garment — 
 
 But now begrim'd and foul. — 0! God! 0! God! — 
 He that depends on woman, steers in a 
 Stormy night without a compass. — Look there! — 
 That guilt so damnable should lurk beneath 
 A look so innocent! Look there! Look there! 
 
 Eug. Alas! Adorni, has it come to this! — {Swoons. 
 
 Lodo. Look to the lady. 
 
 Ador. Hang her, let her die, 
 
 With all her countless sins upon her head. 
 
 Ber. You are too violent. Bear her gently in. 
 
 {Exit LoDOVico supporting Eugenia. — L. E. 
 
 And there's Trebatzo's pride! The milk white dove 
 Whose presence made my Astrabel a raven! — 
 Ha! ha! ha! What a bHnd world it is! A fine world faith, 
 For drabs and knaves to dance in. 'Tis but to hide 
 The cloven foot and devils pass for angels! 
 Ador. Where is the viper! — Give him to my rage — 
 The pois'nous reptile with the painted skin 
 
THE LIFE AND \\rRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 6L 
 
 That crept into my bosom. — Where is he? — 
 O! that my heel were now upon his head, 
 I'd crush, and prove, the ancient enmity 
 'Twixt man and serpent is not yet extinct. — 
 Serpent! damned serpent! 
 
 Exeunt. — L. H. 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 An apartment in Beraldo's house. 
 Enter Trebatzo and Astrabel. 
 
 Treb. Can you not sing that strain again, lady? Its melancholy 
 soothed me. 
 
 Astra. My heart is out of tune, Pacheco. O! my sister! unhappy 
 sister! 
 
 Treb. Waste not thy breath in naming her. Think not of her, 
 lady. A wanton! Cast her off! Forget her! Would I could do the 
 same. 
 
 Astra. Shame on thee, old man, to speak thus of thy master's 
 daughter. — 0! my father! I smote thee to the heart, but she was thy 
 favourite child, and her falling off, I fear, will go nigh to kill thee. 
 
 Treb. Thou speakest truly; it does go nigh to kill him. 
 
 Enter Beraldo. — L. H. 
 
 Ber. What infernal stuff are these dice made of! Of the parings 
 of the devil's corns, I think, that they run thus damnably. If any 
 handicraft man is oyer suffered to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice 
 maker, for he is able to undo more souls than Lucifer himself. Ah! 
 my gentle Bell, how dost thou? 
 
 Astra. Sad, sad, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. Nay, hang sorrow. Have you any money? 
 
 Astra. Alas! I have none. 
 
 Ber. Must have money, Bell; must have money. Must have a new 
 cloak and rapier, and things fitting a gentleman. Do you hear, wench, 
 shall I walk like a rogue, in my hose and doublet, and a crabtree cudgel 
 in my hand, and you swim in your silks and satins. 'Twould never 
 do, Bell! Must have money. 
 
 Treb. Why sir, you would not sell the gown from your wife's back? 
 
 Ber. ! its summer, its summer, white pate, and your only fashion 
 for a woman, now, is to be light, to be light. I still have an eye to the 
 
62 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 fashion of the court, though no longer admitted there. Ask Adorni's 
 wife whether I speak not to the letter. 0! there's a dainty dish for 
 the devil to dine off. 
 
 Astra. Nay, Beraldo, lend not your tongue to scoff at her; there 
 will be enough ready to do that office. 
 
 Ber. True, true, my gentle Bell! we found them ever ready. There 
 is as much rejoicing in this world upon the falling off of a sinner, as 
 we are told there is in the next over his repentance. 
 
 Treb. Blame not the world, but the sinner. 
 
 Ber. Damn the world, damn the world! — a painted carcass — a 
 fair outside while it breeds corruption within! Look there, Pacheco. 
 {pointing to Astrabel,) for one fault — and that a venial error, have the 
 avenues to mercy in this world been barred up, and though fit to hold 
 converse with the sainted, she is pronounced too impure even to be 
 looked upon, by the fly blown immaculates, as rank as carrion itself. 
 Damn the world, damn the world. 
 
 Astra. Nay Beraldo, fly not out thus. 
 
 Ber. And what have I done, that a mark should be put upon my 
 front to caution those who regard the world's opinion to shun me? 
 I was once followed, and sought after, and the proudest were proud 
 to be seen with me. But now, a consuming leprosy could not keep 
 them at greater distance. And why is this? I walk abroad, and I 
 see them cross the streets as I approach, affecting not to see me. Though 
 I despise them, I cannot but feel this slight. A stone would feel it; 
 however, I show no more feeling than a stone. 
 
 Treb. The right stuff!— the right stuff! 
 
 Ber. The ways of honest livelihood are closed against me, and 
 there is nothing for me to hope from my fellow man. By heaven! 
 it requires but little more to make me cast off all restraint — but little 
 more, and I leap the wall and play such wild pranks on t'other side, 
 as shall make the world stare. I am desperate. 
 
 Astra. Speak not thus wildly. 
 
 Ber. How now, in tears Bell! come, dry your eyes, I have caused 
 you to shed too many. But for me your life had been all sunshine. 
 
 Astra. Think not of that. 
 
 Ber. I do think of it; I must think of it; and then to see to what 
 I have reduced you! — Beggary and shame! — The being I once adored. 
 Damn the world! Damn the world! — still say I. 
 
 Astra. Beraldo! no more, no morel 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 63 
 
 Ber. And old Trebatzo! — to suffer his unoffending child to live 
 thus — exposed to contumely — to sicken for want of bread — the only 
 one to solace her broken heart, a profligate, a vagabond. And yet such 
 a father can lay his head on his pillow, and sleep o'nights, and ere he 
 closes his eyes, ask for mercy. How dare he open his lips to ask for 
 mercy? 
 
 Treb. O! Beraldo! 
 
 Ber. What sayest thou? 
 
 Treb. How dare he open his lips to ask for mercy? 
 
 Ber. Thou little knowest, old man, what I've endured. We had 
 a child, the link that bound my better feelings to that injured one. 
 That child was to us as a star at midnight. 0! how brightly it shone, 
 but only for a season, and then disappeared. 
 
 Astra. Beraldo, recall not the memory of those sorrows. 
 
 Ber. It fell sick and died for the want of those comforts which her 
 unforgiving father lavishes on his hounds. I beheld it wasting away, 
 day by day, and yet had not the means to check the disease. When its 
 sufferings were over, we were alone — no friend came near us; and on the 
 third day after, I suppressed my grief, went forth into the street, and 
 begged the means of purchasing it a grave. 
 
 Treb. Gracious Heaven! I knew not this. {Aside. 
 
 Ber. The poor thing was a stranger in this world, and he had a 
 stranger's burial. His parents were his only mourners. No hymn 
 was chanted, and no mass was said. It was night as we returned. We 
 passed in front of her father's palace; it was illuminated, and the sounds 
 of revelry were heard from within. We stood for a moment and lis- 
 tened to their merriment. — The feelings of that moment I shall carry 
 to the grave! I pressed that mourner to my broken heart, and we 
 silently returned to our deserted home. 
 
 Astra. 0! my husband! 
 
 Ber. Wipe away thy tears, Bell; dry thine eyes, we shall yet bear 
 up and fly high, in spite of the world. But brush my cloak and fix my 
 ruff, wench, for I must to the senate house, and thou wouldst not have 
 me appear otherwise than as a gentleman in such a place. 
 
 Astra. To the senate house? 
 
 Ber. Ay; thou hast heard that Adorni sues to be divorced from your 
 sister, and I am called upon to testify to what I know. 
 
 Astra. And what dost thou know? 
 
64 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ber. That Vulcan's wife might have passed for Dian had she been 
 prudent. Come along Pacheco; thou wilt be present for thy old mas- 
 ter's sake. 
 
 Treh. For my own sake, I would fain be absent. 
 
 Ber. Come along. Rare sport for old Trebatzo. Ha! old lad! 
 
 Astra. Remember, she is my sister. 
 
 Ber. Years have elapsed since she ceased to remember it. — Come, 
 come, Pacheco. {Exeunt.) 
 
 END OF ACT II 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene 1 
 The Senate Chamber. 
 
 The Duke and Senators, Adorni, Claudio, Lodovico, Beraldo, 
 Trebatzo, still disguised, Eugenia and spectators, discovered. 
 
 Duke. Call the accused to the bar. 
 
 Clau. We appear with reverence to the presence. 
 
 Duke. Signor Adorni, you have leave to speak. 
 
 Ador. I stand before you, sir, o'erwhelm'd with shame, 
 To tell the world how lowely I am fallen; 
 A thing for apes to gibe at. — I affirm — 
 Nay, the great multitude without can witness, 
 That since my fatal marriage with that frail one, 
 My love expanded to such boundless height, 
 That malice could not reach it. — I entreat 
 Your patience. Sorrow chokes my utterance. 
 
 Ber. He bears it heavily. 
 
 Treb. The shaft's in his heart. 
 
 Ador. And for this man — this false and erring man! 
 The friendship that I bore him was proverbial. 
 So far my blindfold confidence extended, 
 That in himself I was identified. 
 And felt more pride when honor crown'd his brows 
 Than had its laurel'd wreath encircl'd mine. 
 
 Duke. And what from this infer you? 
 
 Ador. That 'twas base — 
 
 Base in the depth of baseness, for this friend 
 So honor'd, and this frail one, so belov'd, 
 To work my ruin. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 65 
 
 Eug. O, my husband! 0! 
 Ador. And at a time my weapon was engaged 
 To save his honor, he was kiUing mine 
 He fixed a quarrel on me for his purpose; 
 And then, 0! shame to manhood! stole away, 
 Leaving his name and my life in the hands 
 Of those he'd basely wrong'd. 
 Clau. Hear me, great sir. 
 
 Must I with patience bear this bold-faced insult — 
 Have my fair name traduc'd before the world. 
 Without as much of reason as we find 
 In the wild ravings of a lunatic? 
 Duke. The proof, my lord, the proof. 
 Ador. I will appeal to signor Lodovico; 
 
 Beraldo, too. 
 Duke. We wait your testimony. 
 Lod. It grieves me much that I am call'd upon 
 To speak against the gallant Claudio. 
 But yesterday, for some imagin'd wrong. 
 He challeng'd me to mortal fight, yet came not. 
 We staid beyond the hour, and still he came not. 
 Believing some mistake, of time or place, 
 The cause of this strange bearing in a man 
 Noted for true courage, we sought him at 
 The Count Adorni's house. We enter'd hastily — 
 I would I had been absent — and surpris'd 
 The parties, here accus'd, in close discourse; 
 Their palms were knit together. 
 Duke. Well, what passed? 
 Lod. I saw him press her hand unto his lips; 
 
 No more than this. 
 Ador. No more! As this were nothing! 
 
 A kiss in private, and no harm intended! 
 
 Is it in nature? If their thoughts were pure. 
 
 Why thus in secret did he steal a joy 
 
 The public eye would scowl at? No, my lord. 
 
 The burning kiss of shame was printed on her, 
 
 Though that dull clod pronounces it a trifle. 
 
 I speak not now in passion, but to men — 
 
 To upright and to honorable men, 
 
66 THE LIFE AND WlilTINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 And put the question home to all who hear me. 
 Is there among you one, can make my wrongs 
 His own, and say, the charge preferr'd is groundless? 
 One, would have lock'd suspicion in his heart 
 And sat him down content, until his shame 
 Shone on his forehead? If there be, good Heavens! 
 I'd rather be a creature born to bear 
 The worst oppression man could heap upon me 
 Than share the nature of a thing so base. 
 No more than this! 
 
 Ber. That argument comes home. 
 
 This will be wormwood, boy, to old Trebatzo. 
 
 Treb. Bitter, ay, bitter as the aloe tree. 
 
 Duke. And what say'st thou, Beraldo? 
 
 Ber. How now, grey beard — }{To Trebatzo, apart.) 
 
 Treb. She is the sister of thy injured wife; 
 
 And though her wretched father's darling child, 
 Let not thy malice aim a blow at him 
 By crushing her. Remember! {Apart.) 
 
 Ber. Yes, I do {Pointing above.) 
 
 And, wild as I have been, have ne'er forgotten. 
 I can fly high, old man, but swerve not from 
 The path of truth. 
 
 Treb. Is this the man I spurn'd! {Aside.) 
 
 Duke. Say on, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. I do avouch what Lodovico depos'd, 
 And nothing more. 
 
 Treb. I breathe again. 
 
 Clau. If 'twere not waste of breath for one accus'd 
 To speak in his defence — for all eyes view 
 In the same Hght th' accus'd and criminal! 
 I would beseech permission to address 
 Your grace and the senate. 
 
 Duke. 'Tis freely granted. 
 
 Clau. With def'rence to the presence, I acknowledge 
 The favor granted, and your patience crave 
 While I a plain and simple tale relate. 
 Which you will credit for that wrong'd one's sake. 
 'Tis true, this jealous man was once my friend, 
 And did exalt me in his fair opinion; 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 67 
 
 And I look'd on him as the greatest good 
 
 That fortune gave me. — 
 
 'Tis also true, that to his vahant sword 
 
 My honor and his Hfe were yesterday- 
 Most wantonly entrusted. I confess it. 
 
 But that I shunn'd the meeting purposely, 
 
 From cowardice, or to endanger him, 
 
 I trust there is not one among my hearers, 
 
 So base as to imagine — but the cause! 
 
 'Tis now of little moment to relate 
 
 The arts made use of to detain me from 
 
 The meeting where my reputation bled 
 
 To death. 'Tis past! on that score I am silent. 
 
 But that I ever wrong'd Adorni's honor, 
 
 Or that the love I bear his injur'd wife 
 
 Is such a brother's bosom need recoil from, 
 
 I do deny; proclaim aloud 'tis false, 
 
 With such a voice that all the earth may hear, 
 
 And heaven itself re-echo, innocent! 
 Duke. You are too bold. 
 Clau. Not more so than becomes me. 
 
 I feel my wrongs, and as an injur'd man 
 
 Give my soul vent. 
 Ber. Bear up and fly high, boy, 
 
 Though they load thy back to breaking! 
 Clau. Adorni, if thy cheeks are not of brass. 
 
 Unchangeable as marble, hide thy face. 
 
 While I proclaim thy folly to the world. 
 
 I here am put to trial for a crime 
 
 That owes its birth to thy distemper'd mind, 
 
 Which has been fed on jealousy, till grown 
 
 So sickly, that e'en shadows vanquish it. 
 
 Since thou wilt have it so, I here confess 
 
 That I have woo'd thy wife. 
 Ador. He doth confess. 
 Duke. How say you — woo'd her? 
 Clau. Yes, three several times. 
 Ber. The truth is coming. 
 Clau. At his bidding, sir. 
 Ber, Ha! mark you that? 
 
68 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Treb. I do. 
 
 Clau. And for the sake of friendship, ill-requited, 
 Endur'd the censure of insulted virtue. 
 Now, upon this, his jealousy infers 
 I could not hold the chalice to my lips, 
 But I must drink the poison. 
 Duke. Frail excuse! 
 
 And most improbable. Your witnesses. 
 Clau. The case is such as could admit of none. 
 Ador. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Duke. What farther wouldst thou urge, count Claudio? 
 Clau. Nothing. 
 
 Duke. And you, unhappy lady? 
 Eug. Why should I speak, since even he forsakes me. 
 
 {Pointing to Adorni. 
 Duke. In that we are the kinsman of Adorni, 
 
 And still retain a sense of deep regard 
 For that fair being — 
 Ador. BUsters on his tongue! 
 Duke. That we may not appear in judgment partial, 
 
 The senate will decide upon the case. 
 Ber. You tremble. 
 Treh. I am old and feeble! 
 Clau. {To Adorni.) Thou weak, misguided man. 
 
 Behold her tears, each one of which would grace 
 A monarch's funeral; and these are shed — 
 Doth not the knowledge melt thee — for thy lost virtue. 
 {Pointing at Eugenia. 
 Duke. There is but one opinion in the senate: 
 
 The accus'd are guilty. 
 Ador. Ha! ha! ha! 
 Eug. 'Tis done. 
 Treb. Break! break! break! 
 
 Ber. Bear up, Pacheco, or I shall weep too. But why should I 
 weep for the shame of others? Rather rejoice! 
 Ador. Ha! ha! ha! 
 Ber. Hear the damned hedgehog! — 
 
 Thou good old man, thou sheddest far more tears 
 Than e'er her flinty-hearted father shed 
 For Astrabel. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 69 
 
 Treb. Less, less, but they're more bitter. 
 Duke. Stand forth, Count Claudio. 'Tis thus decreed: 
 In that you have thus grossly, sir, dishonor'd 
 Even our blood itself, the law inflicts 
 The punishment of death upon your trespass; 
 But by your worth, of more antiquity, 
 That death is blotted out, and in its place 
 Banishment writ; perpetual banishment. 
 And further, if within our city's precincts. 
 After the setting of yon glorious sun. 
 Thou shalt be seen, thy head is forfeited. 
 Clau. Down to the earth I thank the clemency 
 That gives me life and injuries enough 
 To make me curse the wisdom of the senate. 
 And so farewell. Farewell, my noble Lords! 
 Ere I depart I'll leave a legacy 
 Not to be found among the rarest treasures 
 That decorate this hall. I mean, the truth! 
 Ye are, 'tis said, the delegates of Justice, 
 And wear her sacred form; and so ye do! 
 Justice is blind — therein the likeness holds: 
 Justice is deaf — ye are not prone to hear: 
 And Justice bids th' uplifted sword to strike, 
 And so do ye; for were a saint, in all 
 His glory crown'd, brought to this bar, accus'd, 
 He'd seem'd begrim'd unto his judges' eyes; 
 Ye'd close each narrow passage to your hearts; 
 Without remorse command the sword to strike, 
 Nor heed the shriek of Mercy as it fell. 
 And so farewell to Justice and to Florence. 
 
 {Exit—L. H. 
 
 Duke. Unto you, madam. — As your husband sues 
 To be divorced, we deem it right to grant it. 
 Your rank and seeming sorrow shall prevent 
 All other punishment. 
 Eug. I bow to your decree. Farewell, Adorni, 
 And may thy days be fruitful in delights 
 As Eden in choice flowers. I ask but this — 
 When my fair name is thrown among the crowd, 
 
70 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Stain'd with the poison of corrupted minds, 
 Give me a sigh, and struggle to forget 
 That this fond heart ne'er harbour'd yet a thought 
 Unworthy of the matchless love it bore you. 
 {Crosses to Trebatzo. 
 Duke. Break up the court. 
 
 {Exit Duke, senators and spectators. — R. H. 
 Ador. Break up my heart — the storm is in my bosom. 
 Eug. {Recognizing her father.) Ah! what means this! 
 Treb. I could not stay away, yet would not be the gaze of the 
 common herd. O! Eugenia! thou wast the child of mine age! my 
 soul's darling! and thou hast brought my grey hairs with shame and 
 sorrow to the grave. 
 Eug. My father! 
 
 Treb. Breathe not that name! — not here — not here; go on, I'll 
 follow you. 
 
 Exit L. H. — Eugenia following. 
 Ber. Ha! why standest thou there like the Nazarite of old, who, 
 to crush his foes, dragged down ruin on himself! Ho! awake! Beraldo 
 calls! He whom thou has scoJBfed at in thy pride, calls on thee to join 
 with him and damn the world; for now thou canst feel how the scorn of 
 thy fellow beings gnaws at the soul. Ho! Adorni. Think of poor 
 Astrabel, whom thou has slighted as a common harlot, and then think 
 of thy own wife. Thou spider-venomous toad, I know has mingled 
 wormwood with old Trebatzo's bitter hate for me; but I forgive thee, 
 for thou hast mixed a more bitter cup for thy own lips, and hast 
 already quaffed it. Remember, none fly so high but the curse of the 
 world may reach them. {Exit. — L. H. 
 
 Adorni. How still it is! still as the grave! all gone! 
 No human being near me! all desert 
 Th' accurst of heav'n! The fearful bolt hath fallen. 
 The only link that bound me to my race 
 Is riven; the only one that smiled on me 
 Will smile no more. She loved me once! — 
 God knows she loved me once; the only one 
 That ever loved but she that bore me; 
 For e'en my father in the pride of manhood 
 Turn'd from me, and my brothers look'd upon me 
 With feelings of compassion, not of love, 
 As I had been a creature that partook 
 
THE LITE A>fD WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 71 
 
 But partly of their nature, and beneath them; 
 Still, having claim upon their better feelings, 
 I They gave me pity — all their hearts could give. 
 
 Their hate I might have borne, but not their pity! — 
 
 O! why was I created! but to be 
 
 The persecuted both of God and man! 
 
 E'en when my load of misery was lightest 
 
 It was enough to crush a giant's strength; 
 
 But now! — what am I now? — so fallen! — so debas'd. 
 
 Both in my own opinion and the world's. 
 
 That there is not a grade of abjectness 
 
 Beneath the state I've reached; and I must live, 
 
 Beyond the power of human remedy — 
 
 Despismg and despised. 
 
 {Exit. — L. H. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 The street before Viola's house. — Stage dark. 
 Enter Claudio. — L. H. 
 
 Clau. The leaden foot of time steals on apace; 
 
 Ere this I should have pass'd the gates of Florence, 
 And breath'd my parting curse; but Viola, 
 Belov'd! I'll hear the sound of thy sweet voice 
 Once more, and then commence my wanderings. 
 Light of my life, awake. 
 
 (Window opens, and Viola appears.) 
 
 Viola. Who calls? 
 
 Clau. A wretch whose love is hopeless as his fortunes. 
 
 Viola. That voice! Is't Claudio? 
 
 Clau. Thanks, kind lady; 
 
 You recognize me in my abjectness. 
 
 Bereft of fortune and my fair name branded; 
 
 An exile from my country and my friends, 
 
 Yet you still know me. 
 Viola. Report has been too busy with thy name. 
 
 But the base slander gains no credit here, 
 
 I mourn thy exile, for the punishment, 
 I feel, is undeserved. 
 
72 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Clau. Thy fair opinion gives new hope to life. 
 
 Viola. Then cherish it. 
 
 Clau. Doubt not, sweet Viola. 
 
 The veriest wretch that labors at the oar, 
 
 While one faint spark of abject life remains. 
 
 Will dream of hope, and in his baseless vision 
 
 See many years of happiness behind. 
 
 Then, should heaven's voice command him live and hope, 
 
 'Twere impious not to yield obedient. 
 Viola. Farewell, my prayers attend thee. 
 Clau. Hear me yet. 
 Viola. I dare not. Every moment you remain 
 
 Is full of danger. Hark! some one approaches. 
 Viola closes the window. 
 
 Enter Adorni. — L. H. 
 
 Ador. My home is hell to me. I cannot rest 
 Had th' angel of destruction swept over it, 
 'Twould not have been more desolate than now. 
 When the old father of our race was scourg'd 
 From paradise, his Eve went with him, and 
 Where'er they rested, they their Eden made. 
 But I am driven forth alone, as Cain 
 Was driven; mark'd, pointed at, proscrib'd! 
 No paradise for me! My Eve is with the serpent. 
 
 Clau. Adorni here! 
 
 Ador. Ha! — We meet again. One joy is still remaining. 
 The bolt has stricken this decrepid' form, 
 But I am not the only one it sears. 
 Thank heaven! I shall die laughing yet. 
 
 Clau. What mean you? 
 
 Ador. Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance! — Ay, 
 
 As deep and direful as my wrongs have been. 
 
 Think not the calculating rule of man 
 
 Can take from me the right of punishment, 
 
 And in itself redress my injuries. 
 
 No: I alone can judge of what is due 
 
 To honor trampled on, and peace destroy'd. 
 
 The law has had its course, and I'll have mine. 
 
 * decrepit. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 73 
 
 I am the judge, and I the executioner 
 (Draws.) 
 Clau. You will not murder me! 
 Ador. Not murder — sacrifice! 
 
 Draw and defend thyself, or die the death 
 
 Of a coward. Speak not, but draw. 
 Clau. As against a madman. 
 
 (Draws. 
 Ador. Have at thy heart. (Attacks him furiously. Fight for some 
 
 time, when Adorni is disarmed.) 
 Ador. Curse on my sinewless arm, 
 
 Worthy the blighted trunk from which it hangs. 
 
 Has it come to this! — Debas'd and trodden on, 
 
 And yet too feeble to avenge my wrongs! 
 
 Curs'd be the hour that gave this body being! 
 
 Even the toad his poison will exude, 
 
 If spurn'd, while I, a worm without a sting, 
 
 Must vent my rage in cursing. 
 Clau. There's thy sword, 
 
 And with it all the scorn a thing so low 
 
 Can merit. 
 Ador. Ha! shall he escape in triumph, 
 
 And add fresh insult to my injuries! 
 
 'Tis night, and still he lingers here. — That thought! 
 
 I have it now. Ha, ha! The bird is in the toils. 
 Clau. What guilty thought deUghts thy canker'd mind,? 
 Ador. Revenge! — 
 
 Nay, smile not, for, unarmed as I am. 
 
 My hate can strike thee prostrate. — Still thou smilest. 
 
 Well well, smile on! I'll change thy merriment. 
 
 Behold, the night watch comes; the sun is set — 
 
 Thy head is forfeited. Smile on, sm\le on. 
 Clau. Thou canst not be so base as to betray me. 
 Ador. Base! What I am thy villainy has made me. 
 
 The fool who scatters tares need not expect 
 
 A golden harvest. Base! — I but return 
 
 Treachery for treachery. 
 Clau. Heartless villain ! 
 Ador. Ha! ha! — 'Tis my turn now to laugh. Rail on. 
 
 Thy rage is impotent. Ho! guards! Rail on, 
 
74 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Thy anger feeds my spleen. Ha! ha! — 0, 'tis a feast 
 To see the scoffer scoff'd. Rail on. You thought 
 The worm you trampled on could not recoil, 
 And lo! he stings to death. Ho! guards! — Behold 
 
 Enter Guards. — R. H. 
 
 A fugitive from justice. Seize upon him. — 
 
 'Tis Claudio! His life is forfeited 
 
 By the just sentence of the upright senate. 
 
 Seize him — seize him. Ha! ha! ha! 
 (Claudio defends himself, but is soon overpowered by the guards. Adorni 
 laughs wildly, in derision, and the curtain falls hastily.) 
 
 END OF ACT HI 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene 1 
 Beraldo's house as before. — A table and chairs. 
 Enter Beraldo, gloomily. — L. H. 
 
 Ber. I have had a night of it; a night of the old fashion, and all's 
 gone. The little white pated fellow's twenty ducats and all. The 
 devil's blessing hang upon their winnings. All gone! — {Sits down.) — 
 Now, what's to be done? 
 
 Enter Astrabel. — R. H. 
 
 Astra. Out all night! Where hast thou been, Beraldo? 
 
 Ber. Breathing, breathing, tasting the fresh air. Light food! 
 but not such as a man will grow fat on. Give me some meat. 
 
 Astra. Yes, sir. 
 
 Ber. Why dost not move then? 
 
 Astra. I have meat, if I dare produce it. 
 
 Ber. Nay, bring it forth, wench, and mind not the quality, for I 
 am sick with fasting. 
 
 (Exit Astrabel — R. H. 
 
 Why did the Duke procure my enlargement, if his aid is to stop 
 there. Was it mercy to give me life and not the means of living? Better 
 to have suffered me to starve in prison, surrounded by wretches as abject 
 as myself, than to have me drawn forth to pine to death in the midst 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 75 
 
 of a joyous and brilliant world. There was no mercy in that. — (Enter 
 ASTRABEL with a dish of meat, which she places on the table.) 
 
 Astra. The meat is ready, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. (Not hearing) And her flinty-hearted father! to snap his very 
 heart strings to punish her! 
 
 Astra. You do not hear me! 
 
 Ber. What sayest, chuck? 
 
 Astra. The meat is on the table. 
 
 Ber. Ah! this looks well! — But dog's meat would look well, I am 
 so famished. O ! by the lord, I could tear old Trebatzo's flesh. A plague 
 choke him, and gnaw him to the bones! 
 
 Astra. Nay, sweetest, rave not thus! — Alas! it is no fault of mine. 
 
 Ber. Thine! — thou art a dove from the nest of the kite. In truth 
 this is savory meat, and I have got a stomach with chafing. Sit down, 
 Bell, and feed. 
 
 Astra. I have no appetite. 
 
 Ber. Sit down, sit down, I shall relish it the more if you partake 
 of it. 'Tis well cooked! Where didst buy it? Well seasoned too! 
 Sit down, sit down. I never tasted better. Where didst get it? 
 
 Astra. A neighbor sent it me. 
 
 Ber. Ah! 
 
 Astra. I was sick with hunger, without means to purchase food, 
 and a neighbor sent it me. 
 
 Ber. Has it come to this! beg victuals! fed with broken meat! 
 My wife standing at the rich man's gate, with a trencher to gather 
 the offal from his table! O God, where will it end! 
 
 Astra. Eat, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. Starve, starve first. I owe heaven but one death, and the 
 sooner the debt be paid the better. I am weary of my trials. 
 
 Enter Trebatzo. — L. H. 
 
 Treb. A gentleman without desires to see my mistress. 
 
 Ber. His visit is ill-timed, but show him in. Whoe'er he may be, 
 he cannot be worse welcome than despair, and that already has taken 
 possession of our hovel. 
 
 Astra. Dost know him, Pacheco? 
 
 Treb. I think it is the Duke. 
 
 Ber. The Duke! quick, show him. (Exit Trebatzo. — L. H.) 
 He is a noble friend, indeed, who, like the glorious sun, withholds not 
 his rays even from the barren and neglected waste. The Duke! I revive. 
 
76 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Enter Trebatzo and Duke. — L. H. 
 
 Your grace is welcome. Years have flown since my roof has been 
 honored with your presence. 
 
 Duke. For the future, Beraldo, I shall not be as remiss as I have 
 been. 
 
 Ber. As Duke of Florence, you gave me life and freedom, and 
 though the gift proves to be of little value, I thank you for it with all 
 my heart. As a man, you have sought me out in my wretchedness; 
 for that act I cannot thank you. I am grateful, but no words can 
 thank you. 
 
 Treb. A heart of the right stuff. 
 
 Duke. How is it, Beraldo, that so long a time has elapsed and we 
 have not met? 
 
 Ber. O! sir, the prince and his subject may jostle each other and 
 still be distant. When we last parted, my Lord, you travelled towards 
 a throne, and I towards a prison. You were too lofty to stoop, and I 
 too heavy laden to rise, therefore we met not. 
 
 Duke. But I might have relieved you of your burden had you 
 appealed to me. 
 
 Ber. That I suppose your grace knew without being reminded. 
 
 Duke. You knew me for your friend, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. I did at a time when I stood not in need of your friendship. 
 
 Duke. Nay, Beraldo, why so perverse? You cannot think so 
 lightly of me as to suppose that a change of fortune must necessarily 
 work a change in my nature. 
 
 Ber. Pardon me, your grace; my sorrows have somewhat soured 
 my temper. I have been trampled under foot, ground in the very 
 dust, but I feel that I am of as much worth still as when I went more 
 richly clad; and that your grace is no better man in your purple than 
 when you called me friend. These feelings forbad my crawling from 
 my hovel to your palace, knowing that I would have left a palace in 
 search of my friend in a hovel. 
 
 Treb. That's from a pure fountain, 
 
 Duke. I feel the justice of your censure; I have been to blame. 
 Give me your hand; my future conduct shall cancel the remembrance 
 of past neglect. 
 
 Ber. Your kindness overwhelms me. My heart has been so long 
 unused to kindness, that the slightest ray melts it. 
 
 Duke. Your wife, Beraldo? 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 77 
 
 Ber. The same. The only flower that blossoms on this soil, and 
 somewhat faded since you last beheld her. 
 
 Duke. But still beautiful. By your leave I must taste the fragrance 
 of her lip. (Salutes Astrabel.) True to my word, mistress, you see I 
 am with you soon again. 
 
 Ber. With her again ! 
 
 Astra. Your grace is kind in giving me so early an opportunity 
 to express my gratitude for your bounties. 
 
 Duke. Name them not. They are but the precursors to farther 
 favors. 
 
 Ber. What does all this mean! He takes her hand. Pacheco — 
 Thou seest, old man, we keep good company; we are in a fair way. 
 His grace is gracious. 
 
 Treb. I see, I see. {Obesrving the Duke and Astrabel intently.) 
 
 Duke. {Looking around.) This is a plain casket for so bright a 
 jewel to lodge in. 
 
 Astra. As bright has lodged in a plainer. 
 
 Duke. And what is that? 
 
 Astra. Content. 
 
 Ber. Still playing with her hand. He cannot mean it. He bows 
 and smiles. That look! Goats and apes, I understand you now. 
 
 Duke. Read this at your lesure. {Slips a letter into her hand, which 
 she places in her bosom.) 
 
 Treb. Hell! she takes it. 
 
 Ber. What, art thou mad! {Turning, sees Astrabel take her hand 
 from her bosom.) Ha! Why then, all's plain. 
 
 Duke. Apart to Astrabel.) Thou shalt soon judge of my taste in 
 jewels: this morning I selected a casket, which I beg you to accept for 
 my sake. I take my leave; time will pass sluggishly until I see you 
 again. Good Beraldo, we must see each other as in former times. I 
 will visit thy low roof often. 
 
 Ber. O! you would do me too much honor! But have a care that 
 the old house fall not about your grace's ears. 
 
 Duke. You are merry. I know, Beraldo, that a prison is a gulph 
 that swallows wealth with appetite unbounded. I will be thy banker. 
 Use my purse as thy own. Thou hast had a severe trial, but the storm 
 is over. Look forward to better days. For this time farewell; we soon 
 shall meet again. 
 
78 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ber. Yes, we soon shall meet again. Open the door, sirrah — open 
 wide as the gates of hell, that the prince of darkness may have free pas- 
 sage from my house. 
 
 {Exeunt Duke and Trebatzo. — L. H. 
 
 Astra. Beraldo, what means this passion? 
 
 Ber. Woman! But it is not for the thunder to strike the pliant 
 reed. What, has it come to this! Does he think that I, who have 
 spread as lofty sails as he hath, am such a slave to appetite that I may 
 be brought to open the door, bonnet in hand, and welcome in infamy! 
 He does not know me yet. 
 
 Astra. Hear me, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. Not now, not now. I will not speak to thee, thou poor stricken 
 one, while my soul is up in arms. Begone, begone. (Exit Astrabel.) 
 I did think that I had long since tasted of every state of human degrada- 
 tion, little dreaming that I was reserved for this. 
 
 Enter Lodovico. — L. H. 
 
 Another here! the court flies already buzz about me. 
 
 Lodo. How now, gloomy Beraldo? 
 
 Ber. Slight indications of a coming storm. 
 
 Lodo. Let it blow over and give place to sunshine. 
 
 Ber. The lightning shall scathe and the torrent shall pour first. 
 
 Lodo. Nay, be not thus moody because fortune frowns. Say that 
 the world made thee her minion and danced thee on her wanton knee, 
 thou wouldst still have thy portion of care, and neither sleep the better, 
 nor live longer nor merrier. Hang sorrow. 
 
 Ber. Well, hang sorrow, an thou wilt. 
 
 Lodo. Thou mayest say so, for surely some left-handed priest 
 christened thee, thou art so lucky. See here, a purse of gold. 
 
 Ber. A purse of gold. Well? 
 
 Lodo. A hundred ducats, which the duke sends thee. 
 
 Ber. O! he's a liberal prince! (Takes the purse.) Heaven grant I 
 live to repay his liberality. 
 
 Enter Trebatzo, with a cloak on his arm. — L. H. 
 
 Treb. You are now in a fair way to fly high, signer, for fine feathers 
 make fine birds. 
 
 Ber. What hast thou there, old man? 
 
 Treb. A cloak of the latest fashion, richly embroidered with silk 
 and gold. 'Twould show bravely on the back of a courtier. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 79 
 
 Ber. Would it on the back of an honest man? 
 
 Treb. Put it on trial, signor, the duke sent it thee. 
 
 Ber. A Uberal prince, still say I. (Takes the cloak.) Thinkest thou, 
 Pacheco, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the many favors he 
 intends me. 
 
 Treb. Never question it. 
 
 Ber. Nay, old man, I must question it; ay, and face to face with 
 him who alone can answer it. I begin to see myself. A hundred 
 ducats and a tawdry suit is all that now is bid for what the universe 
 could not have purchased — my honor. 'Tis well, 'tis well. 
 
 Treb. Put on the cloak, signor, the duke expects you at court. 
 
 Ber. The poisoned shirt of Nessus first. To the devil with the 
 baubles. {Throws the purse and cloak violently away.) The duke expects 
 me; well, he shall not be disappointed, though he shall encounter a 
 different man than he expects to meet; and ere we part I shall teach him, 
 that e'en the dull flint contains sufficient fire to burn the habitable 
 globe to ashes. The flint has been struck and the spark elicited. 
 
 (Exeunt. — L. H. 
 
 Scene 2 
 A prison — Claudius discovered. 
 
 Clau. There's nought more certain than that all must die. 
 But when or how no wisdom can foretell. 
 Each spot is pregnant with a bane to life; 
 Each hour we're subject to the dreaded call. 
 And children tread the path before their parents, 
 Wringing from hearts, a world of woe had seared, 
 The only drop of moisture that delay'd 
 Their crumbling into dust. But I must fall, 
 While life is dimpled o'er with rosy smiles; 
 In perfect health of body and of mind. 
 Ere grief has taught me to expect the future 
 As the dull remnant of a tedious tale. 
 Enter Jailor. — R. H. 
 
 Jailor. There is a priest without demands to see you. 
 
 Clau. Admit him. 
 
 (Exit Jailor. 
 For as to-morrow I may elsewhere shrive, 
 I'd have remission from this holy father. 
 Enter Adorni, dressed as a friar. — R. H. 
 
80 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ador. Lo! there he lies, 
 
 Where neither Hght nor comfort can come near him, 
 Nor air nor earth that's wholesome. 
 
 Clau. Father, I greet thee with a broken spirit, 
 Prepar'd to meet thy piety and wisdom 
 With due respect and reverence. 
 
 Ador. {Apart.) Can this be he! 
 
 What weak and superstitious fools are men! 
 If thoughts of death be distant from the mind. 
 The roaring thunder, and the forked fires 
 That rend the arch of heaven, we contemplate, 
 Without reflecting that 'tis nature's God 
 Speaks to the lowly creatures of his will: 
 But if th' appointed time of death draw nigh, 
 And the mind's filled with terrors undefin'd, 
 We 3deld obedient to a jugghng monk; 
 Forget that he is frailty like ourselves, 
 And quaff the jargon flowing from his lips 
 As oracles divine. 
 
 Clau. You see me here 
 
 In health and vigor, yet about to leave 
 
 This joyful world, while all its flowers are blooming. 
 
 Ador. Turn the loose current of thy frolic mind. 
 
 From the gay scenes of thoughtlessness and guilt, 
 To errors unrepented; to some sin 
 Whose frightful hue o'ershadows all thy virtues. 
 And being unforgiven, leaves thee hopeless. 
 
 Clau. In the whole catalogue of all my faults 
 There is not one like this. 
 
 Ador. Report speaks otherwise. 
 
 Clau. True, father, but report has ever been 
 Too fond of foul mouth'd tales. 
 
 Ador. Deny it not. 
 
 To-morrow's sun may close upon this life. 
 And thou wilt hail the first beams of the next, 
 In what new region man cannot divine. 
 But perjury in this life, thy soul must feel, 
 Will not gain credit in the life to come. 
 Adorni's wife? 
 
 Clau. Is chaste, unspotted, 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 81 
 
 For any act of mine, or thought, or wish. 
 
 As the bright stars that stud the firmament 
 
 When not a cloud is seen. 
 Ador. Can this be true? 
 Clau. By all the terrors of a dying man, 
 
 As I speak truth, so speed my future journey. 
 Ador. I must believe thee. Scorpion hke, I've turn'd 
 
 My sting upon myself, and needs must die. 
 Clau. What moves thee, father? 
 Ador. And is the wretch who brought thee to this state 
 
 Forgiven yet? 
 Clau. He was my friend, and being such, good father, 
 
 The sun ne'er rose and set while his offences 
 
 Were in this breast remembered. 
 Ador. You forgive him? 
 Clau. E'en as I hope myself to be forgiven. 
 Ador. Thou hast a heart whose lustre far outshines 
 
 The ocean's richest gems; whose ev'ry drop 
 
 Flows on as purely as the spotless milk 
 
 From the young mother's breast, her first born feeding. 
 
 But he who crush'd thee in his fit of rage. 
 
 And made his own hopes bankrupt, might defy 
 
 A sea of tears to wash his stains away. 
 Clau. Nay, say not so. The fault, sir, Ues between 
 
 My wretched friend and me; and I forgive him. 
 
 His scorned wife prays for him — adores him still — 
 
 Then who remains to censure? 
 Ador. I — Behold! (Throws off the disguise.) 
 
 A wretch who has but too much cause to curse 
 
 The fool Adorni. 
 Clau. Ha! what masquerade is this! 
 
 Why are you here? 
 Ador. To be forgiven. 
 Clau. If that be all, thy errand's soon perform'd. 
 
 Thy fault's forgiven; and, ere the sun shall set, 
 
 'Twill be forgotten too, or never trust 
 
 The laws of this proud city. So farewell. 
 Ador. On my neck first shall fall the headsman's axe. 
 
82 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHAM) PENN SMITH 
 
 Clau. Thy neck, indeed! Fair words are lightly spoken! 
 - Begone, Adorni; leave me to myself; 
 
 My time is short. 
 Ador. Thy life can yet be saved. 
 
 Clau. And thou wouldst save it; thou who hast betray 'd? 
 Ador. I cannot blame thy doubts, since I begot them. 
 
 Still I will save thy life, for all this world 
 
 Contains is not as dear to me. 
 Clau. Indeed! 
 Ador. Clothed in this sacred garb, thou may'st elude 
 
 The jailor's vigilance 
 Clau. Art thou sincere? 
 
 No new device in this? 
 Ador. O, Claudio! 
 
 Clau. And when I'm gone, say what becomes of thee? 
 Ador. Think not of me. 
 Clau. Give me thy hand, I feel thou'rt still my friend, 
 
 Dearer than ever. 
 Ador. You consent then? 
 Clau. Never! 
 
 He is a madman who would purchase life 
 
 By such an act, which of itself would make 
 
 His life not worth the purchase. — Know me better. 
 Ador. Hear me. 
 Clau. No more of that. 
 Ador. I hazard nought. 
 
 The duke will spare my life, but O! I fear 
 
 The law will be less merciful to thee. 
 
 Why hesitate? 
 Clau. Nay, nay; no more of that. 
 Ador. Is Viola forgotten? 
 Clau. O! Adorni. 
 Ador. Think, think of Viola. The duke's my kinsman. 
 
 And would not shed my blood for saving thine. 
 
 There, there the cloak. 
 
 (Puts the cloak on Claudio. 
 
 Ho, there! who waits without? 
 
 Speed thee, good Claudio, beyond the city, 
 
 There aU is safe. Fear not for me. My life, 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 83 
 
 I feel, will outlast happiness. 
 
 There was a time when I did hope its close 
 
 Would be a foretaste of the life to come, 
 
 Made holy by thy presence and her love 
 
 Whose smiles made this world heaven. But that's past. 
 
 And I foresee my latest hour must close 
 
 In tempest and in gloom. Ho, there! who waits? 
 
 (Jailor appears. 
 Father, your blessing, and a last farewell. 
 Clau. Benedicite. 
 
 Exit with Jailor. — R. H. 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 A street before the Prison. 
 Enter Eugenia. — L. H. 
 
 Eug. Where shall I fly for refuge? O, Adorni! 
 
 There's no way left! My name is foully stain'd! — 
 
 E'en in the grave the breath of scorn will reach me, 
 
 And rouse the mouldering ashes into life! 
 Enter Claudio from the prison. — R. H. 
 Clau. I breathe again the bracing air of freedom, 
 
 Which now is all that envious fate has left me. 
 Still lean adversity, possess'd of that. 
 
 Is heaven compared to any state without it; 
 
 And though now stripp'd of fortune's gaudy trappings, 
 
 I still am free — the world's my heritage. 
 Eug. Ah! Claudio here! Where is Adorni? Speak! 
 
 Where is my cruel husband? I have been 
 
 In search of him e'en to our wretched home. 
 
 He was not there. How desolate it seem'd. 
 Clau. Thou'lt find him in that prison. 
 Eug. Why in prison? 
 Clau. He betrayed me. 
 
 And having forced me to the jaws of death, 
 
 Has ta'en my place to save me. 
 Eug. Didst thou consent 
 
 On terms like these to save thy wretched life? 
 
 O! shame to manhood, shame! Quick fly my sight, 
 
 Lest in my grief I turn betrayer too. 
 
84 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 And do a deed will make me curse myself. 
 Good Heavens! in prison! Away! I'll seek him there, 
 And offer all the solace to his woes 
 A broken heart can yield. {Exit into prison. — R. H. 
 Clau. O! woman, source of every earthly bliss. 
 Without thee, Eden was a wilderness; 
 But with thee, even Afric's desert sands 
 Would bloom as Paradise before the fall. 
 {Exit. — L. H. 
 
 Scene 4 
 Enter Oriana. — R. H. 
 
 Ori. And can it be that four short years have so changed me, that 
 he cannot look upon a fair face without wishing that mine were such, or 
 indeed any other than what it is? Yet perhaps I wrong him — ^perhaps — 
 
 Enter Lodovico. — L. H. 
 
 Well, Lodovico, why smilest thou? 
 
 Lodo. O! it's a fair day, madona, and I always smile when the 
 sun shines. Though the idlest hanger-on at court, I am getting into 
 service, lady. 
 
 Ori. How so? 
 
 Lodo. His grace, the duke, not an hour since, sent me with a purse 
 of gold to poor Beraldo's hovel. He is becoming charitable, and I 
 am proud to be his almoner. 
 
 Ori. Is it strange that those who have the power to distribute 
 blessings, should have the will also? 
 
 Lodo. They do not always go hand in hand, lady. Well, before 
 I had performed my first errand, a second was imposed upon me, and 
 that too by Beraldo's beauteous wife. O! I am getting into service 
 rapidly. 
 
 Ori. Why name her in my presence? Fie upon her. 
 
 Lodo. Scoff not at her; if all were branded for sins long since laid 
 up, who could be saved? You know her not. As well might you look 
 for the passage of the bird through the air, or for the track of the ship, 
 as for the scar of those old offences. 
 
 Ori. Is she so changed? 
 
 Lodo. So much so that a vestal may now uphold her reputation 
 against the slanders of the world. She desired me to deliver into your 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 85 
 
 own hands this letter and this casket of jewels, as she says they are 
 addressed to you. 
 
 (Hands her a letter and casket. 
 
 Ori. To me! this is strange; how came they in her possession? 
 (Reads.) "To my soul's idol." Why, this is the duke's own writing! 
 
 Lodo. And therefore designed for you, lady; for, as she remarked, 
 a faithful husband can have no other idol than a loving wife. — An apt 
 conclusion, made from close observation of nature. 
 
 Ori. 'Tis well. I thank you for your service. You can go. 
 
 Lodo. So the duke is fairly trapped. This matrimony, I find, 
 resembles somewhat the religion of the old Romans — every man must 
 confine his devotions to his household lar, or his home will soon become 
 too hot to hold him. (Exit. — R. H. 
 
 Ori. (Opens the letter.) Why, what a strain of eloquence is here! 
 Cupid himself was sure his secretary, and the very ink was dropped 
 from Venus' eyes. To me he never wrote thus! Oaths, promises, and 
 jewels, enough to tempt a vestal from her duty, and yet all proudly 
 disdained by one that the world trampled on as if beneath its notice. 
 What excellence must dwell in that bosom? Ha! here comes the duke! 
 I will no longer conceal from him the knowledge I possess, but tax 
 him home with his perfidy. 
 
 Enter Duke. — L. H. 
 
 Duke. (Aside.) So, still some symptoms of a storm remaining! 
 My gentle Oriana, I am charmed to see that the clouds that hung around 
 thy brow this morning have dispersed, and that the Hght of thy sweet 
 face breaks forth again. 
 
 Ori. Your grace is courteous. I find you are as gallant after a 
 lapse of four years as upon our wedding day. 
 
 Duke. More so; and trust me, the wife's to blame if the husband's 
 gallantry does not improve with time. 
 
 Ori. But often it increases to such a degree that it cannot be con- 
 fined to a single object. In that case, who is to blame? 
 
 Duke. The wife, certainly. It is her business to keep her husband 
 to herself; and if she neglect it, the fault lies with her. The point is 
 clear as noonday. 
 
 Ori. That is man's sophistry; woman would reason differently. 
 
 Duke. Would she not rather permit her passions to decide, than 
 go to the trouble of reasoning at all upon the subject? Even the gentlest 
 are at times thus borne away. Confess now, Oriana, you did me wrong 
 
86 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 in your suspicions of poor Beraldo's wife. 
 
 Ori. I confess that I did Astrabel injustice, and am sorry for it. 
 
 Duke. She was a petitioner for her husband's life, and you would 
 not have me close my ears to mercy. 
 
 Ori. Certainly not, even though a beauteous woman were the advo- 
 cate; and she is a peerless one. 
 
 Duke. I begin to think so, and am anxious to see her restored to 
 her former station. Poor thing! I never beheld a creature more devoted 
 to her husband. 
 
 Ori. You have found that out sir? But let us dismiss her, and 
 turn to a subject more grateful. Your present has been received. 
 
 Duke. My present! 
 
 Ori. And I commend your taste. I knew not till now that you 
 possessed such rare judgment in jewels. True, you chose a strange 
 way of presenting them, but still they are valued as a testimony of 
 your gallantry and love. 
 
 Duke. I am in the dark ! What mean you Oriana? 
 
 Ori. This casket will explain. 
 
 (Produces the casket. 
 
 Duke. Confusion ! 
 
 Ori. You have seen it before my lord? 
 
 Duke. I think I have. 
 
 Ori. Rich as the jewels are, they are much more lightly prized 
 than the impassioned letter that accompanied them. 
 
 Duke. The letter! 
 
 Ori. {Produces the letter.) Read for yourself. There is honeyed 
 poison! You know the hand. O, fie, my lord, my lord! 
 
 Duke. Can it be possible! Whence had you this? 
 
 Ori. From a source you Httle think of — "Your soul's idol"; far 
 worthier of your love than you imagined, for though surrounded by 
 poverty, and having neither fame nor friends to lose, she has with scorn 
 rejected your shameful overtures. 
 
 Duke. I beseech you let not passion carry you beyond reason. 
 
 Ori. My lord, my lord, attempt not to palliate; think of the base- 
 ness of the act. Beraldo was your friend — trampled on by a scofi&ng 
 world. One word from you would have changed their scoffs to praises, 
 and, yet, so far from feeling compassion, you attempt to rob him of the 
 only good he has remaining, and make him poorer than the poorest. 
 Shame! O shame! Better, my lord, were it to be without power, than 
 thus to use it to oppress the fallen. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 87 
 
 Duke. Hear me but speak. She's gone. So, the storm is fairly 
 raised, and heaven only knows when it will pass over. {A noise with- 
 out.) What means this disturbance in the palace? 
 
 Enter Beraldo. — L. H. 
 
 Ber. Off, ye sycophants and slaves. 'Tis not the first time my 
 foot has trod upon this pavement; though ye have forgotten that, 
 this time shall be remembered. 
 
 Duke. Beraldo here! 
 
 Ber. I could not longer rest patiently under the weight of the 
 obligation that your grace would confer upon me, and have come to 
 express my gratitude. 
 
 Duke. Name it not. 
 
 Ber. Pardon me, I must, and in such terms, too, that no mistake 
 may follow. Are you acquainted with yourself, sir? 
 
 Duke. Thoroughly. 
 
 Ber. I am sorry for it, for I must say it is a disgrace to the Duke 
 of Florence to be acquainted with such a scoundrel. 
 
 Duke. Scoundrel ! 
 
 (Half unsheaths Ms sword, — pauses, and sheathes it again.) 
 
 Ber. That was the word but since it is not sufficient to rouse 
 your courage hear more. There was a time when I stood by your 
 side your equal in the world's eye in the proudest faculties that nature 
 bestows on man. Our names were Hnked together on the public tongue 
 and the one could not pass but the other followed. Our hearts it seemed 
 were also joined, until your father thought fit to lay the axe at the very 
 root of my growing fortunes, discard me from court, and disgrace the 
 man whom he once delighted to honor. And why was this? Because I 
 was not wholly devoid of the frailties of my nature. From that hour 
 the faces of all were turned against me, save those who were too low 
 to be sunk lower; and Florence became as a strange land. Years passed 
 away, and my nature was changed by peniury and shame. You knew 
 my sufferings, and you also knew that a single word from your lips 
 would have raised me to life and hope again, and yet you had not the 
 humanity to breathe that word. 
 
 Duke. Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. I have not done yet. Your neglect stung for a moment and 
 was forgotten. I placed you to the account of things created to be 
 despised, and cared not again to look at the offensive page. Your 
 grace was forgotten until this day you condescended to visit my humble 
 
88 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 roof, when your well feigned friendship awakened feelings that for 
 years have slumbered in my bosom. For a moment I felt towards you 
 as I did in happier days, but soon I discovered that the seeming angel 
 who came to solace the feeble and the wretched, was an arch devil, who, 
 under an assumed shape, would have basely stolen the only remaining 
 good the maUce of the world had left me. 
 
 Duke. Will you not hear me? 
 
 Ber. I came not here to bandy idle words. I trust my cause, sir, 
 to my advocate, {touching his sword,) well satisfied that his sharp argu- 
 ment will place the beggar and the prince upon a footing. Draw and 
 defend thyself, if a life like thine be worth defending. {Draws 
 
 Duke. Beraldo, are you mad? 
 
 Ber. I cannot but remember there was a time when you would as 
 soon have leaped into a den of hungry tigers, as to have offered me this 
 day's insult. True, you presumed upon my outward change, but to 
 thy cost thou'lt find me still the same within. Defend thyself, I say, 
 while I teach thee how a knave in purple and gold may be put down 
 by honesty in rusty velvet. 
 
 (Presses on the Duke. 
 
 Duke. Ho! there, without! 
 
 Enter Lodovico and others, who seize and disarm Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. Are these your princely tricks? The ducal crown has made 
 a noble fellow of you. 
 
 Duke. Away with him to prison. 
 
 Ber. A duke, a duke, but no man, no man, by heaven! 
 (Exeunt. — Beraldo led off. — L. H. 
 END OF ACT IV 
 
 ACTV 
 
 Scene 1 
 The Prison. — Adorni and Eugenia discovered. — Beraldo lying at a 
 
 distance on the floor. 
 
 Ador. And can you then forgive me? My glad heart 
 Leaps at the sound of thy sweet voice again. 
 Unmindful of its weight of guilty sorrow, 
 And I could gaze upon thee thus forever, 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 89 
 
 Till my wrapp'd soul had joyfully assum'd 
 Thy form and purity, most fit for heaven. 
 Speak, speak, belov'd, O! let me hear thy voice! 
 Say you again forgive me. 
 Eug. Joyfully ! 
 
 Thus will I ever hang about thy neck, 
 In prison or in palace, 
 Ador. Hear her, ye saints. 
 
 And gain another virtue from her truth. 
 Beyond what poets, in their fondest dreams, 
 E'er sung of woman! 
 Ber. Go on, and ring the changes on that note! — There's nought 
 in life like bitter suffering for sweetening our natures. Grief mends the 
 heart, good sister. 
 
 Eug. If so, thine would have been perfect long ere this. 
 Ber. Nay, mine was broken past mending. 
 Ador. Beraldo — 
 
 Ber. What says the Uttle mirror of honor? 
 Ador. We have never known each other. 
 
 Ber. Well, 'twas no fault of mine. I was familiar enough, heaven 
 knows, to encourage you. {Rises. 
 
 Ador. And had I not been blind with pride, I might have perceived, 
 that beneath the rough outside you assumed, there was a noble, gen- 
 erous, and feeHng heart. 
 
 Ber. Feeling! — The shafts of the world have been shot at it until 
 it is one entire wound. Feeling! 
 
 Ador. And can you forgive me the shaft that I have thrown. 
 Ber. It hit the mark, signor, but I forgive you, and shall ever 
 think the better of myseK that thy proud heart has deigned to ask it. 
 Ador. Your hand. 
 
 Ber. In tears, boy! No words could speak as eloquently as those 
 silent tears! Still you were right, Adorni. I know the worth of a 
 fair name, and I was once as proud of mine as any here in Florence, 
 until it was stolen from me, and banded about by the foul breath of 
 cut-throat rascals; and then, in self defence, I scoffed at those who suf- 
 fered their actions to be biased by a name. But no matter; my scof- 
 fing is over and my name, such as it is, is quite good enough for a gibbet. 
 Eug. Despair not yet, Beraldo. 
 
 Ber. O, I shall fly high to the last. But poor Astrabel, who will 
 feel for thee when I am gone? Condemned in the sight of the world; 
 
90 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 fallen in thine own esteem; cast off by those who should love thee; 
 who will comfort thee in thy forlorn and widowed state? 
 
 Eug. I — I, Beraldo, never will forsake, her. 
 
 Ber. You ! — God bless you ! The act will pave your path to heaven. 
 
 Enter Duke. — R. H. 
 A dor. Ah! the Duke here! 
 Duke. What madness, Count Adorni, urged you on 
 
 To bear the weight of Claudio's punishment? 
 Ador. Compassion for the friend my madness injured. 
 Duke. And injured innocent what brings you here? 
 
 {To Eugenia. 
 Eug. He's still my husband, though your grace did part us. 
 Duke. It then would grieve you that the insulted law 
 
 Should separate you? 
 Ador. O, sir, but for that. 
 
 We have no earthly grief, no earthly fear. 
 Eug. Rather than leave him now, I'd undergo 
 
 The sharpest woes that e'er awaited mortal. 
 Duke. You shall redeem him at an easier rate. 
 
 {Walks to the back of the stage with her. 
 
 Ador. What means this mystery? 
 
 Ber. Court tricks, I'll warrant you. Court tricks. I know him. 
 
 Ador. He ever loved her. 
 
 Ber. I have heard as much. 
 
 But for that matter Jove himself you'll find 
 A very Joseph, when compared to him. 
 
 Ador. She starts! 
 
 Ber. And well she may; the knave's a startler. 
 
 Duke. Consider it. The holy hnk that bound 
 
 Your fates together has been rashly severed. 
 He therefore has no reason to complain, 
 His life being purchased by a trifling toy 
 He reckless cast away and did not value. 
 
 Eug. Do not insult me, on my knees I pray you. 
 
 Ador. Wretch, stay not longer here, or I may do 
 An act of bloody justice, that shall teach 
 Reptiles in ofiice, the bruis'd worm they tread on 
 May turn and sting. 
 
 Ber, Full gladly would I read him 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 91 
 
 A commentary on the same text gratis. 
 Duke. I came not here to prate with fools and madmen. 
 
 {To Eugenia.) — Your fame is blighted, and remember, fair 
 
 one, 
 You ne'er can gain the height from which you fell, 
 But the quick shaft of malice will o'ertake 
 And lay you prostrate. Virtue is folly now. 
 Since no one gives you credit for your virtue. 
 Ador. Patience, kind heaven, I'll do a murder yet. 
 Duke. Yield to my wishes, and my love shall place you 
 Where e'en the proudest matron in all Florence 
 Might crown the boldest flight of her ambition. 
 Ador. Hell gape and seize him! 
 Eug. Leave me, I beseech you. 
 Duke. Your name will be retrieved! — No slander then, 
 
 But all will speak your praise, smiles guide your footsteps. 
 And every eye adore your bright career, 
 E'en as the star that rules its destiny. 
 Ber. A precious rascal! He'd disgrace a gallows. 
 
 Patience, Adorni; hear his story out. 
 Duke. But, on the other hand, there's nought to live for 
 
 Save shame and beggary. 
 Eug. Well, be it so! 
 
 'Tis better far to starve in innocence. 
 Than lead a life of sumptuousness in guilt. 
 Ador. Base duke, we here are equal, rnan to man. 
 Tarry one instant longer, and we prove 
 Which is the better metal. 
 Ber. Bravely said. 
 
 Your grace will take the hint — my wrongs are fresh, 
 And though unarm'd, trust not too far to that: 
 I've still the weapons mother nature gave, 
 And feel disposed to use them. 
 Duke. Lady, farewell. 
 
 Reflect on what I've spoken; bear in mind 
 Adorni's life depends on your decision. 
 {Exit.—R. H. 
 Ador. Which shall not weigh a feather in the balance. 
 Eug. My trial is severe. 
 Ador. True; but remember, 
 
92 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 The Roman father saved his child from shame 
 And let her pure blood flow. Remember too, 
 The Roman matron dared not to outlive 
 Her spotless virtue. Rouse and be a Roman. 
 Scene closes. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 An apartment in the Palace. 
 Enter Astrabel. — L. H. 
 
 Astra. Fail not, my stricken heart! — courage, courage! I have 
 already once retrieved my poor Beraldo's life from the very jaws of 
 death, and again the duke may lend a patient ear to my prayer to mercy. 
 Enter Lodovico. — R. H. 
 
 Lodo. The lady Astrabel at court! most welcome. 
 
 Astra. Ah! signor. you were my husband's friend in happier days, 
 forget it not in his adversity. Can you bring a wretch, so fallen as I 
 am, into the presence of the duchess? 
 
 Lodo. I can, and gladly will attend you. 
 
 Astra. And yet I tremble to appear before her. I cannot but 
 remember that we once were equals; and now! — O, memory, thou art 
 indeed a heavy curse to the unfortunte. 
 
 Lodo. Despond not, lady. You have a fast friend, I assure you, 
 in the duchess. 
 
 Astra. Did you deliver the casket to her, and that silly message? 
 
 Lodo. I did as you desired. 
 
 Astra. I cannot but reproach myself for having planted a pang 
 in her gentle bosom; but indignation at the duke's conduct, and the 
 hope that she might turn him from his evil course, and still retain his 
 friendship for my husband, impelled me to take a hasty step which 
 my cooler judgment condemns. 
 
 Lodo. Doubt not the event. Permit me to attend you to the 
 duchess. 
 
 Astra. Thank you; my tears thank you. I have nothing left but 
 tears. Heaven will reward you. 
 
 {Exeunt. — R. H. 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 The audience chamber of the Duke. The Duke discovered on 
 his throne, with his court around him. Adorni and Beraldo are brought 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 93 
 
 in, in chains, Eugenia following them L. H. — Claudio is seen in the 
 crowd still in the disguise. 
 
 Duke. Bring forth the prisoners. Signor Adorni. 
 Since thou hast rashly ta'en upon thyself, 
 In stern contempt of justice and ourselves, 
 The punishment imposed on Claudio; 
 Although our kinsman, and a valued friend. 
 Do not presume upon our blood or friendship 
 To ask for mercy. The insulted laws 
 Must be appeased, although they rend in twain 
 The bleeding heartstrings of the upright judge. 
 
 Ador. I bend not here for mercy. I should spurn 
 Life, if thy gift. So thou mayest freely take 
 That, thou wouldst make a heavy curse by sparing. 
 
 Duke. Still obdurate. 
 
 Ador. I still retain the pride that nature gave me. 
 
 Eug. Do not provoke his rage, for my sake do not. 
 
 Ador. Let the pale coward shrink who fears to die, 
 And tremble if a sceptred knave but frown; 
 But he that's weary of this pageant life 
 Can laugh to scorn the impotence of man. 
 
 Duke. There's one way left. 
 
 Ador. Curst be the tongue that names it. 
 
 Ber. Fly high! A man of my own heart. Fly high! 
 By heaven I love thee, pride and all, Adorni. 
 
 Duke. What says the lady? 
 
 Eug. Hear me, in mercy hear. 
 
 Duke. Am I contemned then? — To the scaffold with him. 
 
 Eug. Alas! Adorni, do I bring thee death! 
 
 Ador. Grieve not for me; for I had rather meet 
 Death clothed in all variety of terror. 
 Than live to see a spot upon they virtue. 
 
 Eug. Then we will die together. 
 
 Clau. Hold! {Throws of disguise. 
 
 Omnes. Count Claudio! 
 
 Clau. Here, take my forfeit life, and spare my friend. 
 
 Ador. How, Claudio! This sacrifice for me! 
 
 Clau. I owe it to myself and to the world. 
 
 'Tis better far to die in life's meridian. 
 And let the ethereal fire return as bright 
 
94 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 As when 'twas given, than to rekindle it 
 With the base fuel of this abject world, 
 As millions do, and dim its brilliancy 
 Till quite extinguished, and no spark is found 
 Amid the worthless ashes that remain. 
 
 Duke. For thy sake, and thy father's, chaste Eugenia, 
 We've tented^ to the core thy matchless worth. 
 Which, like pure gold, unharm'd, has undergone 
 The fiery trial. In proof of our opinion, 
 We now restore thee to thy former rank. 
 And all the favor that was lately thine. 
 And since thou'rt parted from that wayward man. 
 And hast the power to make a happier choice, 
 Whoe'r you honor with your hand, we promise 
 Shall meet from us the marks of special favor. 
 
 Ador. That's to the heart. 
 
 Eug. With tears I thank your grace for your opinion. 
 And feel with all a woman's gratitude 
 The boundless debt I owe for what thou'st done. 
 To vindicate my fame so deeply wrong'd; 
 But do not think me wanting in respect. 
 If I prefer my husband's lowly fate 
 To all thy princely power can lavish on me. 
 
 Ador. I never knew her till this trying moment. 
 
 Duke. Signor Adorni, dare you question still 
 
 This wrong'd one's virtue and Count Claudio's truth? 
 
 Ador. I dare not raise my head: shame weighs me down. 
 My heart is smitten, and my pride is gone. 
 To think that my unworthiness had gain'd 
 The love of two such beings, and to think 
 That I dared question the decrees of heaven, 
 And mumur at my fate while I possess'd 
 Its choisest gifts, strikes to the very soul. 
 But my distemper'd mind at length is purged. 
 And all things now appear in their true colours. 
 
 Duke. And thou in thine. As the harsh sentence passed 
 On Claudio was teeming with injustice. 
 We here revoke it; and again restore 
 To him th' enjoyment of his former rights. 
 
 * sounded. 
 
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 95 
 
 Clau. Your grace has bound me to you forever. 
 Duke. Why stand you thus, Beraldo? Is the tongue 
 
 Now quite disarm'd that scarce an hour since spoke 
 
 Keen daggers every word? 
 
 Enter Trebatzo. — R. H. 
 
 Ber. I am bewilder'd. 
 
 A stream of light is rushing on my brain 
 Too dazzUng for my vision. All is chaos! 
 That face! — In any other place than this 
 I'd swear it was Pacheco's. 
 Treb. And swear truly. 
 
 And yet it is thy father's face, Beraldo. 
 Ber. Where will this end! It was my daily prayer 
 My poverty and shame might be conceal'd 
 From Lord Trebatzo's eyes, until the grave 
 Had made me reckless of what foot trod on me; 
 Yet he has witness'd all my abjectness, 
 The strong convulsions of my tortured soul. 
 When it ran riot in its agony, 
 And deem'd no eye look'd on in cold derision: 
 I would that had been spared me! 
 Treb. So it has; 
 
 For while I witness'd all the sufferings 
 My cruelty had caused, I witness'd too 
 Thy worth and manly spirit, and still more, 
 Th' unshaken virtue of my much wrong'd child. 
 Ber. Speak not of that, old man, speak not of that! 
 You saw her take the letter from the duke. 
 
 Treb. And since have learnt she sent it to the duchess, 
 
 To lead th' apparent rover from his course. 
 
 'Twas I devised the trial, urged the duke 
 
 T' assume a part his noble nature spurns; 
 
 But he will ne'er regret, since th' event 
 
 Restores to a repentant father's heart 
 
 A spotless daughter and an injured son. 
 {Embraces Beraldo. 
 Duke. Thy words shall yet be verified, Beraldo. 
 
 Thou shalt fly high, thou shalt be fledged again. 
 
96 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 Ber. My thoughts are in such tumult — ^pardon me. 
 The change has been so sudden, and my heart 
 So ill prepar'd to meet a scene like this, 
 My tears must speak for it. And yet these drops, 
 So scalding hot — so painfully they spring, 
 Though I would gladly name their fountain, joy, 
 I may not yet. 
 Treb. (Turns to Eugenia.) Thou'st had a fearful trial. 
 
 But thou hast triumph'd, and art still my pride. 
 Eug. Better to fail in any other cause 
 
 Than be the victor in a cause like this, 
 Where the victor's vanqaish'd. 
 Enter Oriana. — R. H. conducting Astrabel, who advances slowly. 
 They are accompanied by Viola, who is immediately joined by Claudio. 
 Ori. Right, Claudio, she is thine, and if she dare to deny it, call 
 upon me for the proof. 
 
 Viola. I would not be so bold as to bring your grace's word in ques- 
 tion; so, Claudio, there's my hand. 
 
 Clau. With rapture I receive it. (They retire. 
 Treb. Look around thee. Bell, and perchance thou'lt find more 
 friends present than thou expected to meet. — Old Pacheco. 
 
 Astra. Pacheco here! Ah! my father! — Dare I throw myself at 
 your feet, embrace those knees, and ask forgiveness? 
 
 Treb. Not so, my child. In my arms — this bosom, in the very 
 
 core of my old heart, is the place for such a daughter as thou hast been. 
 
 Astra. My father! And am I at last restored to a father's love. 
 
 (Rushes into Trebatzo's arms. 
 Duke. No more of jealousy, my lovely Oriana. 
 Ori. Your grace has found a way to cure me; and yet you dressed 
 up virtue in such a villainous garb, you cannot blame me for mistaking 
 it. 
 
 Duke. Certainly not. However, the next time you detect me in that 
 dress, pray deem my virtue masquerading still. I ask but that. 
 Ori. I'll grant it — if I can. 
 
 Treb. Beraldo, receive thy wife from her father's hand. I know 
 her matchless worth, and with all my heart do I bestow her on thee. 
 There, there, bless you, my children, bless you. 
 
 Ber. Thank heaven, Astrabel is restored! The penitent will no 
 longer be trampled on! The diseased mind has been cured; the repro- 
 bate is again acknowledged; woman has had her trial, and in passing 
 
XBE LIPE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 97 
 
 the fiery ordeal, she has proved herself, in weal or woe, the brightest 
 jewel that adorns the life of man. 
 
 {Curtain falls. 
 THE END 
 
98 THE LtFE AND AMilTINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
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THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF RICHARD PENN SMITH 99 
 
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