THE AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 No. I. 
 
 THE 
 
 SPANI8H WIFE 
 
 IN PrVE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL M.'^SMITOKEB 
 
 (op the new YORK BAB.) 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR AND PORTRAIT 
 OP 
 
 EDWIN EOREEST, Esq. 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 WM. TAYLOR & CO., 18 Ann- Street. 
 
 BALTIMORE, MD. : 
 WM. & HENRY TAYLOR, Sun Iron Buildings. 
 
 1854. 
 PRICE 25 CENTS. 
 
 J". J. Reed, Printer. 1G Spruce- Street. 
 
PROSPECTUS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AMEEICAN DRAMA: 
 
 A Series of Plays by American Authors. 
 
 The Subscribers, publishers of the "Modern Standard 
 Drama," aware of the great difficulty experienced by Ameri- 
 can dramatic authors, in bringing their productions before the 
 public, either on the Stage, or through the Press, propose to 
 aid them by the publication of a serial work, with the above 
 title. 
 
 This publication is to consist solely of plays written by 
 American authors, which have either been performed or not, as 
 the case may be. The publishers therefore invite American 
 authors to send them their Plays, which will be submitted to a 
 committee of literary gentlemen, consisting of three ; a major- 
 ity of whom are to decide upon each manuscript which is sub- 
 mitted to them. 
 
 If they approve the Play, it will be printed in the series at 
 the publishers' expense. If a majority reject it, yet if one of 
 the committee approve the play, such play will be published in 
 the series, at the author's expense. The nett proceeds of each 
 play are to belong to the person at whose expense the play may 
 be published. 
 
 Each Number of ^* The American Drama" will be accompa- 
 nied by a Memoir and Portrait of some distinguished Ameri- 
 can actor, or dramatic author; pubhshed in a style precisely 
 similar to the present Number. The uniform price of each 
 Number, including the Portrait, is 25 cents ; with the regular 
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 ^ 
 
THE AMERICAN DRAMA. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 1 
 
 THE 
 
 SPANISH WIFE 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 BY >^ 
 
 SAMUEL M. SMUCKER. 
 
 (of the >fEW YOnK BAR.) 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR AND PORTRAIT 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWIN FORREST, Esq. 
 
 NEW- YORK: 
 
 WM. TAYLOR & CO., 18 Ann-Street. 
 
 BALTIMORE, MD. : 
 WM. & HENRY TAYLOR, Sun Iroa Buildings. 
 
 1854. 
 
 ^^H OF C0/V5^^^ 
 

 ea^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
 WILLIAM TAYLOR & CO 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for 
 the Southern District of New York. 
 
 TMP96-u07i75 
 
MEMOIE 
 
 OP 
 
 EDWIN FORREST ESQ. 
 
 WRITTENFOR NO. I. OF "THE AMERICAN DRAM A."* 
 BY SAMUEL M. SMUCKER. 
 
 Several generations had passed away after the first settlement 
 of America, before a Theatre existed on the new continent. It was 
 as late as 1752 that, at Williamsburg, Va., the Drama obtained a 
 feeble birth in the land of Columbus. The first American play- 
 ever performed upon our shores was a Comedy, styled " The Con- 
 trast,^^ which was produced in April, 1786, at the "Board Alley 
 Theatre," in New York. From that period until the present, the 
 
 * The publishers of ''The American Drama," deeming that a Memoir 
 of Edwin Forrest would be an appropriate introduction to such a 
 work, invited the present writer to prepare it. Though a stranger, 
 personally, to the distinguished Tragedian, yet he undertook the task, 
 relying upon the materials to be obtained from various published 
 sources, and such other assistance as might be derived from gentlemen 
 who were more intimately acquainted with the subject, H^ lias, 
 therefore, devoted his leisure to the work ; has examined, with some 
 minuteness, the public journals ; and has also received very impor- 
 tant and valuable assistance from several of Mr. Forrest's most inti- 
 mate friends : so that we believe we may confidently assure the reader 
 that all the leading and most interesting events of Mr. F.'s life and 
 'areer, are here correctly and accurately stated, and may be implicit])^ 
 relied upon as authentic. For the opinions expressed in this memoir 
 of Mr. Forrest, as an artist and as a man, the writer is alone responsi- 
 ble. He has herein exercised the privilege of a freeman,— the same 
 which is respectfully accorded to tho reader. 
 
6 Mr.?.K!in OF 
 
 accomplished votaries of Thcsbi^. have been grarlually increasing 
 in numbers and in ability ; while her gorgeous temples have arisen 
 all over the land, glittering with splendor, and rivalling in magnifi- 
 cence the noblest theatrical structures of the old world. The 
 amount and excellence of dramatic ability, in our land, have aug- 
 mented in an equal proportion, until in this high and difficult walk 
 of genius, America now proudly maintains her wonted excellence 
 and dignity among the cultivated nations of the earth. 
 
 In the Drama, as in everything else, the " manifest destiny" of 
 America seems to be upward to the highest Empyrean. It is not 
 alone among her statesmen, her divines, her philosophers, her 
 jurists, or her soldiers, that she now boasts her proudest names. 
 In the more unusual and difficult departments of the Fine Arts, in 
 painting, in sculpture, and in dramatic representation, America has 
 already produced artists, whose excellence is acknowledged by all 
 the world, unhesitatingly and freely. Among the time-hallowed 
 productions of ancient sculpture, which are now treasured up at 
 Rome, the achievements of the chisel of a Powers, are admired 
 with equal rapture. In the company of the great masters of paint- 
 ing in Europe, a West hides no diminished head. And thus too, 
 beside the colosal names of Garrick, Kemble, andKean, our youth- 
 ful Republic proudly places that of her Forrest, and boldly chal- 
 lenges for him a niche in the temple of histrionic fame, not lower 
 or less distinguished. This claim is not one urged and forced upon 
 the reluctant acquiesence of the world, by national partiality or 
 preference. It is one, based upon indisputable merit, — upon merit 
 so clear, so obvious, and so supreme, that it finds a ready acknow- 
 ledgment among all intelligent and cultivated people. 
 
 Edwin Forrest was born at Philadelphia, March 9th, 1806. 
 His father was a native of Scotland, and a man of sterling integrity. 
 He w^as an importer of Scottish goods j but becoming embarrassed 
 in business, he obtained a situation in the U. S. Bank, in which he 
 continued until its close. Afterward his friend, Stephen Girard, 
 appreciating his personal merit, invited him to a place in the Gi- 
 rard Bank, which position he retained until his death. 
 
 The father of the great Tragedian first intended him for the 
 church. He and his wife were devout persons, and tlieir son fre- 
 quently accompanied them to their religions services. On their 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 
 
 return, he occasionally edified, or amused his seniors by declaiming 
 accurately from memory, long passages from the sermon they had 
 just heard, precisely in the tone and manner of the clergyman.— 
 This happy pulpit aptitude in their son, confirmed his parents in 
 their pious purpose ; but the early death of his father, who left a 
 large family in dependant circumstances, put an end at once, and 
 apparently forever, to his prospects of advancement in any of the 
 liberal professions. His father died deeply in debt. These obliga- 
 tions, his son, in after years, when fortune had smiled upon him, 
 entirely liquidated, with the proud feeling, that no one might say, 
 his father owed aught to any man. 
 
 The distinguished ornithologist, Wilson, was among the first to 
 discover the remarkable talents of young Forrest for recitation. 
 He selected appropriate passages for that purpose ; and as he was 
 in the constant habit of visiting his father's family, he would on 
 those occasions, listen to his recitations, and then reward him for 
 their excellence, by presenting him with the plates of his great 
 work, then passing through the press. 
 
 Immediately after his father's death, young Forrest was placed 
 in a ship chandler's shop in Philadelphia. His attendance at the 
 elementary school, to which he had belonged, was thus at once sus- 
 pended, and an end put not only to his literary advantages, but 
 also apparently to all ambitious hopes. About this period a stroll- 
 ing company of Thesbians opened an amateur theatre in Front-st, 
 Philadelphia. The admission to the performances was gratis. 
 The terms admirably suited the finances of young Forrest, who 
 soon found himself, for the first time, within the precincts of a 
 theatre. Here a new and sudden impulse was given to his thoughts 
 and aspirations. He there first conceived the idea of becoming an 
 actor. Fortunately nature had imbedded in his soul a precious 
 gem of the purest and brightest water, which required only to be 
 placed beneath the rays of a theatrical sun in order to send forth 
 scintillations of unequalled brilliancy and splendor; a gem which 
 was destined, in future years, to shed transcendant lustre on the 
 
 American Stage. „ , , . ,r 
 
 It was not long before young Forrest enrolled himself among 
 this very troupe of youthful Roscii, and gave first vent to the 
 growing impulses of his soul, for something nobler and better than 
 
8 MEMOIR OF 
 
 the drudgery of a ship chandler's shop. His '• first appearance on 
 any stage" was under very remarkable circumstances ; under cir- 
 cumstances which may even be termed peculiar. The part as- 
 signed him in this first cast, was that of a female ! It was Rosalia, 
 in •' Rudolph, or the Robbers of Calabria." His own wardrobe 
 furnished nothing appropriate to the part, and he was compelled 
 to plunder that of his sister. Unhappily, the dress in question 
 was too short for him, and the absurdity of his appearance on the 
 stage may be readily imagined. The laughter of the audience 
 compelled him immediately to retreat. It was thought that the 
 unfortunate debutant had hid himself away in concealed mortifica- 
 tion. The fact, however, was very different. As soon as the play 
 was over, before the audience had deserted the theatre, he himself 
 rang the bell — up went the curtain — and young Forrest rushed 
 upon the stage, his dress bedaubed and striped with paint, so as to 
 represent a harlequin, and he declaimed Goldsmith's Epilogue with 
 such extraordinary appropriateness and eftect, that he was greeted 
 with the most rapturous applause. His first appearance thus 
 eventuated in a signal triumph, and confirmed his prediliction for 
 the histrionic art. He retired that night, from his first perform- 
 ance, the proud hero of the hour and of the occasion. 
 
 His next performance was achieved under more dignified cir- 
 cumstances. The interval of time he had improved by laborious 
 study. Nature was his great teacher; for he had none beside to 
 guide him. She had bestowed upon him, however, a vigorous 
 constitution, a sweet and sonorous voice, and a powerful mind. — 
 These advantages he carefully improved by self-culture, and was 
 able, on the next occasion which offered, to undertake a much 
 more elaborate task. 
 
 Shortly after the preceding adventure, he was introduced by 
 Co]. Swifc to the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, where he 
 played in the characters of Young Norval. and Oct avian, Zaphora 
 in Mahomet, and Frederic in " Lover's Vows." In each of these 
 performances he was regarded as a youthful prodigy, and his eflbrts 
 were hailed with great applause. At this period, it may be said, 
 that his intention to become an actor was irrevocably fixed. 
 
 In Sept., 1822, Messrs. Jones & Collins, who had just establish- 
 ed Theatres at Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and Lexington, arrived in 
 
EDWIN FORREST. V 
 
 Philatklphia for the purpose of engaging actors for their western 
 theatres. Mr. Foircst justly thought, that travel combined with 
 study, would greatly improve him. He presented himself for a 
 situation in the new company. He informed the managers frank- 
 ly of his plans and wishes, gave them his reference, and stated his 
 terms. He was desired to call the next day. As soon as he had 
 left Mr. Jones remarked that there was something about the man- 
 ners of young Forrest, so independent, so dignified, and yet withal 
 so decorous, that he should be instantly engaged, and without 
 even conferring with the persons to whom he had referred. He 
 was accordingly engaged by them, at a small salary. This was his 
 first engagement as a regular actor. His first manager was never 
 forgotten ;— in Forrest's house, when in the zenith of wealth and 
 fame, Jones found a home, and there he died. In health he was 
 cherished, and in sickness he was nursed, with all the tenderness 
 due to a father, and an esteemed benefactor. 
 
 In pursuance of this, his first engagement, Mr. Forrest traveled 
 westward. The company to which he belonged played three 
 months at Pittsburg on their route. There he performed in 
 Tragedy, Comedy, Farce and Ballet. His exertions in that city 
 were rewarded with increasing applause. H-e then proceeded to 
 Cincinnati, thence to Lexington ; and after leaving his first manager, 
 he was engaged by Caldwell, to play at his theatre in New Or- 
 leans. It need scarcely be said, that during this time his talents 
 and his industry combined, enabled him to rise higher and higher 
 in professional excellence. It was at New Orleans that his growing 
 merit made him a universal favorite. After some time he was 
 engaged by Gilfert, then manager of the Charlestown and Albany 
 Theatres, to perform in these several cities. It was here that he 
 was first thrown, professionally, in contact with the illustrious 
 actor, Edmund Kean, and was cast as second to that " Star" in all 
 his great parts. It is asserted, on good authority, that Mr. Kean 
 frequently remarked, that during his travels through this country, 
 he had met but one young man who promised to become, in future 
 time, a great actor ; and that young man was Edwin Forrest. 
 
 It was during the first visit of Mr. Forrest to the West, that he 
 endured all the wants and vicissitudes incident to the career of 
 the poor but aspiring actor. Though often reduced to poverty. 
 
10 MEMOIR OF 
 
 it is narrated of him that he never run in debt. Yet it might be 
 said of him : 
 
 '• AYant, worldly want, that hungry, meagre fiend, 
 Was at his heels, and chased him full in view." 
 
 In illustration of this remark, it may be well to record an anec- 
 dote which appertains to his Western experiences at this early 
 period of his career. At one time he was so pressed by actual hun- 
 ger, that he plucked and eat the raw corn of a wealthy Kentucky 
 gentleman, who would doubtless have severely punished his free- 
 dom had he detected him in this innocent,because necessary,depreda- 
 tion. That same gentleman — when years had rolled away, and Mr. 
 Forrest returned to the West again, an illustrious tragedian, with 
 a world-wide reputation, honored and courted by all — that same 
 gentleman then gave him a magnificent dinner, to which he invited, 
 and obtained the presence of the most distinguished persons in the 
 land. 
 
 Under Gilfert, he played the leading business, except when 
 " stars" appeared. With a quick and discriminating eye, Gilfert 
 detected and appreciated the great value of Forrest ; but for his 
 own profit wisely kept his own counsel. About this time the 
 New York, now the Bowery Theatre, was projected; Gilfert was 
 to become the manager, and his best card was Forrest. Gilfert 
 knew well, that no stock actor in a minor theatre, however great 
 a favorite he might become, could ever rise to fame without a 
 metropolitan reputation. He possessed the native gold which only 
 wanted the stamp of such an approval to make it current over the 
 whole country. 
 
 In July, 1826, in the interval between the closing of the Albany 
 and the opening of the Bowery Theatre, Mr. Forrest appeared for 
 the first time in New York, at the Park Theatre, for the benefit of 
 Mr. Woodhull, a favorite stock actor of the day. The play select- 
 ed was Othello. He came unheralded and unknown, and though 
 the audience were delighted with the performance, yet it made no 
 visible impression on the public. 
 
 On Oct. 23, 182G, the Bowery Theatre opened, under the manage- 
 ment of Gilfert. On the first Monday of Nov. following, Mr. 
 Forrest made his first appearance there in Othello. In the first 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 
 
 11 
 
 act he is described as having been excessively nervous. In the 
 ceoond act that defect was less obvious, and his self-command 
 more apparent. In the succeeding acts, so marked, so original and 
 so powerful was his execution of this difficult part, that the au- 
 dience were most enthusiastic in their applause. His fame and 
 success in New York were at once established. 
 
 A distinguished literary gentleman, himself, at that time, editor 
 of one of the leading journals of the day, and who was present on 
 this occasion, informs us that the indications of high ability then 
 displayed by Mr. Forrest were unmistakable. That he committed 
 errors, even gross errors, could not be denied ; but that even his 
 errors' were so peculiar and so original that they convinced every 
 intelligent beholder that no ordinary man could have committed 
 them ; in truth, that none but a most extraordinary man could or 
 would have ventured them. 
 
 It was during this engagement that an incident occurred, which 
 served to illustrate the personal character of the man. In conse- 
 quence of the rapid growth of his fame, and the crowded audiences 
 that nightly attended to witness his performances, a rival manager 
 approached Mr. F. with more advantageous offers. Mr. F. replied 
 that he had engaged with Mr. Gilfertfor the season, and could not 
 listen to his proposition. The manager replied, that as there was 
 no written contract, he was not bound. " Sir," answered Mr. 
 Forrest, " my word is as strong as any written contract !" It 
 should be added, in justification of the manager's proposition, as 
 well as to illustrate the great strength of Mr. F.'s sense of honor, 
 that the former had heard the latter complain, that he had been 
 cast in parts which he could not be justly called on to perform. 
 
 Such was his popularity during this engagement, that he drew 
 immense audiences ; and Gilfert actually lent him during this 
 his first season, on frequent occasions, to other theatres, both in 
 New York and Boston, at two hundred dollars per night ; he still 
 paying Mr. F. twenty- eight dollars per week 1 This sort of specu- 
 lation becoming known, and severely animadverted upon, the 
 nvAUSiger generously increased his salary to fifty dollars per week! 
 His professional position at that time, may be inferred from the 
 remark made by the Boston Traveller, in reference to his per- 
 
12 MEMOIR or 
 
 formanccs in tliiit city : " Mr. Forrest certainly improved on Mc- 
 Cveadyy 
 
 When this engagement closed, in the summer of 1827, Gilfert 
 said to Forrest: ''I shall want 3^ou for the next season; but I 
 suppose our terms must be a little different." '' Yes, sir." " What 
 do you expect '?" ^I expect nothing, sir ; you have yourself fixed 
 my value. You have found me to be worth $200 per night !" 
 Gilfert, who had engaged him the first season for $28 per week, 
 found it his interest to pay him for the season $200 per night, 
 and engaged him for eighty nights. His receipts this season at the 
 Bowery alone amounted $8,800. Thus, in one short year, the 
 young artist who came to New York unheialded, unknown, and 
 poor, by the irresistible force of his genius, had risen to high fame, 
 wealth, and distinction. We believe that no parallel to success as 
 sudden and great as this can be produced in the history of the 
 American or any other Stage. 
 
 After this period Mr. Forrest performed engagements in various 
 cities throughout the Union. He was everywhere eagerly sought 
 for; everywhere highly appreciated and applauded. He returned 
 the following season to New York, and commenced a third engage- 
 ment at the Bowery. Arriving at New York, he met a valued 
 friend in the lobby of that theatre, upon whom he suddenly opened 
 with the following startling declaration : — " Thank heaven, I am 
 not worth a ducat?'' His friend eagerly inquired the meaning of 
 an assertion so singular and so ambiguous ; for he knew Mr. F. 
 had netted a large amount of money by his preceding engagements. 
 Said Mr. F. : '' My mother and sisters were poor, and I have just 
 purchased for them a house in Philadelphia; and all the balance 
 of my funds I have invested there for their support. Thank hea- 
 ven, I am not worth a ducat." And well might the noble, aspir- 
 ing, and triumphant adventurer, whose honorable ambition had 
 been already rewarded as it merited, — '' thank heaven" that he 
 had been enabled to obtain the means of benefaction ; and that he 
 possessed the exalted magnanimity to apply them in a way so 
 pleasing and grateful to the noblest instincts of humanity. 
 
 About 1830, his next offer of engagement in New York, was at 
 the Park. The manager proposed to give him one-half of the 
 hov.se, after expenses v.'ere paid, and a free benefit. During this 
 
EDWrx FORREST. . IJJ 
 
 enjrasrcment, the Park Theatre held more money than it ever did 
 belbie or since. During the two weeks of its continuance, Mr. F, 
 received $5,500 independently of liis benefit; — a sum unequalled 
 either by Kean, Cooke, or any of the great dramatic meteors of 
 the age, who have successively glittered upon the boards of that 
 theatre. 
 
 In 1834, Mr. Forrest determined to visit Europe. He did not 
 go abroad for the purpose of making a professional tour. lie went 
 simply as a private gentleman, to enjoy the usual advantages of 
 foreign travel ; to visit the celebrated cities and the historical lo- 
 calities of the old w^orld ; and thus to enlarge his fund of general 
 knowledge and information. He wished, by the careful study of 
 the celebrated Works of art, which the treasures of Europe alone 
 possessed, to improve himself in 
 
 The younger of the sister arts, 
 Where all their beauties blend. 
 
 He addressed the audience at the Park Theatre immediately be- 
 fore he sailed. He then declared that he was not going to Europe 
 profess ion all 5^ ; that the applause of his own countrymen was suf- 
 ficient for him ; that it ought to be enough for any man ; and that 
 as for himself he desired nothing higher or better. Some of the 
 most distinguished of his fellow-citizens honored him with a public 
 dinner immediately previous to his departure, on July 25. 1834, at 
 which Chancellor McGoun presided. On this occasion, which was 
 graced with the presence of the first citizens of the land, Mr. F. 
 was presented with a gold medal, as a tribute of their admiration. 
 On the obverse was a bust of Mr. Forrest in profile, surrounded 
 by the words, H'lstrioni Optimo, Edwino Forrest, Viro Praes- 
 tanii ; and on the reverse, a figure of the Genius of Traged}', with 
 the following appropriate quotation from the great bard of Avon : 
 " Great in mouths oftcisest censure.''^ 
 
 With these honorable indications of the respect and admiration of 
 his countrymen, Mi'. Forrest sailed for Europe. He was absent 
 nearly two years. He traveled over the length and breadth of the 
 continent ; — from Edinburg to Rome, from St. Petersburg to 
 Odessa. He saw and contemplated with the mature observation 
 of enlightened and cultivated minds, all that was interesting, in- 
 
lA Mt::\ioii; i-f 
 
 struclive. and memoraLle in the renowned scenes and associations 
 of the old world. 
 
 In the Fall of 1836 he returned to his ovvncoimtrj, though only 
 for a short time. He had crossed the ocean \Yaste merely to fulfil 
 the promise he had made previous to his departure for Europe to 
 play at the Bowery. He soon returned again to England, Dur- 
 ing his first visit, he had made the acquaintance of a lady, whose 
 name has since become so widely associated with his own. To 
 her he was married in June, 1837. 
 
 During his second visit to England, which continued throughout 
 one 3'ear, Mr. Forrest filled various engagements in the different 
 leading theatres of the United Kingdom. He was everj^where le- 
 ceived with the greatest applause. He rose at once to the highest 
 pinnacle of professional fame, in the very home and favorite haunts 
 of Garrick, Kemble, Kean, Cooke, and others. Scarcely one dis- 
 senting voice among all the intelligent critics of that land, jarred 
 discordantly upon the universal and harmonious chorus of piaise 
 which greeted his performances. It was acknowledged hy the 
 English press, and by the English public, that their greatest bard 
 had at length received from America, an illustrator of his genius, 
 as accomplished and as consummate as any ever produced among 
 their own gifted countrymen. 
 
 Thus loaded with the highest professional honors from the old 
 world, he returned to his own country j and was immediately 
 greeted, on his arrival, with a splendjd banquet, which was offered 
 him by man}' of the most distinguished of his fellow-citizens at 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 This appears to be a proper place to notice the peculiarity of 
 Mr. Forrest's professional career, which is worthy of special at- 
 tention. 
 
 At the early period of that career, he was impressed with the 
 importance of fostering as much as was in his power, the growth 
 of dramatic genius among his countrymen. He carried his nation- 
 ality of feeling even further. He determined to offer a premium 
 for the best American play, whose subject should be the American 
 Indian. The result of this offer was the production of Metamora, 
 by John A. Stone. The merits of this play, through the vivid and 
 powerful represpntatioo of it by Mr. Forrest, have become familiar 
 
K.nvVIN rOHREST. ' 15 
 
 to the world. Indeed, so remarkable and so exLraordinar}' is this 
 part, in the hands of Mr. F., that we may safely predict that as 
 the great original of Metamora, expired with King Philip, without 
 his transmitting to any of his successors, either the grandeur or 
 the sublimity of his nature ; so his imposing scenic existence will 
 also perish with the mighty actor who personates him so admira- 
 bly on the mimic stage.* 
 
 * " Metamora" was the first of Mr. Forrest's prize plays. It was 
 selected from among fourteen dramatic productions, by a committee, 
 consisting of the following gentlemen, who were selected by Mr. P. 
 for that purpose : — W. C. Bryant, Fitz Green Halleck, James Lawson, 
 P. M. Wetmore, J. G. Brooks, and William Leggett, As no portion of 
 this celebrated play, or of its appendages, has ever appeared in print, 
 the reader will doubtless be interested by the j)erusal of the Prologue 
 and Epilogue, the former from the pen of P. M. Wetmore, the latter 
 from that of James Lawson, Esq. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO METAMORA. 
 
 Not from the records of Imperial Rome, 
 
 Or classic Greece, the muses' chosen home, 
 
 From no rich legends of the olden day. 
 
 Our bard hath drawn the story of his play. 
 
 Led by the guiding hand of genius on. 
 
 He here hath painted nature on her throne ; 
 
 His eye hath pierced the forest's shadowy gloom. 
 
 And read strange lessons from a nation's tomb : 
 
 Brief are the annals of that blighted race — 
 
 These halls usurp a monarch's resting place ! 
 
 Tradition's mist-enshrouded page alone 
 
 Tells that an empire was— we know 'tis gone ! 
 
 From foreign climes full oft the muse hath brought 
 Her glorious treasures of gigantic thought ; 
 And here beneath the witchery of her power, 
 The eye hath poured its tributary shower. 
 When modern pens have sought the historic page 
 To picture forth the deeds of former age, 
 O'er soft Virginia's sorrows ye have sighed, 
 /Lnd dropt a tear when spotless beauty died. 
 
16 Memoir op 
 
 In pursuance of his purpose to foster native genius, Mr. Forrest 
 has offered premiums, at different times, for American plays ; and 
 
 When Brutus cast his cloud aside to stand 
 The guardian of the tyrant-trampled land ; 
 When patriot Tell, his soil from thraldom freed, 
 And bade the avenging arrow do its deed, 
 Your bosoms answered with responsive swell, 
 For freedom triumphed as the oppressor fell ! 
 
 These were the melodies of humbler lyres, 
 The lights of genius, yet withered his fires ; 
 But when the master-spirit struck the chords, 
 And inspiration breathed her burning words., 
 When passion's self-stalked living o'er the stage, 
 To melt with love, or rouse the soul to rage, 
 TVhen Shakspeare led his bright creations forth. 
 Waked the pale dead, or gave new beings birth — 
 Breathless, entranced, ye heard the spell fraught line 
 And felt the minstrel's power — almost divine ! 
 While thus your plaudits cheer the stranger lay, 
 Shall native bards in vain the field essay 1 
 To-night we test the strength of native powers, 
 Subject, and bard, and actor, all are ours. 
 'Tis yours to judge if worthy of a name, 
 And bid them live within the halls of fame ! 
 
 EPILOGUE TO METAMORA. 
 
 Before the bar of beauty, taste, and wit. 
 
 This host of critics too, who throng the pit, 
 
 A trembling bard, has been this night arraigned, 
 
 And I am counsel in the cause retained. 
 
 Here come I, then, to plead with guileless art. 
 
 And speak less to the law, than to the heart. 
 
 A native bard, a native actor too. 
 
 Have drawn a native picture to your view ; 
 
 In fancy that, bade Indian wrongs revive, 
 
 "While this, embodied all as if alive. 
 
 Rich plants are they of our own favored land. 
 
 Your smiles, the sun, 'neath which their leaves expand. 
 
BDWIN FORREST. ' 17 
 
 the result has been, that he has evoked into existence some drama- 
 tic productions which do honor to the literature of thecountr3^ — 
 Tfiese plays are Pelopidas, The Gladiator, and the Broker of 
 Bogota, by Dr. Bird ; Caius Marius, by R. Penn Smith ; Jack 
 Cade, by R. F. Conrad, and Mahomet, by Mr. Jliles. We doubt 
 whether a similar array of dramatic productions can be pointed at 
 which owed their existence to the liberality and nationality of 
 feeling, of any other actor, either in England or America. 
 
 In accordance with his purpose of building up an American 
 
 Yet not that they are native do I plead, 
 
 'Tis for their worth alone, I ask your mead. 
 
 How shall I ask ye 1 Singly ? Then, I will ; 
 
 But if I fail 1 Fail ! Let me try my skill. 
 
 Sir, I know you ; I've often seen your face, 
 
 And always seated in that selfsame place ; 
 
 Now in your ear : — What think ye of the play ? 
 
 " It hath some m^erit truly" — did you say 1 
 
 " The tawny chief upborne on eagle wing, 
 
 The Indxain forest scoured, like Indian king." 
 
 See yon fair maid, the tear still dims her eye — 
 
 And hearken, hear ye not her gentle 'sigh ? 
 
 Ah ! these speak more than language can relat(-, 
 
 The woe-fraught heart o'er Nameoke's fate : 
 
 She tries us not by rigid rules of art. 
 
 Her proof is feeling, and her judge, the heart. 
 
 What dost thou say, thou bushy- whiskered beau 1 
 
 He nods approval ;— whiskers are the go ! 
 
 Who's he that sits the fourth bench from the stage 
 
 There, in the pit ; why, he looks wondrous sage. 
 
 He seems displeased, his lip denotes a sneer, 
 
 Oh ! he's a critic, who looks so severe. 
 
 Why, in his face I see the attic salt — 
 
 A critic's merit is, to find a fault. 
 
 What fault find you, sir 1 Eh 1 Or you, sir 1 None ! 
 
 Then if the critic's mute, my cause is won. 
 
 Yea by this burst of loud heart-felt applause, 
 
 I know that I have gained my client's cause. 
 
 Thanks that our great demerits you forgive, 
 
 And bid our bard and Metamora live. 
 
18 MEMOlil OF 
 
 Drama, Mr. Forrest publicly offered, last of ail, a premium of 
 three thousand dollars for a play written by an American citizen, 
 which would be well adapted to representation ; and promising 
 one thousand dollars for that play among the number, (provided 
 none realized his Jirsi intention,) which should possess the highest 
 literary merit. In answer to this invitation, Mr F. received up- 
 ward of seventy plays ! Each one of these he carefully read. — 
 None of them answered his original design. He however awarded 
 to Mr. G. H. Miles $1,000 for his play of Mahomet, already men- 
 tioned; deeming it to be the best literary production in the col- 
 lection.* The reader will not be surprised at the above statement 
 if he is at all conversant with the nature of the subject. The produc- 
 tion of a successful play,not only requires ample leisure and freedom 
 from all care in reference to subsistence, during the process of 
 composition; but also a more rare and difHcult combination of in- 
 tellectual qualities than belong to most other species of composi- 
 tion. First, there must be genius — the poet's heaven-born fire ; 
 the grace and beauty of dramatic versification ; a familiarity with 
 classical, historical, and mythological learning; the well trained 
 powers of the practiced thinker and writer ; and a deep insight 
 into the hidden springs of human action, feeling and passion; 
 while other attainments less lofty or imposing are equally indis- 
 pensable — a knowledge of stage effect; a constructive ability 
 whereby to avoid impossible or absurd situations, which would 
 violate the known relations of time and space ; the resources of 
 inventive genius, which furnish constant novelties and striking 
 surprises on the stage ; and an ability to intersperse the grave and 
 gay, the solemn, the ludicrous, the pathetic, and the sublime, in 
 judicious variety. To possess all these qualifications, falls only 
 to the lot of the highest, and therefore the rarest, dramatic genius. 
 If these and many other qualities are essential to the successful 
 dramatist, need we wonder that so few succeed ? Need we be sur- 
 prised that Mr. Forrest sought, in vain, among the seventy origi- 
 nal plaj'S before him, for one in which he felt he could do himself, 
 or his design justice ? 
 
 * Mr. W. Gilniore Simmshas lately rewritten Shakspeare's Timon, 
 for Mr. F., which, we are informed on good authority, will be pro- 
 duced by him in New York, during the coming Spring, 1854. 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 19 
 
 During Mr. Forrest's first season, after his return from England, 
 of one hundred nights, his receipts were $33,500, His receipts 
 from his engagements during the second season were $33,700. 
 
 During the course of his pubhc career, Mr. Forrest has been in- 
 vited, on several occasions, to become a candidate for political 
 honors, and for a seat in Congress ; and that too under such cir- 
 cumstances, as rendered his success not in the least degree pro- 
 blematical. These honorable proposals, Mr. Forrest has invaria- 
 bly declined, preferring to be known in no other public capacity 
 or position than that which was strictly professional. But we 
 know of no other member of his profession, however distinguish- 
 ed, to whom similar offers of political promotion have ever been 
 made. 
 
 In the year 1838, Mr. Forrest was invited by the '' Democratic 
 Republican Committee," of New York, to deliver an oration at the 
 " Democratic Republican Celebration," of the sixtj^-second anni- 
 versary of the independence of our country. He complied with 
 this invitation, and delivered on July 4th an oration, remarkable 
 for the purity of its diction, the originality and excellence of its 
 sentiments, and the patriotic tone which pervades it. No one can 
 peruse this oration without being impressed with the conviction 
 that it is the production of the mind of a statesman ; and that if 
 its author had not devoted himself to the stage, his " natural gifts" 
 would have enabled him to become illustrious in the Senate Cham- 
 ber. The complexion of Mr. F.'s political opinions may be infer- 
 red from the following extract from this oration : 
 
 " To Jefi'erson belongs, exclusively and forever, the high renown 
 of having framed the glorious charter of American liberty. To 
 his memory the benedictions of this and all succeeding times are 
 due for reducing the theory of freedom to its simplest elements, 
 and in a few lucid and unanswerable propositions, establishing a 
 groundwork on which men may securely raise a lasting super- 
 structure of national greatness and prosperity. But our fathers, 
 in the august assemblage of 76, were prompt to acknowledge and 
 adopt the solemn and momentous principles he asserted. With 
 scarce an alteration — with none that affected the spirit and charac- 
 ter of the instrument, and with but few that changed in the slight- 
 est degree its verbal construction — they published that exposition 
 
20 MEMOIR OF 
 
 of human rights to the world, as their Declaration of American 
 Independence ; pledging to each other their lives, their fortunes, 
 and their sacred honor, in support of the tenets it proclaimed. — 
 This was the grandest, the most impoitant experiment ever under- 
 taken in the histor}' of man. But they that entered upon it were 
 not afraid of new experiments, if founded on the immutable prin- 
 ciples of right, and approved by the sober convictions of reason. — 
 There were not wanting then, indeed, as there are not wanting 
 now, pale counsellors to fear, who would have withheld them from 
 the course they were pursuing, because it tended in a direction 
 hitherto untrod. But they were not to be deterred by the sha- 
 dowy doubts and timid suggestions of craven spirits, content to be 
 lashed forever round the saiiie circle of miserable expedients, per- 
 petually trying anew the exploded shifts which had always proved 
 lamentably inadequate before. To such men, the very name of 
 experiment is a sound of horror. It is a spell which conjures up 
 gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire. They seem to know that all 
 that is valuable in life — that the acquisitions of learning, the dis- 
 coveries of science, and the refinements of art — are the result of 
 experiment. It was experiment that bestowed on Cadmus those 
 keys of knowledge with which we unlock the treasure-houses of 
 immortal mind. It was experiment that taught Bacon the futility 
 of the Grecian philosophy, and led him to that heaven-scaling me- 
 thod of investigation and analysis, on which science has safely 
 climbed to the proud eminence where now she sits, dispensing her 
 blessings on mankind. It was experiment that lifted Newton 
 above the clouds and darkness of this visible diurnal sphere, ena- 
 bling him to explode the sublime mechanism of the stars, and 
 weigh the planets in their eternal rounds. It was experiment that 
 nerved the hand of Franklin to snatch the thunder from the ar- 
 mory of heaven. It was experiment that gave this hemisphere to 
 the world. It was experiment that gave this continent free- 
 dom.''' 
 
 We have now arrived at the period of BIr. McCready's second 
 visit to the United States. On his arrival, Mr. Forrest waited on 
 him ; invited him to his house ; and extended to him the most 
 liberal hospitality. He neglected nothing to render the visit of the 
 English tragedian agreeable, so far as lay in his power. In every 
 
EDWIN FOUKKST. 21 
 
 way he sought to advance Mr. McCready's fame and interest. — 
 How very cordial INIr. Forrest's tieatment of the latter gentleman 
 was ; and how highly his kindness and courtesy were then appre- 
 ciated, may be inferred from the following brief extract from a let- 
 ter from Mrs. Catherine Francis McCready to Mr. Forrest dated 
 London, Nov. 3, 1844, immediately after her husband's return to 
 England : 
 
 " Nothing has given me greater pleasure from America than that 
 which the relation of the hospitality and kindness Mr. McCready 
 has received from you, during his sojourn in New York, has com- 
 municated. I only wish I had any means here of testifying my 
 gratitude to you, for your great attention to him ; which has 
 gmtified him very much, and which is one of the delightful things 
 among the many, he will have to reflect upon, in remembering his 
 visit to your great country." 
 
 In 1845 Mr. Forrest made his second professional tour to Eng- 
 land. He of course naturally expected that Mr. McCready would 
 return, at least to some extent, the courtesies he had been willing 
 to receive from him in this countr3^ Unhappily a very different 
 feeling was at once manifest, on the part of that gentleman. Not 
 the least mark of respect or civility did Mr. F. receive from his 
 late friend and guest. Suddenly a mysterious opposition burst 
 forth in the public prints against Mr. Forrest's performances. It 
 was found that this opposition, at first, was confined to those pa- 
 pers which were connected with Mr. McCready. The ^^ Exami- 
 ?zer". was especially bitter against Mr. Forrest j yet it was edited 
 by John Forster, a particular and confessed friend of Mr. Mc- 
 Cready, and one ever willing to obey his commands. Is it not a 
 fair inference that if the feelings of Mr. McCready toward Mr. F. 
 were those of ordinary courtesy, to sa}- nothing of consistent 
 friendship, he would have forbidden his literary friend to belabor 
 and abuse, in the most brutal manner, his professional brother? 
 Yet instead of doing this, increasing rancor was exhibited by that 
 journal during the whole of this visit of Mr. F. to England. And 
 being thus led on, many other members of the English press fol- 
 lowed in the ignoble race in accordance with the old maxim: — 
 Latrante uno, latrat statim et alter canis* 
 
 * One dog burking, another immediately joiu3 him. 
 
22 MEMOIR OF 
 
 That paper did not rely on facts alone for its defamation, but 
 with a laudable zeal to serve its friend and master, invented new 
 readings for Mr. F. ; and even went so far as to condemn him for 
 his manner of delivering certain passages which were not to be 
 found in the parts which he performed, and which, consequently, he 
 never uttered ! Thus Mr. Forrest soon had nearl}- the whole pack 
 of the English press at his heels, with the exception of some few 
 really independent journals. We may illustrate the just spirit and 
 the literary sagacity of the latter, by quoting a single remark of 
 one of them : — 
 
 " It is refreshing now-a-days to see one of Shakspeare's plays 
 (Lear), so brought before us; and we feel exceedingly obliged to 
 Mr. Forrest for having reminded us of the palmy days of Kemble 
 and Kean ; and when we add, that his Lear is equal in every re- 
 spect to that of the two mighty tragedians, whose names are hal- 
 lowed by the admirers of genius, we think we can scarcely bestow 
 higher praise.' * 
 
 During this visit Mr. F. unfortunately detected too many evi- 
 dences of the professional jealousy which actuated his cidevant 
 friend. He might have excused or disregarded the want of re- 
 ciprocal courtesy. He could not but become deeply incensed at 
 secret and groundless hostility. His own feelings became embit- 
 tered, and he felt released from all further forbearance. In Edin- 
 burg, McCready played Hamlet, and during the performance fa- 
 vored the audience with a "pas de mouchoir,^^ which so outraged 
 Mr. Forrest's sense of propriety, that he, happening to be present, 
 expressed his repugnance by hissing. It was his 'protest against 
 such outrageous desecration of the immortal bard f 
 
 This one single sibilation (itself merely an authorized mode of 
 expressing a professional judgment or opinion,) was the only, and 
 quite excusable, retaliation inflicted by Mr, Forrest, in return for 
 all the bitter hostility which he had suffered in England; — from 
 Mr. jMcCready. solely because he was a hated rival ; — and from the 
 English press, solely because he was an American Artist ! 
 
 On this side of the water, Mr. Forrest's outrageous treatment 
 was condemned by the universal censure of the community. The 
 
 * Vide London Km, March dih, 1845. 
 
 •{•This fact Mr. F. himself avowed in the London Times 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 25 
 
 cause of it was too palpable to be unknown. Had he not been so 
 loudly and generall}' applauded in England, during his previous 
 tisit, a doubt might have hovered over and obscured the motive, 
 and therefore the injustice of the brawling flood of censure which 
 now overwhelmed him. America had expected better things of 
 England. She had not so treated and repulsed her Kean and 
 her Kemble, when, with shattered fame and fortune, they had 
 swarmed hither as to a land of golden promise and fruition. Even 
 McCready himself had fared far otherwise. 
 
 Eight on the heels of these events, and as if to provoke an offen- 
 sive contrast, or a just retaliation, Mr. McCready in 1849, traveled 
 back again to the United States. His first appearance, we believe, 
 was at Boston. He there made an uncalled for attack on Mr. 
 Forrest, in a speech which he delivered before the curtain, in al- 
 lusions so plain that none could fail to understand their import. 
 Previous to this he had made an engagement to open at the Broad- 
 way Theatre, in N. Y. He unscrupulously broke the engagement, 
 fearing, as it was alleged, that that was Mr. Forrest's favorite do- 
 main, and he should labor under disadvantages there. He had also 
 been informed that Mr. F. had just concluded a very brilliant en- 
 gagement in that theatre, and to play the same round of characters 
 so soon again, in the same place, would prove less attractive to the 
 public. He then entered into an engagement with Mr. Hackett, to 
 play at the Astor Place Opera House, in New York. 
 
 At Philadelphia, Mr. McCready, for the third time, made a very 
 offensive and unprovoked allusion to Mr. Forrest, from before the 
 curtain of the Arch-st. Theatre. Until this time the latter had 
 said nothing — not a single word in public — in reference to these 
 difficulties. He then published a card, briefly reviewing the merits 
 of the case, and showing most conclusively, how offensive, injur- 
 ious, and unjust, the whole career of Mr. McC. had been, in refer- 
 ence to himself; and that so far from using his influence to or- 
 ganize the same opposition against Mr. McC. here, which the lat- 
 ter had arrayed against him in England — he had expressly forbid- 
 den everything of the kind. 
 
 Our limits will prevent us from pursuing the details of this 
 controversy any further. It is sufficient to say, that the difficul- 
 ties increased ; the feelings of the community unhappily became 
 
24 MEMOIR OP 
 
 intensely excited — too much indeed for the preservation of public 
 peace, however great the individual injuries inflicted might have 
 been. The whole contest ended disastrously and fatally in the 
 memorable riot which occurred on the 10th of May, 1849, at the 
 Astor Place Opera House, on the occasion of Mr. McCready's 
 performance there. 
 
 He had appeared at that theatre a few evenings previous, on 
 which occasion he had acted to dumb show and noise. A nume- 
 rous audience had been aroused to retaliation by the unjust speeches 
 which he had several times delivered against their distinguished 
 and unoifending countryman. McCready thought he could never 
 venture again before an American audience — but a card was got 
 up, inviting him to play again, and offering him another hearing. 
 This invitation brought him out once more. 
 
 Much feeling of a national character — between Englishmen and 
 Americans — had now crept into the contest ; and even much local 
 social rancour between what were termed the " Silkstocking Gen- 
 try" and the "Bowery Boys." These were somewhat new issues 
 in this contest ; but they served powerfully to add intensity to the 
 existing hostility, and to magnify its deplorable results. But 
 whatever were the consequences of this private dispute, no one ever 
 ventured to charge Mr. Forrest with having, in any way approved 
 or excited the indignation of the public against Mr. McCready. — 
 But so far as he could influence public events, he endeavored to 
 dissuade from all acts of violence, how great soever the affronts he 
 himself, and the nation, through him might have received. 
 
 And on the public trials which followed this unhappy night, not 
 a voice testified one word to connect Mr. F. in any way with the 
 results. His character was untouched, and to this the journals 
 of the day bear ample testimony. 
 
 The next event which brought Mr. Forrest prominently before 
 the public, was his divorce. The trial ended in January, 1852. 
 For two years previous, he had not pursued his profession. His 
 mind was distressed, and he confined himself to the society of his 
 most intimate friends. In reference to his course in this matter, it 
 may be truly said : "Naught he did in hate; but all in honor." 
 It does not comport with the purpose of this memoir to enter into 
 the details of this celebrated case. But it is a fact universally con- 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 25 
 
 ceded, that the verdict rendered in reference to it excited at once 
 the astonishment and the surprise of the whole community. — 
 Every one is familiar with the advantage which a lady invariably 
 possesses before a jurj^, in cases of this description ; but we believe 
 that rarely, in the whole career of justice, or rather of injustice, 
 has an instance occurred in which the clearest force of evidence and 
 the universal conclusion of intelligent and impartial minds, were 
 so completely trampled under foot, as in this instance. And we 
 may venture the assertion, that so settled has now become the 
 public sentiment against the verdict which stands recorded in that 
 case, that if it were again to be made the subject of investigation, 
 even by a jury, the result would be precisely the reverse of that 
 produced in the first instance. We herein state the unbiassed con- 
 clusion to which we have been brought respecting this vexata 
 quoBSiio by a more thorough examination of facts than most per- 
 sons have the opportunity of devoting to the subject. 
 
 On the 9th of February, Mr. Forrest appeared at the Broadway 
 Theatre immediately after the verdict. Never had a public au- 
 dience given such a reception to a public favorite. The applause 
 was immense ; through the parquette and boxes were exhibited 
 elegant banners, with expressive mottos, such as : " This is the 
 verdict of the People." At the end of the performance Mr. F. was 
 called before the curtain. The whole stage was immediately 
 covered with wreaths and bouquets of various graceful devices. At 
 length, when the applause had subsided, he spoke, and among 
 other appropriate remarks, said : " I thought my path was covered 
 with thorns ; but I find you have strewed it with roses." He re- 
 ceived every possible evidence of the public sympathy and appro- 
 bation. 
 
 This engagement was the longest as well as the most memorable 
 ever recorded in the history of the stage. It continued till the 15th 
 of April, being sixty- nine successive nights. The house — one of 
 the largest and most magnificent in America — was crowded nightly 
 to the utmost of its capacity, and with audiences whose enthusiasm 
 remained unabated. 
 
 On the fiftieth night of this engagement, there was a jubilee. The 
 theatre was illuminated in front ; an appropriate transparency was 
 exhibited ; many persons in the neighborhood, sympathizing with 
 
26 MEMOIR Of 
 
 the general feeling, illuminated their dwellings. Inside there was 
 one continued triumph for the great actor, while the street was 
 crowded by admiring thousands who could not gain admittance. 
 
 After playing at Philadelphia and elsewhere, Mr. Forrest re- 
 turned to New York, and commenced another engagement at the 
 Broadway, on the 20th of Sept. following, where he played for 
 thirty successive nights, in consequence of the previous arrange- 
 ments of the manager. On the 21st of Feb., 1853, he began an- 
 other engagement at this theatre, which lasted seventy-three nights, 
 though with an interval, after the first five nights, of one week, 
 which Mr. F. devoted to witnessing the inauguration of President 
 Pierce. Thus from Nov., 1826, to Oct., 1853, during a period of 
 twenty- seven years, he has pursued his professional career; and 
 has successfully maintained his first and indisputable position as 
 the greatest living high priest of Thesbis. 
 
 As the representative of Shakspeare, Mr. F. stands unrivalled in 
 the poet's four greatest productions : Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and 
 Macbeth. But his range of characters are very various, compris- 
 ing whatever is really great, in the wide sphere of the tragedian. 
 As Richard III., Brutus, and Anthony in " Julius Cgesar," Shj- 
 lock, lago, Damon, Richelieu, Virginius, Pizarro, Tell, Jafiier, Ber- 
 tram, and in many other of the best plays in the language, he is 
 unsurpassed. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to dwell upon his qualities as an actor, 
 for nearly all, whom such an exposition might interest, have seen 
 and enjoyed his performances. Nature bestowed on him in per- 
 fection, every requisite mental and physical qualification. His 
 ■figure is one of dignified and manly proportions. His eye is full 
 of fire and expression. His voice is the most remarkable for com- 
 pass, for melody, and for power, of any on the stage. This may be 
 illustrated by reference to his nuciation of the most celebrated 
 passages of Shakspeare. We may cite an example : 
 Duncan is in his grave: 
 
 After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; 
 
 Treason has done his worst, nor steel, nor poison. 
 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 
 Can touch him further !* 
 
 * Macbeth, Act. III., Scene II. 
 
EDWIN FORREST. 27 
 
 Whoever has heard Mr. Forrest utter these lines, will never for- 
 get it, while memory remains the warder of his brain ! Mr. For- 
 rest's style is his own. Like every other great original, he has 
 countless imitators, of various grades of excellence, who have pro- 
 fited, in different degrees, by the careful study of their distinguish- 
 ed model. 
 
 Every lover of the Drama will hope that the day may be far 
 distant when his professional displays will terminate; and the 
 plaudits of his admiring countrymen ring upon his ears for the la^t 
 time. Whenever that event occurs, and he ceases to be a hero of 
 the actual present, his memory will become enshrined in the hearts 
 of myriads, as being connected with the most inspiring and exalted 
 moments of their lives ; and they will look back at this great star 
 of scenic splendor, and recall with delight those varied and intense 
 emotions, which, with magic power, he had often produced within 
 them, when portraying so impressively, the joys and sorrows, the 
 hopes and fears, the grandeurs and the vicissitudes of humanity.. 
 
 Thus, by the mighty actor wrought 
 
 Illusion's perfect triumphs come ; 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 
 And sculpture to be dumb ! 
 
TO 
 
 MADAME JULIE DE MARGUERITTES. 
 
 Madame : — Not less as a tribute of admiration for one of the most 
 successful Dramatists of this country, than as a token of personal 
 friendship and esteem, I heg leave to dedicate to you the following 
 play. With sentiments of profound regard, 
 
 I remain your obd't. serv't., 
 
 SAMUEL M. SMCJCKER. 
 New-York, Nov. 2, 1853. 
 
DEAMATI8 PERSONS 
 
 James /., {King of England.) 
 
 Prince Charles, (his son.) 
 
 Duke of Buckingliam, '\ 
 
 Sir William Sidriey. | 
 
 Lord Rochester. )■ English Courtiers., 
 
 Sir Richard Graham. | 
 
 Lord Cecil. J 
 
 Do7i Alfonso, {Laura^s father.) 
 
 Don Pedro, {Laura's brother.) 
 
 Don Lorenzo, } c^ • i ^^ jf 
 
 Marquis Toledo, \ ^P^""''^ Grandees. 
 
 Philip II. {King of Spain.) 
 
 Valesquez, {artist.) 
 
 Leon, {Servant of Alfonso.) 
 
 Courtiers and Officers. 
 
 A Page. 
 
 Donna Laura 
 
 Donna Teresa, {her mother.) 
 
 Donna Constanza. 
 
 8TAGIE MEMORANDA. 
 
 R. means Right; L. Ijeft ; R. D. Right Door; L. D. Left Door ,• 
 S, E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper E/itrajice ; M. D. Middle Door; 
 C. E. Centre Entrance. 
 
PEEFACE 
 
 The following play is founded upon some incidents of the well- 
 known Tisit of Prince Charles and the Duke of Buckingham to 
 Madrid, in A. D. 1623, for the purpose of negotiating a matrimo- 
 nial alliance between that Prince, the son of James L, the reigning 
 sovereign of England, and the Infanta, daughter of Philip II. The 
 young noblemen who accompanied the Duke to JVIadrid. on that 
 occasion, were the flower and pride of the English noliility. They 
 were selected by that haughty and splendid courtier, in consequence 
 of their superior external qualities. All of them were remarkable 
 for their personal beauty, their accomplishments, and their air de 
 cour. Among even these, Sir William Sidney was unrivalled and 
 supreme. 
 
 A very few of the incidents of this play may be found in the 
 authentic or romantic records, of that singular expedition ; though 
 so many and such great additions have been interwoven into the 
 plot, as to render it, in a great measure, entirely original and ima- 
 ginative; and whether the work be worthy of the impartial critic's 
 praise or blame, one thing is not disguised, — that the piece has been 
 the fruit of considerable, though very agreeable, exertion. The 
 labor limae has been as laborious as were the original conception 
 and execution. The author has introduced one slight anachronism 
 m the play, though it does not affect the continuity of the plot, 
 which may be regarded as excusable under the circumstances. — 
 Reference is made to the song put in the mouth of Sir Sidney, in 
 Third Act. 
 
 Of the personages referred to in the succeeding pages, the most 
 important, in an historical point of view, and the only one whose 
 personal career it may be interesting to recount, was the celebrated 
 George Villicrs, Duck of Buckingham. lie was the unworthy fa- 
 vorite of both James I. and Charles I. His chief claims to their 
 admiration, and the principal merits which secured him their re- 
 gard, were the unusual elegance of his manners, and the remarka- 
 ble beauty of his person. 
 
2Q PREFACt:. 
 
 King James first elevated this man through all the gradations 
 of the peerage, until he conferred upon him almost regal power. 
 His licentious and unprincipled conduct, in his high station, soon 
 rendered him odious to the whole nation. His dishonorable be- 
 haviour in Paris, whither he had been sent to celebrate the mar- 
 riage of King Charles I. with the daughter of Louis XIIT.. so dis- 
 gusted that monarch, that he afterward refused to receive Buck- 
 ingham as the English Ambassador at his court. It was in re- 
 venge for this deserved repulse, that he incited the Protestants of 
 Rochelle to an useless and disastrous war against that monarch. 
 His own conduct during this conflict, disgraced both himself, his 
 king, and the nation ; so that immediately on his return, the Par- 
 liament solemnly petitioned the king to dismiss him from the 
 court. The only reply which the king condescended to give them, 
 was an angry order for their immediate dissolution. Shortly af- 
 terward, the handsome and aspiring Duke was placed in command, 
 of another army, intended for the assistance of the Protestants of 
 Rochelle ; but he was assassinated on the instant of his embarka- 
 tion, by Pel ton, an inferior officer among his own troops. All 
 Europe, excepting the king alone, exulted at this sudden and ig- 
 nominious termination of his career. 
 
 The part assigned to him in this play, is in complete harmony 
 with these details of his history. 
 
 The most obvious objection which could be urged against the 
 plot of the following play, is that Prince Charles, after having been 
 introduced somewhat prominently in the First Act, afterward al- 
 most disappears from the subsequent scenes. The answer to this 
 objection is this : that as the Prince is only intended to be a 
 secondary character, and is introduced merely so far, as he is neces- 
 sary to prepare the way for others, when he is afterward dropped, 
 as soon as the more important personages become seriously en- 
 gaged in the incidents of the drama, — he is but treated with criti- 
 cal consistency and justice. To have given him any further pro- 
 minence would have diverted the attention from the real heroes of 
 the play, and would have weakened the effect intended to be pro- 
 duced by the events of their more important history. 
 
 The transactions connected with the personal history of Prince 
 Charles while in Spain, were trivial and unimportant, to the last 
 degree; and it would have been impossible to invest anything 
 
PREFACE. 27 
 
 which he there either said or did, with the least dramatic interest 
 or historical consequence. What was wanting in connection with 
 himself, was furnished, to some extent, by his subordinate asso- 
 ciates,— the heroes of the following pla3^ The adventures of these 
 men, in Spain, were indeed, memorable and striking ; and few 
 events, in the whole history of courtiers, furnish more romantic 
 and interesting incidents, than those of the accomplished, elegant, 
 though most dissolute suite of Prince Charles in Spain. 
 Neio York, Nov., 1853. S. M. S. 
 
 NOTES TO TEXT. 
 
 [1.] The subsequent experience of Charles I., after he had espoused 
 the princess Henrietta of France, proved to be precisely such as that 
 referred to in the text. The suite of the French princess wiio accom- 
 panied her to England, formed the hot-bed of endless jealousies, 
 bickerings, and domestic factions, amid the eternal and treacherous 
 janglings of which, the unhappy king enjoyed as little domestic fell 
 city, as ever fell to the lot of a less illustrious husband. The despe- 
 rate prince was compelled at last to dismiss and expel every person 
 connected with his Queen, from his court and capital. Then, but not 
 till then, did he enjoy a cessation of their endless disturbances. 
 
 [2.] Philip II. was the son of Charles V., Emperor of Germany, 
 King of Spain and the Netherlands, and King of Austria. He was a 
 man of remarkable haughtiness of temper ; and the language ascribed 
 to him in the text, may be regarded as neither inappropriate or over- 
 strained, however absurd it is in reality. In this monarch Spanish 
 pride reached an amazing and unparalleled intensity. 
 
 [3.] It is a matter familiar to the historical reader, that the ancient 
 worshippers of the Assyrian deity, Molock, erected hollow iron altars 
 to his worship ; which were surmounted by huge statues of the god, 
 made of the same material, with extended arras, in which naked in- 
 fants were deposited. Large fires were then built within the altars, 
 and the innocent sufferers roasted to death, in the embrace of the god, 
 amid the noisy revelry of the surrounding multitude. Vide CALMET*a 
 Encyc. sub voce, Molock. 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Private Cabhiet of James I., %n the Palace at 
 Windsor. King James discovered standing at a writing 
 table, covered ivith j^o^pers, scrolls, Sj'C. 
 
 K. James, (solus.) Already have the ripening merits of 
 my son, 
 The youthful heir to England's throne, secured 
 The praises of my subjects, and the admiration 
 Of all Europe. Their congratulations now flow 
 In upon me daily. Bat while my blooming hopes 
 All centre in him, their fulfillment hangs, 
 But by a single hair, o'er a profound and 
 Hazardous abyss. If he should perish, 
 Where is the succession ? Where then would be 
 The noble house of Stuart, and its hereditary 
 Glories ? Where the peace and concord of the realm ? 
 Thus the most trivial accident, that 
 E'er befel a feeble mortal, might, in a 
 Single instant, change the fortunes of a world. 
 He must marry ; and that, too, quickly. His 
 Youthful blood must flow in other veins. 
 And an increasing brood of fair descendants, 
 Must crowd around his feet. I may yet see 
 
32 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 That happy hour, ere these decrepid limbs 
 Eepose in kindred clay. The good work is begun. 
 My messenger to the King of Saxony, must 
 Soon return ; and should that proposition fail, 
 I must devise some other, surer aUiance. 
 
 Enter Buckingham and Lord Cecil, l. 
 
 Ah, welcome, my lords; my noble privy 
 Councillors are late to-day. 
 
 Buck. We crave your pardon. 
 
 K. James, What news have you 
 Received from the King of Saxony ? 
 
 Cicil. None, my liege. 
 
 K. James. Those sleepy G-ermans are so 
 Slow in their diplomacy ! My patience 
 Is exhausted by them. 
 
 Buck. A short delay will 
 Doubtless bring hia answer. 
 
 Enter Page, who hands letter to the King, l. 
 
 K. James, (reads.) 'Tis e'en as you 
 Predict. My royal brother, King of Saxony, 
 Informs me in this last epistle, that 
 His fair daughter, Ann, is now betrothed 
 To a Danish prince ; and much regrets my kind 
 Proposal is beyond the power of his fulfillment. 
 'Tis unfortunate. What shall be done ? 
 
 Cec. My liege, amid the 
 Brilliant catalogue of Christian princesses, 
 There can yet surely one be found, deserving 
 Of this high and great alliance. 
 
 K. James. Name me but one. 
 
 Buck. There is the French princess, 
 Henrietta, blooming with unequalled loveliness. 
 
 K. James. 1 will permit no Bourbon 
 Princess in my court. Her suite would be the 
 Cause of endless jealousies and broils. They 
 Would but act as spies upon my government 
 And kingdom. 1 should enjoy no peace, or comfort 
 More, with those eternal intriguers within 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 33 
 
 The precincts of my palace. 
 
 Cec. I confess, that 
 Those are grave objections to a French alliance. 
 
 Buck. We must inquire, then, 
 Elsewhere. I will confer at once with all the 
 Foreign ministers at our court ; I will 
 Inform my liege of the result of my researches. 
 Depend upon me ; I will yet succeed, 
 And find a princess worthy of your son. 
 
 K. James. Then haste you in the work. 
 There are most serious dangers in delay. 
 The whole succession of my throne, now 
 Centres in that boy, and we must, quickly, ere an 
 Accident prevents so great a purpose. 
 Provide for the continuance of our royal 
 House. So, commence your inquiries. 
 
 [Exit, Buck, and Cecil, l. 
 
 Scene II. — Another Apartment in the Palace of Windsor 
 Prince Charles and Buckingham discovered. 
 
 Buck. I own ^tis true, my noble prince. The 
 News from Saxony is not propitious. 
 But that affects me little. There are other 
 Princesses, as charming as the heavy 
 Dame of Dresden, and I hope most more so. 
 
 Charles. I wish my father 
 Did not hasten on my nuptials thus. 
 I do not wish to wed. A thousand beauties 
 Daily sigh around me, all whose tender charms 
 Delight my soul, and surfeit me with love. 
 More than these I do not want. 
 
 Buck. But your noble father is most anxious 
 Respecting the succession. You must then 
 Marry and that quickly. I have lately seen 
 A Spanish gentleman, who speaks in the 
 Most glowing terms of the fair Infanta, 
 Daughter of the Spanish monarch. What think 
 You now of such a match ? 
 
 Charles. The ardent dames of 
 Spain, are not without their charms, 
 As all the world can testify. 
 
34 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 What does he say of her ? 
 
 Buck, fehe is, indeed, not the 
 Most beauteous of her sex. Yet she is pretty, 
 Tender, graceful ; and the vast dominions, 
 Which would become her dower, would add 
 Stupendous bulk to th' wealth and resources 
 Of our English realms. 
 
 Charles. How would she best 
 Be won ? The etiquette of the Spanish court 
 Is endless and interminable. Years would 
 Elapse before a proposition of alliance 
 Between our houses, would attain a final issue. 
 
 Buck. There is much truth in that remark. 
 We must devise some quicker method, {pauses.) 
 I have it ! Let us sail at once for Spain, 
 There woo the princess in your proper person. 
 Observe her charms yourself If you desire it, 
 I w^arrant, she will most easily be won. 
 And if need be ; if you are trammelled by the 
 Endless meshes of their courtly forms. 
 Elope with her from Spain ! Yes, elope on board our ships. 
 We will assist you. 'Twill all be afterward 
 Arranged. What think you of the adventure ? 
 
 Charles. 'Tis a brilliant thought. 
 'Tis worthy of the noble Buckingham ! I am 
 Delighted with it. What a romantic 
 Novelty would it be ! All Europe would 
 Be tilled with wonder and applause. Such 
 An event has never happened yet, in all 
 The history of European princes. Indeed, 
 I like it vastly ! Spain is the land of love. 
 I should delight to roam amid the cool 
 And leafy shades of Vallambrosa, with an 
 Andalusian maid upon my arm ; and 
 Gaze On the mosaic splendors of the 
 Alhanibra, where Moorish genius still 
 Beams forth, immortal. Yes, I approve the 
 Proposition. I will go ! 
 
 Buck. But your sire, his high consent 
 Is needful. You must, of course, obtain that first. 
 
 Charles. I'll see him instantly. 
 'Tis Spain, and its rare beauties, far more 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 35 
 
 Than the Infanta, and her dower, which 
 Speed me on so ardently. We will meet 
 Again after my private converse with my father. 
 Buck, I will expect you then. 
 
 Scene III. — Private Cabinet of King James, as in first 
 sce)ie. King James a7td Prince Charles discovered. 
 
 Charles. My honored liege, I crave to know : — 
 Do your desire that I, your son and heir, 
 Should wed ? 
 
 IC James. That is the greatest hope and 
 Aim for which I live. 
 
 Charles. Then I am willing to 
 Obey you, as well as to assist your purpose, 
 
 K. James. But I am yet unable 
 To discover where to look for an appropriate 
 And a worthy alliance. 
 
 Charles. Then let me mention 
 To you, one that is most suitable. 
 
 K. Jajncs. Proceed. Whom 
 Would you recommend ? 
 
 Charles. The Duke of Buckingham 
 And I, have just conferred on this important 
 Theme. He has proposed the daughter of 
 The King of Spain, the Infanta. 
 
 /i. James. It is a seemly alliance. 
 'Tis one whereby great benefit might be 
 Obtained for England, and her interests, 
 On the continent. Let me see. [pauses.) 
 Upon reflection, I approve the proposition. 
 I will dispatch at once a messenger to 
 Th^ Spanish court, to open conferences 
 On the subject. 
 
 Charles. Send a messenger ! Never ! sire. 
 I have still something better to propose. 
 I will go forth myself to Spain, and woo the 
 Princess there in person. 
 
 IL James. Impossible ! What an 
 Outrageous purpose! What ! Shall I thus risk the lone 
 
 Successor to my throne, amid the countless 
 Perils, both of land and sea ; and that too, in f^ 
 
36 
 
 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Foreign clime ? Never ! Perchance, when the 
 Perfidious Spaniard had you in his grasp, he might 
 Retain you as a hostaf^e, and extort from me most 
 liuinous terms of resntution. 
 
 Charles. But, my lord Buckingham 
 Both proposes and approves this visit. 
 
 K. James. He does ? That alters, 
 Then, the case. What the noble Duke proposes, 
 Must be right and safe. He is a far-sighted 
 Statesman. Does he indeed regard this 
 Proposition as both wise and prudent ? 
 
 Charles. Perfectly. If you 
 Confer with him, you will find it so. 
 
 K. James. I do' not doubt your truth. 
 I will at once consent. You shall go. 
 With the Duke as your companion, and 
 Protector, my fears will be allayed. 
 But let me caution you, in time, against 
 The many perils which will there surround you. 
 Know, my son, the secret dagger of the 
 Assassin, in that land, is ever on the 
 Alert, to deal a deadly blow, when lust, 
 Or avarice, or revenge would spur it on. 
 Treat the Spanish court with deference. 
 And to the princess give due courtesy. 
 And do not be misled, e'en by the gallant 
 Courtiers, whom I will send with you, — 
 By Buckingham, and the impetuous Sydney. 
 In all affairs of love, I grieve to say. 
 They are unthinking and unscrupulous ; 
 And trifle but too lightly with the female 
 Heart and its most pure affections. 
 Be you honorable, prudent, faithful. 
 Profess nothing which you do not feel 
 Promise nothing which you will not 
 Execute. And should you wish, at length, 
 To wed the Spanish princess, my consent 
 Shall not be wanting. Meanwhile, I will 
 Command all needful preparations to be made 
 For this strange expedition, — such as 
 Will be worthy of yourself and me, 
 Charles. IVIy liege and father, 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 37 
 
 Accept rny hearty thanks. I will most deeply 
 
 Charge my mind and memory with your 
 
 Prudent councils ; and will then obey them. 
 
 Amid the various scenes and incidents 
 
 Of this adventurous journey, I will 
 
 Ne'er forget the thoughtful lessons you this 
 
 Day impart to me. 
 
 Scene IV. — Palace of Duke of Buckingham, London, 
 
 Enter Buckingham, Sir William Sydney, Lord Eoches- 
 TER, Graham, and Cecil, l. 
 
 Buck. My noble lords, I have this moment 
 Come from the presence of the king, and my 
 Dispatches are in my possession. 
 All other needful preparations for this 
 Eomantic embassy to Spain, are finished. 
 Our gallant ships already ride at 
 Anchor in the channel. Our youthful and 
 Adventurous prince is eager to embrace 
 His blooming Spanish bride. He bids us 
 Hasten our departure. What say you ? 
 
 Syd. I see no reason for delay. 
 All our equipments are complete ; and all 
 The splendor, which British pride, and 
 Wealth, and skill, could lavish on our embassy, 
 Have been bestowed upon us, by our 
 Liberal sovereign. I burn to see 
 The sunny hills of Spain ; to view the 
 Splendors of its haughty court ; and more than 
 All, to woo the dark-eyed beauties of 
 That loving clime, whose charms have 
 Been renowned throughout the world. 
 Roch. My chief objection to this 
 Sudden haste, will be, that so many soft 
 Attachments bind me here already, that, to 
 Dissolve them rudely all at once, will be 
 A desperate attempt ! A great many 
 Loving and devoted hearts, will surely break, 
 If you insist upon my leaving England, 
 In such eager haste ! 
 
38 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Grah. I give my voice 
 In favor of our quick departure. 
 I am in haste to grasp those broad and ghttering 
 Ducats, which now shine so brightly, in the 
 Iron coffers of the Spanish courtiers. 
 The members of this royal embassy will be 
 O'erwhelmed with floods of golden treasure, 
 If they accompHsh this desired match, 
 Between our gallant prince and the fair Joanna, 
 Heiress of the Spanish realms. 
 
 Buck. It is enough. 
 We will delay no longer. At to-morrow's 
 Noon, let each one be in readiness, to 
 Meet the prince, and to embark upon the 
 Journey. Three changing moons shall not 
 Kevolve around this teeming earth, ere we 
 Set foot on Spanish soil, and hail its mighty 
 Court and King. Success to English wooing 
 For Spanish brides ! This expedition shall 
 Be memorable, I w^arrant me, to many 
 A sighing Andalusian maid, who 
 Will remember long the journey of the English 
 Courtiers to her shores, to woo and win a 
 Beauteous partner for their noble prince. 
 To-morrow then, at noon, we bid adieu 
 To England, and set sail for Spain. 
 
 Cec. At noon. 
 To-morrow, we shall meet your lordship. 
 
 [Exeunt, l. 
 
 Buck, (solus.) And thus my scheme moves on most 
 famously ! 
 This expedition will attract more glory to my name, 
 Than all the by-gone triumphs of my prowess. 
 Or my craft. Indeed, my fame would soon have 
 Sunk in deep oblivion ; for those who are 
 But statesmen of the common stamp, are soon 
 Forgotten by ungrateful men ! But now my 
 Fertile brain has hit upon a scheme, rash. 
 Dangerous, foohsh though it be ; yet one. 
 Which will be spoken of with wonder, to the 
 End of time, and rescue the proud name of 
 Buckingham, from dark forgetfulness. And even 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE 39 
 
 Though the expedition fail ! What of that ? 
 
 It matters nothing. I will have had the 
 
 Glory of the plan. What though it fail, and a 
 
 Destructive war in turn should devastate 
 
 The land. That matters nothing ; for I have 
 
 Had the glory of the plan ! And that great 
 
 End attained, all other purposes are but 
 
 Of trivial consequence. Yet I predict. 
 
 The expedition will not fail ; for Buckingham 
 
 But seldom fails. And then our private pleasures 
 
 In the Spanish capital, — these surely will be 
 
 New and piquant. 'Twill be a famous expedition ! 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Palace of the Escurial in Spain. — Philip II. 
 a7id his courtiers discovered. 
 
 Enter Marquis of Toledo and Don Alfonso, l. 
 
 Tole. Sire, we come to apprise your majesty, 
 Of the arrival of the embassy of your 
 Illustrious brother, King of England ; concerning which, 
 Your trusty servants at that Court, 
 Have sent your majesty, already,, due and 
 Timely notice. They have been escorted 
 To my palace, and are now my guests. 
 They crave a public audience of our 
 King, that they may then present their 
 Koyal master's greeting, and with all due forms 
 Of courtly etiquette, may woo and win 
 The fair Infanta for their prince. 
 
 K. Phil. We hear of the arrival 
 
40 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Of this train of noble Britons, and their 
 
 Blooming prince, with hearty welcome. 
 
 It is our pleasure, that they be received 
 
 With fullest honor, and that, as soon 
 
 As may be, you conduct them to our presence. 
 
 Exit J Toledo, r. 
 
 Alf. Already have I seen your visitors, — 
 These noble and illustrious strangers. They are 
 Worthy of your sovereign courtesy 
 
 K, Phil. Where saw you them ? 
 
 Alf. In the Marquis of 
 Toledo's palace. 
 
 K- Fhil. Well, what think you 
 Of their rank and greatness ? I presume 
 They must be worthy, in magnificence and 
 Splendor, of the important mission 
 Which conducts them hither ? 
 
 Alf. All Madrid already echoes 
 With loud applauses of their courtly grace, 
 Their lofty chivalry, their lavish waste of gold ; 
 And what is not less grateful, to the peerless 
 Beauties of your court, their adoration 
 Of our noble Spanish dames. Their youthful 
 Prince appears, himself, a model of most manly 
 Beauty ; while his attendants all reflect 
 High honor on themselves and him. 
 
 K. Phil. I must admit, that from your 
 Own description, from the renowned greatness 
 Of their nation, and from the strange and 
 Striking novelty of this rare expedition, 
 I am in haste to see these visitors. So 
 When their public presentation to us 
 Is announced, let all our court attend. 
 In full array, that in this great, imposing 
 Presence, the ancient chivalry of Spain 
 May not appear, unworthy of itself. 
 
 Exeunt^ Courtiers, r. and l. 
 (Sohis.) The times have been, (now past indeed,) 
 Where these aspiring dwellers on that distant, 
 Petty, foggy island of the Northern seas, 
 Were httle better than barbarians ; 
 Unknown in th' glorious annals both of arts and 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 41 
 
 Arms. The onward march of empires is 
 
 Astounding ! Once the ancient crown of Spain shone 
 
 Brightest in the glorious firmament of kings. 
 
 Then, for an English prince to have presumed, 
 
 Upon an alliance with our house would 
 
 Have been laughable impertinence. Yet, 
 
 Since a fitful fate has now exalted England, 
 
 And made her equal to our ancient glory, 
 
 We must pretend, cajole, deceive ; 
 
 Involve them in the endless mazes of our 
 
 Courtly etiquette, and then, at length, dismiss 
 
 Them, doubtful if they shall prevail or 
 
 Not. Yes ! that shall be my policy. 
 
 It is the wisest, safest, best ! 2.) 
 
 Scene II. — Palace of Don Alfonzo at Madrid. 
 Enter Laura, Constanza, and Lorenzo, l. 
 
 Laura. How I do long to hear some news to-day ! 
 I do declare that all the gossip 
 Of the court, has grown to me intolerably 
 Stale and flat. For once, I should delight to hear 
 Something wonderful and startling. 
 
 Lor. Then, for once, you shall admit 
 That you are gratified. I now have something 
 Truly wonderful to tell you. 
 
 Con. Indeed, what can it be ? 
 Something wonderful to us here in Madrid, 
 Must indeed possess a nature almost 
 Miraculous, 
 
 Lor. Well, then, a most mysterious 
 Embassy, consisting of twelve noblemen, has 
 Arrived, this very day, at our court. 
 
 Lau, Whence do they come ? 
 
 Lor. They come from England. 
 
 Con. For what purpose ? 
 
 Lor. For a very curious purpose, and withal, 
 For a very interesting one. 
 
 Lau. What can it be, Lorenzo ? 
 
 Lor. What is most interesting 
 Of all things to a woman ? 
 
42 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Laii,, Nothing in all the world 
 Does interest me at this moment. Not even 
 You, Lorenzo, fascinating as you are ! 
 But there are some who say, that love is 
 Most agreeable of all things. If 'tis so, 
 I wish that I might feel it once, if for no other 
 Eeason than for the novelty of the thing. 
 
 Lor. Strange to say, the English prince desires 
 To have a wife ! 
 
 Con. That is certainly very 
 Strange. Who ever heard before, that a 
 Prince desired a wife ! This is indeed a novelty ! 
 
 Lor. These twelve noblemen have come, 
 Commissioned by the king of England, 
 To negotiate a marriage with the Infanta. 
 
 Loit. I hope they may not meet 
 Success. Those Englishmen, from all that I have 
 Ever heard, are such stern, such cold, such 
 Selfish creatures ! 
 
 Con. There is a much greater 
 Eault than that among them. They are 
 The most obstinate heretics in the world ! 
 
 Lou. Santa Maria! protect us. 
 
 Lor. But these cavaliers 
 Are said to be the most 
 Accomphshed, fascinating men. 
 You must both beware of them. 
 
 Lau. You need not caution me. 
 If all the female hearts in Spain, were as 
 Invulnerable to their darts as I, 
 These gentlemen would have their labor for 
 Their pains, and would return again to their 
 Distant, foggy island, precisely as 
 They came, without one single heart to triumph o er 
 
 Lor. My fairest Laura, 
 Do not be too confidant, I do conjure you. 
 Cupid is a most capricious, wilful creature. 
 He wounds, you know not how, or when, or where ; 
 And he must be a skilful surgeon who can 
 Extract his festering dart, when once 'tis fairly lodged, 
 Do not exult untill these gallants are all 
 Safely gone again. Let me repeat 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE 48 
 
 My caution to you both. Beware ! 
 
 Con. Absurd, I fear no danger ! 
 
 Lau. Nor I. I give them leave to 
 Wound me if they can ! They will deserve 
 The highest praises they receive, if they 
 Succeed in doing it ! I will even lure ihem 
 On, to try their utmost skill. And when their 
 Arts are all exhausted, and have failed, 
 I'll jest upon my British lords, and all 
 Their silly thoughts of Spanish love and women ! 
 
 Scene III. — Audience Chamber of Philip II., in the Escu- 
 rial. The King and full array of Courtiers discovered. 
 King on the Throne. 
 
 JEnter Marquis Toledo, Buckingham, Sidney, Rochester, 
 Graham, Cecil, and Don Alfonzo, l. 
 
 Tol. If it please your majesty, I here 
 Present to you, his Grace, the Duke of Buckingham, 
 And these most noble lords, ambassadors 
 From the king of England. 
 
 K Phil, (to Buck^j My lord Duke, 
 Accept our cordial greeting. You are welcome 
 To our Spanish realm and capital. 
 
 Buck. I thank your majesty ! 
 "We come as the ambassadors of our English 
 Monarch ; to present to you, in all good faith, 
 His own fraternal greeting, and then, to open 
 Conference with your court on a more 
 Tender theme. 
 
 K. Phil. I pray you, what is it ? 
 
 Buck. It is to crave a lasting alliance 
 Between the crowns of England and of Spain, 
 By the marriage of our monarch's son, 
 Now in your realm, with your fair daughter, 
 The Infanta. 
 
 K. Phil. This is, indeed, my lord, 
 A grave proposal, and one that touches 
 Nearly, our own ^ sart and sceptre. 
 
 Buck. And so in truth it does. 
 But yet, 'tis one which our great nation 
 
44 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Doth approve, and one to which we trust your 
 Majesty will yet affix your solemn sanction. 
 'Tis a most noble, princely purpose, 
 Thus to bind vast empires in close unity 
 And concord, by the strong and tender ties 
 Of love. Ten thousand evils, thus, are 
 Warded off, of war, of bloodshed, and of general 
 111, which might have devastated kingdoms, 
 And laid low, in hopeless ruin, their 
 Growing greatness. Our prince is 37^oung and 
 Chivalrous. The Infanta is most beautiful 
 And tender. We pray kind heaven, that this 
 Proposed alliance may be accomplished, 
 And bind in harmony and peace two distant 
 Healms, two great and mighty nations. 
 
 K. Phil. It may be so. 
 A proposition of such grave import. 
 Should not be entertained by us in haste. 
 We and our supreme council will gravely 
 Consider of it. Meanwhile, you are our 
 Honored guests. The brilliant spectacles, 
 The gay delights, the sights and wonders of all Spain 
 Are open to your free fruition. 
 Let it not be a sad time with you here 
 In Spain ; but let your exile be a joyous one. 
 All the honors of our court, and the pleasures 
 Of our capital, are at your welcome feet. 
 
 Buck. We pray your majesty 
 To accept our thanks. And now we say 
 Farewell, until such time, as we may learn 
 Your final purpose and decree, concerning the 
 Infanta. And here are the dispatches. 
 Touching the great purpose of our mission, 
 With which our sovereign master hath entrusted 
 Us, to be delivered to your royal hands. 
 
 [Delivers dispatches to the king. 
 
 Scene IV. — Private Apartment of the Duke of Buckino* 
 
 HAM. 
 
 Enter Buckingham and Sir William Sidney. 
 Buck. My lord Sidney, this is most certainly 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 45 
 
 A gay and cheerful land, for all the men are 
 
 Full of chivalry, and all the women 
 
 Are desperate in their loves. Already 
 
 Have I met an amorous adventure, 
 
 Pull of terrible excitement. These Spanish 
 
 Women, — if they once adopt you as their 
 
 Bosom's lord, will love you with an ardor 
 
 Of devotion, which is truly fearful to the 
 
 Frigid dwellers of a colder chme. 
 
 I doubt not, should their sweets of love 
 
 Be turned to jealous hate, 'twould mingle 
 
 With it all the bitterness of hell. Let me 
 
 Warn you, ray impetuous friend. 
 
 Stilettos are in fashion here, in fairest hands, 
 
 As much as in the ruder grasp of ruffians. 
 
 Sid. I grant you that, most willingly, my lord, 
 And yet these Spanish beauties are so lovely, 
 So bewitching, that their smiles are cheaply 
 Bought, e'en at the risk of life or limb. 
 
 Buc7<:. Oh, what a glorious spectacle 
 Was that we saw last eve ? These Spanish 
 Bull-fights are most worthy of their high renown. 
 Have you seen them ? 
 
 Sid. Yes, I have seen them. 
 
 Buck. Who can behold the splendid 
 Bright array of beauty, heightened the 
 Intense excitement of the scene ; the neighing 
 Horses, the dauntless toros^ the heroic 
 Metodores^ the echoing bravos^ the 
 Acclamations far and wide resounding. 
 The well-fought battles, and the bloody 
 Victories, — without delight ? But Sidney, {approaching 
 
 him. 
 Why so serious ? What has now occurred to 
 Cast so sad a shade upon your cheerful 
 Countenance ? Something has given you 
 The aspect of a gloomy, whining priest. 
 
 Sid. Had you beheld what I 
 Have seen, you had been gloomy too. Already 
 Has my sturdy heart been vanquished, and led 
 Captive, by Spain's fairest, and most beauteous 
 Daughter. And unrequited love, you know, 
 
46 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Perhaps from past experience, is saddening. 
 
 Buck. Can it be possible ? 
 Come, tell me all about it. 
 
 Sid. It occurred last evening. 
 At the amphitheatre. All Madrid was present 
 In its pomp, its pride, its beauty. Just after 
 The first victim had stained the earth with 
 His reeking blood, and was dragged forth, 
 Dead, from the arena; I turned to view 
 The mighty circle of that teeming. 
 Multitudinous sea of life ; when near 
 Me, I caught the most enchanting vision 
 Hum^n eyes have e'er beheld ; a creature, 
 Whose matchless loveliness at once enchained 
 My soul. I looked, and looked again. 
 Each glance of love absorbed new draughts of 
 Amorous fire, until I burned with an 
 Admiring rapture, to which I had ever 
 Been a stranger. 
 
 Buck. Wonderful ! 
 Well, what then ? 
 
 Sid. The lady, I assure you, is indeed, 
 Immaculate perfection ! I approached her. 
 Her mother alone attended her. With an 
 Uncovered head, and with such courteous 
 Deference, as peerless beauty e'er 
 Inspires true chivalry, I spoke to her ; 
 (The freedom of this loving land permitting 
 It, to those of equal rank ;) begged pardon 
 For my freedom, and ventured some indifferent 
 Questionings. I have her gracious leave 
 To visit her. My heart is full of rapture 
 At the thought that I shall soon again 
 Behold her peerless charms, and pour into 
 Her listening ear a burning tale of love. 
 
 Buck. Pray, tell me, who can this rare 
 Model of perfection be ? 
 
 Sid. She is the Countess Laura, 
 Daughter of a noble Spanish Grandee, 
 Duke Alfonzo, one of the magnates of Madrid. 
 
 Buck. Well, enough of this rhapsodic love 
 At present, I wish you full success in 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 47 
 
 This your first adventure. Ours is an 
 Embassy of love, you know. Venus and Cupid 
 Are our tutelary gods, beneath whose 
 Auspices this expedition has been 
 Begun. We should account our tender triumph 
 Neither few nor insignificant. 
 So fare you well, and when we next shall meet 
 Let me then hear the happy progress, 
 And the final triumph of your suit, 
 Methinks the interest of your own adventure. 
 Henceforth take precedence of th' royal match 
 Between the prince and the Infanta. 
 
 Scene V. — Garden of Don Alfonso's Palace. Sir Wil- 
 liam Sidney, and Donna Laura discovered in the midst 
 of shrubbery. A bower in the rear. 
 
 Lau. If what you say be true, — my lord, 
 Nor do I doubt it ; — your's must be a noble 
 Land, — the home of mighty heroes, 
 Statesmen, artists ; and were I not a Spaniard, 
 I might choose to be a Briton. 
 
 Sid. It is indeed, my fair one ! 
 I am proud that I was born its citizen. 
 But Spain can also boast of many 
 Immortal names, in arts and arms, in beauty 
 And in song. 
 
 Lau. Your nation has at least one 
 Glaring fault ; — a serious one to us, the tender 
 Sex ! You are too cold and formal ; you know 
 Not how to love ; and without love, life here, with us 
 In Spain, becomes indeed a cheerless waste, 
 A heavy burden ! 
 
 Sid. How strangely you 
 Mistake us ! We Britons may indeed not be 
 As wild, impassioned, fervent as the 
 Lovely denizens of this fair sunny clime ; 
 But, believe me, we can love as deeply, 
 As truly, and as well as they. That love 
 Is not the strongest, which sends forth 
 The loudest clamor. We have an ancient 
 Adage in our land, which says that 
 
48 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Deepest waters run the stillest. 
 And so it is with love ; although indeed, 
 Whene'er its onward course is stopped by 
 Stern and rugged obstacles, its stream will 
 Boil, and fret, and burst in fury o'er them. 
 
 [ Laura surveys him admiringly. 
 
 Lau. Pray, Sir William, have you 
 Ever loved ? 'Tis a strange question, truly, 
 But 'tis one I crave to know. It is my 
 Present humor. 
 
 Sid. Let me answer it. 
 Pair questioner, by asking, in reply, 
 Have you e'er felt the strange emotion ? 
 
 Lau. My heart is free ; free as the air of heaven ! 
 I have beheld the noblest gallants of the 
 Land. I have admired their grace ; and 
 Praised their manly beauty. I have oft 
 Been wooed. But I have never yet been won. 
 My heart has not been touched by all their 
 Arts of tender witchery, and amorous 
 Craftiness. And now, that you are freely 
 Answered, answer me as freely ! 
 
 Sid. Were I to answer falsely, 
 I should injustice do to all your charms. 
 Were I to answer truly, it would cover 
 O'er my brow, with crimson blushes. 
 What is true love ? I long to know 
 Your thought upon it. 
 
 Lau. If I have never felt it, 
 How can I then describe it ? And yet, from 
 Books, and legends, and from the daily incidents 
 Of men, I think I may have learned to 
 Picture forth its nature. 
 I suppose it is a curious passion ; 
 Half joy, half grief, half sweet, half bitter. 
 Its heavenly sweetness, not an angel's tongue 
 Can tell. Its demon bitterness, no winged 
 Thought can fathom. 'Tis sometimes based 
 On graceful charms of outward form. 
 But that love is the noblest, which springs up 
 In the admiring soul of woman, when 
 She views, and comprehends the high supremacy 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 49 
 
 Of mind in him she loves; the grandeur 
 
 Of that intellectual power, which ranges forth 
 
 A facile conqueror o'er all the high 
 
 And fair domains of knowledge, and which proves 
 
 The man she loves, coequal with a god. 
 
 The bard's undying verse, the statesman's craft, 
 
 The soldier's heroism, the orator's fervent 
 
 Tongue, — these feed the flame of woman's highest 
 
 Love, with noblest and immortal fuel. 
 
 This love will fill the soul with heavenly 
 
 Forms of light ; and make it pregnant with 
 
 Rich fancy's varied loveliness. It comes, indeed, 
 
 Unbidden ; but it ne'er departs again. 
 
 If it be requited, it will cast auroral 
 
 Radiance round the soul ; and turn this earth, 
 
 With all its woes, into a paradise 
 
 Of bliss. Time then becomes too short, for its 
 
 Fruition ; and life itself, too transient, to exhaust 
 
 Its deep, unfathomable joys. All human 
 
 Good and ill become indifferent in their 
 
 Nature ; since all are thus transmuted to 
 
 Delight. But if this love be scorned, and 
 
 Trod upon, it then becomes an agony. 
 
 So terrible and distracting, that all 
 
 The tortures of the lost are trifles to it. 
 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 Sid. Thy thoughts and words 
 Are beautiful, as is the angelic form 
 From which they emanate, {kneels.) 
 My fairest Laura, let this heavenly 
 Bliss of which thou speakest, be mine. 
 A stranger from a distant clime, I 
 Am thy suppliant lover. 1 would live 
 And die for thee ! One word of hope from 
 Those sweet hps, as fragrant as the rosy 
 Breath of morn, will give me life and joy. 
 One frown on that fair brow, as smooth and pure 
 As Dian's heaving breast, will overshadow 
 
 Me with gloom. Oh ! thou most eloquent 
 
 Expounder of man's inmost nature, 
 Words cannot tell how deep is that 
 Devotion, with which thy charms have filled 
 
50 THE SrANISII WIFE. 
 
 My soul. Accept a heart that would 
 Be thy eternal slave ! 
 
 Lau. Ivise, my lord, 
 I'm not indifferent to your merit. 
 My heart is not incapable of love. 
 But this proposal, though 'tis honorable. 
 Is too hasty ; and maiden modesty forbids 
 That I should thus so soon be wooed, 
 Or so easily be won. Yonder I see 
 My honored father's form, amid the hanging foliage. 
 
 [Alfonso ajjpcars in the rear. 
 Let us now bid adieu to these sweet themes 
 Until we meet again. Then, my lord, I 
 Will permit my heart to dictate the true 
 Language of my lips. Let me go to meet him ! 
 
 [^Retires toward Alfonso. 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 3 joNE I. — Apartment of the Duke op Buckingham. 
 Enter Buckingham, Sidney, and Sir Richard G-raham. 
 
 BkcJx. Well, Sidney, how comes on your tender suit 
 with that personified perfection of yours. The v. >ana^ — 
 what is her name ? 
 
 Sid. I suppose, my lord, j^ou mean the Countess Laura ? 
 
 Buck. I suppose I do ; but I confess, that in this in- 
 stance, you know my " supposition" better than I do my- 
 self. Is she very difficult to win ? If she be, one thing is 
 certain, and that is, that she is a rare anomaly in the his- 
 tory of Spanish women, — the only instance throughout all 
 
Spain, of a Troman ^V !f» ihnrj :f ler t^T^ors-and wiio m^ 
 nothe had bj any ^cr *:-:(.♦ inj: ittilcw^ ika !nya«£ jTir die 
 ample reftpectfulafttt'-ncr. I.ll:^r^:. ro iir lave diesse «lark- 
 ^ed- impaft^iotied dcnnji^» in:'r^i^: vitt :oii2:!ii^ xnngAA- 
 cen. ' ! me. uiat ^ney la-- er-^^ T-^r^red tio reSewft 
 
 me -i^ie 0*0 able : in.' J. i:i~i :ifer^i roeir a&cdott 
 
 grazjs, 'jz :2iis, the abiiii<Lir-ce las ":e-:t-rne 50 zreat diat 
 my pox% ers or accommcdarr q ia~-r n«ie^i been, ovsrca^- 
 ed, aac I have been <2cnipeile: :':r r-rtv-r-L. iajs zo sospefld 
 hofinlitiea- :?ir Ricoard. -v.i- -:l^: :eea. "car exp«iaice 
 in the mattt?r of :?panish _ 
 
 Qrak, Well- while I ii^-rt ci ^ach. great tri- 
 
 mnpha in. the world of beauij ji jaluir:'!. ii» yrjn aetan to 
 do^ I have not been, here r^vc waoLe weeks withool meet- 
 ing aome adventnre. Yoo. have. h'''ve"^^r. zreatiy the ad- 
 TantaiZe of me. caj I<Tri ia. vo'ii* ^'ly.encr jr.arm. of person 
 and «HI1 in female fa^einatioiL In 'iiese :^ng5. I comiesB^ 
 I am no equal to the LKiie of B^ictrignarr. '. 
 
 Budc [to SidTLgy. ] Why. Sidney. I aee you still retain 
 yoar 3oI«iin monkish moe. Are yon. stilL endiiring^ the 
 pan^ of that barbed arrow, which C'lpid .areiy lodged in 
 jonr breast '? It mnst have festered ^^irely dnrin^ aill tiiia 
 time. DocbtlesB. there is bat one iiiir hand trironsh- 
 oot all Spain, which can act the succesefii snrgeon, and 
 extract that penetrating ahaft. How is this t 
 
 Sid. I>ott't jest on snch a 3eri<>ns subject. 
 
 Ruck, A serious subject ? Eidiculous ! r>o you pre- 
 tend to speak of the love of woman as a serious thing ? 
 
 SieL The love of some women I regard as a s«ioa8 
 J, my Ior»l 
 
 3mck. Do you indeeii ! TeU me the tiijKrence between 
 tiiem. To me. the love of oue woman is exactly the same 
 as that of another. They are aK the trivial plaything of 
 SB faoor. To me they aS grow stale aGke. 
 
 SitL 'PabsLgs they do : such ^ those whose love so 
 greal a tr^er as you, may be able to win. 
 
 BmdL Wfaai mean yon ? You are quite ambiguous. 
 
 SmL Wbat I meaK isy Hiat if you once secure tiie ajfec* 
 *3oae of a aoiile, aecoa^ifiriied. and cooliding womac^e de- 
 flcrves jomr taaetamej'y and your unchanging tenderness. 
 Tow p r o femu d imtrigmstes whose love is but the gratin- 
 oc a trinnirnt wium ; wfao expect te :a6C yoa o^ 
 
/>2 THE SPANISH WIPE. 
 
 themselves, as soon as their greedy appetite is sated, and 
 a newer or more fascinating lover attracts them, — such 
 women you may serve accordingly. But all women are 
 not of this character ; and last of all, the best and most 
 excellent of women to whom you now refer. 
 
 Buck. I suppose, of course, that you now allude to this 
 wonderful charmer of yours, the Donna Laura ? 
 
 Sid. Most certainly I do. 
 
 Buck. Let me assure you, that you soon will get over 
 all that nonsense. If your inamorata is fairer, and more 
 tender than all other women, she may inspire you at first 
 with a deeper and intenser passion ; but this new flame 
 will soon grow cold, hke hundreds before" it; and ere we 
 take our final leave of Spain, and Spanish women, you will 
 almost have forgotten that the divine Laura had ever ex- 
 isted. Take my word for it; I am no novice in these 
 mysterious and delicate matters. 
 
 Sid. My lord, I am something of a gallant, I acknow- 
 ledge. But I have never learned to trifle with woman's 
 afi'ections, to the same cold, heartless, and utterly unfeel- 
 ing extent which you do. 
 
 Buck. Absurd ! let me tell you, and if you do not know 
 it, 'tis high time that you should learn it, — that all women, 
 without exception, are extremely selfish. Even their love 
 is nothing but absolute selfishness. What does a woman 
 love you for, in case she love at all ; w^hich has, indeed, 
 become a rare event ; unless it be because she finds, or 
 imagines that she finds, in your superior charms of mind 
 or person, the more potent and efi'ective instruments 
 wherewith to gratify her own passion ? Why, for instance, 
 does a woman admire the graceful form, the handsome 
 features, the fair proportions, and the vigorous limbs of 
 such a graceful gallant as I am, {surveying himself^ un- 
 less it be because she knows that such superior advantages 
 as I possess, render me the more exquisite and fascinating 
 in all the sports of love ? 
 
 Sid. I own, there is some truth in that. 
 
 Buck. If women, therefore, in their supreme selfishness, 
 are willing to make use of you, to gratify their own pur- 
 poses, you should also do the same in regard to them ; 
 that is, merely use them as the instruments of your own 
 convenience, and when the occasion ends, which made 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. ^ 
 
 them useful or agreeable to you, cast them off, as you 
 would an old, ill-fashioned, worn-out garment ! 
 
 Sid. Doubtless there is much truth in what you say. — 
 You are a profound philosopher, my lord, in matters of 
 this kind. Your argument half convinces me. The idea 
 of disinterested love in woman, must be an outright ab- 
 surdity. I will act upon your counsel ; and when we sail 
 from Spain, there will be no freer heart or more desperate 
 gallant in all our company than myself. 
 
 Buck. Another thing, do you remember, and that is, 
 when they talk to you pathetically of dying at your depar- 
 ture, of their breaking hearts ; of the dreary desolation of 
 your absence, and so on, and so on ; — that all these poeti- 
 cal, romantic declamations, are common stock in trade 
 with them, and though they sound very meltingly indeed, 
 the fair lips which utter them, mean, in reahty, just no- 
 thing at all ; and laugh at your parting tenderness, just as 
 soon as your back i's turned, and with watery eyes, you 
 have said your last adieu. But I must hasten hence to the 
 amphitheatre. My favorite metadorey to-day, will fight the 
 most furious of the Valencian bulls ; and I have promised 
 to throw him a purse of gold if he is victorious in the con- 
 flict. Adieu ! [Exeunt, r. and l. 
 
 Scene II. — Palace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. 
 
 E?iter Sidney, preceded hy a Servant, who offers him a 
 seat., amd then retires. Time., evening. 
 
 Sid. (c.) [sohis.^ This is the fatal and decisive hour 
 Unless I am deceived, which shall decide the 
 Destiny of this fair child of Spain. I am 
 Resolved to ply my arguments with more than 
 Usual skill. I'll utter all the sweetest 
 Eloquence of words, of looks, of sighs ; and 
 E'en if need be, I will fall into the melting 
 Mood, but will win her to my purpose. 
 I have so planed it, that e'er I leave her 
 Here, my trusty servant will request 
 Admittance to Alfonso's palace, with 
 Letters informing me, that my sudden 
 Absence and hasty trip to England, will 
 
54 THE SPANISH wife. 
 
 Not be required. But I will then, already, 
 Have won the blooming prize, and I will stay- 
 To revel leisurely in all her matchless 
 
 Charms. Ah ! here she comes ! Now let 
 
 My crafty powers be all awake ! 
 
 Entei- Laura, l. 
 
 Sid. Fair Laura, how have I 
 Longed to see this happy hour ! How has that 
 Envious sluggard Time dragged slowly on, 
 To vex me with his crippled, halting gait ! 
 
 Lau. You are welcome to-day. Sir William. 
 Love, that love of which we spoke, when last we 
 Met, is a most restless spirit, and eager to attain 
 The end of its adventurous journey. 
 
 Sid. And have you thought upon 
 My humble suit, since then, fair Laura ? 
 
 Lau. I have, my Lord. 
 
 Sid. Oh, then, promise the happy word, 
 That thou art mine, and I will cherish thy 
 Sweet love, while life endures. 
 
 Lau. [pausing and looking seriously at him^ 
 
 Are you sure, my lord, that no alloy of self 
 Mingles with that pure love ? Oh, should I take 
 Thee at thy word, and give thee this fond, trusting 
 Heart, in lieu of thine ; and should thine own 
 Be false, — a hollow counterfeit of that. 
 Which I thee truly give ; oh, how would I 
 Execrate the hour, when first I saw thee, 
 Or listened to the melting melody of 
 That alluring tongue. 
 
 Sid. Believe me, Laura, that 
 I am true. I swear by yonder moon, which 
 Sheds her mellow beauty o'er the sleeping world, 
 That I will aye be constant. I swear by 
 All those twinkling stars, vvhich ghtter brightly 
 In yon azure vault, far, far beyond the 
 Reach of all earth's woes and tears, that I will 
 Love thee truly. 
 
 Lau. I take thy solemn oath, {impressively.) 
 
 Sid. !^nd thou '''^H then be mine? 
 
THE SPANISH V/IFL'. 55 
 
 Lau. Yes. Thine, for ever tbine ! [ejnbracing.) 
 
 Sid. Oh, rich delight ! Oh, rapture ! 
 More than faltering words can speak. From this 
 Propitious day I live anew ; anew, my love, to thee. 
 And I shall ever bless the hour when first I thought 
 To visit this far land. How strangely is 
 The chequered tissue of our destiny. 
 Woven by th' mysterious hand of Providence 
 And Fate ! Now may I taste those joys, of which 
 Thou speak'st, when thou didst tell of love, — 
 Its wondrous power and sv/eetness. Thou dost posses*. 
 In me, a true heart, Laura i 
 
 Lau, Were it not so, then 
 Should I be, indeed, a wretched bankrupt. 
 
 Sid. Dream not, for a moment, dearest, 
 Of future sorrow or distress. 
 True love, thou said'st, made all things sweet. 
 To us, the future now will be one endless 
 Song. My eager fancy travels o'er life's 
 Coming journey, on the rainbow wings of 
 Hope, and sees naught there, through its wide circuit, 
 Save love and bliss. We have a poet in our land, 
 Who sings so sweetly of true love, that I 
 Will speak his flowing numbers. Will you listen ? 
 
 Lau. I would not lose a syllable 
 For half the world! 
 
 S'id. These then are his sw^eet words : (recites or sings.) 
 
 When time who steals our years away, 
 
 Shall steal our pleasures too, 
 The memory of the past will stay, 
 
 And half our joys renew. 
 
 Then, Laura, when thy beauty's flower. 
 
 Shall feel the wintry air ; * 
 Rememhrance shall recall the hom, 
 
 When thou alone wert there. 
 
 Then talk no more of future gloom, 
 
 Our joys shall always last ; 
 For hope shall brighten days to come, 
 
 And memory gild the past. 
 
 Lau. They are sweet words indeed. 
 
56 TnE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Sid. When shall I say my joy is fall ? 
 When shall I clasp thee to my heart, and call 
 Thee mine, by holy, sacred ties ? 
 
 Lau. Although I dearly prize thy love, 
 Why this great eagerness to hasten on our union ? 
 
 Sid. I have a secret now to tell thee ! 
 
 Lau. How ? a secret ? What can it be ? 
 
 Sid. I have delayed the mournful word 
 Till we had plighted each our sacred faith. 
 Now, that is done, I can the better utter it. 
 
 Lau. Pray delay it not ; what is it ? 
 
 Sid. The Duke of Buckingham, in whose control 
 Is placed this treaty for the marriage of the Infanta, 
 Has just informed me that it is most needful 
 That I should start, at once, for England, 
 As special messenger to our king. 
 
 Lau. It cannot be ! 
 
 Sid. It is, alas ! too true. 
 And I cannot leave thy sight, nor bear the thought 
 That thou art not yet wholly mine ; that thou 
 Mayest, by some horrid chance, be yet another's. 
 For thou art wooed by all the noblest chivalry 
 Of Spain. Thy beauty is too rich a boon, 
 Not to attract their amorous craving. 
 In my sad, unwilling absence, thy tender heart, 
 Open to the potent witcheries of love, 
 May yield itself at length a captive ere 
 I return ; and place a death-seal on my bliss ! 
 
 Lau. {solemnly.) Canst thou 
 Distrust my faith, my plighted love ? Ah ! little 
 Dost thou know the heart which thou hast won. 
 
 Sid. Can I distrust thee^ dearest ? Never ! 
 No unworthy fear of thy devotion 
 Crossed my mind. But here, in Spain, you have 
 Strange laws. Your gloomy convert walls 
 Enclose too many a beauteous living gem. 
 Of radiance almost divine, placed there, 
 In durance stern, by their offended sires. Thou art 
 A Catholic. Thy father, family, and church. 
 May all oppose our union ; and thus when I return 
 From my far distant, native isle, I then may find 
 Thee a buried tenant of some convert cell, 
 
THE RPANIbi-r WIFE. 57 
 
 Lost to me for ever. Not all the prayers and tears 
 In Spain could free thee then. But if thy church 
 Hath made thee mine, I will then feel secure in 
 The possession of thy inestimable love. 
 
 Lau. I do not fear such peril to our joy. 
 What would avail their prohibition of our love ? 
 
 Nothing with me. True love regards no church, 
 
 Nor kindred, nor relationship, in all the world, 
 
 Save that of one alone — the beloved ! There is my 
 
 Temple, that my priest, and he my deity ! 
 Sid. But they have power greater 
 
 Far than thine. If thou refusest, I will forfeit 
 
 Home, and friends, and all, for thee ! I will forsake 
 
 The embassy. I will endure the miseries 
 
 Of the homeless exile, rather than desert thee ! 
 
 I will not leave thee till thou art mine ; till 
 
 Thou art mine by sanction of thy holy church. 
 Lau. I love thee ; and I yield to thy desire. 
 
 I h<ive no power or arguments, whereby I 
 
 M;(y resist thy wishes, or say thee, nay. 
 Sid. Thou wilt, at once, be mine ? 
 
 But our marriage must be secret. 
 
 Lau. Secret ? Impossible ! Why so ? 
 
 So strange a freak of love hath never stained 
 
 Our house, in many generations. 
 
 Sid. It is strange, my love, I grant ; but 
 
 Canst thou doubt I have a reason for it ? 
 Lau. Pray, what can it be ? 
 
 Do not rack my breast with sudden doubts 
 
 And new-born fears. 
 
 Sid. I would not, for the world. 
 
 This, then, is the occasion of my strange behest. 
 
 Were I, a member of this English embassy, 
 
 To violate all forms of courtly etiquette. 
 
 By such a sudden, hasty marriage, while the 
 
 Nuptials of the Infanta were under grave 
 
 Consideration, this court — the most precise 
 
 Of courts — would be insulted. Our negotiations 
 
 Would be instantly suspended ; the object of our 
 
 Mission fail ; and our offended sovereign would 
 
 Then wreak his vengeance on my head. 
 
 But let our imion be but secret now, 
 
58 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 And a few weeks elapsed and I will own 
 
 Tiiee to be mine to all the world ; and I will 
 
 Bear thee then in joy and triumph, to my native land, 
 
 And thou shalt reign the pride and splendor 
 
 Of my English house. 
 
 Laii. I would not hurt thy interest 
 With thy king. I, thy best friend, could never 
 Act so base a part. If this be needful. 
 As thou sayest it is, oh, then, my willing heart 
 Withholds thee nothing. Let this then be 
 Ever as thou wishest it ; tho' 'tis a strange behest. 
 
 Enter Servant with letter for Sidney. Sidney whispers 
 in his ear^ and he retires. 
 
 Sid. (to Serva7it.) Be in haste ! 
 Ah ! what can this be ? {opens letter.) 
 'Tis a message from the Duke of Buckingham, (reads.) 
 
 " Sir Philip : At the last j^rivate audience which we had 
 ivith the King of Spain, it ivas determined to postpone the 
 immediate mission to England, to^which you had been ap- 
 pointed, wntil some future day, when the judgment of the 
 Royal Council as to the terms of the marriage of the In- 
 fanta, will be more maturely considered. Buckingham.'^'* 
 (He gives the letter to Laura.) 
 
 LoM. 'Tis welcome news indeed ! 
 I will preserve this precious letter nearest 
 To my heart. Thou wilt not leave me then ? 
 Oh, can it be, Sir William, we now shall 
 Never part ? No unexpected absence, 
 No sudden mission, shall take thee from 
 This doating heart away — not even for a day ! 
 
 Sid. So it is, indeed, my fairest Laura. 
 And now that thou hast granted me my heart's 
 Request ; hast promised to be mine ; and mine 
 For ever ; I have already sent my trusty 
 Servant, who has brought this letter, for a holy 
 Priest ; who, when he has arrived, will join our 
 Wilhng hearts in one eternal bond. 
 Hither he comes. Then let us kneel, my love, 
 And thus receive his solemn blessing on our 
 Union. Oh, hour of heavenly joy and rapture ! 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 59 
 
 \_Priest appears in the rear^ c.— They approach him 
 and kneel. He blesses them^ as the curtain decends 
 
 to music.'] 
 
 Scene III. — Palace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. Don 
 Alfonso, Don Lorenzo, and Donna Teresa, discovered. 
 
 Lor. I have ventured here, to-day, my lord, 
 To make the offer of my heart and hand 
 To your fair daughter, Laura. 
 An ardent passion burns within my breast. 
 Long have I watched her blooming graces, 
 And I confess myself her willing captive. 
 If my person, rank, and fortune make 
 Me tit, I shall feel honored by the alliance. 
 
 Alf. Have you, as yet, directly sought her own consent ? 
 
 Lor. I own I have not. It seemed to me 
 More meet, that I should first obtain your 
 Sage approval, ere I ventured on the 
 Tender theme to her. 
 
 Alf. Your proposition is in truth, 
 A grateful one ; and the long friendship 
 Between our houses, makes it doubly 
 Pleasing to us, that our common blood 
 Should flow in one united channel. 
 Our old ancestral legends tell, that on 
 The bloody field of Tours, when Christian warriors, 
 Of many climes, beneath the mighty Charles Martel, 
 Hurled back the sweeping tide of Moslem 
 Conquest, which devastated Europe, our noble sires 
 Fought side by side ; breasted th' infidel 
 Flood together ; and there, too, vowed eternal friendship. 
 Their solemn oath, their children have observed, 
 x\nd this nevv union is most worthy of 
 The ancient bond. 
 
 Lor. I am most proud, my lord 
 Of this long cherished recollection. 
 
 Alf. You should have sought 
 To woo herself- I fear our daughter is a 
 Wilful girl, and may refuse consent, 
 Unless her heart approves the choice. 
 
 Ijor. I have indeed approached the theme with her; 
 
GO THE SPANrSH WIFE. 
 
 But yet, I have obtained no certain warrant 
 
 Of her love, except such general courtesy 
 
 As she might show to one, whose person 
 
 Was not hateful to her. {io Teresa.) 
 
 I crave your ladyship's assistance in my 
 
 Suit ; for well I know, the power a 
 
 Mother holds over the judgment, and the heart, 
 
 Of her fair daughter. 
 
 Ter. As I approve the alliance, 
 I will promote its consummation. But 
 It were well, that you should, at some appropriate 
 Hour, yourself propose your suit. 
 Do it boldly ; and when, with many a gentle 
 Sigh and maiden blush, she makes the tender 
 Secret known to me, I will pretend due 
 Ignorance ; but yet, upon the very instant. 
 Will speak the potent words which make her youre. 
 
 Alf. A fitting opportunity 
 E'en now approaches. See ! here she comes. 
 We will now retire. Improve the occasion 
 Well, and may you prosper in its issue. 
 
 Enter Laura, l. 
 
 LaiL Good day, my honored father. 
 My mother. Good day, my lord, {to Lorenzo.) 
 I greet you all. 
 
 A^f. Our friend and visitor, Lorenzo, 
 Desires a word with you in private. 
 
 [Exeunt, Alfonso and Tkresa, l. 
 
 Lau. A word with me, alone, my lord ? 
 
 Lor, It is so, my fair Laura. 
 I have come to-day to crown our long acquaintance, 
 With the offer of my heart and hand. I do 
 Beseech you, think not the proposal hasty. • 
 
 I have long intended it. 
 
 Lau. I respect you, Lorenzo, 
 But I am free to say, I do not love you ; 
 And without love, marriage would be to me 
 A horrid, cruel yoke, worse than that 
 The veriest slave endures. 
 
 Lor. You may not love me yet, 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 61 
 
 Indeed ; but might not soon your heart be touched 
 By long devotion, and by the clearest proof 
 Of that deep passion, with which you have 
 Inspired me ? 
 
 Lau. I have no hope of such an issue. 
 
 Lor. Why not ? The sight of love 
 Begets a flame in others. The proudest 
 Peeress in the land, will scent the fragrance 
 Of that pure incense, which rises, as a 
 Tribute to her charms, from the humblest of her 
 Adorers. And why then mayst not thou ? 
 
 Lau. I know it cannot be. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis strange indeed. 
 
 Lau, 'Tis true as strange. 
 
 Lor. Why is this ? Forgive my boldness. 
 But I desire to learn, wherein thy heart 
 Difiers from all the female hearts in Spain. 
 
 La7i. I will then answer thee, Lorenzo. 
 'Tis due our ancient friendship, and to thy pure 
 Purpose, that I should answer thee. 
 I do already love ! My heart is now no 
 Longer free. Not all the charms, of all the 
 Graceful gallants in the land, if they were all 
 Combined in one, and that one were thy 
 Noble self, could move my heart one jot, 
 Or could dislodge the mighty monarch, who 
 Now reigns, supreme and sovereign there. 
 
 Lor. Can it be ? 
 Must I despair at last ? 
 
 Lau. It grieves me much to speak the word, 
 But I can make no other answer. Thou 
 Hast no hope. 
 
 Lor. My spirit then is crushed. 
 I cannot combat with my luckless destiny. 
 I pray kind heaven that thou mayest yet be happy, 
 Til at no tear may e'er bedim the lustre 
 Of that radiant eye ; and that no grief may 
 Ever sadden that noble breast — that couch 
 Of paradise. Let me then say, farewell ! 
 
 Lau. It must be so ; farewell ! 
 
 Lor. {aside.) Oh, I will be revenged 
 For this ! [Exit, Lorenw 
 
62 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Lau. I must hasten 
 To our rendezvous. My lover, nay, my 
 Husband, waits for me. Oh ! what rapture 
 When we meet ! [Exit, Laura, r. 
 
 Scene IV. — Studio of Valesquez. {A month is supposed 
 to have elapsed.) Valesquez discovered working at a 
 portrait l. Painting and busts distributed around the 
 apartment. 
 
 Val. {solus.) What a most curious and mysterious 
 Circumstance is this ? At each new sitting 
 Of the noble subject of this- picture, I can 
 See a saddening change upon her features. 
 
 [Stands back and surveijs the painting. 
 When first she sat to me, methought my eyes 
 Had never rested on such a beauteous 
 Vision. I then resolved, that this same painting 
 Should be the most exquisite picture which e'er 
 Bose to life and loveliness, beneath my 
 Pencil. [Pausing and touching up the painting. 
 
 But now, she scarcely seems the same. 
 Her smile is gone; her radiant eye hath 
 Lost its brihiant lustre. Her ruby cheek, 
 That once outvied the bursting rosebud. 
 Is pale and wan. That once serene and noble 
 Brow is clouded o'er with care. 
 Here is some mystery. In very truth this 
 Whole business is a mystery ! The 
 Lady comes, attended by a noble 
 Cavalier, and closely veiled. No name is 
 Given, nor address. And when the work is 
 Done, himself will call for it ! 
 I remember, too, when last she sat to me. 
 They seemed constrained, less joyous than before ; 
 And the fair bosom of the lady heaved 
 Anon, with ponderous sighs, as though 
 Some unaccustomed burden crushed upon 
 Her once buoyant spirit. I understand 
 It not. 'Tis very strange, 'tis very strange ! 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 63 
 
 Enter Servant, l. 
 
 Serv. My master, two distinguished visitors, 
 In the anti-chamber, crave admittance 
 To your studio. 
 
 Veil. 'Tis an unseemly hour. 
 
 Serv. And yet, they urged their wishes 
 "With great earnestness. 
 
 Val. Then bid them enter. ^Exity Serv.^ R. 
 
 Val. (solus.) It cannot be themselves. 
 For they were here but yesterday ; and come not, 
 By express appointment, till to-morrow. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo and Constanza, l. 
 
 Lor. We pray your pardon 
 "For our intrusion ; but we would fain 
 Behold the studio of so renowned an artist 
 As Valesquez. 
 
 Val. You do me honor, signor! 
 I fear your trouble will be poorly paid. 
 
 Cons. Ah ! what is this ? Whose portrait 
 Can this be ? Am I deceived ? 
 
 [Examines the portrait. 
 
 Lor. As I live, 'tis she ! 'Tis Laura. 
 But how changed ! Have you seen her lately ? 
 
 Co?is. It cannot be the same. 
 'Tis but the wreck of Laura, 'tis not Laura's self! 
 
 Lor. I pray you, noble signor. 
 Whose portrait is this ? 
 
 Val. I neither know her name. 
 Nor rank, nor family. 
 
 Lor. How comes she hither ? Alone ? 
 
 Val. No ; she is attended, at each sitting, 
 By a noble cavaher ; by one, who. 
 Judging from his coat of arms, his foreign 
 Air, and garb, belongs to the English embassy, 
 Which now sojourns in Spain. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis strange indeed ! 
 Laura and an English cavalier ! And all ^ 
 So secret ! And this distressed, afflicted air 
 
Gl THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Too ! When last I saw her, four weeks since 
 
 She was radiant with bright hope, and joy, and beauty. 
 
 What dark misfortune could 'have caused 
 
 This melancholy change ? {to Valesquez.) 
 
 Know you nothing of her history ? 
 
 Val. Nothing. All I know is, 
 She was very gay and beautiful ; now she 
 Is very sad and gloomy. 
 
 Lo7\ {to CoNSTANZA.) This attachment, 
 Secret though it be, may perhaps account for my 
 Rejection at her hands. She confessed her 
 Heart remained no longer free. This m.ust 
 Be her chosen one, who is her companion 
 Here, — this handsome English courtier. 
 
 Co7is. And yet she boasted, 
 On the arrival of this English embassy, 
 That she would be the last one in all 
 Spain, to fall a victim to their dangerous 
 Fascinations ! What an egregious error ! 
 
 Lor. And yet I fear me, she has 
 Fallen ! If so, I am revenged already. 
 {To Valesquez.) With many thanks, most honored 
 Signor, we say, adieu ! [Exeunt, l. 
 
 Scene V. — Falace of Don Alfonso, at Madrid. Sir 
 Sidney and Laura discovered. 
 
 Lau. My lord, pray tell me, how has fared 
 The English embassy, in the great end and 
 Purpose of their mission to our court ? 
 Will they obtain a Spanish bride for their 
 Young prince ? 
 
 Sid. I cannot yet foretell to you. 
 The issue of this embassy. 
 
 Lau. I wish the treaty 
 Was already ended, that we might 
 Set sail for your own native shores, and then our 
 Marriage there be openly proclaimed. 
 For I am wearied with this forced concealment. 
 It is so irksome thus to play the hypocrite. 
 {Approaching him.) But, my husband, you seem 
 Quite altered from your former mood, I fear 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 65 
 
 Your sated appetite has cooled the fever 
 
 Of your love, and I have sometimes thought 
 
 That you appeared, of late, less loving than 
 
 You v^ere ; that you were even coldly courteous and 
 
 Forbidding; and the horrid thought has tortured me I 
 
 Sid. We Englishmen are not as ardent in 
 Our love as you romantic and impetuous 
 Spaniards are. 'Tis but a trifling difference 
 In our outward seeming. The heart remains 
 As fervent as before. 
 
 Lau. And yet you were at first 
 More ardent when we loved. Oh, what 
 True raptures then were ours, when first our 
 Hearts were plighted, and we felt that we were one 
 
 Sid. Honeymoons do not endure forever. 
 You seem to have forgotten that. 
 
 La2i. And yet I would have thought, 
 That ours had been eternal ; that neither change 
 Of time, or place, or circumstance, could e'er 
 O'ercloud the brightness of our paradise, 
 Or cool the rapture of our love. 
 
 Sid. You Spaniards are too imaginative 
 And romantic. You expect too much of those 
 Who pledge to you their faith. We must relax 
 Our ardor; we should make our love a matter 
 Of less consequence. 
 
 Lau. Can you speak thus to me ? 
 How sadly have you changed ! After the burning 
 Words of love and passion, with which you wooed 
 And won me, how can I endure such 
 ChiHing, such forbidding sounds ! 
 I fear you love me now no longer ! I fear 
 That you have never truly loved me ! {weeps.) 
 
 Sid. {relenting.) Weep not thus, my fair one. 
 You did not comprehend my meaning. 
 I retract those harsh, offensive words. I pray, 
 Forgive me ! I love you still. I swear it, 
 I love you still, as strongly, purely, fervently, 
 As when at first I pressed you to my heart. 
 
 Lau. {looJdng ujj into his face.) Are you 
 Assured you love me yet, as well ? 
 
 Sid. I am most sure. 
 
66 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Lau, Will you swear it ? Solemnly swear it P 
 
 Sid. I will, my love. 
 
 Lau. Then swear it. 
 
 Sid. {ivith uplifted hand.) I swear, in the 
 Face of heaven, I love thee, truly. 
 And thee only. 
 
 Lau. Bless thee, my true love, I 
 Bless thee for those tender words ; far sweeter 
 To me than the sounds of heavenly melody. 
 And now, that my poor heart, so sad before, 
 Is full of new-born bliss, let us commune of 
 Future joys, and of my coming hour of 
 Separation from these native scenes. 
 I must give due announcement to my 
 Kindred, and prepare them for my departure. 
 'Twill be a sad experience, truly, to forsake 
 These well-remembered scenes, and all the loved 
 Ones of my youth ; and sail a stranger to 
 A foreign clime. And yet, for him I love, 
 I will leave home, and friends, and all things 
 Else, however dear they be, and share the future fate 
 Of him whom I have chosen. 
 Didst thou not offer me as much, my love, 
 "When thou didst woo me to thy breast ; 
 And why should I be less unselfish, less 
 Devoted than thou art ? Oh, no, my husband ! 
 Thou dost here possess a faithful heart ; 
 One that would boldly dare for thee, the 
 Utmost verge of ruin ; — that would freely 
 Share the most pernicious freaks of fortune 
 Without complaint, were such sad destiny 
 To be thy portion. 
 
 Sid. Oh, speak it not. 
 No such necessity will e'er be ours. 
 
 Lau. Then tell me of thy happy home ; 
 For it must needs be happy where thou art ! 
 Let the sweet music of thy words portray 
 To my attentive ears, the scene of all 
 Our future joys. Whate'er it be, if only 
 Thou art with me there, I am content. 
 The humblest hovel on the earth, with him 
 Whom I adore, will be more bright, more 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 67 
 
 Beautiful, than would the lordliest palace 
 Which e'er beheld an emperor's luxury. 
 
 Sid. My love, the ancient castle of my ancestors 
 Now rears its towering height o'er one of England's 
 Fairest plains ; while high and sturdy oaks, which long 
 Have breasted many a wintry storm, encompass 
 It on every side. For many a mile, 
 On either hand, the golden harvests wave 
 Beneath the pressure of a mountain breeze. 
 Thou shalt dwell with me there, my love. The landscape's 
 Verdant breast shall charm thy glowing eye. 
 Our thrifty peasantry shall yearly fill 
 Our stores. The proudest nobles of the land 
 Shall court thy gracious smiles. We will there 
 Often stray beneath the cool and whispering 
 Shadows of the ancient forest trees. 
 And talk of home, and distant scenes of 
 Youthful innocence and joy ; of th' far 
 Country, and the honored friends there left 
 Behind. And if thou hast no longer there 
 The battles of the teeming amphitheatre 
 To charm thee, there are pleasures in our 
 Land not less exciting, or less perilous, 
 Than in thy own. The swiftest steed shall often 
 Pant beneath thy precious weight ; and when my 
 Jovial kindred crowd my festive halls, 
 Where by-gone generations of my race 
 Have feasted in their day, thou shalt preside 
 The queen of beauty there — the fairest in the land. 
 And I will then be proud of thee ; and as 
 The cheerful years revolve, unknown to care* 
 As honored age creeps o'er us, and we grow 
 Old apace, our children shall surround us 
 As brave, as noble, and as fair as she 
 Who gave them birth ; and they shall tend our steps 
 With reverent care, as we descend in peace, 
 The easy vale of years. 
 
 Lau. Oh, my husband, 
 I pant to see the happy hour when these 
 Sweet dreams will be but dreams, and fancy's 
 Airy draperies no more, but will become 
 Sweeter realities. 
 
G8 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Sid. Let us then wait in patience 
 Till a propitious fate permits this 
 Happy consummation. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Audieiice Chamber at the Escurial. King 
 Philip 07i his Throne; Courtiers and Grandees dis- 
 covered R. and L, 
 
 Enter Buckingham, Gp.aham, Cicil, and Rochester, l. 
 
 Buck. We have desired this final audience 
 Of your majesty, that we may learn your 
 Sovereign purpose, in reference to the 
 Marriage of our prince with the Infanta ; 
 That we may then forthwith return to England. 
 
 K. Fhil. Our privy council and ourself, have 
 Given your proposition our attention. 
 Though much desiring to promote this union, 
 There are most grave and weighty obstacles 
 Contained in the dispatches which you brought, 
 Which will oppose a lasting hindrance to 
 Our purpose. These all refer to the essential 
 Matters of religion wherein our nations 
 Differ. That is indeed a vital question. 
 The Infanta ne'er could wed your prince, 
 Unless your court renounced their creed 
 And make submission to our holy church. 
 
 Buck. Those are concessions, sire, which I am 
 Well assured, cannot be made. We must at 
 Once renounce the enterprise which brought us 
 Hither 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 K. Phil Though this be true, we trust that 
 
 Your short sojourn in our capital 
 
 Has not occurred without its grateful 
 
 Use and purpose. 
 
 Buck. It has not, we assure you. 
 
 ■\Ve have been charmed with all the sights 
 
 And pleasures, all the games and festivals, 
 
 Of this your goodly kingdom. "VVe will carry 
 
 Hence, many a kind remembrance 
 
 Of friendship made, of hospitable greetings 
 
 Given, and also, of more tender ties, 
 
 "Which have been here contracted. 
 
 K. Phil. We are pleased, 
 That Spain has had her charms for you. 
 Bear with you, to your gracious king, 
 Our cordial greeting and regard ; and these are 
 The dispatches, in answer to your own, 
 "With which we now entrust you. Present 
 Him also with this casket. It contains 
 Eich jewels, which, I trust he will accept 
 As a memento of our high regard for him. 
 And though mysterious fate has not allowed 
 The union of our crown upon one single 
 Brow ; let peace and friendship reign throughout 
 All coming time, between our happy realms. 
 Such is my prayer, and such, T trust, is his. 
 
 [ Gives dispatches and casket to Buckingham. 
 Buck. Both of these shall be delivered by myself, 
 With th' utmost care and quick dispatch 
 According to your majesty's command. 
 To our dread sovereign's gracious hand. 
 
 Scene II. — Apartment in Don Alfonso's Palace. Sidney 
 and Laura discovered seated at a table covered with 
 oranges^ melons ^ ajid other fruit. 
 
 Sid. My fair Laura, at length, to- day, 
 We have received our farewell audience from 
 Your king. To-morrow we shall sail for England. 
 
 Lau. {surprised.) To-morrow? You 
 Give me but short notice truly, to make the 
 Needful preparation for our departure. 
 
70 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Sid. We were summoned, by a special order, 
 Quite unexpectedly, before your monarch's presence. 
 The Supreme Council of the realm, had just 
 Concluded, not to accept the terms proposed 
 By our good king, for the espousal of 
 The Infanta; and they delayed not to inform us. 
 After so sad an issue of our toils, 
 "We must needs quickly leave the scene 
 Of our defeat. The splendor of Madrid 
 Is darkness to us now ; no light beams forth 
 Amid its gorgeous palaces, save that which 
 Issues still from thy bright eyes alone ! 
 
 Lau. Jest not, my love, at such an 
 Hour, so solemn, so important. Could you 
 Not yet delay one week, till I were in 
 Much better readiness t' accompany you ? 
 
 Sid. It is impossible. The prince. 
 Our master, has commanded that we instantly 
 Set sail for England. But is it needful that you 
 Should now accompany me ? 
 
 Lau. {solenmly.) Can the world live 
 Without the glorious sun ? No more could I 
 Exist without the hght of thy dear form. 
 Think of it not, I do beseech you. 
 
 Sid. But listen to me, fair one ! 
 Our embassy returns to England now, without 
 The high-born bride, which had been destined for 
 Our prince. The members of our company 
 All sail in the same fleet. It were 
 An insult to them, and to our baflled 
 Leader, who sails with us, were I more fortunate than he 
 To bear away with me a blooming. 
 Noble bride, the fairest in all Spain. 
 
 Lau. I cannot hve without you. 
 I know it well. Do not insist upon it. 
 
 Sid. But you can surely wait in 
 Patience till my quick return ? 
 It is most probable, that new conditions 
 For this alliance, will be proposed hereafter, 
 To which your gracious sovereign will accede. 
 Then the Infanta will be borne to England, 
 And then you shall accompany her, 
 
THE SFANISH WIFE. 71 
 
 The brightest star that glitters in her train ; 
 
 I, myself, will then revisit you, and 
 
 Lead you back in joyous triumph to my home. 
 
 Lau. Alas ! my husband, 
 That event will ne'er occur. The wounded pride 
 Of your most noble prince will ne'er permit him 
 To "make another proposition to our court ; 
 "While this enforced concealment of our union 
 Presses heavily upon my drooping spirit, 
 My cheeks are pale and care is printed 
 On my brow. The gloomy day is cheerless to me, 
 And 'tis only the sweet thought, that when 
 Each evening comes, I shall then hear again 
 Your welcome voice, and feel your kind 
 Caress, — 'tis this bliss only which supports me. 
 But were you wholly absent, life would be a 
 Burden, far, far too heavy to be borne. 
 
 Sid. Nonsense ! You would 
 Soon become accustomed to my absence. 
 I will return again, and quickly too. 
 
 Lau. It is impossible. 
 I know my heart too well ; — 'tis quite impossible. 
 I do beseech you, persist not in a 
 Resolution, which would seal my very death I 
 
 Sid. I cannot help it — I fear 
 It must be so. There can be no alternative. 
 
 Lau. Oh, no, it cannot — cannot be ! 
 And is it possible, that you, yourself, 
 Should be thus wilhng to desert me ? Oh, think, 
 Sir William, what have I done for you ? 
 And what am I not willing yet to do ? 
 I am ready e'en to leave my father's 
 Halls, my friends, my native land, and all 
 Its dear remembrances ; — all would I 
 Leave for you ; and can you now be willing to 
 Desert me ? Oh, no, no, it cannot be ! 
 Your absence hence would cast a wan and hideous 
 D solation o'er the universe. This tortured 
 Frame, had better far, lie mouldering in 
 The long and dreamless slumber of the grave 
 Than that it should be racked by the 
 Distracting agonies of desertion. 
 
72 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 And neglect. Oh, think of all our vows 
 
 Of endless constancy and love. Think of our 
 
 Pictured dreams of fadeless joy and bliss. Think 
 
 Of all these, and then you cannot leave me. 
 
 You will then take me with you ; press me 
 
 To your breast forever ; and we shall drink 
 
 Eternal joys from the rich cup of our true love ! 
 
 Sid. No ! Do not now deceive yourself 
 I say it cannot be ^ nay more, it shall 
 Not be ! I have said it. You must 
 Eemain till my return. Be not misled 
 By groundless and illusive hopes. 
 
 ^Lau. {Pausing and assuming a determined air.) Then^ 
 sir, if such be your base and unfeeling purpose ; if you are 
 capable of thus trifling with the affections and the heart of 
 one who has freely sacrificed her all for you, in reliance on 
 your honor ; then know, sir, that I will accompany you. 
 I am your wedded wife, to whom alone your solemn faith 
 is plighted, and with whose destiny you have united yours 
 forever. You shall not leave me. It is my right. If you 
 are so strangely lost to all due sense of honor, shame, 
 humanity, I will not permit you, having wrecked my hap- 
 piness, also to ruin my fair fame, and the reputation of 
 those I love. I will go instantly to the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham ; — to him who, you say, would be offended at my pro- 
 posal to accompany you. I will tell him the story of our 
 attachment and our marriage. I will obtain his permis- 
 sion, nay his command, that if you now leave Spain at all, 
 you shall not go without me. 
 
 Sid. Then, madam, you may execute your purpose. — 
 Go ! go to the Duke of Buckingham. Tell him that you 
 are, as you assert, my wedded wife, and he will laugh you 
 to very scorn. He w ill tell you that you are mistaken. — 
 He will assure you that I am already married in England. 
 He will tell you that you arc but my ?nistress / and that 
 he cannot have mistresses on board the fleet intended for 
 the Infanta. Go — tell the Duke you are my wife, for- 
 sooth ! What a delusion! My wife, indeed ! Ha! ha ! 
 
 Lau. Oh, God ! then 
 I am ruined ! ruined ! ruined ! 
 
 [Stupejled with agnny^ she falls on the floor. Sid- 
 ney becomes much affected. After a pause he carries 
 her to a sofa.'] 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 78 
 
 Sid. (solus.) She would compel me 
 Thus to utter the unwelcome words. Alas ! 
 'Tis over now ! Eest there, unhappy one ! 
 I have wronged indeed a noble heart. 
 But 'tis too late to undo the accursed deed. 
 Now is my time for escape ! One kiss more, 
 My fair, my injured Laura, 'tis the last [kisses her.) 
 Porever ! Never shall I press again those 
 Tender lips, which have so often uttered to me 
 Words of more than mortal love. So farewell, 
 Forever ! To-morrow I shall be sweeping 
 O'er the boundless deep. I may forget thee ; 
 But, I fear, I cannot be forgotten. 
 Conscience! let thy voice be hushed; and let 
 Bemorse be dead within my breast. 
 But hold ! her portrait ; ah, yes ! that mute and feeble 
 Image of her beauty, that sad memento 
 Of her wrongs. I must not fail to take that 
 With me. It will be all I shall possess 
 Of my fair, devoted, injured Laura. 
 Yes, I will hasten to the studio of Valesquez, 
 Instantly. 
 
 Scene III. — Apartment in Don Alfonso's Palace, 
 
 Enter Don Alfonso a7id Donna Teresa. 
 
 Alf. Have you not seen, of late, the strange, mysterious 
 Sadness of your daughter ? 
 
 Ter, I have ; it is too marked 
 To be unnoticed. 
 
 Alf. What, think you, is the cause of it? 
 
 Ter. I know not. Ne'er before has 
 Such despondency o'ershadowed her 
 Once joyous countenance. 
 
 Alf. I must question her. 
 Per some days past she has endured much 
 Misery ; and it was but yesterday, when, 
 Unexpectedly I entered her apartment, 
 She seemed the hapless victim of some fierce 
 Convulsion ; some cruel spasm of distress ; 
 And yet, to all my earnest questionings 
 
74 THE SPANISH WIFE, 
 
 I gained no answer ; nothing but her tears. 
 
 {Riftgs for a Servant.) 
 Doubtless she will now confess the truth 
 "With kind and dutiful affection. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Wait on your young 
 
 Mistress, and inform her, we wish 
 
 To see her here, immediately. ^Exit Servant, 
 
 Ter. You remember, doubtless, 
 That one of the English cavaliers has 
 Been most marked in his attentions. 
 "Whether he has offered marriage, I know not. 
 But doubtless, the departure of the embassy 
 To-day, which is now rumored through 
 Madrid, may have distressed her; as her 
 Friend and suitor has departed with them. 
 
 Enter Laura, l, 
 
 Alf. We have observed with pain, 
 That you have been of late most sad. 
 Our love constrains us to speak freely to you, 
 And inquire the cause ; so that, if we 
 Can haply cure it, we may instantly attempt 
 The pleasing task. 
 
 La2i. Ah, my honored father, 
 Mine is a distress, which the kind hand of your 
 Affection ne'er can heal. The tortures of 
 The wounded spirit are incurable. 
 No earthly balm can soothe the anguish 
 Of this torn and lacerated heart. It seems that 
 Time but adds intensity to its deep bitterness ; 
 Wliilo memory, with a willing and relentless hand, 
 Feeds the burning flame with its eternal fuel. 
 I shall ne'er be happy more ! {iveeps.) 
 
 Alf. What is the nature 
 Of your distress ? Speak it boldly. 
 
 Lau. Oh, I cannot, dare not. 
 
 Ter. Why can you not ? To whom 
 Should your secret troubles be revealed, 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 75 
 
 Unless it be to us ? 
 
 Lau. It will afflict you more 
 To know the truth, than if you knew it not. 
 Your ignorance now is bliss indeed. 
 
 Ter. No, it is not. This long 
 Suspense augments our misery, and it becomes 
 Intolerable. Speak at once, without reserve. 
 Here comes vour brother Pedro. 'Tis right ; 
 
 That he should hear the history of your wo, 
 And if it should be needful, to avenge it. 
 
 E7iter Don Pedro, r. 
 
 He, too, has marked the deep, mysterious 
 Sadness which oppresses you. 
 
 Fed, I have. How is this? 
 Do I suspect aright the horrid truth ? 
 Who has thus dared to trifle with thee ? Thou comeBt 
 Of the proudest race in Spain. Princes might 
 Peel honored with thy fair aUiance ; and it would 
 Not be the first who mingled with our line. 
 I swear, it were not prudent for an emperor 
 To dishonor thee. Thy snowy arms might ^ 
 Porm a downy couch, fit for a god to revel in. 
 How is this ? . 
 
 Lau. I was wooed and won by Sir Wilham 
 Sidney, a noble member of the English embassy. 
 Persuaded by true love, and his own eager prayers, 
 I married him in secret, and I was deceived, 
 Por he had no free hand or heart to give. 
 He w^as already wed in his own land, 
 And now he has, at last, deserted me ! (weeps.) 
 
 Fed. Ye heavens ! can it be possible ! 
 Thee ruined ! thee deceived, and thee dishonored! {patises,) 
 Thou God of vengeance, let me draw thy sword, 
 And never rest until I sheathe it in the 
 Inmost heart of him who has so basely 
 "Wronged her ! Ye solemn shades of our 
 Departed ancestors, look down from your 
 Serene abodes, on this unhappy daughter ^ 
 Of your race, and fill my anguished soul with 
 Vengeance !— vengeance !— vengeance ! {crosses,) 
 
76 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Hark ! I hear it ! A hollow, shrieking sound 
 Issues from their ancient graves. It goes abroad 
 Upon the winged wind, and cries aloud : wo ! wo ! 
 To thee and thine, unless thou wip'st away 
 This damned stain upon our pure escutcheon, 
 With the guilty blood of the offender! 
 And I will do it, by the God of heaven, 
 I will do it ! 
 
 Lau. Do it not, I beseech you. 
 For my sake harm him not. I love him. 
 I forgive him ! and I love him still ! 
 
 Peel. Ask not for mercy, in his behalf, 
 He has deeply, foully, basely wronged thee ! 
 Human baseness has no deeper depths of 
 Injury than that which he has sounded, 
 For he cannot right thee, if he would. 
 He cannot do thee justice, or suppress the 
 Bitter, jeering malace of the prating world. 
 Thou art ruined, and he did it knowingly. 
 "Where is he ? 
 
 Lau. He sailed but yesterday 
 With the English embassy, and he is now beyond 
 The reach of vengeance. 
 
 Fed. Why didst thou thus permit 
 Him to escape ? 
 
 Lau. Because I feared thy furious 
 Arm. I trembled for the precious life of 
 Him, I value more than life itself. 
 Though he has wronged me, he did it in 
 The burning heat of passion. I still believe 
 He loved me. He could not be so base. 
 So false, so cruel. He had some unknown 
 Cause, I knew not of, to plead in his excuse. 
 
 Fed. It is thy fault that this unequalled 
 Villain hath escaped. But hold ! The day 
 Of vengeance will arrive. It may be slow, 
 But it will yet be sure. 
 
 Aff. Were it not well for you 
 To leave awhile these hapless scenes, so 
 Sad'ning by the desolation memory 
 Gives them ? 
 
 Ter. Yes. Let us leave Madrid for a 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 77 
 
 Short season. Let us hasten to the 
 Castle of your ancestors, which rears its 
 Ancient towers amid the shady groves of 
 Andalusia. There our daughter may 
 Eegain her peace of mind. The quiet scenes 
 Of verdant nature, where rural innocence 
 And beauty reign, unmarred by human 
 Passion and unfeeling baseness may refresh 
 And cheer thee. For there, shut out from 
 All the stormy tumults of a guilty world, 
 Alone with God and Nature, — there, at least, thou 
 Mayest be happy, and forget thy bitter wo. 
 
 Alf. I approve thy purpose. 
 Let it be so. 
 
 Lau. I will obey 
 Your kind request. 
 
 Scene IV. — Castle of Don Alfonso in Andalusia. Laura 
 discovered standing on one of the terraces of the Castle. 
 Mountains and forests in the rear. Time, evening. 
 
 Lau. (solus.) Lovely nature, oh, how calm and peaceful 
 Seems thy verdant breast ! Thou look'st as tho' no 
 Anguish, such as mine, could e'er exist 
 Amid thy rural and sequestered scenes. 
 'Tis here the storms of human misery 
 Appear for ever hushed. Here bitter 
 Wrong and outrage seem unknown. Here love 
 And concord do appear to be eternal 
 As is the long and calm succession of thy years ! 
 
 {Suddenly arousing herself 
 He's gone for ever ! Yes, my lover, husband ; 
 The lord of this poor, broken heart ; the noblest 
 Of his race ; and yet, alas ! a beauteous devil t 
 Stay, thou rolling ocean ! Stay your rushing 
 Waves ! Ye bear away upon your bosoms, 
 Far, far from me, my very heart, my soul, 
 My life ! Oh, where shall I repose this 
 Aching head? A burning fire consumes me, 
 Intense as that which flamed of old on 
 Molock's iron altars ; and no earthly [8,] 
 
 Antidote can quench its raging fury. 
 
78 THE SPANFSH WIFE. 
 
 Oh, that a polar ocean, with its 
 
 Waters fresh from Lapland's frozen zone, 
 
 Might lave this bursting brow, and cool the 
 
 Raging of this fierce volcano. M}^ heart ! 
 
 It breaks ! it breaks ! Its fibres part asunder ! 
 
 'Tis torn in pieces! Oh, the agony of this most 
 
 Desolate hour ! Oh, the bitterness of this 
 
 Farewell pang. Come death ! thou fell destroyer 
 
 Of our race, come, end my wo, and with thy iron 
 
 Hand, destroy in utter wreck this broken, 
 
 This distracted heart ! 
 
 Enter Leon, with a bouquet^ l. 
 
 Leo7i. "Well, my fair mistress, accept this 
 Beauteous nosegay. It was culled, this very eve, 
 From the blooming bed of roses, planted by 
 Your own fair hands, when last you 
 Visited the castle. 
 
 Lau. I accept it, Leon, 
 "With my thanks. But I pray you leave me. 
 I am not now in th' mood for further 
 Converse. (Exit^ Leon, r. 
 
 [Exmnining the roses.) Ah, what a strong 
 itemembrancer is this ? What a potent emblem 
 Of tiie heavenly innocence of these once happy scenes ! 
 What a memento of the peaceful joys. 
 The unclouded hopes of my bright girlhood's years ! 
 I do remember well the day I planted that rose-bed. 
 I was happy then ! Yes, I was happy then ! 
 My heart was cheerful as the warbling 
 Nightingale. Then all things wore a beauteous 
 Hue, of rosy hope and loveliness. 
 Alas ! ye days of youthful joy ! Ye are all fled 
 For ever ! How has the brightness of my 
 Youthful being changed to horrid gloom and sadness I 
 How have my air built bovvers of bliss all fled 
 Like morning clouds away ! Ye azure dreams 
 Of future jo}^ ! Ye mystic hopes of wedded love ! 
 I bid ye all farewell, for ever ! Never shall 
 I feel again the rapture of bright hope ! Now 
 A]\ is cheerless gloorn ! 
 
79 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Who would have e'er expected it ? 
 What crime have I committed ; whom have I 
 Wronged, that I should thus be singled out, 
 The victim of fate's cruel, bitter hate ? 
 For it has ever been my joy to heal the sorrowing 
 Heart, and wipe away the mourner's tear. 
 But now I am myself the mourner, whose heavy 
 Grief exceeds the sum of human wretchedness. 
 Where can I look for peace ? Or who will soothe 
 My wo ? (Holds up and kisses a crucifix.) 
 Oh ! Holy Virgin ! pure and spotless emblem 
 Of heavenly love and pity, whose ears are ever 
 Open to the cries of the grief-burdened soul, 
 Impart to me that consolation which this earth 
 Can ne'er bestow ! For the merits of thy 
 Glorious Son, the prince of paradise, speak joy 
 To this most desolate heart ! 
 
 Enter Don Alfonso and Pedro, r. s. e. They regard 
 Laura ^vith interest and in silence. 
 
 Laii. (solus.) Could I but now be near him, 
 Whom I do love, so blindly but so well ; could I 
 But hear his voice, and hold sweet converse with 
 Him, though he be another's, I might at least 
 Endure the gloomy burden of existence. 
 For he might utter words of sympathy, — nay, 
 Even accents of repentance, (jjauses in thought.) 
 Yes ! I will do it. I will see him. But then, 
 My pride rebels against the journey. 
 Shall I, the daughter of the proudest house 
 In Spain, so far forget the dignity which still 
 Is due my kindred, as well as to myself, 
 As thus to cross the treacherous ocean. 
 And go a wanderer forth, a suppliant, 
 To a foreign chme, to feed upon the hollow 
 Smiles of him who has deceived, deserted me, 
 And who may e'en again repulse me? (pauses.^) 
 And yet, I shall but perish here ! 
 I look around me, and naught gives me 
 Pleasure. These well-remembered scenes, 
 The ancient castle of my brave forefathers, 
 
80 THE SPANl?rT WIFE. 
 
 The leafy forest, and the breezy lawn, 
 
 The shady grotto, and the murmuring rivulet , 
 
 All are most cheerless and repulsive now. E'en my 
 
 Little spaniel tries all its well-accustomed 
 
 Tricks in vain ; it fails to soothe me, as in 
 
 Other, happier days ! 
 
 Fedro. {to Don Alfonso, aside.) 
 Her wounded heart will utter sounds of 
 Plaintive wo, just like a broken harp, left as 
 Useless wreck upon some lonely and deserted 
 Shore ; whose trembling strings do sigh and 
 Moan discordantly, in every passing wind. 
 
 (Laura starts ujy at perceiving them, 
 
 Lau. Ah ! my father, brother ! 
 Are 5^ou here ? 
 
 Aif. We have unexpectedly been 
 The witnesses of your grief 
 
 Fed. If thou art still afflicted with the 
 Perfidy of men ; if thou art sickened 
 At the vanity of earth, then seek the calm 
 And holy silence of the convent; and there, 
 Shut out from every mortal care, forgetful 
 Of the miseries and the illusions of the 
 World, in sacred converse with kind heaven 
 And its blest inhabitants, thou mayest 
 Find peace. 
 
 Lau. My brother, / cannot ! 
 To me the gloomy silence of the cloister would be 
 Intolerable. Within its still recesses. 
 The tortured, jaundiced mind, deprived 
 Of all external themes whereon to waste 
 Its morbid energies, would then turn inward 
 On itself; with vulture cruelty, would feed 
 On its own quivering vitals ; and picture 
 Porth the horrors of its woes with more intense 
 And fearful vividness. 'Twould be a living 
 Death ; a human hell ! I cannot ! 
 
 Fed. You doubtless think so now. 
 But this perverted feeling soon would pass away. 
 Others have found a heavenly balm for 
 The same woes, in the same holy remedy. 
 
 hau. I know^ it is impossible ! 
 
THE SPANISH WIPE. 81 
 
 1^0 ; I will not make the vain attempt. 
 
 But with my father's kind permission, 
 
 (And I am well assured, his generous heart 
 
 Denies me nothing,) I will visit England ; 
 
 Will see my truant lover once again ; 
 
 And if I could dwell near him for a time, I feel 
 
 I may be happy yet. I cannot tear his image 
 
 From my breast. I have already made 
 
 The vain attempt, and oft renewed the struggle 
 
 O'er again ; I might as well presume with 
 
 This weak arm, to pluck the towering Alps 
 
 From their eternal beds, as banish from 
 
 My breast the memory and the love of him, 
 
 To whom my heart's affections have been 
 
 Given. No ! Let me go, my generous father ; 
 
 Do, I beseech you. Let me see him once 
 
 Again. 
 
 Alf. I would do anything 
 For her I deeply love. And we will speak again 
 Of this hereafter. But see ! the evening star 
 Now twinkles o'er the ruggid brow of yonder 
 Western mountain. Night hastens on apace. 
 Please you retire to your chamber, 
 And take your wonted rest. 
 
 Lau. I will obey your wishes. (Exity JLaura, L. 
 
 Alf. What think you, Pedro, 
 Of this proposition ? 
 
 Fed. Strange and startling vagaries, 
 Do often mark the sore diseased mind. 
 Her wrongs have almost crazed her. 
 
 {pauses in meditation. 
 
 Alf. Well, what say you ? 
 
 Ped. I am in favor of her proposition. 
 
 Alf. For what reason ? 
 
 Fed. The journey may dispel her 
 Sadness. But I have still a deeper purpose. 
 I have sworn before the sight of heaven, that 
 I will avenge her crying wrongs, and I will 
 Do it. Let us accompany her. Our 
 Present leisure renders it convenient. 
 My seeming pretext will be to protect 
 Her, and promote her wishes. But my real 
 
82 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Purpose shall be, to plunge this dagger deep 
 Into her base deceiver's heart. If I perish 
 In the execution, it is well. You can then 
 Conduct her, her wrongs avenged, her honor 
 Vindicated, to her paternal home again. 
 
 Alf. I will think of it. 
 """i may be so. 
 
 Scene V. — Palace of Don Lorenzo. 
 
 Enter Laura, l. 
 
 Lau. (solus.) Yes, e'en the distant and uncertain thought 
 Of seeing him I love, fills me again 
 With hope, and hope to me is life and endless joy. 
 Oh, love ! how most mysterious and absolute 
 Is thy power ! Thy golden chain, unseen, 
 Extends o'er distant lands and oceans, 
 And binds as one in rapture or in wo, 
 Hearts as distant 
 As the poles asunder. 
 
 Enter Leon, l. 
 
 Leon. Madam, a visitor 
 Bequests admittance to your presence. 
 
 Lau. Bid him enter. \^Exit Leoriy S, 
 
 I shall at least behold him, hear him, 
 Speak to him again. And that at least is 
 Something ! 
 
 Enter Lorenzo, l. 
 
 Lor. My fairest Laura, 
 I crave your pardon for my rude intrusion. 
 
 Lau, There is no pardon needed ; 
 You are welcome. 
 
 Lor. You have confided,to your friend, my 
 Sister, Constanza, the secret of your 
 Deep distress, and she has ventured 
 To appoint me partner of her trust. 
 You have been basely, foully wronged. 
 / would ne'er have wron^rcd you thus ! 
 
IHT: SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 83 
 
 Lmi. You presume, sir, far 
 Too much upon my confidence. 
 
 Lor. Nay, forgive me. 
 For thou<rh I have been once repulsed, 
 And though I know the nature of your wrong, 
 I still possess the same regard, the same 
 Deep love for vou. Then let me make, once more, 
 The offer of this rejected heart and hand. 
 Will you not now be mine ? I forgive my 
 First repulse. Your second marriage 
 Will remove the ills inflicted by the first 
 
 Lmi. Sir, you little understand 
 My nature, or my present feeUngs- 
 
 Lor. But can you not be won 
 By the long devotion of true love ? 
 
 Lau. Learn, sir, that when 
 The heart of a true woman has once been 
 Touched with love, no arts, no sedulous 
 Attentions, nor gentle wooings can e er 
 Reduce her from her first allegiance. 
 Lor. But this Enghsh courtier has 
 Deceived you. He is most unworthy of such love 
 
 As this. 
 
 Lau. Your arguments are useless. ^ 
 A woman's heart, once captured, tho' by 
 A faithless enemy, is no longer free ; 
 And it remains a willing captive still ! 
 
 ior. 'Tis strano-e philosophy- I 
 Understand it not. But let us both forget 
 The past. Keceive me now as your accepted suitor, 
 As your husband ! 
 
 Lau. Sir, it is impossible. 
 I would not cheat you with the worthless gitt 
 Of a mere hand, without 
 
 A heart; and this devoted heart, though it has been 
 Deceived, would never, if it could throw off the 
 Sweet allegiance of its first eternal lord. 
 
 Xor. Then you refuse again ? 
 
 Lau. You may understand it so. 
 
 Lor. Then, madam, you shall 
 Repent it. I will pubhsli your disgrace 
 Throughout Madrid. Its proudest palace 
 
84 THE SFANISII WIFE. 
 
 And its most humble hovel, all shall echo 
 With the jeering clamor of your infamy. 
 E'en the crowded amphitheatre, where once you 
 Eeigned the queen of beauty, at your future 
 Presence shall resound with groans and hisses. 
 
 Late. Sir, leave my presence ! 
 If you are base enough t' insult misfortune 
 You are unworthy of my notice. 
 I despise your dispicable threats. 
 My conscious innocence and purity 
 Allow me to defy your brutal maUce, 
 And treat your vengeance with contempt. 
 Leave my presence, sir ! 
 
 Lor. I swear to execute my threat. (Exit Lorenzo^ L.) 
 
 Lau. Thus does misfortune ever 
 Hasten on misfortune, and wrong accumulate 
 On wrong. Let once the wheel of the blind 
 Goddess turn, and let the worthiest of mankind 
 Descend, then do the vilest hasten to oppress 
 The hapless victim, with their base and 
 Despicable censure. Oh, conscious innocence 1 
 Thou art thine own reward, and it is all 
 Thou hast to boast of! 
 
 Re-enter Lorenzo, l. 
 
 Lor. Fairest Laura, my deathless passion 
 For thy charms o'ercomes my struggling hate. 
 Once more, I pray you, listen to my earnest 
 Suit, and grant it. Come ! My carriage now, is 
 Waiting at the garden gate. Let us fly through 
 The hanging foliage. I swear to you 
 Eternal love and constancy. 
 
 La2i. Sir, leave me, I again insist upon 
 It. I abhor your importunities. 
 
 Lor. Nay, I will not be denied. 
 Come with me. Let us hasten hence, (seizes her.) 
 
 Lau. Oh, whither shall I look 
 For refuge ? My father, brother, help ! help ! 
 
 Enter Pedro, l. s. e. 
 Fed. What means this 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 85 
 
 Strange alarm, this horrid violence ? 
 Lorenzo, have you indeed become the 
 Despicable villain that you seem ? 
 
 Lau. He would compel me, by 
 Foul rudeness, a dishonored fugitive, 
 To fly with him. Save me from him ! 
 
 Lor, Thou hast come to intercept her 
 From my arms. I swear, this double 
 Insult shall be atoned, ere long, by 
 Double vengeance. 
 
 Fed. Die, thou malicious villain ! 
 
 ( They fight ^ and Lorenzo falls.) 
 In hell thou mayest execute thy basely 
 Threatened vengeance on the innocent, 
 The unfortunate. Die ! (again stabbing him.) 
 And descend to where thy kindred devils 
 Dwell. They may assist thee in thy 
 Hellish work. 
 
 Lor. I know her heart is broken ; 
 That is revenge enough ! (dies.) 
 
 Fed. My injured Laura: 
 The punishment of those who wronged thee, 
 Has been begun already. 
 
 Lau. Here, I beseech you. 
 Let your vengeance end for ever. 
 
 Scene VI. — Audience Chamber of Philip II. The King 
 with several courtiers and officers discovered. 
 
 K. Phil, (to Offi.) Summon Don Pedro to our presence 
 Instantly. (Exit Offi,cer yR.) 
 
 The wonton murder of a Spanish grandee. 
 Without just cause or provocation, cannot 
 Be permitted, not even to the highest noble 
 In the land. I must inquire of this 
 Sad deed. 
 
 Enter Pedro, Laura, and Alfonso, preceded by an 
 Officer. 
 
 Don Pedro, you have been charged with 
 Th' murder of Lorenzo. How is this ? 
 
86 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Have you thus stained your honored sword 
 With innocent blood ? 
 
 Fed. Sire, I did the deed 
 To vindicate that outraged honor. 
 The dead Lorenzo thus presuming on the 
 Ancient friendship of our houses, as well 
 As the deep injury inflicted on 
 My sister, by another, now beyond the 
 Reach of justice, pressed his suit with 
 Boldness; nay, with insult. And when his 
 Hated alliance was declined, he would have 
 Added force and brutal violence to his suit. 
 My injured sister did implore deliverance. 
 I hoard her suppliant cries. I came to 
 Her relief, just at the instant of her 
 Greatest peril, and I rescued her by slaying 
 Her most dastardly assailant. This, my liege, 
 Was the occasion of the deed. 
 
 K. Phil. You have a fair and a sufficient 
 Witness here, who may confirm, or may deny 
 The truth of your defense. Speak, lady ! 
 
 Lau. My liege, 'tis true. 
 As my brother hath declared. Even 
 To the last syllable 'tis true. To his 
 Avenging sword, I owe my honor, and 
 My safety. 
 
 K. Phil. It is enough, fair lady. 
 Don Pedro, thou art free ; acquitted of the 
 Charge, which had thus reached my ears. 
 Stern justice does commend thy deed. But thou 
 Speak'st of a great wrong which thy sister 
 Had endured from one now far beyond the 
 Arm of justice. What does that mean ? 
 
 Ped. My liege, one of the noble 
 Cavaliers, who late bore message from the 
 King of England to this court, wooed and won 
 My sister for his bride. After their secret. 
 Though honorable nuptials, he declared 
 That he was already wed, and left her 
 In her tears and desolation. 
 
 K. Phil. Infamous deceiver ! 
 
 Ped, And what is stranger still, 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 87 
 
 Her widowed heart can find no rest. 
 The knowledge of her wrong cannot release 
 Her spirit from the tender chain which bound 
 Her to the beloved form of her deceiver. 
 And now she asks to travel where he dwells, 
 That she may there, at least, be near him. 
 She thinks 'twould soothe her anguish. 
 
 K. Phil. 'Tis very strange. And yet- 
 'Tis not strange ! The undying constancy 
 Of woman's love, I know full well. And I'm not 
 Amazed at this unequalled tenderness. 
 
 Peel. Does my liege approve 
 Of her strange purpose ? 
 
 K. Phil. I do. Let me fulfil 
 Her heart's desire. Let her go to England in such 
 State of splendor as befits her noble 
 Hank and lineage. 
 
 Ped. While I accede to her 
 Eequest, it would afford me opportunity 
 To punish the guilty culprit. 
 
 K. Phil. That I also will approve. 
 And that you may possess complete impunity 
 To execute your righteous purpose; 
 I will entrust you with despatches 
 To the English court, touching the marriage 
 Of the Infanta. You shall go thither 
 As my ambassador, and receive all 
 The high honors due to the representative 
 Of the ancient crown of Spain. 
 
 Lau. And yet, my sovereign, 
 He shall not execute his uttered threat 
 Of vengeance. I had rather that the sword, 
 Now reeking with the wonton blood of dead 
 Lorenzo, should in dishonor perish. 
 Than that it should be foully stained 
 With the blood of him whose love I cherish 
 Better far than life itself I will prevent 
 A deed so base in him, so sad to me. 
 
 K. Phil. Let that be as 
 You wish. I will perform my promise 
 To him. Make your preparations instantly 
 To sail to England. 
 
 END OF ACT IV, 
 
88 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Cabinet %n Windsor Palace. King James 
 discovered reading a letter. 
 
 K. James, (solus.) This last despatch I've just received 
 From Spain, is more desponding than the 
 Rest. The Spanish king becomes more haughty, 
 The princess is more frivolous, and the 
 Ministers are more vexatious in their 
 Terms ; while Buckingham, as is his wont, 
 Is most exacting and unyielding. I doubt not, 
 This expedition will entirely fail. 
 
 Enter Page, l. 
 
 Page. My liege, Prince Charles and the 
 Duke of Buckingham have just arrived from Spain. 
 
 Exit s. E. 
 
 Enter Buckingham and Prince Charles, l. 
 
 K. James. Welcome ! welcome to your homes 
 And England. You are both doubly welcome ! 
 Your arrival is unexpected, but it is 
 Not less agreeable. 
 
 Btick. Our resolution to return 
 "Was sudden, resulting from the hopeless 
 Aspect of the negotiations concerning the 
 Infanta. These do I bear to you, from the King of Spain 
 (Gives despatches and casket to the king.) 
 
 K. James. I prejudged that such would be 
 The fruitless end of your endeavors, from the news 
 I last received from you. 
 
 Charles. I assure your majesty 
 'Tis not the Infanta's fault, that she regrets 
 To-day, the absence of a husband. 
 The blame is theirs, whose hearts and feelings 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 89 
 
 Were not enlisted in the affair. 
 
 K. James. Where'er the fault may rest, 
 I am content. I embrace my son once 
 More, secure, unharmed, amid' ten thousand 
 Perils. That is most valued of all good 
 Fortune ; while most intense have been my thoughts of 
 Fear and dread, lest accident, or death might 
 Be the issue, and the penalty of this most 
 Strange and silly expedition. 
 
 Buck. My liege, although your son 
 Did not obtain the Infanta's hand, yet his late 
 Journey has been useful to him. I will 
 Vouch for it, that he's much wiser now 
 Than when he started forth from England. 
 He has made observations large and deep, 
 Of men, of laws, of nature, and of women, 
 Which will vastly profit him, whenever 
 He assumes the heavy weight which rests 
 Upon a monarch's shoulders. 
 
 K. James. I am much pleased to hear it 
 For all this, I must reward yourself, 
 Most noble Duke. Continue to be first 
 In my high confidence. Anon, we will 
 Look elsewhere for a princess for my son. 
 I have just received a friendly greeting 
 From the King of France, who offers me 
 An aUiance with his noble house. 
 
 Buck. It may be well t' accept it. 
 But with your majesty's permission, we 
 Will now retire, and recruit our wasted strength, 
 After all the great fatigues of our long journey. 
 
 K. James. I permit you ; go ! 
 
 Scene II. — Palace of Sir William Sidney. A sple^idid 
 Portrait hangs in a conspicuous position. Sidney 
 (dressed in mourning,) intently gazing on the picture, 
 
 Sid. (solus.) That is the truthful and expressive image 
 Of my loving, injured, and confiding Laura, 
 Drawn by the master hand of the greatest 
 Limner in all Spain. Just so her dark eye 
 Beamed on me with rapturous passion, 
 
90 THE SPANISH WIPE. 
 
 When fli'st I called her mine, and pressed her 
 
 To my throbbing heart, amid the fragrant 
 
 Bowers of her once happy home. 
 
 There, too, is her serene and noble brow, 
 
 Her queen-hke neck, her fascinating smile ; 
 
 All speaking forth the generous, confiding, 
 
 Loving, and impassioned woman. 
 
 And that angelic form, alas ! how 
 
 Have I seen it racked with keenest agony, 
 
 At the announcement of my own perfidious 
 
 Baseness ; baseness indeed without a parallel. 
 
 Oh, memory ! memory ! thou deadly 
 
 Scorpion of the guilty mind, would that 
 
 I could blunt thy poisonous sting ! In the 
 
 Desolation which 1 feel, I may 
 
 Compute the wretchedness of her whom 
 
 I have deeply wronged. Would that my own 
 
 Afflicted heart might now commune with 
 
 Hers, in sympathy of grief Oh, could I 
 
 Hear her tender voice, but utter accents of 
 
 Forgiveness, 'twould be indeed a heavenly 
 
 Consolation ! But that can never be ! 
 
 E'en now she mourns alone in her own distant land. 
 
 Enter Servant, l. 
 
 Serv. A nobleman has just arrived. 
 And asks to be admitted to your presence. 
 
 Sid. Show him in without delay. {Exit Servant.) 
 Who can this stranger be, who thus 
 Intrudes upon my decorous seclusion ? 
 
 Enter Duke of Buckingham, l. 
 
 Buc7{. Ah ! my old friend Sidney, 
 I come to cheer you in your present tedious 
 Absence from the joyful world. I trust my 
 Presence is at least agreeable ? 
 
 Sid: Most assuredly, my lord, it is. 
 I am most pleased to see you. 
 
 Buck. We have passed together 
 Amid too raanv scenes of rich adventure, 
 
THK SPANISH WIFE. 91 
 
 At home, and o'er the seas, not to be agreeable 
 Companions. By the way, and to direct your 
 Gloomy thoughts, have you e'er heard 
 What has become of that fair Andalusian, 
 "Whom you so completely victimized, 
 In Madrid ? Ha ! that was well done! 
 
 (Sidney appears shocked at the allusion.^ 
 
 Sid. My lord, jest not on such 
 A theme. It is more tender to me than 
 You may imagine. I pray you not to trifle 
 With it. Speak of anything but that. 
 
 Btick. How is this ? AVhat mean you? 
 You have indeed become most scrupulous 
 And strangely crammed with conscience all at once I 
 I am quite unprepared for this. 
 
 Sid. Sir, behold that portrait ! {points to portrait.) 
 'Tis the speaking image of 
 
 The noblest of her sex, whom your most vile and • 
 Damned sophistry taught me to ruin 
 And deceive. I am not yet the hardened 
 Villain, to whom such deeds of infamy 
 Are facile or accustomed. But misled 
 By your unjust philosophy, I yielded to 
 An evil genius, and was guilty of a wrong, 
 Which, I fear, not the remorse and 
 Deep regret of coming years can e'er atone. 
 
 Buck. This is nonsense ! Are you then 
 So week a mortal as to be affected by a 
 Woman's tears? Know you not, that they have all 
 A most obedient, briny-flood within them, 
 Which issues forth at pleasure, on all 
 Occasions ? And I suppose that your deserted 
 Spanish bride possessed the usual, artful. 
 Melting trickeries of her sex, and used them on you. 
 
 Sid. My lord, you d<I) outrage her 
 Greatly.' And you have been the guilty cause 
 Of my own wrong. Your counsel to me 
 Was most base ; it was dishonorable ! 
 
 Btick. Sir, I am not 
 Used to language such as this. The king himself, 
 Upon his throne, would 
 Not presume to call me, or my d^eds, 
 
93 THE SPANISH WIPE. 
 
 'Dishonorable.' 
 
 Sid. Then I dare to call you so. 
 I repeat, that had it not been for your 
 Deceitful counsel, my own conscience had no^ 
 Now been burdened with the guilt of a niost 
 Cruel and most vile imposture. 
 
 Buck. Well, sir, if such be your 
 Estimate of me and my principles, as we so 
 Greatly misunderstand each other, I will 
 End our thankless intercourse ; and 
 Eor the last time, I say to you, farewell. 
 
 {Exit Buckingham^ r.) 
 
 Sid. (solus.) He is gone ! Would to heaven that 
 I ne'er had known him. From what a deep, 
 Corroding canker had I been free, which 
 Now does gnaw my vitals, as if I were a 
 New Prometheus, rockbound, high amid 
 The raging elements, suflfering the vulture 
 Vengeance of the angry gods ! 
 
 But hold ! A thought now strikes my fevered brain I 
 Peace and repentance come by reparation. 
 Yes, happy thought ! I yet may comfort her 
 Afflicted neart. The pretext serves me well. 
 Yes, I will do it. I will give it out, 
 That, to dispel my sadness, — the true cause 
 Whereof is hid from all the world, — I will 
 Set forth upon my travels ; and then, with lightning 
 Quickness will I speed my way to her beloved abode, 
 And the same scenes which once beheld her 
 Raptures and her wrongs, shall witness also 
 My repentance, and her sudden joy. 
 Oh ! 'tis a precious thought, nor would I fail in 
 Its fulfilment, for all the treasures of the world. 
 
 Enter Servant, l. 
 
 Serv. My lord, a splendid equipage 
 Has just advanced within the courtyard gates. 
 
 Sid. See them conducted 
 To the great saloon, I will myself wait 
 On them there immediately. (Exit Servant.) 
 
 This is doubtless some kind members of our 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 93 
 
 Kindred, who would offer me, according 
 
 To established, courteous custom, their friendly 
 
 Sympathy. Did they but know my heart's 
 
 True anguish, how vain, how worthless 
 
 "Would their kindness seem, e'en 
 
 To themselves ! Oh ! my injured, loving Laura, 
 
 Worlds would I give, this hour, to press thee 
 
 Now in these unworthy arms ! 
 
 Scene III. — Palace of Sir William Sidney. Laura, Don 
 Pedro, and Don Alfonso discovered. On Sidney's en- 
 trance they rise. 
 
 Enter Sir Sidney, l. {At sight of Laura he is startled 
 and overcome for some moments with the utmost 
 astonishment.) 
 
 Lau. My lord, do you not know me ? 
 
 Sid. Is this real? 
 Or am I in a dream ? I am amazed ! 
 Can this be Laura, the noble Spanish 
 Lady, whom I knew in her own land ? 
 
 Lau. It is the same, my lord. 
 My brother here, has come as bearer of 
 Despatches to the King of England, and I 
 Have thus embraced the opportunity 
 Tc accompany him. 
 
 Sid. I greet you all most 
 Heartily. You are most welcome. 
 
 Lau. Oh, Sir William ! how have 
 I wished to see this hour ! Your absence long 
 Has filled ray heart with deepest sadness. 
 I can never, never forget the past, 
 And I have visited this distant clime to see 
 You once again, and to dwell near you for 
 A time, in hope that converse with you 
 Might assuage my anguish ; give me 
 Joy and peace again ; and then, alas I 
 To say farewell, for ever ! 
 
 (Alfonso and Pedro retire to rear and converse 
 in dumb slww.) 
 
 Sid, Noble woman 1 
 
94 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 I bless the god-like love and constancy, 
 
 Which have impelled you to this step. 
 
 I am, indeed, unworthy of such divine devotion. 
 
 Ye titled sovereigns of a hundred realms, 
 
 Who count you own the treasure of a world, 
 
 Ye are not half so rich as I, the happy 
 
 Owner of a heart, so fond, so changeless, 
 
 And so true ! You are thrice welcome, 
 
 And let me clasp unto my breast again 
 
 That angel form which once was mine. 
 
 In joys beyond the tongue of man. {they emhrace^ 
 
 Thou art still as beautiful as ever ! 
 
 Still hast thou yet the same sweet smile, 
 
 The same fond, loving, trusting heart ! Oh, how 
 
 Often have I thought of thee, as thus thou 
 
 Beamest in immortal beauty, when 
 
 Coursing o'er the pathless deep ; when sighing 
 
 'Mid the glittering throng of rank and pride; 
 
 In the midst of high yet heartless revelry ; 
 
 And the midnight hour of silent thought 
 
 And sadness. 
 
 Lau. Hast thou, then, indeed, 
 Remembered me ? Alas, I feared my 
 Very name had long been buried by thee in oblivion. 
 Oh ! how has my sad spirit cherished thy 
 Beloved memory ! 
 
 Sid. Canst thou forgive 
 The crjnng wrong I did thee ? Oh, I have 
 Sinned against thee too deeply to be forgiven. 
 
 Lau. I have forgiven thee ! Yes, 
 And I do still forgive thee, freely. I know 
 That thou wert led astray by the fierce 
 Madness of thy passion. I forgive thee ! 
 And I love thee still ! 
 
 Hid. Oh, thou God of Justice ! 
 I thank thee, that thou dost give this 
 Proffered opportunity of reparation. 
 Know then, thou model of thy sex, 
 Thou sum of every virtue, and every 
 Loveliness; know that I may. yet redeem 
 My tarnished honor; and that thy trusting 
 Heart, which I once wronged, may now 
 
THE SPANISH WIFE. 95 
 
 Be pillowed in eternal joy, upon another, 
 As free, as faithful, as devoted as 
 Thine own. 
 
 Laic. What mean you ? 
 That were, indeed, an extacy of bliss I ne'er 
 Expected 'mid all my brightest reveries. 
 
 Sid. Hear me : Since last I left thee, 
 Sorrowing and deserted, in thy home, 
 I myself have been bereaved by Providence. 
 The wedded partner of my life has been 
 Eemoved from earth, and now she slumbers in 
 Her grave. I may now give thee that same 
 Heart and hand which once I falsely plighted 
 To thee, in thy home, now free, and freely 
 And for ever thine. Wilt thou accept 
 The unworthy offering ? 
 
 Lau. Will I accept thee ? {rushes up and embraces him.) 
 Yes. Thou art far more precious to me 
 Than a princely diadem ! 
 
 Sid. This very day, 
 Despite all usual forms of decorous delay, 
 I will conduct thee to the bridal altar. 
 Thy matchless beauty heightened by thy tears ; 
 And there thou shalt receive a heart 
 Softened by repentance for the past, 
 And tilled with new-born rapture, at 
 The advent of this propitious hour. 
 
 [AiuYOT^^o a7idl?Y.V)'SiO come fomvard. Ajle. l. (5*Ped» r.) 
 Will these, our noble friends, my honored 
 Guests, approve our purpose ? 
 
 Alf. Thou hast won her love, 
 And she is thine. 
 
 Fed. Thou hast possession of 
 Her heart ; justice demands her hand should 
 Follow it. 
 
 Sid. Oh, then, let Lethe's silent waters 
 Wash away, in deep oblivion, all the 
 Sad'ning memories of the past. From this 
 Sweet hour let liie begin anew. 
 
 Lau. Ah, my love, let us not 
 Forget the past. Its mingled scenes of 
 Rapture and of wo, will make our future 
 
96 THE SPANISH WIFE. 
 
 Bliss more lasting and intense. 
 
 Sid. Oh ! the unequalled 
 Constancy of woman's love ! Time may revolve 
 Its ever-changing rounds: Empires and kingdoms 
 May ascend to grandeur, and may crumble 
 To their native dust again. The power 
 Of high and stern ambition may dissolve 
 Away. The eager hand of avarice 
 May loose its iron grasp. All human passions 
 May grow faint and weak. But woman's love, 
 If it be genuine love, once rooted in the breast, 
 Remains as quenchless and immortal 
 As the undying essence of the soul ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 POSITIONS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN. 
 Pedro. Laura. Sidney. ALFONSOr 
 
THE MINOR DRAMA, 
 
 TOL. V. 
 
 3. Coikiiies ia California. 
 
 4. Who Speaks First. 
 
 5. Bombastes Furioeo. 
 Macbeth Travestie. 
 The Irish Ambassador. 
 Deiicnte Ground 
 The Weailiercnck: 
 All ihai GiiUfih is noi Gold. 
 
 With a Portrait and Memoir }i 
 Mr.W. A.GOODALL. 
 
 VOL. VI. 
 
 Gri mshaw. Bagshaw, and 
 Bradt-haw. 
 
 Rough Diamond. 
 
 Bloomer Costume*. 
 
 Two Bonnvcastje.q 
 45. Born to Good Luck. 
 'U]. Kiss in the Dark. 
 
 47. 'Tv.'ou'<l Puzzle a Conjuror. 
 
 48. Kill or Cui<* 
 Willi a Portrait and Memoir of 
 
 F. M. KENT. 
 
 VOL. VII. 
 
 I 49. Box and Cox Married and Settled. 
 50. St. Cupid. 
 ; 51. Oo-to-bed Tom. 
 { 52, The Lawyers. 
 
 41. 
 
 43. 
 41 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 1. The L-ish Attorney. 
 
 2. Boots at the Swan. 
 
 3. How to Pay the Rent. 
 
 4. The Loan of a Lover. 
 
 5. The Dead Shot. 
 
 6. His Last Legs. 
 
 7. The Invisibln rnnce. 
 
 8. The Golden K^iruier. 
 With a Portraii and Memoir of 
 
 MR. JOHN SKFTON. 
 
 ViiL. II. 
 
 9. The Tritie oi the Market. 
 
 10. Used Up. 
 
 11. The Irish Tutor. 
 
 12. The Barrack Ruom. 
 
 13. Luke the Lalioia-er." 
 
 14. Beauiy and ihe ^cu^i 
 1.5. St. Patrick's" Eve. 
 16 Captain of the Watch. 
 
 With a Poi-iniit and Memoir of 
 MISS C. WF.MVSS. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 17. The Secret. 
 
 18. White Horse oi the Peppers. 
 
 19. The Jacobite. 
 
 20. The iioitJt.-. 
 
 21. Box ai d Cox. 
 
 22. Ba lioozlinar. ^ 
 
 23. W 'ow'fj Vj'jtim. 
 
 24. ii bert Macaire. 
 
 With a Portrait and Memoir of 
 MR. F. S. CHANFEAU. ! 
 
 VOL. IV. j 
 
 25. Secj-e1 Service. j 
 
 26. The Omnih.ir,. ! 
 
 27. The Irish Lion. l 
 2P.. Thtf !\I;jld of Croissey. ! 
 
 29. The Uid Guard. ! 
 
 30. Raising ihe Witi<i \ 
 
 31. Slasher and Crasher. | 
 
 32. Naval Engagements. { 
 With a Portrrdt ^ud Momnir < f 
 
 MESS ROSK TSLBIN. 1 
 
 Price. 12 1-2 Cevfs eurh.— Bound Volumes, $1.00. 
 Illj* On a remittance of One Dollnr, free of postage, Ten cop- 
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 MODERN STAN 
 
 Price 12 1-2 Cents each.- 
 
 VOL. 1. 
 
 1. Ion. 
 
 2. Fazio. 
 
 3 The Lady of Lyons. 
 
 4. Richelieu. 
 
 5. The Wifo. 
 
 6. The Honey Moon. 
 
 7. The School for Scan- 
 
 fViih n Portrttit and 
 Memoir ,,/• \irs A C 
 MOfVJTT. 
 
 VOL. il 
 
 9. Tht J^trhMa^fr. 
 10. Graiiduuhcr White- 
 head. 
 IL Richard III 
 
 12. Lot'e's Sacrifice. 
 
 13. Thf Gari)(i.>«ier. ' 
 
 14 A C>ire (or ihe n«ari 
 
 arh.-^. 
 
 15 Tl... li.jnchl.ark 
 
 1(5. f)oD CtPMir f>«' nazjsr 
 iVith a rortraii cvd Me- 
 moir of Mr. CHARLES 
 KEAJS. 
 
 vol.. in. 
 .7. The Poor Gentleman. 
 
 18. Hamlet. 
 
 19. CharleelL 
 
 20. Venice Preserved. 
 
 21. Pizarro, 
 
 22. The Love-Chase. 
 
 23. Othello. 
 
 24. Lend Me Five Shil- 
 
 lings. 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir cf Mr. tV. E. 
 BURTON. 
 
 L. IV. 
 
 25. Virflnius. 
 
 26. The King of the Com- 
 
 mons. 
 
 27. London Assurance. 
 
 28. The Rent-Day. 
 
 29. Two Gentlemen of 
 
 Verona. 
 
 30. The Jealoua Wife. 
 
 31. The Rivals. 
 
 32. Perfection. 
 
 JVitk a Portrait and 
 Memoir of Mr. J. H. 
 IjAGKETT. 
 
 33 
 
 vol,. 
 
 A New \V 
 
 016 
 
 Old Dobte. 
 34. Look Before You Leap. 
 15. Kins Jfihn. 
 I.). Tlip iWirvous Man. 
 
 37. Danjon and Pythias. 
 
 38. The Clandostinp Mar- 
 
 >•:» William Tfll. 
 ,'0 Tlifi Day After the 
 VVf dding. 
 With a Fortran avd 
 Memoir of U COL MAIS 
 the FJihr. 
 
 VOL VI. 
 
 41. Speed the Plough. 
 
 42. Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 43. Feudal Times. 
 
 M. Chnrl.'s rh-iTwclflh 
 -is. The Briilal. 
 
 46. Th»^FolliesofalVight. 
 
 47. The Iron ClieM. 
 
 48 Fuiut Heart xNcvpr 
 •> 'in Fait Lady. 
 With a Portrait and Me- 
 moir of Sir E. B UL tVER 
 LkTTOH. 
 
 VOL. VII. 
 
 49. iload to Ruin. 
 
 50. Wacbech. 
 
 51. Temper. 
 
 52. Evaiino. 
 
 53. Bertram. 
 
 54. The Duenna. 
 
 55. Much Ado AboutNoth- 
 iug. 
 
 56. The Critic. 
 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir of R. B, SHERI- 
 DAN. 
 
 VOL. VIIL 
 
 57. The Apostate. 
 
 58. Twelfth Night. 
 
 59. Brutus. 
 
 60. Simpson & Co. 
 
 61. Merchant of Venice. 
 6i. Old Heads and Young 
 
 Hearts. 
 
 63. Mountaineers. 
 
 64. Three Weeks After 
 Marriage. 
 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir of Mr. GEO. U. 
 BARRETT. 
 
 66. As You Like It. 
 
 67. The Elder Brether. 
 
 68. Werner. 
 
 69. Gisippup. 
 
 70. Town and Country 
 
 71. Kins Lear. 
 
 72 FUje Devils. 
 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir oj Mrs. SUA W. 
 
 VOL. X. 
 
 73 H.MiryVlII. 
 
 74. Married aiid Single. 
 
 75. Henry IV. 
 
 76. Paul Pry. 
 
 77. Guy Mannering. 
 
 78. Sweethearts &. Wives 
 79 The Serious Family. 
 
 80. She Stoops to Con 
 
 <;«rr. 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir of Mi«a Off All' 
 LOTTK CUSUMAN. 
 
 VOL XT. 
 
 81. Julius Ccpsar. 
 
 82. Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 83. Leap Year. 
 81. The Catspaw. 
 
 85. The Passing Cloud 
 S3. The Drunkard. 
 87. Rob Roy. 
 83. George Bamwell. 
 
 With a Portrait arid 
 Memoir of Mrs. JOUii 
 SEFTON. 
 
 VOL. SH. 
 
 89. In!»omar. 
 
 90. Sketches in India. 
 
 91. The Two Friendu. 
 92 Jane Snore. 
 
 93. Corsican Brothers. 
 
 94. Mind your own Busi- 
 ncss. 
 
 9.*). Writing on tho Wall, 
 
 96. Heir at Law. 
 
 With a Portrait and 
 Memoir of TUGS. S. 
 UAMBLtN. 
 
 VOL. rill. 
 
 97. Soldier's Daughter. 
 
 98. Iiouglas. 
 
 99. Marco Spada. 
 
 100. Nature's Noble m'n 
 
 102. Sardanapalus. 
 
 103. Civilization. 
 
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