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 SERIES OF PLAYS, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
Printed l)y A. and R. Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street, London. 
 
SERIES OF PLAYS: 
 
 IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELINEATE 
 THE 
 
 STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND : 
 EACH PASSION 
 
 BEING THE 
 
 SUBJECT OF A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOB 
 
 LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 1821. 
 
rV\Pr!tJ 
 
 30 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 It is natural for a writer, who is about to 
 submit his works to the Public, to feel a strong 
 inclination, by some Preliminary Address, to 
 conciliate the favour of his reader, and dispose 
 him, if possible, to peruse them with a favour- 
 able eye. I am well aware, however, that his 
 endeavours are generally fruitless: in his situ- 
 ation our hearts revolt from all appearance of 
 confidence, and we consider his diffidence as 
 hypocrisy. Our own word is frequently taken 
 for what we say of ourselves, but very rarely for 
 what we say of our works. "Were the three 
 plays which this small volume contains, detached 
 pieces only, and unconnected with others that 
 do not yet appear, I should have suppressed this 
 inclination altogether ; and have allowed my 
 reader to begin what is before him, and to form 
 what opinion of it his taste or his humour might 
 direct, without any previous trespass upon his 
 time or his patience. But they are part of an 
 extensive design: of one which, as far as my 
 information goes, has nothing exactly similar to 
 it in any language ; of one which a whole life's 
 time will be limited enough to accompHsh ; and 
 which has, therefore, a considerable chance of 
 being cut short by that hand which nothing can 
 resist. 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
 .KJ"*jf k^ ^y f^ 
 
2 jyTRODUCTOUY DISCOURSE. 
 
 Before I explain tlie plan of this work, I 
 must make a demand upon the patience of my 
 reader, whilst 1 endeavour to communicate to 
 nun those ideas regarding human nature, as 
 they in some degree affect almost every species 
 of moral writings, but particularly the Dramatic, 
 that induced me to attempt it; and, as far as 
 my judgment enabled me to apply them, has 
 directed me in the execution of it. 
 
 From that strong sympathy which most crea- 
 tures, but the human above all, feel for others 
 of their kind, nothing has become so much an 
 object of man's curiosity as man himself. We 
 are all conscious of this within ourselves, and 
 so constantly do we meet with it in others, that, 
 like every circumstance of continually repeated 
 occurrence, it thereby escapes observation. 
 Every person who is not deficient in intellect, 
 is more or less occupied in tracing amongst the 
 individuals he converses with, the varieties of 
 understanding and temper which constitute the 
 characters of men ; and receives great pleasure 
 from every stroke of nature that points out 
 to him those varieties. This is, much more 
 than we are aware of, the occupation of 
 children, and of grown people also, whose 
 penetration is but liglitly esteemed ; and that 
 conversation which degenerates with them into 
 trivial and mischievous tattling, takes its rise 
 not unfrequently from the same source that 
 supplies the rich vein of the satirist and the 
 wit. That eagerness so universally sliown for 
 
INTUODUCTORY DISCOURSE. l3 
 
 the conversation of the latter, plainly enough 
 indicates how many people have been occupied 
 in the same way with themselves. Let any 
 one, in a large company, do or say what is 
 strongly expressive of his peculiar character, 
 or of some passion or humour of the moment, 
 and it will be detected by almost every person 
 present. How often may we see a very stupid 
 countenance animated with a smile, when the 
 learned and the wise have betrayed some native 
 feature of their own minds ! and how often will 
 this be the case when they have supposed it 
 to be concealed under a very sufficient disguise! 
 From this constant employment of their minds, 
 most people, I beUeve, without being conscious 
 of it, have stored up in idea the greater part of 
 those strong marked varieties of human cha- 
 racter, which may be said to divide it into 
 classes; and in one of those classes they in- 
 voluntarily place every new person they become 
 acquainted with. 
 
 I will readily allow that the dress and the 
 manners of men, rather than their characters 
 and dispositions, are the subjects of our com- 
 mon conversation, and seem chiefly to occupy 
 the multitude. But let it be remembered that 
 it is much easier to express our observations 
 upon these. It is easier to communicate to 
 another how a man wears his wig and cane, 
 what kind of house he inhabits, and what kind 
 of table he keeps, than from what slight traits 
 in his words and actions we have been led to 
 
 B 2 
 
4 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 conceive certain impressions of his character : 
 traits that will often escape the memory, when 
 the opinions that were founded upon them re- 
 main. Besides, in communicating our ideas of 
 the characters of others, we are often called 
 upon to support them with more expense of 
 reasoning than we can well aftbrd ; but our ob- 
 servations on the dress and appearance of men 
 seldom involve us in such difficulties. For 
 these, and other reasons too tedious to mention, 
 the generality of people appear to us more tri- 
 fling than they are : and I may venture to say, 
 that, but for this sympathetic curiosity towards 
 others of our kind which is so strongly implanted 
 within us, the attention we pay to the dress and 
 manners of men would dwindle into an employ- 
 ment as insipid, as examining the varieties of 
 plants and minerals, is to one who understands 
 not natural history. 
 
 In our ordinary intercourse with society, this 
 sympathetic propensity of our minds is exer- 
 cised upon men under the common occurrences 
 of life, in which we have often observed them. 
 Here, vanity and weakness put themselves for- 
 ward to view, more conspicuously than the vir- 
 tues J here, men encounter those smaller trials, 
 from which they are not apt to come off vic- 
 torious ; and here, consequently, that which 
 is marked with the whimsical and ludicrous 
 will strike us most forcibly, and make the 
 strongest impression on our memory. To 
 this sympathetic propensity of our minds, so 
 
 4 * 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 5 
 
 exercised, the genuine and pure comic of every 
 composition, whether drama, fable, story, or 
 satire, is addressed. 
 
 If man is an object of so much attention to 
 man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life, 
 how much more does he excite his curiosity and 
 interest when placed in extraordinary situations 
 of difficulty and distress ? It cannot be any 
 pleasure we receive from the sufferings of a fel- 
 low-creature which attracts such multitudes of 
 people to a public execution, though it is the 
 horror we conceive for such a spectacle that 
 keeps so many more away. To see a hu- 
 man being bearing himself up under such 
 circumstances, or struggling with the terrible 
 apprehensions which such a situation impresses, 
 must be the powerful incentive, that makes 
 us press forward to behold what we shrink 
 from, and wait with trembling expectation 
 for what we dread.* For though few at 
 such a spectacle can get near enough to 
 distinguish the expression of face, or the mi- 
 nuter parts of a criminars behaviour, yet from 
 a considerable distance will they eagerly mark 
 
 * In confirmation of this opinion I may venture to say, that 
 of the great numbers who go to see a public execution, there 
 are but very few who would not run away from, and avoid it, 
 if they happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We find peo- 
 ple stopping to look at a procession, or any other uncommon 
 sight, they may have fallen in with accidentally, but almost 
 never an execution. No one goes there who has not made 
 up his mind for the occasion ; which would not be the case, if 
 any natural love of cruelty were the cause of such assemblies. 
 
 b3 
 
6 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 whether he steps firmly ; whether the motions 
 of his body denote agitation or calmness j and 
 if the wind does but ruffle his garment, they 
 will, even from that change upon the outline 
 of his distant figure, read some expression con- 
 nected with his dreadful situation. Though 
 there is a greater proportion of people in whom 
 this strong curiosity will be overcome by other 
 dispositions and motives ; though there are 
 many more who will stay away from such a 
 sight than will go to it ; yet there are very 
 few who will not be eager to converse with a 
 person who has beheld it ; and to learn, very 
 minutely, every circumstance connected with 
 it, except the very act itself of inflicting 
 death. To lift up the roof of his dungeon, 
 like the Dtable boiteiix, and look upon a cri- 
 minal the night before he suffers, in his still 
 hours of privacy, when all that disguise is re- 
 moved which is imposed by respect for the opi- 
 nion of others, the strong motive by which even 
 the lowest and wickedest of men still continue 
 to be actuated, would present an object to 
 the mind of every person, not withheld from it 
 by great timidity of character, more powerfully 
 attractive than almost any other. 
 
 Revenge, no doubt, first began amongst the sa- 
 vages of Am erica, that dreadful custom of sacrific- 
 ing their prisoners of war. But the perpetration 
 of such hideous cruelty could never have become a 
 permanent national custom, but for this universal 
 desire in the human mind to behold man in cxcrv 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 7 
 
 situation, putting forth his strength against the 
 current of adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, 
 or struggling with those feelings of nature which, 
 like a beating stream, will ofttimes burst through 
 the artificial barriers of pride. Before they be- 
 gin those terrible rites they treat their prisoners 
 kindly ; and it cannot be supposed that men, 
 alternately enemies and friends to so many 
 neighbouring tribes, in manners and appearance 
 like themselves, should so strongly be actuated 
 by a spirit of public revenge. This custom, 
 therefore, must be considered as a grand and 
 terrible game, which every tribe plays against 
 another ; where they try not the strength of the 
 arm, the swiftness of the feet, nor the acuteness 
 of the eye, but the fortitude of the soul. Con- 
 sidered in this light, the excess of cruelty exer- 
 cised upon their miserable victim, in which every 
 hand is described as ready to inflict its portion 
 of pain, and every head ingenious in the con- 
 trivance of it, is no longer to be wondered at. 
 To put into his measure of misery one agony 
 less, would be, in some degree, betraying the 
 honour of their nation, would be doing a species 
 of injustice to every hero of their own tribe who 
 had already sustained it, and to those who might 
 be called upon to do so j amongst whom each of 
 these savage tormentors has his chance of being 
 one, and has prepared himself for it from his 
 childhood. Nay, it would be a species of in- 
 justice to the haughty victim himself, who would 
 
 B 4- 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 scorn to purchase his place amongst the heroes 
 of his nation, at an easier price than his un- 
 daunted predecessors. 
 
 Amongst the many trials to which the human 
 mind is subjected, that of holding intercourse, 
 real or imaginary, with the world of spirits : of 
 finding itself alone with a being terrific and 
 awful, whose nature and power are unknown, 
 has been justly considered as one of the most 
 severe. The workings of nature in this situation, 
 we all know, have ever been the object of our 
 most eager inquiry. No man wishes to see the 
 Ghost himself, which would certainly procure 
 him the best information on the subject, but 
 every man wishes to see one who believes that 
 he sees it, in all the agitation and wildness of 
 that species of terror. To gratify this curiosity 
 how many people have dressed up hideous ap- 
 paritions to frighten the timid and superstitious ! 
 and have done it at the risk of destroying their 
 happiness or understanding for ever. For the 
 instances of intellect being destroyed by this 
 kind of trial are more numerous, perhaps, in pro- 
 portion to the few who have undergone it, than 
 by any other. 
 
 How sensible are we of this strong propensity 
 within us, when we behold any person under the 
 pressure of great and uncommon calamity ! Deli- 
 cacy and respect for the afflicted will, indeed, make 
 us turn ourselves aside from observing him, and 
 cast down our eyes in his presence ; but the first 
 glance we direct to him will involuntarily be one 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 9 
 
 of the keenest observation, how hastily soever it 
 may be checked ; and often will a returning 
 look of inquiry mix itself by stealth with our 
 sympathy and reserve. 
 
 But it is not in situations of difficulty and 
 distress alone, that man becomes the object of 
 this sympathetic curiosity : he is no less so 
 when the evil he contends with arises in his 
 own breast, and no outward circumstance con- 
 nected with him either awakens our attention 
 or our pity. What human creature is there, 
 who can behold a being like himself under 
 the violent agitation of those passions which 
 all have, in some degree, experienced, without 
 feeling himself most powerfully excited by the 
 sight ? I say, all have experienced : for the 
 bravest man on earth knows what fear is as well 
 as the coward ; and will not refuse to be in- 
 terested for one under the dominion of this 
 passion, provided there be nothing in the cir- 
 cumstances attending it to create contempt. 
 Anger is a passion that attracts less sympathy 
 than any other, yet the unpleasing and distorted 
 features of an angry man will be more eagerly 
 gazed upon by those who are no wise concern- 
 ed with his fury or the objects of it, than the 
 most amiable placid countenance in the world. 
 Every eye is directed to him ; every voice hush- 
 ed to silence in his presence : even children will 
 leave off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after 
 him more eagerly than the gaudiest equipage. 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 The wild tossings of despair ; the gnashing of 
 hatred and revenge ; the yearnings of aftection, 
 and the softened mien of love 5 all the language 
 of the agitated soul, which every age and nation 
 understand, is never addressed to the dull or 
 inattentive. 
 
 It is not merely under the violent agitations 
 of passion, that man so rouses and interests us j 
 even the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, 
 the restless eye, the muttering lip, the half- 
 checked exclamation, and the hasty start, will set 
 our attention as anxiously upon the watch, as the 
 iirst distant flashes of a gathering storm. When 
 some great explosion of passion bursts forth, and 
 some consequent catastrophe happens, if we are 
 at all acquainted with the unhappy perpetrator, 
 how minutely shall we endeavour to remember 
 every circumstance of his past behaviour ! and 
 with what avidity shall we seize upon every 
 recollected word or gesture, that is in the smallest 
 degree indicative of the supposed state of his 
 mind, at the time when they took place. If we 
 are not acquainted with him, how eagerly shall 
 we listen to similar recollections from another ! 
 Let us understand, from observation or report, 
 that any person harbours in his breast, concealed 
 from the world's eye, some powerful rankling 
 passion of what kind soever it may be, we 
 shall observe every word, every motion, every 
 look, even the distant gait of such a man, with 
 a constancy and attention bestowed iq)oii no 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. H 
 
 other. Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly 
 on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds 
 as though we found ourselves in the neighbour- 
 hood of some secret and fearful thing. If 
 invisible, would we not follow him into his lonely 
 haunts, into his closet, into the midnight silence 
 of his chamber ? There is, perhaps, no employ- 
 ment which the human mind will with so much 
 avidity pursue, as the discovery of concealed 
 passion, as the tracing the varieties and progress 
 of a perturbed soul. 
 
 It is to this sympathetic curiosity of our nature, 
 exercised upon mankind in great and trying occa- 
 sions, and under the influence of the stronger 
 passions, when the grand, the generous, and the 
 terrible attract our attention far more than the 
 base and depraved, that the high and powerfully 
 tragic, of every composition, is addressed. 
 
 This propensity is universal. Children begin 
 to show it very early; it enters into many of 
 their amusements, and that part of them too, 
 for which they show the keenest relish. It 
 oftentimes tempts them, as well as the mature 
 in years, to be guilty of tricks, vexations, and 
 cruelty ; yet God Almighty has implanted it 
 within us, as well as all our other propensities 
 and passions, for wise and good purposes. It is 
 our best and most powerful instructor. From 
 it we are taught the proprieties and decencies of 
 ordinary life, and are prepared .for .distressing 
 and difficult situations. Jn examining others 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 we know ourselves. With limbs untorn, with 
 head unsmitten, with senses unimpaired by 
 despair, we know what we ourselves might have 
 been on the rack, on the scaffold, and in the 
 most afflicting circumstances of distress. Unless 
 when accompanied with passions of the dark and 
 malevolent kind, we cannot well exercise this 
 disposition without becoming more just, more 
 merciful, more compassionate ; and as the dark 
 and malevolent passions are not the predominant 
 inmates of the human breast, it hath produced 
 more deeds — O many more ! of kindness than 
 of cruelty. It holds up for our example a 
 standard of excellence, which, without its assist- 
 ance, our inward consciousness of what is right 
 and becoming might never have dictated. It 
 teaches us, also, to respect ourselves, and our 
 kind ; for it is a poor mind, indeed, that from 
 this employment of its faculties, learns not to 
 dwell upon the noble view of human nature 
 rather than the mean. 
 
 Universal, however, as this disposition un- 
 doubtedly is, with the generality of mankind it 
 occupies itself in a passing and superficial 
 way. Though a native trait of character 
 or of passion is obvious to them as well as to 
 the sage, yet to their minds it is but the visitor 
 of a moment ; they look upon it singly and 
 unconnected : and though this disposition, 
 even so exercised, brings instruction as well as 
 amusement, it is chiefly by storing up in their 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 13 
 
 minds those ideas to whicli the instructions of 
 others refer, that it can be eminently useful. 
 Those who reflect and reason upon what human 
 nature holds out to their observation, are com- 
 paratively but few. No stroke of nature which 
 engages their attention stands insulated and 
 alone. Each presents itself to them with many 
 varied connections ; and they comprehend not 
 merely the immediate feeling which gave rise to 
 it, but the relation of that feeling to others 
 which are concealed. We wonder at the changes 
 and caprices of men ; they see in them nothing 
 but what is natural and accountable. We stare 
 upon some dark catastrophe of passion, as the 
 Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon ; they, 
 conceiving the track of ideas through which the 
 impassioned mind has passed, regard it like 
 the philosopher who foretold the phenomenon. 
 Knowing what situation of life he is about 
 to be thrown into, they perceive in the man, 
 who, like Hazael, says, " Is thy servant a dog, 
 that he should do this thing ?" the foul and 
 ferocious murderer. A man of this contempla- 
 tive character partakes, in some degree, of the 
 entertainment of the Gods, who were supposed 
 to look down upon this world and the inhabit- 
 ants of it, as we do upon a theatrical exhibition ; 
 and if he is of a benevolent disposition, a good 
 man struggling with, and triumphing over ad- 
 versity, will be to him, also, the most delightful 
 spectacle. But though this eagerness to obser\e 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 their fellow-creatures in every situation, leads 
 not the generality of mankind to reason and 
 reflect ; and those strokes of nature which they 
 are so ready to remark, stand single and uncon- 
 nected in their minds, yet they may be easily 
 induced to do both ; and there is no mode of 
 instruction which they will so eagerly pursue, 
 as that which lays open before them, in a more 
 enlarged and connected view than their indi- 
 vidual observations are capable of supplying — 
 the varieties of the human mind. Above all, to 
 be well exercised in this study will fit a man more 
 particularly for the most important situations of 
 life. He will prove for it the better Judge, the 
 better Magistrate, the better Advocate ; and as 
 a ruler or conductor of other men, under every 
 occurring circumstance, he will find himself the 
 better enabled to fulfil his duty, and accomplish 
 his designs. He will perceive the natural effect 
 of every order that he issues upon the minds of 
 his ooldiers, his subjects, or his followers : and 
 he will deal to others judgment tempered with 
 mercy; that is to say, truly just; for justice 
 appears to us severe only when it is imperfect. 
 
 In proportion as moral writers of every 
 class have exercised within themselves this 
 sympathetic propensity of our nature, and 
 have attended to it in others, their works 
 have been interesting and instructive. They 
 have struck the imagination more forcibly, 
 convinced the understanding more clearly, 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 15 
 
 and more lastingly impressed the memory. If 
 unseasoned with any reference to this, the fairy 
 bowers of the poet, with all his gay images of 
 delight, will be admired and forgotten ; the im- 
 portant relations of the historian, and even the 
 reasonings of the philosopher, will make a less 
 permanent impression. 
 
 ' The historian points back to the men of other 
 ages, and from the gradually clearing mist in 
 which they are first discovered, like the moun- 
 tains of a far distant land, the generations of the 
 world are displayed to our mind's eye in grand 
 and regular procession. But the transactions of 
 men become interesting to us only as we are 
 made acquainted with men themselves. Great 
 and bloody battles are to us battles fought in the 
 moon, if it is not impressed upon our minds, by 
 some circumstances attending them, that men 
 subject to like weaknesses and passions wdth our- 
 selves, were the combatants.* The establish- 
 
 * Let two great battles be described to us with all the force 
 and clearness of the most able pen. In the first let the most 
 admirable exertions of military skill in the General, and the 
 most unshaken courage in the soldiei'S, gain over an equal or 
 superior number of brave opponents a complete and glorious 
 victory. In the second let the General be less scientific, and 
 the soldiers less dauntless. Let them go into the field for a 
 cause that is dear to them, and fight with the ardour which 
 such a motive inspires; till discouraged with the many deaths 
 around them, and the renovated pressure of the foe, some 
 unlooked-for circumstance, trifling in itself,strikes their imagin- 
 ation at once ; they are visited with the terrors of nature : 
 their national pride, the honour of soldiership is forgotten ; 
 
16 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 ments of policy make little impression upon us, 
 if we are left ignorant of the beings whom they 
 affected. Even a very masterly drawn character 
 will but slightly imprint upon our memory the 
 great man it belongs to, if, in the account we 
 receive of his life, those lesser circumstances are 
 entirely neglected, which do best of all point 
 out to us the dispositions and tempers of men. 
 Some slight circumstance characteristic of the 
 particular turn of a man's mind, which at first 
 sight seems but little connected with the great 
 events of his life, will often explain some of 
 those events more clearly to our understand- 
 ing, than the minute details of ostensible 
 policy. A judicious selection of those cir- 
 cumstances which characterize the spirit of 
 an associated mob, paltry and ludicrous as some 
 
 they fly like a fearful flock. Let some beloved chief then 
 step forth, and call upon them by the love of their country, 
 by the memory of their valiant fathers, by every thing that 
 kindles in the bosom of man the high and generous passions : 
 they stop ; they gather round him ; and goaded by shame 
 and indignation, returning again to the charge, with the fury 
 of wild beasts rather than the courage of soldiers, bear down 
 every thing before them. Which of these two battles will 
 interest us the most? And which of them shall we remem- 
 ber the longest ? The one will stand forth in the imagination 
 of the reader like a rock of the desert, which points out to 
 the far-removed traveller the country through which he has 
 passed, when its lesser objects are obscured in the distance ; 
 whilst the other leaves no traces behind it, but in the minds 
 of the scientific in war. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 17 
 
 of them may appear, will oftentimes convey to 
 our minds a clearer idea why certain laws and 
 privileges were demanded and agreed to, than a 
 methodical explanation of their causes. An 
 historian who has examined human nature him- 
 selfi and likewise attends to the pleasure which 
 developing and tracing it does ever convey to 
 others, will employ our understanding as well 
 as our memory with his pages ; and if this is 
 not done, he will impose upon the latter a very 
 difficult task, in retaining what she is concerned 
 with alone. 
 
 In argumentative and philosophical writings, 
 the effect which the author's reasoning produces 
 on our minds, depends not entirely on the justness 
 of it. The images and examples that he calls to 
 his aid to explain and illustrate his meaning, 
 will very much affect the attention we are able 
 to bestow upon it, and consequently the quick- 
 ness with which we shall apprehend, and the 
 force with which it will impress us. These are 
 selected from animated and unanimated nature, 
 from the habits, manners, and characters of 
 men ; and though that image or example, what- 
 ever it may be in itself, which brings out his 
 meaning most clearly, ought to be preferred be- 
 fore every other, yet of two equal in this respect, 
 that which is drawn from the most interesting 
 source w^ill please us the most at the time, and 
 most lastingly take hold of our minds. An argu- 
 ment supported with vivid and interesting iljus- 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 I-VTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 tration will long be remembered, when many 
 equally important and clear are forgotten ; and 
 a work where many such occur, will be held in 
 higher estimation by the generality of men, than 
 one, its superiour, perhaps, in acuteness, per- 
 spicuity, and good sense. 
 
 Our desire to know what men are in the 
 closet as well as in the field, by the blazing 
 hearth and at the social board, as well as in 
 the council and the throne, is very imperfectly 
 gratified by real history ; romance writers, 
 therefore, stepped boldly forth to supply the 
 deficiency ; and tale writers and novel writers, 
 of many descriptions, followed after. If they 
 have not been very skilful in their delineations 
 of nature ; if they have represented men and 
 women speaking and acting as men and women 
 never did speak or act ; if they have caricatured 
 both our virtues and our vices ; if they have 
 given us such pure and unmixed, or such hete- 
 rogeneous combinations of character, as real 
 life never presented, and yet have pleased and 
 interested us ; let it not be imputed to the 
 dulness of man in discerning what is genuinely 
 natural in himself. There are many inclin- 
 ations belonging to us besides this great master- 
 propensity of which I am treating. Our love 
 of the grand, the beautiful, the novel, and, above 
 all, of the marvellous, is very strong ; and if we 
 are richly fed with what we have a good relish 
 for, we may be weaned to forget our native and 
 
INTltODUCTOKY DISCOLRSK. If) 
 
 favourite aliment. Yet we can never so far 
 forget it, but that we shall cling to, and ac- 
 knowledge it again, whenever it is presented 
 before us. In a work abounding with the mar- 
 vellous and unnatural, if the author has any how 
 stumbled upon an unsophisticated gen nine stroke 
 of natiu'e, we shall immediately perceive and 
 be delighted with it, though we are foolish 
 enough to admire, at the same time, all the 
 nonsense with which it is surrounded. After 
 all the wonderful incidents, dark mysteries, 
 and secrets revealed, which eventful novel so 
 liberally presents to us ; after the beautiful 
 fairy ground, and even the grand and sublime 
 scenes of nature with which descriptive novel 
 so often enchants us ; those works which most 
 strongly characterise human nature in the mid- 
 dling and lower classes of society, where it is 
 to be discovered by stronger and more im- 
 equivocal marks, will ever be the most popular. 
 For though great pahis have been taken in our 
 higher sentimental novels to interest us in the 
 delicacies, embarrassments, and artificial dis- 
 tresses of the more refined part of society, they 
 have never been able to cope in the public 
 opinion with these. The one is a dressed and 
 beautiful pleasure-ground, in which we are en- 
 chanted for a while, amongst the delicate and 
 unknown plants of artful cultivation : the other 
 is a rough forest of our native land ; the oak, the 
 elm, the hazel, and the bramble are there ; and 
 
 c ^ 
 
20 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 amidst the endless varieties of its paths we can 
 wander for ever. Into whatever scenes the 
 noveUst may conduct us, what objects soever he 
 may present to our view, still is our attention 
 most sensibly awake to every touch faithful to 
 nature; still are we upon the watch for every 
 thing that speaks to us of ourselves. 
 
 The fair field of what is properly called 
 poetry, is enriched with so many beauties, 
 that in it we are often tempted to forget what 
 we really are, and what kind of beings we belong 
 to. Who, in the enchanted regions of simile, 
 metaphor, allegory, and description, can re- 
 member the plain order of things in this every- 
 day world? From heroes, whose majestick forms 
 rise like a lofty tower, whose eyes are light- 
 ning, whose arms are irresistible, whose course 
 is like the storms of heaven, bold and exalted 
 sentiments we shall readily receive ; and shall 
 not examine them very accurately by that 
 rule of nature which our own breast prescribes 
 to us. A shepherd, whose sheep, with fleeces 
 of purest snow, browze the flowery herbage 
 of the most beautiful valleys; whose flute is 
 ever melodious, and whose shepherdess is ever 
 crowned with roses ; whose every care is love, 
 will not be called very strictly to account for 
 the loftiness and reflnement of his thoughts. 
 The fair Nymph who sighs out her sorrows to 
 the conscious and compassionate wilds ; whose 
 eves gleam like the bright drops of heaven ; 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. ^21 
 
 whose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may 
 say what she pleases with impunity. I will 
 venture, however, to say, that amidst all this 
 decoration and ornament, all this loftiness and 
 refinement, let one simple trait of the human 
 heart, one expression of passion, genuine and 
 true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand 
 forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the 
 false and unnatural around it fade away upon 
 every side, like the rising exhalations of the 
 morning. With admiration, and often with en- 
 thusiasm, we proceed on our way through tlie 
 grand and the beautiful images, raised to our 
 imagination by the lofty epick muse : but what, 
 even here, are those things that strike upon the 
 heart; that we feel and remember ? Neither the 
 descriptions of war, the sound of the trumpet, the 
 clanging of arms, the combat of heroes, nor the 
 death of the mighty, will interest our minds like 
 the fall of the feeble stranger, who simply ex- 
 presses the anguish of liis soul, at the thoughts 
 of that far distant home which he must never 
 return to again, and closes his eyes amongst the 
 ignoble and forgotten ; like tlie timid striphng 
 goaded by the shame of reproach, wlio urges his 
 trembling steps to the fight, and falls like a ten- 
 der flower before the first blast of winter. How 
 often will some simple picture of this kind be all 
 that remains upon our minds of the terrifick and 
 magnificent battle, whose descri})tion we have 
 read with admiration ? How comes it that we relish 
 
 c 3 
 
22 rNTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 SO much the episodes of an heroick poem ? It 
 cannot merely be that we are pleased with a 
 resting-place, where we enjoy the variety of 
 contrast ; for were the poem of the simple and 
 familiar kind, and an episode after [the heroick 
 style introduced into it, ninety readers out of 
 a hundred would pass over it altogether. It 
 is not that we meet such a story, so situated, 
 with a kind of sympathetick good will, as in 
 passing through a country of castles and of 
 palaces, we should pop unawares upon some 
 humble cottage, resembling the dwellings of 
 our own native land, and gaze upon it with 
 affection. The highest pleasures we receive 
 from poetry, as well as from the real objects 
 which surround us in the world, are derived 
 from the sympathetick interest we all take in 
 beings like ourselves: and I will even venture 
 to say, that were the grandest scenes which can 
 enter into the imagination of man, presented to 
 our view, and all reference to man completely 
 shut out from our thoughts, the objects that 
 comj)osed it would convey to our minds little 
 better than dry ideas of magnitude, colour, and 
 form ; and the remembrance of them would i est 
 upon our minds like the measurement and dis- 
 tances of the planets. 
 
 If the study of human nature, then, is so useful 
 to the poet, the novelist, the historian, and the phi- 
 losopher, of how much greater importance must it 
 be to the dramatick writer? To them it is a power- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 23 
 
 ful auxiliary, to him it is the centre and strength 
 of the battle. If characteristick views of human 
 nature enliven not their pages, there are many 
 excellencies with which they can, in some de- 
 gree, make up for the deficiency : it is what we 
 receive from them with pleasure rather than de- 
 mand. But in his works, no richness of inven- 
 tion, harmony of language, nor grandeur of 
 sentiment, will supply the place of faithfully de- 
 lineated nature. The poet and the novelist may 
 represent to you their great characters, from the 
 cradle to the tomb. They may represent them 
 in any mood or temper, and under the influence 
 of any passion which they see proper, without 
 being obliged to put words into their mouths, 
 those great betrayers of the feigned and adopted. 
 They may relate every circumstance, how- 
 ever trifling and minute, that serves to de- 
 velope their tempers and dispositions. They 
 tell us what kind of people they intend their men 
 and women to be, and as such we receive them. 
 If they are to move us with any scene of dis- 
 tress, every circumstance regarding the parties 
 concerned in it, how they looked, how they 
 moved, how they sighed, how the tears gushed 
 from their eyes, how the very light and shadow 
 fell upon them, is carefully described j and 
 the few things that are given them to say along 
 with all this assistance, must be very unnatural 
 indeed if we refuse to sympathize with them. But 
 the characters of the drama must speak directly 
 
 c 4 
 
24 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 for themselves. Under the influence of every 
 passion, humour, and impression ; in the arti- 
 ficial veilings of hypocrisy and ceremony, in the 
 openness of freedom and confidence, and in the 
 lonely hour of meditation, they speak. He who 
 made us hath placed within our breasts a judge 
 that judges instantaneously of every thing they 
 say. We expect to find them creatures like 
 ourselves ; and if they are untrue to nature, we 
 feel that we are imposed upon. 
 
 As in other works deficiency in characteristick 
 truth may be compensated by excellencies 
 of a dift'erent kind ; in the drama, character- 
 istick truth will compensate every other defect. 
 Nay, it will do what appears a contradiction j 
 one strong genuine stroke of nature will cover 
 a multitude of sins, even against nature herself. 
 When we meet in some scene of a good play 
 a very fine stroke of this kind, we are apt to 
 become so intoxicated with it, and so per- 
 fectly convinced of the author's great know- 
 ledge of the human heart, that we are unwil- 
 ling to suppose the whole of it has not been 
 suggested by the same penetrating spirit. 
 Many well-meaning enthusiastick criticks have 
 given themselves a great deal of trouble in this 
 way ; and have shut their eyes most inge- 
 niously against the fair light of nature for the 
 very love of it. They have converted, in their 
 great zeal, sentiments })alpably false, both in 
 regard to the character and situation of the per- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. €5 
 
 sons wlio utter them, sentiments which a child 
 or a clown would detect, into the most skilful 
 depictments of the heart. I can think of no 
 stronger instance to show how powerfully this 
 love of nature dwells within us.* 
 
 Formed as we are with these sympathetick 
 propensities in regard to our own species, it is 
 not at all wonderful that theatrical exhibition 
 has become the grand and favourite amusement 
 of every nation into which it has been intro- 
 duced. Savages will, in the wild contortions of a 
 dance, shape out some rude story expressive 
 of character or passion, and such a dance will 
 give more delight to their companions than 
 the most artful exertions of agility. Children 
 in their gambols will make out a mimick re- 
 presentation of the manners, characters, and 
 passions of grown men and women j and 
 such a pastime will animate and delight 
 them much more than a treat of the dain- 
 tiest sweetmeats, or the handling of the gaudi- 
 est toys. Eagerly as it is enjoyed by the rude 
 
 * It appears to me a very strong testimony of the excel- 
 lence of our great national Dramatist, that so many people 
 have been employed in finding out obscure and refined beau- 
 ties, in what appear to ordinary observation his very defects. 
 Men, it may be said, do so merely to show their own supe- 
 rior penetration and ingenuity. But granting this ; what 
 could make other men listen to them, and listen so greedily 
 too, if it were not that they have received, from the works of 
 Shakspeare, pleasure far beyond what the most perfect poe- 
 tical compositions of a different character can afford ? 
 
26 INTRODUCTOHY DlSCOLKSE. 
 
 and the young, to the polished and the ripe in 
 years, it is still the most interesting amusement. 
 Our taste for it is durable as it is universal. In- 
 dependently of those circumstances which first 
 introduced it, the world would not have long 
 been without it. The progress of society would 
 soon have brought it forth ; and men, in the 
 whimsical decorations of fancy, would have dis- 
 played the characters and actions of their heroes, 
 the folly and absurdity of their fellow-citizens, 
 had no Priest of Bacchus ever existed.* 
 
 * Though the progress of society would have given us the 
 Drama, independently of the particular cause of its first com- 
 mencement, the peculiar circumstances connected with its 
 origin have had considerable influence upon its character 
 and style, in the ages through wliicli if iias passed even to 
 our day, and still will continue to affect it. Homer had long 
 preceded the dramatick poets of Greece ; poetry was in a 
 high state of cultivation when they began to write ; and 
 their style, the construction of their pieces, and the charac- 
 ters of their heroes were different from what they would 
 have been, had theatrical exhibitions been the invention of 
 an earlier age or a ruder people. Their works were repre- 
 sented to an audience, already accustomed to hear long 
 poems rehearsed at their public games, and the feasts of their 
 gods. A play, with the principal characters of which they 
 were previously acquainted ; in which their great men and 
 heroes, in the most beautiful language, complained of their 
 rigorous fate, but piously submitted to the will of the gods ; 
 in which sympathy was chiefly excited by tender and affecting 
 sentiments ; in which strong bursts of passion were few ; and 
 in which whole scenes frequently passed, without giving the 
 actors any thing to do but to speak, was not too insipid for 
 them. Had the drama been the invention of a less cultivated 
 
lN|-H()IM:CT()Ii.V DISCOURSE. 27 
 
 In whatever age or country the Drama might 
 have taken its rise, Tragedy would liave been 
 the first-born of its children. For every nation 
 has its great men, and its great events upon re- 
 cord ; and to represent their own forefathers 
 struggling with those difficulties, and braving 
 those dangers, of which they have heard with ad- 
 miration, and the effects of which they still, perhaps, 
 experience, would certainly have been the most 
 animating subject for the poet, and the most in- 
 
 nation, more of action and of passion would have been in- 
 troduced into it. It would have been more irregular, more 
 imperfect, more varied, more interesting. From poor be- 
 ginnings it would have advanced in a progressive state : and 
 succeeding poets, not having those polished and admired 
 originals to look back upon, would have presented their re- 
 vspective contemporaries with the produce of a free and un- 
 bridled imagination. A different class of poets would most 
 likely have been called into existence. The latent powers 
 of men are called forth by contemplating those works in 
 which they find any thing congenial to their own peculiar 
 talents ; and if the field wherein they could have worked, 
 is already enriched with a produce unsuited to their cultiva- 
 tion, they think not of entering it at all. Men, therefore, 
 whose natural turn of mind led them to labour, to reason, 
 to refine, and exalt, have caught their animation from the 
 beauties of the Grecian Drama; and they who, perhaps, 
 ought only to have been our Criticks,have become our Poets. 
 I mean not, however, in any degree to depreciate the works 
 of the ancients : a great deal we have gained by those 
 beautiful compositions; and what we have lost by them 
 it is impossible to compute. Very strong genius will some- 
 times break through every disadvantage of circumstances : 
 Shakspeare has arisen in this country, and we ought not to 
 complain. 
 
28 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 teresting for his audience, even independently 
 of the natural inclination we all so universally 
 show for scenes of horror and distress, of passion 
 and heroic exertion. Tragedy would have been 
 the first child of the Drama, for the same reasons 
 that have made heroick ballad, with all its battles, 
 murders, and disasters, the earliest poetical com- 
 positions of every country. 
 
 We behold heroes and great men at a dis- 
 tance, unmarked by those small but distinguish- 
 ing features of the mind, which give a certain 
 individuality to such an infinite variety of similar 
 beings, in the near and familiar intercourse of 
 life. They appear to us from this view like dis- 
 tant mountains, whose dark outlines we trace in 
 the clear horizon, but the varieties of whose 
 roughened sides, shaded with heath and brush- 
 wood, and seamed with many a cleft, we perceive 
 not. When accidental anecdote reveals to us 
 any weakness or peculiarity belonging to them, 
 we start upon it like a discovery. They are 
 made known to us in history only, by the 
 great events they are connected with, and the 
 part they have taken in extraordinary or im- 
 portant transactions. Even in poetry and ro- 
 mance, with the exception of some love-story 
 interwoven with the main events of their 
 lives, they are seldom more intimately made 
 known to us. To Tragedy it belongs to lead 
 them forward to our nearer regard, in all the 
 distinguishing varieties which nearer inspection 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 29 
 
 discovers ; with the passions, the humours, tlie 
 weaknesses, the prejudices of men. It is for 
 her to present to us the great and magnanimous 
 hero, who appears to our distant view as a 
 superior being, as a god, softened down with 
 those smaller frailties and imperfections which 
 enable us to glory in, and claim kindred to his 
 virtues. It is for her to exhibit to us the daring 
 and ambitious man, planning his dark designs, 
 and executing his bloody purposes, marked with 
 those appropriate characteristicks, which dis- 
 tinguish him as an individual of that class ; and 
 agitated with those varied passions, which 
 disturb the mind of man when he is engaged 
 in the commission of such deeds. It is for her 
 to point out to us the brave and impetuous 
 warrior, struck with those visitations of nature, 
 which, in certain situations, will unnerve the 
 strongest arm, and make the boldest heart 
 tremble. It is for her to show the tender, 
 gentle, and unassuming mind, animated with 
 that fire which, by the provocation of circum- 
 stances, will give to the kindest heart the 
 ferocity and keenness of a tiger. It is for her 
 to present to us the great and striking charac- 
 ters that are to be found amongst men, in a 
 way which the poet, the novelist, and the 
 historian can but imperfectly attempt. But 
 above all, to her, and to her only it belongs, 
 to unveil to us the human mind under the 
 dominion of those strong and fixed passions, 
 
so IXTRODUCTORY Disfomsr:. 
 
 which, seemingly unprovoked by outward 
 circumstances, will, from small beginnings, 
 brood within the breast, till all the better 
 dispositions, all tlie fair gifts of nature are 
 borne down before them ; those passions which 
 conceal themselves from the observation of 
 men ; which cannot unbosom themselves even 
 to the dearest friend ; and can, oftentimes, only 
 give their fulness vent in the lonely desert, or 
 in the darkness of midnight. For vvho hath 
 followed the great man into his secret closet, 
 or stood by the side of his nightly couch, 
 and heard those exclamations of the soul 
 which heaven alone may hear, that the historian 
 should be able to inform us? and what form 
 of story, what mode of rehearsed speech will 
 communicate to us those feelings, whose irre- 
 gular bursts, abrupt transitions, sudden pauses, 
 and half-uttered suggestions, scorn all harmony 
 of measured verse, all method and order of 
 relation ? 
 
 On the first part of this task her Bards have 
 eagerly exerted their abilities : and some amongst 
 them, taught by strong original genius to deal 
 immediately with human nature and their own 
 hearts, have laboured in it successfully. But in 
 presenting to us those views of great characters,— 
 and of the human mind in difficult and trying 
 situations, which peculiarly belong to Tragedy, 
 the far greater proportion, even of those who may 
 be considered as respectable dramatick poets, 
 
iN'iiiOiucToiiY discouksj:. 31 
 
 have very much lliilecl. From the beauty of 
 those origuial dramas to which they have 
 ever looked back with admiration, they have 
 been tempted to prefer the embelHshments of 
 poetry to faithfully delineated nature. They 
 have been more occupied in considering the 
 works of the great dramatists who have gone 
 before them, and the effects produced by their 
 writings, than the varieties of human character 
 which first furnished materials for those works, 
 or those principles in the mind of man by 
 means of which such effects were produced. 
 Neglecting the boundless variety of nature, 
 certain strong outlines of character, certain 
 bold features of passion, certain grand vicis- 
 situdes, and striking dramatick situations, have 
 been repeated from one generation to another ; 
 whilst a pompous and solemn gravity, which 
 they have supposed to be necessary for the 
 dignity of tragedy, has excluded almost entirely 
 from their works those smaller touches of nature, 
 which so well cevt'*«'pe the mind ; and by show- 
 ing men in their liours of state and exertion 
 only, they have consequently shown them im- 
 perfectly. Thus, great and magnanimous heroes, 
 who bear with majestic equanimity every vicis- 
 situde of fortune ; who in every temptation and 
 trial stand forth in unshaken virtue, like a rock 
 buffeted by the waves ; who, encompassed with 
 the most terrible evils, in calm possession of 
 their souls, reason upon the difficulties of 
 
32 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 their state ; and, even upon the brink of de- 
 struction, pronounce long eulogiums on virtue, 
 in the most eloquent and beautiful language, 
 have been held forth to our view as objects 
 of imitation and interest : as though they had 
 entirely forgotten that it is only for creatures 
 like ourselves that we feel, and therefore, 
 only from creatures like ourselves that we re- 
 ceive the instruction of example.* Thus pas- 
 sionate and impetuous warriors, who are proud, 
 irritable, and vindictive, but generous, daring, 
 and disinterested ; setting their lives at a pin's 
 fee for the good of others, but incapable of 
 curbing their own humour of a moment to gain 
 the whole world for themselves ; who will pluck 
 tlie orbs of heaven from their places, and crush 
 
 * To a being perfectly free from all human infirmity 
 our sympathy refuses to extend. Our Saviour himself, 
 whose character is so beautiful, and so harmoniously con- 
 sistent ; in whom, with outward proofs of his mission less 
 strong than those that are offered to us, I should still be 
 compelled to believe, from being utterly unable to conceive 
 how the idea of such a character could enter into the imagin- 
 ation of man, never touches the heart more nearly than 
 when he says, " Father, let this cup pass from me." Had he 
 been represented to us in all the unshaken strength of these 
 tragic heroes, his disciples would have made fewer converts, 
 and his precepts would have been listened to coldly. Plays 
 in which heroes of this kind are held forth, and whose aim is, 
 indeed, honourable and praiseworthy, have been admired by 
 the cultivated and refined, but the tears of the simple, the 
 applauses of the young and untaught have been wanting. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 33 
 
 tlie whole universe ia one grasp, are called 
 forth to kindle in oar souls the generous con- 
 tempt of every thing abject and base ; but with 
 an effect proportionably feeble, as the hero is 
 made to exceed in courage and fire what the 
 standard of humanity will agree to.* Thus, 
 
 * In all burlesque imitations of tragedy, those plays in 
 which this hero is pre-eminent, are always exposed to bear 
 the great brunt of the ridicule, which proves how popular 
 they have been, and how many poets, and good ones 
 too, have been employed upon them. That they hate 
 been so popular, however, is not owing to the intrinsic 
 merit of the characters they represent, but their opposition 
 to those mean and contemptible qualities belonging to 
 human nature, of which we are most ashamed. Besides, 
 there is something in the human mind, independently of its 
 love of applause, which inclines it to boast. This is ever 
 the attendant of that elasticity of soul, which makes us 
 bound up from the touch of oppression ; and if there is 
 nothing in the accompanying circumstances to create dis- 
 gust, or suggest suspicions of their sincerity, (as in real life 
 is commonly the case,) we are very apt to be carried along 
 with the boasting of others. Let us in good earnest believe 
 that a man is capable of achieving all that human courage 
 can achieve, and we shall suffer him to talk of impossibilities. 
 Amidst all their pomp of words, therefore, our admiration 
 of such heroes is readily excited, (for the understanding is 
 more easily deceived than the heart); but how stands our 
 sympathy affected ? As no caution nor foresight, on their 
 own account, is ever suffered to occupy the thoughts of 
 such bold disinterested beings, we are the more inclined to 
 care for them, and to take an interest in their fortune through 
 the course of the play : yet, as their souls are unappalled by 
 any thing ; as pain and death are not at all regarded by 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34) INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 tender and pathetic lovers, full of the most 
 gentle affections, the most amiable dispositions, 
 and the most exquisite feelings ; who present 
 their defenceless bosoms to the storms of this 
 rude world in all the graceful weakness of sen- 
 sibility, are made to sigh out their sorrows 
 in one unvaried strain of studied pathos, whilst 
 this constant demand upon our feelings makes 
 us absolutely incapable of answering it.* Thus, 
 also, tyrants are represented as monsters of 
 cruelty, unmixed with any feelings of hu- 
 manity J and villains as delighting in all man- 
 ner of treachery and deceit, and acting, upon 
 many occasions, for the very love of villany 
 itself; though the perfectly wicked are as ill 
 fitted for the purposes of warning, as the per- 
 
 them ; and as we have seen them very ready to plunge their 
 ow^n swords into their own bosoms, on no very weighty 
 occasion, perhaps, their death distresses us but little, and 
 they commonly fall unwept. 
 
 * Were it not, that in tragedies where these heroes pre- 
 side, the same soft tones of sorrow are so often repeated in 
 our ears, till we are perfectly tired of it, they are more fitted 
 to interest us than any other ; both because in seeing them, 
 we own the ties of kindred between ourselves and the frail 
 mortals we lament ; and sympathize with the weakness of 
 mortality unmixed with any thing to degrade or disgust ; 
 and also because the misfortunes, which form the story of 
 the play, are frequently of the more familiar and domestic 
 kind. A king driven from his throne will not move our 
 sympathy so strongly, as a private man torn from the bosom 
 of his family. 
 
INTllODl CTOllY DISCOURSK. -i.') 
 
 fectly virtuous are for those of example.* 
 This spirit of imitation, and attention to effect, 
 has likewise confined them very much in their 
 choice of situations and events to bring their 
 great characters into action : rebellions, con- 
 spiracies, contentions for empire, and rivalships 
 in love, have alone been thought worthy of 
 trying those heroes ; and palaces and dungeons 
 the only places magnificent or solemn enough 
 for them to appear in. 
 
 They have, indeed, from this regard to the 
 works of preceding authors, and great attention 
 to the beauties of composition, and to dignity 
 of design, enriched their plays with much 
 striking and sometimes sublime imagery, lofty 
 thoughts, and virtuous sentiments ; but in striv- 
 incf so eao'erlv to excel in those things that 
 
 * I have said nothing here in regard to female character, 
 thougli in many tragedies it is brought forward as the prin- 
 cipal one of the piece, because what 1 have said of the above 
 characters is hkewise apphcable to it. I beHeve there is no 
 man that ever lived, who has behaved in a certain manner on 
 a certain occasion, who has not had amongst women some 
 corresponding spirit, who, on the like occasion, and every 
 way similarly circumstanced, v/ould have behaved in 
 the like manner. With some degree of softening and re- 
 finement, each class of the tragic heroes I have mentioned 
 has its corresponding one amongst the heroines. The ten- 
 der and pathetic no doubt has the most numerous, but the 
 great and magnanimous is not without it, and the passionate 
 and impetuous boasts of one by no means inconsiderable in 
 numbers, and drawn sometimes to the full as passionate and 
 impetuous as itself. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 belong to tragedy in common with many other 
 compositions, they have very much neglected 
 those that are peculiarly her own. As far as they 
 have been led aside from the first labours of a 
 tragic poet by a desire to communicate more 
 perfect moral instruction, their motive has been 
 respectable, and they merit our esteem. But 
 this praiseworthy end has been injured instead of 
 promoted by their mode of pursuing it. Every 
 species of moral writing has its own way of 
 conveying instruction, which it can never, but 
 with disadvantage, exchange for any other. 
 The Drama improves us by the knowledge we 
 acquire of our own minds, from the natural de- 
 sire we have to look into the thoughts, and 
 observe the behaviour of others. Tragedy 
 brings to our view, men placed in those elevated 
 situations, exposed to those great trials, and 
 engaged in those extraordinary transactions, 
 in which few of us are called upon to act. 
 As examples applicable to ourselves, therefore, 
 they can but feebly affect us ; it is only from 
 the enlargement of our ideas in regard to 
 human nature, from that admiration of virtue 
 and abhorrence of vice which they excite, that 
 we can expect to be improved by them. But if 
 they are not represented to us as real and 
 natural characters, the lessons we are taught 
 from their conduct and their sentiments will be 
 no more to us, than those which we receive from 
 the pages of the poet or the moralist. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 37 
 
 But the last part of the task which I have 
 mentioned as pecuUarly belonging to tragedy, 
 unveiling: the human mind under the dominion 
 of those strong and fixed passions, which, seem- 
 ingly unprovoked by outward circumstances, 
 will from small beginnings brood within the 
 breast, till all the better dispositions, all the 
 fair gifts of nature are borne down before 
 them, her poets in general have entirely neg- 
 lected, and even her first and greatest have 
 but imperfectly attempted. They have made 
 use of the passions to mark their several cha- 
 racters, and animate their scenes, rather than 
 to open to our view the nature and portrai- 
 tures of those great disturbers of the human 
 breast, with whom we are all, more or less, 
 called upon to contend. With their strong and 
 obvious features, therefore, they have been pre- 
 sented to us, stripped almost entirely of those 
 less obtrusive, but not less discriminating traits, 
 which mark them in their actual operation. 
 To trace them in their rise and progress in 
 the heart, seems but rarely to have been the 
 object of any dramatist. We commonly find 
 the characters of a tragedy affected by the 
 passions in a transient, loose, unconnected man- 
 ner ; or if they are represented as under the 
 permanent influence of the more powerful 
 ones, they are generally introduced to our 
 notice in the very height of their fury, when all 
 that timidity, irresolution, distrust, and a thou- 
 D 3 
 
38 IXTRODLCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 sand delicate traits, which make the iiifaiicv of 
 every great passion more interesting, perhaps, 
 than its full-blown strength, are fled. The im- 
 passioned character is generally brought into 
 view under those irresistible attacks of their 
 power, which it is impossible to repel ; whilst 
 those gradual steps that lead him into this 
 state, in some of whicli a stand might have been 
 made against the foe, are left entirely in the 
 shade. Those passions that may be suddenly 
 excited, and are of short duration, as anger, 
 tear, and oftentimes jealousy, may in this 
 manner be fully represented ; but those great 
 masters of the soul, ambition^ hatred, love, 
 every passion that is permanent in its nature, 
 and varied in progress, if represented to us but 
 in one stage of its course, is represented imper- 
 fectly. It is a characteristick of the more power- 
 ful passions, that tliey will increase and nourish 
 themselves on very slender aliment ; it is from 
 within that they are chiefly supplied with 
 what they feed on ; and it is in contending 
 with opposite passions and affections of the 
 mind that we best discover their strength, not 
 with events. But in tragedy it is events more 
 frequently than opposite aiiections which are 
 opposed to them ; and those often of such 
 force and magnitude, that the passions them- 
 selves are almost obscured by the splendour and 
 importance of the transactions to which they 
 are attached. Besides beino- thus confined and 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 39 
 
 mutilated, the passions have been, in the 
 greater part of our tragedies, deprived of the 
 very power of making themselves known. 
 Bold and figurative language belongs pecu- 
 liarly to them. Poets, admiring those bold ex- 
 pressions which a mind, labouring with ideas 
 too strong to be conveyed in the ordinary forms 
 of speech, wildly throws out, taking earth, sea, 
 and sky, every thing great and terrible in 
 nature, to image forth the violence of its feelings, 
 borrowed them gladly, to adorn the calm sen- 
 timents of their premeditated song. It has 
 therefore been thought that the less animated 
 parts of tragedy might be so embellished and 
 enriched. In doing this, however, the passions 
 have been robbed of their native prerogative; 
 and in adorning with their strong figures and 
 lofty expressions the calm speeches of the un- 
 ruffled, it is found that, when they are called 
 upon to raise their voice, the power of distin- 
 guishing themselves has been taken away. This 
 is an injury by no means compensated, but 
 very greatly aggravated, by embellishing, in 
 return, the speeches of passion with the ingeni- 
 ous conceits, and complete similes of premedi- 
 tated thought. * There are many other things 
 
 * This, perhaps, more than any thing else has injured the 
 higher scenes of tragedy. For having made such free use of 
 bold hyperbolical language in the inferior parts, the poet, 
 when he arrives at the highly impassioned, sinks into total 
 inability; or if he will force himself to rise still higher on 
 
 D 4 
 
4-0 INTRODLCTORV DISCOURSE. 
 
 regarding the manner in which dramatick poets 
 have generally brought forward the passions 
 in tragedy, to the greatest prejudice of that 
 effect they are naturally fitted to produce upon 
 the mind, which I forbear to mention, lest 
 they should too much increase the length of 
 this discourse; and leave an impression on the 
 mind of my reader, that I write more in the 
 spirit of criticism than becomes one who 
 is about to bring before the public a work, 
 with, doubtless, many faults and imperfections 
 on its head. 
 
 From this general view, which I have endea- 
 voured to communicate to my reader of tra- 
 gedy, and those principles in the human mind 
 upon which the success of her efforts depends, 
 I have been led to believe, that an attempt to 
 write a series of tragedies, of simpler con- 
 struction, less embellished wdth poetical decor- 
 ations, less constrained by that lofty seriousness 
 which has so generally been considered as ne- 
 cessary for the support of tragic dignity, and 
 in which the chief object should be to deli- 
 neate the progress of the higher passions in 
 the human breast, each play exhibiting a 
 particular passion, might not be unacceptable 
 to the public. And I have been the more 
 readily induced to act upon this idea, because 
 I am confident, that tragedy, written upon 
 
 the wing, he flies beyond nature altogether, into the region* 
 of bombast and nonsense. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 41 
 
 this plan, is fitted to produce stronger moral 
 effect than upon any other. I have said that 
 tragedy, in representing to us great charac- 
 ters struggling with difficulties, and placed 
 in situations of eminence and danger, in which 
 few of us have any cliance of being called upon 
 to act, conveys its moral efficacy to our minds 
 by the enlarged views which it gives to us 
 of human nature, by the admiration of virtue 
 and execration of vice which it excites, and 
 not by the examples it holds up for our imme- 
 diate application. But in opening to us the 
 heart of man under the influence of those pas- 
 sions to which all are liable, this is not the case» 
 Those strong passions that, with small assistance 
 from outward circumstances, work their way in 
 the heart till they become the tyrannical masters 
 of it, carry on a similar operation in the breast 
 of the Monarch, and the man of low degree. 
 It exhibits to us the mind of man in that state 
 when we are most curious to look into it, and is 
 equally interesting to all. Discrimination of 
 character is a turn of mind, though more com- 
 mon than we are aware of, which every body 
 does not possess ; but to the expressions of 
 passion, particularly strong passion, the dullest 
 mind is awake ; and its true unsophisticated 
 language the dullest understanding will not 
 misinterpret. To hold up for our example those 
 peculiarities in disposition and modes of think- 
 ing which nature has fixed upon us, or which 
 
42 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 long and early habit has incorporated with our 
 original selves, is almost desiring us to remove 
 the everlasting mountains, to take away the 
 native land-marks of the soul ; but representing 
 the passions, brings before us the operation 
 of a tempest that rages out its time and passes 
 away. We cannot, it is true, amidst its wild 
 uproar, listen to the voice of reason, and save 
 ourselves from destruction ; but we can foresee 
 its coming, we can mark its rising signs, we 
 can know the situations that will most expose 
 us to its rage, and we can shelter our lieads 
 from the coming blast. To change a certain 
 disposition of mind which makes us view 
 objects in a particular light, and thereby, often- 
 times, unknown to ourselves, influences our 
 conduct and manners, is almost impossible ; but 
 in checking and subduing those visitations 
 of the soul, whose causes and effects we are 
 aware of, every one may make considerable 
 progress, if he proves not entirely successful. 
 Above all, looking back to the first rise, and 
 tracing the progress of passion, points out to us 
 those stages in the approach of the enemy, 
 when he might liave been combated most suc- 
 cessfully ; and where the suffering him to pass 
 may be considered as occasioning all the misery 
 that ensues. 
 
 Comedy presents to us men, as we find them in 
 the ordinary intercourse of the world, with all the 
 weaknesses, follies, capiice, prejudices, and absur- 
 
IXTKODLCTOKi' DISCOURSE. iS 
 
 dities which a near and faraihar view of them 
 discovers. It is her task to exhibit them en- 
 gaged in tlie busy turmoil of ordinary life, 
 harassing and perplexing themselves with the 
 endless pursuits of avarice, vanity, and pleasure ; 
 and eno-acred witli those smaller trials of the mind, 
 by which men are most apt to be overcome, 
 and from which he, who could have supported 
 with honour the attack of great occasions, will 
 oftentimes come oft' most shamefully foiled. It 
 belongs to her to shew the varied fashions and 
 manners of the world, as, liom the spirit of va- 
 nity, caprice, and imitation, they go on in swift 
 and endless succession; and those disagreeable 
 or absurd peculiarities attached to particular 
 classes and conditions in society. It is for her 
 also to represent men under the influence of 
 the stronger passions j and to trace the rise 
 and progress of tliem in the heart, in such 
 situations, and attended with such circum- 
 stances, as take off" their sublimity, and the in- 
 terest w^e naturally take in a perturbed mind. 
 It is hers to exhibit those terrible tyrants of 
 the soul, whose ungovernable rage has struck 
 us so often with dismay, like wild beasts tied to 
 a post, who growl and paw before us, for our 
 derision and sport. In pourtraying the charac- 
 ters of men she has this advantage over tragedy, 
 that the smallest traits of nature, with the small- 
 est circumstances which serve to bring them 
 
44 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 forth, may by her be displayed, however ludi- 
 crous and trivial in themselves, without any 
 ceremony. And in developing the passions 
 she enjoys a similar advantage j for they often 
 more strongly betray themselves when touched 
 by those small and familiar occurrences which 
 cannot, consistently with the effect it is intended 
 to]^produce, be admitted into tragedy. 
 
 As tragedy has been very much cramped in 
 her endeavours to exalt and improve the mind, 
 by that spirit of imitation and confinement 
 in her successive writers, which the beauty of 
 her earliest poets first gave rise to, so comedy 
 has been led aside from her best purposes by 
 a different temptation. Those endless changes 
 in fashions and in manners, which offer such ob- 
 vious and ever-new subjects of ridicule; that 
 infinite variety of tricks and manoeuvres by 
 which the ludicrous may be produced, and 
 curiosity and laughter excited; the admiration 
 we so generally bestow upon satirical remark, 
 pointed repartee, and whimsical combinations 
 of ideas, have too often led her to forget the 
 warmer interest we feel, and the more profitable 
 lessons we receive, from genuine representations 
 of nature. The most interesting and instructive 
 class of comedy, therefore, the real charac- 
 teristick, has been very much neglected, whilst 
 satirical, witty, sentimental, and, above all, busy 
 or circumstantial comedy, have usurped the ex- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 45 
 
 ertions of the far greater proportion of Dramatic 
 Writers. 
 
 In Satirical Comedy, sarcastick and severe re- 
 flections on the actions and manners of men, 
 introduced with neatness, force, and poignancy 
 of expression, into a lively and well-supported 
 dialogue, of whose gay surface they are the 
 embossed ornaments, make the most important 
 and studied part of the work: character is a 
 thing talked of rather than shewn. The per- 
 sons of the drama are indebted for the dis- 
 covery of their peculiarities to what is said of 
 them, rather than to any thing they are made 
 to say or do for themselves. Much incident 
 being unfavourable for studied and elegant 
 dialogue, the plot is commonly simple, and the 
 few events that compose it neither interesting 
 nor striking. It only affords us that kind of 
 moral instruction which an essay or a poem 
 could' as well have conveyed, and, though 
 amusing in the closet, is but feebly attractive in 
 the Theatre.* 
 
 In what I have termed Witty Comedy, every 
 thing is light, playful, and easy. Strong, decided 
 
 * These plays are generally the work of men, whose 
 judgement and acute observation enable them admirably 
 well to generalize, and apply to classes of men, the re- 
 marks they have made upon individuals; yet know not 
 how to dress up, with any natural congruity, an imaginary 
 individual in the attributes they have assigned to those 
 classes. 
 
4f) TX'TRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 condemiuitioii of vice is too weighty and ma- 
 terial to dance upon the surface of that stream, 
 wliose shallow currents sparkle in perpetual sun- 
 beams, and cast up their bubbles to the light. 
 Two or three persons of quick thought, and 
 whimsical fancy, who perceive instantaueously 
 the various connections of every passing idea, 
 and the significations, natural or artificial, which 
 single expressions, or particular forms of speech 
 can possibly convey, take the lead through the 
 whole, and seem to communicate their own 
 pecuhar talent to every creature in the play. 
 The plot is most commonly feeble rather than 
 simple, the incidents being numerous enough, 
 but seldom striking or varied. To amuse, and 
 only to amuse, is its aim ; it pretends not to in- 
 terest nor instruct. It pleases when we read, 
 more than when we see it represented ; and 
 pleases still more when we take it up by acci- 
 dent, and read but a scene at a time. 
 
 Sentimental Comedy treats of those embar- 
 rassments, difficulties, and scruples, which, 
 though sufficiently distressing to the delicate 
 minds who entertain them, are not powerful 
 enough to gratify the sympathetick desire we 
 all feel to look into the heart of man in diffi- 
 cult and trying situations, which is the sound 
 basis of tragedy, and are destitute of tliat sea- 
 soning of the lively and ludicrous, wliich pre- 
 vents the ordinary transactions of comedy 
 from becoming insipid. In real life, those who. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 47 
 
 from the peculiar frame of their minds, feel 
 most of this refined distress, are not generally 
 communicative upon the subject; and those who 
 do feel and talk about it at the same time, if any 
 such there be, seldom find their friends much 
 inclined to listen to them. It is not to be sup- 
 posed, then, long conversations upon the stage 
 about small sentimental niceties, can be gene- 
 rally interesting. 1 am afraid plays of this kind, 
 as well as works of a similar nature, in other 
 departments of literature, have only tended to 
 increase amongst us a set of sentimental hypo- 
 crites ; who are the same persons of this age 
 that would have been the religious ones of an- 
 other ; and are daily doing morality the same 
 kind of injury, by substituting the particular 
 excellence which they pretend to possess, for 
 plain simple uprightness and rectitude. 
 
 In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those 
 ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, 
 governantes, and chambermaids; that ambushed 
 bush-fighting amongst closets, screens, chests, 
 easy-chairs, and toilet-tables, form a gay, varied 
 game of dexterity and invention : which, to 
 those who have played at hide and seek, who 
 have crouched down, v.'ith beating heart, in a 
 dark corner, whilst the enemy groped near 
 the spot ; who have joined their busy school- 
 mates in many a deep-laid plan to deceive, 
 perplex, and torment the unhappy mortals de- 
 puted to have the charge of them, cannot be 
 
4-8 IKTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 seen with indifference. Like an old hunter, 
 who pricks up his ears at the sound of the chase, 
 and starts away from the path of his journey, so, 
 leaving all wisdom and criticism behind us, we 
 follow the varied changes of tlie plot, and stop 
 not for reflection. The studious man who wants 
 a cessation from thought, the indolent man who 
 dislikes it, and all those who, from habit or cir- 
 cumstances, live in a state of divorce from their 
 own minds, are pleased with an amusement, in 
 which they have nothing to do but to open their 
 eyes and behold. The moral tendency of it, 
 however, is very faulty. That mockery of age 
 and domestick authority, so constantly held forth, 
 has a very bad effect upon the younger part of 
 an audience ; and that continual lying and de- 
 ceit in the first characters of the piece, which is 
 necessary for conducting the plot, has a most 
 pernicious one. 
 
 But Characteristick Comedy, which repre- 
 sents to us this motley world of men and wom.en 
 in which we live, under those circumstances of 
 ordinary and familiar life most favourable to 
 the discovery of the human heart, offers to us 
 a wide field of instruction adapted to general 
 application. We find in its varied scenes an 
 exercise of the mind analogous to that which 
 we all, less or more, find out for ourselves, 
 amidst the mixed groups of people whom we 
 meet with in society ; and which I have already 
 mentioned as an exercise universally pleasing to 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 4-9 
 
 man. As the distinctions which it is its highest 
 aim to discriminate, are those of nature and 
 not situation, they are judged of by all ranks 
 of men j for a peasant will very clearly perceive 
 in the character of a peer those native pecu- 
 liarities which belong to him as a man, though 
 he is entirely at a loss in all that regards his 
 manners and address as a nobleman. It illus- 
 trates to us the general remarks we have made 
 upon men ; and in it we behold, spread before 
 us, plans of those original ground-works, upon 
 which the general ideas we have been taught to 
 conceive of mankind, are founded. It stands 
 but little in need of busy plot, extraordinary 
 incidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. 
 It naturally produces for itself all that it requires. 
 Characters, v;ho are to speak for themselves, 
 who are to be known by their own words and 
 actions, not by the accounts that are given of 
 them by others, cannot well be developed 
 without considerable variety of judicious inci- 
 dent : a smile that is raised by some trait of 
 undisguised nature, and a laugh that is provoked 
 by some ludicrous effect of passion, or clashing 
 of opposite characters, will be more pleasing to 
 the generality of men, than either the one or the 
 other when occasioned by a play upon words, 
 or a whimsical combination of ideas ; and to 
 behold the operation and effects of the different 
 propensities and* weaknesses of men, will na- 
 turally call up in the mind of the spectator 
 
 VOL, I. E 
 
50 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 moral reflections more applicable, and more 
 impressive than all the high-sounding senti- 
 ments with which the graver scenes of Satirical 
 and Sentimental Comedy are so frequently in- 
 terlarded. It is much to be regretted, however, 
 that the eternal introduction of love as the 
 grand business of the Drama, and the conse- 
 quent necessity for making the chief persons in 
 it, such, in regard to age, appearance, manners, 
 dispositions, and endowments, as are proper for 
 interesting lovers, has occasioned so much in- 
 sipid similarity in the higher characters. It is 
 chiefly, therefore, on the second and inferiour 
 characters, that the efforts, even of our best 
 poets, have been exhausted : and thus we are 
 called upon to be interested in the fortune of 
 one man, whilst our chief attention is directed 
 to the character of another, which produces a 
 disunion of ideas in the mind, injurious to the 
 general efl'ect of the whole. From this cause, 
 also, those characteristick varieties have been 
 very much neglected, which men present to us 
 in the middle stages of life ; when they are too 
 old for lovers or the confidents of lovers, and 
 too young to be the fiithers, uncles, and guar- 
 dians, who are contrasted with them -, but when 
 they are still in full vigour of mind, eagerly 
 engaged with the world, joining the activity of 
 youth to the providence of age, and offer to our 
 attention objects sufficiently interesting and 
 instructive. It is to be regretted that strong 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 51 
 
 contrasts of character are too often attempted, 
 instead of those harmonious shades of it, which 
 nature so beautifully varies, and which we so 
 greatly delight in, whenever we clearly dis- 
 tinguish them. It is to be regretted that in 
 place of those characters, which present them- 
 selves to the imagination of a writer from his 
 general observations upon mankind, inferiour 
 poets have so often pourtrayed with senseless 
 minuteness the characters of particular indivi- 
 duals. We are pleased with the eccentricities 
 of individuals in real life, and also in history 
 or biography, but in fictitious writings we regard 
 them with suspicion ; and no representation 
 of nature, that corresponds not with some o^ 
 our general ideas in regard to it, will either 
 instruct or inform us. When the originals of 
 such characters are known and remembered, 
 the plays in which they are introduced are often- 
 times popular ; and their temporary success 
 has induced a still inferiour class of poets to 
 believe, that, by making men strange, and un- 
 like the rest of the world, they have made great 
 discoveries, and miglitily enlarged the bound- 
 aries of dramatick character. They will, there- 
 fore, distinguish one man from another by some 
 strange whim or imagination, which is ever upper- 
 most in his thoughts, and influences every action 
 of his life ; by some singular opinion, perhaps, 
 about politicks, fashions, or the position of the 
 stars J by some strong unaccountable love for 
 
 £ 2 
 
52 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 one thing, or aversion from another ; entirely 
 forgetting, that such singularities, if they are 
 to be found in nature, can no where be sought 
 for, with such probabihty of success, as in 
 Bedlam. Above all it is to be regretted that 
 those adventitious distinctions amongst men, of 
 age, fortune, rank, profession, and country, are so 
 often brought forward in preference to the great 
 original distinctions of nature ; and our scenes, 
 so often filled with courtiers, lawyers, citizens. 
 Frenchmen, &c. &c. with all the characteristicks 
 of their respective conditions, such as they have 
 been represented from time immemorial. This 
 has introduced a great sameness into many of 
 our plays, which all the changes of new fashions 
 burlesqued, and new customs turned into ridi- 
 cule, cannot conceal. 
 
 In comedy, the stronger passions, love ex- 
 cepted, are seldom introduced but in a passing 
 way. We have short bursts of anger, fits of 
 jealousy and impatience ; violent passion of any 
 continuance we seldom find. When this is 
 attempted, however, forgetting that mode of 
 exposing the weakness of the human mind, 
 which peculiarly belongs to her, it is too fre- 
 quently done in the serious spirit of tragedy ; 
 and this has produced so many of those serious 
 comick plays, which so much divide and dis- 
 tract our attention.* Yet we all know from 
 
 * Such plays, however excellent the parts may be of 
 wliich they are composed, can never produce the same 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 53 
 
 our own experience in real life, that, in certain 
 situations, and under certain circumstances, the 
 stronger passions are fitted to produce scenes 
 more exquisitely comick than any other: and 
 one well-wrought scene of this kind will have 
 
 strength and unity of effect upon our minds which we re- 
 ceive from plays of a simpler undivided construction. If 
 the serious and distressing scenes make a deep impression, 
 we do not find ourselves in a humour for the comick ones 
 that succeed ; and if the comick scenes enhven us greatly, 
 we feel tardy and unalert in bringing back our minds to a 
 proper tone for the serious. As in tragedy we smile at 
 those native traits of character, or that occasional sprightli- 
 ness of dialogue, which are sometimes introduced, to ani- 
 mate her less interesting parts, so may we be moved by 
 comedy ; but our tears should be called forth by those 
 gentle strokes of nature, which come at once with kindred 
 kindness on the heart, and are quickly succeeded by smiles. 
 Like a small summer-cloud, whose rain-drops sparkle in ^e 
 sun, and which swiftly passes av/ay, is the genuine pathetick 
 of comedy ; the gathering foreseen storm, that darkens the 
 whole face of the sky, belongs to tragedy alone. It is often 
 observed, I confess, that we are more apt to be affected by 
 those scenes of distress which we meet with in comedy, than 
 the high-wrought woes of tragedy ; and I believe it is true. 
 But this arises from the woes of tragedy being so often ap- 
 propriated to high and mighty personages, and strained 
 beyond the modesty of nature, in order to suit their great 
 dignity ; or, from the softened griefs of more gentle and 
 familiar characters, being rendered feeble and tiresome with 
 too much repetition and whining. It arises from the greater 
 facility with which we enter into the distresses of people 
 more upon a level with ourselves ; and whose sorrows are 
 expressed in less studied and unnatural language. 
 
 E 3 
 
54 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 a more powerful effect in repressing similar in- 
 temperance in the mind of a spectator, than 
 many moral cautions, or even, perhaps, than the 
 terrific examples of tragedy. There are to be 
 found, no doubt, in the works of our best dra- 
 matick writers, comick scenes descriptive of 
 the stronger passions, but it is generally the 
 inferiour characters of the piece who are made 
 the subjects of them, very rarely those in whom 
 we are much interested ; and consequently the 
 useful effect of such scenes upon the mind is 
 very much weakened. This general appropri- 
 ation of them has tempted our less skilful Dra- 
 matists to exaggerate, and step, in further quest 
 of the ludicrous, so much beyond the bounds of 
 nature, that the very effect they are so anxious 
 to produce is thereby destroyed, and all useful 
 application of it entirely cut off; for we never 
 apply to ourselves a false representation of 
 nature. 
 
 But a complete exhibition of passion, with its 
 varieties and progress in the breast of man, has, 
 I believe, scarcely ever been attempted in comedy. 
 Even love, though the chief subject of almost 
 every play, has been pourtrayed in a loose, scat- 
 tered, and imperfect manner. The story of 
 the lovers is acted over before us, whilst the 
 characteristicks of that passion by which they are 
 actuated, and which is the great master-spring 
 of the whole, are faintly to be discovered. We 
 are generally introduced to a lover after he has 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 55 
 
 long been acquainted with his mistress, and 
 wants but the consent of some stubborn rela- 
 tion, relief from some embarrassment of situa- 
 tion, or the clearing up some mistake or love- 
 quarrel occasioned by malice or accident, to 
 make him completely happy. To overcome 
 these difficulties, he is engaged in a busy train 
 of contrivance and exertion, in which the spirit, 
 activity, and ingenuity of the man is held forth 
 to view, whilst the lover, comparatively speak- 
 ing, is kept out of sight. But even when this is 
 not the case ; when the lover is not so busied 
 and involved, this stage of the passion is ex- 
 actly the one that is least interesting, and least 
 instructive : not to mention, as I have done 
 already, that one stage of any passion must shew 
 it imperfectly. 
 
 From this view of the Comick Drama, I 
 have been induced to believe, that, as com- 
 panions to the forementioned tragedies, a series 
 of comedies on a similar plan, in which bustle 
 of plot, brilliancy of dialogue, and even the 
 bold and striking in character, should, to the 
 best of the authour's judgment, be kept in due 
 subordination to nature, might likewise be ac- 
 ceptable to the publick. I am confident that 
 comedy upon this plan is capable of being 
 made as interesting as entertaining, and su- 
 periour in moral tendency to any other. For 
 even in ordinary life, with very slight cause 
 to excite them, strong passions will foster 
 
 E 4 
 
56 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 themselves within the breast ; and what are all 
 the evils which vanity, folly, prejudice, or 
 peculiarity of temper lead to, compared with 
 those which such unquiet inmates produce? 
 Were they confined to the exalted and the 
 mighty, to those engaged in the great events 
 of the world, to the inhabitants of palaces and 
 camps, how happy, comparatively, would this 
 world be ! But many a miserable being, whom 
 firm principle, timidity of character, or the fear 
 of shame keeps back from the actual com- 
 mission of crimes, is tormented in obscurity, 
 under the dominion of those passions which 
 place the seducer in ambush, rouse the bold 
 spoiler to wrong, and strengthen the arm of 
 the murderer. Though to those with whom 
 such dangerous enemies have long found shelter, 
 exposing them in an absurd and ridiculous light, 
 may be shooting a finely-pointed arrow against 
 the hardened rock ; yet to those with whom they 
 are but new, and less assured guests, this may 
 prove a more successful mode of attack than 
 any other. 
 
 It was the saying of a sagacious Scotch- 
 man, " Let who will make the laws of a nation, 
 if I have the writing of its ballads." Some- 
 thing similar to this may be said in regard to 
 the Drama. Its lessons reach not, indeed, to 
 the lowest classes of the labouring people, 
 who are the broad foundation of society, which 
 can never be generally moved without en- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 57 
 
 dangei'ing every thing tliat is constructed upon 
 it, and who are our potent and formidable 
 ballad-readers ; but they reach to the classes 
 next in order to them, and who will always 
 have over them no inconsiderable influence. 
 The impressions made by it are communicated, 
 at the same instant of time, to a greater num- 
 ber of individuals than those made by any other 
 species of writing ; and they are strengthened 
 in every spectator, by observing their effects 
 upon those who surround him. From this ob- 
 servation, the mind of my reader will suggest 
 of itself what it would be unnecessary, and, 
 perhaps, improper in me here to enlarge upon. 
 The theatre is a school in which much good 
 or evil may be learned. At the beginning of 
 its career, the Drama was employed to mislead 
 and excite ; and, were I not unwilling to refer 
 to transactions of the present times, I might 
 abundantly confirm what I have said by recent 
 examples. The authour, therefore, who aims 
 in any degree to improve the mode of its in- 
 struction, and point to more useful lessons than 
 it is generally employed to dispense, is certainly 
 praiseworthy, though want of abilities may un- 
 happily prevent him from being successful in 
 his efforts. 
 
 This idea has prompted me to begin a work in 
 which I am aware of many difficulties. In plays 
 of this nature the passions must be depicted 
 
58 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 not only with their bold and prominent features, 
 but also with those minute and delicate traits 
 which distinguish them in an infant, growing, 
 and repressed state ; which are the most diffi- 
 cult of all to counterfeit, and one of w'hich, 
 falsely imagined, will destroy the effect of a 
 whole scene. The characters over whom they 
 are made to usurp dominion must be powerful 
 and interesting, exercising them wdth their full 
 measure of opposition and struggle j for the 
 chief antagonists they contend with must be 
 the other passions and propensities of the heart, 
 not outward circumstances and events. Though 
 belonging to such characters, they must still 
 be held to view in the most baleful and un- 
 seductive light ; and those qualities in the impas- 
 sioned which are necessary to interest us in 
 their fate, must not be allowed, by any lustre 
 borrowed from them, to diminish our abhor- 
 rence of guilt. The second, and even the in- 
 feriour persons of each play, as they must be 
 kept perfectly distinct from the great impas- 
 sioned one, should generally be represented in 
 a calm unagitated state, and therefore more 
 pains are necessary than in other dramatick 
 works to mark them by appropriate distinctions 
 of character, lest they should appear altogether 
 insipid and insignificant. As the great object 
 here is to trace passion through all its varieties, 
 and in every stage, many of which are marked 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 59 
 
 by shades so delicate, that in much bustle of 
 events they would be little attended to, or 
 entirely overlooked, simplicity of plot is more 
 necessary than in those plays where only 
 occasional bursts of passion are introduced, 
 to distinguish a character, or animate a scene. 
 But where simplicity of plot is necessary, 
 there is very great danger of making a piece 
 appear bare and unvaried, and nothing but 
 great force and truth in the delineations of 
 nature will prevent it from being tiresome.* 
 Soliloquy, or those overflowings of the per- 
 
 * To make up for this simplicity of plot, the show and 
 decorations of the theatre ought to be allowed to plays 
 written upon this plan in their full extent. How fasti- 
 dious soever some poets may be in regard to these mat- 
 ters, it is much better to relieve our tired-out attention 
 with a battle, a banquet, or a procession, than an accu- 
 mulation of incidents. In the latter case the mind is harassed 
 and confused with those doubts, conjectures, and disappoint- 
 ments which multiplied events occasion, and in a great 
 measure unfitted for attending to the worthier parts of 
 the piece : but in the former it enjoys a rest, a pleasing 
 pause in its more serious occupation, from which it can 
 return again, without any incumbrance of foreign intruding 
 ideas. The show of a splendid procession will afford to a 
 person of the best understanding, a pleasure in kind, though 
 not in degree, with that which a child would receive from 
 it ; but when it is past he thinks no more of it ; whereas 
 some confusion of circumstances, some half-explained mis- 
 take, which gives him no pleasure at all when it takes place, 
 may take his attention afterwards from the refined beauties 
 of a natural and characteristick dialogue. 
 
60 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 turbed soul, in which it unburthens itself of 
 those thoughts which it cannot communicate to 
 Others, and which in certain situations is the only 
 mode that a Dramatist can employ to open to 
 us the mind he would display, must necessarily 
 be often, and to considerable length, introduced. 
 Here, indeed, as it naturally belongs to passion, 
 it will not be so offensive as it generally is in 
 other plays, when a calm unagitated person tells 
 over to himself all that has befallen him, and all 
 his future schemes of intrigue or advancement ; 
 yet to make speeches of this kind sufficiently 
 natural and impressive to excite no degree of 
 weariness nor distaste, will be found to be no 
 easy task. There are, besides these, many other 
 difficulties belonging peculiarly to this under- 
 taking, too minute and tedious to mention. 
 If, fully aware of them, 1 have not shrunk back 
 from the attempt, it is not from any idea that 
 my own powers or discernment will at all times 
 enable me to overcome them ; but I am em- 
 boldened by the confidence I feel in that can- 
 dour and indulgence, with which the good and 
 enlightened do ever regard the experimental 
 efforts of those who wish in any degree to en- 
 large the sources of pleasure and instruction 
 
 amongst men. 
 
 It will now be proper to say something of the 
 particular plays wliich compose this volume. But 
 in the first place, I must observe, that as I pretend 
 
 3 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. Gl 
 
 not to have overcome the difficulties attached 
 to this design ; so neither from the errours and 
 defects, which, in these pages, I have thought 
 it necessary to point out in the works of others, 
 do I at all pretend to be blameless. To con- 
 ceive the great moral object and outline of the 
 story; to people it with various characters, 
 under the influence of various passions; and to 
 strike out circumstances and situations calcu- 
 lated to call them into action, is a very different 
 employment of the mind from calmly con- 
 sidering those propensities of our nature, to 
 which dramatick writings are most powerfully 
 addressed, and taking a general view upon those 
 principles of the works of preceding authours. 
 They are employments which cannot well oc- 
 cupy it at the same time; and experience has 
 taught us, that criticks do not unfrequently 
 write in contradiction to their own rules. If 
 I should, therefore, sometimes appear, in the 
 foregoing remarks, to have provided a stick 
 wherewith to break my own pate, I entreat 
 that my reader will believe I am neither 
 confident nor boastful, and use it with gen- 
 tleness. 
 
 In the first two plays, where love is the pas- 
 sion under review, their relation to the general 
 plan may not be very obvious. Love is the 
 chief ground-work of almost all our tragedies 
 and comedies, and so far they are not distin- 
 guished from others. But I have endeavoured 
 
62 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 in both to give an unbroken view of the passion 
 from its beginning, and to mark it as I went 
 along, with those pecuKar traits which distin- 
 guish its different stages of progression. I have 
 in both these pieces grafted this passion, not on 
 those open, communicative, impetuous charac- 
 ters, who have so long occupied the dramatick 
 station of lovers, but on men of a firm, thought- 
 ful, reserved turn of mind, with whom it com- 
 monly makes the longest stay, and maintains the 
 hardest struggle. I should be extremely sorry 
 if, from anv thinff at the conclusion of the tra- 
 gedy, it -should be supposed that I mean to 
 countenance suicide, or condemn those customs 
 whose object is the discouragement of it, by 
 withholding from the body of the self-slain 
 those sacred rites and marks of respect com- 
 monly shewn to the dead. Let it be consi- 
 dered, that whatever 1 have inserted there, 
 which can at all raise any suspicion of this kind, 
 is put into the mouths of rude uncultivated 
 soldiers, who are roused with the loss of a 
 beloved leader, and indignant at any idea of 
 disgrace being attached to him. If it should 
 seem inconsistent with the nature of this work, 
 that in its companion, the comedy, I have made 
 strong moral principle triumph over love, let 
 it be remembered, that, without this, the whole 
 moral tendency of a play, which must end 
 happily, would have been destroyed; and that 
 it is not my intention to encourage the in- 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 63 
 
 dulgence of this passion, amiable as it is, but 
 to restrain it. The last play, the subject of 
 which is hatred, will more clearly discover the 
 nature and intention of my design. The rise 
 and progress of this passion I have been 
 obliged to give in retrospect, instead of re- 
 presenting it all along in its actual operation, 
 as I could have wished to have done. But 
 hatred is a passion of slow growth ; and to 
 have exhibited it from its beginnings would 
 have included a longer period than even those 
 who are least scrupulous about the limitation 
 of dramatick time would have thought allow- 
 able. I could not have introduced my chief 
 characters upon the stage as boys, and then 
 as men. For this passion must be kept 
 distinct from that dislike which we conceive 
 for another when he has greatly offended us, 
 and which is almost the constant companion 
 of anger ; and also from that eager desire to 
 crush, and inflict suffering on him who has 
 injured us, which constitutes revenge. This 
 passion, as I have conceived it, is that rooted 
 and settled aversion, which from opposition of 
 character, aided by circumstances of little im- 
 portance, grows at last into such antipathy 
 and personal disgust as makes him who en- 
 tertains it, feel, in the presence of him who is 
 the object of it, a degree of torment and 
 restlessness which is insufferable, It is a pas- 
 sion, I believe, less frequent than any other of 
 
64< INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 the stronger passions, but in the breast where 
 it does exist, it creates, perhaps, more misery 
 than any other. To endeavour to interest the 
 mind for a man under the dominion of a pas- 
 sion so baleful, so unamiable, may seem, per- 
 haps, reprehensible. I therefore beg it may 
 be considered, that it is the passion and not 
 the man which is held up to our execration : 
 and that this and every otlier bad passion 
 does more strongly evince its pernicious and 
 dangerous nature, when we see it thus coun- 
 teracting and destroying the good gifts of 
 Heaven, than when it is represented as the 
 suitable associate, in the breast of inmates 
 as dark as itself. This remark will likewise 
 be applicable to many of the other plays be- 
 longing to my work, that are intended to follow. 
 A decidedly wicked character can never be 
 interesting ; and to employ such for the display 
 of any strong passion would very much injure, 
 instead of improving, the moral effect. In the 
 breast of a bad man passion has comparatively 
 little to combat ; how then can it shew its 
 strength ? I shall say no more upon this 
 subject, but submit myself to the judgment of 
 my reader. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be supposed, from my publish- 
 ing these plays, that I have written them for the 
 closet rather than the stage. If, upon perusing 
 them with attention, the reader is disposed to 
 think they are better calculated for the iirst than 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 65 
 
 the last, let him impute it to want of skill in the 
 authour, and not to any previous design. A 
 play but of small poetical merit, that is suited 
 to strike and interest the spectator, to catch the 
 attention of him who will not, and of him who 
 cannot read, is a more valuable and useful 
 production than one whose elegant and harmo- 
 nious pages are admired in the libraries of the 
 tasteful and refined. To have received appro- 
 bation from an audience of my countrymen, 
 would have been more pleasing to me than any 
 other praise. A few tears from the simple and 
 young would have been, in my eyes, pearls of 
 great price j and the spontaneous, untutored 
 plaudits of the rude and uncultivated would 
 have come to my heart as offerings of no 
 mean value. I should, therefore, have been 
 better pleased to have introduced them to the 
 world from the stage than from the press. 
 I possess, however, no likely channel to the 
 former mode of publick introduction : and, 
 upon further reflection, it appeared to me, 
 that by pulDlishing them in this way, I have 
 an opportunity afforded me of explaining the 
 design of my work, and enabling the publick 
 to judge, not only of each play by itself, but 
 as making a part likewise of the whole ; an 
 advantage which, perhaps, does more than over- 
 balance the splendour and effect of theatrical 
 representation. 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 It may be thought, that with this extensive 
 plan before me, I should not have been in a 
 hurry to publish, but have waited to give a 
 larger portion of it to the publick, which would 
 have enabled them to make a truer estimate of 
 its merit. To bring forth only three plays of 
 the whole, and the last without its intended 
 companion, may seem like the haste of those 
 vain people, who, as soon as they have written a 
 few pages of a discourse, or a few couplets of a 
 poem, cannot be easy till every body has seen 
 them. I do protest, in honest simplicity ! it is 
 distrust and not confidence, that has led me, 
 at this early stage of the undertaking, to bring 
 it before the publick. To labour in uncertainty 
 is at all times unpleasant : but to proceed in 
 a long and difficult work with any impression 
 upon your mind that your labour may be in 
 vain ; that the opinion you have conceived of 
 your ability to perform it may be a delusion, a 
 false suggestion of self-love, the fantasy of an 
 aspiring temper, is most discouraging and cheer- 
 less. I have not proceeded so far, indeed, 
 merely upon the strength of my own judg- 
 ment : but the friends to whom I have sliewn 
 my manuscripts are partial to me, and their 
 approbation, which, in the case of any indif- 
 ferent person, would be in my mind completely 
 decisive, goes but a little way in relieving me 
 from these apprehensions. To step beyond the 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 67 
 
 circle of my own immediate friends in quest 
 of opinion, from the particular temper of my 
 mind, I feel an uncommon repugnance : 1 can 
 with less pain to myself bring them before the 
 public at once, and submit to its decision.* It 
 is to my countrymen at large I call for assist- 
 ance. If this work is fortunate enough to 
 attract their attention, let their strictures as 
 well as their praise come to my aid : the one 
 will encourage me in a long and arduous under- 
 taking, the other will teach me to improve it as 
 I advance. For there are many errours that 
 may be detected, and improvements that may 
 be suggested, in the prosecution of this work, 
 which, from the observations of a great variety 
 of readers, are more likely to be pointed out 
 to me, than from those of a small number of 
 persons, even of the best judgment. I am 
 not possessed of that confidence in mine own 
 powers, which enables the concealed genius, 
 under the pressure of present discouragement, 
 to pursue his labours in security, looking 
 firmly forward to other more enlightened times 
 for his reward. If my own countrymen, with 
 whom I live and converse, who look upon the 
 
 * The first of these plays, indeed, has been shewn to two 
 or three Gentlemen whom I have not the honour of reckon- 
 ing amongst my friends. One of them, who is a man of 
 distinguished talents, has honoured it with very flattering 
 approbation ; and, at his suggestion, one or two slight alter- 
 ations in it have been made. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 same race of men, the same state of society, 
 the same passing events with myself, receive 
 not my offering, I presume not to look to 
 posterity. 
 
 Before I close this discourse, let me crave 
 the forbearance of my reader, if he has discovered 
 in the course of it any unacknowledged use of 
 the thoughts of other authours, which he thinks 
 ought to have been noticed; and let me beg the 
 same favour, if in reading the following plays, 
 any similar neglect seems to occur. There are 
 few writers who have sufficient originality of 
 thought to strike out for themselves new ideas 
 upon every occasion. When a thought presents 
 itself to me, as suited to the purpose I am aim- 
 ing at, I would neither be thought proud 
 enough to reject it, on finding that another has 
 used it before me, nor mean enough to make 
 use of it without acknowledging the obligation, 
 when 1 can at all guess to whom such acknow- 
 ledgments are due. But I am situated where 
 I have no library to consult ; my reading 
 through the whole of my life has been of a 
 loose, scattered, unmethodical kind, with no 
 determined direction, and I have not been 
 blessed by nature with the advantages of a 
 retentive or accurate memory. Do not, how- 
 ever, imagine from this, I at all wish to insinu- 
 ate that I ought to be acquitted of every obli- 
 gation to preceding authours ; and that when 
 a palpable similarity of thought and expression 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 69 
 
 is observable between us, it is a similarity pro- 
 duced by accident alone, and with perfect un- 
 consciousness on my part. I am frequently 
 sensible, from the manner in which an idea 
 arises to my imagination, and the readiness with 
 wliich words, also, present themselves to clothe 
 it in, that I am only making use of some dor- 
 mant part of that hoard of ideas which the 
 most indifierent memories lay up, and not the 
 native suggestions of mine own mind. When- 
 ever I have suspected myself of doing so, in 
 the course of this work, I have felt a strong in- 
 clination to mark that suspicion in a note. 
 But, besides that it might have appeared like 
 an affectation of scrupulousness which I would 
 avoid, there being likewise, most assuredly, 
 many other places in it where I have done, the 
 same thing without being conscious of it, a 
 suspicion of wishing to slur them over, and 
 claim all the rest as unreservedly my own, 
 would unavoidably have attached to me. If 
 this volume should appear, to any candid and 
 liberal critick, to merit that he sliould take the 
 trouble of pointing out to me in what parts of 
 it I seem to have made that use of other 
 authours' writings, which, according to the fair 
 laws of literature, ought to have been acknow- 
 ledged, I shall think myself obliged to him. I 
 shall examine the sources he points out as having 
 supplied my own lack of ideas ; and if this 
 book should have the good fortune to go through 
 
 f3 
 
70 INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 
 
 a second edition, I shall not fail to owe my 
 obligations to him, and the authors from whom 
 I may have borrowed. 
 
 How little credit soever, upon perusing these 
 plays, the reader may think me entitled to in 
 regard to the execution of the work, he will not, 
 I flatter myself, deny me some credit in regard 
 to the plan. I know of no series of plays, in 
 any language, expressly descriptive of the dif- 
 ferent passions ; and I believe there are few 
 plays existing, in which the display of one strong 
 passion is the chief business of the drama, so 
 written that they could properly make part of 
 such a series. I do not think that we should, 
 from the works of various authours, be able to 
 make a collection which would give us any 
 thing exactly of the nature of that which is here 
 proposed. If the reader, in perusing it, per- 
 ceives that the abilities of the authour are not 
 proportioned to the task which is imposed upon 
 them, he will wish in the spirit of kindness 
 rather than of censure, as I most sincerely do, 
 that they had been more adequate to it. How- 
 ever, if I perform it ill, I am still confident that 
 this (pardon me if I call it so) noble design will 
 not be suffered to fall to the ground : some one 
 will arise after me who will do it justice; and 
 there is no poet, possessing genius for such a 
 work, who will not at the same time possess 
 that spirit of justice and of candour, which will 
 lead him to remember me with respect. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 71 
 
 I have now only to thank my reader, whoever 
 he may be, who has followed me through the 
 pages of this discourse, for having had the 
 patience to do so. May he, in going through 
 what follows (a wish the sincerity of which he 
 cannot doubt), find more to reward his trouble 
 than I dare venture to promise him ; and for 
 the pains he has already taken, and those which 
 he intends to take for me, I request that he will 
 accept of my grateful acknowledgments. 
 
 Note. — Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, gives 
 peculiar and appropriate distinction to the characters of his 
 tragedies. The remarks I have made, in regard to the little 
 variety of character to be met with in tragedy, apply not to 
 him. Neither has he, as other dramatists generally do, be- 
 stowed pains on the chief persons of his drama only, leaving 
 the second and inferiour ones insignificant and spiritless. He 
 never wears out our capacity to feel, by eternally pressing 
 upon it. His tragedies are agreeably chequered with variety 
 of scenes, enriched with good sense, nature, and vivacity, 
 which relieve our minds from the fatigue of continued dis- 
 tress. If he sometimes carries this so far as to break in 
 upon that serious tone of mind, which disposes us to listen 
 with effect to the higher scenes of tragedy, he has done so 
 chiefly in his historical plays, where the distresses set forth 
 are commonly of that public kind, which does not, at any 
 rate, make much impression upon the feelings. 
 
 F 4 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE Plays contained in this volume were all laid ty 
 for, at least, one year, before they were copied out to pre- 
 pare them for the press ; I have therefore had the advan- 
 tage of reading them aver, when they were in some measure 
 effaced from my memory, and judging of them in some de- 
 gree like an indifferent person. The Introduction has not 
 had the same advantage ,- it was copied out for the press 
 immediately after I had finished it, and I have not had 
 courage to open the book, or read any part of it, till it was 
 put into my hands to be corrected for the third edition. 
 Upon reading it over again, it appears to me that a tone 
 of censure and decisioti is too often discoverable in it, which 
 I have certainly no title to assume. It was, perhaps, dif- 
 ficult to avoid this fault, and at the same time completely 
 to give the view I desired of my motives and plan in thi& 
 work ; but I sincerely wish that I had been skilful ejiough 
 to have accoinplished it without falling into this errour. 
 Though I have escaped, as far as I know, all censure on 
 this account, yet I wish the Publick to be assured^ that I am 
 both sensible of, and gratefid for, their forbearance. 
 
BASIL: 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 MEN. 
 Count Basil, a General in the Emperour's service. 
 Count Rosinberg, his Friend. 
 Duke of Mantua. 
 Gauriceio, his Minister. 
 
 VaLTOMER, \rr r^^ ^jy •!» rr 
 
 Frederick, f ^^ ^^^^^* o/BasiP. Troops. 
 Geoffry, an old Soldier very much maimed in the 
 
 wars. 
 MiRANDO, a little Boy, favourite to Victoria. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Victoria, Daughter to the Duke of Mantua. 
 Countess of Albini, Friend and Governess to 
 
 Victoria. 
 Isabella, a Lady attending upon Victoria. 
 
 Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants, Masks, 
 Dancers, ^x. 
 
 *,* The Scene is iti Mantua, a fid its environs. 
 Time supposed to be the Sia^teenth Century^ when 
 Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the Firsts at 
 the Battle o/Tavia. 
 
BASIL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — AtiOpenStreetyCrowded mthPeople, 
 xvho seem to he waiting in expectation of some 
 shoxv. 
 
 Enter a Citizen. 
 
 First Man, Well, friend, what tidings of the 
 grand procession ? 
 
 Cit. I left it passing by the northern gate. 
 
 Second Man. Pve waited long, Tm glad it 
 comes at last. 
 
 Young Man. And does the Princess look so 
 wondrous fair 
 As fame reports ? 
 
 Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, — 
 Yet all the fairest beauties of the court 
 Are in her train. 
 
 Old Man. Bears she such offerings to Saint 
 Francis' shrine, 
 So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says ? 
 — 'Twill drain the treasury ! 
 
 Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns 
 Her publick thanks to the good patron Saint, 
 Who from his sick bed hath restored her father, 
 Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands? 
 She loves magnificence. — 
 
 {Discovering amongst the crowd Old GeoiTry.) 
 
76 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ha ! art thou here, old remnant of the wars ? 
 Thou art not come to see this courtly show, 
 Which sets the young agape ? 
 
 Geof. 1 came not for the show ; and yet, me» 
 thinks, f 
 
 It were a better jest upon me still. 
 If thou didst truly know mine errand here. 
 Cit. I pri'thee say. 
 
 Geof. What, must I tell it thee ? 
 
 As o'er my evening fire I musing sat. 
 Some few days since, my mind's eye backward 
 
 turn'd 
 Upon the various changes I have pass'd — 
 How in my youth, with gay attire allur'd, 
 And all the grand accoutrements of war, 
 I left my peaceful home : Then my first battles. 
 When clashing arms, and sights of blood were 
 
 new: 
 Then all the after chances of the war : 
 Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was. 
 When with an arm (I speak not of it oft) 
 Which now {pointing to his enqjty sleeve') thou 
 
 seest in no arm of mine. 
 In a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes. 
 And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge j 
 For which good service, in his tented court, 
 My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me ; 
 Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side, 
 The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld. 
 Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd, — 
 Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile — 
 15 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — asmileof praise — 
 Well, ninsing thus on all my fortunes past, 
 A neighbour drew the latchet of my door, 
 And full of news from town, in many words 
 Big with rich names, told of this grand procession; 
 E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul 
 To see the princess pass, if in her looks 
 I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. 
 This is the simple truth ; laugh as thou wilt. 
 I came not for the show. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer to Geqf. Make way that the proces- 
 sion may have room : 
 Stand you aside, and let this man have place. 
 
 (^Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put 
 another in his place.') 
 Geqf. But that thou art the prince's officer, 
 I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. 
 Officer. What, wilt thou not give place ? the 
 prince is near : 
 I will complain to him, and have thee caged. 
 Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray ; and when 
 thou dost. 
 Say that the private of the tenth brigade. 
 Who sav'd his army on the Danube's bank, 
 And since that time a private hath remain'd. 
 Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain 
 Against thy insolence. Go tell him this. 
 And ask him then what dungeon of his tower 
 He'll have me thrust into. 
 
78 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cit. to Officer. This is old GeofFry of the tenth 
 
 brigade. 
 Offi. I knew him not : you should have told 
 me sooner. [Exit, looking much ashamed. 
 
 Martial Musick heard at a distance. 
 Cit. Hark, this is musick of a warlike kind. 
 
 Enter Second Citizen. 
 
 To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good 
 friend, which this way bear ? 
 
 Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon his 
 march. 
 To join the emp'rour with some chosen troops, 
 And as an ally doth through Mantua pass. 
 
 Geqf. IVe heard a good report of this young 
 soldier. 
 
 Sec. Cit. 'Tis saidhe disciplines his men severely, 
 And over-much the old commander is, 
 Which seems ungracious in so young a man. 
 
 Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry ; 
 He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate 
 Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think. 
 That e'en the very meanest simple craft 
 Cannot without due diligence be learn'd, 
 And yet the nobler art of soldiership 
 May be attained by loit*ring in the sun ? 
 Some men are born to feast and not to fight ; 
 Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field. 
 Still on their dinner turn — 
 Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home, 
 And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. 
 In times of easy service, true it is. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 All easy careless chief, all soldiers love ; 
 But O ! how gladly in the day of battle 
 Woidd they their jolly bottle-chief desert, 
 And follow such a leader as Count Basil ! 
 So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call, 
 Confess the master Deer. 
 
 (^Mustek is heard again, andnearer. Geoffvy walks 
 tip and down with a milita?^ triumphant step.) 
 
 Cit. What moves thee thus ? 
 
 Geof. Tve march'd to this same tune in 
 glorious days. 
 My very limbs catch motion from the sound. 
 As they were young again. 
 
 Sec. Cit. But here they come. 
 
 Enter Count Basil, Officers and Soldiers in Pro- 
 cession, with Colours Jlying, and martial musick. 
 JVhefi they have marched half-way over the 
 Stage, an Officer of the Duke*s enters Jrom the 
 opposite side, and speaks to Basil, upon which 
 he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial 
 musick ceases ; sojt musick is heard at a little 
 distance, and Victoria, xvith a long procession 
 of Ladies, enters from the opposite side. The 
 General, &c. pay obeisance to her, as she 
 passes ; she stops to return it, aiid then goes off 
 with her train. After which the militaiy pf^o- 
 cession moves on, and Exeunt, 
 
 Cit. to Geof. What think'st thou of the princess? 
 
 Geof She is fair, 
 
 But not so fair as her good mother was. [Exeunt. 
 
80 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A Puhlick Walk on the Ramparts of the Town. 
 
 Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and Fre- 
 derick. — Valtomer enters by the opposite 
 side of the Stage, and meets them. 
 
 Valt. O what a jolly town for way-worn 
 soldiers ! 
 Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, 
 From every house salutes you as you pass : 
 Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; 
 Musick and merriment in ev'ry street ; 
 Whilst pretty damsels in their best attire. 
 Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind. 
 To spy the fools a-gazing after them. 
 
 Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, 
 For Basil is of flinty matter made, 
 And cannot be allured — 
 'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command 
 
 us. 
 Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble, 
 Some years his elder too — How has it been 
 That he should be preferred ? I see not why. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! but I see it, and allow it well j 
 He is too much my pride to M^ake my envy. 
 
 Fred. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration 
 Which raises him to such superiour height 5 
 And truly thou hast so infected us. 
 That 1 at times have felt me aw*d before him, 
 I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this. 
 
BASIL : A IRAGEDY. 81 
 
 Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. 
 
 Bos. Our talents of a diff'rent nature are ; 
 Mine for the daily intercourse of life, 
 And his for his/her tilings. 
 
 F7^ed. Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not; 
 I*m sure I am as brave a man as he. 
 
 Bos. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern 
 brav'ry. 
 And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well, 
 Give and receive as deep a wound as he. 
 When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords ; 
 For *tis their trust in his unshaken mind, 
 O'erwatching all the changes of the field, 
 Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm, 
 Which makes his soldiers bold. — 
 There have been those, in early manhood slain, 
 Whose great heroick souls have yet inspir'd 
 With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops. 
 That to their latest day of bearing arms, 
 Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd 
 Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride. 
 As those who fought beneath them in their youth. 
 Such men have been ; of whom it may be said, 
 Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was 
 cold. 
 
 Valt. Yes, I have seen in the eventful field, 
 When new occasion mock'd all rules of art, 
 E'en old commanders hold experience cheap, 
 And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. 
 
 Bos. One fault he has ; I know but only one ; 
 His too great love of military fame 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear 
 Unsocial and severe. 
 
 Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted in the field ? 
 As much enthusiastick love of glory ? 
 Why am I not as good a man as he ? 
 
 Ros. He's fonn'd for great occasions, thou for 
 small. 
 
 Valt. But small occasions in the path of life 
 Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd. 
 
 Ros. By which you would infer that men like 
 Frederick 
 Should on the whole a better figure make. 
 Than men of higher parts. It is not so ; 
 For some shew well, and fair applauses gain, 
 Where want of skill in other men is graceful. 
 Pray do not frown, good Fred'rick, no offence : 
 Thou canst not make a great man of thyself ; 
 Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs. 
 And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman. 
 But hush ! no more of this ; here Basil comes. 
 
 Enter Basil, *uoho returns their salute mthout 
 speaking. 
 
 Ros. What think'st thou, Valtomer, of Man- 
 tua's princess ? 
 'Valt. Fame prais'd her much, but hath not 
 prais*d her more 
 Than on a better proof the eye consents to. 
 ^With all that grace and nooieiieas of mien, 
 She might do honour to an emp'rour's throne ; 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDT. 83 
 
 She is too noble for a petty court. 
 
 Is it not so, my Lord ? — {To Basil, 'who only 
 
 bows assent.) 
 Nay, she demeans herself with so much grace, 
 Such easy state, such gay magnificence, 
 She should be queen of revelry and show. 
 
 Fred. She's charming as the goddess of delight. 
 
 Valt. But after her, she most attracted me 
 Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last ; 
 For tho* Victoria is a lovely woman — 
 
 Fred. Nay, it is treason but to call her woman ; 
 She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd. 
 But on my life, since now we talk of worship. 
 She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts ! 
 They sparkled so with gold and precious gems — 
 Their value mustbe great; somethousand crowns. 
 
 Ros. I would not rate them at a price so mean j 
 The cup alone, with precious stones beset. 
 Would fetch a sum as great. That olive-branch 
 The princess bore herself, of fretted gold. 
 Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more, 
 Because she held it in so white a hand. 
 
 Bas. (i?t a quick voice.) Mark'd you her hand ? 
 I did not see her hand. 
 And yet she wav'd it twice. 
 
 Ros. It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not. 
 Valt. I wish some painter's eye had view'd the 
 group. 
 As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd ; 
 He would have found wherewith t'enrich his art. 
 Ros. I wish so too ; for oft their fancied beauties 
 
 G 2 
 
84 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Have so much cold perfection in their parts, 
 'Tis plain they ne'er belonged to flesh and blood. 
 This is not truth, and doth not please so well 
 As the varieties of liberal nature, 
 Where ev'ry kind of beauty charms the eye ; 
 Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent, 
 Ay, by the mass ! and snub-nos'd beauties too. 
 'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching charm, 
 If that she be not proud, or captious. 
 
 Valt. Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks. 
 
 Ros. Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good 
 Valtomer ! 
 Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n. 
 
 Valt. But I must leave you for an hour or so; 
 1 mean to view the town. 
 
 Fred. I'll go with thee. 
 
 Ros. And so will I. 
 
 [Exeunt Valt. Fred, and Ros. 
 
 Re-enter Rusinberg. 
 
 Ros. I have repented me, I will not go ; 
 They will be too long absent. — (Pauses^ and 
 looks at Basil, who remains still musi7i<r 
 without seeing him.') 
 What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend? 
 Bas. O it is admirable ! 
 
 Ros. How runs thy fancy ? what is admirable? 
 Bas. Herforra, her face, hermotion, ev'ry thing! 
 Ros. The princess ; yes, have we not prais'd 
 
 her much ? 
 J^as. I know you prais'd her, and her ofF'rings 
 too! 
 
basil: a tragedy. B5 
 
 She might have giv'n the treasures of the east, 
 Ere I had known it. 
 
 O ! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd? 
 Still distant, siow^g moving with her train ; 
 Her robe and tresses floating on the \\ iml, 
 Like some Wixht fiii'ure in a mornini^ cloud ? 
 Then, as she onward to the eye became 
 The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew ! 
 That graceful bearing of her slender form ; 
 Her roundly spreading breast, her tow'ring neck, 
 Herfaceting'd sweetly with the bloom of youth — 
 But when approachingnear, shetow'rds us turned. 
 Kind mercy ! what a countenance was there ! 
 And when to our salute she gently bow'd. 
 Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips? 
 Softswell'dherglowing cheek, hereyessmil'dtoo? 
 
 howthey smil'd ! 'twas like the beamsof heav'n ! 
 
 1 felt my roused soul within me start, 
 Like something wak'd from sleep. 
 
 Ros. The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rers 
 wake 
 To care and misery ! 
 
 Bos. There's something grave and solemn in 
 your voice 
 As you pronounce these words. What dost thou 
 
 mean ? 
 Thou wouldst not sound my knell ? 
 
 Ros. No, not for all beneath the vaulted sky! 
 But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips, 
 Her praise displeases me. To men like you, 
 If love should come, he proves no easy guest, 
 
 G 3 
 
86 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Bas. ^VTiat, dost thou think I am beside myself, 
 And cannot view the fairness of perfection 
 With that dehght which lovely beauty gives, 
 Without tormenting me with fruitless wishes, 
 Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face, 
 And whimpers for the moon ? Thou art not 
 
 serious. 
 From early youth, war has my mistress been, 
 And tho' a rugged one, I'll constant prove. 
 And not forsake her now. There may be joys 
 Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul, 
 Visit the lover's breast beyond all others ; 
 E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! 
 But what of them ? they are not made for me — 
 The hasty flashes of contending steel 
 Must serve instead of glances from my love, 
 And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar* 
 Ros. (taking his hand.^ Now am I satisfied. 
 
 Forgive me, Basil. 
 Bas. I'm glad thou art \ we'll talk of her no 
 more ; 
 Why should I vex my friend ? 
 Ros. Thou hast not issued orders for the march. 
 Bas. I'll do it soon ; thou need'st not be afraid. 
 To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence. 
 Never perhaps to pass these gates again. 
 
 Ros. With last night's close, did you not curse 
 this town 
 That would one single day your troops retard? 
 And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it. 
 As the' it were the place that gave you birth ; 
 
basil: a tragedy. S7 
 
 As tho' you had around these strangers' walls 
 Your infant gambols playM. 
 
 Bas. The sight of what may be but little priz'd, 
 Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind, 
 When vievv'd as that we ne'er shall see again. 
 
 Ros. No, not a whit to wandering men like us. 
 No, not a whit! What custom hath endear'd 
 We part with sadly, tho' we prize it not : 
 But what is new some powerful charm must own. 
 Thus to affect the mind. 
 
 Bas. (hastily.') We'll let it pass — It hath no 
 consequence ; 
 Thou art impatient. 
 
 Ros. I'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only wish 
 Some other route our destin'd march had been, 
 That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue 
 With an untroubled mind. 
 
 Bas. O! wish it, wish it not ! bless'd be that 
 route ! 
 What we have seen to-day, I must remember — 
 I should be brutish if I could forget it. 
 Oft in the watchful post, or weary march, 
 Oft in the nightly silence of my tent. 
 My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still ; 
 But it will pass before my fancy's eye, 
 Like some delightful vision of the soul, 
 To soothe, not trouble it. 
 
 Ros. What! 'midst the dangers of eventful war. 
 Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman ? 
 Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle. 
 As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria, 
 
88 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And never stop to cry " alack a-day !" 
 For me there is but one of all the sex, 
 Who still shall hold her station in my breast, 
 'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune j 
 Because Pm passing sure she loves me well. 
 And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds 
 When rumour tells bad tidings of the war ; 
 Because I know her love will never change, 
 Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy. 
 
 Bas. Happy art thou ! who is this wondrous 
 woman ? 
 
 Ros. It is mine o v/n good mother, faith and truth ! 
 
 Bas. (smiling.') Give me thy hand ; I love her 
 dearly too. 
 Rivals we are not, tlio' our love is one. 
 
 Ros. And yet I might be jealous of her love. 
 For she bestows too much of it on thee, 
 Wlio hast no claim but to a nephew's share. 
 
 Bas. (going.) I'll meet thee some time hence. 
 I must to Court. 
 
 Ros. A private conference will not stay thee 
 long. 
 I'll wait thy coming near the palace gate. 
 
 Bas. 'Tis to the publick court I mean to go. 
 
 Ros. I thought you had determin'd otherwise. 
 
 Bas. Yes, but on farther thought it did appear 
 As tho' it would be failing in respect 
 At such a time — That look doth wrong me, 
 
 Rosinberg ! 
 For on my life, I had determin'd thus, 
 Ere I beheld — Before we enter'd Mantua. 
 
basil: a TIIAGEUY. 89 
 
 But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb. 
 And go with me thyself? 
 
 Mos. Yes, I will go. 
 
 (As they are going Ros. stops, and looks at Basil.) 
 
 Bas. Why dost thou stop ? 
 
 Ros. 'Tis for my wonted caution, 
 
 Whichfirst thougav'stme — Ishallne'er forgetit! 
 'Twas at Vienna, on a public day ; 
 Thou but a youth, 1 then a man full form'd ; 
 Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first cockade, 
 Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty thoughts. 
 Thou'rtforthe court,dear Rosinberg,quoththou! 
 " Now pray thee be not caught with some gay 
 
 dame. 
 To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself: 
 It is offensive in the publick eye. 
 And suits not with a man of thy endowments." 
 So said your serious lordship to me then. 
 And have on like occasions, often since. 
 In other terms repeated. — 
 But I must go to-day without my caution. 
 
 Bas. Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now : 
 Did I not say we'd talk of her no more? 
 
 Ros. Well, my good friend, God grant we 
 keep our word ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 end of the first act. 
 
 Note. — My first idea when I wrote this play, was to re- 
 present Basil as having seen Victoria for the first time in the 
 procession, that I might shew more perfectly the passion 
 
90 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 from its first beginning, and also its sudden power over the 
 mind ; but I was induced, from the criticism of one, whose 
 judgment I very much respect, to alter it, and represent 
 him as having formerly seen and loved her. The first 
 Review that took notice of this work objected to Basil's 
 having seen her before as a defect ; and, as we are all easily 
 determined to follow our own opinion, I have, upon after- 
 consideration, given the play in this edition [_third'\, as far 
 as this is concerned, exactly in its original state. Strong 
 internal evidence of this will be discovered by any one, who 
 will take the trouble of reading attentively the second 
 scenes of the first and second acts in the present and former 
 editions of this book. Had Basil seen and loved Victoria 
 before, his first speech, in which he describes her to Rosin- 
 berg as walking in the procession, would not be natural; 
 and there are, I think, other little things besides, which will 
 shew that the circumstance of his former meeting with her 
 is an interpolation. 
 
 The blame of this, however, I take entirely upon myself: 
 the Critick, whose opinion I have mentioned, judged of the 
 piece entirely as an unconnected play, and knew nothing of the 
 general plan of this work, which ought to have been commu- 
 nicated to him. Had it been, indeed, an unconnected play, 
 and had I put this additional circumstance to it with proper 
 judgment and skill, I am inclined to think it would have been 
 an improvement. 
 
basil: a tragedy. 91 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE L — A Room of State. The Duke of 
 Mantua, Basil, Rosinberg, mid a number of 
 Courtier's, Attendants, S^c. The Duke and Basil 
 appear talking together oti the front of the Stage, 
 
 Duke. But our opinions differ widely there ; 
 From the position of the rival armies, 
 I cannot think they'll join in battle soon. 
 
 Bas. I am indeed beholden to your highness, 
 But tho' unwillingly, we must depart. 
 The foes are near, the time is critical ; 
 A soldier's reputation is too fine. 
 To be expos'd e'en to the smallest clnud. 
 
 Duke. An untried soldier's is ; but yours, my 
 lord, 
 Nurs'd with the bloody show'rs of many a field, 
 And brightest sunshine of successful fortune, 
 A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown. 
 E'en Envy's sharpest blasts assail it not. 
 Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross ! 
 I feel too warm an interest in the cause 
 To stay your progress here a single hour. 
 Did 1 not know your soldiers are fatigu'd. 
 And two days' rest would much recruit their 
 strength. 
 
 Bas. Your highness will be pleas'dtopardon me j 
 My troops are not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest 
 Is all our needs require. 
 
 Duke. Ah ! hadst thou come 
 
92 BASIL : A T[{AGEDY. 
 
 Unfettered with the duties of command, 
 1 then had well retain'd thee for my guest, 
 With claims too strong, too sacred for denial. 
 Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was ; 
 Together many a rough campaign we serv'd ; 
 I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me 
 A son of his beneath my roof to see. 
 
 Bas. Were I indeed free master of myself. 
 Strong inclination would detain me here ; 
 No other tie were wanting. 
 These gracious tokens of your princely favour 
 I'll treasure with my best remembrances ; 
 For he who shews them for my father's sake. 
 Does something sacred in his kindness bear, 
 As tho' he shed a blessing on my head. 
 
 Duke. Well, bear my greetings to the brave 
 Piscaro, 
 And say how warmly I embrace the cause. 
 Your third day's march will to his presence bring 
 Your valiant troops : said you not so, my lord ? 
 
 Enter Victoria, the Countess o/Albini, 
 Isabella, and Ladies. 
 
 Bas. (who changes countenance upon seeing them. ) 
 Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well — 
 Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day. 
 JDuke. Nay, that I know. I ask'd you, noble 
 Count, 
 When you expect th' Imperial force to join. 
 Bas. When it shall please your grace — 1 crave 
 your pardon — 
 
basil: a tragedy. 9S 
 
 I somewhat have mistaken of your words. 
 
 Duke. You are not well ? your colour changes, 
 Count, 
 What is the matter? 
 
 Bas. A dizzy mist that swims before my sight—- 
 A ringing in my ears — 'tis strange enough — 
 'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already. 
 
 Duke. I'm glad it is. Look to your friend. 
 Count Rosinberg, 
 It may return again — (To Rosinberg, who stands 
 
 at a little distance^ looking earnestly at Basil. — 
 
 Duke leaves them, and joins Victoria'^ party.') 
 
 Ros. Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with thee! 
 Thy hand shakes too : (taking his hand.) 
 Would we were far from hence 1 
 
 Bas. I'm well again, thouneed'st not be afraid. 
 'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd 
 With some slight weakness from our weary march. 
 Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly — 
 I cannot bear thine eyes. 
 
 The Duke, with Victoria and her Ladies^ ad- 
 vance to the front of the Stage to Basil. 
 
 Duke. Victoria, welcome here the brave 
 Count Basil. 
 His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg. 
 May you, and these fair ladies so prevail, 
 Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain, 
 To make them grace my court another day. 
 I shall not be offended when I see 
 Your power surpasses mine. 
 
94" BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vict, Our feeble efforts will presumptuous seem 
 Attempting that in which your highness fails. 
 
 Duke. There's honour in th' attempt; success 
 
 attend ye. — (^Duke retires, and mixes with 
 
 the Courtiers at the bottom of the Stage.) 
 
 Vict. I fear we incommoded you, my Lord, 
 With the slow tedious length of our procession. 
 E*en as I pass*d, against my heart it went 
 To stop so long upon their weary way 
 Your tired troops. — 
 
 Bas. Ah ! Madam, all too short ! 
 
 ' Time never bears such moments on his wdng, 
 But when he flies too swiftly to be mark'd. 
 
 Vict. Ah ! surely then you make too good 
 amends 
 By marking now his after-progress well. 
 To-day must seem a weary length to him 
 Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow. 
 
 Ros. They must not linger who would quit 
 these walls ; 
 For if they do, a thousand masked foes; 
 Some under show of rich luxurious feasts, 
 Gay, sprightly pastime, and high-zested game; — 
 Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is, 
 The very worst and fellest of the crew. 
 In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames. 
 Do such a barrier form t' oppose their way 
 As few men may o'ercome. 
 
 Isab. From this last wicked foe should we infer 
 Yourself have suffer'd much ? 
 
 Alhin. No, Isabella, these are common words, 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 05 
 
 To please you with false notions of your pow'r. 
 So all men talk of ladies and of love. 
 
 Vict. 'Tis even so. If love a tyrant be, 
 How dare his humble chained votaries 
 To tell such rude and wicked tales of him ? 
 
 Bas. Because they most of lover's ills complain, 
 Who but affect it as a courtly grace, 
 Whilst he who feels is silent. 
 
 Ros. But there you wrong me ; I have felt it oft. 
 Oft has it made me sigh at ladies* feet. 
 Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl. 
 
 Albiii. In all its strange effects, most worthy 
 Rosinberg, 
 Has it e*er made thee in a corner sit. 
 Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue ? 
 
 Ros. No, *faith, it never has. 
 
 Albin. Ha, ha, ha, ha! then thou hast never lov'd. 
 
 Ros. Nay, but I have, and feltlove'sbondage too. 
 
 Vict. Fye! it is pedantry to call it bondage ! 
 Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars. 
 Deserve, methinks, that appellation more. 
 Is it not so, my Lord? — (To Basil.) 
 
 Bas. O surely, Madam! 
 
 That is not bondage which the soul enthrall'd 
 So gladly bears, and quits not but with anguish. 
 Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men. 
 These are the fetters that enchain the mind. 
 But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd. 
 
 Vict. No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'd. 
 To grant a lady's suit, unus'd to sue. 
 
 Ros. Your highness deals severely with us now, 
 
69 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And proves indeed our freedom is but small, 
 Who are constrained, when such a lady sues, 
 To say, it cannot be. 
 
 Vict. It cannot be ! Count Basil says not so. 
 
 (Ros. For that I am his friend, to save him pain 
 I take.th' ungracious office on myself. 
 
 Vict. How ill thy face is suited to thine office ! 
 
 Ros. (^smiling.) Would I could suit mine office 
 to my face. 
 If that would please your highness. 
 
 Vict. No, you are obstinate and perverse all. 
 And would not grant it if you had the pov/'r. 
 Albini, I'll retire ; come, Isabella. 
 
 Bas. (aside to Ros.) Ah, Rosinberg! thou 
 hast too far presum'd; 
 She is offended with us. 
 
 Ros. No, she is not — 
 
 What dost thou fear ? be firm, and let us go. 
 
 Vict, (^pointing to a door leading to other apart- 
 ments^ by 'which she is ready to go out.) 
 These are apartments strangers' love to see: 
 Some famous paintings do their walls adorn: 
 They lead you also to the palace court 
 As quickly as the way by which you came. 
 
 [Exit Vict, ledoutby Ros., andfolloxved by Isab. 
 
 Bas. (aside, looking after them.) O ! what a fool 
 am I! where fled my thoughts? 
 I might as well as he, now, by her side. 
 Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine? 
 As well as he, who cares not for it neither. 
 O but he does! that were impossible ! 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 9? 
 
 Albin. You stay behind, my lord. 
 Bas. Your pardon, Madam; honour meso far — 
 [Exeunt, handing out Albini. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Gallery hung with Pictures. Victoria disco- 
 vered in conversation with Rosinberg, Basil, 
 Albini, a7id Isabella. 
 
 Vict, (to Ros.) It is indeed a work of won- 
 drous art. 
 (To Isab.) You called Francisco here? 
 
 Isah. He comes even now. 
 
 Enter Attendant. 
 Vict, {to Ros.) He will conduct you to the 
 northern gall'ry ; 
 Its striking shades will call upon the eye, 
 To point its place there needs no other guide. 
 
 [Exeunt Ros. and Atte?idant. 
 (To Bas.) Loves not Count Basil too this 
 
 charming art? 
 It is in ancient painting much admired. 
 
 Bas. Ah ! do not banish me these few short 
 moments : 
 Too soon they will be gone ! for ever gone ! 
 
 Vict. If they are precious to you, say not so. 
 But add to them another precious day. 
 A Lady asks it. 
 
 Bas. Ah, Madam 1 ask the life-blood from 
 my heart ! 
 Ask all but what a soldier may not give. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vict. 'Tis ever thus when favours are denied; 
 All had been granted but the thing we beg ; 
 And still some great unlikely substitute, 
 Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good, 
 Is profFer'd in the room of one small boon. 
 So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord. 
 And may it long your noble heart enrich, 
 Until I wish it shed. (Bas. attempts to speak.) 
 
 Nay, frame no new excuse ; 
 I will not hear it. 
 
 (^She puts out her hand as if she would shut his 
 
 mouth, but at a distance from it ; Bas. runs 
 
 eagerly up to her, and presses it to his lips.) 
 
 Bas. Let this sweet hand indeed its threat 
 
 perform. 
 
 And make it heav*n to be for ever dumb ! 
 
 (Vict, looks stately and offended — Basil kneels.) 
 
 pardon me ! I know not what I do. 
 Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness ; 
 But only grant — 
 
 Vict. What should I grant to him. 
 
 Who has so oft my earnest suit denied ? 
 
 Bas. By heav'n 1*11 grant it ! I'll do any thing : 
 Say but thou art no more offended with me. 
 
 Vict, (raising him.) Well, Basil, this good pro- 
 mise is thy pardon. 
 
 1 will not wait your noble friend's return, 
 Since we shall meet again. — 
 
 You will perform your word ? 
 Bas. I will perform it. 
 Vict* Farewell, my lord. 
 
 [Exit, xvith her Ladies. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 Bas. (alojie.) " Farewell, my lord." O ! what 
 
 delightful sweetness ! 
 The musick of that voice dwells on the ear ! 
 *' Farewell, my lord !'* — Ay, and then look'd 
 
 she so — 
 The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, 
 Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul. 
 Well, there is yet one day of life before me, 
 And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it. 
 Tho* but a partial sunshine in my Jot, 
 I will converse with her, gaze on her still. 
 If all behind were pain and misery. 
 Pain ! Were it not the easing of all pain, 
 E*en in the dismal gloom of after years. 
 Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear, 
 Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep. 
 When heaven's blest sun is gone ? 
 Kind mercy ! how my heart within me beat 
 When she so sweetly pled the cause of love ! 
 Can she have lov'd ? why shrink I at the thought? 
 Why should she not? no, no, it cannot be — 
 No man on earth is worthy of her love. 
 Ah ! if she could, how blest a man were he ! 
 Where rove my giddy thoughts ? it must not be. 
 Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear ; 
 Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire. 
 And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. 
 Yes, she would mourn — such love might she 
 
 bestow ; 
 And poor of soul the man who would exchange it 
 For warmest love of the most loving dame ! 
 H 2 
 
100 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 \ 
 
 But here comes Rosinber^ — have I done well? 
 He will not say I have. \ 
 
 Enter Rosinberg. 
 
 Ros. Where is the princess ? 
 I*m sorry I returned not ere she went. 
 
 Bas. You'll see her still. 
 
 Ros. What, comes she forth again ? 
 
 Bas. She does to-morrow. 
 
 Ros. Thou hast yielded then. 
 
 Bas. Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go: 
 It was impossible I should not yield. 
 
 Ros. O Basil ! thou art weaker than a child. 
 
 Bas. Yes, yes, my friend, but *tis a noble 
 weakness. 
 A weakness which hath greater things achieved 
 Than all the firm determinM strength of reason. 
 By heav'n 1 I feel a new-born pow'r within me, 
 Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been 
 Before this fated day. 
 
 Ros. Fated indeed I but an ill-fated day. 
 That makes thee other than thy former self. 
 Yet let it work its will -, it cannot change thee 
 To ought I shall not love. 
 
 Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg! thou art a noble 
 heart ! 
 I would not be the man thou couldst not love 
 For an Imperial Crown. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 101 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Srnall Apartrnent in the Palace. 
 Enter Duke and Gauriecio. 
 
 Duke. The point is gain*d ; my daughter is 
 successful ; 
 And Basil is detained another day. 
 
 Gaur. But does the princess know your secret 
 aim ? 
 
 Duke. No, that had marr'd the whole ; she is 
 a woman ; 
 Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and narrow 
 To relish deep-laid schemes of policy. 
 Besides, so far unlike a child of mine. 
 She holds its subtle arts in high derision. 
 And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes. 
 Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find, 
 Experienced, crafty, close, and unrestrained 
 By silly superstitious child-learnt fears. 
 What might I not effect ? 
 
 Gaur. O any thing ! 
 
 The deep and piercing genius of your highness, 
 So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire. 
 
 Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost overprize 
 my parts ; 
 Yet mighty things might be — deep subtle wits. 
 In truth, are master spirits in the world. 
 The brave man's courage, and the student's lore. 
 Are but as tools his secret ends to work. 
 Who hath the skill to use them. 
 H 3 
 
102 BASIL : A TR/GEDY. 
 
 This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well ? 
 Much have we gain'd, but for a single day, 
 At such a time, to hold his troops detain' d ; 
 When, by that secret message of our spy, 
 The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action : 
 But might we more effect ? Know'st thou this 
 
 Basil? 
 Might he be tamper'd with ? 
 
 Gaur. That were most dang'rous. — 
 
 He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong 
 To such a high romantick pitch is wound, 
 And all so hot and fiery in his nature. 
 The slightest hint, as tho' you did suppose 
 Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it. 
 Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. 
 
 Duke. But int'rest, int'rest, man's all-ruling 
 pow'r. 
 Will tame the hottest spirit to your service, 
 And skilfully applied, mean service too ; 
 E'en as there is an element in nature 
 Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil 
 The lowest uses of domestick wants. 
 
 Gaur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a little 
 spark. 
 On hidden fuel feeds his growing strength. 
 Till o'er the lofty fabrick it aspires 
 And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd. 
 And in your base domestick service bound j 
 But who would madly in its wild career 
 The fire of heav'n arrest to boil his })ot ? 
 No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 Tho* you had all to give ambition strives tor. 
 We must beware of him. 
 
 Duke. His father was my friend, — I wish*d 
 to gain him : 
 But since fantastick fancies bind him thus, 
 The sin be on his head ; I stand acquitted, 
 And must deceive him, even to his ruin. 
 
 Gaur. I have prepar'd Bernardo for your service j 
 To-night he will depart for th* Austrian camp, 
 And should he find them on the eve of battle, 
 I*ve bid him wait the issue of the field. 
 If that our secret friends victorious prove. 
 With th* arrow's speed he will return again : 
 But should fair Fortune crown Piscaro*s arms. 
 Then shall your soothing message greet his ears ; 
 For till our friends some sound advantage gain, 
 Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. 
 
 Duke. Well hast thou schooled him. Didst 
 thou add withal. 
 That, 'tis my will he garnish well his speech, 
 With honied words of the most dear regard, 
 And friendly love I bear him ? This is needful ; 
 And lest my slowness in the promised aid 
 Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse 
 The many favours on my house bestow'd 
 By his Imperial master, as a theme 
 On which my gratitude delights to dwell. 
 
 Gaur, I have, an' please your highness. 
 
 Duke. Then 'tis well. 
 
 Gaur. But for the yielding up that little fort 
 There could be no suspicion. 
 H 4 
 
104< BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Duke. My Governor I have severely punish'd. 
 As a most daring traitor to my orders. 
 He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell ; 
 Why then should they suspect ? 
 
 Gaur. He must not live should Charles prove 
 victorious. 
 
 Duke. He's done me service; say not so, 
 Gauriecio. 
 
 Gaur. A traitor's name he will not calmly bear; 
 He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live. 
 
 Duke. Well, if it must — we'll talk of this again. 
 
 Gaur. But while with anxious care and crafty 
 wiles, 
 You would enlarge the limits of your state. 
 Your highness must beware lest inward broils 
 Bringdangernearathand: your northern subjects 
 E'en now are discontented and unquiet. 
 
 Duke. What, dare the ungrateful miscreants 
 thus return 
 The many favours of my princely grace ? 
 'Tis ever thus : indulgence spoils the base ; 
 liaising up pride, and lawless turbulence. 
 Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh 
 When morning shines upon it. — 
 Did I not lately with parental care. 
 When dire invaders their destruction threatened. 
 Provide them all with means of their defence ? 
 Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust, 
 A body of their vagrant youth select 
 To guard my sacred person ? till that day 
 An honour never yet allow'd their race. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 105 
 
 Did I not suffer them, upon their suit, 
 T' estabhsh manufactures in their towns? 
 And after all some chosen soldiers spare 
 To guard the blessings of interiour peace ? 
 Gaur. Nay, please your highness, they do 
 
 well allow, 
 That when your enemies, in fell revenge, 
 Your former inroads threatened to repay, 
 Their ancient arms you did to them restore. 
 With kind permission to defend themselves : 
 That so far have they felt your princely grace. 
 In drafting from their fields their goodliest youth 
 To be your servants : That you did vouchsafe. 
 On paying of a large and heavy fine, 
 Leave to apply the labour of their hands 
 As best might profit to the country's weal : 
 And to encourage well their infant trade. 
 Quartered your troops upon them. — Please 
 
 your grace. 
 All this they do most readily allow. 
 
 Duke. They do allow it then, ungrateful varlets! 
 What would they have ? what would they have, 
 
 Gauriecio ? 
 Gaur, Some mitigation of their grievous 
 
 burdens. 
 Which, like an iron weight around their necks. 
 Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth. 
 Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep. 
 Not stand erect, and view the sun of heav'n. 
 Dule. But they beyond their proper sphere 
 
 would rise ; 
 
106 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours. 
 Society of various parts is form'd ; 
 They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment, 
 And we the mantling top which crowns the 
 
 whole. 
 Calm, steady labour is their greatest bliss ; 
 To aim at higher things beseems them not. 
 To let them work in peace my care shall be ; 
 To slacken labour is to nourish pride. 
 Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools : 
 What may this mean, Gauriecio ? 
 
 Gaur, They were resolv'd to lay their cause 
 before you. 
 And would have found some other advocate 
 Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd. 
 
 Duke. Well, let them know, some more con- 
 venient season 
 I'll think of this, and do for them as much 
 As suits the honour of my princely state. 
 Their prince's honour should be ever dear 
 To worthy subjects as their precious lives. 
 
 Gaur. I fear, unless you give some special 
 promise. 
 They will be violent still — 
 
 Duke. Then do it, if the wretches are so bold ; 
 We can retract it when the times allow 5 
 'Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo, 
 And come to me again. [Exit. 
 
 Gaur. (solus.') O happy people ! whose indul- 
 gent lord 
 From ev'ry care, with which increasing wealth. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 107 
 
 With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move 
 
 The human breast, most graciously would free. 
 
 And kindly leave you nought to do but toil ! 
 
 This creature now, with all his reptile cunning, 
 
 Writhing and turning thro' a maze of wiles, 
 
 Believes his genius form*d to rule mankind ; 
 
 And calls his sordid wish for territory 
 
 That noblest passion of the soul, ambition. 
 
 Born had he been to follow some low trade, 
 
 A petty tradesman still he had remain'd, 
 
 And us'd the art with which he rules a state 
 
 To circumvent his brothers of the craft, 
 
 Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. 
 
 And yet he thinks, — ha, ha, ha, ha ! — he thinks 
 
 I am the tool and servant of his will. 
 
 Well, let it be ; thro' all the maze of trouble 
 
 His plots and base oppression must create, 
 
 I'll shape myself a way to higher things : 
 
 And who will say 'tis wrong ? 
 
 A sordid being, who expects no faith 
 
 But as self-interest binds ; who would not trust 
 
 The strongest ties of nature on the soul. 
 
 Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate ! 
 
 Were I like him, I would despise this dealing ; 
 
 But being as I am, born low in fortune, 
 
 Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, 
 
 I must not scorn the steps which lead to it : 
 
 And if they are not right, no saint am I ; 
 
 I follow nature's passion in my breast. 
 
 Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
108 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An Apartment in the Palace. Victoria and 
 Isabella are discovered playing at Chess ; the 
 Countess Albini sitting by them reading to 
 herself, 
 
 Vict. Away with it, I will not play again. 
 May men no more be foolish in my presence 
 If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat ! 
 
 Isah. To swear that I am false by such an oath. 
 Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture 
 Would bring your highness gain. 
 
 Vict. Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple maid ; 
 For in the very forfeit of this oath. 
 There's death to all the dearest pride of women. 
 May man no more be foolish in my presence ! 
 
 Isab. And does your grace, hail'd by applaud- 
 ing crowds, 
 In all the graceful eloquence address'd 
 Of most accomplished, noble, courtly youths, 
 Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards. 
 Those awkward proofs of admiration prize. 
 Which rustick swains their village fair ones pay ! 
 
 Vict. O, love will master all the power of ait I 
 Ay, all ! and she who never has beheld 
 The polish*d courtier, or the tuneful sage. 
 Before the glances of her conqu'ring eye 
 A very native simple swain become, 
 Has only vulgar charms. 
 To make the cunning artless, tame the rude. 
 Subdue the haughty, shake th* undaunted soul ; 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 109 
 
 Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth, 
 And lead him forth as a domestick cur, 
 These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty ! 
 Did nought butflatt'ring wordsandtuneful praise, 
 Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service, 
 Attend her presence, it were nothing worth : 
 I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks, 
 And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame. 
 Alb. (raising her headjrom her book J) And is, 
 indeed, a plain domestick dame. 
 Who fills the duties of an useful state, 
 A being of less dignity than she, 
 "Who vainly on her transient beauty builds 
 A little poor ideal tyranny ? 
 Isab. Ideal too ! 
 
 Alb. Yes, most unreal pow'r ; 
 
 For she who only finds her self-esteem 
 In others' admiration, begs an alms ; 
 Depends on others for her daily food, 
 And is the very servant of her slaves ; 
 Tho' oftentimes, in a fantastick hour, 
 O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert, 
 Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. 
 Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe : 
 Were human passions plac'd within the breast 
 But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ? 
 All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n. 
 Alb. Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. 
 Vict, Am I ungen'rous then ? 
 Alb. Yes, most ungen'rous ! 
 
 Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r, 
 
110 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Would give most unavailing pain to those 
 Whose love you ne'er can recompense again. 
 E*en now, to-day, O! was it not ungenerous 
 To fetter Basil with a foolish tie. 
 Against his will, perhaps against his duty ? 
 
 Vict. What, dost thou think against his will, 
 my friend ? 
 
 Alb. Full sure I am against his reason's will. 
 
 Vict. Ah! butindeedthoumustexcusemehere; 
 For duller than a shelled crab were she. 
 Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind. 
 And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd. 
 But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me? 
 Ah ! well I read those looks ! methinks they say, 
 " Your mother did not so." 
 
 Alb. Your highness reads them true, she did 
 not so. 
 If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts, 
 She kept it low, withheld its aliment ; 
 Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motley food, 
 From the fond tribute of a noble heart 
 To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child. 
 
 Vict. Nay, speak not thus, Albini, speak not thus 
 Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando. 
 He is the orphan of a hapless pair, 
 A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair. 
 Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad. 
 The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay. 
 And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep. 
 Besides, (^tolsab.) I am the guardian of his choice. 
 When first I saw him — tlost thou not remember ? 
 
^ASIL : A TRAGEDY. Ill 
 
 Isah. *Twas in the publick garden. 
 Vict. Even so ; 
 
 Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a roughsome quean, 
 111 suited to the lovely charge she bore. 
 How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me, 
 His dark eyes shining thro* forgotten tears, 
 Then stretch'dhis little arms andcalPd me mother ! 
 What could I do? I took the bantling home — 
 I could not tell the imp he had no mother. 
 Alb. Ah! there, my child, thou hast indeed 
 
 no blame. 
 Vict. Now this is kindly said: thanks, sweet 
 Albini! 
 Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt. 
 O! would that I were such as thou could' st love! 
 Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother ! 
 Alb. (^pressing her to her breast.) And do I not? 
 all-perfect as she was, 
 I know not that she went so near my heart 
 As thou with all thy faults, 
 
 Vict. And say'st thou so? would I had sooner 
 known ! 
 I had done any thing to give thee pleasure. 
 Alb. Then do so now, and put thy faults away. 
 Vict. No, say not faults ; the freaks of thought- 
 less youth. 
 Alb. Nay, very faultsthey must indeed becall'd. 
 Vict. O! say but foibles! youthful foibles only! 
 Alb. Faults, faults, real faults you must confess 
 
 they are. 
 Vict. In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong 
 To think so poorly of the one you love. 
 
112 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 ^/^. I must be gone: thouhasto'ercomemenow: 
 Another time I will not yield it so. [Exit. 
 
 Isab. The Countess is severe, she's too severe : 
 She once was young tho' now advanc'd in years. 
 
 Vict. No, I deserve it all : she is most worthy. 
 Unlike those faded beauties of the court. 
 But now the withered stems of former flowers 
 With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind 
 Procures to her the privilege of man. 
 Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays. 
 Some few years hence, if I should live so long, 
 I'd be Albini rather than myself. 
 
 Isab. Here comes your little fav'rite. 
 
 Vict. I am not in the humour for him now. 
 
 JUnter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and 
 taking hold of her goW7i, whilst she takes no notice 
 qfhim^ as he holds up his mouth to be kissed. 
 
 Isab. (to Mir.) Thou seest the princess can't 
 
 be troubled with thee. 
 Mir. O but she will ! I'll scramble up her robe, 
 As naughty boys do when they climb for apples. 
 Isab. Come here, sweet child ; I'll kiss thee in 
 
 her stead. 
 Mir. Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee. 
 Would I were tall ! O were I but so tall ! 
 Isab. And how tall wouldst thou be ? 
 Mir. Thou dost not know ? 
 
 Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. 
 
 Vict, (embracing him.) O ! I must bend to this, 
 thou little urchin. 
 
basil; a tragedy. 11^ 
 
 Who tauglit tliee all this wit, this childish wit ? 
 Who does Mirando love? {embraces him again.) 
 
 Mir. He loves Victoria. 
 
 Vict. And wherefore loves he her ? 
 
 Mir. Because she's pretty. 
 
 Isab. Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando? 
 No tale to earn a sugar-plumb withal ? 
 
 Mir. Ay, that I have : I know who loves her 
 grace. 
 
 Vict. Who is it pray ? thou shalt have comfits 
 for it. 
 
 Mir. (looking slyly at her.) It is — it is — it 
 is the Count of Maldo. 
 
 Vict. Away, thou little chit ! that tale is old, 
 And was not worth a sugar-plumb when new. 
 
 Mir. Well then, I know who loves her high- 
 ness well. 
 
 Vict. Who is it then 
 
 Isab. Who is it, naughty boy ? 
 
 Mir. It is the handsome marquis of Carlatzi. 
 
 Vict. No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still : 
 Twice have I paid thee for that tale already. 
 
 Mir. Well then, indeed — I know who loves 
 Victoria. 
 
 Vict. And who is he ? 
 
 Mir. It is Mirando*s self. 
 
 Vict. Thou little imp ! this story is not new. 
 But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go. 
 Go, run before us. Boy. 
 
 Mir. Nay, but I'll shewyou how Count Wolvar 
 look'd, 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 When he conducted Isabel from Court. 
 Vict. How did he look ? 
 Mir. Give me yourhand : he held his body thus; 
 (putti7ig himself in a ridiculous boxving posture.^ 
 And then he whisper'd softly ; then look'd so ; 
 (^ogling xvith his eyes affectedly.) 
 Then she look'd so, and smiPd to him again. 
 
 (throxving down his eyes affectedly.} 
 Isab. Thou art a little knave, and must be 
 whipp'd. 
 [Exeunt. Mirando, le a di?ig out Yiciona. affectedly. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. ' — A?! open Street, or Square. 
 
 Enter Rosinberg aiid Frederick, by opposite 
 
 sides of the Stage. 
 
 Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of war. 
 Another day to rest and pastime gives. 
 How is it now ? methinks thou art not pleased. 
 
 Ros. It matters little if I am or not. 
 
 i^rer/.Nowpray thee do confess thou art asham'd: 
 Thou, who art wisely wont to set at nought 
 The noble fire of individual courage. 
 And call calm prudence the superior virtue, 
 AVhat sayst thou now, my candid Rosinberg, 
 When thy great captain, in a time like this. 
 Denies his weary troops one day of rest 
 Before the exertions of approaching battle. 
 Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit ? 
 
basil: a tragedy. 116 
 
 Ros. Who told thee this ? it was no friendly 
 tale; 
 And no one else, besides a trusty friend, 
 Could know his motives. Then thou wrongst 
 
 me too ; 
 For I admire, as much as thou dost, Frederick, 
 The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour ; 
 But not like thee do I depreciate 
 That far superiour, yea that god-like talent. 
 Which doth direct that fire, because indeed 
 It is a talent nature has denied me. 
 
 Fred. Well, well, and greatly he may boast 
 his virtue. 
 Who risks perhaps th' Imperial army's fate. 
 To please a lady's freaks — 
 
 Ros. Go, go, thou*rtprejudic*d: 
 
 A passion which I do not chuse to name. 
 Has warp'd thy judgement. 
 
 Fred. No, by heav*n, thou wrongst me ! 
 1 do, with most enthusiastick warmth. 
 True valour love : wherever he is found, 
 I love the hero too ; but hate to see 
 The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd. 
 
 Ros. Then mayst thou now these gen'rous 
 feelings prove. 
 Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair. 
 In clustering locks his dark brown faceo'ershades; 
 Where now the scars of former sabre \Vounds, 
 In honorable companionship are seen 
 With the deep lines of age ; whose piercing eye 
 Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts 
 Its yet unquenched beams, as tho* in age 
 
 I 2 
 
116 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Its youthful fire had been again renewM, 
 To be the guardian of its darkened mate. 
 See with what vig'rous steps his upright form 
 He onward bears ; nay, e'en that vacant sleeve. 
 Which droops so sadly by his better side, 
 Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien. 
 This is the man, whose glorious acts in battle, 
 AVe heard to-day related o'er our wine. 
 I go to tell the Gen'ral he is come : 
 Enjoy the gen'rous feelings of thy breast, 
 And make an old man happy. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Geoffry. 
 
 Fred. Brave soldier, let me profit by the chance 
 That led me here ; I've heard of thy exploits. 
 
 Geqf. Ah ! then you have but heard an ancient 
 tale, 
 Which has been long forgotten. 
 
 Fred. But true it is, and should not be forgotten; 
 Tho' Gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame. 
 May dash it wdth neglect. 
 
 Geof. There are, perhaps, who may be sO' 
 ungen'rous. 
 
 Fred. Perhaps, sayst thou Pin very truth there are. 
 How art thou else rewarded with neglect. 
 Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps 
 Has been promoted ? it is ever thus. 
 Serv'd not Mardini in your company ? 
 He was, tho' honour'd with a valiant name, 
 To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier. 
 
 Geof. Yourpardon, Sir, we did esteem him much. 
 Although inferiour to his gallant friend. 
 
basil: a tragedy. II7 
 
 The brave Sebastian. 
 
 Fred. Tlie brave Sebastian ! 
 
 He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb. 
 And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword. 
 What, dost thou call him brave ? 
 Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk, 
 Like an old target, hack'dandrough with wounds, 
 Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he 
 Was with a smooth skin in his coffin laid, 
 Unblemish'd with a scar. 
 
 Geof. His duty call'd not to such desp'rate 
 service ; 
 For I have fought where few alive remain'd. 
 And none unscath*d ; where but a few remain'd. 
 Thus marrM and mangled; (shewing his xvowids.) 
 
 As belike you've seen, 
 0*summer nights, around th'evening lamp, 
 Some wretched moths, wingless, and half-con- 
 
 sum'd. 
 Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead. — 
 In Savoy, on a small, tho* desp'rate post. 
 Of full three hundred goodly chosen men. 
 But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we 
 For ever after. They are all dead now : 
 I'm old and lonely. — We were valiant hearts — 
 Fred'rick Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach 
 Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now ! 
 
 Fred. I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrateful 
 chiefs ! 
 Why wert thou not promoted ? 
 
 Geof. After that battle, where my happy fate 
 Had led me to fulfil a glorious part, 
 I 3 
 
118 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Chaf d with the gibing insults of a slave, 
 The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav*rite, 
 I rashly did affront ; our cautious prince, 
 With narrow policy dependant made, 
 Dar*d not, as I am told, promote me then, 
 And now he is asham'd, or has forgot it. 
 
 Fred, Fye, fye upon it ! let him be asham*d ! 
 Here is a trifle for thee — (offering him money.') 
 
 Geof. ' No, good sir, 
 
 I have enough to live as poor men do. 
 When I*m in want I'll thankfully receive. 
 Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave. 
 
 Fred. You're proud, old soldier. 
 
 Geof. No, I am not proud ; 
 
 For if I were, methinks I'd be morose, 
 And willing to depreciate other men. 
 
 Enter Rosinberg. 
 
 Ros. (clapping Geof. on the shoidder.) How 
 goes it with thee now, my good Field- 
 marshal ? 
 Geof. The better that I see your honour well, 
 And in the humour to be merry with me. 
 Ros. Faith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd 
 thee too : 
 AVhat is a good Field-marshal, but a man. 
 Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind. 
 Doth marshal others on in glory's way ? 
 Thou art not one by princely favour dubb'd. 
 But one of nature's making. 
 
 Geof. You shew, my lord, such pleasant 
 courtesy, 
 I know not how — 
 
basil: a tragedy. 119 
 
 Ros, But see, the General comes. 
 
 E7tter Basil. 
 
 Ros. (pointing to Geof.) Behold the worthy 
 
 vet'ran. 
 Bas. (talcing him by the hand.) Brave honour- 
 able man, your worth I know. 
 And greet it with a brother-soldier's love. 
 Geof. (taking awai/ his hand in confusio?i.) My 
 Gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour. 
 Bas. (taking his hand again.)^Oy valiant soldier, 
 
 I must have it so. 
 Geof. My humble state agrees not with such 
 
 honour. 
 Bas. Think not of it, thy state is not thyself. 
 Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee, 
 As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal. 
 Overlooks the giant : 'tis not worth a thought. 
 Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade, 
 Whose warlike feats child, maid, and matron know? 
 And oft, cross-elbow*d, o*er his nightly bowl. 
 The jolly toper to his comrade tells ? 
 Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door. 
 The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand 
 The many movements of the varied field. 
 In warlike terms to listening swains relates ; 
 Whose bosoms glowing at the wond'rous tale, 
 First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life ? 
 Shame seize me, if I would not rather be 
 The man thou art, than court-created chief. 
 Known only by the dates of his promotion ! 
 I 4 
 
120 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Geqf. Ah ! would I were, would I were young 
 again, 
 To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral I 
 Methinks what I have done were but a jest, 
 Ay, but a jest to what I now should do. 
 Were I again the man that I have been. 
 O! I could fight! 
 
 Bas. And wouldst thou fight for me ? 
 
 Geof. Ay, to the death ! 
 
 Bas, Then come, brave man, and be my 
 champion still : 
 The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts. 
 Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me. 
 
 [Exit "with Geoflry. 
 
 Fred, What does he mean to do ? 
 
 Ros. We'll know ere long. 
 
 Fred, Our gen'ral bears it with a careless face. 
 For one so wise. 
 
 Ros, A careless face ! on what? 
 
 Fred, Now feign not ignorance, we know it all. 
 News which have spread in whispers from the court. 
 Since last night's messenger arrived from Milan. 
 
 Ros, As I'm an honest man, I know it not ! 
 
 Fred. *Tis said the rival armies are so near, 
 A battle must immediately ensue. 
 
 Ros. It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not. 
 The Duke is of our side a sworn ally. 
 And had such messenger to Mantua come, 
 He would have been appriz'd upon the instant. 
 It cannot be, it is some idle tale. 
 Fred, So may it prove till we have join 'd them too. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 121 
 
 Then heaven grant they may be nearer still ! 
 For O ! my soul for war and danger pants, 
 As doth the noble lion for his prey. 
 My soul delights in battle. 
 
 Bos. Upon my simple word, I'd rather see 
 A score of friendly fellows shaking hands, 
 Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear? 
 
 Fred. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Ros. Hast thou no fear of death ? 
 
 Fred. Fear is a name for something in the mind, 
 But what, from inward sense, I cannot tell. 
 I could as little anxious march to battle. 
 As when a boy to childish games I ran. 
 
 Ros. Then as much virtue hast thou in thy 
 valour. 
 As when a child thou hadst in childish play. 
 The brave man is not he who feels no fear, 
 For that were stupid and irrational; 
 But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues, 
 And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. 
 As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight. 
 Away with them ! there is not in the crew 
 One vahant spirit. — Ha ! what sound is this ? 
 {shouting is heard without.') 
 
 Fred. The soldiers shout; I'll run and learn 
 the cause. 
 
 Ros. But tell me first, how dids't thou like the 
 vet'ran? 
 
 Fred. He is too proud; hewasdispleas'dwithme 
 Because I ofFer'd him a little sum. 
 
 Ros, Whatmoney! Olmostgcn'rousnoblespirit! 
 
122 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Noble rewarder of superiour worth ! 
 A halfpenny for Bellisarius ! 
 Buthark! they shout again — here comes Valtomer, 
 
 (^Shouting heard without.') 
 
 Eiiter Valtomer. 
 
 What does this shouting mean? 
 
 Valt, O ! I have seen a sight, a glorious sight ! 
 Thou would*st have smil'd to see it. 
 
 Ros. How smile ? methinks thine eyes are wet 
 with tears. 
 
 Valt.(passi?ig the back of his hands across his eyes. ) 
 
 'Faith so they are ; well, well, but I smird too. 
 You heard the shouting. 
 
 Ros. and Fred. Yes. 
 
 Valt. O had you seen it ! 
 
 Drawn out in goodly ranks, there stood our troops; 
 Here, in the graceful state of manly youth, 
 His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile. 
 Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave. 
 As tho' his soul, like an unsheathed sword, 
 Had thro* them gleam'd, our noble general stood; 
 And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words, 
 The vet'ran shewing, his brave deeds rehears'd ; 
 Who by his side stood like a storm-scath*d oak. 
 Beneath the shelter of some noble tree. 
 In the green honours of its youthful prime. 
 
 Ros. How look'd the veteran ? 
 
 Valt. I cannot tell thee ! 
 
 At first he bore it up with chearful looks, 
 As one who fain would wear his honours bravely. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 123 
 
 And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face : 
 But when Count Basd, in such moving speech, 
 Told o'er his actions past, and bad his troops 
 Great deeds to emulate, his countenance chang'd ; 
 High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been 
 By inward strong emotion half convuls'd j 
 Trembled his nether lip ; he shed some tears. 
 The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; 
 Then hastily he brush'd the drops away. 
 And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd 
 
 voice, 
 As tho' he would some grateful answer make ; 
 When back with double force the whelming tide 
 Of passion came ; high o'er his hoary head 
 His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect. 
 In Basil's bosom hid his aged face. 
 Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks 
 A cry arose ; still louder shouts resound. 
 I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat 
 As it would strangle me ; such as I felt, 
 I knew it well, some twenty years ago. 
 When my good father shed his blessing on me : 
 I hate to weep, and so I came away. 
 
 Ros. (giving Valt. his hand.) And there, take 
 thou my blessing for the tale. 
 Hark! how they shout again ! 'tis nearer now. 
 This way they march. 
 
 [^Martial Mustek heard. Enter Soldiers marching 
 in order, bearing Geoffry in triumph on their 
 shoidders. After them enter Basil : the whole 
 preceded by a band qfmiisick' They cross over 
 the stage, are joined by Ros. 8^c, and Exeunt. 
 
V24f BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Gauriecio and a Gentleman, talking as 
 they enter. 
 
 Gaiir. So slight a tie as this we cannot trust, 
 One day her influence may detain him here. 
 But love a feeble agent may be found 
 With the ambitious. 
 
 Gent. And so you think this boyish odd conceit 
 Of bearing home in triumph with his troops 
 That aged soldier, will your purpose serve ? 
 
 Gaur. Yes, I will make it serve; for tho* my 
 prince 
 Is little scrupulous of right and wrong, 
 I have possessed his mind, as tho* it were 
 A flagrant insult on his princely state 
 To honour thus the man he has neglected. 
 Which makes him relish, with a keener taste, 
 My purposed scheme. Come, let us fall to work. 
 With all their warm heroick feelings rous*d. 
 We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny. 
 Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite. 
 Thanks to his childish love, which has so well 
 Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools. 
 
 Gent, Ah! but those feelings he has wak*d 
 within them. 
 Are generous feelings, and endear himself. 
 
 Gaur. It matters not, tho* gen'rous in their 
 nature, 
 They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end j 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 1^5 
 
 And he who teaches men to think, tlio' nobly, 
 Doth raise within their minds a busy judge 
 To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth. 
 And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil 
 Affects all difficult and desp'rate service. 
 To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke ; 
 Having unto the Emperour pledg'd his word, 
 To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : 
 For which intent he fills their simple minds 
 With idle tales of glory and renown ; 
 Using their warm attachment to himself 
 For most unworthy ends. 
 This is the busy time, go forth, my friend ; 
 Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups 
 Around their evening cups. There, spare no cost. 
 
 (gives him a purse.') 
 Observe their words, see how the poison takes, 
 And then return again. 
 
 Gent. I will, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Suite of grand Apartments y mth their wide doors 
 thrown open, lighted up with lamps ^ andjilled 
 with company in masks. Enter several Masks, 
 and pass through the jirst apartment to the 
 other rooms. Then enter Basil in the disguise 
 of a wounded soldier. 
 
 Bas. {alone.) Now am I in the region of delight! 
 Within the blessed compass of these walls 
 She is ; the gay light of those blazing lamps 
 
126 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor 
 Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now, perhaps. 
 Amidst that motley rout she plays her part : 
 There will I go ; she cannot be conceal'd j 
 For but the flowing of her graceful robe 
 Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, 
 Tho' in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds, — 
 
 {looking at his habit.) 
 Which half conceal, and half declare my state. 
 Beneath your kind disguise, O ! let me prosper, 
 And boldly take the privilege ye give : 
 Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side j 
 Thus, near her face my listening ear incline. 
 And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek j 
 Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too ! 
 May it not be e'en so ? by heav'n it shall ! 
 This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after 
 Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes ; 
 Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept ; 
 And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye. 
 And gazing wistfully, this night recall. 
 With all its past delights. — But yonder moves 
 A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe ; 
 It moves not like the rest — it must be she ! 
 {Goes hastily into another apartment^ and mixes 
 with the Masks.) 
 
 Eiiter RosiNBERG, fantastically dressed y ivith a 
 'willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets and 
 torn letters fluttering round his neck, pursued 
 by a group of Masks from one of the inner 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 127 
 
 apartments^ xvho hoot at him, and push him 
 about as he enters. 
 
 1 st Mask. Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave, 
 And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love. 
 Ros, Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me : 
 I am a right true servant of the fair ; 
 And as this woeful chaplet on my brow. 
 And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote, 
 A poor abandoned lover, out of place j 
 With any lover ready to engage, 
 Who will enlist me in her loving service. 
 Of a convenient kind my talents are. 
 And to all various humours may be shap'd. 
 9.d Mask. What canst thou do ? 
 3d Mask. Ay, what besides offending ? 
 
 Ros. O ! I can sigh so deeply, look so sadj 
 Pule out a piteous tale on bended knee ; 
 Groan like a ghost ; so very wretched be, 
 ■ As would delight a tender lady's heart 
 But to behold. 
 
 1st Mask. Poo, poo, insipid fool ! 
 Ros. But should my lady brisker mettle own, 
 And tire of all those gentle dear delights, 
 Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent — 
 As whether such a fair-one (some dear friend) 
 Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd,or the soft maid, 
 With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick. 
 Have greatest cause of delicate distress : 
 Or whether—- 
 
 \st Mask. Go, thou art too bad indeed ! 
 (aside,) How could he know I quarrell'd witli 
 the Count ? 
 
1^8 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 2rf Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's 
 fame ? 
 
 Ros. Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree 
 I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound: 
 Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks ; 
 Odes to her eye ; 'faith, Qv*ry wart and mole 
 That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet ! 
 I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge, 
 Rather than please her not. 
 
 Sd Mask. But for her sake what dangers wilt 
 thou brave ? 
 
 Ros. In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers less 
 Than other service, and were something loth 
 To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance j 
 But if she'll wisely manage this alone. 
 As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself. 
 And meet me fairly on the open plain, 
 I will engage her tender steps to aid 
 In all annoyance of rude briar or stone, 
 Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so, 
 Which that fair lady should unaided pass. 
 Ye gracious pow'rs, forbid ! I will defend 
 Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buzz — 
 
 4>th Mask. Such paltry service suits thee best 
 indeed. 
 What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from 
 her? 
 
 Ros. Yes, to recall me soon, subhme Sultana ! 
 For I can stand the burst of female passion, 
 Each change of humour and affected storm. 
 Be scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent, 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 129 
 
 Recall'd, caress*d, chid, and disgracM again ; 
 And say what maid of spirit would forego 
 The bliss of one to exercise it thus ! 
 O ! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb ! 
 
 4/A Mask, (beating him.') Well, bear it then, 
 thou hast deserved it well. 
 
 Ros. Zounds, lady ! do not give such heavy 
 blows ; 
 Tm not your husband, as belike you guess. 
 
 5th Mash. Come, lover, I enlist thee for my 
 swain ; 
 Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows, 
 Nor thus assume my rights. 
 
 Ros. Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress 
 prove ? 
 
 5th Mask. Such as thou wouldst, such as thy 
 genius suits ; 
 For since of universal scope it is. 
 All women*s humour shalt thou find in me. 
 1*11 gently soothe thee with such winning smiles — 
 To nothing sink thee with a scornful frown : 
 Teaze thee with peevish and affected freaks ; 
 Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate ; 
 But still between the whiles Til careful be, 
 In feigned admiration of thy parts. 
 Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, 
 To bind thy giddy soul with flatt*ry*s charm ; 
 For well thou know'st that flatt'ry ever is 
 The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning 
 Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps 
 So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 BASIL : A TBAGEI>Y. 
 
 Thou canst not leave, tho' violent in extreme^ 
 And most vexatious in her teazing moods, 
 Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul, 
 Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd. 
 Thou hadst a pretty leg. 
 
 Ros. Marry, thou hast the better of me there. 
 
 5th Mask. And more ; I'll pledge to thee ray 
 honest word, 
 That when your noble swainship shall bestow 
 More faithful homage on the simple maid, 
 Who loves you with sincerity and truth. 
 Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant. 
 Who mocking leads you like a trammelled ass. 
 My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside. 
 And such a one become. 
 
 Ros. Well spoke, brave lady, I will follow thee. 
 (Jblloxvs her to the corner of the stage.) 
 Now on my life these ears of mine I'd give, 
 To have but one look of that little face. 
 Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court 
 To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask : 
 I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes, 
 A short and saucy nose : now pri'thee do. 
 
 {iirmiasJcing.') 
 
 Alb. (unmasking.') Well, hast thou guess'd me 
 right ? 
 
 Ro^. (bowing low.) Wild freedom, chang'd to 
 most profound respect. 
 Doth make an awkward booby of me now. 
 
 Jib. I've join'd your frolic with a good intent. 
 For much I wish'd to gain your private ear. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 131 
 
 The time is precious, and I must be short. 
 
 Ros. Oil me your slightest word more pow'r 
 will have, 
 Most honour'd lady, than a conn*d. oration. 
 Thou art the only one of all thy sex, 
 Who wearst thy years with such a winning grace. 
 Thou art the more admir'd the more thou fad*st. 
 
 Alb. I thank your lordship for these courteous 
 words f 
 But to my purpose — You are Basil's friend : 
 Be friendly to him then, and warn him well 
 This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay ; 
 For if he does, there's mischief waits him here 
 May prove the bane of all his future days. 
 Remember this, I must no longer stay. 
 God bless your friend and you : I love you both. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bos. (alone.) What may this warning mean ? 
 I had my fears. 
 There's something hatching which I know not of. 
 I've lost all spirit for this masking now. 
 
 (^throwing away his papers and his willoivs.) 
 Away ye scraps! I have no need of you. 
 I would I knew what garment Basil wears : 
 I watch'd him, yet he did escape my sight ; 
 But I must search again and find him out. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Basil much agitated^ 'with his mask in his 
 hand. 
 
 Bas. In vain I've sought her, follow'd ev'ry 
 form 
 
 K 2 
 
132 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Where aught appeared of dignity or grace : 
 I've listened to the tone of ev'ry voice ; 
 I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask, 
 My flutt'ring heart rous'd Hke a startled hare, 
 With the imagined rustling of her robes. 
 At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night. 
 How art thou spent! where are thy promis'd joys? 
 How much of thee is gone ? O spiteful fate ! 
 And yet within the compass of these walls 
 Somewhere she irs, altho' to me she is not. 
 Some other eye doth gaze upon her form. 
 Some other ear doth listen to her voice ; 
 Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss 
 My spiteful stars deny. 
 
 Disturber of my soul ! what veil conceals thee ? 
 What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour ? 
 O ! heav'ns and earth where art thou ! 
 
 Enter a Mask in the dress of a female conjurer. 
 
 Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant 
 soldier : 
 Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so ? 
 Bas. Away, away ! I cannot fool with thee. 
 Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease 
 thy smart. 
 Where is thy wound? is't here? 
 
 (j)Ointing to the bandage on his arm.) 
 
 Bas. Poo, Poo, begone ! 
 
 Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my 
 
 heart — 
 'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 Mask. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound 
 Which some ungrateful fair-one hath inflicted, 
 And I may conjure something for thy good. 
 Bas. Ah ! if thou could' st ! what, must I fool 
 
 with thee ? 
 Mask. Thou must awhile, and be examin*dtoo. 
 What kind of woman did the wicked deed ? 
 
 Bas. I cannot tell thee. In her presence still 
 My mind in such a wild delight hath been, 
 I could not pause to picture out her beauty. 
 Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair. 
 Mask. Art thou a soldier, and no weapon 
 bear'st 
 To send her wound for wound ? 
 
 Bas. Alas! she shoots from such a hopeless 
 height. 
 No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far ; 
 None but a prince may dare. 
 
 Mask. But if thou hast no hope, thou hast n© 
 
 love.- 
 Bas. I love, and yet in truth I had no hope. 
 But that she might at least with some good will. 
 Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindness. 
 Within her dear remembrance give me place. 
 This was my all of hope, but it is flown : 
 For she regards me not : despises, scorns me : 
 Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart. 
 That would have bled for her. 
 {Mask, discovering her self to Z>e Victoria, by speak- 
 ing in her true voice.') O ! no, she does not. 
 [Exit hasldy in conjusion. 
 
134 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Bas. (^stands for a moment rivetted to the spot, 
 then holds up both his hands in an ecstacy.') 
 It is herself! it is her blessed self! 
 O ! what a fool am I, that had no power 
 To follow her, and urge th' advantage on. 
 Begone, unmanly fears ! I must be bold. 
 
 [Exit after her. 
 
 A Dance of Masks. 
 Enter Duke and Gauriecio, unmasked. 
 Duke. This revelry, methinks, goes gaily on. 
 The hour is late, and yet your friend returns not. 
 Gaur. He will return ere long — nay, there he 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Gentleman. 
 
 Duke. Does all go well? (goifig close up to him.) 
 
 Gent. All as your grace could wish. 
 
 For now the poison works, and the stung soldiers 
 
 Hage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled eyes, 
 
 Swear vengeance on the chief who would betray 
 
 them. 
 That Frederick too, the discontented man 
 Of whom your highness was so lately told. 
 Swallows the bait, and does his part most bravely, 
 Gauriecio counsel'd well to keep him blind. 
 Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul ! 
 He is so fiery he had spurn*d us else. 
 And ruin*d all the plot. 
 
 Duke. Speak softly, friend — Fll hear it all in 
 private. 
 A gay and careless face we now assume. 
 
 19 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 135 
 
 Duke, Gaur, and Gent, retire into the inner 
 apartmentj appearing to laugh and talk gaily to the 
 different Masks as they pass them. 
 
 Re-enter Yictori a Jbllowed by Basil. 
 
 Vict. Forbear, my Lord, these words offend 
 
 mine ear. 
 Bas. Yet let me but this once, this once offend, 
 Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me ; 
 And if my words against all prudence sin, 
 . O ! hear them, as the good of heart do list 
 To the wild ravings of a soul distraught. 
 
 Vict. If I indeed should listen to thy words. 
 They must not talk of love. 
 
 Bas. To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee 
 speak. 
 To claim the soft attention of thine eye, 
 I'd be content to talk of any thing, 
 If it were possible to be with thee, 
 And think of ought but love. 
 
 Vict. I fear, my lord, you have too much pre- 
 sum'd 
 On those unguarded words, which were in truth 
 Utter'd at unawares, with little heed. 
 And urge their meaning far beyond the right. 
 Bas. I thought, indeed, that they were kindly 
 meant, 
 As tho' thy gentle breast did kindly feel 
 Some secret pity for my hopeless pain. 
 And wouldnot pierce with scorn, ungen'rous scorn, 
 A heart so deeply stricken. 
 
 K 4 
 
136 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vict. So far thoii'st read it well. 
 
 Bas. Ha! have I well? 
 
 Thou dost not hate me then ? 
 
 Vict. My father comes; 
 
 He were displeas'd if he should see thee thus. 
 
 Bas. Thou dost not hate me then ? 
 
 Vict. Away! he*ll be displeas'd — Icannotsay — 
 
 Bas. Well, let him come : it is thyself I fear; 
 For did destruction thunder o*er my head, 
 By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir 
 Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul ! 
 Thou dost not hate me ? 
 
 Vict. Nay, nay, let go thy hold — 1 cannot hate 
 thee. (breaks Jrom him and exit.') 
 
 Bas. (alo7ie.) Thou canst not hate me ! no, 
 thou canst not hate me ! 
 For I love thee so well, so passing well, 
 With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly. 
 That it were sinful not to pay me back 
 Some small, some kind return. 
 
 Enter Mirando, dressed like Cupid. 
 
 Mir. Bless thee, brave soldier. 
 
 Bas. What say'st thou, pretty child! what 
 playful fair 
 Has deck'd thee out in this fantastick guise ? 
 
 Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the princess. 
 
 Bas. Thou art her fav'rite then? 
 
 Mir. They say I am: 
 
 And now, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, soldier, 
 1 think in very truth she loves me well. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 137 
 
 Such merry little songs she teaches me — 
 Sly riddles too, and when I*m laid to rest, 
 Oft times on tip-toe near my couch she steals, 
 And lifts the covering so, to look upon me. 
 And oftentimes I feign as tho' 1 slept ; 
 For then her warm lips to my cheeks she lays. 
 And pats me softly with her fair white hands ; 
 And then I laugh, and thro' mine eye-lids peep, 
 And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat j 
 And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Bas. What does she even so, thou happiest 
 child ? 
 And have those rosy cheeks been press*d so 
 
 dearly ? 
 Delicious urchin ! I will kiss thee too. 
 
 (^takes him eagerly up in his aims, and 
 kisses him.) 
 Mir, No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough, 
 So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so. 
 Bas. Sweet boy, where is thy chamber ? by 
 
 Victoria's ? 
 Mir. Hard by her own. 
 Bas. Then will I come beneath thy window 
 soon J 
 And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing, 
 To lull thee to thy rest. 
 
 Mir. O no, thou must not ! 'tis a frightful 
 place : 
 It is the church-yard of the neighb'ring dome. 
 The princess loves it for the lofty trees, 
 
138 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 AVliose spreading branches shade her chamber 
 
 walls : 
 80 do not 1 ; for, when *tis dark o'nights, 
 Gobhns howl there, and ghosts rise thro' the 
 
 ground. 
 I hear them many a time when I'm a bed, 
 And hide beneath the cloaths my cow'ring head. 
 O ! is it not a frightful thing, my lord, 
 To sleep alone i' the dark ? 
 
 Bas. Poor harmless child ! thy prate is won- 
 
 derous sweet. 
 
 Enter a group of Masks. 
 \st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little 
 truant boy ? 
 Come play thy part with us. 
 
 Masks place Mirando in the middle, and range 
 themselves round him. 
 
 SONG. — A GLEE. 
 
 Child, with many a childish wile. 
 Timid look, and blushing smile, 
 Downy wings to steal thy way, 
 Gilded bow, and quiver gay, 
 Who in thy simple mien would trace 
 The tyrant of the human race ? 
 
 Who is he whose flinty heart 
 
 Hath not felt the flying dart ? 
 
 Who is he that from the wound 
 
 Hath not pain and pleasure found ? 
 
 Who is he that hath not shed 
 
 Curse and blessing on thy head ? ; 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 139 
 
 Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, 
 A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! 
 Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane. 
 More hapless still are they who never felt thy pain ! 
 
 All the Masks dance round Cupid. Then enter a 
 hand of satyrs, xvho frighten away Love and 
 his votaries : and conclude the scene, dancimr 
 in a grotesque manner. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Street before Basil's Lodging. 
 Enter Rosinberg and two Officers. 
 
 Ros. (^speaking as he enters.^ Unless we find 
 
 him quickly, all is lost. 
 1st Off. His very guards, methinks, have left 
 their post 
 To join the mutiny. 
 
 Ros. (knocking very loud.) Holla ! who's there 
 within ? confound this door ! 
 It will not ope. O for a giant's strength ! 
 Holla, holla, within ! will no one hear ? 
 
 Enter a Porter from the house. 
 
 Ros. (eagerly to the Porter.) Is he returned ? 
 is he returned ? not yet ! 
 Thy face doth tell me so. 
 
 Port. Not yet, my Lord. 
 
 Ros. Then let him ne'er return ! — 
 
140 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have tiieir way ! 
 ril search for him no more. 
 
 Port. He hath been absent all the night, my 
 lord. 
 
 Ros. I know he hath. 
 
 9,nd Off. And yet *tis possible 
 
 He may have entered by the secret door ; 
 And now, perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd 
 Is dead to ev'ry sound. 
 
 (Kos. tvithout speakings rushes into the 
 house, and the rest follow him.) 
 
 Enter Basil. 
 
 Bas. The blue air of the morning pinches 
 
 keenly. 
 Beneath her window all the chilly night, 
 I felt it not. Ah ! night has been my day ; 
 And the pale lamp which from her chamber 
 
 gleam'd. 
 Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent 
 Than the red burning east. 
 
 Be-etiter RosInberq, S^c. Jrorn the house. 
 
 Ros. Himself! himself ! he's here! he's here! 
 O Basil ! 
 What fiend at such a time could lead thee forth ? 
 Bas. What is the matter which disturbs you 
 
 thus? 
 Ros. Matter that would a wiser man disturb. 
 Treason's abroad : thy men have mutinied. 
 
 Bas. It is not so ; thy wits have mutinied, 
 And left their sober station in thy brain. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 141 
 
 l.st Off Indeed, my Lord, he speaks in sober 
 earnest. 
 Some secret enemies have been employed 
 To fill your troops with strange imaginations : 
 As tho* their gen'ral would, for selfish gain. 
 Their gen'rous valour urge to des'prate deeds. 
 All to a man, assembled on the ramparts. 
 Now threaten vengeance, and refuse to march. 
 
 Bas. What ! think they vilely of me ? threaten 
 too! 
 O ! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought ! 
 Didst thou attempt (^o Ros.) to reason with their 
 
 folly ? 
 Folly it is ; baseness it cannot be. 
 
 Ros. Yes, truly, I did reason with a storm. 
 
 And bid it cease to raoe. 
 
 Their eyes look fire on him who questions tiiem : 
 The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath 
 Sound dreadful thro' the dark extended ranks. 
 Like subterraneous grumblings of an earthquake. 
 
 The vengeful hurricane 
 
 Does not with such fantastick writhino-s toss 
 The woods' green boughs, as does convulsive 
 
 rage 
 Their forms with frantick gestures agitate. 
 Around the chief of hell such legions throng'd. 
 To bring back curse and discord on creation. 
 
 Bas. Nay they are men, altho' impassion'd 
 ones, 
 ril go to them — 
 
 Ros. And we will stand by thee. 
 
142 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 My sword is thine against ten thousand strong. 
 If it should come to this. 
 
 Bas, No, never, never! 
 
 There is no mean : I with my soldiers must 
 Or their commander or their victim prove. 
 But are my officers all staunch and faithful ? 
 
 Ros. All but that devil, Frederick 
 
 He, disappointed, left his former corps. 
 Where he, in truth, had been too long neglected. 
 Thinking he should all on the sudden rise, 
 Brom Basil's well-known love of valiant men ; 
 And now, because it still must be deferr'd. 
 He thinks you seek from envy to depress him. 
 And burns to be revengM. 
 
 Bas. Well, well This grieves me too 
 
 But let us go. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The ramparts of the Toxvn. The Soldiers are 
 discovered, drawn up i?i a disorderly/ manner^ 
 hollaing and speaking big, and clashing their 
 arms tumultuously, 
 1st Sol. No, comrade, no, hell gape andswallow 
 
 me. 
 If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders ! 
 ^d Sol. Huzza ! brave comrades ! Who says 
 
 otherwise ? 
 3d Sol. Noone, huzza! confound all treach*rous 
 
 leaders ! 
 
 {The soldiers huzza and clash llieirarms.) 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 1 1<3 
 
 5th Sol. Heav'n dart its fiery light'ning on his 
 head ! 
 We're men, we are not cattle to be slaughter'd ! 
 Qd Sol. They who do long to caper high in air, 
 Into a thousand bloody fragments blown, 
 May follow our brave gen'ral. 
 
 1st Sol. Curse his name ! 
 
 I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves have 
 crack' d ! 
 2d Sol. We will command ourselves: for Milan, 
 
 comrades. 
 5th Sol. Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, 
 huzza ! 
 
 (All the Soldiers cast up theh^ caps 
 ifi the air-y and huzza.) 
 
 2r/ Sol. Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits 
 
 us there, 
 And easy service: keep good hearts, my soldiers! 
 The gen'ral comes, good hearts ! no flinching, 
 
 boys ! 
 Look bold and fiercely : we're the masters now. 
 
 {They all clash their arms and^put ofi a fierce 
 threatening aspect to receive iueir General y who 
 now enterSyfi)llowed by Rosinberg and Officers. 
 Basil walks close along the front ranks of tJie 
 Soldiers, looking at them very steadfastly ; then 
 retires a few paces hack, and raisitig his arm, 
 speaks with a veryfidl loud voice.') 
 
 Bas. How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus. 
 Assembled here, uiisummon'd by command? 
 
144 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (A confused murmur is heard amongst 
 
 the Soldiers ; some of them call out') 
 
 But we command ourselves ; we wait no orders. 
 
 (^A coif used noise of voices is heard^ and 
 
 one louder than the rest calls out) 
 
 Must we be butcher'd, for that we are brave ! 
 
 (^A loud clamour and clashing of arms, 
 then several voices call out) 
 Damn hidden treachery ! we defy thy orders. 
 
 Frederick shall lead us now 
 
 (Other voices call out) 
 We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march. 
 Bas. (waving his hand, and beckoning them to 
 be silent, speaks with a very loud voice.) 
 Yes, march where'er ye list : for Milan march. 
 Sol. Hear him, hear him \ 
 
 (The murmur ceases — a short pause.) 
 Bas. Yes, march where'er ye list: for Milan 
 march : 
 But as banditti, not as soldiers go ; 
 For on this spot of earth I will disband. 
 And take from you the rank and name of soldiers. 
 
 (A great^^lamour amongst the ranks 
 
 some call out) 
 What wear we arms for ^ 
 
 (Otiiers call out) 
 No, he dares not do it. 
 (One voice very loud) 
 Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil ! 
 (Several (f the soldiers hraitdish their arms, and 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 145 
 
 threalen to attach him; the officers gather roilnd 
 
 Basil, and draw their swords to defend him.) 
 
 Bus. Put up your swords, my friends, it must 
 
 not be. 
 
 I thank your zeal, I'll deal with tliem alone. 
 
 Eos. What, shall we calmly stand and see 
 
 thee butchered ? 
 Bas. (very earnestly.) Put up, my friends, (0^^- 
 cers still persist.) What! are you rebels too? 
 Will no one here his gen'ral's voice obey ? 
 I do command you to put up your swords. 
 Retire, and at a distance wait th' event. 
 Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine. 
 (Officers retire^ very unwillingly. Basil waives 
 them off with his hand till they are all gone, 
 then walks up to the front of his soldiers, xvho 
 still hold themselves iii a threatening posture.) 
 Soldiers ! we've fought together in the field. 
 And bravely fought: i' the face of horrid death, 
 At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on ; 
 Nor do I know the man of all your bands. 
 That ever poorly from the trial shrunk. 
 Or yielded to the foe contended space. 
 Am I the meanest then of all my troops, 
 That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats. 
 To move me now ? Put up those paltry weapons ; 
 They edgeless are to him who fears them not : 
 Rocks have been shaken from the solid base ; 
 But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind? 
 Put up your swords, or dare the threaten'd deed — 
 Obey, or murder me. 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (A confused murmur — some of the soldiers 
 call out) 
 March us to Milan, and we will obey thee. 
 
 {Others call out) 
 Ay, march iis there, and be our leader still. 
 Bas. Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command 
 
 ye; 
 And where I do command, there shall you go. 
 But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate 
 E*en half a furlong from your destin'd way. 
 To seize the golden booty of the east. 
 Think not to gain, or temporise with me ; 
 For should 1 this day's mutiny survive. 
 Much as I've lov'dyou, soldiers, ye shall find me 
 Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance ; 
 Tremendous, cruel, military vengeance. 
 There is no mean — a desp'rate game ye play ; 
 Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me. 
 Do as ye will, but do it manfully. 
 He is a coward who doth threaten me : 
 The man who slays me, but an angry -soldier ; 
 Acting in passion, like the frantic son, 
 Who struck his sire and wept. 
 
 {Soldiers call out) It was thyself who sought to 
 murder us. 
 
 1st Sol. You have unto the Emp'rour pledg'd 
 your faith, 
 To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service : 
 You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood. 
 And we have shed our dearest blood for you. 
 
 Bas. Hear me, my soldiers 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 14-7 
 
 ^d Sol. No, hear him not, be means to cozen 
 you. 
 
 Fred'rick will do you right 
 
 (^Endeavouring to stir np a noise a)id confusion 
 amongst them.) 
 Bas. What cursed fiend art thou, cast out 
 from hell 
 To spirit up rebellion ? damned villain ! 
 
 (Seizes upon 9,d soldier ^ drags him out from the 
 
 ranks, and wrests his arms from him ; then takes 
 
 a pistol from his side, and holds it to his head.) 
 
 Stand there, damn*d meddling villain, and be 
 
 silent J 
 For if thou utt*rest but a single word, 
 A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech, 
 I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth, 
 To bellow with the damn'd ! 
 
 (TJie soldiers keep a dead silence — ajter apausCy 
 Basil resumes, his speech.) 
 
 Listen to me, my soldiers. 
 
 You say that I am to the Emp'rour pledg*d 
 To lead you foremost in all desperate service, 
 For now you call it not the path of glory ; 
 And if in this 1 have offended you, 
 I do indeed repent me of the crime. 
 But new from battles, where my native troops 
 So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart, 
 And boasted of you, boasted foolishly. 
 I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield 
 To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms. 
 I swore the meanest man of all my troops 
 
 L 2 
 
148 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Would flever shrink before an armed host, 
 
 If honour bade him stand. My royal master 
 
 SmiFd at the ardour of my heedless words, 
 
 And promis'd when occasion claim' d our arms. 
 
 To put them to the proof. 
 
 But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love, 
 
 Safe and ignoble service — be it so — 
 
 Forgive me that I did mistake you thus. 
 
 But do not earn with savage mutiny. 
 
 Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march. 
 
 To join the royal army near its walls ; 
 
 And there v/ith blushing forehead will I plead, 
 
 That ye are men with warlike service worn, 
 
 Requiring ease and rest. Some other chief. 
 
 Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sound. 
 
 Will in your rearward station head you then. 
 
 And so, my friends, we'll part. As for myself, 
 
 A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks, 
 
 I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fellows. 
 
 Than be the leader of a sordid band. 
 
 (A great murmur rises amongst the ranks, 
 soldiers call out) 
 
 We will not part! no, no, we will not part! 
 
 (All call out together) 
 We will not part ! be thou our gen'ral still. 
 
 Bas. How can I be your gen'ral ? ye obey 
 As caprice moves you; I must be obey'd 
 As honest men against themselves perform 
 A sacred oath. — 
 
 Some other chief will more indulgent prove — 
 You're weary grown — I've been too hard a master* 
 17 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. HQ 
 
 Soldiers. Thyself, and only thee, will we obey. 
 Bas. But if you follow me, yourselves ye pledge 
 Unto no easy service : — hardships, toils. 
 The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight 
 Will be your portion ; and when all is o*er, 
 Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be 
 Home to return again, a poor brave soldier. 
 How say ye now ? I spread no tempting lure — 
 A better fate than this, I promise none. 
 Soldiers. We'll follow Basil. 
 Bas. Wliat token of obedience will ye give ? 
 
 {A deep pause. ^ 
 Soldiers, lay down your arms ! 
 
 {They all lay down their arms.) 
 If any here are weary of the service, 
 Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall have 
 A free discharge, and passport to their homes ; 
 And from my scanty fortune I'll make good 
 Thewell-earn'd pay their royal master owes them. 
 Let those who follow me their arms resume, 
 
 {they all resu7ne their arms.) 
 (Basil, holding up his hands.) High heaven be 
 
 prais'd ! 
 I had been griev'd to part with you, my soldiers. 
 Here is a letter from my gracious master. 
 With offers of preferment in the north, 
 Most high preferment, which I did refuse, 
 For that 1 would not leave my gallant troops. 
 
 (Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst 
 them.) 
 
 L 3 
 
150 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (A great commotmi amongst the soldiers ; 
 many of them quit their ranks ^ and 
 crowd about him, calling out) 
 Our gallant general ! 
 
 (Others call out) 
 We'll spend our hearts* blood for thee, noble Basil ! 
 Bas. And so you thought me false ? this bites 
 to the quick ! 
 My soldiers thought me false ! 
 
 {They all quit their ranks, and crowd 
 eagerly around him. Basil, xvaving 
 them off with his hands.) 
 Away, away, you have disgusted me ! 
 
 {Soldiers retire to their ranks.) 
 'Tis well — retire, and hold yourselves prepar'd 
 To march upon command ; nor meet again 
 Till you are summon*d by the beat of drum. 
 Some secret enemy has tampered with you. 
 For yet I will not think that in these ranks 
 There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart. 
 {The soldiers begin to march off, and musick 
 strikes up.) 
 Bas. {holding ujj his hand.) Cease, cease, tri.- 
 umphant sounds. 
 Which our brave fathers, men without reproach, 
 Rais'd in the hour of triumph ! but this hour 
 To us no glory brings — 
 Then silent be your march — ere that again 
 Our steps to glorious strains like these shall move, 
 A day of battle o'er our heads must pass, 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 151 
 
 And blood be shed to wash out this day's stain. 
 [Exeunt soldiers^ silent and dejected. 
 
 Enter Frederick, who starts back on seeing Basil 
 alone. 
 
 Bas. Advance, Ueiitenant; wherefore shrink 
 ye back ? 
 IVe ever seen you bear your head erect, 
 And front your man, though arm'd with frown- 
 ing death. 
 Have you done aught the valiant should not do ? 
 I fear you have. (Fred, looks corifused.) 
 
 With secret art, and false insinuation. 
 The simple untaught soldiers to seduce . 
 From their sworn duty, might become the base, 
 Become the coward well ; but O ! what villain 
 Had the dark pow'r t' engage thy valiant worth 
 In such a work as this ! 
 
 Fred. Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise 
 On a neglected pitiful subsaltern ? 
 It were a libel on his royal master ; 
 A foul reproach upon fair fortune cast, 
 To call me valiant : 
 
 And surely he has been too much their debtor 
 To mean them this rebuke. 
 
 Bas. Is nature then so sparing of her gifts, 
 That it is wonderful when they are found 
 Where fortune smiles not ? 
 Thou art by nature brave, and so am I ; 
 But in those distant ranks moves there not one 
 
 {Pointing off the stage.) 
 L 4 
 
152 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Of high ennobled soul, by nature form'cf 
 
 A hero and commander, who will yet 
 
 In his untrophied grave forgotten lie 
 
 With meaner men ? I dare be sworn there does- 
 
 Fred. What need of words ? I crave of thee 
 no favour. 
 I have offended 'gainst arm*d law, offended. 
 And shrink not from my doom. 
 
 Bas. I know thee well, I know thou fear'st 
 not death ; 
 On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast 
 Thou wilt engage him ; and, if thy proud soul, 
 In sullen obstinacy, scorns all grace, 
 E*en be it so. But if with manly gratitude 
 Thou truly canst receive a brave man's pardon, 
 Thou hast it freely. 
 
 Fred. Itmustnotbe. I've been thine enemy— 
 I've been unjust to thee — 
 
 Bas. I know thou hast ; 
 
 But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all. 
 
 Fred. My lord ! my gen'ral ! Oh, I cannot 
 speak ! 
 I cannot live and be the wretch I am ! 
 
 Bas. But thou canst live and be an honest man 
 Fromerrourturn'd, — canst live and be my friend. 
 (^Raising Fred. Jrom the ground.^ 
 Forbear, forbear ! see where our friends advance : 
 They must not think thee suing for a pardon ; 
 That would disgrace us both. Yet, ere they come, 
 Tell me, if that thou mayst with honour tell. 
 What did seduce thee from thy loyal faith ? 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 153 
 
 Fred. No cunning traitor did my faith attempt, 
 For then I had withstood him : but of late, 
 I know not how — • a bad and restless spirit 
 Has worked within my breast, and made me 
 
 wretched. 
 I've lent mine ear to foolish idle tales. 
 Of very zealous, tho' but recent friends. 
 
 Bas. Softly, our friends approach — of this 
 again. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in Basil's Lodgings, Enter Basil 
 and RosiNBERG. 
 
 Ros. Thank heaven I am now alone with thee. 
 Last night I sought thee with an anxious mind, 
 And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. — 
 There's treason in this most deceitful court, 
 Against thee plotting, and this morning's tumult 
 Hath been its damn'd effect. 
 
 Bas. Nay, nay, my friend ! 
 
 The nature of man's mind too well thou know'st. 
 To judge as vulgar hoodwink'd statesmen do ; 
 Who, ever with their own poor wiles misled. 
 Believe each popular tumult or commotion 
 Must be the work of deep-laid policy. 
 Poor, mean, mechanick souls, who little know 
 A few short words of energetick force. 
 Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd, 
 The animating sight of something noble, 
 Some fond trait of the mem'ry finely wak'd. 
 
154 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 A sound, a simple song without design. 
 In I'evolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions, 
 All grand events, have oft effected more 
 Than deepest cunning of their paltry art. 
 Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine. 
 Who loves not fighting, hath harangued his mates, 
 For they in truth some hardships have endur*d : 
 Wherefore in this should we suspect the court ? 
 
 Ros. Ah ! there is something, friend, in Man- 
 tua's court, 
 Will make the blackest trait of barefaced treason 
 Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye. 
 
 Bas. Nay, *tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg, 
 Which makes thy mind so jealous and distrustful. 
 Why should the duke be false ? 
 
 jRo5. Because he is a double, crafty prince — 
 Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly, 
 That he in some dark treaty is engag'd, 
 Ev'n with our master's enemy the Frank. 
 
 Bas. And so thou think'st — 
 
 Ros. Nay, hear me to the end. 
 
 Last night that good and honourable dame. 
 Noble Albini, with most friendly art. 
 From the gay clam'rous throng my steps tviguil'd. 
 Unmask' d before me, and with earnest grace 
 Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend. 
 To tell him hidden danger waits him here. 
 And warn him earnestly this court to leave. 
 She said she lov'd thee much ; and hadst thou seen 
 How anxiously she urg'd — 
 
 Bas. {liiierrupting him.) By heav'n and earth. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. , 155 
 
 There is a ray of light breaks thro' thy tale, 
 
 And I could leap like madmen in their freaks, 
 
 So blessed is the gleam ! Ah ! no, no, no ! 
 
 It cannot be ! alas, it cannot be ! 
 
 Yet didst thou say she urg*d it earnestly ? 
 
 She is a woman, who avoids all share 
 
 In secret politicks ; one only charge 
 
 Her interest claims, Victoria's guardian friend — 
 
 And she would have me hence — it must be so. 
 
 O ! would it were ! how saidst thou, gentle Ro- 
 
 sinberg ? 
 She urg'd it earnestly — how did she urge it ? 
 Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus, 
 But tell me all her words. What said she else H 
 
 Ros. O Basil ! I could laugh to see thy folly, 
 But that thy weakness doth provoke me so. 
 Most admirable, brave, determin'd man ! 
 So well, so lately tried, what art thou now ? 
 A vain deceitful thought transports thee thus. 
 Thinkst thou — 
 
 Bas. I will not tell thee what I think. 
 
 Ros. But I can guess it well, and it deceives 
 thee. 
 Leave this detested place, this fatal court. 
 Where dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin, 
 A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. 
 The time is critical. How wilt tliou ieel 
 When they shall tell these tidings in thine eai-. 
 That brave Piscaro, and his royal troops. 
 Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought. 
 Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'ring here ? 
 
156 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Bas. Thou dost disturb thy brain with fancied 
 fears. 
 Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice, 
 That one short day should be of all this moment ; 
 And yet this one short day will be to me 
 Worth years of other time. 
 
 Ros. Nay, rather say, 
 
 A day to darken all thy days beside. 
 Confound the fatal beauty of that woman, 
 Which hath bewitch'd thee so ! 
 
 Bas. 'Tis most ungen'rous 
 
 To push me thus with rough unsparing hand. 
 Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. 
 It is unfriendly. 
 
 Ros. God knows my heart ! I would not give 
 thee pain ; 
 But it disturbs me, Basil, vexes me, 
 To see thee so enthralled by a woman. 
 If she is fair, others are fair as she. 
 Some other face will like emotions raise. 
 When thou canst better play a lover's part : 
 But for the present, — fye upon it, Basil ! 
 
 Bas. What, is it possible thou hast beheld, 
 Hast tarried by her too, her converse shar'd, 
 Yet talk*st as tho' she were a common fair one. 
 Such as a man may fancy and forget ? 
 Thou art not, sure, so dull and brutish grown : 
 It is not so ; thou dost belie thy thoughts. 
 And vainly try'st to gain me with the cheat. 
 
 Ros. So thinks each lover of the maid he loves. 
 Yet, in their lives, some many maidens love. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 1.57 
 
 Fye on it ! leave this town, and be a soldier ! 
 
 Bas. Have done, have done ! why dost thou 
 bate me thus? 
 Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosinberg. 
 What claim hast thou my actions to controul ? 
 I'll Mantua leave when it is fit I should. 
 
 Ros. Then, *faith ! 'tis fitting thou should st 
 leave it now ; 
 Ay, on the instant. Is't not desperation 
 To stay, and hazard ruin on thy fame, 
 Tho' yet uncheer'd e'en by tliat tempting lure. 
 No lover breathes without? thou hast no hope. 
 
 JBas, What, dost thou mean — curse on the 
 paltry thought ! 
 That I should count and bargain with my heart, 
 Upon the chances of unstinted favour, 
 As little souls their base-bred fancies feed? 
 
 ! were I conscious that within her breast 
 
 1 held some portion of her dear regard, 
 Tho' pent for life within a prison's walls. 
 Where thro' my grate I yet might sometimes see 
 E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun ; 
 Tho'plac'd by fate where some obstructingbound. 
 Some deep impassable between us roU'd, 
 
 And I might yet from some high tow 'ring cliff 
 Perceive her distant mansion from afar. 
 Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn ; 
 Nay, tho' within the circle of the moon 
 Some spell did fix her, never to return. 
 And I might wander in the hours of night, 
 And upward turn my ever-gazing eye, 
 
158 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Fondly to mark upon its varied disk 
 Some little spot that might her dwelling be ; 
 My fond, my fixed heart would still adore, 
 And own no other love. Away, away ! 
 How canst thou say to one who loves like me, 
 Thou hast no hope ? 
 
 Ros. But with such hope, my friend, liow 
 stand thy fears ? 
 Are they so well refin'd ? how wilt thou bear 
 Ere long to hear, that some high-favour*d prince 
 Has won her heart, her hand, has married her ? 
 Tho* now unshackled, will it always be ? 
 
 Bas. By heav'n thou dost contrive but to tor- 
 ment. 
 And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st ! 
 There is malignity in what thou say'st. 
 
 Ros. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, 
 That fain would save thee from the yawning gulfi 
 To which blind passion guides thy heedless steps. 
 
 Bas. Go, rather save thyself 
 From the weak passion which hasseiz*d thy breast, 
 T* assume authority with sage-like brow. 
 And shape my actions by thine own caprice. 
 I can direct myself. 
 
 Ros. Yes, do thyself. 
 
 And let no artful woman do it for thee. 
 
 Bas. I scorn thy thought : it is beneatli my 
 scorn : 
 It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman ! 
 O 1 she has all the loveliness of heav'n. 
 And all its goodness too ! 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 159 
 
 Ros. 1 mean not to impute dishonest arts, 
 I mean not to impute — 
 
 Bas. No, 'faith, thou canst not. 
 
 Ros. What, can I not ? their arts all women have. 
 But now of this no morej it moves thee greatly. 
 Yet once again, as a most loving friend, 
 Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour, 
 A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame, 
 What noble spirits love, and well I know 
 Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place. 
 And give thy soldiers orders for the march. 
 
 Bas. Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me 
 thus. 
 Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too. 
 
 Ros What, hath this passion in so short a space, 
 O! curses on it! so far chang'd thee, Basil, 
 That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth, 
 The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend ? 
 Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids 
 Would not have mov'dme thus to treat my friend, 
 My best, mine earliest friend ! 
 
 S«5.Saykinsman rather; chance haslink'd us so: 
 Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far; 
 No act of choice did e'er unite our souls. 
 Men most unlike we are ; our thoughts unlike ; 
 Mybreast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! have I then so long, so dearly lov*d 
 thee ; 
 So often, with an elder brother's care. 
 Thy childish rambles tended, shar'd thy sports j 
 JFill'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task ; 
 
160 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of 
 
 strength ; 
 With boastful pride thine early rise beheld 
 In glory's paths, contented then to fill 
 A second place, so I might serve with thee ; 
 And say*st thou now, I am no friend of thine? 
 Well, be it so ; 1 am thy kinsman then, 
 And by that title will I save thy name 
 From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will. 
 I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick : 
 And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign j 
 For thy unkindness makes me so indeed. 
 It will be said that Basil tarried here 
 To save his friend, for so they'll call me still; 
 Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name 
 For such a kindly deed. — 
 
 (Basil walks up and down iiigreat agitation, 
 then stops, covers his face with his hands, 
 and seems to be overcome. Rosinberg 
 looks at him earnestly.') 
 
 O blessed heav'n, he weeps ! 
 (Runs up to him, and catches him in his arms.) 
 O Basil! I have been too hard upon thee. 
 And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus ? 
 Bas. {in a convulsed broken voice.) I will re- 
 nounce — I'll leave — 
 Ros, What says my Basil ? 
 
 Bas. I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat 
 of bliss — 
 This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain — 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. I6l 
 
 Cast off at once my little span of joy — 
 
 Be wretched — miserable — whatever thou wilt — 
 
 Dost thou forgive me ? 
 
 Ros. O my friend ! my friend ! 
 
 1 love thee now more than I ever lov*d thee. 
 I must be cruel to thee to be kind : 
 Each pang I see thee feel strikes thro* my heart j 
 Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit, 
 And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are 
 
 ready — 
 Let us depart, nor loose another hour. 
 
 (Basil shrinks Jrom his arms^ and looks at 
 him with somewhat of an upbraidingy at 
 the same time a sorroxiful look.') 
 Bas. Nay, put me not to death upon the 
 mstant j 
 I'll see her once again, and then depart. 
 
 Ros. Seeher but once again, and thou art ruin*d! 
 It must not be — if thou regardest me — 
 
 Bas. Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no 
 
 mercy ! 
 Ros. Ah ! thou wilt bless me all thine after-life 
 For what now seems to thee so merciless. 
 
 Bas. {sitting down very dejectedly .) Mine after- 
 life ! what is mine after-life ? 
 My day is clos'd ! the gloom of night is come ! 
 A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate. 
 I've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes ; 
 I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice ; 
 I've seen her fair form from my sight depart : 
 My doom is clos'd ! 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ros. (hanging over him "with pity and affection.') 
 Alas ! my friend ! 
 
 Bas. In all her lovely grace she disappeared, 
 Ah ! little thought I never to return ! 
 
 Ros, Why so desponding ? think of warlike 
 glory. 
 The fields of fair renown are still before thee j 
 Who would not burn such noble fame to earn ? 
 
 Bas. What now are arms, or fair renown to me? 
 Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while. 
 Welcome rough war; with all thy scenes of 
 
 blood ; {starting from his seat.) 
 
 Thy roaring thunders, and thy clashing steel ! 
 Welcome once more ! what have I now to do 
 But play the brave man o'er again, and die ? 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Isah. (to Bas.) My princess bids me greet 
 
 you, noble Count : — 
 Bas. (starting.) What dost thou say ? 
 Ros. Damn this untimely message ! 
 
 Isah. The princess bids me greet you, noble 
 
 Count : 
 In the cool grove, hard by the southern gate. 
 She with her train — 
 
 Bas. What, she indeed, herself? 
 
 Isah. Herself, my lord, and she requests io 
 
 see you. 
 Bas. Thank heav'n for this ! I will be there 
 
 anon. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. l6S 
 
 Ros. (taking hold of him.') Stay, stay, and do 
 
 not be a madman still. 
 Bas. Let go thy hold : what, must I be a brute, 
 A very brute to please thee ? no, by heav*n ! 
 
 {Breaks from him, and Exit.) 
 Ros. (striking his forehead.) All lost again! 
 ill fortune light upon her ! 
 
 {Turning eagerly to Isab.) 
 And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here 
 To make appointments, honourable dame ? 
 
 Isab. Not so, my lord, you must not call it so : 
 The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria 
 Would have your noble gen'ral of her train. 
 Ros. Confound these women, and their artful 
 snares. 
 Since men will be such fools ! 
 Isah. Yes, grumble at our empire as you will ■ — 
 Ros. What, boast ye of it? empire do ye call 
 it? 
 It is your shame ! a short-liv'd tyranny. 
 That ends at last in hatred and contempt. 
 
 Isab. Nay, but some women do so wisely rule, 
 Their subjects never from the yoke escape. 
 
 Ros, Some women do, but they are rarely found. 
 There is not one in all your paltry court 
 Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task. 
 'Faith! of you all, not one, but brave Albini, 
 And she disdains it — Good be with you, lady! 
 
 {Going.) 
 Isab. O would I could but touch that stub- 
 born heart. 
 
 M 2 
 
164« BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Summer Apartment in the Country, the wifidoxvs 
 of which look to a forest. Enter Victoria in 
 a hunting dress, followed by Albini and Isa- 
 bella, speaking as they enter. 
 Vict, {to Alb.) And so you will not share our 
 
 sport to-day ? 
 Alb. My days of frolick should ere this be 
 o'er. 
 
 But thou, my charge, hast kept me youthful still. 
 
 I should most gladly go ; but, since the dawn, 
 
 A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart ; 
 
 I cannot hunt to-day. 
 
 Vict. I'll stay at home and nurse thee, dear 
 
 Albini. 
 Alb. No, no, thou shalt not stay. 
 Vict. Nay, but I will. 
 
 1 cannot follow to the cheerful horn, 
 
 Whilst thou art sick at home. 
 
 Alb. Not very sick. 
 
 Ratlier than thou shouldst stay, my gentle child, 
 
 ['11 mount my horse, and go e'en as I am. 
 Vict. Nay, then I'll go, and soon return again. 
 
 Meanwhile, do thou be careful of thyself. 
 Isab. Hark, hark I the shrill horns call us to 
 the field : 
 
 Your highness hears it? (musick without.) 
 
 Vict. Yes, my Isabella 5 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. l65 
 
 I hear it, and mcthinks e*en at the sound 
 I vault already on my leathern seat, 
 And feel the iiery steed beneath me shake 
 His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth ; 
 Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace, 
 The low salute of gallant lords return, 
 Who, waiting round with eager watchful eye, 
 And reined steeds, tlie happy moments seize. 
 O! didst thou never hear, my Isabell, 
 How nobly Basil in the field becomes 
 His fiery courser's back ? 
 
 Isah. They say most gracefully. 
 
 Alb. What, is the valiant Count not yet de- 
 parted ? 
 
 Vict. You -would not have our gallant Basil go 
 When I have bid him stay? not so, Albini. 
 
 Alb. Fye ! reigns that spirit still so strongly in 
 thee. 
 Which vainly covets all men's admiration, 
 And is to others cause of cruel pain ? 
 1 would thou couldst subdue it ! 
 
 Vict. My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be 
 severe : 
 For now in truth I love not admiration 
 As I was wont to do ; in truth I do not. 
 But yet, this once my woman's heart excuse, 
 For there is something strange in this man's love, 
 I never met before, and I must prove it. 
 
 A lb. Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself, 
 And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell. 
 
 M S 
 
166 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Vict. O no ! that will not be ! 'twill peace re- 
 store : 
 For after this, all folly of the kind 
 Will quite insipid and disgusting seem ; 
 And so 1 shall become a prudent maid, 
 And passing wise at last, (miisick heard without.^ 
 Hark, hark ! again ! 
 All good be with you! I'll return ere long. 
 
 [Exeunt Victoria and Isabella. 
 Alb, (sola.) Ay, go, and every blessing with 
 thee go, 
 My most tormenting and most pleasing charge ! 
 Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou, 
 Which lightly rises on the morning air. 
 And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze. 
 For ever varying, and for ever graceful. 
 Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind ; 
 Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise ; 
 Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent : 
 And yet these adverse qualities in thee, 
 No dissonance, nor striking contrast make j 
 For still thy good and amiable gifts 
 The sober dignity of virtue wear not. 
 And such a 'witching mien thy follies shew, 
 They make a very idiot of reproof. 
 And smile it to disgrace. — 
 What shall I do with thee? — It grieves me much 
 To hear Count Basil is not yet departed. 
 When from the chace he comes, I'll watch his 
 
 steps. 
 And speak to him myself.— 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. iQj 
 
 O! I could bate her for that poor ambition, 
 
 Which silly adoration only claims, 
 
 But that I well remember, in my youth 
 
 I felt the like — 1 did not feel it long : 
 
 I tore it soon, indignant from my breast. 
 
 As that which did degrade a noble mind. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A very beautiful grove in the forest. Musick and 
 horns heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs 
 appear passing over the stage, at a great dis^ 
 tance- Enter Victoria and Basil, as if just 
 alighted frorr^ their horses. 
 
 Vict, {speaking to attendants ivithout.) Lead on 
 our horses to the further grove, 
 And wait us there. — 
 
 ( To Bas.) This spot so pleasing and so fragrant is, 
 'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear 
 Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance. 
 And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon : 
 I love to tread upon it. 
 
 Bas. O! I would quit the chariot of a god 
 For such delightful footing! 
 
 Vict. I love this spot. 
 
 Bas. It is a spot where one would live and die. 
 Vict. See, thro' the twisted boughs of those 
 high elms. 
 The sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play, 
 And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 
 Is it not beautiful ? 
 
 M 4 
 
l6S BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Bas. 'Tis passing beautiful. 
 
 To see the sun-beams on the foHage play, 
 
 {In a soft voice.) 
 And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 
 
 Vict. And here I've stood full often, and ad- 
 mir'd 
 The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool, 
 Of yon green willow, whose fair sweepy boughs 
 So kiss their image on the glassy plain, 
 And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 
 
 Bas. And I too love to see its drooping boughs 
 So kiss their image on the glassy plain, 
 And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 
 
 Vict. My lord, it is uncivil in you thus 
 My very words with mock'ry to repeat. 
 
 Bas. Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat. 
 I meant it not ; but when I hear thee speak, 
 So sweetly dw^ells thy voice upon mine ear, 
 My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone ; 
 As mothers on their lisping infants gaze. 
 And catch their broken words. I pri'thee, pardon ! 
 . Vict. But we must leave this grove : the birds 
 
 fly low : 
 This should forebode a storm, and yet overhead 
 The sky, bespread with little downy clouds 
 Of purest wliite, would seem to promise peace. 
 How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds ! 
 
 Bas. Of a most dazzling brightness !' 
 
 Vict. Nay, nay, a veil that tempers heaven's 
 brightness, 
 Of softest, purest white. 
 
basil: a tragedy. lOf) 
 
 Bas. As tlio' an angel, in his upward flight, 
 Had left his mantle floating in mid air. 
 
 Vict. Still most unlike a garment j small and 
 sever'd : 
 
 (Turning roundy and perceiving that he is 
 gazing at her J) 
 But thou regard'st them not. 
 
 Bas. Ah ! what should I regard, where should 
 I gaze ? 
 For in that far-shot glance, so keenly wak*d. 
 That sweetly rising smile of admiration. 
 Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is, 
 Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene. 
 
 Vict. Remember you have promised, gentle 
 Count, 
 No more to vex me with such foolish words. 
 Bas. Ah ! w^herefore should my tongue alone 
 be mute ? 
 When every look and every motion tell, 
 So plainly tell, and will not be forbid. 
 That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee ! 
 
 (Victoria looks haiLghty and displeased J) 
 Ah ! pardon me, I know not what 1 say. 
 Ah ! frown not thus ! 1 cannot see thee frown. 
 I'll do whatever thou wilt, I will be silent : 
 But, O ! a reined tongue, and bursting heart. 
 Are hard at once to bear. — Wilt thou forgive me? 
 Vict. We'll think no more of it j we'll quit 
 this spot ; 
 I do repent me that I led thee here. 
 But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend ; 
 
170 BASIL : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm ; 
 We iov'd tliis grove, and now that he is absent, 
 I love to haunt it still. (Basil starts.) 
 
 Bas» His fav'rite path — a friend — here arm 
 in arm — 
 
 (Clasping his hands, and raising them to 
 his head.) 
 Then there is such a one ! 
 
 (^Drooping his head, and looking distract- 
 edit/ upon the ground.) 
 
 I dream'd not of it. 
 Vict, (^pretending 7iot to see hi?n.) That little 
 lane, with woodbine all o'ergrown, . 
 He Iov'd so well ! — it is a fragrant path, 
 Is it not, Count ? 
 Bas. It is a gloomy one ! 
 
 Vict. I have, my lord, been wont to think it 
 
 cheerful. 
 Bas. I thought your highness meant to leave 
 
 this spot ? 
 Vict. I do, and by this lane we'll take our way ; 
 For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace, 
 And listened to the woodlark's evening song. 
 
 Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go ? 
 Accursed be the ground on which he trod ! 
 
 Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown. 
 That he would curse my brother to my face ? 
 Bas. Your brother ! gracious God ! is it your 
 brother ? 
 That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke. 
 Is he indeed your brother ? 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. I7I 
 
 Vict. He is, indeed, my lord. 
 
 Bas. Then heaven bless him ! all good angels 
 bless him ! 
 I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him ! 
 
 I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! 
 
 ( Walks up and down with a hurried step, 
 tossing about his arms in transport ; then 
 stops shorty and runs up to Victoria.) 
 Is it indeed your brother ? 
 
 Vict. It is indeed: what thoughts disturbed 
 
 thee so ? 
 Bas. I will not tell thee j foolish thoughts 
 they were. 
 Heav'n bless your brother ! 
 
 Vict. Ay, heav'n bless him too ! 
 
 I have but him ; would I had two brave brothers, 
 And thou wert one of them ! 
 
 Bas. I would fly from thee to earth's utmost 
 bounds, 
 Were I thy brother — 
 And yet methinks, I would I had a sister . 
 Vict. And wherefore would ye so ? 
 Bas. To place her near thee, 
 
 The soft companion of thy hours to prove. 
 And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. 
 Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares. 
 Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war. 
 Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore, 
 Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek, 
 And kindly say, How does it fare with Basil ? 
 
172 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Vict. No more of this — indeed there must no 
 
 more. 
 A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee. 
 But see where Isabella this way comes : 
 1 had a wish to speak with her alone ; 
 Attend us here, for soon will we return, 
 And then take horse again. [Exit. 
 
 Bas. (looking after her for some time.) See with 
 
 what graceful steps she moves along, 
 Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely ! 
 If but the wind her ruffled garment raise, 
 It twists it into some light pretty fold, 
 Which adds new grace. Or should some small 
 
 mishap. 
 Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange. 
 What would in others strange or awkward seem. 
 But lends to her some wild bewitching charm. 
 See, yonder does she raise h'er lovely arm 
 To pluck the dangling hedge-flow'r as she goes ; 
 And now she turns her head, as tho' she view'd 
 The distant landscape ; now methinks she walks 
 With doubtful ling'ring steps — will she look back? 
 Ah, no ! yon thicket hides her from my sight. 
 Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still, 
 Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last ! 
 And yet she said she would remember me. 
 I will believe it : Ah ! I must believe it. 
 Or be the saddest soul that sees the light ! 
 But, lo, a messenger, and from the army ! 
 He brings me tidings ; grant they may be good ! 
 Till now I never fear*d what man might utter ; 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 173 
 
 I dread his tale, God grant it may be good ! 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 From the army ? 
 
 Mess. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Bas. What tidings bring'st thou ? 
 
 Mess, Th' Imperial army, under brave Piscaro, 
 Have beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. 
 
 Bas. Ha ! have they fought ? and is the battle o*er ? 
 
 Mess. Yes, conquer*d j ta'en the French king 
 prisoner. 
 Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman. 
 Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword 
 Till, being one amidst surrounding foes, 
 His arm could do no more. 
 
 Bas* What dost thou say ? who is made prisoner ? 
 What king did fight so well? 
 
 Mess. The king of France. 
 
 Bas. Thou saidst — thy words do ring so in 
 mine ears, 
 I cannot catch their sense — the battle's o'er ? 
 
 Mess. It is, my lord. Piscaro staidyour coming, 
 But could no longer stay. His troops were bold. 
 Occasion press'd him, and they bravely fought — 
 They bravely fought, my lord ! 
 
 Bas. I hear, I hear thee. 
 
 Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart 
 To hear they bravely fought! — 
 They bravely fought, whilst we lay ling'ring here. 
 O! what a fated blow to strike me thus ! 
 Perdition! shame! disgrace! a damned blow! 
 
174 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mess. Ten thousand of the enemy are slain j 
 We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 
 I view*d the closing armies from afar; 
 Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread, 
 Which seem'd, alas! when that the fight was o'er, 
 Like the wild marshes' crop of stately reeds, 
 Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me! 
 When to the field I came, what dismal sights ! 
 What waste of life ! what heaps of bleeding slain ! 
 
 Bas. Would I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse, 
 Amid those heaps ! they fought, and we were 
 absent ! 
 ( JFalks about distractedly y then stops short.) 
 Who sent thee here? 
 
 Mess. Piscaro sent me to inform Count Basil, 
 He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave 
 To march his tardy troops to distant quarters. 
 
 Bas. He says so, does he? well, it shall be so. 
 (Tossing his arms distractedly.) 
 I will to quarters, narrow quarters go, 
 Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mess. I'll follow after him; he is distracted : — 
 And yet he looks so wild, I dare not do it. 
 
 Enter Victoria, as if frightened, folloxved by 
 Isabella. 
 
 Vict, (to Isab.) Didst thou not mark him as he 
 
 pass'd thee too ? 
 Isab. I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps 
 
 I had no time» 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 175 
 
 Vict. I met him with a wild disordered air, 
 In furious haste; he stopped distractedly, 
 And gaz'd upon me with a mournful look, 
 But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou ? 
 
 (To the Messenger.) 
 I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings. 
 Mess. No, rather good, as I should deem it, 
 madam, 
 Altho* unwelcome tidings to Count Basil. 
 Our army hath a glorious battle won ; 
 Ten thousand French are slain, their monarch 
 captive. 
 Vict, (to Mess.) Ah, there it is! he was not in 
 the fight. 
 Run after him I pray — nay, do not so — 
 Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg, 
 And bid him follow him — 1 pray thee run! 
 Mess, Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not 
 well : 
 I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go. 
 
 Vict. No, no, I'm well enough j I'm very well ; 
 Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. 
 
 [Exit Messenger. 
 
 what a wretch am I ! I am to blame ! 
 
 1 only am to blame! 
 
 Isab, Nay, wherefore say so? 
 
 What have you done that others would not do? 
 Vict. What have I done? I've fool'd a noble 
 heart — 
 I've wreck'd a brave man's honour! 
 
 [Exit, leaning upon Isabella. 
 
176 J5ASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A dark night ; no rnoon^ but a few 
 stars glimmering ; the stage represents (as mueh 
 as can be discovered for the darkness) a church- 
 yard with part of a chapel^ and a wing of the 
 ducal palace adjoining to it. Enter Basil, 
 with his hat off, his hair and his dress in disorder, 
 stepping slowly, and stopping several times to 
 listen, as if he was afraid of meeting any one, 
 
 Bas. No sound is here: man is at rest, and I 
 May near his habitations venture forth, 
 Like some unblessed creature of the night. 
 Who dares not meet his face. — Her window's dark; 
 No streaming Hght doth from her chamber beam. 
 That I once more may on her dwelUng g^aze, 
 And bless her still. All now is dark for me ! 
 
 (Pausesfor some time,andlooks uponthe graves,) 
 How happy are the dead, who quietly rest 
 Beneath these stones! each by his kindred laid. 
 Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those. 
 Who when alive his social converse shar'd: 
 And now perhaps some dear surviving friend 
 Doth here at times the grateful visit pay. 
 Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er. 
 And bless his mem'ry still ! — 
 But I, like a vile outcast of my kind, 
 In some lone spot must lay m' unburied corse. 
 To rot above the earth ; where, if perchance 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 177 
 
 The steps of liumaii vvand'rcr e'er approach, 
 He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place, 
 Witli dark imaginations friglitful made 
 The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed wretch ! 
 I' the fiiir and honour'd field shouldst thou have 
 
 died, 
 Where brave friends, proudly smihng thro' 
 
 their tears. 
 Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay ! 
 
 (A light seen in Victoria' .9 window.) 
 But, ha ! the wonted, welcome light appears. 
 How bright within I see her chamber wall ! 
 Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves, 
 A slender woman's form : it is herself! 
 What means that motion of its clasped hands ? 
 That drooping head ? alas ! is she in sorrow ? 
 Alas ! thou sweet enchantress of the mind, 
 Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence 
 
 bliss. 
 Art thou unhappy too ? I've brought thee woe ; 
 It is for me thou weep'st. Ah ! were it so, 
 Fall'n as I am, I yet could life endure. 
 In some dark den from human sight conceal'd. 
 So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal. 
 To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch ! 
 She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns tliee 
 
 too. 
 She moves again j e'en darkly imag'd thus, 
 How lovely is that form ! 
 
 (Pauses^ still looking at the xvindow.) 
 To be so near thee, and for ever parted ! 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 For ever lost ! what art tlioii now to me ? 
 Shall the departed gaze on thee again ? 
 Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour, 
 Whilst thou perceiv'st it not, and think'st perhaps 
 'Tis but the mournftd breeze that passes by ? 
 
 (Pauses again, and gazes at the uindoxVy 
 till the light disappears.) 
 *Tis gone, 'tis gone ! these eyes have seen their 
 
 last! 
 The last impression of her heavenly form : 
 The last sight of those walls wherein she lives : 
 The last blest ray of light from human dwelling. 
 I am no more a being of this world. 
 
 rarev\^ell ! farewell ! all now is dark for me ! 
 Come tilted deed ! come horrour and despair ! 
 Here lies my dreadful way. 
 
 Entet^ Geoffry, Jrofu behind a tomb. 
 
 ' Geof. O ! stay, my gen'ral ! 
 Bas. Art thou from the grave ? 
 
 Geof. O my brave gen'ral ! do you know me 
 not? 
 I am old Geoffry, the old maimed soldier, 
 You did so nobly honour. 
 
 Bas. Then go thy way, for thou art honourable; 
 Thou hast no shame, thou need'st not seek the 
 
 dark 
 Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go ! 
 
 Geof. Nay, speak not thus, my noble general ! 
 Ah !. speak not thus ! thou'rt brave, thou'rt ho- 
 noured still. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 179 
 
 Tliy soldier's lame is far too surely rais'd 
 To be o'erthidwn with one unhappy chance. 
 IVe heard of thy brave deeds with swelling heart, 
 And yet shall live to cast my cap in air 
 At glorious tales of thee. — 
 
 Bas. Forbear, forbear ! thy words but wring 
 
 my soul. 
 Geof. O i pardon me ! I am old maimed 
 GeofFry. 
 
 ! do not go ! I've but one hand to hold thee. 
 
 {haying hold of Basil as he attempts to go 
 away. Basil stops^ and looks round vpoii 
 him with softness.) 
 Bas. Two would not hold so well, old honour'd 
 vet'ran ! 
 What wouldst thou have me do? 
 
 Geqf, Return, my lord ; for love of blessed 
 heaven. 
 Seek not such desperate ways! where would 
 you go ? 
 Bas. Does Geoffry ask where should a soldier 
 go 
 To hide disgrace ? there is no place but one. 
 
 {Struggling to get free.) 
 Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not 
 To do some violence to thy hoary head — 
 What, w'ilt thou not ? nay, then it must be so. 
 {Breaks violently from him, and Exit. 
 Geq/l Curs'd, feeble hand ! he's gone to seek 
 perdition ! 
 
 1 cannot run. Where is that stupid hind ? 
 
 N 2 
 
180 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 He should have met me here. Holla, Fernando ! 
 
 Entei^ Fernando. 
 
 We've lost him, he is gone, he's broke from me ! 
 
 Did I not bid thee meet me early here, 
 
 For that he has been known to haunt this place ? 
 
 Fer. Which way has he gone ? 
 
 Geof. Towards the forest, if I guess aright. 
 But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg, 
 And lie will follow him : run swiftly, man ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 A Wood, wild and savage; an entry to a cave, very 
 much tangled, with brushwood, is seen in the 
 back-ground. The time represents the dawn of 
 morning. Basil is discovered standing near the 
 fro7it of the stage in a thoughtful posture, with a 
 couple of pistols laid by him 07i a piece of pro- 
 jecting rock ; he pauses for some time. 
 
 Bas. (alone.') What shall I be some few short 
 moments hence ? 
 Why ask I now ? who from the dead will rise 
 To tell me of that awful state unknown? 
 But be it what it may, or bliss, or torment, 
 Annihilation, dark, and endless rest, 
 Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of 
 
 thought 
 Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change I'll dare 
 Which makes me any thing but what 1 am. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGKDY. 
 
 I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire 
 In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie, 
 Be toss'd aloft through tracks of endless void, 
 But cannot live in shame. — (Pauses.) O impious 
 
 thought ! 
 Will the great God of mercy, mercy have 
 On all but those who are most miserable ? 
 Will he not punish with a pitying hand 
 The poor, fall'n, froward child ? (Pauses.) 
 And shall I then against his will oifend, 
 Because he is most good and merciful ? 
 O ! horrid baseness ! what, what shall I do ?^ 
 I'll think no more — it turns my dizzy brain — 
 It is too late to think — what must be, must be — 
 I cannot live, therefore I needs must die. 
 
 (Takes up the pistols^ and walks up and down, 
 looking wildly around Mm, then discovering 
 the cavers mouth.) 
 Here is an entry to some darksome cave, 
 Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace, 
 And hide its foul corruption from the earth.. 
 The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot. 
 I'll do it here. 
 
 (Enters the cave and Exit ; a deep silence ; then 
 the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, 
 and soon after, enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, 
 two Officers and Soldiers, almost at the same 
 moment, by different sides of the stage.) 
 Ros. This way the sound did come. 
 Valt. How came ye, soldiers ? heard ye that 
 report ? 
 
 N 3 
 
182 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 15/ Sol We heard it, and it seem'd to come 
 from hence, 
 Which made us this way hie. 
 
 Ros. A horrid fancy darts across my mind. 
 
 (^ groan h&ay^d from the cave. J 
 (To Valt.) Ha ! heard'st thou that? 
 
 Valt. Methinks it is the groan of one in pain, 
 
 (A second gToan.) 
 Ros. Ha ! there again ! 
 
 Valt. From this cave's mouth, so dark and 
 choak'd with weeds. 
 It seems to come. 
 
 Ros. rU enter first. 
 
 1."?^ OJf. My Lord, the way is tangled o'er with 
 briers : 
 Hard by, a few short paces to the left, 
 There is another mouth of easier access; 
 I pass'd it even now. 
 
 Ros. Then shew the way. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 The inside of the cave. Basil discovered lying on 
 the ground, ivith his head raised a little ujwn a 
 fexv stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him,, 
 and blood upon his breast. E?iter Rosinberg, 
 Valtomer, and Officers. Rosinberg, upon 
 seeing Basil, stops short "joith horrour, and re- 
 mains motionless for some time. 
 
 Valt. Great God of heaven! what a sight is this! 
 (Rosinberg rz//z5 to Basil, and stoops down 
 by his side.) 
 
BASIL : A TUAGEDY. 183 
 
 Mos, O Basil! O my friend ! what iiast tlioii 
 
 done ? 
 Bas. (covering his Jace with his hand.) Why art 
 
 thou come ? 1 thought to die in peace. 
 llos. Thou know'st me not — I am tliy Rosin- 
 berg, 
 Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman ! 
 Thou dost not say to me. Why art thou come ? 
 Bas, Shame knows no kindred : I am fldPn, 
 disgrac'd ; 
 My fame is gone, i cannot look upon thee. 
 
 Ros, My Basil, noble spirit ! talk not thus ! 
 The greatest mind untoward fate may prove : 
 Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still, 
 FalPn as thou art — and yet thou art not fall'n ; 
 Who says thou art, must put his harness on. 
 And prove his words in blood. 
 
 Bas. Ah, Rosinberg ! tliis is no time to boast ! 
 I once had hopes a glorious name to gain ; 
 Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire ; 
 The hour of trial came, and found me wanting. 
 Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten. — 
 And O! my friend! something upbraids me here, 
 (Laying his hand on his breast.) 
 For that I now remember how oft-times 
 1 have usurped it o'er thy better w^orth. 
 Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt; 
 But thou wilt pardon me. — 
 
 Ros. (tahing Basil'^ hand, and pressing it to 
 his breast.) Rend not my heart in twain! 
 O ! talk not thus ! 
 
 N 4 
 
184f basil: a tragedy. 
 
 I knew thou wert siiperiour to myself. 
 
 And to all men beside : thou wert my pride 5 
 
 I paid thee dePrence with a willing heart. 
 
 Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, RosinbergJ 
 I feel my weakness now, I own my pride. 
 Give me thy hand, my time is near the close : 
 Do this for me : thou know'st my love, Victoria — 
 Ros. O curse that woman ! she it is alone — ■ 
 She has undone us all ! 
 
 Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death 
 To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not! 
 The fault is mine ; she's gentle, good and blame- 
 less — 
 Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil ? 
 
 Ros. I will ! I will ! what wouldst thou have 
 
 me do ? 
 Bas. See her when I am gone ; be gentle with 
 her ; 
 And tell her that I bless'd her in my death ; 
 E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her. 
 Wilt thou do this ? — 
 
 Ros. I'll do what thou desir'st, 
 
 Bas. I thank thee, Rosinberg j my time draws 
 near. 
 (Raising hisJiead a little, and perceiving Oncers J) 
 Is there not some one here? are we alone ? 
 Ros. (jiialdng a signjor the Officers to retire.) 
 
 'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion. 
 Bas. Thou know'st this desp'rate deed from 
 sacred rites 
 Hath shut me out : I am luibless'd of men. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 185 
 
 And what I am in sight of th* awful God, 
 
 I dare not think ; when I am gone, my friend, 
 
 O! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend 
 
 For an offending spirit! — Pray for me. 
 
 What thinkest thou? although an outcast here, 
 
 May not some heavenly mercy still be found ? 
 
 Ros. Thou wilt find mercy — my beloved 
 Basil — 
 It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected. 
 I will with bonded knee — I will implore — 
 It choaks mine utterance • — 1 will pray for thee — 
 
 Bas. This comforts me — thouartalovingfriend. 
 
 (A noise 'without.') 
 
 Ros. (Jo Off. without.) What noise is that? 
 
 Enter Valtomer. 
 
 Valt. (to Ros.) My lord, the soldiers all insist 
 to enter. 
 What shall I do? they will not be denied : 
 They say that they will see their noble gen'ral. 
 Bas. Ah, my brave fellows! do they call me so? 
 Ros. Then let them come. 
 
 (Enter Soldiers, who gather round Basil, 
 and look mournfulli) upon him ; he holds out 
 his hand to them with a faint smile.) 
 Bas. Mygen'rous soldiers, this is kindly meant. 
 I'm low i* the dust; Godblessyouall, brave hearts! 
 1st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble 
 gen'ral ! 
 We'll never follow such a leader more. 
 
186 BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 2d Sol Ah ! had you staid with us, my noble 
 gen'ral, 
 We would have died for you. 
 
 (Sd Soldier endeavours 7ie^t to speak, but can- 
 not; a7id kneeling down by Basil, covers his 
 face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his 
 face to the wall and weeps.) 
 
 Bas. (in a very faint broken voice.) AVhere art 
 thou? do not leave me, Rosinberg — 
 Come near to me — these fellows make me weep: 
 I have no power to weep — give me thy hand — 
 I love to feel thy grasp — my heart beats strangely — 
 It beats as tbo' its breathings would be few — 
 Remember — 
 Ros. Is there aught thou wouldst desire? 
 
 Bas. Nought but a little earth to cover me, 
 And lay the smooth sod even with the ground — 
 Let no stone mark the spot — give no offence. 
 I fain would say — v/hat can I say to thee? 
 
 (A deep pause ; ajter a feeble struggle^ Basil 
 expires.) 
 1st Sol. That motion was his last. 
 Qd Sol. His spirit's fled. 
 
 Isl Sol. God grant it peace! it was a noble 
 
 spirit ! 
 4/A Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse 
 
 a braver. 
 1st Sol. Alas ! no trumpet e*cr shall rouse him 
 more, 
 Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead. 
 
BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 1 87 
 
 Q.d Sol. And when tliiit sounds it will not 
 
 wake a braver. 
 Sd Sol. How pleasantly he shar'd our hardest 
 toil! 
 Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made. 
 4/A Sol. Ay, many a time i' the cold damp 
 plain has he 
 With cheerful countenance cried, " Good rest, 
 
 my hearts!** 
 Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him 
 
 down 
 E'en like the meanest soldier in the field. 
 
 (Rosinberg all this time continues hanging 
 over the body, and gazing upon it. Val- 
 tomer now endeavours to draw him away.^ 
 Valt. This is too sad, my lord. 
 Ros. There, seest thou how he lies ? so fixM, 
 so pale ? 
 Ah! what an end is this! thus lost! thus fall'n! 
 To be thus taken in his middle course. 
 Where he so nobly strove ; till cursed passion 
 Came like a sun-stroke on his mid- day toil. 
 And cut the strong man down. O Basil ! Basil ! 
 Valt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow 
 
 here. 
 Ros. He was the younger brother of my soul. 
 Valt. Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight. 
 Time calls us, let the body be remov'd. 
 
 Ros. He was — O! he was like no other man! 
 Valt. (still endeavouring to draw him away.) 
 
 Nay, now forbear. 
 Ros. 1 lov'd him Irom his birth ! 
 
188 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 Valt. Time presses, let the body be remov'd. 
 Ros. What say'st thou ? 
 Valt, Shall we not remove him hence? 
 
 Ros. He has forbid it, and has charg'd me well 
 To leave his grave unknown ? for that the church 
 All sacred rites to the self-slain denies. 
 He would not give offence. 
 
 1st SoL What! shall our gen'ral, like a very 
 wretch, 
 Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground? 
 No last salute to bid his soul farewell ? 
 No warlike honours paid? it shall not be. 
 
 ^d Sol. Laid thus? no, by the blessed light of 
 heav'n ! 
 In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls 
 He shall be laid ; in face of day be laid: 
 And tho' black priests should curse us in the teeth, 
 We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power 
 To grasp a musket. 
 
 Several Soldiers. Let those who dare forbid it! 
 Ros. My brave companions, be it as you will. 
 (^Spreading out his arms as if he would em- 
 brace the Soldiers. — They j)'>^62}are to re- 
 move the body.) 
 Valt. Nay, stop a while, we will not move it 
 now. 
 For see a mournful visitor appears. 
 And must not be denied. 
 
 Enter Victoria and Isabella. 
 
 Vict. I thought to find him liere, where has he 
 fled? 18 
 
basil: a tragedy. 189 
 
 (Rosiiiberg points to the bodij xvitJiout speak- 
 ing ; Victoria shrieks out and Jails into the 
 arms o/" Isabella.) 
 Isab. Alas ! my gentle mistress, this will kill 
 
 thee. 
 Vict, (^recovering.) Unloose thy hold, and let 
 me look upon him. 
 O ! horrid, horrid sight ! my riiin'd Basil ! 
 Is this the sad reward of all thy love ? 
 O ! I have murder'd thee ! 
 
 (^Kneels down by tlie hody^ and bends over it.) 
 These wasted streams of life! this bloody wound ! 
 (Laying her hand upon his heart.) 
 Is there no breathing here ? all still ! all cold ! 
 Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again. 
 And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee. 
 In spite of all reproach. Alas ! alas ! 
 A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid, 
 And dost not hear my call. — 
 
 Ros. No, madam; now your pitycomes too late. 
 Vict. Dost thou upbraid me ? O ! I have 
 
 deserv'd it ! 
 Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid : 
 But woman's grief is like a summer storm, 
 Short as it violent is ; in gayer scenes, 
 Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze. 
 And play the airy goddess of the day. 
 Thine eye, perchance, amidst th* observing crowd, 
 Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend. 
 And then it will upbraid. 
 
 Vict, No, never, never ! thus it shall not be. 
 
190 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go, 
 Where sad and lonely, thro' the dismal grate 
 Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid 
 me. 
 Ros. Forgive me, heed me not ; I'm griev'd 
 at heart ; 
 I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hatefid to me. 
 If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee; 
 I must forgive thee : with his dying breath 
 He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts 
 Were love to thee j in death he lov'd and bless'd 
 thee. 
 (Victoria goes to throxv herself upon the hodi/y 
 but is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, 
 who support her in their arms, and endea- 
 vour to draw her away from it.) 
 Vict. Oh I force me not away! by his cold corse 
 Let me lie down and weep. O ! Basil, Basil ! 
 The gallant and the brave ! how hast thou lov'd 
 
 me ! 
 If there is any holy kindness in you, 
 
 {To Isab. andYali.) 
 Tear me not hence. 
 
 For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost. 
 With all my faults, most worthless of his love ; 
 And him I'll love in the low bed of death. 
 In horrour and decay. — 
 
 Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days 
 In humble pray'r for his departed spirit : 
 Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed. 
 As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence. 
 
basil: a tragedy. IQl 
 
 I will not go, for grief hath made me strong. 
 
 (Strugglhig to get loose-) 
 
 Ros. Do not witliholcl her, leave her sorrowfree. 
 {They let her go, and she throws herselfnpo?i 
 the bodi/ in an agony of grief.') 
 It doth subdue the sternness of my grief 
 To see her mourn him thus. — Yet I must curse. — 
 Heav*n*s curses light upon her damned father. 
 Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck ! 
 
 Isab. If he has done it, you are well reveng'd, 
 For all his hidden plots detected are. 
 Gauriceio, for some interest of his own, 
 His master's secret dealings with the foe 
 Has to Lanoy betray'd ; who straight hath sent. 
 On the behalf of his imperial lord, 
 A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua. 
 His discontented subjects aid him not ; 
 He must submit to" the degrading terms 
 A haughty conqu'ring power will now impose. 
 
 Ros. And art thou sure of this ? 
 
 Isah. r am, my lord. 
 
 Ros. Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O ! I'm 
 glad on't ! 
 It should be so ! how like a hateful ape 
 Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd lioard, 
 A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds' 
 Are open'd to the day ! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd ! 
 Scorn'd by the very fools who most admir'd 
 His worthless art. But w^hen a great mind falls. 
 The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart 
 Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin ; 
 
192 basil: a tragedy. 
 
 With gentle censure using but his faults 
 As modest means to introduce his praise ; 
 For pity like a dewy twilight comes 
 To close th* oppressive splendour of his day, 
 And they who but admir*d him in his height, 
 His altered state lament, and love him fall'n. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF BASIL. 
 
THE TRYAL 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 Mr. Withrington. 
 
 Mr. Harwood. 
 
 Colonel Hardy. 
 
 Sir Loftus Prettyman. 
 
 Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mr. Royston. 
 
 Humphry. 
 
 Jonathan. 
 
 Thomas. 
 
 Servants, he, 
 
 WOMEN : 
 
 '» I Nieces to Withrington. 
 
 \NE, 3 
 
 Agnes, 
 
 Mariane, 
 
 Miss Eston. 
 
 Mrs. Betty, Maid to Agnes. 
 
 %* Sce?ie in Bath, and in Mr. Withrington'.s 
 house in the environs of Bath. 
 
THE TRYAL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington'5 house : Enter 
 WiTHRiNGTON mid kis two Nieces hanging upon 
 his arms, coaling him in a playful manner as 
 they advance towards the front of the Stage. 
 
 With, Poo, poo, get along, young gipsies, and 
 don't tease me any more. 
 
 Ag, So we will, my good Sir, when you have 
 granted our suit. 
 
 Mar. Do, dear uncle, it will be so pleasant! 
 
 With. Get along, get along. Don't think to 
 wheedle me into it. It would be very pleasant, 
 truly, to see an old fellow, with a wig upon his 
 bald pate, making one in a holiday mummery 
 with a couple of" madcaps. 
 
 Ag. Nay, don't lay the fault upon the wig, good 
 Sir, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and as saucy 
 looking as the best head of hair in the county. 
 As for your old wig, indeed, there was so much 
 curmudgeon-like austerity about it, that young 
 people fled from before it, as, I dare say, the 
 birds do at present ; for 1 am sure it is stuck up 
 in some cherry-orchard, by this time, to frighten 
 away the sparrows. 
 
 o 2 
 
19G THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Tfith. You are mistaken, young mistress, it is 
 up stairs in my wig-box. 
 
 ylg. Well, I am glad it is anywhere but upon 
 your pate, uncle. (Turning his face towards Ma- 
 riane.) Look at him, pray ! is he not ten years 
 younger since he wore it ? Is there one bit of an 
 old grumbler to be seen about him now ? 
 
 Mar. He is no more like the man he was, than 
 I am like my godmother. (Clapping his shoulder.^ 
 You must even do as we have bid you, Sir, for 
 tiiis excuse will never bring you off. 
 
 With. Poo, poo, it is a foolish girl's whimsey : 
 1*11 have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Ag, It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle 
 guardian, and you must consent to it. lor if I 
 am to marry at all, I am resolved to have a re- 
 spectable man, and a man who is attached to me ; 
 and to find out such a one, in my present situation, 
 is impossible. I am provoked beyond all patience 
 with your old greedy lords, and match-making 
 aunts, introducing their poor noodle heirs-appa- 
 rent to me. Your ambitious esquires, and proud 
 obsequious baronets, are intolerable ; and your 
 rakish younger brothers are nauseous : such 
 creatures only surround me, whilst men of sense 
 stand at a distance, and think me as foolish as the 
 company I keep. One would swear I was made 
 of amber, to attract all the dust and chaff of the 
 community. 
 
 With. There, is some truth in this, 'faith. 
 
 Ag. You see how it is with me : so, my dear. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 197 
 
 loving, good uncle, {Coaa^ing him.) do let Mariane 
 take my place for a little while. We are newly 
 come to Bath ; nobody knows us : we have been 
 but at one ball, and as Mariane looks so much 
 better than me, she has already been mistaken 
 for the heiress, and I for her portionless cousin : 
 I have told you how we shall manage it ; do lend 
 us your assistance ! 
 
 With. So in the disguise of a portionless spin- 
 ster, you are to captivate some man of sense, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Ag. I would fain have it so. 
 
 With. Go, go, thou art a fool, Agnes! who will 
 fall in love with a little ordinary girl like thee ? 
 why, there is not one feature in thy face that a 
 man would give a farthing for. 
 
 Mar. You are very saucy, uncle. 
 
 Ag. I should despair of my beauty to be sure, 
 since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear 
 Sir ; yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a 
 great lady, and the prettiest lady that ever wore 
 silk, fell in love, once on a time, with Mr. An- 
 thony, and would have followed him to the 
 world's end too, if it had not been for an old 
 hunks of a father, who deserved to be drubbed 
 for his pains. Don't you think he did. Sir ? 
 
 With, (endeavouring to look angry.) Old nurse 
 is a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. I'll 
 hear no more of this nonsense. {Breaks from 
 them, and goes towards the door : they run after 
 him, and draw him back again,) 
 o 3 
 
198 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ag. Nay, good Sir, we have not quite done 
 with you yet : grant our request, and then 
 scamper off as you please. 
 
 Mar. I'll hold both your arms till you grant it. 
 
 With, (to Mar.) And what makes you so eager 
 about it, young lady ? you expect, I suppose, to 
 get a husband by the trick. O fy, fy ! the poorest 
 girl in England would blush at such a thought, 
 who calls herself an honest one. 
 
 Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest man 
 in England who could harbour such a suspicion. 
 But give yourself no uneasiness about this, Sir ; 
 she need not go a husband-hunting, for she is al- 
 ready engaged. — (Mariane looks frightened, and 
 makes signs to Agnes over her uncle's shoidder, 
 *which she ansXvers with a smile of encouragement.^ 
 
 With. Engaged ! she is very good, truly, to 
 manage all this matter herself, being afraid to 
 give me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what 
 fool has she picked out from the herd, to enter 
 into this precious engagement with ? 
 
 Ag. A foolish fellow enough to be sure, your 
 favourite nephew, cousin Edward. 
 
 With. Hang the silly booby ! how could he be 
 such an idiot ! but it can't be, it shan't be ! — it 
 is folly to put myself into a passion about it. 
 {To Mariane, who puis her hajidon his shoidder to 
 soothe him.) Hold off your hands, Ma'am ! This 
 is news indeed to amuse me with of a morning. 
 
 Ag. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more 
 hews J for they are not only engaged, but as 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 199 
 
 soon as he returns from abroad they are to be 
 married. 
 
 With. Well, well, let them marry in the devil's 
 name, and go a-begging if they please. 
 
 Ag. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a- 
 begging ; they will have a good fortune to sup- 
 port them. 
 
 With. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the 
 lottery, or find out the philosopher's stone, and 
 coin their old shoes into guineas. 
 
 Ag. No, Sir, it is not that way the fortune is 
 to come. 
 
 With. No ; he has been following some knight- 
 errant, then, I suppose, and will have an island in 
 the South Seg, for his pains. 
 
 Ag. No, you have not guessed it yet. (Stroking 
 his hand gently.) Did you never hear of a good, 
 kind, rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. With- 
 rington ? he is to settle a handsome provision 
 upon them as soon as they are married, and leave 
 them his fortune at last. 
 
 With, (lifting up his hands.) Well, I must say 
 thou art the sauciest little jade in the kingdom ! 
 But did you never hear that this worthy uncle of 
 theirs, having got a new wig, which makes him ten 
 years younger than he was, is resolved to embrace 
 the opportunity, and seek out a wife for himself? 
 
 Ag. O ! that is nothing to the purpose ; for 
 what I have said about the fortune must happen, 
 though he should^ seek out a score of wives for 
 himself. 
 
 o 4 
 
^00 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY* 
 
 With, Must happen ! bat I say it shall not 
 happen. Whether should you or I know best ? 
 
 Jg* Why me, to be sure. 
 
 JVith. Ha, ha, ha ! how so, baggage ? 
 
 Ag. {resting her arm on his shoulder, looking 
 archly in his face.) You don't know, perhaps, that 
 when I went to Scotland last summer, I travelled 
 far, and far, as the tale says, and farther than I 
 can tell, till I came to the Isle of Sky, where 
 every body has the second sight, and has nothing 
 to do but tear a little hole in a tartan-plaidy, and 
 peering through it, in this manner, sees every 
 thing past, present, and to come. Now, you must 
 know, I gave an old woman half-a-crown and a 
 roll of tobacco for a peep or two through her 
 plaid ; and what do you think I saw, uncle ? 
 
 With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, I suppose. 
 
 Ag. There was somebody dancing to be sure, 
 but it was not the devil, though. Who do you 
 think it was now ? 
 
 With. Poo, poo ! 
 
 Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wed- 
 ding, leading down the first dance with the bride. 
 I saw a sheet of parchment in a corner, too, sign- 
 ed with his own blessed hand, and a very hand- 
 some settlement it was. So he led down the first 
 dance himself", and we all followed after him, as 
 merry as so many hay-makers. 
 
 With. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith ! 
 
 Ag. And I took a second peep through the 
 plaidy, and what do you think I saw then. Sir? 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 201 
 
 IVith. Nay, prate on as thou wilt. 
 
 A^. A genteel family-house, where Edward and 
 Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up 
 and down in it. Some of them so tall, and so 
 tall, and some of them no taller than this. And 
 there came good uncle amongst them, and they 
 all flocked about him so merrily ; every body was 
 so glad to see him, the very scullions from the 
 kitchen were glad ; and methought he looked as 
 well pleased himself as any of them. Don't you 
 think he did. Sir ? 
 
 With. Have done with thy prating. 
 
 Ag. I have not done yet, good Sir ; for I took 
 another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal 
 changed family indeed. There was a melancholy 
 sick bed set out, in the best chamber ; every face 
 was sad, and all the children were weeping. 
 There was one dark-eyed rogue amongst them, 
 called little Anthony, and he threw away his 
 bread and butter, and roared like a young bull, 
 for woe's me ! old uncle was dying. (Observing 
 Withrington affected.) But old uncle recovered 
 though, and looked as stout as a veteran again. 
 So I gave the old woman her plaidy, and would 
 not look through any more. 
 
 With. Thou art the wildest little witch in the 
 world, and wilt never be at rest till thou hast got 
 every thing thine own way, I believe. 
 
 Ag, I thank you, 1 thank you, dear uncle ! 
 {leaping round his neck,) it shall be even so, and I 
 shall have my own little boon into the bargain. 
 
202 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 With. I did not say so. 
 
 Ag. But I know it will be so, and many thanks 
 to you, my dear good uncle ! (Mariane ventures 
 to come from behind, — Withrington looks gently 
 to her, she holds out her hand, he hesitates, and 
 Agnes joins their hands together, giving them a 
 heai'ty shake.) 
 
 With. Come, come, let me get away from you 
 now : you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. 
 
 [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Mar. (embracing Agnes.) Well, heaven bless 
 thee, my sweet Agnes 1 thou hast done marvels 
 for me. You gave me a fright though ; I thought 
 we were ruined. 
 
 Ag. O ! 1 knew I should get the better of him 
 some way or other. What a good, worthy heart 
 he has ! you don't know bow dearly I love this 
 old uncle of ours. 
 
 Mar. I wonder how it is. I used to think him 
 severe and unreasonable, with his fiddle faddle 
 fancies about delicacy and decorum ; but since 
 you came amongst us, Agnes, you have so coaxed 
 him, and laughed at him, and played with him, that 
 he has become almost as frolicksome as ourselves. 
 
 Ag. Let us set about our project immediately. 
 Nobody knows us here but lady Fade and Miss Es- 
 ton : we must let them both into the secret : 
 Lady Fade is confined with bad health, and though 
 Miss Eston, I believe, would rather tell a secret 
 than hold her tongue, yet as long as there are 
 streets and carriages, and balls and ribbons, and 
 
 3 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 203 
 
 feathers and fashions, to talk of, there can be no 
 great danger from her. 
 
 Mar. O ! we shall do very well. How I long 
 to frolick it away, in all the rich trappings of heir- 
 ship, amongst those sneaking wretches, the for- 
 tune-hunters ! They have neglected me as a 
 poor girl, but I will play the deuce amongst them 
 as a rich one. 
 
 Ag. You will acquit yourself very handsomely, 
 I dare say, and find no lack of admirers. 
 
 Mar. I have two or three in my eye just now, 
 but of all men living I have set my heart upon 
 humbling Sir Loftus. He insulted a friend of 
 mine last winter, to ingratiate himself with an 
 envious woman of quality, but I will be revenged 
 upon him ; O ! how I will scorn him, and toss up 
 my nose at him. 
 
 Ag. That is not the way to be revenged upon 
 him, silly girl ! He is haughty and reserved in 
 his manners ; and though not altogether without 
 understanding, has never suffered a higher idea 
 to get footing in his noddle than that of appear- 
 ing a man of consequence and fashion ; and 
 though he has no happiness but in being admired 
 as a fine gentleman, and no existence but at an 
 assembly, he appears there with all the haughty 
 gravity, and careless indifference of a person su- 
 perior to such paltry amusements. Such a man 
 as this must be laughed at, not scorned ; con- 
 tempt must be his portion. 
 
 Mar, He shall have it then. And as for his 
 
201* THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 admirer and imitator, Jack Opal, who has for 
 these ten years past so successfully performed 
 every kind of fine gentlemanship, that every new 
 fool brought into fashion, any kind of bad treat- 
 ment, I suppose, that happens to come into ray 
 head will be good enough for him. 
 
 Ag, Quite good enough. You have set him 
 down for one of your admirers too ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, truly, and a great many more be- 
 sides. 
 
 Ag. Did you observe in the ball-room last 
 night, a genteel young man, with dark grey eyes, 
 and a sensible countenance, but with so little of 
 the foppery of the fashion about him, that one 
 took him at a distance for a much older man ? 
 
 Mar. Wore he not a plain brownish coat ? and 
 stood he not very near us great part of the even- 
 ing? 
 
 Ag. Yes, the very same. Pray endeavour to 
 attract him, Mariane. 
 
 Mar. If you are very desirous to see him in my 
 train, I will. 
 
 Ag. No, not desirous, neither. 
 Mar. Then wherefore should I try ? 
 Ag. Because I would have you try every art 
 to win him, and 1 would not have him to be won. 
 Mar. O ! I comprehend it now ! this is the 
 sensible man we are in quest of. 
 
 Ag. I shall not be sorry if it proves so. I have 
 inquired who he is, as I shall tell you by and by, 
 and what I have learnt of him I like. Is not his 
 appearance prepossessing ? 
 
THE TRyAL : A COMEDY. 205 
 
 Mar. I don't know, lie is too grave and dig- 
 nified for such a girl as thou art ; I fear we shall 
 waste our labour upon him. 
 
 Ag. But he does not look always so. He kept 
 very near me, ifit did not look vain, I should say 
 followed me all the evening, and many a varied 
 expression his countenance assumed. But when I 
 went away arm in arm with my uncle, in our 
 usual good-humoured way, I shall never forget 
 the look of pleasant approbation with which he 
 followed me. I had learnt but a little while be- 
 fore the mistake which the company made in re- 
 gard to us, and at that moment the idea of this 
 project came across my mind like a flash of light- 
 ning. 
 
 Mar. Very well, gentle cousin ; the task you 
 assign me is pleasing to my humour, and the idea 
 of promoting your happiness at the same time 
 will make it delightful. Let me see, how many 
 lovers shall I have — one, two, three. (Counting 
 on herjingers.') 
 
 Ag. 1 can tell you of one lover more than you 
 wot of. 
 
 Mar. Pray who is he ? 
 
 Ag. Our distant cousin, the great 'squire, and 
 
 man of business, from shire: he writes to my 
 
 uncle that he will be in Bath to-day, upon busi- 
 ness of the greatest importance, which he ex- 
 plains to him in three pages of close-written 
 paper ; but whether he is to court me for him- 
 self, or for his son, or to solicit a great man, 
 
 ^'^^ms. 
 
206 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 who is here, for a place, no mortal on earth 
 can discover. 
 
 Mar. Well, let him come, I shall manage them 
 all. O ! if my Edward were here just now, how 
 he would laugh at us ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Miss Eston. 
 
 Mar. Let us run out of her way, and say we 
 are not at home. She will sit and talk these two 
 hours. 
 
 Ag. But you forgot, we have something to say 
 to her. (To the Servant.) Shew her up stairs to 
 my dressing-room. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Mar. Pray let us run up stairs before her, or 
 she will arrest us here with her chat. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Miss Eston. (without.) And it is a very bad 
 thing for all that ; I never could abide it. I won- 
 der your master don't stop {^Enters, walking 
 straight across the stage, still speaking.') up those 
 nasty chinks ; there is such a wind in the hall, 
 'tis enouffh to srive one a hoarseness. Bv-the- 
 bye, Mrs. Mumblecake is sadly to-day; has your 
 lady sent to inquire for her, William ? I wonder 
 if her (Exit, still talking without.) old coachman 
 has left her ? I saw a new face on the, &c. &c. 
 
THR TRYAL : A COMEDY. ^207 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The fields before Mr. Withrington'^^ house. 
 Enter Agnes, Mariane, and Miss Eston, xvho 
 seem still busy talking ^ from the house y and pass- 
 ing over the Stage, arm in arm. Exeunt. Efiter 
 by the same side by which they went out. Sir 
 LoFTUs Prettyman, and Harwood, who 
 stands looking behind him, as if he folloxved 
 something with his eyes very eagerly. 
 
 Sir Loft, (^advancing to the front of tJie stage, 
 and speaking to himself.') How cursedly unlucky 
 this is now ! if she had come out but a few mo- 
 ments sooner, I should have passed her walking 
 arm in arm with a British peer. Howprovokingly 
 these things always happen with me ! {Observing 
 Harwood.) What ! is he staring after her too ? 
 {Aloud.') What are you looking at, Harwood? does 
 she walk well ? 
 
 Har. I can't tell how she walks, but I could 
 stand and gaze after her till the sun went down 
 upon me. 
 
 Sir Loft. She is a fine woman, I grant you. 
 
 Har. {vastly pleased.) I knew she would please, 
 it is impossible she should not! There is some- 
 thing so delightful inthe play of her countenance, 
 it would even make a plain woman beautiful. 
 
 Sir Loft. She is a fine woman, and that is no 
 
208 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 despicable praise from one who is accustomed to 
 tlie elegance of fashionable beauty. 
 
 Har, I would not compare her to any thing 
 so trifling and insipid. 
 
 Sir Loft. She has one advantage which fashion- 
 able beauty seldom possesses. 
 
 Har. What do you mean? 
 
 Sir Loft. A large fortune. 
 
 Har. (Jooking disappointed.) It is not the 
 heiress I mean. 
 
 Sir Loft. Is it t'other girl you are raving 
 about? She is showy at a distance, I admit, but 
 as awkward as a dairy-maid when near you ; and 
 her tongue goes as fast as if she were repeating 
 a paternoster. 
 
 Har. What, do you think I am silly enough 
 to be caught with that magpie ? 
 
 Sir Loft. Who is it then, Harwood ? I see no- 
 body with Miss Withrington but Miss Eston, and 
 the poor little creature her cousin. 
 
 Har. Good God! what a contemptible perver- 
 sion of taste do interest and fashion create! Butit 
 is all affectation. (^Looking contemptuously athim.) 
 
 Sir Loft, {smiling contemptuously inreturn.) Ha, 
 ha, ha ! I see how it is with you, Harwood, and I 
 beg pardon too. The lady is very charming, I 
 dare say ; upon honour I never once looked in 
 her face. She is a dependent relation of Miss 
 Withrington's, I believe : now I never take notice 
 of such girls, for if you do it once, they expectyou 
 to do it again. I am sparing of my attentions, 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 209 
 
 that she on wliom I really bestow them may have 
 the more reason to boast. 
 
 Har. You are right, Prettyman : she who boasts 
 of your attentions should receive them all herself, 
 that nobody else may know their real worth. 
 
 Sir LojL You are severe this morning, Mr. 
 Harwood, but you do not altogether comprehend 
 me, I believe. I know perhaps more of the world 
 than a studious Templar can be supposed to 
 do ; and I assure you, men of fashion, upon this 
 principle, are sparing of their words too, that they :0 
 may be listened to more attentively when they do 1 
 speak. 
 
 Har. You are very right still, Sir Loftus; for 
 if they spoke much, 1*11 be hang'd if they would 
 get any body to listen to them at all. 
 
 Sir Loft. (Jicmghtilij.') There is another reason 
 why men of fashion are not profuse of their words: 
 inferiour people are apt to forget themselves, and 
 despise what is too familiar. 
 
 Har. Don't take so much pains to make me 
 comprehend that the more fools speak the more 
 people will despise them ; I never had a clearer 
 conviction of it in my life. 
 
 Sir Loft. (Jiaiightily.) Good morning. Sir : I 
 see Lord Saunter in the other walk, and I must 
 own I prefer the company of one who knows, at 
 least the common rules of politeness. [Exit. 
 
 Har. (alo}ie.) What a contemptible creature it 
 is! He would prefer the most affected idiot, who 
 boasts a little fashion or consequence, as he calls 
 
 VOL. 1. p 
 
210 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 it, to the most beautiful native character in the 
 world. Here comes another fool, who has been 
 gazing too, but I will not once mention her be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Enter Opal. 
 
 Op. Good morning, Harwood : I have been 
 fortunate just now; I have met some fine girls, 
 'faith ! 
 
 Har. I am glad you have met with any thing 
 so agreeable : they are all equally charming to 
 you, I suppose. 
 
 0/;.Nay, Harwood, I knowhowto distinguish. 
 There is a little animated creature amongst them, 
 all life and spirit : on my soul I could almost be 
 in love with her. 
 
 Har, Ha! thou hast more discernment than 
 I reckoned upon. If that goose. Sir Loftus, did 
 not spoil thee. Jack, thou wouldst be a very good 
 fellow after all. Why, I must tell you, my good 
 Opal, that lady whom you admire is the sweetest 
 little gipsey in England. 
 
 Op. Is she indeed ? I wish I had taken a better 
 look of her face then ; but she wears such a 
 cursed plume of blue feathers nodding over her 
 nose, there is scarcely one half of it to be seen. 
 Har. (^staring at him with astonishment.') As I 
 breathe! he has fallen in love with the magpie ! 
 Op. And what is so surprising in this, pray ? 
 Does not all the world allow Miss Withrington 
 the heiress to be a fine woman ? 
 
 7 
 
 \ • 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 211 
 
 Har. That is not the licircss, Jack, (pomthifi: off" 
 the stage.) tlie tall lady in tlie middle is her. But 
 if your Dtdcinea could coin her words into far- 
 things, she would be one of the best matches in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 Ojj. Pest take it ! she was pointed out to me as 
 Miss Withrington. Pest take my stupidity! the 
 girl is well enough, but she is not altogether — 
 
 (^Mumbling to himself.) 
 
 Har. So you bestowed all your attention on 
 this blue-feather'd lady, and let the other two 
 pass by unnoticed. 
 
 Op. No, not unnoticed neither : Miss With- 
 rington is too fine a figure to be overlooked any 
 where ; and for the other poor little creature, 
 who hung upon her arm so familiarly, I could not 
 help observing her too, because I wondered Miss 
 Withrington allowed such a dowdy-looking thing 
 to walk with her in public. Faith ! I sent a vulgar- 
 looking devil out of the way on a fool's errand the 
 other morning, who insisted upon going with Pret- 
 tyman and I, to the pump-room: men of fashion, 
 you know, are always plagued with paltry fellows 
 dangling after them. 
 
 Har. Hang your men of fashion ! mere paltry 
 fellows are too good company for them. 
 
 Op. Damn it, Harwood! speak more respect- 
 fully of that class of men to whom I have the 
 honour to belong. 
 
 Har. You mistake me, Opal, it was only the 
 men of fashion I abused ; I am too well bred to 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 speak uncivilly, in our presence, of the other 
 class you mentioned. 
 
 Op. I scorn your insinuation, Sir; but whatever 
 class of men I belong to, I praise heaven I have no- 
 thing of the sour plodding book-worm about me. 
 
 Har. You do well to praise heaven for the en- 
 dowments it has bestowed upon you. Opal ; if all 
 men were as thankful as you for this blessed gift 
 of ignorance, we could not be said to live in an 
 ungrateful generation. 
 
 Op, Talk away, laugh at your own w4t as much 
 as you please, I don't mind it. I don*t trouble 
 my head to find out bons mots of a morning. 
 
 Har. You are very right. Jack, for it would be 
 to no purpose if you did. 
 
 Op. I speak whatever comes readiest to me ; I 
 don't study speeches for company, Harwood. 
 
 Har. I hope so, Opal ; you would have a la- 
 borious life of it, indeed, if you could not speak 
 nonsense extempore. 
 
 Op. (^dr ailing himself up, and rcalking haughtilj/ 
 to the other side of the stage.) 1 had no business 
 to be so familiar with him. Sir Loftus is right ; 
 a reserved manner keeps impertinent people at a 
 distance, (jaside — Twms about, makes a very stiff 
 how to Harwood, and Exit.) 
 
 Har. {alone.') I am glad he is gone. What do I 
 see ? {liere Mariane, Agnes, and Miss Eston 'walk- 
 over the bottom of the stage attended by Sir Loftus 
 and Opal, and Exeunt by the opposite side. Har. 
 looking after them.) Alas, now! that such impudent 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 213 
 
 fellows should be so successful, whilst I stand 
 gazing at a distance ! How Hghtly she trips ! does 
 she not look about to me ? by heaven Til run to 
 her ! (Rtms to the bottom of the stage, and stops 
 short.') Oh no ! I cannot do it ! but see, her 
 uncle comes this way. He look*d so kindly at 
 her, 1 could not help loving him ; he must be a 
 good man ; I'll make up to him, and he perhaps 
 will join the ladies afterwards. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Lodging-house. Enter Royston 
 and Humphry, followed hij Jonathan, car- 
 rying a 'portmanteau. 
 
 Roy. What a world of business I have got 
 upon my hands ! I must set about it immediately. 
 Come here, Jonathan ; I shall send you out in 
 the first place. 
 Jon. Well, Sir. 
 
 Roy. Take the black trunk, that is left in the 
 hall, upon your shoulder, Jonathan, and be sure 
 you don't run against any body with it, for that 
 might bring us into trouble. And perhaps as you 
 go along, you may chance to meet with some of 
 the Duke of Begall's servants, or with somebody 
 who can tell you where his Grace lodges in this 
 town, and you may enquire of them, without say- 
 ing I desired you; you understand me, Jonathan? 
 Jo7i. O yes, your honour ! 
 r 3 
 
214 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Roy. But first of all, however, if you see any 
 decent hair-dresser's shop in your way, desire 
 them to send somebody here for my wig ; and 
 like enough they may tell you, at the same time, 
 where there is an honest Town-crier to be had ; 
 I'll have Phoebe's black whelp cried directly: and 
 hark ye, Jonathan, you may say as though the dog 
 were your own, you understand, they will expect 
 such a devil of a reward else ; and pri'thee, man! 
 step into the corn-market, if thou canst find out 
 the way, and enquire the price of oats. 
 
 Jon. Yes, please your honour, but am I to go 
 trudging about to all these places with that 
 great heavy trunk upon my shoulder ? 
 
 Roy. No, numskull ! did I not bid you carry 
 it to the Inn where the London stage puts up ? 
 by the bye, you had better take it to the wag- 
 gon—but first ask the coachman, what he charges 
 for the carriage : you can take it to the waggon 
 afterwards. I will suffer no man to impose upon 
 me. You will remember all this distinctly now, 
 as I have told it you, Jonathan ? 
 
 Jon. (counting io himself upon hisjiiigersy O 
 yes, your honour ! I'll manage it all, I warrant ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Roy, What a world of business I have upon 
 my hands, Humphry j I am as busy as a minister 
 of state. 
 
 Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 
 
 Jon. La your honour ! I have forgot all about 
 his Grace, and the black whelp. 
 
 Roy. Damn your muddle pate ! did not I bid 
 
THE TRYAL : A COJMEDY. 215 
 
 you enquire where iiis gruee lives, and if you 
 happen to see — 
 
 Jon. Ods bodickins ! 1 remember it every 
 word now ! and the whelp is to be called by the 
 Town-crier, just as one would call any thing 
 that is lost. 
 
 Roy. Yes, yes, go about it speedily. (^Ejcit 
 JoN.) Now in the first place, my good Humphry, 
 I must see after the heiress I told you of; and 
 it is a business which requires a great deal of 
 management too ; for — 
 
 Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 
 Damn that dunder-headed fool! here he is again. 
 Jo7i. Your honour won't be angry now, but 
 hang me, if I can tell whether I am to take that 
 there trunk to the coach, or the waggon. 
 
 Roi/. Take it to the coach— -no, no, to the 
 waggon — yes, yes, I should have said — pest 
 take it ! carry it where thou wilt, fool, and plague 
 me no more about it. (^E.tit Jon.) One might 
 as well give directions to a horse-block. Now, 
 as I was saying, Humphry, this requires a great 
 deal of management j for if the lady don't like 
 me, she may happen to like my son : so I must 
 feel my way a little, before I speak directly to 
 the purpose. 
 
 Humph. Ay, your honour is always feeling 
 your way. 
 
 Roy, And as for the Duke, I will ply him as 
 close as I can with solicitations in the mean 
 time, without altogether stating my request: for 
 
 p 4 
 
216 THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 
 
 if I get the lady, George shall have the office, 
 and if he gets the lady, I shall have the office. 
 So we shall have two chances in our favour both 
 ways, my good Humphry. 
 
 Humph. Belike, Sir, if we were to take but one 
 business in hand at a time, we might come 
 better off at the long run. 
 
 Roy. O ! thou hast no head for business, 
 Humphry : thou hast no genius for business, my 
 good Humphry, (smiling conceitedlt/ .') 
 
 Humph. Why, for certain, your honour has a 
 marvellous deal of wit ; but I don't know how it 
 is, nothing that we take in hand ever comes to 
 any good ; and what provokes me more than all 
 the rest, is, that the more pains we take about 
 it, the worse it always succeeds. 
 
 Roy. Humph ! we can't guard against every 
 cross accident. 
 
 Humph. To be sure, Sir, cross accidents will 
 happen to every body, but certes ! we have 
 more than our own share of them. 
 
 Boy. Well, don't trouble yourself about it : I 
 have head enough to manage my own affiiirs, and 
 more than my own too. Why, my lord Slumber 
 can't even grant a new lease, nor imprison a vaga- 
 bond for poacliing, without my advice and direc- 
 tion: did 1 not manage all Mr. Harebrain's elec- 
 tion for him? and, but for one of these cursed ac- 
 cidents or two, had brought him in for his Borough, 
 as neatly as my glove. Nay, if his Grace and I 
 get into good understanding together, there ifv no 
 
THE TllYAL : A COMEDY. ^17 
 
 knowing, but I may have affairs of the nation 
 upon my hands. Ha, ha, ha! poor Humphry, thou 
 hast no comprehension of all this : thou think'st 
 me a very wonderful man, dost thou not? 
 
 Humph. I must own I do sometimes marvel 
 at your honour. 
 
 Enter Mr. Withrington. 
 
 Roy. Ha ! how do you do, my dear cousin ? I 
 hope I have the happiness of seeing you in good 
 health: 1 am heartily rejoiced to see you, my very 
 good Sir. (Shaking him heartily by the hand.) 
 
 With. I thank you, Sir, you are welcome to 
 Bath J I did not expect the pleasure of seeing 
 you here. 
 
 Roy. Why, my dear worthy Sir, I am a man 
 of so much business, so toss'd about, so harassed 
 with a multiplicity of affairs, that, I protest, I 
 can't tell myself one day what part of the world 
 I shall be in the next. 
 
 With. You give yourself a great deal of 
 trouble, Mr. Royston. 
 
 Roy. O ! hang it ! I never spare myself : I 
 must work to make others work, cousin With- 
 rington. I have got a world of new alterations 
 going on at Royston-hall j if you would take a 
 trip down to see them — 
 
 With. I am no great traveller, Sir. 
 
 Roy. I have ploughed up the bowling-green, 
 and cut down the elm trees ; I have built new 
 
•^18 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 stables, and filPd up the horse-pond ; I have dug 
 up the orchard, and pull'd down the old fruit- 
 wall, where that odd little temple used to stand. 
 
 TFith. And is the little temple pulled down 
 too ? pray, what has become of your Vicar's 
 sister, M rs. Mary ? we drunk tea with her there, 
 1 remember ; is she married yet ? she was a very 
 modest-looking gentlewoman. 
 
 Moj/. So you remember her too ? Well, I have 
 pull'd down every foot of it, and built a new 
 cart-house with the bricks. — Good commodious 
 stalls for thirty horses, cousin Withrington ; they 
 beat Sir John Houndly's all to nothing : it is as 
 clever, a well-constructed building as any in the 
 country. 
 
 TVith. Has Sir John built a new house in the 
 country ? 
 
 Iloi/. No, no, the stables I say. 
 
 IFith. O ! you are talking of the stables again- 
 
 Roi/. But when I get the new addition to the 
 mansion-house finished, that will be the grand 
 improvement : the best carpenters' work in the 
 country, my dear Sir, all well-season'd timber from 
 Norway. 
 
 Hump/i. It is part of a disputed wreck. Sir, and 
 if the law-suit about the right to it turns out in 
 my master's favour, as it should do, it will be 
 the cheapest built house in the country. O ! let 
 his honour alone for making a bargain. 
 
 With. So you have got a law-suit on your hands, 
 Mr. Royston ? I hope you are not much addicted 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 219 
 
 to this kind of amusement ; you will find it a 
 very expensive one. 
 
 Roy. Bless you, my good Sir, I am the most 
 peaceable creature in the world, but I will suffer 
 no man to impose upon me. 
 
 JVith, (.smiliug.) But you suffer the women 
 sometimes to do so, do you not ? 
 
 Humph. No, nor the women neither. Sir ; for 
 it was but th' other day that he prosecuted widow 
 Gibson, for letting her chickens feed amongst 
 his corn, and it was given in his honour's favour, 
 as in right it should have been. 
 
 TFitli. (archly.) And who was adjudged to pay 
 the expences of court, Mr. Humphry ? 
 
 Humph. Ay, to be sure, his honour was obliged 
 to pay that. 
 
 Trith. (archly.) But the widow paid swingingly 
 for it, I suppose ? 
 
 Humph. Nay 'faith, after all, they but fined 
 her in a sixpence; yet that always shew'd, you 
 know, that she was in the wrong. 
 
 With. To be sure, Mr. Humphry; and the 
 sixpence would indemnify yoiu' master for the 
 costs of suit. 
 
 Humph. Nay, as a body may say, he might as 
 well have let her alone, for any great matter he 
 made of it that way; but it was very wrong in her, 
 you know. Sir, to let her hens go amongst his 
 honour's corn, when she knew very well she was 
 too poor to make up the loss to his honour. 
 
 With. Say no more about it, my good Hum- 
 
220 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 phry ; you have vindicated your master most 
 ably, and I have no doubts at all in regard to 
 the propriety of his conduct. 
 
 Humph, (yerywell pleased.') Ay, thank God, 
 I do sometimes make shift, in my poor way, to 
 edge in a word for his honour. 
 
 Roy. (not so well pleased.) Thou art strangely 
 given to prating this morning, (to Humph.) By 
 the bye, cousin Withrington, I must consult you 
 about my application to his Grace. 
 
 Humph, (aside to Royston, pulling him by the 
 sleeve.) You forget to ask for the lady, Sir. 
 
 With, (^turning round.) What did you say of 
 his Grace ? 
 
 Roy. No, no, I should — I meant — did I 
 not say the gracious young lady your niece ? I 
 hope she is well. 
 
 With, (smiling.) She is very well 5 you shall 
 go home with me, and visit her. 
 
 Roy. I am infinitely obliged to you, my worthy 
 good Sir ; I shall attend you with the greatest 
 pleasure. Some ladies have no dislike to a good- 
 looking gentleman-like man, although he may be 
 past the bloom of his youth, cousin ; however, 
 young men do oftener carry the day, I believe : 
 my son George is a good likely fellow ; I ex- 
 pect him in Batli every hour. I shall have 
 the honour of following you, my dear Sir. Re- 
 member my orders, Humphry. 
 
 [ExEUNTe 
 
THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 221 
 
 Enter Harwood Jiastil^, lookmg round as if he 
 sought some one^ and ivere disapiminted. 
 Har. (alone.) He is gone, I liave miss'd the 
 good uncle of Agnes — what is the matter with 
 me now, that the sound of an old man's voice 
 should agitate me thus ? did I not feel it was the 
 sound of something which belonged to her ? in 
 faith ! I believe, if her kitten was to mew, I 
 should hasten to hold some intercourse with it. 
 I can stay in this cursed house no longer, and 
 when I do go out, there is but one way these legs 
 of mine will carry me — the alley which leads to 
 her dwelling — Well, well, I have been but six 
 times there to-day already ; I may have a chance 
 of seeing her at last — I'll run after the old gen- 
 tleman now — what a delightful witch it is ! 
 
 [Exit hastihj. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Withrington's house. Agnes and Mariane 
 discovered ; Mariane reading a letter, and 
 Agnes looking earnestly and gladly in her face. 
 
 Ag. My friend Edward is well, I see ; pray 
 what does the traveller say for himself? 
 
 Mar. {putting up the letter.) You shall read 
 it all by and by — every thing that is pleasant 
 and kind. 
 
 Ag. Heaven prosper you both ! you are hap- 
 pier than I am with all my fortune, Mariane j 
 you have a sincere lover. 
 
 Mar. And so have you, Agnes : Harwood will 
 
222 THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 
 
 bear the trial : I have watch 'd him closely, and 
 I will venture my word upon him. 
 
 Ag. (talcing her in her arms.) Now if thou art 
 not deceiv'd, thou art the dearest sweet cousin on 
 earth ! (Pausing and looking seriouslij.') All no ! 
 it cannot be ! I am but an ordinary-looking girl, 
 as my uncle says. (With tivacitij.) I would it 
 were so ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser, Sir Loftus Prettyman and Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mar. I am at home. (Eiit Servant.) I can't 
 attend to these fools till I have put up my letter : 
 do you receive them ; I will soon return. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Loftus and Opal, dress* d pretty much 
 alilce. Sir Loftus makes a haughty distant 
 bow to Agnes, and Opal makes anotlicr very 
 like it. 
 
 Ag. Have the goodness to be seated. Sir, (to 
 Sir Loftus.) Pray, Sir, (to Ojial^ making a cour- 
 teous 7notion as if she wished them to sit down.) 
 Miss Withrington will be here immediately. (Sir 
 Loftus makes a slight hoxo without speaking ; 
 Opal does the same, and both saunter about with 
 their hats in their hands.) 
 
 Ag. I hope you had a pleasant walk after we 
 left you. Sir Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (looking affectedly^ as if he did not 
 understand her,) I beg pardon — O ! you were 
 along with Miss Withrington. (Mumbling some- 
 thing which is not heard.) 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 2*23 
 
 Ag. (to Op.) You are fond of that walk, Mr. 
 Opal: I think I have seen you there frequently. 
 
 O/;. Ma'am, you are very — (mitmbling some- 
 thing ti-/ifcl/ is not Jieardy in the same manner tvit/i 
 Sir Loftus, hut still more absurd.^ I do some- 
 times walk — (inumhUng again.) 
 
 Ag. (to Sir Loft.) The country is delightful 
 round Bath. 
 
 Sir Loft. Ma*am! 
 
 Ag. Don't you think so, Mr. Opal. 
 
 Op. 'Pon honour I never attended to it. (A 
 long pause ; Sir Loftus and Opal strut about 
 conceitedly. Enter Mariano, a7id both of them 
 run up to her at once, xcith great pleasure and 
 alacrity.') 
 
 Sir Loft. I hope I see Miss Withrington entirely 
 recovered from the fatigues of the morning ? 
 
 Mar. Pretty well, after the fatigue of dressing 
 too, which is a great deal worse. Sir Loftus. 
 (carelessly.) 
 
 Op. For the ball, I presume ? 
 
 Sir Loft. I am deliglited — 
 
 Mar. (addressing herself to Agnes, without at- 
 tending to him.) Do you know what a provoking 
 mistake my milliner has made ? 
 
 A^. I don't know. 
 
 Sir Loft. I hope. Madam — 
 
 Mar. (to Ag.) She has made up my dress with 
 the colour of all others I dislike. 
 
 Oj}. This is very provoking indeed, I would — 
 
 Mar. (still speaking to Ag. xvithout attending to 
 
224 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 them.) And she has sent home my petticoat all 
 patched over with scraps of foil, like a Mayday 
 dress for a chimney-sweeper. 
 
 Sir Loft, {thrusting in his face near Mariane, 
 a7id endeavouring to he attended to.) A very good 
 comparison, ha, ha! 
 
 Op. {thrusting in his face at the other side of her.) 
 Very good indeed, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Mar. {still spealdng to Agnes, w//o xcinks signi- 
 ficantly without attending to them.) I'll say nothing 
 about it, but never employ her again. 
 
 Sir Loft, {going round to her other ear^ and 
 making another attempt.) I am delighted. Miss 
 Withrington — 
 
 Mar. {carelessly.) Are you, Sir Loftus ? {To 
 Agnes,) I have broken my fan, pray put it by with 
 your own, my dear Agnes! {Edit Agnes into the 
 ajdoining roomy and Sir Loftus gives Opal a sig- 
 nificant looky upon which he retires to the bot- 
 tom of the stagey andy after sauntering a little 
 therey Exit.) 
 
 Sir Loft, {seeming a little piqued.) If you would 
 have done me the honour to hear me, Ma'am, 
 I should have said, I am delighted to see you 
 dress' d, as I hope I may presume from it you 
 intend going to the ball to-night. 
 
 Mar. Indeed I am too capricious to know whe- 
 ther I do ornot; do you think it will be pleasant? 
 
 Sir Loft. Very pleasant, if the devotions of a 
 thousand admirers can make it so. 
 
 Mar. O! the devotions of a thousand admirers. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 2^5 
 
 are like the good will of every body ; one steady 
 friendship is worth it all. 
 
 Sir Loft. From which may I infer, that one 
 faithful adorer, in your eyes, outvalues all the 
 thousand? (^affecting to be tender.') Ah ! so would 
 I have Miss Withrington to believe ! and if that 
 can be any inducement, she will find such a one 
 there, most happy to attend her. 
 
 Mar. Will she? I wonder who this may be : 
 what kind of man is he, pray ? 
 
 Sir Lqft. (with a conceited simper, at the same 
 time in a pompous manner.') Perhaps it will not be 
 boasting too much to say, he is a man of fashion, 
 and not altogether insignificant in the world. 
 
 Mar. Handsome and accomplish'd too, Sir 
 Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft. I must not presume, Ma'am, to boast 
 of my accomplishments. 
 
 Mar. (affecting a look of disappointment.) O! 
 lud ! so it is yourself after all ! I have not so much 
 penetration as I thought. ( Yaw?iitig twice very 
 wide.) Bless me ! what makes me yawn so ? I 
 forgot to visit my old woman, who sells the cakes, 
 this morning; that must be it. ( Yawning again.) 
 Do you love gingerbread. Sir Loftus? (Sir Loftus 
 bites his lips, and struts proudly away to the other 
 side of the stage, whilst Agne^ peeps f^om the closet, 
 and makes signs of encouragement to Mariane.) 
 
 Mar. Well, after all, I believe it will be plea- 
 sant enough to go to the ball, with such an ac- 
 complished attendant. 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Sir Loft, (taking encouragementy and smotliering 
 his pride.) Are you so obliging, Miss Withring- 
 ton ? will you permit me to have the happiness 
 of" attending you ? 
 
 Mar. Ifyou'U promise to make it very agreeable 
 to me : you are fond of dancing, I suppose ? 
 
 Sir Loft, ril do any thing you desire me ; but 
 why throw away time so precious in the rough 
 familiar exercise of" dancing ? is there not some- 
 thing more distinguished, more refined, in enjoy- 
 ing the conversation of those we love ? 
 
 Mar. In the middle of a crowd, Sir Lofitus ? 
 
 Sir Loft. What is that crowd to us ? we have 
 nothing to do but to despise it : whilst they stare 
 upon us with vulgar admiration, we shall talk to- 
 gether, smile together, attend only to each other, 
 like beings of a different order. 
 
 Mar. O ! that will be delightful ! but don*t you 
 think we may just peep slyly over our shoulder 
 now and then, to see them admiring us ? (Sir 
 Loftus bites his lips again^ and struts to the bottom 
 of the stage^ whilstAgnes peeps out from the closet 
 and makes signs to Mariane.) 
 
 Mar. {carelessly pulling a small case from her 
 pocket.') Are not these handsome brilliants, Sir 
 Loftus ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (very much struck with the sparkling of 
 the diamonds, hit pretending not to look at them.) 
 Upon my word, Ma'am, I am no judge of trinkets. 
 
 Mar. They are clumsily set ; I shall give them 
 to my cousin. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. S27 
 
 SirLoft. {forgetting himself.^ Why, Ma*am, do 
 you seriously mean — They are of a most incom- 
 parable water ! 
 
 Mar. {archil).') I thought you had not attended 
 to them. 
 
 Sir Loft, {tenderly.') It is impossible, in the 
 presence of Miss Withrington, to think of any 
 thing but the cruelty with which she imposes 
 silence on a heart that adores her. 
 
 Mar. Nay, you entirely mistake me, Sir 
 Loftus ; I am ready to hear you with the greatest 
 good-nature imaginable. 
 
 Sir Loft. It is a theme, perhaps, on which my 
 tongue would too long dwell. 
 
 Mar. O ! not at all ; I have leisure and a great 
 deal of patience too, at present j I beg you would 
 by no means hurry yourself. 
 
 Sir Lojt. {after a pause, looking foolish and em- 
 barrassed.) Few words, perhaps, will better suit 
 the energy of passion. 
 
 Mar. Just asyou please, Sir Loftus; ifyouchuse 
 to say it in a few words I am very well satisfied. 
 {Another pause. Sir Loftus very much embar- 
 rassed.) 
 
 Enter Withrington and Harwood : Sir 
 Loftus seems much relieved. 
 
 Sir Loft, {aside.) Heaven be praised, they are 
 come! 
 
 Mar. {to With.) I thought you were to have 
 brought Mr. Royston with you. 
 
 With. He left us at a shop by the way, to en- 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 quire the price oftiirnip-seed ; but he will be here 
 by-and-by, if a hundred other things do not pre- 
 vent him. (Bows to Sir Lof'tus ; then turns to Har- 
 wood, and speaks as if he resumed a coywersation 
 which had just been broken ojf, whilst Sir Loftus 
 and Mariane retire to the bottomqfthe stage.") I per- 
 fectly agree withyou, Mr. Harwood,t]iat the study 
 and preparation requisite for your profession is not 
 altogether a dry treasuring up of facts in the me- 
 mory, as many of your young students conceive : 
 he who pleads the cause of man before fellow- 
 men, must know what is in the heart of man as 
 well as in the book of records j and what study 
 is there in nature so noble, so interesting as this ? 
 
 Har. But the most pleasing part of our task, 
 my good Sir, is not the least difficult. Where 
 application only is wanting I shall not be left be- 
 hind ; for I am not without ambition, though the 
 younger son of a family by no means affluent ; 
 'and I have a widowed mother, whose hopes of 
 seeing me respectable must not be disappointed. 
 I assure you there is nothing — {Listening.) 
 
 With. Go on, Mr. Harwood, I have great 
 pleasure in hearing you. 
 
 Har. 1 thought I heard a door move. 
 
 With. It is Agnes in the next room, I dare say j 
 she is always making a noise. 
 
 Har. In the next room ! 
 
 With. But you were going to assure me — 
 Have the goodness to proceed. 
 
 Har. I was going to say — I rather think I 
 said — I am sure — {Listening again.) 
 
THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 2^9 
 
 With. Poo ! there is nobody there. 
 
 Har. %Vell, I said — I think I told you — In 
 faith, my good Sir, I will tell you honestly, I 
 have forgot what I meant to say. 
 
 TFith. No matter, you will remember it again. 
 Hajia, ha ! it puts me in mind of a little accident 
 which happened to myself when I was in Lin- 
 coln's-Inn. Two or three of us met one evening, 
 to be cheerful togetlier, and — (^Whilst ^Viihrmg- 
 ton begins his story, Agnes enters sojtlijfrom the 
 adjoining closet unperceived ; but Harwood, on see- 
 ing hery runs eagerly up to her^ leaving Withring- 
 ton astonished, in the middle of his discourse.) 
 
 Har. (^to Ag.) Ha ! after so many false alarms, 
 you steal upon us at last like a little thief. 
 
 Ag. And I steal something very good from you 
 too, if you lose my uncle*s story by this interrup- 
 tion ; for I know by his face he was telling one. 
 
 With. Raillery is not always well-timed, Miss 
 Agnes Withrington. 
 
 Ag. Nay, do not be cross with us, Sir. Mr. 
 Harwood knew it was too good to be spent upon 
 one pair of ears, so he calls in another to partake. 
 
 With. Get along, baggage. 
 
 Ag. So 1 will, uncle j for I know that only 
 means with you, that I should place myself close 
 to your elbow. 
 
 With, Well, two or three of us young fellows 
 were met — did I not say — 
 
 Ag. At Lincoln*s-Inn. (Withrington hesitates.) 
 
 Har. She has named it. 
 Q 3 
 
250 THE TRYAL *. A COMEDY. 
 
 With. I know well enough it was there. And if 
 I remember well, George Buckner was one of us. 
 ( Agnes gives a gentle hem to suppress a cough,') 
 
 Har. (eagerly.') You was going to speak, Miss 
 Withrington ? 
 
 Ag, No, indeed, I was not. 
 
 With. Well, George Buckner and two or three 
 more of us — We were in a very pleasant humour 
 that night — (Agnes, making a slight motion of her 
 hand to fasten some pin in her dress.) 
 
 Har. (eagerly.) Do you not want something? 
 (To Agnes.) 
 
 Ag. No, I thank you, 1 want nothing. 
 
 With. (Jialf amused, half peevish.) Nay, say 
 what you please to one another, for my story is 
 ended. 
 
 Har, My dear Sir, we are perfectly attentive. 
 
 Ag. Now, pray, uncle ! 
 
 With, (to Ag.) Now pray hold thy tongue. I 
 forgot, I must consult the Court Calendar on 
 Royston's account. (Goes to a table, and takes up 
 a red book,- which he turns over.) 
 
 Ag, (to Har.) Howcouldyoudo sotomyuncle? 
 I would not have interrupted him for the world. 
 
 Har, Ay, chide me well ; I dearly love to be 
 chidden. 
 
 Ag. Do not invite me to it. I am said to have 
 a very good gift that way, and you will soon have 
 too much of it, I believe. 
 
 Har, O no ! I would come every hour to be 
 chidden ! 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 1^31 
 
 Jg. And take it meekly too ? 
 
 Har. Nay, I would have my revenge : I should 
 call you scolding Agnes, and little Agnes, and 
 my little Agnes. 
 
 Ag. You forget my dignity, Mr. Harwood. 
 
 Har. Oh ! you put all dignity out of counte- 
 nance ! The great Mogul himself would forget 
 his own in your presence. 
 
 Ag. But they are going to the garden : I am 
 resolved to be one of the party. (As she goes to 
 join Sir Loftus and Mariane, who opefi a glass 
 door leading to the garden^ Harwood goes before, 
 walking backxvardSy and his face turned to her.) 
 You will break your pate presently, if you walk 
 with that retrograde step, like a dancing-master 
 giving me a lesson. Do you think I shall follow 
 you as if you had the fiddle in your hand ? 
 
 Har. Ah, Miss Withrington ! it is you who 
 have got the fiddle, and I who must follow, 
 
 [Exeunt into the garden.. 
 
 Re-enter Sir LoFTUs^rom the Garden, looking 
 about for his hat. 
 
 Sir Loft. O ! here it is. 
 
 E7iter Opal. 
 
 Op. What, here alone ? 
 
 Sir Loft. Slie is in the garden, I shall join her 
 immediately. 
 
 Op, All goes on well, 1 suppose ? 
 Q 4 
 
232 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Sir Loft. Why, I don't know how it is — no- 
 body hears us ? {Looking round.') I don't know 
 how it is, but she does not seem to comprehend 
 perfectly in what light I am regarded by the 
 world : that is to say, by that part of it which 
 deserves to be called so. 
 
 Op. No ! that is strange enough. 
 
 Sir Lojt. Upon my honour, she treats me with 
 as much careless familiarity as if I were some 
 plain neighbour's son in the country. 
 
 Op. 'Pon honour this is very strange. 
 
 Sir Loft. I am not without hopes of succeeding; 
 but I will confess to you, 1 wish she would change 
 her manner of behaving to me. On the word of 
 a gentleman, it is shocking ! Suppose you were 
 to give her a hint, that she may just have an idea 
 of the respect which is paid by every well-bred 
 person — You understand me, Opal? 
 
 Op. O ! perfectly. I shall give her to know 
 that men like us, my dear friend — 
 
 Sir Loft, (not quite satisfied.') I don't know — 
 Suppose you were to leave out all mention of 
 yourself — Your own merit could not fail to be 
 inferred. 
 
 Op, Well, I shall do so. 
 
 Sir Loft. Let us go to the garden, [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Miss Eston, speaking as she enters, 
 
 I have been all over the town, and here I am at 
 last, quite tired to death. How do you — (ZooA- 
 
 15 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. ^33 
 
 ing round.') O la ! there is nobody here. Mr. 
 Opal is gone too. 1*11 wait till they return. {Takes 
 up a book, then looks at herself in the glass, then 
 takes up the book again. Yawning.) *Tis all about 
 the imagination and the understanding, and I 
 don't know what — 1 dare say it is good enough 
 to read of a Sunday. (Yaw?is, and lays it down.) 
 O la ! I wish they would come ! 
 
 Enter Royston, a7id takes Miss EsxoN^r Miss 
 
 WiTHRINGTON. 
 
 Roy. Madam, I have the honour to be your 
 very humble servant. — I hoped to have been here 
 sooner, but I have been so overwhelmed with a 
 multiplicity of affairs ; and you know. Madam, 
 when that is the case — 
 
 Est. {taking the word out of his mouth.) One 
 is never master of one's time for a moment. Pm 
 sure I have been all over the town this morning, 
 looking after a hundred things, till my head has 
 been put into such a confusion ! " La, Ma'am !" 
 said my milliner, " do take some lavender drops, 
 you look so pale." — "Why," says I, " I don't 
 much like to take them, Mrs. Trollop, they an't 
 always good." 
 
 Roy. No more they are. Ma'am, you are very 
 right J and if a silly fellow, I know, had taken my 
 advice last year, and brought up the crops of la- 
 vender, he would have made — 
 
 Est. {taking the word from him again.) Avery 
 good fortune, I dare say. But people never will 
 
234 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 take advice, which is very foolish in them, to be 
 sure. Now I always take — 
 
 Roy. Be so good as to hear me, Ma'am. 
 
 Est. Certainly, Sir ; for I always say, if they 
 give me advice it is for my good, and why should 
 not I take it ? 
 
 Roy. (^edging in his *word as fast as he can.) 
 And the damn'd foolish fellow too ! I once saved 
 him from being cheated in a horse ; and — 
 
 Est. La ! there are such cheats ! a friend of 
 mine bought a little lap-dog the other day — 
 
 Roy. But the horse, Ma'am, was — 
 
 Est. Not worth a guinea, I dare say. Why, 
 they had the impudence to palm it on my friend — 
 
 {Both speaking together.) 
 
 Est. As a pretty little dog which had been bred 
 Roy. It was a good mettled horse, and might 
 E. up for a lady of quality, and when she had 
 R. have passed a good purchase at the money, 
 E. just made a cushion for it at the foot of her 
 R. but on looking, his fore feet — (Stops short, 
 
 and lets her go on.) 
 
 E. own bed, she found it was all over mangy. 
 
 I'm sure I would rather have a plain wholesome 
 
 cat than the prettiest mangy dog in the kingdom. 
 Roy. Certainly, Ma'am. And I assure you 
 
 the horse — for says I to the groom — 
 
 (Both speaking together.) 
 Est. O ! I dare say it was — and who would 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. Q35 
 
 Roy. What is the matter with this pastern, 
 E, have suspected that a dog bred up on pur- 
 R. Thomas ? it looks as if it were rubbed — 
 {Stops short again, and looks at her with astonish- 
 ment as sJie goes on talking.) 
 
 E. pose for a lady of quality, should be all over 
 so ! Nasty creature ! It had spots upon its back 
 as large as my watch. {Taking up her watch.) O 
 la ! I am half an hour after my time. My man- 
 tua-makeris waiting for me. Good morning, Sir ! 
 
 [Exit, hastily. 
 Roy. {looking after her.) Clack, clack, clack, 
 clack ! What a devil of a tongue she has got ! 
 'Faith ! George shall have her, and I'll e'en ask 
 the place for myself. {Looking out.) But there 
 is company in the garden : I'll go and join them. 
 
 [Exit to the garden. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington'5 House. A 
 loud laughing without. Enter Royston, in a 
 great rage. 
 
 Roy. Ay, ay, laugh away, laugh away. Madam! 
 you'll weep by-and-by, mayhap. {Pauses and 
 listens-, laughing still lie ard.) What an infernal 
 noise the jade makes ! I wish she had a peck of 
 chaff in her mouth ! I am sure it is wide enough 
 to hold it. 
 
^36 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Enter Humphry. 
 
 Humph. Ihave been seeking your honourever y 
 where — Lord, Sir! I have something to tell you. 
 
 Roi/. Confound your tales ! don't trouble me 
 with a parcel of nonsense. 
 
 Humph, (staring at him, and hearing the laugh- 
 ing without.) For certain, your honour, there's 
 somebody in this house merrier than you or I. 
 
 Roi/. Damn you, Sir 1 how do you know I am 
 not merry ? Go home, and do what I ordered you 
 directly. If that fellow Jonathan is not in the 
 way, I'll horse- whip him within an inch of his 
 life. Begone, I say ; why do you stand staring 
 at me like a madman ? [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mariane and Agnes, by opposite sides. 
 
 Mar. (holding her sides.) I shan't be able to 
 laugh again for a month. 
 
 Ag. You have got rid of one lover, who will 
 scarcely attempt you a second time. I have met 
 him hurrying through the hall, and muttering to 
 himself like a m adman. It is not your refusal 
 of his son that has so roused him. 
 
 Mar. No, no ; he began his courtship in a 
 doubtful way, as if he would recommend a gay 
 young husband to my choice ; but a sly compli- 
 ment to agreeable men of a middle age, brought 
 him soon to speak plainly for himself. 
 
 Ag. But how did you provoke him so ? 
 
THE TIIYAL : A COMEDY. 2.37 
 
 Mar. 1 will tell you another time. It is later 
 than I thought. {Looking at her wa/ch.) 
 
 Ag. Don't go yet. How stands it with you 
 and a certain gentleman I recommended to your 
 notice ? 
 
 Mar. O ! he does not know whether I am tall 
 or short, brown or fair, foolish or sensible, after all 
 the pains I have taken with him ; he has eyes, ears, 
 and understanding, for nobody but you, Agnes, 
 and I will attempt him no more. He spoke to 
 me once with animation in his countenance, and 
 I turned round to listen to him eagerly, but it was 
 only to repeat to me something you had just said, 
 which, to deal plainly with you, had not much wit 
 in it neither. I don't know how it is, he seemed to 
 me at first a pleasanter man than he proves to be. 
 
 Ag. Say not so, Mariane ! he proves to be 
 most admirable 1 
 
 Mar. Well, be it so ; he cannot prove better 
 than I wish him to do, and I can make up my list 
 without him. I have a love-letter from an Irish 
 baronet in my pocket, and Opal will declare him- 
 self presently. — I thought once he meant only to 
 plead for his friend; but I would not let him off 
 so, for I know he is a mercenary creature. I 
 have flattered him a little at the expence of Sir 
 Loftus, and I hope, ere long, to see him set up 
 for a great man upon his own bottom. 
 
 Ag. So it was only to repeat to you something 
 that I had been saying ? 
 
 Mar. Ha ! you are thinking of this still. I be- 
 
^38 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 lieve, indeed, he sets down every turn of your eye 
 in his memory, and acts it all over in secret. 
 
 Ag. Do you think so! give me your hand, my 
 dear Mariane ; you are a very good cousin to me — 
 Marks every turn of mine eye ! I am not quite 
 such an ordinary girl as my uncle says — My com- 
 plexion is as good as your own, Mariane, if it were 
 not a little sun-burnt. (Mariane smiles.) Yes, 
 smile at my vanity as you please ; for what makes 
 me vain, makes me so good-humoured too, that 
 I will forgive you. But here comes uncle. (Skip- 
 jpingas she goes to meet him.) I am light as an air- 
 ball ! (Enter Mr. Withrington.) My dear Sir, how 
 long you have been away from us this morning ! I 
 am delighted to see you so pleased and so happy. 
 
 With, (with a nery sour face.) You are mis- 
 taken, young lady, I am not so pleased as you 
 think. 
 
 Ag, O no. Sir ! you are very good-humoured. 
 Isn't he, Mariane ? 
 
 With. But I say I am in a very bad humour. 
 Get along with your foolery ! 
 
 Ag. Is it really so ? Let me look in your face, 
 uncle. To be sure your brows are a little knit, 
 and your eyes a little gloomy, but that is nothing 
 to be called bad humour ; if I could not contrive 
 to look crabbeder than all this comes to, I would 
 never pretend to be ill-humoured in my life. 
 (Mariane and Agnes take him by the handsy and 
 begin to play with him.) 
 
 With. No, no, young ladies, I am not in a 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. i239 
 
 mood to be j)layed with. I can't approve of every 
 fiirce you please to play off in my family ; nor to 
 have my relations affronted, and driven from my 
 house for your entertainment. 
 
 Mar. Indeed, Sir, I treated Royston better than 
 he deserved ; for he would not let me have time to 
 give a civil denial, but ran on planning settle- 
 ments and jointures, and a hundred things be- 
 sides: I could just get in my word to stop his 
 career with a flat refusal, as he was about to pro- 
 vide for our descendants of the third generation. 
 O ! if you had seen his face then, uncle ! 
 
 JVith. I know very well how you have treated 
 him. 
 
 Ag. Don't be angry, Sir. What does a man 
 like Royston care for a refusal ? he is only angry 
 that he can't take the law of her for lausrhins: at 
 him. 
 
 TFith. Let this be as it may, I don't chuse to 
 have my house in a perpetual bustle from morn- 
 ing till night, with your plots and your pastimes. 
 There is no more order nor distinction kept up in 
 my house, than if it were a cabin in Kamschatka, 
 and common to a whole tribe. In every corner of 
 it I find some visitor, or showman, or milliner's 
 apprentice, loitering about : my best books are 
 cast upon footstools and window-seats, and my li- 
 brary is littered over with work-bags; dogs, cats, 
 and kittens, take possession of every chair, and 
 refuse to be disturbed : and the very beggar chil- 
 dren go hopping before my door with their halfl 
 
S40 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 eaten scraps in tlieir hands, as if it were the 
 entry to a workhouse. 
 
 Ag. (clapping his shoulder gently,) Now don't 
 be impatient, my dear Sir, and every thing shall 
 be put into such excellent order as shall delight 
 you to behold. And as for the beggar children, if 
 any of them dare but to set their noses near the 
 house ril — What shall I do with them, Sir ? 
 (Pauses^ and looks in his Jace, which begins to re- 
 lent.') I believe we must not be very severe with 
 them after all. (Both take his hands and coaa: 
 him.) 
 
 With, Come, come, off hands, and let me sit 
 down. I am tired of this. 
 
 Ag, Yes, uncle, and here is one seat, you see, 
 with no cat upon it. (Withrington sits down^ and 
 Agnes takes a little stool and sits down at hisjeetf 
 curling her nose as she looks up to him, and making 
 a good-humoured Jace.) 
 
 With. Well, it may be pleasant enough, girls ; 
 but allow me to say, all this playing, and laugh- 
 ing, and hoidening about, is notgentlewomanlike j 
 nay, I might say, is not maidenly. A high-bred 
 elegant woman, is a creature which man ap- 
 proaches with awe and respect; but nobody would 
 think of accosting you with such impressions, 
 any more than if you were a couple of young 
 female tinkers. 
 
 Ag. Don't distress yourself about this. Sir j we 
 shall get the men to bow to us, and tremble be- 
 
THE TIIYAL : A COMEDY. 241 
 
 fore us too, as well as e'er a hoop petticoat or long 
 ruffles of them all. 
 
 With. Tremble before you ! ha, ha, ha! (To 
 Agnes.) Who would tremble before thee, dost 
 thou think ? 
 
 Ag. No despicable man, perhaps: What think 
 you of your favourite, Harwood ? 
 
 With. Poo, poo, poo ! he is pleased with thee 
 as an amusing and good-natured creature, and 
 thou thinkest he is in love with thee, forsooth. 
 
 Ag. A good-natured creature ! he shall think 
 me a vixen and be pleased with me. 
 
 With. No, no, not quite so far gone, I believe. 
 
 Ag. I'll bet you two hundred pounds that it 
 is so. If I win, you shall pay it to Mariane for 
 wedding trinkets ; and if you win, you may 
 build a couple of alms-houses. 
 
 With. Well, be it so. We shall see, we shall 
 see. 
 
 Mar. Indeed we shall see you lose your bet, 
 uncle. 
 
 With, (to Mar.) Yes, baggage, I shall have 
 your prayers against me, I know. 
 
 Enter Servant, and announces Mr. Opal. Enter 
 Opal. 
 
 Op. (to Mar.) I hope I have the pleasure of see- 
 ing Miss Withrington well this morning. (Bozvs 
 distantly fo Withrington, and still more so to Agne?,^ 
 after the manner ofSiv Loftus.) 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 With, Your servant, Sir. 
 
 Mar. (to Op.) How did you like the ball last 
 night ? There was a gay, genteel-looking com- 
 pany. 
 
 Op. (with affected superiority.') Excepting Lord 
 Saunter, and Lord Poorly, and Sir Loftus, and 
 one or two more of us, 1 did not know a soul in 
 the room. 
 
 With. There were some pretty girls there, Mr. 
 Opal. 
 
 Op. I am very glad to hear it, *pon honour. I 
 did not — (Mumbling.') 
 
 With, (aside.) Affected puppy ! I can't bear to 
 look at him. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. (assuming a gayer air as Withrington 
 goes out.) You will soon have a new beau to en- 
 rich your circle, Mr. Opal, the handsome and 
 accomplished Colonel Beaumont. He is just 
 returned from abroad, and is now quite the 
 fashion. (To Agnes.) Don't you think Mr. Opal 
 resembles him ? 
 
 Ag. O ! very much indeed. 
 
 Op. (bowing very graciously.) Does he not re- 
 semble Sir Loftus too ? I mean in his air and his 
 manner. 
 
 Mar. O ! not at all ! That haughty coldness of 
 his is quite old-fashioned now j so unlike the 
 affable frankness so much admired in the Colonel : 
 you have seen him, I presume ? 
 
 Op. I have never had that honour. 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. ^4<3 
 
 Mar. Then you will not be displeased at the 
 likeness we have traced when you do. 
 
 Op. (relaxing from his dignity^ and highly 
 pleased.) The greatest pleasure of my life, Ma'am, 
 will be to resemble what pleases you. (Mariana 
 gives Agnes the winky and she retires to tlie 
 bottom of the stage.) 
 
 Alar. You flatter me infinitely. 
 
 Op. Ah ! call it not flattery, charming Miss 
 Withrington ! for now I will have the boldness to 
 own to you frankly, 1 have been, since the first 
 moment 1 beheld you, your most sincere, your 
 most passionate admirer. Upon hon — (correct- 
 ing himself) *faith I have ! 
 
 Mar. Nothing but my own want of merit can 
 
 make me doubt of any thing Mr. Opal asserts 
 
 upon his honour or his faith. (Turning and uialk- 
 
 ing towards the bottom of the stage, whilst Opal 
 
 follows her talking in dumb show ; then Agnes 
 
 joins thenij and they all comeforward to the front.) 
 
 Ag. (to Mar.) How much that turn of his head 
 puts me in mind of the Colonel ! 
 
 Mar. So it does, my Agnes. (To Opal.) Pray 
 have the goodness to hold it so for a moment ! 
 There now, it is just the very thing. (Opal holds 
 his head in a constrained ridiculous posture^ and 
 then makes a conceited bow.) His very manner of 
 bowing too ! one would swear it was him ! 
 
 Ag. Yes, only the Colonel is more familiar, 
 more easy in his carriage. 
 
 Op. O ! Ma'am ! I assure you I have formerly 
 
 R 2 
 
24i THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 — It is my natural manner to be remarkably easy 
 
 — But I — (pauses.) 
 
 Mar. Have never condescended to assume any 
 other than your natural manner, I hope. 
 
 Op. O ! not at all, I detest affectation ; there is 
 nothing 1 detest so much — But upon my soul ! 
 I can't tell how it is, I have been graver of late. 
 I am, indeed, sometimes thoughtful. 
 
 Ala?'. O fy upon it ! don't be so any more. It 
 is quite old-fashioned and ridiculous now. (To 
 Agnes, winking significantly.) Did you see my 
 gloves any where about the room, cousin ? 
 
 Op. I'll find them. (Goes to look for them ivith 
 great byiskness. — Servant announces Miss Eston.) 
 
 Op. Pest take her ! I stared at her once in a 
 mistake, and she has ogled and followed me ever 
 since. 
 
 Enter Miss Eston, running up to Mariane and 
 Agnes, and pretending not to see Opal, though 
 she cannot help looking askance at him while she 
 speaks. 
 
 Est. O my dear creatures ! you can't think how 
 I have longed to see you, Mrs. Thomson kept 
 me so long this morning, and you know she is an 
 intolerable talker. (Fy^etending to discover Opal.) 
 O ! how do you do, Mr. Opal ? I declare I did 
 not observe you ! 
 
 Op. (with a distant haughty how.) I am obliged 
 to you, Ma'am, 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 24iS 
 
 Est. I did see your figure, indeed, but I mis- 
 took it for Sir Lof'tus. 
 
 Op. (correct'mg himself, and assuming a cheerful 
 Jrank manner.') O Ma'am ! you are very obliging 
 to observe me at all. I believe Prettyman and I 
 may be nearly of the same height. {Looking at his 
 watch.) I am beyond my appointment, I see. Ex- 
 cuse me ; I must hurry away. [Exit hastily. 
 Est. (loo/ling qjier him with marks of disappoint' 
 ment.) I am very glad he is gone. He does so 
 haunt me, and stare at me, I am quite tired of it. 
 The first time I ever saw him, you remember how 
 he looked me out of countenance. I was resolved 
 before I came not to take notice of him. 
 
 Mar. So you knew you should find him here, 
 then ? 
 
 Est. O la! one don't know of a morninc: who 
 one may meet ; as likely him as any body else, 
 you know. 1 really wonder now what crotchet 
 he has taken into his head about me. Do you 
 know, last night, before twilight, I peeped over 
 the blind, and saw him walking with slow pensive 
 steps, imder my window. 
 
 Mar. Well, what happened then ? 
 Est. 1 drew in my head, you may be sure ; but 
 a little while after, I peeped out again, and, do 
 you know, I saw him come out of the perfumer's 
 shop, just opposite to my dressing-room, where 
 he had been all the while. 
 
 Mar. Very well, and what happened next ? 
 
 Est. La ! nothing more. But was it not very 
 ■.^ <"• 
 
246 THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 
 
 odd ? What should he be doing all that time in 
 that little paltry shop ? The great shop near the 
 Circus is the place where every body buys per- 
 fumery. 
 
 Ag. No, there is nothing very odd in Mr. 
 Opal's buying perfumes at a very paltry shop, 
 where he might see and be seen by a very pretty 
 lady. 
 
 Est. (with her face brightening up.) Do you 
 think so ? O no ! you don't so ? 
 
 Ag. To be sure I do. But I know what is very 
 strange. 
 
 Est. Ola, dear creature ! What is it? 
 
 Ag. He bought his perfumes there before you 
 came, when there was no such inducement. Is 
 not that very odd? (Eston pauses, and looks silly.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Withrington, but upon perceiving 
 EsTON, bows and retreats again. 
 
 Est. (recovering Jierself.) Ha ! how do you do, 
 Mr. Withrington ? I have just seen your friend, 
 Lady Fade. Poor dear soul ! she says — 
 
 With. I am sorry, Ma'am, it is not in my power 
 at present — I am in a hurry, I have an appoint- 
 ment. Your servant, Ma'am. [Exit. 
 
 Est. Well, now, this is very odd ! Wherever I 
 go, I find all the men just going out to some ap- 
 pointment. O, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Thom- 
 son has put a new border to her drawing-room, 
 just like the one up stairs. Has it not a dark blue 
 ground ? (7'o Mariane.) 
 
 7 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 24-7 
 
 Mar. I'm sure I cannot tell, let us go up stairs 
 and see. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before Mr. Withrington'* House. Enter 
 Harwood. 
 
 Well, here I am again, yet devil take me if I 
 can muster up resolution enough to touch the 
 knocker ! what a fool was I to call twice this 
 morning;! for with what face can I now visit 
 her again ? The old gentleman will look strangely 
 at me j the fine heiress her cousin will stare 
 at me ; nay, the very servants begin already to 
 smile with impertinent significance, as I inquire 
 with conscious foolishness, if the ladies are at 
 home. Then Agnes herself will look so drolly at 
 me — Ah! but she will look so pleasantly too! — 
 'Faith ! I'll e'en go. (Goes to the door, puts his 
 hand up to the knocker, stops short, a?id turns from it 
 again. Pauses.) What a fool am I, to stand think- 
 ing about it here. If I were but fairly in the room 
 with her, and the first salutation over, I should not 
 care if the devil himself made faces at me. Oh no ! 
 every body isgood-humoured, every thingishappy 
 that is near her ! the kitten who plays by her side 
 takes hold of her gow n unchidden. How plea- 
 sant it is to love what is so blessed ! I should hate 
 the fairest woman on earth if she were not of a 
 sweet temper. Come, come ; every thing favours 
 me here, but my own foolish fancies. {As he 
 
 R 4 
 
248 THE TRVAL '. A COMEDY. 
 
 goes to the door agai/i, itopens^ and enters from tlw 
 house, Betty, crying, with a bimdle in her hand.) 
 
 Bet. O dear me ! O dear me ! 
 
 Har. What is the matter with you, my good 
 girl? 
 
 Bet. I'm sure it was not my fault, and she has 
 abused me worser than a heathen. 
 
 Har. That is hard indeed. 
 
 Bet. Indeed it is, Sir ; and all for a little nasty 
 essence-bottle, which was little better than a gen- 
 teel kind of a stink at the best ; and I am sure I 
 did but take out the stopper to smell to it, when 
 it came to pieces in my hand like an egg-shell. If 
 bottles will break, how can I help it ? but la ! Sir, 
 there is no speaking reason to my mistress; she 
 is as furious and as ill-tempered as a dragon. 
 
 Har. Don't distress yourself; Miss Agnes 
 Withrington will make amends to you for the 
 severity of your mistress. 
 
 Bet. She truly ! it is she herself who is my 
 mistress, and she has abused me — O dear me ! 
 — If it had been Miss Withrington, she would 
 not have said a word to me ; but Miss Agnes is 
 so cross, and so ill-natured, there is no living in 
 the house with her. 
 
 Har. Girl, you are beside yourself! 
 
 Bet. No, Sir, God be praised ! but she is beside 
 herself, I believe. Does she think I am going to 
 live in her service to be call'd names so, and com- 
 pared to a blackamoor too ? If I had been waiting- 
 maid to the queen, she would not have com[)are(l 
 
THE TRYAL *. A COiMEDY. 249 
 
 me to a blackamoor, and will 1 take such usage 
 from her? — what do I care for her cast gowns? 
 
 Har. Well, but she is liberal to you ? 
 
 Bet. She liberal ! she'll keep every thing that 
 is worth keeping to herself, I warrant ; and Lord 
 pity those who are bound to live with her ! I'll 
 seek out a new place for myself, and let the devil, 
 if he will, wait upon her next, in the shape of a 
 blackamoor : they will be fit company for one 
 another ; and if he gets the better of her at scold- 
 ing, he is a better devil than I take him for. And 
 I am sure. Sir, if you were to see her — 
 
 Har\ Get along ! get along ! you are too pas- 
 sionate yourself^ to be credited. 
 
 Bet. I know what I know ; I don't care what 
 nobody says, no more I do ; I know who to com- 
 plain to. [Exit, grumbling. 
 
 Har. (alone.^ What a malicious toad it is ! I 
 dare say now, she has done something very pro- 
 voking. I cannot bear these pert chamber-maids ; 
 the very sight of them is offensive to me. 
 
 Enter Jonathan. 
 Jon. Good evening to your honour; can you tell 
 me if Mr. Withrington be at home ? for as how, 
 my master has sent me with a message to him. 
 
 Har. (impatiently.) Go to the house and in- 
 quire; I know nothing about it. (Jonathan ^0^5 
 to the house.') 
 
 Har. (alone, after musing some time.) That girl 
 has put me out of all heart though, with her 
 
'350 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 cursed stories. — No, no, it c;innot be — it is 
 impossible ! 
 
 Me-enter Jonathan Jrom the house ^ scratching his 
 heady and looking behind him^ 
 
 Jon. 'Faith there is hot work going on amongst 
 them ! thank heaven I am out again. 
 
 Har. What do you mean ? 
 
 Jon. *Faith! that Httle lady, in that there house, 
 is the best hand at a scold, saving MaryMacmur- 
 rock, my wife's mother, that ever my two blessed 
 eyes looked upon. Lord, Sir, {going nearer him) 
 her tongue goes ting, ting, ting, as shrill as the 
 bell of any pieman ; and then. Sir, (going nearer 
 him) her two eyes look out of her head, as though 
 they were a couple of glow-worms ! and then. Sir, 
 he, he, he ! (Laughijig a7id going close up to him.) 
 She claps her little hands so, as if — 
 
 Har. Shut your fool's mouth and be damn'd 
 to you ! (Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a violent 
 passion ; then leaiis his back to a tree, and seems 
 thoughtful for some time and very much troubled.) 
 
 Enter AcJUEsfrom the house, with a stonny look on 
 her face. 
 
 Ag. So you are still loitering here, Harwood ? 
 you have been very much amused, I suppose, 
 with the conversation of those good folks you 
 have talked with. 
 
 Har. No, not much amused, Madam, though 
 
tiietryal: a comedy. 251 
 
 somewhat astonished, 1 ovvu ; too much astonisli- 
 ed, indeed, to give it any credit. 
 
 Ag. O ! it is true tliough ; I have been very 
 cross with the girl, and very cross with every 
 body ; and if you don't clear up that dismal face 
 of yours, I shall be cross with you too : what 
 could possess you to stay so long under the chest- 
 nut-tree, a little while ago, always appearing as if 
 you were coming to the house, and always turn- 
 ing back again ? 
 
 Har. {eagerly.') And is it possible, you were 
 then looking at me, and observing my motions ? 
 
 Ag. Indeed I was just going to open my win- 
 dow and beckon to you, when that creature broke 
 my phial of sweet essence, and put me quite out 
 of temper. 
 
 Har, Hang the stupid jade! I could — 
 
 Ag. So you are angry too ? O ! well done ! we 
 are fit company for one another. Come along with 
 me, come, come ! {impatiently. As she turns togOy 
 something catches hold of her gown.) What is this ? 
 confounded thing ! {Pulls away her gown in a 
 passion^ and tears it.) 
 
 Har. {aside.) Witch that she is ! she should be 
 beaten for her humours. I will not go with her. 
 
 Ag. {looking behitid.) So you won't go in with 
 me ? good evening to you then : we did want a 
 fourth person to make up a party with us ; but 
 since you don't like it, we shall send to Sir Loftus, 
 or Opal, or Sir Ulock O'Grady, or some other 
 good creature ; 1 dare say Sir Loftus will come. 
 
252 ^-HE TIIYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Har. {half aside.') Cursed coxcomb ! If he sets 
 his snout within the door, I'll pistol him. 
 
 Ag. {overhearing him.) Ha ! well said ! you 
 will make the best company in the world. Come 
 along, come along ! [He follows her half urvwiU 
 lingly.) Why don't you offer your arm here ? 
 don't you see how rough it is? {He offers his arm.) 
 Poo, not that arm ! {Offers her the other.) Poo, 
 not so neither, on t'other side of me. 
 
 Har. What a humoursome creature you are ! 
 I have offer'd you two arms, and neither of them 
 will do ; do you think I have a third to offer 
 you ? 
 
 Ag. You are a simpleton, or you would have 
 half a dozen at my service. 
 
 [Exeunt into the house. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Harwood'5 Lodgings. He is dis- 
 coveredwalking about tvith an irregular disturbed 
 step, his hair and dress all neglected and in dis- 
 order ; he comes forward to the front of the stage. 
 
 Har. I have neither had peace nor sleep since I 
 beheld her j O ! that T had never known her ! or 
 known her only such as my first fond fancy con- 
 ceived her! — I would my friend were come; I will 
 open my heart to liim: he perhaps will speak com- 
 fort to me ; for surely that temper must be violent 
 
THE TllYAL : A COl^IEDY. Q33 
 
 indeed, wliich generous affection cannot subdue ; 
 and she must be extravagant beyond all bounds of 
 nature, who would ruin the fond husband who 
 toils for her. No, no, nature makes not such, but 
 when she sets her scowling mark upon their fore- 
 head to warn us from our ruin. (Pauses, walks up 
 and down, then comes Jbrward again.') Insipid con- 
 stitutional goodnature is atiresome thing: passion 
 subdued by reason is worth a score of it — and 
 passion subdued by love ! — O! that were better 
 still ! — yesterday, as I entered her door, I heard 
 her name me to her cousin, with so much gentle 
 softness in her voice, I blest her as she spoke ! — 
 Ah i if this were so, all might still be well. Who 
 would not struggle with the world for such a 
 creature as this? — Ay, and 1 must struggle — 
 O ! that this head of mine would give over think- 
 ing but for one half hour ? (Rings the bell.) 
 
 Enter Thomas. 
 
 What brings you here, Thomas ? 
 
 Thorn. Your bell rung, Sir. 
 
 Har. Well, well, I did want something, but I 
 have forgot it. Bring me a glass of water. (Exit 
 Thomas. Harwood sits down by a small writing- 
 table^ and rests his head upon his hand. Re-enter 
 Thomas -w?7A the water.) You have made good 
 haste, Thomas. 
 
 Thorn. I did make good haste, Sir, lest you 
 should be impatient with me. 
 
 Har. I am sometimes impatient with you, then? 
 
254 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 I fear indeed I have been too often so of late ; 
 but you must not mind it, Thomas ; 1 mean you 
 no unkindness. 
 
 Thorn. Lord love you, Sir, I know that very 
 well ! a young gentleman who takes an old man 
 into his service, because other gentlemen do not 
 think him quick enough, nor smart enough for 
 them, as your honour has tnken me, can never 
 mean to show him any unkindness : I know it 
 well enough j 1 am only uneasy because I fear 
 you are not so well of late. 
 
 Har. I thank you, Thomas, I am not very well 
 — I am notill neither ; I shall be better. (Pauses.) 
 I think I have heard you say you were a soldier in 
 your youth ? 
 
 Thorn. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Har. And you had a wife too, a woman of 
 fiery mettle, to bear about your knapsack ? 
 
 Thorn. Yes, Sir, my little stout spirity Jane ; 
 she had a devil of a temper, to be sure. 
 
 Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding ? 
 
 Thorn. Yes, to be sure I did, as it were, bear 
 her some kindness. 
 
 Har, I'll be sworn you did ! — and you would 
 have been very sorry to have parted with her. 
 
 Thorn. Why death parts the best of friends, 
 Sir ; we lived but four years together. 
 
 Har. And so your little spirity Jane was taken 
 so soon away from you ? Give me tliy hand, my 
 good Thomas. (Takes his hand and presses it.) 
 
 Thorn, (perceiving tears in his eyes.) Lord Sir ! 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 255 
 
 don't be so distressed about it : she did die, to be 
 sure ; but truly, between you and I, although I 
 did make a kind of whimpering at the first, I was 
 not ill pleased afterwards to be rid of her ; for, 
 truly, Sir, a man who has got an ill-tempered 
 wife, has but a dog*s life of it at the best. — Will 
 you have your glass of water, Sir ? 
 
 Har. {looking at hhn with dissatisfaction.) No, 
 no, take it away ; I have told you a hundred times 
 not to bring me that chalky water from the court- 
 yard. {Turns away from him.) 
 
 Enter Colonel Hardy. — Harwood makes signs 
 to Thomas, and he goes out. 
 
 Har. My dear Colonel, this is kind : I am very 
 glad to see you. 
 
 Col. It is so seldom that a young fellow has any 
 inclination for the company of an old man, that 
 I should feel myself vain of the summons you have 
 sent me, were I not afraid, from this dishabille, 
 my dear Harwood, that you are indisposed. 
 
 Har. You are very good ; I am not indisposed. 
 I have indeed been anxious — I rested indif- 
 fently last night — I hope I see you well. 
 
 Col. Very well, as you may guess from the 
 speed I have made in coming to you. These legs 
 do not always carry me so fast. But you have 
 something particular to say to me. 
 
 Har. I am very sensible of your friendship — 
 Pray, Colonel, be seated. — {Theysitdown — a long 
 pause — Colonel Hardy, like one e:rpecting to hear 
 
il56 THE TIIYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 something ; Harwood, like one who knows not how 
 to begin.) — There are moments in a man's life, 
 Colonel Hardy, when the advice of a friend is of 
 the greatest value ; particularly one, who has also 
 been his father's friend. 
 
 Col. My heart very warmly claims both those 
 relations to you, Harwood ; and I shall be happy 
 to advise you as well as I am able. 
 
 Har. (after another pause.') I am about to 
 commence a laborious profession — the mind is 
 naturally anxious — {Pauses,) 
 
 Col. But you are too capable of exercising well 
 that profession, to suffer much uneasiness. 
 
 Har. Many a man with talents superior to 
 mine has sunk beneath the burden. 
 
 Col. And many a man, with talents vastly in- 
 ferior to yours, has borne it up with credit. 
 
 Har. Ah ! what avails the head with an 
 estranged heart ? 
 
 Col. You are disgusted then with your pro- 
 fession, and have, perhaps, conceived more fa- 
 vourably of mine? I am sorry for it : I hoped to 
 see you make a figure at the bar; and your mother 
 has long set her heart upon it. 
 
 Har. {with energy.) O no! she must not — 
 she shall not be disappointed ! — Pardon me, my 
 expressions have gone somewhat wide of my 
 meaning — I meant to have consulted you in re- 
 gard to other difficulties — 
 
 Col. And pardon me hkewise for interrupting 
 you ; but it appears to me, that an unlearned 
 
THE TRVAL I A COMEDY. i2.'>7 
 
 soldier is not a person to be consulted in these 
 matters. 
 
 Har. It was not altogether of these matters 
 I meant to speak — Bnt, perhaps, we had better 
 put it off for the present. 
 
 Col. No, no. 
 
 Har. Perhaps we had better walk out a little 
 way : we may talk with less restraint as we go. 
 
 Col. No, no, there are a thousand impertinent 
 people about. Sit down again, and let me hear 
 every thing you wish to say. 
 
 Har. (^pausing, hesitating^ andmuch embarrassed.') 
 There are certain attachments in which a man's 
 heart may be so deeply interested — I would say 
 so very — or rather I should say so strangely en- 
 gaged, that — (Jiesitates and pauses.) 
 
 Col. O, here it is ! I understand it now. But 
 pray don't be so foolish about it, Harwood ! You 
 are in love ? 
 
 Har. (^appearing relieved.) I thank your quick- 
 ness, my dear Colonel ; I fear it is somewhat so 
 witli me. 
 
 Col. And whence your fear? Not from the 
 lady's cruelty ? 
 
 Har. No, there is another bar in my way, 
 which does, perhaps, too much depress my hopes 
 of happiness. 
 
 Col. You have not been prudent enough to fall 
 in love with an heiress ? 
 
 Har. No, jny dear Sir, I have not. 
 
 Col. That is a great mistake, to be sur^, Har- 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
'258 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 wood ; yet many a man has not advanced the less 
 rapidly in his profession, for having had a portion- 
 less wife to begin the world with. It is a spur to 
 industry. 
 
 Ha7\ {looking pleased at him.) Such sentiments 
 are what 1 expected from Colonel Hardy ; and, 
 were it not for female failings, there would be 
 little risk in following them. — I don't know how 
 to express it — I am perhaps too delicate in these 
 matters — We ought not to expect a faultless 
 woman. 
 
 Col. No, surely; and, if such a woman were to 
 be found, she v.ould be no fit companion for us. 
 
 Har. {getting up, and pressing the ColoneVshand 
 between his.) My dearest friend ! your liberahty 
 and candour delight me! — 1 do indeed believe 
 that many a man has lived very happily with a 
 woman far from being faultless : and, after all, 
 where is the great injury he sustains, if she should 
 be a little violent and unreasonable? 
 
 Col. {starti7ig up from his seat.) Nay, heaven 
 defend us from a violent woman ; for that is the 
 devil himself! {Seeing Harwood'^ countenance 
 change.) — What is the matter with you, Har- 
 wood ? She is not ill-tempered, I hope ? 
 
 Har. {hesitating.) Not — not absolutely so — 
 She is of a very quick and lively disposition, and 
 is apt to be too hasty and unguarded in her emo- 
 tions. — I do not, perhaps, make myself com- 
 pletely understood. 
 
 Col. O, I understand you perfectly. — I have 
 
I'HE TUYAL : .y COMKDY. 259 
 
 known ladies of this lively disposition, very hasty 
 and unguarded too in their demands-upon a man's 
 pocket as well as his patience ; but she may be 
 of a prudent and economical turn. Is it so, 
 Harwood ? 
 
 Har, {throwing himself into a chaii^ very much 
 distressed.^ I do not say it is, Colonel. 
 
 Col. {putting his hand hindly upon his shoulder.^ 
 I am sorry to distress you so much, my dear friend, 
 yet it must be so. I see how it is with you : par- 
 don the freedom of friendship, but indeed an ex- 
 pensive and violent-temper'd woman is not to be 
 thought of: he who marries such a one forfeits 
 all peace and happiness. Pluck up some noble 
 courage, and renounce this unfortunate con- 
 nexion. 
 
 Har. (starting up.) Renounce it, Colonel 
 Hardy ? Is it from you I receive so hard, so un- 
 feeling a request, who has suffered so much 
 yourself liom the remembranceofan early attach- 
 ment? I thought to have been pitied by you. 
 
 Col. I was early chagrined with the want of 
 promotion, and disappointed in my schemes of 
 ambition, which gave my countenance something 
 of a melancholy cast, I believe, and the ladies 
 have been kind enough to attribute it to the effects 
 of hopeless love ; but how could you be such a 
 ninny, my dear Harwood ? 
 
 Har. I am sorry. Sir, we have understood one 
 another so imperfectly. 
 
 Col. Nay, nay, my young friend, do not carry 
 
 s ^ 
 
'260 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 yourself so distantly with me. You have sought 
 a love-lorn companion, and you have found a 
 plain spoken friend. I am sorry to give you pain : 
 deal more openly with me: when I know who 
 this bewitching creature is, I shall, perhaps, judge 
 more favourably of your passion. 
 Har. It is Miss Agnes Withrington. 
 Col. Cousin to Miss Withrington the heiress ? 
 Har, Yes, it is she. What have I said to 
 amaze you ? 
 
 Col. You amaze me, indeed ! — That little — 
 forgive me if I were almost to say, — plain-looking 
 girl ! Friendship would sympathize in your feel- 
 ings ; but, pardon me, Harwood, you have lost 
 your wits. 
 
 Har. I believe I have, Colonel, which must 
 plead my pardon, likewise, for expecting this 
 friendship from you. 
 CoL You distress me. 
 
 Har. I distress myself still mor^, by suft'ering 
 so long the pain of this conversation. 
 
 Col. Let us end it, then, as soon as you please. 
 When you are in a humour to listen to reason, I 
 shall be happy to have the honour of seeing you. 
 
 Har. When I am in that humour, Sir, 1 will 
 not balk it so much as to intrude upon your 
 time. 
 
 Col. Let me see you, then, when you are not 
 in that humour, and I shall more frequently have 
 the pleasure of your company. (^Both bow coldly.) 
 
 [KxiT Colonel Hardy. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 261 
 
 Har. {alone.) What a fool was 1 to send lor 
 this man ! — A little plain-looking girl ! What do 
 the people mean ? They will drive me mad 
 amongst them. Why does not the little witch 
 wear high heels to her shoes, and stick a plume 
 of feathers in her cap? Oh ! they will drive me 
 distracted ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 Mr. Withrington'5 House. Agnes discovered 
 embroideriiig ata small table, Harwood standing 
 hy her, and hanging fondly over her as she works, 
 
 Har. How pretty it is ! Now you put a little 
 purple on the side of the flower. 
 
 Ag. Yes, a very little shade. 
 
 Har. And now a little brown upon that. 
 
 Ag. Even so. 
 
 Har. And thus you work up and down, with 
 that tiny needle of yours, till the whole flower is 
 completed. {Pauses, still looking at her working.) 
 Why, Agnes, you little witch ! you're doing thai 
 leaf wrong. 
 
 Ag. You may pick it out then, and do it better 
 for me. I'm sure you have been idle enough all 
 the morning, it is time you were employed about 
 something. 
 
 Har. And so I will, {sitting down by her, and 
 taking hold if the work.) 
 
 Ag. {covering the Jlower with her hand.) O ! 
 
 no, no ! 
 
 s 3 • 
 
26^ THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 
 
 Har. Take away that little perverse hand, and 
 let me begin. (^Putting his hand upon hers.') 
 
 Ag, What a good for nothing creature you are ! 
 you can do nothing yourself^ and you will suffer 
 nobody else to do any thing. I should have had 
 the whole pattern finished before now, if you had 
 not loitered over my chair so long. 
 
 Har, So you can't work when I look over you ! 
 Then I have some influence upon you? O you 
 sly girl ! you are caught in your own words at 
 last. 
 
 Ag. Indeed, Harwood, I wish you would go 
 home again to yourlaw-books and your precedent- 
 hunting ; you have mispent a great deal of time 
 here already. 
 
 Har. Is it not better to be with you in reality 
 than only in imagination ? Ah ! Agnes i you little 
 know what my home studies are. — Law, said 
 you ! how can I think of law, when your coun- 
 tenance looks upon me from every black lettered 
 page that I turn ? when your figure fills the 
 empty seat by my side, and your voice speaks to 
 me in the very mid-day stillness of my chamber ? 
 Ah ! my sweet Agnes ! you will not believe what 
 a foolish fellow I have been since I first saw you. 
 
 Ag. Nay, Harwood, I am not at all incredulous 
 of the fact ; it is only the cause of it which I 
 doubt. 
 
 Har. 8aucy girl ! I must surely be revenged 
 upon you for all this. 
 
 Ag. I am tired of this work. ((jelling up.) 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 263 
 
 Har. O! do not give over. — Let me do some- 
 thing for you — Let me thread your needle for 
 you — I can thread one most nobly. 
 
 Ag. There then. (Gives him a needle andsilk.^ 
 
 Har. (pretending to scratch her hand xiiih it.) So 
 ought you to be punished. (Threads itaw/CiVardli/.') 
 
 Ag. Ay, nobly done, indeed ! but I shall work 
 no more to-day. 
 
 Har. You must work up my needleful. 
 
 Ag. I am to work a fool's cap in the corner by- 
 and-by ; I shall keep your needleful for that. I 
 am going to walk in the garden. 
 
 Har. And so am I. 
 
 Ag, You are ? 
 
 Har. Yes, 1 am. Go where you will, Agnes, to 
 the garden or the field, the city or the desert, by 
 sea or by land, I must e'en go too. I will never 
 be where you are not, but when to be where you 
 are is impossible. 
 
 Ag. There will be no getting rid of you at 
 this rate, unless some witch will have pity upon 
 me, and carry me up in the air upon her broom- 
 stick. 
 
 Har. There I will not pretend to follow you ; 
 but as long as you remain upon the earth, Agnes, 
 I cannot find in my heart to budge an inch fiom 
 your side. 
 
 Asi'. You are a madman ! 
 
 Har. You are a sorceress ! 
 
 Ag. You are an idler! 
 
 Har. You are a little mouse ! 
 s 4 
 
^G4 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ag. Come, come, get your hat then, and let 
 us go. (^ Aside f while he goes to the bottom of the 
 stage for his hat.) Bless me ! I have forgot to be 
 ill-humour'd all this time. [Exit, hastily. 
 
 Har. (co77ii?ig Jbrtcard.) Gone for her cloke, 
 I suppose. How delightful she is I how pleasant 
 every change of her countenance ! How happy 
 must his life be, spent even in cares and toil, 
 whose leisure hours are cheered with such a 
 creature as this. 
 
 Ag. (without, in a?i angry voice.) Don't tell 
 me so ; I know very well how it is, and you shall 
 smart for it too, you lazy, careless, impudent fel- 
 low ! And, besides all this, how dare you use my 
 kitten so ? 
 
 Har. (zcho listened with a 7'uefiil face.) Well, 
 now, but this is humanity : she will not have a 
 creature ill used. — I wish she would speak more 
 gently thought 
 
 Ag. (entering.) Troublesome, pro\'oking, care- 
 less fellow ! 
 
 Har. It is very provoking in him to use the 
 poor kitten ill. 
 
 Ag. So it is ; but it is more provoking still to 
 mislay my clogs, as he does. 
 
 Enter Servant with clogs. 
 
 Ser. Here they are, Madr.m. 
 
 Ag. Bring them here 1 say ? (looks at them.) 
 These are Miss Withrington's clogs, you block- 
 head ! (Throws them to the other side of the stage in 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 26.!) 
 
 a j>assion.) I must go without them, 1 find. {To 
 Harwood.) What are you musing about? If you 
 ck)n*t chuseto go with me, good morning. 
 
 Har, {sighing deeply.) Ah, Agnes! you know 
 too well that I cannot stay behind you. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Miss Withrington'6' Dressing-room. Enter Ma- 
 rt ane, who turns hack again towards the door^ 
 and calls to Agnes without. 
 Mar. Agnes, cousin Agnes ! where are you 
 
 going? 
 
 Ag. {without.) I am returning to Miss Eston, 
 
 whom I have left in the parlour, talking to the dog. 
 Mar. Well, let her talk to the dog a little 
 
 longer, and let me talk to vou. 
 
 Enter Agnes. 
 I have set Betty to watch at the higher windows 
 to give notice of Sir Loftus's approach, tiiat we 
 may put ourselves in order to receive him ; for I 
 am resolved to have one bout more with him, and 
 discharge him for good : 1 am quite tired of him 
 now. 
 
 Ag. Do you expect him. 
 
 Mar. I am pretty sure he will come about this 
 time, and I must be prepared for him. 1 have a 
 good mind to tell him at once, I despise him, 
 and that will be a plain, easy way of finishing the 
 business. 
 
 Ag. No, no, my sweet Mariane ! we must send 
 him off with eclat. You have played your part 
 
^66 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 very well hitherto ; keep it up but for the last 
 time, and let Miss Eston and I go into the closet 
 and enjoy it. 
 
 Mar. Well then, do so : I shall please you for 
 this once. 
 
 ^nter Betty, in haste. 
 Bet. (Jo Mar.) Sir Loftus is just coming up 
 the side path, Madam, and he'll be at the door 
 immediately. 
 
 Ag. I'll run and bring Eston directly. [Exit. 
 Mar. {looking at the door of the closet.) Yes, it 
 is very thin : they will hear well, and see through 
 the key-hole. 
 
 Re-enter Agnes with Miss Eston, in a great 
 
 hurry. 
 Est. La ! I have torn my gown in my haste. 
 Ag. Come along, come along ! 
 Est. It is not so bad a tear though as Mrs. 
 Thomson got the — 
 
 Ag. Come, come, we must not stay here. 
 (Pushes Eston into the closet and follows. Mariane 
 and ^etiy place a table with books and a chair near 
 the front of the stage.) 
 
 Est. (looking f^om the closet.) La ! Mariane, 
 how I long to hear you and him begin. I shall 
 be so delighted ! 
 
 Mar. For heaven's sake shut the door ! he will 
 be here immediately. (Shuts the door upon her, 
 and continues to set the room in order.) 
 
 Est. (looking out again.) La! Mariane, do you 
 know how many yards of" point Lady Squat haj^ 
 
THE TRYAL . A COMEDY. "^267 
 
 got round her new — (Agnes from be/iind, claps 
 her hand on Eston'*' 7uouth, and draws her into the 
 closet. — Mariane sets herself by the table, 'pre- 
 tending to read. Exit Betty, and enter Sir Lof- 
 Tus, a servant announcing him.') 
 
 Sir Loft. You are very studious this morning. 
 Miss Withrington. 
 
 Mar. (carelessly.') Ha ! how do you do ? 
 Sir Loft. You have been well ainus'd, I hope? 
 Mar. So, so. I must put in a mark here, and 
 not lose my place. {Looking on the table.) There 
 is no paper — O, there is some on the other table : 
 pray do fetch it me ! (Pointing to a table at the 
 bottom of the stage.) I am very lazy. (Sits doxm 
 again indolently.) 
 
 Sir Loft, (fetching the paper , and presenting it 
 with a condescending yet self-important air.) I have 
 the honour to obey you, Ma'am. 
 
 Mar. I thank you ; you are a very serviceable 
 creature, I am sure. 
 
 Sir Loft, (drawing himself up proudly , but im- 
 mediately correcting hi7nself.) I am always happy 
 to serve Miss Withrington. 
 
 Ma7\ O ! I know very well the obliging turn 
 of your disposition. (Tosses her arm upon the 
 table and throws down a book.) I am very stupid 
 this morning. (Sir Loftus picks up the book, and 
 gives it to her rather sulkily ; and she in receiving 
 it drops an ivory ball under the table.) Bless me ! 
 what is the matter with all these things ? })ray lift 
 it tor me, good Sir Loftus I 1 believe you must 
 
S68 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 creep under the table for it though. iHe stoops 
 under the table with a very bad grace ^ and she slyly 
 gives it a touch with her foot, which makes it run 
 to the other side of the stage.) Nay, yoii must go 
 farther off for it now. I am very troublesome. 
 
 Sir Loft, (goes after it rather unwillingly , and 
 presenting it to her with still a worse grace,) Ma- 
 dam, this is more honour than 1 — (mumbling.) 
 
 Mar. O, no ! Sir Loftus, it is only you that are 
 too good, (Lolling carelessly in her chair.) It is 
 so comfortable to have such a good creature by 
 one ! your fine fashionable men are admired to be 
 sure, but I don't know how, I feel always re- 
 strained in their company. With a good obliging 
 creature like you now, I can be quite at my ease; 
 I can just desire you to do any thing. 
 
 Sir Loft. Upon my honour. Madam, you flatter 
 me very much indeed. Upon my honour, I must 
 say, I am rather at a loss to conceive how I have 
 merited these commendations. 
 
 Mar. O ! Sir Loftus, you are too humble, too 
 diffident of yourself. I know very well the oblig- 
 ing turn of your disposition to every body. 
 
 Sir Loft, (aside .) D'Jimn \i[ is she an idiot? 
 (aloud.) Your good opinion, Madam, does me a 
 great deal of honour, but 1 assure you, Ma'am, 
 it is more than I deserve. I have great pleasure 
 in serving Miss Withrington ; — to be at the ser- 
 vice of every body is an extent of benevolence 1 
 by no means pretend to. 
 
 Mar. Now why are you %o diffident, SirLollus? 
 
THE TRYAL ! A CO^^IKDY. ^i()9 
 
 Did not old Mrs. Mumblecake tell me the other 
 day, how you ran nine times to tiie apothecary's 
 to fetch green salve to rub her monkey's tail ? 
 
 Sir Loft. She told you a damned lie then ! 
 (^Biting his lip^ and walking up and down with 
 hasty strides.') Damn it ! this is beyond all bear- 
 ing 1 I run nine times to the apothecary's to 
 fetch green salve for her monkey's tail 1 If the 
 cursed hag says so again, I'll bury her alive ! 
 
 Mar. Nay, don't be angry about it. I'm sure 
 I thought it very good in you, and I said so to 
 every body. 
 
 Sir Loft. You have been obliging enough to 
 tell it to all the world too ? 
 
 Mar. And why should I not have the pleasure 
 of praising you ? 
 
 Sir Loft. Hell and the devil ! {Turning on his 
 heely and striding up and down, and muttering as he 
 goes, whilst she sits carelesslj/with her arms crossed. ) 
 
 Mar. My good Sir Loftus, you will tire your- 
 self. Had you not better be seated ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (^endeavouring to compose hi^nself) 
 The influence you have over me. Ma'am, gets the 
 .better of every thing. I would not have you mis- 
 take my character, however ; if love engages me 
 in your service, you ought so to receive it. I 
 have been less profuse of these attentions to wo- 
 men of the very first rank and fashion ; I miglit 
 therefore have hoped that you v;ould lend a more 
 favourable ear to my passion. 
 
 Mar. Indeed you wrong me. You don't know 
 
•J70 THE TllYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ijow favourably my ear may be disposed : sit 
 down here and tell me all about it. (Sir Loftus 
 revolts again at her familiarity ^ but stifles his pr^ide, 
 and sits down by her.) 
 
 ^r Loft. Permit me to say, Madam, that it is 
 time we should come to an explanation of each 
 other's sentiments. 
 
 Mar. Wlienever you please, Sir. 
 
 Sir Loft, (boiling.) I hope then, I may be al- 
 lowed to presume, that my particular attentions 
 to you, pardon me. Ma'am, have not been alto. 
 gether disagreeable to you. 
 
 Mar. O ! not at all. Sir Loftus. 
 
 Sir Loft, (bomng again.) I will presume then 
 still farther, Ma'am, and declare to you, that from 
 the very day which gave birth to my passion, I 
 have not ceased to think of you with the most 
 ardent tenderness. 
 
 Mar. La 1 Sir Loftus, was it not of a Wednes- 
 day ? 
 
 Sir Loft, (ftetted.) LTpon my word I am not so 
 very accurate : it might be Wednesday, or Fri- 
 day, or any day. 
 
 Mar. Of a Friday, do you think? it runs 
 strangely in my head that we saw one another 
 first of a Wednesday. 
 
 Sir Loft, (very much fretted.) I say, Ma'am, the 
 day which gave birth to my love — 
 
 Mar. O ! very true ! you might see me first of 
 a Wednesday, andyet not fall in love with me till 
 the Friday. (Sir luoilus starts up in a passion, and 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. "rr, 1 
 
 Strides up and down. — Mariane rising from her 
 seat carelessly.) I wonder where William has j)ut 
 the nuts I bought for Miss Eston's squirrel. I 
 think I hear a mouse in the wainscot. {Goes to 
 the bottom of the roomy and opens a small cabinet, 
 whilst Sir luoftus comes forward to thefrotit.') 
 
 Sir Loft, (aside.) Damn her freaks ! I wish the 
 devil had the wooing oi' her. {Pauses.) I must 
 not lose her for a trifle though ; but when she is 
 once secured, Til be revenged ! I'll vex her ! I'll 
 drive the spirit out of her ! {Aloud, as she comes 
 forward.) My passion for you, Miss Withrington, 
 is too generous and disinterested to merit this in- 
 difference. 
 
 Mar. I'm glad thev have not eat the nuts 
 though. 
 
 Sir Loft, {aside.) Curse her and her nuts ! I'll 
 tame her! {aloud.) My sentiments for you, Ma'am, 
 are of so delicate and tender a nature, they do in- 
 deed deserve your indulgence. Tell me, then, 
 can the most disinterested, the most fervent love, 
 make any impression on your heart ? I can no 
 longer exist in this state of anxiety ! at your 
 feet let me implore you — {Seems about to kneel, 
 but rather imwillingli/, as if he wished to be 
 prevented.) 
 
 Mar. Pray, Sir Loftus, don't kneel there ! my 
 maid has spilt oil on the floor. 
 
 Sir Loft. Since you will not permit me to have 
 the pleasure of kneeling at — 
 
 Mar. Nay, I will not deprive you of the plea- 
 
27^ THK THYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 sure — There is no oil spilt here. (Pomti7ig to a 
 partqfthe^/Ioor very near the closet door,') 
 
 Sir Loft. I see it would be disagreeable to you. 
 
 Mar. I see very well you are not inclined to 
 condescend so far. 
 
 Sir Loft. {ImeeUng directly.") Believe me, Ma- 
 dam, the pride, the pleasure of my life, is to be 
 devoted to the most adorable — (Mariane gives a 
 significa?it cough, and Agnes and Eston burst from 
 the closet : the door opening on the outside, comes 
 against Sir Loft us as he kneels, and lays km 
 spr aiding on the floor.) 
 
 Ag. Est. and Mar. (^speaking together.) O Sir 
 Loftus ! poor Sir Loftu? J (^All coming about him, 
 pretejiding to assist him to get up.) 
 
 Sir Loft. Damn their bawling ! they will bring 
 the whole family here ! 
 
 Enter Mr. Withrington and Opal : Sir Loftus, 
 mad with rage, makes a desperate effort, and gets 
 upoti his legs. Opal stands laughing at him 
 without any ceremony, whilst he bites his lips, 
 and draws himself up haughtily. 
 
 Mar. (to Sir Loft.) I'm afraid you have hurt 
 yourself? 
 
 Sir Loft, (shortly.) No, Ma'am. 
 
 Ag. Hav'nt you rubbed the skin off your shins. 
 Sir Loftus ? 
 
 ASir Loft. No, Ma'am. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 273 
 
 Ag. I am sure he has hurt his nose, but he is 
 ashamed to own it. 
 
 Sir Loft. Neither shin nor nose ! Devil take it ! 
 
 TFifh. Get along, girls, and don't torment this 
 poor man any longer. I am afraid. Sir Lof'tus, the 
 young gipsies have been making a fool of you. 
 
 Sir Loft. Sir, it is neither in your power nor 
 theirs to make a fool of me. 
 
 Op. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 'Faith, Prettyman, you must 
 forgive me ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! I never thought in 
 my life to have caught you at such low prostra- 
 tions. But don't be so angry, though you do 
 make a confounded silly figure, it must be con- 
 fessed. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Sir Loft, (to Op.) Sir, your impertinence and 
 yourself are equally contemptible : and I desire 
 you would no longer take the trouble of intruding 
 yourself into my company, nor of affronting me, 
 as you have hitherto done, with your awkward 
 imitation of my figure and address. 
 
 Op. What the devil do you mean ? I imitate 
 your figure and address ! I scorn to — I will not 
 deny that I may have insensibly acquired a little 
 of them both, for — for — {Hesitating.') 
 
 Ag. For he has observed people laughing at 
 him of late. 
 
 Sir Loft, {turning on his heel.') He is beneath 
 my resentment. 
 
 Mar. Be not so angry, good Sir Loftus ! let us 
 end this business for the present ; and when I am 
 at leisure to hear the remainder of your declar- 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274< THE TIIYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 ations, which have been so unfortunately inter- 
 rupted, I'll send and let you know. 
 
 Sir Loft. No, 'faith, Madam ! you have heard 
 the last words I shall ever say to you upon the 
 subject. A large fortune may make amends for 
 an ordinary person, Madam, but not for vulga- 
 rity and impertinence. Good morning ! (^Breaks 
 from them, and Exit, leaving them laughing pro- 
 voldngly behind him.') 
 
 With, (^shaking his head.) This is too bad, this 
 is too bad, young ladies ! I am ashamed to have all 
 this rioting and absurdity going on in my house. 
 
 Ag. Come away, uncle, and see him go down 
 the back walk, from the parlour windows. I'll war- 
 rant you he'll stride it away most nobly. (With- 
 rmgion folloXi:s, shrugging up his shoulders.) 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Mr. Withrington'^ Libra?^. Mr. 
 WiTHRiNGTON discovered seated by a table. 
 
 With. Who waits there ? (^Enter Servant.) 
 Tell Miss Agnes Withrington I wish to see her. 
 [£j'?7 Servant.] What an absurd fellow thisHar- 
 wood is, to be so completely bewitched with such 
 a girl as Acjues ! If she were like the women I 
 
THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. 275 
 
 remember, tliere would indeed be some — (Agnes 
 entering softly behind him, gives him a tap on the 
 shoulder S) 
 
 Ag. Well, uncle, what are you grumbling 
 about ? Have you lost your wager ? Harwood has 
 just left you, I hear. 
 
 With, I believe you may buy those trinkum 
 trankum ornaments for Mariane whenever you 
 please. 
 
 Ag. Pray look not so ungraciously upon the 
 matter ! But you can't forgive him, 1 suppose, for 
 being such a ninny as to fall in love with a little 
 ordinary girl, eh ? 
 
 With. And so he is a ninny, and a fool, and a 
 very silly fellow. 
 
 Ag. Do tell me what he has been saying to 
 you. 
 
 With. Why, he confesses thou art ill-tempered, 
 that thou art freakish, that thou art extravagant ; 
 and that of all the friends he has spoken with upon 
 the subject, there is ndt one who will allow thee 
 beauty enough to make a good-looking dairy- 
 maid. 
 
 Ag. Did he say so ! 
 
 With. Why, something nearly equivalent to it, 
 Agnes. Yet, notwithstanding all tliis, there is 
 so:mething about thee, so unaccountably delight- 
 fyl to him, that, poor as thou art, he will give up 
 tllie fair hopes of opulence, and the pleasures of 
 freedom, to watch for thee, bear with thee, 
 irudge for thee, if thou wilt have the condescen- 
 
 T ^ 
 
276 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 sion, in return, to plague and tormeat him for 
 life. 
 
 Ag. Foolish enough indeed ! yet heaven bless 
 him for it ! What a fortunate woman am I ! I 
 sought a disinterested lover, and I have found a 
 most wonderful one. 
 
 With. I dare say you think yourself very for- 
 tunate. 
 
 Ag, And don't you, likewise, my good Sir? 
 but you seem displeased at it. 
 
 With. You guess rightly enough : I must speak 
 without disguise, Agnes ; I am not pleased. 
 
 Ag. Ah I his want of fortune — 
 
 With. Poo ! you know very well I despise all 
 mercenary balancing of property. It is not that 
 which disturbs me. To be the disinterested choice 
 of a worthy man is what every woman, who means 
 to marry at all, would be ambitious of; and a point 
 in regard to her marriage, which a woman of for- 
 tune would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But 
 there are men whose passions are of such a violent 
 overbearing nature, that love in them, may be 
 considered as a disease of the mind ; and the ob- 
 ject of it claims no more perfection or pre- 
 eminence amongst women, than chalk, lime, or 
 oatmeal do amongst dainties, because some dis- 
 eased stomachs do prefer them to all things. Such 
 men as these we sometimes see attach themselves 
 even to ugliness and infamy, in defiance of honour 
 and decency. With such men as these, women 
 of sense and refinement can never be happy j nay, 
 
THE TRYAL I A COMEDY. ^77 
 
 to be willingly the object of their love is disre- 
 spectable. {Pauses.) But you don't care for 
 all this, I suppose ? It does well enough for an 
 old uncle to perplex himself with these niceties : 
 it is you yourself the dear man happens to love, 
 and none of those naughty women I have been 
 talking of, so all is very right. (Pauses, and she 
 seems thoughtful.') 
 
 Ag. {assuming a grave and more dignified air.) 
 No, Sir, you injure me : prove that his love for 
 me is stronger than his love of virtue, and I will — 
 With, What will you do, Agnes ? 
 Ag. I will give him up for ever. 
 With. Ay, there spoke a brave girl ! you deserve 
 the best husband in Christendom for this. 
 
 Ag. Nay, if Harwood endures not the test, I 
 will indeed renounce him, but no other man shall 
 ever fill his place. 
 
 With. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. 
 (IValks up and doum. She is thoughtful.) You 
 are very thoughtful, Agnes 1 I fear I have dis- 
 tressed you. 
 
 Ag, You have distressed me, yet I thank you 
 for it. I have been too presumptuous, I have 
 ventured farther than I ought. Since it is so, I 
 will not shrink from the trial. {Pauses.) Don't 
 you think he will go through it honourably ? 
 
 With, {shaking his head.) Indeed I know not — 
 I hope he will. 
 A<>\ You hope ? I thank you for that word, my 
 T 3 
 
278 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 dear Sir ! I hope he will too. (^Slie remains thoiigJil- 
 fid : he takes a turn or two across the stage.) 
 
 With, {clapping her shoulder affectionately.) 
 What are you thinking of", niece ? 
 
 Ag. How to set about this business. 
 
 JVith. And how will you do it ? 
 
 Ag. I will write a letter to Lady Fade, asking 
 pardon for having told some malicious falsehoods 
 of her, to a relation on whom she is dependant ; 
 begging she will make up the matter, and forgive 
 me, promising at the same time, most humbly, 
 if she will not expose me for this time, never to 
 offend so any more. Next time he comes I will 
 make him direct the letter himself, that when it 
 falls into his hands again, he may have no doubt 
 of its authenticity. Will this do ? 
 
 TVith. Yes, very well. If he loves you after 
 this, his love is not worth the having. 
 
 Ag. Ah, uncle ! You are very hard hearted ! 
 But you are very right : I know you are very 
 right. Pray does not Royston lodge in the same 
 house with Harwood ? 
 With. He does. 
 
 Ag. I wish, by his means, we could conceal our- 
 selves somewhere in his apartments, where we 
 might see Harwood have the letter put into his 
 hands, and observe his behaviour. I donH know 
 any body else who can do this for us : doyou think 
 you could put him into good humour again ? 
 
 With. I rather think I can, for he hath stil! a 
 favour to ask of me. 
 
THE TIIYAL I A COMEDY. 279 
 
 Ag. We must give him a part to act ; do you 
 think he can do it ? 
 
 With. He is a very blundering fellow, but he 
 will be so flattered with being let into the secret, 
 that I know he will do his best. 
 
 Enter Mariane. 
 
 Mar, What have you been about so long to- 
 gether ? 
 
 JVith. Hatching a new plot ; and we set about 
 it directly too. 
 
 Mar. I am very sure the plot is of your own 
 hatching, then ; for I never saw Agnes with any 
 tiling of this kind in her head, wear such a grave 
 spiritless face upon it before. 
 
 With. You are mistaken, Ma*am, it is of her 
 own contrivance ; but you shall know nothing 
 about it. And I give you warning that this shall 
 be the last of them : if you have got any more 
 poor devils on your hands to torment, do it 
 quickly j for I will have an end put to all this 
 foolery. 
 
 Mar. Very well, uncle ; I have just been fol- 
 lowing your advice. I have discarded Sir Ulock 
 O'Grady, and I have only now poor Opal to re- 
 ward for his services. I have got a promise of 
 marriage from him, in which he forfeits ten thou- 
 sand pounds if he draws back. I shall torment 
 him with this a little. It was an extraordinary 
 thing to be sure for an heiress to demand : but I 
 told him it was the fashion ; and now that he has 
 
 T 4 
 
280 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 bound himself" so securely, he is quite at heart's 
 ease, and thinks every thing snug and well 
 settled. 
 
 Enter Royston, a Servant announcing him. 
 
 With. Your servant, Mr. Royston, I am very 
 glad to see you. Don't start at seeing the ladies 
 with me ; I know my niece, Mariane, and you 
 have had a little misunderstanding, but when I 
 have explained the matter to you, you will be 
 friends witli her again, and laugh at it yourself. 
 
 Roy. (coldly.) I have the honour to wish the 
 ladies good morning. 
 
 With. Nay, cousin, you don't understand how 
 it is : these girls have been playing tricks upon 
 every man they have met with since they came 
 here; and when that wild creature (^pointing to 
 Mariane,) was only laughing at the cheat she had 
 passed upon them all, which I shall explain to you 
 presently, you thought she was laughing at you. 
 Shake hands, and be friends with her, cousin ; 
 nobody minds what a foolish girl does. 
 
 Roy. (Jiis face brightening up.) O! for that 
 matter, I mind these things as little as any body, 
 cousin Withrington, I have too many affairs of 
 importance on my hands, to attend to such little 
 matters as these. I am glad the young lady had 
 a hearty laugh with all my soul ; and I shall be 
 happy to see her as merry again whenever she has 
 a mind to it. I mind it ! no, no, no ! 
 
 JSIar. I thank you, Sir j and I hope we shall be 
 
THE trial: a comedy. ^281 
 
 merry again, when you shall have your own share 
 of the joke. 
 
 Roy. Yes, yes, we shall be very merry. By 
 the-bye, Withrington, I came here to tell you, 
 that I have got my business with the duke put 
 into so good a train, that it can hardly misgive. 
 
 With. 1 am happy to hear it. 
 
 Roy. You must know I have set very artfully 
 about it, cousin ; but I dare say you would guess 
 as much, he, he, he ! You knew me of old, eh ! 
 T have got Mr. Cullyfool to ask it for me on his 
 own account ; I have bribed an old house-keeper, 
 who is to interest a great lady in my favour ; I 
 have called eleven times on his grace's half-cou- 
 sin, till she has fairly promised to write to the 
 dutchess upon the business : I have written to the 
 steward, and promised his son all my interest at 
 next election, if he has any mind to stand for our 
 borough, you know ; and I have applied by a 
 friend — no, no, he has applied through the me- 
 dium of another friend, or rather, I believe, by 
 that friend's wife, or aunt, or some way or other, 
 I don't exactly remember, but it is a very good 
 channel, I know. 
 
 With. O ! I make no doubt of it. 
 
 Roy. Nay, my landlady has engaged her apo- 
 thecary's wife to speak to his grace's physician 
 about it ; and a medical man, you know, some- 
 times asks a favour with great advantage, when a 
 patient believes that his life is in his hands. The 
 duke has got a most fiuious fit of the gout, and it 
 
OS2 THE TIIYAL '. A COMEDY. 
 
 has lieen in bis stomach too, ha, ha, ha, ha ! — 
 If we can't succeed without it, I have a friend who 
 will offer a round sum for me, at last ; but I hope 
 this will not be necessary. Pray, do you know 
 of any other good channel to solicit by ? 
 
 With. 'Faith, Royston ! you have found out 
 too many roads to one place already; I fear you'll 
 lose your way amongst them all. 
 
 Roi/. Nay, nay, cousin, I won't be put off so. 
 I have been told this morning you are acquainted 
 with Sucksop, the duke's greatest friend and ad- 
 viser. Come, come ! you must use your interest 
 for me. 
 
 fVith. Well, then, come into the other room, 
 and we shall speak about it. I have a favour to 
 ask of you too. 
 
 Roi/. My dear Sir, any favour in my power you 
 may absolutely command at all times. I'll follow 
 you, cousin. (Goes to the door with Withrington 
 with great alacrity , but recollecting that he has for- 
 gotten to pay his compliments to the ladies, hurries 
 back again, and, ajter malcing several very pro- 
 found bows to the7n, follows Withrington into 
 another room.) 
 
 Mar. (imitating him.) Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ag. Softly, Mariane ; let us leave this room, 
 if you must laugh, for he will overhear you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 283 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Royston'5 Lodgings : enter IIoyston, conduclhig 
 in Agnes, Mariane, and Withrington. 
 
 Roy. Now, pray compose yourselves, young 
 ladies, and sit down a little. I'll manage every 
 thing : don't give yourselves any trouble ; I'll 
 set tlie whole plot a-going. 
 
 With. We depend entirely upon you, Royston. 
 
 Roy. I know you do : many a one depends 
 upon me, cousin Withrington. I'll shew you how 
 I'll manage it. Jonathan, come here, Jonathan ! 
 (J^Mer Jonathan.) Bring me that screen from the 
 other room. (E^ii/ Jonathan.) We'll place it 
 here, if you please, cousin, and then you and the 
 ladies can stand as snugly behind it, askings and 
 queens in a puppet-show, till your time comes to 
 appear. (£?zfer Jonathan xdtli screen.') Come hi- 
 ther with it, Jonathan : place it here. {Pointing.) 
 No, no, jolter-head, nearer the wall with it. 
 (Going behind it, and coming out again.) It will 
 tlo better a little more to this side, for then it will 
 be farther from the window. 
 
 Ag. O! it will do very well. Sir ; you take too 
 much trouble. 
 
 Roy. Trouble, my dear Ma'am ! If it were a 
 hundred times more trouble, I should be happy 
 tp serve you. I don't mind trouble, if I can get 
 the thing done cleverly and completely. That'i> 
 
2S4< THE TRYAL . A COMEDY. 
 
 my way of doing things. No, it don't stand to 
 pfease me yet ; it is too near the door now, and 
 the ladies may catch cold, perhaps. 
 
 Ag. {very imeasy.) Indeed, it stands very well ! 
 Harwood will be here before we are ready. 
 
 Roy. {to Jon.) Blockhead that thou art 1 can'st 
 thou not set it up even ? Now, that will do, 
 {Getting heUnd it.) This will do. {Coming out 
 again.) Yes, this will do to a nicety. 
 "^ Mar. {aside.) Heaven be praised, this grand 
 matter is settled at last 1 
 
 Ro7j. Now, he'll think it odd, perhaps, that I 
 have a screen in my room ; but 1 have a trick for 
 that, ladies ; I'll tell him I mean to purchase lands 
 in Canada, and have been looking over the map 
 of America. (Agnes looks to Withrington very 
 
 uneasy.) i -ii 
 
 With. Don't do that, Royston, for then he will 
 
 examine the screen. 
 
 Roy. Or I may say, there is a chmk m the 
 wall, and I placed it to keep out the air. 
 
 A<r No, no, that won't do. For heaven's 
 
 s3,1^6 Sir 1 
 
 Roy. Then I shall just say, I like to have a 
 screen in my room, for I am used to it at home. 
 
 Mar. Bless me, Mr. Royston ! can't you just 
 leave it alone, and he'll take no notice of it. 
 
 Roy. O 1 if he takes no notice of it, that is a 
 different thing. Miss Withrington : but don't be 
 uneasy, I'll manage it all -, I'll conduct the whole 
 business. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 285 
 
 Ag. (aside to Withrington.) O ! my good Sir ! 
 this fool will ruin every thing. 
 
 With. Be quiet, Agnes, we are in for it now. 
 
 Roi/. Let me remember my lesson too. Here 
 is the letter for him, with the seal as naturally 
 broken, as if the lady had done it herself. Har- 
 wood will wonder, now, how I came to know 
 about all this. 'Faith ! I believe, he thinks me 
 a strange, diving, penetrating kind of a genius, 
 already, and he is not far wrong, perhaps. You 
 know me, cousin Withrington : ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 You know me. 
 
 Ag. O ! I wish it were over, and we were out 
 of this house again ! 
 
 Boi/. Don't be uneasy, Ma'am, I'll m.anage 
 every thing. — Jonathan ! (Efiter Jonathan,) 
 don't you go and tell Mr. Harwood that I have 
 got company here. 
 
 Jon. No, no, your honour, I knows better than 
 that y for the ladies are to be behind the screen, 
 Sir, and he must know nothing of the matter, to 
 be sure. I'ficken 1 it will be rare sport ! 
 
 Ag. (starting.) I hear a knock at the door. 
 
 Roi/. It is him, I dare say j run, Jonathan. 
 
 [Exit Jonatlian. 
 
 Ag. Come, come, let us hide ourselves. (All 
 get behind the screen but Royston.) 
 
 Roi/. Ay, ay, it will do very well. (Looking 
 at the screen.) 
 
 Ag. (behind.) Mariane, don't breathe so loud. 
 
 Mar. (behind.) I don't breathe loud. 
 
286 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ag. (behind.) Do, uncle, draw in the edge of 
 your coat. 
 
 With. (J)ehind.') Poo, silly girl ! they can't see 
 a bit of it. 
 
 Enter Colonel Hardy and Harwood. 
 
 Roy. Ha! your servant, my dear Colonel. 
 How goes it, Harwood? I bade my man tell you 
 I was alone, and very much disposed for your 
 good company ; but I am doubly fortunate. 
 (Bowing to the Colonel.) 
 
 Col. Indeed, Royston, I have been pretty much 
 ♦with him these two days past, and I don't believe 
 he gives me great thanks for my company. I am 
 like an old horse running after a colt ; the young 
 devil never fails to turn now and then, and give 
 him a kick for his pains. 
 
 Har. Nay, my good friend, I must be an ass's 
 colt, then. I am sure, I mean it not ; but I am 
 not happy, and fear I have been peevish with 
 you. 
 
 Roy. (attempting to look archly.) Peevish, and 
 all that ! perhaps the young man is in love, 
 Colonel ? 
 
 Col. No more, if you please, Royston : we are 
 to speak of this no more. 
 
 Enter Jonathan. 
 
 Jon. Did your honour call ? 
 
 Roy. No, sirrah. (Jonathan goes, as if he were 
 
THE TRYAL *. A COMEDY. 587 
 
 hoking for somethings and takes a sly peep belmid 
 the scree7i, to see if they are all there.) What are 
 you peeping there for ? get along, you hound ! 
 Does he want to make people believe I keep rary- 
 shovvs behind the wainscot ? (Exit Jonatlian.) 
 But as I was a-saying, Colonel, perhaps the young 
 man is in love. He, he, he ! 
 
 Col, No, no, let us have no more of it. 
 
 Roy, But 'fliith, I know that he is so ! and I 
 know the lady too. She is a cousin of my own, 
 and I am as well acquainted with her as I am 
 with my own dog — But you don't ask me what 
 kind of a girl she is. (To the Colonel.) 
 
 Col. Give over now, Royston ; she is a very 
 good girl, I dare say. 
 
 Roy. Well, you may think so, but — {Making 
 signif cant faces.) But — I should not say all I 
 know of my own cousin, to be sure, but — 
 
 Har. What are all those cursed grimaces for ? 
 Her faults are plain and open as her perfections : 
 these she disdains to conceal, and the others it is 
 impossible. 
 
 Roy. Softly, Harwood ; don't be in a passion, 
 unless you would imitate your mistress ; for she 
 has not the gentlest temper in the world. 
 
 Har. Well, well, I love her the better for it. 
 I can't bear your insipid passionless women ; I 
 would as soon live upon sweet curd all my life, 
 as attach myself to one of them. 
 
 Roy. She is very extravagant. 
 
 Har. Heaven bless the s^ood folks ! would they 
 
^88 THE TUYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 have a man to give up the woman of his heart, 
 because she likes a bit of lace upon her petticoat ? 
 
 Roy. Well, but she is — 
 
 Col. Devil take you, Royston ! can't you hold 
 your tongue about her ? you see he can't bear it. 
 
 Roy. (making signs to the Colonel.) Let me 
 alone ; I know when to speak, and when to hold 
 my tongue, as well as another. Indeed, Har- 
 wood, I am your friend ; and though the lady is 
 my relation, I must say, I wish you had made a 
 better choice. I have discovered something in 
 regard to her this morning, which shews her to 
 be a very improper one. I cannot say, however, 
 that I have discovered any thing which surprised 
 me ; I know her too well. 
 
 Har. (ye]ie7nently.') You are imposed upon by 
 some damn'd falsehood. 
 
 Roy. But I have proof of what I say ; the lady 
 who is injured by her gave me this letter to shew 
 to Mr. Withrington. {Taking out the letter.) 
 
 Har. It is some fiend who wants to undermine 
 her, and has forged .that scrawl to serve her 
 spiteful purpose. 
 
 Roy. I should be glad it were so, my dear 
 friend ; but Lady Fade is a woman, whose vera- 
 city has never been suspected. 
 
 Har. Is it from Lady Fade ? Give it me ! 
 (^Snatching the letter.) 
 
 Roy. It is Agnes's hand, is it not ? 
 
 Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it. 
 
 Roy. Read the contents, pray ! 
 
THE tryal: a comedy. 289 
 
 Har. " Madam, what I have said to the preju- 
 dice of your ladyship's character to your relation, 
 Mr. Worthy, I am heartily sorry for ; and I am 
 ready to beg pardon on my knees, if you desire it ; 
 to acknowledge before Mr. Worthy himself^ that 
 it is a falsehood, or make any other reparation, in 
 a private way, that you may desire. Let me, then, 
 conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and I 
 shall ever remain your most penitent and grateful 
 A. Withrington.'* 
 
 Roy, The lady would not be so easily pacified, 
 though; for she blackened her character, in order 
 to make her best friend upon earth quarrel with 
 her ; so she gave me the letter to shew to her 
 uncle. Is it forged, think you ? 
 
 Har. It is possible — I will venture to say — 
 Nay, I am sure it is ! 
 
 Roy. If it is, there is one circumstance which 
 may help to discover the author ; it is directed by 
 a different hand on the back. Look at it. 
 
 Har. (^In great perturbation.') Is it? (^Turns 
 hastily the folds of the letter ^ but his hand trembles 
 so much, he can't fnd the back.) 
 
 Col. My dear Harwood ! this is the back of 
 the letter, and methinks the writing is somewhat 
 like your own. ( Harwood looks at it ; then stag- 
 gering back, throws himself into a chair, which 
 happens to be behind him, and covers his upper face 
 with his hand.) 
 
 Col. My dear Harwood ! 
 
 Roy. See how his lips quiver, and his bosom 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 lieaves ! Let us unbutton him ; I fear he is going 
 into a fit. (Agnes comes from behind the screen in 
 a fright, and Withrington pulls her in again.) 
 
 Col. (with great tenderness.) My dear Har- 
 wood ! 
 
 Har. (rvith a broken i-oice.) I'll go to mine own 
 chamber. (Gets up hastily from his chair , and then 
 falls back again in a faint.) 
 
 Col. He has fliinted. 
 
 Roy. Help, help, here ! (Running about.) "Who 
 has got hartshorn, or lavender, or water ? help 
 here! (They allcomefrombehindthe screen. Agnes 
 runs to Harwood, and sprinkles him over mth la- 
 vender, rubbing his temples, §c., whilst Colonel 
 Hardy stares atihem all in amazement.) 
 
 Ag. Alas ! we have carried this too far ! Har- 
 wood ! my dear Harwood ! 
 
 Col. (to Roy.) What is all this ? 
 
 Roy. I thought we should amaze you. I knew 
 I should manage it. 
 
 Col. You have managed finely indeed, to put 
 Harwood into such a state with your mummery, 
 
 Ag. Will he not come to himself again ? Get 
 some water, Mariane — See how pale he is ! (He 
 recovers.) O ! he recovers ! Harwood ! do you 
 know me, Harwood ? 
 
 Har. (looking upon Agnes, and shrinking hack 
 from her.) Ha! what has brought you here? leave 
 me! leave me! I am wretched enough already. 
 
 Ag. I come to bring you relief, my dear Har- 
 wood. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. gQi 
 
 Ha7\ No, madam, it is misery yon bring. We 
 must part for ever. 
 
 Ag. O! uncle ! do you hear that? He says we 
 must part for ever. 
 
 With, {taking hold of Agnc^,) Don't be in such 
 a hurry about it. 
 
 Har. (rising up.) How came you here ? Qo 
 Withrington,) and these ladies ? 
 Rot/. O ! it was all my contrivance. 
 With. Pray now, Royston, be quiet a little. — 
 Mr. Harwood, I will speak to you seriously. I 
 see you are attached to my niece, and I confess 
 she has many faults ; but you are a man of sense, 
 and with you she will make a more respectable 
 figure in the world than with any other ; I am 
 anxious for her welfare, and if you will marry her, 
 I will give her such a fortune as will make it no 
 longer an imprudent step to follow your inclin- 
 ations. 
 
 Har. No, Sir, you shall keep your fortune and 
 your too bewitching niece together. For her sake 
 I would have renounced all ambition ; I would 
 have shared with her poverty and neglect; I 
 would have borne with all her faults and weak- 
 nesses of nature; I would have toiled, I would 
 have bled for her ; but I can never yoke myself 
 with unworthiness. 
 
 Ag. {yoiping her eyes, and giving two skips uj)on 
 the Jloor.) O! admirable! admirable! speak to 
 him, uncle! tell him all, my dear uncle ! for I can't 
 say a word. 
 
 u 2 
 
292 THE tryal: a comedy. 
 
 Col. (aside to Royston.) Isn't she a little wrong 
 in the head, Royston ? 
 
 With. Give me your hand, Harwood : you are 
 a noble fellow, and you shall marry this little girl 
 of mine after all. This story of the letter and 
 Lady Fade, was only a concerted one amongst us, 
 to prove what mettle you are made of. Agnes, to 
 try your love, aftected to be shrewish and extrava- 
 gant ; and afterwards, at my suggestion, to try 
 your principles, contrived this little plot, which 
 has just now been unravelled ; but I do assure 
 fou, on the word of an honest man, there is not 
 a better girl in the kingdom. I must own, how- 
 ever, she is a fanciful little toad. (Harwood runs 
 to Agnes, catches her in his arms, and runs two or 
 three times round with her, then takes her hand and 
 kisses it, and then puts his knee to the ground.) 
 
 Har. My charming, my delightful Agnes! Oh! 
 what a fool have I been ! how could I suppose it ? 
 
 Ag. We took some pains with you, and it 
 would have been hard, if we could not have de- 
 ceived you amongst us all. 
 
 Har. And so thou art a good girl, a very good 
 girl. I know thou art. Til be hang*d if thou 
 hast one fault in the world. 
 
 With. No, no, Harwood, not quite so perfect. 
 I can prove her still to be an arrant cheat ; for she 
 pretended to be careless of you when she thought 
 of you all the day long ; and she pretended to be 
 poor with an hundred thousand pounds, indepen- 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 293 
 
 dant of any one, in her possession. She is Miss 
 Withrington the heiress; and this lady, (pointing 
 to Mariane,) has only been her representative for 
 a time, for reasons which I shall explain to you 
 by-and-by. (Harwood lets go Agnes*s ha?idj and 
 steps back some paces xvith a certain gravity and 
 distance in his air.) 
 
 With. What is the matter now, Harwood? 
 does this cast a damp upon you ? 
 
 Roy. Itisaweightydistresstruly. Ha,ha,ha,ha! 
 
 Col, By heaven this is good. 
 
 Ag. {going up to Harwood, and holding out her 
 hand.') Do not look so distantly upon me, Har- 
 wood : you was willing to marry me as a poor 
 woman ; if there is any thing in my fortune 
 which offends you, I scatter it to the winds. 
 
 Har. My admirable girl! it is astonishment, it 
 is something I cannot express, which overcomes, 
 1 had almost said distresses me, at present. (^Pre- 
 senting her to the Colonel.) Colonel Hardy, this 
 is the woman I have raved about ! this is the 
 woman I have boasted of! this is my Agnes! 
 and this, Miss Withrington, is Colonel Hardy, 
 my own, and my father*s friend. 
 
 Ag. (holding out her hand to the Colonel.) He 
 shall be mine too. Every friend of yours shall 
 be my friend, Harwood ; but the friend to your 
 father my most respected one. 
 
 Har. Do you hear that. Colonel ? 
 
 Col, I hear it j my heart hears it, and blesses 
 you both. 
 
 u 3 
 
29^ THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 Har. (to With.) My dear Sir, what shall I say 
 to you for all this goodness ? 
 
 Ag. Tell him he is the dearest good uncle on 
 earth, and we will love him all our lives for it. 
 Yes, indeed, we will, uncle, (taking his haiid j) very, 
 very dearly ! 
 
 Rot/. Now, good folks, have not I managed it 
 cleverlv ? 
 
 Mar. Pray let me come from the back ground 
 a little; and since I must quit all the splendour of 
 heiresship, I desire, at least, that I may have some 
 respect paid me for having filled the situation so 
 well, as the old Mayor receives the thanks of the 
 corporation, when the new May or — Bless me! here 
 comes Opal ! I have not quite done with it yet. 
 
 fFith. Your servant, Mr. Opal. 
 
 Mar. {to Op.) Are you not surprised to find 
 us all here ? 
 
 Op. Harwood I know is a very lucky fellow, 
 but I knew you were here. It is impossible, you 
 see, to escape me. But (half aside to Mariane.) 
 I wanted to tell you Colonel Beaumont is come 
 to Bath. Now I should like to be introduced to 
 him on his arrival. He will be very much the 
 fashion, I dare say, and I should like to have a 
 friendship for him. You understand me ? You 
 can procure this for me, I know. 
 
 With. Come, Mr. Opal, you must join in our 
 good humour here, for we have just been making 
 up a match. My niece, Agnes, vvith a large 
 fortune, bestows herself on a worthy man, who 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 295 
 
 would have married her without one ; and Ma- 
 riane, who for certain reasons has assumed her 
 character of heiress since we came to Bath, leaves 
 all her borrowed state, in hopes that the man who 
 would have married her with a fortune, will not 
 now forsake her. 
 
 Op. {stammering.) Wh — Wh — Whatisallthis? 
 
 Roy. {half aside to Opal.) You seem disturbed, 
 Mr. Opal ; you have not been paying your ad- 
 dresses to her, I hope. 
 
 Op. {aside to Royston.) No, not paying my 
 addresses ; that is to say, not absolutely. I have 
 paid her some attention to be sure. 
 
 Roy. {nodding significantly.') It is well for you 
 it is no worse. 
 
 Mar. {turning to Opal, who looks very much 
 frightened.) What is it you say ? Don't you think 
 I overheard it ? Not paid your addresses to me ! 
 O ! you false man! can you deny the declarations 
 you have made ? the oaths you have sworn ? O ! 
 you false man ! 
 
 Op. Upon honour. Madam, we men of the 
 world don't expect to be called to an account for 
 every foolish thing we say. 
 
 Mar, What you have written then shall wit- 
 ness against you. Will you deny this promise of 
 marriage in your own h and- writing ? {Taking 
 out a paper.) 
 
 Roy. {aside to Op.) What ! a promise of mar- 
 riage, Mr. Opal ! The devil himself could not 
 
 u It 
 
^96 
 
 THE TllYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 have put it into your head to do a worse thing 
 than this. 
 
 Op. {yery frightened, hut making a great exer- 
 tion.) Don't think, Ma'am, to bully me into the 
 match. I can prove that promise to be given to 
 you under the false character of an heiress, there- 
 fore your deceit loosens the obligation. 
 
 With. Take care what you say, Sir; (Jo Op.) I 
 will not see my niece wronged. The law shall do 
 her justice, whatever expence it may cost me. 
 
 Mar. Being an heiress, or not, has nothing to do 
 in the matter, Mr. Opal; for you expressly say in 
 this promise, that my beauty and perfections alone 
 have induced you to engage yourself; and I will 
 take all the men in court to witness, whether I 
 am not as handsome to-day as I was yesterday. 
 
 Op. I protest there is not such a word in the 
 paper. 
 
 Mar. (^holding out the paper.) O base man! 
 will you deny your own writing ? (Op. snatches 
 the paper from her, tears it to pieces.) 
 
 Mar. {gathering up the scattered pieces.) O ! 
 I can put them together again. (Op. snatching 
 up one of the pieces^ cra?ns it into his mouth and 
 chews it.) 
 
 Roy. Chew fast. Opal ! she will snatch it out 
 of your mouth else. There is another bit for 
 you. (Offering him another piece.) 
 
 Mar. (bursting into a loud laugh, in which all 
 the company join.) Is it very nice, Mr. Opal? You 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 297 
 
 munch it up as expeditiously as a bit of plum- 
 cake. 
 
 Op. What the deuce does all this mean ? 
 
 With. This naughty girl, Mr. Opal, has only 
 been amusing herself with your promise, which 
 she never meant to make any other use of; she 
 is already engaged to a very worthy young man, 
 who will receive with her a fortune by no means 
 contemptible. 
 
 Op. Well, well, much good may it do him : 
 what do I care about — (mumbling to himself.') 
 
 Roy. Ha, ha, ha ! how some people do get 
 themselves into scrapes ! They have no more 
 notion of managing their affairs than so many 
 sheep. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Enter Humphry. 
 
 Humph. (Jo Roy.) I would speak a word with 
 your honour. (Whispers to Royston.) 
 
 Roy. (in a rage.) What! given away the place ! 
 It is impossible! It is some wicked machination! 
 It is some damn'd trick! 
 
 With. Be moderate, Royston ; what has good 
 Mr. Humphry been telling you ? 
 
 Roy. O ! the devil of a bite ! his Grace has 
 given away the place to a poor simpleton, who 
 had never a soul to speak for him ! 
 
 With. Who told you this, Mr Humphry ? 
 
 Humph. Truly, Sir, I called upon his Grace's 
 gentleman, just to make up a kind of acquaintance 
 
298 THE tryal: a comedy." 
 
 with him, as his honour desired me, and he told 
 me it was given away this morning. 
 
 Roy. What cursed luck ! 
 
 Humph. "Why," says I, "I thought my master 
 was to have had it, Mr. Smoothly." " And so he 
 would," says he, " but one person came to the 
 Duke after another, teasing him about Mr. Roy- 
 ston, till he grew quite impatient ; for there was 
 but one of all those friends," says he, winking 
 with his eye so, " who did speak at last to the 
 purpose; but then, uponMr.Sucksop's taking up 
 your master's interest, he shrunk back from his 
 word, which offended his Grace very much." 
 
 Roy. Blundering blockhead ! 
 
 Humph. And so he gave away the place direct- 
 ly to poor Mr. Drudgewell, who had no recom- 
 mendation at all, but fifteen years' hard service 
 in the office. 
 
 Roy. Well, now ! well, now ! you see how the 
 world goes ; simpletons and idiots carry every 
 thing before them. 
 
 With. Nay, Royston, blame yourself too. Did 
 not I tell you, you had found out too many roads 
 to one place, and would lose your way amongst 
 them? 
 
 Roy. No, no, it is all that cursed perverse fate 
 of mine ! By the Lord, half the trouble I have 
 taken for this paltry office, would have procured 
 some people an archbishoprick ! There is Har- 
 wood, now, fortune presses herself upon him, 
 and makes him, at one stroke, an idle gentleman 
 for life. 
 
THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 
 
 '.>99 
 
 Har. No, Sir, an idle gentleman I will never 
 be: my Agnes shall never be the wife of any thing 
 so contemptible. 
 
 Ag. I thank you, Harwood; I do, indeed, look 
 for honourable distinction in being your wife. 
 You shall still exert your powers in theprofession 
 you have chosen : you shall be the weak one's 
 stay, the poor man's advocate; you shall gain fair 
 fame in recompense, and that will be our nobility. 
 
 With. Well said, my children ! you have more 
 sense than I thought you had amongst all these 
 whimsies. Now, let us take our leave of plots 
 and story-telling, if you please, and all go to my 
 house to supper. Royston shall drown his disap- 
 pointment in a can of warm negus, and Mr. Opal 
 shall have something more palatable than his last 
 spare morsel. [Exeunt. 
 
 THE END OF THE TUYAL. 
 
DE MONFORT 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 De Monfort. 
 
 Rezenvelt. 
 
 Count Freberg, Friend to De Monfort and 
 
 Rezenvelt. 
 Manuel, Servant to De Monfort. 
 Jerome, De Monfort*^ old Landlord, 
 Conrad, an artful Knave, 
 Bernard, a Monk. 
 
 Monks, Gentlemen, Officers, Page, ^x. c^r. 
 
 WOMEN: 
 
 Jane De Monfort, Sister to De Monfort. 
 Countess Freberg, Wife to Freberg. 
 Theresa, Servant to the Countess. 
 
 Abbess, Nuns, and a Lay Sister, Ladies, ^c. 
 Scene, a Tcwn in Germany. 
 
DE MONFORT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE [. — Jerome'5 House. A lar":c old- 
 
 to' 
 
 fashioned chamber, 
 
 Jer. {speaJcing ^without.) This way, good masters. 
 
 J5J?zfer Jerome, bearing a lights and follo*wed by 
 Manuel, and servants carrying luggage. 
 
 Rest your burthens here. 
 This spacious room will please the Marquis best. 
 He takes me unawares ; but ill prepared : 
 If he had sent, e'en tho' a hasty notice, 
 I had been glad. 
 
 Man. Be not disturb'd, good Jerome ; 
 
 Thy house is in most admirable order ; 
 And they who travel o' cold winter nights 
 Think homeliest quarters good. 
 
 Jer. He is not far behind ? 
 
 Ma7i. A little way. 
 
 (To the Servants.) Go you and wait below till he 
 arrives. 
 
 Jer. {shaking Manuel by the hand.) Indeed, my 
 friend, I*m glad to see you here. 
 Yet marvel wherefore. 
 
304" DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Man. I marvel wherefore too, myhonestJerome : 
 But here we are ; pri*thee be kind to us. 
 
 Jer. Most heartily I will. I love your master : 
 He is a quiet and a lib'ral man : 
 A better inmate never crossed my door. 
 
 Man. Ah ! but he is not now the man he was. 
 Lib'ral he*ll be. God grant he may be quiet. 
 
 Jer. What has befallen him ? 
 
 Man. I cannot tell thee ; 
 
 But, faith, there is no living with him now. 
 
 Jer. And yet, methinks, if I remember well, 
 You were about to quit his service, Manuel, 
 When last he left this house. You grumbled 
 then. 
 
 Man. Tve been upon the eve of leaving him 
 These ten long years ; for many times is he 
 So difficult, capricious, and distrustful, 
 He galls my nature — yet, I know not how, 
 A secret kindness binds me to him still. 
 
 Jer. Some, who offend from a suspicious nature, 
 Will afterward such fair confession make 
 As turns e*en the offence into a favour. 
 
 Man. Yes, some indeed do soj so will not he: 
 He*d rather die than such confession make. 
 
 Jer. Ay, thou art right; for now I call to mind 
 That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspicion, 
 When first he came to lodge beneath my roof j 
 And when it so fell out that I was prov'd 
 Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought 
 He would have made profession of regret. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. ^06 
 
 But silent, haughty, and ungraciously 
 
 He bore himself as one offended still. 
 
 Yet shortly after, when unwittingly 
 
 1 did him some slight service, o'the sudden 
 
 He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks ; 
 
 And would not be restrain'd from pressing on me 
 
 A noble recompense. I understood 
 
 His o*erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well, 
 
 And took it as he meant. 
 
 Man. *Tis often thus. 
 
 I would have left him many years ago, 
 But that with all his faults there sometimes come 
 Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart, 
 As might engage a harder churl than me 
 To serve him still. — And then his sister too ; 
 A noble dame, who should have been a queen : 
 The meanest of her hinds, at her command. 
 Had fought like lions for her, and the poor, 
 E*en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless*d her — 
 She would have griev'd if I had left my Lord. 
 Jer. Comes she along with him ? 
 Man. No, he departed all unknown to her. 
 Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route ; 
 But well I knew it would afflict her much. 
 And therefore left a little nameless billet. 
 Which after our departure, as I guess, 
 Would fall into her hands, and tell her all. 
 What could I do ? O 'tis a noble lady ! 
 Jer. All this is strange — something disturbs 
 his mind — 
 Belike he is in love. 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mam No, Jerome, no. 
 
 Once on a time I serv*d a noble master, 
 Whose youth was blasted with untoward love, 
 And he with hope and fear and jealousy 
 For ever toss'd, led an unquiet life : 
 Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit. 
 His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore 
 As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him. 
 But Monfort, even in his calmest hour. 
 Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye 
 Which powerfully repels all sympatliy. 
 
 no ! good Jerome, no, it is not love. 
 
 Jer, Hear I not horses trampling at the gate ? 
 
 (^Listening.) 
 He is arrived — stay thou — I had forgot — 
 A plague upon't ! my head is so confus'd — 
 
 1 will return i'the instant to receive him. 
 
 (Exit hasiili/.) 
 (^A great bustle without. Exit Manuel mth 
 lights^ and returns again, lighting in De 
 MoNFORT, as if just alighted from his 
 journey.') 
 Man. Your ancient host, my Lord, receives 
 you gladly. 
 And your apartment will be soon prepared. 
 De Mon. *Tis well. 
 
 Ma7i, Where shall I place the chest you gave 
 in charge? 
 So please you, say my Lord. 
 DeMon, {throwing himself into a cJiair.) Where- 
 e'er thou wilt. 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 307 
 
 Man. I would not move that luggage till you 
 came. (^Pointing to certain things.) 
 
 De Mon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble 
 me no more. 
 (Manuel, idth the assistance of otlier sewantSt 
 sets about putting the things in order j and 
 De Monfbrt refuains sitting in a thought- 
 ful posture.) 
 
 Enter Jerome, bearing wine, ^v. on a salver. As 
 he approaches De Monfort, Manuel pulls him 
 by the sleeve. 
 
 Man. {aside to Jerome.) No, do not now ; he 
 
 will not be disturbed. 
 Jer. What ! not to bid him welcome to my 
 house. 
 And ofter some refreshment ? 
 
 Ma7i. No, good Jerome. 
 
 Softly a little while : I pri'thee do. 
 
 Jerome walks softly on tiptoes^ till he gets be- 
 hind De Monfbrt, then peeping on one side to 
 see his face.) 
 Jer. {aside to Manuel.) Ah, Manuel, what an 
 altered man is here ! 
 His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale — 
 He left this house a comely gentleman. 
 De Mon. Who whispers there ? 
 Man. *Tis your old landlord, Sir. 
 
 Jer. I joy to see you here — I crave your par- 
 don — 
 I fear I do intrude — 
 
 X 2 
 
308 DE MONFORT I A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mon. No, my kind host, I am obliged to 
 thee. 
 
 Jer, How fares it with your honour ? 
 
 De Mon. Well enough. 
 
 Jer, Here is a little of the fav'rite wine 
 That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me. 
 
 {Fills a glass.) 
 
 DeMon. {after drinking.) I thank you, Jerome, 
 'tis delicious. 
 
 Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so. 
 
 De Mon. And how does she ? 
 
 Jer. Alas, my Lord ! she*s dead. 
 
 De Mon. Well, then she is at rest. 
 
 Jer, How well, my Lord ? 
 
 De Mon. Is she not with the dead, the quiet 
 dead, 
 Where all is peace ? Not e'en the impious wretch, 
 Who tears the coffin from its earthy vault. 
 And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind. 
 Can break their rest. 
 
 Jer. Woe's me ! 1 thought you would have 
 grieved for her. 
 She was a kindly soul ! Before she died, 
 When pining sickness bent her cheerless head. 
 She set my house in order — 
 And but the morning ere she breath'd her last. 
 Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine. 
 That should the Lord de Monfort come again 
 His cup might sparkle still. (De Monfort walks 
 across the stage, and wipes his eyes.) 
 Indeed I fear I have distress'd you, Sir j 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 309 
 
 I surely thought you would be grieved for her. 
 De Moil, (takmg Jerome** hand.) I am, my 
 
 friend. How long has she been dead ? 
 Jer. Two sad long years. 
 De Mon. Would she were living still ! 
 
 1 was too troublesome, too heedless of her. 
 Jer. O no ! she lov'd to serve you. 
 
 (Loud knocking without.) 
 De Mon. What fool comes here, at such un- 
 timely hours, 
 To make this cursed noise ? (To Manuel.) Go to 
 the gate. CExit Manuel.) 
 
 All sober citizens are gone to bed ; 
 It is some drunkards on their nightly rounds. 
 Who mean it but in sport. 
 Jer. I hear unusual voices — here they come. 
 
 Re-enter Manuel, shewing in Count Freberg and 
 his Lady, with a mask in her hand, 
 
 Freb. (running to embraceDe Mon.) My dearest 
 Monfort ! most unlook'd for pleasure ! 
 Do I indeed embrace thee here again ? 
 I saw thy servant standing by the gate. 
 His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings ! 
 Welcome, thrice welcome here ! 
 
 DeMon. I thank thee, Freberg, for this friendly 
 visit. 
 And this fair Lady too. (Bowing to theLady.) 
 
 Lady. I fear, my Lord, 
 
 We do intrude at an untimely hour : 
 
 X 3 
 
310 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 But now, returning from a midnight mask, 
 My husband did insist that we should enter. 
 
 Freb. No, say not so ; no hour untimely call, 
 Which doth together bring long absent friends. 
 Dear Monfort, why hast thou so slyly play'd, 
 To come upon us thus so suddenly ? 
 
 De Mon. O ! many varied thoughts do cross 
 our brain, 
 Which touch the will, but leave the memory 
 
 trackless ; 
 And yet a strange compounded motive make, 
 Wherefore a man should bend his evening walk 
 To th' east or west, the forest or the field. 
 Is it not often so ? 
 
 Fr^eh. 1 ask no more, happy to see you here 
 From any motive. There is one behind, 
 Whose presence would have been a double bliss : 
 Ah! how is she? The noble Jane De Monfort. 
 
 De Mon. {corifused.) She is — I have — I left 
 my sister well. 
 
 Lady, {to Freberg.) My Freberg, you are heed- 
 less of respect : 
 You surely mean to say the Lady Jane. 
 
 Freb. Respect ! No, Madam ; Princess, Em- 
 press, Queen, 
 Could not denote a creature so exalted 
 As this plain appellation doth. 
 The noble Jane De Monfort. 
 
 Lady, (Jurning from him displeased to Mon.) 
 You are fatigued, my Lord 5 you want repose j 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 311 
 
 Say, should we not retire ? - 
 
 Freb, Ha ! is it so ? 
 
 My friend, your face is pale, have you been ill ? 
 
 De Mon. No, Freberg, no ; I think I have 
 been well. 
 
 Freh. (^shaking Ids head.) I fear thou hast not, 
 Monfort — Let it pass. 
 We'll re-establish thee : we'll banish pain. 
 1 will collect some rare, some cheerful friends, 
 And we shall spend together glorious hours, 
 That gods might envy. Little time so spent 
 Doth far outvalue all our life beside. 
 This is indeed our life, our waking life. 
 The rest dull breathing sleep. 
 
 De Moil. Thus, it is true, from the sad years 
 of life 
 We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike. 
 Keen, blissful bright, never to be forgotten ; 
 Which, thro' the dreary gloom of time o'erpast, 
 Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. 
 But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls 
 Whose magick power creates them. Bless'd art 
 
 thou, 
 If, in the ample circle of thy friends, 
 Thou canst but boast a few. 
 
 Frcb. Judge for thyself: intruth I do not boast. 
 There is amongst my tiriends, my later friends, 
 A most accomplish'd stranger : new to Amberg j 
 But just arrivM, and will ere long depart, 
 I met him in Franconia two years since. 
 He is so full of pleasant anecdote, 
 
 X 4 
 
312 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit, 
 Time vanishes before him as he speaks. 
 And ruddy morning thro* the lattice peeps 
 Ere night seems well begun. 
 
 De Mon, How is he call*d ? 
 
 Freb. I will surprise thee with a welcome face : 
 I will not tell thee now. 
 
 Lady, {to Mon.) I have, my Lord, a small 
 request to make, 
 And must not be denied. I too may boast 
 Of some good friends, and beauteous country- 
 women : 
 To-morrow night I open wide my doors 
 To all the fair and gay : beneath my roof 
 Musick, and dance, and revelry shall reign : 
 I pray you come and grace it with your presence. 
 DeMon. Youhonour me toomuchtobe denied. 
 Lady. I thank you. Sir ; and in return for this, 
 We shall withdraw, and leave you to repose. 
 Freh, Must it be so ? Good night — sweet sleep 
 
 to thee! {To De Monfort.) 
 DeMon. (/o Freb.) Goodnight. {To Lady.) 
 
 Good night, fair Lady. 
 Lady. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exeunt Freberg and Lady. 
 De Mon. (to Jer.) I thought Count Freberg 
 
 had been now in France. 
 Jer. He meant to go, as I have been informed. 
 De Mon. Well, well, prepare my bed ; I will 
 to rest. (Exit Jerome.) 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. SIS 
 
 De MoA, {aside.) I know not how it is, my 
 heart stands back, 
 And meets not this man*s love. — Friends! rarest 
 
 friends ! 
 Rather than share his undiscerning praise 
 With every table-wit, and book-form'd sage. 
 And paltry poet puling to the moon, 
 I*d court from him proscription, yea abuse, 
 And think it proud distinction. (Exit.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A small Apartment in Jerome*^ House : a table and 
 breakfast set out. Enter De MoNFORT,^//ot£^^(/ 
 by Manuel, and sets himself down by the tabky 
 with a cheerful face. 
 
 De Mon. Manuel, this morning's sun shines 
 pleasantly : 
 These old apartments too are light and cheerful. 
 Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much ; 
 He serves as though he lov'd me. This pure air 
 Braces the listless nerves, and warms the blood : 
 I feel in freedom here. 
 
 {Filling a cup of coffee^ and drinking.') 
 
 Man. Ah ! sure, my Lord, 
 
 No air is purer than the air at home. 
 
 De Mon. Here can I wander with assured steps. 
 Nor dread, at every winding of the path. 
 Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way. 
 To move — {Stopjnng short.) 
 
 Man. What says your honour ? 
 
314i DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 There are no serpents in our pleasant fields. 
 DeMon, Think' st thou there are no serpents in 
 the world, 
 But those who slide along the grassy sod, 
 And sting the luckless foot that presses them ? 
 There are who in the path of social life 
 Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun. 
 And sting the soul — Ay, till its healthful frame 
 Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease. 
 So deadly is the wound. 
 
 Man. Heaven guard your honour from such 
 horrid skathe ! 
 They are but rare, I hope ! 
 
 De Mon. {shaking his head.) We mark the hol- 
 low eye, the wasted frame. 
 The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men. 
 But do not know the cause. 
 Ma7i. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my 
 
 Lord! 
 De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well. 
 I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. 
 I go to revel it with sprightly dames. 
 And drive the night away. 
 
 (Filling another cicp, and drinking,^ 
 Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay. 
 De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, 
 honest Manuel, 
 Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse. 
 And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. 
 Here is one too, for Bremer : he loves wine ; 
 And one for Jaques : be joyful all together. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. ^15 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. My Lord, 1 met e'en now, a short way offi 
 Your countryman the Marquis Rezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon. (^starting fro7n his seat, and letting the 
 cup fall from his hand.) Who says*t thou ? 
 Ser, Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you. 
 
 De Mon. Thou ly'st — it is not so — it is im- 
 possible ! 
 Ser. I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself. 
 De Mon. Fool ! 'tis some passing stranger thou 
 hast seen. 
 And with a hideous likeness been deceived. 
 Ser. No other stranger could deceive my sight. 
 De Mon. (dashi?ig his clenched hand violently 
 upon the table , and overturning every thing.) 
 Heaven blast thy sight ! it lights on no- 
 thing good. 
 Ser. I surely thought no harm to look upon 
 
 him. 
 De Mon. What, dost thou still insist? Him 
 must it be? 
 Does it so please thee well ? (Servant endeavours 
 
 to speak.) Hold thy damn'd tongue ! 
 By heaven I'll k\\\\\\ee\(Going furiously uptohim.) 
 Man. (in a soothing voice.) Nay, harm him not, 
 my Lord ; he speaks the truth ; 
 I've met his groom, who told me certainly 
 His Lord is here. I should have told you so. 
 But thought, perhaps, it might displease your 
 honour. 
 
316 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mon. (becoming all at once calm, and turning 
 sternly to Manuel.) And how dar'st thou 
 to think it would displease me ? 
 What is*t to me who leaves or enters Amberg ? 
 But it displeases me, yea ev'n to frenzy, 
 That every idle fool must hither come, 
 To break my leisure with the paltry tidings 
 Of all the cursed things he stares upon. 
 
 (Servant attempts to speak — De Monfort 
 stamps mth his foot.) 
 Take thine ill-favour'd visage from my sight, 
 And speak of it no more. (Exit Servant.) 
 
 And go thou too ; I choose to be alone. 
 
 (Exit Manuel.) 
 (De Monfort goes to the door by *which they 
 went out; opens it, and looks,) 
 But is he gone indeed ? Yes, he is gone. 
 
 {Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks : 
 then gives loose to all the fury of gesture, 
 and walks up and down in great agitation.) 
 It is too much : by heaven it is too much ! 
 He haunts me — stings me — like a devil haunts — 
 He*ll make a raving maniack of me — Villain ! 
 The air wherein thou draw*st thy fulsome breath 
 Is poison tome — Oceans shall divide us ! {Pauses.) 
 But no ; thou think'st I fear thee, cursed reptile j 
 And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. 
 Though my heart's bl ood should curdle at thy sight, 
 V\\ stay and face thee still. 
 
 {Knocking at the chamber door.) 
 Ha ! who knocks there ? 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 317 
 
 Freberg. (without.) It is thy friend, De Monfbrt. 
 De Mon. (opening the door.) Enter, then. 
 
 Enter Freberg. 
 
 Freb. (tailing his hand kindly.) How art thou 
 now ? How hast thou past the night ? 
 Has kindly sleep refresh'd thee ? 
 De Mon. Yes, I have lost an Iiour or two in 
 sleep. 
 And so should be refresh'd. 
 
 Freb. And art thou not ? 
 
 Thy looks speak not ofrest. Thou art disturb'd. 
 De Mon. No, somewhat ruffled from a foolish 
 cause, 
 Which soon will pass away. 
 Freb. (shaking his head.) Ah no, De Monfbrt ! 
 something in thy face 
 Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not : 
 If any secret grief distract thy soul, 
 Here am I all devoted to thy love : 
 Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee ? 
 De Mon. I have no grief: distress me not, my 
 
 friend. 
 Freb. Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my 
 friend, 
 Wouldst thou not open all thine inmost soul, 
 And bid me share its every consciousness ? 
 De Mon. Freberg, thou know'st not man ; not 
 nature's man. 
 But only him who, in smooth studied works 
 
318 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Of polish*d sages, shines deceitfully 
 
 In all the splendid foppery of virtue. 
 
 That man was never born whose secret soul, 
 
 With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts, 
 
 Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams, 
 
 Was ever open'd to another's scan. 
 
 Away, away ! it is delusion all. 
 
 Freb. Well, be reserved then; perhaps Vm 
 wrong. 
 
 De Mon. How goes the hour? 
 
 Freh. 'Tis early still ; a long day lies before us ? 
 Let us enjoy it. Come along with me ; 
 ril introduce you to my pleasant friend. 
 
 De Mon* Your pleasant friend ? 
 
 Freb. Yes, him of whom I spake. 
 
 (^Taking his hand.) 
 There is no good I would not share with thee ; 
 And this man's company, to minds like thine, 
 Is the best banquet-feast I could bestow. 
 But I will speak in mystery no more ; 
 It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt. 
 
 (De Mon. pulls his hand hastily from Fre- 
 berg, and shrinks back.) Ha ! what is this? 
 Art thou pain-stricken, Monfort ? 
 Nay, on my life, thou rather seem'st offended : 
 Does it displease thee that I call him friend ? 
 
 De Mon. No, all men are thy friends. 
 
 Freb. No, say not all men. But thou art 
 offended. 
 I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure. 
 
demonfort: a tragedy. S19 
 
 But if his presence is not welcome here. 
 He shall not join our company to-day. 
 
 De Mon. What dost thou mean to say ? What 
 is't to me 
 Whether 1 meet with such a thing as Rezenvelt 
 To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never ? 
 
 Freb. In truth, I thought you had been well 
 with him ; 
 He prais'd you much 
 
 De Mon. I thank him for his praise — Come, 
 let us move : 
 This chamber is confined and airless grown. 
 
 (^Starting.') 
 I hear a stranger's voice ! 
 
 Ireb. 'Tis Rezenvelt. 
 
 Let him be told that we are gone abroad. 
 
 De Mon. (prondli/f) 'Sol let him enter. Who 
 waits there ? Ho ! Manuel ! 
 
 E}2ter Manuel. 
 
 What stranger speaks below ? 
 
 Man. The Marquis Rezenvelt. 
 
 I have not told him that you are within. 
 De Mon. {angiilij.) And wherefore didst thou 
 not ? Let him ascend. 
 (^ long pause. De Monfort walking up and 
 down with a quick pace.) 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt, and run^ freely up to De 
 Monfort. 
 
 Rez, (^oDe Mon.) My noble Marquis, welcome! 
 
320 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mo7i. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Rez. (to Freb.) My gentle friend, well met. 
 
 Abroad so early ? 
 Freb. It is indeed an early hour for me. 
 How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits ? 
 Rez. O, light as ever. . On my way to you, 
 E'en now, I learnt De Monfort was arriv'd. 
 And turn'd my steps aside ; so here I am. 
 
 (Bomng gaily to De Monfort.) 
 
 De Mon. I thank you. Sir ; you do me too 
 
 much honour. (Proudly.') 
 
 Rez. Nay, say not so ; not too much honour 
 
 surely, 
 
 Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you. 
 
 DeMon. (coTifused.') Having no previous notice 
 of your coming, 
 I look'd not for it. 
 
 Rez. Ay, true indeed ; when I approach you 
 next, 
 I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming. 
 And bow to you by sound of trumpet. Marquis. 
 De Mon. (to Freb. turning haughtily from Re- 
 zenvelt mth affected indifference.^ How does 
 your cheerful friend, that good old man ? 
 Freb. My cheerful friend ? I know not whom 
 
 you mean. 
 De Mon. Count Waterlan. 
 Freb. I know not one so nam'd 
 
 De Mon. (very confused.) O pardon me — it 
 was at Bale 1 knew him. 
 
DE MONFOIIT *. A TRAGEDY. 321 
 
 Freb. You have not yet inquir'd for honest 
 Reisdale. 
 I met him as I came, and mention*d you. 
 He seem'd amaz'd ; and fain he would have learnt 
 What cause procur'd us so much happiness. 
 He questioned hard, and hardly would believe, 
 I could not satisfy his strong desire. 
 
 Rez. And know you not what brings De Mon- 
 fort here ? 
 
 Freb. Truly, I do not. 
 
 ReZ' O ! *tis love of me. 
 
 I have but two short days in Amberg been, 
 And here with postman's speed he follows me, 
 Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown. 
 Freb, (to De Mon.) Is Rezenvelt so sadly miss'd 
 with you ? 
 Your town so chano[:*d ? 
 
 De Mon. Not altogether so ; 
 
 Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain 
 For fools to laugh at. 
 
 Rez. But he laughs not, and therefore he is 
 wise. 
 He ever frowns on tliem with sullen brow 
 Contemptuous ; therefore he is very wise. 
 Nay, daily frets his most refined soul 
 With their poor folly, to its inmost core ; 
 Therefore he is most eminently wise. 
 
 Freb. Fy, Rezenvelt ! you are too early gay. 
 Such spirits rise but with the evening glass : 
 They suit not placid morn. 
 
 VOL. I. Y 
 
322 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (To De Monfort, whOi after walking im- 
 patiejitly up and doxim, comes close to his 
 ear, and lays hold of his arm.) 
 
 What would you, Monfort ? 
 De Mon. Nothing — what is't o'clock ? 
 No, no — I had forgot — *tis early still. 
 
 (^Turns away again.) 
 Freh. (to Rez.) Waltser informs me that you 
 have agreed 
 To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth. 
 It is a dangerous task. 
 
 Rez. Yet I'll be honest : 
 
 I can but lose his favour and a feast. 
 
 ( Whilst they speak, De Monfort walks up and 
 down impatiently and irresolute : at last 
 pulls the bell violently.) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 De Mon. (to Ser.) What dost thou want ? 
 Ser. I thought your honour rung. 
 
 De Mon. I have forgot — stay ; are my horses 
 
 saddled ? 
 Ser. I thought, my Lord, you would not ride 
 to-day, 
 After so long a journey. 
 
 De Mon. (impatiently.) Well — 'tis good. 
 Begone ! — I want thee not. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Rez. (S7niling significantly.) I humbly crave 
 your pardon, gentle Marquis. 
 It grieves me that I cannot stay with you, 
 
DE JVIONFORT *. A TUAGEDY. 5^iS 
 
 And make my visit of a friendly length. 
 I trust your goodness will excuse me now ; 
 Another time 1 shall be less unkind. 
 (To Freberg.) Will you not go with me ? 
 
 Freb. Excuse me, Monfort, Fll return again. 
 [Exeunt Rezenvelt and Freberg. 
 
 De Mon. (alone, tossing his arms distractedly.) 
 Hell hath no greater torment for th' accurs*d 
 Than this man's presence gives — 
 Abhorred fiend ! he hath a pleasure too, 
 A damned pleasure in the pain he gives ! 
 Oh ! the side glance of that detested eye ! 
 That conscious smile ! that full insulting lip ! 
 It touches every nerve : it makes me mad. 
 What, does it please thee ? Dost thou woo my 
 
 hate ? 
 Hate shalt thou have ! determined, deadly hate. 
 Which shall awake no smile. Malignant villain ! 
 The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish, 
 And thin the film that hides it. 
 Thy hateful visage ever spoke thy worth : 
 I loath*d thee when a boy. 
 That men should be besotted with him thus ! 
 And Freberg likewise so bewitched is, 
 That like a hireling flatt*rer, at his heels 
 He meanly paces, oflC'ring brutish praise. 
 O ! I could curse him too ! [Exit. 
 
 Y ^ 
 
32t DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A very splendid apartment in Covnt 
 Freberg'5 house ^fancifully decorated. A wide 
 folding door opened, sJwws another magnificent 
 room lighted up to receive company. Enter 
 through the folding doors the Count and Count- 
 ess, richly dressed. 
 
 Freh. (looking round.) In truth, I like those 
 decorations well : 
 They suit those lofty walls. And here, my love, 
 The gay profusion of a woman's fancy 
 Is well display'd. Noble simplicity 
 Becomes us less, on such a night as this, 
 Than gaudy show. 
 
 Lady. Is it not noble then? (^He shakes his 
 head.) I thought it so ; 
 And as I know you love simplicity, 
 I did intend it should be simple too. 
 
 F*^eb. Be satisfyM, I pray ; we want to-night 
 A cheerful banquet-house, and not a temple. 
 How runs the hour? 
 
 Lady. It is not late, but soon we shall be rous'd 
 With the loud entry of our frolic guests. 
 
 Enter a Page, richly dressed. 
 
 Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall. 
 Who begs to be admitted to your presence. 
 Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? 
 Page. No, far unlike to them ; it is a stranger. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 325 
 
 Lady. How looks her countenance ? 
 
 Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, 
 1 shrunk at first in awe ; but when she smil*d, 
 For so she did to see me thus abash'd, 
 Mcthought I could have compass'd sea and land 
 To do her bidding. 
 
 Lady. Is she young or old ? 
 
 Page. Neither, if right I guess ; but she is fair : 
 For time hath laid his hand so gently on her. 
 As he too had been aw'd. 
 
 Lady, The foolish stripling ! 
 
 She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large in stature? 
 
 Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, 
 I thought at first her stature was gigantic ; 
 But on a near approach I found, in truth. 
 She scarcely does surpass the middle size. 
 
 Lady, What is her garb ? 
 
 Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it. 
 She is not deck'd in any gallant trim, 
 But seems to me clad in the usual weeds 
 Of high habitual state ; for as she moves 
 Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold, 
 As I have seen unfurled banners play 
 With the soft breeze. 
 
 Lady Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; 
 
 It is an apparition thou hast seen. 
 
 Freh. (^stai^tingfrom his seat, uhere he has been 
 
 sitting during the conversation betxveen thel^-dAy 
 
 and the Page.) It is an apparition he has seen, 
 
 Or it is Jane De Monfort. [Exit, hastily. 
 
 y 3 
 
3^6 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ladi/. (displeased.) No-, such description surely 
 suits not her. 
 Did she inquire for me ? 
 
 Page. She ask'd to see the lady of Count Fre- 
 
 berg. 
 Ladi/. Perhaps it is not she — I fear it is — 
 Ha ! here they come. He has but guess'd too 
 well. 
 
 Enter Fheberg, leading in Jane De Monfout. 
 
 Freb. (presenting her to Lady.) Here, Madam, 
 welcome a most worthy guest. 
 
 Lady. Madam, a thousand welcomes ! Pardon 
 me ; 
 1 could not guess who honour*d me so far ; 
 I should not else have waited coldly here. 
 
 Jane. I thank you for this welcome, gentle 
 Countess ; 
 But take those kind excuses back again j 
 I am a bold intruder on this hour. 
 And am entitled to no ceremony. 
 I came in quest of a dear truant friend, 
 But Freberg has informed me — 
 (To Freberg.) And he is well you say ? 
 
 Freb. Yes, well, but joyless. 
 
 Jane. It is the usual temper of his mind ; 
 It opens not, but with the thrilling touch 
 Of some strong heart-string o'the sudden press'd. 
 
 Freb. It may be so, Fve known him otherwise : 
 He is suspicious grown. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 327 
 
 Jane. Not so, Count Freberg, Monfort is too 
 noble. 
 Say rather, that lie is a man in grief. 
 Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye ; 
 And thou, less generous than beseems a friend, 
 Hast thought too hardly of him. 
 
 Freb. {bowing with great respect.) So will Isay ; 
 ril own nor word nor will, that can offend you. 
 
 Lady. De Monfort is engag'd to grace our 
 feast ; 
 Ere long you'll see him here. 
 
 Jane. I thank you truly, but this homely dress 
 Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these. 
 
 Freb. {pointing to her dress.) Such artless and 
 majestic elegance. 
 So exquisitely just, so nobly simple, 
 Will make the gorgeous blush. 
 
 Jane, {smiling.) Nay, nay, be more consistent, 
 courteous knight. 
 And do not praise a plain and simple guise 
 With such profusion of unsimple words. 
 I cannot join your company to-night. 
 
 Lady. Not stay to see your brotiier ? 
 
 Jane Therefore it is I would not, gentle host- 
 tess. 
 Here will he find all that can woo the heart 
 To joy and sweet fbrgetfulness of pain ; 
 The sight of me would wake his feeling mind 
 To other thoughts. I am no doating mistress; 
 No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith 
 Rush to his arms and weep. I am his sister : 
 
 Y 4* 
 
328 DE MONFOIIT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 The eldest daughter of his father's house; 
 Calm and unwearied is my love for him ; 
 And having found him, patiently Til wait, 
 Nor greet him in the hour of social joy, 
 To dash his mirth with tears. — 
 The night wears on ; permit me to withdraw. 
 Freb. Nay, do not, do not injure us so far ! 
 Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train. 
 Jane. You wear not masks to-night. 
 Lady. We wear not masks, but you may be 
 conceal'd 
 Behind the double foldings of a veil. 
 Jane, {after pausing to consider.) In truth, I 
 feel a little so inclin*d. 
 Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him. 
 And gently prove the temper of his mind ; 
 But for the means I must become your debtor. 
 
 (To Lady.) 
 Ladi/. Who waits ? {Enter her Woman.) At- 
 tend this lady to my wardrobe. 
 And do what she commands you. 
 
 [Exeunt Jane and Waiting-woman. 
 Freb. {looking after Jane, as she goes out, with 
 admiration.) Oh ! what a soul she bears ! 
 see how she steps ! 
 Nought but the native dignity of worth 
 E'er taught the moving form such noble grace. 
 
 Lady. Such lofty mien, and high assumed gait 
 I've seen ere now, and men have call'd it pride. 
 Freb. No, 'faith ! thou never didst, but oft in- 
 deed 
 
DK MOXFORT : A TRAGEDY. 3'29 
 
 The paltry imitation thou hast seen. 
 
 {Looking at her.) How hang tliose trappings on 
 
 thy motley gown ? 
 They seem like garlands on a May-day queen, 
 Which hinds have dress'd in sport. 
 
 (Lady turns away displeased.) 
 Freb,1^2iy,do not frown ; I spoke it but in haste : 
 For thou art lovely still in every garb. 
 But see, the guests assemble. 
 
 Enter groups of "ivell-dressed people, who pay their 
 compliments to Freberg and his Lady j and, fol- 
 lowed by her, pass into the inner apartment, where 
 more company appear assembling, as if by another 
 entry. 
 
 Freb, (who remains on the front of the stage with 
 afriend or two.) How loud the hum oflhis 
 gay-meeting crowd ! 
 'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun. 
 Music will quell the sound. Who waits without ? 
 Music strike up. 
 
 Music, and when it ceases, enter from the in- 
 ner apartment Rezenvelt, with several 
 gentlemen, all richly dressed.) 
 Freb. (Jo those just entered.) What, lively gal- 
 lants, quit the field so soon ? 
 Are there no beauties in that moving crowd 
 To fix your fancy ? 
 
 Rez. Ay, marry, are there ! men of ev*ry fancy 
 May in that moving crowd some lair one liud 
 
330 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 To suit their taste, tho* whimsical and strange. 
 As ever fancy ownM. 
 Beauty of every cast and shade is there, 
 From the perfection of a faultless form, 
 Down to the common, brown unnoted maid, 
 Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown. 
 
 1st Gent. There is, indeed, a gay variety. 
 
 Rez. And if the liberality of nature 
 Suffices not, there 's store of grafted charms, 
 Blending in one the sweets of many plants. 
 So obstinately, strangely opposite, 
 As would have well defy'd all other art 
 But female cultivation. Aged youth, 
 With borrowed locks, in rosy chaplets bound. 
 Clothes herdimeye,parch'd lips, and skinny cheek 
 In most unlovely softness : 
 And youthful age, with fat round trackless face, 
 The down-cast look of contemplation deep 
 Most pensively assumes. 
 Is it not even so ? The native prude, 
 With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth. 
 Plays off the wild coquet's successful charms 
 With most unskilful pains ; and the coquet. 
 In temporary crust of cold reserve, 
 Fixes her studied looks upon the ground 
 Forbiddingly demure. 
 
 Freb. Fy ! thou art too severe. 
 
 Rez. Say, rather, gentle. 
 
 I* faith 1 the very dwarfs attempt to charm 
 With lofty airs of puny majesty ; 
 Whilst potent damsels, of a portly make. 
 
DE MONTOKT *. A TRAGEDY. 331 
 
 Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid 
 Of" gentle sympathy. 
 
 From all those diverse modes of dire assault, 
 He owns a heart of hardest adamant. 
 Who shall escape to-night. 
 
 Freb. (to De Mon. who has entered during 
 Rezenvelt*5 speech, and heard tJie greatest 
 part of it.) Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 How pleasantly he gives his wit the rein, 
 Yet guides its wild career ! 
 
 (De Mon. is silent) 
 Rez. (smiling archly.) What, think you, Fre- 
 berg, the same powerful spell 
 Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night? 
 Or that De Monfort is a woman turn'd. 
 So widely from his native self to swerve, 
 As grace my folly with a smile of his ? 
 
 De Mon. Nay, think not, Rezenvelt, there is 
 no smile 
 I can bestow on thee. There is a smile, 
 A smile of nature too, which I can spare. 
 And yet, perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it. 
 
 (Smiles contemptuouslij.) 
 Rez. Not thank thee ! It were surely most un- 
 grateful 
 No thanks to pay for nobly giving me 
 What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain. 
 For nature hath her smiles of birth more painful 
 Than bitt'rest execrations. 
 
 Freb. These idle words will lead us to disquiet : 
 Forbear, Ibrbcar, my friends ! Go, Ilezenvelt, 
 
33^2 DE MONFOllT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Accept the challenge of those lovely dames, 
 Who thro' the portal come with bolder steps 
 To claim your notice. 
 
 (Enter a group of Lsidies from the other apart- 
 ment, who walk slowlj/ across the bottom of 
 the stage, and return to it again. Rez. shrugs 
 up his shoulders, as if umdlling to go.) 
 1st Gent, (to Rez.) Behold in sable veil a lady 
 comes, 
 Whose noble air doth challenge fancy's skill 
 To suit it with a countenance as goodly. 
 
 (Pointing to Jane De Mon. who now enters 
 in a thick black veil.) 
 Rez. Yes, this way lies attraction. (To Freb.) 
 W^ith permission (Going up to Jane.) 
 
 Fair lady, tho* within that envious shroud 
 Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us. 
 We bid you welcome, and our beauties here 
 Will welcome you the more for such conceal- 
 ment. 
 With the permission of our noble host — 
 
 (Taking her hand, and leading her to the front 
 of the stage.) 
 Jane, (to Freb.) Pardon me this presumption, 
 courteous Sir : 
 I thus appear, (pointing to her veil.) not careless 
 
 of respect 
 Unto the generous lady of the feast. 
 Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is. 
 That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow. 
 Within the fricndiv cover of its shade 
 
DE :\IONFORT I A TRAGEDY. S3S 
 
 I only wish, unknown, again to see 
 One who, alas ! is heedless of my pain. 
 
 De Mon. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil. 
 And give thy coiint'nance to the cheerful light. 
 Men now all soft, and female beauty scorn, 
 And mock the gentle cares which aim to please. 
 It is most damnable ! undo thy veil. 
 And think of him no more. 
 
 Jane. I know it well even to a proverb grown, 
 Is lovers* faith, and I had borne such slight : 
 But he, who has, alas! forsaken me. 
 Was the companion of my early days. 
 My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow. 
 Within our op'ning minds, with riper years, 
 The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung : 
 Thro' varied life our pride, our joys w^re one; 
 At the same tale we wept : he is my brother. 
 
 De Mon. And he forsook thee ? — No, 1 dare 
 not curse him : 
 My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. 
 
 Jcme. Ah ! do not thus distress a feeling heart. 
 All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd 
 With equal banns; tiiine has not watch'd for 
 
 thee, 
 Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and 
 
 woe, 
 As I have done for him. 
 
 De Mon. (eagerly.') Ah ! has she not ? 
 By heav'n the sum of all thy kindly deeds 
 Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold, 
 Comj)ar'd to that which I do owe her love. 
 
334 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Oh, pardon me ! I mean not to offend — 
 I am too warm — but she of whom I speak 
 Is the dear sister of my earHest love ; 
 In noble, virtuous worth to none a second : 
 And tho' behind those sable folds were hid 
 As fair a face as ever woman own'd. 
 Still would I say she is as fair as thou. 
 How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng, 
 Tve proudly to th* inquiring stranger told 
 Her name and lineage ! yet within her house, 
 The virgin mother of an orphan race 
 Her dying parents left, this noble woman 
 Did, like a Roman matron proudly sit, 
 Despising all the blandishments of love; 
 Whilst many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd, 
 Or, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. 
 Forgive, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting ! 
 In faith ! I mean you no discourtesy. 
 
 Jane, (off her giia7^d, in a soft natural tone of 
 'voice.) Oh, no ! nor do me any. 
 
 De Mon. What voice speaks now ? Withdraw, 
 withdraw this shade ! 
 For if thy face bear semblance to thy voice, 
 I'll fall and worship thee. Pray ! pray undo ! 
 
 (Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch aivay the 
 veil, whilst she shrinks back, and Rezenvelt 
 steps between to prevent him.) 
 
 Rez. Stand off: no hand shall lift this sacred 
 veil. 
 
 De Mon. What, dost thou think De Monfort 
 fall'n so low. 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 335 
 
 That there may live a man beneath heav'n's roof, 
 Who dares to say, he shall not? 
 Rez. He lives who dares to say — 
 Jane, (^throwing back her veil,much alarmed, and 
 
 rushes between them.) Forbear, forbear ! 
 (Rezenvelt, veri/ much struck, steps back respect- 
 fully, and makes her a low bow, De Monfort 
 stands for a while motionless, gazing upon 
 her, till she, looking expressively to him, 
 ej: tends her arms, and he, rushing into them, 
 bursts into tears. Freberg seems very muck 
 pleased. The company then advancing from 
 the inner apartment, gather about them, and 
 the Scene closes.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 De Monfort'5 apartments. Enter De Monfort, 
 with a disordered air, and his hand pressed 
 upon his forehead, followed by Jane. 
 
 De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not 
 again : 
 My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd. 
 From all participation of its thoughts 
 My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. 
 
 Jane. What, must I, like a distant humblefriend. 
 Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturbed, 
 In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
 I turn aside to weep ? O no ! De Monfort ! 
 A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
 Thy true entrusted friend I still shall be. 
 
336 DE MONFORT '. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mo7i. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to 
 thee. 
 
 Jane. Then, fy upon it ! fy upon it, Monfort ! 
 There was a time when e*en with murder stainM, 
 Had it been possible that such dire deed 
 Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous. 
 Thou wouldst have told it me. 
 
 De Mo7i. So would 1 now — but ask of this no 
 more. 
 All other trouble but the one I feel 
 I had disclos'd to thee. I pray thee spare me. 
 It is the secret weakness of my nature. 
 
 Jane. Then secret let it be ; I urge no farther. 
 The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, 
 So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, 
 Like two young trees, whose boughs in early 
 
 strength 
 Skreen the weak saplings of the rising grove, 
 And brave the storm together — 
 I have so long, as if by nature's right. 
 Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, 
 I thought thro' life I sliould have soremain'd. 
 Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort, 
 A humbler station will I take by thee : 
 The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps ; 
 The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought ; 
 The soother of those griefs I must not know : 
 This is mine office now : I ask no more. 
 
 De Mon. Oh, Jane! thou dost constrain me 
 with thy love ! 
 Would I could tell it thee! 
 
DE MONFORT ! A TRAGEDY. 337 
 
 Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay I'll stop 
 mine ears, 
 Nor from the yearnings of affection wring 
 What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my 
 
 brother. 
 I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee : 
 Pursue with thee the study of some art, 
 Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
 To steady thought progressive, driving forth 
 All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies ; 
 Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again ; 
 Like one who, from dark visions of the night. 
 When th' active soul within its lifeless cell 
 Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy press'd 
 Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, 
 Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven. 
 
 DeMon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me 
 still. 
 
 Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too ; 
 And be to it so close an adversary. 
 That, though 1 wrestle darkling with the fienci, 
 I shall o'ercome it. 
 
 De Mon, Thou most gen'rous woman ! 
 
 Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — 
 And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! 
 He will not let me be the man I would. 
 
 Jane. What say'st thou, Monfort ? Oh ! what 
 words are these ? 
 They have awak'd my soul to dreadful thoughts. 
 I do beseech thee, speak ! 
 
 {He shakes his heady and turns from her ; 
 she follouing him.) 
 
 VOL. I. z 
 
338 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 By the affection thou didst ever bear me j 
 By the dear raem'ry of our infant days ; 
 By kindred living ties, ay, and by those 
 Who sleep i'the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
 I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 (^He waves her off with his handy and covers 
 his face with the other, still turning from 
 her.) 
 
 Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
 (^Assimwig dignity,') Then, if affection, most un- 
 wearied love. 
 Tried early, long, and never wanting found. 
 O'er gen'rous man hath more authority. 
 More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 
 I do command thee. 
 
 (^He throws himself into a chair, greatly agi- 
 tated.) 
 De Monfort, do not thus resist my love. 
 Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 
 
 {Kneeling.) 
 Alas ! my brother ! 
 
 (De Monfort starts up, and catching her in 
 his arms, raises her up, then placing her in 
 the chair, kneels at her feet.) 
 De Mon. Thus let him kneel who should the 
 abased be. 
 And at thine honoured feet confession make. 
 I'll tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. 
 For in my breast a raging passion biu'ns. 
 To which thy soul no sympathy will own — 
 A passion which hath made my nightly couch 
 A place of torment ; and the light of day. 
 
DE MONFORT I A TRAGEDY. 339 
 
 With the gay intercourse of social man, 
 Feel like th* oppressive airless pestilence. 
 O Jane ! thou wilt despise me. 
 
 Jane. Say not so : 
 
 J never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
 A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
 No kindly heart contemns. 
 
 De Mon. A lover, say'st thou ? 
 
 No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
 Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred 
 
 peace. 
 From social pleasure, from my native home, 
 To be a sullen wand'rer on the earth, 
 Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd. 
 
 Jane. De Monfort, this is fiend-like, frightful, 
 terrible ! 
 What being, by th' Almighty Father form'd. 
 Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. 
 Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, 
 Who art thyself his fellow ? 
 Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clench'd 
 
 hands. 
 Some sprite accurs'd within thy bosom mates 
 To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
 Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy breast : 
 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart : 
 Curse it, and bid it part. 
 
 De Mo7i. It will not part. {His hand on his 
 breast.) 
 
 I've lodg'd it here too long : 
 With my first cares I felt its rankling touch j 
 z 2 
 
340 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I loath'd him when a hoy. 
 
 Jane. Who didst tliou say ? 
 
 De Mon. Oh ! that detested Rezenvelt ! 
 
 E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
 Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse, 
 Each *gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge, 
 And frown'd defiance. As we onv^ard pass'd 
 From youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
 And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd 
 In the affected carelessness of mirth, 
 Still more detestable and odious grew. 
 There is no living being on this earth 
 Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
 With all his gay and damned merriment, 
 To those, by fortune or by merit placM 
 Above his paltry self. Wlien, low in fortune. 
 He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men. 
 As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes. 
 Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
 I could endure it ; even as we bear 
 Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, 
 I could endure it. But when honours came. 
 And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; 
 Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his 
 
 praise. 
 And grov*ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him j 
 Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! 
 
 It drove me frantick What ! what would I 
 
 give : 
 What would I give to crush the bloated toad, 
 So rankly do I loathe him ! 
 
DE MONFORT I A TRAGEDY. 341 
 
 Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man 
 Who gave to thee that hfe he might have ta*en ? 
 That hfe which thou so rashly didst expose 
 To aim at his ? Oh ! this is horrible ! 
 
 De Mon. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ? From 
 all the world, 
 But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 
 
 Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved 
 Upon the instant to return to thee. 
 Didst thou receive my letter? 
 
 De Mon. I did ! I did ! 'twas that which drove 
 me hither. 
 I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 
 
 Jane. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
 1 ever left thy house ! These ie.\w past months, 
 These absent months, have brought us all this woe. 
 Had I remain'd with thee it had not been. 
 And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. 
 You dar'd him to the field ; both bravely fought ; 
 He more adroit disarm'd you ; courteously 
 lleturn'd the forfeit sword, which, so return'd. 
 You did refuse to use against him more ; 
 And then, as says report, you parted friends. 
 
 De Mon. When he disarm'd this curs'd, this 
 worthless hand 
 Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd 
 From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss 
 In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected 
 With the vile favour of his poor forbearance j 
 Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow, 
 And basely bates me like a muzzled cur 
 
 z 3 
 
342 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Who cannot turn again. — 
 Until that day, till that accursed day, 
 I knew not half the torment of this hell, 
 Which burns within my breast. Heaven's light- 
 nings blast him ! 
 Jane. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! 
 Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head, 
 For this most impious wish. 
 
 De Mon, Then let it light. 
 
 Torments more fell than I have felt already 
 It cannot send. To be annihilated. 
 What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be no- 
 thing, 
 Were bliss to me, compar'd to what I am ! 
 Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these 
 
 dreadful words ? 
 De Mon. (raising his hands to heaven.") Let me 
 but once upon his ruin look. 
 Then close mine eyes for ever ! 
 
 (Jane, in gr.eat distress, staggers hack, and 
 supports herself upon the side scene. De 
 Mon. alarmed, rims up to her ivith a soft- 
 ened voice.) 
 Ha ! how is this ? thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale. 
 What have I done to thee ? Alas, alas ! 
 I meant not to distress thee. — O my sister ! 
 Jane, {shaking her head.) I cannot speak to 
 
 thee. 
 Be Mon. I have kill'd thee. 
 
 Turn, turn thee not away ! look on me still ! 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 3if3 
 
 Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my 
 
 sister j 
 Look on me yet again. 
 
 Jafie. Thou too, De Monfort, 
 
 In better days, were wont to be my pride. 
 
 De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in 
 myself^ 
 And still more wretched in the pain I give. 
 O curse that villain ! that detested villain ! 
 He has spread mis'ry o'er my fated life : 
 He will undo us all. 
 
 Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled 
 world. 
 And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 
 For then the helpmate of my toil wert thou. 
 But now the wane of life comes darkly on. 
 And hideous passion tears me from my heart, 
 Blasting thy worth. — I cannot strive with this. 
 
 De Mon. {affectionately.) What shall I do ? 
 
 Jane. Call up thy noble spirit j 
 
 Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue ; 
 And with the strength of heaven-endued man, 
 Repel the hideous foe. Be great ; be valiant. 
 O, if thou couldst ! e'en shrouded as thou art 
 In all the sad infirmities of nature. 
 What a most noble creature wouldst thou be ! 
 
 De Mon. Ay, if I could : alas ! alas ! I cannot. 
 
 Jane. Thou canst, thou mayst, thou wilt. 
 We shall not part till I have turn'd thy soul. 
 
 z 4 
 
54(4 « DE MONFOllT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Enter Manuel. 
 
 De Mon. Ha ! some one enters. Wherefore 
 
 com'st thou here ? 
 Man. Count Freberg waits your leisure. 
 De Mon. (angrily.) Begone, begone ! — I can- 
 not see him now. [Exit Manuel. 
 Jane. Come to my closet ; free from all in- 
 trusion, 
 I'll school thee there ; and thou again shalt be 
 My willing pupil, and my gen'rous friend, 
 The noble Monfbrt I have lov'd so long, 
 And must not, will not lose. 
 
 De Mon. Do as thou wilt ; I will not grieve 
 thee more. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.* — Countess Freberg' s Dressing-r 00771. 
 Enter the Countess dispirited and out of humour ^ 
 and throws herself into a chair : enter, by the 
 opposite side, Theresa. 
 
 Ther. Madam, I am afraid you are unwell : 
 What is the matter ? does your head ache ? 
 Lady, {peevishly.) No, 
 
 * This scene has been very much altered from what it was 
 in the former editions of this play, and scene fifth of the last 
 act will be found to be almost entirely changed. These 
 alterations, though of no great importance, are, I hope, upon 
 the whole, improvements. 
 
 8 
 
DE MONFCRT : A TRAGEDY. 345 
 
 'Tis not my head : concern thyself no more 
 With what concerns not thee. 
 Ther. Go you abroad to-night ? 
 Lady. Yes, thinkest thou 1*11 stay and fret at 
 
 home ? 
 Ther. Then please to say what you would 
 choose to wear : — 
 One of your newest robes ? 
 
 Lady. I hate them all. 
 
 liter. Surely that purple scarf became you well, 
 Willi all those wreaths of richly-hanging flowers. 
 Did I not overhear them say, last night, 
 As from the crowded ball-room ladies past. 
 How gay and handsome, in her costly dress. 
 The Countess Freberg look'd ? 
 
 Lady. Didst thou o'erhear it ? 
 
 Ther. I did, and more than this. 
 Lady. Well, all are not so greatly prejudiced j 
 All do not think me like a May-day queen. 
 Which peasants deck in sport. 
 
 Ther. And who said this ? 
 
 Lady, (^putting her handkerchief to her eyes.^ 
 
 E'en my good lord, Theresa. 
 Ther. He said it but in jest. He loves you well. 
 Lady. I know as well as thou he loves me well. 
 But what of that ! he takes in me no pride : 
 Elsewhere his praise and admiration go, 
 And Jane De Monfort is not mortal woman. 
 
 Ther. The wondrous character this lady bears 
 For worth and excellence : from early youth 
 The friend and mother of her younger sisters. 
 
346 DE MONFORT I A TRAGEDy. 
 
 Now greatly married, as I have been told, 
 
 From her most prudent care, may well excuse 
 
 The admiration of so good a man 
 
 As my good master is. And then, dear Madam, 
 
 I must confess, when I myself did hear 
 
 How she was come thro' the rough winter's storm. 
 
 To seek and comfort an unhappy brother. 
 
 My heart beat kindly to her. 
 
 luady. Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find : 
 But wherefore may she not have come as well 
 Through wintry storms to seek a lover too ? 
 
 Ther. No, Madam, no, I could not think of this. 
 
 Lady. That would reduce her in your eyes, 
 mayhap. 
 To woman's level. — Now I see my vengeance ! 
 I'll tell it round that she is hither come. 
 Under pretence of finding out De Monfort, 
 To meet with Rezenvelt. When Freberg hears it, 
 'Twill help, I ween, to break this magick charm. 
 
 Titer. And say what is not. Madam ? 
 
 Lady. How canst thou know that I shall say 
 what is not ? 
 'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth. 
 
 Ther. Ah, no ! there is — 
 
 Lady. Well, hold thy foolish tongue. 
 
 (Freberg'5 voice is heard without. After hesitating.) 
 
 I will not see him now. [Exit. 
 
 {^Enter Freberg by the opposite side,passing 
 
 on hastily.') 
 
 Ther. Pardon, my Lord; I fearyou are in haste. 
 Yet must I crave that you will give to me 
 
DE MONFORT t A TRAGEDY. 34<7 
 
 The books my Lady mention'd to you : she 
 Has charg'd me to remind you. 
 Freh. I'm in haste, (passing on.^ 
 
 Titer . Pray you, my Lord: your Countess wants 
 them much ; 
 The Lady Jane De Monfort ask'd them of her. 
 Freb. (retummg instantlij .') Are they for her ? 
 I knew not this before. 
 1 will, then, search them out immediately. 
 There is nought good or precious in my keeping, 
 That is not dearly honour'd by her use. 
 
 Ther. My Lord, what would your gentle 
 Countess say 
 If she o'erheard her own request neglected, 
 Until supported by a name more potent ? 
 
 Freh. Think'st thou she is a fool, my good 
 Theresa, 
 Vainly to please herself with childish thoughts 
 Of matching what is matchless — Jane De Mon- 
 fort ? 
 Think'st thou she is a fool, and cannot see. 
 That love and admiration often thrive 
 Tho' far apart ? 
 
 (Re-enter Lady mth great violence.') 
 Lady. I am a fool, not to have seen full well, 
 That thy best pleasure in o'er-rating so 
 This lofty stranger, is to humble me. 
 And cast a dark'ning shadow o'er my head. 
 Ay, wherefore dost thou stare upon me thus ? 
 Art thou asham'd that I have thus surprised thee? 
 Well mayst thou be so ! 
 
348 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Freb. True ; thou rightly say'st. 
 
 Well may I be asham'd : not for the praise 
 Which I have ever openly bestow'd 
 On Monfort's noble sister ; but that thus, 
 Like a poor mean and jealous listener, 
 8he should be found, who is Count Freberg*s wife. 
 
 Lady. Oh, I am lost and ruin'd ! hated, scorn'd! 
 
 {pretending to faint. ") 
 
 Freb. Alas, I have been too rough ! 
 
 (taking her hand and kissing it tenderly.^ 
 My gentle love ! my own, my only love ! 
 See, she revives again. How art thou, love ? 
 Support her to her chamber, good Theresa. 
 I'll sit and watch by her. I've been too rough. 
 
 [Exeunt : Lady supported by Freb. and Ther. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 De Monfort discovered sitting by a table reading. 
 After a little time he lays down his booky and 
 contiiiues in a thoughtful posture. Enter to hijji 
 Jane De Monfort. 
 
 Jane. Thanks, gentle brother. — 
 
 (Pointing to the book.) 
 Thy wilHng mind has rightly been employ'd : 
 Did not thy heart warm at the fair display 
 Of peace and concord and forgiving love ? 
 
 JDc Mon. I know resentment may to love be 
 turn'd ; 
 Tho' keen and lasting, into love as strong : 
 And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguin'd field 
 Have cast their brandish'd weapons to the ground, 
 
DE MONFORT I A TRAGEDY. 349 
 
 Joining their mailed breasts in close embrace, 
 With gen'rous impulse fir'd. I know right well 
 The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven 
 Seventy times o'er from blessed heavenly love : 
 I've heard of things like these j I've heard and 
 
 wept. 
 But what is this to me ? 
 
 Jane. All, all, my brother ! 
 
 It bids thee too that noble precept learn, 
 To love thine enemy. 
 
 De Mon. Th' uplifted stroke that would a 
 wretch destroy, 
 Gorg'd with my richest spoil, stain'd with my 
 
 blood, 
 I would arrest, and cry, "Hold! hold! have mercy." 
 But when the man most adverse to my nature ; 
 Who e'en from childhood hath, with rude male- 
 volence. 
 Withheld the fair respect all paid beside, 
 Turning my very praise into derision ; 
 Who galls and presses me where'er I go, 
 Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my heart, 
 Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud, 
 And cries, " It is impossible !" 
 Jane, (^shaldng her head.) — Ah, Monfort, 
 
 Monfbrt ! 
 De Mon. I can forgive th' envenom'd reptile's 
 sting, 
 But hate his loathsome self. 
 Jane. And canst thou do no more for love of 
 heaven ? 
 
350 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mon. Alas ! I cannot now so school my 
 mind 
 As holy men have taught, nor search it truly : 
 But this, my Jane, I'll do for love of thee ; 
 And more it is than crowns could win me to, 
 Or any power but thine. I'll see the man. 
 Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature ; 
 The stern contraction of my scowling brows, 
 That like the plant whose closing leaves do shrink 
 At hostile touch, still knit at his approach ; 
 The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught, 
 In imitation of disgustful things. 
 To pout and swell, I strictly will repress ; 
 And meet him with a tamed countenance, 
 E'en as a townsman, who would live at peace. 
 And pay him the respect his station claims. 
 I'll crave his pardon too for all offence 
 My dark and wayward temper may have done. 
 Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor 
 For the forbearance I have curs'd so oft : 
 Life spar'd by him, more horrid than the grave 
 With all its dark corruption ! This I'll do. 
 Will it suffice thee ? More than this I cannot. 
 
 Ja7ie. No more than this do I require of thee 
 In outward act, tho' in thy heart, my friend, 
 I hop'd a better change, and still will hope. 
 I told thee Freberg had propos'd a meeting. 
 
 De Mon. I know it well. 
 
 Jane. And Rezenvelt consents. 
 
 He meets you here ; so far he shows respect. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. .351 
 
 De Mon. Well, let it be ; the sooner past the 
 
 better. 
 Jane. I'm glad to hear you say so, for, in truth, 
 He has propos'd for it an early hour. 
 'Tis almost near his time ; I came to tell you. 
 De Mon. What, comes he here so soon ? shame 
 on his speed ! 
 It is not decent thus to rush upon me. 
 He loves the secret pleasure he will fieel 
 To see me thus subdu'd. 
 
 Jane. O say not so! he comes with heart sincere. 
 De Mon. Could we not meet elsewhere ? from 
 home — i* the fields. 
 Where other men — must I alone receive him ? 
 Where is your agent, Freberg, and his friends. 
 That I must meet him here ? 
 
 ( Walks up and down very micch disturbed.) 
 Now ! didst thou say ? — how goes the hour ? — 
 
 e'en now ! 
 I would some other friend were first arriv'd. 
 Ja7ie. See, to thy wish come Freberg and his 
 
 dame. 
 De Mon. His lady too ! why comes he not 
 alone ? 
 Must all the world stare upon our meeting ? 
 
 Enter Count Freberg a7id his Countess, 
 
 Freb. A happy morrow to my noble marquis 
 And his most noble sister ! 
 
 Jane. Gen'rous Freberg, 
 
 Your face, methinks, forebodes a happy morn. 
 
352 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Open and cheerful. What of Rezenvelt ? 
 
 Freb. I left him at his home, prepar'd to follow : 
 He'll soon appear. {To De Monfort.) And now, 
 
 my worthy friend, 
 Give me your hand ; this happy change delights 
 me. 
 (De Monfort gives him his hand coldly^ and 
 they walk to the bottom of the stage together, 
 in earnest discourse^ whilst Jane a?id the 
 Countess remain in the front.') 
 Lady. My dearest Madam, will you pardon me? 
 I know Count Freberg's business with De iM onfort, 
 And had a strong desire to visit you, 
 So much I wish the honour of your friendship ; 
 For he retains no secret from mine ear. 
 
 Jane, {archly.") Knowing your prudence — You 
 are welcome, Madam ; 
 So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be. 
 
 (De Monfort a7id Freberg, returning towards 
 the front of the stage, still engaged in 
 discourse.) 
 Freb. He is indeed a man, within whose breast 
 Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat, 
 Tho' unadorned with that dignity 
 Which were their fittest garb. Now, on my life ! 
 I know no truer heart than Rezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon. Well, Freberg, well, there needs not 
 all this pains 
 To garnish out his worth : let it suffice ; 
 1 am resolv'd I will respect the man. 
 As his fair station and repute demand. 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 353 
 
 !Methinks I sec not at your jolly feasts 
 
 The youthful knight, who sung so pleasantly. 
 
 Freb. A pleasant circumstance detains him 
 hence ; 
 Pleasant to those who love hig-h gen'rous deeds 
 Above the middle pitch of common minds ; 
 And, tho* I have been sworn to secrecy, 
 Yet must I tell it thee. 
 This knight is near akin to Rezenvelt, 
 To whom an old relation, short while dead, 
 A good estate bequeathed, some leagues distant. 
 But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store, 
 Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain. 
 And gen'rously the rich bequest resigned 
 To this young man, blood of the same degree 
 To the deceased, and low in fortune's gifts. 
 Who is from hence to take possession of it : 
 Was it not nobly done ? 
 
 De Mo?i. 'Twas right and honourable, j 
 
 This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy : / 
 There hangs a foggy closeness in the air ; y 
 
 Dost thou not feel it ? 
 
 Freb. O no ! to think upon a gen'rous deed 
 Expands my soul, and makes me lightly breathe. 
 
 De Mon. Who gives the feast to-night ? His 
 name escapes me. 
 You say I am invited. 
 
 Freb. Old Count Waterlan. 
 
 In honour of your townsman's gen'rous gift, 
 He spreads the board. 
 
 De Mon, He is too old to revel with the gay, 
 
 VOL. I. A A 
 
354t DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 Freb, But not too old is he to honour virtue. 
 I shall partake of it with open soul ; 
 For, on my honest faith, of living men 
 I know not one, for talents, honour, worth. 
 That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt. 
 De Mon. How virtuous he hath been in three 
 
 short days ! 
 Freb. Nay, longer. Marquis; but my friendship 
 rests 
 Upon the good report of other men. 
 And that has told me much. 
 
 (De Monfort aside, going some steps hastily/ 
 from Freberg, and rending his cloak with 
 agitation as he goes.) 
 "Would he were come! by heav*n 1 would he were! 
 This fool besets me so, 
 
 {Suddenly correcthig himself and joining the 
 Ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the 
 stage, he speaks to Countess Freberg with 
 affected cheei fulness.) 
 The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times, 
 Untarnished with the vigils of the night. 
 
 hady. Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so. 
 De Mon. He does not rashly praise who praises 
 you; 
 For he were dull indeed — 
 
 {Stopping short, as if he heard something.") 
 Lady. ■ How dull indeed ? 
 
 DeMon. I should have said — It has escaped me 
 now — 
 {Listening again, as if he heard* something.) 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. S55 
 
 Jane, {to De Mon.) What, hear you aught ? 
 De Mon. {hastily.') *Tis nothing. 
 
 Lady, (to De Mon.) Nay, do not let me lose it 
 so, my Lord. 
 Some fair one has bewitch'd your memory, 
 And robs me of the half-form'd compliment. 
 
 Jane. Half-utter'd praise is to the curious mind 
 As to the eye half-veiled beauty is. 
 More precious than the whole. Pray pardon him. 
 Some one approaches. {Listening.) 
 
 Freb. No, no, it is a servant who ascends ; 
 He will not come so soon. 
 
 De Mon. {off his guard.) 'Tis llezenvelt : I 
 heard his well-known foot. 
 From the first staircase, mounting step by step. 
 Freb* How quick an ear thou hast for distant 
 sound ? 
 I heard him not. 
 
 (De Monfort looks embarrassed^ and is silent.) 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt. 
 (De Monfort, recovering himself] goes up to 
 receive Rezenvelt, 'who meets him ivith a 
 cheerjiil counteiiance.) 
 De Mon. {to Rez.) I am, my Lord, beholden to 
 you greatly. 
 This ready visit makes me much your debtor. 
 Rez. Then may such debts between us, noble 
 Marquis, 
 Be oft incurr'd, and often paid again ! 
 {To Jane.) Madam, I am devoted to your service, 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 And ev'ry wish of yours commands my wilL 
 (To Countess.) Lady, good morning. (To Freb.) 
 
 Well, my gentle friend. 
 You see I have not linger'd long behind. 
 
 Freb. No, thou art sooner than I look'd for 
 
 thee. 
 Rez. A willing heart adds feather to the heel. 
 And makes the clown a winged Mercury. 
 DeMon. Then let me say, that, with a grateful 
 mind, 
 I do receive these tokens of good will ; 
 And must regret, that, in my wayward moods, 
 I have too oft forgot the due regard 
 Your rank and talents claim. 
 
 Rez, No, no, De Monfort, 
 
 You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit, 
 Which makes me too neglectful of respect. 
 Let us be friends, and think of this no more. 
 
 Freb. Ay, let it rest with the departed shades 
 Ofthings which arenomore; whilst lovely concord, 
 Follow'd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem. 
 Your future days enrich. O heavenly friendship ! 
 Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men. 
 By thee conjoined, to great and glorious deeds j 
 As two dark clouds, when mix'd in middle air. 
 The vivid lightning's flash, and roar sublime. 
 Talk not of what is past, but future love. 
 
 De Mon. (ytith dignity.') No, Freberg, no, it 
 must not. (ToRezenvelt.) No, my Lord, 
 I will not offer you an hand of concord. 
 And poorly hide the motives which constrain me. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. S57 
 
 I would that, not alone, these present friends, 
 But ev*ry soul in Amberg were assembled, 
 That I, before them all, might here declare 
 I owe my spared life to your forbearance. 
 {Holding out his hand.) Take this from one who 
 
 boasts no feeling warmth. 
 But never will deceive. 
 
 (Jane smiles upon De Monfort mth great 
 
 approbaliony and Rezenvelt runs ttp to him 
 
 mth open arms.) 
 Rez. Away with hands ! I'll have thee to my 
 
 breast. 
 Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit ! 
 De Mon, {shrinVmg hack from him.) Nay, if 
 
 you please, I am not so prepared — 
 My nature is of temperature too cold — 
 Iprayyoupardonme.(Jane'5coww/e/z«7zcec/i«7z^e5.) 
 But take this hand, the token of respect ; 
 The token of a will inclin'd to concord ; 
 The token of a mind, that bears within 
 A sense impressive of the debt it owes you : 
 And cursed be its power, unnervM its strength. 
 If e'er again it shall be lifted up 
 To do you any harm ! 
 
 Rez. Well, be it so, DeMonfort, I'm contented ; 
 I'll take thy hand since I can have no more. 
 (Carelessly.) I take of worthy men whate'er they 
 
 give. 
 Their heart I gladly take, if not their hand ; 
 If that too is withheld, a courteous word, 
 Or the civility of placid looks : 
 
 A A 3 
 
358 D£ MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd, 
 'Faith, I can set me down contentedly 
 With plain and homely greeting, or " God 
 save ye !" 
 De Mo7i. {aside, starting away from him some 
 paces.") 
 Cy the good light, he makes a jest of it ! 
 
 (Jane seems greatly distressed, and Freberg 
 endeavours to cheer her.) 
 Freb. (to Jane.) Cheer np, my noble friend; all 
 will go well ; 
 For friendship is no plant of hasty growth. 
 Tho' rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow 
 And gradual culture of kind intercourse 
 Must bring it to perfection. 
 (To ^Ae Countess.) My love, the morning, now, 
 
 is far advanc'd ; 
 Our friends elsewhere expect us ; take your leave. 
 Lady, (to Jane.) Farewell, dear Madam, till 
 
 the ev'ning hour. 
 Freb. (/oDeMon.) Good day, DeMonfort. (To 
 
 Jane.) Most devoutly yours. 
 Rez. (to Freb.) Go not too fast, for I will fol- 
 low you. 
 
 [[Exeunt Freberg and his Lady. 
 (To Jane.) The Lady Jane is yet a stranger here : 
 She might, perhaps, in this your ancient city 
 Find somewhat worth her notice. 
 
 Jane. Ithankyou, Marquis, I am much engag'dj 
 I go not out to-day. 
 
 Rez. Then fare ye well ! I see I cannot now 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. ^59 
 
 Be the proud man who shall escort you forth, 
 And shew to all the world my proudest boast, 
 The notice and respect of Jane De Monfort. 
 De Mon. (aside impatiently.^ He says farewell, 
 
 and goes not ! 
 Jane. (Jo Rez.) You do me honour. 
 Rez. Madam, adieu ! (To Jane.) Good morn- 
 ing, noble Marquis. [Exit. 
 (Jane and De Monfort look eayressively to 
 one another, without spcaJcingy and then 
 Exeunt severally.') 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Hall or Atite-chamber, with the 
 
 folding doors of an inner apartment open, which 
 
 discovers the guests rising from a banquet. They 
 
 enter and pass over the stage, and Exeunt ; and 
 
 after them enter Rezenvelt and Freberg. 
 
 Freh. Alas, my Rezenvelt! 
 I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace, 
 From this day's reconciliation sprung. 
 These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd ; 
 But I have marked, e'en at the social board, 
 Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold 
 
 things. 
 Too plainly told, 'twixt you and Monfort pass. 
 That I must now despair. 
 Yet who could think, two minds so much refin'd, 
 A A 4 
 
360 DE MONFORT ! A TRAGEDY. 
 
 So near in excellence, should be remov'd. 
 So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy ? 
 Rez, Ay, far remov'd indeed ! 
 Freb» And yet, methought, he made a noble 
 effort, 
 And with a manly plainness bravely told 
 The galling debt he owes to your forbearance. 
 
 Rez. 'Faith ! so he did, and so did I receive it; 
 When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd to 
 
 tears, 
 I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace : 
 And, I declare, had he as such receiv'd it, 
 I from that very moment had forborne 
 All opposition, pride-provoking jest. 
 Contemning carelessness, and all oflfence ; 
 And had caress'd him as a worthy heart. 
 From native weakness such indulgence claiminsr. 
 But since he proudly thinks that cold respect, 
 The formal tokens of his lordly favour. 
 So precious are, that I would sue for them 
 As fair distinction in the publick eye, 
 Forgetting former wrongs, 1 spurn it all. 
 And but that I do bear that noble woman, 
 His worthy, his incomparable sister, 
 Such fix'd profound regard, I would expose himj 
 And as a mighty bull, in senseless -rage, 
 Kous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched rags 
 Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows, 
 I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit. 
 With all his deep and manly faculties. 
 The scorn and laugh of fools. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TllACjEDY. 361 
 
 Freb. For heaven's sake, my friend, restrain 
 
 your wrath ! 
 For what has Monfbrt done of wrong to you, 
 Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel, 
 Which you confess from slight occasion rose. 
 That in yourbreasts such dark resentment dwells, 
 So fix'd, so hopeless ? 
 
 Rez. O ! from our youth he has distinguish'd 
 
 me 
 With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust. 
 For e*en in boyish sports I still oppos'd 
 His proud pretensions to pre-eminence ; 
 Nor would I to his ripen*d greatness give 
 That fulsome adulation of applause 
 A senselesscrowdbestow'd. Tho* poor in fortune, 
 I still would smile at vain assuming wealth : 
 But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd 
 Riches and splendour equal to his own, 
 Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction. 
 Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him, 
 And with all men besides, I curb'd my spirit. 
 And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful 
 
 rage. 
 From small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me. 
 And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know. 
 In short, I still have been th' opposing rock. 
 O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride 
 Hath foam'd and fretted. See'st thou how it is ? 
 Freb. Too well I see, and warn thee to beware. 
 Such streams have oft, by swelling floods sur- 
 
 charg'd, 
 
362 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Borne down, with sudden and impetuous force, 
 The yet unshaken stone of opposition. 
 Which had for ages stopped their flowing course. 
 I pray thee, friend, beware. 
 
 Rez. Thou canst not mean — he will not mur- 
 der me? 
 
 Freb. What a proud heart, with such dark 
 passion toss'd. 
 May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive, 
 I will not dare to say. 
 
 Rez. Ha ha ! thou know'st him not. 
 
 Full often have I mark'd it in his youth. 
 And could have almost lov'd him for the weak- 
 ness: 
 He's formed with such antipathy, by nature, 
 To all infliction of corporeal pain. 
 To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood. 
 He cannot if he would. 
 
 Freb. Then fye upon thee I 
 
 It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus. 
 But let us part : we'll talk of this again. 
 Something approaches. — We are here too long. 
 
 Rez. Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your 
 call. 
 Here lies my way. Good night. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Conrad. 
 
 Con. Forgive, I pray, my Lord, a stranger's 
 boldness. 
 I have presum'd to wait your leisure here. 
 Though at so late an hour. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. S6S 
 
 Freh. But who art thou ? 
 
 Con. My name is Conrad, Sir, 
 A humble suitor to your honour's goodness, 
 Who is the more embolden'd to presume, 
 In that De Monfort's brave and noble Marquis 
 Is so much fam*d for good and gen'rous deeds. 
 Freb. You are mistaken, I am not the man. 
 Con, Then, pardon me : I thought I could 
 not err ; 
 That mien so dignified, that piercing eye 
 AssurM me it was he. 
 
 Freb. My name is not De Monfort, courteous 
 stranger ; 
 But, if you have a favour to request, 
 I may, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit. 
 
 Con. I thank your honour, but I have a friend 
 Who will commend me to De Monfort's favour : 
 The Marquis Rezenvelt has known me long, 
 Who, says report, will soon become his brother. 
 Freb. If thou would'st seek thy ruin fi-om De 
 Monfort, 
 The name of Rezenvelt employ, and prosper ; 
 But, if aught good, use any name but his. 
 Con. How may this be ? 
 Freb. I cannot now explain. 
 
 Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg ; 
 So am I cail'd, each burgher knows my house. 
 And there instruct me how to do you service. 
 Good night. [Exit. 
 
 Con. {alone.) Well, this mistake may be of 
 service to me : 
 
364 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And yet my business I will not unfold 
 To this mild, ready, promise-making courtier j 
 I've been by such too oft deceived already. 
 But if such violent enmity exists 
 Between De Monfort and this Rezenvelt, 
 He'll prove my advocate by opposition. 
 For if De Monfort would reject my suit, 
 Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems, 
 Being the man he hates, a cord as strong, 
 Will he not favour me ? Til think of this. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A lower Apartment in Jerome'5 Houses with a 
 wide folding glass door, looking into a garden, 
 where the trees and shrubs are brown and leajless. 
 Enter De Monfort with a thoughtful frowning 
 aspect, and paces slowly across the stage, ieTome 
 following behind him, with a timid step. De Mon- 
 fort hearing him, turns suddenly about. 
 
 De Mon, (angrily.') Who follows me to this 
 
 sequester'd room ? 
 Jer. I have presumed, my Lord. 'Tis somewhat 
 late : 
 I am informed you eat at home to-night ; 
 Here is a list of all the dainty fare 
 My busy search has found ; please to peruse it. 
 De Mon, Leave me : begone ! Put hemlock in 
 thy soup, 
 Or deadly night-shadje, or rank hellebore. 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 365 
 
 And I will mess upon it. 
 
 Jer. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Your honour*s life is all too precious, sure — 
 
 De Mon. {sternly.') Did I not say begone ? 
 
 Jer, Pardon, my Lord, l*m old, and oft forget. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 De Mon. {looking after him^ as if his heart 
 smote him.) Why will they thus mistime 
 their foolish zeal. 
 That I must be so stern ? 
 O, that I were upon some desert coast ! 
 Where howling tempests and the lashing tide^ 
 Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet ; 
 As the storm-beaten traveller droops his head, 
 In heavy, dull, lethargick weariness. 
 And, *midst the roar of jarring elements. 
 Sleeps to awake no more. 
 What am I grown ? all things are hateful to me. 
 
 Enter Manuel. 
 (stamping "with his foot.) Who bids thee break 
 upon my privacy ? 
 Man. Nay, good my Lord! I heard you speak 
 aloud. 
 And dreamt not, surely, that you were alone. 
 De Mon. What, dost thou watch, and pin thine 
 ears to holes. 
 To catch those exclamations of the soul. 
 Which heaven alone should hear ? Who hir'd 
 
 thee, pray ? 
 Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this ? 
 
3Q6 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ma?i. My Lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen years, 
 Long-troubled years, I have your servant been, 
 Nor hath the proudest lord in all the realm. 
 With firmer, with more honourable faith 
 His sov'reign serv'd, than I have served you j 
 But if my honesty is doubted now. 
 Let him who is more faithful take my place. 
 And serve you better. 
 
 De Mo7i. Well, be it as thou wilt. Away with 
 thee! 
 Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me 
 To judge thy merit by. 
 
 Enter JeroxME hastily, and pulls Manuel away. 
 
 Jer. Come, Manuel, come away ; thou art not 
 wise. 
 The stranger must depart and come again. 
 For now his honour will not be disturb'd. 
 
 [Exit Manuel sulkily, 
 De Mon. A stranger said'st thou ? 
 
 {Drops his handkerchief.) 
 Jer. I did, good Sir, but he shall go away ; 
 You shall not be disturb'd. 
 
 {Stooping to lift the handkerchief.) 
 You have dropp'd somewhat. 
 De Mon. {preventing him.) Nay, do not stoop, 
 my friend ! I pray thee not ! 
 Thou art too old to stoop. — 
 I'm much indebted to thee. — Take this rinsr — 
 I love thee better than I seem to do. 
 Ipray thee doit — thankmenot. — Whatstranger? 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 367 
 
 Je7\ A man who does most earnestly entreat 
 To see your honour ; but I know him not. 
 De Mon. Then let him enter. [Exit Jerome. 
 
 A pause. Enter Conrad. 
 
 DeMon. You are the stranger who would speak 
 
 with me ? 
 Con. I am so far unfortunate, my Lord, 
 That, though my fortune on your favour hangs, 
 I am to you a stranger. 
 
 De Mon. How may this be ? AVhat can I do for 
 
 you? 
 Con. Since thus your Lordship does so frankly 
 ask. 
 The tiresome preface of apology 
 I will forbear, and tell my tale at once. — 
 In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth, 
 A careful penman in another's office ; 
 And now, my master and employer dead. 
 They seek to set a stripling o*er my head. 
 And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age. 
 Because I have no friend to take my part. 
 It is an office in your native town. 
 For I am come from thence, and I am told 
 You can procure it for me. Thus, my Lord, 
 From the repute of goodness which you bear, 
 I have presumed to beg. 
 
 De Mon. They have befbol'd thee with a false 
 
 report. 
 Con. Alas ! I see it is in vain to plead. 
 Your mind is prepossessed against a wretch. 
 Who has, unfortunately for his weal, 
 
S6S DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Offended the revengeful Rezenvelt. 
 
 De Mon. What dost thou say ? 
 
 Con. What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid. 
 Who will believe my wrongs if I complain ? 
 I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe, 
 Who will believe my wrongs ? 
 
 De Mon. {eagerly catching him by the coat.) 
 
 I will believe them ! 
 Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds. 
 In ancient record told, I would believe them ! 
 Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness 
 That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. 
 Speak boldly, tell it all ; for, by the light ! 
 I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend, 
 If he has done thee wrong. 
 
 Con. Nay, pardon me, it were not well ad- 
 vis'd, 
 If I should speak so freely of the man 
 Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be. 
 
 De Mon. What canst thou mean by this ? 
 
 Co7i. That Marquis Rezenvelt 
 
 Has pledg'd his faith unto your noble sister, 
 And soon will be the husband of her choice. 
 So I am told, and so the world believes. 
 
 De Mon. 'Tis false ! 'tis basely false ! 
 What wretch could drop from his envenom'd 
 
 tongue 
 A tale so damn'd ? — It chokes my breath — 
 (^stamping with his foot.) What wretch did tell 
 it thee ? 
 
 Con. Nay, every one with whom I have con- 
 vers'd 
 
DE MONFORT '- A TRAGEDY. SC)9 
 
 Has held the same discourse. I judge it not. 
 But you, my Lord, who with the lady dwell, 
 You best can tell what her deportment speaks j 
 Whether her conduct and unguarded words 
 Belie such rumour. 
 
 (De Monibrt pauses f staggers backwards j and 
 
 sinks into a chair ; then starting up hastily.') 
 De Mon. Where am I now ? 'midst all the 
 
 cursed thoughts, 
 That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd, 
 
 This never came before Oh, if it be! 
 
 The thought will drive me mad. — Was it for this 
 
 She urg'd her warm request on bended knee ? 
 
 Alas ! I wept, and thought of sister's love, 
 
 No damned love like this. 
 
 Fell devil ! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid 
 
 To work such sorcery ! {Pauses.) I'll not believe 
 
 it, 
 I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun 
 For such foul charge as this ! Who waits without ? 
 
 {Paces up and down, furiously agitated.) 
 Con. {aside.) What have I done ? I've carried 
 
 this too far. 
 I've rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman. 
 
 Enter Jerome. 
 
 De Mon. {in a loud angry voice.) Where did 
 she go, at such an early hour. 
 And with such slight attendance ? 
 
 Jer. Of whom inquires your honour ? 
 
 VOL. I. B B 
 
370 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 De Mon. Why, of your lady. Said I not my 
 
 sister ? 
 Jer. The Lady Jane, your sister? 
 De Mon. (in a faltering voice.) Yes, I did call 
 
 her so. 
 Jer. In truth, I cannot tell you where she went. 
 E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard-by, 
 I saw her through the garden-gate return. 
 The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's Countess, 
 Are in her company. This way they come. 
 As being nearer to the back apartments ; 
 But I shall stop them if it be your will. 
 And bid them enter here. 
 
 De Mon. No, stop them not. I will remain unseen. 
 And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little. 
 (Cox\v2id.see77is alarmed^ andsteals off unnoticed. 
 De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the 
 hand, and dra'ning hack xdth hiin two or 
 three steps, not to he seen from the garden, 
 'waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the 
 glass door.) 
 De Mon. I hear their footsteps on the grating 
 sand : 
 How like the croaking of a carrion bird. 
 That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear ! 
 And now she speaks — her voice sounds cheerly 
 
 too= — 
 Curs'd be their mirth ! — 
 Now, now, they come j keep closer still ! keep 
 steady ! 
 (Taking hold of Jerome with both hands.) 
 
DE MONFOUT : A TRAGEDY. 37 1 
 
 Jer. My lord, you tremble much. 
 
 Be Man. What, do I shake ? 
 
 Jer. You do, in truth, and your teeth chatter 
 
 too. 
 De Mon. See ! see they come ! he strutting; 
 by her side. 
 (Jane, Rezenvelt, and Countess Freberg ap- 
 pear through the glass door, pursuing their 
 'way up a short walk leading to tJie other 
 wing of the house.) 
 See, his audacious face he turns to hers ; 
 Uttering with confidence some nauseous jest. 
 And she endures it too — Oh ! this looks vilely 1 
 Ha ! mark that courteous motion of his arm ! — 
 What does he mean ? — he dares not take her 
 
 hand ! 
 {Pauses and looks eagerly.) By heaven and hell 
 he does ! 
 (^Letting go his hold o/'Jerome, he throws out 
 his hands vehemently , and thereby pushes 
 him against the scene.) 
 Jer. Oh ! I am stunn'd ! my head is crack'd in 
 twain : 
 Your honour does forget how old 1 am. 
 
 De Mon. Well, well, the wall is harder than I 
 wist. 
 Begone, and whine within. 
 
 [Exit Jerome, with a sad rueful countenance. 
 (De Monfort comes forward to the front of 
 the stage, and makes a long pause, expressive 
 of great agony of mind,) 
 
 BBS 
 
372 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 It must be so : each passing circumstance ; 
 
 Her hasty journey here ; her keen distress 
 
 Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I express'd ; 
 
 Ay, and that damned reconciliation, 
 
 With tears extorted from me : Oh, too well ! 
 
 All, all too well bespeak tlie shameful tale. 
 
 Ishould have thoughtof heavenandhellconjoin'd. 
 
 The morning star mix'd with infernal fire, 
 
 Ere I had thougrht of this — 
 
 Hell's blackest magic, in the midnight hour. 
 
 With horrid spells and incantation dire, 
 
 Such combination opposite, unseemly, 
 
 Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base. 
 
 Did ne'er produce — But every thing is possible, 
 
 So as it may my misery enhance ! 
 
 Oh ! I did love her with such pride of soul ! 
 
 When other men, in gay pursuit of love. 
 
 Each beauty foUow'd, by her side I stay'd ; 
 
 Far prouder of a brother's station there, 
 
 Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast. 
 
 We quarrell'd once, and when I could no more 
 
 The alter' d coldness of her eye endure, 
 
 I slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door ; 
 
 And when she ask'd whogently knock'd — Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Who could have thought of this? 
 
 (Tkroxvs himself into a chair, covers his face 
 with his hand, and hursts into tears. After 
 some time, he starts up from his seat furi- 
 ously.^ 
 Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain ! 
 Detested of my soul ! I will have vengeance ! 
 14 
 
 r 
 
DE MOx\FOIlT : A TRAGEDY. S'JS 
 
 I'll crush thy swelling pride — PU still thy vaunt- 
 ing— 
 I'll do a deed of blood ! — Why slirink I thus ? 
 If by some spell or magic sympathy, 
 Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall 
 Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it ? 
 (Throxcing a dagger against the xcall.) 
 Shall groans and blood affright me? No, Pll do it. 
 Tho' gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd, 
 And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink, 
 1 would not flinch. — Fye, tiiis recoiling nature ! 
 O that his sever'd limbs were strew'd in air, 
 So as I saw it not ! 
 
 {Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. 
 De Monfort tiums round, and on seein^' 
 him starts back, then drawing his sword, 
 rushes furiously upon him.) 
 Detested robber ! now all forms are over j 
 Now open villainy, now open hate ! 
 Defend thy life ! 
 
 Rez. De Monfort, thou art mad. 
 
 De Mon. Speak not, but draw. Now for thy 
 hated life ! 
 {They fght: Rezenvelt parries his thrusts 
 with great skill, and at last disarms him.) 
 Then takemy life, black fiend, for hell assists thee. 
 Rez. No, Monfort, but Pll take away your 
 sword. 
 Not as a mark of disrespect to you. 
 But for your safiety. By to-morrow's eve 
 
 B B 8 
 
374 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I'll call on you myself and give it back ; 
 And then, if I am charged with any wrong, 
 1*11 justify myself. Farewell, strange man ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 (De Monfort stands for some time quite mo- 
 tionless, like one stupified. Enters to him 
 a Servant : he starts.) 
 
 De Mon, Ha ! who art thou ? 
 
 Ser. 'Tis I, an* please your honour. 
 
 De Mon. (^staring mldly at him.') Who art thou ? 
 
 Ser, Your servant Jacques. 
 
 De Mon. Indeed I knew thee not. 
 
 Leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone, 
 Return and let me know. 
 
 Ser. He*s gone already. 
 
 De Mon. How ! is he gone so soon ? 
 
 Ser. His servant told me, 
 
 He was in haste to go ; as night comes on. 
 And at the evening hour he purposes 
 To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion 
 Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood. 
 In which a convent is of holy Nuns 
 Who chaunt this night a requiem to the soul 
 Of a departed sister. For so well 
 He loves such solemn music, he has order'd 
 His horses onward by the usual road. 
 Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone. 
 So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth ! 
 I would not walk thro* those wild dells alone 
 For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard. 
 Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream j 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 375 
 
 And things unearthly, stalking thro' the night, 
 Have scar'd the lonely trav'ller from his wits. 
 
 (De Monfort stands fixed in thought.') 
 I*ve ta*en your mare, an' please you, from her field. 
 And wait your farther orders. 
 
 (De Monfort heeds him not.) 
 
 Her hoofs are sound, and where the saddle gall'd. 
 
 Begins to mend. AVhat further must be done ? 
 
 (De Monfort still heeds him not.) 
 
 His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay ? 
 
 De Mon. {eagerly, ashe is going.) He goes alone, 
 
 saidst thou ? 
 Ser. His servant told me so. 
 De Mon. And at what hour ? 
 
 Ser. He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve. 
 Save you, my Lord ! how chang'd your count*- 
 
 nance is ! 
 Are you not well ? 
 
 De Mon. Yes, 1 am well : begone, 
 
 And wait my orders by the city wall : 
 I'll that way bend, and speak to thee again. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 (De Monfort walks rapidly txvo or three times 
 
 across the stage; then seizes his dagger 
 
 from the wall, looks steadfastly at its point, 
 
 and Exit hastily.) 
 
 B B 4 
 
376 DE IWONFORT 1 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Moonlight. A mid path in a wood, shaded uith 
 
 trees. Enter De Monfort, with a strong ej:- 
 
 pression of disquiet, mixed, with fear, upon his 
 
 face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to 
 
 the ground, as if he listened to something, 
 
 D&Mon. How hollow groans the earth beneath 
 my tread ! 
 Is there an echo here ? Methinks it sounds 
 As tho* some heavy footstep follow'd me. 
 I will advance no farther. 
 Deep settled shadows rest across the path, 
 And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot. 
 O that a tenfold gloom did cover it ! 
 That midst the murky darkness I might strike ; 
 As in the wild confusion of a dream, 
 Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass. 
 As tho' they pass'd not ; nor impress the mind 
 With the fix*d clearness of realitv. 
 
 (^An owl is heard screaming near him.) 
 {Starting) What sound is tliat ? 
 
 (Listens, and the owl cries again. 
 It is the screech-owl's cry. 
 
 Foul bird of night ! what spirit guides thee here? 
 Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror? 
 I've heard of tliis. (Pauses and listens.) 
 
 How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path, 
 With whisp'ring noise, as tho' the earth arounil nie 
 Did utter secret things? 
 
DE MONFOKT : A TRAGEDY. 377 
 
 Tlie distant river too, bears to mine ear 
 A dismal wailing. O mysterious night 1 
 Thou art not silent ; many tongues hast thou. 
 A distant gathering blast sounds thro' the wood, 
 And dark clouds fleetly hasten o*er the sky : 
 
 1 that a storm would rise, a raging storm j 
 Amidst the roar of warring elements 
 
 I'd lift my hand and strike ! but this pale light. 
 The calm distinctness of each stilly thing, 
 Is terrible. (^Starting) Footsteps are near — 
 He comes! he comes! I'll watch him farther on — 
 
 1 cannot do it here. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his xcay slozvlj/ 
 from the bottom of the stage : as he advances to 
 tJieJronty the owl screams^ lie stops and listens^ 
 and the owl screams again. 
 
 Rez. Ha ! does the night-bird greet me on my 
 way ? 
 How much his hooting is in harmony 
 With such a scene as this ! I like it well. 
 Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, 
 I've leant my back against some knotted oak, 
 And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call 
 He answer would return, and, thro' the gloom. 
 We friendly converse held. 
 Between me and the star-bespangled sky. 
 Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave. 
 And thro' them looks the pale and placid moon. 
 How like a crocodile, or winged snake, 
 Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length ! 
 
 \ 
 
3JS DE ilONFOllT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And now transformed by tlie passing wind, 
 
 Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus. 
 
 Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue 
 
 Come swiftly after. — 
 
 A hollow murm'ring wind sounds thro' the trees; 
 
 I hear it from afar ; this bodes a storm. 
 
 I must not linger here — 
 
 (A bell heard at some distance.') 
 The convent bell. 
 'Tis distant still : it tells their hour of prayer. 
 It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze. 
 That, to a fearful superstitious mind, 
 In such a scene, w^ould like a death-knell come. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — The inside of a Convent Chapel^ of 
 old Gothick architecture, almost dark : two 
 torches 07ily are seen at a distance, burning over 
 a newly covered * grave. Lightning is seen 
 fashing through the windows, and thunder 
 heard, with the sound of wind beating upon tfie 
 building. Enter two Monks. 
 
 1st Monk. The storm increases : hark how dis- 
 mally 
 It howls along the cloisters. How goes time ? 
 
 * I have put above newly -covered instead of neiv-madc 
 grave, as it stands in the former editions, because I wish 
 not to give the idea of a funeral procession, but merely that 
 oi' a hymn or requiem sung over the grave of a person who 
 has been recently buried. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 379 
 
 2c? Monk. It is the hour : I liear them near at 
 hand : 
 And when the solemn requiem has been sung 
 For the departed sister, we'll retire. 
 Yet, should this tempest still more violent grow. 
 We'll beg a friendly shelter till the morn. 
 
 1st Monk, See, the procession enters : letusjoin 
 {The organ strikes up a sole7nn prelude. Enter 
 a procession of Nuns, with the Abbess, 
 hearing torches. After compassing thegrave 
 twice^ and ranaijiing there sotne time, the 
 organ plays a grand dirge^ whilst they 
 stand round the grave.') 
 
 SONG BY THE NUNS. 
 
 Departed soul, whose poor remains 
 This hallow'd lowly grave contains ; 
 Whose passing storm of life is o'er. 
 Whose pains and sorrows are no more; 
 Bless'd be thou with the bless' d above ! 
 Where all is joy, and purity, and love. 
 
 Let HIM, in might and mercy ckead. 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead ; 
 
 In whom the stars of heav'n rejoice. 
 
 And the ocean lifts its voice ; 
 
 Thy spirit, purified, to glory raise. 
 
 To sing with holy saints his everlasting praise ! 
 
 Departed soul, who in this earthly scene 
 Hast our lowly sister been. 
 Swift be thy way to where the blessed dwell ! 
 Until we meet thee there, farewell ! farewell ! 
 
380 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Enter a young Pensioner, with a xvild terrified 
 look, her hair and dress all scattered, and rushes 
 forward amongst them. 
 
 Abb. Why com'st thou here, with such disor- 
 der'd looks, 
 To break upon our sad solemnity ? 
 
 Fen. Oh ! I did hear thro' the receding blast. 
 Such horrid cries ! they made my blood run chill. 
 
 Abb. 'Tis but the varied voices of the storm, 
 Which many times will sound iikedistant screams: 
 It has deceiv'd thee. 
 
 Fen. O no, for twice it call'd, so loudly call'd, 
 With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature; 
 And Murder ! murder ! was the dreadful cry. 
 A third time it return'd Vv'ith feeble strength. 
 But o'the sudden ceas'd, as tho' the words 
 Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throat, 
 And all was still again, save the wild blast 
 Which at a distance growl'd. — 
 Oh ! it will never from my mind depart ! 
 That dreadful cry, all i'the instant still'd : 
 For then, so near, some horrid deed was done, 
 And none to rescue. 
 
 Abb. Where didst thou hear it ? 
 
 Fen. In the higher cells, 
 
 As now a window, open'd by the storm, 
 I did attempt to close. 
 
 1st Monk. I wish our brother Bernard were 
 arriv'd ; 
 He is upon his way. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 381 
 
 Abb. Be not alarm'd ; it still may be tleceptioii. 
 *Tis meet we finish our solemnity, 
 Nor show neglect unto the honoured dead. 
 
 (Gives a sign, and the organ piai/s again : just 
 as it ceases J aloud knocking is heard zvitk out.) 
 Abb. Ha ! who may this be ? hush ! 
 
 (Knocking heard again.) 
 ^d Monk. It is the knock of one inf'urious haste. 
 Hush ! hush ! What footsteps come ? Ha ! brother 
 Bernard. 
 
 Enter Bernard bearing a lantern. 
 
 1st Monk. See, what a look he wears ofstiflenM 
 fear ! 
 Where hast thou been, good brother ? 
 
 Bern. I've seen a horrid sight ! 
 
 (^All gathering roiindhim and speaking at once.) 
 
 What ha'st thou seen ? 
 
 Bern. As on Ihasten*d, bearing thus my light, 
 Across the path, not fifty paces off, 
 I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back, 
 Smear'd with new blood, as tho' but newly slain. 
 
 Abb. A man or woman was't ? 
 
 Bern. A man, a man ! 
 
 Abb. Didst thou examine if within its breast 
 There yet were lodg'd some small remains of life ? 
 Was it quite dead ? 
 
 Bern. Nought in the grave is deader. 
 
 I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge 
 In any form so laid. — 
 
382 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 A chilly horror seized me, and I fled. 
 
 1st Monk. And does the face seem all unknown 
 
 to thee ? 
 Bern. The face ! I would not on the face have 
 looked 
 For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world ! 
 
 no ! the bloody neck, the bloody neck ! 
 
 (^Shaking his head and shuddering with hor- 
 ror. Loud knocking heard 'without.') 
 Sist. Good mercy ! who comes next? 
 Bern. Not far behind 
 
 1 left our brother Thomas on the road j 
 But then he did repent him as he went. 
 And threatened to return. 
 
 ^d Monk. See, here he comes. 
 
 Enter Brother Thomas, with a xvild terrified look, 
 
 1st Monk. How wild he looks ! 
 
 Bern, {going up to him eagerly. ) What, hast 
 
 thou seen it too? 
 Thorn. Yes, yes ! it glared upon me as itpass'd. 
 Bern. What glared upon thee ? 
 {^All gathering round Thomas, a7id speak- 
 ing at once.) O ! what hast thou seen ? 
 Thorn. As, striving with the blast, I onward 
 came. 
 Turning my feeble lantern from the wind, 
 Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd, 
 W^hich paus'd and look'd upon me as it pass'd. 
 But such a look, such wildness of despair. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 38^ 
 
 Such hoiTor-stiained features, never vet 
 
 Did earthly visage show. I shrunk andshudder'd. 
 
 If a damn'd spirit may to earth return, 
 
 I*ve seen it. 
 
 Bern. Was there any blood upon it ? 
 
 Thorn. Nay, as it pass'd, I did not see its form ; 
 Nouo;ht but the horrid face. 
 
 Bern. It is the murderer. 
 
 \st Monk. What way went it ? 
 
 Thorn. I durst not look till I had pass'd it far. 
 Then turning round, upon the rising bank, 
 I saw, between me and the paly sky, 
 A dusky form, tossing and agitated. 
 I stopp'd to mark it ; but, in truth, I found 
 *Twas but a sapHng bending to the wind. 
 And so I onward hied, and looked no more. 
 
 1st Monk. But we must look to't ; we must 
 follow it : 
 Our duty so commands. (To 2f/Monk.) Will you 
 
 go, brother ? 
 {To Bernard.) And you, good Bernard ? 
 
 Bern. If I needs must go. 
 
 1st Monk. Come, we must all go. 
 
 Abb. Heaven be with you, then ! 
 
 [Exeunt Monks. 
 
 Pen. Amen ! amen ! Good heaven be with us all! 
 O what a dreadful night ! 
 
 Abb. Daughters, retire ; peace to the peaceful 
 dead ! 
 Our solemn ceremony now is finish'd. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
384} DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A large Room in the Convent, ^very darlx. Enter 
 the Abbess, Young Pensioner bearing a light, 
 and several Nuns ; she sets dozen the light on a 
 table at the bottom of the stagey so that the room 
 is still very gloomy. 
 
 Abb. They have been longer absent than I 
 thought ; 
 I fear he has escap'd them. 
 15/ Nun. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Pen. No, no, found out foul murder ever is, 
 And the foul murd'rer too. 
 
 ^dNun. The good Saint Francis will direct 
 their search ; 
 The blood so near this holy convent shed 
 For threefold vengeance calls. 
 
 Abb. I hear a noise within the inner court — 
 They are returned ; (listening.) and Bernard's 
 
 voice I hear : 
 They are return'd. 
 
 Fen. Why do I tremble so ? 
 
 It is not I who ought to tremble thus. 
 9,d Nun. I hear them at the door. 
 Bern, (without.) Open the door, I pray thee, 
 brother Thomas ; 
 I cannot now unhand the prisoner. 
 (All speak together, shrinking back from the 
 door, and staring upon one another.) He 
 is with them ! 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. S85 
 
 {AfoldtJig door at the bottom of the stage is 
 openedy and enter Bernard, Thomas, and 
 the other two Monks, carrying lanterns in 
 their hands, and bringing in De Monfort. 
 They are likewise followed by other Monks. 
 As they lead forward De Monfort, the light 
 is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely ; 
 but when they come to the front of the stage, 
 they turn the light side of their lanterns on 
 him at once, and his face is seen in all the 
 strengthened horrour of despair, with his 
 hands and clothes bloody.') 
 (Abbess and Nuns speak at once, and start back.) 
 Holy saints be with \xa ! 
 Bern, (to Abb.) Behold the man of blood ! 
 Abb. Of misery too ; I cannot look upon him. 
 Bern, (to Nuns.) Nay, holy sisters, turn not 
 thus away. 
 Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you: 
 For from his mouth we have no utt'rance heard. 
 Save one deep groan and smothered exclamation. 
 When first we seiz'd him. 
 Abb. (to De Mon.) Most miserable man, how 
 art thou thus ? (Pauses.) 
 
 Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands 
 Do witness horrid things. What is thy name ? 
 De Mon. (roused, looks steadfastly at the Ab- 
 bess for some time, then speaking in a 
 short hurried voice.) I have no name. 
 Abb. (to Bern.) Do it thyself; I'll speak to him 
 
 no more. 
 VOL. I. c c 
 
3S6 DE monfort: a tragedy. 
 
 Pen. O holy saints! that this should be the man 
 Who did against his fellow lift the stroke, 
 Whilst he so loudly call'd. — 
 Still in my ears it rings : O murder ! murder ! 
 JDe Mon. (starting.) He calls again ! 
 Pen. No, he did call, but now his voice is still'd. 
 'Tis past. 
 
 De Mon. 'Tis past. 
 
 Pen. Yes, it is past ! art thou not he who did it? 
 (De Monfort utters a deep grocm, and is sup- 
 ported from falling by the Monks. A noise 
 is heard without.) 
 -^^^. What noise isthis of lieavy lumb'ring steps, 
 Like men who with a weighty burden come ? 
 Berm. It is the body : I have orders given 
 That here it should be laid. 
 (Enter men bearing the body of Rezenvelt, co- 
 vered 'with a white cloth, and set it down in 
 the middle of the room : they then uncover 
 it. De Monfort stands fixed and motion- 
 less with horror, only that a sudden shi- 
 vering seems to pass over him when they 
 uncover the corpse. The Abbess and 
 Nuns shrink back and retire to some dis- 
 tance, all the rest fixing their eyes stead- 
 fastly upon De Monfort. A long pause.) 
 Bern, (to De Mon.) See'st thou that lifeless 
 corpse, those bloody wounds ? 
 See how he lies, who but so shortly since 
 A living creature was, with all the powers 
 Of sense, and motion, and humanity ! 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY^ 35>7 
 
 Oh ! what a heart had he who did this deed ! 
 1st Monk, {looking at ike bod^.) How hard 
 those teeth against the lips are press'd, 
 As though he struggled still ! 
 
 2fi? Monk, The hands, too, clench 'd : the last 
 eftbrts of nature. 
 (De Monfort still stands motionless. Brother 
 Thomas then goes to the body^ and raising 
 up the head a Tittle, turns it towards De 
 Monfort.) 
 Thorn. Know'st thou this ghastly face ? 
 De Mon. {putting his hands before his face in 
 'violent perturbation.') Oh, do not ! do not ! 
 Veil it from my sight ! 
 Put me to any agony but this ! 
 
 Thorn. Ha ! dost thou then confess the dread- 
 ful deed ? 
 Hast thou against the laws of awful heav'n 
 Such horrid murder done ? What fiend could 
 tempt thee ? 
 {Pauses, and looks steadfastly atT^e Monfort.) 
 De Mon. I hear thy words, but do not hear 
 their sense — 
 Hast thou not cover'd it ? 
 
 Beim. {to Thorn.) Forbear, my brother, for 
 thou see' St right well 
 He is not in a state to answer thee. 
 Let us retire and leave him for a while. 
 These windows are with iron grated o'er ; 
 He is secur'd, and other duty calls. 
 Thorn. Then let it be. 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Bern, (to Monks, cj-c.) Come, let us all depart. 
 (Exeunt Abbess and 'Nuns, Jbllo'wed by the 
 Monks. One Monk lingering a little be- 
 hind.') ' 
 DeMon. All gone ! {Perceiving the Monk.) O 
 
 stay thou here ! 
 Monk. It must not be. 
 
 De Mon. Til give thee gold ; I'll make thee 
 rich in gold. 
 If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. 
 Monk. I must not, must not stay. 
 De Mon. I do conjure thee ! 
 
 Monk. I dare not stay with thee. {Going.') 
 De Mon. And wilt thou go ? 
 
 (Catching hold of him eagerly.) 
 O ! throw thy cloak upon this grizly form ! 
 The unclos'd eyes do stare upon me still. 
 O do not leave me thus ! 
 
 [Monk covers the hody^ and Exit. 
 De Mon. {alone^ 'looking at the covered body, 
 but at a distance.) Alone with thee ! but 
 thou art nothing now. 
 'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast; 
 Would ! would it were to come ! — 
 "What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud 
 Will close on all this horrour ? 
 O that dire madness would unloose my thoughts. 
 And fill my mind with wildest fantasies, 
 Dark, restless, terrible ! aught, aught but this ! 
 
 (Pauses and shudders.) 
 How with convulsive life he heav'd beneath me, 
 
 17 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 389 
 
 E'en with the death's wound gor'd ! O horrid, 
 
 horrid ! 
 Methinks I feel him still. — What sound is that ? 
 I heard a smother'd groan. — • It is impossible ! 
 
 (^Looking steadfastlij at the body.) 
 It moves ! it moves ! the cloth doth heave and 
 
 swell. 
 It moves again ! I cannot suffer this — 
 Whatever it be, I will uncover it. 
 
 {Runs to the coiyse, and tears off' the cloth in 
 
 despair.) 
 All still beneath. 
 
 Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death, 
 How sternly fixed ! Oh ! those glazed eyes ! 
 They look upon me still. 
 
 {Shrinks back with horrour.) 
 Come, madness ! come unto me, senseless death ! 
 I cannot suffer this ! Here, rocky wall. 
 Scatter these brains, or dull them ! 
 
 {Runs furiously, and, dashing his head against j 
 
 the wally falls upon the floor.) / 
 
 Enter two Monks hastily. 
 1st Monk, See ; wretched man, he hath de- 
 stroyed himself. 
 Qd Monk. He does but faint. Let us remove 
 
 him hence. 
 1st Monk, We did not well to leave him here 
 
 alone. 
 2d Monk. Come, let us bear him to the open air. 
 [Exeunt, bearing out De Monfbrt. 
 c c 3 
 
390 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Before the gates of the Convent. Enter Jane de 
 MoNFORT, Freberg, and Manuel. As they 
 are 'proceeding towards the gate, Jane stops short 
 and shrinks back. 
 
 '/ 
 Freb. Ha ! wherefore P has a sudden illness 
 
 seiz'd thee ? 
 Jane. No, no, my friend. — And yet I'm very 
 faint — 
 I dread to enter here. 
 
 Man. Ay, so I thought : 
 
 For, when between the trees, that abbey tower 
 First shew'd its top, I saw your countenance 
 
 change. 
 But breathe a little here : Til go before. 
 And make enquiry at the nearest gate. 
 Freb. Do so, good Manuel. 
 
 (Manuel goes and knocks at the gate.) 
 Courage, dear Madam : all may yet be well. 
 Rezenvelt*s servant, frighten'd with the storm. 
 And seeing that his master join'd him not. 
 As by appointment, at the forest's edge. 
 Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear 
 To an unfounded nunour. 
 He saw it not ; he came not here himself. 
 Jane, (looking eagerly to the gate, tvhere MiMme\ 
 talks with the Porter.) Ha ! see, he talks 
 with some one earnestly. 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 391 
 
 And see'st tliou not that motion of" his hands ? 
 He stands like one who hears a horrid tale. 
 Almighty God ! 
 
 (Manuel goes into the convent.) 
 He comes not back ; he enters. 
 Freb. Bear up, my noble friend. 
 Jane. I will, I will ! But this suspense is 
 dreadful. 
 {A long pause. Manuel re-enters from the 
 convent, and comes forxvard slowly with a 
 sad countenance.) 
 Is this the face of one who bears good tidings ? 
 O God ! his face doth tell the horrid fact ? 
 There is nought doubtful here. 
 
 Freh. How is it, Manuel ? 
 
 Man. Pve seen him through a crevice in his 
 door : 
 It is indeed my master. 
 
 {Bursting into tears.) 
 {Jsinejai7its, and is supported hy Freberg. — 
 Enter Abbess and several Nuns from the 
 convent, who gather about her, and apply 
 remedies. She recovers.) 
 1st Nun. The life returns again. 
 26? Nun. Yes, she revives. 
 
 Abb. {to Freb.) Let me entreat this noble lady's 
 leave 
 To lead her in. She seems in great distress : 
 We would with holy kindness soothe her woe, 
 And do by her the deeds of christian love- 
 c c 4- 
 
S9S DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Freb. Madam, your goodness has my grateful 
 thanks. 
 [Exeunt, 5z//7/;or/^??z^>' Jane into the convent, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 De Monfbrt is discovered sitting in a thoughtful 
 postui^e. He remains so for some time. Hisjhce 
 afterwards begins to appear agitated, like one 
 whose mind is harrowed with the severest 
 thoughts; theti, starti?ig from his seat, he clasps 
 his hands together, and holds them up to heaven, 
 
 De Mon. O that I ne'er had known the light of 
 day! 
 That fihuy darkness on mine eyes had hung, 
 And clos'd me out from the fair face of nature ! 
 O that my mind in mental darkness pent, 
 Had no perception, no distinction known, 
 Of fair, or foul, perfection, or defect. 
 Nor thought conceived of proud pre-eminence ! 
 O that it had ! O that I had been form'd 
 An idiot fromthebirth 1 a senseless changeling. 
 Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste. 
 Nor knows the hand who feeds him. — 
 
 {Pauses ; then, in a calmer sorroxiful voice.) 
 What am 1 now ? how ends the day of life ? 
 For end it must ; and terrible this gloom, 
 This storm of horrours that surrounds its close. 
 This little term of nature's agony 
 Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past : 
 But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth 
 Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness, 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 39^ 
 
 Like senseless clod that doth no pressure leel 
 From wearing foot of daily passenger ; 
 Like steeped rock o'er which the breaking waves 
 Bellow and foam unheard ? O would I could ! 
 
 Enter Manuel, who springs forward to his master , 
 but is checked upon perceiving De Monfort 
 draw back and look sternly at him, 
 
 Man. My lord, my master! O my dearest 
 master ! 
 
 (De Monfort still looks at him without 
 speaking.') 
 Nay, do not thus regard me, good my Lord ! 
 8peak to me : am I not your faithful Manuel ? 
 De Mon. (in a hasty broken voice.) Art thou 
 
 alone ? 
 Man. No, Sir, the lady Jane is on her way ; 
 She is not far behind. 
 
 De Mon, (Jossing his arm over his head in an 
 agony.) This is too much ! All I can bear 
 but this ! 
 It must not be. — Run and prevent her comino-. 
 Say, he who is detained a pris'ner here 
 Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing. 
 I am a man of holy claims bereft ; 
 Out of the pale of social kindred cast ; 
 Nameless and horrible. — 
 Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone 
 Into a desolate and distant land. 
 Ne'er to return again. Fly, tell her this 5 
 For we must meet no more. 
 
39'i DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Enter Jane De Monfort, bursting into the cham- 
 ber\ and followed by Freberg, Abbess, and 
 several Nuns. 
 
 Jane. We must ! we must ! My brother, O my 
 brother ? 
 (De Monfort turns away his head and hides 
 his face with his arm. Jane stops short, 
 and, making a great effort, turns to Freberg, 
 and the others who followed her, and with 
 an air of dignity stretches out her hand, 
 beckoning them to retire. All retire but 
 Freberg, who seems to hesitate.') 
 And thou too, Freberg : call it not unkind. 
 
 [Exit Freberg, Jane and De Monfort only 
 remain. 
 Jane. My hapless Monfort ! 
 
 (De Monfort turnsroundand looks sorrowfully 
 
 upon her; she opens her arms to him, and he, 
 
 rushing into them, hides his face upon her 
 
 breast, andzveeps.) 
 
 Jane. Ay, give thy sorrow vent j here may'st 
 
 thou weep. 
 De Mon. {in broken accents.) Oh ! this, my 
 sister, makes me feel again 
 The kindness of affection. 
 My mind has in a dreadful storm been tost ; 
 Horrid and dark. — I thought to weep no more. — 
 I*ve done a deed — But I am human still. 
 Jane. I know thy sufferings: leave thy sorrow 
 free ! 
 
DE monfort: a tragedy. 395 
 
 Thou art with one who never did upbraid ; 
 Who mourns, who loves thee still. 
 
 De Mon. Ah ! say'st thou so ? no, no ; it 
 
 should not be. 
 (Shrinking from her.) I am a foul and bloody 
 
 murderer. 
 For such embrace unmeet: O leave me! leave me! 
 Disgrace and public shame abide me now j 
 And all, alas ! who do my kindred own, 
 The direful portion share. — Away, away ! 
 Shall a disgrac'd and public criminal 
 Degrade tliy name, and claim affinity 
 To noble worth like thine? — I have no name — 
 I'm nothing now, not e'en to thee ; depart. 
 
 (She takes his hand^ and grasping itjirmly, 
 
 speaks with a determined voice,) 
 Jane. De Monfort, hand in hand we have 
 
 enjoy'd 
 The playful term of infancy together ; 
 And in the rougher path of ripen'd years 
 We've been each other's stay. Dark lowers our fiite, 
 And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
 But nothing, till that latest agony 
 Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
 This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-. 
 
 house ; 
 In the terrific face of armed law ; 
 Yea, on tlie scaffold, if it needs must be, 
 I never will forsake thee. 
 
 De Mon. (looking at her with admiration.) 
 Heav'n bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane ! 
 I thought to sink beneath this load of ill, 
 
896 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Depressed with infamy and open shame ; 
 I thought to sink in abject wretchedness : 
 But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up, 
 And meet it bravely ; no unseemly weakness, 
 1 feel my rising strength, shall blot my end. 
 To clothe thy cheek with shame. 
 
 Jane, Yes, thou art noble still. 
 
 De Mon. With thee I am ; who were not so 
 with thee ? 
 Eut, ah ! my sister, short will be the term : 
 Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond. 
 Where things unutterable wait the soul. 
 New from its earthly tenement discharg*d. 
 We shall be sever'd far. 
 Far as the spotless purity of virtue 
 Is from the murderer's guilt, far shall we be. 
 This is the gulf of dread uncertainty 
 From which the soul recoils. 
 
 Jane. The God who made thee is a God of 
 mercy ; 
 Think upon this. 
 
 DeMo7i. {shaking his head.) No, no! this blood! 
 this blood ! 
 
 Jane. Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be forgiven. 
 When humble penitence hath once aton'd. 
 
 De Mon. (eagerly.) What, after terms of 
 lengthen'd misery, 
 Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits, 
 Shall I again, a renovated soul. 
 Into the blessed family of the good 
 Admittance have ? Think'st thou that this may 
 be? 
 
DE MONFORT 1 A TRAGEDY. 397 
 
 Speak if thou canst : O speak me comfort here ! 
 
 For dreadful fancies, like an armed host, 
 
 Have push'd me to despair. It is most horrible — 
 
 speak of hope ! if any hope there be. 
 
 (Jane issilenty andlooks sorrowfully/ upo7i him; 
 the?! clasping her hands, and turning her ej/es 
 to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer.') 
 De Mon. Ha ! dost thou pray for me ? heav'n 
 hear thy prayer ! 
 
 1 fain would kneel. — Alas ! I dare not do it. 
 Ja?ie. Not so ! all by th* Almighty Father 
 
 form*d, 
 May in their deepest mis'ry call on him. 
 Come kneel with me, my brother. 
 
 (She kneels and prays to herself; he hneelshy 
 
 her, and clasps his hands fervently, but speaks 
 
 not. A noise of chains clanking is heard 
 
 without, and they both rise.) 
 
 De Mon. Hear*st thou that noise ? They come 
 
 to interrupt us. 
 Jane, {moving towards a side-door). Then let us 
 
 enter here. 
 De Mon. (catching hold of her with a look of 
 /forror.) Not there — not there — thecorpse 
 — the bloody corpse ! 
 Jane. What, lies he there? — Unhappy Re- 
 
 zenvelt ? 
 De Mon. A sudden thought has come across 
 my mind ; 
 How came it not before ? Unhappy Rezenvelt ! 
 Say'st thou but this ? 
 
S9S DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jane. What should I say ? he was an honest 
 man ; 
 I still have thought him such, as such lament him. 
 (De Monfort utters a deep groan.) 
 What means this heavy groan ? 
 
 De Mon. It hath a meaning. 
 
 Enter Abbess and Monks, *with two Officers 
 of justice carrying fetters in their hands to put 
 upon De Monfort. 
 
 Jane, {starting.) What men are these ? 
 
 1,9^ Off. Lady, we are the servants of the law, 
 And bear with us a power, which doth constrain 
 To bind with fetters this our prisoner. 
 
 {Pointing to De Monfort.) 
 
 Jane. A stranger uncondemn'd? this cannot be, 
 
 \st Off. As yet, indeed, he is by law unjudg'd, 
 But is so far condemn'd by circumstance, 
 That law, or custom sacred held as law. 
 Doth fully warrant us, and it must be. 
 
 Jane. Nay, say not so ; he has no power 
 t'escape : 
 Distress hath bound him with a heavy chain j 
 There is no need of yours. 
 
 \st Off. We must perform our office. 
 
 Jane. O ! do not offer this indignity ! 
 
 1st Off, Is it indignity in sacred law 
 To bind a murderer ? {To 2r/ Officer.) Come, do 
 thy work. 
 
 Jane, Harsh are thy words, and stern thy har- 
 dened brow ; 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 399 
 
 Dark is tliine eye ; but all some pity have 
 
 Unto the last extreme of misery. 
 
 I do beseech thee ! if thou art a man — 
 
 (^Kneeling to him.) 
 
 (De Monfort, roused at this, rims up to Jane, 
 
 and raises her hastily from the ground : then 
 
 stretches himself up proudly.') 
 
 De Mon» (to Jane.) Stand thou erect in native 
 
 dignity ; 
 
 And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee, 
 
 Tliough cloth'd in power imperial. To my 
 heart 
 
 It gives a feller gripe than many irons. 
 
 (Holdi?igout his hands.) Here, officfers of law, bind 
 on those shackles ; 
 
 And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains. 
 
 Add iron to iron ; load, crush me to the ground : 
 
 Nay, heap ten thousand weight upon my breast. 
 
 For that were best of all. 
 
 {A long pause ^ 'whilst they put iron^ upon him. 
 After they are on, Jane looks at him sorrow- 
 fully i and lets her head sink on her breast. 
 De Monfort stretches out his hand^ looks at 
 them, and then at Jane ; crosses them over 
 his breast, and endeavours to suppress his 
 feelings.*) 
 
 * Should this play ever again be acted, perhaps it would be 
 better that the curtain should drop here ; since here the story 
 may be considered as completed, and what comes after, pro- 
 longs the piece too much when our interest for the fate of Do 
 Monfort is at an end. 
 
400 DE MOKFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ist Off. I have it, too, in charge to move you 
 hence, {To De Monfort.) 
 
 Into another chamber more secure. 
 De Mon. Well, 1 am ready, Sir. 
 
 {Approaching Jane, whom the Abbess is en- 
 deavouring to coniforij but to no purpose.) 
 Ah ! wherefore thus 1 most honoured and most 
 
 dear ? 
 Shrink not at the accoutrements of ill. 
 Daring the thing itself. 
 
 (Endeavouring to look cheerful.) 
 Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand ? 
 
 (She gives him her handy which he raises to his 
 lips.) 
 This was my proudest office. 
 
 [Exeunt, De Monfort leading out Jane. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 An Apartment in the Convent, opening into another 
 room, whose low arched door is seen in the bottom 
 of the stage. In one corner a Monk is seen kneel- 
 ing. Enter another Monky who, on perceiving 
 himy stops till he lises from his knees, and then 
 goes eagerly up to him. 
 
 1st Monk, How is the prisoner ? 
 
 Qd Monk, (pointing to the door.) He is within, 
 and the strong hand of death 
 Is dealing with him. 
 
 1st Monk. How is this, good brother ? 
 
 Methought he brav'd it with a manly spirit ; 
 
DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 401 
 
 And led, with shackled hands, his sister forth, 
 Like one resolv'd to bear misfortune bravely. 
 
 QdMo?ik. Yes, with heroick courage, for a while 
 He seem'd inspir'd ; but soon depress'd again. 
 Remorse and dark despair overwhelmed his soul : ^ 
 And, from the violent working of his mind, 
 Some stream of life within his breast has burst ; 
 For many a time, within a little space, 
 The ruddy tide has rush*d into his mouth. 
 God grant his pains be^ short ! 
 
 1st Monk. How does the lady ? 
 
 9,d Monk. She sits and bears his head upon her 
 lap. 
 Wiping the cold drops from his ghastly face 
 With such a look of tender wretchedness. 
 It wrings the heart to see her. 
 How goes the night ? 
 
 \st Monk. It wears, methinks, upon the mid- 
 night hour. 
 It is a dark and fearful night j the moon 
 Is wrapped in sable clouds j the chill blast sounds 
 Like dismal lamentations. Ay, who knows 
 What voices mix with the dark midnight winds ? 
 Nay, as I pass'd that yawning cavern's mouth, 
 A whisp'ring sound, unearthly, reach'd my ear. 
 And o'er my head a chilly coldness crept. 
 Are there not wicked fiends and damned sprites. 
 Whom yawning charnels, and th* unfathom'd 
 
 depths 
 Of secret darkness, at this fearful hour, 
 Do upwards send, to watch, unseen, around 
 
 VOL. I. D D 
 
40*2 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 The murd'rer's death-bed, at his fatal term, 
 Keady to hail with dire and horrid welcome, 
 Their future mate ? — I do believe there are. 
 ^d Monk. Peace, peace ! a God of wisdom 
 and of mercy, 
 Veils from our sight — Ha ! hear that heavy 
 groan. (^A groan heard within,') 
 
 1st Monk. It is the dying man. (^Another groan.^ 
 9.d Monk. God grant him rest ! 
 
 (^Listening at the door.) 
 I hear him struggling in the gripe of death. 
 
 piteous heaven ! (Goes from the door.) 
 
 Enter Brother Thomas^ow? the chamber. 
 How now, good Brother ? 
 
 Thorn. Retire, my friends. O many a bed of 
 death 
 With all its pangs and horrours I have seen, 
 But never aught like this ! Retire, my friends ; 
 The death-bell will its awful signal give. 
 When he has breath'd his last. 
 
 1 would move hence, but I am weak and faint : 
 Let me a moment on thy shoulder lean. 
 
 Oh, weak and mortal man ! 
 
 (^Leans on 9.d Monk : a pause.) 
 Enter Bernard^owz the chamber. 
 9.d Mo7ik. (/oBern.) How is your penitent ? 
 Bern. He is with Him who made him ; Him, 
 who knows 
 The soul of man : before whose awful presence 
 Th' unsceptred tyrant simple, helpless, stands 
 Like an unclothed babe. (Bell tolls.) 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 403 
 
 The dismal sound ! 
 Retire, and pray for the blood-stained soul : 
 Mayheav*n have mercy on him ! {Bell tolls again.) 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 A Hall or large Room in tlie Convent. The bodies 
 qfT)E MoNFORT ajicl Rezenvelt are discovered 
 laid out upon a low table or platforyn, covered 
 with black. Freberg, Bernard, Abbess, 
 Monks a7id Nuns attending. 
 
 Abb, (to Freb.) Here must they lie, my Lord, 
 until we know 
 Respecting this the order of the law. 
 
 Freb. And you have wisely done, my rev'rend 
 mother. 
 (Goes to the table, and looks at the bodies, but 
 without uncovering them.) 
 Unhappy men ! ye, both in nature rich. 
 With talents and with virtues were endued. 
 Ye should have lov'd, yet deadly rancour came. 
 And in the prime and manhood of your days 
 Ye sleep in horrid death. O direful hate ! 
 What shame and wretchedness his portion is. 
 Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee ! 
 And who shall call him blameless, who excites, 
 Ungen'rously excites, with careless scorn. 
 Such baleful passion in a brother's breast. 
 Whom heav'n commands to love ? Low are ye 
 laid : 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 DE MONFORT *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Still all contention now. — Low are ye laid : 
 I lov'd you both, and mourn your hapless fall. 
 
 Abb. They were your friends, my Lord ? 
 
 Freb. I lov'd them both. How does the Lady 
 Jane ? 
 
 Abb. She bears misfortune with intrepid soul. 
 J never saw in woman bow'd with grief. 
 Such moving dignity. 
 
 Freb. Ay, still the same. 
 
 I've known her ]ong : of worth most excellent j 
 But in the day of woe, she ever rose 
 Upon the mind with added majesty, 
 As the dark mountain more sublimely tow*rs 
 Mantled in clouds and storm. 
 
 Enter Manuel a7id Jerome. 
 Man. {point'mg.) Here, my good Jerome, 
 
 here's a piteous sight. 
 Jer. A piteous sight ! yet I will look upon him : 
 V\\ see his face in death. Alas, alas ! 
 Tve seen him move a noble gentleman! 
 And when with vexing passion undisturb'd. 
 He look*d most graciously. 
 
 (JLifts up in mistake the cloth from the body of 
 Rezenvelt, and starts back with horrour.) 
 Oh ! this was the bloody work ! Oh ! oh, oh, oh! 
 That human hands could do it ! 
 
 {Drops the cloth again.) 
 Man. That is the murder'd corpse ; here lies 
 De Monfort. 
 
 (Going to uncover the other body.') 
 
DE MONFOllT : A TRAGEDY. 405 
 
 Jer. {turning away Ms head.') No, no ! I 
 
 cannot look upon him now. 
 Man. Didst thou not come to see him ? 
 Jer. Fy ! cover him — inter him in the dark — 
 Let no one look upon him. 
 
 Bern. (To Jer.) Well dost thou shew the ab- 
 horrence nature feels 
 For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well. 
 In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes 
 For one, Avho, from the hand of fellow man, 
 Hath felt such cruelty. 
 
 (Uncovering the body o/'Rezenvelt.) 
 This is the murder'd corse : 
 
 (Uncovering the body o/^De Monfort.) 
 But see, I pray ! 
 Here lies the murderer. What think*st thou here? 
 Look on those features, thou hast seen them oft, 
 With the last dreadful conflict of despair. 
 So fix'd in horrid strength. 
 See those knit brows ; those hollow sunken eyes j 
 The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent ; 
 That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth appear. 
 In agony, to gnash the nether lip. 
 Think'st thou, less painful than the murderer's 
 
 knife 
 Was such a death as this ? 
 Ay, and how changed too those matted locks ! 
 
 Jer. Merciful heaven ! his hair is grisly grown, 
 Chang'd to white age, that was, but two days 
 
 since. 
 Black as the raven's plume. How may this be ? 
 
 D D 3 
 
406 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Bern. Such change, from violent conflict of 
 the mind, 
 
 Will sometimes come. 
 Jer. Alas, alas ! most wretched! 
 
 Thou wert too good to do a cruel deed, 
 
 And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast suffered for it. 
 
 God rest thy soul ! I needs must touch thy hand, 
 
 And bid thee long farewell. 
 
 {Laying his liand on De Monfort.) 
 Bern. Draw back, draw back : see where the 
 lady comes. 
 
 Enter Jane De Monfort. Freberg, Xi'ho has 
 been for some time retired by himself to the bottom 
 of the stage, now steps forward to lead her in, but 
 checks himself on seeing thefoced sorrow of her 
 countenance, and draws back respectfully. Jane 
 advances to the table, and looks attentively at the 
 covered bodies. Manuel points out the body of 
 De Monfort, and she gives a gentle incli?iation 
 of the head, to signify that she understands him. 
 She then bends tenderly over it, without speaking. 
 
 Man. (to Jane, as she raises her head.) Oh, 
 
 madam ! my good lord. 
 Jane. Well says thy love, my good and faith- 
 ful Manuel : 
 But we must mourn in silence. 
 
 Man. Alas! the times thatlhave followed him ! 
 Jane. Forbear, my faithful Manuel. For this 
 love 
 Thou hast my grateful thanks ; and here's my 
 hand : 
 
 14 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 407 
 
 Thou hast lov'd him, and I'll remember thee. 
 Where'er I am ; in what'er spot of earth 
 I linger out the remnant of my days, 
 I will remember thee. 
 
 Man. Nay, by the livingGod! where'er you are, 
 There will I be. I'll prove a trusty servant : 
 I'll follow you, even to the world's end. 
 My master's gone ; and I indeed am mean, 
 Yet will I shew the strength of nobler men. 
 Should any dare upon your lionour'd worth 
 To put the slightest wrong. Leave you, dear 
 
 lady ! 
 Kill me, but say not this ! 
 
 (Throxdng himself at herfeeW) 
 
 Jane, (raising him.') Well, then ! be thou my 
 servant, and my friend. 
 Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come ? 
 I see thou art. How goes it with thine age ? 
 
 Jer. Ah, Madam ! woe and weakness dwell 
 with age : 
 Would I could serve you with a young man's 
 
 strength ! 
 I'd spend my life for you. 
 
 Jane. Thanks, worthy Jerome. 
 
 O ! who hath said, the wretched have no friends ? 
 
 Freh. In every sensible and gen'rous breast 
 Affliction finds a friend ; but unto thee. 
 Thou most exalted and most honourable, 
 The heart in warmest adoration bows. 
 And even a worship pays. 
 
408 D£ MONFORT I A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jane, Nay, Freberg, Freberg ! grieve me not, 
 my friend. 
 
 He, to whose ear my praise most welcome was, 
 
 Hears it no more ; and, oh, our piteous lot 1 
 
 What tongue will talk of him ? Alas, alas ! 
 
 This more than all will bow me to the earth ; 
 
 I feel my misery here. 
 
 The voice of praise was wont to name us both : 
 
 I had no greater pride. 
 
 {Covers her face with her hands^ and hursts 
 into tears. Here they all hang about her : 
 Freberg supporting her tenderly, Manuel 
 embracing her knees ^ and o/^? Jerome catch- 
 ingholdofherrobe affectionately, Bernard, 
 Abbess, Monks, «;2c?Nuns, likewise, gather 
 round her, with looks of sympathy,') 
 
 Enter two Officers of law. 
 
 Ist Off, Where is the prisoner ? 
 
 Into our hands he straight must be consign'd. 
 
 Bern, He is not subject now to human laws ; 
 The prison that awaits him is the grave. 
 
 'ist Off, Ha ! say'st thou so ? there is foul play 
 in this. 
 
 Man, (Jo Off.) Hold thy unrighteous tongue, 
 or hie thee hence, 
 Nor, in the presence of this honoured dame. 
 Utter the slightest meaning of reproach. 
 
 ^stOff. 1 am an officer on duty cali'd. 
 And have authority to say, *' How died he ?" 
 
DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 409 
 
 (Here J Sine shakes off the wealmess of grief, and 
 repressing M.2i.nuQ\y who is about to reply to 
 the Officer, steps forward with dignity.) 
 Jane. Tell them by whose authority you come, 
 He died that death which best becomes a man 
 Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill 
 And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit : 
 A death that kills the noble and the brave. 
 And only them. He had no other wound. 
 1st Off: And shall I trust to this ? 
 Ja?ie. Do as thou wilt : 
 
 To one who can suspect my simple word 
 I Dave no more reply. Fulfil thine office. 
 
 IsoOff. No, Lady, 1 believe your honour'd word, 
 And vail no further search. 
 
 Jane. I thank your courtesy : thanks, thanks to 
 alJ ; 
 My rev'rei.id mother, and ye honour'd maids ; 
 Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends ; 
 The blessing of the afflicted rest with you! 
 And He, who I'^^o the wretched is most piteous, 
 Will recompense you. — Freberg, thou art good; 
 Remove the body of the friend you lov'd : 
 'Tis Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge : 
 'Tis meet, that with his noble ancestors 
 He lie entomb'd in hvOnourable state. 
 And now I have a sad request to make, 
 JSor will these holy sistt'rs scorn my boon j 
 That I, within these saci 'ed cloister walls, 
 May raise a humble, name.^ess tomb to him, 
 
410 DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Who, but for one dark passion, one dire deed, 
 Had claim'd a record of as noble worth. 
 As e'er enrichM the sculptur'd pedestal. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Note, — The last three lines of the last speech are not 
 intended to give tlie reader a true character of De Mon~ 
 fort^ whom I have endeavoured to represent throughout 
 the Play as, notwithstanding his other good qualities, 
 proud, suspicious, and susceptible of env}^, but only to 
 express the partial sentiments of an affectionate sister, 
 naturally more inclined to praise him from the misfor- 
 tune into which he had fallen. 
 
 (Cjt" The Tragedy ofT>^ Monfort has been Irojight oitt 
 at Drnry-Lane Theatre^ adajoted to the stage hy Mr. 
 Kemble. I avi infinitely obliged to that Gentleman for 
 the excellent powers he has exerted, assisted by the i?icom~ 
 parable talents of his sister, Mrs. Siddons, in e?ideavour~ 
 ing to obtain for it that publicJc favour, which I sincerely 
 wish it had been found more worthy of receiving. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Printed by A, ar,d R. Spottiswoode, 
 Printers-Slrect, London. 
 
SERIES OF PLAYS. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
Printed I)y A. and R. Spotliswoodc, 
 IVintcrs- Sti tct, London. 
 
SEIIIES OF PLAYS: 
 
 IT IS ATTEMl'TED TO DELINEATE 
 THE 
 
 STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND : 
 
 EACH PASSION 
 
 JiElNt; THE 
 
 SUBJECT OF A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY 
 
 BY 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 A NEW EDITIUX. 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 raiNTED Foil 
 LONGMAN, HURST, REES, OK.ME, AND BUOW'N, 
 
 PATEBNOSTER-nOW. 
 1821. 
 
31 
 
TO 
 
 MATTHEW BAILLIE, M.D. 
 
 AS AN 
 
 OFFERING OF GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION 
 
 FOR THE UNWEARIED ZEAL 
 
 AND BROTHERLY PARTIALITY 
 
 WHICH HAVE CHEERED AND SUPPORTED ME 
 
 IN THE COURSE OF THIS WORK, 
 
 I INSCRIBE THIS VOLUME. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 After a considerable interval of time from the 
 publishing of the first, I now offer to the Public 
 a second volume of the " Series of Plays ;" and, 
 with it, my very grateful thanks for that indul- 
 gence and cheering approbation which has en- 
 couraged me to proceed thus far in my work. I 
 have to thank it for that kind of reception which 
 is best calculated to make a work go on well — 
 praise mixed with a considerable portion of cen- 
 sure. I have to thank it, indeed, for that kind 
 of reception which 1 solicited ; conscious that it 
 was the best, in regard to my real interest, which 
 I could receive ; as well as the very best, in 
 regard to my merits, which I could possibly pre- 
 sume to expect. If with this great advantage, 
 beyond what I enjoyed when I wrote the first 
 part of this work, I have fallen short in the 
 second volume, of what might have been reason- 
 ably expected from me, I have only to say for 
 myself, that I have done my best, and that my 
 abilities are in fault, and not my industry. The 
 
 a 2 
 
VlU TO THE READER. 
 
 time, indeed, that has elapsed since the publica-' 
 tion of the first volume, will, I trust, be consi- 
 dered as a proof that the portion of public 
 approbation with which I have been favoured, 
 has not rendered me presumptuous. 
 
 I know there are causes why the second part 
 of a work should be more severely dealt with 
 than that which has preceded it: but after what 
 I have experienced, it would be ungrateful in 
 me not to suppose that the generality of readers 
 will take up this volume with a disposition to 
 be pleased : and that they will also, in favour of 
 one who has no great pretensions to learning or 
 improvements, be inclined to extend the term 
 of good-natured indulgence a little beyond its 
 ordinary limits. 
 
 The first play in this volume is a comedy on 
 Hatred, as a companion to the tragedy I have al- 
 ready published upon the same subject. Of this 
 I shall say little. I have endeavoured in it to 
 show this passion in a different situation, and fos- 
 tered by a different species of provocation, from 
 that which was exhibited in De Monfort, and 
 existing in a character of much less delicacy and 
 reserve. I am aware, that it falls greatly short 
 of that degree of comic effect which the subject 
 is calculated to produce, and which a writer of 
 truer comic talents would have given it. 
 
 The subject of the other three plays is Ambition. 
 
 It is with regret that I have extended the serious 
 
 part of it to an unusual length, but I foimd that 
 
 within a smaller compass 1 could not give such a 
 
 17 
 
TO THE READER. IX 
 
 view of the passion as I wished. Those passions 
 which are of a permanent nature are tiie proper 
 subjects of this work ; such 1 mean as are capa- 
 ble of taking up their abode in the mind, and 
 of gaining a strong ascendancy over it during a 
 term of some length ; I have, therefore, in all 
 these plays, given myself greater scope in point 
 of time than is usual with dramatic writers. But, 
 compared with ambition, perhaps all other pas- 
 sions may be considered as of a transient nature. 
 They are capable of being gratified ; and, when 
 they are gratified, they become extinct, or sub- 
 side, and shade themselves off' (if I may be al- 
 lowed the expression) into other passions and 
 affections. Ambition alone acquires strength 
 from gratification, and after having gained one 
 object, still sees another rise before it, to which 
 it as eagerly pushes on ; and the dominion which 
 it usurps over the mind is capable of enduring 
 from youth to extreme age. To give a full view, 
 therefore, of this passion, it was necessary to 
 show the subject of it in many different situations, 
 and passing through a considerable course of 
 events ; had I attempted to do this within the 
 ordinary limits of one play, that play must have 
 been so entirely devoted to this single object, as 
 to have been left bare of every other interest or 
 attraction. These are my reasons for making so 
 large a demand on the patience of my reader in 
 favour of this passion ; and if I am pardoned in 
 this instance, there is little danger of my offend- 
 ing again in the same manner. 
 
X TO THE READER. 
 
 I am perfectly sensible, that from the length of 
 these tragedies, and, perhaps, some other defects, 
 they are not altogether adapted to the stage ; but 
 I would fain flatter myself, that either of the 
 parts of Ethwald might, with very little trouble, 
 be turned into an acting play, that would neither 
 fatigue nor offend. I should, indeed, very much 
 regret any essential defect in this work, that might 
 render it unfit for being more generally useful 
 and amusing. 
 
 The scene of these plays is laid in Britain, in 
 the kingdom of Mercia, and the time towards the 
 end of the Heptarchy. This was a period full of 
 internal discord, usurpation, and change; the his- 
 tory of which is too perplexed, and too little con- 
 nected with any very important or striking event 
 in the affairs of men, to be familiarly known, not 
 merely to common readers, but even to the more 
 learned in history. I have, therefore, thought, that 
 I might here, without offence, fix my story; here 
 give it a " habitation and a name," and model it 
 to my own fancy, as might best suit my design. — • 
 In so doing, I run no risk of disturbing or derang- 
 ing the recollection of any important truth, or of 
 any thing that deserves to be remembered. How- 
 ever, though I have not adhered to history, the[in- 
 cidents and events of the plays will be found, I 
 hope, consistent with the character of the times; 
 with which I have also endeavoured to make the 
 representation I have given of manners, opinions, 
 and persons, uniformly correspond. I have, in- 
 deed, given a very dark picture of the religion and 
 
TO THE READER. XI 
 
 the clergy of those days ; but it is a true one : 
 and I believe it will be perceived throughout the 
 whole, that it is drawn by one, who would have 
 touched it with a lighter hand, had the spirit and 
 the precepts of Christianity, and above all, the 
 superlatively beautiful character of its divine 
 Founder, been more indifferent to her. 
 
 To give a view of Ambition, as it is generally 
 found in the ordinary intercourse of life, excited 
 by vanity rather than the love of power, and 
 displayed in a character which is not, like that 
 ofEthwald, supported by the consciousness of 
 abilities adequate to its designs, has been my 
 object in the comedy that accompanies the fore- 
 going tragedies. As a long period of time, and 
 a long chain of events, did not appear necessary 
 to this purpose, I have confined myself to the 
 usual limits of a dramatic work. There is no- 
 thing, I believe, either in the story or the cha- 
 racters of the piece, that call upon me to say 
 any thing in regard to them. Such as it is, I 
 leave it, with its companions, in the hands of my 
 reader, with some degree of confidence strug- 
 gling against many fears : and I am willing to 
 hope, that, if in the course of this volume I have 
 given, in general, a true representation of human 
 nature, under such circumstances as interest our 
 hearts and excite our curiosity, many sins will 
 be forgiven me j especially as, I trust, they are 
 not sins of carelessness or presumption. 
 
THE ELECriON 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 Baltimore, a country gentleman, and the head of 
 
 an old family falleri into decay. 
 Freeman, a great clothier , who has acquired by 
 
 his own industry a very large fortune. 
 Truebridge, the friend of Baltimore. 
 Charles, an idle young man, cousin to Baltimore, 
 
 and brought up in his house. 
 Jenkinson, \t^^^ Attorneys. 
 
 ^>ERVET, 3 "^ 
 
 Bescatti, an Italian master. 
 
 AVID, f ^Q^^fi^fg fQ Baltimore. 
 Feter, > 
 
 Voters, Mob, Boys, Jailers, 8^c. 8^c. 
 
 WOMEN: 
 
 Mrs. Baltimore. 
 Mrs. Freeman. 
 
 Charlotte, daughter to Freeman. 
 Governess. 
 
 Margery, an old servant of the Baltimore j^»2%. 
 Servants, Voters' Wives, Mob, S^c. 
 
THE ELECTION. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. The open market-place of a smallcountry 
 toxmiy acro'ivdofmen, women, and children, seen 
 on the hack ground ; Margery «?/G?Coiintryman, 
 surrounded with several otJiers, are discovered 
 talking on the front of the stage, 
 
 Margery. 
 
 r ATRON ! pot-man an' you will. As long as he 
 holds the brown jug to their heads, they'll run 
 after hhn an' he were the devil. Oh ! that I should 
 live to see the heir of the ancient family of Baltimore 
 set aside in his own borough by a nasty, paltry, 
 nobody-knows-who of an upstart ! What right has 
 he, forsooth ! to set himself up for to oppose a 
 noble gentleman ? I remember his own aunt very 
 well; a poor industrious pains-taking woman, 
 with scarcely a pair of shoes to her feet. 
 
 Countryman. Well, well, and what does that 
 signify, Goody? He has covered more bare feet 
 with new shoes since he came among us, than all 
 the noble families in the country, let his aunt wear 
 
 B 2 
 
* THE ELECXrON : 
 
 what shoes she would: ay and his bounty has. 
 filled more empty bellies too, though his granum 
 might dine on a turnip, for aught 1 know or care 
 about the matter. 
 
 Mar. Don't tell me about his riches, and his 
 bounty, and what not : will all that ever make him 
 any thing else than the son of John Freeman the 
 weaver? I wonder to hear you talk such non- 
 sense, Arthur Wilkins; you that can read books 
 and understand reason : such a fellow as that 
 is not good enough to stand cap in hand before 
 Mr. Baltimore. 
 
 (^The rabble come forward, huzzaing , and 
 making a great noise, and take different 
 sides of the stage.) 
 Croud on F. side. Huzza ! Huzza ! Freeman 
 for ever ! 
 
 Mar. Yes, yes, to be sure : Freeman for ever : 
 fat Sam the butcher forever ! black Dick the tinker 
 for ever ! any body is good enough for you, filthy 
 rapscallions ! 
 
 1st Mob on F. side. Ay, scold away, old Mar- 
 gery ! Freeman for ever ! say I. Down with your 
 proud, pennyless gentry ! Freeman for ever ! 
 
 Mar. Down with your rich would-be-gentry 
 upstarts ! Baltimore for ever ! (to mob on her side) 
 Why don't you call out, oafs ? 
 
 (The mob on her side c«// oz^^ Baltimore, and 
 the mob on the other, Freeman ; but the F. 
 side gets the better.) 
 Wliat, do you give it up so ? you poor, spiritless 
 16 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 nincuinpoops! I would roar fill I biirsted first, be- 
 fore I would give it up so to such a low-liv'd, beg- 
 garly rabble. 
 
 ^2d Mob on F. side. They lack beef and porter, 
 Margery. That makes fellows loud and hearty, 1 
 trow. Coats of arms and old pictures wont fill a 
 body's stomach. Come over to Freeman-hall, and 
 we'll shew you good cheer, woman. Freeman for 
 ever ! 
 
 Mar. Ha' done with your bawling, blackimoor ! 
 what care I for your good cheer ? none of your 
 porter nor your beef for me, truly ! 
 
 2d Mob on F, side. No, Goody ! mayhap, as 
 you have been amongst the gentry all your life, 
 you may prefer a cup of nice sage tea, or a little 
 nice rue-water, or a leg of a roasted snipe, or a bit 
 of a nice tripe dumplin. 
 
 Mar. Close your fool's mouth, oaf! or I'll cram 
 a dumplin into it that you won't like the chewing 
 of. Mr. Baltimore's father kept a table like a 
 prince, whenyour poor beggarly candidate's father 
 had scarcely a potatoe in his pot. But knaves like 
 you were not admitted within his gates to see it, 
 indeed. Better men than you, or your master 
 either, were not good enough to take away his 
 dirty trenchers ; and the meanest creature about 
 his house was as well dress' d, and in as good order, 
 as if it had been the king's court, and every day 
 in the year had been a Sunday. 
 
 9.d Mob on F. side. So they were, Goody j I 
 B 3 
 
6 THE election: 
 
 remember it very well ; the very sucking pigs ran 
 about his yard with full bottomed wigs on, and the 
 grey goose waddled through the dirt with a fine 
 flounced petticoat. 
 
 Mar. Hold your fool's tongue, do! no upstart 
 parliament-men for me i Baltimore for ever ! 
 Croud on B, side call out, Baltimore for ever! 
 1st Mob on B. side. Sour paste and tangled 
 bobbins for weavers ! 
 
 \st Mob on F. side. Empty purses and tatter'd 
 lace for gentlemen ! 
 
 Old woman on B side. We'll have no strange 
 new-comers for our member: Baltimore for me! 
 Old woman onF. side. Good broth is better 
 than good blood, say 1 : Freeman for me ! 
 Little Boy on B. side. Weaver, weaver, flap, flap ! 
 Grin o'er your shuttle, and rap, rap ! 
 
 (^Acting the motion of a weaver.) 
 Little Boy on F. side. Gentleman, gentleman, 
 
 proud of a word ! 
 Stand on your tip-toes, and bow to my lord ! 
 
 (^Acting a gentleman.) 
 
 Mar, Go, you little devil's imp ! who teaches 
 
 you to blaspheme your betters? {She gives the boy 
 
 a box on the ear : the mob on the other side 
 
 take his part : a great uproar and con/usiony 
 
 and exeunt both sides Jlghting.) 
 
A COMEDY. 7 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A walk leading through a grove to Baltimore's 
 
 house, and close by it. Enter Mrs. Baltimore, 
 
 as if just alighted from her carriage, Jollo'wed hi) 
 
 her Maid and Peter, carrying a box and port- 
 
 JbliOy and other things, 
 
 Mrs, Bait. But what does all this distant noise 
 and huzzaing mean? the whole town is in com- 
 motion. 
 
 Pet. It is nothing, as I know of. Ma* am, but my 
 Master and Mr. Freeman's voters fighting with 
 one another at the alehouse doors, to shew their 
 goodwill to the candidates, as all true hearty 
 fellows do at an election. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, our member is dead suddenly ; I 
 had forgot. But who are the candidates ? 
 Pet. My master, Madam, and Mr. Freeman. 
 Mrs. B. Gentlemen supported by them, you 
 mean? 
 
 Pet. No Ma'am, I mean their own two selves, 
 for their own two selves. But I beg pardon for 
 naming such a man as Freeman on the same day 
 with a gentleman like my Master. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Freeman, if you please, Peter ; and 
 never let me hear you name him with disrespect in 
 my presence. Carry those things into the house : 
 {to the maid) and you too. Blond ; I see Mr. Bal- 
 timore. '(Exeunt Servants. 
 Enter Baltimore. 
 Bait. My dear Isabella, you are welcome home : 
 how are you after your journey? 
 
 B 4 
 
8 tHE ELECTION *. 
 
 Mrs. B. Perfectly well ; and very glad, even aftet' 
 so short an absence, to find myself at home again. 
 But what is going on here? 1 have heard strange 
 news just now: Peter tells me you are a candidate 
 for the Borough, and Mr. Freeman is your rival. 
 It is some blunder of his own, I suppose? 
 
 Bait. No, it is not. 
 
 Mrs. B. {stepping hack in surprise, and holding 
 up her hands.") And are you actually throwing 
 away the last stake of your ruin'd fortune on a 
 contested election. 
 
 Bait. I will sell every acre of land in my pos- 
 session, rather than see that man sit in parliament 
 for the borough of Westown. 
 
 Mrs. B. And why should not he as well as 
 another ? The declining fortunes of your family 
 have long made you give up every idea of the kind 
 for yourself: of what consequence, then, can it 
 possibly be to you? I know very well, my dear 
 Baltimore, it is not a pleasant thing for the repre- 
 sentative of an old family declined in fortune, to 
 see a rich obscure stranger buy up all the land on 
 every side, and set himself down like a petty prince 
 in his neighbourhood. But if he had not done it, 
 some other most likely would; and what should 
 we have gained by the change ? 
 
 Bait. Ol any other than himself I could have 
 suffered. 
 
 Mrs. B. You amaze me. He has some disa- 
 greeable follies, I confess ; but he is friendly and 
 liberal. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 Bait. Yes, yes, he affects patronage and public 
 spirit : he is ostentatious to an absurdity. 
 
 Mrs.B. Well then, don't disturb yourself about 
 it. If he is so, people will only laugh at him. 
 
 Bait. O ! hang them, but they wont laugh ! I 
 have seen the day, when, if a man made himself 
 ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But 
 now, by heaven, every thing that is mean, dis- 
 gusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much 
 the better ! l^ they would but laugh at him, I 
 should be content. 
 
 Mrs, B. My dear Baltimore ! curb this strange 
 fancy that has taken such a strong hold of your 
 mind, and be reasonable. 
 
 Bait. I can be reasonable enough. I can see 
 as well as you do that it is nonsense to disturb 
 myself about this man ; and when he is absent I 
 can resolve to endure him : but whenever I see 
 him again, there is something in his full satisfied 
 face ; in the tones of his voice ; ay, in the very 
 gait and shape of his legs, that is insufferable 
 to me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Bait. What makes you laugh, Madam ? 
 
 Mrs.'B. Indeed I have more cause to cry ! 
 yet I could not help laughing when you talked of 
 his gait and his legs : for people, you must 
 know, have taken it into their heads that there 
 is a resemblance between you and him ! I have, 
 myself, in twilight, sometimes mistaken the one 
 for the other. 
 
10 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Bait. It must have been in midnight, I think. 
 People have taken it into their heads ! Wind 
 idiots ! I could kick my own shins if I thought 
 they had the smallest resemblance to his. 
 Mrs, B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 Bait. And this is matter of amusement for you. 
 Ma'am ? I abhor laughing. 
 
 Mrs.B. Pray, pray, forgive me ! This is both 
 ludicrous and distressing. I knew that you dis- 
 liked this man from the first day he settled in 
 your neighbourhood, and that, during two years' 
 acquaintance, your aversion has been daily en- 
 creasing ; but I had no idea of the extravagant 
 height to which it has now arrived. 
 
 Bait. Would I had sold every foot of my lands, 
 and settled in the lone wilds of America, ere this 
 man came, to be the swoln possessor of my fore- 
 fathers* lands ; their last remaining son, now 
 cramp'd and elbow'd round, in one small corner 
 of their once wide and extensive domains ! Oh ! 
 I shall never forget what I felt, when, with that 
 familiar and disgusting affability, he first held 
 out to me his damned palm, and hail'd me as a 
 neighbour, (striding up and donrni the stage.) Ay, 
 by my soul, he pretends to be affable ! 
 
 Mrs. B. You feel those things too keenly. 
 Bait. A stock or a stone would feel it. He has 
 opposed me in every contest, from the election of 
 a member of parliament down to the chusing of 
 a parish clerk ; and yet, damn him ! he will never 
 give me a fair occasion of quarrelling with him, for 
 
A COMEDY. 11 
 
 then I should be happier, {striding up and doivn 
 again.) Hang it : it was not worth a pinch of snuft' 
 to me, whether the high road went on one side 
 of my field or the other ; but only that I saw 
 he was resolved to oppose me in it, and I would 
 have died rather than have yielded to him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Are you sure, Baltimore, that your 
 own behaviour has not provoked him to that 
 opposition ? 
 
 Bait, (^striding tip and down as he speaks.) He 
 has extended his insolent liberalities over the 
 whole country round. The very bantlings lisp 
 his name as they sit on their little stools in the 
 sun. 
 
 Mrs. B. My dear friend ! 
 
 Bait. He has built two new towers to his 
 house ; and it rears up its castled head amongst 
 the woods, as if its master were the lord and 
 chieftain of the whole surrounding country. 
 
 Mrs. B. And has this power to offend you ? 
 
 Bait. No, no, let him pile up his house to the 
 clouds, if he will ! I can bear all this patiently : 
 it is his indelicate and nauseous civility that drives 
 me mad. He goggles and he smiles : he ckaws 
 back his full watery lip like a toad, (making a 
 mouth of disgust.) Then he spreads out his nail- 
 bitten fingers as he speaks — hah ! 
 
 Mrs. B. And what great harm does all this 
 do you ? 
 
 Bait. What harm ! it makes my very flesh creep 
 like the wrigglings of a horse-leech or a maggot. 
 It is an abomination beyond all endurance ! 
 
12 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Mrs. B. The strange fancies you take in 
 regard to every thing this poor man does, are to 
 me astonishing. 
 
 Bait. (^Stopping short, and looking Jixedly on 
 her.') Are to you astonishing ! I doubt it not : 
 I was a fool to expect that a wife so many years 
 younger than myself would have any sympathy 
 with my feelings. 
 
 Mrs. B. Baltimore! you wrong me, unkindly. 
 — But his daughter comes : she will overhear us. 
 
 Bait. What brings that affectedfool here? She is 
 always coming here. It is an excrescence from the 
 toad's back : the sight of her is an offence to me. 
 (Filter Charlotte, with an affected air of 
 great delicacy.) 
 
 Char. How do you do, my dear Mrs. Balti- 
 more ? I am quite charm'd to see you. (curtseys 
 affectedly to Bait.) 
 
 Mrs. B. I thank you, my dear ; you are early 
 abroad this morning. 
 
 Char. Oh ! I am almost kilPd with fatigue ; but 
 I saw your carriage at the gate, and I could not 
 deny myself the pleasure of enquiring how you 
 do. The heat overcomes one so much in this 
 weather : it is enough to make one faint : it is 
 really horrid, (speaking in a faint, soft voice, and 
 /aiming herself affectedly.) 
 
 Mrs. B. It does not affect me. 
 
 Char. No ! O you are not so robust, I am sure, 
 (Enter a little country girl, trailing a great 
 piece of muslin after her.) 
 
A COMEDY. 13 
 
 Girl io Char. Here, Miss ; here is a piece of 
 your petticoat that you left on the bushes, as you 
 scrambled over the hedge to look at the bird*s 
 nest yonder. 
 
 Char, {in conJusio7i.) O la! the briars will catch 
 liold of one so, as one goes along. Give it me, give 
 it me Qakes the muslin^ and crams it hastily into 
 her jJockef). This weather makes one go by the 
 side of ditches, and amongst bushes, and any 
 where for a little shade. 
 
 Bait. Tadpoles love ditches in all weathers. 
 
 (Exit. 
 Char, (looking after him strangely for a moment 
 or two, and then skipping lightly nj) to Mrs. B. and 
 takijig her kindly hy the hand.) Thank heaven 
 he*s gone ! I stand more in awe of him, than my 
 mother and my governess, and all the whole pack 
 of masters that ever came about the house. If 
 there was not a certain look about him now and 
 then, that puts me in mind of my father, I should 
 take a downright aversion to him. O ! I beg 
 pardon ! I mean I should not like him very well, 
 even tho* he is your husband. But was it not 
 provoking in that little chit to follow me witli 
 those rags in her hand ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I suppose we shall have a glove or a 
 garter coming after you bye-and-bye. 
 
 Char. O they may bring what they please now f 
 — Well, How d*ye do? how d*ye do? how d*ye 
 do? (taking Mrs. B. by the hand, and skipping 
 round her joyfully.) 
 
14 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Mrs. B. Very well, my good little Charlotte. 
 
 Char. I am delighted to see you return'd. Ah, 
 don't you remember how good you were to me, 
 when I was a little urchin at Mrs. Highman's 
 school ? and how I used to stand by your side 
 when you dress'd, and count over the pins in 
 your pincushion ? 
 
 Mrs. B. I remember it very well. 
 
 Char. But how comes it that we meet so seldom? 
 you never come to see us now, and I dare not come 
 to you so often as I wish, for Mr. Baltimore looks 
 at me so sternly. Let papa and him contend with 
 one another as they please ; what have w^e to do 
 with their plaguy election? O if we were but toge- 
 ther ! we could work and talk to one another all 
 day long, and it would be so pleasant ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed, my dear Charlotte, I wish I 
 could have you frequently with me ; but I hope 
 you have many pleasant employments at home. 
 
 Char. Ah, but I have not tho*. I am tired to 
 death of music, and drawing, and Italian, and Ger- 
 man, andgeography, and astronomy, and washes to 
 make my hands white, (^shaking her headpiteously.') 
 But what does it signify fretting? I know I must 
 be an accomplished woman ; I know it very well. 
 
 Mrs. B. {smiling. ) Don't you like to be occupied ? 
 
 Char. Oyes: it is not that I am a lazy girl. If 
 they would plague me no more with my masters, 
 but give me some plain pocket-handkerchiefs to 
 hem, I would sit upon the footstool all day, and 
 sing like a linnet. 
 
A COMEDY. 15 
 
 Mrs, B. My dear girl, and so there must be 
 things in tliismix'd world to keep even tliy careless 
 breast from being as blithe as a linnet. But you 
 were going home : I'll walk a little way with you. 
 
 Chai\ I thank you (looking off the stage). Is not 
 that Charles at a distance? I dare say, now, he has 
 been a fishing, or looking after coveys of partridges, 
 or loit'ring about the horse dealers. I hope he did 
 not see me get over the hedge tho*. 
 
 Mrs. B. Alas, poor Charles ! I wish he had 
 more useful occupations. It is a sad thing for a 
 young man to be hanging about idle. 
 
 Cliar. So my papa says : and, do you know, I 
 beheve he had it in his head to get some appoint- 
 ment for him when this election came in the way. 
 Shall I put him in mind of it ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, no, my dear Charlotte, that must 
 not be. Shall we walk ? 
 
 Char, (^scampering off.) Stop a little, pray. (Exit. 
 
 Mrs. B. Where is she gone to now ? 
 
 Char, (returning "with something in her lap.) 
 Only to fetch my two black kittens. I bought 
 them from a boy, as I went along, to save them 
 from drowning. I could not curtsey to Mr. Bal- 
 timore, you know, with kittens in my lap, so I 
 dropp'd them slyly under the hedge as I enter'd; 
 for this fellow with the white spot on his nose 
 makes a noise like a little 'devil. (They go arm in 
 arm to the side of the stage to go out, 'when 
 Mrs. B. looking behind her stops short.) 
 Mrs. B. No, I must not walk farther with you 
 
16 THE ELECTION : 
 
 just now : I see Mr. Truebridge coming this wajj, 
 and .1 wish to speak to him. Good morning, my 
 dear Charlotte. (Exit Charlotte^ 
 
 Enter Truebridge. 
 You are hurrying away very fast ; I did not know 
 you were here. 
 
 True. I have been in the Ubrary writing a letter, 
 which I ought to have done before I left my own 
 house. I am going from home for a few days, and 
 I came to see Baltimore before I set out. 
 
 Mrs. B. You are always going from home- I 
 am very sorry you are going at this time, when 
 your presence here might have been so useful. 
 You might have persuaded Baltimore, perhaps, 
 to give up this foolish contest with so rich a com- 
 petitor as Freeman. 
 
 True. No, it is better, perhaps, to let them fight 
 it out. We should only have separated them, like 
 two game-cocks, who are sure to be at it again, 
 beak and spurs, with more fury than ever. 
 Re-enter Baltimore. 
 
 Bait to True. You have forgot your letter. A 
 pleasant journey to you ! (gives him a letter.) 
 
 True. Farewell for a few days ! I hope to learn, 
 on my return, that you have carried on this contest 
 with temper and liberality, since you will engage 
 in it. 
 
 Bait. Why, you know, Truebridge, I am com- 
 peird to engage in it. 
 
 True. O certainly, and by very weighty reasons 
 too ! A man may injure in ahundred different ways 
 and provoke no hostile return j but when added to 
 
A COMEDY. 17 
 
 some petty offences, he varies his voice and gesture, 
 wears his coat and doublet, nay, picks his very 
 teeth in a manner that is irksome to us, what mor- 
 tal is there, pagan or believer, that can refrain 
 from setting himself in array against him ? 
 
 Bait. Well, well ! give yourself no trouble. I'll 
 keep my temper; I'll do everything calmly and 
 reasonably. 
 
 True. Do so; 1 sha*n*t return, probably, till the 
 poll is closed. I have told you my reasons for tak- 
 ing no part in the business; and let the new mem- 
 ber be who he will, I'm resolved to shake hands 
 cordially with him. It won't do for one who has 
 honours and pensions in view, to quarrel with great 
 men. Good bye to you ! — Madam, all success 
 to your wishes. [Exit. 
 
 Bait. Ask favours of such a creature as Free- 
 man ! He speaks it but in jest. Yet if I did not 
 know him to be one of the most independent men 
 in the world, I should be tempted to believe that 
 he too had become sophisticated. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, do not torment yourself with sus- 
 picions! I am afraid it is a disposition that has 
 been growing upon you of late. 
 
 Bait. No, madam; it is upon you this disposi- 
 tion has been growing. AVhenever I am in the 
 com.panyof that — I will not name him — I have of 
 late observed that your eyes are bent upon me 
 perpetually. I hate to be look'd at when I am in 
 that man's company. [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 VOL. II. C 
 
IS THE ELECTION : 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. A room in Freeman's house ; a table 
 with drawings y ^c. scattered upon it, in one cor- 
 ner, and a writing-table near thejrontof the stage. 
 Mrs. Free:man is discovered writing. Enter 
 Charlotte a7id her Governess. 
 
 Mrs. Freeman, f raising her head.) 
 
 Come here, Miss Freeman : that gown sits 
 with no grace in the world (^turning Char, round.) 
 No, it is not at all what I intended : I shall have 
 it taken to pieces again. {To the Gov.") Was she 
 in the stocks this morning ? 
 Gov. Yes, Madam. 
 
 Mrs. F. From her manner of holding her head 
 one would scarcely believe it. Go to your draw- 
 ing, and finish it if you can before Mr. Bescatti 
 comes. (Charlotte sits down unwillingly to the draw- 
 ing table ; the Governess takes her work and sits by 
 her ; «wd/ikfr5. Freeman sits down againto write.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Bescatti. 
 Mrs. F. O Bescatti ! you are just the very per- 
 son I want. I have put a quotation from one of 
 your Italian poets, expressive of the charms of 
 friendship, into the letter I am writing to my dear, 
 amiable Mrs. Syllabub; and as I know she shew& 
 all the letters she receives from her friends, I would 
 
A COMEDY. 19 
 
 not have a fault in it for the world. Look at it, 
 pray ! Will it do ? (giving him the letter with an 
 air of self-satisfaction. ] 
 
 Bes. (shaking his head.) No, Madam; I must 
 be free to say, dat it won't do: de two first ords 
 are wrong, and de two last ords are not right. 
 
 Mrs. F. (colouring and bridling np.) Why there 
 are but four words of it altogether, Mr. Bescatti. 
 
 Bes. Yes, Madam ; der yori be very right ; der 
 you be under no mistake at all; der be just four 
 ords in it, neider more nor less. 
 
 Mrs. F. Well, well, pray correct it for me ! I 
 suppose I was thinking of something else when I 
 wrote it. 
 
 Bes. (after correcting the letter.") It is done, Ma- 
 dam. I hope de young lady will soon finish her 
 drawing, dat I may have de honour to propose my 
 little instruction. 
 
 Char, (rising from the table.) I can finish it to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Mrs. F. Shew Mr. Bescatti your two last draw- 
 ings (Char, shews him her drawings.) Every one 
 from your country is fond of this delightful art. 
 How do you like this piece? 
 
 Bes. It be very agreeable. 
 
 Gov. (looking over his shoulder.) O beautiful, 
 charming ! de most pretty of de world ! 
 
 Mrs. F. There is such a fine glow in the colour- 
 ing! so much spirit in the whole. 
 
 Bes. (tardily.) Yes. 
 
 c P2. 
 
so THE ELECTION : 
 
 Mrs. F. And so much boldness in the design. 
 
 Bes. {tardily.) Yes. 
 
 Mrs. F. And the cattle in that landscape are so 
 spirited and so correct. 
 
 Bes. O dey be de very pretty sheep, indeed. 
 
 Mrs, F. Why, those are cows, Mr. Bescatti — 
 those are cows. 
 
 Bes. O, Madam, I make no doubt dat in reality 
 dey are the cows, alto in appearance dey are de 
 sheep. 
 
 Mrs. F. {shewing him another piece.) He will 
 understand this better. The subject is so prettily 
 imagined! a boy with an apple in his hand: such 
 pleasing simplicity ! look atthose lights and shades: 
 her master himself says it is touched with the hand * 
 of an artist. 
 
 Bes. Yes, he be avery pretty fellow — and avery 
 happy one too : he has got one apple in his hand, 
 and anoder in his mout. 
 
 Mrs. F. Another in his mouth ! why that is the 
 round swelling of his cheek, Mr. Bescatti. But 
 look at his head {impatiently as he looks at thewrong 
 one.) No, no, this one. 
 
 Bes. O dat one — dat has one side of the face 
 white and t'oder black! 
 
 Gov. O beautiful, excellent! — all dat der is of 
 pretty — all dat der is of — of de most pretty! 
 
 Mrs. F. There is so much effect in it; so much 
 force and distinctness. 
 
 Bes. Yes, der be good contrast; nobody will 
 mistake de one side of de face for de oder. 
 
A COMEDY. 21 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Se7\ Every thing in the next room is set out, 
 Ma*am — Have you any orders? 
 
 Mrs. F. Don't trouble me about it : I'll look 
 at it by and by, if I have nothing better to do. 
 {Ej:it SerS) — Miss Freeman, there is no time to 
 lose ; Bescatti and you must be busy, for I expect 
 Mr. Tweedle this morning with a new song in his 
 pocket. 
 
 Enter a Servant hastily. 
 
 Ser. All the voters are come. Ma'am, and my 
 master says we must open the great room imme- 
 diately. (Opens folding-doors at the bottom of the 
 
 stagey and discovers a large room with alo?ig table 
 
 set out, plentifully coveredmth cold meats, S^c. <§r. 
 
 Mrs. F. What could possess the creatures to 
 come so early? If I am to have the whole morning 
 of it, I shall be dead before it is over. Heigh ho ! 
 here they are. 
 
 {Enter a great number of voters with their wives 
 and daughters, and Freeman shewing them in 
 himself.^ 
 
 Free, (with a very affable smiling countenance.) 
 Come in, ladies and gentlemen ; come in, my very 
 good neighbours; my wife will be proud to see you. 
 (presents them to Mrs. Freeman, who receives them 
 withaffected condescension ; whilst Charlotte draws 
 herself up by her mother* s side, and curtseys to them 
 in the same qffectedmanner.) — This is my very good 
 friend Mr. Ginger, my dear ; and this is worthy 
 Mr. Fudge. — But where is your wife, Mr. Fudge? 
 
 c 3 
 
S2 THE ELECTION : 
 
 we are near neighbours, you know, and I see no 
 reason why your good woman and mine should not 
 be better acquainted. 
 
 Mr. Fudge. She is standing close by you, Sir. 
 
 Free. O, I beg pardon, my dear Madam! I did 
 not know you. (/o Mrs. Fudge.) — My dear, this 
 is Mrs. Fudge, (^presenting her to Mrs. F.) — But 
 my good Mr. Hassock, why have not you brought 
 your pretty daughter with you? 
 
 Mr. Hassock. So 1 have, your honour ; this be 
 she. (^pointing to his daughter.') 
 
 Free. She must give me her hand: 1 have a girl 
 of my own too, you see; but she does not hold up 
 her head so well as this young lady. 
 
 (Mor'e jyeople still coming i?i.) 
 Ha! welcome, my good friends ! welcome, my good 
 neighbour Huskins, and you too, my good Mrs. 
 
 Huskins ! Ha, Mr. Grub ! you do me honour. 
 
 How do the soap-works go on? you will soon be 
 the richest man in the country, though you do 
 spare me a morning now and then. 
 
 Mr. Grub. {co7iceitedly .) Aye, picking up a little 
 in my poor way, just to keep the pot boiling. 
 (Going up to Mr^. Freeman, andmping hisjace.) 
 Madam, I make bold, as the fashion goes on them 
 there occasions. (Gives her a salute mth a good 
 
 loud smack, whilst she shrinks back disconce7^ted, 
 
 and Bescatti and the Governess shrug up their 
 
 shoidders, and Charlotte skulks behind their 
 
 backs frightened.) 
 
 Mr. Fudge, (spitting out his chew of tobacco and 
 
A COMEDY. 23 
 
 wiping his mouth.) As the fashion goes round, Ma- 
 dam — 
 
 Free, (^preventing himas he is going up to Mrs. F. ) 
 No, no, my good neighbours : this is too much ce- 
 remony amongst friends. Let us go into the next 
 room, and see if there is any thing to eat: I dare 
 say there is some cold meat and cucumber for us. 
 Let me have the honour, Mrs. Fudge. {They all 
 go into the next room and seat themselvesround 
 the table. Re-enter Freeman in a great hustle.) 
 More chairs and more covers, here ! Thomas ! 
 Barnaby ! Jenkins! {the servants run up and down 
 carrying things across the stage. Enter more people. ) 
 Ha! welcome — welcome, my good friends! we 
 were just looking for you. Go into the next room, 
 and try if you can find any thing you like. 
 
 Voter. O, Sir, never fear but we shall find plenty 
 of good victuals. [Exeunt into the next room. 
 Manet Charlotte, who comes forward. 
 Char. Lia,, how I should like to be a queen, and 
 stand in my robes, and have all the people intro- 
 duced to me ! for then they would kiss no more 
 than my hand, which I should hold out so. No, 
 no ; it should be so. {stretching out her hand whilst 
 Charles Baltimore, enteying behitid and over- 
 Jiearing her, takes and kisses it with a ludicrous 
 bending of the knee.) 
 Cliarles. And which should be kissed so? 
 Char, {affectedly.) You are always so silly, Mr. 
 Charles Baltimore. 
 
 Charles. Areyou holding court here for all those 
 good folks? 1 thought there was no harm in look- 
 
 c 4 
 
24 THE ELECTION I 
 
 ing in upon you, though I do belong to the other 
 side. (peepi7ig. )Fsiit\ithey are busy enough ! mercy 
 on us, what a clattering of trenchers! How do you 
 like them? 
 
 CJmr. Oh! they are such savages ; I'm sure if I 
 had not put lavender on my pocket handkerchief, 
 like Mama, I should have fainted away. 
 
 Charles. How can you talk of fainting with 
 cheeks like two cabbage roses? 
 
 Cha)\ Cabbage roses ! 
 
 Charles. No, no — pest take it ! — I mean the 
 pretty, delicate damask rose. 
 
 Char. La, now you are flattering me ! 
 
 Charles. I am not indeed, Charlotte ! you have 
 the prettiest — (peeping at the other room and stop- 
 ping short.) 
 
 Char, {eagerly.) I have the prettiest what? 
 
 Charles, Is that a venison pasty they have got 
 yonder ! 
 
 Char. Poo, never mind! — I have the prettiest 
 what? 
 
 Charles. Yes, I mean the mostbeautiful(jpe^j9/w^ 
 again.) By my faith and so it is a venison pasty, 
 and a monstrous good smell it has ! 
 
 [Exit hastily into the eating-room. 
 
 Char. (Joohng after him.) What a nasty crea- 
 ture he is ! he has no more sense than one of our 
 pointers; he's always running after a good smell. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
A COMEDY. 25 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An open lane near a co^mtry toxvn. Enter Balti- 
 more, wJio passes halfway across the stage, and 
 then stopping suddenly, shrinks hack. 
 
 Bait. Ha, it is him ! — 1*11 turn and go another 
 way. {Turns hastily back again, and then stops 
 short.) No, no, hesha*n'tseemeavoidinghim. I'll 
 follow Truebridge*s advice, and be civil to him. — 
 (^Enfer Freeman bowing with stiff civility.) Good 
 morning, Sir. 
 
 Free. And the same to you, Mr. Baltimore: how 
 does your Lady do ? 
 
 Bait. And your amiable lady, Mr. Freeman? she 
 is a great scholar I hear. 
 
 Free, (with his face brightenedup.) You are very 
 good to say so ; she does indeed know some few 
 things pretty well ; and though we are rivals for 
 the present, why shouldn't we act liberally and 
 speak handsomely of one another at the same time? 
 Does Mrs. Baltimore like pine-apples as well as she 
 used to do ? 
 
 Bait, {shrinking back.) No, she dislikes them 
 very much. 
 
 Free. Don't say so now! I believe you don*t like 
 me to send them to you, butif you would just send 
 over for them yourself when she wants them, I 
 have mountains of them at her service. 
 
 Bait, (with a contemptuous smile.) Shall I send a 
 tumbrel for them to-morrow morning? (Free. 
 draws back piqued.) But you are liberal to every 
 
26 THE ELECTION. 
 
 body, Mr. Freeman. I hope you and your friends 
 have got over the fatigues of your morning feast? 
 You were at it by times I hear. 
 
 Free. Yes, we have been busy in the eating and 
 drinking way to be sure. 1 don't make speeches to 
 them, and fill their heads with fine oratory ; I give 
 them from my plain stores what they like better, 
 Mr. Baltimore. 
 
 Bait. Andwhatyou can spare better, Mr. Free- 
 man. It is fortunate for both parties, that your stores 
 are more applicable to the stomach than the head. 
 
 Free. It is better, at least, than flattering them 
 up with advertisements in the newspapers, about 
 their great dignity and antiquity, &c. Idon'tspend 
 my money in feeding other people's vanity. 
 
 Bah. No, certainly, Sir; charity begins at home; 
 and your own has, thanked God! a very good appe- 
 tite. 
 
 Free. Pamper' d vanity is a better thing perhaps 
 than starved pride. Good morning. Sir. [Exit. 
 
 Bait, (looking after him.') See how consequen- 
 tially he walks now, shakinghislongcoat skirts with 
 that abominable swing ! I should detest my own bro- 
 ther if he swung himself about after that manner. 
 — Resemblance to him do they say ! I could lock 
 myself up in a cell, if I thought so, and belabour 
 my own shoulders with a cat-o'nine tails. 
 
 (Enter Peter xsoith one of his idle companions^ 
 and starts back upon seeing Baltimore. 
 
 Pet. {aside to his Corn.) Pest take it! a body can 
 never be a little comfortable in a sly way, but there 
 
A COMEDY. 27 
 
 is always some cross luck happens to him. Yon- 
 der is my master, and he thinks I am half a dozen 
 miles off with a letter that he gave me to 'Squire 
 Houndly. Stand before me, man ; perhaps he'll 
 go past, (^skulking behind his Com.') 
 
 Bait, (seeing him.) What, you careless rascal, 
 are you here still, when I told you tlie letter was 
 of consequence to me ? To have this stick broke 
 over your head is less than you deserve : where 
 have you been, sirrah ! (^Holding up his stick in a 
 threatening manner.) 
 
 Pet. O Lord ! your honour, if you should beat 
 me like stock fish I must e'en tell you the truth : 
 for as I past by the cat and bagpipes a little while 
 ago, 1 could not help just setting my face in at 
 the door to see what they were all about; andthere 
 I found such a jolly company of 'Squire Freeman's 
 voters, sitting round abowl of punch, drinking his 
 liquors and laughing at his grandeur, and making 
 such a mockery of it, that I could not help stay- 
 ing to make a little merry with them myself. 
 
 Bait. (Joxvering his stick.) Art thou sure that 
 they laugh'd at him ? — In his own inn, and over 
 his own liquor ? 
 
 Pet. Ay, to be sure, your honour : what do they 
 care for that ? When he orders a hogshead of ale 
 for them out of his own cellar, they call it a pack 
 of lamb's wool from the wool chamber. Don't 
 they, neighbour ? (tipping the wink to his Compa- 
 nion.) 
 
 Com. To be sure they do. 
 
28 THE ELECTION *. 
 
 Bait. Ha, ha, ha ! ungrateful merry varlets ! — 
 Well, well ! get thee along, and be more expedi- 
 tious with my letters another time, {to himself as 
 he goes out.) Ha, ha! a good name for his ale truly. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Pe^. 1 wonder he did not give me a little money 
 now for such a story as this. Howsomever, it 
 has saved my head from being broke. 
 
 Com. And that, I think, is fully as much as it is 
 worth. 1 wonderyou an't ashamed to behave with 
 so little respect to a gentleman an d your own master. 
 
 Pet. Fiddle faddle with all that ! do you think 
 one srets on the blind side of a man to treat him 
 with respect ? When I first came to live with Mr. 
 Baltimore, I must say I was woundily afraid of 
 his honour, but I know how to manage him now 
 well enough. 
 
 Com. I think thou dost, indeed. Who would 
 have thought it, that had seen what a bumpkin he 
 tooktheefrom the plough 'stall, buta twelvemonth 
 ago, because he could not afford to hire any more 
 fine trained servants to wait upon him ? 
 
 Pet. Nay, Iwa'n't such a simpleton as you took 
 me for neither. I was once before that very intimate, 
 in my fashion, with an old 'Squire of the North 
 Country, who was in love with his grand-daughter's 
 dairy-maid. I warrant you I know well enough 
 how to deal with any body that has got any of them 
 strange fancies working within them, for'as great a 
 bumpkin as you may take me to be j and if you 
 don't see me, ere long time goes by, make a good 
 
A COMEDY. 29 
 
 penny of it too, I'll give you leave to call me a 
 noodle. Come away to the Blue-Posts again, 
 and have another glass, man. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Freeman's library Jitted up expensively with fine 
 showy boohs and book-caseSy d^r. S^c. Enter Free- 
 man aiid Mr5. Freeman, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Free. They sh'a'nt come again, then, since it 
 displeases you ; but they all went away in such 
 good humour, it did my heart good to see them. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh the Goths and the Huns ! I believe 
 the smell of their nauseous tobacco will never leave 
 my nostrils. You don't know what I have suffered 
 to oblige you. To any body of delicacy and re- 
 finement, it was shocking. I shall be nervous 
 and languid for a month. But I don't complain. 
 You know I do every thing cheerfully that can 
 promote your interest. Oh ! I am quite over- 
 come, {sits down languidly.^ 
 
 Free. Indeed, my dear, I know you never com- 
 plain, and I am sorry I have imposed such a task 
 upon your goodness. But the adversary gains 
 ground upon us, and if I do not exert myself, 
 the ancient interest of the Baltimores — the old 
 prejudice of family, may still carry the day. 
 
 Mrs. F. {starting up eagerly ^ and throwing aside 
 her assumed languor.) That it sha'nt do if gold 
 and activity can prevent it ! Old prejudice of 
 family ! Who has a better right than yourself to 
 serve for the borough of Westown ! 
 
30 THE election: 
 
 Free. So you say, my dear ; and you are gene- 
 rally in the right. But 1 don't know : I don't 
 feel as if I did altogether right in opposing Mr. 
 Baltimore, in his own person, in the very spot 
 where his family has so long presided. If he 
 did not provoke me — 
 
 Mrs. F. What, have you not got over these 
 scruples yet ? Has not all the rancorous opposi- 
 tion you have met with from him wound you up 
 to a higher pitch than this, Mr. Freeman ? It 
 has carried you thro' with many petty struggles 
 against his proud will already, and would you 
 let him get the better of you now ? 
 
 Free, {thoughtfully.) I could have wished to 
 have lived in peace with him. 
 
 M7S. F. Yes, if he would have suffered you. 
 Free. Ay, indeed, if he would have suffered me. 
 (rnusirig for sorne time.) Well, it is very extrao - 
 dinary this dislike which he seems to have taken 
 to me ; it is inexplicable ! I came into his neigh- 
 bourhood with the strongest desire to be upon good 
 terms with, nay to be upon the most friendly and 
 familiar footing with him ; yet he very soon op- 
 posed me in everything, (walking up and doumyaiid 
 then stopping short.) I asked him to dine with me 
 almost every day, just as one would ask their 
 oldest and most intimate acquaintance ; and he 
 knew very well I expected no entertainments in 
 return, which would have been a foolisli expence 
 in his situation, for I took care in the liandsomest 
 manner to let him understand as much. 
 
A COMKDY. 31 
 
 Mrs. F. Well, well, never trouble your head 
 about that now, but think how you may be re- 
 venged upon him. 
 
 Free. Tho' his fortune was reduced, and I in 
 possession of almost all the estates of the Balti- 
 mores, of more land, indeed, than they ever pos- 
 sessed, I was always at pains to assure him that I 
 respected him as much as the richest man in the 
 county ; and yet, I cannot understand it, the 
 more friendly and familiar I was with him, the 
 more visibly his aversion to me increased. It is 
 past all comprehension ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Don't trouble yourself about that now. 
 
 Free. I'm sure I was ready upon every occa- 
 sion to offer him my very best advice, and, after 
 the large fortune I have acquired, I may be well 
 supposed to be no novice in many things. 
 
 Mrs. F. O, he has no sense of obligations. 
 
 Free. Ay, and knowing how narrow his income 
 is in respect to the style of living he has been ac- 
 customed to; when company came upon him un- 
 expectedly, have I not sent and offered him every 
 thing in my house, even to the best wines in my 
 cellars, which he has pettishly and absurdly re- 
 fused ? 
 
 Mrs. F. O, he has no gratitude in him ! 
 
 Free. If I had been distant, and stood upon 
 the reserve with him, there might have been some 
 cause. Well, it is altogether inexplicable ! 
 
 Mrs. F. I'm sure it is not worth while to think 
 so much about it. 
 
32 THE election: 
 
 Free. Ah, but I can't help thinking ! Have 1 
 not made the ground round his house, as well as 
 my own, look like a well- weeded garden ? I have 
 cut down the old gloomy trees ; and where he 
 used to see nothing from his windows but a parcel 
 of old knotted oaks shaking themselves in the 
 wind, he now looks upon two hundred rood of the 
 best hot-walls in the North of England, besides 
 two new summer-houses and a green-house. 
 
 Mrs. F. O, he has no taste ! 
 
 Free. The stream which I found running thro* 
 the woods, as shaggy and as wild as if it had been 
 in a desert island, and the foot of man never 
 marked upon its banks, I have straightened, and 
 levelled, and dressed, till the sides of it are as 
 nice as a bowling-green. 
 
 Mrs. F. He has no more taste than a savage, 
 that's certain. However, you must allow that 
 he wants some advantages which you possess : 
 his wife is a woman of no refinement. 
 
 Free. I don't know what you mean by refine- 
 ment : She don't sing Italian and play upon the 
 harp, I believe ; but she is a very civil, obliging, 
 good, reasonable woman. 
 
 Mrs. F. {contemptuously.') Yes, she is a very 
 civil, obliging, good, reasonable woman. I wonder 
 how some mothers can neglect the education of 
 their children so ! If she iiad been my daughter, 
 I should have made a very dift'erent thing of her, 
 indeed. 
 
 Free. I doubt nothing, my dear, of your good in- 
 structions and example. But here comes Jenkinson. 
 
A COMEDY. S3 
 
 Enter Jenkinson. 
 
 How now, Jenkinson ? things go on prosper- 
 ously I hope. 
 
 Je?i. Sir, I am concerned — or, indeed, sorry, 
 — that is to say, 1 wish I could have the satis- 
 faction to say that they do. 
 
 Free. What say you? sorry and satisfied? You 
 area smoothspoken man, Mr. Jenkinson; but 
 tell me the worst at once. I thought I had been 
 pretty sure of it as the poll stood this morning. 
 
 Je?i. It would have given me great pleasure. 
 Sir, to have confirmed that opinion; but unfortu- 
 nately for you, and unpleasantly for myself — 
 
 Free. Tut, tut, speak faster, man ! What is it? 
 
 Jen. An old gentlemen from Ensford, who for- 
 merly received favours from Mrs. Baltimore's fa- 
 ther, has come many a mile across the country, 
 out of pure good will, to vote for him, with ten 
 or twelve distant voters at his heels ; and this, I 
 am free to confess, is a thing that was never 
 taken into our calculation. 
 
 Free. That was very wrong tho' : we should 
 have taken everything into our calculation. Shall 
 I lose it, think you ? I would rather lose ten 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, Mr. Freeman, that is spoken like 
 yourself. 
 
 Jen. A smaller sum than that, I am almost 
 sure, — that is to say, I think I may have the 
 boldness to promise, would secure it to you. 
 
 Free. How so? 
 
 VOL. II. D 
 
THE election: 
 
 ,. Mr. Baltimore, you know, has many un- 
 pleasant claims upon him. 
 
 Free. Debts, you mean : but what of that ? 
 
 Jen. OnlythatI can venturetoassureyou, many 
 of his creditors would have the greatest pleasure in 
 life in obliging me. And when you have bought 
 up their claims, it will be a very simple matter 
 just to have him laid fast for a little while. The 
 disgrace of that situation will effectually prevent 
 the last days of the poll from preponderating in 
 his favour. It is the easiest thing in the world. 
 
 Free, (shrinking hack from him.') Is that your 
 scheme ? O fie, fie ! the rudest tongued lout in 
 the p9,rish would have blushed to propose it. 
 
 Mrs. F. If there should be no other alternative? 
 
 Free. Let me lose it then ! To be a member of 
 
 Parliament, and not an honest man ! O fie, fie, fie ! 
 
 (walki?ig up and down, much disturbed.) 
 
 Jen. To be sure ; indeed it must be confessed 
 gentlemen have different opinions on these sub- 
 jects; and I am free to confess, that I have great 
 pleasure, upon this occasion, in submitting to 
 your better judgment. And now. Sir, as I am 
 sorry to be under the necessity of hurrying away 
 from you upon an affair of some consequence to 
 myself, will you have the goodness to indulge 
 me with a few moments' attention, just whilst I 
 mention to you what I have done in regard to 
 Southerndown church-yard ? 
 
 Free. Well, it is my duty to attend to that. 
 Have you ordered a handsome monument to be put 
 
A COMEDY. 35 
 
 up to my father's memory? Ay, to the memory of 
 John Freeman, the weaver. They reproach me 
 with bemgthe son of a mechanic; but I will shew 
 them that I am not ashamed of my origin. Ay, 
 every soul of them shall read it if they please, 
 " erected to his memory by his dutiful son," kc, 
 
 Jen. Yes, Sir, I have ordered a proper stone, 
 with a neat plain tablet of marble. 
 
 F?'ee. A plain tablet of marble! that is not what 
 I meant. I'll have it a laro-e and a handsome thin<r 
 with angels, and trumpets, and deaths' heads upon 
 it, and every thing that a good handsome monu- 
 ment ought to have. Do you think I have made 
 a fortune like a prince to have my father's tomb- 
 stone put off with a neat plain tablet ? 
 
 Mrs.F. Now, my dear, you must allow me to 
 know rather more in matters of taste than your- 
 self, and I assure you a plain tablet is the genteel- 
 est and handsomest thing that can be put upon it. 
 
 Free. Is it ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Indeed is it. And as for the inscrip- 
 tion about his dutiful son and all that, I think it 
 would be more respectful to have it put into 
 Latin. 
 
 Free. Very well ; if it is but handsome enough 
 I don't care; so pray, Jenkinson, write again, and 
 desire them to put a larger tablet, and to get the 
 Curate to make the inscription, with as much 
 Latin in it as he can conveniently put together. 
 I should be glad likewise, if you would write to 
 the Vicar of Blackmorton to send me the register 
 D 2 
 
36 THE ELECTION. 
 
 of my baptism : I shall want it by and by, on 
 account of some family affairs. 
 
 Jen. I shall have the greatest pleasure in obey- 
 ing your commands. Good day ! [Exit. 
 
 Free. Where is the state of the poll, and the 
 list of the out-standing voters ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Come to my dressing-room, and 1*11 
 shew you exactly how everything stands. Yo\x 
 won*t surely give up your point for a little — 
 
 Free. What do you mean to say ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Nothing — nothing at all. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Baltimore's house. Enter Baltimore, Jbllowedbi/ 
 David, a?id speaking as he enters. 
 
 Bait. And so the crowd gave three cheers when, 
 good old Humphries tottered up to the hustings 
 to give his vote, as he declared for the grandson 
 of his old benefactor, Mr. Legender Baltimore? 
 1 should have liked to have seen it. 
 
 Dav. O, your honour, they gave three such 
 hearty cheers ! and old goody Robson clapped 
 her poor withered hands till the tears run over 
 her eyes. 
 
 Bait. Did she so ? She shall be remembered 
 for this ! I saw her little grandson running about 
 the other day barefooted — he shall run about 
 barefooted no longer. — And so my friends be- 
 gin to wear a bolder face upon it ? 
 
 Dav. Yes, Sir, they begin to look main pert 
 upon it now. 
 
A COMEDY. 37 
 
 Bait. Well, David, aiul do thou look pert upon 
 it too. There's something lor thee, (gives kirn mo- 
 ney. A noise of laughing heard mthout.) Who is 
 that without? is it not Peter's voice? Ho, Peter! 
 
 Enter Peter Jbllorved by Nat. 
 
 What were you laughing at there ? 
 
 Pet. (with a broad grin.) Only, Sir, at 'Squire 
 Freeman, he, he, he ! who was riding up the Back- 
 lane, a little while ago, on his new crop-eared hun- 
 ter, as fast as he could canter, with all the skirts of 
 his coat flapping about him, for all the world like 
 a clucking hen upon a sow's back, he, he, he ! 
 
 Bait, (xvith his face brightening.) Thou art plea- 
 sant, Peter ; and what then ? 
 
 Pet. When just turning the corner, your ho- 
 nour, as it might be so, my mother's brown calf, 
 bless its snout ! I shall love it for it as long as I live, 
 set its face through the hedge, and said ** Mow!" 
 
 Bait, (eagerly.) And he fell, did he ? 
 
 Pet. O Lord, yes, your honour ! into a good soft 
 bed of all the rotten garbage of the village. 
 
 Bait. And you saw this, did you ? 
 
 Pet. O yes, your honour, as plain as the nose on 
 my face. 
 
 Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! and you really saw it? 
 
 David, (aside to Nat.) I wonder my master can 
 demean himself so as to listen to that knave's 
 tales: I'm sure he was proud enough once. 
 
 Bait, (still laughing.) You really saw it ? 
 
 Pet. Ay, your honour, and many more than me 
 saw it. Didn't they, Nat? 
 
 D 3 
 
38 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Bait. And there were a number of people to 
 look at him, too? 
 
 Pet. Oh ! your honour, all the rag tag of the pa- 
 rish were grinning at him. Wan't they, Nat ? 
 
 Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! this is excellent 1 ha, 
 ha, ha! He would shake himself but ruefully be- 
 fore them, (^still laughing violentlij .") 
 
 Pet. Ay, Sir, he shook the wet straws and the 
 withered turnip-tops from his back. It would 
 have done your heart good to have seen him. 
 
 Dav. Nay, you know well enough, you do, that 
 there is nothing but a bank of dry sand in that 
 corner, [with some indignation to Pet.) 
 
 Bait, {impatiently to David.) Poo, silly fellow, 
 it is the dirtiest nook in the village. — And he rose 
 and shook himself, ha, ha, ha! {laughing still vio- 
 lently.) I did not know that thou wert such a hu- 
 morous fellow, Peter. Here is money for thee to 
 drink the brown calf's health. 
 
 Pet. Ay, your honour, for certain he shall have 
 a noggen. 
 
 Dav. (jaside.) To think now that he should de- 
 mean himself so ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Baltimore. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside to Bait.) Mr. Freeman is at the 
 door : should you wish to receive him? 1 hurried to 
 give you notice. Will it be disagreeable to you? 
 
 Bait. O, not at all. Let him in by all means! 
 (to the servaiits.) I am at home. [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Mrs. B. Now, this is as it should be, my dear 
 Baltimore. I like to see you in this good temper 
 of mind. 7 
 
A COMEDY. 39 
 
 Bait. Say no more about that. Things go on 
 prosperously with me at present : there is a gleam 
 of sunshine thrown across us. 
 
 Enter Freeman and Charles Baltimore. 
 
 (Tb Free.') Good morning, Sir: a very good 
 morning to you. 
 
 Free. I thank you, Mr. Baltimore. You see I 
 take, notwithstanding all that is going on between 
 us at present, the liberty of a neighbour. 
 
 Bait, {smiling.) O, no apology. Sir! I am very 
 glad to see you. This is a fine morning for riding 
 on horseback, Mr. Freeman : I hope you have en- 
 joyed it. 
 
 Free, (ciside to Char.) How gracious he is! We 
 are certainly come in a lucky moment. 
 
 Char. He is in a monstrous good humour cer- 
 tainly ; now is the time to manage him. (aside to 
 Free.) 
 
 Free. 1 am much obliged to you, Sir, for this 
 good neighbourly reception ; and I flatter myself 
 you will think I am come on a neighbourly visit 
 too. 
 
 Bait. O certainly, Sh', but let us talk a little 
 more of this fine morning ; it is really a very 
 fine morning for riding on horseback : how does 
 your crop-eared hunter do ? 
 
 Free. Eating his oats, I dare say very content- 
 edly. All my horses are pretty well off: I buy 
 the best oats in the country for them, and I pay 
 the best price for them too. They are not, to be 
 sure, so well lodged as they shall be. My archi- 
 
 D 4 
 
40 THE ELECTION I 
 
 tect has just given me in his plan for my new 
 stables : two thousand pounds is the estimate, 
 and I suppose I must allow him to go a little 
 beyond it, to have every thing handsome and 
 complete. That is my way. Will you look at 
 theplan ? (takiiig a iplmifrom his pocket.) 
 
 Bait, (drarchig back uith disgust.) I have no 
 taste for architecture. 
 
 Free. That is a pity now, for it is really a com- 
 plete thing. By the bye, are not you going to do 
 something to the roof of your offices soon ? They'll 
 be down about your ears presently, and the longer 
 you delay that job, the heavier it will be when it 
 comes, (aside to Charles, on seeing Bait, bite his 
 lips and turn awaT/from him.) What is the matter 
 with him now ? 
 
 Char, (aside.) Only a little twitching at his 
 heart: it will soon be off again. 
 
 Mrs. Bait, (aside to Bait.) For heaven's sake 
 don't let this discompose you; his absurdity 
 makes me laugh. 
 
 Bait, (aside.) Does it? I did not see you laugh. 
 Well, I am a fool to mind it thus, (going np to 
 Free, ivith affected good hwnour.) I am glad to 
 hear your horses are to be lodged in a manner 
 suitable to their owner's dignity. But you are 
 the best horseman too, as well as the best horse- 
 master, in the county, though your modesty 
 prevents you from talking of it. 
 
 Free. O dear, Sir! lam but middling in that way. 
 
 Bait. Pray don't let your diffidence wrong you. 
 
A COMEDY. 41 
 
 What do you jockeys reckon the best way of ma- 
 naging a fiery mettled steed, wlien a brown calf 
 sets his face through the hedge, and says 
 " Mow ?" 
 
 Free. Ha, ha, ha! faith you must ask your 
 friend Mr. Saunderson that question. His crop- 
 eared horse has thrown him in the lane a little 
 while ago, and he has some experience in the 
 matter. As for myself, I have the rheumatism 
 in my arm, and I have not been on horseback for 
 a week. (Bait, looks mortified and disappoiiitedS) 
 
 Mrs. B. (to Free.) He is not hurt, I hope ? 
 
 Free. No, Madam j he mounted again and 
 rode on. 
 
 Char. It was no fault of the horse's neither, if 
 the goose had but known how to sit on his back. 
 He has as good blood in him as any horse in — 
 
 Free. No, no, Charles ! not now if you please. 
 (going up frankly to Bait.) And now. Sir, that we 
 have had our little laugh together, and it is along 
 time, it must be confessed, since we have had a 
 joke together — ha, ha, ha! I like a little joke 
 with a friend as well as any man — ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Bait, (retreating as Free, advances.) Sir. 
 
 Free. But some how you have been too cere- 
 monious with me, Mr. Baltimore, and I'm sure I 
 have always wished you to consider me as a 
 neighbour, that would be willing to do you a 
 kind office, or lend you or any of your family a 
 lift at any time. 
 
 (still advancing familiarlij to Bait.) 
 
42 THE ELECTION. 
 
 Bait, (still retreating.') Sir, you are very 
 gracious. 
 
 Free. So, as I said, since we have had our little 
 joke together, I'll make no more preface about 
 it, my good neighbour, {still advancing as Bait. 
 retreatSy till he gets him close to tJie wallf 
 and then putting out his hand to take hold 
 of him by the buttons. Bait, shrinks to one 
 side, and puts up his ai^n to defend himself) 
 
 Bait, (hastily.) Sir, tliere is no button here! (re- 
 covering himself and pointing in a stately manner 
 to a chair.) Do me the honour. Sir, to be seated 
 and then I shall hear what you have to say. 
 
 Free, (offended.) No, Sir, I perceive that the 
 shorter I make my visit here the more acceptable 
 it will be; I shall therefore say what I have to 
 say, upon my legs, (assuming consequerice.) Sir, I 
 have by my interest and some small degree of 
 influence which I believe I may boast of posses- 
 ing in the country, procured the nomination of 
 a young man to a creditable and advantageous 
 appointment in the East Indies. If you have 
 no objection, I bestow it upon your relation, 
 here, Mr. Charles Baltimore, of whom I have a 
 very good opinion. 
 
 Bait. Sir, I am at a loss to conceive how you 
 should take it into your head to concern yourself 
 in the affairs of my family. If Mr. Charles Bal- 
 timore chooses to consider himself as no longer 
 belonging to it, he may be glad of your pro- 
 tection. 
 
A COMEDY. 43 
 
 Mrs. B. My dear Mr. Baltimore, how strangely 
 you take up this matter ! Indeed, Mr. Freeman, 
 you are very good : and pray don't believe that 
 we are all ungrateful. 
 
 BalL {angriltj to Charles.) And you have 
 chosen a patron, have you ! 
 
 Char. Tm sure 1 did not think — I'm sure I 
 should be very glad — I'm sure I don't know 
 what to do. 
 
 Free. Good morning. Madam ; I take my 
 leave, {slightly to Bait.) Good morning. [Exit. 
 
 Char. I'm sure I don't know what to do. 
 
 Mrs. B' Whatever you do, I hope you will 
 have the civility, at least, to see that worthy 
 man down stairs, and thank him a hundred times 
 over for his goodness. 
 
 Char. That I will. [Exit hastilij. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, Baltimore ! how could you treat 
 any body so, that came to you with offers of 
 kindness ? 
 
 Bait, {striding up and down. ) What would you 
 have had me do ? what would you have had me 
 do. Madam ? His abominable fingers were with- 
 in two inches of my nose. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, Baltimore, Baltimore ! 
 1 Bait. Leave me. Madam ! [Exit Mi^s. B. with 
 her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 {He still strides up and down ; then stopping 
 suddenly to listen.) 
 He's not gone yet ! I hear his voice still ! That 
 fool, with some cursed nonsense or other, is de- 
 
44 THE ELECTION *. 
 
 taining liim still in the liall ! It is past all en- 
 durance! Who waits there? 
 
 Enter Peter. 
 What, dost thou dare to appear before me with 
 that serpent's tongue of thine, sloughed over with 
 lies ? You dare to bring your stories to me, do 
 you ? {shaking him viokntlij hy the collar,') 
 
 Pet. Oh ! mercy, mercy, your honour ! I'm 
 sure it was no fault of mine that it was not 'Squire 
 Freeman that fell. I'm sure I did all I could 
 to make him. 
 
 Bait. Do what thou can'st now, then, to save 
 
 thy knave's head from the wall. {throwing 
 
 Peter violently from him after shaking him 
 
 well; and e.rit into an inner room, flapping 
 
 the door behind him with great force.) 
 
 Pet. {after looking ruefdly, and scratching his 
 
 head for some time) Well, I sees plainly enough 
 
 that a body who tells lies should look two or 
 
 three ways on every side of him before he begins. 
 
 [Exit, very ruefully^ 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
A COMEDY. 45 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. Mrs. Baltimore*^ di^essing-room. She 
 is discovered sitting by a table, looking over 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. Baltimore. 
 Well, I have the satisfaction to find that my 
 personal expences, for this last year, have been 
 very moderate ; but I am resolved they shall be 
 still more contracted. Though ruin, I fear, can- 
 not be averted, yet, when it does come, I can lift 
 up my unblushing head, and say, " this is no 
 work of mine." No foolish debts of my con- 
 tracting, Baltimore, shall add to the number of 
 those claims that already so gallingly press upon 
 your proud and irritable mind ; and will, perhaps, 
 in the end, drive you from the long and fondly 
 retained habitation of your forefathers. (Jeans 
 jyensively vpon her arm for some timey then 
 co7itinues to look over more papers.') 
 
 Enter Charles, xvith a slow, sauntering step. 
 
 Char. Let me see what o'clock it is now. What 
 says my watch to it now ? (looking at his watch.) 
 Pest take it ! it is but ten minutes since I look'd 
 last ; and 1 could have sworn it was as good three 
 quarters, or, at least, half an hour, as ever clock 
 tick'd, or ever sand-glass ran. (yaxcning and stretch- 
 ing himself.) Ah ! I find it has been but half an 
 hour of a weary man's reckoning, who still sees 
 
4(j THE ELECTION *. 
 
 two long periods ycleped hours, lying between 
 him and his dinner, like a dreary lengtli of desert 
 waste before the promised land, {yawning and 
 stretching again.') My fishing tackle is all broke 
 and destroyed, and 'Squire Sapling has borrowed 
 my pointer. I have sat shaking my legs upon 
 the corn-chest, till every horse in the stable is 
 rubbed down, and the groom, happy dog ! has 
 gone with his broom in his hand, to sweep out 
 the yard and the kennel. O dear ! O dear ! O 
 dear ! What shall I do ? 
 
 Mrs. B. (rising from the table.) Poor man ! I 
 pity you with all my heart ; but I do think I 
 could contrive to find employment for you, if 
 you are inclined to it. 
 
 Char. Yes, yes! I am inclined to it! Idleness 
 is tiresome enough, God wot ! I am inclined to 
 it, be what it will. But what is it tho' ? Have 
 you any skanes of thread to wind ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, something better than that, 
 Charles. 
 
 Char. What, card-boxes to paste ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Something better than that too. 
 
 Char. Poetry or advertisements to cut out of 
 the news-paper ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, no ; something better than all 
 these. 
 
 Char, (eagerly.) It is some new employment 
 then. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, Charles, a very new one indeed. 
 What would you think of taking up a book and 
 reading an hour before dinner? 
 
A COMEDY. 47 
 
 Char, (^disappointed.) Pshaw ! is that your fine 
 employment ? I thought I was really to have 
 something to do. I'll e'en go to the village again, 
 and hear stories from old Margery, about the elec- 
 tion and the old family grandeur of the Baltimores. 
 
 Mrs. B. Nay, don't put such an affront upon 
 my recommendation. Do take up this book, and 
 try, for once in your life, what kind of a thing 
 reading quietly for an hour to one's self maybe. I 
 assure you there are many good stories in it, and 
 you will get some little insight into the affairs of 
 mankind, by the bye. 
 
 Char. No, no ; no story read can ever be like a 
 story told by a pair of moving lips, and their two 
 lively assistants the eyes, looking it to you all the 
 while, and supplying every deficiency of words. 
 
 Mrs. B. But try it, only try it. You can't 
 surely be so ungallant as to refuse me. (Gives 
 him a book.) 
 
 Char. Well then, since it must be so, shew me 
 where to begin. Some people, when they open a 
 book, can just pop upon a good thing at once, and 
 be diverted with it ; but, I don't know how it is, 
 whenever I open a book, I can light upon nothing 
 but long dry prefaces and dissertations ; beyond 
 which, perhaps, there may lie, at last, some plea- 
 sant story, like a little picture-closet at the end of 
 a long stone gallery, or like a little kernel buried 
 in a great mountain of shells and of husks. I 
 would not take the trouble of coming at it for all 
 that one gets. 
 
48 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Mrs.B. You shall have no trouble at all. There 
 is the place to begin at. Sit down, then, and 
 make no more objections, (^points out the place, 
 and 7'eturns to her papers again.') 
 
 (Charles sits doiam with his book : reads a little 
 with one arm dangling over the hack of the 
 chair ; then changes his position, and reads 
 a little 'while with the other arm over the hack 
 of the chair; then changes Jiis p)Osition again, 
 and after rmbhing his legs with his book 
 hand, contiiiues to read a Utile inore ; then 
 he stops, and brushes some dust off his 
 breeches with his elbow.) 
 Mrs. B. (observiiig him and smiling.') How 
 does the reading go on ? 
 
 Char. Oh, pretty well ; I shall finish the page 
 presently. (Jie reads a little longer, still jid get ting 
 about, and then starting up from his seat.) By 
 the bye, that hound of a shoemaker has forgot to 
 send home my new boots. I must go and see 
 after them. 
 
 Mi^s. B. What could possibly bring your boots 
 into your mind at this time, I wonder ? 
 
 Char. It is no wonder at all ; for whenever I 
 begin to read, and that is not often, I confess, all 
 the little odd things that have slipp'd out of my 
 head for a month, are sure to come into it then. 
 1 must see after the boots tho*. 
 Mrs.B. Not just now. 
 
 Char. This very moment. There is no time to 
 be lost. I must have them to-morrow at all events. 
 
A COMEDY. 49 
 
 Good bye to you. (^looking to the tvindow as he 
 passes on toicards the door.) Ha ! there comes a 
 visitor for you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Who is it ? 
 
 Char, It is Charlotte Freeman, walking very de- 
 murely, because sheis within sight of thewindows^ 
 
 Mrs. B. I am sorry she is come. I have de- 
 sired the servants to say I am from home. It is 
 unpleasant to Mr. Baltimore to see any part of that 
 
 family, and I have promised no, no, I have 
 
 ^you must go to inquire after your boots, you 
 
 say. (^A gentle tap at the door.) Come in. 
 Enter Charlotte. 
 
 Cha7± \going up affectionately to Mrs. B.) I 
 thought you would let me in, (curtseys affectedly 
 to Charles.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Did the servants 
 
 Chart. I saw no seiTants at all. I stole in by the 
 little door of the shrubbery; for I did not like to 
 go in by the great gate, lest I should meet Mr. 
 Baltimore; and he always looks so strangely at me 
 — But I beg pardon: I see I hurt you by saying so. 
 
 Mrs. B. Have you walked far this morning ? 
 
 Chart. Only so far to see you ; for you seem'd 
 unwell when I saw you last, and I could not be 
 happy *till I inquired after you. 
 
 Mrs. B. You are very good, my dear Char- 
 lotte, I am very well. 
 
 Chart, {observing her embai^rass* d.) I fear I come 
 unseasonably. 
 
 Char. O, no ! We were just wishing for some 
 
 VOL. n, E 
 
50 THE ELECTION : 
 
 good girl to come to us ; and when you go home 
 again, I shall have the honour of attending you. 
 Charl. {affectedly.) No, I thank you, there is no 
 occasion ; I know my way very well. 
 
 Char. But I can shew you a better way, where 
 there are fine sloes and blackberries on the 
 hedges, if you have a mind to gather any. Eating 
 such sweet fruit puts people into good humour, 
 and cures them of aftectation. 
 
 Charl. {disdainfully.) I dont know what you 
 mean. Sir, by your sloes and your blackberries, 
 but I suppose you want to shew me the place 
 where you croptyourblackpuppy*s ears the other 
 day, and had your fingers well bit for your pains. 
 I wonder whether you or the puppy were in the 
 best humour upon that occasion. 
 
 Char. Faith, the puppy and I were very much 
 the better for a piece of your flounced furbelow, 
 which we found upon the hedge, to bind up our 
 wounds for us. For you have a great sense of jus- 
 tice. Miss Freeman ; you never take any thing off 
 the bushes, without leaving something in return. 
 Charl. And you, too, Mr. Chai'les, are a gentle- 
 man of great honesty ; for you would not take a 
 bit of the poor dog*s ears off without leaving a bit 
 of your own fingers in his mouth as an equivalent. 
 Mrs. B. How comes it that you two are always 
 quarrelling, and yet always coming in one an- 
 other's way? {to Char.) You forget : you must 
 go and see after your boots. 
 
 Char. O ! I can go to-morrow morning. 
 Mrs. B. But there is not a moment to be lost: 
 
A COMEDY. 51 
 
 you must have them at all events, you know. No, 
 no; no lingering here: it is an errand of necessity. 
 {pointing to the door.) {Exit Chai\ iinmlUngly.) 
 Char^L I*m glad you have sent him away; he is 
 so forward and so troublesome. Perhaps I am a 
 little so myself just now. If I am, don't make 
 any ceremony of sending me off; for I sec, my 
 dear Mrs. Baltimore, your spirits are not so good 
 as they used to be. O ! if I could do any thing 
 to cheer them ! {Looking wistfulhj at her.) 
 
 Mrs. B. I thank you, my good girl ! you are 
 not at all troublesome ; you are very pleasant to 
 me ; and if it depended upon myself^ I should 
 like that we were often together. 
 
 Chart, (taking her hand warmly.') Should you ? 
 Well, and if it depended upon me, I should be al- 
 ways with you. I should go wherever you went, 
 and do whatever you did, and wear the same caps 
 and gowns that you wear, and look just as like you 
 as I could. It is a sad thing that I can get to you 
 so seldom, with those eternal lessons at home, 
 and Mr. Baltimore's stern looks, which almost 
 frighten me when I come here. Do you know 
 I have often thought of writing to you, but then 
 I don't know what to say. It is strange now ! I 
 know ladies, who love one another, write such 
 long letters to one another every day, and yet I 
 don't know what to say. 
 
 Mrs. B. And I have known, my dear Char- 
 lotte, ladies who did not love one another do just 
 the same thing. 
 
 E 2 
 
S2 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Charl. Have you, indeed ? La, that is wonder- 
 ful ! But don't you very often write long letters 
 to the friends you love most. 
 
 Mrs B. Indeed I don't write very often, nor 
 very long letters to any body ; and yet 1 have 
 some friends whom I very dearly love. 
 
 Charl. {taldng Mrs. B.' s hand and skipping about 
 Iter.') O ! I am so glad to hear that ! I thought all 
 dear friends wrote to one another every day, and 
 that every body knew what to say but myself. — 
 When I am with Mama, I think it will be so dif- 
 ficult to become amiable and accomplished, as I 
 ought to be, that I am quite discouraged ; but 
 when I am with you, it appears so pleasant and so 
 easy, that I am put quite into good spirits again. 
 — But, no, no ! I do every thing so clumsily ! and 
 you do every thing so well ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Don't be so diffident of yourself, Char- 
 lotte : remember you are but fifteen, and I am 
 four-and-twenty. 
 
 Charl. I wonder how I shall look when I am 
 four-and-twenty. I'm sure, notwithstanding all 
 the pains both Mama and my Governess take 
 with me, I don't think I look very well at present. 
 
 Mrs. B. Nay, my good Charlotte, you look 
 very well always, when you don't attempt to look 
 too well. I hope to see you turn out a very 
 agreeable woman. 
 
 Charl. Do you think so ? I am to go to public 
 places with Mama next winter ; and I have over- 
 heard her and my Governess whispering together 
 
A COMEDY. 5.5 
 
 asif I should have admirers comingabout me then. 
 But I don't think I shall. Do you think so? 
 
 Mrs. B. (smilhig.) Indeed, I can't say : perhaps 
 you may, and it is possible you may not ; but the 
 less you think of them, the more you will proba- 
 bly have. 
 
 Chart. I'm sure I think very little about them. 
 And yet I can't help fancying to myself some- 
 times, how I shall behave to them. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah ! that is but a poor way of em- 
 ploying your fancy. Don't think too much 
 about admirers : they won't admire you the more 
 for that. 
 
 Charl. But I won't let them know that I think 
 about them. 
 
 Mrs. B. But they will find it out. 
 
 Charl. Ha! but I will hold myself very high 
 indeed, and not seem to care a farthing for one 
 of them. 
 
 Mrs. B. But they will find it out nevertheless. 
 
 Charl. I'm sure I have heard that the young 
 men now-a*-days are no great conjurers. 
 
 Mrs. B. That may be very true; but they are 
 all conjurers enough to find that out, though 
 better things should escape their penetration. 
 (with some atarrn.) I hear Mr. Baltimore coming. 
 
 Chart. You seem uneasy. Will he be angry 
 to find me here ? 
 
 Mrs. B. (much embarrassed.) He will be sur- 
 prised, perhaps ; but he won't come here — he 
 is only passing to the library, I hope. 
 
 E 3 
 
§4f THE ELECTION r 
 
 Charl. Ha ! but he is coming though ! {creeping 
 
 behind Mrs. B.) He is just at the door. I will 
 
 hide myself behind the open door of this cabinet, 
 
 and do you stand before me till he goes away. 
 
 {She skulks behind the door of an open cabinet, 
 
 and Mrs. B. stands up close by Jier to conceal 
 
 her completely.) 
 
 Enter Baltimore^ 
 
 Bait. The tide is running against me again ; and 
 even my own old servants, I have learnt, at this 
 moment, are swilling themselves at the Cat and 
 Bagpipes, with the damn'd ale and roast-beef of 
 mine adversary. I am going to my attorney im- 
 mediately ; if any person on business should call 
 in my absence, detain him till I return. 
 
 Mrs. B. Certainly. I wish you a pleasant ride. 
 I think I shall take a little ramble presently, but 
 shall leave your orders with the servants. 
 
 Bait. No, don't go out just now, I beg it of you. 
 That little affected jade of Freeman's is prowling 
 about; and I have already confessed to you, that 
 it disturbs me to see you together. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah! you are prejudiced: you talk 
 without knowing her. She is a sweet-tempered,, 
 kind-hearted girl, and nature meant her for some- 
 thing very different from what she appears to be. 
 
 (Charlotte behind, catches hold of Mrs. B.'s 
 ha7id and kisses it.) 
 
 Bait. Yes, nature meant her for a clumsy — 
 
 Mrs. B. Pray don't delay going to your attor- 
 ney! 
 
A COMEDY. 55 
 
 Bait. A clumsy hoiden only; and, under the 
 tuition of her ridiculous mother, she assumes all 
 the delicate airs of a fine lady. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, well, go to your attorney: it is 
 all very harmless. 
 
 Bait. Well, well, it is all very harmless, if you 
 will ; and 1 have laughed at a thousand little af- 
 fected fools, nearly as absurd as herself. But when 
 I see those broadfeatures of her father, stamped so 
 strongly by nature upon her common-place coun- 
 tenance, pretending to w^ear the conscious impor- 
 tance of superior refinement, it provokes me be- 
 yond all patience that you should be so intimate 
 with her. 
 
 Mrs. B. She is a girl that will very much im- 
 prove by any reasonable intimacy, and will very 
 soon become like the people she is with. 
 
 Bait. Very well, let her be as little with yoii^ 
 then, and as much with her own foolish absurd 
 mother as possible; and the more ridiculous they 
 both are, the greater pleasure I shall have in see- 
 ing them any where but in your company. I 
 assure you, I have no wish to reform them. It 
 is one of the few consolations I receive in my 
 intercourse with this man, to see him connected 
 with such a couple of fools. 
 
 Mrs, B. O Baltimore ! for heaven's sake stay 
 no longer here ! 
 
 Bait. Pray what is the meaning of this? are you 
 in your senses? 
 
 Mrs. B. Scarcely, indeed, while you remain 
 here, and talk thus. 
 
 E 4 
 
56 THE ELECTION r 
 
 Bait. What, does it affect you to this pitchf 
 then? Are you attached to that girl? 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed I am. (Charl. behind^ catches 
 
 Mrs. B.*s hand again, and kisses it very 
 
 gratefully.') 
 
 Bait. Well, Madam y I see plainly enough the 
 
 extent of your attachment to me. (tvalking up and 
 
 down vehemently.^ Methinks it should have been 
 
 offensive to you even to have stroked the very 
 
 ears of his dog. And that excrescence, that 
 
 wart, that tadpole, that worm from the adder's 
 
 nest, which 1 abhor — 
 
 Mrs. B. For heaven's sake go away ! you kill, 
 you distract me ! 
 
 Bait. Yes, yes, madam ; I see plainly enough 
 I am married to a woman who takes no common 
 interest, who owns no sympathy with my feelings. 
 (^He turns upon his heel in anger to go away, whilst 
 Charlotte springs from her hiding-place, and 
 slipping softly ajter him, makes a motion with 
 her foot as if she would give him a kick in the 
 goi?ig out; upon wliich Bait, turns suddenly 
 round and sees her. She stops short quite con- 
 founded: and he glancing a look of indignation 
 athiswife,fj:es his eyes sternly upo7i Charlotte, 
 who recoiling from him step by step as he 
 sternly froxmis upon her, throws herself at last 
 upon Mrs. B.'^ neck, and bursts into tears. 
 Bait, then turns upon his heel angrily and 
 exit.) 
 Chart, {sobbing.) I shall never be able to look up 
 again as long as 1 live. There never was any body 
 
A COMEDY. .57 
 
 like me ; for always when I wish to behave best, 
 something or other comes across me and I expose 
 myself. I shall be so scornM and laughM at ! — 1*11 
 never enter this house any more — Oh ! — oh ! oh ! 
 Some devil put it into my head, and I could not 
 help it. I'll go home again, and never come a visit- 
 ing any more — Oh ! oh ! oh ! I am so disgraced ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Be comforted, my dear Charlotte ! It 
 was but a girl's freak, and nobody shall know any 
 thing of it. But, indeed, you had better go home. 
 
 Charl. Yes, I'll go home and never return here, 
 any more. But, oh, my dear Mrs. Baltimore, 
 don't despise me. 
 
 Mrs. B. No, my dear girl, I love you as much 
 as ever. 
 
 Charl. Do you indeed ? And yet I must not 
 come to you again. O, I shall wander every morn- 
 ing on the side of the little stream that divides 
 your grounds from ours ; and if I could but see you 
 sometimes on the opposite side calling over to me, 
 1 should be happy! It is so good in you to say that 
 you love me ; for I shall never love myself any more. 
 
 (^Ed-ewit Mrs. B. soothing and comforting Charl. 
 as they go off.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A small anti-room in Freeman's house. Enter 
 Mrs. Freeman "iinth letters in her hand. 
 Mrs. Free, {holding out her letters.) Pretty well, 
 I think, for one day's post. I should write to 
 my dear Mrs. Languish too, if my extracts from 
 Petrarch were ready. 
 
58 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Enter Governess in great haste. 
 Gov. O dear, Madame ! I don't know what 
 ting I shall do wit Miss Freeman. 
 Mrs, Free. What is the matter ? 
 Gov. She come in, since a very little time from 
 her walk, and I believe she be to see Madame 
 Baltimore too, as drooping and as much out of 
 spirit as a pair of ruffles wid de starch out of dem ; 
 and she sit down so, (imitating her) quite fromp- 
 ish, and won't read her lesson to me, though I 
 speak all de good words to her dat I can. 
 
 Mrs. Free. Well, go to her again, and I'll 
 follow you immediately, and speak to her myself. 
 
 \_Ea:it Governess. 
 (Mrs. Free, after putting up her letters very 
 leisurely yandlooking at one or t*wo ofthem, 
 goes out.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Charlotte is discovered sitting in a disconsolate 
 posture, on a low stool iii the middle of the room; 
 the Governess standing by her endeavouring to 
 soothe and coax her, whilst she hitches a'wayfrom 
 her fretfully, pushing her stool towards the 
 front of the stage every time tJie Governess 
 attempts to soothe Jier. 
 
 Gov. Do be de good young lady, now, and 
 read over your lesson. 
 
 Chart. Can't you let me alone for a moment? 
 I'm not in a humour just now. 
 
 Gov. You be in de humours, but in de bad 
 humours, I see. I will put you in de good hu- 
 
A COMEDY. 5!> 
 
 mours. ! Look here ! Fal, lal, de laddy, daddy 
 
 {singing fantasticattjj.') Why don't you smile, 
 
 Miss ? You love dat air, don't you ? (^j)utting her 
 
 hand soothingly on Charlotte's shoulder, and 
 
 grinning in her face.) 
 
 Chart, (shaking off her hand impatientli/, turn- 
 ing her back to her, and sitting on the other side 
 of the stool.) I don't like it a bit. 
 
 Gov. O, but you do ! And den de pretty steps 
 I shew'd you; if you would read your lesson, 
 now, we should dance dem togeder. (singing and 
 dancing some French steps fantastically. Why don't 
 you look at me ? Don't it amuse you, miss ? 
 
 Chart. What amusement is it to me, do you 
 think, to see a pair of old fringed shoes clatter- 
 ing upon the boards ? 
 
 Gov. (shrugging Iter shoulders.) Mon Dieu ! 
 she has no taste for any of the elegancies, (puttifig 
 her hand upon Charlotte's shoulder coaaingly.) 
 But if you don't speak well de French, and write 
 well de French, de pretty fine gentlemans won't 
 admire you. 
 
 Chart, (shaking off her hand again, and turning 
 
 from her to sit on the other side of the stool.) And 
 
 what do I care for de pretty fine gentlemans, or 
 
 de pretty fine ladies either? I wish there was 
 
 not such a thing in the world as either of them. 
 
 Gov. (casting up her eyes.) Mon Dieul She 
 wish us all out of de world. 
 
 Chart. I'm sure I should live an easier life 
 than I do, if there was not — 
 
60 THE ELECTION '. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Freeman. 
 Mrs. Free. What freak is this you have taken 
 into your head, Miss Freeman, not to read with 
 Ma'moiselle. It won't do, I assure you, to follow 
 your own whimsies thus. You must study regu- 
 larly and diligently, if you would ever become 
 an elegant and accomplished woman. 
 
 Charl. Vm sure I shall never become either 
 elegant or accomplished. Why need I scrawl ver- 
 sions eternally, and drum upon the piano-forte, 
 and draw frightful figures till my fingers ache, 
 and make my very life irksome to me, when I 
 know very well I shall never be better than a poor 
 heedless creature, constantly forgetting and 
 exposing myself, after all ? I know very well I 
 shall never be either elegant or accomplished. 
 
 Mrs Free. Why should you suppose so? there 
 is no merit in being too diffident. 
 
 Gov. You should not tink so poor of yourself. 
 Miss. You come on very well. Several lady say 
 dat you are become so like to me in all de airs, 
 and de grace, and de manners, dat you are quite 
 odder ting dan you were. 
 
 Charl. No w^onder then that they laugh at me. 
 Gov. (casting up her eyes.^ Mon Dieu! She 
 is mad ! shall I shut her up in her chamber ? 
 
 Mrs. Free. Stop a little, if you please; she does 
 not speak altogether from the purpose neither. 
 Come, come, Miss Freeman : rouse yourself up, 
 and have some laudable ambition : the distinction 
 of elegant accomplishments is not to be obtained 
 without industry and attention. 
 
A COMEDY. 6l 
 
 Charl. I wish I were with some of the wild 
 people that run in the woods, and know nothing 
 about accomphshments ! I know I shall be a 
 blundering creature all my life, getting into 
 scrapes that no body else gets into ; I know I 
 shall. Why need 1 study my carriage, and pin 
 back my shoulders, and hamper myself all day 
 long, only to be laughed at after all ? 
 
 Mrs. Free. I don't know what you may meet 
 with when you chuse to visit by yourself, Miss 
 Freeman ; but in my company, at least, you may 
 be satisfied upon that score. 
 
 Charl. And what satisfaction will it be to me 
 that we are ridiculous together ? I would rather 
 be laughed at alone than have people laughing 
 at us both, as they do. 
 
 Mrs. Free, (with amazement.) The creature is 
 beside herself in good earnest ! What do you 
 mean, child ? Who have you been with ? Who 
 has put these things into your head ? If Mrs. 
 Baltimore can find no better conversation for 
 you than this kind of insolent impertinence, she 
 is poorly employed indeed. 
 
 Charl. It was not Mrs. Baltimore that said so. 
 
 Mrs. Free. Who said so then? somebody has, 
 I find. 
 
 Charl. It was Mr. Baltimore. 
 
 Mrs. Free. And you had the meanness to suffer 
 such words in your presence ? 
 
 Charl. It was not in my presence neither, for 
 he did not see me. 
 
62 THE ELECTION : 
 
 M7'5. Free. And where was you then ? 
 
 Charl. Just behind the train of Mrs. Baltimore's 
 gown, till he should go out again. 
 
 Mrs. Free. And so you sneaked quietly in your 
 hiding-place, and heard all this insolent abuse ? 
 Mean creature ! a girl of any spirit would have 
 rushed out upon him with indignation. 
 
 Charl. And so did I rush out. 
 
 Mrs. Free. And what did you say to him ? 
 
 Charl. (^sillily,') I. did not say any thing. 
 
 Mrs. Free. I hope you resented it then, by 
 the silent dignity of your behaviour. 
 
 Charl. (jnuch embarrassed.') I'm sure I don't 
 know — I did but give him a little make-believe 
 kick with my sHpper, as he went out at the door, 
 when he turned round of a sudden, with a pair 
 of terrible eyes staring upon me like the Great 
 Mogul. 
 
 Mrs. Free. A make-believe kick ! what do you 
 mean by that ? 
 
 Charl. La ! just a kick on — on — 
 
 Mrs. Free. On what, child ? 
 
 Char^l. La ! just upon his coat behind as he 
 went out at the door. 
 
 Mrs. F. And did you do that ? Oh ! it is 
 enough to make one mad ! You are just fit to live 
 with the Indians, indeed, or the wild Negroes, 
 or the Hottentots ! To disgrace yourself thus, 
 after all the pains I have taken witli you ! It is 
 enough to drive one mad ! Go to your room 
 directly, and get sixteen pages of blank verse by 
 
A COMEDY. (J3 
 
 rote. But I'm sure you are fitter company for 
 the pigs than the poets. 
 
 Charl. How was I to know that he had eyes 
 in the back of his neck, and could know what 
 was doing behind him ? 
 
 Mrs. Free. He shall have eyes upon all sides 
 of his head, if he escape from my vengeance. It 
 shall cost him his election, let it cost me what it 
 will (rings the bell violently.) — Who waits there? 
 {Enter a Servant.) Order the chariot to be got 
 ready immediately. {Ea:it Servant.) I will go to 
 Mr. Jenkinson directly. He has already pointed 
 out the means ; and I shall find money, without 
 Mr. Freeman's knowing any thing of the matter, 
 to manage it all well enough. 
 
 Charl. La ! I'm sure I knew well enough I did 
 wrong ; but I did not think of all this uproar 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. Free. Go to your own room, child : I 
 can't abide the sight of you. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Free, on one side of the stage^ 
 and Charl. and Governess on the other. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
64 THE ELECTION 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. A summer apartment in Baltimore's 
 houses "with a glass door opened to a kmm. The 
 scene without is seen in the sober light of a calm 
 summer evenings with the sun already set. Eiiter 
 Baltimore and Mrs, Baltimore ^ow an inner 
 room, 
 
 Baltimore, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Let us say no more about it, then. I forgive 
 the little deceit of concealment which my tem- 
 per, become too hasty of late, may, perhaps, 
 justify. I will confess that the irritation excited 
 in my mind by seeing that girl so frequently 
 with you is unreasonable, is capricious. But you 
 must bear with me a little, my Isabella. It is a 
 part of the infirmity that oppresses me : it is the 
 
 fretted edge of a deep and rankling Come, 
 
 come, come ! we'll say no more about it. Let 
 us forswear this subject. Let us now talk, even 
 when we are alone, of light and indifferent 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed, I believe it will be safest for 
 us, till this passing storm, it will be but a summer 
 storm I hope, is past over our heads. (^Assuming 
 cheerfulness.') And now, tobegin upon this salutary 
 plan of your's without loss of time, let me boast 
 to you of the beautiftd collection of plants I have 
 17 
 
A COMEDY. Gj 
 
 nursed with my own hands, in a sly corner of the 
 garden. You have never yet been to see them. 
 
 Bait, (eagerlj/.) Ay, even there too. 
 
 M7's. B. Wliat do you mean? 
 
 Bait, (peevishly.) Go to ! you have heard, as 
 well as I, of the ridiculous expence he has been at 
 in seeds, and rare plants, and flower-roots, and non- 
 sense ; and of the learned botanist he is to pay so 
 liberally for publishing a catalogue of them for the 
 use of the scientific world — All that abominable 
 ostentation. Ha, ha, ha! He does not know a 
 nettle from a crow-foot on his native fields. Ha, 
 ha, ha, ha! — You don*t laugh, I think? 
 
 Mj^.s. B. We were to talk, you know, of indif- 
 ferent things. But I have forgot to tell you of 
 what really is not indifferent: I had a letter from 
 my sister this morning, and, she says, your little 
 godson is quite recovered from the remains of his 
 illness, (pauses Jbr an answer.) 
 
 Bait. (jioddi?tg his heady but not attending to her.) 
 Umph. 
 
 Mrs. B. (coaxingly.) She says he has become so 
 chattering, and so playful, it is deliglitful to see 
 him! And he talks of his godfather very often! 
 
 Bait, (jiodding again.) Umph. 
 
 Mrs. B. He was always a great favourite of 
 yours. 
 
 Bait, {breaking out vehemently.) If any man but 
 himself had been guilty of half that ridiculous va- 
 nity, the dullest fool in the county would have 
 laughed at him. 
 
 VOL. II. F 
 
66 THE ELECTION t 
 
 Mrs. B. O dear! still dwelling upon these ideas 
 ( He turns from hery and walks to the bottom of 
 tJie stage ; she sighs deeply, and foil oxvs 
 him "with her eyes. A lo7ig pause.) 
 Enter Servet. 
 
 Serv. (to Bait.) Excuse me if I intrude, Sir. 
 And you too, my good lady, (bowing very low to 
 Mrs. B.) Here is a letter that I received a few mo- 
 ments ago, and I thought it expedient and proper 
 that you should know its contents immediately. 
 (gives the letter to Bait.) 
 
 Bait. Let me see. (reads.) " An unknown well- 
 wisher thinks it right to inform you, that your 
 friend" — 
 
 Serv. He ought to have said patron. Sir. Vm 
 sure, I have always been proud to name you as my 
 patron to every body : — the family of Baltimore 
 has always been such to me. 
 
 Bait. Well, well, no matter, (reads again.) 
 " To ruin your friend, 'Squire Baltimore. His 
 adversary" — 
 
 Serv, Meaning Freeman, Sir. 
 
 Bait. I understand! (reads again.) " His adver- 
 sary being busy in buying up the claims of some 
 of his principal creditors. If he would walk long 
 at large, let him walk cautiously." 
 
 Serv. Meaning that he will lay you up, Sir. 
 
 Bait. I understand it perfectly. 
 
 Mrs. B. O no, no ! Some malicious person has 
 written this. 
 
 Bait. Permit me. Madam, to speak to my man 
 of business, without interruption. 
 
A COMEDY. 67 
 
 Serv. No wonder, Sir, that Mrs. Baltimore 
 should think so. He makes such a good show 
 with his actions, that he must set about such 
 things very cunningly. 
 
 Bait. Yes, Servet, thou hast always had some 
 notion of his true character. 
 
 Serv. To think that there should be such hypo- 
 crisy in the world ! It grieves, it distresses me ! 
 
 Bait. Pooh, man ! never mind how many hypo- 
 crites there are in the world, if he be but found 
 amongst the number. 
 
 Serv. Ay, Sir ; but if he get you once into pri- 
 son — 
 
 Bait. Will he not be detested for it ? 
 
 Serv. But if he should take the borough from 
 you — 
 
 Bait. Well! and if he should take my life too, 
 would he not be hanged for it? 
 
 Serv. To be sure, there would be some satis- 
 faction in that, if you could peep through youi' 
 winding-sheet to see it. 
 
 Bait. He will now appear to the world in his 
 true colours : I shall now speak boldly of a deter- 
 mined and palpable wTong: It relieves me from a 
 heavy load. Give me thy hand, my friend Servet ; 
 thou hast brought me admirable news. 
 
 Serv. But, Sir, we must take care of ourselves ; 
 for he is come of sucli a low, cunning, mean set 
 of people — 
 
 Bait. Ha! you know this, do you? You know 
 something of his family ? 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Ser*u. Yes, I know well enough: and his father 
 every body knows was no better than a — a — a 
 
 Bait. Than a what? — Out with it, man ! 
 
 Serv. Than a — Than a — 
 
 Bcdt. (eagerly.') Than a thief? Is that it? O 
 prove to me, only prove to me, that his father was a 
 thief, and I'll give thee all that I have in the world. 
 
 Serv. No, not absolutely that — but no better 
 than a paltry weaver. 
 
 Bolt, {disappointed.') Pooh ! I knew that before. 
 
 Serv. Yes, every body knows it, to be sure. But 
 there is no time to be lost : I am so zealous about 
 it, that I can*t rest till I have further information. 
 I'll take horse directly and go in quest of it. I 
 know where to enquire, and I shall return to you 
 without loss of time. 
 
 Bait. Do so, my good friend, and don't be afraid 
 of bringing back what you will call bad news. I 
 shall not shrink from it. (Exit Servet. 
 
 (Turning to Mrs. B. who has been listening to 
 their conversation with great marks of distinist 
 and disapprobation.) 
 And so. Madam, you are diffident of all this? 
 
 Mrs. B. It will be impossible at this moment to 
 make you view it in tlie same light that I do. 
 
 Bait. Yes, Madam, I knew it would be so with 
 you. He has bewitched and thrown a veil over the 
 understandings of all men ! I have perceived it 
 long. Even from the first of his settling in the 
 neighbourhood, my friends have begun to look on 
 me not as they were wont to do. Even my very 
 
A COMEDY. 69 
 
 tenants and dependants salute me less cheerily. 
 He has thrown a veil over the understandings of 
 all men ! He lias estranged from me that sympa- 
 thy and tenderness, which should have supported 
 my head in the day of adversity. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, my dear Baltimore ! It is you 
 who have got a veil, a thick and gloomy veil cast 
 over your mind. That sympathy and tenderness 
 is still the same {pressing his hand.) And, if the 
 day of adversity must come, you will be convinced 
 of it. But let us for a while give up thinking of 
 these things : let us walk out together, and enjoy 
 the soothing calmness of this beautiful twilight. 
 The evening-star already looks from his peaceful 
 sky ; no sound of busy man is to be heard ; the 
 bat, and the beetle, and the night-fly, are abroad, 
 and the pleasing hum of happy unseen life is in 
 the air. Come forth, my husband. The shade 
 of your native trees will wave over your head ; 
 the turf your infant feet first trod will be under 
 your steps. Come forth, my friend, and more 
 blessed thouglits will visit you. 
 
 Bait. No, no ; my native trees and my native 
 lawns are to me more cheerless than the dreary 
 desert. I can enjoy nothing. The cursed neigh- 
 bourhood of one obnoxious being has changed 
 every thing for me. Would he were — (clench^ 
 ing his hands and muttering J) 
 
 Mrs. B. O ! what are you saying ? 
 
 Bait, {turning aic ay from her.) No matter what,. 
 
 F 3 
 
70 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Enter a little ^oy from the laxin hy the glass-door y 
 
 running ilUcUij and frightened. 
 
 Boy. He'll be .drown'd, if nobody runs to 
 
 save him ! He*ll be drown*d 1 he'll be drown'd 1 
 
 Mrs. B. Has any body fallen into the pond ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, Madam ; into the deepest part of 
 
 it 5 and, if nobody don't run to pull him out, 
 
 he'll be drowned. 
 
 Bait, {running eagerly towards the glass-door.) 
 I'll go. Dost thou know who it is, boy ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, to be sure. Sir; it is Squire Freeman's 
 own self. (Bait, starts and stops short. Mrs. B, 
 clasping her hands and holding them up to 
 heaven, remains in anxious suspence. Bait. 
 after a moment's pause, rushes out quicldy.') 
 Mrs. B. O God ! what will this come to I 
 (throws herself back ifito a chair, and remains 
 stupid and motionless. The boy stands staring 
 at her.) 
 Boy. Areyou not well, Ma'am? Shall I call any 
 body? (She makes no answer; he still stands staring 
 at her.) She don't speak : she don't look at no- 
 thing : I will call somebody. (Goes to the side- 
 scene, and calls.) Who's there, 1 beseech you? 
 O, hear me, hear me ! Who's there, I say? 
 
 Enter Housemaid and Coachman. 
 
 Housem. What a bawling you make here, with 
 your dusty feet, you little nastyjackanapes! How 
 dare you for to steal into a clean house ? 
 
 Coach. If he ben't that little devil that put the 
 cracker under my horse's tail, I have no eyes in 
 
 7 
 
A COMEDY. 71 
 
 my head. He is always prowling about : there is 
 never a dog hanged nor a kitten drowned in the 
 parish, but he must be after it. 
 
 Boij. (pointing.') Look there : what is the 
 matter with the lady ? 
 
 Housem. O mercy on us 1 my dear good lady : 
 Are you sick, Ma'am ? or swooning ? or beside 
 yourself? Run, Coacliy, stupid oaf! and fetch 
 us something. 
 
 Coach. I would run to the farthest nook of the 
 earth, if I only knew^what to bring. Will burnt 
 feathers, or a little aqua-vitae do you any good. 
 
 Mrs. B. (starting up.) Do you hear any noise? 
 Are they coming yet? I'll go out myself. (Endea- 
 vours to go out, bat cannot. Housemaid and 
 Coachman support her.) 
 
 Enter David hastily froyn the lawn. 
 
 Dav. He is saved, Madam ! 
 
 Mrs. B. O, what say you, David ? 
 
 Dav. He has saved 'Squire Freeman. He 
 threw himself into the deep water, and plashed 
 about his arms lustily, till he caught him by the 
 hair of his head, and drew him to the bank. One 
 minute more had made a dead man of him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Who did that ? Who caught him by 
 the hair of the head ? 
 
 Dav. My master, Madam ; and a brave man 
 he is. 
 
 Mrs. B. (holding up her hands in extacy.) 
 Thy master ! ay, and my husband ! and God 
 Almighty's good creature, who has formed every 
 
 F 4 
 
72 THE ELECTION : 
 
 thing good! O, yes! he has made every being 
 with good in it, and will at last make it per- 
 fectly so, in some way or other, known only to 
 his wisdom. Ha! I hear a noise on the lawn. 
 
 Boy. (running out.) I must not lose a sight of 
 the drowned man. For he'll be as dropping wet 
 as any corpse, I dare say ; for all that there is life 
 in him. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. B. I'll go and meet them. I'm strong 
 enough now. 
 
 Dav. Let me support you. Madam. 
 
 Housem. (to Coach, as they go out.) La! will 
 
 he be all wet, do you think, and stretched upon 
 
 his back? (Exeunt by the glass-door into the lawn, 
 
 Mrs. B. supported by David. Light from a 
 
 window is 7iow thrown across the path without 
 
 doors, and discovers Baltimore and servants 
 
 carrying Freeman into the house by anoUier 
 
 entry. The scene closes.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A room in Baltimore's house. Enter Simeon 
 a7id David. 
 
 Dav. Now, my old Simeon, you'll see your 
 master as hearty, after his ducking, as if he were 
 an otter, and could live either in the water or 
 out of it; though we had some trouble to bring 
 him to his senses at first. 
 
 Sim. Ay, do let me go to him quickly. It 
 had been a sorrowful day to this grey head if my 
 master had — 
 
A COMEDY. IS 
 
 Dav. Yes, and if my master had not, as a body 
 may say, put his hfe in his hand to save him. 
 
 Sim. Very true, David, I say nothing against 
 all that ; I honour your master for it ; thof I 
 must say he has but an ungracious look v^^ith him. 
 There is not another gentleman in the neigh- 
 bourhood, thof 1 say it myself, that does not stop 
 and say, *' How do ye do, Old Simeon?" when he 
 passes me. 
 
 Dav. I don't know ; I am sure he used not to be 
 ungracious. All the old folks of the parish used 
 to thrust themselves in his way, as if it had been 
 good for the ague, or an aching in the bones, to 
 say, " God bless your honour.'* 
 
 Sim. That must have been before we came 
 amongst you, then. Ha! here comes his Honour. 
 
 Enter Freeman, dressed in a tiight-gown, with 
 
 Truebridge and Charles Baltimore. Mrs. 
 
 Baltimore, at the same time^ enters by another 
 
 door. 
 
 Sim. (going eagerly to his master, and kissing 
 his handy ivhich Freeman holds out to him.) God 
 bless and preserve your worthy Honour ! 
 
 Free. I thank you, Simeon : a good God has 
 preserved me. You have not been much alarmed, 
 I hope ? 
 
 Sim. No, Sir? I heard of your safety before I 
 heard of your danger ; but some how or other it 
 came across my heart, for all that ; and I could 
 not but think — 'I could not — {pauses and draws 
 the back of his hand across his eyes.) But the 
 blessings of the aged and helpless have borne 
 
7i' THE ELECTION : 
 
 you up : the water could have no commission to 
 hurt you. 
 
 IVue. Well said, good Simeon ! the blessings 
 of the aged and the helpless are of a very buoyant 
 quaUty. A cork jacket is nothing to them. 
 
 Free. Do my wife and daughter know of it ? 
 
 Sim. No, please your Honour ; my mistress is 
 not returned from her visit yet, and my poor 
 young lady is closed up in her room with Madum- 
 selle, taking on her book-larning, as I suppose. 
 
 Free. I'll go home then, before they know any 
 thing of it. {to Mrs. B.) My dear Madam, I 
 return you my warmest acknowledgements. You 
 flattered me, that I should have an opportunity, 
 before I leave the house, of thanking, once more, 
 the brave man who has saved my life. 
 
 M7S. B. He will come to you immediately. 
 
 Char, {to Mrs. B.) Faith ! I went to him my- 
 self, as you desired me, and he won't come. ' 
 
 Mrs. B. (Jronming significantlij /a Char.) I have 
 just come from him, and he will be here imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Char. You went too, did you? I could'nt — 
 
 {^Mrs. 'B.Jronms again, and Char, is silent.) 
 
 True, {to Free.) You had better sit down till 
 he come. 
 
 Char. Yes, do sit in this chair in the recess ; 
 for you don't like the light in your eyes, I 
 perceive {leading Free. Jdridly to the chair.) 
 
 Free. I thank you. You are very good to me, 
 friend Charles. I think you would have lent a 
 helping liand yourscUj if you had been in the 
 
A COMEDY. 75 
 
 way to have saved a poor neighbour from 
 drowning. 
 
 . Char. I should have been a Pagan else. (Free. 
 sits down, and they all gather round him.') Now, my 
 good Sir, it is pleasanter to sit in a dry seat like 
 this, with so many friendly faces round you, 
 than to squash among the cold mud and duck- 
 weed with roaches and eels for your comrades. 
 
 Free. Indeed, friend Charles, I shan't con- 
 tradict you. 
 ILnter Baltimore, going directly across the stage 
 
 towards the opjwsite door, by which Free, and 
 
 tlie others had entered^ without 'perceiving them 
 
 in the recess. 
 
 Free. He thinks I am still in the bed-room. 
 {^goes behind Bait, and lays his hand kindly upon 
 his shoidder.) 
 
 Bait. Nay, my dear Isabella ! let me go by 
 myself! I would rather encounter him alone, 
 than when you are all staring upon me. 
 
 Free, (still holding him.) Ha, ha, ha ! My brave 
 deliverer ! I have caught you. 
 
 Bait, (turning hastily about and shaking himself 
 loose from his hold.) Ha ! is it you ? 
 
 Free, {stepping back disappointed.) It is me. 
 Sir ; and I flattered myself that the overflowings 
 of a grateful heart would not be offensive. 
 
 Bait. They are not offensive, Sir ! you mistake 
 me. You are too — There is no occasion for all 
 these thanks : I do not deserve them. 
 
 Sim. (vehemently.) Ah, but you do. Sir! and all 
 the country round will thank you too. There is 
 not a soul of them all, thof he might not care a 
 
76 THE ELECTION : 
 
 brass penny for you before, who will not fill a 
 bumper to your health now, for saving to them 
 his noble and liberal honour. O, Sir! the bless- 
 ings of every body will be upon your head now. 
 
 Bait, (turning away frowningly from Sim.) So, 
 so! 
 
 Mrs. B. Old Simeon says very true : every 
 body will bless you. 
 
 Bait, (turning away from her.) This is pleasant, 
 indeed ! 
 
 Char. I'll be hanged if every old woman in the 
 parish don't foist you into her next Sunday's 
 prayers, along with the Royal Family. 
 
 Bait, (turning away from Char.) Must I be be- 
 leager'd by every fool ? (^goes hastily toivards the 
 door.) 
 
 Mrs. B. (ciside, running afrer him.) You will not 
 go away so abruptly ? 
 
 Bait, (aside to her.) Will there be no end to 
 this damned gratitude ? (about to Free.) Sir, I am 
 very happy — I — l^hope you will have a good 
 sleep after this accident ; and I shall be happy'to 
 hear good accounts of you to-morrow morning. 
 
 Free. No, Mr. Baltimore, we must not part 
 thus. My gratitude for what you have done is not 
 to be spent in words only : that is not my way. 
 I resign to you, and resign to you most cheer- 
 fully, all my interest in the borough of Westown. 
 
 (Bait, pauses.) 
 
 True. That is nobly said, Mr. Freeman, and 
 I expected it from you. 
 
 Char, (ral)bing his handsj and grinning with de- 
 
A COMEDY. 77 
 
 light.) I thought so ! — I thought it would come 
 to this : he has such a Uberal way with him in 
 every thing. 
 
 Bait, (Jialf aside to Cliar.) Wilt thou never 
 give over that vile habit of grinning like a dog ? 
 (going up with ajirm step to Free.) No, Sir ; we 
 have entered the lists as fair combatants together, 
 and neither of us, I hope (significantly) have taken 
 any unfair advantage of the other. Let the most 
 fortunate gain the day. I will never receive re- 
 ward for a common office of humanity. That is 
 not my way (mimicking Freeman.) 
 Free, Let me entreat you ! 
 Bait, Mention it no more : I am determined. 
 Free. It would make me infinitely happy. 
 Bait. Do me the honour to believe that I speak 
 truth, when I say, I am determined. If you give 
 up the borough, I give it up also. 
 
 Free. Then I say no more. I leave with you 
 the thanks of a grateful lieart. I should have 
 said, if it had been permitted me, the very grate- 
 ful affection of an honest heart, that it will never 
 forget what it owes to you but in that place where 
 both affection and animosity are forgotten. (Exit 
 ivith emotion^ followed hy Charles and Simeon.) 
 
 Mrs. B. O Baltimore ! Baltimore ! Will you 
 suffer him to go thus ? 
 
 Bait, (going two or three steps ajter him, and 
 stopping short.) He is gone now. 
 
 Mrs. B. No, he is not ; you may easily over- 
 take him. Do — for the love of gentleness and 
 charity ! 
 
78 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Bait, (going hastily towards the door, and stop- 
 ping short again.) No, hang it 1 I can't do it 
 now. (Exit hastily by the opposite side.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {shaking her head.) I had great hopes 
 from this accident : but his unhappy aversion is, 
 I fear, incurable. 
 
 True. Don't despair yet: I prophecy better 
 things. But do not, my dear Madam, before 
 Baltimore at least, appear so anxious about it. 
 It serves only to irritate him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Is it possible to be otherwise than 
 anxious? This unlucky prejudice, gradually 
 gaining strength from every little trivial circum- 
 stance, embitters all the comfort of our lives. 
 And Freeman has so many good qualities — he 
 might have been a valuable friend. 
 
 True. Very true ; he is liberal, good-tem- 
 pered, and benevolent : but he is vain, unpo- 
 lished, and, with the aid of his ridiculous wife to 
 encourage him, most provokingly ostentatious. 
 You ought to make some allowance for a proud 
 country gentleman, who now sees all the former 
 dependants of his family ranging themselves 
 under the patronage of a new, and, what he will 
 falsely call, a mean man. 
 
 Mrs. B. O, I would make every allowance! 
 but I would not encourage him in his prejudice. 
 
 True. The way to reclaim him, however, is 
 not to run directly counter to it. I have never 
 found him so ready to acknowledge Freeman's 
 good qualities as when I have appeared, and 
 have really been half provoked myself with his 
 
A COMEDY. 70 
 
 vanity and magnificence. When we would help 
 a friend out of the mire, we must often go a 
 little way into it ourselves. 
 
 Mrs. B. I believe you are right. Ah ! True- 
 bridge ! if you had been more amongst us lately, 
 we should not now, perhaps, have been so un- 
 happy. He would have listened more to you 
 than to any other friend. 
 
 True. Have good comfort : I don't despair. 
 
 (Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Night. An open space before the Blue Posts : 
 the scene darky ej:cept "where the light gleams 
 from the open door of the house. A noise of 
 drinking and merririient heard within. Enter 
 some o/^Baltimore'^ voters, S^c.from the house, 
 carrying a table, a bowl of punch and glasses, 
 which they set down in the porch, and place 
 themselves round on the benches at the door. 
 Sailor. Now, messmates, let us set down our 
 bowl here. We have been long enough stowM 
 in that there close smoky hold, while the fresh 
 air has been playing on the decks. Let us sit 
 down and be merry ! I am returned home in a 
 good jolly time, old neighbours ; let us enjoy it. 
 First Vote. Ay, I remember at our last elec- 
 tion, when *Squire Burton was chosen, we drank 
 a hearty bowl in this very porch, and neighbour 
 Bullock, the tanner, sat, as it were, in that very 
 corner. Rest his soul ! he loved his country, 
 and his king, and his cause, and his candidate, 
 as well as any heart in Old England. 
 
so THE ELECTION : 
 
 Second Vote. Ay, and he was always ready to 
 knock any body down that was not as hearty as 
 himself. That was what I liked in him. That 
 was the true spirit. That was the true roast beef 
 of Old England. 
 
 First Vote. And he had such a good knack at 
 a toast. Come, stand up, Mr. Alderman. We 
 have drunk already to the ancient family of the 
 Baltimores, give us some other good public toast. 
 You have a good knack at the business too. I 
 would give you one myself, but then I doesn't 
 know how to do it for want of education. 
 
 Aid. {standing up conceitedly.^ May all the king, 
 and the queen, and the royal family, and all the 
 rest of the nobility and members of parliament, 
 serving over them and under us be good ; and may 
 all us, serving under them again be — be — be 
 happy and be good too, and be — and be — 
 
 Second Vote. Just as we should be. 
 
 First Vote. Ay, just so. Very well and very 
 nicely said, Mr. Alderman ! 
 
 Second Vote. But does nobody drink to the 
 navy of old England. 
 
 Aid. Yes, man : stop a little, and I'll have a 
 touch at that too. 
 
 First Vote. Ay, do so. I stand up for the British 
 navy ; that I do. The sea is our only true friend 
 either by land or by water. Come, give us a sai- 
 lor's song. Will Weatherall. I have lived upon 
 dry land all my days, and never saw better than 
 a little punt-boat shov'd across the ferry for a six- 
 pence y butsome how or other I have a kindness for 
 
A COMEDY. 81 
 
 every thing that pertains to the great salt sea, 
 with all the ships, and the waves roaring, and all 
 that ; and whenever I sees a good heart of oak 
 seated at an alehouse door with his glass in his 
 hand, my heart always turns to him, an there 
 should be a hundred men besides. Give us a 
 song, man. 
 
 Sailor. Tliat I will. Hang me if thou does'n't 
 deserve to feed upon biscuit. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Merry mantling social bowl, 
 Many a clieerjul kindly soul 
 
 Fills his glass from thee : 
 Healths go round, care is drowned, 
 Every heart with lighter bound 
 
 Generous feels and free. 
 
 Cann and beaker by thy side. 
 May* St thou oft' in flowing pride 
 
 Thus surrounded be : 
 And shame befal the narroxv 7nind, 
 Jliat to a messrnate proves unkind. 
 
 Who once hasflVd his glass from thee! 
 
 Whatever our state, where'er we meet. 
 We still with kindly welcome greet 
 
 The mate of former jollity : 
 Far distant, in a foreign land. 
 We'll give to all a brother's hand 
 
 That e'er have f IV d their glass from thee. 
 
 VOL. II. G 
 
82 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Enter Margery, in a great Jury. 
 
 Mar. Dash down your bowl, and break all 
 your glasses in shivers ! Are you sitting singing 
 here, and *Squire Baltimore hurried away to pri- 
 son by his vile rascality creditors? Shame upon 
 your red chops! Who pays for the liquor you are 
 drinking ? 
 
 AIL You're wrong in the head, Margery. 
 
 Mar. Ye're wrong in the heart, and that's a 
 worse thing, ungrateful punch-swillers ! You 
 would be all up on end in a moment else ; for I 
 saw them lay their detestable paws upon him with 
 mine own eyes. Rise up every skin of you, or I'll 
 break the bowl about your ears ! I'll make the li- 
 quor mount to your noddles, I warrant you ! 
 
 All. {starting up.) Which way did they go? 
 
 Mar. Come, follow me, and I'll shew you. Let 
 them but come within reach of my clench'd fist, 
 and I'll teach them to lay hands upon his honour! 
 An esquire and a gentleman born. 
 
 (Exeunt, every body foUoiiing her mth great 
 noise and hubbub.) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
A COMEDY. 8S 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A vaulted passage in a prison. Eiiter 
 Keeper, witJi several Turnkeys bearing pots 
 of porter f S^c.Jbr the prisoners. 
 
 Keep, {calling to somebody without.') Take an- 
 other pot of porter to the dog-stealer in the north 
 ward, and a Welsh rabbit to his comi'ade. (to a7i- 
 other who enters with a covei^ed dish.") Wliere have 
 you been all this time ? 
 
 1st Turn. Waiting on the rich debtor in the best 
 chamber; he has fallen out with his stew'd carp, 
 because the sauce of it be'nt cook'd to his liking. 
 
 Keep. I'm sorry for that : we must spare no 
 pains upon him. 
 
 Enter 2d Turnkey. 
 
 9.d Turn, (holding out a small jug.) Come, come, 
 this won't do. Transportation-Betty says, no* 
 thing but true neat Hollands for her ; and this 
 here gin you have sent her be'nt fit for a gentle- 
 woman to drink. 
 
 Keep. Yes, yes ; travell'd ladies are woundy 
 nice. However, we must not quarrel with her 
 neither: take it to the poor author in the debtor's 
 ward ; it will be good enough for him. 
 
 G 2 
 
Si THE ELECTION t 
 
 Enter Truebuidge. 
 
 True, What part of the prison is Mr. Baltimore 
 in ? 
 
 Keep. I'll shew you, Sir ; follow me. 
 
 True. I thought to ha\^e found him in your 
 own house. In the common prison ? 
 
 Keep. It is his own fault. Sir ; he would go 
 no where else ; and the more miserable every 
 thing is about him, the better he likes it. His 
 good lady could scarcely prevail upon him to let 
 lis set a couple of chairs in his room. 
 
 True. Has she been long here? 
 
 Keep. Better than an hour, I should think. 
 
 True. Does he seem much affected ? 
 
 Keep. Anan, Sir? 
 
 True. I mean, much cast down. 
 
 Keep. O, Lud ; no, Sir ! I dare say not ; you 
 know people are used to such things every day. 
 
 True. Very true, Mr. Keeper, I forgot that — ■ 
 Show me the way. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A prison. Baltimore is discovered sitting in a 
 thoughtjul posture, with Mf^s. Baltimore rest- 
 ing her arm on the hack of his chair, and ob- 
 serving him attentively. 
 
 Bait, (^after starting up with alacrity, and walk- 
 ing several times up and downS) And they are call- 
 ing out, as they go thro' the streets, that I am a 
 true Baltimore, and the son of their old bene- 
 factor ? 
 
A COMEDY. 85 
 
 Mrs, B. Tliey are, indeed. The same party that 
 assembled to attempt your rescue, are still parad- 
 ing about tumultuously, and their numbers are 
 continually increasing. 
 
 Bait. That's right! The enemy, I hope, has 
 heard the sound of it round his doors : they have 
 bid him a good morrow cheerily. 
 
 Mi^s. B. I don't believe they suspect him yet, 
 for it is too bad to imagine. 
 
 Bait, {exultingly.') But they will all know it 
 soon. All the world will know it. Man, woman, 
 and child will know it; and even clothed in the 
 very coats his ostentatious bounty has bestow 'd 
 upon them, the grey-headed labourers will curse 
 him. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! How many chaldrons 
 of coals, and hogsheads of ale, and well fatten'd 
 oxen will, in one untoward moment, be forgotten 
 by those ungrateful hinds! Ha, ha, ha! The very 
 children will call to him as he passes by. Me- 
 thinks I tread lightly on the floor of this dungeon, 
 with the step of an injured man who rises from 
 the grasp of oppression. Raise thy drooping 
 head, my Isabella : 1 am a thousand times more 
 happy than I have been : all mankind will sym- 
 pathize with me now. 
 
 Mrs. B, Every honest breast, indeed, must 
 detest baseness and hypocrisy. 
 
 Bait. Ay, thou speak'st with some energy now. 
 Come to my heart! there will be sympathy between 
 us. Now, thou art the wife of Baltimore ! But 
 oh! my Isabella! a poor man's wife has many 
 duties to fulfil. 
 
 G 3 
 
S6 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Mrs. B. None that I will not most cheerfully 
 fulfil. 
 
 Bait. Ah ! thou art a fair flower planted on an 
 ungracious soil, and I have nursed thee rudely. 
 
 Mrs. B. O, no ! you were most kind and 
 gentle once. 
 
 Bait. And I will be so again, Isabella : for this 
 viper gnaw'd at my heart, and I could be gentle 
 to nothing ; not even to thee. But my heart feels 
 lighter now: I will be rough to thee no more. 
 
 Enter Truebridge. 
 
 Ha ! my friend ! good morning to you ! Nay, 
 nay: {taking his hand frankly.') don't be afraid to 
 look at me : I wear no desponding face upon it. 
 {pointing to the hare walls of his prison.) You see 
 what a happy thing it is to have aliberal, generous, 
 magnificent rival to contend with. Have you seen 
 any of my good noisy friends in your way? 
 
 True. Yes, crowds of them ; and 1 really believe 
 this arrest will gain you your election. There 
 is something in man that always inclines him to 
 the side of the oppressed. 
 
 Bait. Ay, by God ! and the savage feels it 
 more strongly than the philosopher. 
 
 Time. He was always a ridiculous ostentatious 
 fellow; but if Freeman has thought to ruin your 
 cause by the unworthy means you hint at, he is 
 the greatest fool as well as the greatest knave in 
 the community. 
 
 Bait, (ironicallt/.) Don*t be too severe upon 
 him ! he has been bred to turn his money to good 
 
A COMEDY.. 87 
 
 account, you know : a purchased debt is his 
 property as well as a bale of broadcloth ; and he 
 has a great many charitable deeds and bountiful 
 donations to put into the balance against one 
 little underhand act of unmanly baseness. 
 
 True, Hang all his bountiful donations ! If he 
 has done this, I will curse him by the hour-glass 
 with any good fellow that will keep me company. 
 
 Bait. Nay, nay, nay ! you are warm. True- 
 bridge. You are of an irritable disposition. You 
 have no cliaritable allow^ances to make for the 
 failings of good people. Ha, ha, ha, !. 
 
 Enter Turnkey. 
 
 Turn. Mr. Freeman begs to be admitted to see 
 Mr. Baltimore. 
 
 Bait, (stretching out his arm vehemently.) Does 
 he, by my conscience ! {to True.) What think 
 you of this ? 
 
 True. If things areas we suspect, it does, indeed, 
 exceed all ordinary calculations of effrontery. 
 
 Bait, (to Turn.) Let him be admitted. (Exit 
 Turn.) Now we shall see the smoothness of his 
 snake's skin ; but the switch, not the sword, shall 
 scotch it. (walks hastily up and down.) 
 
 Enter Freeman, 
 
 Bait, (stopping short upon his entrance, and as- 
 suming an ironical respect.) Good morning, worthy 
 Sir. You are the only man in England ; I may 
 say in Europe j nay, I will say in the whole habit- 
 able globe, for you love magnificence, Mr. Free- 
 
 G 4 
 
88 THE ELECTION I 
 
 man, whose dauntless confidence could have been 
 wound up to the steady intrepidity of such a visit. 
 
 Free, {simply.) O, no, my friend ; don't praise 
 me more than I deserve. In courage to run to 
 the assistance of a friend, you yourself have set 
 me the example; and my character, I hope, will 
 never be found deficient in any thing that be- 
 comes a good neighbour, and an honest man. 
 
 Bait, (smiling sarcastically.) Certainly, Sir ; be 
 at all pains to preserve, in the public opinion, 
 your invaluable character. I would really advise 
 you to have a certificate of all your eminent vir- 
 tues drawn up and sign'd by every housekeeper 
 in the parish. Your wonderful Hberalities in 
 worsted hose and linsey-woolsey petticoats j your 
 princely subscriptions for bridges and market- 
 places; and your noble donations to lying-in 
 hospitals, have raised your reputation over the 
 whole country: and if the baseness of treach- 
 erously entrapping a fair and open rival, whom 
 you profess'd to respect, can throw any shade 
 upon your subHme virtues, you have only to build 
 a tower to the parish church, or a new alms-house, 
 and that will set every thing to rights again, (aside 
 to True.) Look how he draws in his detestable 
 mouth, and stares upon me like a cat ! 
 
 Free. I now perceive, Sir, the point of your dis- 
 course, and I forgive everything that it insinuates. 
 I might say many things, but there is just one 
 simple answer I will return to it. All my fortune 
 is at this moment at your disposal. You shall now 
 be a free unencumber'd man, owing no man any 
 
A COMEDY. 89 
 
 thing. For liow can you be said to be indebted 
 to one who owes even his own life to you. To 
 tell you this, was my errand here. 
 
 Bait, {shrinking hack, and then recovering him- 
 self with proud disdain.') And I, noble Sir, have 
 one simple answer to return to you : I will rather 
 remain in this prison till the hand of death un- 
 bolt my door than owe my enlargement to you. 
 Your treachery and your ostentatious generosity 
 are equally contemptible. 
 
 Free. On the word of an honest man, I have 
 had no knowledo[;e of this shameful arrest. 
 
 Bait. And on the word of a gentleman I believe 
 you not. 
 
 Free. Will you put this affront upon me ? 
 
 Bait, (.smiling maliciouslij .) Only if you are 
 
 obliging enough to bear it. Do entirely as you 
 
 please, (aside ^oTrue. turning away contemptuously 
 
 ^fromYi'ee.') See how like a sneaking timid reptile 
 
 he looks, (ccalks up and doxvn proudly.') 
 
 Mrs. B. much alarmed. ( to Free.) O leave him ! 
 leave him ! You must not speak to him now : he 
 knows not what he says. 
 
 True, (aside to Free.) Go away for the present, 
 Mr. Freeman, and I will call upon you by and 
 bye. " If you are an honest man, you are a noble 
 one. 
 
 Free, (impressively.) In simple truth, then, 1 
 am an honest man j and shall be glad to have some 
 discourse with you whenever you are at leisure. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bait, (stopping short in his walk, and looking 
 
90 THE election: 
 
 round.') Is he gone? {to True.) what did you think 
 of that ? Was it not admirable ? {endeavouring to 
 laugh, but cannot.) The devil himself will now 
 appear a novice in hypocrisy. 
 
 True. Faith 1 Baltimore, I cannot think him 
 guilty : he wears not the face of a guilty man. 
 
 (Baltimore'^ countenance falls : he turns axvay 
 abruptly from Truebridge, and walks up 
 and down in disorder.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {perceiving Freeman'^ hat on the 
 ground, which he had dropt iti his cot fusion.) Mr. 
 Freeman has left his hat behind him. {As she 
 stoops to lift it Bait, runs furiously up to her, and 
 prevents her.) 
 
 Bait. Touch not the damned thing, or I will 
 loath thee ! Who waits without ? hollo ! Turnkey ! 
 ( Eiiter Turnkey ; and he, giving the hat a kick 
 with his foot, tosses it across the stage.) Take away 
 that abomination, do. 
 
 [Exit hastily into an inner apartment. 
 
 True. Don't lose hopes of fair weather, my dear 
 Madam, tho' we are now in the midst of the 
 storm. Follow and soothe him, if it be possible, 
 and I'll go in the mean time to Freeman. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
A COMEDY. 91 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An opc?i scattered street in a small country town. 
 Enter Jenkinson and Servet by opposite sides ; 
 and are going to pass ivithout observing one 
 another. 
 
 Serv. (calling to Jenk.) Not so fast, Mr. Jenkin- 
 son ; I was just going to your house. 
 
 Jenk. And I was just going to do myself the 
 pleasure to call at your's. 
 
 Serv. And you was glad to go quickly along, 
 I believe. It would neither be pleasant nor safe 
 for you, perhaps, to meet the new member in his 
 chair, with all his friends round him. *' Balti- 
 more for ever !" could not sound so very plea- 
 santly in your ears. Ay, Mr. Jenkinson ! You 
 have made a fine hand of this business for a man 
 of your pretensions in the profession. 
 
 Jenk. 1 believe, Mr. Servet, I may be permit- 
 ted to assume to myself, without the imputation of 
 vanity, as much professional dexterity in this af- 
 fair as the most able of my contemporaries could 
 have brought into the service. Every thing has 
 been done that the very nicest manoeuvres of 
 the law would admit of Who could have 
 thought of a rich friend, from nobody knows 
 where, paying Baltimore's debts for him ? Who 
 could have thought of those fools taking him up so 
 warmly upon his imprisonment, in manifest con- 
 tradiction to the old proverb, that '* rats and 
 vermin leave a falhng house ?" Who could have 
 
92 THE election: 
 
 thoLiglit so many of Mr. Freeman's friends would 
 have stayed from the poll, too, after solemnly 
 promising their votes ? I am sure you are too 
 polite not to do me the justice to confess that 
 these things were not to be counted upon. A 
 pinch of your snuff, if you please : you keep the 
 best rappee of any gentleman in the country. 
 
 Serv. But what can you say for yourself in the 
 present business, Mr. Jenkinson ? I'm sure my 
 client, Mr. Baltimore, has given you advantages 
 enough, if you had known how to use them. 
 Since his quarrel with Mr. Freeman in the prison, 
 have not you and I gone between them with at 
 least half-a-dozen of messages, unknown to their 
 friends ? and nothing but a paltry meeting with 
 pistols to come of it after all ! It is a disgrace to 
 the profession. 
 
 Jenk. What could I have done, Mr. Servet ? 
 
 Serv. What could you have done ! Has not my 
 client by my mouth, told your client in pretty 
 plain terms, in return to all his amicable advances, 
 that he is a liar, and a hypocrite, and a knave, 
 and a coward ; and with but very little difficulty 
 on your part a kick or a cudgel might have been 
 added : and do you ask me what was to be done 
 with all this ? A meeting with pistols, indeed ! 
 It is a disgrace to the profession. I once pro- 
 cured for a smug-faced client of mine a good 
 douse o'the chops, which put a couple of hundred 
 pounds into his pocket ; enabled him thereby to 
 run off with a rich heiress, and make his fortune, 
 as you may well say, by a stroke. As for myself, 
 I put, of course, doable the sum into my owno 
 
A COMEDY. 95 
 
 Jenk. Dome the favour to believe, my wortliy 
 Sir, that I have always looked up to your su]3erior 
 abilities with tlie profoundcst respect. But have 
 a little patience : and do nie the honour to sup- 
 pose I am not altogetiier a novice. We may 
 have a duel first, and a law-suit afterwards. I 
 suppose we shall have the pleasure of meeting at 
 the place and hour appointed ? 
 
 Serv. Never doubt that. But I hear the crowd 
 coming this way. (some of the crowd begin to 
 enter\ and a great noise is heard at a distance.) 
 Let us avoid them, and talk further of this matter 
 as we go. 
 
 (Exeunt Jenk. and Serv. Enter more of the 
 crowd.) 
 First Mob. Well, I can't say but it was a 
 rare speech. 
 
 Second Mob. And very nicely delivered. 
 First Mob. Ay, he is a nice man. 
 First Woman. And such a sweet-faced gen- 
 tleman. He'll stand by his king and country, I 
 warrant ye. 
 
 First Mob. (to third Mob.) But you lost it all, 
 neighbour Brown, you was so long of coming. 
 " Gentlemen !" said he, and he bowed his head 
 so, " the honour you have this day preferred 
 me to" — 
 
 Second Mob. No, no, man ; " that you have 
 conferred upon me." 
 
 First Mob: Well, well, where's the difference ? 
 
 " I shall ever consider upon." 
 
 Second Mob. Reflect upon. 
 
 First Mob, Did not 1 say reflect upon ? « With 
 
94 THE ELECTION : 
 
 — with great joy;" no "great" — I don't know 
 very well ; but he meant, as one should say, as 
 how he would think upon us with good-will. 
 And then, quoth he — but first of all you know, 
 he said, stretching out his hand so, that " the 
 confidence imputed to him." 
 
 Second Mob. Tut, man ! reposed upon him. 
 First Mob. Did not I say so as plain as a man 
 could speak? — '* Was a trust that, with the 
 greatest scrupulousness of regard" — That is to 
 say, you know, that he won't sell his vote for a 
 pension : nor give away our poor little earnings 
 to feed a parcel of lazy placemen and courtiers. 
 Lord help us ! And that he won't do. 
 
 Third Mob. No, no! I'll answer for him. Why, 
 I have heel-pieced his shoes for him when he was 
 no bigger than a quart-pot. 
 
 First Mob. But what pleased me most of all 
 was, when he waved his hands in this fashion, and 
 said, " Gentlemen, it has always been the pride 
 
 and boasting 
 
 Second Mob. Pride and boast. 
 First. Mob. No, indeed ; I say pride and 
 boasting, Thomas Truepenny ; have not I a pair 
 of ears in my head as well as you ? 
 Second Mob. Well, well, boasting be it then ! 
 First Mob. Yes, "boastingof this honourable 
 borough to support its own dignity and independ- 
 ency against all corruptful encroachments." And 
 then he went on to tell us, you know, all about 
 the glory and braveness of our ancestors — O! let 
 him alone for a speech ! I'll warrant ye, when he 
 
A COMEDY. 95 
 
 stands up among the great men in that there 
 house of parhament, lie'll set his words together 
 in as good a fashion as the best of them. 
 
 Second Mob. Yes, to be sure, if he does it in 
 the fashion that you have been a-shewing us. 
 
 Secmid Woman. O la! there lie comes, and 
 tlie pretty chair and all the pretty ribbons flying 
 about ! Do come and let us run after him. (^Enter 
 a great crowds and Baltimore carried in a 
 chair ornamented with boughs and ribbons, 
 S^c. on the back ground^ and crossifig over 
 the bottom of the stage y exeunt with acclama- 
 tions : tJieJirst crowd joining them.) 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An open space in a forest, surrounded with thickets, 
 and fern, 8^c. Enter Baltimore and Servet, 
 looking out several ways as they enter. 
 
 Serv. Now I do see them a coming ! 
 . Bait. You have discovered them half-a-dozen 
 of times already since we entered the forest : 
 are they at hand ? 
 
 Serv. (still looking out thro* some bushes.) They 
 an't far off, but I don't know how it is, they 
 keep always a-moving, and always a-moving, and 
 yet they never come nearer. 
 
 Bait. He stops to take heart, perhaps, (smiling 
 with malicious satisfaction.) 
 
 Serv. Yes, poor man, ha,, ha, ha ! his mind is 
 disturbed enough, no doubt. But you. Sir, are 
 so composed ! You have the true strong nerves 
 
9(y THE ELECTION I. 
 
 of a gentleman. Good blood always shews itself 
 upon these occasions, (^looking out again.) Yonder 
 now I could tell you, even at this distance, by 
 that very manner of waving his pocket hand- 
 kerchief that he is in a devilish quandary. 
 
 Bait. Indeed ! dost thou already discover in 
 him the disturbed gait of a frightened man? This 
 is excellent ! — Let me look! let me look ! (look- 
 ing thro' the bushes xvith great satisfaction and 
 eagerness.) Where, Servet ? 
 
 Sew. Look just between the birch-tree and 
 the little gate. 
 
 Bait, {peevishly.) Pooh, nonsense ! It is a colt 
 feeding amongst the bushes, and lashing off the 
 flies with his tail. 
 
 (^As they are looking, enter Freeman and 
 Jenkinson behind them.) 
 
 Free. Good morning, gentlemen : I hope we 
 have not kept you waiting. 
 
 Bait. I am here, Sir, at your request, to give 
 you the satisfaction you require, and I have 
 waited your time without impatience. 
 
 Free. Ah, Mr. Baltimore ! it is a cruel neces- 
 sity that has compelFd me to require such a 
 meeting as this from a man to whom I owe my 
 life. But life, wath contempt and degradation in 
 the eye of the world annexed to it, is no benefit : 
 you have cruelly compelled me — 
 
 Bait. Make no apology, Sir, for the invitation 
 you have given me to this place : it is the only 
 one in my life that I have received from you 
 with pleasure, and obey'd with alacrity. 
 18 
 
A COMEDY. 97 
 
 Free. You will regret, perhaps, when it is too 
 late, that some explanation, on your part, did not 
 prevent 
 
 Jenk. Yes, Sir, some little explanation of your 
 words. The most honourable gentleman is always 
 free to confess that words are not always intended 
 to convey the meaning they may obviously seem 
 to express. 
 
 Bait, {contemptuously.') I make no doubt. Sir, 
 that you can find a great many different meanings 
 to the same words. A lie may be easily turned 
 into a slight mistake, or a villain into a gentleman 
 of deep and ingenious resource, in your polite 
 dictionary ; but I am a plain, unpolish'd man, Mr, 
 Jenkinson, and I have but one sense in which I 
 offer what I have said by the mouth of my friend 
 here {pointing to Serv.) to Mr. Freeman, and to 
 the world, unretracted and unexplain'd {aside to 
 Serv.) Does he not look pale ? 
 
 Serv. O, very pale. 
 
 Free. Then, Mr. Baltimore, you compel a man 
 of peace to be what he abhors. 
 
 Bait. I am sorry. Sir, this business is so disa- 
 greeable to you : the sooner we dispatch it, in 
 that case, the better. Take your ground {aside 
 to Serv.) Does he not look very pale? 
 
 Sey^v. {aside.) O, as white as a corpse. 
 
 Free. I believe you are right{toServ. and Jenk.) 
 Mark out the distance, gentlemen : you know 
 what is generally done upon these occasions. I 
 am altogether ignorant. You seem to be ready, 
 Mr. Baltimore, and so am I. 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
98 THE ELECTION : 
 
 Serv. (aside to Bait.) He would bully it out 
 now, but he is in a great quandary for all that. 
 
 Bait, (^aside to Serv. aiigrili/.) No, hang him, 
 he is as firm as a rock! (^aloud to Free.) I am per- 
 fectly ready also, Sir. Now take your fire. 
 
 Fy^ee. No ; I cannot call you out, and take the 
 first fire myself: this does not appear to me rea- 
 sonable. 
 
 Bait. You are the insulted man. 
 
 Free. Yes, but I am the challenger, and must 
 insist on first receiving your's. 
 
 {They take their ground, a7id Ealt. is about to 
 Jire, wJien Truebridge and Charles Baltimore 
 break in upon them through the bushes.') 
 
 Tyme. {seizing Baltimore's arm.) Hold your 
 rash hand, madman, and make not yourself ac- 
 cursed ! 
 
 Bait. What do you mean, Truebridge ? 
 
 True, (pointing to Free.) That there stands 
 before you tlie unknown friend 
 
 Free, (to True, eagerly.) Hold! hold! remem- 
 ber your promise : I have bound you to it. 
 
 True. But you release me from that promise 
 by effecting this meeting unknown to me, when I 
 had every claim upon your confidence. I will 
 not hold my tongue. 
 
 Bait. For God's sake, then, tell the worst thou 
 hast got to say, for I am distracted ! 
 
 True. There stands before you, then, that un- 
 known friend ; the great uncle of your wife, as I 
 suffered you to suspect, who has paid all your 
 debts, open'd your prison doors, and even kept 
 
A COMEDY. 99 
 
 back his own friends from the poll to make you 
 the member for Westown. (Bait, staggers hack 
 some paces, and the pistol falls from his hand.') 
 
 Char, (capering mthjoi/.) O, brave and noble ! 
 this makes a man's heart jmnp to his mouth 1 
 Come here, Mr. Spitfire, (taking jq) the pistol") 
 we shall have no more occasion for you. 
 
 Bait, (giving Charles an angry push, as he stoops 
 down close by him to lift the pistol.) Get away, 
 damn'd fool! Does this make you happy? 
 
 True. Fie, Baltimore! It is not manly in thee 
 to be thus overcome. 
 
 Bait. If thou had'st lodged a bullet in my brain, 
 I had thank'd thee for it. 
 
 True. And is there nothing, then, within your 
 breast that is generously called forth to meet 
 the noble gratitude of a liberal mind? A mind 
 which has strove to acquit itself of the obligation 
 that it owes to you, and to make you ample re- 
 paration for an injury which you have suffered 
 on his account, tho' entirely unknown to him. 
 There is nothing in your breast that comes forth 
 to meet such sentiments as these. Injuries and 
 oppression are pleasing to your mind; generosity 
 and gratitude oppress it. Are these the feelings 
 of a brave man ? Come, come ! (taking his arm 
 gently.) 
 
 Bait. Hold away! I am fool'd, and depressed, 
 and degraded! (turns away from him abruptly.) 
 
 True. Well, then, battle out wi*;h your own 
 proud spirit the best way you can. Freeman, I 
 must agree to it, is a magnificent, boasting, osten- 
 
 H 2 
 
100 THE ELECTION I 
 
 tatious fellow ; and devil take me, if I could bear 
 to have any reciprocity in good offices with him 
 myself! 
 
 Bait. By the Lord ! Truebridge, I'll run you 
 thro' the body if you say that again. 
 
 True, Ha! come nearer to me then. I shall 
 now tell Freeman of an obligation he owes to 
 you, Baltimore, and we shall see if he bears it 
 more graciously. 
 
 Free. I owe my life to his courage. 
 
 True. Yes, but it is not that. Come nearer 
 me, Baltimore, (to Free.) You were anxious, I 
 believe, to erect a monument to the memory of 
 your father. 
 
 Free. Yes, Sir ; and Mr. Jenkinson has written 
 for me to have it accomplished. 
 
 True. And also, at the same time, to have a 
 certificate of your baptism ? 
 
 Free. Yes, Sir, some family business required 
 it; but I have yet received no answer. 
 
 True. No ; the clergyman to whom you wrote 
 is my particular friend; he has made the enqui- 
 ries you desired; and the result is of such a na- 
 ture that he has thought it necessary to be the 
 bearer of it himself. 
 
 Free. What may it be? 
 
 True. He is at my house, and will inform you 
 of every thing minutely; but just at this moment, 
 1 can't help telling you myself, that to erect a mo- 
 nument to thfe memory of your father is unneces- 
 sary, as Mr. Baltimore has already piously saved 
 you that trouble. 
 
 19 
 
COMEDY. 101 
 
 Free. What do you mean by that? I am a man 
 of peace, but I will tear the heart out of any one 
 who dares to insult my father's memory. 
 
 True. He has done it in sober piety. 
 
 Free. What! erected a monument for my 
 father in the parish church of Southerndown ? 
 
 True. No, in the parish church of Westown. 
 
 Free. My father is not buried there. 
 
 True. Ay, but he is indeed. One church, one 
 grave, one coffin, contains both your father and 
 his. 
 
 Free. O, God! what is this? (Bait, starts and 
 puts his hands before his eyes.^ 
 
 Char. I would give a thousand pounds that 
 this were true. 
 
 True, (to Char.) Thou hast lost thy money 
 then. But prithee be quiet, Charles! (Jenkin- 
 son and Servet look ruefidlij upon one another.) 
 
 Free, {after a pause.) Was not my mother the 
 wife of Freeman ? 
 
 True. Yes, and, I believe, his faithful wife ; 
 but she was your mother first. 
 
 Free. She was seduced and betray'd ? 
 
 True. We will not, if you please, enter into 
 that part of the story at present. My account 
 says, that she married, after bringing you into the 
 world, a poor but honest man ; that the late Mrs. 
 Baltimore discovered her some years afterwards, 
 sympathised with her misfortune, and from her 
 own pin-money, for the family affairs were even 
 then very much involved, paid her a yearly sum 
 H 3 
 
102 THE ELECTION : 
 
 for the support and education of her son, which 
 laid the foundation of his future wealth and 
 prosperity. 
 
 Bait, {stepping fovward with emotion.^ Did my 
 mother do this ? 
 
 True. Yes, Baltimore, she did; till Mrs. Free- 
 man, informed of the state of your father's affairs, 
 with an industry that defied all pain and weari- 
 ness, toiled day and night to support the aspiring 
 views of her son, independent of a bounty which 
 she would no longer receive, tho' it was often 
 and warmly press'd upon her. 
 
 Free, (ivitk emotion.) And did my mother do 
 that ? 
 
 True. She did indeed. 
 
 Free. Then God bless her ! I do not blush to 
 call myself her son. 
 
 True, (^stretching out his hands to Bait, and Free.) 
 Now, don't think that I am going to whine to you 
 about natural affection, and fraternal love, and 
 such weaknesses ; I know that you have lived in 
 the constant practice of all manner of opposition 
 and provocation towards one another for some 
 time past ; you have exercised your tempers there- 
 by, and have acquired habits that are now, per- 
 haps, necessary for you. Far be it from me to 
 break in upon habits and gratifications! Only, as 
 you are both the sons of one father, wlio now^ lies 
 quietly in his grave, and of the good women, for 
 I call them both good, who bore no enmity to 
 one another, tho' placed in a situation very 
 
A COMEDY. 103 
 
 favourable for its growth, do, for the love of 
 decency, take one another by the hand, and live 
 peaceably and respectably together ! (taking each 
 of them by the hand.) 
 
 Bait, {shaking off True.) Get away, True- 
 bridge, and leave us to ourselves. 
 
 (True, retires to the bottom of the stage, and 
 
 makes signs for Jenk. Serv. and Char, to do 
 
 so too : theij all retire.') 
 
 (Bait, and Free, stand looking at ofie another 
 
 for some time "without speaking. Bait, then 
 
 drawing nearer to Free, clears his voice, and 
 
 puts on the action of one who is going to speak 
 
 emphatic allij ; but his energy is suddenly dropt, 
 
 and lie turns away without speaking. He 
 
 draws near him a second time, clears his voice 
 
 again, and speaks in broken accents.) 
 
 Bait. I have been to you, Mr. Freeman, most 
 
 unreasonable and unjust. I have — I have — my 
 
 behaviour has been stern and ungracious — But 
 
 — but my heart — O! it lias offended beyond — 
 
 beyond even the forgiveness of a — of a 
 
 Free, (eagerly.) Of a what, Mr. Baltimore? 
 Bait. Of a brother. 
 
 Free. God bless you for that word ! Are you 
 the first to pronounce it ? Yes, I will be a brother, 
 and a father, and a friend, and an every thing 
 to you, as long as there is breath in my body. 
 
 And tho' we do not embrace as brotliers 
 
 Bait, (rushing into his arms.) Ah ! but we do! 
 we do! most heartily! But I have something to 
 
 H 1 
 
104 THE ELECTION : 
 
 say. Let me lean against this tree for a little. 
 (leans his back against a tree.) 
 
 Free, What would you say ? 
 
 Bait, (in a broken voice.) I am — I am where I 
 ought not to be. Your generosity imposed upon 
 you — the borough of Westown is vacant. 
 
 Free. No ; it is filled with the man for whom 
 I will henceforth canvass, thro' thick and thin, 
 every shire, town, and village in the kingdom, if 
 need be: the borough of Westown is not vacant. 
 
 Bait, (endeavouring to open his waistcoat and 
 collar.) My buttons are tiglit over my breast : 
 I can't get this thing from my throat. (Free. 
 attempts to assist him.) 
 
 True, (running forward from the bottom of the 
 stage.) Let me assist you, Baltimore. 
 
 Bait. No, no, hold away : he will do it for me. 
 I feel the touch of a brother's hand near my 
 breast, and it does me good. 
 
 True.(ea:ulting.) Ha! is it thus with you? Then 
 we have triumphed! conquest and victory! 
 
 Char, (tossing up his hat in the air.) Conquest 
 and triumph and victory ! O it is all right now ! 
 
 True. Yes, Charles, thou may'st now be as 
 boisterous as thou wilt. 
 
 Jenk. (aside to Serv.) We have made but a 
 bad business of it here. 
 
 Ser, (aside to Jenk.) It was all your fault. (They 
 quarrel inacorner^ whilst Free, and True, are 
 occupied with Bait. ; and Charles runs exult- 
 ingly abouty tossing his hat in the air,) 
 
A COMEDY. 105 
 
 Enter nearly at the same timCy hy opposite sides, 
 Mrs. Baltimore and Mrs. Freeman, with Char- 
 lotte. 
 
 Mrs.B. {alarmed.) O ! you are wounded, Bal- 
 timore. 
 
 True. No, no ! there are no wounds here : we 
 are victorious. 
 
 Mrs. B. Over whom ? 
 
 True. Over a whole legion of devils ! or, at 
 least, over one great black one, who was as 
 strong and as stubborn as a whole legion. 
 
 Mrs. B. {joyfully.) Ha ! and is he overcome 
 at last ! Let me rejoice with you, my Baltimore! 
 We have found our lost happiness again. 
 
 Bait. We have found something more, my dear 
 Isabella : we have found a brother, {presenting 
 Free, to Mrs. B.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, I knew you would find in this 
 worthy man a friend and a brother. 
 
 Bait. Nay, nay ! you don't catch my mean- 
 ing : he is the son of my father. 
 
 Mrs. Free. What does he say ? 
 
 Char. The son of his father! My ears are 
 ringing. 
 
 Mrs. B. {after a pause of sicrprize.) In sober 
 earnest truth ? {clasping her hands together.) O 
 thank heaven for it! {holding out her hand to 
 Free.) My friend and my brother. 
 
 Bait, {to Free.) Yes, she has always been your 
 friend. 
 
 Free, {kissing her hand with emotion.) I know 
 she has, and I have not been ungrateful. {_pre- 
 
lOG THE ELECTION : 
 
 senti7ig Mrs. Free, to Mrs. B. and Bait.) And 
 here is one who has not been so much your friend 
 as she will be. Her too warm interest in a hus- 
 band's success misled her into an error which 
 she sincerely repents. 
 
 Mrs. Free, {affectedly.) Mrs. Baltimore has too 
 much sensibility herself not to pardon the errors 
 it occasions in others. 
 
 Mrs. B. (taJdng her hand^ Be assured, my dear 
 madam, I can remember nothing with resentment 
 that is connected with our present happiness. 
 
 Serv. {aside to Jenk.) And Mrs. Freeman is 
 shaking hands with them too 1 O ! there will be 
 a stagnation to all activity ! there will not be a 
 lawsuit in the parish for a century to come ! 
 
 Jenk. {aside.) Well, how could I help it? Walk 
 this way for God's sake, or they will hear us. 
 (Jenk. and Ser. retire to the bottmn of the 
 stage quarrelling.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {looking round.) But there is some- 
 thing wanting for me still : My dear Charlotte — 
 
 Charl. {coming forxvard and jumping into Mrs. 
 B.'6^ arms.) Yes, I was just waiting for this. O! 
 I shall love you, and live with you, and hang 
 about you continually 1 My sister, my aunty, my 
 cousin ! how many names may I call you ? 
 
 Mrs. B. As many as you please. But there is 
 another name that you must learn to say : {lead- 
 ing her up to Bait.) do you think you can look 
 gravely in this gentleman's face and call him 
 uncle? Nay, don't be frightened at him. {io 
 Bait.) Poor girl, she has stood in awe of you 
 intolerably. 
 
A COMEDY. 107 
 
 Bait, {embracing her.) She shall stand in awe 
 of me no more ; and, if ever I look sternly upon 
 her again, I will cheerfully submit to whatever 
 correction she may think proper to inflict upon 
 me. (smiling signijicantlij .) 
 
 Char, {holding out his hand to Charlotte.) And 
 is there no such thing as cousins to be made out 
 of all this store of relationship. 
 
 Chart. O yes ! there is a lazy, idle, good-for- 
 nothing thing called a cousin, that we must all 
 have some little kindness for, as in duty bound, 
 notwithstanding. 
 
 Free. Don't mind her, my friend Charles : you 
 shall be lazy and idle no longer. I'll find em- 
 ployment for you : I'll rouse you up and make 
 a man of you. There is not a peer of the realm 
 has it in his power to do more for his relations 
 than 1 have. And by heaven 1 will do it too. 
 
 True, {laying his hand on Freemsin' s shoidder.) 
 Gently now, my good Sir! we know all that per- 
 fectly well. 
 
 Bait, {aside to True.) O, let him boast now, he 
 is entitled to it. 
 
 True, {aside to Bait, giving a nod of satisfac- 
 tion.) Ay, all is well I see. {aloud.) Now, my 
 happy friends, if 1 have been of any use amongst 
 you, shew me your gratitude by spending the 
 rest of the day at my house, with my good friend 
 the Vicar of Blackmorton ; who has many things 
 to tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Free, {aside to True.) As I am the elder 
 brother's wife, the foolish ceremony of my taking 
 
108 THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 
 
 precedence of Mrs. Baltimore will be settled 
 accordingly ; and I'm sure it will distress me 
 extremely. 
 
 True, {aside to her.) Don't distress yourself, 
 Madam ; there is a bar to that, which you shall 
 have the satisfaction of being acquainted with 
 presently. Pray don't let your amiable dehcacy 
 distress you. {Aloud.) Now let us leave this happy 
 nook. But I am resolved to have a little bower 
 erected in this very spot, where we will all some- 
 times retire, whenever we find any bad disposi- 
 tions stirring within us, with that book in our 
 hands, which says, " If thy brother offend thee 
 seven times in a day" — No, no, no! I must not 
 repeat sacred words with an unlicensed tongue : 
 but I will bless God in silence for restoring a 
 rational creature to the kindly feelings of 
 humanity. [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE ELECTION. 
 
ETHWALD 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE A CTS, 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 OswAL, king ofMercia. 
 
 Edward, his nephew, andethlingorheirto the crown, 
 
 SEAGVRTHfJcithe?' to Edward. 
 
 Ethwald. 
 
 Ethelbert, a noble Thane. 
 
 Selred, elder brother to Ethwald. 
 
 MoLLO, Jcither to Ethwald, a Thane of small con- 
 sideration. 
 
 Hexulf, a bigoted bishop. 
 
 Alwy, an art/id adventurer. 
 
 WoGGARWOLFE, a Tude marauding Thane. 
 
 Ongar, a creature o/'Alwy's. 
 
 Mystics and Mystic Sisters, supposed to be succes- 
 sors of the Druidical Diviners ; Soldiers, Attend- 
 ants, &fC. 
 
 WOMEN: 
 
 Elburga, daughter to king Oswal. 
 
 Bertha, attached to Ethwald. 
 
 Sigurtha, mother to Bertha, and niece to Mollo, 
 
 living in his castle, with her daughter, as part of 
 
 his family. 
 DwiNA, attendant on Elburga. 
 Ladies, Attendants, and female Druids. 
 
 The scene is supposed to be in England, in the king- 
 dom of Mercia, and the time near the end of 
 the Heptarchy. 
 
ETHWALD. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. Tlie court of a Saxon castle, EtliwalBr^ 
 is discovered lying upon the ground as if half 
 asleep. Tlie sound of a hor7i is heard ivithout, at 
 which he raises his head a little, and lays it doxim 
 again. The gate of the castle opens at the bottom 
 of the stage, and enter Selred, Ethelbert, arid 
 Attendants, as if returning from hunting. Sel. 
 and Eth. walk forward to the front, and the 
 others i^etire by different sides of tJie stage. 
 
 Selred, 
 
 This morning's sport hath bravely paid our toil. 
 Have not my dogs done credit to their breed? 
 
 Eth. I grant they have. 
 
 Sel. Mark'd you that tawny hound, 
 
 With stretched nostrils snuffing to the ground, 
 Who still before, with animating yell, 
 Like the brave leader of a warlike band. 
 Thro' many a mazy track his comrades led 
 In the right tainted path? 
 
112 ethwald: 
 
 I would not for the weirgelt of a Thane 
 That noble creature barter. 
 
 Eth, I do not mean to tempt thee with the sum. 
 See'st thou where Ethwald, like a cottage cur 
 On dunghill stretch'd, half sleeping half, awake, 
 Doth bask his lazy carcase in the sun ? 
 Ho! lagger there! 
 
 {To^thw. who just raises his head and lays it 
 down again. Eth. going up close to him.) 
 When slowly from the plains and nether woods, 
 With all theirwinding streams and hamlets brown, 
 Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its veil, 
 And thro' its fleecy folds, with soften'd rays. 
 Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears, 
 Looks thro' the early sun: — when from afar 
 The gleaming lake betrays its wide expanse. 
 And, lightly curling on the dewy air. 
 The cottage smoke doth wind its path to heaven : 
 When larks sing shrill, and village cocks do crow. 
 And lows the heifer loosen'd from her stall : 
 When heaven's soft breath plays on the woodman's 
 
 brow, 
 Ahd ev'ry hair-bell and wild tangled flower 
 Smells sweetly from its cage of checker'd dew : 
 Ay, and when huntsmen wind the merry horn. 
 And from its covert starts the fearful prey ; 
 Who, warm*d with youth's blood in his swelling 
 
 veins. 
 Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretched lie, 
 Shut up from all the fair creation offers? 
 (Eth. yawns and heeds him not.) He heeds me not. 
 
A TUAGEDY. 11^3 
 
 Sel. I will assail him now. (in a louder voice.) 
 Ho! foxes heads our huntsman's belt adorn, 
 Who have thro* tangled woods and ferny moors, 
 With many wiles shaped out their mazy flight, 
 Have swam deep floods, and from the rocky brows 
 Of frightful precipices boldly leap'd 
 Into the gulph below. 
 
 Nay, e'en our lesser game hath nobly done : 
 Across his shoulders hang four furred feet, 
 That hath full twenty miles before us run 
 In little space. O, it was glorious ! 
 
 Ethw. (raising his head carelessly.) 
 Well, well, I know that hares will swiftly run 
 When dogs pursue them, (stretches himself and 
 goes to rest again.) 
 
 Eth. Leave him to rest, he is not to be rous'd. 
 
 Sel. Well, be it so. By heaven, my fretted soul 
 Did something of this easy stupor lack. 
 When near the easy limits of our chace 
 I pass'd the frowning tower of Ruthergeld ? 
 He hangs a helmet o'er his battlements, 
 As tho' he w'ere the chief protecting Thane 
 Of all the country round. 
 
 I'll teach th'ennobledCoerl, within these bounds, 
 None may pretend in noble birth to vie 
 With Mollo's honour'd line ! 
 
 Eth. (proudly.) Hast thou forgot ? 
 
 Or did'st thou never hear whose blood it is 
 That fills these swelling veins ? 
 
 Sel. I cry you mercy, Thane : I little doubt 
 Some brave man w'as the founder of your house. 
 
 VOL. ir. 1 
 
114 • ETHWALD : 
 
 Eth. Yes, such an one, at mention of whose name 
 The brave descendants of two hundred years 
 Have stately rose with more majestic step. 
 And proudly smiled. 
 
 Ed. Who was this lordly chieftain ? 
 
 Eth. A Swabian shepherd's son, who, in dark 
 times. 
 When ruin dire menaced his native land. 
 With all his native lordship in his grasp, 
 A simple maple spear and osier shield, 
 Making of keen and deep sagacity. 
 With daring courage and exalted thoughts, 
 A plain and native warrant of command. 
 Around him gather'd all the valiant youth ; 
 And, after many a gallant enterprise, 
 Repell'd the foe, and gave his country peace. 
 His gratefid country bless'd him for the gift. 
 And offer'd to his worth the regal crown. 
 
 Sel, (bowing respectfiiUy.) 1 yield me to thy 
 claim. 
 
 (Ethwald, who has raised himself up by de- 
 grees upon hearing the story, and listened 
 eagerly, now starts up, impatient of the 
 pause, and catches Eth. by the arm.) 
 
 Ethw. And did they crown him then ? 
 
 Eth. No ; with a mind above all selfish wrong. 
 He gen*rously the splendid gift refused : 
 And drawing from his distant low retreat 
 The only remnant of the royal race. 
 Did fix him firmly on his father's seatj 
 Proving until his very latest breath 
 A true and loyal subject. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 115 
 
 (EtliwaUrs countenance changes^ then turning 
 from Eth. he sloxdij r^e tires to the bottom of 
 the stage and edit. Eth. follows him atten- 
 tive Ij/ xvith his eye as he retires.) 
 Eth. Marked you the changes of the stripling's 
 eye? 
 You do complain that lie of late has grown 
 A musing sluggard. Selred, mark me well : 
 Brooding in secret, grows within his breast 
 That which no kindred owns to sloth or ease. 
 And is your father fix'd to keep him pent 
 Stillhere at home? Doth theoldwizard'sprophecy, 
 That the destruction of his noble line 
 Should from the valour of his youngest son, 
 In royal warfare, spring, still haunt his mind ? 
 This close confinement makes the pining youth 
 More eager to be free. 
 
 Sel. Nay, rather say, the lore he had from thee 
 Hath o'er him cast this sullen gloom. Ere this. 
 Where was the fiercest courser of our stalls 
 That did not shortly under him become 
 As gentle as the lamb ? What bow so stiff 
 But he would urge and strain his youthful 
 
 strength, 
 Till every sinew o'er his body rose. 
 Like to the sooty forger's swelling arm, 
 Until it bent to him ? What flood so deep 
 That on its foaming waves he would not throw 
 His naked breast, and beat each curling surge, 
 Until he gain'd the far opposing shore ? 
 But since he learnt from thee that letter'd art, 
 Which only sacred priests were meant to know, 
 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 ETHWALD 
 
 See how it is, I pray ! His fktlier's house 
 
 Has unto him become a cheerless den. 
 
 His pleasant tales and sprightly playful talk, 
 
 Which still our social meals were wont to cheer, 
 
 Now visit us but like a hasty beam 
 
 Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the maid 
 
 My careful father destines for his bride. 
 
 That he may still retain him here at home, 
 
 Fair as she is, receives, when she appears, 
 
 His cold and cheerless smile. 
 
 Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome, 
 
 And the displeasure of our holy saint. 
 
 Might well have taught thee that such sacred art 
 
 Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the 
 
 youth. 
 Eth. I've spoilt the youth ! What think'st 
 
 thou then of me ? 
 Sel. I'll not believe that thou at dead of night 
 Unto dark spirits say'st unholy rhymes ; 
 Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt. 
 Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach ; 
 Not that foul fiends about thy castle yell. 
 What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with 
 
 storms ; 
 Tho' many do such frightful credence hold. 
 And sign themselves when thou dost cross their 
 
 way. 
 I do not believe 
 
 Eth. By the bless'd light of heaven! — 
 
 Sel. I cannot tlunk 
 
 Eth. By this well-pioved sword ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 117 
 
 -^6'/. Patience, good Thane ! I meant to speak 
 thy praise. 
 
 Eth. My praise, say'st thou ? 
 
 Sel. Thy praise. I would have said, 
 
 *' That he who in the field so oft hath fought, 
 So bravely fought, and still in the honour'd cause, 
 Should hold unhallow'd league with damned 
 
 sprites, 
 I never will believe." Yet much I grieve 
 That thou with bold intrusive forwardness. 
 Hast enter'd into that which holy men 
 Hold sacred for themselves ; 
 And that thou hast, with little prudence too, 
 Entrapp'd my brother with this wicked lore, 
 Altho* methinks thou didst not mean him harm. 
 
 Eth. I thank thee, Selred j listen now to me, 
 And thou shalt hear a plain and simple tale, 
 As true as it is artless. 
 
 These cunning priests full loudly blast my fame. 
 Because that I with diligence and cost. 
 Have got myself instructed how to read 
 Our sacred scriptures, which, they would 
 
 maintain. 
 No eye profane may dare to violate. 
 If I am wrong, they have themselves to blame ; 
 It was their hard extortions first impell'd me 
 To search that precious book, from which they 
 
 draw 
 Their right, as they pretend, to lord it thus. 
 But what think'st thou, my Selred, read I there? 
 Of one sent down from heav'n in sovereign pomp, 
 To give into the hands of leagued priests 
 
 I 3 
 
118 KTHWALD : 
 
 All power to hold th' immortal soul of man 
 In everlasting thraldom ? O far otherwise ! 
 
 {taking Selred'^ hand 'H'itli great earnestness.') 
 Of one who health restored unto the sick. 
 Who made the lame to walk, the blind to see, 
 Who fed the hungry, and who rais'd the dead, 
 Yet had no place wherein to lay his head. 
 Of one from ev'ry spot of tainting sin 
 Holy and pure ; and yet so lenient, 
 That he with soft and unupbraiding love 
 Did woo the wandering sinner from his ways. 
 As doth the elder brother of a house 
 The erring stripling guide. Of one, my friend. 
 Wiser by far than all the sons of men, 
 Yet teaching ignorance in simple speech. 
 As thou would'st take an infant on thy lap 
 And lesson him with his own artless tale. 
 Of one so mighty 
 
 That he did say unto the raging sea 
 " Be thou at peace," and it obeyed its voice ; 
 Yet bow'd himself unto the painful death 
 Thatwe mightlive. — They say that I am proud — 
 
 ! had they like their gentle master been ! 
 
 1 would, with suppliant knee bent to the ground. 
 Have kiss'd their very feet. 
 
 But, had they been like him, they would have 
 
 pardon'd me 
 Ere yet my bending knee had touch'd the earth. 
 Sel. Forbear, nor tempt me with thy moving 
 words ! 
 I'm a plain soldier, and unfit to judge 
 Of mysteries which but concern the learn'd. 
 11 
 
A TRAGEDY. 119 
 
 Eth. I know thou art, nor do I mean to tempt 
 thee. 
 But in thy younger brother I had mark'd 
 A searching mind of freer exercise, 
 Untrammell'd with the thoughts of other men : 
 And like to one, who, in a gloomy night, 
 Watching alone amidst a sleeping host. 
 Sees suddenly along the darken'd sky 
 Some beauteous meteor play, and with his hand 
 Wakens a kindred sleeper by his side 
 To see the glorious sight, e'en so did I. 
 With pains and cost I divers books procured, 
 Telling of wars, and arms, and famous men ; 
 Thinking it would his young attention rouse ; 
 Would combat best a learner's difficulty, 
 And pave the way at length for better things. 
 But here his seized soul has wrapp'd itself. 
 And from the means is heedless of the end. 
 If wrong I've done,vI do repent me of it. 
 And now, good Selred, as thou'st seen me fight 
 Like a brave chief, and still in th' honour'd cause. 
 By that good token kindly think of me, 
 As of a man who long has suffered wrong 
 Rather than one deserving so to suffer. 
 
 Sel. 1 do, brave Ethelbert. 
 
 Eth. I thank thee, friend. 
 
 And now we'll go and wash us from this dust : 
 We are not fit at goodly boards to sit. 
 Is not your feast-hour near ? 
 
 Sel. I think it is. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 I 4 
 
120 ETHWALD 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A small apartment hi Mollo'.s- castle. Enter 
 Ethwald very thoughtful., who leans against a 
 pillar for seme time without sjoeaking. 
 
 Ethw. (coming forward.') Is it delusion this ? 
 Or wears the mind of man within itself 
 A conscious feeling of its destination ? 
 What say these suddenly imposed thoughts. 
 Which mark such deepened traces on the brain 
 Of vivid real persuasion, as do make 
 My nerved foot tread firmer on the earth. 
 And my dilating form tower on its way ? 
 That I am born, within these narrow walls. 
 The younger brother of a petty chief, 
 To live my term in dark obscurity. 
 Until some foul disease or bloody gash, 
 In low marauding strife, shall lay me low ? 
 My spirit sickens at the hateful thought ! 
 It hangs upon it with such thick oppression. 
 As doth the heavy, dense, sulphureous air 
 Upon the breath it stifles. {Pulling uj) the sleeve 
 of his garment^ and baring his right arm 
 from the shoulder.) 
 A firmer strung, a stronger arm than this 
 Own'd ever valiant chief of ancient story ? 
 And Jacks my soul within, what should impel it? 
 Ah ! but occasion, like th* unveiling moon 
 Which calls the advent'rer forth, did shine on 
 
 them ! 
 I sit i'thc shade ! no star-beam falls on me ! 
 
A TRAGKDV. 121 
 
 (^Bursts into tears, and throxvs himself ()ack 
 against the pillar. A pause ; he then starts 
 forward full of animation, and tosses his arms 
 high as he speaks.') 
 No; storms are hush'd within their silent cave. 
 And unflesh'd lions slumber in the den, 
 Dnt there doth come a time! 
 
 Enter Bertha, stealing softly upon him before he 
 is aware. 
 
 What, Bertha, is it thee wlio steal'st upon me ? 
 
 Ber. I heard thee loud : 
 C'onversest thou with spirits in the air? 
 
 Ethw. With those whose answ'ring voice thou 
 can'st not hear. 
 
 Ber. Thou hast of late the friend of such be- 
 come. 
 And only thei/. Thou art indeed so strange 
 Thy very dogs have ceas'd to follow thee. 
 For thou no more their fawning court receiv'st. 
 Nor callest to them with a master's voice. 
 What art thou grown, since thou hast lov'd to pore 
 Upon those magic books? 
 
 Ethw. No matter what! a hermit an' thou wilt. 
 
 Ber. Nay, rather, by thy high assumed gait 
 And lofty mien, which I have mark'd of late. 
 Oft times thou art, within thy mind's own world, 
 Some king or mighty chief. 
 If so it be, tell me thine honour's pitch, 
 And I will tuck my regal mantle on. 
 And mate thy dignity, {assuming much state.) 
 
 Ethw. Out on tliy foolery ! 
 
122 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ber. Dost thou remember 
 
 How on our throne of turf, with birchen crowns 
 And willow branches waving in our hands, 
 We shook our careless feet, and carolPd out, 
 And call'd ourselves the king and queen of 
 Kent ? 
 
 Ethxv. Yes, children ever in their mimick play 
 Such fairy state assume. 
 
 Ber. And bearded men 
 
 Do sometimes gild the dull enchanting face 
 Of sombre stilly life with like conceits. 
 Come, an' you will we'll go to play again. 
 
 {tripping gaily round Imn.') 
 
 Ethw. Who sent thee here to gambol round 
 me thus ? 
 
 Ber. Nay, fie upon thee! for thou know'st right 
 well 
 It is an errand of my own good will. 
 Knowest thou not the wand'ring clown is here. 
 Who doth the osier wands and rushes weave 
 Into all shapes : who chants gay stories too ; 
 And who was wont to tell thee, when a boy, 
 Of all the bloody wars of furious Penda ? 
 E'en now he is at work before the gate, 
 With heaps of pliant rushes round him strew'd ; 
 In which birds, dogs, and children roll and nestle. 
 Whilst, crouching by his side, with watchful eye 
 The playful kitten marks each trembling rush 
 As he entwists his many circling bands. 
 Nay, men and matrons, too, around him flock. 
 And Ethelbert, low seated on a stone, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 1'23 
 
 With arms tlius cross'd, o'erlooks his curious 
 craft. 
 
 Wilt thou not come? 
 -Ethw. Away, I care not for it ! 
 
 Ber. Nay, do not shake thy head, tor thou 
 must come. 
 
 This magic girdle will compel thy steps, (t/irows 
 a girdle round him playfidlij, and pulls it till 
 it breaks.') 
 Ethw, (smilijig coldly.) Thou see'st it cannot 
 hold me. (Bertha's^ce changes immediately : 
 she bursts into tearSj and turns away to con- 
 ceal it.) 
 Ethw. (soothing her.) My gentle Bertlim! little 
 foolish maid ! 
 
 Why fall those tears? wilt thou not look on me? 
 
 Dost thou not know 1 am a wayward man, 
 
 Sullen by fits, but meaning no unkindness ? 
 Ber. O thou were wont to make the hall rejoice ; 
 
 And cheer the gloomy face of dark December! 
 Ethtv. And will, perhaps, again. Cheer up, 
 my love ! (ossumi7ig a cheerful voice.) 
 
 And plies the wand'ring clown his pleasing craft, 
 
 Whilst dogs and men and children round him 
 flock? 
 
 Come, let us join them too. (holding out his hand 
 to her^ whilst she smiles thro* her tears.) 
 
 How course those glancing drops adown thy 
 cheeks, 
 
 Like to awhimp'ring child! fie on thee, Bertha! 
 (wipes off her tearSy and leads her out affec- 
 tionately.) [Exeunt. 
 
124 ETHWALD : 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A narrow stone gallery or passage. 
 
 (Voice without.) Haste, lazy comrade, there! 
 Jinter two Servants bi/ opposite sides, otie of them 
 carrying mats of rushes in his arms. 
 
 First Serv. Set'st thou thy feet thus softly to 
 the ground, — 
 As if thou had'st been paid to count thy steps? 
 What made thee stay so long? 
 
 Secofid Serv. Heard you the news ? 
 
 First Serv. The news ? 
 
 Second Serv. Ay, by the mass ! sharp 
 
 news indeed. 
 And mark me well ; beforehand 1 have said it j 
 Some of those spears now hanging in the hall 
 Will wag i' the field ere long. 
 
 First Serv. Thou hast a marv'llous gift of pro- 
 phecy. 
 I know it well; but let us hear thy news. 
 
 Secotid Serv. Marry! the Britons and their 
 restless prince, 
 Join'd with West Anglia*s king, a goodly host, 
 Are now in Mercia, threatening all with ruin. 
 And over and besides, God save us all ! 
 They are but five leagues off. 
 'Tis true. And over and besides again, 
 Our king is on his way to give them battle. 
 Ay, and moreover all, if the late floods 
 Have broken down the bridge, as it is fear'd, 
 He nuist perforce pass by our castle walls, 
 
A TRAGEDY. ['25 
 
 And tlien tliou slialt behold a goodly shew ! 
 First Serv. Who brought the tidings ? 
 Second Serv. A soldier sent on horseback all 
 express : 
 E'en now I heard him tell it to the Thane, 
 Who cautioned me to tell it unto none, 
 That Ethwald might not hear it. 
 
 First Serv. And thou in sooth obey'st his 
 caution well. 
 Now hear thou this from me : thou art a lout ; 
 And over and besides a babbling fool ; 
 Ay, and moreover all, I'll break thy head 
 If thou dost tell again, in any wise, 
 The smallest tittle of it. 
 
 Second Serv. Marry ! I can be as secret as 
 thyself! 
 I tell not those who blab. 
 
 First Serv. Yes, yes, thy caution is most scru- 
 pulous ; 
 Thou'lt whisper it in Ethwald's hither ear 
 And bid the farther not to know of it. 
 Give me those trusses. 
 
 Second Serv. Yes, this is made for my old 
 master's seat, 
 And this, so soft, for gentle lady Bertha, (giving 
 
 the mats.) 
 And this, and this, and this for Ethelbert. 
 But see thou put a sprig of mountain-ash 
 Beneath it snugly. Dost thou understand ? 
 First Serv. What is thy meaning ? 
 Second Serv. It hath a power to cross all 
 wicked spells j 
 
126 ETHWALD : 
 
 So that a man may sit next stool to tli' devil, 
 If he can lay but slyly such a twig 
 Beneath his seat, nor suffer any harm. 
 
 First Serv. I wish there were some herb of 
 secret power 
 To save from daily skaith of blundering fools : 
 I know beneath whose stool it should be press'd. 
 Get thee along ! the feast smokes in the hall. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Soj-on hall, mth the walls hung round mth 
 armour. Mollo, Ethelbert, Selred, Eth- 
 WALD, Bertha, Sigurtha, and others, are dis- 
 covered sitting round a table, on which stand 
 goblets andjlaggons, 8^c. after a feast. 
 
 Eth. Nay, gentle Bertha, if thou followesthim. 
 Sheer off those lovely tresses from thy liead, 
 And with a frowning helmet shade those eyes : 
 E*en with thy prowess added to his own, 
 Methinks he will not be surcharg'd of means 
 To earn his brilliant fortune in the field. 
 
 Ber. Nay, rather will I fill a little scrip 
 With sick-men's drugs and salves for fest'ring 
 
 wounds. 
 And journey by his side, a travelling leech. 
 
 Sel That will, indeed, no unmeet comrade be 
 For one whose fortune must be earn'd with blows 
 Borne by no substitutes. 
 
 Ethw. Well jested, Thanes ! 
 
 But some, ere now, with fortune earn'd by blows 
 
A TRAGEDY. 127 
 
 Borne by no substitutes, have placed their mates 
 Above the gorgeous dames of castled lords. 
 Cheer up, sweet Bertha ! 
 For ev'ry drug ta'en from thy little scrip 
 I'll pay thee back with 
 
 Eth, Sticks the word i' his throat. 
 
 Sel. It is too great for utterance. 
 
 Eth. Here's to your growing honours, future 
 chief; 
 And here is to the lofty dame who shall be — 
 (they all drinh ironically to Ethw. ^^zf/ Berth.) 
 
 Mollo. {seriously.) Here is a father's wish for 
 thee, my son, (to Ethw.) 
 Better than all the glare of fleeting greatness. 
 Be thou at home the firm domestic prop 
 Of thine old father's house, in this as honour'd 
 As he who bears far hence advent'rous arms ! 
 Nor think thee thus debarred from warlike 
 
 deeds : 
 Our neighb'ring chiefs are not too peaceable. 
 And much adventure breed in little space. 
 
 Ethw. What ! shall I in their low destructive 
 strife 
 Put forth my strength, and earn with valiant 
 
 deeds 
 The fair renown of mighty Woggarwolfe, 
 The flower of all those heroes ? Hateful ruflian ! 
 He drinks men's blood and human flesh devours ! 
 For scarce a heifer on his pasture feeds 
 Which hath not cost a gallant warrior's life. 
 I cry you mercy, father ! you are kind, 
 
128 ETHVVALD : 
 
 But I do lack tlie grace to thank you for it. 
 
 (Mollo leans on the table and looks sad.) 
 Sigur. (to Mol.) Good uncle, you are sad! Our 
 o-en'rous Ethwald 
 Contemns not his domestic station here, 
 Tho' Uttle wilHng to enrich your walls 
 With spoils of petty war. 
 
 Ethw. (seeing his father sad, and assuming 
 chee? fulness.) 
 Nay, father, if your heart is set on spoil, 
 Let it be Woggarwolfe's that you shall covet. 
 And small persuasion may suffice to tempt me. 
 To plunder him will be no common gain. 
 We feasters love the flesh of well-run game : 
 And, faith ! the meanest beeve of all his herds 
 Has hoof 'd it o'er as many weary miles. 
 With goading pike-men hollowing at his heels. 
 As e'er the bravest antler of the woods. 
 His very muttons, too, are noble beasts. 
 For which contending warriors have fought ; 
 And thrifty dames will find their fleece enrich'd 
 With the productions of full many a soil. 
 Be)\ How so, my Ethwald ? 
 Ethw. Countest thou for nought 
 
 Furze from the upland moors, and bearded 
 
 down. 
 Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain ? 
 The sharp-tooth 'd bramble of the shaggy woods 
 And tufted seeds from the dark marsh ? Good 
 
 sooth ; 
 She well may triumph in no vulgar skill 
 
A TRAGEDY. 129 
 
 Who spins a coat from it. 
 And then his wardrobe, too, of costly geer, 
 Which from the wallets of a hundred thieves, 
 Has been transferring for a score of years, 
 In endlesss change, it will be noble spoil ! 
 
 (A trumpet is Jieard mthouty and Ethw. starts 
 from his seat.) 
 Ha ! *tis the trumpet's voice ! 
 Wliat royal leader this way shapes his route ? 
 
 (« silent pause.) 
 Ye answer not, and yet ye seem to know. 
 
 Enter Servants in haste. 
 Good fellows, what say ye ? 
 
 First Serv. The king! the king! and with five 
 
 thousand men ! 
 Seco7id Serv. I saw his banners from the bat- 
 tlements 
 Waving between the woods. 
 
 Third Serv. And so did I. 
 
 His spearmen onward move in dusky lines, 
 Like the brown reeds that skirt the winter pool. 
 Set. Well, well, their needs not all this wond'- 
 ring din : 
 He passes on, and we shall do our part. 
 First Serv. The foe is three leagues off. 
 Sel. Hold thy fool's tongue ! I want no in- 
 formation. 
 
 (^Ethwald remains for a 'while thoughtful, then 
 ruyining eagerly to the end of the hall, 
 climbs up and snatches from the walls a 
 s*word and shield, ivith which he is about to 
 run out.) 
 
 VOL. II. K 
 
130 ETHWALD : 
 
 Mollo. (tottering from his seat.) 
 O go not forth my rash impetuous son ! 
 Stay yet a term beneath thy father's roof, 
 And, were it at the cost of half my lands, 
 I'll send thee out accoutred like a thane. 
 EtJnv. No, reverend sire, these be my patri- 
 mony ! I ask of thee no more. 
 Ber. And wilt thou leave us ? 
 MoUo. Ay, he'll break thy heart. 
 
 And lay me in the dust ! {trumpet sounds again, 
 and Ethw. turning hastily from them, runs out.) 
 Ber. Oh ! he is gone for ever ! 
 EtJi. Patience, sweet Bertha ! 
 Sel. The castle gates are shut by my command. 
 He cannot now escape. Holla, good friends ! 
 
 (to those without.) 
 Enter Followers. 
 All quickly arm yourselves, and be prepared 
 To follow me before the fall of eve. 
 
 Eth. Send out my scout to climb the farther 
 hill, 
 And spy if that my bands are yet in sight. 
 
 [Exeunt Followers. 
 Now let us try to tame this lion's whelp. 
 
 Enter Servant ?w haste. 
 Sel What tidings man ? Is Ethwald at tlie 
 
 gate ? 
 Ser. No, good my lord, nor yet within the 
 
 walls. 
 Sel. What, have they open'd to him ? 
 Ser. No, my Lord, 
 
 Loudly he call'd, but when it was refus'd, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 
 
 131 
 
 With glaring eyes, like an enchafed wolf, 
 He hied him where the lowest southern wall 
 Rises but little o*er the rugged rock ; 
 There, aided by a half-projecting stone, 
 He scaPd its height, and holding o'er his head. 
 His sword and shield, grasp'd in his better hand, 
 Swam the full moat. 
 
 Eth. (to Sel.) O, noble youth! 
 Did I not say, you might as well arrest 
 The fire of Heav'n within its pitchy cloud 
 As keep him here ? (Bertha faints away.) 
 Alas, poor maid ! 
 
 (JVhilst Sigurtha and Eth. &c. attend to 
 Bertha, enter folloii^ers and retainerSy and 
 begin to take down the armour from the 
 walls. Enter Woggarwolfe.) 
 IVog. {to Sel.) They would have shut your 
 gate upon me now, 
 But I, commission'd on the king's affairs, 
 Commanded entrance. Oswal greets you, chiefs. 
 And gives you orders, with your followers. 
 To join him speedily, {seeing Bertha.) 
 What, swooning women here ? 
 
 Sel. Ethwald is gone in spite of all our care. 
 And she, thou know'st, my father's niece's child, 
 Brought up with him from early inflmcy, 
 Is therein much affected. 
 
 Wog. {smiling.') O, it is ever thus, 1 know it 
 well. 
 When striplings are concern'd! Once on a time, 
 A youthful chief I seiz'd in his own hall. 
 When, on the instant, was the floor around 
 
 K 2 
 
132 ETHWALD : 
 
 With fainting maids and shrieking matrons 
 
 strew'd, 
 As tho' the end of all things had been Unk'd 
 Unto my fatal grasp. 
 
 Sel. (eagerly.) Thou did'st not slay him? 
 
 Wog. {smiling coiilemptuousli/.) Ask Selred if 
 
 I slew mine enemy ? 
 Sel. Then, by lieav*n's light, it was a ruffian's 
 
 deed ! 
 Wog, I cry thee grace ! wear'st thou a virgin 
 sword ? 
 Maidens turn pale when they do look on blood, 
 And men there be who sicken at the sight, 
 If men they may be calPd. 
 
 Sel. Ay, men there be. 
 
 Who sicken at the sight of crimson butchery, 
 Yet in the battle's heat will far out-dare 
 A thousand shedders of unkindled blood. 
 
 Eth. {comirig forward.) Peace, Thanes'! this is 
 no time for angry words. 
 (Bertha giving a deep sig//, Eth. a?id Sel. go 
 to her mid leave Wog. tvJio heeds her 7iot, 
 but looks at the men taking the anus from 
 the walls. — Observing one who hesitates be- 
 tween the swo7'ds.) 
 Wog. Fool, choose the other blade ! 
 That weight of steel will noble gashes make ! 
 Nay, rightly guided in a hand like thine. 
 Might cleave a man down to the nether ribs. 
 
 Sig, {to Bertha, as she is recovering.) 
 My gentle child, how art thou ? 
 
 Ber. And no kind hand to hold him ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 Eth. Be not cast down, sweet maid ; he'll soon 
 return ; 
 All are not lost who join in chanceful war. 
 Ber. I know right well, good Thane, all are 
 not lost. 
 The native children of rude jarring war, 
 Full oft returning from the field, become 
 Beneath their shading helmets aged men : 
 But, ah ! the kind, the playful, and the gay ; 
 They who have gladden'd their domestic board. 
 And cheer'd the winter-fire, do they return ? 
 
 (shaking he?^ head sorroufully .^ 
 I grieve you all : I will no more complain. 
 Dear mother, lead me hence. (Jo Sig.) 
 (To Sel.) I thank you, gentle Selred, this suffices. 
 [Exeunt Bertha, supported hy Sigurtha. 
 Sel. {to MoUo, "who has sat for some time icith his 
 Jace cover* d.) What, so overcome, my father? 
 Moll. I am overcome, my son ; lend me thine 
 arm. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 K 3 
 
134' ETHWALD 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE 1. A forest : the view of an abbey xvith 
 its spires in the back groimd. Enter the King, 
 attended by Seagurth and several Thanes and 
 followers^ some of them woimdedy and their 
 wounds bound np, as after a battle. Afourish 
 of trumpets : the King stretches out his arm in 
 the action of command; the trumpets cease ^ and 
 they all halt. 
 
 King. Companions of this rough andbloodyday. 
 Beneath the kindly shelter of this wood 
 A while repose, until our eager youth. 
 Shall, from the widely spread pursuit returned, 
 Rejoin our standards. 
 
 Brave Seneschal, thou'rt weak with loss of blood ; 
 Forbear attendance. Ay, and thou, good Bald- 
 rick : 
 And thou, (to another,) and all of you. 
 
 Sen. No, gracious king 5 
 
 The sight of you, unhurt, doth make the blood 
 That in our veins remains so kindly glow, 
 We cannot faint. 
 
 King. Thanks, noble chiefs ! dear is the gain 
 I earn. 
 Purchased with blood so precious. Who are those 
 
A TRAGEDY. 135 
 
 Who thitherward in long procession move ? 
 Sen. It is the pious brethren, as I guess, 
 Come forth to meet you from yon neighb'ring 
 
 abbey, 
 And at their head the holy Hexulf comes. 
 
 Enter Hexulf and Monks. 
 He.v. Accept our humble greetings, royal sire ! 
 Victorious be your arms ! and in the dust 
 Low be your foes, as in this glorious day ! 
 Favour'd of heav'n, and of St. Alban, hail ! 
 King. I thank your kindly zeal, my rev'rend 
 father ; 
 And from these holy brethren do accept 
 With thanks this token of good will, not doubting 
 Tliat much I am beholden to your prayers. 
 Hex. In truth, most gracious king, your armed 
 host 
 Has not more surely in your cause prevailed 
 Than hath our joint petition, offer'd up 
 W^ith holy fervour, most importunate. 
 Soon as the heav'n-rais'd voices sweetly reach'd 
 The echoing arches of yon sacred roofs, 
 Saint Alban heard, and to your favour'd side 
 Courage and strengtli, the soul of battle, sent ; 
 Fear and distraction to th' opposing foe. 
 
 King. Ah, then, good father, and ye pious 
 monks ! 
 Would that ye had begun your prayers tlie sooner! 
 For long in doubtful scales the battle hung ; 
 And of the men who, with this morning's sun, 
 Buckled their harness on to follow me, 
 
 K 4 
 
136 ETHWALD : 
 
 Full many a valiant warriour, on his back 
 Lies stiff'ning to the wind. 
 
 Hej:. The wicked sprite in ev'ry armed host 
 Will find his friends ; who doubtless for a time 
 May counterpoise the prayers of holy men. 
 There are among your troops, I question not, 
 Many who do our sacred rites contemn : 
 Many who haveblasphem'd — Ay, good my Lord ; 
 And m.any holding baleful heresies. 
 Fought Ethelbert, of Sexford, in your host ? 
 
 King. He did, my rev'rend father, bravely 
 fought : 
 To him and valiant Selred, MoUo's son, 
 Belong the second honours of the day. 
 
 (Hexulf looks abashed and is silent J) 
 
 Enter Edward attended, 'who, after making his 
 
 obeisance to the King, runs up eagerly to Sea- 
 
 gurth. 
 
 Edw. You are not wounded, father ? 
 
 Sea. No, my boy. 
 
 Ediv. Thanks to preserving goodness ! Noble 
 Thanes, 
 It grieves me much to see those swathed limbs. 
 War wears a horrid, yet alluring face. 
 (To King.) Your friends, my Lord, have done 
 
 me great despite. 
 Had they not long detain' d me on the way, 
 I should have been with you before the battle. 
 
 King. Complain not, youth j they had, in this, 
 commands 
 Too high to be disputed. And His well. 
 For we have had a rough and bloody day. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 137 
 
 Edw. Ha ! is it so ? But you have been vic- 
 torious. 
 How went the field ? 
 Sea. Loud rose our battle's sound, and for a 
 while 
 The Mercians bravely fought; when all at once. 
 From some unlook'd-for cause, as yet unknown, 
 A powerful panic seiz'd our better wing, 
 Which, back recoiling, turn'd and basely fled. 
 Touch'd quickly with a seeming sympathy. 
 Our centre-force began, in laxed strength, 
 To yield contended space. — So stood the field; 
 When on a sudden, like those warriour spirits, 
 Whose scattered locks the streamy lightening is. 
 Whose spear the bolt of heaven ; such as the 
 
 seer 
 In 'tranced gaze beholds midst hurtling storms, 
 Rush'd forth a youth unknown, and in a pass. 
 Narrow and steep, took his determin'd stand. 
 His beck'ning hand and loud commanding voice 
 Constrain'd our flying soldiers from behind. 
 And the sharp point of his opposing spear 
 Met the pale rout before. 
 
 The dark returning battle thicken'd round him. 
 Deeds of amazement wrought his mighty arm ; 
 Rapid, resistless, terrible. 
 High rose each warlike bosom at the sight. 
 And Mercia, like a broad encreasing wave. 
 Up swell'd into a hugely billow'd height, 
 O'erwhelming in its might all lesser things. 
 Upon the foe return'd. Selred and Ethelbert 
 Fell on their weaken'd flank. Confusion, then, 
 
138 ETHWALD : 
 
 And rout and Iiorrid slaughter fill'd the field : 
 Wide spread the keen pursuit ; the day is ours ; 
 Yet many a noble Mercian strews the plain. 
 
 Edw. (^eagerly.') But the young hero fell not? 
 
 Sea. No, my son. 
 
 Edw. Then bless'd be heav'n! there beats no 
 noble heart 
 Which shall not henceforth love him as a 
 
 brother. 
 Would he were come unhurt from the pursuit ! 
 O that I had beheld him in his might, 
 When the dark battle turn'd ! 
 
 Sea. Your wish is soon fulfill'd, my eager boy; 
 For here, in truth, the youthful warriour comes. 
 And, captive by his side, the British Prince. 
 
 Enter Ethwald xvith the British Prince prisoner, 
 accompanied hy Selred and Ethelbert, and 
 presents his prisoner to the King. 
 
 King. (Jo Prince.) Prince of the Britons, clear 
 
 thy cloudy brow ; 
 The varied fate of war the bravest prove. 
 And tho' I might complain that thy aggressions 
 Have burnt my towns, and filled my land with 
 
 blood, 
 Thy state forbids it. Here, good Seneschal, 
 Receive your charge, and let him know no change 
 Unsuited to a prince. {To Ethwald.) 
 And thou, brave warriour, whose youthful arm 
 Plas brought unto thy king so high a gift, 
 Say, what proud man may lift his honour'd head. 
 And boast he is thy iatlier. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 139 
 
 Ethw. A Tliane, my Lord, forgotten and retiretl ; 
 I am the youngest son of aged Mollo, 
 And Ethwald is my name. 
 
 King. Youngest in years, tlio* not in lionour, 
 
 youth, 
 E'en tho' the valiant Seh'ed is thy brother, {turning 
 
 to Selred.) 
 And now be thou the first and noble root, 
 From which a noble race shall take its growth, 
 Wearing thy honours proudly ! 
 Of Marnieth's earldom be thou the Lord ! 
 For well I know the council of the states 
 Will not refuse to ratify my grant. 
 And thou, brave Ethelbert, and Selred, too, 
 Ye well have earned a noble recompense, 
 And shall not be forgot. Come hither, Edward ; 
 Take thou this hero's hand; and, noble Ethwald, 
 Thus let the kingdom's ethling join with me 
 In honouring thy worth. 
 
 (Edward, t^ho has gazed at some distance upon 
 
 ^ Ethwald, springing forward eagerly.') 
 Give him my hand, my Lord! have you not said 
 That 1 should fold him to my burning heart? 
 {Embraces Ethw.) Most valiant, Ethwald, 
 Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee. 
 But they do choke and flutter in my throat. 
 And make me like a child, (passing his hand 
 
 across his et/es.) 
 Ethw. {kissing Edward's hand.) I am repaid 
 
 beyond a kingdom's worth. 
 Edw. {to Sea. I)ounding joyfully.') Father, have 
 
 you embraced him ? 
 
140 ETHWALD : 
 
 Etliwakl, my father is a valiant man. (Sea. em- 
 braces Ethw. but not so eagerly as Edw.) 
 King, (to Ethw.) Brave youth, with you, and 
 with your noble friends, 
 I shall, ere long, have further conference, (retires 
 to the bottom of the stage with Hexulf.) 
 (Edward, after gazing with admiration upon 
 Ethw. puts his hand upon his head, as if 
 to measure his height; then upon both his 
 shoulders, as if he were considering the 
 breadth of Ids chest; then steps some paces 
 back and gazes at him again J) 
 Edw. How tall and strong thou art? broad is 
 thy chest: 
 Stretch forth, I pray, that arm of mighty deeds. 
 (Ethw. smiles and stretches out his arm; Edw. 
 looks at it, and then at his^Wfi,") 
 Would I were nerv'd like thee ! 
 (Taki?ig Ethw.'^ sword.) It is of weight to suit no 
 
 vulgar arm. 
 (Returning it.) There, hero j graceful is the sword 
 
 of war 
 In its bold master's grasp. 
 
 Ethw. Nay, good my Lord, if you will honour 
 me. 
 It does too well your noble hand become 
 To be returned to mine. 
 
 Edw. Ha! say'st thou so? Yes, I will keep thy 
 pledge. 
 Perhaps my arm — Ah, no ! it will not be ! 
 But what returning token can I give ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. Ml 
 
 Ihavebrightspearsaiulsliiclds, aiidshiningbladcs. 
 But nought ennobled by the owner's use. 
 
 (Takes a bracelet from his arm and fastens 
 it round Ethwald'^.) 
 King, (advancing from the Iwttom of the stage.) 
 Mywortliy chiefs and Thanes, the night wears on, 
 The rev'rend bishop, and these pious men. 
 Beneath their fane give hospitahty, 
 And woo us to accept it for the night. 
 
 Sea. 1 thought, my Lord, you meant to pass 
 the night 
 With your brave soldiers in the open field : 
 Already they have learnt the pleasing tale. 
 Shall I unsay it ? 
 
 King. Nay, that were unfit. 
 
 I pray you pardon me, my rev'rend father ! 
 I cannot house with you, it were inifit. 
 
 Hea,\ Should not your greatness spend the 
 night with those, 
 To whom, in truth, you owe the victory ? 
 AVe chant at midnight to St. Alban's praise : 
 Surely my Lord regards those sacred things. 
 (Whispers the King.) ** 
 
 King. Brave Seagurth, there are reasons of 
 good weight 
 Why I should lay aside my first intent. 
 Let all these wounded chieftains follow me : 
 The rest who list may keep the open field. 
 (To Edw.) Nephew, thou must not prove a 
 
 soldier's hardships. 
 Ere thou hast earn'd a soldier's name. Nay, nay, 
 It must be so. (Exeunt King, "wounded Chiefs, 
 
142 ETHWALD : 
 
 Hexiilf, and Monks, Jbllotved hij Edward 
 'very unwillingly.') 
 Sea, Who loves a soldier's pillow, follow me. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The outside ofMohi^o's castle. Bertha, Sigurtha, 
 and others discovered on the walls, and several 
 Servants and Retainers standing by the gate 
 helow\ 
 
 Berth. O, will they ne*er appear? I'll look no 
 more ; 
 Mine eager gazing but retards their coming. 
 (Retires and immediately returns again.) 
 Holla, good Murdoch ! (fo a Servant below.) 
 Thou put'st thy hand above thy sunned eyes : 
 Dost thou descry them ? 
 
 First Ser. Mercy, gentle lady, 
 
 If you descry them not from that high perch, 
 How should I from my level station here ? 
 Sig. {to Berth.) Go in, my child, thou art worn 
 out with watching. 
 
 (Berth. 7'etireSy and 2d Servant goes at some 
 distance from the walls and looks out an- 
 other way.) 
 Sec. Ser. Here comes the noble Selred. 
 {All call out.) Noble Selred ! 
 
 Berth, {returning upon the wall.) What, Eth- 
 
 wald, say ye ? 
 Sig. No, it is Selred. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 1 4o 
 
 Enter Selred, xvith JhllwdLers^ and loolis up to 
 tJie wallSy where Sigurtha waves her hand. 
 
 Sig, Welcome, brave Selred ! welcome all thy 
 band ! 
 How far are they behind lor whom we watch ? 
 
 Set, Two little miles or less. Methinks ere this 
 Their van should be in sight. 
 My messenger inform'd you ? 
 
 Sig. Oh, he did 1 
 
 Sel. Where is my father ? 
 
 Sig. He rests within, spent with a fearful joy, 
 And silent tears steal down his farrow'd cheeks. 
 
 Sel. I must confer with him. The king intends 
 To stop and do him honour on his march, 
 But enters not our walls. 
 
 [Exeunt iiito the castle. 
 
 •scene III. 
 A chamber in the castle. Enter Sigurtha and 
 Bertha, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Berth. Nay, mother, say not so : was he not 
 w^ont, 
 If but returning from the daily chace. 
 To send an upward glance unto that tower ? 
 There well he knew, or late or cold the hoiu'. 
 His eye should find me. 
 
 Sig. My gentle Bertha, be not thus disturb'd. 
 Such busy scenes, such new unlook'd-for things 
 Ruffle the flowing stream of habit ; men 
 Will then forgetful seem, tho' not unkind. 
 
 Berth. Think*st thou ? (shaldng her head.) 
 I saw him by his sovereign stand, 
 
144 ETHWALD : 
 
 And O, how graceful ! every eye to liim 
 Was turn'd, and every face smil'd honours on him ; 
 Yet his proud station quickly did he leave 
 To greet his humbler friends who stood aloof. 
 The meanest follower of these walls, already, 
 Some mark of kind acknowledgment hath had — 
 He look*d not up — I am alone forgotten! 
 
 Sig\ Be patient, child : he will not long delay 
 To seek thee in thy modest privacy ; 
 Approving more to see thee here retired 
 Than, boldly to the army's eye exposed. 
 Greeting his first approach. I, the mean while. 
 Intrusted am with orders from the Thane, 
 AVhich must not be neglected. [Exit. 
 
 Berth, (cifte?^ tcalkmg lip and dorvn, agitated , 
 and frequently stopping to listen.^ 
 Ah, no ! deceiv'd again ! I need not listen ! 
 No bounding steps approach. 
 
 (^She sits doum despondingly . Enter Eth- 
 WALD behind, and steals softly up to her.) 
 Ethw. Bertha ! 
 
 Berth, {^starting up.) My Ethwald ! {he holds 
 out his arms to her joyjidly, and she bursts 
 into tears.) 
 Eth'w. Thou dost not grieve that I am safe re- 
 
 turn'd ? 
 Berth. O no ! I do not grieve, yet I must 
 weep. 
 Hast thou, in truth, been kind? I will not chide: 
 I cannot do it now. 
 
 Elhxv. O, fie upon thee ! like a wayward child 
 To look upon me thus ! cheer up, my love. 
 14 
 
A TRAGEDY. 145 
 
 {He sm/les upon hvrjoi/J'ul/j/, and her counte- 
 nance brightens. She then puts her hand 
 upon his arm, and, stepping back a little 
 space, surveys him with delight.) 
 Berth. Thou man of mighty deeds ! 
 Thou, whom the brave shall love and princes 
 
 honour ! 
 Dost thou, in truth, return to me again, 
 Mine own, my very Ethwald ? 
 
 Ethw. No, that were paltry : I return to thee 
 A thousand fold the lover thou hast known me. 
 I have, of late, been careless of thee, Bertha. 
 The hopeless calm of dull obscurity. 
 Like the thick vapours of a stagnant pool, 
 Oppress'd my heart and smother*d kind affec- 
 tions ; 
 But now th' enlivening breeze of fortune wakes 
 My torpid soul — When did I ever fold thee 
 To such a warm and bounding heart as this ? 
 
 (JEmhyices her.) 
 The king has given me Mairnieth's earldom — 
 Nay, smile my Bertha ! 
 
 Berth. So I do, my Ethwald. 
 Ethw. The noble Ethling greatly honours me 
 With precious tokens : nay, the very soldiers 
 Do cock their pointed weapons as I pass ; 
 As tho* it were to say, " there goes the man 
 That we would cheerly follow." 
 Unto what end these fair beginnings point 
 I know not — but of this I am assured, 
 There is a course of honour lies before me, 
 
 VOL. II. L 
 
146 ETHWALD : 
 
 Be it with dangers, toil, or pain beset, 
 Which I will boldly tread. Smiles not my love? 
 Berth. I should, in truth : but how is this ? 
 methinks 
 Thou ever look'st upon the things to come, 
 I on the past. A great and honour'd man 
 I know thou'lt be : but O, bethink thee, then ! 
 How once thou wert, within these happy walls, 
 A little cheerful boy, with curly pate, 
 Who led the inflmt Bertha by the hand, 
 Storing her lap with ev'ry gaudy flower ; 
 With speckled eggs stol'n from the hedgeling's 
 
 nest. 
 And berries from the tree : ay, think on this. 
 And then I know thou'lt love me ! 
 
 ( Trumpet sounds. Catching hold of him eagerly.') 
 Hear'st thou that sound ? The blessed saints 
 
 preserve thee ! 
 Must thou depart so soon ? 
 
 Ethw. Yes, of necessity : reasons of weight 
 Constrain the king, and I, new in his service. 
 Must seem to follow him with willing steps. 
 But go thou with me to the castle gate. 
 We will not part until the latest moment. 
 
 Berth. Yet stop, I pray, thou must receive my 
 pledge. 
 See'st thou this woven band of many dyes. 
 Like to a mottled snake ? its shiny woof 
 Was whiten'd in the pearly dew of eve. 
 Beneath the silver moon : its varied warp 
 Was dyed with potent herbs, at midnight cullM. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 147 
 
 It hath a wond'roiis charm : the breast that wears 
 
 it 
 No change of soft affection ever knows. 
 
 Ethw. (receiving it with a smile.) Fll wear it. 
 Bertha. ( Trmmpct sounds.') 
 
 Hark ! it calls me hence. 
 
 Berth. O go not yet ! here is another gift, 
 This ring enrich'd with stone of basilisk, 
 Whenever press'd by the kind wearer's hand, 
 Presents the giver's image to his mind. 
 Wilt thou not wear it ? 
 
 Ethw. (receiving it.) Yes, and press it too. 
 
 Berth. Andin this purse — (taking out a purse.) 
 
 Ethw. What! still another charm ? (laughing.^ 
 
 Thou simple maid ! 
 Dost thou believe that witched geer like this 
 Hath power a lover faithful to retain. 
 More than thy gentle self? 
 
 Berth. Nay, laugh, but wear them. 
 
 Eth. I will, my love, since thou wilt have it so. 
 (^Putting them in his breast.) Here are they lodged, 
 
 and cursed be the hand 
 That plucks them forth ! And now receive my 
 
 pledge. 
 It is a jewel of no vulgar worth: (tiesitonheraim.) 
 Wear it and think of me. But yet, belike, 
 It must be steep'd into some wizard's pot, 
 Or have some mystic rhyming muttered o'er it. 
 Ere it will serve the turn. 
 
 Berth, (pressing the jewel on her arm.^ 
 O no ! right well I feel there is no need. 
 
 h 2 
 
148 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. Come, let us go : we do not part thou 
 know'st, 
 But at the castle gate. Cheer up, my Bertha ! 
 I'll soon return, and oft return agam. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethwald 
 and Alwy, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Ethw. What peace ! peace, say'st thou, with 
 these glorious arms, 
 In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round us, 
 And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand. 
 Pointing to future fields of nobler strife. 
 With richer honours crown'd ? What, on the face 
 Of such fair prospects draw the veil of peace ! 
 Cold blasting peace ! The blackest fiend of hell 
 Hath not a thought more dev'lish ! 
 
 Alwy. It is indeed a flat unpleasant tale 
 For a young warrior's ear : but well hast thou 
 Improv'd the little term of bold occasion ; 
 Short while thou wert but Mollo's younger son, 
 Now art thou Mairnieth's lord. 
 
 Ethw. And what is Mairnieth's lordship ! I will 
 own 
 That, to my distant view, such state appear'd 
 A point of fair and noble eminence ; 
 But now — what is it now ? O ! it is sunk 
 Into a petty knoll ! I am as one 
 Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height, 
 And having gained what to the upcast eye 
 The summit's point appear'd, astonish'd sees 
 14 
 
A TRAGEDY. 149 
 
 Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged, 
 Towering aloft, as distant as before. 
 
 Ahvy. Patience, brave Etliwald ; ere thy locks 
 are grey, 
 Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower. 
 And fair occasion shape thee fair reward. 
 
 Ethiv. Ere that my locks are grey ! the world 
 ere now 
 Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But 
 
 I — 
 I am as one who mounts to th* azure sky 
 On tlie rude billow's back, soon sunk again : 
 Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud, 
 The terror of a moment. Fate perverse ! 
 'Till now, war's frowning spirit wont, when 
 
 rous'd. 
 To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds, 
 Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land 
 From bound to bound beneath his axle shook : 
 But soon as in my hand the virgin spear 
 Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd 
 Like a tired braggard to his caves of sloth. 
 
 (^stamping on the gromid.) 
 Peace ! cursed peace ! Who will again unchain 
 The grizly dog of war ? 
 
 Aim/. Mean'st thou the British prince? 
 Ethw, (eagerly.) What say 'st thou, Alwy? 
 Alwy. I said not aught. 
 Ethw. Nay, marry ! but thou didst ! 
 And it has rais'd a thought within my mind. 
 The British prince released, would he not prove 
 A dog of war, whose yell would soon be followed? 
 L 3 
 
150 ETHWALD : 
 
 Alwy. They do indeed full hard advantage 
 take 
 Of his captivity, and put upon him 
 Conditions suited to his hapless state, 
 More than his princely will. 
 
 Ethiv. 'Tis basely done : would that some 
 friendly hand 
 His prison would unbar and free the thrall ! 
 But no, no, no ! I to the king resigned him j 
 'Twere an unworthy deed. 
 
 Alwy. It were most difficult ; 
 For now they keep him in a closer hold. 
 And bind his hands with iron. 
 
 Ethw. Have they done this? I*m glad on*t! O 
 I'm glad on*t ! 
 They promised nought unworthy of a prince 
 To put upon him — Now my hands are free ! 
 And, were it made of living adamant, 
 I will unbar his door. Difficult, say'st thou ! 
 No, this hath made it easy. 
 
 Akvy. Well softly tlien ; we may devise a way 
 By which the Seneschal himself will seem 
 The secret culprit in this act. 
 
 Ethw. No, no! . 
 
 1 like it not; tho' I must work i* the dark, 
 I'll not in cunningly devised hght 
 Put on my neighbour's cloak to work his ruin. 
 But let's to work apace ! the storm shall rise ! 
 My sound shall yet be heard ! 
 
 Alwy. Fear not, tliou shalt ere long be heard 
 again, 
 A dark'ning storm which shall not soon be iay'd. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 151 
 
 Etlm\ All, thou hast touch'd where my life's 
 Wie is cell'd ! 
 Is there a voice of prophecy within thee ? 
 
 (catching hold of his arm eagerly.') 
 I will believe there is ! my stirring soul 
 Leapt at thy words. Such things ere now have 
 
 been : 
 Men oft have spoke, unweeting of themselves ; 
 Yea, the wild winds of night have utter'd 
 
 words, 
 That have unto the list*ning ear of hope 
 His future greatness told, ere yet his thoughts 
 On any certain point had fix'd their hold. 
 Alivy. Thou may'st believe it : I myself, me- 
 thinks. 
 Feel secret earnest of thy future fortune ; 
 And please myself to think my friendly hand 
 May humbly serve, perhaps, to build thy great- 
 ness. 
 Ethw. Come to my heart, my friend ! tho' new 
 in friendship. 
 Thou, and thou only, bear'st true sympathy 
 With mine aspiring soul. I can with thee 
 Unbar my mind — Methinks thou shiv'rest, 
 Alwy. 
 Alwy. *Tis very cold. 
 Ethw. Is it? I feel it not : 
 But in my chamber burns the crackling oak. 
 There let us go. 
 
 Alivy. If you are so inclin'd. 
 
 (^5 they are going, Ethw. stops short, and 
 catches hold o/'Alwy eagerly.) 
 L 4 
 
152 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. A sudden fancy strikes me: Woggar- 
 wolfe. 
 That restless ruffian, might with little art 
 Be rous'd on Wessex to commit aggression : 
 Its royal chief, now leaguing with our king. 
 Will take the field again. 
 
 Alwy. We niight attempt him instantly : but 
 move, 
 In faith Pm cold ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 * 
 
 A dark apartment in the same castle. Woggar- 
 woLFE is discovered asleep upon a couch of 
 rushes, and covered with a mat. Enter Alwy 
 and a Follower, ivith a lad bearing a torch before 
 them, Alwy signs with his handy and tlie torch- 
 bearer retires to a distance, 
 
 ^/ti'j/.'Softly, ere we proceed; a sudden thought. 
 Now crossing o'er my mind, disturbs me much. 
 He who to-night commands the farther watch. 
 Canst thou depend upon him ? 
 
 Fol. Most perfectly ; and, free of hostile bounds. 
 
 The British prince ere this pursues his way. 
 
 Alwi/. I'm satisfied: now to our present purpose. 
 
 (As they advance towards the couch, Woggar- 
 
 woLFE is heard speaking in his sleep.') 
 
 Ha! speaks he in his sleep? some dream disturbs 
 
 him : 
 His quiv'ring limbs beneath the cov'ring move. 
 He speaks again. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 15S 
 
 JVog. (in his sleep.) Swift, in your package 
 stow those dead men's geer, 
 And loose their noble coursers from the stall. 
 Ahvy, Ay, plundering in his sleep. 
 Wog. Wipe thou that blade : 
 Those bloody throats have drench'd it to the 
 hilt. 
 Alwy. O, hear the night-thoughts of that bloody 
 hound ! 
 1 must awake him. Ho, brave Woggarwolfe ! 
 Wog. Hear how those women scream ! we'll 
 
 still them shortly. 
 Alwy. Ho, Woggarwolfe ! 
 JVog. Who calls me now ? cannot you master it? 
 (Alwy knocks upon the ground with his stick.') 
 What, batt'ring on it still ? Will it not yield ? 
 Then fire the gate. 
 
 Alwy. (shaking him.) Ho, Woggarwolfe, I say ! 
 Wog. (^starting up half awake.) Is not the castle 
 
 taken ? 
 Alwy. Yes, it is taken. 
 Wog. (rubbing his eyes.) Pooh ! it is but a 
 
 dream. 
 Alwy, But dreams full of I are found of real 
 events 
 The forms and shadows. 
 There is in very deed a castle taken. 
 In which your Wessex foes have left behind 
 Nor stuff, nor store, nor mark of living thing. 
 Bind on thy sword and call thy men to arms ! 
 Thy boiling blood will bubble in thy veins. 
 When thou hast heard it is the tower of Boruth. 
 
154 ETHWALD : 
 
 Wog. My place of strength ? 
 
 FoL Yes, chief; I spoke with one new from 
 the West, 
 Who saw the ruinous broil. 
 
 JVog. By the black fiends of hell ! therein is 
 stored 
 The chiefest of my wealth. Upon its walls 
 The armour of a hundred fallen chiefs 
 Did rattle to the wind. 
 
 Al*wy. Now will it sound elsewhere. 
 
 Wog. {171 despair,) My noble steeds, and all 
 my stalled kine ! 
 O, the fell hounds ! no mark of living thing? 
 
 FoL No mark of living thing. 
 
 Wog. Ah ! and my little arrow-bearing boy 1 
 He whom I spared amidst a slaughtered heap, 
 Smiling all weetless of th' uplifted stroke 
 Hung o'er his harmless head ! 
 Like a tamed cub I rear'd him at my feet : 
 He could tell biting jests, bold ditties sing. 
 And quaff his foaming bumper at the board, 
 With all the mock'ry of a little man. 
 By heav*n I'll leave alive within their walls, 
 Nor maid, nor youth, nor infant at the breast, 
 If they have slain that child! blood-thirsty 
 ruffians ! 
 
 Alwy, Ay, vengeance! vengeance! rouse thee 
 like a man ! 
 Occasion tempts ; the foe, not yet returned. 
 Have left their castle careless of defence. 
 Call all thy followers secretly to arms : 
 Set out upon the instant. 
 
A TRACED y. 155 
 
 irog: By holy saints, I will ! reach me, I 
 pray ! (pointing to his arms lying at a little 
 distance from himS) 
 Alwy. (giving them.) There, be thou speedy. 
 JVog, (putting on his armour S) Curse on those 
 loosen*d springs, they will not catch ! 
 Oh, all the goodly armour I have lost ! 
 Light curses on my head! if I do leave them 
 Or spear, or shield, or robe, or household stuftj 
 Or steed within their stalls, or horn or hoof 
 Upon their grassy hills ! (looking about.) What 
 
 want I now ? 
 Mine armour-man hath ta*en away my helm — 
 Faith, and my target too! hell blast the buzzard I 
 
 fExiT furiously. 
 Alwy. (laughing.) Ethwald, we have fulfiU'd 
 thy bidding well, 
 With little cost of craft ! But let us follow, 
 And keep him to the bent. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OP THE SECOND ACT. 
 
15G ETHWALD : 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A small close grove, with a steep 
 rocky hank at one end of it. Several Peasants 
 are discovered standing upon the bank, as if 
 looking at some distant sight. 
 
 1st Pea. Good lack a day ! how many living 
 souls, 
 In wide confused eddying motion mix*d, 
 Like cross set currents on the restless face 
 Of winter floods ! 
 
 Qd Pea. Where fight the Northern Mercians ? 
 
 1st Pea. On the right. 
 
 The gentle Ethling, as I am informed, 
 Eights likewise on the right : heav'n spare his 
 
 head ! 
 'Tis his first battle. 
 
 3d Pea. Hear, hear ! still louder swells that 
 horrid sound. 
 
 1st Pea. Ay, many voices join in that loud 
 din. 
 Which soon shall shout no more. 
 
 3d Pea. Ay, good neighbour, 
 
 Full gloriously now looks that cover'd field, 
 With all those moving ranks and glittering armsj 
 But he who shall return by setting sun 
 Will see a sorry sight. 
 
 (A loud distant noise.) 
 
A TRAGEDY. 157 
 
 1^^ Pea. Heav'n save us all ! it is the warlike 
 yell 
 Of those damn'd Britons that increaseth so. 
 By all the holy saints our men are worsted ! 
 
 {an increasing noise heard xdthoiit.) 
 Look ! yonder look ! they turn their backs and fly. 
 Sd Pea. O blasting shame ! where fights brave 
 Ethwald now ? 
 He is, I fear, far in the distant wing. 
 Let us be gone ! we are too near them here : 
 The flight comes this way : hear that horrid sound! 
 The saints preserve us ! 
 
 {The sound of the battle increases^ and is heard 
 nearer. The Peasants come hastily doiiii 
 from the bank, and exeunt. Enter Edward 
 with several followers disordered and panic- 
 struck.") 
 IstFol. (looking round.) They cease to follow 
 us : this thickest grove 
 Has stopp'd the fell pursuit: here may we rest. 
 (Edward throws himself down at the root of 
 a tree, and covers his face with his hands.) 
 2c? Fol. {filing his helmet with water from a 
 stream, and presenting it to Edvv.j 
 My prince, this cooling water will refresh you. • 
 Ed. {keeping his face still covered with one hand 
 and waving him off with the other.) 
 Away, away ! and do not speak to me ! 
 
 {A deep pause, the noise of the battle is again 
 heard coming nearer.) 
 1st Fol. We must not tarry here, {to Edw.) 
 My Lord, the farther thickets of tliis wood 
 Will prove a sure concealment : shall we move ? 
 
158 ETHWALD : 
 
 Edw. (^stUl covering Ms face.') Let the earth gape 
 
 and hide me. (another deei) pause.') 
 
 3d Fol. to 1st. The sin of all this rout falls on 
 
 thy head, 
 
 Thou cursed Thane ! thou and thy hireling knaves 
 
 First turn'd your backs and fled. 
 
 1st Fol. to 3d. Thou liest, foul tongue! it was 
 thy kinsman there 
 Who first did turn ; for I was borne away, 
 
 (pointing to 4fth Fol.) 
 Unwillingly away, by the rude stream 
 Of his fear-stricken bands. When, till this hour, 
 Did ever armed Briton see my back? 
 
 4.4h Fol. Arm'd Britons dost thou call them ? 
 devils they are ! 
 Thou know'st right well they deal with wicked 
 
 sprites. 
 Those horrid yells were not the cries of men ; 
 And fiends of hell look'd thro' their flashing eyes. 
 I fear to face the power of simple man 
 As little as thyself. 
 
 Enter more Fugitives. 
 
 1st Fol. (to Ed.) Up, my good Lord ! Hence 
 let us quickly move j 
 We must not stay. 
 
 Ed. Then thrust me thro' and leave me. 
 
 I'll flee no more, (looking up wildly ^ thenjiiing his 
 eyes wistfully upon 3d Follower, and 
 bending one knee to the ground.) 
 Ebbert, thy sword is keen, thy arm is strong ; 
 O, quickly do't ! and I shall be with those 
 Who feel nor shame nor panic. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 159 
 
 (3d Fol. and several olliers turn their faces 
 away and xveep. Enter more Fugitives.) 
 1st Fol What, is all lost? 
 istFug. Yes, ye«;! our wing is beaten. 
 
 Seagurth alone, with a few desp'rate men. 
 Still sets his aged breast against the storm ; 
 But thick the aimed weapons round him fly. 
 Like huntsmen's arrows round the toiled boar, 
 And he will soon be nothing. 
 
 Edw. (^starting up.) O, God! O, living God! 
 my noble father ! 
 He has no son ! — Off, ye debasing fears ! 
 1*11 tear thee forth, base heart, if thou dost let me. 
 {coming forward and stretching out his arms.) 
 Companions, noble Mercians — Ah, false word ! 
 I may not call you noble. Yet, perhaps, 
 One gen'rous spark within your bosom glows. 
 Sunk in disgrace still lower than ye all, 
 I may not urge — Who lists wdll follow me ! 
 All with one voice. We will all follow thee ! 
 Ed. Will ye, in truth? then we'll be brave men 
 still, (brandishing his sword as he goes off) 
 My noble father ! 
 
 [Exeunt, clashing their arms eagerly. 
 
160 ETHWALD : 
 
 SCENE TI. 
 
 A confused noise of a battle is heard. The scene 
 draws up and discovers tlie British and Mercian 
 armies engaged. Near the front of the stage 
 they are seen in close fight-, and the ground 
 strewed with several wounded and dead soldiers^ 
 as if they had beenfghting for some time. Farther 
 off missile weapoiu and showers of arrows darken 
 the air, and the view of the more distant battle is 
 concealed in thick clouds of dust. The Mercians 
 gain ground upon the Britons ; and loud cries are 
 raised by the^n to encourage one another. An ac- 
 tive Mercian ^//i\ and their pi^ogress is stopped 
 whilst they endeavour to bear him of. 
 
 Fallen Mercian. I*m slain, I*m slain ! tread 
 
 o'er me and push forward. 
 Mer. Chief O stop not thus! to it again, brave 
 Mercians ! 
 
 (The Mercians push on, encouraging one 
 anotlier with cries and clashing of arms : one 
 of their bravest soldiers is wounded on the 
 front of the stage and staggers backwards.) 
 Wounded Mer.' Ay , this is death: O that my 
 life had held 
 To see the end of this most noble game ! (^falls 
 dowUy but seeing the Mercians about to push 
 the Britons off the stage , raises himself ha f 
 from the ground and claps his hands erult- 
 ingly. 
 
A TRAGEDY. l6l 
 
 Well fought, brave Mercian! On, my noble Mer- 
 cians ! (Sinks down again.') 
 I am in darkness now! a clod o' the earth ! (^dies.) 
 Britons, (without.) Fresh succour, Britons! cou- 
 rage ! victory ! 
 Carwallen and fresh succour ! 
 
 (^The Britons 7iow raise a terrible yell^ and 
 push back the Mercians, who yield ground 
 and become spiritless and relaxed as their 
 enemy becomes bolder. The Britons at last 
 seize the Mercian standard, and raise an- 
 other terrible yell, whilst the Mercians give 
 way on every side.) 
 1st falling Mer. Horror and death ! the hand 
 
 of wrath is o'er us 1 
 ^d falling Mer, A fell and fearful end! a 
 bloody lair ! 
 The trampling foe to tread out brave men's breath. 
 (T/^e Britons yell again, and the Mercians 
 are nearly beat off the stage.) 
 ( Voice without.) Ethwald! the valiant Ethwald! 
 
 succour, Mercians! 
 (Voice within.) Hear ye, brave comrades? Eth- 
 wald is at hand. 
 
 Enter Ethwald, with his sword drawn. 
 Ethw. What, soldiers ! yield ye thus, while 
 vict'ry smiles 
 
 And bids us on to th* bent ? Your northern com- 
 rades 
 
 Mock at their savage howls, and drive before 
 them 
 
 These chafed beasts of prey. Come ! to it bravely !-' 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
162 ETHWALD : 
 
 To it, and let their mountain matrons howl. 
 
 For these will soon be silent. 
 
 Give me the standard. 
 
 Voice. They have taken it. 
 
 Ethw. Taken ! no, by the spirits of the brave ! 
 
 Standard of ours on Snowdon winds to float 1 
 
 No! this shall fetch it back! {taking off his Jielmet 
 and throwi7ig it into the midst of the enemy, 
 then rushing upon them bare-headed and 
 sword in hand. The Mercians clash their 
 arms and raise a great shout : the Britons 
 are driven off the stage ; whilst many of the 
 dying Mercians clajp their hands and raise 
 a feeble shout after their comrades. The 
 scene closes.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An open space before a royal tent ; the curtains 
 of which are tucked up, and shew a company of 
 warriors and dames within it. On either side 
 of the open stage soldiers are drawn up in order. 
 Enter two petty Thanes on the front of the 
 stage. 
 
 \st Thane. Here let us stand and see the cere- 
 mony. 
 Without the tent^ ^tis said the king will crown 
 The gallant Ethling with a wreath of honour, 
 As the chief agent in this victory 
 O'er stern Carwallen and his Britons gain'd. 
 
 ^d Thane. Thou sayest well. Within the royal 
 tent 
 They wait, as I am told, the Ethling's coming. 
 Who is full tardy. Softly, they come forth. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 1(33 
 
 * How like a ship, with all her goodly sails 
 Spread to the sun, the haughty princess moves ! 
 
 A Jioiirish of trumpets. Enter from the tent the 
 King, xvith Ethelbert, Edrick, Thanes, and 
 Attendants ; and Elburga, with Dwina and 
 Ladies. They advance towards the front of the 
 stage. 
 
 King. Nay, sweet Elburga, clear thy frowning 
 brow ; 
 He who is absent will not long delay 
 His pleasing duty here. 
 
 Elb. On such a day, my Lord, the brave I ho- 
 nour, 
 As those who have your royal arms maintained 
 In war's iron field, such honour meriting. 
 What individual chiefs, or here or absent. 
 Are therein lapt, by me unheeded is ; 
 I deign not to regard it. 
 
 King. Thou art offended, daughter, but un- 
 wisely. 
 Plumed with the fairest honours of the field. 
 Such pious grief for a brave father's death. 
 Bespeaks a heart such as a gentle maid 
 In her faith-plighted Lord should joy to find. 
 
 Elb. Who best the royal honours of a prince 
 Maintains, best suits a royal maiden's love. 
 
 King. Elburga, thou forget' st that gentleness 
 Which suits thy gentle kind. 
 
 * Probably I have received this idea from Samson Ago- 
 nistes, where DaUla is compared to a stately ship of Tarsus 
 " with all her bravery on, and tackle trim," &c. 
 
 M 2 
 
164« ETHWALD : 
 
 Elb, (with much assumed stateliness.) I hope, 
 my Lord, 
 I do meantime .that dignity remember, 
 Which doth beseem the daughter of a king ! 
 
 King. Fie ! clear thy cloudy brow ! it is my will 
 Thou honour graciously his modest worth. 
 
 (Elb. bowSi but smiles disdain/hill/.) 
 By a well feigned flight, he was the first 
 Who broke the stubborn foe, op'ning the road 
 To victory. Here, with some public mark 
 Of royal favour, by thy hand received, 
 I will to honour him ; for, since the battle, 
 A gloomy melancholy o'er him broods, 
 E*en far exceeding what a father's death 
 Should cast upon a youthful victor's triumph. 
 Ah; here he comes ! look on that joyless face! 
 Elb. (aside to Dwina, looking scornfully to Ed- 
 ward as he approaches.) 
 Look with what slow and piteous gait he comes! 
 Like younger brother of a petty Thane, 
 Timing his footsteps to his father's dirge. 
 
 Dwina. (aside.) Nay, to my fancy seems it 
 
 wond'rous graceful. 
 Elb. (contemptuously.') A youth, indeed, who 
 might with humble grace 
 Beneath thy window tell his piteous tale. 
 
 Enter Edward, followed by Ethwald and At- 
 tendants. 
 King. Approach, my son : so will I call tliee 
 now. 
 
A TRAGEDY. l65 
 
 Here is a face whose smiles should gild thy ho- 
 nours, 
 If thou art yet awake to beauty's power. 
 
 Edw. (kissing Elburga's hand respectfully.') 
 Honoured I am indeed ; most dearly honoured : 
 I feel it here, (Jiis hand on his heart,) and should 
 
 be joyful too, 
 If aught could gild my gloom. 
 
 (Sighs very deeply^ then suddenly recollect- 
 ing himself.) 
 Elburga, thou wert ever fond of glory. 
 And ever quick to honour valiant worth : 
 Ethwald, my friend — hast thou forgotten Eth- 
 wald ? {Presenting Ethw. to her.) 
 
 Elb. Could I forget the warlike Thane of 
 Mairnieth. 
 I must have bair'd mine ears against all sound j 
 For every voice is powerful in his praise, 
 And every Mercian tongue repeats his name. 
 
 (Smiling graciously upon Ethw.) 
 King, (impatiently.) Wliere go we now? we 
 wander from our purpose. 
 Edward, thy youthful ardour seasoned well 
 With warlike craft, has crown'dmy age with glory: 
 Here be thy valour crown'd, it is my will. 
 With honour's wreath, from a fair hand receiv'd. 
 (Giving the 'wreath to Elburga.) 
 Edw. (earnestly.) \ do beseech you, uncle! — 
 pray receive 
 My grateful thanks ! the mournful cypress best 
 Becomes my brow : this honour must not be. 
 M 3 
 
166 ETHWALD : 
 
 King. Nay, lay aside unseemly diffidence j 
 It must be so. 
 
 Edw. (impressively.) My heart is much de- 
 press'd : 
 
 do not add 
 
 The burden of an undeserved honour, 
 To bend me to the earth ! 
 
 King. These warlike chieftains say it is deserved. 
 And nobly earn'd. It is with their concurrence 
 That now I offer thee this warrior's wreath : ' 
 Yes, Ethling, and command thee to receive it. 
 {Holding up his hand.) There, let the trumpet 
 
 sound. (Trumpets sound.) 
 
 Edw. (holding up his hands distractedly.) 
 Peace, peace ! nor put me to this agony ! (trumpets 
 
 cease.) 
 And am I then push*d to this very point ? 
 Well, then, away deceit! too long hast thou 
 Like the incumbent monster of a dream 
 On the stretch'd sleeper's breast, depressed my 
 
 soul : 
 
 1 shake thee off, foul mate ! O royal sire. 
 And you, ye valiant Mercians, hear the truth ! 
 Ye have believM, that by a feigned flight, 
 
 I gained the first advantage o*er the foe, 
 And broke their battle's strength : Owoaldl had! 
 That flight, alas ! was real j the sudden impulse 
 Of a weak mind, unprov'd and strongly struck 
 With new and horrid things, until that hour 
 Unknown and unimagin'd. — 
 Nor was it honour's voice that calFd me back : 
 The call of nature saved me. Noble Seagurth ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. l67 
 
 Had I been son of any sire but thee, 
 I ]iad in dark and endless sliame been lost, 
 Nor e'er again before these valiant men 
 Stood in this royal presence. 
 In all my fortune, blest I am alone 
 That my brave father, rescued by these arms, 
 Look'd on me, smiling thro' the shades of death. 
 And knew his son. He was a noble man ! 
 He never turn'd from danger — but his son — 
 (^Many voices at once.') His son is worthy of him I 
 (^Rejieated again xvith 7nore voices.) His son is 
 
 worthy of him ! 
 Ethelbert. (with enthusiasm.) His son is worthy 
 of the noblest sire that ever wielded sword ! 
 {Voices.) Crown him, fair princess! Crown 
 the noble Edward ! 
 
 (Elburga offers him the wreath^ which he 
 puts aside vehemently.) 
 Edw. Forbear ! a band of scorpions round my 
 brow 
 Would not torment me Hke this laurel wreath. 
 (Elb. turns from him contemptuously^ and 
 gives the wreath to the King.) 
 Edw. {to King.) What, good, my Lord ! is 
 there not present here 
 A Mercian brow deserving of that wreath ? 
 Shall he, who did with an uncover' d head 
 Your battle fight, still wear his brows unbound? 
 Do us not this disgrace ! 
 
 King. (Jretfidly.) Thou dost forget the royal 
 dignity : 
 Take it away. {Giving it to an officer.) 
 
 M 4 
 
168 ETHWALD : 
 
 (^A coirfused murmuring amongst the soldiers.) 
 (Aside to tJie Seneschal, alarmed.) What noise is 
 that ? 
 Seji. (aside to King.) Your troops, my sire, are 
 much dissatisfied, 
 For that their favourite chief by you is deem'd 
 Unworthy of the wreath. 
 
 King, (aside.) What, is it so ? call back mine 
 officer, (taking the wreath again^ and giving it 
 to Elb.) 
 This wreath was meant for one of royal line, 
 But every noble Mercian, great in arms, 
 Is equal to a prince. 
 Crown the most valiant Ethwald. 
 
 Elb. (crowning Ethw. with great assumed ma- 
 jesty.) 
 Long may thy laurels flourish on thy brow. 
 Most noble chief! 
 
 (Ethw. takes the wreath and presses it to his 
 lips, boxving to Elb. the7i to the King.) 
 Ethw. They who beneath the royal banner fight. 
 Unto the fortunes of their royal chief 
 Their success owe. Honour' d, indeed, am I 
 ^'That the brave Ethling hath so favoured me. 
 And that I may, most humbly at your feet. 
 My royal sire, this martial garland lay. 
 
 (He, kneeling, lays the wreath at the King'5 
 
 Jeet ; the King raises him up and embraces 
 
 him ; the Soldiers clash their arms and call 
 
 out.) 
 
 Sold. Long live the king ! and long live noble 
 
 Ethwald! 
 
A TRAGEDY. l69 
 
 (T//W is several times repeated. Exeunt King, 
 Edward, Elburga, S^r. c^c. Elburga look- 
 ing graciously to Ethwald as she goes off' 
 Manent Ethwald and Ethelbert.) 
 
 Eth. {repeating indignantly as they go off.) 
 Long live the King, and long live noble Ethwald! 
 Fie on the stupid clowns, that did not join 
 The gen'roLis Edward's name ! (Jo Ethw. who is 
 standing looking earnestly after the princess.) 
 What dost thou gaze on ? 
 
 Ethw. The princess look'd behind her as she 
 went. 
 • Eth. And what is that tO' thee ? 
 
 ( Walks silently across the stage once or twice, 
 gloomy arid dissatisfied, then turnifig short 
 upon Ethw.) 
 When wert thou last to see the lovely Bertha ? 
 Ethw. (hesitating.) I cannot reckon it unto the 
 day- 
 Some moons ago. 
 
 Eth. Some moons! The moon in her wide 
 course shines not 
 Upon a maid more lovely. 
 Ethw. I know it well. 
 Eth. Thou dost. 
 
 Ethw. (after a pause, looking attentively to 
 Eth. who stands muttering to himself.) 
 Methinks thou boldest converse with thyself. 
 Eth. (speaking aloud, as if he continued to talk 
 to himself.) 
 She steps upon the flowery bosom'd earth. 
 
170 ETHWALD : 
 
 As tho' it were a foot-cloth, fitly spread 
 Beneath the tread of her majestic toe ; 
 And looks upon the human countenance, 
 Whereon her Maker hath the signs impressed 
 Of all that he within the soul hath stored 
 Of great and noble, gen'rous and benign, 
 As on a molten plate, made to reflect 
 Her grandeur and perfections. 
 
 Ethw. Of whom speak'st thou ? 
 
 Eth. Not of the gentle Bertha. [Exit. 
 
 Ethw. What may he mean ? He mark'd, with 
 much displeasure, 
 The soldiers shout my name, and now my favour 
 With Mercians princess frets him. What of this? 
 Ha 1 hath his active mind outrun mine own 
 In shaping future consequences ? Yes, 
 It must be so ; a cloudy curtain draws, 
 And to mine eye a goodly prospect shews, 
 Extending — No, I must not look upon it. 
 
 [Exit hastily. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An open space with arms, garments, and other 
 spoils of the Britons heaped up on every side of 
 the stage. Enter Soldiers, and range them- 
 selves in order, then enter Ethelbert and a 
 Soldier, talking as they enter. 
 
 Eili. Ethwaldamongsthis soldiers, dost thou say, 
 Divides his spoil ? 
 
 Sol. He does, most bountifully ; 
 Nor to himself more than a soldier's share 
 Retains, he is so gen'rous and so noble. 
 
A TllAGEDY. 17 1 
 
 Eth. I thank thee, friend. (Soldier retires.') 
 . (Eth. afteraimuse.) 
 I hke not this : behind those heaps Pll stand, 
 And mark the manner of this distribution, (retires. ) 
 
 Enter Alwy and a petty Thane. 
 Alivy. Brave warriours ! ye are come at his 
 desire, 
 Who for each humble soldier, bold in arms, 
 That has beneath his orders fought, still bears 
 A brother's heart. You see these goodly spoils : 
 He gives them not unto the cloister'd priests : 
 His soldiers pray for him. (Soldiers shout.') 
 
 Thane, (to Alwy.) What is thy meaning ? .'*^ 
 
 Alley. Knovvest thou not the king has now 
 bestow'd 
 The chiefest portion of his British spoil 
 On Alban's abbey ? 
 
 Enter Ethwald. 
 (Soldiers shouting very loud.) Long live brave 
 
 Ethwald ! health to noble Ethwald ! 
 Ethxv, Thanks for these kindly greetings, va- 
 liant hearts ! 
 
 (Soldiers shout again very loud.) 
 In truth I stand before you, brave companions. 
 Somewhat asham'd; for with my wishes match'd, 
 These hands are poor and empty. (Loud acclam- 
 ations.) 
 I thank you all again j for well I see 
 You have respect unto the dear good will 
 That must enrich these heaps of homely stuff. 
 Soldiers. Long live our generous leader ! 
 
172 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethxv. (^giving a Soldier a helmet Jilled with lots J) 
 Here, take the lots and deal them fairly round. 
 Heaven send to all of you, my valiant friends, 
 A portion to your liking. This rough heap 
 
 (^Pointing to the arms.) 
 Will give at least to each some warlike trophy, 
 Which henceforth, hung upon his humble walls, 
 Shall tell his sons and grandsons yet to come 
 In what proud fields, and with what gallant mates 
 Their father fought. And I, methinks, well pleas'd. 
 Resting, as heretofore I oft have done. 
 My wand'ring steps beneath your friendly roofs, 
 Shall, looking up, the friendly token spy, 
 And in my host a fellow soldier hail. 
 
 Soldiers, (yoith loud acclamations.') 
 God bless you, noble chief ! unto the death 
 W^e'll hold to you, brave leader ! 
 
 Eth'iV. And if to you I hold not, valiant Mercians, 
 No noble chief am I. This motley geer, 
 
 {Pointing to the spoils.) 
 Would it were all composed of precious things ! 
 That to his gentle wife or favoured maid. 
 Each soldier might have borne some goodly gift ; 
 But tell them, British matrons cross the woof 
 With coarser hands than theirs. 
 
 1st Sol. Saint Alban bless his noble counte- 
 nance ! 
 'Twas fashion'd for bestowing. 
 
 ^d Sol. Heav'n store his halls with wealth ! 
 
 JEthw. {going familiarlij amongst the soldiers as 
 the lots are draicifig.) 
 Well, Ogar, hast thou drawn ? good luck to thee. 
 
 15 
 
A TRAGEDY. 173 
 
 And thou, good Baldwin, too? Yet fie upon itl 
 The heaviest weapon of the British host 
 Lacks weight of metal for thy sinewy arm.- 
 
 Hal health to thee, mine old and honest host! 
 I'm glad to see thee with thine arm unbound. 
 And ruddy too ! thy dame should give me 
 
 thanks : 
 I send thee home to her a younger nian 
 Than I receiv'd thee, (to the Soldier with the lots 
 
 who is passing him.) 
 Nay, stay thee, friend, I pray, nor pass me o*er. 
 We all must share alike : hold out thy cap. 
 
 (^Smiling as he draws.) 
 The knave would leave me out. 
 
 (^Loud acclamations y the Soldiers surrounding 
 him and clashing their arms.) 
 
 Enter Selred and Followers. 
 
 Sel. (to Sol.) Ha! whence comes all this uproar? 
 Sol. Know you not ? 
 Your noble brother 'midst his soldiers shares 
 His British spoils. 
 
 iSe/. The grateful knaves! isall their joy for this? 
 
 (To his Followers.) 
 Well, go and add to it my portion also ; 
 *Twill make them roar the louder. Do it quickly. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Soldiers, (looking after Sel.) Heaven bless him 
 
 too, plain, honest, careless soul ! 
 
 He gives as tho' he gave not. (Loud acclamations.) 
 
 Long live brave Ethwald, and the noble Selred I 
 
lyi ETHWALD : 
 
 Etlvw. {aside to Alwy, displeased.') How came 
 
 he here ? 
 Alwy, I cannot tell. 
 
 Ethw. (Jo SoL) We are confined within this 
 narrow space: 
 Go range yourselves at large on yon green sward. 
 And there we'll spread the lots. 
 
 (Exeunt the Soldiers, arranging themselves 
 as they go.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethel- 
 BERT, and leans his back upon a pillar near the 
 front of the stage, as if deeply engaged in 
 gloomy thoughts : afterwards enters Ethwald 
 by the opposite side, at tlie bottom of the stage, 
 and approaches Eth. slowly, obsei^ving him at- 
 tentively as he advances. 
 
 Ethw. Thou art disturbed, Ethelbert. 
 
 Eth. I am. 
 
 Ethw. Thine eyes roll strangely, as tho* thou 
 beheld'st 
 Some dreadful thing : — 
 On what look'st thou ? 
 
 Eth. Upon my country's ruin. 
 
 The land is full of blood: her savage birds 
 O'er human carcases do scream and batten : 
 The silent hamlet smokes not ; in the field 
 The aged grandsire turns the joyless soil : 
 Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth 
 Within the narrow house of death is laid. 
 An early tenant. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 17.5 
 
 Ethtv. Thou'rt beside thyself! 
 
 Think*st thou that I, with these good arms, will 
 
 stand 
 And suffer all this wreck ? 
 
 Eth. Ha ! say'st thou so ? Afes, it is thyself 
 Who rul'st the tempest! (^Shaking his head 
 solemnlij.') 
 Ethxv. If that I bear the spirit of a man, 
 Thou falsely see'st! Think'st thou I am a beast; 
 A fanged wolf, reft of all kindly sense, 
 That I should do such deeds ? 
 1 am a man aspiring to be great. 
 But loathing cruelty : who wears a sword 
 That will protect and not destroy the feeble. 
 {Putting his hand vehemently upon his sword.) 
 Eth. Ha ! art thou roused ! blessings on thy 
 wrath ! 
 I'll trust thee still. But see, the Ethling comes. 
 And on his face he wears a smile of joy. 
 
 Enter Edward, advancing gaily to Ethwald. 
 
 Ed. A boon, a boon, great Mairnieth's Thane 
 I crave. 
 
 Eth. You come not with a suppliant's face, my 
 Lord. 
 
 Ed. Not much cast down for lack of confidence 
 My suit to gain. That envious braggard there. 
 The chief of Bournoth, says, no Mercian ^rm, 
 Of man now living, can his grandsire's sword 
 In warlike combat wield : and, in good sooth ! 
 I forfeit forty of my fattest kine 
 If Ethwald's arm does not the feat achieve. 
 
176 ETHWALD : 
 
 (To Ethw.) What say'st thou, friend? Methinks 
 
 thou'rt grave and silent : 
 Hast thou so soon thy noble trade forgot ? 
 Have at it then ! I'll rouse thy spirit up : 
 I'll soldier thee again. (^Drawing his sword play - 
 fulli) upon Ethwald, who defends himself in 
 
 like mcmner.') 
 Fie on't ! that was a wicked northern push : 
 It smells of thine old sports in Mollo's walls. 
 
 {Pauses and fights again.) 
 To it again ! How listless thou art grown ! 
 Where is thy manhood gone ? 
 
 Ethw. Fear not, my Lord, enough remains 
 
 behind 
 To win your forty kine. 
 
 Ed. I'll take thy word for't now: in faith, 
 
 I'm tired ! 
 I've been too eager in the morning's chace 
 To fight your noonday battles. (^Putting the poifit 
 
 of his sword to the ground, and leaning fami- 
 liarly upon Ethwald.) 
 My arm, I fear, would make but little gain 
 With Bournoth's sword. By arms and brave 
 
 men's love I 
 I could not brook to see that wordy braggard 
 Perching his paltry Sire above thy pitch : 
 It rais'd my fiend within. When I am great, 
 I'll build a tower upon the very spot 
 Where thou did'st first the British army stay, 
 And shame the grandsires of those mighty Thanes 
 Six ages deep. Lean I too hard upon thee ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 1/7 
 
 Ethw. No, nothing hard : most pleasant and 
 most kindly. 
 Take your full rest, my Lord. 
 
 Ed. In truth, I do : methinks it does me good 
 To rest upon thy brave and valiant breast. 
 
 Eth. (stepping before themwitli great animation,') 
 Well said, most noble Edward ! 
 The bosom of the brav^e is that on wliich 
 Rests many a head : but most of all, I trow, 
 Th' exposed head of princely youth thereon, 
 Rests gracefully. (Steps back some paces, and 
 looks at them with delight.') 
 Ed. You look upon us, Thane, with eager eyes 
 And looks of meaning. 
 
 Eth. Pardon me, I pray ! 
 My fancy oftentimes will wildly play, 
 And strong conceits possess me. 
 Indulge my passing freak : I am a man 
 Upon whose grizzled head the work of time 
 Hath been by care perform'd, and, witii the 
 
 young, 
 Claiming the priv'lege of a man in years. 
 
 (Taking the liands of Ed. and Ethw. and 
 joining them together.) 
 This is a lovely sight ! indulge my fancy : 
 And on this sword, it is a brave man's sword. 
 Swear that you will, unto each other prove. 
 As prince and subject, true. 
 Ed. No, no, good Thane ! 
 As friends, true friends ! that doth the whole 
 
 include. 
 I kiss the honour'd blade. (^Kissing the sword held 
 out by Eth.) 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
178 ETHWALD : 
 
 Eth. {preseiiting the s'ivord to Ethw.) And what 
 
 says noble Ethwald ? 
 Ethw. All that the brave should say {kissing 
 
 it also.) 
 Eth. {triumphantly.') Now, Mercia, thou art 
 strong ! give me your hands ; 
 Faith, I must lay them both upon my breast ! 
 
 {Pressing both their hands to his breast.) 
 This is a lovely sight ! 
 
 Ethw. {softened.) You weep, good Ethelbert. 
 Eth. {brushing off his tears with hisJiand.) 
 Yes, yes ! such tears as doth tlie warm shower'd 
 
 earth 
 Shew to the kindly sun. 
 
 Ed. {to Ethw. gently clapping his shoulder.) 
 I love this well : thou like a woman weep*st, 
 And fightest like a man. But look, I pray ! 
 There comes my arm's-man with the braggard's 
 
 sword : 
 Let us assay it yonder, [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
A TRACED V. 171) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. An apartment i?i a royal castle. Eth- 
 WALD is discovered sitting in deep meditation by 
 tJie side of a conchy icith a lamp Imrning by him 
 on a high stand: the rest of the stage entirely 
 dark. 
 
 Ethw. Why am I haunted with these thoughts? 
 
 What boots it 
 That from their weak aud priest-beriddeu king 
 The sokUers turn distasteful, and on me 
 In mutter'd wishes call? What boots all this? 
 Occasion fairly smiles, but I am shackled ; 
 Elsewhere I needs must turn my climbing 
 
 thoughts, 
 But where ? The youthful see around them spread 
 A boundless field of undetermined things, 
 Towering in tempting greatness : 
 But, to the closer scan of men matured, 
 These fade away, and in the actual state 
 Of times and circumstances each perceives 
 A path which doth to his advancement lead, 
 And only one ; as to the dazzled eye 
 Of the night rev'ller, o'er his emptied bowl, 
 The multiplied and many whirling lights 
 Do shrink at last into one single torch. 
 Shedding a steady ray. I see my path ; 
 But what is that to me ? my steps are chained. 
 N 2 ■ ■ 
 
180 ETHWALD : 
 
 Among'st tlie mighty great, the earth's high lords, 
 
 There is no place for ine ! I must lie down 
 
 In tlie dark tomb with those, whose passing 
 
 brightness ' 
 Sliines for a while, but leaves no ray behind. 
 
 (^Thro'iVS himself half ujxm the couch, and 
 groans heavily.) 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 Boy. My Lord, my Lord ! (Ethw. lifts up his 
 
 head, and looks sternly at him.) 
 Are you unwell, my Lord ? 
 Ethw. What dost thou want ? 
 Boy. I could not sleep : and as I listening lay 
 To the drear wind that whistles thro' these 
 
 towers, 
 Methouglit I iieard you groan like one in pain. 
 Eth%i\ Away, and go to sleep : I want thee not: 
 I say, begone, (^sternly.) [Exit Boy. 
 
 (^He pauses a rvhile, then sighs very deeply.) 
 He hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp 
 On the wreck'd swimmer's neck — hisboyishlove 
 Was not my seeking ; it was fasten'd on me, 
 And now it hath become an iron band 
 To fetter down my powers. O that I were 
 Amidst the warlike and ungentle cast 
 To strive uncumber'd 1 What have 1 to do 
 With soft affection ? (sqfte?i'd.) Yet it needs must 
 
 be! 
 His gen'rous love: — his brave ungrudging love : 
 His manly gentle love — O that he had 
 Mine equal friend been born, who in my rise 
 Had fair advancement found, and by my side 
 The next in honour stood ! 
 
A TRAGKDV. 181 
 
 Me drags me to the earth ! 1 needs must lay 
 My head i' tlie dust. — Dull hopeless privacy ! 
 From it my soul recoils : unto my nature 
 It is the death of death, horrid and hateful. 
 {Starting up eagerly.) No, in the tossed bark, 
 Connnander of a rude tumultuous crew, 
 On the wild ocean would I rather live ; 
 Or in the mined caverns of the earth 
 Untamed bands of lawless men controul, 
 By crime and dire necessity enleagued : 
 Yea, in the dread turmoil of midnight storms, 
 If such there be, lead on the sable hosts 
 Of restless sprites, than say to mortal man 
 " Thou art my master.'* 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 What here again ? 
 
 Boy. O pardon me, my Lord ! I am in fear ; 
 Strange sounds do howl and hurtle round my 
 
 bed J 
 I cannot rest. 
 
 EtJvw. Be gone, thou wakeful pest ! I say, be- 
 gone ! [Exit Boy. 
 (Ethw. walks several times aa^oss the stage 
 and then pauses.) 
 Yet in my mind one ever-present thought 
 Rises omnipotent o'er all the rest, 
 And says, " Thou shalt be great." 
 AVhat may this mean ? before me is no way. 
 What deep endued seer will draw this veil 
 Of dark futurity ? Of such Tve heard. 
 But when the troubled seek for them, they are 
 not. 
 
 N 3 
 
IS'2 ETHWALD : 
 
 Re-enter Boy. 
 (Stampi?7g 'With his foot.) Wliat! here a tliird time ? 
 
 Boij. (falling at his feet.') O, my noble master! 
 If you should slay me I must come to you ; 
 For in my chamber fearful things there be, 
 That sound i' the dark ; O, do not chide me back. 
 
 Ethw. Strange sound within tliy chambei', 
 foolish wight ! 
 
 Boy. {starting.) Good mercy, list ! 
 
 Ethw. It is some night-bird screaming on the 
 tower. 
 
 Boy. Ay, so belike it seemeth, but I know — 
 
 Ethw. What dost thou know ? 
 
 Boy. It is no bird, my Lord. 
 
 Ethw. What would'st thou say ? 
 
 Boy. (clasping his hands together, and stariiig 
 earnestly in Ethw.'^Jr/ce.) 
 At dead of night, from the dark Druid's cave 
 Up rise unhallow'd sprites, and o'er the earth 
 Hold for the term their wicked rule. Aloft, 
 Some mounted on the heavy sailing cloud. 
 Oft pour down noisome streams or biting hail 
 On the benighted hind, and from his home, 
 With'wayvv'ard eddying blasts, still beat him back. 
 Some on tlie waters shriek like drowning men. 
 And, when the pitying passenger springs forth. 
 To lend his aid, the dark flood swallows him. 
 Some on lone marshes shine like moving lights ; 
 And some on towers and castle turrets perch'd. 
 Do scream like nightly bii'ds, to scare the good. 
 Or rouse the murd'rer to his bloody work.. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 183 
 
 EtfruD. The Driiicrs cave, say*st thou ? What 
 cave is that ? 
 Where is it ? Who hath seen it ? What scar'd fool 
 Hath fili*d thine ears with all these horrid things? 
 
 Boij. It is a cavern vast and terrible, 
 Under the ground full deep ; perhaps, my Lord, 
 Beneath our very feet, here as we stand ; 
 For few do know the spot and centre of it, 
 Tho' many mouths it has and entries dark. 
 Some are like hollow pits bor'd thro* the earth, 
 O'er which the list'ning herdsman bends his ear, 
 And hears afar their lakes of molten fire 
 Swelt'ring and boiling like a mighty pot. 
 Some like straight passes thro' the rifted rocks, 
 From which oft issue shrieks, and whistling gusts, 
 And wailings dismal. Nay, some, as they say, 
 Deep hollow'd underneath the river's bed. 
 Which shew their narrow op'nings thro' the fern 
 And tangling briars, like dank and noisome holes 
 Wherein foul adders breed. But not far hence 
 The chiefest mouth of all, 'midst beetling rocks 
 And groves of blasted oaks, gapes terrible. 
 
 Ethxv. So near ? but wiio are they who dwell 
 within ? 
 
 Bo^. The female high arch Druid therein 
 holds, * 
 With many Druids tending on her will, 
 
 * It is natural to suppose that the Diviners or Fortune-tell- 
 ers of this period should, in their superstitions and pretensions, 
 very much resemble the ancient Druidesses who were so much 
 revered amongst the Britons as oracles and prophetesses, and 
 that they should, amongst the vulgar, still retain the name of 
 
 N 4- 
 
184 ETHWALD : 
 
 (Old, as they say, some hundred years or more) 
 Her court, where horrid spells bind to her rule 
 (Spirits of earth and air. 
 
 EtJvw. Ay, so they tell thee. 
 But who is he that has held converse with her? 
 
 Boy. Crannock, the bloody prince, didvisither, 
 And she did shew to him the bloody end 
 Whereto he soon should come ; for all she knows 
 That is or has been or shall come to pass. 
 
 Ethw. Yes, in times past such intercourse 
 might be, 
 But who has seen them now ? 
 
 Boy. Thane Ethelbert. 
 
 Ethw. (^starting.') What said'st thou, Ethelbert? 
 
 Boy. Yes, truly ; oft he goes to visit them 
 What time the moon rides in her middle course. 
 
 Etlm\ Art thou assured of this ? 
 
 Boy. A youth who saw him issue from the 
 cave ; 
 "Twas him who told it me. 
 
 Ethiv. Mysterious man ! 
 (^After a pause.) Where sleeps the Thane ? 
 
 Boy. If walls and doors may hold him. 
 He sleeps not distant, in the Southern Tower. 
 
 Mthw. Take thou that lamp, and go before 
 me then. 
 
 their great predecessors. In Henry's History of Britain, vol.i. 
 p. 181, it will be found that the superstitious practices of the 
 Druids continued long after their religion was abolished, and 
 resisted for a long time the light of Christianity ; and that 
 even so late as the reign of Canute, it was necessary to make 
 laws against it. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 185 
 
 Boij. Wlicrc ? 
 
 Etlnv. To the Southern Tower. Art thou 
 afraid ? 
 Boy. No, my good Lord, but keep you close 
 behind. 
 
 [Exeunt, Boy bearing the lamp^ and looking 
 often behind to see that Ethw. is near him. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A small gallerif or passage with a door in fronts 
 which is openedy and enter Ethwald, and 
 Ethelbekt with a lamp in his hand. 
 Eth. Then, by the morrow's midnight moon, 
 we meet 
 At the Arch Sister's cave : till then, farewel ! 
 Ethw. Farewel ! I will be punctual. [Exit. 
 Eth. {looking after hiynfor some time before he 
 speaks.) 
 It ever is the mark'd propensity 
 Of restless and aspiring minds to look 
 Into the stretch of dark futurity. 
 But be it so : it now may turn to good. 
 
 [Exit, returning back again into the same 
 chamber from which he came. 
 
iS6 ETHWALD : 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A wide arched cave, rude but grand, seen by a 
 
 sombre light ; a small furnace burning near the 
 
 front of the stage. Enter Ethwald and 
 
 Ethelbert, who pause and look round for some 
 
 time without speaki?ig. 
 
 Ethxv. Gloomy, and void, and silent ! 
 
 Eth. Hush! 
 
 Ethw. What hearest thou ? 
 
 Eth. Their hollow sounding steps. Lo! see'st 
 thou not ? 
 
 {^Pointing to the further erid of the stage, where, 
 from an obscure recess, enter three Mystics 
 i^obed in white, and ranged on one side of the 
 stage, point to Ethwald: whilst from another 
 obscure recess enter three Mystic Sisters, 
 and ranged on the opposite side point to Eth. 
 then from a mid recess enters the Arch Sister 
 robed also in white, but more majestic than 
 the others, and a train of Mystics a7id Mys- 
 tic Sisters beliind her. She advances half' 
 way up the stage, theti stops short, and points 
 also to Ethwald.) 
 
 (^All the Mystics, c^^c. speaking at once.^ 
 Who art thou ? 
 
 Arch Sist. I know thee who thou artj the 
 hand of Mercia : 
 The hand that lifts itself above the head. 
 I know thee who thou art. 
 
 Ethw. Then haply ye do know my errand too. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 187 
 
 Arch Sisl. 1 do ; but turn thcc buck upon tliy 
 steps, 
 And tempt thy fate no flirther. 
 
 Ethxv. From the chaf d shore turn back the 
 swelUng tide ! 
 I came to know my fate, and I will know it. 
 1st Mystic. Must we call up from the deep 
 centre's womb 
 The spirits of the night and their dread Lord? 
 1st My St. S. Must we do that which makes the 
 entombed dead 
 From coffins start? 
 JEthw. Raise the whole host of darkness an ye 
 will. 
 But I must be obey'd. 
 
 (The Arch Sister shrieks, and, throxiing her 
 mantle over her face, turns to go away.') 
 Ethw. If there is power in mortal arm to hold 
 you. 
 Ye stir not hence until I am obey'd. 
 1^^ Myst. And how compell'st thou ? 
 Ethiv. With this good sword. 
 \st Myst. Swords here are children's wands of 
 no avail : 
 There, warriour, is thy weapon. 
 Ethw. Where, Mystic ? say. 
 \st Mystic, (^pointing to the furnace.') Behold 
 within that fire 
 A bar of burning ii'on ! pluck it forth. 
 Ethw. (resolutely.) I will. 
 
 (jGoes to the furnace, and putting in his hand, 
 pulls out what seems a red hot bar of iron.) 
 
188 ETHWALD : 
 
 Airh Sist. (l/ifoxcing off' her mantle.) 
 Thou bast subdued me ; thou shalt be obey'd. 
 
 Elhiv. {casting away the bar.) 
 Away, thou paltry terrour ! 
 
 Arch Si St. (to Ethw.) We now begui our rites : 
 be firm, be silent. 
 
 (^She stretches forth her hand "uoith a com- 
 manding air, and the Mystics and Mystic 
 Sisters begin their incantations at the bot- 
 tom of the stage, moving round in several 
 mazy circles one "within another. Fire is 
 at last seen fashing from the midst of the 
 inner circle, and immediately they all begin 
 a hollow muttering sound, xchich becomes 
 louder and louder, till at length it is ac- 
 companied with dismal sowidsfrom without, 
 and distant music, solemn and wild.) 
 Ethw. (grasping Ethelbert's hand.) What dis- 
 mal sounds are these ? 
 'Tis like a wild lesponsive harmony, 
 Tun'd to the answering yells of damned soids. 
 What follows this ? Some horrid thing ! Thou 
 
 smilest : 
 Nay, press thy hand, I pray thee, on my breast ; 
 There wilt thou find no fear. 
 
 Eth. Hush ! hear that distant noise. 
 Ethw. 'Tis thunder in the bowels of the earth. 
 Heard from afar. 
 
 (A subterraneous noise like thunder is heard 
 at a distance, becoming louder as it ap- 
 proaches. Upon hearing this, the Mystics 
 
A TRAGEDY. 189 
 
 suddenly leave off their rites: the music 
 ceases^ and they^ opening their circles^ 
 range themselves on either side of the stagey 
 leaving the Arch Sister alone in the 
 middle.) 
 Arch Sist. {holding up her hand.) Mystics and 
 Mystic Maids, and leagued bands ! 
 The master spirit comes : prepare. " 
 (All repeat after her.) Prepare. 
 \st Mystic. Hark! thro* tlie darken'd reahns 
 below, 
 Thro' the fiery regions glow ; 
 Thro' the massy mountain's core, 
 Thro' the mines of living ore ; . 
 Thro* the yawning caverns wide, 
 Thro' the solid and the void ; 
 Thro' the dank and thro* the dry, 
 Thro' th' unseen of mortal eye ; 
 Upon the earthquake's secret course, afar 
 I hear the sounding of thy car : 
 Sulphureous vapours load the rising gale ; 
 We know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 
 {They all repeat.) Mighty master, hail ! 
 
 {The stage darkens by degrees^ and a thick 
 vapour begins to ascend at the bottom of the 
 stage.) 
 2fi? Mystic. Hark, hark ! what murmurs fill the 
 dome ! 
 Who are they who with thee come ? 
 Those who, in their upward flight, 
 Rouse the tempests of the night : 
 Those who ride in flood and fire ; 
 
190 ETHWALD : 
 
 Those who rock the tumbUng spire : 
 
 Those who, on the bloody plain, 
 
 Shriek with the voices of the slain : 
 
 Those who thro' the darkness glare, 
 
 And the sleepless murd'rer scare : 
 
 Those who take their surly rest 
 
 On the troubled dreamer's breast : 
 
 Those who make their nightly den 
 
 In the guilty haunts of men. 
 
 Thro' the heavy air I hear 
 
 Their hollow trooping onward bear : 
 
 The torches' shrinking flame is dim and pale ; 
 
 I know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 
 
 (^All irpeat again.) Mighty master, hail ! 
 (^The stage becomes still darker, afida thicker 
 vapour ascends.") 
 
 3d Mystic. Lo ! the mystic volumes rise ! 
 Wherein are lapt from mortal eyes 
 Horrid deeds as yet unthought. 
 Bloody battles yet unfought : 
 The sudden fall and deadly wound 
 Of the tyrant yet uncrown'd ; 
 And his line of many dyes 
 Who yet within the cradle lies. 
 Moving forms, whose stilly bed 
 Long hath been among the dead ; 
 Moving forms, whose living morn 
 Breaks with the nations yet unborn, 
 In mystic vision walk the horrid pale : 
 We own thy presence j mighty master, hail 1 
 
 {All.) Mighty master, hail ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. IQI 
 
 Enter from the farther end of the stage croxcds of 
 terrible spectres, dimly seen through the vapour, 
 which ?io'w spreads itself over the xvhole stage. 
 All the Mystics and Mystic Sisters hoxv them- 
 selves very low, and the Arch Sister, standing 
 alone in the rniddle, bows to all the different 
 sides of the cave. 
 
 Ethw. (Jo \st Mystic.) To every side the mystic 
 mistress bows, 
 What meaneth this? mine eye no form perceives: 
 Where is your mighty chief? 
 
 1st Mystic. Above, around you, and beneath. 
 Ethw:. Has he no form to vision sensible ? 
 \st Mystic. In the night's noon, in the winter's 
 noon, in the lustre's noon : 
 Of times twice ten within the century's round 
 Is he before our leagued bands confess'd 
 In dread appearance : 
 But in what form or in what circumstance 
 May not be told ; he dies who utters it. 
 
 (Ethw. shrinks at this, and seems somewhat 
 appalled. The Arch Sister, after tossing 
 about Jier arms, and writhing her body in a 
 violent agitation, fixes her eyes, like 07ie 
 waked from a dream, stedfastly upon Ethw. ; 
 then going suddenly up to him, grasjjs him 
 by the hand with energy.) 
 Arch Sist. Thou who would'st pierce the deep 
 and awful shade 
 Of dark futurity, to know the state 
 Of after greatness waiting on thy will. 
 
192 ETHWALD : 
 
 For in thy power acceptance or rejection 
 Is freely put, lift up thine eyes and say. 
 What see*st thou yonder ? 
 
 (^Pointing to a dark arched opening in the 
 
 roof of the cave^ where an illuminated 
 
 croxim and sceptre appears.') 
 
 Etlvw. (^starting.) Ha ! e'en the inward vision 
 
 of my soul 
 
 In actual form pourtray*d! {his eyes brightening 
 
 'wonderfully.) 
 Say'st thoii it shall be mine ? 
 Arch Sist. As thou shalt chuse. 
 Ethw. I ask of thee no more. 
 
 {Stands gazing upon the appeara^we till it 
 fades away.) 
 So soon extinguished? Hath this too a meaning? 
 It says perhaps, my greatness shall be short. 
 Arch Sist. I speak to thee no further than I 
 may, 
 Therefore be satisfied, 
 
 Ethw. And I am satisfied. Dread mystic 
 maid. 
 Receive my thanks. 
 
 Arch Sist. Nay, Ethwald, our commission ends 
 not here. 
 Stay and behold what follows. 
 
 {The stage becomes suddenly dark, and most 
 terrible shrieks, and groans, and dismal 
 lamentations, are heard from the farDier 
 end of the cave.) 
 Ethw. What horrid sounds are these ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 193 
 
 Arch Sist. The varied voice of woe, of Mercians 
 woe : 
 Of those who shall, beneath thine iron hand, 
 The cup of mis'ry drink. There, dost thou hear 
 The dungeoned captives' sighs, the shrilly shrieks 
 Of childless mothers and distracted maids, 
 Mix*d with the heavy groans of dying men? 
 The widow's wailings, too, and infant's cries — 
 (Ethw. stops his ears in horrour.) 
 Ay, stop thine ears; it is a horrid sound. 
 
 Ethw. Forefend that e'er again I hear the like! 
 What didst thou say ? O, thou didst foully say ! 
 Do I not know my nature ? heav'n and earth 
 
 As soon shall change 
 
 (^ voice above,) Swear not ! 
 
 (A voice beneath.) Swear not ! 
 
 (A voice on the same level, but distant.) Swear 
 
 not! 
 Arch Sist. Now, once again, and our commis- 
 sion ends. 
 Look yonder, and behold that shadowy form. 
 {Pointing to an arched recess^ across which 
 bursts a strong light, and discovers a crown- 
 ed phantom, covered with wounds, and re- 
 presenting by its gestures one in agony, 
 Eihw. looks, and shrinks back.) 
 What dost thou see ? 
 
 Ethw. A miserable man : his breast is pierced 
 With many wounds, and yet his gestures seem 
 The agony of a distracted mind 
 More than of pain. 
 
 Arch. Sist, But wears he not a crown ? 
 
 VOL. II. o 
 
194 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. Why does it look so fix'dly on me thus? 
 What are its woes to me ? 
 
 Arch Sist. They are thy own. 
 Know'st thou no traces of that alter'd form, 
 Nor see'st that crowned phantom is thyself? 
 
 Ethw. (shudderSy the?i, after a pause,) 
 I may be doom'd to meet a tyrant's end, 
 But not to be a tyrant. 
 Did all the powers of hell attest the doom, 
 I would belie it. Know I not my nature ? 
 
 By every dreaded power and hallow*d thing 
 
 ( Voice over the stage.) Swear not ! 
 (Voice under the stage.) Swear not! 
 (^Distant voice off the stage.) Swear not ! 
 {Thundering noise is heard under ground. 
 The stage becomes instantly quite dark, and 
 Mystics and Spirits, 8^c. disappear, Ethw. 
 and Eth. remaining alone.) 
 Eth. {after a pause.) How art thou ? 
 Ethw-. Is it thy voice? O, let me feel thy grasp! 
 Mine ears ring strangely, and my head doth feel 
 As tho' I were bereaved off my wits. 
 Are they all gone? Where is thy hand, I pray? 
 W^e've had a fearful bout ! 
 
 Eth. Thy touch is cold as death : let us ascend 
 And breathe the upper air. * [Exeunt. 
 
 * I will not take upon me to say that, if I had never read 
 Shakspeare's Macbeth, I should have thought of bringing 
 Ethwald into a cavern under ground to enquire his destiny, 
 though I beheve this desire to look into futurity (particularly 
 in a superstitious age) is a very constant attendant on am- 
 bition ; but I hope the reader will not find of the above scene 
 any offensive use made of the works of that great master. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 1 95 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A forest. Enter Ethwald with a hoxv in his handy 
 and a Boy carrying his arrows. 
 
 Etkw. (looking off the stage.) Ha! Alwy, soon 
 return'd ! and with him comes 
 My faithful Ongar. 
 
 Enter Alwy and Ongar with bows also, as if in 
 quest of sporty by the opposite side. 
 
 Thou comest, Alwy, with a busy face. (To Boy.) 
 Go, Boy ; I shot mine arrow o*er those elms, 
 Thou*lt find it far beyond. [Exit Boy. 
 
 Now, friend, what tidings ? 
 
 Alwy. Within the tufted centre of the wood 
 The friendly chiefs are met, thus, like ourselves 
 As careless ramblers guised, all to a man 
 Fix'd in your cause. Their followers too are firm ; 
 For, much disgusted with the monkish face 
 Their feeble monarch wears, a warlike leader. 
 Far, far inferior to the noble Ethwald, 
 May move them as he lists. 
 
 Ethw. That time and circumstances on me call 
 Imperiously, I am well assured. 
 Good Ongar, what say'st thou ? how thrives thy 
 
 part 
 Of this important task ? 
 
 Ong. Well as your heart could wish. At the 
 next council. 
 Held in the royal chamber, my good kinsman 
 Commands the guard, and will not bar our way. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 ETHWALD : 
 
 Etim. May I depend on this ? 
 Ong. You may, my Lord. 
 Ethw. Thanks to thee, Ongar ! this is noble 
 service, 
 And shall be nobly thank'd. There is, good Alwy, 
 Another point ; hast thou unto the chiefs 
 Yet touch'd upon it ? 
 
 Alwy. Yes, and they all agree *tis most expe- 
 dient 
 That with Elburga's hand, since weaker minds 
 Are blindly wedded to the royal line, 
 Your right be strengthen'd. 
 
 Etkw. And this they deem expedient? 
 Alwy. You sigh, my lord; she is, indeed, less 
 
 gentle 
 
 Ethw. Regard it not, it is a passing thought. 
 And it will have its sigh, and pass away. 
 
 {Turning away for a little space, and then 
 coming forward again.") 
 What means hast thou devised, that for a term 
 Selred and Ethelbert may be remov'd ? 
 For faithful to the royal line they are, 
 And will not swerve : their presence here were 
 
 dang'rous : 
 We must employ them in some distant strife. 
 
 Alwy. I have devis'd a plan, but for the means 
 Brave Ongar here stands pledged. Woggarwolfe, 
 Who once before unweetingly has served us. 
 Will do the same again. 
 
 Fithw. How so? 'tis said that since his last 
 affray, 
 With the keen torment of his wounds subdu'd, 
 17 
 
A TRAGEDY. 197 
 
 On sick bed laid by tlie transforming po\v*rs 
 Of artful monks, he has become most saintly. 
 
 Alwy. Well, but we trust his saintship ne'er- 
 theless 
 May still be lur'd to do a sinner's work. 
 To burn the castle of a hateful heretic 
 Will make amends for all his bloody deeds : 
 You catch the plan : nay, Hexulf and his priest 
 Will be our help-mates here. Smile not ; good 
 
 Ongar 
 Has pledged his word for this. 
 
 Ethw. And I will trust to it. This will, indeed, 
 Draw oif the Thanes in haste. But who is near ? 
 Sculking behind yon thicket stands a man : 
 See'st thou ? {Pointing off the stage.) 
 
 Alwy. Go to him, Ongar, scan him well. 
 And if his face betrays a list'ner*s guilt — 
 Thou hast thy dagger there ? 
 
 Ong. Yes, trust me well. 
 
 Ethw. Nay,Ongai', be not rash in shedding blood ! 
 Let not one drop be spilt that may be spar*d. 
 Secure him if he wear a list'ner*s face : 
 We are too strong for stern and ruthless caution. 
 
 [Exit Ongar. 
 I'm glad he is withdi'awn a little space. 
 Ere we proceed to join the leagued chiefs. 
 Hast thou agreed with Cuthbert ? Is he sure ? 
 
 Alwy. Sure. 'Tis agreed when next the Ethling 
 hunts, 
 To lead him in the feigned quest of game 
 From his attendants ; there, in ambush laid, 
 Cuthbert and his adherents seize upon him, 
 
 o 3 
 
198 ETHWALD r 
 
 And will conduct him with the ev*ning's close 
 To Arrick's rugged tower. All is prepar'd. 
 
 Ethw. But hast thou charged him well that 
 this be done 
 With all becoming care and gentleness, 
 That nothing may his noble nature gall 
 More than the hard necessity compels ? 
 
 Alwy. Do not mistrust us so ! your brow is dark : 
 At Edward *s name your changing countenance 
 Is ever clouded. (Ethw. turns from him agitated.') 
 You are disturbed, my Lord. 
 
 Etkw. I am disturb'd. {Turning round and 
 grasping Alwy by the hand.) 
 I'll tell thee, Alwy — yes I am disturb'd — 
 No gleam of glory thro* my prospect breaks, 
 But still his image, 'thwart the brightness cast. 
 Shades it to night. 
 
 Alwy. It will be always so : but wherefore 
 should it ? 
 Glory is ever bought by those who earn it 
 With loss of many lives most dear and precious. 
 So is it destin'd. Let that be unto him 
 Which in the crowded breach or busy field 
 All meet regardless from a foeman's hand. 
 Doth the still chamber, and the muffled tread, 
 And th' unseen stroke that doth th' infliction deal, 
 Alter its nature ? 
 
 Ethw. {Pushing Alwy away from him vehe- 
 mently y and putting up both his hands to 
 his head.) 
 Forbear! forbear ! I shut mine eyes, mine ears ; 
 All entrance bar that may into my mind 
 
A TRAGEDY. 199 
 
 Th* abhorred thing convey. Have I not said, 
 Thou shalt not dare in word, in look, in gesture, 
 In slightest indication of a thought, 
 Hold with my mind such base communication ? 
 By my sword*s strength ! did I not surely think 
 From this bold seizure of the sovereign power, 
 A pow*r for which I must full dearly pay, 
 So says the destiny that o'er me hangs. 
 To shield his weakness and restore again 
 In room of Mercians crown a nobler sway. 
 Won by my sword, I would as lief Nor- 
 thumberland 
 Invites my arms, and soon will be subdu'd ; 
 Of this full sure, a good amends may be 
 To noble Edward made. 
 
 Alwy. (who during the last part of Ethw.'* 
 speech has been smiling behind his bach ma- 
 ligna?! tlj/.) 
 O yes, full surely : 
 
 And wandering harpers shall in hall and bower 
 Sing of the marv'llous deed. 
 
 Ethzv. (^turning short upon hiniy and perceiving 
 his smile.) 
 Thou smilest methinks. 
 Full well I read the meaning of that look : 
 *Tis a fiend's smile, and it will prove a false one. 
 (Turnifig away angrily ^ whilst Alwy walks to 
 the bottom of the stage.) 
 (^AsidCy looking suspiciously after him.) Have I 
 
 offended him ? he is an agent 
 Most needful to me. {Aloudy advancing to him.) 
 
 Good Alwy, anxious minds will often chide 
 
 © 4 
 
200 ETHWALD : 
 
 (Aside, stopping short.) He hears me not, or is 
 it but a feint ? 
 AlwT/. (lookifig off the stage.) Your arrow-boy 
 
 returns. 
 Ethw. (aside, nodding to himself.) No, 'tis a free 
 and unoiFended voice ; 
 Pm wrong. This is a bird whose fleshed beak 
 The prey too strongly scents to fly away : 
 1*11 spare my courtesies, (Aloud.) What say*st 
 thou, Alwy? 
 Alwy. (jpointing.) Your arrow-boy. 
 Etkw. I'm glad he is returned. 
 
 Re-enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. No where, my Lprd, can I the arrow find. 
 
 Ethw. Well, boy, it matters not ; let us move 
 
 on. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A narrow gallery in an abbey or cloister, with 
 several doors opening into it. Enter Hexulf 
 and On GAR and two Monks. 
 
 Hex. Fear not, brave Ongar, we, upon thy hint. 
 Will quickly act ; for here our eager wishes 
 Are with the Church's good most closely join'd. 
 
 First Monk. This is the time when he should 
 walk abroad. 
 (Listening.) I hear him at his door. 
 
 Hex. Leave us, good Ongar. 
 
 Ong. To your good skill I do commit it then ; 
 Having but only you, most rev'rend father. 
 To take my part against this wizard Thane. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 201 
 
 First Monk, (still listening.) Begone, he issues 
 
 forth. [Exit On gar. 
 
 (One of the doors opens slowly, and enters 
 
 WoGGARwoLFE, Wrapped in a cloaky and 
 
 his head bound. 
 
 Hex. Good-morrow, valiant Thane, whose 
 
 pious gifts 
 
 Have won heav'n*s grace to renovate thy strength. 
 
 And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health ? 
 
 Wog. I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly 
 
 mended. 
 First Monk. The prayers of holy men have 
 power to save, 
 E'en on the very borders of the tomb. 
 The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich 
 The holy church. 
 
 Second Monk. Didst thou not feel within thee 
 A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence, 
 Soon as thy pious offering was accepted ? 
 
 Wog. (hesitating.) Yes, reverend fathers, — I 
 have thought indeed — 
 Perhaps you meant it so — that since that time 
 The devil has not scar'd me in my dreams 
 So oft as he was wont, when sore with wounds 
 I first was laid upon my bed of pain. 
 
 Hea:. Ay, that is much ; but noble Woggar- 
 wolfe, 
 Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well 
 Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance ? 
 Thou hast those lands that are so nearly joined 
 Unto St. Alban's abbey. 
 
^202 ETHWALD : 
 
 Wog. (much surprised.) My lands! give up 
 my lands ? 
 
 First Monk. What are thy lands 
 Compared to that which they will purchase for 
 thee? 
 
 Sec. Mojik. To lay thy coffined body in the 
 ground, 
 Rob'd in the garb of holy men, and bless*d ? 
 
 First Monk. To have thy tomb beneath the 
 shading arch 
 Of sacred roof, where nought profane may enter -, 
 Whilst midnight spirits stand and yell without, 
 But o'er the sacred threshold dare not trespass. 
 
 Wog. (with a rueful counte7iance.) 
 What, do you think I shall be dead so soon ? 
 
 Hea:. Life is uncertain ; but how glorious. Thane, 
 To look beyond this wicked world of strife. 
 And for thyself a lofty seat provide 
 With saints and holy men, and angel bands ! 
 
 Wog. Nay, father, I am not so highly bent j 
 Do but secure me from the horrid fangs 
 Of the terrific fiend : I am not proud ; 
 Tliat will suffice me. 
 
 He^. Nay, herein thy humility we praise not. 
 And much I fear, at such a humble pitch, 
 He who so lately scar'd thee in thy dreams 
 May reach thee still. 
 
 First Monk. O think of this ! 
 
 Hea:. Dreadful it is, thou know*st. 
 To see him in thy dreams ; but when awake. 
 Naked, and all uncloth'd of flesh and blood. 
 As thou at last must be j how wilt thou bear 
 
A TRAGEDY. 203 
 
 To see him yelling o'er thee as liis prey ? 
 Bearing aloft his dark and hideous form ; 
 Grinding his horrid jaws and darting on thee 
 His eyes of vivid fire? (The Monks sign themselves 
 with great rnarks offear^ and Woggar- 
 wolfe looks terrified.') 
 Ah ! think*st thou, Thane, 
 That many gifts, ay, half of all thou*rt wortli, 
 Would dearly purchase safety from sucli ter- 
 rours ? 
 Wog. (in a quick perturbed voice.) 
 I have the plunder of two neighboring chiefs. 
 Whom I surprised within their towers and slew; 
 I'll give you all — if that suffices not, 
 I'll fall upon a third, ay, tho' it were 
 My next of kin, nor spare of all his goods 
 One fragment for myself. O holy fathers ! 
 I humbly crave saintly protection of you. 
 Hex. Nay, Woggarwolfe, on shrines of holy 
 saints 
 No gift ere works with efficacious power 
 By force and violence gain'd ; unless, indeed, 
 It be the spoil of some unsaintly Thane, 
 Some faithless wizard or foul heretic. 
 Thou hast a neighbour, impious Ethelbert ; 
 His towers to burn and consecrate his spoils. 
 O'er all thy sins would cast a sacred robe. 
 On which nor fiend nor devil durst fix a fang. 
 But now thou lackest strength for such a work, 
 And may*st be dead ere thou hast time to do it : 
 Therefore I counsel thee, give up thy lands. 
 
204 ETHWALD : 
 
 Wog. O, no ! Tra strong enough : my men are 
 strong. 
 Give us your rev'rend blessing o'er our heads 
 And we*ll set out forthwith. 
 Hex. Then nothing doubt that on your worthy 
 zeal 
 Will fall the blessing. Let us onward move. 
 Where are thy followers? (Exeunt Hex. talking 
 busily to Wog. and the Monks smiling to 
 one another as they go out.) 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 The royal apartment: the King is discovered with 
 Hexulf, the Seneschal, a^id several Friends or 
 Counsellors, seated round a council table. 
 
 King, (as if continuing to speak.') 
 It may be so : youth finds no obstacle, 
 But I am old. 
 
 Eull many a storm on this grey head has beat j 
 And now, on my high station do I stand, 
 Like the tired watchman in his air-rock*d tower, 
 Who looketh for the hour of his release. 
 I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest 
 With those who war no more. One gleam of light 
 Did sweetly cheer the evening of my day : 
 Edward, my son ! he was the kindliest prop 
 That age did ever rest on — he is gone. 
 What should I fight for now ? 
 
 Sen. For thine own honour ; for the weal of 
 Mercia, 
 With weapons in our hands, and strong in men, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 205 
 
 Who to the royal standard soon will flock, 
 If summon'd by thy firm and gen'ral orders. 
 Shall these men be our masters? Heaven fore- 
 fend! 
 Five tliousand warriors might disperse the foe, 
 Even with that devil Ethwald at their head; 
 And shall we think of granting to those rebels 
 Their insolent demands ? 
 
 Ki?ig. Good Seneschal, if that you think our 
 strength 
 Permits us still in open field to strive 
 With hope of good, 1 am not yet so old 
 But I can brace these stifFenM limbs in iron, 
 And do a soldier's service. ( To 2d Coun.) Thane 
 
 of Mordath, 
 Thy visage light*neth not upon these hopes ; 
 What are thy thoughts ? 
 
 Sec. Coun. E*en that these hopes will bring us 
 to a state 
 Reft of all hope. 
 
 The rebel chiefs but seek their own enrichment, 
 Not Ethwald's exaltation, good my Lord ; 
 Bribe them, and treat for peace. Lack you the 
 
 means ; 
 The church, for whose enriching you have rais'd 
 This storm, can well supply it ; and most surely 
 Will do it cheerfully. (Turning to Hexulf.) 
 
 He<x:. No, by the holy mass ! that were to bring 
 The curse of heav'n upon our impious heads. 
 To spoil the holy church is sacrilege : 
 And to advise such spoil in anywise 
 Is sacrilegious and abominable. 
 
206 ETHWALD : 
 
 First Coun. I am as faithful to the holy church 
 As thou art, angry priest. I do defy thee — 
 
 Se?i. What, have ye no respect unto the king? 
 I do command you, peace. Who now intrudes ? 
 Enter a Servant in great terrour. 
 Serv. The rebel force ! the castle is surprised! 
 They are at hand — they have o'erpower'd the 
 guard. 
 Sec.Coun. Pray God thou Hest! I think it 
 cannot be. {They all rise up alarmed,) 
 
 Serv. It is as true as I do tread this spot. 
 
 Enter a Soldier 'wounded. 
 King, {to Sol.) Ha ! what say'st thou ? thou 
 bearest for thy words 
 A rueful witness. 
 Sol, Take arms, and save the king, if it be 
 possible. 
 The rebel chieftains have the gates surprised, 
 And gained, below, the entrance of this tower. 
 They struggled for the pass ; sharp was the broil ; 
 This speaks for me, that I have borne my part. 
 
 {Falls down exhausted.) 
 Hex, {to King.) Retire, my Lord, into the 
 higher chamber. 
 Your arm can give but small assistance here. 
 Until this horrid visit be o'erpast. 
 You may conceal yourself. 
 
 King, No, father, never shall the king of Mercia 
 Be, from his hiding-place, like a mean man 
 PuU'd forth. But, noble friends, it seems notwise 
 That this necessity should reach to you. 
 These rebels seek my life, and with that life 
 
A TRAGEDY. SO? 
 
 They will be satisfied. In my defence, 
 Thus taken as we are, all stand were useless ; 
 Therefore, if now you will obey your king, 
 His last command, retire and save your lives 
 For some more useful end. Finding me here, 
 They will no farther search : retire, my friends. 
 Sec. Conn. What, leave our king to face his 
 
 foes alone ! 
 King. No, not alone; my friend, the Senes- 
 chal, 
 Will stay with me. We have been young together. 
 And the same storms in our rough day of life 
 Have beat upon us : be it now God's will. 
 We will lay down our aged heads together 
 In the still rest, and bid good night to strife. 
 Have I said well, my friend ? 
 
 {^Holding out his hand to the Seneschal.) 
 Sen. (kissing his hand with great warmthy and 
 putting one knee to the ground.) 
 O my lov*d master ! many a bounteous favour 
 Has shower'd upon me from your royal hand. 
 But ne'er before was I so proudly honour'd. 
 
 (Rising up with assumed grace.) 
 Retire, young men, for now I must be proud j 
 Retire, your master will confront the foe 
 As may become a king. 
 
 (^Alt calling out at once.) No, no ! we will 
 not leave him. 
 
 {They all range themselveSy drawing their 
 swords, round the King, arid the old 
 Seneschal stands, by pre-eminence, close 
 to his master^ s side.) 
 
208 ETHWALD : 
 
 Sec. Coun. Here is a wall thro* which they first 
 must force 
 A bloody way, ere on his royal head 
 One silver hair be scath'd. 
 
 Enter Ethwald, Alwy, and the Conspirators. 
 Alwy. Now vengeance for injustice and op- 
 pression ! 
 Sec. Conn. On your own heads, then, be it, 
 miscreant chiefs ! 
 
 {They Jight round the King, his party defend 
 him bravely^ till many more Conspirators 
 enter, and it is overpowered.^ 
 Ethw. (aside, angrily, to Alwy, on still seeing 
 the King standing in the midst, unhurt, and, 
 with great dignity, the Seneschal by his 
 side, and no one offering to attack him.") 
 Hast thou forgot? Where are thy chosen men? 
 Is there no hand to do the needful work ? 
 This is butchildren's play. (To some ofhisparty.') 
 Come, let us search, that in the neighb'ring 
 
 chamber 
 No lurking foe escape. \^xn: with some Followers. 
 Alwy. {^giving a sign to his Followers, and going 
 up insolently to the King.) 
 Oswal, resign thy sword. 
 
 Sen. First take thou mine, thou base, ignoble 
 traitor. 
 
 {Giving Alwy a blow with his sword; upon 
 which Alwy and his Followers fall upon 
 the King and the Seneschal, andsurround- 
 ing them on every side, kill them, with many 
 wounds, the crowd gathering so close round 
 them, that their fall cannot be seen.) 
 
A TRAGEDY. 
 
 209 
 
 Jte-efiter Ethwald, and tfie crowd opening 07i each 
 side shews the dead bodies of the King and the 
 Seneschal. 
 
 Ethw, (^affecting surprise.^ What sight is this ? 
 Ah ! ye have gone too far. Who did this deed? 
 Alwy. My followers, much enraged at slight 
 offence, 
 Did fall upon him. 
 Rihw, All have their end decreed, and this, 
 alas ! 
 Has been his fated hour. 
 Come, chiefs and valiant friends, why stand we 
 
 here 
 Looking on that which cannot be repaired ? 
 All honour shall be paid unto the dead. 
 And, were this deed of any single hand 
 The willing crime, he should have vengeance too. 
 But let us now our nightly task fulfil j 
 Much have we still to do ere morning dawn. 
 [Exeunt Ethw. and Followers, and the scene 
 closes. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 A royal Apartment : Enter Elburga, with her 
 hair scattered upon her shoulders, and with the 
 action of one in violent grief followed by Dwina, 
 who seems to be soothing her. 
 
 Elb. Cease, cease ! thy foolish kindness soothes 
 me not : 
 My morning is o'ercast ; my glory sunk ; 
 Leave me alone to wring my hands and weep. 
 
 VOL. II. p 
 
210 ETHWALD : 
 
 Dwt. O, no, my princely mistress ! grieve not 
 thus ! 
 Over our heads the blackest clouds do pass 
 And brighter follow them. 
 
 Elb. No, no ! my sky is night ! I was a princess 
 Almost a queen : in gorgeous pomp beheld. 
 The public gaze was ever turn'd on me ; 
 Proud was the highest Thane or haughtiest dame 
 To do my bidding, ev*ry countenance watch*d 
 Each changeful glance of my commanding eye 
 To read its meaning : now my state is changed : 
 Scoffing and insult and degrading pity 
 Abide the daughter of a murder' d king. 
 Heaven's vengeance light upon them all! Begone ! 
 1 hate the very light for looking on me ! 
 Begone! and soothe me not! 
 
 DwL Forgive me, princess j do not thus 
 despair ; 
 King Oswal's daughter many friends will find. 
 
 Elb. Friends ! hold thy peace ! — Oh it doth 
 rend my heart ! 
 I have been wont to talk of subjects, vassals. 
 Dependants, servants, slaves, but not of friends. 
 Where shall I hide my head ? 
 
 Dwi. Sui'ely, dear mistress, with Saint Cuth- 
 bert's nuns. 
 Whose convent by your father's gifts is rich, 
 You will piotection find. There quiet rest, 
 And holy converse of those pious maids. 
 After a while will pour into your mind 
 Soft consolation. (Putting her hand on Elburga'.s* 
 soothingly.') 
 
A TRAGEDY. <211 
 
 Elb. {pushing hei" away.) 
 Out upon thee, fool ! Go, speak thy comforts 
 To sphits tame and abject as thyself: 
 They make me mad; they make me thus to 
 
 tear 
 My scatter'd locks and strew them to the winds. 
 {Tearing her hair distractedly.') 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 What brings thee here ? (Jo Ser.) 
 
 Ser» Ethwald, the king is at the gate, and asks 
 To be admitted to your presence, princess. 
 
 Elb. (becoming suddenly calm.) 
 What, Ethwald, say*st thou! say'st thou truly so ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, truly, princess. 
 
 Elb. Ethwald, that Thane whom thou dost call 
 the king ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, he whom all the states and chiefs of 
 Mercia 
 Do call the king. 
 
 Elb, He enters not. Tell him I am unwell. 
 And will not be disturbed. [Exit Ser. 
 
 What seeks he here ? Fie, poorly fainting soul ! 
 Rouse ! rouse thee up ! To all the world beside 
 Subdued and humbled would I rather be 
 Than in the eyes of this proud man. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 What say'st thou ? 
 Is he departed ? 
 
 Ser. No, he will not depart, but bids me say 
 The entrance he has begg*d he now commands. 
 I hear his steps behind me. 
 
 r 2 
 
S12 ETHWALD : 
 
 Enter Ethwald. 
 
 (Elburga turns away from him proudly.^ 
 Ethw. Elburga, turn and look upon a friend. 
 Elb. {turmng round haughtily, and looking on 
 him with a7i assumed e.vpressio7i of anger 
 and scornful contempt.') 
 Usurping rebel, who hast slain thy master ; 
 Take thou a look that well beseems thy worth, 
 And hie the hence, false traitor ! 
 Ethw. Yes, I will hie me hence, and with me 
 lead 
 A fair and beauteous subject to my will ; 
 That will which may not be gainsaid. For now 
 High heaven, that hath decreed thy father's fall. 
 Hath also me appointed king of Mercia, 
 With right as fair as his ; which I'll maintain, 
 And by the proudest in this lordly realm 
 Will be obey'd, even by thy lofty self. 
 
 Elb. Put shackles on my limbs, and o'er my 
 head 
 Let your barr'd dungeons low'r; then may'stthou 
 
 say, 
 " Walk not abroad," and so it needs must be : 
 But think'st thou to subdue, bold as thou art, 
 The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter ? 
 Go, bind the wild winds in thy hollow shield, 
 And bid them rage no more: they will obey thee. 
 Ethw. Yes, proud Elburga, I will shackle thee. 
 But on the throne of Mercia shalt thou sit, 
 Not in the dungeon's gloom. 
 Ay, and, albeit the wild winds do refuse 
 To be subjected to iwy royal will, 
 
 9* 
 
A TRAGEDY. 213 
 
 The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter 
 I will subdue. (^Tahin}^ her hand.) 
 
 Elb. {^throwing him off from her vehemently.) 
 Off with those bloody liauds that slew my father! 
 Thy touch is horrid to me ! 'tis a fiend's grasp : 
 Out from my presence ! bloody Thane of Mair- 
 
 neath ! 
 Ethw. Ay, frown on me, Elburga; proudly 
 
 frown : 
 I knew thy haughty spirit, and I lov'd it, 
 Even when I saw thee first in gorgeous state ; 
 When, bearing high thy stately form, thou stoodst 
 Like a proud queen, and on the gazing crowd, 
 Somewhat offended with a late neglect, 
 Darted thy looks of anger and disdain. 
 High Thanes and Dames shrunk from thine eye, 
 
 whilst I, 
 Like one who from the mountain's summit sees, 
 Beneath him far the harmless lightning play, 
 With smiling admiration mark'd thee well. 
 And own'd a kindred soul. Each angry flash 
 Of thy dark eye was loveliness to me. 
 But know, proud maid, my spirit outmasters 
 
 thine. 
 And heedeth not the anger nor the power 
 Of living thing. 
 
 Elb. Bold and amazing man ! 
 
 Ethw. And bold should be the man who weds 
 
 Elburga. 
 Elh. Away ! it cannot be, it shall not be ! 
 My soul doth rise against thee, bloody chief^ 
 And bids thy power defiance. 
 
 p 3 
 
314 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. Then art thou mine in truth, for never 
 yet 
 Did liostile thing confront me unsubdued ; 
 Defy me and thou'rt conquer'd, 
 
 Elb. Thou most audacious chief! it shall not be. 
 Ethw. It shall, it must be, maiden, I have 
 sworn it ; 
 And here repeat it on that beauteous hand 
 Which to no power but with my life I'll yield. 
 (Grasping her liandjirmly^ which she strug- 
 gles to free.) 
 Frown not, Elburga ! 'tis in vain to strive ; 
 My spirit outmasters thine. 
 
 Elb. Say'st thou to me thou did'st not slay my 
 father ? 
 Say'st thou those hands are guiltless of his death ? 
 Ethw. Think'st thou I'll plead, and say I have 
 not slain 
 A weak old man, whose inoffensive mind. 
 And strong desire to quit the warring world 
 For quiet religious rest, could be, in truth. 
 No hindrance to my greatness ? were this fitting 
 In Mercia's king, and proud Elburga's lord ? 
 
 Elb. (^turning wway.) 
 Elburga's lord ! Thou art presumptuous, prince : 
 Go hence, and brave me not. 
 
 Ethw. 1 will go hence forthwith ; and, by my 
 side. 
 The fair selected partner of my throne, 
 I'll lead where the assembled chiefs of Mercia 
 Wait to receive from me their future queen. 
 Elb. Distract me not ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 215 
 
 Ethw. Resistance is distraction. 
 Who ever yet my fixed purpose cross'd ? 
 Did Ethwald ever yield ? Come, queen of Mercia ! 
 This firm grasp shall conduct thee to a throne : 
 (Taking her hand, which she feebly i^esists.) 
 Come forth, the frowning, haughty bride of 
 Ethwald. 
 Elb. Wonderful man ! 
 If hell or fortune fight for thee I know not, 
 Nothing withstands thy power. 
 
 [Exeunt Ethw. leading o^Elb. in triumph, 
 and Dwina following, with her hands and 
 eyes raised to heaven i?i astonishment.) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
 P 4 
 
216 ETHWALD : 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. An arched passage from a gateway in 
 the royal castle. The sound of warlike music 
 without. Enter Ethelbert and Selred with 
 their Followers, as if just come from a long 
 marc). : enter ^ by the opposite side, Alwy, upon 
 which they halt, the foremost of the Followers 
 but just appearing under the gateway. 
 
 Alwy. Welcome, most valiant chieftains! Fame 
 reports 
 That crown'd with full success ye are return'd. 
 
 Eth. Good sooth we boast but little of our arms! 
 Tho' Woggarwolfe, our base ignoble spoiler, 
 Wounded and sorely shent, we've left behind, 
 Again in cloister'd walls with ghostly men, 
 Wmding his soul, with many a heavy groan, 
 Into a saintly frame ! God speed the work ! 
 We are but just in time to save our halls. 
 
 Sel. It is a shame that such a ruffian thief 
 Should thus employ the arms of warlike Thanes. 
 
 Alwy. In truth it is, but now there reigns in 
 Mercia 
 A warlike king, who better knows to deal 
 With valiant men. The messenger informed you ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 217 
 
 SeJ. He did; yet, be it owii'd, to call him 
 king 
 Sounds strangely in our ears. How died king 
 Oswal ? 
 Eth. (to Sel.) Patience, my friend! good time 
 will shew thee all. 
 Yet pray inform us, Alwy, ere we part. 
 Where is young Edward? In these late commo- 
 tions 
 What part had he? 
 
 Alwy. Would to the holy saints I could inform 
 you ! 
 Reports there are, incongruous and absurd — 
 Some say, in hunting from his followers stray' d. 
 Passing at dusk of eve a high-swoln stream. 
 Therein he perish*d; others do maintain 
 That, loathing greatness, he conceals himself 
 In some lone cave : but, as I bear a heart 
 True to king Ethwald and the public weal, 
 I know of him no more. 
 Sel. Thou liest ! 
 
 Eth. (^pulling ^^cA'Selred.) Peace, artthoumad? 
 Alwy. (^pretending not to hear.) What said brave 
 
 Selred ? 
 Eth. A hasty exclamation of no meaning. 
 Alxvy. I must away, and bear the welcome 
 tidings 
 Of your arrival to the royal ear. 
 
 Eth. But stop, before thou go'st I fain would 
 know 
 How far'd Elburga in the passing storm ? 
 Wliere has she refuge found ? 
 
gl8 ETHWALD : 
 
 Alwy. Within these walls ; she is the queen of 
 Mercia. 
 
 Eth. I am indebted to thee. [Exit Alwy. 
 
 Sel. (^staring with surprise upon Ethelbert.) 
 What dost thou think of this? Did we hear truly ? 
 To the usurper of her father's crown, 
 And if our fears be true, his murd'rer too ! 
 To him ! O most unnatural ! 
 
 Eth. Ay, so it is. As one who ventures forth 
 After an earthquake's awful visitation, 
 The country round in strange unwonted guise 
 Beholds ; here swelling heights and herby knolls. 
 Where smok'd the cottage and the white flocks 
 
 browz'd, 
 Sunk into turbid pools ; there rifted rocks, 
 With all their shaggy woods upon their sides. 
 In the low bosom of the flowery vale 
 Resting uncouthly — even so does he. 
 Who looks abroad after the storms of state, 
 Strange changes see; unnatural and strange. 
 
 Sel. It makes my spirit boil — the gentle 
 Edward ! 
 So gently brave ! 
 
 Eth. Yes, there is cause of grief 
 And indignation too : but Ethwald reigns, 
 Howe'er he gain'd his height, and he possesses 
 The qualities that suit his lofty station. 
 With them I fear he has his passions also. 
 Hostile to public good : be it our part 
 To use the influence we still retain 
 O'er his ambitious mind for Mercia's weal ! 
 This is our duty now. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 219 
 
 Sel I'll take thy counsel. (^To the Soldiers.) 
 Follow, weary comrades. 
 
 [Exeunt Eth. and Sel. and their Followers, 
 marching across the stage. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A royal Apartment. Elburga, as Queen, dis- 
 covered sitting on a chair of state, with Dwina, 
 Ladies, and Officers of State attending. 
 
 Elb. We've waited long : how goes the day ? 
 
 know'st thou ? (To First Officer.) 
 
 First Offi. As comes the light across this arched 
 
 roof 
 
 From those highwindows,it shouldwear, methinks, 
 
 Upon noon-day. 
 
 Elb. And the procession to the royal chapel 
 Should at this hour begin. The king, perchance. 
 Is with affairs detain' d : go thou and see. 
 
 [Exit First Officer. 
 I am impatient now. {Voice heard uithout.) 
 
 What voice is that ? 
 
 First SONG without. 
 
 Hark ! the cock crows, and the wind blows, 
 
 Away, my love, away ! 
 Quick, d^on thy weeds a7id tell thy beads, 
 
 For soon it will be day. 
 
 First Lad. 'Tis sadly wild. 
 Dwin. 'Tis sad, but wond'rous sweet. 
 Who may it be ? List, list ! she sings again. 
 
'220 ETHWALD : 
 
 Second SONG without. 
 
 Where lay^st thou thy careless head ? 
 On the cold heath is my bed. 
 Where the moor-cock shuts his xdng. 
 And the broxvn snake weaves his ring. 
 Safe and fearless will I he. 
 The coiled adder stings not me. 
 
 Elb. (7ising, displeased, from her seat.) 
 Call those who wait without. What may this 
 mean ? 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Whose voice is that which in a day of joy 
 Such plaintive music makes ? 
 
 Atten. Pardon, my royal dame ! be not offended ! 
 'Tis a poor maid bereaved of her mind. 
 Rent are her robes, her scatter'd locks unbound. 
 Like one who long thro' rugged ways hath stray'd, 
 Beat with the surly blast ; but never yet, 
 Tho' all so sorely shent, did I behold 
 A fairer maid. She aims at no despite : 
 She's wild, but gentle. 
 
 Dwi. O hark again ! 
 
 Third SONG without. 
 
 * Once upo7i my cheek 
 
 He said the roses grew, 
 But noxv theyWe washed axvay 
 With the cold evening dew. 
 
 * For this third Song, which is the only literary assistance 
 cither in verse or prose that I have ever received, I am in- 
 debtc d to the pen of a friend. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 2!^1 
 
 For I rvandcr thru' the night, 
 
 JVhoi all hut me take rest. 
 And the moon's soft beams fall piteously 
 
 Upon nil/ troubled breast. 
 
 {A pause.') 
 
 Fourth SONG. 
 
 Ah, maiden ! bear the biting smart. 
 
 Nor thu^ tkij loss deplore ; 
 The Thane's daughter has his heart, . 
 
 He will return no more. 
 
 First Lad. 'Tis strangely melancholy. 
 Dwi. 'Tislike the mournful sounds which often- 
 thnes 
 The midnight watcher, in his lonely tower, 
 Hears with the wailing blast most sweetly mingled, 
 Fib. (Jo Attendant.) Go thou and lead her hi- 
 ther. 
 Atten. I will, great queen. — But here she comes 
 unbidden. 
 
 Enter Bertha, with a wild unsettled air, and her 
 hair scattered upon her shoidders. The Ladies 
 gather about her xvith curiosity. 
 
 First Lad. How fair she is ! 
 
 Sec. Lad. Her eyes of lovely blue. 
 Gentle, but restless. Dost thou see that glance? 
 
 {To Sec. Lad.) 
 I fear to look upon her. 
 
 Dwi. Fie, fie, upon it! press not near her thus; 
 She seems offended : I will speak to her. 
 (To Berth.) Sweet Lady, art thou sad? 
 
222 ETHWALD : 
 
 (Bertha looks steadfastly at her, then drops 
 her head upon her breast, aiid makes no 
 answer.) 
 We would be kind to thee. 
 
 (Berth, then looks more gently on her, but is 
 still sileiitJ) 
 First Lad. Dost thou not speak, thou who 
 
 canst sing so well ? 
 Dwi. Who taught thee those sweet notes ? 
 Berth. The night was dark : I met spirits on 
 my way : 
 They sung me sweet songs but they were sor- 
 rowful. 
 Dm. Ah, woe is me ! and dost thou wander, 
 then, 
 In the dark night alone, no one to tend thee ? 
 Berth. When the moon's dark, I follow the 
 night-bird* s cry. 
 And it doth guide my way. — But he'll return, 
 So do they tell me, when sweet violets blow. 
 And summer comes again. 
 Dwi. And who is he ? 
 
 Berth. List, and the winds will tell thee as 
 they pass : 
 The stilly air will whisper it. But softly. 
 Tell it to none again. They must not know 
 How stern he is, for he was gentle once. 
 Dwi. A cruel heart had he who could forsake 
 
 thee ! 
 Ber. (^puttingherhand eagerly on Dwina'<swo?/M.) 
 Hush, hush! we'll not offend him. He is great, 
 And must not be offended. 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^2QS 
 
 Elb. (^coming near her.) What, say'st thou he 
 is great ? 
 Rent are thy weeds, and thin thy ruffled robe : 
 Why didst thou leave thy home thus unprotected? 
 
 Berth, (turning hastily upon her.) 
 I saw his banner streaming in the air. 
 And I did follow it. 
 
 Elb. His banner in the air ! What is thy love ? 
 
 Berth, {looking fiercely at her.) 
 They say he is a king. 
 
 Elb. (smiling.) Poor maid! 'tis ever thus with 
 such as she ; 
 They still believe themselves of some high state, 
 And mimick greatness. 
 
 Berth. Thou art a fair dame and a gay — but 
 
 go; 
 
 Take off thine eyes from me ; I love thee not. 
 (Shrinks from Elburga, walking backwards^ 
 and looking frowningly at her ; then beckon- 
 ing to Dwina, she speaks in her ear.) 
 They say a royal dame has won his faith. 
 Stately and proud. But in a gloomy dream 
 I heard it first, confused and terrible : 
 And oft-times, since, the fiend of night repeats it. 
 As on my pressed breast he sits and groans. 
 I'll not believe it. 
 
 Dui. What is thy name, sweet Lady? 
 Berth, (rubbing her hand across her forehead as 
 if trying to recollect.) 
 I had a name that kind friends call'd me by ; 
 And with a blessing did the holy man 
 Bestow it on me. But I've wander'd far 
 
224 ETHWALD : 
 
 Thro' wood and wilds, and strangely on my head 
 The 'niiinbmg winds have beat, and I have lost it. 
 
 Be not offended with me 
 
 For, Lady, thou art gentle and I fear thee. 
 
 {Boxcing submissively to Dwina.) 
 
 Enter Ethelbert. 
 
 Eth. (to Dwina, after looking at Bertha.) 
 What maid is that so haggard and so wild ? 
 Dxvi. A wand'ring maniac, but so fair and 
 
 gentle 
 
 Thou needs must speak to her. 
 
 Eth. {going up to Berth.) Fair Lady, wilt thou 
 suffer — gracious heaven ! 
 What see I here ! the sweet and gentle Bertha ! 
 Ah, has it come to this ! alas, alas ! 
 Sweet maiden dost thou know me ? 
 
 Bei^th. (after looking earyiestly at him,^ 
 I know thee well enough. They call thee mad; 
 Thy wild and raving words oft made the ears 
 Of holy men to tingle. 
 
 Eth, She somewhat glances at the truth. Alas! 
 I've seen her gay and blooming as the rose. 
 And cheerful, too, as song of early lark. 
 I've seen her prattle on her nurse's lap. 
 Innocent bud ! and now I see her thus. (Weeps.) 
 
 Berth. Ah! dost thou weep? are they unkind 
 to thee ? (Shaking her head.) 
 Yes, yes! from out the herd, like a mark'd deer. 
 They drive the poor distraught. The storms o^ 
 
 heaven 
 Beat on him : gaping hinds stare at his woe ; 
 And no one stops to bid heav'n speed his way. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 225 
 
 Eth. {flourish of trumpets.^ Sweet maid, retire. 
 Berth. Nay, nay ! I will not go : there be 
 without 
 Those who will frown upon me. 
 
 Eth, {endeavouring to lead her off.) 
 I pray thee be entreated ! 
 
 (Dwina takes hold of her also to lead her off, 
 but she breaks from them furiously.) 
 Berth. Ye shall not force me ! Wist ye who I am ? 
 The whirlwind in its strength contends with me. 
 And I overmaster it. 
 
 Eth. Stand round her, then, I pray you, gentle 
 ladies ! 
 The king must not behold her. 
 
 {The Ladies gatJier round Bertha, a7id con- 
 ceal her.) 
 
 Enter Ethwald, follo'wed by Thanes and At- 
 tendants. 
 
 Ethw. {after returning the obeisance of the as- 
 sembly.") 
 This gay and fair attendance on our person 
 And on our queen, most honoured lords and 
 
 dames, 
 We much regard ; and could my heart express — 
 (Bertha, hearing his voice, shrieks out.) 
 What cry is that ? 
 
 Dwi, Regard it not : it is a wand'ring maid, 
 Distracted in her mind, who is in search. 
 As she conceits it, of some faithless lover. 
 She sings sweet songs of wildest harmony. 
 And at the queen's command we led her in. 
 
 VOL. II. Q 
 
226 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethxv. Seeking her love! distracted in her mind! 
 Have any of my followers wrong'd her ? Speak! 
 If so it be, by righteous heaven I swear ! 
 The man, whoe'er he be, shall dearly rue it. 
 
 (Berthsi shrieks agaifi, and, breaking through 
 the crowdy runs up to Ethwald. He starts 
 backy and covers his eyes 'with one handy 
 whilst shey catching hold of the other y presses 
 it to her breast. ^ 
 Berth. I*ve found thee now, and let the black 
 iiend growl, 
 I will not part with thee. I've followed thee 
 Thro' crag and moor and wild. I've heard thy 
 
 voice 
 Sound from the dark hill's side, and follow'd 
 
 thee. 
 I've seen thee on the gath'ring twilight clouds. 
 Ride with the stately spirits of the storm. 
 But thou look'dst sternly on me. 
 
 be not angry 1 I will kneel to thee ; 
 For thou art glorious now, as I am told. 
 
 And must have worship. (Jmeelingy and bowing 
 her head meekly to the ground.) 
 Ethw. (turning away.") OGod! OGod! Where 
 art thou, Ethelbert ? 
 Thou might'st have saved me this. 
 
 (Looking roundy and seeing that Ethelbert 
 weepSy he also becomes sqftenedy and tur?is 
 to Bertha with great emotion.) 
 Berth. They say she's fair and glorious : woe 
 is me ! 
 
 1 am but tbrm'd as simple maidens are. 
 
 14 
 
A TRAGEDY. 227 
 
 But scorn me not ; I have a powerful spell, 
 A Druid gave it me, which on mine arm 
 When once enclasp'd, will make me fair as she 5 
 So thou wilt turn to me. 
 
 Ethw. O Ethelbert ! I pray thee pity me ! 
 This sight doth move me, e'en to agony. 
 Remove her hence; but O deal gently with her! 
 (Ethelbert endeavours again to lead her off, 
 and the Ladies crowd about her. She is 
 then carried out, and is heard to scream as 
 they are carrying her.') 
 Ethw. {in great disorder.) Come, come away! 
 we do but linger here. 
 (Elburga, who, since Ethwald*^ entering, has 
 remained in the back ground, but agitated 
 with passions, now advances angrily to 
 him.) 
 Elb. So thou hast known this maid ? 
 Ethw. Fie ! speak not to me now. 
 Elb. Away, away ! 
 Thou hast lodged softer passions in thy breast 
 Than I have reckon'd on. 
 
 Ethw. {shaking her off.) Fie ! turn thy face 
 aside, and shade thine eyes ! 
 That no soft passion in thy bosom lives, 
 Is thy opprobrium, woman, and thy shame. 
 Elb. There are within my breast such thoughts, 
 I trust. 
 As suit my lofty state. 
 
 Ethw. {aside ^oElb.) Go, heartless pageant, go 
 Lead on thy senseless shew, and move me not 
 To do thee some despite. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 ETHWALD : 
 
 (^Aloud to the Ladies.) Move on, fair dames. 
 
 (To Elb. who seems unwilling to go.) 
 The king commands it. 
 
 [Exeunt Elburga and Ladies. 
 First Offi. (to Ethw. who stands with his eyes 
 Jixed on the ground.') 
 Please you, my Lord, but if you move not also, 
 The ceremony will, in sooth, appear 
 As marr'd and cut in twain. 
 
 Ethw, What say'st thou, marshal ? 
 First Offi. Please you, my Lord, to move ? 
 Ethw. Ay, thou say'st well : in the soul's agony 
 A meaner man might turn aside and weep. 
 
 [Exeunt Ethw. with part of his train, the 
 others ranging themselves in order to fol- 
 low him. A great confusion and noise is 
 then heard without, and a voice calling out 
 *' The king is wounded.** The crowd press 
 back again in disorder, and presently re- 
 enter Ethw. supported. 
 First Offi. My Lord, how is it with you ? 
 Ethw. I fear but ill, my friend. Where is the 
 man 
 That gave me this fell stroke ? 
 
 First Offi. I cannot tell : they have surrounded 
 him. 
 
 Enter Second Officer. 
 
 8ec. Offi. He is secured. 
 Ethxv. Is it a Mercian hand ? 
 Sec. Offi. It is, my Lord, but of no liigh degree. 
 It is tlie frantic stroke of a poor groom. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 229 
 
 Who did his late Lord love ; and, for that crime, 
 Lastoight, with wife and children weeping round 
 
 him, 
 Was by your soldiers turned into the cold. 
 Houseless and bare. 
 
 Etiiw. Curse on their ruffian zeal ! 
 Torment him not, but let him die in peace. 
 Would I might say — . I*m very faint, my friends : 
 Support me hence, I pray you ! 
 
 [[Exeunt Ethw. supported. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A royal apartment: an open door in front y shew- 
 ing an inner chamber y i?i ichich is discovered Eth- 
 WALD li/i?ig upon a conchy and surrounded 'with 
 tJie Thanes a7id Officers of his courty Selred 
 and Ethelbert standing on each side of him. 
 
 Sel. (after Ethw. has said something to him in a 
 loxv voice.) 
 He is too much inclosed and longs for air : 
 He'll breathe more freely in the outer chamber, 
 Let us remove him. 
 
 {They lift him in his couch, and bring him 
 forward to the front of the stage.') 
 First Offi. How are you now, my Lord ? 
 Ethw. Somewhat exhausted; and albeit, good 
 Thanes, 
 I greatly am indebted to your love. 
 For a short space I fain would be alone. 
 
 Q S 
 
230 ETHWALD : 
 
 First Offi. Farewell ! God send your highness 
 rest ! meantime 
 We'll pray for your recovery. 
 
 Sec Offi, And heaven will hear our prayers. 
 Omnes. Amen, amen ! 
 
 Ethw. Pray heaven to order all things for the 
 w^eal 
 Of my good realm, and I shall be well pleased 
 To live or die. Adieu ! [Exeunt all but Ethw. 
 Selred, and Ethelbert. (After a pausCy in 
 "which Ethw. seems agitated and uneasy.') 
 My dearest Selred, think it not unkind. 
 But go thou too. [Exit Selred. 
 
 (Raising himself 07i the couch, and taking both 
 the hands o/' Ethelbert, "which he presses in 
 his, looking up in his face' expressively for 
 some time before he speaks.) 
 I am oppress'd. To them, even in this state, 
 I still must be a king : to you, my friend, 
 Let me put off all seeming and constraint, 
 And be a poor weak man. (A pause.) Thou speak- 
 
 est not, 
 Thy face is sad and solemn. Well I see 
 Thou look'st upon me as a dying wretch — 
 There is no hope. 
 
 Eth. Much will it profit thee 
 To be prepared as tho' there were no hope ; 
 For if thou liv'st thou'lt live a better man. 
 And if thou diest, may heaven accept it of thee I 
 Eihxv. O that it would ! But, my good Ethel- 
 bert, 
 To be thus seized in my high career. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 2.11 
 
 With all my views of glory op'ning round me — 
 The Western state ev'n now invites 'mine arms. 
 And half Northumberland, in little time, 
 Had been to Mercia join'd. 
 
 Etii. Nay, think not now, I pray thee, of tliese 
 matters ! 
 They mix uncouthly with the pious thoughts 
 That do become your state. 
 
 Ethxv. I know it well ; 
 But they do press so closely on my heart 
 
 I did think to be remembered long ! 
 Like those grand visitations of the earth, 
 That on its alter'd face for ages leave 
 The traces of their might. Alas, alas ! 
 
 1 am a powerful, but a passing storm, 
 That soon shall be forgotten ! 
 
 Eth. I do beseech thee think of better things! 
 Ethxv. Thou see'st I weep. — Before thee I may 
 weep. (^Dropping his head upon his breast^ 
 and groaning deeply.) 
 Long have I toil'd and stain'd my hands in blood 
 To gain pre-eminence j and now, alas ! 
 Newly arrived at this towering height, 
 With all my schemes of glory rip'ning round 
 
 me, 
 I close mine eyes in darkness, and am nothing. 
 Eth. Wliat, nothing say'st thou ? 
 Ethxv. O no, Ethelbert ! 
 I look beyond this world, and look with dread 
 Where all for me is fearful and unknown. 
 Death I have daily braved in fields of fight, 
 
 Q 4< 
 
232 ethwald : 
 
 And, when a boy, oft on the air-hung bough 
 I've fearless trode, beneath me roaring far 
 The deep swoln floods with every erring step 
 Instant destruction. Had I perish'd then — 
 Would that I had, since it is come to this ! 
 
 (^Raising up his hands vehemently to heaven.^ 
 Eth. Be not so vehement : this will endanger 
 The little chance thou still may'st have for life. 
 The God we fear is merciful. 
 
 Ethw. Ay, he is merciful ; but may it reach — - 
 O listen to me! — Oswal I have murder'd, 
 And Edward, brave and gentle — Ay, this bites 
 With a fell tooth ! I vilely have enthralled ; 
 Of all his rights deprived. The loving Bertha: 
 Too well thou know'st what I have been to her — 
 Ah ! thinkest thou a thousand robed priests 
 Can pray down mercy on a soul so foul ? 
 
 Eth. The inward sighs of humble penitence 
 Rise to the ear of heav'n when peeled hymns 
 Are scattered with the sounds of common air j 
 If I indeed may speak unto a king 
 Of low humility. 
 
 Ethw. Thy words bite keenly, friend. O king 
 
 me not ! 
 Grant me but longer life, and thou shalt see 
 What brave amends I'll make for past offences. 
 Thou thinkest hardly of me ; ne'ertheless, 
 Rough as my warrior's life has been, good 
 
 thoughts 
 Have sometimes harbour'd here. 
 
 (^Putting his hand on his heart.) 
 If I had lived, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 233 
 
 It was my full intent that, in my power, 
 
 My people should have found prosperity : 
 
 I would have proved to them a gen'rous Lord. 
 
 If I had lived Ah ! think'st thou, Ethelbert, 
 
 There is indeed no hope ? 
 
 Eth. I may not flatter you. 
 
 Ethw, {holding up his clasped hands.) 
 Then heaven have mercy on a guilty soul ! 
 Good Ethelbert, full well thou know'st that I 
 No coward am : from power of mortal thing 
 I never shrunk. O might I still contend 
 With spear and helm, and shield and brandisli'd 
 
 blade ! 
 But I must go where spear and helm and shield 
 Avail not : 
 
 Where the skill'd warrior, cas'd in iron, stands 
 Defenceless as the poor uncrusted worm. 
 Some do conceit that disembodied spirits 
 Have in them more capacity of woe 
 Than flesh and blood maintain. I feel appalled : 
 Yes, Thane of Sexford, I do say appall'd. 
 For, ah ! thou know'st not in how short a space 
 The soul of man within him may be changed. 
 
 Ethxv. I know it all too well. But be more 
 calm ; 
 Thou hast a task to do, and short perhaps 
 May be the time allow'd thee. True repentance 
 With reparation of offences past 
 Is ever yok*d. Declare it as thy will 
 That Edward do succeed unto his rights : 
 And for poor Bertha, she shall be my charge j 
 I'll tend and cheer her in my quiet home. 
 
234 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. Thou dost prevent my boon : heaven 
 bless thee for it ! 
 I give thee power to do what'er thou think*st 
 I living should have done, 'Tis all I can, 
 And gracious heaven accept it at my hands ! 
 
 Eth. Amen, my friend! I'll faithfully fulfil 
 Th* important trust — Ha ! how thy visage 
 
 changes ! 
 Thy mind's exertion has outrun thy strength. 
 He faints away. Help ! who attends without ? 
 
 Enter^ Selred 'aith Attendants. 
 Support the king : whether a sudden faint 
 Or death be now upon him, trow I not. 
 But quickly call the queen. 
 Sel. Alas, my brother ! 
 
 (^Assisting Eth. to raise Ethw.*5 head.) 
 Eth. Raise him gently, Selred. 
 For, if that life within him still remain, 
 It may revive him. 
 
 Sel. Ah, see how changed he is ! Alas, my 
 brother ! 
 Pride of my father's house, is this thy end ? ' 
 
 Enter Elburga, Nobles, &c. 
 Elb. Let me approach unto my royal Lord, i 
 Good Ethelbert, thou long hast known thy king, 
 Look'd he e'er thus before ? {looking on Ethw.) 
 Eth. No, royal dame j and yet 'tis but a faint j 
 See, he revives again. 
 
 Eilm. (opening his eyes.) Who are about me 
 
 now ? 
 Eth. The queen and nobles. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 235 
 
 Sel. And Selred, too, is here, my dearest Etli- 
 wald! 
 
 EtJvw. (holding out his hand to Sel.) 
 Ay, noble brother, thou wert ever kind. 
 Faintness returns again ; stand round my friends, 
 And hear my dying words. It is my will 
 That Ethelbert shall, after my decease. 
 With the concurrence of the nation's council, 
 The kingdom settle as may best appear 
 To his experienced wisdom, and retain 
 Until that settlement the kingly power. 
 Faintness returns again ; I say no more. 
 Art thou displeas'd, my Selred ? 
 
 Sel. {kneeling and kissing his hand.') 
 No, brother, let your dying will bereave me 
 Ev'n of my father's lands, and with my sword 
 I will maintain it. 
 
 Ethw. Thou art a gen'rous brother ; fare thee 
 well! 
 
 Elb. What, is the queen, indeed, so poor a 
 thing 
 In Mercia's state, that she o'erpassed is, 
 Unhonour'd and unmention'd ? 
 
 Ethw. (Jo Elb. waving his hand faintly.^ 
 
 Be at peace ! 
 Thou 'shalt have all things that become thy 
 
 state. 
 {To Attendants.) Lower my head, I pray you. 
 
 First Offi. He faints again. 
 
 Sec. Offi. He will not hold it long : 
 The kingdom will be torn with dire contentions. 
 And the Northumbrian soon will raise his head. 
 
236 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethw. (raising himself eagerly with great 'vehe- 
 mence.) 
 Northumberland ! Oh I did puipose soon, 
 With thrice five thousand of my chosen men, 
 To've compass'd his proud towers. 
 Death, death! thou art at hand, and all is ended I 
 (Groans, and falls hack upon the couch.) 
 Frst Offi. This is a faint from which I fear, 
 brave Thanes, 
 He will awake no more. 
 Sec, Offi. Say*st thou ? go nearer and observe 
 
 the face. 
 First Offi. If that mine eyes did ever death 
 behold. 
 This is a dead man's visage. 
 Sec. Offi. Let us retire. My good Lord Ethel- 
 bert, 
 You shall not find me backward in your service. 
 First Offi. Nor me. 
 Omnes. Nor any of us. 
 
 Eth. I thank you. Thanes ! 'Tis fit you should 
 retire ; 
 But Selred and myself, and, of your number. 
 Two chosen by yourselves, will watch the body. 
 (To Dwina, who supports Elburga, and seems 
 soothing her.) 
 Ay, gentle Dwina, soothe your royal mistress, 
 And lead her hence. 
 
 (^After looking stedfastly on the body.) 
 Think ye, indeed, that death hath dealt his 
 blow? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 237 
 
 First Offi. Ah, yes, my Lord! that countenance 
 is death. 
 
 (Seh'ed kneels by the body, and hides his head.) 
 
 Eth. Then peace be to his spirit! 
 A brave and daring soul is gone to rest. 
 Thus powerful death th' ambitious man arrests, 
 In midst of all his great and towering hopes, 
 With heart high swoln ; as the omnipotent frost 
 Seizes the rough enchafed northern deep. 
 And all its mighty billows, heav'd aloft. 
 Boldly commixing with the clouds of heaven, 
 Are fix*d to rage no more. 
 
 (The Curtain drops.') 
 
 
 J 
 
ETHWALD: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS, 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 Ethwald. 
 
 Ethelbeut. 
 
 Selred. 
 
 Edward. 
 
 Alwy. 
 
 Hereulf. 
 
 Hexulf. 
 
 Ongar. 
 
 Thanes, Soldiers, &c. &c. 
 
 WOMEN: 
 Elburga. 
 
 DWINA. 
 
 Ladies, Attendants, &c. &c. 
 
ETHWALD. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A gloomy apartment in an old Saxon 
 castky with small grated windows very high 
 from the ground. Edward is discoveredy sit- 
 ting by a table y and tracing Jigures with chalk 
 upon ity zvhich he frequently rubs out again ; at 
 lasty throwing away the chalky he Jixes his eyes 
 upon the groundy and continues for some time 
 in a melancholy musing posture. Enters to him 
 the Keeper, carrying somethi)ig in his hand. 
 
 Edward. 
 
 What brings thee now ? it surely cannot be 
 The time of food : my prison hours are wont 
 To fly more heavily. 
 
 Keep. It is not food : I bring wherewith, my 
 
 Lord, 
 To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft 
 Hath griev*d me, when I've thought of you 
 
 o*nights ; 
 Thro* it the cold wind visits you. 
 
 VOL. II. K 
 
242 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ed. And let it enter ! it shall not be stopp'd. 
 Who visits me besides the winds of heaven ? 
 Who mourns with me but the sad sighing wind ? 
 Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones 
 Of voices once belov'd and sounds long past 
 But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind? 
 Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek 
 As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows 
 But the free piteous wind ? 
 I will not have it stopp'd. 
 
 Keep. My Lord, the winter now creeps on 
 apace : 
 Hoar frost this morning, on our shelter'd fields 
 Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun. 
 Which scarce had power to melt it. 
 
 Ed. Glanced to th' up-risen sun ! Ay, such 
 fair morns, 
 When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on. 
 Like to a gemmed bride ! Your rustics, now. 
 And early hinds, will set their clouted feet 
 Thro' silver webs, so bright and finely wrought 
 As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on 
 Their careless way, unheeding. 
 Alas, how many glorious things there be 
 To look upon ! Wear not the forests, now. 
 Their latest coat of richly varied dyes ? 
 
 Keep. Yes, good my Lord, the cold chill year 
 advances. 
 Therefore, I pray you, let me close that wall. 
 
 Ed. I tell thee no, man; if the north air 
 bites, 
 Bring me a cloak. — Where is thy dog to-day ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 243 
 
 Keep. Indeed I wonder that he came not witli 
 me 
 As he is wont. 
 
 Ed. Bring him, 1 pray thee, when tliou com'st 
 again. 
 He wags his tail and looks up to my face 
 With the assured kindliness of one 
 Who has not injur'd me. How goes your sport ? 
 Keep. Nobly, my Lord ; and much it pleases 
 me 
 To see your mind again so sooth'd and calm. 
 Ed. I thank thee : know'st thou not that man 
 is form'd 
 For varied states ; to top the throne of power, 
 Or in a toad's hole squat, shut from the light ? 
 He can bear all things ; yet, if thou hast grace, 
 Lead me for once into the open air 
 To see the woods, and fields, and country round. 
 In the fair light of heaven. 
 
 Keep. I must not do it; I am sworn to this; 
 But all indulgence, suited to this state 
 Of close confinement, gladly will I grant. 
 
 Ed. A faithful servant to a wicked lord, 
 Whoe'er he be, art tliou. Is Oswal dead ? 
 Or does some powerful Thane his power usurp ? 
 
 (^A pause.) 
 Thou wilt not answer me. (^A horn heard ^without.) 
 Keep. Ha ! who is at the gate that sounds so 
 boldly ? 
 I'll mount this tower and see. 
 
 [Exit hastily, and Edward takes his seat 
 again as before. 
 
 u 2 
 
g44 ethwald: 
 
 Keep, (withouti calling do^d^nfrom the Tower J) 
 It is a company of armed men, 
 Bearing a royal ensign. 
 
 Ed. {starting from his seat.) Then let me rise 
 and brace my spirits up ! 
 They bring me death or freedom ! 
 
 Re-enter Keeper^ow the Tower. 
 {Eagerly to him.) What think'st thou of it ? 
 Keej}. I'll to the gate, and meet them instantly. 
 [Exit, crossing over the stage hastily. 
 Ed. {alone.) An it be death they'll do it 
 speedily. 
 And there's the end of all. Ah, liberty ! 
 An it be thou, enlarger of man's self ! — 
 My heart doth strangely beat as tho' it were. 
 I hear their steps already : they come quickly : 
 Ah ! how step they who joyful tidings bear ! 
 Keep, {calling without to Edw. before they 
 enter.) 
 My Lord, my Lord ! you're a free man again ! 
 Ed. Am I ? great God of heaven, how good 
 thou art ! 
 
 Enter Two Thanes, conducted by the Keeper. 
 Ed. {accosting them.) Brave men, ye come 
 upon a blessed errand. 
 And let me bless you. 
 First Th. With joy unto ourselves we bring, 
 my Lord, 
 Your full enlargement from the highest power 
 That Mercia now obeys. 
 Ed. Not from king Oswal ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. '245 
 
 Sec. Th. No, most noble Ethling ; 
 From the Lord Regent Ethelbert we come. 
 Ed. Mine uncle, then, is dead. 
 Sec. Th. E'en so, my Lord. 
 Ed. Ah ! good and gentle, and to me most 
 kind ! ( IVeeps, hiding his J ace.) 
 Died he peacefully ? 
 
 First Th. He is at peace. 
 Ed. Ye are reserved with me. 
 But ye are wise, perhaps ; time will declare it. 
 Give me your hands ; ye are my loving friends. 
 And you, good guardian of this castle, too, 
 You have not been to me a surly keeper. 
 
 {Taking the Thanes "warmly by the handy and 
 afterwards the Keeper.) 
 {A second horn sounds without very loud.) 
 First Th. Ha ! at our heels another messenger 
 So quickly sent. [Exit Keep. 
 
 Sec, Th. What may this mean ? 
 Ed. Nay, wait not for him here. 
 Let us go forth from these inclosing walls. 
 And meet him in the light and open day. 
 First Th. 'Tis one, I hope, sent to confirm our 
 errand : 
 How came he on so quickly ? 
 
 Ed. Thou hopest. Thane ? Oh ! then thou 
 doubtest too. {Pauses and looks earnestly in 
 their faces.) 
 
 Enter Ongar, conducted by the Keeper. 
 
 First Th. {to Ongar.) Thine errand ? 
 R 3 
 
246 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ongar, That thou shalt know, and the autho- 
 rity 
 Which warrants it. You here are come, grave 
 
 Thanes, 
 Upon the word of a scarce-named regent. 
 To set this prisoner free ; but I am come 
 With the sign'd will of Ethwald to forbid it : 
 And here I do retain him. {Laying hold o/'Edw.) 
 
 First Th, I^oose thy unhallow'd grasp, thou 
 base deceiver 1 
 Nor face us out with a most wicked tale. 
 We left the king at his extremity. 
 And long ere this he must have breath'd his last. 
 
 Ongar, Art thou in league with death to know 
 so well 
 When he perforce must come to sick men's beds ? 
 King Ethwald lives, and will live longer too 
 Than traitors wish for. Look upon these orders : 
 Knowestthou not his sign? (^shewing his waj^r ant.) 
 {Both Thanes after reading it.) 'Tis wonderful ! 
 
 Ongar » Is it so wonderful 
 A wounded man, fainting with loss of blood 
 And rack*d with pain, should seem so near his 
 
 end. 
 And yet recover ? 
 
 Sec. Th. Ethwald then lives ? 
 
 Ongar. Ay, and long live the king ! 
 
 Ed, What words are these ? 
 I am as one who in a misty dream. 
 Listens to things wild and fantastical, 
 AVhich no congruity nor kindred bear 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^4«7 
 
 To preconceiv'd impressions. 
 
 King Ethwald, said ye? and is Etinvald king? 
 
 First Th. He did succeed your uncle. 
 
 Ed. And by his orders am I here detain'd ? 
 
 First Th, Even so, my Lord. 
 
 Ed. It cannot be. {Turning to Sec. Th.) Thou 
 say'st not so, good Thane ? 
 
 Sec. Th. I do beUeve it. 
 
 Ed. Nay, nay ; ye are deceived. 
 {Turning to Ongar.) What say*st tliou? 
 Was I by Ethwald*s orders here imprisoned ? 
 
 Ongar. Yes, yes ; who else had power or will 
 to do it ? 
 
 Ed. {holding his clasped hands.) Then hope, 
 farewell ! 
 My gleam is dark ; my rest is in the dust ! 
 
 that an enemy had done this wrong ! 
 
 But Ethwald, thou who to my heart wert press'd 
 As dearest brother never was by him 
 Who shar'd his mother's breast ! Thou in whose 
 fame 
 
 1 gloried — I who spoke not of my own ! — 
 When shouting crowds proclaimed thy honoured 
 
 name, 
 I ever join'd with an ungrudging heart : 
 Yea, such true kindred feeling bore I to him, 
 E*en at his praise I wept. I pray you, sirs ! 
 {Bursting into tears.) This hath overcome me, 
 Ongar. {to Thanes.) Why do you tarry here?' 
 YouVe seen my warrant. 
 Depart with me and leave the prisoner. 
 
 R i 
 
248 ETHWALD : 
 
 First Th. What, shall we leave him in this 
 piteous state, 
 Lone and uncomforted ? 
 
 Ongar. It must be so, there is no time to lose. 
 Come, follow me ; my men are at the gate. 
 
 (^As they are all about to depart^ Edward, 
 starting furiously forward to the dooryjlies 
 upo?i Ongar, and seizes him by the throat.') 
 Ed. What ! leave me here, fiend ! Am I not a 
 man. 
 Created free to breathe the circling air 
 And range the boundless earth as thy base self, 
 Or thy more treacherous lord? thou tyrant's slave ! 
 (^As he struggles with hirUf Ongar calls loudly* 
 and immediately the apartment is filled with 
 armed men^ who separate them.) 
 Ongar. (to his Followers.) Remove that mad- 
 man to the inner chamber. 
 Keeper, attend your duty. (To ^A^ Thanes.) Fol- 
 low me. [Exeunt Ongar and Thanes, &c. 
 Keep, (to Edw. as some remaining armed men 
 are leading him off by the opposite side.) 
 Alas ! alas ! my Lord, to see you thus. 
 In closer bondage ! Pray ! good soldiers, pray ! 
 Let him in this apartment still remain : 
 
 He'll be secure ; I'll pledge my life 
 
 Ed. No, no ! 
 Let them enchain me in a pitchy gulph ! 
 'Twere better than this den of weariness 
 Which my soul loathes. What care I now for 
 ease? [Exeunt Ed. led off by the me?i. 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^4^ 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A?i apartment in the royal castle. E?iter Ethel- 
 BEiiT meeting ivith Selred, who enters at the 
 same time from a door at the bottom of the stage. 
 
 Eth. How did*st thou leave the King ? 
 Sel. Recovering strength with every passing 
 hour. 
 His spirits too, that were so weak and gloomy, 
 From frequent fainting and the loss of blood. 
 Now buoyant rise, and much assist the cure 
 Which all regard as wonderful. « 
 
 Eth. It has deceiv'd us, yet Pve heard of such. 
 Sel. Thou lookest sadly on it : how is this ? 
 With little cost of thought I could explain 
 In any man but thee that cloudy brow ; 
 But well I know thou didst not prize the power 
 With which thou wert invested. 
 
 Eth. Selred, this hasty gloom will prove too 
 short 
 To work in Ethwald*s mind the change we 
 
 look'd for. 
 And yet he promised well. 
 
 Sel. Ay, and will well perform 5 mistrust him 
 not. 
 I must confess, nature has form'd his mind 
 Too restless and aspiring ; and of late. 
 Having such mighty objects in his grasp. 
 He has too reckless been of others* rights. 
 But, now that all is gain*d, mistrust him not : 
 He'll prove a noble king ; a good one too. 
 Eth. Thou art his brother. 
 
^250 ETHWALD : 
 
 Sel. And thou his friend. 
 EtJi. I stand reprov'd before thee. 
 A friend, indeed, should gentler thoughts main- 
 tain. 
 And so I will endeavour. 
 
 Sel. Give me thy valiant hand ; full well I know 
 The heart which it pertains to. 
 
 Eth. I hear him, now, within his chamber stir. 
 Sel. Thou'lt move him best alone. God speed 
 thy zeal ! 
 I'll stand by thee the while and mark his eye. 
 (Eth. remains on the front of the stage whilst 
 Ethwalde?zfer5 behind him from the door at 
 the bottom of the stage y leaning upon an 
 attendant.) 
 Ethw. (to Sel. as he goes up to Eth.) 
 How, Ethelbert, our friend, so deep in thought? 
 (To ^/ze Attendant.) Leave me awhile, methinks 
 
 a brother's arm 
 Will be a kindlier staff. 
 
 [Exit Attendant, a7id he leans upon Sel. 
 How, Ethelbert, my friend ! 
 What vision from the nether world of sprites 
 Now rises to thine eyes, thus on the ground 
 So fix'd and sternly bent ? 
 Eth. Pardon, my Lord ! my mind should now 
 be turn'd 
 To cheerful thoughts, seeing you thus restor'd. 
 How fares it with you ? 
 Ethw. E'en as with one, on a rude mountain's 
 side. 
 Who suddenly in seeming gloom inclosed 
 
A TRAGEDY. 251 
 
 Of drizzly night, athwart the wearing mist 
 Sees the veil'd sun break forth in heaven's wide 
 
 arch. 
 Aiid shewing still a lengthened day before him. 
 As with a traveller in a gloomy path, 
 Whose close o'er-shaded end did scare his fancy 
 With forms of hidden ill ; who, wending on 
 With fearful steps, before his eyes beholds 
 I' th' sudden burst a fair and wide expanse 
 Of open country, rich in promis'd good. 
 As one o'erwhelmed in the battle's shock, 
 Who, all oppress'd and numbered with the slain, 
 Smother'd and lost, with sudden impulse 
 
 strengthened, 
 Shakes the foul load of dead men from his back, 
 And finds himself again standing erect, 
 Unmaim'd and vigorous. As one who stood — 
 But it may tire thee with such ample scope 
 To tell indeed how it doth fare with me. 
 
 Eth, You truly are from a dark gloom restor'd 
 To cheerful day ; and, if the passing shade 
 Has well impressed your mind, there lies before 
 
 you 
 A prospect fair, indeed. Ay, fairer far 
 Than that the gloom obscured. 
 Etivw. How sayest thou ? 
 Eth. Did not that seeming cloud of death ob- 
 scure 
 To your keen forecast eye tumultuous scenes 
 Of war and strife, and conquest yet to come, 
 Bought with your people's blood ? but now, my 
 Ethwald, 
 
5252 ETHWALD : 
 
 Your chasten'd mind, so rich in good resolves. 
 Hath stretched before it, future prospect fair. 
 Such as a God might please. 
 Ethw. How so, good Ethelbert? 
 Eth. And dost thou not perceive ? O see be- 
 fore thee 
 Thy native land, freed from the ills of war 
 And hard oppressive power, a land of peace ! 
 Where yellow fields unspoil'd, and pastures 
 
 green. 
 Mottled with herds and flocks, who crop secure 
 Their native herbage, nor have ever known 
 A stranger's stall, smile gladly. 
 See, thro* its tufted alleys to heaven's roof 
 The curling smoke of quiet dwellings rise j 
 Whose humble masters, with forgotten spear 
 Hung on the webbed wall, and cheerful fiice 
 In harvest fields embrown'd, do gaily talk 
 Over their ev'ning meal, and bless king Etli- 
 
 wald. 
 The valiant, yet the peaceful, whose wise rule. 
 Firm and rever'd, has brought them better days 
 Than e'er their fathers knew. 
 
 Ethw. A scene, indeed, fair and desirable ; 
 But, ah, how much confin'd ! Were it not work 
 A God befitting, with exerted strength. 
 By one great effort to enlarge its bounds. 
 And spread the blessing wide ? 
 
 Eth, (starting hack from him.') 
 Ha! there it is! that serpent bites thee still! 
 O spurn it, strangle it ! let it rise no more ! 
 
A TllAGEDV. 253 
 
 Sel. (Jay'mghh hand ajfectionaleh/ on Etliwald'.v 
 breast.) 
 My clearest brother, let not such wild thoughts 
 Again possess your mind ! 
 
 ElJnv. Go to! go to! {to Sel.) But, Ethelbert, 
 
 thou'rt mad. {Turning angrily to Eth.) 
 Etli. Not mad, my royal friend, but something 
 griev'd 
 To see your restless mind still bent on that 
 Which will to you no real glory bring. 
 And to your hapless people many woes. 
 
 Etliw. Thou greatly errest from my meaning, 
 friend. 
 As truly as thyself I do regard 
 My people's weal, and will employ the power 
 Heaven trusts me with, for that important end. 
 But were it not ignoble to confine 
 In narrow bounds the blessed power of blessing. 
 Lest, for a little space, the face of war 
 Should frown upon us ? He who will not give 
 i| Some portion of his ease, his blood, his wealth, 
 j For others' good, is a poor frozen churl. 
 
 Eth, Well, then again a simple warriour be. 
 And thine own ease, and blood, and treasure 
 
 give : 
 But whilst thou art a king, and would'st bestow 
 On people not thine own the blessed gift 
 Of gentle rule, earn'd by the public force 
 Of thine own subjects, thou dost give away 
 That o'er the which thou hast no right. Frown not : 
 I will assert it, crown'd and royal Lord, 
 Tho* to your ears full rude the sound may be. 
 
254 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethiv. Chaf'd Thane, be more restrain'd. Thou 
 kiiowest well, 
 That, as a warlike chieftain, never yet 
 The meanest of my soldiers grasp'd his spear 
 To follow me constrain'd ; and as a King, 
 Think*st thou I'll be less noble? 
 
 Sel. Indeed, good Ethelbert, thou art too 
 warm ; 
 Thou dealest hardly with him. 
 
 Eth.lknow, tho' peace dilates the heart of man, 
 And makes his stores increase, his countenance 
 
 smile, 
 He is by nature form'd, like savage beasts, 
 To take delight in war. 
 'Tis a strong passion in his bosom lodged, 
 For ends most wise, curb'd and restrain'd to be ; 
 And they who for their own designs do take 
 Advantage of his nature, act in truth, 
 Like cruel hinds who spirit the poor cock 
 To rend and tear his fellow. 
 O thou ! whom I so often in my arms, 
 A bold and gen'rous boy have fondly press'd, 
 And now do proudly call my sov'reign lord, 
 Be not a cruel master ! O be gentle ! 
 Spare Mercian blood ! Goodness and power do 
 
 make 
 Most meet companions. The great Lord of all. 
 Before whose awful presence, short-while since. 
 Thou did'st expect to stand, almighty is, 
 Also most merciful : 
 
 And the bless'd Being he to earth did send 
 To teach our soften'd hearts to call him Fatlier, 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^55 
 
 Most meekly did confine liis heavenly power 
 Unto the task assign'd him. Tliink of this. 
 O! dost tliou Hsten to me? 
 
 Ethiv. {inoved and softened.') 
 Yes, good Ethelbert. 
 
 Be thou more cahn : we will consider of it. 
 We should desire our people's good, and peace 
 Makes them to flourish. We confess all this ; 
 But circumstance oft takes away the power 
 Of acting on it. Still our Western neighbours 
 Are turbulent and bold ; and, for the time, 
 Tho* somewhat humbled, they again may rise 
 And force us to the field. 
 
 Sel, No, fear it not! they are inclined to peace; 
 Tidings I've learnt, sent by a trusty messenger. 
 Who from Caernarvon is with wond'rous speed 
 But just arriv'd: their valiant prince is dead. 
 A sudden death has snatched him in his prime ; 
 And a weak infant, under tutorage 
 Of three contending chiefs of little weight, 
 Now rules the state, whom, thou may*st well per- 
 ceive. 
 Can give thee no disturbance. 
 
 Ethw. (eagerly, with his eyes lightening up, and 
 his whole Jrame agitated.) 
 A trusty messenger has told thee this ? 
 O send him to me quickly ! still fair fortune 
 Offers her favours freely. Send him quickly ! 
 Ere yet aware of my returning health, 
 Five thousand men might without risk be led 
 E'en to their castle walls. 
 
 Eth. What, mean'st thou this ? 
 
^56 ETHWALD : 
 
 Uprous'd again inito this dev'lish pitcli ? 
 Oh, it is horrid ! 
 
 EtJiw. (in great heat.') Be restrained, Tliane. 
 Eth. Be thou restrained, king. See how thou 
 art. 
 Thus feebly tott'ring on those wasted limbs ! 
 And would'st thou spoil the weak ? (Observing 
 Ethw. xvho staggers from being agitated be- 
 yond his strength.') 
 Ethw. (pushing axvay Selred who supports him.) 
 I do not want thine aid : I'm well and vig'rous: 
 My heart beats strongly, and my blood is warm; 
 Tho' there are those who spy my weakness out 
 To shackle me withal. Ho, thou without ! 
 
 Enter his Attendant, and Ethw. taking hold of 
 himy walks across the stage ; then turning about 
 to Sel. and Eth. 
 
 Brother, send quickly for your trusty messenger ; 
 And so good day. Good morning. Thane of 
 Sexford. (Looking sternly to Ethelbert.) 
 Eth. Good morning, Mercians king. 
 
 [Exeunt by opposite sides, frowningly. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A grand apartment, with a chair of state. Enter 
 Hexulf and Alwy, engaged in close convers- 
 ation. 
 
 Alwy. (continuing to speak.) Distrust it not ; 
 The very honours and high exaltation 
 Of Ethelbert, that did your zealous ire 
 16 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^^ 
 
 So much provoke, are now the very tools 
 With which we'll work his ruin. 
 
 Hex. But still proceed with caution ; gain tlie 
 queen ; 
 For she, from ev'ry hue of circumstance. 
 Must be his enemy. 
 
 Alwi/. I have clone that already. 
 By counterfeiting Ethwald's signature 
 Whilst in that still and deathlike state he lay^ 
 To hinder Ethelbert's rash treach'rous haste 
 From setting Edward free, I have done that 
 For which, tho' Ethwald thanks me, Imust needs. 
 On bended knee, for courtly pardon sue. 
 The queen I have address'd with humble suit 
 My cause to plead with her great Lord, and slie 
 Her most magnificent and high protection 
 Be of our party, e'en if on her mind 
 No other motive press'd. 
 
 Hex. I doubt it not, and yet I fear her spirit. 
 Proud and aspiring, will desire to rule 
 More than befits our purpose. 
 
 Alwy. Fear it not. 
 It is the shew and worship of high state 
 That she delights in more than real power : 
 She has more joy in stretching forth her hand 
 And saying, " I command," than, in good truth. 
 Seeing her will obey'd. 
 
 Enter Queen, with Dwina and Attendants. 
 
 Hex. Saint Alban bless you, high and royal 
 dame ! 
 We are not here, in an intruding spirit, 
 Before your royal presence. 
 
 VOL. II. s 
 
258 ETHWALD : 
 
 Qu. I thank you, good lord bishop, with your 
 firiend. 
 And nothing doubt of your respect and duty. 
 
 Ativy. Thanks, gracious queen ! This good and 
 holy man 
 Thus far supports me in your royal favour, 
 Which is the only rock that I would cling to, 
 Willing to give me friendly countenance. 
 
 Qu. You have done well, good Alwy, and have 
 need 
 Of thanks more than of pardon ; nevertheless. 
 If any trouble light on thee for this, 
 A royal hand shall be stretcliM forth to save you. 
 Whom none in Mercia, whosoe'er they be, 
 Will venture to oppose. I will protect thee. 
 And have already much inclined the king 
 To favour thee. 
 
 Alwij. (Jmeeling and kissing her haiid.) 
 Receive my humble thanks, most honour*dqueen» 
 My conscience tells me I have merited. 
 Of you and of the king, no stern rebuke ; 
 But that dark cunning Thane has many wiles 
 To warp men's minds e'en from their proper 
 
 good. 
 He has attempted, or report speaks falsely, 
 To lure king Ethwald to resign his crown. 
 What may he not attempt ! it makes me shrink ! 
 He trusts his treasons to no mortal men : 
 Fiends meet him in his hall at dead of night, 
 And are his counsellors. 
 
 Queen. {Jiolding up her hands.) 
 Protect us, heaven ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 259 
 
 Hex. Saint Albaii will protect you, gracious 
 queen. 
 Trust me, his love for pious OswaPs daughter 
 Will guard you in the hour of danger. Hark ! 
 The king approaches. {Flourish of trumpets.) 
 
 Qu. Yes, at this hour he will receive in state 
 The bold address of those seditious Thanes, 
 Clam'ring for peace, when fair occasion smiles, 
 And beckons him to arm and follow her. 
 
 Hex. We know it well ; of whom Thane 
 Ethelbert, 
 In secret is the chief, although young Hereulf 
 By him is tutor'd in the spokesman's office. 
 
 Enter Ethwald, attended hy many Thanes and 
 Officers qf the Courts 8^c. 
 Qu. {presenting Alwy to Ethw.) My Lord, a 
 humble culprit at your feet. 
 Supported by my favour, craves forgiveness. 
 (Alwy kneels, and Ethw. raises him graciously.) 
 Ethw. I grant his suit, supported by the 
 favour 
 Of that warm sense I wear within my breast 
 Of his well-meaning zeal. {Looking contemptu 
 ously at the Queen, who turns haughtily away.) 
 But wherefore Alwy 
 
 Didst thou not boldly come to me at first 
 And tell thy fault? Might not thy former services 
 Out-balance well a greater crime than this ? 
 Alwy. I so, indeed, had done, but a shrewd 
 Thane, 
 Of mind revengeful, and most penetrating, 
 
 s 2 
 
260 ETHWALD : 
 
 Teaches us caution in wliate'er regards 
 
 His dealings with the state. I fear the man. 
 
 Ethic. And wherefore dost thou fear him ? 
 
 Alwy, (jnysteriously.') He has a cloudy brow, 
 a stubborn gait ; 
 His dark soul is shut up from mortal man. 
 And deeply broods upon its own conceits 
 Of right and wrong. 
 
 Hex. He has a soul black with foul atheism 
 And heresies abominable. Nay, 
 He has a tongue of such persuasive art, 
 That all men listen to him. 
 
 Qu. (eagerly.') More than men : 
 Dark spirits meet him at the midnight hour, 
 And horrid converse hold. 
 
 EtJvw. No more, I pray you ! Ethelbert I know. 
 
 Qu. Indeed, indeed, my Lord, you know him 
 not! 
 
 Ethw. Be silent, wife. {Turning to Hex.a^i^Al.) 
 My tried and faithful Alwy, 
 And pious Hexulf, in my private closet 
 We further will discourse on things of moment. 
 At more convenient time. 
 
 The leagued Thanes advance. Retire, Elburga : 
 Thou hast my leave. I gave thee no command 
 To join thy presence to this stern solemnity. 
 Soft female grace adorns the festive hall. 
 And sheds a brighter lustre on high days 
 Of pageant state ; but in an hour like this, 
 Destin'd for gravest audience, 'tis unmeet. 
 
 Qii. What, is the qrieen an empty bauble, then, 
 To gild tliy state withal ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. Q61 
 
 Etiiw, The queens of Mercia, first of Mercian 
 dames, 
 Still fair example give of meek obedience 
 To their good Lords. This is their privilege. 
 
 {Seeing that she delays to go.) 
 It is my will. A good day to your highness. 
 Qii. (aside as she goes off.) Be silent, wife ! 
 This Mollo's son doth say 
 Unto the royal offspring of a king. [Exit Queen, 
 frowniiig angrily y andfollo'wed by Dwina 
 and Attendants. 
 (The Thanes, who entered with Ethwaid, and 
 during his conversation with Alwy, &c. 
 had 7^e tired to the bottom oftlie stage ^ now 
 come forxvard.) 
 Ethw. Now wait we for those grave and slug- 
 gish chiefs, 
 Who would this kingdom, fam'd for warlike 
 
 Thanes, 
 Change into mere provision-land to feed 
 A dull un warlike race. 
 
 Alwy. Ay, and our castles. 
 Whose lofty walls are darkened with the spoils 
 Of glorious war, to barns and pinning folds. 
 Where our brave hands, instead of sword and 
 
 spear. 
 The pruning knife and shepherd*s staff must 
 grasp. 
 Hen. True ; sinking you, in such base toils 
 unskilled, 
 Beneath the wiser curl. This is their wish, 
 
 s o 
 
2(i2 ETHWALD : 
 
 But heaven and our good saint will bring to 
 
 nought 
 Their wicked machinations. 
 
 Enter an Officer of the Castle. 
 Offi. Th' assembled Thanes, my Lord, attend 
 
 without, 
 Kthxv. Well, let them enter. [Exit Offi. 
 
 Our stool beneath us will not shake, 1 trust. 
 Being so fenced round. (Taking his seat, and bow- 
 ing courteously/ with a smiling countenance 
 to the Chiefs, ^c. who range themselves 
 near him J) 
 
 Enter sever alT\\2i\ie% with Hereulf at their head, 
 and presently after followed by Ethelbert. 
 Her. (stretching outhis hand with respectful dig- 
 7iity.) Our king and sire, in true and humble duty 
 We come iDefore you, earnestly intreating 
 Your royal ear to our united voice 
 
 Ethw. Mine ear is ever open to the voice 
 Of faithful duty. 
 
 Her. We are all men who, in th' embattled field. 
 Have by your side the front of danger braved, 
 With greater lack of prudence than of daring ; 
 And have opposed our rough and scarred breasts 
 To the fell push of war, with liberality 
 Not yielding to the bravest of your Thanes, 
 The sons of warlike sires. But we are men 
 Who, in our cheerful halls, have also been 
 Lords of the daily feast; where, round our boards, 
 The hoary headed warrior, from the toil 
 Of armsreleas'd, with the cheer'd stranger smiled : 
 
A TRAGEDY. ':2{')S 
 
 Who in tlie humble dwelHngs of our hinds, 
 Have seen a niunerous and hardy race, 
 Eating the bread of labour cheerfully, 
 Dealt to them with no hard nor churlish hand. 
 AVe, therefore, stand with graceful boldness forth, 
 The advocates of those who wish for peace. 
 Worn with our rude and long continued wars. 
 Our native land wears now the altered face 
 Of an uncultured wild. To her fair fields, 
 With weeds and thriftless docks now shagged o*er, 
 The aged grandsire, bent and past his toil, 
 Who in the sunny nook had plac'd his seat 
 And thought to toil no more, leads joyless forth 
 His widow'd daughters and their orphan train. 
 The master of a silent, cheerless band. 
 The half-grown stripling, urged before his time 
 To manhood's labour, steps, with feeble limbs 
 And sallow cheek, around his unroof'd cot. 
 The mother on her last remaining son 
 With fearful bodings looks. The cheerful sound 
 Of whistling ploughmen, and the reaper's song, 
 And the flail's lusty stroke is heard no more. 
 The youth and manhood of our land are laid 
 In the cold earth, and shall we think of war ? 
 O valiant Ethwald ! listen to the calls 
 Of gentle pity, in the brave most graceful. 
 Nor, for the lust of more extended sway, 
 Shed the last blood of Mercia. War is honour- 
 able 
 In those who do their native rights maintain ; 
 In those whose swords an iron barrier are 
 Between the lawless spoiler and the weak : 
 
 s 4 
 
2f)4« ETHWALD : 
 
 But is in those who draw th' offensive blade 
 For added power or gain, sordid and despicable 
 As meanest office of the worldly churl. 
 
 Ethw. Chiefs and assembled Thanes, I much 
 commend 
 The love you bear unto your native land. 
 Shame to the son nurs'd on her gen'rous breast 
 Who loves her not I and be assured that I, 
 Her reared child, her soldier, and her king, 
 In true and warm affection yield to none 
 Of all who have upon her turfy lap 
 Thus infant gambol held. To you her weal 
 Is gain and pleasure ; glory *tis to me. 
 To you her misery is loss and sorrow ; 
 To me disgrace and shame. Of this be satis- 
 fied ; 
 I feel her sacred claims, which these high ensigns 
 Have fastened on me, and I will fulfil them : 
 But for the course and manner of performance. 
 Be that unto the royal wisdom left, 
 Strengthen'd by thoseappointed by the state 
 To aid and counsel it. Ye have our leave. 
 With all respect and favour to retire. 
 
 Her. We will retire, king Ethwald, as be- 
 comes 
 Free, independent Thanes, who do of right 
 Approach or quit at will the royal presence, 
 And lacking no permission, 
 
 Akvy. What, all so valiant in this princely 
 hall. 
 Ye who would shrink from the fair field of war, 
 Where soldiers should be bold ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 2(J5 
 
 Her. (^lai/ing his Iimid on his sxtorcL) 
 Thou ly'st, mean boastful hireling of thy Loril, 
 And shalt be punish'd for it. 
 
 First Th. (if Ethwald'^^ side,) 
 Anddar'st thou threaten, mouth of bold sedition ? 
 We will maintain his words. (Draws his sword, 
 and all the Thanes on the King'5 side do the 
 same, Hereulf and the Thanes of his side 
 also draw their swords.) 
 First Th. (of Hereulf'^ ^de.) 
 Come on, base trockers of your country's blood. 
 
 First Th. (of Ethwald'^ side.) 
 Have at ye, rebel cowards ! 
 Ethw. (rising from his seat, and standi?ig between 
 the two parties in a commanding posture.) 
 I do command you : peace and silence, chiefs ! 
 He who with word or threatening gesture dares 
 The presence of his king again outrage, 
 I put without the covert of the law, 
 And on the instant punish. (They all put up their 
 swords, and Ethwald, after lookiiig round 
 him, for some moments with commanding 
 sternness, walks off majestically, followed 
 by his Thanes.) 
 Ethelbert. (casting up his eyes to heaven as he 
 turns to follow Hereulf and his party.) 
 Ah, Mercia, Mercia ! on red fields of carnage 
 Bleed thy remaining sons, and carrion birds 
 Tear the cold limbs that should have turned thy 
 soil. [Exeunt the two different parties by 
 opposite sides. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
266 ETHWALD : 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. A small cavern^ in which is discovered 
 a Wizard, sittiiig hy afire of embers^ haJcing his 
 scanty meal of parched cor?!, and counting out 
 some money from a bag ; a book and other 
 thifigs belonging to his art are strewed near him 
 on the ground. 
 
 Wiz. (alone.) Thanks to the restless soul of 
 
 Mollo's son ! 
 Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoarded 
 
 coin 
 Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate 
 Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel 
 Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve, 
 With muffled face, to learn her warrior's doom. 
 Lie in strange fellowship ; so doth misfortune 
 Make strange acquaintance meet. 
 
 Enter a Scout. 
 
 Brother, thou com'st in haste ; what news, I pray ? 
 Scout. Put up thy book, and bag, and wizard's 
 wand. 
 This is no time for witchery and wiles. 
 Thy cave, I trow, will soon be fill'd with those, 
 Who are by present ills too roughly shent 
 To look thro' vision'd spells on those to come. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 26? 
 
 Wiz, What thou would'st tell me, tell in 
 plainer words. 
 
 ScoiiL Well, plainly then, Ethwald, who 
 thought full surely 
 The British, in their weak-divided state. 
 To the first onset of his arms would yield 
 Their ill-defended towers, has found them 
 
 strengthened 
 With aid from W^essex, and unwilUngly 
 Led back with cautious skill the Mercian troops ; 
 Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought, 
 To follow him into our open plains. 
 Where they must needs with least advantage 
 fight. 
 
 JViz. Who told thee this ? 
 
 Scout, Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely 
 three miles off. 
 The armies, at this moment, are engaged 
 In bloody battle. On my way I met 
 A crowd of helpless women, from their homes 
 Who fly with terror, each upon her back 
 "Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece 
 Of household goods snatch'dup in haste. I hear 
 Their crowding steps e'en now within your cave : 
 They follow close behind. 
 
 Enter a crowd of Women, i/ou7ig and old, some 
 leading children and carrying infants on their 
 backs or in their arms, others carrying bundles 
 and pieces of household stuff. 
 Wiz. Who are ye, wretched women, 
 
 Who, all so pale and haggard, bear along 
 
':li)S ETHWALD : 
 
 Those hapless infants, and those seeming wrecks, 
 From desolation saved ? What do you want ? 
 Fh^st IFom. Nought but the friendly shelter 
 of your cave, 
 For now or house, or home, or blazing hearth. 
 Good Wizard, we have none. 
 
 Wiz. And are the armies then so near your 
 
 dwellings ? 
 First Worn, Ay, round them, in them the 
 loud battle clangs. 
 Within our very walls fierce spearmen push. 
 And weapon'd warriours cross their clashing 
 blades : 
 Sec. Worn, Ah, woe is me ! our warm and 
 cheerful hearths, 
 And rushed floors, whereon our children play'd. 
 Are now the bloody lair of dying men. 
 
 Old, Worn, Ah, woe is me ! those yellow thatch- 
 ed roofs. 
 Which I have seen these sixty years and ten. 
 Smoking so sweetly 'midst our tufted thorns. 
 And the turf'd graves wherein our fathers sleep ! 
 Young Worn. Ah, woe is me ! my little help- 
 less babes ! 
 Now must some mossy rock or shading tree 
 Be your cold home, and the wild haws your food. 
 No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot 
 Shall now, returning from his daily toil. 
 Your father cheer ! if that, if that indeed 
 Ye have a father still. (^Bursting into tears.) 
 
 Third Worn. Alack, alack ! of all my goodly stufl' 
 I've saved but only thisL »iy winter's webs, 
 
A TRAGEDY. 269 
 
 And all the stores that I so dearly saved ! 
 I thought to have them to my dying day ! 
 
 Enter a Young Man leading in an Ideot. 
 Yoking Worn, (r-unning up to him.) 
 Ah, my dear Swithick ! art thou safe indeed ? 
 Why didst thou leave me ? 
 
 Young Man. To save our ideot brother, see*st 
 thou here ? 
 I could not leave him in that pitylcss broil. 
 Young Worn. Well hast thou done ! poor help- 
 less Balderkin ! 
 We've fed thee long, unweeting of our care. 
 And in our little dweUing still thou'st held 
 The warmest nook ; and wheresoever we be. 
 So shalt thou still, albeit thou know'st it not. 
 Enter Man carrying an Old Man on his back. 
 Young Man. And see here, too, our neighbour 
 ' Edwin comes. 
 Bearing his bed-rid father on his back» 
 Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged neigh- 
 bour ? 
 Cheer up again ! thou shalt be sheltered still ; 
 The Wizard has receiv'd us. 
 
 Wiz. True, good folks ; 
 I wish my means were better for your sakes. 
 But we are crowded here; that winding passage 
 Leads us into an inner cave full wide. 
 Where we may take our room and freely breathe; 
 Come, let us enter there. 
 
 [Exeunt, all following the Wizard iiito the 
 inner cave. 
 
270 ETHWALD 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A field of battle strewed mtJi slain, and some 
 people seen upon the back ground searching 
 amongst the dead bodies. Enter Hereulf aiid 
 Ethelbert. 
 
 Her. (stoppifig short, and holding up his hands.) 
 Good mercy ! see at what a bloody price 
 Ethwald this doubtful victory has purchased, 
 That in the lofty height to which he climbs 
 A little step will be of small advantage. 
 
 Eth. Qiot attending to him, and after gazing fi)r 
 
 some time on the field.) 
 So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, 
 Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on 
 With all the vigour, and capacity. 
 And comeliness of strong and youthful men. 
 Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane. 
 With grizzled pates, from mates, whose withered 
 
 hands 
 For some good thirty years had smoothed your 
 
 couch : 
 Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth 
 Did give you the similitude of men 
 Ere your fond mothers ceas*d to tend you still, 
 As nurselings of their care, ye lie together ! 
 Alas ! alas ! and many now there be. 
 Smiling and crowing on their mother's breast, 
 Twining, with all their little infant ways. 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^71 
 
 Around her hopeful heart, who shall, like these. 
 Be laid i* the dust. 
 
 Her. Ay, so it needs must be, since MolIo*s son 
 Thinks Mercia all too strait for his proud sway. 
 But here comes those who search amongst the 
 
 dead 
 For their lost friends; retire, and let us mark 
 
 them. {Theywithdi^aw to one side.) 
 
 Enter Two Cairls, meeting a Third, who enters 
 by the opposite side. 
 
 First Cairl. Qo Third.) Thou hast been o*er the 
 field? 
 
 Third Cairl. I have, good friend. 
 
 Sec. Cairl. Thou hast seen a rueful sight. 
 
 Third Cairl. Yes, I have seen that which no 
 other sight 
 Can from my fancy wear. Oh ! there be some 
 Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the strength 
 Of grappling agony, do stare upon you. 
 
 With their dead eyes half open'd. 
 
 And there be some, struck thro' with bristling darts. 
 Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up j 
 Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very 
 
 sand. 
 Nay ; some I've seen among those bloody heaps, 
 Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men, 
 Who in convulsive motion yet retain 
 Some shreds of life more horrible than death : 
 I've heard their groans, oh, oh ! 
 (^ voice from the ground.) Baldwick ! 
 
272 ETHWALD : 
 
 Thir'd Cairl. What voice is that? it comes from 
 
 some one near. 
 First Cairl. See, yon stretch'd body moves its 
 bloody hand : 
 It must be him. 
 (^Voice again.) Baldwick ! 
 
 Third Cairl. (going up to the bodyjrom ivhence 
 the voice came.) 
 Who art thou, wretched man? I know thee not. 
 Voice. Ah, but thou dost ! I have sat by thy 
 fire, 
 And heard thy merry tales, and shar'd thy meal. 
 Third Cairl. Good holy saints ! and art thou 
 Athelbald ? 
 Woe ! woe is me to see thee in such case ! 
 What shall I do for thee ? 
 
 Voice. If thou hast any love or mercy in thee. 
 Turn me on my face that I may die ; 
 For lying thus, see'st thou this flooded gash ? 
 The glutting blood so bolsters up my life 
 I cannot die. 
 
 Third Cairl. I will, good Athelbald. Alack 
 the day ! 
 That 1 should do for thee so sad a service ! 
 
 (Turns the soldier on his face.) 
 
 Voice. I thank thee, friend, farewell ! (dies.) 
 
 Third Cairl. Farewell ! farewell ! a merry soul 
 
 thou wert, 
 
 And sweet thy ploughman's whistle in our fields. 
 
 Sec. Cairl. (starting xvith horror.) Good heaven 
 
 forefend ! it moves ! 
 First Cairl. What dost thou see ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. QJfl 
 
 Sec. Cairl. Look on that bloody corse, so 
 smear'd and mangled, 
 That it has lost all form of" what it was ; 
 It moves ! it moves ! there is life in it still. 
 First Cairl. Methought it spoke, but faint and 
 
 low the sound. 
 Third Cairl. Ha ! didst thou hear a voice ? 
 we*ll go to it. 
 Who art thou? Oh! who art thou? (To a fallen 
 warrioKr, zclio makes signs to him to pull 
 something from his breast.') 
 Yes, from thy breast ; I understand the sign. 
 
 (^Pulling out a band or *kerchieffrom his breast.) 
 It is some maiden's pledge. 
 Fallen ff^arriour. (^making signs.) Upon mine 
 arm, 
 I pray thee, on mine arm. 
 Third Cairl. I'll do it, but thy wounds are past 
 
 all binding. 
 Warriour. She who will search for me doth 
 
 know this sign. 
 Third Cairl. Alack, alack : he thinks of some 
 sad maid ! 
 A rueful sight she'll see ! He moves again : 
 Heaven grant him peace ! I'd give a goodly sum 
 To see thee dead, poor wretch ! 
 
 Enter a Woman, wailing and xvringing her hands. 
 
 Sec. Cairl. Ha ! who comes wailing here ? 
 
 Third Cairl. Some wretched mother who has 
 lost her son : 
 I met her searching 'midst the farther dead. 
 And heard her piteous moan. 
 
 VOL. IT. T 
 
274^ ETHWALD : 
 
 Mother. 1 rear'd him like a little playful kid. 
 And ever by my side, where'er I went. 
 He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween, 
 His little arms did strain their growing strength 
 To bear my burden. Ay, and long before 
 He had unto a stripling's height attain'd^ 
 He ever would my widow's cause maintain 
 With all the steady boldness of a man. 
 I was 110 widow then. 
 . Sec. Cairl. Be comforted, good mother. 
 Mother. What says't thou to me? Know'st 
 thou where he lies ? 
 If thou hast kindness in thee, tell me truly ; 
 For dead or living still he is mine all. 
 And let me have him. » 
 
 Third Cairl. (aside to Second.) Lead her away, 
 good friend j I know her now. 
 Her boy is lying with the farther dead. 
 Like a fell'd sapling ; lead her from the field. 
 [Exeunt Mother a?id Sec. Cairl. 
 First Cairl. But who comes now, with such 
 distracted gait, 
 Tossing her snowy arms unto the wind. 
 And gazing wildly o'er each mangled corse ? 
 
 Enter «^Young Woman, searching distractedly 
 
 amongst the dead. 
 
 Young Worn. No, no! thou art not here! thou 
 
 art not here ! 
 
 Yet, if thou be like these, I shall not know thee. 
 
 Oh ! if they have so gash'd thee o'er with 
 
 wounds. 
 And marr'd thy comely form ! I'll not believe it. 
 
A TRACED V. ^'^5 
 
 Until these very eyes have seen thee dead, 
 
 These very hands have prcss'd on thy cold heart, 
 
 I'll not believe it. 
 Third Cairl. Ah, gentle maiden ! many a maid- 
 en's love, 
 
 And many a goodly man lies on this field. 
 Young TFom. 1 know, too true it is, but none 
 like him. 
 
 Liest thou, indeed, amongst those grisly heaps? 
 
 O thou! who ever wert of all most fair! 
 
 If heaven hath suffer'd this, amen, amen ! 
 
 AMiilst I have strength to crawl upon the earth, 
 
 I'll search thee out, and be, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thy mated love, e'en with the grisly dead. 
 (^Searching again amongst the dead, she perceives 
 the ba7id round the arm of the fallen Warriour, 
 and littering a loud shriek, falls senseless upon 
 the ground. The Cairls run to her assistance, 
 xcith Ethelbert a7id Hereulf, H'ho come for- 
 ti'ard from the place they had xcithdraxim to ; 
 Hereulf clenching his hand, and muttering 
 curses upon Mollo'5 son, as he crosses the 
 stage. The scene closes.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Castle not far from the feld of battle. E?iter 
 Ethwald a?id Alwy, talking as they enter. 
 
 Ethic . {calling angrihj to some one off the stage.) 
 And see they do not linger on the road. 
 With laggard steps ; I will brook no delay. 
 (To Alwy.) Wjiy, even my very messengers, of 
 
 1 ate 
 
 T !-2 ■ 
 
276 ETHWALD : 
 
 Slothful and sleepy-footed have become : 
 They too must cross my will. (Throws himself upo)i 
 a seat, and sits for some time silent and gloomy.') 
 
 Ahoy. Your highness seems disturb'd. 
 What tho' your arms, amidst those British hills. 
 Have not, as they were wont, victorious prov'd. 
 And home retreating, even on your own soil. 
 You've fought a doubtful battle: luckless turns 
 Will often cross the lot of greatest kings ; 
 Let it not so o'ercome your noble spirit. 
 
 Ethxv, Thinkest thou it o'ercomes me ? 
 
 {Rising up proudly.) 
 Thou judgest poorly. 1 am form'd to yield 
 To no opposed pressure, nor my purpose 
 With crossing chance or circumstance to change. 
 I, in my march, to this attained height 
 Have moved still with an advancing step, 
 Direct and onward ; 
 
 But now the mountain's side more rugged grows, 
 And he who would the cloudy summit gain, 
 Must oft into its cragged rents descend 
 The higher but to mount. 
 
 Alivy. Or rather say, my Lord, that having 
 gain'd 
 Its cloudy summit, there you must contend 
 With the rude tempests that do beat upon it. 
 
 Ethiv. {sviiling contemptuously .) 
 Is this thy flmcy ? Are thy thoughts of Ethwald 
 So poorly limited, that thou dost think 
 He has already gain'd his grandeur's height ? 
 Know that the lofty point which oft appears, 
 To him who stands beneath, the mountain's top. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 277 
 
 Is to the daring climber who hath reach'd it, 
 Only a breathing place, from whence he sees 
 Its real summit, bright and heaven illum*d. 
 Towering majestic, grand, above him far 
 As is the lofty spot on which he stands 
 To the dull plain below. 
 The British once subdued, Northumberland, 
 Thou seest well, could not withstand our arms. 
 It too must fall ; and with such added strength, 
 What might not be achieved ? Ay, by this arm ! 
 All that the mind suggests, even England's 
 
 crown. 
 United and entire. Thou gazest on me. 
 I know full well the state is much exhausted 
 Of men and means ; and those curs'd Mercian 
 
 women 
 To cross my purposes, with hag-like spite, 
 Do nought but females bear. But I will onward. 
 Still conscious of its lofty destination, 
 My spirit swells, and will not be subdued. 
 Alwy. I, chidden, bow, and yield with admir- 
 ation 
 Unto the noble grandeur of your thoughts. 
 But lowering clouds arise ; events are adverse ; 
 Subdue your secret enemies at home. 
 And reign securely o'er the ample realm 
 You have so bravely won. 
 
 jE//«K;.What! have I thro' the iron fields of war 
 Proudly before th' admiring gaze of men. 
 Unto this point with giant steps held on. 
 Now to become a dwarf? Have I this crown 
 In bloody battles won, mocking at death, 
 
 T S 
 
278 ETHWALD : 
 
 To wear it now as those to whom it comes 
 
 By dull and leaden-paced inheritance? 
 
 As the dead shepherd's scrip and knotted crook 
 
 Go to his milk-fed son ? Like those dull images, 
 
 On whose calm, tamed brows the faint impression 
 
 Of far preceding heroes faintly rests, 
 
 As the weak colours of a fading rainbow 
 
 On a spent cloud ? 
 
 I'd rather in the centre of the earth 
 
 Inclosed be, to dig my upward way 
 
 To the far distant light, than stay me thus, 
 
 And, looking round upon my bounded state. 
 
 Say, this is all. No ; lower it as it may, 
 
 I'll to the bold aspirings of my mind 
 
 Still steady prove, whilst that around my standard 
 
 Harness doth clatter, or a falchion gleam. 
 
 Alwy. What boot the bold aspirings of the 
 great. 
 When secret foes beneath his footsteps work 
 Their treach'rous mine ? 
 
 EtJiT, Ay, thou before hast hinted of such 
 foes. 
 
 Alwy. Fear for your safety, king, may make 
 me err : 
 But these combined chiefs, it is full plain. 
 Under the mask of zeal for public good. 
 Do court with many wiles your people's hearts ; 
 Breathing into their ears the praise of peace. 
 Yea, and of peaceful kings. The thralled Edward, 
 Whose prison-tower stands distant from this castle 
 But scarce a league 
 
 Ethii:. Q tar ling.) Is it so near ub ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 279 
 
 Alwij. It is, my Lord. 
 Nor is he so forgotten in the land, 
 But that he still serves their dark purpose well. 
 An easy gentle prince — so brave, yet peaceful — 
 With such impressions clogg'd, your soldiers fight, 
 And therefore 'tis that with a feeble foe 
 Ethwald fights doubtful battles. 
 
 Ethw, Thou art convinced of this ? 
 
 Alxvy. Most perfectly. 
 
 EtJixv. I too have had such thoughts, and have 
 repressed them. 
 
 Alwy. Did not those base petitioners for peace 
 Withhold their gather'd forces, till beset 
 On ev'ry side they saw your little army, 
 Already much diminish'd ? then came they, 
 Like heaven-commission'd saviours, to your aid. 
 And drew unto themselves the praise of all. 
 This plainly speaks, your glory with disgrace 
 They fain would dash, to set their idol up ; 
 For well they think, beneath the gentle Edward 
 To lord it proudly, and his gen'rous nature 
 Has won their love and pity. Ethelbert, 
 Now that such fair occasion oflfers to them, 
 The prisoner's escape may well effect : 
 He lacks not means, 
 
 Etlvw. {after a thoughtful pause.') 
 Didst thou not say, that castle's foggy air, 
 And walls with dampness coated, to young blood 
 Are hostile and creative of disease ? 
 In close confinement he has been full long ; 
 Is there no change upon him ? 
 
 T 1 
 
280 EtHWALD : 
 
 Alwy. Some hardy natures will resist all 
 change. 
 
 (^A long pausCy in which Ethwald seems 
 thoughtful and disturbed.^ 
 Ethxv. (abruptli/.) 
 Once in the roving fantasies of night, 
 Methought I slew him. 
 
 Alwi/. Dreams, as some think, oft shew us 
 things to come. 
 
 (^Another long pause^ in which Ethwald 
 seems greatly disturbed^ and stands fixed 
 to one spot, till catching Alwj*5 eye fast- 
 ened stedfastly upon his, he turns from him 
 abruptly, and walks to the bottom of the 
 stage with hasty strides. Going ajterwards 
 to the door, he turns suddenly round to 
 Alwy just as he is about to go out.) 
 Ethw. What Thane was he, who, in a cavern'd 
 vault, 
 His next of kin so long imprison'd kept. 
 Whilst on his lands he lived ? 
 
 Alwy, Yes, Ruthal*s Thane he was j but dearly 
 he 
 The dark contrivance rued ; fortune at last 
 The weary thrall reliev'd, and ruin'd him. 
 Ethw. {agitated.) Go where thy duty calls 
 thee : I will in : 
 My head feels strangely ; I have need of rest. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Alwy. {looking ajter him with a malicious satis- 
 faction.) 
 Ay, dark perturbed thoughts will be thy rest. 
 I see the busy workings of thy mind. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 281 
 
 The gentle Edward lias not long to mourn 
 His earthly thraldom. I have done my task, 
 And soon shall be secure ; for whilst he lives, 
 And Ethelbert, who hates my artful rise, 
 I live in jeopardy. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A small dark passage ; enter Ethwald xdth a lamp 
 in his hand ; enter at the same tijne^ hy the op- 
 posite side, a domestic Officer ; theij both start 
 back on seeing one another. 
 
 Ethxv. Who art thou ? 
 
 Offi. Baldwin, my Lord. But mercy on my sight. 
 Your face is strangely alter'd. At this hour 
 Awake, and wandering thus.- — Have you seen 
 aught ? 
 Ethw. No, nothing. Know'st thou which is 
 Alwy's chamber ? 
 I would not wake my grooms. 
 Offi. It is that farther door ; 1*11 lead you to it. 
 
 (Pointing off the stage.") 
 
 Ethw. No, friend, I'll go myself. Good rest 
 
 to thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A small dark chamber , with a low couch near the 
 front of the stage^ on which Alwy is discovered 
 asleep. Enter Ethwald with a haggard coun' 
 tenajice, bearing a lamp. 
 
 Ethw. He sleeps — I hear him breathe — he 
 soundly sleeps. 
 
^82 ETHWALD : 
 
 8eems not this circumstance to check my purpose. 
 
 And bid me still topause? {Setting down the lamp.) 
 
 But wherefore pause ? 
 
 This deed must be, or, like a scared thief 
 
 Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store 
 
 At ev'rj breezy whisper of the night, 
 
 I now must wear this crown, which I have bought 
 
 With brave men's blood, in fields of battle shed. 
 
 Ah ! would that all it cost had there been shed! 
 
 This deed must be ; for, like a haggard ghost 
 
 His image haunts me wheresoe'er I move. 
 
 And will not let me rest. 
 
 His love hath been to me my bosom's sting ; 
 
 His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a worm. 
 
 Oh ! would a swelt'ring snake had wreath'd my 
 
 neck 
 When first his arms embraced me ! 
 He is by fortune made my bane, my curse, 
 And, were he gentle as the breast of love, 
 I needs must crush him. 
 
 Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives one 
 Whom Ethwald fears. Alas ! this thing must 
 
 be, 
 From th' imaged form of which I stillhave shrunk. 
 And started back as from my fancy's fiend. 
 The dark and silent cope of night is o'er us. 
 When vision'd horrours, thro' perturbed sleep. 
 Harden to deeds of blood the dreamer's breast 5 
 When from the nether world fell demons rise 
 To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's way : 
 I'll wake him now ; should morning dawn upon 
 
 me. 
 
A TRAGEDY. • 283 
 
 My soul again might Irom its purpose swerve. 
 
 {Ill a loud energetic voice.) 
 Alwy, awake ! Sleepest thou ? sleepest thou, 
 
 Alwy ? 
 (Alwy "ivakes.) Nay, rouse thyself, and be thou 
 
 fully waking. 
 What I would say must have thy mind's full bent; 
 Must not be spoken to a drousy ear. 
 
 Ahvij. {rising quickly.) I fully am awake j I 
 hear, I see, 
 As in the noon of day. 
 
 Ethxv. Nay, but thou dost not. 
 Thy garish eye looks wildly on the light. 
 Like a strange visitor. 
 
 Alwy. So do the eyes of one pent in the dark, 
 Wlien sudden light breaks on them, tho' he slept 
 
 not. 
 But why, my Lord, at this untimely hour. 
 Are you awake, and come to seek me here ? 
 
 Etkw. Alwy, I cannot sleep : my mind is toss'd 
 With many warring thoughts. 1 am push'd on 
 To do the very act from which my soul 
 Has still held back : fate doth compel me to it. 
 Alwy. Being your fate, who may its power 
 
 resist ? 
 Ethw. E'en call it so, for it, in truth, must be. 
 Know'st thou one who would do a ruthless deed, 
 And do it pitifully ? 
 
 Alwy. He who will do it surest does it best ! 
 And he who surely strikes, strikes quickly too. 
 And therefore pitifully strikes. I know 
 A brawny ruffian, whose firm clenched gripe 
 
284 ETHWALD : 
 
 No struggles can unlock ; whose lifted dagger, 
 True to its aim, gives not a second stroke ! 
 Ethxv. (covering his face hastily.') Oh ! must it 
 needs be so ? 
 (Catchijig A\\\y eagerly by the arm.) But hark thee 
 
 well ! 
 I will have no foul butchery done upon him. ' 
 Ahvy. It shall be done, e'en to the smallest 
 tittle. 
 As you yourself shall order. 
 
 Ethw. Nay, nay ! do thou contrive the fashion 
 of it, 
 I*ve done enough. 
 Alwy. But, good my Lord ! cast it not from 
 you thus : 
 There must be warrant and authority 
 For such a deed, and strong protection too. 
 Ethw. Well, well, thou hast it all : thou hast 
 
 my word. 
 Alwy. Ay, but the murder'd corse must be 
 inspected. 
 That no deceit be fear'd, nor after doubts ; 
 Nor bold impostors rising in the North, 
 Protected by your treach'rous Thanes, and 
 
 plum'd. 
 To scare you afterwards with Edward's name. 
 Ethw. Have not thine eyes on bloody death 
 oft look'd ; 
 Do it thyself. 
 
 Alwy. If you, my Lord, will put this trust in 
 me, 
 Swear that when after-rumours shall arise, 
 As like there may, your faith will be unshaken. 
 
A TRAGEDY. ^28,01 
 
 Ethw. Yes; I will truly trust thee — {yehe- 
 mentlyy after a short pause.) 
 No, I will not ! 
 
 I'll trust to no man's vision but mine own. 
 Is the moon dark to-night ? 
 Atdcy. It is, an please you. 
 Etfrw. And will be so to-morrow ? 
 Alwy. Yes, my Lord. 
 
 Ethw. When all is still in sleep I hear a 
 
 noise. 
 Alwy. Regard it not, it is the whispering winds 
 Along those pillar'd walls. 
 
 Ethw. It is a strange sound, tho'. Come to 
 my chamber, 
 I will not here remain : Come to my chamber. 
 And do not leave me till the morning break. 
 I am a wretched man ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
286 ETHWALD 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A gloomy vaulted apartment in an old 
 castle f 'with no windows to it, and a feeble light 
 burning in one corner. Enter Edward^-o??? a 
 dark recess near the bottom of the stage, with slow 
 pensive steps, frequently stopping as he ad- 
 vances, and remaining for some time in a 
 thoughtful posture. 
 
 Ed. Doth the bright sun from the high arch 
 of heaven 
 In all his beauteous robes of flecker'd clouds, 
 And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing flames. 
 And softly varied shades, look gloriously ? 
 Do the green woods dance to the wind ? the lakes 
 Cast up their sparklmg waters to .the light ? 
 Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells 
 Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke 
 On the soft morning air ? 
 
 Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound 
 In antic happiness ? and mazy birds 
 Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands ? 
 Ay, all this is ; all this men do behold ; 
 The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, 
 My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear 
 The crowing of the cock so near my walls, 
 And sadly think how small a space divides me 
 From all this fair creation. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 287 
 
 From the wide spreading bounds of beauteous 
 
 nature, 
 I am alone shut out ; I am forgotten. 
 Peace, peace ! he who regards the poorest worm 
 Still cares for me, albeit he shends me sorely. 
 This hath its end. Perhaps, small as these walls, 
 A bound unseen divides my dreary state 
 From a more beauteous world ; that world of 
 
 souls, 
 Fear'd and desired by all : a veil unseen 
 Which soon shall be withdrawn. (Casts [up his 
 eyes to heaven^ and turning, walks silently 
 to the bottom of the stage, then advancing 
 again to the front.) 
 The air feels chill; methinks it should be night. 
 I'lriayme down: perchancekind sleep will come, 
 And open to my view an inward w^orld 
 Of gairish fantasies, from which nor walls. 
 Nor bars, nor tyrant's power, can shut me out. 
 (He wraps himself in a cloak and lies down. 
 Enter a Ruffian, stealing up softly to him 
 as supposing him asleep. Edward, hearing 
 him, uncovers his face, and then starts up 
 immediately.') 
 Ed. What art thou ? 
 Or man or sprite? Thou lookest wond'rous stern. 
 What dost thou want ? Com'st thou to murder 
 me? 
 Ruff. Yes, 1 am come to do mine office on thee; 
 Thy life is wretched, and my stroke is sure. 
 
 Ed. Thou sayest true ; yet, wretched as it is. 
 It is my life, and I will grapple for it. 
 
288 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ruff. Full vainly wilt thou strive, for thinkest 
 thou 
 We enter walls like these with changeling 
 
 hearts, 
 To leave our work undone. 
 
 Ed. We, sayest tiiou ? 
 There are more of you then ? 
 
 Riff. Ay, ay, there are enow to make it sure ; 
 But, if thou wilt be quiet, I'll do't myself 
 Mine arm is strong ; I'll give no second stroke; 
 And all escape is hopeless. 
 
 Ed. What, thinkest thou I'll calmly stretch 
 my neck 
 Until thou butch'rest me ? 
 No, by good heaven ! I'll grapple with thee still ? 
 And die with my blood hot! {putting himself in 
 a posture of defence.') 
 Riff. Well, since thou'lt have it so, thou soon 
 shalt see 
 If that my mates be lovelier than myself [Exit. 
 Ed. O that I still in some dark cell could rest. 
 And wait the death of nature ! (looking wildly 
 round upon the roof and walls of the vault.) 
 Nor stone, nor club, nor beam to serve my need! 
 Out from the walls, ye flints, and fill my grasp ! 
 Nought ! nought ! Is there not yet within this 
 
 nook 
 Some bar or harden'd brand that I may clutch? 
 (Exit hasiiljj into the dark recess, and is 
 followed immediately by two Ruffians, 
 who enter by the opposite side, and cross 
 the stage after hi7?i.) 
 14 
 
A TRAGEDY. 289 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An Apaiiment adjoining to the former^ mth a door 
 leading to it at the bottom of the stage. Enter 
 Alwy "dith a ster?i anxious face j and listens at 
 the door ; then enter, by the opposite side, Eth- 
 vvALD xvith a very haggard countenance. 
 
 Ethxv. Dost thou hear aught ? 
 Alwy. No, nothing. 
 Ethxv. But thou dost : 
 Is it not done ? 
 
 Alwy. I hope it is, my Lord. 
 
 Ethw. Thou doubtest, then. — It is long past 
 
 the hour 
 
 That should have lapp'd it. Hark ! I hear a noise. 
 
 (A noise lieard within of people struggling.) 
 
 Alwy. They're dealing with him now. They 
 
 strus^n-le hard. 
 Ethw. (^turning away with horror, and putting 
 his hands upon his ears.) 
 Ha ! are we then so near it ? This is horrid ! 
 
 (After ap)ause.) 
 Is it not done yet ? Dost thou hear them still ? 
 Alwy. I hear them still : they struggle harder 
 now. 
 
 (^The noise within heard more distinctly.) 
 
 Ethw. By hell's dark host, thy fiends are weak 
 
 of arm. 
 
 And cannot do their task ! He will break forth. 
 
 With all the bloody work half done upon him! 
 
 (^Running furiously to the door, and then 
 
 shuddering, and turning away from it.) 
 
 VOL. II. U 
 
290 ETHWALD : 
 
 No, no, I cannot go ! do thou go in, 
 
 And give thy strength. Let him be stiird i*the 
 
 instant. (A noise heard within qfonejhlling.') 
 
 Alwy. There's no need now : did you not hear 
 
 him fall ? (^A groan heard ivithin.) 
 
 And that groan, too ? List, list ! The deed is 
 
 done. 
 
 (They both retire from the door, and Ethw. 
 leaning his hack against the wall, looks 
 stedfastly towards it, in silent expectation, 
 whilst it is seen to open slowly a little way, 
 then shut, then open again, without any 
 one appearing J) 
 Ethw. What may this mean ? This pause is 
 horrible ! 
 Will they or enter quickly, or forbear. 
 
 Enter First Ruffian, with his hands and 
 clothes bloody, and all his hair and dress 
 in disorder, like one who has been strug- 
 gling hard. Enter soon after him Sec. 
 Ruffian in a similar plight. 
 
 Alwy, {eagerly.) Ye'vedoneit: is he dead? 
 First Ruf. He is stilPd now; but with such 
 
 horrid strength 
 He grappled with us ! we have had fell work. 
 Alwy. Then let us see the body. 
 First Ruf. Yes, enter if it please ye. 
 Alwy. Be pleas'd, my Lord. {To Ethw.) 
 
 Ethw. Pray thee be satisfied : I cannot go. 
 Alwy. {to tJie Ruffians.) Bring ye the body 
 
 hither. [Exeunt Ruffians. 
 
 7 
 
A TRAGEDY. 291 
 
 (^ A silent pause. — Re-enter Ruffians, bearing 
 the body, and laying it down before Etliw.) 
 Look here, my Lord, and be well satisfied : 
 It is his very face, tho* somewhat changed 
 With long confinement in these sickly damps. 
 And the convulsive throes of violent death. 
 Ethiv. (Jirst shrinking J rom it with horror, then 
 commanding himself, and looking upon it 
 for some time stedfastlij) 
 Yes, changed indeed ! and yet I know it well. 
 Ah ! changed indeed ! Much he must needs 
 
 have suffer'd 
 In his lone prison-house. Thou bruised flower! 
 And hast thou struggled all so bravely too 
 For thy most wretched life ? Base, bloody work ! 
 Remove it from my sight. 
 
 (Turning hastily from it.") 
 Alwy. What farther orders would you give 
 
 these men ? 
 Ethw. Aw ay ! speak to me not ! thou'st made 
 me ciu's'd ! 
 Would all the realm of Mercia I had lost. 
 Ere it hud come to this ! 
 Once in the battle's heat I saved his life, 
 And he did bless me for it. 
 
 (Beating his forehead distractedly.) 
 Alwy. Nay, good my Lord, be not so keenly 
 moved. 
 Where shall we lay the body ? 
 
 Ethw. Thou and those fiends do with it as ve 
 will : 
 It is a damned work ! [Exit hastily, 
 
 u 2 
 
292 ETHWALD : 
 
 Alwy. (to First Ruf.) Come thou with me. — 
 (to Sec. Ruf.) 
 We will return anon ; 
 
 Meanwhile remain thou here and watch the 
 
 corpse. [Exeunt Alwy a7id First Ruf. 
 
 Sec. Riif. (alone.) Watch it! I would not watch 
 
 it here alone 
 
 For all my ruffian's hire. (Throws a coarse cloth 
 
 over the body, and exit hastily,') 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Saa:on Hall in the former Castle. Enter Elb. 
 and DwiNA, talking earnestly as they enter, 
 
 Elb. But didst thou truly question ev'ry groom, 
 And the stern keeper of that postern gate ? 
 
 Dwi. I have, but no one knew that he is absent. 
 *Twas dark night when the king went forth, and 
 
 Alwy 
 Alone was with him. This is all 1 know, 
 
 Elb. Thus secretly, at night ! Sexford's castle 
 Is not far distant. — That distracted maid — 
 If this be so, by the true royal blood 
 That fills my veins, 1*11 be reveng'd ! What 
 mean'st thou ? 
 
 (seeing Dwina shake her head piteoiisly.) 
 Dwi. Alas ! you need not fear : far distant stand 
 The towers of Ethelbert ; and that poor maid 
 With the quiet dead has found at last her rest. 
 Elb. And is't not well ? Why dost thou shake 
 thy head, 
 As tho* thou told'st sad news? — Yet what avails it? 
 I nevertheless must be a humble mate. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 293 
 
 With scarcely e'en the semblance of a queen, 
 And bow my head whilst Mollo's son doth say, 
 " Be silent, wife." — Shall I endure all this ? 
 
 Edward ! gentle Ethling ! thou who once 
 Did'st bear the title of my future lord, 
 Would'st thou have us'd me thus ? I'll not en- 
 dure it. 
 
 Dwi. Yet be more patient. 
 Elb. Be patient, say'st thou ? Go to, for I hate 
 thee 
 When thou so calmly talk'st. Tho* seemingly, 
 
 1 oft before his keen commanding eye 
 Submissive am, think'st thou I am subdu'd ? 
 No, by my royal race ! I'll not endure it : 
 
 I will unto the Bishop with my wrongs ; 
 Rever'd and holy men shall do me right : 
 And here he comes unsent for ; this my hope 
 Calls a good omen. 
 
 Enter Hexulf. 
 
 Good and holy father, 
 I crave your blessing. 
 
 Hcj:, Thou hast it, royal daughter. Art thou 
 well ? 
 Thou seem'st disorder'd. 
 
 Elb. Yes, rev'rend father, I am sorely gall'd 
 Beneath a heavy and ignoble yoke j 
 My crowned head is in subjection bow'd, 
 Like meanest household dame; and thinkest thou 
 That it becomes the daug-hter of a kinor. 
 The chief descendant of your royal race. 
 To bear all this, and say that she is well ? 
 
 u 3 
 
294 ETHWALD : 
 
 Hea:. My daugliter, your great Lord indeed 
 is form'd 
 Of sold more stern than was the gentle Edward, 
 On whom your maiden fancy first was taught 
 To dwell with sanguine hope. — 
 
 Elb. O holy Hexulf ! thou hast nam'd a name 
 Which to my conscience gives such secret 
 
 pangs : 
 Oh ! I have done such wrong to that sweet 
 
 youth, 
 My heart bleeds at the cruel thought. I would — 
 Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
 In reparation of the wrong I've done him. 
 Speak, my good father, if thou aught canst say : 
 Edward, *tis said, has many powerful friends 
 In secret still devoted to his cause, 
 And not far distant stands his dreary tower. 
 O speak to me ! — Thou turn'st away thy head 
 Disturb'd and frowningly: hast thou no counsel 
 For a soul-smitten and distracted woman ? 
 
 (^Laying her clasped hands earnestly on his 
 shoulder i as he turns from her much dis- 
 pleased.') 
 Hex. Daughter, forbear ! you are indeed dis- 
 tracted. 
 Ethwald, by right of holy bands your lord, 
 Is in his seat too firmly fix'd ; and Edward 
 Is only by some restless Thanes desired. 
 Under the influence of that dark wizard, 
 That heretic, who still ensnares the young. 
 Be wdse then, I beseech you, and in peace 
 Live in the meek subjection of a wife. 
 
A TRAGEDY. Q05 
 
 Elb. {stepping bach from him uith haughty con- 
 tempt.) 
 And so, meek, holy man, this is your counsel, 
 Breathed from the gentle spirit of your state. 
 I've seen the chafings of your saintly ire 
 Restrain'd with less concern for sober duty, 
 When aught pertaining to your priestly rights 
 Was therein touch'd. 
 
 Dwi. Hush ! Ethelbert approaches with his 
 friends : 
 They come, methinks, at an unwonted hour. 
 
 Hej:. That artful heretic regards not times j 
 His spells still shew to him the hour best suits 
 His wicked purposes. 
 
 Dwi. Heaven save us all ! methinks at his ap- 
 proach 
 The air grows chill around us, and a hue 
 Of strange unnatural paleness spreads o'er all. 
 
 Elb. (Jo Dwi.) Peace, fool ! thy fancy still 
 o'ertops thy wit. 
 
 Enter Selred, Ethelbert, and Hereulf. 
 
 Eth. In your high presence, gracious dame, 
 we are 
 Thus early visitors, upon our way 
 To crave admittance to the royal chamber. 
 Is the king stirring yet ? Forgive my boldness. 
 
 Elb. Good Ethelbert, thou dost me no offence; 
 And you. Lord Selred, and brave Hereulf too, 
 I bid good morrow to you all. The king 
 Is not within his chamber : unattended 
 Of all but Alwy, at the close of night 
 He did go forth, and is not yet returnM. 
 u 4 
 
^9^> ETHWALD : 
 
 Sel. This much amazes me: the moonwasdark. 
 And cold and rudely blew the northern blast. 
 
 Dxii. (listeimig.) Hark ! footsteps sound along 
 the secret passage : 
 Look to yon door, for something moves the bolt. 
 The king alone that sacred entry treads. 
 
 Enter Ethwald from a small secret door, fol- 
 lo'wed hi) Alwy, and starts back upon seeing 
 Ethelbert, S^x. 
 
 Ethxv. {recovering from his coi fusion.) 
 A good and early morrow to you all : 
 I little thought — you are astir by times. 
 
 Eih. The same to you, my Lord, with loving 
 duty. 
 
 Sel. Andyou too, royal brother, you are moving 
 At an unwonted hour. But you are pale j 
 A ghastly hollow look is in your eyes ! 
 What sudden stratagem of nightly war 
 Has call'd you forth at such untimely season ? 
 The night was dark and cold, the north wind blew. 
 And if that I can read that alter'd brow. 
 You come not back unscath'd. 
 
 Etinv. (confused.) No, I am well. — The blast 
 has beat against me. 
 And tossing boughs my tangled pathway cross'd: 
 In sooth I've held contention with the night. 
 
 Sel. Yea, in good sooth, thou lookest too like 
 one 
 Who has contention held with damned sprites. 
 Hast thou not crossed that glen where, as 'tis said. 
 The restless ghost of a dead nuu'd'rer stalks ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 297 
 
 Thou shudtVrest and art pale ! O thou hast 
 
 seen it : 
 Thou hast indeed the haggard face of one 
 Who has seen fearful things, 
 
 Ethw, Thou'rtwild and fanciful: I liave seen 
 nothing : 
 I am forespent and faint ; rest will restore nie. 
 Much good be to you all ! (going.) 
 
 Eth. (preventing him.) Nay, on your royal pa- 
 tience, gracious king, 
 We must a moment's trespass make, to plead 
 For one, upon whose brave but gentle soul 
 The night of thraldom hangs. — 
 
 Ethw. (shrinking back.) 
 I know — I know thy meaning — speak it not. 
 It cannot be — there was a time — 'tis past. 
 
 Sel. O say not so ; the time for blessed mercy 
 Is ever present. For the gentle Edward, 
 We'll pledge our lives, and give such hostages 
 As shall secure your peace. 
 
 Eth. Turn not away ; 
 We plead for one whose meek and gen'rous soul 
 Most unaspiring is, and full of truth ; 
 For one who lov'd you, Ethwaldj one by na- 
 ture 
 Form'd for the placid love of all his kind ; 
 One who did ever in your growing fame 
 Take most unenvious joy. Such is our thrall : 
 Yea, and the boon that we do crave for him 
 Is but the free use of his cramped limbs, 
 And leave to breathe, beneath the cope of 
 heaven. 
 
'298 ETHWALD : 
 
 The wholesome air ; to see the cheering sun ; 
 To be again reckon*d with living men. 
 
 (^Kneeling and clasping his knees,) 
 Ethw. Let go, dark Thane j thou rack*st me 
 with thy words ; 
 They are vain sounds : — the wind has wail'd as 
 
 thou dost, 
 And pled as sadly too. But that must be 
 What needs must be. Reckoned with living men ! 
 Would that indeed — O would that this could be ! 
 The term of all is fix'd. — Good night to you — 
 I — I should say good morning, but this light 
 Glares strangely on mine eyes. 
 
 (^Breaking Jrom Eth.) 
 Sel. (JbUo'wi?ig him.) My dearest brother, by 
 
 a brother's love ! 
 Ethw. (putting him away with great agitatio7t.) 
 My heart no kindred holds with human thing. 
 [Exit quickly, in great perturbation, 
 followed by Alwy. 
 Sel. and Hereulf {looking expressively at each 
 other, and then at Ethelbert.) 
 Good Ethelbert, what ails thee ? 
 
 Her. Thy fix'd look has a dreadful meaning 
 
 in it. 
 Eth. Let us begone. 
 
 Sel. No, do not yield it so. I still will plead 
 The gentle Edward's cause: his frowns I fear not. 
 
 Eth. Come, come ; there is no cause j 
 Edward is free. 
 
 Set. How so ? thou speak'st it with a woeful 
 voice. 
 
A TKAGEDY. 2[)9 
 
 Eth, Is not the disembodied spirit free ? 
 8eL Ha! think'st thou that? — No, no j it 
 
 cannot be. 
 Her. (^stamping on the groundy and grasping 
 his sword.) 
 I'll glut my sword with the foul murd'rer's blood, 
 If such foul deed hath been. 
 Eth. Hush, hush, intemperate boy ! Let us 
 begone. [Exeunt Eth. Sel. and Her. 
 
 El. (to Dwi.) Heard'st thou how they con- 
 ceive it ? 
 Dxvi. Ay, mercy! and it is a fearful thought! 
 It glanc'd e'en o'er my mind before they spoke. 
 El. Thou'rt silent, rev'rend father ; are thy 
 thoughts 
 Of such dark hue? (with solemn earnestness to 
 Hex.) 
 Hed\ Heaven's will be done in all things ! 
 erring man 
 Bows silently. Good health attend your great- 
 ness. 
 El. Nay, go not yet, good Hexulf : in my 
 closet 
 I much desire some converse with thee. Thou, 
 Belike, hast misconceiv'd what I have utter'd 
 In unadvised passion, thinking surely 
 It bore some meaning 'gainst my lord the king. 
 Ilea:. No, gracious daughter, I indeed receiv'd 
 it 
 As words of passion. You are mov'd, I see : 
 But let not this dismay you : if the king 
 Has done the deed suspicion fastens on him. 
 
300 ETHWALD : 
 
 We o'er his mind shall hold the surer sway. 
 A restless penitent will docile prove 
 To priestly counsel : this will be our gain. 
 But in your closet we'll discourse of this. 
 Heaven's will be done in all things ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The King's Chamber. Enter Ethwald xmth a 
 thoughtful miserable look, and stands silently 
 muttering to himself] when Alwy enters in hast, 
 followed by an Officer. 
 
 Alwy. Pardon, my Lord ; we bring you press- 
 ing tidings. 
 Eth'w. {angrily.) Shall I ne'er rest in peace in 
 mine own chamber ? 
 Ha ! would that peace were there ! — You bring 
 
 me tidings ; 
 And from what quarter come they ? 
 
 Alwy. From Utherbald, who holds your wes- 
 tern fortress. 
 Ethw. He doth not yield, I hope, unto the foe ? 
 It is my strongest hold, and may defy 
 The strength of Wessex and of Britain join'd. 
 Of. True, king, but famine all things will 
 
 subdue. 
 Ethw. He has surrender'd, then : by heaven 
 and hell 
 I'll have his head for this ! 
 
 Alwy. No, royal Ethwald, 
 It is not yet so bad ; but this brave man, 
 Commission'd by himself, will tell you all. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 301 
 
 Kt}m\ Speak, warriour : then lie holtls the 
 
 fortress still ? 
 Of. He does, my Lord, but much he lives in 
 fear 
 He shall not hold it long, unless your highnCvSS 
 Will give your warrant to release the prisoners ; 
 Those ill designing Mercians whom your wisdom 
 Under his guard has placed. 
 He bade me say the step is dangerous ; 
 But, if it is not done, those idle mouths 
 Consuming much, will starve him and his men 
 Into compliance with the foe's demand. 
 What is your sov'reign will ? for on the instant 
 I must return. 
 
 Etiiw. Tell him this is notimefor foolish hazard. 
 Let them be put to death. 
 
 Of. (^shrinking hack.) Must I return with this? 
 
 all put to death ? 
 Ethiv. Yes, I have said : did'st thou not hear 
 
 my words ? 
 Of I heard, in truth, but mine ears strangely 
 rung. 
 Good saints there are, my Lord, within our walls. 
 Close pris'ners kept, of war-bred men alone, 
 Of whom, I trow, there scarcely is a man 
 Wlio has not some fair stripling by his side 
 Sharing the father's bonds, threescore and ten ; 
 
 And must they all 
 
 Ethw. I understand thee, fool. 
 Let them all die ! have I not said it ? Go ; 
 Linger not here, but bear thy message quickly. 
 
 [Exit Officer sorrowfully. 
 
302 ETHWALD : 
 
 {Angrili/ to Alwv.) What ! tliou look'st on me 
 
 too, as if, forsooth, 
 Thou wert amaz'd at this. Perceiv'st thou not 
 How hardly Tm beset to keep the power 
 1 have so dearly bought ? Shall this impede me ? 
 Let infants shrink ! I have seen blood enough ; 
 And what have I to do with mercy now ? 
 
 {Stalking gloomily away, then returning.) 
 Selred and Ethelbert, and fiery Hereulf, 
 Are to their castles sullenly retired. 
 With many other warlike Thanes. The storm 
 Is gathering round me, but we'll brave it nobly. 
 Alwy. The discontented chiefs, as I'm in- 
 form'd 
 By faithful spies, are in the halls of Hereulf 
 Assembled, brooding o'er their secret treason. 
 Ethw, Are they ? Then let us send a chosen 
 band, 
 And seize tliem unprepared. A nightly marcli 
 Will bring them near liis castle. Let us then 
 Immediate orders give ; the time is precious. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 303 
 
 ACT IV, 
 
 An Apartment in the royal castle or chief residence 
 o/'Ethwald. Dwina and several of the Ladies 
 serving the Queen are discovered at work ; 
 some spinnings some winding coloured yarns 
 for the looniy and some embroidering ajter a 
 rude fashion. 
 
 Dxvi. {looking over the First Lady'^^ xcork.) 
 How speeds thy work ? The queen is now impa- 
 tient ; 
 Thou must be dihgent. 
 
 First Lad. Nine weary months have I, thou 
 knowest well, 
 O'er this spread garment bent, and yet tliou 
 
 see*st, 
 The half is scarcely done. I lack assistance. 
 Dwi. And so thou dost, but yet in the wide 
 realm 
 None can be found but such as lack the skill 
 For such assistance. All those mingled colours, 
 And mazy circles, and strange carved spots, 
 Look, in good sooth, as tho* the stuff were strew'd 
 With rich and curious things : tho* much I fear 
 To tell you what no easy task would prove. 
 Sec. Lad. There lives a dame in Kent, I have 
 been told, 
 Come from some foreign land, if that indeed 
 
304 ETHWALD : 
 
 She be no cunning fiend in woman's garb, 
 Who, with her needle, can most cunningly 
 The true and perfect semblance of real flowers, 
 With stalk and leaves, as fairly fashion out 
 As if upon a summer bank they grew. 
 
 First Lad. Ay, ay ! no doubt ! thou hear*st 
 strange tales, I ween. 
 Did'st thou not tell us how, in foreign lands 
 Full far from this, the nice and lazy dames 
 Do set foul worms to spin their silken yarn ? 
 Ha, ha I {.They all laugh.') 
 
 Sec. Lad. (^angrily.') I did not say so. 
 
 First Lad. Nay, nay, but thou did'st ! 
 
 {laughing.') 
 
 Sec. Lad. Thou did'st mistake me wilfully, 
 in spite. 
 Malicious as thou art ! 
 
 Dwi. I pray you wrangle not ! when ladies 
 work. 
 They should tell pleasant tales or sweetly sing, 
 Not quarrel rudely, thus, like villains' wives. 
 Sing me, I pray you now, the song I love. 
 You know it well : let all your voices join, 
 
 Omnes. We will, good Dwina. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wake a *while and pleasant bey 
 Gentle voice of melody. 
 
 Sayy sweet carol, ivho are they 
 
 Who cheerly greet the rising day ? ^ 
 
A tiia(;ki>v. rJ05 
 
 Little birds in leaj'i/ bower ; 
 
 Swallows twittWiiig on the tower ; 
 
 Larks upon the light air borne ; 
 
 Hunters rous'd with shrilly horii ; 
 
 The woodman whistling on his way ; 
 
 The new-wak'd child at early play. 
 
 Who barefoot prints the dewy green^ 
 
 Winking to the sunny sheen; 
 
 Arid the meek maid who binds her yellow hair. 
 
 And blythly doth her daily task prepare. 
 
 Say, sweet carol, who are they 
 
 Who welcome in the evening grey ? 
 
 The housewife trim and merry lout, 
 
 Who sit the blazing jii'e about ; 
 
 The sage a conning o*er his book ; 
 
 The tired xvight, in rushy nook. 
 
 Who half asleep, but faintly hears 
 
 The gossip* s tale hum in his ears ; 
 
 The loosened steed in grassy stall; 
 
 The Thames feasting in the hall; 
 
 But most of all the maid of cheerful soul. 
 
 Who fits her peaceful warrior* sfozvifig bowl. 
 
 Well hast thou said! and thanks to thee, 
 Voice of gentle melody! 
 
 Dwi. (^to Third Lady, ivho sits sad and pensive.) 
 WJiat is the matter, Ella? Thy sweet voice 
 Was wont to join the song. 
 
 VOL. ir. X 
 
306 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ella, Ah, woe is me! within these castle walls ; 
 Under this very tower in which we are, 
 There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do hear 
 But the chill winds that o*er their dungeons 
 
 howl; 
 Or the still tinkling of the water-drops 
 Falling from their dank roofs, in dull succession, 
 Like the death watch at sick men's beds. Alas ! 
 Whilst you sing cheerly thus, I think of them. 
 
 Dwi. Ay, many a different lot of joy and grief 
 Within a little compass may be found. 
 Under one roof the woeful and the gay 
 Do oft abide ; on the same pillow rest. 
 And yet, if I may rightly judge, the king 
 Has but small joy above his wretched thralls. 
 Last night I listened to his restless steps. 
 As oft he paced his chamber to and fro. 
 Right o'er my head ! and I did hear him utter 
 Such heavy groans 1 
 
 First Lady, (with all the others gathering about 
 Dwina curiously.') 
 Didst thou ? And utter'd he no other sound ? 
 I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night 
 He sees strange things. 
 
 All. {speaking together.) O tell us, Dwina! 
 tell us ! 
 
 D*wi. Out on you all ! you hear such foolish 
 tales 1 
 He is himself the ghost that walks the night. 
 And cannot rest. 
 
 7 
 
A TRAGKDY. 307 
 
 Ella. Belike he is devising in his mind 
 How he shall punish those poor prisoners, 
 Who were in HereiilPs towered halls so lately 
 Surpriz'd, and in these liollow vaidts confined. 
 
 First Lady. No marvel that it should disturb 
 him much, 
 When his own brother is amongst the guilty. 
 There will be bloody doings soon, I trow ! 
 
 Dwi. Into the hands of good and pious Hexulf 
 The rebels will be put, so to be punish'd 
 As he in holy zeal shall see it meet. 
 
 Ella. Then they will dearly suffer ! 
 
 Dm, That holy man no tortures will devise. 
 
 Ella. Yes, so perchance, no tortures of the 
 flesh ; 
 But there be those that do upon the soul 
 The rack and pincer's work. 
 Is he not grandson to that vengeful chief. 
 Who, with the death-axe lifted o*er his head. 
 Kept his imprisoned foe a live-long night. 
 Nor, till the second cock had crow'd the morn, 
 Dealt him the clemency of death ? Full well 
 He is his child I know ! 
 
 Dwi. What aileth thee ? art thou bewitched 
 also? 
 Lamentest thou that cursed heretics 
 Are put in good men's power ? The sharpest 
 
 punishment 
 O'er-reaches not their crime. 
 
 Ella. O Dwina, Dwina ! thou hast watchM 
 by me 
 
 X 2 
 
308 ETHWALD : 
 
 When on a sick-bed laid, and held my head. 
 And kindly wept to see my wasted cheek, 
 And lov'st thou cruelty? It cannot be ! 
 
 Dui. No, foolish maiden ! mercy to such fiends 
 Were cruelty. 
 
 Ella. Such fiends! Alas! do not they look like 
 men? 
 Do they not to their needful brethren do 
 The kindly deeds of men? Yea, Ethelbert 
 Within his halls a houseless Thane maintained. 
 Whose substance had been spent in base attempts 
 To work his ruin. 
 
 Dwi, The blackest fiends of all most saintly 
 forms 
 Oft wear. Go, go ! thou strangely art deluded. 
 I tremble for thee ! get thee hence and pray, 
 \f that the wicked pity of thy heart 
 May be forgiven thee. 
 
 Enter a Lady eagerly. 
 Come, damsels, come ! along the gallery, 
 In slow procession holy Hexulf walks, 
 With saintly Woggarwolfe, a fierce chief once, 
 But now a cowled priest of marvellous grace. 
 They bear some holy relics to the queen, 
 Which, near the royal couch with blessings laid, 
 Will to the king his wonted rest restore. 
 Come, meet them on their way and get a blessing. 
 Dwi. We will all gladly go. [Exeunt. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 309 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A roijal Apartmenty lighted only by the Moon 
 thro* the high arched Windows. Enter Eth- 
 WALD, as if just risen from Bed, loose and disor- 
 dered^ hut bearing a drawn Sword in his Hand, 
 
 Ethw, Still must this heavy closeness thus op- 
 press me ? 
 Will no fresh stream of air breathe on my brow, 
 And ruffle for a while this stilly gloom ? 
 
 night, when good men rest, and infants sleep! 
 Thou art to me no season of repose, 
 
 But a fear'd time of waking more intense. 
 Of life more keen, of misery more palpable. 
 My rest must be when the broad sun doth glare; 
 When armour rings and men walk to and fro ; 
 Like a tir'd hound stretch'd in the busy hall, 
 
 1 needs must lie ; night will not cradle me. 
 
 {looking up anxiously to the windows.) 
 What, looks the moon still thro* that lofty arch ? 
 Will't ne'er be morn ? 
 If that again in strength 
 I led mine army on the bold career 
 So surely shapen in my fancy's eye, 
 I might again have joy; but in these towers, 
 Around, beneath me, hateful dungeons yawn, 
 In every one of which some being lives 
 To curse me. Ethelbert, and Selred too, 
 My father's son and my youth's oracle. 
 Ye too are found with those, who raise to heaven 
 X 3 
 
310 ETHWALD : 
 
 The prisoner's prayer against my hated head. 
 
 I am a lofty tree of" growth too great 
 
 For its thin soil, from whose wide rooted fangs 
 
 The very rocks and earth that foster'd it 
 
 Do rend and fall away. — I stand alone ! 
 
 I stand alone ! I thought, alas ! to spread 
 
 My wide protecting boughs o'er my youth's 
 
 friends j 
 But they, like pois'nous brushwood at my root. 
 Have chok'd my stately growth e'en more than all. 
 (^Musing for some time gloomily.") 
 How marr'd and stinted hath my greatness been ! 
 What am I now of that which long ere now 
 I hop'd to be ? O ! it doth make me mad 
 To think of this ! By hell it shall not be ! 
 I would cut off this arm and cast it from me 
 For vultures' meat, if it did let or hinder 
 Its nobler fellow. 
 
 Yes, they shall die ! I to my fortune's height 
 Will rear my lofty head, and stand alone. 
 Fearless of storm or tempest. 
 
 {Turns round his head upon hearing a noise, 
 
 and seeing Elburga enter at the bottom of 
 
 the stage, with a lamp in her hand, like one 
 
 risen from bed, he starts back and gazes 
 
 mldly upon her.) 
 What form is that ? What art thou ? Speak ! speak 
 
 quickly ! 
 If thou indeed art aught of living kind. 
 
 Elb. Why didst thou start? Dost thou not 
 
 know me ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 311 
 
 Kthw. No; 
 Thy shadow seem*d to me a crested youth. 
 
 Elb. A lid with that trusty weapon in thy grasp, 
 Which thou, of late, e'en on thy nightly couch 
 Hast sheathless kept, fearest thou living man ? 
 
 Ethw, It was not living man I fear'd. 
 
 Elb. What then ? 
 Last night when open burst your chamber door 
 With the rude blast, which it is wont to do, 
 You gaz'd upon it with such fearful looks 
 Of fix'd expectancy, as one, in truth. 
 Looks for the ent'ring of some dreadful thing. 
 Have you seen aught ? 
 
 Ethw. Get to thy couch. Thinkst thou I will 
 be questioned? 
 
 Elb. {putting her hand upon his shoulder sooth- 
 ingly,) 
 Nay, be not thus uncourtly ! thou shalt tell me. 
 
 Ethw, {shaking her off impatiently.^ 
 Be not a fool ! get thee to sleep, I say ! 
 What dost thou here ? 
 
 Elb. That which, in truth, degrades my royal 
 birth. 
 And therefore should be chid ; servilely soothing 
 The fretful moods of one, who, new to greatness, 
 Feels its unwieldly robe sit on his shoulders 
 Constrained and gallingly. 
 
 Ethw. {going up to her sternly and grasping her 
 by the wrist.) 
 Thou paltry trapping of my regal state. 
 Which with its other baubles I have snatch'd, 
 
312 ETHWALD : 
 
 Dar*st thou to front me thus? Thy foolish pride, 
 Like the mock loftiness of mimick greatness, 
 Makes us contemned in the public eye, 
 And my tight rule more hateful. Get thee hence ; 
 And be with hooded nuns a gorgeous saint, 
 For know, thou lackest meekness for a queen. 
 
 (Elb. seems much alarmed, but at the same 
 time walks Jrom him with great assumed 
 haughtiness, and ed'it.) 
 Ethw. (alone.) This woman racks me to the 
 
 very pitch ! 
 Where I should look for gentle tenderness. 
 There find I heartless pride. Ah ! there was one 
 Who would liave sooth'd my troubles ! there was 
 
 one 
 W^ho would have cheer'd But wherefore think 
 
 I now ? (jyausing thoughtfully.') 
 Elburga has of late been to my will 
 More pliant, oft assuming gentle looks : 
 What may this mean ? under this alter'd guise 
 What treach'ry lurks ? (pausing again for some 
 
 time.) 
 And yet it should not be : 
 Her greatness must upon my fortune hang. 
 And this she knows full well. I've chid her 
 
 roughly. 
 Some have, from habit and united interest, 
 Amidst the wreck of other human ties, 
 The stedfast duty of a wife retained. 
 E'en where no early lov6 or soft endearments 
 
A TRAGEDY. 313 
 
 / 
 
 / The bands have knit. Yes ; I have been too rough. 
 (Calling to her off the stage.) 
 Elburga ! dost thou hear me, gentle wife ? 
 And thou com*st at my bidding : this is kindly. 
 
 Enter Elburga, humbled. 
 
 Elb. You have been stern, my Lord, You 
 think belike, 
 That I have urged you in my zeal too far 
 To give those rebel chieftains up to Hexulf, 
 As best agreeing with the former ties 
 That bound you to those base ungrateful men, 
 And with the nature of their chiefest crime. 
 Foul heresy ; but, if in this I err. 
 Zeal for your safety urged me to offend. 
 
 Ethw. I've been too stern with thee, but heed 
 it not. 
 And in that matter thou hast urged so strongly. 
 But that I much mistrust his cruelty, 
 I would resign those miserable men 
 To HexulPs vengeful arm ; for much he does 
 Public opinion guide, and e'en to us. 
 If now provok'd, might prove a dangerous foe. 
 
 Elb. Mistrust him not j he will by oath engage 
 To use no torture. 
 
 Ethie. And yet methinks, Selred might still 
 be saved. 
 A holy man might well devise the means 
 To save a brother. 
 
 Elb. He will think of it. 
 Much do Uie soldiers the bold courage prize. 
 
Sl-i ETHWALD : 
 
 And simple plainness of his honest mind ; 
 To slay him might be dangerous. 
 
 Ethxv. Ha! is it so ? They've praised him 
 much of late? 
 
 Elb. Yes, he has grown into their favour greatly. 
 
 Ethxi\ The changeful fools ! I do remember 
 well 
 They shouted loudly o'er his paltry gift, 
 Because so simply giv'n, when my rich spoils 
 Seem'd little priz'd. I like not this. 'Twere well 
 He were remov'd. We will consider this. 
 
 Elb, Come to your chamber then. 
 
 Etkw. No, no !] into that dark oppressive den 
 Of horrid thoughts I'll not return. 
 
 Elb, Not so ! 
 I've trimm'd the smold'ring fire, and by your 
 
 couch 
 The holy things are laid : return and fear not. 
 
 Eth, I thank thy kindness j I, indeed, have 
 need 
 Of holy things, if that a stained soul 
 May kindred hold with such. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A "caulted Prison. Hereulf, Selred, and 
 Three Thanes of their party, are discovered 
 walking gloomily and silently up and down. 
 
 First Thane, {to the Second, who groans heavily.) 
 Ah ! wherefore, noble partner, art thou thus ? 
 We all are brothers, equal in misfortune ; 
 Let us endure it nobly ! 
 
A TRAGEDY. 315 
 
 Sec. Th. Ay, so I would, but it o'ercometh me. 
 E*en this same night, in my far distant home 
 Fires blaze upon my towers, to guide my steps 
 Thro* woody dells which I shall pass no more. 
 E'en on this night I promis'd to return. 
 First Th. Yet bear it up, and do not dash us 
 thus; 
 We have all pleasant homes as well as thou, 
 To which I fear we shall no more return. 
 
 Sel. (to Third Thane, who advances from the 
 bottom of the stage.) 
 What didst thou look at yonder? Where is Ethel- 
 bert ? 
 Third Th. Within yon deep recess, upon his 
 knees ; 
 Just now I saw him, and I turn'd aside. 
 Knowing the modest nature of his worship. 
 
 Enter Ethelbert from the recess, slowly ad- 
 vaiicing from the bottom of the stage. 
 
 But see, he comes, and on his noble front 
 
 A smiling calmness rests, like one whose mind 
 
 Hath high communion held with blessed souls. 
 
 Her. (to Eth.) Where hast thou been, brave 
 Ethelbert? Ah! now 
 Full well I see ! thy countenance declares. 
 Didst thou remember us ? A good man's prayers 
 Will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's 
 
 height. 
 And bring a blessing down. 
 
 Eth, Ye all are men who with undaunted hearts 
 
316 ETHWALD ; 
 
 Most nobly have contended for the right : 
 Your recompence is sure ; ye shall be bless*d. 
 
 Sec. Th. How bless*d ? With what assurance 
 of the mind 
 Hast thou pray'd for us? Tell us truly, Ethelbert; 
 As those about to die, or those who yet 
 Shall for a term this earthly state retain ? 
 Such strong impressed ideas oft foreshew 
 Th' event to follow. 
 
 Eth. Man, ever eager to foresee his doom 
 With such conceits his fancv fondlv flatters, 
 And I too much have given my mind to this ; 
 But let us now, like soldiers on the watch. 
 Put our soul's armour on, alike prepared 
 For all a soldier's warfare brings. In heav'n 
 He sits, who on the inward war of souls 
 Looks down, as one beholds a well-fought field, 
 And nobly will reward the brave man's struggle. 
 (^Raising his clasped hands fervently^ 
 
 let him now behold what his weak creatures, 
 With many cares and fears of nature weak. 
 Firmly relying on his righteous rule. 
 
 Will suft'er cheerfully ! Be ye prepared ! 
 
 He7\ We are prepared : what say ye, noble 
 
 colleagues ? 
 First Th. If that I here a bloody death must 
 meet. 
 And in some nook unbless'd, far from the tombs 
 Of all mine honour'd race, these bones be laid, 
 
 1 do submit me to the will of heaven. 
 
 ThirdTh. E'en so do I in deep submission bow. 
 
A THA(;i:uv. 8I7 
 
 Sec. Th. If that 110 more within my op'iuiig 
 gates 
 My children and my wife shall e'er again 
 Greet my return, or this chill'd frame again 
 E'er feel the kindly warmth of home, so be it ! 
 His blessed will be done w ho ruleth all ! 
 
 Her. If these nerv*d arms, full in the strength 
 of youth, 
 Must rot i' the earth, and all my glorious hopes 
 To free this land, with which high beat this heart. 
 Must be cut off i' th* midst, I bow my spirit 
 To its Almighty Lord ; I murmur not. 
 Yet, O that it had been permitted me 
 To have contended in that noble cause ! 
 Low must I sleep in an unnoted grave, 
 Whilst the oppressor of my native country 
 Riots in brave men's blood ! 
 
 Eth. Peace, noble boy! he will not riot long. 
 They shall arise, w ho for that noble cause, 
 With better fortune, not with firmer hearts 
 Than we to th' work have yoked, will bravely 
 
 strive. 
 To future heroes shall our names be known ; 
 And in our graves of turf we shall be bless'd. 
 
 Her. Well then, I'm satisfied : I'll smile in 
 death ; 
 Yea, proudly will I smile ! it wounds me not. 
 
 Eth. How, Selred? thou alone art silent here: 
 To heaven's high will what off' ring makest thou? 
 
 Sel. Nothing, good Ethelbert. What can a man 
 Little enriched with the mind's rare treasure, 
 And of th' unrighteous turmoil of this v/orld 
 
318 KTIIWALD : 
 
 Right weary grown, to his great Maker offer ? 
 Yet I can die as meekly as ye will, 
 Albeit of his regard it is unworthy. 
 
 Eth. Give me thy hand, brave man! Well 
 hast thou said ! 
 In truth thy ofF'ring far outprizes all ; 
 Kich in humility. Come, valiant friends ; 
 It makes my breast beat high to see you thus 
 For fortune's worst prepar'd with quiet minds. 
 1*11 sit me down awhile ; come, gather round me. 
 And for a little space the time beguile 
 With the free use and interchange of thought : 
 Of that which no stern tyrant can controul. 
 
 {They all sit down on the ground.^ 
 Her. {to Eth.) Nay, on my folded mantle do 
 
 thou sit. 
 Eth. I thank thee, but I feel no cold. My 
 children ! 
 We do but want, methinks, a blazing fire, 
 To make us thus a friendly chosen circle 
 For converse met. Then we belike would talk 
 Of sprites, and magic power, and marv'llous 
 
 things. 
 That shorten weary hours ; now let us talk 
 Of things that do tli* inquiring mind of man 
 With nobler wonder fill ; that state unseen. 
 With all its varied mansions of delight, 
 To which the virtuous go, when like a dream 
 Smote by the beams of op'ning day, this life 
 With all its shadowy forms, fades into nothing. 
 First Th. Ay, Ethelbert, thou*rt full of sacred 
 lore J 
 
A TRAGEDY : 319 
 
 Talk thou of this, and we will gladly hear thee. 
 How ihmk'stthouwe shall feel, when, like a nest- 
 ling 
 
 Burst from its shell, we wake to this new day ? 
 
 Etk. Why e*en, methinks, like to the very thing 
 To which, good Thane, thou hast compared us: 
 For here we are but nestlings, and I trow, 
 Pent up i' the dark we are. When that shall open 
 Wliich human eye hath ne'er beheld, nor mind 
 To human body link'd, hath e'er conceiv'd. 
 Grand, awful, lovely: — O! what form of words 
 Will body out my thoughts ! — I'll hold my peace. 
 (Covers his head mith his hand, and is silent 
 for a moments) 
 Then like a guised band, that for a while 
 Has mimick*d forth a sad and gloomy tale. 
 We shall these worthless weeds of flesh cast off, 
 And be the children of our father's house. 
 
 Her. {eagerly.) But what say'st thou of those 
 who doff these weeds 
 To clothe themselves in flames and endless woe? 
 
 Eth. Peace to thee ! what have we to do with 
 this? 
 Let it be veifd in night! 
 
 Her. Nay, nay, good Ethelbert ! 
 I fain would know what foul oppression earns ; 
 And please my fancy with the after-doom 
 Of tyrants, such as him beneath whose fangs 
 Our wretched country bleeds. They shall be 
 
 cursed : 
 O say how deeply ! 
 
•^^0 ETIIWALD ; 
 
 Eth, Hereiilf, the spirit of him thou call'st thy 
 master, 
 Who died for guilty men, breathes not in thee. 
 Dost thou rejoice that aught of human kind 
 Shall be accursed? 
 
 Her. {Starting up.) If not within the fiery 
 gulph of woe 
 His doom be cast, there is no power above ! 
 
 Eth. For shame, young man ! this ill beseems 
 thy state : 
 Sit down and I will tell thee of this Ethwald. 
 
 Sel. (jising up greatly agitated.) 
 O no! I pray thee do not talk of him ! 
 The blood of Mollo has been Mercia's curse. 
 
 Eth. Sit down ; I crave it of you both; sit down 
 And wear within your breasts a manlier spirit. 
 
 {Pointing to Her. to sit close by him.) 
 Nay here, my son, and let me take thy hand. 
 Thus by my side, in his fair op'ning youth, 
 Full oft has Ethwald sat and heard me talk, 
 With, as I well believe, a heart inclined, 
 Tho' somewhat dash'd with shades of darker hue, 
 To truth and kindly deeds. 
 But from this mixed seed, of good and ill 
 One baleful plant in dark strength rais'd its head, 
 O'ertopping all the rest ; which fav'ring circum- 
 stance 
 Did foster up to a growth so monstrous, 
 That underneath its wide and noxious shade 
 Died all the native plants of feebler stem. 
 O, I have wept for him, as I have lain 
 
A TRAGEDY. 321 
 
 On my still midnight couch ! I tryM to save him, 
 But ev'ry means against its end recoil'd. 
 Good Selred, thou rememb'rest well that night 
 When to the Female Druid's awful cave 
 I led thy brother. 
 
 Sel. I remember well. 
 
 (^All the Thanes spealdng at once^ eagerly.) 
 Ay, what of that? We've heard strange tales of it? 
 Eth, At my request the Arch Sister there re- 
 ceiv'd him ; 
 And tho' she promis'd me she would unfold 
 Such things as might a bold ambitious mind 
 Scare from its wishes, she, unweetingly, 
 Did but the more inflame them. 
 Her. Ha 1 what say'st thou ? 
 Did she not shew the form of things to come 
 By fix'd decrees, unsubject to her will ? 
 
 Eth. She shew'd him things, indeed, most won- 
 derful ; 
 Whether by human arts to us unknown, 
 Or magic, or the aid of powerful spirits 
 Call'd forth, I wot not. Hark I I hear a noise. 
 First Th. I hear, without the tread of many feet. 
 They pull our dungeon's bars : ha, see who come ! 
 Wear they not ruffians' brows ? 
 
 Sec. Th. And follow'd still by more : a num'rous 
 crew. 
 What is their business here ? 
 
 (^Enter a band of armed men, accompanied 
 by Two Priests, and carrying with them 
 a block, an acce, and a large sheet or 
 curtain, ^c.) 
 VOL. II. y 
 
322 ETHWALD : 
 
 Eth. Do not the axe and block borne by those 
 slaves 
 Tell thee their errand ? But we'll face them 
 
 bravely. 
 They do not come upon us unawares ; 
 We are prepar*d. — Let us take hands, my friends 1 
 Let us united stand, a worthy band 
 Of girded trav'llers, ready to depart 
 Unto a land unknown, but yet undreaded. 
 
 {They all tahehands^ facing about, and wait- 
 ing the appi^oach of the men with a steady 
 countenance.') 
 First Pr. Why look you on us thus with lower- 
 ing brows ? 
 Can linked hands the keen-edg'd steel resist ? 
 Her. No, Priest, but linked hearts can bid 
 defiance 
 To the barb'd lightning, if so arm'd withal 
 Thou didst encounter us. Quick do thine office ! 
 Here six brave heads abide thee, who ne'er yet 
 Have meanly bow'd themselves to living wight. 
 First Pr. You are too forward, youth : less 
 will suffice : 
 One of those guilty heads beneath our axe 
 Must fall, the rest shall live. So wills our chief. 
 Lots shall decide our victim : in this urn 
 Inclosed are your fates. {Setting down an urn in 
 the middle of the stage upon a small tripod 
 or stand, whilst the chiefs instantly let go 
 hands, and stand gazing upon one another.) 
 Ha ! have I then so suddenly unlink'd you ? 
 
 ( IVith a malicious smile.) 
 
A tragf;dy. .323 
 
 Put forth your hands, l)rave chiefs ; put forth 
 
 your hands ; 
 And he who draws the sable lot of death, 
 Full speedy be his doom ! 
 
 (A long pause : the chiefs still look upon one 
 another^ none oftJiem offering to step for - 
 "ward to the urn.) 
 What pause ye thus, indeed ? This hateful urn 
 Doth but one death contain, and many lives, 
 And shrink ye from it, brave and valiant Thanes ? 
 Then lots shall first be cast, who shall the first 
 Thrust in his hand into this pot of terrors. 
 Eth. {stepping forth,) No, thou rude servant 
 of a gentle master, 
 Doing disgrace to thy much honour'd garb, 
 This shall not be : I am the eldest chief. 
 And I of right should stand the foremost here. 
 
 (^Putting his hand into the urn.) 
 What heaven appoints me, welcome! 
 
 Sel. {putting in his hand.) 
 I am the next : heaven send me what it lists ! 
 
 First Th. {putting in his hand.) 
 Here also let me take. If that the race 
 Of noble Cormac shall be sunk in night. 
 How small a thing determines! 
 
 Sec. Th. {putting in his hand.) 
 On which shall fix my grasp? {liesitating) or this? 
 
 or this ? 
 No, cursed thing ! whatever thou art, 1*11 have 
 thee. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 ETHWALD : 
 
 Third Th. {putting out his hand mtJi perturb- 
 ation^ misses the narrow mouth of the urn.^ 
 I wist not how it is : where is its mouth ? 
 
 First Pr. Direct thy hand more steadily, good 
 Thane, 
 And fear not thou wilt miss it. {To Hereulf.) 
 Now, youthful chief, one lot remains for thee. 
 (Hereulf pauses for a moment, and his 
 countenance betrays perturbation, when 
 Ethelbert steps forth again.) 
 Eth. No, this young chieftain's lot belongs to 
 me; 
 He shall not draw. ( Putting in his hand quickly 
 
 and taking out the last lot.) 
 Now, Priest, the lots are finisliM. 
 
 First Pr. Well, open then your fates. 
 
 {They each open their lots, whilst Hereulf 
 stands looking eagerly in their faces as 
 they open them.) 
 Sec. Th. {opening his, and then holding up his 
 hands in extacy.) 
 Wife, children, home ! I am a living man ! 
 
 First Th. {having opened his.) 
 I number still with those who breathe the air, 
 And look upon the light! blest heaven so wills it. 
 
 Third Th. {looking at his joyfully.) 
 Fate is with me ! the race of Cormac lives ! 
 Her. {after looking anxiously frst upon Ethel- 
 bert and then upon Selred.) 
 Selred, what is thy lot ? is't not dark ? 
 Sel No, Hereulf 
 
A TRAGEDY. 326 
 
 Her. Oh, Ethelbert! thousmilest on me! alas! 
 It is a dismal smile ! thou art the victim ! 
 Thou shalt not die : the lot of right is mine. 
 A shade of human weakness cross'd my soul, 
 Such as before, not in the horrid fields 
 Of crimson slaughter did I ever feel ; 
 But it is past ; now I can bravely die, 
 And I will have my riglit. 
 
 Eth. (^pushing him qffectionatelij away.) 
 Away, my son 1 It is as it should be. 
 
 Her. O if thou wilt entreat me as a man, 
 Nor slur me with contempt ! I do beseech thee 
 Upon my bended knee ! {Kneeling.) O if thou 
 
 diest, 
 I of all living things most wretched am ! 
 
 Eth. Be temperate, my son ! thou art reserv'd 
 For what the fervid strength of active youth 
 Can best perform. O take him from me, friends ! 
 (T/je Thanes take HeveuM'Jbrcibli/Jrom cling- 
 ing round Ethelbert, and he then assuming 
 a softened solemnity.) 
 Now, my brave friends, we have together fought 
 A noble warfare ; I am calPd away ! 
 Let me in kind and true affection leave you. 
 
 Thanes, (speaking together.) Alas, thou art our 
 father and our friend ! 
 Alas, that thou should'st meet this dismal end ! 
 
 Eth. Ay, true, indeed, it is a dismal end ! 
 To mortal feeling ; yet within my breast 
 Blest hope and love, and heaven-ward confidence. 
 With human frailty so combined are. 
 That I do feel a wild and trembling pleasure. 
 
 Y 3 
 
326 ETHWALD : 
 
 Even on this awful verge, methinks I go, 
 Like a chid infant, from his passing term 
 Of short disgrace, back to his father's presence. 
 (Holding up his hands with a dignified exultation,') 
 I feel an awful joy ! — Farewell, my friends 1 
 Selred, we've fought in many a field together, 
 And still as brothers been ; take thou, I pray. 
 This token of my love. And thou, good Wolfere, 
 I've ever priz'd thy worth, wear thou this ring. 
 (To the two other chiefs, giving them also tokens.) 
 And you, brave chiefs, I've ever lov'd you both. 
 And now, my noble Hereulf, 
 Of all the youth to whom my soul e'er knit. 
 As with a parent's love, in the good cause. 
 Thee have I found most fervent and most firm ; 
 Be thine my sword, which in my native hall. 
 Hung o'er my noble father's arms, thou'lt find. 
 And be it in thy hands what well thou know'st 
 It would have been in mine. Farewell, my friends ! 
 / God bless you all ! 
 
 ( Thei/ all crowd about him, some kissing his 
 hands, soyne taking hold of his clothes, ex- 
 cept Hereulf j who starting away from him, 
 throws himself upon the ground in an agony 
 of grief. Ethelbert lifts up his eyes and 
 his hands as if he were mutteriiig a silent 
 blessing over them.) 
 First Pr. This may not be ! down with those 
 impious hands ! 
 Dar'st thou, foul heretic, before the face 
 Of hallow' d men, thus mutter prayers accurst ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 3^7 
 
 Eth. Doth this oftend you? — O it makes me 
 feel 
 A spirit for this awful hour unmeet, 
 When I do think on you, ye hypocrites ! 
 
 First Pr. Come, come ! we waste our time, the 
 heads-man waits. 
 (2'o Eth.) Prepare thee for the block. 
 
 Eth, And will you in the sight of these my 
 friends 
 Your bloody task perform ? Let them retire. 
 First Pr. Nay, nay, that may not be • our pious 
 Hexulf 
 Has given his orders. 
 
 Sec. Pr. O be not so cruel ! 
 Tho' he has ordered so, yet, ne'ertheless, 
 We may suspend this veil, and from their eyes 
 The horrid sight conceal. 
 
 First Pr. Then be it so ; I grant it. 
 
 (A large cloth or curtain is suspended upon 
 the points of two spear s^ held up by spear- 
 men^ concealing the block and ejcecutioner, 
 S^c.Jrom the Thanes.) 
 First Pr. {to the men behind the curtain^ after 
 
 a pause i^ Are ye ready? 
 Voices behind. Yes, we are ready now. {To Eth.) 
 And thou ? 
 
 Eth. God be my strength ! I'm ready also. 
 
 {As the Priest is leading Ethelbert behind 
 
 the curtain, lie turns about to give a last look 
 
 to hisjriends ; and they, laying their hands 
 
 devoutly upon their breasts, bow to him 
 
 Y 4 
 
32S ETHWALD :. 
 
 very low. They then go behind tlie curtainy 
 leaving the Thanes on thefrontofthe stage, 
 who stand jixed in silent and horrid eccpect-- 
 ation ; excejit Selred, who sits down upon 
 the ground with his face hid between his 
 hieeSy and Hereulf, who rising suddenly 
 from the ground, looks wildly round, and 
 seeing Ethelbert gone, throws himself down 
 again in all the distraction of grief and 
 despair.) 
 (A voice behind, after some noise and bustle of 
 
 preparation has been heard.) 
 Now do*fF his garment, and undo his vest. 
 Fie on it, there ! assist the prisoner. 
 
 Sec. Voice. Let some one hold his hands. 
 • Third Voice. Do ye that office. (^A pause of some 
 length.) 
 Voice again. Heads-man, let fall thy blow, he 
 gives the sign. 
 
 {The aoce is seen lifted up above tlie curtain, 
 and the sound of the stroke is heard.) 
 Thanes, {shrinking involuntarily, and all speak- 
 ing at once.) 
 The stroke of death is given ! 
 
 [The Spearmen let fall the curtain, and tlie 
 body of Ethelbert is discovered upon the 
 ground, with a cloth over it; whilst his head 
 is held up by the Executioner, but seen very 
 indistinctly through the spears and pikes of 
 the surrounding Soldiers. The Thanes 
 start hack and avert their faces. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 3^9 
 
 First. Pr. (coming Jbrward.) 
 Rebellious Thanes, ye see a deed of justice. 
 Here rest ye, and another day of life 
 Enjoy together : at this hour to-morrow 
 We'll visit you, and then, by lot determin'd, 
 Another head must fall. So wills the king. 
 First Th. What words are these ? 
 Second Th. Do thine ears catch their sense? 
 TJiird Th. 1 cannot tell thee ; mine confusedly 
 
 sound. 
 First Pr. (raising his voice louder.) 
 To-morrow at this hour we'll visit you. 
 And here again, selected by the lot. 
 Another head must fall. Till then, farewell ! 
 Another day of life enjoy securely: 
 Much happiness be with you. 
 
 (An involuntary groan bursts from the 
 Thanes, and Hereulf, starting furiously 
 from the ground, clenching his hands in a 
 menacing posture as the Priests and Spear- 
 men, ^c. retire. The scene closes. *) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
 * Should this play ever have the honour of being repre- 
 sented upon any stage, a scene of this kind, in which so 
 many inferior actors would be put into situations requiring 
 the expression of strong passion, might be a disadvantage to 
 it ; I should, therefore, recommend having the front of the 
 stage on which the Thanes are, during the last part of the 
 scene, thrown into deep shade, and the light only to come 
 across the back-ground at the bottom of the stage : this 
 would give to the whole a greater solemnity ; and by this 
 means no expression of countenance, but only that of 
 gesture, would be required of them. 
 
330 ETHWALD : 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. A?i open space on the walLs of the 
 castle. Enter Alwy and Hexulf, talking as 
 they enter 'with violent gesture. 
 
 Hex. (with angry vehemence.^ 
 Escap'd, say'st thou, with all the rebel chiefs ? 
 Hereulf escap'd? th' arch fiend himself hatli 
 
 done it, 
 If what thou say'st be true. — It is impossible. 
 Say'st thou they are escap'd ? 
 Alny. In very truth they are. 
 Hex. Then damned treachery has aided them! 
 Aliiy. Nay, rather say, thy artful cruelty 
 Arm'd them \^ith that which to the weakly frame 
 Lends a nerv'd giant's strength j despair. From 
 
 out 
 The thick and massy wall, now somewhat loose 
 And jagged grown with time, cemented heaps. 
 Which scarce two teams of oxen could have 
 
 mov'd, 
 They've torn, and found a passage to the moat. 
 What did it signify in what dire fonn 
 Death frown'd upon them, so as they had died? 
 Hex. Who can foresee events? As well as 
 thou 
 
A TRAGEDY. 331 
 
 I would that one swift stroke had slain them all 
 Rather than this had been. But Ethelbert 
 And Selred are secured. Was it not Selred 
 Who on the second night our victim fell ? 
 
 Alwy. It was, but better had it been for us 
 Had they been left alive : had they been still 
 In their own castles unmolested left. 
 For like a wounded serpent, who, aloft, 
 The surgy volumes of his mangled length 
 In agony the more terrific rears 
 Against his enemy, this maimed compact 
 Will from thy stroke but the more fiercely rise. 
 Now fiery Hereulf is their daring leader. 
 And what have we to look for ? 
 
 Hea:. Dire, bloody vengeance. — O some 
 damned traitor 
 Hath done this work ! it could not else have 
 been ! 
 Alwy, Well, do thou find him out then, if 
 thou canst. 
 And let thy vengeance fall where lies the sin. 
 Hea:. Doth the king know of this ? 
 Alwy. He doth not yet. 
 Hex. Then must he be informed without delay. 
 Alwy. As quickly as you please, if that you 
 please 
 To take that office on yourself, good father ; 
 But as for me, I must right plainly say 
 I will not venture it : no faith ! of late 
 The frame and temper of king Ethwald's mind 
 Is changed. He ever was in former times 
 
o3^ ETHWALD : 
 
 Cheerful, collected, sanguine ; for all turns 
 Of fate prepar'd, like a fair ample lake, 
 Whose breast receives the azure hue of heaven. 
 And sparkles gaily in the breezy noon : 
 But now, like a swoln flood, whose course has 
 
 been 
 O'er rude opposing rocks and rugged shelves ; 
 Whose turbid waters wear the sullen shade 
 Of dark overhanging banks, and all enchaf'd 
 Round ev*ry little pebble fiercely roars, 
 Boiling in foamy circles, his chafM spirit 
 Can bear th' encounter of no adverse thing 
 To his stern will oppos'd. I may not tell him. 
 
 Hex. Be not so fearful ! art thou not a man 
 Us'd to the sudden turns of great men's humours? 
 Thou best can do it, Alwy. (^Soothingly.') 
 
 Alwy. Nay, father, better will it suit your age 
 And rev'rend state. And he has need, I ween, 
 Of ghostly counsel too : night after night 
 He rises from his tossing sleepless couch, 
 Oft wildly staring round the vacant chamber, 
 As if his fancy peopled the dark void 
 With horrid shapes. The queen hath told me 
 
 this. 
 Come, look to it, for something must be done. 
 
 Hex. I w ill accompany your homeward steps. 
 Whilst we consider of it. [Exeunt* 
 
A TRAGEDY. 333 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A royal apartment^ and a Servant discovered busily 
 employed in lighting it up. Enter to him another 
 Servant. 
 
 Sec, Serv. Wilt thou ne'er finish lighting these 
 grim walls ? 
 Will not those lamps suffice ? 
 First Serv. No, by my faith, we want as many 
 more ; 
 For still, thou see*st, that pillar'd corner's dark, 
 (^Pointing to a gloomy recess on the other 
 side of the stage. ^ 
 Wherein the eye of conscience-scared folks 
 Might fearful things espy. I am commanded 
 To lighten each apartment of this tower 
 To noon-day pitch. 
 Sec. Serv. Ay, Uthbert, these are fearful, bloody 
 times ! 
 Ethwald, God knows, has on his conscience laid 
 A weight of cruel deeds : the executioner 
 Works for him now in the grim holds of death, 
 Instead of armed warriours in the field ; 
 And now men steal abroad in twilight's gloom, 
 To talk of fearful things, not by the blaze 
 Of cheerful fires, in peaceful cottage, heap'd 
 With sparkling faggots from the winter store. 
 First Serv. Ay, thou say'st well ; it is a fearful 
 time ; 
 No marvel Ethwald should not love the dark 
 In which his fancy shapes all fearful things. 
 
334f ETHWALD : 
 
 Sec. Serv. What, dost thou think it is his fancy's 
 shapes 
 He looks upon ? No, no : beUeve me, friend, 
 Niffht and the darkness are inhabited 
 By those who move near neighbours to the living; 
 Close by their very sides, yet unperceiv'd 
 By all, but those whose eyes unveiled are 
 By heavenly power, in mercy or in wrath. 
 Such proofs of this I've heard. — Last night thou 
 
 know'st 
 The royal grooms who near their master sleep. 
 In the adjoining chamber much were scar*d 
 With fearful sounds. 
 
 First Serv. I know it not. — Who was it told it 
 thee ? 
 At midnight was it ? (^Eagerly.) 
 
 Sec. Serv. Yes, come with me to Baldwick, he 
 will tell thee ; . 
 He heard it all : thou wilt return in time 
 To finish, here, thy task. We'll have a horn 
 Of foaming ale, and thou shalt hear it all. 
 Good foaming ale : ay, mercy on us all ! 
 We live in fearful times ! (^Listening.') 
 
 First Serv. (listeiiing also.) What shall I do ? 
 1 hear the king a speaking angrily. 
 And coming hitherward. What shall I do ? 
 Shall I remain and face him ? nay, good faith ! 
 I'll shun the storm : he is engag'd, perchance. 
 Too much to notice my unfinished task. 
 
 [Exeunt hastily. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 335 
 
 Enter Ethwald, talking angrily to a nohleTh^ne. 
 Ethw, Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble Ed- 
 mar, 
 Not reasons ; all our northern troops ere now 
 Might well have been in readiness. 'Tis plain 
 Such backward sloth from disaffection springs. 
 Look to it well : — if with the waining moon. 
 He and his vassals have not joined our standard, 
 I'll hold him as a traitor. 
 
 Thane. My royal Lord, be not so wroth with 
 him, 
 Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion 
 So quickly yield. This is the season still, 
 When unbraced warriours on the rushy floor 
 Stretch them in pleasing sloth ; listening to tales 
 Of ancient crones, or merry harpers' lays. 
 And batt'ning on the housewife's gusty cheer : 
 Spring has not yet so tempered the chill sky 
 That men will change their warm and sheltering 
 
 roofs 
 For its cold canopy. 
 
 Etivw. O foul befall their gluttony and sloth ! 
 Fie on't ! there is no season to the brave 
 For war unfit. With this moon's waining lio-ht, 
 1 will, with those who dare their king to follow 
 My northern march begin. 
 
 Thane. Then, faith, my Lord, 
 I much suspect your army will be small : 
 And what advantage may you well expect 
 From all this haste ? E'en three weeks later, still 
 You will surprise the foe, but ill prepar'd 
 
336 ETHWALD I 
 
 To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king, 
 Listen to friendly counsel, and the while. 
 Within these walls where ev'ry pleasure courts 
 
 you. 
 Like a magnificent and royal king. 
 Your princely home enjoy. 
 
 Ethw. Out on it, man, thou know'st not what 
 thou say*st ! 
 Home hath he none who once becomes a king ! 
 Behind the pillar'd masses of his halls 
 The dagger'd traitor lurks ; his vaulted roofs 
 Do nightly echo to the whisper'd vows 
 Of those who curse him ; at his costly board 
 With grinning smile the damned pois'ner sits ; 
 Yea, e'en the void recesses of his chamber, 
 Void tho' they be unto all eyes but his. 
 Are peopled (^stopping short.) 
 
 Thane» (eagerly.') Good my Lord! what do 
 you mean ? 
 
 Ethw. In the confusion of tumultuous war, 
 'Midst the terrific shouts of closing foes. 
 And trampling steeds, and din of bick'ring arms ; 
 Where dying warriours groan unheard, and things 
 Horrid to nature are as tho' they were not, 
 Unwail'd, unheeded : 
 
 Wliere the rough chance of each contentious day 
 Blots out all irksome mem'ry of the past. 
 All fear of that to follow : where like herds 
 Of savage beasts, on the bleak mountain's side, 
 Drench'd with the rain, the weary warriours lie. 
 Whilst nightly tempests howling o'er their heads 
 Lull them to rest ; there is my home, good Thane. 
 17 
 
A TRAGEDY : 3S>7 
 
 Thane. No marvel, then, my Lord, if to the 
 field 
 You turn your eager thoughts ! I only fear 
 Your royal arms will in Northumberland 
 Find no contention worthy of their force ; 
 For rumour says, the northern prince is gone 
 With his best troops against the Scottish king. 
 Ethw. If this be true, it is unto my fortune 
 Most fair occasion ; master of the north 
 I soon shall be, and on the west again 
 Pour like a torrent big with gather'd strength. 
 Who told thee this ? it breaks upon me, fiiend, 
 Like bright'ning sunbeams thwart a low'ring sky. 
 Thane. A northern villain brought to me the 
 tale. 
 And told with circumstances of good credit. 
 Eth'w. Run thou and find him out ; I'll wait 
 thee here ; 
 I must have more assurance of this matter. 
 Quickly, my worthy Edmar ! [Exit Thane. 
 {Alone.) If that this rumour bears a true re- 
 port, 
 Th' opposing rocks on which my rising tide 
 So long has beat, 'before me now give way. 
 And thro' the breach my onward waves shall roll 
 To the wide limits of tlieir destin'd reach. 
 Full day, altho' tempestuous it may prove. 
 Now breaks on me ! now come the glorious 
 
 height, 
 And the proud front, and the full grasp of power! 
 Fly, gloomy thoughts, and hideous fantasies. 
 Back to the sprites that sent you! England's king 
 
 VOL. II. z 
 
338 ETHWALD : 
 
 Behind him casts the fears of Mercia's lord. 
 The north subdued, then stretching to the west 
 
 My growing strength {^stretching out his arms 
 
 in the vehemence of action^ he turns him- 
 self round, directlij facing the gloomy re- 
 cess on the opposite side of the stage.) 
 Ha! doth some gloomy void still yawn before me, 
 In fearful shade? {Turniiig his eyes away hastily 
 
 from it.) 
 No ; I saw nothing : shall I thus be moved 
 Witli ev*ry murky nook? I'll look again. (Steals 
 a fear fid look to the recess, arid then starting 
 back, turns axcay from it with horrour.) 
 O they're all there again ! and ev'ry phantom 
 Mark'd with its grisly wounds, e'en as before. 
 Ho! who waits there? Hugon! I say, ho, Hugon! 
 Come to me ! quickly come ! 
 
 Enter a Groom of his chamber. 
 Groom. Save you, my royal Lord ! What is 
 your pleasure ? 
 Are you in pain ? Your voice did sound, me- 
 
 thought. 
 With strange unnat'ral strength. 
 Ethw. Bring me lights here. 
 Groom. A hundred lamps would scarce suffice, 
 I ween. 
 To light this spacious chamber. 
 
 Ethw. Then let a thousand do it; must I still 
 In ev'ry shady corner of my house 
 
 See hideous quickly go, and do my bidding. 
 
 Why star'st thou round thee tluis ? dost thou see 
 aught ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 339 
 
 G/'OOW. No, nothing. (^Looking roundfearj nil t/.) 
 Ethw. Thou need' St not look ; 'tis nothing j 
 fancy oft 
 Deceives the eye with strange and flitting things. 
 Regard it not, but quickly bring more lamps. 
 Groom. Nay, good rny Lord, shall I remain 
 with you. 
 And call my fellow ? 
 Etlvx. {angrily.') Do as thou art commanded. 
 
 [Exit Groom. 
 This man perceives the weakness of my mind. 
 Am I, indeed, the warlike king of Mercia ? 
 {Re-enter two Grooms with lamps^ which they 
 place in the recess. Ethwald, not venturing 
 to look on it again till the lights are placed, 
 now turns round to it, and seems relieved.') 
 Ye have done well. {After a pause, in which he 
 walks several times across the stage, stopping 
 short, and seeing the Grooms still there.) 
 Why do ye linger here ? I want ye not. 
 Begone. [Exeunt Grooms. 
 
 But that I would not to those fools 
 Betray the shameful secret of my mind, 
 I fain would call them back. 
 What are these horrours ? 
 A fearful visitation of a time 
 That will o'erpass ? O might I so believe it ! 
 Edmar, methinks, ere this might be return' d : 
 I'll wait for him no more : I'll go myself 
 And meet him. {Going towards the large arched 
 door by which he entered, he starts back 
 from it with horrour.) 
 z 2 
 
34f0 ETHWALD : 
 
 Ha ! they are there again ! 
 E'en in the very door-way do they front me 1 
 Still foremost Ethelbert and Seh'ed tower 
 With their new-sever'd necks, and fix on me 
 Their death-strain*d eye-balls : and behind them 
 
 frowns 
 The murder'd youth, and Oswal's scepter'd 
 
 ghost : 
 Whilst seen, as if half-fading into air. 
 The pale distracted maid shews her faint form. 
 Thrice in tliis very form and order seen 
 They have before me stood. What may it mean? 
 I've heard that shapes like these will to the 
 
 utterance 
 Of human voice give back articulate sound, 
 And, having so adjured been, depart. 
 
 {Stretcldng out both his hands, and clenching 
 them resolutely.') 
 I'll do it, tho' behind them hell should yawn. 
 With all its unveil'd horrours. (^Turning again to 
 
 the door-way tvith awful solemnity.) 
 If ought ye be but flitting fantasies, 
 But empty semblance of the form ye wear ; 
 If aught ye be that can to human voice 
 Real audience give, and a real sense receive 
 Of tliat on which your fix'd and hollow eyes 
 So stern and fix'dly glare ; I do conjure you 
 Depart from me, and come again no more ! 
 From me depart ! Full well those ghastly wounds 
 Have been return' d into this tortur'd breast : 
 O drive me not unto the horrid brink 
 
A TUAGKDY. 341 
 
 Of (lire distraction ! 
 
 J^peak, Ethelbert ! O speak, if voice thou hast ! 
 
 Tell me wliat sacrifice can sooth your spirits j 
 
 Can still the unquiet sleepers of the grave : 
 
 For this most horrid visitation is 
 
 Beyond endurance of tlie boldest mind, 
 
 In flesh and blood enrob'd. — It takes no heed, 
 
 But fix'dly glares upon me as before. 
 
 I speak to empty air : it can be nothing. 
 
 Is it not some delusion of the eyes ? 
 
 {Rubbing his eyes very hardy and rousing 
 himself.^ 
 xlh ! still the hideous semblance is before me, 
 Plain as at first. I cannot suffer this ! 
 
 {Runs to tlie lamps, and taking one in each 
 hand, rushes forward in despair to the door- 
 xvay.) 
 They are all gone ! Before the searching light 
 Resolv'd to nothing ! 
 
 Enter Hexulf and Alwy. 
 
 Ethxv. {turning hastily upon hearing them enter 
 behind him.') 
 Ha ! is it you ? Most happily you come ! 
 Welcome you are, most welcome ! 
 
 Alxvy. Thanks to you, good my Lord! but on 
 my life 
 This holy bishop and myself are come. 
 Unwillingly, with most untoward tidings. 
 
 Ethw. Well, use not many words : what now 
 befalls ? 
 
 z 3 
 
342 ETHWALD : 
 
 Hea^. The rebel Hereulf and his thralled mates 
 Have, with more strength tlian human hands may 
 
 own, 
 For that the holy church 
 
 Eihw. Well, well, what meanest thou ? 
 And what should follow this ? 
 
 Alwy. They've broke their prison walls and 
 are escap'd. 
 
 Ethw. 1 am glad on't ! be it so ! In faith I'm 
 glad! 
 We have shed blood enough. 
 
 Alwy. Nay, but my Lord, unto their towers of 
 strength 
 They will return ; where bruiting abroad 
 Their piteous tale, as 'nighted travellers 
 To the false plainings of some water fiend. 
 All men will turn to them ; nor can your troops 
 In safety now begin their northern march 
 With such fell foes behind them. 
 
 Ethw. (roused.') Ay, thou say'st true ; it is a 
 damned let ! 
 Here falls another rock to bar my way. 
 But I will on ! Come let us instantly 
 Set out, and foil them ere they gather strength. 
 
 Alwy. This would be well, but that within these 
 walls 
 Some of their faithful friends are still confin'd. 
 Who in our absence might disturbance breed. 
 As but a feeble guard can now be spar'd 
 To hold the castle. How shall this be settled? 
 Shall we confine them in the stronger vaults ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 34S 
 
 Kthxi.'. {Jiercdi).') No, no ! I'll have no more 
 imprisonments ! 
 Let them be slain ; yea all : even to a man ! 
 This is no time for weak uncertain deeds. 
 Saw you not Edmar as you hither came ? 
 
 Alwy. We saw him with a stranger much en- 
 gaged, 
 By a faint lamp, near to the eastern tower. 
 Ethxv. Then follow me, and let us find him out. 
 Hea:. We follow you, my Lord. 
 Ethw. (as he is about to go out, turning hastily 
 round to Alwy.) 
 Bear thou a light. 
 
 My house is like a faintly mooned cave, 
 And hateful shadows cross each murky aisle. 
 
 [Exeunt, Alwy bearitig a light. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 The eve7iing : a wood uith a view of Ethwald's 
 castle seen thro' the trees. Enter Hereulf dis- 
 guised like a country hind : enter to him, hy 
 another path, a Thane, disguised also. 
 
 Her. Welcome, my friend! art thou the first to 
 join me ? 
 This as I guess should be th' appointed time : 
 For o'er our heads have passed on homeward 
 
 wing 
 Dark flights of rooks and daws and flocking birds. 
 Wheeling aloft with wild dissonant screams ; 
 And from each hollow glen and river's bed 
 
 z 4 
 
o4i4 ETHWALD : 
 
 The white mist slowly steals in fleecy wreaths 
 Up the dark wooded banks. And yet, methinks, 
 The deeper shades of evening come not after, 
 As they are wont, but day is lengthened out 
 Most strangely. 
 
 Thane. See'st thou those paly streams of shiv'- 
 ring liglit 
 So widely spread along the northern sky? 
 They to the twilight grey that brightness lend 
 At which thou wonderest. Look up, 1 pray thee ! 
 
 Her. {turning and looking up.) 
 What may it mean ? it is a beauteous light. 
 
 Thane. In truth I know not. Many a time 
 have I 
 On hill and heath beheld the changeful face 
 Of awful night ; I've seen the moving stars 
 Shoot rapidly athwart the sombre sky. 
 Red fiery meteors in the welkin blaze. 
 And sheeted lightnings gleam, but ne'er before 
 Saw I a sight like this. It is, belike, 
 Some sign portentous of our coming fate : 
 Had we not better pause and con awhile 
 This daring scene, ere yet it be too late ? 
 
 Her. No, by this brave man's sword! not for an 
 hour 
 Will I the glorious vengeful deed delay, 
 Tho' heaven's high dome were flaming o'er my 
 
 head 
 And earth beneath me shook. If it be aught 
 Portentous, it must come from higher powers : 
 For demons ride but on the lower clouds. 
 
A TRAGEDY. 345 
 
 Or raise their whirlwinds in the nether air. 
 All blessed spirits still must favour tli()se| 
 Who war on virtue's side : therefore, I say, 
 Let us march boldly to the glorious work : 
 It is a sio-n foretelliuijj Ethwald's fall. 
 Now for our valiant friends ; they must be near. 
 Ho ! holla, ho ! 
 
 (Enter, by different paths in the xcood, the 
 other Chiefs, disguised, and gather round 
 Hereulf, he receiving them jojj fully.') 
 Welcome! all welcome! you good Thane, and you, 
 And ev'ry valiant soul, together leagued 
 In this bold enterprise. Well are we met. 
 So far we prosper ; and my glowing heart 
 Tells me our daring shall be nobly crown'd. 
 Now move we cheerly on our way : behold 
 Those frowning towers, where, ere the morning 
 
 watch. 
 That shall be done, for which, e'en in our graves. 
 Full many a gen'rous Mercian, yet unborn. 
 Shall bless our honoured names. 
 
 Chiefs, (speakijig all together.') We follow^ you, 
 
 brave Hereulf. 
 First Chief. Ay, with true heart, or good or ill 
 betide. 
 We'll follow you. 
 
 Her. Come on ! ere this, with fifty chosen 
 men. 
 Our trusty colleague, near the northern gate, 
 Attends our signal. Come, ye gen'rous few ; 
 Ye who have groan'd in the foul dungeon's 
 gloom, 
 
134.6 ETHWALD : 
 
 Whose gen'roLis bosoms have indignant heav'd 
 To see tree men beneath th' oppressor's yoke 
 Like base-born villains pressM ! Now comes the 
 
 honr 
 Of virtuous vengeance : .on our side in secret 
 Beats ev'ry Mercian heart : the tyrant now 
 Trusts not to men : nightly within his chamber 
 The watch-dog guards his couch, the only friend 
 He now dare trust, but shall not guard it long. 
 Follow my steps, and do the gen'rous deeds 
 Of valiant freemen : heaven is on our side. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An open space within the walls of the castle, front- 
 ing one of the gates : the stage darkened, and 
 the sky lighted up with the aurora boreal is, very 
 bright. Enter by opposite sides Two Officers 
 of the castle. 
 
 First Off. Ha ! is it thee, my friend ? 
 Thou'st left thy post, I guess, as well as I, 
 To view this awful sky. Look over head, 
 Where like a mighty dome, from whose bright 
 
 centre 
 Shoot forth those quivering rays of vivid light. 
 Moving with rapid change on every side, 
 Swifter than flitting thought, the heavens appear! 
 Whilst o'er the Avest in paler brightness gleam 
 Full many a widely undulating tide 
 Of silver light ; and the dark low'ring east, 
 Like to a bloody mantle stretched out. 
 
A TRAGEDY. J'17 
 
 Seems to conceal behind its awful shade 
 Some th-ead commotion of the heavenly powers, 
 Soon to break forth — some grand and unknown 
 thing. 
 Second Off. It is an awful sight ! what may it 
 mean ? 
 Doth it not woes and bloody strife foretell? 
 Fve heard my father talk of things like this. — 
 When the king's passing sickness shall be gone, 
 Whicli has detain'd him from his purposed march 
 Against the rebel chiefs, doubt not, my friend, 
 AVe shall have bloody work. 
 
 First Off. Ay, but ere that, mayhap, the man 
 of blood 
 May bleed ; and Mercia from the tyrant's grasp — 
 Second Off. Hush, hush ! thou art unwise : 
 
 some list'ning ear 
 
 First Off. And if there should, what danger ? 
 all men now 
 Harbour such secret thoughts ; and those who 
 
 once 
 His youthful valour lov'd and warlike feats, 
 Now loath his cruelty. I'll tell thee something — 
 {^Drawing nearer him mysteriously.') 
 Second Off. {frightened.) Hush, hush ! 1 will 
 not hear thee ! hold thy tongue ! 
 What will't avail, when on the bloody stake 
 Thy head is fix'd, that all men think as thou dost : 
 And he who fix'd thy cruel doom to-day 
 Shall die to-morrow ? 
 
348 ETHWALD : 
 
 First Off, I'm mute, my friend : and now I 
 plainly see 
 How he may lord it o'er a prostrate land, 
 Who trembles in his iron tower the while, 
 Witli but a surly mastiff for his friend. 
 
 Second Off. Nay, do not speak so loud. What 
 men are these 
 Who pass the gate just now? shall we not stop 
 them ? 
 
 (^Enter some of the leagued Chiefs in disguise 
 through the gate.) 
 First Off. No, do not trouble them. They are, 
 I guess. 
 Some 'nighted rustics frighten'd with the sky, 
 Who seek the shelter of man's habitation. 
 In such an awful hour men crowd together, 
 As gath'ring sea-fowl flock before a storm. 
 With such a welkin blazing o'er our heads, 
 Shall men each other vex ? e'en let them pass. 
 {Enter a crowd of frightened Women and 
 Children.) 
 Second Off. See what a crowd of women this 
 way come. 
 With crying children clinging to their knees, 
 And infants in their arms ! How now, good 
 
 matrons ? 
 AVhere do you run ? 
 
 First Worn. O do not stop us ! to Saint Alban's 
 shrine 
 We run : there will we kneel, and lift our hands, 
 For that his holy goodness may protect us 
 In this most awful hour. 
 19 
 
A TRAGEDY. 349 
 
 Sec. JVom. On, sisters, on ! 
 The fiery welkin rages o'er our lieads, 
 And we are sinfld souls : O quickly move 1 
 
 [Exeunt Women and Cliildren. 
 Sec. Off. I also am, alack ! a sinful soul : 
 I'll follow them and pray for mercy too. 
 
 First Off] I'll to the northern wall, from whence 
 the heavens 
 In full expanse are seen. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Ethwald'5 apartment: he is discovered sitting 
 by his couch, with his elbows resting upon his 
 knees, and supporting his head bet'vceen both his 
 hands ; the Queen standing by him. 
 
 Qu. Why sit you thus, my Lord? it is not well : 
 It wears your strength ; I pray you go to rest. 
 
 (^ pause, and he makes no answer.) 
 These nightly watchings much retard your cure : 
 Be then advis'd ! (A pause, and he still takes no 
 
 notice.) 
 Why are you thus unwilling ? 
 The tower is barr'd, and all things are secure. 
 Ethxv. How goes the hour ? is it the second 
 
 watch ? 
 Qu. No : near the window now, I heard the 
 guard 
 Exchange the word : the first is but half spent. 
 Ethw. And does the fearful night still lie be- 
 fore me 
 In all its hideous lengtli ? (Rising up with emotion.) 
 
3.50 ETHWALD : 
 
 O ye successive terms of gloomy quiet ! 
 Over my mind ye pass, like rolling waves 
 Of dense oppression ; whilst deep underneath 
 Lie all his noble powers and faculties 
 Overwhelmed. If such dark shades must hence- 
 forth cross 
 My checker'd life with still returning horrours, 
 O let me rest in the foul reptile's hole, 
 And take from me the being of a man ! 
 
 Qu. Too much thou givest way to racking 
 thought : 
 Take this : it is a draught by cunning skill 
 Compounded curiously, and strongly charm'd ; 
 With secret virtue fill'd — it soothes the mind. 
 And gives the body rest. (Offermg him a cup.} 
 Ethw. Say'st thou? then in good sooth I need 
 it much. 
 I thank thee too ; thou art a careful wife. 
 
 {Takes the cup, and as he is about to put it 
 to his lips, stops short and looks suspiciously 
 at her.) 
 It has, methinks, a strange unkindly smell. 
 Taste it thyself: dost thou not take my meaning: 
 Do thou first drink of it. 
 
 Qu. I am in health, my Lord, and need it not. 
 Ethw. By the dread powers of darkness thou 
 shalt drink it ! 
 Ay, to the very dregs ! 
 Qu. What, would you cast on me such vile 
 suspicions. 
 And treat a royal princess like your slave ? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 351 
 
 Ethw. And so thou art. Thou rear*st thy stately 
 neck, 
 And whilst I list, thou flarest in men's eyes 
 
 A gorgeous queen ; but unto me thou art 
 
 I do command thee, drink it to the dregs. 
 
 Qu. {subdued, and lifting the cup to her lips.) 
 Then be convinced how wrongfid are thy 
 thoughts. 
 Ethw. (^preventing her.) Forbear, I am too 
 slightly mov'd to anger. 
 I should have known the being of thy state 
 Is all too closely with my fortune link*d. 
 Give me the cup. Thou say'st it soothes the 
 
 mind ? 
 If I, indeed, could rest — (Tastes it.) It tastes not 
 
 well: 
 It is a bitter drug. 
 
 Qu. Then give it me again: I'll hie to Dwina, 
 And get from her that which sl'iall make it sweet. 
 (She walks to the door of another apartment, 
 but as she is about to go out, Ethwald hur- 
 ries after her, a7id catches her by the arm.) 
 Ethw. Thou shalt not go and leave me thus 
 
 alone. 
 Qu. I'll soon return again, and all around thee 
 Is light as noon-day. 
 Ethw. Nay, nay, good wife ! it rises now before 
 me 
 In the full blaze of light. 
 
 Qu. Ha ! what mean'st thou ? 
 Ethw. The faint and shadowy forms, 
 That in obscurity were wont to rise 
 
352 ETHWALD : 
 
 In sad array, are with the darkness fled. 
 But what avails the light? for now since sickness 
 Has press'd upon my soul, in my lone moments, 
 E'en in the full light of my torch-clad walls, 
 A horrid spectre rises to my sight, 
 Close by my side, and plain and palpable, 
 In all good seeming and close circumstance, 
 As man meets man. 
 
 Qii. Mercy upon us! What form does it wear? 
 Ethw. My murder'd brother's form. 
 He stands close by my side : his ghastly head 
 Shakes horridly upon its sever'd neck 
 As if new from the heads-man's stroke; it moves 
 Still as I move ; and when I look upon it, 
 It looks — No, no ! I can no utterance find 
 To tell thee how it looks on me again. 
 
 Qiu Yet, fear not now: I shall not long be ab- 
 sent ; 
 And thou may'st hear my footsteps all the while, 
 It is so short a space. [Exit Queen. 
 
 Ethw. (^returning to the middle of the stage.') 
 I'll fix my stedfast eyes upon the ground. 
 And turn to other things my tutor'd thoughts 
 Intently. (^After pausing for a little while y with his 
 
 clenched hands crossed upon his breast^ 
 
 and his eyes fxed upon the ground.) 
 It may not be : I feel upon my mind 
 The horrid sense that preludes still its coming. 
 Elburga ! ho, Elburga ! (^Putting his haiid before 
 
 his eyeSy and calling out xvith a strong voice 
 
 of fear.) 
 
A TRAGEDY. 353 
 
 Enter Queen in haste. 
 
 Qu. Has't come again ? 
 
 Ethw. No ; but I felt upon my pausing soul 
 The sure and horrid sense of its approach. 
 Hadst tliou not quickly come, it had ere now 
 Been frowning by my side. The cup, the cup. 
 
 (^Drinks eagerly.) 
 
 Qu. Heaven grant thee peace ! 
 Wilt thou not send unto the holy priest, 
 To give thee ghostly comfort ? 
 
 Ethw. {shaking his head.) Away, away! to thee 
 and to thy priests 
 I have, alas ! lent too much heed already. 
 
 Qu. Let not your noble spirit thus be shent ! 
 Still bear good heart ! these charmed drugs full 
 
 soon 
 Will make you strong and vigorous as before ; 
 And in the rough sport of your northern war, 
 You will forget these dreiidful fantasies. 
 
 Ethw. Ay, thou speak*st wisely now : methinks 
 I still, 
 In the embattled field, * midst circling hosts. 
 Could do the high deeds of a warlike king ; 
 And what a glorious field now opens to me ! 
 But, oh! this cursed bar! this ill-timed sickness; 
 It keeps me back ev'n like a bitted steed. 
 But it was ever thus ! What have avail'd 
 My crimes, and cares, and blood, and iron toil ? 
 
 Qu. What have avail'd ! art thou not king of 
 Mercia ? 
 
 VOL. ir. A A 
 
S54^ ETHWALD : 
 
 Ethzv. Ay, ay, Elburga ! 'tis enough for thee 
 To tower in senseless state and be a queen ; 
 But to th' expanded and aspiring soul, 
 To be but still the thing it long has been 
 Is misery, e'en tho' enthron'd it were 
 Under the scope of high imperial state. 
 O, cursed hind'rance 1 blasting fiends breathe on 
 
 me. 
 Putt'st thou not something in thy damned drugs 
 That doth retard my cure ? I might ere this 
 With cased limbs have strode the clanging field. 
 And been myself again. — Hark ! some one comes. 
 
 (Listening mth alarm.) 
 
 Qu. Be not disturbed, it is your faithftil groom, 
 
 Who brings the watch-dog; all things are secure. 
 
 Eth'w. Nay, but I heard the sound of other feet. 
 
 {Running to the door, and pushing in a great bar. ) 
 
 iSay, who art thou without ? 
 
 Voice without. Your groom, my Lord, who 
 
 brings your faithful dog. 
 Ethw. (to Queen.) Didst thou not hear the 
 
 sound of other feet ? 
 Qu. No, only his ; your mind is too suspicious. 
 Ethw. I in his countenance have mark'd of late 
 That which I like not : were this dreary night 
 But once o'ermaster'd, he shall watch no more. 
 (Opens the door suspiciously, and enters an 
 aryned 7nan, leading in a great watch-dog : 
 the door is shut again hastily, and the bar is 
 replaced.') 
 (To the dog.) Come, rough and surly friend ! 
 '^hou only dost remain on whom my mind 
 
A TRAGEDY'. 355 
 
 Can surely trust. I'll have more dogs so train'd. 
 
 (Lookhig steel fasthj at the Groom.) 
 
 Thy face is pale : thou hast a haggard look : 
 
 Where hast thou been? (seizbig him by the neck.) 
 
 Answer me quickly! Say, where hast thou been? 
 
 Gr. Looking upon the broad and fearful sky. 
 
 Qu. What say St thou ? 
 
 Gr. The heavens are all a flaming o*er our 
 heads, 
 And fiery spears are shiv'ring thro' the air. 
 Ethw. Hast thou seen this ? 
 Gr. Ay, by our holy saint ! 
 Qu. It is some prodigy, dark and portentous. 
 Gr. A red and bloody mantle seems out- 
 stretch'd 
 
 O'er the wide welkin, and 
 
 Ethw. Peace, damned fool ! 
 Tell me no more : be to thy post withdrawn. 
 (Exit Groom by a small side-doory leading 
 the dog with him.) 
 Ethw. (to himselfy after musing for some time.') 
 Heaven warring o'er my head ! there is in this 
 Some fearful thing betoken' d. 
 If that, in truth, the awful term is come. 
 The fearful bound'ry of my mortal reach. 
 O'er which I must into those regions pass 
 Of horror and despair, to take my place 
 With those who do their blood-earn'd crowns ex- 
 change 
 For ruddy circles of devouring fire ; 
 Where hopeless woe and gnashing agony 
 A A "-^ 
 
556 ETHWALD : 
 
 Writhe in the dens of torment ; where things be 
 Yet never imaged in the thoughts of man, 
 
 Dark, horrible, unknown 
 
 I'll mantle o'er my head, and think no more. 
 (Covers his head with his cloak ^ and sinks doxvn 
 upon the couch,) 
 
 Qu. Nay, rather stretch you on the fleecy bed. 
 
 Ethw. Rest, if thou canst, 1 do not hinder thee. 
 
 Qu. Then truly I will lean my head a while. 
 I am o'erspent and weary. (Leans on the couch,') 
 
 Ethxv. (Jiastily uncovering his face.) 
 
 Thou must not sleep : watch with me and be silent: 
 
 It is an awful hour ! (A long pause ^ then Ethwald 
 
 starting up from tlie couch with alarm.) 
 
 I hear strange sounds ascend the winding stairs. 
 
 Qic. I hear them too. 
 
 Ethw. Ha ! dost thou also hear it ? 
 Then it is real, {listening.) I hear the clash of arms. 
 Ho, guard ! come forth. 
 
 Re-enter Groom. 
 Go, rouse my faithful dog : 
 Dark treason is upon us. 
 
 Gr. (disappears^ and theti re-entering.) 
 He sleeps so sound, my Lord, I cannot rouse 
 him. 
 Ethw. Then, villain, Vm betray'd ! thou hast 
 betray'd me ! 
 But set thy brawny strength against that door. 
 And bar them out : if thou but seem'st to flinch, 
 This sword is in thy heart. 
 
 (A noise of armed men is now heard at the 
 door, endeavouring to break it open, whilst 
 1? 
 
A TRAGEDY. 357 
 
 Kth waltl and the Groom set their shoulders 
 to it to prevent them. Enter Dwina hastily 
 Jrom an inner apartment^ and with the 
 Queen assists inputting their strength also 
 to the door^ as the force xvithout increases. 
 The door is at last broken open, and 
 Hereulf, mth the Rebel Chiefs, hurst in 
 sword in hand. 
 Her. (to Ethwald.) 
 Now, thou fell ruthless lion, that hast made 
 With bloody rage thy native forest waste ! . 
 The spearmen are upon thee ! to the strife 
 Turn thy rough breast: thou canst no more 
 escape. 
 Ethw. Quick to thy villain's work, thou wordy 
 coward, 
 Who in the sick man's chamber seek'st the fame 
 Thou dar'st not in th' embattled field attain ! 
 I am prepar'd to front thee and thy mates, 
 Were ye twice number'd o*er. (Sets his back to a 
 pillar^ and puts himself into a posture of 
 defence.') 
 Her. The sick man's chamber! darest thou, 
 indeed. 
 Begrimed as thou art with blood and crimes 
 'Gainst man committed, human rights assume ? 
 Thou art a hideous and envenom'd snake. 
 Whose wounded length, even in his noisome hole, 
 Men fiercely hunt, for love of human kind ; 
 And, wert thou scotch'd to the last ring of life. 
 E'en that poor remnant of thy curs'd existence 
 ♦Should be trod out i' th' dust. 
 A A 3 
 
3^S ETHWALD : 
 
 Etliw. Come on, thou boasting tool ! give tfiy 
 sword work, 
 And spare thy cursed tongue. 
 
 Her. Ay, surely will I ! 
 It is the sword of noble Ethelbert ; 
 Its master's blood weighs down its heavy strokes; 
 His unseen hand directs them. 
 
 {They fight: Ethwald defends himself fu- 
 riously, hut at last falls, and the Cofispir- 
 ators raise a loud shout.) 
 First Ch. Bless heaven, the work is done ! 
 Sec. Ch. Now Mercia is revenged, and free- 
 born men 
 May rest their toil'd limbs in their peaceful 
 homes. 
 Third Ch. {going nearer the body.) 
 Ha ! does he groan ? 
 
 Sec. Ch. No, he dies sullenly, and to the wall 
 Turns his writh'd form and death-distorted visage* 
 {A solemn pause, whilst Ethwald, after some 
 convulsive motions, empires.) 
 Her. Now hath his loaded soul gone to its place, 
 And ne'er a pitying voice from all his kind 
 Cries, " God have mercy on him !" 
 
 Third Ch. I've vow'd to dip my weapon in his 
 
 blood. 
 First Ch. And so have I. (Several of them ad- 
 vancing mth their swords towards the body, 
 a Young Man steps forth, and stretches out 
 his arm to keep them off.) 
 Young Man, My father in the British wars 
 was seiz'd 
 
A TRAGKOY. .).5(? 
 
 A British prisoner, and with all he had 
 
 Unto a Mercian chief by lot consigned : 
 
 Mine aged grandsire, lowly at his feet, 
 
 Rent his grey hair : Ethwald, a youthful warriour, 
 
 Receiv'd the old man's pray'r and set him free; 
 
 Yea, even to the last heifer of his herds 
 
 Restored his wealth. 
 
 For this good deed, do not insult the fallen. 
 
 He was not ruthless once. 
 
 (They all draw hack ^ and 7^ettre from the body. 
 The Queen, x<cho has^ during thejighty ^c. 
 remained at a distance ^ agitated with terr our 
 and siispe?isej now comes forward to He- 
 vevA^with the air of one who supplicates for 
 mercy y and Dwina, following close behind 
 her y falls upon her knees^ as if to beseech 
 him in favour ofJier mistress.) 
 Qu. If thou of good king Oswal, thine old 
 master, 
 
 Aught of rememb'rance hast, 
 
 Her, I do remember : 
 And deeply grieve to think a child of his 
 Has so belied her mild and gentle stock. 
 Nothing hast thou to fear : in some safe place, 
 In holy privacy, may'st thou repent 
 The evil thou hast done : for know, proud dame. 
 Thou art beneath our vengeance. 
 But as for thine advisers, that dark villain, 
 The artful Alwy, and that impious man, 
 Who does dishonour to his sacred garb. 
 Their crimes have earn'd for them a bitter meed, 
 And they shall have it. 
 
 A A 4 
 
360 ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Sec Ch. Shall we not now the slumbering Mer- 
 cians rouse. 
 And tell our countrymen that they are free 
 From the oppressor's yoke ? 
 
 Her. Yes, thou say'st well : thro' all the vexed 
 land 
 Let every heart bound at the joyful tidings ! 
 Thus from his frowning height the tyrant falls 
 Like a dark mountain, whose interior fires, 
 Raging in ceaseless tumult, have devoured 
 Its own foundations. Sunk in sudden ruin 
 To the tremendous gulph, in the vast void 
 No friendly rock rears its opposing head 
 To stay the dreadful crash. 
 The joyful hinds, with grave and chasten'd joy. 
 Point to the traveller the hollow vale 
 Where once it stood, and the now-sunned cots. 
 Where, near its base, they and their little ones 
 Dwelt trembling in its deep and fearful shade. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE 
 
 SECOND MARRIAGE 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 JN FIVE ACTS. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 Seabright. 
 
 Beaumont, a 'worthy clergyman, who is hisjriend 
 
 and his hrother-in-law. 
 Lord Allcrest. 
 Sir Crafty Supplecoat. 
 Plausible, a schemer. 
 Prowler, his knavish follower. 
 William Beaumont, son to Beaumont. 
 Morgan, uncle to Seabright*5^r5^ wife. 
 Robert. 
 
 Gardener, Sharp, and Servants, ^x, 
 
 WOMEN: 
 
 Lady Sarah, sister to Lord Allcrest. 
 Sophia, daughter to Seabright. 
 Mrs. Beaumont. 
 Pry, Lady Sarah'5 woman. 
 
 Landlady, Servants, 8^c. 
 
 Scene: Seabright'^ house in the country y not Jar 
 from London, and a small country Inn 7iear it. 
 
THE 
 
 SECOND MARRIAGE 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE 1. A garden: the Gardener discovered 
 at work amofigst some shrubs andjiowers. Enter 
 Robert hastily, calling to him as he enters, 
 
 Robert. 
 
 Stop, stop, Gardener ! What are you about 
 there? My mistress's rose-trees rooted out of 
 her favourite nook thus i Get out of this spot 
 with your cursed wheel-barrow ! If there were 
 one spark of a Christian in your heart, you would 
 pluck the last hair off your bare scalp rather than 
 root out these shrubs. 
 
 Gar. Softly and civilly, Master Robert ; and 
 answer me one question first. — If I intend to re- 
 main gardener in this family, and make my pot 
 boil and my family thrive as I have done, whether 
 will it be wiser in me, do you think, to obey your 
 orders or my master's ? 
 
S64f THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Bob. And did he order you to do this? 
 
 Gar, As sure as I hold this spade in my hand. 
 
 Rob. I should as soon have thought of tearing 
 the turf from my mother's grave as of doing this 
 thing. Well, well j perhaps he has forgot that she 
 liked them. 
 
 Gar. Now I rather think he remember'd, when 
 he gave me the orders, that another lady likes 
 them not ; and a dead woman's fancy match'd 
 against a living woman's freak, with a middle- 
 aged widower, hear ye me, who has just pull'd 
 the black coat off his back, has but a sorry chance, 
 Robert. 
 
 Bob. Ay, and he has pull'd the black coat too 
 soon off his back. But away with it ! — I'll think 
 no more of what you say — it is impossible. 
 
 Gar. May 1 never handle a spade again, if she 
 did not squint to this direct spot, with her horrid- 
 looking grey eyes, the last time she walked thro* 
 the garden, saying it was a mass of confusion that 
 ought to be cleared away, and he gave me the or- 
 ders for doing it the very next morning. 
 
 Bob. Who could have believed this? Who 
 could have believed this but a few months ago, 
 when she rambled thro' these walks, with all her 
 white frock'd train gamboling round her ? 
 
 Gar. Nay, good Robert, don't be so down o'the 
 mouth about it : the loss of his wife, and an un- 
 look'd-for legacy of twenty thousand pounds, may 
 set a man's brains a working upon new plans. 
 There is nothing very wonderful in that, man. 
 He'll get his lady-wife and the borough together. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 365 
 
 with a power of high relations, you know, and 
 we shall all be fine folks by and bye. — Thou wilt 
 become master-butler or gentleman-valet, or 
 something of that kind, and I shall be head gar- 
 dener, to be sure, with a man or two to obey my 
 orders : we shan't be the same pains-taking folks 
 that we have been, I warrant you, when he is a 
 parliament man. 
 
 Rob. Thou'rt always looking after something 
 for thine own advantage, and that puts all those 
 foolish notions into thy noddle. No, no ; he has 
 lived too sweetly in his own quiet home, amongst 
 the rustling of his own trees and the prattling 
 of his own infants, to go now into the midst of 
 all that shuffling and changing and making of 
 speeches. He'll never become a parliament 
 man. 
 
 Gar. Well, then, let him marry Lady Sarah for 
 love, if he please ; I'll neither make nor meddle in 
 the matter. If she keep a good house, and give 
 good victuals and drink to the people in it, I'U 
 never trouble my head about it. 
 
 Rob. Out upon thee, man, with thy victuals 
 and thy drink ! Thou'rt worser than a hog. Well 
 should I like, if it were not for the sake of better 
 folks than thyself, to see thy greedy chaps exer- 
 cised upon her feeding. 
 
 Gar. What, is she niggardly then, and so fine 
 a lady, too ? 
 
 Rob. Niggardly ! she'll pull off her wide hoop, 
 and all them there flounces that people go to court 
 in, to search over the house for the value of a 
 
S66 THE SECOND MARRIAGE *. 
 
 candle's end, rather than any of the poor devils 
 belonging to her should wrong her of a doit*s 
 worth. Thou'lt have rare feeding, truly, when she 
 comes amongst us. 
 
 Gar. Heaven forbid it, then! No wonder thou'rt 
 anxious she should not come here. I always won- 
 der'd what made thee so concerned about it. 
 
 Rob. And dost thou think, swine that thou art, 
 I am concernM for it upon this account ? Thou 
 deservest to be fed on husks and garbage all thy 
 life for having such a thought. 1, who was the 
 friend, I may say the relation, of my good mistress 
 (for thou knowest I am her foster-brother); and 
 when I look upon her poor children playing about, 
 I feel as tho' they were my own flesh and blood. 
 It is not that I boast of the connection : God 
 knows I am as humble as any body ! 
 
 Gar. Ay, no doubt ; and a rare good thing it is, 
 this same humility. I know a poor ass, grazing 
 on the common, not far off, that, to my certain 
 knowledge, is foster-brother to a very great lord, 
 and yet, I must say that for him, I never saw him 
 prick up his ears or even shake his tail one bit the 
 more for it in my life. By my certies! he must 
 be a very meek and sober-minded ass ! 
 
 (Singing and gathering up his tools, S^c.) 
 
 Take this in your hand for me, man ; I'm 
 going to another part of the garden. 
 
 {Holding out something Jbr Robert to carry.) 
 
 Rob. (^pushing away his hand angrily.) Take 
 care of it yourself, fool : you would sing, tho' 
 your father were upon the gallows. 
 
A COMEDY. S()y 
 
 Gar, I crave your worship's pardon ! I shoiiM 
 have whined a little, to be sure, to have been better 
 company to you. {Looking off the stage.) But here 
 comes a good man who frowns upon nobody; the 
 worthy rector of Easterdown : Pll go and bid him 
 welcome ; for he likes to see a poor fellow hold 
 up his head before him, and speak to him like a 
 man. 
 
 Rob. You bid him welcome, indeed! stand out 
 of the way : I'll bid him welcome myself. He 
 
 is as good as my own No matter what. He 
 
 is married to my good mistress's sister; ay, and 
 his own father christen'd me, too. I'm glad he 
 is come. You go to him indeed ! 
 
 Enter Mr. Beaumont. 
 
 O Sir ! you're welcome to this sad place. 
 
 Bea. I thank you, honest Robert; how do you 
 do? 
 
 Rob. So, so ; I'm obliged to you for the favour 
 of asking. Woe is me, Sir ! but this be a sad place 
 since you came last among us. 
 
 Bea. A sad change, indeed, my good friend, 
 and you seem to have felt it too. You look thin 
 and alter'd, Robert. 
 
 Rob. I ha'n't been very merry of late, and that 
 
 makes a body look (passing his hand ac7^oss 
 
 his eyes.) 
 
 Bea, (shaking his head.) Ay, what must thy 
 poor master be, then, since it is even so with thee ? 
 Poor man, it grieved me to think that I could 
 not be with him on the first shock of his distress. 
 
S6S THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 
 
 but illness and business of importance made it 
 impossible for me to leave Yorkshire. How does 
 he do ? I hope you look cheerfully before him, 
 and do all that you can to comfort him. 
 
 Rob. Indeed I should have been very glad, in 
 my liomely way, to have done what I could to 
 comfort him ; but, I don't know how it is, he gets 
 on main well without, Sir. 
 
 Bea. (surprised.) Does he? — Pm very glad 
 to hear it. I love him for that, now : it is a 
 noble exertion in him ; he has a great merit in 
 it, truly. 
 
 Rob. Humph, humph, (a pause.) 
 
 Bea. What were you going to say, my good 
 Robert ? 
 
 Rob. Nothing, Sir; I was only clearing my 
 throat. 
 
 Bea. How does he sleep, Robert? 
 
 Rob. I can't say. Sir, not being present when 
 he's a-bed, you know. 
 
 Bea. How does he eat, then ? Little rest and little 
 food must, I fear, have brought him very low. 
 
 Rob. Nay, as for the matter of his eating, I 
 can't say but I find as good a notch made in the 
 leg of mutton, when he dines alone, as there used 
 to be. 
 
 Bea. Well, that's good. But I fear he is too 
 much alone. 
 
 Rob. No, Sir ; he has dined out a pretty deal 
 of late. He does, indeed, walk up and down the 
 shady walk by the orchard, and talk to himself, 
 often enough. 
 
, A COMEDY. 369 
 
 Bea. (^alarmed.) Does he ? that is a sign of 
 the deepest sorrow : I must speak to him ; 1 
 must put books into his hands. 
 
 Rob. O, Sir, there's no need of that ; he has 
 a book in his hand often enoughs 
 
 Bea. And wliat kind of books does he read ? 
 
 Rob. Nay, it is always the same one. 
 
 Bea. Weil, he can't do better : there is but 
 one book in the world that can't be too often in 
 a man's hand. 
 
 Rob, Very true, Sir; but it is not that one tho'. 
 I thought as you do myself, and so 1 slyly looked 
 over his shoulder one morning to be sure of it ; 
 but I saw nothing in it but all about the great 
 people at court, and the great offices they hold. 
 
 Bea. You astonish me, Robert. His heavy 
 loss I fear has bewildered his wits. Poor man ! 
 poor man ! and all the sweet children too ! 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir, they — will feel — 
 
 Bea. What would you say, my friend ? 
 
 Rob. Nothing, Sir. This vile neckcloth takes 
 me so tight round the throat, an' a plague to 
 it! 
 
 Gar. {coming forward mth a Woad grin.^ God 
 bless you, Sir ! I be glad to see you here. How 
 does your good lady and master William do ? 
 He is grown a tine young gentleman now, I war- 
 rant : he, he, he, he, he ! 
 
 Rob. {to Gar. angrily.) Can't you ask a gentle- 
 man how he does, fool, without putting that 
 damned grin upon your face ? 
 
 VOL. II. B B 
 
370 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Bea. Why, my friend Robert, what words are 
 these you make use of? 
 
 Rob. True, Sir, 1 should not have used them : 
 but when a body is vexed he'll be angry, and 
 when a body is angry, good sooth ! he'll e'en 
 bolt out with the first word that comes to him, 
 though he were a saint. 
 
 Bea. Too true, Robert ; but long before a 
 body becomes a saint, he is very seldom vexed, 
 and still seldomer angry at any thing. 
 
 Rob. God bless you. Sir, I know very well I 
 a'n't so good as I should be, and I wish from my 
 heart I was better. 
 
 Bea. Give me your hand, honest Robert ; you 
 will soon be better if you wish to be so, and it is 
 a very pleasant progress when once it is fairly 
 begun. {Looking off the stage.) I think I see 
 your master at a distance. Good day to you ! 
 good day to you, Gardener. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 t> 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Parlour, ivilh a door opening into the garden. 
 SeabrIght and Beaumont are seen walking 
 together in the garden. Bea. talking to Sea. 
 as they enter. 
 
 Bea. (continuing to talk.') I must, indeed, con- 
 fess, my dear friend, you had every tiling that 
 this world can bestow ; a moderate fortune, with 
 health to enjoy it ; the decent, modest tranquil- 
 lity of })rivatc life, and the blessings of domestic 
 harmony. I must, indeed, confess you were a 
 
A COMEDY. 371 
 
 happy man. (Pauses, and looks at Sea., who sa/js 
 7ioth'mg.) Your measure of good things was 
 complete ; it was impossible to add to it ; there 
 was no more for you to desire on this side of 
 heaven. (Pauses again.') 
 
 Sea. (answering very tardily.) I had, indeed, 
 many of the comforts of life. 
 
 Bea. Many of the comforts of life ! you had 
 every thing the heart of man can desire : and, 
 pardon me, you could afford to lose part of your 
 felicity, dear as that part might be, and still re- 
 tain enough to make life worth the clierishing. 
 To watch over your rising family ; to mark the 
 hopeful progress of their minds ; to foster every 
 good disposition and discourage every bad one 
 found there : this, my friend, is a noble, an in- 
 vigorating task, most worthy of a man. 
 
 Sea. It is certainly the duty of every man to 
 attend to the education of his children ; their 
 fortunes in the world depend upon it. 
 
 Bea. (looking displeased at him.) Poo ! their 
 fortunes in that world from which this will ap- 
 pear but like a nest of worms, a hole for grubs 
 and chrysalises, that world which is our higli and 
 native home, depend upon it. ( Walking up and 
 down disturbed, and then returning to Sea. with 
 a self-upbraiding look.) Forgive me, Seabright ; 
 you know I am sometimes thus, but my spark is 
 soon extinguished. I am glad — I ought to be 
 glad to see you so composed. It is a noble con- 
 quest you have gained over your feelings, and 
 what must it not have cost you ! Give me youi* 
 B B 2 
 
372 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 hand, and be not thus constrained with me : I 
 know the weakness of human nature, and dearly 
 do I sympathise with you. 
 
 Sea. You are very kind, my friend ; but you 
 
 have travelled far, you must want refreshment ; 
 
 let me order something. {Going to the door and 
 
 calling a Servant, to whom he gives orders.) 
 
 Bea. (aside.) Well, there is something here I 
 don't understand. But I am wrong, perhaps : 
 some people can't bear to have the subject of 
 their sorrow touched upon : I'll talk to him of 
 other things. (Aloud to Sea. as he returns fr^om 
 the door.) Your old acquaintance, Asby of Glou- 
 cestershire, called upon me a day or two before 
 I left home, and enquired kindly after you. He 
 is a very rich man now ; he has purchased the 
 great estate of Carriswood, near his native place, 
 and is high sheritf of the county. 
 
 Sea. (becojuing suddenly animated.) What, 
 Asby ? my old school-fellow Asby ? that is a great 
 rise, by my soul ! The estate of Carriswood, and 
 high sheriff of the county ! What interest has 
 pushed him? what connexions has he made? has 
 he speculated with his money ? how has he ad- 
 vanced himself? 
 
 Bea. I can't very well tell you : he has gone 
 on, like many others, turning, and scraping, and 
 begging j and managing great people's matters 
 for them, till he has become one of the most con- 
 siderable men in that part of the country. 
 
 Sea. He must be a clever fellow. We used 
 to think him stupid at school j but we have been 
 dev'lishly deceived. 
 
A COMEDY. 'ijS 
 
 Bca. No, you have not, for he is stupid still. 
 His brother, the poor curate of Crofton, is a 
 clever man. 
 
 Sea. (contemptuously.) The poor curate of Crof- 
 ton! one of those clever men, I suppose, who sit 
 with their shoes down o* the heel, by their own 
 study fire, brooding o'er their own hoard of ideas, 
 without ever being able from their parts or their 
 learning to produce one atom's worth of good to 
 themselves or their families. I have known many 
 such : but let me see a man, who from narrow and 
 unfavourable beginnings, shapes out his own way 
 in this changing world to wealth and distinction, 
 and, by my faith ! he will be wise enough for me. 
 
 Bea. My friend, you become animated : 1 am 
 happy to see you so much interested in the for- 
 tune of others ; it is a ble^ed disposition. I have 
 something also to tell you of your old friend Mal- 
 ton, which I am sure will give you pleasure. 
 
 Sea. What, he has got a fortune too, I sup- 
 pose, and is standing for the county. 
 
 Bea. No; somethingbetter than that, my friend. 
 
 Sea. Ha! well, some people get on amazingly. 
 
 Bea. It is amazing, indeed, for it was altoge- 
 ther hopeless. You remember his only son, the 
 poor little boy that was so lame and so sickly ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, I do. 
 
 Bea. Well, from some application, which I 
 cannot remember at present, the sinews of his leg 
 have recovered their proper tone again, and he 
 is growing up as healthy a comely-looking lad as 
 you can see. 
 
 IJ B 3 
 
374 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Sea. O, that is what you meant : I am glad 
 to hear it, certainly ; a cripple in a family is not 
 easily provided for. But pray now, let me un- 
 derstand this matter more perfectly. 
 
 Bea. I tell you I have forgot how they treated 
 the leg, but — 
 
 Sea. {impatiently.') No, no, no ! What rela- 
 tions, what connexions had Ashy to push him ? 
 A man can't get on without some assistance. 
 His family, I always understood, was low and 
 distressed. 
 
 Bea. He had two or three ways of getting 
 on, which I would not advise any friend of 
 mine to follow him in ; and the worst of them 
 all was making what is called a convenient mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Sea. {affecting to laugh.') Ha, ha, ha ! you are 
 severe, Beaumont. Many a respectable man has 
 suffered interest to determine even his choice of 
 a wife. Riches and honours must have their 
 price paid for them. 
 
 Bea. Trash and dirt ! I would not have a 
 disagreeable vixen to tyrannise over my family 
 for the honours of a peerage. 
 
 Sea. Well, well, people think differently upon 
 most subjects. 
 
 Bea. They do indeed ; and it is not every 
 one who thinks so delicately, and has so much 
 reason to do so, upon this subject, as we have, 
 my dear Seabright. Our wives — 
 
 Sea. {i?iterriq)ti?ig hiyn hastily.) And he comes 
 in for the county, you say ? 
 
A COMEDY. 375 
 
 Bca. No, no, Seabright ; you mistake me ; 
 high slieriff of the county, I said. How you do 
 interest yourself in the fortunes of this man ! 
 
 Sea. And what should surprise you in this ? 
 By heaven there is nothing so interesting to me 
 as to trace the course of a prosperous man thro* 
 this varied world ! First he is seen like a little 
 stream, wearing its shallow bed through the grass; 
 circling and winding, and gleaning up its trea- 
 sures from every twinkling rill as it passes : far- 
 ther on, the brown sand fences its margin, the 
 dark rushes thicken on its side : farther on still, 
 the broad flags shake their green ranks, the wil- 
 lows bend their wide boughs o'er its course : and 
 yonder, at last, the fair river appears, spreading 
 its bright waves to the light ! 
 
 Bea. (^staring strangely on hiniy then turning 
 away some paces, and shaking Ids head ruefully.) 
 Poor man ! poor man ! his intellects are derang- 
 ed : he is not in his senses. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Sea. (to Sen) Very well. (To Bea.) Let us go 
 
 to the breakfast-room, Beaumont, and you'll find 
 
 something prepared for you. (As they are about 
 
 to go out, the children appear at a distance 
 
 in the garden.) 
 
 Bea. (looking out.) Ha ! yonder are the chil- 
 dren : blessings on them ! I must run and speak 
 to them first. [Exit into the garden to the childreii.. 
 
 Sea. {to himself] looking contemptuously after 
 Bea.) Ay, go to the children! thou art only fit 
 
 B B 4 
 
376 THE SECOND MARRIAGE! 
 
 company for them ! To come here with his com- 
 fort and his condolence full eight months and a 
 half after her death — he is a mere simpleton ! 
 His wonderful delicacy too about interested mar- 
 riages ! — he is worse than a simpleton ! And my 
 only business now, forsooth, must be to stay at 
 home and become schoolmaster to my own chil- 
 dren ! He is an absolute fool. {Turning round 
 and seeing the Servant still standing at the door.) 
 Have you enquired at the village whicli of the 
 inns my Lord Lubberford stops at on his way to 
 town ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, Sir ; but they don't know. 
 
 Sea. But they must know. Go, and make far- 
 ther enquiries, for I must pay my respects to his 
 Lordship as he passes. Were the fruit and the 
 iiowers carried to Lady Sarah this morning ? 
 
 Ser» I don't know, Sir. 
 
 Sea. Run to the gardener, and put liim in 
 mind of it. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Library. Enter Seabright, who walks several 
 times sloxvly across the stage, as if deeply en- 
 gaged in his own mind; then stops short with a 
 considerable pause. 
 
 Sea. I am now upon the threshold of distinc- 
 tion, and with one step more I cross it. On this 
 side lies spiritless obscurity; on that, invigorating 
 honou]-. (Pauses.) Member of Parliament! there 
 is magic in the words, and of most powerful opera- 
 tion. Let that man find a place elsewhere; why 
 should I squeeze myself and everybody round me 
 
A COMEDY. 577 
 
 to make room for him ? Sir, he's a Member of 
 Parhament. — Let that fool hold liis tongue there; 
 why do we silently listen to all his prosing stuff? 
 Sir, he's a Member of Parliament. — What! bells 
 ringing, children huzzaing, corporation men 
 sweating at this rate, to welcome tliat poor lurk- 
 ing creature to your town ? To be sure ; he's a 
 Member of Parliament. — Ay, so it is. I too 
 have mixed with the ignoble crowd to stare upon 
 men thus honoured. I have only now to over- 
 step the bounds, and be myself the very thing I 
 gazed at. {Pausing again.) There is, indeed, a 
 toll, a price of entrance that must be paid, and 
 my heart stands back from it ; but there is no 
 other way than this, and what I would wear I 
 must purchase. O, it is well worth its price ! To 
 be but known and named as filling such a place 
 in society brings pleasure with it. And in the 
 eyes of our early friends too. — Methinks I can see 
 at this moment every curious face in my native 
 village gathering about the letter-boy as he sets 
 out upon his rounds, to look with grinning admir- 
 ation upon my first franks. " Free, Seabright;" 
 ha, ha, ha! {Laughing to himself, and rubbing his 
 hands together with great complacency.') 
 Enter Robert. 
 
 Sea. {turning round shortly^ like one ivho is 
 caught.) What brings you here, sirrah ? 
 
 Mob. You desired me to tell you, Sir, when" 
 Miss Seabright returned from her walk. 
 
 Sea. {with his countenance changed.) And is 
 she so soon returned ? 
 
378 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; and I have told her you wish 
 to speak with her. 
 
 Sea. You have told lier — I wish — I looked 
 not for her so soon — I wish you had not — 
 
 Roh. Sir! 
 
 Sea. Begone, begone ! and say I am waiting 
 for her. (Exit Rob. stealing a look of observation 
 at his master as he goes out.) — Ah ! here comes 
 the hard pull ! here comes the sticking-place ! I 
 should have prepared lier for this before, but my 
 heart would not suffer me. O that I had em- 
 ployed some one else to tell her ! She little 
 thinks of this ! I hear her coming. {Listenmg, 
 •while children* s voices are heard 'without.') What! 
 she is bringing the children with her! I hear the 
 little one prating as he goes. O God ! I cannot 
 — I cannot ! 
 
 [Exit, imnning out with much agitation. 
 
 Enter Sophia, carrying a little Boy on her back, 
 
 and an elder Boy and Girl takhig hold of her 
 
 gown. 
 
 Soph, (to the little one.) You have had a fine 
 ride, and a long ride, have you not? 
 
 Little One. Yesh, tit. 
 
 Soph. Come down then, boy, for your horse 
 is tired. 
 
 Little One. No, tit. 
 
 Soph. No, tit ! but you must tho\ (Setting 
 ■ him down.) Stand upon your fat legs there, and 
 tell me what I'm to have for all this trouble of 
 carrying you. What am I to have, urchin ? 
 
 Little One. Kish. 
 
A COMEDY. 379 
 
 Soph, (qflcr kissmg him q/Jectionateljj.) And 
 what am I to have for these comfits I have saved 
 for you ? 
 
 Little One. Kish. 
 
 So2)h. (Jdssing him again.) And what am I to 
 have for the Httle dog I bouglit lor you this 
 morning ? 
 
 Little One, Kish. 
 
 JSoph. What! kish again ? kish for every tiling? 
 
 (Kissing him very tenderlij.) O you Uttle rogue ! 
 
 you might buy the wliole world for such money 
 
 as this, if every body loved you as I do. Now, 
 
 children, papa is not ready to see us yet, I find ; 
 
 so in the mean time I'll divide the little cake I 
 
 promised you. (Taking a little cake from her 
 
 work-bag, and dividing it ; whilst Robert, 
 
 peeping in at the door, and seeing Scab right 
 
 not there, ventures in, and stands Jor a little 
 
 while looking tenderly upon Soph, and the 
 
 ■ children,) 
 
 Rob, God bless all your sweet faces ! 
 
 Soph, What do you w^ant here, good Robert ? 
 
 Rob, Nothing — nothing. God bless you all, 
 
 my pretty ones 1 (Listening.) I hear him coming. 
 
 [Exit, looking piteously upon them as he goes off. 
 
 Soph. I hear papa coming. 
 
 Little Girl. I'll run and meet him. 
 
 Eldest Boy. Don't, Emma; he does not like 
 to play with us now ; it is troublesome to him. 
 
 Little Girl. When mama was alive he play'd 
 with us. 
 
 Soph, Hush ! my good girl. 
 
380 THE SECOND MARRIaGE I 
 
 Enter Seabright. 
 We have been waiting for you, papa ; Robert 
 told us you wanted to see us all together. 
 
 Sea. Did Robert tell you so ? I wanted to 
 see you alone, Sophia ; but since it is so, the 
 others may remain. I have got something to 
 say to you. 
 
 Soph. You look very grave, my dear Sir : have 
 I oifended you ? 
 
 Eldest Boy. It was I who broke the china vase, 
 so don't be angry with her for that. 
 
 Sea. My brave boy! it is distress, and not 
 anger, that makes me grave. 
 
 Soph. And are you distressed, papa ? O don't 
 be distressed! we will do every thing that we can 
 to please you. I know very well we can't make 
 you so happy as when mama was alive ; but we'll 
 be such good children ! we'll obey you, and serve 
 you, and love you so much, if you will but play 
 with us, and look upon us again as you used to do. 
 
 Sea. (^softened.) My dear girl, I wish I could 
 make you all happy : I wish to raise your situation 
 in the world above the pitch of my present con- 
 fined abilities : I wish — {stops^ and is much em- 
 barrassed.) 
 
 Soph, {kissing his hand.') My dear, dear father! 
 you say that I am your dear girl, and I promise 
 you, you shall find me a good one. I want no 
 better fortune in the world, than to live with you, 
 and be useful to you. I can overlook the house- 
 hold matters, and order every thing in the family 
 iis you would like to have it. I want no better for- 
 19 
 
A COMEDY. 381 
 
 tune than this : I shall be a happy girl and a 
 proud girl, too, if you will put confidence in me. 
 
 Sea. {taking her hand tenderly.') My sweet 
 child ! this would be a dull and sombre life for a 
 young girl like you : you ought now to be 
 dressed and fashioned like other young people, 
 and have the advantage of being introduced to 
 the world by those who — 
 
 Soi^h. O no ! I don't care whetlier my gown 
 be made of silk or of linen : and as for being 
 dull, never trouble your head about that ; we 
 shall find a way to get the better of it. Do you 
 know, papa, — but I am almost ashamed to tell 
 it you. — 
 
 Sea. What is it, my dear ? 
 
 Sojph. I have been learning to play at back- 
 gammon : for you know mama and you used to 
 play at it of a winter evening ; and I'll play with 
 you, if you'll allow me. 
 
 Sea. O God! O God! this is too much! {Turns 
 frohi them in great agitation, and runiiing 
 to the opposite side of the rooin, stands lean- 
 ing his back against the wall, ichilst Sophia 
 and the children gather round him.) 
 
 Soph. My dear father ! what is the matter ? 
 
 Eldest Boy. Are you not well, papa ? 
 
 Sea. I am well enough ! I am well enough ! but 
 I have something to tell you, and I cannot tell it. 
 
 Soph. For God's sake let me know what it is ! 
 
 Sea. You must know it : it is necessary that 
 you should. I am — {Pauses.) 
 
 Soph. A bankrupt. 
 
382 THE SECOND MARRIAGE ! 
 
 Sea. No, no, no ! I am going to be married. — 
 (Sophia staggers some paces back, and stands like 
 one perfectly stupified.') What is the matter, So- 
 phia ? are you going to faint ? 
 
 Sojjh, No, I shan't faint. 
 
 Sear Be not so overcome with it, my dear 
 child ! it is for the good of my children I marry. 
 (^Pauses and looks at her, but she is silent.) You, 
 and all children in your situation, look upon 
 these matters with a prejudiced eye. It is my 
 great regard for you that determines me to take 
 this step. (Pauses, but she is silent.) Do you hear 
 me ? Will you not speak to me ? 
 
 Soph. O my poor mother ! little did I think 
 when I kissed your cold hands, that you would 
 so soon be forgotten ! 
 
 Sea. No more of this, my dear ! no more of 
 this ! It is improper ; it is painful to me. I have 
 not forgotten — I love — I respect — I adore 
 her memory: but I am engaged — it is necessary 
 — your interest is concerned in it, my dear chil- 
 dren ; and I know, my good Sophia, you will 
 not add to your father's distress by stubborn and 
 undutiful behaviour. 
 
 Soph. O no, my dear Sir ! if you love and 
 adore her memory I am satisfied. Yet, if you do, 
 how can you — O how can you ! — I will say no 
 more : God bless you, and give you a good wife ! 
 (^Weeping.) But she will never be so good as my 
 mother : she will never love you as my mother 
 did. 
 
 Sea, Forbear, my good girl ! I know it very 
 
A COMEDY. 383 
 
 well : and I don*t marry now to be beloved. 
 But Lady Sarah is a very good woman, and will 
 make me as happy as I can expect to be .; she 
 is sister to Lord Allcrest, you know, and is re- 
 lated to the first people of the country. 
 
 Soph. Good heaven, Sir ! you can't mean to 
 marry Lady Sarah : all the world knows how ill- 
 temper'd she is. 
 
 Eldest Boy. What that lady with the cunning- 
 looking nose, and the strange staring eye-brows ? 
 If she come into this house, I'll cast my top at 
 her. 
 
 Soph. Hold your tongue, George ! papa is not 
 so hard-hearted as to set such a woman over us. 
 Come, come, children ! gather round, and hold 
 up your little hands to him : he will have pity 
 upon you. {The children gather rowid, r/?2^ Sophia, 
 putting the hands of the youngest child together, 
 and holding them up, kneels doxcn before him.) O 
 Sir ! have pity on them ! We have nobody to 
 plead for us, and I cannot speak. 
 
 Enter Robert with his face all hlubhered, and 
 throwing himself upon his knees by the children, 
 holds up his hands most piteously. 
 
 Rob. O, Sir ! 
 
 Sea. {bursting into a violent rage.) What, sirrah! 
 have you been listening at the door ! Go from 
 my presence this moment ! 
 
 Soph. Dear Sir ! be not angry with him ! 
 
 Sea. {putting her away.) No, no ! let us have 
 no more of this nonsense : I have listen'd too 
 long to it already, {Breaks from them, and Exit.) 
 
384- THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 
 
 Rob. I wish my head had been cut off before 
 I had come in with my ill-timed assistance! 
 Curse upon my stupid pate ! I deserve to be 
 hang'd for it. (^Beating his head and grasping his 
 hair.) O my pretty ones ! I sent you to him that 
 you might work on his heart, for I knew what 
 he wanted to say well enough, and yet I must 
 needs thrust in my silly snout amongst you to 
 mar all ! For a man that can read books and 
 cast accounts, and all that, to do such a trick ! 
 I deserve to be cudgel'd ! 
 
 Soph. Don't be so angry at yourself, Robert : 
 you meant it well, and you have always been so 
 good to us ! 
 
 Rob. Good to you ! I love you like my own 
 flesh and blood, every one of you ; and if any 
 body dare to do you wrong, I'll — no matter 
 what, (Clenching hisjist and nodding signifxantly.) 
 He may turn me off if he please ; but I'll not 
 quit the neighbourhood : I'll watch over you, 
 my pretty ones ; and hang me if any one shall 
 hurt a hair of your heads ! 
 
 Soph. I thank you, Robert : but don't tell any 
 
 body : that would not be right, you know. Come, 
 
 children : you shall go with me to my own room. 
 
 [Exeunt Sophia and children by one side, 
 
 and EXIT Robert by the other, looking 
 
 after them with tenderness and pity. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
A ro:\iRDV. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. — Before the front of Seabright's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Plausible and Prowler. 
 
 Tlau. Do you wait for me in that farther walk 
 yonder, till I come from visiting my subject. 
 
 Pro. Well, God grant he prove a good subject! 
 we are woundily in want of one at present. 
 
 Plau. Don't lose courage, man ; there is al- 
 ways a certain quantity of good and of bad luck 
 put into every man's lot, and the more of the one 
 that has past over his head, the more he may ex- 
 pect of the other. Seabright has a fortune to 
 speculate with, and some turn, as I have been 
 told, for speculation : he is just launching into a 
 new course of life, and I have a strong presenti- 
 ment that I shall succeed with him. 
 
 Pro. Now away with your presentiments ! for 
 we have never yet had any good luck that has not 
 come pop upon our heads like a snow-ball, from 
 the very opposite point to our expectation : but 
 he has got an unexpected legacy lately ; and I 
 have observed that a sum coming in this way, to a 
 man of a certain disposition, very often plays the 
 part of a decoy-bird to draw away from him all 
 the rest of his money : there I rest my hopes. 
 
 VOL. II. c c 
 
386 THE SECOND MARRIAGE ! 
 
 Plan. Why you talk as if I were going to ruin 
 him, instead of increasing his fortune by my 
 advice. 
 
 Fro. I have seen ruin follow every man that 
 has been favour' d with your advice, as constantly 
 as the hind legs follow the fore legs of a horse, 
 and therefore I cannot help thinking there must 
 be some connection between them. However, I 
 don't pretend to reason, Plausible: it might 
 only be some part of their bad luck that hap- 
 pened just at those times to be passing over their 
 heads : and they have always, in the mean time, 
 supplied you and your humble follower with 
 money for our immediate wants. 
 
 Plan. Well, hold your tongue, do ! {Knocks at 
 the door, which is opened by Robert.) Is your 
 master at home ? 
 
 Rob. Yes. 
 
 Plan, Can he be spoken with ? 
 
 Rob. No, Sir, he can't see you at present. 
 
 Plan. At what hour can I see him ? 
 
 Rob. I don't know. Sir. 
 
 Plau. Is he so much engaged ? But you 
 seem sad, my friend : has any thing happened ? 
 You had a funeral in the house some time 
 ago ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; but it is a wedding we have 
 got in it at this bout. 
 
 Plan. I had the honour of calling on Mr. Sea- 
 bright yesterday morning, but he was not at 
 home. 
 
A COMEDY. .S87 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; he has been at the borough of 
 Crockdale to be chaired, and the parish of Upper- 
 ton to be married ; and he returned last night — 
 
 Pro. Bridegroom and Member of Parhament ! 
 
 Rob. Keep your jokes till they are asked for. 
 
 Pro. They would be stale jokes indeed, then. 
 
 Plau. {to Pro.) Hold your tongue, pray. (To 
 Rob.) He is engaged ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; he is with the bride and the 
 company, in the garden, at breakfast. 
 
 Plau. Well, I shan't disturb him at present. — 
 Here is a crown for you : you will recollect my 
 face again when you see it ? I'll call again very 
 soon. 
 
 Pro. {aside.) Mercy upon us ! the last crown 
 we have in the world given away on such a 
 chance ! It shan't go though. 
 
 Rob. O yes, Su', I'll recollect you. 
 
 [Exit Plausible. 
 
 Pro. (lingering behind.) Don't shut the door 
 yet. Hark you, my good Mr. John, for I know 
 your name very well ! 
 
 Rob. My name is Robert. 
 
 Pro, Yes, Robert I said. 
 
 Rob. Did you so, truly ? have not I ears in 
 my head ? 
 
 Pro. Assuredly, Sir, and ears, let me tell you, 
 that will hear good news soon, if you will be 
 counselled by me. 
 
 Rob. Anan ? 
 
 Pro. Have you never a mind to put out a little 
 c c 2 
 
388 THE SECOND MAHRIAGE : 
 
 money to advantage ? a guinea or so, now, in such 
 a way as to return to you again with fifteen or 
 twenty of his yellow-coated brethren at his back ? 
 
 Rob. Poo ! with your nonsense ! I have sent 
 two or three guineas out upon such fool's er- 
 rands already. 
 
 Pro. And did they come back empty-handed 
 to you ? 
 
 Rob. No, by my faith ; for they never came 
 back at all. 
 
 Pro. O lud, lud ! there be such cheats in this 
 world, they frighten honest folks from trying 
 their fortune. I have got a crown of my own, 
 just now, and with another crown put to it by 
 any good-hearted fellow that would go halves 
 with me in the profit, I have an opportunity of 
 making a good round sum, at present, in a very 
 honest way, that would almost make a man of 
 me at once : but I'm sure I don't advise you to 
 do it ; for prudence is a great virtue ; prudence 
 is a very great virtue. 
 
 (^Bell rings, and Robert stands hesitating.') 
 
 Rob. Hang it ! a crown is no great matter 
 after all. There it is. {giving him the cronm 
 whilst the bell rings again.) How that plaguy 
 bell rings ! When you get the money for me, 
 you'll know where to call ? 
 
 Pro. Never fear ! when I get the money for 
 you, ril find my way back again, I warrant you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
A COMEDY. 389 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A Garden, with a Temple see?! at some distancey 
 in which are disco'vered Lady Sarah, Sophia, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, a?id William Beau- 
 mont, as ij^ seated after trrea/fast; whilst Gar- 
 dener a7td one or two of the Servants skulk 
 near the front of the stage, behind some bushes, 
 looking at them. 
 
 Gar. Bride indeed ! she's as unlovely a look- 
 ing piece of goods as ever I look'd upon. See 
 how she stares at every thing about her, and 
 curls up her nose like a girkin ! I'll warrant you 
 she'll be all thro' my kitchen grounds by-and- 
 by, to count over my cabbages. 
 
 Fiy^st Ser. Hold your tongue, man : we're too 
 long here : see, they are all breaking up now, 
 and some of them will be here in a trice. 
 
 [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 (^The company come out from the temple, and 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont advance to the 
 
 front of the stage, talking together earnestly.) 
 
 Bea. (continuing to talk.') Nay, my dear, you 
 are prejudiced and severe ; it did not strike me 
 that she behaved to you with so much forbiddino- 
 coldness. She has an ungracious countenance 
 to be sure, but now and tlien when it relaxes, she 
 looks as if she had some good in her. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, Charles, you find always some 
 good in every one of God's creatures. 
 
 Bea. And there is some good in every one of 
 God's creatures, if you would but look for it. 
 c c 3 
 
390 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Mrs. B. I*m sure those who can find it out 
 in her have a quicker discernment than 1 can 
 pretend to. How unlucky it was that we came 
 to the house last night, without enquiring be- 
 forehand the state of the family; I thought I 
 should have fainted when they told me of the 
 marriage ; and when I saw that creature in my 
 sweet sister's place ! 
 
 Bea. I pitied you, my dear Susan, very much, 
 indeed I did ; but it would have looked pettish 
 and unforgiving in us to have gone away again 
 at that late hour ; and I think we must stay with 
 them till to-morrow. For the children's sake, we 
 must endeavour to be on good terms with them. 
 But here come William and Sophia, 
 
 Enter William Beaumont and Sophia, talking 
 as tJiey enter. 
 
 Wil. You like the yellow-streaked carnations 
 best? 
 
 Soplu Yes, I think they are the prettiest, 
 though we have but very few of them. 
 
 Wil. O ! then I'll make our gardener sow a 
 whole bushel of carnation-seed when 1 get home, 
 that we may have a good chance, at least, of 
 raising some of the kind you admire. And what 
 else can I do for you, Sophy ? Shall I copy some 
 of my friend's verses for you ? or send you some 
 landscapes for your drawing book? or — did 
 not you say you should like to have a rocking-^ 
 horse for little Tony ? 
 
 Soph. Indeed you are very good, cousin. 
 
A COMEDY. 391 
 
 IVil, No, no ! don't say that : there is no good- 
 ness at all in doing any thing for you. 
 
 Soph, {going iqj to Mrs. B. who puts her arm 
 affectionately r^ound her.) My dear aunt ! 
 
 TVil. Ah, mother ! see how tall she has grown 
 since we saw her last, and how dark her hair is 
 now. 
 
 Mrs. B. {archly.') You like fair hair best, I 
 believe, William. 
 
 Wil. I like fair hair ! I can't endure it ! 
 
 Mrs. B. (smili?ig.) Well, well, you need not 
 be so vehement in expressing your dislike. 
 
 Bea. Here comes Lady Sarah to join us : this 
 at least is civil, you will confess. 
 
 Lady S. {coming forward to join them.) You 
 are fond. Ma'am, I perceive, of the shade, from 
 preferring this side of the garden, {formally to 
 Mrs. B. who coldly hows assent.) It is a very 
 pleasant morning for travelling, Mr. Beaumont. 
 
 Bea. Yes, Madam, it is a very pleasant morn- 
 ing for travelling. 
 
 [jady S. I'm sorry, however, that you will 
 have so much dust on your road to town. 
 
 Soph, {to Mrs. B.) Why, you don't go to-day, 
 aunt ? I thought you were to stay longer. 
 
 Mrs. B. No, my dear, we go this morning. 
 
 {looking signifcantly to Beaumont.) 
 
 Lady S. Would not the cool of the evening 
 be more agreeable ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, Ma'am, the coolness of this 
 morning has been quite enough to induce us to 
 set out immediately. 
 
 c c 4 
 
392 THE SECOND MARRIAGE '. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 ' Ser. {to Lady S.) Some poor people from the 
 village are come to wish your Ladyship health 
 and happiness. 
 
 Lady S. (iingraciously.) I am obliged to them.— 
 
 What do they mean ? Ay, ay ! tell them I am 
 
 obliged to them. You need not wait ; that is all. 
 
 [Exit Ser. whilst Mrs. B. smiles significantly 
 
 to her' husband. 
 
 Soph. I wonder if my old friend, Huskins, be 
 
 amongst them : I'll run and see. (goitig to run out.) 
 
 Lady S. Perhaps, Miss Seabright will do me 
 
 the honour to consult me upon what friendships 
 
 are proper for her to cultivate. 
 
 Mrs. B. (seeing Sophia distressed.) If your Lady- 
 ship will permit us, she shall retire with me for a 
 little while. [Exeunt Mrs. B. and Sophia. 
 
 TVii. (aside to his father, as they are about to 
 folloxv them.) What an ugly witch it is ! must we 
 leave Sophia with her ? 
 
 [Exeunt Beaumont and Yv'illiam B., Lady 
 Sarali lopking after them suspiciously. 
 
 Enter Seabright. 
 
 Lady S. {turning to him with affected sprightli- 
 ness.) So you have been upon the watch, I sup- 
 pose, and will not suffer me to stroll thro* these 
 shady walks alone : I am positively to have no 
 time to myself". 
 
 Sea. You don't call me an intruder, I hope ? 
 
 Lady S. Indeed, if you become very troublesome, 
 I don't know what 1 may call you. He, he, he! 
 
A COMEDY. 393 
 
 (laugliingfoolishlif. Scabright putting his hand up 
 to the side of her hat, she jncshes it awaif with pre- 
 tended coyness.') How can you be so childish ? he, 
 he, he ! 
 
 Sea. (gravelj/.) Won't you let me pick a 
 caterpillar from your ribband ? 
 
 Lady S. {looking foolish and disappointed.) O ! 
 is that it ? I am much obliged to you : but you 
 are always so good, so tenderly attentive to me ! 
 Indeed this little hand was well bestowed upon 
 you, Seabright : 1 wish it had conveyed to you 
 a better gift when it gave away myself, {thrust- 
 ing out a great broum hand to hiin.) 
 
 Sea. {raising it to his lips with affected tender- 
 ness.) What could it possibly convey, my dear 
 Lady Sarah, more — {stopping short as he is about 
 to kiss it.) Is that a family ring upon your finger ? 
 
 Lady S. Yes, it was my mother's : why so ? 
 
 Sea. The arms of the Highcastles are upon itj 
 Lord Highcastle then is your relation ? 
 
 Lady S. I am nearly related to him. 
 
 Sea. {with his countenance brightening.) I did 
 not know this : by my soul, I am glad of it ! He 
 is in credit with the minister : you are on good 
 terms with him, I hope. 
 
 Lady S. Yes, I have always taken pains to be 
 upon terms with him. 
 
 Sea. I dare say you have ; I dare say you 
 have : you have so much prudence, and so many 
 good qualities, my dear love ! {kissing her hand 
 with gi^eat alacrity.) 
 
 Lady S. O! it is all your blind partiality! {put- 
 
S^4f THE SECOND MARRIAGE '. 
 
 thig her hand tenderly upon his shoidder.) Do you 
 know, my dear Mr. Seab right, that coat be- 
 comes you very much : I wish you would al- 
 ways wear that colour. 
 
 Sea. I'll wear any thing you like, my dear. 
 But, by-the-bye, my constituents at Crockdale 
 have a manufacture of woollen in the town : I 
 must buy two or three hundred yards of their 
 stuff from them, I believe, lest I should have 
 occasion to be elected again. 
 
 Lady S. (taking her hand eagerly off his shoul- 
 der,) Two or three hundred yards of stuff from 
 them ! Why the cheapest kind they make is 
 eighteenpence-halfpenny a yard : only consider 
 what that will come to. 
 
 Sea. No very great sum ! 
 
 Lady S. I am surprised to hear you say so. 
 Now I should think, if you were to send the 
 mayor and aldermen a haunch of venison now 
 and then when it comes in your way, and the 
 earliest information of any great public events 
 that may occur, it would be a more delicate 
 and pleasing attention. 
 
 Sea. Well, well, my dear Lady Sarah, don't 
 let us fall out about it. 
 
 Lady S. I am perfectly good humoured, I 
 assure you ; but you are so 
 
 Sea. Yonder is your maid coming to speak to 
 you, I'll leave you. 
 
 Lady S. Indeed she has nothing to say : I won't 
 suffer her to break in upon our tender conver- 
 sation. 
 
A COMEDY. 395 
 
 Sea, But I must go to give directions about 
 accommodating Lord Allcrest and his friend. 
 They will be here soon. 
 
 Lady S. Nay, there you have no occasion to 
 give yourself any trouble : leave every thing of 
 that kind to me : you are too profuse, and too 
 careless, in every thing. 
 
 Sea. I may at least go to the stables, and give 
 my groom orders to provide oats for their horses. 
 
 Lady S. I have a very good receipt in my re- 
 ceipt-book for feeding horses upon the refuse of 
 a garden. 
 
 Sea. (shaking his head^ and breaking away from 
 her.) No, no ! that won't do. [Exit. 
 
 Eiiter Pry with a busy face. 
 
 Lady S, What brings you here. Pry ? Did not 
 you see Mr. Seabright with me ? 
 
 Pry. 1 protest, my Lady, I have been looking 
 at so many things this morning, I canH tell what 
 is before my eyes. 
 
 Lady S. You have looked over everything then 
 as I desired you : and I hope you have done it as 
 if it were to satisfy your own curiosity. 
 
 Pry. To be sure, my Lady ; and I might say so 
 with truth too, for nothing does my heart so much 
 good as looking thro' all them there places. And, 
 O dear, my Lady ! the chests and the wardrobes, 
 and the larders, and the store-rooms, that I have 
 look'd into 1 but that cunning fellow, Kobert, 
 would not let me into the wine-cellar though. 
 
396 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Lady S. And you are sure you let them 
 understand, it was all to please your own cu- 
 riosity ? 
 
 Pry. To be sure ; and I was glad I could speak 
 the truth too, for I never does tell a lie but when 
 1 cannot get a turn served without it. I remem- 
 ber, my Lady, you told me long ago that this was 
 the best rule ; and I have always held you up, my 
 Lady, for an ensample. Lord have mercy upon 
 their souls, that will tell you over a pack of lies 
 for no other purpose but to make people laugh ! 
 And there is all your writers of books too, full of 
 stories from one end to the other, what will be- 
 come of them, poor sinners ? 
 
 Lady S. Never trouble your head about them : 
 what have you seen ? 
 
 Pry. O dear me! the sheets and the table-linen, 
 and the pickles, and the sweetmeats, and the 
 hams, and the bacon, that 1 have seen ! 
 
 Lady S. Indeed, Pry ! 
 
 Pry. But do you know, my Lady, there is a 
 curious place in the house. 
 
 Lady S. What is it, pray ? 
 
 Pry. A closet where they keep cordials for 
 poor people. 
 
 Lady S. {sourly.') Humph. 
 
 Pry. It was kept for that purpose by the late 
 Mrs. Scab right, and this young lady, I am told, is 
 as fond of it as her mother was. 
 
 Lady S. Himnph — every body, has some 
 maggot or other. 
 
 »5 
 
A COMEDY. 397 
 
 Pry. Certainly, my Lady, but tliis is a very 
 strange one though. For you must know, my I.ady, 
 I thought no harm just to taste one of the bottles 
 myself, thinking it might be some pennyroyal- 
 water or blackberry-wine, or such things as cha- 
 ritable ladies give away ; but 1 protest it is as 
 good liquor as any gentlewoman would choose 
 to keep for her own use. 
 
 Lady S. I believe it has run in your head, 
 Pry? 
 
 Pry. No, no, my Lady ; whatever I may do by 
 myself, when I have a pain in my stomach, or 
 such like, for nobody can help afflictions when it 
 pleases heaven to send them, I never takes more 
 than is creditable before people. — And, O my 
 Lady ! the pans of milk, and the butter, that I 
 have seen in the dairy ! And I assure you, my 
 Lady, the servants make good use of it : they 
 make spare of nothing : the very kitchen-maids 
 have cream to their tea. 
 
 LadyS. AVell, well ; we shall see how long this 
 rioting will last. 
 
 Pry. And I have been in the garden and the 
 orchard too — But stop ! I hear a noise in the 
 bushes. 
 
 Lady S. (looki?ig round alarmed.) Why did 
 you talk so loud, you gossiping fool ? Come with 
 me into the house. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Sarah and Pry, 
 looking 7'owid alarmed. 
 
398 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Enter Gardener, creeping from amongst the 
 hushes f and shaking his f sty and making faces 
 after them. 
 
 Gar. I have been in the garden and the or- 
 chard too ! hang'd jade ! we shall see who comes 
 off winner at last. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Seabright followed by Robert. 
 
 Sea. (^speaking as he enters.) And he'll call 
 again, you say ? His name is Plausible ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; he is a very grave, sensible 
 looking man. 
 
 Sea. And has nobody else called ? 
 
 Rob. No, Sir. 
 
 Sea. No letters for me ? 
 
 Rob. No, Sir. 
 
 Sea. Nobody applying for franks ? 
 
 Rob. No, Sir. 
 
 Sea. (aside.) Stupid dolts ! (aloud.) So much 
 the better. Be in the way when I call for you. 
 (Exit Robert.) Well, this is strange enough : no- 
 body soliciting ; nobody coming to pay their 
 court to me ; nobody asking me even for a frank : 
 it is very strange ! (After musing some time.) Ha ! 
 but there is a bad spirit in men, which makes 
 them always unwilling at first to acknowledge 
 the superiority of him who has been more nearly 
 on a level with themselves. It is only when they 
 see him firmly established, and advancing in the 
 path of honours, that they are forced to respect 
 
A COMEDY. 899 
 
 him. (^After "ival/mig across Oic stage j)roi(cllj/.) 
 And they shall see me advance. I am not a man 
 to stop short at such beginnings as these, after 
 the high connections I have made : I feel tliat I 
 am born for ad\'ancing. Tlie embarrassment of 
 public affairs at present, offers my activity a fair 
 field for exertion. (^A great noise and clamour 
 heard without.) What is that ? Who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Robert. 
 What a cursed clamour and noise is this I hear? 
 
 Rob. Only my Lady, Sir, who has been all 
 over the house with Mrs. Pry, and laying down 
 some prudent regulations for the family. 
 
 Sea. And what have the servants to say to that? 
 
 Rob. A pretty deal. Sir : they are no wise mealy 
 mouthed about the matter ; and they're all com- 
 ing to your Honour with it in a body, 
 
 (The noise without still coining nearer.") 
 
 Sea. Don't let the angry fools come to me ; I'll 
 have nothing to do with it. Go, tell them so. 
 
 Rob. Very well. Sir ; I'll be sure to tell them, 
 he, he, he ! 
 
 Sea. What, sirrah ! is it a joke for you ? 
 
 Rob. I did'nt laugh. Sir. 
 
 Sea. (very angry.) But you did, you damn'd 
 fool! 
 
 (Voices without.) I'll tell his Honour of it, 
 that I will. His Honour is a good master, and 
 has always kept his house like a gentleman. 
 
 Sea. Did not I tell you not to let those angry 
 ideots come to me ? [Exit by the opposite side 
 
400 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 from the noise, in great haste, whilst Robert 
 
 pushes back the crowd of ^ servants, xvho are 
 
 seen pressing in at the door. ^ 
 
 Rob. Get along all of you ! his Honour won't 
 
 be disturbed. [Exeunt ; a great clamour 
 
 heard as they retire. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Lady Sarah',? Dressing-room. Enter Lady 
 Sarah, followed by Sophia, carrying a work- 
 basket in her hand, which she sets upon a 
 work-table, and sits down to work. 
 
 Lady S. {sitting down by her.) Now I hope. 
 Miss Seabright, I may flatter myself with having 
 more of your company this morning than you 
 generally favour me with. If Lord Allcrest 
 does not come at an early hour, we shall have 
 time for a good deal of work. When a young 
 lady is industrious, and is not always reading 
 nonsensical books, or running up and down after 
 children, or watering two or three foolish flower- 
 pots on her window, she can do a great many 
 things for herself, that enable her to appear 
 better dressed than girls who are more expensive. 
 (^pausing.) You don't answer me. 
 
 Soph. Indeed, Ma'am, I had better not, for I 
 don't know what to say. 
 
 Lady S. You are a very prudent young lady, 
 indeed, to make that a reason for holding your 
 tongue. 
 
 Soph. It is a reason, indeed, which elder ladies 
 do not always attend to. 
 
A COMEDY. 101 
 
 Lady S. What gown is tliat you have put on 
 to-day ? It makes you look like a child from the 
 nursery. Mr. Supplecoat is to accompany Lord 
 Allcrest, who is a very promising young man, of 
 good expectations, and I could have wished you 
 had dressed to more advantage. There is a 
 young friend of mine, scarcely a year older than 
 yourself, who is just going to be married to one 
 of the best matches in the country ; and it is of 
 great importance to have a daughter of a large 
 family well and early settled in life. 
 
 Soph, {looking very much surprised.) O how 
 different ! My poor mother used to say, that 
 young women ought not to be married too early, 
 but wait till they had sense to conduct them- 
 selves at the head of a family. 
 
 Lady S. Some of them would wait till they 
 were pretty well wrinkled then. 
 
 Soph. It must be confessed that some, who do 
 wait till they are pretty well wrinkled, are fain at 
 last to marry without it. (Voices heard without.) 
 
 Lady S. (rising quickly.) It is my brother's 
 voice : he is come early. 
 
 Enter Seabright, Lord Allcrest, and Sir 
 Crafty Supplecoat. 
 
 Lady S. My dear brother, I am rejoiced to see 
 
 you. (^Holding out her hand to Lord Allcrest, 
 
 xvho salutes her, and then curtseying very 
 
 graciously to Sir Crafty.) 
 
 Lord A. I am happy to see you look so well, 
 
 sister. 
 
 VOL. II. D D 
 
402 THE SECOND MAURIAGE : 
 
 Sir C. l^adv Sarali looks as a bride ought to 
 look, fair and cheerful. 
 
 Ladj/ S. And Mr. Supplecoat talks as a cour- 
 tier ought to talk : I need not say how. 
 
 Lord A. I beg pardon ; let nie have the plea- 
 sure of introducing kSir Crafty Supplecoat to your 
 Ladyship. 
 
 Lady S. Every new honour that Sir Crafty 
 acquires must give me pleasure. And permit me 
 to introduce to your Lordship, Mr. Seabright's 
 — 1 mean my daughter, who has many good qua- 
 lities to make her worthy of your esteem. (Pre- 
 senting Sophia io Lord All. and then to 
 Sir Crafty ; xvho afterxvards modestly 
 shrinks hack behind Lady S.) 
 Sea. (^aside to Lady S.pidli?ig her by the sleeve.) 
 What, is he made a baronet ? 
 Lady S. (aside.) Yes. 
 ASea. (aside.) A baronet, not a knight ? 
 Lady S. (aside.) No, no; a baronet, certainly. 
 Sea. (aloud.) Permit me again to say how 
 happy I am to see your Lordship in this house : I 
 hope you and Sir Crafty will not run away from us 
 so soon as your letter gave us reason to fear. 
 
 Lord A. You are very obliging, my good Sir; 
 but my time, as you may suppose, is of some little 
 im])ortance at ])rcsent, and not altogether at my 
 own command. 
 
 Sir C. His Lordship's time has been so long 
 devoted to the public, that he begins to believe 
 it lias a rio-lii to it. 
 
A COMEDY. i'OJ 
 
 Lord A. {affecting Jiumililij.) Wliy, I have, 
 been placed, without any merit of" my own, in a 
 situation which gives my country some claims 
 upon me : ever since the time of Gilbert, third 
 Earl of Allcrest, the chiefs of my family have 
 pursued one uniform line of public conduct. 
 
 Sir C. For which thev have been rewarded 
 with one uniform stream of ministerial approba- 
 tion. Changes of men and of measures have 
 never been able to interrupt the happy and 
 mutual uniformity. 
 
 Lord A. I believe, indeed, without the imput- 
 ation of vanity, I may boast of it. The imput- 
 ation of pride I am not so anxious to avoid : it more 
 naturally attaches itself to that dignified stability; 
 that high integri — I mean that public virt — I 
 should say — (^Mumbling, indistinctly y to himself]) 
 which my family has been conspicuous for. 
 
 Sir C. Pride is a fault that great men blush 
 not to own : it is the ennobled offspring of self- 
 love ; though, it must be confessed, grave and 
 pompous vanity, like a fat plebeian in a robe of 
 office, does very often assume its name. 
 
 Lord A. Ha, ha ! Sir Crafty, you have a plea- 
 sant imagination : one can see that you some- 
 times read books. 
 
 Sir C. I would rather follow your example, my 
 Lord, in the more agreeable study of men. No ; 
 I very seldom take a book in my hand, unless it be 
 patronised by some great name, or have the ho- 
 nour, as has been the case with one of our best 
 works lately, to be dedicated to your Lordship. 
 
 D D 2 
 
4'04j the second marriage: 
 
 Lord A. I am obliged to you, Supplecoat ; I 
 am sure I am very happy if" a name of so little 
 importance as mine can be of any use to the 
 learned world : we all owe learning a great deal. 
 
 Sir C. I am sure tlie patronage of your Lord- 
 ship's name is a full recompence to learning for 
 all the obligations you owe her. 
 
 Lord A. (bowmg graciously ^ and then tmming 
 to Seabright, as if modestly to interrupt the stream 
 of his own praise.) Mr. Seabright, I must have a 
 conversation with you in your library, when you 
 can bestow as much leisure upon me. Most of 
 our elections are already decided, and the ensu- 
 ing parliament bids fair to be as united and as me- 
 ritorious as its predecessor. In those places where 
 I have the honour to possess some little influence, 
 the constitution, the government, or ministry — 
 that is to say the same thing, you know, will find 
 hearty and zealous supporters : I think I may 
 depend at least on the member for Crockdale. 
 (^Bowing.) 
 
 Sea. I hope I shall always be found to merit 
 the friendship and alliance I have the honour of 
 bearing to your Lordship. 
 
 Lord A. (^drawing back coldly.) Friendship is 
 always the strongest tie, Mr. Seabright : indeed 
 the only one that is now held in any consider- 
 ation, or indeed ever mentioned. 
 
 Sea. (mor/jfed, and drawing back also.) I am 
 ready to attend you, my Lord, whenever you 
 please : I shall have the honour of shewing you 
 the wav to mv librarv. 
 
A COMEDY. 405 
 
 Lord A. I am infinitely obliged to you. Will 
 
 you go with us too, Sir Crafty ? You have a hst 
 
 of the voters for Underwall in your pocket. The 
 
 ladies will excuse us. [Exeunt Lord All. Sir 
 
 Crafty, and Sea. xvho goes out "with them, 
 
 and re-enters almost immediatelij , 
 
 Sea. (Jo Lady S.) His Lordship sent me back 
 to borrow your spectacles. 
 
 Lady S. Spectacles ! I use no such thing. 
 
 Sea. He says you do. 
 
 Lady S. O yes, there is a particular kind 
 which I sometimes look through to examine any 
 thing very minutely. 
 
 (^AJler receiving the spectacles and going to 
 the door, he suddenly stops and turns 
 back.) 
 
 Sea. But is it your brother's interest that has 
 made Supplecoat a baronet ? 
 
 Lady S. I dare say it is. 
 
 Sea. Yes, yes, I make no doubt of it. 
 
 [Exit, hurrying away. 
 
 Lady S. (Jo Soph, angrily.) What made you, 
 child, skulk behind backs so, like a simpleton ? 
 — You can be fluent enough when there is no 
 occasion for it, and when you ought to speak 
 you have not a word to say for yourself. This 
 is true nursery breeding. 
 
 Soph. Indeed, Madam, you may thank your- 
 self for it; for after what you said to me, before 
 they arriv^ed, about Sir Crafty Supplecoat and 
 marrying, I could not bear to look at him ; and 
 every time he looked at me, I felt strange and 
 
 D D 3 
 
406 THE SECOND MMIRIAGE : 
 
 mortified, just as if I had been set there to be 
 looked at. He is the most disagreeable man I 
 ever saw in my life. 
 
 hady S. Don't be uneasy ; you have little 
 chance, I'm afraid, of being molested by him. 
 But I forget ; I must write to my friend, Mrs. 
 Cudimore ; her husband is in credit now, and I 
 have been too neghgent a correspondent. [Exit. 
 
 Soph, (^sighing deeply.) O dear ! O dear ! O 
 dear me ! she sleeps quietly under the green sod 
 that I would right gladly lie down beside. 
 
 [Exit .sorroxc/idly. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A small Roomy idth Sophia'^ books and musky and 
 Jloicer-2)ots, c^t. set in order. Enter Sophia 
 very sorroiqfuly leaning upon Nurse. 
 
 Soph. O my dear nurse, you are our best friend ; 
 and so she is going to send you away from us. — 
 What M'ill become of the poor children now? 
 What will become of us all by-and-by ? And 
 my father, too, even my father? Oh, how it grieved 
 me to see him courting that proud Lord, who 
 seems ashamed to consider him as a brother-in- 
 law ! To see even my father looked down upon 
 — it goes to my heart. 
 
 Nurse. Let him take what he gets, an' a mur- 
 rain to him ! he had no business to bring her here 
 to torment us all, after the dear lady we have lost. 
 But dry up your tears ; we'll be revenged upon 
 her: there is not a creature in the house that has 
 not swore it : we'll be revenged upon her. 
 
A COMEDY. 407 
 
 Soph. What do you mean, nurse? 
 Nurse. I must not tell you, my dear young 
 lady ; it is not proper that you should know any 
 thing of it : but all the servants are joined in a 
 plot, and they'll damp her courage, I warrant 
 ye ; they'll scare her finely. 
 
 Soph, {skipping and clapping her hands.) O, I 
 shall be so glad to have her well scared ! And I 
 wish they would steal that nasty dog of her's, for 
 she is kind to no living creature but it. 
 
 Nnrse. Nay, to give the devil his due, I be- 
 lieve she is growing fond of little Tony. 
 Soph. Little Tony ? 
 
 Nurse. Yes, indeed: it is strange enough; but 
 the other day as she passed through the hall, we 
 were all looking sourly enough upon her, no 
 doubt ; when, what possessed the child I don't 
 know, but he held out his arms to her, and 
 smiled. 
 
 Soph. Nasty little toad ! to hold out his arms 
 to her. 
 
 Nurse. And, would you believe it, she took 
 him in her arms, kissed him very kindly, and has 
 taken to him wonderfully ever since. 
 
 Soph. And do you think she really loves him? 
 Nurse. Upon my honest word I do. 
 Soph. O, then, don't let them do any harm to 
 her; don't let them take any revenge upon her; 
 if she love Tony I would not have her hurt? 
 
 Nurse. O, but she loves none of the rest; she 
 is as hard as a millstone to the other two. O la ! 
 here comes that fine Sir Crafty, as they call him : 
 
 D D i 
 
408 THE SECOND marHiage : 
 
 I wonder what can bring him here : can he be 
 coming after you, Miss Sopliy ? ( TVith a signi- 
 jicant smile.') 
 
 Soph. Now don't say so, nurse, for you know 
 I can't bear it. 
 
 Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat, advancing to So- 
 phia with a very courteous smiling face, whilst 
 she shrinks back, and keeps close to Nurse. 
 
 Soph, (aside.) O don't go, nurse. 
 
 Sir C. Lady Sarah has had the goodness. Miss 
 Seabright, to send you a very wilhng messenger, 
 who is happy to find any pretence in the world 
 to present himself before you. 
 
 Nurse, (aside to Soph.) It is just as I said. 
 (Aloud to Sir C.) Meaning yourself, Sir ? 
 
 Sir C. Yes; well guessed, nurse! you are cun- 
 ning enough, I see : you have the true sagacity 
 about you that becomes your occupation; and I 
 doubt not that your young lady has profited by 
 your very instructive society. Now that you have 
 found out the messenger, perhaps Miss Seabright 
 herself may guess what his errand is. 
 
 (TVith an affected smile.) 
 
 Nurse, (aside to Sophia, who shrinks back still 
 more.) Ay, it is very like courting, I assure you. 
 
 Sir C. (advaiicing as she recedes.) Will not Miss 
 Seabright do me the honour to bestow one thought 
 upon it ? I cannot doubt of her ability to guess 
 my errand, if she will have the condescension. 
 
 Nurse, (aside to Soph.) Yes, yes, it is the very 
 tiling : I have heard many a courtship begin 
 after this fashion. 
 
A COMEDY. 409 
 
 Soph, (to Sir C, rer?/ much embarrassed and 
 Jrighteiied.) I — I — I'm sure I don't know. 
 
 Sir C. (still advanci?ig towards her as she re- 
 cedes^ mth a more intolerable leer on his face.') 
 Nay, do have the goodness to give me this proof 
 of the skill you have acquired in this refined aca- 
 demy of improvement, and tell me on what 
 errand I am come. 
 
 So2Jh. (becoming angry.') I*m sure I don't 
 know, unless it be to make a fool of me, and I 
 don't think I need to stay any longer for that 
 purpose. (Runs out.) 
 
 Nurse. (7ninning after her.) Don't run away. 
 Miss Sophy : he is a good-looking gentleman, 
 and very civil spoken, too. [Exit. 
 
 SirC, (looking after them.) Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Enter Sharp at the side by which they have gone 
 
 out. 
 
 Sharp. You are merry. Sir : I believe I can 
 guess what amuses you. 
 
 Sir C. I dare say thou can'st. Sharp : it is easy 
 enough to see what they have got into their 
 foolish heads. Ha, ha, ha! does the political 
 Lady Sarah think to put off her troublesome 
 nursery girl upon Crafty Supplecoat ? But let 
 me encourage the mistake for a little, it will 
 strengthen my interest with Lord Allcrest, 
 which at present is necessary to me. Thou 
 imderstand'st me. Sharp. 
 
 Sharp. Yes, yes, Sir; and you'll have little 
 trouble in keeping it up: for the servants, thanks 
 to Mrs. Pry's gossiping, who is in her lady's 
 
410 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 secrets, have got it so strongly into their heads, 
 that if you but pick up the young lady's glove 
 when she drops it, they think you are putting a 
 ring on her finger. 
 
 SirC, I thank thee, Sharp; and if thou can*st 
 at any time pick up, in thine own way, any in- 
 formation that may be useful to me, thou shalt 
 not go without thy reward. And how does the 
 young lady like her stepmother's scheme ? hast 
 thou heard them talk about that ? 
 
 Sharp, Nay, they say she dislikes it very 
 much, and is deucedly shy about it. 
 
 Sir C. (^smiling conceitedly.') Poo, poo, poo ! 
 she must be allowed to have her little manage- 
 ment as well as older people : deceit is inherent 
 in the human mind. 1 came here at Lady Sa- 
 rah's desire, to request that she would bring her 
 music-book into the drawing-room, and play to 
 us ; and she took it into her head — but what 
 brought you here to seek me ? Is the horse- 
 dealer come to look at my ponies ? 
 
 Sharp. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Sir C. Then I must go to him. [Exit Sir 
 Crafty, whilst Sharp remains behind, mus- 
 ings as If in serious thought about some- 
 thing. * 
 
 Enter Robert, in a great rage. 
 
 Rob. Aye ! what damn'd tricks are you think- 
 ing of? I have overheard, at the door here, all 
 that you and your vile master have been saying. 
 My young lady to be made a fool of for his con- 
 
A COMEDY. 1.11 
 
 veniency, indeed ! She's a match for a better 
 man than him any day in the year ; there is not 
 a lord of the land too good for her. But 1*11 be 
 revenged upon him, vile serpent that he is ! I'll 
 be revenged upon him ! 
 
 Sharp. Well, don't be so loud, my good Ro- 
 bert, and you will perhaps be satisfied. He has 
 twice promised to get me a place or to raise my 
 wages for me, and if he break his word with me 
 a third time, — I know what. Come man, let 
 us go and have a glass together. [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
412 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 SCENE I. A small country inn near Sea- 
 bright'5 house. Enter Beaumont, Morgan, 
 and William Beaumont. 
 
 Bea. (Jo Mor.) Well, my good Sir, how do 
 you like travelling once more a little easy fore- 
 noon's journey in your native country? 
 
 Mor. Every thing in my native country is 
 pleasant to me, or at least ought to be so ; but I 
 don't know ; I return to it again like a dog to a 
 deserted house j he begins to wag his tail at the 
 threshold, but there is nobody to welcome him 
 in ; there is another generation grown up, that 
 knows not me ; there is nothing but young 
 people now in the world, 
 
 Bea. But those young people will love and 
 esteem you, and honour you. The caresses even 
 of cheerful infancy go very kindly to an old 
 man's heart. Come, come ! you shall see the 
 promising family your niece has left behind her, 
 and your heart will warm to them. Seabright 
 has, I fear, set an ungracious step-mother over 
 their head ; but she, perhaps, looks more so than 
 she is« — Here comes our landlady. 
 
A COMEDY. 1.13 
 
 Enter Landlady. 
 Good morning, Mrs. Thrifty. 
 
 Land, (to Bea.) O Sir ! I be glad to see you ! 
 
 Bea. I thank you, good landlady : take good 
 care of my wife. 
 
 Land. That I will, Sir ! she's in the green 
 chamber, giving orders to her maid. And this 
 young gentleman is your son, I suppose. {Turn- 
 ing and curtesy big to Will.) 
 
 Bea. Yes, my good ma'am. 
 
 Land. Blessings on him ! Ay, if he be like 
 his father, the blessings of the widow and the 
 helpless will rest upon him. — You are going to 
 the 'Squire's, I suppose ? 
 
 Bea. Yes, landlady; how does the family do? 
 
 Land. O lud. Sir ! what an alter' d family it 
 be ! the servants a-grumbling ; the lady a-scold- 
 ing ; the 'Squire himself going up and down like 
 a man possess'd, as they tell me, and can't sleep 
 in his bed o' nights for writing to dukes and 
 lords and such like, and tormenting himself, poor 
 man, just to be made a Sir or a Knight, or some 
 nonsense or other of that kind : — and then all 
 the poor children ; it grieves me to see them 
 like so many chickens that have got no dam to 
 gather them together, tho' I'm sure that dear 
 good young lady does all that she can for them. 
 I sees her every morning from the room over- 
 head, which overlooks their garden, walking 
 with them as if she were the mother of them all, 
 tho' 1 warrant you she's soon snubb'd into the 
 house again : O, it grieves me to see them ! 
 
414 THC SECOND ^LVURIAGE : 
 
 Will, (eago^lj/.) In the room overhead did 
 yon say? and in the morning? abont this time? 
 
 Land. I don't know if just at this very time. 
 
 Will. I dare say she is. (Going out eagerly.) 
 
 Bea. But you wanted to read that paragraph 
 about your friend, WilHam, and here is the news- 
 paper just come. 
 
 Will, {impatiently.) O hang it ! not now : I 
 don't care if I never read it. [Exit quickly. 
 
 Bea. (Jo Land.) And he can't sleep in his 
 bed, they say, for writing letters to great people? 
 
 Land. Yes, Sir, so they say ; but there may be 
 other reasons for a man not resting in his bed, 
 
 Bea. And what other reasons may there be ? 
 
 Land. Sir, my grandfather was sexton of the 
 parish, and would have thought nothing of dig- 
 ging you a grave in a dark winter evening, or 
 ringing the church bell in the middle of the 
 night, with never a living creature near him but 
 his dog and his lantern, and I have myself sat 
 up with dead corpses ere now, and I can't but 
 say they always lay very quietly when I was with 
 them ; therefore I'm not a very likely person, 
 you know, to give heed to foolish stories about 
 ghosts and such like. Kowsomever, the servants 
 say that they hear strange noises since their new 
 lady came home ; and some of them swears that 
 they have heard their late lady's footsteps walk- 
 ing along the hall in the middle of the night, as 
 plainly as when she was alive. 
 
 Bea. That is strange enough, landlady. 
 
A COMKDY. 1.15 
 
 Land. To be sure it is, Sir, but. what shall we 
 say against it ? for if misers come back to the 
 world again to look after their gold, why may 
 not a mother come back to it again to look after 
 her children, oppressed by a hard-hearted step- 
 mother ? 
 
 Bea. Indeed, it would be difficult in this case 
 to ecainsav it. But let us have coffee in the next 
 room, I pray you, as soon as you can. 
 
 Land. Immediately, Sir. [Exit Landlady. 
 
 Bea. This is a strange untoward account that 
 our good landlady gives us of the family. One 
 can find out, however, that domestic comfort is 
 no more the lot of poor Seabright — but w^e shall 
 see when we go to him what state he is in. 
 
 Mor. You will see yourself then, for I shan't 
 go to him at all. 
 
 Bea. No 1 don't say so, my good friend : he 
 was an affectionate husband to your niece, and 
 an indulgent father to her children. (Mor. shakes 
 his head.) When his wife died, his old habits 
 were broken up ; he is of an aspiring disposition ; 
 a high alliance and a borough presented them- 
 selves to him, and he fell into the snare. (Mor. 
 still shakes his head.) He has married a woman 
 who is narrow-minded naturally ; but that dis- 
 position has been strengthened by circumstances: 
 she has long been left, as a single woman, to sup- 
 port high rank upon a very small income, and 
 has lived much with those to whom begging and 
 soUcitations are no disgrace : differently circum- 
 
416 THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 
 
 stanced she might have been more respectable, 
 and when differently circumstanced she may be- 
 come so. 
 
 Mor. Go to him thyself, Beaumont : I am an 
 old man ; my life's bark has been long buffeted 
 about on a stormy sea, and I have seen cruel 
 sights. I do not look upon my fellow-men with 
 the same gentle eye as thou dost : I cannot love 
 them myself, but I love thee because thou dost 
 it : so e'en take me home to thine own house ! 
 no other house will I enter ; and let me have an 
 arm-chair by thy fire-side to end my days in, 
 where I may sit at my ease, and grumble at the 
 whole human race. 
 
 Bea. No, no ! you shall see all your relations; 
 and love them too, and do what is right by every 
 one of them. 
 
 Mor. Do it for me then : I can't be troubled 
 with it. Take my fortune into your own hands, 
 and dispose of it as you please. 
 
 Bea. No ; you shall do it yourself; and the 
 blessings of those you bestow it upon shall fall 
 on your own head undivided and unintercepted. 
 
 Mor. I will take the simplest and shortest 
 way of settling my fortune ; I'll give it all to 
 your son. 
 
 Bea. (^Stretching himself up xiith a proud smile.) 
 Yes, if he will have it. 
 
 Enter William B. with great animation. 
 
 Will. I've seen her, father ! I've seen her ! 
 Bea. Who have you seen ? 
 
A COMEDY. 417 
 
 Will. My cousin Sophy : she is in the garden 
 just now with all the cliildren about her ; and 
 they have pulled off her hat in their play, and 
 she looks so pretty — I — I mean good-humour*d, 
 and — 
 
 Bea. (smiling.) There is no harm in calling her 
 pretty, William. — But Mr. Morgan has got 
 something very serious to say to you : he wishes 
 to settle his fortune upon you. 
 
 Mor. Yes, my brave William, every shilling 
 of it. 
 
 Will. What ! and Sophia and all the little Sea- 
 brights, who are as nearly related to you, to have 
 nothing ! 
 
 Mo7\ It shall be all your own. 
 
 Will, (with great vehemence.') Hang me, then, if 
 I take one sixpence more than my own share ! 
 
 Mor. Ah ! I see how it is : I am a blasted tree 
 from which no sapling shoots : my grey hairs are 
 despised. 
 
 Will. O say not so, my good Sir ! (Bending 
 one knee to the ground^ and kissing the old man*s 
 hand.) I wdll bow my head as affectionately 
 beneath your blessing as the most dutiful child. 
 But you shall have many children to respect and 
 love you! and one of them — Oyou shall see one 
 of them that will make your heart leap with 
 pleasure. (Hurrying away.) 
 
 Bea. Where are you going in such haste ? 
 
 Will. Never mind ; I'll soon return. [Exit. 
 
 Mor. (to Bea. who looks significantly to him.) 
 
 VOL. II. E E 
 
418 THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 
 
 Yes, my friend, he was sent to you from Him 
 who has given you many blessings. 
 
 Bea. But none like this. {Fervently.) He is a 
 brave and upright spirit, passing with me thro' 
 this world to a better. When he was but so 
 high, yea, but so high, how his little heart would 
 spurn at all injustice ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Beaumont. 
 Mrs. B. Where is William ? 
 Bea. He is gone over the way, I believe, to 
 fetch Sophia here. 
 
 Mrs. B. I'm glad of that : I came here only 
 to see her, and I will never enter Seabright's 
 door again as long as I live. 
 
 Bea. " As long as I live," my dear, is a phrase 
 of very varied significations: it means the term 
 of an angry woman's passion, or a fond woman's 
 
 fancy, or a 
 
 Mrs. B. Or a good man's simplicity, Mr. 
 Beaumont. Do you think I will ever enter the 
 house where that woman is the mistress ; unfeel- 
 ing, indelicate, uncivil ? 
 
 Bea. But she won't squander his fortune, how- 
 ever, and that is a good thing for the children. 
 
 Mrs. B. Poo, Mr. Beaumont ! the wickedest 
 creature on earth has always your good word for 
 some precious quality or other. 
 
 Bea. Well, my dear, and the wickedest creature 
 in the world always has something about it that 
 shews whose creature it is — that shews we were 
 all meant for a good end ; and that there is a 
 
A COMEDY. 419 
 
 seed — a springing place — a beginning for it, in 
 every body. 
 
 Mrs. B^ It is a very small speck with her, 
 then, I'm sure, and would elude any body's search 
 but your own. 
 
 Bea. Now, Mr. Morgan, don't think hardly of 
 my wife's disposition, because she is angry at pre- 
 sent : I assure you she is a very good woman, 
 and has an excellent heart : she is in all things 
 better than myself, tho' I'm of a more com- 
 posed disposition. 
 
 Mrs. B. (softened.) My dear Beaumont! I 
 chide you as a child, and I honour you as a man ! 
 But no more of this. — Does William tell Sophia 
 that she is to meet her great-uncle here ? 
 
 Mor, I hope he will not : I should wish to be 
 unknown for some time, that I may observe and 
 determine for myself, since you will make me 
 act for myself. 
 
 Bea. Go, then, into the next room with Mrs. 
 Beaumont: I'll wait for them here, and if he 
 has not told her already, I'll desire him to con- 
 ceal it. I hear them coming. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. B. and Morgan. 
 
 Enter William B. leading in Sophia. 
 Soph. But who are you taking me to see ? 
 JVill.You shall know by-and-bye. — But do stop 
 a moment, Sophy, and pull back the hat a little 
 from your face : you look best with it so. (Stop- 
 ping and putting her hat to rights.) That will 
 do. — And throw away that foolish basket out of 
 your hands; (taking ajiower-basket ft^om her^ in 
 EE 2 
 
420 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 "which she seems to have been gathering rose-leaves, 
 and throwing it away ;) and pray, now, hold up 
 your head a little better. 
 
 Soph. But what is all this preparation for ? 
 (Bea. who had retired to the bottom of the 
 stage i unobserved by them^ now advances 
 softly behind Soph, and makes a sign to 
 William to be silent.') 
 Will. You are to see somebody that loves you 
 very much, and likes to see you look well, you 
 know ; you are to see your aunt. 
 
 Soph. But there is somebody else you told me of. 
 Will. Yes, there is an old connection of ours 
 with her ; and pray now, Sophy, look pleasantly 
 upon him ; for he is an old man, and has met 
 with misfortunes ; he has been in foreign coun- 
 tries; he has been in prisons, and has had chains 
 on his legs. 
 
 Soph. O then, I am sure I shall look upon him 
 kindly ! 
 
 QExEUNT Soph, and Will., followed at a dis- 
 tance by Beaumont.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A large room in Seabright'^ house. Lady Sarah 
 is discovered sitting by a table writings near the 
 bottom of the stage. 
 Lady S. There is so much light thrown across 
 
 my paper here, it makes me almost blind. Who's 
 
 there ? is it you, Pry ? 
 
 Enter Fry from the adjoining room. 
 Pry. Yes, my lady ; I sits in this room here 
 pretty often, for the servants are vulgar and rude 
 
A COMEDY. 421 
 
 to me, and my own room is so lonesome 1 can't 
 bear to be in it. Not that I hear any of them 
 noises, excepting in the night-time ; yet 1 can't 
 help thinking of it all day long when I am alone. 
 — First it comes to my door, " lowe, lowe, lowe '.'* 
 JList like a great bull : then it comes presently 
 after, *' scrie, scrie, scrie !" just like a raven, or a 
 cock, or a cat, or any of those wild animals ; and 
 then for the groans that it gives — O ! an old 
 jack that has not been oil'd for a twelvemonth 
 is a joke to it. 
 
 Lady S. (gravely.) Remove this table for me 
 to the other end of the room : it is too much in 
 the sun here. (Pry removes tlie table near the 
 front of the stagey and Lady S. sits down to write 
 again without speaking ; then looking up^ and 
 seeing Pry still by her J) Leave me. 
 
 Pry. I'm just going, my lady : I believe I told 
 you, my lady, that Robert tells me, the vicar al- 
 ways expects the present of a new gown and cas- 
 sock when he is sent for to lay a ghost in any 
 genteel house. 
 
 Lady S. Leave me, I say ; I'll hear no more 
 of that nonsense at present. 
 
 [Exit Pry, and enter Seabright. 
 Sea. What has that absurd creature been chat- 
 ting about ? 
 
 Lady S. Still about those strange noises. 
 Sea. I thought so : every noise is a thief or a 
 ghost with her. Who are you writing to ? 
 
 Lady S. I am writing to Lady Puler, to beg 
 she will have the goodness to send me a few lines 
 
 EE 3 
 
422 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 by return of post, to let me know how her 
 rheumatism does : her husband, you know, may 
 have it in his power to serve you. 
 
 Sea. (nodding.) That is very right, my dear. 
 
 Ladi/ S. And here is a letter I have just writ- 
 ten to Lady Mary Markly : she is a spiteful toad, 
 and I never could endure her ; but she is going 
 to be married for the third time to a near relation 
 of the minister's, and it will be proper in me, 
 you know, to be very much interested in her 
 approaching happiness. 
 
 Sea. Yes, perfectly right, my dear Lady 
 Sarah ; I won*t interrupt you. (Sits down.) 
 
 hady S, Indeed, my dear Seabright, I have 
 been in the habit of studying these things, and 1 
 know how to make my account in it. If people 
 would but attend to it, every acquaintance that 
 they make, every letter that they write, every 
 dinner that they give, might be made to turn to 
 some advantage. 
 
 Sea. (hastily i with marks of disgust.) No, no ! 
 that is carrying it too far ! 
 
 Lady. S. Not at all, Mr. Seabright ! I sent a 
 basket of the best fruit in your garden this morn- 
 ing even to old Mrs. Pewterer, the mayor of 
 Crockdale's mother-in-law, and I dare say it 
 won't be thrown away. 
 
 Sea. (smiling.) Well that, however, was very 
 well thought of. But I interrupt you. (She conti- 
 nues to write f and he sits musing for some time, then 
 speaJcing to himself.) A baronet of Great Britain 
 and seven thousand a-year! (Smiling to himself.) 
 
A COMEDY. 423 
 
 Ay, that would be a resting place at which I 
 could put up my horses, and say I have travell'd 
 far enough. A baronet of Great Britain, and 
 seven thousand a-year ! 
 
 Lady S. (looking up from her 'paper.) A baro- 
 net of Great Britain you will soon be; this day's 
 post, I trust, will inform you of that honour 
 being conferred upon you ; but the seven thou- 
 sand a-year, I wish we were as sure of having 
 that added to it. 
 
 Sea. I wish we were ; but Mr. Plausible has 
 been with me last night, and has pointed out a 
 way to me, in which, by venturing a considerable 
 capital on very small risk, a most prodigious gain 
 might be made; and in which, money laid 
 out 
 
 Lady S. (interrupting him eagerly .) Will never 
 return any more ! (Getting up alarmed.) Pray, 
 pray, my dear Seabright, don't frighten me! The 
 very idea of such a scheme will throw me into a 
 fit. — Don't let that man enter the house any 
 more — he is a dark-eyed, needy-looking man 
 — don't let him come here any more. 
 
 Sea. Why, what alarms you so much ? he is a 
 very uncommon man, and a man of genius. 
 
 Lady. S. Keep him out of the house, then, for 
 heaven's sake ! there is never any good got by 
 admitting men of genius ; and you may keep 
 them all out of your house, I'm sure, without 
 being very inhospitable. 
 
 Sea. Your over-caution will be a clog upon 
 my fortune. 
 
 E E 4 
 
424 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Lady S. A clog upon your fortune, Mr. Sea- 
 bright! Am not 1 doing every thing that a woman 
 can do to advance it? am not I writing letters for 
 you ? making intimacies for you ? paying visits for 
 you? teazing every body that is related to me 
 within the fiftieth degree of consanguinity for you ? 
 — and is this being a clog upon your fortune? 
 
 Sea. Well, well ! we shall see what it all comes 
 to. 
 
 Lady S. Yes, we shall see ; this very post will 
 inform you of our success ; I'm sure of it : and 
 see, here are the letters. 
 
 (^Enter Pry with letters^ which she gives to Sea. ; 
 and then puts one down on the table for 
 Lady Sarah, who is so busy looking at Sea- 
 bright'.? that she does not perceive it,) 
 Lady S. (to Pry, who seems inclined to stay.') 
 Don't wait: I shall call when 1 want you. 
 
 [Exit Pry. 
 Sea. (opening a letter, and running his eye over 
 it eagerly.) Hang it ! it is about the altering of 
 a turnpike road. (Throws it away impatiently, and 
 opens another letter, which he reads in like manner.) 
 Stuff and nonsense, about friendship, and old ac- 
 quaintance, and so on ! What a parcel of fools 
 there are in the world ! Ha ! what seal is this ? 
 (Opening another letter eagerly.) Hell, and the 
 devil ! it is a letter from your brother, and only 
 a common-place letter of compliment, with never 
 a word on the subject ! (Teaming the letters in a 
 rage, and strexving them upon the floor.) Cursed 
 be pen, ink, and paper, and every one that puts 
 his trust in them ! 
 
A COMEDY. 425 
 
 Lady S. Don't destroy the blank sides of your 
 letters, Mr. Seabright, they will do to write notes 
 upon. 
 
 Sea. O confound your little minute economy, 
 Lady Sarah ! it comes across me every now and 
 then like the creeping of a spider : it makes me 
 mad. 
 
 Lady S. {putting aside her papers^ much of- 
 fended.) I think I need scarcely give myself the 
 trouble of writing any more to-day. {Seeing the 
 letter on her table.) Ha! a letter from my brother 
 to me ! (Opening it.) And a later date I fancy 
 than that which you have received. (Reads it with 
 her countenance brightetwig up.) 
 
 Sea. (looking eagerly at her.) Wlmt'smit? (She 
 is silent.) What's in it ? for God's sake tell me ! 
 
 Lady S. (going up to him with a smiling face, 
 and an affected formal curtesy.) I have the honour 
 to congratulate Sir Anthony Seabright. 
 
 Sea. Is it really so ? Is it really so ? Let me 
 see, let me see. (Snatches the letter from her, and 
 reads it.) O it is so, in very truth ! — Give me your 
 hand, my dear Lady Sarah ! and give me a kiss 
 too. (Kisses her on one cheek, and sJie graciously 
 turns to him the other.) O one will do very well. — 
 Where are all the childi'en ? let every soul in the 
 house come about me ! — No, no, no ! let me be 
 decent ; let me be moderate. 
 
 Enter Plausible. 
 
 Sea. (going up joyfully to him.) How do you 
 do ? how do you do, my very good friend ? 
 
426 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 LiCidy S. (pulling Sea. bi/ the sleeve.) You know 
 you are engaged ; you can't speak with any body 
 at present. 
 
 Sea. I can do all I have to do very well, and 
 give a quarter of an hour to Mr. Plausible, not- 
 withstanding. 
 
 Lady S. (still pulling him.) You have many 
 letters to write, and many other things. — You 
 understand me ? 
 
 Plau. I shall have the pleasure of calling, then, 
 to-morrow morning. 
 
 Lady S. He is engaged to-morrow morning. 
 
 Plau. And in the evening also ? 
 
 Lady S. Yes, Sir, and every hour in the day. 
 — He has not yet laid out his fortune to such 
 advantage as will enable him to bestow quite so 
 much leisure time upon his friends as Mr. Plau- 
 sible. 
 
 Plau. I can never regret the leisure time I 
 have upon my hands, since it has given me an 
 opportunity of obliging your ladyship : I have 
 procured the inestimable receipt for whitening 
 linen without soap, that I mention'd toyou, and 
 I shall bring it to you to-morrow. 
 
 Lady S. Pray don't take the trouble ! I am 
 much obliged to you : but we are all so much 
 occupied ! (^To Sea.) Are not you going to write 
 by return of post? 
 
 Sea. (to Plau.) I am really much engaged at 
 present : the King has been graciously pleased, 
 tho' most unworthy of it, and most unlook'd-for 
 on my part, to honour me with the dignity of a 
 baronet of Great Britain. 
 
A COMEDY. 4^7 
 
 Plau. I rejoice, my dear Sir, 1 congratulate 
 you with all my heart ; and I have the honour 
 to congratulate your ladyship also. 
 
 Lady S. I thank you, Sir — good morning — 
 good morning. 
 
 Sea. (to Plau.) Trifling as these things may be, 
 yet as a mark of royal favour 
 
 Lady S. (impatiently.) Yes, yes ; he knows all 
 that well enough. — Good morning. (To Plau.) 
 You will positively have no time to write your 
 letters by the return of post. (To Sea. pulling him 
 arvay, who bows to Plau. and goes with her un- 
 willingly. Turning round suddenly to Plau. as 
 they are just going out.) Whitening linen without 
 soap ? 
 
 Plau. Yes, Madam ; and no expence of any 
 kind in the business. 
 
 Lady S. When you are passing this way, at 
 any rate, 1 should be glad to look at it. 
 
 Plau. I shall have the honour veiy soon of 
 calling upon your ladyship. 
 
 Lady S. You are very obliging. You will ex- 
 cuse us ; you will excuse us, Mr. Plausible ; we 
 are really obliged to be extremely rude to you. 
 [Exeunt Lady S. and Sea. 
 Plau. (alone.) Ha, ha, ha ! I shall keep my 
 hold still, I find. 
 
 Enter Prowler, looking cautiously about as he 
 
 enters. 
 What do you want ? 
 
 Pro. Unless you want to be laid up by the heels, 
 don't go out of this house by the same door that 
 
428 THE SECOND MARRIAGE*. 
 
 you enter*d it. I have waited in the passage 
 here to tell you. 
 
 Plau. Ha ! have they found me out ? 
 
 Pro. Yes, by my faith, there are two as ugly 
 looking fellows waiting for you at the front entry 
 as ever made a poor debtor's heart quake. There 
 is surely some back door in this house. 
 
 Enter Robert. 
 {To Rob.) My good friend, I want to know where 
 we can find a back way out of this house. 
 
 Rob. And I want to know when I am to have 
 the crown I intrusted to you. 
 
 Pro. To me. Sir ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, to you. Sir ; and you know it very 
 well, you do. 
 
 Pro. O ! you are my friend Robert, that I was 
 enquiring after. 
 
 Rob. Yes, Sir ; and I will have my money di- 
 rectly ; for I know you are a cheat ; I know it by 
 your very face. 
 
 Pro. Ha, ha, ha! So you prefer having a crown 
 to-day to receiving ten guineas to morrow ? 
 
 Rob. Receiving ten fiddle-strings to-morrow ! 
 Pay me my crown directly. 
 
 Pro. Very well, with all my heart ; but you 
 must sign me a paper, in the first place, giving 
 up all right to the ten guineas you are entitled 
 to. (Robert hesitates.) Nay, nay^ I*m not such an 
 ass as you take me for : there is pen, ink, and 
 paper. {Pointing to the table.) Sign me a right to 
 the ten guineas directly. 
 
A COMEDY. 4^9 
 
 Rob. {scratching his head.) Well, we'll let it 
 stand, if you please, till another time. 
 
 Pro. I thought so : faith you're too cunning 
 for me ! But shew us the way to the back door, 
 quickly. 
 
 Rob. And should you like to come that way to- 
 morrow, when you bring me the money? I shall 
 be sure to be in the way to let you in. 
 
 Pro. Let us out by the back door to-day, and 
 let me in to-morrow by any door you please. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
430 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. Seahnght'slibrari/. Enter Seabrigut, 
 as if from a short journey^ and the Eldest Boy 
 running qf^ter him. 
 
 Boy. O papa, papa! I*m glad you're come 
 back again ! And have you said over your speech 
 to the Parliament? and did they say any line 
 speeches back again to you ? 
 
 Sea. Go away, George: I'm fatigu'dj I can't 
 speak to you now. 
 
 Enter Robert. 
 
 Roh. Won't your honour have some refresh- 
 ment after your journey ? My lady is gone out 
 an airing : you had better have something. 
 
 Sea. No, nothing, Robert. — A glass of water, 
 if you please. {Sits down grave and dispirited, 
 xvhilst "Robert fetches the water, and the 
 Boy plays about the room.) 
 
 Rob. (presenting the water.) I'll warrant now 
 that you have had a power of fine talking in this 
 Parhament house ; and I warrant your honour's 
 speech was as well regarded as any of it. 
 
 Sea. I thank you, Robert : I am fatigued, and 
 would be alone for a little : take that boy away in 
 
A COMEDY. 4«31 
 
 your hand. (Exeunt Rob. and the Boy, and Sea. 
 remains some time musing mt/i a dissatisfied face ; 
 then speaking to himself.) " The conciseness with 
 which the Honourable Baronet who spoke last 
 has treated this question." Ah ! but 1 was, — I 
 was too concise ! The whole train of connecting 
 and illustrative thoughts, which I had been at so 
 much pains, beforehand, to fix and arrange in 
 my head, vanished from me as I rose to speak ; 
 and nothing of all that I had prepared presented 
 itself before me, but the mere heads of the sub- 
 ject, standing up barren and bare, like so many 
 detach'd rocks in a desert land. {Starting M/?.)This 
 will never do! I'm sure I have not spared myself: 
 I have labour'd night and day at this speech : I 
 have workM at it like a slave in a mine ; and yet, 
 when I came to the push, it deceived me. {Shaking 
 his head.) This will never do ! let me rest satis- 
 fied with what I have got, and think of being a 
 speaker no more. {Stands despondingly for a little 
 whiky with his arms across, then suddenly becomiiig 
 animated.) No ! I will not give it up ! I saw an 
 old school-fellow of mine in the lobby, as I went 
 out, who whisper'd to the person standing next 
 him as I passM, that I was his townsman. Does 
 not this look as if my speech, even such as I was 
 enabled to give it, had been approved of? O, I 
 will not give it up! This is the only way to high 
 distinctions : I must drudge and labour still. 
 Heigh ho ! ( Yawning grievously. A gentle tap is 
 heard at the door.) Who's there? {Angrily.) 
 Soph, (without.) May I come in, papa? 
 
432 THE SECOND MARRIAGE I 
 
 Sea. Yes, yes ; but what do you want ? 
 
 Enter Sophia, timidly. 
 
 Soph. T only come, my dear Sir, to see how 
 you do after your journey. But you don*t look 
 well, papa; you don't look happy: has any thing 
 displeasM you ? 
 
 Sea. No, my good girl. 
 
 Soph, (kissing his hand.') I thank you, papa, for 
 calling me your good girl : I was your good girl. 
 Sea. And are so still, my dear Sophia; but you 
 must sometimes excuse me ; I am not very happy. 
 Soph. Ah, papa! I know what makes you un- 
 happy. 
 
 Sea. {shaking his head.) Thou dost not ! thou 
 dost not ! 
 
 Soph. Ah, but I do ! and nobody told it me 
 neither — I can just see it my own self. You are 
 giving yourself a great deal of trouble, and 
 courting very proud and very disagreeable people, 
 for what you very probably won't get ; and you 
 are grieved to think that Lady Sarah does not 
 treat us so kindly as she might do. But don't 
 be unhappy : don't court those proud people any 
 more : you have enough to live upon as you used 
 to do; and Lady Sarah will be kinder to us by- 
 and-bye. I know she will; for she loves little 
 Tony already ; and if she should not, we will 
 never complain. 
 
 Sea. (kissing her.) My sweet child ! thou de- 
 servest — O thou deservest more than I can ever 
 do for thee ! 
 
A COMEDY. 433 
 
 Soph, {gladly.) Do you say so, indeed? O 
 then do this for me ! 
 
 Sea. What is it, Sophia ? 
 
 Soph. Trouble yourself no more with great 
 people, and studying of spceclies for that odious 
 Parliament ; and when Lady Sarah is out of the 
 way, let the children come and play about you 
 again, as they used to do. 
 
 Sea. {tenderly.') I thank you, my good child, 
 but you don't understand these things. {Walks 
 thoughtfully across the roomy and then retur7is to 
 her again.) There is an office which Lord 
 Allcrest has promised to procure for me, that 
 would bring me a considerable and permanent 
 addition to my income ; if I once had that 
 secured, I believe, in truth, it would be no 
 unwise thing in me to follow your advice. 
 
 Soph. O, my dear Sir, I hope you will have it, 
 then ! {skipping joyfully.) I hope you will have it! 
 (Enter a Servant, and announces Sir Crafty 
 Supplecoat.) 
 Sea. Sir Crafty here ! can any thing have hap- 
 pened for me ? 
 
 Soph. O if it should be the place ! — But shall 
 I go away ? for I don't like to see that man. 
 
 Sea. No, my dear, stay with me ; I like to have 
 you beside me. 
 
 Soph. Then I will stay ; for I am happy now, 
 and I can look upon him boldly. 
 
 Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat. 
 Sea. Sir Crafty, your servant ; I'm very happy 
 to see you. 
 
 VOL. II. F F 
 
'134f THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Sir C. Your servant, Sir Anthony ; I'm happy 
 in behig able to pay you my respects. — Miss 
 Seabright I hope is well. (Bowing to Soph, who 
 returns his civility with cheerfulness.^ Indeed, Sir 
 Anthony, I have long'd ever since I heard your 
 speech in the House, which, for a maiden speech 
 — Well, I will not say what it was. — I have 
 long*d to declare to you the extreme pleasure I 
 take in the fair career that is now open'd before 
 you, and in being permitted to consider myself 
 as one of your friends. 
 
 Sea. You do me great honour ; I am infinitely 
 obliged to you. My speech indeed ought — it 
 ought to have — — (Jiesitating.^ 
 
 Sir C. To have been just what it was, my dear 
 Baronet. Your friends enjoyed it ; and, let me 
 say it freely, without envy. 
 
 Sea. I am much flatter'd : their praises are — 
 are (hesitating.) 
 
 Sir C. Are proportioned to their admiration, 
 Sir Anthony ; and they have great pleasure in 
 talking of it. 
 
 Sea. (eagerly.) Ha ! do they talk much of it? 
 
 Sir C. Yes j more than I would venture to re- 
 peat to you. 
 
 Sea. Friends, indeed, say many things that 
 ought not to be believed. 
 
 Sir C, I assure you, yours say many things 
 which one of the qualities you so eminently pos- 
 sess would not, perhaps, suffer you to believe. 
 Eloquence — eloquence, my dear Sir — great 
 things are to be attained in this country by elo- 
 
 17 
 
A COMEDY. 435 
 
 quence. Eloquence and high connections give 
 a man such velocity in moving, that nothing 
 can stop his career. — But I ought to tell you, 
 by-the-bye, that old Saunter is dead, unexpec- 
 tedly ; and that office, if indeed it can be con- 
 sider*d as any object to you now, is ready for 
 your acceptance. 
 
 S(yph. (aside to Sea.) Is that the office, papa ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, child : hold your tongue, (aloud.) I 
 am obliged to you for this intelligence. Sir 
 Crafty : an office for life, tho' not very consi- 
 derable, is of some consequence to a man who 
 has a family of children. (Soph, takes her fatJier* s 
 hand atid presses it gratefulli/.) 
 
 Sir C. Ha, ha, ha ! Sir Anthony Seabright, 
 with all his abilities and connections, is, like a 
 very good father, anxious to provide for his 
 family ! I thought, my dear Sir, such talents as 
 yours had generally been accompanied with an 
 aspiring temper; but Lady Sarah's prudent cha- 
 racter, I perceive, has had its effect upon you. 
 
 Sea. No, no ; you are wrong. 
 
 Sir C. Nay, pardon me if I say that you also 
 are wrong, in fixing yourself down, in the very 
 beginning of your career, as a quiet unaspiring- 
 man, who is glad to be early provided for in a 
 quiet, humble permanency ; for this office, you 
 know, is regarded as 
 
 Sea. (interrupting him eagerly.) What, is it 
 regarded in that light ? 
 
 Sir C. It really is. Mr.Trotman, now promoted 
 to a peerage, and whose first speech, by-the-bye, 
 
 F F 2 
 
436 - THE SECOND MARRIAGE I 
 
 very much resembled your own, refused it on 
 that very account; and Mr. Brown, and Mr. 
 Wilson, and Sir Samuel Soppet, and many other 
 Misters and Sirs, promoted to the same dignity, 
 would never have got on, be assured, if they had 
 thus fixed themselves down at the very threshold 
 of advancement. 
 
 Sea. But I see no reason why accepting such an 
 office as this should hinder one from advancing. 
 
 Sir C. I can give you no good reason for it, I 
 confess ; but there have been certain places, time 
 out of mind, which have, somehow or other, been 
 consider'd as indicative or otherwise of promo- 
 tion, and which stand up in the great field of 
 honours like finger-posts in a wide-track*d com- 
 mon, saying " This is the way to such a place :" 
 they who are once possessed of those places, 
 move on to the others, for no earthly reason, 
 that we can perceive, but because they have 
 been placed in the first ; and this you will readily 
 allow is no time for innovation. 
 
 Sea. I believe there is something in what you 
 say. 
 
 Sir C. There is so much in it, that if you can 
 find some less aspiring friend, to whom you can 
 with confidence give up this office, relying on 
 his honour to assist you with the full weight of 
 his interest on all future occasions, I am sure 
 you will never think of accepting it. 
 
 Soph, (laying hold of her father's arm^ and 
 speaking eagerli) to Sir Crafty.) Ah, but he will, 
 thoM 
 
A COMEDY. 437 
 
 Sea. Sophia, you forget yourself. {She shrinks 
 back abashed.) 
 
 Sir C. (smili7ig) It is an amiable weakness in 
 this interested age to forget yourself, and con- 
 fined, I believe, to young ladies alone. 
 
 Soph, (provoked and roused.) I believe, at least, 
 political baronets, tho* notveryold, do but seldom 
 fall into it. {archly.) And I know, papa, who this 
 friend is that will so kindly take this office ofFyour 
 hands. Sir Crafty will name him to you by-and- 
 bye : it is a man who does not forget himself. 
 
 Sea. {displeased.) What is the meaning of this, 
 Sophia ? I never saw you thus petulant before : 
 I beg of you to retire : Sir Crafty and 1 must 
 not be interrupted. 
 
 Soph. I will retire, my dear Sir — but oh ! 
 {taking her father* s hand and pressing it,) but oh ! 
 — you know what I would say to you. 
 
 [Exit, casting a sig7iificant look to Seabright 
 as she goes oict. 
 
 Sea. {after a considerable pause.) Sir Crafty, 
 there is much in what you say and I believe you 
 are perfectly disinterested in the advice you give 
 me ; but I don*t know that I could justify my- 
 self to my own mind in refusing this office. 
 
 Sir. C. There are few men less interested than 
 myself; I will say it. Sir Anthony ; I wdll say it 
 proudly, — Pardon me, however, I do not pre- 
 sume to advise you ; but hearing Lord Clacker, 
 and the Marquis of Lackland, and some others, 
 talking of your speech, and the usual race of such 
 abilities, and so forth, many suggestions arose iit 
 FF 3 
 
438 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 my mind, in regard to you, my dear Sir, which 
 I very naturally supposed just now might have 
 presented themselves to your own. 
 
 Sea. Ha ! did Lord Clacker and the Marquis 
 of Lackland talk of my speech, and my abili — 
 I mean the probable effects of my situation and 
 connections ? 
 
 SirC. I assure you they spoke of both in a 
 way very gratifying for a friend, so much inter- 
 ested in your promotion as I am, to hear: — but 
 remember, I give you no advice: I am a young 
 man, and apt, perhaps, to be too sanguine where 
 the admiration of talents may mislead me : I am 
 too presumptuous to mention my opinion at all. 
 
 Sea. (taking his hand with 'warmth.) O, no ! I 
 like you the better for it! to be warmly sanguine 
 is characteristic and graceful in youth ; and per- 
 haps this propensity does not more often mislead 
 it than the timorous caution of age. — You men- 
 tion'd a friend to whom I might resign my pre- 
 tensions to this office ? 
 
 Sir C. I did, Sir Anthony ; but I now feel an 
 embarrassment. — I'm sure it would never have 
 enter'd into my imagination to think of it. But 
 will you be kind enough to take a turn with me 
 in the garden? There are some things that must 
 be explained to you at length, lest you should at 
 all misconceive what Vm gohig to propose to 
 you. [Exeunt. 
 
A COMEDY. 1.39 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Servants* Hall; and Robert discovered pull- 
 ing some Clothes out of a Bag, and laughing to 
 himself as he looks at them. Enter Cook- 
 maid. 
 
 Cook. Are you here, Robert ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, beef-drippings; what do you want? 
 
 Cook. It is ghost-time, don't you know? and 
 your night for it, too. 
 
 Bob. Indeed ! 
 
 Cook. Ay, indeed ! I groan'd last night, and 
 Gardener the night before ; so e*en take your 
 own turn when it comes to you : you was the 
 first contriver of the plot. 
 
 Rob. Why don't you see me preparing, hussy? 
 I'm going to dress myself up this very night for 
 the grand contasterfy, as a learned person would 
 call it. 
 
 Cook, (clapping her hands.') O griskins and 
 gravy, but that be delightful ! Are you to appear 
 to her to-night ? 
 
 Rob. Yes, wench ; for my master is in town, 
 and is not expected back before to-morrow. 
 (Holding out the clothes.') How do you like this 
 black robe? Has it not a smack of the devil in it? 
 
 Cook. Black! I thought you were to have been 
 all in white, like my late lady, and to have threat- 
 ened her for being so unkind to the children. 
 
 Rob. So I intended, Deborah ; but I don't 
 know how, a qualm came across my heart, and 
 F F 4 
 
440 THE SECOND MARRIAGE t 
 
 AVOLild not let me make a mockery and a sem- 
 blance of my dear mistress j so we'll just make 
 the devil do, my fat Deborah ; he'll serve our 
 turn well enough. 
 
 Cook. Yes ; he serves many a turn, if all that 
 is said of him be true. 
 
 Rob. How do you like that black hood with 
 the korns to it ? it is all my own contrivance. 
 
 Cook. O it will do hugeously 1 
 
 Rob. And pray mix a little sooty grease for 
 my face, cooky ; and let me have some brick- 
 dust to make a red staring ring round my eyes. 
 
 Cook. That I will in a trice ! But where is 
 your tail, master devil ? Will the jack-chain be 
 of any use to you ? 
 
 Rob. No, no! let her once have a good look 
 of my horns, and my red staring eyes, and I 
 warrant you she'll never miss my tail. 
 
 Cook. Good success to you ! 
 
 Rob. I don't doubt of success ; for my lady 
 has lived a great part of her life in an old castle 
 in the North, and has as good a notion of a 
 ghost or a goblin as most folks. 
 
 Cook. He, he, he ! Some folks will be warm 
 enough to-night without frying cutlets. And 
 bless you, man ! if Mrs. Pry should come in your 
 way, give her a claw for my sake. 
 
 Rob. O never doubt that, hussy ! — And here, 
 in good time, comes Sliarp to settle his part of 
 the business ; for you know we are to give his 
 master a claw too, as well as Mrs. Pry. 
 
A COMEDY. 441 
 
 Enter Sharp. 
 
 Cook. Come away, Sharp ; which of us all is 
 to visit your master's chamber to-night in the 
 shape of the lady that he jilted, as you told us of, 
 because her rich uncle chose to marry whilst 
 their wedding clothes were a-making, and who 
 took it so much to heart, poor thing ! that she 
 died soon after of the small-pox ? I should not 
 much care to do it myself. 
 
 Sharp. No, cooky, we have a better plan than 
 that ! 
 
 Cook. What is it, man ? 
 
 Sharp. Tho' he laughs at Miss Seabright as a 
 girl from the nursery, he has taken a strong desire 
 to know whether she likes him or not ; and, above 
 all, what fortune she is to have : now I have pro- 
 mised to set Pry a talking to her lady about this, 
 when she puts her to bed to-night, and to place 
 him snugly in the adjoining chamber where he 
 may hear every word that they say. 
 
 Rob. You have told him there is no danger 
 of being discover'd, as that room is always kept 
 lock'd, and that you have stolen the key of it ^ 
 
 Sharp. You may be sure of that. 
 
 Rob. Then you may be sure the devil won't fail 
 to take that chamber on his way from Lady Sarah's, 
 and pay his respects to him in passing. Come, 
 come! let us all set about it! I'll dress in my own 
 garret. Take some of those things in your hand. 
 (Giving Cook some of the clothes to carri/y 
 and taking the rest himself.) [Exeunt. 
 
442 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Ladj/SARAu'sBed-roomj almost dark, with a feeble 
 Light thrown across the Floor, as from a had Fire. 
 Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat and Sharp, 
 stealing softly on their Tiptoes. 
 
 Sir C. Hist, hist ! which is the door, Sharp ? 
 
 Sharp. Never fear. Sir j come this way. (Opening 
 
 the door of an adjoining room.) Go in, Sir, and fear 
 
 nothing. But you must sit in the dark, and not 
 
 be impatient : Pry won't fail to pump her lady, 
 
 and you'll hear every word that is said. (Putting 
 
 Sir Crafty into the room, and pretending to 
 
 lock the door upon him, then exit laughing 
 
 to himself as he goes out.') 
 
 Enter Lady ^AR AH andFRY carrying Lights by the 
 same Door by which Sharp wentout, allowing him 
 time to get out of the way without meeting him. 
 
 Pry. (setting down the lights.) Well, I wish this 
 night were well over, for I had such strange dreams 
 last night. 
 
 Lady S. Don't trouble me with your dreams 
 now. Have you put all my muslin things into 
 the press, and screw'd them well down ? When 
 the creases are taken out of them, they will do 
 perfectly well to wear another day. 
 
 Pry. To be surcj my lady; but for tliat old pet- 
 ticoat, if I do but touch it, it comes to pieces : it 
 grieves me to see your ladyship dragging it about 
 
A COMEDY. i43 
 
 like a cobweb that the flies have been thro* : it 
 would tear up into such pretty handkerchiefs ! 
 
 Lad^ S. Will it? as large as those I commonly 
 wear ? 
 
 Pri/. O, no ! I don't mean such handkerchiefs 
 as you would wear, my lady, but just 
 
 Ladi/ S. Don't tease me now. — Have you heard 
 any of those noises to-night ? (^Seating herself^ in 
 a chair near the front of the stage.) 
 
 Pry. La, no ! my lady : did you hear any tiling? 
 
 Ladij S. No, nothing at all : why do you look 
 so frighten' d ? 
 
 Pry. I'm sure the very thoughts of it has made 
 my teeth to chatter like a spoon in an empty 
 dish. I never heard of such things being heard 
 in any house, except the old Castle of Allcrest, 
 just before the Earl, your grandfather, died. 
 Mercy on us! there was no such noises- heard in 
 our village. 
 
 Lady S. Apparitions seldom visit people of low 
 condition. Pry. 
 
 Pry. God be praised for it ! I hope this here will 
 be of the same way of thinking. I would not be 
 a great lady and have ghosts grunting at my bed- 
 side for the whole universal world. If you please, 
 my lady, I should like to go up to Susan as soon 
 as maybe, pardon my boldness, for she is as friglit- 
 en'd as lam ; and I may chance to meet something 
 on the stairs, if I am much later ; and I know very 
 well, my lady, you're not afraid. 
 
 Lady S. No, I'm not afraid, but I don't know- 
 how — I have a little of 1 don't know what, that 
 
444" THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 has come upon me. — You had better sleep on the 
 couch by my bed to-night: I may want my drops 
 in the night-time. — What o'clock is it? 
 
 Try. {looking at the watch.) Mercy on us! it's 
 just the very time when it begins. — What's that? 
 
 (Alarmed.) 
 Lady S. Nothing : I heard nothing. (A long 
 pause; then a deep groan is heard from the bottom 
 of the stage.) Come, come ! stand closer to me, Pry. 
 {Taking hold of Pry.) It had a strange, hollow, 
 unnatural sound. 
 
 Try. Yes ; just like a body speaking out of a 
 coffin. 
 
 {A pause J and then a second groati is heardy 
 louder than thefrst.) 
 Lady S. Stand closer still, I beseech you : that 
 was horrible ! {Tutting out her handy trembling.) 
 Whe — whe — where is the bell-rope? 
 
 Try. O, la ! you know well enough it hangs 
 in the other end of the room. 
 
 Lady S. Go pull it then : pull it violently. (Pry 
 
 hesitates, and seems very unwilling to go.) Go, I say ! 
 
 (Pry goes ; and as she is half-way across the 
 
 room, another groan, followed by a terrible 
 
 howl, is heard, and she runs back again to 
 
 Lady Sarah.) 
 
 Lady S. O go and do it ! for heaven's sake ! for 
 
 God's sake ! for mercy's sake do it ! (Pry then goes 
 
 sidling across the foor, looking on every 
 
 side with terror and suspicion, till she gets to 
 
 the bell-rope which hangs by the head of the 
 
 bed, and near the door oftherooyn; when. 
 
A COMEDY. 'i'15 
 
 putting out her hand to pull it, Robert 
 dressed like the devil, rises from behind a 
 great chair close to the bed. Pry screams 
 and runs out of the door, whilst he gives 
 her a claw in the passing, and then ad- 
 vances toivards the front of the stage to 
 Lady Sarah. 
 Lady S. (shrinking back as he advances.) O, 
 come no nearer, whatever thou be, thou black 
 and horrible sight! {Devil still adva7ices.) O, 
 
 come no nearer ! in the holy name of 
 
 Devil Baw ! {giving a great howl and still 
 advancing.') 
 
 Lady S. In the blessed name of 
 
 Devil. Baw I (with another howl, and coming 
 very near her.) 
 
 Lady S. (falling upon her knees, and clasping 
 her hands together.) O, as thou art awful, be 
 merciful ! O, touch me not, for I am a miserable 
 
 smner 
 
 Devil. Yea, thou art — yea, thou art — yea, thou 
 art, and thou shalt smart. Ill deeds thou dost, and 
 thou shalt roast. (Holding his great claw over her.) 
 
 Lady S. (contracting all her body together, and 
 sinking down upon the floor.) O, as thou art 
 horrible, be merciful ! What shall I do ? what 
 shall I do ? 
 
 Devil. Be kind to thy husband's children, or 
 I will tear 
 
 Lady S. O, yes, yes! 
 
 Devil. Give them good victuals, and good edu- 
 cation, and good clothing, or I will tear thee — 
 
 Lady S. O, yes, yes ! 
 
i.4fi) THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Devil. And give no more good things to Tony 
 than the rest, or I will — (starting hack upon hear- 
 ing aloud knocking atthe street door.) What's'that? 
 LadyS. (raising her head and seeing him farther 
 off) No more good things to Tony than the rest! 
 It was no devil that spoke those words, I'm sure. 
 (Taking courage, and getting uj).) 
 Devil, (aside, after moving farther off, and list- 
 ening.) Faith, I'll turn and give her a claw yet ! 
 I shall never have another opportunity. (Ap- 
 proaching her again.) 
 
 Lady S. Get along ! I know you well enough: 
 youare nodevil, but a rascally knave. (Settiiig her- 
 self i7i a posture of defence, "when a noise is 
 heard ^without, and he, taking alarm, makes 
 a hasty exit into the adjoini7ig chamber.) 
 
 Enter Seabright, and Pry coming fearfully after 
 him. 
 
 Sea. Where is this devil that Pry has been 
 telling me of? 
 
 Lady S. (pointing to the adjoining room.) Fol- 
 low him, my dear Sir Anthony ! Follow after the 
 rascal. [Exit Seabright, into the adjoining room. 
 
 Lady S. (calling to him.) Be sure you don't 
 let him escape. — Have you caught him yet ? 
 
 Sea. (within.) Yes, I've cauglit him. 
 
 Lady S. Give him a good beating, then ; don't 
 spare him ! he's a good brawny devil ! O, don't 
 spare him ! 
 
 (A great scuffle is heard within, and Sea. calls to 
 LadyS.) I'm dealing with him roughly enough, if 
 that wil 1 satisfy you. (He ihcncalls out as f speaking 
 
A COMEDY. 447 
 
 to the devil) And take that, and that, and that, 
 too, you diabolical rascal ! You must have mid- 
 night frolics in my house, must you ? 
 Enter Sophia, alarmed. 
 
 Sophia, What is all this ? Did I not hear my 
 father's voice ? 
 
 Lady S. (looking suspiciously at her.) Yes, you 
 know nothing of the matter, innocent lamb ! 
 
 Pry. I hope my master will give him a sound 
 beating, for I know well enough it is that knave 
 llobeit : I could smell the very stink of his to- 
 bacco as he claw'd me in the passing. 
 
 Lady S. Drag him to the light, Sir Anthony : 
 let us see him stript of his devil's skin. Ha! here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Seabright, dragging in Sir Crafty Sup- 
 
 PLECOAT, "isoho is pulkd along very unwillingly, 
 
 and hiding his face with his arm. 
 
 Pry. Why that an't like him, neither. Come, 
 
 come ! take down your arm, and let us see who 
 
 you are. (Pulling down his ar7n, and discovering 
 
 his face.) 
 
 All. (exclaiming.) Sir Crafty Supplecoat! 
 Soph, (clajjpi^ig her hands.) O, I'm glad of that! 
 I'm so glad that it is only Sir Crafty ! I should 
 have been grieved indeed if it had been poor 
 Robert. And so it is you, Sir Crafty ! ha, ha, 
 ha, ha ! (Alljoin her in laughing heartily, whilst 
 Robert, having pidled off his devil's dress, 
 enters accompanied by Sharp, and some of 
 the other servants, and joins also in tlie 
 laugh.) 
 
448 THE SECOND MARRI AGE : 
 
 Lady. S. {going up to Sir Crafty mth great in- 
 dignat'wji.') And so, Sir Crafty Siipplecoat, it is to 
 your midnight mummery 1 am indebted for the 
 stern and solemn threatenings I have received ! 
 I have been visited I find by a devil of conse- 
 quence. Your earnest zeal for my reformation 
 is, indeed, very flattering. 
 
 Sea. Sir Crafty, mean and despicable as you 
 must appear to me, I have too much respect for 
 your situation in life to expose you any longer 
 to this open humiliation and disgrace. Come 
 with me to my dressing-room. 
 
 Sir C. I protest to you, Sir Anthony, and to 
 Lady Sarah, and to all the world if they were 
 here present, that I am in no wise concerned in 
 what you suspect me of. 
 
 Lady S. O, certainly you protest, Sir Crafty ! 
 but do you think that will pass upon me? Have 
 I not known you since you were a boy but so 
 high, with all your little, artful, wriggling, under- 
 hand ways of getting your play-fellows' toys from 
 them, which I always despised and contemned ? 
 To be sure, you will protest any thing, and in 
 the politest manner, too : you will send a mes- 
 sage to Sir Anthony to morrow morning, I doubt 
 not, to enquire how he does ; and to hope that 
 his fists are not too much fatigued with their 
 last night's exertions. (All the servants lavgh 
 again.^ 
 
 Sea. Come, come, this is too bad ! Retire with 
 me, Sir Crafty : you can say nothing for yourself at 
 
A COMEDY. 449 
 
 this moment. I am sorry I have rib-roasted you 
 so unmercifully ; can you walk ? 
 Sir C. (very shortlij.) Yes, yes. 
 Rob. O we'll help his honour. (Going up with 
 
 Sharp, very provokingly^ to assist him.) 
 Sir C. Keep off, scoundrels ! you are at the 
 bottom of all this. 
 
 [Exeunt Seabright leading out Sir Crafty m 
 a very rueful plight, Jolloiced by Lady Sarah 
 and Sophia, and the servants, endeavouring 
 to stifle tJieir laughter. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Seabright's Library. A great noise and con- 
 fusion of voices is heard mthout. 
 
 Seabright. (^speaking uithout.) Torment me no 
 more with these things ! I will hear no more com- 
 plaints, and no more explanations! Let me have 
 peace, I beseech you, in mine own house, for one 
 half-hour at least. (^He enters much disturbed, shut- 
 ting the door violently behind him, and pacing up 
 and doW7i the i^oom, sometimes muttering to him- 
 self, and sometimes speaking aloud.) What ! is 
 there no getting on in this upward path of ho- 
 nour, unless we tear our way through all these 
 briars and nettles? — Contention and misery at 
 home ! is this the price we pay for honour and 
 distinction in the world ? Would no honours 
 take root on my untoward soil, till I had grubb'd 
 up every sprig and shoot of comfort to make 
 room for them ? It were better to be a panniered 
 jack-ass, and pick up my scanty provender from 
 
 VOL. II. G G 
 
4.50 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 the ditch, than be a garter'd peer in such a home 
 as this. — I had once a home ! (beating his heel 
 rapidlif upon thejioor.) — Well, well, well, I have 
 push'd my bark from the shore, and I must take 
 wind and tide as they set. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Who comes to disturb me now ? 
 
 Ser, A packet, please your honour, from Mr. 
 Plausible. 
 
 Sea. (eagerly.) Ha ! give it me. (Exit Ser.) 
 Yes, it is the plan. {Tearing off the cover.') I hold 
 in my hand, perhaps, that which shall put every 
 domestic arrangement on such an ample footing, 
 as must extinguish these petty broils. (^A pause, 
 and then his countenance lightening up eagerly.) 
 Ah, do I indeed grasp in this handful of paper 
 the embryo of my future fortune ? In faith, I 
 could almost believe that I do ! Let me go to my 
 closet and examine it. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A Room in the Inn. Enter Seabright and 
 
 Landlady, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Sea. So, Mr. Plausible is not yet come ? 
 
 Land. No, your honour, not as I know of. 
 There is a dark-looking, lank gentleman in the 
 cow-yard, just now, asking our Bridget how many 
 pounds of butter may be made out of one cow*s 
 milk in a year, and such like, and setting all that 
 she says down in his pocket-book. He, he, he ! 
 poor thing, she scarcely knows a cow from a 
 
A COMEDY. 451 
 
 sheep, by reason that she is but a poor pea-picking 
 girl from St. Giles's, that has scarcely been a 
 month in the country; howsomever, he gets 
 wonderfully on with his information. 
 
 Sea. Ay, that is him : he has a talent for pick- 
 ing up information upon every subject, and from 
 every body : pray let him know I am here. (Exit 
 Land.) — (4ft^^ musing a little while.) Ten thou- 
 sand a-year ! and the risk of failing but a mere 
 trifle, not to be taken into the calculation. And 
 his reasons are good, obvious, and convincing. 
 But let me be moderate now : let me suppose that 
 it only brings me in six thousand a-year i; even 
 that will entitle me to a peerage. 
 
 Enter Plausible. 
 
 Plan. I have a request to make to you, Sir An- 
 thony. 
 
 Sea. What is that, my dear Plausible ? 
 
 Plau. When you purchase the large estate in 
 Shropshire, will you let me have an easy lease of a 
 good-pasture farm or two upon it ? It will be a 
 country-retirement for me ; and I iind on calcula- 
 tion that a hundred milk-cows, well fed and weU 
 managed, will bring in no contemptible revenue. 
 
 Sea. (^smiling.') You talk of this estate with 
 great confidence. Plausible. 
 
 Plau. Nay, I am only certain of putting the 
 money to buy it into your pocket ; you will pur- 
 chase it or not, as you please. 
 
 Sea. I begin, indeed, to think ^a^•ourably of 
 
 G G "-^ 
 
i,52 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 your scheme, and I appointed you to meet me 
 here that we might not be interrupted by Lady 
 Sarah. Women, you know, are timorous, and have 
 no idea of increasing a fortune except by saving. 
 We shall look over your calculations together. 
 If salt is raised but one penny in the pound, 
 how many thousands do I put in my pocket ? 
 
 Plan. This paper will inform you exactly. And 
 you see I have put but one penny upon the pound; 
 for salt being a necessary of life, greatly to in- 
 crease its price would be hard and unfeeling ; 
 it would make you unpopular in the country, 
 and in the end create a resistance detrimental to 
 its own ends. I am for moderate and sure gains. 
 
 Sea. {taking the paper.) I esteem you for it ; 
 my ideas coincide with yours most perfectly in 
 this particular; and the paper also, in which you 
 have drawn out your plan for buying up the rock- 
 salt, I should be glad to look over that. 
 
 Plan. Here it is in my pocket. 
 
 Enter Beaumont and William Beaumont. 
 
 Sea. {angrily.) Who comes now ? O, it is you, 
 Beaumont. We are busy ; 1 shall come to you by- 
 and-bye, but at present I cannot be interrupted. 
 
 Bea. I must speak with you, my friend. 
 
 Sea. Not at present : — you see I am engaged. 
 
 Bea. {becko7iing him.) But one word in your 
 ear, I beseech you. 
 
 Sea. Yes, by-and-bye ; at present I am busy 
 with affairs of importance. 
 2 
 
A CO.AIEDV. 453 
 
 Bea. By-and-bye will, perhaps, be too late : I 
 must speak with you immediately. {Beckon'mg 
 him again.') 
 
 Sea. {impatiently.) I cannot speak with you 
 just now, Beaumont, and 1 will not. 
 
 Bea. No, no ! you will. If tiiere be any love 
 of God, or any love of man in your heart, you 
 will speak w ith me. 
 
 Sea. (softened.) Well then. (Goes to Beau- 
 mont, xcho ichispers in his ear, and endeavours to 
 draxv him awaij.) No, I won't go with you, 
 Beaumont, to be retarded and cross' d wdth your 
 fears and suspicions : speak out boldly, and Mr. 
 Plausible will answer for himself. (Smiling to 
 Plan.) I believe w^e must explain our plan to 
 this good friend of mine, for he thinks you are 
 going to ruin me, and he is miserably afraid of 
 projectors ; ha, ha, ha I 
 
 Flail, (smiling placidhj.) I esteem him for the 
 interest he takes in his friend, and I don't con- 
 demn his suspicions : there are so many absurd 
 schemes in the world, that it is prudent to be 
 distrustful ; but I will show him the firm ground 
 on which we rest, and he will be satisfied. Do 
 me the honour, my dear Sir, to sit down by me, 
 and ril explain it to you. (To Beau.) 
 
 Bea. Pray don't take that trouble, Mr. Plau- 
 sible : I have no information for enabling me to 
 judge of it : my mind has been little exercised in 
 regard to the money-aflfairs of the world. But 
 
 G G O 
 
4dh THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 though I ain not a man of the world, I have one 
 or two things to say to my friend that I wish him 
 to attend to. 
 
 Sea. {smiling rather contemptuously.) Well, 
 what are they, Beaumont ? you are, indeed, not 
 a man of the world. 
 
 Bea. Every man who risks his fortune in any 
 scheme believes he has good grounds to rest 
 upon : they are such as appear feasible to him. 
 
 Sea. Feasible ! ours is certain. 
 
 Bea. (shaking his head.) A man who is anxious 
 to get rich is apt to let his judgment be imposed 
 upon, and forgets how many have faiPd in the 
 same track before him. 
 
 Sea. I wish those who are apt to give advice, 
 would take the same thing into their consider- 
 ation. 
 
 Bea. Nay, my friend, there is a social influ- 
 ence which we all have, even the meanest of us, 
 over one another, and there is more advice taken 
 in the world than you are aware of. But had 
 every adviser from the beginning of time faiPd. 
 before me, I will never believe that he who 
 pleads to a father in behalf of his own children 
 will speak without effect. Hear me then ; let 
 him who stands alone, run every risk to aggran- 
 dize himself, but let a father — O let the father 
 of a family consider ! 
 
 Plau. You forget, my good Sir, that the father 
 of a family has a higher motive than any other 
 man to aggrandize himself. 
 
A COMEDT. 455 
 
 Sea. {vehemenllif .') Rather than not place my 
 children in the situation I desire for them, I 
 would have no children at all. 
 
 Bea. {xiith 'warmth S) What! will you say of 
 creatures passing onward to the noblest destin- 
 ation, you had rather they had never been, un- 
 less they can gather up so much dust and trash 
 on their way ? You think yourself an ambitious 
 parent — O, I would be for them a thousand 
 times more ambitious than thou art. 
 
 Sea. Yes, you will shape your son's fortune 
 out of the clouds, I make no doubt. {Smiling 
 contemptuously. ) 
 
 Will. B. (who has modestly kept behind, ?iow 
 coming Jbnvard with spirit.) Wherever my for- 
 tune may be shaped for me, to be the honest, 
 well-principled son of an honest and good father, 
 is a distinction I would not give up for all 
 that you, and men like you, are scrambling for. 
 {Turning to Bea.) Come away, father ; they but 
 mock at what you say. 
 
 Bea. Let him mock if he will, but let him hear 
 me. 
 
 Plau. He v/ill hear your advice with great 
 pleasure from the pulpit, Mr. Beaumont. 
 
 Will. B. It would have been happy for the un- 
 fortunate men who have listened to yours, Mr. 
 Plausible, if they had received it from the same 
 place. {Pulling Beaumont away.) Come away, 
 father, you but waste words upon them. • 
 
 G G 4 
 
45G THE SECOND MAIlItlAGE : 
 
 Bea. Nay, I would yet try if there is not some 
 heart in him to be moved. 
 
 Sea. My dear Beaumont, you are a very good 
 man, but you know nothing of the matter. 
 
 IVill. B. {jmlling away his father.') Leave 
 them, leave them, Sir ! Good man, as he con- 
 temptuously calls you, you are also wise enough 
 for me : and I would not exchange fathers with 
 the proudest young lord in the kingdom. 
 
 [Exeunt Bea. and Will. B., Will. putti7ig 
 his father's arm proudly under his, and 
 walking offxvith spirit. 
 
 Flau. We are obliged to that young dog, how- 
 ever, for taking him away. 
 
 Sea. Yes ; but we'll go to another room, for 
 he may return again. [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT» 
 
A COiMEDY. 457 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Seabright'5 Library. He is dis- 
 covered sitting by a Table fast asleep^ on which 
 are scattered Letters and Papers. Enter Pry 
 softly behind on her Tiptoes, and snaking a long 
 Neck to see what he is about. 
 
 Pry. (^shaking her head piteoiisly .^ Poor man ! 
 poor man ! he can't sleep in his bed o'nights, and 
 yet he has never committed any wicked crimes, 
 that 1 ever heard of. 
 
 Sea. (^angrily, after speaking inarticulately to 
 himself in his sleep.) You don't know my name ! 
 (muttering again inarticulately.) The name of 
 Lord Seabright! {muttering again, whilst Pry 
 slips still nearer to him, listening with a face of 
 great curiosity.) I can't walk in my robes any 
 longer. — See how the crowd stares at me ; ha, 
 ha, ha ! (laughing uncouthly, and Pry drawing 
 still tiearer hiin, comes against a chair on her way, 
 the noise of which wakes /?^V?^, and she retires pre- 
 cipitately.) What's that? (inibbing his eyes and 
 looking round.) It has been some noise in my 
 dream. Ah ! would it had been a reality ! — 
 What a busy, prosperous, animating world I have 
 been in for these last two hours, (looking at his 
 watch.) Ha ! I have slept only a (juarter of an 
 
458 THE SECOND MARRIAGES 
 
 hour ; and I have enjoyed as many honours in 
 that short term as would enrich my Hfetime. — 
 Shall they indeed enrich it? — Wise men, in 
 former ages, considered the visions of our sleep 
 as faintly sketching out what is to happen, like 
 trees and castles seen thro' the morning mist, be- 
 fore the brightening sun gives to them the dis- 
 tinct clearness of reality. {Smiling animatedly.) In 
 faith I could almost believe it ! There is that 
 vigorating confidence within me which says I 
 shall not stop short at these paltry attainments — 
 A baronet ! every body now is a baronet. — My 
 soul disdains the thought, (Gives his chair a kicky 
 and overturning it with a great noise,) 
 
 Enter Pry alarmed. 
 
 Try. O la. Sir ! what is the matter ? 
 
 Sea. What ! are you up, Pry ? Why are you out 
 of bed so late ? 
 
 Fry. Making your coffee. Sir. 
 
 Sea. Did not I tell you to leave it on the lamp, 
 and go to bed ? 
 
 Fry. Yes ; but I thought it would keep 
 warmer, somehow, if I sat by it myself. 
 
 Sea. (aside.) Great fool ! (aloud.) Let me have 
 some of it, then ; my head will be clearer after- 
 wards for writing. [Exit. 
 
 Pry. (shaking her head, and looking after him 
 as he goes out.) Poor man 1 he would have every 
 body to go to bed but himself. What has he got 
 here now ? (looking at the papers on the table.) 
 Copies of letters to mv Lord B — , and notes for 
 
A COMEDY. 4.59 
 
 a speech on the salt duties ; and calculations. — 
 O lud, lud ! What a power of trouble he does 
 give himself! Poor man ! poor man ! (Exit in a 
 hurry, calling out as she goes,) I just stay'd be- 
 hind, Sir, to stir the fire for you. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the Inn. Enter Mrs. Beaumont a?id 
 Landlady, bij different sides. 
 
 Land. La, madam ! here be the great Lord, 
 Lady Sarah Seabright's brother, who wants to 
 see you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Wants to see me? how comes this 
 great condescension ? 
 
 Land. I reckon. Madam, that some misfortune 
 has befallen him, and that makes some folks won- 
 derfully well bred. I was just standing at the door, 
 a few minutes ago, and thinking, to be sure, no- 
 thing at all of the matter, when who should I see 
 drive past but my Lord, just turning the corner 
 as he used to do to Sir Anthony's gate. Well, I 
 thinks no more of the matter, when in a trice by 
 comes that saucy-looking gentleman of his, that 
 turns up his nose at my ale, and puts a letter into 
 his lord's hand ; upon which, after he had read it, 
 he desired his postillions to turn round and set 
 him down here. I'm sure as I am a living wo- 
 man that something has happen'd, for he came 
 into the house with a face as white as my apron. 
 
 Mrs. B. And wants to see me ? 
 
 Land. Yes, Madam j he ask'd first of all for 
 
460 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Mr. Beaumont, and finding he had walk'd out, 
 he ask'd next for you. 
 
 Mrs. B. But how did he know we were here ? 
 
 Land. La, Madam ! he saw your carriage in the 
 yard ; and moreover your man told him that his 
 master and mistress had stopp'd here, on their 
 way to Yorkshire, to see Sir Anthony's children. 
 But here he comes. Madam. Save us all ! how 
 proud and how vexed he looks ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lord Allcrest. 
 
 Lord A. Madam, I am sorry to find Mr. Beau- 
 mont is gone out : I had something of importance 
 to communicate to him, but I believe it will be 
 nearly the same thing if 1 impart it to you. I — I — 
 {seems embarrassed.) — It is an unfortunate affair. 
 As to myself, I have little to do with it ; but it is 
 right that the near relations of Sir Anthony Sea- 
 bright should know, that his salt scheme has en- 
 tirely fail'd, and he is involved in utter ruin : they 
 can communicate the dreadful tidings to him 
 more properly than 1 can. 
 
 Mrs. B. We are obliged to you, my Lord : it is 
 a piece of intelligence we have every day expected 
 to hear, but which does not certainly concern us 
 more nearly than yourself; as I, who am Sir An- 
 thony's connection, stand exactly in the same 
 degree of relation to him with your Lordship. 
 
 Lord A. Yes ; my sister, indeed, would gratify 
 very foolishly a foolish inclination — but it is a 
 recent thing, scarcely to be consider'd as a — 
 a — a — he had many children by your sister, and 
 lived with her many years. 
 
A COMEDY. [(')[ 
 
 Miss. B. (^smiling with great contempt.') I don't 
 know, indeed, at what time, from the date of a 
 man's marriage, he ought to chiim affinity with 
 his wife's relations : perhaps it varies with occur- 
 rences, and misfortunes certainly have no ten- 
 dency to shorten it. 
 
 Lord A. Madam, let me have the honour to 
 inform you, that there is no term in which the 
 chief of a noble and ancient family can be con- 
 taminated by the inferior alliances of those indi- 
 viduals who belong to his family : such things are 
 consider'd as mere adventitious circumstances. 
 
 Mrs. B. You teach me, my Lord, to make 
 very nice distinctions; and therefore, whilst I 
 pay all respect to you as the representative of a 
 noble family, you must likewise permit me to 
 express for you, as an individual, sentiments of a 
 very opposite nature. 
 
 Lord A. Good breeding, madam, will not per- 
 mit me to return such an answer as you deserve ; 
 and therefore I will no longer intrude on your 
 time. 
 
 Mrs. B. A better excuse, perhaps, might be 
 found ; but any one will be perfectly acceptable 
 that procures me the pleasure of wishing your 
 Lordship good morning. 
 
 {As Lord AUcrest is about to go out, enter 
 Beaumont «7zrf Morgan, and prevent him.) 
 
 Bea. I am sorry, my Lord, I was not in the way 
 when you did me the honour to enquire for me. 
 
 Lord A. {passing him abruptly Xiith a slight bow.) 
 Good morning, Sir ; good morning. 
 
I<fi2 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Bea. {going after him.) You are not going to 
 leave me thus, my Lord, angry and disturb'd as 
 you appear to be ? I cannot suffer any body, man, 
 woman, or child, to leave me offended, if it be 
 possible for me to part with them on more ami- 
 cable terms. I flatter myself it is possible to do 
 so on the present occasion : I am sure, — I am 
 confident of it, if you will do me the honour to 
 explain in what way I can be useful to you. 
 
 Lord A. I came here, Sir, upon no concerns 
 of my own ; and the conversation I have had 
 the honour to hold with this lady, makes any 
 explanation of the business that brought me un- 
 necessary. 
 
 Bea. But she is angry too, I perceive, and I 
 will have no explanation from her. I know 
 already the unfortunate affairs of poor Seabright; 
 and I can explain to myself the intention of your 
 Lordship's visit : you must have the goodness to 
 stay and hear if I explain it right. (^Taking him hy 
 the coaty and 'preventing him from going.') Nay, 
 nay, my Lord ! the spirit of charity and peace- 
 making makes a well-meaning man very bold, — 
 you shall stay. 
 
 Lord A. {relenting^ and turning back.) I do 
 believe, Mr. Beaumont, that you are a very good 
 man, and as such 1 respect you ; but since you 
 already know the misfortune of Sir Anthony Sea- 
 bright, and will, from the dictates of your own 
 good heart, open the matter to him in the best 
 manner possible, my business with you is an- 
 ticipated. 
 
A COMEDY. 4G5 
 
 Mrs. B. Not, I believe, entirely, my Lord ; 
 for he knows nothing at all, as yet, of those nice 
 distinctions between individual and family rela- 
 tionship, which may be necessary to prevent him 
 from forming any unreasonable expectations from 
 a noble brother-in-law. 1 presume your Lord- 
 ship means to hurry back to town again, witliout 
 seeing Sir Anthony. 
 
 Bea. Hold your tongue, Susan ; your spirit is 
 less mild than it ought to be, considering the 
 warm good heart it belongs to. It is not so : his 
 Lordship did notintend returning to town without 
 seeing his distressed friend ; you are wrong in 
 the very outset of your account -—is she not, my 
 Lord ? 
 
 Lord A. (confused and hesitating.) If my seeing; 
 him could be of any real service, 1 should never— > 
 I could not certainly have thought of returning 
 without seeing him. — But he has never at- 
 tended to my opinions : my advice has been dis- 
 regarded — and then, his damn'd vanity : he re- 
 fused an office the other day, which I had pro- 
 cured for him, that would have been a compe- 
 tency for life — it makes me mad to think of it. 
 
 Bea. Ah, my Lord ! he is in that state in 
 which a man's errours should be remember*d 
 only by himself : he is in adversity. 
 
 Lord A. He has thought only of himself, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Bea. His connection with your sister has in- 
 deed been unlucky ; and I can, in some degree, 
 sympathize with your resentment. 
 
THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 {ord A. You mistake me, Sir ; his connection 
 /(th my sister is of no consequence to me ; and I 
 y^hall take care that it shall be of as little to her 
 as possible, for I will make her independent of 
 him : but children ! — risking every thing on one 
 single stake, with a family of children ! — I am 
 provoked beyond all measure when I think of 
 this. 
 
 Mrs. B. {bridling up,) His children, my Lord — 
 
 Bea, Now pray, my dear, hold your tongue, if 
 it be possible ! We are weak, passionate crea- 
 tures; why should we rub and fret one another 
 thus? {To Lord A.) I praise you much, my Lord, 
 for the interest you take in the children ; but here 
 is a good man {pointing to Morgan) j who will — 
 
 Mor. Stop, stop, my good friend,and don't now 
 lead me into any discussion upon this subject. I 
 am disturbed, and uncomfortable, and unequal to 
 it. Take his Lordship by himself ; and say to 
 him what you please for me. {To Mrs. B.) Come 
 with me, niece. [Exeunt Mor. and Mrs. B. 
 
 Bea. Let me have the pleasure of attending 
 your Lordship into the fields, where we can take a 
 short turn or two, and speak of this subject at 
 length : 1 see strangers arrived j and it is noisy 
 here. 
 
 Lord A. Most willingly. [Exeunt. 
 
A COMEDY. 465 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Seabright*s house. Enter Seabright, folloxved 
 hy Sophia, the Eldest Boy, and the Little Girl. 
 
 Soph. Indeed, papa, you are in such good 
 humour this morning, we can't help following 
 you. I hope we are not troublesome ; if we are^ 
 I'll take the children away. 
 
 Sea. No, my good children, you are not trou- 
 blesome ; you shan't go away. {The children 
 hang on his coat, and look up in his Jac^- 
 much pleased.) 
 
 Soph. They are so glad to hang upon you 
 again, papa ; and you are so good-humour'd this 
 morning ! 
 
 Sea. I finish'd my papers last night ; and I 
 have had some pleasant dreams too. — This is a 
 cheerful, enlivening morning : every thing is in 
 bright sunshine around us : it is like a day that 
 wears good fortune on its face : — and, perhaps, 
 it does. 
 
 Soph. I hope it does : and now that you seem 
 so happy, papa, I would fain plead to you in 
 behalf of a poor good man, who is not very 
 happy at present. 
 
 Sea. And who is that ? 
 
 SopK Ah, you know very well ; it is poor 
 Robert. 1 know it was very wrong in him to 
 frighten Lady Sarah ; but he meant it for our 
 good, and he will break his heart if he is not 
 allow'd to be with us again. 
 
 VOL. II. H H 
 
466 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Sea. Say no more of tliis at present, Sophia ; 
 and perhaps, by-and-bye, he may return to us 
 again as your own servant. 
 
 Soph. Ha! (^surprised.') 
 
 Sea. Yes, my sweet girl; I wiil be very Hberal 
 to you and to all my children : I will make a 
 good amends to you for all that is past. (^Turning 
 to the Boy.) And you, my good boy, I must think 
 of you by-and-bye. Thou art become a stout 
 boy, George : let me look at thy face. (^Lifting up 
 his hair from his forehead,') Ay, it is a comely 
 face enough : it will make a very good counte- 
 nance for an admiral, or a general, or even for the 
 woolsack, if thine inclinations should lead thee 
 that way. Let me feel thy weight too, young 
 rogue. (^Taking him up in his arms.) Ah I would 
 now that I could but know the rank and emin- 
 ence of the future man I hold in these arms ! 
 
 Sojjh. My dear Sir, you are so good to us, and 
 so good-humoured this morning, I could wager 
 those letters by the post have brought you plea- 
 sant news. 
 
 Sea. Letters by the post ! I have received 
 none. 
 
 Soph. Then you have not read them yet. You 
 slept so much longer than usual this morning, 
 that you were not up when they came, and they 
 were put on the table in the next room. (^Point- 
 ing off the stage.) 
 
 Sea. Let me see them, then ; if they bring me 
 any good news, they are welcome. 
 
 [Exit witJi a light active step. 
 
A COMEDY. 467 
 
 Soph. Now, children, did not I tell you yes- 
 terday that papa would love us again ? and you 
 see he has begun to do it already. 
 
 Boy. And so he does, Sopliy ; and I'm sorry 
 I spoke so naughtily of him, for my heart jumps 
 so when he loves me! (^Looking off the stage.) But 
 see ! what is he about now, beating his forehead 
 and walking up and down so strangely ? 
 Soph. O dear ! something is the matter. 
 
 [Exit, alanned. 
 Boy. (to little girl.) Now don't ask me for 
 those marbles at present, Emma : I can't find 
 them, I don't know where they are. (Looking off 
 the stage again.) O how terrible he looks! 
 
 (Re-enter Seabright, with an open letter in 
 his Jiand, heating his head with his clenched 
 hands^ and tossing about his arm distract- 
 edly, followed by Sophia, who seemsfright- 
 ened at him, andyet wishing to soothe him. 
 A long pause, in which he paces up and 
 down the stage frtllowed by Sophia, whilst 
 the children rzm into a corner, Jrightencd, 
 and stare at him.) 
 Soph, (after attempting in vain several times to 
 speak.) My father ! my dear, dear father ! (He 
 still paces up and down without heeding her.) O 
 if you would but speak two words, and tell what 
 is the matter with you, my dear, dear Sir ! 
 
 Sea. I am ruined, and deceived, and undone! 
 I am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — I have made 
 beggars of you all ! 
 
 H H !2 
 
4-68 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Soph. O no, father! that won't be ! for God's 
 sake don't take on so violently ! 
 
 Sea. {still pacmgn/p anddoxim,folloXi'ed by Soph.) 
 I am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — disgrace, and 
 ridicule, and contempt ! — Ideot, ideot, ideot ! O 
 worse tlian ideot ! 
 SopJi. Dear father ! 
 
 (TJie children rmi^ and take hold of Sophia, 
 as she follows him.) 
 Sea. Come not near me — come not near me» 
 children — I have made beggars of you ail! 
 
 Soph. But we will come near you, my dear 
 
 father, and love you, and bless you, too, whatever 
 
 you have done. Ay, and if we are beggars, we 
 
 will beg wdth you, and beg for you cheerfully. 
 
 Sea. Oh, oh, oh! This is more than I can bear! 
 
 (Throws himself into a chair ^ quite overcomCy 
 
 whilst the children stand gazing on him, 
 
 and Sophia Jiangs over him affectionatchj.') 
 
 Enter Lady Sarah. 
 
 Lady S, What are you doing here, children ? 
 — What is all this for? — What is the matter with 
 you. Sir Anthony? — No answer at all? — What 
 letter is this? (Picks up the letter xvhich Seabright 
 had dropt in his agitation^ and reads it; then 
 breaking out violently.') O, I told you it would 
 come to this ! — I counsell'd you — I warn'd you 
 — I beseech'd you. O Sir Anthony ! Sir Anthony ! 
 what devil tempted you to such madness as this? 
 
 Soj)h. Oh, madum, ilo not upbraid him ! See 
 how he is ! 
 
A roMF.nv. l()9 
 
 IauIi) S. I see how it is, well enough : the devil, 
 the devil of ambition has tempted him. — (Going 
 nearer him with great vehemence.) Did not I tell 
 you that with prudence and management, and 
 economy, we should in the end amass a good 
 fortune? but you must be in such a hurry to get 
 rich ! — O it would get the better of a saint's 
 spirit to think how I have saved, and regulated, 
 and laid down rules for my household, and that 
 it should all come to this ! — To have watched, 
 and toiled, and fretted as I have done, and all 
 to no purpose ! — If I did not begrudge the very 
 food that was consumed in the family ! — If I 
 did not try all manner of receipts that the wife 
 of the meanest citizen w^ould scarcely have 
 thought of! — If I did not go a bargain-hunting 
 thro* every shop in London, and purchase 
 damaged muslins even for my own wearing ! — 
 It is very hard — it is very hard, indeed. (Bursting 
 into tears.) O it is enough to turn a woman's 
 brains ! 
 
 Sea. (starting j/p in a r^/o-<?.') By heavens ! madam, 
 it is enough to turn a man's brains to think, that, 
 in addition to the ruin I have brought upon my- 
 self and my children, I have taken to my bosom 
 — I have set over their innocent heads, a hard- 
 hearted, narrow, avaricious w^oman, whose mean- 
 ness makes me contemptible, whose person and 
 character I despise ! — This, madam, the spirit 
 of ambition, which you talk of, has tempted me 
 " to do; and for this, more than all his other malice, 
 I will curse him ! 
 
 HH 3 
 
470 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 Soph, {endeavouring to soothe him.) Pray be 
 not so violent with her ! she does not consider 
 what she says — she did not intend to hurt you. 
 
 Lady S. Sir Anthony Seabright, you are abase 
 man and a deceiver : my brother shall know how 
 you have used me : he has made you a Member 
 of Parliament and a Baronet. 
 
 Sea. Yes, and a contemptible fool, and a 
 miserable wretch into the bargain. But, no, no, 
 no! I have made myself so ; I deserve my punish- 
 ment. — 
 
 J^nter Lord Allcrest, Beaumont, Morgan, 
 
 Mrs. B. a?id William B. 
 And here are more of my advisers and beseechers 
 come to visit me : advance, advance, good friends ! 
 you are come to look upon a ruined man, and you 
 are gratified. 
 
 Bea. (going up to him affectionately.) No, my 
 dear Seabright ; in a very different spirit are we 
 come : we come to sympathize with you, and to 
 console you. 
 
 Sea. I hate sympathy, and I hate consolation ! 
 
 You are come, I suppose, to sympathize with me 
 
 too, my Lord, and to put me in mind of the 
 
 damn'd place I have given up to that knave Sir 
 
 . Crafty Supplecoat. 
 
 Lord A. No, Sir Anthony, I scorn to upbraid, 
 but I pretend neither to sympathize with you nor 
 to console you: I come to rescue my sister from a 
 situation unworthy of a daughter of the house of 
 Allcrest, and she sliall go home with me. 
 
A COMEDY. 471 
 
 Sea. Nay, by the sincerity of a miserable man, 
 
 but you do console me. — Take hero' God's name •' 
 
 1 received her not half so willingly as 1 resign her 
 
 to you again. (Taking Lady Sarah'.s hand to give 
 
 her to her brother^ which she pulls a*way 
 
 from him angrily^ and going up to Lord 
 
 All crest, gives him her hand as an act of 
 
 Iter ozcn.) 
 
 Ladij S. If my brother will, indeed, have the 
 goodness ! 
 
 Boy, {skipping joyfully.') Sophy! sister Sophy! 
 she is going away from us ! is not that nice ? 
 
 Soph. Hush, George ! 
 
 Sea. {to Mrs. B. on perceiving her smile to her- 
 self.) Yes, madam, I make no doubt but all this 
 is very amusing to you — you are also come, no 
 doubt, to bestow upon me your contribution of 
 friendly sympathy. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed, Sir Anthony, recollecting the 
 happiness you have enjoyed, and the woman that 
 shared it with you, you are entitled to no small 
 portion of pity. 
 
 Bea, {to Mrs. B.) Fie upon it! tie upon it, Su- 
 san ! can't you hold out your hand to him, and 
 forgive him nobly, without tacking those little 
 imgracious recollections to it? (2b Sea.) Indeed, 
 my dear Seabright, you look upon us all with the 
 suspicious eye of an unfortunate man ; but we are 
 truly come to you in kindness and Christian sim- 
 plicity ; and we bring you comfort. 
 
 Sea. Yes, Beaumont, you come to me in simpli- 
 city. What comfort can you bring to me, ruined 
 
 H H 4 
 
47- THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 as I am? all my fair prospects blasted! all my ho- 
 nours disgraced ! sunk even to obscurity and con- 
 tempt! you are indeed come in great simplicity. 
 Bea, What comfort can we bring you ? does 
 grandeur and riches include the whole of human 
 happiness, that you should now feel yourself in- 
 consolable and hopeless? Cannot a quiet, modest 
 retreat, independent of the bustle of the world, 
 still be a situation of comfort ? 
 
 Sea. I know what you mean : contemptible, 
 slothful obscurity. 
 
 Bea. You mistake me. Sir Anthony ; respect- 
 able and useful privacy. 
 
 Sea. I understand you well enough : hopeless 
 and without object — I abhor it ! 
 
 Bea. What, Seabright ! can a man with a fa- 
 mily to grow up around him, be hopeless and 
 without object? Come here, children, and speak 
 Ibr yourselves. (^He takes the children in his hands^ 
 and encouragitig Sophia to come forward, 
 they surround Seabright.) 
 Sopli. (after endeavouring in vain to speak, and 
 kissing tier father's liand tenderly). O my dear fa- 
 ther ! in the loneliest cottage in England I could 
 be happy with you. I would keep it so neat and 
 comfortable, and do every thing for you so will- 
 ingly; and the children would be so good, if 
 you would but love us enough to be happy 
 with us ! 
 
 Sea. (catching tier in /lis arms.) Come to my 
 heart, my admirable girl ! thou truly hast found 
 the way to it, and a stubborn unnatural heart it 
 
 19 
 
A COMEDY. ■17'3 
 
 has been. But I will love you all — yes, my 
 children, I will love you enough to be happy with 
 you. {Pausing,) I hope 1 shall — |I think I shall. 
 
 Will. B. {eagerlij.) Yes, you will 1 yes,- you 
 will ; if there be one spark of a true man in your 
 breast, you will love them to the last beat of your 
 heart. 
 
 Bea. (smiling affectionately on his son.') Get 
 away, stripling 1 your warmth interrupts us. 
 
 Sea. O no, let him speak! say all of you what 
 you please to me now ! say any thing that will 
 break the current of my miserable thoughts ; for 
 we are at this moment indulging fancies as illusive 
 as those that formerly misled me ; even the cot- 
 tage that we talk of, a peaceful home for my 
 children, is no longer in my power. 
 
 Bea. (going up to Morgan.) Now, my friend, 
 this is the time for you to step forth, and make a 
 subdued father and his innocent children happy: 
 bestow your wealth liberally, and the ^blessings 
 that will fall upon your grey head shall well 
 reward the toils and dangers that have earn'd it. 
 (Leading him to Seabright.) 
 
 Sea. Ha ! what stranger is this ? I observed 
 him not before. 
 
 Bea. Speak for yourself now, Mr. Morgan, I 
 will do no more for you. 
 
 Sea. Mr. Morgan, the uncle of my Caroline ! 
 
 Mor. Yes, Sir Anthony, and very much dis- 
 posed, if you will give him leave, to — to love — 
 to befriend— to be to you and yours — to be the 
 
174 THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 
 
 uncle and friend of you all. {Speaking in a broken 
 agitated voice.) 
 
 Sea. O no ! I am unworthy to receive any 
 thing from you — from the uncle of my much- 
 injured wife; but these children, Mr. Morgan 
 — I am not too proud to ask you to be a friend 
 to them. 
 
 Bea. (Jiastily to Sea.) Poo, man ! you have no 
 real goodness in you, if you cannot perceive that 
 he must and will be a friend to yourself also. 
 Come, come ! give him a hand of fellow^ship ! 
 (^Putting Seabright'5 hand into Morgan'^.) Now, 
 God will bless you both ! 
 
 Mor. If Sir Anthony will permit an old man, 
 who has past thro' many buffetings of fortune to 
 draw his arm-chair by him in the evening of his 
 life, and tell over the varied hardships he has 
 met with, he will cheer its gloom, and make it 
 pass more pleasantly. Q^i^.2i. presses Morgan'^ hand 
 to his breast zcithout speaking.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Mor.) Well said, and gracefully 
 said, my good uncle ! Did not I tell you, you 
 would go through your part well, if you would 
 but trust to the dictates of your own good heart? 
 
 Bea. O there is nobody, when he does what 
 is noble and right, that does not find a way of 
 doing it gracefully. 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Sophia, xvho is going vp timidly to 
 Mor.) Yes, that is right, my dear. Come, chil- 
 dren, {leading the children up to him,) gather all 
 about him. Yes, take hold of him ; don't be 
 
A COMEDY. 475 
 
 afraid to touch him : it does young people good 
 to pat the cheeks of a benevolent old man. (Mor. 
 embraces them affectionately.') 
 
 J nil. B. (joinirig the children in caressiiigMor.) 
 — My dear Mr. Morgan, I love you witli all my 
 soul ! — And my sweet Sophy — my good Sophy, 
 don't you love him too? — She is such a good 
 girl, Mr. Morgan ! 
 
 Mor. So she is, William ; and she must have 
 
 a good husband by-and-bye to reward her. I 
 
 dare say we shall find somebody or other willing 
 
 to have her. (Smiling archly upon William, who 
 
 looks abashed; and letting go Sophy'^ 
 
 handf retires behind.) 
 
 Sea. (to Mor.) I have now voice enough, my 
 generous friend, to say that I am sensible of your 
 goodness : but there are feelings which depress 
 me 
 
 Mor. Say no more about it, my good Sir ! I 
 am happy, and I would have every body to re- 
 joice with me. 
 
 Lord A. (to Mor. leadingforxvard Lady Sarah.) 
 And every body does rejoice with you, my good 
 Sir. Permit me to assure you, that tho', perhaps, 
 somewhat injured with the ways of |the world, I 
 have not been an unfeeling spectator of what has 
 passed ; and I believe Lady Sarah also has not 
 looked upon it with indifference. (Turning to Sea.) 
 Now, Sir Anthony, I would, if possible, part 
 friends with you ; and I have a favour to request, 
 which will, if it is granted, make me forget every 
 unpleasant thing that has passed between us. 
 
47t) TWi: SECOND .AIAIIKJAGE : 
 
 Sea. Mention it, my Lord ; I will not wil- 
 lingly refuse you. 
 
 Lord A. My sister has just now told me, that 
 she will leave you without regret, if you will let 
 her have your youngest boy to live with her : I 
 join my request to her's. 
 
 Boi/. (eagerly.) What, take Tony away from 
 us ! no, but she shan't tho' ! 
 
 Sea. I am much obliged to you, my Lord, and 
 to Lady Sarah also ; but I cannot tind in my 
 heart to divide my children. He shall, however, 
 \isit her frequently, if she will permit him ; and 
 if shewdll have the goodness to forget the hasty 
 words of a passionate man, and still take an in- 
 terest in any thing that belongs to him, he will 
 be gratified by it. 
 
 SopI/. And I will visit Lady Sarah too, if she 
 will have the goodness to permit me. 
 
 Ladi/ S. I thank you, my dear ; it is, perhaps, 
 more than I deserve. (To Mrs. B.) And may I 
 hope, madam, that you will forget whatever un- 
 pleasant things may have passed between us ? 
 
 Bea. (htterrupthig his xvijc as she is about lo 
 speak.') Now answer her pleasantly, my dear Su- 
 san ! {Mrs. B. smiles pleasantly^ and gives her hand 
 to Lady Sarah.) Now every thing is right. O 
 it is a pleasant thing to find that tliere is some 
 good in every human being ! 
 
 Enter a Servant, and whispers to Bea. 
 Is he here ? let him enter then. 
 
 Sea. Who is it ? 1 can see nobody now. 
 
A COMEDV. 477 
 
 Ben. Don't be alarmed: it is a friend of yours, 
 who lias offended you, and takes a very proper 
 season to be forgiven. It is one wlio durst not, 
 in your prosperity, shew you the extent of his 
 attachment ; but he has now come, for he has 
 already open'd his mind to me upon hearing of 
 your misfortunes, to put into your hands, for the 
 benefit of your childi'en, all the little money 
 he has saved, since he first began to lay up 
 one mite after another, and to call it his own 
 property. 
 
 Sea. Who can that be ? I did not think there 
 was a creature in' the world that bore us so much 
 affection. 
 
 Enter Robert, xc/io starts back upon seeing so 
 many people. 
 
 Bea. Come in, my good Robert : (taking his 
 hand and leading himforwajYly) thou need'st not 
 be ashamed to shew thy face here : there is no- 
 body here who will not receive thee graciously, 
 not even Lady Sarah herself. 
 
 ( The children and evert/ body gather round 
 Robert.) 
 
 Sea. {^coming Jbrward with Bea.) Ah, my dear 
 Beaumont, what a charm there is in doing good ! 
 it can give dignity to the meanest condition. 
 Had this unlucky scheme but succeeded, for if 
 we could have but weather'd it a Kttle while 
 longer it must have succeeded, I should have 
 been — I think 1 should have been munificeui 
 as a prince. 
 
4-73 THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 
 
 Bea. Ah, no more of that, my dear friend 1 
 no more of that ! such thoughts are dangerous, 
 and the enemy is still at hand: chide the de- 
 ceiver away from you, even when he makes his 
 appearance in the fair form of Virtue. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND VOLUME, 
 
 Printed by A. and R. Spottiswood?,. 
 Printers-Street, London. 
 
SERIES OF PLAYS: 
 
 IN WHICH 
 
 IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELINEATE 
 
 STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 VOL. in. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, HURST, UEES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 
 PATERNOSIER-ROW, 
 182L' 
 
r^ 
 
 d^ 
 
 3 "2-^ 
 
 Printed by A. and R. Spottiswoodc, 
 Printers- Street, London. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 After an interval of nine years, 1 offer to the 
 Public a third volume of the " Series of Plays;'* 
 hoping that it will be received, as the preceding 
 volumes have been, with some degree of favour 
 and indulgence. This, I confess, is making 
 very slow progress in my promised undertaking; 
 and I could offer some reasonable excuse for an 
 apparent relaxation of industry, were I not afraid 
 it might seem to infer a greater degree of expec- 
 tation or desire, on the part of my Readers, to 
 receive the remainder of the work, than I am at 
 all entitled to suppose. 
 
 With the exception of a small piece, in two 
 acts, at the end of the book, this volume is 
 entirely occupied with different representations 
 of one passion ; and a passion, too, which has 
 been supposed to be less adapted to dramatic 
 purposes than any other — Fear. It has been 
 thought that, in Tragedy at least, the princi- 
 pal character could not possibly be actuated by 
 this passion, without becoming so far degraded 
 as to be incapable of engaging the sympathy and 
 interest of the spectator or reader. I am, liow- 
 
 A 2 
 
IV TO THE HEADER. 
 
 ever, inclined to think, that even Fear, as it is, 
 under certain circumstances and to a certain 
 degree, a universal passion, (for our very admira- 
 tion of Courage rests upon this idea,) is capable 
 of being made in the tragic drama, as it often 
 is in real life, very interesting, and consequently 
 not abject. 
 
 The first of these plays is a Tragedy of five 
 acts, the principal character of which is a 
 woman, under the dominion of Superstitious 
 Fear ; and that particular species of it, (the 
 fear of ghosts, or the returning dead,) which is 
 so universal and inlierent in our nature, that it 
 cann ever be eradicated from the mind, let the 
 progress of reason or philosophy be what it may. 
 A brave and wise man of the 19th century, 
 were he lodged for the night in a lone apart- 
 ment where murder has been committed, would 
 not so easily believe, as a brave and wise man of 
 the 14th century, that the restless spirit from its 
 grave might stalk round his bed and open his 
 curtains in the stillness of midnight : but should 
 circumstances arise to impress him with such a 
 belief, he w^ould feel the emotions of Fear as 
 intensely, though firmly persuaded that such 
 beings have no power to injure him. Nay, I 
 am persuaded that, could we suppose any person 
 with a mind so constituted as to hold intercourse 
 with sucli beings entirely devoid of Fear, we 
 should turn from him with repugnance as some- 
 thing unnatural — as an instance of mental 
 monstrosity. If I am right, then, in believing 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 this impression of the mind to be so universal, 
 I shall not be afraid of having so flir infringed 
 on the dignity of my heroine, as to make her 
 an improper object to excite dramatic interest. 
 Those, I believe, who possess strong imagina- 
 tion, quick fancy, and keen feeling, are most 
 easily affected by this species of Fear : I have, 
 therefore, made Orra a lively, cheerful, buoyant 
 character, v^hen not immediately under its in- 
 fluence ; and even extracting from her super- 
 stitious propensity a kind of wild enjoyment, 
 which tempts her to nourish and cultivate the 
 enemy that destroys her. The catastrophe is 
 such as Fear, I understand, does more com- 
 monly produce than any other passion. I have 
 endeavoured to trace the inferior characters of 
 the piece with some degree of variety, so as to 
 stand relieved from the principal figure ; but as 
 I am not aware that any particular objection is 
 likely to be made to any of them, they shall be 
 left entirely to the mercy of my Readei'. 
 
 But if it has been at all necessary to offer any 
 apology for exhibiting Fear as the actuating 
 principle of the heroine of the first play, what 
 must I say in defence of a much bolder step in 
 the one that follows it, in which I have made 
 Fear, and the fear of Death too, the actuating 
 principle of a hero of Tragedy. I can only say, 
 that I believed it might be done without sub- 
 mitting him to any degradation that would affect 
 the sympathy and interest I intended to excite. 
 I must confess, however, that, being unwilling 
 
 A 3 
 
VI TO THE READER. 
 
 to appropriate this passion in a serious form to 
 my own sex entirely, when the subjects of all 
 the other passions hitherto delineated in this 
 series are men, I have attempted what did in- 
 deed appear at first sight almost impracticable. 
 This esprit de corps must also plead my excuse 
 for loading the passion in question with an ad- 
 ditional play. The fear of Ueath is here exhi- 
 bited in a brave character, placed under such 
 new and appalling circumstances as might, I 
 supposed, overcome the most courageous ; and 
 as soon as he finds himself in a situation like 
 those in which he has been accustomed to be 
 bold, viz. with arms in his hand and an enemy to 
 encounter, he is made immediately to resume 
 all his wonted spirit. Even after he believes 
 himself to be safe, he returns again to attack, 
 in behalf of his companion, who beseeches him 
 to fly, and who is not exposed to any personal 
 danger, a force so greatly superior to his own 
 as to leave himself scarcely a chance for re- 
 demption. 
 
 That great active courage in opposing dan- 
 ger, and great repugnance from passive endur- 
 ance and unknown change which are independ- 
 ent of our exertions, are perfectly consistent, is a 
 point, 1 believe, very well ascertained. Soldiers, 
 who have distinguished themselves honourably 
 in the field, liave died pusillanimously on the 
 scaffold; while men brought up in peaceful 
 habits, wlio, without some very strong excite- 
 ment, would have marched with trepidation to 
 
TO THE READER. Vll 
 
 battle, have died under the hands of the execu- 
 tioner witli magnanimous composure. And, I 
 beheve, it has been found by experience, that 
 women have always behaved with as much reso- 
 lution and calmness in that tremendous situation 
 as men ; although I do not believe that women, 
 in regard to uncertain danger, even making 
 allowance for their inferior strength and unfa- 
 vourable habits of life, are so brave as men. I 
 have therefore supposed that, though active and 
 passive courage are often united, they frequently 
 exist separately, and independently of each 
 other. Nor ought we to be greatly surprised 
 at this, when we consider that a man actively 
 brave, when so circumstanced that no exertion 
 of strength or boldness is of any avail, finds 
 himself in a new situation, contrary to all former 
 experience ; and is therefore taken at greater 
 disadvantage than men of a different character. 
 He, who has less of that s{)irit which naturally 
 opposes an enemy, and still hopes to overcome 
 while the slightest probability remains of suc- 
 cess, has often before, in imagination at least, 
 been in a similar predicament, and is conse- 
 quently better prepared for it. But it is not 
 want of fortitude to bear bodily sufferings, or 
 even deliberately inflicted death under the cir- 
 cumstances commonly attending it, that the cha- 
 racter of Osterloo exhibits : it is the horror he 
 conceives on being suddenly awakened to the 
 imagination of the awful retributions of another 
 world, from having the firm belief of them forced 
 
 A 4> 
 
Vlll TO THE READER. 
 
 at once upon his mind by extraordinary circum- 
 stances, which so miserably quells an otherwise 
 undaunted spirit. I only contend for the con- 
 sistency of brave men shrinking from passive 
 sufferings and unknown change, to shew that, so 
 far from transgressing, I have, in this character, 
 kept much within the bounds which our expe- 
 rience of human nature would have allowed me. 
 If I am tediously anxious to vindicate myself on 
 this subject, let my Reader consider that I am 
 urged to it from the experience I have had of 
 the great reluctance with which people generally 
 receive characters which are not drawn agree- 
 ably to the received rules of dramatic dignity 
 and common-place heroism. 
 
 It may be objected, that the fear of Death is 
 in him so closely connected with Superstitious 
 Fear, that the picture traced in this play bears 
 too near a resemblance to that which is shewn in 
 the foregoing. But the fears of Orra have no- 
 thing to do with apprehension of personal danger, 
 and spring solely from a natural horror of super- 
 natural intercourse : while those of Osterloo 
 arise, as I have already noticed, from a strong 
 sense of guilt, suddenly roused within him by 
 extraordinary circumstances, and the prospect of 
 being plunged . Imost immediately by death into 
 an unknown state of punishment and horror. 
 Not knowing by what natural means his guilt 
 could be brought to light in a manner so extra- 
 ordinary, a mind the least superstitious, in those 
 days, perhaps 1 may even say in these, would 
 
TO THE READER. IX 
 
 have considered it to be supernatural ; and the 
 dreadful consequences, so immediately linked to 
 it, are surely sufficiently strong to unhinge the 
 firmest mind, having no time allowed to prepare 
 itself for the tremendous change. If there is 
 any person, who, under such circumstances, 
 could have remained unappalled, he does not 
 belong to that class of men, who, commanding 
 the fleets and armies of their grateful and ad- 
 miring country, dare every thing by flood and 
 by fleld that is dangerous and terrific for her 
 sake ; but to one far different, whom hard 
 drinking, opium, or impiety, have sunk into a 
 state of unmanly and brutish stupidity. It will 
 probably be supposed that I have carried the 
 consequences of his passion too far in the cata- 
 strophe to be considered as natural; but the only 
 circumstance in the piece that is not entirely 
 invention, is the catastrophe. The idea of it I 
 received from a story told to me by my mother, 
 many years ago, of a man condemned to the 
 block, who died in the same manner ; and since 
 the play has been written, I have had the satis- 
 faction of finding it confirmed by a circumstance 
 very similar, related in Miss Plumtre's interest- 
 ing account of the atrocities committed in Lions 
 by the revolutionary tribunals.* 
 
 The story of the piece is imaginary, though 
 one of its principal circumstances, by a coinci- 
 dence somewhat whimsical, I found after it was 
 
 * Plumtre's Residence in France, vol. i. p. 339. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 written to agree with real history. In looking 
 over Planta's History of Switzerland, I found 
 that a violent pestilence, about the time when I 
 have supposed it to happen, did actually carry 
 off great multitudes of people in that country. * 
 Had it been a real story, handed down by tradi- 
 tion, the circumstances of which were believed 
 to be miraculous, I should have allowed it to 
 remain so ; but not thinking myself entitled to 
 assume so much, I have attempted to trace a 
 natural connection from association of ideas, by 
 which one thing produces another, or is insi- 
 nuated to have done so from beginning to end. 
 The only circumstance that cannot be accounted 
 for on this principle, is the falling of the lot to 
 the guilty hand j and this must be conceded to 
 me as a providential direction, or happy coinci- 
 dence. 
 
 * A plague raged in Switzerland in 1349. It was pre- 
 ceded by terrible earthquakes : about a third part of the in- 
 habitants were destroyed. 
 
 The monastery of St. Maurice, where the story of the 
 play is supposed to have happened, is situated in a narrow 
 pass between lofty precipices, where the Rhone gushes from 
 the Valais. The founder was Segismond, King of Burgundy. 
 It was richly endowed ; the monks at one period leading 
 very luxurious lives, hunting, and keeping hounds, &c. It 
 was dedicated to St. Maurice and his companions, the holy 
 martyrs of the Theban Legion. 
 
 Many of the abbots and priors in Switzerland were, in 
 those days, feudal lords of the empire, and maintained troops 
 of their own. Even some of the abbesses, presiding over 
 convents of nuns, were possessed of the same power and 
 privilege. 
 
TO THE READER. XI 
 
 Contrary to our established laws of Tragedy, 
 this Play consists only of three acts, and is writ- 
 ten in prose. I have made it short, because I 
 was unwilling to mix any lighter matter with a 
 subject so solemn ; and in extending it to the 
 usual length without doing so, it would have 
 been in danger of becoming monotonous and ha- 
 rassing. I have written it in prose, that the 
 expressions of the agitated person might be 
 plain, though strong, and kept as closely as pos- 
 sible to the simplicity of nature. Such a subject 
 would, I believe, have been weakened, not en- 
 riched, by poetical embellishment. Whether I 
 am right or wrong in this opinion, I assure my 
 Reader it has not been indolence that has 
 tempted me to depart from common rules. 
 
 A Comedy on Fear, the chief character being 
 a man, is not liable to the objections I have sup- 
 posed might be made to a Tragedy under the 
 same circumstances. But a very great degree 
 of constitutional cowardice would have been a 
 picture too humiUating to afford any amuse- 
 ment, or even to engage the attention for any 
 considerable time. The hero of my third Play, 
 therefore, is represented as timid indeed, and 
 endeavouring to conceal it by a boastful affecta- 
 tion of gallantry and courage ; but at the same 
 time worked upon by artful contrivances to be- 
 lieve himself in such a situation as would have 
 miserably overcome many a one, who, on ordi- 
 nary occasions of danger, would have behaved 
 with decorum. Cowardice in him has been 
 
XU TO THE READER. 
 
 cultivated by indulgence of every kind : and 
 self-conceit and selfishness are the leading traits 
 of his character, which might have been origin- 
 ally trained to useful and honourable activity. 
 Fear, in a mixed character of this kind, is, I 
 apprehend, a very good subject for Comedy, and 
 in abler hands would certainly have proved itself 
 to be so. 
 
 The last Play in the volume is a drama of 
 two acts, the subject of which is Hope. This 
 passion, when it acts permanently, loses the cha- 
 racter of a passion ; and when it acts violently, 
 is, like Anger, Joy, or Grief, too transient to be- 
 come the subject of a piece of any length. It 
 seemed to me, in fact, neither fit for Tragedy 
 nor Comedy ; and like Anger, Joy, or Grief, I 
 once thought to have left it out of my Series 
 altogether. However, what it wanted in 
 strength, it seemed to have in grace ; and being 
 of a noble, kindly, and engaging nature, it drew 
 me to itself J and I resolved to do every thing 
 for it that I could, in spite of the objections 
 which had at first deterred me. The piece is 
 very short, and can neither be called Tragedy 
 nor Comedy. It may indeed appear, for a 
 passion so much allied to all our cheerful and 
 exhilarating thoughts, to approach too nearly to 
 the former; but Hope, when its object is of 
 great importance, must so often contend with 
 despondency, that it rides like a vessel on the 
 stormy ocean, rising on the billow's ridge but 
 
TO THE READER. XIU 
 
 for a moment. Cheerfulness, tlie character oi" 
 common Hope, is, in strong Hope, like glimpses 
 of sunshine in a cloudy sky. 
 
 As this passion, though more pleasing, is not 
 so powerfully interesting as those that are more 
 turbulent, and was therefore in danger of be- 
 coming languid and tiresome, if long dwelt upon 
 without interruption ; and at the same time of 
 being sunk into shade or entirely overpowered, 
 if relieved from it by variety of strong marked 
 characters in the inferior persons of the drama, 
 I have introduced into the scenes several songs. 
 So many, indeed, that I have ventured to call it 
 a Musical Drama. I have, however, avoided 
 one fault so common, I might say universal, in 
 such pieces, viz. making people sing in situa- 
 tions in which it is not natural for them to do 
 so ; and creating a necessity for either having 
 the first characters performed by those who can 
 both act and sing, (persons very difficult to find,) 
 or permitting them to be made entirely insipid 
 and absurd. For this purpose, the songs are all 
 sung by those who have little or nothing to act, 
 and introduced when nothing very interesting is 
 going on. They are also supposed not to be 
 spontaneous expressions of sentiment in the 
 singer, but (as songs in ordinary life usually 
 are) compositions of other people, which have 
 been often sung before, and are only generally 
 applicable to the present occasion. 
 
 The story is imaginary, but I have endea- 
 voured to make it, as far as my information 
 
XIV TO THE HEADER. 
 
 enabled me to correspond with the circum- 
 stances of the time and place in which it is 
 supposed to have happened. 
 
 Having said all that appears to me necessary 
 in regard to the contents of the volume, I 
 should now leave my reader to peruse it without 
 further hinderance ; but as this will probably 
 be the last volume of Plays I shall ever publish, 
 I must beg to detain him a few moments longer. 
 For I am inclined to think, he may have some 
 curiosity to know what is the extent of my plan 
 in a task I have so far fulfilled; and I shall satisfy 
 it most cheerfully. It is my intention, if I live 
 long enough, to add to this work the passions of 
 Remorse, Jealousy, and Revenge. Joy, Grief, 
 and Anger, as I have already said, are generally 
 of too transient a nature, and are too frequently 
 the attendants of all our other passions to be 
 made the subjects of an entire play. And 
 though this objection cannot be urged in regard 
 to Pride and Envy, two powerful passions w^hich 
 I have not yet named. Pride would make, 1 
 should think, a dull subject, unless it were 
 merely taken as the ground-work of more tur- 
 bulent passions ; and Envy, being that state of 
 mind, which, of all others, meets with least sym- 
 pathy, could only be endured in Comedy or 
 Farce, and would become altogether disgusting 
 in Tragedy. I have besides, in some degree, in- 
 troduced this latter passion into the work already, 
 by making it a companion or rather a component 
 part of Hatred. Of all our passions, Remorse 
 
TO THE READER. XV 
 
 and Jealousy appear to ine to be the best fitted 
 for representation. If this be the case, it is 
 fortunate for me that I have reserved them for 
 the end of my task; and that they have not been 
 already published, read, and very naturally laid 
 aside as unfit for the stage, because they have 
 not been produced upon it. 
 
 My Reader may likewise wish to know why, 
 having so many years ago promised to go on 
 publishing this work, I should now intend to 
 leave it off, though I still mean to continue 
 writing till it shall be compleated ; and this 
 supposed wish I think myself bound to gratify. 
 — The Series of Plays was originally published 
 in the hope that some of the pieces it contains, 
 although first given to the Public from the 
 press, might in time make their way to the 
 stage, and there be received and supported with 
 some degree of public favour. But the present 
 situation of dramatic affairs is greatly against 
 every hope of this kind; and should they ever 
 become more favourable, I have now good reason 
 to believe, that the circumstance of these plays 
 having been already published would operate 
 strongly against their being received upon the 
 stage. I am therefore strongly of opinion that 
 I ought to reserve the remainder of the work in 
 manuscript, if I would not run the risk of en- 
 tirely frustrating my original design. Did I 
 believe that their having been already published 
 would not afterwards obstruct their way to the 
 stage, the untowardness of present circumstances 
 
XV^l TO THi: READER. 
 
 should not prevent uie from continuing to 
 publish. 
 
 Having thus given an account of my views 
 and intentions regarding this work, 1 hope that, 
 should no more of it be published in my life- 
 time, it will not be supposed I have abandoned 
 or become weary of my occupation, which is in 
 truth as interesting and pleasing to me now as 
 it was at the beginning. 
 
 But when I say, present circumstances are 
 unfavourable for the reception of these Plays 
 upon the stage, let it not be supposed that I 
 mean to throw any reflection upon the prevail- 
 ing taste for dramatic amusements. The Public 
 have now to chuse between what we shall sup- 
 pose are well-written and well-acted Plays, the 
 words of which are not heard, or heard but im- 
 perfectly by two thirds of the audience, while 
 the finer and njore pleasing traits of the acting 
 are by a still gr^.ter proportion lost altogether; 
 and splenc.id pantomime, or pieces whose chief 
 object is t oduce striking scenic effect, which 
 can be seen and comprehended by the whole. 
 So situated, it would argue, methinks, a very 
 pedantic love indeed for what is called legiti- 
 mate Drama, were we to prefer the former. A 
 love for active, varied movement, in the objects 
 before us ; for striking contrasts of light and 
 shadow ; for splendid decorations and magnifi- 
 cent scenery, is as inherent in us as the interest 
 we take in the representation of the natural 
 passions and characte.s of me.i : and the most 
 16 
 
TO' THE READER. XVll 
 
 cultivated minds may relish such exhibitions, if 
 they do not, when both are fairly offered to 
 their choice, prefer them. Did our ears and 
 our eyes permit us to liear and see distinctly in 
 a Theatre so large as to admit of chariots and 
 horsemen, and all the " pomp and circumstance 
 of war,'* I see no reason why we should reject 
 them. They would give variety, and an appear- 
 ance of truth to the scenes of heroic Tragedy, 
 that would very much heighten its effect. We 
 ought not then to find fault with the taste of the 
 Public for preferring an inferior species of enter- 
 tainment, good of its kind, to a superior one, 
 faintly and imperfectly given. 
 
 It has been urged, as a proof of this supposed 
 bad taste in the Public, by one whose judgment 
 on these subjects is and ought to be high autho- 
 rity, that a play, possessing considerable merit, 
 was produced some years ago on Drury-Lane 
 stage, and notwithstanding the great support it 
 received from excellent acting and magnificent 
 decoration, entirely failed. It is very true that, 
 in spite of all this, it failed, during the eight 
 nights it continued to be acted, to produce 
 houses sufficiently good to induce the Managers 
 to revive it afterwards. But it ought to be 
 acknowledged, that that piece had defects in it 
 as an acting play, which served to counterba- 
 lance those advantages ; and likewise that, if 
 any supposed merit in the writing ought to have 
 redeemed those defects, in a Theatre, so large 
 
 VOL. III. a 
 
XVlll TO THE READER. 
 
 and so ill calculated to convey sound as the one 
 in which it was performed, it was impossible this 
 could be felt or comprehended by even a third 
 part of the audience. 
 
 The size of our theatres then is what I chiefly 
 allude to when I say, present circumstances are 
 unfavourable for the production of these Plays. 
 While they continue to be of this size, it is a 
 vain thing to complain either of want of taste in 
 the Public, or want of inclination in Managers 
 to bring forward new pieces of merit, taking it 
 for granted that there are such to produce. 
 Nothing can be truly relished by the most culti- 
 vated audience that is not distinctly heard and 
 seen, and Managers must produce what will be 
 relished. Shakespeare's Plays, and some of our 
 other old Plays, indeed, attract full houses, 
 though they are often repeated, because, being 
 familiar to the audience, they can still under- 
 stand and follow them pretty closely, though 
 but imperfectly heard ; and surely this is no 
 bad sign of our public taste. And besides this 
 advantage, when a piece is familiar to the au- 
 dience, the expression of the actors' faces is 
 much better understood, though seen imper- 
 fectly ; for the stronger marked traits of feeling 
 which even in a large theatre may reach the 
 eyes of a great part of the audience, from the 
 recollection of finer and more delicate indica- 
 tions, formerly seen so delightfully mingled with 
 them in the same countenances during the same 
 
TO THE READER. XIX 
 
 passages of the Play, will, by association, still 
 convey them to the mind's eye, though it is the 
 mind's eye only which they have reached. 
 
 And this thought leads me to another defect 
 in large theatres, that ought to be considered. 
 
 Our great tragic actress, Mrs. Siddons, whose 
 matchless powers of expression have so long 
 been the pride of our stage, and the most ad- 
 mired actors of the present time, have been 
 brought up in their youth in small theatres, 
 where they were encouraged to enter thoroughly 
 into the characters they represented, and to ex- 
 press in their faces that variety of fine fleeting 
 emotion which nature in moments of agitation 
 assumes, and the imitation of which we are taught 
 by nature to delight in. But succeeding actors 
 will only consider expression of countenance as 
 addressed to an audience removed from them to 
 a greater distance, and will only attempt such 
 strong expression as can be perceived and have 
 effect at a distance. It may easily be imagined 
 what exaggerated expression wall then get into 
 use; and I should think, even this strong expres- 
 sion will not only be exaggerated but false : for, 
 as we are enabled to assume the outward signs of 
 passion, not by mimicking what we have beheld 
 in others, but by internally assuming, in some 
 degree, the passion itself; a mere outline of it 
 cannot, I apprehend, be given as an outline of 
 figure frequently is, where all that is delineated 
 is true, though the whole is not filled up. Nay, 
 besides having it exaggerated and false, it will 
 
 a '2 
 
XX TO THE READER. 
 
 perpetually be thrust in where it ought not to 
 be. For real occasions of strong expression not 
 occurring often enough, and weaker being of no 
 avail, to avoid an apparent barrenness of coun- 
 tenance, they will be tempted to introduce it 
 where it is not wanted, and thereby destroy 
 its effect where it is. — I say nothing of expres- 
 sion of voice, to which the above observations 
 obviously apply. This will become equally, if 
 not in a greater degree, false and exaggerated, 
 in actors trained from their youth in a large 
 theatre. 
 
 But the department of acting that will suffer 
 most under these circumstances, is that which 
 particularly regards the gradually unfolding of 
 the passions, and has, perhaps, hitherto been 
 less understood than any other part of the art — 
 I mean Soliloquy. What actor in his senses will 
 then think of giving to the solitary musing of a 
 perturbed mind, that muttered, imperfect arti- 
 culation, which grows by degrees into words ; 
 that heavy, suppressed voice, as of one speaking 
 through sleep ; that rapid burst of sounds which 
 often succeeds the slow languid tones of distress; 
 those sudden, untuned exclamations, which, as 
 if frightened at their own discord, are struck 
 again into silence as sudden and abrupt, with all 
 the corresponding variety of countenance that 
 belongs to it ; — what actor, so situated, will 
 attempt to exhibit all this ? No ; he will be 
 satisfied, after taking a turn or two across the 
 front of the stage, to place himself directly in 
 
TO THE READER. XXI 
 
 the middle of it ; and there, spreading out his 
 hands, as if he were addressing some person 
 whom it behoved him to treat with great cere- 
 mony, to tell to himself, in an audible, uniform 
 voice, all the secret thoughts of his own heart. 
 When he has done this, he will think, and he 
 will think rightly, that he has done enough. 
 
 The only valuable part of acting that will 
 then remain to us, will be expression of ges- 
 ture, grace, and dignity, supposing that these 
 also shall not become affected by being too 
 much attended to and studied. 
 
 It may be urged against such apprehensions, 
 that, though the theatres of the metropolis 
 should be large, they will be supplied with 
 actors who have been trained to the stage in 
 small country theatres. An actor of ambition 
 (and all actors of genius are such) will practise 
 with little heart in the country what he knows 
 will be of no use to him on a London stage ; 
 not to mention that the style of acting in Lon- 
 don will naturally be the fashionable and pre- 
 vailing style elsewhere. Acting will become a 
 less respectable profession than it has continued 
 to be from the days of Garrick ; and the few 
 actors who add to the natural advantages re- 
 quisite to it, the accomplishments of a scholar 
 and a gentleman, will soon be wed away by the 
 hand of time, leaving nothing of the same 
 species behind them to spring from a neglected 
 and sapless root. 
 
 a 3 
 
XXU TO THE READER. 
 
 All I have said on this subject may still in a 
 greater degree be applied to actresses ; for the 
 features and voice of a woman being naturally 
 more delicate than those of a man, she must 
 suffer in proportion from the defects of a large 
 theatre. 
 
 The great disadvantage of such over-sized 
 buildings to natural and genuine acting, is, I 
 believe, very obvious ; but they have other 
 defects which are not so readily noticed, be- 
 cause they in some degree run counter to the 
 common opinion of their great superiority in 
 every thing that regards general effect. The 
 diminutive appearance of individual figures, 
 and the straggling poverty of grouping, which 
 unavoidably takes place when a very wide and 
 lofty stage is not filled by a great number of 
 people, is very injurious to general effect. 
 This is particularly felt in Comedy, and all 
 plays on domestic subjects j and in those scenes 
 also of the grand drama, where two or three 
 persons only are produced at a time. To give 
 figures who move upon it proper effect, there 
 must be depth as well as width of stage ; and 
 the one must bear some proportion to the other, 
 if we would not make every closer or more con- 
 fined scene appear like a section of a long 
 passage, in which the actors move before us, 
 apparently in one line, like the figures of a 
 magic lanthorn. 
 
 It appears to me, that when a stage is of such 
 a size that as many persons as generally come 
 
 16 
 
TO THE READER. XXIU 
 
 into action at one time in our grandest and best- 
 peopJed plays, can be produced on the front of 
 it in groups, without crowding together more 
 than they would naturally do any where else 
 for the convenience of speaking to one another, 
 all is gained in point of general effect that can 
 well be gained. When modern gentlemen and 
 ladies talk to one another in a spacious saloon, 
 or when ancient warriors and dames conversed 
 together in an old baronial hall, they do not, 
 and did not stand further apart than when con- 
 versing in a room of common dimensions ; 
 neither ought they to do so on the stage. All 
 width of stage, beyond what is convenient for 
 such natural grouping, is lost ; and worse than 
 lost, for it is injurious. It is continually pre- 
 senting us with something similar to that which 
 always offends us in a picture, where the canvass 
 is too large for the subject ; or in a face, where 
 the features are too small for the bald margin 
 of cheeks and forehead that surrounds them. 
 
 Even in the scenes of professed show and 
 spectacle, where nothing else is considered, it 
 appears to me that a very large stage is in some 
 degree injurious to general effect. Even when 
 a battle is represented in our theatres, the great 
 width of the stage is a disadvantage ; for as it 
 never can nor ought to be represented but par- 
 tially, and the part which is seen should be 
 crowded and confused, opening a large front 
 betrays your want of numbers ; or should you 
 be rich enough in this respect to fill it sufficiently, 
 
 a 4f 
 
XXIV TO THE READER. 
 
 imposes upon you a difficulty seldom surmounted, 
 viz. putting the whole mass sufficiently in action 
 to sustain the deception. * When a moderate 
 number of combatants, so as to make one con- 
 nected groupe, are fighting on the front of a 
 moderately wide stage, which they sufficiently 
 occupy, it is an easy thing, through the confu- 
 sion of their brandished weapons and waving 
 banners, to give the appearance of a deep active 
 battle beyond them, seen, as it were, through a 
 narrow pass; and beholding all the tumult of 
 battle in the small view opened before us, our 
 imagination supplies what is hid. If we open a 
 wider view, we give the imagination less to do, 
 and supply what it would have done less per- 
 fectly. In narrowing our battle, likewise, we 
 could more easily throw smoke or an appearance 
 
 * The objections above do not apply to scenes where 
 sieges are represented; for then the more diminished the 
 actors appear, the greater is the importance and magnitude 
 given to the walls or castle which they attack, while the 
 towers and buttresses, &c. sufficiently occupy the width and 
 heighth of the stage, and conceal the want of numbers and 
 general activity in the combatants. And the managers of 
 our present large theatre have, in my opinion, shewn great 
 judgment in introducing into their mixed pieces of late so 
 many good scenes of this kind, that have, to my fancy at 
 least, afforded a grand and animating show. Nor do they 
 fairly apply to those combats or battles into which horses 
 are introduced; for a moderate number of those noble 
 animals may be made to occupy and animate, in one con- 
 nected groupe, the front of the widest stage that we are in 
 danger of having, and to conceal the want of a numerous 
 host and tumultuous battle behind them. 
 
TO THE READER. XXV 
 
 of dust over the back ground, and procure for 
 our fancy an unlimited space. 
 
 In processions, also, the most pleasing effect 
 to our imaginations is, when the marshalled 
 figures are seen in long perspective, which 
 requires only depth of stage ; and the only ad- 
 vantage a wide stage has on such occasions is 
 containing the assembled mass of figures, when 
 the moving line stops and gathers itself together 
 on the front. The rich confusion of such a 
 crowd is indeed very brilliant and pleasing for 
 a short time, but it is dearly purchased at the 
 price of many sacrifices. 
 
 On those occasions too, when many people 
 are assembled on the front of the stage to give 
 splendour and importance to some particular 
 scene, or to the conclusion of a piece, the ge- 
 neral effect is often injured by great width of 
 stage : for the crowd is supposed to be attracted 
 to the spot by something which engages their 
 attention ; and, as they must not surround this 
 object of attention, (which would be their na- 
 tural arrangement,) lest they should conceal it 
 from the audience, they are obliged to spread 
 themselves out in a long straight line on each 
 side of it : now the shorter those lines or wings 
 are spreading out from the centre figures, the 
 less do they offend against natural arrangement, 
 and the less artificial and formal does the whole 
 scene appear. 
 
 In short, I scarcely know of any advantage 
 which a large stage possesses over one of a mo- 
 
XXVI TO THE READER. 
 
 derate size, without great abatements, even in 
 regard to general effect, unless it be when it is 
 empty, and scenery alone engages our attention, 
 or when figures appear at a distance on the 
 back ground only. Something in confirmation 
 of what I have been saying has perhaps been 
 felt by most people on entering a grand cathe- 
 dral, where figures moving in the long aisles 
 at a distance add grandeur to the building by 
 their diminished appearance ; but in approach- 
 ing near enough to become themselves distinct 
 objects of attention, look stunted and mean, 
 without serving to enlarge by comparison its 
 general dimensions. 
 
 There is also, I apprehend, greater difficulty, 
 in a very wide and lofty stage, to produce variety 
 of light and shadow ; and this often occasions 
 the more solemn scenes of Tragedy to be repre- 
 sented in a full, staring, uniform light that ought 
 to be dimly seen in twilight uncertainty ; or to 
 have the objects on them shewn by partial 
 gleams only, while the deepened shade around 
 gives a sombre indistinctness to the other parts 
 of the stage, particularly favourable to solemn 
 or terrific impressions. And it would be more 
 difficult, I imagine, to throw down light upon 
 the objects on such a stage, which I have never 
 indeed seen attempted in any theatre, though 
 it might surely be done in one of moderate di- 
 mensions with admirable eflPect. In short, a 
 great variety of pleasing effects from light and 
 shadow might be more easily produced on a 
 
TO THE READER. XXVU 
 
 smaller stage, that would give change and even 
 interest to pieces otherwise monotonous and 
 heavy ; and would often be very useful in re- 
 lieving the exhausted strength of the chief 
 actors, while want of skill in the inferior could 
 be craftily concealed.* On this part of the sub- 
 ject, however, I speak with great diffidence, not 
 knowing to what perfection machinery for the 
 management of light may be brought in a large 
 theatre. But at the same time, I am certain 
 that, by a judicious use of light and scenery, 
 an artificial magnitude may be given to a stage 
 of a moderate size, that would, to the eye, as 
 far as distance in perspective is concerned, have 
 an effect almost equal to any thing that can 
 be produced on a larger stage : for that appa- 
 rent magnitude, arising from succession of ob- 
 jects, depends upon the depth of the stage, much 
 more than its width and loftiness, wdiich are 
 often detrimental to it ; and a small or mode- 
 rate sized theatre may hav'e, without injury to 
 proportion, a very deep stage. 
 
 It would be, I believe, impertinent to pursue 
 this subject any farther ; and I beg pardon for 
 having obtruded it so far, where it may not 
 appear naturally to be called for. I plead in 
 my excuse an almost irresistible desire to express 
 my thoughts, in some degree, upon what has 
 occupied them considerably ; and a strong per- 
 suasion that I ought not, how unimportant so- 
 ever they may be, entirely to conceal them. 
 
 * See Note at the end. 
 
XXVlll TO THE READER. 
 
 I must now beg leave to return my thanks 
 to the public for that indulgent favour which 
 for so many years has honoured and cheered 
 my labour ; and whether more or less liberally 
 dealt to me, has at all times been sufficient to 
 prevent me from laying down my pen in despair. 
 Favour, which has gratified me the more sensi- 
 bly, because I have shared it with cotemporary 
 writers of the highest poetic genius, whose 
 claims to such distinction are so powerful. 
 
TO THE READER. XXIX 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 That strong light cast up from lamps on the front of the 
 stage which has long been in use in all our theatres, is cer- 
 tainly very unfavourable to the appearance and expression of 
 individual actors, and also to the general eflfect of their 
 grouped figures. When a painter wishes to give intelligence 
 and expression to a face, he does not make his lights hit 
 upon the under part of his chin, the nostrils, and the under 
 curve of the eye-brows, turning of course all the shadows 
 upwards. He does the very reverse of all this ; that the 
 eye may look hollow and dark under the shade of its brow ; 
 that the shadow of the nose may shorten the upper lip, and 
 give a greater character of sense to the mouth ; and that any 
 fulness of the under chin may be the better concealed. 
 From this disposition of the light in our theatres, whenever 
 an actor, whose features are not particularly sharp and 
 pointed, comes near the front of the stage, and turns his 
 face fully to the audience, every feature immediately be- 
 comes shortened and snub, and less capable of any expres- 
 sion, unless it be of the ludicrous kind. This at least will be 
 the effect produced to those who are seated under or on the 
 same level with the stage, making now a considerable pro- 
 portion of an audience ; while to those who sit above it, the 
 lights and shadows, at variance with the natural bent of the 
 features, will make the whole face appear confused, and 
 (compared to what it would have been with light thrown 
 upon it from another direction) unintelligible. — As to 
 the general effect of grouped figures : close groupes or 
 crowds, ranged on the front of the stage, when the light is 
 thrown up upon them, have a harsh flaring appearance ; for 
 the foremost figures catch the light, and are too much dis- 
 tinguished from those behind, from whom it is intercepted. 
 But when the light is thrown down upon the objects, this 
 cannot be the case : for then it will glance along the heads 
 of the whole crowd, even to the very bottom of the stage, 
 presenting a varied harmonious mass of figures to the eye, 
 deep, mellow, and brilliant. 
 
XXX TO THE READER. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be objected to these last observations, 
 that the most popular of our night-scenes in nature, and 
 those which have been most frequently imitated by the 
 painter, are groupes of figures with strong light thrown up 
 upon them, such as gypsies or banditti round a fire, or 
 villagers in a smith's forge, &c. But the striking and 
 pleasing effect of such scenes is owing to the deep darkness 
 which surrounds them ; while the ascending smoke, tinged 
 with flame-colour in the one case, and the rafters or higher 
 parts of the wall catching a partial gleam in the other, connect 
 the brilliant colouring of the figures with the deep darkness 
 behind them, which would else appear hard and abrupt, and 
 thus at the same time produce strong contrast with harmo- 
 nious gradation. I need scarcely mention, for it is almost 
 too obvious, that the effect of the light so thrown on the 
 faces of those figures abundantly confirm my first observ- 
 ations, regarding the features and expression of individuals' 
 faces. Yet I do not mean to say that light thrown up from 
 the front of a stage, where light is also admitted from many 
 other quarters, can have so strong an effect upon the coun- 
 tenances as in such situations. 
 
 Groupes of gypsies, &c. are commonly composed but of 
 one circle of figures ; for did they amount to any thing like 
 a deepened groupe or crowd, the figures behind would be 
 almost entirely lost. But those grand night-scenes contain- 
 ing many figures which we admire in nature or in painting, 
 — processions by torch-light or in an illuminated street, — 
 crowds gathered to behold a conflagration, &c. always have 
 the light thrown down upon them. — It may be urged, indeed, 
 that the greater part of our stage-scenes are meant to re- 
 present day and not night, so that the observations above are 
 but partially applicable. It is very true that stage-scenes ge- 
 nerally are supposed to be seen by day-light ; but day-light 
 comes from heaven, not from the earth ; even within-doors 
 our whitened ceilings are made to throw down reflected 
 light upon us, while our pavements and carpets are of a 
 darker colour. 
 
 In what way this great defect of all our theatres could be 
 rectified, I am not at all competent to say. Yet, I should 
 
TO THE READER. XXXI 
 
 suppose, that by bringing forward the roof of the stage as far 
 as its boards or floor, and placing a row of lamps with reflec- 
 tors along the inside of the wooden front-piece, such a light as 
 is wanted might be procured. The green curtain in this case 
 behoved not to be let down, as it now is, from the front- 
 piece, but some feet within it ; and great care taken that 
 nothing should be placed near the lamps capable of catching 
 fire. If this were done, no boxes, I suppose, could be made 
 upon the stage ; but the removal of stage-boxes would in 
 itself be a great advantage. The front-piece at the top ; 
 the boundary of the stage from the orchestra at the bottom ; 
 and the pilasters on each side, would then represent the 
 frame of a great moving picture, entii-ely separated and 
 distinct from the rest of the theatre : whereas, at present, 
 an unnatural mixture of audience and actors, of house and 
 stage takes place near the front of the stage, which destroys 
 the general effect in a very great degree. 
 
O R R A: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS, 
 
 VOL, III. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 MEN. 
 
 HuGHOBERT, Coufit of Aldenberg. 
 
 Glottenbal, his Son. 
 
 Theobald of Falkenstein, a Nobleman of 
 
 reduced Fortune, and Co-burgher of Basle. 
 RuDiGERE, a Knight, and Commander of one of 
 
 the Free Companies returned from the Wars, 
 
 and Bastard of a Branch of the Family of 
 
 Aldenberg. 
 Hart MAN, friend of Theobald, and Banneret of 
 
 Basle. 
 Urston, a Confessor. 
 Franko, Chief of a Band of Outlaws. 
 Maurice, an Agent of Rudigere*s. 
 
 Soldiers, Vassals, Outlaws, &c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Orra, Heiress of another Branch of the Family 
 
 of Aldenberg, and Ward to Hughobert. 
 
 Eleanora, Wife to Hughobert. 
 
 CathrinAj 
 
 Alice, 5 ^^u,^^o ^*lv^,^^^,,^ 
 
 V Ladies attending on Orra. 
 
 Scene, Switzerland, in tlie Canton of Basle, and 
 afterwards in the Borders of the Black Forest 
 in Suabia, 
 
 Time, towards the end of tJie liith Century. 
 
O R R A. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — An open Space before the If alls of 
 a Castle^ mth wild Mountains beyond it ; enter 
 Glottenbal, armed as from theLists^ but bare- 
 headed and in Disorder, and his Ar7ns soiled 
 with Earth or Sand, xvhich an Attendant is now 
 and then brushing off, whilst another follows 
 bearing his Helmet ; with him enters Maurice, 
 followed by Rudigere, who is also armed, and 
 keeps by himself, pacing to and fro at the bottom 
 of the Stage, whilst the others come forward. 
 
 Glottenbal {speaking as he enters, loud and 
 boastirigly.) 
 
 Ate, let him triumph in his paltry honours, 
 Won by mere trick and accident. Good faith! 
 It were a shame to call it strength or skill. 
 Were it not, Rudigere ? 
 
 (Calling to Rudigere, who aiiswers 7iot.) 
 Maur. His brow is dark, his tongue is lock*d, 
 my Lord ; 
 There come no words from him ; he bears it not 
 So manfully as thou dost, noble Glottenbal. 
 Glot. Fy on't ! I mind it not. 
 B 2 
 
4 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Maur. And wherefore should'st thou ? This 
 same Theobald, 
 Count and co-burgher — mixture most unseemly 
 Of base and noble, — know we not right well 
 What powers assist him ? Mark'd you not, my 
 
 Lord, 
 How he did turn liim to the witchy north. 
 When first he mounted ; making his fierce steed. 
 That paw'd and reared and shook its harness*d 
 
 neck 
 In generous pride, bend meekly to the earth 
 Its mained crest, like one who made obeisance ? 
 
 GloL Ha ! did'st thou really see it ? 
 
 Maur. Yes, brave Glottenbal, 
 
 I did right truly ; and besides myself. 
 Many observed it. 
 
 Glot. Then *tis manifest 
 
 How all this foil hath been. Who e*er before 
 Saw one with such advantage of the field, 
 Lose it so shamefully ? By my good fay ! 
 Barring foul play and other dev*lish turns, 
 I'd keep my courser's back with any Lord, 
 Or Knight, or Squire that e'er bestrode a steed. 
 Think'st thou not, honest Maurice, that I could? 
 
 Maur. Who doubts it, good my Lord ? This 
 Falkenstein 
 Is but a clown to you. ': 
 
 Glot. Well let him boast. ' 
 Boasting I scorn; but I will shortly shew him 
 What these good arms, with no foul play against 
 
 them. 
 Can honestly atchieve. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 5 
 
 Maur. Yes, good my Lord ; but cliuse you 
 well your day : 
 A moonless Friday luck did never bring 
 To honest combatant. 
 
 Glot. Ha ! blessing on thee ! I ne*er thought 
 of this : 
 Now it is clear how our mischance befell. 
 Be sure thou tell to every one thou meet'st, 
 Friday and a dark moon suit Theobald. 
 Ho there ! Sir Iludigere ! hear*st thou not this ? 
 
 Rud, (as he goes offy aside to Maurice) 
 Flatter the fool a while and let me go, 
 I cannot join thee now. [Exit. 
 
 GloL ( looking after Rudigere) 
 Is he so crest-fallen ? 
 
 Maur. He lacks your noble spirit. 
 
 Glot. ♦s Fy upon't ! 
 
 I heed it not. Yet, by my sword and spurs ! 
 'Twas a foul turn, that for my rival earnM 
 A branch of victory from Orra*s hand. 
 
 Maur. Aye, foul indeed ! My blood boil'd 
 high to see it. 
 Look where he proudly comes. 
 
 Enter Theobald arm*df with Attendants^ having 
 a green sprig stuck in his helmet, 
 
 Glot. (going up to Theobald) 
 Comest thou to face me so ? Audacious Burgher! 
 The Lady Orra's favour suits thee not, 
 Tho* for a time thou hast upon me gain'd 
 A seeming 'vantage. 
 
 Theo. A seeming 'vantage! — Thenitis nottruc. 
 That thou, unhors'd, layd'st rolling in the dust, 
 
 B S 
 
6 orra: a tragedy. 
 
 Asking for quarter ? — Let me crave thy pardon j 
 Some strange delusion hung upon our sight 
 That we believed it so. 
 
 Glot. Off with thy taunts ! 
 
 And pull that sprig from its audacious perch : 
 The favour of a Dame too high for thee. 
 
 TJieo. Too high indeed ; and had*st thou also 
 added, 
 Too good, too fair, I had assented to it. 
 Yet, be it known unto your courteous worth. 
 That were this sprig a Queen's gift, or received 
 From the brown hand of some poor mountain 
 
 maid ; 
 Yea, or bestow'd upon my rambling head. 
 As in the hairy sides of bronzing kid 
 The wild rose sticks a spray, unprized, unbidden, 
 I would not give it thee. 
 
 Glot. Dost thou so face me out? Then I 
 will have it. ( Snatching at it 'with rage,) 
 
 Enter Hartman. 
 Hart. ( separating them) 
 What ! Malice ! after fighting in the lists 
 As noble courteous knights ! 
 
 Glot. (to Hartman) Go, paltry Banneret! 
 Such friends as thou 
 Become such Lords as he, whose ruined state 
 Seeks the base fellowship of restless burghers ; 
 Thinking to humble still, with envious spite, 
 The great and noble houses of the land. 
 I know ye well, and I defy you both. 
 With all your damned witchery to-boot, 
 
 [\\y^iT grumbling, folUnvcd by Maurice, kc. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY* 7 
 
 Mcment Theobald and Hartman. 
 Theo. How fierce the creature is, and full of 
 folly ! 
 Like a shent cur to his own door retired, 
 That bristles up his furious back, and there 
 Each passenger annoys. — And this is he. 
 Whom sordid and ambitious Hughobert, 
 The guardian in the selfish father -sunk. 
 Destines for Orra's husband. — O foul shame ! 
 The carrion-crow and royal eagle join'd. 
 Make not so cross a match. — But think'st thou, 
 
 Hartman, 
 She will submit to it ? 
 
 Hart. That may be as thou pleasest, Falken- 
 
 stein. 
 Theo. Av^ay with mockery ! 
 Hart. I mock thee not. 
 
 Theo. Nay, Banneret, thou dost. Saving this 
 favour, 
 Which every victor in these listed combats 
 From Ladies* hands receive, nor then regard 
 As more than due and stated courtesy. 
 She ne*er hath honoured me with word or look 
 Such hope to warrant. 
 
 Hart. Wait not thou for looks. 
 
 Theo. Thou would'st not have me to a Dame 
 like this. 
 With rich domains and titled rights encompassed. 
 These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear, 
 My barren hills and ruin'd tower present, 
 And say, " Accept — these will I nobly give 
 In fair exchange for thee and all thy wealth." 
 B 4 
 
8 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 No, Rudolph, Hartman, woo the maid thyse If, 
 If thou hast courage for it. 
 
 Hart. Yes, Theobald of Falkenstein, I will, 
 And win her too ; but all for thy behoof. 
 And when I do present, as thou hast said. 
 Those simple limbs, girt in their soldier's geer, 
 Adding thy barren hills and ruin'd tower. 
 With some few items more of generous worth 
 And native sense and manly fortitude, 
 I'll give her in return for all that she 
 Or any maid can in such barter yield. 
 Its fair and ample worth. 
 Theo. So dost thou reckon. 
 Hart. And so will Orra. Do not shake thy 
 head. 
 I know the maid : for still she has received me 
 As one who knew her noble father well. 
 And in the bloody field in which he died 
 Fought by his side with kind familiarity : 
 And her stern guardian, viewing these grey hairs 
 And this rough visage with no jealous eye. 
 
 Hath still admitted it. I'll woo her for 
 
 thee. 
 ^ Theo. I do in truth believe thou mean'st me 
 well. 
 Hart. And this is all thou say'st'? Cold frozen 
 words ! 
 What has bewitch'd thee, man ? Is she not fair? 
 Theo. O fair indeed as woman need be form'd 
 To please and be belov'd ! Tho', to speak ho- 
 nestly, 
 I've lairer seen ; yet such a Ibrm ab Orru's 
 
ORIIA : A TRAGEDY. If 
 
 For ever in my busy fancy dwells, 
 Whene'er I think of wiving my lone state. 
 It is not this ; she has too many lures ; 
 Why wilt thou urge me on to meet her scorn ? 
 1 am not worthy of her. 
 
 Hart, (pushing him wway with gentle anger) 
 Go to ! I praised thy modesty short-while, 
 And now with dull and senseless perseverance. 
 Thou would'st overlay me with it. Go thy 
 
 ways ! 
 If thro* thy fault, thus shrinking from the onset, 
 She should with this untoward cub be matched, 
 'Twill haunt thy conscience like a damning sin, 
 And may it gnaw thee shrewdly ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A small Apartment in the Castle; enter Rudigere 
 musing gloomily y and muttering to hirnselfsome 
 time before he speaks aloud, 
 
 Rud. No, no ; it is to formless air dissolved. 
 This cherish'd hope, this vision of my brain ! 
 (Pacing to and fro y and then stopping and 
 musing as before.) 
 I daily stood contrasted in her sight 
 With an ungainly fool ; and when she smiled, 
 
 Methought But wherefore still upon this 
 
 thought, 
 Which was perhaps but a delusion then, 
 Brood I with ceaseless torment ? Never, never ! 
 O never more on me, from Orra's eye. 
 Approving glance shall light, or gentle look ! 
 
10 ORRA : A TRAGEDY* 
 
 This day's disgrace mars all my goodly dreams. 
 My path to greatness is at once shut up. 
 Still in the dust my grov'ling fortune lies. 
 
 (^Striking his breast in despair") 
 Tame thine aspiring spirit, luckless wretch ! 
 There is no hope for thee ! 
 
 And shall I tame it ? No, by saints and 
 devils ! 
 The laws have cast me off from every claim 
 Of house and kindred, and within my veins 
 Turn'd noble blood to baseness and reproach : 
 I'll cast them off: why should they be to me 
 A bar, and no protection ? 
 
 {Pacing again to and fro, and muttering Itiw 
 for some time before he speaks aloud) 
 Aye ; this may still within my toils enthral her : 
 This is the secret weakness of her mind 
 On which I'll clutch my hold. 
 
 Enter Cathrina behind hi?n, laying her hand 
 upon him, 
 
 Cath, Ha ! speak'st thou to thyself? 
 
 Rud. (jstarting) I did not speak. 
 Cath, Thou did'st j thy busy mind gave sound 
 to thoughts 
 Which thou didst utter with a thick harsh voice. 
 Like one who speaks in sleep. Tell me their 
 meaning. 
 Rud. And dost thou so presume ? Be wise j 
 be humble. 
 
 (^ After a pause) 
 Has Orra oft of late requested thee 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 1 1 
 
 To tell her stories of the restless dead ? 
 Of spectres rising at the midnight watch 
 By the lone traveller's bed ? 
 
 Cath, Wherefore of late dost thou so oft en- 
 quire 
 Of what she says and does ? 
 
 Rud. Be wise, and answer what I ask of thee ; 
 This is thy duty now. 
 
 Cath, Alas, alas ! I know that one false st ep 
 Has o*er me set a stern and ruthless master. 
 
 Rud, No, madam ; 'tis thy grave and virtuous 
 seeming ; 
 Thy saint-Hke carriage, rigid and demure, 
 On which thy high repute so long has stood. 
 Endowing thee with right of censorship 
 0*er every simple maid, whose cheerful youth 
 Wears not so thick a mask, that o'er thee sets 
 This ruthless master. Hereon rests my power : 
 I might expose, and therefore I command thee. 
 
 Cath. Hush, hush ! approaching steps ! 
 They'll find me here ! 
 I'll do whate'er thou wilt. 
 
 Rud, It is but Maurice : hie thee to thy 
 closet. 
 Where I will shortly come to thee. Be thou 
 My faithful agent in a weighty matter. 
 On which I now am bent, and I will prove 
 Thy stay and shelter from the world's contempt. 
 
 Cath. Maurice to find me here ! Where shall 
 I hide me ? 
 
 Rud. No where, but boldly pass him as he 
 enters. 
 
12 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I'll find some good excuse ; he will be silent : 
 He is my agent also. 
 
 Cath. Dost thou trust him ? 
 
 Rud. Avarice his master is, as shame is thine : 
 Therefore I trust to deal with both. — Away ! 
 
 Enter Maurice, passing Cathrina as she goes 
 out, 
 Maur. What, doth the grave and virtuous 
 Cathrina, 
 Vouchsafe to give thee of her company ? 
 
 Rud. Yes, rigid saint ! she has bestowed upon 
 me 
 Some grave advice to bear with pious meekness 
 My late discomfiture. 
 
 Maur. Aye, and she call*d it, 
 
 I could be sworn! heaven's judgment on thy 
 pride. 
 Rud. E'en so : thou'st guessed it. — Shall we 
 to the ramparts 
 And meet the western breeze ? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A spacious Apartment ; enter Hughobert and 
 Urston. 
 Hugh, {speaking with angry gesticulation as 
 he enters') 
 I feed and clothe these drones, and in return 
 They cheat, deceive, abuse me j nay, belike. 
 Laugh in their sleeve the while. By their advice. 
 This cursed tourney I prochiim'd j for still 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. IrJ 
 
 They puffed me up with praises of my son — 
 His grace, his skill in arms, his horsemanship — 
 Count Falkenstein to him was but a clown — 
 And so, in Orra*s eyes to give him honour, 
 Full surely did I think — 1*11 hang them all ! 
 I'll starve them in a dungeon shut from light : 
 1*11 heap my boards no more with dainty fare 
 To feed false flatterers. 
 
 Ui'st. That indeed were wise : 
 
 But art thou sure, when men shall speak the 
 
 truth, 
 That thou wilt feed them for it ? I but hinted 
 In gentle words to thee, that Glottenbal 
 Was praised with partial or affected zeal, 
 And thou receiv'dst it angrily. 
 
 Hugh. Aye, true indeed : but thou did*st 
 
 speak of him 
 As one bereft of all capacity. 
 Now tho', God wot ! I look on his defects 
 With no blind love, and even in my ire 
 Will sometimes call him fool j yet, ne'ertheless, 
 He still has parts and talents, tho* obscured 
 By some untoward failings. — Heaven be praised ! 
 He wants not strength at least and well turn*d 
 
 limbs, 
 Had they but taught him how to use them. 
 
 Knaves ! 
 They have neglected him. 
 
 {Enter Glottenbal, who draxvs hack 07i seeifig 
 
 his Father.) 
 Advance, young Sir : art thou afraid of me ? 
 
14 orra: a tragedy. 
 
 That thus thou shrinkest like a sculking thief 
 To make disgrace tlie more apparent on thee ? 
 Glot. Yes, call it then disgrace, or what you 
 please ; 
 Had not my lance's point somewhat awry 
 
 Glanced on his shield 
 
 Hugh. E*en so j 1 doubt it not ; 
 
 Thy lance's point, and every thing about thee 
 Hath glanced awry. Go, rid my house, I say. 
 Of all those feasting flatterers that deceive thee ; 
 They harbour here no more : dismiss them 
 quickly. 
 Glot. Do it yourself, my Lordj you are, I 
 trow, 
 Angry enough to do it sharply. 
 
 Hugh, (turning to Urston) Faith ! 
 
 He gibes me fairly here ; there's reason in't ; 
 Fools speak not thus, {to Glottenbal) Go to ! 
 
 if I am angry. 
 Thou art a graceless son to tell me so. 
 
 Glot. Have you not bid me still to speak the 
 
 truth ? 
 Hugh, (to Urston) Again thou hear'st he 
 
 makes an apt reply. 
 Urst, He wants not words. 
 Hugh. Nor meaning neither. Father. 
 
 (Enter Eleonora.) 
 Well Dame ; where hast thou been ? 
 EL I came from Orra. 
 
 Hugh. Hast thoii been pleading in our son's 
 excuse ? 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And how did she receive it ? 
 
 EL I tried to do it, but her present humour 
 Is jest and merriment. She is behind me, 
 Stopping to stroke a hound, that in the corridor 
 Came to her fawningly to be carest. 
 
 Glot. (Jistening') Aye, she is coming; Ught 
 and quick her steps ; 
 So sound they, when her spirits are unruly ; 
 But I am bold ; she shall not mock me now. 
 
 ( Enter Orea, tripping gaily, and playing xvith 
 
 the folds of her scarf) 
 Methinks you trip it briskly, gentle Dame. 
 
 Or. Does it offend you, noble Knight. 
 
 Glot, Go to ! 
 
 I know your meaning. Wherefore smile you so ? 
 
 Or. Because, good sooth ! with tired and 
 aching sides 
 I have not power to laugh. 
 
 Glot, Full well I know why thou so merry art. 
 Thou think'st of him to whom thou gav'st that 
 
 sprig 
 Of hopeful green, his rusty casque to grace, 
 Whilst at thy feet his honoured glave he laid. 
 
 Or, Nay, rather say, of him, who at my feet, 
 From his proud courser's back, more gallantly 
 Laid his most precious self; then stole away, 
 Thro' modesty, unthank'd, nor left behind 
 Of all his geer that fluttered in the dust. 
 Or glove or band, or fragment of torn hose. 
 For dear remembrance-sake, that in my sleeve 
 
16 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I miglit have stuck it. O! thou wrong'st me 
 
 much 
 To think my merriment a rePrence hath 
 To any one but him. {Laughing.') 
 
 EL Nay, Orra ; these wild fits of uncurb'd 
 
 laughter, 
 Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind. 
 As it has low'r'd of late, so keenly cast, 
 Unsuited seem and strange. 
 
 Or. O nothing strange, my gentle Eleonora ! 
 Did*st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast. 
 Winging the air beneath some murky cloud 
 In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, 
 Shiver in silv'ry brightness ? 
 Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash 
 In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path 
 Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 
 Or lonely Tower, from its brown mass of woods. 
 Give to the parting of a wintry sun 
 One hasty glance in mockery of the night 
 Closing in darkness round it? — Gentle Friend ! 
 Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday. 
 And may be so to-morrow. 
 
 Glot. And wherefore art thou sad, unless it is 
 From thine own wayward humour ? Other 
 
 Dames, 
 Were they so courted, would be gay and happy. 
 Or. Wayward it needs must be, since I am 
 
 sad 
 When such perfection woos me. 
 
 Pray good Glottenbal, 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 17 
 
 How dids't thou learn witli such a woncrrous grace 
 
 So hio'h in air to toss thine armed heels, 
 
 And clutch with outspread hands tlie slipp'ry sand.'' 
 
 I was the more amaz'd at thy dexterity. 
 
 As this, of all thy many gallant feats 
 
 Before-hand promised, most modestly 
 
 Thou did'st forbear to mention. 
 
 Glot. Gibe away ! 
 
 I care not for thy gibing. With fair lists, 
 And no black arts against me — 
 
 Hugh, {advancing angrily from the bottom of 
 the stage to Glottenbal.) 
 
 Hold thy peace ! 
 {To Orra.) And, Madam, be at least somewhat 
 
 restrained 
 In your unruly humour. 
 
 Or, Pardon, my Lord : I knew not you were 
 near me. 
 My humour is unruly : with your leave, 
 I will retire till I have curb'd it better. 
 (To Eleanora.) I would not lose your company, 
 sweet Countess. 
 El We'll go together, then. 
 
 [Exeunt Orra and Eleanora. 
 {Manet Hughobert ; who j^^ces angrily 
 about the stage, while Glottenbal stands 
 on the front, thumping his legs with his 
 sheathed 7'apier.) 
 There is no striving with a forward girl, 
 Nor pushing on a fool. My harassed life 
 Day after day more irksome grows. Curs'd bane! 
 rU toil no more for this untoward match. 
 
 VOL. ill. c 
 
18 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (Enter Rudigere, stealing behind, and listening.) 
 
 Rud. You are disturb'd, my Lord. 
 
 Hugh, What, is it tiiou ? I am disturb'd in 
 sooth. 
 
 JRud. Aye, Orra has been here ; and some 
 light words 
 Of girhsh levity have mov*d yoii. How ! 
 Toil for this match no more ! What else remains. 
 If this should be abandoned, noble Aklenberg, 
 That can be worth your toil ? 
 
 Hugh. I'll match the cub elsewhere. 
 
 Rud. What call ye matching ? 
 
 Hugh. Surely for him some other virtuous maid 
 Of high descent, tho' not so richly dowried, 
 May be obtained. 
 
 Rud. Within your walls, perhaps, 
 
 Some waiting gentlewoman, who perchance 
 May be some fifty generations back 
 Descended from a king, he will himself 
 Ere long obtain, without your aid, my Lord. 
 
 Hugh. Thou mak'st me mad ! the dolt ! the 
 senseless dolt ! 
 What can I do for him ? I cannot force 
 A noble maid entrusted to my care : 
 I, the sole guardian of her helpless youth ! 
 
 Rud. That were indeed unfit ; but there are 
 means 
 To make her yield consent. 
 
 Hugh. Then by my faith, good friend, I'll 
 call thee wizard, 
 If thou can'st find them out. What means 
 already, 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 19 
 
 Short of compulsion, have we left untried ? 
 And now the term of my authority 
 Wears to its close. 
 
 Rud. I know it well ; and therefore powerful 
 means, 
 And of quick operation, must be sought. 
 
 Hugh. Speak plainly to me. 
 
 Riid. 1 have watch' d her long. 
 
 I've seen her cheek, flush'd with the rosy glow 
 Of jocund spirits, deadly pale become 
 At tale of nightly sprite or apparition. 
 Such as all hear, *tis true, with greedy ears. 
 Saying, " Saints, save us !" but forget as quickly. 
 I*ve mark'd her long : she has, with all her 
 
 shrewdness 
 And playful merriment, a gloomy fancy. 
 That broods within itself on fearful things. 
 
 Hugh. And what doth this avail us ? 
 
 Rud. Hear me out. 
 
 Your ancient castle in the Suabian forest 
 Hath, as too well you know, belonging to it, 
 Or false or true, frightful reports. There hold 
 
 her 
 Strictly confin'd in sombre banishment ; 
 And doubt not but she will, ere long, full 
 
 gladly 
 Her freedom purchase at the price you name. 
 
 Hugh. On what pretence can I confine her 
 there ? 
 It were most odious. 
 
 Rud. Can pretence be wanting? 
 
 Has she not favour shewn to Theobald, 
 
 c 2 
 
so ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Who in your neighbourhood, with his sworn friend 
 The Banneret of Basle, suspiciously 
 Prolongs his stay ? A poor and paltry Count, 
 Unmeet to match with her. And want ye then 
 A reason for removing her with speed 
 To some remoter quarter ? Out upon it ! 
 You are too scrupulous. 
 
 Hugh, Thy scheme is good, but cruel. 
 
 (Glottenbal — who has been drawing nearer 
 to them, and attending to the last part of 
 their discourse.^ 
 Glot. O much I like it, dearly wicked Rudi- 
 
 ffere 
 
 She then will turn her mind to other thoughts 
 Than scornful gibes at me. 
 
 Hugh. I to her father swore I would protect 
 her : 
 I must fulfil his will. 
 
 Rud. And, in that will, her father did desire 
 She might be match'd with this your only sou ; 
 Therefore you*re firmly bound all means to use 
 That may the end attain. 
 
 Hugh. Walk forth with me, we'll talk of this 
 
 at large. [Exeunt Hugh, and Rud. 
 
 (^Manet Glottenbal, who comesjbrwardjrom 
 
 the bottom of the stage, with the action of 
 
 a knight advancing to the charge. ) 
 
 Glot. Yes, thus it is: I have the slight o't now: 
 
 And were the combat yet to come, I'd sliew 
 
 them 
 I'm not a whit behind the bravest knight, 
 Cross luck excepted. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 Enter Maurice. 
 Maur. My Lord, indulge us of your courtesy. 
 Glot. In what, I pray ? 
 
 Maur. Did not Fernando tell you ? 
 
 We are all met within our social bower ; 
 And I have wager'd on your head, that none 
 But you alone, within the Count's domains, 
 Can to the bottom drain the chased horn. 
 Come, do not linger here when glory calls you. 
 Glot. Think'st thou that Theobald could drink 
 
 so stoutly ? 
 Maur. He, paltry chief! he herds with sober 
 burghers ; 
 A goblet, half its size, would conquer him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 i; S 
 
OKRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Garden xvith Trees and Shrubs, 
 c^T. Orra, Theobald, a7id Hartman, are 
 discovered in a shaded Walk at the bottom of 
 the Stage, speaking in dumb Show, which they 
 cross, disappearing behind the Trees ; and are 
 presently followed by Cathrina and Alice, 
 xvho continue walking there. Or. Theo. and 
 Hart, then appear again, entering near the 
 front of the Stage. 
 
 Or. {talking to Hart, as she enters.) And so, 
 since fate has made me, woe the day ! 
 That poor and good-for-nothing, helpless being, 
 Woman yclept, I must consign myself 
 With all my lands and rights into the hands 
 Of some proud man, and say, " Take all, I pray, 
 And do me in return the grace and fav^our 
 To be my master." 
 
 Hai^t. Nay, gentle lady, you constrain my 
 words. 
 And load them with a meaning: harsh and foreiiin 
 To what they truly bear. — A master ! No 5 
 A valiant, gentle mate, who in the field 
 Or in the council will maintain your right : 
 A noble, equal partner. 
 
 Or. {shaking her head.) Well I know. 
 In siicli a ))artner.ship, ihc share of j)o\ver 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 23 
 
 Allotted to the wife. See, noble Falkenstein 
 Hath silent been the while, nor spoke one word 
 In aid of all your specious arguments. 
 What's your advice, my Lord ? (to Theo.) 
 
 Theo. Ah, noble Orra, 
 
 'Twere like self-murder to give honest counsel ; 
 Then urge me not. I frankly do confess 
 I should be more heroic than I am. 
 
 Or. Right well I see thy head approves my 
 plan. 
 And by and by so will thy gen'rous heart. 
 In short, I would, without another's leave. 
 Improve the low condition of my peasants. 
 And cherish them in peace. Ev'n now me- 
 
 thinks 
 Each little cottage of my native vale 
 Swells out its earthen sides, up-heaves its roof. 
 Like to a hillock mov'd by laboring mole. 
 And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its 
 
 walls, 
 Roses and ev'ry gay and fragrant plant 
 Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower : 
 Aye, and within it too do fairies dwell. 
 
 (Looking playfully t/irough her Jingers like 
 a skew-glass.') 
 Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed 
 The flowers grow not too close, and there 
 
 within 
 Thou'it see some half a dozen rosy brats 
 Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk ; — 
 Those are my moiuitain elves. See'st thou not 
 Their very forms distinctly ? 
 
 c 4 
 
24< ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Tfieo. Distinctly; and most beautiful the sight ! 
 A sight which sweetly stirreth in the heart 
 Feelings that gladden and ennoble it, 
 Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea ; 
 A blessed picture ! Foul befall the man 
 Whose narrow, selfish soul would shade or mar it! 
 
 Hart. To this right heartily I say Amen ! 
 But if there be a man w^hose gen'rous soul 
 
 (turning to Oj'ra.) 
 Like ardour fills ; who would with thee pursue 
 Thy gen'rous plan ; who would his harness don — 
 Or. (j)utt'mg her hand on him in gentle inter- 
 ruption.^ 
 Nay, valiant Banneret, who would, an't please 
 
 you. 
 His harness doff: all feuds, all strife forbear, 
 All military rivalship, all lust 
 Of added power, and live in steady quietness, 
 A mild and fost'ring Lord. Know you of one 
 That would so share my task ? — You answer 
 
 not ; 
 And your brave friend, methinks, casts on the 
 
 ground 
 A thoughtful look : wots he of such a Lord ? 
 
 {to Theo.) 
 Theo. Wot I of such a Lord ? No, noble 
 Orra, 
 I do not ; nor does Hartman, tho' perhaps 
 His friendship may betray his judgment. Noj 
 None such exist : we are all fierce, contentious. 
 Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful feuds; 
 The very distant sound of war excites us, 
 
OIIRA : A TRAGEDY. '25 
 
 Like the ciirb'd courser list*ing to the chase, 
 Who paws, and frets, and bites the rein. Trust 
 
 none 
 To cross thy gentle, but most princely purpose. 
 Who hath on head a circling helmet wore, 
 Or ever grasp'd a glave. — But ne*ertheless 
 There is — I know a man. — Might I be bold ? 
 Or. Being so honest, boldness is your right. 
 Theo. Permitted then, I'll say, I know a man, 
 Tho' most unworthy Orra's Lord to be, 
 Wiio, as her champion, friend, devoted soldier. 
 Might yet commend himself j and, so received. 
 Who would at her command, for her defence 
 His sword right proudly draw. An honour'd 
 
 sword. 
 Like that which at the gate of Paradise 
 From steps prophane the blessed region guarded. 
 Or, Thanks to the gen*rous knight ! I also 
 
 know 
 The man thou would'st commend ; and when 
 
 my state 
 Such service needeth, to no sword but his ^ 
 
 Will I that service owe. 
 
 Theo. Most noble Orra! greatly is he honoured j 
 And will not murmur that a higher wish. 
 Too high, and too presumptuous, is represt. 
 
 (Kissing her hand xvith great i^especL) 
 Or. Nay, Rodolph Hartman, clear that cloudy 
 
 brow. 
 And look on Falkenstein and on myself, 
 As two co-burgliers of thy native city, 
 (For such I mean ere long to be,) and claiming 
 
26 ORllA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 From thee, as cadets from an elder born, 
 Thy chearing equal kindness. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. The Count is now at leisure to receive 
 The Lord of Falkenstein, and Ptodolph Hartman. 
 Hart. We shall attend him shortly. 
 
 (^Exit Servant.) 
 {Aside to Theo.) Must we now 
 Oar purposed suit to some pretended matter 
 Of slighter import change ? 
 
 Theo. {to Hart, aside.) Assuredly. — 
 Madam., I take my leave with all devotion. 
 Hart. I with all friendly wishes. 
 
 [Exeunt Theo. and Hart. 
 (Cathrina and Alice now advance through 
 the shrubs, S;c. at the botto7n of the stagey 
 while Orra remains, wrapped in thought, 
 on the front.") 
 Cath. Madam, you're thoughtful ; something 
 occupies 
 Your busy mind. 
 ' Or. What was't we talk'd of, when the 
 
 worthy Banneret 
 With Falkenstein upon our converse broke ? 
 Cath. How we should spend our time, when 
 in your castle 
 You shall your state maintain in ancient splen- 
 dour, 
 With all your vassals round you. 
 Or. Aye, so it was. 
 At. And you did say, my Lady, 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 27 
 
 It should not be a cold unsocial grandeur : 
 That you would keep, the while, a merry house. 
 
 Or. O doubt it not ! I'll gather round my 
 board 
 All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks, 
 And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends^ 
 Both young and old. Within my ample hall, 
 The worn-out man of arms, (of whom too many. 
 Nobly descended, rove like reckless vagrants 
 From one proud chieftain's castle to another, 
 Half chid, half honour'd,) shall o'tip-toe tread. 
 Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 
 With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats 
 Of days gone by. — Music w e'll have ; and oft 
 The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors 
 Shall, thund'iing loud, strike on the distant ear 
 Of 'nighted trav'llers, who shall gladly bend 
 Their doubtful footsteps tow'rds the cheering 
 
 din. 
 Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure 
 We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? 
 
 Al. O passing well ! 'twill be a pleasant life ; 
 Free from all stern subjection ; blithe and fan- 
 ciful ; 
 We'll do whatever we list. 
 
 Cath. That right and prudent is, I hope thou 
 meanest. 
 
 AL Why ever so suspicious and so strict ? 
 How could'st thou think I had another meaning? 
 (To Orra.) And shall we ramble in the woods 
 
 full oft 
 With hound and horn ? — that is iny dearest joy. 
 
28 ORllA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Or, Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do 
 not doubt 
 This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season 
 Shall have its suited pastime : even Winter 
 In its deep noon, when mountains piled with 
 
 snow. 
 And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bar 
 All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller 
 Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
 In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire 
 We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court. 
 Plying our work with song and tale between. 
 CatJi. And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and 
 spirits. 
 And things imearthly, that on Michael's eve 
 Rise from the yawning tombs. 
 
 Or\ Thou thinkest then one night o'th' year 
 is truly 
 More horrid than the rest. 
 
 Cath. Perhaps 'tis only silly superstition : 
 But yet it is well known the Count's brave 
 
 father 
 Would rather on a glacier's point have lain. 
 By angry tempests rock'd, than on that niglit 
 Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle. 
 Or. How, pray ? What fearfid thing did scare 
 
 him so ? 
 Cath. Hast thou ne'er heard the stoiy ol 
 Count Hugo, 
 His ancestor, who slew the hunter-knight ? 
 Or, {eager I ij.) Tell it, I pray thee. 
 AL Cathrina, tell it not : it is not right : 
 14 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. ^9 
 
 Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits 
 
 To gloomy pensiveness ; lier rosy bloom 
 
 To the wan colour of a shrouded corse. 
 
 {To Orra.) What pleasure is tliere, Lady, when 
 
 thy hand, 
 Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp 
 Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk form 
 Cow'ring; and shiv'rino; stands with keen turn'd 
 
 ear 
 To catch what follows of the pausing tale ? 
 Or. And let me cow'ring stand, and be my 
 
 touch 
 The valley's ice : there is a pleasure in it. 
 Al. Say'st thou indeed there is a pleasure in it? 
 Or. Yea, when the cold blood shoots througli 
 
 every vein : 
 When every hair's-pit on my shrunken skin 
 A knotted knoll becomes, and to mine ears 
 Strange inward sounds awake, and to mine 
 
 eyes 
 Rush stranger tears, there is a joy in fear. 
 
 (Catching hold of Cathrina.) 
 Tell it, Cathrina, for the life within me 
 Beats thick, and stirs to hear it. 
 He slew the hunter-knight ? 
 
 Cath. Since I must tell it, then, the story goes 
 That grim Count Aldenbergh, the ancestor 
 Of Hughobert, and also of yourself, 
 From hatred or from envy, to his castle 
 A noble knight, who hunted in the forest, 
 Well the Black Forest named, basely decoyed, 
 And there, within his chamber, murder'd him — 
 
30 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Or. Merciful Heaven ! and in my veins there 
 runs 
 A murderer's blood. Said'st thou not, murder'* d 
 him ? 
 Cath. Aye ; as he lay asleep, at dead of night. 
 Or. A deed most horrible ! 
 Cath. It was on Michael's eve ; and since 
 that time, 
 The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight 
 
 yell 
 Of spectre-hounds, and see the spectre shapes 
 Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still 
 A nobler hunter riding in their van 
 To cheer the chase, shewn by the moon's pale 
 
 beams. 
 When wanes its horn in long October nights. 
 Or. This hath been often seen ? 
 Cath. ' Aye, so they say. 
 
 But, as the story goes, on Michael's eve. 
 And on that night alone of all the year. 
 The hunter-knight himself, having a horn 
 Thrice sounded at the gate, the castle enters ; 
 And, in the very chamber where he died. 
 Calls on his murd'rer, or in his default 
 Some true descendant of his house, to loose 
 His spirit from its torment ; for his body 
 Is laid i'the earth unbless'd, and none can tell 
 The spot of its interment. 
 
 Or. Call on some true descendant of his 
 
 race 
 
 It were to such a fearful interview. 
 
 But in that chamber, on that night alone — 
 
OUR A : A TRAGEDY. * 31 
 
 Hath he elsewhere to any of the race 
 Appear'd ? or hath he power — 
 
 AL Nay, nay, forbear : 
 
 See how she looks. (To Orra.) I fear thou art not 
 well. 
 
 Or. There is a sickly faintness come upon me. 
 
 Al. And did*st thou say there is a joy in fear ? 
 
 Or. My mind of late has strange impressions 
 ta'en. 
 I know not how it is. 
 
 Al. A few nights since, 
 
 Steahng o'tiptoe, softly thro' your chamber, 
 Towards my own — 
 
 Or. O heaven defend us ! did'st thou see 
 aught there ? 
 
 AL Only your sleeping self. But you appear'd 
 Distress' d and troubled in your dreams ; and 
 
 once 
 1 thought to wake you ere I left the chamber, 
 But I forbore. 
 
 Or. And glad I am thou did'st. 
 
 It is not dreams I fear ; for still with me 
 There is an indistinctness o'er them cast, 
 Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, where 
 Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things, 
 Huge, horrible and strange, on which I stare 
 As idiots do upon this changeful world. 
 With nor surprise nor speculation. No ; 
 Dreams I fear not : it is the dreadful waking, 
 When, in deep midnight stillness, the roused 
 
 fancy 
 Takes up th' imperfect shadows of its sleep, 
 
32 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Like a marr'd speech snatchM from a bungler's 
 
 mouth, 
 8ha])ing their forms distinctively and vivid 
 To visions horrible : — this is my bane ; — 
 It is the dreadful waking tliat I fear. 
 
 AL Well, speak of other things. There in 
 good time 
 Your ghostly father comes with quicken'd steps, 
 Like one who bears some tidings good or ill. 
 Heaven grant they may be good ! 
 
 Enter Urston. 
 
 Or. Father, you seem disturb'd. 
 
 Ur. Daughter, I am in truth disturb'd. The 
 Count 
 All o'the sudden, being much enrag'd 
 That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls, 
 Resolves to send thee hence, to be a while 
 In banishment detained, till on his son 
 Thou look'st with better favour. 
 
 Or. Aye, indeed ! 
 
 That is to say perpetual banishment : 
 A sentence light or heavy, as the place 
 Is sweet or irksome he would send me to. 
 
 Ur. He will contrive to make it, doubt him 
 not, 
 Irksome enough. Therefore I would advise thee 
 'Jo feign at least, but for a little time, 
 A disposition to obey his wishes. 
 He's stern, but not relentless ; and his dame. 
 The gentle Eleanor, will still befriend you, 
 When fit occasion serves. 
 
ORllA : A TRAGEDY. 33 
 
 07\ What said*st thou, Father? 
 
 To feign a disposition to obey ! 
 I did mistake thy words. 
 
 Urst. No, gentle daugliter ; 
 
 So pressed, thou mayest feign and yet be blame- 
 less. 
 A trusty guardian's fiiith with thee he holds not, 
 And therefore thou art free to meet his wrono:s 
 With what defence tliou hast. 
 
 Or. ( j)roudlij.) Nay pardon me ; I, with an 
 unsliorn crown. 
 Must hold the truth in plain simplicity, 
 And am in nice distinctions most unskilful. 
 
 Urst. Lady, have I deserx'd this sharpness ? 
 oft 
 Thine infant hand has stroked this shaven crown : 
 Thou'st ne'er till now reproach'd it. 
 
 Or. ( Intrsting into tears.') 
 Pardon, O pardon me, my gentle Urston ! 
 Pardon a wayward child, wliose eager temper 
 Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her heart. 
 Father, am I forgiven ? (Hanging on him.) 
 
 Urst. Thou art, tliou art : 
 
 Thou art forgiven ; more than forgiven, my 
 child. 
 
 0?\ Then lead mc to the Count, I will myself 
 Learn his stern purpose. 
 
 Urst. In the hall he is, 
 
 Seated in state, and waiting to receive you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 VOL. III. D 
 
34 orra: a tragedy. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A spacious Apartmeiit, or Baron* s Hall, with a 
 Chair of State, Hughobert, Eleanora, aiid 
 Glottenbal e)iter near the Front, speaking 
 as they enter ; and afterwards enter Vassals 
 and Attendants, who i^ange themselves at the 
 bottom of the Stage. 
 
 Hugh. Cease, Dame 1 I will not hear ; thou 
 striv'st in vain 
 With thy weak pleadings. Orra hence must go 
 Within the hour, unless she will engage 
 Her plighted word to marry Glottenbal. 
 
 Glot. Aye, and a mighty hardship, by the 
 
 mass ! 
 Huiih. I've summon'd her in solemn form 
 before me. 
 That these my vassals should my act approve, 
 Knowing my right of guardianship ; and also 
 That her late father, in his dying moments. 
 Did will she slK)uld be married to my son ; 
 Which will, she now must promise to obey, 
 Or take the consequence. 
 
 El. But why so hasty ? 
 
 Hugh. Why, say'st thou ? Falkenstein still in 
 these parts 
 Lingers with sly intent. Even now he left me. 
 After an interview of small importance. 
 Which he and Hartman, as a bUnd pretence 
 For seeing Orra, formally requested. 
 I say again she must forthwith obey me. 
 Or take the consequence of wayward will. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 35 
 
 . EL Nay, not for Orra do I now intreat 
 So much as for thyself. Bethink thee well 
 What honour thou shalt have, when it is known 
 Thy ward fron> thy protecting roof was sent ; 
 Thou who sl/ould'st be to her a friend, a father. 
 
 Hugh. But do I send her unprotected ? No ! 
 Brave Rudigere conducts her with a band 
 Of trusty spearmen. In her new abode ^ 
 She will be safe as here. 
 
 EL Ha! Rudigere! 
 
 Put*st thou such trust in him ? Alas, my Lord ! 
 His heart is full of cunning and deceit. 
 Wilt thou to him the flower of all thy race 
 Rashly intrust ? O be advised, my Lord ! 
 
 Hugh. Thy ghostly father teils thee so, I 
 doubt not. 
 Another priest confesses Rudigere, 
 And Urston likes him not. But can'st thou 
 
 think, 
 With aught but honest purpose, he would chuse 
 From all her women the severe Cathrina, 
 So strictly virtuous, for her companion ? 
 This puts all doubt to silence. Say no more. 
 Else I shall think thou plead'st against my son. 
 More with a step-dame*s than a mother's feelings. 
 
 GloL Aye, marry does she, father ! And for- 
 sooth ! 
 Regards me as a fool. No marvel then 
 That Orra scorns me ; being taught by her, — 
 How should she else ? — So to consider me. 
 
 Hugh, (to Glottenbal. ) Tut ! hold thy tongue. 
 
 EL He wrongs me much, my Lord. 
 
 D 2 
 
30 orra': a tragedy. 
 
 Hugh. No more, for here she comes. 
 
 Enter Orra, attended by Urston, Alice aiid 
 
 Cathrina, and Hughobert seats himself in 
 
 his chair of state, the vassals, S^r. ranging 
 
 Ifiemselves on each side. 
 
 Hugh. ( to Orra.) Madam and ward, placed 
 under mme authority. 
 And to my charge committed by my kinsman, 
 Uh'ic of Aldenberg, thy noble father ; 
 Having all gentle means essay'd to win thee 
 To the fulfilment of his dying will. 
 That did decree his heiress should be married 
 With Glottenbal my heir ; I solemnly 
 Now call upon thee, ere that rougher means 
 Be used for this good end, to promise truly. 
 Thou wilt, within a short and stated time. 
 Before the altar give thy plighted faith 
 To this my only son. I wait thine answer. 
 Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou do this? 
 
 Or. Count of the same, my lord and guardian, 
 I will not. 
 
 Hugh. Have a care, thou froward maid ! 
 'Tis thy last opportunity : ere long 
 Thou shalt, within a dreary dwelling pent. 
 Count thy dull hours, told by the dead man's 
 
 watch. 
 And wish thou had*st not been so proudly wilful. 
 
 Or. And let my dull hours by the dead man's 
 watch 
 Be told ; yea, make me too the dead man's 
 mate, 
 
 4 
 
ORIIA : A TRAGEDY. Sj 
 
 My dwelling place the nailed coffin ; still 
 I would prefer it to the living Lord 
 Your goodness offers me. 
 
 Hugh. Art thou bewitch'd ? 
 
 Is he not young, well featured and well form'd ? 
 And dost thou put him in thy estimation 
 With bones and sheeted clay? 
 Beyond endurance is thy stubborn spirit. 
 Right well thy father knew that all thy sex 
 Stubborn and headstrong are ; therefore, in 
 
 wisdom, 
 He vested me with power that might compel 
 
 thee 
 To what he wilPd should be. 
 
 Or. O not in wisdom ! 
 
 Say rather in that weak, but genVous faith. 
 Which said to him, the cope of heaven would fall 
 And smother in its cradle his swath'd babe. 
 Rather than thou, his mate in arms, his kins- 
 man, 
 Who by his side in many a field had fought, 
 Should'st take advantage of his confidence 
 For sordid ends. — 
 
 My brave and noble father ! 
 A voice comes from thy grave and cries against 
 
 it, 
 And bids me to be bold. Thine awful form 
 Rises before me, — and that look of anguish 
 On thy dark brow ! — O no ! I blame thee not. 
 Hugh. Thou seem'st beside thyself with such 
 wild gestures 
 
 D O 
 
SB ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 And strangely-flashing eyes. Repress these 
 
 fancies, 
 And to plain reason listen. Thou hast said, 
 For sordid ends I have advantage ta'en. 
 Since thy brave father's death, by war and com- 
 pact. 
 Thou of thy lands hast lost a third ; whilst I, 
 By happy fortune, in my heir's behalf. 
 Have doubled my domains to what they w^ere 
 When Ulric chose him as a match for thee. 
 Or. O, and what speaketh this, but that my 
 father 
 Domains regarded not ; and thought a man 
 Such as the son should be of such a man 
 As thou to him appear'dst, a match more ho- 
 nourable 
 Than one of ampler state. Take thou from 
 
 Glottenbal 
 The largely added lands of which thou boastest, 
 And put, in lieu thereof, into his stores 
 Some weight of manly sense and gen'rous worth. 
 And I will say thou keep'st faith with thy friend : 
 But as it is, altho' a king's domains 
 Encreas'd thy wealtli, thou poorly would'st de- 
 ceive him. 
 Hugh, (rising Jrom his chair in miger.) 
 Now, Madam, be all counsel on this matter 
 Between us closed. Prepare thee for thy jour- 
 ney. 
 El. Nay, good my Lord ! consider. 
 Htigh. (to Eleanora.) What, again! 
 
ORUA : A TRAGEDY. 39 
 
 Have I not said thou hast an alien's heart 
 From nie and mine. Learn to respect my will : 
 — Be silent, as becomes a youthful Dame. 
 Urst. For a few days may she not still remain ? 
 Hugh. No, priest ; not for an hour. It is 
 my pleasure 
 That she for Brunier's castle do set forth 
 Without delay. 
 
 Or. (with a faint startin<>^ ynovemeiit.) In Bru- 
 nier's castle ! 
 Hug. Aye; 
 
 And doth this change the colour of thy cheek, 
 And give thy altered voice a feebler sound ? 
 
 (Aside to Glottenbal.) 
 She shrinks, now to her, boy ; this is thy time. 
 Glot. (to Orra.) Unless thou wilt, thou need'st 
 not go at all. 
 There is full many a maiden would right gladly 
 Accept the terms w^e offer, and rem^ain. 
 (A pause.) Wilt thou not answer me ? 
 
 Or. I heard thee not, — 
 
 I heard thy voice but not thy words. What 
 said'st thou ? 
 Glot. I say, there's many a maiden would right 
 gladly 
 Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 
 The daughter of a King hath matched ere now 
 With mine inferior. We are link'd together 
 As 'twere by right and natural property. 
 And as I've said before I say again, 
 I love thee too : What more couldst thou de- 
 sire ? 
 
 D 4 
 
40 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Or. I thank thee for thy courtship, tho' un- 
 couth ; 
 For it confirms my purpose : and my strength 
 Grows as thou speak*st, firm like the deep-bas'd 
 
 rock. 
 (To Hughobert.) Now for my journey when you 
 
 will, my Lord; 
 I'm ready. 
 
 Hugh. Be it so ! on thine own head 
 
 Ilest all the blame. 
 
 (Going Jrom her.) 
 
 Perverse past all belief! 
 (Turning round to her sternly.') 
 Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou obey me? 
 
 Or. Count of that noble house, with all respect. 
 Again I say I will not. 
 
 (Exit Hughobert in cmger, followed by 
 Glottenbal, Urston, S^x. Manent only 
 Eleanora, Cathrina, AUce and Orra, 
 ivho keeps up icith stately pride till 
 Hughobert and all Attendants are gone 
 out, and then throwing herself into the 
 arms r)/" Eleanora, gives vent to her 
 feelings.) 
 El. Sweet Orra 1 be not so depressed; thou 
 goest 
 Eor a short term, soon to return again ; 
 The banishment is mine who stays behind. 
 But I will beg of heaven with ceaseless prayers 
 To have thee soon restored : and, when I dare. 
 Will plead with Hughobert in thy behalf j 
 He is not always stern. 
 
ORRA ; A TRAGEDY. 1-1 
 
 Or. Thanks, gentle friend ! Thy voice to me 
 doth sound 
 Like the last sounds of kindly nature ; dearly 
 In my remembrance shall they rest. — What 
 
 sounds, 
 What sights, what horrid intercourse I may, 
 Ere we shall meet again, be doom'd to prove. 
 High heaven alone doth know. — If that indeed 
 We e'er shall meet again ! 
 
 (Falls on her neck and weeps.) 
 EL Nay, nay ! come to my chamber. There 
 awhile 
 Compose your spirits. Be not so deprest. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 (Rudigere, who has appeared, during the last part 
 of the above scene^ at the bottom of Itie stage, 
 half concealed, as if upon tJie watch, noxo conies 
 forward.) 
 
 (^Spealdng as lie advances.") 
 Hold firm her pride till fairly from these walls 
 Our journey is begun ; then fortune hail ! 
 Thy favours are secured. 
 
 (^Loo/ling off the stage.) 
 
 Ho, Maurice there ! 
 
 Enter Maurice. 
 
 My faithful Maurice, I would speak with tliee 
 I leave thee here behind me ; to thy care. 
 My int'rests I commit ; be it thy charge 
 To counteract thy Lady's influence, 
 Who will entreat her Lord the term to shorten 
 
42 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Of Orra's absence, maiming thus my plan, 
 Which must, behke, have time to be effected. 
 Be vigilant, be artful j and be sure 
 Thy services I amply will repay. 
 
 Maur. Aye, thou hast said so, and I have 
 
 believed thee. 
 Rud. And dost thou doubt ? 
 Maur. No ; yet meantime, good sooth ! 
 
 If somewhat of thy bounty I might finger, 
 'Twere well : I like to have some actual proof. 
 Did'st thou not promise it ? 
 
 Rud. 'Tis true I did, 
 
 But other pressing calls have drain'd my means. 
 Maur. And other pressing calls my ebbing 
 faith 
 May also drain, and change my promised pur- 
 pose. 
 Rudi Go to ! I know thou art a greedy leech, 
 Tho* nevertheless thou lov*st me. 
 
 (Taking a small case Jrom his pocket, which 
 he opens.') 
 
 See'st thou here ? 
 I have no coin ; but look upon these jewels : 
 I took them from a knight I slew in battle. 
 When I am Orra's lord, thou shalt receive. 
 Were it ten thousand crowns, whatever their 
 
 worth 
 Shall by a skilful lapidary be 
 In honesty esteem'd. 
 
 (Gives him the jewels.) 
 Maur. I thank thee, but methinks their lus- 
 tre 's dim. 
 I've seen the stones before upon thy breast 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 43 
 
 111 gala days, but never heard thee boast 
 They were of so much vahic. 
 
 Rud. I was too prudent : I had lost them else. 
 To no one but thyself would I entrust 
 The secret of their value. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir Rudigere, the spearmen are without, 
 Waiting your further orders, for the journey. 
 Rud. {to Servant.) I'll come to them anon. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Before I go, I'll speak to thee again. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
44) ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Forest xvith a half-riuned Castle 
 in the Back-Groimdi seen through the Trees by 
 Moon-light. Franko and several Outlaws are 
 discovered sitting on the Ground^ round a Fire, 
 with FlaggonSj 8^c. by them, as if they had been 
 drinking. 
 
 Song of several voices. 
 
 The chough and crow to roost are gone. 
 
 The owl sits on the tree. 
 The hush''d wind wails with feeble moan. 
 
 Like iifant charity. 
 The wild f re dances on the fen. 
 
 The red star sheds its ray, 
 Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 
 
 It is our opening day. 
 
 Both child and nurse are fast asleep. 
 
 And clos'd is every flower. 
 And winking tapers faintly p>eep 
 
 High from my Lady^s bower ; 
 Bewildered hinds with shortened ken 
 
 Shrink on their murky way, 
 JJp-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 
 
 It is our opening day. 
 
 Nor board nor garner own we now. 
 
 Nor roof nor latched door. 
 Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow 
 
 To bless a good man's store ; 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 45 
 
 Noo7i lulls US in a gloomy deity 
 
 And night is groiim our day, 
 Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! 
 
 And use it as ye may. 
 
 Frank, (to 1st. Out.) Howlik*st thou this, Fer- 
 nando ? 
 1st Out. Well sung i'faith ! but servhig ill our 
 turn, 
 Who would all trav'llers and benighted folks 
 Scare from our precincts. Such sweet harmony 
 Will rather tempt invasion. 
 
 Frank. Fear not, for mingled voices, heard 
 afar, 
 Thro* glade and glen and thicket, stealing on 
 To distant list'ners, seem wild-goblin-sounds ; 
 At which the lonely trav'ller checks his steed, 
 Pausing with long-drawn breath and keen-turn'd 
 
 ear; 
 And twilight pilferers cast down in haste 
 Their ill-got burthens, while the homeward hind 
 Turns from his path, full many a mile about. 
 Thro' bog and mire to grope his blund'ring way. 
 Such, to the startled ear of superstition, 
 Were seraph's song, could we like seraphs sing. 
 
 Enter 1st Outlaw hastily. 
 9.d Out. Disperse ye diff'rent ways : we are 
 
 undone. 
 Fr^ank. How say'st thou, shrinking poltron ? 
 we undone ! 
 Outlawed and ruin'd men, who live by daring.! 
 
46 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Qd Out. A train of armed men, some noble 
 Dame 
 Escorting, (so their scattered words discovered 
 As imperceived I hung upon their rear,) 
 Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night 
 Within the castle. 
 
 Frank. Some benighted travellers, 
 Bold from their numbers, or who ne'er have 
 
 heard 
 The ghostly legend of this dreaded place. 
 \st Out. Let us keep close within our vaulted 
 haunts ; 
 The way to which is tangled and perplex'd. 
 And cannot be discovered : with the morn 
 They will depart. 
 
 Frank, Nay, by tlie holy mass ! within those 
 walls . 
 Not for a night must travellers quietly rest, 
 Or few or many. Would we live securely. 
 We must uphold the terrors of the place : 
 Therefore, let us prepare our midnight rouse. 
 See, from the windows of the castle gleam 
 
 {lights seen from the castle.) 
 Quick passing lights, as tho* they moved within 
 In hurried preparation ; and that bell, 
 
 (bell heard.") 
 Which from yon turret its shill 'larum sends. 
 Betokens some unwonted stir. Come hearts ! 
 Be all prepared, before the midnight watch. 
 The fiend-like din of our infernal chace 
 Around the walls to raise. — Come ; night 
 advances. [Exeunt. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Gothic Room in the Castle^ 'with the Stage 
 
 darkened ; enter Cathrina, bearing a Light, 
 
 Jhllowed hy Orra. 
 
 Or, (Catching her hy the robe and pulling her 
 back.) 
 Advance no further : turn, I pray ! This room 
 More dismal and more ghastly seems than that 
 Which we have left behind. Thy taper's light, 
 As thus aloft thou wav'st it to and fro. 
 The fretted ceiling gilds with feeble brightness ; 
 Whilst over-head its carved ribs glid past 
 Like edgy waves of a dark sea, returning 
 To an eclipsed moon its sullen sheen. 
 
 Cath. To me it seems less dismal than the 
 other. 
 See, here are chairs around the table set, 
 As if its last inhabitants had left it 
 Scarcely an hour ago. 
 
 {Setting the light upon the table.) 
 
 Or. Alas! how many hours and years have 
 past 
 Since human forms have round this table sat, 
 Or lamp or taper on its surface gleam'd I 
 Methinks I hear the sound of time long past 
 Still murm*ring o'er us in the lofty void 
 Of those dark arches, like the ling'ring voices 
 Of those who long within their graves have slept. 
 It was their gloomy home ; now it is mine. 
 
 (Sits downj resting her arm upon the table, 
 and covering her eyes xvith her hand.) 
 
48 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (^Enter Rudigere, hecTfoning Cathrina to come 
 to Mm ; and speaks to her in a low voice at tJie 
 corner of the stage.) 
 Go and prepare thy Lady's chamber ; why 
 Dost thou for ever closely near her keep ? 
 Cath, She charged me so to do : 
 Riid. I charge thee also, 
 
 With paramount authority, to leave her : 
 I for a while will take thy station here. 
 Thou art not mad ? Thou dost not hesitate ? 
 {Fiji:ing his eyes on her with a fierce threat- 
 ening look, from which she shrinks.) 
 
 [Exit Cath. 
 Or. This was the home of bloody lawless 
 power. 
 The very air rests tliick and heavily 
 Where murder hath been done. 
 {Sighing heaviJij.) There is a strange oppression 
 
 in my breast : 
 Dost thou not feel a close unwholesome vapour ? 
 Rud. No 5 ev'ry air to me is light and healthful, 
 That with thy sweet and heavenly breath is 
 mix'd. 
 Or. {starting up.) Thou here ! 
 
 {Looking round.) Cathrina gone ? 
 Rud. Does Orra fear to be alone with one. 
 Whose weal, whose being on her favour hangs ? 
 Or. Retire, Sir Knight. 1 chuse to be alone. 
 Rud. And dost thou chuse it, here, in such a 
 place. 
 Wearing so near the midnight hour ? — Alas ! 
 How loath'd and irksome must my presence be ! 
 
ORUA : A TRAOEDV. 49 
 
 Or. Dost thow deride my weakness ? 
 
 Rud. I deride it ! 
 
 No, noble Maid ! say rather that from thee 
 I have a kindred weakness caught. In battle 
 My courage never shrunk, as my arm'd heel 
 And crested helm do fairly testify : 
 But now when midnight comes, I feel by sym- 
 pathy, 
 With thinking upon thee, fears rise within me 
 I never knew before. 
 
 07\ (ifi a softened khidlier voice.') 
 Ha ! dost thou too 
 Such human weakness own ? 
 
 Rud. I plainly feel 
 
 We are all creatures, in the wakeful hour 
 Of ghastly midnight, formed to cower together. 
 Forgetting all distinctions of the day, 
 Beneath its awful and mysterious power. 
 
 {Stealing closer to her as he speakSy and put- 
 ting his arms round her.) 
 
 Or. (breaking from him.) 
 I pray thee hold thy parley further off: 
 Why dost thou press so near me ? 
 
 Rud. And art thou so offended, lovely Orra ? 
 Ah ! wherefore am I thus presumptuous deem*d ? 
 The blood that fills thy veins enriches mine ; 
 From the same stock we spring ; tho* by that 
 
 glance 
 Of thy disdainful eye, too well I see 
 My birth erroneously thou countest base. 
 
 Or. Erroneously ! 
 
 Rud. Yes, I will prove it so. 
 
 VOL. III. E 
 
50 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Longer Pll not endure a galling wrong 
 Which makes each word of tenderness that bursts 
 From a full heart, bold and presumptuous seem. 
 And severs us so far. 
 
 Or. No, subtile snake ! 
 
 It is the baseness of thy selfish mind. 
 Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit, 
 That severs us so far, and shall do ever. 
 
 Rud, Thou prov*st how far my passion will 
 endure 
 Unjust reproaches from a mouth so dear. 
 
 Or. Out on hypocrisy ! who but thyself 
 Did Hughobert advise to send me hither ? 
 And who the jailor's hateful office holds 
 To make my thraldom sure ? 
 
 Rud. Upbraid me not for this : had I refused. 
 One less thy friend had ta*en th' ungracious task. 
 And, gentle Orra ! dost thou know a man. 
 Who might in ward all that his soul holds dear 
 From danger keep, yet would the charge refuse, 
 For that strict right such wardship doth con- 
 demn ? 
 O ! still to be with thee ; to look upon thee ; 
 To hear thy voice, makes ev*n this place of 
 
 horrours, — 
 Where, as 'tis said, the spectre of a chief, 
 Slain by our common grandsire, haunts the 
 
 night, 
 A paradise — a place where I could live 
 In penury and gloom, and be most bless'd. 
 Akl Orra! if there's misery in thraldom, 
 Pity a wretch who breathes but in thy favour : 
 
 7 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 Who till he look'd upon that beauteous face. 
 Was free and happy. — Pity me or kill me ! 
 
 (^Kneeling and catching hold of her fiaiid.) 
 
 Or. Off, fiend ! let snakes and vipers cling 
 to me 
 So thou dost keep aloof. 
 
 Rud. (inking indignantly.') 
 And is my love with so much hatred met ? 
 Madam, beware lest scorn like this should change 
 
 me 
 Ev'n to the baleful thing your fears have fancied. 
 
 Or. Dar'st thou to threaten me ? 
 
 Rud. He, who is mad with love and gall'd 
 with scorn, 
 Dares any thing. — But O ! forgive such words 
 From one who rather, humbled at your feet. 
 Would of that gentleness, that generous pity, 
 The native inmate of each female breast, 
 Receive the grace on which his life depends. 
 There was a time when thou did*st look on me 
 With other eyes. 
 
 Or. Thou dost amaze me much. 
 
 Whilst I believ'd thou wert an honest man. 
 Being no fool, and an adventurous soldier, 
 1 look'd upon thee with good-will ; if more 
 Thou did*st discover in my looks than this. 
 Thy wisdom with thine honesty, in truth 
 Was fairly match'd. 
 
 Rud. Madam, the proud derision of that smile 
 Deceives me not. It is the Lord of Falkenstein, 
 Who better skiird than I in tournay-war, 
 Tho* not i' th* actual field more valiant found, 
 E 2 
 
52 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Engrosses now your partial thoughts. And yet 
 What may he boast which, in a lover's suit, 
 I may not urge ? He's brave, and so am I. 
 In birth I am his equal ; for my mother, 
 As I shall prove, was married to Count Albert, 
 My noble father, tho* for reasons tedious 
 Here to be stated, still their secret nuptials 
 Were unacknowledged, and on me hath fallen 
 A cruel stigma which degrades my fortunes. 
 But were I — O forgive th' aspiring thought ! — 
 But were I Orra's Lord, I should break forth 
 Like the unclouded sun, by all acknowledged 
 As ranking with the highest in the land. 
 
 Or. Do what thou wilt when thou art Orra's 
 Lord ; 
 But being as thou art, retire and leave me : 
 I chuse to be alone. (^Very proudly.) 
 
 Rud. Then be it so. 
 
 Thy pleasure, mighty Dame, I will not balk. 
 This night, to-morrow's night, and every night, 
 Shalt thou in solitude be left ; if absence 
 Of human beings can secure it for thee. 
 
 (^Pauses and looks on her, rvliile she seems 
 struck and disturbed.') 
 It wears already on the midnight hour ; 
 Good night ! 
 
 (^Pauses again, she still more disturbed,) 
 Perhaps I understood too hastily 
 Commands you may retract. 
 
 Or. (recovering her state.) 
 Leave me, I say ; that part of my commands 
 I never can retract. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 Rud. You are obeyed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 (Or. paces up and doxim hastily for some time, 
 tlieii stops short, and after remaining a little 
 while in a thoughtful posture) 
 Can spirit from the tomb, or fiend from hell, 
 More hateful, more malignant be than man — 
 Than villanous man ? Altho' to look on such, 
 Yea, even the very thought of looking on them, 
 Makes natural blood to curdle in the veins. 
 And loosen'd limbs to shake. 
 There are who have endur*d the visitation 
 Of supernatural Beings. — O forfend it ! 
 I would close couch me to my deadliest foe 
 Rather than for a moment bear alone 
 The horrours of the sight. 
 
 Who's there? Who's there? 
 {looking round.) 
 Heard I not voices near? That door ajar 
 Sends forth a cheerful light. Perhaps my 
 
 women. 
 Who now prepare my chamber. Grant it be ! 
 [Exit, running hastily to a door from 
 which a light is seen. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Chamber, xvith a small Bed or Couch i?i it ; 
 
 enter Rudigere and Cathrina, wrangVmg 
 
 together. 
 
 Rud. I say begone, and occupy the chamber 
 I have appointed for thee : here Tm fix'd,. 
 And here I pass the night. 
 
 eS 
 
54 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cath. Thou said*st my chamber 
 Should be adjoining that which Orra holds? 
 I know thy wicked thoughts : they meditate 
 Some dev'lish scheme ; but think not 1*11 abet it. 
 Rud. Thou wilt not ! — angry, restive, simple 
 fool! 
 Dost thou stop short and say, ** FU go no fur- 
 ther ?" 
 Thou, whom concealed shame hath bound so 
 
 fast, — 
 My tool, — my instrument ? — Fulfil thy charge 
 To the full bent of thy commission, else 
 Thee, and thy bantling too, 1*11 from me cast 
 To want and infamy. 
 
 Cath, O shameless man ! 
 
 Thou art the son of a degraded mother 
 As low as I am, yet thou hast no pity. 
 Rud. Aye, and dost thou reproach my bas- 
 tardy 
 To make more base the man who conquer'd thee. 
 With all thy virtue, rigid and demure ? 
 Who would have thought less than a sovereign 
 
 Prince 
 Could e*er have compass'd such achievement? 
 
 Mean 
 As he may be, thou'st given thyself a master, 
 And must obey him. — Dost thou yet resist ? 
 Thou know*st my meaning. 
 
 (Tearing open his vest in vehemence of action.) 
 Cath, Under thy vest a dagger! — Ah ! too well, 
 I know thy meaning, cruel, ruthless man ! 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 55 
 
 Rud. Have I discover'd it ? — I thought not 
 of it: 
 The vehemence of gesture hath betray'd me. 
 I keep it not for thee, but for myself; 
 A refuge from disgrace. Here is another : 
 He who with high, but dangerous fortune 
 
 grapples. 
 Should he be foil'd, looks but to friends like 
 these. 
 {Pulling out two daggers frovi his vest.) 
 This steel is strong to give a vig'rous thrust j 
 The other on its venom 'd point hath that 
 Which, in the feeblest hand, gives death as 
 
 certain, 
 •As tho* a giant smote the destin'd prey. 
 
 Cath. Thou desp'rate man ! so arm*d against 
 
 thyself! 
 Rud. Aye ; and against myself with such re- 
 solves, 
 Consider well how 1 shall deal with those 
 AVho may withstand my will or mar my purpose. 
 
 Think'st thou I'll feebly 
 
 Cath. O be pacified. 
 
 1 will be gone : I am a humbled wretch 
 On whom thou tramplest with a tyrant's cruelty. 
 
 [Exit. 
 {Rud. looks after her with a 7nalignant laugh, and 
 then goes to thedoorofan adjoining chamber ^ 
 to the lock of which lie applies his ear.) 
 All still within. — I'm tired and heavy grown : 
 I'll lay me down to rest. She is secure : 
 No one can pass me here to gain her chamber. 
 £ 4 
 
56 orra: a tragedy. 
 
 If she hold parley now with any thing, 
 
 It must in truth be ghost or sprite. — Heigh ho! 
 
 Tm tir*d, and will to bed. 
 
 (^Lays himself on the couch and falls asleep. 
 The cry of hounds is then heard without at 
 a distance, with the sound of a horn ; and 
 presently Orra enters, bursting from the 
 door of the adjoining chamber, in great 
 alarm.) 
 Or, Cathrina ! sleepest thou ? Awake ! 
 Awake 1 
 (^Running up to the couch and starting back 
 on seeing Rudigere.) 
 
 That hateful viper here! 
 Is this my nightly guard? Detested wretch! 
 I will steal back again. 
 
 (Walks softly on tiptoe to the door of her 
 chamber, when the cry of hounds, ^c. is 
 again heard without, nearer than before.) 
 O no! I dare not. 
 Tho' sleeping, and most hateful when awake, 
 Still he is natural life and may be 'waked. 
 
 (listening again.) 
 'Tis nearer now: that dismal thrilling blast ! 
 I must awake him. 
 
 (Approaching the couch and shrinking back 
 again.) 
 
 O no! no, no! 
 Upon his face he wears a horrid smile 
 That speaks bad thoughts. 
 
 (Rud. speaks in his sleep.) 
 He mutters too my name. — 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 I dare not do it. (^Listening again.) 
 
 The dreadful sound is now upon the wind, 
 Sullen and low, as if it wound its way 
 Into the cavern*d earth that swallow'd it. 
 I will abide in patient silence here ; 
 Tho* hateful and asleep, I feel me still 
 Near something of my kind. 
 
 (Crosses her arms, and leans in a cowering 
 posture over the back of a chair at a dis- 
 tance from the couch ; when presently the 
 horn is heard without, louder than before, 
 and sJie starts up.) 
 
 it returns ! as tho' the yawning earth 
 Had given it up again, near to the walls. 
 The horribly mingled din ! 'tis nearer still : 
 'Tis close at hand : 'tis at the very gate ! 
 
 (running up to the couch.) 
 Were he a murd'rer, clenching in his hands 
 The bloody knife, I must awake him. — No ! 
 That face of dark and subtile wickedness! 
 
 1 dare not do it. (listing again,) Aye ; 'tis at 
 
 the gate — 
 Within the gate. — 
 
 What rushing blast is that 
 Shaking the doors ? Some awful visitation 
 Dread entrance makes ! O mighty God of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 A sound ascends the stairs. 
 
 Ho, Rudigere ! 
 Awake, awake ! Ho ! Wake thee, Rudigere ! 
 Rud. (xcaking.) What cry is that so terribly 
 strong ? — Ha ! Orra ! 
 What is the matter ? 
 
58 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Or. It is within the walls. Did'st thou not 
 
 hear it ? 
 Rud. What? The loud voice that call'd me ? 
 Oi\ No, it was mine. 
 Rud. It sounded in my ears 
 
 With more than human strength. 
 Or. Did it so sound ? 
 
 There is around us, in this midnight air, 
 A power surpassing nature. List, I pray : 
 Altho' more distant now, dost thou not hear 
 The yell of hounds ; the spectre-huntsman's 
 horn ? 
 Rud. I hear, indeed, a strangely mingled sound: 
 The wind is howling round the battlements. 
 But rest secure where safety is, sweet Orra ! 
 Within these arms, nor man nor fiend shall harm 
 thee. 
 (^Approaching her mfh a softened itinnmg 
 voice, while she pushes him off uith ab- 
 horrence.) 
 Or, Vile reptile ! touch me not. 
 Rud. Ah ! Orra ! thou art warp'd by prejudice. 
 And taught to think me base ; but in my veins 
 Lives noble blood, which I will justify. 
 
 Or. But in thy heart, false traitor ! what livfes' 
 
 there ? 
 Rud. Alas ! thy angel-faultlessness conceives 
 not 
 The strong temptations of a soul impassion'd 
 
 Beyond controul of reason. At thy feet — 
 
 (kneeling.) 
 
 -O spurn me not. 
 
OHRA : A TRAGEDY. 59 
 
 (^Enler scvefal Servants, alarmed.) 
 
 Rud, What all these fools upon us ! Staring 
 knaves, 
 What brings ye here at this untimely hour ? 
 \st Serv. We have all heard it — 'twas the yell 
 of hounds 
 And clattering steeds, and the shrill horn be- 
 tween. 
 Rud. Out on such folly ! 
 Q,d Serv. In very truth it passed close to the 
 walls ; 
 Did not your honour hear it ? 
 
 Rud. Ha ! say'st thou so ? thou art not wont 
 to join 
 In idle tales. — I'll to the battlements 
 And watch it there : it may return again. 
 
 [Exeunt severally^ Rudigere folloived by 
 Servants, and Orra into her own cham- 
 ber. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The Outlaws* Cave ; enter Theobald. 
 
 Theo. (looking romid.) Here is a place in 
 which some traces are 
 Of late inhabitants. In yonder nook 
 The embers faintly gleam, and on the walls 
 Hang spears and ancient arms: I must be right. 
 A figure thro* the gloom moves towards me. 
 Ho! there! Whoe'er you are : Holla! good friend ! 
 
60 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Enter an Outlaw. 
 Out. A stranger ! Who art thou, who art thus 
 bold, 
 To hail us here unbidden ? 
 
 Theo. That thou shalt shortly know. Thou 
 art, I guess. 
 One of the Outlaws, who this forest haunt. 
 Out. Be thy conjecture right or wrong, no 
 more 
 Shalt thou return to tell where thou hast found 
 
 us. 
 Now for thy life ! 
 
 (dratting his szvord.) 
 Theo. Hear me, I do entreat thee. 
 
 Out. Nay, nay ! no foolish pleadings j for thy 
 life 
 Is forfeit now ; have at thee ! 
 
 (Falls Jiercely upon Theobald, "who also 
 draws and defends himself bravely , when 
 another Outlaw enters ayid falls likewise 
 upon him. Theo. then recedes^ fighting, 
 till he gets his back to the wall of the 
 cavern^ and there defends himself stoutly.) 
 
 Enter Franko. 
 
 Frank. Desist, I charge you ! Fighting with 
 a stranger. 
 Two swords to one ■— a solitary stranger ! 
 \st Out. We are discovered : had he mastered 
 me. 
 He had retuni'd to tell his mates above 
 
OllUA : A TRAGEDY. 6l 
 
 What neighbours in these nether caves tliey have. 
 Let us dispatch hun. 
 
 Frank. No, thou hateful butcher ! 
 
 Dispatch a man alone and in our power ! 
 Who art thou, stranger, who dost use thy sword 
 With no mean skill ; and in this perilous case 
 So bold an air and countenance maintainest ? 
 What brought thee hither ? 
 
 Theo. My name is Theobald of Falkenstein ; 
 To find the valiant Captain of these bands, 
 And crave assistance of his gen'rous arm : 
 This is my business here. 
 
 Frank, (^struck and agitated^ to his men.) 
 Go, join your comrades in the further cave. 
 
 [Exeunt Outlaws. 
 And thou art Falkenstein ? In truth thou art. 
 And who think'st thou am I ? 
 
 Tlieo. Franco, the gen'rous leader of those 
 Outlaws. 
 
 Frank. So am I call'd, and by that name alone 
 They know me. Sporting on the mountain's 
 
 side. 
 Where Garva's wood waves green, in other days, 
 Some fifteen years ago, they call'd me Albert. 
 
 Theo. {rushing into his arms.) 
 Albert ; my play-mate Albert ! Woe the day ! 
 What cruel fortune drove thee to this state ? 
 
 Frank. I'll tell thee all ; but tell thou first to 
 me 
 What is the aid thou earnest here to ask. 
 
 Theo. Aye, thou wert ever thus : still forward 
 bent 
 
6^ ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 To serve, not to be serv'd. 
 
 But wave we this. 
 Last night a Lady to the castle came, 
 In thraldom by a villain kept, whom I 
 Ev*n with my life would rescue. Of arm*d force 
 At present destitute, I come to thee 
 Craving thy aid in counsel and in arms. 
 
 Frank. When did'st thou learn that Outlaws 
 
 harbour here, 
 For 'tis but lately we have held these haunts ? 
 Theo. Not till within the precincts of the 
 
 forest, 
 Following the traces of that villain's course, 
 One of your band I met, and recogniz'd 
 As an old soldier, who, some few years back. 
 Had under my command right bravely serv'd. 
 Seeing himself discover'd, and encouraged 
 By what I told him of my story, freely 
 He oft'er'd to conduct me to his captain. 
 But in a tangled path some space before me, 
 Alarm'd at sight of spearmen thro' the brake. 
 He started from his way, and so I miss'd him, 
 Making, to gain your cave, my way alone. 
 Frank. Thou'rt welcome here : and gladly 
 
 I'll assist thee, 
 Tho' not by arms, the force within the castle 
 So far out-numbering mine. 
 But other means may serve thy purpose better. 
 Theo. What other means, I pray ? 
 Frank. From these low caves, a passage under 
 
 ground 
 Leads to the castle — to the very tower 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. G'5 
 
 Where, as I guess, tlie Lady is confined. 
 When sleep has still'd the house, we'll make our 
 way. 
 Theo. Aye, by my faith it is a noble plan ! 
 Guarded or not we well may overcome 
 The few that may compose her midnight guard. 
 
 Frank. We shall not shrink from that. 
 
 But by my fay ! 
 To-morrow is St. Michaers Eve : 'twere well 
 To be the spectre-huntsman for a night, v 
 And bear her off, without pursuit or hindrance. 
 Theo. 1 comprehend thee not. 
 Frank. Thou shalt ere long. 
 
 But stand not here ; an inner room 1 have. 
 Where thou shalt rest and some refreshment 
 
 take, 
 And then we will more fully talk of this. 
 Which, slightly mentioned, seems chimerical. 
 Follow me. 
 
 {Turning to him as they go out.) 
 Hast thou still upon thine arm 
 That mark which from mine arrow thou re- 
 
 ceivMst 
 When sportively we shot? The wound was 
 
 deep. 
 And gall'd thee much, but thou mad*st light of 
 it. 
 Theo. Yes, here it is. {Pulling up his sleeve 
 as they go outy and exeunt.) 
 
64 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Ramparts of the Castle. Enter 
 Orra and Cathrina. 
 
 Cath. (^after a pause in which Orra walks once 
 or twice aci^oss the stage y thoughtfully.) 
 GO in, I pray ; thou wand'rest here too long. 
 
 {A pause again.) 
 The air is cold ; behind those further mountains 
 The sun is set. I pray thee now go in. 
 
 Or. Ha ! sets the sun already ? Is the day 
 Indeed drawn to its close ? 
 
 Cath. Yes, night approaches. 
 
 See, many a gathered flock of cawing rooks 
 Are to their nests returning. 
 
 Or. {solemnly.) Night approaches ! — 
 
 This awful night which living beings shrink 
 
 from ; 
 All now of every kind scour to their haunts. 
 While darkness, peopled with its hosts unknown, 
 Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night ! 
 What things unutterable thy dark hours 
 May lap ! — What from thy teeming darkness 
 
 burst 
 Of horrid visitations, ere that sun 
 Again shall rise on the enlightened earth ! 
 (^A pause.) 
 
 Cath. Why dost thou gaze intently on the sky ? 
 See*st thou aught wonderful ? 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY, G.J 
 
 Or. Look there ; behold that strange gigantic 
 form 
 Which yon grim cloud assumes ; rearing aloft 
 The semblance of a warrior's plumed head, 
 While from its half-shaped arm a streamy dart 
 Shoots angrily ? Behind him, too, far stretc'h'd, 
 Seems there not, verily, a seried line 
 Of fainter misty forms ? 
 
 Catli. I see, indeed, 
 
 A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed, 
 Towering above the rest ; and that behind 
 In misty faintness seen, which hath some likeness 
 To a long line of rocks with pine-wood crown'd : 
 Or, if indeed the fancy so incline, 
 A file of spearmen, seen thro' drifted smoke. 
 
 Or. Nay, look how perfect now the form be- 
 comes : 
 Dost thou not see? — Aye, and more perfect 
 
 still. 
 O thou ffiscantic Lord, whose robed limbs 
 Beneath their stride span half the heavens ! art 
 
 thou 
 Of lifeless vapour form'd ? Art thou not rather 
 Some air-clad spirit — some portentous thing — 
 Some missioned Being ? — Such a sky as this 
 Ne'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest. 
 
 Cath. Nay, many such I've seen ; regard it not. 
 That form, already changing, will ere long 
 Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer. 
 Go in, I pray. 
 
 Or. No J while one gleam remains 
 
 Of the sun's blessed light, I will not go. 
 
 VOL. III. F 
 
66 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Catli. Then let me fetch a cloak to keep thee 
 warm, 
 For chilly blows the breeze. 
 
 Or, Do as thou wilt. 
 
 [Exit Cath, 
 
 Enter an Outlaw, stealing softly behind her. 
 
 Out. {in a low voice.') Lady ! — the Lady Orra I 
 
 Or. {starting.) Heaven protect me I 
 
 Sounds it beneath my feet, in earth or air ? 
 
 {He comes forward.) 
 Welcome is aught that wears a human face. 
 Did*st thou not hear a sound ? 
 
 Out. What sound, an*t please you ? 
 
 Or. A voice which call'd me now : it spoke, 
 methought, 
 In a low, hollow tone, suppress'd and low, 
 Unlike a human voice. 
 
 Out. It was my own. 
 
 Or. What would'st thou have ? 
 
 Out. Here is a letter. Lady, 
 
 Or. Who sent thee hither ? 
 
 Out. It will tell thee all. {Gives a letter.} 
 
 I must be gone, your chieftain is at hand. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Or. Comes it from Falkenstein ? It is his seal. 
 I may not read it here. I'll to my chamber. 
 
 [Exit hastily, 7iot perceiving Rudigere, 
 who enters by the opposite side, before 
 ^he has time to get off. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. C7 
 
 Rud. A letter in her hand, and in such haste ! 
 Some secret agent liere from Falkenstein ? 
 It must be so. (^Hastening (ijter her^ exit.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Outlaws* Cave ; enter Theobald and 
 Franko by opposite sides, 
 
 Theo. How now, good Captain ; draws it near 
 the time ? 
 Are those the keys ? 
 
 Frank, They are : this doth unlock 
 
 The entrance to the staircase, known alone 
 To Gomez, ancient keeper of the castle, 
 Who is my friend in secret, and deters 
 The neighb'ring peasantry with dreadful tales 
 From visiting by night our wide domains. 
 The other doth unlock a secret door, 
 That leads us to the chamber where she sleeps, 
 Theo, Thanks, generous friend ! thou art my 
 better genius. 
 Did*st thou not say, until the midnight horn 
 Hath sounded thrice, we must remain conceaPd? 
 Frank, Even so. And now I hear my men 
 without 
 Telling the second watch. 
 Theo, How looks the night ? 
 Frank. As we could wish : the stars do faintly 
 twinkle 
 Thro' sever'd clouds, and shed but light suiii- 
 
 cient 
 To shew each nearer object closing on you 
 
 F 2 
 
68 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 In dim unshapely blackness. Anght that moves 
 Across your path, or sheep or straggling goat^ 
 Is now a pawing steed or grizzly bull, 
 Large and terrific ; every air-mov'd bush 
 Or jutting crag, some strange gigantic thing. 
 
 Theo. Is all still in the castle ? 
 
 Frank. There is an owl sits hooting on the 
 tower, 
 That answer from a distant mate receives. 
 Like the faint echo of his dismal cry ; 
 While a poor houseless dog, by dreary fits. 
 Sits howling at the gate. All else is still. 
 
 Theo. Each petty circumstance is in our fa- 
 vour, 
 That makes the night more dismal. 
 
 Frank. Aye, all goes well : as I approached 
 the walls, 
 I heard two centinels — for now I ween, 
 The boldest spearman will not watch alone — 
 Together talk in the deep hollow voice 
 Of those who speak at midnight, under awe 
 Of the dead stillness round them. 
 
 Theo. Then let us put ourselves in readiness^ 
 And heaven's good favour guide us ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 A gloomy Apartment; enter Orra and Rudigere* 
 
 Or. (aside.) The room is darken'd: yesternight 
 a lamp 
 Did shed its light around on roof and walls, 
 And made the dreary space appear less dismal. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 69 
 
 Rud. {averhearing her^ and calling to a Ser- 
 vant mthout.) 
 
 Ho ! more lights here ! 
 (Servant enters xvith a lights and exit.) 
 Thou art obey*d : in aught 
 But in the company of human kind, 
 TJiou shalt be gratified. Tiiy lofty mind 
 For higher super-human fellowship, 
 If such there be, may now prepare it's strength. 
 Or. Thou ruthless tyrant ! They who have in 
 battle 
 Fought vahantly, shrink like a helpless child 
 From any intercourse with things unearthly. 
 Art thou a man ? And bear'st thou in thy breast 
 The feelings of a man ? It cannot be ! 
 
 Rud. Yes, madam ; in my breast I bear too 
 keenly 
 The feelings of a man — a man most wretched : 
 A scorn'd, rejected man. — Make me less miser- 
 able ; 
 Nay rather should I say, make me most blest ; 
 And then — {attempting to take her handy while 
 sJie steps back from him^ drawing herself 
 up with an air stately mid determined^ and 
 looking stedfastly in hisjace.') 
 I too am firm. Thou know'st my fix'd resolve : 
 Give me thy solemn promise to be mine. 
 This is the price, thou haughty, scornful 
 
 maid. 
 That will redeem thee from the hour of ter- 
 
 rour ! 
 This is the price — 
 
 F 3 
 
70" ORRA : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Or. Which never shall be paid. 
 
 (Walks Jrom him to the further end of the 
 apartmentJ) 
 Rud. {after a pause. ^Thou. artdetermin'd then. 
 Be not so rash : 
 Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear : 
 The hour is near at hand. 
 
 {She^ tur7itng round, waves him with her hand 
 to leave her.) 
 
 Thou deign'st no answer. 
 
 Well ; reap the fruits of thine unconquer'd 
 
 pride. [Exit. 
 
 Manet Orra. 
 Or. I am alone : that closing door divides 
 me 
 From ev'ry being owning nature's life. — 
 And shall I be eonstrain'd to hold communion 
 With that which owns it not ? 
 
 (After pacing to and fro for a little while.) 
 
 O that my mind 
 Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady 
 
 fervour 
 To Him, the Lord of all existing things. 
 Who lives, and is where'er existence is ; 
 Grasping its hold upon His skirted robe. 
 Beneath whose mighty rule Angels and Spirits, 
 Demons and nether powers, all living things. 
 Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead 
 In their dark state of mystery, alike 
 Subjected are 1 — And I will strongly do it. — 
 Ah ! would 1 could I Some hidden powerful 
 hindrance 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 Doth hold me back, and mars all thought. — 
 (After a pause J in 'which she stands Jixed with 
 her arms crossed on her breast.) 
 Dread intercourse ! 
 1 if it look on me with its dead eyes ! 
 If it should move its lock'd and earthy lips, 
 And utterance give to the grave's hollow sounds! 
 If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp — 
 
 horror, horror ! 
 
 (^Sinking lower at every successive idea, as she 
 repeats these Jour last lines, till she is quite 
 upon her knees on the ground S) 
 Would that beneath these planks of senseless 
 matter 
 
 1 could, until the dreadful hour is past, 
 
 As senseless be! (^striking thejioor with her hands,) 
 
 O open and receive me, 
 Ye happy things of still and lifeless being, 
 That to the awful steps which tread upon ye 
 Unconscious are ! 
 
 Enter Cathrina behind her. 
 
 Who's there ? Is't any thing ? 
 Cath, 'Tis I, my dearest Lady ; 'tis Cathrina. 
 Or, (^embracing Jier.) How kind ! such blessed 
 kindness! keep thee by me ; 
 FU hold thee fast ; an angel brought thee hither. 
 I needs must weep to think thou art so kind 
 In mine extremity. — Where wert thou hid ? 
 Cath, In that small closet, since the supper 
 hour, 
 I've been conceal'd. For searching round the 
 chamber, 
 
 F 4 
 
7'2 ORliA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 1 found its door, and enterM. Fear not now, 
 I will not leave thee till the break of day. 
 
 Or. Heaven bless thee for it ! Till the break 
 of day ! 
 The very thought of day-break gives me life. 
 If but this night were past, I have good hope 
 That noble Theobald will soon be here 
 For my deliv'rance. 
 
 Cath. Wherefore think'st thou so ? 
 
 Or. A stranger, when thou left*st me on the 
 ramparts, 
 Gave me a letter, which I quickly opened. 
 As soon as I, methought, had gain'd my room 
 In privacy; but close behind me came 
 That daemon, Rudigere, and, snatching at it, 
 Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which, 
 I struggling with him still, he could not save it. 
 
 Cath. You have not read it then. 
 
 Or. No 5 but the seal 
 
 Was Theobald's, and I could swear ere long 
 He will be here to free me from this thraldom. 
 
 Cath. God grant he may ! 
 
 Or. If but this night were past ! How goes 
 the time ? 
 Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch ? 
 
 Cath. (jpointlng to a small slab at the corner of 
 the stage on which is placed a sa?id-glass.) 
 That glass IVe set to measure it. As soon 
 As all the sand is run, you are secure ; 
 The midnight watch is past. 
 
 Or. (running to the glass, and looking at it 
 eagerli/.) 
 
ORRA : A TRACEllY. 73 
 
 There is not much to run : O an't were finisli'd! 
 But it so slowly runs ! 
 
 Cath. Yes ; watching it, 
 
 It seemeth slow. But heed it not ; the while, 
 I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I*ve finisli'd^ 
 The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I pray. 
 (They sit, Orra draiving her chair close to 
 Cathrina.) 
 What story shall I tell thee ? 
 
 Or. Something, my friend, which thou thy- 
 self hast known. 
 Touching the awful intercourse which spirits 
 With mortal men have held at this dread hour. 
 Did'st thou thyself e*er meet with one whose 
 
 eyes 
 Had look'd upon the spectred dead — had seen 
 Forms from another world ? 
 
 Cath. Never but once. 
 
 Or. (eagerlif.') Once then thou did'st. O tell 
 it ! tell it me ! 
 
 Cath. Well, since I needs must tell it, once I 
 knew 
 A melancholy man, who did aver, 
 That journeying on a time o'er a wild waste, 
 By a fell storm o'erta'en, he was compcU'd 
 To pass the night in a deserted tower, 
 Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitant 
 Of the sad place, prepared for him a bed ; 
 And, as he told his tale, at dead of night, 
 By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd, 
 As it might be an arm's-length from his bed — 
 
 Or. So close upon him ? 
 
74 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cath. Yes. 
 
 Or. Go on ; what saw he ? 
 
 Cath. An upright form, wound in a clotted 
 shroud — 
 Clotted and stiff, like one swaith'd up in haste 
 After a bloody death. 
 
 Or. O horrible ! 
 
 Cath: He started from his bed, and gaz'd 
 upon it. 
 
 Or. And did he speak to it ? 
 
 Cath. He could not speak. 
 
 Its visage was uncovered, and at first 
 Seem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in coffin'd 
 
 sleep ; 
 But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how, 
 Into its beamless eyes a horrid glare. 
 And turning towards him, for it did move — 
 Why dost thou grasp me thus ? 
 
 Or, Go on, go on ! 
 
 Cath. Nay, heaven forfend ! Thy shrunk and 
 sharpened features 
 Are of the corse's colour, and thine eyes 
 Are full of tears. How's this ? 
 
 Or. I know not how. 
 
 A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart, 
 And forc'd into mine eyes these icy tears. 
 A fearful kindredship there is between 
 The living and the dead — an awful bond ! 
 Wo*s me ! that we do shudder at ourselves — 
 
 At that which we must be ! A dismal 
 
 thought ! 
 Where dost thou run ? thy story is not told. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 75 
 
 (^Seeing Cath. go toxvards the sand-glass.) 
 Cath. (sJiewhig the glass.) A better story I will 
 tell thee now ; 
 The midnight watch is past. 
 Or. Ha ! let me see. 
 
 Cath. There's not one sand to run. 
 
 Or. But it is barely past. 
 Cath. 'Tis more than past. 
 
 For I did set it later than the hour, 
 To be assur'dly sure. 
 
 Or. Then it is gone indeed. O heaven be 
 praised ! 
 The fearful gloom gone by ! 
 
 (^Holding up her hands in gratitude to hea- 
 vejiy and then looldng round her uith cheer- 
 fid animation.') 
 
 In truth, already 
 I feel as if I breath'd the morning air : 
 I'm marvellously lightened. 
 
 Cath. Ne'ertheless, 
 
 Thou art forspent : I'll run to my apartment, 
 And fetch some cordial drops that will revive 
 thee. 
 Or. Thou need'st not go ; I've ta'en thy 
 drops already : 
 I'm bold and buoyant grown. 
 
 {Bounding lightly from tJiefoor.') 
 Cath, I'll soon return : 
 
 Thou art not fearful now ? 
 
 Or. No ; I breathe lightly ; 
 
 Valour within me grows most powerfully, 
 Would'st thou but stay to see it, gentle Cathrine. 
 
76 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cath. 1 will return to see it, ere thou canst 
 Three times repeat the letters of thy name. 
 
 [Exit hastily by the concealed door. 
 Or. (alone.) This burst of courage shrinks 
 most shamefully. 
 I'll follow her. — {Striving to open the door.) 
 
 'Tis fast : it will not open. 
 I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floor 
 Till she return again. 
 
 {Paces up and doum, muttering to her self y 
 wlien a horn is heard rvithouty pausing and 
 sounding three times, each time louder than 
 before.) 
 
 (Orra runs again to the door.) 
 Despair will give me strength : where is the 
 
 door ? 
 Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now. 
 O God ! protect me in this awful pass ! 
 
 (Jfter a pause, in ivhich she stands with her 
 body bent in a cowering posture, with her 
 hands locked together, and trembling vio- 
 lently, she starts up and looks wildly round 
 her.) 
 There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly hand 
 Upon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyes 
 And ears intent I'll stand. Better it is 
 Thus to abide the awful visitation, 
 Than cower in blinded horror, strain'd in- 
 tensely 
 With ev'ry beating of my goaded heart. 
 
 {Looking round her with a steady sternness, 
 but shrinking again almost immediately.) 
 
OnUA : A TKAGEDY. 77 
 
 I cannot do it : on this spot I'll hold me 
 In awful stillness. 
 
 (^Bending her body as before ; theriy after a 
 momentary pause, pressing both her hands 
 upon her head.) 
 The icy scalp of fear is on my head ; 
 The life stirs in my hair ; it is a sense 
 That tells the nearing of unearthly steps, 
 Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish. 
 {LooJdng round, as if l)y irTesistible imjndse, 
 to a great door at the bottom of the stage, 
 which bursts open, and the form of a hunts- 
 man, cloathed in black, with a horn in his 
 hand, enters and advances towards her. 
 She utters a loud shriek, and falls sense- 
 less on the ground.') 
 Theo. (running up to her, and raising her from 
 the ground.) 
 No semblance, but real agony of fear. 
 Orra, oh, Orra ! know'st thou not my voice ? 
 Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald? 
 Open thine eyes and look upon my face : 
 
 ( Unmasking.) 
 I am no fearful waker from the grave. 
 Dost thou not feel ? 'Tis the warm touch of life. 
 Look up, and fear will vanish. — Words are vain ! 
 What a pale countenance of ghastly strength 
 By horrour chang'd ! O ideot that I was. 
 To hazard this! — The villain hath deceiv'd me: 
 My letter she has ne'er received. O fool ! 
 That I should trust to this ! 
 
 (Beating his head distractedly.) 
 
78 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Enter Franko, by the same door. 
 Frank. What is the matter ? what strange 
 
 turn is this ? 
 Theo. O cursed sanguine fool ! could I not 
 think — 
 She moves, she moves! — rouse thee, my gentle 
 
 Orra ! 
 'Tis no strange voice that calls thee ; 'tis thy 
 friend. 
 Frank. She opens now her eyes. 
 Theo. But, oh, that look ! ' 
 
 Frank. She knows thee not, but gives a stifled 
 groan. 
 And sinks again in stupor. 
 Make no more fruitless lamentation here. 
 But bear her hence : the cool and open air 
 May soon restore her. Let us, while we may. 
 Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised. 
 
 [Exeunt, Orra borne off in a state of in- 
 sensibility. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 7<J 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — The great Hall of the Castle. 
 Enter Rudigere, Cathrina, and Attendants, 
 bi/ different Doors, 
 
 Rud. (to Attend.) Returned again ! Is any 
 thing discovered ? 
 Or door or passage, garment dropt in haste, 
 Or footstep's track, or any mark of flight ? 
 1st Att. No, by my faith ! tho* from its high- 
 est turrets 
 To its deep vaults, the castle we have searched. 
 Cath. *Tis vain to trace the marks of trackless 
 feet. 
 If that in truth it hath conveyed her hence, 
 The yawning earth has yielded them a passage. 
 Or else, thro' rifted roofs, the buoyant air. 
 Rud. Fools! search again. I'll raze the very 
 walls 
 From their foundations, but I will discover 
 If door or pass there be to us unknown. 
 Ho! Gomez, there! (Calling off the stage.) 
 He keeps himself aloof. 
 Nor aids the search with true and hearty will. 
 I am betray 'd. — Ho ! Gomez, there, I say ! 
 He shrinks away : go, drag the villain hither. 
 And let the torture wring confession from him. 
 (A loud hiQcking heard at the gate.) 
 
80 ORIIA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ha ! who seeks entrance at this early hour 
 In such a desert place ? 
 
 Catli. Some hind, perhaps, 
 
 Who brings intelligence. Heaven grant it be ! 
 
 Enter an armed Vassal. 
 Rud. Ha! one from Aldenberg! What brings 
 
 thee hither ? 
 Vass. (^seizing Rud.) Thou art my prisoner. 
 {To Attendants.) Upon your peril, 
 Assist me to secure him. 
 
 Rud. Audacious hind ! by what authority 
 Speak*st thou such bold commands ? Produce 
 thy warrant. 
 Vass. 'Tis at the gate, and such as thou must 
 yield to : 
 Count Hughobert himself, with armed men, 
 A goodly band, his pleasure to enforce. 
 
 {Secures him.^ 
 Rud. What sudden freak is this ? am I 
 suspected 
 Of auecht but true and honourable faith ? 
 
 Vass. Aye, by our holy Saints! more than 
 suspected. 
 Thy creature Maurice, whom thou thought*st to 
 
 bribe 
 With things of seeming value, hath discover'd 
 The cunning fraud ; on which his tender con- 
 science, 
 Good soul ! did o'the sudden so upbraid him, 
 Tliat to his Lord forthwith he made confes- 
 sion 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY, 81 
 
 Of all the plots against the Lady Orra, 
 In which thy wicked arts had tem})ted him 
 To take a wicked part. All is discover'd. 
 Cath. {aside.) All is discover'd ! Where then 
 
 shall I hide me ? 
 {Aloud to Vass.) What is discover'd ? 
 
 Vass. Ha ! most virtuous Lady ! 
 
 Art thou alarm'd ? Fear not : the world well 
 
 knows 
 How good thou art; and to the Countess shortly, 
 Who with her Lord is near, thou wilt no doubt 
 Give good account of all that thou hast done. 
 
 Cath. (aside, as she retires in agitation.) 
 O heaven forbid ! What hole o' th* earth will 
 
 hide me ! ^ [Exit. 
 
 (Enter by the opi^osite side, Hughobert, 
 Eleanora, Alice, Glottenbal, Urston, 
 Maurice, and Attendants.) 
 
 Hug. (speaking as he enters.) Is he secured ? 
 Vass. He is, my Lord ; behold ! 
 
 ( poi?iting to Rud.) 
 Hugh, (to Rud.) Black artful traitor ! Of a 
 sacred trust, 
 Blindly reposed in thee, the base betrayer 
 For wicked ends ; full well upon the ground 
 May'st thou decline those darkly frowning eyes. 
 And gnaw thy lip in shame. 
 
 Rud. And rests no shame with him, whose 
 easy faith 
 
 VOL. lU. G 
 
82 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Entrusts a man unproved ; or, having proved 
 
 him, 
 Lets a poor hireling's unsupported testimony 
 Sliake the firm confidence of many years ? 
 Hugh. Here the accuser stands ; confront 
 him boldly, 
 And spare him not. 
 
 (^Bringing Jbr^ward Maurice. 
 Maur. (to Rud.) Deny it if thou canst. Thy 
 brazen front, 
 All brazen as it is, denies it not. 
 
 Rud. (toM2iU.) Fool! that of prying curiosity 
 And av'rice art compounded ! I in truth 
 Did srive to thee a counterfeited treasure 
 To bribe thee to a counterfeited trust ; 
 Meet recompence! Ha, ha! Maintain thy 
 
 tale. 
 For I deny it not. (With careless derision.) 
 
 Maur. O subtile traitor ! 
 
 Dost thou so varnish it with seeming mirth ? 
 
 Hugh. Sir Rudigere, thou dost, I must confess, 
 Out-face him well. But call the Lady Orra ; 
 If towards her thou hast thyself comported 
 In honesty, she will declare it freely. 
 Bring Orra hither. (To Attendant.) 
 
 ist Attend. Would that we could ; last night 
 i' the midnight watch 
 She disappeared ; but whether man or devil 
 Hath borne her hence, in truth we cannot tell. 
 High. O both ! Both man and devil together 
 join'd. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 83 
 
 (To BAii^.'j\friousli/.) Fiend, villain, murderer ! 
 
 Produce her instantly. 
 Dead or alive, produce thy hapless charge. 
 Rud. Restrain your rage, my Lord ; I would 
 right gladly 
 Obey you, were it possible : the place, 
 And the mysterious means of her retreat. 
 Are both to me unknown. 
 
 Hugh. Thou liest ! thou liest ! 
 
 Glot. (coming forward.) Thou liest, beast, vil- 
 lain, traitor ! think'st thou still 
 To fool us thus ? Thou shalt be forced to speak. 
 (To Hugh.) Why lose we time in words when 
 
 other means 
 Will quickly work ? Straight to those j)illars 
 
 bind him, 
 And let each sturdy varlet of your train 
 Inflict correction on him. 
 
 Maur. Aye, this alone will move him. 
 Hugh. Thou say'st well : 
 
 By heaven it shall be done ! 
 
 Rud. And will Count Hughobert degrade in 
 me 
 The blood of Aldenberg to shame himself? 
 Hugh. That plea avails thee not j thy spu- 
 rious birth 
 Gives us full warrant, as thy conduct varies, 
 To reckon thee or noble or debased. 
 (To Att.) Straight bind the traitor to the place 
 of shame. 
 (As they are struggling to bind Rud. //<? gets 
 one of his hands freCy and, pulling out a 
 G 2 
 
84 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 dagger from imder his clotheSy stabs him- 
 self.) 
 Rud. Now, take your will of me, and drag 
 my corse 
 Thro* mire and dust ; your shameless fury now 
 Can do me no disgrace. 
 Urston. (advancing.) 
 Rash, daring, thoughtless wretch ! dost thou so 
 
 close 
 A wicked life in hardy desperation ? 
 
 Rud. Priest, spare thy words : I add not to 
 my sins 
 That of presumption, in pretending now 
 To oifer up to Heaven the forced repentance 
 Of some short moments for a life of crimes. 
 Urst. My son, thou dost mistake me : let thy 
 heart 
 
 Confession make 
 
 Glot. (interrupting Urst.) Yes, dog ! Confes- 
 sion make 
 Of what thou'st done with Orra ; else 1*11 spurn 
 
 thee. 
 And cast thy hateful carcase to the kites. 
 
 Hugh, (pulling back Glot. as he is going to 
 spurn Rud. with his foot, who is now fallen 
 upon the ground.) 
 Nay, nay, forbear j such outrage is unmanly. 
 (Eleanora, who with Alice had retired from the 
 shocking sight of Rudigere, now comes 
 forward to him.) 
 EL Oh, Rudigere ! thou art a dying man, 
 And we will speak to thee without upbraiding. 
 Confess, I do enti-eat thee, ere thou goest 
 
OIIIIA : A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 To thy most awful change, and leave us not 
 In this our liorrible uncertainty. 
 Is Orra here concealed ? 
 
 Al. Thou liast not slain her ? 
 
 Confession make, and heaven have mercy on 
 thee! 
 Rud. Yes, Ladies ; with these words of gentle 
 meekness 
 My heart is changed; and that you may per- 
 ceive 
 How greatly changed, let Glottenbal approach 
 
 me ; 
 Spent am I now, and can but faintly speak — 
 Ev'n unto him in token of forgiveness, 
 I'll tell what ye desire. 
 
 JS/. Thank heaven, thou art so changed ! 
 
 Hugh, (to Glot.j Go to him, boy. 
 
 (Glottenbal goes to Rudigere, and stooping 
 over him to hear wJiat he has to say, 
 Rudigere, taking a small dagger from his 
 bosomy strikes Glottenbal oti the neck.) 
 Glot, Oh, he has wounded me ! — Detested 
 traitor ! 
 Take that and that ; would thou had'st still a 
 
 life 
 For every thrust. {Killing him.) 
 
 Hugh, {alarmed.) Ha ! has he wounded thee, 
 
 my son ? 
 Glot. A scratch ; 
 
 *Tis nothing more. He aim'd it at my throat, 
 But had not strength to thrust. 
 
 G 3 
 
86 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Hugh. Thank God, he had not ! 
 
 (^A trumpet sounds mthout.) 
 Hark ! martial notice of some high approach ! 
 (To Attendants.) Go to the gate. 
 
 [Exeunt Attendants. 
 EL Who may it be ? This castle is remote 
 From every route which armed leaders take. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Ser, The banneret of Basle is at the gate. 
 Hugh, Is he in force ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, thro' the trees his distant bands are 
 seen 
 Some hundreds strong, I guess ; tho' with himself 
 Two followers only come. 
 
 Enter Hartman attended. 
 
 Hugh. Forgive me, banneret, if I receive thee 
 With more surprise than courtesy. How is it ? 
 Com'st thou in peace. 
 
 Hart. To you, my Lord, I frankly will declare 
 The purpose of my coming : having heard it. 
 It is for you to say if I am come, 
 As much I wish, in peace. 
 (^To El.) Countess, your presence much em- 
 boldens me 
 To think it so shall be. 
 
 Hugh, (jynpaticnthj.') Proceed, I beg. 
 When burghers gentle courtesy affect, 
 It chafes me more than all their sturdy boast- 
 ing. 
 
ORllA : A TRAGEDY. 1^ 
 
 Hart, Then with a burgher's plainness, Hugho- 
 bert, 
 I'll try my tale to tell, — nice task I fear ! 
 So that it may not gall a baron's pride. 
 Brave Theobald, the Lord of Falkenstein, 
 Co-burgher also of our ancient city, 
 Whose cause of course is ours, declares himself 
 The suitor of thy ward, the Lady Orra ; 
 And learning that within these walls she is, 
 By thine authority, in durance kept, 
 In his behalf I come to set her free ; 
 As an oppressed Dame, such service claiming 
 From every gen'rous knight. What is thy 
 
 answer ? 
 Say, am I come in peace ? Wilt thou release 
 her? 
 Hugh, Ah, would I could ! In faith thou 
 
 gall'st me shrewdly. 
 Hart. I've been inform'd of all that now dis- 
 turbs you. 
 By one who held me waiting at the gate. 
 Until the maid be found, if 'tis your pleasure, 
 Cease enmity. 
 
 Hugh. Then let it cease. A traitor has de- 
 ceived me. 
 And there he lies. 
 
 {Pointing to the hodij o/'Rud.) 
 Hart, (looking at the body.) 
 A ghastly smile of fell malignity 
 On his distorted face death has arrested. 
 
 (Turning again to Hugh.) 
 And has he died, and no confession made ? 
 
 G 4 
 
88 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 All means that may discover Orra*s fate 
 Shut from us ? 
 
 Hugh. Ah ! the fiend hath utter' d nothing 
 That could betray his secret. If she lives 
 
 El. Alas, alas ! think you he murder'd her ? 
 
 Al. Merciful heaven forefend ! 
 
 Eiiter a Soldier in haste. 
 Sold. O, I have heard a voice, a dismal 
 
 voice 
 
 Omnes. What hast thou heard ? 
 El. What voice ? 
 
 Sold. The Lady Orra*s. 
 
 El. Where ? Lead us to the place. 
 Hugh. Where did*st thou hear it. Soldier ? 
 Sold. In a deep-tangled thicket of the wood, 
 Close to a ruin'd wall, overgrown with ivy, 
 That marks the ancient out-works of the castle. 
 Hugh. Haste ; lead the way. 
 
 [Exeunt cdl eagerly, without order, follow- 
 ing the Soldier, Glottenbal and one At- 
 tendant excepted. 
 Ait. You do not go, my Lord ? 
 Glot. I'm sick, and strangely dizzy grows my 
 head. 
 And pains shoot from my wound. It is a scratch. 
 But from a devil's fang. — There's mischief in it. 
 Give me thine arm, and lead me to a couch : 
 I'm very faint. 
 Att. This way, my Lord, there is a chamber 
 near. 
 [Exeunt Glottenbal, supported bi/ the At- 
 tendant. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 89 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Forest near the Castle; in front a rocky 
 Bank crowned uith a ruined Wall overgrown 
 with Ivy^ and the Mouth of a Cavern shaded 
 with Bushes : Enter Franco, conducting: 
 Hughobert, Hartman, Eleonora, Alice, 
 and Urston, the Soldier following them. 
 
 Frank, (to Hugh.) This is the entry to our 
 secret haunts. 
 And now, my Lord, having informed you truly 
 Of the device, well meant, but most unhappy. 
 By which the Lady Orra from her prison 
 By Falkenstein was ta'en, myself, my outlaws. 
 Unhappy men — who better days have seen, 
 Drove to this lawless life by hard necessity. 
 Are on your mercy cast. 
 
 Hugh, Which shall not fail you, valiant Franko. 
 Much 
 Am I indebted to thee : had'st thou not 
 Of thine own free good will become our guide. 
 As wandering here thou found'st us, we had 
 
 ne'er 
 The spot discovered ; for this honest soldier, 
 A stranger to the forest, sought in vain 
 To thread the tangled path. 
 
 EL (to Frank.) She is not well thou say'st, 
 and from her swoon 
 Imperfectly recovered. 
 
 Frank, When I left her. 
 
 She so appeared. — But enter not, I pray, 
 
90 OBRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Till I give notice. — Holla, you within! 
 Come forth and fear no ill. 
 
 (A shriek heard from the cave.) 
 Omnes. What dismal shriek is that ? 
 Al. 'Tis Orra's voice. 
 
 El. No, no ! it cannot be ! It is some wretch. 
 In maniac*s fetters bound. 
 
 Hart. The horrid thought that bursts into 
 my mind ! 
 Forbid it, righteous Heaven ! 
 
 (^Running into the cave, he is prevented by 
 Theobald, isdho rushes out upon him.) 
 Theo. Hold, hold ! no entry here but o*er my 
 corse, 
 When ye have master'd me. 
 
 Hart, My Theobald 
 
 Dost thou not know thy friends ? 
 
 Theo, Ha ! thou, my Hartman ! Art thou 
 
 come to me ? 
 Hart. Yes, I am come. What means that 
 look of anguish ? i > 
 
 She is not dead ! 
 
 Theo, Oh, no ! it is not death ! 
 
 Hart, What mean'st thou ? Is she well ? 
 Theo. Her body is. 
 
 Hart. And not her mind? Oh! direst 
 
 wreck of all I 
 
 That noble mind! But 'tis some passing 
 
 seizure, 
 Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; 
 It is not madness ? 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 Thco. (.shrinking Jrom him^ and bursting into 
 tears.) 
 'Tis heaven's infliction ; let us call it so ; 
 Give it no other name. (Covering his face.) 
 El. (to Theo.) Nay, do not thus despair : when 
 she beholds us, 
 She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly 
 
 soothing. 
 Be gradually restored. 
 A I. Let me go to her. 
 
 Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee ; 
 
 I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
 Go in and lead her forth. 
 
 (Theobald aticl Hartman go into the cavern, 
 while those without wait in deep silence, 
 which is only broken o?ice or twice by a 
 scream from the cavern and the sound of 
 Theobald's voice speaking soothingly, till 
 they return, leading forth Orra, with her 
 hair and dress disordered, and the appear- 
 ance of wild distraction in her gait and 
 countenance.) 
 Or. (shrinking back as she comes from under 
 tJie shade of the trees, S^c. and dragging 
 Theobald and Hartman back with her.) 
 Come back, come back ! The fierce and fiery 
 light ! 
 Theo, Shrink not, dear love ! it is the light 
 
 of day. 
 Or, Have cocks crow'd yet ? 
 Theo. Yes , twice I've heard already 
 
 Their mattin sound. Look up to the blue sky ; 
 
92 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Is it not day-light there ? And these green 
 
 boughs 
 Are fresh and fragrant round thee : every sense 
 Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 
 
 Or. Aye, so it is ; day takes his daily turn. 
 Rising between the gulphy dells of night 
 Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea ; 
 Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep thro* the 
 
 dark, 
 And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light, 
 They will not come again. 
 
 (Bending her ear to the ground) 
 
 Hark, hark ! Aye, hark : 
 They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
 Full many a fathom down. 
 
 Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul ! they*!! 
 
 ne'er return : 
 They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
 Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerfid 
 
 home 
 With crackling faggots on thy midnight fire. 
 Blazing like day around thee ; and thy friends — 
 Thy living, loving friends still by thy side. 
 To speak to thee and cheer thee. — See, my 
 
 Orra! 
 They are beside thee now ; dost thou not know 
 
 them? (Pointing to Eleanora«wr/ Alice.) 
 Or. (gazitig at them mih her hand held iq? to 
 
 shade her eyes.) 
 No, no ! athwart the wav'ring garish light. 
 Things move and seem to be, and yet are no- 
 thing. 
 
ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 EL (goi?ig 7iear her.) My gentle Orra ! hast 
 thou then forgot me ? 
 Dost thou not know my voice ? 
 
 Or. *Tis like an old tune to my ear return'cl. 
 For there be those, who sit in cheerful halls, 
 And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant 
 
 sounds ; 
 And once I liv'd with such ; some years gone 
 
 by; 
 I wot not now how long;. 
 
 Hugh. Keen words that rend my heart ! — 
 Thou had*st a home, 
 And one whose faith was pledged for thy pro- 
 tection. 
 Urst. Be more composed, my Lord, ^ome faint 
 remembrance 
 Returns upon her with the well-known sound 
 Of voices once familiar to her ear. 
 Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune. 
 That may lost thoughts recall. 
 
 (Alice sings an old tune, and Orra, who 
 listens eagerly and gazes on her while she 
 sings y afterwards hursts into a wild laugh.) 
 Or. Ha, ha! the witched air sings for thee 
 bravely. 
 Hoot owls thro' mantling fog for mattin birds ? 
 It lures not me. — I know thee well enough : 
 The bones of murder' d men thy measure beat. 
 And fleshless heads nod to thee. — Off, I say ! 
 Why are ye here ? — That is the blessed sun. 
 El. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus ! 
 These are the voices of thy loving friends 
 
94 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 That speak to thee : this is a frie«idly hand 
 That presses thine so kindly. 
 
 (^Putting her hand upon Orra*^, who gives 
 a loud shriek^ and shrinks from her with 
 horror.) 
 Hart O grievous state. (Going up to her.) 
 
 What terror seizes thee ? 
 Or. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead ! 
 I know^ its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 
 
 (Fii-ving her eyes jiercely on Eleanora.) 
 Come not again ; Fm strong and terrible now : 
 Mine eyes have looked upon all dreadful things ; 
 And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast 
 
 sounds, 
 1*11 *bide the trooping of unearthly steps 
 With stifF-clench'd, terrible strength. 
 
 {Holding her clenched hands over her head 
 with an air of grandeur and defiance.) 
 Hugh, (heating his breast.) 
 A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. 
 
 Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; 
 Let me encounter it. 
 
 (Goes up to Orra, and fixes his eyes ujmn 
 her, which she, after a momenty shrinks 
 from and seeks to avoid, yet still, as if in- 
 voluntarily, looks at him again.) 
 Or. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd 
 eye: 
 I may not look upon thee, yet I must. 
 
 (Still turning from him, and still snatching a 
 hasty look at him as before.) 
 Unfix thy baleful glance : Art thou a snake ? 
 
OIIUA : A TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
 Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in 
 Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
 Spare me ! O spare me, Being of strange power. 
 And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. 
 
 {Kneeling to Hartman^ and bending her head 
 
 submissive li/.) 
 El. Alas, the piteous sight ! to see her thus ; 
 The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra ! 
 Theo. (running to Hartman, and pushing him 
 
 aisoay with indigiiation.) 
 Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! 
 Think'st thou Til suffer o'er her wretched state 
 The slightest shadow of a base controul ? 
 
 {Raising Orrdi. from the ground.) 
 No, rise thou stately flower with rude blasts 
 
 rent ; 
 As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem 
 And leafets strewM, as in thy summer's pride. 
 I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal dame 
 With ev'ry studied form of mark'd devotion, 
 Whilst 1, in distant silence, scarcely proffer'd 
 Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy ; but now. 
 No liege-man to his crowned mistress sworn. 
 Bound and devoted is as I to thee 5 
 And he who offers to thy alter' d state 
 The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rence. 
 Must in my blood {To Hartman.) O pardon 
 
 me, my friend ! 
 Thou'st wrung my heart. 
 
 Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me : I am to 
 
 blame : 
 
96 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 
 
 But what can now be done ? O'er such wild 
 ravings, 
 
 There must be some controul. 
 
 Theo. O none ! none, none ! but gentle sym- 
 pathy 
 
 And watchfulness of love. 
 
 My noble Orra ! 
 
 Wander where'er thou wilt ; thy vagrant steps 
 
 Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary, 
 
 Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
 
 Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
 
 Could ne'er have bound him. 
 
 Al. See how she gazes on him with a look, 
 
 Subsiding gradually to softer sadness, 
 
 Half saying that she knows him. 
 
 El. There is a kindness in her changing eye. 
 
 Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobald, 
 
 Thy knight and champion, whom thou gazest 
 on. 
 Or, The brave are like the brave ; so should 
 it be. 
 
 He was a goodly man — a noble knight. 
 
 (To Theobald.) What is thy name, young sol- 
 dier ? — Woe is me ! 
 
 For prayers of grace are said o'er dying men. 
 
 Yet they have laid thy clay in unblest earth — 
 
 Shame ! shame ! not with the still'd and hoi}? 
 dead. 
 
 This shall be rectified j I'll find it out ; 
 
 And masses shall be said for thy repose ; 
 
 Thou shalt not troop with thesw. 
 16 
 
ORRA : A TRAr.EDV. 97 
 
 El. 'Tis not the dead, 'tis Theobald himself, 
 Alive and well, who standeth by thy side. 
 
 Or, (loo/thig xdldly round.) 
 Where, where ? All dreadful things are near 
 
 me, round me. 
 Beneath my feet and in the loaded air. 
 Let him begone ! The place is horrible ! 
 
 Baneful to flesh and blood. The dreadful 
 
 blast ! 
 Their hounds now yell below i'the centre gulpli ; 
 They may not rise again till solemn bells 
 Have given the stroke that severs night from 
 morn. 
 El. O rave not thus ! Dost thou not know us, 
 
 Orra ? 
 Or. (Jiastilij.) Aye, well enough I know ye. 
 Urst. Ha ! think ye that she does ? 
 El. It is a terrible smile of recognition, 
 If such it be. 
 
 Hart. Nay, do not thus your restless eye-balls 
 move. 
 But look upon us steadily, sweet Orra. 
 
 Or. Away ! your faces waver to and fro ; 
 I'll know you better in your winding-sheets, 
 When the moon shines upon ye. 
 
 Theo. Give o'er, my friends ; you see it is in 
 vain ; 
 Her mind within itself holds a dark world 
 Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms ! 
 Contend with her no more. 
 
 VOL. III. H 
 
98 ORRA : A TRAGEDY, 
 
 Enter an Attendant in an abrupt disturbed 
 manner. 
 Att. {to Eleanor, aside.') 
 Lady, I bring to you most dismal news : 
 Too grievous for my Lord, so suddenly 
 And unprepared, to hear. 
 
 El. {aside) What is it ? Speak. 
 
 Att. {aside to El.) His son is dead, all swell'd 
 and rack'd with pain ; 
 And on the dagger's point, which the sly traitor 
 Still in his stiffened grasp retains, foul stains, 
 Like those of limed poison, shew full well 
 The wicked cause of his untimely death. 
 
 Hugh, {overhearing them.) 
 Who speaks of death ? What did'st thou whisper 
 there ? 
 
 How is my son ? What look is that thou 
 
 wear*st ? 
 
 He is not dead ? Thou dost not speak ! O 
 
 God! 
 I have no son. 
 
 {After a pause) 
 
 I am bereft ! But this ! 
 
 But only hitn ! — Heaven's vengeance deals the 
 stroke. 
 Urst. Heaven oft in mercy smites ev'n when 
 the blow 
 Severest is. 
 
 Hugh. I had no other hope. 
 
 Fell is the stroke, if mercy in it be ! 
 Could this — could this alone atone my crime ? 
 
ORRA ; A TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 Urst. Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise 
 
 decree. 
 Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes 
 Than ev*n his grievous end. 
 
 Hugh. He was not all a father's heart could 
 
 wish ; 
 But, oh ! he was my son ! — my only son : 
 My child — the thing that from his cradle grew, 
 And was before me still. — Oh, oh ! Oh, oh ! 
 (^Beating his breasty and groaning deeply.) 
 Or. (running up to him.) 
 Ha ! dost thou groan, old man ? Art thou in 
 
 trouble ? 
 Out on it ! tho* they lay him in the mould, 
 He's near thee still. — I'll tell thee how it is : 
 A hideous burst hath been : the damn'd and 
 
 holy, 
 The living and the dead, together are 
 In horrid neighbourship — 'Tis but thin vapour, 
 Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound. 
 Poh ! blow it off, and see th' uncurtain'd reach. 
 See! from all points they come ; earth casts them 
 
 up ! 
 In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in 
 
 death ; 
 And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds 
 Of that which flesh hath been ; and there be 
 
 some 
 With wicker'd ribs, thro* which the darkness 
 
 scowls. 
 Back, back ! — They close upon us. — Oh ! the 
 
 void 
 
 H 2 
 
100 ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Of hollow unball'd sockets staring grimly. 
 And lipless jaws that move and clatter round 
 
 us 
 In mockery of speech ! — Back, back, I say ! 
 Back, back ! 
 
 (Catching hold o/'Hughobert a7id Theobald, 
 
 and dragging them back with her in all the 
 
 wild strength of frantic horror^ whilst tJie 
 
 curtain drops.) 
 
 THE END OF ORRA. 
 
THE DREAM: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN PROSE, 
 
 IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 H 3 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 OsTERLOo, an Imperial General, 
 Prior of the Monastery. 
 Benedict, "^ 
 Jerome, > Monks. 
 Paul, } 
 
 MORAND, ) . T^ . 
 
 Wovelreid, j Qffi^^'^^ ^^ ^^^^ Service of the Prior. 
 The Imperial Ambassador. 
 Officers serving under Osterloo. 
 Sexton, Monks, Soldiers, Peasants, &c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Leonora. 
 Agnes. 
 
 Scene, the Monastery of St. Maurice in Switzer- 
 land ; a Castle near it. 
 
 Time, the middle of the 14ith Century. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Court within the Monastery y "with 
 a grated iron Gate opening into an outer 
 Courty through which are seen several Peasants 
 waitifig ; Jeromp: is discovered on the front of 
 the stage, walking backwards and forwards in 
 a disturbed manner, then stopping and speaking 
 to himself. 
 
 Jer. 1 wicE in one night the same awful 
 vision repeated 1 And Paul also terrified with 
 a similar visitation ! This is no common ac- 
 cidental mimicry of sleep : the shreds and 
 remnants of our day-thoughts, put together 
 at night in some fantastic incongruous form, 
 as the drifting clouds of a broken-up storm piece 
 themselves again into uncertain shapes of rocks 
 and animals. No, no ! there must be some great 
 and momentous meaning in this. 
 
 Enter Benedict behind him. 
 
 Ben. Some great and momentous meaning in 
 this ! What art thou musing upon? 
 
 H t 
 
104< THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jer. Be satisfied ! be satisfied ! It is not al- 
 ways fitting that the mind should lay open the 
 things it is busy withal, though an articulate 
 sound may sometimes escape it to set curiosity 
 on the rack. Where is brother Paul? Is he 
 still at his devotions ? 
 
 Ben. I believe so. But look where the poor 
 Peasants are waiting without : it is the hour 
 Avhen they expect our benefactions. Go, and 
 speak to them : thou hast always been their fa- 
 vourite confessor, and they Vvant consolation. 
 {Beckoning the Peasants, "jcho thereupon 
 advance through the gate, li'hile Jerome 
 stretches out his hand to prevent them.) 
 
 Jer. Stop there ! come not within the gates ! 
 I charge you advance no farther. (To Benedict 
 angrily.) There is death and contagion in every 
 one of them, and yet thou would*st admit them 
 so near us. Dost thou indeed expect a miracle 
 to be wrought in our behalf? Are we not flesh 
 and blood ? and does not the grave yawn for us 
 as well as other men ? 
 
 (To the Peasants still more vehemently.') 
 Turn, I charge you, and retire without the 
 gate. 
 
 Ist Teas. Oh ! be not so stern with us, good 
 Father ! There are ten new corpses in the 
 village since yesterday, and scarcely ten men 
 left in it witli strength enough to bury them. 
 The best half of the village are now under 
 ground, wlio, but three weeks gone by, were 
 all alive and well. O, do not chide us away 1 
 4 
 
THE DREAM : A TIIAGEDY. 105 
 
 2r/ Peas. God knows if any of" us shall ever 
 enter these gates again ; and it revives us to 
 come once a day to receive your blessings, good 
 Fathers. 
 
 Je7\ Well, and you shall have our blessing, 
 my children ; but come not so near us ; we are 
 mortal men like yourselves, and there is con- 
 tagion about you. 
 
 1st Feas. Ah ! no, no ! Saint Maurice will 
 take care of his own ; there is no fear of you. 
 Fathers. 
 
 Jer\ I hope he will ; but it is presumptuous 
 to tempt danger. Retire, I beseech you, and 
 you shall have relief given to you without the 
 gates. If you have any love for us, retire. 
 
 {The Peasants re/f re.) 
 
 Ben. Well, I feel a strong faith within me, 
 that our Saint, or some other good spirit, will 
 take care of us. How is it that thou art so 
 alarmed and so vehement with those good peo- 
 ple ? It is not thy usual temper. 
 
 Jer. Be satisfied, I pray thee : I cannot tell 
 thee now. Leave me to myself a little while. — 
 Would to God brother Paul were come to me ! 
 Ha ! here he is. 
 
 Enter Paul ; a7id Jerome, after waiting impa- 
 tientlij till Benedict ixtires, advances to him 
 eagerly. 
 Was it to a spot near the black monument in the 
 stranger's burying vault, that it pointed ? 
 
106 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Paul. Yes, to the very spot described by thee 
 yesterday morning, when thou first told*st me 
 thy dream : and, indeed, every circumstance of 
 my last night's vision strongly resembled thine ; 
 or rather, I should say, was the same. The fixed 
 frown of it's ghastly face ..— 
 
 Jer» Aye, and the majestic motion of its 
 limbs. Did it not wear a mantle over its right 
 shoulder, as if for concealment rather than 
 grace ? 
 
 Fmil. I know not ; I did not mark that ; but 
 it strode before me as distinctly as ever mortal 
 man did before my waking sight j and yet 
 as no mortal man ever did before the waking 
 sight. 
 
 Jer. But it appeared to thee only once. 
 
 Paul. Only once ; for I waked under such 
 a deep horror, that I durst not go to sleep 
 again. 
 
 Jer. When it first 'appeared to me, as I told 
 thee, the night before last, the form, though dis- 
 tinctly, was but faintly imaged forth ; and me- 
 thought it rose more powerfully to my imagina- 
 tion as I told it to thee, than in the dream 
 itself. But last night, when it returned, it was 
 far more vivid than before. I waked indeed as 
 thou did'st, impressed with a deep horror, yet 
 irresistible sleep seized upon me again j and O, 
 how it appeared to me the third time, like a 
 palpable, horrid reality ! (4/f^r a pause) 
 
 What is to be done ? 
 
THE DItEAM I A TUAGKDY. 107 
 
 Paul. What can be clone r* We can slop no 
 division of the Imperial army till one shall really 
 march by this pass. 
 
 Jer. And this is not likely ; for I received a 
 letter from a friend two days ago, by an express 
 messenger, who says, he had delayed sending it, 
 lioping to have it conveyed to me by one of 
 Count Osterloo's soldiers, who, with his division, 
 should have marched through our pass, but v/as 
 now, lie beUeved, to conduct them by a diffe- 
 rent route. 
 
 Faiil. W^hat noise and commotion is that near 
 the gate ? 
 
 (Calling lo those without.) 
 Ho there ! What is the matter ? 
 
 1st. Peas, (without.) Nothing, Father ; but we 
 hear a trumpet at a distance, and they say, there 
 is an army marching amongst the mountains. 
 
 Jer. By all our holy saints, if it be so — 
 (Calling again to the 1st Peas.) 
 Are ye sure it is trumpets you hear ? 
 
 Ist.Peas. As sure as we ever heard any sound ; 
 and here is a lad too, who saw from the top-most 
 crag, with his own eyes, their banners waving 
 at a distance. 
 
 Jer. (to Paul.) What think'st thou of it ? 
 
 Paul. AVe must go to the Prior, and reveal 
 the whole to him directly. Our own lives and 
 those of the whole brotherhood depend upon 
 it J tliere can be no hesitation now. 
 
 Jer. Come then ; lose no time. We have a 
 solemn duty imposed upon us. [Exeunt. 
 
JOS THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An open Space hy the Gate of the Monastery, 
 with a View of the Building on one Side, while 
 Rocks and Mountains, wildly grand, ajypear 
 in every other Direction, and a narrow JPass 
 through the Mountains opening to the bottom 
 of the Stage. Several Peasants, both Men and 
 JVoinen, are discovered, xvaiting as if to see some 
 Sight ; a Trumpet and warlike Music heard 
 at a little distaiice. 
 
 1st Peas. Hear how it echoes amongst the 
 rocks : it is your true warlike sound, that makes 
 a man's heart stir within him, and liis feet beat 
 the ground to its measure. 
 
 2c? Peas. Ah ! what have our hearts to do 
 with it now, miserable as we are ! 
 ■ 1st Peas. What have we to do with it! 
 Speak for thyself. Were I to be laid in the 
 grave this very night, it would rouse me to hear 
 those sounds, which remind me of the battle of 
 Laupen. 
 
 Qd Peas. Well ; look not so proudly at me : 
 though I have not yet fought for my country, I 
 am of a good stock, nevertheless : my father lost 
 is life at Morgarten. 
 
 (^Calling up to Morand, who note appears 
 scra^nbling down the sides of the rocks.) 
 Are they near us, Lieutenant ? 
 
 Mor. They'll be here in a trice. I know their 
 ensigns already : they are those brave fellows 
 under the command of Count Osterloo, who 
 
THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 109 
 
 did such good service to the Emperor in his last 
 battle. 
 
 Sd Peas. (TVoma?i.) Ayej they be goodly men, 
 no doubt, and bravely accoutred, I warrant ye. 
 
 4>th Peas. (Old Woman.) Aye, there be many 
 a brave man amongst them I trow, returning to 
 his mother again. My Hubert never returned. 
 
 QdPeas. {to Mor.) Count Osterloo ! Who 
 is he ? 
 
 Mor. Did*st thou never hear of him ? He 
 has been in as many battles as thou hast been in 
 harvest fields. 
 
 2r/ Peas. And won them too ? 
 
 Mor. Nay, some of them he has won, and 
 some he has lost; but whether his own side 
 were fighting or flying, he always kept his 
 ground, or retreated like a man. The enemy 
 never saw his back. 
 
 1^^ Peas. True, Lieutenant ; I once knew an 
 old soldier of Osterloo's who boasted much of 
 his General ; for his men are proud of him, 
 and would go through flood and flame for his 
 sake. 
 
 Mor. Yes, he is affable and indulgent to 
 them, although passionate and unreasonable 
 when provoked ; and has been known to punish 
 even his greatest favourites severely for a slight 
 offence. I remember well, the officer I first 
 served under, being a man of this kidney, 
 and 
 
 1^^ Peas. Hist, hist ! the gates are thrown 
 
110 THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 open, and yonder come the Monks in proces- 
 sion with the Prior at their head. 
 
 (^Enter Prior and Monks from the Monas- 
 tery ^ and range themselves on one side of 
 the stage.) 
 Prior, (to the Feasants) Retire, my children, 
 and don*t come so near us. Don't stand near 
 the soldiers as they pass neither, but go to your 
 houses. 
 
 1st Woman. O bless St. Maurice and your holy 
 reverence ! We see nothing now but coffins and 
 burials, and hear nothing but the ticking of the 
 death-watch, and the tolling of bells : do let us 
 stand here and look at the brave sight. Lord 
 knows if any of us may be above ground to see 
 such another, an' it were to pass this way but a 
 week hence. 
 
 Prior. Be it so then, daughter, but keep at a 
 distance on the rocks, where you may see every 
 thing without communicating infection. 
 
 (The Peasants retire, climbing amongst the 
 
 rocks : then enter hy the narrow pass at 
 
 the bottom of the stage, Soldiers marching 
 
 to martial music, mth Officers and Os- 
 
 terloo.) 
 
 Prior, (advancing, and lifting up his hands 
 
 mth solemnity.) 
 
 Soldiers and officers, and the noble chief 
 
 commanding this band ! in the name of our 
 
 patron St. Maurice, once like yourselves a 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. Ill 
 
 valiant soldier upon earth, now a holy powerful 
 saint in heaven, I conjure you to halt. 
 
 1st Off. (in the foremost rank.) 
 Say you so, reverend Prior, to men pressing for- 
 ward as we do, to shelter our heads for the 
 night, and that cold wintry sun going down so 
 fast upon us ? 
 
 ist Sold. By my faith ! if we pass the night 
 here amongst the mountains, it will take some- 
 thing besides prayers and benedictions to keep 
 us alive. 
 
 2f/ Sold, Spend the night here amongst cha- 
 mois and eagles ! Some miracle no doubt will 
 be wrought for our accommodation. 
 
 Ist Off. Murmur not, my friends : here comes 
 your general, who is always careful of you. 
 
 Ost. (advancing from the rear.) 
 What is the matter? 
 
 Prior, (to Ost.) You are the commander in 
 chief? 
 
 Ost. Yes, reverend Father : and, with all re- 
 spect and deference, let me say, the night ad- 
 vances fast upon us. Martigny is still at a good 
 distance, and we must not be detained. With 
 many thanks, then, for your intended civilities, 
 we beg your prayers, holy Prior, with those of 
 your pious Monks, and crave leave to pass on 
 our way. 
 
 Prior. (If ting his hands as before.) 
 If there be any piety in brave men, I conjure 
 you, in the name of St. Maurice, to halt ! The 
 lives of our whole community depend upon it ; 
 
11^ THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 men wlio, for your lives, have offered to heaven 
 many prayers. 
 
 Ost. How may this be, my Lord ? Who will 
 attack your sacred walls, that you should want 
 any defence ? 
 
 Prior. We want not, general, the service of 
 your arms: my own troops, with the brave 
 captain who commands them, are sufficient to 
 defend us from mortal foes. 
 
 Soldiers, (jnurmuring) Must we fight with 
 devils then ? 
 
 Ost. Be quiet, my good comrades. {To Prior.) 
 Well, my Lord, proceed. 
 
 Prior. A fatal pestilence rages in this neigh- 
 bourhood; and by command of a vision, which 
 has appeared three times to the Senior of our 
 order, and also to another of our brotherhood, 
 threatening, in case of disobedience, that the 
 whole community shall fall victims to the dread- 
 ful disease, we are compelled to conjure you to 
 halt. 
 
 Ost. And for what purpose ? 
 
 Prior. That we may chuse by lot from the 
 first division of the Imperial army which marches 
 through this pass, (so did the vision precisely 
 direct us,) a man who shall spend one night 
 within the walls of our monastery ; there to 
 undergo certain penances for the expiation of 
 long-concealed guilt. 
 
 Ost. This is very strange. By lot did you say? 
 It will be tedious. There are a hundred of ni\ 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. ilS 
 
 men who will volunteer the service. — What say 
 ye, Soldiers? 
 
 1st Sold. Willingly, General, if you desire it. 
 Yet I marvel what greater virtue there can be 
 in beleag'ring the war-worn hide of a poor 
 soldier, than the fat sides of a well-fed monk. 
 
 Ost. Wilt thou do it, then ? 
 
 1st Sold. Aye ; and more than that, willingly, 
 for my General. It is not the first time a 
 cat-o'-nine-tails has been across my back for 
 other men's misdeeds. Promise me a good 
 flask of brandy when I'm done with it, and I 
 warrant ye I'll never winch. As to the saying 
 of Pater-nosters, if there be any thing of that 
 kind tacked to it, I let you to wit my dexterity 
 is but small. 
 
 Ost. Then be it as thou wilt, my good friend ; 
 yet I had as lief my own skin should smart for it 
 as thine, thou art such a valiant fellow. 
 
 Prior. No, noble General, this must not be ; 
 we must have our man chosen by lot. The 
 lives of the whole community depending upon 
 it ; we must strictly obey the vision. 
 
 Ost. It will detain us long. 
 
 Prior. Nay, my Lord ; the lots are already 
 prepared. In the first place, six men only shall 
 draw ; four representing the soldiers, and two 
 the officers. If the soldiers are taken, they 
 shall draw by companies, and the company that 
 is taken shall draw individually ; but if the lot 
 falls to the officers, each of them shall draw for 
 himself 
 
 VOL. III. I 
 
114 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ost. Let it be so ; you have arranged it well. 
 Produce the lots. 
 
 {The Prior giving tJie sign, a Monk advance.% 
 
 bearing a standi on which are placed three 
 
 vases, and sets it near the Jront of the 
 
 stage.) 
 
 Prior. Now, brave Soldiers, let four from 
 
 your body advance. 
 
 (Ost. points to four men, who advance from 
 the ranks.) 
 Ost. And two from the officers, my Lord ? 
 Prior. Even so, noble Count, 
 
 (Ost. then points to two Officers, wJio, with 
 the four Soldiers, draw lots from the 
 smallest vase directed by the Prior.) 
 \st Sold, {speaking to his comrades as the 
 others are drawing.) This is strange mummery 
 i' faith ! but it would have been no joke, 1 sup- 
 pose, to have offended St. Maurice. 
 
 Prior, (after examining the lots.) Soldiers, ye 
 are free ; it is your Officers who are taken. 
 
 15/ Sold, (as before) Ha ! the vision is dainty 
 it seems ; it is not vulgar blood like ours, that 
 will serve to stain the ends of his holy lash. 
 
 (A Monk having removed two of the vases, 
 the Prior beckons tlie Officers to draw from 
 the remaining one.) 
 Prior. Stand not on order ; let him who is 
 nearest put in his hand first. 
 
 1*/ Sold, (aside to the others as the Officers 
 are drawing) 
 Now by these arms! I would give a month's 
 
 1 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. 115 
 
 pay that the lot should fall on our prim, pomp- 
 ous lieutenant. It would be well worth the 
 money to look in at one of their narrow win- 
 dows, and see his dignified back-bone winching 
 under the hands of a good brawny friar. 
 
 Ost. (^aside, imrolling his lot.) 
 Mighty heaven ! Is fate or chance in this ? 
 
 1^^ Off. (aside to Ost.) Have you got it, 
 General ? Change it for mine if you liave. 
 
 Ost, No, no, my noble Albert; let us be 
 honest ; but thanks to thy generous friendship ! 
 
 Prior. Now shew the lots. (All the Officers 
 shew tJieir lotSy exceptiyig Osterloo, who con- 
 tinues gloomy and thoughtful.) Has no one 
 drawn the sable scroll of election ? (To Oster- 
 loo.) You are silent, my Lord ; of what colour is 
 your lot ? 
 
 Ost, (holding out his scroll.) 
 Black as midnight. 
 
 (Soldiers quit their ranks and crowd round 
 Osterloo, tumidtuously . 
 
 1st Sold. Has it fallen upon our General ? 'tis 
 a damned lot — an unfair lot. 
 
 2d Sold. We will not leave him behind us, 
 though a hundred St. Maurices commanded it. 
 
 3c? Sold. Get within your walls again, ye cun- 
 ning Friars. 
 
 1st Sold. An' we should lie i* the open air all 
 night, we will not leave brave Osterloo behind 
 us. 
 
 Prior, (to Ost.) Count, you seem gloomy and 
 irresolute : have the goodness to silence these 
 1 2 
 
llG THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 clamours. I am in truth as sorry as any of your 
 soldiers can be, that the lot has fallen upon you. 
 
 1st Off. {aside to Ost.) Nay, my noble friend, 
 let me fulfil this penance in your stead. It is 
 not now a time for scruples : the soldiers will be 
 mutinous. 
 
 Ost. Mutinous ! Soldiers, return to your ranks. 
 {Looking at them sternly as they seem unwillingly 
 to obey.) Will you brave me so far that I must 
 repeat my command? {They retire.) 
 
 I thank thee, dear Albert. {To 1st Off.) Thou 
 shait do something in my stead ; but it shall not 
 be the service thou thinkest of. {To Prior.) 
 Reverend Father, I am indeed somewhat struck 
 at being marked out by fate from so many men 5 
 but, as to how I shall act thereupon, no wise 
 irresolute. {To the ^olA.) Continue your march. 
 The brave Albert shall conduct you to Mar- 
 tigny ; and there you will remain under his 
 command, till I join you again. 
 
 1st Sold. God preserve you then, my noble 
 General ! and if you do not join us again by to- 
 morrow evening, safe and sound, we will not 
 leave one stone of that building standing on 
 another. 
 
 Many Soldiers at once. So swear we all ! So 
 swear, &c. 
 
 Ost. {assuming a cheerful look.) 
 Go to, foolish fellows ? Were you to leave me in 
 a den of lions, you could not be more apprehen- 
 sive. Will watching all night by some holy 
 shrine, or walking bare-foot through their mid- 
 17 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 1 17 
 
 night aisles, be such a hardship to one, who has 
 passed so many nights with you all on the cold 
 field of battle ? Continue your march without 
 delay ; else these good Fathers will count you 
 no better than a band of new-raised city troops, 
 with some jolly tankard-chief for your leader. 
 A good march to you, my friends, with kind 
 hostesses and warm fire-sides where you are 
 going. 
 
 1st Sold. Ah ! What good will our fire-sides 
 do us, when we think how our General is 
 lodged ? 
 
 Ost, Farewell ! March on as quickly as you 
 may : you shall all drink my health to-morrow 
 evening in a good hogshead of Rhenish. 
 
 1st Sold, (with others.) God grant we may ! 
 (1st to Prior.) Look to it, reverend Prior : if our 
 General be not with us by to-morrow's sunset, 
 St. Maurice shall neither have monastery nor 
 monks on this mountain. 
 
 Ost. No more ! (Embracing first Officer, and 
 sJiaking hands with others.) Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 (The Soldiers, after giving him a loud cheer, 
 march off with their Officers to martial 
 music, and exeunt Osterloo, Prior, and 
 Monks into the monasteyn), while the 
 Peasants disappear amongst tlie rocks. 
 Manent Morand and Agnes, who has for 
 some time appeared, looking over a crag.) 
 Agn. Morand, Morand ! 
 Mor. Ha ! art thou there ? I might have 
 guessed indeed, that so brave a sight would not 
 I 3 
 
118 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 escape thee. What made thee perch thyself 
 Uke an eagle upon such a crag as that ? 
 
 Agn. Chide not, good Morand, but help me 
 down, lest I pay a dearer price for my sight 
 than thou, with all thy grumbling, wouldst wish. 
 
 {He helps her down.) 
 
 Mor. And now thou art going no doubt to 
 tell the Lady Leonora, what a band of gallant 
 fellows thou hast seen. 
 
 Agn. Assuredly, if I can find in my heart to 
 speak of any but their noble leader! — What is 
 his name ? What meaning had all that drawing 
 of lots in it ? What will the monks do with 
 him ? Walk with me a little way towards the 
 castle, brave Morand, and tell me what thou 
 knowest. 
 
 Mor. I should walk to the castle and miles 
 beyond it too, ere I could answer so many ques- 
 tions, and I have duty in the monastery, besides. 
 
 Agn. Come with me a little way, at least. 
 
 Mor. Ah, Witch ! thou knowest too well that 
 1 must always do what thou biddest me. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THTE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. llf) 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 7'he Rejectorij of the Monastery, with a small 
 Table, on 'which are placed Refreshments, dis- 
 covered ill one Corner. Enter Osterloo, 
 Prior, Benedict, Jerome, and Paul, ^c. 
 
 Prior. Noble Osterloo, let me welcome you 
 here, as one appointed by heaven to purchase 
 our deliverance from this dreadful malady ; and 
 I hope the price to be paid for it will not be a 
 heavy one. Yet ere we proceed further in this 
 matter, be entreated, I pray, to take some re- 
 freshment after your long march. 
 
 ( The table is placed near the front of the 
 stage.) 
 
 Ost. I thank you, my Lord ; this is a gentle 
 beginning to my penance : I will, then, by your 
 leave. (^Sitting down at the table.) 
 
 I have fasted long, and am indeed somewhat 
 exhausted. (After taking some refreshment.) 
 
 Ah ! My poor Soldiers ! You must still en- 
 dure two hours' weary march, before you find 
 such indulgence. Your wine is good, reverend 
 Father. 
 
 Prior. I am glad you find it so ; it is old. 
 
 Ost. (cheer fully.) And your viands are good 
 too ; and your bread is delicious. 
 
 (Drinking another cup.) 
 
 I shall have vigour now for any thing. 
 
 Pray tell me something more of this wonderful 
 
 I 4 
 
I^ THE DREAM : A TRAGED'^. 
 
 vision : was it a Saint or an Angel that ap- 
 peared to the Senior Brother ? 
 
 Prior, (jjointing to Jerome.) 
 He will answer for himself, and {pohiting to 
 Paul) this man saw it also. 
 
 Jer. It was neither Angel nor Saint, noble 
 Count, but a mortal form wonderfully noble. 
 
 Ost. And it appeared to you in the usual 
 manner of a dream ? 
 
 Jer. It did ; at least I know no sensible dis- 
 tinction. A wavy envelopement of darkness 
 preceded it, from which appearances seemed 
 dimly to wake into form, till all was presented 
 before me in the full strength of reality. 
 
 Paul. Nay, Brother, it broke upon me at 
 once ; a vivid distinct apparition. 
 
 Ost. Well, be that as it may ; what did ap- 
 pear to you ? A mortal man, and very noble ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, General. Methought I was re- 
 turning from mass, through the cloisters that 
 lead from the chapel, when a figure, as I have 
 said, appeared to me, and beckoned me to fol- 
 low it. I did follow it ; for at first I was neither 
 afraid, nor even surprised ; but so wonderfully 
 it rose in stature and dignity as it strode before 
 me, that, ere it reached the door of the stran- 
 ger's burying vault, I was struck with unac- 
 countable awe. 
 
 Ost. The stranger's burying vault ! 
 
 Prior. Does any sudden thought strike you. 
 Count ? 
 
THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 121 
 
 Ost. No, no! here's your health, Fathers j 
 (^drinking ;) your wine is excellent. 
 
 Prior. But that is water you have just now 
 swallowed : this is the wine. 
 
 Ost. Ha ! is it ? No matter, no matter ! it is 
 very good too. (^A long pause ; Osterloo with 
 his eyesjixed thoughtfully on the ground.) 
 
 Prior. Shall not our brother proceed with 
 his story, General ? 
 
 Ost. Most certainly : I have been listening 
 for it. 
 
 Jer. Well, then, as I have said, at the door of 
 the stranger's burying vault it stopped, and 
 beckoned me again. It entered, and I followed 
 it. There, through the damp mouldering tombs, 
 it strode still before me, till it came to the 
 farther extremity, as nearly as I could guess, 
 two yards westward from the black marble mo- 
 nument J and then, stopping and turning on 
 me its fixed and ghastly eyes, it stretched out 
 its hands 
 
 Ost. Its hands ! Did you say, its hands ? 
 
 Jer. It stretched out one of them ; the otlier 
 was covered with its mantle ; and in a voice that 
 sounded — I know not how it sounded 
 
 Paul. Aye, Brother 5 it was something like a 
 voice, at least it conveyed words to the mind, 
 though it was not like a voice neither. 
 
 Jer. Be that as you please : these words it 
 solemnly uttered, — " Command the Brothers of 
 this monastery, on pain of falling victims to the 
 pestilence now devastating the country; to stop 
 
122 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 on its way the iirst division of the Imperial 
 army that shall march through your mountain 
 pass ; and chuse from it, by lot, a man who 
 shall abide one night within these walls, to 
 make expiation for long concealed' guilt. Let 
 the suffering be such as the nature of the crime 
 and the connection of the expiator therewith 
 shall dictate. This spot of earth shall reveal — " 
 It said no more, but bent its eyes steadfastly 
 upon me with a stern threatening frown, which 
 became, as it looked, keener than the looks of 
 any mortal being, and vanished from my sight. 
 
 Paul. Aye, that look ; that last terrible look ! 
 it awoke me with terror, and I know not how it 
 vanished. 
 
 Jer. This has been repeated to me three 
 times ; last night twice in the course of the 
 night, while brother Paul here was at the same 
 time terrified with a similar apparition. 
 
 P7^ior. This, you will acknowledge. Count, 
 was no common visitation, and could not but 
 trouble us. 
 
 Ost. You say well. Yet it was but a 
 
 dream. 
 
 Prior. True ; it was but a dream, and as 
 such these pious men strove to consider it; 
 when the march of your troops across our 
 mountains, a thing so unlikely to hap})en, com- 
 pelled them to reveal to me, without loss of 
 time, what had appeared to them. 
 
 Osl. A tall figure, you say, and of a noble 
 aspect ? 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. Igg 
 
 Jer. Like tliat of a King, though liabited 
 more ill the garb of a foreign soldier of fortune 
 than of a state so dignified. 
 
 (Qsterloo rises from table agitated,) 
 
 Prior. What is the matter, General ? Will 
 you not finish your repast ? 
 
 Ost. I thank you ; I have had enougli, Tlie 
 night grows cold; 1 would rather walk tlian sit. 
 {Going hastily to the bottom of the stage ^ and 
 pacing to and fro.) 
 
 Jer. {aside to Paul and the Prior.) What think 
 ye of this ? 
 
 Prior, {aside to Jerome.) His countenance 
 changed several times as he listened to you ; 
 there is something here different fi-om common 
 surprise on hearing a wonderful thing. 
 
 {Enter a Peasant by the bottom of the stage, 
 bearing a torch.) 
 
 Peas, {eagerly, as he enters.) We have found 
 it. 
 
 Ost {stopping short in his walk.) What hast 
 thou found ? 
 
 Peas. What the Prior desired us to dig for. 
 
 Ost. What is that ? 
 
 Peas. A grave. 
 (Osterloo tmmsfrom him suddenly, and paces 
 up and down very rapidly.) 
 
 Prior, {to Peas.) Thou hast found it ? 
 
 Peas. Aye, please you, and in the very spot, 
 Hear the black monument, where your rever- 
 ence desired us to dig. And it is well you sent 
 
124 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 for my kinsman and I to do it, for there is not 
 a lay-brother in the monastery strong enough to 
 raise up the great stones that covered it. 
 
 Prior. In the very spot, sayest thou ? 
 
 Peas. In the very spot. 
 
 Prior. Bear thy torch before us, and we'll 
 follow thee. 
 
 Omnes. {eagerly, Osterloo ejocepted.') 
 Let us go immediately. 
 
 Prior, (to Osterloo, who stands fixed to the 
 spot.) 
 Will not Count Osterloo go also ? It is fitting 
 that he should. 
 
 Ost. (rousing himself.) O, most assuredly : I 
 am perfectly ready to follow you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 125 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. — A burying Vault, almost totally 
 dark ; the Monuments and Grave-stones being 
 seen very dimly by the Light of a single Torch, 
 stuck by the side of a deep open Grave, in 
 which a Sexton is discovered, standing leaning 
 on his Mattock, and Morand, above Ground, 
 turning up, tcith his sheatlied Sword, the loose 
 Earth about the Mouth of the Grave. 
 
 Mor. There is neither scull nor bone amongst 
 this earth : the ground must have been newly 
 broken up, when that coffin was let down into it. 
 
 Sejc, So one should think ; but the earth here 
 has the quality of consuming whatever is put 
 into it in a marvellous short time. 
 
 Mor. Aye ; the flesh and more consumable 
 parts of a body ; but hath it grinders in its jaws 
 like your carnivorous animal, to cransh up bones 
 and all ? I have seen bones on an old field of 
 battle, some hundred years after the action, 
 lying whitened and hard in the sun. 
 
 Sea:. Well, an't be new ground, I'll warrant 
 ye somebody has paid money enough for such 
 a good tenement as this : I could not wish my 
 own father a better. 
 
12G THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mor. {looking down.) The coffin is of an un- 
 common size : there must be a leaden one within 
 it, I should think. 
 
 Sea:. I doubt that : it is only a clumsy shell 
 that has been put together in haste j and I'll be 
 hanged if he who made it ever made another 
 before it. Now it would pine me with vexation 
 to think I should be laid in such a bungled piece 
 of workmanship as this. 
 
 Mor. Aye; it is well for those who shall bury 
 thee, Sexton, that thou wilt not be a looker-on 
 
 at thine own funeral. Put together in haste, 
 
 sayest thou! How long may it be since this 
 coffin was laid in the ground ? 
 
 Sex. By my fay, now, I cannot tell ; thougli 
 many a grave I have dug in this vault, instead 
 of the lay-brothers, who are mighty apt to take 
 a cholic or shortness of breath, or the like, when 
 any thing of hard labour falls to their share. 
 (^After pausing.) Ha! now I have it. When I 
 went over the mountain some ten years ago to 
 visit my father-in-law, Baldwick, the stranger, 
 who died the other day, after living so long as a 
 hermit amongst the rocks, came here; and it 
 was shrewdly suspected he had leave from our 
 late Prior, for a good sum of money, to bury 
 a body privately in this vault. I was a fool not 
 to think of it before. This, I'll be sworn for it, 
 is the place. 
 
THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 127 
 
 Enter the Prior, Osterloo, Jerome, Paul, 
 Benedict, and other Monks, with the Peasant 
 carrying light before them. They enter by an 
 arched door at the bottom of the stage, and 
 walk on to the front, wlien every one, hut 
 Osterloo, crowds eagerly to the grave, looking 
 down into it. 
 
 Prior, (to Sexton.) What hast thou found, 
 friend ? 
 
 Sea:. A coffin an't please you, and of a size, 
 too, that might almost contain a giant. 
 
 Omnes. (Osterloo excepted.) The inscription — 
 is there an inscription on it ? 
 
 Sea^. No, no ! They who put these planks to- 
 gether had no time for inscriptions. 
 
 Omnes. (as before.) Break it open: — break it 
 open. 
 
 (Tliey crowd more eagerly about the grave, 
 wlien, after a pause, the Sexton is heard 
 wrenching open the lid of the coffin.) 
 
 Omnes. (as before.) What is there in it ? WJiat 
 hast thou found. Sexton ? 
 
 Sex. An entire skeleton, and of no common 
 size. 
 
 Ost. (in a quick hollow voice.) Is it entire ? 
 
 Sex. (after a pause.) No, the right hand is 
 wanting, and there is not a loose bone in the 
 coffin. (Ost. shudders and steps back,) 
 
 Jer. (to Prior, after a pause.) Will you not 
 speak to him. Father ? His countenance is 
 changed, and his whole frame seems moved by 
 some sudden convulsion. 
 
128 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (^TJie Prior remains silent.') 
 How is this ? You are also changed, reverend 
 Father. Shall I speak to him ? 
 
 Prior. Speak thou to him. 
 
 Jer. (Jo Osterloo.) What is the matter with 
 you, General ? Has some sudden malady seized 
 you? 
 
 Ost. (to Jerome.) Let me be alone with you, 
 holy Prior ; let me be alone with you instantly. 
 
 Jer. (^pointing.') This is the Prior. — He would 
 be alone with you, Father : he would make his 
 confession to you. 
 
 Prior. I dare not hear him alone : there must 
 be witnesses. Let him come with me to my 
 apartment. 
 
 Jer. (to Osterloo, as they leave the grave.) 
 Let me conduct you. Count. 
 
 (After ivalking from it some paces.) 
 Come on, my Lord, why do you stop short ? 
 
 Ost. Not this way — not this way, I pray 
 you. 
 
 Jer. What is it you would avoid ? 
 
 Ost. Turn aside, I pray you j I cannot cross 
 over this. 
 
 Jer. Is it the grave you mean ? We have left 
 it behind us. 
 
 Ost. Is it not there ? It yawns across our 
 path, directly before us. 
 
 Jer. Indeed, my Lord, it is some paces be- 
 hind. 
 
 Ost. There is delusion in my sight then ; lead 
 me as thou wilt. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 129 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The private Apartment of the Prior; enter 
 Benedict, looking round as he enters. 
 Ben. Not yet come ; aye, penitence is not 
 very swift of foot. 
 
 (^Speaking to himself as he walks up and down.") 
 Miserable man ! — brave, goodly creature ! — 
 but alas, alas ! most subdued ; most miserable ; 
 and, I fear, most guilty I 
 
 Enter Jerome. 
 Jerome here ! — Dost thou know. Brother, that 
 the Prior is coming here immediately to confess 
 the penitent ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, Brother ; but I am no intruder ; 
 for he has summoned me to attend the confes- 
 sion as well as thyself. 
 
 Ben. Methinks some other person of our 
 order, unconcerned with the dreaming part of 
 this business, would have been a less suspicious 
 witness. 
 
 Jer. Suspicious ! Am I more concerned in 
 this than any other member of our community ? 
 Heaven appoints its own agents as it listeth : 
 the stones of these walls might have declared its 
 awful will as well as the dreams of a poor friar. 
 
 Ben. True, brother Jerome ; could tliey lis- 
 ten to confessions as he does, and hold reveries 
 upon them afterwards. 
 
 VOL. III. K 
 
130 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Jer. What dost thou mean with thy reveries 
 and confessions ? Did not Paul see the terrible 
 vision as well as I ? 
 
 Ben. If thou hadst not revealed thy dream to 
 him, he would have slept sound enough, or, at 
 worst, have but flown over the pinnacles with 
 his old mate the horned serpent, as usual : and 
 had the hermit Baldwick never made his death- 
 bed confession to thee, thou wouldst never have 
 had such a dream to reveal. 
 
 Jer. Thinkest thou so ? Then what brought 
 Osterloo and his troops so unexpectedly by this 
 route ? With all thy heretical dislike to miracu- 
 lous interposition, how wilt thou account for 
 this ? 
 
 Ben. If thou hadst no secret intelligence of 
 Osterloo's route, to set thy fancy a working on 
 the story the hermit confessed to thee, I never 
 wore cowl on my head. 
 
 Jer. Those, indeed, who hear thee speak so 
 lightly of mysterious and holy things, will 
 scarcely believe thou ever didst. — But hush ! 
 the Prior comes with his penitent ; let us have 
 no altercation now. 
 
 Enter Prior and Osterloo. 
 Prior, (after a pause, in which he seems agi- 
 tated.') 
 Now, Count Osterloo, we are ready to hear 
 your confession. To myself and these pious 
 Monks ; men appointed by our holy religion to 
 search into the crimes of the penitent,. unburthen 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 131 
 
 your heart of its terrible secret ; and God grant 
 you afterwards, if it be his righteous will, re- 
 pentance and mercy. 
 
 Ost. (inaking a sign^ as if unable to speaks 
 then uttering rapidly.') Presently, presently. 
 
 Jer. Don't hurry him, reverend Father ; he 
 cannot speak. 
 
 Ben. Take breath awhile, noble Osterloo, 
 and speak to us when you can. 
 
 Ost. I thank you. 
 
 Ben. He is much agitated, (/o Osterloo.) 
 Lean upon me, my Lord. 
 
 Prior, (to Benedict.) Nay, you exceed in 
 this, (to Osterloo.) Recollect yourself. General, 
 and try to be more composed, You seem better 
 now J endeavour to unburden your mind of its 
 fatal secret ; to have it labouring within your 
 breast is protracting a state of misery. 
 
 Ost. (feebly.) I have voice now. 
 
 Jer. (to Osterloo.) Give to Heaven, then, as 
 you ought — 
 
 Befi. Hush, brother Jerome ! no exhortations 
 now ! let him speak it as he can. (to Osterloo.) 
 We attend you most anxiously. 
 
 Ost. (after struggling for utterance,) 
 I slew him. 
 
 Prior. The man whose bones have now been 
 discovered ? 
 
 Ost. The same : I slew him. 
 
 Jer. In the field. Count ? 
 
 Ost. No, no ! many a man's blood has been 
 on my hands there : — this is on my heart. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 Prior. It is then premeditated murder you 
 have committed. 
 
 Ost. (JiastUy.) Call it so, call it so. 
 
 Jer. (to Osterloo, after a pause.) And is this 
 all? Will you not proceed to tell us the cir- 
 cumstances attending it ? 
 
 Ost. Oh ! they were terrible ! — But they are 
 all in my mind as the indistinct horrors of a 
 frenzied imagination. 
 
 (After a short pause.) 
 I did it in a narrow pass on St. Gothard, in the 
 stormy twilight of a winter day. 
 
 Prior. You murdered him there ? 
 
 Ost. I felt him dead under my grasp ; but 1 
 looked at him no more after the last desperate 
 thrust that I gave him. I hurried to a distance 
 from the spot ; when a servant, who was with 
 me, seized with a sudden remorse, begged leave 
 to return and remove the body, that, if possible, 
 he might bury it in consecrated ground, as an 
 atonement for the part he had taken in the 
 
 terrible deed. 1 gave him leave, with means 
 
 to procure his desire : — I waited for him three 
 days, concealed in the mountains ; — but I 
 neither saw him, nor heard of him again. 
 
 Ben. But what tempted a brave man like 
 Osterloo to commit such a horrible act ? 
 
 Ost. The torments of jealousy stung me to it. 
 (Hiding his face with his hands, and then uncover- 
 ing it.) I loved her, and was beloved : 
 
 He came, — a noble stranger 
 
 Jer. Aye, if he was in his mortal state, as I 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 in my dream belield him, he was indeed most 
 noble. 
 
 Ost. (^waving his hand impatiently.') 
 Well, well ! he did come, then, and she loved 
 
 me no more. With arts and enchantments 
 
 he besotted her. Even from 
 
 her own lips I received 
 
 {Tossing up his arms violently ^ and then 
 
 covering his face as before.') 
 
 But what is all this to you ? Maimed as he was, 
 
 having lost his right arm in a battle with the 
 
 Turks, I could not defy him to the field. 
 
 After passing two nights in all the 
 
 tossing agony of a damned spirit, 1 followed him 
 on his journey *cross the mountains. — On the 
 twilight of the second day, I laid wait for him 
 in a narrow pass ; and as soon as his gigantic 
 
 form darkened the path before me 1 
 
 have told you all. 
 
 Prior, (eagerly.) You have not told his name. 
 
 Ost. Did I not say Montera ? He was a noble 
 Hungarian. 
 
 Prior, (much agitated.) He was so ! — He was 
 so. He was noble and beloved. 
 
 Jer. (aside to Prior.) What is the matter 
 with you, reverend Father? Was he your 
 Friend ? 
 
 Prior, (aside to Jerome.) Speak not to mc 
 now, but question the murderer as ye will. 
 
 Ben. (overhearing the Prior.) 
 
 He is indeed a murderer, reverend Father, but 
 
 he is our penitent. 
 
 K S 
 
134* THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Prior. Go to! what are names? — Ask him 
 what questions you will, and finish the confes- 
 sion quickly. 
 
 Ben. (to Osterloo.) But have you never till 
 now confessed this crime ; nor in the course of 
 so many years reflected on its dreadful tur- 
 pitude ? 
 
 Ost. The active and adventurous life of a 
 soldier is most adverse to reflection : but often, 
 in the stillness of midnight, the remembrance of 
 this terrible deed has come powerfully upon me ; 
 till morning returned, and the noise of the camp 
 began, and the fortunes of the day were before 
 me. 
 
 Prior, {in a severe voice.} 
 Thou hast indeed been too long permitted i(> 
 remain in this hardened state. But Heaven, 
 sooner or later, will visit the man of blood with 
 its terrours. Sooner or later, he shall feel that 
 he stands upon an awful brink ; and short is the 
 step which engulphs him in that world, where 
 the murdered and the murderer meet again, in 
 the tremendous presence of Him who is the 
 Lord and Giver of life. 
 
 Ost. You believe then in such severe retri- 
 bution ? 
 
 Prior. I believe in it as in my own existence. 
 
 Ost. (turning to Jerome and Benedict.) 
 And you, good Fathers, you believe in this ? 
 
 Ben. Nature teaches this, as v/ell as revela- 
 tion : we must believe it. 
 
 Jer. Some presumptuous minds, dazzled with 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDy. 135 
 
 the sunshine of prosperity, have dared to doubt; 
 but to us in the sober sliade of life, visited too 
 as we have now been by visions preternatural 
 and awful, it is a thing of certainty rather than 
 of faith. 
 
 Ost. That such things are, it makes the brain 
 confused and giddy. — These are tremendous 
 thoughts ! 
 
 (Leans his back against the wallj and gazes 
 jixedlij on the ground.') 
 
 Prior, Let us leave him to the bitterness of 
 his thoughts. We now must deliberate with the 
 brethren on what is to be done. There must be 
 no delay ; the night advances fast. Conduct 
 him to another apartment. I must assemble a 
 council of the whole order. 
 
 Jer. (to Osterloo.) We must lead you to an- 
 other apartment. Count, while we consider what 
 is to be done. 
 
 Ost. (roused.) Aye, the expiation, you mean : 
 let it be severe, if atonement in this world may 
 be made. 
 
 (Turning to Prior as Jerome leads him off.) 
 Let your expiation be severe, holy Father ; a 
 slight penance matches not with such a crime as 
 mine. 
 
 Prior. Be well assured it shall be what it 
 ought. 
 
 Ost. (turning again, and catching hold, of the 
 Prior'5 robe.) I regard not bodily pain. In 
 battle once, with the head of a broken arrow in 
 my tiiigh, I led on the charge, and sustained all 
 
 K 4 
 
136 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 the exertions of a well-fought field, till night 
 closed upon our victory. Let your penance be 
 severe, my reverend Father ; I have been long 
 acquainted with pain. 
 
 [Exeunt Osterloo and Jerome. 
 
 Ben. You seem greatly moved. Father ; but 
 it is not with pity for the wretched. You would 
 not destroy such a man as this, though his crime 
 is the crime of blood ? 
 
 Prior. He shall die : ere another sun dawn 
 on these walls, he shall die. 
 
 Ben, Oh, say not so ! Think of some other 
 expiation. 
 
 Prior. I would think of another, were there 
 any other more dreadful to him than death. 
 
 Ben. He is your penitent. 
 
 Prior. He is the murderer of my brother. 
 
 Be7i. Then Heaven have mercy on him, if he 
 
 must find none here ! 
 
 IVIontero was your brother ? 
 
 Prior. My only brother. It were tedious to 
 tell thee now, how I was separated from him 
 
 after the happy days of our youth. 
 
 I saw him no more ; yet he was still the dearest 
 object of my thoughts. After escaping death in 
 many a battle, he was slain, as it was conjec- 
 tured, by banditti, in travelling across the moun- 
 tains. His body was never discovered. Ah ! 
 little did I think it was lying so near me ! 
 
 Ben. It is indeed piteous, and you must 
 needs feel it as a brother : but consider the 
 danger we run, should we lay violent hands on 
 1 
 
THE DREAM ! A TRAGEDY. ISJ 
 
 an Imperial General, with his enraged soldiers, 
 within a few hours* march of our walls. 
 
 Prior. I can think of nothing but revenge. 
 Speak to me no more. I must assemble the 
 whole order immediately. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Another Aparbnent. Enter Osterloo, as from a 
 small Recess at the bottom of the Stage ^ pacing 
 backwards and forwards several times in an 
 agitated maimer ; then advancing slowly to the 
 fronty where he stands musing and muttering to 
 himself for some momentSy before he speaks 
 aloud. 
 
 Ost. That this smothered horrour should burst 
 upon me at last! And there be really such 
 things as the darkened fancy imageth to itself, 
 w^hen the busy day is stilled. An unseen world 
 surrounds us : spirits and powers, and the in- 
 visible dead, hover near us ; while we in uncon- 
 scious security — Oh ! I have slept upon a fear- 
 ful brink! Every sword that threatened my 
 head in battle, had power in its edge to send 
 me to a terrible account. — I have slept upon a 
 
 fearful brink. Am I truly 
 
 awake ? (^Rubbing his eyes, then grasping seve- 
 ral parts of his body, frstwith one hand and then 
 with the other.) Yes, yes ! it is so ! — I am 
 keenly and terribly awake. 
 
138 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 (Paces rapidlij up and down, and then stop- 
 pi?ig sJiot^t.) 
 Can there be virtue in penances suffered by 
 the body to do away offences of the soul ? If 
 there be — O if there be ! let them runnel my 
 body with stripes, and swaith me round in one 
 continued girth of wounds ! Any thing that can 
 be endured here is mercy compared to the 
 dreadful abiding of what may be hereafter. 
 
 Enter Wovelreid behind, followed by Sol- 
 diers, who range themselves at the bottom of 
 the stage. Osterloo, turning round, runs up 
 to him eagerly. 
 Ha ! my dear Albert, returned to me again, 
 with all my noble fellows at thy back. 
 
 ■ Pardon me, I mistook you for one of 
 
 my Captains. 
 
 Wov. I am the Prior's Captain. 
 
 Ost. And those men too ? 
 
 Wov. They are the Prior's soldiers, who have 
 been ordered from distant quarters to repair to 
 the monastery immediately. 
 
 Ost. In such haste ! 
 
 Wov. Aye, in truth : we received our orders 
 after sun-set, and have marched two good 
 leagues since. 
 
 Ost. What may this mean ? 
 
 Wov. Faith, I know not. My duty is to obey 
 the Prior, and pray to our good saint ; and 
 whether I am commanded to surprise the strong- 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 139 
 
 hold of an enemy, or protect an execution, it is 
 the same thing to me. 
 
 Ost. An execution ! can aught of this nature 
 be intended ? 
 
 Wov. You turn pale, Sir : wearing the garb 
 of a soldier, you have surely seen blood ere 
 now. 
 
 Ost. I have seen too much blood. 
 
 Enter Prior, Jerome, Paul, and Monks, walk- 
 ing in order ; the Prior holding a paper in 
 his hand. 
 
 Prior (with solemnity.) Count Osterloo, Lieu- 
 tenant-General of our liege Lord the Emperor, 
 authorized by this deed, which is subscribed by 
 all the brethren of our Holy Order here pre- 
 sent, I pronounce to you our solemn decision, 
 that the crime of murder, as, by the mysterious 
 voice of Heaven, and your own confession, your 
 crime is proved to be, can only be expiated by 
 death : you are therefore warned to prepare 
 yourself to die this night. Before day-break 
 you must be with the inhabitants of another 
 world, where may the great Maker of us all deal 
 with you in mercy ! 
 
 (Osterloo staggers back from the spot wliere 
 he stood, and remains silent.) 
 
 Prior. It is a sentence, Count, pronounced 
 against you from necessity, to save the lives of 
 our whole community, which yon yourself have 
 promised to submit to ; have you any thing to 
 say in reply to it ? 
 
140 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ost. Nothing : my thoughts are gone from me 
 in the darkness of astonishment. 
 
 Prior. We are compelled to be thus hasty and 
 severe : ere day-break you must die. 
 
 Ost. Ere day-break ! not even the light of 
 another sun to one so ill prepared for the awful 
 and tremendous state into which you would 
 thrust him ! this is inhuman ! it is horrible ! 
 
 Prior. He was as ill prepared for it, who, 
 with still shorter warning, was thrust into that 
 awful state in the narrow pass of St. Gothard. 
 
 Ost. The guilt of murder was not on his soul. 
 
 Nay, nay, holy Prior, consider this 
 
 horrible extremity : let the pain of the execu- 
 tioner's stroke be twenty-fold upon me ; but 
 thrust me not forth to that state from which my 
 
 soul recoils with unutterable horror ! 
 
 Never but once, to save the life 
 
 of a friend, did I bend the knee to mortal man 
 in humble supplication. I am a soldier ; in 
 many battles 1 have bled for the service of my 
 country : I am a noble soldier, and I was a 
 proud one ; yet do I thus — contemn not my 
 extremity — my knee is on the ground. 
 
 Prior. Urge me no further. It must not be j 
 no respite can be granted. 
 
 Ost. (starting up furiously from the ground, 
 
 and drawing his sword.) 
 Then subdue as you may, stern priest, the 
 strength of a desperate man. 
 
 (Wovelreid a?id Soldiers rush forward, get- 
 ting behind hiin, and surrounding him on 
 
THE DREAM *. A TRAGEDY. 141 
 
 every side, and after a violent struggle 
 disarm him.) 
 
 Wov. What a noble fellow this would be to 
 defend a narrow breach, though he shrinks witli 
 such abhorrence from a scaffold. It is a piteous 
 thing to see him so beset. 
 
 Prior, (to Wovelreid.) What sayest thou, 
 fool ? 
 
 Wov. Nay, it is no business of mine, my Lord, 
 I confess. Shall we conduct him to the prison 
 chamber ? 
 
 Prior. Do so ; and see that he retain no con- 
 cealed arms about him. 
 
 Wov. I obey, my Lord : every thing shall be 
 made secure. 
 
 (Exit Osterloo, guarded by Wovelreid aiid 
 Soldiers ; and at the same time enter Be- 
 nedict, by the opposite side, xvho stands 
 looking after him piteously.) 
 
 Prior, (sternly to Benedict.) What brings 
 thee here ? Dost thou repent having refused to 
 concur with us in an act that preserves the com- 
 munity ? 
 
 Ben. Say rather, reverend Father, an act that 
 revenges your brother's death, which the laws 
 of the empire should revenge. 
 
 Prior. A supernatural visitation of heaven 
 
 hath commanded us to punish it. . 
 
 What ! dost thou shake thy head ? Thou 
 art of a doubting and dangerous spirit ; and 
 beware lest, sooner or later, the tempter do not 
 lure thee into heresy. If reason cannot subdue 
 
142 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 thee, authority shall. Return 
 
 again to thy cell ; let me hear of this no more. 
 
 Ben. I will, reverend Father. But, for the 
 love of our holy saint, bethink you, ere it be too 
 late, that though we may be saved from the 
 pestilence by this bloody sacrifice, what will 
 rescue our throats from the swords of Osterloo's 
 soldiers when they shall return, as they have 
 threatened, to demand from us their General ? 
 
 Prior. Give thyself no concern about this. 
 My own bands are already called in, and a mes- 
 senger has been dispatched to the Abbess Ma- 
 tilda ; her troops, in defence of the church, 
 
 will face the best soldiers of the empire. 
 
 But why lose we time in unprofitable conten- 
 tions ? Go, my sons, {speaking to other Monks.) 
 the night advances fast, and we have much to 
 do ere morning. 
 
 {Knocking heard 'without.') 
 Ha ! who knocks at this untimely hour ? Can 
 the soldiers be indeed returned upon us ? — 
 Run to the gate, but open it to none. 
 
 (Exeunt several Monks in haste, and pre- 
 sently re-enter ivith a Lay-Brother.) 
 
 Lay-B. Please ye, reverend Father j the 
 Marchioness has sent a messenger from the 
 castle, beseeching you to send a confessor im- 
 mediately to confess one of her women, who 
 was taken ill yesterday, and is now at the point 
 of death. 
 
 Prior. I'm glad it is only this. — What is the 
 matter with the penitent ? 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 143 
 
 Lay-B. 1 know not, please yon : the messen- 
 ger only said, she was taken ill yesterday. 
 
 Prior, (shaking his head.) Aye, this malady 
 has got there also. — I cannot send one of 
 the brothers to bring infection immediately 
 
 amono-st us. What is to be 
 
 done ? Leonora is a most noble Lady ; and 
 the family have been great benefactors to our 
 order. — I must send somebody to her. But he 
 must stop well his nostrils with spicery, and 
 leave his upper garment behind him, when he 
 quits the infected apartment. Jerome, wilt 
 thou go ? Thou art the favorite confessor with 
 all the women at the castle. 
 
 Jer. Nay, Father; 1 must attend on our 
 prisoner here, who has most need of ghostly 
 assistance. 
 
 Prior, (to another Monk.) Go thou, Anselmo; 
 thou hast given comfort to many a dying peni- 
 tent. 
 
 Monk. I thank you, Father, for the prefer- 
 ence; but Paul is the best of us all for ad- 
 ministering comfort to the dying ; and there is 
 a sickness come over my heart o* the sudden, 
 that makes me unfit for the office. 
 
 Prior, (to Paul.) Thou wilt go then, my good 
 son. 
 
 Paul. I beseech you, don't send me, reverend 
 Father ; I ne*er escaped contagion in my life, 
 where malady or fever were to be had. 
 
 Prior. Who will go then ? 
 
 (A deep silence.) 
 
1 4f4f ' THE DREAM I A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ben. What ! has no one faith enough in the 
 protection of St. Maurice, even purchased, as it 
 is about to be, by the shedding of human blood, 
 to venture upon this dangerous duty ? I will go 
 then, Father, though I am sometimes of a 
 doubting spirit. 
 
 Prior. Go, and St. Maurice protect thee ! 
 
 [Exit Ben. 
 Let him go ; it is well that we get rid of him 
 for the night, should they happily detain him so 
 long at the castle. — He is a troublesome, close- 
 searching, self-willed fellow. He hath no zeal 
 for the order. Were a miser to bequeath his 
 possessions to our monastery, he would assist the 
 disappointed heir himself to find out a flaw in 
 the deed. — But retire to your cells, my sons, 
 and employ yourselves in prayer and devotion, 
 till the great bell warn you to attend the exe- 
 cution. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Leonora 
 and Agnes, speaking as they enter, 
 
 Ag. But she is asleep now ; and is so much 
 and so suddenly better, that the confessor, when 
 he comes, will be dissatisfied, I fear, that we 
 have called him from his cell at such an unrea- 
 sonable hour. 
 
 Leo. Let him come, nevertheless j don't send 
 to prevent him. 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 145 
 
 Ag, He will be unwilling to be detained, for 
 they are engaged in no common matters to- 
 night at the monastery. Count Osterloo, as 1 
 told you before, is doing voluntary penance at 
 the shrine of St. Maurice to stop the progress of 
 this terrible malady. 
 
 Leo, I remember thou did'st. 
 
 Ag, Ah, Marchioness ! you would not say so 
 thus faintly, had you seen him march through 
 the pass with his soldiers. He is the bravest 
 and most graceful man, though somewhat ad- 
 vanced in years, that I ever beheld. — Ah, had 
 you but seen him ! 
 
 Leo. I have seen him, Agnes. 
 
 Ag. And I spoke of him all the while, yet 
 you did not tell me this before ! Ah, my noble 
 Mistress and Friend ! the complexion of your 
 cheek is altered; you have indeed seen him, 
 and you have not seen him with indifference. 
 
 Leo. Think as thou wilt about this. He was 
 the friend and fellow-soldier of my Lord, when 
 we first married ; though before my marriage I 
 had never seen him. 
 
 Ag. Friend ! Your Lord was then in tlie de- 
 cline of life ; there must have been great dis- 
 parity in their friendship. 
 
 Leo. They were friends, however ; for the 
 Marquis liked society younger than himself; 
 and I, who had been hurried into an unequal 
 marriage, before 1 could judge for myself, was 
 sometimes foolish enough to compare them to- 
 gether. 
 
 VOL. III. L 
 
146 THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 Ag, Aye, that was natural enough. {Eagerly.) 
 And what happened then ? 
 
 Leo. {offended.) What happened then ! (drain- 
 ing herself iip proudly.) Nothing happened 
 then, but subduing the fooHsh fancy of a girl, 
 which was afterwards amply repaid by the self- 
 approbation and dignity of a woman. 
 
 Ag. Pardon me, Madam ; I ought to have 
 supposed all this. But you have been long a 
 widow, and Osterloo is still unmarried ; what 
 prevented you when free ? 
 
 Leo. I was ignorant what the real state of his 
 sentiments had been in regard to me. But had 
 tliis been otherwise ; received, as I was, into the 
 family of my Lord, the undowried daughter of 
 a petty ^nobleman ; and left as I now am, by his 
 confiding love, the sole guardian of his children 
 and their fortunes ; I could never think of sup- 
 porting a second lord on the wealth entrusted 
 to me by the first, to the injury of his children. 
 As nothing, therefore, has ever happened in 
 consequence of this weakness of my youth, no- 
 thing ever shall. 
 
 Ag. This is noble. 
 
 Leo. It is right. But here comes 
 
 the father Confessor. 
 
 Enter Benedict. 
 You are welcome, good Father ! yet I am al- 
 most ashamed to see you ; for our sick person has 
 become suddenly well again, and is now in a deep 
 sleep. I fear I shall appear to you capricious 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 147 
 
 and inconsiderate in calling you np at so late an 
 hour. 
 
 Ben. Be not uneasy, Lady, upon tins account : 
 I am glad to have an occasion for being absent 
 from the monastery for some hours, if you will 
 permit me to remain here so long. 
 
 Leo. What mean you, Father Benedict ? 
 Your countenance is solemn and sorrowful : 
 what is going on at the monastery ? {He shakes 
 his head.) Ha! will they be severe with him in 
 a voluntary penance, submitted to for the good 
 of the order? — What is the nature of the pe- 
 nance ? It is to continue, I am told, but one 
 night. 
 
 Ben. It will, indeed, soon be over. 
 
 Leo. And will he be gone on the morrow ? 
 
 Ben. His spirit will, but his body remains 
 with us for ever. 
 
 Leo. (littering a shriek.) Death, dost thou 
 mean ? — O horror ! horror ! Is this the expi- 
 ation ? Oh most horrible, most unjust ! 
 
 Be7i. Indeed I consider it as such. Though 
 gunty, by his own confession, of murder, com- 
 mitted, many years since, under the frenzy of 
 passion; it belongs not to us to inflict the 
 punishment of death upon a guilty soul, taken 
 so suddenly and unprepared for its doom. 
 
 Leo. Murder! didst thou say murder? Oh 
 Osterloo, Osterloo ! hast thou been so barbarous ? 
 and art thou in this terrible state ? — Must thou 
 thus end thy days, and so near me too ! 
 
 Ben. You seem greatly moved, noble Leo- 
 L*2 
 
148 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 nora : would you could do something more for 
 him than lament. 
 
 Leo. (catching hold of him eagerly.) 
 Can 1 do any thing ? Speak, Father : O tell me 
 
 how ! I will do any thing and every thing. 
 
 Alas, alas ! my vassals are but few, and cannot 
 be assembled immediately. 
 
 Ben. Force were useless. Your vassals, if 
 they were assembled, would not be persuaded to 
 attack the sacred walls of a monastery. 
 
 Leo. I did indeed rave foolishly : but what 
 else can be done? — Take these jewels and 
 every thing of value in the castle, if they will 
 bribe those who guard him, to let him escape. — 
 Think of it. — O think well of it, good Bene- 
 dict! 
 
 Ag. I have heard that there is a secret pas- 
 sage, leading from the prison-chamber of the 
 monastery under its walls, and opening to the 
 free country at the bottom of the rocks. 
 
 Ben. By every holy saint, so there is ! and 
 the most sordid of our brothers is entrusted with 
 the key of it. But who will be his conductor ? 
 None but a Monk of the Order may pass the 
 soldiers who guard him ; and the Monk who 
 should do it, must fly from his country for 
 ever, and break his sacred vows. I can oppose 
 the weak fears and injustice of my brethren, for 
 misfortunes and disgust of the world, not super- 
 stitious veneration for monastic sanctity, has 
 covered my head witli a cowl ; but this I cannot 
 do. 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 149 
 
 Ag. There is the dress of a Monk of your 
 Order in the old wardrobe of the castle, if some 
 person were disguised in it. 
 
 Leo. Thanks to thee ! thanks to thee, my 
 happy Agnes ! I will be that person. — I will 
 
 put on the disguise. Good 
 
 Father! your face gives consent to this. 
 
 Ben. If there be time ; but I left them pre- 
 paring for the execution. 
 
 Leo. There is, there is ! — Come with me to 
 the wardrobe, and we'll set out for the monas- 
 tery forthwith. — Come, come ! a few moments 
 will carry us there. 
 
 [Exit hastili/fjbllowed bi/ Ag. a?icl Ben. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Wood near the Castle; the Stage quite dark : 
 Enter Two Servants with Torches. 
 
 1st Ser. This must surely be the entry to the 
 path, where my Lady ordered us to wait for 
 those same Monks. 
 
 2d Ser. Yes ; I know it well, for yonder is 
 the postern. It is the nearest path to the monas- 
 tery, but narrow and difficult. The night is 
 cold : I hope they will not keep us long waiting. 
 
 ist Ser. I heard the sound of travellers coming 
 up the eastern avenue, and they may linger be- 
 like ; for Monks are marvellously fond of great 
 people and of strangers ;. at least the good 
 Fathers of our monastery are. 
 
 L 3 
 
150 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ^d Ser. Aye, in their late Prior*s time they 
 lived like lords themselves ; and they are not 
 very humble at present. — But there's light 
 from the postern : here they come. 
 
 Enter Benedict, Leonora disguised like a 
 Monk, a?id Agnes with a Peasant's cloak 
 throxvn over her. 
 
 Leo. {speaking as she enters.) It is well 
 thought of, good Benedict. Go thou before me 
 to gain brother Baldwin, in the first place; and 
 I'll wait without on the spot we have agreed 
 upon, until I hear the signal. 
 
 Ben. Thou comprehendest me completely, 
 Brother ; so God speed us both ! 
 
 (To I^^Ser.) 
 Torch-man, go thou with me. This is the right 
 path, I trust ? 
 
 1st Ser. Fear not, Father ; I know it well. 
 
 [Exit Ben. a?id 1st Ser, 
 
 Leo. {to Agnes, ivhile she waves her hand to 
 
 %d Servant to retire to a greater distance.) 
 
 After I am admitted to the monastery, fail not 
 
 to wait for me at the mouth of the secret passage. 
 
 Ag. Fear not : Benedict has described it so 
 minutely, I cannot fail to discover it. 
 
 Leo. What steps are those behind us ? Some 
 body following us from the castle ? 
 
 Enter Sd Servant in haste. 
 
 Sd Ser. There are travellers arrived at the 
 gate, and desire to be achnitted lor tlie night. 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 151 
 
 T.co. In an evil hour they come. Return, dear 
 Agnes, and receive them. Benighted strangers, 
 no doubt. Excuse my absence any how : go 
 quickly. 
 
 Ag. And leave you to proceed alone ? 
 
 Zjeo. Care not for me: there is an energy 
 within me now, that bids defiance to fear. 
 
 (Beckons to Qcl Servant, xv/io goes out before 
 her mth the torch, and Exit.) 
 
 Ag. (muttering to herself, as she turns to the 
 castle.) The evil spirit hath brought travellers 
 to us at this moment : but I'll send them to 
 their chambers right quickly, and join her at the 
 secret passage, notwithstanding. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 L 4 
 
152 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Prison-chamber of the Monas- 
 tery : OsTERLOO is discovered, sitting in a 
 bending Posture, with his clenched Hands 
 pressed upon his Knees and his P^yes fixed on 
 the Ground, Jerome standing by him. 
 
 Jer. Nay, sink not thus, my Son ; the mercy 
 of Heaven is infinite. Let other thoughts enter 
 thy soul : let penitence and devotion subdue it. 
 
 Ost. Nothing but one short moment of divi- 
 sion between this state of humanity and that 
 which is to follow ! The executioner lets fall his 
 axe, and the dark veil is rent ; the gulf is un- 
 covered ; the regions of anguish are before me. 
 
 Jer. My Son, my Son ! this must not be ; 
 thine imagination overpowers thy devotion. 
 
 Ost. The dead are there 5 and what welcome 
 shall the murderer receive from that assembled 
 host ? Oh, the terrible form that stalks forth to 
 meet me ! the stretching out of that hand ! the 
 greeting of that horrible smile ! And it is thou, 
 who must lead me before the tremendous ma- 
 jesty of my offended Maker ! Incomprehensible 
 and dreadful 1 What thoughts can give an image 
 of that which overpowers all thought ! 
 
 (Clasping his hands tightly over his head, and 
 bending himself almost to the ground.) 
 
 4 
 
Tin: DllEAM : A TRAGEDY. 158 
 
 Jer. {after a pause,) Art thou entranced ? art 
 thou asleep ? art thou still in those inward ago- 
 nies of imagination ? {Touching him softly.) 
 Speak to me. 
 
 Ost. {starting up.) Are they come for me ? They 
 
 shall not yet : I'll strangle the first man that 
 
 lays hold of me. {Grasping Jerome bij the throat.) 
 
 Jer. Let go your hold, my Lord ; I did but 
 
 touch you gently to rouse you from your stupor. 
 
 (Osterloo lets go his hold, and Jerome shrinks 
 
 to a distance.) 
 
 Ost. I have grasped thee, then, too roughly. 
 
 But shrink not from me thus. Strong men have 
 
 fallen by my arm, but a child miglit contend 
 
 with me now. 
 
 {Throwing himself back again into his chair, 
 and bursting into tears.) 
 Jer. Forgive me, my Son, there was a wild- 
 ness in your eyes that made me afraid. 
 
 Ost. Thou need'st not be afraid : thou art a 
 good man, and hast days of life still before thee; 
 
 thou need'st not be afraid. 
 
 But, as thou art a good man, speak to me, 1 
 conjure thee, as a man, not as a monk : answer 
 me as the true sense and reason of a man doth 
 convince thee. 
 Jer. I will, my Son. 
 
 Ost. Dost thou in truth believe, that the very 
 instant after life has left the body, we are forth- 
 with awake and conscious in the world of Spirits? 
 No intermediate state of slumbering insensibility 
 between '? 
 
I54f THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 Jer. It is indeed my belief. Death is but a 
 short though awful pass ; as it were a winking 
 of the eyes for a moment. We shut them in this 
 world and open them in the next : and there we 
 open them with such increased vividness of 
 existence, that this life, in comparison, will 
 appear but as a state of slumber and of dreams. 
 
 But wherefore dost thou cross thine 
 
 arms so closely on thy breast, and coil thyself 
 together so wretchedly ? What is the matter, 
 my Son ? Art thou in bodily anguish ? 
 
 Ost. The chilly night shoots icy coldness 
 through me. 
 
 Jer. O regard not the poor feelings of a 
 fleshly frame, which thou so soon must part 
 withal : a little time will now put an end to 
 every thing that nature can endure. 
 
 Ost. (raising his head quickly.^ 
 Ha ! how soon ? Has the bell struck again 
 since I listened to it last ? 
 
 Jer. No ; but it will soon strike, and day- 
 break is at hand. Rouse ye then, and occupy 
 the few minutes that remain in acts of de- 
 votion becoming thine unhappy state. O, my 
 Son, pour out thy soul in penitent prayers to an 
 offended but merciful God. We, too, will pray 
 for thee. Months, nay years after thy death, 
 masses shall be said for the repose of thy soul, 
 that it may at last be received into bliss. O my 
 unhappy Son! pour forth thy spirit to God; 
 and let thy prayers also ascend to our blessed 
 Saint and Martyr, who will intercede for thee. 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. 1.05 
 
 Osl. I cannot : I have not thoughts lor prayer, 
 — the gulph yawns before me — the unknown, 
 the unbounded, the unfathomable ! — Prayers 1 
 prayers! what prayers hath despair? 
 
 Jcr. Hold, hold, refractory Sprit ! This ob- 
 stinacy is destruction. 1 must 
 
 call in brother Bernard to assist me : I cannot 
 be answerable alone, in a service of such infinite 
 moment. 
 
 (Exit ; and after a pause, in idiich Oster- 
 loo seems absorbed in the stupor ofde- 
 spair, enter Leonora disguised.) 
 
 Leo. (coming eagei^li) forward, and then stop- 
 jjing short to look at him.) 
 There is some mistake in this: it is not Osterloo. 
 
 — It is, it is ! but Oh, 
 
 how changed ! Thy hand, great God ! has 
 been upon him. 
 
 (Going closer to him.) 
 Osterloo ! Osterloo ! 
 
 Ost. I hear thee, Father. 
 
 Leo. (throwing aside her disgidse.) 
 Oh no ! it is no Father. Lift up thine eyes 
 and see an old friend before thee, with deliver- 
 ance in her hand. (Holding out a key.) 
 
 Ost. (looking up xdldli/.) Is it a soinid in my 
 ears, or did any one say deliverance? 
 
 (Gazing on her.) 
 What thing art thou? A form of magic or de- 
 lusion ? 
 
156 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Leo. Neither, Count Osterloo ; but an old 
 friend, bringing this key in her hand for thy 
 dehverance. Yet much I fear thou hast not 
 strength enough to rise and follow me. 
 
 Ost. (bounding from his seat.) I have strength 
 for any thing if there be deliverance in it. — 
 Where go we ? They will be upon us immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 Leo. (liftiiig a small lamp from a table, and 
 holding it to ei'amine the opposite ivall.) 
 The door, as he described it, is to the right of 
 a small projection of the wall. — Here — here 
 it is ! (Opens a small door, and beckons Osterloo 
 to follow Jier.) 
 
 Ost. Yes, blessed being! I will follow thee. 
 — Ha ! they are coming ! 
 
 (^Strides liastilij to the door, while Leonora 
 holds up the lamp to light hiiyi i?ito it, and 
 then going in herself, shuts the door softlij 
 heJmid her.) 
 
 SCENE H. 
 
 An old ruinous Vault, with a strong grated Door 
 on one side, through which the Moon-beams 
 are gleaming: 07i the other Side, an old wind- 
 ing staircase, leading from the upper Regions 
 oftJie Monastery, from which a feeble Light is 
 seen, iiwreasing by degrees ; and presently 
 Leonora appears, descending the Stairs with 
 a Lamp in her Hand, followed by Osterloo- 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 157 
 
 As she enterSy sometfmig on the Wall catches 
 
 her Robe, and she turns round to disentangle it, 
 
 bending her Face close to the Light. 
 
 Ost. (stopping to assist her, and then gazing on 
 her.) 
 Thou art something I liave known and loved 
 somewhere, thougli it has passed away from my 
 
 mind with all my better thoughts. 
 
 Great power of Heaven ! art thou Leonora ? 
 
 Leo. (sniiling.) Dost thou know me now ? 
 
 Ost. I do, I do ! My heart knew tliee before, 
 but my memory did not. 
 
 (Kneeling and kissing both her hands.') 
 And so it is to thee — thou whom I first loved — 
 Pardon me, pardon me ! — tliou whom I loved, 
 and dared not love ; thou from whom I fled 
 to be virtuous — thou art my deliverer. Oh ! 
 had I never loved another after thee, it had 
 
 been well. Knowest tliou 
 
 it is a murderer thou art saving ? 
 
 Leo. Say no more of this : I know thy story, 
 and I came 
 
 Ost. O ! thou camest like a blessed Spirit to 
 deliver me from many horrors. I was terribly 
 beset : thou hast snatched me from a tremendous 
 brink. 
 
 Leo. I hope so, if this key prove to be the 
 right one. 
 
 Ost. (^alarmed.) Dost thou doubt it? 
 
 Leo. It seems to me smaller than it ouglit to 
 be, when I consider that massive door. 
 
158 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ost. Give it me. 
 
 (^Snatches the hey from hei\ and runs io the 
 
 door; then turns the key in the lock, and 
 
 finding it too small, stamps xcith his feet, 
 
 throrcs it from him, and holds 2ip his 
 
 clenched hands in despair.^ 
 
 Leo. Oh, cross fate ! But I'll return again 
 
 for the right one. Baldwin cannot be so wicked 
 
 as to deceive me, and Benedict is still on tlie 
 
 watch, near the door of the prison-chamber. 
 
 Stay here till I return. 
 
 (^She ascends the stairs, ^whilst Osterloo leans 
 his back to the wall, frequently moving his 
 body up a7id doxvn with impatient agita- 
 tion : a bell tolls ; Osterloo starts from his 
 place, and Leonora descends again, re- 
 entering in great alarm.) 
 Leo. Oh ! I cannot go now : that bell tolls 
 to warn them to the great hall : I shall meet 
 them on their way. What is to be done ? The 
 strength of three men could not force that heavy 
 door, and thou art feeble and spent. 
 
 Ost. (running furiously to the door.) 
 Despair has strength for any thing. 
 
 (Seizes hold of the door, and, making two or 
 three terrible efforts, bursts it open with a 
 loud jar.) 
 Leo. Supernatural strength has assisted thee : 
 now thou art free. 
 
 {As Osterloo and Leonora are about to pass 
 on through the door, Wovelreid and three 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. 1.50 
 
 «r;«cr/ Soldiers appear in l/ie porch beyond 
 it, and oppose their jMSsa^'c.) 
 Wov. Hold ! we are the Prior's Soldiers, and 
 will suffer no prisoner to escape. 
 Ost. Those who dare prevent me ! 
 
 {Wrests a sxvord from one of the Soldiers, 
 and^Jightingfuriouslij, forces his way past 
 them allf they not daring to pursue him; 
 when Wovelreid seizing on Leonora to 
 prevent her from following him, she calls 
 out.) 
 Leo. O let me pass ! and I'll reward you 
 nobly. 
 
 Ost. (^returning to rescue Leonora.) 
 Let go thine unhallowed grasp. 
 
 JLeo. For Heaven's sake care not for me ! 
 Save thyself — save thyself! I am in no danger. 
 Turn not again to fight, when such terrible 
 odds are against thee. 
 
 Ost. I have arms in my hand now, and my 
 foes are before me ! {Fights fiercely again, 
 till Morand, with a strong hand of Soldiers, en- 
 tering the porch behind him, lie is overpowered 
 and secured j Leonora sinks doxvn by the wall in 
 a swoon.) 
 
 Wov. Give me a rope. We must bind him 
 securely ; for the Devil has put the strength of 
 ten men into him, though, but half an horn- 
 ago, his face was as pale as a moon-light icicle, 
 and he could scarcely walk without being sup- 
 ported. 
 
IfJO THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mo7\ Alas, alas ! his face has returned to its 
 former colour ; his head sinks on his breast, 
 and his limbs are again feeble and listless. I 
 would rather see him fighting like a fiend than 
 see him thus. 
 
 Wov. Let us move him hence ; would'st thou 
 stop to lament over him ? 
 
 Mor. It was base work in Baldwin to betray 
 their plot to the Prior, for he took their money 
 first, I'll be sworn. 
 
 Wov. He had betrayed the Prior then, and 
 all the community besides. 
 
 Mo?\ Well, let us move him hence : this is 
 no business of ours. 
 
 [Exeunt Morand, Wovelreid and Sol- 
 diers, leading out Osterloo. 
 
 Enter Agnes by the grated door, and discovers 
 Leonora on the ground. 
 
 Ag. O holy Virgin ! On the ground, faint- 
 ing and ill ! Have the barbarians left her thus ? 
 (Chafing her temples and hand.) 
 She begins to revive. It is me, my dearest 
 Lady : look up and see me : those men are all 
 gone. 
 
 Leo. And Osterloo with them ? 
 
 Ag. Alas, he is. 
 
 Lea. It is fated so. Let me lie where I am : 
 I cannot move yet, my good Agnes. 
 
 Ag. Nay, do not yet despair of saving the 
 Count. 
 
THE DRKAM : A TRAGKUY, l(»l 
 
 Leo. (stmHing up and ca/c/iifig hold of her 
 eageidij.) 
 How so ? is it possible ? 
 
 Ag. The travellers, arrived at the castle, are 
 the Imper.j,! A mbassador and his train. Night 
 overtook them on the mountains, and they are 
 now making merry in the hall. 
 
 Leo. Thank Heaven for this ! Providence 
 has sent him hither. I'll go to him instantly, 
 and conjure him to interpose his authority to 
 save the life of Osterloo. Representing his 
 liege Lord, the Emperor, the Prior dare not 
 disobey his commands, and the gates of the 
 monastery will be opened at his call. \VTio 
 comes iiere ? Let us go. 
 
 Re-enter Morand. 
 Mor. (^to Leonora.) You are revived again : 
 I am glad to see it. Pardon me. Lady, that 1 
 forgot you in your extremity, and let me con- 
 duct you safely to the castle. 
 
 Leo. I thank you, but my servants are with- 
 out. Let me go. Don't follow me, I pray 
 you. 
 
 Mor. Let me support you through the porch, 
 and Pll leave you to their care, since you desire 
 it. [Exeunt, Leonora supported by 
 
 Morand and Agnes. 
 
 VOL, 111. M 
 
iGS THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 SCENE. III. 
 
 A grand HalU i^repared for the Kxecuticyn ; 
 Soldiers are discovered draum up on each side 
 of tJw Scajfoldj with Benedict a7id several of 
 the Monks on the front of the Stage. A bell 
 tolls at measured Intervals^ with a deep pause 
 between ; after which enter Morand, hanging 
 his Head sorrowfully .') 
 
 Ben. (to Mor.) Is he come forth ? 
 
 1st Monk. Hast thou seen hhn ? 
 
 Mor. They are leading him hither, but they 
 move slowly. 
 
 1st Monk. Thou hast seen him then; how 
 does he look now ? 
 
 Mor. I cannot tell thee. These few hours 
 have done on him the work of many years : he 
 seems broken and haggarded with age, and 
 his quenched eyes are fixed in their sockets, 
 like one who walks in sleep. 
 
 Ben. Alas, alas ! how changed in little time 
 the bold and gallant Osterloo ! 
 
 l.s^ Monk. Have I not told thee, Morand, 
 that fear will sometimes couch under the brazen 
 helmet as well as the woollen cowl ? 
 
 Mor. Fear, dost thou call it ! Set him this 
 moment in the field of battle, with death threat- 
 ening him from a hundred points at once, and 
 he would brave it most valiantly. 
 
 Ben. (preventing 1st Monk froin answering.) 
 Hush, Brother ! Be not so warm, good Lieu- 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. l63 
 
 tenant ; we believe what thou sayest most per- 
 fectly. The bravest mind is capable of fear, 
 though it fears no mortal man. A brave man 
 fears not man ; and an innocent and brave 
 man united, fears nothing. 
 
 Mor. Aye, now you speak reason : call it 
 fear then if you will. — But the Prior comes ; 
 let us go to our places. 
 
 {Tliey arrange tJiemselves; and then enter 
 the Prior, xvith a train of Monks, who 
 likewise arrange themselves : a pauses in 
 which the bell tolls as before, and enter 
 OsTERLOo, supported by Jerome and 
 Paul, Wovelreid, and Soldiers follow- 
 ing.) 
 Prior, (meeting him with solemnity.) Count 
 Osterloo ; in obedience to the will of Heaven, 
 for our own preservation, and the just punish- 
 ment of guilt, I am compelled with the Monks 
 of this monastery over whom I preside, to 
 see duly executed within the time prescribed, 
 this dismal act of retribution. — You have I trust, 
 with the help of these holy men, as well as a few 
 short moments would allow, closed your mortal 
 account with Heaven : if there be aught that 
 rests upon your mind, regarding worldly con- 
 cerns which you leave behind you unsettled, 
 let me know your last will, and it shall be 
 obeyed. 
 
 (^To Jerome, after pausing for an answer.) 
 Dost thou think he understands me ? 
 
 M 2 
 
Id4 THE dream: a tragedy. 
 
 Jer. (to Osterloo.) Did you hear, my Son, 
 what the Prior has been saying to you ? 
 
 Ost. I heard words through a muhitude of 
 sounds. 
 
 Jer. It was the Prior, desiring to know if you 
 have any wishes to fulfil, regarding worldly af- 
 fairs left behind you unsettled. — Perhaps to 
 your soldiers you may. 
 
 Ost. (interrupting him eagerly and looking 
 wildly round.) My soldiers ! are they here ? 
 
 Jer. Ah, no ! they are not here ; they are 
 housed for the night in their distant quarters : 
 they will not be here till the setting of to-mor- 
 row's sun. 
 
 Ost. (groaning deeply.) To-morrow's sun ! 
 
 Jer. Is there any wish you would have con- 
 veyed to them ? Are there any of your officers 
 to whom you would send a message or token of 
 remembrance ? 
 
 Ost. Ye speak again imperfectly, through 
 many ringing sounds. 
 (Jer. repeats the question in a slow distinct voice.) 
 
 Ost. Aye there is : these, these 
 
 (E?ideavouring to tear off his cincture and 
 some military ornaments Jrom his dress.) 
 I cannot hit upon these fastenings. 
 
 Jer. We'll assist you, iiiy Son. 
 
 ( Undoing his cincture or girdle, i^c.) 
 
 Ost. (still endeavouring to do it himself.) 
 My sword too, and my daggers. — My last 
 remembrance to them both. 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. 165 
 
 Jer. To whom, my Lord ? 
 
 OsL Both — all of them. 
 
 Ben. (u'ho has kept sorrowfully at some dis- 
 tance^ noiv approaching eagerly .^ 
 Urge him no more : his officers will themselves 
 know what names he would have uttered. 
 
 {Tvrning to Ost. mth an altered voice. ^ 
 Yes, noble Count ; they shall be given as you 
 desire with your farewell affection to all your 
 brave followers. 
 
 Ost. I thank ye. 
 
 Jer, And this is all ? 
 
 Ost. Nay, nay ! 
 
 Ben. What is there besides ? 
 
 Prior, {angrily.) There is too much of this : 
 and some sudden rescue may prevent us. 
 
 Ben. Nay, reverend Father, there is no fear 
 of this : you would not cut short the last words 
 of a dying man ? 
 
 Prior. And must I be guided by thy admoni- 
 tions ? beware ; though Baldwin has not named 
 thee, I know it is thou who art the traitor. 
 
 Ben. There is but one object at present to be 
 thought of, and with your leave, reverend 
 Father, I will not be detered from it. {To Ost. 
 as:ain in a voice of tenderness.) What is there 
 besides, noble Osterloo, that you would wish us 
 to do? 
 
 Ost. There is something. 
 
 Ben. What is it, my Lord ? 
 
 Ost. I wot not. 
 
 Ben. Then let it rest. 
 M 3 
 
166 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ost. Nay, nay ! This — this 
 
 (^Pulling a ring from his Ji7iger, which Jails 
 on the ground.^ 
 My hands will hold nothing. 
 
 Ben. I have found it 5 and what shall I do 
 with it ? 
 
 Ost, (in a faint hurried voice.') Leonora ^- 
 Leonora. 
 
 Ben. I understand you, my Lord. 
 
 Prior. I am under the necessity, Count Os- 
 terloo, of saying, your time is run to its utmost 
 limit : let us call upon you now for your last 
 exertion of nature. These good brothers must 
 conduct you to the scaffold. (Jer. and Paul 
 support him towards the scaffold, while Benedict 
 retires to a distance, and turns his back to it.) 
 
 Jer. Rest upon me, my Son, you have but 
 few paces to go. 
 
 Ost. The ground sinks under me ; my feet 
 tread upon nothing. 
 
 Jer. We are now at the foot of the scaffold, 
 and there are two steps to mount : lean upon us 
 more firmly. 
 
 Ost. (stumbling') It is dark ; I cannot see. 
 
 Jer. Alas, my Son ! there is a blaze of torches 
 round you. 
 
 (After they are on the scaffold.) 
 Now, in token of thy faith in heaven, and for- 
 giveness of all men, raise up thy clasped hands. 
 (Seeing Ost. make a feeble effort, he raises 
 them for him in a posture of devotion.) 
 And now to heaven's mercy we commit thee. 
 7 
 
THE dream: a tragedy. 167 
 
 (Jerome and Paul retire, and two Execu- 
 tioners prepare him for the block, and 
 assist him to kneel. He then lays down his 
 Jiead, and they hold his hands, xdiile a third 
 Executioner staiids with the raised aa:e.) 
 1st Ea:. (^speaking close into his ear.) 
 Press my hand when you are ready for the 
 stroke. (^A long pause.) 
 
 He gives no sign. 
 
 ^d Ex, Stop, he will immediately. 
 
 {A second pause.) 
 Does he not ? 
 IstEa:. No. 
 
 Prior. Then give the stroke without it. 
 (3d Ej:. prepares to give the stroke, when the 
 Imperial Ambassador rushes into the hall, 
 followed hy Leonora and Agnes, and a 
 numerous train.) 
 Am. Stop the execution ! In the name of 
 your liege Lord the Emperor, I command you 
 to stop upon your peril. My Lord Prior, this 
 is a treacherous and clandestine use of your 
 seignorial power. This noble servant of our 
 Imperial Master (^pointing to Osterloo) I take 
 under my protection; and you must first deprive 
 an Imperial Ambassador of life, ere one hair of 
 his head fall to the ground. 
 
 Ben. (running to the scaffold.) Up, noble Os- 
 terloo ! Raise up thy head: thou art rescued: 
 thou art free. 
 
 M 4 
 
168 THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Leo. Rise, noble Osterloo ! dost thou not 
 know the voice that calls thee ? 
 
 Ben. He moves not ; he is in a swoon. 
 
 (Raises Oster\oo Jrom the block, 'whilst Leo- 
 nora bends over him mth cm^ious tender- 
 ness.) 
 
 Leo. He is ghastly pale : yet it surely can 
 be but a swoon. Chafe his hands, good Bene- 
 dict, while I bathe his temples. 
 
 (After trying to restore him.) 
 Oh, no, no ! no change takes place. Wliat 
 thinkest thou of it ? Is there any life here ? 
 
 Be?i. In trutli I know not : this seems to me 
 the fixed ghastly visage of compleat death. 
 
 Leo. Oh, no, no! he will be restored. No 
 stroke has fallen upon him : it cannot be death. 
 Ha ! is not that something ? did not his lips 
 move ? 
 
 Ben. No, Lady ; you but deceive yourself ; 
 they moved not : they are closed for ever. 
 
 Leo. (wringing her hands.) Oh it is so ! it is 
 so! — after all thy struggles and exertions of 
 despair, this is thy miserable end ! — Alas, alas ! 
 thou who didst bear thy crest so proudly in 
 many a well fought field ; this is thy miserable 
 end ! 
 
 ( Turning away, and hiding her face in the 
 bosom of Agnes.) 
 
 Ambass. (e,Tamining the body more closely.) 
 1 think in very truth he is dead. 
 
 Isi Gentleman of his Train. Yes ; the face 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAG-EDY* l69 
 
 never looks thus, till every spark of life is ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 Amhass. {turning jicrcehi to the Prior.) How is 
 this, Prior ? What sorcery has been here, that 
 your block alone should destroy its victim, when 
 the stroke of the axe has been wanting ? What 
 account shall I carry to my master of the death 
 of his gallant General ? 
 
 Prior. No sorcery hath been practised on the 
 deceased : his own mind has dealt with him 
 alone, and produced the effects you behold. 
 And, when you return to Lewis of Bavaria your 
 Master ; tell him that his noble General, free 
 from personal injury of any kind, died, within 
 the walls of this monastery, of fear. 
 
 Ambass. Nay, nay, my good Prior ; put the 
 fool's cap on thine own head, and tell him this 
 
 tale thyself. Fear ! Osterloo 
 
 and fear coupled together ! when the lion and 
 the fawn are found couching in the same lair, 
 we will believe this. 
 
 Prior. All the Brothers of the order will 
 attest it. 
 
 Aynbass. Away with the testimony of your 
 cowled witnesses ! 
 
 (^Beckonmg Morand to come near.) 
 Morand, thou art a brave fellow ; I have 
 known thee of old, thou art the Prior's officer 
 indeed ; but thou art now under my protection, 
 and shalt be received into the Emperor's service 
 with encreased rank : speak the truth then, 
 boldly ; how died Count Osterloo ? 
 
lyO THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Mor. In very truth then, my Lord, accord- 
 ing to my simple thoughts, he died even as the 
 Prior has told you. 
 
 Amhass. Out upon thy hireling's tongue ! art 
 thou not ashamed, thyself wearing a soldier's 
 garb, to blast a soldier's fame ? There is no 
 earthly thing the brave Osterloo was ever known 
 to fear. 
 
 Mor. You say true, my Lord ; and on my 
 sword's point I'll maintain it against any man as 
 stoutly as yourself. But here is a pious Monk 
 (j)ointing to Jerome) who will explain to you 
 what I should speak of but lamely. 
 
 Jer, With the Prior's permission, my Lord, if 
 you will retire with me a little while, I'll inform 
 you of this mysterious event, even simply as it 
 happened. And perhaps you will then confess, 
 that, called upon suddenly, under circumstances 
 impressing powerfully the imagination, to put 
 off this mortal frame and stand forth in that tre- 
 mendous presence, before which this globe, with 
 all its mighty empires, hangs but as a crisped 
 rain-drop, shivering on the threaded gossamer ; 
 the bravest mind may, if a guilty one, feel that 
 within which is too powerful for human nature 
 to sustain. 
 
 Ambass. Explain it as thou wilt ; I shall listen 
 to thee : but think not to cheat our Imperial 
 Master of his revenge for the loss of his gallant 
 General. I shall not fail, my Lord Prior, to re- 
 port to him the meek spirit of your Christian 
 authority, which has made the general weal of 
 
THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. I7I 
 
 the community subservient to your private re- 
 venge ; and another month, I trust, shall not 
 pass over our heads, till a worthier man {point- 
 ing to Benedict) shall possess this power which 
 you have so greatly abused. . 
 
 ' Let the body be removed, and laid in 
 
 solemn state, till it be delivered into the hands 
 of those brave troops, who shall inter it with the 
 honours of a Soldier. 
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM. 
 
THE SIEGE 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN: 
 
 Count Valdemere. 
 
 Baron Baurchel. 
 
 Walter Baurchel, his Brother. 
 
 Antonio, Baron de Bertrand. 
 
 Dartz, his Friend, 
 
 Page to Count Valdemere. 
 
 Lorimore, his Valet. 
 
 Hovelberg, a Jewel or Diamond Merchant. 
 
 Soldiers, Servants, &c. 
 
 WOMEN : 
 Countess Valdemere, Mother to the Count. 
 
 LiVIA. 
 
 Jeanetta, Woman to the Countess. 
 
 Nina, 
 
 Ladies, &c. 
 
 Scene, a Castle on the French confines of Ger 
 many. » 
 
THE SIEGE. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. — A Grove near the Castle, with Part 
 of the embattled Walls seen through the Trees: 
 Enter Baron Baurchel and Walter Baub- 
 CHEL, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Bar. Have done, Brother? I can bear it no 
 longer. Hadst thou been bred in a cave of 
 Kamschatka, instead of a mansion of civilized 
 Europe, this savage plainness had been endur- 
 rable : but 
 
 Walt. I call a turnip a turnip, indeed, when 
 other people say it is a peach or a nectarine ; I 
 call a pig a pig too, though they swear it is a 
 fawn or an antelope ; and they look at me, I 
 confess somewhat suspiciously, as if they ex- 
 pected to see a tail peeping from under my 
 jerkin, or fur upon my hands like a bear. — 
 You would have me civilized, would you ? It is 
 too late in the day now, good sooth ! 
 
 Bar. Yes, the time is indeed gone by. This 
 bachelor's life has brutified thee past all re- 
 demption. Why did you not marry, Brother ? 
 
176 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 TValt. Nay, you who have met with so many 
 goddesses and creatures of perfection in the 
 world, why did not you marry, Brother ? I who 
 could light upon nothing better than women — 
 mere women ; every one of them too with some 
 fault or failing belonging to her, as obvious as 
 those white hairs that now look from under 
 your peruke, was it any marvel that I did not 
 marry ? 
 
 Bar. Had your wife possessed as many faults 
 as you do wrinkles on your forehead, you would 
 have been the better for herj she would have 
 saved thee, as I said before, from brutification. 
 
 Walt. And yours would have saved you from 
 dupification, dotification, and as many 'fications 
 besides, as an old sentimental, hypocritical, 
 greedy Dulcinea, can fasten on a rhyme- writing 
 beau, who is stepping most unwillingly, with his 
 lace-cloaked hose, over that ungracious line of 
 division, that marks out his grand climacteric. 
 
 Bar. Hypocritical ! greedy ! you don't know 
 the delicacy of her mind : nothing can be more 
 tender, more refined, more disinterested than 
 her attachment to me. You don't understand 
 her. 
 
 Walt. Perhaps I don't understand the attach- 
 ments of the fair sex now-a-days. An old rich 
 neighbour of mine informed me the other night 
 that he is going to marry his poor friend Spend- 
 all's youngest daughter, who has actually fallen 
 in love with him ; and nothing, as he tells me, 
 almost in vour own words, can be more tender. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 177 
 
 more disinterested tlian her attachment. Not 
 understanding these matters, brother, I'll freely 
 confess to you I did not give much credit to his 
 story; but I may be wrong nevertheless. I dare 
 say you believe it entirely. 
 
 Bar. Ridiculous ! What proofs can the fool 
 possibly receive of her attachment ? 
 
 Walt. The very same which the Countess so 
 condescendingly vouchsafes to yourself; she ac- 
 cepts of his presents. 
 
 Ba7\ The very same ! No, no, Walter Baur- 
 chel ; very different. Does not every smile of 
 her countenance, every look of her eyes, invo- 
 luntarily express her partiality for me ? 
 
 Walt. Say, rather, every word of her tongue. 
 
 Bar, With what generous enthusiasm did she 
 not praise my sonnet to Sensibility. 
 
 Walt. Aye, she is generous in what costs her 
 little ; for what are two or three lies, more or 
 less, in the week's confession between her and 
 Father Benedict ? She'll scarcely eat a mouth- 
 ful of partridge the less for it. 
 
 Bar. O heartless infidel ! thou would'st mis- 
 trust the fond smiles of a mother caressing her 
 rosy-faced infant. 
 
 Walt. By my faith, so I would. Baron, if that 
 same infant brought a diamond necklace or a gold 
 snuff-box in his hand for eveiy kiss she bestowed 
 upon him. Every sonnet you write costs you, 
 one with another, a hundred louis d'ors. If all 
 the money vanity filches from rich poets could be 
 transferred to the pockets of poor ones, verse- 
 
 VOL. III. N 
 
178 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 making would be as good a business as shoe- 
 making, or any other handicraft in the country. 
 
 Bar. Hold thy unhallowed tongue ! These 
 subjects are not for thy rude handling. What 
 is all this grumbling intended for? Tell me 
 what you want, and have done with itj you who 
 pique yourself so much on your plain speaking. 
 
 Walt. Well, then, I want you to let the next 
 six sonnets you write go unpraised, and give the 
 money that should have paid for the praising 
 of them, six hundred louis d'ors, as I reckon, 
 to Antonio. Is it not a shame that your own 
 ward and heir, in love with the Lady of this 
 castle, as you very well know, cannot urge his 
 suit with advantage, for want of the equipage 
 and appendages becoming his rank ; while this 
 conceited Count, by means of his disinterested 
 mother, drains your purse so freely ; and is 
 thereby enabled to ruin the pretensions of him 
 whom you ought to support ? 
 
 Bar. His pretensions are absurd, and cannot 
 be supported. 
 
 Walt. Why absurd ? Is he not as brave, as 
 well born, as handsome, too, as his rival ? 
 
 Bar. What signify all his good qualities ? In 
 the presence of his mistress he is an idiot. 
 
 Walt. It is true, he loses all possession of him- 
 self in that situation, and therefore she despises 
 him, while the gay confidence of the other 
 delights her ; but he should be supported and 
 encouraged. 
 
 o 
 
 Bar. How encouraged ? Silly fellow ! 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 179 
 
 Walt. He feels too sensibly his disadvantages, 
 and they depress him. He feels that he is not 
 entitled to pretend to Livia, but as the probable 
 heir of your estates ; while your fantastical fond- 
 ness for this woman and her son makes it a 
 doubtful matter whether you may not be tempted 
 But hush ! here she comes with her new- 
 ruddled face, bearing her morning's potation of 
 flattery with her, for a stomach of most wonder- 
 ful digestion. 
 
 Enter Countess Valdemere, ivho^ after slightly 
 noticing Walter, runs up caressingly to the 
 Baron. 
 
 Countess. How do you do, my dear Baron ? 
 I hope you have passed the night in sweet re- 
 pose. — Yet, why do I hope it ? You scarcely 
 deserve that I should. 
 
 Bar, And why so, Belinda ? 
 
 Walt, {aside, making a lip at them.) Belinda, 
 too ! Sweet innocents ! 
 
 Bar. Why should you not hope that I have 
 passed the night in repose ? 
 
 Countess. Because I am vindictive, and would 
 be revenged upon you for making me pass a 
 very sleepless one. 
 
 Walt, (aside.) Will she make love to him be- 
 fore one*s very face ! 
 
 Bar. Then I am a culprit indeed, but an 
 innocent one. What kept you awake ? 
 
 Countess. O, those verses of yours ! those dear 
 N 2 
 
180 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 provoking verses ! they haunted me the whole 
 night. (Baron bo'ws.) But don't think I am 
 going to talk to you of their beauties — those 
 tender easy graces which they possess, in com- 
 mon with every thing that comes from your pen : 
 I am going to tell you of their defects. You 
 know well my friendship for you, my dear Baron, 
 makes me sometimes severe. 
 
 Ba7\ (aside to Walt.) There now, you churl, 
 do you call this flattery? (Aloud.) My dear 
 Countess, your severity is kindness. 
 
 Countess. Receive it then as such ; for indeed 
 I must be very severe on the two last lines of the 
 second stanza, which have disturbed me exceed- 
 ingly. In the verses of an ordinary poet I 
 should not find fault with them ; but in a work 
 where every thing besides is easy, harmonious, 
 and correct, the slightest defect is conspicuous ; 
 and I must positively insist on your altering 
 them, though you should hate me for being so 
 fastidious. 
 
 Bar. (aside to Walt.) There now, ungracious 
 canker-tongue, do you call this hypocrisy ? 
 (Aloud.) Madam, I kiss the rod in so fair and 
 so friendly a hand. Nay, it is a sceptre, to 
 which I bow with devotion. 
 
 Countess, (to Walt.) You see, good Sir, I take 
 great liberties with the Baron, as, I doubt not, 
 with the privilege of a brother, you yourself 
 sometimes do. 
 
 Walt. Yes, Madam, but my way of finding 
 17 
 
THE siege: a comedy. ISl 
 
 fault with him is somewhat different from 
 yours. 
 
 Countess. Yet you still find his generous spirit, 
 I am sure, submissive to the rod. 
 
 Walt. I can*t say I do, Madam. 
 
 Countess. You are unfortunate enough, per- 
 haps, to use it unskilfully. 
 
 Walt. I am fortunate at present, however, in 
 receiving so good a lesson from you. Madam. 
 
 Countess. O no! there is no skill with me. 
 There are persons to whom one cannot say one- 
 half of what one really thinks, without being 
 deemed a flatterer. 
 
 Walt. In this, however, I have been more 
 fortunate than you, Madam ; for I have said to 
 him what I have really thought for these forty 
 years past, and have entirely escaped that im- 
 putation. 
 
 Bar. Aye, flattery is a sin thou wilt never do 
 penance for. Thou can'st rub the side of a 
 galled jade with any tender-hearted innocent in 
 Christendom, and be mighty surprised withal 
 that the poor devil should be so unreasonable as 
 to winch at it. 
 
 Countess. Nay, nay. Baron ! say not this of so 
 good a brother, the shrewdness and penetration 
 of whose mind are tempered, I am sure, with 
 many amiable qualities. 
 
 W^alt. Nay, pray. Madam, spare me, and deal 
 with but one of us at a time. Such words will 
 intoxicate a poor younger brother like myself, 
 who is scarcely able to get a fowl for his pot, or 
 
 N O 
 
182 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 new facings for his doublet, and cannot there- 
 fore be supposed to be accustomed to them. 
 
 Countess, Sii", I understand not your insinu- 
 ation. 
 
 Bar. Regard him not, Madam : how should 
 a mind, noble and delicate as your own, com- 
 prehend the unworthy thoughts of contemptible 
 meanness ? — Let me conduct you to company 
 more deserving of you. Our fair hostess, 1 sup- 
 pose, is already in her grotto. 
 
 Countess. No, she and my son are to follow 
 me. But you must not go to the grotto with 
 me now : nobody is to see it till the evening. 
 
 Bai\ (^offering to lead her out.) A step or two 
 only. 
 
 Countess. O, not a step for the world. 
 
 [Exit, Baron kissing her hand as she 
 goes off. 
 
 Bar. (turning fiercely upon Walt.) Thy un- 
 mannerly meanness is intolerable. Still hinting 
 at the presents she receives. Greedy as thou 
 call'st her, she never asked a gift from me in her 
 life, excepting my picture in miniature, which 
 could only be valuable to her as she prized the 
 original. 
 
 Walt. Say rather, as her jeweller shall prize 
 the goodly brilliants that surround it. 
 
 Bar. What do you mean ? 
 
 Walt. What I should have told you before, 
 if she had not interrupted us ; that her trinket- 
 broker is this very morning coming secretly, by 
 appointment, to the castle, to treat with her 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 188 
 
 for certain things of great value which she wishes 
 to dispose of; and if your picture be not amongst 
 them, I'll forfeit my head upon it. 
 
 Bar. It is false. 
 
 Walt. Here comes one who will confirm what 
 I say. 
 
 Enter Dartz. 
 
 Walt. I*m glad to see you, Chevalier, for you 
 can bear evidence to a story of mine that will not 
 be believed else. 
 
 Dart. This is a better reason for being so than 
 most of my friends liave to give. 
 
 Walt. Is not Hovelberg, the jeweller, coming 
 secretly to the castle to-day to confer with the 
 Countess ? 
 
 Dart. Yes, he told me so himself; and added, 
 with a significant smile, that she had some of her 
 old ware to dispose of. 
 
 Walt. Do you hear that, brother ? It was as 
 much as so say, she had often had such truck- 
 ings with him before. Aye, you are not the 
 only man who has thought his own dear resem- 
 blance lapped warmly behind the stomacher of 
 his mistress, while, stripped of its jewels, it has 
 been tossed into the drawer of some picture- 
 monger, to be changed into a General of the 
 last century, or one of the Grand-dukes of 
 Austria. As for you, brother, they'll put a 
 black velvet cap on your head, and make you a 
 good sombre doctor of theology. 
 
 N 4 
 
184 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ba7\ You shall not, however, make me the 
 credulous man you think of, Walter Baurchel, 
 with all your contrivances. 
 
 Walt. And you don't believe us then? 
 
 Bar. Are you fool enough to imagine I do ? 
 
 Walt. That were foolish enough, I grant you ; 
 for though an old lover has generally a strong 
 vein of credulity about him, the current of his 
 belief always sets one way, carrying withered 
 nosegays, tattered billet-doux, broken posies, 
 and all kinds of trumpery along with it at fifteen 
 knots by the hour. 
 
 Bar. Walter Baurchel ! Walter Baurchel ! 
 flesh and blood cannot endure the offensive 
 virulence of thy tongue. 
 
 Dart. He is indeed too severe with you. Ba- 
 ron ; but what he tells you of Hovelberg is, 
 nevertheless, very true. 
 
 Bar. I'll believe neither of you: you are both 
 hatching a story to deceive me. 
 
 [Exit in anger. 
 
 Walt, (^shrugging his shoulders and casting 
 uj) his eyes.) What strong delusion we poor 
 mortals may be blinded withal ! That poor 
 brother of mine believes, that the woman who 
 refused to marry him when he was young and 
 poor, yet smiles upon him, praises him, accepts 
 presents from him when he is old and rich, 
 must certainly entertain for him a most de- 
 licate, disinterested attachment ; and you might 
 as well overturn the walls of that castle with 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 1 85 
 
 one stroke of" your foot, as beat this absurdity 
 out of him. 
 
 Dart. But you are too violent : it will not be 
 beat out ; it must be got out as it got in, with 
 craft and discretion. 
 
 Walt. Then devil take me for attempting it ! 
 for craft I have none, and discretion is a 
 
 thing 
 
 Dart. You will never have any thing to do 
 with, I believe. 
 
 Walt. What then is to be done ? U it were 
 not that I cannot brook to see the conceited 
 overbearing son of this Jezebel, carrying off 
 the mistress of Antonio, I would even let the old 
 fool sit under the tickling of her thievish fingers, 
 and make as great a noodle of himself as he 
 pleases. — But it must not be. — Fie upon it, 
 Dartz ! thou hast a good head for invention, 
 while I, heaven help me ! have only a good 
 tongue for railing ; do thou contrive some plot 
 or other to prevent the disgrace of thy friend. 
 Dart. Plots are not easily contrived. 
 Walt. I know this, else I should have tried it 
 myself. 
 
 Dart. Are you well acquainted with the 
 Count ? 
 
 Walt. I am but just come to the castle, where 
 I have thrust myself in, though an unwelcome 
 guest, to look after the interest of De Bertrand ; 
 and should be glad to know something more of 
 the man who has so much intoxicated the gay 
 Livia. What kind of a being is he ? 
 
186 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Dart. It would puzzle me as much as the con- 
 triving of your plot to answer that question. 
 There is nothing real in him. He is a mere 
 package of pretences, poorly held together with 
 sense and capacity enough, were it not for 
 one defect in his nature, to make him all that 
 he affects to be. He is a thing made up of 
 seemings. 
 
 Walt. Made up of seemings ! 
 
 Dart. Even so ; for what in other men is 
 reckoned the sincerest part of their character, 
 his very self-conceit, is assumed. 
 
 Walt. And what is the defect you hinted at ? 
 
 Dart. It has been whispered to me by an old 
 school-fellow of his, that he is deplorably defi- 
 cient in personal courage ; which accounts for 
 his mother's having placed him in the regiment 
 of a superannuated General, and also, for the 
 many complaints he makes of the inactivity of 
 his commander. It is a whisper I am inclined 
 to credit ; and, if we must have a plot, it shall 
 hinge upon this. 
 
 Walt. My dear fellow ! nothing can be better. 
 Give it a turn or two in thy brains, and I'll 
 warrant thou drawest it out again, shaped into 
 an admirable plot. Direct all thyself, and I'll 
 work under thee as a journeyman conspirator ; 
 for, as I said before, I have a ready tongue, but 
 a head of no invention. 
 
 Dart. We must speak of this another time. 
 See who approaches. 
 
 Walt. Ha ! the man we are speaking of, and 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 187 
 
 the deluded Livia. By my faith he has a spe- 
 cious appearance ! and the young fool looks at 
 him too, as she would not look at a w^orthier 
 man, whose merit might be tarnished with a few 
 grains of modesty. 
 
 Enter Valdemere and Livia, folloxved by Jea- 
 NETTE carrying a basket Jilled with Jiowers, 
 
 Dart, (to Liv.) Permit me, Madam, to pay 
 you my profound homage. 
 
 Liv. You are welcome here. Chevalier : what 
 accident procures me this pleasure ? (aside to 
 Count.) He'll make one more at our midnight 
 revel in the grotto. 
 
 Vald. (aside with some chagrin.) Are there not 
 enow of us ? 
 
 Dart. Being in this part of the country on 
 military duty, I could not resist the pleasure of 
 paying my respects at the castle : and I honestly 
 confess I had a secondary motive for my visit, 
 expecting to find amongst your guests, my old 
 friend and school-fellow Antonio. 
 
 Liv. Baron de Bertrand, you mean. He 
 was here yesterday, but I really forget whether 
 he went away or remained in the evening. 
 (Affecting to yawn.) Is he with us, or not. 
 Count ? 
 
 TValt. (aside to Dart.) Meet me by-and-by in 
 my chamber. My tongue is unruly, and 1 had 
 better go while I can keep it between my teeth. 
 
 I^ExiT. 
 
188 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Liv. Does not his amiable relation there, 
 who steals from us so quietly, know where he 
 is? 
 
 Vald. If you are in quest of your friend. 
 Chevalier, had you not better enquire at some of 
 the peasants' houses in the neighbourhood? 
 There may be some beauty in the village, per- 
 haps, whose august presence a timid man may 
 venture to approach, particularly if her charms 
 should be somewhat concealed behind the 
 friendly flax of her distaff 
 
 Dart. Pardon me, Count ; I thought my 
 friend had aspired to a beauty, whose charms 
 would have pleased him, indeed, behind the 
 flax of a distaff, but will not, I trust, entirely in- 
 timidate him from the more brilliant situation 
 in which fortune has placed them. Aye ; that 
 glance in your eye, and that colour in your 
 cheek, charming Livia, tell me, I am right. 
 
 Liv. They speak at random then ; for it 
 would puzzle a much wiser head than I wear on 
 my shoulders to say what are his pretensions. He 
 visits me, it is true, but suddenly takes his leave 
 again, and the very next day, perhaps, as sud- 
 denly returns. 
 
 Vald. Like poor puss with roasted chesnuts 
 before her, who draws back her burnt paw every 
 time she attempts them, but will not give up 
 the attack. He may, however, after some more 
 of those hasty visits, find courage for it at 
 last. 
 
 Dart. There is one attack, however, for 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 189 
 
 which he never lacks courage, when the enemies 
 of his country are before him. 
 
 Vald. True, he is brave in the fiehi, but he 
 is fortunate also. He serves under an active 
 commander, while I waste my ardour in listless 
 inactivity. 
 
 Dart. Cheer up then, noble Count, I have 
 good news to tell you upon this score. 
 
 Vald. On this score ! Is any change to take 
 place ? (/n a feeble voice.') 
 
 Dart, (after a pause.) You are too well bred 
 to be impatient for an answer. 
 
 Vald. O no ; you mistake me ; 1 am very im- 
 patient J I am on fire to hear it. 
 
 Dart. Expand then your doughty breast at 
 thoughts of the glorious fields that are before 
 you: your old General is set aside, and the most 
 
 enterprising man in the service. Count 
 
 himself is now your Commander. {After a mo- 
 mentary pause, and eyeing him keenly.) Silent 
 joy, they say, is most sincere; you are, 1 per- 
 ceive, considerately and profoundly glad. 
 
 Vald. (assuming suddenly great animation.) 
 O, immeasurably so. Great news indeed ! — 
 Strange — I mean very admirable news, if one 
 could be sure it were true. 
 
 Dart. True ! Who doubts what delights 
 him ? 
 
 Vald. I thought the regiment was promised 
 to another person ; I was not prepared to hear 
 it. 
 
 Dart. So it appeared. 
 
190 THE siege: a comedy. 
 
 Vald. But I am delighted — I can't express 
 it : — 1 am glad to a folly. Tol de rol — tol de 
 rol — 
 
 (^Singing and skipping about affectedly.) 
 
 Liv. Cruel creature ! to sing at what, per- 
 haps, will make others weep. 
 
 Vald. Weep ! — No, I don't weep. I am 
 happy to a folly, but I don't weep. (Skijjping 
 about again.) Tol lol de rol ! — Plague take these 
 stones ! this ground is abominably rough. 
 
 Dart. Fie upon it! any ground is smooth 
 enough for a happy man to skip upon. 
 
 Liv. You smile, Dartz 5 your news is of your 
 own invention. 
 
 Dart. Not absolutely. Madam ; there was 
 such a rumour. 
 
 Vald. {eagerly.) A rumour ! only a rumour | 
 Why did you say it was true ? 
 
 Dart. To give you a moment's pleasure, Val- 
 demere. If you have enjoyed it, you are a gainer; 
 and the disappointment, I hope, will not break 
 your heart. 
 
 Vald. It is cruel indeed. But who can feel 
 disappointment in this fair presence? {Bowing to 
 Liv.) Let us go to the grotto, charming Li via; 
 we waste our time here with folly. — Give me 
 thy basket, child, {to Jean.) I'll dispose of every 
 chaplet it contains to admiration. I'll hang 
 them all up with mine own hand. 
 
 Liv. Don't be so very active : you positively 
 shan't follow me to the grotto : I told you so 
 before. 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 191 
 
 Vald. Positive is a word of no positive mean- 
 ing when it enforces what we dishke. How- 
 ever, since you forbid it, I will not Jbllotc you ; 
 I'll go by your side, which is far better, and sup- 
 port your fair hand on my arm. (Putting Livia'5 
 arm in his with conceited co7i/idence.) 
 
 Liv. What a sophistical explanation of my 
 words ! a heretical theologian is a joke to you. 
 
 Vald. (casting a triumphant look behind him to 
 Dartz, as he leads her off.) Good morning, Che- 
 valier, you go in quest of your friend, 1 sup- 
 pose. Pray tell him to take courage, and be 
 less diffident of his own good parts, and he may 
 at last be promoted, perhaps, to the good graces 
 of his Quarter-master's daughter. 
 
 Dart. Nobody at least, who sees Count Val- 
 demere in his present situation, will think of re- 
 commending modesty to him. 
 
 [Exeunt Vald. and \ay. followed bi/Jean. 
 ' Dart. Impudent puppy ! his triumph shall be 
 short. Blind woman ! are flattery and impu- 
 dence so necessary in gaining your favour, that 
 all other qualities, without them, are annihi- 
 lated ? He shall this very night pay dearly for 
 his presumption. [Exit. 
 
192 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 SCENE I. — ^ Room in the Castle. Enter Wal- 
 ter Baurchel cmd Dartz, bi/ opposite sides. 
 
 Walt. Ha ! my good friend, punctual to a 
 wish. You have got your head stored, I hope, 
 with a good plot. 
 
 Dart. 1 am at least more in the humour for it 
 than I was. I have found his conceit and arro- 
 gance more intolerable than I imagined. I have 
 touched him in the weak part too, and find 
 him vulnerable. 
 
 Walt. Well, but the plot. 
 
 Dart. I have discovered also a trait of villainy 
 in him, that would prick me on to the charge, 
 were I sluggish as a tortoise. 
 
 Walt. So much the better. Now for the 
 plot. 
 
 Dart. As I passed just now through the little 
 green copse near the postern, a beautiful girl 
 crossed my way, and in tears. 
 
 Walt. Tut ! she has crossed thy wits too. 
 
 Dart. Have patience ! she'll be useful. — 1 
 questioned her gently. 
 
 Walt. Aye, gently enough I doubt not. 
 
 Dart. And find she is sister to that shrewd 
 little fellow, the Count's page : that her affec- 
 tions have been gained and betrayed by Valde- 
 mere j and she is now hovering about the castle, 
 
THE siege: a comedy. IQ.S 
 
 for an opportunity of upbraiding liim, or in the 
 vain hope, perhaps, of moving his pity. 
 
 Walt. She has moved thy pity at least \ wliat 
 has all this to do with our plot ? 
 
 Dart. A great deal : I am telling you before 
 hand what we shall have to work upon : a plot 
 cannot, any more than a coat, be made without 
 materials. 
 
 Walt. Well, but shew me thy pattern first, 
 and talk of the buttons and buckram after- 
 wards. 
 
 Dart. Be it so then, since you are so impa- 
 tient. There is a friend of mine stationed about 
 a league hence with his regiment ; where he is 
 to wait till he is joined by another detachment 
 of the army, as the enemy, it is feared, may 
 penetrate to these parts, and overrun the coun- 
 try. 1 mean to go to him immediately ; make 
 him privy to our design, and engage him to 
 send a party of his soldiers to make a sham 
 attack upon the castle at midnight, wlien we 
 shall all be assembled at this fanciful banquet in 
 the grotto. 
 
 Walt, (iioddmg his head.) Good. 
 
 Dart. Valdemere then, as the gallant soldier 
 he affects to be, and the favoured admirer too of 
 the lady, must of course take upon himself the 
 defence of her castle. 
 
 Walt, (nodding again.) Very good. 
 
 Dart. This will quell his presumption, I trust ; 
 and expose him to Livia for the very paltry 
 being that he is. 
 
 VOL. III. o 
 
194« THE SIEGE : A COMEDY, 
 
 Walt. Aye, so far good j you'll make some 
 furtherance to the plot out of this. 
 
 Dart. Some furtherance to the plot ! Why 
 this is the plot itself. 
 
 Walt. The plot itself! Any simple man in the 
 country might have devised as much as this 
 comes to. 
 
 Dart. It does not please you then because it 
 is not intricate. But don't despise it entirely ; 
 though the outline is simple, tricks and contri- 
 vances to work up the mind of our victim to 
 the state that is suited to our purpose, will en- 
 rich it as we proceed ; and the Page I have 
 mentioned, provoked by the wrongs of his sister, 
 will be our subtle and diligent agent. Nay, 
 should we draw Valdemere into great disgrace, 
 we may bribe him, by concealing his dishonour, 
 to marry the poor girl he has wronged. 
 
 Walt. Ha ! this indeed is something like a 
 plot. — And Antonio's marriage with Livia, 
 how is that to be fastened to the end of it ? 
 
 Dart. Nay, I have no certain hook, I confess, 
 to hang that upon. It must depend on the 
 Baron j for unless he declare Antonio his heir, 
 he will never venture to propose himself as a 
 match for the well-dowried Livia. But we shall 
 manage matters ill, if we cannot draw the 
 Baron into our scheme. 
 
 Walt. Then a fig for your plot ! It is as bare 
 of invention as the palm of my hand. 
 
 Dart. This is always the case with those who 
 lack invention themselves : they are never 
 
 7 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 195 
 
 pleased with that of any other person, if it be 
 not bristled over with contrivances like a hedge- 
 hog. And I must be allowed to say, Mr. Wal- 
 ter Baurchel, that he wlio racks his brains for 
 your service, works for a thankless master. 
 
 JValt. He works for an honest one, then. 
 
 Dart. Away with the honesty that cannot 
 afford a few civil words to a friend, who is 
 doing his best to oblige you ! As much duplicity 
 as this amounts to, would not much contaminate 
 your virtue. 
 
 Walt. Well, well, I am wrong, perhaps, but 
 thou art as testy as myself. 
 
 Dart. Because I won*t bear your untoward 
 humour. Some people find every body testy 
 who approaches them, and marvel at their own 
 bad luck. — But no more of this : let us think 
 of our friend. Does the Baron believe what 
 you told him of Hovelberg's appointment with 
 the Countess ? 
 
 Walt. He makes a show of not believing it, 
 but I think he has his own suspicions at bottom ; 
 for his valet tells me, he has sent to desire Ho- 
 velberg to speak with him as soon as he arrives. 
 
 Dart. Here comes De Bertrand ; I hear his 
 steps. 
 
 Walt. Is he returned to the castle ? 
 
 Dart. Yes ; I forgot to tell you so, you were 
 in such a hurry for your plot, 
 
 Walt. Silly fellow ! he cannot stay away from 
 his capricious mistress, though the first glance 
 of her eye sinks him to a poltron at once. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 A7it. {to Walt.) Good morning, gentle Kins- 
 man ; — but methinks you are not very glad to 
 see me ; these are not looks of welcome. 
 
 Walt. Thou art one of those that trouble me. 
 
 Ant. I am of a pretty numerous class of beings 
 then, from the kitten that gnaws at your shoe- 
 string, to the Baron, who spoils your best pen in 
 writing love-verses to liis mistress. 
 
 Walt. Well ; and they would torment any 
 man. Love-verses ! with such an old painted 
 hypocrite for the object of them ! 
 
 Ant. His first love, you know ; his Delia. 
 
 Walt. His Delia 1 His delusion. Is there 
 such a thing as witchcraft in the world ? I believe 
 in good earnest there is. Her dominion over 
 him is a mystery : a more than Egyptian 
 blindness. 
 
 Ant. Nay, you have yourself in a good degree 
 to blame for it, my good Sir. Had you en- 
 couraged his humour, harmless as it is ; bestow- 
 ing some praise on his verses, and less abuse on 
 the too youthful cut of his peruke, she could 
 never have taken possession of him as she has 
 done. 
 
 Walt. Praise his verses, and not abuse his 
 peruke ! it had been beyond the self-denial of 
 a saint. 
 
 Dart. And had you — 
 
 Walt, (to Dart.) One assailant at a time, if 
 you please. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 197 
 
 Dart. Excuse ine, Sir ; I must needs say, had 
 you even paid a little attention to the Countess 
 herself, when she first renewed her intimacy 
 with the Baron, she would have been less an- 
 xious, perhaps, to estrange him from his old 
 friends. 
 
 Walt. Attention to her ! 1 could not have 
 done it to gain myself, like Mahomet, the en- 
 trance to the seventh heaven. I must tell people 
 plainly what I think of them, though 1 should 
 hang for it. 
 
 Dart. Had you said starve for it, you had 
 named the fate that more commonly attends 
 plain speaking. 
 
 Ant. And in telling people disagreeable truths 
 to gratify your own humour too, are you sur- 
 prised, my good Sir, that they should not be 
 edified thereby ? 
 
 Walt, (to Ant.) What, young Soldier, you are 
 become a plain speaker too. 
 
 Ant. Just to shew you. Sir, how agreeable it 
 is. 
 
 Walt. Ha, ha, ha ! Well ; thou hast the better 
 of me now. Would thou could*st prate as briskly 
 to thy mistress ! that would do more for thee in 
 one hour than all thy bashful tenderness in a 
 year. 
 
 Ant. 1 might — I should indeed — I defend 
 not my weakness. — You promised on this point 
 to spare me. 
 
 Walt. Aye, the very sound of her name quells 
 3 
 
198 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 thy spirit, and makes thee hesitate and stammer 
 like a culprit. It is provoking. 
 
 Dart. You profess a violent detestation of 
 conceit, my shrewd Sir; where, then, is your 
 indulgence for modesty ? 
 
 Walt. You mistake the matter, Dartz. Your 
 friend there, has as good a conceit of himself as 
 any man : he is not modest, but bashful ; a weak- 
 ness too that only besets him in the presence of 
 his mistress. By this good fist of mine ! it pro- 
 vokes me almost to the cudgelling of such an 
 unaccountable ninny. But I would cudgel thee, 
 and serve thee too, De Bertrand. Take cou- 
 rage ; we have a plot in our heads to make a 
 man of thee at last. 
 
 Dart, (aside f pulling Walt. bi/ the sleeve.) Say 
 not a word of the plot : his sense of honour is so 
 delicate, he would recoil at it. 
 
 Ant. A plot did you say ? 
 
 JValt. Aye, a kind of a plot ; — that is to say 
 — What kind of a plot is it, Dartz ? 
 
 Dart. Have you forgot your own scheme for 
 cheating the virtuoso, when your cabinet of 
 antiquities comes to the hammer ? 
 
 JValt. By my fay ! this memory of mine is not 
 worth a pinch of tobacco. {Seeing Ant. look at 
 his watch.) Art thou going any where ? 
 
 Ant. No ; — I did think — I believe I shall 
 take a turn on the terrace. 
 
 Dar/. (to Ant.) I understand you : take a 
 turn in the cabinet of paintings rather 5 that 
 will suit your piupose better. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 199 
 
 Ant. May I presume to go there ? 
 
 Walt, Presume, simpleton ! That impudent 
 puppy of a Count lords it in her dressing-room. 
 Go thy ways ! (^pushing him off the stage with 
 slight anger. Exit Antonio.) That fellow pro- 
 vokes me ; yet there is something in him that 
 goes so near my heart : he is more akin to me 
 than his blood entitles him to be : he is like a 
 part of myself. 
 
 Dart. Not the least like it. Now that you 
 have taught us to speak plainly, I must needs 
 say, were he at all like yourself, you would dis- 
 inherit him in the course of a month. 
 
 Walt. You are right, perhaps. But, alas ! he 
 would not be much the poorer for being disin- 
 herited by me. O that old fool of a brother ! I 
 could flog him for his poetry. 
 
 Dart. Have patience, and we may find a bet- 
 ter way of dealing with him. lil we could per- 
 suade him to disguise himself like a diamond 
 merchant, and accompany Hovelberg when he 
 visits the Countess, he would be convinced of the 
 true nature of her regard for him. 
 
 Walt. An excellent thought ! This is just 
 what was wanting to make our plot really like a 
 plot. 
 
 Dart. I'm glad it pleases you at last. Before 
 I leave the castle to negociate with my friend 
 for his myrmidons, I'll find out the Baron, and 
 endeavour to persuade him. 
 
 Walt. Heaven prosper thee ! but return, ere 
 thou goest, and let me know the result. 
 
 o 4 
 
200 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Dart. Depend upon it. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Roofn hung "with Paintings^ and enriched "with 
 Carving and Ornaments, S^c, Enter Valde- 
 MERE and Antonio. 
 
 Vald. Here are some good paintings, De Ber- 
 trand ; if you have any taste for the art, they 
 will please you. This Guido on the left is a 
 divine thing. The Magdalen in Count Orrin- 
 berg*s collection was considered as superior to 
 it ; but I always maintained this to be the best 
 pahiting of the two, and the world have at last 
 adopted my opinion* I have always decidedly 
 thought — but you are not looking at it. Is there 
 any thing in that door to arrest your attention ? 
 The carving on it is but indifferent. 
 
 Ant. I thought I heard footsteps. She's 
 comuig. 
 
 Vald. Pooh ! she won't be here this half hour; 
 so you need not yet take alarm, as if an enemy 
 were advancing upon you. 
 
 Ant. You connect the idea of alarm with an 
 enemy ; would 1 had firmness to face what I 
 love ! You are a happy man, Valdemere, and a 
 bold one too, most assuredly : what would not I 
 give for a little of your happy self-possession. 
 
 Vald. Aye, it is an article of some value : he 
 who can't possess himself, must not expect to 
 possess his mistress. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. i^Ol 
 
 Ant, A very specious maxim this from a 
 young fellow's mouth, with the manliness of 
 well-curled whiskers to support it : yet 1 have 
 seen the embarrassment of a diffident character 
 plead its own cause more effectually than the 
 eloquence of a brazen-browed barrister. At 
 least I have always felt it have more power over 
 me. 
 
 Val. That is natural enough : it is a common 
 selfish sympathy : one thief pities another when 
 the rope is round his neck. Feeling for others 
 is the consequence of our own imperfections j 
 this is a known truth. 
 
 Ant. Establish it if you can, Valdemere, for it 
 will go well nigh to prove you immaculate. 
 
 Vald. How far soever I may be from that de- 
 gree of perfection, jealousy at least is not one 
 of my faults, since I have introduced a rival into 
 the apartments of my mistress, where he had not 
 the courage to venture alone, and am also point- 
 ing out to him what he has not discovered for 
 himself, that her picture is now before his eyes. 
 
 (Pointing to a picture.) 
 
 Ant. (looking up to it eagerly.') It is somewhat 
 like. 
 
 Vald» She sat for it at my request : no one 
 else could prevail on her. The painter knew 
 my taste in these matters, and has taken won- 
 derful pains with it. 
 
 Ant. (sighing.) You have indeed been ho- 
 noured. 
 
 Vald. He has made the eyes to look upon you 
 with such expression. 
 
202 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ant. Think you so ? To me he appears to 
 have failed in this respect ; or perhaps it is 
 because any semblance of eyes which I can thus 
 stedfastly look upon, are not to me the eyes of 
 Li via. 
 
 Vald. I did not suspect you of being so fas- 
 tidious. 
 
 Ant. Not so neither : but had they been 
 turned on some other object instead of the spec- 
 tator, one should then have seen them as one is 
 accustomed to see them. 
 
 Vald. Yes, speaking for your single self, this 
 may be true. 1 beg leave to dissent. 
 
 Ant. Yet surely you will agree, that the direct 
 thrilling glance, from eyes of such vivid expres- 
 sion, cannot possibly be imitated, and ought not 
 by a skilful painter to be attempted. 
 
 Enter Livia behind them. 
 
 Vald. Perhaps you are right : you talk like a 
 connoisseur on the subject. 
 
 Liv. I come in good time then ; for connois- 
 seur or not, to hear De Bertrand talk at all is a 
 very lucky adventure. You have wronged us 
 much, Baron, to keep us so long ignorant of 
 your taste for the line arts. 
 
 Ant. {embarrassed.) Madam, I am much ho- 
 noured. I am very little — (mumbling words in 
 a confused way that are not heard.) I am very 
 much obliged to you. 
 
 Jj'iv. You are grateful for slight obligations. 
 But you are looking at my picture I see, which 
 was painted two years ago at the request of a 
 
THE SlEGi:: A COMEDY. 203 
 
 good old uncle of mine ; pray give me your 
 opinion of it. 
 
 Ant. h appears — it is very charming. It is 
 — that is, I suppose, it is very finely painted. 
 
 Liv, It is reckoned so : and it certainly does 
 more than justice to the original. (Ant. hesi- 
 tates as if he would speak y but remains silent.') 
 You are of my opinion, I perceive, or at least 
 too well bred to contradict me. Confess it 
 freely ; you are of my opinion. 
 
 Ant. O entirely. Madam. 
 
 Liv, You flatter me exceedingly. 
 
 Ant. I meant it in simple sincerity. 
 
 Liv. O, sincere enough I doubt not. 
 
 Vald, And surely you will not question its 
 simplicity. 
 
 Liv, (to Vald., turning from Ant. mth pity and 
 contempt) Don't let us be too hard upon him. 
 Pray look at that picture of my great aunt, who 
 was a celebrated beauty. 
 
 Vald. (gazing with affected admiration at Livia'* 
 picture.) I have no eyes for any other beauty than 
 what I now gaze upon. 
 
 Liv. And do you indeed admire this picture 
 so much ? 
 
 Vald. The faintest resemblance of its fair ori- 
 ginal is fascinating. Yet, methinks, the painter 
 should have represented it as looking on some 
 other object than the spectator. 
 Liv. Why so? 
 
 Vald. The direct thrilling glance, from eyes 
 of such vivid expression, cannot possibly be imi- 
 tated, and ought not to have been attemj)ted. 
 
'204 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ant. {aside.') My own words in the coxcomb's 
 mouth ! 
 
 Liv. This is an objection proceeding from ge- 
 nuine sensibility: yetyounevermentioned itbefore. 
 
 Vald. Perhaps I am too fastidious j but any 
 eyes that I can thus stedfastly look upon, are 
 not to me the eyes of Livia. 
 
 Liv. Ah ! these are in truth the words of a 
 too partial friend. 
 
 Vald. Words from the heart, divine Livia, 
 will tell from whence they came. {They both 
 walk to the bottom of the stage, speaking ifi dumb- 
 shexv, 'while Ant. remains in thejront.) 
 
 Ant. {aside.) With my own words he woos her, 
 and before my face too : matchless impudence ! 
 
 — And such a man as this pleases Livia ! — He 
 whispers in her ear, and she smiles. — My heart 
 sickens at it : I'll look no more, lest I become 
 envious and revengeful, and hateful to myself. 
 
 — O Nature ! hast thou made me of such poor 
 stuff as this? 
 
 Vald. {turning round from the bottom of the 
 stage.) Ha ! De Bertrand, are you declaiming ? 
 Some speech of a tragedy, I suppose, from the 
 vehemence of your gesture. Pray let Livia hear 
 you : she is partial, you know, to every thing 
 you do, and finds every exhibition you make be- 
 fore her particularly amusing. 
 
 Ant. {sternly.) Come nearer to me. Sir ; the 
 first part of my speech is for your private ear. — 
 Come nearer. 
 
 lAv. Pray go to liim : by the tone of his voice 
 he personates some tyrant, and must be obeyed. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 205 
 
 Ant. Yes, Sir, I must be obeyed. (Vald. 
 shuffles up to him U7i'willi7igli/y and Ant. speaks in 
 his ear.) Take no more impertinent liberties 
 with me in this Lady's presence, or be prepared 
 to justify them elsewhere. [Exit, looking at 
 Vald. sternly y who ?'emains silent. 
 
 Liv. {advancing to the front.) What is the mat- 
 ter, Count? 
 
 Vald. Nothing — nothing at all. 
 
 Liv. Nay, something unpleasant has passed 
 between you. 
 
 Vald, I believe I did wrong : I should have 
 treated him more gently. But the strangeness 
 of his behaviour obliged me to use threatening 
 words, upon which he withdrew, and chose not 
 to understand them. 
 
 Liv. How ill one judges then by dumb-shew 
 of what passes at a distance. 
 
 Vald. I am always calm on these occasions, 
 while he assumes the fierceness of a boaster. 
 
 Liv. But you will not call him out for such a 
 trifle ? 
 
 Vald. Not for the world, divine creature, if it 
 give you uneasiness. 
 
 . Liv. How gentle you are ! The brave are 
 always so. 
 
 Vald. How can I be otherwise with such an 
 angel to prompt me ? No, the braggard may live 
 in safety for me ; I will not harm one hair of his 
 head. 
 
 Liv. I thank you, dear Valdemere ! and now, 
 to recompense your goodness, I'll shew the beau- 
 tiful gem I promised vou : follow me. 
 
506 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Vald. Yes, bewitcliing maid ! to the world's 
 end, to the bottom of the ocean, to the cannon's 
 brazen mouth, I would follow thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Countess'^ Dressing-room. She enters from 
 an inner Chmnber, with a small Shagreen Case 
 in her hand^folloxced hi) Jeanetta, carrying a 
 Casket f which she sets upon a Table. 
 
 Countess. Jeanetta, let me take a last look of 
 those dear tilings before I part with them for ever. 
 
 Jean. I'm sure, my Lady, they are so hand- 
 some, and you look so handsome when you wear 
 them, it would go to my heart to part with them. 
 
 Countess. But my dear boy must have money, 
 Jeanetta, and I have been expensive myself. 
 (Opens the casket^ and looks at the jewels.') My 
 diamonds, my pearls, my rubies, my darlings ! 
 for the sake of a still greater darling I must part 
 with you all. 
 
 Jean. But if I might presume to speak, my 
 Lady, don't you indulge the young Count too 
 much in extravagance ? 
 
 Countess. O no, Jeanetta ; I doat upon him : 
 it is this amiable weakness of character which 
 all the world remarks and admires in me. And 
 he loves me entirely too ; he would sacrifice his 
 life for my sake. 
 
 Jean. He'll sacrifice nothing else, however j 
 for he never gives up the smallest convenience 
 of his own to oblige you. 
 
 Countess. Small things are of no consequence : 
 he would give up for me, I am confident, the 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 207 
 
 thing most dear to his heart : and for him — 
 to see him lord of this castle and its domains, 
 and occupying in society the brilliant place 
 that becomes him, I would — what would I not 
 sacrifice ! 
 
 Jean. Were he to live on the fortune he has, 
 and marry where he is attached, he might per- 
 haps be happier. 
 
 Countess, Happier ! Were he mean enough 
 to be happy so — contemptible thought ! — I 
 would see him in his grave rather. But no more 
 of this : have you seen Hovelberg ? You say 
 he is waiting below. 
 
 Jean. Yes, Madam, and a friend with him ; 
 an Armenian Jew-merchant, w^ho will, he says, 
 go halves in his purchases, and enable him to 
 give you a better price for the jewels, as he is 
 himself rather low in cash at present. 
 
 Countess. Well, I'll object to neither Jew nor 
 Infidel that puts money into my pocket. {Hold- 
 ing up a ruby necklace.^ This should fetch some- 
 thing considerable. 
 
 Jean. O la. Madam ! you won't part with that 
 surely ; your neck is like alabaster under it. 
 Did you but know liow they admiied you at 
 Prince Dormach's the last time you wore it. — 
 I would sell the very gown from my back ere I 
 parted with it. 
 
 Countess. So they admired me at Prince Dor- 
 mach's then ? 
 
 Jean. O dear, my Lady ! the Prince's valet 
 told me, though two young beauties from 
 
208 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Brussels were there, nobody spoke of any one 
 but you. 
 
 Countess. Well, to please thee then, I'll keep 
 it. 
 
 Jean. La ! here is a little emerald ring, my 
 Lady ; those brokers will despise such a trifle, 
 and give you a mere nothing for it. — La ! who 
 would think it ? it fits my finger to a hair. It 
 must be a mort too large for your delicate hand. 
 
 Countess. Keep it for thyself, then, since it fits 
 thee. He was a great fool who gave it me, and 
 had it made of that awkward size. 
 
 Jean. I thank you, my Lady : I wish you 
 would give me every thing in this precious 
 casket that has not been the gift of a sage. 
 
 Countess. Thou art right, child. It would 
 put many a hundred louis-d'ors into thy pocket, 
 and leave scarcely a marvedi for myself. A 
 rich Knight of Malta gave me these {holding 
 up a string of pearls,') whose bandy legs were 
 tricked out most delicately in fine-clocked hose 
 of tlie nicest and richest embroidery. Rest his 
 soul ! I made as much of those legs as the 
 hosier did. 
 
 Jean. I doubt it not. Madam, and deserved 
 what you earned full as well. 
 
 Countess, (looking again at her pearls.) There 
 is not a flaw in any one of them. 
 
 Jean. Aye, commend me to such legs ! had 
 they been straighter, the pearls had been worse. 
 
 Countess. Tliis amber box with brilliants I had 
 from an old croaking Marquis, who pestered 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. ^0[) 
 
 every music room in the principality to the day 
 of his death, with notes that would have 
 frightened a peacock. As long as he sang, poor 
 man ! I considered myself as having a salary on 
 the musical establishment at the rate of two 
 hundred ducats per month. 
 
 Jea?i. Aye ; God send that all the old Mar- 
 quises in these parts would croak for us at this 
 rate. 
 
 Countess. I have no reason to complain : my 
 present friend bleeds as freely as any of his 
 predecessors. 
 
 Jea?i. So he should, my lady. Such nonsense 
 as he writes ought not to be praised for a trifle. 
 I would not do it, I'm sure. 
 
 Countess. Dost thou ever praise then for profit? 
 Jean. To be honest with you, Madam, I have 
 done it, as who has not ? But never since I en- 
 tered your Ladyship's service ; for why should 
 you reward me for praising you, when all the 
 world does it for nothing ? — No, no, my Lady ; 
 you are too wise for that. 
 
 Countess. There is somebody at the door. 
 Jean. It is Hovelbera*. 
 Countess. Open then, but let nobody else in. 
 (Jean, opens the door^ and Hovelberg enters^ 
 followed by Baron Baurchel, disguised as 
 an Armenian Jew.) 
 Countess. I am happy to see you, dear Hovel- 
 berg; and thi^s gentleman also, {curtesying to 
 the Bar.) I know it is only a friend, whom we 
 
 VOL. III. p 
 
210 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 may trust, that you would introduce to me on 
 the present occasion. 
 
 Hov. To be sure, Madam : a friend we may 
 depend on. (^Drawing CoxmiQ^s, aside ^ and speak- 
 ing in her ear.) A man of few words : better to 
 do in this quarter than this. {Pointing Jirst to his 
 pocket, and then to his head.) And that is a 
 good man, you know, to be well with. 
 
 Countess. O the best stuff in the world for 
 making a friend of. (Returning to the Bar.) Sir, 
 I have the highest regard and esteem for you. 
 
 Bar. (in a feigned voice.) On vatch account. 
 Madam ? 
 
 Countess. O good Sir ! on every account. 
 
 Bar. You lov'sh not my religion ? 
 
 Countess. I respect and reverence it pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 Bar. You lov'sh not my pershon ? 
 
 Countess. It is interesting and engaging, most 
 assuredly. 
 
 Bar. No body telsh me sho before ! 
 
 Countess. Because the world is full of en- 
 vious people, who will not tell you truths that 
 are agreeable. 
 
 Bar. (nodding assent.) Now I understant. 
 
 Countess. Yes, dear Sir ; you must do so ; 
 your understanding is unquestionable. (Looking 
 archil/ to Hovel.) And now, gentlemen, do me 
 the honour to be seated, and examine these 
 jewels attentively. 
 
 Hov. We would rather stand if you'll permit 
 us. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. ^11 
 
 Countess, (aside to Hovel., while the Baron 
 €^ami?ies tlie jexvels.) My dear Hovelberg, be 
 liberal : for the sum I want is a large one, and 
 those jewels would procure it for me any where ; 
 only, regarding you as my friend, I give you 
 the first offer. — But your friend, methinks, ex- 
 amines every thing with great curiosity. 
 
 Hov. Yes, poor man ! he likes to appear as 
 knowing as he can : this is but natural, you 
 know, when one is deficient in the upper de- 
 partment. — But he'll pay like a prince, if you 
 flatter and amuse him. 
 
 Bar. Vasht fine stones ! Vasht pretty orna- 
 ments! (To Countess.) You dishposhe of all 
 deshe ? 
 
 Countess. Yes, every thing. 
 
 Bar. Dere be gifsh here, no doubt, from de 
 dear friensh. 
 
 Hov. Or some favoured lover, perhaps. 
 
 Countess, (sighing affectedly.') Perhaps so ; but 
 I must part with them all. 
 
 Bar. {aside to Hov.) Nay, she has some ten- 
 derness for me : put her not to too severe a 
 trial. 
 
 Hov. (aside.) We shall see. 
 Bar. (returning to Countess.) You be woman; 
 and all womansh have de affections for some one 
 lover or frient. 
 
 Countess. O how good and amiable and con- 
 siderate you are ! 1 have indeed a heart formed 
 for tenderness. 
 
 p SJ 
 
212 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Bar. {drawing Hovel, aside again,) She does 
 love me, Hovelberg ; tempt her not with an 
 extravagant price for the picture. 
 
 Hov. (aside.) 1*11 take a better way of ma- 
 naging it. {^Returning to ^//e Countess. J My friend 
 desires me to say, Madam, that, if there is any 
 thing here you particularly value, he'll advance 
 you money upon it, which you may repay at 
 your leisure, and you shall preserve it. 
 
 Countess, (to Baron.) How generous you are, 
 my dear Sir ! Yes ; there is one thing I w^ould 
 keep. 
 
 Bar. (eagerly.') One ting — dere be one ting : 
 tish picture, perhaps. 
 
 Countess. This ruby necklace. 
 
 Bar. You sell tish picture, den ? 
 
 Countess. To be sure, if you'll purchase it. 
 
 Hov. The diamonds are valuable, indeed ; 
 but you wdll not sell the painting ? 
 
 Countess. That will depend on the price you 
 offer for it. 
 
 Hov. Being a portrait, it is of no value at all, 
 but to those who have a regard for the original. 
 
 Jean. And what part of the world do they 
 live in, Mr. Hovelberg ? Can you find them out 
 any where? 
 
 Countess. Nay, peace, Jeanetta. — As a por- 
 trait, indeed, it is of no value to any body, 
 but, as a characteristic old heat!, it should fetch 
 a good price. (^Shewing it to Baron.) Observe, 
 my dear Sir, that air of conceit and absurdity 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. '213 
 
 over the whole figure : to those who have a taste 
 for the whimsical and ridiculous, it would be 
 invaluable. Don*t you perceive it ? 
 Bar. Not very sure. 
 
 Countess. Not sure ! Look at it again. See 
 how the eyes are turned languishingly aside, as 
 if he were repeating, " Dear gentle idol of a 
 heart too fond." {Mimicking the Baron's natu- 
 ral voice. ^ 
 
 Hov. Ha, ha, ha! Your mimickry is excel- 
 lent. Countess. Is it not, Friend Johnadab? 
 Bar. O, vasht comical. 
 Hov. (aside to him.) She has a good talent. 
 Bar. (aside.) Shrewd witch ! The words of 
 my last sonnet, indeed; but I did not repeat 
 them so. 
 
 Hov. (aloud.) Though you are an admirable 
 mimick, Madam, my Friend Johnadab does 
 not think your imitation of the Baron entirely 
 correct. 
 
 Countess, (alarmed.) He knows the Baron 
 then ; I have been very imprudent. — But pray 
 don't suppose I meant any disrespect to the 
 worthy Baron, whom I esteem very much. 
 Bar. O vasht much I 
 
 Hov. Be not uneasy, Madam ; my friend 
 will be secret, and loves a joke mightily. 
 
 Countess. I'll trust, then, to his honour : and 
 since he does not like my imitation of the Baron, 
 he shall have it from one who does it better 
 tlian I. Jeanetta, amuse this wortiiy gentle- 
 man by repeating tlie Baron's last sonnet, 
 p 3 
 
214 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Jean. Nay, my Lady, you make me do it so 
 often, I'm tired of taking him off. 
 
 Countess. Do as you are bid, child. 
 
 Jean. " Dear gentle idol of a heart too fond, 
 " Why doth that eye of sweetest sym- 
 pathy " 
 
 Hov. Ha, ha, ha ! Excellent ! 
 
 Bar. (off his guard.) By Heaven, this is too 
 bad ! Your servants taught to turn me into 
 ridicule ! 
 
 Countess, {starting.) How's this ? Mercy on 
 nie! 
 
 Hov. Be not alarmed, Countess ; I thought 
 he would surprise you. My friend is the best 
 mimick in Europe. 
 
 Countess. I can scarcely recover my surprise. 
 ( 7 b Baron) My dear Sir, I cannot praise you 
 enough. You have a wonderful talent. The 
 Baron's own mouth could not utter his voice 
 more perfectly than yours. 
 
 Bar. (pulling off his cap and beard.) No, 
 Madam, not easily. (Jean, shrieks out., and the 
 Countess stands in stupid amazement.) This dis- 
 guise. Madam, has procured for me a specimen 
 of the amiable dispositions of a heart formed for 
 tenderness, with a sample of your talents for 
 mimickry into the bargain ; and so 1 wish you 
 good day, with thanks for my morning's amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Countess, (recovering herself.) Ha, ha, ha ! 
 You understand mumming very well. Baron, 
 but I still better. I acted my part well. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 215 
 
 Bar. Better than well, Madam : it was the 
 counter-part of my enacting the Baron. 
 
 Jean. Indeed, dear Baron, the Countess knew 
 it was you, and so did I too. Indeed, indeed, 
 we did. I*m sure it is a very good joke : 
 I wonder we don't laugh more at it than we 
 do. 
 
 Bar. Be quiet, subordinate imp of this arch 
 tempter ! My thraldom is at an end ; and all the 
 jewels in that shameful heap were not too great 
 a price for such emancipation. (^Bowing very 
 low to Countess.)Adieu ! most amiable, most sen- 
 timental, most disinterested of women ! [Exit. 
 
 Countess. Hovelberg, you have betrayed me. 
 
 Hov. How so, Madam ? You told me your- 
 self you were the most sincere woman in the 
 world ; the Baron doubted your regard for him ; 
 how could I then dissuade him from putting it 
 to the proof, unless I had doubted your word, 
 Madam ? an insult you could never have par- 
 doned. 
 
 Countess. What, you laugh at me, too, you 
 villian ! (Exit Hovel.) Oh ! I am ruined, de- 
 rided, and betrayed ! ( Throws herself into a chair y 
 covering her face with her handy while Jeanetta 
 endeavours to comfort her.) 
 
 Jean. Be not so cast down, my Lady, there 
 are more than one rich fool in the world, and 
 you have a good knack at finding them out. 
 
 Countess. O, that I should have been so un- 
 guarded! That I should never have suspected! 
 
 p 4 
 
216 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Jean. Aye, with his vasht this, and his vasht 
 that : it was, as he said, vasht comical that we 
 did not. 
 
 Countess. Bring not his detested words again 
 to my eai's ; I can't endure the sound of them. 
 
 Enter Valdemere. 
 
 Vald. Well, Madam, you can answer my de- 
 mands now, I hope : Hovelberg has been with 
 you. Money, money, my dear mother ! (^Hold- 
 ing out his hand.') There is a fair broad palm to 
 receive it j and here {kissing her hand coaxingly .) 
 is a sweet little hand to bestow it. 
 
 Countess, {pushing him away sternly.) Thy in- 
 considerate prodigality has been most disastrous. 
 Had*st thou been less thoughtless, less profuse — 
 a small portion of prudence and economy would 
 liave made us independent of every dotard's 
 humour. 
 
 Vald. Notable virtues indeed, Madam ; but 
 where was I to learn them, pray ? Did you ever 
 before recommend them to me, by either pre- 
 cept or example ? Prudence ! Economy ! What 
 has befallen you ? I'm sure there is something 
 wrong when such words come from your hps. 
 — Ha ! in tears, too ! Hovelberg has brought 
 no money then ? 
 
 Countess. No, no, barbarian ! He has ruined 
 me. 
 
 Vald. How so? 
 
 Countess. I cannot tell thee : it would suffocate 
 me. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. '217 
 
 Jean» La, Count! My Lady may well call 
 him barbarian. He brought the old Baron with 
 him to purchase the jewels, disguised like an 
 Armenian Jew ; and when bargaining with her 
 for his own picture, my Lady said something of 
 the original not much to his liking, and so the 
 old fool tore off his disguise, and bounced out of 
 the room in a great passion. 
 
 Vald. By my faith, this is unlucky ! I de- 
 pended on touching 500 louis d'ors immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 Countess. Thinking only of yourself still, when 
 you may well guess how I am distressed. — I shall 
 never again find such a liberal old cully as he. 
 
 Vald. Yes, you will, mother : more readily 
 than I shall find the 500 louis. — I owe half that 
 sum to Count PugstofF, for losses at the billiard 
 table ; all the velvet and embroidery, the de- 
 funct suits of two passing years, haunt me 
 wherever I go, in the form of unmannerly 
 taylors : and, besides all this, there is a sweet 
 pretty Arabian in the stables of Huckston, my 
 jockey, that I am dying to be master of. — By 
 my faith, it is very hard ! Had you no suspicion ? 
 How came you to be so much offyour guard ? 
 
 Countess. I believe it was fated to be so, and 
 therefore I was blinded for the moment. I 
 dreamt last night that I had but one tooth in my 
 head, and it dropped on the ground at my feet. 
 This, it is said, betokens the loss of a friend by 
 death, and I trembled for thee, my child ; but 
 
218 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 now, too surely, my dream is explained and 
 accomplished. 
 
 Vald. And, methinks, you would have pre- 
 ferred the first interpretation. 
 
 Countess. Ah ! ungrateful boy ! You know 
 too well how I have doated on you. 
 
 Vald. I do know too well : it has done me 
 little good, 1 fear. 
 
 Countess. It has done me little good, I'm sure, 
 since this is all the gratitude thou hast. I should 
 never, but for thee, have become the flatterer 
 of those I despise, to amass those odious jewels. 
 
 Vald. Ha ! the jewels are still here then ! 
 I shall have my louis' still. Thank you, dear 
 mother, that you did not part with them, at 
 least. (^Kissing her hand hastily ^ and runnmg to 
 the table.) I'll soon dispose of them alL 
 
 Countess, (running after him.) No, no ! not so 
 fast, Valdemere : thou wilt not take them all. 
 Haste thee, Jeanetta, and save some of them. 
 
 {They all scramble round the table for the 
 jewels J and the scene closes.) 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 219 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene before the Gate of the Castle. Enter Nina, 
 who crosses the Stage timidly y stoppitig once or 
 twice, and then with hesitation giving a gentle 
 knock at the Gate. Enter Porter from the 
 Gate, which he opens. 
 
 Porter, (^after waiting to hear her speak.) 
 
 What do you want, young woman ? Did you 
 only knock for amusement? 
 
 Nin. No, Sir ; Is Count Valdemere in the 
 castle ? I would speak with him, if he is at 
 leisure. 
 
 Port. He is in the castle ; but as to speaking 
 with him, no man of less consequence than his 
 valet can answer that question. 
 
 Enter Lorimore, Inj tJie opposite side. 
 Here he is. You come opportunely, Mr. Lori- 
 more; this young person would speak with your 
 master. 
 
 Lor. (aside.) O, Nina, I see. (aloud.) How 
 do you do, my pretty Nina ? You can't speak 
 with my master, indeed ; but you may speak 
 with the next most agreeable personage in these 
 parts, my master's man, as long as you please ; 
 and that, be assured, is a far better thing for 
 your pui'pose, my princess. 
 
 5 
 
220 THE SIEGE : A C03IEDY. 
 
 NtJi, Dare you insult me ? You durst not 
 once have done it. — I do not ask then to see 
 him ; but give him this letter. 
 
 Lor. {taking the letter,) Do you wish this pre- 
 cious piece to be read, child, or to be burnt ? 
 
 Nin. Why ask that ? to be read, certainly. 
 
 Lor. I must not give it to the Count, then, 
 but keep it to myself : and if you'll just allow 
 me to make the slight alteration of putting Lori- 
 more the valet for Valdemere the master, as I 
 read, it will be a very pretty, reasonable letter, 
 and one that may advance your honour withal. 
 
 Nin. Audacious coxcomb ! Give it me 
 again. {Snatches the letter from him^ and turns 
 away.) 
 
 Lor. She is as proud as that little devil of a 
 page, her brother. 
 
 Enter Page behind from tlie gate. 
 
 Page. The more devil he be, the fitter com- 
 pany for you. Whom spoke you to ? {seeing 
 
 Nina) Oh, oh ! Is Nina here ? Nina, Nina, 
 
 {Running after her.) 
 
 ^Nin. {returning.) My dear Theodore, is it 
 thee ? 1 did not ask for thee, lest thou should'st 
 chide me for coming to the castle. 
 
 Page. 1 won't chide, but I'm sorry to see thee 
 here. Fie, woman ! thou art the daughter of as 
 brave an officer, though a poor one, as any in 
 the service ; art thou not ashamed to come, thus 
 meanly, after a lover who despises thee ? 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 221 
 
 Nin. He promised to marry me. 
 
 Page. He promised a fiddle-stick ! Poor de- 
 luded simpleton ! 
 
 Nin. Ah ! dost thou chide me, boy as thou 
 art? 
 
 Page. Who is there to chide thee now, when 
 both our parents are dead ? But as they would 
 have done, so do I, sister j I chide thee, and love 
 thee too. — Go now j return to the good woman 
 from whose house thou hast stolen away, and I'll 
 buy thee a new gown as soon as my quarter's 
 salary is paid me. 
 
 Nin. Silly child, what care I for a new gown ? 
 Butif thou hast any pity for me, give this letter 
 to thy master. 
 
 Page. I will, 1 will : but go thy ways now ; 
 
 there is a gentleman coming. And do, dear 
 
 Nina, return no more to the castle till I send 
 
 thee word. Good be with thee, poor simpleton ! 
 
 [Exit Nina, and enter Dartz by the opposite 
 
 side.~\ 
 
 Dart. Is it thy sister thou hast parted from ? 
 I met her in the wood this morning ! she need 
 not avoid me now. 
 
 Page. Let her go. Sir ; the farther she is from 
 the castle the better. 
 
 Dart. Thou hast a letter in thy hand. 
 
 Page. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Dart. Which thou art to give to the Count. 
 
 Page. No, Sir j Til see him choked first. 
 
 (^Tearing the letter.) 
 
222 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Dart. Nay, see what it contains ere thou de- 
 stroyest it. 
 
 Page, (^putting it together again and reading 
 it.) Only upbraiding his unkindness, and stuff' 
 of that sort, with some nonsense about a dream 
 she has had, which makes her afraid she shall 
 never see him again. 
 
 Dart. Let me look. (After reading it.) This 
 letter may be useful. Come with me, my little 
 friend ; and we'll devise a way of revenging thy 
 sister on her cruel seducer. 
 
 Page. Will you ? I'll worship you like a saint 
 of the calendar, if you do this. 
 
 Dart, (considerino.) Is not your master some- 
 what superstitious ? 
 
 Page. Marry is he ! but mightily afraid to be 
 thought so. He laughed at me, — when the bad 
 fever prevailed, — for wearing a charm on my 
 breast against infection ! but the very next 
 night when he went to bed, what should drop 
 out, think you, as he opened his vest, but the 
 very same charm, which he had procured imme- 
 diately, and worn with such secrecy, that even 
 valet Lorimore knew nothing of the matter. 
 
 Dart. This is good ; come with me, and I'll 
 instruct thee what to do with thy letter. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 223 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Valdemere*s Dressing-Room : Enter Page 
 treading softly on tiptoe^ and looking about the 
 Room. 
 
 Page. Aye ; the coast is clear, and the door 
 of his chamber is a-jar ; now is my time. (^Pull- 
 ing the torn letter from his pocket, and stamping 
 on the floor as he raises his voice.) There, cursed 
 letter, 1*11 make an end of thee ! Give thee to 
 my master, indeed ! I'll give thee to the devil 
 first, (^pretending to tear the letter^ and strew 
 the pieces about, while Valdemere, looking from 
 the door of his chamber, steals behind him, and 
 seizes his hands with the remainder of the letter in 
 them.) Mercy on me ! is it you, my Lord ? 
 
 Vald. What art thou doing? What scares 
 thee so? What letter is this? Let me see it. 
 
 Page. O no, my Lord ! I beseech you, for 
 your own sake, don't read it. 
 
 Vald. Why should not I read it, boy ? 
 
 Page, Lud, I don't know ! you may not mind 
 it, perhaps ; but were any body to send such a 
 letter to me, I should be mainly terrified. To 
 be sure, death comes, as they say, at his own 
 time, and we can't keep him away, though we 
 should hang ourselves ; but one don't like to be 
 told before-hand the very year or day we are to 
 die, neither. 
 
 Vald. The year and day ! give me the letter : 
 give it me immediately. (^Snatching the frag- 
 
2^4 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 ments of the letter from him, and picking up a 
 piece or two from the floor, which he puts together 
 hastily on a table near the front of the stage,') I 
 can't make it piece any way. 
 
 Page. So much the better, my Lord : don*t 
 try to do it. 
 
 Vald. It is Nina*s hand, I see, but I can 
 make no sense of it. — Aye, now it will do, 
 (reading) " 1 have been terrified with a dream, 
 and fear I shall see you no more." But where 
 is the dream ; it is torn off; give it me. 
 
 Page. I have it not. 
 ' Vald. Thou liest ! give it me, I say. 
 
 Page. Lud have mercy ! as I tore it off just 
 now, your black spaniel ran away it. 
 
 Vald. No, varlet ! that is a sham ; go find it ; 
 thou knowest where it is well enough. 
 
 Page. Indeed, my Lord, if it is not in the 
 black spaniel's custody, it is no where else that I 
 know of. 
 
 Vald. (^reading again.) I fear I shall see you 
 no more ! But it may be her own death as well 
 as mine, that her dream has foretold j and 
 therefore she may see me no more. 
 
 Page. Very true, you had better think so j 
 though it does not often happen that a woman is 
 killed at a siege. 
 
 Vald. At a siege ! 
 
 Page. Pest take this hasty tongue of mine ; I 
 could bite it off for the tricks it plays me. 
 
 Vald. At a siege ! 
 
 Page. O, never mind it. Sir. It may be some 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 2^5 
 
 lie after all : some wicked invention to make 
 3^011 afraid. 
 
 Vald. {sternly.) What sayest thou ? 
 
 Page. O no, I don't mean afraid ; only un^ 
 easy as it were : ' — no, no ! not uneasy neither ; 
 only somewhat as you feel at present, my Lord; 
 you know best what to call it. 
 
 Vald. At a siege ! 
 
 Page, Dear my Lord, those words are glued 
 to your tongue. 
 
 Vald. (not heeding him.) My grandfather pe- 
 rished at a siege, and his grandfather also : is 
 this fate decreed in our family for alternate ge- 
 nerations ? (Sinks into a chair hy the tahle^ and 
 Page, seeing him so much absorbed^ comes close to 
 himy staring curiously in his face.) 
 
 Vald. Take thy varlet's face out of my sight; 
 why art thou so near me ? Leave the room, I 
 say. [Exit Page. 
 
 (Risingy and pacing to and fro as he speaks 
 to himself) 
 A hundred dreams prove false for one that pre- 
 figures any real event. — It should not have 
 been, however : my mother should have found 
 for me some other occupation than a military 
 life. — Quit it ? No, I can't do that : the 
 world would cry out upon me ; Livia would 
 despise me. — *Tis a strange thing that women, 
 who can't fight themselves, should so eagerly 
 push us to the work. — Pooh ! am I a fool that 
 it seizes me thus ? — I would this boy, however, 
 had really destroyed the letter. 
 
 VOL. III. Q 
 
226 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Ejiter Dartz, looJcing at Vald. some time before 
 he spealis. 
 
 Dart, (aside.) This will do; it is working with 
 him. (Aloudy advancing.') My dear Count — but 
 don't start, I bring no bad tidings ; I come to 
 beg a favour of you. 
 
 Vald. (^recovering himself.) Say you are come 
 to oblige me. 
 
 Dart. 1 thank you, Valdemere ; but faith I'm 
 ashamed to mention it ; you will laugh at me 
 for being so superstitious. 
 
 Vald. Ha ! somebody has been dreaming about 
 you too. 
 
 Dart. Should you deem me very credulous if 
 a thing of this nature had power to disturb me ? 
 
 Vald. 'Tis even so; they have been dreaming 
 all over the house. Ha, ha, ha ! And thou art 
 really uneasy about such flummery as this : ha, 
 ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! this is admirable ! delight- 
 ful ! — ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Dart. Be more moderate with your merri- 
 ment : your tears and your laughter come so 
 strangely together, one would take you for an 
 hysterical girl. 
 
 Vald. I can't chuse but laugh at your dream- 
 ers ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Dart. Don't laugh at me then ; for I am nei- 
 ther a dreamer, nor believer in dreams. 
 
 Vald. (becoming seriotis at once.) No ! what is 
 it then ? 
 
 Dart. I'm almost ashamed to tell you, yet I'll 
 throw myself on your mercy and do it. I am 
 
 3 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 227 
 
 in love then, and fearful of the fortunes of war ; 
 for you know we must expect sharp fighting this 
 ensuing campaign. 
 
 Vald, (ruefully.') You think so ? 
 
 Dart. I am certain of it. Now, though I 
 have no faith in dreams, I must own I have 
 some in fortune-tellers ; and there is a famous 
 one just come to the castle, whom I would gladly 
 consult. Will you permit me to bring him to 
 your inner apartment there, that he may tell me 
 of my future destiny whatever his art may reveal 
 to him ? Laugh as you please, but refuse me 
 not this favour, for there is no other room in the 
 castle where I can meet him secure from inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 Vald. {smiling affectedly.) And thou art really 
 in earnest with this folly ? 
 
 Dart. When you have heard the wonderful 
 things this wizard has foretold, you will not call 
 it folly. 
 
 Vald. Can*st thou tell me any of them ? 
 
 Dart. Take a turn with me on the terrace, and 
 thou shalt hear things that will astonish thee. 
 
 Vald. Ha, ha ! it is whimsical to see thee so 
 serious. Such stories are pleasant amusement : 
 1*11 attend thee most willingly. [Exeunt. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY- 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A small Room in Valdemere'6' 
 Apartments. Baron Baurchel is discovered 
 in the Disguise of a Fortune'teller, with Dartz 
 standing by hiniy adjusting part of his Dress. 
 
 Dart. 'Twill do well enough. Stand majes- 
 tically by this great chair, with your worsted 
 robe thrown over the arm of it ; it will spread 
 out your figure, and make it more imposing. — 
 Bravo ! you assume the astrological dignity to 
 admiration ; the rolling of your eyes under that 
 black hood almost appals me. Be as good an 
 astrologer as you have been an Armenian Jew, 
 Baron, and we shall be triumphant. 
 
 Bar. As good, Dartz ! if 1 am not a dolt, I 
 shall be better ; for there is no danger of losing 
 my temper now ; and being fairly engaged in it, 
 methinks I could assume as many shapes as Pro- 
 teus, to be revenged on this false hyena and her 
 detestable cub. 
 
 Dart. Aye, that is your true spirit. But I 
 must leave you now, and wait in the anti-room 
 for the Count, who will be here presently. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bar. (ajter musing some time.) Superlative base- 
 ness and ingratitude ! That sonnet, of all the 
 sonnets I ever wrote, is the most exquisitely 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 2i^9 
 
 feeling and tender. When I read it to her, she 
 wept. Were her tears feigned ? 1 can't beUeve 
 it. Assassins will weep at a high-wrought scene 
 of tragedy, and cut the author's throat when it 
 is over. — Even so : it suited her purposes bet- 
 ter to laugh at my verses, than acknowledge 
 their genuine effect ; and so, forgetting every 
 
 kindness she owed me O, the detestable 
 
 worldling ! I'll — hush, hush, hush ! they are 
 
 Re-enter Dartz, followed hy Valdemere, tcAo 
 walks shrinkingly behind, peeping past his 
 shoulder to the Baron, xvho slightly inclines his 
 body, putting his hand with great solemnity 
 three times to his forehead. 
 
 Dart, {aside to Vald. after a pause.') Faith, 
 Valdemere, I dare scarcely speak to him ; 'tis 
 well you are with me ; will you speak to him ? 
 
 Vald. No, 'tis your own affiiir ; stand to it 
 yourself. 
 
 Dart, {aloud.) Learned and gifted mortal, we 
 come to thee — 
 
 Vald. {aside, jogging his arm.) Don't say tt'e; 
 'tis your own affair entirely. 
 
 Dart. Well, I should say, gifted sage, not we, 
 but / come to thee, to know what fortune is 
 abiding me in this up-and-down world. I am a 
 lover and a soldier, and liable, as both, to great 
 vicissitudes. 
 
 Bar. Thou say'st truly, my Son ; and who is 
 Q 3 
 
230 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 this young man, so much wiser than thyself, who 
 does not desire to look into futurity ? 
 
 Dart. It is my friend. 
 
 Bar. {after examining the faces of both for 
 some time.) Say, more than friend. 
 
 Dart. How so ? 
 
 Bar. {still continuing to gaze alternately at 
 them.) 'Tis very wonderful ! in all the years 
 of my occult experience, I never met the like 
 before, but once. 
 
 Vald. {aside to Dart.) What does he mean ? 
 Ask him, man. 
 
 Dart. You never met the like but once ! 
 What mean you. Father ? 
 
 Bar. {awswers not, but continues to look at 
 them, while Vald., unable to bear it longer, shrinks 
 again behind Dart.) Shrink not back, young 
 man ; my eyes make not the fate they see, and 
 cannot do you harm. — 'Tis wonderful ! there 
 is not in your two faces one trait of resemblance, 
 yet your fortunes in the self-same mould are 
 cast : ye are in fate twin-brothers. 
 
 Dart. Indeed ! then my friend need only 
 listen to my fortune, and he*ll have his own into 
 the bargain. 
 
 Bar. Nay, nay, my Sons, be advised, and en- 
 quire not into futurity. They are the happiest 
 men who have fewest dealings with such miser- 
 able beings as myself — beings who are com- 
 pelled to know the impending evils of hapless 
 humanity, without the power of averting them. 
 Be advibtid, and suppress unprofitable curiosity. 
 
THE SIEGK : A COMEDY. '2S1 
 
 : Dart. By my fay, sage, I cannot suppress it. 
 
 Bar, Then let your friend go. He is wise 
 enough not to wish to know his future fate, and 
 I have ah'eady said you are in this twin-brothers. 
 
 Dart. Retire then, Valdemere. 
 
 Fald. (^agitated and irresolute.') I had better, 
 perhaps. — Yet there is within me a strange 
 and perverse craving — I will retire (going to 
 the door J and. stopping short.) — Live in fearful 
 ignorance, fancying evils that may never be ! 
 'twere better to know all at once. (Returning.) 
 Is it our general fortunes only, or is there some 
 particular circumstance of our fate, now present 
 to your mind, of which you advise us to be 
 ignorant ? 
 
 Bar, There is — 
 
 Vald. C pulling Dart, by the arm.) Come away, 
 come away ; don't hear it. 
 
 Dart. I am bound by some spell ; I must stay 
 to hear it. 
 
 Vald. I am certainly bound also ; I know not 
 how it is ; 1 must hear it too. 
 
 Bar. Be it as you will, (After writing cha- 
 racters on a tabky mth otJier mummeries.) Pro- 
 pose your questions. 
 
 , Dart, The name, age, and quality of her who 
 is my love ! (Bar. ^iiorites again.) The initials 
 of her name, I protest ; and her age to a day, 
 nineteen years and a half! And her quality, 
 good Father ? 
 
 Bar. Only daughter and heiress of an emi- 
 nent Dutch butter-deal ei\ 
 
 Q 4 
 
232f THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Dart. Nay, you are scarcely right there, sage J 
 you might at least have called him Burgo-mas- 
 terj but let it pass< She loves me, I hope? 
 (Bar. nods.) I knew it. And now let me know 
 if she shall ever be my wife, and how many chil- 
 dren we shall have ? 
 
 Vald. {aside to Dart.) Deuce take wife and 
 children too ! what is all this drivelling for ? 
 
 Dart, (aside to him.) I thought you were in 
 love as well as myself. 
 
 Vald. So I am J but be satisfied that she loves 
 you, and pass on to things of deeper import. 
 
 Dart, (aside.) Can any thing be of deeper 
 import ? (Aloud.) I should like very well, gifted 
 Father, to have two or three black-haired burly 
 knaves, and a little fair damsel, to play with. 
 
 Vald, (aside to Dart.) Would they were all 
 drowned in a horse-pond ! Look how ruefully 
 the sage shakes his head at thee : wife or chil- 
 dren thou wilt never have. 
 
 Dart. Shall I never be married. Father ? what 
 shall prevent it ? 
 
 Bar. Death* 
 
 Dart. Shall I lose her? (Turning to Vald.) 
 JDo you not tremble for Livia ? 
 
 Vald. Is it her death? did he say so? Ask him. 
 
 Bar. Death will prevent it* Let me leave 
 you. 
 
 Vald. (seizing the^Avon^s robe.) Whose death? 
 whose death ? is it only the lady's ? 
 
 Bar. Nay, do not detain me. There is a 
 deep depression on my mind. Good night to 
 
THE siege: a comedy. -233 
 
 you ! I'll tell you the remainder when you are 
 better prepared to hear it. 
 
 Dart. No, no ! the present time is the best. 
 
 Vald. (in a Jeeble voice.) You had better let 
 him go. 
 
 Dart, (catching hold of the Bar.) You must 
 not leave us in this tremendous uncertainty. 
 Whose death shall prevent my marriage ? 
 
 Bar. Let me examine, then. Stretch out 
 your hand. (Dartz holds out his hand, and 
 Vald. involuntarily does the same, hut draxvs it 
 bach again as Bar. begins to inspect it.) Nay, 
 don't draw back your hand : I must examine 
 both palms to see if the line of death be there. 
 
 Dart. The line of death must be on every 
 man's hand. 
 
 Bar. But if it be early or impending death, 
 
 the waving of the shroud will lie across it. (Vald. 
 
 shudders and turns a'way his head, and the Bar., 
 
 after looking at both their hands, starts back 
 
 from them, and shakes his head piteously.) 
 
 Dart. What is the matter, Father ? What is 
 the matter? 
 
 Bar. Ask not ; I will not tell what I know ; 
 nothing shall compel me. [Exit hastily. 
 
 Vald. (turning round.) Is he gone? Went he 
 by the door ? 
 
 Dart. What way he went I know not. He 
 has vanished I believe : did you hear his steps 
 on the floor ? 
 
 Vald. I heard nothing. 
 
234 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Dart, {after a short j^ciuse.) How do you 
 feel, Count? 
 
 Vald. Ha ! do you feel it too ? 
 
 Dart. Feel what ? 
 
 Vald. As if a cold shroud were drawn over 
 you. 
 
 Dart. Aye, so I think I do. — But never 
 mind it : we may still have some good months 
 or weeks before us ; let us go to the banquet 
 and put a merry face upon it : a cup of wine 
 will warm us again. What, though my grandam 
 dreamt at my birth that I should be slain in a 
 breach, and the weird witch of Croningberg 
 confirmed it ; I'll live and be merry while I 
 may. 
 
 Vald. Ha ! and thy grandam had such a 
 dream ! 
 
 Dart. Never mind it : a cup of wine will 
 soon cheer us again. 
 
 Vald. Would to God I had one now ! 
 
 Daj't. You have no time to take wine at pre- 
 sent : 1 hear a bustle below : they are going to 
 the grotto already. — Who's at the door? {Opens 
 ■the door.) Your valet with your new suit for the 
 banquet. I'll leave you then. (Exit Dartz, 
 and enter Lorimore with a suit of cloaths over 
 his arniyjollowed by Page.) 
 
 Lor. I have waited this half hour, my Lord, 
 
 ;to hear your bell, and the ladies are waiting 
 
 for you to go to the grotto. Look at this coat, 
 
 my Lord : the fashion of it is exquisite, and it 
 
 has such an air with it ; there is not, besides 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 235 
 
 yourself, a man in the empire that would know 
 how to wear it. 
 
 Page. His consummate valet excepted. 
 
 Lor. Hold your peace, Sirrah. — Look here, 
 my Lord ; if I had not myself given the tailor a 
 few hints, he could never have had genius 
 enough to finish it in this style. I'd give a 
 ducat that the Marquis De Florimel's valet 
 could see it. He pretends — But you don't 
 look at it, my Lord : what is the matter with 
 you? 
 
 Vald. {eagerly.) Is any thing the matter ? 
 
 Lor. Nothing, my Lord ; but the ladies are 
 waiting for you to go with them to the grotto : 
 won't you be pleased to put on your new coat ? 
 
 Vald. Put it on then. {StretcJwig out his arms 
 to put on the coat.) 
 
 Lor. But we must first take off the old coat. 
 
 Vald. I forgot that. {Trying to pull off his 
 coat.) It sticks strangely to me : doff it if thou 
 can'st. 
 
 Lor, {after pulling off his coat.) Now, my 
 Lord, thrust your arm into this beautiful sleeve ; 
 the whole beau monde of Paris can't shew you 
 its fellow. — That is the wrong arm, my Lord. 
 
 Vald. It will do ; it will do. 
 
 Lor. Pardon me, my Lord ; your left arm 
 won't do for the right sleeve of the coat. 
 
 Vald. {holding out his other arm and fumbling 
 some time.) There is no hole at all to put my arm 
 into. 
 
^36 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Lo7\ Nay, you push your hand past it -, here, 
 here. 
 
 Vald. Where say est thou ? 'Tis mightily per- 
 plexed. 
 
 Page, (aside to himself.) Either the coat or 
 the coat's master is perplexed enough. (Aloud, 
 offering him his hat.) You won't go, my Lord, 
 without your new hat and plume. 
 
 Vald. Plume? 
 
 Page. Yes, my Lord, and it will wave so 
 handsomely too, for the company walk by torch- 
 light in procession. 
 
 Vald. Let them move on, and Til follow. 
 
 Page. No, they can't go without you, my 
 Lord. 
 
 Vald. How is it? Am I one of the pall- 
 bearers ? 
 
 Page. It is not a funeral, my Lord. 
 
 Vald. I forgot ; the chillness of the night 
 has bewildered me. 
 
 Lor. You are not well, my Lord ; what is 
 the matter with you ? 
 
 Vald. Nothing, leave me alone for a little. 
 
 Lor. Will you not join the company ? The 
 procession is prepared to set out. 
 
 Vald. Aye, very truej tell me when they 
 move the body, and I'll follow it. 
 
 Page. He, he, he ! a funeral again. 
 
 Lor, Unmannerly imp ; what art thou snicker- 
 ing at ? (To Vald. in a loud distinct voice.) It is 
 not a funeral, my Lord. The Lady Livia, and 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 23? 
 
 the Countess your mother, arc going to the 
 grotto, and are waiting impatiently below till 
 you join them. 
 
 Vald. (rubbing his Joi^ehead.) It is so : how 
 went it out of my head ? That wine after 
 dinner must have fuddled me. I'll join them 
 immediately. 
 
 Lor. Lean on me, my Lord j you are not 
 well, I fear. 
 
 Vald. No, no ; the fumes of that diabolical 
 champaign have left my head now. 
 
 Lor. It must have been mixed with some 
 black drug, I think, to produce such a sombre 
 intoxication. 
 
 Page. It may rest in the cellar long enough 
 for me 5 I'll none on't. 
 
 Lor. Peace, young Sir ; and go before with 
 one of these lights. 
 
 [Exeunt, Page lighting them. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An arched GrottOy the Roof and Sides of which 
 are crusted over with Shells and Corals, &^r. ; a 
 Banquet set out, ornamented with Lamps and 
 Festoons of Flowers. Filter Countess, led in 
 by Dartz, and Livia by Valdemere, two 
 other Ladies by the Baron and Walter Baur- 
 CHEL, Page and Attendant syo/fott'zVz^. 
 
 Liv. Welcome all to my sea-nymph's hall ; 
 and do me the honour to place yourselves at 
 
238 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 table, as best pleases your fancy, without cere- 
 mony. If you hear any sound without, 'tis but 
 the rolling of forty fathom water over-head ; 
 and nothing can intrude on our merriment, but 
 a whale, or a mermaid, or a dolphin. 
 
 TFalt. This same sea-nymph must have an 
 ingenious art of cultivating roses in the bottom 
 of the ocean. 
 
 Liv. It must be a perfect contrivance indeed 
 that escapes the correct taste of Mr. Walter 
 Baurchel. Fruit and ices perhaps may likewise 
 be an incongruity : shall I order them away, 
 and feast you on salt water and limpits ? 
 
 Bar. Aye, pickle him up with brine in a 
 corner by himself, for he has a secret sympathy 
 with every thing uncherishing and pungent. 
 
 Liv. Do me the honour to take your places. 
 I can pretty well divine which of the ladies will 
 be your charge, gentle Baron. — But how is 
 this ? The Countess and you exchange strange 
 looks, methinks, as if you did not know one 
 another. 
 
 Bar. Some people exchange strange looks, 
 fair Livia, from the opposite cause. 
 
 Liv. I don't comprehend you : should you 
 have preferred being in masks? That indeed 
 would have been a less common amusement. 
 
 Bar. By no means. Madam ; the Countess 
 and I meeting one another unmasked is a very 
 uncommon one. 
 
 Countess. You know best, Baron, as far as you 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 239 
 
 are yourself 'concerned: you always appeared to 
 me a good and amiable man, and a most tender 
 and elegant poet. 
 
 Bar. Of which. Madam, you always took 
 great care to inform me, as a sincere and dis- 
 interested fiiend. 
 
 Liv. Ha! what is all this? Poo, poo, take 
 your places together as usual : a love-quarrel 
 never mars merry-making. 
 
 Walt. Yes, tender doves! let them smooth 
 down their ruffled feathers by one another as 
 sweetly as they can. Why should you, Madam, 
 give yourself any uneasiness about it ? - — But 
 the Count, methinks, is less sprightly than 
 usual : there are no more love-quarrels, I hope, 
 in the party. 
 
 Liv. [looking at Vald.) Indeed you are very 
 silent : I have been too much occupied to ob- 
 serve it before. You don't like my grotto, I 
 fear. 
 
 Vald. Pardon me ; I like it very well ; I like 
 it very much. 
 
 Liv. But this is not your usual manner of ex- 
 pressing approbation. 
 
 Vald. Is it not? you do me honour to remem- 
 ber it. (^Speaking confusedly as the company sit 
 do'wn to table.) My spirits are very — that is to 
 say, not altogether, but considerably — 
 
 Dart. Low, Valdemere? 
 
 Vald. {snatching up a glass, andJilUng a bum- 
 per of wine, which he swallows hastily.) No, Dartz^ 
 light as a feather. My tongue was so con- 
 
240 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 foundedly parched: this wine is excellent {drink- 
 ing another bmnper.) There is more beauty in 
 these decorations than I was aware of": the 
 effect, the taste is incomparable. (^DrinJcs again.') 
 It is truly exquisite. 
 
 Walt. The champaign you mean, Count ? 
 I should have guessed as much. 
 
 Vald. No, no ; the decorations. — Is it cham- 
 paign ? Let me judge of its flavour more consi- 
 derately (drinks again) : upon honour it is fit 
 for the table of a god. But our hostess is a 
 divinity, and 'tis nectar we quaff at her board. — 
 Wine ! common earthly wine ! I'll thrust any 
 man thro' with my rapier that says it is but wine. 
 
 Bar, Keep your courage for a better cause, 
 Count. Report says the enemy are near us, 
 and you may soon have the honour to exert it 
 in defence of your divinity. 
 
 Walt. Which will be a sacred war, you know, 
 and will entitle you perhaps to the glory of mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 
 Vald. The enemy? 
 
 Walt. Aye, report says they are near us. 
 
 Vald. Be it so : 1 shall be prepared for them 
 {^drinks again). 
 
 Dart, (aside to Walt.) By my faith, he will be 
 })repared for them, for he'll fill himself mortal 
 drunk, and frustrate our project entirely. (Aside 
 to Page.) Go, boy, and bid them make haste : 
 thou understandest me ? 
 
 Page, (aside.) Trust me for that : the Phi- 
 listines shall be upon him immediately. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 2'41 
 
 Countess. Valdemere is immeasurably fond of 
 war and of military glory, Avhicli the tenderness 
 of a too fearful mother has hitherto witli dif- 
 ficulty restrained; and in your cause, charming 
 Livia, he will be enthusiastically devoted. 
 
 Liv. I claim him then as my Knight, when- 
 e'er I stand in need of his valorous arms ; though 
 it may, perhaps, prove but a troublesome ho- 
 nour. 
 
 Vald. It is an honour I would purchase — 
 
 aye, purchase with a thousand lives 1 say 
 
 it, divine Livia, wit!) a thousand lives. 
 
 Life ! — life ! — What is it but the breath of a 
 moment : I scorn it. (Getting up from tabky 
 and 7'eeimg about.) The enemy, did they say ? 
 Let an host of them come : this sword shall 
 devour every mother's son of them. — I'm 
 prepared for them all. 
 
 Bar. (aside to Dart.) He is too well prepared j 
 we were foolish to let him drink so much. 
 
 Countess, (^aside to Vald.) Be seated again, 
 you disturb the company. 
 
 Vald. (stiil reeling about*') Aye, divine Livia ; 
 but the breath of a moment ; I scorn it. 
 
 (An alarm without : re-enter Page, as if 
 much frigh tened. ) 
 
 Page. O my Lady Livia ! O my master ! O 
 gentles all ! a party of the enemy is coming 
 to attack the castle, and they'll murder every 
 soul of us. 
 
 Vald. Speak plainer, wretch ; what said'st 
 thou ? 
 
 VOL. III. H 
 
242 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Page, {speaking loud in his ear.) The enemy 
 are coming to attack the castle. 
 
 Vald. ThouUest. 
 
 Page. I wish I did ; but he will confirm my 
 words. 
 
 (Poi72ting to a Servant, zt^/w now enters in alarm.) 
 
 Ser. (to Vald.) He speaks tmth, my Lord ! 
 they are approaching in great strength. 
 
 Vald. Approaching ! are they near us then ? 
 
 Page. Aye, marry! too near. They beat no 
 drum, as you may guess ; but the heavy sound 
 of their march strikes from tlie hollow ground 
 most fearfully. 
 
 (Valdemere becoming perfectly sober y stands 
 confounded.) 
 
 Liv. (and the Ladies, much alarmed.) What 
 shall we do ? What will become of us ? 
 
 Dart. Have courage. Madam ; have courage. 
 Ladies; the valiant Valdemere is your defender ; 
 you have nothing to fear. 
 
 Liv. (and Ladies, crowding close to Vald.) 
 Aye, dear Count ; our safety depends on you. 
 Save us ! Save us ! We have no refuge but you. 
 (All clamouring at once.) 
 
 Vald. Hush, hush, hush ! They'll hear you. 
 (In a low choked voice.) 
 
 Dart. Nay, don't whisper, Valdemere ; they 
 are not so near us yet. 
 
 Bar. Rouse ye, Count, and give your orders 
 for the defence of the castle immediately. 
 
 Dart. We are ready to execute them, be they 
 ever so daring. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 21.3 
 
 Walt. There is no time to be lost ; your 
 orders. Count : do you comprehend us ? 
 
 Vald. My orders ! 
 
 Dart. Your orders quickly. 
 
 Vahl. I am thinking I was thinking 
 
 Page, (aside.) How to save yourself, I beheve. 
 
 Bar. Well, noble Count, wliat are your 
 thoughts. 
 
 Vald. I — I — I am considering 
 
 JValt. Thouc^ht and consideration become a 
 good Commander, with some spice of activity 
 into the bargain. 
 
 Dart. There is no time to deliberate ; issue 
 your orders immediately. Under such an able 
 commander we may stand a siege of some 
 days. 
 
 Vald. A siege ! — Aye, the very thing — and 
 so suddenly ! 
 
 Page. You tremble, my Lord ; shall I bring 
 you drops ? 
 
 Countess. Thou liest, Boy ; get thee gone ! 
 (Aside to Vald.) Are you beside yourself? Tell 
 them what to do ; they wait for your orders. 
 
 Vald. I order them all to the walls. Haste, 
 haste, (pushing off the Ladies xcho stand 7ieM 
 himy') and man them as well as you can. 
 
 Bar. Woman them, you mean, Valdemere ; 
 these are Ladies you push. 
 
 Countess. Nay ; you crowd upon him too 
 much — you confuse him : he is as brave as his 
 sword, if you would leave oft' confounding 
 him so. 
 
 ii ^l 
 
244r THE SIEGE : A COMEDY^ 
 
 Jjiv. Dear Valdemere ! What is the matter ? 
 Rouse yourself, rouse yourself! (A great alarm 
 ivithout,^ Hear that sound : they are at hand ; 
 what shall we do ? There is a vault by the side 
 of this grotto, where we poor miserable women 
 may be concealed, but 
 
 Vald. (^eagerly.'), Where is it ? My duty is to 
 take care of you, dear Livia : come, come 
 with me, and I'll place you in security. {Catches 
 hold of the Page in his hurry, and runs off with 
 him.) 
 
 Countess. Stop, stop ! That is the Page you 
 have got. W^ill you leave me behind you ? 
 
 (As Vald. is about to drag the Page into a 
 recess at the side of the stage, the Boy 
 laughs outright, and he discovers his 
 mistake.) 
 
 Vald. Ofrj Wretch! Where is Livia; come, 
 come, my Life ! where are you ? {Stretching 
 out one hand to her, while his body bends eagerly 
 the other way.) 
 
 Liv. No, Count ; I will not go. Alarm 
 overcame me for the moment ; but now I will 
 enter the castle ; and if the enemy should take 
 it, they shall find me there in a situation be- 
 coming its mistress. 
 
 Omnes. Bravely said, Lady ! Let us all to 
 the castle. 
 
 Dart. W^ith or without a commander, we'll 
 defend it to the last extremity. 
 
 Countess, {going to Vald. and speaking in his 
 ear, while she pulls him along with her.) Come 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 245 
 
 with the rest, or be disgraced for ever. Did I 
 put a sword by your side, a cockade in your 
 hat, for this ? 
 
 (A still louder alarm without^ and exeunt 
 in great hurry and confusion.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Gh^ove hy the Castle ; the Scene darkened^ and 
 moving Lights seen through the Trees from the 
 Castle, sometimes gleaming from the Battle- 
 ments, and sometimes from the IVindows : Enter 
 Nina, mth a Peasanfs Surtout over her 
 Dress. 
 
 Nin. O, if in this disguise I could but enter 
 the castle ! Alas ! the company are gone in, 
 and the gate is now shut. I'll wait here till day- 
 break. — Woe is me! He past by me quickly, and 
 
 heard me not wdien I spoke to him. O 
 
 mercy ! Soldiers coming here ! {Hides herself 
 amongst some bushes. ) 
 
 Enter Bounce, Jblloxved hij Soldiers. 
 
 Bounce. Come, let us hector it here awhile : 
 1*11 warrant ye we make a noise that might do 
 for the siege of Troy. • 
 
 1st Soldier. Aye, you're a book-learned man, 
 Corporal : you're always talking of that there 
 siege. Could they throw a bomb in those days, 
 or fire oft' an eighteen-pounder any better than 
 ourselves? {Firing heard 'without.') 
 
 R 3 
 
246 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Bounce. Hark ! our comrades are at it on the 
 other side : let us to it here at the same time. 
 I'll warrant ye we'll make the fair Lady within, 
 and my Lady's fair gentlewomen, and the vil- 
 lage Cure himself, should he be of the party, 
 cast up their eyes like boiled hsh, and say ten 
 pater-nosters in a breath. 
 ( Voices xvithout.') 
 
 Hallo! hallo! comrades! 
 Who goes there ? 
 
 Enicf^ ^2(1 Soldier mid others, 
 
 2(1 Sold. What makes you so quiet, an' be 
 hanged to you ! An old woman with her spin- 
 ning-wheel might be stationed here to as much 
 purpose. I could not tell where to find you. 
 
 Bounce. By my faith, 'tis the first time Cor- 
 poral Bounce was ever accused of not making 
 noise enough. Come j we'll give you a round 
 shall make the whole principality tremble. 
 
 ( Tlietj prepare to Jire, "when 3d Soldier 
 enters hi Jiaste.) 
 
 3d Sold. Hold, there ! Spare your powder 
 for better purpose : an advanced corps of the 
 enemy is coming in good earnest, and marching 
 in haste to the castle. 
 
 Bounce. So, we're to have real fighting then! 
 Faith, comrade, valiant as I am, a little sham 
 thunder, and a good supper after it, would have 
 pleased my humour full as well at this present 
 time. Pest take it ! They must open the gates 
 
THE siegp: : a comedy. 247 
 
 and let us in. Wliat gentlemen are in the 
 castle ? We have no officer to command us. 
 
 Sd Sold. The Chevalier Dartz is there, and 
 Count Valdemcrc. 
 
 Boimee. Ah ! he's but a craven-bird, that 
 same Count : a kind of Free-mason-soldier, for 
 parades and processions, and the like. If the 
 young Baron de Bertrand were there, we should 
 be nobly commanded. 
 
 Sd Sold. Don't stand prating here ; let us 
 give the alarm to the rest of our comrades, and 
 get into the castle ere the enemy come up with 
 us. 
 
 Bounce. Come, then ! But what moves 
 amongst the bushes ? (Ptdlingout^inB..) A girl, 
 i'faith, disguised in a countryman's surtout. 
 
 Nin. O dear — O mercy ! Don't be angry 
 with me : I'm a poor harmless creature. 
 
 Bounce. Blessings on thee, pretty one! thou'rt 
 harmless enough : don't think we're afraid of 
 thee. Come away with us : we'll lodge thee 
 safely in the castle. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 R-i 
 
!A8 THE SlfiGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Hall in the Castle: Enter LiviA 
 and the Baron, talking as they enter. 
 
 Liv. Yes, Baron ; you and your friends 
 have, by this plot of yours, taught me a se- 
 vere lesson; and I thank you for it, though 
 my own understanding ought to have made it 
 unnecessary. 
 
 Bar. Dear Livia; why should a young 
 woman like you be so much affronted at finding 
 her understanding — for you are mighty fond of 
 that xvord understanding • — not quite infallible ? 
 At the age of dS, an age I shall henceforth 
 honestly own I have attained, one is not sur- 
 prised at some small deficiencies even in one's 
 own understanding. One can then, as I shall 
 henceforth do, give up the vanity of being a 
 wise man. 
 
 Liv. And a poet, too. Baron ? That were 
 too much to give up in one day. 
 
 Bar. Posterity will settle that point. Madam, 
 and I shall give myself very little conceri;! about 
 the matter. 
 
 Liv. Which one can easily perceive is per- 
 fectly indifferent to you. (Noise without.) What 
 encreased noise is that ? Since your poor victim 
 is already sacrificed, (for they tell me he is gone. 
 
THE SEIGE : A COMEDY. 24)9 
 
 on pretence of violent illness, to the \aults 
 under the castle,) why continue this mock- war 
 any longer ? 
 
 Enter Servian t. 
 
 Bar. By this man's looks one might suppose 
 that our mockery had turned to earnest. 
 
 Liv. (to Serv.) What is the matter ? 
 
 Serv. A party of the real enemy, Madam, 
 has come to attack the castle, and is now fiii'liting; 
 with the Chevalier's men at the gate. 
 
 Liv, Why did you not open the gate to re- 
 ceive the Chevalier's men? 
 
 Serv, They called to us to get in ; but we 
 could not distinguisli them from the enemy, 
 who were close on their heels j so we let down 
 the portcullis, an't please you, and they must 
 fight it out under the walls as they can. 
 
 Bar. Is the Chevalier in the castle ? 
 
 Serv. O lud, no, Sir ! he saUied out by the 
 postern with Mr. Walter Baurchel and some of 
 the domestics, and is fighting with them like a 
 devil. But his numbers are so small, we fear 
 he must be beaten ; and 
 
 Liv. And how can we hold out with neither 
 men, ammunition, nor provisions. Merciful 
 Heaven deliver us ! 
 
 Enter Maid-Servants, wringing their hands. 
 Maids. O lud, lud ! What will become of us ? 
 What will become of us ? What shall we do? 
 
'250 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Bar. Any thing you please but stun us with 
 such frantic clamour. Get off to your laundries 
 and your store-rooms, and your dressing closets, 
 and don't encrease the confusion here. 
 
 (Exeunt Maids, clamouring and wringing 
 their hands J) 
 
 Liv. You are rough with those poor crea- 
 tures ; they are very much frightened. 
 
 Bar. Not half so frightened as those who 
 make less noise. They think it necessary to 
 raise an out-cry, because they are women, and it 
 is expected from them. I have been long enough 
 duped in this way ; I have no patience with it 
 now. — But I must go to the walls and try to 
 be of use. (going.) 
 
 (Voice xvithout.) Succour ! succour ! 
 
 JJv. Ha ! there is a welcome cry. 
 
 Enter Jeanetta. 
 Succour did they say ? 
 
 Jeari. Yes, my lady : a band of men come to 
 relieve us ; and their leader is charging the 
 enemy so furiously sword in hand ! — - the Cheva- 
 lier, they said, fought like a devil ; but he fights 
 like forty devils. We have been looking down 
 upon them by torch-light from the walls ; and 
 their swords flash, and their plumes nod, and 
 their eyes glare in the light so gallantly, I could 
 almost sally out myself and take about with them. 
 
 Bar. (to Jean.) Aye, Minx ; thou'rt forward 
 enough to do any thing. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 251 
 
 lAv. Nay, chide her not when slie brings us 
 good news. — Heaven be praised for this timely 
 aid ! What brave man has brought it to us ? 
 Dost thou know him, Jeanetta ? 
 
 Jean. No, Madam : for, thank God ! his back 
 is to us and his face to the foe ; but tliere is a 
 smack in his air of the Baron de Bertrand. 
 
 Bar, Ha ! my brave Antonio ! Pll be sworn 
 it is he. Come ; let us to the ramparts, and 
 look down on the combatants. 
 
 Liv. Heaven grant there be not much blood- 
 shed! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A dark Vault : Enter Valdemere, Jhllowed hij 
 Page, carrying a torch in one liand^ and his 
 ■plumed Cap in the other, 
 
 Vald. (after hurrying some paces onxtcardy 
 stops shorty and looks liUdly round hi?n.) Is there 
 no passage this way ? 
 
 Page. No, my Lord ; but you run marvel- 
 lously fast for one so ill as }'ou are : I could 
 scarcely keep up with you: pray stop here a- 
 while and take breath. 
 
 Vald. Stop here, and that sound still behind 
 me ! 
 
 Page. What sound ? 
 
 Vald, Did'st thou not hear the tread of heavy 
 steps behind us ? The trampling of a whole 
 band ? 
 
252 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Page. It was but the sound of my feet follow- 
 ing you. 
 
 Vald. Only that. The castle is taken thou 
 say*st, and the ruffians are in quest of me. 
 
 Page. Aye, marry are they ! Their savage 
 leader says, as the old tale book has it, that he'll 
 have the heart's blood of Count Valdemere on 
 his sword before he eat or sleep. 
 
 Vald. His sword! 
 
 Page. Aye, my Lord, a good heavy rapier, I 
 assure you ; and he swears, since you have not 
 fought like a man on the walls, he'll kill you 
 like a rat in your hole. 
 
 Vald. I am horribly beset! 
 
 Page. Aye, hot work, my Lord ; the big 
 drops fall from your forehead, like a thunder 
 shower. 
 
 Vald. Thou liest ; I am cold as the damp of 
 a sepulchre. 
 
 Page. And pale too, as the thing that lies 
 within it. 
 
 Vald. (listening.) Hark, hark! they are coming. 
 
 Page. I hear nothing. 
 
 Vald. Thou dost ! thou dost ! lying varlet, 
 with that treacherous leer upon thy face : thou 
 hast decoyed me here for destruction. (Catch- 
 ing him by the throat.) ' 
 
 Page. For mercy, my Lord, let go your hold ! 
 I hear nothing, as I hope to be saved, but our 
 own voices sounding again from the vaulted 
 roof over our heads. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 253 
 
 Vald. Aye, it is vaulted ; thou'rt right per- 
 haps. — This strange ringing in my ears will not 
 suffer me to know the sounds that really are, 
 from those are not. — Why dost thou grin so ? 
 I have a frenzy, I believe ; I know I am strangely 
 disordered. It was not so witli me yesterday. I 
 
 could then Dost thou grin stilj ? Stand 
 
 some paces off: why art thou always so near 
 me ? 
 
 Page, (retiring to tJie opposite side of the staged) 
 I had best, perhaps : his hand has the gripe of a 
 madman. 
 
 Vald. (Jeans his hack against the side-scene, 
 pressing his temples tightly xcith both hands, and 
 speaJmig lozc to himself.) This horrible tumult 
 of nature ! it knows within itself the moments 
 that precede its destruction. 
 
 Page. I must let him rest for a time. (Pause.) 
 — It is cold here doing nothing. (Puts on his 
 cap.) — He moves not : his eyes have a fixed 
 ghastly stare ; truly he is ill. (Going up to him.) 
 You are very ill, my Lord. 
 
 Vald. (^starting.) Have mercy upon me ! 
 Page. Don't start, my Lord ; it was I who 
 spoke to you. 
 
 Vald. Who art thou ? 
 Page. Your Page, my Lord. 
 Vald. Ha ! only thou ! thy stature seemed 
 gigantic. 
 
 Page. This half-yard of plume in my cap, and 
 your good fancy, have made it so. 
 
2(54 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Vald. Aye ; tliou wert unbonnetted before. 
 Keep by me then, but don't speak to me. {^Put- 
 ting his hand again to his temples.) 
 
 Page. Nay, I must ask what is the matter. 
 You are very ill : what is the matter with you? 
 
 Vald. There is a beating within me like the 
 pendulum of a great clock. 
 
 Page. Is it in your heart or your head, my 
 Lord ? 
 
 Vald. Don't speak to me : it is every where. 
 
 Page. Rest here a while ; they will not dis- 
 cover you. You are indeed very ill. — Are you 
 worse ? 
 
 Vald. Speak not ; my mouth is parched like a 
 cinder ; I can't answer thee. 
 
 Page. I'll fetch you some water. {Going.) 
 
 Vald. {springing across the stage after him.) 
 Not for the universe. 
 
 Page, {aside.) He's strong enough still I see. 
 {Turning his ear to the entry of the vault.) 
 
 Vald. Thou'rt listening; thou hear'st some- 
 thing. 
 
 Page. By my faith, they are coming now. 
 
 Vald. Merciful heaven ! where shall I run? 
 
 Page. Where you please, my Lord. 
 
 Vald. {hurrying iivo or three steps on, in a kind 
 of groping way.) The light fails me : I don't see 
 where I am going. 
 
 Page. Nay, it burns very clearly ; I fear it 
 will discover where we are. 
 
 Vald. Put it out ! put it out, for God's sake ! 
 
THE siege: a comedy. 255 
 
 — Where is it ? (Seizes on Ihe torch, puts it out, 
 stamping on it with his feet, then laying Jiimself 
 on thejloor.') I am gone — I am dead ; tell them 
 so, for God's sake ! 
 
 Page. I shall tell but half a lie when I do. 
 
 Enter Baron and Walter Bauuchel, with Sol- 
 dier^s Cloaks tlirown over them, and Livia in 
 the same Disguise xmth a military/ Cap) drawn 
 over her Eyes, a Servant preceding them with. 
 Torches. 
 
 Liv. {shrinking hack as she enters.) Is he dead ? 
 (Page nods, and winks to her significantly.) 
 
 Bar. {in a rough voice.) Has the caitiff escaped 
 my sword ? Have I thirsted for his blood in vain ? 
 
 JValt. {in a rough voice also.) Is he really 
 dead ? I'll lay my hand on his breast, and feel if 
 his heart beats. 
 
 Page. O don't do that, gracious, merciful Sir ! 
 You'll but defile your worshipful fingers in touch- 
 ing of a dead corse, which brings bad luck with 
 it. 
 
 Walt. Well then, Boy, I will not ; but there 
 are a couple of brawny knaves without, who are 
 burying the dead for us ; they shall come forth- 
 with, and cast him into the pit with the rest. 
 
 Page. O lud, no. Sir ! don't do that, please 
 your worshipful goodness ! What if he should 
 come aUve again ? 
 
 IValt. Never fear that : I'll draw this rapier 
 cross his laced cravat, and make it secure. 
 
 Vald. {starting up upon his knees.) Mercy, 
 
25(3 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 mercy! slay not a dying' man ; let me breathe 
 my last breath without violence. 
 
 Liv. (covering her eyes, and turning msoay her 
 head.) Torment him no more, I beseech you! 
 
 Enter Antonio, and Dartz 'with his arm bound 
 
 up. 
 
 A?it. Nay, Gentlemen, this is unfeeling, un- 
 generous, unmanly. Stand upon your feet, 
 Count Valdermere, (raising him up,) there are 
 none but friends near you, if friends they may 
 be called, who have played you such an abomin- 
 able trick. 
 
 Vald. How is this ? Art thou Antonio ? 
 Where are those who would have butcher'd me? 
 
 Omnes, Liv. and Ant. excepted. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 (laughing some time.) 
 
 Bar. No where, Valdemere, but in your own 
 imagination. We have put this deceit upon 
 you to cure you of arrogance and boasting. 
 
 Walt. Running the usual risk, gentle Count, 
 of not having our services very thankfully ac- 
 knowledged. 
 
 Vald. You have laid a diabolical snare for me, 
 and I have fallen into it most wretchedly. — I 
 have been strangely overcome. I have been 
 
 moved as with magic. — I have been 1 — 
 
 I know not — What shall I call it ? 
 
 Walt. Give yourself no trouble about that, 
 Count ; we can find a name for it. 
 
 Aiit. Nay, good Sir ; you shall not call it by 
 any name a man would be asham (correct- 
 
THE SlKGi: : A COMEDY. 257 
 
 ing himself.) unwilling to hear. The Count, as 
 Dartz has informed me, while I bound up his 
 wound above stairs, has been tampered with, by 
 dreams and fortune-telling and other devices, 
 in a way that might liave overcome many a 
 man, who, differently circumstanced, would not 
 have shrunk from his duty in the field. And 
 shall we sport wantonly with a weakness of our 
 nature in some degree common to all ? We ad- 
 mire a brave man for overcoming it, and should 
 pity the less brave when it overcomes him. 
 
 Liv. {catching his handeagerly .) Noble Antonio! 
 
 Ant. Young man, I thank you : this squeeze 
 of the hand tells me I have you upon my side. 
 
 Vald. And let me also say, " Noble An- 
 tonio!" — And what more can I say! I have 
 not deserved this generous treatment from you. 
 
 Ant. Say nothing more : the transactions of 
 this night shall be as if they had never been : 
 they will never be mentioned by any of us. 
 
 Walt. Speak for yourself, Antonio de Ber- 
 trand ; my tongue is a free agent, and will not 
 be bridled by another person's feelings. But 
 there is one condition on which I consent to be 
 silent as the grave ,; and the Baron and Cheva- 
 lier concur with me. 
 
 Bar. and Dartz. We do so. 
 
 [Exit Bar. 
 
 Dart. We but require of Valdemere to do 
 what, as a man of honour he is bound to do j 
 and satisfied on this point, our silence is secured 
 for ever. 
 
 VOL. III. 8 
 
258 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 Re-enter Baron leading in Nina. 
 
 Bar. (to Vakl.) Look on this fair gentlewo- 
 man : her father was a respectable officer, 
 though misfortunes prevented his promotion. 
 You have taken advantage of her situation, 
 being under the protection of the Countess your 
 mother, as a god-daughter and distant rela- 
 tion, to use her most unworthily. Make her 
 your wife, and receive, as her dowry, your re- 
 putation in the world untarnished. 
 
 Walt. Now, good, heroic, sentimental An- 
 tonio ; is this too much to require of the noble 
 personage you plead for ? 
 
 A7it. On this I am compelled to be silent. 
 
 Bar. Will Count Valdemere vouchsafe us an 
 answer ? Will you marry her or not, Count ? 
 
 Vald. I have indeed — I ought in strict jus- 
 tice She will not accept of one who has 
 
 used her so unworthily. 
 
 Page, (eager Ij/.) I hope not : I would rather 
 than a thousand crowns she would refuse him. 
 
 Dart. Will you have him or not, pretty Nina? 
 Don't be afraid to refuse him : we shan't think 
 the worse of you if you do. (Nina stands silent 
 and "weeping.) 
 
 Page, (aside to Nina.) Don't have him, wo- 
 man ; he's a coward and a coxcomb, and a 
 
 don't have him. 
 
 Nina, (aside.) Ah, you have never loved him 
 as I have done, Brother. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 259 
 
 Page, (aloud.) Murrain take thee and tliy 
 love too ! thou hast no more spirit in thee than 
 a worm. 
 
 Bar. Bravo, Boy ! thou hast enougli of it, I 
 see ; and I'll put a stand of colours into thy hand 
 as soon as thou art strong enough to carry tliem. 
 Thou art my boy now ; I will protect thee. 
 
 Page. I thank you, Baron. — And my sister ; 
 will you protect her too ? 
 
 Bar. Yes, Child ; both of you. 
 
 Page. Refuse him then, Nina: hast thou no 
 more pride about thee ? 
 
 Nina. Alas ! I should have more pride : I 
 know I should ; but I have been sadly humbled. 
 
 Page. Thou'lt be still more so if thou art his 
 wife, trust me ! for he'll despise thee, and cow 
 thee, and make thee a poor slave to his will. 
 Thou'lt tremble at every glance of his eye, and 
 every turn of his humoursome fancy. — He'll 
 treat thee like a very 
 
 Vald. Stop, spiteful wretch ! I'll cherish and 
 protect her, and turn every word thou hast ut- 
 tered to a manifest and abominable falsehood. 
 — Give me thy hand, Nina ; thou really lovest 
 me ; no one will do it but thee j and I sliall 
 have need of somebody to love me. 
 
 Omnes. Well said, Count! this is done like a 
 man! 
 
 Ant. (to Page.) Faith, Boy! those sharp words 
 of thine were worth a store of gentle persuasion. 
 Thou hast woo'd for thy sister in a spell-like 
 fashion as witches say their prayers backwards. 
 
260 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 I wish somebody would court my mistress for 
 me in the same manner : *tis the only chance I 
 have of winning her. 
 
 Liv, (in a feigned voice J) I'll do that for thee, 
 gallant De Bertand ; for I know faults enough 
 of yours to acquaint her with, besides the greatest 
 of all faults, concealing good talents under a 
 bushel ; every tittle of which I will tell her forth- 
 with, and she'll marry you, no doubt, out of 
 spite. 
 
 Ant. Thanks, pleasant stripling! May thy 
 success be equal to thy zeal ! {talcing her hand.) 
 Thy name, youth ? thou hast a pretty gait in 
 that warlike cloak of thine, but thy cap over- 
 shadows thee perversely. — Ha! this is not a 
 boy's hand ! — That ring — O Heavens ! 
 
 (Retires some paces bach in corifiision, while 
 livia, talcing off her cap and cloaks makes 
 him a profound curtesy ; and pauses, ea:- 
 p>ecting him to speak. Finding him silent, 
 she begins to rub her hand, and look at it 
 affectedly.) 
 Liv. It is not a boy's hand. Baron de Ber- 
 trand : 'tis the hand of a weak foolish w oman, 
 which shall be given to a lover of hers who is 
 not much wiser than herself, whenever he has 
 courage to ask it. 
 
 Walt, (aside, jogging Ant.) That is thyself: 
 dost thou not apprehend her, man ? 
 
 Liv. (still looking at her hand.) Even so ; 
 whenever he has courage to ask it. That, I 
 suppose, may happen in about five or six years 
 from this present time. 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. '^(Jl 
 
 Ant. (runfiing up to her^ catching her hand, 
 and putting his knee to the ground.) Now, now, 
 dear Li via ! O that I could utter what I feel ! 
 — I am a fool still ; — I cannot. 
 
 Liv. Nothing you can possibly say will make 
 me more sensible of your generous worth, or 
 more ashamed of my former injustice to it. 
 
 {All crowd round Ant. and Liv. to congra- 
 
 tulate them, "when the Countess is heard 
 
 speaking angrily 'without.') 
 
 Dart. We must pay our compliments another 
 
 time ; I fear there is a storm ready to burst 
 
 upon us. 
 
 Enter Countess, 
 
 Countess. Yes, Gentlemen ; I have heard of 
 your plot, as you call it; a diabolical con- 
 spiracy for debasing the merit you envy. I 
 despise you all : you are beneath ray anger. 
 
 Walt. Let us escape it then. 
 
 Countess, (to Walt.) Aye, snarling Cynic 1 
 who hast always a prick of thy adder's tongue 
 to bestow upon every one whom the world 
 admires or caresses ; thou are the wicked mover 
 of all these contrivances. (To the Bar.) As for 
 you, poor antiquated rhime-maker! had I but 
 continued to praise your verses, you would have 
 suffered me to ruin your whole kindred very 
 quietly ; nor had one single grain of compunction 
 disturbed the sweet calm of your gratified vanity. 
 
 Bar. Nay, Madam ; I cannot charge my 
 memory with any interruption of your goodness, 
 
 s 3 
 
262 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 in this repect, to my face : had you been as 
 perseveringly obliging behind my back, we 
 might indeed have remained longer friends than 
 would have been entirely for the interest of my 
 heir. 
 
 Countess. Well, well ; may every urchin of 
 the principality learn by rote some scrap of your 
 poetry, and mouth it at you as often as you stir 
 abroad ! {To Liv.) And you. Madam ; you are 
 liere, too, amongst this worshipful divan ! This 
 
 is your hospitality — your delicacy — your 
 
 O ! may you wed a tyrant for your pains, and 
 these walls prove your odious prison ! — But I 
 spend my words vainly : where is the unhappy 
 victim of your envious malevolence ? They 
 told me he was here. (^Discovering Vald. and 
 Nina retired to the bottom of the stage. ^ Ha! you 
 arc here, patiently enduring their triumph, 
 degenerate boy ! Is this the fruit of all my 
 cares? Did I procure for you a military ap- 
 pointment, did I tease every creature connected 
 with me for your promotion, did I ruin myself 
 for your extravagant martial equipments — and 
 has it all come to this ? 
 
 Vald. You put me into the army, Madam, to 
 please your own vanity; and they who thrust 
 their sons into it for that purpose, are not al- 
 ways gratified. 
 
 Countess. And you answer me thus ! I have 
 spoilt you, indeed ; and an indulged child, I 
 find, does not always prove a dutiful one. Who 
 is that you hold by the hand ? 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. SGS 
 
 Vald. My wife, Madam. 
 
 Countess. Your wife! You do not say so: 
 you dare not say so. Have they imposed a wife 
 upon you also ? Let go her unworthy hand. 
 
 Vald. No, Madam ; never. It is my hand 
 that is unworthy to hold so much innocent 
 affection. 
 
 Countess. You are distracted : let go her hand, 
 or I renounce you for ever. — What, will you 
 not? 
 
 Vald. I will not. 
 
 Coimtess. Thou can'st be sturdy, I find, only 
 for thine own ruin. They have confounded 
 and bewildered thee : thou hast joined the con- 
 spiracy against thyself, and thy poor mother. — 
 O, I could hate thee more than them all! — 
 Heaven grant me patience ! 
 
 JValt. I like to hear people pray for what they 
 really want. 
 
 Countess. Insolent ! Heaven grant you what 
 you need not pray for, the detestation of every 
 one annoyed with your pestiferous society. 
 
 [Exit in rage. 
 
 Dart. Let us be thankful this tornado is over, 
 and the hurry of an eventful day and night so 
 happily concluded. — I hope, charming Livia, 
 you forgive our deceit, and regret not its con- 
 sequences. 
 
 Liv. The only thing to be regretted. Cheva- 
 lier, is the wound you have received. 
 
 Dart. Thank God ! this, though but slight, 
 is the only harm that has been done to-night, 
 
 s 4 
 
264 THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 
 
 a broken pate or two excepted ; and our feigned 
 attack upon the castle has been providentially 
 the means of defending it from a real one. 
 Had not Antonio, however, who was not in our 
 plot, come so opportunely to our aid, we had 
 been beaten. — But now that I have time to en- 
 quire, how did'st thou come so opportunely ? 
 
 A7it. I have been in the habit of wandering 
 after dark round the walls. Li via knows not 
 how many nights I have watched the light 
 gleaming from the window of her chamber. 
 Wandering then, as usual, I discovered a corps 
 of the enemy on their march to the castle, and 
 went immediately for succour, which I for- 
 tunately found. We have both fought stoutly, 
 my friend, with our little force ; but the blows 
 have fallen to your share, and the blessing to 
 mine. 
 
 Dart. Not so ; friends keep not their shares 
 so distinctly. 
 
 Liv. True, Chevalier; and you claim, be- 
 sides, whatever satisfaction you may have from 
 the gratitude of this good company, for con- 
 triving a plot that has ended so fortunately. 
 
 Dart. Nay, there is, I fear, one person in 
 this good company, from whom my claims, of 
 this kind, are but small. — Count Valdemere, 
 can you forgive me ? 
 
 Vald. Ask me not at present, Dartz. I know 
 that my conduct to Antonio did deserve cor- 
 rection ; but you have taken a revenge for 
 him with merciless severity, which he would 
 
 14 
 
THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. ^65 
 
 himself have been too generous, too noble, to 
 have taken. 
 
 Dart. Well, Count, I confess I stand some- 
 what reproved and conscience-stricken before 
 you. 
 
 Walt, (to Dart.) Why, truly, if he forgive 
 thee, or any of us, by this day twelve-month, it 
 will be as much as we can reasonably expect. 
 
 Dart. Be it so ! And now we have all pardon 
 to ask, where, I hope, it will be granted imme- 
 diately. (Boxving to the audience.') 
 
 THE END OF THE SIEGE. 
 
THE BEACON: 
 
 A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA, 
 IN TWO ACTS. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Ulrick, Lord of the Island, 
 Ermingard. 
 
 Bastiani, Friend o/' Ulrick.' 
 Garcio, Friend o/' Ermingard. 
 Page. 
 
 Pope's Legate. 
 
 Kniglits of St. John of Jerusalem. 
 Fishermen, Singers, Attendants of the 
 Legate, &c. 
 
 WOMEN, 
 
 Aurora. 
 
 Terentia, a nohle Lady, and Governante to 
 Aurora. 
 
 -p, ' > Ladies attending on Aurora. 
 
 Scene, a small Island of the Mediterranean. 
 Time, towards the middle of the 14)th Century, 
 
THE BEACON. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — ^ Grove adjoining to a castellated 
 Buildings part of 'which only is seen. Several 
 People are discovered near the Window of one 
 of its Towers^ who begin to sing as the Curtain 
 draws up. 
 
 Song of several voices. 
 Up ! quit thy bower ^ late wears the hour ; 
 hong have the rooks caw'd round thy tower ; 
 On flower and tree^ loud hums the bee ; 
 The wilding kid sports merrily : 
 A day so bright, sofreshy so clear y 
 Shineth when good fortune *s near. 
 
 Up ! Lady fair, and braid thy hair. 
 
 And rouze thee in the breezy air ; 
 
 The lulling streamy that soothed thy dreaiiiy 
 
 Is dancing in the sunny beam ; 
 
 And hours so sweety so bright, so gay. 
 
 Will waft good fortune on its xvay. 
 
 Up ! time will tell ; tlie friar's bell 
 Its service-sound hath chimed well ; 
 
270 THE BEACON : 
 
 The aged crone keeps house alone. 
 And reapers to thejields are gone ; 
 The active day so boon and brighty 
 May bring good fortune ere the night. 
 
 Enter Page. 
 Page. Leave off your morning songs, they 
 come too late ; 
 My Lady hath been up these two good hours, 
 And hath no heart to listen to your lays ! 
 You should have cheer'd her sooner. 
 
 \st. Sing. Her nightly vigils make the evening 
 morn. 
 And thus we reckoned time. 
 
 Page. Well, go ye now ; 
 
 Another day she'll hear your carols out. 
 
 (Exeunt Page aiid Singers severally, by 
 the bottom of the stage, "johile Ulrick 
 and Terentia enter by the front, speak- 
 ing as they enter.) 
 Ul. Thou pleadest in vain : this*night shall be 
 
 the last. 
 Ter. Have patience, noble Ulrick ; be assur'd, 
 Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone. 
 Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora, 
 Night after night, upon the lofty cliff) 
 Her beacon watch : despondency, ere long. 
 Will steal upon the sad unvaried task. 
 
 Ul. Sad and unvaried ! Aye ; to sober minds 
 So doth it seem indeed. Pve seen a child, 
 Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring 
 The wonted mess, prepared against its waking, 
 
A SERIOUS JMUSICAL DRAMA. 271 
 
 'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt : 
 Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out 
 His rod and baitless line from morn till noon, 
 Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare 
 A thousand times hath ghded, till by force 
 His angry Dame hath dragg'd him from his 
 
 station. 
 Hope is of such a tough continuous nature. 
 That, waiting thus its natural end, my life 
 Shall to an end wear sadly. Patience, say'st 
 
 thou ! 
 I have too long been patient. 
 
 Ter. Then, be it known to thee, despondency 
 Already steals upon her ; for she sits not 
 So oft* as she was wont upon the beach, 
 But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence j 
 And when the night is come, less eagerly 
 She now enquires if yet the beacon's light 
 Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff 
 Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess, 
 Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more. 
 
 UL No, thou unwisely guessest. By that 
 flame 
 I do believe some spirit of the night 
 Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear 
 With whisper'd prophecies of good to come. 
 
 Ter, In truth my Lord, you do yourself talk 
 strangely ; 
 These are wild thoughts. 
 ' UL Nay, be thou well assur'd. 
 
 Spell-bound she is : night hath become her day : 
 
'iy^ THE BEACON : 
 
 On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous 
 
 things, 
 (Shunning the sober intercourse of friends 
 Such as affliction courts,) her ear and fancy 
 Do solely dwell. This visionary state 
 Is foster'd by these nightly watchings ; there- 
 fore, 
 I say again, I will no more endure it ; 
 This night shall be the last. 
 
 Ter. That Ermingard upon tlie plains of 
 Palestine 
 Fell on that fatal day, what sober mind 
 Can truly doubt ; altho* his corpse, defaced, 
 Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd. 
 For, well I am assured, had he survived it. 
 Knowing thou wer't his rival, and Aurora 
 Left in this isle, where thou bear*st sovereign 
 
 sway. 
 He, with a lover's speed, had hastened back. 
 All, whom the havoc of the battle spared, 
 
 Have to their homes returned. Thou sliak*st 
 
 thy head. 
 Thou dost not doubt ? 
 
 Ul. We'll speak of this no more. 
 I'm sick and weary of these calculations. 
 We must and will consider him as dead ; 
 And let Aurora know 
 
 Enter Bastiani. 
 {To Bast, angrily.) Why, Bastiani, 
 Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state : 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 2'J3 
 
 These petty cares are grown most irksome to mej 
 I cannot hear tliee now. 
 
 Bast. Indeed, my Lord, it is no petty care 
 Compels me to intrude. Within your port 
 A vessel from the holy land has moor'd. 
 Ul. {starting J) Warriors from Palestine ? 
 Bast. No, good my Lord ! 
 
 The holy legate on his way to Rome ; 
 Who, by late tempests driven on our coasts. 
 Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit, 
 And give refreshment to his weary train. 
 Ul. In evil hour he comes to lord it here. 
 Bast. He doth appear a meek and peaceful 
 
 man. 
 Ul. *Tis seeming all. I would with mailed 
 foes 
 Far rather in th* embattled plain contend 
 Than strive with such my peaceful town within. 
 Already landed say*st thou ? 
 
 Bast. Yes, from the beach their grave pro- 
 cession comes. 
 Between our gazing sight and the bright deep. 
 That glows behind them in the western sun. 
 Crosses and spears and croziers shew aloft 
 Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct con- 
 fusion ; 
 While grey-cowPd monks, and purple-stoled 
 
 priests. 
 And crested chiefs a closing group below, 
 Motley and garish, yet right solemn too. 
 Move slowly on. — 
 
 Ul. Then must I haste to meet them. 
 
 VOL. III. T 
 
0^4 THE BEACON : 
 
 Bast. Or be most strangely wanting in re- 
 spect. 
 For every street and alley of your city 
 Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them : 
 The very sick and dying, whose wan cheeks 
 No more did think to meet the breath of 
 
 heaven, 
 Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd 
 
 arms 
 To catcli a benediction. Blushing maids. 
 Made bold by inward sense of sanctity, 
 Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands 
 To have them by the holy prelate bless'd ; 
 And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up, 
 That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe 
 May bring tliem good. And in fair truth, my 
 
 Lord, 
 Among-st the crowd the rev'rend legate seems 
 Like a right noble and right gentle parent 
 Cheering a helpless race. 
 
 Ul. Aye, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too. 
 AVere he less gentle I should fear him less. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Bast, He's in a blessed mood : what so dis- 
 turbs him ? 
 Ter. What has disturbed him long, as well 
 thou knowest : 
 Aurora's persevering fond belief 
 That her beloved Ermingard still lives, 
 And will return again. To guide his bark 
 Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles 
 Her watch-fire, sitting by tlie lonely flame ; 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. ^75 
 
 For SO she promised, when he parted from her, 
 To watch for his return. 
 
 Bast. Uhick in wisdom should Jiave married 
 them 
 Before he went, for then the chance had been 
 She had not watch'd so Ions:. 
 Your widow is a thing of more dociUty 
 Than your lorn maiden. — Pardon, fair Terentia. 
 
 Ter. Thy tongue wags freely. Yet, I must 
 confess, 
 Had Ulrick done what thou call'st wisely, he 
 The very thing had done which as her kinsman 
 He was in duty bound to. But, alas ! 
 A wayward passion warp'd him from the right. 
 And made him use his power ungenerously 
 Their union to prevent. 
 
 Bast, But tho' the death of Ermingard were 
 prov'd, 
 Think'st thou Aurora would bestow her hand 
 On one who has so long her wishes cross'd, 
 A lover cloth'd in stern authority ? 
 
 Ter. I know not ; Ulrick fondly so believes ; 
 And I, altho' allied to him by blood, 
 The playmate also of his early days. 
 Dare not an opposite opinion utter. 
 
 Bast. Hark there ! I hear without th* ap- 
 proaching crowd. 
 My duty on this public ceremony 
 I must attend for honour of the state. 
 In petty courts like this, on such occasions. 
 One spangled doublet more or less bears count. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 T ^Z 
 
276 THE BEACON : 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A?i A?'bouj\ supported by rustic xioooden Pillars^ 
 twined r^owid with Flowers and green Plants^ 
 and a Floxcer Garden seen in the back Ground 
 between the Pillars, Enter Vage, Jbllowed by 
 Edda, speaking as she enters. 
 
 Ed, Yes, do so, boy ; Aurora is at hand. — - 
 But take with thee, besides, this little basket. 
 And gather roses in the farther thicket. 
 Close to the garden gate. — 
 
 Page. (Jaking the basket.^ 
 Give it me then. She chid me yesterday 
 For gathering full-spread roses, whose loose leaves 
 Fell on her lap : to-day I'll fill my basket 
 AVith buds, and budlings, and half-open'd 
 
 flowers. 
 Such as nice dames do in their kerchiefs place. 
 
 Ed. Prate less and move thee quicker. Get 
 thee hence. 
 See there thy mistress comes : haste to thy task. 
 
 [Exit Page. 
 
 Enter Aurora and Terentia. 
 Ter. Here you will find a more refreshing air j 
 The western sun beats fiercely. 
 
 Aur. Western sun ! 
 
 Is time so far advanced ? I left my couch 
 Scarcely an hour ago. 
 
 Ter. You are deceived. 
 
 Three hours liave past, but past by you un- 
 lieeded ; 
 
A SERIOUS :\JUS1CAL DRAMA. '277 
 
 Who have the while in silent stillness sat, 
 Like one forlorn, that has no need of time. 
 u4ur. In truth I now but little liave to do 
 With time or any thing besides. It passes j 
 Hour follows hour ; day follows day ; and year, 
 If I so long shall last, will follow year : 
 Like drops that thro* the cavern'd hermit's roof 
 Some cold spring filters ; glancing on his eye 
 At measured intervals, but moving not 
 His fix*d unvaried notice. 
 
 Ed. Nay, dearest Lady, be not so depressed. 
 You have not ask'd me for my song to-day — 
 The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not 
 
 sing it ? 
 I do but wait your bidding. 
 
 Aui\ 1 thank thy kindness; sing it if thou wilt. 
 (^Sits down on a low seat, her head supported 
 between both her hands, with her elbows 
 resting on her knees. ^ 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Where distant billows meet the shjj, 
 A palcy dull light the seamen spy. 
 As spent they stand and tempest-tost. 
 Their vessel struck, their rudder lost ; 
 While distant homes where /linsmen weep. 
 And graves full many a fathom deep, 
 By turns their ftful, gloomy thoughts pourtray : 
 " *Tis some delusion of the sight, 
 Some northern streamer's paly light.'* 
 *' Fools /'* saith rous'd Hope with gen'rous scorn, 
 *' It is the blessed peep of morn. 
 And aid and safety come when comes the day." 
 
 T 3 
 
278 THE BEACON : 
 
 And so it is ; the gradual shine 
 
 Spreads o'er heaven^ s verge its lengthened line: 
 
 Cloud after cloud begins to glow 
 
 And tint the changeful deep below ; 
 
 Noxv sombre red, now amber bright, 
 
 Till upward breaks the blazing light ; 
 
 Like floating f re the gleamy billows burn : 
 
 Far distant on the ruddy tide, 
 
 A black*7iing sail is seen to glide ; 
 
 Loud bursts their eager joyful cry. 
 
 Their hoisted signal waves on high, 
 
 And life and strength and happy thoughts return. 
 
 Ter, Is not her voice improved in power and 
 
 sweetness ? 
 Ld. It is a cheering song. 
 Aur, It cheers those who are cheer'd. 
 
 (^After a pause.) 
 
 Twelve years are past ; 
 
 Their daughters matrons grown, their infants 
 
 youths, 
 And they themselves with aged furrows mark*d j 
 But none of all their kin are yet return'd ; 
 No, nor shall ever. 
 
 Ter. Still run thy thoughts upon those hapless 
 women 
 Of that small hamlet, whose adventurous peasants 
 To Palestine with noble Baldwin went, 
 And ne'er were heard of more ? 
 
 Aur. They perish'd there ; and of their dis- 
 mal fate 
 No trace remain'd — none of them all return*d. 
 
A SERIOUS .MUSICAL DRAMA. '^79 
 
 Did'st thou not say so ? — Husbands, lovers, 
 
 friends. 
 Not one returned again. 
 Ter. So I believe. 
 Aur. Thou but believest then ? 
 
 Ter. As I was told 
 
 Ed. Thou hast the story wrong. 
 
 Four years gone by, one did return again ; 
 But marr'd, and maim*d, and chang'd — a woe- 
 ful man. 
 Aur. And what tho* every limb were hacked 
 and maim*d, 
 And roughen'd o'er with scars? — he did return. 
 (Risi?ig lightly from her seat.) 
 I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go, 
 To the Antipodes or burning zone. 
 To see that man who did return again. 
 And her who did receive him. — Did receive him ! 
 
 what a moving thought hu'ks here ! — How 
 
 was't ? 
 Tell it me all : and oh, another time, 
 Give me your tale ungarbled. — 
 
 Enter Viola. 
 
 Ha, Viola ! 'tis my first sight of thee 
 
 Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope, 
 
 A sound and kindly sleep. 
 
 Viol. Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd 
 
 with dreams. 
 Aur. How cross'd ? what was thy dream ? 
 O tell it me ! 
 
 1 have an ear that cra\es for every thing 
 
 T 4 
 
^80 THE BEACON : 
 
 That hath the smallest sign or omen in it. 
 It was not sad ? 
 
 Viol. Nay, rather strange ; Methought 
 
 A christening feast within your bower was held ; 
 But when the infant to the font was brought, 
 It prov'd a full-grown man in armour clad. 
 Aur. A full-grown man ! * (considering for a 
 
 moment, and then holding up her hmids.) 
 O blessing on thy dream ! 
 From death to life restor'd is joyful birth. 
 It is, it is ! Come to my heart, sweet maid, 
 
 (Embt^acing Viola.) 
 A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep ! 
 I feel a kindling life within me stir. 
 That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth 
 A joy that soon shall be. 
 
 Ter. So may it prove ! 
 
 But trust not such vain fancies, nor appear 
 Too much elated ; for unhappy Ulrick 
 Swears that your Beacon, after this night's 
 
 watch. 
 Shall burn no more. 
 
 Aur. He does ! then will we have 
 
 A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze 
 Shall through the darkness shoot full many a 
 
 league 
 Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star 
 Preceding changeful- — aye, and better times. 
 It may in very truth. O if his bark 
 (For many a bark within its widened reach 
 The dark seas traverse) should our light descry! 
 Should this be so — it may j perhaps it will. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DUA3IA. ^81 
 
 tluit it might ! — We'll have a rousing blaze ! 
 Give me your hands. {Taking Viola and Te- 
 
 rentia gaily by the hands.) 
 
 iSo lightly bounds my heart, 
 
 1 could like midnight goblins round the flame 
 Unruly orgies hold. — Ha ! think ye not, 
 When to the font our mail-clad infant comes, 
 Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove ? 
 
 Viol. Assuredly, so will his honour prompt. 
 
 Aur. Nay, rather say his pride. Methinks I 
 see him ; 
 His darkened figure striding cross the hall, 
 Wliile his high plume, that noddles to and fro. 
 Shews his perturbed and restless courtesy. 
 Good, noble, happy wight ! Yet woe betide 
 The luckless hound that fawns on him that day! 
 His dismal yell disturbs the ceremony. 
 Ha, ha ! I needs must laugh. 
 
 Ter. Indeed you let your fancy wildly run, 
 And disappointment will but prove the sharper. 
 
 Aur. Talk not of disappointment ; be assur'd 
 Some late intelligence hath Ulrick prompted 
 To these stern orders. On our sea there sails. 
 Or soon will sail, some vessel, which right gladly 
 He would permit to founder on the coast, 
 Or miss its course. But no, it will not be : 
 In spite of all his hatred, to the shore. 
 Thro* seas as dark as subterraneous night. 
 It will arrive in safety. 
 
 Ter. Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy 
 wishes 
 With wild unlikely thoughts ; for Ulrick surely 
 No such intellige nee hath had, and thou 
 
282 THE BEACON : 
 
 But mak'st thy after-sorrow more acute 
 When these vain fancies fail. 
 
 Aur. And let them fail : tho' duller thoughts 
 succeed, 
 The bliss e*en of a moment still is bliss. 
 
 Viol, {to Ter.) Thou would'st not of her dew- 
 drops spoil the thorn, 
 Because her glory will not last till noon ; 
 Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt. 
 Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't! 
 J f this be wise, 'tis cruel. 
 
 Aur. Thanks, gentle Viola ; thou art ever kind. 
 AVe'll think to-morrow still hath good in store, 
 And make of this a blessing for to-day, 
 Tho' good Terentia there may chide us for it. 
 
 Ter. And thus a profitable life you'll lead. 
 Which hath no present time, but is made up 
 Entirely of to-morrows. 
 
 Aur. Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship 
 still 
 The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good 
 For wretched folks. They who lament to-day, 
 May then rejoice : they who in misery bend 
 E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed. 
 O ! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours 
 May of returning joy contain ? To-morrow ! \ , 
 The blest to-morrow ! cheering, kind to-morrow! " 
 I were a heathen not to worship thee. 
 {To Ter.) Frown not again; we must not 
 wrangle now. 
 
 Ter. Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies 
 cherish. 
 Thou forcest me to seem unkind and sterrt. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DUAMA. 283 
 
 Atir. Ah ! be not stern. Edda will sing tlic 
 song 
 That makes feet beat and heads nod to its tunej 
 And even grave Terentia will be moved 
 To think of pleasant things. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wtsh\ljbr galeSy the light vane veerings 
 
 Better dt^ecmis the dull night cheeringy 
 
 Lighter heart the morning greetings 
 
 Things of better omen meeting ; 
 
 Eyes each passing stranger watching^ 
 
 Ears each feeble rumour catching, 
 
 Say he existeth still on earthly ground, 
 
 The absent will retur?i, the long, long lost be found. 
 
 In the tower the ward-bell ringing. 
 
 In the court the carols singing. 
 
 Busy hands the gay board dressing. 
 
 Eager steps the threshold piressing. 
 
 Opened arms in haste advancing, 
 
 Joyful looks thro* blind tears glancing. 
 
 The gladsome bounding of his aged hound. 
 
 Say he in truth is here, our long, long lost is found. 
 
 Hymned thanks and beadsmen praying. 
 With sheath* d sword the urchin playi7ig. 
 Blazoned hall with torches burning. 
 Cheerful morn in peace returning. 
 Converse sweet that strangely borrows 
 Present bliss from former sorrows ; 
 O who can tell each blessed sight and sound 
 That says, he with u& bides, our lo?ig, lo?ig lost is 
 found. 
 
284" THE BEACON : 
 
 Aur. (who at Jirst nods her head lightly to 
 the measure, noxo bursts into tears, takhig 
 Edda'5 hands between hers, and pressing 
 them gratefully.^ 
 I thank thee : this shall be our daily song : 
 It cheers my heart, altho' these foolish tears 
 Seem to disgrace its sweetness. 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Viol, {to Aur.) Here comes your page with 
 lightly-bounding steps, 
 As if he brought good tidings. 
 
 Ed. Grant he may ! 
 
 Aur. (eagerly.) What brings thee hither, boy ? 
 Page, (to Aur.) A noble stranger of the Le- 
 gate's train, 
 Come from the Holy Land, doth wait without, 
 Near to the garden gate, where I have left him; 
 He begs to be admitted to your presence ; 
 Pleading for such indulgence as the friend 
 Of Ermingard, for so he bade me say. 
 
 Aur. The friend of Ermingard ! the Holy 
 Land ! 
 (Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up 
 her arms in ecstasy.) 
 O God! it is himself! 
 
 (Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, 
 tJien catching hold 0/ Terentia, who follows 
 her.) 
 My head is dizzy grown ; I cannot go. 
 Haste, lead him hither, boy. 
 
 (Waving her hand impatiently.) 
 Fly y hear'st thou not ? [Exit Page. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 285 
 
 Ter, Be not so greatly mov'd. It is not 
 likely 
 This should be Ermingard. The boy has seen 
 
 him, 
 And would have known him. 'Tis belike some 
 friend. 
 Aur. No ; every thrilling fibre of my frame 
 Cries out " It is himself" {Looking out.) 
 
 He comes not yet : how strange ! how dull ! how 
 tardy ! 
 Ter. Your page hath scarce had time to reach 
 the gate, 
 Tho' he hath run right quickly. 
 
 Aur. {pausing and looking out.) 
 He comes not yet. Ah ! if it be not he ; 
 My sinking heart misgives me. 
 O now he comes ! the size and air are his. 
 Ter. Not to my fancy ; there is no resem- 
 blance. 
 Am\ Nay, but there is : and see, he wears his 
 cloak 
 As he was wont to do ; and o'er his cap 
 The shading plume so hangs. — It is ! it is ! 
 (Enter Garcio ; a?id she^ breaking from Te- 
 rentia, rmns towards him.) 
 My lost, my found, my blest ! conceal thee not. 
 {Going to catch him in her arms^ when 
 Garcio takes off his plumed cap^ and bows 
 profoundly/. She utters a faint cry, a7id 
 shrinks back.) 
 Gar. Lady, I see this doff'd cap hath disco- 
 ver'd 
 
^86 THE BEACON : 
 
 A face less welcome than the one you look'd for. 
 Pardon a stranger's presence ; I've presumed 
 Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard, 
 Who bade me — 
 
 Aur. Bade thee ! is he then at hand? 
 
 Gar. Ah, would he were ! 
 'Twas in a hostile and a distant land 
 He did commit to me these precious tokens, 
 Desiring me to give them to Aurora, 
 And with them too his sad and last farewel. 
 
 Aur. And he is dead 1 
 
 Gar. Nay, wring not thus your hands: 
 
 He was alive and well when he entrusted me 
 With what I now return. 
 
 (Offering her a small casket.) 
 
 Aur. Alive and well, and sends me back my 
 tokens ! 
 
 Gar. He sent them back to thee as Ulrick's 
 wife; 
 For such, forc'd by intelligence from hence 
 Of strong authority, he did believe thee ; 
 And in that fatal fight, which shortly followed. 
 He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame. 
 Fame he indeed hath earn'd. 
 
 Aur. But not the other ? 
 
 Ah, do not say he has ! Amongst the slain 
 His body was not found. 
 
 Gar. As we have learnt, the Knights of blest 
 St. John 
 Did from the field of dying and of wounded 
 Many convey, who in their house of charity 
 All care and solace had ; but with the names, 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 287 
 
 Recorded as within their walls receiv'd, 
 
 His is not found ; therefore we must account him 
 
 With those who, shrouded in an unknown fate, 
 
 Are as the dead lamented, as the dead 
 
 For ever from our worldly care dismiss'd. 
 
 Aur. Lamented he shall be; but from my care 
 Dismiss'd as are the dead — that is impossible. 
 
 Te}\ Nay, listen to advice so wise and needful : 
 It is the friend of Ermingard who says, 
 Let him witliin thy mind be as the dead. 
 
 Aur. My heart repels the thought; it cannot be. 
 No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found. 
 Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd to 
 
 me. 
 Within my breast he shall be living still. 
 
 Te7\ Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after 
 night, 
 To guide his bark who never will return ? 
 
 Au7\ Who never will return ! And tliinkest 
 thou 
 To bear me down with such presumptuous words? 
 Heaven makes me strong against thee : 
 There is a Power above that calms the storm, 
 Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life : 
 1 will in humble faith my watch still keep ; 
 Force only shall restrain me. 
 
 Gar. Force never shall, thou noble, ardent 
 spirit ! 
 Thy generous confidence would almost tempt me 
 To think it will be justified. 
 
 Aur. Ha! say'st thou so? A blessing rest 
 upon thee 
 
288 THE BEACON : 
 
 For these most cheering words ! Some guardian 
 
 power 
 Whispers within thee. — No, we*li not despair. 
 
 Enter Ulrick. 
 
 Ul. (Jo Gar.) Your dismal mission is, I 
 trust, fulfill'd ; 
 Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind 
 That 1 entreat you to retire ; for they 
 Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left 
 To grieve without constraint. 
 
 Aur. Thanks for your kind concern, most 
 noble Sir; 
 And when we needs must sorrow for the dead. 
 We'll freely grieve without constraint. But 
 
 know. 
 Until our corse is found, we ring no knell. 
 If then your ear for funeral dirges long. 
 Go to some other bower ; hope still is here. 
 Ul. Ha ! still perversely bent ! what can con- 
 vince thee ? 
 This is distraction. 
 
 Aur. Be it what it may. 
 
 It owns not thy authority. Brave youth, (^aGar.) 
 I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledg- 
 ment, 
 1*11 find another time to give thee thanks. 
 
 \J^XY£t followed by Viol, and Ed. 
 UL Such hope is madness ! yield we to her 
 humour ? 
 No, she must be to sober reason brought. 
 By steady, firm controul. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. ^89 
 
 Gar. Mean you by this, my Lord, a forc'd 
 
 controul ? 
 Ul, Who shall enquire my meaning? 
 Gar. The holy Legate, patron of th' oppress'd, 
 Will venture to enquire. 
 
 Ul. Aye, as his nephew, thou presumest, I 
 
 see. 
 But know, bold youth, I am unused to threats. 
 Gar. Yet brook them as you may. I take 
 
 my leave. [^Exit. 
 
 Manent Ulrick and Terentia. 
 Ul. Did I not say these cursed meddling 
 priests — 
 These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they come, 
 Would rule and power usurp ? Woe worth the 
 
 hour 
 That brought them here ! — And for this head- 
 strong maniac 
 
 As such, I will 
 
 Ter. Hush, hush ! these precincts 
 
 quit. 
 It is not well, here to expose to view 
 Thy weak ungovern'd passions. Thou*rt ob- 
 served ; 
 Retire with me, where skreen'd from every eye. 
 With more possession of thy ruffled mind, 
 Thou may'st consider of thy wayward state. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
^90 THE BEACON : 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. — A ^flat Spot of Ground on the top 
 of a Cliffy "ditli broken craggy Rocks on each 
 Side, and a large mass of Rock in the middle, 
 on which a great Fire of Wood is burning ; a 
 dark Sea in the back Ground : the Scene to re- 
 ceive no Light but from the Fire. Two Fisher- 
 men are discovered watching the Fire, and sup- 
 plying it with Wood. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 First Fisherman. 
 
 " HIGH is the tower, and the watch-dogs bay. 
 And the fitting owlets shriek ; 
 I see thee wave thy mantle grey. 
 But I camiot hear thee speak. 
 
 " O, are they from the east or west 
 The tidings he bears to me ? 
 Or from the land that I love best. 
 
 From the knight of the north countree ?** 
 
 Swift down the winding stair she 7msh*d, 
 Like a gust of the summer wind ; 
 
 Her steps were light, her breath was hush'd. 
 And she dared not look behind. 
 
 She passed by stealth the 7iarrow door. 
 
 The postern way also. 
 And thought each bush her robe that tore. 
 
 The grasp of a warding foe. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 291 
 
 And she has climbed the moat so steeih 
 
 JVith chilly dread and fear ^ 
 While th' evening Jly hiimm'd dull and deep, 
 
 Like a wardman whispering near. 
 
 " A'^orr, ivho art thou, thou Palmer tall, 
 JVho beclionest so to me ? 
 Art thou from that dear and distant hall ? 
 Art thou from the north coimtree?'* 
 
 He raised his hood with wary wile. 
 
 That covered his raven hair. 
 And a manlier face and a sweeter smile 
 
 Ne'er greeted lady fair, 
 
 " My coal-black steed feeds in tJie brake. 
 Of generous blood and true ; 
 He* II soon the nearest frontier make. 
 Let they who list pursue. 
 
 " Thy pale cheek shows an altered mind. 
 Thine eye the blinding tear ; 
 Come not with me if aught behind 
 Is to thy heart more dear. 
 
 " Thy sire and dame are in that hall. 
 Thy friend, thy mother's son; 
 Come not xdth me, if one d'them all 
 E*er lov'd thee as I have done.*' 
 
 The lady mounted the coal-black steed. 
 
 Behind her knight I ween. 
 And they have passed thro' brake and mead. 
 
 And plain, and^ woodland green. 
 u 2 
 
292 THE BEACON ! 
 
 But harky behind! the wardet^s shouts 
 
 And the hasty larums ring ; 
 And the mingled sound of a gathering rout 
 
 The passing air doth bring. 
 
 " O noble steed! now *quit thee well, 
 And prove thy generous kind! 
 That fearful sound doth louder swell, 
 It is not far behind. 
 
 *' The frontier* s Jiear — a span the plain. 
 Press on and do not fail! 
 Ah! on our steps fell horsemen gain, 
 I hear their ringing mail." 
 
 Qd Fish. Tush, man ! give o'er ; thy ballads 
 have no end, 
 When thou art in the mood. I hear below 
 A sound of many voices on the shore : 
 Some boat, belike, forced by the drifting current 
 Upon the rocks, may be in jeopardy. 
 
 1st Fish. 'Tis all" a mock to cut my ditty short. 
 Thou hast no mind to hear how it befel 
 That those two lovers were by kinsmen stern 
 O'erta'en ; and how the knight, by armed foes 
 Beset, a bloody combat bravely held. 
 And was the while robb'd of his lady fair. 
 And how in Paynim land they met again. 
 How, as a Page disguised, she sought her knight, 
 Left on the field as lifeless. How she cheer'd 
 
 him ; 
 And how they married were, and home in 
 state 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. Q^S 
 
 Q,d Fish. Ha* done, ha' done ! a hundred 
 times I've heard it. 
 My Grandam liill'd me with it on her lap 
 Full many a night ; and as my father sat, 
 Mending his nets upon the beach, he sung it. 
 I would I knew my prayers as well. — But hark! 
 I hear a noise again. 
 
 (Goes to the bottom of the stage, as if he 
 were looking down to the sea.) 
 Along the shore 
 I see lights moving swiftly. 
 
 1*/ Fish. Some fishermen, who, later than the 
 rest, 
 Their crazy boat bring in ; while, to the beach, 
 With flaming brands, their wives and children 
 
 run. 
 Rare sight, indeed, to take thy fancy so! 
 
 (Sings again.) 
 Nojish stir in our heaving net, 
 And the sky is dark, and the night is wet; 
 And we must ply the lusty oar. 
 For the tide is ebbing from the shore ; 
 And sad are they whose faggots burn. 
 So kindly stored for our return. 
 
 Our boat is small and the tempest raves. 
 And nought is heard but the lashing waves. 
 And the sullen roar of the angry sea. 
 And the wild winds piping drearily ; 
 Yet sea and tempest rise in vain. 
 We' II bless our blazing hearths again. 
 u S 
 
294 THE BEACON *. 
 
 Push bravely y Mates! Our guiding star 
 Now from its towerlet streameth far ; 
 And now along the nearing strand^ 
 See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand: 
 Before the midnight watch is pasty 
 WeUl quaff our bowl and mock the blast. 
 
 Bast, (without.) 
 Holla, good Mate ! Thou who so bravely sing'st ! 
 Come down, I pray thee. 
 
 1st Fish. Who art thou who calPst ? 
 
 '^d Fish. I know the voice ; 'tis Sign*or Bas- 
 
 tiani. 
 1st Fish. What ! he, at such an hour, upon 
 the cliff! 
 {Calling down.) I cannot come. If, from my 
 
 station here. 
 This fire untended, 1 were found; good sooth! 
 I had as lief the luckless friar be. 
 Who spilt the Abbot's wine. 
 
 2c? Fish. I'll go to him. [Exit. 
 
 1^^ Fish, (niuttering to himself.) 
 Aye; leave my watch, indeed! a rare entreaty! 
 
 Enter Bastiani. 
 Bast. Wilt thou not go ? A boat near to the 
 shore. 
 In a most perilous state, calls for assistance : 
 Who is like thee, good Stephen, bold and 
 
 skilful? 
 Haste to its aid, if there be pity in thee. 
 Or any Christian grace. I will, meantime. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 295 
 
 Thy beacon watch ; and, should the lady come, 
 Excuse thy absence. Haste ; make no reply. 
 ist Fish. I will ; God help us all ! [Exit. 
 Bast, Here is, indeed, a splendid noble fire 
 Left me in ward. It makes the darkness round. 
 To its fierce light oppos'd, seem thick and palp- 
 able, 
 And clos'd o'er head, like to the pitchy cope 
 
 Of some vast cavern. Near at hand, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 Soft female voices speak : I'll to my station. 
 
 (^Retires from thej'ront of the stage behind 
 the fire.) 
 
 Enter Aurora, Tkrentia a7id Viola. 
 Viol. A rousing light ! Good Stephen hath 
 full well 
 Obey'd your earnest bidding. — Fays and 
 
 witches 
 Might round its blaze their midnight revelry 
 Right fitly keep. 
 
 Ter, Aye ; thou lov'st wilds and 
 
 darkness. 
 And fire and storms, and things unsooth and 
 
 strange : 
 This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on it. 
 Thy face a witch-like eagerness assumes.;^ 
 
 Viol, ril be a goblin then, and round it 
 dance. 
 Did not Aurora say we thus should hold 
 This nightly vigil. Yea, such were her words. 
 u 4 
 
Qg6 THE BEACON : 
 
 Atir. They were light bubbles of some mant- 
 ling thought, 
 That now is flat and spiritless ; and yet, 
 If thou art so inclined, ask not my leave, 
 Dance if thou wilt. 
 
 Viol, Nay, not alone, sweet sooth ! 
 
 Witches, themselves, some fiend-like partners 
 find. 
 Ter. And so may'st thou. Look yonder ; 
 near the flame 
 A crested figure stands. That is not Stephen. 
 Aur. {eagerly.) A crested figure ! Where? 
 O call to it ! 
 
 (Bast, comes Jbr'tvard,) 
 Ter. 'Tis Bastiani. 
 
 Aur. Aye ; 'tis Bastiani : 
 
 'Tis he, or any one ; 'tis ever thus ; 
 So is my fancy mock'd. 
 
 Bast. If I offend you. Madam, 'tis unwil- 
 lingly. 
 Stephen has for a while gone to the beach. 
 To help some fishermen, who, as I guess. 
 Against the tide would force their boat to land. 
 He'll soon return ; meantime, I did entreat him 
 To let me watch his Beacon. Pardon me ; 
 I had not else intruded ; tho' full oft 
 I've clamber' d o'er these cliffs, ev'n at this 
 
 hour. 
 To see the ocean from its sabled breast 
 The flickering gleam of these bright flames re- 
 turn. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 297 
 
 Aur, Make no excuse, I pray thee. I am 
 
 told 
 By good Terentia thou dost wish me well, 
 Tho' Ulrick long has been thy friend. I know 
 A wanderer on the seas in early youth 
 Thou wast, and still can'st feel for all storm- 
 
 toss*d 
 On that rude element. 
 
 Bast. 'Tis true, fair Lady : I have been, ere 
 
 now. 
 Where such a warning light, sent from the 
 
 shore. 
 Had saved some precious lives ; which makes 
 
 the task, 
 I now fulfil, more grateful. 
 
 Aut\ How many leagues from shore may such 
 
 a light 
 By the benighted mariner be seen ? 
 
 Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it faintly. 
 Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering 
 From some cav'd rock that brows the dreary 
 
 waste ; 
 Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house, 
 Which through the silent night the traveller spies 
 Upon his doubtful way. 
 
 Viol. Fie on such images ! 
 Thou should'st have liken*d it to things more 
 
 seemly. 
 Thou might'st have said the peasant's evening 
 
 fire 
 That from his upland cot, thro* winter's gloom. 
 What time his wife their evening meal prepares. 
 
^298 THE BEACON *. 
 
 Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his 
 
 heart ; 
 Or signal-torch, that from my Lady's bower 
 Tells wand'ring knights the revels are begun ; 
 Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house 
 O' long October nights, thro* the still air 
 
 Looks rouzingly. To have our gallant 
 
 Beacon 
 Ta'en for a lazar-house ! 
 
 Bast. Well, Maiden, as thou wilt : thy gentle 
 Mistress 
 Of all these things may chuse what Hkes her best. 
 To paint more clearly how her noble lire 
 The distant seaman cheers, who bless the while 
 The hand that kindled it. 
 
 Aur. Shall I be bless'd 
 
 By wandering men returning to their homes ? 
 By those from shipwreck sav'd, again to cheer 
 Their wives, their friends, their kindred? Bless'd \^ 
 
 by those ! 
 And shall it not a blessing call from heaven ? 
 It will ; my heart leaps at the very thought : 
 The seamen's blessing rests upon my head 
 
 To charm my wanderer home. 
 
 Heap on more wood : 
 Let it more brightly blaze. — Good Bastiani, 
 Hie to thy task, and we'll assist thee gladly. 
 (Js they begin to occupy themselves with the 
 Jire, the sound of distant voices, singing in 
 harmony i is heard under the stage as if 
 ascending the cliffV) 
 Aur. What may it be ? 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. ^\)0 
 
 Viol. The songs of Paradise, 
 
 But that our savage rocks and gloomy night 
 So ill agree with peaceful soothing bliss. 
 
 Ter. No blessed spirits in these evil days 
 Hymn, thro' the stilly darkness, strains of 
 grace. 
 
 Aur. Nay list ; it comes again. 
 
 (Voices heard nearer.) 
 
 Ter. The mingled sound comes nearer, and 
 betrays 
 Voices of mortal men. 
 
 Viol. In such sweet harmony ! 
 
 I never heard the like. 
 
 Aur. They must be good and holy who can 
 utter 
 Such heavenly sounds. 
 
 Bast. I've surely heard before 
 
 This solemn chorus chaunted by the knights, 
 The holy brothers of Jerusalem. 
 It is a carrol sung by them full oft. 
 When saved from peril dire of flood or field. 
 
 Aur. The Knights of blest St. John from Pa- 
 lestine 1 
 Alas ! why feel I thus ? knowing too well 
 They cannot bring the tidings 1 would hear. 
 
 (Chorus rises again very near.') 
 
 Viol. List, list ! they've gain'd the summit of 
 the cliff: 
 They are at hand ; their voices are distinct ; 
 Yea, ev'n the words they sing. 
 
SOO THE BEACON : 
 
 (A solemn Song or Hymn, sung in harmony, 
 heard without,^ 
 
 Men preserved from storm and tide 
 Andjire and battle raging "wide ; 
 What shall subdue our steady faith. 
 Or of our heads a hair shall skathe ? 
 Men preserved in gladness weeping. 
 Praise him, who hath alway our souls i?i holy 
 keeping. 
 
 And wheresoever in earth or sea 
 Our spot of rest at last shall be ; 
 Our swords in many a glorious f eld, 
 Surviving heroes still shall wield. 
 While we ourfaitJful toils are reaping 
 With him, who hath alway our souls in holy 
 keeping. 
 (Enter six Knights of St. John of Jerusalem 
 171 procession, with their followers behind 
 them, who doiiL t advaiice upon the stage, but 
 remain partly concealed behind the rocks.) 
 Aur. Speak to them, Bastiani ; thou'rt a soldier; 
 Thy mind is more composed. — I pray thee do. 
 (Motioning Bast, to accost them.) 
 Bast. This lady, noble Warriors, greets you all, 
 And offers you such hospitality 
 As this late hour and scanty means afford. 
 Wilt please ye round this blazing fire to rest? 
 After such perilous tossing on the waves, 
 You needs must be forspent. 
 
 1 st Knight. We thank you, Sir, and this most 
 noble dame, 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 801 
 
 Whose Beacon hath from shipwreck savM us. 
 
 Driven 
 By adverse winds too near your rocky coast, 
 Warned by its friendly light, we stood to sea : 
 But soon discovering that our crazy bark 
 Had sprung a dangerous leak, we took our boat 
 And made for shore. The nearest point of land 
 Beneath this cliff, with peril imminent, 
 By help of some good fishermen we gained ; 
 And here, in God's good mercy, safe we are 
 With grateful hearts. 
 
 Au7\ We praise that mercy also 
 
 Which hath preserved you. 
 
 1*^ Knight. Lady, take our thanks. 
 
 And may the vessel of that friend beloved, 
 For whom you watch, as we have now been told. 
 Soon to your shore its welcome freight convey. 
 
 Aur, Thanks for the wish ; and may its 
 prayers be heard. 
 Renowned men ye are ; holy and brave ; 
 In every field of honour and of arms 
 Some of your noble brotherhood are found : 
 Perhaps the valiant knights I now beliold. 
 Did on that luckless day against the Souldain 
 With brave De Villeneuve for the cross contend. 
 If this be so, you can, perhaps, inform me 
 Of one who in the battle fought, whose fate 
 Is still unknown. 
 
 1st Knight. None of us all, fair Dame, so ho- 
 nour*d were 
 As in that field to be, save this young knight. 
 Sir Bertram, wherefore, in thy mantle lapt. 
 
30Q THE beacon: 
 
 Stand'st thou so far behind? Speak to hhn, Lady: 
 For in that battle he right nobly fought, 
 And may, belike, wot of the friend you mention*d. 
 Aur. (going up eagerly to the young Knight.') 
 Did*st thou there fight ? — then surely thou 
 
 did*st know 
 The noble Ermingard, who from this isle 
 
 With valiant Conrad went : 
 
 What fate had he upon that dismal day? 
 
 Young Kt. Whate'er his fate in that fell fight 
 might be, 
 He now is as the dead. 
 
 Aur. Is as the dead! ha! then he is not dead : 
 He's living still. O tell me — tell me this 1 
 Say he is still alive ; and tho* he breathe 
 In the foul pest-house ; tho' a wretched wand*rer, 
 Wounded and maim*d ; yea, tho' his noble form 
 With chains and stripes and slavery be disgraced, 
 Say he is living still, and I will bless thee. 
 Thou know*st — full well thou know'st, but wilt 
 
 not speak. 
 What means that heavy groan ? For love of God, 
 speak to me ! 
 (Tears the mantle from hisface^ with xvhich he 
 had C07icealed it.) 
 My Ermingard ! My blessed Ermingard ! 
 Thy very living self restored again ! 
 Why turn from me ? 
 
 Er. Ah ! calPst thou this restored ? 
 
 Aur. Do I not grasp thy real living hand ? 
 Dear, dear ! — so dear ! most dear ! — my lost, 
 my found ! 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 303 
 
 Thou turn*st and vveep'st ; art thou not so to 
 me? 
 
 Er. Ah ! would I were ! alas, alas ! I'm lost : 
 Severed from thee for ever. 
 
 Aur. How so ? What mean such words ? 
 
 Er. (shaking his head, and pointing to the cross 
 on his mantle J) 
 Look on this emblem of a holy vow 
 Which binds and weds me to a heavenly love : 
 We are, my sweet Aurora, far divided ; 
 Our bliss is wreck'd for ever. 
 
 Aur. No ; thou art still alive, and that is bliss. 
 Few moments since, what would I not have sa- 
 crificed. 
 To know that in the lapse of many years 
 
 I should again behold thee ? — 1 had been 
 
 How strongly thou art moved ! — Thou heed*st 
 me not. 
 
 Ter. {to Aur.) Were it not better he should 
 leave this spot ? 
 Let me conduct him to my quiet bower. 
 Rest and retirement may compose his mind. 
 
 Aur. Aye, thou art right, Terentia. 
 
 Ter. (to the other Knights.) Noble Kniglits, 
 And these your followers ! gentle Bastiani 
 Will to a place of better comfort lead you. 
 Where ye shall find some hospitable cheer, 
 And couches for repose. -^ Have we your leave 
 That your companion be a little time 
 Ta'en from your company ? 
 
 1st Knight. You have, good Lady ; 
 
 Most readily we grant it. — Heaven be with you, 
 
304 THE BEACON : 
 
 And this your lovely charge ! 
 
 (To Bast.) Sir, to your guidance 
 We yield ourselves right gladly. 
 
 [Exeunt Knights, &c. hy a 'path between 
 the rockSf and Aurora ajid Ermingard, &c. 
 by another path. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 An Anti-room in the House of Aurora : Enter 
 
 Garcio, beckoning the Page, xvho presently 
 
 enters by the opposite side. 
 
 Gar. Come hither, little Friend, who did*st 
 before 
 Serve me so willingly. Wilt tliou from me 
 Bear to Sir Ermingard a friendly message j 
 And say his old companion 
 
 Page. Nay, I dare not. 
 
 The holy legate and the pope besides 
 Might not disturb him now ; for dame Terentia 
 Hath so decreed. He is in her apartment, 
 And yonder is the door. 
 
 {Pointing off the staged) 
 
 Gar. Fi'om which ev'n now 
 
 I saw thee turn ? 
 
 Page. I listen'd hot for harm. 
 
 Gar. Do I accuse thee, Boy? Is lie alone? 
 Or is thy Lady with him ? 
 
 Page. That I know not. 
 
 Do folks groan heaviest when they are alone ? 
 
 Gar. Full oft' they do ; for tlien without re- 
 straint 
 They utter what they feel. 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 305 
 
 Page. Then, by my beard, I think lie be alone 1 
 For as I slipp'd on tiptoe to the door, 
 I heard him groan so deeply! 
 
 Gar. Thou heard'st him groan ? 
 
 Page. Aye ; deeply. 
 
 I thought when he return'd, we should be merry: 
 So starting up at the good tidings, quickly, 
 All darkling as 1 was, I don'd my cloaths : 
 But, by my beard ! I'd go to bed again, 
 Did I not long most curiously to know 
 What will betide. 
 
 Gar. Speak softly, boy j thou, and thy beard 
 to boot, 
 Will badly fare if Ulrick should o'erhear thee. 
 I know his angry voice : he is at hand. 
 
 Page. Where shall I go ? — He will not tarry 
 here : 
 He will but pass to the adjoining hall. 
 In this dark nook I'll hide me from his sight 
 Lest he should chide me. 
 
 {^Retires behind the pillar.') 
 
 Gar. Is there room for me ? 
 
 He'll greet me too with little courtesy 
 If I remain to front him. 
 
 (^Retires behind the pillar also.) 
 
 Enter Ulrick ajid Bastiani, speaking as they 
 enter, 
 Ul. And still thou say'st, forbear ! 
 Bast. Pass on, my Lord. 
 
 UL No, by the holy rood ! I'll keep in sight 
 
 VOL. III. X 
 
306 THE BEACON : 
 
 Of that accursed door which gave him entrance. 
 An hour's sand well hath run, which undisturb'd 
 They have in converse or endearments spent. 
 And yet I must forbear 1 
 
 Bast. They have not told the truth who told 
 you so ; 
 It is not yet so long. 
 
 UL It is ! it is ! 
 
 I have within these walls, who for my service 
 More faithfully have watch'd than Bastiani — 
 Aye, or Terentia either. 
 
 Bast. Wrong us not. 
 
 Since Ermingard returns by holy vows 
 So bound, that as a rival to your love, 
 You may, with honest thoughts of her you love. 
 No more consider him ; all jealousy 
 Within your noble breast should be extinct. 
 Then think not to disturb these few short mo- 
 ments 
 Of unavailing sorrow ; that were cruel. 
 
 Ul. Thou pitiest others well ; I am tormented. 
 And no one pities me. — That cursed Beacon ! 
 I said in vain this night should be the last : 
 It was a night too much : the sea had now 
 Roll'd o'er his lifeless corse ; I been at peace. 
 
 Bast. For mercy, good my lord ! curb such 
 fell thoughts : 
 They bear no kindred to your better nature. 
 
 Ul. My better nature ! Mock me not with 
 
 words 
 
 Who loves like me, no nature hath but one, 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 307 
 
 And tliat so keen Would the engulphing 
 
 waves 
 Had fifty fathom deep entombed him ! 
 Bast. Speak not so loud : pass on ; we are 
 within 
 The observation of a prying household, 
 Pass on, and presently I'll bring you notice 
 Of what you would. I pray you, stop not here ! 
 [Exeunt Ul. and Bast, while Gar. and Page 
 come from their concealment. 
 Page. He would have chid me shrewdly. 
 Gar. He is, indeed, an angry, ruthless man, 
 And Bastiani no slight task will have 
 To keep his wrath from mischief. To the legate 
 1*11 hie me straight, and ask his better counsel : 
 So fare thee well, sweet child. 
 
 Page. Nay, take me with you ; I*m afraid to 
 stay. 
 I can my prayers and an Ave-Maria say, 
 The legate will not chide me. 
 
 Gar. Nay, stay behind ; thou art secure, poor 
 elph ! 
 1*11 soon return again. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 The Apartyneiit of Terentia : Ermingard and 
 Aurora ay^e discovered with Terentia, who is 
 withdrawn to a distance from them. Ermin- 
 gard is seated with his body thrown hack, and 
 his face covered with both his hands, while 
 X 2 
 
308 THE BEACON *. 
 
 Aurora stands by him in the attitude of one 
 who is entreating or soothing him. 
 
 Enn. O cease ! Thy words, thy voice, thy 
 hand on mine, 
 That touch so dearly felt, do but enhance 
 
 An agony too great. Untoward fate ! 
 
 Thus to have lost thee ! 
 
 Aur. Say not, thou hast lost me. 
 
 Heaven will subdue our minds, and we shall still. 
 With what is spared as from our wreck of bliss. 
 Be happy. 
 
 Erm. Most unblest, untoward fate ! 
 After that hapless battle, where in vain 
 I courted death, I kept my name conceal'd. 
 Ev'n brave De Villeneune, master of our Order, 
 When he received my vows, did pledge his faith 
 Not to declare it. Thus I kept myself 
 From all communication with these shores. 
 Perversely forwarding my rival's will. 
 O blind and credulous fool ! 
 
 Aur, Nay, do not thus upbraid thyself: 
 Heaven will'd it. 
 Be not so keenly moved : there still is left 
 What to the soul is dear. — We'll still be happy. 
 
 Erm. The chasten'd pilgrim o'er his lady's 
 grave 
 Sweet tears may shed, and may without reproach 
 Thoughts of his past love blend with thoughts of 
 
 heaven. 
 He whom the treach'ry of some faithless maid 
 Hath robb'd of bliss, may, in the sturdy pride 
 Of a wrong'd man, the galling ill endure j 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 309 
 
 But sever'd thus from thee, so true, so noble, 
 By vows that all the soul's devotion claim, 
 It makes me feel — may God forgive the crime ! 
 A very hatred of all saintly things. 
 Fool — rash and credulous fool! to lose thee 
 thus ! 
 Aur. Nay, say not so : thou still art mine. 
 Short while 
 I would have given my whole of life besides 
 ToVe seen but once again thy passing form — 
 Thy face — thine eyes turn'd on me for a mo- 
 ment ; 
 Or only to have heard thro' the still air 
 Thy voice distinctly call me, or the sound 
 Of thy known steps upon my lonely floor:. 
 And shall I then, holding thy living hand 
 In love and honour, say, thou art not mine ? 
 Erm. {shaking his head.) This state — this 
 
 sacred badge ! 
 Aur. O no ! that holy cross upon thy breast 
 Throws such a charm of valorous sanctity 
 O'er thy lov'd form : my thoughts do forward 
 
 glance 
 To deeds of such high fame by thee achiev'd, 
 That ev'n methinks the bliss of wedded love 
 Less dear, less noble is, than such strong bonds 
 As may, without reproach, unite us still. 
 
 Er7)i. O creature of a gen'rous constancy! 
 Thou but the more distractest me ! Fool, fool ! 
 (Starting Jrom his seat, and pacing to and 
 fro distractedly.) 
 Mean, misbelieving fool ! — I thought her false, 
 
 X S 
 
310 THE BEACON : 
 
 Cred'lous alone of evil — I have lost, 
 And have deserv'd to lose her. 
 
 Aur. Oh ! be not thus ! Have I no power to 
 soothe thee ? 
 See, good Terentia weeps, and fain would try 
 To speak thee comfort. 
 
 Ter. (comi?ig forward.) Aye; bethink thee 
 well. 
 Most noble Ermingard, heaven grants thee still 
 All that is truly precious of her love, — 
 Her true and dear regard. 
 
 Erm. Then heaven forgive my black ingrati- 
 tude. 
 For I am most unthankful ! 
 
 Ter. Nay, consider. 
 
 Her heart is thine : you are in mind united. 
 
 JErm. United ! In the farthest nook o' th* earth 
 I may in lonely solitude reflect, 
 That in some spot — some happier land she lives 
 And thinks of me. Is this to be united ? 
 
 Aur. I cannot, in a Page's surtout clad. 
 Thy steps attend as other maids have done 
 To other Knights. 
 
 Erm. No, by the holy rood! 
 
 Thou canst not, and thou should'st not. Ra- 
 ther would I, 
 Dear as thou art, weep o'er thee in thy grave, 
 Than see thee so degraded. 
 
 Aur, Hear me out. 
 
 I cannot so attend thee — noon and eve 
 Thy near companion be ; but I have heard 
 That near the sacred houses of your Order, 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 311 
 
 Convents of maids devout in Holy Land 
 Establisli'd are — maids who in deeds of charity 
 To pilgrims and to all in warfare maim*d, 
 In sacred warfare for the holy cross, 
 Are deem'd the humble partners of your zeal. 
 Errn, Aye, such there are ; but what availeth 
 
 this ? 
 Aur. There will I dwell, a vow'd and humble 
 
 sister. 
 We shall not far be sever'd. The same winds 
 That do o* nights thro* your still cloisters sigh. 
 Our quiet cells visiting with mournful harmony. 
 Shall lull my pillow too. Our window'd 
 
 towers 
 Shall sometimes shew me on the neighbouring 
 
 plains. 
 Amidst thy brave companions, thy mail'd form 
 Crested with glory, on thy pawing steed 
 Returning from the wars. And when at last 
 Thou art in sickness laid — who will forbid 
 The dear sad pleasure — like a holy bride 
 I'll by thy death-bed stand, and look to heaven. 
 Where all bless' d union is. O ! at the thought, 
 Methinks this span of life to nothing shrinks, 
 And we are bless'd already. Thou art silent: 
 Dost thou despise my words ? 
 
 Erm. O no ! speak to me thus : say what thou 
 
 wilt: 
 I am subdued. And yet these bursting tears ! 
 My heart is rent in twain: I fear — I fear 
 I am rebellious still. 
 
 (^Kneeling, and taking both her hands he- 
 
312 . THE BEACON ! 
 
 tween his, and kissing thein tvilh great 
 
 devotion.) 
 School me or chide me now : do what thou wilt : 
 I am resign*d and humble. 
 
 Ter. (advancing to tliem with alarm.') 
 Hear ye that noise without ? — They force the 
 
 door, 
 And angry Ulrick comes. 
 
 Erm. (starting from his knees furioushj .) 
 Thank heaven this hated rival front to front 
 Shall now oppose me ! God avenge the right ! 
 
 Enter Ulrick, bursting into the roorn, followed 
 by Bastiani. 
 
 VI, {to Erm.) Vow'd, holy Knight ; from all 
 vain earthly love 
 Pure and divided j in a lady's chamber 
 Do we surprise thee ? Quit it instantly : 
 It is a place for thee unfit : and know, 
 In sacred wardship will I keep that maid. 
 
 Erm. In sacred wardship ! O unbliLshing face ! 
 What of thy baseness, treachery, and falsehood 
 I could declare, my choaking voice forbids, 
 Which utterance hath not. — Here's a ready 
 tongue — {Drawing his sword.) 
 
 Defend thee, then, and heaven defend the right 1 
 {They both draw, and fight furiously, Bas- 
 tiani endeavouring in vain to interpose ; 
 when the Legate and his train, xdth Garcio 
 and the Knights of St. John, enter, and 
 separate them.) 
 Leg. Put up your weapons: to the holy church 
 
A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA. 313 
 
 Tliis cause belongs, and to lier high award 
 I cliarge you botli that you in all humility 
 Submit. Lord Uirick, to the Pope perforce 
 You must account of this your wardship give, 
 Or by yourself in person, or your deputy, 
 To Rome forthwith dispatched. 
 
 (Ul. bows sullcnhj.) 
 As for the lady, to my guardian care. 
 Till we before the holy Father come, 
 She must commit herself. And thou. Sir Erm- 
 
 ingard, 
 Shalt to tlie sovereign Pontiff and the patron 
 Of thy most valiant order, fully shew 
 . Wherein thou'st been aggriev'd. If the bless'd 
 
 cross 
 Thou hast assum'd, supposing other vows 
 That did before engage thee, were annull'd, 
 By false reports deceived ; the holy Urban, 
 Our wise enlighten'd father, will, I trust, 
 A dispensation grant, that shall empoW'Cr thee 
 To do*ff with honour this thy sacred mantle, 
 
 And in its stead a bridegroom's robe assume. 
 (Ermingard and Aurora both embrace the 
 Legate'*^ knees, xdio raises them up gently.) 
 
 It is enough ; forbear, forbear, my children ; 
 
 I am too richly thank'd. 
 
 And now we must with sober minds confer : 
 
 For when the wind is fair, we sail for Rome. 
 
 Some days, perhaps, it may adversely blow — 
 
 Perhaps some weeks ; for I have known it oft 
 
 Hold vessels bound. 
 
3i4i THE BEACON. 
 
 Aur. (tossing up her arms joyfully as she 
 speaks.) 
 No ; it will change to-morrow. 
 
 Erm. Dear ardent soul ! canst thou command 
 the winds ? 
 
 (Aur. shrinks back ashamed.") 
 Leg* Blush not, sweet maid 5 nor check thy 
 ardent thoughts ; 
 That gen'rous, buoyant spirit is a power 
 Which in the virtuous mind doth all things 
 
 conquer. 
 It bears the hero on to arduous deeds : 
 It lifts the saint to heaven. {Curtain drops.) 
 
 THE END. 
 
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