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ROBESPIERRE 
 
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL 
 
ROBESPIERRE 
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA 
 
 V BY 
 
 R: ' Hr 'P ATTERSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ' ESSAYS IN HISTORY AND ART,' ' THE SCIENCE OF 
 FINANCE,' ETC. 
 
 »-/TH A PREFACE ON THE NEW PHASE OF 
 THE MODERN DRAMA 
 
 Irittftb for t^t giut^or 
 BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 MDCCCLXXVII ^ 
 
 U 5- 1 '1 Y 
 
 ■ Y 
 
 Rie'h^s of Traji^lation and Representation reserved 
 

 c^ 
 
 ,yis A )i II ij 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Camille, a young Soldier of the Republic. 
 
 Ernest, his Friend. 
 
 Robespierre, 
 
 CoLLOT, a Republican of the Marat type. 
 
 Count Beauregard, a Royalist Noble. 
 
 Raymond, Nephew of the Count. 
 
 Marcel, an old Attendant of the Count. 
 
 Franjois, a Servant in the Counts household. 
 
 Lucille, Daughter of Count Beauregard. 
 
 Annette, her Attendant. 
 
 Nobles, Soldiers, Citizens, Choristers, S^c. 
 
P RE FAC E. 
 
 ON THE NEW PHASE OF THE MODERN DRAMA. 
 
 The Drama is entering upon a new phase, in harmony 
 with the altered conditions of Theatrical representation, 
 and with the altered tastes of theatrical audiences. The 
 scenery of the stage is more gorgeous, and also more 
 faithful or realistic, than ever. What Charles Kean began, 
 in his splendid Shakespearian revivals, has been continued, 
 if not surpassed. And, along with this, an entirely new 
 feature or phase of the Drama has recently been intro- 
 duced ; and the success which has attended it shows that 
 the change is, on the whole, an improvement. This new 
 principle of dramatic construction may be described 
 briefly as Simplicity of Scene. A Comedy has now only 
 one Scene for each Act ; while Historical Plays, and the 
 serious Drama generally, begin to exhibit a like restric- 
 tion of scene, although to a lesser degree. This altered 
 construction — which may be called an external or super- 
 ficial change in the form of the drama — is also being 
 accompanied by a different mode of dramatic treatment 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 which I believe will progress, and will involve a substan- 
 tial change in the character of the Drama itself. But 
 firstly, as to the external change — i.e., in the form of 
 Construction. 
 
 This principle of construction is substantially different 
 from that hitherto adopted by our dramatists, from 
 Shakespeare down to Sheridan and Bulwer Lytton. 
 Shakespeare, the king of dramatic authors, in common 
 with most other dramatists in modern times, constructed 
 his dramas without any regard to Simplicity of Scene. 
 In most of his plays the scenes are exceedingly numerous, 
 and the changes of locality incessant. Taking three of 
 his leading dramas at random, we find that "Julius Caesar" 
 has eighteen scenes, the " Merchant of Venice " nineteen, 
 and " Macbeth " twenty-eight, each of these twenty-eight 
 scenes being in a different locality. In Shakespeare's 
 Plays, as well as in those of subsequent English drama- 
 tists, each part of the plot is developed and acted on the 
 stage. The subordinate links of the story are clearly 
 represented. Even a dialogue which hardly fills a page 
 is assigned to its proper locality. The actual present- 
 ment of every incident or event was regarded as indis- 
 pensable to the effective representation of the dramatic 
 story, however rapidly it might shift from one locality to 
 another. Thus the dullest imagination can easily and 
 vividly follow the thread of the story. 
 
 Shakespeare was a stage-manager as well as a great 
 dramatist, and therefore it cannot be said that he con- 
 structed his Plays in ignorance of stage requirements • 
 and there is every reason to believe that his Plays were 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 acted as he wrote them. It is not less true that in recent 
 times the minor scenes have been omitted on the stage, 
 and the changes of locaHty (though still numerous) are 
 diminished. And now, within the last few years, Sim- 
 plicity of Scene has become one of the first things sought 
 for in a new drama. How was it, then, that a great 
 dramatic artist like Shakespeare, possessing not only 
 peerless creative genius, but also a perfect knowledge of 
 dramatic representation, so freely introduced changes of 
 locahty, obviously paying no regard to restriction of 
 scene .' Or rather, perhaps, we should ask. Why does the 
 newest form of the Modern Drama adopt the opposite 
 course ? I think it will be found — as might well be 
 expected — that Shakespeare's practice was quite right, 
 indeed superior to any other, for his own time, as indeed 
 for many generations afterwards ; and that the preference 
 now given to Simplicity of Scene is owing to a great 
 change which has recently occurred in the conditions of 
 dramatic representation. 
 
 I believe the almost universal answer to the question 
 above asked would be, that the very splendour of the 
 scenery nowadays necessitates a restriction in the number 
 of the scenes, owing to their costliness. Working upon 
 Shakespeare's masterpieces, Charles K^an successfully 
 disregarded the element of first-cost; but few managers 
 would do this for a new play ; and under any circum- 
 stances, multiplicity of scenery is objectionable on the 
 ground of expense. In old times, this element of cost did 
 not exist. In Shakespeare's time, and until a quite re- 
 cent date, the scenery of the stage was of the slightest 
 
VUl PREFACE. 
 
 description. Sometimes the change of scene or locality 
 was indicated merely by hanging up a placard, announc- 
 ing that "This is Venice" — "This is the Wood of 
 Ardennes " — " This is Rome" — "This is Macduff's 
 Castle," or the like. Certainly little or no attempt was 
 made to represent the locality faithfully or realistically. 
 In one old play, where two of the characters meet and 
 quarrel in a town, and adjourn to the suburbs to fight a 
 duel, they merely take a few steps across the stage, and 
 then stop and say, " Now we are at the town's end," and 
 proceed to business. In such times, when no regard was 
 paid to the actual representation of localities, it is obvious 
 that little or no objection would arise as to frequent 
 changes of the scene on the ground of expense ; whereas 
 nowadays the cost of putting plays on the stage is some- 
 times very great. 
 
 I fully admit that this question of expense has much to 
 do with the new mode of dramatic construction on the 
 principle of Simplicity of Scene. Nevertheless, I believe 
 that this is far from being an adequate explanation of the 
 change, much less a justification of it. I believe that the 
 cause of the change is both wider and higher than a 
 question of cost. It is the approval and support of the 
 Public that makes a play pecuniarily successful, — not 
 merely the comparative economy with which it is put on 
 the stage ; and if Simplicity of Scene did not find favour 
 with the Public, the new dramas constructed on this prin- 
 ciple would not be so favoured by theatrical managers as 
 they are. Let the subject be thoughtfully considered, and 
 I think that the new form of dramatic construction will be 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 found to be justified by true principles of Art, which, at 
 least in their practical effect, are appreciated and approved 
 by our theatrical audiences. 
 
 Simplicity of Scene is really a revival of the old doc- 
 trine of the dramatic " Unities " of Time and Place. The 
 " Unities " have long been scouted in this country as 
 utterly false and antiquated canons of dramatic art ; and 
 undoubtedly, as usually preached, the doctrine was a mis- 
 take, inasmuch as it was made applicable to the Drama 
 universally, and irrespective of certain circumstances or 
 conditions of the stage, without which the observance of 
 the unities would be not only unrequired, but disadvan- 
 tageous. The doctrine of the unities was educed from a 
 study of the Greek Tragedies, the dramatic masterpieces 
 of the old world, and peerless still of their kind ; but the 
 authors and supporters of the doctrine erred in this, that 
 they overlooked the peculiarities which belonged to the 
 old Greek Drama, and imagined that the law of the 
 unities, so imperative, natural, and successful on the 
 Athenian stage, sought to be likewise imperative, and 
 equally natural, in the Theatre as it existed in the time 
 of Shakespeare and in the Drama of modern Europe 
 generally. 
 
 The Athenian Drama was wholly unlike the Drama of 
 Shakespeare or of modern Europe. It stands alone, as 
 a peculiar type, hitherto without a parallel. It had more 
 points of resemblance with the Opera, the Oratorio, and 
 the great and solemn periodical performances of the 
 Passion-Play at Ammergau — much nearer still to a com- 
 bination of these forms of dramatic and musical art. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 Like the Oratorio and the Passion- Play, the Greek Drama 
 dealt with themes and events well known in their outlines 
 to the audience — the national legends, always solemn, if 
 not also tragic, which -were to the Greeks very much what 
 Bible subjects are to Christendom. There were no " sur- 
 prises," and little dramatic action. It was a stately tale 
 splendidly put on the stage ; and the special charm and 
 attraction were the poetic grandeur and beauty of the 
 dialogue, developing solemn event and high-wrought emo- 
 tion, heightened by intermingled music and the songs of 
 the Chorus, together with the choral dances, expressive of 
 passion and sentiment — in most of these respects resem- 
 bling the modern Opera, where the special charm is not 
 that of dramatic event, but a splendid development of the 
 Emotions connected with the events. A well-known 
 legend was depicted at its culminating point, and the 
 antecedent and accessory events were described in the 
 dialogue or by the chorus — the songs of the chorus, too, 
 serving to cover any slight transitions in time. From all 
 those circumstances a single scene or tableau sufficed for 
 the whole Drama. Thus the unities of Time and Place 
 were maintained, owing to the essential conditions of the 
 Drama ; while the third unity, that of Sentiment (as to 
 which the greatest mistake of all was made by modern 
 critics), arose naturally, if not of necessity, from the 
 themes chosen for representation, which were uniformly 
 solemn, like those of the modern Oratorio and Passion- 
 Plays ; while the music and choral appliances prevented 
 the sensation of monotony which otherwise would have 
 accompanied the unities of Scene and Sentiment. 
 
PRKFACE. xi 
 
 The Greek Play, however, lacked one potent charm of 
 the modern stage. The rdle of the Actor was, of neces- 
 sity, restricted by the vastness of the Greek Theatre — 
 which in some cases was fitted to contain 20,000 people. 
 In so vast a place, the effect of facial expression, the play 
 of feature, would have been wholly lost, and was not 
 attempted— the rdle of the actor being restricted to splen- 
 did elocution, accompanied by graceful and impressive, 
 but somewhat statuesque, attitude. Let this single fact 
 be mentally realised, and the wide difference between the 
 Greek Play and the modern stage will become strikingly 
 apparent. What would the finest drama on the modern 
 stage become if the role of the actor were similarly 
 restricted ? It is obvious that in proportion as the attrac- 
 tive powers of the actor are restricted, the greater is the 
 demand made upon the dramatic skill and poetic genius of 
 the Author, and also upon the resources and attractive 
 appliances of the Theatre : and the Poets and the Theatre 
 of Athens were equal to the trying task imposed upon 
 them. Finally, let it be said — if it need to be said — that 
 the Greek Plays were performed before a cultured and 
 highly critical audience, consisting solely of the educated 
 "citizens," men of property and culture, — the lower classes, 
 or large body of domestics and operatives, who in Athens 
 constituted about four-fifths of the population (who were 
 " slaves," but not in the harsh sense attached to the word 
 in modern times), being wholly excluded. 
 
 Art-rules of every kind are simply deductions made by 
 critics from a thoughtful contemplation of the master- 
 pieces of Art; and when the Drama was revived in 
 
xn PREFACE. 
 
 Europe, the Greek Tragedies were the model naturally 
 adopted by the art-critics who laid down the canons 
 for dramatic composition. The fact, however, was over- 
 looked that the canons of composition in the Greek 
 Drama were absolute only in regard to that peculiar 
 type of drama. . Moreover, the unities of Time and Place 
 were rather valuable accessaries than fundamental canons 
 of that grand style of dramatic composition ; or at least, 
 the observance of these unities arose so naturally from, 
 and combined so readily with, the general structure and 
 fundamental art-object of the Greek Drama, that any 
 violation of them was unnecessary, and therefore the loss 
 of " realism " from their violation would have been pecu- 
 liarly objectionable. 
 
 The " classic " drama of France and Italy, which dealt 
 solely with serious and heroic themes, was professedly 
 based upon the old Greek Tragedies, but the resemblance 
 was of the most meagre description. The dramas of 
 Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire do not really correspond 
 at all with the Greek Plays ; and indeed, as I shall by- 
 and-by show, a revival of the grand Geek type of drama 
 in those times was practically impossible. This pseudo- 
 classic drama aimed at copying the Greek drama in its 
 observance of the unities, especially the unity of senti- 
 ment; a brilliant heroism and the love-passion taking 
 the place of that uniformity of gloom which (so strangely 
 for so lively a people) pervaded the drama of the Greeks. 
 But the music, the chanting, the lyric poetry, and all the 
 rich choral appliances, which were of the very essence 
 of the Athenian drama, and which acted like pleasing 
 
PREFACE. XIU 
 
 variations on the dominant theme, were wholly wanting. 
 Nor could the unities of time and place be observed 
 in a manner corresponding to the Greek Drama, owing 
 to the exigencies of the story, which was always un- 
 familiar to the audiences, and frequently of the author's 
 own invention. Even the verse-dialogue, grand, polished, 
 and sonorous as it was, was monotonous, and lacked the 
 richer and more varied melody of the Greek. Finally, 
 in the time of these modern - classic dramatists, the 
 Scenery of the theatre was so defective that the prime 
 motive for observing the unities of time and place hardly 
 existed. 
 
 With- this passing remark on the pseudo-classic dramas 
 of France and Italy, I shall now restrict what I have to 
 say to our own Drama, the drama of Shakespeare, which 
 the German Drama has largely followed, and which, since 
 Classicism went out of vogue at the end of last century, 
 may almost be said to represent the serious Modern 
 Drama generally. 
 
 Shakespeare, by far the greatest genius in the Modern 
 Drama, or indeed of all time, wholly disregarded the 
 unities ; and there were good reasons for his doing so. 
 In the first place, in common with the other dramatists 
 of Europe, Shakespeare worked upon a class of subjects 
 which differed considerably in character from those of 
 the Athenian Drama, especially relative to the audience : 
 Biblical subjects, indeed, being in his time almost the 
 only ones akin to the themes of the Greek Drama, alike 
 in the solemnity of their character and in their familiarity 
 to the audience ; and even in his historical plays he does 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 not rely upon his audience's familiarity with the story. 
 Shakespeare and the modern dramatists have relied 
 greatly in their plays upon the interest of Event, dramatic 
 surprises — in short, the novelty of the story presented to 
 the audiences: whereas, as already said, this element of 
 interest had hardly any place in the Greek Drama, where 
 the subject was some familiar legend, and where the great 
 attraction was the representation of the story at its culmi- 
 nating single phase, giving the grandest portrayal of the 
 emotions connected with it which poetry, music, and 
 expressive or pantomimic dance could accomplish. The 
 Modern Drama has prized Novelty of event and dramatic 
 surprises so much, that its highest aim and achievement 
 has been to invent the tales which it depicts ; and hence 
 a multiplicity of scenes has hitherto been found indis- 
 pensable in order to make the plot intelligible and the 
 drama effective. Moreover, the theatrical audiences of 
 modern Europe have desired to see all the events acted. 
 Partly from their inferior culture, partly from the absence 
 of the rich emotional accessaries of the Greek stage, 
 seeing was necessary for their believing, or at least for 
 the adequate stirring of their emotions. 
 
 The third unity — viz., of Sentiment, was thoroughly 
 discarded by Shakespeare : it was not merely neglected 
 (so to speak) like the two other unities, but he deliberately 
 and systematically violated it as incompatible with the 
 variety of incident and emotion upon which he so much 
 relies. It was not merely that Shakespeare saw that 
 human nature is very composite, and that in life the mean 
 and the noble, the humorous and the sad, keep close 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 company. It is evident that he blended humour, even 
 buffoonery, with the grave or tragic, often in the closest 
 conjunction, not merely because these frequently coexist 
 in real life, but also as an artistic appliance, whereby the 
 interspersed levity serves to heighten by contrast the 
 effect of the pathetic or terrible, as well as gives a relief, 
 momentary but valuable, to the high-wrought sensations 
 produced by tragedy. Witness for example the grave- 
 diggers in "Hamlet," the drunken porter's soliloquy in 
 "Macbeth," interjected between the murder of the king 
 and its discovery, and dozens of other instances. 
 
 Thus the difference between the Athenian and the 
 Shakespearian Drama — the " Classic " and the " Romantic " 
 — as regards the unities, arises in part from the different 
 class of subjects which they deal with, and still more 
 from the difference of the elements of interest upon which 
 they respectively rely. I think it will be acknowledged, 
 however, that the difference has been also due to another 
 cause, hitherto little remarked, and not so agreeable to 
 modern vanity — namely, to a real and great inferiority of 
 the Modern Theatre to the Greek, and hence also of our 
 Drama regarded as a theatrical representation, a work of 
 art depicted or developed on the stage. 
 
 When the Drama was revived in Europe, it was abso- 
 lutely impossible (even if the desire had existed) to 
 adopt the model of the Greek Plays. A great gulf 
 lay between the Classic world and the Renaissant world 
 of modern Europe. The grand and highly-developed 
 civilisation of Greece and Rome had perished under a 
 landslip of Northern barbarism ; and the Drama revived 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 while the now dominant Races of Europe were merely 
 struggling out of conditions of life which would have been 
 utter barbarism to the Athenian Greeks or the Imperial 
 Roman. In Art as in Politics, and in the general amenities 
 of life and society, Europe had to begin anew. The 
 Theatre, in which the Greeks had excelled, and which 
 both with them and the Romans was a great popular 
 entertainment, shared the same fate. It was almost de- 
 void of scenery and costume, and wholly lacking in pro- 
 fessional choristers and musicians or in the skilfully 
 trained symbolic or pantomimic dancers of the Classic 
 world. It is true that, so early as Shakespeare's time, 
 the arts of painting and music had been successfully 
 revived, but they existed apart from the Theatre, — ^they 
 formed no part of its appliances; and though in later 
 times these arts might be evoked in Court Masks and 
 pageantries, down even to recent times they had no 
 regular place in the Theatre as a popular entertainment — 
 which in Classic times was, and ever must be, the especial 
 character of the Drama, the most democratic of all the 
 Fine Arts. 
 
 The Poetry was there, and in the hands of Shake- 
 speare, and some other great dramatists, it reached an ex- 
 cellence quite equal of its kind, though not usually in its 
 variety, to that of the masterpieces of Greece; but that 
 was all. To have placed a Greek Drama on the stage 
 in those times (as has been done recently), or any play 
 constructed on the Greek model, would have been alto- 
 gether vain : it could have attained no higher attraction 
 than that of fine elocution of fine poetry a bald and 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 meagre performance, which indeed might almost as well 
 have been spoken by a single actor, because the realism 
 even of costume was wanting. Hence, I repeat, it was 
 impossible to follow the Greek models of dramatic con- 
 struction, even if Shakespeare and his compeers had been 
 familiar with them. And hence, if the Drama, as revived, 
 was to be what is its essence, a popular entertainment, 
 some other and potent elements of interest must be 
 introduced in order to compensate the loss of the special 
 attractions of the Theatre as a spectacular and artistic 
 performance. There had been Passion- Plays of the 
 rudest kind, as quasi religious performances ; but if the 
 Drama was to assume a high as well as popular form, 
 some new elements must be introduced. As it was im- 
 possible to present grand and splendid legendary or 
 historical tableaux like those of the Greek Drama, with 
 all the attractions of fine scenery and costume, accom- 
 panied by music and the dance, the bare walls of the 
 modern stage were made attractive by novelty of story, 
 and also by the triumphs of the Actbr, who has obtained 
 a far wider sphere for dramatic representation than was 
 afforded him on the Athenian stage. And novelty of 
 story necessarily brought with it many changes of Time 
 and Place (although, be it noted, not at first to any great 
 extent of Scenery): thus disregarding the "Unities," and 
 launching the Modern Drama upon a widely different 
 course from that of the classic drama of Greece. 
 
 A different and simpler form of the Drama arose. In 
 proportion as the Spectacle- was weak, and music absent, 
 the greater must be the appeal to the unaided mind. The 
 
XVIU PREFACE. 
 
 lack or baldness of scenery and other artistic adjuncts 
 not only allowed (by minimising the effect upon the 
 spectators of changes of locality), but actually fostered, 
 if not rendered imperative, the Novelty of incident which 
 have characterised the Modern Drama. The masterpieces 
 of the Modern Drama are original creations -7- acted 
 Novels, so to speak— like "Othello," "Hamlet," "The 
 Tempest," and many other plays of Shakespeare, and 
 in recent times like the " Hunchback," the " Lady of 
 Lyons," and other poetic dramas, not to speak of the 
 prose drama, which can boast of pieces of high theatrical 
 attractions. 
 
 Thus, although the Modern Drama has possessed works 
 of the highest genius and poetry — Shakespeare, Calderon, 
 Corneille and Racine, Goethe and Schiller, forming a 
 galaxy of dramatists fully equal (to say the least) to those 
 of Greece and Rome, and far more varied in their themes 
 — the Theatre has been in its infancy — deficient in all the 
 requirements of the stage, save Poetry and the genius of 
 the Actor. It is only now, within the present generation, 
 that the Theatre has been enriched by those artistic and 
 realistic accessaries which properly belong to it, and which 
 existed in perfection in the palmy days of Greece. Ac- 
 cordingly, it is only now that dramas similar, or approach- 
 ing in kind and construction, to those of Sophocles and his 
 illustrious compeers, could possibly be produced and ren- 
 dered effective as popular entertainments. And exactly 
 in proportion as the Modern Theatre is reaching perfec- 
 tion, do we not begin to perceive better than before how 
 much there is to be said in favour of the ancient Greek 
 
PREFACE. xix 
 
 type of drama ? Nay more, are not the requirements of 
 the perfected Theatre tending towards a revival of such- 
 like pieces ? And are not dramatists beginning to com- 
 pose more in accordance with these requirements, so far 
 at least as regards the unities ? In this respect, indeed, 
 are not one or two of the newest high-class dramas 
 constructed (whether consciously or not by the author 
 does not matter) to a remarkable extent upon the model 
 • of the classic drama of Greece ? 
 
 We may be sure that the highly-cultured Greeks — the 
 dramatists and audiences of Athens, " the eye of Greece " 
 — had a good reason, and for themselves at least a suffi- 
 cient one, for the peculiar form which their Drama as- 
 sumed in its culminating period. It has been said that 
 the Greeks were like artists who destroyed their first 
 sketches — the Greek Drama (and, in the main, Greek Art 
 of all kinds) appearing to us of later times as if it had 
 sprung into existence perfect and peerless— only its mas- 
 terpieces having been preserved. But undoubtedly the 
 Greek Theatre had an infancy as bald and meagre as that 
 of Modern Europe — without scenery or costume, and with 
 music and dance only of the rudest kind— in fact, merely 
 an acted or recited dialogue. Why, then, did it eschew 
 novelty of story > and why did it eschew the frequent 
 changes of scene and redundant display of action which 
 characterise the Modern Drama — preferring to depict 
 the story in what may be called a grand tableau, whereby 
 the Unities of Time and Place were faithfully observed .' 
 I think it probable, indeed certain, that but for the down- 
 fall of Greek Art, novelty of story would ere long have 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 been adopted by the Greek dramatists. Fiction or 
 imaginative literature, whether in prose or verse, comes 
 late, and is rarely had recourse to so long as Legend or 
 History supply adequate themes for the muse. But I do 
 not think that the Greek Drama would ever have much 
 departed from its peculiar model as regards construction. 
 Not only were the Greeks a symmetry -loving people 
 (while we of the Gothic or northern races prefer variety), 
 but I think that the Greek Drama, as an artistic and 
 essentially theatrical performance, and appealing to a 
 cultured audience, was superior to any other form which 
 the Drama has since assumed. I have said that the 
 observance of the unities was by no means the prime 
 object of the peculiar structure of the Greek Drama, but 
 it was a valuable adjuvant to the illusion of reality, and 
 thereby heightened the effect of the grand portrayal of 
 the Passions or Emotions which -was the prime object 
 of the high drama of Athens. The grand works of 
 .^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides were composed for 
 the TJieatre — to be represented on the stage, with all its 
 perfected appliances of scenery and costume, music and 
 the ballet, and to a highly critical and intelligent audi- 
 ence. And, viewed in this light, I cannot conceive any 
 form of the drama equal to that of ancient Greece, especi- 
 ally if performed in a smaller theatre where the triumphs 
 of the actor could be fully enjoyed. 
 
 I think we may accept it as a truth, that even the 
 Court of Xerxes, far off as it was, was more faithfully, 
 as well as more splendidly, represented in the " Persse " 
 on the stage of Athens 2500 years ago, than (^.^.) the 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 Court of Venice was in "Othello" on the British stage 
 at the beginning of the present century. Exactly 
 in proportion as the Scenery is perfect, the changes 
 of scenery become objectionable ; they impair the illu- 
 sion of Realism, which is the highest attainment of the 
 Theatre, quA Theatre. The Theatre is pre-eminently a 
 spectacle, — dearpov, a thing to be seen ; and the Greek 
 Dramas were magnificent poetry, giving voice to the 
 events, but far more to the Emotions of the story, exclud- 
 ing all incidents whose representation on the stage would 
 be glaringly unreal, and without any change of place or 
 noticeable change of time, thereby maintaining the illusion 
 of reality to the fullest possible extent ; while the emotion 
 was further heightened, the general effect enriched, and 
 the aesthetic tastes of the audiences gratified and fully 
 satisfied by music and the choral dance. 
 
 Besides the respect for the unities, as a means of main- 
 taining the precious illusion of reality, there was un- 
 doubtedly another cause for the peculiar structure adopted 
 in the perfected Greek Drama. In their Art-tempera- 
 ment the Greeks, and especially the Athenians, differed 
 greatly from the Romans, who in their robust hard-mind- 
 edness and comparative sluggishness of mental sensibility, 
 approached more nearly to the peoples of Renaissant 
 Europe. The Greeks were admittedly a highly suscep- 
 tible and impressionable people — a narrative- picture 
 recited to them in splendid verse impressed them almost 
 as much as the actual presentment of the scene would do 
 an ordinary modern audience. The representation of a 
 murder or violent death on the stage would have shocked 
 
XXll PREFACE. 
 
 them most disagreeably, as indeed it begins to do audi- 
 ences nowadays : and the narration of such events, which 
 abounded in their tragedies, produced as vivid an impres- 
 sion through the imagination as was requisite or artistic- 
 ally agreeable. This liveliness of imagination, this quick 
 response of emotion to mere words without action, or 
 rather to the vivid descriptions of recited poetry, was 
 indispensable to the success of the Greek form of drama, 
 wherein not merely tragic and painful events were ex- 
 cluded from the stage, but almost the whole action of the 
 Play, — the genius of the dramatist, as I have already said, 
 being mainly devoted, not to the representation of the 
 events, but of the emotions connected with the events — 
 which, I venture to say, is likewise the grand motive of 
 the modern Opera. The common opinion that it was the 
 painfulness of the leading events which caused their non- 
 representation in the Greek drama is only half true ; for 
 I repeat, nearly the whole of the action was excluded from 
 the stage. For example, in " Hecuba," not only the mur- 
 der of Polydore, the sacrifice of Polyxena, and the mutila- 
 tion of the Thracian king, and the murder of his sons by 
 the Trojan dames, but also the finding of the body of 
 Polydore on the shore, the apparition of the shade of 
 Achilles gleaming in his golden armour above his tomb, 
 — all these incidents are excluded alike from actual 
 representation. And why.? Partly because it was im- 
 possible to represent them while maintaining the illu- 
 sion of reality ; and also because, owing to the liveli- 
 ness of the Greek imagination, their representation was 
 not necessary to the realisation of those incidents when 
 
PREFACE. xxiii 
 
 narrated in splendid verse ; while, I must repeat, the 
 grand motive of the Greek drama was the portrayal of 
 the Emotions (rather than of the events) in the highest 
 form which Poetry, spectacle, music, and the choral dance 
 could achieve. 
 
 In corroboration of the opinion which I have just 
 expressed (and which will hardly be questioned), that the 
 Greeks, with their cultivated taste and their perfected 
 Theatre, deliberately gave their aesthetic judgment in 
 favour of their peculiar form of Drama, or of dramatic 
 construction, I may refer to the Trilogies of ^schylus 
 and Sophocles, and doubtless of other Athenian drama- 
 tists. In these Plays a whole story or career was repre- 
 sented ; but each part of the Trilogy was constructed like 
 a single Play, with complete observance of the dramatic 
 unities. The story was told in three distinct Tableaux, 
 in which each stage of the story was depicted at its cul- 
 minating point, wherein all the incidents of that section of 
 the story were skilfully gathered to a focus, partly 
 depicted and partly related in one scene, upon the same 
 spot or locality, so that there was no disturbance of the 
 illusion of Realisrn. Thus, while in a great measure 
 anticipating the comprehensiveness of the Modern Drama, 
 the Greeks still adhered systematically to the unities 
 and other elements essential to the illusion of Realism ; 
 whereas the Modern Drama in its long and brilliant 
 career has paid little or no regard at all to the dramatic 
 unities, or indeed to the possibilities of theatrical repre- 
 sentation — lively dramatic action being necessary to atone 
 for the baldness of the performance in other respects ; and 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 even now, when the Theatre has recovered its old perfec- 
 tion, changes of scene are considered objectionable merely 
 or mainly owing to the expense which they entail upon 
 the management. 
 
 But Modern Europe is not Classic Greece ; and we may 
 expect a characteristic difference between the Drama of 
 Gothic Europe and that of Athens. The difference of 
 Race will assert itself on the Stage as in other depart- 
 ments of Art, or indeed more so, owing to the essentially 
 popular or democratic character of the Theatre. Just as in 
 Architecture, the Northern races developed a style of their 
 own, which reached its perfection in the magnificent 
 Gothic cathedral — a style in which the dead stone is made 
 to assume the forms of life and growth, rising aloft in the 
 pillars like the clustered stems and over-roofing arcades of 
 the forest, or budding into flowery knots at the corbeilles, 
 or soaring like lambent flame in the window-traceries — 
 a style full of life and variety, and in which even the grand 
 solemnity of the whole is interspersed with details in 
 which the artists made room for the grotesque : a grander 
 and wider perfection than that even of Greek Art, and 
 wholly different in character from the pure lovely sym- 
 metry and sunnyness of the classic style. 
 
 It is impossible to lay down any absolute rules for the 
 Drama, or for any of the Fine Arts; indeed, next to 
 Poetry, the Drama admits of greater variety of structure 
 and treatment than any of the sister Arts ; and the fact 
 that it is the most popular or democratic of all the Arts, 
 augments the sphere of its varieties according to the vary- 
 ing tastes and culture of the audiences. Therefore there 
 
PREFACE. XXV 
 
 may be successful dramas of very various kinds ; but it is 
 chiefly of the poetic or tragic drama that I now write. 
 As seems to me, what peculiarly belongs to the Drama of 
 Modern Europe, and also which will last under all con- 
 ditions of the Stage, is the element of Romance and 
 Variety, of incident and emotion. The grandest works of 
 the Drama will continue to be those in which creative 
 imagination predominates : in which, together with per- 
 fection of language and faithful portrayal of character, the 
 interest of the audience is excited by novelty of story or 
 event, and generally, with a variety and contrast of emo- 
 tion such as held no place in the masterpieces of the 
 classic drama, wherein (whether solely from the symmetry- 
 loving taste of the Greeks, or partly from the nature of 
 the subjects considered suitable for their serious Drama) 
 the unity of Sentiment was observed, if possible, even 
 more stringently than those of Time and Place. And in 
 this prevailing form of the Modern Drama an observance 
 of the unities is almost impossible : there must be changes 
 of time and of locality corresponding with the stages of 
 the plot or story. 
 
 But is this modern style or structure of the Drama 
 compatible with a perfection of theatrical representation ? 
 Is it such that would have arisen under, or can it appro- 
 priately co-exist with, a perfect and fully developed 
 theatre ! Or, at least, is not some modification of it called 
 for aesthetically by the now -attained perfection and 
 Realism of stage scenery, and also by the fuller and richer 
 Art-accessaries } The Modern Drama seeks to combine 
 novelty of story and dramatic surprises with realistic 
 
XXvi PREFACE. 
 
 scenic representation : but can these elements of interest 
 be perfectly combined ? THe Modern Drama includes a. 
 far wider field of incident and event than the old Greek 
 Drama, and also excites a much livelier interest in ordinary 
 audiences ; but does it really admit of an equal degree of 
 Theatrical excellence ? Upon this point we cannot appeal 
 to the great example of Shakespeare — nor indeed to the 
 practice of the illustrious host of Dramatists, either of this 
 or other countries, down to Bulwer Lytton and the pre- 
 sent generation : for it is only during the present genera- 
 tion, and almost within the last few years, that the 
 Scenery of the Stage has become alike splendid and faith- 
 ful or realistic — regaining the scenic perfection which was 
 possessed in the palmy days of Athens. The question is 
 rather, Would Shakespeare have constructed his Plays as 
 he did had the Theatre been equal to what it has become 
 now .'' In fact, has not the construction of the Modern 
 Drama, with its prevailing disregard of the unities of Time 
 and Place, been owing partly, and in a very great degree, 
 to the fact that the Theatre was then in its infancy, where 
 " realism " of scenic effect was impossible — nay, where 
 Scenery, until lately, was hardly thought of, or worthy of 
 the name — and where the effects of the Theatre were con- 
 fined to the interest of the tale, the poetry or beauty of 
 language, and the attractive graces and impressiveness of 
 the accomplished Actor.? And has not the increased 
 culture of the audience produced new requirements .' Is 
 it not the fact that the Shakespearian dramas have to be 
 greatly altered in representation, now that the Theatre 
 is being perfected, limiting the action and condensing the 
 
PREFACE. ^^^jj 
 
 scenes — although Shakespeare composed his dramas 
 expressly for the stage of his day, meaning every one of 
 the scenes to be acted ; and would not Shakespeare have 
 approved of these modern alterations, or at least have 
 constructed his dramas more in accord with the principle 
 of these alterations, had the Theatre in his time been as 
 perfect, quA Theatre, as it is now ? 
 
 Each of the Fine Arts has a special range or function ; 
 each of them has to submit to limitations or to adopt 
 compromises ; and these limitations and compromises are 
 different for each Art, according to the materials or appli- 
 ances with which it works, and to the organs of Sense to 
 which it specially appeals or addresses itself. In Sculp- 
 ture, Form ; in Painting, Colour and Form, but specially 
 Colour ; in Music, Melody and the expression of Emotion ; 
 in Poetry, which has the widest range of all the Arts, the 
 charm may consist in Narrative, in Thought or Idea, and 
 in Emotion of all kinds, but only sparingly in physical 
 description, or in all of these combined. Poetry appeals 
 to the Mind alone, to the intellectual perceptions, without 
 producing any impression upon the physical organs like 
 the Eye and the Ear. Poetry presents only words, and 
 the sensations, whether of Object or Emotion (powerful 
 though these, and especially the latter, often are), are pro- 
 duced at second-hand, as it were, as a conseqence of the 
 purely Mental perceptions only, — instead of also from a 
 direct presentation to the physical organs of the Objects 
 themselves, as in Sculpture and Painting to the Eye, or of 
 the material causes of Emotion as in the sounds of Music. 
 Thus in Painting, Sculpture, and Music, the impression is 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 made upon the physical organs, and also upon the Mind, 
 — upon the Eye or Y.s.r plus Mind ; whereas Poetry is per- 
 ceived by and makes its impression upon the Mind alone, 
 without conveying its impressions through or making any 
 impression upon the physical organs, — the rich and mani- 
 fold sensations of Object or Emotion which it ultimately 
 produces being occasioned by the reflex action of the 
 Mind or Imagination upon the other Senses, and not from 
 any direct action upon the bodily senses themselves. 
 
 Thus, in reading a Drama, the Mind, the intellectual 
 perceptions, are the supreme, and in the first instance the 
 sole, judge, — the Emotions, and also the impressions of 
 external objects, being awakened and excited after the 
 cause of them has been perceived and appreciated by the 
 Mind. On the Stage, however, it is the Eye, together 
 with the Ear, that is specially addressed, and upon which 
 the primary impressions are made ; and what strikes the 
 Eye, and through it the Mind, has of necessity a stronger 
 influence than that which addresses the Mind or reflecting 
 organ alone ; because the physical organs convey impres- 
 sions more instantly and forcibly to the Self than the less 
 vivid and slower-moving organs of reflection or intellectual 
 perception. 
 
 Hence, on the Stage, if there be a conflict as to Real- 
 ism between the Eye and the Mind, the compromise ought, 
 as far as possible, to go in favour of the Eye. In reading 
 a Drama, the very reverse is true. Accordingly a sacrifice 
 to Simplicity of Scene which may be advantageous on 
 the Stage may prove very objectionable in the drama as 
 printed and read — i.e., as addressing itself purely to the 
 
PREFACE. XXix 
 
 Mind. But as every Drama worthy of the name — not 
 simply a poem in Dialogue — is meant for the Theatre, it 
 is the requirements of the Theatre which must be prima- 
 rily attended to. I can well conceive of cases, however, 
 in which the printed Drama should, for the adequate de- 
 pictment of the Story to the mind, observe some changes 
 of scene which on the Stage may be dispensed with, for the 
 fuller maintenance to the Eye of the illusion of Reality. 
 
 In former times when the Theatre hardly ever sought 
 to represent the locality, much less realistically, changes 
 of scene — or rather changes of Time and Place, without 
 any change of scenery — were equally little thought of by 
 the Author or felt by the audience. The mind of the 
 audience made a note of it — which, so far, was advan- 
 tageous, indeed indispensable — but that was all : there 
 was no shock to the illusion, because little or no change 
 was presented to the eye, — the changes of Scene, in fact, 
 may almost be said to have taken place without any 
 visible change of locality. Thus, whatever Shakespeare 
 may have thought, as an abstract question (if he thought 
 of it at all), as to the unities of Time and Place, the effect 
 upon the audience of his violations of those unities was of 
 little account as a shock to Realism — the illusion of the 
 Stage being then of the slightest description ; while his 
 method of dramatic construction was undoubtedly supe- 
 rior to any other as a popular and readily intelligible 
 depictment of the Story to the mind of the audience, and 
 also to the reader of his Plays. Indeed I must repeat 
 that Shakespeare's method, which has been that of our 
 Modern Drama generally, was not only comparatively 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 unobjectionable owing to the baldness or total lack of 
 realistic scenery, but was in a great degree indispensable 
 owing to the novelty of the tales or stories which he set 
 before his audience, besides giving the fullest play to the 
 powers of the actor. And I may add that the " conden- 
 sation of scene," if I may so describe it, which is now more 
 or less applied to his dramas, is rendered practicable and 
 advantageous greatly owing to the circumstance that the 
 subjects of his Plays — Shakespeare's Tales — have nowa- 
 days become " familiar as household words," and are as 
 well known to British audiences as were the legends of 
 Greece to the cultured audiences of Athens. 
 
 Nowadays the Scenery of the Stage is not only splendid, 
 but eminently faithful or realistic ; and on both of these 
 accounts, changes of scene, the transition from one locality 
 to another, produce a correspondingly greater impression 
 upon the audience : this in fact is the very object, or at 
 least the necessary consequence, of the Realism of the 
 Scenery. The eye of the spectator sees one distinct and 
 realistically-portrayed locality pass away suddenly, and 
 another equally distinct and realistically-portrayed locality 
 take its place : and every such change is more or less a 
 drawback upon the realism of the mimic world upon which 
 the spectators are gazing. Hence, frequent changes of 
 scenery are far more disillusionising than formerly, and 
 accordingly they ought to be adopted more sparingly, and 
 with more precautions, than they used to be when the 
 Theatre was still in its infancy. 
 
 It now becomes apparent, I think, that the doctrine of 
 " the Unities," fully practised in ancient Greece, contains 
 
PREFACE. xxxi 
 
 far more artistic truth and dramatic wisdom than have 
 generally been attributed to it. And are we not coming 
 back to it — not as a reaction, but as a progression — in 
 exact proportion as the modern Theatre is becoming per- 
 fected, regaining the splendour and full appliances of the 
 Athenian Stage, \vhile, as a co-relative change, our audi- 
 ences are becoming more cultured .'' Simplicity of Scene 
 — which in its essence is the observance of the unities of 
 Time and Place, and likewise involves the exclusion of 
 much of the impossible action which abounds in our old 
 plays — is becoming imposed upon the Drama as a result- 
 ant effect of the improvement of the Stage — of the great 
 advance recently made in Theatrical representation as 
 regards splendour and realism of scenery. I shall show, 
 from some of the most recent dramas, that this change is 
 being actually accomplished to a very remarkable extent, 
 — and not by the scissors, or any mere tour deforce of the 
 Management, but by deliberate purpose and action of the 
 Authors themselves. Of itself, this is a move in the right 
 direction ; but first, let me say a word as to the necessary 
 limitations upon Simplicity of Scene, lest a good precept 
 be carried too far, and also as to the fuller development 
 of the artistic applia^c^s of the Theatre, which ought, 
 more or less, to accompany this reversion towards the 
 observance of the " dramatic unities." 
 
 In the first place. Simplicity of Scene — or the Unity of 
 Time and Place — is apt to create an improbability, a disillu- 
 sionment (if I may use so cumbrous a word), in place of the 
 one which it supplants. In such a case, impossibility of 
 Scene, which means unnaturalness of Event, takes the place 
 
XXXU PREFACE. 
 
 of the shock produced by a visible yet impossible change 
 of locality. The Mind is shocked instead of the Eye ; or 
 rather, while the visual sense is satisfied, the reflecting 
 sense is outraged. In Farce this does not matter — indeed, 
 the grotesqueness or broad caricature which forms the pri- 
 mary object of a Farce may even be heightened by the 
 incongruity of persons making their appearance under the 
 most improbable circumstances ; while in Burlesque, now 
 so popular a form of theatrical entertainment, the audience 
 only laugh the more when Bluebeard, or the wicked Magi- 
 cian in " Aladdin," or other hero of the piece, after being 
 stabbed through and through by many swords, either 
 boldly disregards the fact, merely exclaiming, " Don't 
 tickle me ! " or else, after falling dead, gets up and joins 
 in the grand break-down dance or song which closes the 
 performance. In Comedy, also, at least of the lighter 
 sort, the characters may, and do, come and go upon the 
 scene under very improbable circumstances, without the 
 mind of the amused and laughing audience taking note 
 of the incongruity. In the Serious Drama, especially of 
 the Shakespearian kind, however, the limitations upon Sim- 
 plicity of Scene become more or less indispensable and 
 imperative. Were our dramatists to revert to the actual 
 Greek type, then the unities might be fully maintained 
 with little difficulty ; but, though some plays of this kind 
 may be successfully composed, no general reversion to the 
 pure Greek type is either to be expected or desired. 
 Whether we take the Plays of Shakespeare, the high-class 
 Comedies of Goldsmith and Sheridan, or the brilliant 
 Dramas of Bulwer Lytton, it is wholly impossible to repre- 
 
PREFACE. xxxiii 
 
 sent them on the Stage without comparatively frequent 
 changes of locality, and corresponding changes of the 
 scenery, appropriate to the successive stages of the story. 
 This kind of drama will ever maintain its high place. 
 Nevertheless the art of the Dramatist will be taxed to a 
 degree unknown, because hitherto unrequired, to concen- 
 trate the action and minimise the changes of locality. And 
 in carrying out this object some compromise must at times 
 be made ; and I repeat that the observance of the dra- 
 matic unities in this manner may be successfully carried 
 out on the Stage, to the Eye, to a degree which would be 
 objectionable, and resented as an outrage by the Mind, in 
 a drama as printed for the reading public. 
 
 Two other limitations or considerations have to be 
 stated on this subject. Although the unities of Time and 
 Place, which are involved in Simplicity of Scene, are 
 valuable aids to the illusion of Reality on the Stage, 
 variety of scene is also, per se, advantageous as adding to 
 the richness of spectacular effect. In the Theatre, the 
 Eye ought to be pleased and charmed to the fullest ex- 
 tent compatible with the other requirements of the Drama. 
 Scenery even of the finest kind palls if kept long before 
 the audience. The Greek Plays, where only one Scene 
 was represented, were much shorter than the correspond- 
 ing Five-Act serious dramas of Modern Europe ; and 
 those single-scene dramas were enriched by attractive 
 accessaries, or indeed essentials, which hitherto have been 
 almost absent from our Serious Drama — namely, by ela- 
 borate music and the choral dance. It is only by fully 
 regarding this ensemble of attractions or artistic appliances 
 
xxxiv PREFACE. 
 
 that we shall adequately appreciate the classic drama of 
 Athens, which remains peerless of its kind, and towards 
 which there is now a visible return in some of the most 
 successful of our recent Plays. 
 
 In domestic and fanciful comedy, Robertson, Albury, 
 and Gilbert have made us familiar with three-act pieces, 
 with a single scene to each act — which is the Greek 
 Trilogy applied to the lighter forms of the Drama. But 
 the really difficult task was to revive this form of con- 
 struction in the serious or heroic Drama. And this has 
 been done to a considerable, or indeed remarkable, ex- 
 tent and with great success by Mr Wills. His " Charles 
 I.," the most successful of his plays, is a close approach to 
 the Greek Trilogy, depicting the life of the " royal martyr " 
 in separate scenes or tableaux, in which are skilfully 
 concentrated and represented the leading incidents and 
 circumstances of each stage of his career. The opening 
 scene at Hampton Court depicts the amiable but ill-fated 
 monarch at home, ending with the first mutterings of the 
 gathering storm ; the second scene, at Whitehall, depicts 
 the monarch and his opponents in the thick of the political 
 strife ; and the third scene represents him in the War, 
 at its culminating point of disaster to the royal arms ; 
 while the concluding tableau represents him again at 
 Whitehall in the closing stage of his career, leading to the 
 scaffold. Nay more ; in addition to the observance of the 
 unities of Time and Place, this Play follows the classic 
 type by its observance of the third "dramatic unity" 
 also — namely, that of Sentiment. Except (if it be an 
 exception) the opening of the First Act, when the King is 
 
PREFACE. XXXV 
 
 seen playing, but in sad fashion, with his children, the 
 whole Drama relates to the continuous and augmenting 
 disasters of the "royal martyr." The element of relief, 
 by variety of emotion and humorous contrast, so system- 
 atically employed by Shakespeare, is wholly absent — there 
 is not a laugh in the whole Play. There is no appliance 
 of Music, by which the unity, if not monotony, of Senti- 
 ment was systematically relieved in the old Greek Tra- 
 gedies. On the other hand, there is more dramatic 
 incident and more work for the Actor than was usual in 
 the Greek Dramas. 
 
 Mr Wills's latest Play, "Jane Shore," differs widely from 
 the Greek Drama in some respects, yet in another resem- 
 bles it even more closely .than " Charles I." does. It differs 
 as regards the unities of Time and Place, for it has seven 
 scenes, six of these being in distinct localities ; although 
 it is obvious that the Author has done his utmost to ob- 
 serve these unities, and does so to an extent by no means 
 usual in the English Drama. Nevertheless, on witnessing 
 "Jane Shore," \felt the resemblance which the work bears 
 to a Greek Play even more strikingly than when witness- 
 ing " Charles I." The unity of Sentiment is perfect ; and 
 despite the greater changes of scene, I felt as if I were 
 witnessing the sorrows of Hecuba or Antigone. There is 
 nothing more trying than to witness a monotony of 
 sorrow and calamity on the stage (though not in the 
 Opera, to which the Greek Tragedies were akin) ; and the 
 popularity of this Play speaks volumes alike for the 
 dramatic skill and poetic power of the Author, and for 
 the culture or artistic appreciation of the audience. The 
 
XXXVl PREFACE. 
 
 house was full in every part ; and I confess that it was 
 with some surprise, and also with pleasant pride, that I 
 saw unmistakably that such a drama was thoroughly 
 appreciated even by "the gods." 
 
 For a good many years the Poetic Drama had fallen 
 into the shade, almost into disrepute. In this, however, 
 it only shared the fate of Poetry in general. The 
 grand cycle of revived poetic feeling which accompanied 
 the Great War, and which produced or was represented 
 by a galaxy of our greatest poets — Burns, Byron, Scott, 
 Coleridge, Southey, Shelley, Keates, Moore, Campbell, 
 and Wordsworth — had died away ; and after Lord Lytton's 
 " Richelieu," and his still finer work the " Lady of Lyons," 
 there was a total cessation of the Poetic Drama. The 
 "high drama" disappeared, and it came to be thought 
 that Poetry on the stage was a mistake. It is now clearly 
 demonstrated — and the fact is a most gratifying one as 
 regards the quality of our theatrical audiences — that this 
 belief was all wrong, or else there has been a sudden and 
 happy return to higher sentiment. Mr Wills boldly 
 revived the Poetic Drama, and instead of emptying the 
 theatre, he has filled it, and found admiring audiences. 
 Poetry, as of yore, is recognised as the highest form of 
 speech — the language most suitable for all high event 
 and emotion, and in which these strike home most power- 
 fully to the heart : and this judgment is given not only 
 by the cultured occupants of the stalls, but by the broad 
 heart of humanity which beats in the gallery — and in 
 such a question the verdict of the latter class is even 
 more valuable than that of the former. 
 
PREFACE. xxxvii 
 
 These two Plays of Mr Wills's also serve to illustrate 
 a feature of the Greek Drama, and a condition requisite 
 for the successful adoption of its peculiar structure, to 
 wl\ich I previously alluded — namely, that the Story or 
 subject-matter of the drama must, in its broad outlines 
 at least, be familiar to the audience. It is impossible to 
 combine Simplicity of Scene with Novelty of story, or 
 dramatic creation ; but this becomes attainable when the 
 story or legend is familiar to the audience, whose know- 
 ledge of the subject renders unnecessary the representa- 
 tion of the minor events and connecting links, and there- 
 by allows of the dramatist massing and concentrating 
 the events in single scenes, representing the story at 
 its culminating points, and lavishing his whole dramatic 
 skill and poetic power upon these grand tableaux. Every 
 one nowadays is familiar with the story of Charles I.; 
 and hence it is in this Play that Mr Wills's dramatic 
 skill has most fully succeeded in observing the unities 
 of time and place — this Play, in fact, being as close a 
 copy or reproduction (whether consciously or not upon 
 the part of the author I cannot say) of the Greek Trilogy 
 as can well be imagined on the Modern Stage, without 
 an actual revival of the Greek Theatre with its musical 
 and other accessories. In " Jane Shore " the story is by 
 no means so familiar to the audience ; moreover, in this 
 Play Mr Wills — wisely and well, I think — deviates from 
 History, giving play to dramatic creation, and partial 
 Novelty of story. But exactly in proportion as he does 
 this, he has to sacrifice Simplicity of Scene. In the First 
 Act he is able to take a great deal for granted ; he gives 
 
XXXVIU PREFACE. 
 
 no preliminary description of who his heroine is, or how 
 she came to be there — for his audience know it before- 
 hand sufficiently well. But the moment he comes to 
 incidents of his own creation (and it would be the same 
 if the incidents, although historically true, were unknown 
 to his audience at large) he has to say good-bye to 
 Simplicity of Scene, and follow the ordinary course of 
 the Modern Drama in disregarding the unities of time 
 and place. 
 
 One more remark as to Mr Wills's "Charles I." Al- 
 though in its construction it far more closely resembles 
 the old Greek Tragedies, in their form of the Trilogy, 
 than any other work belonging to our modern Serious 
 Drama, it also exemplifies the difficulties attendant upon 
 this form or type of the Drama, and clearly illustrates the 
 statement which I have previously made, that when a 
 conflict of Realism arises between the Eye and the Mind, 
 the compromise ought to go, as far as possible, in favour 
 of the Eye. For example, in this Play it is indispensable 
 that the cause of the fatal treachery of Lord March to his 
 Royal Master, whose favourite he was, should be made 
 briefly but clearly intelligible, and still more the actual 
 form which this treachery took in deciding the issue of 
 the battle against the King. Accordingly this is done 
 by the interview between Ireton and March in the middle 
 of Act III.; but rather than break the Simplicity of 
 Scene, this interview is made to take place in the Royal 
 camp, where it was not possible for Ireton to be — nay, 
 actually beside the tent where the Queen is reposing ! 
 Nothing more impossibly could well be represented ; 
 
PREFACE. xxxix 
 
 nevertheless, this violation of all probability is not only 
 artistically justifiable, but practically successful. The 
 interview is a short one — only 30 lines, — which is an 
 important condition of its success ; and Ireton passes 
 from view before, or almost before, the Mind of the 
 audience takes note of the incongruity. When witnessing 
 the Play, it seemed to me, as Ireton and March appeared 
 beside the tent of the sleeping Queen, somewhat as if 
 it were a ghost-scene, or rather the representation or 
 revelation of a distant event seen by clairvoyance : but 
 before I could well shape my thoughts or reflections 
 upon what was passing before my eyes, the interview 
 was over, and the impossible intruder had disappeared. 
 Hence, I repeat, the briefness of this impossible scene 
 is one of the causes, and I believe the chief condition, 
 of the practical success of this or any suchlike violation 
 of the realism of Event for the sake of maintaining the 
 realism of Scene. It is a successful compromise in favour 
 of the Eye, but which necessarily involves a discord, — 
 and discords, whether in Music or in any other Art, must 
 be brief On the other hand, in the Play as printed for 
 the general reader, this impossible interview, short though 
 it be, is felt as absurd, an outrage on the common-sense 
 of the reader. 
 
 I make this remark not in derogation from, but in em- 
 phatic approval of, Mr Wills's work. A perfected Theatre 
 — unless we are to return to the pure Greek type of drama 
 — demands, in some case? at least, a compromise between 
 the Eye and the Mind, or of the Eye//«J Mind relative to 
 the Mind alone ; and the canons of criticism differ, I do 
 
Xl PREFACE. 
 
 not say widely, yet considerably, according as they are 
 applied to a Play acted, or read— to a drama as a purely 
 literary work, meant to be enjoyed by the reading public, 
 or as represented on the Stage. The Mind, the reader, 
 requires no compromises, — the more clearly and perfectly 
 the drama is developed, the better. In the perusal of a 
 drama (as of any other literary work), any incongruity or 
 impossibility of Event is felt with full and unmitigated 
 force as a violation of Realism ; because there is no coun- 
 ter-illusion of realism such as is maintained on the Stage 
 to the Eye by Simplicity of Scene, which is at least an 
 apparent maintenance of the unities of Time and Place, so 
 important for theatrical illusion. 
 
 The old Greek Plays are now being revived at times on 
 the British Stage, — a course which, in any form, would 
 have been impracticable but for the recent perfecting of 
 the Theatre. But they will never prove successful as 
 popular theatrical entertainments. These old dramas 
 turn upon sentiments and social or religious usages 
 which are wholly obsolete. This is the grand and insur- 
 mountable difficulty : the audience cannot sympathise 
 with them. I think it not improbable that one or two 
 modern dramas will be composed upon the model of the 
 Athenian drama, because this kind of Play is peculiarly 
 fitted to employ all the finest appliances of the Theatre, 
 as well as to suit a highly-cultured audience. But any 
 such revival of the Greek model will require a richer em- 
 ployment of language, and still more, a different kind of 
 acting, from what at present prevails. The Greek Plays, 
 apart from their choral songs and music, were recited. 
 
PREFACE. xli 
 
 rather than acted, dramas. All the exciting events, which 
 a modern dramatist carefully presents as special elements 
 of attraction to the audience, took place off the Stage. 
 The Greek Drama, in fact, consists of two elements — 
 namely, a recital in grand and picturesque language of the 
 stirring events connected with the piece ; and secondly, 
 and chiefly, in the expression of the Emotions connected 
 with these events, in the grandest and most beautiful form 
 which human speech and music can assume. But of act- 
 ing, in our sense of the word, there was little, or none. 
 Hence, together with the choral music and " emotional 
 dance " (if we may so call it), the charm of the Greek 
 Drama consisted in splendour and beauty of language, — 
 applied, partly, to a grand recital of the events, but still 
 more to the expression of Emotion. Poetry and grand 
 elocution, interspersed with music, were intrusted to 
 accomplish what Music alone does in the modern Opera 
 and Oratorio. 
 
 The recent representation of the " Alcestis " at the 
 Crystal Palace serves to show how these points have been 
 overlooked, and how different are the qualities required of 
 the actor in the old Greek Drama from those which distin- 
 guish the English Stage at the present time. Poetic drama 
 has been so long out of vogue that the present generation 
 of actors, as a class, are strangers to it ; while their style 
 of acting is equally alien to it. As the critic of the ' Daily 
 News ' remarked : " English acting tends essentially to 
 a [kind of] realism which is directly opposed to the char- 
 acter of an ancient drama. Even the spurious classicism 
 of the French stage has derived a sustaining power from 
 
xlii PREFACE. 
 
 the circumstance that French actors of the best class have 
 always been trained in a school which aims at investing 
 the poetical drama with an ideal character. The per- 
 formers at the Crystal Palace, on the contrary, not only 
 strive to act as they conceive that average humanity would 
 conduct itself in the circumstances in which they are 
 placed, but they endeavour to speak Dr Potter's lines as 
 if their rhythmical and rhetorical character were features 
 not to be indicated but rather to be got over as best may 
 be, in deference to the undeniable truth that average per- 
 sons do not use blank verse, or systematically employ 
 figures of speech in conveying to others their views and 
 sentiments. One of Mr Boucicault's domestic pieces, with 
 a fire in the third act, could not be further removed than 
 is the whole performance from the imaginative vein. This, 
 however, is chiefly felt in the delivery of the lines. The 
 truth is, that among us the art of poetical declamation is 
 scarcely cultivated at all. Any one who has heard a re- 
 fined French actress — say, for example, Madame Favart 
 — deliver verse, and has marked the appropriate varieties 
 of tone, the subtle shades of emphasis, the exquisite art 
 of dropping, as it were, into the ear of the audience a sig- 
 nificant word just where it seems to have been expected, 
 and this without failing to indicate the measured march 
 of the poet's Alexandrines, will perceive at once that 
 there is at least one very important condition almost 
 always wanting in the performance of a poetical play on 
 our stage. All this may have little affinity with Greek 
 notions of rhythm and music ; but it serves at least to attune 
 the mind of the audience to the spirit of the ideal drama." 
 
PREFACE. xliii 
 
 Comedy, especially of the lighter sort, is at present the 
 grand success of the English stage ; and it is Comedy, 
 with its minute attention to realism, which has given its 
 style to our modern acting. Indeed, in playing Shake- 
 speare's characters, Mr Fechter set a bad and mistaken 
 example by adopting this style to a considerable extent 
 even in the grand and poetic drama : he sought to repre- 
 sent average humanity while acting characters of a grand 
 and more or less ideal type. He sought to "play down'' 
 to his audience, — to represent Shakespeare's heroes as if 
 cast in no higher mould than the occupants of the pit and 
 stalls. This was a poor compliment to his audience ; it 
 was to ignore the fact that (despite the niladmirari precept 
 of Horace and Byron) Admiration, the sense of beauty 
 and grandeur, of what is higher than one's self, is one 
 of the most pleasurable as well as elevating of human 
 faculties and emotions. What could be meaner and 
 pettier than where Fechter made Othdlo, in his grand rage 
 and agony when about to murder Desdemona, turn to 
 look at his own face in a mirror, as if to say — " Ah, I 
 see ! — it is my black face has done it all : she prefers a 
 lover of her own complexion ! " The old school of great 
 Tragedians — Kemble, Siddons, and others — could never 
 have perpetrated such an indignity to Shakespeare ; or, I 
 may say, to human nature. Moreover, these great actors 
 of the older time loved and appreciated Verse, and could 
 speak it naturally and grandly. So, too, with the French 
 Tragedians, who can deliver their rhymed verse with a 
 charm and expressiveness which, as the ' Daily News ' 
 critic says truly, is at present a lost art on this side the 
 
xliv PREFACE. 
 
 Channel. It will be vain to revive the Greek dramas 
 until the art of reciting lofty and beautiful verse dra- 
 matically is regained. And not to be able to do this is 
 simply a confession that speech in its highest and most 
 lovely form is beyond the power of our actors. 
 
 A critic once replied to an admirer of Fechter's acting 
 in tragedy on the ground of its " naturalness " by the re- 
 mark, " Natural, — but according to whose nature t " Cer- 
 tainly not that of Lear, Hamlet, or Othello. So likewise 
 in regard to Language. It is true that average men and 
 women do not talk in verse : but, for that matter, neither 
 do they talk in the brilliant dialogue of Sheridan, or in the 
 clever and sparkling witticisms which abound in comedies 
 even of a lower class. Neither do they think, feel, and act 
 like the higher characters of the Drama ; but none the 
 less, perhaps the more, do they admire the representation 
 of humanity in its loftier and more lovely forms ; and the 
 more nearly an individual possesses the higher capacities 
 of human nature, the more nearly, under appropriate cir- 
 cumstances, would he speak and act like the characters 
 whose portrayal he admires. He admires them because 
 their speech and action are natural in the personages 
 and circunfstances created by the dramatic poet. Ordi- 
 nary men are not six feet high, nor walk like Weston, nor 
 speak like Gladstone ; neither are ordinary women beauti- 
 ful as Mary Queen of Scots or the Princess of Wales ; 
 nor can they sing like Patti or Tietjens. But no one would 
 say that these gifts are not natural in their favoured pos- 
 sessors. The mistake arises from confounding what is 
 ordinary or usual with what is natural, — or rather, of re- 
 
PREFACE xlv 
 
 stricting what is natural to what is ordinary. It is not 
 usual for a man to be able to throw a heavy iron bar thirty- 
 yards ; but certainly such an act is natural enough to a 
 man who can do it. 
 
 Just so is it with Language. Men with a lively sensi- 
 bility, and with the poetic faculty, when stirred by ade- 
 quate circumstance will express their feelings or ideas in 
 verse as naturally as ordinary men will do in prose. And 
 rhythmic speech goes as naturally with lofty thought and 
 action in the Drania as Dickens's clever and amusing 
 Cockney-dialogue goes with Sam Weller. The former 
 may be less usual than the latter, but it is equally natural. 
 The piano, when struck, yields sounds accordant to the 
 notes which it possesses : the common piano has not the 
 wide reach of the " grand " — it neither goes so low nor so 
 high : but if the notes, the capacity, be there, the wider 
 musical range, the full depths of the bass and the high 
 brilliance of the treble are as natural to the grander in- 
 strument as is their absence in the smaller one. 
 
 The whole rationale and true naturalness of Poetry con- 
 sists in this, that when the Mind is excited and elevated 
 by lofty or beautiful Emotion, speech rises naturally into 
 rhythmic prose (witness the finest passages of Oratory), 
 and next into the rich and various rhythmic cadences of 
 " blank verse ; " and finally — especially when the exciting 
 Emotion belongs to Love, tenderness, or the Beautiful 
 generally — it with equal naturalness culminates in rhymed 
 verse, in rhythm capped by the further beauty of Rhyme. 
 Rhymed verse, with its melodious consonances, or Poetry 
 in its highest form, is the perfection of melodious Speech. 
 
xlvi PREFACE. 
 
 Hence, by universal accord, it is adopted in Songs, Odes, 
 and other forms of Poetry in which a perfection of melo- 
 dious language is required, — where speech is elevated to 
 the highest point of Beauty. Every kind of high thought 
 or emotion can be effectively expressed in rhymed verse ; 
 indeed, as Shakespeare shows, it can be wedded even to 
 fierce and energetic action, lending additional force to the 
 lines : but its harmony of sound is peculiarly accordant 
 with the tender passions, and with calm, lofty thought. 
 Rhyme binds successive lines melodiously together ; and 
 this melodious consonance and linking of liiies is most 
 suitable where the emotion is smooth and sustained — as 
 in passages of stately grandeur, tenderness, or love — 
 whereby the development of the one sentiment in its 
 various phases or variations is linked and rounded by a 
 unity or harmony of melodious sound. 
 
 Shakespeare is undoubtedly the highest dramatic genius 
 the world has ever produced ; and what is the example 
 which he gives in this matter .■• No other modern drama- 
 tist employs language in such full variety. He employs 
 speech in each and all of its phases or different gradations 
 — from the lowest to the highest ; his language varying, 
 free and unconfined, solely and perfectly in accordance 
 with the changing mood or theme. Prose, blank verse, 
 and rhyme — he employs them all ; not merely in the same 
 drama, but in the same scene — sometimes even in the 
 same speech ; passing to and fro from one to the other, 
 often by rapid transition, but with constant appropriate- 
 ness and naturalness. Obviously he did not say to him- 
 self (no great author does), " Here I shall use prose, here 
 
PREFACE. xlvii 
 
 I shall speak in verse, here I shall make the verse blossom 
 into rhyme." He did it naturally : as the subject or emo- 
 tion varied, so did his own mood and emotions, spontane- 
 ously finding voice in accordant language. 
 
 The Greek Drama represented language uniformly in its 
 highest shape. Its peculiar structure not only permitted, 
 but was expressly designed for, the employment of speech 
 in its highest and most beautiful forms, — indeed this was 
 the primest object and feature of the glorious dramatic 
 works of the Athenian stage. All tragic and energetic 
 action for which the melody of Verse was unsuitable, took 
 place off the Stage, and was represented only by recital, 
 — ^the language descriptive of the events naturally assum- 
 ing quite a different form from what it would necessarily 
 have borne had it been the utterances of men actually 
 engaged in those events. It was but the reflection of those 
 events that had to be expressed, together with the emo- 
 tions of the "situation" as represented on the stage ; and 
 thus the language of the actors, the voice of emotion, 
 could rise without obstruction into the highest forms of 
 stately and melodious speech. The subject-matter of the 
 drama was uniformly solemn (although the Chorus, espe- 
 cially in the plays of Euripides, sometimes breaks into 
 sunny bursts of description), but the modulations or 
 " variations " (to speak musically) of the prevailing sen- 
 timent were expressed in various and elaborate verse. 
 What is more, although rhyme was dispensed with in * 
 Greek verse — the full vowel-sounds of that language 
 yielding a richness of melody unattainable in modern 
 languages, — a German critic has pointed out that rhyme 
 
xlviii PREFACE. 
 
 is employed occasionally in the Greek Tragedies (some- 
 times in upwards of a hundred places in a single drama), 
 deliberately and by direct purpose on the part of the 
 author. Indeed, apart from special reasons, it is incon- 
 ceivable that these numerous instances of rhyme could 
 have occurred save intentionally in such works, wherein 
 the Verse, and the artistic employment of language in its 
 highest forms, was the primest study of the author and 
 the chief attraction to the audience. There is also a well- 
 known instance in Horace's Odes, where he employs 
 rhyme to heighten the melody of the Greek metre which 
 he is using — viz., the Sapphic and Adonian — in his tender 
 lines to Lalage : — 
 
 " Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis 
 Arbor aestivi recreatur aur4." 
 
 In the first of these two lines we have simple rhyme 
 added to and accentuating the rhythm ; and in the second 
 line, the rhyme is actually manifold, — the full-sounding a 
 is heard not merely in the major cadences, at the middle 
 and end of the line, but also in the opening syllable, and 
 again in the eighth. The rhythm, in fact, besides being 
 the most melodious of classic metres, is as full of rhyme 
 as is possible, or as any line in Moore's ' Melodies,' or of 
 any other of the pre-eminently lyrical and fluently rhym- 
 ing poets of Ireland. 
 
 Rhymed verse is systematically employed by the 
 " classic " dramatists of France and Italy. In their 
 plays, as in the Greek drama, splendour of language, 
 expressive of lofty thought, heroic sentiment, and ten- 
 
PREFACE. xlix 
 
 derness of emotion, is the special charm, rather than the 
 representation of action. Also, as in the Greek drama, 
 the works of the French dramatists preserve a uniformity 
 of serious sentiment ; arid thus, to a certain extent, the 
 stately sonorousness of the rhymed Alexandrine verse is 
 not unsuitable ; although, both in beauty and appropriate- 
 ness, it falls short of, and looks tame beside, the varying 
 verse of the Athenian Drama. 
 
 In the Shakespearian Drama we enter an essentially 
 different world of scenic life. His Plays are full of vivid 
 action, — the most tragic and tumultuous events are pre- 
 •sented, fully acted, on the stage; and further, instead 
 of the " classic " unity of sentiment, we find systematic 
 Variety and the most abrupt contrasts. Even in his 
 tragedies — the parallels of the Greek Drama and the 
 classic drama of France — the whole range of human life 
 is represented, the whole gamut of sentiment is sounded. 
 The voice of vulgar humanity, of the courtly wit, or even 
 of the buffoon, is heard as a contrast, relief, and by-play 
 amid the most tragic events and in dialogue and mono- 
 logue of loftiest emotion and reflection. And the lan- 
 guage varies accordingly. In not a single one even of 
 his tragedies does he adhere to a uniformity of language. 
 Indeed, in each and all of them, he employs every grada- 
 tion of speech, from the language of the peasant up to 
 that of ideal humanity under the sway of the loftiest or 
 loveliest emotions. And he does so with a variety and 
 rapid vicissitude — a bold naturalness — that no other 
 English dramatist has equalled, or indeed approached. 
 Putting aside his prose-dialogue, let us consider his Verse. 
 
1 PREFACE. 
 
 The blank verse, or unrhymed metre, of Shakespeare is 
 widely different from that of Milton. It is the verse of 
 the drama, not of the Poem. Instead of the organ-like 
 swell and sustained cadences of Milton, we find a lively 
 motion in the verse, with the quick transitions and abrupt 
 pauses appropriate to a dialogue directly wedded to 
 dramatic action. It is only, or almost only, in his mono- 
 logues, or where his characters reflect while the action is 
 suspended, that Shakespeare employs "blank verse" of 
 the true type. True blank verse, as employed in a 
 different style by Milton and Tennyson, must always be 
 written in lines of ten syllable.s, and must be spoken- 
 accordingly. Various as are the cadences of blank verse, 
 — sometimes, as in Milton, the major rhythm extends in 
 a continuous roll over half-a-dozen successive lines, with 
 minor cadences between — there is always a cadence, a 
 caesural pause, of some degree after every tenth syllable : 
 and this is indispensable to the true blank verse of poetry 
 — it is this which " differentiates " it from rhythmic prose, 
 — or rather, I should say, from rhythmic and unrhymed 
 language in other form than blank verse ; for this rhyth- 
 mic language is capable of melody almost equal to that of 
 blank verse, although different in kind, — possessing less 
 sonorousness, but more flexibility and power of varied 
 expression. 
 
 This rhythmic language appears to me highly suitable 
 for the main body of a heroic or poetic drama ; because it 
 is by far the most flexible of all forms of language. It 
 can be made to pass readily, and without abrupt transi- 
 tion, into prose dialogue, as well as suitably to alternate 
 
PREFACE. li 
 
 or intermingle with it ; or it can rise into rhymed verse, 
 — the rhymes faUing upon and capping the free-moving 
 major cadences; or pass into true blank verse, with its 
 organ-like roll, — or again into the rhymed heroic couplet. 
 This form of speech is largely employed in Shake- 
 speare's dramas. Although written in lines of ten syl- 
 lables, his verse abounds in short or broken lines; also 
 the lines end with exceeding frequency in the colloquial 
 double-syllable ; also in thousands of instances there is 
 no csesural pause at all at the end of the decasyllabic 
 lines, — and these would be fatal defects in true blank 
 verse, whether of the Miltonian or Tennysonian kind. 
 But these are not defects at all in Shakespeare's verse, 
 and they can only appear to be so to those who imagine 
 that Shakespeare always meant to write pure blank 
 verse. 
 
 The short, and apparently broken, lines are quite differ- 
 ent from the unfinished lines found here and there in 
 Virgil's '.^neid :' they" are, really, employments of what I 
 may call the free rhythmic verse. Shakespeare, too, some- 
 times combines prose with blank verse — or verse, even 
 rhyme/ with prose — in the same speech, in a manner that 
 used to puzzle commentators, who could not understand 
 this gradation of speech, and who strove to scan the 
 interjected prose into verse, or to reduce the verse into 
 prose. Ordinary instances of this kind are too abundant 
 to need illustration ; but here is a very curious one from 
 Act i. scene 2 of the " Merchant of Venice," where Portia, 
 conversing with Nerissa and Servant in prose, passes in 
 the closing sentences of her last speech or remarks (which 
 
Hi PREFACE. 
 
 also close the scene) from prose into verse of a very loose- 
 jointed kind, but capped by rhyme : — 
 
 "Portia. If I could bid the fifth [wooer] welcome with so good a 
 heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his 
 approach : if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of 
 a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. 
 Come, Nerissa ! Sirrah, go before. 
 
 Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the 
 door." 
 
 But what I especially desire to call attention to is 
 Shakespeare's employment of rhymed verse, — very copi- 
 ously, and in a manner totally different from that of our 
 other dramatists. Shakespeare's employment of rhymed 
 verse may be classed under three heads. Firstly, there 
 are the highly imaginative or supernatural passages, like 
 the Witch Scenes in " Macbeth," where the supernatural 
 characters speak in rhymed verse of various kinds ; also in 
 the Play within a Play of the actors in " Hamlet ; " and 
 also generally, I might say universally, in all scrolls and 
 suchlike documents, from the contents of the caskets in 
 the "Merchant of Venice" down to the paper picked up 
 on the eve of the battle, in " Richard III." — 
 
 " Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold, 
 For Dickon thy master is bought and sold." 
 
 Secondly, there are the passages where rhyme is used 
 to emphasise the utterances of the speaker. Here the 
 verse rises into the rhymed couplet, usually at the close 
 of the speech, finely rounding it off, and giving to the 
 sentiment a power and force otherwise unattainable. 
 
PREFACE. liii 
 
 The words are winged by the rhyme, and the couplet 
 goes home to its mark like a rifled projectile from a 
 double-charged gun. Nearly all the most striking of 
 Shakespeare's lines, and those which he evidently meant 
 to be striking, are rhymed : e.g. — 
 
 " The Play's the thing, 
 Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King ! " 
 
 Or Macbeth's awful exclamation when the bell rings to 
 announce that all is ready for him to carry out his deed 
 of blood — 
 
 " Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a l<;nell 
 That summons thee to heaven or to hell ! " 
 
 These rhymed couplets, sometimes even quatrains, abound 
 in Shakespeare's tragedies, and at the end of a scene they 
 are so frequent as to be usual. Take, for instance, the 
 concluding Act of " Macbeth," where the action and emo- 
 tion are rising to their culminating point : — 
 
 Scene i. 
 Doctor. " And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night : 
 My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight." 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Lennox. " Or so much as it needs, 
 
 To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds." 
 
 \Exeiint. 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Macbeth. " The mind I sway by and the heart I bear 
 
 Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear." 
 
 Macbeth. " I will not be afraid of death and bane, 
 
 Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. 
 Doct. (aside). Were I from Dunsinane away and clear. 
 
 Profit again should hardly draw me here." [Exettnt 
 
 d 
 
liv PREFACE. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 Siward. " The time approaches 
 
 That will with due decision let us know 
 What we shall say we have and what we owe. 
 Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, 
 But certain issue strokes must arbitrate : 
 Towards which advance the war ! " [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Macbeth. " Arm, arm, and out ! 
 
 If this which he avouches doth appear. 
 There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. 
 I 'gin to be aweary of the sun. 
 And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. 
 Ring the alarum-bell ! Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 
 At least we'll die with harness on our back.'' [Exeunt. 
 
 What a storm of martial sound there is in these two 
 last lines ! — yet what would the words be if not cast in 
 the rhymed verse .'' 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 Macduff. " Make all our trumpets speak ; give them all breath. 
 Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death." 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Scene 8. 
 
 Macbeth. " Lay on, Macduff ; 
 
 And damn'd be him that first cries. Hold, enough.'" [Exeunt. 
 
 And the tragedy closes with King Malcolm's address 
 to his lieges, which he ends in rhyme as the curtain falls. 
 
 Malcolm. " This, and what needful else 
 
 That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, 
 We will perform in measure, time, and place ; 
 So, thanks to all at once and to each one. 
 Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone." 
 
PREFACE. Iv 
 
 Thirdly, Shakespeare uses rhyme in entire speeches, 
 sometimes in whole scenes, as in " Romeo and Juliet," 
 the Casket-scene in the " Merchant of Venice,'' and other 
 plays. Witness especially" Henry VI.," Act iv., where 
 rhymed verse, in the form of the heroic couplet, is em- 
 ployed throughout three successive scenes, where brave 
 old Talbot and his gallant boy meet after seven years' 
 absence, only to fight and die together in the lost battle 
 at Bourdeaux, — ending with the famous old General's 
 dying words — 
 
 " Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms ; 
 My spirit can no longer bear these harms. 
 Soldiers, adieu ! I have what I would have, 
 Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave." 
 
 Would any blank verse equal the rhymed couplet in 
 doing justice to the lofty pathos and heroism of these 
 scenes .■' I trow not. 
 
 Lastly, as to the employment of Music in connection 
 with highly poetic dialogue, and especially with rhymed 
 verse. The two naturally go together. Rhymed verse 
 is poetry in its most beautiful form, and by universal 
 accord music is most appropriate to it. Of itself, it is 
 more highly charged with music than any other form of 
 speech or verse : to the melody of the rhythm there is 
 superadded the harmony of the consonant rhymes, — it 
 is language beautified and surcharged with music. 
 
 Despite the fact that the artistic appliances of the 
 Theatre were of the most meagre description in his day, 
 Shakespeare in several instances expressly enjoins the 
 employment of music in connection with his verse-passages, 
 
Ivi ' PREFACE. 
 
 and especially where he uses rhyme. The Witch-scene in 
 the 4th Act of " Macbeth " is hardly a case in point ; for 
 there, although rhyme is employed, there is no beauty of 
 language to be sustained or heightened, — the chief pur- 
 poses of the music being in connection with the spectacular 
 effect, and, specially, to raise the emotions of the audience 
 so as to bring them into sympathy with the supernatural- 
 ness of the scene. The earliest representations which I 
 witnessed of " Macbeth " were devoid of music, and the 
 grand Witch-scene, baldly presented, looked more absurd 
 than impressive ; but when I saw the same scene, accom- 
 panied with Locke's music, I felt at once how vastly the 
 effect was heightened, and also the naturalness (if I may 
 so call it), of the supernatural event portrayed. But a 
 true and perfect example of Shakespeare's use of music 
 to heighten the effect of beautiful poetry is to be seen in 
 the Casket-scene in the " Merchant of Venice " (Act iii. 
 scene 2), where high blank verse, rhymed verse, and lyric 
 song are all employed. Portia says, "Let music sound 
 while he doth make his choice." Then a song is sung, 
 " Tell me where is Fancy bred ; " and also there is the 
 stage-direction, " Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the 
 caskets to himself." 
 
 While Shakespeare in the rich variety of~his language is 
 a dramatic model for all time — in this respect rivalling 
 or surpassing the finest of the Athenian tragedies, and 
 quite unequalled by any dramatist of modern times, — 
 the construction of his plays has become defective with 
 the growth of the Theatre, while the Greek model is being 
 revived, or at least its principle is being preferred, and ere 
 
PREFACE. Ivii 
 
 long will be more and more observed. Apart from the cir- 
 cumstance that our Theatre, possessing the fullest artistic 
 accessories and appliances, now permits of the adequate 
 representation of drama of the Greek type, is there not a 
 change in the condition and tastes of modern audiences 
 which points in the same direction .' The aesthetic Greeks 
 abjured the representation of tragic events upon the stage ; 
 they preferred to have them reflected and softened in the 
 mirror of poetic language. I ,have no doubt, also, that 
 the Greeks objected to representations of murder and 
 bodily cruelty on the stage as totally opposed to the illu- 
 sion of reality — as a breach of illusion of the very worst 
 kind. They not only knew, but felt, that such repre- 
 sentations were a sham ; and had such things been acted 
 on the stage, would not the cultured audience have simply 
 laughed at them 1 The Athenians, like the modern 
 Parisians, were eminently quick-witted and alive to in- 
 congruity, and I believe that their exclusion of tragic 
 acts from the stage was due not nearly so much to their 
 "fine feelings," as to their keen sense of the absurdity 
 of such a performance. Is not a similar feeling arising 
 in modern audiences } Our tastes are changing. In 
 Shakespeare's time, and until lately, the audience took 
 a lively interest in the most tragic events on the stage. 
 Their imagination was duller — probably they could not real- 
 ise the great events of the drama unless these were visibly 
 presented to them ; and undoubtedly they liked occasion- 
 ally to sup full of horrors. Hence in Shakespeare's plays, 
 Banquo is murdered, Caesar assassinated, Mercutio, Tybalt, 
 Cassio, and others killed in duels on the stage ; and the 
 
Iviii PREFACE. 
 
 death-combats of Macbeth and Macduff, and of Richard 
 III. and Richmond, used to be among the most attractive 
 parts of the performance of those great dramas — carefully- 
 studied by the actor, and loudly applauded by the audience. 
 This was a rude taste, belonging to uncultured times ; 
 but now it is vanishing. In fact, I believe that it is 
 chiefly to this change of public taste that Tragedies have 
 almost gone out of fashion, — not (as most people be- 
 lieve) because they are tragedies, but because our tra- 
 gedies, from those of Shakespeare downwards, have been 
 constructed on a principle now out of date. Theatrical 
 audiences have become critical in judgment, and also 
 more refined in sentiment. The characters on the 
 stage may rage or sorrow, be passionate in love, heroic 
 in sentiment, or lofty in reflection, to the fullest extent, 
 truthfully portrayed, — all this is natural^ though it be 
 human nature in its higher types, — and the audience 
 will admire and applaud. But " when the brains are out, 
 there is an end o't." The killing of a man on the stage 
 is a breach of realism of the most violent kind ; or, so 
 far as any impression of reality is felt by the audience, 
 it is disagreeable or shocking. But I believe that the 
 prevailing sentiment of any audience of the better class, 
 when such tragic scenes are acted on the stage, is now that 
 of sham. And when Banquo is covered with wounds by 
 the bloody daggers of the ist and 2d murderers, or when 
 Macbeth and Macduff, or Richard and Richmond, engage 
 in an elaborate death-combat, the audience are simply 
 inclined to laugh. Instead of the sensations of imagi- 
 native terror or horror, which earlier and uncultured 
 
PREFACE. lix 
 
 audiences experienced at the representation of these 
 events in tragedies, it may safely be said that nowadays 
 the more killings and murders in a piece, the more will 
 the audience feel absurdity in the performance. They 
 will laugh, or be tempted to laugh ; and this is utterly 
 fatal to a serious drama. The " illusion of reality " * is not 
 only gone, but gives place to sensations fatal, above all 
 others, to the effect of a dramatic performance. 
 
 Thus, the further we proceed in considering the matter, 
 does it not appear more clearly than ever that the cultured 
 Greeks had good grounds for their peculiar type of 
 
 * In the Athenian theatre it was a point of honour to make the production 
 of a new drama excel its predecessors in the mise en schie (see Copleston's 
 '^schylus' in Blackwoods' series of "Ancient Classics for English Readers") ; 
 and to show the perfection to which the Modem Theatre has attained, and 
 the extent to which the "illusion of reality " is now carried, I cannot refrain 
 from quoting from the newspapers an account of the production of Offen- 
 bach's new opera of "Dr Ox " at Paris : — "The costumes, which have been 
 designed partly by M. Grevin and partly by M. Draner, are the most beauti- 
 ful which have appeared since the Pompeian scene was composed in ' Le 
 Roi Carotte.' Madame Judic's gipsy dress in the first act was copied by 
 Grevin from R^gnault's noble picture of Salomd ; and even after this had 
 been done, so anxious was the Management to reproduce the great painter's 
 colours exactly, that the most expert dyers were employed to obtain stuff of 
 the lively and delicate tints required. M. Draner has equally conscientiously 
 designed the costumes confided to his artistic taste from historical engravings 
 of the master- works of the old Dutch and Flemish schools. The finale of the 
 second act, where more than a hundred persons appear together upon the 
 stage, gives a. correct notion of all that is most curious in the national attire 
 of the Low Countries ; and twelve of the ballet girls wear a faithful pattern 
 of the Marken Islanders' dress, which is not unlike a Russian costume. In 
 like manner, the Scenery has been accurately painted from photographs taken 
 in Holland for the purpose ; and M. Mortier, who is an authentic subject of 
 the King of the Netherlands, seems to have watched over the smallest effects 
 of the scenery with eyes so patriotic and attentive that the result is such as to 
 astonish even a Parisian audience accustomed to accuracy of detail." 
 
Ix PREFACE. 
 
 dramatic construction? It seems to me, also, that the 
 unpopularity of our existing form of Tragedies has been 
 one cause of the supposed unpopularity of poetic dramas. 
 It is only in our Tragedies that verse has been employed ; 
 and, the true cause of the waning popularity of these 
 dramas being overlooked (viz., their antiquated con- 
 struction), it was hastily inferred that it was their poetic 
 style which had ceased to be appreciated. The success of 
 Mr Wills's dramas has shown that this was a mistake, — 
 as indeed the great popularity of Lord Lytton's " Lady of 
 Lyons " has shown continuously ; and so far from dramatic 
 poetry going out of fashion, I believe that its attractions 
 will be even more fully recognised as the Modern Theatre 
 puts forth its complete and perfected powers for the 
 entertainment of the cultured audiences of the present 
 day. Dramatists must beware of Shakespeare as a model 
 of Construction, but they may safely follow him (if they 
 can) in the remarkable fulness and variety of his Poetry. 
 
 Also, if any one aspire to rival Shakespeare in his 
 marvellous mastery of language — so terse and pregnant, 
 so rich and picturesque — he need not seek to do so by 
 copying the idioms of the sixteenth century, for the sake 
 of giving a superficial resemblance to Shakespeare's style. 
 This is to confound the perishable with the immortal, — it 
 is to copy what would have had no place in Shakespeare's 
 writings had he lived in the present age. These archaic 
 expressions and style of language (which nowadays are a 
 weak affectation), or recondite phraseology of any kind, 
 are peculiarly out of place in the Drama, where the lan- 
 guage, however lofty and beautiful, ought to be instan- 
 
PREFACE. Ixi 
 
 taneously intelligible, clear as light itself. Lord Lytton 
 in all his Plays uses the language of his own time, and so 
 ought every author to do, and especially every Dramatist. 
 Since these remarks were written, the Poet-Laureate 
 has published his second drama, — a work in all respects 
 worthy of his renown. In his first drama, " Queen Mary," 
 Mr Tennyson followed the Shakespearian model, with its 
 multiplicity of changes of scene ; but in " Harold " he has 
 obviously studied concentration of incident carefully, — 
 although, partly owing to the story being unfamiliar to 
 ordinary audiences, but chiefly owing to his mode of 
 treatment, he has been compelled to represent the various 
 stages of the heroic story separately, to a degree which 
 renders unattainable the Simplicity of Scene and con- 
 centration of action which so remarkably characterise 
 Mr Wills's " Charles I." There are eleven scenes in 
 "Harold," ten of which are in different localities. But 
 there is one feature in this work, and its grandest scene, 
 which fully accords with what I have said" as to the " new 
 phase " and tendency of the Modern Drama. The Battle 
 of Hastings and the death of Harold are treated almost 
 exactly as they would have been in a Greek Tragedy. 
 In " Macbeth," " Julius Csesar," and otlier tragedies, 
 Shakespeare presents the battles on the stage, following 
 their course in a series of short scenes, where the charac- 
 ters are duly killed coram populo. Mr Tennyson banishes 
 the battle from the stage, representing it only in recital, 
 by a dialogue of onlookers. Moreover, he carries out this 
 resemblance to the Athenian drama by heightening the 
 effect of the scene by music and the chorus, — namely, by 
 
Ixii PREFACE. 
 
 the chanted song of the Monks, which alternates with the 
 dialogue. The descriptive and sympathetic dialogue, also, 
 is of the most vivid and impressive character ; while the 
 nearness of the battle and the realism of the recital are 
 impressively supported by the shouts and war-cries of the 
 contending armies — the sturdy " Out ! out ! " of the Eng- 
 lish, and the fierce " Ha Rou ! " of the Normans. 
 
 In "Harold," also — although in free play and richly 
 varied forms of language it falls short of Shakespeare's 
 style — we find a deviation from the monotony of blank 
 verse customary, and often so oppressive, in our English 
 tragedies of modern and post-Shakespearian date. Not 
 only is the Laureate's dramatic blank verse rightly dif- 
 ferent from the more melodious and perfect form which 
 it assumes in his Poems, but in various places of this 
 drama it passes visibly into that free rhythmic verse of 
 which I have previously spoken. Take the following in- 
 stances (p. 1 34) : — 
 
 Harold. " I die for England, then, who lived for England — 
 What nobler? Men must die. 
 I cannot fall into a falser world — 
 I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother, 
 Art tkou so anger'd ? 
 Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands," &c. 
 
 Here is a longer instance. Harold again loquitur (p. 
 109)— 
 
 " Set forth our golden Dragon, let him flap 
 The wings that beat down Wales ! 
 Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
 Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, brave banner. 
 Blaze like a night of fatal stars on those 
 
PREFACE. Ixiii 
 
 Who read their doom and die. 
 
 Where lie the Norsemen ? on the Derwent ? ay, 
 
 At Stamford-bridge. 
 
 Morcar, collect thy men : Edwin, my friend — 
 
 Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
 
 Last night King Edward came to me in dreams — 
 
 The rosy face and long down-silvering beard — 
 
 He told me I should conquer : — 
 
 I am no woman to put faith in dreams." 
 
 Mr Tennyson apparently shrinks from the bold natural- 
 ness in the use of rhymed verse which characterises the 
 King of dramatists; but he employs both it and music 
 to a greater extent than is to be found in the tragedies 
 of other authors. Besides the impressive rhymed chant 
 of the monksj Edith, the heroine, on two occasions (of 
 course in soliloquy) gives voice to her tender emotions 
 in song. Shakespeare sometimes (with perfect natural- 
 ness, as I maintain — nor was Shakespeare likely to make 
 a mistake in this matter) makes the heroines of his 
 Tragedies speak in rhymed verse ; but, with the excep- 
 tion of the maniacal snatches of Ophelia, he never makes 
 them sing a song. The two songs in " Harold " are essen- 
 tially, indeed peculiarly, songs, — rso much so that they 
 cannot be naturally spoken — they must be sung. If 
 spoken, they would lose the charm which they are meant 
 to possess, — ^it would be like a painting without its colour. 
 The words are not particularly lyrical or beautiful of 
 themselves, but there is a wonderful latent charm in the 
 first of these warblings (as in most of the Laureate's 
 songs) — an underlying sentiment, which is meant to be 
 developed by music. The simple words, in fact, are as 
 expressly meant to be garlanded by music as the tree- 
 
Ixiv PREFACE. 
 
 arcades of Italy are meant to be festooned by the grace- 
 ful foliage and blooming fruit-clusters of the vine. These 
 songs in " Harold, a Tragedy," are a bold innovation ; but 
 no absolute rule can be laid down for the details of dra- 
 matic treatment, which so vary with mood, sentiment, and 
 circumstance, that what is appropriate or inappropriate in 
 one place may possibly be the reverse in another. 
 
 Be this as it may, the case stands thus. In " Harold," 
 our newest tragedy, and by our greatest poet, we now 
 have the Greek principle of recifal of tragic events, instead 
 of acting them, — this recital, moreover, being accompanied 
 by what is in fact the Chorus and Music of the Athenian 
 drama: music and rhymed verse being still further em- 
 ployed in the songs of the heroine ; while the customary 
 monotony of our dramatic poetry is also relieved by the 
 occasional employment of the free rhythmic verse. 
 
 There are no themes more natural or more tempting for 
 the Dramatic Muse — for Tragedies, or for the serious and 
 poetic Drama generally — as grand events of History : 
 but these subjects have a danger peculiar to themselves, 
 and one which, if I may venture to say so, the Laureate 
 has not wholly avoided in his " Harold." The dramatist 
 must not chiefly write History ; the interest of his work 
 must be of a personal, not of an historical kind. Grand 
 as may be the epoch to which the drama relates, it is 
 not upon an interest of this kind that a successful play 
 can rely, but upon the sentiments and passions of the 
 individual characters, — not upon the grand events of 
 the epoch, but upon the mode in which these influence 
 the actors in the story. In the Greek Tragedies, as I 
 
PREFACE. Ixv 
 
 have repeatedly said, it is not upon a portrayal of the 
 Events, but of the passions and emotions excited by the 
 Events, that the poet-authors employed their high powers, 
 and which supply the elements of interest to the audience. 
 A grand epoch in its purely historical aspect may be 
 fitly and successfully made the theme of a Poem : indeed 
 a Poem, as the highest form of language, may narrate 
 such events as faithfully, and also more grandly and 
 beautifully than History, — necessarily with a loss of many 
 of the minor facts, but with a grander sweep and with 
 a more vivid presentment of the aspect of the times. 
 But the case is otherwise with the Drama — and indeed 
 with the Novel also. And by reference to the Novel, 
 I can perhaps best describe the difference. Take, for 
 example, the Historical Novels of two of the greatest 
 masters in that domain of imagination, Scott and Bulwer- 
 Lytton. The finest of Bulwer-Lytton's historical novels 
 is ' The Last Days of Pompeii.' Why ? Because in it he 
 was least tied, and overpowered, by History. In fact, in 
 that novel there was no History to be kept in mind at all. 
 But when we come to his other works of this class, say his 
 ' Harold,' the work of art is far inferior. It is first History, 
 and only secondarily a Novel. His mode of treatment is 
 to represent the Period, the Events ; and the imaginative 
 and personal elements, although the largest in bulk, are 
 merely interjected embellishments of the historical theme. 
 The History overpowers him — as it must do any author 
 who adopts the same method of treatment. On the other 
 hand, look at Scott. I have seen it remarked that Scott 
 never selected as his heroes the grand historical person- 
 
Ixvi PREFACE. 
 
 ages of the time in which his tale is laid — not even in his 
 Poems ; for these he made, and desired to make, poetic 
 Novels. And it was said he did this from a reluctance or 
 inadequacy for the task of portraying those great person- 
 ages. This criticism not only does . injustice to Scott 
 (about which I do not here concern myself), but proceeds 
 from an entire mistake of Scott's plan of work. No man 
 could better delineate great historic personages than 
 Scott ; and briefly as they appear on his scenes, he gives 
 to them a more vivid and not less accurate presentment 
 than perhaps even the best Historian has done. What 
 can be more graphic and realistic than his sketches of the 
 Lion-Heart of England ; the wily, cowardly Louis XI. of 
 France ; or the chivalrous Saladin ? 
 
 The true explanation of Scott's method was (though 
 most probably he did not reason the matter at all, but 
 worked by the instinct of his genius) the fundamental 
 difference between the Novel and History. It is a low — 
 certainly it is not the highest — form of the Novel which 
 simply embellishes History. Scott's novels were imagina- 
 tive creations, laid in great periods, but not describing 
 them. The grand personages of the Period look in upon 
 his story, and the grand aspect and movement of the 
 Period overhang it like a sky : but the story follows its 
 own course, and the interest is essentially of a personal, 
 not of an historical kind — indeed, the most interesting 
 incidents and personages are purely fictitious. In the 
 Drama this mode of treatment is at least as imperative 
 or desirable as in the Novel. When the Drama concerns 
 itself with depicting the Period or Events, it is at once 
 
PRKFACE. IxvH 
 
 overpowered by History ; and the characters, instead of 
 moving by free spontaneous Hfe, become Httle more than 
 automata, giving voice to the events, and their speeches 
 are History in dialogue. They are " lay-figures," exciting 
 little interest, because we know the history, and that they 
 must act in obedience to it. In this way the great charm 
 of the Drama is lost, — for the interest of the Drama ought 
 to be purely personal, based upon the emotions of the 
 individual, not on the course of the Time. It is Human 
 Nature that we primarily want, not History. Look at 
 Shakespeare's historical dramas. He follows History 
 much more closely than Scott did in his Novels ; but in 
 those days, when books were few and reading rare with 
 the public, there was a value and an attraction in the 
 representation on the stage of the grand events of our 
 national history such as are non-existent now, — much in 
 the same way as the old Scripture Plays had both a 
 charm and a value when the Bible was a " sealed book " 
 to the multitude, which do not pertain to them now. But 
 even in the historical dramas of Shakespeare, nearly one- 
 half consists of pure bye-play, with imaginary characters 
 (like Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph), and usually of a comic 
 description, — an element of variety and relief, which our 
 King of dramatists never overlooked. The chief ele- 
 ment of interest is not that pertaining to the events, 
 but to the portrayal of human nature in its higher forms 
 in connection with those events — the inner life of the 
 characters, their secret thoughts, and their bye-play of 
 action, portrayed by the genius of Shakespeare. History 
 cannot tell us what Caesar thought and spoke, or the 
 
Ixviii 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 moralisings of Cato ; and in " Richard III." the interest 
 is created chiefly by the imagination of the author, in 
 divining and depicting the inner life and private person- 
 aHty of the Hunchback Tyrant. Moreover, as works of 
 art, these historical Plays do not equal " Othello," " Ham- 
 let," " Macbeth," " The Merchant of Venice," " Romeo and 
 Juliet," and the "Tempest," where History is wholly absent, 
 and even legend (if any) is a mere outline, and where the 
 subject is purely a development of Human Nature in its 
 eternal forms, but in its higher types, and under the 
 pressure of exciting incidents, as portrayed by a great 
 Poet and the greatest seer of the human heart that ever 
 lived. 
 
 The Poem can deal most successfully even with pure 
 History, — and still more with the dim but often mar- 
 vellously attractive domain of national legend. But 
 in the Drama it is always perilous to make the main 
 line of action (in such case it cannot be called a " plot ") 
 coincide and progress along with the course of histori- 
 cal events ; and when this is done, the interest ought 
 to lie in matters which are not History, though bor- 
 rowing from it their general complexion. Lord Lytton's 
 " Richelieu " is not so fine a Play as his " Lady of Lyons," 
 but even in " Richelieu," the interest lies in depicting the 
 complex personality and inner life of the great Minister 
 under wholly fictitious circumstances — in an imaginary 
 microcosm, lying within and taking its colour from the 
 historical macrocosm, but composed chiefly of personages 
 and wholly of incidents of which History knows nothing. 
 History, in short, makes a grand groundwork for the 
 
PREFACE. Ixix 
 
 Drama ; but if it supplies both the figures and chief inci- 
 dents of the dramatic picture, only the highest dramatic 
 genius can prevent the characters becoming uninteresting 
 automata, — lay-figures speaking History in dialogue. And 
 here again I must praise Mr Wills's "Charles I." as a 
 model of construction for the pure Historical Drama, — his 
 theme of interest being not the Events, but the emotions 
 and development of character excited by the events, — 
 History being mirrored in his scenes rather than acted, — 
 all his scenes, in truth, belonging to the bye-play of His- 
 tory, but quite beyond its ken ; and thus the characters 
 are free to show, and do show, the spontaneity of life and 
 action which is indispensable for dramatic interest. At 
 the same time it must be said that his strict observance of 
 the " unity of sentiment " cannot be accepted as a general 
 rule, however imperative it may be in the pure Greek 
 Drama, with its musical and other elements of relief. 
 
 Although I indulge in this Preface — which, beyond my 
 purpose, has grown into an Essay — tempted thereto by 
 the new phase which appears to me to be coming over 
 the Modern Drama, alike in its construction and in 
 theatrical representation, and which I think will progress, 
 — I beg it to be understood that these foregoing remarks 
 have little or no connection with this Drama of mine, 
 for which a lengthy exordium were out of place, and 
 which was written full seven years ago, at a time when 
 the change in question had not attracted my attention 
 
Ixx PREFACE. 
 
 and indeed had hardly become observable. "Robespierre" 
 belongs to the Modern or Romantic school of drama, not 
 to the Classic,— relying for interest mainly upon novelty 
 of story and incident. At the same time I think it 
 accords with the revived perfection of Theatrical repre- 
 sentation by introducing along with the dialogue and 
 dramatic action the enrichment of Music, in the choruses, 
 as well as the Spectacular effects and the Ballet. 
 
 With regard to those parts of the dialogue in which 
 rhythm is heightened or further accentuated by rhyme, I 
 shall not, I hope need not, quote high authorities or 
 adduce arguments. I shall only state the fact, for what 
 it is worth, that in those places the rhymed verse came 
 naturally to me. It was written spontaneously, and I 
 am confident it can be spoken naturally. 
 
 " Robespierre " cannot boast of the Simplicity of Scene 
 which so remarkably characterises Mr Wills's " Charles I." 
 As thus published, the action takes place in nine different 
 localities, — one less than in " Harold." In presenting the 
 drama to the reader, I have refrained from any artificial 
 (if I may so call it) restriction of the Scenes, such as I 
 have shown may be advantageous for the Theatre, — 
 except in so far as I have placed the first appearance of 
 Robespierre (Act ii. scene i) in a Street-scene, instead of 
 (as in the original MS.) in his then plainly -furnished 
 residence, as a contrast to his subsequent sumptuously- 
 furnished apartments, as shown in his second appearance 
 in Act iii. scene i. But should this drama be represented 
 on the stage, the different localities may readily be re- 
 duced from nine to seven; by condensing the Street- 
 
PREFACE. Ixxi' 
 
 scenes in Paris (at present two, and hardly different) into 
 one ; and also by making the interview between Robe- 
 spierre and Collot, at the opening of the Third Act, take 
 place in the same locality, which can be done by making 
 Collot allude to the busts, &c., in Robespierre's house, 
 instead of pointing to them. 
 
 R. H. R 
 London, January 1877. 
 
ROBESPIERRE 
 
ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene \.— Place in Paris, adjoining the Gardens of the 
 Tuileries. Night — early morning of August 5, 1789. 
 
 Enter LUCILLE in sedan-chair, returning from a party, borne 
 by A ttendants carrying flambeaux. On the other side 
 enter a Patrol, headed by an officer slightly intoxicated. 
 
 Officer. Halt! 
 
 Attendants. Make way ! We are servants of the Count 
 Beauregard, conducting home his daughter. 
 
 Off. To the lamp-post with all Counts ! Come, let us 
 see what like the lady is, 
 
 [Lucille'S Attendants set down the chair 
 and push him back. 
 Ho ! Seize these lackeys ! 
 
 [ TJie Patrol seize them and take their torches. 
 
 A 
 
ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 [Act I. 
 
 The Mob {gathering round). Aha ! down with aris- 
 tocrats ! They go to revels while we starve. 
 
 Off. {opening door of sedan-chair). Come forth, my lady 
 fair ! that I may pay my respects to beauty. 
 
 Enter Camille. 
 
 Camille. What is this disturbance .? 
 
 The Mob. A fair aristocrat ! we've netted her for our 
 sport. 
 
 Lucille {steps out of chair). My father is Count Beaure- 
 gard. Stand aside, and let me go to him ! 
 
 [ The Mob close round her. 
 
 Cam. {rushing forward, pushes off the Officer, and points 
 his sword to his breast). See here ! I am an officer as 
 well as you : and if you dare to molest the lady ! . . . 
 ( To soldiers). I am the senior of this drunken brute. Re- 
 lease those men. 
 
 The Mob {threatening Camille). Who is this would spoil 
 our sport .? 
 
 Cam. Cowardly ruffians! {To soldiers). I place that 
 man in arrest. Form up, — and let the bearers pass. 
 ( 7^1? Lucille). Lady ! allow me to hand you to your chair. 
 Let me apologise for the affront of this drunken officer. 
 It is not thus that France makes war against the 
 aristocrats. [ The soldiers keep off the Mob. 
 
 Luc. I thank you, sir, for this great service. France, 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 3 
 
 too, ought to thank you for saving the name of Liberty 
 from disgrace. 
 
 Cam. {Admiring her). Permit me, lady! 
 
 {Hands her into the sedan-chair. The Attendants 
 resume their torches, and exeunt with LUCILLE. 
 To meet her thus ! my Dream ! my Angel fair ! 
 
 {Remains in front, musingly. Day begins to break.) 
 
 France ! my France ! a new day's dawning 
 For thee and foT the world ! 
 
 1 see the Future lift her golden veil, 
 Revealing glorious days in store. 
 New banners are unfurled, — 
 Feudalism is no more. 
 
 O goodly work ! The world's blessing 
 Waits upon France. O joy beyond expressing ! 
 The very Morn seems conscious of new bliss, 
 And brightly beams upon our happiness. 
 
 Enter Ernest and others. 
 ( The Place begins to fill with people), 
 
 Ernest. Hast heard the news } The Nobles join the 
 movement : 
 Nobly they've signed their privileges away. 
 We all are Citizens alike. 
 Brothers in the broad ties of human kind ! 
 
 Citizens. Long live the Nobles ! Nobly have they done. 
 {The rising Sun begins to illumine the Place) 
 
4 ROBESPIERRE. t^'^'' ^• 
 
 Choral Song. 
 Freedom like a golden Sun is rising. 
 
 O Goddess fair, 
 
 Beyond compare ! 
 Noiv let our voices with our hearts upraising 
 
 Hail the new Day I 
 
 The broadening ray 
 
 Of Freedom' s sun 
 Will soon unite all hearts in France as one. 
 
 O joy ! peace ! 
 Love dawns now on the world, and n^er shall cease! 
 
 Enter COLLOT and others. 
 
 Collot. What foolery is this ! What idle dreams ! 
 Think you the Nobles are sincere .■" Not they ! 
 Why talk in girlish strains of love and peace .-" 
 Every grand Revolution that has rendered 
 A nation famous, has been made, my friends. 
 Not with rose-water, but with blood. 
 With blood alone is Freedom won. 
 And France ! she calls aloud for tyrants' blood, 
 To avenge not our wrongs only, but appease 
 The million manes of her oppressed dead. 
 
 Collofs followers. Yes, blood must flow ! 
 We'll have each tyrant's head ! 
 fa ira ! fa ira ! 
 
Scene 1.] ROBESPIERRE. 5 
 
 Cam. Freedom ! not blood ! A heavenly voice is calling: 
 'Tis softly falling 
 
 Into our hearts from yonder dawning skj^ 
 O lovely Seraph ! with white wings descending, 
 Thy pure and spotless robe extending 
 O'er France, our country, — nlake us free 
 From all that's base, impure, unworthy thee ! 
 Crown this Millennium, — let all strife be o'er, 
 And to the world lost Paradise restore 1 
 
 Enter COUNT Beauregard, leaning on the arm of his 
 Nephew, returning from the Assembly, — Marcel 
 attending on the COUNT. [The people salute them 
 respectfully). 
 
 Cit. Long live the Nobles ! Nobly have they done ! 
 
 Col. (aside). What fools those bourgeois are ! Slaves 
 still in heart, — 
 Born slaves and fools ! Faith, this will never do. 
 I'll to the faubourgs, and bring out the Mob. 
 
 Raymond [to Count). Have we done well, in one en- 
 thusiastic hour 
 Thus to annul our ancient privileges .' 
 
 Count. There are grand epochs in a Nation's life 
 When what is old must die. And this is one. 
 France groans and suffers : and to lighten her burdens. 
 Her chiefs, we Nobles, should be the first to give 
 Example of sacrifice, and nobly annul 
 
6 ROBESPIERRE. ^^'^'^ ^• 
 
 All that bears hardly on the common throng. 
 Perish all privilege that doth run counter 
 To the grand interests of the common weal ! 
 Cam. {observing the Count). Her Father ! 
 
 - [Advances towards CoVifiT, and says respectfully. 
 Sir, France's best thanks, and ours, attend you ! 
 
 [The Count passes on, with the others, without 
 speaking. 
 Col. and Followers {whose voices are soon drowned by those 
 of Camille's party^. 
 fa ira ! Blood shall flow 
 To make the Revolution -go ! 
 
 Em. and Cit. No, no ! Blood must not flow 
 To stain our noble work with woe. 
 Freedom, not blood ! Our rallying-cry 
 Is Peace and true Fraternity! 
 
 \Exeunt all but Camille. 
 Cam. So dies an olden world of chains and sighs. 
 And joy for me ! Lucille may now be mine ! 
 Birth-rank doth now its baseless claims resign. 
 And noble Love may win its rightful prize. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 7 
 
 Scene II. 
 Servants' Room in COUNT BEAUREGARD'S House, in Paris. 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 Annette. Well, things are coining to a pretty pass ! 
 My noble master is no longer a Count, only a Citizen; and 
 Mademoiselle a Citoyenne, just like poor me ! And every- 
 body is better than his neighbours. Heigh-ho ! this does 
 not suit me. I get more civility from the Nobles who 
 come here than from the very tradesmen who bring us 
 eggs and butter. 
 
 Enter MARCEL. 
 
 Marcel {not seeing Annette). Troubles ! troubles ! 
 both in Court and camp. 
 I'd rather take to arms again, and follow 
 My master to the field, than thus be bearded 
 At every turn by the mere scum of Paris. 
 
 Ann. Ah Marcel ! I am glad the Count is done with 
 you. I want your help. 
 
 Mar. Ha, my pretty child ! an old soldier is ever ready 
 either for fray or feast, — to face the gleaming of the 
 bayonet's steel or the more killing glance of beauty's 
 eyes, — like yours, Annette. 
 
 Ann. What pretty compliments you old soldiers pay! 
 
8 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 So different from the young men now-a-days. There's 
 Francois, for example. . . . 
 
 Mar. The lucky youth! Heigh-ho! old as I am, I 
 envy him your fondness for him. 
 
 Ann. Old ! Not you indeed ! Come, there, stand up. 
 Upon my word, there's more good manhood in you than 
 in half-a-dozen Frangois, — young and good-looking as he 
 is, you know. Give me a man, and best of all, a soldier. 
 But come, you have not dined. 
 
 {She spreads a little table, Marcel helping her. 
 
 Enter FRANCOIS, in uniform of the National Guard, 
 with cap of Liberty. 
 
 Ann. {bursts out laughing). Good life ! Fran§ois, is that 
 you .'' What have you been doing with yourself } 
 
 Francois (^grandly). France calls upon her sons. To 
 arms ! I answer to her call. I have enrolled me in the 
 National Guard. Behold me, my sweet charmer ! Am 
 I not now a soldier to your wish ? Come, give me a kiss 
 to handsel this gay dress. 
 
 Ann. I die of laughter ! Is that your nightcap t What 
 a horrid thing ! 
 
 Fran. The cap of Liberty ! 
 
 Mar. Nightcap of Liberty, — an extinguisher of all that's 
 worth calling Freedom ! 
 
 Fran. You obsolete relic of the old regime! If I were 
 you, I'd wear anything to hide those tell-tale locks. Ha! 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 9 
 
 youth and liberty, good looks to boot,— these are the 
 things to make one's life worth having. Is it not so, 
 Annette ? Behold your soldier-lover ! 
 
 Mar. Soldier ! Methinks there are no soldiers now in 
 France. Each private thinks himself as good as his officer. 
 Liberty and Equality ! A pretty mess 'twill make with 
 discipline. 
 
 Fran. We're done with Nobles now. New blood's the 
 thing. I may be a general soon, Annette — as good as a 
 Count any day ; and you, as my wife, as good as Made- 
 moiselle Lucille. 
 
 Ann. Peace, you popinjay ! 
 
 Mar. 'Tis forty years and more since as a lad I was 
 with my master the Count at Fontenoy. A tough busi- 
 ness it was. When that terrible English column broke 
 our centre, sweeping away the Guards and all our best 
 troops, what saved France then ? It was the Royal Body- 
 Guard — each one a Noble, with the best blood of France 
 in his veins. The Count, then but a boy, fell, shot down 
 in that desperate rally which saved the Guards from anni- 
 hilation and France from defeat. And now the Guards 
 themselves are in revolt, bribed by that craven Orleans, 
 who parades himself as " Egalite ! " 
 
 [ They sit down at the table. 
 
 Ann. {to Fran.) For shame ! You call yourself a man, 
 a soldier, and sit down in lady's company with your 
 nightcap on ! 
 
10 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 Fran. Oh, I beg pardon. 
 
 \As he rises to put off his cap, the sword gets be- 
 tween his legs, and he tumbles over the chair. 
 Annette and Marcel exchange looks and 
 
 [Reseating himself^) Ducks ! roast ducks, I do declare ! 
 I am so fond of them. 
 
 Ann. That pleases our new soldier better than his arms! 
 
 Fran. Ah, but not better than beauty's arms ! Roast 
 duck is nice, delicious : but there's a living duck {ptdting 
 his arm round Annette) that's far nicer ! 
 
 Ann. Keep off! Lord! what a notion of compliments 
 he has. A dead duck and a living one ! Ha ! ha ! Me a 
 duck ! his duck ! That is being roasted indeed ! 
 
 Fran, {eating). Liberty ! Equality ! No more Nobles 
 now. Every man is as good as his neighbour — better, 
 perhaps. But come, I say, this duck is monstrous tough. 
 He must have been some old cock of the roost who had 
 got too old for his functions. A little bit of the other, 
 please, Citoyenne. 
 
 Ann. Nay, nay. If one man's as good as another, surely 
 ducks should be the same. 
 
 Fran. Oh, come, you know, its too serious for joking. 
 I am very hungry. 
 
 Ann. A joke ! Equality is a joke when it comes to 
 ducks, is it .■' 
 
 Fran, {drinks). Here's to Liberty and Equality ! 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 1 1 
 
 Mar. Damn your Equality, sir ! Men are not equal, 
 and never will be. It's only a phrase to cover insolence 
 to one's betters. 
 
 Ann. And Liberty, methinks, with you Frangois, is only 
 permission to make a fool of yourself 
 
 Fran. Ah, had you seen us at our drill to-day ! Woe 
 to all invaders of the soil of France ! It is so glorious 
 to handle arms, and " stand at ease," and all the rest of 
 it. Come, I will show you how we do. 
 
 [Francois rises and takes up his musket 
 
 Mar. Why, man ! you handle your gun as if you were 
 
 some old bachelor handling a baby, — afraid to let it fall, 
 
 or lest it go in pieces. There ! take hold of it : it won't 
 
 bite you. " Present arms ! " 
 
 \As Francois does it awkwardly, Marcel gives 
 the musket a slap and it falls out of his hands. 
 Call you that holding a musket ! (FRANgois picks up 
 the gun, looking ashamed). Now then, " level bayonets ! " 
 There, your right hand at your hip-joint — so ! " Prepare 
 to receive cavalry ! " 
 
 \As Francois stands feebly in position. Mar- 
 cel, taking hold of the bayonet, gives a slight 
 push, Franc^oiS loses his balance and totters 
 backward. 
 Is that the way to receive a charging horse .■■ 
 
 Fran, (aside). A horse! a brute, at least! {Aloud.) Oh, 
 I gave way lest you might have cut your fingers. 
 
12 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 Ann. Come, come. It's time for your civilian duties 
 now. Go put on your livery : you don't look such a fool 
 in it as in that. There will be such a meeting of the old 
 Nobility here to-night. Come, clear away the table. I 
 must away to wait upon my young mistress. {Aside, and 
 coming to front of stage}) Ah me ! with the first nobles of 
 France at her feet, Mademoiselle Lucille turns from them 
 all, and gives her heart to a nameless youth who one night 
 chanced to save her from the Mob. What mischief will 
 come of this ! And to-night, during the banquet, she is 
 to give him an interview in the garden. Oh love, love, 
 love ! {Exit. 
 
 Count {from behind the scenes). Marcel ! Marcel ! 
 
 The Count enters. 
 
 Count {to Francois). What means this masquerading } 
 Take off that dress, and attend to your duties. ( To Mar- 
 cel). I want you, Marcel : follow me to my room. 
 
 {Exeunt Count and Marcel. 
 
 Fran. There's Liberty and Equality for you ! A Royalist 
 
 banquet to-night ! I'll give a hint in the proper quarter : 
 
 and then we'll see how these mighty courtiers like a visit 
 
 of King Mob ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 1 3 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Street and Garden in front of COVNT Beaxjkegard's House, 
 with tlte Tuileries in the background. Moonlight. 
 
 Lucille and Annette enter the Garden from the House. 
 
 Luc. How sweetly yonder moon is shining ! 
 
 Dear lovely moon ! 
 How well thy tender light suits my fond pining 
 
 For Love's dear boon, — 
 Love, whose sweet silvery cords my heart's entwining, 
 
 Like moonlight's beams, — 
 My young life with its magic all enshrining 
 
 In tender dreams. 
 Shine sweetly, moon ! dear lady moon ! above, 
 And grant thy blessings on a maiden's love ! 
 
 Ann. The noblest blood of France is here to-night, — 
 The gay and handsome, men of high descent, 
 Of courtliest bearing, and of sparkling wit. 
 Your Cousin Raymond, too — you can't but see 
 That the young gallant is in love with you. 
 And yet you slight them all for a nameless youth 
 Who one night chanced to save you from the Mob ! 
 
 Luc. {with emotion). Oh, why am I a maiden nobly born > 
 Why is my young heart thus fiercely torn 
 
14 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 'Twixt Love and Honour's call ? 
 Yet ah ! what honour can there be 
 In proving false, Camille, to thee ? 
 Nature alone can make the die 
 That stamps Man with Nobility ! 
 
 Ann. Oh, pause — reflect ! On what a brink you stand ! 
 Keep back your heart, — you ne'er can give your hand. 
 
 Luc. Have I not seen him in bold manhood's pride } 
 Have I not heard him pleading at my side .' 
 Handsome and brave, — and, O Annette, a soul 
 Through which the sympathies of a world roll, — 
 To make Man blest by freedom, knowledge, love, 
 Earth a fair copy of the Heaven above ! . . . 
 Oh, would this goodly end were near ! 
 
 Ann. 'Tis all a dream, I fear. 
 
 Luc. Oh, how I tremble at this secret meeting ! 
 Yet with what yearning love my heart is beating ! 
 
 {Distant sounds of the Marseillaise. 
 Hark ! what fierce sounds are those .-• 
 
 Ann. The Marseillaise,— 
 
 The terrible new song the Mob have got. 
 The Prussians come, and Paris is in arms. 
 
 Luc. Thank heaven ! it dies away. 
 
 Ann. And yonder comes your love. Lo, see ! . . . 
 And now I go to guard your privacy. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. I S 
 
 Camille enters from background. 
 
 Cam. Lucille ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! 
 
 Cam. My angel ! Thanks, oh thanks for this sweet 
 meeting ! 
 I've hurried from the camp. Ah there, e'en there, 
 Amid the shroud 
 Of sulphurous clouds 
 That hang o'er ended battle, 
 While dropping shots still rattle, — 
 And ah ! by night. 
 
 On military vigils, your fair form was aye 
 Before my eyes, as in my heart your love ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! oh, dear Camille ! 
 What terrors fill my heart ! 
 The world seems rocking underneath our feet : 
 A Night seems slowly settling down on France. 
 
 Cam. A brighter Day, my sweet ! for France and us. 
 Your noble father soon will list my suit. 
 
 Luc. Never, Camille ! you know not half his pride : 
 Yield all his titles, but ah, never me ! 
 
 [Music heard within. — " O Richard ! 
 O man Roi ! " 
 He banquets with our Royalist friends. 
 
 Cam. I dread 
 
 Lest that known air by other ears be heard. 
 
1 6 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT I. 
 
 The Mob is out to-night : some mischief's brewing. . 
 But ah ! my sweet ! the rapturous moments fly : 
 Bid me to love you, ever till I die ! 
 
 Luc. Oh, is it right for me to meet you thus .? 
 
 Cam. I look on Heaven's face, then gaze on thine, 
 And see there naught, dear heart ! but what's divine. 
 Oh, let me be but as the stars above. 
 That now gaze down on thy sweet face in love ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! oh, say you love me ! ere we part, — 
 Ere the wars tear you from my side, — my heart ! 
 
 [ Takes a chain from her neck, and plcues it round 
 Camille's. 
 There ! take this chain — my mother's amulet, — 
 To shield your life, and make you ne'er forget. 
 
 Cam. Lucille ! Lucille ! by all the stars above me, 
 Oh, with what yearning tenderness I love thee ! 
 Pure as the moonlight on thy virgin face ! 
 No force this chain shall from my neck displace. 
 Light of my heart ! what sorrow thus to part ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! Camille ! my hero and my pride ! 
 How sweet it is to have thee by my side ! 
 I love thee ever ! 
 Oh, thus to sever ! 
 
 {Distant sounds of the Mob. 
 
 Cam. Grim Terror lurks beneath that smiling sky. 
 O Heaven ! and all ye stars ! my earnest sigh 
 For thee to live, — or, ah, with thee to die ! 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 17 
 
 Enter Annette hurriedly. 
 Ann. Oh fly ! The Count comes suddenly ! 
 
 Enter the COUNT, Raymond, and others. 
 
 (Camille, who was going, turns back. Lucille 
 places herself before him) 
 Count. My daughter, we have missed you. Our friends 
 come 
 To take their leave. 
 
 Ray. My cousin fair ! good night ! 
 
 How much you grudge us your sweet company ! 
 Count {seeing Cam.) Ha ! who is this ? 
 Luc. {faltering). Father! it is a friend ! 
 Count {to Cam.) Sir, who are you .-' 
 
 Cam. Soldier of France and Freedom ! — 'tis my name. 
 No Noble I, yet noble all the same. 
 
 Count. Ha ! a Republican that badge betrays. 
 
 \Advances toward Camille. 
 And what is this .■' My daughter's chain ! . 
 Ah me ! what pain ! 
 
 Lucille ! Lucille ! "Oh shame ! and woe to me ! — 
 My child intriguing with an enemy ! 
 {Fiercely) Villain ! how comes this here } 
 
 [ Takes hold of the chain on Camille's neck. 
 Cam. Let go your hold, sir ! The chain is mine : 
 I part not with it, save with life. 
 
1 8 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 Count. Ho there ! The Swiss ! 
 
 \^Some Swiss guards rush in. 
 Seize this intruder ! 
 Cam. Hirelings! standoff! Vile mercenary swords ! 
 How long shall France endure you on her soil ! 
 
 {Draws his sword. 
 Stand off, I say ! [Lucille rushes forward to interpose. 
 
 Alarm without. Enter Servants. 
 
 Servants. The Mob is in the house ! 
 
 \Fierce shouts and ribald laughter. f« ira. 
 
 Enter COLLOT and Mob. 
 
 Col. Foes to the State ! traitors to France ! 
 We heard your Royalist songs/ and we are here. 
 Seize the Aristocrats ! 
 
 \Sees Lucille, and is struck with her beauty. 
 {Aside.) Ha ! what a charming bird of Treason's brood ! 
 
 [The Mob rush to seize the COUNT. — COLLOT 
 goes towards LUCILLE. Camille, with Ray- 
 mond, places himself before the CouNT and 
 Lucille, and appeals to the Mob. 
 Cam. Know you me not i" — the soldier-friend of freedom ! 
 See this fresh scar, — on Valmy's height 'twas won. 
 {Pointing to LUCILLE.) This lady is my betrothed ! 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 1 9 
 
 \The Count and Raymond start indignantly, 
 but Lucille holds tip her hand beseeching 
 silence. 
 {Pointing to CoUNT.) And he the Noble who first gave his 
 
 vote 
 On that grand night when Feudalism died. 
 
 The Mob. Yes, yes ! we know Camille — France's young 
 sword ! 
 And Robespierre's friend ! (LUCILLE shudders}^ Yes, yes ! 
 
 let's go : 
 The morning breaks, and higher work to do. 
 Our brethren wait us. Arm, and to the Palace ! 
 The Tuileries ! to the Tuileries ! [ The Mob withdraw. 
 
 [Exeunt COUNT and party into House. Lucille 
 turning and looking back at Camille. 
 Col. (to Cam.) Ha ! you have baffled me. Beware my 
 wrath. 
 Soon shall you see whose power is greatest, friend ! 
 
 {Exit Camille. 
 {Looking after LUCILLE.) What a sweet dainty piece of 
 
 love she is ! 
 I'll mark her down, like quarry, for my prize. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
20 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 Scene IV. — Same Place. 
 
 Music from Orchestra as the Night gives place to Morning. 
 
 Enter 'KKYMO'Hi'D from House, buckling on his sword. 
 
 Ray. A troubled Night is past : but newborn Day • 
 Its mother's likeness wears in uglier guise. 
 The City moans as with a gathering storm. 
 By Mars ! these fierce surprises stir my blood, — 
 A startling change, i' faith, from courtly ease. 
 Come then, my sword ! be ready to my hand. 
 
 \Picks up a glove. 
 A lady's glove ! Lucille's ! Yes, here she stood 
 Last night in parley with that upstart stranger. 
 What meant it all .? She cannot be in love 
 With this Camille — Republican, roturier. . . . 
 Yet why this painful flutter at my heart ? 
 I love Lucille — yes, truly ; but is it more 
 Than cousinly affection .? This new warmth,— 
 Surely it springs but from this troubled hour,— 
 Devotion such as bounteous Nature stirs 
 
 In common Manhood from the ties of blood, 
 
 Born of the perils which, with mushroom growth, 
 Her young life now o'ershadow. My sweet playmate ! 
 'Sdeath ! I can't bear the thought : it cannot be 
 She loves another ! . Ah ! how this strange surprise 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 21 
 
 Doth lift the curtain from my heart, and show 
 That 'neath the mantle of familiar kindness, 
 Has lurked unseen the regal passion. Love ! 
 
 [Looks out and listens. Shouts of Mob in the 
 distance. 
 Has Paris gone mad } With hostile armies camped 
 Upon our soil — ay, almost at the gates, 
 We fight among ourselves ! The tocsin sounds. 
 And some new bloody work's in hand. 
 
 Enter Count, Lucille, and Nobles from the House. 
 
 Count. My child ! it threatens to be a woful day. 
 Keep close within the house : venture not out. 
 For me, my place is with our menaced King. 
 
 Luc. Ah me ! how can I rest ! The King in danger ; 
 And you too, my loved father ! 
 
 Count. Leave us now : 
 
 Observe my warning, — keep you in the house. 
 
 [Exit Lucille. 
 {To the Nobles') To the Palace, my friends ! Our place is 
 with the King ! 
 
 Nobles. To the Palace ! to the Palace ! 
 The King to save ! 
 
 Count. Ah ! can aught save .■" 
 
 The Army wavers : there's no chief to lead, — 
 No iron hand to save France in her need. 
 The Mob is out, in hellish rout ; 
 
22 ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 [Act I. 
 
 And nerveless hands let fall the reins of power. 
 O woful hour ! 
 
 Nobles {in Chorus). 
 " O Richard ! O mon Roi ! 
 Uunivers tabandonne. 
 Siir la terre il n'est done qtie moi 
 Qui sintiresse a tapersonne ! " 
 Count. To the Palace ! {Sound of drums, &c. 
 
 Hark the hoarse voices of the gathering storm ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Francois, from the House. 
 
 Fran. Annette won't have me : and coquettes with 
 Marcel! I am refused for my devotion to Liberty and 
 France, — refused, too, for a greybeard who says he was 
 once a soldier, and who thinks that Counts are better 
 than other men. 'Sdeath ! I'll not stand it ! 
 
 [Other Servants come out in the uniform of the 
 National Guard. 
 Servants. Come, Frangois ! come ! Where is your uni- 
 form .' There is to be a regular fight to-day. Hurrah for 
 Liberty ! Come on ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Fran. A regular fight ! ahem ! I don't know about that. 
 I don't get pay, and wherefore should I fight } A man is 
 not bound to serve who does not get regular wages. 
 [Sound of cannon.] A regular fight, sure enough ! I don't 
 like those big guns. I think I'll go back again. (Goes 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 23 
 
 towards the door of the house^ But when France calls me 
 — when the Prussians come — that will be a different affair. 
 Then shall I charge at the head of my company — for I 
 am sure to be made an officer before then — and turn the 
 tide of battle to the cry of " Victory or Death ! " No, not 
 Death exactly ! 
 
 [Fumbles in his pockets for key of the door. 
 
 Enter CoLLOT. 
 
 Col. Why, that is the servant of the Count, who has 
 entered my regiment, and informed about his master's 
 banquet with the Nobles, — which I flatter myself I spoiled 
 for them. ( To FRANCOIS.) Hollo, citizen Fran§ois ! why 
 not in uniform, and with your regiment .■' 
 
 Fran, {recognising CoLLOT). My uniform } Yes, I am 
 going for it. 
 
 CoL Going for it .' 
 
 Fran. Yes, I've nearly got it now. My master, the 
 Count — I mean Citizen Beauregard — is not of our way of 
 thinking, you know ; and my only chance of obeying my 
 country's call was to wait till he was gone. 
 
 Col. The Count is out, then .■• 
 
 Fran. Gone to the Tuileries, with a lot of other Nobles 
 — Citizens, I mean. 
 
 Col. {aside). Ha ! here is a chance of seeing my young 
 bird of Treason! {To Fran.) Hark ye, young man! 
 don't try to impose upon me. You are a coward ! 
 
24 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 Fran. A coward ! How dare you say so to a son of 
 France ? 
 
 Col. My friend, I don't know who your mother was: 
 but you're a coward ! Come, don't make a fuss. I see it 
 clearly. And, as your captain, I could have you hanged 
 for your poltroonery. A word from me would be enough. 
 But look ye, to-day I will find you pleasanter work than 
 facing cannon and bayonets. You may stay at home, — 
 provided you prove faithful. 
 
 Fran. Captain, yours devotedly ! A soldier of France 
 knows how to obey his officer — {aside) especially when 
 told to stay at home ! 
 
 [Marcel appears at a window above., looking out. 
 
 Col. The Citoyenne is within .^ 
 
 Fran. Yes, Captain. 
 
 Col. Well, stay you at home to protect her, and look 
 after the house. But, hark ye ! leave yonder gate as it is, 
 unbarred. Do you see 1 
 
 Fran. Yes, Captain. {Aside) I wonder what the ugly 
 brute is after > 
 
 Col And should I come on duty, fail not to admit your 
 officer. 
 
 Fran, {hesitatingly). Yes, Captain. 
 
 Col Remember ! Or, as sure as we'll dethrone the 
 King to-day, I'll have you hanged, for the double crime of 
 cowardice and of treason. [Exit 
 
 /?-r««. Hanged! Humph! {Exit into House. 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 25 
 
 Mar. {at windotv). There's mischief brewing. Now, 
 shall I break this young puppy's neck — or what .' 
 
 [ Withdrazvs into House. 
 
 {Sound of cannon. Sacking of tJie Tuileries in , 
 background^ 
 
 Enter Camille and ERNEST, in front. 
 
 Em. Oh, shame for France ! Oh, shame ! 
 Were I the King, or General of his, 
 I'd sweep that Mob with grapeshot from the streets ! 
 'Twill come to that at last. It must, — 
 Or Order, Law, and Civilisation perish, 
 And France fall back into a night of savagery. 
 I told you what your dreams would come to : 
 Behold them realised ! 
 
 Cam. Nay, nay ! — a brutal passing orgy of the Mob ! 
 The King's a traitor, — holding with the Allies, 
 Whose grasp is now upon the throat of France. 
 'Tis right to dethrone him ! Justice be done ! 
 ( The Mob now come to the front!) 
 
 \st Citizen. Now Liberty is gained ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 With traitors' blood the Palace-steps are stained. 
 Qa ira ! ga ira ! 
 
 2d Cit. The People reigns ! 
 Away with Kings ! they tremble on their thrones. 
 Yet gloat to listen their crushed people's groans. 
 
26 ROBESPIERRE. [Act I. 
 
 2,d Cit. France shall set free the world. 
 The Tricolor unfurled, 
 
 Our banners shall make circuit of the world. 
 From Paris to Moscow 
 We'll rid the world of woe. 
 War to the Palace ! — to the cottage peace ! 
 While a King reigns, grim war will never cease. 
 
 /i,th Cit. Blood ! blood ! blood ! 
 'Tis Liberty's dainty food ! 
 
 Cam. Freedom ! not blood ! Let no man die ! 
 Remember true Fraternity ! 
 Our watchword is Humanity ! 
 
 Em. Freedom and Peace, since earth began, 
 And Love, are the best Rights of Man ! 
 
 Col. {fainting derisively to Cam. and Ern.) Hark to 
 those young drivelling fools, — 
 For any royal traitor ready tools ! 
 
 Cam. (half drawing his sword). Insult a soldier of 
 France and Freedom ! . . . 
 
 Col Tush ! I have better work than fight with you. 
 ( To Mob.) Death to the rich ! my friends : their turn 
 comes next. \Exit. 
 
 The Mob. Death to the King ! to Traitors death ! 
 
 \st Cit. Property is theft ! 
 Fire at the coat ! 
 Of this be sure. 
 The Rich feed on the Poor ! 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 27 
 
 Ath Cit. Blood ! blood ! blood ! 
 'Tis Liberty's prime food. 
 
 ^a ira ! 
 Saint Guillotine is Liberty's queen ! 
 
 Lucille rushes in from the House, guarded by Marcel 
 and pursued by COLLOT. 
 
 Col. Seize the young traitress ! 
 
 [Camille and Ernest interpose. 
 
 A Messenger rushes in. Shouts without. 
 
 Mes. The Prussians are at the gates ! 
 
 [Camille, entrusting Lucille to Marcel, who 
 hurries her away, diverts the attention of the 
 Mob, by drawing his sword., and exclaiming : 
 Cam. On to the foe ! our country calls us ! 
 All. On to the foe ! on to the foe ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! 
 
 Cries without. Women and others rush in, affrighted. 
 
 Chorus {the Marseillaise). 
 
 " Ye sons of France, awake to glory ! 
 
 Harh ! hark I what myriads bid you rise ! 
 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, 
 Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
 
28 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT I. 
 
 Shall foreign tyrants, hither leading 
 Their hireling hosts, a ruffian band. 
 Affright and desolate the land. 
 
 While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding ? 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheath ! 
 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 
 On Liberty or Death ! " 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 29 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Place in Paris, same as \st Scene of Act I. 
 
 Enter ROBESPIERRE, holding a scroll. 
 
 Robes. Here, then, the indictment 'gainst the traitor 
 Capet ! 
 No peace for France while he remains alive. 
 {After a pause') And what are Kings, to a great People free 
 And worthy of Man's birthright, Liberty 1 
 They've had their day ! Whate'er their worth 
 In bygone times of mankind's infancy, 
 Kings are now gilded pageants, void of use. 
 Fattening in sloth and pleasure on our fruits ; 
 While honest myriads toil in age and want. 
 Scrambling, as beggars, for a crust of bread. 
 
 Enter Collot, agitated. 
 
 Col. The Army is in revolt ! Dumourier vows 
 He'll march on Paris, and release the King ! 
 
30 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT II. 
 
 Robes. All treason fails against our great Republic ! 
 
 Col. They say he'll soon be here. Think you 'twere well 
 To kill the King at once, before aid comes 1 
 
 \Scannmg ROBESPIERRE narrowly, and speaking 
 hesitatingly. 
 Or is it better ... to make terms } 
 
 Robes. Poor coward ! 
 
 Have you no faith in Liberty's great cause .■" 
 We'll seize Dumourier even in his camp. 
 Camille has gone, with the Assembly's decree. 
 To recall the soldiers to their loyalty. 
 
 Col. {aside). There is more power in bayonets than in 
 paper. 
 I'll keep aloof, until I see which way 
 The wind doth blow, and trim my sails to catch it. 
 {To Robes) I go to call the citizens to arms ! \JExit. 
 
 Robes. Perish the King ! The People must be free ! 
 Perish the Nobles, and Feudality ! 
 Perish the Priests, who cover Earth's fair face 
 With hideous terrors of a Superstition 
 Devised to keep mankind in slavery, 
 To bolster up an effete Society. 
 My faith is in the pure and virtuous People, 
 Simple and justice-loving. All must fall 
 To give free scope to the great Rights of Man, — 
 Instinct divine of the pure People's heart : 
 The voice of the People is the voice of God ! 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 31 
 
 {After a short pause!) Traitor Dumourier ! France calls 
 
 you to her bar ! 
 The crisis terrible, — but we shall prevail. 
 My hope is in Camille. That gallant youth 
 Succeeds in all, and goes straight to his aim 
 Like falcon swooping swiftly on its game. 
 Just as he stopped the Royal Flight, so will 
 Fortune befriend him in this peril still. 
 
 Enter Camille. 
 
 Cam. The Assembly triumphs ! The Army has proved 
 true ! 
 Dumourier, baffled, now has ta'en to flight, 
 'And seeks a refuge in the German camp. 
 
 Robes. Thanks, thanks, young soldier — France's bravest 
 sword ! 
 
 Cam. A Deputation from the Army comes 
 To vow its loyalty at the Assembly's bar. 
 I hastened in advance to bring the news. 
 
 Robes. And welcome news it is — thrice happy news 
 For France and Liberty ! Now then, full sure, 
 We have the traitor Bourbon in our power ! 
 
 [ Walks up and down. 
 
 Cam. Sir, I must speak — to plead for clemency ! 
 For the now helpless Bourbons let me speak. 
 Ah ! had you seen the Captives — piteous sight ! — 
 Stopped in their flight, like birds escaping free 
 
32 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 From toiler's net, redoomed to captivity : 
 The King most grieving for his wife and children ; 
 And the fair Queen, her gaiety all gone, 
 Mourning in tears for husband and her babes : — 
 A sad and stately sorrow, — not a word 
 Or murmur against France; but sadly all 
 Resigning them to ignominious bonds, 
 And to a future pregnant with grim terrors ! 
 Amid my joy for France, that deep distress 
 Made me remorseful for my own success. 
 
 Robes, {who has shown signs of impatience and anger). 
 Camille, I pardon you. You're young — a soldier. 
 Living in camps, the only foe you see 
 Or know is the embattled enemy, — 
 The foemen from without, the ranks who wear 
 The hated uniforms of Germany. 
 You think not of the foes within — worst foes of all — 
 King, nobles, priests, friends of the old regime, — 
 Ay, and of foes who mix with us as friends. 
 Who echo Freedom's praise in the Assembly, 
 Yet fain would see our glorious work undone, — 
 Men like the Girondists, who have put their hand 
 To the plough at starting, yet would now turn back ; 
 Like the accursed brood of Lot, who, fleeing, turned 
 And wept for the doomed Cities of the Plain. 
 Such men abound : they watch for every chance 
 To libel the fair fame of the Republic, 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 33 
 
 And get them back into the old regime. 
 The King's their corner-stone. While he remains, 
 France halts in doubt, oblivious of past chains, 
 And Liberty may lose the fruit of all our pains. 
 
 Cam. I am a soldier, and would fight to death 
 Against proud Germany and all foreign foes. 
 But the Army murmurs thus to shed our blood 
 Only to keep in power the lawless Mob — 
 The ruthless, brutal Mob. I never come 
 To Paris, but I sicken at the sights 
 And cries throughout the night, " A la lanterne ! " 
 Oh, chain that Mob, and use thy power to heal 
 The wounds of France ! Let not foul Riot be 
 Crowned in the fair name and guise of Liberty ! 
 
 Robes. Young man ! what dost thou take me for .? Am I 
 Some monster hardened 'gainst humanity .' 
 Think'st me more dull than thou to Mercy's call .? 
 Less ardent, tender for the good of all .' 
 Glows my heart less than thine with generous flame .' 
 Dost thou forget how France first heard my name } 
 It was in protest 'gainst State cruelty, — 
 It was by pleading that no man should die 
 For ought offending 'gainst Society, — 
 That Life is sacred, a most sacred thing, 
 Inviolate alike by Law or King, — 
 That no mere being who as mortal lives 
 Has right to quench the life that Nature gives .? 
 
34 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 I hold the same creed still. 
 
 But these times are exceptional. Old things must die 
 
 To clear the way for new vitality. 
 
 'Tis Nature's law. All Progress works by Death. 
 
 To build anew, we must erase the old. - 
 
 Better some men should die, and not a Nation. 
 
 What does a shepherd, watching o'er his flock. 
 
 But first destroy the wolves that haunt his fields, 
 
 That so the flock may live and thrive in peace .■" ■ . . . 
 
 A passing crisis this, — after, no death ! 
 
 Cam. It may be so. Thank God, no statesman I, 
 ' To have to deal with such calamity. 
 But spare the herd at least. And there is one 
 For whom I claim your clemency. 
 If I have done good service unto France, 
 Let Beauregard, ta'en captive with the King, 
 Go free, — he only acted in pure loyalty. 
 
 Robes. He aided the escape ! — a deed which might 
 Have placed the Invaders' heel on France's neck. 
 Those Nobles all are traitors, — and they must 
 Be swept away, ere Liberty can reign. 
 France owes you much : I take note of your suit : 
 Meanwhile the life of Beauregard is spared. 
 
 Cam. Now France is safe, let clemency prevail ; 
 With peace and mercy our good fortune hail ! 
 Oh, let me have the joy 
 To have saved France, yet not the King destroy ! 
 
Scene IL] ROBESPIERRE. 35 
 
 Ah, now for all let clemency prevail ! 
 
 Robes. Yes, yes, young man ! I promise you it shall, 
 When the last foes are conquered to my will. 
 And you shall see a happy France again. 
 Nay, for first time — a halcyon age for man, — 
 A peace ne'er dreamt of since the world began, — 
 France a new Eden. And a world's cries 
 Of joy will usher in new Paradise ! \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Ante-chdmber <?/ Count Beauregard's House, in Paris. 
 
 Enter LUCILLE. 
 
 Luc. O weary hours and days ! The sunshine's gone. 
 The joyous light that round my young life played ! 
 A helpless prisoner in this lonely house. 
 Scarce safe by Camille's influence from the Mob 
 And from the intrusion of that hideous Collot. 
 Not daring to cross the threshold, which Marcel guards ; 
 And each day trembling for my father, prisoned still 
 For his true loyalty. Father ! my dear father ! 
 The loving guardian of my motherless youth, 
 Oh, how I yearn to see thee once again, 
 To clasp my longing arms around thy neck. 
 
36 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 And lay my head upon that naanly breast 
 
 Where ever thy child's heart has found a home ! 
 
 {After a paused Camille still writes togive me hope. 
 
 O good Camille ! how loyal is thy love ! 
 
 Would that thou wert a Royalist, like my father. 
 
 Or like my cousin Raymond, now an exile 
 
 From France for fighting for his King. O Camille ! 
 
 Wert thou but Raymond, easy would it be 
 
 For love to make its choice — as I have done ! 
 
 Enter Marcel. 
 
 Mar. Two strangers at the gate. One begs admittance 
 To see my lady. Both are poor in dress. 
 But one seems master and the other servant. 
 
 Luc. Do not admit them. Marcel. Who can tell 
 What purpose brings them hither .^ 
 • Mar. They are but two : the household all is faithful. 
 Old as I am, I'd fear them not myself 
 
 Luc. No, no ! they must not enter. 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Ser. (to Marcel). The stranger sends this ring, as a token, 
 to our mistress. 
 
 [Marcel hands the ring to Lucille. 
 Luc. 'Tis from my cousin Raymond ! what can this 
 mean } 
 It cannot be himself. He could not venture — 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 37 
 
 He, a proscribed man — to be here in Paris. 
 
 Well, let the stranger enter. But remain. 
 
 My trusty Marcel, till you see all safe. [Exii MARCEL. 
 
 Enter Raymond and attendant, with MARCEL. RAY- 
 MOND throws off his disguise and gives it to attendant, 
 who withdraws. 
 
 Ray. Fair cousin ! dear Lucille ! 
 
 Luc. Raymond ! dear Raymond ! But how came you 
 hither ? 
 
 Ray. I heard the Count's in prison — doomed to death. 
 I could not rest away beyond the Rhine. 
 I longed to know your fate. I feared each day 
 To hear of the Count's death : and oh ! I trembled 
 To think of all that might befall his child, — 
 My cousin, the loved^ playmate of my youth. 
 
 Ltic. My brave good Raymond ! 'Tis a welcome 
 pleasure 
 To see beside me a dear, friend again. \Exit MARCEL. 
 
 I live in terror here. Oh, I am so helpless. 
 And so forlorn ! 
 
 Ray. I have a passport for you. Fly with me ! 
 Escape the horrors of this turbulent city. 
 Where men become demons in their thirst for blood. 
 Fly with me and be safe. O dear Lucille ! 
 My cousin and old playmate, hearken to me ! 
 
38 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 I've come — proscribed man as I am — through all 
 The hosts of France, disguised, and brave the perils 
 Of this fierce maddened city, that I might 
 See you once more and offer you my love, 
 And beg you to be mine, and make you safe. 
 Here now I stand, in city full of foes, 
 And ask you to be mine, and fly with me. 
 
 Luc. It cannot be. I will not leave my father. 
 
 Ray. Cousin ! not this a time for sweet smooth 
 speeches. 
 Fain would I strengthen thee in thy dear hopes : 
 But when, beneath this monstrous Reign of Terror, 
 Have e'er the prison-doors unbarred to let 
 A Royalist, still less a Royalist Count, go free .■' 
 Pardon, Lucille ! My heart bleeds at the words 
 My tongue must utter. But never, my poor child ! 
 Will e'er the prison let go its noble captive 
 Save for that goal which waits all Virtue now — 
 The scaffold ! 
 
 Luc. Oh, say not so ! My father doomed ! 
 The thought kills me ! But, Raymond, there is hope — 
 Yes, there is hope for me, and him, my father ! 
 I have . . . there is a friend, who influence has 
 With Robespierre . . . 
 
 Ray. With Robespierre ! 
 
 Luc. And he — that friend — gives us good hope that soon 
 My father will be free. 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 39 
 
 Ray. A friend of Robespierre ! Oh, 'tis all a snare ! 
 Lucille, Lucille ! on what a gulf you stand ! 
 Have you not heard what wiles those monsters use — 
 Of daughters lured to shame, by solemn pledge 
 Of mercy to the father, never kept .'' 
 A friend of Robespierre's calls himself your friend. 
 And you — what madness ! Say, who is this " friend " .' 
 Luc. Oh, ask me not ! 
 
 Ray. What mystery is this 1 
 
 Luc. Let me believe ! My life — nay, all that makes 
 My life worth having, hangs on that belief. 
 
 Ray. O cruel fate, to make me speak the words ! 
 Lucille, I see thee orphaned : and what then .' 
 What hope for thee, thou dear and lovely creature. 
 Amid the brutal licence of the times .' 
 No prospect save one which thy pure noble soul 
 Would shrink from as far worse than many deaths. 
 Believe not their smooth words, — 'tis all a snare 
 Fly with me, dear one ! ere it be too late. 
 Luc. I cannot, will not go ! My flight, 
 It would but jeopardise my father more. 
 No ! while he lives, I will not move from hence. 
 It is my answer ! Go alone, kind Raymond ! 
 Brave loyal heart ! go save yourself. For me. 
 Here will I wait, and brave whate'er befall. 
 
 Ray. My heart is overwhelmed in its despair ! 
 Hear me, Lucille! I cannot leave you thus. 
 
40 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II 
 
 There is but one hope for you : and my life 
 
 Is a poor jewel to barter for your safety. 
 
 I, too — I will not go. Come what may — 
 
 And 'tis at worst but Death — I'll gain admittance, 
 
 Disguised, to your father's cell. They are not strict 
 
 To ope the gates for those who enter in, — 
 
 Their only care that entrants ne'er go out. 
 
 I'll dress the noble Count in my disguises : 
 
 He shall return to you, — and I remain. 
 
 And meet death happy, knowing you are safe. 
 
 Say, then, farewell to me. A last farewell ! 
 
 Luc. Raymond ! Raymond ! brave, kind heart and true ! 
 How can I send you thus to certain death .■• 
 My father ! oh, my father ! . . . My brain reels 
 Beneath the terrors of this woful hour ! 
 
 [ Throws herself into a chair, sobbing. 
 
 Ray. Nay, 'tis a poor gift I offer you, — a life 
 Worthless without thee — a life whose sole worth now 
 Is that I may give it in purchase of your safety. 
 
 Enter Marcel. 
 
 Mar. Here is a letter, lady. 
 
 Ltic. 'Tis from Camille ! What tidings does he send .? 
 {Reads) "At last I have succeeded. I have obtained 
 " an order for the Count's release, — provided that he quit 
 " Paris, and live in seclusion in his country-seat at Nantes. 
 " To-morrow he will be free.'' 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 41 
 
 happy news ! Read that letter, Raymond. 
 To-morrow ! oh, thank Heaven ! Joy at last ! 
 To-morrow my loved father will be here ! 
 
 Ray. Yes, happy tidings ! Double joy ! Your father 
 now 
 Himself will grant his sanction to my suit. 
 When we were children playing by the shore 
 Of the bright Loire, how often did he say — 
 He, the widowed guardian of his darling child — 
 That one day we should wed ! Yes, I will wait 
 For the glad morrow ; and then fly with you. 
 
 Raymond's Servant enters. 
 
 Ser. Pardon, my lord ! but in half an hour 
 The city gates will close. We must begone. \Exit. 
 
 Ray. Never! Though Robespierre's spies be on my 
 track, 
 I'll stay, whate'er befall. 
 
 Luc. Go, Raymond ! go ! My father now is safe : 
 And I, too, safe with him. Risk not your life 
 By madly staying when your task is done. 
 
 Ray. Done ! I came hither through a hundred perils, 
 To bring you aid and save you, dear Lucille ! 
 To bear you, orphaned as I deemed you, far from hence. 
 And now you bid me go ! Your father — for whose life 
 
 1 was ready to give mine to certain death — 
 Is safe, or seems so : and now you bid me go, 
 
42 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT II. 
 
 I-ike some uncared-for slave whose work is done ! 
 
 my Lucille ! though for first time my tongue 
 Declares my love, here amid danger and in your distress. 
 Oft must thine eyes have seen that love shine through 
 Amid the courtly life of the past time. 
 
 1 stand in peril now : I woo thee on the brink 
 Of ruin, perchance of death. Have you no word, 
 No single word of love to give me .■' 
 
 Fly with me now : or let me stay and hear 
 Thy noble father's sanction to my suit. 
 
 Luc. Raymond, you torture me ! It cannot be ! 
 
 Ray. Cannot .' and wherefore .? Do you love me not .-' 
 
 Luc. Raymond, what do you force me to say ? 
 Ever since childhood we have been dear friends ; 
 And now, nobly as any Paladin of old, 
 You have taken your life in your hand, to come to me, 
 To save me — e'en to give your life in ransom for my father; 
 How can I thank you .■• how admire, revere, 
 And ever bless you 1 But — I love — I love another ! 
 
 Ray. Another ! Heavens ! how all my heart's fond 
 dreams 
 Are crushed ! What unexpected blow is this ! 
 Another ! Say, who is he t 
 
 Luc. He who has guarded this my orphaned home. 
 And who now saves my father, — Camille ! 
 
 Ray. Camille ! the Republican ! the friend of Robes- 
 pierre ! 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 43 
 
 The man whose sword upbears this Reign of Terror ! 
 It cannot be ! Lucille, the loveliest flower 
 Of French nobility — my Lucille — her father's child, 
 In love with a base Republican ! 
 
 Luc. " Base ! " — never speak the word ! 
 
 Ray. Your pardon ! I have no right to call him so — 
 Him whom you honour with your love. . ■ . 
 For me, my dream of happy life is gone ! 
 What reck I what comes next .■■ 
 The gates are closed, — my passport's worthless now : 
 Nor would I, if I could, return to spend 
 My worthless days safe in inglorious exile. 
 
 Luc. {aside). Oh, that I could speak to him ! 
 
 Maji. O cousin ! there are troubles yet in store 
 For you, your father too — believe me. Yet 
 You send me like a worthless dog away. . . . 
 
 Luc. Oh, say it not ! 
 
 Eay. And give your love — that love which was my 
 dream — 
 In a strange quarter for a Noble's daughter. 
 Say, does your father know .'' Has he given his sanction .' 
 
 Luc. Be not cruel ! Ask me not now ! 
 
 Raj/. Then there is hope ! Yes, I will stay in France — 
 Ay, without hope, in simple heart-devotedness. 
 
 Luc. No, no ! Regain your safety o'er the Rhine. 
 Risk not a life so gallant and so good. 
 Keep it for one fairer and worthier far 
 
44 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT II. 
 
 Than she who thanks you, — oh, so warmly, Raymond ! 
 For your most noble service. Ne'er will I forget 
 This act of thine, which adds a crowning glory 
 To the sweet memories of our comrade youth. 
 There, go ! Bless you, dear Raymond ! — bless you ! 
 Oh, do not part from me in anger ! 
 
 Ray. May Heaven bless you ! . . . Objectless I go 
 From thy loved presence, — my only prayer 
 That I may serve you yet, before I die ! 
 
 Luc. What madness, Raymond ! Peril not thy life ! 
 
 \Exit Raymond. 
 O noble heart and true ! 
 
 Annette ! Annette ! 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 
 'Twixt joy and grief, my heart is ready to break. 
 Help me, Annette ! I feel so weak and pained ! 
 
 [Falls on Annette's shoulder and weeps. 
 Ann. Dear lady, be comforted ! Marcel says 
 In a few hours your father will be here. 
 
 [Supports her Mistress off the stage. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 45 
 
 Scene III. 
 Place in Paris, same as in ist Scene of Act I. 
 
 Enter Camille. 
 
 Cam. My hopes ! my hopes ! — they melt in air. 
 The lovely Dawn is lost in lurid clouds. 
 The fierce Mob rules, — and everywhere 
 Is blood, horrid blood ! 
 Earth up to Heaven cries aloud. 
 
 Shuddering blood-drenched by slaughter of her children 
 Little I dreamt, three years ago, 
 Of all this woe. 
 
 Riot and massacre pollute our streets, 
 Invade each sylvan chateau's calm retreats ; 
 And goodly lives each day are quenched in blood. 
 The King is dead ; the Queen's fair head 
 Has rolled upon the scaffold. . . . 
 And I — am their assassin ! O remorse 
 That e'er the gentle Fugitives I stopped ! 
 Oh, would that hour from out my life were dropped 
 My hopes ! Oh, Uke the brilliant hues of Morning 
 The face of wakening Earth adorning, 
 They shone before my eyes ! 
 In youthful pride, all baseness scorning. 
 
46 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 My soul with aspirations all a-glow 
 Was only dreaming 
 For France a coming Paradise 
 Without a foe, — 
 How fair the future seeming, 
 Vowed to the glorious trinity 
 Of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity ! 
 Kind Heaven, that youthful dream restore ! 
 My heart grows old, of its fair hopes bereft. 
 Is nothing left 
 But to deplore .■' 
 
 Turn back this tide of woe. My hopes restore,— 
 Make France and me exultant as before ! 
 Yet, am I not still Robespierre's trusted arm ! 
 My sword still aids this reign of dire alarm. 
 France needs my sword to check the foreign foe, — 
 And yet this rule steeps France herself in woe. 
 Oh, Heaven, direct me ! Which is Duty's call .' 
 Oh, let me aid the Right, whate'er befall ! (A pause.) 
 Each new day fills my heart with fresh alarm. . . . 
 [Sound of drums. The Place begins to fill with 
 people. 
 And hark ! behold I^that horrid sound of drums 
 Tells that another dismal cortkge comes, — 
 The flower of France ! 
 Heroes whose eloquence 
 First roused the land for Freedom ! 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 47 
 
 Whose turn comes next ? Like fabled Saturn, 
 The Revolution its own sons devours. 
 
 Enter COLLOT, in official dress. 
 
 Col. {to Mob). Make way, my friends ! to let the traitors 
 die! 
 A holocaust this is to Liberty ! 
 
 Mob. Hurrah ! p? ira ! 
 Their blood must flow 
 To make the Revolution go ! 
 Saint Guillotine is Liberty's queen ! 
 Qa ira ! Qa ira ! 
 
 Enter Procession, — the Girondists on their way to the 
 scaffold, guarded by soldiers. 
 
 Chorus. — " Mourir pour la Patrie ! " 
 
 Girondists. — 
 
 " To the scaffold we march for fair Freedom ! 
 We fear not the guillotine' s blow. 
 O France I see our noble example : 
 
 Arise ! your new tyrants o'erthrow ! 
 To die, to die for one's country, 
 ' Tis the death for the brave and the free ! 
 Oh, life is but death without Freedom ! 
 Fellow-countrymen, hear our appeal : 
 
48 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 Arise I though not to avenge tis, • 
 
 But Frances torn bosom to heal. 
 To die, to die for our country, 
 'Tis the death for the brave and the free ! " 
 
 [ The Procession pass es o the stage, — the chant 
 dying away. 
 
 Col. A goodly batch of traitors ! 
 The guillotine's a friend indeed 
 To France and Liberty in need ! 
 
 Mob. Qa ira ! Their blood must flow 
 To make the Revolution go ! 
 
 {Exit COLLOT. 
 
 Women and others. Ah woe ! to see the flower of 
 France 
 To the scaffold thus advance ! 
 Is Mercy dead .■' all peace departed .' 
 France mourns her children, broken-hearted ! 
 
 Cam. Ah me ! What crimes are done 
 Beneath the sun 
 In thy fair name, O Liberty ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 Women and others. Sure, now the day of blood is 
 o'er. 
 May France be happy as before ! 
 
 \^Manent. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 49 
 
 (F£te de l'Etre Supreme.) 
 
 Enter Procession, headed by ROBESPIERRE, as Supreme 
 Pontiff, in a brilliant costume, bearing in his hands 
 flowers and fruit, and attended by a band of youths. 
 Choristers, in white dresses. Statues of Atheism, Dis- 
 cord, and Selfishness in background. 
 
 The People. Hail ! great Apostle of Liberty ! 
 Robes. Brothers and countrymen ! the day is won ! 
 All Freedom's foes lie low ! 
 A new and better time's begun 1 
 We can at length rejoice, 
 Lifting a Nation's voice 
 To hail our triumph, and the lovely Future 
 That opens now on France and on the world. 
 Behold the banners of New Faith unfurled ! 
 
 \Takes a torch and sets fire to the Statues. As 
 
 they consume, an image of Wisdom appears in 
 
 their place. 
 Atheism, Selfishness, and Discord, perish ! 
 Crumble to dust, or vanish into air ! 
 Quit the fair Earth you have so long enthralled ! 
 See, in their place, bright Wisdom rise to view, 
 Whose blessed reign will soon make all things new. 
 The Church's God, how unlike that of Nature ! 
 
50 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 The one means Slavery, the other Freedom, — 
 
 Yix^fite the joy of a great people free 
 
 In Liberty, Equality, Fraternity ! 
 
 The dismal fables that so long have weighed 
 
 Upon the soul of man are now down-hurled. 
 
 The rule of Priests is dead, like that of Kings, — 
 
 Conspirators alike against Man's happiness. 
 
 Great Nature's voice is now our highest law — 
 
 A happier worship than the world e'er saw. 
 
 Away with all priestly shackles on Man's freedom ! 
 
 Live and enjoy like men, without the fear 
 
 Of tyrants here, or fabled ones above. 
 
 Wisdom and Love 
 
 Aloud I now proclaim, in the great name 
 
 Of God and Liberty ! 
 
 Choral Song. 
 Choristers. — 
 
 O happy day ! A smile spreads over Earth, 
 
 And in Man's lieart new joy takes birth : 
 
 He's free! he's free! 
 
 In heaven-born liberty. 
 
 Man now is like the gods ! — 
 
 The fabled gods. 
 
 In their abodes 
 
 On high Olympus of old reigning. 
 
 Serenely blest. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 51 
 
 No fiats false enchaining 
 
 The joys within their breast, — 
 
 Unto themselves sole law I 
 
 The sweetest vision Earth e'er saw — 
 
 Though but in dream ! 
 
 [Exit Robespierre, while they sing. 
 
 (Festival of the Goddess of Reason.) 
 
 Enter Procession, with Madame Maillard as the God- 
 dess, veiled, standing in a chariot, surrounded by 
 ballet-dancers, as attendants. COLLOT and others. 
 
 Col. Ye who want idols, come and worship here — 
 Fair Reason ! no inanimate stock or stone, 
 But living form, chef-d' ceuvre of Creation ! 
 
 [He withdraws her veil. 
 Fall, veil of Reason, before your worshippers ! 
 
 Choristers. — 
 
 happy season ! 
 O Goddess Reason ! 
 We bow, fair Beauty, unto thee — 
 Emblem of felicity, 
 A nd Man's true Liberty ! 
 
 Women. How beautiful their words ! 
 Oh, beautiful ! the sweetest ever heard. 
 
52 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 But what is it all about ? 
 1 cannot make it out. 
 
 Co/. Now join, my friends ! in gladsome rout, — 
 Join in the revels ! Worship Reason ! 
 And celebrate the glorious season ! 
 
 [A ballet-dance, — during which the Procession, 
 with the Goddess of Reason in her chariot, 
 passes off the stage. 
 
 1st Chorus. — 
 
 Goddess Reason ! 'tis a folly ! 
 It only means, Let us be jolly ! 
 Nature tells us what to do, — 
 Faitli ! it is right pleasant, too! 
 
 2d Chorus. — 
 
 Hell's a lie, and Heaven a fable ! 
 
 Lefs enjoy while we are able. 
 
 Since Death's a sleep that knows no waking, 
 
 Let's taste all joys within our taking ! 
 
 Both Choruses. — 
 
 Goddess Reason ! 'tis a folly ! 
 
 It only means, Let us be jolly I 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha I tra-la-la ! 
 
 Col. (aside). Madame Maillard in goddess' dress looks 
 nice ! 
 By the dead gods ! I'll see what is her price. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 53 
 
 What's a plain face, with amorous heart behind ? 
 My power at Court will make her wondrous kind. 
 
 Jst Cit. [rushing in). Where is my wife } The minx has 
 
 left me ! 
 2d Cit. Of reason, friend ! what madness has bereft 
 thee.? - 
 There are no wives now ! 
 
 Crowd, in chorus. — 
 
 Goddess Reason ! 'tis a folly! 
 It only means, Let us be jolly ! 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 A Soldier. Ay, and no husbands either ! 
 Save for a week or so. A dozen wives. . . . 
 
 Crowd. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Soldier. One for each' month I've had, since Freedom 
 reigned : 
 A honeymoon, my friends ! the whole year round. 
 
 Crowd. Yes, yes ! that is the thing ! Let love be free ! 
 
 1st Cit. Ha,- there she is! — My wife ! Come catch her 
 for me. 
 
 His Wife. Be off, you fright ! Since love is free, 
 
 I shall do like the rest. I'm young and pretty, 
 
 And want a lad that handsome is and witty. 
 
 {Looking at Camille, who enters') Oh, what a lovely youth ! 
 
 — a soldier too ! 
 
 [Goes up to Camille and sings. 
 
54 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II. 
 
 Ah, f« ira ! ga ira ! qa ira ! 
 
 Freedom in Love is Natures greatest law. 
 
 Ah, ga ira ! ga ira ! ga ira ! 
 Let youth and beauty have their day : 
 Then life goes sweetly on its way ! (bis.) 
 
 Ah, ga ira! ga ira! ga ira. 
 
 [Flirts with Camille. 
 
 Enter Annette disguised as a Vivandikre. 
 
 Ann. {aside). The wretch ! Oh, if my mistress saw this ! 
 {To Camille.) Ha ! Captain ! so you flirt like all the rest. 
 Is there no fair one dearer to your breast .' 
 
 Cam. {looks frowningly at her; and then) — Good heav- 
 ens ! that face ! 
 Sure I have seen it, — when .' and in what place t 
 
 Annette {sings). 
 
 Since the days of Mars and Venus, 
 Beauty scorneth the white featlur, — 
 Love and Arms aye go together ! 
 Goddess Reason cannot wean us, 
 Nor Vulcan forge his bars between us. 
 
 My love is brave and I am charming ! 
 To win my heart, my gallanfs arming 
 A t Glory's call. 
 
 Love and Arms go well together. 
 But Love in arms is best of all! 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 55 
 
 Crowd, m chorus. 
 Since the days of Mars and Venus, 
 Beauty loves the Soldier's feather. 
 Love and Arms go well together, 
 But Love in arms is best of all! 
 
 Annette [pretending to flirt with Camille, gives him 
 a bouquet). I bring these flowers from one whose love is 
 
 with you. 
 Though she is now fast journeying far from hence. 
 See her handwriting ! 
 
 Cam. Lucille ! 'tis from Lucille ! 
 
 Col. (who has been eyeing them — aside). What name was 
 that .? 
 {To Camille.) Captain, still flirting ! Who is this new 
 flame .■" 
 Cam. Pity your face won't let you do the same ! 
 Col. My face ! my face ! Before I've done with you. 
 We'll see, young fop ! whose face will look most rue. 
 
 \Goes up to Annette, and takes Jur round the 
 waist. 
 Come, pretty maid ! let's see now who are you ! 
 
 \She slaps his face, and runs off. 
 Crowd. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 \st Cit.'s Wife {to Collot). You ugly ! what conceit ! 
 No girl would have you 
 Were you in the whole world left the last man ! 
 
S6 ROBESPIERRE. [Act II- 
 
 Crowd. The last man, — ha ! ha ! Last man he'll never 
 be! 
 {To COLLOT.) O gallows' face ! 
 Saint Guillotine's the only maid I know 
 Who'd like to take you in a close embrace. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [ They jostle and jeer at CoLLOT, who slinks off in 
 a rage. The Dancers now come to the front. 
 
 Crowd, in chorus. 
 
 Goddess Reason ! 'tis a folly ! 
 It only means. Let us be jolly ! 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Tra-la-la ! 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 57 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Chamber in Robespierre's House. Busts 
 of Robespierre, splendid furniture, and numerous 
 mirrors. 
 
 COLLOT, entering, and Servant. 
 
 Servant. I'll tell my master, friend, that you are here. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Col. {looking around at the busts, &c.) " Citizen " Robes- 
 pierre ! 'tis like a palace ! 
 A temple of our new divinity ! 
 Behold our Idols ! (pointing at the busts) 
 
 'Tis but a poor face 
 That our new god has : what an upturned nose ! 
 Well, how a man like that should like to see 
 His face in marble, and his pigmy shape 
 In all those mirrors, beats my comprehension ! 
 
 [ Takes up letters lying on table. 
 What incense the fools offer him ! " New Messiah ! " 
 
5 8 ROBESPIERRE. [Act IH- 
 
 " Son of the Supreme Being ! " Lord ! what a farce ! 
 Faith ! were there a god, and he had children- 
 Just like myself, for instance — his son would be 
 A little better-looking, sure, than this ! {points to busts.) 
 
 [ Takes up another letter. 
 " Regenerator of the human race ! " 
 I wish him joy of these high-sounding titles. 
 What rubbish is all that fine talk of his, 
 As if he could put the world to rights next week ! 
 Like fools, he lives for the future, — / for the present. 
 While he draws bills, I pocket ready cash, 
 And turn the Revolution to good profit. 
 A patriot should pay himself the first. . . . 
 Ah 1 here he comes — this pigmy " New Messiah ! " 
 
 Enter ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 Col. Saviour of France ! New dangers threaten still. 
 As your liege spy among the Clubs, I speak. 
 Danton grows weary of your stern, just rule ; 
 Hebert doth mock you as a would-be god ; 
 And Tallien whispers, 'tis your selfish aim 
 To sweep all rivals from your path, and be 
 New King, more tyrant than the Bourbon was. 
 
 Robes. Must I despair of France "i What do I see .' 
 Vain all our efforts to purge France of crime. 
 The Executions have done nothing ! Nay, 
 
Scene I.] ROBESPIERRE. 59 
 
 Matters grow worse than ever. Scoundrelism 
 
 Fills all the offices of Government, 
 
 Swarms in the Convention, rules in the Committees, — 
 
 They spoil our work by bloodshed without cause. 
 
 Profligates ! hedged round by popularity, 
 
 That so the sword of Justice cannot reach them. 
 
 But come what may, I shall unmask the traitors. 
 
 The masses must be roused, the Convention purged : 
 
 Danton and Hebert, Tallien too — the whole, 
 
 Ultras and Reactionists alike. 
 
 Must be united in one grand proscription. 
 
 Or France will perish and Reaction reign. 
 
 Yes ! one stroke more, and France will then be free, 
 
 And hail the reign of Truth and Liberty, 
 
 Great in the triumph of Humanity ! 
 
 Col. Your favourite, too, Camille. . . 
 
 Robes. Well, evil-speaker ! what of him .■* 
 No goodlier youth is there in France than he. 
 
 Col. He loves a Noble's daughter — Lucille, 
 Child of that Beauregard whose life you spared — 
 Do you remember .' at Camille's beseeching, — 
 That Beauregard who aided the escape 
 Of Capet and his family. 
 
 Robes. It was Camille himself who stopped their flight. 
 
 Col. True, but 'tis now to him a deep remorse. 
 And 'mong his comrades of the Jeunesse Dor/e 
 He speaks vile things against the Reign of Terror, 
 
6o ROBESPIERRE. [ACT 
 
 III. 
 
 By which alone you have saved France, my liege ! 
 
 Robes. Ha ! I remember how he pled for clemency 
 For all the traitors. Yes, let him be watched. 
 France grows too full of traitors of this stamp. 
 
 Col, And Beauregard, despite your clemency, 
 In his retreat at Nantes, excites to arms 
 The stupid Vendeans, and holds secret meetings 
 With Larochejacquelin. 'Tis time to strike ! 
 By terror only can the Republic stand 
 Against the rising tide of base Reaction. 
 
 Robes. I know that treason's hatching in the West. 
 Come, I despatch you to the scene. Be sure 
 You check their plots at once, and make all safe. 
 Spare not the traitors to the Human Race ! 
 
 Col. I go at once : and soon the news you hear 
 Will rid your noble heart of this new fear. 
 
 [Robespierre exit. 
 Aha ! to Nantes ! At last the game goes well. 
 My triumph's near. Camille ! 'tis my turn now ! 
 And you, proud saucy Charmer ! soon I'll find 
 The means to tame your pride. — Lucille is mine ! 
 {After a pause) I am a libertine. Well, let it be. 
 All men the same, with opportunity. 
 Nature smiled not upon my natal hour, 
 But better far than comely face is Power. 
 It is for power I scheme — to make amends ! 
 The game will pay me well before it ends. 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 6 1 
 
 The Mob {heard shouting without).— 
 fa ira ! fa ira ! 
 Blood must flow 
 To make the Revolution go ! 
 Col. These are the sounds to fire the People's blood ! 
 Aha ! fa ira ! To Nantes I go ! 
 There, Love and Beauty wait me as my prize, 
 Or else I'll see her die before my eyes ! 
 
 S^Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — Before an Inn, near Nantes. 
 Enter Camille and ERNEST, followed by MaRCEL. 
 
 • Cam. Have you no post-horses .' 
 
 Mar. None, sir. 
 
 Cam. Then must we wait till our tired steeds are rested. 
 
 {Exit Marcel. 
 My heart beats fast, as, near our journey's end, 
 I think of my Lucille, and ask myself 
 What plan have I to shield her in this crisis. 
 
 Ern. In order to save her, you must save France ! 
 Tallien is right : we must unite — or perish. 
 Royalists, Girondists, Roland, Danton — all. 
 The Head and Heart of France, are slain in turn. 
 To make drear level for this Robespierre's rule, — 
 Grim Despot standing on a Nation's corpse. 
 
62 ROBESPIERRE. [Act IH- 
 
 Even the Faubourgs murmur now, and cry 
 " We die of famine, and he ofifers blood ! 
 " Does he suppose us cannibals, to feed 
 " Upon the offals of the Guillotine ? " 
 And we are his next victims ! Needless now 
 To think of different views and past regrets. 
 The Convention's self is to be massacred 
 By a new rising of the Jacobin mob. 
 We must unite : the danger threatens all. 
 Down with the Tyrant ! or ourselves must fall. 
 
 Cam. 'Tis true, my friend : and I have cast the die. 
 The veil at length hath fallen from my eyes. 
 Nothing will Robespierre satisfy 
 But blood, more blood. I can no longer bear it. 
 And yet the choice was hard. Hearken, Ernest : — 
 Last night I met with Tallien and his friends 
 In secret conclave in the Wood of Vincennes, 
 And vowed to join them, — ay, and give my life 
 To save our country, ere it be too late. 
 
 Em. It was well done. Pity it comes so late ! 
 
 Cam. But oh, Lucille ! — how can I guard her now, 
 Until the trying hour be past t 
 
 Enter MARCEL, with letter. 
 Mar. This letter, just arrived, is, methinks, for you. 
 
 \Exit. 
 Cam. 'Tis from Lucille ! A strange fear chills my heart. 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 63 
 
 (Reads.) " We are in peril. Spies are round us here, 
 
 " And horrid rumours spread. My loved Camille ! 
 
 " Oh, let me see thee, ere perchance we die ! " 
 
 My love ! oh heavens, I hasten at her call ! . . . 
 
 Yet were't not better to have stayed in Paris, 
 
 And raised at once the standard of revolt 
 
 Against the Tyrant and his merciless minions ? 
 
 Too late to think of that ! To Nantes at once ! 
 
 In times like these, upon each moment hangs 
 
 A priceless weight of Fortune. Ho ! within ! 
 
 {To Ern.) Adieu! to Paris haste. Prepare them for the 
 
 struggle. 
 In two days I return, to lend my aid, 
 And share your fate. It is life or death ! 
 
 £rn. Ay, life or death ! We answer to the call. 
 France must be free, or fighting we shall fall ! 
 
 [Marcel enters. Exeunt with him Camille 
 and Ernest. 
 
 Enter from background Count Raymond, disguised as 
 a National Guard of Paris. 
 
 Ray. Here, in the old scenes again ! How changed am I, 
 And they for me ! My chateau and estates 
 Are now in strangers' hands ; and I, their rightful lord, 
 Trudge wearily past them, with only a few francs — 
 Or rather these bits of paper, Assignats, 
 Issued perhaps on sale of my own property ! 
 
64 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III- 
 
 Well, it is wonderful upon how little 
 A man may live. I, a noble of France, 
 With less to live on than my servants, had ! — 
 Proscribed, too — a price set on my head — 
 One gets accustomed even to that ! 
 
 Ah, Lucille ! 
 Little I reck of Fortune's cruelty 
 If, after all, I find thy heart and hand 
 Free to be mine, and willing ! 
 
 [Seats himself on a bench. 
 Tired, and somewhat footsore with my journey. 
 No horse or comfortable carriage now 
 As once to bear me o'er those well-known roads. 
 Nature reminds me of my fallen state 
 More forcibly by tired Hmbs than loss of rank 
 And of the pageantries of courtly life. 
 Ho, landlord ! 
 
 Enter Marcel. 
 
 Bring me a little wine and bread. 
 
 [Lays himself full length along the bench. 
 Mar. {aside). A National Guard. I do not like those 
 gentry. 
 They have a knack of leaving scores unpaid, 
 And coolly tell us to send in our bill 
 To the Government. . . . Why, he has fallen asleep ! 
 Annette ! 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 65 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 
 Here is another "Servant of the State," 
 Who doubtless means to feed at our expense. 
 He makes himself at home : see, he's asleep. 
 
 [Annette comes forward and looks at Raymond. 
 Ann. Good-looking, anyhow. \Looks at him more closely. 
 
 Marcel ! why, I've seen — 
 I'm sure I've seen that face before. 
 He looks very tired, poor fellow ! I dislike 
 That uniform : but sure, he is not like the rest 
 Of those low, brutal, cheating Republicans. 
 Let's give him what he wants. 
 
 \They bring in a loaf, and a small bottle and glass, 
 
 and make a noise in setting them down on the 
 
 table. Raymond wakes up and takes off his hat. 
 
 An7i. (whispers to Mar.) How like he is to the exiled 
 
 young Count Raymond ! 
 
 [Marcel notices the resemblance, and /te and 
 Annette whisper together. 
 Ray. {observing them). Can I be recognised .' Fool that 
 I was 
 Not to disguise myself ere I came hither ! 
 Mar. {to Annette). Yes, it is he ! 
 Ann. {running forward, kneels, and takes his hand). O 
 sir ! you are Count Raymond ! 
 
 [Raymond starts up. 
 
66 ROBESPIERRE. [Act HI- 
 
 Do not start ! 
 Marcel and me — do you not know us, sir ? 
 
 Ray. Marcel ! Annette ! my uncle's trusted servants ! 
 
 Mar. O happy day, to see you still alive ! 
 
 Ann. How anxious for your safety has my mistress been 
 Since that night when you came disguised to save her ! 
 
 Ray. Ah me ! that night ! When heartless forth I went 
 From her dear presence, the only thought I had 
 Was to remain, in hope to aid her yet. 
 The Government still thinks me safe beyond the Rhine. 
 To avoid suspicion I entered the National Guard : 
 But now the Count is banished to his chateau, 
 I've hither come to see them once again, 
 And learn for myself . . . 
 
 {Abruptly^ Does that Camille come here } 
 Is he the accepted lover of Lucille ">. 
 Knows the Count of his suit .■" 
 
 Ann. I know not that: but well I know 
 Lucille doth love him — Republican though he be. 
 
 Ray. {walking aside). Then my dear hopes are dead ! 
 . . . How oft in Paris 
 Have I not burned to cross this Camille's path. 
 And measure swords with him, and force my blood 
 Upon his weapon, or his blood on mine ! 
 Ignoble thought ! I cannot give my hate 
 Where she gives love. And yet, Lucille 
 Wed a Republican ! . . . How my heart aches ! 
 
Scene II.] ROBESPIERRE. 67 
 
 {To Marcel and Annette.) My journey's at an end ! 
 I'll back to Paris, and join some regiment 
 Bound for the field. France needs all her soldiers now 
 To repel the foe. I loathe this Robespierre's rule, 
 But the sole boon I seek is a soldier's death. 
 
 Mar. My lord, pray rest yourself : you're tired and worn. 
 
 Ann. Oh no ! you must not go ! There's danger enough 
 still 
 Around the Count. Since yesterday 
 They're hunting out all Royalists in this quarter. 
 Know you not of the Noyades — the frightful way 
 In which they drown " the suspected "■ in the Loire .■' 
 
 Mar. {looking out). Here comes some rider post-haste — 
 A Republican emissary, by his scarf 
 My lord, disguise yourself 
 
 \^Runs into house and brings out a peasants dress. 
 Put on this dress. 
 
 Ann. And let me shift the table to a corner. 
 Where you can sit unnoticed. 
 
 Enter Francois, speaking to Stable-boy. 
 
 Fran. There, bait my horse, and have him ready in an 
 hour. 
 Landlord, I come on business of the State — 
 Important business. See you bring me quick 
 Whatever's best and ready in your larder. . 
 
 Ann. {aside). 'Tis Frangois ! 
 
68 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 Fran, {coming face to face with them). Marcel ! Annette! 
 Old chip of Royalty ! who would have thought 
 To find your head upon your shoulders yet .' 
 And you, my old flame ! Well, I'm no longer jealous : 
 I have espoused myself to France and Liberty ! 
 
 Ann. Two wives at once ! Fran9ois, that's bigamy ! 
 
 Mar. With two such brides, young man, I hope you' 
 find yourself equal to your conjugal position. 
 
 Ann. What brings you here.' 
 
 Fran, {hesitatingly). I come to order quarters for my 
 chief, — Robespierre's representative at Nantes — the stern 
 patriot, CoUot. 
 
 Mar. and Ann. Collot ! oh horror! 
 
 Ann. You do not mean that monster is coming here .' 
 
 Fran. Indeed I do. What's worse, there's mischief 
 brewing for my old master, the Count Beauregard. We 
 are going to his chateau first. 
 
 [Raymond starts up and listens. 
 I do not like this job, but what can I do ? 
 
 Mar. Do ! die first ! 
 
 Ann. What! give your brave old master and his 
 daughter to the guillotine or the Noyades ! Frangois ! 
 that I should live to see you thus ! 
 
 Fran. Oh, I hate it ! I am sick of all this bloody work. 
 But what can I do .' I often think of running away. I've 
 a good mind to do it now. \Sound of postilion' s horn. 
 
 Ah, here they come ! [Exit into house. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 69 
 
 Ray. (coming forward). Give me a horse ! Let me ride 
 on at once, and warn the Count of his danger. This is 
 dreadful ! 
 
 Mar. Not a horse left in my stable. All have been 
 taken for the Army. 
 
 Ray. Great God ! befriend us ! On foot I cannot reach 
 the chateau before these men. 
 
 Mar. I'll go with you. I know all the by-paths. 
 
 Ann. Marcel ! in mercy do not leave me ! 
 
 Ray. Yes, stay. Stay here, and detain them as long as 
 you can. Break their harness, lame their horses, anything. 
 [ The horn sounds again close by. Exeunt MARCEL 
 and Annette. 
 This is the hour my heart has often told me of Thank 
 heaven, I am here ! . . . But oh, too late ! too late ! 
 . . . If I cannot reach the chateau in time to warn 
 and save, at least I'll perish with them ! \_Exit. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Garden of a Chateau on the Loire. Sunset. 
 
 Enter Lucille. 
 
 J.UC. Absent from him ! Ah me ! my heart is pining ! 
 Camille ! Camille ! 
 
70 
 
 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT II I- 
 
 His love with all my heart's chords is entv/inlng: 
 
 His form before my mind's eye aye is shining. 
 
 Ah ! thus apart, 
 
 The sad cry of my yearning heart is still 
 
 For thee, Camille ! 
 
 Enter Nurse, unobserved : she pretends to busy herself 
 with the flowers. 
 
 Sun ! with heavenly light so calm descending 
 
 O'er the wide plain. 
 To common care and toil thou bringst an ending. 
 
 The rural swain 
 In his poor cabin goes to quiet sleep ; 
 
 But I — I weep ; 
 And Night, enchantress ! brings no lullaby,— 
 
 1 find no rest, save in sweet dreams of thee, 
 Camille ! Camille ! 
 
 How softly flows the shining stream ! 
 
 Its murmurs lull me to a dream. 
 
 I see myself again, as erst of yore, 
 
 A child wild-playing by the murmuring shore,— 
 
 'Neath those ancestral towers, which seemed to me 
 
 In my young Hfe the whole wide world to be. 
 
 Ah me ! how changed am I ! 
 
 Flow on, flow on, sweet stream ! 
 
 And lull me to a dream, * 
 
 Camille ! of thee. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 7 1 
 
 Who now — who now art all the world to me ! 
 
 Nurse. O lady ! rest : 
 Let sweet hopes fill thy breast. 
 Thy father, now relenting, 
 Will soon to thy young passion be consenting. 
 No more he hates your lover's name, 
 But listens to his deeds of fame. 
 Soon will those troubles all be o'er, 
 And France be happy as before. 
 
 Ltic. Ah me ! but not in time for us — for me ! 
 A strange foreboding of calamity 
 Appalleth me. 
 
 Camille ! Camille ! oh, come, that we may meet, 
 Though but in death ! 
 
 Enter Camille, hurriedly. 
 
 Cam. My love ! my own ! . . . Thank Heaven ! 
 . . . Oh, my heart ! . . . 
 Soul of my soul ! what rapture fills me ! 
 With heavenly joy this meeting thrills me ! 
 For life, or death ! 
 My latest breath 
 
 Will love proclaim, and breathe thy name, 
 Lucille ! Lucille ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! my loved Camille ! 
 
 Cam. My heart's love ! I have hastened hither, — 
 Danger for all ! That horrid devil 
 
72 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 Collot has got from Robespierre power 
 To work his will here. . . . 
 
 Enter COUNT BEAUREGARD. 
 
 Cotmt {to Cam.) What ! here again ! Young soldier, 
 why thus try me .'' 
 Why brave a father's anger } I owe you thanks 
 For warding peril, death, from us, — and chief 
 From my dear daughter. I own your honour, — 
 Your name stands linked only with noble deeds. 
 {Angrily^ But thou'rt a slave of Robespierre! — name 
 
 accurst. 
 Demon raised up to welter France in blood. 
 Begone ! begone ! That fact o'erbears all else. 
 Begone ! I say ! . . . Life's worthless to me now. 
 When my own daughter loves and pleads for one 
 Who serves with fiends whose only passion's blood ! 
 
 Cam. Hold ! hold ! . . . 
 
 Count. Who have slain our King and Queen, and all 
 the flower 
 Of France upon the scaffold, — raging wolves 
 Who harry homes with rapine, lust, and blood : 
 Ay ! and who even now are at my doors ! 
 
 Cam. Robespierre's friend no more ! I am his foe ! 
 My blood boils fiercely 'gainst this savage rule : . 
 I've vowed to end it, or myself to perish ! 
 
 Luc. Camille ! my brave Camille ! 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 73 
 
 Count {to Cam.) What sayest thou 1 
 
 Cam. Freedom, not Blood ! I dare the Tyrant's power: 
 Nor I alone : France sickens at those sights. 
 Last eve, ere I left Paris, we met and planned 
 A rising 'gainst the Tyrant. A few days more, 
 And we shall beard him : our cry, " Freedom or Death ! " 
 {After a momenfs pause.) A few days more ! . . . 
 
 O madness ! 
 My brain reels at the thought ! CoUot comes here ! 
 Collot, the brute above all other brutes. . . . 
 O God ! O God ! 
 
 Luc. My heart's foreboding, then, is true ! 
 
 Count. Then the worst end is near ! 
 
 Luc. Camille! Camille! oh, shield me! 
 Let me meet death upon thy breast ! 
 
 [^Sounds of the fa Ira. 
 Father ! the cruel end draws near : 
 Oh, death is now the least thing that I fear. 
 Forgive my wayward love ! — forgive Camille ! 
 
 {They kneel to the COUNT. 
 
 Count. Rise, rise ! My daughter, life of my life ! 
 Child of my heart ! Young soldier, take her hand ! 
 My blessing take ! Receive her in your arms ! 
 
 [Camille and Lucille embrace. 
 
 Count {aside). O Heaven ! to see their love - dream 
 quenched so soon : 
 One sole embrace for all that wealth of love ! 
 
74 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 And Death stands 'twixt them and the bridal-door. 
 
 {To Camille Mid Lucille.) There ! join your hands. 
 
 I do betroth you here ! — 
 And there is life for Love beyond the bier ! 
 
 Luc. At last, at last ! 
 Oh, grief is past ! 
 Camille, your bride ! 
 
 Cam. My own ! 
 
 Luc. Oh, Death has no alarms. 
 When I can meet it in your arms. 
 Oh, sweet is even Death, 
 Cold dismal Death, 
 
 When I can murmur with my latest breath — 
 Husband, Camille ! 
 
 Cam. My bride, Lucille ! 
 
 Shouts without. Eiiter CoLLOT and others. 
 
 Collot. Seize them ! in the name of the law ! 
 His followers. Robespierre for ever ! The Republic for 
 ever ! 
 Down with all traitors ! 
 
 [ They separate LuciLLE from Camille, seizing 
 her and the COUNT. 
 Cam. {to Collot). Villain ! by what authority is this .' 
 CoL {unfolds his commission, points to it, and says) — I'm 
 only sorry it does not include you. 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. 75 
 
 Cam. O God in heaven ! send help in this dire hour ! 
 Collot. Ha ! ha ! my friend, your God has not the 
 power ! 
 
 \Tlie Mob shout the ^a Ira. Camii>le tries to 
 reach the prisoners. 
 Stand off, young fool ! or you shall share their doom ! 
 
 \Exeunt all but Camille. 
 Cam. Paris must rise at once, or all is lost. . . . 
 At least for me ! Oh, why do they delay .' 
 All's ready here. 
 
 Larochejacquelin and his brave Vendeans — 
 Those simple-hearted and God-fearing peasants, 
 Who e'en when offered quarter in the battle 
 Refuse, and cry, " First give me back my God ! " 
 They're ready all, to make a clean sweep here 
 Of Robespierre's brutal minions. 
 But ah ! without Paris, all is vain ! 
 
 Enter Raymond in background, unobserved. 
 
 Paris is the key 
 
 To ope our bars, and end this tyranny. 
 And countless lives, besides ours, hang on the venture. 
 Oh, why do Ernest and his comrades wait .' 
 Oh, can it be my absence makes them halt 'i 
 Sure, France has still good swords and gallant hearts, 
 ■ Other than mine, to strike for Freedom's cause. 
 One speedy blow at Paris would save all ! 
 
76 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 I'll write to them, and bid them strike at once. [ Writes. 
 But who to bear the letter > Whom can I trust .' 
 
 Ray. {coming forward). Trust me ! 
 
 Cam. {starting up, and drawing his sword). Spy! who 
 are you .' How came you here .■• 
 
 Ray. Put up your sword ! I say, Trust me ! 
 
 Cam. Traitor ! your life shall pay for this intrusion. 
 
 Ray. You are Camille, soldier of the vile Republic, 
 Betrothed now to Lucille de Beauregard ! 
 
 Cam. Draw, sir ! You have my secret, ^and 'tis one 
 On which far better lives than mine depend : 
 But with that secret you shall not go hence. 
 Draw ! — nor tempt me to strike you unprepared. 
 
 Ray. Ha ! if you knew, 'tis I am tempted most ! 
 In other time, gladly would I have met you. 
 Foot to foot, and sword to sword. You've robbed me 
 Of what my life holds dearest. You, Sir Republican ! 
 Have won from me the love of France's fairest flower. 
 
 Cam. Who are you .' What means all this .' 
 
 Ray. I am Count Raymond — cousin of Lucille, 
 Returned from exile to watch o'er her safety. 
 
 [Camille sheathes his sword. 
 You are successful. I respect her choice. 
 Come, take my hand. Time presses. All is lost 
 Unless your aid, come quickly. Give me the letter. 
 There is no rivalry betwixt us now 
 Except that noblest rivalry of love, 
 
Scene III.] ROBESPIERRE. ■JJ 
 
 To outdo each other in the loved one's cause. 
 
 Cam. O noble Raymond ! it is you that triumph : 
 For you give all, yet hope for no return. 
 
 Ray. Quick, quick ! the letter! I'll to Paris straight. 
 Your presence here avails much more than mine. 
 
 [ Takes letter. 
 
 Enter Collot. Raymond retires to background. 
 
 Col. {to Cam.) I have a word to speak in privacy. 
 The Count and daughter now are in my power, — 
 Settled their fate within a single hour. 
 We are emptying our prisons into the Loire, — 
 A batch shall drown this eve, and they along with them : 
 A man of business I, — so, prithee, hear : — 
 You boast your love, — now prove your love sincere. 
 Resign the maid to me, and she shall live, — 
 {Half-aside). Though not long as a maid. . . . 
 
 Cam. Wretch ! dare again such brutal threats to mutter, 
 
 'Tis the last words your villanous throat shall utter ! 
 
 [Seizes COLLOT by the throat. 
 Col. My men ! my men ! 
 
 [Collot's folloTjOers rush in. Camille dashes 
 COLLOT to the ground. 
 Col. Seize him ! seize him ! 
 
 \They seize Camille before he has time to draw 
 his sword. RAYMOND rushes forward and re- 
 leases him. 
 
78 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 Ray. Fly, Camille ! fly ! Save yourself, 
 In order to save her ! 
 
 Col. Down with great Robespierre's foes ! 
 Traitors to France ! Paid spies of the Allies ! 
 
 Cam. No traitor I, nor spy ! Stand off ! I say. 
 Who comes too near shall pay for it with life. 
 
 \As Camille and Raymond exeunt, fighting, 
 Raymond falls stunned by a blow. 
 Followers. Here's one of them at least, who's safe enough. 
 [ They bring Raymond forward. 
 Ray. Lucille ! Lucille ! Thank God, Camille is safe ! 
 
 \Falls, swooning. 
 Col. Search the prisoner ! 
 
 \_They take the letter from his breast. 
 Followers. A paper, sir. \Give letter to COLLOT. 
 
 Col. Ha ! here is proof at last. Letter from Camille 
 To Tallien, urging him to rise 'gainst Robespierre ! 
 A precious document indeed for me, — 
 A passport now to power and all life's prizes ! 
 Power ! for Power ! — 'tis what I've schemed for long, 
 And now 'tis mine ! O precious bit of paper ! 
 Ray. {reviving). The letter! in his hands ! 
 
 \Rushes upon COLLOT, and snatches the letter 
 from him. 
 Ha ! it is safe ! Make way, ye cowardly herd ! \Exit. 
 
 Col. 'Sdeath ! it is lost ! The traitors, too, escaped ! 
 Follow, ye cowards ! Seize them in Robespierre's name 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 79 
 
 Dead or alive ! Come ye not back without them ! 
 
 \^His men rush off in pursuit. 
 Those trusty knaves, full sure, won't let them slip. . . • 
 So now ! I have the love-cup at my lip. 
 Vengeance upon Camille ! triumph for me ! 
 Lucille ! there's now but one choice left for thee,— 
 'Tis Death, or me ! {Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 The Noyades. — An Islet in the Loire. 
 
 Enter a large boat crowded with fettered prisoners. 
 COLLOT takes out LUCILLE from among the prison- 
 ers, and lands on the islet. 
 
 Col Now then, let go the traps ! Plunge them all in ! 
 So die all traitors to our great Republic ! 
 
 [The bolts are drawn, the bottom of the boat falls 
 out, and the river is seen filled with drowning 
 men and wom£n. 
 Col. (to Lucille). Behold the fate you have so well 
 deserved,' — 
 The fate for which, perchance, you are still reserved — 
 Your father too. But I give you a chance, 
 
So ROBESPIERRE. ^^^'^ 
 
 III. 
 
 (Like a good Providence, as you folks say ! ) 
 Be mine ! or like those drowning wretches, you 
 In half an hour will be, your father too. 
 
 [S/irie^s of the drowning victims. 
 
 Ltic. Oh horror ! 
 
 Col. Nay, there's no horror, save in drowning there. 
 Methinks we'd make a very pretty pair ! 
 
 Luc. Ruffian ! with demons like yourself go mate ! 
 A Noble's daughter knows how to meet her fate ! 
 Monster ! no, never ! Let me rather die. . . . 
 
 \Rushes to throw herself into the river. COLLOT 
 stops her. 
 
 Col. You are powerless in my hold. 
 
 Luc. {struggling). I'll rather die ! . . . 
 
 Col. But then you can't, my sweet ! though you should 
 try. 
 
 Luc. [freeing herself from his hold). Vile monster! yes! 
 a thousand deaths I'll die. . . . 
 
 CoL By hell ! proud minx, but you shall live, and be 
 A mother of Republicans like me ! 
 I'll make you mother of a better breed 
 Than ever sprang from curst Nobility. 
 
 Luc. {falling on her knees). Oh, help me, Heaven ! 
 And you, O man !— if man you still can be — 
 Oh, let death promptly end my misery ! 
 
 Col Never! by the dead gods I You plead in 
 
Scene IV.] ROBESPIERRE. 8 1 
 
 'Tis for love, only, that I give you life. 
 
 [Acivances towards her. 
 Thus shall you yield, unwed, to be my wife ! 
 
 \_They struggle. Camille is seen swimming to 
 the Islet. As hVClLl.^ falls back exhausted, he 
 lands and rushes upon COLLOT. 
 Cam. Monster ! now meet your doom ! 
 
 [ Throws him backward into the river. 
 There drown ! — if any one like thou can drown, 
 Whose right fate is the scaffold ! 
 
 \Raises Lucille, who slowly recovers conscious- 
 ness. 
 Luc. Camille ! my own Camille ! 
 
 \As the scene closes, COLLOT is seen floating on a 
 spar in background. 
 
 Curtain falls for a few minutes. 
 
82 ROBESPIERRE. [ACT III. 
 
 Concluding Scene. 
 
 TAe Revolutionary Tribunal. — ROBESPIERRE and others 
 seated in judgment. COLLOT, as accuser. Camille, 
 Count Beauregard, and Lucille. Soldiers and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Col. Judges ! who guard the liberties of France, 
 And purge her soil from treason and from crime ! 
 Behold this batch of traitors, — seized at last. 
 Plotting against the State and Liberty; 
 Abusing our great Robespierre's clemency, 
 Which spared them once before, when due to death. 
 Camille the worst of all ! doubtless a spy. 
 And these two, relics of the old regime. 
 By my devoted service, tracked and caught, 
 I here denounce them in the sacred name 
 Of the Republic. Judges ! they must die ! 
 
 Cam. No traitor I, — but foe to France's foes ! 
 As I have fought in glorious battle o-ft, 
 And gloried in my wounds, as well as triumphs 
 Against the foreign foe, — oh, not less proud 
 Were I if, with those manacles struck off, 
 I could do battle 'gainst thyself, O Tyrant ! 
 Who now doth prove my country's worst oppressor. 
 
Scene V.] ROBESPIERRE. 83 
 
 Behold ! erect I stand, — thy wrath defy : 
 
 Ready to die 
 
 Upon the shameful scaffold, as when erst 
 
 On Valmy's heights 'gainst fearful odds I strove, 
 
 And turned the tide of battle with my blood. 
 
 Amid the shock of squadrons, cannons' roar. 
 
 Charging for France and Freedom ! 
 
 Robes. There's but one doom for them, — and that is 
 Death ! 
 Dangers now thicken round our great Republic. 
 France swarms with recreants, like this Camille, 
 Who call them friends, and yet are our worst foes. 
 I've done with mercy. Blood must still faster flow. 
 No hope for France, till a clean sweep is made. 
 And naught is left but the pure virtuous People. 
 Collot, you're right. In every town shall be 
 A man like you, to make short work of all 
 Who seek to thwart or murmur 'gainst our rule. 
 Let women sicken at the scaffold's work : 
 Each traitor's blood makes sweet the air of France. 
 Tallien and his foul brood in the Convention 
 Must now be seized before the sun goes down : 
 And these shall die with him to-morrow. 
 Would that our foes had but one neck, that so 
 France might be rescued by a single blow ! 
 
 Col. (to Clerk). Make out the decree at once : they die 
 to-morrow ! 
 
84 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 • Count {to Col.) Vile miscreant! Monster in human 
 
 form ! 
 What mother e'er begot such hideous progeny ! 
 
 Luc. Thank heaven for death, to save me from his 
 power ! 
 {To Cam.) Camille ! my love ! no more shall Fate divide ! 
 I shall die happy with thee at my side, 
 Death, although all else divide us, * 
 
 Shall now at last unite us ! 
 
 Robes, {addressing the other JUDGES). Sign the arrest for 
 Tallien and his party. 
 Already Henriot and his cannoneers 
 Summon the Convention to give up the traitors. 
 
 Enter MESSENGER. 
 
 Mes. Henriot has failed ! His cannoneers 
 Refused to fire. The Convention now proclaims 
 Robespierre outlawed : and calls upon the people 
 To rally to its aid against the Tyrant. 
 The g^nirale is beat in every street, — 
 The National Guards respond to the appeal. 
 
 Col. and others {to Robes.) Proclaim yourself Dictator 
 or all is lost ! 
 Denounce the Convention as the foe of France ! 
 
 Robes. Ha ! then, the crisis comes. Let Mercy die ! 
 I'll sweep now every foe from out my path, 
 Though half the Convention perish on the block. 
 
Scene V.] ROBESPIERRE. 85 
 
 Mes. Come, let your presence rouse the citizens, 
 And give fresh fire to Henriot's wavering troops. 
 
 [Exeunt ROBESPIERRE and JUDGES. Sound of 
 fighting without. 
 Cam. Hark to the rattle of angry battle ! 
 Upon the street the rival forces meet. 
 In strife for life and liberty. 
 
 [COLLOT cuts the rope by which Lucille is fet- 
 tered to her father ; draws her away, and point- 
 ing to the other prisoners, says — 
 Col. These to the scaffold at once, — and her to-morrow ! 
 {To Luc.) Till then, proud minx ! I'll answer for your 
 keeping. [ Tries to lead her away. 
 
 Luc. Camille ! Camille ! Oh, help ! Oh, let me die ! 
 Col. Come on ! This time your lover shall not balk me. 
 Luc. {struggling with Collot). Camille! my father! 
 Help ! oh, help ! 
 [Camille and the Count by a sudden wrench 
 break their bonds. Camille frees LUCILLE 
 from Collot and clasps her in his arms. 
 Cam. {to Col.) Vile wretch! stand off! At least we 
 die together. 
 Oh, for a weapon ! 
 
 \The Count wrenches a sword from one of the 
 soldiers and hands it to Camille. 
 Count. There, strike ! ay, to her heart ! — then give it 
 to me. 
 
86 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 Luc. {baring her bosom). Here ! quick, Camilla ! My 
 love ! 'tis the sole service 
 You now can render me. 
 
 Cam. One moment first, to end that demon's life ! 
 
 {^Rushes at COLLOT, who takes refuge behind the 
 soldiers. 
 Col. {to soldiers'). Quick ! chain those prisoners ; and 
 take them hence. 
 Should rescue threaten, shoot them on the spot ! 
 
 {^Alarms without. The soldiers hesitate. 
 Col. By the dead gods ! why stand ye halting thus ? 
 
 Enter Attendants affrighted. 
 
 Atten. The foe prevail ! — they enter at the gates ! 
 Col. Quick, then ! let Justice do its work at once ! 
 Fire ! fire ! I say. Let not these traitors escape ! 
 
 \^Some of tJte soldiers raise their muskets to fire. 
 Shots outside. 
 
 Enter RAYMOND and ERNEST, with MARCEL and others, 
 and place themselves between the soldiers and the 
 prisoners. 
 
 Ray. Hold ! hold ! the victory's ours. The Convention 
 triumphs ! 
 Robespierre, fallen, welters in his blood. 
 The Tyrant falls, — the country's free ; 
 
Scene V.] ROBESPIERRE. 8/ 
 
 And thankful myriads shout in ecstasy ! 
 Luc. Dear father ! thou art safe \ 
 
 [Count and Lucille embrace. 
 
 Ray. {to Col.) And thou, O monster of inhumanity ! 
 
 \Seizes COLLOT and holds a pistol at his head. 
 The murdered call for vengeance upon thee. 
 I only spare thee now 
 To let the guillotine do its work upon thee. 
 
 \Gives him in charge to Marcel. 
 {Turning to Luc.) Lucille ! Thank God, my prayer has 
 
 been heard, 
 And thou art saved at last. 
 
 {Turning to Cam.) My rival ! thou art free, — 
 Free for the happiness that waits for thee ! 
 
 Cam. What can I say to nobleness like this .? 
 I yield to no man in devotedness ; 
 But thou dost make my love look poor and pale 
 Seen in the light of thy grand sacrifice. 
 
 Luc. O Raymond ! noble Raymond ! Soul so pure, 
 How can I thank thee in weak woman's words ! 
 
 Ray. Kind thoughts, from heart like thine, are as a prayer 
 For ever rising from the earth to Heaven, 
 A benison on my life. I ask not much : — 
 Living, a place in thy sweet memory, — 
 Dying, a soldier's death, in France's cause. 
 This Tyranny ended, I hasten to the field. 
 To fight the foes who would dismember France, 
 
88 ROBESPIERRE. [Act III. 
 
 And crush the name of Freedom out of Europe. 
 
 [Annette enters and throws herself into her 
 Mistress's arms. 
 Count, {to Ray.) Spoke like a Noble! I cannot bid 
 you stay. 
 But for my years, I'd take the field myself 
 Each Frenchman's place is now in the ranks of war. 
 
 Enter Francois. Goes up to Collot. 
 
 Fran. You ugly monster! vulgar upstart! Who will 
 die first now for "the double crime of treason and 
 cowardice .' " Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Em. France now is one again, — the Tyrant falling ! 
 From earth to heaven a voice is calling, 
 " Freedom ! not Blood ! " 
 Oh, may the sorrows of our country cease, 
 And all at length be happiness and peace ! 
 
 Cotmt {to Cam. and Luc.) Heaven smile now on you 
 both ! and, 'midst your love. 
 Forget not the kind Providence above. 
 
 [Camille and Lucille embrace. 
 
 Luc. Sweet bloomed my youth 'mid summer skies 
 When the form of my hero first met my eyes. 
 But sorrow and terror brought night on my day, 
 Till for Death, as a blessing, my soul did pray. 
 Yet in joy or in sorrow, in hope or in fear, 
 Thou, ever thou, to my heart wast dear ! 
 
Scene V.] ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 What joy now I feel ! 
 Camille ! Camille ! 
 
 Cam. A dream of love, oh, bright as heaven, 
 At sight of thee to my heart was given. 
 And e'en through the night of Terror and woe 
 That dream 'mid the darkness did brightly glow. 
 Now sorrow and terror and night are past, 
 And the dream of my heart proves true at last ! 
 
 Luc. O joy ! O bliss ! 
 
 Cam. Sweet hour is this. 
 Which crowns my life with happiness ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Terrors der ! and Peace descending, 
 Its blessing sending, true love befriending. 
 Crowns our life with joy unending. 
 Yes, France is free! O Powers above ! 
 Smile now on Freedom and on Love! 
 
 THE END. 
 
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 
 
WORKS BY K H. PATTERSON. 
 
 THE NEW REVOLUTION. 
 
 Bevue des Denx Houdes. 
 Les articles de M. Patterson, reimprimges d'epuis en volume sous le titre de la 
 NouveUe Revolution, lui aient valu la reputation de proplifete, et d'ingenieux 
 penseur politique. 
 
 The Dial. 
 These articles are among the ablest contributions ever made to journalism. Mr 
 Patterson's style is clear, nervous, and dignified, and rising at times into noble though 
 chastened eloquence. Mr Patterson would be a distinguished Historian were he not 
 the distinguished editor of a Tory newspaper. 
 
 St James's Chronicle. 
 A very remarkable volume. It is a graphic and almost prophetic sketch of the 
 policy and principles of Louis Napoleon. 
 
 SToining Advertiser. 
 The author is entitled to take his place in the foremost rank of the patriotic 
 politicians of the present day. 
 
 ESSAYS IN HISTORY AND ART. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine. 
 Not often, whether in prose or in verse, does the same man command both "the 
 vision and the faculty divine." Not often is the original thinker endowed with 
 a fluent and fascinating style, which takes captive the crowd by its beauty. Mr 
 Patterson has this good fortune. ... By this volume Mr Patterson has shown 
 himself as original a thinker on subjects of general History and Art as he had pre- 
 viously proved himself to be on the contemporary history which we call Politics. 
 He has insight, logic, humour, a noble and variable style, — and can claim entrance 
 by right to the first rank of authors of the day. 
 
 Athensenm. 
 
 Fine appreciative taste and original observation are found united with range 
 of thought, and a rare command over the powers of the English language. 
 
 Bevue des Senx Mondes. 
 
 Cost uu plaisir assez singulier que nous a donn^ la lecture des Essais reunis 
 de M. Patterson. . . . M. Patterson est sans doute un homme supdrieur ; et il 
 est loin de laisser faire ces instincts qui sont entrfe en lui par droit de naissance — oes 
 genies de son temperament. Quoiqu'il ait aussi son c8t6 podtiqne, c'est un esprit 
 essentiellement olair et logique, — qui aime k sp&uler, et k embrasser des vastes 
 ensembles. Dans ses instincts, comme dans son intelligence, il n'a rien d'exclusif. 
 TJne des quaUtes qui ont le plus contribue k sa superiority o'est qu'il est viril. 
 U a le sentiment de le Realite— il ose la regarder en face : et cela n'est pas un mince 
 avautage. 
 
 Ii'Indepeudance Beige. 
 
 C'est un de ces ouvrages qu'on ne lit pas k moitid, mais jusqu'au bout, et qu'on 
 retrouve toujours aveo plaisir. 
 
 Bevue Coutemporaiue. 
 
 Un vif sentiment de la beautfe — un langage anim^, color6, parfois lyrique — des 
 aperfus souvent ing^nieu , prSteut un oharme r^el S, oes esquisses. 
 
 Eolnische Zeitnug. 
 These essays are distinguished alike by profound learning and by the originality 
 of their contents. ... A work of genius— of eminent value. 
 
THE ECONOMY OF CAPITAL. 
 
 Money Market Eeview. 
 A work which constitutes a full and complete exposition of our whole monetary 
 system. But it is more than that : it is a most mterestmg book. 
 Westminster Keview. 
 In all that really has reference to the Economy of Capital, Mr Patterson's book is 
 most excellent. His information is complete ; his style is clear, forcible, and even 
 picturesque; and his account o£ the modes by which capital is economised m the 
 banking-system, is the very best extant. 
 
 Leeds IntelUgencer. 
 A wonderful work. A book that will in a few years be not only in every English 
 library, but will have a world-wide reputation. 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF FINANCE. 
 
 British Quarterly Eeview. 
 ' The Science of Finance ' is a title which covers a wide field of thought, and Mr 
 Patterson's book quite answei-a to its title He has examined elaborately and with 
 abundant detail the questions of Currency and Banking, of Railway and Municipal 
 Finance ; and we rise from its perusal with the impression that we have rarely read 
 a book displaying so full acquaintance with the facts relating to its subject. 
 
 London Seview. 
 Mr Patterson, whatever he may be in politics, is a Radical in finance. He is a 
 strong and original thinker, and his mastery of the subject is undoubted. 
 
 Homing Star. 
 All who are interested in the great Science of Finance cannot go to a better 
 repository of facts and opinions than Mr Patterson has provided. 
 
 THE STATE, THE POOR, AND THE COUNTRY. 
 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 The ability which Mr Patterson has shown in handling some of the most difficult 
 and pressing Economical problems, entitles him to be heard on most of the leading 
 Social questions of the day. . . . Himself a Political Economist of mark, he finds 
 "a heartless Political Economy (so-called, but not the true thing) " in his way. An 
 excellent and timely volume. 
 
 FnbUc Opinion. 
 
 The writing is clear and pointed, and truths are told with decisive firmness on a 
 subject upon which much nonsense has been written. 
 
 Yorkshire Post. 
 
 A glowing and eloquent little book, in which, among other matters, the great 
 problem of the reproductive, employment ofpauperiam is ably stated and approximately 
 solved. 
 
 British Quairterly Beview. 
 
 A most valuable and suggestive contribution to the political literature of the day. 
 It should be read by eveiy one who desires to see the English a great nation — 
 a people among whom neither tyranny nor pauperism should be possibje or even 
 conceivable. 
 
 Vanity Fair. 
 
 A very valuable contribution to the world-wide discussion that is every day growing 
 more imminent on the momentous subject of which it treats. It is always advan- 
 tageous to hear the voice of a man so thoroughly in earnest about his subject as Mr 
 Patterson is, and who speaks so ably and in such an impartial unprejudiced way. 
 . . . The day is fast approaching when the Nation will have to face the 
 contemplation of a disease that saps the elements of its strength, and to devise 
 measures for its speedy removal. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edindukgh and London. 
 

 
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