6i /a/ .At. -d:.;. DUE DATE ^ i Mff .JAN-* £f^ wmm GAYLORD PRINTED IN U S.A. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924091208656 In compliance with current copyright law, Cornell University Library produced this replacement volume on paper that meets the ANSI Standard Z39.48-1992 to replace the irreparably deteriorated original. 2001 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1 89 1 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE DRAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS or joan:^a baillie. I^ONDON : SrorijiWoouEs and Shaw, New -street-Square. THE itaw AlsfD F(D)ETJl€AIL W€)m.K5 OF G::^0.^m//'Gy^7ij^ LOIJDOIT- LONGHAiT, BH.OWN, GKEEN AND LONGMANS P^TERKOSTER ROW, THE DEAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS OF JOANNA BAILLIE COMPLETE IN ONE VOLXJMR LONDON: LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS. 1851. PREFACE. At.t. the Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie are now collected together, and presented to the Public, with many corrections, and a few additions, by herself. They are in this Volnme arranged in three divisions. The first contains the Plays on the Passions, from which the reputation of the Author primarily and chiefly arose ; in which is embodied the design she formed, at the commencement of her career, of writing a Tragedy and Comedy on -each of the stronger passions of the'mind. The second dlTision embraces, under the head "Miscellaneous Plays,'' all her dramatic works.not comprehended in that design. The third includes all her poetical compositions, not dramatic, nor connected with the Plays, In this division appears a poem entitled Ahalya Baee, recently printed for private circulation ; and amongst the Fugitive Verses have been introduced some short poems never before published. CONTENTS. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. Page Page Introductory Discourse - . 1 Orba : a Tragedy - 236 Basil : a Tragedy - - . . 18 The Dream : a Tragedy, in Prose - 2(i0 The Trial : a Comedy - 49 The Siege : a Comedy - 277 Db MoNFoaT: a Tragedy . 76 The Beacon : a Serious Musical Drama - 300 The Election : a Comedy 106 RouiERO : a Tragedy 312 Ethwald: a Tragedy, Part I. - 134 Thb Alienated Manor : a Comedy - 336 Pnrt II - 167 Hen RiQDEz: a Tragedy 3C1 The Second Mahriage: a Comedy - I'JS MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. Rayner : a Tragedy - 391 The Phantom : a Musical Drama - 570 The Country Inn : a Comedy 419 Enthusiasm : a Comedy - - 591 CONSTAUTINB PaLEOLOGUS ; OB, THE Last of the Witchcraft : a Tragedy, io Prose - 613 C£SAR^ : a Tragedy - 446 The Homicide : a Tragedy in Prose, with occasional The Family Legend : a Tragedy. 479 Passages in Verse - 643 The Maetvr: a Drama - - 508 The Bride: a Drama 665 The $EPAaATioN: a Tragedy 530 The Match : a Comedy 684 The Stbipling : a Tragedy, in Prose - 551 MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. METRICAL LEGENDS Preface .... - 705 Lord John of the East : a Ballad - - .761 A Metrical Legend of WiUiam Wallacf - 710 Malcolm's He:r : a Tale of Wonder - 763 The Legend of Christopher Columbus - 731 The Elden Tree : an ancient Ballad 765 The Legend of Lady Grlseld Baillie - 748 The Ghost of Fadon 767 FUGITIVE VERSES. Preface - - - - 771 A Reverie ■ 785 A Winter*s Day - 772 A Disappointment - - 786 A Summer's Day - - 775 787 Night Scenes of other Times : a Poem in three Parts - 778 A Mother to her Waking Infant - - 788 Address to the Muses - 782 A Child to his Sick Grandfather - - 788 A Melancholy Lover's Farewell to his Mistress - - 783 Thunder - 789 A Cheerful-tempered Lover's Farewell to his IVIistress 7H4 The Horse and his Rider 789 A Proud Lover's Farewell to his Mistress - - 784 Fragment of a Poem - 790 A Poetical or Sound-hearced Lover's Farewell to his Mistress 785 viii CONTENTS. Page MISCELLANEOUS POETRY WRITTEN SINCE «New Words to the old Scotch Air of " The Wee Pickle | THE YEAR 1700. Tow" 822 Page Song, called " The Country Lady's Reveillie" - 822 Lines on the Deafli of Sir Walter Scott - 7il2 Volunteer's Song, written in 1803 - 823 Epilogue to the Theatrical Representation at Straw- Song, written for an Irish Air 823 berry Hill 794 Song, for an- Irish Air . . ■ - 823 The Banished Man 794 A Scotch Song 821 To a Child - 795 Song, Poverty parts Good Company 824 Song, (to the Scotch Air of " My Nanny C") 79G Song, for a Scotch Air 825 London . _ - - . 796 A Sailor's Song - 825 Lines on the Death of William Sotheby, Esq. 79G Song, a New Version of an Old Scotch Song ■ 825 Verses to our own Flowery Kirtled Spring ■ 797 Sir Maurice : a Ballad 826 /£ Lines to a Parrot 798 To Mrs. Siddons . . . . - 829 ■"Lines to a Teapot - - 799 A Song, written for an Irish Melody 82S ■ The Moody Seer : a Ballad 801 Song, for an Irish Melody - . 830 The Merry Bachelor 803 Song 830 Two Songs - - - - 8I}4 Song 830 Song, written for the Strawberry Hill Foiindllog Play - 804 The Black Cock 831 To Sophia J. Baillie, an Infant 604 Song 831 The Kitten - 805 Song 831 School Rhymes for Negro Children 806 Song, written for a Welsh Melody 831 Rhymes 806 Song 832 Rhymes for Chanting 806 On the Death of a very dear Friend 832 Devotional Song for a Negro Child 806 Second Devotional Song - 807 Third Devotional Song ... 807 VERSES ON SACRED SUBJECTS. A Nursery Lesson (Devotional) - 807 Second Nursery Lesson (Admonitory) 807 Hymn 833 Hjmn - . . . - 808 Hymn 833 * Recollections of a dear and steady Friend 808 Hymn 834 Two Brothers .... . 810 Hymn 834 Lines to Agnes Baillie on her Birthday - ■- 811 Hymn - . _ - 835 Verses sent to Mrs. Baillie on her Birthday, 1813 812 Hymn for the Scotch Kirk 835 Verses written in February, 1827 - 813 A Second Hymn for the Kirk 835 The Traveller by Night in November - 813 A Third Hymn for the Kirk 835 Lines for a Friend's Album . 816 St. Matthew, V. 9. «35 Address to a Steamvessel - 816 St. Luke, xviii. 10 836 Song, Woo'd and Married and a' -■ 817 St. John, xxi. 1. 836 A Song • 818 St. Luke, vii. 12. 836 Fy, let us a' to the Wedding 818 Job, xiii. 16. 837 Hooly and Fairly - 819 Hymn . 837 *The Lady in her Car 820 A Hymn for the Kirk 837 *To James B. Baillie, an Infant - 821 A Hymn . - - 83J •The weary Fund o' Tow - - 821 Select Verses from the 147th Psalm 83S •Tam 0' the Lin 821 Thoughts taken from the 93rd Psalm 833 »jVhalya Baee, a Poem - 839 • First published In this collected edition of the Author's works. THE WORKS OF JOANNA BAILLIE. A SERIES OF PLAYS: ni WHICH IT IS ATTEMPTED TO DELI^TEATE THE STRONGER PASSIONS OF THE MIND EACH PASSION BEINO THE SUBJECT OP A TRAGEDY AKD A COMEDT. DTTRODUCTORT DISCOURSE. It is nataral for a writer, who is about to submit his works to the Public, to feel a strong inclination, by some Preliminaiy Address, to conciliate the faroor of his reader, and dispose him, if possible, to pemse them with a favourable eye. I am well aware, however, that his endeavours are generally fruitless : in his situation our hearts revolt from all appearance of confidence, and we consider his diffidence as hypocrisy. Our own word is frequently taken for what we say of ourselves, but very rarely for what we say of our works. Were the three plays which this small volume* contains, detached pieces only, and unconnected with others that do not yet appear, I should have suppressed this inclination altogether ; and have allowed my reader to begin what is before him, and to form what opinion of it his taste or his humour might direct, without any previous trespass upon his time or his patience. But they are part of an extensive design : of one which, as far as my information goes, has nothing exactly similar to it in any language ; of one which a whole life's time will be limited enongh to accom- plish ; and which has, therefore, a considerable chance of being cut ^ort by that hand which nothing can resist. Before I explain the plan of this work, I must * The first volume of tbe former editions. make a demand upon the patience of my reader, whilst I endeavour to communicate to him those ideas regarding human nature, as they in some degree aSect almost every species of moral writings, but particularly the Dramatic, that induced me to at- tempt it; and, as far as my judgment enabled me to apply them, has directed me in the execution of it. From that strong sympathy which most creatures, but the human above all, feel for others of their kind, nothing has become so much an object of man's curiosity as man himself. We are all conscious of this widiin ourselves, and so constantly do we meet with it in others, that, like every circumstance of continually repeated occurrence, it thereby escapes observation. Every person who is not deficient in intellect, is more or less occupied in tracing among the individuals he converses -with, the vaiieties of understanding and temper which constitute the characters of men ; and receives great pleasure ftom every stroke of nature that points out to him those varieties. This is, much more than we are aware of, the occupation of children, and of grown people also, whose penetration is but lightly esteemed ; and that conversation which degenerates with them into trivial and mischievous tattling, takes its rise not unfrequently from the same source that supplies the rich vein of the satirist and the wiL That eagerness so universally shown for the conversation of the latter, plainly enough indicates how many people have been occupied in the same way with B JOANNA BAILLIE'S "WORKS. [Tntkoddctoiit themselves. Let any one, in a large company, do or say what is strongly expressive of his peculiar character, or of some passion or humour of the mo- ment, and it will hrf detected by almost every person present. How often may we see a very stupid countenance animated with a smile, when the learned and the wise have betrayed some native featiure of their own minds! and how often will this be the case when they have supposed it to be concealed under a very sufficient disguise! From this constant em- ployment of their minds, most people, I believe, without being conscious of it, have stored up in idea the greater part of those strongly marked varieties of human character, which may be said to divide it into classes ; and in one of those classes they in- voluntarily place every new person they become ac- quainted with. I will readily allow that the dress and the man- ners of men, rather than their characters and dis- positions, are the subjects of our common conversa- tion, and seem chiefly to occupy the multitude. But let it be remembered that it is much easier to express our observations upon these. It is easier to communicate to another how a man wears his wig and cane, what kind of house he inhabits, and what kind of table he keeps, than from what slight traits in his words and actions we have been led to con- ceive certain impressions of his chai'acter : traits that will often escape the memory, when the opinions that were founded upon them remain. Besides, in communicating our ideas of the characters of others we are often called upon to support them mth more expense of reasoning than we can well afford ; but our observations on the dress and appearance of men seldom involve us in such difficulties. For these, and other reasons too tedious to mention, the generality of people appear to us more trifling than they are : and I may venture to say, that, but for this sympathetic curiosity towards others of our kind which is so strongly implanted within us, the attention we pay to the dress and manners of men would dwin(Ue into an employment as insipid, as examining the varieties of plants and minerals is to one who understands not natiu-al history. In our ordinary intercourse with society, this sympathetic propensity of our minds is exercised upon men under the common occmxences of life, in which we have often observed them. Here, vanity and weakness put themselves forward to view, more conspicuously than the virtues ; here, men encounter those smaller trials, from which they are not apt to come off victorious ; and here, consequently, that which is marked with the whimsical and ludicrous will strike us most forcibly, and make the strongest * In confirmation of this opinion I may venture to say, that of the great numbers who go to see a public execution, tliere are but very few who would not run away from, and avoid it, if they happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We iind people stopping to look at a procession, or any other un- __ impression on our memory. To this sympathetic propensity of our minds, so exercised, the genuine and pure comic of every composition, whether drama, fable, story, or satire, is addressed. If man is an object of so much attention to man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life, how much more does he excite his curiosity and interest when placed in extraordinary situations of difficulty and distress? It cannot be any pleasure we receive from the sufferings of a, fellow-creature which at- tracts such multitudes of people to a public execu- tion, though it is the horror we conceive for such a spectacle that keeps so many more away. To see a human being bearing himself up under such cir- cumstances, or struggling with the terrible apprehen- sions which such a situation impresses, must be the powerful incentive that makes us press forward to behold what we shrink from, and wait with trem- bling expectation for what we dread.* For though few at such a spectacle can get near enough to distinguish the expression of face, or the minuter parts of a criminal's behaviour, yet from a consi- derable distance will they eagerly mark whether he steps firmly ; whether the motions of his body denote agitation or calmness ; and if the wind does but raffle his garment, they will, even from that change upon the outline of his distant figure, read some expression connected with his di-eadful situ- ation. Though there is a greater proportion of people in whom this strong curiosily will -be over- come by other dispositions and motives ; though there are many more who will stay away from such a sight than will go to it ; yet there are very few who will not be eager to converse with a person who has beheld it ; and to learn, very minutely, every cir- cumstance connected, with it, except the veiy act itself of inflicting death. To lift up the roof of his dungeon, like the Diable boiteux, and look upon a criminal the night before he suffers, in his still hours of privacy, when all that disguise is removed which is imposed by respect for the opinion of others, the strong motive by which even the lowest and wickedest of men still continue to be acttiated, would pi-esent an object to the mind of every person, not withheld from it by great timidity of character, more power- fully attractive than almost any other. Revenge, no doubt, first began among the savages of America that dreadful custom of sacrificing their prisoners of war. But the perpetration of such hideons cruelty could never have become a perma- nent national custom, but for this universal desire in the human mind to behold man in every situation, putting forth his strength against the current of adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, or struggling common sight they may have fallen in with accidentally, hut almost never an execution. No one goes there who has not made up his mind for the occasion ; which would not be the case, if any natural love of cruelty were the cause of such assemblies. DiSCOUESE.] PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. with those feelings of nattu-e which, like a beating stream, will ofttimes burst thi'ough the artificial barriers of pride. Befpre they begin those terrible rites they treat their prisoners kindly; and it cannot be supposed that men, alternately enemies and friends to so many neighbouring tribes, in manners and appear- ance like themselves, should so strongly be actuated by a spirit of public revenge. This custom, therefore, must be considered as a grand and terrible game, which every tribe plays against another j where they try not the strength of the arm, the swijftness of the feet, nor the acuteness of the eye, but the fortitude of the soul. Considered in this light, the excess of cruelty exercised upon their miserable victim, in which every hand is described as ready to inflict its portion of pain, and every head ingenious in the contrivance of it, is no longer to be wondered at. To put into his measure of misery one agony less, would be, in some degree, betraying the honour of their nation, would be doing a species of injustice to every hero of their own tribe who had already sustained it, and to those who might be called upon to do so ; among whom each of these savage tormenters has his chance of being one, and has pre- pared himself for it from his childhood. Nay, it would be a species of injustice to the haughty victim himself, who would scorn to purchase his place among the heroes of his nation at an easier price than his undaunted predecessors. Amongst the many trials to which the human mind is subjected, that of holding intercourse, real or imagmary, with the world of spirits : of finding itself alone with a being terrific and awful, whose nature and power are unknown, has been justly considered as one of the most severe. The work- ings of nature in this situation, we all know, have ever been the object of our most eager inquiiy. No man wishes to see the Ghost himself, which would certainly procure him the best information on the subject, but every man wishes to see one who be- heves that he sees it, in all the agitation and wUd- ness of that species of terror. To gratify this curi- osity how many people have dressed up hideous apparitions to frighten the timid and superstitious ! and have done it at the risk of destroying their hap- piness or understanding for ever. For the instances of intellect being destroyed by this kind of trial are more numerous, perhaps, in proportion to the few who have undergone it, than by any other. How sensible are we of this strong propensity within us, when we behold any person under the pressure of great and uncommon calamity 1 Deli- cacy and respect for the afflicted will, indeed, make us turn ourselves aside from observing him, and cast down our eyes in his presence ; but the first glance we direct to him will involuntarily be one of the keenest observation, how hastily soever it may be checked ; and often will a returning look of inquiry mix itself by stealth with our sympathy and reserve. But it is not in situations of difficnlty and dis- tress alone, that man becomes the object of this sym- pathetic cm'iosity : he is no less so when the evil he contends with arises in his own breast, and no outward circumstance connected with him either awakens our attention or oiu- pity. What human creature is there, who can behold a being like him- self under the violent agitation of those passions which all have, in some degree, experienced, with- out feeling himself most powerfully excited by the sight ? I say, all have experienced : for the bravest man on earth knows what iear is as well as the coward ; and will not refuse to be interested for one under the dominion of this passion, provided there be nothing in the circumstances attending it to create contempt. Anger is a passion that attracts less sympathy than any other, yet the impleasing and distorted features of an angiy man will be more eagerly gazed upon by those who are no wise con- cerned with his ftu'y, or the objects of it, than the most amiable placid countenance in the world. Every eye is directed to him ; eveiy voice hushed to silence in his presence : even children will leave off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after him more eagerly than the gaudiest equipage. The wUd tossings of despair; the gnashing of hati'ed and' revenge ; the yearnings of affection, and the softened mien of love ; all the language of the agitated soul, which every age and nation understand, is never addressed to the dull or inattentive. It is not merely under the violent agitations of passion, that man so rouses and interests us ; even the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the restless eye, the muttering hp, the half-checked ex- clamation and the hasty start, will set our attention as anxiously upon the watch, as the first distant flashes of a gathering storm. When some great explosion of passion bursts forth, and some consequent cata- strophe happens, if we are at all acquainted with the unhappy perpetrator, how minutely shall we en- deavour to remember every circumstance of his past behaviour ! and with what avidity shall we seize upon every recollected word or gesture, that is in the smallest degi'ee indicative of the supposed state of his mind, at the time when they took place. If we are not acquainted with him, how eagerly shaU we listen to similar recollections firom another ! Let us understand, from observation or report, that any person harbours in his breast, concealed fi'om the world's eye, some powerful rankling passion of what kind soever it may be, we shall observe every word, every motion, every look, even the distant gait of such a man, with a constancy and attention be- stowed upon no other. Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds as though we found om-selves in the neighbourhood of some secret and fearful thing. If invisible, would we not follow him into his lonely haunts, into his closet, into the midnight silence of B 2 JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. [iNTROOnCTOBT his chamber ? There is, perhaps, no employment which the human mind will with so much avidity pm-sue, as the disopvery of concealed passion, as the tracing the varieties and progress of a perturbed sou). It is to this sympathetic curiosity of our nature, exercised upon manlsind in great and trying oc- casions, and under the influence of the stronger passions, when the grand, the generous, and the ter- rible attract our attention far more than the base and depraved, that the high and powerfully tragic, of every composition, is addressed. This propensity is universal. Children begin to show it very early ; it enters into many of their amusements, and that part of them too, for which they show the keenest relish. It oftentimes tempts them, as well as the mature in years, to be guilty of tricks, vexations, and cruelty ; yet God Almighty has implanted it within us, as well as all our other propensities and passions, for wise and good pur- poses. It is our best and most powerful instructor. From it we are taught the proprieties and decencies of ordinary life, and are prepared for distressing and difficult situations. Jn examining others we know ourselves. With limbs untorn, with head unsmitten, with senses unimpaired by despair, we know what we ourselves might have been on the rack, on the scaffold, and in the most afflicting circumstances of distress. Unless when accompanied with passions of the dark and malevolent kind, we cannot well exercise this disposition without becoming more just, more merciful, more compassionate j and as the dark and malevolent passions are not the pre- dominant inmates of the human breast, it hath pro- duced more deeds — many more! of kindness than of cruelty. It holds up for our example a standard of excellence, which, without its assistance, our inward consciousness of what is right and be- coming might never have dictated. It teaches us, also, to respect ourselves, and our kind ; for it is a poor mind, indeed, that from this employment of its faculties, learns not to dwell upon the noble view of human nature rather than the mean. Universal, however, as this disposition undoubt- edly is, with the generality of mankind it occupies itself in a passing and superficial way. Though a native trait of character or of passion is obvious to them as well as to the sage, yet to their minds it is but the visitor of a moment ; they look upon it singly and unconnected : and though this disposition, even so exercised, brings instruction as well as amuse- ment, it is chiefly by storing up in their minds those ideas to which the instructions of others refer, that it oan be eminently useful Those who reflect and reason upon what human nature holds out to their observation, are comparatively but few. No stroke of nature which engages their attention stands insu- lated and alone. Each presents itself to them with many varied connections ; and they comprehend not merely the immediate feeling which gave rise to it, but the relation of that feeling to others which are concealed. We wonder at the changes and caprices of men ; they see in them nothing but what is na- tural and accountable. We stare upon some dark catastrophe of passion, as the Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon j they, conceiving the track of ideas through which the impassioned mind has passed, regard it like the philosopher who foretold the phenomenon. Knowing what situation of life he is about to be thrown into, they perceive in the man, who, like Hazael, says, " Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing ? " the foul and fero- cious murderer. A man of this contemplative cha- racter partakes, in some degree, of the entertainment of the Gods, who were supposed to look down upon this world and the inhabitants of it, as we do upon a theatrical exhibition ; and if he is of a benevo- lent disposition, a good man struggUng with, and triumphing over adversity, will be to him, also, the most delightful spectacle. But though this eager- ness to observe their fellow-creatures in eveiy situ- ation, leads not the generality of mankind to reason and reflect ; and those strokes of nature which they are so ready to remark, stand single and uncon- nected in their minds ; yet they may be easily in- duced to do both : and there is no mode of instruc- tion which they will so eagerly pursue, as that which lays open before them, in a more enlarged and con- nected view than their individual observations are capable of supplying — the varieties of the human mind. Above all, to be well exercised in this study will fit a man more particularly for the most im- portant situations of life. He will prove for it the better Judge, the better Magistrate, the better Ad- vocate ; and as a ruler or conducter of other men, under every occurring circumstance, he will find himself the better enabled to fulfil his duty, and ac- comphsh his designs. He will perceive the natural effect of every order that he issues upon the minds of his soldiers, his subjects, or his followers ; and he will deal to others judgment tempered with mercy ; that is to say, truly just, — for justice appears to us severe only when it is imperfect. In proportion as moral writers of every class have exercised within themselves this sympathetic propen- sity of our nature, and have attended to it in others, their works have been interesting and instructive. They have struck the imagination more forcibly, convinced the understanding more clearly, and more lastingly impressed the memory. If un- seasoned with any reference to this, the fairy bowers of the poet, with all his gay images of delight, will be admii'ed and forgotten ; the important relations of the historian, and even the reasonings of the phi- losopher, will make a less permanent impression. The historian points back to the men of other ages, and from the gradually clearing mist in which they are first discovered, like the mountains of a far distant land, the generations of the world are dis- Discourse.] PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. played to our mind's eye in grand and regular pro- cession. But the transactions of men become inte- resting to us only as we are made acquainted with men themselves. Gifeat and bloody battles are to us battles fonght in the moon, if it is not impressed upon our minds, by some circumstances attending them, that men subject to like weaknesses and passions with ourselves, were the combatants.* The establishments of policy make little impression upon us, if we are left ignorant of the beings whom they affected. Even a very masterly di-awn cha- racter will but slightly imprint upon our memory the great man it belongs to, if, in the account we receive of his life, those lesser circumstances are entirely ne- glected, which do best of all point out to us the dis- positions and tempers of men. Some slight cir- cumstance, characteristic of the particular turn of a man's mind, which at first sight seems but little con- nected with the great events of his life, will often explain some of those events more cleai'ly to our understanding, than the minute details of ostensible policy, A judicious selection of those circumstances which characterise the spirit of an associated mob, paltry and ludicrous as some of them may appear, will oftentimes convey to our minds a clearer idea why certain laws and privileges were demanded and agreed to, than a methodical explanation of their causes. An historian who has examined human nature himself, and likewise attends to the pleasure which developing and tracing it docs ever convey to others, will employ our understanding as well as our memory with his pages ; and if this is not done, he will impose upon the latter a very difficult task, in retaining what she is concerned with alone. In argumentative and philosophical writings, the effect which the author's reasoning produces on our minds depends not entirely on the justness of it. The images and examples that he calls to his aid to explain and illustrate his meaning, will very much affect the attention we are able to bestow upon it, and, consequently, the quickness with which we shall apprehend, and the force with which it \vill impress us. These are selected from animated and unani- mated nature, from the habits, manners, and charac- ters of men ; and though that image or example, whatever it may be in itself, which brings out his meaning most clearly, ought to be preferred before every other, yet of two equal in this respect, that * Let two great battles be described to us with all the force and clearness of the most able pen. In the first let the most admirable exertions of military Aill in the General, aud the most unshaken courage in the soldiers, gain over an equal or superior number of brave opponents a complete and glorious victory. In the second let the General be less scientiSc, and the soldiers less dauntless. Let them ^o into the field for a cause that is dear to them, and fight with the ardour which such a motive inspire ; till, discouraged with the many deaths around them, and the renovated pressure of the foe, some unlooked-for circumstance, trifling in itself, strikes their imagination at once ; they are visited with the terrors of nature : their national pride, the honour of soldiership, is forgotten; they By like a fearful flock. Let some beloved which is drawn from the most interesting source will please us the most at the time, and most lastingly take hold of our minds. An argument supported with vivid and interesting illustration will long be remembered, when many equally important and clear are forgotten ; and a work where many such occur, will be held in higher estimation by the gene- rality of men, than one, its superior, peihaps, in acuteness, perspicuity, and good sense. Our desire to know what men are in the closet as well as in the field ; by the blazing hearth and at the social board, as well as in the council and the throne, is very imperfectly gratified by real history. Romance writers, therefore, stept boldly forth to supply the deficiency ; and tale writers and novel writers, of many descriptions, followed after. If they have not been very skilful in their deline- ations of nature ; if they have represented men and women speaking and acting as men and women never did speak or act ; if they have caricatured both our virtues and our vices ; if they have given us such pare and unmixed, or such heterogeneous combinationsof character, as real life never presented, and yet have pleased and interested us ; let it not be imputed to the dulness of man in discerning what is genuinely natural in himself. There arc many inclinations belonging to us besides this great master-propensity of which I am treating. Our love of the grand, the beautiful, the novel, and, above all, of the marvellous, is very strong ; and if we ai'e richly fed with what we have a good relish for, we may be weaned to forget our native and favourite aliment. Yet we can never so far forget it but that we shall cling to, and acknowledge it again, whenever it is presented before us. In a work abounding with the marvellous and unnatural, if the author has any how stumbled upon an unso- phisticated genuine stroke of nattire, we shall im- mediately perceive and be delighted with it, though we are foolish enough to admire, at the same time, all the nonsense with which it is surrounded. After all the wonderful incidents, dark mysteries, and secrets revealed, which eventfiil novel so hberally presents to us ; after the beautifiil fiiiiy-gronnd, and even the grand and sublime scenes of nature with which descriptive novel so often enchants us ; those works which most strongly characterise human nature in the middling and lower classes of society, chief then step forth, and call upon them by the love of their country, by tlie memory of their valiant fathers, by every thing that ftindles in the bosom of man the high and generous passions : they stop ; they gather round him ; and, goaded by shame and indiguation, returning again to the charge, with the fury of wild beasts rather than the courage of soldiers, bear down every thing before them . W hich of these two battles will interest us the most? And which of them shall we remember the longest? The one will stand forth in the imagination of the reader like a rock of the desert, which points out to the far-removed traveller the country through which he has passed, when its lesser objects are obscured in the distance ; whilst the other leaves no traces behind it, bul jo the minds of the scientific in war. JOANNA BAILLIli'S WOEKS. [iNTEODUCTOKy where it is to be discovered by stronger and more unequivocal marks, will ever be the most popular. For though great pains have been taken in our higher sentimental' novels to interest us in the de- licacies, embarrassments, and artificial distresses of the more refined part of society, they have never been able to cope in the public opinion with these. The one is a dressed and beautiful pleasure-gi'ound, in which we are enchanted for a while, among the delicate and unknown plants of artful cultivation : the other is a rough forest of our native land ; the oak, the elm, the hazel, and the bramble are there ; and amidst the endless varieties of its paths we can wander for ever. Into whatever scenes the novelist may conduct us, what objects soever ho may present to our view, still is our attention most sensibly awake to every touch faithful to nature ; still axe we upon tlie watch for eveiy thing that speaks to us of ourselves. The fair field of what is properly called poetiy, is enriched with so many beauties, that in it we ai-e often tempted to forget what we really are, and what kind of beings we belong to. Who, in the en- chanted regions of simile, metaphor, allegory, and description, can remember the plain order of things in this every-day world ? From heroes, whose majestic forms rise like a lofty tower, whose eyes are lightning, whose arms are ii'resistible, whose course is lilvc the storms of heaven, bold and exalted sentiments we shall readily receive ; and shall not examine them very accurately by that mle of nature which our own breast prescribes to us. A shepherd, whose sheep, with fleeces of purest snow, browze the flowery herb.age of the most beautiful valleys; whose flute is ever melodious, and whose shepherdess is ever crowned with roses ; whose eveiy care is love ; will not be called very strictly to account for the loftiness and refinement of his thoughts. Tlie fair Nymph who siglis out her sorrows to the conscious and compassionate wilds ; wliose eyes gleam like the blight drops of heaven ; whose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may say what she pleases with im- punity. I will venture, however, to say, that amidst all this decoration and ornament, all this loftiness and refinement, let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fade away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning. With admi- ration, and often with enthusiasm, we proceed on our way through the grand and the beautiful images raised to om- imagination by the lofty epic muse : but what, even here, are those things that strike upon the heart; that we feel and • remember ? Neither the descriptions of war, the sound of the trumpet, the clanging of arms, the combat of heroes, nor the death of the mighty, will interest our minds like the fall of the feeble stranger, who simply expresses the anguish of his soul, at the thoughts of that far distant home which he must never return to again, and closes his eyes among the ignoble and forgotten ; like the timid stripling goaded by the shame of reproach, who urges his trembling steps to the fight, and falls like a tender flower before the first blast of winter. How often will some simple picture of this kind be all that remains upon our minds of the ten-ific and mag- nificent battle, whose description we have read with admiration ? How comes it that we relish so much the episodes of an heroic poem ? It cannot merely be that we arc pleased with a resting-place, where we enjoy the variety of contrast ; for were the poem of the simple and familiar kind, and an episode after the heroic style introduced into it, ninety readers out of a hundred would pass over it alto- gether. Is it not that we meet such a stoiy, so situated, with a loud of sympathetic good will, as in passing through a country of castles and of palaces we should come unawares upon some humble cottage resembling the dwellings of our own native land, and gaze upon it with affection ? The highest pleasures we receive from poetry, as well as from the real objects which surround us in the world, are derived from the sympathetic interest we all take in beings like ourselves ; and I will even venture to say, that were the grandest scenes which can enter into the imagination of man, presented to our view, and all reference to man completely shut out from our thoughts, the objects that composed it would convey to om- minds little better than dry ideas of magnitude, colom-, and form; and the remembrance of them would rest upon our minds like the mea- surement and distances of the planets. If the study of human natm-e, then, is so useful to the poet, the novelist, the historian, and the phi- losopher, of how much greater importimce must it be to the dramatic ^vriter ? To them it is a powor- fiil auxiliary; to him it is the centre and strength of the battle. If characteristic views of human nature enliven not their pages, there ai'e many excellences with which they can, in some degree, make up for the deficiency : it is what we receive firom them with pleasure rather than demand. But in his works, no richness of invention, hannony of language, nor grandeur of sentiment, will supply the place of faithfully delineated nature. The poet and the novelist may represent to you their great characters from the cradle to the tomb. They may represent them in any mood or temper, and under the in- fluence of any passion which they see proper, with- out being obliged to put words into tlieir moutlis, those great betrayei"s of the feigned and adopted. They may relate every circumstance, however tri- fling and minute, that serves to develop tlieir tempers and dispositions. They tell us what kind of people they intend then: men and women to be, and as such we receive them. If they are to move DlSCOUKSE.] PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. OS with any scene of distress, every circumstance regarding Uie parties concerned in it, — how they looked, how they moved, how they sighed, how the tears gushed from their eyes, how the very light and shadow fell upon them, — is carefully described ; and the few things that are given to them to say along with all this assistance, must be very unnatur^ indeed if we refuse to sympathise with them. But the characters of the drama must speak directly for themselves. Under the influence of every passion, humour, and impression ; in the artificial veilings of hypocrisy and ceremony, in the openness of free- dom and confidence, and in the lonely hour of meditation, they speak. He who made us hath placed within our breasts a judge that judges in- stantaneously of every thing they say. We expect to find them creatures like ourselves ; and if they are untrue to nature, we feel that we are imposed upon. As in other works deficiency in characteristic truth may be compensated by excellences of a different kind ; in the drama, characteristic truth will compensate every other defect. Nay, it will do what appears a contradiction; one strong genuine stroke of nature will cover a multitude of sins, even against nature hersel£ When we meet in some scene of a good play a very fine stroke of this kind, we are apt to become so intoxicated with it, and so perfectly convinced of the author's great knowledge of the human heart, that we are unwilling to sup- pose the whole of it has not been suggested by the same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning en- thusiastic critics have given themselves a great deal of trouble in this way ; and have shut their eyes most ingeniously against the fair light of nature for the very love of it. They have converted, in their great zeal, sentiments palpably false, both in regard to the character and situation of the persons * It appears to me a veiy strong testimony of the excel- lence of our great national Dramatist, that so many people have been employed in finding out obscure and refined beau- ties, in what appear to ordinary observation his very defects. Men, it may be said, do so merely to show their owu supe- rior penetration and ingenuity. But granting this : wliat could make other men listen to them, and listen so greedily too, if it were not that they have received, from the works of Shakspeare, pleasure far beyond what the most perfect poe- tical compositions of a different character can afibrd ? t Though the progress of society would have given us the Drama, independently of the particular cause of its first com- mencement, the peculiar circumstances connected with its origin have had considerable influence upon its character and style, in the ages through which it has passed even to our day, and still will continue to affect it. Homer had long preceded the dramatic poets of Greece ; poetry was in a high state of cultivation when they began to write; and their style, the construction of their pieces, and the characters of their heroes were different from what they would have been, had theatrical exhibitions been the invention of an earlier age or a ruder people. Their works were represented to an audience already accustomed to hear long poems rehearsed at their public games, and the feasts of their gods. A play, with the principal characters of which they werepreviously ac- quainted ; in which their great men and heroes, in the most beautiful language, complained of their rigorous fate, but piously submitted to the will of the gods ; in which sympathy was chiefly excited by tender and affecting sentiments; in who utter them, sentiments which a child or a clown would detect, into the most skilful depictments of the heart. I can think of no stronger instance to show how powerfully this love of nature dwells within us.» Formed, as we are, with these sympathetic pro- pensities in regard to our own species, it is not at all wonderful that theatrical exhibition has become the grand and favourite amusement of every nation into which it has been introduced. Savages will, in the wild contortions of a dance, shape out some mde story expressive of character or passion, and such a dance will give more delight to their com- panions than the most artful exertions of agility. Children in their gambols will make out a mimic representation of the manners, characters, and passions of grown men and women ; and such a pastime will animate and delight them much more than a treat of the daintiest sweetmeats, or the handling of the gaudiest toys. Eagerly as it is enjoyed by the rude and the young, to the polished and the ripe in years, it is still the most interesting amusement. Our taste for it is durable as it is universal. Independently of those circumstances which first introduced it, the world would not have long been without it. The progress of society would soon have brought it forth ; and men, in the whimsical decorations of fancy, would have dis- played the characters and actions of their heroes, the folly and absurdity of their feUow-citizens, had no Priest of Bacchus ever existed. f In whatever age or country the Drama might have taken its rise. Tragedy would have been the first-bom of its children. For every nation has its great men, and its great events upon record ; and to represent their own forefathers strngghng with those difficulties, and braving those dangers, of which they have heai'd with admiration, and the which strong bursts of passion were few ; and in which whole scenes n-equently passed, without giving the actors any thing to do but to speak, was not too insipid for them. Had the drama been the invention of a less cultivated nation, more of action and of passion would have been introduced into it. It would have been more irregular, more imperfect, more varied, more interesting. From poor beginnings it would have ad- vanced in a progressive state ; and succeeding poets, not having those polished and admired originals to lookback upon, would have presented their respective contemporaries with the produce of a free and unbridled imagination. A different class of poets would most likely have been called into ex- istence. The latent powers of men are called forth by con- templating those works in which they find any thing congenial to their own peculiar talents ; and if the field wherein they could have worked is already enriched with a produce un- suited to their cultivation, they think not of entering it at all. Men, therefore, whose natural turn of mind led them to labour, to reason, to refine, and exalt, have caught their ani- mation from the beauties of the Grecian Drama; and they who ought only to have been our critics have become our poets. 1 mean not, however, in any degree to depreciate the works of the ancients : a great deal we have gained by those beautiful compositions, and what we have lost by them it is impossible to compute. Very strong genius will sometimes break through every disadvantage of circumstances : Shak- speare has arisen in this country, and we ought not to com- plain. JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. [IsTEODnCIOKT effects of which they still, perhaps, experience, would certainly have been the most animating subject for the poet, and the most interesting for his audience, even independently of the natural inclination we all so universally show for -scenes of horror and distress, of passion and heroic exertion. Tragedy would have been the first child of the Drama, for the same reasons that have made heroic ballad, with all its battles, murders, and disasters, the earliest poetical compositions of every country. We behold heroes and great men at a distance, unmarked by those small but distinguishing features of the mind, which give a certain individuality 'to such an infinite variety of similar beings, in the near and familiar intercourse of life. They appear to us from this view like distant mountains, whose dark outlines we trace in the clear horizon, but the varieties of whose roughened sides, shaded with heath and brushwood, and seamed with many a cleft, we perceive not. When accidental anecdote reveals to us any weakness or peculiarity belonging to them, we start upon it like a discovery. They are made known to us in history only, by the great events they are connected with, and the part they have taken in extraordinary or important transac- tions. Even in poetry and romance, with the ex- ception of some love-story interwoven with the main events of their lives, they are seldom more intimately made known to us. To Tragedy it belongs to lead them forward to our nearer regard, in all the dis- tinguishing varieties which nearer inspection dis- covers ; with the passions, the humours, the weak- nesses, the prejudices of men. It is for her to pre- sent to ns the great and magnanimous hero, who appears to our distant view as a superior being, as a god, softened down with those smaller &ai]ties and imjjerfections that enable us to glory in, and claim kindred to his virtues. It is for her to exhibit to ns the daring and ambitions, man, planning bia dark designs, and executing his bloody purposes, marked with those appropriate characteristics which dis- tinguish him as an individual of that class, and agitated with those varied passions, which disturb the mind of man when he is engaged in the commission ofsuchdeedsi It is for her to point out to us the brave and impetuous warrior, struck with those visitations of nature, tliat, in certain situations, wiE unnerve the strongest arm, and make the boldest heart tremble. It is for her to show the tender, gentle, and imas- Euming mind, animated with that nre which, by the provocation of circumstances, will give to the kindest heart the ferocity and keenness of a tiger. It is for her to present to ns the great and stiSdng charac- ters that are to be found amongst men, in a way which the poet, the novelist, and the historian can but imperfectly attempt But above all, to her, and to her only it belongs, to unveil to us the human mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed passions, which, seemingly unprovoked by outward cirxnimstances, will, irom small beginnings, brood within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the fair gifts of nature, are borne down before them ; those passions which conceal themselves from die obser- vation of men ; which cannot unbosom themselves even to the dearest irieud ; and can, oftentimes, only give their fulness vent in the lonely desert, or in the darkness of midnight. For who hath followed the great man into his secret closet, or stood by the side of his nightly conch, and heard those exclamations of the soul which heaven alone may hear, that the liistorian should be able to inform ns : and what form of story, what mode of rehearsed speech will conmm- nicate to us those feelings, whose irregular bursts, abrupt transitions, sudden pauses, and half-nttered suggestions, scorn all harmony of measured verse, all method and order of relation ? On the first part of this task her Bards have eagerly exerted their abilities: and some among them, taught by strong original genius to deal im- mediately with human nature and their own hearts, have labotued in it soccessfblly. But in presenting to us those views of great characters, and of the hnman mind in difficult and trying situations, wMch peculiarly belong to Tragedy, the far greater pro- portion, even of those who may be considered as respectable dramatic }>oets, have very much failed. From the beauty of those original dramas to which they have ever looked back with admiration, they have been tempted to prefer the embellishments of poetry to &ithfnlly delineated nature. They have been more occupied in considering the works of the great dramatists who have gone before them, and the effects prodnced by their writings, than the varieties of hnman character that first fiimished materials for those works, or those principles in the mind of man by means of which such ^fects were produced. Neglecting the boundless variety of nature, certain strong outlines of character, certain bold features of passion, certain grand vicissitudes and striking dramatic situations, have been re- peated firom one generation to another; whilst a pompous and solemn gravity, which they have sup- posed to be necessary for the dignity of tragedy, has excluded almost entirely &om their works those smaller touches of nature, which so well develop the mind ; and.by showing men in their homs of state and exertion only, they have consequently shown them imperfecdy. Thus, great and mag- nanimous heroes, who bear with majestic equa- nimity every vicissitude of fortune ; who in every temptation and trial stand forth in unshaken virtue, like a rock bnfieted by the waves ; who, encompassed with the most terrible evUs, in calm possession of their souls, reason upon the difficulties of then- state ; and, even upon the brink of destruction, pronounce long enlogiimis on virtue, in the most eloquent and beau- tiful language, have been held forth to our view as objects of imitation and interest: as though they BISCOXmSB. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. had entirely forgotten that it is only for creatures like ourselves that we feel, and, therefore, only from crea- tures like ourselves that we receive the instruction of example.* Thus passidnate and impetuous warriors, who are proud, irritable, and vindictive, but gene- rous, daiiug, and disinterested; setting their lives at a pin's fee for the good of others, but incapable of curbing their own humour of a moment to gain the whole world for themselves ; who will pluck the orbs of heaven from their places, and crush the whole universe in one grasp, — are called forth to kindle in our souls the generous contempt of every thing abject and base ; but with an effect propor- tionably feeble, as the hero is made to exceed in courage and fire what the standard of humanity will agree to.f Thus tender and pathetic lovers, fizll of the most gentle affections, the most amiable dispositions, and the most exquisite feelings ; who present their defenceless bosoms to the storms of this rude world in all the graceful weakness of sensibility, are made to sigh out their sorrows in one unvaried strain of studied pathos, while this constant demand upon our feelings makes us ab- solutely incapable of answering it. J Thus, also, tyrants are represented as monsters of cruelty, unmixed with any feelings of humanity ; and villains as delighting in ^ manner of treachery and deceit, and acting, upon many occasions, for the very love of villany itself; though the perfectly wicked are as ill fitted for the purposes of warn- ing, as the perfectly virtuous are for those of ex- * To a being perfectly free from all human infirmity our ^mpathy refuses to extend. Our Saviour himself, whose character is so beautiful, and so harmoniously consistent ; in whom, with outward proot's of His mission less strong than those that are offered to us, I should still be compelled to be- lieve, from being utterly unable co conceive how the idea of such a character could enter into the imagination of man, never touches the heart more nearly than when He says, " Father, let this cup pass from me." Had He been repre- sented to us in all the unshaken strength of these tragic heroes. His disciples would have made fewer converts, and His precepts would have been listened to coldly. Plays in which heroes of this kind are held forth, and whose aim is, indeed, honourable and praiseworthy, have been admired by the cultivated and refined, but the tears of the simple, the ap- plauses of the young and untaught, have been wanting. t In all burlesj^ue imitations of tragedy, those plays in which this hero is pre-eminent are always exposed to bear the great bnmt of the ridicule, which proves how popular they have been, and how many poets, and good ones too, have beai employed' upon them. That they have been so popular, however, is not owing to the intrinsic merit of the characters they r^resent, but their opposition to those mean and contemptible qualities belonging to human nature, of which we are most ashamed. Besides, there is something in the human mind. Independently of its love of applause, which inclines it to boast. This is ever the attendant of that elas- ticity of soul which makes us bound up from the touch of oppression ; and if there is nothing in the accompanying cir- cumstances to create dis^t, or suggest suspicions of their sincerity (as in real life is commonly the case), we are very apt to be carried along with the boasting of others. Let us in good earnest believe that a man is capable of achieving all that human courage can achieve, and we shall suff'er him to talk of impossibilities. Amidst all their pomp of words, therefore, our admiration of such heroes is readily excited (for the understanding is more easily deceived than the heart) ; but how stands our sympathy aff'ected ? As no cau- ample.§ This spirit of imitation, and attention to effect, has hkewise confined them very much in their choice of situations and events to bring their great characters into action : rebellions, conspi- racies, contentions for empire, and rivalships in love, have alone been thought worthy of trying those heroes ; and palaces and dungeons the only places magnificent or solemn enough for them to appear in. They have, indeed, from this regard to the works of preceding authors, and great attention to the beauties of composition, and to dignity of design, enriched their plays with much striking and some- times sublime imagery, lofty thoughts, and virtuous sentiments ; but, in striving- so elderly to excel in those things that belong to Tragedy in common with many other compositions, they have very much neglected those that are peculiarly her own. As far as they have been led aside from the first labours of a tragic poet, by a desire to commtmicate more perfect moral instruction, their motive has been re- spectable, and they merit our esteem. But this praiseworthy end has been injured instead of pro- moted by their mode of pursuing it. Every species of moral writing has its own way of conveying in- struction, which it can never, but with disadvantage, exchange for any other. The Drama improves us by the knowledge we acquire of our own minds, from the natural desire we have to look into the thoughts, and observe the behaviour of otJiers. Tragedy brings to our view men placed in those tion nor foresight, on their own account, is ever suffered to occupy the thoughts of such bold disinterested beings, we are tne more inclined to care for them, and to take an interest in their fortime through the course of the play : yet, as their souls are unappalled by any thing ; as pain and death are not at all regarded by them ; and as we haveseen them very ready topluoge their own swords into their own bosoms, on no very weighty occasion, perhaps their death distresses us but little, and they commonly fall unwept. t Were it not, that in tragedies where these heroes preside, the same soft tones of sorrow are so often, repeated in our ears, till we are perfectly tired of it, they are more^tted to interest us than any other; both because in seeing them, we own the ties of kindred between ourselves and the frail mortals we lament; and sympathise with the weakness of mortality unmixed with any thing to degrade or disgust; and also because the misfortunes, which form the story of the play, are frequently of the more familiar and domestic kind. A king driven from his throne will not move our sympathy so strongly as a private man torn from the bosom of his family. § I have said nothing here in regard to female character, though in many tragedies it is brought forward as the prin- cipal one of the piece, because what I have said of the ^ove - characters is likewise applicable to it. 1 believe there is no man that ever lived, who has behaved in a certain manner on a certain occasion, who has not had amongst women some corresponding spirit, who, on the like occasion, and every way similarlv circumstanced, would have behaved in the like manner, with some degree of softening and refinement, each class of the tragic heroes I have mention^ has its cor- responding one amongst the heroines. The tender and pathetic, no doubt, has the most numerous ; but the great and magnanimous is not without it, and the passionate and impetuous boasts of one by no means inconsiderable in num- bers, and drawn sometimes to the full as passionate and im- petuous as itself. 10 JOANNA BAILLIE'S "WORKS. [Ihtkoductobt elevated situations, exposed to those great trials, and engaged in those extraordinary transactions, in which few of us are called upon to act. As exam- ples applicable to ourselves, therefore, they can but feebly affect us ; it is only from the enlargement of our ideas in regard to human nature, from that ad- miration of virtue and abhorrence of vice which they excite, that we can expect to be improved by them. But if they are not represented to us as real and natural characters, the lessons we are taught from their conduct and their sentiments will be no more to us, than those which we receive from the pages of the poet or the moralist. But the last part of the task wliich I have men- tioned as peculiarly belonging to Tragedy, — unveil- ing the human mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed passions, which, seemingly unpro- voked by outward circumstances, will from small beginnings brood within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the fair gifts of nature, are borne down before them, — her poets in general have entirely neglected, and even her first and greatest have but imperfectly attempted. They have made use of the passions to mark their several characters, and animate their scenes, rather than to open to our view the nature and portraitures of those great disturbers of the human breast, with whom we are all, more or loss, called upon to contend. "With their strong and obvious features, therefore, they have been presented to us, stripped almost entirely of those less obtrusive, but not less discriminating traits, which mark them in their actual operation. To trace them in their rise and progress in the heart, seems but rarely to have been die object of any dramatist. "We commonly find the characters of a tragedy affected by the passions in a transient, loose, unconnected manner ; or if they are repre- sented as under the permanent influence of the more powerful ones, they are generally introduced to our notice in the very height of their fury, when all that timidity, irresolution, distrust, and a thou- sand delicate traits, which make the infancy of every great passion more interesting, perhaps, than its full-blown strength, are fled. The impassioned character is generally brought into view under those irresistible attacks of their power, which it is impossible to repel ; whilst those gradual steps that lead him into this state, in some of which a stand might have been made against the foe, are left en- tirely in the shade. Those passions that may be suddenly excited, and are of short duration, as anger, fear, and oftentimes jealousy, may in this manner be fully represented ; but those great masters of the soul, ambition, hatred, love, every passion that is permanent in its nature, and varied in * This, perhaps, more than any thing else, has injured the higher scenes of Tragedy. For, having made such free use of bold, hyperbolical laneuage in the inferior parts, the poet, when he arrives at the nigiiiy-impassiOQed, sinks into total progress, if represented to us but in one stage- of its course, is represented imperfectly. It is a charac- teristic of the more powerful passions, that they will increase and nourish themselves on very slender aliment ; it is from within that they are chiefly supplied with what they feed on ; and it is in con- tending with opposite passions and affections of the mind that we best discover their strength, not with events. But in Tragedy it is events, more frequently than opposite affections, which are opposed to them ; and those often of such force and magnitude, that the passions themselves are almost obscured by the splendour and importance of the transactions to which they are attached. Besides being thus con- fined and mutilated, the passions have been, in the greater part of our tragedies, deprived of the very power of making themselves known. Bold and figurative language belongs peculiarly to them. Poets, admiring those bold expressions which a mind, labom-ing with ideas too strong to be con- veyed in the ordinary forms of speech, ivildly throws out, taking earth, sea, and sky, every thing great and terrible in nature, to image forth the violence of its feelings, borrowed them gladly to adorn the calm sentiments of their premeditated song. It has, therefore, been thought that the less animated parts of tragedy might be so embellished and enriched. In doing this, however, the passions have been robbed of their native prerogative ; and in adorning with their strong figures and lofty expressions the calm speeches of the unruffled, it is found that, when they are called upon to raise their voice, the power of distinguishing themselves has been taken away. This is an injury by no means compensated, but very greatly aggravated, by embellishing, in return, the speeches of passion with the ingenious conceits and complete similes of premeditated thought* There are many other things regarding the manner in which dramatic poets have generally brought forward the passions in Tragedy, to the greatest prejudice of that effect they are naturally fitted to produce upon the mind, which I forbear to mention, lest they should too much increase the length of this discourse ; and leave an impression on the mind of my reader, that I write more in the spirit of criticism than becomes one who is about to bring before the public a work with, doubtless, many faults and imperfections on its head. Prom this general view, which I have endea- voured to communicate to my reader of Tragedy, and those principles in the human mind upon which the success of her efforts depends, I have been led to believe, that an attempt to write a series of tragedies, of simpler construction, less embellished with poetical decorations, less constrained by that inability ; or, if he will force himself to rise still higher on the wing, he flies beyond nature altogether, into the regions of bombast and nonsense. DiscomtsE.] PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 11 lofty seriousness which has so generally been con- sidered as necessary for the support of tragic dig- nity, and in which the chief object should be to delineate the progress of the higher passions in the human breast, each play exhibiting a particular passion, might not be unacceptable to the public. And I hare been the more readily induced to act upon this idea, because I am confident, that Tragedy, written npon this plan, is fitted to produce stronger moral effect than upon any other. I have said that Tragedy, in representing to us gieat charac- ters struggling with difficulties, and placed in si- tuations of eminence and danger, in which few of us have any chance of being called upon to act, conveys its moral efficacy to our minds by the en- larged views which it gives to us of human nature, by the admiration of virtue and execration of vice which it excites, and not by the examples it holds up for our immediate application. But, in opening to us the heart of man under the iniiuence of those passions to which all are liable, this is not the case. Those strong passions that, with small assistance from outward circumstances, work their way in the heart till they become the tyrannical masters of it, carry on a similar operation in the breast of the monarch and the man of low degree. It exhibits to us the mind of man in that state when we are most curious to look into it, and is equally inter- esting to all. Discrimination of character is a turn of mind, though more common than we are aware of, which every body does not possess ; but to the expressions of passion, particularly strong passion, the dullest mind is awake ; and its true unsophisticated language the dullest understanding will not misinter- pret. To hold up for our example those peculiarities in disposition and modes of thinking which nature has fixed npon us, or which long and early habit has incorporated with our original selves, is almost desiring us to remove the everlasting mountains, to take away the native land-marks of the soul ; but representing the passions, brings before us the ope- ration of a tempest that rages out its time and passes away. We cannot, it is true, amidst its wild uproar, listen to the voice of reason, and save our- selves from destruction; but we can foresee its coming, we can mark its rising signs, we can know the situations that will most expose us to its rage, and we can shelter our heads from the coming blast. To change a certain disposition of mind which makes us view objects in a particular light, and thereby, oftentimes, unknown to ourselves, influences our conduct and manners, is almost impossible; but in checking and subduing those visitations of the soul, whose causes and effects we are aware of, every one may make considerable progress, if he proves not entirely successful. Above all, looking back to the first rise, and tracing the progress of passion, points out to us those stages in the approach of the enemy, when he might have been combated most successfully ; and where the suffering him to pass may be considered as occa- sioning all the misery that ensues. Comedy presents to us men, as we find them in the ordinary intercourse of the world, with all the weaknesses, follies, caprice, prejudices, and absur- dities which a near and familiar view of them dis- covers. It is her task to exhibit them engaged in the busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and per- plexing themselves with the endless pursuits of avarice, vanity, and pleasture ; and engaged with those smaller trials of the mind by which men are most apt to be overcome, and from which he who could have supported with honour the attack of gi'eat occasions will oftentimes come off most shamefully foiled. It belongs to her to show the varied fashions and manners of the world, as, from the spirit of vanity, caprice, and imitation, they go on in swift and endless succession ; and those dis- agreeable or absurd peculiarities attached to par- ticular classes and conditions in society. It is for her also to represent men under the influence of the stronger passions ; and to trace the rise and progress of them in the heart, in such situations, and at- tended with such cu'cumstances, as take off their sublimity and the interest we naturally feel in a perturbed mind. It is hers to exhibit those ter- rible tyrants of the soul, whose ungovernable rage has struck us so often with dismay, like wild beasts tied to a post, who growl and paw before us for our derision and sport. In pourtraying the characters of men she has this advantage over Tiugedy, that the smallest traits of nature, with the smallest circum- stances which serve to bring them forth, may by her be displayed, however ludicrous and trivial in them- selves, without any ceremony. And in developing the passions she enjoys a similar advantage; for they often more strongly betray themselves when touched by those smaU and familiar occurrences which cannot, consistently with the effect it is in- tended to produce, be admitted into Tragedy. As Tragedy has been very much cramped in her endeavours to exalt and improve the mind, by that spirit of imitation and confinement in her successive writers, which the beauty of her earliest poets first gave rise to, so Comedy has been led aside from her best purposes by a different temptation. Those endless changes in fashions and in manners, which offer such obvious and ever-new subjects of ridicule ; that infinite variety of tricks and manoeuvres by which the ludicrous may be produced, and curiosity and laughter excited ; the admiration we so gene- rally bestow upon satirical remark, pointed repartee, and whimsical combinations of ideas, have too often led her to forget the wanner interest we feel, and the more profitable lessons we receive, from genuine representations of nature. The most interesting and instructive class of Comedy, therefore, the real cha- racteristic, has been very much neglected; while / 12 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. INTllODUCTORY satirical, witty, sentimental, and, above all, busy or circumstantial Comedy, have usurped the exeHions of the far greater proportion of dramatic writers. In Satii-ical Comedy, sarcastic and severe reflec- tions on the actions and manners of men, introduced with neatness, force, and poignancy of expression, into a lively and well-supported dialogue, of whoso gay surface they are the embossed ornaments, make the most important and studied part of the work : character is a thing talked of rather than shown. The persons of the drama are indebted for the dis- covery of their peculiarities to what is said of them, rather than to any thing they are made to say or do for themselves. Much incident being unfa- vourable for studied and elegant dialogue, the plot is commonly simple, and the few events that compose it neither interesting nor striking. It only affords ns that kind of moral instruction which an ■essay or a poem could as well have conveyed, and, though amusing in the closet, is but feebly attrac- tive in the theatre.* In what I have termed Witty Comedy, every thing is light, playful, and easy. Strong, decided condemnation of vice is too weighty and material to dance upon the surface of that stream, whose shallow currents sparkle in pei^petual sunbeams, and cast up their bubbles to the light. Two or three persons of quick thought, and whimsical fancy, who perceive instantaneously the various connections of every passing idea, and the significations, natural or artificial, which single expressions or particular forms of speech can possibly convey, take the lead through the whole, and seem to communicate their own peculiar talent to every creature in the play. The plot is most commonly feeble rather than simple, the incidents being numerous enough, but seldom strildng or vai'ied. To amuse, and only to amuse, is its aim ; it pretends not to interest nor instruct. It pleases when we read, more than when we see it represented ; and pleases still more when we take it up by accident, and read but a scene at a time. Sentimental Comedy treats of those embar- rassments, difficulties, and scruples, which, though sufficiently distressing to the delicate minds who en- tertain them, are not powerful enough to gratify the sympathetic desire we all feel to look into the heart of man in difficult and trying situations, which is the sound basis of Tragedy, and are destitute of that sea- soning of the lively and ludicrous, which prevents the ordinary transactions of Comedy from becoming in- sipid. In real life, those who, from the peculiar frame of their minds, feel most of this refined distress, arc not generally communicative upon the subject ; and those who do feel and talk about it at the same time, if any such there be, seldom find their friends • These plays are generally the work of men whose judg- ment and acute observation enable them admirably well to geaeralise, and apply -to classes of men the remarks they much inclined to listen to them. It is not to be sup- posed, then, long conversations upon the stage about small sentimental niceties, can be generally interest- ing. I am afraid plays of this kind, as well as works of a similar nature in other departments of literature, have only tended to increase amongst us a set of sentimental hypocrites, who are the same persons of this age that would have been the reli- gious ones of another, and are daily doing morality the same kind of injury, by substituting the parti- cular excellence which they pretend to possess, for plain simple uprightness and rectitude. In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, go- vernantes, and chambermaids j that ambushed bush-fighting amongst closets, screens, chests, easy- chairs, and toilet-tables, form a gay, varied game of dexterity and invention : which, to those who have played at hide and seek, who have crouched down with beating heart in a dark corner, whilst the enemy groped near the spot j who have joined their busy schoolmates in many a deep-laid plan to deceive, perplex, and torment the unhappy mortals deputed to have the charge of them, cannot be seen with indiflference. Like an old hunter, who pricks up his ears at the sound of the chase, and starts away from the path of his journey, so, leaving all wisdom and criticism behind us, we follow the varied changes of the plot, and stop not for reflection. The studious man who wants a cessation from thought, the indolent man who dislikes it, and all those who, from habit or circumstances, live in a state of divorce from their own minds, are pleased with an amuse- ment in which they have nothing to do but to open their eyes and behold. The moral tendency of it, however, is very faulty. That mockery of age and domestic authority, so constantly held forth, has a very bad effect upon the younger pait of an au- dience i and that continual lying and deceit in the first chai'acters of the piece, which is necessary for conducting the plot, has a most peniicious one. But Characteristic Comedy, which represents to us this motley world of men and women in which we live, under those circumstances of ordinary and fa- miliar life most favourable to the discovery of the human heart, offers to us a wide field of instruction adapted to general application. We find in its varied scenes an exercise of the mind analogous to that which we all, less or more, find out for our- selves, amidst the mixed groups of people whom wo meet with in society, and which I have already mentioned as an exercise universally pleasing to man. As the distinctions which it is its highest aim to discriminate are those of nature and not situation, tliey are judged of by all ranks of men j for a peasant will very clearly perceive in the character of have made upon Individuals, yet know not how to dress up, with any natural congruity, an imaginary individual in the attributes they have assigned to those classes. DISCOUBSE. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 13 a peer those nadve pecnliarities which beloDg to him as a man, thongh he is entirely at a loss in all that regards his manners and address as a nobleman. It illostrates to- us the gederal remarks we have made npon men ; and in it we behold, spread before ns, plans of those original ground-wOTks upon which the general ideas we have been taught to conceive of mankind are founded. It stands but little in need of busy plot, extraordinary incidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. It naturally pro- duces for itself all that it requires. Characters, who are to speak for themselves, who are to be known by their own words and actions, not by the accounts that are given of them by others, caimot well be developed without considerable variety of judicious incident; a smile that is raised by some trait of ondi^uised nature, and a laugh that is provoked by some ludicrous effect of passion, or clashing of opposite characters, will be more pleadng to the generality of men than either the one or the other when occasioned by a play upon words, m another by some strange whim or imagination, which is ever nppermost in his thoughts, and influences every action of his life ; by some singular opinion, perhaps, about politics, fa^ons, or the position of the stars ; by some strong unaccountable love for one thing, or aversion &om another : entirely forgetting, that such angu- larities, if they are to be found in nature, can no- where be sought for, with such probability of success, as in Bedlam. Above all it is to be regretted that those adventitious distinctions amongst men, of age, fortnne, rank, profession, and country, are so often bit>nght forward in preference to the great original distinctions of nature ; and our scenes so often filled with courtiers, lawyers, citizens, Frenchmen, &c &&, with all the characteristics of their respectrre condi- tions, such as they have been represented fit)m time immemorial. This has introduced a great sameness into many of our plays, which all the changes of new fashions burlesqued, and new customs turned into ridicule, cannot conceal. In Comedy, the stronger pasdons, love excepted, are seldom introduced but in a passing way. We have dhcrt bursts of anger, fits of jealousy and im- patience; violent passion of any continuance we seldom find. When this is attempted, however, forgetting that mode of exposing the weakness of the human mind which peculiarly belongs to her, it is too fieqnent]T done in the serious spirit of Tragedy; and this has produced so many of those serious comic plays, which so much divide and distract our attention.* Yet we all know firom our own expe- rience in real life, that in certain situations, and saccced ; and if the comic scenes enliren us creatly, we fed tardy and unalen in bringing back our minds to a proper tone for the serious. As in Tragedy we smile at those native traits of character, or that occasional sprightliness of dia- logue, which are sometimes introduced to animate her less interesting parts, so may we tie moved by Ci^medy ; Iwt onr 14 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. [Introductort under certain circumstances, the stronger passions are fitted to produce scenes more exquisitely comic than any other : and one well-wi-onght scene of this kind will have a toiore powerful effect in repressing similar intemperance in the mind of a spectator, than many moral cautions, or even, perhaps, than the terrific examples of Tragedy. There are to be found, no doubt, in the works of our best dramatic writers, comic scenes descriptive of the stronger passions, but it is generally the inferior chai-acters of the piece who are made the subjects of them, very rarely those in whom we are much intei-ested, and conse- quently the useful effect of such scenes upon the mind is very much weakened. This general ap- propriation of them hivs tempted our less skilful dra- matists to exaggei"ate, and step, in further quest of the ludicrous, so much beyond die bounds of nature, that the very effect they are so anxious to produce is thereby destroyed, and all useful application of it entirely cut off, for we never apply to ourselves a false representation of nature. But a complete exliibition of passion, with its varieties and progress in the breast of man, has, I believe, scarcely ever been attempted in Comedy. Even love, though the chief subject of almost eveiy play, has been pourtrayed in a loose, scattered, and imperfect manner. The story of the lovers is acted over before us, while the characteiistics of that passion by which they are actuated, and which is the great master-spring of the whole, ai-e faintly to be discovered. We are generally introduced to a lover after he has long been acquainted with his mistress, and wants but the consent of some stubborn relation, relief from some embarrassment of situation, or the clearing up some mistake or love-quarrel occasioned by malice or accident, to make him completely happy. To overcome these difficulties, he is engaged in a busy train of contrivance and exertion, in which the spirit, activity, and ingenuity of the man is held forth to view, whilst the lover, comparatively speaJdng, is kept out of sight. But even when this is not the case ; when the lover is not so busied and involved, this state of the passion is exactly the one that is least interesting and least instructive ; not to mention, as I have done already, that one stage of any passion must show it imper- fectly. From this view of the comic drama, I have been induced to believe, that, as companions to the forementioned tragedies, a series of comedies on a similar plan, in which bustle of plot, brilliancy of tears should be called forth b? those geutle strokes of nature which come at once with kindred kindness on the heart, and are quickly succeeded by smiles. Like a small summer- cloud, whose rain-drops sparkle in the sun, and which swiftly passes away, is the genuine pathetic of Comedy ; the gathering foreseen storm, that -darkens the whole face of the sky, be- longs to Tragedy alone. It is often observed, I confess, that we are more apt to be affected by those scenes of distress which we meet with in Comedy than the high-wrought woes of I'ragedy ; and 1 believe it is true. But this arises from the dialogue, and even the bold and striking in cha- i-acter, should, to the best of the author's judgment, be kept in due subordination to nature, might like- wise be acceptable to the public I am confident that Comedy upon this plan is capable of being made as interesting as entertaining, and superior in moral tendency to any other. For even' in ordi- nary life, with very slight cause to excite them, strong passions will foster themselves within the breast ; and what are all the evils which vanity, folly, prejudice, or peculiarity of temper lead to, compared with those which such unquiet inmates produce ? Were they confined to the exalted and the mighty, to those engaged in the great events of the world, to the inhabitants of palaces and camps, how happy, comparatively, would this world be ! But many a miserable being, whom firm principle, timidity of character, or the fear of shame keeps back from the actual commission of crimes, is tor- mented in obscurity, under the dominion of those passions which place the seducer in ambush, rouse the bold spoiler to wrong, and strengthen the arm of the mm-derer. Though to those with whom such dangerous enemies have long found shelter, exposing them in an absurd and ridiculous light, may be shooting a finely-pointed arrow against the hardened rook ; yet, to those with whom' they aio but new and less assured guests, this may prove a more success- ful mode of attack than any other. It was the saying of a sagacious Scotchman, " Let who will make the laws of a nation, if I have the writing of its ballads." Something similar to this may be said in regard to the drama. Its lessons reach not, indeed, to the lowest classes of the labouring people, who are the broad foundation of society, which can never be generally moved without endangering every thing that is constructed upon it, and who are our potent and formidable ballad-readei-s ; but tliey reach to the classes next in order to them, and who will always have over them no inconsiderable influence. The impressions made by it are communicated, at the same instant of time, to a greater number of individuals than those made by any other species of writing ; and they aie strengthened in every spectator, by ob- serving their effects upon those who sun-ound him. Fi-om this observation, the mind of my reader will suggest of itself what it would be nnnecessaj-y, and, perhaps, improper in me hew to enlarge upon. The theatie is a school in which much good or evil may be learned. At the beginning of its career, the woes of Tragedy being so often appropriated to high and mighty personages, and strained oeyond the modesty of nature, In order to suit their great dignity, or iVom the softened griefs of more gentle and familiar characters being rendered feeble and tiresome with too much repetition and wtiinlng. It arises from the greater facility with which we enter into the distresses of people more upon a level with ourselves, and whose sorrows are expressed in less studied and unnatural language. Disoonssx. PLAYS ON THE PASSIOKS. 15 drama ttss employed to mislead and excite ; and, were I not unwilling to refer to transactions of the present times, I might abundantly confirm what I have ^d by recent examples. The author, there- fore, who aims in any d^ree to improve the mode of its instruction, and point to more useful lessons than it is generally employed to dispense, is certainly praiseworthy, though want of abilities may un- happily pre\"ent him fixan being successful in his efiorts. This idea has prompted me to begin a work in which I am aware of many difficulties. In plays of this nature the passions must be depicted not only with their bold and prominent features, but also with those minute and delicate traits which distinguish them in an infant, growing, and repressed state ; which are the most difficult (rf' all to counterfeit, and one of which, falsely imagined, will destroy the effect of a whole scene. The characters orer whom they are made to \isurp dominion must be powerful and inte- resting, exercising them with their full measure of op- position and struggle ; for the chief antagonists they contend with most be the other passions and pro- pensities of the heart, not outward circiunstances and events. Though belonging to such characters, ihej most still be held to view in the most baleful and anseductiTe light; and those qualities in the impa^oned which are necessary to interest us in their ftte, must not be allowed, by any lustre bor- rowed from them, to i ddicate, thai in much bustle of events they would be little attended to or entirely overlooked, simpli- citT of plot is more necessary, than in thoee plays where only occasional bursts of passion are intro- duced, to distinguish a character or animate a scene. But where simplicity of plot is necessary, there is very great danger of making a piece appear bare and unvaried, and nothing bat great force and truth in the delineations of nature will prevent it firom being tiresome.* Sohloqny, or those overflowings of the perturbed soul, in which * To make up for this sim^icitf of plot, the show and dfr. cormtiODs of the theatre oushc to be alloved to plavs written upon this plan in th^ hiU extent. How &stidious soever some poecs map be in regard to these matto^ it is much better to relieve our cired-ovt atieotion with a battle, a ban- quet, or a pnxsssiao, than an accumulation of inddenls. In the tatter case the mtnd is liarassed ~and conftised with those doubts, coQiecturas, and disappointm^ts, whi^ multiplied events occasion, and in a great measure onfiRed for attending to the worthi« pails of the piece ; twt in the former it en- it unburthens itself of those thoughts which it cannot commnnicate to others, and which, in certain situations, is the only mode that a dramatist can employ to open to us the mind he would display, must necessarily be often, and to considerable length, introduced. Here, indeed, as it naturally belongs to passion, it will not be so ofi°ensive as it generally is in other plays, when a calm nnagitated person tdls over to hiioself all that has befallen him, and all his future schemes of intrigue or advancement ; yet to make speeches of this kind sufficiently natural and impressive to extate no degree of weariness nor distaste, will be found to be no easy task. There are, besides these, many other diffictilties belonging peculiarly to this tmdertaking, too minute and tedious to mention. If, fiilly aware of them, I have not shrunk back from the attempt, it is not fit>m any idea that my own powers or discernment will at all times enable me to overeome them ; but I am emboldened by the confidence I feel in that candour and indulgence, with which the gd and en- lightened do ever r^ard the experimental efforts of those who wish in any degree to enlarge the sources of pleasure and instruction among men. It will now be proper to say something of the particular plays which compose this volume. But, in the first place, I must observe, that as I pretend not to have overcome the difficulties attached to this design ; so, neither from the errors and defects, which, in these pages, I have thought it necessary to point out in the works of others, do I at all pretend to be blameless. To conceive the great moral object and outline of the story : to people it with various characters, under the influence of va- rious passions ; and to strike out ciretimstances and situations calculated to call them into acooc. is a very difiercnt employment of the mind from calmly considering those propensities of our nature, to which dramatic writings are most powerfiilly ad- dressed, and taking a general view upon those principles of the works of preceding authors. 1 hey are employments which cannot well occupy it at the same time; and experience has taught us that critics do not nnfi«qnently write in contradiction to their own rules. If I should, therefore, sometimes appear, in the foregoing remarks, to have provided a stick wherewith to break my own pate, I entreat that my reader will believe I am neither confident nor boastful, and use it with gentleness. In the first two plays, where love is the pa^on under review, their relation to the general plan may joys a rest, a pleasing pause in its more serious occupation, fVom which it can return again without anv incumturance of foreign intruding ideas. The show of a splendid procession will alltord to a person of the best ondnstandiog a pleasure in kind, thou^ not in degree, with tliat which a child wouM receive firom it ; but when it is past he thinks no more of it : whereas some confusion of circumstances, some half-ex- plained mistake, which gives him no pleasure at all when it takes place, maj take his attention aiterwards from the refined beauties of a natural and chaxacteristic dLilog\ie. 16 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. INTKODUCTOKT not be very obvious. Love is the chief ground- work of almost all our tragedies and comedies, and so far they are not distinguished from others. But I have endeavoured in both to give an un- broken view of the passion from its beginning, and to mark "it as I went along, with those peculiar traits wMch distinguish its different stages of pro- gression. I have in both these pieces grafted this passion, not on those open, communicative, impe- tuous characters, who have so long occupied the dramatic station of lovers, but on men of a firm, thoughtful, reserved turn of mind, with whom it commonly makes the longest stay, and maintains the hardest struggle. I should be extremely sorry if, from any thing at the conclusion of the tragedy, it should be supposed that I mean to countenance suicide, or condemn those customs whose object is the discouragement of it, by withholding fi'om the body of the self-slain those sacred rites and marks of respect commonly shown to the dead. Let it be considered that whatever I have inserted there, which can at all raise any suspicion of this kind, is put into the mouths of rude uncultivated soldiers, who are roused with the loss of a beloved leader, and indignant at any idea of disgrace being at- tached to him. If it should seem inconsistent with the nature of this work, that in its companion, the comedy, I have made strong moral principle triumph over love, let it be remembered that, without this, the whole moral tendency of a play, which must end happily, would have been destroyed : and that it is not my intention to encourage the indulgence of this passion, amiable as it is, but to restrain it. The last play, the subject of which is hatred, will more clearly discover the natm'e and intention of my design. The rise and progress of this passion I have been obliged to give in retrospect, instead of representing it all along in its actual operation, as I could have wished to have done. But hatred is a passion of slow growth ; and to have exhibited it from its beginnings would have included a longer period than even those who are least scrupulous about the limitation of dramatic time would have thought allowable. I could not have introduced my chief chai'acters upon the stage as boys, and then as men. For this passion must be kept distinct from that dislike which we conceive for another when he has greatly offended us, and which is al- most the constant companion of anger ; and also fi-om that eager desire to crush, and inflict suffering on him who has injured us, which constitutes revenge. This passion, as I have conceived it, is that rooted and settled aversion which, from oppo- sition of character, aided by circumstances of little importance, grows at last into such antipathy and personal disgust as makes him who entertains it, feel, in the presence of him who is the object of it, a degi'ee of torment and restlessness which is insuffer- able. It is a passion, I believe, less frequent than any other of the stronger passions, but in the breast where it does gxist it creates, perhaps, more misery than any other. To endeavour to interest the mind for a man under the dominion of a passion so bale- ful, so unamiable, may seem, perhaps, reprehensible. I therefore beg it may be considered, that it is the passion and not the man wliich is held up to our execration j and that this and every other bad pas- sion does more strongly evince its pernicious and dangerous nature, when we see it thus counteracting and destroying the good gifts of Heaven, than when it is 'represe'nted as the suitable associate in the lireast of inmates as dark as itself. This remark will likewise be applicable to many of the other plays belonging to my work, that are intended to follow. A decidedly wicked character can never be interesting ; and to employ such for the display of any strong passion would very much injure, instead of improving, the moral effect In the breast of a bad man passion has comparatively little to combat ; how then can it show its strength ? I shall say no more upon this subject, but submit myself to the judgment of my reader. It may, perhaps, be supposed, from my publish- ing these plays, that I have written them for the closet rather than the- stage. If, upon perusing them with attention, the reader is disposed to think they are better calculated for the first than the last, let him impute it to want of skill in the author, and not to any previous design A play but of small poetical merit, that is suited to strike and interest the spectator, to catch the attention of him who will not, and of him who cannot read, is a more valuable and useful production than one whose elegant and harmonious pages are admired in the libraries of the tasteful and refined. To have received approbation from an audience of my countrymen, would have been more pleasing to me than any other praise. A few tears from the simple and young would have been, in my eyes, pearls of great price ; and the spontaneous, untutored plaudits of the rude and im- cultivated would have come to my heart as offerings of no mean value. I should, therefore, have been better pleased to have introduced them to the world from the stage than from the press. I possess, how- ever, no likely channel to the former mode of public introduction : and, upon further reflection, it ap- peared to me, that by publishing them in this way, I have an opportunity afforded me of explaining the design of my work, and enabling the public to judge, not only of each play by itself, but as making a part likewise of the whole ; an advantage which, perhaps, does more than over-balance the splendour and effect of theatrical representatioiu It may be thought that, with this extensive plan before me, I should not have been in a hurry to publish, but have waited to give a larger portion of it to the pubhc, which would have enabled them to make a truer estimate of its merit. To bring forth DISOOUKSE; PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 17 only three plays of the whole, and the last without its intended companion, may seem like the haste of those vain people, who, as soon as they have written a few pages of a discdurse, or a few couplets of a poem, cannot be easy till every body has seen them. I do protest, in honest simplicity, it is distrust and not confidence that has led me, at this early stage of the undertaking, to bring it before the public. To labour in uncertainty is at all times unpleasant : but to proceed in a long and difficult work with any impression upon your mind that your labour may be in vain ; that die opinion you have concfeived of your ability to perform it may be a delusion, a false suggestion of self-love, the fantasy of an aspiring temper, is most discouraging and cheerless. I have not proceeded so far, indeed, merely upon the strength of my own judgment : but the friends to whom I have shown my manuscripts are partial to me, and their approbation, which, in the case of any indifferent person, would be in my mind completely decisive, goes but a little way in reUeving me from these apprehensions. To step beyond the circle of my own immediate friends in quest of opinion, from the particular temper of my mind, I feel an un- common repugnance : I can with less pain to my- self bring them before the pubUc at once, and submit to its decision.* It is to my countrymen at large I call for assistance. If this work is fortunate enough to attract their attention, let their strictures as well as their praise come to my aid : the one will encourage me in a long and arduous undertaking, the other will teach me to improve it as I advance. For there are many errors that may be detected, and improvements that may be suggested, in the prosecution of this work, which, from the observa- tions of a great variety of readers, are more likely to be pointed out to me, than from those of a smidl number of persons, even of the best judgment. I am not possessed of that confidence in my own powers, which enables the concealed genius, under the pressure of present discouragement, to pursue his labours in security, looking firmly forward to other more enlightened times for his reward. If my own countiymen, with whom I live and con- verse, who look upon the same i-ace of men, the same state of society, the same passing events with myself, receive not my offering, I presume not to look to posterity. Befoi'e I close this discourse, let me crave the for- bearance of my reader, if he has discovered in the course of it any unacknowledged use of the thoughts of other authors, which he thinks ought to have been noticed ; and let me beg the same favour, if in reading the following plays, any similar neglect seems to occur. There are few writers who have sufficient originality of thought to strike out for * The first of these plays, indeed, has been shown to two or three gentlemen whom [ have not the honour of reckon- ing amongst my friends. One of them.'who is a man of dis- themselves new ideas upon every occasion. When a thought presents itself to me, as suited to the purpose I am aiming at, I would neither be thought proud enough to reject it, on finding that another has used it before me, nor mean enough to make use of it without acknowledging the obligation,- when I can at all guess to whom such acknowledgments are due. But I am situated where I have no library to consult ; my reading through the whole of my life has been of a loose, scattered, unmetho- dical kind, with no determined direction, and I have not been blessed by nature with the advantages of a retentive or. accurate memory, l^o not, how- ever, imagine from this, I at all wish to insinuate that I ought to be acquitted of every obligation to preceding authors ; • and that when a palpable similarity of thought and expression is observable between ns, it is a similarity produced by accident alone, and with perfect unconsciousness on my part. I am frequently sensible, from the manner in which an idea arises to my imagination, and the readiness with which words, also, present themselves to clothe it in, that I am only making use of some dormant part of that hoard of ideas which the most indifferent memories lay up, and not the native suggestions of my own mind. Whenever I have suspected myself of doing so, in the course of this work, I have felt a strong inclina- tion to mark that suspicion in a note. But, besides that it might have appeared like an affectation of scrupulousness which I would avoid, there being hkewise, most assuredly, many other places in it where I have done the same thing without being conscious of it, a suspicion of wishing to slur them over, and claim all the rest as unreservedly my own, would miavoidably have attached to me. If this volume should appear, to any candid and liberal critic, to merit that he should take the trouble of pointing out to me in what parts of it I seem to have made that use of other authors' writings, which, according to the fair laws of literature, ought to have been acknowledged, I shall think myself obliged to him. I shall examine the sources he points out as having supplied my own lack of ideas ; and if this book should have the good fortune to go through a second edition, I shall not fail to own my obligations to him, and the authors from whom I may have borrowed. How little credit soever, upon perusing these plays, the reader may think me entitled to in regard to the execution of the work, he will not, I flatter myself, deny me some credit in regard to the plan. I know of no series of plays, in any language, expressly descriptive of the different passions ; and I believe there ai'e few plays existing, in which the display of one strong passion is the chief business of the drama, tingiiished talents, has honoured it with very flattering approbation ; and, at his suggestion, one or two slight altera- tions in it have been made. 18 JOANNA BAILLIE'S "WORKS. BASIL : A TEAGEDT. SO written that they could properly make part of such a series. I do not think that we should, from the works of various authors, be able to make a collection which Vould give us any thing exactly of the nature of that which is here proposed. If the reader, in perusing it, perceives that the abilities of the author are not proportioned to the task which is imposed upon them, lie will wish in the spirit of kindness rather than of censure, as I most sincerely do, that they had been more adequate to it. How- ever, if I perform it ill, I am still confident that this (pardon me if I call it so) noble design will not be suffered to fall to the ground : some one will arise after me who will do it justice ; and there is no poet possessing genius for such a work, who will not at the same time possess that spirit of justice and of candour, which will lead him to remember me with respect. 1 have now only to thank my reader, whoever he may be, who has followed me through the pages of this discourse, for having had the patience to do so. May he, in going through what follows (a wish the sincerity of which he cannot doubt), find more to reward his trouble than I dare venture to promise him ; and for the pains he has already taken, and those which he intends to take for me, I request that he will accept of my grateful acknowledg- ments. I^ote Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, gives pe- culiar and appropriate distinction to the characters of nis tragedies. The remarks I have made, in regard to the little variety of character to be met with in tragedy, apply not to him. Neither has he, as other dramatists generally do, be- stowed pains on the chief persons of his drama only, leaving the becond and inferior ones insignificant and spiritless. He never wears out our capacity to feel by eternally pressing upon it. His tragedies are agreeably chequered with variety of scenes, enriched with good sense, nature, and vivacity. which relieve our minds from the fatigue of continued dis- tress. If he sometimes carries this so far as to break in upon that serious tone of mind, which disposes us to listen with effect to the higher scenes of tragedy, he has done so chiefly in his historical plays, where the distresses set forth are com- monly of that public kind which do not, at any rate, make much impression upon the feelings. ADVERTISEMENT. [Prefixed to the first volume of Flays on the Passions.] The Plays contained in this volume were all laid by for at least one year, before they were copied out to prepare them for the press ; I have therefore had the advantage of reading them over, when they were in some measure effaced from my memory, and judging of them in some degree like an indifferent person. The Introduction has not had the same advantage ; it was copied out for the press immedi- ately after I had finished it, and I have not had courage to open the book, or read any part of it, till it was put into my hands to be corrected for the third edition. Upon reading it over again, it ap- pears to me that a tone of censure and decision is too often discoverable in it, which I have certainly no title to assume. It was, perhaps, difficult to avoid this fault, and at the same time completely to give the view I desired of my motives and plan in this work ; but I sincerely wish that I had been skilful enough to have accomplished it without fall- ing into this error. Though I have escaped, as far as I know, all censure on this account, yet I wish the Public to be assured, that I am both sensible o^ and grateftil for, their forbearance. BASIL: A TRAGEDY. PERSONS OE THE DRAMA. MEN. CoDNT Basil, a general in the Emperor's service. CoDNT RosiNBBRG, his friend. Duke op Mantua. Gaumeoio, his minister. Valtomer, I ^^^^.j 0/ Basil's troops. Eredekic, S •" •' Geoeprt, an old soldier very much maimed in the wars. MiRANDO, a little hoy, a favourite 0/ Victoria. WOMEN. Victoria, daughter to the Duke of Mantua.- CotTNTESS OF Albiki, friend and governess to Victoria. Isabella, a lady attending upon Victoria. Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, i^c *j* The Scene is in Mantua, OTtd its environs. Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Fifth defeated Eraitcis the First, at the battle o/"Pavia. ACT I. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 19- ACT L SCENE I. An open street, crowded with people, who seem to he waiting in expectation of some show. Enter a Citizen. First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the grand procession ? Cit. I left it passing by the northern gate. Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes at last. Young Man, And does the princess look so wondrous fair As fame reports ? Cit She is the fairest lady of the train, — Yet all the fairest beauties of the court Are in her train. Old Man. Bears she such off'rings to Saint Francis' shrine. So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says ? — 'Twill drain the treasury ! Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp returns Her public thanks to the good patron Saint, Wlo from his sick bed hath restor'd her father. Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands ? She loves magnificence. — {J)iscovering amongst the crowd old Geoffbt. Ha ! art thou here, old remnant of the wars ? Tliou art not come to see this courtly show. Which sets the young agape ? Geo/. I came not for the show; and yet, methinks, It were a better jest upon me still. If thou didst truly know my errand here. Cit I pri'thee say. Geo/. What, must I tell it thee ? As o'er my evening fire I musing sat. Some few days since, my mind's eye backwai'd tum'd Upon the various changes I have pass'd — How in my youth with gay attire allur'd. And all the grand accoutrements of war, I left my peaceful home : then my first battles. When clashing arms, and sights of blood were now : Then all the after chances of the war : Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was, When with an arm (I speak not of it on) Which now (^pointiTig to his emply sleeve^ thou seest is no arm of mine, In a strait pass I stopp'd a thousand foes, And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; For which good service, in his tented court. My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me ; While his fair consort, seated by his side. The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld. Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd, — Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile — 'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — a smile of praise — Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past, A neighbour drew the latchet of my door. And fill of news from town, in many words Big with rich names, told of this grand procession ; E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul To see the princess pass, if in her looks I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. This is the simple truth ; laugh as thou wilt. I come not for the show. Enter an Officer. Officer to Geof. Make way that the procession may have room : Stand you aside, and let this man have place. [Pushing Geop. and endeavouring to put another in his place. Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer, I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. Officer. What, wilt thou not give place ? the prince is near : I will complain to him, and have thee caged. Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray ; and when thou dost. Say that the private of the tenth brigade. Who sav'd his army on the Danube's banlc. And since that time a private hath remain'd. Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain Against thy insolence. Go tell him this. And ask him then what dungeon of his tower He'll have me thrust into. Cit to Officer. This is old Geoffry of the tenth brigade. Offi. I knew him not : you should have told me sooner. [Exit, looking much ashamed. Martial music heard at a distance, Cit Hark, this is music of a wailike kind. Enter second Citizen. To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good friend, which this way bear ? Sec, Cit The brave Count Basil is upon his march, To join the emperor with some chosen troops. And doth as our ally through Mantua pass. Geof. I've heai-d a good report of this young soldier. Sec. Cit. 'Tissaid he disciplines his men severely And over-much affects the old commander. Which seems ungracious in so young a man. Geof. X know he loves not ease and revelry ; He makes them soldiers at no deai'er rate Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think. That e'en the very meanest simple craft Cannot without due diligence be learn'd, And yet the nobler art of soldiership May be attained by loit'ring in the sun ? Some men are bom to feast and not to fight : C 3 20 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. BASIL : A TRAGEDY. Whose sluggish minds, e'en 'in fair honour's field Still on their dinner turn — Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home, And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. In times of easy service, true it is, An easy careless chief, all soldiers love ; But how gladly in the day of battle Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert. And follow such a leader as Count Basil ! So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call, Confess the master deer. [_Music is heard again, and nearer. Geof. walks up and down with a military triumph- ant step. Cit. What moves thee thus ? Geo/. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious days. My very Krabs catch motion from the sound. As they were young again. Sec. Cit. But here they come. Enter CountBASii., officers and soldiers in procession, with colours Jli/ing, and martial music. When they have marched half-way over the stage, an officer of the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to Basil, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial music ceases; soft music is heard at a little distance, and Viotokia, with a long procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. The General Sfc. pay obeisance to her, as she passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which the military procession moves on, and Exeunt. Cit to Geof. What thinkst thou of the princess ? Geof. She is fair. But not so fair as her good mother was. [Eoeeunt SCENE II. A public walk on the ramparts of the town. Enter Coxmi Rosinbekg, Valtomes, and Fre- BEKic. — Valtojier enters by the opposite side of the stage, and meets them. Volt. what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers I Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, From every house salute you as you pass :' Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; Music .and merriment in ev'iy street ; Whilst pretty damsels in their best attire, Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind. To spy the fools a-gazing after them. Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, For Basil is of flinty matter made. And cannot be allur'd — 'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us. Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble. Some years his elder too — How has it been That he should he prefer'd ? I see not why. Ros. Ah ! but I see it, and allow it well ; He is too much ray pride to wake my envy. Fred. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration Which raises him to such superior height ; And truly thou hast so infected us. That I at times have felt me aw'd before him, I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this. Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. Ros. Our talents of a diff 'rent nature are ; Mine for the daily intercourse of life. And his for higher things. Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt ; I see it not ; I'm sure I am as brave a man as he. Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern brav'ry, And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well. Give and receive as deep a wound as he. When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords ; For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind, O'erwatching all the changes of the field. Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm, Which makes his soldiers bold. — There have been those, in early manhood slain, Whose great heroic souls have yet inspir'd With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops, That to their latest day of bearing ai-ms. Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride. As those who fought beneath them in their youth. Such men have been ; of whom it may be said, Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was cold. Volt Yes, I have seen in the eventful field. When new occasion mock'd aU rules of art. E'en old commanders hold experience cheap. And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. Ros. One fault he has ; I know but only one ; TTis too great love of military fame Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear Unsocial and severe. Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted m the field ? As much enthusiastic love of glory ? Why am I not as good a man as he ? Ros. He's form'd for great occasions, thou for small. Volt. But small occasions in the path of life Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd. Ros. By which you would infer that men like Fi'ed'ric Should on the whole a better figure make, Than men of higher parts. It is not so ; For some show well, and fair applauses gain. Where want of skill in other men is graceful Pray do not frown, good Fred'ric, no offence : Thou canst not make a great man of thyself; Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs, And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman. But hush ! no more of this ; here Basil comes. ACT I. SCENE U. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 21 Enter Basil, who returns their salute without speaking. jRos. What thinkst thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's princess ? Valt. Fame prais'd her much, but hath not prais'd her more Than on a better pi-oof the eye consents to. With all that grace and nobleness of mien, She might do honour to an emp'ror's throne ; She is too noble for a petty court. Is it not so, my lord? — (To Basil, who only bows assent) Nay, she demeans herself mth so much grace. Such easy state, such gay magnificence. She should be queen of revehy and show. Fred. She's charming as the goddess of delight. Valt But after her, she most attracted me Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last ; For, though Victoria is a lovely woman Fred. Nay, it is ti-eason but to call her woman ; She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd. But on my life, since now we talk. of worship. She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts I They sparkled so with gold and precious gems — Their value must be great ; some thousand crowns. Ros. I would not rate them at a price so mean ; The cup alone, with precious stones beset. Would fetch a sum as great. That olive-branch The princess bore herself, of fretted gold, Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more, Because she held it in so white a hand. Bos. (in a quick voice). Mark'd you her hand ? I did not see her hand. And yet she waVd it tivice. Hos. It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not. Valt I wish some painter's eye had view'd the group. As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd ; He woiJd have found wherewith t'enrich his art. Ros. I wish so too ; for oft their fancied beauties Have so much cold perfection in their parts, 'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood. This is not truth, and doth not please so well As the varieties of lib'ral nature. Where ev'ry kind of beauty channs the eye ; Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent. Ay, by the mass ! and snub-nos'd beauties too. 'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching chaim. If that she be not proud, or captious. Valt Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks. Ros. Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good Val- tomer ! Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n. Valt But I must leave you for an hour or so ; I mean to view the town. Fred. I'll go with thee. Ros. And so will I. [^Eireunt Vamomer, Fredekic, and Eosinbbro. Re-enter Eosikbeeo. Ros. I have repented me, I will not go ; They will be too long absent. — (Pauses, and looks at Basil, who remains still musing without seeing him.) What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend ? Bas. O it is admirable 1 Ros. How runs thy fancy ? what is admirable ? Bas. Her form, her face, her motion, ev'rything! Ros. The princess ; yes, have we not prais'd her much? Bas. I know you prais'd her, and her oif'rings too I She might have giv'n the treasures of the East, Ere I had known it. ! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd. Still distant, slowly moving with her train ; Her robe and tresses floating on the wind, Like some light figure in a morning cloud ? Then, as shS onward to the eye became The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew ! That graceful bearing of her slender form ; Her roundly spreading breast, her tow'ring neck. Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of youth — But when approaching neai-, she tow'rds us turn'd, Kind mercy ! what a countenance was there ! And when to our salute she gently bow'd. Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips ? Soft swell'd her glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too, how they smil'd ! 'twas like the beams of heav'n ' 1 felt my roused soul within me start, Like something wak'd from sleep. [wake Ros. The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rcrs To care and misery ! [voice Bas. There's something grave and solemn in your As you pronounce these words. What dost thou mean? Thou wouldst not sound my knell ? Ros. No, not for all beneath the vaulted sky ! But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips. Her praise displeases me. To men like you, If love should come, be proves no easy guest. Bas. What, dost thou think I am beside myself, And cannot view the fairness of perfection With that delight which lovely beauty gives. Without tormenting me by fruitless wishes. Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face. And whimpers for the .moon ! Thou art not serious. From early youth, war has my mistress been. And tho' a rugged one, I'll constant prove. And not forsake her now. There may be joys Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul. Visit the lover's breast beyond all others ; E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! But what of them ? they are not made for me — The hasty flashes of contending steel Must serve instead of glances from my love. And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar. 22 JOANNA- BAILLIE'S WOKKS. BASIL : A TRAGEDY. Hos, (^taking his hand). Now am I satisfied. Torgive me, Basil. [more ; Bas. I'm glad thou art ; we'll talk of her no Why should I vex' my friend ? Mas. Thou hast not issued orders for the march. Bas. I'll do it soon ; thou needst not be afraid. To-mon-ow's sun shall bear us far from hence, Never perhaps to pass these gates again. Sos. With last night's close, did you not curse this town That would one single day your troops retard : And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it. As though it were the place that gave you birth j As though you had around these strangers' walls Your infant gambols play'd. Bas. The sight of what may be but little priz'd. Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind. When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again. lios. No, not a whit to wandering men like us. No, not a whit ! What custom hath endear'd We part with sadly, though we prize it not : But what is new some powerful charm must own. Thus to affect the mind. Bas. (hastily). We'll let it pass — It hath no con- sequence : Thou art impatient. Ros. I'm not impatient. Taith, I only wish Some other route our destin'd march had been. That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue With an untroubled mind. Bas. O ! wish it, wish it not ! bless'd be that route ! What we have seen to-day, I must remember — I should be brutish if I could forget it. Oft in the watchful post, or weary raai'ch. Oft in the nightly silence of my tent. My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still ; But it will pass before my fancy's eye. Like some delightful vision of the soul, To soothe, not trouble it. Ros. What ! 'midst the dangers of eventful war. Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman ? Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle. As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria, And never stop to cry " alack a-day ! " For me there is but one of all the sex. Who still shall hold her station in my breast, 'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune ; Because Tm passing sure she loves me well, And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds Wlien rumour tells bad tidings of the war ; Because I know her love will never change. Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy. [woman? Bas. Happy art thou ! who is this wondrous Ros. It is my own good mother, faith and truth? Ba^. (smiling). Give me thy hand ; I love her dearly too. Rivals we are not, though our love is one. Ros. And yet I might be jealous of her love. For she bestows too much of it on theo. Who hast no claim but to a nephew's share. Bas. (going). I'll meet thee some time hence. I must to court. Ros. A private conference will not stay thee long. I'll wait thy coming near the palace gate. Bas. 'Tis to the public com1; I mean to go. Ros. I thought you had determin'd otherwise. Bas. Yes, but on further thought it did appear As though it would be failing in respect [berg! At such a time — That look doth wrong me, Eosin- For on my life, I had determin'd thus, Ere I beheld — Before we enter'd Mantua. But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb. And go with me thyself? Ros. Tes, I will go. \^As they are going Ros. st(y>s and looks at Basil. Bas. Why dost thou stop 1 Ros. 'Tis for my wonted caution, Wliich first thou gav'st mo — I shall ne'er forget it ! 'Twas at Vienna, on a pubUc-day ; Thou but a youth, I then a man full foi-m'd ; Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first cockade. Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty thoughts. Tliou'rt for the court, dear Rosinberg, quoth thou ! " Now pray thee be not caught with some gay dame, To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself: It is ofl'ensive in the public eye, ■ And. suits not with a man of thy endowments." So said your serious lordship to me, then, And have on like occasions, often since, In other terms i-epeated. — But I must go to-day without my caution. Bas. Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now : Did I not say we'd talk of her no more ? Ros. Well, my good friend, God grant we keep our word ! [ExeimU Niife My first idea wTien I wrote this play was to repre- sent Basil as having seen Victoria for the first time in the procession, that I might show more perfectly the passion from its first beginning, and also its sudden power over the mind ; but 1 was induced, from the criticism of one whose judgment I very much respect, to alter it, and represent him as having formerly seen and loved her. The first Review that took notice of this work objected to Basil's having seen her before as a defect ; and, as we are all easily determined to follow our own opinion, I have, upon after -consideration, given the play in this edition [MiVf/j, as far as this is concerned, exactly in its original state. Strong internal evidence of this will be discovered by any one who will take the trouble of reading attentively the second scenes of the first and second acts in the present and former editions of this book. Had Basil seen and loved Victoria before, his first speech, in which he de- scribes her to Rosinberg as walking in the procession, would not he natural ; and there are, I think, other little things be- sides, which will show that the circumstance of his former meeting with her is an interpolation. The blame of this, however, I take entirely upon myself ; the critic, whose opinion I have mentioned, judged of the piece entirely as an unconnected play, and knew nothing of the genenil plan of this work, which ought to have been communicated to him. Had it been, indeed, an unconnected play, and had I put this additional circumstance td it with E roper judgment and skill, 1 am inclined to think it would ave been an improvement. ACT II. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 23 ACT n. SCENE I. A roam of state. The Duke of Mantua, Basil, KosiNBEKG, and a number of Courtiers, Attend- ants, §-c. TTie DnicE and Bash, appear tai/iing together on the front of the stage. Duke. But our opinions differ widely there ; From the position of the rival armies, I cannot think they'll join in battle soon. JBas. I am indeed beholden to your highness, But though unwillingly, we must depart The foes ai-e near, the time is critical ; A soldier's reputation is too fine. To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud. Duke. An untried soldier's is ; but yours, my lord, Nurs'd with the bloody show'rs of many a field. And brightest sunshine of successful fortune, A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown. E'en envy's sharpest blasts assail it not. Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross ! I feel too warm an interest in the cause To stay your progress here a single hour. Did I not know your soldiers aie fatigu'd, And two days' rest would much recruit their strength. Bos. Your highness will be pleas'd to pardon me ; My troops are not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest Is all our needs require. Duke. Ah ! hadst thou come Unfetter'd with the duties of command, I then had well retain'd thee for my guest. With claims too strong, too sacred for denial. Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was ; Together many a rough campaign we ser/d ; I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me A son of liis beneath my roof to see. Bos. Were I indeed fi-ee master of myself. Strong inclination would detain me here ; No other tie were wanting. These gracious tokens of your princely favour I'll treasure with my best remembrances ; For he who shows diem for my father's sake. Does something sacred in his kindness bear. As though he shed a blessing on my head. Duke. Well, bear my gi-eetings to the brave Pcscara, And say how warmly I embrace the cause. Your third da/s march will to his presence bring Your valiant troops : said you not so, my lord ? Enter Victoria, the Coubtess of Albuh, Isabella, and IiAdies. Bos. (who changes countenance upon seeing them). Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well — Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day. Duke. Nay, that I know. I ask'd you, noble count. When you expect to join th' imperial force. Bas. When it shall please your grace — I crave your pardon — I somewhat have mistaken of your words. Duke. You are not well ? youi- colour changes, count. What is the matter ? Bos. A dizzy mist that swims before my sight — A ringing in my ears — 'tis strange enough — 'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already. Duke. I'm glad it is. Iiook to your friend. Count Rosinberg, It may return again — (To Eosineeeg, who stands at a little distance, looking earnestly at Basil — Ddke leaves tJtem and joins Victokia's part!/.) Sos. Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with thee! Thy hand shakes too : (taking his hand.) Would we were far from hence ! Ba^. I'm well again, thou needst not he afraid. 'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd With some slight weakness from our weaiy march. Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly — I cannot bear thine eyes. The Duke, with Victoria and Jier ladies, advances to the front of the stage to Basil. Duke. Victoria, welcome here the brave Count Basil ; His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg. May you, and these fair ladies so prevail. Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain. To make them gi-ace my court another day. I shall not be offended when I see Your power surpasses mine. Vict. Our feeble efforts will presumptuous seem. Attempting that in which your highness fails. Duke. There's honour in th' attempt ; success attend ye ! — (Duke retires, and mixes with the courtiers at the bottom of the stage.") Vict. I fear we incommoded you, my lord. With the slow tedious length of our procession. E'en as I pass'd, it went against my heart. To stop so long upon tlieir tedious way Your weary troops. — Bas. Ah 1 madam, all too short ! Time never bears such moments on his wing. But when he flies too swiftly to be maik'd. Vict. Ah ! surely then you make too good amends By marking now his after-progress well. To-day must seem a weary length to him Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow. JRos. They must not linger who would quit these walls ; For if they do, a thousand masked foes ; Some under show of rich luxurious feasts. Gay, sprightly pastime, and high-zested game ; — Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is. The very worst and fellest of the crew. 24 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. BASIL : A TKAGEDT. In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames, 00 such a barrier form t' oppose their way, As few men may o'ercome. Isab. From this last wicked foe should we infer Yourself have sufFer'd much ? Albin. No, Isabella, these are common words. To please you with false notions of your pow'r. So all men talk of ladies and of love. Vict "lis even so. If Love a tyrant be, How dare his humble chained votaries To tell such rude and wicked tales of him ? Bos. Because they most of lover's ills complain. Who but aflFect it as a courtly grace. Whilst he who feels is silent. Bos. But there you wrong me ; I have felt it oft. Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet. Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl. Mbin. In all its strange eflFects, most worthy Rosinberg, Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit. Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue ? Bos. No, 'faith, it never has. Albin. Ha, ha, ha, ha! then thou hast never lov'd. Bos. Nay, but I have, and felt love's bondage too. Vict Fye ! it is pedantry to call it bondage ! Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars. Deserve, methinks, that appellation more. Is it not so, my lord ? — (Jo Basil.) Bos. surely, madam ! That is not bondage which the soul enthrall'd So gladly bears, and quits not but mth anguish. Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men. These are the fetters that enchain the mind. But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd. Vict No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'd. To grant a lady's suit unus'd to sue. Bos. Your highness deals severely with us now, And proves indeed our freedom is but small, Who are constrain'd, when such a lady sues. To say it cannot be. Vict It cannot be ! Count Basil says not so. Bos. For that I am his friend, to save him pain I take th' ungracious office on myself. Vict How ill thy face is sviited to thine office ! • Bos. (smiling). Would I could suit mine office to my face. If that would please your highness. Vict No, you are obstinate and perverse all. And would not grant it if you had the pow'r. Albini, I'll retire ; come, Isabella. .Bos. (aside to Eos.) Ah, Rosinberg ! thou hast too far presum'd j She is offended with us. Bos. No, she is not — What dost thou fear ? be firm, and let us go. Vict .(pointing to a door leading to other apart" ments, by which she is ready to go out). These are apartments strangers love to see : Some famous paintings do their walls adorn : They lead you also to the palace court As quickly as the way by which you came. [Exit Vict, led out by Ros., andfdhwed by Isab. Bos. (aside, looking after them). O ! what a fool am I ! where fled my thoughts ? I might as well as he, now, by her side. Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine. As well as he, who cares not for it neither. O but he does ! that were impossible ! Albin. You stay behind, my lord. Bos. Your pardon, madam; honour me so far — [Exeunt, Basil handing out Albini. SCENE II. A gallery hung with pictures. Victoria discovered in conversation with Kosisbeko, Basil, Albiot, and Isabella. Vict (to Ros.) It is indeed a work of wondrous art. (To Isab.) You call'd Francisco here ? Jsab. He comes even now. Enter Attendant Vict, (to Ros.) He wiU conduct you to the northern gall'ry ; Its striking shades will call upon the eye. To point its place there needs no other guide. [Exeant Ros. a7id Attendant (To Bas.) Loves not Count Basil too this charming art? It is an ancient painting much admu-'d. [moments : Sas. Ah ! do not banish me these few short Too soon they will be gone ! for ever gone ! Vict If they are precious to you, say not so. But add to them another precious day. A lady asks it. [heart ! Bas. Ah, madam ! ask the life-blood from my Ask all but what a soldier may not give. Vict. "lis ever thus when favours are denied ; AH had been granted but the thing we beg ; And still some great unlikely substitute. Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good. Is proffered in the room of one small boon. So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord, And may it long your noble heart enrich. Until I wish it shed. (Bas. attempts to speak.) Nay, frame no new excuse ; I will not hear it. [She puts out her hand as if she would shut his Tnouth, but at a distance from it; Bas. runs eagerly up to her, and presses it to his lips. Bas. Let this sweet hand indeed its threat perform, And make it heaVn to be for ever dumb ! (Vict, looks stately and offended — Basil kneels.) O pardon me ! I know not what I do. Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness ; But only grant Vict What should I grant to him. Who has so oft my earnest suit denied ? ACT II. SCENJ3 III. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 25 Vict, (raising hini). Well, Basil, this good pro- mise is thy pardon. I will not wait your noble friend's return. Since we shall meet again. — You will perfoi-m your word ? Bos. I will perform it. Vict Farewell, my lord. {Exit, with her ladies. Bas. (alone). " Farewell, my lord." O ! what dehght&l sweetness ! The music of that voice dwells on the ear ! [so — "Farewell, my lord!" — Ay, and then look'd she The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul. Well, there is yet one day of life before me. And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it. Though but a partial sunshine in my lot, I will converse with her, gaze on her still. If all behind were pain and misery. Pain ! Were it not the easing of all pain. E'en in the dismal gloom of after years. Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear. Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep. When heav'n's blest sun is gone ? Kind mercy ! how my heart within me beat When she so sweetly pled the cause of love ! Can she have loVd ? why shrink I at the thought ? Why should she not ? no, no, it cannot be — No man on earth is worthy of her love. Ah ! if she could, how blest a man were he ! Where rove my giddy thoughts ? it must not be. Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear ; Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire, And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. Yes, she would mourn — such love might she bestow; And poor of soul the man who would exchange it For warmest love of the most loving dame ! But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well ? He will not say I have. Enter EosraEEEG. Bos. Where is the princess ? Tm sorry I retum'd not ere she went. Bas. You'll see her stUL Bos. What, comes she forth again ? Bas. She does to-morrow. Bos. Thou hast yielded then. Bas. Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go : It was impossible I should not yield. Bos. O Basil ! thou art weaker than a child. Bas. Yes, yes, my friend, but 'tis a noble weak- ness, A weakness which hath greater things achiev'd Than all the firm determin'd strength of reason. By heav'n ! I feel a new-born pow'r within me. Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been Before this fated day. Bos. Fated indeed ! but an ill-fated day. That makes thee other than thy fonner self. Yet let it work its will ; it cannot change thee To aught I shall not love. Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg ! thou art a noble heart. I would not be the man thou couldst not love For an imperial crown. ^Exeunt. SCENE III. A smaU apartment in the palace. Enter DrrKE and Gaueiecio. Duke. The point is gain'd ; my daughter is suc- cessful ; And Basil is detain'd another day. [aim ? Gaur. But does the princess know your secret Duke. No, that had marr'd the whole ; she is a woman — Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and narrow To relish deep-laid schemes of policy. Besides, so far unlike a child of mine. She holds its subtle arts in high derision, And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes. Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find, Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd By siUy superstitious child-learnt fears. What might I not effect ? Gaur. any thing ! The deep and piercing genius of your highness. So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire. Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost o'erprize my parts; Yet mighty things might be — deep subtle wits, In truth, are master spirits in the world. The brave man's courage, and the student's lore. Are but as tools his secret ends to work. Who hath the skill to use them. This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well ? Much have we gain'd, but for a single day, At such a time, to hold his troops detain'd ; When, by that secret message of our spy. The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action : But might we more effect? Knowst thou this BasU? Might he be tamper'd with ? Gaur. That were most dang'rons. — He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong To such a high romantic pitch is wound. And all so hot and fiery in his nature. The slightest hint, as though you did suppose Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it. Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. Duke. But int'rest, int'rest, man's all-ruling pow'r, Will tame the hottest spirit to your service. And skilfully applied, mean service too ; E'en as there is an element in nature Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil The lowest uses of domestic wants. [spark, Gaur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a little J 26 JOANNA BAILLLE'S "WOBBS. BASIL : A TKAGEDT. On hidden fael feeds its growing strength, Till o'er the lofty fabric it aspires And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd, And in your ba^ domestic service bound ; But who would madly in its ^vild career The fire of heaVn arrest to boil his pot ? No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes. Though you had all to give ambition strives for. We must beware of him. Duke. His father was my friend, — I wish'd to gain him : But since fantastic fancies bind him thus. The sin be on his head; I stand acquitted, And must deceive liim, even to his ruin. GauT. I have prepar'd Bernardo for your service; To-night he will depart for th' Austrian camp, And should he find them on the eve of battle, Pve bid biTn wait the issue of the field. If that our secret friends victorious prove, With the arrow's speed he will return again : But should fair Fortune crown Pescara's arms. Then shall your soothing message greet his ears ; For till our friends some sound advantage gain. Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. Duke. Well hast thou school'd him. Didst thou add withal. That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech. With honied words of the most dear regard. And friendly love I bear him 1 This is needful ; And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse The many favours on my house bestow'd By his imperial master, as a theme On which my gratitude delights to dwell. GauT. I have, an' please your highness. Dtike. Then 'tis woU. Gavr. But for the yielding up that little fort There conld be no suspicion. Duke. My Governor I have severely punish'd. As a most daring traitor to my orders. He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell ; Why then should they suspect ? [victorious. Gawr. He must not live, should Charles prove Duke. He's done meservice ; say not so, Gauriecio. GauT. A traitor's name he will not calmly bear ; He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live. Duke. Well, if it must — we'll talk of this again. Gaw. But. while with anxious care and crafity wiles You would enlarge the limits of your state. Your highness must beware lest inward broils Bring danger near at hand : your northern subjects E'en now are discontented and unquiet. Duie. What, dare the ungrateful miscreants thus return The many favours of my princely grace ? 'Tis ever thus ; indulgence spoils the base ; Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence, Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh When monung shines upon it. — Did I not lately with parental care. When dure invaders their destruction threaton'd. Provide them all with means of their defence ? Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust, A body of their vagrant youth select To guard my sacred person f till that day An honour never yet aUow'd then: race. Did I not suffer them, upon their suit, T* establish maiinfactures in their towns ? And after all some chosen soldiers spare To guard the blessings of interior peace ? [allow, GauT. Nay, please your highness, they do well That when your enemies, in fell revenge. Your former inroads threaten'd to repay. Their ancient arms you did to them restore. With kind permission to defend themselves : That so far have they felt your princely grace, In drafting from their fields their goodliest youth To be your servants : that yon did vouchsafe. On paying of a large and heavy fine. Leave to apply the labour of their hands As best might profit to the country's weal : And to encourage well their infant trade, [grace, Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please your All this they do most readily allow. Duke. They do allow it, lien, ungrateful varlets! What would they have? what would they have, Gauriecio ? Gaur. Some mitigation of their grievous burdens. Which, like an iron weight around their necks. Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth. Like creatures fonu'd upon its soil to creep. Not stand erect and view the sun of heav'n. Duke. But they beyond their proper sphere would rise; Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours. Society of various parts is form'd ; They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment. And we the mantling top which crowns the whole. Calm, steady labour is their greate.'^ bliss ; To aim at higher things beseems them not. To let them work in peace my care shall be ; To slacken labour is to nourish pride. Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools i What may this mean, Gauriecio ? Gaur. They were resolv'd to lay their cause before you. And would have found some other advocate Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd Duke. Well, let them know, some more con- venient season rU think of this; and do for them as much As suits the honour of my princely state. Their prince's honour should be ever dear To worthy subjects as their precious lives. Gaur. I fear, unless you give some special promise. They will be violent still Dtike. Then do it, if the wretches are so bold ; ACr II. SCENE IT. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 27 We can retract it when the times allow ; 'Tls of small consequence. Go see Bernardo, And come to me ag^n, [^JExit. Gawr. (solus). happy people ! whose Indulgent lord Prom ev'iy care, with which increasing wealth, With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move The human breast, most graciously would free. And kindly leave you nought to do but toil ! This creature now, with all his reptile cunning. Writhing and turning through a maze of wiles. Believes his genius form'd to mle mankind ; And call his sordid wish for territory That noblest passion of the soul, ambition. Bom had he been to follow some low trade, A petty tradesman still he had remain'd. And us'd the iirt with which he rules a state To circumvent his brothers of the craft. Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. And yet he thinks — ha, ha, ha, ha! — he thinks I am the tool and sen'ant of his will. Well, let it be ; through all the maze of trouble His plots and base oppression must create, I'll shape myself away to higher things : And who will say 'tis wrong ? A sordid being, who expects no faith But as self-interest binds ; who would not tmst The strongest ties of nature on the soul, Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate ! Were I like him, I would despise this dealing ; But being as I am, bom low in fortune. Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, I must not scorn the steps which lead to it : And if they are not right, no saint am I : I follow nature's passion in loy breast. Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. {^Exit. SCENE IV. An apartment in the palace. Victoma and IsA- BKij,x are discovered playing at chess ; the Countess AxBiNi sitting by them reading to herself. Vict Away with it, I will not play again. May men no more be foolish in my presence If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat < Isab. To swear that I am false by such an oath. Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture Would bring your highness gain. Vict Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple maid ; For in the very forfeit of this oath. There's death to all the dearest pride of women. May man no more be foolish in my presence ! Isab. And does your grace, hail'd by applauding crowds. In all the graceful eloquence address'd Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths, Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards. Those awkward proofs of admuation prize. Which rustic swains their village fair ones pay ? Vict 0, love will master all the power of art I Ay, all ! and she who never has beheld The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage. Before the glances of her conquering eye A very native simple swain become, Has only vulgar charms. To make the cunning artless, tame the rude. Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soiJ ; Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth, And lead him forth as a domestic cur. These are the triimiphs of all-powerful beauty ! Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise. Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious senice. Attend her presence, it were nothing worth : I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks. And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame. Alb, (raising her head from her book). And is, indeed, a plain domestic dame. Who fills the duties of an useful state, A being of less dignity than she. Who vainly on her transient beauty builds, A little poor ideal tyranny ? Isab. Ideal too ! Alb. Yes, most unreal pow'r : For she who only finds her self-esteem In others' admiration, begs an alms ; Depends on others for her daily food. And is the very servant of her slaves ; Though oftentimes, in a fantastic hour, O'er men she may a cliildish pow'r exert. Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe : Were human passions plac'd within the breast But to be ciurb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ? All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n. Alb. Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. Vict Am I ungen'rous then ? Alb. Yes, most ungen'rous ! Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r. Would give most unavailing pain to those Whose love you ne'er can recompense again. E'en now, to-day, ! was it not imgen'rous To fetter Basil with a foolish tie. Against his will, perhaps against his duty? [friend? Vict. What, dost thou think against his will, my Alb. Full sure I am against his reason's will Vict Ah ! but indeed thou must excuse me here; For duller than a shelled crab were she. Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind. And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd. But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me ? Ah ! well I read those looks ! methinks they say, " Yom- mother did not so." [so. Alb. Your highness reads them trae, she did not If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts, She kept it low, withheld its ahment ; Not pampcr'd it with ev'ry motley food, From the fond tribute of a noble heart To the lisp'd flatteiy of a cunning child. 28 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. BASIL : A TKAGEDT. Vict Nay, speak not tlras, Albini, speak not thus Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando. He is the orphan of a hapless pair, A loving, beautihjl, but hapless pair, A^ose story is so pleasing, and so sad, The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay, And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep. Besides, (to Isab.) I am the guardian ofhis choice. When first I saw him — dost thou not remember ? Isab. 'Twas in the public garden. Vict Even so ; Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a rustic quean, HI suited to the lovely charge she bore. How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me. His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears, Then stretch'd his Uttle arms and call'd me inother! What 'could I do ? I took the bantling home — I could not tell the imp he had no mother. Alb. Ah ! there, my child, thou hast Indeed no blame. [Albini! Vict 'Sow this is kindly said : thanks, sweet Still call rae child, and chide me as thou wilt. ! would that I were such as thou couldst love ! Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother! Alb. (pressing her to her breasi). And do I not ? all-perfect as she was, 1 know not that she went so near my heart As thou with all thy faults. [known ! Vict And sayst thou so ? would I had sooner I had done any thing to give thee pleasure. Atb. Then do so now, and put thy faults away. Vict No, say not faults ; the freaks of thought- less youth. Alb. Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd. Vict ! say but foibles ! youthful foibles only ! Alb. Faults, faults, real faults "you must confess they are. Vict In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong To think so poorly of the one you love. Alb. I must be gone : thou hast o'ercome me now: Another time I will not yield it so. \_Exit Isab. The countess is severe, she's too severe : She once was young though now advanc'd in years. Vict No, I deserve it all : she is most worthy. Unlike those faded beauties of the court. But now the wither'd stems of former flowers With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind Procures to her the privilege of man. Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays. Some few years hence, if I should live so long, I'd be Albini rather than myself. Isab. Here comes your little faVrite, Vict I am not in the humour for him now. Enter Mirando, running up to Victokia, and taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice of hinif as he holds up his mouth to be kissed. Isab. (to MiE.) Thou seest the princess can't be troubled with thee. Mir. O but she will ! I'U scramble up her robe. As naughty boys do when they climb for apples. Isab. Come here, sweet child ; I'll kiss thee in her stead. Mir. Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee. Would I were tall ! O were I but so tall ! Isab. And how tall wouldst thou be ? Mir. Thou dost not know ? Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. Vict (embracing him). O ! I must bend to this, thou little urchin ! Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit ? Whom does Mirando love ? [^Embraces him again. Mir. He loves Victoria. Vict And wherefore loves he her ? Mir. Because she's pretty. Isab. Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando ? No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal ? [grace. Mir. Ay, that I have : I know who loves her Vict Who is it, pray ? thou shalt have comfits for it. Mir. (looking slib/ at her). It is — it is — itisthe Count of Maldo. Vict Away, thou httle chit ! that tale is old. And was not worth a sugar-plum when new. Mir. Well then, I know who loves her highness wen. Vict Who is it then ? Isab. Who is it, naughty boy ? Mir. It is the handsome Marquis of Carlatzi. Vict No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still : Twice have I paid thee for that tale already. Mir. Well then, indeed — I know who loves Victoria. Vict. And who is he ? Mir. It is Mirando's self. Vict Thou httle imp ! this story is not new. But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go. Go, run before us, boy. [look'd, Mir. Nay, but I'll show you how Count Wolvar When he conducted Isabel from court. Vict How did he look ? Mir. Give me your hand : he held his body thus: (putting himself in a ridiculous bowing posture.") And then he whisper'd softly ; then look'd so ; (ogling with his eyes affectedly.) Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again. (throwing down his eyes affectedly.) Isab. Thou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd. [Exeunt, Mirando hading out ViCTOBULaffectedly. ACT HI. SCENE I. An open street, or square. Enter Boslnberg and Prederic, by opposite sides of the stage. Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of war. ACT HI. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 23 Another day to rest and pastime gives. How is it now ? methinks thou art not pleas'd. Jftos. It matters little if I am or not. Fred. Now pray thee'do confess thou art asham'd : Thou, who art wisely wont to set at naught The noble fire of individual courage, And call calm prudence the superior virtue. What sayst thou now, my candid Rosinberg, When thy great captain, in a time like this, . Denies his weary troops one day of rest Before the exertions of approaching battle. Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit ? JRos. Who told thee this ? it was no friendly tale ; And no one else, besides a trusty friend. Could know his motives. Then thou wrongst me too ; For I admire, as much as thou dost, Pred'ric, The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour ; But not, like thee, do I depreciate That far superior, yea that god-like talent, Which doth direct that fire, because indeed It is a talent nature has denied me. Fred. WeU, well, and greatly he may boast his virtue. Who risks perhaps &' imperial army's fate. To please a lady's freaks — JRos. Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd : A passion which I do not choose to name Has warp'd thy judgment. Fred. No, by heav'n, thou wrongst me ! I do, with most enthusiastic warmth. True valour love : wherever he is found, I love the hero too ; but hate to see The praises due to him so cheaply eam'd. Ros. Then mayst thou now these gen'rous feelings prove. Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'ershades ; Where now the scars of former sabre wounds, In hon'rable companionship are seen With the deep lines of age ; whose piercing eye Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly daits Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age Its youthful fire had been again renew'd. To be the guardian of its darken'd mate. See with what vig'rous steps his upright form He onward bears ; nay, e'en that vacant sleeve. Which droops so sadly by his better side. Suits not ungracefiilly the vet'ran's mien. This is the man, whose glorious acts in battle, We heard to-day related o'er our wine. I go to tell the gen'ral he is come : Enjoy the gen'rous feeUngs of thy breast, And make an old man happy. ^Exit. Enter Geopfkt. Fred. Brave soldier, let me profit by the chance That led mo here ; I've heard of thy exploits. Geqf. Ah ! then you have but heard an ancient tale. Which has been long forgotten. Fred. But it is true, and should not be forgotten ; Though gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame, May dash it with neglect. Geqf. There are, perhaps, who may be so un- geu'rous. Fred. Perhaps, sayst thou ? in very truth there are. How art thou else rewarded with neglect. Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps Has been promoted ? It is ever thus. SerVd not Mardini in your company ? He was, though honour'd with a valiant name. To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier. Geof. Your pardon, sii', we did esteem him much, Although inferior to his gallant friend. The brave Sebastian. Fred. Tlie brave Sebastian ! He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb, And lov'd a goose -quill better than a sword. What, dost thou call him brave ? Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk. Like an old target, hack'd and rough with wounds, Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he Was with a smooth skin in his cofSn laid, Unblemish'd with a scar. Geqf. His duty caU'd not to such desp'rate service. For I have fought where few alive remain'd. And none unscath'd ; where but a few remain'd. Thus marr'd and mangled ; (^showing his wounds) As belike you've seen, 0' sununer nights, around the evening lamp, Some wretched moths, wingless, and half consum'd. Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead. — In Savoy, on a small, though desp'rate post. Of full three hundred goodly chosen men, But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we For ever after. They are all dead now : I'm old and lonely. — We were valiant hearts — Fred'ric Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach Against the devil himself. Tm lonely now ! Fred. I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrateful chiefs! Why wert thou not promoted ? Geqf. After that battle, where my happy fate Had led me to fulfil a glorious part, Chaf 'd with the gibing insults of a slave. The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'rite, I rashly did affront ; our cautious prince. With narrow policy dependant made, Dar'd not, as I am told, promote me then. And now he is asham'd, or has forgot it. Fred. Fye, fye upon it ! let him be asham'd ! Here is a trifle for thee — (offering him money.') Geqf. No, good sir, I have enough to live as poor men do. When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive. Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave. 30 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. BASIL : A TEAOEDT. Fred. You've proud, old soldier. Geo/. No, I am not proud; For if I were, mefhinks I'd be morose, And willing to depreciate other men. Enter Eosinbee&. Hos, (clapping Geop. on the shoulder). How goes it with thee now, my good field- marshal ? Geof. The better that I see your honour well. And in the humour to be merry with me. Bas. Paith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd thee too : What is a good field-marshal, but a man. Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind. Doth marshal others on in glory's way ? Thou art not one by princely favour dubb'd. But one of nature's making. Cteof. You show, my lord, such pleasant courtesy, I know not how Ros. But see, the gea'ral comes. Enter Basil. Ros. (pointing to Geopekt). Behold the worthy vet'ran. Bos. (taking him by the hand). Brave honourable man, your worth I know. And greet it with a brother soldiei-'s love. Geof. (taking away his hand in confusion). My gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour. Bos. (taking his hand again). No, valiant soldier, I must have it so. Geof. My himible state agrees not with such honour. Bos. Think not of it, thy state is not thyself. Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee. As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal, O'erlooks the giant : 'tis not worth a thought. Art thou not Geoflry of the tenth brigade. Whose warlike feats child, maid, and matron know. And oft, oross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl. The joUy toper to his comrade tells ; Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door. The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand The many movements of the varied field. In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates ; Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous tale. First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life ? Shame seize me, if I would not rather be The man thou art, than court-created chief, Known only by the dates of his promotion . Geof. Ah ! would I were, would I were young again. To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral ! Methinks what I have done were but a jest. Ay, but a jest to what I now should do. Were I again the man that I have been. ! I could fight ! Bas. And wouldst thou fight for me? Geof. Ay, to the death I Bas. Then come, brave man, and be my champion still : The sight of thee wiU fire my soldiers' breasts. Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me. [Exit with Geoffkt. Fred. WTiat does he mean to do ? Ros. We'll know ere long. Fred. Our gen'ral bears it with a careless face, For one so wise. Ros. A careless face ! on what ? Fred. Now, feign not ignorance, we know it all. News which have spread in whispers from the comt. Since last night's messenger arriVd from Milan. Ros. As I'm an honest man, I know it not ! Fred. 'Tis said the rival armies are so near-, A battle must immediately ensue. Ros. It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not. The Duke is of our side a sworn ally. And had such messenger to Mantua come. He would have been appriz'd upon the instant. It cannot be; it is some idle tale. Fred. So may it prove till we have joined them too. Then heaven grant they may be nearer still ! For O I my soul for war and danger pants. As doth the noble lion for his prey. My soul delights in battle. Ros. Upon my simple word, Td rather see A score of fiiendly fellows shaking hands. Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear ? Fred. What dost thou mean ? Ros. Hast thou no fear of death ? Fred. Feai' is a name for something in the mind. But what, fi-om inward sense, I cannot tell. I could as little anxious march to battle. As when a boy to childish games I ran. Ros. Then as much virtue hast thou in thy valour As when a child thou hadst in childish play. The brave man is not he who feels no fear. For that were stupid and irrational ; But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues. And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks fi:om. As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight. Away with them ! there is not in the crew One valiant spirit — Ha ! what sound is this ? \_Shouting is heard without Fred. The soldiers shout ; I'U run and learn the cause. Ros. But tell me first, how didst thou like the vet'ran ? [me Fred He is too proud ; he was displeas'd with Because I oflFer'd him a little sum. Ros. What money I 0! most gen'rous noble spu-it! Noble rewarder of superior worth ! A halfpenny for Belisarius ! But hark ! they shout again — here comes "Valtomer. ^Shouting heard without ACT in. SCENE III. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 31 Enter Valtojier. What does this shouting mean ? Volt ! I have seen a sight, a glorious sight ! Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it. [with tears. Jios. How smUe? raethinks thine eyes are wet Volt (jiassing the bach of his hands across his eyes). Taith so they are ; well, well, but I smil'd too. Tou heard the shouting. JRos. and Fred. Yes. Volt had you seen it ! Drawn out In goodly ranks, there stood our troops ; Here, in the gracefti state of manly youth. His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile. Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave. As though his soul, like an unsheathed sword. Had through them gleam'd, our noble gen'ral stood j And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words. The vet'rau showing, his brave deeds rehears'd ; Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak. Beneath the shelter of some noble tree. In the green honours of its youthful prime. JSew. How look'd the veteran ? Volt I cannot tell thee ! At first he bore it up with cheerful looks. As one who fain would wear his honours bravely. And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face : But when Count Basil, in such moving speech. Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance chang'd ; High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been By inward strong emotion half convuls'd ; Trembled his neSier lip ; he shed some tears. The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; Then hastily he brush'd the drops away, [voice. And waVd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd As though he would some grateful answer make ; When back with double force the whelming tide Of passion came ; high o'er his hoary head His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect. In Basil's bosom hid his aged face. Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks A cry arose ; still louder shouts resound. I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat As it would strangle me j snch as I felt, I knew it well, some twenty years ago. When my good father shed his blessing on me : I hate to weep, and so I came away. Jios. {gamg Valt. his hand). And there, take thou my blessing for the tale. Hark ! how they shout again ! 'tis nearer now. This way they march. [Martial music heard. Enter Soldiers march- ing in order, bearing Geoffkt in triumph on tlieir shoulders. After them enter Basil : the whole preceded by a band qfmusic. They cross over the stage, are joined by Bos. ^c, and Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Gadeiecio and a Gentleman, talking as they enter. Gaur. So slight a tie as this we cannot trust, One day her influence may detain him here, But love a feeble agent may be found With the ambitious. Gent. And so you think this boyish odd conceit Of beaiing home in triumph with his troops That aged soldier, will your purpose serve ? Gaur. Yes, I will make it serve ; for though my Is little scrupulous of right and vnrong, [prince I have possess'd his mind, as though it were A flagrant insult on his princely state To honour thus the man he has neglected. Which makes him relish, with a keener taste, My purpos'd scheme. Come, let us fall to worL With all their warm heroic feelings rous'd. We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny. Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite. Thanks to his childish love, which has so well Pi'ocur'd us time to tamper with the fools. Gent Ah ! but those feeUngs he has wak'd with- in them Are gen'rous feeUngs, and endear himself, [nature, Gaur. It matters not, though gen'rons in their They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end ; And he who teaches men to think, though nobly. Doth raise within their minds a busy judge To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth. And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil Affects all difficult and desp'rate service. To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke ; Having unto the emperor pledg'd his word. To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : For which intent he fills their simple minds With idle tales of glory and renown ; Using their warm attachment to himself For most unworthy ends. This is the busy time ; go forth, my friend ; Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups Around their ev'ning cups. There, spare no cost [Gives Mm a purse. Observe their words, see how the poison takes. And then return again. Gent. I will, my lord. [Exeunt severally. SCENE III. A suite of grand apartments, with their wide doors thrown open, lighted up with lamps, and filled with company in masks. Enter several masks, and pass through the first apartment to the other rooms. Then enter Bash, in Hie disguise of a wounded soldier. Bas. {(done). Now am I in the region of delight ! Within the blessed compass of these walls 32 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. BASIL: A TKAGEDY. She is ; the gay light of those blazing lamps Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now, perhaps, Amidst that mo&ey rout she plays her part : There will I go ; she cannot be conceal'd j For but the flowing of her graceful robe Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, Though in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds, — (looking at his habit.') Which half conceal, and half declare my state. Beneath your kind disguise, ! let me prosper, And boldly take the privilege ye give : Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side ; Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline, And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek ; Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too ! May it not be e'en so ? by heav'n it shall ! This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes ; Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept ; And oft with midnight lamp rU visit ye, And gazing wistfully, this night recall. With all its past deUghts. — Bat yonder moves A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe ; It moves not like the rest — it must be she ! [_Goes hastily into another apartment, and mixes with the Tnashs. Enter Rostnbkkg, fantastically dressed, with a willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets and torn letters fluttering round his neck, pursued by a group of masks from one of the inner apartments, who hoot at him, and push him about as he enters. \st Mask. Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave. And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love. Ros. Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me : I am a right true servant of the fair ; And as this woeful chaplet on my brow. And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote, A poor abandon'd lover out of place ; With any lady ready to engage. Who will enlist me in her loving service. Of a convenient kind my talents are. And to aU various humours may be shap'd. 2nd Mask. What canst thou do ? Sd Mask. Ay, what besides offending ? Sos. O ! I can sigh so deeply, look so sad ; Pale out a piteous tale on bended knee ; Groan like a ghost ; so very wretched be, As would delight a tender lady's heart But to behold. 1st Mask. Pooh, pooh, insipid fool ! Sos, But should my lady brisker mettle own, And tire of all those gentle dear delights, Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent — As whether such a fair one (some dear iriend) Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the soft maid, With fav'rite lap. dog of a surfeit sick, Have greatest cause of delicate distress : Or whether . \st Mask. Go, thou art too bad indeed (aside.) How could he know I quarrell'd with the Count ? fame? 2nd Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's Sos. Yes, lovely shepherdess, on e^ry tree . I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound : Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks ; Odes to her eye ; 'faith, ev'ry wart and mole That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet ! ril make love-posies for her thimble's edge, Eather than please her not. [thou brave ? 3d Mask. But for her sake what dangers wilt Sos. In truth, fair nun, I stomach dangers less Than other service, and were something loath To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance ; But if she'll wisely manage this alone. As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself. And meet me fairly on the open plain, I will engage her tender steps to aid In all annoyance of rude briar or stone, Or crossing riB, some half-foot wide, or so, Which that fair lady should unaided pass, Ye gracious pow'rs, forbid ! I will defend Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buzz — 4th Mask. Such paltry service suits thee best indeed. What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from her? -Ros. Yes, to recall me soon, sublime Sultana ! For I can stand the burst of female passion. Each change of humour and affected storm. Be scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent, Recall'd, cai'ess'd, chid, and disgrac'd again ; And say what maid of spirit would forego The bliss of one to exercise it thus ? O ! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb ! 4tk Mask (beating him). Well, bear it then, thou hast deserv'd it well. [blows ; Sos. Zounds, lady ! do not give such heavy I'm not your husband, as belike you guess. 5th Mask. Come, lover, I enlist thee for myswain; Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows. Nor thus assume my rights. [prove ? Sos. Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress 5th Mask. Such as thou wouldst, such as thy genius suits ; For since of universal scope it is. All women's humour shalt thou find in me. I'll gently soothe thee with such winning smiles — To nothing sink thee with a seomfiil frown : Teaze thee with peevish and affected freaks ; Caress thee, love' thee, hate thee, break thy pate ; But still between the whiles Til careful be, In feigned admiration of thy parts. Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, To bind thy giddy soul with flatt'ry's charm ; For well thou knowst that flatt'ry ever is The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning ACT III. SCENE III. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. sn Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste. Thou canst not leave, though violent in extreme, And most vexatious in her teazing moods, Thoa canst not leave the fond admiring soul. Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd, Thou hadst a pretty leg. Jtos. Marry, thou hast the better of me there 5th Mask, And more ! Pll pledge to theo my honest word. That when your noble swainship shall bestow More &ithiul homage on the simple maid. Who loves you with sincerity and truth. Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant. Who mocking leads you like a trammell'd ass, My studied woman's wiles Pll lay aside. And such an one become. JSos. Well said, brave lady, I will follow thee. [FoUows her to the comer of the stage, Now on my life these ears of mine Pd give. To have but one look of that little face. Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask : Pm sure thou bast a pair of wicked eyes, A short and saucy nose ; now pri'thee do. [^Uranasking. AH. ^unmasking'),. Well, hast thou guess'd me right ? ifos. (bowing low). Wild freedom, chang'd to most profound respect. Doth make an awkward booby of me now. Alb. Pve joined your frolic with a good intent, Por much I wish'd to gain your private ear. The time is precious, and I must be short JRos. On me thy lightest word more pow'r will have. Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration. Thou art the only one of all thy sex. Who wearst thy years vrith such a winning grace. Tliou art the more admir'd the more thou fad'st. AS). I thank your lordship for these courteous words; But to my purpose — Ton are Basil's friend: Be friendly to him then, and warn hiin well This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay ; For if he does, there's mischief waits him here May prove the bane of all his iiiture days. Remember this, I must no longer stay. Gtod bless your friend and you : I love you both. {_JExit Ros, (alone). What may this warning mean? I had my fears. There's something hatching that I know not of. Pve lost all spirit for this masking now. [^Thmoing away hapapers and Jus wiOows, Away, ye scraps ! I have no need of you. I would I knew what garment Basil wears : I watch'd him, yet he did escape my sight ; But I must search again and find him out. [£xi>. Enter Bash, much agitated, with his mask in his hand, Bas. In vain I've sought her, follow'd every form Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace : Pve listen'd to the tone of ev'ry voice ; Pve watch'd the entrance of each female mask. My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare. With the imagin'd rustling of her robes. At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night. How art thou spent ! where are thy promis'd joys ? How much of thee is gone ! O spiteful fate ! And yet within the compass of these walls Somewhere she is, although to me she is not. Some other eye doth gaze upon her form. Some other ear doth listen to her voice ; Some happy far'rite doth enjoy the bliss My spiteful stars deny. Disturber of my soul ! what veil conceals thee ? What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour ? ! heav'ns and earth, where art thou ! Enter a mask in the dress of a female conjurer. Mask, Methinks thou art impatient, valiant sol- dier: Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so ? J3as. Away, away ! I cannot fool with thee. Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease thy smart. Where is thy wound? is't here ? [^Pointing to the bandage on his arm. Bas. Pooh, pooh, begone ! Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my heart — 'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure. Mask. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound Which some ungrateful fair one hath inflicted. And I may conjure something for thy good. Bas. Ah ! if thou couldst ! what, must I fool with thee ? Mask. Thou must awhile, and be examin'd too. What kind of woman did the wicked deed ? Bas, I cannot tell thee. In her presence still My mind in such a wild delight hath been, I could not pause to picture out her beauty, Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair. Mask, Art thou a soldier, and no weapon bearst To send her wound for wound ? [height, Bas, Alas! she shoots from such a hopeless No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far ; None but a prince may dare. [love. Mask. But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no Bas. I love, and yet in truth I had no hope. But that she might at least with some good will, Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindnesS; Within her dear remembrance give me place. This was my all of hope, but it is flown : 34 JOANNA BAJLLIE'S WORKS. BASIX: A TRAGEDY. For she regards me not : despises, scorns me : Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart, That would have bled for her. [Mask, discovering herself to be Victokia, by speaking in her true voice. 0! no, she does not. [Exit hastily in confusion. Bos. (stands for a moment riveted to the spot, then holds up both his hands in an ecstajcy). It is herself ! it is her blessed self ! O ! what a fool am I, that had no power To foUow her, and urge th' advantage on. Begone, unmanly fears 1 1 must be bold. [Exit after her. A dance of masks. Enter DirsE and GAxnEDECio, unmasked. Duke. This revelry, methinks, goes gaUy on. The hour is late, and yet your friend returns not Cfaur. He wiU return ere long — nay, there he comes. Enter Gentleman. Duke. Does all go well ? (going close up to Am.) Gent All as your grace could wish. For now the poison' works, and the stung soldiers Rage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled eyes. Swear vengeance on the chief who would betray them. That Frederic too, the discontented man Of whom your highness was so lately told. Swallows the'bait, and does his part most bravely. Gauriecio counsell'd well to keep him blind. Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul ! He is so fiery he had spum'd us else. And ruin'd all the plot. [private. Duke. Speak softly, friend — M hear it all in A gay and careless face we now assume. [Duke, Gauk. and Gent, retire into the irmer apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily to the different masks as they pass them. Se-enter ViCTOiRiiL, followed by Basil. Vict Forbear, my lord ; these words ofiend mine ear. Bas. Yet let me but this once, this once offend. Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me ; And if my words against all prudence sin, O ! hear them, as the good of heart do list To the wild ravings of a soul distraught Vict If I indeed should listen to thy words. They must not talk of love. [spealc, Bas. To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee To claim the soft attention of thine eye, rd be content to talk of any thing, If it were possible to be with thee, And think of aught but love. Vict I fear, my lord, yon have too much presum'd On those unguarded words, which were in truth Utter'd at'Unawares, with little heed. And urge their meaning far beyond the right. Bas. I thought, indeed, that they were kindly meant. As though thy gentle breast did kindly feel Some secret pity for my hopeless pain. And would not pierce with scorn, ungen'rous scorn, A heart so deeply stricken. Vict So far thou'st read it well Bas. Ha ! have I well ? Thou dost not hate me then ? Vict My father comes ; He were" displeas'd if he should see thee thus. Bas, Thou dost not hate me then ? Vict Away ! he'Ebe displeas'd — I cannot say — Bas. Well, let him come : it is thyself I fear : For did destruction thunder o'er my head. By the dread pow'r of heaVn I would not stir Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul ! Thou dost not hate me ? Vict Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot hate thee. [Breaks from him and exit Bas. (alone'). Thou canst not hate me ! no, thou canst not hate me ! For I love thee so well, so passing well. With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly. That it were sinful not to pay me back Some small, some kind retoriL Enter Mlrando, dressed like Cupid. Mir. Bless thee, brave soldier ! [fair Bas. What sayst thou, pretty child! what playful Has deck'd thee out in this fantastic guise? Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the princess. Bas. Thou art her faVrite then ? Mir They say I am : And now, between ourselves, Til tell thee, soldier, I think in very truth she loves me welL Such merry httle songs she teaches me — Sly riddles too, and when Tm laid to rest, Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals,. And lifts the covering so, to look upon me. And oftentimes I. feign as though I slept ; For then her warm hps to my dieeks she lays. And pats me softly with her fair white hands ; And then I laugh, and through mine eye-hds peep. And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat j And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Bas. What does she even so, thou happiest child? And have those rosy cheeks been press'd'so dearly? Delicious urchin! I will kiss thee too. [Takes him eagerly up in his arms and kisses him. Mir. No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough, So fiirious rough — she doth not kiss me so. Bas. Sweet boy, where is thy chamber? by Victoria's ? Mir. Hard by her own. Bas. Then will I come beneath thy window soon ; I ACT IT, Sv-S-SS J. PLAY^ ON THK TASi^ION:?. S5 A-.-.vi. it" I vvaU"., s^ "."o pwnj s>.-",c Vd s;:;;;. IV !v,'.l dt«<» R> At rest. M - O iKv ikott must no*! V$ a fnstMAiI {4ac« ; Ik is die ckttKh-TarxJ v*tl«e •.^;cb.c>V.-.-.c dv«a«. Tfc» pcin«K$ k>K« it fbr ti>« U\.iv n*«s, Gv^K-r^ l»wl dk«i«, aad ghosts r^> :iiiv«^ dM I k««r ut«m nanjr » s;ni# ■rt« rm a lurf. And hivif )>e««ij>dt d»f ,;,!hv-s tnr vvw>ii:^ iKad. O ; s itao* a ~-;jr>.:r.-.I !>.■;:. my Kwl. ^«s. v^titvvt.tv.- IV--1 iwi/V H> ','..4 ! wfco",- «ko: w.;^:!'. J vvur^Hiad this dvvc .' Ik will DO* ,v.e'.,i. O fiw » ^tuuV s;rv;c.>- '■ U»1U, K'^'.jk. vidua : will no ckw bT? CoTjsf j,i;t in^ ! m st-irvh S* turn no i»or«L Air«. H« ttuh (<««:■, abssit all ^ ^ht. ■-.>- kvd. ,' iik!>& I kncv be ha:^. i a»< qfi A:-.; t« : > !N^Si:b> He nu^ 1mit« esrrter'd 1>t the stv-x-: door : A:-,a •-•ow. p«rttajc«s. in de^«st slixv eBt»Bc\i. U dfs,', .0 erVr s>.x-.;-vL Ki.'vi, x-i:rti'».' sjvm{:»,\ rteaks aato ll« M«s9r. j»i «»«!• -« J** r«rf^v>i«r tin. [swwt. BUS. Ike tJae air o: e-.e r.x rr-.--v " >■■ '^^^^ '^--".^ Beaeosh her window il'. sh* dulh- ■-•. ch:. I ^ it not. Ah ! n%h: his >vv- ■-> ,-:sy ; j Ar..i the |>ale Uaup which &«si her (hamber i SliMia'd. ! Has to ^ («««» a warmer temper kat | Than the Kd bttmins eiift. | ;ere I is"< her* ! Chit.;, w^ Biii-v a chuviaA wile. T-.;-.u^'. '..vX. ir,i Kusii-j: sauie. IVn rT win^ to seaJ tl^T wt*t, Ivikled N>w, aad ,,^ ia shy sinpie mien wvsiKi trsvv The iTTaat of the hiuaaa rK« ? ■Who is be wiKe« dinrr hean >\:-,:>. not i«h the %ic^ dan t Who :s he that ftou the wvwad Hath not pain and pI^ajUTv fi>«u>d ? Who s he Aat hath not si*l '^^"^-^ ---"■•• *» *^--"- * *■»« «*»** 1*»^ **« «««>? l>.-.R»f aad Krtsiivc on tir hx-a.l ? 1 -"^"-■■^ ^^'''*' »* ** H»n« d«at ds;;;?-^; tv.hi ::-.;s ? ,. - . . ~ ,. , ! i!i«. Master ^t WQ«tld a wiatr :i^v-. .v=^-->. Ah : o;^ o«r »»l. o«r w.v. -x-r h-^^ .«r W 1 Xwasoa^ abroad : O-.r awa h»x^ au-.ir.>^^ -KT" "^.""^ hat* d«.T who wsar^T chain! ^^ ^. ., ^^ j^. . u.^ ^.^ ,^^ ,«iaied. Ah U^w o«r wyaL o«r wwL o«r 1*^ o«r bane. [ _^., ; ^ ^^ ^ . _ j,^^ ^ ^^ v,^^ Mvxw r-.i-.-s sj... :i.-, :--.v who nex«r !i>tt d(T fvi-:-. . . i^ q^ i,j,i^^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^^,^, ia ^^^,. [.4ir«Wius^ jim.vraMMiC'^^ TVnaMcral eareets. Iaj»i ^' sat>^r%. xiW fr^teai nwr £w« loJ | ikr.-e SiKXVf v'r^r.'.KS haxv hwa j'o.- rMwMS,- ^mi tuitdiiii tkt sc^m, litmemf j Tt> fill Toitr tiwfs with ^nu-.^; iii^-otter SoscsBXifi. ^-.,(nMB IRiSi ! I d . Jti; is K>3. lit i^. H.i> ws«T swards;, aeduak^ b»TO left the-r jxis! T& join the nr-;;_:v. As dKwsh dnk- $eB>al wxxu-i. iv siirsh ci-x i Tbar ^r.'tvcs v^ocr -^ir^ to dei^\ate ,ivV-,is. A'.', lo a BUT, tssfn-.hltvi oa the naipans; Now direatea vi^-^ccx-^-. and i«fie« to mar^ £!«*, What '. :h;r.'i ihej- -nietr o{ Be ? thretues too; i:-> :hcc^: ! X O ! most Bi^enVws; most v:v.~i;-.'.y I4ida dsoo atteapt v»> ^-'s-^ to n^isoc with lisir f-v> » IVjQt ^ is ; > it cannot b*. .Kiss. Yoi^ tndr, I did k«sco widl a scom-.. And fcil it ce*» to rs^re. Tbeir ««s kx>k fire on h;~-. who s.--^s5;c:-j> tSrci : The hoUow raarta-irs of Aeir atwter'd wnth 36 joantxa BAHiiE s works. ^ASSLl X TKASSjyZ, Sound di^adfnl throo^ the dark ext^ided rantfy T.iTrp sabterraneGas gniinbliligs of an eartlwinakp, The Tengeful hmricane Does not with such fantastu^ wiiddiigs ro^ The woods' green boogfas, as does connilsiTe lage Their fanas with &antic gestures agitate Aronnd the chief of hell sach kgions throng'd. To bring back corse and discord on creation. fonesL S'-j^ '. liook bold and Serceij : we're the in^^Seis sow. \They dUdoA their arms aad put on a fierce threaleimg ameel to recaee tadr geaer(d,idio imc enters, fdttaiDedlgVJaBtMBEee aadofficers. Basil tmS* dote (Omg Aefnmt raais cfAe soldiers, loaldag at them verf stedfasSg; Aea retires a few paces back, aadraimig ^ arvL, ^eats with a very fall had voice. Bas. How is it, soldieis, that I see 70Q tfans, AssemUed here, msummon'd hj eommand ? {A coafased mat m m is heard aaumgst &e soldiers; gome of diem eaU out) Bat we ctHnmand ourselves ; we wait no orders. (A amfused aase of voices is heard, and one loader Aaa. dte rest calls oat) ]f nst we be bottdier'd, for that we are braive '; (A lorad damowr aad rladmuj of arms, then seceral vcncea call oaf) Damn hidden treadi'17 ! we defy ibf ordeis. Fred'ric shall lead us now (Other voices call oat) Well march where'er we iisr, i-jt MHan mardi. Bas. (waving his hand, and betiomiag dtem to be alent, speaks aHA a verg load vciee). Tes, march where'er ye list ; &r y^^im march. SoL Hear iiim, hear him! \_7^ murmatr ceases — a dwrt paase. Bas. Yes, march where'er ye list: for ^Hilan march : Bat as iK^^diid, not as soldiss go ; For on-thfe spot (rfeari I -a-iS diftend. And take dnnn yoa the rank and name of sddias. (A great damoar amongst die ranis; some caU e7. or henceforth be no friends (rf'mine^ [(ffficers retire very anwiSngb). Bash, matxs Aemon aridi his hand tm&eg are aS gome, &at axJks ip toAefroatofhissol£er*,aJa>stiM hold themselves in a Area t ea i a g pastxre. Soldiers ! we've fon^it together in Ae fidd. And bravd[y fought : f the &Ge of honrid deadi. ACT rV. SCEI?E n. PLAYS ON THE PASSION'S. 37 At hononr's call, Tve led 70U dannUess on ; Nor do I know the man of all yoor bands, That ever poorly firom the trial shrank. Or yielded to the foe contended space. Am I the meanest then of all my troops. That thus ye think, with base nnmanly threats, To moTe me now ? Put up those paltry weapons ; They edgeless are to him who fears them not : Bocks hare been shaken from the solid base ; Bnt what shall more a firm and dauntless mind ? Pat ap your swords, or dare the thieaten'd deed — Obey, or mnrder me. (a confused aunrnir — some of the soldiers caU out) March ns to MUau, and we will obey thee. (^Others call out) Ay, march as there, and be oar leader still. Bos. Nay, if I am yonr leader, ni command ye ; And where I do command, there shall yon go. But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate E'en half a furlong from yonr destin'd way. To seize the golden booty of the East. Think not to gain, or temporise with me ; For should I this day's mutiny snrvire. Much as Pre lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find me Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance ; Tremendons, cruel, mihtary vengeance. There is no mean — a desp'iate game ye play ; Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me. Do as ye win, but do it manfiUly. He is a coward who doth threaten me : The man who slays me, but an angry soldier ; Acting in passion, like the frantic sou, Who struck his sire and wept. (^Soldiers caB oui) It was thyself who sought to mnrder us. 1st SoL Tou have unto the emp'ror pledg'd your faith. To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service : Tou have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood, And we have shed our dearest blood for you. Bos. Hear me, my soldiers [you. 2d SoL No, hear him not, he means to cozen Fred'rick will do you right [Endeatxniring to stir up a runse and conjiision amongst them. [hell Bas. What cursed fiend art thou, cast oat from To spirit up rebdUon ? damned villain ! [^Seizes upon 2d soldier, drags him out from the ratt]ts,andwrestshis armsfromhim; thentakes a pistol from his 'side, and holds it to his head. Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be silent ; For if thou utftest but a single word, A congh or hem, to cross me in my speech, ril send thy cursed spirit from the earth. To beUow with the damn'd ! '^The soldiers keep u dead silence. After u pause. Bash, resumes his speech. Listen to me, my soldiers. You say that I am to the emp'ror pledg'd To lead you foremost in all desp'rate service. For now you call it not the path of glory ; And if in this I have offended you, I do indeed repent me of the crime. But new from battles, where my native troops So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart. And boasted of you, boasted foolishly. I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms. I swore the meanest man of all my troops Would never shrink before an armed host. If honotn: bade him stand. My royal master Smil'd at the ardour of my heeiiless words. And promis'd when occasion claim'd our arms. To put them to the proof. But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love. Safe and ignoble service — be it so — Forgive me that I did mistake you thus. Bat do not earn with savage mutiny, Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march. To join the royal army near its walls, And there with blushing forehead will I plead, That ye are men with warlike service worn, Requiring ease and rest Some other chief. Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sound. Will in your rearward station head you then. And so, my friends, well part. As for myself, A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks, m rather fight, with brave men for my fellows. Than be the leader of a sordid band. (^A great murmur rises amongst the ranks, sMiers call out) We will not part ! no, no, we will not part ! (^AU call out together) We will not part ! be thou onr gen'ral still ! Bas. How can I be your gen'ral ? ye obey As caprice moves you ; I must be obey'd. As honest men against themselves perform A sacred oath. — Some other chief will more indulgent prove — You're weary grown — Pve been too hard a master. Soldiers. Thyself and only thee, will we obey. Bas. Bat if you follow me, yourselves ye pledge Unto no easy service ; — hard^ps, toUs, The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight Will be your portion ; and when all is o'er. Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be Home to return again, a poor brave soldier. How say ye now ? I spread do tempting lure — A better fate than this, I promise none. Soldiers. We'll follow Basil. Bas. What token of obedience will ye give ? [.li deep pause. Soldiers, lay down yonr arms ! \_The!/ all lay down their arms. If any here are weary of the service. Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall have A free discharge, and passport to their homes ; 38 JOA^'XA BAHXIES WORKS.- BA5IL; A TKAGEDT. And from my scajitj fortune m make good The wfU-eani'd pay their royal master owes them. liet those vho foUoW me tii^ arms resume, \_7Tta/ aSremme their armg. (Basil, hMing icp his hands.') High hearea. be prais'd! I had been gricr'd to part with yon, ray soldier^. Here is a letter &om my gmaoai master. With offers of preferment in the north. Most high prefenneat, which I did re&se, Por that I wonld not leave my gaShnt troops. [Takes out a letter, and Ihroms it amongst Aem. (A great comntotian amongst the soldiers ; vunty of them quit tiuir ranJts, and crowd about him, ca&ng out) Oar gallant ^en'ral ! (^Othas eatt out) Well spend oor Iiearts* blood for diee, noble BasH! ^Bas. And so yon thnngiit me false ? this bites to the qmck ! Hy sddiras dioog^ me &]se ! [T^fjr all qmt Ouir ranks, and croud eagafiy around lorn. 'BiSL^vxwing them off wShlus hands. Ayi&j, away, yon hare disgusted me ! [Soldiers retire to their ranis. Tii wen — retire, and hold yomselTes prepai'd To march npcm command ; nor meet again Till yon are sommon'd by the beat of dmm. Some secret enemy 'hzs tampet'd with yoo. For yet I will not think that in tbese ranks Tiiere moTes a man who wears a traitor's heart. [The soldiers begin to aarch off, and auac strikes iq>. Bas. (holding up his hand). Cease, cease, tiinm- phant sounds ; Which om- braTe iaxben, men without reproach, Sais'd in the hour of tiinmiA ! bat tUs honr To ns no glory brings — Tlien dient be yoor mandi — ere that again Oor steps to glorioas strains like these shall move, A day of battle o'er onr heads mnst pass. And Idood be died to wash ont thia day's stain. [JE!xeunt soldiers, sUent and dejected. Enter Peedebic, icho starts back an seeing Bash. dUme. Bas. Advance, Meaieaant ; yiheiefote shrink yoa back? Tve ever seen yon bear yonr head erect, [death. And front yonr man, thnngh arm'd with &owniiig Have yon done anght 1h& valiant dionld not do ? I fear yoa have. [Fsed. boks confused. With secret art, and &lse insinnation. The simple nntanght sddiers to seduce Prom their sworn dnty, mi^it become the base, Become the coward wdl ; bat O ! what villain Had the dark poVr t* engage thy valiant worth In snch a wort as this ? Fred Is Basil, then, so lavish rffais praise On a ne^ected pitiM aabahan ? It were a libd on hb roval master ; A fiynl reproach upon fair fortnne cast. To call me valiant ; And snrely he has been too mnch their debtor. To mean them this reboke. -Sas. Is natnie then so qiaring of her giftg, Hiat it is wondofiil when they are 6xad Where ftHtnne sniles not ? Thoa art by natnre brave, and so am I ; Bat in those Hiatant. rajiks moves ^ieie not one [Poinling off the stage. Of M^ omoUed son], hr nztme fcarad A hero and commando^ who will yet In his nntiGphied grave forgotten fie With meaner men ? I dare be swom thsie does. Fred. What need (A words ? I cia-e of thee no fevonr. I hare ofiended, 'gainst ann'd law c^bided. And dirink not fitan my doom. \ Bas. I know thee wdl, I know thcTi feast ni:* On BCaStAi or in field with danTiiiess breast Thxm wilt engage him; andif tl^prtmdscal. In sullen obstinacy, sc^^ns all graces E'en be it 30. Bnt if wirii manly gratitude TSioa tmfy canst receive a brave man's pardon, Thn n hast it fredj. Fred It must not be. Pre been thine eaeasj — Pve been unjust to dice — Bas. I know thoa h^; But diou art teave, and I foigive thee all. Fred My lord! my gen'ral ! Oh, I canEot sj^ak; I cannot live and be the wretch I am ! Ba*. But thoa canst live and be an honest man Prum error tum'd, — canst live and be iny fri''»"i [Baising ItRSjy.from the ground. VaAiear, fixbear '. see wfaoe our faeods advance-. T3i^ mnst not think tbee suin^ far a pardcm ; That wmld disgrace us both. Yei ere ibey ocane^ Tell me, if thac thoa loayst with honjar tefl, \\ hat did sednce ^lee from thy loyal fiaSki ? Fred. 'So conning traitor dU my &ith attempt. For then I had withstood bim : bm c^ late, I know not how — a bad and resdess spirit Has wnk'd within my breast, and made me wretched, Pve lent mine ear to foolish idle taks, Of very zeakms, though but recent fijend^ Bas. Softly, our &^ids a^Hxiach — of tiiis [Ej e t nt , SCEKE ni. An apartment in Bash.'* lodgings. Enter B^STT. and Bos. Thank heaven I am cow alone with theeL Xast night I sought thee with an amdotis miod. And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. — ACT IV, SCEX5 IIL PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 39 lion's tre.»son in this most deodtfiil court, A^ainsx diee plotang, and this moniing's tomiilt Hath beoi its damn'd effect. Sas. ' Nay, nay, my friend ! Hie natnie of man^s mind too wdl thoa knowst, 1V> joc^ as Tiilgar hoodvink'd statesmen do ; TFljo, e'«r with their oim poor wiles misled, Be&ve each popoUr tamiUt or oommotian Most be tte work of dee}>-Uid policy. Poor, mean, mechanic sinils, who liule know A few short words of energetic force, Scime powiHfel pasaon coi the sodden rons'd. The anJTnatJTig sight of something noble. Some fond tnit of the mem'iy finely wak'd, A sonnd, a ample song -without deagn. In leToimioits, camnlts, wais, miellians, All grand events, have oft e£fec3»d more l^ian deepest /*nTi7img oi th^ paltry art. Some dnmken soldier, doqnent with wine, Who lores not fighting, hath haiajigu'd his mates, For they in tnuh some hardships have endor'd : "VTherefore in this sht^aid we soqwct the ooort? J2os. Ah ! tboe ii something, friend, in Mantua's conrt, Will make the Uackest trait of bare&c'd treason Seem fair and gmhlKS Co thy partial ey& Bas. Nay, "te a weakness in thee, Bosinbeig, Whidi milces thv mind so jeak'iis and distrsscfnl. Wiy ^onld the'dnke be false? ij.is. Becanse he is a double, crafty prince — Becanse Pre heard it mmonr'd secretly, Tiai he in some daik treaty is engag'd, Et-a with our master's enemy the Frank. Bas. Ari 50 thon ihinksc Bos. Nay, bear me to the end. Last night ■dot good and faoDoiirable dame. Noble Alhini, with most fiiendfy art, From liie gay dam'rons throng my steps beguild, Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace EntreaSBd me, if I were Baal's friend. To t^ him hidden danger waits lum hca^ And warn him earnestly this coort to leave. She said she k>T'd tiwe mnch ; and hadst thon seen How aradons^ she tng'd Bas. (laOem^tag hai'). By beaVn ai>d eailh, T^se is a ray of l^ht bieaks throngh thy tale. And I ooold leap £ke madmen in their freaks. So blessed is liw gleam 1 Ah ! ao, no, no! It cannot be! alas, it cansotbe! Tet didst than say she tng'd it eamesdy ? She if a woman, who avoids all share In secret politics ;-oDe only chaige Her intVest claims, Yictoiia's guardian friend — And S>e would have me benoe — it mtist be so. O! would it were I how saidst thoo, eentle Bosizi- betg? She nig'd it earasitly — how did ^entge it? Nay. pi?thee do not stare npon me tins, Bat teQ me all her words. What said ^ dbe ? Bos. O Baal ! I could langh to see thy folly. But that thy weakness doth provoke me so. Most admirable, brave, determined man ! So well, so lately tried, what art thon now ? A vain deceitfiil thought transports thee thus. Hinkst thon Bas. I win not tell thee what I think. Bos. But I can gness it well, and it deceives thee. Ijeave this detested place, this fatal court. Where dark deceitM canning plots thy min. A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. The time is critical. How wilt thon fed When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear, T^iat brave Pescaia and his royal troops, Onr valiant fellows, hare the en'my fought. Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'iing here? Bas. Thou dost disturb thy Isain with fancied fears. Our fonnnes rest not on a point so nice. That one short day shonld be of all this moment ; And y^ this one dhort day will be to me W(Hiii years of other time. jRos. Nav, rather say, A day to darken aU liy days beside. Confonnd the &tal bea^ity of that woman. Which hath bewitch'd thee so! Bas. Tis most nngen'rons To push me thus with rough utispaiing hand, "WTiere but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. It is tmfriendly. [pain; Ros. God knows my heart! I would not give thee But it distoihs me, Bi^il, vex^ me. To see thee so enthralled br a woman. If ^e be &ir, others ai« fair as she. Scone oths &ce will like emotions raise. When thon canst better play a lover's part: But for the present, — fie npon it, Baal ! JBos. What, is it possible thon hast beheld. Hast tarried by her too, her converse shax'd. Yet talkst as thotigh she were a common feir one. Such as a man may &ncy and forge:? Tbon art sot, sure, so didl and brutish grown : It is not so ; thon dost belie thy thoughts. And rainly trr'st to gain me vrith the cheat. Bos. So thinks each lover of the maid he loves, Yet, in their livtss. some many maidens love. Fie on it ! leave this town, and be a soldier ! Bas. Have done, have done ! why dost thou bait me thus ? Thy wt«ds become disgusting to me, Roanberg. What claim hast thou my acnons to control ? m Mantna leave when it is fit I should, [it now ; Bos. Tben, '&ith ! 'ris fitting thou shouldst leave At. on the instant. IsH not de^>raalion To stay and hazard ruin on thy &me. Though yet sncfaeer'd e'en by that tempting hne. No lover breathes without ? thou hast no hope. Bas. What, dost thott mean — curse on the paltry thought ! 40 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. basil: a tkaoedy. That I should count and bargain with my heiut, Upon the chances of unstinted favour, As little souls theii base-bred fancies feed ? O ! were I consoit)us that within her breast I held some portion of her dear regard, Though pent for life within a prison's walls. Where through my grate I yet might sometimes see E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun j Though plac'd by fatewhei-e some obstructing bound. Some deep impassable between us roll'd, And I might yet from some high tow'ring cliiF Peixieive her distant mansion from afar. Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn ; Nay, though within the circle of the moon Some spell did fix her, never to return. And I might wander in the hours of night. And up\vard turn my ever-gazing eye. Fondly to mark upon its varied disk Some little spot that might her dwelling be ; My fond, my fixed heart would still adore. And owu no other love,_ Away, away ! How canst thou say to one who loves like me. Thou hast no hope f Sos. Bnt with such hope, my friend, how stand thy feai-s ? Are they so well refin'd ? how wilt thou bear Ere long to hear, that some high-favour'd prince Has won her heart, her hand, has married her ? Though now unshackled, will it always be ? Bas. By heav'n thou dost contrive but to torment, And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st ! There is malignity in what thou sayst. Sos. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, That fain would save thee fi-om tlie yawning gulf. To which blind passion guides thy heedless steps. Bas. Gro, rather save thyself From the weak passion which has seiz'd tJiy breast, T" assume authority with sage-like brow. And shape my actions by thme own caprice. I can direct myself. JSos. Yes, do thyself, And let no artful -woman do it ibr thee. Bas. I scorn thy thought : it is beneath my scorn: It is of meanness sprung — an artful' woman ! O ! she has all the loveliness of heav'n. And all its goodness too ! Sos. I mean not to impute dishonest arts, I mean not to impute Bas. No, 'faith, thou canst not. Sos. What, can I not ? their arts all women have. But now of this no more ; it moves thee gi-eatly. Yet once again, as a most loving friend, Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour, A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame, What noble spurits love, and well I know Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place, And give thy soldiers orders for the march. Bas. Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me thus, Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too. Sos. What, hath this passion in so short a space, ! curses on it I so for chaiig'd thee, Basil, That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth, The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend ? Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my friend, My best, mine earliest fiiend I Bas. Say kinsman rather; chance has link'd us so: Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far ; No act of choice did e'er unite our souls. Men most unlike we are ; our thoughts unlike ; My breast disowns thee — thon'rt no friend of mine. Sos. Ah ! have I then so long, so dearly lov'd thee; So often, with an elder brother's care. Thy childish rambles tended, shar'd thy sports ; Fill'd up by stealth thy -weary school-boy's task ; Taught thy young aims tliine eai'liest feats of strengA ; With boastful pride thine early rise beheld In glory's paths, contented then to fiU A second place, so I might serve with thee ; And sayst thou now, I am no friend of thine ? Well, be it so ; I am thy kinsman then, And by that title will I save thy name From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will. I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick : And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign ; For thy uiikindness mdi:es me so indeed. It will be said that Basil tarried here To save his friend, for so they'll call me still ; Nor wiU dishonour fall upon thy name For such a kindly deed. — [Basu. walis up and down in great agitation, then stops, covers his face with his hands, and seems to be overcome. Bosinbsko looks at him eamestli/. O I blessed heav'n, he weeps ! [J?un« up to him, and catches him in his arms. Basil ! I have been too hard upon thee. And is it possible Tve mov'd thee thus ? Bas. (in a commlsed broken voice). I will re- nounce — m leave Sos. What says my Basil ? Bas. ni Mantua leave — Til leave this seat of bliss — This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain — Cast off at once my little span of joy— r Be wretched — miserable — whate'er thou wilt — Dost thou forgive me ? Sos. my friend 1 my friend ! 1 love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee. I must be cruel to thee to be kind : Each pang I see thee feel strikes through my heart; Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit. And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are ready — Let us depart, nor lose anotlier hour. ACT IT. SCENE IT. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 41 {^ASTLshrmAsfrom his arms, onrf looks at him wiA somgteheU (if tm \q>braidmg, at tha sama tme a som»p/\i bok. Bas. Nay, put me not to death upon the instant ; ril see her once again, and then depart. iJos. Sw her but once again, and thou art ruin'd ! It mast not bo — if thou t«gardest me Bas. TVeli then, it shall not be. Thou hast no mercy 1 Sos. Ah ! thou \rilt bless me all thine after-lite For what now setms to thee so merciless;. Ba&. ^sitting down very dgectedty). Mine aftor- life ! what is mine after-life ? My day is dos'd 1 the gloom of night is come ! A hopeless darkness settle.^ o'er my fate. r>-e seen the last look of her heavenly eves ; Pre heard the last sounds of her blesseil voice ; Pve seen her feir form from my sight depart ; My doom is clos'd I Sos. (Aonyinp over him with pity and aJfW-ti^m). AU\s ! my friend ! Bas. In all her lovely grai-e she disappear'd. Ah ! little thought I nenr to letium I Sos. Why so desponding ? think of warlike glory. The fields cf fiiir reno^vn ai« still Kiforv thee ; Who would not burn such noble fame to earn ? Bas. What now are arms, or fair renown to me? Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while. Welcome rough war ; with all thy scones of bliHxi ; [^Startini] Jirom his seat Thy roaring thunders, and thy cltvshing steel '. Welcome once more ! what have I now to do But play the brave m.7 sickness bangs upon my heart ; I cannot hunt to-day. Met I'll stay at home and nm'se thee, dear Albini. Alb. No, no, thou shalt not stay. Vict. Nay, but I wOL I cannot follow to the cheerful horn. Whilst thou art sick at home. Alb. Xot very sick. Gather thsm thou shouldst stay, my gentle child, ril mount my horse, and go e'en sis 1 am. I'ict. Nay, then TU go, and soon return again. Meimwhile, do thou be careful of th_vsel£ Isttb. Hark, hark! the shrUl horus call us to the field : Y'onr highness hears it ? [jVitstc mthout, Vict. Yes, my Isabella ; I hear it, and methinks e'en at the sound I vault already on my leathern seat, And feel the fiery steed beneath me shake His mantled siiles, and paw the fretted earth ; Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace. The low salute of gulant lords return. Who, waiting round Nvith eager watchftU eye. And reined steeds, the happy moment seize. O ' didst thou ne^^er hear, my Isabel), How nobly Basil in the field becomes His fierj- courser's back ? Isab. They s-w most gracefully. 42 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. BASIL: A TEAGEDY. Alb. What, is the valiant count not yet departed? Vict You would not have our gallant Basil go When I have bid him stay ? not so, Albiui. [thee. Alb. Ke ! rei'gns that spirit still so strongly in Which vainly covets all men's admiration, And is to others cause of cruel pain ? ! would thou couldst subdue it ! [severe : Vict. My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be !For now in truth I love not admiration As I was wont to do ; in truth I do not. But yet, this once, my woman's heart excuse, I'or there is something strange in this man's love, 1 never met before, and I must prove it. Alb. Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself, And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell Vict. O no! that rather wUl my peace restore : For after this, all foUy of the kind Win quite insipid and disgusting seem ; And so I shall become a prudent maid. And passing wise at last. \Music heard without Hark, hark ! again ! All good be with you ! I'll return ere long. [Exeunt Victoria and Isabella. Alb. (soZa). Ay, go, and eVry blessing with thee go, My most tormenting and most pleasing charge ! Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou, Which lightly rises on the morning air. And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze, For ever varying, and for ever graceful. Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind ;' Vain, fanciiul, and fond of worthless praise j Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent : And yet these adverse qualities in thee. No dissonance, nor striking contrast make ; For still thy good and amiable gifts The sober dignity of virtue wear not. And such a 'witching mien thy follies show. They make a very idiot of reproof. And smile it to disgrace. — ■ What shaU I do with thee ? — It grieves me much To hear Count Basil is not yet departed. When from the chace he comes, I'll watch his steps. And speak to him myself. — ! I could hate her for that poor ambition, Which silly adoration only claims, But that I well remember in my youth 1 felt the like — I did not feel it long : I tore it soon indignant from my breast. As that which did degrade a noble mind. [Exit SCENE V. A very bedutijid grove in the forest Music and horns heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs appear passing over the stage, at a great distance. Enter Victoria and Basil, as if just alighted from their horses. Vict (^speaking to attendants withoui). Lead on our horses to the further grove, And wait us there. — {To Bas.) This spot so pleasing and so fragrant is, 'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance. And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon : I love to tread upon it. Bas. ! I would quit the chariot of a god For such delightful footing ! Vict I love this spot. .Bas. It is a spot where one would live and die. Vict See, through the twisted boughs of those high elms, The sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play, And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. Is it not beautiful ? Bas. 'Tis passing beautiful. To see the sunbeams on the foliage play, (in a soft voice.') And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. Vict. And here Pve stood fuU often, and ad- mir'd The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool. Of yon green willow, whose fair sweepy boughs So kiss their image on the glassy plain. And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. Bas. And I too love to see its drooping boughs So kiss their image on the glassy plain. And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. Vict. My lord, it is uncivil in you thus My very words with mock'ry to repeat. Bas. Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat ? I meant it not ; but when I hear thee speak, So sweetly dwells thy voice upon mine ear. My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone ; As mothers on their lisping infants gaze. And catch their broken words. I pri'thee, pardon I Vict But we must leave this grove : the birds fly low: This should forebode a storm, and yet o'erhead The sky, bespread with little downy clouds Of purest white, would seem to promise peace. How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds I Bas. Of a most dazzling brightness ! [brightness, Vict. Nay, hay, a veil that tempers heav'n's Of softest, purest white. Bas. As though an angel, in his upward flight. Had left his mantle floating in mid air. [sever'd : Vict. Still most unlike a garment ; small and [Turning round, and perceiving that he is gazing at her. But thou regardst them not. [gaze ? Bas. Ah I what should I regard, where should I For in that far-shot glance, so keenly wak'd, That sweetly rising smile of admiration, Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is," Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene. Vict. Remember you have promis'd, gentle count. No more to vex me with such foolish words, [mute? Bas. Ah ! wherefore should my tongue alone be ACT IV. SCENE V. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 43 When every look and every motion tell, So plainly tell, and will not be forbid, That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee ! [Victoria.' looks haughty and displeased. Ah 1 pardon me, I know not what I say. Ah ! frown not thus ! I cannot see thee frown. m do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent : But, O ! a reined tongue, and bursting heart, Are hard at once to bear. — Wilt thou forgive me ? Vtct We'U think no more of it ; we'll quit this spot ; I do repent me that I led thee here. But 'twas the faVrite path of a dear friend ; Here many a time we wander'd, arm in aim ; We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent, I love to haunt it still. [Basil starts. Bos. His fav'rite path — a friend — here arm in arm — ( Clasping his hands, aiid raising them to his head.) Then there is such an one ! (JOrooping his head, ajid looking distractedly upon the ground.") I dream'd not of it. Vict (^pretending not to see him). That little lane, with woodbine all o'ergrown. He lov'd so well ! — it is a fragrant path. Is it not, count ? JBas. It is a gloomy one ! Vict. I have, my lord, been wont to think it cheerfiiL Bas. I thought your highness meant to leave this spot ? Vict I do, and by this lane we'U take our way ; For here he often walk'd with saunf ring pace. And listen'd to the woodlark's evening song. Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go ? Accursed be the ground on which he trode ! Vict. And is Count Basil so unconrtly grown. That he would curse my brother to my face ? Bas. Tour brother ! gracious God ! is it your brother ? That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke. Is he indeed your brother ? Vict He is, indeed, my lord. Bas. Then heaven bless him ! all good augels bless him ! I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him ! I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! [ WalAs up and down with a hurried step, tossing about his arms in transport; then stops short, and runs up to Victoria. Is it indeed your brother ? [so ? Vict. It is indeed : what thoughts disturb'd thee Bas. I will not tell thee ; foolish thoughts they were. Heav'n bless your brother ! Vict Ay, heav'n bless him too ! I have but him ; would I had two brave brothers. And thou wert one of them ! Bas. I would fly from thee to earth's utmost Were I thy brother — [boimds, And yet, methinks, I would I had a sister. Vict And whei'efore would ye so ? Bas. To place her near thee. The soft companion of thy hours to prove. And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares. Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war. Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore, Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek. And kindly say. How does it fai-e with Basil ? Vict. No more of this — indeed there must no more. A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee. But see where Isabella this way comes : I had a wish to speak with her alone ; Attend us here, for soon will we retimo. And then take horse again. [Exit Bas. (looking after her for some time). See with what gracefiol steps she moves along, Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely ! If but the wind her ruffled garment raise. It twists it into some light pretty fold. Which adds new grace. Or should some small mishap, Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange. What would in others strange or awkward seem. But lends to her some wild bewitching charm. See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm To pluck the dangling hedge-floVr as she goes ; And now she turns her head, as though she view'd The distant landscape ; now methinks she walks With doubtful ling'ring steps — will she look back f Ah, no ! yon thicket Mdes her from my sight. Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still. Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last I And yet she said she would remember me. I will believe it : Ah ! I must believe it. Or be the saddest soul that sees the light ! But, lo, a messenger, and from the army ! He brings me tidings ; grant they may be good ! Till now I never fear'd what man might utter ; I dread his tale, God grant it may be good ! Enter Messenger. From the army ? Mess. Yes, my lord. Bas. What tidings bringst thou ? Mess. Th' imperial army, under brave Pescara, Has beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. Bas. Ha ! have they fought ? andisthebattleo'er ? Mess. Yes, conquer'd ; ta'en the French king prisoner. Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman, Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword Till, being one amidst smrounding foes. His arm could do no more. H JOAIOTA BAILLEE'S WORKS. basil: a teagedy. Bos. What dost thou say ? who is made pris'ner f What king did fight so well ? Mess. The king of France. Bos. Thou saldst — thy words do ring so in mine ears, I cannot catch their sense — the battle's o'er? Mess. It is, my lord. Pescara staid your coming, But could no longer stay. His troops were bold, Occasion press'd Mm, and they bravely fought — They bravely fought, my lord ! Bos. I hear, I hear thee. Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heait To hear they bravely fought I — They bravely fought, while we lay ling'ring here. ! what a fated blow to strike me thus ! Perdition ! shame ! disgrace ! a damned blow ! Mess. Ten thousand of the enemy are slain ; We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 1 view'd the closing armies from afar ; Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread. Which seem'd, alas ! when that the fight was o'er, Like the wild marsh's crop of stately reeds, Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me I When to the field I came, what dismal sights ! What waste of life ! what heaps of bleeding slain ! Bas. Would I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse. Amid those heaps! They fought, and we were absent ! [ Walks about distractedly, then stops short. Who sent thee here ? Mess. Pescara sent me to inform Count Basil, He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave To march his tardy troops to distant quarters. Bas. He says so, does he ? well, it shall be so. [ Tossing his arms distractedly. I will to quarters, narrow quarters go. Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more. [Exit Mess. rU follow after him ; he is distracted : — And yet he looks so wild, I dare not do it. Enter Victoma, as if frightened, followed by Isabella, Vict (to IsAB.) Didst thou not mark him as he pass'd thee too ? Isab. I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps I had no time. Vict. I met him with a wild disorder'd air. In furious haste ; he stopp'd distractedly. And gaz'd upon me with a mommfiU look. But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou ? (To the messenger.) I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings. [madam. Mess. No, rather good, as I should deem it. Although unwelcome tidings to Count Basil Our army hath a glorious battle won ; [captive. Ten thousand Prench are slain, their monarch Vict, (to Mess.) Ah, there it is 1 he was not in the fight. Enn after him I pray — nay, do not so — Kun to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg, And bid him follow him — I pray thee run ! [well ; Mess. Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go. Vict No, no, I'm well enough ; I'm very well ; Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. [^Exit messenger. what a wretch am I ! I am to blame 1 1 only am to blame ! IscA. Nay, wherefore say so ? What have you done that others would not do ? Vict What have I done? I've fool'd a noble heart — Pye wreck'd a brave man's honour ! [^Exit, leaning upon Isabella. ACT V. SCENE I. A dark night; no moon; but a few stars glimmering; the stage represents (as much as can be discovered for the darkness) a churchyard with part of a chapel, and a wing of the ducal palace adjoining to it. Enter Basil, with his hat off, his hair and his dress in disorder, stepping shwty, and stopping several times to listen, as if he was afraid of meeting any one. Bas. No sound is here : man is at rest, and 1 May near his habitations venture forth. Like some unblessed creature of the night. Who dares not meet his face. — Her ivindow's dark ; No streaming light doth from her chamber beam, That I once more may on her dwelling gaze. And bless her still. All now is dark for me ! \^Pausesfor some time, and looks upon the graves. How happy are the dead, who quietly rest Beneath these stones ! each by his kindred laid, Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those. Who when alive his social converse shar'd : And now perhaps some dear surviving fiiend Doth here at times the grateful visit pay, Head with sad eyes his short memorial o'er, And bless his mem'ry still ! — But I must like an outcast of my kind. In some lone spot lay my unbmied corse. To rot above the earth ; where, if perchance The steps of human wand'rer e'er approach. He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place. With dark imaginations frightful made, — The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed wretch ! r the fair and honour'd field shouldst thou have died. Where brave friends, proudly smiling through their tears. Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay ! [_A light seen in Victoeia's window. ACT T. SCENE H. PLATS ON THE PASSIONS. 45 Bat, ia ! the wonted, welcome light appears. How bright within I see her chamber wall ! Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves, A slender woman's form : it is herself! What means that motion of its clasped hands ? That drooping head ? alas ! is she in sorrow ? Alas ! thou sweet enchantress of the mind. Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence bliss, Art thou unhappy too ? Tve brought thee woe ; It is for me thou weepst. Ah I were it so, Fallen as I am, I yet could life endure, In some dark den from human sight conceal'd, So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal. To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch 1 She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns thee She moves again ; e'en darkly imag'd thus, [too. How lovely is that form ! [^Pauses, still looking at the window. To be so near thee, and for ever parted! For ever lost ! what art thou now to me 1 Shall the departed gaze on thee again ? Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour, While thou perceiv'st it not, and thinkst perhaps 'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by ? [Pauses again, and gazes at the window, tiU the light disappears. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone I these eyes have seen their last ! The last impression of her heavenly form The last sight of those walls wherein she lives : The last blest ray of light from human dwelling. I am no more a being of this world. Farewell ! farewell I all now is dark for me ! Come fated deed ! come horror and despair ! Here lies my dreadful way. Enter Geoffry, from behind a tomb. Geof. O ! stay, my gen'ral ! Bos. Art thou from the grave ? Geof. 0, my brave gen'ral ! do you know me not? I am old GeoSry, the old maimed soldier. You did so nobly honour. Bos. Then go thy way, for thou art honourable; Thou hast no shame, thou needst not seek the dark Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go I Geof. Nay, speak not thus, my noble gen'ral ! AhJ speak not thus ! thou'rt brave, thou'rt ho- nour'd still. Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd To be o'erthrown with one unhappy chance. I've heard of thy brave deeds with swelling heart, And yet shall live to cast my cap in air At glorious tales of thee. — Bos. Forbear, forbear ! thy words but wring my souL Geof. O ! pardon me ! I am old maimed Geoffiy. O ! do not go I I've but one hand to hold thee. {Laying hold of Basil as he attempts to go away. Basil stops, and looks ronud upon him with softness. Bas. Two would not hold so well, old honour'd vet'ran ! What wouldst thou have me do ? Geof. Eetum.mylord ; for love of blessed heaven, Seek not such desperate ways ! where would you go? Bas. Does Geofiiy ask where should a soldier go To hide disgrace ? there is no place but one. [Struggling to get free. Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not To do some violence to thy hoar^ head — What, wilt thou not ? nay, then it must be so. [Breaks violently from Aim, and Exit. Geof. Curs'd feeble hand ! he's gone to seek perdition ! I cannot run. Where is that stupid hind ? He should have met me here. Holla, Fernando ! Enter Fernaitdo. We've lost him, he is gone, he's broke from me ! Did I not bid thee meet me early here. For that he has been known to haunt this place ? Fer. And which way has he gone ? Geof. Towards the forest, if I guess aright. But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg, And he will follow him : run swiftly, man ! [Exeunt SCENE II. A wood, wild and savage ; an entry to a cave, very much tangled with brushwood, is seen in the back- ground. JTie time represents the dawn of morning. Basil is discovered standing near the front of the stage in a thoughtful posture, with a couple of pistols laid by him on apiece of projecting rock; he pauses for some time. Bas. (alone). What shall I be some few short moments hence ? Why ask I now ? who from the dead will rise To tell me of that awful state unknown ? But be it what it may, or bliss or torment, Annihilation, dark and endless rest. Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of thought Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change I'll dare Which makes me any thing but what I am. I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire. In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie, Be toss'd alofl through tracts of endless void. But cannot live in shame. — (Pauses.) O impious thought ! Will the great God of mercy, mercy have On all but those who are most miserable ? Will he not punish with a pitjing hand The poor, fall'n, froward child ? (Pauses.) And shall I then against His wiU offend. Because He is most good and merciful ? 0! horrid baseness ? what, what shall I do? I'll think no more — it turns my dizzy brain — 46 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. BASIL: A TKAGEDT. It is too late to think — what must be, must be — I cannot Kve, therefore I needs must die. [ Takes up the pistols, and walks up and down, looking wSdly around him, then discoeering the cave's mouth. Here is an entry to some darksome cave, Where an uncoflSn'd corse may rest in peace, And hide its foul corruption from the earth. The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot. I'll do it here. [^Enters the cave and Exit; a deep silence; then the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, and soon after, enter Kosinbeb&, Valtomeb, two officers and soldiers, almost at the same moment, by different sides of the stage. Ros. This way the sound did come. [report? ■ Valt How came ye, soldiers? heard ye that 1st Sol. We heard it, and it seem'd to come from hence, Which made us this way hie. Ros. A horrid fancy darts across my mind. [^A groan heard from the cave. (To Valt.) Ha! heardst thou that ? Valt Methinks it is the groan of one in pain. [A second groan. Ros. Ha ! there again ! . Valt From this cave's mouth, so dark and chok'd with weeds, It seems to come. . Ros. I'll enter first. 1** Off. My lord, the way is tangled o'er with briers: Hard by a few short paces to the left. There is another mouth of easier access ; I pass'd it even now. Ros. Then show the way. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The inside of the cave. Basil discovered lying on the ground, with his head raised a Hide upon a few stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him, and blood upon his breast. Enter Rosinberg, Valtombk, and officers. Rosinbekg, upon seeing Basil, stops short with harror, and remains jno- tionlessfor some time. Valt. Great God of heaven! what a sight is this! [Rosinbekg runs to Basil, and stoops down by- his side. Ros. O Basil! my friend! what hast thou done? Bos. (covering his face with his hand). Why art thou come ? I thought to die in peace. Ros. Thou knowst me not — I am thy Rosinberg, Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman ! Thou dost not say to me. Why art thou come ? Bos. Shame knows no kindred: I am fall'n, disgrac'd ; My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee. Ros. My Basil, noble spirit 1 talk not thus ! The greatest mind untoward fate may prove : Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still, rall'n as thou art — and yet thou art not fall'n; Who says thou art, must put his harness on. And prove his words in blood. Bas. Ah, Rosinberg ! this is no time to boast ! I once had hopes a glorious name to gain ; Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire ; The hour of trial came, and found me wanting. Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten. — And ! my friend ! something upbraids me here, [Laying his hand on his breast For that I now remember how ofttimes I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth. Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt : But thou wilt pardon me. — Ros. (taking Basil's hand, artd pressing it to his breast). Rend not my heart in twain! 0! talk not thus! I knew thou wert superior to myself. And to all men beside : thou wert my pride ; I paid thee def'rence with a willing heart Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg ! I feel my weakness now, I own my pride. Give me thy hand, my time is near the close : Do this forme: thou knowst my love, Victoria — Ros. O cuise that woman ! she it is alone — She has undone us all ! Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not ! The fault is mine; she's gentle, good and blame- less — Thou wUt not then my dying ^vish fulfil ? Ros. I will ! I wffl ! what wouldst thou have me do ? Bas. See her when I am gone ; be gentle with her ; And tell her that I bless'd her in my death ; E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her. Wilt thou do this ?— Ros. m do what thou desu-'st Bas. I thank thee, Rosinberg ; my time di-aws near. [Raising his head a little, and perceiving officers. Is there not some one here ?• are we alone ? Ros, (making a sign for the officers to retire"). 'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion. Bas. Thou knowst this desp'rate deed from sacred rites Hath shut me out : I am unbless'd of men. And what I am in sight of th' awful God, I dare not think ; when I am gone, my fnend, O! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend For an offending spirit ! — Pray for me. What thinkest thou ? although an outcast here. May not some heavenly mercy still be found ? Ros. Thou wilt find mercy — my beloved Basil — It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected. ACT V. SCENE 111. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 47 I will with bended knee — I will implore — It chokes mine utterance — I will pray for thee — Bos. This comforts me — thou art a loving friend. ' [4 noise without. JRos. (to off. without). What noise is that? Enter Valtomer. Volt, (to Eos.) My lord, the soldiers all insist to enter. What shall I do ? they will not be denied : They say that they will see their noble gen'ral. Bas. Ah, my brave fellows ! do they call me so ? Bos. Then let them come. [Enter soldiers, who gather round Basil, and look moumfuUy upon him; he holds out his hand to them with a faint smile. Bos. My gen'rous soldiers, this is kindly meant. I'm low i'.the dust ; God bless you all, brave hearts ! \st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble gen'ral ! We'U never follow such a leader more. 2nd Sol Ah ! had you staid with us, my noble gen'ral. We wonld have died for yon. \_Zd soldier endeavours next to speak, butcannct; and kneeling down by Bash., cavers his face with his cloah. BosiNBEBa turns his face to the wdU and weeps. Bos. (in a very faint broken voice). Where art thou? do not leave me, Rosinberg — Come near to me — these fellows make me weep : I have no power to weep — give me thy hand — I love to feel thy grasp — my heart beats strangely — It beats as though its breathings would be few — Semember Bos. Is there aught thou wouldst desire? Bos. Nought but a little earth to cover me, And lay the smooth sod even with the ground — Let no stone mark the spot — give no offence. I fain would say — what can I say to thee ? [4 de^ pause; after a feeble struggle, Basil expires. 1st Sol. That motion was his last. 2nd SoL His spirit's fled. 1st Sol. God grant it peace! it was a noble spirit ! 4th Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse a braver. 1st SoL Alas ! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him more. Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead. 2nd Sol. And when that sounds it will not wake a braver. [toil ! Sd Sol. How pleasantly he shar'd om- hardest Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made. 4th Sol. Ay, many a time i' the cold damp plain has he With cheerful count'nance cried, " Good rest, my hearts!" Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him down E'en like the meanest soldier in the field. [EosiNBEKG all this time continues hanging over the body, and gazing upon it Valtomer 710W endeavours to draw him away. Volt This is too sad, my lord. [pale ! Bos. There, seest thou how he lies ? so fix'd, so Ah ! what an end is this ! thus lost ! thus fall'n I To be thus taken in his middle course. Where he so nobly strove ; till cursed passion Came like a sun-stroke on his mid-day toil. And cut the strong man down. Basil ! Basil! Volt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow here. Bos. He was the younger brother of my sonL Volt Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight. Time calls us, let the body be remov'd. Bos. He was — ! he was like no other man t Valt (still endeavouring to draw him away). JSaj, now forbear. Bos. I lov'd him from his birth 1 Valt. Time presses, let the body be remov'd. Bos. What sayst thou ? Valt. Shall we not remove him hence ? Bos. He has forbid it, and has charg'd me well To leave his grave unknown ? for that the church All sacred rites to the self-slain denies. He would not give offence. [wretch, 1st Sol. What ! shall our gen'ral, like a very Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground ? No last salute to bid his soul farewell ? No warlike honours paid ? it shall not be. 2nd SoL Laid thus ? no, by the blessed light of heaVn! In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls He shall be laid ; in face of day be laid : And though black priests should curse us in the teeth, We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power To grasp a musket. Several soldiers. Let those who dare forbid it ! Bos. My brave companions, be it as you will. [^Spreading outhisarms as if he would embrace, the soldiers. — TTiey prepare to remove the body. Valt. Nay, stop a while, we will not move it now, Por see a moumfiil visitor appears. And must not be denied. Enter Victoria and Isabella. Vict. I thought to find bim here ; where has he fled? [KosiKBERG pointe to the body uiithout speak- ing; Victoria shrieks out and falls into the arms of Isabella. Isai. Alas ! my gentle mistress, this wiU kill thee. Vict, (recovering). Unloose thy hold, and let me look upon him. O ! horrid, horrid sight I my ruin'd Basil I 48 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. basil: a tkagedt. Is this the sad reward of all thy love ? ! I have murder'd thee 1 [^Kneels down by the body, and bends over it. These wasted streams of life ! this bloody wound ! [^Laying her hand upon his heart. Is there no breathing here ? all stiU I all cold ! Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again. And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee, In spite of all reproach, Alas I alas ! A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid, And dost not hear my call. Bos. No, madam ; now your pity comes too late. Vict. Dost thou upbraid me ? O ! I have deserv'd it! Bos. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid : But woman's grief is like a summer storm, Short as it violent is ; in gayer scenes, Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze, And play the airy goddess of the day. Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' observing crowd. Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend. And then it will upbraid. Vict No, never, never ! thus it shall not be. To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go. Where sad and lonely, through the dismsil grate Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me. Bos. Forgive me, heed me not ; I'm griev'd at heart; I'm fretted, gaU'd, all things are hateful to me. If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee j 1 must forgive thee : with his dying breath He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts Were love to thee j in death he lov'd and bless'd thee. [ViCTOKiA goes to throw herself upon the body, but is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, who support her in their arms, and endeavour to draw her away from it Vict. Oh ! force me not away ! by his cold corse I^et me lie down and weep. ! Basil, Basil ! The gallant and the brave ! how hast thou lov'd me! If there is any holy kindness in you, [ To IsAB. and Vaxt. Tear me not hence. For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost, With all my faults, most worthless of his love j And him I'll love in the low bed of death. In horror and decay. — Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days In humble pray'r for his departed spirit : Gold as his grave shall be my earthy bed. As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence. I will not go, for grief hath made me strong. {^Struggling to get loose. Bos. Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow free. [ They let her go, and she throws herself upon the body in an agony of grief. It doth subdue the sternness of my grief To see her mourn him thus. — Yet I must curse Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father. Whose crooked policy has wrouglit this wreck ! Isab. If he has done it, you are well reveng'd. For aU his hidden plots are now detected. Gauriecio, for some int'rest of his own. His master's secret dealings with the foe Has to Lannoy betray'd ; who straight hath sent. On the behalf of his imperial lord, A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua. His discontented subjects aid him not ; He must submit to the degrading terms A haughty conqu'ring power will now impose. Bos. AJad art thou sure of this ? Isab. I am, my lord. Bos. Give me thy hand, Tm glad on't, O ! Vm glad on't ! It should be so ! how like a hatefiil ape, Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard, A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds Are open'd to the day ! scom'd, hooted, -mock'd! Scom'd by the very fools who most admir'd His worthless art. But when a great mind falls. The noble nature of man's gen'rons heart Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin ; With gentle censure using but his faults As modest means to introduce his praise ; For pity like a dewy twilight comes To close th' oppressive splendour of his day. And they who but admir'd him in his height. His alter'd state lament, and love him fallen. {Exeunt ACT I. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 40 THE TRIAL: \n A COMEDY. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN. Mr. Withrinoton. Mr. Harwood. Colonel Hardy. Sir Loftds Pretttman. Mr. Opal. Me. Royston. hojiphry. Jonathan. Thomas. Servants, Sfc. ■WOMEN. Ma^ANE, } ^''^"■' '" ^"HRINGTON. Miss Eston. Mrs. Betty, Maid to Agnes. *,* Scene in Bath, and in Mr. Withrington'* house in the environs of Hnth. ACT I. SCENE I. Mr. Withkington'* house: Enter Withrington and his two nieces hanging upon his arms, coaling him in a playful vuinner as they advance towards the front of the stage. WitlL Pooh, pooh, get along, young gipsies, and don't tease me any more. Ag. So we will, my good sir, when you have granted our suit. Mar. Do, dear uncle, it will be so pleasant ! With. Get along, get along. Don't think to wheedle me into it. It would be very pleasant, truly, to see an old fellow, with a wig upon his bold pate, making one in ^ holiday mummery with a couple of madcaps. . Ag. Nay, don't lay the fault upon the wig, good sir, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and as saucy looking as the best head of hair in the county. As for your old wig, indeed, there was so much cur- mudgeon-like austerity about it, that young people fled from before it, as, I dare say, the birds do at present ; for I am sure it is stuck up in some cherry-orchard, by this time, to frighten away the sparrows.- With. You are mistaken, young mistress, it is up- stairs in my wig-box. Ag. Well, I am glad it is anywhere but upon your pate, uncle. ( Turning his face towards Mari- ANE.) liook at him, pray ! is he not ten years younger since he wore it ? Is there one bit of an old grumbler to be seen about him now ? Mar. He is no more like the man he wns, than I am like my godmother. (^Clapping his shoulder.) You must even do as we have bid you, sir, for this excuse will never bring you off. With. Pooh, pooh, it is a foolish girl's wliimsey : m have nothing to do with iL Ag. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle guardian, and you must consent to it. For if I am to marry at all, I am resolved to have a respectable man, and a man who is attached to me ; and to find out such an one in my present situation is impos- sible. I am provoked beyond all patience with your old greedy lords, and match-making aunts, intro- ducing theii' poor noodle heirs-apparent to me. Your ambitious esquires, and proud obsequious baronets, are intolerable ; and your rakish younger brothers are nauseous : such creatures only surround me, while men of sense stand at a distance, and think me as foolish as the company I keep. One would swear I was made of amber, to attract all the dust and chaff of the community. With. There is some truth in this, 'faith. Ag. You see how it is with me : so, my dear, loving good uncle (coaxing him), do let Mariane take my place for a little while. We are newly come to Bath ; nobody knows us : we have been but at one ball, and as Mariane looks so much better than me, she has already been mistaken for the heiress, and I for her portionless cousin. I have told you how we shall manage it ; do lend us your assistance ! With. So, in the disguise of a portionless spinster, you are to captivate some man of sense, I suppose ? Ag, I would fain have it so. With. Go, go, thou ait a fool, Agnes ! who will fall in love with a little ordinary girl like thee ? why, there is not one feature in thy face that a man would give a farthing for. Mar. You are very saucy, uncle. Ag. I should despair of my beauty, to be sure, since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear sir ; yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a great lady, and the prettiest lady that ever wore silk, fell in love, once on a time, with Mr. Anthony, and would have followed him to the world's end too, if it had nor 50 JOANNA BAILLtE'S WORKS. THE TRIAL : A COMEDY. been for an old hunks of a father, who deserved to be drubbed for his pains. Don't you think he did, sir? With, (endeavcwring to look angry). Old nurse is a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. I'U hear no more of this nonsense. (Breahs from them and goes towards the door : they run after him, and draw him back again.) Ag. Nay, good sir, we hare not quite done with yon yet : grant our request, and then scamper off as you please. Mar. ril hold both your arms till you grant it. With, (to Mak.) And what makes you so eager about it, young lady ? you expect, I suppose, to get a husband by the trick. O fy, fy ! the poorest girl in England would blush at such a thought, who calls herself an honest one. Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest man in ^England who could harbour such a suspicion. But give yourself no uneasiness about this, sir ; she need not go a husband-hunting, for she is already engaged. — (Masiane looks frightened, and makes signs to Ashes over her uncle's shoidder, which she answers with a smite of encouragement') With. Engaged! she is very good, truly, to manage all this matter herself, being afraid to give me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what fool has she picked out from the herd, to enter into this precious engagement with ? Ag. A foolish fellow enough to be sure, your fa- vourite nephew, cousin Edward. With. Hang the silly booby ! how could he be such an idiot ! but it can't be, it shan't be ! — it is foUy to put myself into a passion about it. (To Makiahe, who puts her hand on his shoulder to soothe him.) Hold off your hands, ma'am ! This is news indeed to amuse me with of a morning. Ag. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more news ; for they are not only engaged, but as soon as he returns from abroad they are to be married. With, WeH, well, let them marry in the devil's name, and go a-begging if they please. Ag. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a- begging ; they will have a good fortune to support them. With. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the lot- tery, or find out the philosopher's stone, and coin their old shoes into guineas. Ag. No, su:, it is not that way the fortune is to come. With. No ; he has been following some knight- errant, then, I suppose, and will have an island in the South Sea for his pains. Ag. No, you have not guessed it yet, (stroking his hand genilij). Did you never hear of a good, kind, rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. Withrington? He is to settle a handsome provision upon them as soon as they are married, and leave them his for- ttme at last. With, (lifting up his hands). "WeD, I must say thou art the sauciest little jade in the kingdom ! But did you never hear that this worthy uncle of theu-s, having got a new wig, which makes him ten years younger than he was, is resolved to em- brace the opportunity, and seek out a wife for himself? Ag. ! that is nothing to the purpose ; for what I have said about the fortune must happen, though he should seek out a score of vrives for himself. With. Must happen ! but I say it shall not happen. Whether should you or I know best ? Ag. Why I, to be sure. With. Ha, ha, ha ! how so, baggage ? Ag. (resting her arm on his shoulder, looking archly in his face). You don't know, perhaps, that when I went to Scotland last sununer, I travelled far, and far, as the tale says, and farther than I can tell, till I came to the Isle of Sky, where every body has the second sight, and has nothing to do but tear a little hole in a tartan-plaidy, and peering through it, in this manner, sees every thing past, present, and to come. Now, you must know, I gave an old woman half-a-crown and a roU of tobacco for a peep or two through her plaid ; and what do you think I saw, uncle? With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, T suppose. Ag. There was somebody dancing, to be sure, but it was not the devil, though. Who do you think it was now ? With. Pooh, pooh ! Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wedding, leading down the first dance with the bride. I saw a sheet of parchment in a comer, too, signed willi his own blessed hand, and a very handsome settle- ment it was. So he led down the first dance him- self, and we all followed after him, as merry as so many hay-makers. With. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith ! Ag. And I took a second peep through the plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, sir ? With. Nay, prate on as thou wilt Ag. A genteel family-house, where Edward and Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up and dovm in it. Some of them so tall, and so tall, and some of them no taller than this. And there came good uncle among them, and they all flocked about him so merrily ; every body was so glad to see him, the very scullions from the kitchen were glad; and methought he looked as well pleased himself as any of thenu Don't you think he did, su:? With. Have done with thy prating. Ag. I have not done yet, good sir ; for I took another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal changed family indeed. There was a melancholy sick bed set out, in the best chamber ; every face was sad, and all the children were weeping. There was one dark-eyed rogue among them, called little ACT I. SOENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 51 Anthony, and he threw away his bread and butter, and roared like a young bull, for woe's me ! old uncle was dying. (^Observing Withkingtok affected.') But old uncle recovered though, and looked as stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old woman her plaidy, and would not look through any more. Witlt. Thou art the wildest little witch In the world, and wilt never be at rest till thou hast got every thing thine own way, I believe. Ag. I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle ! (leaping round his neck.) It shall be even so, and I shall have my own little boon into the bargain. With. I did not say so. Ag. But I know it will be so, and many thanks to you, my dear good uncle ! (Maklase ventures to come from behind, — Withbington looks gently to her, she holds out her hand, he hesitates, and Agnes Joitis their hands together, giving them a hearty shake.) With, Come, come, let me get away from you now : you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. {^Exit hastily. Mar. (embracing Agnes). Well, heaven bless thee, my sweet Agnes ! thou hast done marvels for me. You gave me a fright, though ; I thought we were ruined. Ag. O ! I knew I should get the better of him some way or other. What a good, worthy heart he has ! you don't know how dearly I love this old uncle of ours. Mas: I wonder how it is. I used to think him severe and unreasonable, with his fiddle-faddle fancies about delicacy and decorum ; but since you came among us, Agnes, you have so coaxed him, and laughed at him, and played with him, that he has become almost as frolicsome as ourselves. Ag. Let us set about our project immediately. Nobody knows us here but Lady ITade and Miss Eston : we must let them both into the secret : Lady Fade is confined with bad health, and though Miss Eston, I believe, would rather tell a secret than hold her tongue, yet as long as there are streets and car- riages, and balls and ribbons, and feathers and fashions, to talk of, there can be no great danger irom her. Mar. ! we shall do very well. How I long to frolic it away, in all the rich trappings of heirship, amongst those sneaking wretches, the fortune- hunters ! They have neglected me as a poor girl, but I wiU have ray revenge upon them as a rich one. Ag. You will acquit yourself very handsomely I dare say, and find no lack of admirers. Mar. I have two or three in my eye just now, but of all men living I have set my heart upon humbling Sir Loftns. He insulted a friend of mine last winter, to ingratiate himself with an enrioas woman of quality, but I will be revenged upon him ; O ! how I will scorn him, and toss up my nose at him. Ag. That is not the way to be revenged upon him, silly girl ! He is haughty and reserved in his manners ; and though not altogether without under- standing, has never suflTered a higher idea to get footing in his noddle than that of appearing a man of consequence and fashion j and though he has no happiness but in being admired as a fine gentleman, and no existence but at an assembly, he appears there with all the haughty gravity and careless in- difference of a person superior to such paltry amuse- ments. Such a man as this must be laughed at, not scorned ; contempt must be his portion. Mar. He shall have it then. And as for his admirer and imitator. Jack Opal, who has for these ten years past so successfully performed every kind of fine gentlemanship that every new fool brought into fashion, any kind of bad treatment, I suppose, that happens to come into my head will be good enough for him. Ag. Quite good enough. You have set him down for one of your admirers too ? Mar. Yes, truly, and a great many more besides. Ag. Did you observe in the ball-room last night, a genteel young man, with dark grey eyes, and a sensible countenance, but with so little of the foppery of the fashion about him, that one took him at a distance for a much older man ? Mar. Wore he not a plain brownish coat ? and stood he not very near us great pait of the even- ing? Ag. Yes, the very same. Pray endeavour to attract him, Mariane. Mar. If you are very desirous to see him in my train, I wiH Ag. No, not desirous, neither. Mar. Then wherefore should I try ? J^ Because I would have you try every art to win him, and I would not have him to be won. Mar. ! I comprehend it now ! this is the sensible man we are in quest of. Ag. I shall not be sorry if it proves so. I have inquired who he is, as I shall tell you by and bye, and what I have learnt of him I like. Is not his appearance prepossessing ? Mar. I don't know, he is too gi-ave and dignified for such a girl as thou art j I fear we shall waste our labour upon him. Ag. But he does not look always so. He kept very near me ; if it did not look vain, I should say followed me all the evening, and many a varied expression his countenance assumed. But when I went away arm in arm with my uncle, in our usual good-humoured way, I shall never forget the look of pleasant approbation with which he followed me. I had leamt but a little while before the mistake which the company made in regard to us, and at that moment the idea of this project. came across my mind like a fiash of lightning. Mar. Very well, gentle cousin ; the task you assign me is pleasing to my humour, and the idea JOASXA BAIIXIE^ WORKSl THE TEIAI, ; A C034EDT. of promoting yonr happiness at the same time will make it ddig^aznL Let me see, how manj lorers shall I hare — oge, two, three. {CmaUiag cm her fingen.) Ag. I can tdl Toa of one lorer more ^han you wc: o£ Mar. Pray who is he ? Ag. Oar Hiastf chinks ; there & SDch a wind in the hall, 'tis enoo^ to give one a hoaisoiess. By the bye, Mis. MmnUecake is sadly to.d^ ; has yonr lady sent to inqaire fling to himself. Har. So yon bestowed all your attention on this blue-feathered lady, and let the other two pass by unnoticed. Op. No, not unnoticed neither ; Miss With- rington is too fine a figure to be overlooked any where ; and for the other poor little creature, who hung upon her arm so familiarly, I could not help observing her too, because I wondered Miss Withrington allowed such a dowdy-looking thing to walk with her in public. Faith 1 I sent a vulgar- looking devil out of the way on a fool's errand the other morning, who insisted upon going with Pret- tyman and me to the pump-room : men of fashion, you know, are always plagued with paltry fellows dangling after them. Har. Hang your men of fashion 1 mere paltry fellows are too good company for them. Op. Damn it, Harwood I speak more respect- fully of that class of men to whom I have tfae honour to belong. Har. You mistake me, Opal, it was only the men of fashion I abused j I am too well bred to speak uncivilly, in our presence, of the other class you mentioned. Op. I Bcom your insinuation, sir ; but whatever class of men I belong to, I praise heaven I have notliing of the sour plodding book- worm about me. Har. You do well to praise heaven for the en- do\vments it has bestowed upon you. Opal ; if all men were as thankful as you for this blessed gift of ignorance, we could not be said to live in an un- gi-ateful generation. Op. Talk away ; laugh at your own wit as much as you please, I don't mind it. I don't trouble my head to find out bons mots of a morning. Har. You are very right. Jack, for it would be to no purpose if you did. Op. I speak whatever comes readiest to me ; I don't study speeches for company, Harwood. Har. I hope so, Opal ; you would have a la- borious life of it indeed, if you could not speak nonsense extempore. Op. (drawing himself up, and walking haughtily to the other side of the stage). I had no business to be so familiar with him. Sir Loftus is right ; a re- served manner keeps impertinent people at a dis- tance, (oxide — Turns about, makes a very stiff bow to Harwood, and Exit). Har. (alone). I am glad he is gone. What do I see 1 (Here Mabiane, Agnes, and Miss Eston walk over the bottom of the stage attended by Sib Loftus anrf Opal, and Exeunt by the opposite side. Has. looking after them.) Alas, now I that such impudent fellows should be so successful, whilst I stand gazing at a distance. How lightly she trips ; does she not look about to me ? by heaven, I'll run to her. (Runs to the bottom of the stage, and stops short.) Oh no I I cannot do it 1 but see, her uncle comes this way. He look'd so kindly at her, I could not help loving him ; he must be a good man ; I'll make up to him, and he perhaps will join the ladies afterwards. [Exit. 54 JOAl^NA BAILLIE'S WORKS. IKE TKIAL : A COMEDY. ACT n. L SCENE I. A lodging-house. Enter Eotston and Humphet, followed hy Jonathan carrying a portmanteau. Boy. What aworld of business I have got upon my hands 1 1 must set about it immediately. Come here, Jonathan ; I shall send you out in the first place. Jon. Well, sir. Boy. Take the black trunk, that is left in the hall^ upon your shoulder, Jonathan, and he sure you don't run against any body with it, for that might bring us into trouble. And perhaps as you go along, you may chance to meet with some of the Duke of Begall's servants, or with somebody who can tell you where his Grace lodges in this town, and you may inquire of them, without saying I desired you : you understand me, Jonathan? Jon. yes, your honour! Boy. But iirst of all, however, if you see any decent hair-dresser*s shop in your way, desire them to send somebody here for my wig; and like enough they may tcU you, at the same time, where there is an honest town-crier to he had ; I'll have Phcebe's black whelp cried directly: and hark ye, Jonathan, you may say as though the dog were your own, you understand, they will expect such a devil of a reward else; and pri'thee, man! step into the corn- market, if thou canst find out the way, and inquire the price of oats. Jon, Yes, please your honour ; hut am I to go trudging about to sdl these places with that great heavy trunk upon my shoulder ? Boy. No, numskull ! did I not bid you carry it to the inn where theLondon stage puts up? By the bye, you had better take it to the waggon — but first ask the coachman what he charges for the carriage: you can take it to the waggon afterwards. I will suffer .no man to impose upon me. You will remember all this distinctly now, as I have told it you, Jona- than? Jan. (counting to himself upon his fingers'). yes, your honour ! I'll manage it all, I waiTant ! lExit Boy. What a world of business I have upon my hands, Humphry; I am as busy as a minister of state. Be-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. Jon. La your honour! I have forgot all about his Grace, and the black whelp. Boy. I'rovoking muddle pate ! did not I bid you inquire where his Grace lives, and if you happen to see Jon. Ods bodikins! I remember it every word now ! and the whelp is to be called by the town- cricr, just as one would call any thing that is lost. Boy. Yes, yes, go about it speedily. (Exit Jon.) Now in the first place, my good Humphry, I must see after the houess I told you of ; and it ia a busi- ness which requires n, great deal of management too i for Be-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. Confound that dunder-hcaded fool! here he is again. Jon. Your honour won't be angry now, but hang me if I can tell whether I am to take that there trunk to the coach, or the waggon. Boy. Take it to the coach — no, no, to the wag- gon — yes, yes, I should have said — pest take it! cany it where thou wilt, fool, and plague me no more about it. (Exit Jon.) One might as well give directions to a horse-block. Now as I was saying, Humphry, this requires a great deal of management ; for if the lady don't like me, she may happen to like my son : so I must feel my way a httle, before I speak directly to the purpose. Humph. Ay, your honour is always feeling your way. Boy. And as for the duke, I wUl ply him as close as I can with solicitations in the mean time, without altogether stating my request : for if I get the lady, George shall have the office, and if he gets the lady, I shall have the office. So we shall have two chances in our favour both ways, my good Humphry. Jffumph. Belike, sir, if we were to take but one business in hand at a time, we might come better ofi' at the long run. Boy. O ! thou hast no head for business, Hum- phry : thou hast no genius for business, my good Humphry. (Smiling conceitedly.') Humph. Why, for certain, your honour has a marvellous deal of wit ; but I don't know how it is, nothing that we take in hand ever comes to any good ; and what provokes me more than all the rest is, that the more pains we take about it the worse it always succeeds. Boy. Humph ! we can't guard against every cross accident. Humph To be sure, sir, cross accidents will happen to every body, but certes 1 we have more than our own share of them. Boy. Well, don't trouble yourself about it : I have head enough to manage my own affairs, and more than ray own too. Why, my Lord Slumber can't even grant a new lease, nor imprison a vagabond for poaching, without my advice and dii-ection : did I not manage all Mr. Harebrain's election for him ? and, but for one of these cursed accidents or two, had brought him in for his borough, as neatly as my glove. Nay, if his Grace and I get into good understanding together, there is no Imowing but I may have afi'airs of the nation upon my hands. Ha, ha, ha ! poor Humphry, thou hast no comprehension of all this : thou thinkst me a veiy wonderful man, dost thou not ? ACT n. SCENE I. PLATS ON THE PASSIONS. 55 Humph. I must own I do sometimes marvel at your honour. Enter Mr. Wixhhinqton. Soy. Ha! how do you do, my dear cousin? I hope I have the happiness of seeing you in good health : I am heartily rejoiced to see you, my very good sir. {ShaMng him heartUy by the hand.') With. I thank you, sir. you are welcome to Bathj I did not expect die pleasure of seeing you here. Roy. Why, my dear worthy su*, I am a man of so much business, so tossed about, so harassed with a multiplicity of affairs, that, I protest, I can't tell myself one day what part of the world I shall be in the next With. You give yourself a great deal of trouble, Mr. Eoyston. Boy. ! hang it ! I never spare myself ; I must work to make others work. Cousin Withrington. I have got a world of new alterations going on at Eoystou-hall ; if you would take a trip down to see them With. I am no great traveller, sir. Boy. I have ploughed up the bowling-green and cut down the elm trees ; I have built new stables, and filled up the horse-pond ; I have dug up the orchard, and pulled down the old fruit-wall, where that odd little temple used to stand. With. And is the little temple pulled down too ? Pray, what has become of your vicar's sister, Mrs. Mary ? we drank tea with her there, I remember ; is she married yet ? she was a very modest-looking gentlewoman. Boy. So yon remember her too 1 Well, I have pulled down every foot of it, and built a new cart- house with the bricks. — Good commodious stalls for thirty horses, cousin Withrington ; they heat Sir John Houndly's all to nothing: it is as clever a, well- constructed building as any in the country. With. Has Sir John built a new house in the country? Boy. No, no, the stables I say. With. ! you are talking of the stables again. Boy. But when I get the new addition to the mansion-house finished, that vrill be the grand im- provement : the best carpenters' work in the country, my dear sir, all well-seasoned timber from Norway. Hvmph. It is a part of a disputed wreck, sir, and if the law-soit about the right to it turns out in my master's favour, as it should do, it will be the cheapest built house in the country. O ! let his honour alone for making a bargain. With. So you have got a law-suit on your hands, Mr. Eoyston ? I hope you are not much addicted to this kind of amusement ; you will find it a very expensive one. Boy. Bless yon, my good sir, I am the most peaceable creature in the world, but I will suffer no man to impose upon me. With, (smiling.') But you suffer the women some- times to do so, do you not ? Hvmph. No, nor the women neither, sir ; for it was but th' other day that he prosecuted Widow Gibson for letting her chickens feed amongst his com, and it was given in his 'honour's favour, as in right it should have been. With, (archly). And who was adjudged to pay the expenses of court, Mr. Humphry ? Humph. A.J, to be sure, his honour was obliged to pay that. With, (archly). But the widow paid swingingly for it, I suppose ? Humph, Nay 'faith, after all, they but fined her in a sixpence ; yet that always showed, you know, that she was in the wrong. With. To be sure, Mr. Humphry ; and the six- pence would indemnify your master for the costs of suit. Humph. Nay, as a body may say, he might as well have let her alone, for any great matter he made of it that way ; but it was very wrong in her, you know, sir, to let her hens go amongst his honour's com, when she knew very well she was too poor to make up the loss to his honour. With, Say no more about it, my good Humphry; you have vindicated your master most ably, and I have no doubts at all in regard to the propriety of his conduct. Humph, (very well pleased). Ay, thank heav'n ! I do sometimes make shift, in my poor way, to edge in a word for his honour. Boy. (not so weU pleased^. Thou art strangely given to prating this morning. (2o Humph.) By the bye, cousin Withrington, I must consult you about my application to his Grace. Humph, (aside to Eoyston, pulling him by the sleeve). You forget to ask for the lady, sir. With, (turning round). What did you say of his Grace? Boy. No, no,I should — Imeant — did I not say the gracious young lady yoiu: niece ? I hope she is well. With, (smiling). She is very well j you shall go home with me, and visit her. Boy. I am infinitely obhged to you, my worthy good sir; I shall attend you with the greatest pleasure. Some ladies have no dislike to a good- looking gentleman-like man, although he may be past the bloom of his youth, cousin ; however, young men do oftener carry the day, I beheve : my son George is a good likely fellow ; I expect him in Bath every hour. I shall have the honour of fol- lowing you, my dear sir. Eemember my orders, Humphry. lExeunt Enter Haewood hastily, looking round as if he sought some one, and were disappointed. Har. (alone). He is gone, I have missed the good 56 JOANXA BAILLrE-S WORKS. TKE TKIAL : A COHEDT. nncle of Agnes — wlut is the matter with me now, that the sonnd of an old man's voice should agitate me thus ? did I not fed it was the soond of some- thing which belonged to her ? in faith I believe, if her kitten was to mew, I should hasten to hold some in- tercourse with it I can stay in this cursed house no longer, and when I do go ont, there is but one way these legs of mine will carry me — the alley which leads to her dwelling — Well, well, I have been but six times there to-day already; I may have a chance of seeing her at last^ — I!llrun after the old gentleman now — what a detightftil witch it is < [^Exit hastily. SCENE IL Withkingtok's house. Agkes and AT^BiAJfE £s- coveredi jVtAfiiASE reading a letter, and Agsks looking eamesib/ and gladly in her face. Ag. My friend Edward is well, I see ; pray what does the traveller say for himself ? Mar. {putting up the lettery. You shall read it aU by and bye — every thing that is pleasant and kind. Ag. Heaven prosper you both ! you are happier than I am with all my fortune, Mariane ; you have a sincere lover. Afar. And so have you, Agnes : Harwood win bear the trial : I have watch'd him closely, and I will venture my word upon him. Ag. {laJdng her in her arms). Xow if thou art not deceived, thou art the dearest sweetest cousin on earth! (^Pausing and looking seriously.') Ah no ! it cannot be ! I am but an ordinary-looking girl, as my unde says. ( With vioacity.) I would it were so ! Enter Servant Ser. Sir loftns Prettyman and Mr. OpaL Mar. I am at home. {Exit servant) I can't attend to these fools till I have put up my letter : do you receive them ; I will scton return. [Exit Enter Sir LoFTtrs and Opal, dressed pretty much alike. SiK LoPTDS makes a haugliiy distant bow to AcifES, and Ofax. makes another very like it Ag. Have the goodness to be seated, sir, (to Sik LoFTns.) Pray, Sir, (to Opai, making a courteous motion as if she wislCd them to sit down). Miss Withrington will be here immediately. (Sir IiOFtus makes a slight bow without speaking; Opai. does the same, and both saunter about loith their hats in their hands.) Ag. I hope yon had a pleasant walk after we left you. Sir Loftns ? Sir Zo/t (looking affectedly as if he did not un- derstand her). I beg pardon — O ! you were along with Miss Withrington. (Mumbling something which is not heard.) Ag. (to Op.) You are fond of that walk, Jlr. Opal : I think I have seen you there frequently. Op. Ma'am, you are very — (mamiUng something which is 7U>t hard, in the same manner unA Sm I/OPTUS, but still more absurd.) I do sometimes walk — (mmnbling again.) Ag. (to Sir Jjofi.) The country is delightfal round Bath. Sir Loft Ma'am ! Ag. Eion't you think so, Mr. OpaL C^. Ton honour I never attended to it. (A long pause; SiB LoPTUS and Opal strut about con- ceUedb/. Enter Mabiahs, and both of them not i^ to her at once, with great pleasure and alacrity.) Sir loft. I hope I see Miss Withrington enriidy recovered from the &tigiies of the morning ? Mar. Pretty well,aiter the &tigne of dr^ang too, which is a great deal worse. Sir Lottos. ( Car&dy.) Op. For the ball, I presume ? Sir Loft. I am delighted Mar. (addressing hersdf to AisSES, without at- tending to him). l5o you know what a provoking mistake my znilliner has made ? Ag. I don't know. Sir Loft I hope, madam Mar. (to Ag.) She has made up my dress with the colour of all others I dislike. Op. This is very provoking indeed, I would Mar. (still speaking to Ao. without attending to them). And she has sent home my petticoat all patched over with scraps of foil, like a Mayday dress for a chimney-sweeper. Sir Loft (timisting in his face near Mariake, and endeoMnaing to be attended to). A very good comparison, ha, ha ! Qp. (thrusting in Ms face at the other side of her). Veiy good ind^d, ha, ha, ha ! Mar. (still speaking to Agbes, who winks signi- ficant without attending to them). IH say notfamg about it, but never employ her again. Sir Loft (going roimd to her other ear, andmaiing another attempt). I am delighted. Miss Withring- ton Mar. (cardessly). Are you. Sir Lottos? (To Aghes.) I have broken my fan, pray put it by with your own, my dear Agnes ! (Exit Agkrs into the adjoining room, and Sir Lofxus gioes Opal a signi- ficartt look, upon which he retires to the bottom of the stage, and, after sauntering a little there. Exit) Sir Lift (seeming a litde piqued). Jf you would have done me the honour to hear me, ma'am, I should have said, I am delighted to see you dressed, as I hope I may presume from it you intend going to the ball to-night. Mar. Indeed I am too capricious to know whe- ther I do or not ; do you think it will be pleasant ? Sir Loft Very pleasant, if the devotions of a thousand admirers can make it so. Mar. O ! the devotions of a thousand admirers are like the good will of eveiy body ; one steady triendship is worth it aU. ACT U. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. Sir Loft. From which may I infer, that one faith- fiil adorer, in your eyes, outvalues all the thousand ? {affecting to be tender.) Ah ! so would I have Miss Withrington to believe'! and if that can be any in- ducement, she will find such an one there, most happy to attend her. Mar. Will she ? I wonder who this may be : what kind of man is he, pray ? Sir Loft (with a conceited simper, at the same time in a pompous manner). Perhaps it will not be boast- ing too much to say, he is a man of fashion, and not altogether insignificant in the world. Mar. Handsome and accomplished too. Sir Lof- tus? Sir Loft I must not presume, ma'am, to boast of my accomplishments. Mar. (affecting a look of disappointment). ! dearl so it is yourself after aU ! I have not so much pene- tration as I thought. (YawniTig twice very wide.) Bless me ! what makes me yawn so ? I forgot to visit my old woman, who sells the cakes, this morn - ing ; that must be it. ( Yavmijig again.) Do you love gingerbread. Sir Loftus? (SiK LoFius bites his hps, and struts proudly away to the other side of the stage, whilst Agnes peeps from the closet, and makes signs of encouragement to Maeiane.) Mar. 'Wei), after all, I believe it will be pleasant enough to go to the ball, with such an accomplished attendant. Sir Loft (taking encouragement, and smothering his pride). Are you so obliging. Miss Withrington 1 will yon permit me to have the happiness of attend- ing yon ? Mar. If you'll promise to make it very agreeable to me : you are fond of dancing, I suppose ? Sir Loft. I'll do any thing you desire me ; but why throw away time so precious in the rough familiar exercise of dancing ? is there not something more distinguished, more refined, in enjoying the conversation of those we love ? Mar. In the middle of a crowd. Sir Loftus ? Sir Loft What is that crowd to us ? we have nothing to do but to despise it : while they stare upon us with vulgar admiration, we shall talk to- gether, smile together, attend only to each other, like beings of a different order. Mar. O ! that will be delightful ! but don't you think we may just peep slily over our shoulder now and then to see them admiring ns ? (SiK Loftus bites his lips again, and struts to the bottom of the stage, whilst Agnes peeps out from the closet and makes signs to Maoiane.) Mar. (carelessly puUing a small case from h'T pocket). Are not these handsome brilliants. Sir Loftus ? Sir Loft, (very muck struck witli the sparkling of the diamonds, but pretending not to look at (hem). Upon my word, ma'am, I am no judge of trinkets. Mar. They are clumsily set ; I shall give them to my cousin. Sir Loft, (forgetting himself). Why, ma'am, do you seriously mean — They are of a most incom- parable water ! Mar. (archly). I thought you had not attended to them. Sir Loft, (tenderly). It is impossible, in the pre- sence of Miss Withrington, to think of any thing but the cruelty with which she imposes silence on a heart that adores her. Mar. Nay, you entirely mistake me. Sir Loftus ; I am ready to hear you with the greatest good- nature imaginable. ■Sir Loft. It is a theme, perhaps, on which my tongue would too long dwell. Mar. I not at all : I have leisure, and a great deal of patience too, at present ; I beg you would by no means hurry yourself. Sir Loft (after a pause, looking foolish and em- barrassed). Few words, perhaps, will better suit the energy of passion. Mar. Just as you please. Sir Loftus ; i you choose to say it in a few words I am veiy well satisfied. (Another pause. Sra Loftus very much embar- rassed.) Enter Withrington and Hakwood : Sir Loftus seems much relieved. Sir. Loft (aside). Heaven be praised, they are come ! Mar. (to With.) I thought you were to have brought Mr. Royston with you. With, He left us at a shop by the way, to in- quire the price of turnip-seed j but^he will be here by and bye, if a hundred other things do not prevent him. (Bows to Snt Loftus ; then turns to Hak- woOD, and speaks as if he resumed a conversation which had just been broken off, whilst Sir Loftus and Mariane retire to the bottom of the stage.) I perfectly agree with you, Mr. Harwood, that the study and prepaiation requisite for your profession is not altogether a diy treasuring up of facts in the memory, as many of your young students conceive : he who pleads the cause of man before fellow-men, must know what is in the heart of man as well as in the book of records ; and what study is there in nature so noble, so interesting as this ? ffar. But the most pleasing part of our task, my good sir, is not the least difficult. Where applica- tion only is wanting I shall not be left beliind ; for I am not without ambition, though the younger son of a family by no means atfluent; and I have a widowed mother, whose hopes of seeing me respect- able must not be disappointed. I assure you there is nothing [^Listening. With. Go on, Mr. Harwood, I have great plea- sure in hearing yon. ffar. I thought I heard a door move. J 58 JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. THE TEIAL : A COMEDT. With. It is Agnes in the next room, I dare say ; she is always making a noise, Har. In the next room ! With. But you were going to assure me— r Hare the goodness to proceed. Sar. I was going to say — I rather think I said — I am sure [^Listeniny again. With. Pooh 1 there is nobody there. Sar. WeU, I said — I think I told you — TJi faith, my good sir, I will tell you honestly, I have forgotten what I meant to say. With. No matter, yon will remember it again. Ha, ha, ha ! it puts me in mind of a little accident which happened to myself when I was in Lincoln's- Inn. Two or three of us met one evening to be cheerful together, and — (^whikt Witheington begins his story, Agnes enters softly from the adjoin- ing closet unperceived; but Haktvood, on seeing her, runs eagerly up to her, leaving 'WiTHEIHGTOK, aston- ished, in the middle of his discourse.') Har. (to Ag.) Ha ! after so many false alarms, you steal upon us at last like a little thief. Ag. And I steal something very good from you too, if you lose my uncle's story by this inter- ruption ; for I know by his face he was telling one. With. Eaillery is not always well-timed, Miss Agnes Withrington, Ag. Nay, do not be cross with us, sir. Mr. Har- wood knew it was too good to be spent upon one pair of ears, so he calls in another to partake. With. Get along, baggage. Ag. So I will, uncle ; for I know that only means with you, that I should place myself close to your elbow. With. Well, two or three of us young fellows were met — did I not say Ag. At Lincoln's-Inn. [Withkington hesitates. Har. She has named it, Witlu I know well enough it was there. And if I remember well, George Buckner was one of us. [AGN12S gives a gentle hem to suppress a cough. Har. (eagerly'). You were going to speak, Miss Withrington ? Ag. No, indeed, I was not. 'With. Well, George Buckner and two or three more of us — We were in a very pleasant humour that night — (Agnes, making a slight motion of her hand to fasten sorne pin in her dress.) Har. (eagerly). Do you not want something? (To Agnes.) Ag. No, I thank you, I want nothing. 'With, (half-amused, half-peevish). Nay, say what you please to one another, for my story is ended. Har. My dear sir, we are perfectly attentive. Ag. Now, pray, uncle ! 'With, (to Ag.) Now pray hold thy tongue. I forgot, I must consult the Court Calendar on Roy- ston's account. (Goes to a table, and takes up a red book, which he turns over.) Ag. (to Hab.) How could yon do so to my uncle? I would not have interrupted him for the world. Har. Ay, chide me well ; I dearly love to be chidden. Ag. Do not invite me to it. I am said to have a very good gift that way, and you will soon have too much of it, I believe. Har. O no ! X would come every hour to be chidden ! Ag. And. take it meekly too ? Har, Nay, I would have my revenge ; I should call you scolding Agnes, and little Agnes, and roj little Agnes. Ag. You forget my dignity, Mr. Harwood. Har. Oh I you put all dignity out of counte- nance ! The great Mogul himself woidd forget his own in your presence. Ag. But they are going to the garden : I am re- solved to be one of the party. (As she goes to join Sib Lorrns and Maeiane, joAo open a glass door hading to the garden, Haewood goes before, walking back- wards, and his face turned to her.) You will break your pate presently, if you walk with that retrograde step, like a dancing-master giving me a lesson. Do yon think I shall follow you as if you had the fiddle in yoiir hand ? Har. Ah, Miss Withrington ! it is you who have the fiddle, and I who must follow. [^Exeunt into the garden. Re-enter Sie Loptus from the garden, looking about for his hat. Sir Loft ! here it is. Enter Opax. Op. What, here alone ? S'lr Loft. She is in the garden, I shall join her immediately. Op. All goes on well, I suppose ? Sir Loft. Why, I don't know how it is — nobody hears us ? (looking round.) I don't know how it is, but she does not seem to comprehend perfectly in what light I am regarded by the world : that is to say, by that part of it which deserves to be called so. Op. No ! that is strange enough. Sir Loft Upon my honour, she treats me with as much careless familiarity as if I were some plain neighbour's son in the country. Op. 'Pon honour, this is very strange. Sir Loft I am not without hopes of succeeding ; but I will confess to you, I wish she would change her manner of behaving to me. On the word of a gentleman, it is shocking ! Suppose you were to give her a hint, that she may just have an idea of the respect which is paid by every well-bred person — You understand me. Opal ? Op. ! perfectly. I shall give her to know that men like us, my dear friend Sir Loft, (not quite satisjied). I don't know — ACT III. SCENE I. l-LAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 59 Suppose you were to leave out ail mentioD of yourself — your own merit could not fail to be in- ferred. Op. "Well, I shall d6 so. Sir Loft Let us go to the garden. ^Exeunt. Enter Miss Eston, speaking as she enters. I have been all over the town, and here I am at last, quite tired to death. How do you — (^Looking round.) O la ! there is nobody here. Mr. Opal is gone too. m wait till they return. (^Takes up a book, then looks at herself in the glass, then takes up the book again. Yawning.") 'Tis all about the imagination and the understanding, and I don't know what — 1 dare say it is good enough to read of a Sunday. (_Yaums, and lays it down.) O la ! I wish they would come ! Enter Kotston, and takes Miss Eston for Miss WlTHIUNGTON. iJoy. Madam, I have the honour to be your very humble servant. I hoped to have been here sooner, but I have been so overwhelmed with a multiplicity of affairs ; and you know, madam, when that is the case Est. (^taking the word out of his mouth). One is never master of one's time for a moment. Tm sure I have been all over the town this morning, looking after a hundred things, till my head has been put into such a confusion! "La, ma'am!" said my milliner, do take some lavender drops, you look so pale." — " Why," says I, " I don't much like to take them, Mrs. TroUop, they an't always good." Roy. No more they are, ma'am, you ai-e very right ! and if a silly fellow, I know, had taken my advice last year, and bought up the crops of la- vender, he would have made Est (taking the word from him again). A very good fortune, I dare say. But people never will take advice, which is very foolish in them, to be sure. Now I aways take iSoy. Be so good as to hear me, ma'am. Est Certainly, sir; for 1 always say, if they give me advice it is for my good, and why should not I taJ^e it ? Hoy. (edging in his word as fast as he can). And that very foolish fellow too 1 1 once saved him from being cheated in a horse ; and Est. La ! there are such cheats ; a iiriend of mine bought a little lap-dog the other day lloy. But the horse, ma'am, was Est. Not worth a guinea, I dare say. Why, they had the impudence to palm it on my friend — (Both speaking together.) Est. As a pretty little dog which had been bred Hoy. It was a good mettled horse, and might E. up for a lady of quaUty, and when she had S. have passed a good purchase at the money, E. just made a cushion for it at the foot of her JR. but on looking, his fore feet — (Stops sliort, and lets her go on.) E. own bed, she found it was all over mangy. I'm sure I would rather have a plain wholesome cat than the prettiest mangy dog in the kingdom. Roy. Certainly, ma'am. And I assure you the horse — for says I to the groom — (JBotli speaking together.) Est ! I dare say it was — and who would Roy. What is the matter with this pastern, E. have suspected that a dog bred up on pur- J?. Thomas ? it looks as if it were rubbed — (Stops short again, and looks at her with astonish- ment as she goes on talking.) E. pose for a lady of quality, should be all over so ! Nasty creature ! It had spots upon its back as large as my watch. (Taking up her watch.) la ! I am half an hour after my time. My man- tua-maker is waiting for me. Good morning, sir ! \_Exit, hastily. Roy. (looking after her). Clack, clack, clack, clack ! What a devil of a tongue she has got ! 'Faith ! George shall have her, and I'll e'en ask the place for myself. (Looking out) But there is company in the garden : Til go and join them. \_Exit to the garden. ACT HX SCENE I. Mr. Wiihbington's house. A loud laughing with- out Enter EoTSTOif, in a great rage. Roy. Ay, ay, laugh away, laugh away, madam ! you'll weep by and bye, mayhap. (Pauses and listens; laughing stiU heard.) What an infernal noise the jade makes ! I wish she had a peck of chaff in her mouth ! I am sure it is wide enough to hold it. Enter Hcmphet. Humph. I have been seeking your honour every where — Now, sir ! I have someliing to tell you. Roy. Confound your tales; don't trouble me with a parcel of nonsense. Humph, (staring at him, and hearing the laughing without). For certain, your honour, there's some- body in this house merrier than you or L Roy. Damn it, sir ! how do you know I am not merry ? Go home, and do what I ordered you directly. If that fellow Jonathan is not in the way, I'll horse-whip him within an inch of his life. Begone, I say ; why do you stand staring at me like a madman ? [^Exeunt Enter Mauiane and Agnes, by opposite sides. Mar. (holding her sides). I shan't be able to laugh again for a month. 60 JOANNA BAOiLIE'S WORKS. THE TRIAL: A COMEDr. Ag. Yon have freed yovirself from one lover, who vrill scarcely attempt you a second time. I have met him hurrying through the hall, and muttering to himself like a m6.dman. It is not your refosal of his son that has so roused him. Mar. No, no ; he began his courtship in a doubtful way, as if' he would recommend a gay young husband to my choice ; but a sly compliment to agreeable men of a middle age, brought him soon to speak plainly for himself. Ag. But how did you provoke him so ? Mar. I will tell you another time. It is later tlian I thought, (Looking at her watch.') Ag. Don't go yet. How stands it with you and a certain gentleman I recommended to your notice 1 Mar. ! he docs not know whether I am tall or short, brown or fair, foolish or sensible, after aU the pains I have taken with him ; he has eyes, ears, and understanding, for nobody but you, Agnes, and I will attempt tiiin no more. He spoke to me once with animation in his countenance, and I turned round to listen to him eagerly, but it was only to repeat to me something you had just said, which, to deal plainly with you, had not much wit in it neither. I don't know how it is, he seemed to me at first a pleasanter man than he proves to be. Ag. Say not so, Mariane ; he proves to be most admirable. Mar. Well, be it so ; he cannot prove better than I wish him to do, and I can make up my list without him, I have a love-letter from an Irish baronet in my pocket, and Opal will declare him- self presently. ^ — -I thought once he meant only to plead for his friend ; but I would not let biin off so, for I know he is a mercenary creature. I have flattered him a little at the expense of Sir Loftus, and I hope, ere long, to see him set up for a great man upon his own account. Ag. So it was only to repeat to you something that I had been saying ? Mar. Ha ! you are thinking of this stilL I be- lieve, indeed, he sets down every turn of your eye m his memory, and acts it all over in secret. Ag. Do you think so ? give me your hand, my dear Mariane ; you are a very good cousin to me — Marks every turn of my eye ! I am not quite such an ordinary girl as my uncle says — My complexion is as good as your own, Mariane, if it were not a little sunburnt. (Maeiane smiles.') Yes, smile at my vanity as you please ; for what makes me vain, makes me so good-humomed too, that I will forgive you. But here comes uncle. (^Shipping as she goes to meet him.) I am light as an air-ball I (^Enter Me. Witheington.) My dear sir, how long you have been away from us this morning ! I am de- h'ghted to see you so pleased and so happy. Witli. (with a very sour face). You are mis- taken, young lady, I am not so pleased as you think. Ag. O no, sir! you are very good-humoured. Isn't he, Mariane ? 'With. But I say I am in a very bad humour. Get along with your foolery ! ' Ag. Is it really so ? Let me look in jrour face, uncle. To be sure your brows are a little knit, and youj: eyes a little gloomy, but .that is nothing to be called bad humour j if I could not contrive to look more crabbed than all this comes to, I would never pretend to be ill-humoured in my life. (Maei- ABE and AoHES take him by the hands, and begin to play with him.) WitK No, no, young ladies, I am not in alnood to be played witlL I can't approve of eveiy farce you please to play off in my family ; nor to h^e my relations affronted, and driven from my house for your entertainment. Mar. Indeed, sir, I treated Eoyston better than he deserved ; for he would not let me have time to give a civil denial, but ran on planning settlements and jointures, and a hundred things besides : I could just get in my word to stop his career with a" flat reflisal, as he was about to provide for our de- scendants of the third generation. ! if you had seen his face then, uncle. "With. I know very well how you have treated him. Ag. Don't be angry, sir. What docs a man like Eoyston care for a refusal ? he is only angry that he can't take the law of her for laughing at him. With. Let this be as it may, I don't choose to have my house in a perpetual bustle from morn- ing till m'ght, with your plots and your pastimes. There is no more order nor distinction kept up in my house, than if it were a cabin in Kamschatka, and common to a whole tribe. In every comer of it I find some visitor, or showman, or milliner's apprentice, loitering about : my best books are cast upon footstools and window-seats, and my li- brary is littered over with work-bags ; dogs, cats, and kittens, take possession of every chair, and refuse to be disturbed : and the very beggar chil- dren go hopping before my door with Uieir half- eaten scraps in their hands, as if it were the entry to a workhouse. Ag. (clapping his shoulder gently). Now don't be impatient, my dear sir, and every thing shall be put into such excellent order as shall delight you to behold. And as for the beggar children, if any of them dare but to set their noses near the house I'll — What shall I do with them, sir ? (Pauses, and looks in his face, which begins to relent.) I believe we must not be very severe with them after all. (Both take his hands and coax him.) With. Come, come, off hands, and let me sit down. I am tired of this. ACT in. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 61 Ag. Yes, uncle, and here is one seat, you see, with no cat upon it. (Withrtnqton sits down, and Agnes taJtes a litde stoal and. sits down at his feet, curling her nose as she looks up to him, and making a good-humoured face.) With. Well, it may be pleasant enough, girls ; but allow jne to say, all this playing, and laugh- ing, and hoydening about, is not gentlewomanlike ; nay, I might say, is not maidenly. A high-bred elegant woman is a creature which man ap- proaches with awe and respect ; but nobody would thinly of accosting you with such impressions, any more than if you were a couple of young female tinkers. Ag^ Don't distress yourself about this, sir; we shall get the men to bow to us, and tremble be- fqie us too, as well as e'er a hoop petticoat or long ruffles of them alL With. Tremble before yon! ha, ha, ha I (To Agnes.) Who would tremble before thee, dost thou think ? Ag. No despicable man, perhaps : what think you of your favourite, Harwood ? WitL Pooh, pooh, pooh ! he is pleased with thee as an amusing and good-natured creature, and thou tliinkest he is in love with thee, forsooth. Ag. A good-natured creature ! he shall think me a vixen and be pleased with me. With. No, no, not quite so far gone, I believe. Ag. m bet you two hundred pounds that it is so. If I win, you shall pay it to Mariane for wedding- trinkets ; and if you win, yon may buUd a couple of alms-houses. With. Well, be it so. We shall see, we shall see. Mar. Indeed we shall see you lose your bet, uncle. WiA. (to Mar.) Yes, baggage, I shall have your prayers against me, I know. Enter Servant, and announces Me. Opal. Enter Oeal. Op. (to Mab.) I hope I have the pleasure of see- ing Miss Withrington well this morning. (Sows distandy to Witheington, and stiB more so to Agnes, after the manner q/"Sia Loft0S.) With. Your servant, sir. Mar. (to Op.) How did you like the ball last night? There was a gay, genteel-looking com- pany. Op. (mith affected superioritt/). Excepting Lord Saunter, and Lord Poorly, and Sir Loftus, and one or two more of us, I did not know a soul in the room. With. There were some pretty girls there, Mi'. Opal. Op. I am very glad to hear it, 'pon honour. I did not — (Mumbling'). With, (aside). Affected puppy ! I can't bear to look at him. [^ExiL Mar. (assuming a gayer air as Withrington goes out). You will soon have a new beau to en- rich your circle, Mr. Opal, the handsome and accomplished Colonel Beaumont. He is just re- turned from abroad, and is now quite the fashion. ( To Agnes.) Don't you think Mr. Opal resembles him? Ag. ! very much indeed. Op. (bowing very graciously). Does he not re- semble Sir Loftus too? I mean in his air and his manner. Mar. O not at all ! That haughty coldness of Iiis is quite old-fashioned now ; so unlike the affable irankness so much admired in the colonel : yon have seen him, I presume ? Op. I have never had that honour. Mar. Then you will not be displeased at the likeness we have traced when yon do. Op. (relaxing from his dignity, and highly pleased.) The greatest pleasure of my life, ma'am, will be to resemble what pleases you. (Mariane gives Agnes a sign, and she retires to the bottom of the stage.) Mar. You flatter me infinitely. Op. Ah ! call it not flattery, charming Miss With- rington ! for now I will have the boldness to own to you frankly, I have been, since the first moment I beheld you, your most sincere, your most passionate admirer. Upon hon — (correcting himself) 'faith I have! Mar. Nothing but my own want of merit can make me doubt of any thing Mr. Opal asserts upon his honour or his faith. (Turning and walking towards the bottom of the stage, whilst Ofai. follows her talking in dumb show; Aen Agnes joins tliem, and they all come forward to the front) Ag. (to Mar.) How much that turn of his head puts me in mind of the colonel ! Mar. So it does, my Agnes. ( To Opal.) Pray have the goodness to hold it so for a moment ! There now, it is just the very thing. (Opal holds his head in a constrained ridiculous posture, and then makes a conceited bow.) His very manner of bowiug too ! one would swear it was he ! Ag. Yes, only the colonel is more familiar, more easy in his carriage. Op. ! ma'am ! I assure yon I have formerly — It is my natural manner to be remarkably easy, — But I — (pauses.) Mar. Have never condescended to assume any other than your natural manner, I hope. Op. O ! not at all, I detest affectation ; there is nothing I detest so much — But upon my soul ! I can't tell how it is, I have been graver of late. I am, indeed, sometimes thoughtful. Mar. fy upon it ! don't be so any more. It is quite old-fashioned and ridiculous now. ( To Agnes, winking significantly.) Did you see my gloves any where about the room, cousin ? 62 JOANNA EAILLIE'S WORKS. IHE TRIAL: A COMEDY. Op. ni find them. (^Goes to look far them with great briskness. — Servant announces Miss EsiON.) Op. Pest takp her ! I stared at her once in a mistake, and she has ogled and followed me ever since. Enter Miss Eston, running up to Marianb and Agnes, and pretending not to see Opal, though she cannot help looking askance at him while she speaks. ■ JEst O, my dear creatures ! you can't think how I have longed to see you. Mrs. Thomson kept me so long this morning, and you know she is an in- tolerable talker. (Pretending to discover Opal.) ! how do you do, Mr. Opal? I declare,! did not observe you I Op. (with a distant haughty bow). I am obliged to you, ma'am. Est. I did see your figure, indeed, but I mistook it for Sir Iioftiis. Op. (correcting himself, and assuming a cheerful frank manner). O ma'am I you are very obliging to observe me at all. I believe Prettyman and I may be nearly of the same height. (Looking at his watch.) I am beyond my appointment, I see. Ex- cuse me ; I must hurry away. [^Exit hastily. Est (looking after him with marks q/* disappoint- ment). I am very glad he is gone. He does so haunt me, and stare at me, I am quite tired of it. The first time I ever saw him, you remember how he looked me out of countenance. I was resolved before I came not to take notice of him. Mar, So you knew you should find him here, then? Est la ! one don't know of a morning whom one may meet ; as likely him as any body else, you know. I really wonder now what crotchet he has taken into his head about me. Do you know, last night, before twilight, I peeped over the blind, and saw him walking with slow pensive steps, under my window. Mar. Well, what happened then ? Est I drew in my head, you may be sure ; but a little while after, I peeped out again, and, do you know, I saw him come out of the perfumer's sliop, just opposite to my dressing-room, where he had been all the while. Mar. Very well, and what happened next ? Est. La ! nothing more. Bat was it not very odd? What should he be doing all that time in that little paltry shop? The great shop near the Circus is the place where every body buys per- fumery. Ag. No, there is nothing very odd in Mr. Opal's buying perfumes at a very paltry shop, where he might see and be seen by a very pretty lady. Est. (with her face brightening up). Do yon think so ? no ! you don't think so ? Ag. To be sure I do. But I know what is very strange. Est O la, dear creature ! What is it ? Ag. He bought his perfumes there before you came, when there was no such inducement. • Is not that very odd ? [Eston pauses, and looks siUy. Enter ME.WiTHKiNGTOif, but, upon perceiving EsTON, bows, and retreats again. Est. (recovering herself). Ah! how do you do, Mr. Withrington ? I have just seen your iriend, Lady Fade. Poor dear soul ! she says With. I am sorry, ma'am, it is not in my power at present — I am in a hurry, I have an appoint- ment. Your servant, ma'am. \Exit Est Well, now, this is very odd ! Wherever I go, I find all the men just going out to some appoint- ment. O, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Thomson has put a new border to her drawing-room, just like the one up-stairs. Has it not a, dark blue ground ? (To Mahiane.) Mar. I'm. sure I cannot tell ; let us go up-stairs and see. [Exeunt SCENE II. Before Mr. Withkiitgtoh'* house. Enter Harwood. Har. Well, here I am again, yet devH take me if I can muster up resolution enough to touch the knocker ! what a fool was I to call twice this morn- ing I for with what face can I now visit her again ? The old gentleman will look strangely at me ; the fine heiress her cousin will stare at me; nay, the very servants begin already to smile with impertinent significance, as I inquire with conscious foolishness, if the ladies are at home. Then Agnes herself will look so droUy at me — Ah! but she will look so pleasantly too ! — 'Faith ! I'll e'en go. (Goes to the door, puts his hand up to the knocker, stops short, and turns from it again. Pauses.) What a fool am I, to stand thinking about it here. If I were but fairly in the room with her, and the first salutation over, I should not care if the devil himself made faces at me. Oh no ! every body is good-humoured, every thing is happy that is near her ! the kitten who plays by her side takes hold of her gown unchidden. How pleasant it is to love what is so blessed ! I should hate the fairest woman on earth if she were not of a sweet temper. Come, come ; every thing favours me here, but my own foolish fancies. (As he goes to the door again, it opens, and enters from the house, Bbttt, crying, with a bundle in her hand.) Bet dear me ! dear me ! Har. What is the matter with you, my good girl? Bet Tm sure it was not my fault, and she has abused me worser than a heathen. Har. That is hard indeed. Bet. Indeed it is, sir ; and all for a little nasty essence-bottle, which was little better than a genteel ACT III. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 63 kind of a stink at the best ; and I am sure I did but take out the stopper to smell to it, when it came to pieces in my hand like an egg-shell. If bottles will break, how can I help'it ? But la ! sir, there is no speaking reason to mj mistress; she is as furious and as ill-tempered as a dragon. Har. Don't distress yourself; Miss Agnes With- lington will make amends to you for the seyerity of your mistress. Bet She truly I it is she herself who is my mistress, and she has abused me — dear me ! — If it had been Miss Withrington, she woiJd not have said a word to me ; but Miss Agnes is so cross, and so ill-natured, there is no living in the house with her. Har. Girl, you are beside yourself! Bet No, sir, not I ! but she is beside herself, I believe. Does she think I am going to live in her service to be called names so, and compared to a blackamoor too ? If I had been waiting-maid to the queen, she would not have compared me to a black- amoor, and will I take such usage from her ? — what do I care for her cast gowns ? ffar. Well, but she is liberal to yon ? Bet. She liberal ! she'll keep every thing that is worth keeping to herself, I warrant ; and heaven pity those who are bound to live with her ! I'll seek out a new place for myself, and let the devil, if he will, wait upon her next, in the shape of a blackamoor : they will be fit company for one another ; and if he gets the better of her at scolding, he is a better devil than I take him for. And I am sure, sir, if you were to see her Sar. Get along ! get along ! you are too pas- sionate yourself to be credited. BeL I know what I know; I don't care what nobody says, no more I do ; I know who to com- plain to. [^Exit, grumbling. Sar. (alone). What a malicious toad it is! I dare say, now, she has done something very pro- voking. I cannot bear these pert chambermaids ; the very sight of them is offensive to me. Enter Jonathan. Jon. Good evening to your honour j can you tell me if Mr. Withrington be at home ? for as how, my master has sent me with a message to him. Har. (impatiently). Go to the house and inquire; I know nothing about it. [Jonathan goes to the house. Har. (alone, after musing some time). That girl has put me out of all heart, though, with her cursed stories. — No, no, it cannot be — it is im- possible ! Re-enter Jonathan from the house, scratching his head, and looking behind him. Jon. 'Faith there is hot work going on amongst them ! thank heaven I am out again ! Har. What do you mean ? Jan. 'Faith 1 that little lady, in that there house, is the best hand at a scold, saving Mary Macmur- rock, my wife's mother, that ever my two blessed eyes looked upon. Oh, su-, (going nearer him) her tongue goes ting, ting, ting, as shriU as the bell of any pieman ; and then, sir, (jgoing nearer him) her two eyes look out of her head, as though they were a couple of glow-worms I and then, sir, he, he, he ! (Laughing and going close up to him.) She claps her httle hands so, as if Har. Shut your fool's mouth and be damn'd to you! (Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a violent pas- sion; then leans his back to a tree, and seems thought- ful for some time and very much troubled.) Enter Agnes from the house, with a stormy look on her face. Ag. So you are still loitering here, Harwood ? you have been very much amused, I suppose, with the conversation of those good folks you have talked with. Har. No, not much amnsed, madam, though somewhat astonished, I own ; too much astonished, indeed, to give it any credit. Ag. O ! it is true though ; I have been very cross with the girl, and very cross with every body ; and if you don't clear up that dismal face of yours, I shall be cross with you too : what could possess you to stay so long under the chestnut-tree, a little while ago, always appearing as if you were coining to the house, and always turning back again ? Har. (eagerly). And is it possible, you were then looking at me, and observing my motions ? Ag. Indeed I was just going to open my window and beckon to you, when that creatme broke my phial of sweet essence, and put me quite out of temper. Har. Hang the stupid jade ! I could Ag. So you are angry too ? ! well done ! we are fit company for one another. Come along with me, come, come ! (impatiently. As she turns to go, something catches hid of her gown.) What is tliis ? confounded thing ! (PuUs away her gown in a pas- sion and tears it.) Har. (aside). Witch that she is ! she should be beaten for her humours. I will not go with her. Ag. (looking behind). So you won't go in with me ? good evening to you then : we did want a fourth person to make up a party with us ; hut since you don't like it, we shall send to Sir Loftus, or Opal, or Sir Ulick O'Grady, or some othei good creature ; I dare say Sir Loftus will come. Har. (half aside). Odious coxcomb ! If he sets his nose within the door, I'll pistol him. Ag. (overhearing him.) Ha ! well said ! you will make the best company in the world. Come along, come along ! (He follows her half unwillingly.) Why don't you offer your arm here ? don't you see 64 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. TUB TEIAL: A COMEDY. how rough it is? (^He- offers his arm.) Pooh, not that arm ! (^Offers her the other). Pooh, not so neither, on t'other side of me. Hdr. What a liumoiirsome creature 70U are ! I have offer'd you two arms, and neither of them will do ; do you think I have a third to offer you? Ag. You are a simpleton, or you would have half a dozen at my service. [^Exeunt into the house. ACT IV. Hakwood's lodgings. Jffe is discovered walking about with an irregular disturbed step, his hair and dress all neglected and in disorder ; he comes for- ward to the front of the stage. Uar. I have neither had peace nor sleep since I beheld her ; O ! that I had never known her ! or known her only such as my first fond fancy con- ceived her ! — I would my friend were come ; I titU open my heart to him : he perhaps will speak com- fort to me ; for surely that temper must be violent indeed, which generous affection cannot subdue; and she must be extravagant beyond all -bounds of nature, who would ruin the fond husband who toils for her. No, no, nature makes not such, but when she sets her scowling mark upon their fore- head to warn us from our ruin. {Pauses, walks up and down, then comes forward again.) Insipid con- stitutional good nature is a tiresome thing : passion subdued by reason is worth a score of it — and passion subdued by love ! — O ! that were better still ! — Yesterday, as I entered her door, I heard her name me to her cousin with so much gentle softness in her voice, I blest her as she spoke ! — Ah ! if this were so, all might still be well. Who would not struggle with the world for such a creature as this ? — Ay, and I must struggle— O ! that this head of mine would give over thinking but for one half hoiu: ! (Sings the belL) Enter Thomas. What brings you here, Thomas ? Thorn. Tour bell rung, sir. Har. Well, well, I did want something, but I have forgotten it. Bring me a glass of water. {Exit Thomas. Haewood sits down by a small writing- table and rests his head upon his hand. Re-enter Thomas with the water.) You have made good haste, Thomas. Thorn. I did maie good haste, sir, lest you should be impatient with me. Har. I am sometimes impatient with you, then ? I fear indeed I have been too often so of late ; but you must not mind it, Thomas ; I mean you no unkindness. Thorn. Lord love you, sir, I know that very well ! a young gentleman who takes an old man into his service, because other gentlemen do not think him quick enough, nor smart enough for them, as your honom- has taken me, can never mean to show him any unkindness : I know it well enough ; I am only uneasy because I fear you are not so well of late. Har. I thank you, Thomas, I am not very well — I am not iU neither j I shall be better. {Pauses.) I think I have heard you say you were a soldier in your youth ? Tham. Yes, sir. Har. And you had a wife too, a woman of fiery mettle, to bear about your knapsack ? Thorn. Yes, sir, my little stout spirity Jane ; she had a devil of a temper, to be sure. Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding ? Thorn. Yes, to be sure I did, as it were, bear her some kindness. Har. m be sworn you did 1 — and you would have been very sorry to have parted with her. Thorn. Why death parts the best of friends, sir ; we lived but four years together. Har. And so your little spirity Jane was taken so soon away firom you ? Give me thy hand, my good Thomas. {Takes his hand and presses it) Thorn, {perceiving tears in his eyes). Nay, sir ! don't be so distressed about it : she did die, to be sm-e ; but truly, between you and me, although I did make a kind of whimpering at the first, I was not ill pleased afterwards to be rid of her ; for, truly uir, a man who has got an ill-tempered wife, has but a dog's life of it at the best. — Will you have your glass of water, sir? Har. {looking at him with dissatisfaction). No, no, take it away : I have told you a hundred times not to bring me that chalky water from the court-yard. [TuTTW away from him. Enter Colonei, Hakdt. — Haewood makes sigTis to Thomas, and he goes out Har. My dear colonel, this is kind : I am very glad to see you. Col. It is so seldom that a young fellow has any inclination for the company of an old man, that I should feel myself vain of the summons you have sent me, were I not afraid, fi-om this deshabille, my dear Harwood, that you are indisposed. Har. You are very good ; I am not indisposed. I have indeed being anxious — I rested indiflferently last night — I hope I see you welL Col. Very well, as you may guess from the speed I have made in coming to you. These legs do not always carry me so fast But you have something particular to say to me. Har. I am very sensible of yonrfriendship — Pray, ACT IT. SCENE I. „ PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 65 colonel, be seated. — (_They sit down — a laag pause — CoLOKEi. Hahdt, like one expecting: to hear some- thing; HA.RVOOD, like one who knows not how to begin.^ — There are moinents in a man's life, Colonel Hardy, when the advice of a friend is of the greatest value ; particularlj one who has also been his father's friend. CoL My heart very warmly claims both those relations to you, Harwood : and I shall be happy to advise you as well as I am able. Har, (after another pause). I am about to com- mence a laborious profession — the mind is naturally anxious — (PausesJ) Col. But you are too capable of exercising well that profession, to suffer much uneasiness. Har. Many a man with talents superior to mine has sunk beneath the burden. Cd. And many a man, with talents vastly in» ferior to yours, has borne it up with credit. Mar. Ah ! what avails the head with an estranged heart? CoL You are disgusted then with your profession, and have, perhaps, conceived more favourably of mine ? I am sorry for it j I hoped to see you make a figure at the bar ; and your mother has long set her heart npon it. Har. (with energy), O no! she must not — she shall not be disappointed 1 — Pardon me, my ex- pressions have gone somewhat wide of my meaning — I meant to Imve consulted you in regard to other difficulties CoL And pardon me likewise for interrupting yon ; but it appears to me that an unlearned soldier is not a person to be consulted in these matters. Har. It was not altogether of these matters I meant to speak — But, perhaps, we had better put it off for the present. CoL No, no. Hot. Perhaps we had better walk ont a little way : we may talk with less restraint as we go. Col No, no, there are a thousand impertinent people abont^ Sit down again, and let me hear every thing you wish to say. Hot. (pausing, hesitating, and mitch embarrassed). There are certain attachments in which a man's heart may be so deeply interested — I would say so very — or rather I should say so strangely engaged, that — (hesitates and pauses.) . Col. O, here it is ! I understand it now. But pray don't be so foolish about it, Harwood I you are in love. Har. (appearing relieved). I thank your quick- ness, my dear colonel ; I fear it is somewhat so with me. CoL And whence your fear ? Not from the lady's cruelty ? Har. No, there is another bar in my way, which does, perhaps, too much depress my hopes of happiness. CoL You have not been prudent enough to fall in love with an heiress ? Har. No, my dear sir, I have not. CoL That is a great mistake, to be sure, Harwood ; yet many a man has not advanced the less rapidly in his profession, for having had a portionless wife to begin the world with. It is a spur to industry. Har. (looking pleased at him). Such sentiments are what I expected from Colonel Hardy; and, were it not for female failings, there would be little risk in following them. — I don't know how to express it — I am perhaps too delicate in these matters — We ought not to expect a faultless woman. Col. No, siurely ; and if such a woman were to be found, she would be no fit companion for us. Har. (getting up, and pressing the Colonel's hand between his). My dearest friend ! your liberality and candour delight me ! — I do indeed believe that many a man has lived very happily with a woman far from being faultless : and, after all, where is the great injury he sustains, if she should be a little violent and unreasonable ? CoL (starting up from his seat). Nay, heaven defend us from a violent woman ; for that is the devil himself! (Seeing Habwood'* countenance change.) — What is the matter with you, Harwood ? She is not ill-tempered, I hope ? Har. (hesitating). Not — not absolutely so — She is of a very quick and lively disposition, and is apt to be too hasty and unguarded ii her emotions. — I do not, perhaps, m*ke myself completely under- stood. Col. O, I understand you perfectly. — I have known ladies of this lively disposition, very hasty and unguarded too in their demands upon a man's pocket as well as his patience; but she may be of a prudent and economical turn. Is it so, Har- wood? Har. (throwing himself into a chair very much distressed). I do not say it is, colonel. CoL (putting his hand kindly upon his shoulder). I am sorry to distress you so much, my dear iriend, yet it must be so. I see how it is with you : pardon the freedom of friendship, but indeed an expensive and violent-tempered woman is not to be thought of: he who marries such an one forfeits all peace and happiness. Pluck up some noble courage, and renounce this unfortunate connexion, Har. (starting up). Renounce it. Colonel Hardy? Is it from you I receive so hard, so unfeeling a request, who have suffered so much yourself from the remem- brance of an early attachment f I thought to have been pitied by you. Col. I was early chagrined with the want of pro- motion, and disappointed in my schemes of ambition, which gave my countenance something of a. melan- choly cast, I believe and the ladies have been kind enough to attribute it to the effects of hopeless love; 66 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. THE TRIAI.: A COMEDY. but how could you be such a ninny, my dear Harwood ? Hot.. I am sorry, sir, we have understood one another so impeifectly. Col. Nny, nay, my young friend, do not carry yourself so distantly with me. You have sought a love-lorn companion, and you have found a plain- spoken ii-iend. I am sorry to give you pain : deal more openly with me ; when I know who this be- witching creature is, I shall, perhaps, judge more favourably of your passion. Har. It is Miss Agnes Withrington. Col. Cousin to Miss Withrington the hehess ? Har. Yes, it is she. What have I said to amaze you? Col. You amaze me indeed! — That little — forgive me if I were almost to say, — plain-looking girl! Friendship would sympathize in your feelings; but, pardon me, Harwood, you have lost your wits. Har. I believe I have, colonel, which most plead my pardon, likewise, for expecting this friendship from you. Col. You distress me. Har. I distress myself still more, by suffering so long the pain of this conversation. Col. Let us end it then as soon as you please. When you are in a humour to listen to reason, I shall be happy to have the honour of seeing you. Har. When I am in that humour, sir, I will not balk it so much as to intrude upon your time. Col. Let me see you then, when you are not in tiiat humour, and I shall more frequently have the pleasure of your company. QBoth bow coldly.) \_Exit Colonel Haedy. Har. (alone). What a fool was I to send for this man ! — A little plain-looking girl ! What do the people mean ? They will drive me -mad amongst them. Why does not the little witch wear high heels to her shoes, and stick a plume of feathers in her cap ? Oh ! they will drive me distracted ! lExit. SCENE 11. Mh. WiTHKnfGTON'js house. Agnes discovered embroidering at a small table, Harwood standing by her, a-nd hanging fondly over her as she works. Har. How pretty it is ! Now you pot a little purple on the side of tlie flower. Ag. Yes, a very httle shade. Har. And now a little brown upon that. Ag. Even so. Har. And thus you work up and down, with that tiny needle of yours, till the whole flower is completed. (Pauses, sUU looking at her working.) Why, Agnes, you little witch ! you're doing that leaf wrong. Ag. You may pick it out then, and do it better for me. Tm sure you have been idle enough all the morning ; it is time you were employed about some- thing. Har. And so I will. (Sitting doum hy her, and taking hold of the work.) Ag. (cmering the flower with her hand). O no ! no! Har. Take away that little perverse hand, and let me begin. (Putting his hand upon hers.) Ag. What a good for nothing creature you are ! you can do nothing yourself, and you will suffer nobody else to do any thing. I should have had the whole pattern finished before now, if you had not loitered over my chair so long. Har. So you can't work when I look over you ! Then I have some influence upon yon ? you sly girl ! you are caught in your own words at last. Ag. Indeed, Harwood, I wish you would go home again to your law-books and your precedent-hunt- ing ; you have misspent a great deal of time here already. Har. Is it not better to be with you in reality than only in imagination ? Ah, Agnes ! you little know what my home studies are. — Law, said you ! how can I think of law, when your countenance looks upon me from every black lettered page that I turn ? when your figure fills the empty seat by my side, and your voice speaks to me in the very mid-day stillness of my chamber ? Ah ! my sweet Agnes ! you will not believe what a foolish fellow I have been since I first saw you. Ag. Nay, Harwood, I am not at all incredulous of the fact ; it is only the cause of it which I doubt. Har. Saucy girl! I must ^m-ely be revenged upon you for all this. Ag. I am tired of this work. (Getting up.) Har. 1 do not give over. — Let me do some- thing for yon — Let me tlu-ead your needle for you — I can thread one most nobly. Ag. There then, ((rives him a needle ajid silk.) Har. (pretending to scratch her hand with it). So ought you to be punished. (Threads it awkioardly.) Ag. Ay, nobly done, indeed ! but I shall work no more to-day. Har. You must work up my needleful. Ag. I am to work a fool's cap in the comer by and bye ; I shall keep your needleful for that. I am going to walk in the garden. Har. And so am L Ag. You are ? Har. Yes, I am. Go where you will, Agnes, to the garden or the field, the city or the desert, by sea or by land, I must e'en go too. I will never be where you are not, but when to be where you are is impossible. Ag. There will be no getting rid of yon at this rate, unless some witch will have pity upon me, and carry me up in the air upon her broom-stick. Har. There I will not pretend to follow you j but as long as you remain upon the earth, Agnes, I ACT IV. SCENi; UI. PLATS ON THE PASSIONS. 67 cannot find in my heaxt to move an inch ftom your side. Ag. You are a madman 1 Sar. You are a sorcek'ess ! Ag. You are an idler ! Har. You are a little mouse ! Ag, Come, come, get your hat then, and let us go. (^Aside while he goes to the bottom of the stage for his hat) Bless me ! I have forgot to be ill-humour'd all this time. [.Exit, hastily. Har. (coming forward). Gone for her cloak, I suppose. How delightM she is! how pleasant every change of her countenance ! How happy must his hfe be, spent even in cares and toil, whose leisure hours are cheered with such a creature as this. Ag. (without, in an angry voice). Don't tell me so ; I know very well how it is, and you shall smart for it too, you lazy, careless, impudent fel- low ! And, besides all this, how dare you use my kitten so ? Bar. (who listened with a rueftd face). 'Well, now, but this is humanity : she will not have a creature ill-used. — I wish she would speak more gently though. Ag. (entering). Troublesome, provoking, careless fellow ! Har. It is very provoking in him to use the poor kitten ilL Ag. So it is; but it is more provoking still to mislay my clogs, as he does. Enter Servant with clogs. Ser. Here they are, madam. Ag. Bring them here, I say. (Looks at them.) These are Miss Withrington's clogs, you blockhead ! ( Throws them to the other side of the stage in a pas- sion.) I must go without them, I find. (To Hae- wooD.) What are you musing about? If you don't choose to go with me, good morning. Har. (sighing deeply). Ah, Agnes ! you know too well that I cannot stay behind you, [Exeunt SCENE III. Miss Withhingtoii'* dressing-room. Enter Ma- KiANE, who turns back again towards the door, and calls to Agnes without Mar. Agnes, consul Agnes ! where are you going ? Ag. (without). I am returning to Miss Eston, whom 1 have left in the parlour, talking to the dog. Mar. Well, let her talk to the dog a little longer, and let me talk to yon. Enter Agnes. X have set Betty to watch at the higher windows to give notice of Su: Loftus's approach, that wo may put ourselves in order to receive him ; for I am re- solved to have one bout more with him, and dis- charge him for good : I am quite tired of him now. Ag. Do you expect him ? Mar. I am pretty sure he will come about this time, and I must be prepared for him. I have a good mind to tell him at once, I despise him, and that will be a plain, easy way of finishing the busi- ness. Ag. No, no, my sweet Mariane ! we must send him ofif with eclat. You have played your part very well hitherto ; keep it up but for the last time, and let Miss Estoh and me go into the closet and enjoy it. Mar. "Well then, do so : I shall please you for this once. Enter Bettt, in haste. Set (to Mak.) Sir Loftus is just coming up the side path, madam, and he'll be at the door imme- diately. Ag. rU run and bring Eston directly. [Exit Mar. (looking at the door of the closet). Yes, it is very thin : they will hear well, and see through the key-hole. Re-enter Agnes with Miss Eston, in a great hurry. Est. La ! I have torn my gown in my haste. Ag. Come along, come along ! Est. It is not so bad a tear though as Mrs. Thom- son got the Ag. Come, come, we must not stay here. (Pushes Eston into the closet and follows. Mariane and Bettt place a table with books and a chair near the front of the stage.) Est (looking from the closet). La! Mariane, how I long to hear you and him begin. I shall be so delighted ! Mar. For heaven's sake shut the door ! he will be here immediately. (Shuts the door upon her, and continues to set the room in order.) Est. (looking out again). La ! Mariane, do you know how many yards of point Lady Squat has got round her new^ — (Agnes from behind, claps her hand on Eston'* mouth, and draws her into the closet — Mabiane sets herself by the table, pretending to read. Exit Bettt, and enter SiK Lonns, d servant announcing him.) Sir Loft You are very studious this morning. Miss Withrington. Mar. (carelessly.) Ha I how do you do ? Sir Loft. Yon have been well amused, I hope ? Mar. So, so. I must put in a mark here, and not lose my place. (Looking on the table.) There is no paper — O, there is some on the other table : pray do fetch it me ! (Pointing to a table at the bottom of the stage.) I am very lazy. (Sits down again indolently.) 68 JOANNA BAILUE'S ■WORKS. THE TEIAl, : A COMEDY. Sir Loft, (fetching the paper, and presenting it with a cimdescending yet self-important air). I have the honour to obey you, ma'am. Mar, I thank you ; you are a very serviceable creature, I am sure. Sir Loft, (drawing himself up proudly, but im- visdiately correcting himselj~). I am always happy to serve Miss Withrington. Mar. ! I know very well the obliging tium of your disposition. ( Tosses her arm upon the taile and throws down a booh.) I am very stupid this morning. (Sir Loptus picks up the book, and gives it to her rather sulkily ; and she in receiving it drops an ivory ball under the table.') Bless me I what is the matter with all these things ? pray lift it for me, good Sir Loftus I I believe you must creep under the table for it though. (He stoops under the table with a very bad grace, and site slily gives it a touch with her foot, which makes it run to the other side of the stage.) Nay, you must go farther off for it now. I am very troublesome. Sir Loft, (goes after it rather unwillingly, and pre- senting it to her with a still worse grace). Madam, this is more honour than I — (mumbling.) Mar. O, no ! Sir Loftus, it is only you that are too good. (Lolling carelessly in her chair.) It is so comfortable to have such a good creature by one I your fine fashionable men are admired to be sure, but I don't know how, I feel always restrained in their company. With a good obliging creature like you now, I can be quite at my ease ; I can just desire you to do any thing. Sir Loft. Upon my honour, madam, you flatter me very much indeed. Upon my honour, I must say, I am rather at a loss to conceive how I have merited these commendations. Mar, O! Sir Loftus, you are too humble, too diffident of yourself. I know very well the obliging turn of your disposition to every body. Sir Loft, (aside). Is she an idiot ? (Aloud.) Your good opinion, madam, does me a great deal of honour, but I assure you, ma'am, it is more than I deserve. I have great pleasure in serving Miss Withrington ; — to be at the service of every body is an extent of benevolence I by no means pretend to. Mar, Now why ai"e you so difSdent, Sir Loftus ? Did not old Mi's. Mumblecake tell me the other day, how you ran nine times to the apothecary's to fetch green salve to rub her monkey's taU ? Sir Loft, She told you an abominable lie then ! (Biting his lip, and walking up and doum with hasty strides,) Tins is indeed beyond all bearing. I run nine times to the apothecary's to fetch green salve for her monkey's tail! If the vile hag says so again, I'll buiy her alive ! Mar, Nay, don't be angry about it. Fm sure I thought it veiy good in you, and I said so to every body. Sir Loft Tou have been obliging enough to tell it to all the world too ? Mar, And why should I not have the pleasure of praising you ? Sir Loft, Intolerable 1 (Turning on his hed, and striding up and down, ami muttering as he goes, whilst she sits carelessly wiA her arms crossed.) Mar, My good Sir Loftus, you will tire yoursel£ Had you not better be seated ? Sir Loft, (endeavouring to compose himself). The influence you have over me, ma'am, gets the better of every thing. I would not have you mis- take my character, however ; if love engages me in your service, you ought so to receive it. I have been less profikse of these attentions to women of the very first rank and fashion ; I might therefore have hoped that you would lend a more favourable ear to my passion. Mar. Indeed yon wrong me. Tou don't know how favourably my ear may be disposed : sit down here and tell me all about it (Sm Loftds revolts again at her familiarity, but stifles his pride, and sits £mm by her.) Sir Loft. Permit me to say, madam, that it is time we should come to an explanation of each other's sentiments. Mar, Whenever yon please, su:. Sir Loft (bowing). I hope, then, I may be al- lowed to presume, that my particular attentions to you, pardon me, ma'am, have not been altogether disagreeable to you. Mar, ! not at all. Sir Loftns. Sir Loft, (bowing again). I will presume then still farther, ma'am, and declare to yon, that from the very day which gave birth to my passion, I have not ceased to think of you with the most ardent tenderness. Mar. La, Sir Loftus, was it not of a Wednesday? Sir Loft, (fretted). Upon my word I am not so very accurate : it might be Wednesday, or Friday, or any day. Mar. Of a Friday, do you think? it runs strangely in my head that we saw one another first of a Wednesday. Sir Loft (very much fretted.) I say, ma'am, the day which gave birth to my love Mar, O very true ! you might see me first of a Wednesday, and yet not fall in love with me till the Friday. (SiK Loftus starts up in a passion, and strides up and doum. — Mabiahe rising from her ^eat carelessly,) I wonder where William has put the nuts I bought for Miss Eston's squirrel. I think I hear a mouse in the wainscot. (Goes to the bottom of the room, and opens a small cabinet, whilst SiK LOPTUS comes forward to the front.) Sir Loft (aside). Confound her freaks I I wish the devil had the wooing of her. (Pauses.) I must not lose her for a trifle though ; but when she is once secured, TH be revenged! Til vex her! Til ACT V. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 69 drive the spirit out of her ! (^Aloud, as site comes forward.') My passion for you, Miss Withrington, is too generous and disinterested to merit this in- difFereuce. > Mar. Vm glad they have not eaten the nuts though. Sir Loft, (aside). Pest seize her andher nuts ! Til tame her J (Aloud.) My sentiments for you, ma'am, are of so delicate and tender a nature, they do indeed deserve your indulgence. Tell me, then, can the most dianterested, the most fervent love, make any impression on your heart ? I can no longer exist in this state of anxiety I at your feet let me implore you — (Seems about to kneel, but rather unwillingb/, as if he wished to be prevented.) Mar. Pray, Sir Loftus, don't kneel there! my maid has spilt oil on the floor. Sir Loft Since you will not permit me to have the pleasure of kneeling at Mar. Nay, I will not deprive you of the plea- sure — There is no oil spilt here. (Pointing to a part of ike floor very near the closet doiyr.) Sir Loft I see it would be disagreeable to you. Mar. I see very well you are not inclined to condescend so far. Sir Loft (kneeling directly). Believe me, madam, the pride, the pleasure of my life, is to be devoted to the most adorable — (Mahtatjtc gives a significant cough, and Agnes and Eston burst from the closet : the door opening on the outside, comes against Sik LoPTUs as he kneels, and lays him sprawling on the .floor.) Ag. Est. and Mar. (speaking together). Sir Loftus ! poor Sir Loftus ! (AH coming about him, pretending to assist him to get up.) Sir Loft. Curse their bawlmg ! they will bring the whole family here. Enter Ma. Withkington and Opai : SiE Loftus, mad with rage, makes a desperate effort, and gets upon his legs. Opai. stands laughing at him with- out any ceremony, whilst he bites his lips, and draws himself up haughtily. Mar. (to Sir Loftus). Pm afraid yon have hurt yourself ? Sir Loft (shortly). No, ma'am. Ag. Havn't you rubbed the skin ofiF your shins, Sir Loftus ? Sir Loft. No, ma'am. Ag. I am sure he has hurt his nose, but he is ashamed to own it. Sir Loft Neither shin nor nose ! Devil take it I With. Get along, girls, and don't torment this poor man any longer. I am afraid. Sir Loftus, the young gipsies have been making a fool of you. Sir Loft Sir, it is neither in your power nor theirs to make a fool of me. Op. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 'Faith, Prettyman, you must forgive me ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! I never thought in my life to have caught you at such low prostrations. But don't be so angry, though you do make a con- founded siUy figure, it must be confest. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Sir Loft, (to Op.) Sir, your impertinence and yourself are equally contemptible : and I desire you would no longer take the trouble of intruding your- self into my company, or of affronting me, as you have hitherto done, with your awkward imitation of my figure and address. Op. What do you mean ? I imitate your figure and address ! I scorn to — I will not deny that 1 may have insensibly acquired a little of them both, for — for — (hesitating.) Ag. For he has observed people laughing at him of late. Sir Loft (turning on his heeL) He is beneath my resentment. Mar. Be not so angiy, good Sir Loftus ! let us end this business for the present ; and when I am at leisure to hear the remainder of your declar- ations, which have been so unfortunately interrupted, I'll send and let you know. Sir Loft No, 'faith, madam ! you have heard the last words I shall ever say to you upon the subject. A large fortune may make amends for an ordinary person, madam, but not for vulgarity and impertinence. Good morning ! (Breaks from them, and Exit, leaving them laughing provokingly behind him.) With, (shaking his head). This is too bad, this is too bad, young ladies ! I um ashamed to have all this rioting and absurdity going on in my house. Ag. Come away, uncle, and see him go down the back walk, from the parlour windows. I'll warrant you he'll stride it away most nobly. CWnsRisa- TON follows, shrugging up lus shoulders.) VExeunt ACT V. SCENE I. Me. Witheington's library. Mb. Witheihgton discovered seated by a table. With. Who waits there ? (Enter servant) Tell Miss Agnes Withrington I wish to see her. (Exit Servant.) What an absurd fellow this Harwood is, to be so completely bewitched with such a girl as Agnes ! If she were like the women I remember, there would indeed be some — (Agnes entering softly behind him, gives him a tap on the shoulder.) Ag. Well, uncle, what are you grumbling about? Have you lost your wager ? Harwood has just left you, I hear. With. I believe you may buy those trinkum tran- kum ornaments for Mariane whenever you please. 70 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. THE TRIAL: A COMEDY. Ag. Pray look not so ungraciously upon the matter ! But you can't forgive him, I suppose, for being such a ninny as to fall in love with a little ordinary girl, eh ?' With. And so he is a ninny, and a fool, and a very silly fellow. Ag. Do tell me what he has been saying to you. With. Why, he confesses thou art ill-tempered, that thou art freakish, that thou art extravagant ; and that of aU the friends he has spoken with upon the subject, there is not one who will allow thee beauty enough to make a good-looking dairy- maid. Ag. Did he say so ? With. Why something nearly equivalent to it, Agnes. Yet notwithstanding all this there is some- thing about thee so unaccountably delightful to him, that, poor as thou art, he will give up the fair hopes of opulence, and the pleasures of freedom, to watch for thee, bear vrith thee, drudge for thee, if thou wilt have the condescension, in return, to plague and torment him for life. Ag. Foolish enough indeed ! yet heaven bless him for it ! What a fortunate woman am I ! I sought a disinterested lover, and I have found a, most wonderful one. With. I dare say yon think yourself very for- timate. Ag. And don't you, likewise, my good sir ? but you seem displeased at it. With. You guess riglitly enough : I must speak without disguise, Agnes ; I am not pleased. Ag. Ah! his want of fortune With. Pooh ! you know very well I despise all merceneury balancing of property. It is not that which disturbs me. To be the disinterested choice of a worthy man is what every woman, who means to marry at all, would be ambitious of ; and a point in regai'd to her marriage, which a woman of for- tune would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But there are men whose passions are of such a violent overbearing nature, that love in them may be con- sidered as a disease of the mind ; and the object of it claims no more perfection or pre-eminence among women, than chalk, lime, or oatmeal do among dainties, because some diseased stomachs do prefer them to !i\ things. Such men as these we sometimes see attach themselves even to ugliness and infamy, in defiance of honour and decency. With such men as these, women of sense and refinement can never be happy ; nay, to be willingly the object of their love is not respectable. (^Patises.') But you don't care for all this, I suppose? It does well enough for an old uncle to perplex himself with these niceties : it is you yourself the dear man happens to love, and none of those naughty women I have been talking of, so all is very right. (^Pauses, and she seems thoughtful.^ Ag. {assuming a grave and more dignified air'). No, sir, you injure me : prove that his love for me is stronger than his love of virtue, and I will With. What win you do, Agnes ? Ag. I win give hnn up for ever. With. Ay, there spoke a brave girl ! you deserve the best husband in Christendom for this. Ag. Nay, if Harwood endures not the test, I will indeed renounce bim ; but no other man shall ever fill his place. WitL Well, well, we .shall see, we shall see. ( Walis up and doum. She is thoughtful.) You are very thoughtful, Agnes ! I fear I have distressed you. Ag. You have distressed me, yet I thank you for it. I have been too presumptuous, I have ventured faither than I ought. Since it is so, I will not shrink from the trial. {Pauses.) Don't you think he vrill go through it honourably ? With, {shaking his head). Indeed I know not — I hope he will. Ag. You hope! I thank you for that word, my dear sir ! I hope he will too. {She remains thought- ful: he takes a turn or two across the stage.) With, {clapping her shxmlder affectionately). Wliat are yon thinking of, niece ? Ag. How to set about this business. With. And how will you do it ? Ag. I will write a letter to Lady Fade, asking pardon for having told some malicious falsehoods of her, to a relation on whom she is dependant ; begging she will make up the matter, and forgive me, promising at the same time, most humbly, if she will not expose me for this time, never to offend so any more. Next time he comes I will make him direct the letter himself, that when it falls into his hands again, he may have no doubt of its authenticity. Will this do ? WilK Yes, very weR. If he loves you after this, his love is not worth the having. Ag. Ah, uncle ! You are very hard-hearted ! But you are very right : I know you are very right. Pray does not Royston lodge in the same house with Harwood ? With. He does. Ag. I wish, by his means, we could conceal our- selves somewhere in his apartments, where we might see Harwood have the letter put into his hands, and observe his behaviour. I don't know any body else who can do this for us : do you tliiuk yon conld put him into good humour again ? With. I rather think I can, for he hath still a favour to ask of me. Ag. We must give him a part to act ^ do you think he can do it ? With. He is a very blundering fellow, but he will be so flattered with being let into the secret, that I know he will do his best. ACT V. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 71 JEnter Mabiane. Mar. What have you been about so long to- gether ? I With. Hatching a new plot ; and we set about it directly too. Mar. I am very sure the plot is of your own hatching then ; for I never saw Agnes with any thing of this kind in her head, wear such a grave spiritless face upon it before. With. You are mistaken, ma'am; it is of her own contrivance ; but you shall know nothing about it. And I give you warning that this shall be the last of them : if you have any more poor wretches on your hands to torment, do it quickly ; for I will have an end put to all this foolery. Mar. Very well, uncle ; I have just been fol- lowing yom- advice. I have discarded Sir Ulick O'Grady, and I have only now poor Opal to re- ward for his services, I have got a promise of marriage from him, in which he forfeits ten thou- sand pounds if he draws back. I shall torment him with this a little. It was an extraordinary thing to be sure for an heiress to demand : but I told him it was the fashion ; and now that he has bound him- self so securely, he is quite at heart's ease, and thinks every thing snug and well settled. Enter Eotston, a Servant announcing him. With. Your servant, Mr. Eoyston, I am very glad to see you. Don't start at seeing the ladies with me ; I know my niece, Mariane, and yon have had a little misunderstanding, but when I have explained the matter to you, you will be friends with her again, and laagh at it yourself. Ba/. (coMy). I have the honour to wish the ladies good morning. WiSi. Nay, cousin, you don't understand how it is : these girls have been playing tricks upon every man they have met with since they came here ; and when that wild creature (^pointing to Masiane) was only laughing at the cheat she had passed upon them all, which I shall explain to you presently, you thought she was laughing at you. Shake hands, and be friends with her, cousin; nobody minds what a foolish girl does. Roy. (his face brightening up). O ! for that matter, I mind these things as little as any body, cousin Withrington. I have too many affairs of importance on my hands, to attend to such little matters as these. I am glad the young lady had a hearty laugh, with all my soul ; and I shall be happy to see her as merry again whenever she has a mind to it. I mind it ! No, no, no ! Mar. I thank you, sir ; and I hope we shall be merry again, when you shall have your own share of the joke. Soy. Yes, yes, we shall be very merry. By the bye, Withrington, I came here to teU you, that I have got my business with the duke put into so good a train, that it can hardly miscarry. With. I am happy to hear it.. Hoy. You must know I have set very artfully about it, cousin ; but I dare say you would guess as much, he, he, he ! You knew me of old, eh ! I have got Mr. Cullyfool to ask it for me on his own account ; I have bribed an old housekeeper, who is to inter- est a great lady in my favour ; I have called eleven times on his Grace's half-cousin, till she has fairly promised to write to the duchess upon the business : I have written to the steward, and promised his son all my interest at next election, if he has any mind to stand for our borough, you know ; and I have applied by a friend — no, no, he has applied through the medium of another fiiend, or rather, I believe, by that friend's wife, or aunt, or some way or other, I don't exactly remember, but it is a very good channel, I know. With. ! I make no doubt of it. Hoy. Nay, my landlady has engaged her apo- thecary's wife to speak to his Grace's physician about it ; and a medical man, you know, sometimes asks a favour with great advantage, when a patient believes that his life is in his hands. The duke has got a most furious fit of the gout, and it has been in his stomach too, ha, ha, ha, ha! — If we can't succeed without it, I have a friend who will offer a round sum for me, at last ; but I hope this will not be necessary. Pray, do you know of any other good channel to solicit by ? Witit. 'Faith, Koyston ! you have found out too many roads to one place already : I fear you'll lose your way among them all. Hoy. Nay, nay, cousin, I won't be put off so. I have been told this morning you are acquainted with Sucksop, the duke's greatest friend and ad- viser. Come, come ! you must use your interest for me. With. Well, then, come into the other room, and we shall speak about it. I have a favour to ask of you too. Roy. My dear sir, any favour in my power you may absolutely command at all times. I'll follow you, cousin. (Goes to the door with Witheihgtoij with great alacrity, but recollecting that he has for- gotten to pay his compliments to the ladies, hurries bach agaiji, and, after making several very profound bows to them, follows Withrington into another room.) Mar. (imitating him). Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Ag. Softly, Mariane ; let us leave this room, if you must laugh, for he will overhear you. [^Exeunt SCENE n. Kotston'* lodgings: enter Botston, conducting in Agnes, Mariane, ayul Withrington. Roy. Now, pray compose yourselves, young 72 JOANNA BAIIXEE'S "WORKS. THE TKIAL : A COMEDY. ladies, and sit down a little. I'U manage every thing : don't give yourselves any trouble: I'U set the whole plot a-going.^ With. We depend entirely upon yon, Eoyston. -Roy. I know you do : many a one depends upon me, cousin "Withrington. I'll show you how I'll manage it. Jonaithan, eome here, Jonathan ! (Enter JoNATHAiir.) Bring me that screen from the other room. (Exit Jonathak.) We'll place it here if you please, cousin, and then yea and the ladies can stand as snugly behind it, as kings and queens in a puppet-show, -till your time comes to ap- pear. (Enter JcaiATHAN v>iA screen.^ Come hither with it, Jonathan : place it here (Pointing.') No, no, jolter-head, nearer the wall with it. (Going behind it, and coming out again.') It will do better a little more to this side, 'for then it wiU be farther from the window. Ag. O ! it will do very well, sir ; you take too much trouble. Boy. Trouble, my dear ma'am ! If it were a hun- dred times more trouble, I should be happy to serve you. I don't mind trouble, if I can get the thing done cleverly and completely. That's my -way of doing things. No, it doil't stand to please me yet ; it is too near the door now, and tie ladies may catch cold, perhaps. Ag. (very uneasy). Indeed, 'it stands very well ! Harwood wiU be here before, we are ready. Hoy. (to Jon.) BloclSihead, that thou art! canst thou not set it up even ? ijNow^that wiU do, (Getting behind it.) T^is, will ■ do. (Coming out again.) Tes, this will -^o, tq' a'nicety. Mar. (oiirfe)."-' Heaven be praised, this grand matter is settle'd^at last ! Soy. Nowfi.ne'U think it odd, perhaps, that I have a screen 'm my room ;i.lait Ii.havcJ a trick for that, ladies j L'll ;teU him I mean to purchase lands in Canada, and have been looking over the map of America. (Asnes "liioks ^to ■Wjthrinoton very uneasily.) With. Don't do that, ^oyston, for then ie will, examine the screen. ' Boy. Or I may say, there is a chink in the wall, ' and I placed it to keep out the air. Ag. No, no, that yrou't do. For heaven's sake, sir! Boy. Then I shall- just say, I like to have a screen in my room, for I am used to it .at' home. Mar. Bless me, Mr. Eoyston ! can't you just leave it alone, and he'll take no notice of it. Boy. O ! if he '.takes no notice of it, that is a different thing. Miss Withrington: but don't be uneasy. Til manage it all ; I'll conduct the whole business. Ag. (aside to Withsdjuton). O ! my good sir ! this fool will ruin every thing. With. Be quiet, Agnes ; we are in for it now. Boy, ttet me remember my lesson too. Here is the letter for him, with the seal as naturally broken, as if the lady had done it herself. Blar- wood will wonder, now, how I came to know about all this. 'Faith ! I believe he thinks me a strange, diving, penetrating kind of a genius, already, and he is not far wrong, perhaps. You know me, cousin Withrington : ha, ha, ha, ha ! Tou know me. Ag. ! I wish it were over, and we were out of this house again ! Boy. Don't be uneasy, ma'am. Til manage every thing. — Jonattiani (Enter JonatSan.) Don't you go and tell Mr. Harwood that I have got company here. Jon. No, no, your honour ; I knows better than that ; for the ladies are to be behind the screen, sir, and he must know nothing of the matter, to be sure. I'ficken ! it vrill be rare sport ! Ag. (starting). I hear a knock at the door. Bca/. It iste, I dare say ; run, Jonathan. {^Exit JOKATHAN. Ag. Come, come, let us hide ourselves. {AU get behind the screen but Rotston. Boy. Ay, ay, it will do very weU. (Looking at the screenf) Ag. (behind). Mariane, don't breathe so loud. Mar. (behind). I don't breathe loud. Ag. (behind). Do, uncle, draw in the edge of your coat.' With, (behind). Pooh, siUy girl ! they can't see a bit of it. Enter Colonel Hakdt and Hakwood. Boy. Ha ! your servant, my dear colonel. How goes it, Harwood ? I bade my man tell you I was alone, and very much disposed for your good com- pany ;■ but I am doubly fortunate. (Bowing to the Colonel.) Col Indeed, Eoyston, I have been pretty much with h'Tti these two days past, and I don't believe he gives me great thanks for my company. I am like an old horse running after a colt ; the young rogue never fails to turn now and then, and give him a kick for his pains. Har. Nay, iny good friend, I must be an ass's colt, then. I am sure I mean it not ; but I am not happy, and fear I have been peevish with you. Boy. (attempting to look archly). Peevish, and all that ! perhaps the young man is in love, colonel? Col. No more, if you please, Eoyston : we are to speai of tiiis no more. Enter Jonathan. Jon. Did your honour call ? Boy. No, sirrah. (Jonathan goes, as if he were looking for something, and takes a sly peep behind Ae screen, to see if they are all there.) What are you peeping there for ? get along, you hound ! Does ACT V. SCENE U. PLAYS ON THE I'ASSIONS. 73 he want to make people believe I keep raree-shows behind the wainscot ? (^Exit Jonathan.) But as I was a-saying, colonel, perhaps the young man is in love. He, he, he ! ' CoL Ko, no, let us have no more of it. Soy. But 'faith, I know that he is so ! and I know the lady too. She is a consin of my own, and I am as well acquainted with her as I am vrith my own dog — But you don't ask me what kind of a girl she is. (To tie cotonel.) CoL Give over now, Royston ; she is a very good girl, I dare say. ifoy. Well, you may think so, but — (making significant faces.') But — I should not say all I know of my own cousin, to be sure, but Har. What are all those grimaces for ? Her faults are plain and open as her perfections : these she disdains to conceal, and the others it is impossible. Sot/. Softly, Harwood; don't be in a passion, unless yon would imitate your mistress ; for she has not the gentlest temper in the world. ffar. Well, well, I love her the better for it. I can't bear your insipid passionless women : I would as soon live upon sweet curd all my life as attach myself to one of them. Soy. She is very extravagant Sar. Heaven bless the good folks ! would they have a man give up the woman of his heart, because she likes a bit of lace upon her petticoat ? Soy. Well, but she is . CoL Cease, Koyston ! can't you hold your tongue about her 7 you see he can't bear it. Soy. (makiTig signs to the colonel). Let me alone ; I know when to speak, and when to hold my tongue, as well as another. Indeed, Harwood, I am your friend ; and though the lady is my relation, I must say I wish you had made a better choice : I have discovered something in regard to her this morning, which shows her to be a very improper one. I cannot say, however, that I have discovered any thing which surprised me ; I know her too well. ffar. (vehemently). Tou are imposed upon by some odious falsehood. Soy. But I have proof of what I say ; the lady who is injured by her gave me this letter to show to Mr. Withrington. (Taking out the letter.) Har. It is some fiend who wants to undermine her, and has forged that scrawl to serve her spiteful purpose. Say. I should be glad it were so, my dear friend ; but Lady Fade is a woman whose veracity has never been suspected. Har. Is it from Lady Fade ? Give it me ! (Snatching the letter.) Soy. It is Agnes's hand, is it not ? Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it. Soy. Bead the contents, pray ! Har. " Madam, what I have said to the prejudice of your ladyship's character to your relation, Mr. Worthy, I am heartily sorry for ; and I am ready to beg pardon on my knees, iH you desire, it ; to acknowledge before Mr. Worthy himself, that it is a falsehood, or make any other reparation, in a private way, that you may desire. Let me, then, conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and I shall ever remain your most penitent and grateful A. Withrington." Soy. The lady would not be so easily pacified, though; for she blackened her character, in order to make her best friend upon earth quarrel with her ; so she gave me the letter to show to her uncle. Is it forged, think you ? Har. It is possible — I will venture to say — Nay, I am sure it is ! Soy. If it be, there is one circumstance which may help to discover the author ; it is directed by a different hand on the back. Look at it. Har. (in great perturbation). Is it ? ( Turns has- tily the folds of Ae letter, but his hand trembles so much, he can't find the back.) CoL My dear Harwood ! this is the back of the letter, and methinks the writing is somewhat like your own. (Harwood looks at it; then staggering back, throws himself into a chair, which happens to be behind him, and covers the upper part of his face with his hand.) CoL My dear Harwood ! Soy. See how his lips quiver, and his bosom heaves ! Let us unbutton hun; I fear he is going into a fit. (Aqnes comes from behind the screen in a fright, and Withrington pulls her in again.) CoL (with great tenderness). My dear Harwood ! Har. (with a broken voice). Pll go to my own chamber. (Gets up hastily from his chair, and then falls back again in a fainting ft.) CoL He has fainted. Soy. Help, help, here ! (Sunning about) Who has got hartshorn, or lavender, or water ? help here ! (They aU come from behind the screen. Agnes runs to Harwood, and sprinkles him over with lavender, rubbing his temples, Ifc, whilst Colonei, Habdt stares at them all in amazement.) Ag. Alas I we have carried this too far ! Har- wood ! my dear Harwood ! CoL (to Hot.) What is all this ? Soy. I thought we should amaze you, I knew I should manage it. Col. You have managed finely indeed, to put Harwood into such a state with your mummery. Ag. Will he not come to himself again? Get some water, Mariane — See how pale he is ! (He re- covers.) O ! he recovers 1 Harwood 1 do you know me, Harwood ? Har. (looking upon Asnes, and shrinking back from her). Ha ! what has brought you here ? leave me ! leave me I I am wretched enough already. Ag. I come to bring you relief, my dear Hanvood. 74 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. THE TRIAL : A COMEBT. Bar. No, madam, it is misery you bring. We must part for ever. Ag. ! uncle ! do you hear that ? He says we must part for evei^ With, (taking hold o/" Agnes). Don't be in such a hurry about it. Har. (rising up). How came you here? (To Withkington), and. these ladies ? Hot/. ! it was aJl my contrivance. With. Pray now, Koyston, be quiet a little. — Mr. Harwood, I will speak to you seriously. I see you are attached to my niece, and I confess she has many faults ; but you are a man of sense, and with you she will make a more respectable figure in the world than with any other ; I am anxious for her welfare, and if you will marry her, I will give her such a fortune as will make it no longer an impru- dent step to follow your inclinations. Sar. No, sir, you shall keep your fortune and your too bewitching niece together. For her sake I would have renounced aU ambition ; I would have shared with her poverty and neglect ; I would have borne with all her faults and weaknesses of nature ; I would have toiled, I would have bled for her ; but I can never yoke myself with unworthiness. Ag. (wiping her eyes, and giving two skips upon the floor). O ! admirable I admirable ! speai to him, uncle ! tell him all, my dear unde ! for I can't say a word. Col. (aside toTSioYSios). Is not she a little vrrong in the head, Boyston ? With. Give me your hand, Harwood ? you are a noble fellow, and you shall marry this little girl of mine after all. This story of the letter and Lady Fade, was only a concerted one among us, to prove what mettle you are made of. Agnes, to tiy your love, affected to be shrewish and extravagant ; and afterwards, at my suggestion, to try your principles, contrived this htUe plot, which has just now been unravelled ; but I do assure you, on the word of an honest man, there is not a better girl in the king- dom. I must own, however, she is a fanciful little toad. (Harwood runs to Agnes, catches her in his arms, and runs two or three times round with her, then takes her hand and kisses it, and then puts his knee to the ground.) Har. My charming, my delightful Agnes ! Oh ! what a fool have I been ! how could I suppose it ? Ag. We took some pains with yon, and it would have been hard, if we could not have deceived you amongst us all. ffar. And so thou art a good girl, a very good girl. I know thou art. Til be hanged if thou hast one fault in the world. With. No, no, Harwood, not quite so perfect. I can prove her still to be an arrant cheat ; for she pretended to be careless of you when she thought of you all the day long ; and she pretended to be poor with a hundred thousand pounds, independent of any one, in her possession. She is Miss Withrington the heiress ; and this lady (pointing to Makiane) has only been her representative for a time, forreasons which I shall explain to you by and bye. (Haewood lets go Agnes'* hand, and steps back some paces with a certain gravity and distance in his air.) With. What is the matter now, Harwood ? does this cast a damp upon you ? Roy. It is a weighty distress truly. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Col. This is good, i- faith. Ag. (going up to Haewood, and holding out her hand). Do not look so distantly upon me, Harwood : you were willing to marry me as a poor woman ; if there be any thing in my fortune which offends you, I scatter it to the winds. Har. My admirable girl ! it is astonishment, it is something I cannot express, which overcomes, I had almost said distresses me, at present. (Presenting her to the colonel.) Colonel Hardy, this is the woman I have raved about ! this is the woman I boasted of ! this is my Agnes ! and this. Miss With- rington, is Colonel Hardy, my own, and my father's friend. Ag. (holding out her hand to the colonel). He shall be mine too. Every friend of yours shall be my iriend, Harwood ; but the friend of your father my most respected one. Har. Do you hear that, colonel ? Col. I hear it ; my heart hears it, and blesses you both. Har. (to Wits.) My dear sir, what shall I say to you for all this goodness ? Ag. Tell him he is the dearest best uncle on earthi and we will love him all onr lives for it Yes, indeed, we will, uncle, (taking his Juind), very, very dearly ! Soy. Now, good folks, have not I managed it cleverly ? Mar. Pray let me come from the back ground a little; and since I must quit all the splendour of heiresship, I desire, at least, that I may have some respect paid me for having filled the situation so well, as the old mayor receives the thanks of the corporation, when the new mayor — Bless me ! here comes Opal ! I have not quite done with it yet. Enter Opal. With. Your servant, Mr. Opal. Mar. (to Op.) Are you not surprised to find ns aU here ? Op. Harwood I know is a very lucky fellow, but I knew you were here It is impossible, you see, to escape me. But (half aside to Maeianb) I wanted to tell you Colonel Beaumont is come to Bath. Now I should like to be introduced to him on his arrival. He will be very much the fashion, I dare say, and I should hke to have a friendship for him. You understand me ? You can procure this for me, I know. ACT T. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 75 With. Come, Mr. Opal, 70U must join in our good humour here, for we have just been making up a match. My niece, Agnes, with a large fortune, bestows herself on a worthy man, who would have married her without one ; and Mariane, who for certain reasons has assumed her character of heiress since we came to Bath, leaves all her borrowed state, in hopes that the man who would have married her with a fortune, will not now forsake her. Op. (stammering). Wh— Wh — What is aU this ? -Roy. (half aside to Opal). You seem disturbed. Mi:. Opal ; you have not been paying your addresses to her, I hope. Op. (aside to Eotston). No, not paying my ad- dresses ; that is to say, not absolutely. I have paid her some attention, to be sure. Jtoy. (nodding significanib/). It is well for you it is no worse. Mar. (turning to Opal, wTto looks very much frightened). What is it you say ? Don't you think I overheard it ? Not paid your addresses to me ! O ! you false man ! can you deny the declarations you have made ? the oaths you have sworn ? ! you false man ! Op. Upon honour, madam, we men of the world don't expect to be called to an account for every foolish thing we say. Mar. What you have written then shall witness against yon. Will you deny this promise of mar- riage in your own handwriting? (Taking out a paper.) Roy. (aside to Op.) What ! a promise of mar- riage, Mr. Opal ! The devil himself could not have put it into your head to do a worse thing than this. Op. (very frightened, but ma/dng a great exertion). Don't think, ma'am, to bully me into the match. I can prove that promise to be given to you under the false character of an heiress, therefore your deceit loosens the obligation. With. Take care what you say, sir ; (to Op.) I will not see my niece wronged. The law shall do her justice, whatever expense it may cost me. Mar. Being an heiress, or not, has nothing to do in the matter, Mr. Opal ; for you expressly say, in this promise, that my beauty and perfections alone have induced you to engage yourself; and I will take all the men in court to witness, whether I am not as handsome to-day as I was yesterday. Op. I protest there is not such a word in the paper. Mar. (holditig out the paper). O base man ! will you deny your own writing ? (Op. snatches the paper from her, tears it to pieces.) Mar. (gathering up the scattered pieces), ! I can put them together again. (Op. snatching up one of ilte pieces, crams it into his muuih and chews it.) Boy. Chew fast. Opal ! she will snatch it out of your mouth else. There is another bit for you. (Offering him anoHier piece.) Mar. (bursting into a loud laugh, in which all the company join). Is it veiy nice, Mr. Opal ? You munch it up as expeditiously as a bit of plum- cake. Op. What does all this mean 1 With. This naughty girl, Mx. Opal, has only been amusing herself with yom- promise, which she never meant to make any other use of; she is ah-eady engaged to a very worthy young man, who will receive with her a fortune by no means con- temptible. Op. Well, well, much good may it do him : what do I care about — (mumbling to himself.) JRoy. Ha, ha, ha! how some people do get them- selves into scrapes ! They have no more notion of managing their afiairs than so many sheep. Ha, ha, ha ! Enter Humphet. Humph, (to Rot.) I would speak a word with your honour. ( Whispers to Kotston.) JRoy. (in a rage). What ! given away the place ! It is impossible ! It is some wicked machination ! It is some vile trick ! With. Be moderate, Eoyston ; what has good Mr. Humphry been telling you ? Soy. O ! a perfect bite ! his Grace has given away the place to a poor simpleton, who had never a soul to speak for him ! With. Who told you this, Mr. Humphry ? HwnpK Truly, sir, I called upon his Grace's gentleman, just to make up a kind of acquaintance with him, as his honour desired me, and he told me it was given away this morning. Soy. What cursed luck ! Humph. " Why," says I, " I thought my master was to have had it, llr. Smoothly." " And so he would," says he, "but one person came to the Duke after another, teasing him about Mr. Eoy- ston, till he grew quite impatient ; for there was but one of all those friends," says he, winking with his eye so, " who did speak at last to the purpose ; but then, upon Mr. Sucksop's taking up your master's interest, he shrunk back from his word, which of- fended his Grace very much." JRoy. Blundering blockhead ! Humph. And so he gave away the place directly to poor Mr. Drudgewell, who had no recom- mendation at all, but fifteen years' hard service in the ofSce. JRoy. Well, now ! well, now ! you see how the world goes ; simpletons and idiots carry every thing before them. With. Nay, Eoyston, blame yourself too. Did not I tell you, you had found out too many roads to one place, and would lose yom" way amongst them? JRoy. No, no, it is all that perverse fate of mine ! Half the trouble I have taken for this paltry office. 76 JOANNA BAHJjIE'S WOEKS. DE MONTOKT : A TKASEDY. would have procvired some people an archbishopric ! There is Hai-wood, now j fortune presses herself upon him, and makes him, at one stroke, an idle gentleman for life. Har. No, sir, an idle gentleman I will never be : my Agnes shall never be the wife of any thing so contemptible. Ag. I thank you, Harwood ; I do, indeed, look for honourable distinction in being your wife. You shaE stiU exert, your powers in the profession you have chosen : you shall be the weak one's, stay, the poor man's advocate ; you shall gain fair fame in recompense, and that will be our nobility^ With. Well said, my children ! you have more sense than I thought you had amongst all these whimsies. Now, let us take our leave of plots and story-telling, if you please, and all go to my house to supper. Koyston shall drown his disap- pointment in a can of warm negus, and Mr. Opal shall have something more palatable than his last spare morseU [^ExeutU. DE MONFORT A TKAGEDY. PERSONS OF THE DKAMA. MEN. De Montort. Rezenvelt. ConNi Fkeeeko, friend to De Mjohtoet REZENTEIiT. Mamtoel, servant to De Monpoet. Jekome, De Monfobt's old landlord. CoiTRAD, an artfvl knave. Bersard, a monk. Monks, gentlemen, officers, page, §-c. ^-c, WOMEN. Jane De Mohpokt, sister to De Mokfokt- Countess Frebekg, vnfe to IFeeberg. Theresa, servant to Ae Codktess. Abbess, nuns, and a lay sister, ladies, §°c. Scene, a town in Germany. and ACT L Jerome's house. SCENE I.. A large old-fashioned chamber. .Ter. (speaking withmd). This way, good masters. Enter Jebojie, bearing a light, and followed by Manuel, and servants carrying luggage. Rest your burthens here. This spacious room will please the marquis best. He takes me unawares ; but ill prepar'd : If he had sent, e'en though a hasty notice, I had been glad. Man. Be not disturb'd, good Jerome ; Thy house is in most admirable order ; And they who travel o"^ cold winter nights Think homeliest quarters good. Jer. He is not far behind ? Man. A little way. - (To the seruants.^ Go you and wait below till he arrive. Jer. (shaking Manuei- by the hand). Indeed, my friend, I'm glad to see you here ; Tet marvel wherefore. Man. I marvel wherefore too, my honest Jerome : But here we are ; pri'thee be kind to us. Jer. Most heartily I will. I love your master : He is a quiet and a lib'ral man : A better inmate never cross'd my door. Man. Ah ! but he is not now the man he was. Lib'ral he'll be. God grant he may be quiet. Jer. What has befallen him ? Man. I cannot tell thee ; But, faith, there is no living with bim now. Jer. And yet, methinks, if I remember well You were about to quit his service, Manuel, When last he left this house. You grumbled then. Man. Tve been upon the eve of leaving him These ten long years ; for many times he is So difficult, capricious, and distrustfiil. He galls my nature — yet, I know not how, A secret kindness binds me to him still. Jer. Some who ofiFend from a suspicions nature, Will afterwards such fair confession make As turns e'en the offence into a favour. Man. Yes, some indeed do so ; so will not he : He'd rather die than such confession make. ACT I. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 77 Jer. Ay, thou art right ; for now I call to mind That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspicion, When first he came to lodge beneath my roof ; And when it so fell out'that I was prov'd IVIost guiltless of the fault, I truly thought He would have made profession of regret. But silent, haughty, and ungraciously He bore himself as one offended still. Yet shortly after, when unwittingly I did him some slight service, o' the sudden He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks ; And would not be restrain'd from pressing on me A noble recompense. I understood His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well, And took it as he meant Man, 'Tis often thus. I would have left him many years ago, But that with all his faults there sometimes come Such bursts of natural goodness irom his heart. As might engage a harder churl than I To serve him still. — And then his sister too ; A noble dame, who should have been a queen ; The meanest of her hinds, at her conmiand. Had fought like lions for her, and the poor. E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd her — She would have grieVd if I had left my lord. Jer. Comes she along with him ? Man. No, he departed all unknown to her, Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route ; But well I knew it would afflict her much. And therefore left a little nameless billet. Which after our departure, as I guess. Would fall into her hands, and tell her all. What could I do 1 O 'tis a noble lady 1 [mind — Jer. AH this is strange — something disturbs his Belike he is in love. Man. No, Jerome, no. Once on a time I served a noble master. Whose youth was blasted with untoward love. And he, with hope and fear and jealousy Eor ever toss'd, led an unquiet life : Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit. His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him. But Monfort, even in his calmest hour. Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye Which powerfully repels all sympathy. O no ! good Jerome, no, it is not love. Jer. Hear I not horses trampling at the gate ? He is arrived — stay thou — I had forgot — • A plague upon't ! my head is so conftis'd — I will return i' the instant to receive him. [Exit hastik/, {A. great busde without. Exit Makiiex with lights, and returns again, lighting in De Mon- roET, as if just alighted from hisjoumey. Man. Your ancient host, my lord, receives you And your apartment will be soon prepar'd. [gladly, Be Mm. 'Tis well. Man. Where shall I place the chest yon gave in charge ? So please you, say, my lord. De Men. (throwing himself into a chair). Where- e'er thou wilt. Man. I would not move that luggage till you came. [Pointing to certain things. Z>e Mon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble me no more. [Maotjel, with the assistance of other servants, sets about putting the things in order, and De MoNFOKT remains sitting in a thoughtful pos- ture.') Enter Jesome, bearing wine, Ifc. on a salver. As he approaches De Montort, Maitoei- puils Mm by the sleeve. Man. (aside to Jerome). No, do not now; he wUl not be disturb'd. Jer. What! not to bid him welcome to my house. And offer some refreshment ? Man. No, good Jerome. Softly a little while : I pri'thee do. [Jekome walks softly on tiptoe, tiU he gets be- hind De Monfokt, then peeping on one side to see his face. Jer. (aside to Manuel). Ah, Manuel, what an alter'd man is here ! His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale — He left this house a comely gentleman. De Mon. Who whispers there ? Man. 'Tis your old landlord, sir. Jer. I joy to see you here — I crave your par- don — I fear I do intrude De Mon. No, my kind host, I am obliged to thee. Jer. How fares it with your honour ? De Mon. Well enough. Jer. Here is a little of the fav'rite wine That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me. [FiUs a glass. De Mon. (after drinking). I thank you, Jerome, 'tis delicious. Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so. De Mon. And how does she ? Jer. Alas, my lord ! she's dead. De Man. Well, then she is at rest. Jer. How well, my lord ? DeMon, Is she not with the dead, the quiet dead. Where all is peace ? Not e'en the impious wretch, Who tears the coffin from its earthy vault. And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind, Can break their rest. Jer. Woe's me! I thought you would have grieVd for her. She was a kindly soul ! Before she died. When pining sickness bent her cheerless head. ■78 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOBKS. DE MONTOKT: a TKAGEDT. She set my house in order — And but die morning ere she breath'd her last, Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine, That should thef Lord de Monfort come again His cup might sparkle still. [De Moneort walks across the stage, and wipes his eyes. Indeed I fear I have distress'd 70U, sir ; I surely thought you would be griev'd for her. Z>e Mon, (taking Jerome'* hand). I am, my friend. How long has she been dead ? Jer. Two sad long years. jDe Mon. Would she were living still ! I was too troublesome, too heedless of her. Jer. no ! she lov'd to serve you. [ioufi? knocking without De Mon. What fool comes here, at such imtimely hours. To make this cursed noise ? {To Mantiei,.) Go to the gate. \_Exit Mandel. All sober citizens are gone to bed ; It is some drunkards on their nightly rounds, Who mean it but in sport. Jer. I hear unusual voices — here they come. Re-enter Manuel, showing in ComtT Fkebekg and his ladi/j with a mask in her hand. Freb. (running to embrace De Mon.) My dearest Monfort! most imlook'd for pleasure ! Do I indeed embrace thee here again ? I saw ^j servant standing by the gate. His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings ! Welcome, thrice welcome here ! De Mon. I thank thee, !Freberg, for this friendly visit. And this fair lady too. {Bowing to the lady. Lady. I fear, my lord. We do intrude at an untimely hour : But now, returning from a midnight mask. My husband did insist that we should enter. Freb. No, say not so ; no hour untimely call. Which doth together bring long absent friends. Dear Monfort, why hast thou so slily play'd. Coming upon us thus so suddenly ? De Man. ! many varied thoughts do cross om* brain. Which touch the wiU, but leave the memory track- less; And yet a strange compounded motive make. Wherefore a man should bend his evening walk To th' east or west, the forest or the field. Is it not often so ? Freb. I ask no more, happy to see you here From any motive. There is one behind. Whose presence would have been a double bliss : Ah ! how is she ? The noble Jane De Monfort. De Mon. (confused). She is — I have — I left my ' sister well. Lady, (to Fkebebg). My IVeberg, you are heed- less of respect. You surely mean to say the Lady Jane. Freb. Respect ! No, madam ; Princess, Empress, Queen, Could not denote a creature so exalted As this plain appellation doth. The noble Jane De Monfort Lady, (turning from him displeased to Mon.) Tou are fatigued, my lord ; you want repose ; Say, should we not retire .? Freb. Ha I is it so ? My friend, your face is pale ; have you been ill ? De Mon. No, Freberg, no ; I think I have been welL Freb. (shaking his Mad). I fear thou hast not, Monfort — Let it pass. We'll re-establish thee : we'll banish pain. I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends. And we shall spend together glorious hours. That gods might envy. Little time so spent Doth far outvalue all our life beside. This is indeed our life, our waking life. The rest dull breathing sleep. De Mon. Thus, it is true, from the sad years of life We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike. Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten ; Which, through the dreary gloom of time o'erpast. Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls Whose magic power creates them. Bless'd art thou. If, in the ample circle of thy friends. Thou canst but boast a few. Freb. Judge for thyself: in truth I do not boast. TThere is amongst my friends, my later friends, A most accomplish'd stranger : new to Amberg ; But just arriv'd, and wiU ere long depart : I met him in Franconia two years since. He is so full of pleasant anecdote. So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit. Time vanishes before him as he speaks. And ruddy morning through the lattice peeps Ere night seems wdl begun. De Mon. How is he call'd ? Freb. I will surprise thee with a welcome face : I will not tell thee now. Lady, (to yLos.) I have, my lord, a small request to make. And must not be denied. I too may boast Of some good friends, and beauteous country-women : To-mon'ow night I open wide my doors To all the fair and gay : beneath my roof Music, and dance, and revelry shall reign : I pray you come and grace it with your prejsence. De Mon. You honour me too much to be denied. Lady. I thank you, sir ; and in return for this, We shall withdraw, and leave you to repose. ACT I. SOElfE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 79 Freh. Must it be so? Good niglit — sweet sleep to thee ! (to De Mootort.) De Man. (to Freb.) Good night. (_To lad;/.') Good night, fair lady. Zady. Farewell ! [^Exeunt Frebero and hdy. De Mm. (to Jer.) I thought Count Freberg had been now in France. Jer. He meant to go, as I have been infonn'd. De Man. Well, well, prepare my bed ; I will to rest. [^Exit Jerome. De Man. (aside). I know not how it is, my heart stands back. And meets not this man's love. — Friends I rarest friends ! Bather than share his undisceming praise With every table-wit, and book-form'd sage, , And paltry poet puling to the moon, rd court from him proscription, yea abuse, And think it proud distinction. [^Exit. SCENE II. A smaR apartment in Jerome'5 house : a table and breakfast set out. Enter De Montort, followed by Manuel, and sits doom by the table, with a cheerful face. De Man. Manuel, this morning's sun shines pleasantly : These old apartments too are light and cheerful. Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much : He serves as though he loVd me. This pure air Braces the listless nerves, and warms the blood : I feel in freedom here. \FiRing a cup of coffee, and drinking. Man. Ah ! sure, my lord. No air is purer than the air at home. De Mon. Here can I wander with assured steps. Nor dread, at every winding of the path. Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way. To move — (stopping short.') Man. What says your honour ? There are no serpents in our pleasant fields. De Mon. Thinkst thou there are no serpents in the world, But those who slide along the grassy sod. And sting the luckless foot that presses them 1 There are who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun. And sting the soul — Ay, till its healthful fi-ame Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease, So deadly is the wound. Man. HeaVn guard your honour from such horrid scath ! They are but rare, I hope ! De Mon. (shaking his head). We mark the hol- low eye, the wasted frame. The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men. But do not know the cause. Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my lord! De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well. I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. I go to revel it with sprightly dames. And drive the night away. [^Filling another cup, and drinking. Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay. De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, honest Manuel, Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse, And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. Here is one too, for Bremer ; he loves wine : And one for Jaques : be joyful altogether. Enter Servant. Ser. My lord, I met e'en now, a short way off. Your coimtryman the Marquis Rezenvelt. De Mon. (starting from his seat, and letting the cup fall from his hand). Whom say st thou ? Ser. Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you. De Mon, Thou liest — it is not so — it is im- possible ! Ser. I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself. De Mon. Fool ! 'tis some passing stranger thou hast seen, And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd. Ser. No other stranger could deceive my sight. De Mon. (dashing his clenched hand violently ■upon the table, and overturning every thing). Heaven blast thy sight ! it lights on nothing good. Ser. I surely thought no harm to look upon him. De Man. What, dost thou stiU insist? He must it be ? Does it so please thee well ? (Servant endeavours to speak.) Hold thy damn'd tongue ! By heaven I'll kill thee ! (Going furiously up to him.) Man. (in a soothing voice). Nay, harm him not, my lord ; he speaks the truth ; Tve met his groom, who told me certainly His lord is here. I should have told you so. But thought, perhaps, it might displease your honour. De Mon. (becoming all at once calm, and turning sternly to MlmiEL). And how dar'st thou To think it would displease me ? What is't to me who leaves or enters Ambcrg ? But it displeases me, yea e'en to frenzy. That every idle fool must hither come, To break my leisure with the paltry tidings Of all the cursed things he stares upon. [^Servant attempts to speak — De Mokfort stamps with his foot Take thine ill-favour'd visage from my sight, And speak of it no more. [^Exit Servant And go thou too ; I choose to be alone. lExit Mantiel. [Db Monioet goes to the door by which they went out; opens it, and looks. 80 JOANNA BAJLLIE'S WORKS. m montoet : a teagedt. But is he gone indeed ? Tea, he is gone. [^Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks: then gives loose to aXL the fury of gesture, and walks up and down in great agitation. It is too much : by heaven it is too much ! He haunts me — stings me — like a devil haunts — He'll make a raving maniac of me — ; Villain ! The air wherein thou drawst thy fulsome breath Is poison to me — Oceans shall divide us ! (Paiises.) But no ; thou thinkst I fear thee, cursed reptile ; And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight, m stay and face thee stilL [Knocking at the chamber door. Ha ! who knocks there ? Freberg. (without). It is thy friend, De Monfort. De Man. (opening the door). Enter, then. Enter I'rebekg. Freb. (taking his hand kindly). How art thou now f How hast thou pass'd the night ? Has kindly sleep refresh'd thee ? X>e Mon. Yes, I have lost an hour or two in sleep, And so should be refresh'd. Freb. And art thou not ? Thy looks speak not of rest. Thou art disturb'd. be Man. No, somewhat ruffled from a foolish cause, Which soon will pass away. Freb. (shaking his head). Ah no, De Monfort ! something in thy face Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not : If any secret grief distract thy soul. Here am I all devoted to thy love : Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee ? De Man. I have no grief : distress me not, my friend. Freb. Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my friend, Wouldst thou not open all thine inmost soul, And bid me share its every consciousness ? De Man. Preberg, thou knowst not man ; not nature's man, But only him who, in smooth studied works Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully In aU the splendid foppery of virtue. That man was never bom whose secret soul. With aU its motley treasure of dark thoughts, Joul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams. Was ever open'd to another's scan. Away, away ! it is delusion all. [wrong. Freb. Well, be reserved then ; perhaps Pm De Mon. How goes the hour ? Freb. 'Tis early still ; a long day lies before us ; Let us enjoy it. Come along with me ; I'll introduce you to my pleasant iriend. De Man. Your pleasant friend ? . Freb. Yes, him of whom I spalce. [Taking his hand. There is no good I would not share with thee ; And this man's company, to minds like thine, Is the best banquet feast I could bestow. But I will speak in mystery no more ; It is thy townsman, noble Eezenvelt. [De Mon. pvlls his hand hastily from Feebeeo, and shrinks back. Ha ! what is this ? Art thou pain-stricken, Monfort ? Nay, on my life, thou rather seemst offended : Does it displease thee that I call him friend ? De Mon. No, all men are thy friends. Freb. No, say not all men. But thou art offended. I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure. But if his presence be not welcome here, He shall not join our company to-day. De Man, What dost thou mean to say ? What is't to me Whether I meet with such a thing as Eezenvelt To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never ? FrA. In truth, I thought yon had been well with him ; He prais'd you much. De Mon. I thank him for his praise — Come, let us move : This chamber is coufin'd and airless grown. [Starting. I hear a stranger's voice ! Freb. 'Tis Eezenvelt. Let him be told that we are gone abroad. De Man. (proudly). No ! let TiJTti enter. Who waits there ? Ho ! Manuel ! Enter Manuel. What stranger speaks below ? Man. The Marquis Eezenvelt. I have not told him that you are within. De Man. (angrily). And wherefore didst thou not ? Let him ascend. [A long pause. De Mohtfort walking vp and down with a quick pace. Enter Eezenvelt, who runs freeh/ up to De MONTOET. JRei. (to De Mon.) My noble marquis, welcome ! De Mon. Sir, I thank you. Sez. (to Freb.) My gentle friend, well met Abroad so early ? Freb. It is indeed an early honr for me. How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits ? Sez. O, light as ever. On my way to you. E'en now, I learnt De Montfort was aniv'd. And tum'd my steps aside ; so here I am. [Sawing gaily to De Monfort. De Mon. I thank yon, sir ; you do me too much honour. [Proudly. Sez. Nay, say not so ; not too much honour surely. Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you> ACT II. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 81 De Mon. (confused). Having no previous notice of your coming, I look'd not for it ^ [next, Bez. Ay, true indeed; when I approach you I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming, And bow to you by sound of trumpet, marquis. De Mon, (to !Freb., turning haughtily from Ee- ZEirvELT wiik affected ijidifference). How does your cheerful friend, that good old man ? Freb. My cheerfiil friend? I know not whom you mean. De Mon. Count Waterlan. Frd>. I know not one so nam'd. De Mon. (very confused). O pardon me — it was at Basle I knew him. Freb. Tou have not yet inqnir'd for honest Beisdale. I met him as I came, and mention'd you. He seem'd amaz'd ; and fain he would have learnt What cause procured us so much happiness. He question'd hard, and hardly would believe ; I could not satisfy his strong desire. [fort here ? JRez. And know you not what brings De Mon- Freb. Truly I do not. JRez. 1 'tis love of me. I have but two short days in Amberg been. And here with postman's speed he follows me, Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown. Freb. (to De Moir.) Is Eezenvelt so sadly miss'd with you ? Your town so chang'd ? De Man, Not altogether so ; Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain For fools to laugh at. Sez. But he laughs not, and therefore he is wise. He ever frowns on them with sullen brow Contemptuous ; therefore he is very wise ; Nay, dmly frets his most refined soul With their poor foUy to its inmost core ; Therefore he is most eminently wise. Freb. Fy, Kezenvelt ! you are too early gay. Such spirits rise but with the eVning glass : They suit not placid mom. [To De Monpokt, who, after waVdng im- patiently up and down, comes close to his ear and lays hold of his arm. What would, you Monfort ? De Mon. Nothing — what is't o'clock ? No, no — I had forgot — 'tis early still. \Tums away again. Freb. (to Kez.) Waltser informs me that you have agreed To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth. It is a dangerous task. Rez. Yet 111 be honest : I can but lose his favour and a feast. [ Whilst they speak, De Monfobx walks up and down impatiently and irresolute: at last pulls the bell violently. Enter Servant. De Mon. (to ser.) What dost thou want ? Ser. I thought your honour rung. De Mon. I have forgot — stay. Are my horses saddled ? Ser. I thought, my lord, you would not ride to-day. After so long a journey. De Mon. (impatiently). Well — 'tis good. Begone! — I want thee not. [Erit servant. Rez. (smiling significantly). I humbly crave your pardon, gentle mai'quis. It grieves me that I cannot stay with you. And make my visit of a fnendly length. I trust your goodness will excuse me now ; Another time 1 shall be less unkind. (To Fkeberg.) Will you not go with me ? Freb. Excuse me, Monfort, TU return again. [Exeunt Bjezentelt and Fkeeeeg. De Mon. (alone, tossing his arms distractedly). Hell hath no greater torment for th' accurs'd Than this man's presence gives — Abhorred fiend ! he hath a pleasure too, A damned pleasure in the pain he gives ! Oh ! the side glance of that detested eye ! That conscious smile ! that full insulting lip ! It touches every nerve : it makes me mad. What, does it please thee? Dost thou woo my hate? Hate shalt thou have ! determin'd, deadly hate. Which shall awake no smile. Malignant villain ! The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish. And thin the film that hides it. Thy hateful visage ever spoke thy worth : I loath'd thee when a boy. That men should be besotted vrith him thus I And Freberg likewise so bewitched is, That like a hireUng fiatt'rer at his heels He meanly paces, ofiTring brutish praise. ! I could curse him too ! [Exit ACT n. A very splendid apartment in CotniT Feebekg's house, fancifully decorated, A wide folding-door opened, shows another magnificent room lighted up to receive company. Enter through the folding doors the Count and Countess, richly dressed Freb. (looking round). In truth, I like those decorations well : They suit those lofty walls. And here, my love, The gay profusion of a woman's fancy Is well display'd. Noble simplicity 82 JOAJ!TNA BAILHE'S "WOKKS. DE mohi'OEt: a tragedy. Becomes us less, on such a night as this, Than gaudy show. Lady. Is it not noble then ? (^He shakes his head.') I thought it so ; And as I know you love simplicity, I did intend it should be simple too. Freb. Be satisfied, I pray ; we want to-night A cheerful banquet-house, and not a temple. How runs the hour ? Ijody. It is not late, but soon we shall be rous'd With the loud entry of our frolic guests. Enter a Page, richly dressed. Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall, Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends ? Page. No, far unlike to them ; it is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance ? Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe ; but when she smil'd, Por so she did to see me thus abash'd, Methought I could have compass'd sea and land To do her bidding. Lady. Is she young or old ? Page. Neither, if right I guess ; but she is fair : For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her, As he too had been aw'd. Lady. The foolish stripling I She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large in statm-e ? Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, I thought at first her stature was gigantic ; But on a near approach 1 found, in truth. She scarcely does surpass the middle size. Lady. What is her garb ? Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it. She is not deck'd in any gallant trim, But seems to me clad in the usual weeds Of high habitual state ; for as she moves Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold. As I have seen unfurled banners play With a soft breeze. Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; It is an apparition thou hast seen. Freb. (starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the lady and the page). It is an apparition he has seen. Or it is Jane De Monfort. \_Exit, hastily. Lady (displeased). No; such description surely suits not her. Did she inquire for me ? Page. She ask'd to see the lady of Count Fre- berg. Lady. Perhaps it is not she — I fear it is — Ha ! here they come. He has but guess'd too well. Enter Fkeeekg, leading in Jahi; De Mohport. Freb. {presenting her to lady). Here, madam, welcome a most worthy guest.. Lady. Madam, a thousand welcomes ! Pardon me; I could not guess who honour'd me so far ; I should not eke have waited coldly here. Jane. I thank you for this welcome, gentle coimtess. But take those kind excuses back again ; I am a bold intruder on this hour. And am entitled to no ceremony. I came in quest of a dear truant friend, But Freberghas inform'd me — (To Feeeekg.) And he is well, you say ? Freb. Yes, well, but joyless. Jane. It is the usual temper of his mind ; It opens not, but with the thi-illing touch Of some strong heart-string o' the sudden press'd. Freb. It may be so, Pve known him otherwise : He is suspicious grown. Jane. Not so. Count Freberg; Monfort is too noble. Say rather, that he is a man in grief. Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye ; And thou, less generous than beseems a firiend. Hast thought too hardly of him. Freb. (bowing with great respect). So will I say ; ril own nor word nor will, that can offend you. Lady. De Monfort is engag'd to grace our feast: Ere long youTl see him here. Jane. I.thank you truly, but this homely dress Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these. Freb. (j>ointing to her dress). Such artless and majestic elegance. So exquisitely just, so nobly simple. Will make the gorgeous blush. Jane (smiling). Nay, nay, be more consistent, courteous knight, And do not praise a plain and simple guise With such profusion of unsimple words. I cannot join your company to-night. Lady. Not stay to see your brother ? Jane. Therefore it is I would not, gentle hostess. Here will he find aU that can woo the heart To joy and sweet forgetfulness of pain ; The sight of me would wake his feeling mind To other thoughts. I am no doating mistress ; No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith Eush to his arms and weep. I am his sister: The eldest daughter of his father's house : Calm and unwearied is my love for him ; And having found him, patiently PU wait. Nor greet him in the hour of social joy. To dash his mirth with tears. — The night wears on ; permit me to withdraw. Freb. Nay, do not, do not injure us so far ! Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train. Jane. You wear not masks to-night. [ceal'd Lady. We wear not masks, but yon may be con- Behind the double foldings of a veil. ACT II. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 83 Jane (after pausing to consider). In truth, I feel a little so inclm'd. Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him, And gently prove the temper of his mind ; But for the means I must become your debtor. \_To hdy. Lady. Who waits ? (Enter her woman). Attend this lady to my wardrobe. And do what she commands yon. [^Exeunt Jani; and waiting-woman. Freb. (looking after Jahe, as she goes out, witli admiration). Oh ! what a soul she bears ! See how she steps ! Nought but the native dignity of worth E'er taught the moving form such noble grace. Lady. Such lofty mien, and high assumed gait, I've seen ere now, and men have call'd it pride. Freb. No, 'faith ! thou never didst, but oft in- deed The paltry imitation thou hast seen. (Looking at her.) How hang those trappings on thy motley gown ? They seem like garlands on a May-day queen. Which hinds have dress'd in sport. [Lady turns away displeased. Freb. Nay, do not frown ; I spoke it but in haste ; For thou art lovely still in eveiy garb. Bnt see, the guests assemble. Enter groups of well-dressed people, who pay their compliments to Fbebebo and his lady; and, fol- lowed by her, pass into the inner apartment, where more company appear assembling, as if by another entry. Freb. (who remains on thefroTit of the stage with a friend or two). How loud the hum of this gay-meeting crowd ! 'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun. Music will quell the sound. Who waits without ? Mnsic strike up. [Jiltisic, and when it ceases, enter from the inner apartmentliEZEsym-T, with several gentlemen, all richly dressed. Freb. (to those just entered). What, lively gallants, quit the field so soon ? Are there no beauties in that moving crowd To fix your fancy ? Rez. Ay, marry are there ! men of ev'ry fancy May in that moving crowd some fair one find To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange. As ever fancy own'd. Beauty of every cast and shade is there, From the perfection of a faultless form, Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid, Who looks but pretty in her Snnday gown. \st gent There is, indeed, a gay variety. Hez. And if the liberality of nature Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms, Blending in one the sweets of many plants. So obstinately, strangely opposite. As would have well defied all other art But female cultivation. Aged youth. With borrowed locks, in rosy chaplets bound. Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lips, and skinny cheek In most unlovely softness ; And youthful age, with fat round trackless face. The downcast look of contemplation deep Most pensively assumes. Is it not even so ? The native prude. With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth, Plays ofi' the wild coquette's successful charms With most unskilful pains ; and the coquette. In temporary crust of cold reserve. Fixes her studied looks upon the ground, Forbiddingly demure. Freb. Fy ! thou art too severe. Rez. Say, rather, gentle. I 'faith ! the very dwarfs attempt to charm With lofty airs of puny majesty ; While potent damsels, of a portly make, Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid Of gentle sympathy. Fiom all those diverse modes of dire assault, He owns a heart of hardest adamant. Who shall escape to-night. Freb. (to De Mon., who has entered during Ee- zenvelt's speech, and heard the greatest part of it). Ha, ha, ha, ha! How pleasantly he gives his wit the rein. Yet guides its wild career ! [De Mon. is silent. Rez. (smiling archly). What, think you, Freberg, the same powerfiil spell Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night ? Or that De Monfort is a woman turn'd, — So widely from his native self to swerve, As grace my folly with a smile of his ? De Mon. Nay, think not, Eezenvelt, there is no smile I can bestow on thee. There is a smile, A smile of nature too, which I can spare. And yet, perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it. [^Smiles contemptuously. Rez. Not thank thee ! It were sm-ely most un- grateful No thanks to pay for nobly giving me What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain. For nature hath her smiles of birth more painful Than bitt'rest execrations. Freb. These idle words wiU lead us to disquiet : Forbear, forbear, my friends ! Go, Rezenvelt, Accept the challenge of those lovely dames. Who through the portal come with bolder steps To claim your notice. Enter u. group of ladies from the other apartment, who walk slowly across the bottom of the stage, and return to it again. Rez. shrugs up his shoulders, as if unwilling to go. G2 84 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. DE MONPORT : A TRAGEDY. 1st gent, {to Eez.) Behold in sable veil a lady comes, Whose noble air doth challenge fancy's skill To suit it with a countenance as goodly, [^Pointing to Jaub De Mos., wlio now enters in a thick black veil Bez. Yes, this way lies attraction. (To Freb.) With permission — \^Going up to Jane. Pair lady, though within that envious shroud Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us, We bid you welcome, and our beauties here Will welcome you the more for such -conceal- ment. With the permission of our noble host — — [ Taking her hand, and leading her to the front of the stage. Jane, (to Free,) Pardon me this presumption, courteous sir : I thus appear (pointing to her veH), not careless of respect Unto the generous lady of the feast. Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is. That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow. Within, the friendly cover of its shade I only wish, unknown, again to see One who, alas ! is heedless of my pain. JJe Man. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil, And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light. Men now all soft and female beauty scorn. And mock the gentle cares which aim to please. It is most damnable ! undo thy veil; And think of him no more. Jane. I know it well : e'en to a proverb grown. Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight : But he, who has, alas ! forsaken me. Was the companion. of my early days. My cradle's mate, mine infant play-feUow. Within our op'ning minds, with riper years. The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung : Through varied life our pride, our joys were one ; At the same tale we wept : he is my brother. De Man. And he forsook thee? — No, I dare not curse him : My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. Jane. Ah ! do not thus distress a feeling heart. All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd With equal bands ; thine has not watch'd for thee, Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and woe. As I have done for him. De Man. (eagerly). Ah ! has she not ? By heaVn the sum of aU thy kindly deeds Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold, Compar'd to that which I do owe her love. Oh, pardon me 1 I mean not to offend — I am too warm — hut she of whom I speak Is the dear sister of my earliest love ; In noble, virtuous worth to none a second : And though behind those gable folds were hid As fair a face as ever woman own'd, Still would I say she is as fan- as thou. How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng, I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told Her name and lineage ! yet within her house, The virgin mother of an orphan race Her dying parents left, this, noble woman Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit. Despising all the blandishments of love ; While many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd, Or, inmbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. Porgive, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting ! In faith ! I mean yon no discourtesy. Jane (off her guard, in a soft naturcd tone of voice). Oh, no ! nor do me any. De Men. What voice speaks now? Withdraw, withdraw this shade 1 Por if thy face bear semblance to thy voice, 111 fall and worship thee. Pray ! pray undo ! \Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch away the veil, whilst she shrinks back, and Rezenvelt steps between to prevent him. Sez. Stand off; no hand shall lift this sacred veil. De Mon. What, dost thou think De Monfort fall'n so low. That there may live a man beneath heav'n's roof. Who dares to say, he shall not ? Rez. He lives who dares to say Jane (throwing back her veil, much alarmed, and rushing between them). Porbear, forbear J [Ebzentelt, very much struck, steps back re- spectfully, and makes her a low bow. De Mon- fort stands for a while motionless, gazing upon her, till she, looking expressively to him, extends her arms, and he, rushing into them, bursts into tears. Prebekg seems very much pleased. The company then advancing from the inner cmartment, gather about them, and the scene closes. SCENE IT. De Montort's apartments. Enter De Monport, mth a disordered air, and his hand pressed upon his forehead, followed by Jane. De Man. No more, my sister, urge me not again: My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd. Prom all participation of its thoughts My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. Jane. What, must I, like a distant humble friend. Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturb'd. In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart I turn aside to weep ? no ! De Monfort ! A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; Thy true entrusted Mend I still shall he. ACT n. SCENE n. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 85 De Mm. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee. Jane. Then, fy upon it ! fy upon it, Monfort 1 There was a time wHen e'en with murder stain'd. Had it been possible that such dire deed Could e'er hare been the crime of one so piteous, Thou wouldst have told it me, [more. De Man. So would I now — bat ask of this no All other trouble but the one I feel I had disclos'd to thee. I pray thee spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. Jane^ Then secret let it be ; I urge no farther. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, lake two young trees, whose boughs in early strength Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove. And brave the storm together — I have so long, as if by nature's right. Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remain'd. Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort, A humbler station will I take by thee : The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps ; The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought ; The soother of those griefs I must not know : This is mine office now: I ask no more. De Man, Oh, Jane ! thou dost constrain me with thy love ! Would I could tell it thee ! Jems. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay Til stop mine ears. Nor from the yearnings of aflFection wring What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my brother, m stay by thee ; ITl cheer thee, comfort thee : Pursue with thee the study of some art, Or nobler science, that compels the mind To steady thought progressive, driving forth All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies ; Till thou, with brow unclouded, smU'st again ; Lie one .who, from dark visions of the night. When th' active soul within its lifeless cell Holds it own world, with dreadftil fancy press'd Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, Wakes to the dawning mom, and blesses heaven. De Man. It will not pass away ; 'twill haunt me still. Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too ; And.be to it so close an adversary. That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, I shall o'ercome it. De Man. Thou most gen'rous woman ! Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — And yet I cannot — O that cursed viUain 1 He will not let me be the man I would. Jane. What sayst thou, brother ? Oh ! what ' words are these ? They have- awak'd my soul to dreadfiil thoughts. I do beseech thee, speak I \He shakes his head, and turns from her ; she following him. By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; By the dear mem'ry of our infant days ; By kindred living ties, ay, and by those Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee, I do conjm-e thee, speak 1 {He waves her off with his hand and covers his face with the other, still turning from her. Ah ! wilt thou not ? (Assuming dignity.') Then, if affection, most un- wearied love. Tried early, long, and never wanting found. O'er gen'rous man hath more authority, More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, I do command thee. [Be throws himself into a chair, greatly agi- tated^ De Monfort, do not thus resist my love. Here I entreat thee on my. bended knees. [^Kneeling. Alas ! my brother I [De Monfort startt up, and catching her in his arms, raises her up, then placing her in the chair, kneels at her feet De Man. Thus let him kneel who should the abased be. And at thine honoured feet confession make ! ril tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. For in my breast a raging passion bums. To which thy soul no sympathy will own — A passion which hath made my nigfitly couch A place of torment ; and the light of day. With the gay intercourse of social man. Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. Jane ! thou wilt despise me. Jane. Say not so : 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs No kindly heart contemns. De Man. A lover, sayst thou ? No, It is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace. From social pleasure, from my native home. To be a sullen wand'rer on the earth. Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd. Jane. De Monfort, this is fiend-like, frightful, terrible ! What being, by th' Almighty Father fonn'd. Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake. Who art thyself his fellow ? Unknit thy brows, and spread those vnrath-clench'd hands. Some sprite accurs'd within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! Strive bravely with it j drive it from thy breast ; 86 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. DE MOKTOKT : A TRAGEDY. 'Tis tha degrader of a noble heart : Curse it, and bid it part. De Mm.- It will Sot part. (His hand an his breast) I've lodg'd it here too long : With my first cares I felt its rankling touch j I loath'd him when a boy. Jane. Whom didst thou say ? De Man. Oh ! that detested Kezeuvelt 1 E'en in our early sports, lilce two young whelps Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse, Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge, And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd From youth to man's estate, his narrow art And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd In the affected carelessness of mu-th, Still more detestable and odious grew. There is no living being on this earth Who can conceive the malice of his sou], With all his gay and damned merriment. To those, by fortune or by merit plac'd Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune. He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men. As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes, Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, I could endure it ; even as we bear Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, I could endure it. But when honours came. And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his praise. And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him ; Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! It drove me irantic. — What ! what would I give ! What would I give to crush the bloated toad, So rankly do I loathe ^itn ! Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man Who gave to tliee that life he might have ta'en ; That life which thou so rashly didst expose To aim at his ? Oh ! this is horrible ! De Man. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ? From all the world. But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolv'd Upon the instant to return to thee. Didst thou receive my letter ? De Man. I did ! I did I 'twas that which drove me hither. I could not. bear to meet thine eye again. Jane. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, I ever left thy house ! These few past months. These absent months, have brought us all this woe. Had I remain'd vrith thee it had not been. And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. You da/d him to the field ; both bravely fought ; He more adroit disarm'd you ; courteously fieturn'd the forfeit sword, which, so retum'd, Tou did refuse to use against him more ; And then, as says report, you parted friends. De Man. When he disarm'd this curs'd, this worthless hand Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ; While he securely sits with gibing brow. And basely bates me like a muzzled cur Who cannot turn again. — Until that day, till that accursed day, I knew not half the torment of this hell, Which bums within my breast. Heaven's light- nings blast him ! Jane. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head. For this most impious wish, De Man. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have felt already It cannot send. To be annihilated. What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing. Were bliss to me, compar'd to what I am ! Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these dread- ful words ? De Man. (raising his hands to heaven). Let me but once upon his ruin look. Then close mine eyes for ever I [Jane, in great distress, staggers back, and supports herself upon the side scene. De Mok., alurmed, runs up to her with a softened voice. Ha ! how is this ? thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale. What have I done to thee 1 Alas, alas ! I meant not to distress thee. — my sister! Jane (shaking her head). I cannot speak to thee. De Man. I have kill'd thee. Turn, turn thee not away ! look on me still ! Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ; Look on me yet again. Jane. Thou too, De Monfort, In better days, wert wont to be my pride. De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself. And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain ! that detested villain ! He has spread mis'ry o'er my fated life : He will undo us alL [world, Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; For thou wert then the helpmate of my toil. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears me from thy heart. Blasting thy worth. — I cannot strive with this. De Man. (affectionately). What shall I do ? Jane. Call up thy noble spirit ; Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue ; And with the strength of heaven-endued man. Repel the hideous foe. Be great ; be valiant. 0, if thou couldst ! e'en shrouded as thou art In all the sad infirmities of nature. What a most noble creature wouldst thou be I De Mon. Ay, if I could : alas ! alas 1 I cannot. A.CI III. SCBNIE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 87 Jane. Thon canst, thou mayst, thou wilt. We shall not part till I have tum'd thy soul. Enter Mantiel. De Man. Ha ! some one enters. Wherefore com'st thou here ? Mem. Count Freberg waits your leisure. De Man. (angrily). Begone, begone ! — I cannot see him now. [^Exit Mandbl. Jane. Come to my closet ; free from all intrusion, ril school thee there ; and thou again shalt be My willing pupil, and my gen'rous friend, The noble Monfort I have lov'd so long. And must not, will not lose. De Man. Do as thou wilt ; I will not grieve thee more. [^Exeunt. ACT HL SCENE I.» CoxnTEESS Fkebekg'* dressing-room. Enter the Countess dispirited and out of humour, and thrcyws herself into a chair: enter, hy the opposite side, Theresa. Ther. Madam, I am afraid you are unwell: What is the matter ? does your head ache ? Lady (peevis/tk/). No, 'Tis not my head : concern thyself no more With what concerns not thee. TTier. Go you abroad to-night ? Lady. Yes, thinkest thou TU stay and fret at home ? Ther. Then please to say what you would choose to wear : — One of your newest robes ? Lady. I hate them all. Ther. Surely that purple scarf became you well, With all those wreaths of richly-hanging flowers. Did I not overhear them say, last night. As from the crowded ball-room ladies pass'd. How gay and handsome, in her costly dress. The Countess Freberg look'd ? Lady. Didst thou o'erhear it ? Ther. I did, and more than this. Lady. Well, all are not so greatly prejudic'd ; All do not think me like a May-day queen, Which peasants deck in sport. Ther, And who said this ? Lady (jpatting her handkerchief toller eyes'). E'en my good lord, Theresa. Ther. He said it but in jest. He loves you well Lady. I know as well as thou he loves me well. But what of that ! he takes in me no pride : * This scene has been very much altered from what it was in the former editions of this play, and scene fifth of the last act will be found to be almost entirely changed. These Elsewhere his praise and admiration go. And Jane De Monfort is not mortal woman. Ther. The wondrous character this lady bears For worth and excellence : from early youth The friend and mother of her younger sisters, Now greatly married, as I have been told, From her most prudent care, may well excuse The admiration of so good a man As my good master is. And then, dear madam, I must confess, when I myself did hear How she was come through the rough winter's storm, To seek and comfort an unhappy brother, My heart beat kindly to her. Lady. Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find : But wherefore may she not have come as well Through wintry storms to seek a lover too ? Ther. No, madam, no, I could not think of this. Lady. That would reduce her in your eyes, mayhap. To woman's level. — Now I see my vengeance ! ni tell it round that she is hither come. Under pretence of finding out De Monfort, To meet with Eezenvelt. When Freberg hears it, 'Twill help, I ween, to break this magic charm. Ther. And say what is not, madam ? Lady. How canst thou know that I shall say what is not 7 'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth. Ther. Ah, no! there is — Lady. Well, hold thy foolish tongue. [Frebeeg's voice is heard without. After hesitating. I will not see him now. [£xit [Enter Freberg by the opposite side, passing on hastily. Ther. Pardon, my lord ; I fear you are in haste. Yet must I crave that you will give to me The books my lady mention'd to you : she Has charg'd me to remind you. Freb. I'm in haste. [Passing on. Ther. Vt&j yon, my lord : your countess wants them much : The Lady^ane De Monfort ask'd them of her. Freb. (returning instantly). Are they for her? I knew not this before. I will, then, search them out immediately. There is nought good or precious in my keeping. That is not dearly honour'd by her use. Ther. My lord, what would your gentle countess say,. If she o'erheard her own request neglected. Until supported by a name more potent ? Freb. Thinkst thou she is a fool, my good Theresa, Vainly to please herself with childish thoughts Of matching what is matchless — Jane De Monfort? Thinkst thou she is a fool, and cannot see, alterations, though of no great Importance, are, I hope, upon the whole, improvements. 83 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. DE MONTOET : A TKAGJiUr. That love and admiration often thriye Though far apart ? [^Re-enter lady with great violence. Lady. I am a fool, not to have seen fall well, That thy best pleasure in o'er-rating so This lofty stranger, is to humble me, And cast a dark'ning shadow o'er my head. Ay, wherefore dost thou stare upon me thus ? Art thou asham'd that I have thus surpris'd thee ? Well mayst thou be so ! Freb. True ; thou rightly sayst. Well may I be asham'd : not for the praise Which I have ever openly bestow'd On Monfort's noble sister ; but that thus. Like a poor mean and jealous listener. She should be found, who is Count Freberg's wife. Lady. Oh, I am lost and ruin'd ! hated, scom'd ! [^Pretending to faint. Freb. Alas, I have been too rough ! [ Taking her hand and hissing it tenderly. My gentle love ! my own, my only love ! See, she revives again. How art thou, love ? Support her to her chamber, good Theresa. I'll sit and watch by her. I've been too rough. [Exeunt; lady supported by Fbeb. and Thbb. SCENE II. De MoiTFOET discovered sitting by a table reading. After a little time he lays down his book, and con- tinues in. a thcmghtful posture Enter to him 3 ass De Montokt. Jane. Thanks, gentle brother. — [Pointing to the book. Thy willing mind has rightly been employ'd : Did not thy heart warm at the fair display Of peace and concord and forgiving love ? [turn'd, t>e Man. I know resentment may to love be Though keen and lasting, into love as strong : And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguin'd field Have cast their brandish'd weapons to the ground, Joining their mailed breasts in close embface. With gen'rous impulse fir'd. I know right well The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven Seventy times o'er irom blessed heav'nly love : Tve heard of things like these j I've heard and wept. But what is this to me ? Jane. All, all, my brother ! It bids thee too that noble precept learn. To love thine enemy. De Mon. Th' uplifted stroke that would u, wretch destroy, Grorg'd with my richest spoil, stain'd with my blood, I would arrest, and cry, "Hold ! hold 1 have mercy." But when the man most adverse to my nature. Who e'en from childhood hath, with rude male- volence, Withheld the fair respect all paid beside, Turning my very praise into derision. Who galls and presses me where'er I go. Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my heart. Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud, And cry, " It ,)S impossible ! " Jane, (shaking her head). Ah, Monfort, Monfort! De Mon. I can forgive th' envenom'd reptile's sting. But hate his loathsome self. [heaven ? Jane. And canst thou do no more for love of De Mon. Alas! I cannot now so school my mind As holy men have taught, nor search it truly : But this, my Jane, I'U do for love of thee ; And more it is than crowns could win me to. Or any power but thine. I'll see the man. Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature ; The stem contraction of my scowling brows. That like the plant whose closing leaves do shrink At hostile touch, still knit at his approach ; The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught, In imitation of disgustful things, To pout and swell, I strictly will repress ; And meet hira with a tamed countenance, E'en as a townsman, who would live at peace. And pay him the respect his station claims. ril crave his pai-dou too for all offence My dark and wayward temper may have done. Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor For the forbearance I have curs'd so oft : Life spar'd by him, more horrid than the grave With all its dark corruption ! This 111 do. Will it suffice thee f More than this I cannot. Jane. No more than this do I require of thee In outward act, though in thy heart, my friend, I hop'd a better change, and yet will hope. I told thee Freberg had propos'd a meeting. De Man. I know it weU. Jane. And Rezenvelt consents. He meets you here ; so far he shows respect. De Mon. Well, let it be; the sooner past the better. Jane. Fm glad to hear you say so, for, in truth. He has propos'd for it an early hour. 'Tis almost near his time ; I came to tell you. De Mon. What, comes he here so soon ? shame on his speed ! It is not decent thus to rush upon me. He loves the secret pleasure he will feel To see me thus subdued. Jane. O say not so ! he comes with heart sincere. De Mon. Could we not meet elsewhere ? from home — i' the fields, Where other men — must I alone receive him ? Where is your agent, Freberg, and his friends. That I must meet him here ? " [ Walks up and down, very much disturbed. Now ! didst thou say ? — how goes the hour ? — e'en now! I would some other friend were first arriv'd. ACT ni. SOEKE 11. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 89 Jane. See, to thy wish come Freberg and liis dame. He Man. His lady too ! why comes he not alone? Must all the world upon our meeting stare ? Enter Count Freberg and his Countess. Freb. A happy raonow to my noble marquis, And his most noble sister ! Jane. Gen'rous Preberg, Your face, methinks, forebodes a happy morn, Open and cheerful. What of Rezenvelt ? Freb. I lefl him at his home, prepar'd to follow : He'll soon appear. ( To De Monfort.) And now, my worthy fi-iend, Gire me your hand ; this happy change delights me. [De Monfort gives him his hand coldly, and tliey walk to Hie bottom of the stage together, in earnest discourse, whilst Jane and the Countess remain in the front. Lady. My deai-est madam, will you pardon me? I know Count Freberg's bus'ness with Be Monfort, And had a strong desire to visit you. So much I wish die honour of your friendship ; For he retains no secret from mine ear. Jane (archly). Knowing your prudence — yon are welcome, madam j So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be. [De Monfort and Frebero returning towards the front of the stage, still engaged in dis- course. Freb. He is indeed a man, within whose breast Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat. Though unadorned with that dignity Which were their fittest garb. Now, on my life ! I know no truer heart than Rezenvelt. De Man. Well, Fi'eberg, well, there needs not all this pains To garnish out his worth : let it suffice ; I am resolv'd I will respect the man. As his fair station and repute demand. Methinks I see not at your jolly feasts The youthful knight, who sang so pleasantly. Freb. A pleasant circumstance detains him hence ; Pleasant to those who love high gen'rous deeds Above the middle pitch of common minds ; And, though I have been sworn to secrecy, Yet must I tell it thee. This knight is near akin to Rezenvelt, To whom an old relation, short while dead, A good estate bequeathed, some leagues distant. But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store, Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain, And gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd To this young man, blood of the same degree To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts, Who is from hence to take possession of it : Was it not nobly done ? De Man. 'Twas right and honourable. This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy : There hangs a foggy closeness in the air ; Dost thou not feel it ? Freb. no ! to think upon a gen'rous deed Expands my soul, and makes me lightly breathe. De Men. Who gives the feast to-night ? His name escapes me. You say I am invited. Freb. Old Count Waterlan. In honour of your townsman's gen'rous gift. He spreads the board. De Mon. He is too old to revel with the gay. Freb. But not too old is he to honour virtue. I shall partake of it with open soul j For, on my honest faith, of living men I know not one, for talents, honour, worth. That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt. De Mon. Sow virtuous he hath been in three short days ! Freb. Nay, longer, marquis j but my friendship rests Upon the good report of other men. And that has told me much. [De Monfort aside, going some steps hastily from Frebekg, and rending hischah with agitation as he goes. Would he were come ! by heav'n I would he were ! This fool besets me so. [SuddcTdy correcting himself, and joining the ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the stage, he speaks to Countess Frebekg with affected cheerfulness. The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times, XJntamish'd with the vigils of the night. Lady. Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so. De Mon. He does not raslily praise who praises you; For he were dull indeed [^Stopping short, as if he heard something. Lady. How dull indeed ? De Man. I should have said — It has escap'd me now [Listening again, as if he heard something. Jane (to De Mon.) What, hear you aught ? De Mon. (hastily'). 'Tis nothing. Lady (to De Mon.) Nay, do not let me lose it so, my lord. Some fair one has bewitch'd your memory. And robs me of the half-form'd compliment. Jane. Half-utter'd praise is to the curious mind As to the eye half-veiled beauty is. More precious than the whole. Pray pardon him. Some one approaches. [Listening. Freb. No, no, it is a servant who ascends j He will not come so soon. De Mon. (off his guard). 'Tis Rezenvelt : I heard his well-known foot. From the first stau-case, mounting step by step. 90 JOANNA BAILLIE'S "WOKKS. DE monpobt: a tragedy. Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound ! I heard him not. > [De Montoet looks embarrassed, and is silent. Enter Eezestelt. [De Montokt, recovering himself, goes up to receive Rezestelt, who meets him with a cheerfd countenance. De Mon. (to Rez.) I am, my lord, beholden to you greatly. This ready visit makes me much your debtor. Rez. Then may such debts between us, noble marquis, Be oft incurr'd, and often paid again ! (To Jane.) Madam, I am devoted to your service. And ev'ry wish of yours commands my wilL (To Countess.') Lady, good morning. (7b Fkeb.) Well, my gentle ftiend, Tou see I have not Unger'd long behind. Freb. No, thou art sooner than I look'd for thee. Rez. A wilhng heart adds feather to the heel, And makes the clown a winged Mercury. De Mon. Then let me say, that, with a grateful mind, I do receive these tokens of good will ; And must regret, that, in my wayward moods, I have too oft forgot the due regard Your rank and talents claim. Rez. No, no, De Monfort, Tou have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit. Which makes me too neglectful of respect. Let ns be friends, and think of this no more. Freb. Ay, let it rest with the departed shades Of things which are no more ; whilst lovely concord, FolloVd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem. Tour future days enrich. heavenly friendship ! Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men, By thee conjoia'd, to great and glorious deeds ; As two dark clouds, when mix'd in middle air. With vivid hghtnings fiash, and roar sublime. Talk not of what is past, but future love. De Mem. (with dignity). No, Freberg, no, it must not. (TbREZENVELT.) No, my lord, I will not offer you an hand of concord. And poorly hide the motives which constrain me. I would that, not alone, these present friends, But ev'ry soul in Amberg were assembled. That I, before them all, might here declare I owe my spared life to your forbearance. (Holdijig out his hand.) Take this from one who boasts no feeling warmth, But never will deceive. [Jane smiles upon De Moneort with great ap- probation, and Eezentelt runs up to him with open arms. Rez. Away with hands ! 1'U have thee to my breast. Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit ! De Man. (shrinking back from him). Nay, if you please, I am not so prepar'd — My nature is of temperature too cold — I pray you pardon me (Jane's countenance changes). But take this hand, the token of respect ; The token of a will inclin'd to concord ; The token of a mind, that bears within A sense impressive of the debt it owes you : And cursed be its power, unnerv'd its strength. If e'er again it shall be lifted up To do you any harm ! Rez. Well, be it so, De Monfort, Tm contented ; ril take thy hand, since I can have no more. (Carelessly.) I take of worthy men whate'er they give. Their heart I gladly take, if not their hand j If that too is withheld, a courteous word. Or the civility of placid looks : And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd, 'Faith, I can set me down contentedly With plain and homely greeting, or " God save ye !" De Mon. (aside, starting away from him some paces). By the good light, he makes a jest of it ! [Jane seems greatly distressed, and Frebero endeavours to cheer her. Freb. (to Jane). Cheer up, my noble friend ; all wiU go well ; For friendship is no plant of hasty growth. Though rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow And gradual culture of kind intercourse Must bring it to perfection. (To the Countess.) Mj love, the morning, now, is far advanc'd ; Our friends elsewhere expect us ; taie your leave. Lady (to Jane). Farewell, dear madam, till the evening hour. Freb. (to De Mon.) Good day,De Monfort. (To Jane.) Most devoutly yours. Rez. (to Fkeb.) Go not too fast, for I will fol- low you. [^Exeunt Feebero arul his lady. (To Jane.) The Lady Jane is yet a stranger here : She might, perhaps, in this your ancient city Find somewhat worth her notice. Jane. I thank you, marquis, I am much engag'd ; I go not out to-day. Rez. Then fare ye well ! I see I cannot now Be the proud man who shall escort you forth, And show to all the world my proudest boast, The notice and respect of Jane de Monfort De Mon. (aside impatiently). He says farewell, and goes not ! Jane (to Eez.). Tou do me honour. Rez. Madam, adieu! (To Jane.) Good morn- ing, noble marquis. [Jane and De MonrOET look expressively to one another, without speaking, and then exeunt severally. ACT rv. SCENTE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 91 ACT IV. S^CENE I. A hall or antechamber, with the folding doors of an inner apartment open, which discovers the guests rising fiom a banquet. They enter and pass over the stage, and exeunt; and after them enter Bezen- TELT and PSEBEEG. Freb. Alas, my Rezenvelt ! I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace, From this day's reconciliation sprung, These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd ; But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board. Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold things. Too plainly told, 'twixt you and Monfort pass, That I must now despair. Yet who could think, two minds so much refin'd, So near in excellence, should be remov'd, So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy ? Rez. Ay, far remov'd indeed ! Freb. And yet, methought, he made a noble effort. And with a manly plainness bravely told The galling debt he owes to your forbearance. Rez. "Paith ! so he did, and so did I receive it ; When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd to tears, I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace : And, I declare, bad he as such receiv'd it, I from that very moment had foi'bome AH opposition, pride-provoking jest. Contemning carelessness, and all offence ; And had caress'd him as a worthy heart, From native weakness such indulgence claiming. But since he proudly thinks that cold respect. The formal tokens of his lordly favour. So precious are, that I would sue for them As fair distinction in the public eye. Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it alL And but that I do bear that noble woman. His worthy, his incomparable sister. Such fix'd, profound regard, I would expose bim ; And, as a mighty bull, in senseless rage, Bous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched rags Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows, Fd make him at small cost of paltry wit, With all his deep and manly faculties. The scorn and laugh of fools. Freb. For heaven's sake, my friend, restrain your wrath! For what has Monfort done of wrong to you. Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel. Which you confess from slight occasion rose. That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells, So fix'd, so hopeless ? Rez. O ! from our youth he has distinguish'd me With eVry mark of hatred and disgust. For e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd His proud pretensions to pre-eminence ; Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give That fulsome adulation of applause A senseless crowd bestow'd. Though poor in fortune, I still would smile at vain assuming wealth : But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd Riches and splendour equal to his own. Though I, in truth, despise such poor distinction. Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him. And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit, And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful rage, Prom smaU offence he rear'd a quarrel with me. And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know. In short, I still have been th' opposing rock. O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride Hath foam'd and fretted. Seest thou how it is ? Freb. Too well I see, and warn thee to beware. Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcbarg'd. Borne down, with sudden and impetuous force. The yet unshaken stone of opposition. Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course. I pray thee, friend, beware. Rez. Thou canst not mean — he will not murder me? Freb. What a proud heart, with such dark passion toss'd, May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive, I vrill not dare to say. Rez. Ha, ha ! thou knowst him not. Full often have I mark'd it in his youth. And could have almost lov'd him for the weakness: He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature, To all infliction of corporeal pain. To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood. He cannot if he would. Freb. Then fie upon thee ! It is not gen'rous to provoke bim thus. But let us part : we'll talk of this again. Something approaches. — We are here too long. Rez. Well, then, to-morrow I'fl attend your caU. Here lies my way. Good night. [Exit Enter Conhad. Con. Forgive, I pray, my lord, a stranger's boldness. I have presum'd to wait your leisure here. Though at so late an hour. Freb. But who art thou I Con. 'iJi.y name is Conrad, sir, A humble suitor to your honour's goodness. Who is the more erabolden'd to presume. In that De Monfort's brave and noble marquis Is so much fam'd for good and gen'rous deeds. Freb. You are mistaken, I am not the man. Con. Then, pardon me : I thought I could not err ; That mien so dignified, that piercing eye Assur'd me it was he. 92 JOANNA BAJXLIE'S WORKS. DE MONPOJiT : A TRAGEDY. Freb. My name is not De Monfort, courteous stranger ; But, if you have a favour to request, I may, Vfith him, ^perhaps, befriend your suit. Can. I thank your honour, but I have a friend Who will commend me to De Monfort's favour ; The Marquis Eezenvelt has known me long. Who, says report, will soon become his brother. Freb. If thou- wouldst seek thy min from De Monfort, The name of Bezenvelt employ, and prosper ^ But, if aught good, use any name but his. Con. How may this be I Freb. I cannot now explain. Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg ; So am I call'd, each burgher knows my house. And there instruct me how to do you service. Good night. {Exit Con. (alone'). Well, this mistake may be of service to me : And yet my business I will not unfold To tins mild, ready, promise-making courtier ; rve been Ijy such too oft deoeiVd already. But if such violent enmity exist Between De Monfort and this Eezenvelt, He'll prove my advocate by opposition. For if De Monfort would reject my suit, Being the man whom Eezenvelt esteems. Being the man he hates, a cord as strong, Will he not favour me ? I'll think of this. {Exit. SCENE ir. A lower apartment in Jerome's house, mth a wide folding glass door, looking into a garden, where the trees and shrubs are brown and leafless. Enter De Montort tvith a thoughtful frowning aspect, and paces slowly across the stage, J'eroixe follow' inff behind him, with a timid step. De Mokfort hearing him, turns suddenly about. De Mon. (angrily). Who follows me to this sequester'd room ? Jo: I have presum'd, my lord. 'Tis somewhat late: I am iuform'd you eat at home to-night ; Here is a List of all the dainty fare My busy search has found ; please to pemse it. De Mon. Leave me i begone ! Put hemlock in thy soup. Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore, And I will mess upon it. Jer. Heaven forbid ! Tour honour's life is all too precious, sure. De Mm. (sternly). Did I not say begone? Jer. Pardon, my lord, I'm old, and oft forget. {Exit . De Man. (looking after, him, as if his heart smote hiin-). Why will they thus mistime their foolish zeali That I must be so stem ? O, that I were upon some desert coast ! Where howling tempests and the lashing tide Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet j As the storm-beaten trav'ller droops his head. In heavy, duU, lethargic weariness. And, 'mid the roar of jarring elements. Sleeps to awake no more. What am I grown ? all things are hateful to me. Enter Makttel. (Stamping with his foot.) Who bids thee break upon my privacy ? Man. Nay, good my lord ! I heard you speak aloud. And dreamt not surely that you were alone. De Mon. What, dost thou watch, and pin thine ears to holes. To catch those exclamations of the soul. Which heaven alone should hear ? Who hir'd thee, pray? Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this ? Man. My lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen years, liong-tronbled years, I have your servant been. Nor hath the proudest lord in all the realm, With firmer, with more honourable faith His sov'reign serv'd, than I have served you ; But if my honesty be doubted now. Let him who is more faithful take my place. And serve you better. [thee! De Mon. Well, be it as thou vrilt Away with Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me To judge thy merit by. Enter Jerome hastily, and pulls Maitjel away. Jer. Come, Manuel, come away; thou art not wise. The stranger must depart and come again, For now his honom' will not be disturb'd. {Exit Mancel sulkily. De Mon. A stranger, saidst thou ? {Drops his handkerchief. Jer. I did, good sir, but he shall go away ; You shall not be disturb'd. {StoopiTig to lift the handkerchief. You have dropp'd somewhat. De Man. (preventing him). Nay, do not stoop, my friend, I pray thee not ! Thou ait too old to stoop. I'm much indebted to thee. — Take this ring — I love thee better than I seem to do. I pray thee do it — thank me not. — ^What stranger ? Jer. A man who does most earnestly intreat To see your honour ; but I know him not. De Man. Then let him enter. {Exit Jerome. Aj)ause. Enter Conrad. De Mon. You are the stranger who would speak with me ? ACT IV. SCENE H. PLATS ON THIS PASSIONS. 93 Con. I am so far unfortanate, my lord. That, though my fortune on your favour hangs, I am to you a stranger. De Mon. How ma/ this be ? what can I do for you ? [ask. Con. Since thus your lordship does so fraikly The tiresome preface of apology I will forbear, and tell my tale at once . In plodding drudgery Tve spent my youth, A careful penman in another's office ; And now, my master and employer dead. They seek to set a stripling o'er my head, And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age, Because I have no fiiend to take my part. It is an ofSce in your native town, For I am come &om thence, and I am told You can procure it for me. Thus, my lord. From the repute of goodness which you bear, I have presum'd to beg. [report. De Mon. They have befool'd thee with a false Con. Alas ! I see it is in vain to plead. Tour mind is prepossess'd against a wretch, Wlio has, unfortunately for his weal, Offended the revengeful Kezenvelt. De Mon. What dost thou say ? Con. What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid. Who will believe my wrongs if I complain ? I am a stranger, Bezenvelt my foe, Who will believe my wrongs ? De Mon. (eagerly catching him hy the coat). I will believe them 1 Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds. In ancient record told, I would believe them ! Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. Speak boldly, tell it all ; for, by the light ! I'll be thy friend. Til be thy warmest friend, If he has done thee wrong. Con. 'Say, pardon me, it were not well advis'd, If I should speak so freely of the man Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be. De Mon. What canst thou mean by this ? Con. That Marquis Hezenvelt Has pledg'd his faith unto your noble sister. And soon will be the husband of her choice. So I am told, and so the world believes. De Mon. 'Tis false ! 'tis basely false ! What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue A tale so damu'd ? — It chokes my breath — (Stamping with his foot.') What wretch did tell it thee? Con. Nay, every one with whom I have convers'd Has held the same discourse. I judge it not. But yon, my lord, who with the lady dwell. Ton best can tell what her deportment speaks ; Whether her conduct and unguarded words Belie such rumour. [De MoNJi'OBT pauses, staggers backwards, and sinks into a chair ; then starting up hastily. De Mon. Where am I now? 'midst all the cursed thoughts. That on my soul lilce stinging scorpions pre/d, This never came before Oh, if it be ! The thought will drive me mad. —Was it for this She urg'd her warm request on bended knee ? Alas ! I wept, and thought of sister's love. No damned love like this. Pell devil ! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid To work such sorcery ! (Pauses.) PU not believe it. I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun For such foul charge as this ! Who waits without ? [^Paces up and down, furiously agitated. Con. (aside). What have I done ? I've carried this too far. Fve rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman. Enter Jeeomb. De Mon. (in a loud angry voice). Where did she go, at such an early hour, And with such slight attendance ? Jer. Of whom inquii'es your honour ? [sister ? De Mon. Why, of your lady. Said I not my Jer. The Lady Jane, your sister ? [her so. De Mon. (in a faltering voice). Yes, I did call Jer. In truth, I cannot tell you where she went. E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard-by, I saw her through the garden-gate return. The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's countess. Are in her company. This way they come. As being nearer to the back apartments ; But I shall stop them, if it be your will, And bid them enter here. De Man. No, stop them not I will remain unseen. And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little. [CoHSAD seems alarmed, and steals off urmotieed. De Monfoet grasps Jeeome tightly by the hand, and drawing back with him two or three steps, not to be seen from the garden, waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the glass door. De Mon. I hear their footsteps on the grating sand: How like the crosiking of a carrion burd. That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear ! And now she speaks — her voice sounds cheerly too — Curs'd be their mirth ! — Now, now, they come ; keep closer stUl ! keep steady ! [Taking AoH q/" Jekome with both hands. Jer. "illy lord, you tremble much. De Mon. What, do I shake ? Jer. Tou do, in truth, and your teeth chatter too. De Man. See ! see they come ! he strutting by her side. [Jane, Eezenvelt, and Codntess Pkebeeo appear through the glass door, pursuing their way up a short walk leading to the other wing , of the house. 94 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. DE monfokt: a ikagedt. See, his audacious face he turns to hers ; tJtt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest. And she endures it too — Oh ! this looks vilely ! Ha ! mark that cdurteous motion of his arm ! — What does he mean? — he dares not take her hand! (Pauses and looks eagerly.') By heaven and hell he does! [Letting go his hold of Jekome, he throws out his hands vehemently^ and tliereby pushes him against the scene. Jer. Oh ! I am stunn'd ! my head is orack'd in twain : Your honour does forget how old I am. De Man. Well, well, the wall is harder than I wist Begone, and whine within. [Exit Jerome, wiA a sad rueful countenance. [Db Moitfoet comes forward to the front of the stage, and jnakes a long pause expressive of great agony of mind. It must be so : each passing circumstance ; Her hasty journey here ; her keen distress Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I express'd ; Ay, and that damned reconciliation. With tears extorted from me : Oh, too well ! All, all too well bespeak the shameful tale. I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoin'd, The morning star mix'd with infernal fire, Ere I had thought of this — HeU's blackest magic, in the midnight hour, With horrid spells and incantation dire. Such combination opposite unseemly. Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base. Did ne'er produce — But every thing is possible. So as it may my misery enhance ! Oh ! I did love her with such pride of soul ! When other men, in gay pursuit of love. Each beauty foUow'd, by her side I stay'd ; Far prouder of a brother's station there, Thau all the favours favour'd lovers boast. We quarrell'd once, and when I could no more The alter'd coldness of her eye endure, I slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door ; And when she ask'd who gently knock'd — Oh! oh! Who could have thought of this ? [Throws himself into a chair, covers his face with his hand, and bursts into tears. After some time, he starts up from his seat furi- ously. Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain ! Detested of my soul ! I will have vengeance ! I'll crush thy swelling pride — I'll still thy vaunt- ing— ril do a deed of blood ! — Why shrink I thus ? If by some spell or magic sympathy, Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it ? [Throwing a dagger against the wall. Shall groans and blood aifright me ? No, I'll do it. Though gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd. And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink, I would not flinch. — Fie, this recoiling nature ! that his sever'd limbs were Btrew'd in air, So as I saw it not ! Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. De MoNTORT turns round, and on seeing him, starts hack, then drawing his sword, rushes furiously upon him. Detested robber ! now all forms are over ; Now open villainy, now open hate ! Defend thy life ! Rez. De Monfort, thou art mad. De Man. Speak not, but draw. Now for thy hated life ! [They fight: Eezentblt pome« his thrusts with great skill, and at last disarms him. Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee. Rez. No, Monfort, but FU take away yotu: sword, Not as a mark of disrespect to you. But for your safety. By to-morrow's eve I'll call on you myself and give it back ; And then, if I am charg'd with any wrong, m justify myself. Farewell, strange man ! [Exit [De Monfort stands for some time quite mo- iiordess, like one stupified. Enters to him a servant : he starts. De Man. Ha ! who art thou ? Ser, 'Tis I, an' please your honour. De Mbn. (staring wildly at him). Who art thou ? Ser. Your servant Jacques. De Men. Indeed I knew thee not. Now leave me, and when Eezenvelt is gone, Betum and let me know. Ser. He's gone already. De Man. How ! is he gone so soon ? Ser. His servant told me, He was in haste to go ; as night comes on. And at the evening hour he purposes To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood, In which a convent is of holy nuns. Who chauut this night a requiem to the soul Of a departed sister. For so well He loves such solemn music, he has order'd His horses onward by the usual road. Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone. So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth ! I would not walk through those vrild dells alone For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard, Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream ; And things unearthly, stalking through the night, Have scar'd the lonely trav'ller from his wits. [De Moneokt stands fixed in thought. rve ta'en your steed, an' please you, from the field. And wait your fai-ther orders. [De Monfort heeds him not. ACT T. SCENE I. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 95 His hoofs axe sound, and where the saddle gall'd, Begins to mend. What further must be done ? [Db Mohpoet stm heeds him not. His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay ? JOe Man. {eagerly, as he isgrnng). He goes alone, saidst thou ? Ser. His servant told me so. De Mon. And at what hour ? Ser. He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve. Save you, my lord ! how chang'd your coimt'nance Are you not well ? [is ! Be Mon. Yes, I am well : begone, And wait ray orders by the city wall : ril wend that way, and speak to thee again. [Exit servant. [De Montokt walks rapidly two or three times across the stage; then seizes his dagger frorm. the wall, looks steadfastly at its point, and exit hastily. SCENE III. moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees. Enter De Montokt, with u strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if he listened to something. De Mon. How hollow groans the earth beneath my tread ! Is there an echo here ? Methinks it sounds As though some heavy footstep foUow'd me. I will advance no farther. Deep settled shadows rest across the path, And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot. that a tenfold gloom did cover it. That 'mid the murky darkness I might strike ! As in the wild confusion of a dream. Tilings horrid, bloody, terrible do pass. As though they pass'd not ; nor impress the mind With the fix'd clearness of reality. \_An owl is heard screaming near him. {Starting.) What sound is that ? {Listens, and the owl cries again. It is the screech-owl's cry. Foul bird of night ! what spirit guides thee here ? Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror ? I've heard of this. [Pauses and listens. How those faU'n leaves so rustle on the path, [me With whisp'ring noise, as though the earth around Did utter secret things. The distant river, too, bears to mine ear A dismal wailing. mysterious night 1 Thou art not silent ; many tongues hast thou. A distant gath'ring blast sounds through the wood. And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky : O ! that a storm would rise, a raging storm ; * I have put above newly-covered instead of new-made grave, as it stands in the former editions, because 1 wish not to give the idea of a funeral procession, but merely that of a Amidst the roar of warring elements rd lift my hand and strike ! but this pale light, The calm distinctness of each stiUy thing. Is terrible (starting). Footsteps, and near me too ! He comes I he comes ! I'll watch him farther on — I cannot do it here. [Exit. Enter Eezentelt, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the stage: as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again. Rez. Ha I does the night-bird greet me on my How much his hooting is in harmony [way ? With such a scene as this ! I like it well. Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, I've leant my back against some knotted oak. And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call He answer would return, and, through the gloom. We friendly convei"se held. Between me and the star-bespangled sky. Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave. And through them looks the pale and placid moon. How like a crocodile, or winged snake, Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length ! And now transformed by the passing wind, Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus. Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue Comes swiftly after. — A hollow murm'ring wind sounds through the trees; I hear it from afar ; this bodes a storm. I must not linger here — [A bell heard at some distance. The convent beU. 'Tis distant still : it tells their hour of prayer. It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze, That, to a fearful superstitions mind. In such a scene, would like a death-knell come. [Exit. ACT V. SCENE I. The inside of a convent chapel, of old Gothic archi- tecture, almost dark : two torches only are seen at a distance, burning over a newly covered* grave. Lightning is seen flashing through the windows, and thunder heard, with the sound of wind beating upon the building. Enter two monks. \st monk. The storm increases : hark how dis- mally It howls along the cloisters. How goes time ? 2nd monk. It is the hour : I hear them near at hand : And when the solenm requiem has been sung hymn or requiem sung over the grave of a person who has been recently buried. 96 JOANNA BAnXIE'S WORKS. DE mohtort: a teagedt. For the departed sister, well retire. Yet, should this tempest still more yiolent grow, We'll beg a friendly shelter till the mom. 1st monk. See,.tlie procession enters : let us join. [_The organ strikes up a solemn prelude. Enter a procession of nuns, with the abbess, bearing torches. After compassing the grave twice, and remaining there some time, the organ plays a grand dirge, while they stand round the grave. SONG BY THE NUNS. Departed soul, whose poor remains This hallow'd lowly grave contains ; Whose passing storm of life is o'er, Whose pains and sorrows are no more ; Bless'd be thou with the bless'd above, Where all is joy, and purity, and love ! Let BJM, in might and mercy dread. Lord of the living and the dead ; In whom the stars of heav'n rejoice. And the ocean hfts its Toice ; Thy spirit, nurified, to glory raise. To sing witn holy saints his everlasting praise! Departed soul, who in this earthly scene Hast our lowly sister been. Swift be thy way to where the blessed dwell ! Until we meet thee there, farewell I farewell ! Enter a young pensioner, with a wild terrified look, her hair and dress aU scattered, and rushes forward amongst them. Abb. Why com'st thou here, with such disorder'd looks. To break upon our sad solemnity ? Pen. Oh ! I did hear through the receding blast. Such horrid cries ! they made my blood run chill. Abb. 'Tis but the varied voices of the storm, Which many times will sound like distant screams: It has deceiv'd thee. Pen. O no, for twice it caU'd, so loudly call'd. With horrid strength; beyond the pitch of nature ; And murder 1 murder ! was the dreadful ciy. A third time it retum'd with feeble strength. But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throat. And all was still again, save the wUd blast Which at a distance growl'd. — • Oh ! it will never from my mind depart ! That dreadful cry, all f the instant still'd : For then, so near, some horrid deed was done, And none to rescue. Abb. Where didst thou hear it ? , Pen. In the higher cells, As now a window, open'd by the storm, I did attempt to close. \st monk. I wish our brother Bernard were arriv'd ; He is upon liis way. Abb. Be not alarm'd ; it still may be deception. 'Tis meet we finish our solemnity. Nor show neglect unto the honour'd dead. [ Gives a sign, and the organ plays again : just cts it ceases, a loud knocking is heard without. Abb. Ha ! who may this be ? hush 1 [^Knocking heard again. 2d monk. It is the knock of one in fiirious haste. Hush ! hush ! What footsteps come ? Ha ! brother Bernard. Enter Beskass bearing a lantern, \st monk. See, what a look he wears of stiiFen'd fear! Where hast thou been, good brother ? Bern. I've seen a honid sight ! [All gathering round him and speaking at once. What hast thou seen ? Bern. As on I hasten'd, bearing thus my light, Across the path, not fifty paces ofi; I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back, Smear'd with new blood, as though but freshly slain. Abb. A man or woman was't ? Bern. A man, a man ! Abb. Didst thou examine if within its breast There yet were lodg'd some small remains of life ? Was it quite dead ? Bern. Nought in the grave is deader. I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge In any form so laid. A chilly horror seiz'd me, and I fled. 1st monk. And does the face seem all unknown to thee ? [look'd Bern. The face ! I would not on the face have For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world ! no ! the bloody neck, the bloody neck ! [^Shaking his head and shuddering -with horror. Load knocking heard- without. Sist. Good mercy ! who comes next ? Bern. Not far behind 1 left our brother Thomas on the road ; But then he did repent him as he went. And threatened to return. 2d monk. See, here he comes. Enter Brother Thomas, with a wild terrified look. 1st monk. How wild he looks ! Bern, (going up to him eagerly"). What, hast thou seen it too ? Thom. Yes, yes ! it glared upon me as it pass'd. Bern. What glared upon thee ? [All gathering round Thomas, and speaking at once. O ! what hast thou seen ? Thom. As striving with the blast I onward came, Turning my feeble lantern from the wind. Its light upon a dreadfiil visage gleam'd, AOI T. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS, 97 Which paus'd and look'd upon me as it pass'd j But such a look, such wildness of despair, Such horror-strained features, never yet Did earthly visage show. I shrank and shudder'd. If a damn'd spirit may to earth return, Pve seen it. Bern. Was there any blood upon it ? Thum. ISsij, as it pass'd, I did not see its form ; Nought but the horrid face. Bern. It is the murderer. 1st monk. What way went it 1 Thorn. I durst not look till I had pass'd it far. Then turning round, upon the rising bank, I saw, between me and the paly sky, A dusky form, tossing and agitated. I stopp'd to mark it ; but, in truth, I found 'Twas but a sapling bending to the mud, And so I onwai-d hied, and look'd no more. \st monk. But we must look to't j we must follow it : Our duty so commands. (To 2d monk.") Will you go, brother ? {To BEimAJEtD.) And yon, good Bernard ? Bern. If I needs must go. \st monk. Come, we must all go. Abb. Heaven be with you, then ! {^Exeunt monks. Pen. Amen ! amen ! Good heav'n, be with us all! what a dreadful night ! .464. Daughters, retire ; peace to the peaceful dead! Om' solemn ceremony now is finish'd. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A large room in the convent, very dark. Enter the abbess, young pensioner bearing a light, and several nuns; she sets doum the light on a table at the bottom of the stage, so that the roam is still very Abb. They have been longer absent than I thought : I fear he has escap'd them. 1st nun. Heaven forbid t Pen. No, no, found out foul murder ever is, And the foul murderer too. 2d nun. The good Saint Francis will direct their search ; The blood sojiear this holy convent shed For threefold vengeance calls. Abb. I hear a noise within the inner court — They are retum'd (listening') ; and Bernard's voice I hear: They are retum'd. Pen. Why do I tremble so ? It is not I who ought to tremble thus. 2d nun. I hear them at the door. Bern, (without). Open the door, I pray thee, brother Thomas ; I cannot now unhand the prisoner. (AM speak together, shrinking back from the door, and staring upon one another!) He is with them ! [A folding door at the bottom of the stage is opened, and enter Beknaed, Thomas, otuI the other two monks, carrying lanterns in their hands, and bringing in De Monpokt. They are likewise followed by other monks. As they lead forward De Monfokt, the light is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely; but when they come to the front of the stage, they turn the light side of their lanterns on him at once, and his face is seen in all the strengthened horror of despair, with his hands and clothes bloody, (Abbess and nuns speak at once, and start back). Holy saints be with us ! Bern, (to abb.) Behold the man of blood ! Abb. Of misery too ; I cannot look upon him. Bern, (to nuns), IS&j, holy sisters, turn not thus away. Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you : For from his mouth we have no utt'rance heard. Save one deep groan and smother'd exclamation. When first we seiz'd him. Abb. (to De Mon.) Most miserable man, how ai-t thou thus ? [Pauses. Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands Do witness hon-id things. What is thy name 1 De Mon. (roused, looks steadfastly at the abbess for some time; then speaking in a short hurried voice). I have no name. Abb. (to Bern.) Do it thyself; I'll .speak to him no more. Pen. O holy saints ! that this should be the man Who did against his fellow lift the stroke. Whilst he so loudly call'd. — Still in my eara it rings : O murder ! murder ! JJe Mon. (starting). He calls again ! Pen. No, he did call, but now his voice is still'd. 'Tis past. De Mon. 'Tis past. Pen. Yes, it is past ! art thou not he who did it ? [De Montort utters a deep groan, and is sup- ported from falling by the monks, A noise is fteard without. Abb. What noise is this of heavy Inmb'ring steps. Like men who with a weighty burthen come ? Bern. It is the body : I have orders given That here it should be laid. [Enter men bearing the body of tiEZENVEi.T, co- vered with a white cloth, and set it down in the middle of the room: they then uncover it. De MoNPORT stands fixed and motionless with horror, only that a sudden shivering seems to vass over him when they uncover the corpse. 98 JOANNA BAHXIE'S WORKS. DE MONTOET: A TBA«EDT. The abbess and nuns shrink back and retire to some distance, all the rest fixing their eyes steadfastly upon De Monpokt. A umg Bern, (to De Mon.) Seest thou that lifeless corpse, those bloody wounds ? See how he lies, who but so shortly since A living creature was, with all the powers Of sense, and motion, and humanity ! Oh ! what a heart had he who did this deed ! \st monk (looking at the body"). How hard those teeth against the lips are press'd, As though he straggled still ! 2nd monk. The hands too, clench'd : nature's last fearful effort. [■De Monfokt still stands motionless. Brother Thomas then goes to the body, and raising up the heada little, turns it towardsT>B MoireoET. Thorn. Knowst thou this ghastly face ? De Man. (putting his hands before his face in violent perturbation). Oh, do not ! do not ! Veil it from my sight ! Put me to any agony but this ! [deed ? Thorn. Ha ! dost "thou then confess the dreadful Hast thou against the laws of awful heaven Such horrid murder done? What fiend could tempt thee ? \Paiises, and looks steadfastly at De Mokpoet. De Mom. I hear thy words, but do not hear their sense — Hast thou not cover'd it ? Bcm. (to Thom.) Forbear, my brother, for thou seest right well He is not in a state to answer thee. Let us retire and leave him for awhile. These windows are with iron grated o'er ; He is secur'd, and other duty calls. Thom. Then let it be. Bern, (to monks, Ifc.) Come, let us all depart. [Exeunt abbess and nuns, followed by the monks, one wxmk lingering a little behind. De Man. All gone ! (Perceiving the monk.") stay thou here ! Monk. It must not be. De Man. Til give thee gold ; I'U make thee rich in gold. If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. Monk.' I must not, must not, stay. De Man. I do conjure thee ! Monk. I dare not stay with thee. [Going. De Mom. And wilt tbou go ? [Catching hold of him eagerly. ! throw thy cloak upon this giizly form ! The undos'd eyes do stare upon me still. O do not leave me thus ! [Monk covers the body, and exit. De Man. (alone, looking at the covered body, but at a distance). Alone with thee ! but thou art nothing now. 'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast ; Would ! would it were to come ! — What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud Will close on all this horror ? that dire madness would unloose my thoughts. And fill my mind with wildest fantasies, Dark, restless, terrible ! aught, aught but this ! [Pauses and shudders. How with convulsive life he heaVd beneath me. E'en with the death's . wound gor'd ! O horrid, horrid ! Methinks I feel him stilL — What sound is that ? 1 heard a smother'd groan. — It is impossible ! [Looking steadfastly at the body. It moves ! it moves ! the cloth doth heave and sweU. It moves again ! I cannot suffer this Whate'er it be, I will uncover it. [Runs to the corpse, and tears off Ae cloth in All still beneath. Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death. How sternly fixed I Oh ! those glazed eyes ! They look upon me stiU. [Shrinks back with horror. Come, madness ! come unto me, senseless death ! I cannot suffer this ! Here, rocky wall. Scatter these brains, or dull them ! [Runs furiffusly, and dashing his head against the wall, falls upon the floor. Enter two monks hastily. 1st monk. See : wretched man, he hath destroy'd himself. 2d monk. He does but faint. Let us remove him hence. 1st monk. We did not well to leave him here alone. 2d monk. Come, let us bear him to the open air. [Exeunt, bearing out De Montoet. SCENE HI. Before the gates of the convent. Enter Jane De MoinFOKT, Fkeberg, and Manuel. As they are proceeding towards the gate, Jane stops short and shrinks back. Freb. Ha! wherefore? has a sudden illness seiz'd thee? Jane. No, no, my friend. — And yet I am very faint — I dread to enter here. Man. Ay, so I thought : For, when between the trees, that abbey tower First show'd its top, I saw your count'nanco change. But breathe a little here : I'll go before. And make inquuy at the nearest gate. ACT V. SCEHE IV. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 99 Freh. Do so, good Manuel. [Mandbl goes and knocks at Hie gate. Courage, dear madam : all may yet be well. Rezenvelt's servant, frighten'd with the storm. And seeing that his master join'd him not, As by appomtment, at the forest's edge, Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear To an unfounded rumour. He saw it not ; he came not here himself. Jajie (looking eagerly to the gate, where Manuel talks with the porter^ Ha ! see, he talks with some one earnestly. And seest thou not that motion of his hands ? He stands like one who hears a horrid tale. Almighty God I [Mantjei, goes into the convent. He comes not back ; he enters. Freb. Bear up, my noble friend. [fill. Jane. I will, I will ! But this suspense is dread- [A long pause. Manttel re-enters from the convent, and comes forward slowly with a sad countenance. Is this the face of one who bears good tidings ? God ! his face doth tell the horrid fact : There is nought doubtful here. Freb. How is it, Manuel ? Man. Pve seen him through a crevice in his door : It is indeed my master. [Bursting into tears. [J ASB faints, and is supported by Ebeberg. — Enter abbess and several nuns from the con- vent, who gather about her, and apply remedies. She recovers. 1st nun. The life returns again. 2d nun. Yes, she revives. Abb. (to Fbeb.) Let me entreat this noble lady's leave To lead her in. She seems in great distress : We would with holy kindness soothe her woe. And do by her the deeds of christian love. Freb. Madam, your goodness has my grateful thanks. [Exeunt, supporting Jane into the convent SCEKE IV. X)e Monfobt is discovered sitting in a thoughtfid posture. Hz remains so for some time. His face afterwards begins to appear agitated^ like one whose mind is harrowed with the severest thoughts ; then, starting from his seat, he clasps his hands together, and holds them up to heaven. He Man. O that I ne'er had known the light of day ! That filmy darkness on mine eyes had hung, And clos'd me out from the fair face of nature I O that my mind in mental darkness pent. Had no perception, no distinction known. Of fair or fou^ perfection or defect. Nor thought conceiv'd of proud pre-eminence I O that it had I O that I had been form'd An idiot from the bu-th ! a senseless changeling. Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste. Nor knows the hand which feeds him. — [Pauses; then in a calmer sorrowful voice. What am I now ? how ends the day of life ? For end it must ; and terrible this gloom. This storm of horrors that surrounds its close. This little term of nature's agony Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past ; But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness. Like senseless clod that doth no pressure feel From wearing foot of daily passenger ; Like a steep'd rock o'er which the breaking waves Bellow and foam unheard ? would I could ! Enter Mandel, who springs forward to his master, but is checked upon perceiving De Monfort draw back and look sternly at him. Man. My lord, my master! my dearest master ! [Db Monfokt stOl looks at him without speaking. Nay, do not thus regard me, good my lord ! Speak to me : am I not your faithful Manuel ? He Mon. (in a hasty broken voice'). Art thou alone ? MaTt. No, SU-, the Lady Jane is on her way ; She is not far behind. He Mon. (tossing his arm over his head in an agony). This is too much! AH I can bear but this ! It must not be. — Run and prevent her coming. Say, he who is detain'd a prisoner here Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing. I am a man of holy claims bereft ; Out of the pale of social kindred cast ; Nameless and horrible. — Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone Into a desolate and distant land. Ne'er to return again. Ply, tell her this ; For we must meet no more. Enter Jane De Monfoet, bursting into the chamber and followed by Fbebeeo, abbess, and several nuns. Jane. We must ! we must ! My brother, O my brother ! [De Montort turns away his head and hides his face with his arm. Jane stops short, and, making a great effort, turns to Frebero, and the others who followed her, and with an air of dignity stretches out her hand, beckoning Aem to retire. All retire but Feeberg, who seems to hesitate. And thou too, Freberg : call it not unkind. [Exit Feebero : Jane and De Monfort only remairu H2 100 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. demontokt: ateagedt. Jane. My hapless Monfort ! [De Monpokt turns round and looks sorrowfuVy upon her; she opens her arms to him, and he, rushing into' them, hides his face upon her breast, and weeps. Jane. Ay, give thy sorrow Tent ; here mayst thou weep. De.Mon. (in broken accents'). Oh! this, my sister, makes me feel again The kindness of affection. My mind has hi a dreadful storm been tost ; Horrid and dark — I thought to weep no more — Tve done a deed — But I am human stilL Jane. I know thy suff'rings : leave thy sorrow free! Thou art with one who never did upbraid ; Who mourns, who loves thee still. Ve Mm. Ah ! sayst thou so ? no, no ; it should not be. (Shrinking from her.) I am a foul and bloody murderer, For such embrace unmeet : leave me ! leave me ! Disgrace and public shame abide me now ; And ail, alas ! who do my kindred own. The direful portion share. — Away, away! Shall a disgrac'd and public criminal Degrade' thy name, and claim afiSnity To noble worth like thine ? — I have Ho name — I'm nothing now, not e'en to thee : depart. '[She takes his hand, and grasping it fimHy, speaks with a determined voice. Jane. De Mortfort, hand in hand we have enjoy'd The playful term of infancy together ; And' in the rougher path of ripen'd years We've been each other's stay. Dark low'rs our fate. And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from natm-e, shall unloose This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison- house ; In the terrific face of armed law ; Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee. De Mm. (looking at her with admiration). HeaVn biess thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane ! I thought to sink beneath this load of ill, Depress'd with infamy and open shame ; I thought to sink in abject wretchedness : Butfor thy sake Til rouse my manhood up, And meet it bravely ; no unseemly weakness, I feel my rising strength, shall blot my end. To clothe thy cheek with shame. Jane. Yes, thou art noble still. De Mem. With thee I am ; who were not so with thee ? But, ah ! my sister, short will be the term : Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond, Where things unutterable wait the soul, New from its earthly tenement discharg'd. We shall be sever'd far. Tar as the spotless purity of virtue Is from the murd'rer's guilt, far shall we be. This is the gulf of dreaid uncertauity From which the soul recoils. Jane. The God who made thee is a God of mercy: Think upon this. De Mm. (shaking his head). No, no ! this blood ! this blood I Jane. Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be for- . giv'n. When humble penitence hath once aton'd. De Man. (eagerly). 'What, after terms of length- en'd misery, Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits, Shall I again, a renovated soul. Into the blessed family of the good Admittance have? Thinkst thou that this may be? Speajc, if thou canst : O speak me comfort here ! For dreadful fancies, like an armed host. Have push'd me to despair. It is most horrible — speak of hope ! if any hope there be. , [Jaub is silent, and looks sorrowfully upon him ; then clasping her haTids, and turning her eyes to heaven, seems to mutier a prayer. De Man. Ha ! dost thou pray for me ? heav'n hear thy prayer ! 1 fain would kneel. — Alas! I dare not do it Jane. Not so! all by th' Almighty Father form'd. May in then: deepest misery call on Him. Come kneel with me, my brother. \She kneels and prays to herself; he kneels by her, and clasps his hands . fervently, but speaks not A noise of chains clanAing is heard witltout, and they both rise. - De Man. Hearest thou that noise ? They come to interrupt us. Jane, (moving towards a side door). Then let us enter here. De Mon. (catching hold of her with a look of horror). Not there — not there — the corpse — the bloody corpse ! Jane. What, lies he there? — Unhappy Eezeu- velt ! De Man. A sudden thought has come across my mind ; How came it not before ? Unhappy Eezenvdt ! Sayst thou but this ? Jane. 'WTiat should I say ? he was an honest . man ; I stai have thought him such, as such lament him. [De Monfort utters a deep groan. What means this heavy groan ? De Man. It hath a meanmg. ACT T. SCENE V. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 101 Enter abbess and monks, with two officers of justice carrying fetters in their hands to put upon De MONFOKT. . Jane Cstartingy, What men are these ? 1st off. Lady, we are the servants of the law, And bear with us a power, which doth constrain To bind with fetters this our prisoner. [_Pointing to Db Moitfoet. Jane. A stranger nncondemn'd ? this cannot be. Is* off. As yet, indeed, he is by law nnjudg'd, But is so far condemn'd by circumstance. That law, or custom sacred held as law. Doth fuUy warrant us, and it must be. Jane. Nay, say not so ; hehasnopower t'escape: Bistress hath bound him with a heavy chain j There is no need of yours. 1st off. We must perform our o£Sce. JoTie. ! do not offer this indignity ! 1st off. Is it indignity in sacred law [work. To bind a murderer? (To 2d off.") Come, do thy Jane. Harsh are thy words, and stem thy har- den'd brow ; Dark is thine eye ; but all some pity have Unto the last extreme of misery. I do beseech thee ! if thou art a man [Kneding to him. [De Moktort, roused at this, runs up to Jaue, aTid raises her hastily from the ground; tJien stretches himself up proudly. De Man. (to Jake). Stand thou erect in native dignity; And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee, Though cloth'd in power imperial. To my heai-t It gives a feller gripe than many irons. (SMing out his hmds.') Here, officers of law, bind on those shackles ; And, if they are too light, bring heavier chains, Add iron to iron ; load, crush me to the ground : Nay, heap ten thousand weight upon my breast. For that were best of all. \_A long pause, whilst they put irons upon hhn. After they are on, Jake looks at him sorrow- fvlbj, and lets her head sink on Iter breast De MoiwoET stretches out his hand, looks at them, and then at Jane; crosses them over his breast, and endeavours to suppress his feel- ings.* 1st off. (to De Montokt). I have it, too, in charge to move you hence. Into another chamber more secure. De Mem. Well, I am ready, sir. - [^Approaching Jane, whom the abbess is en- deavouring to comfort, but to no purpose. Ah ! ' wherefore thus, most hononr'd and most dear? * Should this play ever again be acted, perhaps it would be better that the curtain should drop here ; since here the story may be considered as completed, and what comes after, Shrink not at the accoutrements of iU, Daring the thing itself. [^Endeavouring to look cheerful. Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand 1 \_She gives him her hand, which he raises to his lips. This was my proudest office. [Exeunt, De Moheoht leading out Jane. SCENE V. An apartment in the convent, opening into another room, whose low arched door is seen at the bottom of the stage. In one comer a monk is seen kneeling. Enter another monk, who, on perceiving him, stops till he rises from his knees, and then goes eagerly up to him. Ist monk. How is the prisoner ? 2d monk (pointing to the door"). He is within, and the strong hand of death Is deaUng with him. 1st monk. How is this, good brother ? Methought he braVd it with a manly spirit ; And led, with shackled hands, his sister forth. Like one resolv'd to bear misfortune bravely. 2d monk. Yes, with heroic courage, tor a while He seem'd inspir'd ; but soon depress'd again, Bemorse and dark despair o'erwhelm'd his soul: And, from the violent working of his mind. Some stream of life within his breast has burst ; . For many a time, within a little space. The ruddy tide has rush'd into his mouth. God grant his pains be short ! 1st monk. How does the lady? 2d monk. She sits and bears his head upon her lap. Wiping the cold drops from his ghastly face With such a look of tender wretchedness. It wrings the heart to see her. How goes the night ? 1st monk. It wears, methinks, upon the midnight hour. It is a dark and fearful night ; the moon Is wrapp'd in sable clouds j the chill blast sounds Like dismal lamentations. Ay, who knows What voices mix with the dark midnight winds ? Nay, as I pass'd that yawning cavern's mouth, A whisp'iing sound, unearthly, reach'd my eai', And o'er my head a chilly coldness crept. Are there not wicked fiends and damned sprites. Whom yawning chamels, and th' unfathom'd depths Of secret darkness, at this feaiful hour. Do upwards send, to watch, unseen, around The murd'rer's death-bed, at his fatal term, Keady to hail with dire and horrid welcome. Their future mate ? — I do believe there are. prolongs the piece too much when our interest for the fate of De Monfort is at an end. 102 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. DB monport: a tragedy. 2d monk. Peace, peace ! a God of wisdom and of mercy. Veils from our sight -^Ha ! hear that heavy groan. ' \^A groan heard within. 1st monk. It is the dying man. [^Another groan. 2d monk. God grant him rest ! [Listening at the door. I hear him straggling in the gripe of death. piteous heaven ! [Goes from the door. Enter Brother Thomas /rom the chamber. How now, good brother ? [death Thmn. Retire, my friends. many a. bed of With all its pangs and horrors I have seen. But never aught Uke this ! Ketire, my friends ! The death-bell will its awful sign^ give. When he has breath'd his last. 1 would move heiice, but I am weak and faint : Let me a'moinent on thy shoulder lean. Oh, weak and mortal man ! [Leans on 2d monk : a pause. Enter BE^TSMiO from the chamber. 2d monk (Jn Bern.). How is your penitent ? Bern. He is with HJM who made him ; Him, who knows The soul of man : before whose awfiil presence Th' unsceptred tyrant stands despoU'd and helpless. Like an unclothed babe. [BeU. toUs. The dismal sound ! Retire, and pray for the blood-stained soul : May heay'n have mercy on him I [Bell tolls again. [Exeunt SCENE VI. A haU or large room in th£ convent. The bodies of De3 Monfort and Rezenvelt are discovered laid out upon a low table orplatjbrm, covered with black. FREBERGr BERNARD, ohbesSj laonkSj and nuns attending. Abb. (to Free.) Here must they lie, my lord, until we know Respecting this the order of the law. [mother. Freb. And you have wisely done, mj reVrend [Goes to the table, and hoks at the bodies, but without uncovering them. Unhappy men ! ye, both in nature rich, With talents and with virtues were endued. Te should have loVd, yet deadly rancour came. And in the prime and manhood of your days Te sleep in horrid death. O direful hate ! What shame and wretchedness his portion is, Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee ! And who shall call him blameless, who excites, Ungen'rously excites, with careless scorn. Such baleful passion in a brother's breast. Whom heaVn commands to love ? Low are ye laid : Still all contention now. — Low are ye laid : I loVd you both, and mourn your hapless fall. Abb. They were your friends, my lord ? Freb. I lov'd them both. How does the Lady Jane? Abb. She bears misfortune with intrepid souL I never saw in woman, boVd with grief, Such moving dignity. Freb. Ay, still the same. I've known her long : of worth most excellent ; But in the day of woe she ever rose Upon the mind with added majesty, As the dark mountain more sublimely tow'rs Mantled in clouds and storm. Enter Manuel and Jerome. Man. (pointing'). Here, my good Jerome, here's a piteous sight. Jer. A piteous sight 1 yet I will look upon him : m see his face in death. Alas, alas ! Fve seen bim move a noble gentleman ! And when vrith vexing passion undistmb'd. He look'd most graciously. [Lifts up in mistake the cloth from the body of Rezenvelt, and starts bach with horror. Oh ! this was the bloody work ! Oh! oh, oh, oh! That human hands could do it ! [Drops the cloth again. Man. That is the murder'd corpse ; here lies De Monfort. [Going to uncover iAe other both/. Jer. (turning away his head). No, no I I can- not look upon him now. Man. Didst thou not come to see him ? Jer. Fy ! cover bim — inter him in the dark — Let no one look upon him. Bern, (to Jer.) WeU dost thou show the ab- horrence nature feels For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well. In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes For one, who, from the hand of feUow man. Hath felt such cruelty. [Uncovering the body ©/■ Rezenvelt. This is the murder'd corse : [Uncovering the body of De Monfort. But see, I pray ! Here lies the murderer. What thinkst thou here ? Look on those features, thou hast seen them oit, With the last dreadful conflict of despair, So fix'd in horrid strength. See those knit brows ; those hollow sunken eyes ; The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent ; That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth appear, In agony, to gnash the nether lip. Thinkst tiiou, less painful than the mnrd'rer's knife Was such a death as this ? Ay, and how changed too those matted locks ! Jer. Merciful heaven ! his hair is grizly grown, Chang'd to white age, that was, but two days since. Black as the raven's plume. How may this be ? ACT V. SCiaSB Yl. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 103 Sem. Such change, from violent conflict of the mind, Will sometimes come. Jer. t. Alas, alas ! most wretched ! Thou wert too good to do a cruel deed. And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast sufFer'd for it. God rest thy^ soul 1 1 needs must touch thy hand, And bid thee long farewell. \_ZMymg his hand on D£ Montort. Sem. Draw back, draw back : see where the lady comes. Enter Jane Db Monpokt. Freberg, who has been for some time retired by himself at the bottom of the stage, now steps forward to lead her in, but checks himself on seeing the fixed sorrow of her countenance, and draws back respectfiMy. Jane advances to the table, and looks attentively at the covered bodies. Manuel points out the body of Db Monfort, and she gives a gentle inclination of the head, to signify that she understands him. She then bends tenderly over it, without speaking. Mom. (to Jane, as she raises ker head). Oh, madam, my good lord ! Jane. Well says thy lore, my good and faithful Manuel : But we must mourn in silence. Man. Alas ! the times that I have followed him ! Jane. Forbear, my faithful Manuel For this love Thou hast my grateful thanks ; and here's my hand: Thou hast lov'd him, and Til remember thee. Where'er I am, in whate'er spot of earth I linger out the remnant of my days, I wiU remember thee. Man. Nay, by the living God ! where'er you axe. There will I be. Til prove a trusty servant : ril follow you, even to the world's end. My mastei^s gone ; and I indeed am mean. Yet will I show the strength of nobler men. Should any dare upon your honour'd worth To put ttie shghtest wrong. Leave you, dear lady! Kill me, but say not this 1 [^Throwing himself at her feet Jane (raising him). Well, then! be thou my servant, and my Mend. Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come ? I see thou art How goes it with thine age ? Jer. Ah, madam ! woe and weakness dwell with age : Would I could serve you with a young man's strength ! rd spend my life for you. Jane. Thanks, worthy Jerome. ! who hath said, the vnretched have no friends ? Freb. In every sensible and gen'rous breast Affliction finds a friend ; but imto thee, Thou most exalted and most honourable, The heart in warmest adoration bows. And even a worship pays. Jane. Nay, Freberg! Freberg! grieve me not, my . friend. He, to whose ear my praise most welcome was. Hears it no more ! and, oh, our piteous lot ! What tongue will talk of him ? Alas, alas ! This more than all will bow me to the earth ; I feel my misery here. The voice of praise was wont to name us both : I had no greater pride. [_Covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears. Here they all hang about her : Freberg supporting her tenderly, Manuel embracing her knees, and old Jerome catching hold of her robe affectionately. Bernard, abbess, monks, and nuns likewise gather round her, with looks of sympathy. Enter two Officers of Law. 1st off. Where is the prisoner? Into our hands he straight must be consign'd. Bern. He is not subject now to human laws ; The prison that awaits him is the grave. 1st off. Ha ! sayst thou so ? there is foul play in this. Man. (to off.) Hold thy unrighteous tongue, or hie thee hence, Nor in the presence of this honour'd dame, Utter the slightest meaning of reproach. 1st off. I am an officer on duty call'd. And have authority to say, " How died he ? " [_Here Jane shakes off the weakness of grief, and repressing Manuel, who is about to reply to the officer, steps forward with dignity. Jane. Tell them by whose authority you come, He died that death which best becomes a man, Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit; A death that kiUs the noble and the brave. And only them. He had no other wound. 1st off. And shall I trust to this ? Jane. Do as thou wilt : To one who can suspect my simple word I have no more reply. Fulfil thine office. 1st off. No, lady, I believe your honour'd word,. And will no further search. Jane. I thank your courtesy : thanks, thanks to all; My rev'rend mother, and ye honour'd maids j Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends; The blessing of the afflicted rest with you ! And He, who to the wretched is most piteous. Will recompense you. — Freberg, thou art good; Remove the body of the friend you lov'd : 'Tis Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge : 'Tis meet, that with his noble ancestors He lie entomb'd in honourable state. 104 JOAmSTA BAILLIE'S WORICS. And now I have a sad request to make, Nor will these holy sisters scorn my boon ; That I, within these^ sacred cloister walls. May raise a .humble, nameless tomb to him, Who, hut for one dark passion, one dire deed. Had claim'd a record of as noble worth. As e'er enrich'd the sculptur'd pedestal [^Exeunt. Note. — The last three lines Qf the last speech are not in- tended to give the reader a true character of De Mon/ort, whom 1 have endeavoured to represent throughout the play as, notwithstanding his other good qualities,' proud, sus- picious, and susceptible or envy, but only to express the partial sentiments of an affectionate sister, naturally more inclined to praise him from the misfortune into which he had fallen. The Tragedy of De Monfort has ^een brought out at Drury-Lane Theatre, adapted to the stage by Mr. Kcmble. I am infinitely obliged to that gentleman for the excellent powers he has exerted, assisted by the incomparable talents of his sister, Mrs. Siddons, in endeavouring to obtain for it that public favour, which I sincerely wish it bad been found more worUiy of receiving. MATTHEW BAILLIE, M.D., AS AN, OFFERING OF GHATITODE AND AFFECTIOW FOR THE UNWEARIED ZEAL AND BROTHERLY PARTIALITY ' WHICH HAVE CHEERED AND SUPPORTED ME fS THE COURSE Of THIS WORK, I INSCRIBE THIS VOLUME. \_Tlie following were prefixed to the Second Volume of Plays on the Passions.'] expected from me, I have only to say for myself, that I have done my best, andthat my abilities are in fault, and not my industry. The time indeed that has elapsed since the publication of the first volume will, I trust, be considered as a proof that the portion of public approbation with which I have been favoured has not rendered me presumptuous. I know there are causes why the second part of a work should be more severely dealt with than' that which has preceded it ; but after what I have experienced, it would be ungratefiil in me not to suppose that the generality of readerd will take up this volume with a disposition to be pleased : and that they will also, in favour of one wlio has no great pretensions to learning or improvements, be inclined to extend the term of good-natured indul- gence a little beyond its ordinary limits. The first play in thjs^ v olume is a comedy o n Saffed,, i035japaniQa_Jojflie_tagedj_I_have 3ready priblished_ijj!pji. jhe_same subject Of this I shscHrSiyTittle. I have endeavoured in it to show this passion in a different situation, and fostered by a different species of provocation, from that which was exhibited -in De Monfort, and existing in a character of much less delicacy and reserve. 1 am aware, that it falls greatly short of that degree of comic effect which the subject is calculated to produce, and which a writer of truer comic talents would have given it. The subject of the other three plays is Ambition. It is with regret that I have extended the serious part of it to an unusual length, but I found that within a smaller compass I conld not give such a view of the passion as I wished. Those passions which are of a permanent nature are the proper subjects of this work ; such I mean as are capable TO THE EEADEB. After a considerable interval of lame from the publishing of the first, I now offer to the public a second volume of the " Series of Plays ; " and, with it, my vary grateful thanks for that indulgence and dieering approbation which has encouraged me to proceed thus far in my work. I have to thank it for that kind of receptioa which is best calculated to make a work go on well — praise mixed with a considerable portion of censure. I have to thank it, indeed, for that icind of reception which I solicited ; conscious that it was the best, in regard to my real interest, which I could receive ; as well as the very best, in regard to my merits, which I could possibly presume to expect. If with this great advantage, beyond what I enjoyed when I wrote the first part of this work, I have fallen short in the second volimie of what might have been reasonably PiATS ON THE PASSIONS. 105 of taking up their abode in the mind, and of gain- ing a strong ascendancy over it during a term of some length ; I have, therefore, in all these plays, given myself greater ^cope in point of time than is usual with dramatic vnriters. But compared with Ambition, perhaps all other passions may be con- sidered as of a transient nature. They ai-e capable of being gratified ; and, when they are gratified, they become extinct, or subside and shade them- selves off (if I may be allowed the expression) into other passions and affections. Ambition alone ac- quires strength from gratification, and after having gained, one object, stiU sees another rise before it to which it as eagerly pushes on ; and the domi- nion which it usurps over the mind is capable of enduring from youth to extreme age. To give a full view, therefore, of this passion, it was neces- sary to show the subject of it in many different situ- ations, and passing through a considerable course of events ; had I attempted to do this within the ordinary limits of one play, that play must have been so entirely devoted to this single object, as to have been left bare of every other interest or attrac- tion. These are my reasons for making so large a demand on the patience of my reader in favour of this passion^ and if I am pardoned in this instance, there is little danger of my offending again in the same manner. I am perfectly sensible, that from the length of these tragedies, and, perhaps, some other defects, they are not altogether adapted to the stage ; but I would fain flatter myself, that either of the parts of Ethwald might, with very little trouble, be turned into an acting play, that would neither fatigue nor offend. I should, indeed, very much regret any essential defect in this work, that might render it unfit for being more generally useful and amusing. The scene of these plays is laid in Britain, in the kingdom of Mercia, and the time towards the end of the Heptarchy. This was a period fiill of internal discord, usurpation, and change ; the liistory of which is too perplexed, and too little connected" with any very important or striking event in the affairs of men, to be familiarly known, not merely to conmion readers, but even to the more learned in history. I have, therefore, thought, that I might here, without offence, fix my story ; here give it a " habitation and a name," and model it. to my own fancy, as might best suit my design. In so doing, I run no risk of disturbing or deranging the re- collection of any important truth, or of any thing that deserves to be remembered. However, though I have not adhered to history, the incidents and events of the plays will be found, I hope, consistent with the character of the times ; with which I have also endeavoured to make the representation I have given of manners, opinions, and persons, uniformly correspond. I have, indeed, given a very dark picture of the religion and the clergy of those days ; but it is a true one : and I believe it will be per- ceived throughout the whole, that it is drawn by one, who would have touched it with a lighter hand, had the spirit and the precepts of Chris- tianity, and above aU, the superlatively beautiful character of its divine Founder, been more indif- ferent to her. To give a view of Ambition, as it is generally found in the ordinary intercourse of life, excited by vanity rather than the love of power, and displayed in a character which is not, like that of Ethwald, supported by the consciousness of abilities adequate to its designs, has been my object in the comedy that accompanies the foregoing tragedies. As a long period of time, and a long chain of events, did not appear necessary to this purpose, I have con- fined myself to the usual limits of a dramatic work. There is nothing, I believe, either in the story or the characters of the piece, that calls upon me to say any thing in regard to them. Such as it is, I leave it with its companions, in the hands of my reader, with some degree of confidence struggling against many fears : and I ain willing to hope, that, if in the course of this volume I have given, in general, afr ue representation of hnman^nature. .nndec_su Countest thou for nought Furze from the upland moors, and bearded down Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain, The sharp-tooth'd bramble of the shaggy woods And tufted seeds from the dark m^ish? Good sooth; She well may triumph in no vtJgar skill Who spins a coat from it And then his wardrobe, too, of costly gear. Which from the wallets of a hundred thieves. Has been transferring for a score of years. In endless change, it will be noble spoil ! [4 tnmipet is heard without, and Ethw. starts from his seaL Ha ! 'tis the trumpet's voice ! What royal leader this way shapes his route ? [4 silent pause. Ye answer not and yet ye seem to know. Enter Servants in haste. Good fellows, what say ye ? 1st serv. The king ! the king ! and with five thousand men ! 2d serv. I saw his banners from tne battle- ments Waving between the woods. 3d serv. And so did L TTis spearmen onward move in dusky lines, Iiike the brown reeds that skirt the winter pooL Sel. Well, well, there needs not all this wond'- ling din: He passes on, and we shall do our part. 1st serv. The foe is three leagues off. SeL Hold thy fool's tongue ! I want no informa- tion. [Etswald remains for a while thoughtful, then running eagerly to the end of the hall, climbs up and snatches from the walls a sword and shield, with which he is about to run out. MoVo {tottering from his seat). O go not forth, my rash impetuous son I Stay yet a term beneath thy father's root. And, were it at the cost of half my lands, m send thee out accoutred like a Thane. Ethw. No, reverend sire, these be my patrimony 1 I ask of thee no more. Ser. And wilt thou leave us ? MoUo. Ay, he'll break thy heart. And lay me in the dust ! [^Trumpet sounds again, and Ethw. turmng haslMyfrom them, runs out. Ber. Oh ! he is gone for ever ! Eth. Patience, sweet Bertha ! SeL The castle gates are shut by my command, He cannot now escape. Holla, good friends ! [To tlwse without. Enter Followers. All quickly arm yourselves, and be prepared To follow me before the fall of eve. Eth. Send out my scout to climb the farther hill, And spy if that my bands are yet in sight [Exeunt followers. Now let us try to tame this lion's whelp. Enter Servant in haste. Sd. What tidings, man ? Is Ethwald at the gate ? Ser. No, good my lord, nor yet within the walls. Sel. What, have they open'd to him ? Ser. No, my lord, Loudly he call'd, but when it was refiis'd. With glaring eyes, like an enchafed wolf. He hied him where the lowest southern wall Kises but little o'er the rugged rock ; There, aided by a half-projecting stone. He scal'd its height, and holding o'er his head His sword and shield, grasp'd in his better hand. Swam the full moat. Eth. (to Sel.) 0, noble youth ! Did I not say, you might as well arrest The fire of heav'n within its pitchy cloud As keep him here ? [Bertha /aznte away. Alas, poor maid ! [ Whilst SiGtJKTHA and Eth. ifc. attend to Bertha, enter followers and retainers, and begin to take down the amwur from the walls. Enter Woggabwolpe. Wog. (to Sel.) They would have shut your gate upon me now. But I, commission'd on the king's affairs. Commanded entrance. Oswal greets you, chiefs. And gives you orders, with your followers. To join him speedily. (Seeing Bertha.) What, swooning women here ? Sel. Ethwald is gone in spite of all our care. And she, thou knowst, my father's niece's child. Brought up with him from early infancy. Is therein much affected. Wog. (smiling). O, it is ever thus, I know it well, When striplings are concem'd ! Once on a time. A youthful chief I seiz'd in his own hall. When, on the instant, was the floor around With fainting maids and shrieking matrons strew'd. As though the end of all things had been link'd Unto my fatal grasp. Sel. (eagerly). Thou didst not slay him ? Wog. (smiling contemptuously). Asks Selred if I slew mine enemy ? Sel. Then, by heav'n's light, it was a ruffian's deed! Wog. I cry thee grace ! wearst thou a vu'gin sword ? Maidens turn pale when they do look on blood, 14a JOANNA BAILLEE'S "WORKS. ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. And men there be who sicken at the sight, If men they may be call'd. Sel. Ay, men there be, Who sicken at the sight of crimson butchery. Yet in the battle's heat will far out- dare A thousand shedders of nnkindled blood. JEtk (coming forward). Peace, Thanes ! this is no time for angry words. [Bertha giving a deep sigh, Bth. and Sel. go to her and leave WoG., who heeds her not, but looks at the men taking the aiins from the walls. — Observing one who hesitates between the swords. Wog. Fool, choose the other blade ! That weight of steel will noble gashes make ! Nay, rightly guided in a hand like thine. Might cleave a man down to the nether ribs. Sig. (to Bertha, as she is recovering'). My gentle child, how art thou ? Ber. And no kind hand to hold him ! EtL Be not cast down, sweet maid ; he'll soon return; All are not lost who join in chanceful war. [lost. Ber. I know right well, good Thane, all are not The native children of mde jarring war. Full oft returning from the field; become Beneath their shading helmets aged men : But, ah ! the kind, the playful, and the gay ; They who have gladden'd their domestic board. And cheer'd the winter-fire, do they return ? ^Shaking her head sorrowfully. I grieve yon all : I will no more complain. Dear mother, lead me hence. (To Sig.) ( To Sel.) I thank you, gentle Selred, this suffices. [JBiif Bertha, supported by SiGtmTHA. Sd. (to MoLLO, who has sat for some time with his face covered). What, so o'ercome, my father ? MoU. I am o'ercome, my son ! lend me thine arm. [^Exeunt. ACT n. SCENE I. A forest; the view of an abbey with its spires in the background. Enter the King, attended by SEAOnRTM and several Thanes and followers, some of them ■wounded, and their wounds bound up, as after a battle. A flourish of trumpets: the King stretches out his arm in the action of command ; the trumpets cease, and they all halt King. Companions of this rough and bloody day, Beneadi the kindly shelter of this wood Awhile repose, until onr eager youth Shall, from the widely spread pursuit retum'd, Bejoin our standards. Brave seneschal, thou'rt weak withloss of blood ; Forbear attendance. Ay, and thou, good Bald- rick; And thou (to another), and aU of you. Sen. No, gracious king ; The sight of you, unhurt, doth make the blood That in our veins is left so kindly glow, We cannot faint [earn. King. Thanks, noble chiefs ! dear is the gain I Purchas'd with blood so precious. Who are those Who hitherward in long procession move ? Sen. It is the pious brethren, as I guess, Come forth to meet you from you neighb'ring abbey, And at their head the holy Hexulf comes. Enter Hexulf and monks. Hex. Accept our humble greetings, royal sirel Victorious be your arms 1 and in the dust Low be yom- foes, as in this glorious day ! Favom-'d of heav'n, and of St. Alban, hail ! King. I thank your kindly zeal, my rev'rend father ; And from these holy brethren do accept With thanks this token of good will, not doubting That much I am beholden to your prayers, [host Hex. In truth, most gracious king, your armed Has not more surely in your cause prevail'd Than hath our joint petition, ofi«rod up With holy fervour, most importunate. Soon as the heav'n-rais'd voices sweetly reach'd The echoing arches of yon sacred roofs. Saint Alban heard, and to your favour'd side Courage and strength, the soul of battle, sent ; Fear and distraction to th' opposing foe. King. Ah, then, good father, and ye pious monks. Would that ye had begun your prayers the sooner ! For long in doubtful scales the battle hung ; And of the men who, with this monoing's sun, Buckled their harness on to follow me. Full many a valiant warrior, on his back Lies stiffning to the wind. Hex. The wicked sprite in eVry armed host Will find his friends; who doubtless for a time May counterpoise the prayers of holy men. There are among your troops, I question not. Many who do our sacred rites contemn : Many who have blasphem'd — Ay, good my lord; And many holding baleful heresies. Fought Ethelbert, of Sexford, in your host ? King. He did, my rev'rend father, bravely fought : To him and valiant Selred, Mollo's son, Belong the second honours of the day. [Hexdlf looks abashed and is silent Enter Edward attended, who, after making his obei- sance to the King, runs up eagerly to Seagurth. Edw. You are not wounded, father ? Sea. No, my boy. Edxi). Thanks to preserving goodness ! Noble Thanes, ACT n. SCENE 1. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 141 It grieves mo much to see those swathed limbs. War wears a horrid, yet alluring face. (To King.) Your friends, my lord, have done me great despite. > Had they not long detain'd me on the way, I should have been with you before the battle. King. Complain not, youth; they had, in this, commands Too high to be disputed. And 'tis well, For we have had a rough and bloody day. JEdw. Ha! is it so ? But you have been victorious. How went the field ? Sea. Loud rose our battle's sound, and for a while The Mercians bravely fought ; when all at once, Prom some unlook'd-for cause, as yet unknown, A powerful panic seiz'd our better wing. Which, back recoiling, turn'd and basely fled. Touch'd quickly with a seeming sympathy. Oar centre-force began, in relax'd strength. To yield contended space. — So stood the field ; When on a sudden, like those warrior spiri'js. Whose scattcr'd locks the streamy light'ning is. Whose spear the bolt of heaven ; such as the seer In 'tranced gaze beholds midst hurtling storms ; Rush'd forth a youth unknown, and in a pass. Narrow and steep, took his determin'd stand. TTig beck'ning hand and loud commanding voice Constrain'd our flying soldiers from behind. And the sharp point of his opposing spear Met the pale rout before. The dark returning battle thicken'd round him. His mighty arm deeds of amazement wrought; Rapid, resistless, tenible. High rose each warlike bosom at the sight. And Mercia, like a broad increasing wave. Up swell'd into a hugely billow'd height, O'erwhelming in its might all lesser things. Upon the foe retum'd. Selred and Ethdbert Fell on their weaken'd flank. Confusion, then. And rout and horrid slaughter fiU'd the field : Wide spread the keen pursuit ; the day is ours ; Yet many a noble Mercian strews the plain. JEdw. {eagerly). But the young hero fell not? Sea. No, my son. Edw. Then bless'd be heaven ! there beats no jioble heart Which shall not henceforth love him as a brother. Would he were come unhurt from the pursuit I O that I had beheld him in his might, When the dark battle turn'd ! Sea. Your wish is soon fulfill'd, my eager boy ; For here, in trath, the youthful warrior comes. And, captive by his side, the British Prince. Enter Ethwald with the British Prince prisoner, accompanied by Selred and Ethelbebt, and presents his prisoner to the King. King (to Prince). Prince of the Britons, clear thy cloudy brow ; The varied fate of war the bravest prove. And though I might complain that thy aggressions Have burnt my towns, and filled my land with blood, Thy state forbids it. Here, good seneschal, Eeceive your charge, and let him know no change Unsuited to a prince. ( To Ethwai,d.) And thou, brave waiTior, whose youthful arm Has brought unto thy king so high a gift. Say what proud man may lift his honour'd head. And boast he is thy father. Ethw. A Thane, my lord, forgotten and retired ; I am the youngest son of aged MoUo, And Ethwald is my name. [youth. King, Youngest in years, though not in honour. E'en though the valiant Selred is thy brother. ( Turning to Selred.) And now be thou the first and noble root. From which a noble race shall take its gi'owth. Wearing thy honours proudly ! Of Maimieth's earldom be henceforth the lord ! For well I know the council of the states Will not refuse to ratify my gi-ant. And thou, brave Ethelbert, and Selred, too, Ye well have eam'd a noble recompenso, And shall not be forgot. Come hither, Edward ; Take thou this hero's hand ; and, noble Ethwald, Thus let the kingdom's ethling join with me In honouring thy worth. Edw. (wlio has gazed at some distance upon Eth- wald, springing forward eagerly). Give him my hand, my lord ! have you not said That I should fold him to my burning heart ? (Embraces Ethw.) Most vaUant Ethwald, Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee. But they do choke and flutter in my throat. And make me like a child. (Passing his hand across his eyes.) Ethw. (kissing Edward'* hand). I am repaid beyond a kingdom's worth. Edw. (to Sea. bounding joyfully). Father, have you embraced him ? Ethwald, my father is a valiant man. (Sea. embraces Ethw., but not so eagerly as Edw.) King, (to Ethw.) Brave youth, with you, and with your noble friends, I shall, ere long, have fiirther conference. (Betires to the bottom of the stage vnth Hexdlp.) [Edwaed, after gazing unth admiration upon Ethw., puts his hand upon his head, as if to measure his height; then upon both his shoul- ders, as if he were considering the breadth of his chest ; then steps some paces bach and gazes at him again. Edw. How tall and strong thou art ! broad is thy chest: Stretch forth, I pray, that arm of mighty deeds. Ethw. smites and stretches out his arm ; Edw. loo/ts at it, and then at his own. 142 JOANNA BAJLLIE'S WOEKS. ETHWALD : A TKAGEDT. Would I were nerv'd like thee ! (Taking Ethw.'* sword.) It is of weight to suit no vulgar arm. (^Returning it.) There, hero ; graceful is the sword of war In its bold master's grasp. Ethw. Nay, good my lord, if you will honour me, It does become too well your noble hand To be retum'd to mine. [pledge. Edw. Ha ! sayst thou so ? Yes, I will keep thy Perhaps my ami — Ah, no ! it will not be ! But what returning token can I give ? I have bright spears and shields and shining blades But nought ennobled by the owner's use. £TaAes a bracelet from his arm and fastens it round Bthwald's. King (advancing from the bottom of the stage). My worthy chiefs and Thanes, the night wears on. The rev'rend bishop, and these pious men. Beneath their fane give hospitality, And woo us to accept it for the night Sea. I thought, my lord, you meant to pass the night With yom' brave soldiers in the open field : Already they have learnt the pleasing tale. Shall I unsay it ? King. Nay, that were unfit. I pray you pardon me, my rev'rend father ! I cannot house with you ; it were unfit. Hex. Should not your greatness spend the night with those To whom, in truth, you owe the victory ? We chant at midnight to St. Alban's praise : Surely my lord regards those sacred things. [ Whispers the King, King. Brave Seagm-th, there are reasons of good weight Why I should lay aside my first intent. Let all these wounded chieftains follow me ! The rest who list may keep the open field. (ITo Edw.) Nephew, thou must not prove a soldier's hardships. Ere thou hast eara'd a soldier's name. Nay, nay, It must be so. [_Exeimt King, wounded chiefs, Hexdi,p, and monhs, followed by Edwaejd very unwillingly. Sea. Who loves a soldier's pillow, follow me. [^Exeunt. SCENE II. The outside of t/Loiuo's castk. Bektha, Sigubtha, and others discovered on the walls, and several ser^ vants ami retainers standing by the gate below. Berth. O, will they ne'er appear? I'll look no more ; Mine eager gazing but retards their coming. \Iietires, and immediately returns again. Holla, good Murdoch ! (To a servant below.) Tliou putst thy hand above thy sunned eyes . Dost thou descry them ? \st serv. Mercy, gentle lady, If you descry them not from that high perch, How should I from my level station here ? Sig. (to Beeth.) Go in, my child, thou art worn out with watching. [Bekth. retires, and 2d servant goes at some dis- tance from the walls and looks out another way. 2d serv. Here comes the noble Selred. (All call out.) Noble Selred ! Berth, (returning upon the wall). What, Eth- wald, say ye ? Sig. No, it is Selred. Enter Selsed, with followers, and looks up to the walls, where SiGTIRTHA waves her hand. Sig. Welcome, brave Selred! welcome all thy band! How far are they behind for whom we watch ? Sel, Two little miles or less. Methinks ere this Their van should be in sight. My messenger Inform'd you ? Sig. Oh, he did ! Sel. Where is my father ? Sig. He rests within, spent with a fearful joy, -And silent tears steal do'wn his fcirrow'd cheeks. SeL I must confer with him. The king intends To stop and do him honour on his march, But enters not our walls. [Exeunt into the castle. SCENE IIL A chamber in the castle. Enter Sigcbtha and Bertha, speaking as they enter. Berth. "Sicj, mother, say not so : was he not wont. If but returning from the daily chase. To send an upward glance unto that tower ? There well he knew, or late or cold the hour. His eye should find me. Sig. My gentle Bertha, be not thus disturb'd. Such busy scenes, such new nnlook'd-for things Ruffle the flowing stream of habit ; men Will then forgetful seem, though not unkind. Berth. Thinkst thou ? (shaking her head.) I saw him by his sovereign stand. And O, how graceful ! every eye to him Was tum'd, and every face smil'd honours on him ! Tet his proud station quickly did he leave To greet his humbler friends who stood aloof. The meanest follower of these walls, already. Some mark of kind acknowledgment hath had — He look'd not up — I am alone forgotten ! Sig. Be patient, child : he will not long delay To seek thee in thy modest privacy ; Approving more to see thee here retired, Than, boldly to the army's eye exposed, ACT U. SCENE IT. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 143 Greeting his first approach. I, the mean while, Intrusted am with orders from the Thane. Which must not bo neglected. lExit Berth, (after walking up and doivn, agitated, and frequently stepping to listen"). Ah, no ! deceiv'd again ! I need not listen ! No bounding steps approach. [SAe site doum despondingly. Enter Ethwald behind, and steals sofity up to her. Ethw. Bertha! Berth, (starting up). My Ethwald ! [-He holds out his arms to her joyfully, and she bursts into tears. Ethw. Thou dost not grieve that I am safe re- tum'd? Berth. O no ! I do not grieve, yet I must weep. Hast thou in truth been kind ? I 'ndll not chide : I cannot do it now. Ethw. O, fie upon thee ! like a wayward child : To look upon me thus I cheer up, my love. [fle smiles upon her joyfully, and her countenance brightens. She ^len puts her hand upon his arm, and, stepping bach a litde space, surveys him with delight Berth. Thou man of mighty deeds I [honour ! Thou, whom the brave shall love and princes Dost thou, in truth, retmii to me again. Mine own, my very Ethwald ? Ethw. No, that were paltry ; I return to thee A thousandfold the lover thou hast known me. I have of late been careless of thee. Bertha. The hopeless calm of dull obscurity, Xike the thick vapours of a stagnant pool, . Oppress'd my heart and smother'd kind affections; But now th' enlivening breeze of fortune wakes My torpid soul — When did I ever fold thee To such a warm and bounding heart as this ? [^Embraces her. The king has given to me Mairnieth's earldom — Nay, smile, my Bertha ! Berth. So I do, my Ethwald. Ethw. The noble ethling greatly honours me With precious tokens ; nay, the very soldiers Do rear their pointed weapons as I pass ; As though it were to say, "there goes tho man That we would cheerly follow." Unto what end these fair beginnings point I know not — but of this I am assured, There is a course of honour lies before me, Be it with dangers, toil, or pain beset. Which I will boldly tread. Smiles not my love ? Berth. I should, in truth ; but how is this? methinks Thou ever lookst upon the things to come, I on the past. A great and honour'd man I know thou'lt be : but O, bethink thee, then. How once thou wert, within these happy walls, A little cheerful boy, with curly pate. Who led the infant Bertha by the hand, Storing her lap with ev'ry gaudy flower ; With speckled eggs stolen fi-om the hedgeling's nest, And berries from the tree ; ay, think on this. And then I know thou'lt love me ! [^Trumpet sounds. Catching hold of him eagerly. Heai'st thou that sound ? The blessed saints pre- serve thee ! Must thou depart so soon ? Elhw. Yes, of necessity : reasons of weight Coustiain the king, and I, new in his service. Must seem to follow him with willing steps. But go thou with me to the castle gate. We will not part until the latest moment, [pledge. Berth. Yet stop, I pray, thou must receive my Seest thou this woven band of many dyes. Like to a mottled snake ? its shiny woof Was whiten'd in the pearly dew of eve. Beneath the silver moon ; its varied warp Was dyed with potent herbs, at midnight cull'd. It hath a wond'rous charm : the breast that wears it No change of soft aifection ever knows. Elk. (receiving it with a smile). I'll wear it. Bertha. [ Trumpet sounds. Hark ! it calls me hence. Berth. O go not yet ! here is another gift. This ring, enrich'd with stone of basilisk, Whenever press'd by the kind wearer's hand. Presents the giver's image to his mind. Wilt thou not wear it ? Ethw. (receiving it). Yes, and press it too. Berth. And in this purse — [^Taking out a purse Ethw. What ! still another charm ? [Laughing. Thou simple maid ! Dost tliou believe that witched gear like this Hath power a lover faithful to retain. More than thy gentle self? Bertlu Nay, laugh, but wear them. Ethw. I will, my love, since thou wilt have it so. (Putting them in his breast.) Here are they lodged, and cursed be the hand That plucks them forth ! And now receive my pledge. Itisajewelofno vulgar worth : (Ties it on her arm.) Wear it and think of me. But yet, belike. It must be steeped in some wizard's pot. Or have some mystic rhyming mntter'd o'er it. Ere it will serve the turn. Berth, (pressing the jewel on her arm). O no ! right well I feel there is no need. Ethw. Come, let us go : we do not part, thou knowst. But at the castle gate. Cheer up, my Bertha ! I'll soon return, and oft return again. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethwald and AxwT, speaking as they enter. Ethw. What, peace ! peace, sayst thou, with these glorious arms. 144 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. ETHWALD: A TEAGEDY. In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round us, And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand. Pointing to iiitare fields of nobler strife, With richer honours crown'd ? What, on the face Of such fair prospects draw the veil of peace ! Cold blasting peace ! The blackest fiend of heU . Hath not a thought more deVlish ! Alivi/. It is indeed a flat unpleasant tale Eor a young warrior's ear : but well hast thou Improv'd the little term of bold occasion ; Short while thou wert but Mollo's younger son. Now art thou Mairnieth's lord. Ethw. And what is Mairnieth's lordship ! I will own That, to my distant view, such state appear'd A point of fair and noble eminence ; But now — what is it now ? O ! it is sunk Into a petty knoll I I am as one Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height. And having gain'd what to the upcast eye The summit's point appear'd, astonish'd sees Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged. Towering aloft, as distant as before. Alwi/. Patience, brave Ethwald; ere thy locks be grey, Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower. And fair occasion shape thee fair reward. Ethw. Ere that my locks be grey ! the world ere now Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But I — I am as one who mounts to th' aaure sky On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again : Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud, The terror of a moment. Pate perverse ! 'Till now, war's frowning spirit, rous'd, was wont To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds. Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land Prom bound to bound beneath his axle shook ; But soon as in my hand the virgin spear Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd Like a tired braggait to his caves of sloth. (^Stamp- ing on the ground.") Peace ! cursed peace ! Who will again unchaia The grizly dog of war ? Alviy. Meanst thou the British prince ? Ethw. (eagerh/). What sayst thou, Alwy ? Alwy. I said not aught. Ethw. Nay, marry ! but thou didst ! And it has rais'd a thought within my mind. The British prince releas'd, would he not prove A dog of war, whose yell would soon be foUow'd ? Ahoy. They do indeed full hard advantage take Of his captivity, and put upon him Conditions suited to his hapless state. More than his princely will. [hand Ethw. 'Tis basely done : would that some friendly His prison would unbar and free the thrall ! But no, no, no ! I to the king resign'd him ; 'Twere an unworthy deed. It were most difficult ; Por n