.iitiii Z2. ^.q ay be kept ' TM n Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from LYRASIS members and Sloan Foundation http://www.archive.org/details/ollapodrida1896marr THE NOVELS OF CAPTAIN MARRYAT EDITED BY R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON This Edition of Captain Marry at" s No'velsy made exclusively for members of the NEW YORK TACHr CLUB is strictly limited to one hundred copies. -^^ff^'OcyL-r-t^a. Copy No. /«5 PRINTED FOR H. A. VAN LIEW, Esq. Ah, NEW YORK YACHT CLUB EDITION OLLA PODRIDA BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT NEW YORK CROSCUP AND COMPANY MDCCCXCVI PPr!rf=f Contents The Monk of Seville . Metropolitan Magazine^ ^^33- The Gipsy III- Will Metropolitan Magazine, 1834. Neiv Monthly Magazine, I^S?- How TO WRITE A FASHIONABLE NoVEL . Metropolitan Magazine, 1833. How TO WRITE A BoOK OF TrAVELS Metropolitan Magazine 1 833, 1834 How TO write a Romance Metropolitan Magazine, 1835. S.W. AND BY W. I W. The Sky-blue Domino NeiD Monthly Magazine, 1837. Modern Town Houses Neiu Monthly Magazine, 1837, PAGE I 85 179 214 225 243 260 vi Contents The Way to be Happy « • , .275 The Legend of the Bell Rock • • • 282 Moonshine . . . . • ,293 The Fairy's Wand . . . . • 3^3 New Monthly Maga%ine^ 184O. A Rencontre . 9 • • • • 328 List of Etchings Villain ! how cam'st thou hither ? . . Frontispiece {The Monk of Seville.) PAGE Well, Vm not the first person who has been foiled BY A woman . . . . .189 " It*S me < S.W. AND BY W. | W.,' THAT YOU SAY YOU LOVE " . . . . .231 " It is sharp ENOUGH, I WARRANT," SAID THE DOMINO . 248 "I DRESS MYSEL BERY 'PRUCE, AS YOU SEE, MASSA " . 302 I CLIMBED UP THE BREACH . . . '339 Drawn and Etched by J. Ayton Symington. Prefatory Note This edition of Olla Podrida does not include the " Diary on the Continent " which appeared first in the Metropolitan Magazine 1835-1836 as " The Diary of a Blase ^"^ continued in the New Monthly Magazine 1837, 1838, as "Confes- sions and opinions of Ralph the Restless." Marryat himself described the "Diary" as " very good magazine stuff," and it has no fitting place in an edition of his novels, from which the "Diary in America" is also ex- cluded. The space thus created is occupied by "The Gipsy," " The Fairy's Wand," and " A Rencontre," which I have ventured to print here in spite the author's protest,* that the original edition of Olla Podrida contained all the miscellaneous matter contributed by him to periodicals that he wished to acknowledge as his writing. The statement may be regarded as a challenge to his editors to produce something worthy ; and I certainly consider that the " Gipsy " is superior to some of his fragments, and may be paired, as a comedy, with " The Monk of Seville," as a tragedy. But I have not attempted any systematic search for scraps. " The Fairy's Wand " was published in the same year as, and probably later than, Olla Podrida itself, and need not therefore be " considered as disavowed and rejected " by him. " A Rencontre " was always reprinted and acknowledged by its author, being, for no ostensible reason, bound up with Joseph Rushbrooky or The Poacher, 1 841. This seems the most appropriate occasion to supplement, * Preface to first edition of O.P. printed below. ix X Prefatory Note and — in some measure — to correct, the list of novels con- tributed to periodicals by Marryat, which I compiled from statements in The Life and Letters by Florence Marryat (also tabulated in Mr David Hannay's " Life "), and printed on p. xix. of the General Introduction to this edition. To THE Metropolitan Magazine. (Edited by Marryat, 1832-1835.) The Pacha of Many Tales, May 1 83 1 — February 1833 ; and May 1834— May 1835. Peter Simple, June 1 83 2 — September 1 83 3. The novel is not completed in the Magazine, but closes with an announcement of the three volume edition. Jacob Faithful, September 1 83 3 — September 1 834. Japhet in Search of a Father, September 1 834 — January 1836. Snarleyyoiv, January 1836 — January 1837. Midshipman Easy. One specimen chapter only. August 1835. To THE New Monthly Magazine. The Privateersman, 1 845- 1 846. Valerie (the first eleven chapters), 1846-1847. The Phantom Ship, 1838-1839. The bulk of this volume is reprinted from the first edition of Olla Podrida, in three volumes, Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1840. " The Gipsy," from the Metropolitan Magazine; "The Fairy's Wand," from the Nenv Monthly Magazine; and "A Rencontre," from the first Edition of The Poacher, 1 84 1. R. B. J. Author's Preface to the First Edition I HAVE not yet ventured upon a Preface to any of my writings, and I did not expect that I should ever have written one. Except in a work of importance, which may demand it, a Preface is, generally speaking, a request for indulgence which never will be accorded, or an explanation to which the Public is indifferent. It is only when an explanation is due to the Public, or to the Author's reputa- tion, that he should venture to offer one. If a work is well written, the Public are satisfied ; if not, they have just cause to feel otherwise \ and if an Author obtains justice, he obtains all that he has a right to expect. I write this Preface, because I consider that it may save me from a hasty remark or two, which it may be just as well to forestall. During the ten years which I have taken up the pen, I have furnished miscellaneous matter to various Periodicals, which, if it were all collected together, would swell into many volumes. Among it, as must be the case under the circumstances in which it was written, there is some which I consider tolerable ; but the major portion is but indifferent ; and I should be very sorry indeed, if at any future time, when I may not have the power to prevent it, all these articles should be collected and printed as mine. If ever it were done, it certainly would not be by my friends : I wish it, therefore, to be understood, that in the portions of these volumes which consist of republi- cations, I have selected from the mass, all that I wish to acknowledge as my writing ; and that the remainder (with the exception of the papers on nautical subjects, which are of no interest to the general reader) may be considered as disavowed and rejected. The major part of these volumes x'li Author's Preface to the First Edition consist of a Diary written when I was on the Continent. It first appeared in the Periodicals, under the title of a " Diary of a B/ase : " the title was a bad one, as I did not write up to the character; I have, therefore, for want of a better name, simply called it a " Diary on the Continent ; " and I mention this, that I may not be accused of having inten- tionally deceived. F. M. THE MONK OF SEVILLE: A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Anselmo Don Caspar, A monk disguised as a cavalter„ Don Felix, A Spanish nobleman, Don Perez, Do. Superior of the monastery, Antonio, Servant to Don Gasper, Manuel, A monk. Jacobo, Porter to the monastery, Sancho, Servant to Don Pere%, Donna Inez, A noble lady, IsiDORA, Her niece. Donna Serafina. Beppa, \ 1 ^r ' r\ Servant to Serafina* ' f both ivtves of\ -* Nina, j ° ) Do. to Isidora, Monks, Choristers, Attendants, tsfc. Scene laid in Seville. 011a Podrida The Monk of Seville Act I. Scene L Enter Don Felix and Don Perez. Felix. You say his name's Don Caspar ? Perez. So he styles himself ; but of what house, parentage, or country, cannot be gained. He keeps aloof from all, bears himself gallantly ; and 'tis manifest that any question discourteously put he'd answer with his sword. Felix. He's skill'd in fence, then .'' Perez. There's none to match him. I, who have foiled half Seville, am but a scholar in his hands, when at the school we've joined the assault in courtesy. Felix. A proper man ^ Perez. Beyond comparison. He hath all the stamp of true nobility. Pride in his eye ; in his address, dignified j in modes most perfect ; the most envied of the men, and the most admired by all the dames of Seville. Felix. Successful, then .? Perez. He confides in none ; and hath no intimate ; but I am informed he is resistless, and I much suspect, my rival. Felix. With the Donna Serafina ? Perez. Even so ; she has changed much of late ; and I have discovered that one, who, from report, answers to his description, is highly favoured. 4 Olla Podrida Felix. But, Perez, did you not tell me you had left her ? Perez. In faith I had; but when I discovered that another sought her, my passion then returned; and now that she rejects me, I dote upon her more than ever. Felix. Perez, when will you be wise ? when will you cease to trifle with the sex ? Perez. Never, I hope : women are my game ; and I live but on the chase. Sighs, oaths, and amorous ditties are my ammunition ; my guitar is my fowling-piece, and you must acknowledge that I seldom miss my aim. Felix. I grant it, Perez, but it's cruel sport, and quite unworthy of a cavalier. How many wounded birds have hid themselves to die ! Perez. Poor things — why did they not keep out of shot range ? It's useless to preach, Felix, I must have my amusement. Felix. Be careful, Perez, that it prove not dangerous ; there is no honour gained by broken vows, false oaths, and tampering with maidens' hearts. It is a fault in you I would were mended ; and our relationship makes me thus free to speak my mind. It is unworthy of you. Perez. But sufficing good for women — they are but play- things ; and thus far am I renegade, that, with the prophet, I cannot allow them souls. Felix. You are incorrigible. Change the discourse, or I shall lose my temper and that opinion of you, which, 'gainst my better sense, I fain would keep. Our subject was Don Caspar. Perez. Yes — and my object is to find out who he is, and, if basely born, to hunt him out of Seville. Felix. That there's mystery is evident ; but when you hunt, see if such quarry, good Perez, turn not to bay. But new in Seville, I ne'er have encountered this prodigy ; if his rank be mere assumption, he must be exposed ; yet, Perez, there may be many causes for an incognito. Our Spain is wide and well peopled with those who boast high ancestry* Perez. If then so wide, there's room for him elsewhere. But here comes Sancho with intelligence. The Monk of Seville 5 (^Enter Sancho.) How now, Sancho, — what have you discovered ? San, {^Affectedly,) I am not quite a fool, Santa Petronila knows that, good sirs, — not quite a fool. I think you are fortunate in your servant. You'll excuse me, but I have seen the person whom you mentioned. Perez. Well San. I have seen him, sir, by Saint Petronila ! Perez. And spoke to him, I trust. San. Yes, sir, and, by the same holy saint ! I have spoken to him. Perez. To what purpose have you spoken to this Antonio ? San. To your purpose, sir. Perez. What did he tell you ? I cry your patience, Felix, but this mule cannot be driven. What did he tell you, sirrah ? San. You do not know what first I said to hiiUj — would you have the answer before the question ? Perez. Well, what said you first to him ? San. With all good courtesy I wished him a good morning. He did the same to me. Perez. Well. San. I then discoursed about Saint Petronila, the wind, the pope, and the weather. No, I recollect, it was the weather before the saint. I think — yes — I am sure it was ; how the saint brought in the wine, I know not j but we proceeded on to wine and women, which last discourse made us thirsty, so we adjourned into a wine-house. Saint Petronila shrive me ! when we became most intimate, and after much beating about the bush, I discovered that his master was Perez. Who — what ? San. Don Caspar, sir. Perez. Idiot ! is that all ? San. No, — only half; I found out more without him. He finished off his wine and left me without any more 6 Olla Podrida information, declaring that was all he knew himself ; and that he had to meet a lady. Let me alone for finding out, Saint Petronila be my guide ! I watched him, and as I turned the corner, found him in close whispering with the Senora Beppa. Perez. The attendant of Donna Serafina ; then are my doubts confirmed. Treacherous sex ! — but I'll be re- venged ! Did you speak to them ? San. Not when Antonio was there. I never interfere between man and wife, the blessed saint knows that. Perez. His wife ! San. Yes, his wife j but when Antonio quitted her, I then accosted her ; and to my cross questions — Perez. She gave you crooked answers. San. Precisely so, signor, and record it. Saint Petronila ; she said that I was a fool ! Perez. The wisdom of the woman ! Come, Felix. — Sancho, you will go home and await my return. [Exit Perez and Felix. San. That Antonio is a good fellow. Saint Petronila assist him ! how he does make me laugh ! we were sworn friends in two hours ; and he promised to drink with me whenever I pleased : I wonder why he never offers to pay his share of the reckoning ? He thinks it would affront me, I suppose ! but when we are more intimate, I'll hint the contrary. Excellent fellow! how he did make me laugh ! Then when next we meet, I'll ask his advice about my love affair ! I am sadly in want of a confidant ; now I've only my own wit, and the good saint. He's a man you may trust, I'll be sworn. Lord ! how he did make me laugh ! [Exit. Scene II. Street opposite Anselmo^s lodgings. Enter Antonio. "Well, I'm supposed to have as much wit as my neigh- bours, and yet I cannot make out this master of mine. The Monk of Seville 7 He's a perfect mystery, and the more I try to unriddle him, the more he riddles me. If I am deep, he is deeper. In short, I am no match for him, and thus I prove it. In the first place, he finds out everything I would conceal, and conceals everything I would find out. Secondly, he reads all my thoughts, and takes care that I shall read none of his. Then he disappears when I turn my back, and re-appears before I turn my face. He has discovered that I am a rogue, yet retains me in his service. His chamber is always locked when he goes out, and I am obliged to wait below upon board wages. There's some mystery about that chamber. I have watched repeatedly on the staircase to see him enter, but never can ; and when I would swear that he is not in, it is I only who am out ; for I am summoned to his presence. There's mystery ! When he does appear, who is he ? Don Caspar ; but of what family, and from what part of Spain, no one can tell. Mystery upon mystery ! He may be the devil, and I feel my conscience touched ; for no good ever came from the devil's wages. I'll to my confessor, and seek his counsel. He's a good man, and lenient too, to such poor rogues as I. But he insists that I appear each se'nnight, and sum the catalogue of my offences : perhaps he's right ; for if I staid longer away, some of them — as I am no scholar, — say half — would be forgotten. \Enter Nina veiled, ivho passed by him, and exit.] There's a nice girl ! What a foot and ankle ! Now had my master seen her, there had been a job for me to dog her home. We lacqueys are like sport- ing dogs ; we follow up the game, and when they stop their running, make a dead point, until our masters bag them for themselves. [Nina returns. Enter.] She's coming back. This time I'll poach a little for myself. Fair lady, can I serve you .'' [Nina stops, hut turns away, Antofiio kneels.] " Turn not away, fair angel, for since last You bless'd my eyes, my thoughts have been on you *, For weeks I've foUow'd, not daring to address you. As I'm a bachelor, and free to wed, 8 Olla Podrida Might I your favour gain, a life of tenderness, To you, my love, I'd tender." {Aside?} I borrow'd that speech, excepting the last flourish, from my master : but since he has used it like his cast-off clothes, 'tis mine by custom. {Aloud.') Will you not answer ? I love you, madam, have loved you long j and, by my soul ! ne'er said so much before to any woman breathing. [Nina turns round and lifts her veil, Antonio turns away,] {Aside,) By all that's intolerable, my Toledo wife ! {Turning to her,) Holy Saint Frances ! It is, it is my wife ! Nina, Yes, sir, your injured, your deserted wife ! Ant, And are you still alive ? then I am once more happy ! {Offers to embrace her,) Nina. Forbear ! When was I dead, you wretch ? Ant. Why, Nina, I've a letter from Toledo, that states that you are dead ; you died a treble death, yourself and twins. Nina. What? Ant, Twins, my love, sweet pledges of affection. I've the letter in my pocket y I've kept it there for months, pored over it for weeks, and cried over it for days. {Fumbles in his pocket,) Now I recollect it is in the pocket of my gala suit. What an infamous forgery ! Come to my arms, my dear lamented, but now recovered wife ! Nina. Keep off, you wretch ! What did you say just now ? *' I've loved you long, and ne'er have said so much to any woman breathing." Ant, Well, my love, no more I had, except to yourself; and you I thought were dead. Why, my dearest Nina, it is a proof of my constancy. When I first saw you, I said to myself " that is the only woman I ever saw with a foot and ankle so pretty as my Nina's ; " and the more I looked at you, the more your sweet figure reminded me of your- self. In fact, it was your likeness to yourself that created the first emotion in my widowed heart. Had I fallen in love with anybody else, my dearest Nina, you might have The Monk of Seville 9 cause for anger j but I assert, to fall in love with my own wife proves me a paragon of fidelity. Nina. O, Lopez, could I but believe you ! [Antonio turns away and takes out his handkerchief.'] (Aside.) As my master says (turning to Nina), *' Lay bare my heart, my Nina, read each thought, And there your image, deeply graven, find." \_She turns away. He pretends to be much ojfected ; at last she embraces him. Ant. (Aside.) Into her arms and out of that scrape, thank my wits ! (Aloud.) And now, my love, how long have you resided in this city ? Nina. But a few days. I serve the Donna Isidora. I was left behind in sickness, at their country seat, some time ago, and but now have joined her. Where have you been, my dear Lopez ? Ant. Wandering about everywhere and anywhere, a lost man, since I heard of your loss ; — yes, a miserable man. But of that hereafter. What seek you now ? Nina. The lacquey of Don Caspar, called Antonio ; — can you assist me, as I am in haste ? Ant. Why yes, I think I can. Behold him here j I am that same Antonio, and, for my sins, Don Caspar's lacquey. Nina (walking away angrily). It was convenient, perhaps, for you to change your name. You are Antonio, indeed ! Ant. No, my dear wife ; but it made me feel more happy (placing his arm round her waist). You used to call me Lopez ; dearest Lopez ; and when I thought you dead, the very name, when summoned by my masters, reminded me of your dear self. I could not bear it ; so I changed my name. Nina. Dear Lopez ! And do you really tell the truth .? [Antonio kisses her,] Enter Beppa* Ant. By this kiss I do ! lo Olla Podrida Bep. (aside). So, so, good husband ! I have long sus- pected this. I'll watch your motions. Nina. Well then, dear Lopez, you must give this letter to your master. He must not fail to-night. When shall I see you ? A?2t. This night, if possible, there shall be more than one love-tale, my Nina. [^Exit Nina. \_Beppa, ivho has gradually advanced, boxes Antonio^ s ears. Bep. "There shall be more than one love-tale, my Nina." And this hand shall tell another tale (striking again), thou base villain ! Ant. (escaping from her, rubbing his ears). O Lord ! for tail read head. (Aside.) This it is to have two wives. (Aloud.) Why, Beppa, are you mad ? How can I help it .? Bep. How can you help it ! Ant. Yes, how can I help it ? I must obey my orders. Bep. Obey your orders ! Ant. Yes, obey my orders, or lose my place. My master, who is amusing himself with a young lady, says to me, " Antonio, that servant girl hangs about much in my way, you must make love to her." Bep. Make love to her ! Ant. Yes, make love to her. " I'll be hanged if I do," says I, thinking of my own sweet little Beppa. " Then you will be starved if you don't," said he. And as I found that he did not mean to be in earnest, I thought that there could be no harm in a little by-play. Bep. By-play ! Ant. Yes, by-play. Well, I refused long, for it went against my conscience. Then he took this purse of ten moidores, and said, " Refuse me, and quit my service. Consent, and take this purse ; the money will support your wife." Bep. (snatching the purse). Now, am I to believe this ? A?it. Believe it ! why, have you not the proofs ? How should I possess ten moidores } Money is not to be had The Monk of Seville ii for nothing now-a-days. I meant to have told you all, but have not seen you since. Bep, She called you Lopez ? Ant, She did. I would not give my name. No other shall call me "Dear Antonio," excepting my own true lawful wife ! Bep, (turning away with indifference, and putting the purse in her pocket). Well, allowing all this to be true, and that's of no great importance, what a villain is your master, sir, to pay his court unto another, when he vows fidelity to my mistress. Donna Serafina ! Ant, Upon my honour, I've enough to do to defend myself ; though I must confess that his conduct is infamous. Bep. I'll to my mistress, and make known his treachery ? [Going, Ant. Do no such thing ! Bad news, though true, is never paid for ; but the purse opens when the tidings please, although they're false as {jpoints down helow). What's your message ? Bep. My mistress dies to see him. Ant. Tell her he'll come to-morrow evening. He said as much when last I saw him. Bep. When last you saw him ! Is he not here ? Ant. He's here, and there, and everywhere, and nowhere. Bep. Where is he now ? Ant. That I don't know ; but not here, that's certain. [Window opens, Gaspar calls loudly from within window — Gasp. Antonio ! Ant. Santa Maria ! Yes, sir. Gasp. Go to Castanos, and see if my guitar be strung. Ant. Now, how did he get there ? Beppa, I must off. Remember my advice ! Bep. {scornfully). I will. Good-by, Mr By-Play. [Exit Beppa, Ant. {looking up). How the devil did he get there, if not by the help of the devil ! For it was not by the help of 12 011a Podrida the door, I'll swear. To-morrow Fll confess — that's certain. [Exit Antonio, Scene IIL Moonlight, — A garden belofiging to the house of Donna Inez. — A balcony looking into the garden. — Donna Isidora and Nina discovered on balcony, Isid. He comes not yet. Nina. Senora, 'tis not time. Isid. 'Tis more than time j I heard the convent bell Strike long ago. Nina. 'Twas not the hour of night, but the sad toll Announcing some high obsequy. Isid. Yet, still, 'tis time he came. Nina. And here he would have been, but you forget You chided him for venturing so early. Your aunt had not retired when last he came. Isid. He does not wish to come, — I will not see him. Tell him my resolution. [Exit, petulantly f Nina following. Enter Gaspar, in the dress of a cavalier, I overheard her vented thoughts, poor girl ! She counts the minutes by her throbbing heart. And that beats time too fast. Now will she hang her head, and weep awhile. Like flow'rets waiting for the morning sun, That raise their mournful heads at his approach. And every dew-drop, like a diamond, glistens. While they exhale sweet perfume in their joy, — So at our meeting, smiling through her tears. Will she appear more fresh and beautiful ! [Re-enter Isidora and Nina. As they appear , Gaspar retires. Isid. The moon's so bright, that faintly you discover The Monk of Seville 15 The little stars which stud th' unclouded heav'n ; The wind but scarcely moves the trembling aspen, And not a sound breaks through the still of night. All Nature's hush'd ; and every passion lull'd. Save love, or fierce revenge. Is this a night To stay away, false, yet loved Don Caspar ? Nina. Be patient, lady, he will soon be here. Lid. He cannot sure be false. Perchance some danger hangs upon his steps ; Men are so envious of the fair and good. Nina (looking). Senora, look ; I see him in the distance. Isid. He comes ! "Where, Nina ? O yes ! that is he. Well, now, I'll tease him. Nina, quickly in ; I vow I will not show myself this night. [Exit Isidora, Nina. I wish I had ten ducats on the hazard. [Exit Nina. \Gaspar sings to his guitar ivithout* Song {mournful strain). ** The mocking moon doth coldly fling Her rays upon my breast of flame. And echo mocks me as I sing. O my guitar ! to thee what shame ! She answers not, though thy best string Is loudly hymning forth her name. Isidora ! Isidora ! '* [Isidora appears at the balcony. {A livelier strain.) " No more the moon doth mock me now 5 Her bright rays glad my breast of flame, And echo, beautiful art thou ! O my guitar ! to thee no shame ! She comes ! love throned upon her brow ! My strings hymn forth once more her name ! Isidora ! Isidora ! " 14 Olla Podrida Enter Gaspar, nvho approaches balcony. hid. Why hast thou staid so late ? Did but the moon Turn on my anxious features her soft rays, Thou wouldst perceive how fretfulness and tears Have doubled every minute of thine absence. Gasp, And would 'twere day, that thou, sweet love, mightst see The fervid passion stamp'd upon my brow. I dared not disobey thy late command ; Yet, did I fret, and champ the bit of duty. Like some proud battle steed arching his neck, Spurning the earth, impatient for the fray. So my young heart throbs with its new delight. That it e'en now would burst its cords asunder. And make one joyous bound into thy bosom. Isid, Say, Caspar, dost thou fondly, truly, love me ? Gasp. Do I love thee, Isidora ? If it were not for thee, sweet love. The world would be a blank, and this existence A dreary void, I would not stumble through ; But having thee, a paradise it is, So full of perfumed airs and flow'rets sweet, I would resist the angel's flaming sword. If it were raised between our plighted loves. Ere I would be from thy loved presence thrust. Thou art the heav'n of my idolatry ! For thee I live and move, — for thee I breathe ; For thee and for thy love, if thou knew'st all Isid, I would know all — there's mystery about thee ! Caspar, thine image here's so deeply graven, That nought can e'er efface it. Trust me, then, love, As I would thee. There's not a thought I ov/n, No, not a fond emotion of my soul, — Not e'en the slightest ripple o'er the mind. When calm and pensive as it used to be. But I would tell it thee. O couldst thou view my heart, and see thyself The Monk of Seville .15 So firmly master of its deep recesses. Thou wouldst be confident. If thou shouldst be ignoble, fear not me, Love shall draw out thy patent of descent. And trace thy ancestry to more than mortal. If thou hast hated, and hast found revenge. Yet fear not me, dear Caspar. Whate'er priests say, it is a noble passion. And holds an empire in the heart of man, Equal in strength and dignity with love. Be it a tale of sorrow or of crime, (O say 'tis not the last !) still let me share it. That I may comfort thee whene'er we meet. And mourn it only when I grieve thine absence. Gasp. My Isidora, oft thou'st press'd me thus 5 Since thou wilt hear it, then, it shall be told ; But one sad chance, most fatal to us both. Is fetter'd to it. Lid. And what is that, my Caspar ? Gasp. That once reveal'd, we ne'er may meet again. Isid. Then I'll not hear't. Away with prying thoughts So fraught with mischief ! Not to see thee more ! Then might the angel pour the vial out, That vial of fierce wrath which is to quench The sun, the moon, the host of stars, in blood ! Not see thee more ! then may they work my shroud, And cull the flowers to strew my maiden corpse. Without thee, Caspar, I should surely die ! Wert thou the ruler of the universe. Commanding all, I could not love thee more ! Wert thou a branded slave from bondage 'scap'd, — 'Tis now too late, — I could not love thee less ! Gasp, {aside). One soul so pure redeems a world of sin ! Thou Heav'n that I have mock'd, O hear me now, And spare ! let her not feel the bitter pangs Of disappointed love ! Draw the barb gently, That she may sigh her soul away, and sleep Throughout her passage to a better world ! 1 6 Olla Podrida hid. What say'st thou, Caspar ! Gasp. I call'd down blessings, loveliest, on thy head. Heav'n grant my prayers ! Isid. I, too, have pray'd for thee, and will again ! But speak to me. Why didst thou come so late ? How short, methinks, are nights. There's hardly time For those who've toil'd, to gain their needful rest, — For those who wake, to whisper half their love. Gasp. Night is our day, and day becomes our night ^ Love changes all, o'er nature rules supreme ; Alters her seasons, mocks her wisest laws. And, like the prophet, checks the planet's course. But from this world of hate, the night has fled, And I must hie me hence. O Isidora ! Though my seeming's doubtful, yet remember, 'Tis true as Heaven, I love thee ! Isid. I'm sure thou dost, and feeling thus assured, I am content. Enter Nina, hastily, from balcony, Nina. Madam, the lady Inez pass'd your door. And, passing, tried the bolt, e'en now I hear Her footsteps in the corridor. Isid. We must away, dear Caspar. Fare thee well ! Nina shall tell thee when we next can meet. [Exit Isidora and Nina at balcony. Gasp. So parts the miser from his hoarded wealth. And eyes the casket when the keys are turn'd. I must away. The world e'en now awakes, and the wan moon (Like some tired sentinel, his vigil o'er) Sinks down beneath yon trees. The morning mist Already seeks the skies, ascending straight. Like infant's prayers, or souls of holy martyrs. I must away. The world will not revolve another hour. Ere hives of men will pour their millions forth. The Monk of Seville 17 To seek their food by labour, or supply Their wants by plunder, flattery, or deceit. Avarice again will count the dream' d-of hoards, Envy and Rancour stab, whilst sobbing Charity Will bind the fest'ring wounds that they have giv'n. The world of sin and selfishness awakes Once more, to swell its catalogue of crime. So monstrous that it wearies patient Heav'n. I must away. [Exit. Act IL Scene I. The street before Anselmo's lodgings. Enter Antonio, If ever fortune played me a jade's trick, 'twas when she brought my wives to Seville. So far have I contrived to keep them separate; but should they meet, they'll talk; and then, woe to that most interesting of all subjects, myself! I am sure to be discovered. Why, in half an hour, their rapid tongues would range o'er half the creation. Now, Beppa is my first wife, and, like all other first choices, the worst. There's vengeance in her, and she'll apply to the authorities ; then must I to the galleys. Who wants a wife ? I have one — aye two — to dispose of. Here comes a fool I trifle with. {Enter Sancho.) So, comrade, what's your business now ? (Mimicking him.) Saint Petronila ! you are a faithful servant, ever stirring to do your master's pleasure. San. 'Tis not his pleasure that I am upon — it is my own : I go to Donna Isidora's. Ant. What dost thou there ? San. {affectedlf). I please a damsel, and she pleases me. Ant. I do not wonder at it. Barring a certain too O B i8 Oila Podrida intelligent look that thou hast, thou art a pretty fellow, and made to charm the ladies. Who is this damsel of your choice ? San. You'll keep my secret ? Ant, As faithfully as I do all others. San. It is the maid of Donna Isidora. I knew her at Toledo, and for years kept her company. During my absence, — Saint Petronila strike him with the leprosy ! — a certain Lopez, a dirty, shuffling, addle-pated knave, stepped in between us, and married her. She took the poor fool purely through pique, because I did not write to her ; and the holy saint knows I had not then learned. Ant. {aside). Now would I beat his pate, but that I think the fool may assist me out of my difficulties. {Aloud^ What ! love a married woman ! For shame, Sancho ! I had thought better of you. San. I loved her years before she married ; and since the marriage, her husband has deserted her, and I have met her often. Nina, for that's her name, has often told me how much she repented of her marriage with the fellow ; and could I prove that he were dead, she'd marry me. Saint Petronila directing her, and make a wiser choice in second wedlock. Ant. (aside). The cockatrice. {Aloud.) Sancho, I knew this Lopez. He is not quite the person you describe ; but never mind. Yesterday, he came to Seville, and told me how much surprised he was to find his wife here. San. Then he's come back. Saint Petronila aid me ! how unfortunate ! Ant. {musing aside). I have it ! {Aloud.) Sancho, we have ever been the best of friends. I respect you much. I have most joyful tidings for you, and, if you will be counselled by me, Nina is yours. San. Indeed ! I can't see how. I think I had a better chance before. Ant. Tut, man ! 3^ou've now a certainty. Sancho, your ear — Lopez is dead I The Monk of Seville 19 San. The scoundrel dead ! My dear Antonio (embracing him), I thank you for the news, and so will Nina too. But can you prove it ? ^nt. I can, but in strict confidence. Pledge me your word you never will divulge, not even to Nina, what I now confide ; for the women have the power to sap the stoutest resolution. Swear on your knees. San. (kneeling). I swear by Petronila, my adopted saint. ^nt. Well, then, this Lopez was a noisy braggadocio. Last night we had some words whilst waiting near the gate of Donna Serafina. From words we came to weapons, and, by a lucky thrust, I sent his prying soul the devil knows where. His body I secreted in the garden. San. I envy you. Would he were alive again, that I might kill him too, my guardian saint assisting ! I should be the better welcome. ^nt. Indeed ! San. Not that it matters ; I am convinced she loves me well. I'll to her straight, and with these welcome tidings make her right happy. j4nt. Not quite so fast. When that you tell her, she will ask for proofs, and from whence you had your infor- mation. San. Why, that is true ; and she'll never rest till she worms the secret from me : Saint Petronila, lock my breast ! ^nt. Therefore, Sancho, it must appear as if there was no secret. Tell her 'twas by your hand that Lopez fell ; I am content that you shall have with her all the credit of the deed. She'll love you better. San. Why, so she will. My dear Antonio, you are like my holy saint, a friend indeed ! Ant. If she doubts the fact, you'll come to me. I'll give you proofs most positive. San. Thanks — thanks ! Ant. Now take advice. Women, like eels, are rather slippery ; already she has once slipped through your fingers. Their minds are weathercocks, and there's 20 Olla Podrida wind always blowing. Press her, then, hard, and marry her at once. San» I will, I will. Thanks, dear Antonio ! — Saint Petronila will reward you. Ant, I risk much to serve you. You'll meet me here to-night. I must now to confess this heavy deed. You'll come. San, I will — addio ! [Exit, Ant. So, so the fondling, ever coaxing Nina Loves this soft fool, and wishes I were dead. I did think better of her. We men deceive, 'tis true ; but still no longer Keep on the mask, when we've our purpose gain'd. "With us 'tis tiresome ; but with the women, 'Tis ne'er removed ; for mask'd they live and die ! [Exit, Scene 11, The Monaster'^, GaspaVf as Anselmo, enters with Jacobo, Jac. Twice hath the brother Manuel sought for you 5 He came from the Superior. Gasp. You told him I was absent ? Jac. I did, and also where you might be found. They sent a messenger, who soon return'd. Declaring there thou hadst not been to-day. Gasp. Truly, I had forgotten 'twas the day That I with Don Baltasar did appoint. 'Twas thus my treach'rous memory did beget This chapter of cross purposes. [Bell without. Jac. Someone rings. That jingling bell pursues me unto death 5 In faith, this porter's is a tedious office. [Exit, Gasp. More tedious still the wearing of the knees Upon this pavement. I am weary of it. The Monk of Seville 21 Enter Jacoho, ivith Antonio. Jac, One who inquires for thee, Anselmo, V/ho would confess. Gasp. (Takes a confessional chair.) I know the man: Jacobo, leave us. [Exit Jacobo. My son, we are alone ; now thou may'st profit By holy rite, and on thy bended knees Pour out thy soul to me in deep contrition. Hast thou perform'd the penance I enjoin'd For the sad stumblings thou did'st last confess ? Ant. I have, most holy father, to my belief Obey'd thy strict injunction. I have so much to think of for my master, My thoughts are scarce mine own ; Still do I often call upon the saints. Gasp. I trust thou dost — and not as I have heard That worldlings do, invoke them in mere blasphemy. Ant. Nay, father, when I call, I am sincere. Gasp. Thou dost evade, I fear, with double meaning. But to the purpose — by what sins hast thou. Since last we met, endanger'd thy poor soul .'* Ant. Father, my mind is ill at ease. I serve A master most equivocal — a false one In all he says and does ; in love — in everything. I know not what to think. He's here and there — In fact, I do believe he is — the devil. Gasp. Give me the grounds for this thy strange suspicion. Ant. He keeps his chamber lock'd, his haunts unknown. He comes when least expected. How he comes I cannot tell. He goes, and Heaven knows where. I ne'er can make him out with all my prying. Gasp. It would appear thy master doth not trust thee. Why should'st thou watch, and seek to find out that He would conceal ? This base prying nature Is a dark sin, and must be check'd by penance. Hast thou no more ? Ant. Yes, father, I've a grievous fault to tell ; One that I'm fearful thou wilt much abhor — 2 2 Olla Podrida An accident, 'tis true, and most unlucky — I have two wives in Seville. Gasp. Two wives ! Thou hast profaned the holy rite f What ! wedded twice ! and say 'twas accident ! Ant, An accident — they both have come to Seville. Gasp. It is a heinous sin — one that demands Justice on earth ; scarce pardon claims from Heaven. Two wives ! How long hast thou thus lived in sin ? Ant. 'Tis now three years since I did wed the second ! I had forgot, my memory is so bad, I wedded was before — till yesterday, I chanced to meet with both of them in Seville. Gasp. Thy memory's most convenient, but the law Will not o'erlook thy crime when it is known. Ant. We'll leave it to the law, then, please thee, father. The sin is one that carries its own penance. Gasp. How could'st thou venture on so foul a deed ? Ant, Example, holy father ! bad example. It is our masters who do ruin us. My present one, for instance, loves two ladies. And woos them both. Sad reprobate he is ! Gasp. Another's fault can't sanctify thine own. Else all th' ordinances of our church, were useless ; Thou art more knave than fool, Antonio, And yet made up of both. For this thy crime I have no absolution. Haste thee hence. And tremble at thy state of sad perdition ! [Exit Gaspar, Ant. {looking after him). More knave than fool ! — why, yes, that's true. What a scurvy fellow ! No absolution ! I shall take the liberty of changing my confessor. So, good sir, I give you your warning. Must not pry either ! Does he not pry into my conscience as far as he can ? Why, his whole life is a life of prying ! — I have no opinion of these monks ! They're no better than they should be. The law must take its course — there's the mischief. Let me only contrive to get out of its clutches now, and I'll take my chance for getting out of the devil's hereafter ! \Emt. The Monk of Seville 23 Scene HI. A Street in Seville. Enter Felix and Perez, meeting. Felix. Perez, well met ; I hoped to find you. Have you discovered who your rival may be ? and what answer have you gained from Donna Serafina to your most urgent pleadings ? Perez. Confusion light upon her ! She hath returned my letter without opening it ; and sent a request that I will desist from useless persecution. Beppa, her confidante, I have contrived to parley with ; and what with bribes and much entreaty, I have ascertained that this Don Caspar is the rival who supplants me. Felix. I doubt it, Perez — doubt it much. I, too, have gained some information from Sancho, who associates much with one Nina, Isidora's favoured woman. From this source I've learned that this Don Caspar is her favoured cavalier, and that last night they had a meeting. Perez. Yet I am sure my knowledge is correct, and that the Donna Serafina grants him those favours which I con- sider are but due to me. Felix. Why, what a conscientious cavalier is this, who thus monopolises all our beauties ! I fain would see him. Vv^hat is he like ? His properties must be wondrous indeed. Where is he to be met ? Perez. He often passes this way to the Prado. I wish to meet him also, but not in courtesy. Indeed ! see, here he comes ! \_Enter Don Caspar and as he would pass by, Perez steps before him. Gaspar moves on one side and Perez again intercepts him. Gasp. Don Perez, at first I imagined this was accident, but now your conduct will admit no such interpretation. Do you dispute my passage ? Perez. I do — until we have had some little parley. 24 Olla Podrida Gasp. Then, sir, your parley. Be brief. Indeed, I know not what there is between us that demands it. Perez. I believe, Don Caspar, that you woo a lady. Gasp. 'Tis not impossible. Perez. You will oblige me if you cease to woo. Gasp. Don Perez, I never brook affront. What has already passed demands a deadly meeting. But to reply to your strange request, who is the lady I am commanded not to woo, and upon what grounds ? Perez. The lady is the Donna Serafina — I grant a fickle, yet a lovely one. You call yourself Don Caspar. Who is this Don Caspar that ruffles thus with our nobility ? Detail your ancestry and lineage. Of what family are you ? Where are your possessions ? show me the patent of your descent or else Gasp, Or else, Don Perez ? Perez. I publish you through Seville ! Gasp. Then do it quickly ; you've no time to lose. First let me tell you, sir, that had not reasons, and those the most cogent ones, forced me to hide my quality, I had not so long submitted to the doubts which are abroad. Still my secret is mine own and shall remain so. Who and what I am, Don Perez, you shall never know. You have not long to live ; and now, sir, let me pass. We meet again when least you wish it. Felix. Perez, indeed you are to blame. Don Caspar has the right of every man to wear the incognito, either from choice or from necessity. He has never intruded on your company, bears himself correctly, and wears the form and stamp of true nobility. Thus much in justice must I say. If you must quarrel let your cause be good. Gasp. Sir, I thank you {bowing to Don Felix). Perez. Still do I hold my words, and challenge him impostor ! Gasp. Did you retract them it would not avail. But time is pressing, and I cannot wait. Perez. When do we meet again ? The Monk of Seville 25 Gasp, I said before, when least you wish it. (To Don Felix) Signor, farewell ! [Exit Caspar. Perez. By heavens ! I hold him craven ! Do you think that I shall hear from him ? Felix. Hear from him ! I saw no signs of fear, but much of rage, and that but ill suppressed. In faith he is a noble cavalier ! You'll hear, and see, and suffer from him too, or I mistake. Perez. What did he say ? when least I wished it ? Felix. Those were his words. Perez. They're pregnant with some meaning. Felix. No doubt — we'll ravel out this mystery as we walk. Come to the Prado : this smiHng day will bring the fair ones forth. Come, come ! [Exeunt. Scene IF, A Street before Anselmo^s Lodgings. Enter Antonio. What with the messages from my master's two mistresses, I am not a little puzzled to keep my two wives apart. I have spread a report of my absence by another channel, which will reach Nina ; and, unless she comes for my effects, which Beppa surely would, there is no fear. Now must I wait for Sancho. Enter Beppa. Bep. One is as sure to find you standing here, as to find the figure of our lady in the church. Ant. I wish the likeness went further, and that the same presents were offered to me. I should be rich. Bep. You will never be rich. You are not honest. Ant. It is my poverty has made me otherwise. Bep. And while you are otherwise you will be poor. You shut the only gate by which riches can enter. 26 Olla Podrida Ant, And yet, good wife, I have occasionally seen great rogues amass great wealth. Bep. Castles built upon the sand, without a good foundation ! — a pile of industry heaped up in vain. But I have known you long, and it is useless to reason with you. Ant. Pray, may I ask, what has made you in such a sermonising humour to-day ? Bep, No ; but you may hear why I am come to you. I am sent to know if your rogue of a master comes to my lady to-night. Ant, He does, to the best of my knowledge, and belief. Enter Sancho, Ant, Sancho, I have been waiting for you (to Sancho aside), I'll speak to you directly {pointing to Beppd), Bep, I'm sure there is mischief. I'll stay to plague him. Ant, Well, Beppa, you have your answer, and I have no doubt but Donna Serafina is impatient. Bep. She may be : but, Antonio, I want to put a question to you, now that I am here; who is that girl with whom I caught you the other day, — that Nina ! ^an. Saint Petronila ! caught him with Nina } "Why he's a married man and your husband. Bep, I know he is, to my misfortune. Yet still he makes love to other women. I caught him kissing her. Ant, {aside). Confound her ! San. Kissing her ! {To Antonio) Your most obedient ! Then I understand why you fought her husband. Bep. Fought her husband did you say ? San. Yes, and killed him — a dirty rascal, whose name was Ant, {putting his hand on SanMs mouth). Your honour, Sancho ! recollect your oath ! San, I had forgotten. Saint Petronila, refresh my memory ! But this requires some little explanation. The Monk of Seville 27 Ant, And you shall have it, but not now. All's right. ^an. All's right ? Ant. {aside to Sancho). Yes — this woman's jealous of her. As soon as she is gone I will explain the whole. Bep. {aside). Now are there knavish tricks in practice. {Aloud) You know this Nina — this girl of his ? San. Why, yes — I know the woman. Bep. Then if you do, tell her she's a shameless wanton, thus to seduce a married man, and that Antonio's wife will spoil her beauty if she come across her. You understand me ? San, Why, yes ; it is very plain, by Saint Petronila ! Bep. Husband, farewell. I trust you'll mend your ways. [Exit Beppa. Ant. Cursed jealous cockatrice ! Why, Sancho, you are serious. San. Why, yes, a little. I thought you were my friend, but if you are only doing a friendly act for Nina in getting her a husband Ant. My dear Sancho, I'll explain it all. Nina is virtuous. It was her husband that she kissed, and this alone has made that woman jealous. San. Why should she be jealous of Nina's kissing her own husband ? Ant. Because that husband had my livery on ; and Beppa swears 'twas I. When Lopez arrived here he wanted a situation, but his clothes were so shabby, he could not offer himself to any gentleman. I lent him a suit of mine, a very good one too, and yet the wretch had the ingratitude to quarrel with me, although dressed in my clothes. They are on his body now. When he met his wife he kissed her, and Beppa, who was passing by, thought it was 1 5 and this is the whole mystery. You can ask Nina how her husband was dressed when she met him, and her answer will prove the truth of what I say. Only, you must not mention a word of me or of Beppa. I hope you're satisfied. 28 Olla Podrida San, Why, yes — it seems the truth. Ant, Well, now, Sancho, let me know how Nina re- ceived the news of her husband's death. San. Women are strange creatures ! Would you be- lieve it? When I told his death — Saint Petronila, be merciful to me ! — although she always disliked him, she cried and sobbed most bitterly ; and when I would have consoled her she pushed me — yes, me, Sancho, away ! Saint Petronila ! Ant. I almost repent of my scheme. I wish it had been Beppa that the fool fancied. San. But this did not last above ten minutes. She then wiped her eyes, and suffered me to kiss her. Ant. So soon — confound her ! He shall have her {aside), San, O more than that : when she became more tranquil she smiled — hi, hi, hi ! by the lips of the holy saint, she did! Ant, (aside). The Jezebel ! (Aloud) But, Sancho, was she quite satisfied with your assertion of his being killed ? San. No ; she said she must have more proof, that there might be no mistake ; for, as she truly observed, it would be an awkward thing to have two husbands. Ant. (aside). It is to have two wives. (Aloud) Sancho, proceed. San. I followed your advice, and told her 'twas by my hand that Lopez fell — Saint Petronila pardon me the lie. Ant, What said she then ? San, Why, at first, she repulsed ; but then remember- ing that second thoughts as well as second husbands were the best, she dried her eyes, and was content ; don't you see how fresh I am with the joy ? Ant, (aside and looking contemptuously on Sancho), Con- found him ! San, What say you ? Ant, That you're a happy man. Did you press her hard to marry you at once, as I advised you ? The Monk of Seville 29 San. I did, and at last she promised, as soon as she had seen her husband dead, to marry me immediately. Ant. Now, Sancho, I will be your friend. Of course I must not appear in this, nor must my name be mentioned. But if to-morrow at dusk will suit you, I'll drag his body from the place where I concealed it, and lay it in the path which leads to the summer house — you know where I mean, just where the row of tall chestnut trees San, I know exactly. Thank you, Antonio. She said to-morrow night she thought she would be able to come out. I'll go to her immediately, and make the appoint- ment. Saint Petronila, smile on my joys of wedlock ! [Exit Sancho, Ant, How I hate women ! ... If that fool had mentioned the name of Lopez, the crafty Beppa would have discovered the whole affair. What with keeping my own secrets, and finding out those of my master, I have enough to do. So far the former has been well managed, now for the latter. [Exit into house. Scene V, An Apartment in the Guzman Palace, Donna Inez discovered seated at table, Inez, Last night, again, beneath my niece's window I heard that tuneful voice ; and if mine ears Deceived me not, my Isidora's too. As I pass'd by, a light whose feeble rays Shone thro' the vacancy beneath the door Proved that she'd not retired. I much suspect She is entangled in some web of love. Yet oft have I enjoin'd her to advise With me, her friend, and truest counsellor. But 'tis in vain \ Love ne'er would be so sweet, — so fondly cherish'd, If not envelop'd in the veil of secrecy : And good intents are oft in maidens check'd 2>o 011a Podrida By that strange joyous fear, that happy awe, Which agitates the breast when first the trembler Receives its dangerous inmate. I've summon'd her, for now I must endeavour To be her confidante. {Muses.) 'Twere better first I made her mine. And sympathy may win the treasured key, Which startled love would willingly retain. Enter Isidora. Ltd. You wish my presence. (Aside) Hush, my tell- tale heart. Inez. Hast thou slept well, my child ? Isid. My dreams have been confused, but not unhappy. Inez. Oh ! may'st thou never wake to mystery ! Thine is a dang'rous age : my Isidora, Thou little know'st, that while thy path is strew'd With flow'rs, how many serpent dangers lurk Beneath the sweets. Isid. I will not stray, then. Inez. It is a happy resolution. If, in my youth, I had been so resolved, I had not loaded mine old age with care. Nor soak'd my pillow with remorseful tears. Isid. I've often seen you weep, and then retire, Nor glad me with your presence, until after You had communion held with Father Philip ; Then have you smiled again, that is to say. Smiled mournfully, as does the winter's sun. Gleaming through heavy clouds, and scarce deigning To light up sober nature for the minute. Inez. True, dearest child, for such is our blindness, That we reject our greatest boon, until We can receive support from it alone. 'Tis time thou should'st receive my confidence, And learn the danger of clandestine love. Isid. {aside). She must suspect me. {Aloud) I'm all attention. The Monk of Seville 31 Inez. To say I once was fair, and that mine eyes Were bright as thine are now, were almost needless^ I had a mother most considerate — Kind to excess, yet ever pointing out The path to virtue, and to happiness. One precept above all did she enjoin. And sure 'twas little in exchange to ask For so much kindness — wisely to seek her counsel Ere the heart was wounded. You hear me, love, I oft have made the same request of you. Lid. (faintly). You have. Inez. I promised faithfully, as thou hast done. And well, I know, wilt keep the promise made. But virgin fear induced tne to withhold My confidence, until it was too late. My heart was given and my troth was plighted ; Don Felipe, such was his cherish'd name. Implored my silence ; our frequent meetings Were sanctified by marriage : then I learn'd It was an old and deadly feud that barr'd His long sought entrance to our house ; but soon He hoped our marriage publicly t'announce, And strife of years to end, and peace restore By our acknowledged union. Alas ! two days before this much-sought hour. My brothers were inform'd I did receive My husband in my chamber. He was surprised And murder'd — basely in my presence slain ! hid. Oh Heavens ! Inez. They would not listen to my frantic words ! They would not credit our asserted union ! They dragg'd me to a convent in their wrath, And left me to my widowhood and tears, Tore my sweet infant from my longing arms, And while I madly scream'd, and begg'd for pity. The abbess spoke of penitence and prayer. Reason, for weeks, forsook me : when again I was awaken'd to a cruel world. 32 OUa Podrida They would have forced me to assume the veil. Lid, To me, that force had been most needlessly Exerted. What haven could the world offer So meet for such a wreck of happiness ? "What could induce you to repel that force ? Inez, The hope, that one day I might find my boy — A hope which still I cherish. Years have fled •, My brothers fell by those who sought revenge, And I remain'd, sole scion of our noble house. In line direct. Then did I seek my child. Those who attended at the birth inform'd me It had a sanguine bracelet on the wrist. By threats and bribes at last I ascertained My child had been removed unto the hospital Built in this city for receiving foundlings. Full of a mother's joy, a mother's fear, I hastened there, alas ! to disappointment ! All clue of him was lost, and should my boy survive. The heir of Guzman's noble house may be Some poor mechanic's slave ! {In anguish throivs herself into a chair, ^ Isidora {kneels beside Inez), Indeed 'tis dreadful. 1 marvel not you grieve To think that he survives in hapless penury, Unconscious of his right, perchance unfitted, And if recover'd, prove no source of joy. But one of deep regret, that a young stock Which culture and the graft of education Would now have loaded on each bough with fruit, Neglect hath left degenerate and worthless. How should I joy, yet dread to meet my cousin, Should your maternal hopes be realised ! Inez, He is my child. You cannot feel the pangs Which rack a mother sever'd from her own. Isid, I've often thought how sweet that love must be Where all is sanction'd, nought is to conceal — When hand may lock in hand, heart beat with heart. And the whole world may smile but not upbraid. The Monk of Seville 33 Such love a sister towards a brother bears. And such a mother feels towards her son. I have no brother — none of kin but you. Now, dearest mother, for mother you have been Unto my childhood and now budding youth, "Would that my feebleness could e'er repay Your years of love. O that I could console you, And prove me grateful ! Heaven ne'er be mine If these, my sobbing words, be not sincere. Inez. 'Tis well, my child, thou canst console me much : Let my sad tale but prove to thee a beacon And I am satisfied. Tell me, my love. Hast thou no secrets hidden in thy breast ? [Isidora, still kneeling, covers her face with her hands, 1 Hast thou fulfill'd thy oft-repeated promise ? Isid. Forgive me, dearest aunt ; forgive and pity me ! Inez. Last night, my child, I heard the sound of music : Methought thy name was wafted by the air With most harmonious utterance. Isid. Forgive me, aunt, but say that you forgive me ! You shall know all. Inez. I do, my Isidora, I forgive thee {raises her). But I must have thy confidence, my child. Who is this cavalier ? Isid. Alas ! I know not. Inez. Not know, my Isidora ? Hast thou then Been so unwise as to receive a stranger } Isid. Alas ! I have, but too much for my peace. Inez. Thou lov'st him then ? [Isidora throws herself into the arms of Inez and bursts into tears.^ inside) The barb has entered deeply. (Aloud) Isidora, Come, come, cheer up, my love, I mean not to reproach. All may yet be well. (Inez kisses Isidora, and they separate,) Thou say'st he is a stranger ? Isid. I only know he calls himself Don Caspar. o c 34 Olla Podrida I have indeed been foolish. Inez. Has he ne'er mention*d his condition, His family or descent ? Lid. Never ; and when that I would question him, He answers vaguely. There is some mystery. Inez, With honest love concealment never dwells. When does he come again ? hid. To-morrow even — and he'll keep his word. Inez. Then will I see him. Fear not, my love, No trifling cause shall bar thy happiness. Be he but gentle, e'en of Moorish blood. And honest, he is thine. Go to thy chamber, Thither will I follow, that we some project May devise, which shall remove all obstacle. \Exit Isidora, I like not this Don Caspar, and my heart Forebodes some evil nigh. I may be wrong, But in my sear'd imagination, He is some snake whose fascinating eyes, Fix'd on my trembling bird, have drawn her down Into his pois'nous fangs. How frail our sex ! Prudence may guard us from th' assaults of passion. But storm'd the citadel, in woman's heart, Victorious love admits no armistice Or sway conjoint. He garrisons alone. [Exit Inez, Act III. Scene L The monastery. — Procession of monks, choristers, Sffr., returning from performing service in the chapel. — The organ sttll playing in the chapel within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers. — They pass on bowing to the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain. — The organ ceases. Sup, {looking round). Anselmo hath pass'd on. I do observe, The Monk of Seville 35 Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange. Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught ? Doth he continue steadfast and devout ? Or, borne away by youthful phantasies. Neglect the duties of our sacred order ? Man, He bears himself correctly, and e'er since His last offence, when self-inflicted pain Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd To be absorb'd in holy meditation. Sup. May this continue, he's of great import To the well doing of our monastery Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins. Man, Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n, Rash words like these when all are born to sin ! I deem'd that he had nothing to confess Except the warring of his youthful passions. O'er which he strives to hold dominion. Sup, I would it were so ; but, too frequently^ I do perceive a furtive glance of fire From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start. As does the lightning from a heavy cloud : It doth denote strong passion — much too strong For youthful resolution to control. Man. Why then permit him to behold the world And all its vanities ? 'Tis true, our coffers Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them. Instructing music, a gift from nature In him most perfect. Were it not better That he within our cloister'd gates should stay ? Sup. Then would he pine ; for our monastic vows Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those Who, having proved the world, at length retire When they have lost the appetite to sin. There's much depending on the boy Anselmo -, He is a prize whose worth I little knew When first into our brotherhood he came. Man. I comprehend you not. 35 Olla Podrida Sup. Thou canst not, Manuel, but I will confide What has been reveal'd to me alone. "Well thou know'st for years I have confessed The Donna Inez. From her I late have learn'd She bore a child in wedlock, which she lost j And, by the notices which she has given, I find him in Anselmo. Man. In Anselmo ! Then he's the rightful heir To all the Guzman wealth. Sup. 'Tis even so. Man. Father, how long since you discover'd this ? Sup. But a few months before he took his vows. Man. Why did you then permit them .? Sup. To serve our holy church ; which either way Must gain by his belonging to our order. The lady mourns her son. If I restore him. She must be grateful. Thus our convent will Become endow'd with acres of broad land. And should he choose still to retain his vows. When he has learnt the story of his birth, Then will our monast'ry no doubt receive The wealth he values not, but we require. Man. I do perceive — 'twas prudently arranged — What wait you for ? Sup. To see if he will turn his thoughts to Heav'n j But, look, he moves this way. Leave me with him. [Epcit Manuel, and enter Anselmo^, Where hast thou been, my child ? Ans. Lending mine ear to those who would unload A conscience heavy with repeated sin — Giving advice and absolution free To those who riot in a sinful world. Sup. Yet still be lenient. We in holy bonds Expect not men exposed, to be so perfect. Tell me, for lately thou hast not confess'd. How throbs thy heart } Do holy thoughts prevail ? Art thou at peace within, or does thy youth Regret its vow, and yield to vain repinings ? The Monk of Seville ^ Ans. I am, most holy father, as Heav'n made me — Content, and not content, as in their turns The good or evil thoughts will be ascendant. When that the evil thoughts the mastery gain, I try to curb them. Man can do no more. Sup. At thy rebelling age, 'tis doing much. Now put my question to thy inmost soul And answer me : — could'st thou rejoin the world And all its pleasures, now so bright in fancy To youth's all ardent mind, tell me sincerely, Would'st thou reject them ? Ans, Why call in question that which ne'er can be ? My vows are ta'en, therefore no choice is mine. Sup. Most things are possible to mother church, As would this be — a dispensation sought Might be obtain'd. Ans. {at first with joy in his countenance, then assuming a mournful expression). It would not be a kindness. Who, my father. In this wide glorious world is kindred to Anselmo ? I will confess, I sometimes have indulged Half dreaming thoughts (O say not they are sinful !) Of the sweet hours of those, who, lapp'd in bliss. See brothers, sisters, offspring, clust'ring round. Loving and loved ; then have I wept to think That I have none, and sadly felt convinced 'Tis for my happiness that I am here. Sup. True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world, And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to, But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother, One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd In thee the foundhng heir to large estates, What then ? Ans. {starts, and after a pause). I cannot say — my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far. Father, you oft the dangers have set forth Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray ; Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that 38 Olla Podrida Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be. Sup, We are but mortal. I did wish to know Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still. At night come to me, then shalt thou confess. For I would learn the workings of thy soul. Ans, First let me strive to calm my troubled mind : I will confess to-morrow. Sup, Then, be it so. [Exit Superior, Ans, 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus. A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble ! O ! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom ! But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain ! For he has conjured up a vision wild. And beautiful as wild ! Wealth, ancestry, A mother's love ! But what are these to thee. Thou monk Anselmo ? go — go and hang thy head Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast — For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n [ Oh parents stern ! to fling me thus on fate ! But vows more stern that thus debar me from The common rights of man ! Why were we made With passions strong, that even Nature laughs When we would fain control them ? Lone to live And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing. Say I were humbly born of peasant race, I should have glided on the silent brook ; Or highly bred and nobly father'd, Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river. But in these confines against Nature pent, I must remain a stagnant torpid lake ; Or else marking my wild course with ruin, Till my force is spent and all is over. Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent. Enter Jacobo, Jac, What Anselmo ! not outside the convent gates, and service over this half hour! By St Dominic, it is as I The Monk of Seville 39 expected — thon hast fallen in with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance. Ans. Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits. Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels. Jac. Well, I've an idea that there's something wrong, and my news will not be very agreeable to you : the key is, in future, to be delivered to the Superior at nine o'clock, and, if required, it must be sent for. Ans. Indeed! then he must suspect that we are not so regular. Still, I must out to-night, Jacobo — I must indeed ! Jac, Impossible ! Ans. {giving him money). I must, Jacobo. Here's for thy wine, much watching needs it. Jac, The Superior calls me, brother ; I only wish there was brotherhood in our drinking. The noble juice which mantles in his cup would cheer me in my vigils. Ans. And that will purchase it. I must be out to-night. Let the Superior have the key, but do not lock the door. You understand, Jacobo ? Jac. I do j but there's danger in it. Holy Virgin ! the Sup- erior comes this way. Anselmo, you had better to your cell. Ans. I detest it. Now must I play the hypocrite. Enter Superior followed by Jacobo, Sup. (observing Anselmo). Thou here, my son ! I thought thee at thy cell. Ans. I wish'd to seek it ; but till vesper chimes I must employ in teaching melody ; But that the coffers of our holy church Receive the thrift, my mind were ill at ease Thus mixing with the world ; for holy vigils Are better suited to my early years. (^Kneeling.) O bless, my father, my untoward youth And teach my thoughts to find the path to Heav'n. Sup. {bending over Anselmo). Bless thee, my child, may thy young heart 40 Olla Podrida Turn now to Heav'n, as Samuel's did of old ! May holy thoughts pervade thy youthful mind ! May holy dreams enrich thy peaceful sleep ! May heavenly choristers descend in visions, And point thee out the joys awaiting those Who dedicate on earth their lives to Heav'n. [Exit Superior, after blessing Anselmo. — Anselmo, still kneeling^ watches the departure of the Superior, Ans. (rising). He's safe. Jac, Hah, hah ! do you edify ? Ans. Peace, peace, Jacobo ! 'Tis time that I were gone. Jac, You will return before the door is lock'd ? Ans, Because you will not lock it. I shall be home at midnight : it must be so, Jacobo. If not, expect no further gifts from me ; and what is more, a full con- fession of the many times you have been bribed to secrecy. l^Exit Anselmo, Jac. Why, what a penance if this should be discovered ! They know how much I love my wine, and always punish me with water. I should have to drink the Guadalquiver dry before the Superior would give me absolution. Well, we all have our besetting sin; and a pot of good wine will put my soul in more jeopardy than all the temptations that the world contains. I suppose I must forget to lock the door. I'll only bolt it ; that will satisfy my conscience as a porter. [Exit Jacobo. Scene II, Street before Don Gaspares lodgings. — Enter Antonio, Ant. I wonder where my master is ! I expected him sooner. He may be in his chamber, but 'tis impossible to say. Why, here comes Beppa, and that knave Garcias with her. I've often thought they are too intimate; I will retire and watch them. The Monk of Seville 41 Enter Beppa, followed by Garcias. — Antonio advances behind, Bep. But, Garcias, is this true ? Gar. It is, upon my faith ! Sancho revealed it in his cups. Don Perez, afraid to encounter with Don Gaspar, has hired bravos to dispatch him. Bep. I rejoice at it, A wretch like him deserves no better fate, and my poor mistress will be well revenged. Indeed, his servant is no better. Gar. What ! your dear husband ? Bep. My scoundrel husband ! Unhappy day I married him ! It was but yesterday that I found him kissing another. Gar. Indeed ! — You can revenge yourself. Bep. I almost wish I could. Gar. {kissing her hand). Then kiss again. Bep. Pshaw ! that's but poor revenge. Gar. I'll join the bravos, and strike him down, if you will marry me. Bep. Not so, good sir : it were indeed to make a better choice, to take a murderer in second wedlock. I ask but to be free ; and leave the time to Heaven. Gar. Then fare ye well. \^Exit Garcias, Ant. A very pretty proposal, and a very pretty plot have I discovered ! yet will I conceal my knowledge. {Shows himself.) Good day, again, my Beppa ! Who is that friend of yours ? {smacking lips in imitation of kissing). Bep. {after a pause). Well, good husband, how could I help it ? Ant. How could you help it ! Bep. My mistress ordered me. Ant. Oh, I understand ! Bep. Yes, only a Httle by-play, you know. Ant. Or else you must quit your service. Pray who is the gentleman to whom your mistress is making love ? Bep. That's a secret. Ant. Of course she gave you ten moidores for me. 42 Olla Podrida Bep. Really I don't remember. Ant. Indeed! why, thou — thou — Bep. Good morning. I must to my mistress. Adieu, Antonio. [Exit Beppa. Ant. Well; I like thee better than usual. Thou hast refused him for me, and would not have him murder me ; that's something in a wife now-a-days. I have obtained a key which fits my master's door ; and now I feel assured he'll not come back, I'll find his secret out. I must be quick. Suppose he should be there. Impossible ! he would have summoned me. At all events I'll risk it. [Exit Antonio. Scene III, Interior of Don Gaspars room. — Enter Antonio. Ant. Pugh ! what a heat I'm in ! I really tremble with delight or fear — I can't tell which. If he should come, what shall I say ? Oh, the news I gained from Beppa. That will do. (Looking round.) Well, I see nothing after all. Why should he keep his chamber locked ? But, then, there's that chest ; let me try — locked fast ; — nothing to be gained from that. Still, he comes in by some other way than the door, that's clear ; we must have a search for a trap door. (He looks round, and then under the bed. While he is on his knees, feeling the boards, Don Gaspar enters by the secret sliding panel, and observing him, draws his snvord, and^ as Antonio rises, he points it to his breast?^ Gasp. Villain ! how cam'st thou hither ? Ant. (much alarmed). Sir, sir, I came — came (recovers himself) — I came to save your life, unless it please you to take mine before I can speak to you. Gasp. To save my life ! Ant. Yes, sir ; I knew not where to find you ; I thought you might be here, and so I forced the lock with a rusty key. I meant to say, that I knew you had another way out from your chamber, and I have been looking for it, that I might hasten to you, to save your life. The Monk of Seville 43. Gasp. "Well, sirrah, first prove to me that you can save my life, and then, perhaps, I may overlook this impertinent intrusion. Ant. Sir, I overheard a conversation between the valet of Don Felix and a woman, in which they stated that bravos were hired by Don Perez to waylay and murder you, Don Perez not caring to meet you with his sword. This night they wait for you. Gasp. Is Don Perez then so basely treacherous ? Ant. Indeed he is, sir ! You must not out to-night. Gasp. I must, and fear them not. For this I overlook your prying — nay, more, I will in confidence explain the secret of this chamber ; but, mark you ! keep it, or I shall soil my rapier with thy knavish blood. This private entrance hath much served me (^showing the sliding panel). Ant. May I be so bold as to ask how ? Gasp. It oft has saved my life. It is about a year since, and about three months before you entered my service, that I gained the love of one named Julia ; she was too fond, and urged me to marry her, which I refused. Her brothers, who were at home at the time, wrested from her the cause of those tears which she could not control. I met them both, and with ease disarmed them 5 I did not wish to slay them, I had already done them injury. These officers, who were more annoyed by my conquest than even their sister's shame, hired bravos, as Perez now has done, who sought to murder me. Each night that I went home I found them near my door : twice I fought an entrance to my own house ; a friend, who was aware of the inveteracy of those who toiled to procure my assassina- tion, hired me this chamber. For months they watched the door with disappointment, until the brothers being recalled to join their troops in Murcia, the bravos ceased their persecutions. Ant. How did you escape them in the city, senor } Gasp, In daylight I was safe j at night I wore the garb of a holy monk, that lies upon that chair. You'll keep my secret } 44 011a Podrida Ant. Yes, sir, when I know it. Gasp. Have I not told it you ? Ant. You have told me that at times you are a monk, and at times a cavalier. Which is the real character, him of the rosary, or him of the rapier ? Gasp, {aside). The knave is deep. (Aloud.) I am a monk but when it suits me. Ant. But, sir, is there not danger in thus assuming a holy character, if it were known — the Inquisition ? Gasp. I grant it : but we do many things which, if known, would subject us to something unpleasant. I serve two mistresses ; but, should I marry them both Ant. {starting back). Then would you to the galleys, at least. Gasp. Exactly so. I merely put the case, for I was told by Donna Isidora's maid, you are her husband ; and this I also know, from your own mouth, you are married to Beppa. Ant. There's some mistake, sir ; for Nina is married to one whose name is Lopez. I cannot, sure, be he ! Gasp. If I can be both monk and cavalier, as you assert, why may not you be Lopez and Antonio ? A name is changed as easily as a garment. But in your face I read conviction ; I'm certain you have two wives ! Ant. It must be as you please, sir. Perhaps I may have confessed as much to you as a holy monk. Gasp. {Laughs.) When did you ever meet me in a church ? Ant. I do not say I have, sir ; but then your knowledge is so certain Gasp. Suppose, then, that I know your secrets, thou wilt surely not reveal mine. There's for thine intelli- gence. {Throws him a purse.) Ant. May Heaven preserve my gracious master ! Gasp. This night must I to Donna Serafina's. Ant. Will you, then, venture forth ? Gasp. Yes, I'll robe myself as holy monk. They dare The Monk of Seville 4j not strike, even though they have suspicion. You may go. I shall not return to-night. [Exit Antonio, Scoundrel ! — he is too cunning to believe me — Yet still I have the secret of his wives. {Muses.) This night I have discovered the base Perez Again essays his most inconstant fair, Blind as inconstant. She rejected me When, as Friar Anselmo teaching music, I ofFer'd her — 'tis true, unholy love ; And I by Perez was thrust out with shame, Spurn'd with contumely as the door was closed. With threats if ever I appear'd again. To blazon forth my impious attempt, and — Yet did she cozen me with melting eyes, And first roused up the demon in my breast. Then laugh'd in malice. 1 hate her for it I Now as Don Caspar, I've supplanted him, Pride and revenge, not love, impelling me ; These gratified, I would shake off a chain Which now, in amorous violence, she'd rivet. Further, Don Perez, in his jealous mood. Has as Don Caspar braved me. They shall find, I hold life cheap when I would have revenge ! [Exit. Scene IV, A garden near the house of Donna Serajina, which is in the back of the scene. — A balcony. — Enter Gaspar in a friar's dress y over that of a cavalier, I pass'd them, and they bow'd unto my blessing. Why, what a world of treachery is this ! Who would imagine that this holy robe, Professing but humility and love, Conceal'd the cavalier, swelling in pride. Seeking revenge, and thirsting for hot blood ? Off with this first disguise ! {Throws offfriar^s gown^ What then appears ? 46 Olla Podrida A fair proportion, more deceiving still. In holy garb I fret within my cell, Sigh for the joyous world I have renounced, And spurn the creed which hath immured me there. When like the chrysalis I 'scape my prison, And range a free and garish butterfly, I find the world so hollow, base, and vile. That, in my mood, I hasten back once more. With thoughts of never wand'ring forth again. But, see, — Don Perez comes. I will retire. \Gaspar withdraws. Enter Perez, Perez, Fool that I am ! like some robb'd bird to hover About the nest that's void. Her heart's not mine. 'Tis now three moons that I have sued in vain ; Her casement closed by night, her door by day. O woman, woman ! thy mysterious power Chains the whole world, and men are nought but slaves Unto the potent talisman — If man prove false and treach'rous, he is spurn'd, Contemn'd, and punish'd with resentment just. To woman faithless still we kneel and sue, For that return our reason holds as worthless. Well ! this shall be my last — for, by yon moon, So oft a witness to my fervent vows, So true an emblem of inconstant beauty. This night I woo her back, or woo no more. \Retires ; sings to his guitar, unseen; or beckons on chorus. Ere lady that you close in sleep Those eyes that I would die to view, Think, think on mine that watch and weep, And on my heart that breaks for you I The sun does not disdain to turn, And on the meanest weed to shine, That scorch'd up dies, and seems to burn With love, as hopelessly as mine. The Monk of Seville 47 One look — one word — hear, hear my call I O cruel ! can you still deny One look, — though it in scorn should fall ? One word, — although it bid me die ? Perez, coming forward, looking up at the ivindow after pause. She will not hear, nor bless me with her sight ! Enter Gaspar in cavalier* s dress. Gasp, Well met, Don Perez. Thus I keep my word. And " when you least do wish it," I am here. Was it well done to send out hired stilettos When you had challenged me to measure swords ? Perez {aside). The scoundrels then have miss'd him ! {Aloud.) Know, Don Gaspar, I do not deem thee worthy of my steel. But, as we meet — 'tis well — defend thyself! (Draws.) Gasp. Defend thyself Don Perez ! Thy best might And skill befriend thee, — else thy life is nought ! {They fight round. Don Perez falls ^ Perez. Fm slain ! Don Gaspar, or whoe'er thou art. If thou have Christian charity, seek out Some holy man. (Gaspar retires.) He's gone ! [Gaspar, with friar'' s gown and hood on, returns to Don Perez. Gasp. Look up, Don Perez ! Knowest thou this form ? Thou dost require some holy man to shrive thee. Ere thou pass away. Don Perez, answer ! Know'st thou this form, — these features ? Perez. Thou art the Friar Anselmo. I have wrong'd thee. And ask forgiveness. O then pardon me ! And, as thou hop'st t' enjoy eternal life. Feel no resentment 'gainst a dying man ! {Faintly.) Shrive me, good father, for I'm sinking fast. Yon stream of blood will not creep on its course Another foot, ere I shall be no more. 48 Olla Podrida Gasp. Thou saw'st Anselmo, Now raise up thine eyes, (Throws off Ms disguise,) And see Don Caspar ! who has just reveng'd The wrongs inflicted on the spurn'd at monk. Perez, Whoe'er thou art, mysterious, awful being ! At least be satisfied with thy revenge. If thou art holy, shrive me ! Gasp, I am a monk, and yet not holy {putting on gown. and folding his arms), Perez, If thou art a monk by vows, thou'rt holy. 'Tis not my blood that's now upon thy hand. And shall hereafter be upon thy soul. Which makes thee less so : thou'rt but an instrument. I pray thee, shrive me, that my guilty soul May quit in peace this tenement of clay. Gasp. Does he not speak the truth ? Tell me, my heart, I think — I feel 1 can forgive him now ! \Gaspar takes out his crucifix, returns to Don Perez, andy kneeling, presents it to him, Perez kisses the crucifix, and falls back dead, Gaspar remains hanging over him, Don Felix (without). What hoa ! Enter Don Felix with servants bearing torches. Gasp, (still kneeling by the body). Who calls ? Felix, We seek Don Perez, who this way did bend His steps some hours ago ; and not returning At th' appointed time, we fear some mischief Hath befallen him. Gasp, Behold then here the body of some gallant. Whose face I know not. As I pass'd this way I heard the clash of high and fierce contention. And when I came, this most unhappy man Lay breathing here his last. I shrived him, And he since has died. Felix, It is Don Perez. Holy father, saw you The other party in the contest ^ The Monk of Seville 49 Gasp. Save that a manly figure flitted by, And vanished in the shadow of yon trees. Felix, Raise up the corpse, and bear it to my house. This bloody work, Don Caspar, must be thine ! Perez, thou hear'st me not ! but, by this sword, I will revenge thy death ! [Exit Do?i Felix and servants carrying body. Gasp. Thus far have I escaped suspicion — Now will I to the monastery. [Casement opens, and Donna Serajina appears at ivindow.^ Ser. Who's there ? Gasp, (aside). I had forgotten her. Ser. Who's there ? Gasp. A father of the neighbouring monastery. Attracted hither by the clash of swords. And but in time to shrive a dying man. Ser. Good father, didst thou hear the names of those Who were engaged ? Gasp. Not of the murderer, who has escaped. The one whose body has been borne away. Was call'd Don Caspar. Ser. Don Caspar ! Father, surely thou mistak'st ? It was the other cavalier who fell. Gasp. The words of dying men are those of truth ; He call'd himself Don Caspar, and he begg'd I would take off his scarf, and, with his love, Bear it to Donna Serafina. Ser. Then it is true — and I am lost for ever ! Father, recall those words, those dreadful words I Say 'twas not Don Caspar, and I'll load Thy monastery with the wealth of India. Its shrines shall blaze with gold and precious gems. And holy relics shall be purchased thee. To draw all faithful Christians to thy gates ! Gasp. I cannot change the name, and, if I could, o D 50 Olla Podrida 'Twere no less a murder. Lady, good-night. Ser. Good father, stop — thou hast a scarf For Donna Serafina. I am she — Where is it ? give it me. Gasp. Are you that woe-struck lady, Serafina ? Alas ! indeed you have much cause to grieve. He loved you well. Ser, Give me the scarf. Gasp. I cannot, lady ; 'tis not fit to offer, For it is tinged with blood. Ser. Give me the scarf! I'll kiss away the blood. Or wash it off with tears ! Gasp. That I cannot, the casement is too high -, Nor can I tarry longer. The last message. Together with the scarf, I will deliver Before to-morrow's sun shall gild these trees. Ser. Then be it so. O Gaspar ! Gaspar ! \JExit from ivindoiu, and closes it. Gasp. One hour of misery, like hers, exceeds An age of common earthly suffering ; And when at last she hears the unvarnish'd truth, 'Twill but perplex her more. Oh destiny ! Why am I thus a blood-stain'd guilty man In early years ? still yearning towards virtue. Yet ever falling in the snares of vice ! Now do I loathe the amorous Serafina, Who sacrifices all — her fame — her honour, At Passion's shrine. How do I adore The chaste, the innocent, sweet Isidora ! Yet in my love, so ardent and so pure. There's guilt — deep damning guilt — and more, There's cruelty and baseness ! I plant a dagger In the fond breast that cherishes the wound ; Nor will she feel the pain until withdrawn, And happiness — nay, life — will issue with it. How inconsistent, selfish, treacherous ! Heav'n pardon me — how can I pardon ask For that I never can forgive myself ! [Exit Gaspar, The Monk of Seville 51 Act IV, Scene L Street before Anselmo's lodgings. Enter Antonio. Ant. At last I have his secret, and one of moment too. A monk, and yet a cavalier ! A friar's gown and a gala suit ! vowing to heaven and vowing to the ladies ! Ab- juring the world, and roaming through it with a vengeance ! Telling his beads, and telling me lies ! But I am not so easily to be deceived. I thought very often that there was a similarity of voice between his and my confessor's, but when I saw the friar's gown, and he accused me of having two wives, it all flashed upon me at once. A pretty fool has he made of me ! No wonder that he knew my rogueries when I confessed them to him. What's the having two wives to this .'' Mine is a paltry secret of a poor lacquey, but his is one which will obtain a price, and it is well to be first in the market. Whom shall I sell it to ? let me see — Don Felix ^. Enter Beppa. Bep. What of Don Felix, husband ? Do you wish to serve him } Ant. Yes, if he'll pay me well. Bep. I presume Don Caspar has not paid you : then must you help yourself. Ant. Why so I do, whenever I can. But he takes care of that. Bep. He might have done, but hardly will do so now. Ant. Why not ? Bep. Because he's dead. Ajit. Dead ! Are you sure of that } Bep. Quite sure, for I myself beheld the contest. Such fierce exchange of hate I ne'er imagined, or that you men were such incarnate devils. 52 Olla Podrida Ant, Pray tell me where this happened. Bep. 'Twas in the garden near our house, under the chestnut trees, deep in the shade. The full moon could not pierce the closely woven foliage. All her beams were caught on the topmost boughs which waved in silver. A lovely night to stain with murder ! Oh me ! I see them now. Afit. Proceed, good Beppa, I'm eager to know all. Bep. Their forms were not distinct, yet could we per- ceive their gleaming swords darting like fiery serpents ; 'twas horrible. At last one fell ; it proved to be Don Caspar. Ant. Indeed ! you're sure there's no mistake ? Bep. I saw the body borne away. My mistress weeps and tears her hair, nor deems that he was false. I must to the church, but will return again immediately. [Exit. Ant. Now could I weep, and tear my hair, like Donna Serafina. My secret is worth nothing. 'Tis strange, too, that he should be o'ermatched by Don Perez, whose sword he so despised ; I cannot yet believe it ; and yet, she saw the body, and her mistress weeps. What can she gain by this, if 'twere deceit ? Nothing. Why, then, 'tis plain Don Caspar's dead. His foot slipped, I suppose, and thus the vaunted skill of years will often fail through accident. What's to be done now } I'm executor of course. Here comes Don Felix. Enter Don Felix. Felix. Art thou the lacquey of Don Caspar ? Ant. {pulling out his handkerchief, and putting it to his eyes). I was, most noble sir. Felix. You've left him then ? Ant. He hath left me. Last night he fell, in combat with Don Perez. Felix. 'Tis false. He hath slain my friend, whose body now lies in my house. Afit.. Indeed, sir ! may I credit this ? The Monk of Seville 53 Felix, I tell you it is true. Where can a message find your master ? Ant. Wherever he may be, sir. Felix. And where is that ? Trifle not with me, knave, or you'll repent it sorely. Ant. I do not trifle, sir. Don Caspar's motions are un- known to me. Give me your message ; when he re-appears I will deliver it. Felix. Then tell him he's a villain of no parentage ; a vile impostor whom I mean to punish ; — that if there's manhood in him he will appoint a time and place where we may meet. Ant. You seek his life then ? Felix. You may so construe by the message. Ant. Pardon me, sir ; but will you risk your noble person against one but too well practised in the sword ? Excuse me, sir, you're hasty : there are other means more fitting for your purpose. I have his secret ; one that will administer to your revenge, and win a triumph far greater than your sword. Felix. Tell me this secret. Ant. Why should I sacrifice a liberal master, whom, just now, you saw me weep for ? and that to one to whom I have no obligation ? Felix. I understand thee, knave ! Thou'lt sell it me ? {Takes out a purse.) Ant. Softly, Don Felix ! it bears no common price, nor can I tell it here. I've paid most dearly for it, and from distress alone am now obliged to sell it. Felix. And I will buy it dearly. In half an hour come to my house ; there will exchange a heavy purse for what you may confide to me, if, as you say, it leads to his perdition. [Exit Felix. Ant. So, this works well ; and yet my conscience smites me ! Why does it smite me ? Because 'tis heavily laden. With what .? This secret. Then must I unburthen myself of it ; and as, till lately, I have confessed to one Don Caspar, I will now confess to one Don Felix. The former refused me absolution — the latter offers me a purse. 54 011a Podrida I was right when I gave warning to my old confessor ; the new one is more suited to me. Here come my ten plagues of Egypt in one. Enter Beppa, Bep. Well, Antonio, you have lost no time, I hope. What have you collected ? You often quote the proverb, " Service is no inheritance." Ant. Service is no inheritance ; yet you would that I constituted myself my master's heir. I cannot do it, Beppa — I dare not ! There's something tells me it is wrong to rob so good a master ; I am more honest than you take me to be. Bep. Then is the devil turned saint ! Think not that you deceive me. There's nought but cowardice that will prevent your knavery. Now tell me, how long have you been thus scrupulous ? Ant. Ever since I found out that my master was not dead. Bep. Not dead ? Ant. Don Perez 'twas who fell. Bep. A holy friar who shrived the dying man told me the name of him who fell was Caspar. Ant. He was a holy friar, said you ? I see it all (^aside). Bep. He said he had a scarf to give to Donna Serafina, at the request of him who died. Ant. Hath he delivered it ? Bep. No ; and Donna Serafina in frantic grief awaits his coming. Ant. {aside). She'll wait till doomsday ; I understand it all. {Aloud.) Beppa ! Don Caspar now will soon be here ; go and console your mistress. Bep. Then it must have been a plan of Don Caspar's to rid himself of my mistress. I do not understand it, but believe you do. When master and man are so much alike, they cannot deceive each other. I'll to Donna Serafina, and tell her of this base stratagem, which, with his wooing of another, will make her cease to grieve for the The Monk of Seville SS treacherous villain, and turn her ardent love to deadly hate. [£xit Beppa. Ant. As I have mine for you, I was about to say ; only I do not recollect that I ever loved you. I think I married her to keep myself from starving : but I forget why ex- actly, 'tis so long ago. What a fool is a man who marries — but a double fool is he who, like me, am doubly 1 can't bear to mention it. \^Exit Antonio. Scene II, Donna Serafina^s Chamber. — Donna Serafina discovered. Ser. They tell me I am fair : yet what avails This gift of nature ? Could those who envy me but see my heart — My bleeding, lacerated, breaking heart ! How would their bitter nature change to pity ! I did require but him in this wide world ; My beauty valued, but to gain his love ! My wealth rejoiced in, but to share with him ! He was my all ! and every other 'vantage Was but of value as subservient to him. As is the gold of costly workmanship Round the fair gem imbedded in the centre. Oh ! Caspar, were I sure I could o'ertake Thy spirit, soaring up in its young flight, This little steel should free my anxious soul, To join thine in the high empyrean. And, fondly link'd, in joy ascend to Heaven. Why waits the friar ? Some idle mummery, To him more sacred than my Caspar's relic, From his dull memory hath chased his promise. Why waits my woman, whom I have despatch'd To learn the history of my Caspar's death ? Alas ! alas ! they know not love. Enter Beppa. Bep, Madam, I've news for you ; but news so strange 56 Olla Podrida That I can scarce impart it. Dry your tears, Nor more lament Don Caspar, — for he lives ! Ser. He lives ? say that again ! You said he lived — Did you not, Beppa ? Then may Heav'n reward you For those blissful words ! — He lives ! — support me — {Faints in Beppa^s arms,) Bep, I should have first inform'd her he was false. Now will the shock be greater.— Dear lady — (Serafina recovering gradually), Ser. {faintly). Now do I feel like some poor criminal, Who, having closed his eyes, to look no more Upon the world he is about to leave, With curdling blood, and faint and fluttering pulse, Waits for the last terrific moment When the sharp axe shall free his trembling soul. So wakes he at the distant shouts of men. Rolling the waves of sound until they dash Against his worn-out sense the glad reprieve. Don Caspar lives ! Oh Heav'n, I thank thee ! Bep, At the cup's brim the sweets have kiss'd your lips. But, madam, like some weak, distempered child. You've yet to taste the nauseous dreaded draught Which is to cure you. Ser. What mean you ? Cure me ! Bep, 'Tis true Don Caspar lives — as true he's false. Ser, False ! Beppa — false ? Bep, Most false and treacherous ! He loves another. Ser, {after a pause). Did I hear rightly ? Impossible ! It was but three days gone. He swore such oaths, if true, as Heav'n would register- Should they prove false, as hell might chuckle at. Bep, And yet it is so, I am most assured. Ser, If it be true, then everything is false. It cannot, cannot be. Have I not lavish'd All I could bestow, myself and mine. Rejected all, to live within his arms. To breathe one breath with him, and dwell in ecstasy The Monk of Seville 57 Upon his words. Oh no ! he is not false You must belie him. Bep. Nay, I would I did : I wonder not your doting heart rejects Such monstrous treachery. Yet it is true, And true as curs'd. The Donna Isidora By her charms has won him ; and his feign'd death Was but a stratagem to shake you off. As you last night asserted, Perez fell ; Don Felix, swearing vengeance, seeks Don Caspar. Ser. {after a pause). Who is this Isidora ? Bep. A lovely creature in her early bloom. The noble blood of Guzman in her veins, A rival worthy of your beauty, madam, And therefore one most dangerous. Ser. Would that I had her here. My heart is now So full of anger, malice, and fierce hate. With all those direful and envenom'd passions By which the breasts of demons are infected ; If I but even look'd upon her face, My scorching breath would wither up her charms Like adder's poison. Would I had her here ! Bep. Yet blame her not. She^s good and beautiful : Report doth much commend her early worth And ever active charity. Ser. Were she not so, I yet might have retain'd My truant love. Each virtue that she hath With me's a vice — each charm, deformity. They are my foes, array 'd against my power, And I must hate them, as they've vanquish'd me. Bep. But my hate should fall on Caspar, lady. Ser. That's not so easy ; the strong tide of love. Though check'd, still flows against the adverse hate. In their opposing strife, my troubled breast Heaves as the elements in wild commotion. Bep. It must not last. I've much to tell you yet Of this base man. When you have heard it all, A rapid flood of rage shall sweep its course. 58 Gila Podrida Lash'd by the storm raised in your much-wrongM soul, O'erwhelming all remorse, to Caspar's ruin. 5^r. Direct me, Heav'n ! Come to my chamber, Beppa, T must unrobe me. When my swollen heart Can throb more freely, I will hear your tale. Come on, good Beppa. [Exeunt, Scene III, Street in Seville. Enter Antonio, Ant. This is a strange world ! What a simpleton is this Don Felix ! First he buys my secret at a heavy price, and then, after two minutes' deliberation, declares that he will make no use of it, but that I must deliver the message that he gave me. I've no objection. I like to see my betters dismiss each other to the next world ; — the more room for those who remain behind, and poor rogues like me are not so much jostled. This world is certainly much too full for comfort. Ah ! here comes one that stands a chance of going out of it. Enter Don Gaspar. Gasp. Antonio, I must for a time remain concealed. Don Perez is no more, and in this friar's gown, which I put on to elude the bravos, I have convinced the Donna Serafina of my death. Thus do I rid myself of her un- welcome love. Remember, should you meet your wife, I don't know which of them, you will keep my secret. You will remain here in charge till I return. Ant. Most certainly, sir. But I had almost forgotten ; T have a message which may interfere with your departure. Gasp. From whom ? A?it. Don Felix, sir. The friend of him you slew last night. The Monk of Seville ^9 Gasp. Well, what is this message ? Ant. One, sir, that will demand a life — or yours or his. It is so coarsely worded that I dare not give it. It will too much provoke you. Gasp. Give it me straight, and let me have it word for word. Ant. He told me first, sir, that you were — a villain. Gasp, {catching Antonio by the throat^. How, sirrah ? Ant. It was not I who said so — 'twas Don Felix. Gasp. True. I was hasty. Now proceed. Ant. A villain — of no parentage. Gasp. What ? scoundrel ! Ant. I have said too much, sir. — You'll excuse the rest. Gasp, {much irritated^. No, no, no — go on ; leave out a word and I will murder you. A7it. {aside). Then I stand a bad chance either way, not so amusing as I thought. {Aloud.) He did say some- thing else, but 'twas of no moment — Gasp, {putting his hand to his siuord). Your message, to the letter. Ant. A vile impostor. Gasp, {striking him). How ? Ant. Oh, mercy, sir ! you take me for Don Felix. Gasp. I am wrong. {Throius his purse to Antonio.) You said a villain — of no parentage — a vile impostor — ha ! was there any more ? Ant. Yes, sir ; and which I think I may deliver without farther danger to myself. He added, " If there's manhood in him, he will appoint a time and place, when and where I may meet him." Gasp. I ask no better. Tell him, this evening, at the copse of trees where Perez fell, he may expect me. Take my answer straight. Ant. Shall I go now ? Gasp. Yes ; fly to his house. Tell him from me — no, no — tell him no more than I have said already, I'll wait for your return. Haste, haste. [Exit Antonio. A villain of no parentage ! — Impostor ! 6o Olla Podrida A vile impostor ! — He but states the truth, Yet will I crush him, that he hath stumbled On that truth. Yes ! of no parentage ! — Why — Why is this constant pining of the heart. As if it felt itself defrauded still Of rights inherent ? If I'm basely born Why do I spurn the common herd of men ? The eaglet that regains its liberty, Soars to the sun at once — it is its nature : While meaner birds would hop from spray to spray. Oh ! would I had ne'er been born. — To-morrow I intend to leave for ever Her whom I love — the sacred walls I hate. In some far distant land to die unheeded. My Isidora has desired my presence. And strange, admits me in the open day. Within an hour of this she will receive me. Then must I falter out my last adieu. This evening also I must meet Don Felix.— Re-enter Antonio. So soon return'd ! Hast thou then seen him ? Ant, I have, sir ; I met him as I gained the door, and your message was duly delivered. He answered, that he would not fail, and that he trusted his sword would not fail either. Gasp. Should his sword fail, I must not return for many days ; should it not failj I return no more. But having balanced thus my brief account Of love and hate. Til quit fair Spain for ever. [Exit. Ant. (taking out a purse). This purse is a heavy one, but not so heavy as the one I received from Don Felix. I hardly dared deliver the message, but there's seldom profit without danger. I will say this for my master, that he knows the salve for every wound. Let me see — one purse for my intelligence, or rather for keeping my master's secret, and another from Don Felix for betraying it — and a third The Monk of Seville 6i for a blow. Ah ! here comes Beppa. {Puts up purse hastily.) Enter Beppa, Bep, What's that you've put into your pocket ? Ant, Only an empty purse. Bep. It appeared to me well filled. Ant. Appearances are very deceitful. How is your mistress ? Bep. Alas ! she has watched all night — now the tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst heavy sobs hindered all utterance, and then would she turn to rage, and pace her chamber with frantic gestures. Oh ! what a wretch is this Don Caspar ! Ant. He fights this evening. Bep. With whom ? Ant. Don Felix — a better match for him than Perez. Bep. They say the former's skilled in fence. Heaven grant his sword may prove the master ! Where do they meet ? Ant. Nay, that's a secret. Bep. Tell me, Antonio, Should Don Felix not prevail, a woman's vengeance yet may reach Don Caspar. Antonio, do tell me where they meet. Ant. It is a secret. Bep. But I must know. There is nothing I would not give to win this secret from you. Antonio, you must tell me. Ant. That I cannot, I made a promise. {Puts his hand to his heart ^ Bep. (scornfully). You made a promise. I know your promises too well. What will you sell this secret for ? Ant. My purse of ten moidores ! Bep. Then you shall have it. But will you tell it truly ? Ant. Honour ! when I have the money. Bep. {Takes out purse and throws it at him.) Then, there it is. I believe that you will keep a roguish contract, although no other. 62 Olla Podrida ^nt. You're right. They meet at sunset under the copse of trees where Perez fell. Bep, The copse of trees where Perez fell ! Does he not fear his ghost ? No, he fears nothing. Breaking the hearts of women, and piercing those of men, is all the same to this fell Caspar. Well, I have bought your secret, and will make good use of it. ^nt. Had you not known that it was a marketable commodity, you never had purchased it. You'll turn a penny, never fear. I must unto my master's lodgings. [Exit. Bep. Yes, to follow thy old trade of pilfering. I must unto my lady, and bear her this intelligence. Thus will I rouse the woman in her, and urge her to revenge. [Exit. Scene IV. A Room in the Guzman Palace. Enter Ni^ia, ushering in Don Gaspar, Stay here, senor. You'll not be long alone. \Exit NincL Gasp. Thus am I hurried, by resistless love. To follow that I never can obtain. I love thee, Isidora, dote upon thee. There's not a boiling drop within these veins I'd not pour out, could it but make thee happy. And yet I 'gainst my better reason plunge. Dragging thee with me deep into perdition. A monk, and marry ! 'Tis impossible ! Each time I quit her, then do I resolve Never to see her more ; yet one hour's absence Kills my resolution, and each moment Seems an eternity, till in her presence Vows I repeat, that vows alone make false. 'Tis not in human nature to withstand Against such strong temptation, — To fold her in my arms — inhale her breath, The Monk of Seville 6;^ Kiss tears away, neither of grief nor joy, But from both fountains equally overflowing — Oh ! 'tis a bliss indeed, to gain which Angels might leave their bright cerulean home, And barter their eternal heaven of joy. Enter Donna Inez. Gaspar advances quickly to her, thinking it is Isidora, hut finding his mistake stops abruptly, and boivs to Donna Inez. Inez. Don Gaspar — for 'tis so I hear you're styled — Hither you came in ardent expectation Of meeting one more suited to your age, My beauteous niece, the Donna Isidora. Now would I have some conference with one Who by insidious means hath gain'd her heart. Yet shrouds himself in mystery : she has placed Her fortunes in my hands — she resigns her all, To me confiding to unlock your secret. When once you're manifest and fully known, A task which must precede, senor, it will decide Whether I join your hands and bless your union, Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you ! Gasp. Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly. But I'm so overcome with wretchedness. Your kindness must bear with me. You ask me who I am — a question fair, As fairly answer'd now — I cannot tell. Inez. Is it you know not, or you will not tell ? Gasp. I do not know — and therefore cannot tell — Though from this hour I date my misery, I am resign'd. You may dismiss me With stern remonstrance at my daring love- Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken — Who have no parents — owing to the state A nurture most unkind — a foundling child. Inez. A foundling child .^ (Aside.) His voice — his presence — And those words make my heart leap in agony. 64 OUa Podrida Gasp. Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me. Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being, But in her turn shame triumphed over love. And I was left to destiny. — The bloody tigress parts not with her young : — Her cruel nature, never known to pity, Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness. The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation. Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs. But cruel man, unruly passion sated, Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt. I have no more to say. Dismiss me now, And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption. Consider the perfection that has caused it. I oft have made the healthy resolution To quit for ever her whom I adore. Take my farewell to her — your lovely niece, Although I'm friendless, she will pity me. Inez, (aside). How strange it is I feel not anger'd ! Strange indeed, there is a pulse Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love. [Caspar is going. (Aloud.) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age ? Gasp. 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital. And now have been for ten a wanderer. Inez, (aside). The age exact. O Heav'n ! let not these hopes For ever springing, be for ever wither'd ! (Aloud.) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought, Might lend a clue to your discovery ? Gasp. I have ; they who deserted me, if ever Their intention to reclaim my person. May safely challenge me among ten thousand. (Baring his wrist.) 'Tis here — a ruby band upon my wrist. [Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes on the wrist intently without speaking. What can this mean ? oh, speak, dear lady, speak ! The Monk of Seville 65 Inez, (throwing herself into his arms^. My child, my child ! Gasp. I, I your child ! almighty Heaven, I thank thee ! My heart is bursting in its wild emotion. Till all be understood. Oh, speak again ! Itie%. Thou art my son — he whom I've mourn'd so long, So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy. Which in the memory of all save her. Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away. Gasp. Who was my father ? Inez. One of most ancient name, Don Felipo. Gasp. Then I am noble ? Inez. And by each descent. Gasp. Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager To know this fact, than render unto you My love and duty. — From the world's scorn I've sufFer'd much ; and my unbending pride Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt. Than find a parentage which was obscure. Now all is perfect, and to you I tender {Kneeling) My truth and love, still in their infancy, And therefore may they seem to you but feeble. (Rises.) Yet blame me not : this sudden change of state Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know Myself, or what I feel -, like to the eyes Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun, At length admitted, pours at once a flood Of glorious light — so are my senses dazzled. Inez. And I am faint with gratitude and love. Come in with me. Then shall you learn The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling. And I, the bounteous, blessed providence. That led you to my arms. [Exeunt. 66 Olla Podricla j4ct F. Scene L A chamber in the Guzman Palace, Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior, Sup, Save thee, good lady ! I have stolen an hour From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd, To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue Against the errors of an impious son ; To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace, The insult offer'd to our brotherhood, With the atonement you would make to Heav'n. Inez. And you are merciful ! Sup. Lady, there is nought Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege ; 'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins. The fire of hell can purge away all crimes, Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death, To life eternal, if not here atoned for By a surrender of all earthly goods. Inez. All, father ! Sup. All! htez. Father, this cannot be. Surely there is In our extensive wealth enough for both — To satisfy the holy church, yet leave Withal to grace his rank and dignity. Sup. He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege Should live for nought except to make his peace. Your son must straight renew his broken vows. With tears and penance must wash out his sin — His life, however long, too short to plead For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth, However great, too small to make atonement. Inez. Father, this cannot be. Sup. It shall be so. Inez, Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king, The Monk of Seville 67 And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans Have too well served him, not to gain his help In this their need. If we must pay a price, The bargain shall be made with Rome herself. Who will be less exacting. Sup. {aside), I must not grasp too much, or I lose all. {Aloud) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not bhnie you. You are divided, as frail mortals are In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth, Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal ; Now would I know the course that you would steer Between the two. We can arrange this point. The church is generous, and she oft resigns That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady. What do you proffer ? Inez, There is a fair domain of great extent Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave, Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land. Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains, And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil, Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n. Sup, I know the land, and will accept the gift : — But to it must be added sums of gold To pay for holy rites to be performed For years, to purify our monastery Which has been desecrated. Inez, That will I give, and freely. Now, good father. Remember, in exchange for these you promise To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome A dispensation to my truant child. Sup, I do ! Inez, Father, I'll send him to you. You'll Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul Is with his new found prospects all on fire. [Exit Inez, Sup, Now wiU our convent be the best endow'd 6S Olla Podrida Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite, Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted My pious longing. More by the sins of men Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper. [^Enfer Atiselmo in cavalier s dress* What do I see ? One, that's in sanctity. Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n, In this attire. Heaven is most patient ! Ans, It is, good father, or this world of guilt Had long been withered with the threaten'd fire. My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one Of many millions, erring as myself. 'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted. Alone can poise the even scale of justice. If I'm to blame, good father, are not you .^ Sup. How? Ans. I had it from my mother, she reveal'd To you her history, and did make known The mark by which I might be recognised — That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder In the convent. Before I took my vows You therefore must have known my station. The rank I held by birthright, and the name Which I inherited. Why did you press me then To take those vows ? It was a rank injustice. Sup. (aside). He argues boldly. {Aloud) *Twere as well to say. It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n — I put you in the right path. Ans. One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled. Sup. You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been To your perdition. Ans. I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, I cannot cavil at the deeds of men. The Monk of Seville 6§ Yet are we blind alike. You did intend To serve me, and I thank you. Sup. I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night A message shall be forwarded to Rome. Before a month is past you'll be absolved. Till then return unto the monastery. Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly. A month will soon be o'er. Ans, To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age ; Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you With all humility. Sup. 'Tis well, my son. Your follies are unknown but to ourselves. I shall expect you ere the night be past. l^Exit Superior. Ans. " Stretch'd forth her hand to save me ! " Well I trow, Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd. I've bought my freedom at no trifling price. Most potent gold ! all that the earth can offer, Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still- Since it appears that holy men for thee Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good. Yet must I first behold my Isidora : Whose startled innocence, like to a rose When charged with dew and rudely shaken, Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt Hath shock'd her purity — now, she rejects The love of one who has been false to Heav'n. She refused to see me ; but I have gain'd. By intercession of my doting mother. One meeting, to decide if my estate Shall be more wretched than it was before. If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be A wild career most perilous to the soul, — That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain And prowling through the world in search of prey. \ExiU 7© 011a Podrida Scene 11. Istdoras Room in the Gu-zman Palace. Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises. Lid. Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought Of vows made light — nay, mock'd by him, the guide, Th' elected star of my too trusting soul, Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration. And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail Of broken-hearted love. Love — and for whom ! — How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid. Thus to embark my heart, my happiness. So inconsiderate — now the barque sinks. And, with its freight, is left to widely toss In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair. Oh ! Isidora, is thy virgin heart Thus mated to a wild apostate monk ? The midnight reveller, and morning priest. At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl ; The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal, The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied. To love this man, I surely have become That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin ? Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel, Nor rise till I be freed of love and him. (^Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds^ Anselmo — ^Virgin holy, will no name But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r ? Then let me bind myself by sacred vows : Record it, Heav'n ! — Thus do I renounce Enter Anselmo. Ans» All sorrow, my beloved ; for grief no more Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss. The Monk of Seville 71 {Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly.) Isid. Nay, touch me not — approach me not, Anselmo. Ans. {looking earnestly at her), Isidora ! Isid, Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength In this my hour of peril. Anselmo, That look has reft a heart too fondly thine — But only thine, henceforth, in holy love. Ans, And is not all love holy ? that the holiest. Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart ; So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast Shall shortly be as snow. Isid. Hear me, Anselmo : It is ordain'd we meet no more. Ans, And canst thou say those words } (Kneels,) See, on the earth I grovelling kneel — my straining eyes seek thine : Turn, turn to me ; say not those words again ; Thou canst not, dearest. Isid. (her eyes still averted). We must meet no more. Ans. V\\ not believe thy voice : look on me now One steady, one unflinching glance, and then If thou'lt repeat those words — I must believe. (Pause.) Averted still ! — Oh, Isidora, who, Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast .? Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest, Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest ? — It was — that start declares it. — Curse him, curse him. (Rises.) Isid. (coming fornvard luith dignity and fronting Anselmo?) Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest. [Anselmo covers his face with his hand."] My better angel hath my mind illumed — Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins, In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes ; That silent voice, which every bosom sways. Hath spoken deeply — bidden me abjure Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said, 72 Olla Podrida That of us twain, immortal bliss alone Can crown the union ; which to be obtain'd. Must on this earth be won by penance strict, Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows. Is it not well, Anselmo Ans, Isidora, Are racking tortures well ? is liquid fire Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins, Until they shrivel, well ? And is it well To find the angel, who hath borne your soul Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd. Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink To everlasting torments ? — In bitter truth, These are but nought compared to the fell pangs Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast. Isid, Anselmo, hear me ! Ans, Hear me now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must not part ! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too : Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates : Oh ! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine : But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head. Isid, Oh ! horrible, Anselmo — horrible ! Ans. Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance ? Isid, The violated vow Ans. Was made long ere I Knew its power or meaning, and was forced By those who thrust it on me in deceit ; For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright. 'Twas sin to make that vow ; and were it not God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample To unloose, than monks to bind — thou'rt answer'd. Isid, Answer'd, but not content — if false to vows More sacred far 5 — yet surely not more sacred, — For what should be more sacred than the vows The Monk of Seville 73 Which link the happiness of two in one Till death dissolves the union ? — If false To Heav'n, Anselmo Ans, Who made me false, then ? Isid, Touch not that chord — treat me not as woman, Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms : You know me not, Anselmo ; but till late I scarcely knew myself. Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent : Can man absolve from compact made with God ? Ans. Isidora, it is now my duty T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty, May haply slide. A maiden in her pride, But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head Of our religion ; and what, for ages, Holy men have reverenced and believed. Hath been by her denounced as not her creed. Isid. Tis true — 'tis true. The sin of unbelief, 'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself, Swayed by my foolish pride. (Turns to Anselmo*) But still, as yet Thou'rt bound, Anselmo — e'en this discourse, Methinks, is sacrilege. Ans. Nay, Isidora, Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss ? And is the tender sanction of that saint, Our more than mother, nothing ? As monk, — And now I scarce am one, — it would seem I am an object of your utter hate. Isid. Not hate, Anselmo — 'tis a bitter word j Say rather fear — of what belongs to Heav'n. Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st. Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart ? What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft ? 74 Olla- Podrida Ans, Not words, but deeds, my Isidora, Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure : The first are due to God. This very night With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul ; Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff; Then Isid. And then — dear, dear Anselmo. Ans. And then Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed. The monk parades it boldly, and the bride Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord ? No, no ; they never shall, my Isidora. Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel : Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field, A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain ; I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth, But at thy portal light from battle steed. Spain hath around and that within, shall make The monk — a hero. Dost thou not think The plumed helm will better fit this head, Than the dull friar's cowl ? My Isidora, Now for a space — a brief one, fare thee well ! Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee, As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd Some token that shall cheer me in the fight. I must be worthy of you. Isid, Thou art so. {Embrace.^ Anselmo, fare thee well ! may Heav'n bless thee ! [Exit, Ans. All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes j Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path Where peace and happiness attend my steps ! Now must I to the monast'ry repair, There to remain until I'm freed ; — but then, To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix : The Monk of Seville 75 I had forgotten it. Most willingly Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute ; And yet I must not. When I was friendless, Reckless of life, — a life not worth preserving, — I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. '^Exit. Scene HI, A Part of Garden of Serafina^s House. Enter Antonio. Ant. This friar's gown, which I have borrowed from my master, has proved most valuable. I never could have reached this spot, if I had not been thus disguised. {Opens his goivn, and sho-zus his face and clothes smeared luith hlood.^ Here's blood enough. Noble, for all I know. I begged it from the barber. Thank Heaven, 'tis not mine own. Sancho will never know me. I see them coming in the distance. (Takes off" the goivHy aiid puts it behind the trees, atid then lies down.) Now for self-murder. Lopez is no more. Enter Sa?icho and Nina. San. 'Tis here that we fought, and hereabouts should be the body. Nina, {fearfully pointing to the body.) What's that ? Sancho, it is — it is my husband ! {Bursts into tears.) San. Why do you grieve ? Did you not wish him dead ? Nina. Alas ! we often wish what we do not really want, prompted by the anger of the moment. What, in our selfish views, seems nothing at the time, becomes most horrible in the reality. Alas, poor Lopez ! {Weeps.) San. Why, Nina, did he not basely leave you ? Forgot his vow to love and cherish you ? Holy Saint Petronila ! why, then, do you love and cherish him ? Come, dry your eyes, Nina ; he's not worth a tear. {Kisses her hatid.) Nina. From no one, I will grant, except from me. But there's a feeling in the heart of woman, you cannot com- prehend. Even when it is breaking from ill-treatment, it ^e Olla Podrida yearns towards her husband. I must go away, Sancho ; I cannot bear to see him — nor you ; for you did slay him. ^an. Where are you going ? Nina. I'll meet you in the further walk. \E.x'it Nina, sobbing, San, Here's a pretty mess ! Women are never of one mind : change, and change, and change for ever. This rascal deserted her at Toledo, took all her money, and her very clothes — and yet she grieves for him. I should not wonder if she rejected me now, believing that I killed him. {Going up to Antonio,) How bloody he is ! Thou filthy carcase of a filthy knave ! I've a great mind to have a thrust at thee, that I may swear my sword went through thy body. Saint Petronila bless the idea ! {Half draiv- ing his sword,) There's some one coming ; and if I am found here, with my naked sword, near this bloody corpse, I shall be apprehended for his murder. [Etcit hastily. {Antonio looks up and then lies doivn.) Enter Beppa, Bep. I cannot find my mistress. She came with me into the garden, worked up to desperation against Don Caspar, and earnest for his death. Alas ! the tide is turned, and now, in some sequestered spot, she weeps his falsehood. I must go seek her, and steel her heart by praising Isidora. What's here ? the body of a man {going to Antonio), Why ! 'tis Antonio, my worthless husband \ alas ! and called away without repentance, full of misdeeds and roguery. Heaven pardon him ! Whose deed was this ? that villain Garcias' ? — if so, he hath but gained the sin ; for I would sooner hug an adder, than listen to his wooing. I must seek my mistress j then will I return to give him honest burial, and pay for masses for his guilty soul. [Exit, [Antonio rises slowly, resumes his friar's dress, and comes forward^ Ant, That cowardly rascal, Sancho, had nearly brought The Monk of Seville 77 me to life again, instead of having killed me, as he said he had. Pitiful scoundrel, to thrust at a dead man ! He'll never kill one living. Nina, I respect thee ; yet must we part, for 'tis evident thou lov'st another. I'll meet them in this grove, and persuade them to marry. As for Beppa, if I am missing, 'tis clear she'll never look for me. [Exit. Scene IV, Amther Part of the Garden, Enter Nina and Sancho, Nina, Nay, no more, Sancho. To me there's some- thing dreadful in such a hasty fresh espousal. My husband's body yet uninterred, still would you have me enter into fresh bonds. San. He was no husband to you, Nina, but a worthless wretch, who deceived you. Remember, it is for years that I have loved you. Saint Petronila be my witness. Nina. I know it, Sancho, and wish I had never married Lopez. Why did you leave me ? San. I could but leave you, when I followed my master: but remember, when we parted, I offered you my troth. You have been unjust to me, and owe some reparation ; by Saint Petronila, you do ! Nina. And in good time I'll make it, Sancho. San. The present is good time ; now we are together, and my master is no more. Come, Nina, keep your promise, and the Saint will reward you. Nina. Nay, Sancho, do not thus persuade me. Were I to yield to your wish, you would hate me after we were married. San. Never ; by this kiss (kisses ker), I swear. I have you now, and will not part with you. [Nina throws herself into his arms. yS Olla Podrida Rnter Antonio in friar's goivn and hood. Ant. {in a feigned voice). Good hugging people, are you man and wife. San. We are not yet, but soon we hope to be. Ant. The sooner it were better, for this dalliance In the ev'ning, in a sequester'd grove. Is most unseemly, if not dangerous. Woman, lovest thou this man ? — Nina. I do, most holy father. Ant. And I must tell thee, maiden, it were better That you delay no longer. I have witness'd Your stolen embraces ; and, by Holy Church ! I think it right that you be married straight. Ere vice usurps the throne that should be held By virtue only. Children, not far from hence There is a chapel, where attending priests Chant holy masses for a soul's repose. There may you join your hands, and there receive The nuptial benediction. San. Nina, you must obey this holy friar, and make me happy -, Saint Petronila sent him. Nina. It is against my wish that I consent 5 yet, father, you know best, although you knov/ not all. Ant. {aside). Indeed I do ! {Aloud) Come with me, my children, I'll point you out the path, to where you may. By holy rites pronounced, become one flesh. [Exeunt. Enter Serafna and Beppa. Ser. My distracted mind, like some wild spendthrift, Has drawn upon my heart till it is bankrupt. God, how my soul is weary ! I fear the sword Of that Don Felix may prevail against him. He is a man well knit in sinewy strength j Gaspar a boy. O spare him, gracious Heaven ! Bep. To wed with Isidora, and with gibes Mock at the tears of Donna Serafina ! The Monk of Seville 79 Madam, you've not the lofty soul of woman, Or you would act, and not thus vainly talk. He's lost to you for ever ! I've discover'd, That since this noon he hath not left her house, And all's in preparation for their union. Ser. Have they been left together ^ Then, perchance, She hath been foolish too, and much too fond. Then will he quit her soon. Truant Caspar, These arms shall win thee back ! Bep, Oh, no ! She is too wise, too prudent, and too good. Such charms of mind and body she possesses, That all do worship her ; but not as one Of us mere mortals. He dare not think of it. She is too perfect. Caspar is hers alone. And you — are thrown aside for ever ! Ser. Is it so ? Don Caspar hers ! Never, never ! by Heav'n, If I lose him, he shall be lost to her ! If I must weep, her tears shall fall with mine ! If my heart breaks, hers shall be riven too ! If I must die, — and that I shall, I feel. Loves she as I do, they may dig her grave. Don Felix, may thy practised sword prove true ! — And it will save me from a deed of horror. Bep. Now do you speak as a wrong'd woman should. Keep up this spirit — you will be avenged. We must retire ; for soon they will appear. [Exeunt, Scene V, Another part of the Garden attached to the House of Dofina Serafina, Enter Anselmo. I would that it were o'er ! A heavy gloom Hangs on my spirits, like some threat'ning cloud O'erspreading the wide firmament, without 8o Olla Podrida One speck of blue, like hope, to cheer th' horizon. Yet, from what cause it springs, I cannot tell. His sword I fear not. It is mine estate, So promising. He that hath nought to lose. Is spurr'd to action with the hope of gain. He that is wealthy, and 'gainst fortune plays. Is like the gambler, who will risk his means With those who nothing have. Enter Felix, Felix, If you have waited for me long, Don Caspar, It was against my will. Tm most impatient To bring this meeting to a speedy issue. Ans. At your request, Don Felix, I am here ; And if you please there should be strife between us. You'll find me not unnerved. To be sincere, — I do not wish this needless controversy. Recall your words, offensive, as untrue. And take my profFer'd hand. Then will I prove. And not till then, how greatly you have wrong'd me. Felix, That which is said, is said. I'll not retract. But were it false, which I cannot believe. You've slain my bosom friend, the brave Don Perez. Ans, He wrong'd me much. Upon my soul he did. I must not prove it now. Felix, Then prove yourself, and draw. For see, the sun is down, and daylight flies ; We have no time for parley. (Liraws,) \Beppa and Serajina pass behind from r. to I, Ans. (drawing). Then, whether you or I, Don Felix, live To hail that glorious orb, must now be tried. Don Felix, to your guard. Whate'er the issue, You will repent this most ungovern'd haste. [T/:ey jight. Don Felix is disarmed and he falls, Anselmo stands over him with his sivord pointed to his breast,^ Ans. You question'd if I'd manhood in my frame ; / The Monk of Seville 8i Allow, Don Felix, that the question's answer'd. You call'd me an impostor, — name for those Who clothe themselves in borrow'd plumes, t'appear Greater, not less, than v^^hat they are. Then know. He you upbraided as of no parentage, Whose sword, impatient, waits its master's bidding, T'avenge the affront, is heir to Guzman's house, To which, in ancestry, thine own is nothing. This truth, Don Felix, I could not reveal, [Serafina and Beppa appear behind in the wood.^ Till we had measured swords. Honour forbade it. Now manifest, I give you life, and proffer, If that you please, my hand in amity. [Felix rising, Anselmo presents him his sword.] Felix. Your actions prove that you are truly noble. I do regret the language which I used. And cheerfully retract what proves so false. Don Gaspar, are you satisfied ? {offering hand). Ans. {taking Don Felixes hand). And happy. Now, Isidora, thou art surely mine ; Vistas of bliss are opening to my view ; My heart expands with gratitude to Heav'n, And tears would flow of penitence and joy. That one so little worthy, thus is bless'd. O, may my life be long, that I may prove To gracious Heav'n, I'm worthy Isidora. Joy ! joy ! with lightning's speed, I fly \SeraJina, who has advanced, stabs Anselmo in the back.] Ser. To death ! {Then wishing to rush to him, she holds out her arms and exclaims) Gaspar ! Gaspar ! \SeraJina is borne off fainting by Beppa and Garcias, who have entered. Anselmo leans against Don Felix, who supports him, and then gradually sinks out of his arms to the ground.^ Ans, I felt the blow would come. From whom, or where, O F V \9 82 OUa Podrida Was hid in the obscure. 'Twas Serafina ! I knew the voice, the knell Felix, Where are you hurt ? Ans, Don Felix, by that friendship we have pledged So newly, one kind office I request. Felix. Curs'd be the infuriate jealous wretch, That one so noble should so basely fall ! Ans. Nay, curse her not, she is too curs'd already. Her future life will be a constant shower Of curses on herself. I do forgive her. And yet to die so young, and late so happy. More painful still to part from Isidora. Would she were here, that I might comfort her ! My mother, too ! O God ! 'twill break her heart ! Enter Superior, Inez, Isidora, Nina, and Sancho. Inez and Isidora run to Anselmo and hneel down by him, Inez, {to Felix). Wretch ! that hath done this bloody, hateful deed. Receive a frantic mother's bitter curse ! Ans. You are deceived, my mother ; 'twas not he Who dealt the fatal blow. It was a woman. Inez. A woman ! say you •, Who was this treach'rous woman ? Let me know her. That I may work on her a woman's vengeance. Isid. I ne'er have learn'd to curse — I wish I had : I can but weep. Look, mother, at his blood ! Oh, staunch it, or he'll bleed to death. hiez. Are you much hurt, Anselmo ? Ans. Mother, to death. 'Tis useless to deceive you. You scarcely found me But I am lost again : 'twill soon be over. {Faintly) E'en now the blood's collecting in my heart For its last rally ; — Isidora, I would tell thee What pain it is to part, but my strength fails, And my parch'd tongue cannot perform its duty. Isid. To part, Anselmo ? Dost thou say to part } No, no ; thou shalt not die, — we must not part. The Monk of Seville 83 What false, already ! How could'st thou utter That which, to me, must be the knell of death ? (^Bursts into tears and embraces him.) Ans, Would that your gentle power o'er me was the same In death, as life : then should I live for ever. But — mother — fare you well — farewell — my Isidora. \Groans and falls dead. Donna Inez faints, and is supported by Don Felix and Nina. Isidora, nvhose face was hidden in Anselmo's breast, lifts up her head and looks ivildly at the body. Isid, AnsQ\mo\ (^More loudly) A.nse\mo\ (Shrieks. Throws herself on the body. The rest of the characters group round the body, and the curtain falls\ THE GIPSY; OR, "WHOSE SON AM I?" A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. 85 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Men. Sir Gilbert Etheridge, ^n old Admiral. Captain Etheridge, His son ; grave. Captain Mertoun ; gay. Old Bargrove. Young Peter Bargrove, His son. William, The AdmiraFs sailor-footman. Bill, Dick, ' I Gips Women. Lady Etheridge, The Admiral's ivife, Agnes, Her daughter. Lucy, The daughter of Bargrove, Mrs Bargrove. Nelly, The gipsy. 86 The Gipsy Scene. — The Hall, the residence of Sir Gilbert, and the vicinity. Time that of acting. Act I. Scene I, A Room in a respectable country inn. — Enter Captain Etheridge and Captain Mertoun, ushered in by the Landlord. Land. Will you be pleased to take anything, gentlemen ? Capt. Eth. I can answer for myself, nothing. Capt. Mer. I agree, and disagree, with you j that is, I coincide with you in — nothing. Capt. Eth. Then I trust, Mr Harness, that you will coincide with us in expediting the greasing of that radical wheel as soon as possible, and let us know when the horses are put to. Land. Most certainly, Captain Etheridge ; I will super- intend it myself. [Exit Landlord. Capt. Eth. An old butler of my father's, who set up many years ago with a few hundred pounds, and the Etheridge Arms as a sign. He has done well. Capt. Mer. That is to say, the Etheridge Arms have put him on his legs, and drawing corks for your father has enabled him to draw beer for himself and his customers. Of course he married the lady's maid. Capt. Eth. No, he did more wisely ; he married the cook. Capt. Mer. With a good fat portion of kitchen stuff, and a life interest of culinary knowledge. I have no 87 88 Olla Podrida doubt but that he had a further benefit from your liberal father and mother. Capt. Eth. By-the-bye, I have spoken to you of my father repeatedly, Edward; but you have not yet heard any remarks relative to my mother. Capt, Mer, I take it for granted, from your report of your father, and my knowledge {bowing) of the offspring, that she must be equally amiable. Capt. Eth. Had she been so, I should not have been silent; but as I have no secrets from you, I must say, she is not the — the very paragon of perfection, Capt. Mer. I am sorry for it. Capt. Eth. My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps that were set for the post-captain, and baronet of ten thousand a year, resolved, as he imagined wisely, to marry a woman in inferior life ; who, having no pre- tensions of her own, would be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daughters, who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of the cat conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes of his expectations. Capt. Mer. Hum ! Capt. Eth. Without any advantages, excepting her alliance with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg — insults her equals, tramples on her inferiors, and — what is worse than all — treats my father very ill. Capt. Mer. Treats him ill ! what ! he that was such a martinet, such a disciplinarian on board ! She does not beat him ? Capt. Eth. No, not exactly ; but so completely has she gained the upper hand, that the Admiral is as subdued as a dancing bear, obeying her orders with a growl, but still obeying them. At her command he goads himself into a passion with whomsoever she may point as the object of his violence. Capt. Mer. How completely she must have mastered him ! How can he submit to it ? The Gipsy 89 Capt. Eth. Habit, my dear Mertoun, reconciles us too much ; and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled, is now afraid to meet the eye of a woman. To avoid anger with her, he affects anger with every one else. This I mention to you, that you may guide your conduct towards her. Aware of your partiality to my sister, it may be as well Capt. Mer. To hold the candle to the devil, you mean. Your pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the proverb. Capt. Eth. No apology, my dear fellow. Hold the candle when you will, it will not burn before a saint, and that's the truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an appearance. Capt. Mer. Why, I never knew that you were stricken. Capt. Eth. The fact is, that I am not satisfied with my- self; and when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive her from my memory. By change of scene, absence, and occupation, I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this, I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now been three years in this way ; but the moment I find myself within two miles of my fair one, as the towers of my home rise upon my sight, so rises the passion in my bosom ; and what I supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarfish penchant, becomes at once a mighty sentiment. Capt. Mer. That looks very like attachment. Three years, did you say ? My dear brother in affliction, make me your confident. Capt. Eth. I intended to do so, or I should not have originated the subject. My father brought up the daughter of our steward, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have therefore known Lucy from her infancy ; and ought I to be ashamed to say, how much I am in love with her ? Capt. Mer. Etheridge, this is a point on which, I am afraid, my advice would not be well received. 90 Olla Podrida Capt. Eth. Of course you would imply that she must be renounced. Capt. Mer, Most assuredly , that is my opinion on a prima facie view of the case. You have your father's example. Capt, Eth, I have, but still there are many points in my favour. Bargrove is of a very old, though decayed family. Indeed, much more ancient than our own. Capt, Mer, I grant you, there is one difficulty removed. But still your relative position. He is now your father's steward. Capt. Eth, That is certainly a great obstacle ; but on the other hand, she has been really well educated. Capt. Mer. Another point in your favour, I grant. Capt. Eth. With respect to Lucy herself, she is Capt. Mer, As your father thought your mother — per- fection. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons. Capt, Eth, Judge for yourself when you see and converse with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind. At ail events, I have decided upon nothing ; and have neither, by word or deed, allowed her to suppose an attachment on my part : still it is a source of great anxiety. I almost wish that she were happily married. By-the-bye, my mother hates her. Capt, Mer, That's not in your favour, though it is in hers. Capt, Eth, And my father doats upon her. Capt, Mer, That's in favoiir of you both. Capt, Eth, Now, you have the whole story, you may advise me as you please : but remember, I still preserve my veto. Capt. Mer. My dear Etheridge, with your permission, I will not advise at all. Your father tried in the same lottery and drew a blank ; you may gain the highest prize ; but my hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my opinion. Your own sense must guide yoa The Gipsy 91 Capt, Eth, Unfortunately it often happens, that when a man takes his feelings for a guide, he walks too fast for good sense to keep pace with him. Capt. Mer. At all events, be not precipitate ; and do not advance one step, which, as a man of honour, you may not retrace. Capt. Eth. I will not, if I can help it. But here comes Mr Harness. Enter Landlord, Land. The horses are to. Captain Etheridge, and the wheel is in order. Capt. Eth. Come then, Edward, we shall not be long get- ting over these last eight miles. The boys know me well. Capt, Mer. {Going out). Yes, and the length of your purse, I suspect, my dear fellow. {Exeunt ambo.) Scene IL A Wood in the hack-ground, Gipsies^ tents , etc, Gipsies come forward, group themselves ^ and sing. The king will have his tax, Tithes to parsons fall. For rent the landlord racks, The tenant cheats them all ; But the gipsy's claim 'd right is more ancient yet. And that right he still gains by the help of his wit. Chorus {joining hands). Then your hands right and left, see saw, {All turn.) Turn your backs on the church and the law ; Search all the world throu;^h, From the king on his throne, To the beggar — you'll own There are none like the gipsy crew. Wherever we rove, "We're sure to find home ; In field, lane, or grove, Then roam, boys, roam I 'TIS only when walls his poor body surround. That homeless a free roving gipsy is found. (Chorus as before.) 92 OUa Podrida [Exeunt all the gipsies except Nelly ^ ivho, ivith Bill, comes forward ; Bill, with a bundle on a pitchfork, over his shoulder. Throws down the bundle, and takes out a turkey, Nelly. Is that all that thou hast gathered ? Bill. All ! Enough too, did ye know the sarcumstances. Travelled last night good twelve miles before I could light on this here cretur. Never seed such a scarcity o' fowl. Farmers above tending sich like things now-a-days, dom pride ! says I. Nelly. But what kept ye out till morning ? Bill. 'Cause why I was kept in. Locked up, by gosh ! Why, arter dark, I'd just nabbed this here, when out pops on me the farmer's wife j and so she twists her scraggy neck round like a weathercock in a v/hirlwind, till at last she hears where Master Redcap wor a gobbling. I'd just time to creep under a cart, when up she comes ; so down goes I on all fours and growls like a strange dog. Nelly. And one day thou wilt be hung like one. Bill. Every one gets his promotion in time. In goes the woman and calls her husband ; and though on all fours, I warn't a match for two ; so I slinks into a barn and twists the neck of the hanimal, that a might not peach. Well ; farmer comes out, and seeing nought but barn door open, curses his man for a lazy hound and locks it, then walks home, leaving I fixed. Warn't that a good un ? Nelly. How did'st thou contrive to escape ? Bill. I burrowed into the back of the wheat. Two jockies came in at daylight to thrash Nelly. And they would have done well to have begun upon the rogue in grain. Bill. Thank ye, mistress. But, howsomdever, the farmer came wi 'um, and a waundy big dog that stagged me, and barked like fury. " There be summut there," says farmer j so I squealed like a dozen rats in the wheat. "R.ats agen," says he. ** Tummus, go fetch the ferrets; and Bob, be you arter the terriers. I'll go get my break- The Gipsy 93 fast, and then we'll rout un out. Come, Bully." But Bully wouldn't, till farmer gave un a kick that set un howling ; and then out they all went, and about a minute arter I makes a bolt. Terrible fuss about a turkey ; warn't it, Nell ? Nelly. Hast thou seen Richard ? Bi//. Never put eyes on him since we parted last night ; but, as his tongue is as well hung as he will be himself, he'll gie ye a triple bob major, for here he comes. Enter Dick, pulls out two geese, andjlings them down, Dick, Ah, missus, I sha'n't last long. I shall soon be scragged. I'm growing honest. Out of a flock of forty, I've only prigged two. To make amends, I did gnaw off the heads of two more, and so the foxes will have the credit of the job. Bill. That was well thought of, my pal. Dick. May I one day grow honest, if I don't make up for last night's paltry prig. Come, let's have one roasted, missus — I prefers roast goose. Honest hanimal ! only fit to be plucked and eaten. I say, missus, I stumbled on a cove this morning, that I thinks will prove a bleeding cull, — honest hanimal, only fit to be plucked Bill. And eaten, Dick ? Dick. Yes, with your dom'd jaw, and so cly it. This here cove sits him down under a tree, with his head a-one side, like a fowl with the pip, and, with a book in his hand talks a mortal deal of stuff about shaking spears and the moon. So, when I had spied enow, I gets up and walks straight to him, and axes him, could he tell where the great fortin-telling woman were to be found in the wood ; she as knew the past, the present, and the future. Laid a coil for him, my girl. He be the son of the great Squire's steward, that lives at the Hall, and he says that he be mightily anxious to have his fortin told. He seems to be mortal simple. Nelly. What didst thou hear him mouth about ? Dick, May I grow honest if I bees able to tell, 'twere 94 Olla Podrida sich outlandish gibberish. What have the rest done, missus ? Nelly, Why, like you, Richard, they're growing honest. DicL Ah ! ware o' that. My grandam, who was the real seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, said of I, in my cradle, " The moment this here child grows honest, he'll be hung." I've done my best, all my life, to keep my neck out of the halter. Nelly. So you have, Richard. I went up to the Hall to beg for the fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge — I love it ! Bill. That you do, missus ; I'll answer for you there. If you be affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot. Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of mischief. (^Dick and Bill retire nvith the poultry.) Nelly (assuming a more elevated manner^ Heigho ! how many things, long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot ! Hard by I was brought up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought ! The steward's son — it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his sister, who was nursed at this breast ; and how I yearned to press her to it ! Pretty creature, how she hath grown ! Little did my lady think, when she drove me away, that I was the Nelly who used to be so much at the Hall, nursing Lucy, whilst Mrs Bargrove gave her breast to Miss Agnes. Little did Lucy, when she loaded my wallet with victuals, think that she had so long lain in these arms. Heigho ! bye-gone is bye-gone I What a The Gipsy 95 haughty woman is that Lady Etheridge ! And yet, she was once a farmer's daughter, but little better than my- self. Could I be revenged on her ! Ah ! I may ; I know every particular connected with the family ; but here comes the lad. \_Nelly retires Enter Peter Bargrove, hook in his hand, Peter. O solitude — solitude ! what a quiet thing is solitude ! especially when you hold your tongue. I only wish that I had a dozen of my old schoolfellows here to enjoy it with me, for, as this divine Shakespeare says, it is so sweet to be alone. I wonder whether, if I were to take to study, if I could not in time write a Shakespeare myself? I'm blessed if I couldn't ! How proud father ought to be of such a son ! But father wouldn't care if I did : he thinks of nothing but the harvest : what a difference there is between father and me ! I can't account for it. O, here comes the woman of fate. What a gaunt- looking body ! What eyes ! She can see through a post ! Her looks go through me already. Nelly {advancing). There is a bright leaf in the book of your fate, young sir, that waits only for my finger to turn it. Peter, Then wet your thumb, good woman, and let's have the news in a twinkling. Nelly, Not so fast, thou youth of lustrous fortunes ! The time is not yet come. Time was, time is, and time shall be ! Peter, Bless me ! how very prophetical ! Nelly, Meet me here, three hours hence ; I shall then have communed with the astral influences ! Peter, Astral influences ! I know of no such people hereabouts. Nelly, The stars — the noonday stars ! Peter, The noonday stars ! who can see the stars at noonday ? Nelly, The gifted. Peter {looling up). V/ell, then, I ar'n't one of the gifted. g6 Olla Podrida Nelly. Yes ; but you might be, if you had but faith. Peter. Well, I'm sure I've got plenty — try it." Nelly. Very well ; stand thus. Now wave your hands thus high in the air, then shade the sight, and close the left eye -, look up, and tell me what thou seest there. Peter. Three carrion crows. Nelly. Nought else ? Peter. No. Nelly. Not all the heavenly hosts ? Peter. Not a star as big as a sparkle from a red-hot horse-shoe. Nelly {pointing up), Seest thou not those two bright stars. Castor and Pollux ? Peter. No, I can't, upon my honour. Nelly. Not Copernicus, so fiery red? not the Great Bear ? Peter. Why, I don't know j I really think I do see something. No I don't, after all. Nelly. Ah ! then you want faith — you want faith. I, who see them all, must read them for you. Away ; in three hours hence, you'll meet me here. {Turns aivay.) Peter. Well, you might at least be civil ; but that's not the custom of great people. What a wonderful woman, to see the stars at noon-day ! Well, I'll put my faith in her, at all events. {Exit Peter. Dick aftd Bill come for ivard with the poultry picked.) Dick. Well, missus, ban't he a soft cove ? Nelly. I have not done with him yet. Bill. Now let's get our dinner ready. The fowls be a axing for the pot. Dick. And goose to be roasted. Bill. No, I say ; they'd smell us a mile. Your liquorice chops will transport you yet. Dick. Tell ye. Bill, goose shall be roasted. May I grow honest, but it shall. I'll give up a pint — I'll sacrifice sage and innions. Eh, missus ? Nelly. The sooner they are out of sight the better. \They retire; the scene closes. The Gipsy 97 Scene III. A Drawing-Room in the Hall, Enter Admiral and Lady Etheridge, Lady Eth, Indeed, Admiral, I insist upon it, that you give the brutal seaman warning ; or, to avoid such a plebeian mode of expression, advertise him to depart. Adm. My dear, old Barnstaple has served me afloat and ashore these four-and-twenty years, and he's a little the worse for wear and tear. In a cutting-out affair his sword warded off the blow that would have sacrificed my life. We must overlook a little Lady Eth. Yes, that's always your way ; always excus- ing. A serving man to appear fuddled in the presence of Lady Etheridge ! faugh ! And yet, not immediately to have his coat stripped off his back, and be kicked out of doors ; or, to avoid the plebeian, expatriated from the portals. Adm. Expatriated ! Lady Eth. How you take one up, Admiral. You know I meant to say expatiated. Adm. Ah ! that is mending the phrase, indeed. I grant that he was a little so so j but then, recollect, it was I who gave them the ale. Lady Eth. Yes, that's your way, Sir Gilbert ; you spoil them all. I shall never get a servant to show me proper respect. I may scold, scold, scold ; or, to speak more aristocratically, vituperate, from morning till night. Adm. Well, then, my dear, why trouble yourself to vituperate at all, as you call it } Keep them at a distance, and leave scolding to the housekeeper. Lady Eth. Housekeeper, indeed ! No, Sir Gilbert ; she's just as bad as the rest. Once give her way, and she would treat me with disrespect, and cheat you in the bargain , or, less plebeianly, nefariously depropriate Adm. Appropriate, you mean, my dear. Lady Eth. And appropriate I said, Admiral, did I not ? O G 98 Olla Podrida Adm. Why, really- Lady Eth. {raising her voice). Did I not, Sir Gilbert ? Adm. Why, my dear, I suppose it was a mistake of mine. Well, my love, let them appropriate a little — I can afford it. Lady Eth. You can't afford it, Sir Gilbert, Adm. My dear Lady Etheridge, money can but buy us luxuries \ and as I don't know a greater luxury than quiet, I am very willing to pay for it. Lady Eth. You may be so. Admiral, but my duty as a wife will not permit me to suffer you to squander away your money so foolishly. Buy quiet, indeed ! I would have you to know. Sir Gilbert, you must first consult your wife before you can make a purchase. Adm. Yes, my lady, it is a fatal necessity. Lady Eth. Fatal fal, lal. But, Sir Gilbert, you were always a spendthrift ; witness the bringing up of the steward's children with your own, mixing the aristocratic streams with plebeian dregs ! Sir Gilbert, the Bargroves are constantly intruding in our house, and Agnes will be no gainer by keeping such company. Adm. Whose company, my dear ? Do you mean Lucy Bargrove's ? I wish all our fashionable acquaintance were only half so modest and so well-informed. She is a sweet girl, and an ornament to any society. Lady Eth. Indeed, Sir Gilbert ! Perhaps you intend to wear the ornament yourself. A second Lady Etheridge, — he, he, he ! When you have vexed me to death, or, to speak more like a lady, when you have inurned my mortal remains. Adm. Indeed, my lady, I have no idea of the kind. I don't want to break the fixed resolution that I have long since made, never to marry a second wife. Lady Eth. I presume you mean to imply that you have had sufficient torment in the first ? Adm. I said not so, my dear ; I only meant to remark, that I should not again venture on matrimony. Lady Eth. I can take a hint. Sir Gilbert, though I The Gipsy 99 don't believe you. All husbands tell their wives they'll never marry again ; but, as dead men tell no tales, so dead wives Adm. (Aside), Don't scold. Lady Eth. What's that. Sir Gilbert ? Adm. Nothing — not worth repeating. But to revert to the Bargroves ; I think, my dear, when you consider their father's long and faithful services, some gratitude on my part Lady Eth. Which they may live not to thank you for. Adm. Recollect, my dear, that the Bargroves are a very old, though decayed family. One half of this estate was, at one time, the property of their ancestors. It was lost by a suit in chancery. Lady Eth. Then it never was rightfully theirs. Adm. I beg your pardon there, my dear ; chancery will as often take the property from, as give it to, the rightful owner. Bargrove is of a good old family, and has some money to leave to his children. Lady Eth. Out of your pocket. Sir Gilbert. Adm. Not so ; Bargrove has a property of his own, nearly three hundred acres, which has been in the family for many years. Lady Eth. Ever since you afforded him the means of purchasing it. Adm. I said many years, long before my name was added to the baronetage. Lady Eth. Well, Admiral, it may be the case ; but still there is no excuse for your folly : and mark me. Sir Gilbert, I will not have that pert minx, Lucy Bargrove, closeted with my daughter Agnes. x\s to the boy, it is a down- right puppy and fool, or, to speak less plebeianly, is a non composite mentus. Adm. Peter is not clever, but, without education, he would have been worse. It is not our fault if we are not blessed with talent. Lucy has wit enough for both. Lady Eth. Lucy again ! I declare. Admiral, my nerves are lacerated ; or, to descend to your meanness of expres- loo Olla Podrida sion, it is quite shocking in a person of your age to become so infatuated with an artful hussy. Now, Sir Gilbert, am I to be protected, or am I to submit to insult ? Is that sea- brute to remain, or am I to quit the house ? Adm. {Aside.) I should prefer the latter. {Aloud.) Why, my lady, if he must go Lady Eth. Must go ? {rings the bell). Yes, Sir Gilbert, and with a proper lecture from you. Enter William ; Lady Etheridge sits down with a wave of her hand. Lady Eth. Now, Admiral. Adm. William, you — you ought to be ashamed of your- self, getting half-seas over, and behaving in that manner — but — to be sure, I sent you the ale. Will. Yes, your honour, famous stuff it was ! Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert ! Adm. And that's no excuse. I did not tell you to get drunk, and the consequence is, that that, without a proper apology Will. Beg your pardon. Admiral, and yours too, my lady. Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert ! Adm. The fact is, that without the apology, in one word, you, you {looking round at Lady Etheridge) must take warning, sir, you leave this house, sir. Will. Leave, yer honour, arter twenty-five years' sarvi- tude ! Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert ! Adm. Yes, sir, leave the house — damme ! Will. If yer honour hadn't given the ale, I shouldn't have got into trouble. Lady Eth. {Rising, and as she is leaving the room). Sir Gilbert, I am glad to perceive that you have a proper respect for me and for yourself. [Exit. Adm. William, William, you must be aware that I cannot permit you to remain, v/hen Lady Etheridge is displeased with you. The Gipsy loi Will. First offence, yer honour. Adm, But, however, I'll try and get you another place, as your general conduct has been correct. Will. Thank you. I little thought, that after twenty- five years' sarvitude {wipes his eyes). I can always get a ship. Admiral. Adm. Why, yes, and I only wish that I had one, in which to give you a good rating, my good fellow ; but William, you must be aware Will. Yes, yer honour, I see how the cat jumps. Adm. What do you mean ? Will. I sees that yer honour is no longer in command of your own ship. Adm. You scoundrel ! What do you mean ? Will. Lord, Sir Gilbert, we all knows how the matter be, and as how you can't call your soul your own. It warn't so in the Menelaus, when your little finger was enough to make every man jump out of his shoes. You ivere a bit of a tartar, that's sartin, — and, now you've cotched a tartar. Adm. You insolent scoundrel ! Will. Your honour arn't angry, I hope, but we all pities ye, we do indeed ! Adm. Unbearable ! Will. And we says in the servants' hall — and we be all agreed there — that you be the kindest master in the world — but, that as for my lady Adm. Silence, sir ; what insolence is this ? Out of the room immediately ; now, if I had you on board, you scoundrel, I'd give you as good a four dozen as ever a fellow had in his life. I was just going to pension the blackguard, now I'Jl see him hanged first. (The Admiral walks up a?id down the room in a rage^ William still remains behind^ Well, well, even my servants laugh at, pity me. Here I am, cooled down into the quietest man in the world, yet obliged to put myself in a passion whenever my wife 102 Olla Podrida pleases. It is very hard to lose my temper and my character at her bidding ; but if I don't she would put her- self into such a rage with me, that I should be even worse off; — of the two evils I must choose the least ; but in falling in love, I was a great fool, and that's the truth. Will. So you was, Admiral, that's sartin. \The Admiral rwts at him ivith a stick. William runs off. Adm. Scoundrel ! V/ell, it is the truth. Enter Lady Ether idge, O.P. Lady Eth. What is the truth, Sir Gilbert ? Adm. Truth, my lady ? why, that when a man's intoxi- cated, he commits great folly. Lady Eth. Yes, and ought to be punished for it. Adtn. {Aside.) I am sure that I have been. Enter Agnes ^ who runs up aftd kisses her father. Adtn. Well, Agnes, my little clipper, where are you going this morning ? Agnes. Down to the homestead, papa, with Lucy Bargrove. Lady Eth. I must request. Miss Etheridge, that you will be more select in your company. A steward's daughter is not the proper companion for the house of Etheridge. Agnes. Indeed, mamma, the society of Lucy Bargrove will never be prejudicial to me. I wish you knew what an unassuming girl she is, and yet so clever and well informed. Besides, mamma, have we not been playmates since we have been children ? It would be cruel to break with her now, even if we felt so inclined. I could not do it. Lady Eth. There, Admiral, you feel the effect of your want of prudence, of your ridiculous good-nature. An unequal friendship insisted upon, and a mother treated with disrespect. Agnes. Indeed, mamma, I had no such intention. I only The Gipsy 103 pleaded my own cause. If my father and you insist upon it, much as I regret it, it will be my duty to obey you. Lady Eth. Miss Etheridge, we insist upon it. Adm. Nay, Lady Etheridge, I do not, — that is exactly — {Lady Etheridge looks astonished and bounces out of the room.) My dearest Agnes, I must defend poor Lucy against tlie prejudices of your mother, if I can ; but I'm afraid, — very much afraid. Your mother is an excellent woman, but her over anxiety for your weh^are Agnes. There was no occasion to remind me of my mother's kindness. When a daughter looks into a parent's heart through the medium of her duty, she should see there no error, and believe no wrong. Adm. That's a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before dinner. Agfies. Shall I ask mamma to accompany us ? Adm. No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. \Exeunt ambo. Scene IV. The Hall of an old-jashioned farming house. Old Bar. (outside.) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out again in ten minutes. {Enter Bargrove.) Poof — this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest. We can't cut fast enough — and such crops ! {Seats himself.) My dear, where are you ? Mrs Bar. {outside.) I'm coming. [Enters. Bar. Is dinner ready ? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles oiFj the people will have dined before I'm back. Mrs Bar. Lord bless you, Bargrove ! don't fuss — can't they go on without you ? Bar. Yes, my dear, they can ; but the question is, if they will. This fine weather mustn't be lost. Mrs Bar. Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes. I04 Olla Podrida Bar. "Well, well, — where's Lucy ? Mrs Bar, Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady. Bar. Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered. Mrs Bar. That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but from me. Bar. From you ? Mrs Bar. Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward ? 'Tis the milk makes the nature. Bar. Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman, Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing of Peter, dame. Mrs Bar. Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him. Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in the boy. Bar. No harm — heh ? Mrs Bar. All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does not appear so very bad in one's own child. Bar. He's his mother's child, that's plain ; but I say (striking his stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrate- ful, wicked boy. Mrs Bar. Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish, I grant, but then he's young ; and, by-and- bye, he'll grow tired of being idle. Bar, That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses. Where is he now ? Mrs Bar. Heaven knows ! He was up very early for him this morning, and took a book with him, so you see there are some signs of amendment. Bar. Well, well, — we shall see. Bat I think dinner must be ready by this time. Come, my dear, time's precious. \ Exeunt amho. The Gipsy 105 Enter Agnes, in a ivalking dress, ivith Lucy, Agnes. Now, Lucy dear, I will stay no longer, for your dinner is ready. Lucy, Indeed, Miss Agnes, I beg that you will not go so soon. Of what consequence is it when I dine ? I dine every day, but every day I am not honoured with your company. Agnes. Nonsense honoured. How you have altered in your behaviour to me lately — so forma], and so stiff, now, I quite hate you. Lucy, Indeed my heart is neither formal nor stiff; but when I was familiar with you, I was young, and knew not the difference of our situations. I do now, and only pay respect to whom respect is due. Agnes. Then you have become very stupid, and I shall detest you. That's all your knowledge will have gained you, Miss Lucy j nay more, I will not come here so often if you do not treat me as you used to do, and call me Agnes. Lucy, Rather than that you should stay away, I will obey you, but I still think that it is not right. Consider, when we used to learn and play together, I called your brother ** Edward," but how improper it would be if I were to call him so now. Agnes, I don't think that his objections would be very decided, Lucy, as you happen to be such a pretty girl : however, I'll ask him, when he comes home to-day. Lucy. Ah, Miss Agnes, pray, pray, don't mention it. Agnes, Well, you are pretty enough without blushing so much. I'll let you off, provided you speak to me as I wish. But now, Miss Gravity, I've a secret to tell you. Lucy, A secret ? Agnes, I have found out that there's a gang of gipsies in the wood. Lucy, Is that your secret ? Then dame Fowler was let into it last night, for she lost her best turkey, and she frets about it very much. It was the one that she intended to send to the Hall on Christmas Day. io6 Olla Podrida Agnes. But that is not the secret, Lucy. The real secret is — that I wish to have my fortune told ; and you must contrive with me how to manage it. Lucy, Shall I send the woman up to the Hall ; she was here yesterday. Agnes, No, no, you stupid thing. Lady Etheridge hates the very name of a gipsy. One was at the Hall yesterday, and she threatened her with Bridewell. Lucy. Well then, shall I find out where they are ? and we can go together, Agnes. That's exactly what I wish, Lucy ; but it must be soon, as we expect my brother and his friend belong- ing to the same regiment, and I must not be out of the way when they arrive. Lucy. Who is this friend ? Agnes. A Captain Mertoun. (Sighs.) I have seen him before. Lucy. He is then acquainted with your family ? Agnes. Not with my father and mother. When I was at Cheltenham with my aunt, I met him very often. There is a little secret there, too, Lucy. Lucy. Another ? Agnes. Yes, another. Don't you long to hear it ? Lucy. (Smiling), If you long to tell it ? Agnes. How provoking you are ! You know I do. Well, then, this Captain Mertoun is — a very handsome man. Lucy. Is that all ? Agnes. No ; but it's something to the point, because he says he is very much in love with me. Lucy. I'll believe that. Who is not ? Agnes. Don't be silly, Lucy ; but the last part of the secret is the most important. I think, Lucy, that I like him — that is — a little — a very little. Now, since my father has told me he v/as coming down with my brother, I've been in a perfect fever, I don't know why — and so — and so — that is the reason why I wish to have my fortune told. I know that it's very silly, and all nonsense ; but still nonsense is very agreeable sometimes; The Gipsy 107 Lucy. But you will not believe a word that you are told. Agnes. No, not one word, unless it happens to meet with my own wishes ; and then you know. — But I really must be gone. Good-bye, Lucy. Remember our meeting in the wood. \ErAt Agnes, Lucy. God bless thee, dearest Agnes ; yet would that I had never seen either you or your brother ! What is intended in kindness is, too often, cruelty. The kiss of affection that is implanted on the lips, may take so deep a root, as to entwine the heart. Heigho ! Yv^hat an elegant young man is Captain Etheridge ! I recollect, when we used to romp, and quarrel, and kiss ; then, I had no fear of him : and now, if he but speaks to me, I tremble, and feel my face burn with blushes. Heigho ! — this world demands more philosophy than is usually possessed by a girl of nineteen. Scene V. The Gipsy encampment. — Eiiter Nelly. Nelly. I have been plotting my revenge on Lady Etheridge ; and I have a scheme which may succeed. I must, hov/cver, be guided by circumstances ; yet, by the means of this senseless fool, I hope to make much mischief. O, here he comes. Enter Peter. Good day, again. I have been waiting for you. The stars are in the ascendant. Peter. I thought they were up in the sky. Nelly. Exactly. Now let me read the lines on your face. The finest gentleman in the land would give half his fortune for those lines. Peter. Then pray, what is my fortune, good woman ? Nelly. One that requires gold, with which to cross my hand ; and then it would be too cheap. Peter. Gold I Won't a shilling do ? io8 Olla Podrida Nelly, I wish you good-day, Sir ; I thought you were a gentleman. Peter, Well, so I am ; but gentlemen are not always very flush of guineas. However, I have one here, and it shall go for my fortune. \Gives money. Nelly, The planet, Georgium Sidum, says, that you are the son of the steward, and your name is Bargrove. Peter. Now, that is surprising ! Nelly. But Georgium Sidum tells not the truth. Peter. Do the stars ever lie ? Nelly, O, the new ones do. They have not been long in the business. But the old ones never fail. Peter, Astonishing! and only supposed to be Bargrove's son. Go on, good woman, go on. "What do the old planets say ? Nelly. Nay, I must stop a little. That is all I can see just now ; but more will be revealed to me by-and-bye. What does Artemidorus say in his ninety-ninth chapter, written in double Chaldean before letters were invented ? Peter. I don't know. What does he say ? Nelly. That you must gain great truths by little ones. So you must tell me all you know about yourself, and I shall be able to find out more. Peter. I was educated with Mr Edward Etheridge ; and, when our education was completed, he went into the army and I was sent home to my father's — that is — to Mr Bargrove's. Nelly. I understand. Peter. This Mr Bargrove proposed that I should accom- pany him every day to obtain a knowledge of agriculture, and employ my evenings in keeping the accounts, that I might be able to succeed him in his office of steward. Nelly. Exactly — but the stars tell me that you did not like it. Peter. Couldn't bear it. Why, my boots, which I am so particular in having well polished, were so loaded with clay the very first time, that I could hardly lift my legs, and I stumbled into a ditch filled with stinging nettles 5 so The Gipsy 109 I gave it up, and the old gentleman constantly swears that I am no son of his. Nelly. Did not I, the priestess of the stars, tell you so ? Peter. But if I am no son of his, the question is, " Whose son am I ? " Nelly. A gentleman's son, no doubt. But I shall dis- cover more when I consult the stars anon. You must return. Peter. That I surely will. Consult the old stars, if you please. Nelly. I always do, sir ; no dependence upon the others. In fact, we've quarrelled. I am hardly on speaking terms with them. Peter. Speaking terms with the stars ! How intimate you must be ! Nelly. You'll have to cross my hand again. Golden truths will not come out without gold. Peter. What ! gold again ? Nelly. Yes, another guinea. One for telling you who you are not, and another for telling you who you are. Don't you see ? Peter. One for telling me who I am not. Yes, that's told ; I am not my father's son. They say it's a wise man who knows his own father. Nelly. Wisely said. Peter. And another for telling me who I am. Well, I think that is as well worth a guinea as the other. Nelly. Better, I should imagine. Peter. Yes, better. Well, good-bye, good woman. I'll be sure to be here. Nelly. Fail not, or you'll repent it. (^Exit Peter.) The gudgeon takes the bait kindly. Peter, Peter, you had always an immense swallow. When Sally Stone nursed him, she was forced to feed the little cormorant with a tablespoon. As far as I can see, notwithstanding his partnership education with the young Squire, I think the grown babe should be fed with spoon-meat still. But no Olla Podrida what dainty lasses are these that come this way ? Lucy and Miss Etheridge — how fortunate ! Enter Agnes and Lucy, Lucy. There is the woman ; so, if you are inclined to hear her nonsense, you must wait the Sibyl's pleasure. Agnes. I hope she will not keep us long, or my brother will arrive before we return. {Nelly advances.) Nelly. Save you, fair lady ! which of you will first look into futurity .? Lucy. This young lady. {Pointing to Agnes.) Nelly. Then you must retire out of hearing. Agnes. No, no j I have no secrets from her. She must stay. Nelly. That cannot be, my art will be useless, and I decline the task. Lucy. Yield to her mummery, it can make no difference. Agnes. Well, then, Lucy, don't go far away. Lucy. I'll be out of hearing, but not out of sight. \Lucy retires, and amuses herself in collecting jloivers . Nelly. Your name is Agnes. Agnes, {laughing). I know that ; and I am the daughter of Sir Gilbert of the Hall. Come, I'll help you, good woman. Nelly. I did not say the last. Agnes. What do you mean 1 Nelly. I only said that your name was Agnes. Agnes. Well, and I told you more than you knev/. Nelly. The stars reveal not what you assert, Agnes. Well, then, I do 5 so I know more than the stars. Nelly. You are wrong. You know not so much. You are not what you think you are. Agnes. In the name of wonder, what do you mean } Nelly. I have said it. Let me see your hand. Your fate is a dark one ! Poor young lady ! You will be crossed in everything. The Gipsy iii Agnes, {laughing faintly). Love included, I suppose. Shall I not marry the man of my affections ? Nelly. If he is more generous than men usually are. Agnes. I cannot understand you. Nelly. There is a dark cloud hanging over your fate. The storm will soon rage. Poor young lady ! Agnes. You almost frighten me. Speak more intel- ligibly. Nelly. I have said enough. Agnes Bargrove, fare thee well ! Agnes, (astonished). Agnes Bargrove ! v>^hat can she mean ? Good woman, will you not tell me more ? Nelly. Go home, you will soon hear more from others. (Aside.) The wound is given ; let it fester. (Nelly retires.) Agnes. Lucy, Lucy ! (Lt/cy advances.) Lucy. Dear Agnes, how confused you are ! What can be the matter? Agnes, (much jlurried). I can hardly tell. The woman was so strange. I was a little surprised — that's all. (Recovering herself.) Now, Lucy, it's your turn. (Nelly comes forward.) There, good woman, is your money. (Nelly shakes her head, and refuses it.) How very strange ! Come, Lucy, let her tell your fortune, and then we'll go home. Lucy. Nay, Agnes, I have no curiosity. Agnes. I insist upon it, Lucy. I will not be the only foolish one. I shall retire until you call me. Lucy. Well, then, as you please. I know my fortune but too well. (Sighs.) [Agnes retires. Nelly, (looking Lucy earnestly ht the face for a time). You are perhaps come here for amusement. In olden times there were many false prophets ; but still, sDme of them were true \ so, in these days, there are many who pretend to our art, but really few who do possess it. Do you take this for a mocking matter } Lucy. Why, really, good woman, I will not promise to believe all you may say, but I shall be glad to listen to it. 1 1 2 Olla Podrida Nelly. I thought as much. But were I to tell you what is known only to yourself, would you then credit my asserted powers ? Lucy, I should certainly feel more inclined. Nelly. There are marks upon your person known but to yourself. Lucy. 'Tis very possible. Nelly, Can you recollect them ? Lucy, {smiling incredulously^. Can you describe them ? Nelly. To prove my power before I read your destiny, I will. You have a large mole beneath your right shoulder. {Lucy starts.) You have a scar on your instep by falling over a sickle in your infancy. Nay, more. (Nelly nvhispers her.) Lucy. Merciful heavens ! Nelly. Are you satisfied ? Lucy. I'm a little frightened. Nelly. So much to prove that I am no impostor. Now, let me see your hand. {Lucy holds out her hand trefubling.) You have lost your fortune, and your rank in society — but you will soon regain them. The cloud is dispersing from before the sun of your happiness. Sweet girl, I wish thee joy ! Lucy. What mean you ? Nelly. Others will tell you soon. There are two in the secret, Nelly Armstrong and Martha Bargrove. Lucy. My mother \ Nelly. No, not your mother. I said, Martha Bargrove^ {Lets go her hand.) Lucy Etheridge, fare thee well. [Exit Nelly. Lucy. O God ! Agnes, Agnes ! {Agnes runs up to her.) Agnes. M) dear Lucy, has she frightened you too ? Lucy. O yes ! indeed she has. Let us go home. Miss Agnes, I am so unhappy. Agnes. So am I, Lucy. I wish we had never seen the odious woman. [Exeunt ambo, arm in arm, crying.. The Gipsy 113 Act II. Scene I. A Drawing-room m the Hall, Enter Captain Etheridge, Captain Mertoun, and William, Will, Sir Gilbert be within gunshot, Captain Edward, and I'll make sail after him. I think he have the gardener in tow. Capt, Eth. You will oblige me, "William. How are you, my good fellow ? You look dull j what's the news here ? Will, Why, Mr Edward, mortal bad. There be a misfortune happened in the family this morning. Capt, Eth, Not to my father, I trust ? Capt, Mer, Not to Miss Etheridge ? Will, No; it be, Mr Edward, that Sir Gilbert have given me warning, and I have a month's law to find another berth. {Captain Etheridge and Mertoun look at each other, and laugh.) Capt. Eth. Well, William, I think I can doctor that. Will, Fse afraid not, Mr Edward, for the Admiral be superseded — has hauled down his flag, and I'd as soon have my discharge as not. (^Putting his finger to his nose,) A woman be at the bottom of all mischief. Capt. Eth. You observe, Mertoun, how things are managed here. Now if any difference or dispute arise between my father and mother, do you immediately espouse the cause of the lady. Recollect, I'll bear you harmless. Capt, Mer, I am guided by you ; but I'm going to observe — Enter Sir Gilbert. Adm, My dear Edward, welcome again to your inherit- ance ! Capt, Eth, Thanks, my dear father. Allow me to introduce to you my most particular friend. Captain Mertoun, of our regiment, o H 1 1 4 Olla Podrida Adm, Sir, you have the welcome of a father who loves all whom his children love. Capt. Mer, Sir Gilbert, I am indeed flattered by your kind expressions. Enter Lady Etheridge. Capt, Eth. My dear mother, permit me to renew my duty. Lady Eth. Edward, I have been a martyr to painful anxiety and maternal sentiment ; but my sighs are accom- plished now that I embrace my only son. (Turning to Mertoun, and curtseying haughtily.) Your friend ? Capt. Eth. My friend is Captain Mertoun, who is most anxious to pay his homage, and I trust will find favour in the sight of Lady Etheridge. Capt. Mer. That were indeed anticipating bliss. {Bow- ing very loiv.) Lady Eth. Captain Mertoun, you may approximate our kindly feelings. Capt. Mer. Lady Etheridge, I duly appreciate the dis- tinction. {Aside to Etheridge.) Why don't you ask after your sister ? Capt. Eth. Where is my sister Agnes, my dear mother ? How is it that she is not here to receive her brother ? Lady Eth. Indeed, Edward, I am ashamed to say that, forgetful of her aristocratic birth, she has permitted herself to be seduced by bad company. Adm. {aside). Whew ! now for a breeze ! Capt. Eth. Bad company. Did I hear rightly ? Surely, my lady Lady Eth. I have said it, Edward ; and I am sorry to add, that the admiral eggs her on. O pardon. Captain Mertoun, the plebeian slip of the tongue ! I mean to say corroborates the mesalliance. Capt. Mer. {aside to Etheridge.) For Heaven's sake, ask her to explain. Capt. Eth. What would you infer, my lady ? Surely my sister cannot so far forget herself, much less my father approve of such conduct. The Gipsy 115 Adm. Edward, this bad company is — Lucy Bargrove. Lady Eth, Yes, Sir Gilbert, I am sorry to retort before strangers ; but just as you have confessed, it is even so. My daughter has formed an unequal connection, and, and dissipates her rank among unequal associates. Capt. Eth. I am truly glad that it is no worse, my lady. Lady Eth. What can be worse, sir ? Rank is rank ; but your father has absorbed notions which disgrace his baronetage. Adm. Lady Etheridge, if I never disgrace my title by any other act, I shall be proud of the manner in which I have supported it, {Aside.^ I won't give up this point if I can help it. Lady Eth. You hear, Edward — I am quite cagged — I am ail confusion — stigmatised, I mean, by his conduct. His infatuation is quite adulterous ! Capt. Eth. (aside). Now, Mertoun, coincide with her. Never mind me or my father. Lady Eth. Did you speak. Captain Mertoun ? Capt. Mer. I did, my lady, but venture to express to Captain Etheridge my admiration of the elegance and elevation of your sentiments. Adm. (aside). What the devil does he interfere for ? confounded puppy. Lady Eth. Captain Mertoun, I conceive at once that you are of Oh tone. I am sorry that family squabbles — pardon the low word — Captain Mertoun, we cannot touch pitch without being defiled — (looking at Sir Gilbert.) Adm. Sorry you ever meddled with a tar. Lady Eth. I am grieved, Captain Mertoun, that domestic fractions should be promulgated on our first meeting, and feel much prepossession for your corroboration of the Admiral's folly. Capt. Mer. I cannot but assert that his conduct is most indefensible. Sir Gilbert, allow me to take the privilege of an early friend, and to express my regret at your in- 1 fatuation, and my hope that you will be swayed by superior i judgment. Ii6 Olla Podrida Adm. Sir, I am much obliged to you for your friendly and polite interference. Does your friend stay dinner, Edward ? Lady Eth, Admiral, assuredly. I trust that Captain Mertoun will do us the honour of taking many dinners with us. At present. Captain Mertoun, you will excuse me ; but when you are at leisure, I do not say that I will show you the grounds, as Sir Gilbert would have ex- pressed himself 5 but I shall, as we of the Oh tone say, be most happy to be your cicero. \EMt Lady Etheridge. Adm. (angrily to Captain Mertoun.) And pray, sir, what do you mean by offering your opinion so confounded freely, and disapproving of my conduct ? Capt. Eth. My dear father, you must blame me, and not him. Let us retire to your library, and I will explain everything. You will find that Captain Mertoun has no other object in view than the happiness of all parties. Adm, Then I can tell Captain Mertoun, that interfering between man and wife is not the way to secure his own. Capt. Mer. Your son will soon offer a satisfactory explanation. It is most true that the liberty I have taken with you is most essential to my happiness. Adm. {going up and lifting his cane). The devil it is ! but not to all parties. Captain Mertoun; and I am sorry to say this to any friend of my son's — but you are a d — d impudent puppy, and I expect satisfaction. Capt. Eth. That you shall have, sir, from me, who requested Captain Mertoun to follow that line of conduct. Do me the favour to retire to the library. Adm. You requested him to insult your father ? I am not so old as to be insulted with impunity ; and I hope, as you are a party, that the explanation will be satisfactory. {Walks about in a rage.) Captain Mertoun, you'll excuse us. There are the grounds, and as you have been so very assiduous to fall out with me, you may be equally so- to fall in with Lady Etheridge. (Bowing in derision very low, then exit, attended by Captain Etheridge.) Capt. Mer. Well, this is excellent, that a man, who is- The Gipsy 117 henpecked till he has not a decent feather left, should be jealous about such a woman. But I feel assured that Etheridge will make all right. I shall take the advice of the old gentleman, and walk about the grounds, perhaps, as he says, I may fall in with Lady Etheridge and improve my acquaintance. [Exit, Scene II. The Gipsy encampment in the wood, Nelly comes fornvard, Nelly. Lady Etheridge, you spurned me ! you chased me from your doors ! what I shall humanity in any shape be worried by your pampered dogs ? when youth was fresh upon our brows, our steps light upon the green, and our hearts still more light with innocence, had then the Lady Etheridge more admirers than the poor outcast gipsy, Nelly Armstrong ? Have you forgotten your origin, proud lady of the Hall ? Had his partial eyes fallen upon me when Sir Gilbert chose his wife from among the cottage maidens, and you, proud lady, had come hungry and in rags to my door, should I have unslipped the hounds upon your cry for charity ? No, no, no ! You have given insult — expect retaliation. But here comes one of my instruments. Unbend, Eleanor Armstrong, from this lofty carriage, and be again the miserable — the cheating gipsy. Enter young Bargrove. Nelly. A fine morning, most fortunate sir. Peter. Well, my good woman, have you found it out ? Nelly. What, youth of a brilliant horoscope, do you mean the starlit mystery ? It is revealed, but the planets have been very cross. I watched — and watched — and watched — Peter. Well, and what did you discover ? Nelly. The discovery, sir, is precious. Golden, sir, golden ! A guinea ! it is worth twenty ! ii8 Olla Podrida Peter, A bargain's a bargain. There's your guinea (Takes out his purse and gives money,) And now, let me have my value for it. Nelly, I cast a trine through the rays of Saturn, and placing a quadrature upon his seventh house, I travelled wearily through the heavens ; and, at last, this afternoon, at about thirty-five minutes, forty-nine seconds, after the hour of tJiree, I discovered that your mother was wet nurse to both Sir Gilbert's children. Peter, Miraculous ! and so indeed she was ! Nelly. You were born at nearly the same time as Captain Etheridge, and was put out to nurse to one Sally Stone, I discovered all about this nursing and suckling in the milky way. Peter. Did the stars there tell you all this ? wonderful ! Nelly. Yes, and a great deal more. But first promise me, if your fate is no sordid one, you will not yourself be sordid ; for now comes the great secret. Money, sir, money for the prophetess. Suppose, now, I should prove you a gentleman of ten thousand a year ; what would you give me then ? Peter. Give you ! another guinea — perhaps two. {Hold- ing up his purse.) Ten thousand a year ! I would give you the whole purse. Nelly, {laying hold of one end of the purse.) Then listen to me — you were changed at nurse. You are the son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge of the Hall ! Peter, The son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge ! and changed by the nurse ! Nelly, Why don't you clasp your hands, turn up your eyes, and thank the stars, that have gained for you your patrimony ? Peter, So I will {Clasps his hands, and lets the purse go, Nelly pockets it,) But what nurse changed me ? Nelly, Why, Mrs Bargrove to be sure, who nursed you, and put her own son in your place. Peter, Infamous old woman ! but how is this possible ? Nelly, The stars have said it. The Gipsy 119 Peter. My stars ? Nelly. Yes, yours. Peter. But how am I to prove this ? Nelly. There again I can assist you. Did you never hear of a girl called Nelly Armstrong ? Peter, To be sure — she nursed my sister, that is, she nursed Lucy Bargrove. A sad reprobate was Nelly Nelly. Reprobate in your teeth, young man ! Speak of that person with the utmost respect ; for 'tis she that will appear and divulge the whole. She was the accomplice of Mrs Bargrove ; but you must lose no time ; challenge Mrs Bargrove, and she may confess all. Then hasten to Lady Etheridge, and flinging yourself into her arms, sob out upon her bosom that she is your mother. Peter. Excellent ! it will be quite moving. I think a white handkerchief looks most interesting. Nelly. I hope, when your honour comes to your pro- perty, you won't forget the gipsy woman. Peter. Forget you, good woman ! no, that I won't. You shall have a right of encampment here, and permission to rob any tenants upon the estate. Leave me. [Exit Nelly, curtseying several times to the ground. Peter solus (strutting up and down). Well, I knew that I was a gentleman' born, I knew I was {rubbing his hands). Why, what a shameful trick of the old woman. But I'll make her confess directly. And then — and then — I'll pardon her ; for she has been very kind to me, that's certain. Sir Peter Etheridge with ten thousand a year ! O ! it will sound well. '' Pray," says the traveller from London to one of my tenants, ** whose superb mansion is that .? " ** Sir Peter's." Ha ! ha ! ha ! " And that fine equipage ,? " *' Sir Peter's." He ! he ! he ! *' And that beautiful lady all over jewels ? " ** Sir Peter's." Ho ! ho ! ho ! Lucky, lucky Sir Peter ! Hum ! ha ! I'll turn old Bargrove off for his impudence — that's decided ; and I must cease to be cheerful and familiar. Melancholy — melancholy is your only gentlemanlike bearing, as Shake- speare says. [Exit 120 011a Podrida Scene HI. A room in the Hall. Enter Agnes, with her bonnet in her hand. She sits down, musing. Agnes. I never was so unhappy before ; for that gipsy woman has raised doubts and fears which overwhelm me. Lucy, too, has been told something that affects her deeply. She never spoke during the whole way home, and seemed glad to get rid of me as she ran into her father's house. If this should be true (and why raise such a report without foundation ? no one could be so wicked), what a discovery. At all events, until the truth be ascertained, I shall be miserable. Heigho ! I anticipated so much pleasure in meeting my brother and Captain Mertoun. Now, what am I to do .? If he were to — to — offer to (cries). It would be so unhandsome, knowing this report, to say ** Yes " (j-^^j-), and so unkind to say " No ! " O dear ! I'm very miserable. Enter Sir Gilbert. Adm. Why, Agnes, the servants have been out every- where seeking you. For shame ! to be out of the way when you know that your brother was coming. Edward is much hurt at your indifference. Why, what's the matter, child ? You appear to have been crying ! My dear girl, what has vexed you ? See, here they both come. Enter Captain Etheridge and Mertoun. Capt. Eth. My dear Agnes ! {Agnes runs up to him, embraces him, and then bursts into tears). Why, what is the matter, my dear sister ? Agnes (hanging on her brother's neck). O ! I am so rejoiced to see you ! Capt. Eth. (hisses her). You look the personification of joy ' But, Agnes, here is one whom you have met before. The Gipsy 121 Is it necessary to introduce Mertoun ? {Capain Mertoun ad- vances^ Agnes. O no ! {curtseying formally to Captain Mertoun, ivho offers his hand.) Capt. Mer, (confused , and apart to Captain Ether idge). Good heavens ! I must have displeased her ! Capt. Eth. (aside). Impossible. I do not comprehend it. Capt. Mer. I am most happy to renew our acquaintance, Miss Etheridge, under the sanction of your parents' roof. Agnes (inclining her head). I shall always be most happy to receive my brother's friends. Adm. Agnes, my love, the heat has overpowered you. You have hastened home too fast. Come out with me. You'll be better soon. [Exeunt Sir Gilbert and Agnes. Capt. Eth. What can it be ? She is certainly distressed. Capt. Mer. Her reception of me is, indeed, very different from what I had anticipated from the manner in which we parted. I must say, that either her conduct is very incon- sistent, or her memory very treacherous. Capt. Eth. Nay, Mertoun, it is some time since you met ; and then, not under the auspices of her father's roof. Make some allowances for maidenly reserve. Capt. Mer, Still I must say I am both mortified and disappointed. Capt. Eth. I can feel for you ; but knowing her generous character, I do not hesitate to take up her defence. Some- thing presses heavily on her mind ; what, I cannot surmise. But I will see her and find it out. Till then, wear your willow as gracefully as you do your laurels, and construe nothing to your disadvantage. This I ask in justice. Capt. Mer. You may with confidence. Capt. Eth. But here comes Lady Etheridge •, now will I hasten to Agnes, and leave you to pay your court. Though you have already made a sufficiently favourable impression, yet still remember my injunctions. Enter Lady Etheridge, Lady Etheridge, my sister has just quitted the room far 122 Olla Podrida from well. If you will permit me, I will inquire after her, leaving Captain Mertoun to cultivate your acquaintance. [Exit Capt. Etheridge. Capt, Mer. An honour, madam, I have long courted. Lady Eth. O sir ! if your leisure is now, as it were, unoccupied, I should be most happy to be your cicero. There are such grounds Capt. Mer. {ogling Lady Etheridge), For admiration, when I cast my eyes that way. Lady Eth. The quintessence of politeness, I declare. This way, sir. Capt, Mer, The arm of the humblest of your slaves. {Offering his arm.) Lady Eth, Infinitely honoured. [Exeunt ambo, ceremoniously, and mutually complimenting each other in dumb show. Scene IF, A Drawing-Room at the Hall, Enter Sir Gilbert and Captain Etheridge, Capt, Eth, Well, my dear father, where is Agnes } Adm. She has been here just now ; she appears to be much distressed about something. She will return directly. Capt. Eth, What can have annoyed her ? Adrn. That I don't know. Perhaps my Lady Etheridge. She wishes her to break off with Lucy Bargrove, but that I will resist — that is — that is — as much as I can. Capt, Eth, My dear father, why do you submit to such tyranny ? You, that have led fleets to victory, to be governed by a woman ! A little firmness on your part would soon relieve you from your thraldom, and bring my mother to a proper sense of her duties. Adm, {shaking his head). Too late — too late, Edward. Capt, Eth. Never too late, sir. Take courage for once. The Gipsy 123 and I'll answer for the success. With all respect to my mother, bullies are always cowards. Adm, Why, really, Edward, your advice is good ; and, as I must always keep up a running fight, I don't see why we shouldn't have a general action. Capt. Eth. Bravo, sir, a decisive engagement to your honour, if you only bring decision into play. I agree with you, in respect to Lucy Bargrove, heartily. Adm, Edward, this girl has been so long with me, and has so entwined herself about my heart, that I cannot bear that she should be used ill. Your sister is fond of her, and I dote upon her. Capt. Eth. Why, yes, sir, I acknowledge that she is a nice girl, but still, there is a line to be drawn. You would not, for instance, like to see her my wife. Adm. Indeed but I would, Edward, for your own sake. You would have a fair prospect of matrimonial bliss. Talking about marriage, Edward, I again repeat, if, as you say, the happiness of Agnes depends upon her union with Mertoun, from the character you have given him, I shall raise no objections ; but, as I do think in the disposal of her children, the mother has some claim to be consulted, I suppose he must be permitted to follow up your plan, rather a novel one, of bearding the father to gain the daughter. Capt. Eth. You forget, sir, that you are to have a general action, and then it will be no longer necessary. Enter Captain Mertoun, Here comes Mertoun. Adm. True, true, I forgot that. Well Captain Mertoun, I hope you have found amusement. Capt. Eth. I have, sir, been walking with my lady, who has just gone into her room to take off her bonnet. Enter Lady Etheridge and Agnes, Lady Eth. I am quite exhausted with my pedestrian performance. {Captain Mertoun hands a chair, she sits^ 124 Olla Podrida Sir Gilbert, I am sorry to request that you will reprove your daughter for disobedience, for, notwithstanding my command of this morning, I find that she has agian visited Lucy Bargrove. You say that you have no objection, but I tell you it shall not be, so there is an end of the matter, and of the discussion ; and I insist upon it. Admiral, I insist that you give her a proper lecture in my presence. Now, Sir Gilbert. Capt, Eth. (aside). Now, sir, this is your time, we'll support you. Adm. My dear Lucy is concerned — I don't feel that I want any support. Agnes, your mother has expressed her disapprobation at your visit to Lucy Bargrove. Agnes, My dear father ! Adm, And I don't agree with your mother. Lady Eth, Sir Gilbert ! Adm, I consider Lucy Bargrove a very amiable, good girl. I am partial to her, and have no objection to your visiting her whenever you please. Lady Eth, (more loudly). Sir Gilbert ! Capt, Eth. (aside). Excellent, Sir Gilbert. Adm. I repeat again, Agnes, that so far from agreeing with, I totally disagree with Lady, and, in this matter, I will not allow her to interfere in future. I intend to be master of my own house ! Lady Eth. (screaming). Sir Gilbert ! ! ! Capt. Eth. (aside). The day's our own. Adm. (angrily). Yes, my lady, master of my own house ! and expect humility and submission on your part. (Softening.) Although I never shall forget that I have advanced you to the dignity of Lady Etheridge. Lady Eth. Captain Mertoun ! Captain Mertoun ! Oh ! Oh ! will nobody assist me ? Oh ! lead me to my room. Adm. Edward, help your mother to her room, Captain Mertoun will assist you. [Exeunt Lady Etheridge, Captains Mertoun and Etheridge. Manent, Sir Gilbert and Agnes. Adm. I have, my dear Agnes, as you perceive, made a The Gipsy 125 resolution to be no longer second in my own house, but your good sense will point out to you, that your mother deserves your respect. Agnes. My dear father, I have never believed otherwise ; but still I must rejoice at what has taken place, as I am convinced it is for her happiness, as well as for your own. Adm. Come, dear, let us take a walk; I feel rather excited. No wonder, this being firm is one of the most unsteady feelings imaginable, for I have no sooner come to a resolution of making a stand, than I find my head running round consumedly. [Exeunt. Scene V, A parlour in the homestead. Enter Dame Bar grove. Mrs Bar. Well, I wonder whether Mr Bargrove intends to come home to-day. I never knew a man work so hard for his employer. He is an honest man, I will say that, and there are not many wives who are in their husband's secrets can say the same. Aye, and he's no poor man either. His own property to nurse, and twenty years' service with a liberal master have made him independent, and our boy and girl will be none the worse for it. Well, it has been fairly and honourably earned, and there are few who can count so much and say the same. I wish Peter were not so idle and thoughtless. It frets his father very much. Here he comes, and I'll try if I can't reason with him. Enter Peter Bargrove with great consequence. Mrs Bar. Well, Peter, have you seen your father ? Peter. I have not yet communicated the important intelligence. Mrs Bar. Why, what's the matter with the boy ? important intelligence ! Peter. I had forgot. She is still unaware of my discovery. Hem ! {walking up to his mother.) good woman ! look me full in the face. 126 Olla Podrida Mrs Bar. Good woman ! Mercy on us, Peter ! Is it thus you address your mother ? Peter. My mother ! I tell you to look in my face. Mrs Bar, Look in your face ? Well, sir, I do look in your face; and a very foolish face you're making of it. Are you mad ? Peter. Mad ! no, Mrs Bargrove, I'm not mad, but I've discovered all. Mrs Bar. All ! Peter. Yes, all. Down on your knees and confess. Mrs Bar. Confess ! confess what ? Down on my knees too ? Why, you ungracious boy, what do you mean ? Enter Mr Bargrove, unperceived, ijuho stands aside. Peter. What do I mean } Confess your enormous guilt — the wicked trick that you played me in my infancy. Mrs Bar. Dear me, dear me, my child is out of his senses. Peter. Madam, I am in my senses, but I am not your child. Woman, you know it. Mrs Bar. (weeping). O dear, O dear ! Peter. Tell me, will you confess at once, thou in- famous [Old Bargrove comes forward, and knocks Peter down witk his cudgel. Old Bar. I can't stand it any longer. What do you mean, you rascal, by calling your mother infamous ? Peter (rubbing his head, and getting up slowly), 'Tis well — 'tis very well I had resolved before to turn you away ; now you may expect the severest chastisement. Take warning this moment, you old Old Bar. (lifting up his cudgel). You old what ? Peter. I'll swear the peace against you. Take care what you are about. This is a violent assault, you know j and you don't know him you are beating. Old Bar. Don't I ? Peter. No, you don't — but I'll tell you. This woman The Gipsy 127 changed me at nurse, and I can prove it. I — yes — I, humble as I stand here, with my head broken also — am no less than Peter Etheridge — the young Squire ! Old Bar. Look at the almanac, dame. Is the harvest moon at full ? He's mad, indeed ! Peter, I am not. Mrs Bargrove, where is your accom- plice, Nelly Armstrong ? You see I know all. {Mrs Bargrove weeps, but makes no answer,) I say again confess all, and then, perhaps, I may pardon you, and let your husband keep his place. Old Bar, Keep my place, and so you are Peter Etheridge, are you ? Peter, I am, and she knows it well. Old Bar, Well, but I don't. I only know you as my foolish son, Peter Bargrove, and so long as you are so supposed to be, I shall not permit you to insult your mother. So, Mr Peter, I'll just take the liberty of giving you a little wholesome chastisement, which I hope may prove beneficial. [Old Bargrove beats Peter round the room, while Mrs Bargrove tries to prevent him, Peter. I'll tell my mother, Lady Etheridge ! that I will. I'll go directly. \jPeter runs off, Mr and Mrs Bargrove sit down, Mrs Bargrove sobbing. Old Bar. {panting). The scoundrel ! Enter Lucy, in her bonnet, from walking, Lucy, Good Heavens, father, what was all that noise ? Mother, why, what is the matter ? Lid Bar, Matter enough ; here's your brother Peter gone out of his senses. But I have rubbed him well down with this cudgel. Mrs Bar. {cryitig). He's mad, Lucy, quite mad ! Called me an infamous old woman, and said that I changed him at nurse. He will have it, that he is Peter Etheridge. 128 Olla Podrida Lucy (confounded). Good heavens ! how strange ! (Aside) I hardly know what to think. That gipsy's knowledge — and now my brother — where could he have obtained similar information ? — yet it cannot be, she is too good a woman. Old Bar. What do you say, Lucy ? Lucy. Nothing, father. Old Bar. Did you ever hear of such conduct ? Lucy. He must have been told so, or he never would have been so violent. Old Bar. So violent ! who could have told him such a falsehood ? or who would have believed it for a moment, but a fool like him ? Mrs Bar. How could he have known anything about Nelly Armstrong ? Lucy. Nelly Armstrong ! Did he mention her name ? Mrs Bar. Yes ; he asked me where she was, and says, that she was my accomplice. [Lucy remains in thought. Old Bar. Lucy, why don't you comfort your mother? One would think you were leagued with Peter. Lucy. I, father ! Old Bar. Yes, you — you are not yourself. Pray have you heard anything of this before ? (Lucy silent.) Answer me, girl, I say, have you before heard anything of this ? Lucy. I have. Old Bar. And pray from whom ? Lucy. From a strange quarter, and most strangely told. I am not well, father. [Lucy bursts into tears, and Exit. Old Bar. (after a pause, looking his wife earnestly in the face). Why, Dame Bargrove, how is this ? Lucy is not a fool, and she is evidently of the same opinion as Peter. (Walks up and down the room, and betrays much agitation.) Dame, dame, if, for foolish love of thine own children, and I see that thou lovest the other two, as well, if not better than, these — if, I say, thou hast done this great The Gipsy 129 wrong, down on thy knees, and confess it ! Guilt can never prosper, and reparation must be made. Airs Bar. (throiving herself ofi her knees before her husband^ On my knees, husband, I swear to you, before God, that these children, Peter and Lucy, were born to me, and are the fruits of our marriage. May I never prosper in this world, and lose all hope of mercy in the next, if I speak not now the truth. Old Bar. (taking up his wife and kissing her^. I do believe thee, dame, thou hast ever been honest ; but there is mischief brewing, and we must find out who are the authors of this report. Come, cheer up ! All will be discovered, and all will be well. [JExeunt ambo ; Old Bar grove leading off and caressing Mrs Bargrove. Act Ill.Scene I. A wood. — Enter Bill and Dick. Dick. Well, Bill, what do ye say to it — will it do ? Bill. Can't tell — been thinking on it all night. Don't much like the consarn. There be too many on 'en. Dick. Yes, and there be a mortal lot of plate. Bill, ail kept in the butler's pantry. I met a servant at a public- house, who is going away, a sea chap, drinking malt like a fish, and I v/ormed all out of him. I think it be an easy job. The butler be fat and pursey. The Admiral be old and toothless. Bill. That's all right, so far, Dick ; but then there be the two young officers just come down. Dick. Yes, but I finds that they sleep quite t'other end of the house altogether ; and d'ye see. Bill, the plate be only left out because they be come to the Hall. When they're off, the best of the pewter will be all locked up again; so, it's no use to wait till they start off. Come, what d'ye say, Bill ? Jack and Nim be both of my mind. I see'd them this morning. o I Tjo Olla Podrida Bill, {thoughtfully). It be hanging matter, Dick. D'lch, Why, yes — so it be, if so be as we be found out first, and caught arterwards — and then go to 'sizes — and then a true bill be given — and then we be found guilty, and arter all, gets no reprieve ; but there be as many a slip between the noose and the neck, as there be 'tween the cup and the lip. Bill. Well, Dick, I tell ye what, I've no objection to stand outside, and help carry off. Dick. That be all we wants. One must look to the nag and cart, and that one must be you. Gie's your hand on it. \They shake hands. Bill. But I say, Dick, does Nelly know the business in hand ? Dich Not yet. Bill. I've an idea she won't allow it. I heard her talk summit about conscience — or the like of it. Dich, Talk about fiddlesticks. Show her the pewter and she'll snap her fingers. Here she comes. I'll let her into the gammon. Enter Nelly, Nelly. Well, lads \ what's in the wind } Dick, Summit worth sneezing at, Nell. We are up to a rig to-night. Got a bit of a frolic for pewter. Nelly, Aye, boys, where ? Dick. At the Hall here. Nelly. It won't do. Dick. Yes, but it will though. Nelly. Yes it will do for you {pointing to her neck). I know the Hall well. It must not be thought of. Dick. But we have thought on it, and ivill think on it. We be all determined, so there be an end of the matter, and an end of your palaver. Nelly, I say no ! Dick, None o' your gammon — pewter arn't to be picked up in the highways. The thing be settled. Nelly, Think no more on it. The Gipsy 131 Dick. You mind your own business, missus. Go and tell fortunes to fools and women ; leave men alone. Nelly. I can tell your fortune. A dance in the air till you are out of breath. Dick. Didn't require a wise woman to find out that. (^Aside.^) But we must keep our eyes upon her — she's queer. (Aloud.) Come Bill. [Exeunt Bill and Dick. Nelly sola. Am I so fallen, never to recover ? Must I sink deeper and deeper with these villains ? Since I joined them they have never yet attempted anything like this. Petty theft, to support existence, I have participated in, but nothing more. Can I retreat ? Ah, when I look upon these hills, and remember the time when I roved here, careless, innocent, and happy, how often do I wish that I could retrace my steps ! Yonder is the church where I used to pray. How long is it now since I have dared perform that sacred duty ? Yet, how often, since I have returned to this spot, have I longed to fall upon my knees ! But I am an outcast. Pride and vanity have made me so, and pride has reduced me so to remain, although I loathe myself, and those connected with me. This intention of theirs has, however, resolved me. The deed shall not take place. I will, by some means, warn them at the Hall — a letter, but how to get it there ? It shall be done, and done directly. They can but murder me if I am discovered, and what is my life now ? — a burden to myself. [Exit. Scene II. An Ornamental Shrubbery near the Lodge of the Hall. Enter Peter Bargrove. Peter. What a stupid old woman not to confess, after the stars had told the truth ! As to old Bargrove, I will have my revenge upon him. Beat me ! me. Sir Peter's 1^2 Olla Podrida heir to the property ! How confounded strong he is ! the old brute ! Out of respect to his age, I did not strike him again ; but I should like to see, just like to see the next man who will venture to lay his stick across my back. Now I'll to the Hall, and make myself known to Lady Etheridge. How affected she will be ! I'll lay my life there will be a scene. Who comes here ? O, the fictitious heir to the property, Captain Bargrove, as he will find himself in a very short time. I must hold myself rather high ; it will prepare him, as it were, for the bad news. Poor fellow ! Enter Captain Etheridge and Mertoun, from the gates of the Lodge, Capt, Eth. (holding out his hand). Hail ! Peter, my good fellow I how are you all at home ? Peter, {turning aivay, and folding his arms). Pretty well. Captain. Capt, Mer, (aside), I say, Etheridge, that's a dead cut j who is your friend ? Capt. Eth, (astonished). What's the matter now ? I think, Mr Peter, when I offer my hand, it is not very courteous in you to refuse it. Peter, (ostentatiously). Property, Captain, is property. You'll allow that. My hand is my own, and I have it in possession. You'll allow that. But there is other property, which at present is not in my possession, but which you will allow to be hereafter. (Aside,) That's a hard hit. Capt, Mer, Property is property, Etheridge, and to judge by his manners, your friend must have an excess of it in possession. Capt, Eth. Property is property, but I doubt if my friend has much of it in possession. Peter, No, but I hope to have. Capt, Eth. Well, I hope so too. But what's the matter with you, Peter ? Peter, Excessively familiar ! The Gipsy 133 Capt, Mer, Upon my word, Etheridge I wonder at your patience. Who is the brute ? Peter. Brute, sir, did you say brute ? Capt. Mer. Yes, sir, I did. Peter. Then, sir, if you say brute, I beg to observe to you, sir, that — that Capt. Mer. What ? Well, sir ! Peter. That, sir, a brute is a beast, sir Capt. Mer. Exactly. Peter. And if that's what you meant, there's no offence. Now, if you say brute beast Capt. Mer. Well, sir, I do say so. Peter. You do — you do say so .'' Well, then, sir, allow me to tell you, in very positive terms, sir, that you have been guilty of — of tautology. Capt. Mer. Your friend is very harmless, Etheridge. Capt. Eth. I am aware of that ; but still I was not pre- pared for this impertinence, considering the obligations he is under to my family. Peter. Obligations, sir, what obligations ? Do you refer to the advantages that you had in being educated with me ? Capt. Eth. I have ever considered the reverse ; and that it was you who had the advantages, had you had sense enough to profit by them. Peter. Now, observe, there's your mistake. Capt. Eth. to Capt. Mer. The fool is mad. Peter. Mad, Captain what's your name ? Capt. Eth. Captain what's-your-name, Peter, don't stand insult. Peter. There is no insult. I repeat again, Captain what's-your-name. Do you know your name ? Capt. Eth. to Capt. Mer. Why, he's as mad as a March hare. Capt. Mer. Yes, but not so hot as a Welsh rabbit. Peter. A rabbit — that's a boroughmonger ! Now I ought to take that up, it is a downright insult ; but perhaps he did not mean it. Captain what's-your-name. 134 Olia Podrida I tell you a secret ; you don't know your own name, no, nor you don't know your station in life. Capt. Eth. I'm sure you forget yours, Mr Peter. How long has this change taken place ? Peter. Ask your nurse. {Aside,) That was a hard hit ; he must smell a rat now. Capt, Eth, Ask my nurse ! Capt. Mer, Ask your granny, Etheridge ; upon my soul, it's as good as a play. Capt, Eth, To the audience, perhaps j but I feel rather inclined to be in earnest. Hark you, Mr Peter, do you know I am very particular in payment, and always give every man his due. Peter, That's it exactly. All that I wish is, that you v/ould give me mine ; but if you don't — I shall oblige you, depend upon it. Capt, Mer. I rather expect he will, Etheridge, if he goes on much longer. Peter, Thank you for taking my part. That's hand- some. Perhaps you will persuade him to do me justice. Capt, Mer, If you had been in my hands, I should have done you justice long before this. Peter, " There's virtue still extant," as the play has it. Sir, as you have joined my side, I'll permit you to shake hands with me. Capt. Mer. O certainly ! we always do preparatory to a set-to. Now, then, take my advice — on your guard ! Peter (aside). Now I don't fear him. (Aloud.) Captain what's- you r-name, shall I tell you your fortune ? Capt, Eth. O certainly ! you look like a conjuror. Peter. It is your fortune, sir, to be under the baleful influence of the stars, Georgium Sidum and Copernicum. In a few days you will find your name to be Bargrove, and you will have to change situations with me. Capt. Eth. Indeed ! Peter. Yes, Captain Bargrove, so it is. A wicked woman changed us in our cradles ; but the secret is come out, and evidence is at hand. You must return to The Gipsy 135 obscurity, whilst I emerge from mine. The stars will have it so. Your fortune's told. Capt, Eth. Nonsense ! the fool has been imposed upon. Now, Mr Peter, I'll tell your fortune. Peter. I thank you. It has been already told to my satisfaction. Capt. Eth. Nevertheless, it must be told again, although, perhaps, not to your satisfaction. Mr Peter, I can put up with folly, but never with impertinence. Mars and Saturn are about to be in strong opposition, and heavy Saturn will soon jump about like Mercury. The stars will have it so. Peter. I don't comprehend that. Capt. Eth. It shall be explained. You, Peter Bargrove, have been excessively insolent to me, Edward Etheridge ; in consequence, I shall now take the liberty of giving you a little wholesome correction. [Seizes Peter by the collar. Capt. Mer. Don't use violence to the natural. He offends more in ignorance than malice. Peter. Thank you, sir. I see that you are a well- behaved gentleman. O sir ! sir ! 'tis a vile, ungrateful world. I intended to do something for that young man. {Captain Etheridge shakes him.) Why, yes, I did. I not only intended to allow you forty pounds a year, but to do what would be more agreeable to your sister Agnes. Capt. Eth. Agreeable to Miss Etheridge ! What do you mean, sir ? Peter. Mean — why, I'm not quite sure — recollect, I don't promise \ but I was thinking of marrying her. {Captain Mertoim jlies at him, and seizes him by the collar on the other side. They both shake him violently^ Capt. Eth. \^ f i^y sister, ) you Capt. Mer. ] ^^" "^^""^ t Miss Etheridge, | scoundrel ! Capt. Mer. {letting him go). I am sorry that I was pro- voked to lay hands on him. Etheridge, I'll leave his chastisement entirely to you. Peter. Thank you, sir ; I always thought ye were on my side. I suppose that was a mistake just now. 136 Olla Podrida Capt. Mer. I certainly had no right to interfere between you and Captain Etheridge. Capt. Eth. {still holding Peter by the collar). But, Mr Peter, we do not part yet. You may have made your peace with Captain Mertoun, but not with me. How dare you insult me thus ? Peter. I insult you ! {To Captain Mertoun.) Arn't you of my side ? Capt. Mer. {laughing). Yes ; if you are knocked down, I, as your second, will help you up again, no more. Peter. Weil — but Fm not a nine-pin. Why not prevent him from knocking me down ? Capt. Mer. The stars won't permit that. Capt. Eth. And the stars ordain this. {Lifting his cane.) Peter. Captain Etheridge, one word | let go my collar, behave like a reasonable man, and I now promise, upon my word of honour, that I will elevate your sister to my — nuptial bed. {Captain Mertoun shakes his cane, and makes signs to Captain Etheridge to thrash him.) Capt. Eth, I can bear no more. {Beats Peter round the stage.) Peter. Oh ! oh ! My stars again. Why don't you help me, sir? Capt. Mer. You are not down yet, Peter. {Captain Etheridge continues striking.) Peter {throiuing himself down, and panting). Now I am. Capt. Mer, Yes, and now I may help you up. Then you may go at it again. Peter. What ! am I to have more of it if I am up ? Capt. Mer. I rather suspect so. Peter. Then I prefer lying here. You need not wait. Captain Bargrove. I sha'n't get up this half-hour. {Rubbing his shoulders.) Capt. Eth. You observe, Peter, I told you your fortune correctly. The stars would have it so. I hope, when next we meet, you will be a little more reasonable, and also a little more respectful. If not, I hold your fortune in my hands. {Holding up his cane.) The Gipsy 137 Peter, Didn't I tell you that you did? Why don't you return it like an honest man ? As I said before, I'll make you an allowance. Capt, Eth. That's more than I will for you, if I have any more impertinence Come, Mertoun, he'll not come to time, that's clear. Capt, Mer, No, nor to his fortune or title either, I'm afraid. Good morning, Peter. Ha ! ha \ ha ! Capt, Eth. Farewell, Sir Peter ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! [^Exeunt Captains Mertoun and Etheridge. Peter (sitting up). Come to time — nor to my title and fortune. Well, I hope they'll both come to the gallows. I thought of that as a repartee when they were here, but it was too good to be thrown away upon them. (Rises.) It is very odd that nobody will believe me when the facts are so plain. As Shakespeare says, the " ladder of my ambition is so hard to climb." I presume these are all the sticks I am to get up by. I'm almost tired of it already ; but, however, after two misses comes a hit ; and I'll try the last. Now to Lady Etheridge, discover myself to her, sob upon her bosom, as the gipsy foretold I should ; and then if she is but on my side, why I defy all the men in the family. [Exit, Scene III. A parlour in the homestead. Enter Old Bargrove and Mrs Baygrcve. Old Bar. Why, dame, I can make nothing out of it. I have questioned Lucy as closely as possible, and it appears that it was a gipsy woman who told their fortunes. But still, as Lucy told me the story, there is something very strange about it. Mrs Bar. Lucy appears to take it very much to heart, poor thing ! Old Bar, She does, dame, but in the right way. She thinks of others, and not of herself. I tell you this, 138 Olla Podrida dame, if I thought that Lucy was not my daughter, it would almost break my heart. Mrs Bar. She's a good girl, and content with her father and mother. I only wish that Peter was the same. 0/d Bar. Peter was born a fool, dame, and he'll never be anything else. But I hope this may prove of service to him. I hear that he has already been up to the Hall. Mrs Bar. Had we not better go there, too, Bargrove, and see Sir Gilbert, or they may suppose we be parties to the report. 0/d Bar. Why should they, and who knows the report as yet ? Mrs Bar. O, everybody ! I was told of it ten minutes back by Mrs Benson. She heard it of the footman, William. He says, that Captain Etheridge has given Peter a sound thrashing. 0/d Bar. Did he ? Then I am very much indebted to him. I'll tell you what, dame, I'll to the wood and find out this gipsy woman ; and if threatening her with the stocks and Bridewell won't make her confess, I have a warrant in my pocket, juSt made out by the magistrates' clerk, for the apprehension of the gang, on suspicion of their stealing Mrs Fowler's turkey, and Farmer Groves' geese. We'll first see what can be done there •, and then I'll come back, and we'll walk up to the Hall. Mrs Bar. Do so, Bargrove , let us show that we've a clear conscience, at all events. 0/d Bar. I'll be back in an hour, dame ; I must go down to Wilson, the constable. [Exit o/d Bar, Mrs Bar. I never was so put out in my life. That boy Peter's folly worries me to death. Who comes here ? why, it's Captain Etheridge, I do declare. I am almost afraid to see one of the family now. Enter Captain Etioeridge, Capt. Eth. My dear Mrs Bargrove, with your per- mission. {Kissing her.) I can't leave off my old habit The Gipsy 139 of kissing my nurse. How are you, and your husband, and how is pretty Lucy ? Mrs Bavo Quite well, thank you, Mr Edward. Dear me, what a man you do grow ! Capt. Eth. If I am not a man at five-and-twenty, dame, I never shall be. Mrs Bar. Five-and-twenty ! dear heart ! so it is — but time does fly fast ! It appears to me but the other day that I had you in my arms. How does Miss Agnes to-day ? Capt. Eth. Not very well, dame, she has something to vex her. Indeed, there's a rumour flying about, and I've come down to speak with you and Lucy on the subject. Mrs Bar. I know it all ; but it's all false, Mr Edward, all stuff and nonsense from beginning to end. Bargrove has now gone to sift the matter. I'm sure I ought to know. A pretty trouble I've had about it ; what with foolish Peter, even Bargrove himself spoke to me as if I could have been guilty of such an act. Capt. Eth. What does Lucy think of it ? Mrs Bar. Lucy is more vexed than any of us. I really think, if she thought it true, that she would make away with herself. Capt. Eth. What ! at the idea of being Miss Etheridge ! no cause that for suicide either. Mrs Bar. No, not that, Captain Etheridge ; but at the idea of rising in the world at the expense of those to whom she owes both love and gratitude. She's a good girl. Captain Etheridge. Capt. Eth. I agree with you, dame, she's a very sweet girl. I wish to speak to her. Will you send her to me ? Mrs Bar. To be sure I will, Master Edward. She'll be glad to see you. She's always asking after you when you be away. [^Exit Mrs Bargrove. Capt. Eth. I did but say a few words to her on my arrival. I dared not trust myself with more. She looked so beautiful. I have not been able to drive her from my thoughts ever since. Heigho ! the conflict between love I40 Olla Podrlda and pride is well contested : nothing but opportunity can give the victory to the one, and absence to the other. The more I know of her, the more deserving she appears. I often try to find faults in her, but I cannot discover them. I suppose that I inherit all my pride from my mother ; that I cherish it in preference to my happiness is clear. But should this report prove true. Such things have occurred, and this may have been done without the knowledge of Mrs Bargrove. Agnes and Lucy then change situations ; and I with that cub, Peter Bargrove. Very pleasant indeed ! the former is not of much conse- quence but to be jostled out of my supposed birthright by a booby ! Enter Lucy. Capt, Eth, {going up tc her and taking her by the hand), I took the liberty to request a few minutes' interview. Lucy {smil'mg). Surely not a very great liberty with one whom you have known so long, and who is so very much indebted to your father. Capt. Eth, Not so much as his children are indebted to your mother. But the object of my visit is, Lucy, to request that you will give me some information relative to a ridiculous report. Lucy, I can, and I can assure you, Captain Etheridge, that I believe it to be without the shadow of a foundation. That Agnes and I were both taken by surprise at the moment, you must not wonder at ; but on reflection, I am convinced that it is a fabrication. Indeed, the very idea is most injurious to the character of my mother. Capt, Eth. I grant this ; but the change may have taken place without the knowledge of your mother. Lucy, It is possible, but barely possible, who but a foolish mother, blinded by partiality, would ever have been guilty of an act which never could benefit herself? Capt. Eth. You are not well acquainted with the knavery of the world. To prove a fact like this, in a court of justice, would, in most instances, be rewarded liberally. The Gipsy 141 Your brother, for instance, seems to view the affair in a very different light. Lucy, Captain Etheridge, I can honestly assert, that the rumour has occasioned to me the greatest uneasiness ; and were it to prove true, I should be still more unhappy. Capt, Eth, I cannot understand you. You would find yourself raised to a position in society which you did not expect ; courted by those who at present disregard you, and moving in a circle to which, I must say, your beauty and your other natural gifts would contribute to adorn. Lucy, Do not flatter me. I have a great dislike to it. I am, I trust, satisfied in my present situation ; and, were I weak enough to indulge a transient feeling of vanity, the reminiscence which would instantly intrude, that my advancement was founded on the misery of those I love better than myself, would render it a source of deep and unceasing regret. Capt, Eth. Those you love better than yourself, Lucy ; who are they ? Lucy {confused), I referred to your sister Agnes, and to your father. Capt, Eth. O, not to me ! — then I am an exclusion. Lucy, My gratitude to your father for his kindness, and our intimacy from childhood, ought to assure you, Captain Etheridge, that 1 must ever wish for your happiness. Capt, Eth, But suppose, my dear Lucy, this should prove to be true. Lucy, I have already stated my sentiments. Capt, Eth, You have, Lucy, generally, and much to your honour ; but I am just putting the case for my amusement. Suppose it were proved true, you would not look down upon me as the child of your inferiors ? Lucy, Captain Etheridge, the very observation, for your amusement, is both ungenerous and unkind. I acknowledge our present inferiority, but not perhaps to the extent which would be exacted from your family. But oblige me by not carrying your suppositions any further. {Tremulously^ I am not very happy — as it is. 142 Olla Podrida Capt, Eth. Forgive me, Lucy, I did not intend to inflict pain. I am much too fond of you for that. Lucy, Then why do you come here to make me miserable ? Capt. Eth, To make you miserable, my dear Lucy .'' I should, indeed, be a wretch, when my own liappiness depends upon you. {Lucy starts.) {Aside.) It is out at last. Now there's no retreat in honour, and I thank heaven for it. (Aloud.) Did you hear me, Lucy ? {Lucy appears fainting, Etheridge supports her.) Are you angry with me, Lucy ? {^he weeps.) I will confess to you honestly, that I have long struggled with my passion, but pride, ridiculous pride, has severely punished me for listening to its selfish dictates. Believe me, when I assert, that never was man more attached than I am to you. Answer me, Lucy, am I then indifferent to you 1 Lucy, {separating herself gently from Captain Etheridge). I will be as candid as you have been. {Remains for a little time silent.) Whether you are IndifFerent to me or not, I must leave you to judge, from the eifects of your com- munication ; but I have also pride, and that pride never will allow me to enter a family against the wishes of those who have a right to be consulted on a question of such serious importance. Capt. Eth. Only one question, Lucy. If my father consents to our union, will you be satisfied, without the concurrence of my mother ? Lucy. I should abide by the decision of my own father and mother j but, to confess the truth, I should not be satisfied. Capt. Eth. Am I then to consider this as a mere act of duty, Lucy ? Is there no feeling towards me ? Lucy. O yes ! Why should I deny it ? Indeed, Edward, if you could have read my heart for some time back, you would have found — — Capt. Eth. What, my dear Lucy ? Lucy. That your image has long occupied it — to its unhappiness. The Gipsy 143 Capt. Eth, As yours has mine. Now I trust they will cherish their inmates with delight. Farewell, my dearest Lucy ; I hasten to my father, and I've an idea in my brain which may procure the completion of our wishes. \They embrace. Exit Captain Etheridge, Lucy. God give me strength, and make me sufficiently grateful ! This was so unexpected. O Edward ! Edward ! you have opened such a vista of delight through the dark clouds that surrounded me, that I tremble as I gaze. How dreadful will be this suspense ! Now am I arrived at the crisis of my fate. Either I am blessed beyond all hope, and all desert — or else — I die. \Exit. Scene IV. A room in the Hall. Enter William^ showing in Peter Bargrove. Will. Step in this room, Mr Peter, and Fll let my lady know that you are here. I say, Mr Peter, what can you want with my lady ? Peter {consequentially). That cannot concern you, sir, I should think. Will. What's the matter now ? Why, you used to be civil and genteel. I say, I suppose you have found a mare's nest. Peter. Don't be saucy, sir 5 go and deliver your message to my lady. Will. And if it warn't for my own sake, I wouldn't now. \Exit William. Peter. We shall see some difference, I flatter myself, in their behaviour when they know who's who. How shall I address her } I never before dare speak to her, she is so haughty and proud. But she won't be so when she knows that I am her son. Pooh ! I don't care for her now. Re-enter William. Will. My lady desires you to wait in the servants' hall till she sends for you. This way. 144 Olla Podrida Peter, Indeed, I will no|: — I'll wait here. Will, O, very well — just as you please ; but you*ll take the consequences. Recollect, I have delivered my lady's message. Peter, You have — and you may go. Will. Weil, I suspect you be got a cloth in the wind, Mr Peter. \Exit William. Peter, Means Fm drunk ! Insolent fellow ! I'll give him warning. I daresay my lady will be very angry till she knows the circumstances. Then the sooner I let it out the better (walks about). What care I. I'll be as brave as brass. Lady Eth. {without). I'll be back directly. Peter {fantting himself with his hat), O lud ! here she comes. {Recovering himself). Who cares ! Let her come. Enter Lady Etheridge, Lady Eth, You here, sir ! I desired you to wait in the servants' hall. Peter, Yes, my lady, you did — but — but — that is not a fit place for ms. Lady Eth, I am sure this room is not. Well, sir — what do you want ? Peter. Lady Etheridge, I have most important intelli- gence to communicate. Lady Eth, Well, sir, let me hear it. Peter, Lady Etheridge, prepare yourself for most un- thought-of news. Lady Eth, Will you speak out, fool ? Peter {aside). Fool ! very maternal indeed. {Aloud,) If I am a fool. Lady Etheridge, why, all the worse for you. Lady Eth. How, sir ? Peter, Yes, my lady, I think you'll treat me with more respect very soon. Lady Eth, I shall order the servants to show you the door very soon. Peter, If you do, my lady, I sha'n't go out of it. Lady Eth. Insolent fellow, leave the room directly. Peter, No, can't, upon my honour. {Aside.) How she'll The Gipsy 145 beg my pardon for all this by-and-bye ! It's really very pleasant. {Aloud.) I come, my lady, to communicate most important intelligence, but I want to break it to you care- fully, lest you should be too much overcome with joy. Prepare yourself, my lady, for astounding news. You have a son ! Lady Eth. {Aside.) The fellow's mad. {Aloud.) Well, sir, what's that to you ? Peter. A great deal, my lady ; you don't know him. Lady Eth. What does the fool mean ? Peter. No, my lady, you don't know him. Him whom you suppose to be your son — is — not your son. Lady Eth. {Startled.) Indeed ! Peter. Yes, my lady, but your son is not far off. Lady Eth. Are you deranged ? Peter. No ; quite sensible — hear me out. Dame Bargrove nursed that son. Lady Eth. Well, sir ! Peter. And, Lady Etheridge, we have proof positive, that the wicked woman changed him. Lady Eth. {screaming.) Changed him ! Peter. Yes, changed him for her own. Edward Etheridge is Edward Bargrove, and Peter Bargrove Peter Etheridge. My dear, dear mother ! {Runs into her arms and kisses her repeatedly ^ notwithstanding her endeavours to prevent him.) Lady Eth. {screaming.) Oh ! oh ! [Peter leads her to a chair ^ and she goes into hysterics. Peter. How very affecting. Enter Sir Gilbert. Adm. What's all this ! Is Lady Etheridge ill ? Peter. A little overcome with joy. Sir Gilbert. It will be your turn next. Ad7n. {Going to Lady Etheridge, ivho recovers.) What's the matter, my love ? Lady Eth. {spitting). O the wretch — the brute ! He has taken liberties ! O K 146 Olla Podrida Adm. Taken liberties, the scoundrel I Pray, sir, what liberties have you taken with Lady Etheridge ? Peter. I only smothered her with kisses. Adm, What do you mean, sir ? Are you mad ? Smother- ing her with kisses ! Peter, (smiling). I certainly did assume that privilege. Sir Gilbert. Adm. Did you, you rascal ? then I'll just assume another (Thrashes Peter round the room.) Peter. My father ! O my honoured parent ! Oh ! your own son ! Oh, your affectionate \Exit Peter, pursued by the Admiral. Adm. (returning, puffing and blowing). Why, positively, the fellow is stark, staring mad. Enter Agnes, Captains Etheridge and Mertoun. Capt. Eth. What is all this disturbance, my dear father ? Adm. What is it, why, I hardly can tell. There has been an impudent scoundrel — that young Bargrove — kissing your mother till she has fainted, and swearing that he is my son. Called me his honoured parent — but I cudgelled the rascal ! Agnes, (leaning on Captain Etheridge s shoulder). O heavens ! Capt. Eth. The fellow himself has just now been trying to elbow me out of my birthright. However, I met his pretensions with the same argument as you did. Who could have put all this nonsense into his addled head so firmly, that two good cudgellings cannot beat it out ? Capt. Mer. Etheridge, your sister is unwell. Capt. Eth. Don't be alarmed, my dear Agnes. Agnes. Oh ! but indeed I am — I expected this. Adm. Expected this ! Have you, then, heard anything, my love ? Agnes. Yes, I have indeed j just before my brother arrived I was told that my real name was Agnes Bargrove. Adm. How very extraordinary ! Who told you so } The Gipsy 147 Agnes, A very strange woman ; but she appeared to know all about it. It has made me very unhappy ever since. Adm. This must be inquired into. Where did you meet with her ? Agnes. In the lower wood. But Lucy can tell you more. Speak to her. Lady Eth. I'm very ill. Lead me to my room. [Exeunt Sir Gilbert and Lady Etheridge, Capt, Eth. And I must away to unravel this deep-laid plot. Mertoun, I must leave you to take care of Agnes. [Exit Capt. Etheridge. Capt. Mer. A pleasing change, if I am not unwelcome. May I be permitted, Miss Etheridge, from a very great interest which I must ever take in the prosperity of your family — may I ask if you imagine there is any truth in this report ? Agnes. It is impossible for me to answer. Captain Mertoun. Why should such a report be raised without some foundation. True or not, I have ever since felt in a situation so awkward, that I fear my conduct may have appeared strange to others. Capt. Mer. I must confess that your evident restraint to- wards me, so different from what perhaps my vanity induced me to hope, has been to me a source of wonder as well as regret. May I flatter myself that this rumour has been the occasion of an apparent caprice, which I never could have imagined that Miss Etheridge would have indulged in ^ Agnes. You must be aware. Captain Mertoun, that I could not receive you as Agnes Etheridge until those doubts upon my parentage were removed. It would not have been honest. Capt. Mer. And was this the only cause for your change of behaviour towards me, Agnes ? Agnes. Why — yes, — I believe so. Capt. Mer. Now, then, let me declare that, whether you prove to be Agnes Etheridge, or Agnes Bargrove, those 148 Olla Podrida sentiments which I have felt towards you, and which have not hitherto been revealed excepting to your brother, must ever remain the same. For your own sake, and for the sake of Sir Gilbert and Lady Etheridge, who would deeply regret the loss of such a daughter, I trust that the report is without foundation. For my own part, I rather rejoice at this opportunity of proving the sincerity of my attach- ment. Let me but find favour in the sight of Agnes, and the surname will be immaterial. Agnes. Immaterial, Captain Mertoun ! Capt. Mer. Yes, quite so ; for I shall persuade you to change it as soon as possible, for my own. (Kneels.) Tell me, dearest Agnes Agnes. Tell you what ? Capt. Mer. Something that will make me happy. Agnes, {smiling). Shall I tell you what the gipsy woman said when she told me my fortune ? Capt. Mer. Nay, do not trifle with me. Agnes, (archly). I asked whether I should marry the person that I loved. Capt. Mer. A very natural question. Agnes. She replied, " Yes, if he is more generous than the generality of his sex." (Gives her hand.) Captain Mertoun, you have proved yourself so to be, and, since you offer to take Agnes, truly speaking, for " better or for worse," I will not keep you in suspense by disguising my real sentiments. Capt. Mer. Dearest Agnes, you have indeed made me happy. (Embraces her.) I accompanied your brother, with the sole view of pleading my own cause. Imagine then my misery at your cruel reception. Agnes. That you may not think me interested by my accepting your generous offer during this state of uncer- tainty, I will own how often I have thought of you, and how eagerly I looked for your arrival. Let us go now, Mertoun, and see whether Lady Etheridge is recovered. [Exeunt arm in arm The Gipsy 149 Scene V, The wood. Enter Nelly. Nelly. I have tried in vain to dissuade them to abandon their projects. They are preparing their instruments and their weapons. They have determined to attempt the Hall to-night. I have written this letter to Sir Gilbert, and, if I can find any one to convey it, the scoundrels will be taken and punished. If I cannot, I must contrive some means to escape to the Hall ; but they suspect me, and watch me so narrowly, that it is almost impossible. What shall I do ? There is somebody coming ; it is that fool, Peter Bargrove. Then all is right. I will make use of him. Ejiter Peter. Your servant, fortunate sir ! Peter. Fortunate ! why now ar'n't you an infamous hussy ? Hav'n't you taken my purse and my money, for your intelligence that I was changed in my cradle, — and what has been the consequence ? Nelly. That everybody has been astonished. Peter. I have been astonished, at all events. I have had so many cudgellings that I must count them with my fingers. First, a huge one from old Bargrove ; secondly, a smart one from Captain Etheridge ; and thirdly, a severe one from Sir Gilbert. What is the value of your good news if no one will believe it ? Nelly. Very true — but how could you expect they would ? Peter. Then what's the good of knowing it ? Nelly. You must know a fact before you attempt to prove it. You only bought the knowledge of me, you never paid for the proof. Peter. No ; but I've paid for the knowledge. (Rubbing his shoulders.^ But didn't you say that Mrs Bargrove would confess ? 150 Olla Podrida Nelly, I thought it likely — but, if she won't, we must make her. Peter, How ? Nelly, Bring evidence against her that will convict her, so that she will find it useless denying it ? Peter, But where is it ? Nelly, Here (holding out the letter), Peter, Give it me. Nelly, Stop, stop ; you've not paid for it. Peter, Upon my honour, I've not got a farthing in the world. I durst not ask either father or mother after the bobbery weVe had. Indeed, I hardly know whether I dare go home and get my victuals. "Won't you trust me ? Nelly, When will you pay me ? Peter, When I come to my title and estate. Nelly, Well then, as I think you are a gentleman, I will trust you. Now observe, this letter is addressed to Sir Gilbert. It contains a statement of facts that will astonish and convince him. You must not trust it into other hands, but deliver it yourself. Peter, He'll cudgel me. Nelly. No, he will not. But, even if he did, would you mind a few blows for the certainty of being one day Sir Peter Etheridge ? Peter, No, hang me if I do. They might all cudgel me together, if they could cudgel me into the only son of a baronet of ten thousand a year. Nelly, Well, then, as soon as you can, go boldly up to the Hall, and say to Sir Gilbert, "Sir Gilbert, injustice to yourself, read this letter, and do not despise the caution, as it is all true." You v/iil then see the effect of it. Peter, See — not feel. You are certain he won't be angry. Well, then, I will — in this case I'm in a great hurry as anybody. I can promise. So good-bye. {Exit, Nelly, Now I think all is safe ; but I must quit the gang or my life will be in danger The Gipsy 151 Enter Old Bargrove, with Constable, Oh, that I could recall the last twenty years ! How- wicked, how infamous have I become. [Covers her face ivith her hands. Old Bargrove advances and taps her on the shoulder, Nelly starts, Mercy on me ! Old Bar. You must not expect much. I believe you tell fortunes, my good woman ! Nelly, (curtseying.) Yes, sir, sometimes. Old Bar. And steal geese and turkeys ? Nelly. No, sir, indeed. Old Bar. Well, you help to eat them afterwards, and the receiver is just as bad as the thief. You must come along with me. Nelly, Along with you, sir ! Old Bar. Do you see this little bit of paper ? But, now I look at you, haven't we met before ? Nelly. Met before, sir ! Old Bar. Yes — hold your head up a little, either my eyes deceive me, or you — yes, I'll swear to it — you are Nelly Armstrong. Not quite so good-looking as you were when we parted. Now I understand all. Come, take her along to the Hall at once. Nelly. Indeed, sir Old Bar. Not a word. Away with her, slanderous, lying, mischievous [Exeunt omnes. Scene VI. A Draivitig'Room in the HalL Enter Sir Gilbert and Captain Etheridge, Adm. I love Lucy as my own daughter, and it often occurred to me how delighted I should be to receive her as such. But your mother's dislike to her is most unaccount- able. Capt. Eth. There is the difficulty which I am most anxious 152 Olla Podrida to surmount. I am afraid that, without my mother's con- currence, Lucy will never consent to enter into the familyo She has pride as well as Lady Etheridge. Adm. Yes, but of a very different quality; a proper pride, Edward \ a respect for herself, added to a little feeling, to which she adheres in the decayed state of her family, which once was superior to ours. Capt, Eth, If my mother could but once be induced to suppose that this rumour is correct, we might obtain her unwilling consent. Adm, The report I believe to be wholly without founda- tion, and so I would, even if it were given against us in a court of justice. Capt, Eth. My opinion coincides with yours. But my happiness is at stake, and I, therefore, shall not pause at a trifling deception, which may be productive of so much good. Will you assist me ? Adm. "Why, Edward, can't you manage without me ? Capt. Eth. Not very well. Let me entreat you. I hear my mother coming. Adm. "Well, well — she is always asserting I deceive her when I don't — for once, I'll not be accused without a cause. Enter Lady Etheridge ; they pretend not to see her. Capt. Eth. {Aside.) Now, sir. {Aloud.) The proofs are, indeed, too strong, my dear sir, to hope for any other issue, and I regret that we have all been so long and so cruelly deceived. Adm. "Well, Edward, I can only say, if you are not really my son, you will always be considered as such ; for, whether your name be Etheridge or Bargrove, you must still look upon me as your father. Capt. Eth. I thank you, sir ; but there are circumstances over which you have no control. The title and estate must descend to the lawful heir ; and that silly fellow, Peter, will in future claim the affections of yourself, and oiF The Gipsy 153 my dear Lady Etheridge. It is on her account, more than my own, that I feel so much distressed. Lady Eth, {coming forward). What Is this that I hear ? Is there then any foundation for that vile report ? that hideous tale that turned the brain of that silly wretch ? {The Admiral shakes his head in mournful silence.^ Edward, will you not answer me ? Capt, Eth, I'm afraid that my answer will be most unsatisfactory. Madam, I had my doubts : indeed, I spurned the idea, until I called upon Lucy Etheridge — I believe I must call her now — and the proofs which she can bring forward. Lady Eth, The hussy ! Capt, Eth. Nay, my lady, I must do justice to her. She is more inclined to conceal the facts than to disclose them. Her regard for my father, her profound respect for you, and a certain feeling of good- will towards me Lady Eth. Well, I am glad to see a little good sense In the girl j indeed, if the Admiral had not spoilt her Adm, Lady Etheridge, I have always felt towards that girl as my own daughter. It's very odd. Do you think, Edward, that this matter could not be hushed up ? Capt, Eth. I know but of one way, sir, which is, to sacrifice myself for the welfare of the family. I will do it — I may say, almost willingly, Adm. How is that, Edward ? Capt, Eth. By a marriage with Lucy. Lady Eth. Never ! Capt. Eth. Who will then, for her own sake, keep the proofs In her possession. Lady. Eth. Never ! never ! I cannot consent to it. Capt. Eth. May I ask, my dear Lady Etheridge, if you refuse me as your son, or is Lucy refused to me as your daughter ? Lady Eth. Oh ! Capt. Eth. And again, my dear madam, when you reflect, on the establishment of these facts by undoubted proofs. 154 0\h Podrida that booby, Peter, will have a right to claim your maternal kindness. Lady Eth, Odious wretch ! Capt. Eth, To occupy that place in your affections which, hitherto, I have so proudly held, and must surrender with such deep regret. Lady Eth, I would consent to — submit to anything, rather than that monster should dare to call me mother, Capt, Eth. Yet so he will, madam, without you consent to the proposed arrangement. Lucy has always treated you with respect, and expressed the warmest gratitude for your protection ; but, as for Peter, he will be more bearish and insolent than ever, again smother you with his nauseous kisses, and claim them as an offspring's right. Lady Eth. I really feel quite ill again at the very idea. Save me from that, and I'll consent to anything. Capt, Eth, Well, then, madam, have I your permission ? Enter William. Will, Please, Sir Gilbert, here be Mr Bargrove, and Madam Bargrove and Miss Lucy, and the constables, and the malefactors, coming up to prove the whole truth of the consarn, to your's and my lady's satisfaction. Lady Eth. I'll not see them. I must leave you. Capt, Eth. Nay, madam, stay but one moment, and acquaint Lucy that you give your consent. She may not believe me. Enter Old Bargrove, Lucy, Constables, and Nelly. Old Bar. Your servant, my lady; your servant. Sir Gilbert. I've got the whole story out at last. I have brought up Lucy, who will prove the facts. My son Peter, I have sent after, and I took the liberty to tell the servant that Miss Agnes would be necessary. Capt Eth. {leading up Lucy to Lady Etheridge). Lady Etheridge, will you honour us so far as to give your con- sent ? {Lady Etheridge hesitates.^ My dear madam, recollect the circumstances. The Gipsy 155 Enter Peter, Adm, Come, Lady Etheridge, they have mine, and your's must not be refused. Peter, Sir Gilbert, I am your*s (seeing Nelly). Oh, you're here — then all's right, and so I don't care, {Advancing to- •wards Lady Etheridge,) Lady Etheridge, my dear mamma, with your permission Lady Eth. (hastily joining the hands of Captain Etheridge and Lucy), Yes, Lucy, I consent. [Exit hastily, Capt, Eth. Thank you, Peter, you never did me so good a turn in your life. Peter, Sir Gilbert, injustice to yourself, read this, and do not despise the caution, for it is all true. {Gives the letter,) Adm, How do you know ? {Reads.) *' Your house will be robbed this night — the parties are well armed and resolute. Take immediate precautions, and despise not this warning from one who has a sincere regard for you, and for your family." Capt. Eth. A friendly caution, sir. It must be attended to. The favour is intended us by the gang of gipsies in the wood. Perhaps this woman may know something about it. Old Bar. Like enough, for we have an old acquaintance here, who knows every part of the Hall. This is Nelly Armstrong, who nursed Lucy. Mrs, Bar. I'll swear to her, and it is she who has been the occasion of all this mischief. Enter Agnes and Capt. Mertoim. Agnes. My dear Lucy ! I did not know that you were here. {Turtiiftg to Nelly.) Nelly. Yes, Miss Agnes, the gipsy woman that told you your fortune, and, as Mrs Bargrove states, nursed you. Miss Lucy, at her breast. Sir Gilbert, I will save you trouble by confessing, that all I told these young people was from a feeling of revenge towards Lady Etheridge, who spurned me from her door. My long residence in the 156 Olla Podrida family enabled me to give a show of truth to what has occasioned so much uneasiness. Peter, What ! ar'n't it all true, then ? Nelly, Not one word, Mr Peter. Old Bar. Then we must have you to Bridewell. Nelly, I trust, Sir Gilbert, you will be merciful, for I have proved my strong regard to your family. Adm. What, by making us all miserable ? Nelly, Sir Gilbert, by that letter in your hand, that I wrote, little expecting that I should ever appear before you. Peter, O, the letter is true, then ! Adm. (holding up his cane). Silence, sir ! Old Bar. {holding up his stick). Yes, silence, sir ! Nelly. I know. Sir Gilbert, that you have too kind a heart to injure any one ; and, if repentance for my folly and wickedness can — if you, Miss Lucy, will plead for me — and my letter. Sir Gilbert, ought to plead for me too — all I beg is, that you will place me in a situation to keep my good resolutions. Capt. Eth. Lucy will plead for her, sir, and so do I, for to her I owe my present happiness. Adm. Well, well, woman, it shall be your own fault if you do wrong again. Nelly (curtseying.) Then let me beg pardon of all those to whom I have occasioned uneasiness. Adm. Well, it's all settled now, except the affair of the letter, which we must attend to, Bargrove. Capt. Mer. Not quite all, sir , here are two who wish for your sanction. Adm. Hah ! Is it so, Agnes ? In this instance I may safely join your hands for your mother, for this morning she expressed a wish that it might be so. At the same time, Mr and Mrs Bargrove, I must request your sanction for the choice that my son has made. He has already secured mine and that of Lady Etheridge. Mrs Bar, (wiping her eyes.) This is indeed a joyous end to all my vexations. The Gipsy 157 Nelly {with emotion.) May heaven bless your union, my dear Miss Lucy ! Old Bar. God bless you both ! Now, with your per- mission. Sir Gilbert, I will resign my office of steward. For many years I have filled it through gratitude, and not from any wish of emolument. I have enough to portion my daughter, and even to make that foolish boy a gentle- man, according to his notions of gentility. Peter. Have you, my dear father ? Then I am glad that I was not changed. But I say, Etheridge, I'm your brother-in-law. Indeed you've a strong hand, brother Edward. Capt. Eth. There, Peter, take it in friendship. (Shake hands.) Adm. And mine. Capt. Mer. Peter, mine. Old Bar. Well, I suppose, Peter, I must do the same, and forget and forgive. Mrs Bar. And me, Peter. {Peter jumps up^ clasps her round the neck, and gives her a hearty kiss.) The boy's heart is right after all. Adm. Thus, then, do all our vexations end in happiness, and may we be allowed to indulge the hope that the same may prove the case with all the parties {bowing to the audience) who have honoured us with their presence. [Curtain foils. ILL-WILL: i\N ACTING CHARADE DRAMATIS PERSONiE. Mr Cadaverous, Jln old misery very rich and very HL Edward, A young la-wyer ivithout a brief. Mr Haustus Gum Arabic, Apothecary. Seedy, Solicitor. Thomas Montagu, \ > Nephews to Mr Cadaverous. John Montagu, J James Sterling, ) > Nephews twice removed to Mr Cadaverous William Sterling, j Clementina Montagu, Niece to Mr Cadaverous. Mrs Jellybags, Housekeeper and nurse. i6o Ill-will Act L Scene. — A sick room. — Mr Cadaverous in an easy chair asleep, supported by cushions, ^wrapped up in his dressing-goivn, a night-cap oft his head. — A small table ivith phials, gallipots, l^c. — Jldrs Jellybags seated on a chair close to the table. Mrs Jellybags {looks at Mr Cadaverous, and then comes forward'). He sleeps yet — the odious old miser ! Mercy on me, how I do hate him, — almost as much as he loves his money ! Well, there's one comfort, he cannot take his money-bags with him, and the doctor says that he cannot last much longer. Ten years have I been his slave — ten years have I been engaged to be married to Sergeant- Major O'Callaghan of the Blues — ten years has he kept me waiting at the porch of Hymen, — and what thousands of couples have I seen enter during the time ! Oh dear ! it's enough to drive a widow mad. I think I have managed it ; — he has now quarrelled with all his relations, and Doctor Gumarabic intends this day to suggest the propriety of his making his last will and testament. [Mr Cadaverous, still asleep, coughs.'] He is waking. (Looks at him.) No, he is not. Well, then, I shall wake him, and give him a draught, for, after such a comfortable sleep as he is now in, he might last a whole week longer. (Goes up to Mr Cadaverous, and shakes him). Mr Cad. (starting up.) Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! (coughs violently.) Oh ! Mrs Jellybags, I'm so ill. Ugh ! ugh ! Jel. My dear, dear sir! now don't say so. I was in hopes, after such a nice long sleep you would have found yourself so much better. 1 62 Olla Podrida Cad. Long sleep ! oh dear ! — I'm sure I've not slept ten minutes. Jel. {Aside.) I know that. {Aloud^ Indeed, my dear sir, you are mistaken. Time passes very quick when we are fast asleep. I have been watching you and keeping the flies off. But you must now take your draught, my dear sir, and your pill first. Cad. What ! more pills and more draughts ! Why, there's no end to them. Jel. Yes, there will be, by-and-bye, my dear sir. You know Doctor Gumarabic has ordered you to take one pill and one draught every half-hour. Cad. And so I have — never missed one for the last six weeks — woke up for them day and night. I feel very weak — very weak, indeed ! Don't you think I might eat something, my dear Mrs Jellybags } Jel. Eat, my dear Mr Cadaverous ! — how can you ask me, when you know that Doctor Gumarabic says that it would be the death of you ? Cad. Only the wing of a chicken,— or a bit of the breast Jel. Impossible ! Cad. A bit of dry toast, then ; anything, my dear Mrs Jellybags. I've such a gnawing. Ugh ! ugh ! Jel. My dear sir, you would die if you swallowed the least thing that's nourishing. Cad. I'm sure I shall die if I do not. Well, then, a little soup — I should like that very much indeed. Jel. Soup ! it would be poison, my dear sir ! No, no. You must take your pill and your draught. Cad. Oh dear ! oh dear ! — Forty-eight pills and forty- eight draughts every twenty-four hours ! — not a wink of sleep day or night. Jel. {soothingly.) But it's to make you well, you know, my dear Mr Cadaverous. Come, now. {Hands him a pill and some luater in a tumbler.) Cad. The last one is hardly down yet ; — I feel it stick- ing half-way. Ugh ! ugh ! Ill-Wiil 163 JeL Then wash them both down at once. Come, now, 'tis to make you well, you know. ^Cadaverous takes the pill ivith a ivry face, and coughs it up again. Cad. Ugh I ugh ! There — it's up again. Oh dear ! oh dear ! Jel. You must take it, my dear sir. Come, now, try again. Cad. (coughing.) My cough is so bad. (Takes the pill.) Oh, my poor head ! Now I'll lie down again. Jel. Not yet, my dear Mr Cadaverous. You must take your draught ; — it's to make you well, you know. Cad. What ! another draught ? I'm sure I must have twenty draughts in my inside, besides two boxes of pills ! JeL Come, now — it will be down in a minute. [Cadaverous takes the nvine-glass in his hand, and looks at it ivith abhorrence. Jel. Come, now. [Cadaverous swallows the draught, and feels very sick, puts his handkerchief to his mouth, and, after a time, sinks hack in the chair quite exhausted, and shuts his eyes. Jel. (Aside.) I wish the doctor would come. It's high time that he made his will. Cad. (drawing up his leg.) Oh ! oh ! oh ! Jel. What's the matter, my dear Mr Cadaverous ? Cad. Oh ! such pain ! — oh ! rub it, Mrs Jellybags. Jel. What, here, my dear sir ? (Rubs his knee.) Cad. No, no ! — not there ! — Oh, my hip ! Jel. What, here ? (Rubs his hip.) Cad. No, no ! — higher — higher ! Oh, my side ! Jel. What, here ? (Rubs his side.) Cad. No ! — lower ! Jel. Here ? (Rubbing.) Cad. No ! — higher ! — Oh, my chest ! — my stomach ! Oh dear ! — oh dear ! Jel. Are you better now, my dear sir ? Cad. Oh dear ! oh ! I do believe that I shall die ! I've been a very wicked man, I'm afraid 164 Olla Podrida JeL Don't say so, Mr Cadaverous. Every one but your nephews and nieces say that you are the best man in the world. Cad, Do they ? I was afraid that I had not been quite so good as they think T am. JeL Fd like to hear any one say to the contrary. Fd tear their eyes out, — that I would. Cad, You are a good woman, Mrs Jellybags ; and I shall not forget you in my will. JeL Don't mention wills, my dear sir. You make me so miserable. (^Puts her handkerchief to her eyes.) Cad. Don't cry, Mrs Jellybags. I wo'n't talk any more about it. (^Sinks bach exhausted.) JeL {wiping her eyes.) Here comes Doctor Gumarabic. Enter Gumarabic. Gum. Good morning. Mistress Jellybags. Well, how's our patient ? — better ? — heh ? [Mrs Jellybags shakes her head. Gum. No : well, that's odd. (Goes up to Mr Cadaverous.) Not better, my dear sir ? — don't you feel stronger .? Cad, {faintly). Oh, no 1 Gum. Not stronger ! Let us feel the pulse. [Mrs Jellybags hands a chair, and Gumarabic sits down, pulls out his watch, and counts?^ Intermittent — 1 35 — well, now — that's very odd ! Mrs Jellybags, have you adhered punctually to my prescriptions ? JeL Oh yes, sir, exactly. Gum. He has eaten nothing ? Cad. Nothing at all. Gum. And don't feel stronger ? Odd — very odd ! Pray, has he had anything in the way of drink? Come, Mrs Jellybags, no disguise, — tell the truth 5 — no soup — warm jelly — heh ? JeL No, sir ; upon my word, he has had nothing. Gum. Humph ! — and yet feels no stronger } Well, that's odd ! — Has he taken the pill every half-hour ? JeL Yes, sir, regularly. Ill-Will 165 Gum. And feels no better ! Are you sure that he has had his draught with his pill ? Jel. Every time, sir. Gum. And feels no better ! Well, that's odd ! — very odd, indeed ! (Rises and comes for ivard ivith Mrs Jellybags.^ "We must throw in some more draughts, Mrs Jellybags ; there is no time to be lost. Jel. I'm afraid he's much worse, sir. Gum. I am not at all afraid of it, Mrs Jellybags, — I am sure of it j — it's very odd, — but the fact is, that all the physic in the world won't save him ; but still he must take it, — because — physic was made to be taken. Jel. Very true, sir. (Whispers to Gumarabic^ Gum. Ah ! yes; — very proper. (Going to Mr Cadaverous.) My dear sir, I have done my best -, nevertheless, you are ill, — very ill, — which is odd, — very odd ! It is not pleasant, — I may say, very unpleasant, — but if you have any little worldly affairs to settle, — will to make, — or a codicil to add, in favour of your good nurse, your doctor, or so on, — it might be as well to send for your lawyer ; — there is no saying, but, during my practice, I have some- times found that people die. After all the physic you have taken, it certainly is odd — very odd — very odd, indeed ; — but you might die to-morrow. Cad. Oh dear ! — I'm very ill. Jel. (sobbing.) Oh dear ! oh dear ! — he's very ill. Gum. (comes for ivard, shrugging up his shoulders.) Yes; he is ill — very ill ; — to-morrow, dead as mutton ! At all events he has not died for want of physic. We must throw in some more draughts immediately j — no time to be lost. Life is short, — but my bill will be long — very long ! [Exit as scene closes. Act II. Scene I. Enter Clementina, ivith a letter in her hand. Clem. I have just received a letter from my dear Edward: 1 66 Olla Podrida he knows of my uncle's danger, and is anxious to see me. I expect him immediately. I hope he will not be seen by Mrs Jellybags as he comes in, for she would try to make more mischief than she has already. Dear Edward ! how he loves me ! {Kisses the letter.) Enter Edivard, Edw. My lovely, my beautiful, my adored Clementina ! I have called upon Mr Gumarabic, who tells me that your uncle cannot live through the twenty-four hours, and I have flown here, my sweetest, dearest, to — to Clem, To see me, Edward : surely there needs no excuse for coming ? Edw. To reiterate my ardent, pure, and unchangeable affection, my dearest Clementina; to assure you, that in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, as they say in the marriage ceremony, I am yours till death us do part. Clem. I accept the vow, dearest Edv/ard. You know too well my heart for me to say more. Ed%u. I do know your heart, Clementina, as it is, — nor do I think it possible that you could change ; — still, some- times — that is for a moment when I call to mind that, by your uncle's death, as his favourite niece, living with him for so many years, you may soon find yourself in the possession of thousands, — and that titled men may lay their coronets at your feet, — then, Clementina Clem. Ungenerous and unkind ! — Edward, I almost hate you. Is a little money, then, to sway my affections ? Shame, Edward, shame on you ! Is such your opinion of my constancy ? {Weeps.) You must judge me by your own heart. Edw. Clementina ! dearest Clementina ! — I did ! — but rather — that is, — I was not in earnest ; — but when we value any object as I value you, — it may be forgiven, if I feel at times a little jealous j — yes, dearest, jealous ! Clem. ^Twas jealousy then, Edward, which made you so unkind ? Well, then, I can forgive that. Ill-Will 167 Edw. Nothing but jealousy, dearest ! I cannot help, at times, representing you surrounded by noble admirers, — ail of them suing to you, — not for yourself, but for your money, — tempting you with their rank ; — and it makes me jealous, horribly jealous ! I cannot compete with lords, Clementina, — a poor barrister without a brief. Clem. I have loved you for yourself, Edward. I trust you have done the same toward me. Edw. Yes ; upon my soul, my Clementina ! Clem. Then my uncle's disposition of his property will make no difference in me. For your sake, my dear Edward, I hope he will not forget me. What's that ? Mrs Jelly- bags is coming out of the room. Haste, Edward; — you must not be seen here. Away, dearest ! — and may God bless you. Edw, {kisses her hand.) Heaven preserve my adored, my matchless, ever-to-be-loved Clementina. \Exeu?it separately. Scene II. The sich-room — Mr Cadaverous, lying on a sofa-bed — Mr Seedy, the laijjyer, sitting by his side, ivith papers on the table before him. Seedy. I believe now, sir, that everything is arranged in your will according to your instructions. Shall I read it over again ; for although signed and witnessed, you may make any alteration you please by a codicil. Cad. No, no. You have read it twice, Mr Seedy, and you may leave me now. I am ill, very ill, and wish to be alone. Seedy {fids up his papers and rises.) I take my leave, Mr Cadaverous, trusting to be long employed as your solicitor. Cad. Afraid not, Mr Seedy. Lawyers have no great interest in heaven. Your being my solicitor will not help me there. Seedy {coming forward as he goes out.) Not a sixpence i68 Olla Podrida to his legal adviser ! Well, well ! I know how to make out a bill for the executors. [Exit Seedy, and enter Mrs Jellyhags, J el, (^ith her handkerchief to her eyes J) Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh, Mr Cadaverous, how can you fatigue and annoy yourself with such things as wills ? Cad, {faintly,) Don't cry, Mrs Jellybags. I've not forgotten you. Jel, {sobbing,) I can't — help— crying. And there's Miss Clementina, — now that you are dying, — who insists upon coming in to see you. Cad, Clementina, my niece, let her come in, Mrs Jellybags •, I feel I'm going fast, — I may as well take leave of everybody. Jel. {sobbing,) Oh dear ! oh dear ! You may come in, Miss. Enter Clementina, Clem. My dear uncle, why have you, for so many days, refused me admittance ? Every morning have I asked to be allowed to come and nurse you, and for more than three weeks have received a positive refusal. Cad, Refusal ! Why I never had a message from you. Clem. No message ! Every day I have sent, and every day did Mrs Jellybags reply that you would not see me. Cad. {faintly.) Mrs Jellybags, — Mrs Jellybags Clem. Yes, uncle ; it is true as I stand here 5 — and my brother Thomas has called almost every day, and John every Sunday, the only day he can leave the banking- house •, and cousins William and James have both been here very often. Cad. Nobody told me ! I thought everyone had forgotten me. Why was I not informed, Mrs Jellybags ? Jel, {in a rage,) Why, you little story-telling creature, coming here to impose upon your good uncle ! You know that no one has been here — not a soul ; — and as for yourself, you have been too busy looking after a certain gentleman ever to think of your poor uncle 5 — Ill-WiU 169 that you have ; — taking advantage of his illness to behave in so indecorous a manner. I would have told him every- thing, but I was afraid of making him worse. Clem, You are a false, wicked woman ! Jel. Little impudent creature, — trying to make mischief between me and my kind master, but it won't do. {To Clementina aside.) The will is signed, and FU take care he does not alter it •, — so do your worst. Cad. (faintly.) Give me the mixture, Mrs Clem. I will, dear uncle. {Pours out the restorative mix- ture in a glass.) Jel. {going back.) You will, Miss ! — indeed ! but you shan't. Clem. Be quiet, Mrs Jellybags ; — allow me at least to do something for my poor uncle. Cad. Give me the mix Jel. {prevents Clementina from giving it^ atid tries to take it from her.) You shan't, Miss ! — You never shall. Cad. Give me the \Mrs Jellybags and Clementina scuffle^ at last Clemen- tina throws the contents of the glass into Mrs Jellybags face. Clem. There, then ! — since you will have it. Jel {in a rage.) You little minx ! — I'll be revenged for that. Wait a little till the will is read, — that's all ! — See if I don't bundle you out of doors, — that I will. Clem. As you please, Mrs Jellybags ; but pray, give my poor uncle his restorative mixture. Jel. To please you ? — Not I ! V\\ not give him a drop till I think proper. Little, infamous, good-for-nothing Cad. Give me oh ! Jel. Saucy — man-seeking Clem. Oh ! as for that, Mrs Jellybags, the big sergeant was here last night — I know that. Talk of men, indeed ! Jel. Very well. Miss ! — very well ! Stop till the breath is out of your uncle's body — and I'll beat you till yours is also. Cad. Give oh! 170 OUa Podrida Clem. My poor uncle ! He will have no help till I leave the room — I must go. Infamous woman ! [Exit, Cad, Oh! Jel. I'm in such a rage ! — I could tear her to pieces ! —the little ! — the gnat ! Oh, I'll be revenged ! Stop till the will is read, and then I'll turn her out into the streets to starve. Yes ! yes ! the will ! — the will ! {Pauses and pants for breath?) Now, I recollect the old fellow called for his mixture. I must go and get some more. I'll teach her to throw physic in my face. \Goes out and returns with a phial — pours out a portion f and goes up to Mr Cadaverous. Jel. Here, my dear Mr Cadaverous. Mercy on me ! — Mr Cadaverous ! — why, he's fainted ! — Mr Cadaverous ! {Screams.) Lord help us ! — why, he's dead ! Well now, this sort of thing does give one a shock, even when one has longed for it„ Yes, he's quite dead ! {Coming forward.) So, there's an end of all his troubles — and, thank Heaven ! of mine also. Now for Sergeant-Major O'Callaghan, and — love I Now for Miss Clementina, and — revenge ! But first the will ! — the will ! [Curtain drops. Act III. Mrs Jellybags. Oh dear ! — this is a very long morning. I feel such suspense - — such anxiety ; and poor Sergeant-Major O'Callaghan is quite in a perspiration ! He is drinking and smoking down in the kitchen to pass away the time, and if the lawyer don't come soon, the dear man will be quite fuddled. He talks of buying a farm in the country. Well, we shall see ; but if the Sergeant thinks that he will make ducks and drakes of my money, he is mistaken. I have not been three times a widow for nothing — I will have it all settled upon myself ; that must and shall be, or else — no Sergeant O'Callaghan for me ! lU-Will 171 Enter Clementina, So, here you are, Miss. Well, we'll wait till the will is read, and then v/e shall see who is mistress here. Clem. I am as anxious as you, Mrs Jellybags. You may have wheedled my poor uncle to make the will in your favour ; if so, depend upon it, I shall expect nothing from your hands. Jel. I should rather think not. Miss. If I recollect right, you threw the carminative mixture in my face. Clem. And made you blush for the first time in your life. Jel. I shall not blush to slam the door in your face. Clem. Rather than be indebted to you, I would beg my bread from door to door. Jel. I expect that you very soon will. Enter EdiuarcL Edw. My dearest Clementina, I have come to support you on this trying occasion. Jel. And ascertain how matters stand, before you decide upon marrying, I presume, Mr Edward. Ediv. Madam, I am above all pecuniary considerations. Jel. So everybody says, when they think themselves sure of money. Ediju. You judge of others by yourself. Jel. Perhaps I do — I certainly do expect to be rewarded for my long and faithful services. Clem. Do not waste words upon her, my dear. You have my solemn promise, nothing shall change my feelings towards you. Jel. That may be ; but did it never occur to you, Miss, that the gentleman's feeHngs might alter ? Edw. Detestable wretch ! [Hands Clementina to a chair on the rights and sits by her. 172 Olla Podrida Enter Nephews John, Thomas, William, and James y all with white pochet-handher chiefs in their hand — they take their seats two right and two left. Jel. (Aside,) Here they all come, like crows that smell carrion. How odious is the selfishness of this world! But here is Mr Gumarabic. How do you do, sir ? (Curtsies with a grave air.) Gum. Very well, I thank you, Mrs Jellybags. Can't say the same of all my patients. Just happened to pass by — thought I would step in and hear the will read — odd, that I should pop in at the time — very odd. Pray, may I ask, my dear Mrs Jellybags, were you present at the making of the will ? Jel. No, my dear sir ; my nerves would not permit me. Gum. Nerves ! — odd, very odd ! Then you don't know how things are settled ? Jel. No more than the man in the moon, my dear sir. Gum. Man in the moon ! — odd comparison that from a woman ! — very odd ! Hope my chance won't prove all moonshine. Jel. I should think not, my dear sir ; but here comes Mr Seedy, and we shall soon know all about it. Enter Mr Seedy — Mrs Jellybags, all courtesy, waves her hand to a chair in the ce7itre, with a table before it. Mr Seedy sits down, pulls the will out of his pockety lays it on the table, takes out his snuff-box, takes a pinch, then his hand- kerchief blows his nose, snuffs the candles^ takes his spectacles from his ivaistcoat pocket, puts them on, breaks the seals, and bows to the company ; Mrs Jellybags has taken her seat on the left next to him, and Doctor Gumarabic by her side. Mrs Jellybags sobs very loud, with her handkerchief to her face. Seedy. Silence, if you please. \^Mrs Jellybags stops sobbing imtnediately. Edw. (putting his arm round Clementinci s waist.) My dearest Clementina ! lil-Will ^73 Mr Seedy hems twice, and then reads, "The Last Will and Testament of Christopher Cada- verous, Gentleman, of Copse Horton, in the county of Cumberlando ** I, Christopher Cadaverous, being at this time in sound mind, do hereby make my last will and testament. " First, I pray that I may be forgiven all my manifold sins and wickedness, and I do beg forgiveness of all those whom I may have injured unintentionally or otherwise ; and at the same time do pardon all those who may have done me wrong, even to John Jones, the turnpike man, who unjustly made me pay the threepenny toll twice over on Easter last, when I went up to receive my dividends. ** My property, personal and real, I devise to my two friends Solomon Lazarus, residing at No. 3 Lower Thames- street, and Hezekiah Flint, residing at No. 16 Lothbury, to have and to hold for the following uses and purposes: — " First, to my dearly-beloved niece, Clementina Montagu, I leave the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds, 3 J per cent, consols, for her sole use and benefit, to be made over to her, both principal and interest, on the day of her marriage. [Edivards ivithdranvs his arm from Clementinas ivaist — turns half round from her, and falls back in his chair ivith a pish ! " To my nephew, Thomas Montagu, I leave the sum of nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence — having deducted the other sixpence to avoid the legacy duty. \Thomas turns from the lawyer with his face to the front of the stage, crossing his legs. ** To my nephew, John Montagu, I leave also the sum of nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence. [John turns away in the same manner, ** To my nephew, once removed, James Stirling, I leave the sum of five pounds to purchase a suit of mourning. [James turns away as the others. **To my nephew, once removed, William Stirhng, I k 174 ^l^a Podrida also leave the sum of five pounds to purchase a suit of mourning. \WiUiam turns aivay as the others, ** To my kind and affectionate housekeeper, Mrs Martha Jellybags " [Mrs Jellybags sobs loudly, and cries *^ Oh dear ! Oh dear!'' Mr Seedy. Silence, if your please. [Reads, ** In return for all her attention to me during my illness, and her ten years' service, I leave the whole of my [Mr Seedy having come to the bottom of the page lays doivn the ivill, takes out his snuff-ho^^ takes a pinch, blows his nose, snuffs the candles, and proceeds. — " I leave the whole of my wardrobe, for her entire use and disposal ; and also my silver watch with my key and seal hanging to it. " And having thus provided for " [Mrs Jellybags,