Enter LUCY, who discovers him. Nell. For shame! Mr. Record, what are you about? Lucy. Mr. Record? Rec. What brought you here, most curious, eh? Lucy. I beg pardon, sir; but a lady desires to see you directly. (Asid to Record.) I see Michael's wife makes all his friends welcome. [Exit. Rec. Take care of the papers, Mrs. Nelly, and follow me. [Exeunt. Rec. I am too weak-most potent! Mich. Because they know I have higher crders than yours to remain here Le Sage. Whose are they? Mich. The Baron's of Milford Castle. Sir Ber. And who is that now? Mich. I'll show you in the veering of a point; Eh! what! (Searching his pockets.) Dthe paper's gone! the rudder carried away just coming into harbour Clara. What do you mean? Are you then his friend? what paper have you lost? Is it this? SCENE VII.-The inside of the Chapel. Clara. Sir Bertrand here! then I'm undone. [think. Rec. (Aside.) This is very familiar at first sight, I Clara. No, Sir Bertrand, that can never be; I come to claim a right on behalf of injured innocence. Le Sage must give the answer. Where is the child, you hypocrite? Where is the ruffian, to whom you committed him? Le Sage. Haughty madam, this is not a time to interrogate my proceedings; your home from henceforth is here. That boy!-what of that boy?-why do you inquire? Rec. Be cool, most vehement, be cool! Clara That boy! The wretch you sent to murder him, I suppose, was not quite collected in his business, or he would not have left this behind him. Know you that hand? (Shewing the paper.) What, you pause? Le Sage. This is some mystery, beyond my cunning to develope. Clara. It is my honoured father's hand, and that child my brother. Restore him to me, or his blood shall be upon your heads, and sweep his oppressors from the earth. Sir Ber. By this he is properly bestowed: this raving is useless; 'twere better you prepare to share the splendour of this scene. Clara. No, never. I'll to the world proclaim such villany, though I beg my daily crust from door to door. (Going.) Sir Ber. Not so Lasty, Clara; you must not, shall not leave me. (Struggling with her.) Clara. For pity's sake, assist me, heaven! (Breaks from him and meets Michael entering.) Mich. What, more injuries! Human nature can't endure them. Clara. That ruffian here! then all is lost. Sir Ber. What insolence is this? how came you here? who are you? Clara. Who are you? Matchless hypocrisy! You know him not, nor his business? Mich. Who am I? Look on this weather-beaten brow, and tell me whether you can read aught there that could deserve injustice at your hands? Look still, and say do you discover fear to resent it? Sir Ber. What injuries are you speaking of? Mich. What injuries? Do you know a villain of the name of Le Sage, and does he know another o the name of Flint? Le Sage. (Drawing.) Who has given your tongue this license? Mich. Put up your steel; I've seen too many of them in my time to tremble at yours; a good cudgel is all the weapon an honest cause wants, and more than a bad one will encounter. Sir Ber. Leave the castle this instant. Record and Spruce, why do 't vou turn the fellow out? Mich. This! eh! this! yes, yes, it is, sure enough! Now I'll produce the commander of this station. (Goes out and returns with Boy and Nell.) Clara. (Runs and embraces him.) It is he again! Mich. Yes, that it is, I'll swear to him as I would to my own right hand. Sir Ber. This is all forgery. Rec. I'm afraid not, most unfortunate! for Mrs. Nelly and I have been looking over some papers in a trunk Le Sage. What papers? Mich, Those which his father delivered to me on his death-bed. Sir Ber. Now you are detected. Where was that, villain; for his father was cast away at sea? Mich. In these arms-on the bleak sea-shore, when I saved him and his little one from shipwreck; and had not heaven directed me to intercept that letter, he had still been at your mercy. Le Sage. Curse on your officious zeal; we will think upon some plan to punish these usurpers. [Exeunt Sir B. and Le Sage. Rec. O, here are the tenants of the estate assembled to assert the right of our new baron against injury and oppression. Enter Villagers. Mich. Now, Nell, it is enough for us to reflect that we have done our duty, and bore up so stead. ily against wind and tide to port, that we shall always find anchorage sure, and shelter from the storm. FINALE.-Chorus. The castle walls resounding, With transport and delight. Boy. Though changed our lot to brighter scenes, Clara. My mind to former pleasure leans, To honour's sway This happy day Its proudest laurels owing: Then be it blest, By ev'ry breast, With gratitude o'erflowing. Chorus. The castle walls resounding, &c., &c. In smoothest waters safe at last, As loud huzzas unite, [Exeunt A DRAMATIC ROMANCE, IN FIVE ACTS.-BY G. LEWIS. Ang.-"HEAVENS! THE VERY WORDS WHICH ALICE-"-Act iv, scene 2.] ACT I-SCENE I.-A Grove. Enter FATHER PHILIP and MOTLEY, through a gate. F. Phil. Never tell me. I repeat it, you are a fellow of a very scandalous course of life. But what principally offends me, is, that you pervert the minds of the maids, and keep kissing and smuggling all the pretty girls you meet. Oh, fle, fie! Mot. I kiss and smuggle them? St. Francis forbid! Lord love you, Father, 'tis they who kiss and smuggle me. I protest I do what I can to preserve my modesty; and I wish that Archbishop Dunstan had heard the lecture upon chastity which I read last night to the dairy-maid in the dark; he'd have been quite edified. But yet what does talking signify? The eloquerce of my lips is counteracted by the lustre of my eyes; and really, the little devils are so tender, and so troublesome, that I'm half angry with nature for having made me so very bewitching. No. 3.-THE BRITISH DRAMA E F. Phil. Nonsense, nonsense! Mot. Put yourself in my place. Suppose that a sweet, smiling rogue, just sixteen, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, pouting lips, &c. F. Phil. Oh, fie, file, fle! To hear such licentious discourse brings the tears into my eyes! Mot. I believe you, Father; for I see the water is running over at your mouth; which puts me in mind, my good Father, that there are some little points which might be altered in you still better than in myself; such as intemperance, gluttonyF. Phil. Gluttony! Oh, abominable falsehood! Mot. Plain matter of fact. Why, will any man pretend to say that you came honestly by that enormous belly, that tremendous tomb of fish, flesh, and fowl? And for incontinence, you must allow yourself that you are unequalled. F. Phil. I-I! Mot. You, you. May I ask what was your business in the beech-grove, the other evening when I caught you with buxom Margery, the miller's pretty wife? Was it quite necessary to lay you heads together so close? F. Phil. Perfectly necessary: I was whispering in her ear wholesome advice, and she took it as kindly as I gave it. Mot. So you was, faith! Father you gave it with your lips. and she took it with her's. Well done, Father Philip! [a licence. F. Phil. Son, son, you give your tongue too great Mot. Nay, Father, be not angry: fools, you know, are privileged persons. for a heart tender without weakness, and noble without pride. I saw her at once beloved and reverenced by her village companions; they looked on her as a being of a superior order; and I felt that she, who gave such dignity to the cottage maid, must needs add new lustre to the coronet of the Percies. Mot. From which I am to understand, that you mean to marry this rustic? [myself. Per. Could I mean otherwise, I should blush for Mot. Yet surely the baseness of her originPer. Can to me be no objection: In giving her my hand, I raise her to my station, not debase myself to her's; or ever, while gazing on the beauty of rose, did I think it less fair because planted by a peasant. F. Phil. I know they are very useless ones; and, in short, master Motley, to be plain with you, of all fools, I think you the worst: and for fools of alla kinds I've an insuperable aversion. Mot. Really! Then you have one good quality at least, and I cannot but admire such a total want of self-love: (Bell rings.) But, hark! There goes the dinner-bell. Away to table, Father. Depend upon't, the servants will rather eat part of their dinner unblessed, than stay till your stomach comes, like Jonas's whale, and swallows up the whole. F. Phil. Well, well, fool; I am going; but first let me explain to you that my bulk proceeds from no indulgence of voracious appetite. No, son, no. Little sustenance do I take; but St. Cuthbert's blessing is upon me, and that little prospers with me most marvellously. Verily, the saint has given me rather too plentiful an increase, and my legs are scarce able to support the weight of his bounties. [Exit. Mot. He looks like an overgrown turtle, wadd'ing upon its hind fins. Yet, at bottom, 'tis a good fellow enough; warm-hearted, benevolent, friendly, and sincere; but no more intended by nature to be a monk, than I to be a maid of honour to the Queen of Sheba. (Going.) Erter PERCY. Per. I cannot be mistaken. In spite of his dress, his features are too well known to me.-Hist! Gilbert, Gilbert! Mot. Gilbert? Oh Lord, that's I.-Who calls? Mot. Truly, sir, that would be no easy matter; I Mt. Eh!-can it be? Pardon me, my dear Lord Percy. In truth, you may well forgive my having forgotten your name, for at first I didn't very well remember my own. However, to prevent further mistakes, I must inform you, that he who in your father's service was Gilbert the knave, is Motley the fool in the service of Earl Osmond. Per. Of Earl Osmond! This is fortunate: Gilbert, you may be of use to me: and if the attachment which, as a boy, you professed for me still exists Mot. It does, with ardour unabated; for I'm not so unjust as to attribute to you my expulsion from Alnwick-castle. But now, sir, may I ask, what brings you to Wales? Per. A woman whom I adore. Mot. Yes, I guessed that the business was about a petticoat. And this woman is Per. The orphan ward of a villager, without friends, without family, without fortune! Mot. Great points in her favour, I must confess. And which of these excellent qualities won your heart? Per. I hope I had better reasons for bestowing it on her. No, Gilbert, I loved her for a person beautiful without art, and graceful without affectation; Mot. Bravo! And what says your good grumbling father to this? Per. Alas! he has long slept in the grave. Mot. Then he's quiet at last. Well, heaven grant him that peace above, which he suffered nobody to enjoy below. But what obstacle now prevents your marriage? Per. You shall hear :-Fearful lest my ank should influence this lovely girl's affections, and induce her to bestow her hand on the noble, while she refused her heart to the man, I assumed a peasant's habit, and presented myself as Edwy the low-born and the poor. In this character I gained her heart, and resolved to hail, as Countess of Northumberland, the betrothed of Edwy the lowborn and the poor. Judge, then, how great must have been my disappointment, when, on entering her guardian's cottage with this design, he informed me, that the unknown, who sixteen years before had confided her to his care, had claimed her on that very morning, and conveyed her no one knew whither. Mot. That was unlucky. Per. However, in spite of his precautions, I have traced the stranger's course, and find him to be Kenric, a dependant upon Earl Osmond. Mot. Surely 'tis not lady Angela, who Per. The very same. Speak, my good fellow; do you know her? Mot. Not by your description; for here she's understood to be the daughter of Sir Malcolm Mowbray, my master's deceased friend. And what is Per. To demand her of the Earl in marriage. your present intention? Mot. Oh! that will never do; for, in the first place, you'll not be able to get a sight at him. I've now lived with him five long years; and, till Angela's arrival, never witnessed a guest in the castle. Oh! 'tis the most melancholy mansion. And, as to the Earl, he's the very antidote to mirth. None dare approach him, except Kenric and his four blacks; all others are ordered to avoid him; and whenever he quits his room, ding dong! goes a great bell, and away run the servants like so many scared rabbits. [for Per. Strange! and what reasons can he have Mot. Oh! reasons in plenty. You must know there's an ugly story respecting the last owners of this castle. Osmond's brother, his wife, and infant child, were murdered by banditti, as it was said; unluckily, the only servant who escaped the slaughter deposed, that he recognised among the assassins a black still in the service of Earl Osmond. The truth of this assertion was never known, for the servant was found dead in his bed the next Per. Good heavens! [morning Mot. Since that time, no sound of joy has bee heard in Conway-castle. Csmond instantly became gloomy and ferocious. He new never utters a sound, except a sigh, has broken every tie of society, and keep his gates, barred unceasingly against the stranger. Per. Yet Angela is admitted But, no doubt affection for her Mot. Why, no; I rather think that affection for Per. How! [her father's child Mot. If I've any knowledge in love, the Earl feels it for his fair ward; but the lady will tell you more of this, if I can procure for you an interview. Per. The very request, which Mot. Tis no easy matter, I promise you; but I'll do my best. In the meanwhile, wait for me in yonder fishing hut, its owner's name is Edrie; tell him that I sent you, and he will give you a retreat. Per Farewell, then, and remember, that whatever reward Mot. Dear master, to mention a reward insults me. You have already shewn me kindness; and when 'tis in my power to be of use to you, to need the inducement of a second favour would prove me a scoundrel undeserving of the first. [Exit. Per. How warm is this good fellow's attachment! Yet our barons complain that the great can have no friends. If they have none, let their own pride bear the blame. Instead of looking with scorn on those whom a smile would attract, and a favour bind for ever, how many firm friends might our nobles gain, if they would but reflect that their vassals are men as they are, and have hearts whose feelings can be grateful as their own.. [Exit. SCENE II The Castle Hall Saib. Now, Hassan; what success? Has. My search has been fruitless. In vain have 1 paced the river's banks, and pierced the grove's deepest recesses. Nor glen nor thicket have I passed unexplored, yet found no stranger to whom Kenric's description could apply. Saib. Saw you no one? [the wood. Has. A troop of horsemen passed me as I left Saib. Horsemen, say you? Then Kenric may be right. Earl Percy has discovered Angela's abode; and lurks near the castle, in hopes of carrying her off. Has. His hopes then will be vain. Osmond's vigilance will not easily be eluded; sharpened by those powerful motives, love and fear. Saib. His love, I know; but should he lose Angela, what has he to fear? Has. If Percy gain her, everything. Supported by such wealth and power, dangerous would be her claim to these domains, should her birth be discovered. Of this our lord is aware; nor did he sooner hear that Northumberland loved her, than he hastened to remove her from Allan's care. At first, I doubt his purpose was a foul one: her resemblance to her mother induced him to change it. He now is resolved to make her his bride, and restore her to those rights of which himself deprived her. [master loves her? Saib. Think you the lady perceives that our Has. I know she does not. Absorbed in her own. passion for Percy,, on Osmond she bestows no thought; and while roving through these pompous halls and chambers, sighs for the Cheviot hills and Allan s humble cottage. Saib. But as she still believes Percy to be a lowborn swain, when Osmond lays his coronet at her feet, will she reject his rank and splendour? Has. If she loves well, she will. Saib, I too have loved. I have known how painful it was to leave her on whom my heart hung: how incapable was all else to supply her loss. I have exchanged want for plenty, fatigue for rest; a wretched Lut for a splendid palace. But am I happier? O, no! Still do I regret my native land, and the partners of my poverty. Then toil was sweet to me, or I laboured for Samba! then repose ever blessed my bed of leaves; for there, by my side, lay Samba sleeping. Saib. This from you, Hassan? Did love ever find a place in your flinty bosom? Has. Did it? Oh, Saib! my heart once was gentle, once was good; but sorrows have broken it, insults have made it hard. I have been dragged from my native land; from a wife who was everything to me, to whom I was everything! Twenty years have elapsed since these Christians tore me away; they trampled upon my heart, mocked my despair, and, when in frantic terms I raved of Samba, laughed, and wondered how a negro's soul could feel. In that moment, when the last point of Africa faded from my view,-when, as I stood on the vessel's deck, I felt that all I loved was to me lost for ever-in that bitter moment did I banish humanity from my breast. I tore from my arm the bracelet of Samba's hair; I gave to the sea the precious token; and while the high waves swift bore it from me, vowed aloud, endless hatred of mankind. I have kept my oath; I will keep it. Saib. Ill-starred Hassan! your wrongs have indeed been great. Has. To remember them unmans me. Farewell! I must to Kenric. Hold! Look, where he comes, from Osmond's chamber. Saib. And seemingly in wrath. Has. His conferences with the Earl of late have had no other end. The period of his favour is arrived. Saib. Not of his favour merely, Hassan. [anon. Saib. Silence! He's here; you shall know more Enter KENRIC. Ken. Ungrateful Osmond, I will bear your ingratitude no longer. Now, Hassan, found you the man described? Hus. Nor any that resembled him. As Ken. Yet, that I saw Percy,, I am convinced. I crossed him in the wood, his eye met mine. He started as had he seen a basilisk, and fle I with rapidity. But I will submit no longer to this painful dependance. To-morrow for the last time, will I summon him to perform his promise: if he refuse, I will bid him farewell for ever; and, by my absence, free him from a restraint equally irksoine to myself and him. Saib. Will you so, Kenric? Be speedy then, or you will be too late. Ken. Too late! And wherefore? [services. Sarb. Can you keep one? Saib. As faithfully can I. Come, Hassan. [Exeunt. Ken What meant the slave? Those doubtful expressions-Ha! should the Earl intend me false! Kenric, Kenric! how is thy nature changed. There was a time when fear was a stranger to my bosom; when guiltless myself, I dreaded not art in others. Now, where'er I turn me, danger appears to lurk, and I suspect treachery in every breast, because my own heart hides it. [Exit. Enter FATHER PHILIP, followed by ALICE. F. Phil. Nonsense! You silly woman; what you say is not possible. Alice. I never said it was possible; I only said it was true; and that if ever I heard music, I heard it last night. [servants. F. Phil. Perhaps the fool was singing to the Alice. The fool, indeed! Oh, fle, file! How dare you call my lady's ghost a fool? F. Phil. Your lady's ghost! You silly old woman. Alice. Yes, father, yes; I repeat it, I heard the guitar, lying upon the oratory table, play the very air which the lady Evelina used to sing while rocking her little daughter's cradle. She warbled it so sweetly, and ever at the close it went(Singing.) Lullaby, Lullyby! hush thee, my dear! Thy father is coming, and soon will be here!" F. Phil.. Nonsense, nonsense! Why, pr'ythee, Alice, do you think that your lady's ghost would get up at night only to sing lullaby for your amusement? Besides, how should a spirit, which is nothing but air, play upon an instrument of material wood and catgut? Alice. How can I tell? Why, I know very well that men are made; but if you desired me to make a man, I vow and protest I shouldn't know how to set about it. I can only say, that last night I heard the ghost of the murdered lady F. Phil. Playing upon the spirit of a cracked guitar! Alice, Alice! these fears are ridiculous! The idea of ghosts is a vulgar prejudice; and they, who are timid and absurd enough to encourage it, prove themselves the most contemptible Alice. (Screaming.) Oh, Lord bless us! F. Phil. What? Eh!-Oh, dear! Alice. Look, look!-A figure in white!-It comes from the haunted room. F. Phil. (Dropping on his knees.) Blessed St. Patrick!-Who has got my beads? Where's my prayer-book? It comes, it comes! Now, now! Lacka-day; it's only lady Angela. (Rising.) Lack-a-day! I am glad of it with all all my heart. A ice. Truly so am I. But what say you now, father, to the fear of spectres? F. Phil. Why, the next time you are afraid of a ghost, remember and make use of the receipt which I shall now give you; and instead of calling for a priest to lay the spirits of other people in the red sea, call for a bottle of red wine to raise your own. Probatum est. [Exit. Alice. Wine, indeed! I believe he thinks I like drinking as well as himself. No, no; let the old toping friar take his bottle of wine; I shall confine myself to plain cherry brandy. Enter ANGELA. Ang. I am weary of wandering from room to room; in vain do I change the scene, discontent is everywhere. There was a time, when music could delight my ear, and nature could charm my eyewhen I could pour forth a prayer of gratitude, and thank my good angels for a day unclouded by sorrow. Now, all is gone, all lost, all faded! (Aside.) Alice. Lady. Ang. Perhaps at this moment he thinks upon me. Perhaps then he sighs, and murmurs to himself,"The flowers, the rivulets, the birds, every object reminds me of my well-beloved; but what shall remind her of Edwy ?"-Oh, that will my heart, Edwy; I need no other remembrancer. (Aside.) Alice. Lady, lady Angela! She minds me no more than a post. Ang. Oh, are you there, good Alice? What would you with me? Alice. Only ask how your ladyship rested. [bed. Alice. Lauk-a-day! and yet you sleep in the best Ang. Methougnt I heard some one singing; it seemed as if the words ran thus:-(Singing.) "Lullaby, Lullaby, hush thee, my dear!" Alice. (Screaming.) The very words. It was the ghost, lady, it was the ghost! Ang. The ghost, Alice! I protest I thought it had been you. Alice. Me, lady! Lord, when did you hear this singing? Ang. Not five minutes ago; while you were talking with Father Philip. Alice. The lord be thanked. Then it was not the ghost. It, was I, lady; it was I! And have your heard no other singing since you came to the castle? Ang. None. But why that question? Alice. Because, lady-But perhaps you may be frightened? Ang. No, no;-proceed, I entreat you. Alice. Why, then, they do say, that the chamber in which you sleep is haunted. You may have observed two folding doors, which are ever kept locked: they lead to the oratory, in which the lady Evelina passed most of her time, while my lord was engaged in the Scottish wars. She would sit there, good soul, hour after hour, playing on the lute, and singing airs so sweet, so sad, that many a time and oft have I wept to hear her. Ah! when I kissed her hand at the castle-gate, little did I suspect that her fate would have been so wretched. Ang. And what was her fate? Alice. A sad one, lady. Impatient to embrace her lord, after a year's absence, the Countess set out to meet him on his return from Scotland, accompanied by a few domestics and her infant daughter, then scarce a twelvemonth old. But, as she returned with her husband, robbers surprised the party, scarce a mile from the castle; and, since that time, no news has been received of the Earl, of the Countess, the servants, or the child. Ang. Dreadful! Were not their corses found? Alice. Never. The only domestic who escaped, pointed out the scene of action; and, as it proved to be on the river's banks, doubtless the assassins plunged the bodies into the stream. Ang. Strange! And did Earl Osmond then become owner of this castle? Alice, was he ever suspected of Alice. Speak lower, lady. It was said so, I own; but for my own part I never believed it. To my certain knowledge, Osmond loved the lady Evelina too well to hurt her; and when he heard of her death, he wept and sobbed as if his heart were breaking. Nay, 'tis certain that he proposed to her before marriage, and would have made her his wife, only that she liked his brother better. But I hope you are not alarmed by what I mentioned of the cedar-room? Ang. No, truly, Alice; from good spirits I have nothing to fear, and heaven and my innocence will protect me against bad. Alice. My very sentiments, I protest. But heaven forgive me: while I stand gossiping here, I warrant |