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Dom. I am fugacious;

(Attempts to escape.) | away-it was Mr. Sampson she said she wanted to speak with.

Meg. (Darting at him.) Stay!-Thou tremblest! (Offering a flask.) Drink of this!

Dom. I am not a thirst, most execrable-I mean, excellent-

Meg. Drink!

Dom. Lo; I oboy! (Drinks.)

Meg. Can your learning tell what this is? Dom. Praised be thy bounty,-brandy. Meg. Will you remember my errand now? Dom. I will, most pernicious-that is, pertinaciously.

Meg. Then tell Colonel Mannering, if ever he owed a debt to the House of Ellangowan, and hopes to see it prosper, he must come instantly, armed, and well attended, to the Glen, below the Tower of Derncleugh, and fail not on his life! you know the spot.

Dom. I do-where you once dwelt, most accursed that is, most accurate.

Meg. Aye, Abel Sampson, there blazed my hearth for many a day! and there, beneath the willow, that hung its garlands over the brook, I've sat, and sung to Harry Bertram, songs of the old time. Dom. (Aside.) Witch rhymes, and incantations. I would I could abscond.

Meg. That tree is withered now, never to be green again; and old Meg Merrilies will never sing blythe songs more. But I charge you, Abel Sampson, when the heir shall have his own-as soon as he shall

Dom. Woman!-What say'st thou?

Meg. That you tell him not to forget Meg Merrilies, but to build up the old walls in the glen, for her sake, and let those that live there be too good to fear the beings of another world; for, if ever the dead come back among the living, I'll be seen in that glen many a night after these crazed bones are whitened in the mould.

Dom. (Aside.) Fear and perturbations creep upon me! but I will speak soothingly unto her. (Aloud.) Assuredly, Mrs. Margaret Merrilies, I will go whither thou biddest me, and remember your behest. But, touching the return of little Harry Bertram, I opine

Meg. I have said it, old man! you shall see him = again, and the best lord he shall be that Ellangowan has seen this hundred years. But ye're o'er long here. To Mannering! away! and bid him come to that spot instantly, or the heir of Ellangowan may perish for ever.


Dom. (Going.) I will hie me nimbly, most facinorous-I would say, fascirating-(Meg motions him off-she stands looking after him, her arm pointing in the direction he is going) Prodigious!-Prodigious!Prodigious!

I was

Meg. Now, then, to complete the work of fate, though every step I take be on a corpse. born to raise the old house of Ellangowan from its ruins, and the moment is at hand, when you shall behold

Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,
Meet on Ellangowan's height.


SCENE IL-An Apartment in Woodburne House swords, guns, pistols, &c., over the mantel-piece. Enter COLONEL MANNERING, followed by LUCY BERTRAM and JULIA MANNERING.

Julia. Oh, my dear brother! you cannot think how frightened we were! she desired us to go

Lucy. I wish he were returned.

Dominie. (Without, speaking to Flora.) Avoid thee! -that is, where is Colonel Mannering?

Flora. (Without.) This way, Mr. Sampson-follow

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Dom, Exorciso!Col. Now, sir!

Dom. I crave pardon, honourable sir; but my wits

Col. Seem rather disordered, I think;-but I beg you will arrange them, and explain your business. Dom. I will; sed conjuro te!-I mean, I will deliver my message.

Col. Your message! from whom?
Dom. From Belzebub, I believe.

Col. This is an ill-timed jest, Mr. Sampson.
Dom. She, of whom I spake, is no jesting person.
Col. Whom-whom did you speak of?
Dom. Belzebub's mistress, Meg Merrilies.
Lucy. God heaven! was it she whom I saw? Oh,
sir, what what said she?

Dom. Prodigious! I am oblivious!

Col. Mr. Sampson, how can you trifle thus ? Dom. Honoured Colonel! bear with me a moment. The witch hath terrified me! It was touching little Harry Bertram.

Lucy. How! my lost brother?

Dom. Yea! who, though of a tender age, was, by a blessing upon my poor endeavours, a prodigy of learning.

Col. Well, sir, but what of him?

Dom. Of a verity, she prophesied his return.
Lucy. Gracious heaven!

Dom. And has commanded you, worthy Colonel, to attend her summons with armed men, at her ancient domicile, in the glen, by Derncleugh Tower.

Col. With armed men?

Dom. Yea, and speedily, lest, as she said, the heir of Ellangowan perisheth for ever.

Lucy. Oh, sir, slight her not! vagrant and gipsy as she is, she nursed my little brother, and was said to doat on him. 'Tis a wild hope; but, for my sake, listen to it! should I find a brother to protect me, to thank you, too, for all your goodness!

Col. It shall be attended to this moment. [Rings.

Enter a Servant.

Barnes, order the servants to provide themselves with weapons instantly. [Ecit Servant.] Mr. Samp

heaven, and never so loudly as at this moment! And, yet, you proceed, at if your hands were whiter than the lily. Hat. Peace, you foul witch! or I'll make you quiet.

son, protect the ladies. Arm yourself, and follow me; your presence may be important. [Exit. Dom. (Taking down a gun and sword from the wall.) Young ladies, follow me and fear not. Lo! I have armed myself, and will smite lustily in the cause of little Harry. (The gun goes off.) Pro-o-o-digious! [Exeunt Lucy and Julia, running, Dominie after them, dragging the gun, and awkwardly shouldering the sword.

SCENE III.-The Cavern near the Tower of Derncleugh a broken and lofty entrance a' the top, near the back, from which descends a rugged path- a dark and narrow passage hewn in the rock below. DIRK HATTERAICK discovered walking up and down in the vault, near the embers of a fire. Enter GILBERT GLOSSIN from the top cautiously with a dark lantern.

Glo. Hist! hist! Hat. Is it you?

Glo. Are you in the dark, my dear Dirk? Hat. Dark? Dark as the devil's mouth, and my fire is out.

Glo. We'll repair it in a trice. (Gathering up some dry sticks, and repairing the fire, which burns up briskly.) It is a cold place, to be sure.

Hat. (Eagerly warming himself.) Cold! snowwater, and hail! It is perdition! And I could only keep myself alive, by walking up and down this infernal hole, and thinking on the merry rouses we have had in it.

Glo. And shall again, boy. (Producing a flask.) See, here's something to warm your heart as well as your limbs.

Hat. Give it to me, give it to me! (Drinks.) Ah! this lights the fire within. I have dreamt of nothing but that damned dead fellow, Kennedy, ever since I've been here.

Glo. Come, come, the cold's at your heart still! take another pull. I left that bull-headed brute of a farmer, refreshing, as he calls it, with the soldiers, and the youngster crosses the heath alone; so, there's an easy trick to be won.

Hat. No, I'd rather fight for it; a few good blows puts a colour upon such a business,-besides, I should like my revenge on that Liddesdale bully for the hard knocks he gave me.

MEG MERRILIES appears through the dark_narrow passage, attended by HENRY BERTRAM and DANDIE DINMONT.

Meg. (In a deep whisper to Bertram.) Will you believe me now? You shall hear them attest all I have said-but do not stir till I give the sign. [They retire back.. Hat. (Who has been warming himself.) Is Sebastian true, think you?

Glo. True as steel! I fear none of them but old Meg.

Meg. (Stepping forward.) And what d'ye fear from her?

Glo. (Aside.) What fury has brought this hag hither? (To Meg.) Nay, nothing, nothing, my good mother; I was only fearing you might not come here to see our friend, Dirk Hatteraick, before he left us.

Meg. What brings him back with the blood of the Kennedy upon his hands?

Hat. It has dried up, you hag! It has dried up twenty years ago.

Meg. It has not! It cries, night and day, from the bottom of this dungeon to the blue arch of

Glo. No violence, no violence against honest Meg! I will show her such good reasons for what we have further to do-you know our purpose, I suppose?

Meg. Yes!-To murder an unoffending youth, the heir of Ellangowan. And you, you treacherous cur! that bit the charitable hand that fed you! Will you again be helping to kidnap your master's son? Beware! I always told ye, evil would come on ye, and in this very cave.

Glo. Hark ye, Meg! we must speak plain to you! My friend, Dick Hatteraick, and I, have made up our minds about this youngster, and it signifles nothing talking, unless you have a mind to share his fate. You were as deep as we in the whole business.

Meg. 'Tis false; You forced me to consent that you should hurry him away, kidnap him, plunder him; but to murder him was your own device!yours! And it has thriven with you well.

Hat. The old hag has croaked nothing but evil bodings these twenty years. She has been a rocka-head to me all my life.

Meg. I, a rock-a-head! The gallows is your rocka-head.

Hat. Gallows! Ye hag of Satan! the hemp is not sown that shall hang me.

Meg. It is sown, and it is grown, and hackled and twisted. Did I not tell you, that the boy would return in spite of you? Did I not say, the old fire would burn down to a spark, and then blaze up again?

[The party appear on the watch in the narrow passage.

Hat. You did; but all is lost, unless he's now made sure. Ask Glossin else.

Meg. I do; and in the name of heaven, demand, if he will yet forego his foul design against his master's son ?

Glo. What! and give up all to this Brown, or Bertram-this infernal heir-male, that's come back? Never!

Meg. Bear witness, heaven and earth! They have confessed the past deed, and proclaimed their present purpose.

[She throws a little flax, dipped in spirits of wine, on the fire, which blazes up-at this signal Henry Bertram rushes upon Glossin-Dandie Dinmont upon Dirk Hatterick, and masters his swordHatteraick suddenly fires a pistol at Meg, who falls, with a loud scream, into the arms of Dinmont-he then rushes up to the entrance of the cavern, he is met by COLONEL MANNERING and Soldiers, who instantly secure him and Glossin-Servants follow with lights.

Col. (To the Soldiers.) Carry off these villains! we have heard their own tongues seal their guilt. Justice shall do the rest. (Exeunt Soldiers with Glossin and Hatteraick, through the passage.) And look to this unfortunate woman. Hasten, some one, for proper assistance.

Meg. Heed me not-I knew it would be this way, and it hath ended as it ought-Bear me up-let me but see my master's son, let me but behold Henry Bertram, and bear witness to him, and the gipsy vagrant has nothing more to do with life.

Dominie, (Without.) This way, Miss Lucy-this

way! Where-where is little Harry Bertram? I must behold the infant, the dear child!

Enter DOMINIE SAMPSON at the passage, followed by LUCY, JULIA, aud Country People, who range at the back-Dominie rushes forward impatiently. Dom. (Gazing on Bertram.) Beatissime! It is his father alive! It is, indeed, Harry, little Harry Bertram-look at me, my child! do you not remember me, Abel Sampson?

Ber. A light breaks in upon me-Yes, that was, indeed, my name, and that-that is the voice and figure of my kind old master.

Dom. Miss Lucy Bertram, look!-lo! behold!is he not your father's image? Embrace him, and let fall your tears upon a brother's cheek.

Lucy. My brother! my long lost brother restored to his rights! Welcome !-oh! welcome to a sister's love!

Meg. (Suddenly raising herself.) Hear ye that! He's owned! he's owned!-There's a living witness, and here here is one, who will soon speak no more. Hear her last words! There stands Harry Ber. tram-Shout! shout! and acknowledge him Lord of Ellangowan! (The people shout.) My ears grow dull-stand from the light, and let me gaze upon him-no, the darkness is my own eyes.

(Sinks into the arms of Dinmont. Col. Come hither, some of you-bear her to Woodburne House-let all care be taken of hersupport and bear her gently away, she may yet recover. [Exit Dinmont and Attendants, bearing off Meg.] And now, Mr. Bertram, I hope no misunderstanding will prevent your accepting what I most sincerely offer, my friendship and congratulations, upon your restoration to birth and fortune.

Ber. Colonel Mannering, I accept them most gladly; and if I am not deceived, the wishes of both our hearts may make us not only friends, but brothers. What say you, sister, am I right?

Julia. Oh, she can't speak, so I will. Give Miss Bertram your arm, brother, and here, Henry, is mine; and now, let us go in before we talk more upon the subject.


Ber. My hearty friend and brave defender, come! we cannot part with you yet.

Din. I beg pardon of your honour, and these young ladies; but I haven't got my Sunday's suit on, and this coat is rather the worse for the two or three tussles we have had to-day.

Ber. And can that be an objection to him, in whose cause it suffered? You may thank Mr. Dinmont's courage, ladies, for my life and safety. Lucy. Thank him! aye, that we do, and bless him for it.

Din. Eh! and heaven bless you, my bonnie lass, wi' all my heart.

(He kisses Lucy, who, alarmed at his boldness, runs back confused.

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Old W. What came of those on board her? Rand. Some few are sav'd; but much the greater part,

'Tis thought are perish'd.

Old W. They are past the fear

Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore:
Those who escap'd, are still expos'd to both.
Where's your mistress?

Rand. I saw her pass the High-street, t'wards the

Old W. She's gone to visit Charlotte. She doth well!

In the soft bosom of that gentle maid,
There dwells more goodness than the rigid race
Of moral pedants e'er believ'd, or taught.
With what amazing constancy and truth

Doth she sustain the absence of our son,
Whom more than life she loves!

How shun for

him, Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and great,

Who own her charms, and sigh to make her happy!

Since our misfortunes we have found no friend,
None who regarded our distress, but her;
And she, by what I have observ'd of late,
Is wearied, or exhausted. Curs'd condition!
To live a burden to one only friend,

And blast her youth with our prodigious woe!
Who, that had reason, soul, or sense, would bear it
A moment longer? Then, this honest wretch!
I must dismiss him. Why should I detain
A grateful, gen'rous youth, to perish with me?
His service may procure him bread elsewhere,
Though I have none to give him. Pr'ythee, Ran-

How long hast thou been with me?

Rand. Fifteen years.

I was a very child when first ye took me

To wait upon your son, my dear young master.
I oft have wish'd I'd gone to India with him,
Though you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.

(Old Wilmot wipes his eyes.) I am to blame: this talk revives your sorrow For his long absence,

Old W. That cannot be reviv'd

Which never died.

Rand. The whole of my intent

Was to confess your bounty, that supplied
The loss of both my parents: I was long

The object of your charitable care.

Old W. No more of that: thou'st served me

longer since

Without reward; so that account is balanced, Or, rather, I'm the debtor. I remember, When poverty began to shew her face

Within these walls, and all my other servants, Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house, Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd, And left me, too indulgent and remiss

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Rand. May I beseech you, sir

Old W. With my distress,

In perfect contradiction to the world,
Thy love, respect, and diligence, increas'd.
Now, all the recompense within my power,
Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard,
Unprofitable service.

Rand. Heaven forbid!

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
Believe me, sir, my honest soul abhors
The barb'rous thought!

Old W. What! canst thou feed on air?
I have not left wherewith to purchase food
For one meal more!

Rand. Rather than leave you thus,
I'll beg my bread, and live on others' bounty,
While I serve you.

Old W. Down, down, my swelling heart,
Or burst in silence! 'Tis thy cruel fate
Insults thee by his kindness. He is innocent
Of all the pain it gives thee. Go thy ways:
I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes
Of rising in the world.

Rand. 'Tis true, I'm young,

And never try'd my fortune, or my genius,
Which may, perhaps, find out some happy means,
As yet unthought of, to supply your wants.

Old W. Thou tortur'st me! I hate all obliga


Which I can ne'er return. And who art thou,
That I should stop to take 'em from thy hand?
Care for thyself, but take no thought for me.
I will not want thee: trouble me no more!
Rand. Be not offended, sir, and I will go.
I ne'er repined at your commands before!
But heaven's my witness, I obey you now,
With strong reluctance, and a heavy heart.
Farewell, my worthy master!

Old W. Farewell! Stay;


As thou art yet a stranger to the world,
Of which, alas! I've had too much experience;
I should, methinks, before we part, bestow
A little counsel on thee. Dry thy eyes:
If thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no farther.
Dost thou aspire to greatness or to wealth?
Quit books, and the unprofitable search
Of wisdom there, and study humankind:
No science will avail thee without that;
But that obtain'd, thou need'st not any other.
This will instruct thee to conceal thy views,
And wear the face of probity and honour,
Till thou hast gain'd thy end: which must be

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