Book ,\\r: 

Conyriglit N°_ 



COPVRIGHT DEPOSm 



/ 



DE WIITS ACTING EDITION'. 

BuLWER's Plays : 



BEINQ THE 



COMPLETE DRAMATIC WORKS 



LOED LYTTOI^, 

(sm EDWAKD iYTTON BUIiWEK, BAKT.) 



coMFRisma 



THE LADY OF LYONS. 

MONEY. 

RICHELIEU. 



THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 

WALPOLE. 

NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM, 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLlllRE. 



FROM THE ORIGINAL TEXT, AS PRODUCED UNDER THE SUPERVISION 
OF THE AUTHOR AND MR. MACREADY. 

fiH ^NTIRELY J^EW ^CTING EDITION. 

WITH ADBITIONAL STAGE DIEECTI0N8, ACCUEATELY MAEKED— FULL CAST OF 

CHAEACTEE8 — SYNOPSIS OF SCENEEY — COSTUMES — BILL FOB PEO- 

GEAMMES— STOEY OF THE PLAY, AND EEMAEK8. 

EDITED 

By JOHN M. KINGDOM, 

Author of " Marcoretii," " Tlie Fountain of Beauty," "A Lift's Vengeance," 
" Tancred," etc. 



^^/Sl 



NEW YORK- 
ROBERT M. DE WITT, PUBLISHER, 

No. 33 Rose Street. 

(BETWEEN DCANE AND FRANKFORT STBEETS.) 
COPTMIGHT, 1875, BY ROBEBT M. Dk "WiTT. 



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^THE LADY OF LYO^ 



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CoPTBiGHT, 1875, BY Egbert M. De Witt. 



UHE LADY OF LYONS. 



CAST OF CHAEACTERS. 

Theatre Royal, Covent Old Park Theatre, 

Gixrden, London, 1838. May 14, 1838. 

Claude Melnotte Mr. Macbeady. Mr. Edwin Forrest. 

Colonel Uamas Mr. Babti.ey. Mr. Placide. 

Beauseant Mr. Ei.tok. Mr. Richings. 

Glavis Mr. Meadows. Mr. Wm. "Wheatlet. 

Mods. Deschappelles Mr. Stkickland. Mr. Claeke. 

Landlord Mr. Yarnold. 

Gaspar Mr. Diddeak. 

Captain Gervais (1st Officer) Mr. Howe. 

Captain Dupont (21 Officer) Mr. Pritc habd. 

Major Desmoulins (3d Officer) Mr. Egberts. 

Notary Mb. Harris. 

Servant Mr. Bendeb. 

Pauline Miss Helen Faccit. Mrs. Richaedsok. 

Madame Deschappelles Mrs. Clifford. Mrs. "Wheatley. 

"Widow Melnotte Mrs. Griffiths. Miss Cdshmax. 

Janet Mrs. East. 

Marian Miss Garbick. 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS. 



SCENERY. 



The scene is laid in France, in the city of Lyons and the neighborhood, during the 
period of 1795 to 1798 
ACT I., Scene I. — Room in the house of M. Deschappelles at Lyons. 
Garden scene background. 

.. I Window. I .. 

4th Groove. 4th Groove. 



R. 3 E. 



Chair * O 
Table. 



L. 3 E. 



E. 2 E. 



;:c- Table. 



* Chair. 



E. 1 K. 



The flats in the 4th grooves represent one side of a handsomely ^--f ^Jj^"^.;^^, 
the centre a large window, open, beyond which are beautitul gardens. The wmg 
correspond with the room. A rich sofa placed iu an oblique direcfou E^c. Near 
n E a small table, b. h. of sofa, with notes, letters, and bouquet ot flowers m 
vase uDon it. Rich table and chairs, l. c. , „ v i* f n,^ 

XT/Z.-Exterior of a small village iou, in the 2d grooves. The left half of the 



THE LADT OF LYONS. 



scene represents a portion of the inn ; casement and practicable door ; above it is 
painted the sign of the inn, " The Golden Lion ; " the right half of the scene repre- 
sents open country, with the city of Lyons in the distance; a working moon to be 
used in Jet III. but not in this scene. 
Sctne //J.— Interior of the "Widow Melnotte's cottage. 

4th Groove. .. 1 "Window. | .. 1 Door. | 4th Groove. 

• .' : Trtble. : 



Stairs. 



B 3e. 'I 
I 

Mantel- 
E. 2 E. piece. 



L. 3 G. 



Easel. 



Door. 
L. 2e. 



Chair. 



Chair. 



Ill the 4th grooves the flat repiesenls one tide of a neat and homely cottage, 
B. u. E, a flight of stairs, projecting some distai.ce on the stage, leading to the upper 
rooms. Door l. r. Practicable lattice window, c. f., with curtiiins drawn b.ick. 
Door L. H., between 2 e. and 3 e. Painter's easel with pictures upon it, brushes, etc., 
placed c, in a slanting direction towards the window, covered by a curtain. 
Chairs L. c. and r. c— plain oaken chairs. Mantel-piece R. H., between 2 e. and 3 
E., and over it, fencing foils, crossed. Flowers on the mantel-piece and at the win- 
dow, through which flower garden is seen ; underneath the window an oaken table 
with guitar and portfolio upon it. Everything has a neat and clean appearance. 

ACT II., Scene 7.— The gardens of M. Deschappellbs' house at Lyous. The tiiits 
placed in the 4th grooves represent beautiful gardens. "Wings u. H., to correspond. 
From L. 8. E. up to the flats a portion of the house is shown, and another portion 
in continuation, l. h. f., with entrance ways l. 3 e. and l. r. e. 

A CT III., Scene /.—Exterior of the Golden Lion Inn. Same as Scene II., Act I., 
only that it is now evening and the moon rises during the progress of the business 
of the Scene. 

Scene 77.— Interior of the "Widow Melsotte's cottage, as before. 
Window. Door. 



B. 2£ 



4th Groove.' 



Stairs. 

3e. 

1 
I 

Mantel- 
piece. 



Chair. 



I 4th Groove. 

Chair. 

* L. 3 e. 



Table. 



Chair.* 



♦Chair. 



Door. 



I.. 2. E. 



B. 1 E. 



li. 1 E. 



In the 4th grooves one side of the apartment as before, but the window curtains are 
drawn. A chair between the door and window, another l. u. u. e. A table c, with 
cloth, plates, etc., spread for supper. Candlestick and lighted candle. A chair on 
either side, n. c. and l. c. 

A CT IV., Scene /.-Same as the last, but the doth and supper things have been 
removed and in their place writing materials ; the candle remains. 

ACT v., Scene /.— A street in Lyons. The old French style of houses, in 2d grooves 



■i THK LADY OF LYONS. 

Sceyie II. — Room ia tlie house of M. Deschappelles — as before, but not so rich- 
ly furnished. 

4th Groove ] i .... | | 4th Groove. 

Window. Door, 
n. 3 E. L. 3 K. 

Chair.* 

Chair.* 

B. 2 E. ;••: L. 2 E. 

; ; Chair.* 

fable. 
R. 1 E. Chair.* l. 1 e. 



In the 4th grooves the scene represents the side of the apartment. Window, c. F., 
garden beyond. D. L. F. A table and chairs r. c, with writing materials upon it. 
Chairs L. 2 E. and L. U. E. 



COSTUMES. 



Claude Melnotte.— ./lei J.— Loose blouse, blue, with waist belt, cap, and loose, 
light trousers, and shoes — but all of good quality. Act II. — Dark green coat 
with broad facings, broad black braid across breast and cufl's ; knee breeches, 
dark silk stockings, shoes and buckles, black hat, turned up with a side loop. 
Act III. — Same with the addition of a cloak. Acl V. — Blue military coat with 
broad tails, broad lappels faced with white and trimmed with lace, and also 
cuffs, epaulettes; white small clothes and knee boots fitting to leg, belt and tri- 
colored sash, and sword, three-cornered hat with tri-colored knot. Moustache ; 
complexion bronzed, and military cloak. 

Colonel Damas. — Acl I — Blue coat and vest, trimmed with lace, broad lappels and 
cuffs, dark pantaloons and tight boots ; tri-colored knot on three-cornered hat. 
Act V. — Similar dress to Claude's, with the exception of the cloak. 

Beau.seant. — Act I. — Dark claret-colored coat, reaching to the knee, broad lappels 
and facings braided, and also on the cuffs ; pantaloons and high boots, after the 
Hessian style, fitting close to the leg ; three-cornered hat with tri-color. Act V, 
— Similar kind of coat, white knee-breeches, stockings, and shoos with buckles ; 
three-cornered hat and rosette. 

Glavis.— ^o< /.—Similar to Beauseant's, but not quite so good in appearance. 

MoNS. Deschappelles.— ^c< /. — Dark gray surtout coat, reacliini; to the knees, 
broad lappels, silk facings and braid, as also on cuffs, knee-breeches, three-cot- 
ncred hat and rosette. Acl F.— A similar dress, but rather mean in appearance. 

XjANDLOed.— Blue blouse, loose breeches, and gaiters, white apron, and half sleeves, 
white, from wrist to elbow. 

Gaspae.— Coarse blouse or short jacket, wide trousers, shoes, and cap of liberty. 

Capt. Gekvais. ^ Similar dresses to Col. Damas, but not so heavily orna- 

Capt. Ddpost. ^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^.^^^ j^^^.^„ 

MaJOK DESMOttLINS. J 

NoTART,— Black stuff' gown, fastened round the waist and reaching nearly to the feet, 
skull cap with broad top, black iiantaloons, stockings and shoes. 

Servants.— Similar to Gaspeb. 

Pauline.— ^c< /.—Rich silk dress (any color), high waisted, arms bare, lace shawl 
or scarf over shoulders, rose in hair, which is worn plain, small bonnet. Act 11. 
—Similar costume, but of different material. Acl T'.— Plain dark dress, meaner 
la appearance than before, edged with white trimmings, neck and sleeves. 



THli; LADr OF LYONS. 

Madame Deschappelles.— ^c« /. — Rich green silk dress, trimmed with lace, small 
bounet, black lace scarf. Jcl V. — Plain black dress, moderately trimmed -with 
lace. 

Widow Melnotte.— Plain brown stuff dress, neat white cap and apron, shoes with 
buckles 

Janet. ) Dresses of plain materials, white caps and aprons, blue stockings and 

Marian. ) shoes. 



PEOPEETIES. 



ACT I., Scene 1. — Rich sofa ; two tables ; three or four chairs ; bouquet of flowers, 
in vase ; letters and notes. Scene 2. — A bill of fare. Scene 3.— An old-fashioned 
oaken table ; portfolio ; guitar ; painter's easfl ; brushes and palette ; painting 
on it of a female bust, covered by a curtain ; two or three vases ot iiowers in the 
latticed window and on the mantel-piece ; two old-fashioned chairs ; rifle for 
Claude ; letters for Gaspar and Beauseant's servant. 

ACT II., Scene 1. — Fan f ,r Mad. Descdappelles ; diamond ring and snuff-box for 
Claude ; letters ; two swords. 

ACT III., Scene 1. — Purse with money for Beauseant. Scene 2. — Old-fashioned oak 
table ; four chairs ; tablecloth, plates, etc. ; candle and candlestick. 

ACT IV., Scene 1.— Same as last scene, except that the cloth and plates have been 
removed ; writing materials ; pistol for Beauseant ; folded paper tor Claude. 

ACT v.. Scene 1. — Snuff-box for Deschapelles. <Sce?ie 2.— Table, not very rich- 
looking, and four chairs; folded paper for M. Deschapelles; marriage con- 
tract, papers and bag for Notary; writing materials ; bundle of banknotes for 
Beauseant; pocket-book and notes for Claude. 



STORY OF THE PLAY. 

In the year 1795 there resided in the quaint old city of Lyons in France a wealthy 
family by the name of Deschappelles. The husband had amassed a larg'e fortune as 
a silk manufacturer, and had passed through the early part of the Revolution with- 
out sustaining any noticeable loss. Madame Deschappelles, as frequently the case, 
was the ruler of the house ; and the success of her husband in amassing wealth had 
put into her head very high and aristocratic notions far beyond her position, and 
certainly not in keeping with the Republican spirit of the times. They had but one 
child, Pauline, a girl of such surpassing and attractive loveliness, that old and young 
— rich and poor — all paid homage to her as the Beauty of Lyons. For her, Madame 
Deschappelles was fully determined a brilliant marriage should be brought about. 
It was true that the aristocracy of France had been cleared out, the Revolution had 
reduced every one to a common level, only one degree of rank was known, that of 
" citizen," but the designing mother conceived it to be possible to catch some foreign 
prince or nobleman who might be travelling incog. ; no matter how it was to be 
brought about, nothing less than a prince was to possess the hand of the rich and 
beautiful Lady of Lyons, 

Amongst the numerous suitors, who had made an offer of his heart and fortune, 
and had been rejected, was a Mons. Beauseant, who, if his deceased father had not 
been deprived of his title, would have been a Marquis, but as he was not one, he 
fell below Madame Deschappelles' standard of perfection, and in spite of the temp- 
tation of his great wealth, his offer was refused. It is at this point the play com- 
mences. 

Smarting severely under the indignity he considered he had suffered by receiving 
a refusal from a merchant's daughter, and the ridicule he would be exposed to 



6 



IJli; LADr OF LYONS. 



throughout the city when it became known, he resolves to be revenged, to seek some 
plan to humble her pride severely ; an opportunity soon presents itself. 

On journeying Irom Lyons to his chateau, he meets with one of his friends, M. 
Glavis, to whom, whilst baiting his hordes at the Golden Lion Inn, a few miles from 
the city, he reveals all that has taken place and his intentions. As he is doing so, 
he is inteiTupted by loud shouts of " Long live the Prince." This cry of " Prince," 
when royalty and nobility no longer existed, astonishes him, and he calls out the 
landlord of the inn to give an explanation. From this source he finds that the so 
called prince is the pride of the village — Claude Melnotte— the only son of a deceased 
gardener, who had left him pretty well oflf, with a mother who doated upon him. 
Upon the father's death, a gi-eat change was observed in Claude. He threw up his 
trade, took to reading and studying much, hired a professor from Lyons, and soon 
became an accomplished scholar, a skillful fencer, a musician, and an artist. Hand- 
some, strong, and brave, the lads of the village swore by him and the girls prayed 
for him. They called him " Prince " because he was at the head of them all, had a 
proud bearing, wore fine clothes, and, in fact, as they said, *' looked like a prince." 
Beauseant further learned that it was reported and believed, Claude Melnotte was 
madly in love with the Beauty of Lyons — the seeds of the passion having been first 
planted when he worked with his father in M. Deschappelles' garden ; and that 
upon his father'.s death, it wis the ambitious hope of winning her had induced him 
to seek the education and accomplishments which he had so successfully done. It 
was believed, however, that the Beauty of Lyons had never seen him, to know of, or 
to encourage, his love. 

The idea at once strikes Beauseant that here are the means of revenge. He will 
induce Claude to pass himself off as a foreign prince, travelling quietly for pleasure, 
provide him with money, jewels, horses, carriages, servants ; introduce him as 
such to the Deschappelles family, m ike him propose to Pauline, and, by working 
upon the ambitious pride of her mother, bring about a marriai;e ; then strip him of 
his borrowed plumes and crush the haughty beauty. Accordingly he sends a letter 
to Claude requesting him to come to the inn. 

After his success in winning the rifle prizes at the village festival, Claude returns 
to his mother's cottage, elated with joy, but his mind is still occupied with the 
grand desire of his existence— to be worthier to love Pauline. In vain does his lov- 
ing mother point out the absurdity of his hopes. Useless — day and night he thinks 
and dreams of her ; every morning he sends her the choicest flowers he can pick ; 
he has painted her image from memory ; nay, more, that morning he has gone to 
the fullest extent ; he has sot forth his worship in poetry, signed his own name, and 
sent the verses to her by a trusty messenger. Alas I a fearful blow awaits him. 
His messenger returns not only bringing back the letter which had been thrown at 
his feet, but also the galling news that he had been driven from the door with kicks 
and blows. Crushed and bewildered, Claude's every hope seems blasted, when Beau- 
seant's letter is brought in. It promises success (the writer telling him he knows 
his secret), upon condition that he will undertake to bear bis bride to his mother's 
cottage on the wedding night. Is revenge or love the stronger ? Half frenzied as 
he is, he goes with the messenger and the compact is made. 

By well contrived mean?, he is introduced into the family of the Deschappelles 
as the Prince of Como, travelling incognito, for fear of the interference of the Ee- 
puMican government, and by his presumed rank but real attraction and accomplish- 
ments, very soon secures the love of Pauline and the consent of her parents to a 
union. 

His conduct, however, does not please Colonel Damas, a rough and ready soldier, 
and cousin to Pauline ; he suspects there is some deception, and to test him, ad- 
dresses him in Italian, a language which Claude is, unfortunately, not master of; 
he evades it as best he can, but only to convince the Colonel of the correctness of his 
Buspici.ins, and he determines to insult liim and force him to fight. With the infatu- 
ated mother and daughter, Claude is more successful ; they do not see any absolute 
reason why an Italian Prince is bound to speak or understand his native tongue. 



THE LADY OF LYOXS. 7 

He further enchants Pauline, by the description he gives, not of his own palace on 
the lake of Como, but of a palace of eternal love and summer, joy and happiness- 
one of the most exquisite pieces of poelry ever written. 

Beauseant now claims from him the fulfillment of the bond ; he hesitates. Beau- 
seant points out to him, that Dumas suspects him, the police will be set to work, 
an-est will follow, he will be sent to jail as a swindler, and Pauline will despise and 
execrate him. He consents, and is left alone — Damas returns, and insists, now 
that the ladies are not there, upon crossing swords with him. Excitedly, Claude 
accepts the offer, after a few passes disarms the Colonel, and generously returns 
him his sword. Delighted with his skill and gentlemanly bearing, the officer prom- 
ises that if Claude should ever want his assistance or friendship, be he a prince or 
not, he shall have it. 

Immediately, upon quitting Claude, Beauseant finds means to float a story that 
the republican authorities are looking after the prince ; consequently an immediate 
marriage is absolutely necessary ; this is agreed to and it takes place. 

By a strange chance, the carriage conveying Claude and his bride to his mother's 
cottage, according to the bond with Beauseant, breaks down, near the Golden Lion 
Inn, and they are obliged to alight and seek shelter there. They are exposed to the 
half-suppressed smiles and ridicule of the landlord and his servants, who, of course, 
recognize Claude, though not openly ; all of which is a great mystery to Pauline, 
and the more so, when Claude induces her to continue the journey on foot, as she 
believes him to be strange to the place : but the climax is reached, and her agony 
intensified, when she is led into the humble dwelling of the Widow Melnotte. 

Light breaks upon her— the veil is lifted from her eyes : she has been deceived — 
all is revealed — and in bitter language she reproaches him for his conduct. 

In a speech of most beautiful pathos and faultless construction, Claude pictures 
to her the story of his love, his hopes and suffering's, and lays at her feet his hus- 
band's rights, declaring that a marriage so brought about is null and void, accord- 
ing to the laws of France — that under his aged mother's care she shall, that night, 
sleep in peace and safety, and in tlie morning he will restore her to her father, pure 
and unsullied as he had received her. 

With broken-heart and fevered brain, he writes to M. Deschappelles, and in the 
morning awaits patiently his arrival. Beauseant takes the opportunity to ciU. to 
gloat over the misery he has created, and in the excitement of liis triuniph, goes so 
far as to insult Pauline, but the strong arm of her husband hurls him off, and he re- 
treats with threats of renewed vengeance. 

M. Deschappelles arrives, and Claude, after a brief explanation, places in his hands 
a full confession of the fraud that has been practiced, and his consent to a divorce — 
that pure and spotless he yields her back, and in a distant land he intends to mourn 
his sin, and pray for peace and forgiveness. Hltc comes fortli a fine burst of mater- 
nal love ; in sorrow or in guilt, the widow will not disown her son : for no divorce 
can part them. This noble feeling arouses the woman and the wife in Pauline, and 
throwing lierself into Claude's arms, she implores him to take her to his bosom. 
Her parents threaten to discard and disinherit her — Claude is inexorable ; ho 
refuses firmly. Colonel Damas is charmed with his noble bearing, he tells him he 
is leaving that day to j lin the Army of Italy, and offers to take him. It is done ; 
fume or death are before him ; with a bitter struggle, Claude Melnotte sets out for 
the army. 

Two years and a half elapse. Time has worked changes with all. M. 
Deschappelles has suffered such heavy reverses that he stands upon the brink of 
ruin. Beauseant, aw.are of t'.iis, offers to help him in r-eturn for Pauline's hand ; to 
save her father from destruction she consents to the marriage. 

Claude, under the assumed name of Morier, has passed safely through the cam- 
paign, and returns wealthy, renowned, and with the rank of Colonel. Damas learns 
of the intended marriage, and he suggests that Claude, who, with his alteied ap- 
pearance, through liard service and change of dress, is not likely to be recognized, 
should be present at the signing of the contract of marriage — to take a last fare- 



o THE LADY OF LYONS. 

wiiU ; to this be agrees. Damas introduces him as his most particular friend and as 
a bosom comrade ot Claude. Pauline eagerly appeals to him to bear to Claude her 
undying love, and tells him of the reason that she is making the sacrifice of all 
earthly happiness. Beauseant produces the roll of notes he is ready to hand over 
upon the signing of the contract. Pauline is about to do so, when Claude, seizing 
the contract, tears it into pieces, at the same time throwing to the merchant twice 
the proffered amount. 

Beauseant retires defeated and angered ; with the others all is happiness. 
Claude has blotted the stain from his name and redeemed his honor ; Pauline has 
regained her husband ; the merchant is restored to his high position ; and even 
Madam Deschappelles admits ; 

" A Colonel and a hero ! Well, that's something !" 



RE31ARKS. 



As " good wine needs no bush " so any panegryic upon the brilliant writings of 
Loi'd Lytton (but who will always be better known and spoken of as " Bulwer" — 
Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer) — is perfectly unnecessary. The hold that his works 
have taken iu America is very great, and his reputation is daily increasing. 

For a long time yet across the Atlantic, will live the name and works of James 
Fenimore Cooper, and equally so on this side rise tliose of Bulwer. 

Nor is this to be wondered at, when the most glowing enconiums possible have 
been passed upon him in every circle. Blackwood'' s Magazitie said of him ; 

" To Bulwer, the author of ' Pelham,' ' The Castons ' and ' My Novel,' we 
assign the highest place among modern writers of fiction. There is always power in 
the creation of bis fancy : he is always polished, witty, learned. Since the days of 
Scott were ended, there is, in our own opinion, no pinacle so high as that on which 
•we baEg our wreath to Bulwer." 

And the great American author, Edgar A. Poe. spoke of him thus : 

" "Who is there uniting the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the 
knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the fancy, and the learn- 
ing of Bulwer? In a vivid wit — in profundity and a gothic massiveness of thought 
— in style— in a calm certainty of definitiveness of purpose — in industrv, and, above 
all, in the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable faculties 
of mind, he is unequalled." 

Such are specimens of the universal opinion entertained of the author of " The 
Lady of Lyons " " Richelieu " and " Money," Plays which will retain their posi- 
tion on the stage for years and years to come, and which will be published in this 
series, in the order named : 

The period chosen for the incidents of the present play, is some years after the 
commencement of the Revolution in France, Arising chiefly from oppressive taxa- 
tion, a spirit of discontent had long been growing up amongst the middle and lower 
classes against the sovereign power and the aristocracy. Political intrigues and 
crafty, remorseless schemes fed and fanned the flime which spread throughout the 
country with fearful and terrible rapidity. Many of the people and their leaders 
lost their heads by wild and ferocious delirium ; the royal family and hundreds of 
the nobility and gentry lost theirs by the guillotine. And so, in one continual 
scene of tumult, riot, debauchery and blood, year after year had passed on— now one 
party ruling, and now another, until at the period when the play commences, the 
governing power consisted of a body of men, or deputies, chosen from the people — 
and termed " The Directory "—all of them " Citizens," the only term recognized- 
all degrees of nobility and rank having been abolished. 

The author's good judgment is most felicitously shown in selecting France and 
this period for the action of his play. Its emotional style is precisely of the nature 
to be found in that country, and the events then in progress enabled him to send bis 



THE LADT OF LTUXS. 9 

hero into the army and raise him naturiiUy, and ■with a rapidity that was then not at 
all uncommon, to honor and wealth, instead of resorting to the old stagey devices of 
"unexpected fortune," " death of a wealthy uucle in India," and other reasons 
ad Ubiium and ad nauseam. Any and every position was open to a daring and suc- 
cessful soldier. Napoleon Bonaparte progressed 11-om an artillery lieutenant 
to First Consul find Emperor ; Claude Melnotte was more modest in his ambition, 
he was content to stop at Colonel. 

Though very beautiful, in many respects, the play is undoubtedly to some extent 
faulty and forced in construction, yet, at the same time, the quickness of action, 
telling points, and beauty of language, rivet and please an audience and push aside 
any imperfections. 

It is a curious fact, but fact it is, that very few good poets or novelists make good 
playwrights, their works require more excision and reforming than those written 
direct for the stage by practical dramatic hands. The Lady of Lyons, as acted, dif- 
fers much from tlie dramatic poem as originally published. 

Upon the first production of this play, at Covent Garden Theatre Royal, Lon- 
don, in 1833, it had the advantage of being most effectively cast— and probably never 
since have all the parts been so well and evenly iilled. It must, however, be remem- 
bered, that the author knew what the company could do, and had them in mind 
when he wrote tlie play. Every person engaged, rose afterwards to a leading posi- 
tion in the profession. Mr. Macready, the representative of the hero of the play, 
was in every respect admirably adapted to the part. Educated for the bar, he quit- 
ted that profession for the stage, and combining a fine appearance with high intel- 
lect, an excellent voice and good elocution, lie was all that the author could desire. 
, He continued his successful career for m my years, and held his position against all 
comers. Mr. Elton made one of the best Beauseants ever seen upon the stage. He 
steadily increased his laurels, and at the time of his lamented death (he was lost at 
sea) he occupied a position in the gallery of public favorites. Mr. Diddear made a hit 
in the small but telling part of Gaspar, and afterwards led a good career. 

Claude Melnotte is a flue drawn character. It depictures well high ambition, 
ardent love, and at the same time a deep sense of true nobility and honor. His 
pride, his consciousness of possessing sterling merit worthy of the best of women, are 
for tUe moment crushed by the insulting treatment to his messenger, and the 
scornful rejection of his verses. It is at this opportune moment for evil, that the 
tempter comes, and he falls an easy victim to Beauseant's artful plans. But the 
principles of reason and honor revive ; his eyes open to the discovery of the cruel 
fraud he lias committed, and the grievous wrong and sacrifice he was about to cause 
for his own selfish ends. In true and pure nobility of spirit, he restores Pauline to 
her parents ; lost to him forever unless he should succeed in the path of glory. 
This character has always been a great favorite with leading actors. Macready was 
followed by Charles Kean, Phelps, Creswick, James Anderson, and a host of others, 
by all of whom it was well rendered, and last, though by no means least, Barry Sul- 
livan, who may be considered at the present period, the best Claude Melnotte on the 
English stage. The celebrated French actor, M. Fechter, also appeared in it, and 
in aversion upon which he exercised his high talents and skill, by making various 
little practical alteratioas, he met with very great success, as he does in most of his 
parts. 

Pauline is a sweet but somewhat curious type of woman. She has a warm, loving 
and sensitive heart, much injured by the lofty aspirations and vanity instilled into 
her by her flattering and ambitious mother. Kot only by his presumed rank, but 
by his warm and passionate love and glowing language, Claude has won her affec- 
tions, and though the fearful discovery of his deceit crushes them for the time, the 
true woman speaks forth and remains firm to the end. She is willing to give her 
hand to save her father from ruin, but, heart and «oul, her love is Claude's, 

Miss Helen Faucit was everything that could be desired to realize the author's 
picture. Young, beautiful, and accomplished, she made a great hit, and for many 
years afterwards held firm ground in public favor. Her intellect, beauty, talent and 



10 THE LADT OF LYON::). 

purity, won for her, as a husband, an accomplished scholar, eentleman, and Lxwyer 
(Mr. Tlieodore Martin), and there has, perhaps, never bseu a finer scene than when 
she took her farewell of the stage. 

In Colonel Damas we have a well-drawn specimen of an honest and blunt soldier. 
He openly expresses his disapprobation of the scheming liigli notions of his rela- 
tives, and with the keenness of a well-trained soldier, he sees through tha duplicity 
of Claude. But, rough as he is, he is open to conviction, and the skill and gallant bear- - 
ing of liis adversary win his admiration, his assistance and friendship. It is a capi- 
tal part, giving ample scope for a good actor to make it a most effective one. 

The Widow Melnotte is a neat little genial part. It is very touching when well 
played — the forcible points of maternal love are strongly and judiciously shown. 

M. Deschappelles is simply a man of business ; little sentiment or affection 
enters into his mind ; his wife " rules the roost," and he looks after the money. 

Madame Deschappelles is an excellent specimen of a vain, ambitious woman, 
■whose onlyjieaven seems to be " princes " or " lords." To the shrine of one or the 
other she is rjady to sacrifice her daughter, and has carefully schooled her thoughts 
in that direction. 

Beauseant is a crafty, self-inflated, and designing m in ; without principle, and 
presuming upon his father's former aristocratic position and his own wealth, he 
thinks, like many of a similar class in the present day, that they are sufficient to 
ensure success in everything he may undertake, and compliance with all his wishes 
— without the slightest regard to the claims of merit and the principles of honesty 
and integrity. 

Even the landlord of the inn is a very neat little part, and can be made much of 
in the hands of a careful actor. Touching upon this, I remember an anecdote told 
me in England by the late William Searle, who occupied a very fair position in his 
profession. He was well educated, but like many young men at that time starting 
in the profession, he had, in travelling through the country, very much trouble to 
make both ends meet when business w.as not good — very often to .slip away at 
nights and leave his lodgings unpaid. Upon one occasion, the company he was with 
was broken up. He sought, of course, a new engagement ; he was but little known, 
and after a few words with the manager of another company, the question was ab- 
ruptly put to him, " Can you do the Landlord in the Lady of Lyons ?" 

To which he promptly and wittily replied, " I sliould say so, undoubtedly; I have 
done a good many landlords in my time, and never once failed." 

He was engaged. 

Now let us cross the water and come home. The eminent and great actor, EJwin 
Forrest, had appeared in London, in October, 1836, at the Theatre Koyal, Di ury 
Lane, as Spartacus in Dr. Bird's tragedy of thi Gladiator, and acliieved a decided 
success. He was intensely pleased with the production of the Lady of Lyons— his 
keen intellect and high genius at once saw and appreciated the beauty of the concep- 
tion, and that its success here was as certain as in England. He returned to New 
York, and produced it at the Old Park Theatre, May 14, 1838, himself, of course, 
playing the liero. All the genius, energy, ability, and talent of this truly great ac- 
tor were concentrated on the part; and from all the authorities I have looked at, it 
was a grand success, and I have little doubt his rendering of the character was equal 
to thatot Macready's. Throughout the play he appears to have been well supported 
by an attractive and efficient Pauline, as also by an excellent Damas, Beauseant, 
and Madame Deschappelles. Taken altogether, it must have been cast almost as 
effectively as upon its first production. Sa successful was it, that the first three 
nights' takings are said to have realized $4,200. Mr. Forrest made this all through 
his life a f ivorite char.vcter, following it afterwards with Bulwcr's succeeding plays 
of Money and Riehdieu. 

Mr. G. V. Brooke was another fine delineator of the character; indeed, it was al- 
most the last he played in England previous to his departure for Australia in the 
unfortunate steamer, the London, which was wrecked in the Bay of Biscay, Jan. 11, 
186G, when he and nearly all on board perished. 
Mr. F. B. Conway, so recently deceased, also played the character at the Broad- 



IHE LADY OF LYONS. H 

way Theatre, with considerable success. He had been educated in England previ- 
ously in an exee.leut school, having had much experience iu Dublin with Miss 
Helen Faueit (the original Tauliiie), and in London with the accomplished, beauti- 
ful, and versatile actress, Madame .Vestris. 

Mr. Thomas Placide, who played Colonel Damas, was a gentleman of much ex- 
perience, having made his first appearance at the Park Theatre in 1823, and after- 
vrards he visited England ; his pertormauce of the part is well recorded. 

Mr. Richings, who filled the character of Beauseant, was an old stasjer at the Park 
Theatre, having first appeared there upon his arrival from England in Sept., 1821, 
as Harry Berti-ara, in " Guy Mannering." He continued a great favorite in the city 
until 1839, when he left for Philadelphia. He rendered the character of the rejected 
suitor in a style quite equal to the original. 

Mrs. Wheatley's Madame Descheppelles is recorded as a finished piece of acting. 
She was one of the best representatives of old women upon the American stage. 
Possessed of remarkable study, she mastered the most difficult compositions with 
astounding rapidity, and her vivid and life-like acting was of a character that once 
seen could never be forgotten. Indeed, from all accounts, her Madame Deschap- 
pelles was a perfect gem. 

One of the sweetest Paulines was Miss Laura Addison. She made a great hit in 
England, and first appeared at the Broadway Theatre, New York, in Sept., 1851. 
Twelve months afterwards she died on board the steamer Oregon, on her passage 
from Albany to New York, and her sudden demise created a great sensation. She 
was buried in the Marble Cemetery, Second street. New York ; foul play was sus- 
pected, but a post-mortem examination showed that congestion of the brain was the 
cause of her death. 

It is impossible to give anything like a list of those who have taken the leading 
characters. As Claude, besides those previously named, we have seen Charles Dil- 
lon, J. C. Freer, D. W. Osbaldiston, Watkins Burroughs, T. C. King, George Van- 
denhofif, Herman Vezin, E. L. Davenport, and a host of others. 

As Pauline, Miss Elsworthy, Miss "Vincent, Mrs. C. Dillon, Kate Saxon, Kate 
Reignolds, Mrs. H. Vezin (formerly Mrs. Charles Young), Mrs. Mo watt, Mrs. J. B. 
Booth, and Mrs. Sinclair Forrest, etc., etc. 

Wherever and whenever produced, and even with the drawback of an inferior 
cast, the intrinsic merits of the three plays are such that they have been and always 
will be successful. It is to me quite certain that not one jot of their brilliancy and 
efliect has been lost by their transfer to the Ameiicaa boards. j. m. k. 



12 THE LADr OF LYONS. 



BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, Etc. 

The events of this Play take place at the city sf Lyons, in France. Period, 1795 

to 1798. 

ACT I . 

Scene I.— BOOM IN THE HOUSE OF MONS. DE-CHAPPELLES. 

The Beauty of Lyons — The Mysterious Flowers — Aa Offer of Marriage — 

The Refusal. 
Scene II.— EXTERIOR OF " THE GOLDEN LION INN," WITH 

DISTANT VIEW OF THE CITY OF LYONS. 
The Rejected Suitor — Plans for Revenge — The Stctry of Claude Melnotte, 
the Gardener' s Son — His Love for the Beauty of Lyons — The Letter and 
the Trap. 

Scene III.— INTERIOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTE'S COTTAGE. 

Claude Melnotte, the " Prince " of Riflemen — A Story of Ambition — An 
Artisfs Love and a Painter's Idol — The Poetry of Love — Indignity and 
Disgrace - The Scheme of Revenge begitis to Work — The Letter and the 
Snare — The Bird Caught. 

ACT II. 

Scene I.— THE GARDENS OF MONS. DESCHAPPELLES' HOUSE, 
AT LYONS. 

The Plot Succeeds — The Gardener's Son Changed into a Prince — Free Gifts 
— A Dream of Love and Fairyland — Darkness Approaches — A Forced 
Marriage tvith the Beauty of Lyons — A Duel and a Gencrotis Adversary 
— Threatened Arrest and a Hasty Marriage — " Woo, Wed, and bear her 
Home," so runs the Bond. 

ACT III. 

Scene I.— EXTERIOR OF " THE GOLDEN LION INN." MOON- 
LIGHT. 
The Mask falling off ^Departure of the Pretended Prince and his Bride for 

Home. 

Scene II.- INTEKlOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTE S COTTAGE. 

Humble Preparations for a Wedding Suppei — Surprise and Explanations — 

The Fraud Detected — A Thrilling Story of Love — A Bride but no Wife. 



ACT IV. 

Scene T.— INTERIOR OF THE WIDOW MELNOTTE'S COTTAGE. 
MORNING. 

Claude^s noble Sacrifice and Devotion — A Mother's holy Love — Triumph of 
the Rejected Suitor — A Libertine's Attack — A Husband to the Rescue — 
The Last Embrace — The Fraud Confessed — Claude Consents to a Divorce 
— Devotion of the Beauty of Lyons — " Too late ! I achieve Rank and 
Fame, or fall upon the Field!" — Departure of Claude for the Army of 
Italy. 

TWO YEARS AND A HALF ELAPSE, 



THE LADr OF LYONS. 



13 



ACT V. 

Scene I.— A STREET IN LYONS. 
Return from the War— The Mysterious Colonel— Honor, Fame and Fortune 

—Divorce of the Beauty of Li/otts — A Plan for the Last Look of Love. 
Scene II.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MONS. DESCHAPELLES. 
Preparations for the Marriage of Pauline and the Rejected Suitor — A 
Daughter's Heart Sold to Save a Ruined Father— The Mysterious Colo- 
nel Again— ^' He is a Friend of Claude Melnotte "—Story of a Woma7i's 
Love— Pauline's Confession — " Tell him I love him, but a father calU 
upon his child to save him. We shall meet again hi heaven!" — The 
Stakes are Doubled and Claude wins the Race— A Wife Regained— A 
Parent's Honor Saved— Unity of Love and Pride— Ha2}inj Re-tmion of 
Claude Melnotte and 

THE LADY OF LYONS. 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



7 



/ 



BCENE. 



B. Se. 

B.2B 

/ 

R. B. 0. 0. a. 0, 

ATBIENCE. 



t. Left. 

L. o. Left Centre. 

L. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 

L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 

L. 3 E. Lett Third Entrance. 

L. u. E. Left Upper Entrance 

(wherever this Scene may be.) 

D. L. c. Door Left Centre. 



v 



\ 



L. 3e. 
I..28. 

L. ISa 



\ 



\ 



c. Centre. 

B. Bight. 

E. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. 

B. 2 E. Bight Second Entrance. 

B. 3 E. Bight Third Entrance. 

E. u. E. Eight Upper Entrance. 

D. E. c. Door Eight Centre. 



14 IHE LADY OF LYONS. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
An indistinct recollection of the very pretty little tale, called "The Bellows- 
Mender," suggested the plot of this Drama. The incidents are, however, greatly 
altered from those of the tale, and the characters entirely recast. 

Having long had a wish to illustrate certain periods of French history, so, in the 
selection of the date in which the scenes of this play are laid, I saw that the era of 
the Eepulllc was that in which the incidents were rendered most probable, in which 
the probationary career of the hero could well be made sufficiently rapid for dramatic 
effect, and in which the character of the time itself was depicted by the agencies 
necessary to the conduct of the narrative. For during the early years of the first 
and most brilliant successes of the French Republic, in the general feiment of 
society, and the brief equalization of ranks, Claude's high-placed love, liis ardent 
feelings, his unsettled principles (the struggle between which makes the passion of 
this drama), his ambition, and his career, were phenomena that characterized the 
age, and in which the spirit of the nation went along with the extravagance of the 
individual. 

The play itself was composed with a twofold object. In the first place, sympa- 
thizing with the enterprise of Mr. Macready, as Manager of Covent Garden, and be- 
lieving that many of the higher interests of the Drama were involved in the success 
or failure of an enterprise equally hazardous and disinterested, I felt, if I may so 
presume to express myself, something of the Brotherhood of Art, and it was only for 
Mr. Macready to think it possible that I might serve him in order to induce me to 
make the attempt. 

Secondl}-, in that attempt I was mainly anxious to see whether or not, atter the 
comparative failure on the stage of " The Duchess de la Valliere," certain critics had 
truly declared that it was not in my power to attain the art of dramatic construc- 
tion and theatrical effect. I felt, indeed, that it was in this that a writer, accus- 
tomed to the narrative class of composition, would have the most both to learn and 
./nlearn. Accordingly, it was to the development of the plot and the arrangement 
of the incidents that I directed my chief attention — and I sought to throw whatever 
belongs to poetry less into the diction and the * ' felicity of words " than into the con- 
struction of the story, the creation of the characters, and the spirit of vbe pervading, 
sentiment. 

The authorship of the play was neither avowed nor suspected until the play had 
established itself in public favor. The announcement of my name was the signal 
for attacks, chiefly political, to which it is now needless to refer. "When a work baa 
outlived for some time the earlier hostilities of criticism, there comes a new race of 
critics to which a writer may, for the most part, calmly trust for a fail considera- 
tion, whether of the faults or the merits of hia performance. 



THE LADY OF LYONS ; 

OR, LO YE Al^D PEIDE. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — A room in the house of M. Deschappelles, at Lyons. Pau- 
line reclining on a sofa, e. ; Marian, her maid, fanning her, k. Floiv- 
ers and notes on a table beside the sofa ; Madame Deschappelles scftf't,/ 
at a table, l. c. The gardens are seen from the open ivindoiv. 

Mme. Deschap. Marian, put that rose a little more to tlie left (Ma- 
rian alters the position of a rose in Pauline's hair') Ah, so ! that improves 
the hair — the tournure, iheje ne sais quoi ! You are certainly very hand- 
some, child! — quite my style— I don't wonder that you make such a 
sensation ! — old, young, rich, and poor do homage to the Beauty of 
Lyons ! Ah, we live again in our children — especially when they have 
our eyes and complexion ! 

Pauline {langnidlg) Dear mother, you spoil your Pauline, (aside) I 
wish I knew who sent me these flowers. 

Mme. Deschap. No, child. If I praise you, it is only to inspire j'^ou 
with a proper ambition. You are born to make a great marriage. Beau- 
ty is valuable or worthless according as you invest the property to the 
best advantage. Marian, go and order the carriage ! 

[Hxit Marian, r. 3 e. 

Pauline. Who can it be that sends me, every day, these beautiful 
flowers ? How sweet they are ! 

Unter Servant, l. 2 e. 

Servant. Monsieur Beauseant, madam. 

Mme. Deschap. Let him enter. (Hxit Servant) Pauline, this is an- 
other offer ! — I know it is ! Your father should engage an additional 
clerk to keep the account book of your conquests. 

Enter Beauseant, l. 2 e. 

Beauseant. Ah, ladies, how fortunate I am to find you at home. 
(aside) How lovely she looks 1 It is a great sacrifice I make in marry- 
ing into a family in trade ! — they will be eternally grateful ! (^aloiid) 
Madam, you will permit me a word with your charming daughter? (ap- 
proaches Pauline, who rises disdainfully) Mademoiselle, I have ventured 
to wait upon you, in a hope that you must long since have divined. Last 
night, when you outshone all the beauty of Lyons, you completed your 
conquest over me. You know that my fortune is not exceeded by any 



16 THE LIDT OF LYONS. [aCT I. 

estate in the province — you know that, but for tlie Revo'ution, which 
lias defrauded me of my titles, I slioiild be noble. May I, then, trust 
that you will not reject my alliance 1 I offer you my band and heart. 

Pauline {aside). He has the air of a man who confers a favor, (aloud) 
Sir, you are very condescending — I thank you humbly ; but, being duly 
sensib'e of my own demerits, you must allow me to decline the honor 
you propose, (curtsies, and turns away.) 

Beau. (c). Decline! impossible! — you are not seriou=!. IMadam, 
suffer me to appeal to you. I am a suitor for your daughter's hand — 
tjie settlements shall be worthy her beauty and my station. May 1 wait 
on M. Deschappelles ] 

Mme. Deschap. M. Deschappelles never interferes in the domestic 
arrangements — you are very obliging. If you were still a marquis, or 
if my daughter were intended to marry a commoper, why, perhaps, we 
might give you the preference. 

Beau. A commoner! — we are all commoners in France now. 

Mme. Deschap. In France, yes ; but there is a nobility still left in the 
other countries in Europe. We are quite aware of your good qualities, 
and don't doubt that you will find some lady more suitable to your pre- 
tensions. We shall be always happy to see you as an acquaintance, M. 
Beauseant ! — My dear child, the carriage will be here presently, [goes to 
Pauline.) 

Beau. Say no more, madam ! — say no more ! (aside) Refused ! and 
by a merchant's daughter ! — refused ! It will be all over Lyons before 
sunset! I will go and bury myself in my chateau, study philosophy, 
and turn woman-hater! Refused ! They ought to be sent to a mad- 
house ! (aloud) Ladies, I have the honor to wish you a very good morn- 
ing. [Exit, L. 2 E. 

Mme. Deschap. How forward these men are! — I think, child, we 
kept up our dignity. Any girl, however inexperienced, knows how to 
accept an offer, but it requires a vast deal of address to refuse one with 
proper condescension and disdain. I used to practise it at school wirh 
the dancing-master. 

Enter Damas, l 2 e. 

Damas (c). Good morning, cousin Dsschappelles. Well, Pauline, 
are you recovered from last night's ball 1 So many triumphs must be 
very fatiguing. Even M. Glavis sighed most piteously when you de- 
parted ; but that might be the effect of the supper. 

Pauline. M. Ghivis, indeed! 

Mme. Deschap. M. Glavis 1 — as if my daughter would think of M. 
Glavis ! 

Damas. Hey-day ! why notl His father left him a verj- jirotty for- 
tune, and his birth is higher than yours, cousin Deschappelles. But 
perhaps you are looking to M, Bea\iseant — his father was a marquis be- 
fore the Revolution. 

Pauline. M. Beauseant! Cousin, you delight in tormenting me ! 

Mme. Deschap. Don't mind him, Pauline! Cousin Damas, you have 
no susceptibility of feeling — there is a certain indelicacyjn all your 
ideas. M. Beauseant knows already that he is no match for my daugh- 
ter ! 

Damas. Pooh! pooh! one would think yon intended your daughter 
to marry a prince ! 

Mme. Deschap. Well, and if I did ? — what then 1 Many a foreign 
prince 

Damas (interrupting her). Foreign prince ! — foreign fiddlestick ! — you 
ou'dit to be ashamed of such nonsense at your time of life, (crosses r.) 



ACT I.] THE LADY OF LYONS. 17 

Mme. DEscn\p. My time of life ! That is an expression novo;- ap- 
plied to any lady till siie is sixty-nine and three-quarters, and only then 
by the clergyman of the parish ! 

Elder Servant, l. 2 e. 

Servant. Madam, the carriage is at the door. [Exit, l. 2 e. 

JMme. Deschap. Come, child, put on your bonnet — you really liavR a 
very ihorouohbred air — not at all like your poor father, {fondbj) Ah, 
you little coquette ! when a yonns; lady is always making niischief, it is 
a sure si^n that she takes after her mother ! 

Paulixe. Good day, cousin Damas — and a bptter humor to you. {go- 
ing back to the fable, and talcing the floicers) Who eoiild have sent nie these 
flowers? [Exeunt Pauline and Madame Descuafpelles, l. 2 b. 

Damas. That would be an excellent gir) if her head had not been 
turned. 1 fear she is now become incorrioible ! Zounds, what a lucky 
fellow I am to be still a bachelor ! They may talk of the devotion ol' 
the sex— but the most faithful attachment in life is that of a woman in 
love— with herself. [Exit, l. 2 e. 



SCENE II. — The exterior of a small village inn — sign " the Golden lion " 
— a few leagues from Lyons, which is seen at a distance. 

Beau, (behind the scenes, r.). Ye.s, you may bait the horses ; we shall 
rest here an hour. 

Enter Beauseaxt atul Glavis, k. 

Glavis. Really, my dear Beauscant, consider that I have promised to 
spend a day or two with you at your chateau — that I am quite at your 
mercy for my entertainment — and yet you are as silent and as gloomy 
as a mute at a funeral, or an Englishman at a party of pleasure. 

Beau. Bear with me! — the fact is, that 1 am miserable. 

Gla. You, the richest and gayest bachelor in Lyons ? 

Beau. It is because I am a bachelor that I am miserable. Thou 
knowest Paulina — the only daughter of the rich merchant, M. Deschap- 
pelles ? 

Gla. Know her 1 — who does not ? — .is pretty as Venus, and as proud 
as Juno. 

Bi^au. ITer taste is worse than her pride, {drawing himself up) Know, 
Giavis, she has actually refused me I 

Gla. {aside). So she has me ! — very consoling ! In all cases of heart- 
ache the application of another man's disappointment draws out Iho 
pain and allays the irritation, [aloud) Refused you I and wherefore! 

Beau. I know not, unless it be because the Revolution swept away 
my father's title of i\larquis — and she will not marry a commoner. Now, 
as we have no noblemen left in France — as we are all citizens and 
equals, she can only hope that, in spite of the war, some English Miloid 
or German Count will risk his life, by coming to Lyons, that (his JiUc dh 
Uo'.nrier may condescend to accept h'm. Refused me, and with .scorn I 
By Heaven, I'll not submit to it tamely; I'm in a perfect fever of mor- 
tification and rage. Refuse me, indeed ! [crosses r..) 

Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow — I will tell you a secret. For 
the same reason she refused me I 

Beau. You! — that's a very different matter! But give me j'our 
hand, Glavis — we'll think of some plan to humble her. 3Iillc diahles I I 
should like to see her married to a strolling player ! [crosses l ) 



18 THE LADY OF LYONS. [aCI I. 

Enter Landlord /ro«j the Inn, l. d. in f. 

Landlord. Your servant, citizen Beauseant — servant, sir. Perhaps 
yon will take dinner before you proceed to your chateau ; our larder is 
most plentifully supplied. 

Beau. I have no appetite. 

Gla. Nor J. Still it is bad travelling on an empty stomach. What 
have j^ou got ] [takes the bill of fare from the Landlord, who has crossed c. 
Shout tvithout : "Lons live the Prince ! — long live the Prince ! ") 

Beau. The Piince ! — what Prince is that 1 I thought we had no 
princes left in France. 

Land. Ha, ha ! the lads always call him Prince. Hehas just won the 
prize in the sliooting match, and they are taking him home in triumph. 

Beau. Him ! and who's Mr. Him ? 

Land. Who should he be but the pride of the village, Claude Mel- 
notte ] Of course you have heard of Claude Melnotte ] 

Gla [giving bach the bill of fare). Never had that honor. Soup — rag- 
out of hare — roast chicken, and, in short, all you have! 

BisAU. The son of old Melnotte, the gardener 1 

Land. Exactly so — a wonderful young man. 

Beau." How wonderful ? Are his cabbages better than other people's ? 

Land. Nay, he don't garden any more ; his father left him well off. 
He's only a genius. 

Gla. a what ? 

Land. A genius! — a man who can do every thing in life except any- 
thing that's useful — that's a genius. 

Beau. You raise my curiosity — proceed. 

Land. Well, then, about four years ago, ftld Melnotte died, and left his 
son well to do in the world. We then all observed that a sreat change 
came over young Claude ; he took to reading and Latin, and iiired a pro- 
fessor from Lyons, who had so much in his head that he was forced to wear 
a great full-bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a fencing-master, 
and a dancing-master, and a music-master ; and then he learned to 
paint ; and at last it was said that young Claude was to go to Paris, 
and set up for a painter. The lads laughed at him at first ; but he is a 
stout fellow, is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and soon taught them to 
laugh the wrong side of their mouths ; and now all the boys swear by 
him, and all ihe girls pray for him. 

Beau. A promising youth, certainly ! And why do they call him 
Prince ] 

Land. Partly because he is at the head of them all, and partly be- 
cause he has such a proud way with him, and wears such fine clothes — 
and, in short, looks like a prince. 

Beau. And what could have turned the foolish fellow's brain ? The 
Revolution, I suppo.se 1 

Land. Yes — the revolution that turns us all topsy-turvy — the revolu- 
tion of Love. 

Beau. Romantic yoimg Corydon ! And with whom is he in love 1 

Land. Why — but it is a secret, gentlemen. 

Beau. Oh, certainlj'. 

Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, good soul, that it is no less 
a person than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Deschappelles. 

Beau rt«^ Gla. Ha, ha ! Capital! (Beauseant wossfs ^o Glavis.) 

Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as I stand here. 

Beau. And what does the Beauty of Lyons say to his suit ? 
Land. Lord, sir, she never even condescended to look at him, though 
when he was a boy he worked in her father's garden. 



ACT I.] THE LADY OF LYONS. 19 

Beau. Arc you snre of that ] 

Land. His "mother says that Marlemoiselle does not know liim by 
siglit. 

Beau, {taking Glavis aside). 1 have hit it — I have it — here is our re- 
veiiffe ! Here is a prince for our damsel. Do you take me ? 

Gla. Deuce take uie if 1 do ! 

Beau. Blockhead ! — it's as clear as a map. What if we could make 
this elegant clown pass himself off as a foreign prince ? — lend him money, 
clothes, equipage for the purpose V — make him propose to Pauline 1. — 
marry Pauline ? Would it not be delicious 1 

Gla. Ha, ha ! Excellent 1 But how shall we support the necessary 
expenses of his highness ? 

Beau. Pshaw ! Revenge is worth a much larger sacrifice than a few 
hundred louis ; as for details, my valet is the trustiest fellow in the 
world, and shall have the appointment of his highness'g establislimenr. 
Let's go to him at once, and see if he be really this Admirable Crichton. 

Gla. With all my heart ; but the dinner ? 

Beau. Always thinking of dinner ! Hark ye, landlord; how far is it 
to young Melnotte's cottage ? I should like to see such a prodigy. 

Land. Turn down the lane — then strike across the common— and 
you will see his mother's cottage. [Exit, d. f. 

Beau. True, he lives with his mother, {aside) We will not trust to an 
old woman's discretion; better send for him hither. I'll just step m 
and write him a note. Come, GlavHk 

Gla. Yes; Beauseant, Glavis & Co., manufacturers of princes, whole- 
sale and retail — an uncommonly genteel line of business. But why so 
grave ? 

Beau. You think only of the sport — I of the revenge. 

[Exeunt within the inn, d. in f. 

SCENE in. — The interior of Melnotte's cottage ; fioioers placed here and 
there ; a guitar on an oaken table, tvith a portfolio, etc. ; a picture on an 
easel, covered by a curtain ; fencing-foils crossed over the mantel-piece ; an 
attempt at refinement in spite of the homeliness of the furniture, etc. ; a 
staircase to the right cotiducts to the upper story ; d. l. p. ; practicable win- 
dow, c. F. 

The Widow descends the stairs during the shouts. 

{Shout without, distant, h. u. e.). " Long live Claude Melnotte !" " Long 
live the Prince !" 

Widow Melnotte. Hark! there's my dear son — carried off the priz?, 
I'm sure; and now he'll want to treat them all. {shouts nearer, "Lung 
live the Prince.") 

Claude Melnotte {ivithout, l.). What! you will not come in, my 
friends ? Well, well — there's a trifle to make meri'y elsewhere. Good 
day to you all — good day! {Shouts, "Hurrah! Long live Prince 
Claude!") 

Enter Claude Melnotte, l. d. in p., with a rifle in his hand. He goes to 
the Widow, and kisses her. 

Mel. Give me joy, dear mother — I've won the prize — never missed 
one shot ! Is it not handsome, this gun 7 

Widow. Humph ! AVell, what is it worth, Claude 1 

Mel. Worth! What is a ribband worth to a soldier'? Worth ! every- 
thing ! Glory is priceless !" 



20 THE LADY OF LTOXS. [aCX I. 

Widow. Lsave glory to great folks. Ah, Claude, Claude! castle.s in 
the air cost a vast deal to keep up. How is all this to end 7 What 
good does it do ihee to learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on the 
guitai', and fence, and dance, auJ paint pictures 1 All very tine ; but 
what does it bring in 1 

- JMel. Wealth ! wealth, my mother ! Wealth to the mind — wealth to 
the heart— high thoughts — bright dreams — the hope of fame — the am- 
bition to be worthier to love Pauline. 

Widow. My poor son ! — the young lad.y will never think of thee. 

Mel. Do the stars think of us 1 Yet if the prisoner see them shine 
into his dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from /AfiV lustre ] 
Even so from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget 
my chains. ( piits down Ms gun and cop near the staircase, k. u. e., iJic 
Widow ialces a chair and sits it. c. Goes to the picture and draivs aside the 
ctcrtain) See, this is her image — painted from memory. Oil, how the 
canvas wrongs her! {takes up the brash and throws it ccside) I shall never 
be a i)ainter. I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above all art. 
i would turn soldier — France needs soldiers ! — but to leave the air that 
Pauline breathes ! What is the hour ? — so late 1 (takes a choir and sits, 
L. c.) I will tell thee a secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last 
six weeks -I have sent everyday the rarest flowers to Pauline? — she 
wears them. 1 have seen them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole 
universe seemed filled with odors ! I have now grown more bold — I 
have poured worship into poetry — I have sent the verses to Pauline — I 
have signed them with my own name. My messenger ought to be back 
by this time. I bade him \\ait for the answer. 

Widow. And what answer do you e.\pect, Claude? 

Mel. {rises). That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor trou- 
badour: "Let me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful !" 
She will admit me. I shall hear her speak — I shall meet her eyes — 
I shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate themselves 
into blushes. Then. — then, oh, then — she may forget that I am the pea- 
sant's son ! {crosses to L.) 

Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude. 

Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that desert is the true rank. 
She will Give mo a badge — a flower — a glove ! Oh, rapture I {crosses r.) 
I shall join the Armies of the Republic — I shall rise— I shall win a name 
that beauty will not blush to hear. I shall return with the right to say 
to her, " See. how love does not level the proud, but raises the hum- 
ble!" Oh, how my heart swells within me! Oh, what glorious pro- 
phets of tlie future are youth aud hope! {knock at (he v. in f.) Who's 
there 1 

Gaspau {without). Gaspar. 

Mel. Come in. {the Widow opms the door.) 

Enter Gaspar, d. in p. 

Mel. AVelcome, Gaspar. welcome. Where is the letter? Why do 
you turn away, maul AVhere is the letter? (Gaspar gives him one) 
This ! This is mine, the one I entrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave 
it? 

Galpar. Yes, I left it. 

.Mel. My own veises returned to me. Nothing else! 

Gaspar. Thou wilt be jiroud to hear how thy messenger was honored. 
Foi- tliy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no Frenchman can 
bi'ar without disgi'oco. 

MsL. Disgrace, Gaspar ! Disgrace 1 



XCV I.] TUE L.VDy OF LYONS. 21 

Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey 
to lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for. 

Mel. It reached her, then — you are sure of ihat! It reached her — 
well, well ' 

Gaspar. It reached her, and was returned to me with blow.s. Dost 
hear, MelnotLe ? with blows ! Death ! are we slaves still, that we are to 
be thus dealt with, we peasants 1 

MiiL. With blows 1 No, Gaspar, no; not blows. 

Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame 
to bear them. The hickey who tossed thy letter into the mire swore 
that his lady and her molher never were so insulted. What could thy 
letter contain, Claude 1 

Mel. {looking over the Utter). Not a line that a serf might not have 
written to an Empress. No, not one. 

Gaspar. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if thou 
wilt pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude 1 

Mel. {wringing Gaspar's hand). Forgive me, the fault is mine ; I 
have brought this on thee; I will not forget it ; thou shalt be avenged. 
The lieartless insolence ! 

Gaspar. Thou art moved, Melnotte ; think not of me ; I would go 
through fire and water to serve thee ; but — a blow ! It is not the bruise 
that galls— it is the blush, Melnotte. ( going ) 

Mel. Say, what message "? How insulted 1 Wherefore! AV hat the 
offence 1 

Gasp.\r. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter of 
the rich merchant 1 

Mel. Weill 

Gaspar. And are you not a peasant — a gardener's son 1 that was the 
offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen ; blows ! 

\^Exit, D. in F. 

Widow. Now j^ou are cured, Claude. 

Mel. [tearing the letter). So do I scatter her image to the winds — I 
will stop her in the open streets — I will insult her — I will beat her me- 
nial ruffians — I will {turns suddenly to AVidow) Mother, am I hump- 
backed — deformed — hideous ? 

Widow. You ! 

Mel. a coward — a thief — a liar 1 

Widow. You ! 

Mel. Or a dull fool — a vain, drivelling, brainless idiot 1 

Widow. No, no. 

Mel. What am I then — worse than all these 1 Why, I am a peasant. 
What has a peasant to do with love % Vain revolutions, why lavish 
your cruelty on the great 1 Oh, that we — we, the hewers of wood and 
drawers of water — had been swept aAvay, so that the proud might learn 
Avhat the world would be without us ! (^;ffce5 the stage excitedly. Knock at 
the D. in f.) 

Enter Servant ^>o)» the Inn, d. in f. 

Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. 

Mel. a letter ! from her perhaps — who sent thee ? 

Serv. (r..). Why, Monsieur — I n)ean Citizen Beauseant, who stops 
to dine at the Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau. 

Mel. Beauseant! {reads) "Young man, I know thy secret— thou 
lovest above thy station ; if thou ha.st wit, courage, and discretion, I can 
secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes ; and the sole 
condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own 
ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou 



22 THE LADY OF LYONS. [aCT II. 

lovest ; to bear her to tliine home on ihy wedding night. I am serious — 
if tliou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of 
this letter to thy friend and pation, Charles Beactseant." Can 1 be- 
lieve my eyes ? Are our own passions the sorcerers that raise up for 
us spirits of good or evil? 1 will go instantly. [Exit Servant, d. in f. 

Widow. What is this, Claude 1 

Mel. " Marry her whom thou lovest " — " bear her to thine own 
home." 01), revenge and love; which of you is the stronger 1 {gazing 
on the picture) Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the canvas ; weak 
fool that I am, do I then love her still 1 No, it is the vision of my own 
romance that I have worshipped; it is the reality to Avhich I bring scorn 
for scorn. Adieu, mother ! I will return anon. [Exit Widow itp the 
staircase) My brain reels — the earth swims before me. {looks again at the 
letter) " Marry her whom thou lovest." No, it is not a mockery ; I do 
not dream ! [Exit, d. in y. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 



SCENE. I. — The gardens of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons — the house 
seen at the hack of the stage. 

Enter Beauseant and Glavis from the house, l. s. e. 

Beau. Well, what think you of my plot? Has it not succeeded to a 
miracle 1 The instant that I introduced his Highness the Prince of Como 
to the pompous mother and the scornful daughter, it was ail over with 
them; he came — he saw — he conquered ; and, though it is not many 
days since he arrived, they have already promised him the hand of Pau- 
line. 

Gla. It is lucky, though, that you told them his highness travelled 
incognito, for fear the Directory (who are not very fond of princes) 
should lay him by the heels ; for he has a wonderful wish to keep ui) 
his rank, and scatters our gold about with as much coolness as if he 
were watering his own flower-pots. 

Beau. True, he is damnably extravagant ; I think the sly dog does it 
out of malice. However, it must be owned that he reflects credit on his 
loyal subjects, and makes a very pretty figure in his fine clothes, with 
my diamond snufF-box. 

Gla. And my diamond ring! But do you think he will be firm to 
the last? I fancy I see symptoms of relenting; he will never keep up 
his rank if he once lets out his conscience. 

Beau. His oath binds him ! he cannot retract without being for- 
sworn, and those low fellows are always superstitious ! But, as it is, I 
tremble lest he be discovered ; that bluff Colonel Damas (Madame Des- 
chappelles' cousin) evidently suspects him ; we must make haste and 
conclude the farce ; I have thought of a i)lan to end it this very day. 

Gla. This very day ! Poor Pauline ! her dream will soon be over. 

Beau. Yes, this day they shall be married; this evening, according 
to his oath, he shall carry his bride to the Golden Lion, and then ])omp, 
equipage, retinue, and title all shall vanish at once ; and her Highness 
the Princess shall find that she has refused the son of a IMarcjuis, to 
many the son of a gardener. Oh, Pauline ! once so loved, now hated, 



ACT II ] THE L.\.DT OF LTOXS. 23 

yet still not relinquished, thou shalt drain the cup to the dregs — thou 
shalt know what it is to be humbled ! (they go l.) 

Enter from the house, l. S. e., Melnottr, ns the Prince of Como, leading in 
Pauline; Madame DescuafpelijES, fanning herself ; ««f/ Colonel 
Damas. Beauseant and Glavis botv respeelfully. Pauline and Mel- 
NOTTE ivalk apart. 

Mme Dkschap. Good morning, gentlemen; really I am so fatigued 
with laughter ; the dear Prince is so entertaining. What wit he hajs ! 
Any one may see that he has spent his whole life in courts. 

Damas (r.). And what the deuce do you know about courts, cousin 
Deschappelles 1 You women regard men just as you buy books — you 
never care about what is in them, but how they are bound and lettered. 
'Sdeath, I don't think you would even look at your Bible if it had not a 
title to it. 

Mme. Deschap. (r. c.i. How coarse you are, cousin Damas ! quite the 
manners of a barrack — you don't deserve to be one of (Uir fam.ily ; really, 
we must droi) your acquaintance when Pauline marries. I cannot ]>at- 
ronize any relations that would discredit my future son-in-law, Prince 
of Como. 

Mel. fc, advancing). These are beautiful gardens, madam. 

Mme. Deschap. Does your highness really think so ? 

Mel. They are laid out in the best taste ; who planned them ? (Beau- 
seant and Glavis retire.) 

Mme. Deschap. A gardener named Melnotte, your highness — an hon- 
est man who knew his station. I can't say as much for his son — a pre- 
suming fellow, who — ha, ha ! actually wrote verses — such doggerel ! — 
to my daughter. 

Pauline. Yes, how you would have laughed at them, Prince ! you 
who write such beautiful verses 1 

Mel. This Melnotte must be a monstrous impudent person I 

Damas. Is he good-looking '? 

Mme Deschap. I never notice such canaille — an ugly, mean-looking 
clown, if I remember right. 

Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he was wonderfully like his high- 
ness. 

Mel. {taking snuff). You are complimentary. 

Mme. Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas ! like the Prince, indeed ! 

Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our beautiful Prince! I'll 
never speak to you again, cousin Damas. (Pauline, Madame Deschap- 
PLES, and Damas retire, r. Beauseant and Glavis advance, l.) 

Mel. {aside). Humph — rank is a areat beautifier ! 1 never passed for 
an Apollo while I was a peasant ; if I am so handsome as a prince, what 
should I be as an emperor! {aloud) Monsieur Beauseant, will you hon- 
or me ? {offers snuff.) 

Beau. No, your highness ; I have no small vices. 

Mel. Nay, if it were a vice, you'd be sure to have it. Monsieur Boau- 
seant. (Madame Deschappelles and Pauline advance, k. c.) 

Mme. DisSCHap. Ha ! ha! how very severe — what wit I 

Beau, {in a rage, and aside). Curse his impertinence. 

Mme. Deschap. (c). What a superb snuff-box ! 

Pauline (r. c). And what a beautiful ring ! 

Mel. You like the box — a trifle — interesting perhaps from associations 
— a present from Louis XLV. to ray great-great-grandmother. Honor 
me by accepting it. 

Beau. ( plucking him by the sleeve). How — what the devil ! my box — 



24 THE LADY Oi' LYO^S. [aCX II. 

are you mad ? It is woiLli five luimlrecl I mis. (Madame Descuapplles 
shoivs the box to Damas.) 

Mel. {tinhcecUng him, and turning to Paulike). And you like tliis rino 1 
Ah, it lias, indeed, a lustre since your eyes have shone on it. {placinj 
it on her finger) Henceforth hold rae, sweet enchantress, the Slave of the 
Ring. 

Gla. ( pulling him). Stay, stay — what are you about I My maiden 
aunt's legacy — a diamond of the first water. You shall be hanged for 
swindling, sir. 

Mel. (2)reicnding not to hear). It is curious, this ring ; it is the one 
with which my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, married the Adriatic! 
(Madame and Pauline examine the ring, and retire, n.) 

Mel. (^0 Beauseant and Glavis). Fie, gentlemen ! princes must be 
ceneious. (turns to Damas, loho is r. c, and who watches them closely') 
These kind friends liave my interest so much at heart, that they are as 
careful of my property as if it were Iheir own. 

Beau. andQ.\,k. [confusedhf). Ila ! ha! very good joke that {jtppear to 
remonstrate tvith Melnotte in dumb shoiv.) 

Damas. What's all that whispering'? I am sure tiiere is some juagle 
here; hang me, if I think he is an Italian after all. Gad, I'll try him. 
Servitore umillissimo, Eccellenza.* (Claude loohs at Beauseant for in- 
formation.) 

Mel. Hum — what does he mean, I wonder 1 

Damas. Godo di vedervi in bnona salute.f 

]Mel. Plem — hem! (crosses, r.) 

Damas. Fa hel tempo — che si dice di nuovo 1^ 

Mel. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish y 

Damas. Oh, oh ! only Italian, your highness — the Prince of Como 
does not understand his own language ! 

Mel. Not as you pronounce it; wdio the deuce could 1 ( goes up, c.) 

Mme. Deschap. Ha ! ha ! cousin Damas, never 2)rerend to what you 
don't know. ( goes to Melnotte. ) 

Pauline. Ha! ha I cousin Damas ; ?/o« sjjcak Italian, indeed ! (makes 
a mocking gesture at him, and joins MEhyoiT'E and Madame Deschap- 
pelles.) 

Beau, (to Glavis). Clever dog ! how ready ! 

Gla. (l.) Ready, yes ; with my diamond ring ! Damn his readiness. 
(theij retire a few paces.) 

Damas. Laugh at me ! laugh at a colonel in the French Array ! — the 
fellow's an imjjostor ; I know he is. Ill see if he understands fighting 
as well as he does Italian, (goes up to him, and touches him upon the shoul- 
der. Melnotte botes to the Ladies and comes fonvard) Siv, you are a 
jackanapes ! Can you construe that"? 

Mel. No, sir ; I never construe affronts in tlie presence of ladies ; by- 
and-by I shall be happj' to take a lesson — or give one. 

Demas. I'll find the occasion, never fear! 

Mme. Descuap. Where are you going, cousin ? 

Damas. To correct my Italian. [E.vit into house, -l. s. e. 

Beau, [to Glavis). Let us after, and pacify him ; he evidently sus- 
pects something, (going.) 

Gla. Yes ! — but my diamond rins ! 

Bkau. And my box ! We are over-taxed fellow-subjects I we must 
stop the supplies, and dethrone the prince. 

Gla. Prince ! — he ought to be heir-apparent to King Stork. 

* Tour Excellency's most humble servant. 1 1 am glad lo sec yoa in good health. 
+ Fine weather. What news is there .' 



^VCL' II.] 'inE LADi' OF LYONS. 25 

Exetinl Beauseant ami Glavis uifo house, l. s e. The Ladies and 
Melnottb ctdvunce. 

Mme. Desciiap. (k). Dare I ask your highness Lo forgive my cousin's 
insufferable vulgarity 1 ^ , , .. 

Pauline (l.). Oh, yes !— you will forgive his manner for the sake ot 
his heart. . 

Mel. (c). And the sake of his cousni. Ah, madam, there is one 
comfort in rank— we are so sure of our position that we are not easily 
affronted. Besides, M. Damas has bought the right of indulgence from 
his friends hv never showing it to his enemies. 

Paul. Ah"! he is indeed as brave in action as he is rude m speech. 
He rose from the ranks to his present grade, and hi two years ! 
Mel. In two years !— two years, did you say 1 

Mme. Desciiap. (aside). I don't like leaving girls alone with their lov- 
eis : but, with a prince, it would be so ill-bred to be prudish. 

[Exit into house, l. s. e. 
]\Iel. You can be jiroud of your connection with one who owes his 
position to merit — not birth. 

Pauline. Why, res ; but still 

Mel. Still what,' Pauline? 

Pauline. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A 
man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past. 

Mel. True ; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he 
is a silent member. Ah, Pauline ! not to the past, but to the future, 
looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity. 

Pauline. You" say this to please nie, who have no ancestors; but 
you, prince, must be" proud of so illustrious a race! 

Mel. No, no ! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a per.- 
sloner on the dead ! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regard- 
ed as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth ! I honor 
the lauVols tbat overshadow the graves of our fathers — it is our fathers I 
emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have [danted 
my own ashes may repose ! Dearest! couldst thou but see with ray 
eves ! 

" Pauline. 1 cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that 
thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake 
of Como ; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst 
swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and v.dien 
thou describest them, "it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if 
custom had made thee disdain greatness. 
Mel. Nay, dearest, nay. if thou wouldst have me paint 
The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, 
This hand would lead thee, listen !* A deep vale 
Shut out by Alpine hills from tlie rude world; 
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold 
And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies, 
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows 
vVs I would have thy fate ! 

*- riie reader will observe that Melnotte ev.-ides the request of Pauline. He pro- 
ceeds to describe a home, which he does not say 1 e possos,ses, but to which he would 
l-!id her, " cf>u!d lopi'. fulfill its pnu/ers.'' 'I'lji.s c;i,ution i^ iuteuded as a reply to a sa- 
gacious crititf who censures the description Lccause it i, not an exact and prosaic in- 
ventory ot the characteristics of the Lake of f'omo ! When Melnotte, for instance, 
talks of birds " that svUable the name of Pauline " (by the way, a literal translaliou 
trom an Italian poet), be is not thinking of ornitholo:jy, but probably of the " Ara- 
bian Nights." He is venting the extravagant but natural enthusiasm of the poet 
and the lover. 



26 THE L.VDY OF LYOXS. [vCl' II. 

Pauline. My own dear love ! 

Claitde and Pauline pace the stage during this qjccch, and at the aid Mel- 
NOTTE stands L. 

Mel. a palacfi lifting to eternal summer 

Its marble walls, from out a glossy bovver 

Of coolest foliage, musical wiih birds, 

Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon 

We'd sit beneatii the arching vines, and wonder 

Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens 

Still left us youth and love ! W^e'd have no friends 

That were not lovers ; no ambition, save 

To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 

That were not tales of love — that we might smile 

To think how poorly eloquence of words 

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 

And when night came, amidst the breathless' Heavens, 

We'd guess what star should be our home when love 

Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 

Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps. 

And every air was heavy with the sighs 

Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, 

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 

r the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture 1 
Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang 

Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue ! 

Am I not blest 1 And if I love too wildly. 

Who would not love thee like Pauline ? 
Mel, [hitterhj). Oh, false one ! 

It is ihe jn-ince thou lovest, not the man ; 

If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, 

I had painted poverty, and toil, and care. 

Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue ; Pauline, 

That is not love i {crosses r.) 
Pauline. • Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince ! 

At first, in truth, I might not have been won. 

Save througli the weakness of a flatler'd pride ; 

But notu — oh ! trust me — couldst thou fall from power 

And sink 

Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son 

Who dared to lift his eyes to thee ? 
Pauline. Even then, 

MethinUs thou wouldst be only made more dear 

By the sweet thought that I could i)rove how deep 

Is woman's love ! We are like the insects, caught 

By the poor glittering of a garish flame ; 
But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star 
Lures us no more ; and by the fatal light 
We cling till death ! {embrace.) 
Mel. Angel ! 

(aside). conscience 1 conscience ! 
It must not be — her love hath grown a torture 
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, 
And - hn ! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. 
I have business with these gentlemen — I — I 
Will forthwith join you. 



ACT II ] THE LADY OF LTOXS. 27 

Enter Beauseant and Glavis ; they how to Paulixp:, and 7-1 main up stage, 
Pauline. Do not tarry long ! [Exit into house, l. s. e. 
Beauseant and Glavis advance. 

Mel. (c. )• Release me from ray oath — I will not marry her ! 

Beau. Then tliou art perjured. (Glavis stew^^s l.) 

Mel. No, [ was not in my senses when I swore to thee to marry her ! 
I was blind to all bnt her scorn — deaf to all but my passion and my 
rage ! Give me back my poverty and my honor. 

Beau. It is loo late — you must marry her ! and this day. I have a 
story already coined, and sure to pass current. This Damas suspects 
thee — he will set the police to work — thou wilt be detected — Pauline 
will despise and execrate thee. Thou wilt be sent to the common jail 
as a swindler. 

Mel. Fiend ! {crosses to r.) 

Beau. And in the heat of the girl's resentment (you know of what re- 
sentment is capable), and the parents' shame, she will be induced to 
marry the first that ofiers — even perhaps your humble servant. 

Mel. You ! No ; that were worse — for thou hast no mercy ! I will 
marry her — I will keep my oath. Quick, then, with the damnable in- 
vention thou art hatching — quick, if thou wouldst not have me strangle 
thee or myself [retires, r ) 

Gla. What a tiger ! Too fierce for a prince — he ought to have been 
tho Grand Turk. 

Beau. Enough — 1 will use dispatch ; be prepared. 
[^r<;i«i<BEAi;sEANT ff«f? Glavis into house, l. s. e. Mkl\ottr advances, r. 

Enter Damas, //'o^J the house, l. s. e., ivith two stvords. 

Damas. Now, then, sir, the ladies are no longer your excuse. I have 
brought you a couple of dictionaries ; let us see if your highness can find 
out the Latin for bilbo. 

Mel. Away, sir ! I am in no humor for jesting. 

Damas. I see you understand something of the grammar; you de- 
cline the noun-substanlive " small-sword " with great ease; but that 
won't do — you must take a lesson in parsing. 

Mel. Fool ! {crosses, l.) 

Damas. Sir, as sons take after their mother, so the man who calls me 
a fool insults the lady who bore me; there's no escape for you — fight 
j'ou shall, or 

Mel. (l.). Oh, enough ! enough — take your ground, {thei/ fight ; Da- 
mas is disarmed. Melnotte takes tq) the sword and returns it to Damas 
respectfully) A just punishment to the brave soldier who robs the State 
of its best property — the sole right to his valor and his life. 

Damas (r.). Sir, you fence exceedingly well ; you must be a man of 
honor — I don't care a jot whether you are a prince ; but a man who has 
carte and tierce at his finger's ends must be a gentleman. 

Mel. {aside). Gentleman! Ay, I M'as a gentleman before I turned 
consj)irator ; for honest men are the gentlemen of Nature ! {aloud) Colo- 
nel, they tell me you rose from the ranks. 

Damas. I did. 

Mel. And in two years ! 

Damas. It is true ; that's no wonder in our army at present. Why, 
the oldest general in the service is scarcely thirty, and we have some of 
two-and-twenty. 



28 TIIK L.VDY OF LYONS. [aCT II. 

jMel Two-and-twenly ! 

Damas. Yes ; in the French Army, no\v-n-cTays, promotion is not a 
matter of purchase. We are all lieroes, because we may be all generals. 
We have no fear of the cypress, because we may all liope for the laurel. 

!Mel. a general at two-and-twenty ! {turning to Damas) Sir, I may 
ask you a favor one of tliese days. 

Damas. Sir, 1 shall be proud to grant it. (Melnotte retires) It is as- 
tonishing how much I like a man after I have fought with him. {kidci 
the swords, k.) 

Enter Madame DEScnAPPELLES and Bkauseant, from house, l. s. e. 
Beauseant crosses behind to r. 

Mme Deschap. Oh, jirince — prince ! What do I hear 7 You must 
fly — vou must quit us ! 

Mel. I! 

Beau. Yes, prince ; read this letter, just received from my friend at 
Paris, one of the Directory ; they suspect you of desi<;ns against the 
Republic ; they are very suspicious of princes, and your family take 
))art with the Austrians. Knowing that I introduced your highness at 
Lyons, my friend writes to me to say that you must quit the town im- 
mediately, or you will be arrested — thrown into prison, perhaps guillo- 
tined ! Fly! I will order horses to your carriage instantly. Fly to 
Marseilles ; there you can take ship to Leghorn. 

Mme. Deschap. And what's to become of Pauline 1 Am I not to be 
a mother to a princess, after all 1 

Enter Pauline «Mrf Monsieur Deschappelles, /ro/w house, l. s. e. 

Pauline {throiving herself into Melnotte's arms). You must leave us. 
Leave Pauline ! 

Beau. Not a moment is to be wasted. 

M. Deschap. (c). I will go to the magistrates, and inquiie 

Bitau. Then he is lost ; the magistrates, hearing he is suspecied, will 
order his arrest. 

Mme. Deschap. And 1 shall not be a princess-dowager ! 

Beau. Why not? There is only one thing to he done — send for the 
priest — let the marriage take place at once, and the prince carry home 
a bride, (crosses to l.) 

Mel. Impossible! {aside) Villain I 

Mme. Deschap. W-iiat, lose ray child 1 

Beau, And gain a jjrincess ! 

Mme. Deschap. Oh, Monsieur Beauseant, you are so very kind, it must 
be so — we ought not to be selfish, my daughter's happiness at stake. Siie 
will go away, too, in a carriage and six I 

Pauline. Tliou art here still — I cannot part from thee, my heart will 
break. 

Mel. But you will not consent to this hasty union 1 — thou Avdt not 
wed an outcast — a fugitive 1 

Pauline. Ah ! if thou art in danger, who should share it but Pauline ? 

Mel. {aside). Distraction ! If the earth could swallow me ! 

M. Deschap. Gently! gently! The settlements — the contracts — my 
daughter's dowry ! 

Mel. The dowry ! I am not base enough for that ; no, not one far- 
tliing! 

Beau, (to Madame). Noble fellow ! Really your husband is too 
mercantile in these matters. Monsieur Deschappelles, you hear his 



ACT III.] THE LADr OF LYONS. 29. 

liiuhiiess? we can arrange the settlements by proxy 'tis the way with 
people of quality. 

M. Deschap. But 

Mme. Deschap. Hold your tongue ! Don't expose yourself. 
Beau. I will brin^ the priest in a trice. Go in all of you and pre- 
pare : the carriage shall be at the door before the ceremony is over. 

Mme. Deschap. Be sure there are six horses, Beauseant ! You are 
very good to have forgiven us for refusing you ; but you see — a prince. 

Deap. And such a piince ! Madame, I cannot blush at the success 
of so illustrious a rival, (fisidc) Now will I follow them to the village, 
enjoy my triumph, and to-morrow, in the hour of thy shame and grief, 
I think, i)roud girl, thou wilt prefer even these arms to those of the gar- 
dener's son. [Uxit, L. s. E. 

Mme. Deschap. Come, Monsieur Deschappelles, give your arm to her 
highness that is to be. 

M. Deschap. I don't like doing business in such a hurry ; 'tis not 
the way with the house of Deschappelles and Co. 

Mme. Deschap. There, now, you fancy you are in the counting- 
house, don't you 1 {pushes him to PArriiiNE.) 

Mfl. Stay, stay, Pauline — one word. Have you no scruple, no fear ? 
Speak — it is not yet too late. 

Pauline. When I loved thee, thy fate became mine. Triumph or 
danger — ^joy or sorrow — I am by thy side. 

Damas. Well, well. Prince, thou art a lucky man to be so loved. She 
is a good little girl in spite of her foibles — make her as hapjjy as if she 
were not to be a princess. Come, sir, I wish you joj- — .young—tender — 
lovely — zounds I I envy you. {slapping him on the shoulder.) 
Mel. {who has stood apnrt in glocmy ahdraction). 
Do you 1 Wise judges we are of each other. 
" Woo, wed, and boar her homo !" So rims the bontf 
To which I sold myself — and then — what then 7 
Away — I will not look beyond the hour. 
You envy me— I thank you — you may read 
■My joy upon my brow — I thank you, sir ! 
If hearts had audible language, you would hear 
What mine would answer when you talk of enr;/ ! 

[Exeunt into house, l. u. e. 



ACT III. 

SCENE T. — The exterior of the Golden L'on — time, twilight. The moon 
rises during the scene. 

Enter Lanbloed and his Daughter from the Inn, l. d. f. 

Land. Ha — ha — ha ! Well, I never shall get over it. Our Clande is 
a prince with a vengeance now. His carriage breaks down at my inn — 
ha — ha I 

Janet. And what airs the young lady gives herself ! "Is this the 
best room you have, young woman'!" with such a toss of the head. 

Land. Well, get in, Janet; get in and see to the supper ; the servants 
must sup before they go back, [Exeunt, l. d. f. 



30 THE LiDY OF LYONS. [aCT HI, 

Enter Beauseant and Glavis, l. h. 

Beau. You see our princess is lodged at last — one stage more, and 
she'll be at her journey's end — the beautiful pa'ace at the foot of the 
Alps — ha — ha ! 

Gla. Faith, I pity the poor Pauline — especially if she's j^oing to sup 
at the Golden Lion, {makes a wry face) [ shall never forget that cursed 
ragout. 

Enter Melnotte from the Inn, l. d. f. 

Beau. Your servant, my Prince ; you reigned most worthily. I con- 
dole with you on your abdication. I am afraid that your Irighness's re- 
tinue are not very faithful servants. I think they will quit you in the 
moment of your fall — 'tis the fate of greatness. But you are welcome 
to your fine clothes — also the diamond snuff-box, which Louis XIV. 
gave to your great-great grandmother. 

Gla. And the ring, with which your grandfather the Doge of Venice 
married the Adriatic. 

Mel. I have kept my oath, gentlemen — say, have I kept my oatli 1 

Beau. Most religiously. 

Mel. Then you have done with me and mine — away with you. 

Beau. How,_knave ? 

Mel. Look you, our bond is over. Proud conquerors that we are, 
we have won the victory over a simple girl, compromised her honor — 
embittered her life — blasted, in their very blossoms, all the flowers of 
her youth. This is your triumph — it is my shame ! {turns to Beauseant) 
Enjoy thy triumph, but not in my sight. I tvas her betrayer — I am her 
protector ! Cross but her path — one word of scorn, one look of insult 
— nay, but one quiver of that mocking lip, and I will teach thee that 
bitter word thou hast graven eternally in this heart — Repentance ! 

Beau. His highness is most grandiloquent. 

Mel. Highness me no more! Beware! Remorse has made me a 
new being. Away with you ! There is danger in me. Away ! 

Gla. {aside). He's an awkward fellow to deal with; come away, Beau- 
seant ! 

Beau. I know the respect due to rank. Adieu, my Prince. Any 
commands at Lyons "? Yet hold — I promised you 200 louis on your 
wedding-day; here they are. 

Mel. {dashing the purse to the ground). I gave you revenge, T did not 
sell it. Take up your silver, Judas; take it. Ay, it is fit you should 
learn to stoop. 

Beau. You will beg my pardon for this some aay. {aside to Glavis) 
Come to my chateau — I shall return hither to-morrow, to learn how 
Pauline likes her new dignity. 

Mel. Are you not gone yet 1 

Beau. Your highness's most obedient, most faithful 

. Gla. And most humble servants. Ha — ha ! 

[Exeunt Beauseant ««<? Glavis, r. 

Mel. Thank Heaven I had no weapon, or I should have slain them. 
Wretch ! what can I say ? Where turn 1 On all sides mockery — the 
very boors within — {laughter from the Inn) 'Sdeath, if even in this short 
absence the exposure should have chanced. I will call her. We will 
go hence. I have already sent one I can trust to my mother's house. 
There, at least, none can insult her agony — gloat upon her shame ! 
There alone must she learn what a villain she has sworn to love. 

As he turns to the door, Pauline enters from the Inn, l. d. f. 



ACT III.] THE LADr OF LYONS. 31 

Padline. Ah! my lord, what a place ! I never saw such rude peo- 
ple. I think the very sight of a prince, though he travels incognito, 
turns their honest heads. What a pity the carriage should break down 
in such a spot ! You are not well — the drops stand on your brow — your 
hand is feverish. 

Mel. Nay, it is but a passing spasm; the air 

Pauline. Is not the soft air of your native south, {pause) 

How pale he is ! — indeed thou art not well. 

Where are our people "2 I will call them, {going.) 
Mel. Hold ! 

I — I am well. 
Pauline. Thou art ! Ah ! now I know it. 

Thou fanciest, my kind lord — I know thou dost — 

Thou fanciest these rude walls, these rustic gossips, 

Bricli'd floors, sour wine, coarse viands, vex Pauline ; 

And so they might, but thou art by my side, 

And I forget all else. 

Enter Landlord from d. f., the Servants peeping and laughing over his 

shoulder. 

Land. My lord — your highness — 

Will your most noble excellency choose 

Mel. Begone, sir ! [Exit Landlord, laughing. 

Pauline. How could they have learn'd thy rank ? 

One's servants are so vain ; nay, let it not 

Chafe thee, sweet Prince ! — a few short days and we 

Shall see thy palace by its lake of silver, 

And — nay, nay, spendthrift, is thy wealth of smiles 

Already drain'd, or dost thou play the miser 1 
Mel. (r. c). Thine eyes would call up smiles in deserts, fair one. 

Let us escape these rustics ; close at hand 

There is a cot, where I have bid prepare 

Our evening lodgment — a rude, homely roof. 

But honest, where our welcome will not be 

Made torture by the vulgar eyes and tongues 

That are as death to Love ! A heavenly night ! 

The wooing air and the soft moon invite us. 

Wilt walk ? I pray thee, now — I know the path, 

Ay, every inch of it ! 
Pauline. What, thou ! methought 

Thou wert a stranger in these parts 1 Ah, truant, 

Some village beauty lured thee ! — thou art now 

Grown constant 1 
Mel. Trust me. 

Pauline. Princes are so changeful ! 

Mel. Come, dearest, come. 
Pauline. ■ Shall I not can our people 

To light us ? 
Mel. Heaven will lend its stars for torches! 

It Is not far, 
Pauline. The night breeze chills me. 

Mel. Nay, 

Let me thus mantle thee ; {throws his cloak over her) it is not cold. 
Pauline. Never beneath thy smile ! 
Mel. {aside). Heaven I forgive me! 

[Exetmt, "&» 



32 THE L.VBY OF LYONS. [aCT III. 

SCENE II. — Melnotte's cotlagc — AVidow hustling about — a table sjjread 
for supper. 

Widow So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blot- 
ted tliat I can scarcely read it. to say he would be here almost immedi- 
ately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth ; 
for thouoli he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not 
to have revealed to her the artifice ; which her love only could forgive. 
Well, I do not wonder at it ; for though my son is not a prince, he 
ought to be one, and that's almost as good, {kiioek at d. in f.) Ah 1 here 
tliey are. 

Enter Melnotte aoid Pauline /row d. in f. ; he places his eloak and hat on 

a chair. 

Widow. Oh, my boy — the pride of my heart ! — welcome, welcome. I 
beg [lardon, ma'am, but I do love him so ! (Mei-notte comes down l.) 

Pauline (r.). Good woman, I really — why, Prince, what is this I — 
does the old lady know you V Oh, I guess you have done her some ser- 
vice. Another proof of your kind heart ; is it not ? 

Mel. (l.). Of my kind heart, ay ! 
■ Pauline. So you know the Prince 1 

Widow. Know him, madam 1 Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know 
him not ! 

Pauline (rross'S lO Melnotte). Can we stay here, my lord ? I think 
there's soinetliing very wild about her. (Melnotte passes her round to l.) 

Mel. Madam, I — no, I cannot tell her : what a coward is a man who 
has lost his honor ! Speak to her — speak to her — {to his mother) le!l her 
that — Heaven, that 1 were dead ! (crosses r.) 

Pauline. How confused he looks ! — this strange place ! — this woman 
— what can it mean ? — I half suspect — who are you, madam 1 — who are 
you 1 cjn't you speak ? are you struck dumb 7 

Widow (c ). Claude, you have not deceived her ? Ah, shame upon 
you! 1 thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have 
known all. 

Pauline. All ! what! My blood freezes in my veins ! 

Widow. Poor lady — dare I tell her, Claude"? (Melnotte males a 
sign of assent) Enow you not, then, madam, that this young man is of 
poor though honest parents ? Know you not that you are wedded to 
my son, Claude Melnotte 1 

Pauline. Your son ! hold — hold ! do not speak to me. {approaches 
Melnotte, and lays her hand on his arm) Is this a jest? is it? I know 
it is, only speak — one word — one look — one smile. I cannot believe — I 
who loved thee so — I cannot believe that thou art such a — No, I will 
not wrong thee by a harsh word ! Speak. 

Mel. Leave us. {crosses to the Widow and sinks into a chair) Have pity 
on her, on me ; leave us ! 

AViDow. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame ! 
thee of whom I was so proud ! [JSxit, d. l. h. 

Pauline. Her son — her son ! (Melnotte rises, brings forivard the chair, 
motions Pauline to be seated ; she proudly d' dines. 'i 
Mel. Now, lady, hear me. 
Pauline. Hear thee ! 

Ay, speak — her son ! have fiends a parent? speak, 
That thou mayst silence curses — sp'eak ! 
Mel. No, curse me ; 

Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. 



ACT III ] THE LADY OF LYONS. 33 

PAUi.iXE {Imighwq ivildly). "This is thy palace, where the perfume I 
light 
Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, 
And every air is heavy with the sighs 
Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes, 
And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth 
I' the midst of roses !" Dost thou like the picture ? (crosses, l.) 
This is my bridal liome, and thou my bridegroom. 

fool — dupe — wretch ! I see it all. 
The by-word and the jeer of every tongue 
In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch 
Of human kindness:' if thou hast, v^hy, kill me. 

And sav.^ thy wife from madness, (crosses, r.) No, it cannot — 
It cannot b3; this is some horrid dream ; 

1 shall wake soon, (touching him) Art flesh 7 art man ] or but 
The shadows seen in sleep I It is too real. 

What have I done to thee ? how sinn'd against thee, 
That thou shouldst crush me thus ? 
Meu Pauline, by pride 

Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride — 
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — 
The evil spirit of a bitter love. 
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. 
From my first years my soul was flll'd with thee ; 
I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boj' 
Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of bloom, 
And joy. and freshness, as if Spring itself 
Were made a living thing, and wore thy sliape ! 
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man 
Eater'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. 
And from that hour t grew — what to the last 
I shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love, 
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 
A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; 
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from kings, 
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, 
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
Beside the sceptre. 

My father died; and 1, the peasant born. 
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
Out of the prison of my mean estate ; 
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind 
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom 
From those twin jailers of t'le daring heart — 
Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew 
A midnight studetit o'er the dreams of sages. 
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, 
And every muse, such attributes as lend 
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, 
And passion taught me poesy — of thee. 
And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
Of beauty ! Art became the shadow 
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes 1 
Men call'd me vain — some mad — I heeded not ; 
But still toil'd on — hoped on — for it was sweet, 
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee 1 



34 THE LADY OF LYONS. [aCX III. 

Pacline. Why do I cease to hate him ! 

Mel. At last, hi one mad hour, I dared to pour 

The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 

And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, 

As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 

The name — appended by the burning heart 

That long'd to show its idol what bright things 

It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name, 

That should have been thy trjuniph, was thy scorn ; 

That very hour — when passion, turn'd to wrath, 

Resembled hatred most — when thy disdain 

Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour 

The tempters found me a revengeful tool 

For their revenge ! Thou hadst tramjjled on the worm — 

It turned and stung thee ! [throws himself into chair, l. c.) 
Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting. 

What was the slight of a poor powerless girl 

To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge 1 

Oh, how I loved this man ! — a serf — a slave I 
Mel. Hold, lady ! (starts tip) No, not a slave ! Despair is free 

I will not tell thee of the throes — the struggles — 

The anguish — the remorse. No. let it pass ! 

And let me come to such most poor atonement 

Yet in my power. Pauline ! 

[approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand. 
Pauline. No, touch me not! 

I know ray fate. You are, by law, my tyrant ; 

And I — Heaven ! — a peasant's wife ! I'll work — 

Toil — drudge — do what thou wilt — but touch me not ! 

Let my wrongs make me sacred ! 
Mel. Do not fear me. 

Thou dost not know me, madam ; at the altar 

My vengeance ceased — my guilty oath expired ! 

Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, 

Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more 

From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. 

I am thy husband — nay, thou needst not shudder ! — 

Here, at thy feet, 1 lay a husband's rights. 

A marriage thus unholy — unfulfiU'd — 

A bond of fraud — is, by the laws of France, 

Made void and null. To-night sleep — sleep in peace 
• To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn 

I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, 

Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. 

The law shall do thee justice, and restore 

Thy right to bless another with thy love. 

And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot 

Him who so loved — so wrong'd thee, think at least 

Heaven left some remnant of the angel still 

In that poor peasant's nature 1 {goes to n. l. h. and calls) Ho ! my 
mother ! 

Enter Widow, d. l. h. 

Conduct this lady (she is not my wife ; 

She is our guest — our honor'd guest, my mother) 

To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue 



ACT IV.] TUK LADY OF LYONS. 35 

Never, beneath my father's honest roof, 

E'en villains dared to mar ! Now, lady, now, 

I think thou wilt believe me. {takes her hand and leads her to the 
Widow) Go, my mother ! 
Widow. She is not thy wife! (on the stairs.) 
Mel. Hush, hush ! for mercy's sake ! 

Speak not, but go. 

Widow aseends the stairs, r. v. e. Pauline follows, weeping — turns to look 

back. 

Mel. {throws himself upon his knees beside the chair, c). All angels bless 
and guard her ! 

CURTAIN. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — The cottage as before — Melnotte seated before a table — ivritinj 
ini2}lements, etc. {Day breaking ; he rises and goes to the foot of the 
staircase, and listens.) 

Mel. Hush, hush! — she sleeps at last! — thank Heaven, for a while 
she foi-gets even tliat 1 live ! Her sobs, wJiich have gone to my heart 
the whole, long, desolate niglit, have ceased! — all calm — all still! {sils 
and ivrites) I will go now; I will send this letter to Pauline's father; 
when he arrives I will place in his hands my own consent to the divorce, 
and then, France ! my country ! accept among thy protectors, thy de-. 
fenders — the Peasant's Son ! Our country is less proud than custom, 
and does not refuse the blood, the heart, the right hand of the poor 
man. 

Enter Widow, down the staircase, r. u. e. 

Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill ; but sin brings its own punish- 
ment. In the hour of tliy remorse, it is not for a mother to reproach 
thee. 

Mel. What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who 
have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Thou shalt be 
proud of thy son yet. Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has been 
grievously injured. For the sake of thy son's conscience, respect, hon- 
or, bear with her. If she weep, console — if she chide, be silent. 'Tis 
but a little while more — I shall send an express fast as horse can speed 
to her father. Farewell ! 1 shall return shortly. 

Widow. It is the only course left to thee — thou wert led astray, but 
thou art not hardened. Thy heart is right still, as ever it was when, in 
thy, most ambitious hopes, thou wert never ashamed of thy poor mother. 

Mel. Aihamed of thee ! No, if I yet endure, yet live, yet hope — it is 
only because I would not die till I have redeemed the noble heritage I 
have lost — the heritage I took unstained from thee and my dead father 
— a proud conscience and an honest name. I shall win them back yet 
— Heaven bl^ss you ! [Hjcit, d. in f. 

Widow. My dear Claude ! How my heart bleeds for him. {the WiDt>w 
dratvs back the window curtains, removes the candle from the tall', and goes 
off, D. L. H.) 



36 THE L.VDY OF LYONS. [.VCl' lY. 

PAULixii looks down from the stairs, and. after a pause, descends. 

Pauline. N >t liere ! — he spares me that pain at least; so far he is 
considerate — yet the place seemj still more desolate without him Oh, 
that I couki hate him — the gardener's son ! — and yet how nobly he — no 
— no — no, I will not be so mean a thing as to forgive him ! 

He-enter Widow, d. l. h. 

Widow. Good morning, madam ; I w-ould have waited on you if 1 had 
known you were stirring. 

Pauline. It is no matter, ma'am — your son's wife ouTht to wail on 
herself. 

Widow. My son's wife — let not that thought vex you, madam — he 
tells me that you will have your divorce. And I hope I shall live to see 
him smile again. There are maidens in this village, young and fair, 
\w\ lam, who may yet console him. 

Paulixe I dare say — they are very welcome — and when the divorce 
is <;i>t — he will marry again. I am sure I hope so. (tveeps.) 

Widow. He could have married the richest girl in the i)rovince, if he 
had pleased it; but his head was turned, jjoor child! he could think of 
nothing but you. (weeps ) 

Pauline. Don't weep, mother. 

Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I know, but love is so head- 
strong in the young. 

Pauline. So, as you were saying — go on. 

Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma'am — he was not in his right 
senses. 

Pauline. But he always — always {sohbhig) loved — loved me then 1 

Widow. He thought of nothing else. See here — he learnt to paint 
• that he might take your likeness, (uncovers the picture) But that's all 
over now — I trust you have cured him of his folly — but, dear heart, you 
have had no breakfast ! 

Pauline. I can't taiio anything — don't troub'.e yourself. Oh, if lie 
were but a [)oor gentleman, even a merchant; hut a gardener's son — 
and what a home ! Oh, no, it is too dreadful. (Pauline sits l. of the 
table. Beauseant aliens the lattice and looks in, f.) 

Beau. So — so — the coast is clear ! I saw Claude in the lane — I sha'l 
have an excellent oppoilunity. [shuts the lattice and knocks at the d. in f.) 

Pauline [starting). Can it be my father ? he h.Ts not sent for him yet. 
No, he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid of me. 

Widow. It is not time for your father to arrive yet ; it must be some 
neighbor. 

Pauline. Don't admit any one. 

AViDow opens the d. in f., Beauseant pushes her aside, and enters. 

Ha ! Heavens ! that hateful Beauseant ! This is indeed bitter ! 

Beau. Good morning, madam! 0, widow, your son be.:;s you will 
have the goodness to go to him in the village — ho wants to speak to you 
on particular business; you'll find him at the inn, or the grocer's shop, 
or the baker's, or at some other friend's of your fainilj' — make haste. 

Pauline. Don't leave me, mother — don't leave me ! 

Beau, [tviih great respect). Be not alarmed, madam. Believe me your 
friend— your servant 

Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even in this houie! Go, madam, 



ACr IV.] THE LADiT OF LToNS. S7 

if j-our son wishes it ; I will not contradict his commands whilst, at 
least, he has still the right to be obeyed. 

Widow. I don't understand this ; however, I shan't be long gone. 

[£zi(, D. in p. 

Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of j'our visit — you wish to exult in 
the humiliation of one who humbled you. Be it so; I am prepared to 
endure all — even your presence ! 

Brau. You mistake me, madam — Pauline, you mistake me ! I come 
to lay my fortune at your feut. Yuu must already be disenchanted 
with this impostor ; these walls are not worthy to be hallowed by your 
beauty ! Shall that form be clasped in the arms of a base-born pea- 
sant ? Beloved, beautiful Pauhne! fly with lue — my carriage waits 
without — I will bear you to a homo more meet for your reception. 
Wealth, luxury, station — all shall yet be yours. I forget your past dis- 
dain — I remember only your beauty, and my unconquerable love ! 

Paulink. Sir ! leave this house — it is humble ; but a husband's roof, 
however lowly, is, in the eyes of God and man, the temple of a wife's 
honor! Know that I would rather starve — yes — with him who has 
betrayed me, than accept your lawful hand, even were you the prince 
whose name he bore. Go. 

Beau. What, is not your pride humbled yet 1 

Pauline. Sir, what was pride iu prosperity in affliction becomes vir- 
tue. 

Beau. Look round ; these rugged floors — these homely walls — this 
wretched struggle of poverty for comfort — think of this! and contrast 
with such a picture the lefinemeut, the luxury, the pomp, tliat the 
wealthiest gentleman of Lyons offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear me, 

Pauline. Oh! my father — why did I leave you?— why am I thus 
friendless V Sir, you see before you a betrayed, injured, miserable wo- 
man — respect her anguish ! 

Beau. No, let me rather thus console it ; let me snatch from those 
lips one breath of that fragrance which never should be wasted on the 
low churl thy husband. 

Pauline. Help ! Claude ! — Claude ! Have I no protector ? 

BEiu. Be silent! (MshNOTTE appears nl the d. f. <See/«^ Beauseant, 
he pauses at the threshold. Beauseant shows pistol) See, I do not come 
unprepared even for violence. I will brave all things — thy husband 
and all his race — for thy sake. Thus, then, I clasp thee ! (Melnottb 
rushes forivard.) 

Mel. {dashing him to the olher end of the stage). Pauline — look up, Pau- 
line ! thou art safe. 

Beau. Dare you insult a man of my birth, ruffian ? (levelling his pistol.) 

Pauline. Oh, spare him — spare my husband ! Beauseant — Claude — 
no — no — {faints ) 

Mel. Miserable tritkster ! shame upon you! brave devices to terrify 
a woman ! Coward ! — you tremble — you have outraged the laws — you 
know that your weapon is harmless — you have the courage of the 
mountebank, not the bravo ! Pauline, there is no danger. 

Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman — as it is, thou art beneath me. 
Good day, and a happy honeymoon, {aside) I will not die till I am 
avenged ! [Exit, b. in p. 

Mel. I hold her in these arms — the last embrace ! 
Neve;-, ah ! never more, shall this dear head 
Be pillow,"d on the heart that should have sheltered 
And has betrayed! Soft — soft! one kiss — poor wretch! 
No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now ' 
One kiss — so ends all record of my crime ! 



88 THE LADY OF LYONS. [aCT IV. 

It is the seal upon the tomb of hope, 

By which, like some lost, sorrowino; angel, sits 

Sad memory ever more ; — she breathes — she moves — 

She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to shudder 

Beneath the touch of my abhorred love, [places her in a chair) 

There — we are strangers now ! 
Pauline. All gone — all calm — 

Is every thing a dream ? thou art safe, unhurt — 

I do not love thee ; but — but I am a woman^ 

And — and — no blood is spilt 1 
Mel, (r.). No, lady, no; 

My guilt hath not deserved so rich a blessing 

As even danger in thy cause. 

filter Widow, from d. in f. ; comes down o. 

Widow. My son, I have been everywhere in search of you ; why did 
you send for me 1 

Mel. I did not .send for yon. 

Widow. No! but I must tell you that your express has returned. 

Mel. So soon ! impossible ! 

Widow. Yes, he met the lady's father and mother on the road ; they 
were going into the country on a visit. Your messenger says that Mon- 
sieur Deschappelles turned almost white with anger when he read your 
letter. They will be here almost immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude ! 
what will they do to you 1 How I tremble ! Ah, madam ! do not let 
them injure him — if you knew how he doated on you ! 

Pauline. Injure him! no, ma'am, be not afraid, (the Wwow ffoes up 
to the ividoio) My father ! how shall I meet him 7 how go back to Lyons ] 
the scoff of the whole city I Crupl, cruel Claude, {in great agitation) Sir, 
you have acted most treacherously. 

Mel. I know it, madam. 

Pauline (aside). If he would but ask me to forgive him ! {aloud) I 
never can forgive you, sir. 

Mel. I never dared to hope it. 

Pauline. But you are ray husband now, and I have sworn to — to love 
you, sir. 

Mel. That was under a false belief, madam. Heaven and the laws 
will release you from your vow. 

Pauline. He will drive me mad ! if he were but less proud — if he 
would but ask me to remain — hark, hark — I hear the wheels of the car- 
riage — sir — Chiude, they are coming ; have you no word to say ere it is 
too late ? Quick — speak I 

-Mel. I can only congratulate you on your release. Behold your pa- 
rents ! 

Enter MoNsiEUK and Madame Deschappelles and Colonel Damas, d. 

in F. 

M. Deschap. My child ! my child ! {goes to Pauline.) 

Mme. Descuap. Oh, my poor Pauline ! what a villainous hovel this is ! 

Old woman, get me a chair — I shall faint — I certainly shall. What will 

the world say ? Child, you have been a fool, {sits l. c.) A mother's 

heart is easily broken. 

Damas (u.). Ha, ha ! most noble Prince — I am sorry to see a man of 

your quality in such a condition ; I am afraid your highness will go to 

the House of Correction. 



ACr IV.] TUK LADi' OF LYONS. 89 

Mel. (r. c). Taunt on, sir; I spared yoit wlien you were unarmed — 
I am unarmed now. A man who has no excuse for crime is indeed de- 
fenceless ! 

Damas. There's something fine in the rascal, after all ! {retires and 
crosses behind to !•.) 

M. Deschap. (l. c). Where is the impostor 1 Are you this shame- 
less traitor 1 Can you brave the presence of that girl's father 1 

Mel. Strike me, if it please you — you are her father. 

Pauline. Sir — sir, for my sake ! — whatever his guilt, he has actea no- 
bly in atonement. 

Mme. Deschap. Nobly! Are you mad, giiH I have no patience 
with you — to disgrace all your family thus ! Nobly ! Oh, you abomi- 
nable, hardened, pitiful, mean, ugly villain ! (crosses to Melnotte and 
back again to L ) 

Damas (l.). Ugly! Why, he was beautiful yesterday ! 

Pauline. Madame, this is his roof, and he is my husband. Respect 
your daughter, or let blame fall alone on her. 

Mme. Deschap. You — you! Oh, I'm choking (retires and sits h. v. e.) 

M. Dkschap. Sir, it were idle to waste reproach upon a conscience like 
yours — you renounce all pretensions to the person of this lady ? 

Mel. I do. (gives a papier) Here is my consent to a divorce — my full 
confession of the fraud which annuls the marriage. Your daughter has 
been foully wronged — I grant it, sir; but her own lips will tell you that, 
from the hour in which she crossed this threshold, I returned to my own 
station, and respected hers. Pure and inviolate, as when yestermorn 
you laid your hand upon her head and blessed her, I yield her back to 
you. For myself — 1 deliver you for ever from my presence. An out- 
cast and a criminal, I seek some distant land, where i may mourn my 
sin, and pray for your daughter's peace. Farewell — farewell to you all, 
forever I 

Widow. Claude, Claude, you would not leave your poor old mother 1 
She does not disown you in your sorrow — no, not even in your guilt. 
No divorce cai\ separate a mother from her son. {embraces Claude.) 

Pauline. This poor widow teaches me my duty. No, mother — no, 
for you are now my mother also — nor should any law, human or divine, 
separate the wile from her husband's sorrows. Claude — Claude — all 
is fornotten — forgiven — I am tiiine forever ! [throws herself passionately 
into his arms. ) 

Mme. Deschap. What do I hear? Come away, or never see my face 
again. 

M. Deschap. Pauline, we never betrayed you — do you forsake us for 
him? 

Pauline {going back to her father). Oh, no — but j^ou will forgive him, 
too ; we will live together — he shall be your son ! 

M. Deschap. Never ! Cling to him and forsake your parents ! His 
home shall be yours — his fortune yours — his fate yours ; the wealth I 
have acquired by honest industry shall never enrich a dishonest man. 

Pauline. And you would have a wife enjoy luxury while a husband 
toils ! Claude, take me ; thou canst not give me wealth, titles, station 
— but thou canst give me a true heart. I will work for thee, tend thee, 
bear with thee, and never, never shall these lips reproach tliee for the 
past, {cl'isps her arms around him.) 

Mel. This is the heaviest blow of all. What a heart I have wronged! 
Do not fear me, sir; I am not all hardened — I will not rob her of a 
holier love than mine. Pauline! — angel of love and mercy — your mem- 
ory shall lead me back to virtue. The husband of a being so beautiful 
in her noble and sublitne tenderness may be poor — may be low-born ; — 



40 TUK LADr OF LTOISS. [aCX V. 

(there is no guilt in the decrees of Providence !) — but lie should be one 
wlio can look thee in the face without a blush — to whom tliy luve does 
not bring remorse — who can fold thee to his iieart, and say, — " Here 
tiiere is no deceit !" — I am not that man ! (^returns her to Deschappelles.) 

Damas [ivlio has been wa'ching Melnotte, comes down, r.). Tliou art a 
noble fellow, notwithstandiufr ; and wouldst malio an excellent soldier. 
Serve in my regiment. I liave had a letter from the Directory — our 
young general takes the command of the army in Italy — I am to join 
him at Marseilles — 1 will depart this day, if thou will go with me. 

Mel. It is the favor I would have asUed thee, if I dared. Place me 
where a foe is most dreaded — wherever France moi-.t needs a life! 

Damas. There shall not be a forlorn hope without thee ! 

Mel. There is my hand ! Mothe;', your blessing, {goes to the Widow, 
R.) I shall see you again — a better man than a prince — a man who has 
bought the right to liigh thoughts by brave deeds. And thou ! — thou! 
so wildly worshipped, so guiltily betrayed — all is not yet lost — for thy 
memory, at least, must be mine till death ! If I live, the name of him 
thou hast once loved shall not rest dishonored — if I fall, amidst the car- 
nage and the roar of battle, my soul will fly back to thee, and love shall 
share wilh death my last sigh ! More — more would I speak to thee — to 
pray — to bless 1 But no — when I am less unworthy I will utter it to 
Heaven ! I cannot trust myself to — [txwning to Descuappelles) Your 
pardon, sir — they are my last words — farewell ! 

\ExeHnt Melnotte and Damas, d. in f. 

Pauline {starting jrom her father's arms). Claude — Claude — my hus- 
bmd! {she falls ; Deschappelles ««^ Madame raise her. The Widow 
stands at the door watching the departure of Claude.) 



ACT V. 

{Two years and a half from the date of Act IV.) 

SCENE I. — A street in Lyons. 

Enter Capt. Gervais, Lieut. Dupo.st, and Major Desmoulins, l. 

Capt Grrvais. This Lyons is a fine city ! your birth-place, I think ? 

Lieut. Dupont. Yes — it is just two years and a half since I left it un- 
der the command of the brave Colonel Damas; here we are returned 
— he a General, I a Lieutenant. 

Major Desmoulins. Ay, promotion is rapid in the French army. Nov.* 
the war in Italy is over, I hope he will find employment for our regiment 
elsewhere. 

Capt. G. Well, I hope so, too. Here comes the General. 

Enter General Damas, l. 

Damas. Good day, gentlemen, good day ; so hero we are in Lyons, 
improved since we left it. It is a pleasure to grow old when the years 
that bring decay to ourselves ripen the prosperity of our country. 

Capt. G. And cover our gray hairs with the laurel wreath. General. 

Damas. I hope you will amuse yourselves during our stay at Lyons. 



ACT v.] THE LADY OF LYONS. 41 

Capt. G. 1 shall make the best use of my time, General ; but I have 
little appetite for sight-seeing witliout Moi'ier ; his fine taste and exten- 
sive inibim;uiou qualify hiui for a professional cicerone; by the way, 
General, this is the antiiversary of the glorious day in whicli the Colonel 
so distinguished himself. 

Damas. Ah, poor Morier : he deserves all liis honors. 

Lieut. D. That he does indeed, General. Pray, can you tell us who 
this Morier really is 1 

Damas. Is ! — why, a colonel in the Frencii army. 

Maji.k D. True ; but wliat was he at first 1 

Damas. At first ■? Why, a baby in long clothes, I suppose. 

Capt. G Ha. ha ! Ever facetious, General. Who were his parents 1 
Who were his ancestors 1 

Damas Brave deeds arc the ancestors of brave men. 

Lieut. D (aside). Tiie General is sore upon this point; you will only 
chafe him. {aloud) Any commands. General? 

Damas. None. Good day to you. 

[Exeunt ilAjoit Desmoulins ««J Lieut. Dupont, r. 

Damas. Our comrades are very inquisitive. Poor Morier is the sub- 
ject of a vast deal of curiosity. 

Capt. G. Say interest, rather, General. His constant melancholy, the 
loneliness of his habits — his daring valor, his brilliant rise in the profes- 
sion — your friendshij), and the favors of the commander-in-chief — all 
tend to make him as much the matter of gossip as of admiration. But 
where is he, General 1 I have missed him all the morning. . 

Damas. Why, Captain, I'll let you into a secret. My young friend 
has come with me to Lyons in hopes of finding a miracle. 

Capt. G. A miracle ! 

Damas. Yes, a miracle! in other words, a constant woman. 

Capt G. Oh, an attair of love ! 

Damas. Exactly so. No sooner did he enter Lyons than he waved 
his hand to me, threw himself from his horse, and is now, 1 warrant, 
asking every one who can know^ anything about the matter, whether a 
certain lady is still true to a certain iientleman ! 

Capt. G Success to him I — and of that success there can be no doubt. 
The oallant Colonel Morier, the hero of Lodi, might make his choice out 
of the proudest families in France. 

Damas. Oh, if pride be a recommendation, the lady and her mother 
are most handsomely endowed. By the way. Captain, if you should 
chance to meet with Morier, tell him he will find me at the hotel. 

Capt. G. 1 will. General. [Exit, n. 

Damas. Now will I go to the Deschappelles, and make a report to my 
young Colonel. H;i ! by Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Virorum, here comes 
Monsieur Beauseant ! 

♦ Enter Beauseant, r. * 

Good morning, Monsieur Beau.seant ! How fares it with you 1 

Beau, {aside). Damas! that is unfortunate !— if the Italian campaign 

should have filled his pockets, he may seek to baffle me in the moment 

of my victory, {aloud) Your servant, General — for such, I think, is 

your new distinction. Just arrived in Lyons ] 

Damas. Not an hour ago. Well, how go on the Deschappelles ? Have 

they forgiven you in that affair of young Melnotte ? You had some 

hand in that rotable device — eh ] 

Beau. Why, less than you think for ! The fellow imposed upon me. 

I have set it all right now. What has become of him 1 He could not 

have joined the army, after all. There is no such name in the books. 



42 THE LADY OF LTONS. . [aCI T. 

Damas. I knovT nothing about Melnotte. As you say, I never heard 
tii9 name in the Grand Array. . 

Beau. Hem ! You are not married, Genera! 1 

Damas. Do I look like a married man, sir 1 No, thank Heaven ! My 
profession is to make widows, not wives. 

Beau. You must have gained much booty in Italy ? Pauline will be 
your heiress — eh 1 

Damas. Booty! Not I. Heiress to what? Two trunks and a port- 
manteau — four horses — three swords — two suits of re^iiinentals, and six 
pairs of white leather inexpressibles ! A pretty fortune for a young 
ladv ! 

BiiAu. {aside). Tlieii all is safe! {aloud) Ha! ha! Is that really all 
your capital, Gcneial Damas ? Why, I thought Italy had been a second 
Mexico to you soldiers. 

Damas. All a toss-up, sir. I was not one of the lucky ones ! My 
friend Morier, iudeerl, saved something handsome. But our command- 
er-in-chief took care of him, and Morier is a thrifty, economical dog — 
not like the rest of us soldiers, who spend our money as carelessly as if 
it were our blood. 

Bkau. Well, it is no matter. I do not want fortune with Pauline. 
And you must know, General Damas, that your fair cousin has at leiigth 
consented to reward ray lon^ and ardent attachment. 

Damas. You ! the devil ! Why, she is already married ! There is no 
divorce ! 

Beau. True ; but this very day she is formally to authorize the ne- 
cessary proceedings — this very day she is to sign Ihe contract that is to 
make her mine within one week from the day on which her present il- 
legal marriage is annulled. 

Damas. You tell me wonders ! Wonders ! No ; I believe anything 
of women ! 

Beau. I must wish you good morning ! 

As he is going l., enter Deschappelles, l. 

M. Deschap. Oh, Beauseant! well met. Let us corae to the notary 
at once. 

Damas {to Deschappelles). Why, cousin ! 

M. Drschap. Damas, welcome to Lyons ! Pray call on us ; my wife 
will be deliahled to see you. 

Damas. Your wife — blessed for her condescension ! But [taking him 
aside) what do I hear? Is it possible that your dauahter has consented 
to a divorce? — that she will marry Monsieur Beauseant ! 

M. Deschap. Certainly ! What have you to say against it ? A gen- 
tleman of birth, fortune, character. We are not so proud as we were; 
even my wife has had enounh of nobility and princes ! 
* Damas. But Pauline loved that young man so tsnderly ! 

M. Deschap. {taking snuff). That was two years and a half ago ! 

Damas. Very true. Poor Melnotte ! 

M. Deschap. But do not talk of that impostor ; I hope he is dead or 
has left the country. Nay, even were he in Lyons at this moment, he 
ouffht to rejoice that, in an honorable and suitable alliance, my daugh- 
ter may forget her sufferings and his crime. 

Damas. Nay, if it be all settled, I have no more to say. Monsieur 
Beauseant informs me that the contract is to be signed (his vrry day. 

M. Deschap. It is; at one o'clock precisely. Will you be ime of the 
witnesses 1 

Damas. 11 No; that is to say — yes, certainly — at one o'clock I will 
wait on vou. 



s,' 



ACr v.] THE L\Dr OF LYONS. 43 

M. Deschap. Till then, adieu — come, Beaiiseant. 

[JSxeuiil Beauseant mid Deschappelles, l. 
Damas. Tlie man who sets his heail upon a woman 
Is a chameleon, and dotli feed on air ; 
From air he lakes his colors— holds his life — 
Changes with every wind — grows lean or fat. 
Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy, ^ 

Or pallid with despair — just as the gale / 

Varies from north to south — from heat to cold ! ^> 

0, woman ! woman ! thou shouldst have few sins 
Of thine own to answer for ! Thou art the author 
Of such a book of follies in man. 
That it would need the tears of all the angels 
To blot the record out ! 

Enter Melnotte, pale and agitated, R. 

I need not tell thee ! Thou hast heard 

Mel. The worst ! 

I have ! (crosses, l.) 
Damas. Be cheer'd ; others are fair as she is ! 

Mel. Others ! The world is crumbled at my feet! 

She was my world ; fill'd up the whole of being — 

Smiled in the sunshine — walk'd the glorious earth — . 

Sate in my heart — was the sweet life of life. 

The past was hers ; I dreamt not of a future 

That did not wear her shape ! Mem'ry and Hope 

Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless ! 
Damas. Hope yet. 
Mel. Hope, yes ! — one hope is left me stil! — 

A soldier's grave ! {after a pause) But am I not deceived 1 

I went but by the rumor of the town ; 

Rumor is false — I was too hasty ! Damas, 

Whom hast thou seen 1 
Damas. Thy rival and her father. 

Arm thyself for the truth. He heeds not 

Mel. She 

Will never know how deeply she was loved. 
Damas. Be a man ! 

Mel. I am a man ! — it is the sting of woe 

Like mine that tells us we are men ! 
Damas. The false one 

Did not deserve thee, 
Mel. Hush ! No word against her ! 

Why should she keep, through years and silent absence. 

The holy tablets of her virgin faith 

True to a traitor's name 1 Oh, blame her not; 

It were a sharper grief to think her worthless 

Than to be what I am ! To-day — to-day ! 

They said " To-day !" This day, so wildly welcomed — 

This day, my soul had singled out of time 

And mark'd for bliss ! This day ! oh, could I see her. 

See her once more unknown ; but hear her voice. 
Damas. Easily done ! Come with me to her house ; 

Your dress — your cloak — mustache — the bronzed hues 

Of time and toil — the name you bear — belief 

In your absence, all will ward away suspicion. 



44 THE LADY OF LYONS. [aCX V. 

Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come. 

There may be liope ! PauHiie is yet so young, 

They may have forced lier to these second bridals 

O.it of mistaken love. 
Mel. No, bid me not hope ! 

Bid me not hope ! I could not bear again 

To fail from such a heaven ! Oh, Damns, 

Tliere's no such thing as courage in a man ; 

Tlie veriest slave that ever crawled from danger 

Might spurn me now. When first I lost her, Damas, 

1 bore it, did I not1 I still had hope, 

And now I — I — {blasts into an agony of grief ^ 
Damas. Wiiat, comrade ! all the women 

That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts 

Were not worth tears like these ! 
Mel. (crossing to r ). 'Tis past — forget it. 

1 am prepared ; life has no further ills ! 
Damas. Come, Melnotte, rouse thyself ; 

One effort more. Again thou'lt see her. 
Mel. See her ! 

Damas. Time wanes ; come, ere it yet be too late. 
MicL. "Too late!" 

Lead on. One last look more, and then 

Damas. Forget her ! 

jMel. Forget her! yes— for aeath remembers not ! [Exeunt, l. 

SCENE II. — A room m tne house of M. Deschappelles ; not so richly 
furnished as in the First Act ; Pauline seated^ in great dejection, at a 
table, K. 

Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false to Love, 
Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude, 
My lover, and my husband ! H.ave I lived 
To pray that thou mayest find some fairer boon 
Than the deep faith of this devoted heart — 
Nourish'd till now — now broken % 

Enter Monsieur. Deschappelles, l. 

M. Deschap. My dear child. 

How shall I thank — how bless thee ? Thou hast saved, 
I will not say my fortune — I could bear 
Reverse, and shrink not — but that prouder wealth 
VMiich merchants value most — my name, my credit — 
The hard- won honors of a toilsome life ; 
These thou hast saved, my child ! 

Pauline. Is there no hope 1 

No hope but this 1 

M. Dkschap. None. If, without the sum 

Which Beauseant offers for thy hand, this day 
Sinks to the west — to-morrow brings our ruin ! 
And hundreds, mingled in that ruin, curse 
The bankrupt merchant! and the insolvent herd 
We feasted and made merry, cry in scorn, 
'• How pride has fallen I Lo, the bankrupt merchant!" 
My daughter, thou hast saved us 

Pauline. And I am lost ! 



ACr V ] THE LVOr UF LYUXS. 45 

M. Deschap. Come, let us hope that Beanseant's love 

Pauline. His love ' 

Talk not of love. Love has no thought of self ! 

Love buys not with tiie ruthless usurer's gold 

The loathsome piostitution of a hand 

Without a heart ! Love sacrifices all things 

To bless the thing it loves ! He knows not love. 

Father, his love is hate — his hope revenge ! 

My tears, mv anguish, my remorse for falsehood — 

These are the joys that he wrinas from our despair ! 
M. Deschap. If tliou deem'st thus, reject him. Siiame and ;'uin 

Were better than thy misery ; think no more on't. 

My sand is well-nigh run — vviiat boots it vviien 

The glass is broken 1 We'll annul the contract; 

And if to-morrow in the prisoner's cell 

Tiiese aged limbs are laid, wliy still, my child, 

rii think thou art spared; and wait the Liberal Hour 

That lays the beggar by the side of kinos ! 
Pauline. No— no — forgive me! You, my honored father — 

You, wiio so loved, so cherish'd me, whose lips 

Never knew one harsli word ! I'm not ungrateful ; 

I am but liuman — hush ! Now, call the bridegroom. 

You see I am prepared — no tears — all calm ; 

But, father, talk no more of love! 
M Deschap. My child, 

'Tis but one struggle ; he is young, rich, noble ; 

Thy state will rank first 'mid the dames of Lyons ; 

And when this heart can shelter thee no more, 

Tiiy youth will not be guardianless. 
Pauline. T have set 

My foot upon the ploughshare. (M Deschap. retires) Twill pass 

The fiery ordeal, (aside) Merciful Heaven support me ! 

And on the absent wanderer shed the light 

Of ha[)pier stars — lost evermore to me? 

Enter, c. l., Maramr Deschapplt,es, Beauseant, Glavis, and Notary, 
loho confers tvith .M. Deschappelles, aiid then sits at table, r. 

Mme Deschap. Why, Pauline, you are qn\te in deshabiile — yououalit 
to be more alive to the importance of this joyful occasion. AVe had once 
looked higher, it is true; but you see, after all, Monsieur Beanseant's 
father ivas a Marquis, and that's a great comfort. Pedigree anl join- 
ture — you have them both in Monsieur Beauseant. A youn^ lady dec- 
orously brought up should only have two considerations in her choice 
of a Imsband ; first, is his birth honorable? secondly, will his death be 
advantageous 1 All other trifling details should be left to parental anx- 
iety. 

Beau, (l. c, appi-oaehinff and ivavlng aside Madame). Ah, Pauline! 
let me hope that you are reconciled to an event which confers sucli rap- 
ture upon me. 

Pauline. I am reconciled to my doom. 

Beau. Doom is a harsh word, sweet lady. 

Padlixe {aside). This man must have some mercy — his heart cannot 
be marble, [aloud) Oh, sir, be just— be generous I Seize a* noble tri- 
umph — a great revenge ! Save the father, and spare the child ! 

Bkau. (aside). Joy — joy alike to my hatred and my passion ! The 
haughty Pauline is at last my suppliant, (aloud) You ask from me what 



46 THE LADT OF LYOXS. [aCT V. 

I have not the sublima virtu3 to grant — ^a virtue reserved only for the 
gardener's son ! I cannot forego my hopes in the moment, of their ful- 
filhiient! I adhere to the contract — your lather's ruin or your hand. 

Pauline. Tlien all is over. Sir, I have decided, {the clock strikes one. 
Beauseant retires to l. of table and sits examinir/cf the papers.) 

Enter Damas and Melnotte, l. o. 

Damas. Your servant, cousin Descliappelles. Let nie introduce Colo- 
nel Morier. 

Mme. Deschap. [curtseying very low). What, the celebrated hero 1 
This is, indeed, an honor ! {she crosses ; seems to converse with Melnotte, 
ivho boivs as she returns to the table, a. \ Melnotte throws himself into a 
chair, L. u. E.) 

Damas {to Pauline). My little cousin, I congratulate you. What, no 
smile — no blush 1 You are going to be divorced from poor Melnotte, 
and many this rich gentleman. You ought to be excessively happy ! 

Pauline. Happy ! 

Damas. Why, how pale you are, child! Poor Pauline! Hist — con- 
fide in me ! Do they force you to this 7 

Pauline. No. 

Damas. You act with your own free consent 1 

Pauline. My own consent — yes. 

Damas. Then you are the most — I will not say what you are. 

Pauline. You think ill of me — be it so — yet if you knew all 

Damas. There is some mystery — speak out, Pauline, 

Pauline {suddenly). Oh, perhaps ynu can save me ! you are our re- 
lation — our friend. My father is on the verge of bankruptcy — this day 
he requires a large sum to meet demands that cannot be denied ; that 
sum Beauseant will advance — this hand the condition of the barter. 
Save me if you have the means — save me ! You will be repaid above ! 

Damas {aside). I recant. Women are not so bad after all ! {aloud) 
Humph, child ! I cannot help you — I am too poor. 

Pauline. The last plank to which I clung is shivered. 

Damas. Hold— you see my friend Morier; Melnotte is his most inti- 
mate friend — fought in the same fields — slept in the same tent. Have 
you any message to send to Melnotte 1 any word to soften this blow ? 
(she bows ; Damas yoes to Melnotte, who rises and comes forward, l. c.) 

Pauline. He knows Melnotte — he will see him — he will bear to him 
my last farewell, {approaches Melnotte ; he botes to her, and overcome ly 
his emotion, turns toxvard l.) He has a stern air — he turns away from me — 
he despises me ! Sir, one word, I beseech you ! 

Mel. {aside). Her voice again. How the old time comes o'er me ! 

Damas (^o Madame). Don't interrupt them. He is going to tell her 
what a rascal young Melnotte is ; he knows him well, I promise you. 

Mme. Deschap. So considerate in you, cousin Damas ! 

Damas approaches Desghappelles ; converses apart with him in dumb 
show — Desghappelles shows him a paper, which he inspects and takes. 

Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak ; my courage fails me. 

Sir, is it true that you have known — nay, are 

The friend of— Melnotte ? 
Mel. Lady, yes! Myself 

And misery know the man ! 
Pauline.' And you will see him, 

And you will bear to him — ay — word for word, 



ACT v.] 'illK LADY OF LYONS. 47 

All that this heart, which breaks in parting from him, 

Would send, ere still for ever .' 
Mel. Ladj', speak on ! 

Paulin'E. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thouoht 

That was not his ; that on his wandering way. 

Daily and nigiitly, pour'd a mourner's prayers; 

Tell him e'en now tliat I would rather share 

His lowliest lot — walk by his side, an outcast — 

AVork for him, beg witli him — live upon the light 

Of one kind smile from him — than wear the crown 

The Bourbon losi ! 
Mel. {aside). Am I already mad 1 

{aloud) You love him thus, and yet desert him ? 
Pauline. Say. that if his eyes 

Could read this heart — its struggles, its temptations — 

His love itself would pardou that desertion ! 

Look on that poor old man — he is my father; 

He stands upon the verge of an abyss ! — - 

He calls his child to saveJiim ! Shall I shrink 

From him who gave me birth 1 — withhold my hand, 

And see a parent perish 1 Tell him this, 

And say — that we shall meet again in heaven ! 
Mel. Night is past — joy cometh with the morrow ! 

{goes to Damas, ivlto is l. ) What is this riddle? — what is the 
nature of this sacrifice ? 
Bkait. {at the tahli-) The pa[)ers are prepared — we only need 

Your hand and seal. 
Mel. Stay, lady — one word more. 

Were but your duty with your faith united. 

Would you still share the low-born peasant's lot] 
Pauline. Would 17 Ah. better death with I him love 

Than all the pomp — wliic'.i is but as the flowers 

That crown the victim ! {turning away) I am ready. 
(Melnotte goes io Damas, wAo has taken the paper from the tabic.) 
Damas {shoiving paper). There — 

This is the schedule — this the total. 
Beau, {to Deschappellel, showing notes). These 

Are yours the instant she has sign'd ; you are 

Still the great house of Lyons 1 

T/ie Notary -s about to hand the contract to Pauline, ivhen Melnotte seizes 
it and tears it. 

BnAu. (going l.). Are you mad 1 

M. Deschap. (l. c). How, sir. What means this insult? 

Mel. (c.) Pence, old man ! 

I have a prior claim. Before the face 

Of man and Heaven I urge it ; I outbid 

Yon sordid huckster for your priceless jewel, {giving a pocket-hook) 

There is the sum twice told ! Blush not to take it ; 

There's not a coin that is not bought and hallow'd 

In the cause of nations with a soldier's blood ! 
Beau. Torments and death ! 

Pauline. That voice ! Thou art 

Mel. Thy husband ! 

(Pauline rushes into his arms) 

Look up ! Look up, Pauline — for 1 can bear 



48 THE LADY OF LTOKS. [aCT V. 

Thine eyes ! The stain is blotted from my name. 

I have redeem'd mine honor. I can call 

On France to sanction thy divine forgiveness! 

Oh, joy ! — oh, rapture ! By the midnight watchfires 

Thus have I seen thee ! thus foretold this hour ! 

And 'midst the roar of battle, thus have heard 

The beatino; of thy heart against my own ! 

{places Pacline in a chair — the Notary goes off, L. c.) 
Beau. Fool'd, duped, and triumph'd over in the hour 

Of mine own victory ! Curses on ye both ! 

May thorns be planted in the marriaoe-bed ! 

And love grow sour'd and blacken'd into hate — 

Such as the hale that gnaws me ! 
Damas. Curse away ! 

And let me tell thee, Beauseant, a wise proverb 

Tlie Arabs have : " Curses are like young chickens, 

{solemnly) And still come home to roost ! " 
Beau. Their happiness 

Maddens my soul ! I am powerless and revengeless ! 

{to Madame) I wish you joy! Ha ! ha ! the gardener's son! 

[Exit, L. c. 
(Pauline rises and comes fonvard, u. c. Claude grasps Damas' hand.) 
Pauline. Oh ! 

Mj' father, you ffi'e saved — and by my husband ! 

Ah! blessed hour! (s/te fwirwcs Melnotte.) 
Mel. Yet you weep still, Pauline ! 

Pauline. But on thy breast — these tears are sweet and holy ! 
M. Deschap. You have won love and honor nobly, sir ! 

Take her — be happy both ! 
Mme. Deschap. , I'm all astonished ! 

Who, then, is Colonel Morier ? 
Damas. You behold him I 

Mel. Morier no more after this happy day ! [crosses, k. c.) 

I would not bear again my father's name 

Till I could deem it spotless ! The hour's come ! 

Heaven smiled on conscience ! As the soldier rose 

From rank to rank, how sacred was the fame 

Tiiat cancell'd crime, and raised him nearer ihee ! 
Mme. Deschap. A colonel and a hero! Well, that's something ! 

He's wondrously improved ! {crosses to him) I wish you joy, sir ! 
Mel. Ah ! the same love that tempts us into sin. 

If it be true love, works out its redemption ! 

And he who seeks repentance for the past 

Should woo the Angel Virtue in the future. 

Mad.\me Deschappelles. Melnotte. Pauline. 

R. C. C. L. C. 

M. Deschappelles. Damas. 

fi. L. 

CURTAIN. 



-V- 



MONEY. 



Copyright, 1875, by Robert M. De Witt. 



ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Theatre Royal, Old Park Theatre, 
Haymarket, New York, 

Dec. 8, 1840. Fc6. 1,1841. 

Alfred Evelyn Mr. Macready. Mr. Hield. 

Sir John Vesey Mr. Stkickland. Mr. Chippendale. 

Lord Glossmore Mr. F. Vining. Mr. C.W.Clarke, 

Sir Frederick Blount Mr. Walter Lacy Mr. A. Anderson. 

Benjamin Stout.. 4, Mr. D. Reece. Mr. GnsN. 

Graves Mr. B. Webster. Mr. Fishee. 

Captain Dudley Smooth Mr. Wrench. Mr. Nickkrson, 

Sharp Mr. Waldron. Mr. Bedford. 

Old Member Mr. Wilmott. 

Toke Mr. Oxberrt. 

MacFinch Mr. GouGH. 

Crimson (a Portrait Painter) Mr. Gallot. 

MacStucco Mr. M atthews. 

Patent (a Coachmaker) Mr. Clarke. 

Frantz (a Tailor) Mr. O. Smith. 

Tabouret (an Upholsterer) Mr. Howe. 

Grab (a Publisher) Mr. Caulfield. 

Clara Douglas Miss H. Faucit. Mrs. Maedeb. 

Lady Franklin Mrs. Glover. Mrs. Vebson. 

Georgina Miss P. Horton. Mrs. Chippendale. 

Officer, Club Members, Flat, Green, Waiters at Club, Pages, Servants, 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS AND A HALF. 



SCENERY. 

ACT I. — (Scene 1.— A Drawing-room in Sir John "Vesey's bouse. 

.... Drawing-room beyond .... 



4th grooves.- 



Folding doors. 



B. 3 E.- 



Chair.* 
Chair.* (^ 
Table. 



Chairs. 



Chair.' 



Chair.* 



4th grooves. 

' Chair. 

-L. 3 E. 



B. 2 E.- 



Chair.* 



Chair.* 



Chair.* 

o 

Table. * Chair. 



-E. 2 E. 



Chair.* 



: Writing 
: Tuble. 



B. 1 E.- 



-L. 1 E, 



A handsomely furnished, carpeted apartment. Folding doors open, showing another 
handsome room beyond, b. h., handsome table, upon which are newspapers, books, 
etc. L. H., another table, smaller, and near there a secretary writing-table, with a 
dozen chairs placed in the positions indicated. 



MONEY. 



ACT JI —Scene \. — An Ante-room in Evelyn's house. Small table n. h. Writ- 
ing-desk and materials l. h. Chairs b. h and l. h. Door l. c. F. 

Scene 2.— Drawing-room in Siu John VESEY'd house, as before. Portfolio and 
drawings upon the side table. 

ACT III.— Scene 1. — Drawing-room in Sib John Vesey's house, as before. The 
scene so arrani»ed as to allow the next scene to close in. 

Scene 2.— Boudoir in Sir John Vesey's house. The flats in the second groove rep- 
resent a handsome apartment. Two chairs are brought on by the Page. 

Scene 3.— Grand saloon at Evelyn's club house. 

4th grooves. | Entrance. | 4th grooves. 



Member reading book. 



B. 3e, 



— -O 



"Waiters. 



Table. 



B. 2 E. 

Member, seated.* 

Smooth.* ( )* 

Table with lemonade on. 

R. 1 E. 



Newspapers, books, ; 

pens, ink, etc. : 
Pack of Qards, and ', 

cup of coffee. : 



Four members standing. 
* 

O —^-3' 

Table. * 
Three Members. 



-L. 2 E. 



* Stout, with newspaper. 

; Old member, 

* /^ * with Times. 

Glossmobs. v_y 

Table. l. 1 e. 



An elegantly furnished saloon with tables and chairs, and the other articles placed 
us shown in the diagram. 

ACT ir.— Scene 1.— An ante-room in Evelyn's, as before. 

Scene 2.— A splendid saloon in Evelyn's mansion. 
Diniiig-Boom. 



Chairs. : Table. 



Chairs. 



4th grooves I Folding Doors. 



4th grooves. 



* Chairs. * 
B. 3e. /"\ 

Chair.* Table. 



* Chairs. * 

/"\ L. SE. 

Table. 



B. 2 E.' 



Chairs. — — l. 2 e. 



Chairs. 



R. 1 E. 



-L. 1 E, 



A magnificently furnished saloon, with paintings, etc. Two tables, r. h. and L. h., 
with candelabra. Chairs placed in the positions indicated. Folding doors c. f. 
Beyond them the interior of the dining-room, with chairs arranged for the guests- 
table spread tor dinner. Candelebra, etc. 

ACT v.— Scene 1.— Room at Evelyn's club house. Handsomelv furnished. 
Tables E. H. and l. h. Cloth and breakfast pieces on the table l. h. Doors c. f. 
Two chairs at each table. Papers, etc., on table b. h. 

Sce7ie 2.— Drawing-room in Sib John Vesey's house, as before. 

(Scene 3.— Saloon in Evelyn's mansion, as before. 



C0STU3IES. 
So fill' as the costumes of this play are concerned, there is nothing so very partic- 
ular in the text, as in the previous plays, to rigidly compel an adherence to the one- 
style of the one particular period. 

At the time the play -was produced there was a very peculiar style of fashion pre- 
vailing in London. The Count D'Orsay was the leader, the model in fact, lie was 
at that time considered one of the most elegant and accomplished gentlemen; in- 
deed, he might be termed the " Beau Brummell " of the period. It was the " D'Or- 
say hat," the " D'Orsay coat," the " D'Orsay vest," and " D'Orsay boots ;" in fact, 
everything in a fashionable "West-end store bore the title. 

As this play was originally played, the above style of costume was adopted; but 
there is no actual necessity for it, and the costumes now given are expressly com- 
piled for this edition of the work— observing a medium course between the past and 
present ; but they may be altered, according to the manager's views, to the leading 
fashions prevailing at the time when the play is produced. 

Alfred Evelyn. — Xst Dress : Frock coat and vest, black ; dark trousers ; black 
necktie ; boots. 2d Dress : Dark-blue frock coat ; fancy mixture trousers and 
vest ; patent-leather boots ; neck scarf ; riding gloves and hat. In Act JV., a 
handsome dressing-gown, silk-lined, etc. ; and then in Scene 2, black dress-coat, 
white vest, black trousers, plain black necktie, patent-leather boots. Act V. : 
The same, or a similar dress, to the one secondly described. 
SiK John Vesey. — Black dress-coat and trousers, white vest and ci-avat, pair of 

gold-mounted eyeglasses, with black silk ribbon ; hair white. 
LoED Glossmoke. — Black frock coat and trousers, fancy vest, patent-leather boots, 

scarf, and kid gloves. In Act IV., usual dress for a fashionable dinner-party. 
Sir Frederick Blount — In the 1st Act, a plaiu black suit — handsome garments of 
any color, but made in the highest fashion and of the very best quality — rich 
silk handkerchiefs, and very tine light-colored overcoat, etc.* 
Stout. — Blue cloth coat with broad tails : velvet vest, white cravat, and stand-up 
collar ; Oxford gray trousers, cloth boots, large red handkerchief, white hat 
with black band, afterwards removed. 
Graves. — Body coat, vest, trousers, and gloves all black. In Ad III., a colored 

silk handkerchief. 
Captain Dudley Smooth. — \st Dress : Dark fashionable morning or lounging coat, 
vest, and trousers. 2d Dress : Frock coat and fancy colored vest and trousers, 
patent-leather boots. 3d Dress ; Usual dress tor a fasionable dinner-party. 
Sharp.— Plain black body coat, vest, and trousers ; white cravat, shoes. 
Old Member.— Blue colored body coat witli gilt buttons, fancy colored vest, nan- 
keen trousers, shoes and cloth gaiters, white scarf, and high collar. 
Clara Douglas. — 1st Dress: Plain black walking dress with sleeves, and the hair 
plain. 2d Dress: Fancy muslin dress, ornamented, but not too much, accom- 
panied by rich gold bracelets, etc. 3d Dress : A rich dark velvet walking cos- 
tume, and handsome ornaments. 
Lady Franklin. — A very rich and gay colored silk dress, with lace shawl, etc. In 
Act IV., handsome evening dress, the sleeves being short. In Act V., a hand- 
some morning costume, bonnet and lace shawl. 
Georgina. — White muslin dress trimmed fancifully with black ribbons, jet orna- 
ments on the breast and the Wrists of the long sleeves ; neck-chain of jet. In 
Act II., similar dress varied by fancy ribbons and gold ornaments. In Act IV., 
change for dress for a fashionable dinner-paity. In Act V., silk dress, fashion- 
ably cut blue mantle and trimmings ; hat and feather. 
Servants. — Those belonging to Sir John Vesey and Alfred Evelyn : Plain black 
body coat, vest, and knee-breeches, white stockings and shoes. Those at the 
Club House : Puce colored body coats, with large brass buttons, velvet plush 
vests and knee-breeches, white neckties and stockings, shoes, and hair powdered, 

* All actors whom I have seen play this part made it the medium for the display 
of the richest and most fashionable clothing. 



PROPERTIES. 

ACT /., Scene 1. — Two rich tables and covers; newspapers, books ; twelve chairs; 
carpet ; a secretaire writing' table ; writing materials ; black-edged letter ; 
watch; purse ; banknote ; wine; decanters; glasses; cake ; will ; letter; 

ACT II., Hcene 1. — Three drawings ; bundle with new coat ; writing desk and ma- 
terials ; table ; chairs : book and parchment ; piece of gold coin ; letter. Scene 
2. — As in Act I., with the addition of portfolio, drawings ; a portrait ; letter, as 
ill last. 

ACT 111., &enel.— Same furniture, etc., as in Act I., Scene 1, except there need 
not be so many chairs ; writing materials ; letter. Scene 2. — Two chairs. Scene 
3. — Five tables ; twelve chairs; newspapers ; books; writing materials ; play- 
ing cards ; coffee cups ; large round snuft'-box ; two salvers ; glasses ; letter ; 
note ; pocket-book ; wax lights in candelabras on the tables ; lemonade and 
glasses. 

ACT IV., Scene 1. — Two tables; two chairs; writing materials; pocket-book; 
checks. Scene 2, — Two tables with candelabra, etc. ; nine chairs ; painting ; 
letter ; paper fur Sherifl''s officer ; table in dining-roorn at back ; chairs round 
it ; dinner service spread ; candelabra and lights. 

ACl' v.. Scene 1.— Two tables; four chairs; table cloth and breakfast things; 
glasses and wine ; letter ; bill ; salver ; large and shall watches. Sce7ie 2. — 
Bell pull and bell without, Scene 3. — Same as Act IV., Scene 2. Letter, salver, 
writing materials on table. 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS, 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



B. 3e, 

/ 



7 



/ 



gCENE. 



0. 

AUDIENCE. 



v 



\ 



L. 3 a. 

L. is. 



\ 



\ 



L. 



Left. 
. c. Left Centre. 

. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 
. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 
. 3 E. Lett Third Entrance. 
. u. E. Left Upper Entrance 

(wherever this Scene may be.) 
. L. c. Door Left Centre. 



E. 1 E. 



E. V. E. 

S.E. C- 



Centre, 

Eight. 

Eight First Entrance. 

Eight Second Entrance^ 

Eight Third Entrance. 

Eight Upper Entrance. 

Door Bight Centre. 



BUL FOR PR0GRA3aiES, Etc. 
The events of this play take place in London. Period, the present century, 
ACT I. 
Scene I.— DRAWING-ROOM IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE, 
The Scheming Baronet and his Daughter— Death of a Rich Indian Cousin 
— The Poor Secretary and the Poor Ward— The Story of Evelyn's Love 
— Off'er of Hand and Heart — Clara's Rejection — A Tale of Sorrow — 
The Reading of the Will — " 1 leave all the residue of my fortune to 
Alfred Evelyn." 

ACT H. 

Scene I— AN ANTE-ROOM IN EVELYN'S NEW MANSION. 

The Troubles of Riches - Specimen of a Political Economist — Election 
Prospects — Bribery and Corruption — A Game of Battledore and Shuttle- 
cock — The Story of Evelyn's Life and Struggles — The Mysterious Let- 
ter — " Who sent it ? Clara or Georgina ? " 

Scene II.— DRAWING-ROOM AT SIR JOHN VESEY'S. 

Mr. Graves and his " Sainted Maria" — A Dangerous Widoio — The Baronefs 
Cunning — An Artful Trick to Entrap Evelyn — The Portait — The Bmt 
Caught — The Letter was from Georgina — She Sent her Savings to Re- 
lieve Distress — The Offer of Hand and Fortune to Georgina — Evelyn is 
Accepted — Clara's Agony — " With my whole heart I say it — be happy ! " 

ACT III. 

Scene I.— DRAWING-ROOMS IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. 

Clouds in the Horizon — Extravagance and Gambling — Rocks Ahead — Clara's 
Departure from Englattd — The Warning Voice of Love, as a Sister — 
"Let us part friends!" — Suspicions of Truth — Graves' Story of 
Georgina's Flirtations — A Trap Set for the Trapper. 

Scene II.— BOUDOIR IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. 

A Widoioer and Widow in Love — The Temptations of a Charming Woman 
— A Cure for Melancholy — Dancing and a Sweet Voice — Unpleasanc 
Interruption. 

Scene III.— GRAND SALOON AT EVELYN'S CLUB HOUSE. 

A Gentleman and a Gambler — Captain Deadly Smooth's Good Ltick — Plot 
and Counterplot— Infatuation in Gaming — Loss after Loss — Evelyn's 
Ruin Approaching, 



MONEY. 7 

ACT IV. 

Scene I.— ANTE-ROOM IN EVELYN'S HOUSE, 

Morning Calls — Debt Against Debt — N(wel Mode of Payment by Increasing 
— Not Quite Sharp Enough. 

Scene II.— SPLENDID SALOON IN EVELYN'S HOUSE. 

The Plot Tliickens — Evelyn is Drifting Wrong — Suggestions for Assist- 
ance—" Will Georgina help me? — £10,000 for a time will save ?«e" 
— jin Answer Deferred — Unpleasant Duns and a Sherrijfs Officer — 
Failure of Evelyn's Bankers— Clamorous Creditors — Pleasure 
Against Charity — Desertion of Friends as the Money goes Down! 



ACT V. 

Scene I.— A ROOM AT THE CLUB, 

More News of the Downfall — A Friend in the Scheme — Georgina s Old Love 
— The Eccentric Baronet — Political Intrigues — The Mine is Opening. 

Scene XL— DRAWING-ROOMS IN SIR JOHN VESEY'S HOUSE. 

A Devoted Heart — A Woman in Distress — The Old Love Revived — If he 
Can be Saved he Shall — Departure of Clara to see Evelyn. 

Scene III.— SPLENDID SALOON IN EVELYN'S HOUSE.; 

Money Works Wonders — A Change J vom Respect to Infamy — Tis the 
way of the World — £10,000 placed at Evelyn's Bankers — Saved — 
*' 'Tis Georgina's act— the die is cast!" — Lovers Alone — TTie Story 
of Clara's Life — The Reasons for Rejection — Hope for the Future — 
Too Late!— Evelyn Elected a Member of Parliament — The Mine is 
Sprung— Startling JK'ews — Georgina Marries Sir Frederick Blount! 
" Who, then, se7it the money to my bankers?" — The Mystery Solved 

— The Letter Explained — Clara Douglas! — Acceptance of Evelyn 

— The Scheme at an End— He was JVever Ruined— Only a Plot to 
Show the Value of 

MOJVEY. 



MONET. 



THE STOSY OF THE PLAY. 

In the centre of the most fashionable part of London there resided, at the com- 
mencement of the play, Sir John Vesej-, Baronet, ex-Member of Parliiiment, etc., 
Fellow of ever so many societies, and President of ever so many Corporations ; in 
fact, a man surrounded by all the attributes of wealtli and high political and social 
position. Outwardly well polished, he had naturally a large and influential circle 
of admiring friends and cringing flatterers ; wealth and position, like honey, attract 
many flies— and an artifice he resorted to of ;jetting it mooted about that he was 
hoarding up his money, gradually acquired him the name of " Stingy Jack," and 
stimulated a belief in some persons, and confirmed the opinion of others, that he 
really was a most highly honorable and wealthy gentleman, though somewhat 
eccentric, and that his only daughter, Georgiiia, was a rich heiress. 

The fact, however, was just the reverse. He had been, and was, playing a very 
deep game indeed ; he was in every respect an unprincipled and unsubstantial man, 
— a living specimen, though more advanced in years, of Dickens' ever to be remem- 
bered character, Montague Tigg, alias Tigg Montague. 

The members of Sir John Vesey's household were Ueorgina, his daughter ; Lady 
Franklin, his half-sister and a widow ; Clara Douglas, a poor orphan cousin and his 
■ward, and Alfred Evelyn, another poor cousin, who acted as his private secretary. 

As to Sir John himself — his father for services rendered in the army obtained a 
title, but expended all available means in keeping it up, consequently the only for- 
tune he could leave his son was the title. But this worthy son was not to be so 
easily foiled. On the strength of his parent's services, he obtained a pension of 
jE-iOO a pear, which was quite sufficient trading capital for a man of Sir John's ad- 
venturous disposition and tactics. On j6400 he took credit for £800 ; upon which 
credit he married a woman with £10,000, and increased his credit to £40,000. Then 
it was that he worked his artful scheme and paid a highly respectable but impover- 
ished gentleman so much per week to mix in society and constantly allude to him 
as " Stingy Jack," upon the principle that if a man of position is called " stingy" he 
is presumed to be " rich," and to be presumed " rich," is to be universally respected. 

Working the wires thus, he had been elected a member of Parliament, and re- 
mained so until a fitting opportunity arrived, when he resigned his seat in favor of 
a member of the Government, who, in return, gave him a sinecure appointment, 
bringing in about £2,000 a year; all of which, and more I'aised upon the strength of 
it, he expended annually in keeping up appearances, in the hopes of bringing about 
a wealthy match tor his daughter. 

Of Georgina little can be said, except that she was quite obedient to her father's 
wishes, though at the same time a little artful and self-willed. Her mother died 
young, and therefore the male parental guidance had its effect in moulding her to 
his views. 

Lady Franklin was generous, kind, wealthy, and middled-aged— without any fam- 
ily, and therefore her half-brother had induced her to take off his hands the burden 
of his ward. Clara Douglas was an orphan of his cousin ; her mother died young, 
and her father at his death left her to the care of Sir John as her guardian, but hav- 
ing no wealth, th.at was all he did leave him, and therefore to a man of Sir John's 
temperament it was by no means an agree;ible bequest. It was not long, however, 
before he found a way to transfer the charge to Lady Franklin. 

Alfred Evelyn was left fatherless when a hoy and his mother sacrificed everything 
she could to give him education. From school he proceeded to college, where he 
became a " sizar."* 

* " Sizar " is a term nsed in the University of Cambridge, in England, to denote a 
body of students, next below the pensionei's, who eat at the public table free of 
expense, after the fellows of the college have taken their meals. In former times 
they had to wait at table during the meal hours, but this custom has been done 



MONET. ' 9 

One day, a young lord struck hira, he returned the insult by horsewhipping Lis 
assailant. The then great difference between rich and poor was too strong ior the 
affair to be pas:!ed over, so poor Evelyn was expelled the college and all his ambi- 
tious hopes blasted. Coming to London, he toiled and toiled to the best of his 
ability to earn a scanty subsistence tor himself and mother, and so long as she lived 
he labored strenuously and successfully, but with her deaih, ambition seemed to 
expire also. As a last resource, he consented to becom.e the ill-paid secretary and 
hanger-on to his cousin, Sir John Vesey ; but there was a magnet in the house which 
attracted him ; he loved Clara Douglas, and to be near that loadstone he sank his 
pride. 

He prepared Sir John's speeches, wrote his pamphlets, mide up his calculations, 
composed epitaphs, condensed the debates in Parliament, and even executed various 
orders for the ladies, in bringing' home dresses, novels, music, securing boxes at the 
opera, etc., — all done probably upon a salary less than was paid to Sir John's coach- 
man. Such, then, were the constituent elements of the Baronet's household at th^ 
opening of the play. 

Sir John has just received a letter from Mr. Graves, an eccentric, but well-mean- 
ing middle-aged gentleman, who never ceases to express, with a melancholy air, the 
loss he experienced by the death of his late wife; whom he invariably terms, with 
uplifted eyes, his " Sainted Maria," though very probably, if the truth were known, 
she had led him anything but a happy life, and her departure from this world was 
more of a blessing than a misfortune ; at least, so many persons said, and more 
believed. 

Mr. Graves informs Sir John that a Mr. Mordaunt, to whom Georgina is the near- 
est relation, is dead ; that, having been appointed executor, and having since his 
wife's death lived only in apartments, he proposes to read the will that day at Sir 
John's house, and will come with Mr. Sharp, the lawyer, for that purpose. 

This is great news to Sir John — Mr. Mordaunt was reputed to be worth half a 
million sterling ; Georgina is the nearest relation — there could surely be nothing 
therefore to prevent her coming in for the bulk of his fortune. 

Lady Franklin and Clara arrive ; to the surprise of the worldly-minded Sir John, " 
his half sister is not in mourning, but poor Clara is, explaining in the genuine feel- 
ing of her nature, that although only a third cousin of the deceased, he had once 
assisted her father, and the quiet mourning robes she had obtained were all the 
respect and gratitude she could show. 

There are other distant relatives interested in the will ; Mr. Stout, a political 
economist, Lord Glossmore, a sort of butterfly nobleman : and Sir Frederick Blount, 
a foppish boronet, who, as Lady Franklin facetiously observes, " objects to the letter 
r as being too wough and therefore dwops its acquaintance." 

Alfred Evelyn, in the meantime, has arrived, and sits at the table absorbed in 
reading ; so, when the conversation flags, a general attack is made upon him to 
know if he has executed various commissions, and what has delayed him. He 
takes the opportunity to explain to Sir John, that his prolonged absence has been 
occasioned by his having gone to visit a poor woman wlio.was his nurse, and his 
mother's last friend ; that she is very sick, nay, dying, that she owes six months 
rent, and he appeals to Sir John for assistance. It is refused ; but Georgina 
overhears it, and her first impulse is to assist him, but then she might not have the 
fortune, her allowance is very little, and she iixust purchase a pair of earrings she 
has seen ; she, however, inquires the address of the nurse. Upon this point the pl.ay 
hinges. Evelyn is misled by her unsolicited generosity, and gives it, and as Georgina 
reads it aloud, Clara silently takes a .note of it, places all her little money in an 
envelope — but how to direct it ? Evelyn would know her handwriting, and that 
must not be, so she appeals to Lady Franklin, who promises that he shall not know 

away with some years. The term so applied to them was probably derived from 
this ancient occupation, as the food they had to supply when so engaged was called 
" size." It may well be imagined how naturally a spirit like Evelyn's recoiled a1» 
the position. 



10 MONET. 

it, that her ward shall direct it, and she will herself furnish the money, as it is more 
than Clara can spare. 

Sir Frederick Blount arrives, and in his stupid, foppish way, addresses many very 
ridiculous observations to Clara, which produces some excellent by-play and sarcas- 
tic remarks from Evelyn, who, though apparently sitting at the table reading, is 
watching with a keen and je;iIous eye every movement of the idol of his affections- 
Sir Frederick being called away, they are left alone, and in the most exquisite and 
perfect language, he tells the story of his love. But what is his liorror and dismay 
to meet a calm, yet firm, refusal ! Clara sees that, poor as they are, it would only 
be a marriage of privation and of penury — a life of days that dread the morrow — her 
love is his — she can submit to sufEer alone, but bring him into it also, she cannot. 

Mr. Graves and Mr. Sharp the lawyer arrive, and the reading of the will com- 
mences. Much disappointment, but more amusement, is created by the peculiarity 
and sinallness of the bequests ; the largest being one of jElO.OOO to Georgina Vesey. 
^H " What can the old fool have done with his money ?" exclaims Sir John, losing 
all control. The climax soon comes ; the deceased bequeaths the entire residue of 
his immense fortune to the only relative who never fawned upon him, and who, 
having known privation, may the better employ wealth — Alfred Evelyn ! Congrat- 
ulations on every side are unbounded, but the voice of her he loves is silent. 

Evelyn is speedily installed in the first style of position ^ his patronage is sought 
by every one ; tradesmen, electors, artists, and every rank of persons — but this 
does not prevent his dispensing charity with a liberal hand, for which he secures the 
services of Mr. Sharp. 

To Graves he tells the story of his life and love, and further, that in the letter 
which the lawyer gave him after the rea;iing of the will, there was a request from 
Mr. Mordaunt — but not imposing any condition — asking as a favor, if he had formed 
no other attachment, to choose as his wife, either Georgina or Clara, who was the 
daughter of a dear friend of the deceased. He still loves Clara, but her rejection 
overcomes him ; besides, he has obtained the letter, written in a disguised hand, 
sending money to, and saving his nurse. His heart yearns to believe that it was 
Clara's doing, but he cannot conceive how she should know the address, besides the 
amount was too much for her to send. He also tells Graves, that determined to be 
revenged upon Clara for refusing him, he has bribed Sharp, the.lawyer, to say that 
the letter he gave him contained a codicil to the will, bequeathing Clara j£20,000 ; so 
that she will be no longer a dependent, and that she will owe her release from 
almost beggary and insult, unknowingly, to the poor scholar whom she had rejected. 
With this joyous and noble feeling he determines to visit Lady Franklin, and see 
if he can possibly ascertain by whom the money was sent to his nurse. 

Consequent upon her unlooked-for wealth, Clara is now admired by all, even by 
Sir Frederick, Lady Franklin always assures her she believes Evelyn still loves her, 
and begs permission to tell him who sent the monpy to the nurse, otherwise he 
miglit imagine it came from Georgina. Sir John Vesey happens to overhear this 
remark, and determines to improve upon it, to secure Evelyn for his daughter. 
Clara makes Lady Franklin promise never to reveal the secret — most reluctantly 
she obeys. 

Sir John questions his daughter ; she had taken down the address, intending to, 
but did not, send the money. That is quite enough ground for Sir John to work 
upon. 

A new character now comes upon the scene. Captain Dudley Smooth, but who, in 
consequence of his fasliionable manners and abilities, unusual success at the gaming 
table, and skill as a duellist, had acquired the name of " Deadly" Smooth, and he 
is of course soon one of the friends of the wealthy Evelyn. 

Sir Frederick Blount also seeks Evelyn's aid to promote his suit with Clara, tell- 
ing him that he finds Georgina had a prior attachment, which prior attachment was 
no other than Evelyn himself, and therefore he must give her up and try his luck 
with Clara. Evelyn agrees to help him, and urges his merits in a bantering tone. 
Observing Sir Frederick's attentions, Georgina determines to flirt with Evelyn, and 



MONEY. 11 

Sir John seizes the opportunity to introduce to his notice r portfolio of her draw- 
ings ; turning them over one after another until up comes a portrait of — Alfred 
Evelyn ! 

He is astonished and confused. Can she really love him t A thought strikes 
him— carelessly he asks her if she has yet purchased a guitar she spoke of some 
months siuce. Now is the time for the master stroke, so taking him aside, Sir Jolin 
hints tliat slie had applied the money iu charity ; that she did not wish it known, 
and had employed some one else to direct the letter. The blow is well str.uek, the 
shaft strikes home ; such benevolence, and such love as to draw liis portrait ; Clara 
had refused him, how could he 4o otherwise than offer to Georgina ? He frankly 
tells her of his love for another, deep and true, but vain; that he cannot give her 
a first love, but he does offer her esteem, gratitude, hand and fortune. 

It is accepted. Poor Clara overhears all, and sinks on her chair fainting; he 
rushes to her side, and she rallies sufficiently to exclaim, " With my whole heart I 
say it— be happy— Alfred Evelyn 1" 

The time for the wedding is somewhat delayed, much to Sir John's annoyance, 
and Georgina complains that Evelyn's visits are not so frequent, nor his manners so 
cheerful as they used to be — indeed, her former admirer, Sir Frederick, was far 
more attentive and amusing. Sir John does not half like the way Evelyn is going 
on. Fine houses in London, and in the country balls, banquets, expensive pic- 
tures, horses, liberal charities, everything tending to diminish rapidly the largest 
fortune. In addition to which, it is reported, he has taken to gambling, and is 
nearly always in company with Captain Deadly Smooth, against whose arts, no 
young man of fortune had been known to stand long. 

Sir John determines that it is absolutely necessary to bring about an early settle- 
ment, and to further this, he thinks it best to get Clara away. He speaks to her 
upon the subject, and she consents to leave England rather than cloud his daugh- 
ter's hopes, and to that effect promises to write a letter. As she is finishing it, 
Evelyn calls to see Georgina, who is out, and, as they are alone, Clara tells him of 
her intended departure. 

In a scene of the most choice and beautiful language, replete with exquisite 
pathos, she breathes her thanks for past kindness, and now, that he is betrothed to 
another, her love — as a sister — dictates to her to remonstrate with him upon his 
parade, and luxuries, and-follies. But he tells lier that this casting aside of his 
high qualities, this dalliance with a loftier fate, was her own work. It is impossi- 
ble adequately to describe the pure and beautiful language of this scene — the 
skillful mingling of love and reproaches — and the bitter parting — as friends ! 

As he is recovering from the blow. Graves meets him, and tells him that he knows 
for a fact, Sir Frederick has proposed to Clara and been refused ; nay, more, that 
Georgina is not in love with him, but only with his fortune ; and that she plays 
affection with him in the afternoon, after she has practiced with Sir Frederick in 
the morning. And further, that Sir John is vastly alarmed at his gambling pro- 
pensities, and his connection wilh Captain Smooth, so much so, that he intends 
visiting the club that evening to watch him. 

A light breaks upon Evelyn, and he assures Graves that if these stories are true, 
the duper shall be duped, and he will extricate himself ; to this end, he determines 
to shape his plans. 

One of the liveliest scenes in the play here follows between Lady Franklin, who 
is really in love with the solemn and melancholy Graves. She so talks and works 
upon his feelings, that he gradually relaxes his staid demeanor, and actually Jbins 
her in a dance, her own sweet, merry voice supplying the music. In the midst of 
their meriment they are interrupted and confused by the sudden entrance of Sir 
John, Blount and Georgina. It is the finest piece of comedy ever put upon the 
stage, and affords scope for excellent acting. 

We are now introduced to the club. Evelyn arrives, and requests Smooth to play 
■with him, and he loses game after game. AVatching his opportunity, he takes the 
Captain aside and acquaints him with a plot he has formed to test the truth of his 



suspicions of the intentions of Qeorgina and her father — into this scheme, Smooth 
readily enters, and returning to the table, they renew their play. Sir John arrives, 
and watches with the most intense excitement, game after game lost, with con- 
stantly increasing stakes. In apparent agony, Evelyn rises from the table, declin- 
ing that ihe work is ruinous, and he will play no more. All the members crowd 
round the Captain to ascertain the extent of his winnings ; the only answer Ihey 
get is an offer to purchase from one of them a furnished house which he has to sell 
for £15,000, which, from his manner, he leads them to believe, is a mere trifle. Tliey 
catch the bait, and at once imagine he must have won double and treble that sum. 
Sir John's consternation is fearful, but the more so when he sees Evelyn, apparently 
under the influence of too much wine, take hold of Smooth's arm, and declare they 
must now make a night of it. 

In the morning, Glossmore and Sir Frederick call upon Evelyn to settle some 
small accounts with him. lie still carries on the deception, and not only excuses 
paying them, but works a trick between them, by which he secures a further check 
from each, and makes a present to one of a horse he buys on credit from the other. 
He goes further Ihan this ; not only does he borrow j6500 from Sir John, but he also 
tells him that he has sold out of the funds sufficient money to pay the balance for 
the purchase of an estate ; that the money is laying at his bankers, but he cannot 
touch it for any other purpose, or the estate will be lost, and the deposit money he 
has paid forefeited. He alludes, therelbi-e, to Georgina's .£10,000 legacy, and man- 
aging cleverly to get Sir John out of the way, he speaks to her upon the subject. 
He tells her of his position, that they may probably have to retrench and live in the 
country, and suggests that she should lend him the £10,000 for a few weeks to meet 
some pressing claims ; without confidence there can be no Joy in wedlock. She 
hesitates, then promises he shall hear from her. 

Smooth, Glossmore and others now arrive, and, still carrying on the deception, he 
appears most servile and cringing to the Captain. In a well constructed scene, he 
calls the attention of all to his unexpected accession to wealth twelve months since, 
and claims their good opinion for the way in which he has acted — they all outwardly 
approve, but inwardly they earnestly wish they had back their various loans. Their 
nervous excitement is increased by news being brought that the bankers with 
whom he banked have suspended payment, and they very much doubt his assur- 
ance that he had not much money there. Tliis is followed by sevei'al tradesmen 
applying for their bills, and then by the entry of a sheriffs officer to serve him with 
a summons. All this is too overpowering — iir John vehemently demands his j£500, 
and the others join chorus. Graves is overcome ; he tells Evelyn to go into dinner, 
and he will settle with the officer. Delighted at this generosity. Lady Franklin 
ingenuously exclaims, "Hove you for that !" and poor Graves loses his usual solemn- 
ity in the pleasure he experiences at this avowal. 

Again Evelyn appeals to Georgina ; he shall hear to-morrow ; but Sir John can 
restrain himself no longer, and he commands her, as his " poor, injured, innocent 
child," to take the arm of Sir Frederick Blount. The doors are thrown open, and 
Evelyn invites all his friends to the dinner prepared for them ; but in doing so, he 
appeals to them, in mockery, to lend him j£10 for his poor old nurse. This is too 
much, and he then bittei-ly reminds them that in the morning they lent him hun- 
dreds for pleasure, but now they refuse him a trifle for charity, and he commands 
tliem to go. Smooth alone remains, and being joined by Graves, the three repair 
to the table " to fill a bumper to the brave heai-ts that never desert us !" 

Events now approach a climax. Graves and Lady Franklin have become more 
intimate and confidential. He tells her he is certain that Evelyn still loves Clara, 
but doubts if she cares for him. Lady Fi-anklin, on the other hand, assures him 
that ever since she lias heard of Evelyn's distress, she has been breaking her heart 
for him. 

Clara arrives, having been to her bankers, for what purpose 'she declines to say ; 
butshe saysshe has heardthat £10,000 would relieve Evelyn, and probably Georgina 
would lend him the amount. Gi-aves much doubts such generosity in a woman, but 



MONEY. 13 

he hints that he knew of greater generosity in a man, who, rejected in poverty, by 
one as poor as himself, when he became rich, tlnough a well invented codicil, had 
made the woman rich. A light dawns upon Clara, she will see Evelyn and know the 
truth. 

Evelyn's scheme has thus far succeeded. Upon Graves offering to aid him all he 
c.in, he is so pleased that he reveals his true position, and assures him that scarcely 
n month's income of his large fortune has been touched ; it was merely a ruse to 
see whether a woman's love was given to " man " or " money." If Georgina should 
prcive by her answer her coafldence and generosity, then, though his heart should 
bre.ik, lie would marry her ; on the other hand, should she decline, there would 
be hope for explanations with Clara. 

A letter is brought in, and upon opening it, he finds a notice that £10,000 has 
been jiaid into the bank to liis account. This decides the matter— the die is cast, 
and Georgina wins. Lady Franklin arrives with Clara, and comijelling Graves to 
withdraw, leaves her and Evelyn together. 

In brilliant and telling language, the true and noble sentiments of Clara are 
revealed ; explanation upon explanation follows, and the ardent love of both i.s 
powerfully and touchingly portrayed; but it is too late! Evelyn, slill believing 
that it is Georgina who has assisted liim, asserts, that by every tie of faith, grati- 
tude, loyalty and love, he is bound to another! Sir John hurries in, stating that 
he has an offer from Georgina to advance the money, and is astounded when Evelyn 
tells him the amount has been already paid into his bankers. Then Sharp arrives 
with the news that Evelyn has been elected a Member of Parliament, and he also 
informs Sir John that the loss by the failure of the bank was only £'200 or so, and 
that Evelyn has always been living within his income. This is indeed good news, 
and Sir John is in eestacies, when his daughter and Sir Frederick arrive ; but before 
he can speak, Evelyn addresses her, desiring to know if she has assisted and 
trusted him purely and sincerely. She cannot comprehend him, and tells him, that 
following the principles she once heard uttered, " what is money without happi- 
ness ?" she had, that morning, promised her hand to Sir Frederick Blount ! Utterly 
.astounded, Evelyn produces the letter— Lady Franklin reads it— the money had 
been paid in by " a friend, to Alfred Evelyn ;" the same name used in sending the 
money to the old nurse, and she at once proclaims both as Clara's acts. In an 
ecstacy of delight, Evelyn offers love and fortune ; this time he is not rejected. The 
solemn Graves forgets his " sainted Maria," and joins hands with Lady Franklin, 
and all but Sir John realize the combination of happiness and— Money ! 



EEMAEES. 



In introducing the third, in the new series of Bulwer's plays, it is a labor of love. 
The recollections of its excellent production, and of witnessing it afterwards upon 
almost every occasion of its reproduction in London, bring to mind old associ- 
ations that are agreeable, yet saddening ; for many of those who filled the parts, 
and whose company was ever welcome, both on and off the stage, are now no more. 

Of all Bulwer's plays, this is, undoubtedly the best— it is more than fine— it is a 
splendid comedy, so telling, and so true to life in all the principles, and in the delin- 
eation of characters with which a wayfarer through the world constantly meets. It 
makes such a powerful appeal, in presenting the spectacle of a man endowed with 
intellect, education, and gentlemanly bearing, occupying a subordinate position, but 
expected to be of the greatest usefulness upon all occasions, at the same time receiv- 
ing less pay than the tall footman of the establishment, and considerable fewer 
perquisites than the favorite butler ; a position from which he is only released by a 
most unexpected stroke of fortune. 

The conception and the execution of the plot are, in my opinion, perfect. All the 



14 



MONET. 



observations touching upon falsity, pride, deceptive appearances, worldly schem- 
ing-, pur.; aflectiou, hypocrisy, are ijaiated and well drawn, so admirably depictured, 
that they cannot fail to tell. 

Upon reference to the remarks and dates in the previous plays, it will be found 
that only about eleven months elapsed between the production of the Lady of Lyons 
and Eichelieu, wliereas, between that play and this, nearly double that period 
passed away, and certain it is, that the author made good use of it, by producing a 
work, both in plot and language, very far surpassing nil his previous efforts, and 
giving to the world one of the finest comedies, if not the finest, in the English liu- 
gu:igc. 

lie had again the good luck to be supported by the highest professional material 
available tor carrying out his ideas, and it can be stated, from personal knowledge 
of all the ladies and gentlemen engaged in the play, that the characters were well 
suited to the actors, and the actors to the characters ; consequently, nothing could 
be more felicitous or so likely to ensure success, as the result proved. Again he had 
for his hero, Alfred Evelyn, Mr. Macready, the hero of his previous plays, and for 
his licroine, Clara Douglas, Miss Helen Faucit, who had contributed so largely to 
previous successes. 

As was noticed in the remarks to the Lady of Lyons and Kichelieii, those plays 
had the benefit of being supported by actors, all of whom afterwards attained lead- 
ing positions in the profession ; so was it with this play. On its first production 
there was a concentration of talent, blooming, half blooming, and about to bloom, 
that ensured a proper rendering of a meritorious play. 

It will be observed, that the scene of triumph was clianged from the Theatre 
Royal, Covent Garden, to the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, London ; and that of the 
ladies and gentlemen who had played in the author's previous productions, only 
four had parts in this, viz : Miss H. Faucit, Mr. Macready, Mr. F. Vining, and 
Mr. Howe. But the others were a little host. Mr. Walter Lacy, one of the finest, 
and most gentlemanly actors on the stage ; Mr. B. Webster, a great actor, and for 
many years lessee of the Haymarket, Adelphi, and Princess' Theatres, in London, 
where he is still playing, at an advanced age, and who is celebrated for having 
brought out, at the Adelphi Theatre, in conjunction with Madame Celeste, a very 
large number of first class dramas — " The Hop Pickers," — " The Harvest Home," 
— " Tlie Green Bushes," and farces innumerable. Mr. Wrench and Mx'. Oxberry, 
low comedians of the first class ; the latter, a gentleman of much intellect and edu- 
cation, as his " Dwmatic Budget " will testify. 

Mr. O. Smith, who for many years played the " villain " in all domestic dramas, 
with unqualified success, so good was his make up, and so well adapted for such 
character, his cool, deep voice. Mrs. Glover, a most amiable and accomplished lady 
who was for many years a stock member of the Haymarket Company, and as 
famous in London, for her admirable delineation of ladies of middle and more 
advanced age, as Mrs. Wheately was in this country. Lastly-, Miss P. Hovton, who 
was afterwards, for many years without a rival, as the chief burlesque and extrava- 
ganza actress in London. She married Mr. T. G Reed, a celebrated musical direc- 
tor and composer, and together they carried on for many years a beautiful little 
theatre in Regent street, London, where they produced a number of musical 
pieces of the highest class; it was like a handsome drawing-room, and was knowu 
as " The Gallery of Illustration." 

Poor Mrs. Glover met with a melancholy end. Upon the occasion of her farewell 
benefit in London, July 12tli, IS.iO, she was so overcome by the reception given to 
her, and the emotions at quitting forever the scene of so many triumphs, and of 
long standing associations— for the Haymarket Company was termed " the happy 
family" — seasou after season lor many years rarely witnessing any change amongst 
the members — that she sudden y became speechless, and three days afterwards, July 
15th, 1850, she expired. 

Of Mr. O. Smith's popularity and fame, for his deep voice and demoniacal laugh, I 
may mention a little incident. Some years since, I produced in London an extrav- 



MONF.T. 15 

aganza called " The Three Princes," and I am Iiappj- to say it met with the greatest 
possible success. I introduced in it au allu^ion to his voice. The evil genius of the 
piece threatens utter annihilation to one of the princes, lo which the reply came; 

" Destroy me, kin and kith ! 
You speak exactly like the Adelphi Smith !" 

and so well and so widely known was the actor and his voice, that during^ a run of 
nearly two hundred nights, the allusion and imitation never once taikd to bring 
forth a hearty laugh. 

With reference to the character of Sir John Vesey, it is interesting to observe 
that " truth is stranger tlian fiction." He says, in the first scene, " If you have no 
merit or money of your own, you must trade on the merits and money of other 
people." In a recent great law case in England, " The Tichborne Case," the trial 
of which lasted nearly twelve months, an old pocket book was produced in evidence, 
in which the claimant to the title and estates (afterwards sentenced to fourteen 
years imprisonment for perjury and forgery) had written "some people has plenty 
of money and no brains, and some people has plenty of brains and no money," 
therefore, he held it was the duty of the latter to prey upon the former. He was 
evidently a vulgar disciple of the Sir John Vesey school, of which there are speci- 
mens to be met with everywhere. 

Mr. Macreudy was followed in the character of Alfred Evelyn, by all those who 
had followed him in the Lady of Lyons ; Charles Kean, Phelps, Anderson, Creswick, . 
and a host of others previously mentioned, who were as successful in this as in the 
previous plays. 

As before stated. Money was first produced in America at the Old Park Theatre, 
New York, Feb. 1st, 1841, with an excellent cast. 

Mr. Hield, who played the hero, was a gentlemanly and intellectual actor ; he 
made a great hit, and for many years afterwards repeated the character with con- 
tinued success. 

Mr. Chippendale as Sir John Vesey, and Mrs. Chippendale as Georgina, were also 
most successful, whilst Mrs. Maeder as Clara Douglas, and Mrs. Vernon as the warm 
hearted Lady Franklin, added greatly to the triumph of the play. 

It was afterwards produced at the Chatham Theatre, situated on Chatham 
street between Roosevelt and James streets, and at the Broadway, which was situ- 
ated on Broadway between Pearl street and Anthony (now Worth) street, with the 
following cast : 

Chatham Theatre, Broadway Theatre, 

Srpt. 4, 1843. Nov. 4, 1847, 

Alfred Evelyn Mr. HiKi.D. Mr. G. Vandenhoff. 

Sir John Vesey Mr. Greene. Mr. H. Wallack. 

Lord Glossmore Mr Booth, Jr. Mr. Fbedericks. 

Sir Frederick Blount Mr. Field. Mr. Lestkr. 

Stout Mr. Collins. Mr. E. Shaw. 

Graves Mr. Burton. Mr. Vache. 

Captain Dudley Smooth Mr. Stevens. Mr. Dawson. 

ClaraDouglas Mrs. G.Jones. Miss F. Wallace. 

Lady Franklin Mrs. Rivers. Mrs. Winstanlet. 

Georgina Miss Kirby. Mrs. Sehgeant. 

And also on September IC, 1857, at Burton's New Theatre, when Mr. Murdocli 
played Alfred Evelyn, Mr. Burton, Graves, and Mrs. W. H. Smith, Lady Franklin. 
But perhaps as fine and almost as good a representation of the comedy was that 
produced at Wallack's Theatre, New York, Jan. 17, 1874, with the following excel- 
lent cast : 



16 MONEr. 

Alfred Evelyn Mr. Lestee Wallace. 

Sir Jolin Vesey Mr. J. W. Carroll. 

Lord Glossmore .^ Mr. J. W. Ferguson. 

Sir Frederick Blount Mr. W. R. Floyd. 

Benjamin Stout Mr. John Bkougham. 

Graves Mr. Harry Beccett. 

Captain Dudley Smooth Mr. J. B. Polk. 

Mr. Sharp Mr. G. F. Buowne. 

Old Member Mr. T. C. Mills. 

Clara Douglas Miss Jeffickts Lewis. 

Lady Franklin Madame Ponisl 

Georgina Miss Dora Goldthwaite. 

Having been present upon innumerable occasions of the representations of this 
play, and witnessed the performance of nearly all the Alfred Evelyns on the London 
boards, I have no hesitation in saying I never, as a whole, saw the play better 
mounted or acted. The Alfred Evelyn of Mr. Lester Wallack will bear comparison 
with any ; it we could only have the pleasure of making him a few years younger it 
would enhance the beauty of the performance ; but one could afford to put aside 
that little drawback ; it was fully compensated for by the fine delivery of the text, 
and the intellect and bearing of one of nature's nobleman, suclj as Alfred Evelyn 
is supposed to be, and the actor is. 

Mr. John Brougham's Sloiit, Mr. Harry Beckett's Graves, Mr. W. R. Floyd's Sir 
Frederick Blount, were all most admirably rendered. Miss Jeffreys Lewis made an 
excellent Clara Douglas, and as Lady Franlclin, Madame Ponisi well sustained her 
reputation, whilst Miss Dora Goldthwaite as Georgina was all that was needed. 
Indeed all engaged were good. As I have said in my former remarks, so I say of 
this play — not one jot of brilliancy and effect has bean lost in transferring it to the 
American boards, J. m. k. 



MONEY. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — A drawing-room in Sir John Vesey's house ; folding doors c, 
tvhich open on another drawing-room. To the right a table, with the 
Morning Post newspaper, books, etc. ; to the left, a sofa and ivriting table. 
The furniture tasteful and costly. 

Sir John and Georgina discovered, r. c. 

Sir John {^reading a letter edged with black). Yes, he says at two pre- 
cisely. "Dear Sir John, as since the death of ray sainted Maria," — 
Hum ! — that's his wife ; she made him a martyr, and now he makes her 
a saint ! 

Geor. Well, as since her death 1 — 

S[i{ J. {reading). " I have been living in chambers, where I cannot so 
well invite ladies, you will allow me to bring Mr. Sharp, the lawyer, to 
read the will of the late Mr. Mordaunt (to which I am appointed execu- 
tor) at your house — your daughter being the nearest relation. I shall 
be with you at two precisely. — Henry Graves." 

Geor. And you really think I shall be uncle Mordaunt's heiress ? 
And that the fortune he made in India is half a million 1 

Sir J. Ay! I have no doubt you will be the richest heiress in Eng- 
land. But sit down, my dear Georgj' — my dear girl. (Georgina sits r. 
H. of table. Sir John l. h.) Upon this happy — I mean melancholy — occa- 
sion, I feel that I may trust you with a secret. You see this fine house 
— our fine servants — our fine plate — our fine dinners ; every one thinks 
Sir John Vesey a rich man. 

Geok. And are you not, papa 1 

Sir J. Not a bit of it — all humbug, child — all humbug, upon my 
soul ! There are two rules in life — First, men are not valued for what 
they are, but what they seem to be. Secondly, if you have no merit or 
money of your own. you must trade on the merits and money of other 
people. My fatiior got the title by services in the army, and died pen- 
niless. On the strenoth of his services I got a pension of £400 a year; 
on the strength of £400 a year I took credit for £800 ; on the strenuth 
of £800 a year I married your mother with £10,000 ; on the strength of 
£10,000 I took credit for £40,000, and paid Dicky Gossip three guineas 
a week to go about everywhere calling me " Stingy Jack !" 

Geoij. Ha ! ha ! A disagreeable nickname. 

Sir J. But a valuable reputation. When a man is called stingy, it is 
as much as calling him rich ; and when a man's called rich, why he's a 
man universally respected. On the sti'ength of my respectability I 
wheedled a constituency, changed my politics, resigned my seat to a 
minister, who, to a man of such stake in the country, could offer nothing 



18 MONEY. [ACr I. 

less in retura than a patent office of £2,000 a year. That's the way to 
succeed in life. Humbuo;, my dear — all humbug, upon my soul ! 

Ge'jk. 1 must say that you 

Sir J. Know the world, to be sure. Now, for 3'our fortune — as I 
spend more than my income, I can have nothing to leave you; yet, even 
without counting your uncle, you have always passed for an heiress on 
the credit of your expectations from the savings of " Stingy Jack." 
Apropos of a husband ; you know we thought of Sir Frederick Blount. 

Ge )k. Ah, papa, he is charming. 

SiK J. Hem ! He was so, my dear, before we knew your poor uncle 
was dea;l ; but an heiress such as you will be should look out tor a duke. 
Where the deuce is Evelyn this morning ? {rises, puts back the chair, goes 
to L. table, marJcs the letter and ]juts it in his pocket.) 

Geor. I've not seen him, papa. What a strange character he is — so 
sarcastic; and yet he can be agreeable, {puts back her chair and then 
goes u.) 

Sir J. A humorist — a cynic I One never knows how to take him. My 
privat? secretary — a poor cousin, has not got a shilling, and yet, haog 
nie, if he does not keep us all at a sort of a distance. 

Geor. But why do you take him to live with us, papa, since there's 
no good to be got by it V 

Sir J. There you are wrong; he has a great deal of talent; prepares 
my speeches, writes my pamphlets, looks up ni}' calculations. Besides, 
he is our cousin — he has no salary ; kindness to a poor relation always 
tells well in the world ; and benevolence is a useful virtue — particularly 
when you can have it for nothing. With our other cousin, Clara, it was 
different; her father thought fit to leave me her guardian, though she 
had not a penny— a mere useless encumbrance ; so, you see, I got my 
half-sister, Lady Franklin, to take her otf my hands. 

Geor. How much longer is Lady Franklin's visit to be 1 {at table r., 
takes up paper, reads until she speaks to Evelyn.) 

Sir J. 1 don't know, my dear ; the longer the better — for her hus- 
band left her a good deal of money at her own disposal. Ah, here she 
comes ! 

Enter Lady Franklin and Clara, c. r. 

My dear sister, we were just loud in your praises. But how's this — ^not 
in mourning 1 

Lady F. Why should I go in mourning for a man I never saw 1 

Silt J. Still there may be a legacy. 

Lady F. Then there'll be less cause for affliction ! Ha, ha! my dear 
Sir John, I'm one of those who tliink feelings a kind of property, and 
never take credit for them upon false pretences, {crosses to table l., sits.) 

Sir J. [aside, l.). Very silly woman ! {aloud) But, Clara, I see you are 
more attentive to the proper decorum ; yet you are very, very, very dis- 
tanily connected with the deceased — a third cousin, I think 1 

Clara. Mr. Mordau>'t once assisted my father, and these poor robes 
are all the gratitude I can show him. {goes to l. table and sits.) 

Sir J. {aside). Gratitude ! humph ! 1 am afraid the minx has got ex- 
pectations. 

Lady F. So, Mr. Graves is the executor — the will is addressed to 
him ? The same Mr. Graves who is always in black, always lamenting 
his ill-fortune and his sainted Maria, who led him the life of a dog ? 

Sir J. The very same. His liveries are black — his carriage is t>lack 
— he always rides a black galloway — and faith, if he ever marry again, 
I think he will show his respect to the sainted Maria by marrying a 
black woman. 



ACT I.] MONEY. 19 

Lady F. Ha ! ha ! we shall see. [aside) Poor Graves, I always liked 
him; he made an excellent bnsbatid. {down c.) 

Enter Evelun, c. l., seats himself l. of r. table, and takes up a hook unob- 
served. 

Sir J. What a crowd of relations this will brings to light! Mr. Stout, 
the Political Economist — Lord Glossmore 

Lady F. Whose grandfather kept a pawnbroker's shop, and wlio, 
accordingly, entertains the profoundest contempt for everything popular, 
parvcmi, and plebeian. 

Sir J. Sir Frederick Blount 

Lady F. Sir Fwedewick Blount, who objects to the letter r as being 
too wough, and therefore dit^ops its acquaintance ; one of the new class 
of prudeiit young gentlemen, who, not having spirits and constitution for 
the hearty excesses of their predecessors, intrench themselves in the dig- 
nity of a lady-like languor. A man of fashion in the last century was 
riotous and thoughtless— in this he is tranquil and egotistical. He never 
does anything Uiat is silly, or says anything that is wise. I beg your 
pardon, my dear : I believe Sir Frederick is an admirer of yours, pro- 
vided, on reflection, he does not see " what harm it could do him" to 
fall in love with your beauty and expectations. Then, too, our poor 
cousin the scholar — (Clara <okc/;<;s Lady Franklin, rtwif points io Eve- 
lyn. All turn and look at him) Oh, Mr. Evelyn, there you are! {reswms 

lh€V SCCl't ^ 

Sir J. {ffoinff up to Evelyn, r. c). Evelyn— the very person I wanted ; 
where have you been all day 1 Have you seen to those papers ? — have 
you written my epitaph on poor Mordaunt ? — Latin, you know 1— have 
you reported "my speech at Exeter Hall? — have you looked out the de- 
bates on the Customs 1 — and — oh, have you mended up all the old pens 
in the study '? 

Geor. (r. of li. table). And have you brought me the black floss silk 1 
—have you been to Storr's for my ring 1 — and, as we cannot go out on 
this melancholy occasion, did you call at Hookham's for the last H. B. 
and the Comic Annual ( 

Lady F. {rises and goes to Evelyn). And did you see what was really 
the matter with my bay horse 1— did you get me the opera-box 1— did 
you buy my little Charley his peg-top 1 

Evelyn {always readiny). Certainly, Paley is right upon that point; 
for, put the syllogism thus — {looking up) Ma'am — sir — Miss Vesey — you 
want something of me V — Paley observes, that to assist even the unde- 
serving tends to the better regulation of our charitable feelings. — No 
apologies — I am quite at your service, {shuts the book and comes foi-tvard. ) 

Siu J. Now he's in one of his humors ! 

Lady F. {doivn r.). You allow him strange liberties. Sir John. 

Eve. (c). You will be the less surprised at that, madam, when I in- 
form you that Sir John allows me nothing else. I am now about to 
draw on his benevolence. 

Lady F. I beg your pardon, sir, and like your spirit. Sir John, I'm in 
the way, I see ; for I know your benevolence is so delicate that you 
never allow any one to detect it ! [Eetires and goes off, c. l. 

Eve. I could not do your commissions to-day — I have been to visit a 
poor woman, who was my nurse and my mother's last friend. She is 
very poor — very — sick — dying — and she owes six months' rent ! 

Sir J. (l ). You know I should be most happy to do anything for 
yourself. Bat the nurse— («s««^e) Some people's nurses are always ill ! 
{aloud) There are so many impostors about! We'll talk of it to-morrow. 



20 MONET. [act I 

(Evelyn j/o^s io the table,, l.) This mournful occasion takes np all of ray 
attention, {looking at his tvatch) Bless me ! so late! I've letters to write, 
and — none of the pens are mended ! [Uxit, e. 

Geok. {taking out her purse, e.). I think I will give it to him — and yet 
if I don't gel the fortune, after all ! — Papa allows me so little ! — then I 
must have those earrings, {puts up the purse) Mr. Evelyn, what is the ad- 
dress of your nurse ? 

Eve. {writes ath. table, and gives it — aside). She has a good heart with 
all her foibles ! {aloud) Ah ! Miss Vesey, if that poor woman had not 
closed the eyes of my lost mother, Alfred Evelyn would not have been 
this beggar to your father. 

Geoe {reading). "Mrs. Staunton, 14 Amos street, Pentonville." 
(Clara, at the table, writes down the address as she hears GeorginA read it.) 

Geok. I will certainly attend to it — {aside) it I get the fortune. (Eve- 
lyn goes up R.) 

Sru J. {calling, without), Georgy, I say ! 

Geor. Yes, papa ! [Exit, r. 

Evelyn has seated himself again at the table— lo the right, — and leans his 
face on his hands. 

Clara. His noble spirit bowed to this ! Ah, at least here I may give 
him comfort, {sits down to write) But he will recognize my hand. 

Re-enter Lady Franklin, c. 

Lady F. {looking over her shoulder). What bill are you paying, Clara 1 
— putting up a bank-note ? 

Clara. Hush ! — 0, Lad)' Franklin, you are the kindest of human be- 
ings. This is for a poor person — I would not have her know whence it 
came, or slie would refuse it! Would you? — No — No — he knows her 
handwriting also I 

Lady F. Will I — whatl — give the money myself 1 — with pleasure! 
Poor Clara — why, this covers all your savings — and I a(n so rich I 

Clara. Nay, I would wish to do all myself ! It is a pride — a duty- 
it is a joy ; and I have so few joys! But hush ! — this way. {they retire 
into the inner room and converse in dumb shoio.) 

Eve. [seated). And thus must I grind out my life for ever! I am am- 
bitious, and Poverty drags me down; I have learning, and Poverty 
makes me the drudje of fools ! I love, and Poverty stands lilie a spec- 
tre before the altar ! But no, no — if, as 1 believe, I am but loved again, 
I will— will — what? — turn opium eater, and dream of the Eden 1 may 
never enter ? (Lady Franklin and Clara advance, c.) 

Clara. But you must be sure that Evelyn never knows that I sent 
this money to his nurse. 

Lady F. [to Clara). Ne^er fear — I will get my maid to copy and di- 
rect this — she writes well, and her hand will never be discovered. I 
will have it done and sent instantly. [Exit, r. 

Clara advances to the front of stage, and seats herself, r. c ; Evelyn read- 
ing. Enter Sir Frederick Blount, c. l. ; he comes down, l. c. 

Blount. No one in the woom ! — Oh, Miss Douglas ! Pway don't let 
me disturb you. Where is Miss Vesey — Georgina'l {taking Clara's 
chair as she rises.) 

Eve. [looking uj), gives Clara a chair, and reseats himself. Aside) Inso- 
lent puppy ! 



ACT I.] MO^'ET. 21 

Clara. Shall I tell lier j'ou are here, Sir Frederick ? 

Blount. Not for the world. Vewy pwetty girl this companion ! {sits 

L. C.) 

Clara. AVhat did you thinli of the Panorama the other day, Cousin 
Evelyn 1 

Eve. {reading). 

" I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss oentlemau that's all periume !" 
Rather good lines these. 

Blount. Sir ! 

EvK. {offering the book). Don't you think so 1 — Cowper. 

Elount. {declining the book). Cowper ! 

Eve. Cowper. 

Blount {shrugging his shoidders, to Clara). Stwange person, Mr. Eve- 
lyn ! — quite a chawacter ! — Indeed the Panovvama gives you no idea of 
Naples — a deliiihtful place. I make it a wule to go there evewy second 
year — I'm vewy fond of twavelling. You'd like Wome (Rome) — bad inns, 
but vewy fine wuins ; gives you quite a taste for that sort of thing ! 

Eve. {reading). 

" How much a dunce that has been sent to roam 
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home !" 

Blount. Sir 1 

Eve. Cowper. 

Blount [aside). That fellow Cowper says vewy odd things ! Humph ! 
it is beneath me to quawwell. {aloud) It will not take long to wead the 
will, I suppose. Poor old Mordaunt ! — I am his nearest male welation. 
He was vewy eccentwic. (draios his chair nearer) By the way. Miss 
Douglas, did you wemark my cuwicle ? It is bwinging cuwicles into 
fashion. I should be most happy if you will allow me to dwive you out. 
Nay — nay — I should, upon my word, {trying to taJce her ha7id.) 

Eve (starting up). A wasp ! — a wasp ! — just going to settle. Take 
care of the wasp. Miss Douglas! 

Blount. A wasp — where ! — don't bwing it this way — some people 
don't mind them! I've a particlar dislike to wasps ; they siing damna- 
bly ! 

Eve. I beg pardon — it's only a gadfly. 

Enter Page, r. 

Page. Sir John will be happy lo see you in his study, Sir Frederick. 

[Exit Page, c. l. 

Blount. Vewy well, {rises and goes r ) Upon my word, there is some- 
thing vewy nice about this girl. To be sure, I love Georgina — but if 
this one would take a fancy to me — [thought/idly) — Well, I don't see 
what harm it could do me! Au plaisir ? [Exit, r. 

Clara takes her chair to r. of i., table. 

Eve. Clara ! 

Clara. Cousin! {coming forivard, 'U.) 

Eve. And you, too, are a dependant! 

Clara. But on Lady Franklin, who seeks to make rae forget it. 

Eve. Ay, but can the world forget it ] This insolent condescension — 
this cosQombry of admiration — more galling than the arrogance of con- 
tempt! Look you now — Robe Beauty in silk and cashmere — hand Vir- 
tue into her chariot — lackey their caprices — wraj) them from the winds 
— fence them round with a golden circle — and Virtue and Beauty are as 



22 MONET. [act I, 

goddesses both to peasant and to prince. Strip tliem of the adjuncts — 
see Beauty and Virtue poor — dependant — solitary — walliing the world 
defenceless ! oh, then the devotion changes its character — the same 
crowd gather eagerly around— fools — fops — libertines— not to worship 
at the shrine, but to sacrifice the victim ! 

Clara. My cousin, you are cruel ! — I can smile at the pointless inso- 
lence. 

Eve. Smile — and betook your hand! Oli, Clara, you know not the 
tortures that I suffer hourly 1 When others approach you — youns — fair 
— rich — the sleek darlings of the world— 1 accuse you of your very 
beauty — I writhe beneath every smile that you bestow. (Claka, about to 
speak) No — speak not — my heart lias broken its silence, and you shall 
hear the rest. For you I have endured the weary bondage of this house 
— the fool s gibe — the hireling's sneer — the bread purchased by toils 
that should have led me to loftier ends ; yes, to see you — hear you — 
breathe the same air — be ever at hand — that if others slighted, from one 
at least you might receive the luxury of respect — for this — for this I 
have linsered, suffered, and forborne. Oh, Clara ! we are orphans both 
— friendless both ; you are all in the world to me ; {she turns away) turn 
not away — my very soul speaks in these words — 1 love you! {kneels.) 

Clara. No — Evelyn— Alfred — no! Say it not; think it not! it were 
madness. 

Eve. Madness ! — nay, hear me yet. I am poor, dependant — a beg- 
gar for bread to a dying servant. True! But I have a heart of iron. I 
have knowledge — patience — health — and my love for you gives me at 
last ambition 1 I have trifled with my own energies till now, for I de- 
spised all things till I loved you. With you to toil for — your step to 
support — your path to smooth — and I — I, poor Alfred Evelyn — promise 
at last to win for you even fame and fortune ! Do not withdraw your 
hand — this hand — shall it not be minel 

Clara. Ah, Evelyn ! Never — never! [crosses to r.) 

Eve. Never ? (rises.) 

Clara. Forget this folly ", our union is impossible, and to talk of love 
were to deceive both ! 

Eve. [bitter!)/). Because 1 am poor ! 

Clara. And I too ! A marriage of privation — of penury — of days that 
dread the morrow ! I have seen such a lot ! Never retfftn to this again. 

Eve. Enough — you are obeyed. I deceived myself — ha — ha ! I fan- 
cied that I too was loved. I, whose youth is already half gone with care 
and toil — whose mind is soured — whom nobody can love — who ought to 
have loved no one ! 

Clara (aside). And if it were only j. to suffer, or perhaps to starve ! 
Oh, what shall I say 1 {aloud) Evelyn — cousin! 

Eve. Madam. 

Clara. Alfred — I — I 

Eve. Reject me 1 

Clara. Yes. It is past! [Exit, vs.. 

Eve. Let me think. It was yesterday her hand trembled when mine 
touched it. And the rose I gave her — yes, she pressed her lips to it 
once when she seemed as if she saw me not. But it was a trap — a trick 
— for I was as poor then as now. This will be a jest for them all ! 
Well, courage ! it is but a poor heart that a coquette's contempt can 
break, [retires up to the table, r.) 

Enter Lord Glossmore, preceded hi/ Page, c. l. 

Page. I will tell Sir John, my Lord. [E-vit, r. Evelyn takes up the 

ncivspaper.) ■ 



ACT I.] MONEY. 23 

Gloss. The secretavj- — hum ! Fhie day, sir ; any news from the 
east I 

Eve. Yes — all tlie wise men have gone back there ! 

Servant, c. l., announas Mr. Stopt, r. 

Gloss. Ha! ha!— not all, for here comes Mr. Stout, the great politi- 
cal economist. 

Enter Stout, c. l. 

Stout (k. c ). Good morning, Glossmore. 

Gloss, (l.). Glossmore ! — the parvenu ! 

Stout. Afraid I might be late — been detained at the vestry — aston- 
ishing how ignorant the English poor are ! Took me an hour and a 
half to beat it into the head of a stupid old widow, with nine children, 
tiiat to allow her three shillings a week was against all rules of public 
morality. (Eveltx rises and comes down, r.) 

Eve. Excellent — adnlirable — your hand, sir ! 

Gloss. What ! you approve such doctrines, Mr, Evelyn 1 Are old 
women only fit to be starved 1 

Eve. Starved! popular delusion! Observe, my lord, {crosses, c.) to 
squander money upon those who starve is only to afford encouragement 
to starvation ! 

Stout. A very superior person that ! 

Gloss. Atrocious principles ! Give me the good old times, when it 
was the duty of the rich to succor the distressed. 

Eve. On second thoughts, yon are right, my lord 1, too, know a poor 
woman — ill — dying — in want. Shall she, too, perish ''. 

Gloss. Perish! horrible — in a Christian country! Perish! Heaven 
forbid ! 

Eve. {Mding out his hand). What, then, will you give her? 

Gloss. Ahem ! Sir, the parish ought to give. 

Stout. By no means ! 

Gloss. By all means ! 

Stout. No !— no ! — no ! Certainly not ! (with great vehemence.) 

Gloss. No ! no 1 But I say, yes ! yes ! And if the parish refuse to 
maiuLaiii the poW, the only way left to a man of firmness and resolution, 
holding the principles that I do, and adhering to the constitution of our 
fathers, is to force the poor on the parish by never giving them a farth- 
ing one's self. 

Stout. No!— no! — no! 

Gloss. Yes ! — yes ! — yes ! 

Eve. Gentlemen ' — gentlemen ! — perhaps Sir John will decide, (point- 
ing to Sill John as he enters, and retires to table, takes up a book, reads. ) 

Enter Sir John, Lady Franklin, Georgina, Blou.nt, Page, r. Page 
goes off, c. l. Ladv Franklin goes to treble, l., and sits. 

Sir J. How d'ye do 1 Ah! how d'ye do, gentlemen 1 This is a most 
melancholy meeting ! The poor deceased ! what a man he was ! 

Blount (r.). I was chwistened Fwederick after him ! He was my 
first cousin. 

Sir J. (c). And Georgina his own niece — next of kin ! an excellent 
man, though odd— a kind heart, but no liver I I sent liim twice a year 
thirty dozen of the Cheltenham waters. It's a comfort to reflect on 
these little attentions at such a time. 

Stout. And I, too, sent him the parliamentary debates regularly, 



24 MONET [act I. 

bound in calf. He was my second cousin — sensible man — and a fol- 
lower of Malthus ; never married to increase the surplus population, and 
fritter away his money on his own children. And now 

Eve. He reaps the benefit of celibacy in the prospective gratitude of 
every cousin he had in the world ! 

Ladt F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

SiE J, Hush ! hush ! decency, Lady Franklin ; decency ! 

Enter Page, c. l. 

Page. Mr. Graves — Mr. Sharp. 

Sir J. Oh, here's Mr. Graves ; that's Sharp the lawyer, who brought 
the will from Calcutta. 

Enter Mk. Gkaves. and Mb. Sharp, who goes immedialcly to l. table, and 
prepares his papers. 

C/iorus of Sir John, Glossmore, Blount, Stout. Ah, sir — ah, Mr. 
Graves ! (Georgina holds her handkerchiej to her eyes.) 

Sir J. A sad occasion ! 

Graves. But everything in life is sad. Be comforted, Miss Vesey ! 
True, you have lost an uncle ; but I — I have lost a wife — such a wife ! — 
the first of her sex — and the second cousin of the defunct ! 

Enter Servants, c. 

Excuse me, Sir John ; at the sight of your mourning my wounds bleed 
afresh. (Servants hand round wine and cake.) 

Sir J. Take some refreshment — a glass of wine. 

Graves. Thank you! — (Very fine sherry!) Ah! my poor sainted 
Maria ! Sherry was h'er wine ! everything reminds me of Maria ! Ah, 
Lady Franklin ! you knew her. Nothing in life can charm me now. 
{aside) A monstrous fine Avoman that ! 

Sir J. And no\y to business, (they each take a chair) Evelyn, you may 
retire. (All sit. Servants retire, c. Evelyx rises.) 

Sharp {^looking at his notes). Evelyn — any relation tc^llfred Evelyn? 
(to Evelyn, who is going, c.) 

Eve. The same. 

Shahp. Cousin to the deceased, seven times removed. Be seated, sir; 
there may be some legacy, though trifling; all the relations, however 
distant, should be present. (Evklyn reluctantly resumes his seat.) 

Lady F. Then Clara is related — I will go for her. [JEzit, k. 

Geor. Ah, Mr. Evelyn I I hope you will come in for something — a 
few hundreds, or even more. 

Sir J. Silence I Hush ! Wugh ! Ugh ! Attention ! 

Wliile the Lawyer opens the tvill, re-enter Lady Franklin and Clara. They 
cross behind the characters to l., up the stage, and sit. 

Disposition of Characters. 

Evelyn. Lady FnANKHN, Clara. 

Sir John. Stout. Glossmoi'.e. 
Blount. Georgina. Graves. Sharp. 

B. L. 



ACT I.] 



MONET. 25 



Shaup. The will is very short — being all personal property. He was 
a man that always came to the point. 

Sir J. I wish there were more like hira ! {groans and shakes his head.) 
Sharp {reading). " I, Frederick James Mordaunt, of Calcutta, being, 
at the present date, of sound mind, though infirm body, do hereby give, 
will, and bequeath — Imprimis, To my second cousin, Benjamin Stout, 
Esq., of Pall Mall, London — (Stopt puis a large silk handkerchief to his 
eyes. Chorus exhibit lively emotion) Being the value of tlie Parliamentary 
Debates with which he has been pleased to trouble me for some time 
past — deducting the carriage thereof, which he always forgot to pay — 
the sum of £14 2s. 4d." (Stout removes the handkerchief; Chorus breathe 
more freely.) 

Stout. Eh, what 1 — £1-4 ? Oh, hang the old miser ! 
Sir J. Decency — decency ! Proceed, sir. Go on, sir, go on. 
Sharp. " Item. — To Sir Frederick Blount, Baronet, my nearest male 
relative — " {Chorus exhibit lively emotion.) 

B-LOUNT. Poor old boy ! (Georgina }mts her arm over Blount's chair.) 

Sh.\hp. " Being, as I am informed, the best-dressed young gentleman 

in London, and in testimony to the only merit I ever heard he possessed, 

the sum of £500 to buy a dressing-case." {Chorus breathe more freely; 

Georgina catches herfatho-'s eye, and removes her arm.) 

Blount {laughing confusedly). Ha ! ha I ha ! Vewy poor wit — low ! — 
vewy — vewy low ! 

Sir J. Silence, noWj^will you 1 Go on, sir, go on. 
Sharp. " Item. — To Charles Lord Glossmore — who asserts that he is 
my relation — my collection of dried butterflies, and the pedigree of the 
Mordaunts from the reign of King John. {Chorus as before.) 
Gloss. Butterflies! — Pedigree! — I disown the Plebeian! 
Sir J. (angrily). Upon my word, this is too revolting ! Decency ! Go 
on, sir, go on. 

Sharp. " Item. — To Sir John Vesev, Baronet, Knight of the Guelph, 
F.R.S., F.S.A., etc." {Chorus as before) 

Sir J. Hush ! Ifow it is really interesting ! 

Sharp. " Who married my sister, and who senv.s me every year the 
Cheltenham waters, which nearly gave me m^ death, I bequeath — the 
empty bottles.' 

Sir J. Why, the ungrateful, rascally old 

Lady F. Decency, Sir John — decency ! 
Chorus. Decency. Sir John — decency ! 

Sharp. " Item. — To Henry Graves, Esq., of the Albany — " [Chorus as 
before.) 

Graves. Pooh ! gentlemen — my usual luck — not even a ring, I dare 
swear. 

Sharp. " The sum of £5,000 in the Three per Cents." 
Lady F. I wish you joy! 

Graves. Joy — pooh ! Three per Cents. ! Funds sure to go ! Had 
it been land, now — though only an acre ! — ^just like my luck. 

Sharp. " Item. — To my niece, Georgina Vesey {chorus as before.) 

Sir J. Ah, now it comes I 

Sharp. " The sura of £10,000 India Stock, being, with her father's 
reputed savings, as much as a single woman ought to possess." 

Sir J. And what the devil, then, does the old fool do with all his 
money ? 

Chorus. Really, Sir John, this is too revolting. Decency ! Hush ! 
Sharp. " And, with the aforesaid legacies and exceptions, I do will ^ 
and bequeath the whole of my fortune, in India Stock, Bonds, Ex- 
chequer Bills, Three per Cent. Consols, and in the Bank of Calcutta (con- 



26 MONEY. [act II. 

stituting him hereby sole residuary legatee and Joint executor with the 
aforesaid Henry Graves, Esq.), to — Alfred Evelyn, now, or formerly, of 
Trinity College, Cambridge — {all turn to Evi:lyn; universal excitement. 
Evelyn starts up, closes his hook, and casts it upon the tabic) Beins, I am 
told, an oddity, like myself — the only one of my relations who never 
fawned on me ; and who, having known privation, may the better employ 
wealth.'' (^all rise. Eve-lyn advances, c, as if in a dream) And now, sir, 
I have only to wish you joy, and give you this letter from the deceased 
— I believe it is important, [gives letter to Evelyn.) 

Eve. {aside). Ah, Clara, if you had but loved me! 

Clara [turning away). And his wealth, even more than poverty, sep- 
arates us for ever ! (Omnes crowd round to congrai ulate Evelyn.) 

Sir J. [aside to Geokgina^ Go, child, put a good face on it — he's an 
immense match ! {aloud) My dear fellow, I wish you joy ; you are a 
oreat man now — a very great man ! I wish you joy. [shakes his hand 
very waimly.) 

Eve. [aside). And her voice alone is silent ! 

Gloss If I can be of any use to you 

Stout. Or I, sir . 

Blodnt. Or I ! Shall I put you up at the clubs ? 

Sharp. You will want a man of business. I transacted all Mr. Mor- 
daunt's affairs. 

Sir J. Tush, tush ! Mr. Evelyn is at home here — always looked upon 
him as a son 1 Nothing in the world we would not do for him ! Noth- 
ing ! 

Eve. Nothing ! then lend me £10 for my old nurse. (Chorus put their 
hands in their 'pockets.) 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — An anteroom in Evelyn's new house; Mr. Sharp writing at 
a desk, l., books and parchments before him — Mr. Crimson, the p'^rtrait 
painter ; Mr. Grabb, the publisher.; Mr. MacStucco, the architect; 
Mr. Tabouret, the upholsterer ; Mr. MacFinch, the silversmith; 
Mr. Patent, the coachmaker ; Mr. Kite, the horse-dealer; and Mr. 
Frantz, the tailor. 

Patent {to Frantz, showing him a drawing,. Ye.-,, sir ; this is the 
Evelyn vis-a-vis! No one more the fashion than Mr. Evelyn. Money 
makes the man, sir. 

Frantz. But de tailor, de Schneider make de gentleman ! It is Mr. 
Frantz, of St. James', who take his measure and his cloth, and who make 
de fine handsome noblemen and eentry, where de faders and de mutters 
make only de ugly little naked boys ! 

MacStuc (l. c.). He's a mon o' teeste, Mr. Evelyn. He taulks o' 
buying a veela (villa), just to pool down and build oop again. Ah, Mr. 
MacFinch ! a design for a piece of pleete, eh 1 

MacFinch (l., shmving the draiving). Yees, sir; the shield o' Alexan- 
der the Great to hold ices and lemonade ! It will coost two thousand 
poon' ! 

MacStuc. And it's dirt cheap — ye're Scotch, arn't ye? 

MacFinch. Aberdounshire ' — scraitch me, and I'll scraitch you ! 



ACT II.] MONEY. 27 

Enter Evelyn, c. d. l. 

£vE. A levee, as usual. Good day. Ah, Tabouret, (Tabouri.t j(?;v- 
sents a drawing) your designs for the draperies ; very well. (Exit Ta- 
bouret, E.) And what do j'ou want, Mr. Crimson 1 

Ceim. (r.)- Sir, if you'd let me take your portrait, it would make ray 
fortune. Every one says you're the finest judge of paintings. 

Eve. Of paintin£;s ! paintings ! Are you sure I'm a judge of paint- 
ings 1 

Crim. Oh, sir, didn't you buy the great Corregio for £4,000 ? 

Eve. TrUe — I see. So £4,000 makes me an excellent judge of paint- 
ings. I'll call on you, Mr. Crimson — good day. [Exit Crimson, r. Eve- 
lyn turn^ to the rest who surround him.) 

Kite. Thirty young horses from Yorkshire, sir ! 

Patent (showing draiving). The Evelyn vis-a-vis! 

MacFincu {shoiviiiff drawing). The Evelyn salver ! 

Frantz {opening his bundle, and with dignity). Sare, I have brought de 
coat — de great Evelyn coat. 

Eve. Oh, go to — that is, go home. Make me as celebrated for a vis- 
^-vis, salvers, furniture, and coats, as I already am for painting, and 
shortly shall be for poetry. I resign myself to you — go ! (crosses, l.) 

[Exeunt MacFinch, Patent, ete., r * 

Enter Stopt, r., he places his hat on r. table. 

Eve. Stout, you look heated ! 

Stout. I liear that you have just bought the great Groginhole prop- 
erty. 

Eve. It is true. Sharp says it's a bargain. 

Stout. Well, my dear friend Hopkins, member for Groginhole, can't 
live another month — but the interests of mankind forbid regret for indi- 
viduals ! The patriot Popkiiis intends to start for the borough the 
instant Hopkins is dead — your interests will secure his election. Now 
is your time ! put yourself forward in the march of enlightenment, (turns 
and sees Glossmore) By all that is bigoted, here comes Glossmore ! 
{goes up the stage and listens.) 

Enter GLosifMORE, R. Evelyn crosses to meet him. 

Gloss. So lucky to find you at home I Hopkins, of Groginhole, is not 
long for this w6rld. Popkins, the brewer, is already canvassing under- 
hand (so very ungentlemanlike !). Keep your interest for young Lord 
Cipher — a most valuable candidate. This is an awful moment — Vae con- 
stitution depends on his return ! Vote for Cipher. 

Stout (l.). Popkins is your man ! 

Eve. {musinghj). Cipher and Popkins — Popkins and Cipher! En- 
lightenment and Popkins — Cipher and the Constitution ! I am puzzled! 
Stout, I am not known at Groginhole. 

Stout. Your property'' s'knov^n there ! 

Eve. But purity of election — independence of votes 

* The dialogue of this scene, up to this point, is sometimes omitted, and when 
that J3 the ease, begin thus : — 

Ent'.r Stout, preceded hy a Servant, r. 

Seev. I'll tell my master you wish to see him. Oh I Mr. Evelyn is here, sir 1 

Enter Evelyn, l. 



28 M.ONEX. [act II. 

Stout. To be sure ; Cipher bribes ahmninahly. Frustrate his schemes 
— preserve (lie liberties of the borough — turn every )uan out of his house 
who votes against enUghtenment and Popkins ! 

Eve. Right ! — down with those who take tlie liberty to admire any 
liberty except our liberty ! That is liberty ! 

Gloss. Cipher has a stake in the country — wilraave £50,000 a year 
— Cipher will never give a vote without considering beforehand how peo- 
ple of £50,000 a year will be affected by the motion. 

Eve. Right! for as without law there would be no property, so to be 
the law for property is the only proper property of law ! That is 
law ! 

Stout. Popkins is all for economy — there's a sad waste of the public 
money — they give the Speaker £5,000 a year, when I've a brother-in- 
law, who takes the chair at the vestry, and who assures me confiden- 
tially he'd consent to be Si)eaker lor half the money ! 

Gloss. Enough, Mr. Stout. Mr, Evelyn has too mucn at stake for a 
leveller. ^^ 

Stout. And too much sei^e for a bigot. ^^ 

Gloss. Bigot, sir 1 ' 

Stout. Yes, sir, bigot ! ^ 

Eve. Mr. Evelyn has no politics atwiU ! Did you ever play at battle- 
dore ? 

PoTH. Battledore ! 

Eve. Battledore I — that is a contest between two parties ; both par- 
ties knock about something with singular skill — something is kept up — 
high — low — here — there — everywhere — nowhere I How grave are the 
players! how anxious the bystanders ! how noisy the battledores ! But 
when this something falls to the ground, only fanej' — it's nothing but 
cork and feather! Go, and play by yourselves — I'm no hand at it.' 
{crosses, l ) 

Stout {aside). Sad ignorance! — Aristocrat! (crosses to r. c.) 

Gloss, (aside). Heartless principles ! — Parvenu ! {(/oes up the stage.) 

Suoct. Then you don't go against us 1 I'll bring Popkins to-morrow. 
{goes to R. table, gets his hat.) 

Gloss. Keep yourself free till I present Cipher to you ! 

Stout. I must go to inquire after Hopkins. The return of Popkins 
will be an era in history ! y [Exit, r. 

Gloss. I must be off to the club — the eyes of the country are upon 
Groginhole. If Cipher fail, the constitution is gone ! [Exit, r 

Eve. (r. c). Both sides alike ! Money versus Man ! — poor man ! — 
Sharp, come here — (Sharp advances) let me look at you ! You are my 
agent, my lawyer, my man of business. I believe you honest ; — but 
what is honesty 1 where does it exist ? — in what part of us 1 

Sharp. In the heart, I suppose, sir ? 

Eve. Mr. Sharp, it exists in the breeches-pocket! (goes to table, b.) 
Observe: I lay this piece of yellow earth on the table — I contemaJate 
you both ; the man there — the gold here. Now, there is many a man 
in those streets honest as you are, who moves, thinks, feels, and reasons 
as well as we do ; excellent in form — imperishable in soul ; who, if his 
pockets were three days empty, would sell thought, reason, body, and 
soul, too, for that little coin ! Is that the fault of the man 1 — no ! it is 
the fault of mankind ! God made man ; behold what mankind have 
made a god! When I was poor, I hated the world ; now I am rich, I 
despise it ! Fools — knaves — hypocrites ! — By the bye, Sharp, send 
£100 to the poor bricklayer whose house was burned down yesterday. 
(Sharp goes to his desk.) 



ACT II.] jioNF.r. 29 

Enter Graves, r. 

Ah, Graves, ray clear friend, what a world this is ! 

GitAVES. It is an atrocious world I But astronomers say that there is 
a travelling comet which must set it on fire one day — and that's some 
comfort ! 

Eve Every hour brings its gloomy lesson — the temper sours — the af- 
fections wither — the heart hardens into stone I — Zounds, Sharp! what 
do you stand gaping there for ? — have you no bowels 1 — why don't you 
go and see to the bricklayer ! {to Sharp, loho is standing r. Exit Shahp, 
L.) Graves, of all my new friends — and their name is Legion — you 
are the only one I esteem ; there is sympathy between us — we take the 
same views of life. I am cordially glad to see you ! 

GuAVES (groaning). Ah ! why should you be glad to see a man so 
miserable ? 

Eve (sighs). Because I am miserable myself. 

Graves. You! Pshaw ! you have not been condemned to lose a v;ife. 
(Graves places his hat on table, l.) 

Eve. But, plague on it, man, I may be condemned to take one ! Sit 
down, and listen, (theg seat themselves — Graves l ) I want a confidant! 
— Left fatherless when yet a boy, my poor mother grudged herself food 
to give me education. Some one had tokl her thr,t learning was better 
than house and land — that's a lie, Graves ! 

Graves. A scandalous lie, Evelyn I 

EvK. On the strength of that lie I was put to school — sent to college, 
a sizar. Do you know what a sizar is ] In pride he is a gentleman — 
in knowledge he is a scholar — and he crawls about, amidst gentlemen 
and scholars, with the livery of a pauper on his back ! I carried off the 
great prizes — I became distinguished — I looked to a high degree, lead- 
ing to a fellowship; that is, an independence for myself — a home for my 
mother. One day a young lord insulted me — I retorted — he struck me 
— refused apology — refused redress. I was a sizar ! — a Pariah ! a thing 
— to be struck! Sir, I was at least a man, and I horsewhipped him in 
the hall before the eyes of the whole College ! A few days, and the 
lord's cliastisement was forgotten. The next day the sizar was expelled 
— the career of a life blasted ! That is the difl'eience between Rich and 
Poor ; it takes a whirlwind to move tho on? — a breath may uproot the 
other ! I came to London. As long as my mother lived, I had one to 
toil for ; and I did toil — did hope — did struggle to be something yet. 
She died, and then, somehow, my spirit broke — I resigned myself to my 
fate ; the Alps above me seemed too higli to ascend — I ceased to care 
what became of me. At last I submitted to be the poor relation — the 
hanger-on and gentleman-lackey of Sir John Vesey. But I had an ob- 
ject in that — there was one in that house whom I had loved at the first 
sight. 

Gr.\ves And were you loved again 1 

Evt'. I fancied it, and was deceived. Not an hour before I inherited 
this mighty wealth I confessed my love, and was rejected because I was 
poor. Now, mark : you remember the letter which Sharp gave me 
when the will was read ] 

Graves. Perfectly ! what were the contents 1 

Eve. After hints, cautions, and admonitions — half in irony, half in 
earnest (Ah, poor Mordaunt had known the world !) it proceeded — but 
I'll read it to you : " Having selected you as my heir, because I think 
money a trust to be placed where it seems likely to be best employed, I 
now — not impose a condition, but ask a favor. If you have formed no 
other and insuperable attachment, I could wish to suggest your choice ; 



30 MOXEY. [act II. 

my two nearest female rolations are itiy niece Georgina, and my lliinl 
cousin, Clara Doag;las, the daughter of a once dear friend If you couUl 
see in either of these one whom you could make your wife, such would 
be a marriage that, if I live long enough to return to England, 1 would 
seek to brin^ about before I die." My friend, this is not a legal condi- 
tion — the fortune does not rest on it ; yet, need I say that my gratitude 
considers it a moral obligation"? Several months have elapsed since 
thus called upon — I ought now to decide; you hear the names — Clara 
Douglas is the woman who rejected me. 

Graves. But now slie would accept you ! 

Eve. And do you think I am so base a slave to passion, that I would 
owe to my gold what was denied to my affection 1 [rises and puts chair 
by R. table.) 

Graves. But you must choose one, in common gratitude; yon ouffht 
to do so. (Graves replaces his chair.) 

Eve. Of the two, then, I would rather marry where I should exact the 
least. A marriage, to which each can bring sober esteem and calm re- 
gard, may not be happiness, but it may be content. But to marry one 
whom you could adore, and whose heart is closed to you — to yearn for 
the treasure, and only to claim the casket — to worship the statue that 
you never may warm to life. Oh ! sucli a marriage would be a hell, the 
more terrd)le because Paradise was in sight, {crosses to r.) 

Graves. Ah, it is a comfort to think, my dear friend, as you are sure 
to be miserable, when you are married, that we can mingle our groans 
together. Georgina is pretty, but vain and frivolous. 

Eve. You may misjudge Georgina; she may have a nobler nature 
than appears on the surface. On ihe day, but before the hour, in which 
the will was read, a letter, in a strange or disguised hand, signed, " From 
an unhnoicn friend to Alfred Evelyn," and enclosing what to a girl would 
have been a considerable sum, was sent to a poor woman for whom I had 
implored charity; and whose address I had only given to Georgina. 

Graves. Why not assure yourself? • 

Eve. Because I have not dared. For sometimes, against my reason, 
I have hoped that it might be Clara, {taking a letter from his bosom and 
looking at it) No, I can't recognize the hand. Graves, I detest that girl. 
(crosses to r. corner and back to l.) 

Graves. Who 1 Georgina? 

EvK. No; Clara! But I've already, thank Heaven, taken some revenge 
upon her. Come nearer, {whispers) I've bribed Sharp to say that Mor- 
daunt's letter to me contained a codicil leaving Clara Douglas £20,000. 

Graves. And didn't it f 

Eve. Not a farthing. But I'm glad of it — I've paid the money — she's 
no more a dependant. No one can insult her now — she owes it all to me, 
and does not guess it, man — does not guess it— owes it to me — ine, whom 
she rejected — me, the poor scholar I Ha ! ha ! — there's some spite in 
tliat, eh 1 

GiJAVES. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand each other. 
Perhaps Clara may have seen the address, and dictated this letter after 
all ? 

Eve. Do you think so — I'll go to the house this instant ! {crosses to r. 
table for his hat and gloves.) 

Graves. Eh ! Humph ' Then I'll go with you. That Lady Frank- 
lin is a fine woman. If she were not so gay, I think — I could 

Eve. No, no; don't think any such thing, women are even worse 
than men 

Graves. True ; to love is a boy's madness ! 

Eve. To feel is to suffer. 



ACT II.] HONEY. Si 

Graves. To hope is to be deceived. 
Evi;. 1 liave done with romance ! 
Gkaves. Mine is buried with Maria 1 

Eve. If Clara did but write this 

Gkaves. Make haste, or Ladj' Franklin will be out ! (Evelyx catches 
his eye ; he changes his tone) A vale of tears — a vale of tears ! 

Eve. a vale of tears, indeed ! [Exeunt, v.. 

Re-enter Graves /or his hat. 

Graves. And I left my hat behind me ! Just (ike my luck, if I had 
been bred a hatter, little boys would liave corae into the world witlmut 
heads. [Exit, e,. 

SCENE II. — Braivinrf-rooms at Sir John Vbset's, as in Act I., Scene I. 

Lady Franklin and Clara, e. 

Lady F. (u.). Ha! ha ! ha! talking of marriage, I've certainly made 
a conquest of Mr. Graves. 

Clara (l.). Mr. Graves ! I thought he was inconsolable. 

Lady F. For his sainted Maria ! Poor man ! not contented with 
pla<iuing him while she lived, she must needs haunt him now she is dead. 

Clara. But why docs he regret her 1 

Lady F. Why ? Because he has everything to make him happj- — 
easy fortune, good health, respectable character. And since it is his 
delight to be miserable, he takes the only excuse the world will allow 
him. For the rest — it's the way with widowers; that is, whenever they 
mean to marry again. But, my dear Clara, you seem absent — pale — 
unhappy — tears, too 1 

Clara. No — no — not tears. No ! 

Lady F. Ever since Mr. Mordaunt left you £20,000 everj- one admires 
you. Sir Frederick is desperately smitten. 

Clara {ivith disdain'). Sir Frederick ! 

Lady F. Ah, Clara, be comforted ! I am certain that Evelyn loves 
you. 

Clara. If he did, it is past now. You alone know the true reason 
why 1 rejected him. You know that if ever he should learn that reason, 
he will acquit me of the selfish motive he now imputes to me. 

Enter Sir John, r.c, and tarns over the books, etc., on the table, as if to look 
for the ncicspa^jer. 

Lady F. Let me only tell him that you dictated that letter — that yon 
sent that money to his old nurse. Po(»r Clara! it was your little all. 
He will then know, at least, if avarice be ji'our sin. 

Clara He would have guessed it had his love been like mine. 

Ladv F. Guessed it — nonsense! The hand-writing unknown to him 
— every reason to think it came from Georgina. 

Sir J. [aside, n., at table). Hum I Came from Georgina. 

Lady F. Come, /e< me tell him this. I know the effect it v^ ill have 
upon his choice. 

Clara. Choice ! oh, that humiliating word. No, Lady Franklin, no ! 
Promise me ! 

Lady F. But 

Clara. No! Promise — faithfully — sacredly. 

Lady F. Well, 1 promise. 



32 MONEY. [act II. 

Claua. I — T — forgive me — I am not well. [Exit, r. 

Lady F. What fools these girls are ! — the.y take as much pains to lose 
a husband as a poor widow does to get one ! 

Sir J. Have you seen "The Times" newspaper? AVliere the deuce is 
the newspaper 1 I can't find " The Times" newspaper. 

Lady F. I think it is in ray room. Shall 1 fetch it ] 

Sir J. My dear sister — you're the best crei:ure. Do ! 

[Uxic LiiDY Franklin, r. 
Ugli ! you unnatural conspirator against your own family ! What can 
this letter be 1 Ah ! 1 recollect something. 

Enter Georgina, r. c. 

Geor. (l.). Papa, I want— 

Sir J. Yes, I know what you want well enough ! Tell me ! — were 
you aware that Clara had sent money to that old nurse Evelyn bored us 
about the day of the will ? 

Geor. No ! He gave me the address, and I promised, if 

Sir J. Gave you the add/ess ? — that's lucky ! Hush ! 

Enter Page, c. l. 
Page (cinnounces). Mr. Graves — Mr. Evelyn. [Exit^ c. l. 

Enter Graves ami Evelyn, c. l. Evelyn, when he enters, goes to Sir 
John, then converses ivith Georgina, icho is seated r. of l. table. 

Lady F. (returning). Here is the newspaper. 

Graves. Ay — read the newspapers ! — they'll tell you what this world 
is made of. Daily calendais of roguery and woe ! Here, advertise- 
ments from quacks, money-lenders, cheap warehouses, and spotted boys 
with two heads. So much for dupes and impostors ! Turn to the other 
column — police reports, bankruptcies, swindling, forgery, and a bio- 
graphical sketch of the snub-nosed man who murdered his own three 
little cherubs at Pentonville. Do you fancy these but exceptions to the 
general virtue and health of the nation 1 — Turn to the leading articles ; 
and your hair will stand on end at the horrible wickedness or melan- 
choly idiotism of that half of the population who tliink differently from 
yourself. In my day I have seen already eighteen crises, six annihi- 
lations of Agriculture and Commerce, four overthrows of the Ciiurch, 
and three last, final, awful, and irremediable destructions of the entire 
Constitution. And that's a newspaper ! 

Lady F. (r. c.). Ha! ha! your usual vein; always so amusing and 
good-humored ! 

Graves (l. c, frowning and very angry). Ma'am — good-humored! 

Lady F. Ah, you should always wear that agreeable smile ; you look 
so much younger — so much hanrlsomer — when you smile ! 

Graves [softened). Ma'am — {aside) A charming creature, upon my 
word ! 

Lady F, You have not seen the last Pt«?2cA .? It is excellent. I think 
it might make you laugh. But, by the bye, I don't think you can laugh. 

Graves. Ma'am — I have not laughed since the death of my sainted 
Ma 

Lady F. Ah ! and that spiteful Sir Frederick says you never lau^h, 
because — But you'll be angry ? 

Graves. Angry ! — pooh ! I despise Sir Frederick too much to let 



ACT II.] MONEY. 33 

anytliina lie says liave the smallest influenqp over me ! He says I don't 
laugli, because 

Lady F. You have lost your front teeth. 

GiiAVES. Lost my front teeth ! Upon my -word ! Ha ! In ! ha ! 
That's too good — capital ! Hal ha I ha ! {lautjhmr/ from ear to ear.) 

Lady F. Ha! ha! ha ! [Exeunt Lady Franklin and Graves, c. 

Eve. (aside, at r. tabic). Of course Clara will not appear! avoids me 
as usual ! But what do I carel — what is she to me 1 Nothing ! 

Sir J. (<o Georgina^. Yes — yes — leave me to manasje ; you took his 
portrait, as I told youl 

Geor. Y'es — but I could not catcli the expression. I got Clara to 
touch it up. 

Sir J. That h'ivVh always in the way. {Vage from c. l. awiounces Cap- 
tain Dudley Smooth.) 

Enter Captain Dudley Smooth, c. l. 

Smooth. Good morning, dear John. Ah, Miss Vesey, you have no 
idea of the conquests you made at Almack's last niaht. 

Eve. (^examining him curiously while Smooth is talking to Georgina at 
l. table). And tliat's the celebrated Dudley Smooth I 

Sir J. (r. c.j. More commonly called Deadly Smooth! — the finest 
player at wliist. ecarte, billiards, chess, and picquet, between this and 
the Pyramids — the sweetest manners ! — always calls j^ou by your Ciiris- 
tian name. But take care how you play at cards with him ! 

Eve. He does not cheat, I suppose "? 

Sir J Hist ! No ! — but he always wins ! He's an uncommonly 
clever fellow ! 

Eve. Clever 1 yes! When a man steals a loaf we cry down tiie 
knavery — when a man diverts his neighbor's mill-stream to grind his 
own corn, we crj" up the cleverness I And every one courts Captain 
Dudley Smooth ? 

Sir J. Why, who could offend him % — the best-bred, civilest creature 
— and a dead shot ! There is not a cleverer man in the three king- 
doms. 

Eve. a study — a study ! — let me examine him ! Such men are living 
satires on the world, (rises.) 

Smooth {passing his arm carcssinghj over Sir .John's shoulder). My dear 
John, how well you are looking ! A new lease of life! Introduce me 
to Mr. Evelyn. 

Eve. Sir, it's an honor I've long ardently desired, (crossses to him — 
thcij bow and shake hands. Page announces Sir Frederick Blount.) 

Enter Sir Frederick Blount, c. l. 

Blount. How d'ye do, Sir John ? Ah, Evelyn — I wished so much to 
see you. (takes Evelyn's arm and draws him towards l. c.') 

Eve. 'Tis my misfortune to be visible ! 

Blount. A little this way. Y'ou know, perhaps, that I once paid my 
addwesses to Miss Vesey ; but since that vewy eccentwic will Sir John 
has shuffled me ofl", and hints at a pwior attachment — {aside) which I 
know to be false. 

Eve. [seeing Clara). A prior attachment! — Ha! Clara! Well, an- 
other time, my dear Blount. 

Enter Clara, r. She scats herself i.. of r. table. 



34: MONEY. [act II. 

Blount. Slay -i moment.^ Why are you in such a liowwid liuwwy 1 
I want you to do nie a favor with regard to Miss Douglas. 

Eve. Miss Douglas ! 

Blount. It is whispered about that you mean to pwopose to Geor- 
gina. Nay, Sir Jolin more than hinted that was her pwior attachment ! 

Eve. Indeed ! 

Blount. Yes. Now, as you are all in all with the family, if you 
could say a word for me to Miss Douglas, I don't see what harm it could 
do me ! 

Eve. 'Sdeath, man ! speak for yourself ! you are just the sort of man 
for you:)g ladies to like — they understand you — you're of their own 
level. Pshaw ! you're too modest — you want no mediator ! 

Blou.st. My dear fellow, you Halter me. I'm well enough in my 
Avay. But you, you know, would cawwy evewything before you — you're 
so confoundedly wich ! 

Eve. You really think so, and you wish me to say a word for you 
til Miss Douglas"? {he takes Blount's arm and tvcilks him to Clara) 
Miso Douglas, what di> you think of Sir Frederick Blount ? Observe 
him. He is well dresi e,l — young — tolerably handsome — (Blount bow- 
ing) bows with an air — has plenty of small' talk — everything to capti- 
vate. Yet he thinks that, if he and I were suitors to the same lady, I 
should be more successful because I am richer. AVhat say you ? Is 
love an auction ' — and do women's hearts go to the highest bidder 1 

Clara. Their hearLs — no! 

Eve. But their hands— yes ! {she turns away) You turn away. Ah, 
you dare not answer that question ! (Blount crosses to Clara, Smooth 
and SiH John (jo up the stage ; EvelYiV goes to Geokgina, at l. table.) 

Blount. I wish you would take my opewa-box next Saturday — 'tis 
the best in the house. I'm not wich, buti spend what I have on myself.- 
1 make it a wule to have everything of the best in a quiet way. Best 
opewa-box — best dogs — best liorses — best house in town of its kind. I 
want nothing to complete my establishment but the best wife. 

Claua. Oh, that will come in time. 

Geor. [aside). Sir Frederick flirting with Clara? I'll punish him for 
his perfidy, {ahmd] Yon are the last person to talk so, Mr. Evelyn — you, 
whose wealth is your smallest attraction — you, whom every one admires 
— so witty, such taste, such talent! Ah, I'm very foolish. 

Sir J. (clapping Evelyn on the shoulder). You must not turn my little 
girl's head. Oh, you're a sad fellow ! Apropos, I must show you 
Georgiua's last drawings. She's wonderfully improved since you gave 
her lessons in perspective. 

Geor. No, pa})a ! No, pray, no I Nay, don't! 

Sir J. Nonsense, child — it's very odd, but she's more afraid of you 
than of any one ! {goes to the folio stand.) 

Smooth {aside). He's an excellent father, our dear John ! and sup- 
plies tie i)lace of a mother to her. {lounges off, c.) 

Clara (aisde). So, so — he loves lier ! Misery — misery ! But he siiall 
not perceive it. No, no ! [aloud] Ha, ha ! Sir Frederick — excellent I 
excellent! You are so entertaining. (Siu J^un brings a portfolio and 
places it on the table ; Evelyn wwrf Georgina look over the drawings ; Sir 
John leans over them; Sir Frederick converses tvith Clai;a ; Evelyn 
watching them. ) 

Eve Beautiful ! — a view from Tivoli. (Death— she looks down while 
he speaks to lier !) Is there a little fault in that coloring 1 (she positively 
blush?s) But this Jupiter is supe;b. (Wiiat a d — d cocoxcomb it isV) 
(rising) Oh, she certainly loves him — I too, can be loved elsewiiere — I, 
too, can see smiles and blushes on the face of another. 



AC I' II.] 510NEY. 35 

Geor. Are you not well ? {go'ng to him, l. c.) 

Eve. I beg pardon. Yp.s > ou are indeed improved. Ah, who so 
accomplished as Miss VeS'-\ i [re -rs ivUh her io the table ; taking up a 
portrait) Why, what is this 1 — my own 

Geor. You must not look ai tiiat — you must not, indeed. I did not 
know it was there. 

Sib J. Your own portrait, Evelyn ! Why, child, I was not aware you 
took likenesses — that's something new. Upon my word it's a strong 
resemblance. 

GiiOR. Oh, no — it does not do him justice. Give it to me. I will 
tear it. {aside) That odious Sir Frederick ! 

■ Eve. Nay you shall not. (Clara looks at him reproachfully, then talks 
M>eVA. Sir Fred rrick) But where is the new guitar you meant to buy. 
Miss Vesey — the one inlaid with tortoise shell 'i It it nearly a year 
since you set your heart on it, and I don't see it yet. 

Sir J. (r. c, iakijig him aside, conjidentiallij'). 'Ihe guitar — oh, to tell 
you a secret — she applied the money I gave her for it to a case of char- 
ity several montiis ago — the very day the will was read. I saw the let- 
ter lying on the table, with the money in it. Mind, not a word to her — 
she'd never forgive me. 

Eve. Letter — money ! What was the name of the person she relieved 
— not Stanton 1 

Sir J. I don't remember, indeed. 

Eve. {taking out letter). This is not her hand ! 

Sir J. No ! I observed at tlie time it was not her hand, but I got out 
from her that she did not wish the thing to be known, and had employed 
some one else to copy it. May 1 see the letter 1 Yes, 1 think this is 
the wordina. Still, how did she know Mrs. Stanton's address 1 

Eve. I gave it to her. Sir John. 

Clara {at the distance). Yes, I'll go to the opera, if Lady Franklin 
will — on Saturday, then, Sir Frederick. (Blount bows io Clara and 
goes of, 0. l. ) 

Eve. Sir John, to a man like me, this simple act of unostentatious 
generosity is worth ail the accomplishments in the world. A good heart 
■ — a tender disposition — a charity that shuns the day — a modesty that 
blushes at its own excellence — an impulse towards something more di- 
vine than Mammon ; such are the true accomplishments which preserve 
beauty for ever young. Such I have sought in tlie partner I would take 
for life — such have I found — alas ! not where I had dreamed ! Miss 
Vesey, I will be honest. (Miss Vesey advances, l. u.) I say then, frankly 
— [raising his voice, as Claisa approaches, and looking fixedly at her) — I have 
loved another — deeply — truly— bitterly — vainly ! I cannot offer to you, 
as I did to her. the fair first "love of the humju heart — rich with all its 
blossoms and its verdure. But if esteem — if gratitude — if an earnest re- 
solve to conquer every recollection that would wander from your image: 
if these can tempt you to accept my hand and fortune, my life shall be 
a study to deserve your conticlence. {during this speech Grorgina has 
advanced, L., ClAea to a chair it. of l. table ; Clara sits motioidess, clasping 
her hands.) 

Sir J. The happiest day of my life. {ChAVLxfalls back in her chair.) 

Eve. {darting forward, aside). She is pale ; she faints. What have I 
donel Oh, Heaven! {aloud) Clara! 

Clara [rising tvith a smile). Be happy, my cousin — be happy ! Yes, 
with my whole heart I say it — be happy, Alfred Evelyn ! {she sinks again 
into the chair, overcome by emotion ; the rest form a picture of consternation 
and selfi^'hjoy.) 

curtain. . 



36 MONEY, [act in. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — The drawing-rooms in Sir John Vesey's house, as before. The 
furniture arranged for the change to the next scene. 

SiE JjHN and Georgina discovered, c. 

Sir J. And he has not pressol you to fix the wedding-day 1 

Geoe No ; and since he i)r()posed lie comes here so seldom, and 
seems so gloomy. Heigho! Poor Sir Frederick was twenty times more 
amusing. 

Sir J. But Evelyn is fifty times as rich. 

Geor. But do you not fear lest he discover that Clara wr^te the let- 
ter? 

Sir J. No ; and I sliall get Clara out of the house. But there is some- 
thing else that makes me very uneasy. You know that no sooner did 
Evelyn come into possession of his fortune than he launched out in the 
style of a prince. His house in London is a palace, and he has bought 
a great estate in the country. Look how he Hvcs. Balls— banquets — 
fine arts — fiddlers — charities — and the devil to pay ! 

Geor. But if he can aff^ord it 

Sir J. Oh ! so long as he stopped there I had no apprehension ; but 
since he proposed for you he is more extravagant than ever. They say 
he has taken to gambling; and he is always with Captain Smooth. No 
fortune can stand Deadly Smooth ! If he gets into a scrape he may fall 
ofiT from the settlements. AVe must press the marriage at once. 

Geor. Heigho ! Poor Frederick ! You don't think lie is really attach- 
ed to Clara? 

Sir J. Upon my word I can't say. Put on youi bonnet, and come to 
Storr and Mortimer's to choose the jewels. 

Geor. The jewels — yes — the drive will do me good. 

Sir J. Tell Clara to come to me. {exit Georgina, r.) Yes. I must 
press on this raarriase. Georgina has not wit enough to manage him — 
at least till he's her husband, and then all women find it smooth sailing. 
Tills match will make me a man of prodigious importance ! I suspect 
he'll give me up her ton thousand pounds. I can't think of his taking 
to gambling, for I love him as a son — and 1 look on his money as my 
own. 

Enter Clara, r. 

Sir J. Clara, my love ! 

Clara. Sir 

Sir J. My dear, what I am going to say may appear a little rude and 
unkind, but you know my charactei- is frankness. To the point then ; 
my poor child, I am aware of your attachment to Mr. Evelyn 

Clara. Sir ! my attachment ? 

Sir J. It is generally remarked. Lady Kind says you are falling 
away. My poor girl, I pity you — I do, indeed. (Clara weeps) My dear 
Clara, don't take on so; 1 would not have said this for the world, if I 
was not a little anxious about my own girl. Georgina is so unhappy at 
what every one says of your attachment 

Clara. Everyone! Oh, torture! 

Sir J. That it preys on her spirits — it even irritates her temper! In 
a word, I fear these little jealousies and suspicions will tend to embitter 
their future union. I'm a father — forgive me. 

Clara. What would you have me do, sirl 

Sir J. Why, you're now independent. Lady Franklin seems resolved 



ACT III.] MONEY, o7 

to Stay in town. You are your own mistress. Mrs. Carlton, aunt to my 
late wife, is going abroad for a short time, and would be dehgliled it you 

would accompany her. , , „ r -7 ^ ^ oi,oii 

Clara It is the very favor I would have asked of you. (aside) 1 shall 
escap- at least the struggle and the shame, {aloud) When does she go ] 

Sir J. In live days— next Monday.— You forgive me ? 

Clara. Sir, I thank you. 

Sill J. Suppose, then, you write a line to her yourself, and settle it at 

once ] , -^ . 

Takes Clara to table, L., as the Page enters c. l. 

Page. The carriage, Sir John ; Miss Vesey i-. quite ready. 

Sir J Very well, James. If Mr. Serious, tho clersyman, c.ills, say 
I'm -one to the great meeting at Exeter Hall; if Lord Spruce caUs /ay 
vou believe I'm gone to the rehearsal of Cinderella. Oh ! and if Mac- 
Finch should come (MacFinch who duns me three times a week), say 
I've hurried off to Garraway's to bid fur the great Bulstrode estate. 
Just put the Duke of Lofty'scard carelessly on the hall table, {exit hER- 
VANT, R. c.) One must have a little management in this world. All hum- 
IjUfT iL-all humbug, upon my soul ! [^^'f> c l. 

Clara ( folding the letter). There, it is decided ! A few days, and wo 
are parted for ever !— a tew weeks, and another will bear his name— his 
wife' Oh hai)py fate ! She will iiavo the right to say to him— though 
the whole world sliould hear her—" I am thine !" And I embitter then- 
lot ' And yet, Alfred ! if she loves thee— if she knows thee— it she 
values thee— and, when thou wrong'st her, if she can torgive, as I do— 1 
can bless her when far away, and join her name in ray prayer for thee ! 

Eve. [without). Miss Vesey just gone ! Well, I will write a hne. 

Enfer Evelyn, c. l., preceded by Page, who exits immediately, c. l. 

Eve. {aside). So— Clara! {she rises, crosses to r.) Do not let me disturb 
you. Miss Douglas. 

Clara [ffoiiiy, r.). Nay, I have done. _ _ 

Eve I see that my presence is always odious to you ; it is a reason 
why I come so seldom. Bat be cheered, madam ; I am here but to fix 
the day of my marriage, and i shall then go into the country— till— till 
—In short, this is the last time my visit will banish you from the room 
I enter, (he places his hat on table, l.) 

Clara (aside). The last time '.—and we shall then meet no more ! 
And to thus part forever— in scorn— in anger— I cannot bear it ! (ap- 
proaches him) Alfred, my cousin, it is true, this may be the last time we 
shall meet— I have made my arrangements to quit England. 
Eve To quit Enuland ? (comes forward, l ) 

Clara. Bat before I go let me thank you for many a past kindness, 
which it is not for an orphan easily to forget. 

Eve (mechanically). To quit England 1 _ 

Clara Yes and now that you are betrothed to another— now, with- 
out recurring to the past— something of our old friendship may at least 
return to us And if. too, I dared, 1 have that on my mmd which only 
a friend— a sister— might presume to say to you. 

Eve (moved). Miss Douulas— Clara— if there is aught that I could do 
—if while hundreds— strangers— beggars tell me that I have the power, 
by openincr or shutting this worthless hand, to bid sorrow rejoice, or 
poverty despair— if— if my life— my heart's blood— could render to you 
one such service as my gold can give to others— why, speak !— and the 
past you allude to— yes, even that bitter past— I will cancel and forget. 



38 Mo^Ei. [act hi. 

Clara {holding out her hand). We are friends, then! (Evelyn takes 
her hand) You are again my cousin 1 — my brother ! 
Eve. [dropping her hand). Brother ! Ah ! say on ! 
Clara. 1 speaii, then, as a sister — herself weals, inexperienced — might 
speak to a brother, in whose career she felt the ambition of a man. Oil! 
Evelyn, when you inherited this vast wealth 1 pleased myself with imag- 
ining how you woulil wield the power delegated to your hands. I knew 
your benevolence — your intellect — your genius ! I saw before me liie 
noble and bright career open to you at last — and I often thought that, 
in after years, when far away — as I soon shall be — I should hear your 
name ideMtified, not with what fortune can give the base, but with deeds 
and ends to which, for the great, fortune is but the instrument ; — I often 
thouiht that I should say to my own heart— weeping proud and deli- 
ciou5 tears — '• And once tisis man loved me !" 

Eve No more, Clara ' — Oli, heavens ! — no more! 

Clara. But has it been so \ — have you been true to your own self? — 
Pomp — parade — luxuries — pleasures — follies ! — all these might distin- 
suish others — they do but belie the ambition and the soul of Alfred 
Evelyn. Oh ! pardon me — I am too bold — 1 pain — I oflend you. — Ah! I 
should not have dared thus much had I not thought at times, that — 
that 

Eve. That these follies — these vanities — this dalliance with a loftier 
fate were your own work ! You thought that, and you were right ! 
Perhaps, indeed, after a youth, steeped to the lips in the hyssop and gall 
of penury — perhaps I might have wished royally to know the full value 
of that dazzling and starry life which, from the last step in the ladder, I 
had seen indignantly and from afar. But a month — a week, would have 
sufficed for that experience. Experience !— Oh, how soon we learn that 
hearts are as cold and souls as vile — no matter whether the sun shine on 
the noble in his palace, or the rain drench the rags of the beggar cower- 
ing at the porch. But you — did not you reject me because I was poor ? 
Despise me, if you please ! — my revenge might be unworthy — I wished 
to show you the luxuries, the gaud, the splendor I tliought you prized — 
to surround with the attributes your sex seems most to value — the sta- 
tion that, hail you loved me, it would have been yours to command. 
But vain — vain alike my poverty and ray wealth ! You loved me not in 
either, and my fate is sealed! 

Clara. A happy fate, Evelyn! — you love! 

Eve. And at last I am beloved, {after a pause, and turning to her 
abruptly) Do you doubt it ? 

Clara. No, 1 believe it firmly ! — And, now tliat there is nothing un- 
kind between us — not even regret — and surely {with a smile) not re- 
venue, my cousin, you will rise to your nobler self ! — and so, farewell ! 
{going, u ) 

Eve. No; stay, one moment; — you still feel interest in my fate"? 
Have I been deceived 1 Oh, why — why did you spurn the heart whose 
offerings were lavished at your feet? Could you still — still 1 Dis- 
traction — I know not what I say ; — my honor pledged to another — my 
vows accepted and returned ! Go, Clara, it is best so ! Yet you will 
miss some one, perhaps, more than me — some one to wl.ose follies you 
have been more indulaent — some one to whom you would permit a yet 
tenderer name than that of brother ! (goes to table, l.) 

Clara {aside). It will make him, perliaps, happier to think it ! {aloud) 
Think so, if you will ! — but part friends. 

EvR. Friends — and that is all! Look you — this is life ! The eyes 
that charmed away every sorrow — the hand whose lightest touch thrill- 
ed to the very core — the voice that, heard afar, filled space as with an 



ACT III.] MONET. 39 

angel's music — a j'ear — a monLli, a day, and we smile tlial we could 
dream so idly. All — all — the sweetest enchantment, known but once, 
never to return again, vanished from the world ! And the one who for- 
gets the soonest — the one who robs your earth for ever of its sunshine — 
conies to you with a careless lip, and says — •' Let us part friends !" — 
Go, Ciara — 30 — and be iia])i>y if you can ! [falls into a chair at l. table.) 

Claka {wecpinj). Cruel — cruel — to the last! [Exil,Vi. 

Eve. [rises). Soft ! let me recall her words, her tones, her looks. — 
Doei she lore mc ? There is a voice at my heart which tells me I have 
been the rash slave of a jealous anger. But I have made my choice — I 
must abide the issue, {retiris and sits at r. tabic.) 

Enter Graves, preceded by Page, l. c. 

Page. Lady Franklin is dressing, sir. 

Graves. Well, I'll wait, {exit Page, r.) She was worthy to have 
known the lost Maria ! So considerate to ask me hither — not to console 
me, that is impossible — but to indulge tlie luxury of woe. It will be a 
mournful scene, [seeing Evelyn) Is that you, Evelyn 1 I have just 
heard that the borough of Broginhole is vacant at last. Why not stand 
yourself — with your property you might come in without even a per- 
sonal canvass. 

Eve. I, who despise these contests for the color of a straw, (aside) And 
yet. Claia spoke of ambition. She would regret me if 1 could be distin- 
guished, [rises, aloud) You are right, Graves, to be sure, after all. An 
Englishman owes something to his country. 

Gkaves (l.). He does, indeed, {counting on his fingers) East winds. 
Fogs, Rheumatism. Pulmonary Complaints, and Taxes. (Evklyn loalks 
about in disorder) Oh ! you are a pretty fellow. One morning you tell 
me you love Clara, or at least detest her, which is the same tiling (poor 
Maria often said she detested me), and that very afternoon you propose 
to Georgina. 

Eve. Clara will easily console herself — thanks to Sir Frederick ! 

Graves. Nevertheless, Clara has had the bad taste to refuse an offer 
from Sir Frederick. I have it from Lady Fianklin, to whom he con- 
fided his despair in re-arranging his neck-cloth. 

Eve. My dear friend — is it possible ? 

GiiAVEs. But what thonV You must marry Georgina, who, to believe 
Lady Franklin, is sincerely attached to — your fortune. Ga and hang 
yourself, Evelyn ; you have l)een duped by them. 

Eve. By them — bah ! If deceived, I have been my own dupe. Is it 
not a strange thing that in matters of reason— of the arithmetic and 
logic of life — we are sensible, shrewd, prudent men; but touch our 
hearts — move our passions — lake us for an instant from the hard safety 
of worldly calculation — and the philosopher is dul.er than the fool ■? 
[crosses, l.) Duped — if I thought it — but Georgina 1 

Graves. Plays affection to you in the afternoon, after practising with 
Sir Frederick in the morning. 

Eve. On your life, sir, be serious ; what do you mean ? 

Graves. That in passing this way I see her very often walking in the 
square with Sir Frederick. 

EvK. Ha! say you so ? 

Graves. What then "? Man is born to be deceived. You look ner- 
vous — your hand trembles ; that comes of gaming. They say at the 
clubs that you play deeply. 

Eve. Ha! ha! Do they say that? a few liundreds lost or won — a 
cheap opiate — anytliing that can lay the memory to sleep. The poor 



40 MONEY. [act III. 

man drinks, and the rich man gambles — tlie same motive to both. But 
you are right — it is a base resource — I will play no more 

Graves. I am delighted to hear it, for your friend Captain Smooth 
has ruined half the young heirs in London. Even Sir Jolin is alarmed. 
I met him just now in Pall Mall. By-the-bye, I forgot — do you bank 
with Flash, Brisk, Credit and Co. 1 

Eve. So, Sir John is alarmed, {aside) Guile 1 by this cogging charla- 
tan ? Aha ! I may beat him yet at his own weapons, [aloud) Humph ! 
Bank with Flash ! Wliy do you ask mel 

GuAVES. Because Sir John has just lieard that they are in a very bad 
way, and begs you to withdraw anything you have in their hands. 

Eve. I'll see to it. So Sir John is alarmed 0.1 my gambling'/ 

Graves. Terribly ! He even told me he should go himself to the 
club tiiis evening, to watch you. 

Eve. To watcli me — good — I will be there ! 

Graves. But you will promise not to play 1 

Eve. Yes — to play. I feel it is impossible to give it up. 

GuAVES. No — no ! 'Sdeath, man ! be as wretched as you please ; 
break your heart, that's nothing ! but damme, take care of your pockets. 

Eve. Hark ye. Graves — if you are right, 1 will extricate myself yet. 
The duper shall be duped, in the next twenty-four hours. I may win 
back the happiness of a life. Oh ! if this scheme do but succeed ! 

Graves. Scheme! What scheme? (Evelyn takes his hat from l. 
table.) . 

Eve. Yes, I will be there — I will play with Capiain Smooth — I will 
lose as much as I please — thousands — millions — billions ; and if he pre- 
sume to spy on my losses, hang me, if I don't b^seSir John himself into 
the bargain ! [going out and returning) I am sO absent. What was the 
bank you mentioned 1 Flash, Brisk and Credit \ B'ess me, how un- 
lucky ! and it's too late to draw out to-day. Tell Sir John I'm very 
much obliged to him, and he'll find me at the club any time before day- 
break, hard at work with my friend Smooth. [Exit, c. l. 

Gkaves. He's -jertainly ;razy ! but I don't wonder at it. What the 
approach of the dog-days is to the canine species, the approach of the 
honeymoon is to the human race. 

■ Enter Servant, r. 

Ser. Lady Franklin's compliments — she will see you in the boudoir, 
sir. 

Graves. In the boudoir ! — go — go — I'll come directly, {exit Servant, 
R.) My heart beats — it must be for grief. Poor Maria ! {.'searching his 
pockets for his handkerchief) Not a white one — ^just like my luck ; I call 
on a lady to talk of the dear departed, and I've nothing about me but a 
cui'sed gaudy, flaunting, red, yellow and blue abomination from India, 
which it's even indecent for a disconsolate widower to exhibit. Ah ! 
Fortune never ceases to torment the susceptible. The boudoir — ha — ha ! 
the boudoir ! [Exi:, r. 

SCENE II. — A boudoir in the same house. Two chairs brought on by a 
Page, ivho goes off, l. 

Enter Lady Franklin, l. 

Lady F. What if my little plot does not succeed 1 The man insists 
on being wretched, and I pity him so much that I am determined to 



ACT III.] MONEY. 41 

make him happy ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! He shall laugh, he shall sing, he 
shall dance, he slial! — ,compoRes herself) Here he comes ! 

Enter Graves, u. 

Graves {sighing'). Ah, Lady Franklin ! 

Lady F. ^ sighing). Ah, Mr. Graves ! (theg sent themselves) Pray excuse 
me tV)r having kept you so long. Is it not a charming day 1 

Graves. Au east wind, ma'am ! but nothing comes amiss to you — 't!s 
a happy disposition ! Poor Maria ! she, too, was naturally gay. 

Lady F. Yes, she was gay. So much life, and a great deal of spirit. 

Gravics. Spirit! Yes — nothing could master it ! She would have 
her own way. Ah ! there was nobodj' like her ! ♦ 

Lady F. And then, when her spirit was up, she looked so handsome ! 
Her eyes grew so biilliant ! 

Graves. Did not they? — Ah! ah! ha! ha! ha! And do you re- 
member her pretty trick of stamping her foot 1 — the tiniest little foot — 
1 think I see her now. Ah ! this conversation is very sootliing ! 

Lady F. How well she acted in your private theatricals ! 

GitAVES. You remember her Mrs. Oakley, in " The Jealous Wife 1" 
Ha ! lia ! how good it was ! — ha ! ha ! 

Lady F. Ha ! ha ! Yes, in the very first scene, when she came out 
with (mimicking) " Your unkindness and barbarity will be the death of 
me !" 

Gisaves. No — no ! that's not it ! more energy, (mimicking) " Your 
unkindness and barbarity will be the death of me !" Ha ! ha ! I ought 
to know how she said it, for she used to practice it on me twice a day. 
Ah! poor dear lamb ! (ivipcs his eges.) 

Lady F. And then she sang so well ! was such a composer ! What 
was that little air she was so fond of ? 

Graves. Ha ! ha ! sprightly, was it not 1 Let me see — let me see. 

Lady F. {hummivg). Turn ti — ti tum — ti — ti— ti. No, that's not it ! 

Gkaves (humming). Tum ti — ti — tum ti — ti — turn — tum — tum. 

Both. Tum ti — ti — turn ti — ti — tum — tum — tum. Ha ! ha ! 

Graves (throiving himself back). Ah! what recollection it revives I It 
is too affecting. 

Lady F. It /s afiecting ; but we are all mortal, {sighs) And at your 
Christmas party at Cyprus Lodge, do you remember her dancing the 
Scotch reel with Captain MacNaughten ? 

Graves. Ha! ha! ha! To be sure — to be sure. 

Lady F. Can you think of the step 1 — somehow thus, was it not 1 
{dancing.) 

Graves. No — no — quite wrong! — just stand there. Now then — 
(Jiummiiig the tune) La — la-la-la — La-la, etc. {they dcmce) That's it — ex- 
cellent — admirable ! 

Lady F, {aside). Now 'tis coming. 

Miter Sir John, Blount, Georgina, r. Theg stand amazed. Lady 
Frankljn continues dancing. 

Graves. Bewitching — irresistible ! 'Tis Maria herself that I see be- 
fore me! Thus — thus — let me clasp Oh, the devil! Just like my 

luck ! {stopping opposi'e Sir John. Lady Franklin runs off, l.) 

Sir J. Upon mg word, Mr. Graves! 

Geor. and Blount. Encore — encore ! Bravo — bravo ! 

Graves. It's all a mistake! I — I — Sir John, Lady Franklin, you 



42 MONEY. [ACr HI. 

see — tliat is to say — I Sainted Mavia ! you are spared, at least, this 

affliction ! [Runs off, it. 

Sir John, Georgixa, and Blount follow. Page takes off the chairs, l, 

SCENE \U.—The interior of * * * * 's Chcb ; night; lights, etc., etc.* 

Noise of conversation before the act-drop rises — murmurs as it ascends. 

Gloss. Yoix don't often come to the Club, Stout 1 

Stout. No ; time is money. An hour spent at a club is unproductive 
capital. 

Old Member [reading the newspaper). Waiter ! the snuff-box. (Waiter 
brings a large refund box on a salver.) 

Gloss. So, Evelyn lias taken to play ? I see Deadly Smooth, "hush- 
ed in grim repose, awaits his evening prey." Deei) work to-night, 1 
suspect, for Smooth is drinking lemonade — keeps his head clear — mon- 
strous clever dog ! {murmurs as before ; Stout takes the sniiff'-box from 
Old Member's table ; Old Member looks at him savagely.) 

Enter Evelyn ; salutes and shakes hands with different Members in passing 
up the stage ; places his hat on table, c. 

Eve. Ha, Flat, how well you are looking ! — Green, how do you do 7 
How d'ye do, Glossmore '. IIow are you, Stout ? you don't play, I 
think? Political Economy never plays at card.s, eh V — never has time 
for anything more frivolous than Rents and Profits, Wages and Labor, 
High Prices, and Low — Corn-Laws, Poor-Laws, Titlies, Currency, — Dot- 
and-go-one — Rates, Puzzles, Taxes, Riddles, and Botheration ! Smooth 
is the mati. Aha! Smooth. Piquet, eh 1 You owe me my revenge! 
{sits to play, L. of Vi. table ; Members touch each other significantly.) 
Smooth. My dear Alfred, anything to oblige, {murmurs.) 
Old Mr.M. Waiter! the snuff-box. (Waiter takes it from Stout and 
brings it back to Old Member. Two Members from the top, l., come down 
and cross behind to Member r. of centre table, loliisper to him and go off, c. 
Waiter brings coffee to Member behind the Old Member, and then takes 
aioay two coffee cups from Lord Glossmore and Member, r. c. Another 
Waiter brings a glass of brandy and water to Old Member. Having made 
the cards, Smooth deals.) 

Enter Blount, c. ; he goes to Evelyn's table, and stands in front of it for a 

moment. 

Blount. So! Evelyn at it again — eh, Glossmore 1 
Gloss. Yes ; Smooth sticks to him like a leech. Clever fellow, that 
Smooth, {murmurs. SyiooTU and EvEhY^ play.) 
Smooth. Your point "? 
Eve. Five ! 

Smooth. Not good. Six — sequence — five ! 
Eve. Good I 
Smooth. Three aces. 

Eve. Good ! (they continue pilaying ; Evelyn deals.) 
Blount. Will you make up a wubber? 
Gloss. Have you got two others! 
Blount. Yes ; Flat and Green. 

* For full disposition of this scene and characters as discovered, see the Synopsis 
of Scenery, page 3. 



ACT III.] MONEY. 43 

Gloss. Bad pla5'ers. 

Blou^nt. I make it a wule to play \vi(li bad players; it is five per 
cent, in one's favor I liate gainbliiio;. But a quiet wiibber, if one is the 
best player out of four, can't do any liarni 

Gloss. Clever fellow, that Blount, {murmurs. Blount takes up the 
muff-box ami walks off^ with it ; Old Mf.mbkk looks at him savagely. Waiter 
fetches coff'ec-cvp from Memb-^r, l.) 

Enter a Mi-.mber reading a long le ter ; sits, c. fable. Blount, Glossmore, 
Flat, and Gree.\, make up a table at the bottom of the stage, n.. 

Smooth. A thousand pardons, my dear Alfred — ninety repique — ten 
cards — gaioe ! 

Eve. ( passing a note to him). Game I Before we go on, one qnestion. 
This is Thursday — how much do you calculate to win of me before 
Tuesday next? 

Smooth. Ce chcr Alfred ! He is so droll ! 

Eve. {writing in his pocket-book). Forty gaifies a night — four niohls, 
minus Sunday — our usual stakes — that would be right, I think. 

S.viooTH (glancing over the account). Quite — if I win all — whicii is next 
to impossible. 

Eve. It shall be possible to win twice as much, on one condition. 
Can you keep a secret? 

Smooth. My dear Alfred, I have kept myself! I never inherited a 
farthing — I never spent less than £4,000 a year — and i never told a soul 
how I managed it. 

Eve. Hark ye, then — it is a matter to me of vast importance — a word 
with you. [they whisper.) 

Old Mem. Waiter! (he snuff-box. (Waiter takes it from Blount, etc. 
Murmurs.) 

Enter Sir Joh^, c. 

Eve. You understand ] 

Smooth. Perfectly ; anything to oblige. 

Eve {cutting). It is for you to deal, {murmurs. They go on playing.) 

Waiter comes en with a note, on salver, and offers it to one of the Members. 
who is looking on at the tvhist-table : he scribbles an answer, at c. table, 
and sends the Waithr off with it. 

Sir J. There is my precious son-in-law, that is to be, spending my 
consequence, and making a fool of himself, {takes up snuff-lwx ; Old 
Member looks at him.) 

Eve {playing). Six to the point. 

Smooth. Good ! 

Eve. Three queens. 

Smooth Not good — T have three kings and three knaves! {they deal 
out the cards until Sir John speaks.) 

Blount {rising from the table ; another Membkr talces his place). I'm out. 
Flat, a pony on the odd twick. {takes the money) That's wiaht. [comes 
down, R, c., counting money) Weil, Sir John, you don't play I 

Sir J. Play? no! [looking over Evelt.n's hand) Confound him — lost 
again ! 

Eve. Hang the cards! — double the stakes ! 

Smooth. Anything to oblige — done ! 

Sir J. Done, indeed ! 

Old Mem. Waiter ! the snuff-box. (Waiter leckes it from Sir John ) 

Blount. I've won eight points and the bets — I never lose — I never 



4t MONEY. [ACr III. 

play ill the Deadly Smooth set ! {takes tcj? the snuff-box ; Old Member as 
before. ) 

Sir J. (looking over Smooth's hand, and fidgeting backwards and forwards). 
Lord, have mercy on us ! SaiO')th has seven for his point ! What's the 
stakes 1 

EvB Don't disturb us— I only throw out four. Stakes, Sir John ? — 
immense ! Was ever such luck ? — not a card for ray point. Do stand 
back, Sir John — I'm getting irritable, {all rise and gather round Eyelyi^'s 
table ; several in front, so as to hide the playing from the audience.) 

Blodnt. One hundred pounds on the next game, Evelyn! {going to 
the table.) 

Sir J. Nonsense — nonsense — don't disturb him ! All the fishes come 
to the bait ! Sharks and minnows all nibbling away at my son-in-law. 
{goes and takes the snuff-box.) 

Eve. One hundied pounds, Blount? Oh, yes! the finest gentleman 
is never too fine a gentleman to pick up a guinea. Done ! Treble the 
stakes. Smooth ! 

Sir J. I'm on the rack ! Be cool, Evelyn' take care, my dear boy ! 
Be cool — be cool ! (Smooth shows his cards.) 

EvK. What — what? You have four queens! — five to the king. Con- 
found the cards ! a fresh pack, {throivs the cards behind him oi)er Sik 
JoH^f. Waiter brings a new pack of cards to Evelyn.) 

Old Mem. Waiter I the snuff-bos. {murmurs. Different Members 
gather round.) 

Two Members re-enter, and advance to Evelyn's table. All the Waiters on. 

Flat {with back to audience). I never before saw Evelyn out of tem- 
per. He must be losing immensely ! 

Green (r.). Yes — this is interesting ! 

Sir J. Interesting ! There's a wretch ! 

Flat {next to Green). Poor fellow ! he'll be ruined in a month 

Sir J. I'm in a cold sweat! 

Green. Smootli is the very devil. 

Sir J. The devil's a joke to.him ! 

Gloss, {slapping Sir John on the back). A clever fellow that Smooth, 
Sir John, ehl {takes up the snuff-box; Old Member as before) £100 on 
this game, Evelyn 1 {going to the table.) 

Eve. (half turning round). You! well done the Constitution! yes, 
£100 I 

Old Mem. Waiter ! tlie snuff-box. 

Stopt. I think I'll venture £200 on this game, Evelyn 1 {goes in front 
of table, r. j 

Eve. (quite ttirning round). Ha! ha! ha I — Enlightenment and the 
Constitution on the same side of the question at last! Oh, Siout, Stout! 
— greatest happiness of the greatest number — greatest number, number 
one ! Done, Stout !— £200 ! ha ! ha ! deal, Smooth. Well done, Politi- 
cal Economy — ha! ha! ha! 

Sir J. Quite h}''sterical — drivelling ! Aren't you ashamed of j'our- 
selves 1 His own cousins — all in a conspiracy — a perfect gang of them. 
{takes snuff-box as before. Members indignant.) 

Stout {to Members). Hush ! he's to marry Sir John's daughter ! 

Flat. AVhat ! Stingy Jack's 1 oh ! 

Chorus of Mems. Oh ! oh ! 

Eve. By Heaven, there never was such luck! It's enough to drive a 
man wild ! This is mere child's play, Smooth — double or quits on the 
whole amount ! 



ACT IV.] MONEY. 45 

Smooth. Anything to oblige ! {murmurs; they play quiclchj.) 

Sir J. Oh, dear — oh, dear! {great exeiiement.) 

Eve. {throwing down his cards, and rising in great agitation). No more, 
no more — I've done! — quite enough! Glossraore, Stout, Blount — I'll 
pay you to-morrow. I — I — Death! — this is luiiious! {a-osses i^., seizes 
the snuff-box, and goes up, l. c, to ehair, l u. e. ; sits.) 

Sir J. Ruinous ? What has he lostl what has he lost, Smooth ? Not 
much 1 eh 1 eh 1 (Members look at Evelyn ; others gather round 
Smooth, c.) 

Smooth. Oh, a trifle, dear John ! — excuse me ! We never tell our 
winnings, [to Blount, l.) How d'ye do, Fred 1 — (<oGlossmore, k.) By 
the bye, Charles, don't you want to sell your house in Grosvenor square I 
—£12,000, ehl 

Gloss. Yes, and the furniture at valuation. About £3,000 more. 

Smooth {looking over his pocket-book). Urn! Well, we'll talk of it. 

Sir J. (l. c). 12 and 3— £15,000. What a cold-blooded rascal it is I 
—£15,000, Smooth ? 

Smooth. Oh, the house itself is a trifle ; but the establishment — I'm 
considering whether I have enoush to keep it up, my dear John, (goes l.) 

Old Mem. AVaiter 1 the snuflT-box! {scraping it round and with a wry 
face) And it's all gone I [gives it to the Waiter to Jill.) 

Sir J. {turning round). And it's all gone ! 

Eve. {starting tip and laughing hysterieally). Ha ! ha 1 all gone 1 not a 
bit of it. {goes to Smooth, c.) Smooth, this club is so noisy. Sir John, 
you are always in the way. Come to my house ! come! Champagne 
and a broiled bone. Nothing venture, nothing have ! The luck must 
turn, and by Jupiter we'll make a night of it! [going; Sir John stops 
him.) 

Sir J. A night of it! For Heaven's sake, Evelyn ! Evelyn !— think 
what you are about ! — think of Georgina's feelings ! — think of your poor 
lost mother ! — think of the babes unborn ! — think of 

Eve. I'll think of nothing! Zounds! — you don't know what I have 
lost, man ; it's all your fault, distracting my attention. Pshaw — pshaw ! 
Out of the way, do! {throivs Sir John off, l.) Come, Smooth. Ha! ha ! 
a night of it, my boy — a night of it ! [Exeunt Smooth and Evelyn, c. 

Sir J. {following). You must not— you shall not! Evelyn, my dear 
Evelyn ! he's drunk — he's mad 1 Will no one send for the police I 

[Exit, c. 

Mems. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Poor old Stingy Jack ! 

Old Mem. {rising for the first time, and in a great rage). Waiter! the 
snuff"-box ! 

Mems. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! Stingy Jack ! [murmurs and laughter as the act- 
drop descends.) 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — An ante-room in Evelyn's house. 

Enter Toke, Glossmore, and Blount, r. Chairs and tables with writing 
materials, R. and h. 

Toke. My master is not very well, ray lord ; but I'll let him know. 

[Exit Toke, c. d. 



46 MONEY. [act IV. 

Gloss. I am very curious to learn tlie result of his gambling tete-a- 
tete. There are strange reports abroad, and the tradesmen have taken 
the alarm. 

Blount. Oh, he's so howwidly wich, he can afford even a tete-a-tete 
with Deadly Smooth ! 

Gloss. Poor old Stingy Jack! why, Georaina was your intended. 

Blount. Yes ; and I weally liked the girl, though out of pique I pwo- 
posed to her cousin. But what can a man do against money 'i 

Enter Evelyn, c, in a morning wrapper. 

If we could start fair, you'd see whom Georgina would pwefer ; but she's 
sacwificed by her father ! She as much as told me so ! {crosses, r.) 

Eve. {aside). Now to work sliil further upon Sir John, through these 
excellent friends of mine, {aloud) So, so — good morning, gentlemen ! 
we've a little account to settle — one hundred each. 
Both. Don't talk of it. 

Eve. {putting up his poclcet-boolc). Well, I"ll not talk of it. {taking 
Blount aside) Ha ! ha ! you'd hardly believe it — but I'd rather not pay 
you just at present; my money is locked up, and I must wait, you 
know, for the Groginhole rents. So, instead of owing you £100, sup- 
pose I owe yon Jive ? You can give me a check for the other four. And, 
liaikye ! not a word to Glossmore. 

Blount. Glossmore ! the gweatest gossip in London ! I shall be de- 
lighted ! [aside) It never does harm to lend to a wich man ; one gets it 
back somehow, {aloud) By the way, Evelyn, if you want my gwey cab- 
liorse, you may have him for £200, and that will make seven. 

Eve. {aside). That's the fashionable usury ; your friend does not take 
interest — he sells you a horse, {aloud) Blount, it's a bargain. (Blount 
goes to R. table.) 
■ Blount {writing a check, and musinghj). No; I don't see what harm it 
can do me ; that off-leg must end in a spavin. 

Eve. Now for my other friend, {to Glossmore) That £100 I owe you 
is rather inconvenient at present; I've a large sura to make up for the 
Groginhole property — perhaps you would lend me five or six hundred 
• more — ^just to go on with 1 

Gloss, (l.). Certainly! Hoi)kins is dead; your interest for Cipher 
would 

Eve. Why, I can't promise that at this moment. But as a slight 
mark of friendship and gratitude, I shall be very much flattered if you'll 
accept a splendid gray cab-horse I bought to-day — cost £200 ! 

Gloss, {aside). Bought to-day — then I'm safe, {aloud) My dear fellow, 
you're always so princely ! 

Evk. Nonsense ! just write the check ; and, harkye, not a syllable to 
Blount ! 

Gloss. Blount! He's the town-crier ! (170^5 to lorite at l. table.) 

Blount {rises, giving Evelyn tliC check). Wansom's, Pall-mall East. 

Eve. Thank you. So yoM. proposed io Miss Douglas! 

Blount ^k.). Hang it! yes; I could have sworn that she fancied me; 
her manner, for instance, the vewy day you pwoposed for Miss 'Vesey, 
otherwise Georgina 

Eve. Has only half what Miss Douglas has. 

Blount. You forget how much Stingy Jack must have saved ! But 
I beg your i)ardon. 

Eve. Never mind; but not a word to Sir John, or he'll fa:icy I'm 
ruined. (Glossmore comes down, l ) 



ACT IV.] • JJONET. 47 

Gloss. {givi»g the check). Ransom's, Pall-mall East. Tell me, did 
you will 01" lose last ni<>lit ? 

Eve. Will ! lose ! oli ! No more of that, if j-ou love me. I must send 
oft" at once lo the banker's, {looki/iff at the two checks.) 

Gloss, (aside). Why, he's borrowed from Blount, too ! 

Blount ("side). That's a cheque from Lord Glossmore, 

Eve. Excuse me; I must dress; I have not a moment to !o-e You 
remember you dine with me to-day — seven o'clock. You'll meet Smooth. 
{mournfalltf) It may be tiie last time I shall ever welcome you here. 
My — what am I saying? Oh, merely a joke — goodbye — goodhye. (shak- 
ing them heartily by the hand. Exit, c. d. Glossmoke and Blouxt look 
at each other for a moment, and then speak.) 

Blount. Glossmore ! 

Gloss. Blount ! 

Blount. 1 am afwaid all's not wight! 

Gloss. I incline to your opinion. 

Blount. But I've sold my gway cab-horse. 

Gloss. Gray cab-horse ! you ! — What is he really worth now ? 

Blount. Since he is sold, 1 will (ell you — Not a sixpence. 

Gloss. Not a sixpence 1 he gave it to me. 

Blount. That was devilish unhandsome I Do you know, I feel ner- 
vous ! 

Gloss. Nervous ! Let us run and stop payment of our checks. 

Enter Toke, c. D. ; he rims across the stage towards r. 

Blount. Hollo, John ! where so fast ? 

ToKE (in great haste). Beg pardon. Sir Frederick, to Pall-mall East — 
Messrs. Ransom. [E.rit, r. 

Blount (solemnly) Glossmore, we are floored ? 
Gloss. Sir, the whole town shall know of it. [Exeunt, n. 

SCENE II. — A splendid saloon in Evelyn's house. Doors c, leading to the 
dining-room. 

Evelyn and Graves discovered seated. 

Graves. Yon don't mean to say you've borrowed money of Sir John ? 

Eve. Yes, five hundred pounds. Observe how I'll thank him for it ; 
observe how delighted he will be to find that five hundred was really of 
service to me. 

Graves. I don't understand you. You've grown so mysterious of late= 
You've withdrawn your money from Flash and Brisk? 

Eve. (r. of h. table). No. 

Graves. No — then 

Enter Sir John, Lady Franklin, and Georgina, e. Georgina goes to 
table L., and listens to Evelyn. Lady Franklin and Graves up c. 

Sir J. You got the check for £500 safely — too happy to— (grasping 
Evelyn's hand.) 

Evb. [interrupting him). My best thanks — my warmest gratitude! 
So kind in you ! so seasonable— that £500— you don't know the value 
of that £500. I shall never forget your nobleness of conduct. 

Sir J. Gratitude ! Nobleness ! (aside) I can't have been taken in ? 

Eve. And in a moment of such distress ! 



48 MONKT. [aCL' IV. 

Sir J. (aside). Such distress! He picks out the iij^liest words in ihe 
wiiole dictionaiy. 

Eve. You must know, my dear Sir John, I've done with Smooth. 
But I'm still a litilo crippled, and j'ou must do ine another favor. I've 
oulj' as yet paid tlie deposit of ten per cent, for the gi eat Groginhole prop- 
erty. 1 am to pa.y the re?.t this week — nay, I fear to-morrow. I ve 
already sold out of the Funds for the purchase; the money lies at the 
bankers', and of course I can't touch it ; for if I don't pay by a certain 
day, I forfeit the estate and the deposit. 

SiK J. What's coming now.. 1 wonder 1 

Enter Servant, e. Annoxinces Mr. Stout and exits. Enter Stout, in 
evening dress. 

Eve. Georgina's fortune is £10,000. I always meant, my dear Sir 
John, to present you with that little sum. 

SiK J. Oh, Evelyn! (wipes his eyes ; Stout goes to l. table.) 

Eve. But the news of my losses has Iriiihtened my tradesmen ! I 
have so many heavy debts at this moment lliat — that — that. — But I see 
Georoina is listening, and I'll say what I have to say to her. (crosses to 
her. R. G.) 

Sir J. No, no — no, no. Giils don't understand business. 

Eve. The very rea.son I speak to her. This is an affair not of busi- 
ness, but oi feeling. Stout, show Sir John my Corregnio. 

Sir J. [aside). Devil take his Corregsio ! The man is born to torment 
me ! (Stout takes him hg the arm, and points off, L. s. E ) 

Eve. My dear Georgina, whatever you may hear said of me, I flatter 
myself tl:at you feel confidence in my honor. 

Geor Can you doubt it 1 

IIve. I confess that I am embarrassed at this moment ; I have been 
weak enough to lose money at ])lay. I promise you never to gamble 
again as long as I live. My affairs cnn be retrieved ; but for the first 
few years of our marriage it may be necessary to retrench^ 

Geor. Retrench ! 

Eve. To live, perhaps, altogether in the country. 

Geok. Allosether in the country I 

Eve. To confine ourselves to a modest competence. 

Geor. Modest competence ! I knew something horrid was coming . 

Enter Sir F. Blount, r. ; he salutes Evelyn and Lady Franklin. 

Eve. And now, Georgina, you may have it in j'our power at this 
moment to save me from much anxiety and humiliation. My money is 
locked up — my debts of honor must be settled — you are of age — your 
£10,000 is in your own hands 

Sir J. (Stout listening as well as Sir John). I'm standing on hot iron. 

Eve. If you couhLlend it to mj for a few weeks. You hesitate. Can 
you give me this proof of your confidence 1 Remember, without confi- 
dence, what is wedlock ? 

Sir J, [aside to her). No I (Evelyn turns sharply) Yes, (poifiiing his 
glass at the Correggio) the painting may be fine. 

Stout. But you don't like the subject \ 

Geok. (aside). He may be only trying me! Best leave it to papa. 

Eve. Well 

Ghor. You — you shall hear from me tomorrow, (aside) Ah, there's 
that dear Sir Frederick ! (goes to Blou.nt, at the back.) 



ACT IV.] MONET, 



49 



JEnter GhossuoRE and Smooth, e. Evelyn salutes (hem, paying Smooth 
servile respect ■ takes his arm and crosses to L., and up the staff e. 

Lady F. (r. c, to Graves). Ha ! ha ! To be so disturbed yesterday — 
was it not droll " 

Graves. Never recur to tliat Immiliating topic. 

Gloss, (c, to Stout). See how Evelyn fawns upon Smooth. 

Stout. How mean in \n\u\— Smooth— Si professional ^^ambler— a fel- 
low who lives by his wits. 1 would not know such a man on any account. 
(Smooth ccmes doivn, c.) 

Smooth [to Glossmore). So Hopkins is dead— you want Cipher to 
come in for Groginhole, eh ? 

Gloss, (l. c ). What— could you manage it? [aside) Why, he must 
have won his whole fortune. 

Smooth. Ce cher, Charles ! — anything to oblige. 

Gloss. It is not possible he can have lost Gruginhole ! 

Stout. Gioginhole ! What can he have done with Gioginhole ! 
Glossmore, present nie to Smooth. 

Gloss. What ! the gambler— the fellow who lives by his wits ? 

Stout. Why, his wits seem to be an uncommonly productive capital ? 
I'll introduce mvself. (crosses <o Smooth) How d'ye do, Captain Smooth? 
We have met at" the club, 1 think— I am charmed to make your acquain- 
tance in private. I say, sir, what do you think of the affairs of the 
nation ? Bad ! verv bad— no enlightenment — great fall off in the reve- 
nue—no knowledge'of finance ! There's only one man who can save the 
country — and that's Popkins ! 

Smooth. Is he in Tarliament, Mr. Stout 1 What's your Christian 
name, bv-tiie-byel 

Stout. Benjamin— No; — constituences are so ignorant they don t un- 
derstand his value. He's no orator : in fact, he stammers a little— tliat 
is, a great deal— but devilish profound. Could not we ensure him for 
Groginholel 

Smooth. My dear Benjamin, it is a thing to be thought on. {taey re- 
tire.) ' ' .i, T ■ 1 

Eve. (advancing). My friends, pray be seated, (they sit*) I wish to 
consult you. This day twelve months I succeeded to an immense in- 
come, and as, by a happy coincidence, on the same day I secured your 
esteem, so now I wish to ask you if you think I could have spent that 
income in a way more worthy your good o()ini()n. 

Gloss. Impossible! excellent taste— beautiful house ! 

Blount. Vewy good horses— (rtSiV^e, to Glossmore)— especially the 
gway cab. 

Lady F. Si)lendid pictures ! 

Graves. And a magnificent cook, ma'am ! 

Smooth {thrusting his hands inio hispocke.s). It is uiy opinion, Alfred 
— and I'm a judge — that you could not have spent your money better. 

Omnes (except Sir J ou^}. Very true! 

Geor. Certainly, [coaxingly) Don't retrench, my dear Alfred ! 

Gloss. Retrench ! nothing so plebeian ! 

Stout. Plebeian, sir— worse than plebeian— it is against all rulesol 
public morality. Every one knows, now-a-days, that extravagance is a 



* All sit thus. 
SiK FnEDERicK. Glossmore. Stout. Smooth. Geokcuna 
Lady Franklin. 
Gbaves. 



Evelyn. 
Sil: John. 



50 MONEY. [act IV. 

benefit to llie population — encourages ait — employs labor — and uiulii- 
pligs spiiminiT.jennies. 

Eve. You reassuierael I own I did think that a man worthy of 
friends so sincere might have done something better than feast — dress — 
drink — play 

Gloss. Nonsense — we like you the better for it-, {aside) I wish I had 
my £600 back, though. 

Eve. And you are as much my friends now as when you offered me 
£10 lor my old nurse 1 

Sir J. A thousand times more so, ray dear boy, (Omnes approve.) 

Enter Suarp, r. 

S.MooTH. But who's our new friend 1 

Eve. Who 1 the very man who first announced to me the wealth 
wli.icli you allow I have spent so well. But what's the matter, Sharp 1 
{crosses to Sharp, icho ivhisptrs to him.) 

Eve. {(doud). 1\\e. hawk's broke ! (all s' art up.) 

Sir J. Bank broke — what banlc '<! {coming down, c.) 

Eve. Flash, Brisk and Co. 

Sir J. But I warned you — you withdrew"? 

Eve. Alas! no ! 

Sir J. Oil ! Not much in their hands 1 

Eve. Why, 1 told you the i)urchase-money for Grooinhole was at ray 
bankers' — but no, no ; don't look so frightened ! It was not placed with 
Flash — it is at Iloare's — it is, indeed. Nay, I assure you it is. A mere 
trifle at Flash's, upon my word, now ! Don't groan in tiiat way. You'll 
frighten everybody! To-morrow, Sharp, we'll talk of this 1 One day 
more — one day, at least for enjoyment, {tvallcs to and fro.) 

Sir J. Oil ! a pretty enjoyment! 1 

Blount. And he borrowed £700 of rae ! .„ ., , , 

n 4 7 opi\c\ i.- 1 -All up the staqe, L. and 

Glos-!. And £600 of me ! \ ^ -' ' 

Sir J. And £500 of me ! | ^- ^■ 

Stout. OIi I a regular Jeremy Diddler ! J 

Stout {to Sir John). I .say, you have placed your daughter in a very 
unsafe investment. Transfer the stock. 

Sir J. {going ^o Georgi.va), Ha ! I'm afraid we've been very rude to 
Sir Frederick. A monstrous fine young man ! 

Enter Toke, with a letter, r. 

ToKE {to Evelyn). Sir, I beg your pardon, but Mr, MacFinch insists 
on my giving you this letter instantly. 

Eve. {reading). How! Sir John, this fellow, MacFinch, has heard of 
my misfortunes, and insists on beina paid — a lawyer's letter — quite inso- 
lent. Here, read this letter — you'll ba quite amused with it. 

ToKE. And, sir, Mr. Tabouret is below, and declares he will not stir 
till he's paid. [Exit, k. 

Eve. is'^ot stir till he's paid ! What's to be done. Sir John 1 Smooth, 
what IS to be done 1 

Smooth [seated, c). If he'll not stir till he's paid, make him put up a 
bed. and I'll take him in the inventory, as one of the fi.\.tures, Alfred. 

Eve. It is very well for you to joke, Mr. Smooth. But 

Enter Sheriff's OrFicER, giving a paper to Evelyn and tchispering. 
Eve W^hat's this? Frantz, the tailor. Why, the impudent scoun- 



ACT IV. 1 MONKT. 51 

diel ! Faitli, this is more tlian I bargained for— Sir John, I'm arresteil. 

Stout. He's arrested, {slapping Sir John on the back with glee) old 
gentleman ! But 1 didn't lend him a farthing. 

Eve. And fur a mere song— £150 ! Sir John, pay this fellow, will 
you ? or see that my people Idcli out the bailiffs, or do it yourself, or 
something — while we go to dinner. 

Sir J Pay— kick— I'll be d— d if I do ! Oh, my £500 ! my £500 ! 
Mr. Alfred Evelyn, I want my £500 1 (Graves and Lady Franklin 
come forward r. c.) 

Graves. I'm going to do a very silly thing — I shall lose both my 
friend and my money— just like my luck— Evelyn, go to dinner— I'll 
settle tliis for you. 

Lady F. I love you for tliat ! 

Graves. Do you ? then I am the nappiest— Ah ! ma'am, I don't know 
what 1 am saying 1 (Lady FK.'iNKLiN retires, r. Exeunt Graves cmd Of- 
ficer, R.) 

Eve. {to Georgixa, ivho is l. c). Don't go by these appearances! I 
repeat, £10,000 will muie than cover all my embarrassments. I shall 
hear from you to-morrow 1 * 

Geor. Yes — yes ! [going, r.) 

Eve. But you're not going 1 You, too, Glossmorel you, Blount 1 — 
you, Stout \ — you. Smooth \ 

Smooth. No. Ill slick by you as long as you've a guinea to stake ! 

Gloss. Oh, this might have been expected from a man of such am- 
biguous political opinions ! {crosses, r.) 

Stodt. Don't stop me, sir. No man of common enlightenment would 
have squandered his substance in this way. Pictures and statues — 
baugh ! (crosses, r.) 

Eve. Why, you all said I could not spend my money better ! Ha! 
ha! ha!— the'absurdest mistake— you don't fancy I'm going to prison — 
Ha! ha! Why don't you laugh, Sir John'?— ha! ha! ha! {goes up the 
stage. Sir John crosses to r. c.) 

Sir J. Sir, this horrible levity ! Take Sir Frederick's arm, my poor, 
injured, innocent child. 

Smooth. But, my dear John, they have no right to arrest the dinner. 

The c. doors are thrown open by two Servants, a handsome dining^oom is 
discovered, and a table elegantly set for ten persons. Enter Tows., c. 

Tore. Dinner is served. 

Gloss, {pausing). Dinner! 

S rouT. Dinner ! a very good smell ! 

Eve. {to Sir John). Turtle and venison, too. {they stop irresolute) 
That's right — come along — come along — but one word first, Blount 
—Stout— Glossmore— Sir John— one word first; will you lend me 
£10 for my old nurse] {they all faU back) Ah, you fall back! Be- 
hold a lesson for all who build friendship upon their fortune, and not 
their virtues. You lent me hundreds this morning to squander upon 
pleasure— you would refuse me £10 now to bestow upon benevolence. 
Go — we have done with each other — go. 

[Exeunt, indignantly, r., all biit Evelyn and Smooth. 

Re-enter Graves, r. 

Graves. Heyday ! what's all this ? 

Eve. Ha ! ha !— the scheme prospers — the duper is duped ! Come, 
my friends — come ; when the standard of money goes down, in the great 



52 MONEY. [act V. 

battle between man and fate — ^why, a bumper to the brave hearts that 
refuse to desert us. [Exeunt, c. door. 

Smooth and Graves. Ha ! ha ! ha ! (ri/iff doivn when Evelyn is seated.) 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — ****'« Club; Smooth, Glossmore— /oi<r other Members 
discovered. * 

Gloss. Will his horses be sold, think you ? 

Smooth. Very possibly, Charles — a fine stud — hum — ha ! Waiter, a 
glass of sherry ! (Smooth is at breakfast at the l. table, where the Old Mem- 
ber sal.) 

Enter Waiter, c, \vith sherry. 

Gloss. They say he must go abroad. 

Smooth. Well; 'tis the besi time of year for travelling, Charles. 

Gloss. We are all to be paid to-day ; and that looks suspicious ! 

Smooth. Very suspicious, Charles ! Hum ! — ah ! 

Gloss, [rises and crosses to Smooth). My dear fellow, you must know 
the rights of the matter; I wish you'd speak out. What have you really 
won 1 Is the house itself gone ? 

Smooth. The house itself is certainly not gone, Charles, for I saw it 
exactly in the same place- this morning at half-past ten — it has not 
moved au inch. (Waiter ffives a letter to Glossmore. j 

Gloss, [reading). From Grogiuhole — an express ! What's this 1 I'm 
amazed! {reading) "They've actually, at the eleventh hour, started Mr. 
Evelyn ; and nobody knows what his politics are ! We shall be biat ! — 
the Constitution is gone — Cipher !" Oh ! this is infamous in Evelyn ! 
Gets hito Parliament just to keep himself out of the Bench ! 

Smooth He's capable of it. 

Gloss. Not a doubt of it, sir ! Not a doubt of it! The man saves 
himself at the expense of his country — Groginhole is lost. There's au 
end of the Constitution ! [Exit, c. 

Enter Sir John OTirf Blount, c, talking. 

Sir J. My dear boy, I'm not flint! I am but a man! If Georginii 
really loves you — and I am sure that she docs — 1 will never think of sac- 
rificing her happiness to ambition — she is yours ; I told her so this very 
morning. 

Blount [aside). The old humbug ! 

Sir J. She's the best of daughters ! Dine with me at seven, and we'll 
tal.i of the settlements. (Waiter 6W«ys « billon a salver to Smooth; lie 
pays it ) 

Blount. Yes ; I don't care for fortune — but 

Sir J. Her £10,000 will be settled on herself — that of course. 

Blount. All of it, sir 1 Weally, I 

SiK J. What then, my dear boy? I shall leave you both all I've laid 
by. Ah, you know I'm a close fellow; " Stingy Jack," — eh? After 



* This Scene is frequently omitted. 



ACT v.] MONKT. 53 

all. worth makes the man ! {S^ An:E,n removes hreaJcfast things and clolh from 
Smooth's table.) 

Smootu. {rises). And the more a man's worth, John, the worthier man 
he must be. [Exeunt, Members and Smooth, (j. Sir John takes up a 
newspaper and reads.) 

Blount (aside). Yes; he has no other child! &he inxst have all his 
savings ; I don't see what harm it could do me. Still, that £10,000 — I 
want that £10,000 ; if she would hut wan off one could get wid of the 
settlements. 

Enter Stout, c. {wiping his forehead), and takes Sir Johx aside, l. 

Stout. SiV John, we've been played upon ! My secretary is brother 
to Fiasli's head clerk ; Evelyn had not £300 in the bank ! 

Sir J. (c). Bless, us and save us! you take away my breath ! But 
then — Deadly Smooth — the execution — the — Oh, lie must be done up ! 

Stout. As to Smooth, he'd "do anything to oblige." All a trick, de- 
j)end upon it. Smooth has alreadj' deceived me, for before the da.y's 
over, Evelyn will be member for Groginhole. I've had an express from 
Popkins ; he's in despair ! not for himself — but for the counirij, Sir John, 
— what's to become of the country 1 

Sir J. But what could be Evelyn's object ? 

Stout. Object ? Do you look for an object in a whimsical creature 
like that? — a man who has nt)t even any political opinions! Object! 
Perhaps to break off his match with your daughter ! Take care, Sir 
John, or the borough will be lost to your family. 

Sir J. Aha ! I begin to smell a rat. 

Stout Do you ! 

Sir J. But it is not too late j'et. 

Stout. My interest in Popkins made me run to Lord Spendquick, 
the late proprietor of Groginhole. I told him that Evelyn could not pay 
the rest of the money ! and he told me that 

Sir J. What? 

Stout. Mr. Sharp had just paid it him; there's no hope for Po})kins ! 
England will raie this day. {goes to table and looks at papers.) 

Sir J. Georgina shall lend him the money ! Tll\e\\A him — every man in 
my house, shall lend him — I feel again what it is to be a father-in-law — 
Sir Frederick, excuse me — you can't dine with me to-day. And, on sec- 
ond thoughts, I see that it would be very unhandsome to desert poor 
Evelyn, now he's down in the world. Can't think of it, my dear boy — 
can't think of it ! Very much honored, and happy to see you as a friend. 
Waiter, my carriage ! Um ! What, humbug Stingy Jack, will they 1 
Ah ! a good joke, indeed. [Exit. c. 

Blount. Mi'. Stout, what have you been saying to Sir John 1 Some- 
thing about my chawacter ; I know you have; don't deny it. Sir, I 
shill expect satisfaction ! 

Stout. Satisfaction, Sir Frederick 1 Pooh, as if a man of enlighten- 
ment had any satisfaction in fighting ! Did not mention your name ; we 
were talking of Evelyn. Only think — he's no more ruined than you are. 

Blount. Not wiiined ! Aha, now I understand ! So, so ! Stay, let 
me see — she's to meet me in the square. ( pidls out his ivatch ; a very small 
one.) 

Stout {pulling out his own ; a very large one). I must be off to the ves- 
try. [Exit, c. 

Blount. Just in time — ten thousand pounds! 'Gad, my blood's up, 
and 1 won't be tweated in this way if he were fifty times Stniay Jack ! 

[Exit, c. 



54 MONEY. [aCI' V. 

SCENE II. — The drawing-rooms in Sie John Vesey's house. 
Enter Lady Fkanklkv and Graves, l. 

Gkaves. Well, well, I ata certain that poor Evelyn loves Clara still, 
but you can't persuade me that she cares for him. 

Lady F. She has been breaking her heart ever since she heard of his 
distress. Nay, I am sure she would oive all she has, could it save him 
from the consequences of his own folly. 

Graves. I should just like to sound her. 

Lady P. {ringing the bill). And you shall. I take so much interest in 
her, that I forgive your friend everything but his olfer to Georgiua. 

Enter Page, r. 

Where are the young ladies 1 

Page. Miss Vesey is, I believe, still in the square ; Miss Douglas is 
just come in, my lady. 

Lady F. What ! did she go out with Miss Vesey ? 

Page. No, my lady ; I attended her to Drummond's, the banker. 

[Ezit, K. 
Lady F. Drummond's ! 

Enter Clara, r. 

Why, child, (crosses to her) what on earth could take you to Drummond's 
at this hour of the day ? 

Clara {eonfused). Oh, I — that is — I — Ah, Mr. Graves ! {crosses to 
Graves) How is Mr. Evelyn ] How does he bear up against so sudden 
a reverse 1 

GiiAVES. Wilh an awful calm. I fear all is not I'ight hero! {touching 
his head) The report in the town is, that he must go abroad instantly — 
perhaps to-day. [crosses to c.) 

Clara (c). Abroad! — to-day! 

Gravks (l.). But all his creditors will be paid ; and he only seems 
anxious to know if Miss Vesey remains true in his misfortunes. 

Clara. Ah ! he loves her so much, then ? 

GiiAVES. Um I That's more than I can say. 

Clara. Slie told me last night, that he said £10,000 would free him 
from all his liabilities — that was the sum, was it not 1 

Graves. Yes ; he pei'sists in the same assertion. Will Miss Vesey 
lend it ? 

Lady F. {aside, r.). If «he does, I shall not think so well of her poor 
dear mother; for I am sure she'd be no child of Sir John's! 

Graves. I should lilie to convince myself that my poor friend has 
nothing to hope from a woman's generosity. 

Lady F. Civil ! And are men, then, less covetous ? 

Graves. I know one man at least, who, rejected in his poverty by 
one as poor as himself, no sooner came into a sudden fortune than he 
made his lawyer invent a codicil which the testator never dreamt of, be- 
queathing]; independence to the woman who had scorned him. 

Lady F. And never told her? 

Graves. Never ! There's no such document at Doctor^' Commons, 
depend on it. You seem incredulous. Miss Clara! Good day ! {crosses, r.) 

Clar.\ [following him). One word, for mercy's sake ! Do I understand 
you riaht 1 Ali, how could I be so blind 1 Generous Evelyn ! 

Graves. Foj( appreciate, and G'^wy/wn; will desert him. Miss Douglas, 



ACT T.] MONEY. 55 

he loves you still. If that's not just like me! Meddling with otlier 
people's affairs, us if they were worth it — hang them I [Exit, r. 

Claka Georgina will desert him. Do you think so ■? 

L.\DY F. She told me last niiiht that she would never see him 
again. To do her justice, she's less iiuerested than her father — and as 
much attached as she can be to another. Even while engaged to Eve- 
lyn, she has met Sir Frederick every day in the square. 

Clara. And he is alone — sad — forsaken — ruined. And I, whom he 
enriched — I, the creature of his bounty — I, once the woman of his love 
— I stiind idly here to content myself with tears and prayers ! Oh, Lady 
Franldin, have pity on me — on him ! We are both of kin to him — as re- 
lations we have bolh a right to comfort! Let us go to him — come ! 

Lady F. No ! it would scarcely be right — remember the world — I 
cannot ! ^ 

Claba. All abandon him — then I will go alone ! (crosses, k.) 

Lady F. A'one — what will he think ? What but 

Clara. What but — that, if he love me still, I may have enough for 
both, and I am by his side ! But that is too bright a dream. He told 
me I might call him brother! Where, now, should a sister be 1 But — '- 
but — I — I — I — tremble! If, after all — if — if — In one woi'd, am 1 too 
bold ] The world — my conscience can answer thac — but do you think 
that he could despise me ? 

Lady F. No, Clara, no ! Your fair soul is too transparent for even 
libertines to misconstrue. Sometliiiig tells me that this meeting may 
make the happiness of both. You cannot go alone. My presence jus- 
tifies all. Give me your hand — we will go together. [Exeunt, r. 

SCENE III. — A room in Evelyn's house, same as last of Act IV. Eve- 
lyn discovered at table, r. 

EvR. Yes; as yet, all sur|)asses my expectations. I am sure of 
Smouth — I have managed even Sharp ; my election will seem but an 
escape from a prison. Ha ! ha ! True, it cannot last long ; but a few 
hours more are all I require, and for thai time at least I shall hope to 
be thoroughly ruined, \rises and goes l.) 

Enter Graves, r. 

Well, Graves, and what do people say of me ? 

Graves. Everything that's bad ! 

EvR. Three days ago I was universally respected. I awake this 
morning to find myself singularly infamous. Yet, I'm the same man. 

GiiAVES. Humph ! why, gambling 

Eve. Cant ! it was not criminal to gamble — it was criminal to lose. 
Tut ! — will you deny that if 1 had ruined Smooth instead of myself, 
every hand would have grasped mine yet more cordially, and every 
lip would have smiled congratulation on my success ? Man — Man — I've 
not been rich and poor for nothing. The Vices and the Virtues are 
written in a language the world cannot construe ; it reads tiiem in a vile 
translation, and the translators are — failure and success ! You alone are 
uncha'iged. 

Graves. There's no merit in that I am always ready to mingle my 
tears with any man. (aside) I know I'm a fool, but I can't help it. {aloud) 
Hark ye, Evelyn, I like you — I'm rich; and anything I can do to get 
you out of your hobble will give ms an excuse to grumble for the rest 
of my life. There, now 'tis out 

Eve. {touched). There's something good in human nature, after all ! 



56 MONEY. [act T. 

My dear friend, I will now confide in you ; I am not the spendthrift you 
think me — my losses Ijave been trifling — not a month's income of my 
fortune. (Guaves shakes him heaitdy bji the hand) No I it has been but a 
stratag'm i^> prove ii" tlie love, on which was to rest the happiness of a 
whole life, were given to the Money or the Man. Now you uuess why [ 
h ive asked from Georgina this one proof of confidence and affection. — 
Tliink you she will give iti 

Graves. Would you break your heart if she did not? 

Eve It \.i v.iin to deny that I still love Clara; our 1; st convei-sation 
renewed feelings which would task all the energies of my soul to con- 
qun-. No ! the heart Avas given to the soul as its ally, not as its traitor. 

GuAVKS What do you intend lo do 1 

Eve. This: — If Georgina prove, by lier confidence and generosit3% 
that she loves me for myself, I wiil shut Clara for ever from my thoughts, 
I aai pledged to Georgina, and I will carry to the altar a soul resolute 
to deserv,? her afiectioi and fulfill its vows. 

GitAVES And if she reject you 1 

Eve. {joyfullij). If she do, 1 am free once more ! And then — then I 
will dare to asli, for I can ask without dishonor, if Clara can explain thg 
past and bless the future I {crosses, &.) 

Enter Servant, r., xoith a letter on a salver ; Evelyn takes it: Exit Ser- 
vant, R. 

Eve. (after reading it). The die is cast — the dream is over. Generous 
girl ! Oh, Georgine, ! I will deserve you yet. 

Graves Georgina I is it possible "? » 

Eve. And the delicacy, the womanhood, the exquisite criace of this ! 
How we niisjudi.'e the depth of the human heart! How, seeing the 
straws on the surface, w^e forget that the pearls may lie hid below ! I 
im isine 1 her incapable of this devotion. 

Gravks. And i, too. 

ICvi;. It were base in me to continue this trial a moment longer; I 
will write at once to undeceive that generous heart, {goes to k. table and 
writes.) 

Graves. I would have given £1,000 if that little jade Clara had been 
beforehand. But just like my luck ; if I want a man to marry one wo- 
man, he s sure to marry another on purpose to vex me. 

Eve. Graves, will you ring the bell ? (Graves rings bell, l.) 

Enter Servant, r. 

Take this instantly to Miss Vesey ; say I will call in an hour, {exit Ser- 
vant) And now Clara is resigned forever. Why does m}' heart sink 
witliin mel Why, why, looking to the fate to come, do I see only the 
memory of what has been 1 {goes towards l.) 

GiiAVES. You are re-engaged then to Georgina? 

Eve. Irrevocabl}'. 

Enter Servant, r., announcing Lady Franklin and Miss Douglas. 

Lady F. My dear Evelyn, you may think it strange to receive sucli 
visitors at this momont; but, indeed, it is no time for ceremony. We 
are your relations — it is reported you are about to leave the country — 
we come to ask fraid<ly what we can do to serve you ! 

Eve Madam — I 

Lady F. Come, come — do not hesitate to confide in us; Clara is less 



•] 



aiONKY. 5* 



a ?tranaer to vou than I am ; your friend liere will perhaps let me con- 
sult wiUi him.' {crosses and speaks aside to Graves) Let us leave tlifim to 
tlidiisclvcs 

Gr^vfs.' You're an anjiel of a widow ; but you come too late, as what- 
ever is good for anything generally does, {thri/ retire into the inner-room, 
out of sight, the doors of ivhich should be partialhj open.) 

Eve. (l). Miss Douglas, I may well want words to thank you! this 

goodness— this sympathy . . t. i . r^ i -„ t t>,^ 

Clara [vl., abandoning herself to her emotmi). Evelyn! Evel>n! Uo 
not talk thus! Goodness! sympathy— I have learned «;«—«// •■ It la 
for ME to speak oi gratitude ! What! even wl.en I had so wounded you 
—when you believed me mercenaiy and cold— when you thought that I 
was blind and base enough not to know you for what you are; even «f 
that time you thought but of my happiness— ray fortunes— my fate .- 
And to you- vou— I owe all that has raised the poor orphan from servi- 
tude and dependence ! While your words were so bitter, your deeds so 
aentle ! Oh, noble Evelyn, this then was your revenge. 

Eve You owe me no thanks— that revenge was sweet ! Thu.k you it 
was nothing to feel that my presence haunted you, though you knew it 
not'— that in things the pettiest as the greatest, which tha. gmd could 
buy— the very jewels you wore— the very robe in which, to other eyes, 
you mi"ht seem more fair-in all in which you took the woman s young 
and inn"ocent delight-i had a part-a share ! that, even it separated 
for ever— even if another's— even in distant years— perhaps in a happy 
home, listening to sweet voices that might call you " mother ! —even 
then should the uses of that dross bring to your hps one smile--lliat 
smile was mine-due to me-due as a sacred debt, to the hand that you 
rejected — to the love that you despised ! . *, • 

'Cla^a. Despised I See the proof Miat I despise you— see ; in this 
honi^ when they say vou are again as poor as before, I torget the world 
—my pride— perhaps too much my sex ; I remember but your sorrows 

""eve And "is this the same voice that, when I knelt at your feet-when 
I asked but 07ie dag the hope to call you mine— spoke only ot poverty, 
and answered, " Xever ?"' , .» t i j • i 

Clara Because I had been unworthy of your love if I had insured 
your misery ! Evelyn, hear me! My father, like you, was poor— gen- 
erous • gifled, like you, with genius— ambition ; sensitive, like you, to 
the least breath of insult. He married, as you would have done— mar- 
ried one whose only dower was penury and care ! Altred, 1 saw that 
genius the curse to itself— I saw that ambition wither to despair— i saw 
the struoaie— the humiliation— the proud man's agony- the bitter lite— 
the early death— and heard over his breathless clay my mother s groan 
of self-reproach! Alfred Evelyn, now speak! Was the woman you 
loved so nobly to repay you with such a doom 1 

Eve Clara, we should have shared it. , . t, 

CLAitA Shared r Never let the woman who really loves comtort her 
selfishness with such delusion 1 In marriages like this, the wife cannot 
share the burden ; it is lie-the husband-to provide, to scheme, o work, 
to endure— to grind out his strong heart at the miserable wheel ! ihe 
wife, alas ! cannot share the struggle— she can but witness the despair . 
And therefore, Alfred. I rejected you. 

Eve Yet you believe me as poor now as I was thenl 
Clara. But I am not poor ; ive are not so poor. Of this fortune, 
which is all your own— if, as I hear, one-half would free you from your 
debts, why, we have the other half still left. Evelyn, it is humble— but 
it is not penury. You know me now. 



58 HONEY. [aCI V. 

Eve. Know you ! Bright angel, too excellent for man's harder nature 
to understand — at least it is permitted uie to revere. Why were such 
blessed words not vouchsafed to me before 'i — why, why come they now 
— too late 1 Oh, Heaven — too late ! 

Cr.ARA. Too late ! What, then, have I said 1 

Eve. W ealth ! what is it without you 1 With you, I recognize its 
power ; to forestall your every wish — to smooth your every path — to 
make all that life borrows from Grace and Beauty your ministrant and 
handmaid ; — why, that were to make gold indeed a god ! But vain — 
vain — vain ! Bound by every tie of faith, gratitude, loyalty, and honor, 
to another ! 

Claka. Another ! Is she, then, true to your reverses ? I did not 
know this — indeed I did not ! And I have thus betrayed myself ! (aside) 
0, sljame ! Le must despise me now ! ^Clara ffocs up and sits at table, r.) 

Enter Siu John, r. ; at the same time Graves a»d Lady Franklin ad- 
vance from the inner room. 

Sir J. {with dignity and franhiess). Evelyn, I was hasty yesterday. 
You must own it natural that I should be so. But Georgina has been 
so urgent in your defence — {as Lady Franklin comes down, r.) Sister, 
just shut the door, will you 1 — that 1 cannot resist her. What's money 
without happiness ? So give me your security ; for she insists on lend- 
in2 you the £10,000. 

Eve. I know, and have already received it. 

Sir J. (c. — aside). Already received it ! Is he joking ? Faith, for 
the last two days 1 believe I have been living amongst the Mysteries of 
U loipho ! {aloud) Sister, have you seen Georgina 1 

Lady F, (r.). Not since she went out to walk in the square. 

Sir J. {aside). She's not in the square, nor the house — where the 
deuce can the girl be 1 

Eve. 1 have written to Miss Vesey — I have asked her to fix the day 
for our wedding. 

Sir J. (joyfidhj). Have youl Go, Lady Franklin, find her instantly 
— she must be back by this time; take my carriage — it is but a step — 
you will not be two minutes gone, {aside) Ikl go myself, but I'm afraid 
of leaving him a moment while he's in such e.xcellent dispositions. 

Lady F. {repulsing Clara, ivho rises to follow). No, no ; stay till I re- 
turn. [Exit, R. 

Sir J, And don't be down-hearted, my dear fellow ; if the worst come 
to the worst, you will have everything I can leave you. Meantime, if I 
can in any way help you 

Eve. Ha ! — you ! — ycu, too 1 Sir John, you have seen my letter to 
Miss Vesey ? — {aside) or could she have learned the truth before she ven- 
tured to be geneious ? 

Sir J. No ! on my honor. I only just called at the door on my way 
from Lord Spend — that is, from the City. Georgina was out ; — was ever 
anything so unlucky? {Voices loithout — "Hurrah — hurrah! Blue for 
ever !") What's that 1 

Enter Suarp, r. 

Sharp. Sir, a deputation from Groginhole — poll closed in an hour — 
you are returned ! Holloa, sir — holloa ! 

Eve. [aside). And it was to please Clara ! 

Sir J. Mr. Sharp — Mr. Sharp — I say, how much has Mr. Evelyn lost 
by Messrs. Flash and Co. "? 

Sharp, Oh, a great deal, sir — a great deal 1 



ACT v.] MONET. 59 

Sir J. (alar Died). How ? — a great deal ! 

Eve. Speak the truth, Sharp — concealment is all over, {i/oes up the 
stage. ) 

Shakp. £223 65. 31. — a great sum to throw away! 

Sir J. Ell ! what, my dear hoy 1 — what? Ha ! ha ! all humbuj, was 
it ■? — all humbua ! So, Mr. Sharp, isn't he ruined, after all 1 — not the 
least wee, rnscallv little bit in the world ruined 1 

Sharp. Sir, he Ins never even lived uj) to his income. 

Sia J. Worthy mnn ! I could jump up to the ceiling ! I am the hap- 
piest father-in-]dw in the three kingdoms, {kiwck'ng, jt.) And tliat's my 
sister's l^nock, too ! 

Claisa {rises, R.). Since I was mistaken, cousin — since now you do not 
need me — forget what has passed ; my business here is over. Farewell ! 

Eve. Could you but see my heart at this moment, with wliat love, what 
veneration, what anguish it is filled, you would know how little, in the 
great calamities of life, fortune is really worth. And must we part now, 
— n dv, when — when — I 

Uiifer Lady Franklin and Georgina, it., followed by Blount, tvho looks 
slip and embarrassed ; Clara retires and goes to l. table. 

Graves. Georgina herself — then there's no hope. 

Sir J. (l — aside). What the deuce brings that fellow Blount here 1 
{aloud) Georgy, my dear Geori>y, I want to— ^ — 

Eve. (c). Stand back. Sir John! 

Sir J. But I must speak a word to her — I want to 

Eve. Stand back, I say — not a whisper — not a sign. If your daugh- 
ter is to be my wife, to her heart only will 1 look for a reply to mine. — 
Georgina, it is true, then, that yon trust me with your confidence — your 
fortune? It is also true, that when you did so you believed me ruined ? 
Oh, pardon the doubt! Answer as if your father stood not there — an- 
swer me from that truth the world cannot yet have plucked from your 
soul — answer me as woman's heart, yet virgin and unpolluted, should 
answer to one who has trusted to it his all ! 

Geor. (r. c. — aside). What can he mean 1 

Sir J. (l. c. — making siqns). She'll not look this waj' — she will not — 
hang her — Hkm! 

Ev%. You falter. I implore — I adjure you — answer ! 

Lady F. Speak ! (Sir John makes an effort to speak ; Evelyn observes 
it.) 

EvF. Silence, Sir John ! 

Geor. Mr. Evelyn, your fortune might well dazzle me, as it dazzled 
others. Believe me, I sincerely pity yonr reverses. 

Sir J. Good girl! — you hear her, Evelyn. 

Geor. AVhat's money without happiness ? 

SrR J. Clever creature ! — my own sentiments ! 

Geor. And so, as our engagement is now annulled 

Eve. Annulled ! 

Geor. Papa told me so this very morning — I have promised my hand 
where I have given my heart — to Sir Frederick Blount. (Clara goes 
down, L.) 

Sir J. I told you — I — No such thing — no such thinz ; you friqhten 
her out of her wits — she don't know what's she's saying ! {goes up and 
over /oh) ■ 

Eve. Am I awake 1 But this letter — t!iis letter, received to-day • 

Lady F. i looking over the litter). Druminond's — from a banker I 

EvH. Rea'— -cad ! 



60 MO>'EY. [act V. 

Lady F. ■• £10 000 just placed to your account — from the same un- 
known fiiend to Evelyn." Oh, Clara, I know now why you went to 
Drun:n)ond's this morning. 

Eve. Clara ! What ! — and the former note with the same signature, 
on the faith of which I pledged my hand and sacrificed my hear! 

Lady F. Was written under my eyes, and the secret kept that 

Eve. I see it all — '.low could I be so blind? I ani free ! — I am re- 
leased ! — C'ara, you forgive me 1 — you love niel — you are mine ! We 
are rich — rich ! I can give you foitune, power — I can devote to you 
my whob life, thought, heart, soul — I am all yours, Clara — my own — 
my wife ! {kneels ; she gives him her hand ; they embrace.) 

Sir J. {to Georgina). A pretty mess you've made, to humbug your 
own father ! And you too, Lady Franklin — I am to thank you for this ! 
(Evelyn places Clara in a chair up L.) 

Lady F. You've to thank me that she's not now on the road to Scotland 
with Sir Frederick. I chanced on them by the Park just in time to dis- 
suade and save her. But, to do her justice, a hint of your displeasure 
was sufficient. 

Geor. (half -sobbing). And you know, papa, you said this very morn- 
ing that poor Frederick had been very ill-used, and you would settle it 
all at the club. 

Blount. Come, Sir John, you can only blame yourself and Evelyn's 
cunning device. After all, I'm no such vewy bad match ; and as for 
the £10,000 

Eve I'll double it. Ah, Sir John, what's money without happiness ? 
{slaps Sir John on the shoulder and retires.) 

Sir J. Pshaw — nonsense — stuff ! Don't humbug me ! 

Lady F. But if you don't consent, she'll have no husband at all. 

Sir J. Hum I there's something in that, {aside to Evelyn) Doul)le it, 
will you 1 Then, settle it all tightly on her. Well — well — my foible is 
not avarice. Blount, make her happy. Child, I forgive you. {pinching 
her arm) Ugli, you fool ! (Blount ff??r^ Georgina go up, l.) 

Gravrs (comes forivard with Lady Franklin). I'm afraid it's catch- 
ing. What say you ! I feel the symptoms of matrimony creeping all 
over me. Shall we, eh ? Frankly, now, frankly 

Lady F. Frankly, now, there's my hand. 

Graves. Accepted. Is it possible? Sainted Maria! thank Heaven 
you are spared this affliction ! {goes up c.) • 

Enter Smooth, r. 

Smooth. How d'ye do, Alfred % I intrude, I fear ! Quite a family 
party. 

Blount. Wish us joy. Smooth — Georgina's mine, and 

Smooth. And our four friends there apparently have made up another 
rubber. John, my dear boy, yon look as if you had something a^ stake 
on the odd trick, [crosses to l.) 

Sir J. Sir, your very — Confound the fellow — and he's a dead shot, too ! 

Enter Stout and Glossmoke hastily, talking with each other, k. 

Gloss. My dear Evelyn, yon were out of humor yesterday — but I for- 
give you. (Evelyn takes his hand.) 

Stout. Certainly ! (Evelyn crosses, c.) what would become of public 
life if a man were obliged to be two days running in the same mind 1 — I 
rise to explain. Just heard of your return, Evelyn. Congratulate you. 



ACT v.] MONET. 61 

The great motion of the session is fixed for Friday. We count oni your 
vote. Progress with the times. 

Gloss. Preserve the Constitution ! 

Stout. Your money will do wonders for the party ! Advance ! 

Gloss. Tlie party respects men of your property. Stick fast ! 

Eve. I have the greatest respect, I assure you, for tlie worthy and in- 
telligent flies upon both sides of the wheel ; but whether we go too fast 
or too slow does not, I fancy, depend so much on the flies as on the Stout 
G?ntleinan who sits inside and pays the i)ost-boys. Now, all my politics 
as yet is to consider what's best for the Stout Gentleman ! 

Smooth. Meaning John Bull. Ce cher, old John ! (Evelyn crosses to 
Smooth and takes his hand.) 

Eve. Smooth, we have yet to settle our first piquet account and our 
last. And I sincerely thank you for the service you have rendered to 
me, and the lesson you have given these gentlemen, {returns to c. ; all 
the characters take their positions for the end. Turning to Clara) Ah, 
Clara, you — you have succeeded where wealth had failed ! You have 
reconciled me to the world and to mankind. My friends — we must con- 
fess it — amidst the humors and the follies, the vanities, deceits, and 
vices that play their parts in the great Comedy of Life — it is our own 
fault if we do not find such natures, though rare and few, as redeem the 
rest, brightening the shadows that are flung from the form and body of 
the time with glimpses of the everlasting holiness of truth and love. 

Graves, But for the truth and the love, when found, to make us tol- 
erably happy, we should not be without 

Laby F. Good health ; 

Graves. Good spirits ; 

Clara. A good heart ; 

Smooth. An innocent rubber ; 

Geor. Congenial tempers ; 

Blount. A pwoper degwee of pwudence ; 

Stout. Enlightened opinions ; 

Gloss. Constitutional principles ; 

Sir J. Knowledge of the world ; 

Eve. And — plenty of money ! 

Disposition of the Characters at the fall of the Curtain, 

Clara, Evely.v. 

Blount. Lady Franklin. 

Georgina. Graves. 

Glossmore. Smooth. 

Stout. Sir John. 

K. L. 

CUETAIN. 



-r 



RICHELIEU 



CoPTBiGHT, 1875, BY Robert M. De Witt. 



EICHELIEU. 



ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Theatre Rnyal, Covenl Wallack's Old National 
Garden, London, Theatre, Neio York, 

1839. Sept 4, 1839. 

Louis XIII., King of France Mr. Elton. Mr. Walton. 

(jiaston, Duke of Orleans (Brother to 

the King) Mr. Diddeab. Mr. Powell 

Baradas (the King's Favorite) Mr. Wardb. Mr. G. Jameson. 

Cardinal Richelieu Mr. Macready. Mr. Edwin Fourest. 

The Chevalier de Mauprat Mr. Anderson. Mr.J.VV. Wallace, Jr. 

The Sieur de Beringhen (in attendance 
on the King— one of the Conspir- 
ators) Mr. F. ViNiNG. Mr. HoRNCASTLE. 

Clermont (a Courtier) 

Joseph, a Capuchin Monk (Richelieu's 

Confidant) Mr. Phelps. Mr. A. J. Neafie. 

Frangois (First Page to Richelieu) Mr. Howe. Mrs. W. Sefton. 

Huguet (an Oificer of Richelieu's House- 
hold Guard— a Spy) Mr. G. Bennett. 

First Courtier Mr. Roberts. 

"i Mr. Matthews. 

First, Second, and Third Secretaries / ^^ Tilbdry 

°^S*^*«- ) MnYARNOLD*. 

GovM'nor of the Bastile Mr. "Waldron. 

Jailer Mr. Ayliffb. 

Julie de Mortemar (an Orphan, Ward 

to Richelieu) Miss Helen Faucit. Miss V. Monier. 

Marion de Lorme (Mistress to the Duke 

of Orleans, but in Richelieu's pay ). Miss Chables. Mrs. Rogebs. 

Courtiers, Pages, Conspirators, Officers, Soldiers, etc. 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS- AND A'QUARTER. 



SCENE.— Paris and the vicinity. PERIOD.— 16i2. 



SCENERY. 
ACT I., Scene i.— Handsomely furnished room in the house of Marion de LoBiiz. 

3d Grooves. 



Table and 

B. 2 e. » vJ » 

Chairs. 



Entrance 

I I 3d Grooves. 



with curtains. 
Table and 



*\) * L. 2 e. 

Chairs. 



B. lE. 



L. 1 E. 



At B. c. a handsome gilded table and four chairs; l. c. another table and two 



KICHELIEU. 6 

uflairs ; wine, fruit, goblets, etc , on table k. c. Tlie flats (in 31 grooves) represent 
a handsome chiimber, d. l. f., concealed by curtains. 
Scene //. — Room in the Cardinal's Palace. 

5tli G. I Clock I 1 Door. | 5th G. 

* in recess. * 
Statue. Statue. 



Chair. 
R. 4 E. " : Table. 



Door concealed by arras. 
L. -1 E. 



Door. . • Footstool. 

. • Screen. 

B. 3 E. * * L. 3 E. 

Suit of armor 
and sword rests. 

B. 2 E. L. 3 E. 



-Door. 



L. 1 E. 



The walls are hung with tape.stry in the 5th grooves. A large screen placed in a 
slanting direction, r. o. b. A door beliind the arras, l. u. e. ; door l. h. f. ; a rude 
clock in recess, c, over it a bust; weapons and banners hung abottt ; statues at 
back, u. c., L. c, and l. h. ; a suit of armor r. c, and leaning on a rack or support 
near it a short sword and a large two-handed sword of the period ; a large antique 
table with cover, c, upon whish are books, papers, etc. ; hand bell ; b. h. of table a 
high antique arm-chair, with crimson seat and back ; by the side of it a footstool. 

^C2'/;., ,S'cene /.—Apartment in De Maupuat's new house. The flats in 3d 
grooves, and the wings represent the interior of a richly decorated apartment, 
large casements r. o. and l. c, hung with tapestry, and painted so as to represent 
being seen through the glass the gardens and domes of tlie Luxembourg Palace. 

iScene II. — Same as Act I,, Scene II. 

ACT III., Scene /.-Richelieu's Castle at Ruelle. The scene represents a large 
chamber in the Gothic style ; large doors c. of f , which are in the 4th grooves ; 
doors I,. H. and r. h. between 2 and 3 e. ; window l. c. f., through which the 
moonlight shines now and then ; the next scene closes in on 3d grooves. Table c, 
and chairs. 

Scene //.—Room in the house of C tint de Baradas, in the 3d grooves ; merely 
a representation of a richly-furnished apartment. 

A VT IV., Scene /.—The Gardens-of the Louvre. The flats in 4th grooves and the 
wings represent beautiful gardens ; vases, fountains, etc., extending in perspective. 

ACT r, Scene /.—A corridor in the Bastile. The flats in the 2d grooves repre- 
sent miissive, dismal-looking stone walls ; door l. f., with bolts and lock ; door r. f. 

Scene II —The King's closet in the Louvre. The wings represent the sides of a 
gorgeously fltted-up apartment. Folding-doors r. f., and the left half of flats rep- 
resent in perspective a succession of rich rooms or gallery, so that on entering the 
King and suite appear to have traversed these apartments. Two richly gilded 
chairs at 3 e., both sides ; afterwards moved to r. c. and l. o. 



COSTUMES. 
Compiled Expressly for this Edition from (he best French works. 

Louis,— A complete suit of black velvet ; shoes, roses, and a black plume ; the Cross 
of St. Louis on hia cloak and suspended round his neck. 

Gaston. — Claret-colored doublet, cloak, and breeches ending with lace ; loose boots 
of buff leather ; hat and plume ; Cross of St. Louis upon the cloak, and the or- 
der round the neck. 



4 RICHELIICU. 

Db Berikohss, J 

Clermont, and V Similar styles, but of various colors. 

Court. j 
Baradas. — Green velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, slashed with yellow satin, 
trimmed with gold ; shoes and roses ; cloak with Star of St. Louis on it, order 
round the neck 

Cardinal Riohelieit.— Scarlet cassock ; tippet of white fur lined with scarlet ; red 
stockings, shoes, and skull cap ; a rich robe tor the first dress. 

De Mauprax. — 1st Dress : Plain dark velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, terminat- 
ing with lace ; lace ruffles and collar ; flip boots; hat and plume. 2d Dress ; 
Eich blue velvet doublet, cloak, and breeches, slashed with white satin and 
trimmed with gold and lace ; lace collar, ruffles, and lace at end of breeches ; 
shoes and roses; hat and feathers. 3d Dress: Complete suit of steel armor. 
ilh Dress : Same as 2d Dress. 

Joseph. — A monk's brown frock, girdle, flesh-colored stockings, and plain sandals 

HuGtJET. — Buff jerkin, large red breeches, heavy boots .and gauntlets ; a gorget and 
morion ; a bandoleer across the shoulder. 

FnANCOTS.^lsi Dress : White and red doublet, cloak, and breeches, slightly trim- 
med with gold: shoes. '2d Dress : Buff-oolored jerkin and breeches, steel back 
and breast plates; cross belt and waist belt, sword and boots and spurs. 3d 
Dress : Plain jerkin and breeches, with shoes and rosettes ; cap with rosette. 

Capt. of Archers —Green jerkin and breeches; waist belt, buff gloves, and boots; 
hat and feather. 

Secretaries of State. — Black velvet doublets, cloaks, and breeches ; lace collars 
and cuffs ; shoes and roses. 

Governor of Basti i.e. —Dark-colored doublet and breeches ; belt, shoes, and roses. 

Jailer. — Dark-colored plain jerkin and breeches, with waist-belt and boots. 

Guards. — Doublets with loose sleeves ; breeches, stockings, and high shoes with 
rosettes ; the letter " L" and a crown embroidered on the breast ; hat and feath- 
ers. 

Pages. — Scarlet and purple doublets, cloaks, and breeches, slightly trimmed with 
gold ; shoes and rosettes. 

Julie.— AVhite satin, trimmed with blue and silver; a handsome travelling wrapper 
for 3d Act. 

Marion de Lorme. — Amber .and gold ; very rich in jewels .and ornaments ; a veil 
for the 2d Act. 



PROPERTIES. 



ACT I., Scene 1. — Two richly-gilJed tables and six chairs ; wine, fruits, .and goblets ; 
dice and box; pieces of gold; swords for all ; four arquebuses; parchment for 
Baradas. Scene 2.— A large screen; large table and cover; books, papers, 
writing materials ; quill pens ; a rude sort of clock ; massive antique chair with 
crimson seat and back ; footstool : busts; statues; weapons and banners scat- 
tered about and against the wall ; suit of armor; a long sword and a two-han- 
dled sword ; small bell on table ; carbine for Huouet, 

ACT II,, Scene 1.— Large sheet ot paper with seal attached for Baradas; parchment 
scroll for him; table napkin for De Berisghen. Scene 2.— As in Act 1., Scene 
2, but with purse and gold on table. 

ACT 111., Scene 1.— Antique table with chairs ; books; purse with gold pieces for 
Francois ; lamp on table ; suit of armor and sword tor Dr Mauprat ; antique 
couch and fittings. Scene 2.— Parchment for Baradas ; cross-bows tor Archers. 

ACT IV., Scene L— Arquebuses lor Guards ; parchment for warrant. 

ACT v.. Scene 1.— Keys for Jailer ; folded paper as a passport ; sealed packet for 
De Beringhen. Scene 2,— Watch for Baradas ; papers and large portfolios for 
the three Secretaries ; two gilded chairs ; parchment as before, and also sealed 
packet. 



KICHELIEU. 



TRE STORY OF THE PLAY. 

The opening of the play occurs during the reign of Louis XIII., King of France, 
at a period when the Cardinal Bichelieu liad risen high into power, liaving gradu- 
ally but firmly worked his way up in a progressive journey of many years. But the 
weakness of the monarch, and the grand intellect, cou;iled with firmness, indeed, 
severity, of the minister operated to produce a spirit of discontent in the court> 
which had culminated in a powerful conspiracy, not for the love of nation, but for 
personal aggrandizement. Upon this state of things starts the play. Some idea of 
the character of the Cardinal, and the position of affairs, both before and at this 
time, are shown in the elegant "preface" of the distinguished author, and by the 
"Remarks " which accompany tlie present edition. 

At the commemt'nt of tlie play, Gaston, Duke of Orleans, brother to the King, has 
foi'med a conspiracy for liis detlirouement, and possessing power, r ink, and influ- 
ence, has enlisted on his side, not only Baradas, the King's favorite, antl one of his 
chief officers, but miuy otlier courtiers and presumed supporters of the crown ; not 
the least amongst them being the Due de Bouillon, one of the great leaders of the 
French Army, then operating against the Spaniards ; for it is upon his support and 
that of his soldiers, that the hopes of the conspirators rest — hence, the importance 
attached to the " dispatch " introduced in the play. 

The meetings are held at the house of Marion de Lorme, a fascinating beauty, 
mistress of the Duke of Orleans, but honestly in the service and pay of the Cardinal. 
It is at one of these meetings the play opens. 

Biradas reveals to Orleans the proposed scheme for the Due de Bouillon forsak- 
ing his allegiance to the King of France — joining his troops with those of his enemy, 
the King of 8pain ; then marching on to Paris — dethroning the King, appointing 
Orleans Regent — and Baradas and the other lords members of the Council, when 
they would carry out more fully a preliminary treaty with Spain for an increase of 
•wealtli and power— and he produces the parchment to be signed by all who join in 
the compact. ' 

The Duke of Orleans suggests, however, that Richelieu, with his well-known 
argus eyes and secret powers and appliances, might gain information of their 
schemes, and then — " good bye to life !" 

Such a suggestion, however, B.ir.idas meets boldly, and suggests, that whilst the 
dispatch, when duly signed, is sent to the Due de Bouillon, the Cardinal, must, by 
some trusty hand, be sent to Heaven. To consider further, a meeting tor the 
morrow is appointed. 

Amongst the compmy present is a young courtier — the Chevalier de Mauprat — 
gay, dashing, brave, and of good birth, in fact, a Don Cfesar de Bazan of that period. 
He has been induced to play— lost all— and there is nothing left but his honor and 
his sword. The courtiers, therefore, having no more money to gain, leave him to 
himself; but Baradas, kceu-siglited and foreseeing, detects the presence of some -^ 

grievance on his mind whicli will make liira a ready tool lor the pui'poses of the con- 
spiracy, and remains to question him. He sjon learns that hating the Cardinal, 
and under the influence and control of the Duke of Orleans, De Mauprat, some time 
previously had joined in a revolt against the King, in the Provinces, and aided by a 
number of daring, reckless spirits like himself, had gone so fir as to seize upon a 
small town and hoist the flag of rebellion. Orleans, when lie found affairs getting 
bad, and that he would be compelled to retreat, insisted that this had been done 
without his order or authority, and consequently, when he and his companions, be- 
ing compelled to yield, receive 1 a general amnesty, the name of De Mauprat was 
erased from the pardon, Richelieu telling him to go and join the army then fighting 
against the Spaniards, and meet a soldier's fate rather than end his life upon a 
traitor's scaffold, beneath the headsman's axe. He proceeds to the seat of war, fights 
valiantly, and returns ; not to meet praise from the Cardinal, but the severest cen- 
sure, with an intimation that though he has escaped the sword the axe may one day 
fall. 



6 EICHELltU. 

Upon this information, Baradas endeavoi's to induce liim to side against the Car- 
dinal, but De Miuprat knows his immense power and is proof against the tempta- 
tion ; whereupon, Biradas hints artfully, that he loves the beautiful Julie de Jlor- 
temar, an orphan, under the Cardinal's protection, of whom he is himself deeply- 
enamored. The shot is well aimed ; De M.iuprat confesses to possess an antipathy to 
Richelieu, and at the same time admits his love for Julie — at this moment the order 
for his arrest arrives, and before further treaty can be made, he is conducted away. 

Baradas rejoices ; in youth, strength valor, and now in love he had always been 
De Mauprat's inferior— but with his rival removed, success lay before him. Although 
the King, it was rumored, also loved Julie, he was determined to wed her— to be- 
come Minister of France — and by the aid of the parchment, when signed, and the 
assistance of the Uuc de Bouillon and the Spanish Army he would accomplish; 
dethrone the King-, and " all in despite of my Lord Cardinal." 

The scene then shifts to llichelieu's palace, where Joseph, a Capuchin monk, and 
his confidant, is acquainting him of the traitorous plot that is in progress —the par- 
ties concerned in it, and further, that the King has been charmed by Julie. Riche- 
lieu is grieved to hear this, bat with a firm conceit and consciousness of his extraor- 
dinary power, ho declares emphatically that the King must have no goddess but the 
State — and that State must be— himself ! Nothing daunted, Joseph asserts that 
the King, to conceal liis love, and to bring Julie near him, intends to cause her to be 
married to Baradas. Richelieu determines to tliwart this sacrifice, and vows that 
the only clasp round the neck of B iradas shall be the axe, and not the arms of his 
ward. 

Julie arrives, and dispatching Joseph to his prayers, Richelieu feelingly tells her 
of her father's friendship, who, dying bequeathed her to his care, and that she shall 
find in him a second father, who will confer upon her a dowry of wealth, rank, and 
love worthy of the highest station. He closely and skillfully questions her ol the 
attentions paid her by the King, Baradas and other courtiers, but without produc- 
ing any effect, when Huguet, one of his officers, but also a spy against him, announ- 
ces that the Chevalier de Mauprat waits an audience. Julie, thrown off her guard, 
starts at the name, and the Cardinal quickly detects the implied confession of love. 

He commands her to look higher for a match, and warns her that if she hates his 
foes, she must hate De Mauprat ; but she m ikes such an earnest appeal that his 
sternness is disarmed, and he consents to blot out his name from his list of foes. 

Dismissing her into an adjoining chamber, he summons De Mauprat to his pres- 
ence ; earnestly he reminds him of all the past events, and rebukes him bitterly for 
having since his return passed his time in wild and reckless living, and in a keen 
and smartly-telling speech, shows him that to live upon the means and labors of 
others, without the prospect of repaying them, is simply trickery and theft. His 
debts must bo paid; but when De Mauprat, answering boldly, says that he is ready 
to do so, but he should be glad to know where he can borrow the money, the humor 
of the Cardinal is touched, his severity relaxed, and he perceives at once that the 
Chevalier is exactly the man to serve the schemes he has in view, and provea friend. 

In one of the finest speeches in the play he tells him, though men say he is cruel, 
he is not so ; he is just, and. portrays how he has reconstructed France, and from 
sloth and crime, raised her to wealth and power; that France needs his aid — and 
though he came to meet him as a foe, he shall depart as a friend, with honor and 
wealth in store. De Mauprat is, very naturally, completely astounded at this sud- 
den change ; under arrest, he came to the interview with the belief that after it, he 
should proceed to the Bastile and thence to the scaffold ; instead of which, there 
comes an offer of friendship and favor, nay, more, the Cardinal tells him he is aware 
of his love for Julie, and offers her in marriage. De Mauprat, feeling that the sen- 
tence of death still hangs over him, and that honor forbids the wedding, refuses. 
In apparent anger, the Cardinal directs his removal to the adjoining chamber 
(whither he has already sent Julie), and with mock solemnity bids him prepare to 
behold his execution— that his doom will be private — and to seek speedily for 
Heaven's mercy. 



RICHELIECr, - / 

£ummoning Joseph, the Cardinal gives orders for the preparation of the neces- 
sary deeds, and tho arrangement of his house near the Luxembourg Palace, as a 
bridal present for his ward. Returning, overwhelmed with surprise and joy, De 
Mauprat and Julie receive his congratulations, and upon their departure, another 
brief but eloquent and thrilling speech, tells of the great man's power and his soul- 
binding, ardent love for his country. 

" France ! I love thee ! 
All earth sha'l never pluck thee from my hand ! 
My mistress, France — my wedded wife — sweet Frpnoe, 
Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ?" 

But the course of true love never did run smooth, and Tie Mauprat's case is no ex- 
ception. Baradas has learned of the marriage — told the King, thus making him a 
foe to the husband, and exercising his influence, procures a royal warrant, forbid- 
ding De Mauprat communicating with Julie by word or letter, and so to continue 
until the formal annulment of the marriage is obtained, it being illegal. The sen- 
tence of death was still in force ; Julie was a lady of the Court, and as such, accord- 
ing to the laws of France, could not lawfully be married without the King's permis- 
sion. Armed with this order, Baradas repairs to De Mauprat's house immediately 
after the wedding, and meeting him, artfully and skillfully points out, that all which 
has taken place is only part of a wily, ambitious scheme of Richelieu's — the King 
loves Julie— to encourage this will increase the Cardinal's position and power — to 
avoid scandal she must first be married to some one, and in selecting De Mauprat, 
he had gratified two passions — ambition, by the grandeur of his ward, and vengeance 
by the dishonor of his foe. So skillfully, and with such subtlety is the story to'd 
that De Mauprat believes it; his anger is unbounded— again the tempter strikes, 
calling upon him to join the conspiracy ; with Richelieu dead, and Baradas Prime 
Minister, all will be forgotten. Maddened with the thoughts of how basely he has 
been deceived, De Mauprat refuses to listen, and quits the spot; but not to escape. 
Another meeting is to take place to-njght, when the compact is to be signed by all 
the League and forwarded to the Due de Bouillon. Baradas determines that of 
this dispatch De Mauprat is to know nothing— he shall merely be posted as a sentry 
at the door— but he shall be the murderer of the Cardinal. At this moment, De 
Mauprat returns in a perfect state of frenzy. He has seen the King's carriage pass« 
and in the blindness of his passion, imagines he saw within it — Julie ! Baradas 
promptly seizes the golden opportunity, and assures him that it was so. Mad with 
vengeance, De Mauprat believes him, consents to join the conspiracy, and swears 
that only the blood of Richelieu can obliterate the stain cast upon his honor. 

In the meanwhile, Joseph has learned more of the proceedings, the plot for the as- 
sassination, and the intended meeting. The story rouses up all the latent energy of 
^he great Minister ; he speaks in glowing terras of the exploits of his youth, and 
bids his page bring to him the double-handed sword he once wielded with such 
force and skill. Alas ! the strength of youth has fled. Sinking into his chair, he 
grasps his pen — that is now his weapon— and ruled by a master hand — 

" The pen is mightier than the sword 1" 

Marion arrives with further news of the meeting, and with the intimation that 
the Duke of Orleans had requested her to find a messenger upon whose fidelity she 
could rely, to convey dispatches that night to the Due de Bouillon; and she had 
promised to send her brother. This is but a subterfuge to assist the Cardinal, to 
whom she leaves the selection ; he chooses his favorite page, Frangois, as being 
voung, unnoted, faithful, brave, ambitious. He instructs him to arm himself, fol- 
low Marion, obtain the packet, and upon the fleetest steed he can procure, bring it 
to the Castle of Ruelle, whither the Cardinal intends to go for safety. He then 
questions Joseph as to the faithfulness of Huguet, who, unnoticed, enters, and over- 
hears their conversation, by which he learns that certain honors he is expecting are 
to be promised to him but not granted. Breathing vengeance he retires unob- 
served ; but returns shortly to receive instructions from the Cardinal to take steps 



8 mCHELIEU. 

for guarding every outlet and passage of the Castle. With triple walls, diaw-bridge 
and portcullis, Huguet assures him that he can -with twenty men hold out for a 
month against all comers, and he promises they shall be well chosen— from the con- 
spirator's ranks. 

It is midnight, and the Cardinal is at his castle, buried in deep meditation and 
waiting with great anxiety the coming of Francois. He does not wait long— Fran- 
50is arrives, and falling at his feet, with bitter anguish tells him ot the loss of the 
dispatch. Baradas had objected to his receiving it, but Orleans overcame his scru- 
ples, and giving it to him with a purse ot gold, bade him hasten forward, promising 
him thousands more, when Bouillon's trumpets should sound through the streets of 
Paris. 

As he mounted his horse, Marion came to him in the dark, and told him to speed 
well, for Orleans had sworn that before the morning dawned, Richelieu should cease 
to live. She fled, and at the same moment, a hand of iron fell upon him, and ere 
he could draw his sword, the packet was wrested from his keeping, whilst some one 
exclaimed, in a hoarse voice : " The spy is spared — the steel is for his lord !" 

Althouiih almost overwhelmed, Richelieu, in the greatness of his powerful intel- 
lect, is not subdued. The dispatch may yet be recovered ; and telling Frangois he 
has lost that which would have saved his country and made him great, he bids him 
nway, and strive to regain it ; never to see him again until, by recovering it, he has 
acquired the right to do so— always bearing in mind there is no such word as "fail." 
After his departure, Julie reaches the castle. In bitter anguish, she informs 
Richelieu that scarcely was she married when the King summoned her to the palace 
— told her the ceremony was unlawful— compelled her to remain— had even sought her 
chamber, making overtures she had indignantly repulsed. Not content with this, 
Baradas had approached her, and declared his love, but finding himself repulsed and 
defeated, he told her that De Mauprat was aware of the King's passion, and had 
only married her to further his own ends, by placing her in the King's power. In 
the moment of agony, she applied to the Queen, revealing everything, and by her 
aid, she was enabled to quit the palace. Hastening home — she found no home — all 
was desolate — no husband was there to meet her — and not being aware of his arrest, 
she believed him guilty, and had fled to the Cardinal for protection. Richelieu can 
hardly bring his mind to suspect De Mauprat; he endeavors to soothe Julie, and 
conducts lier to rest. The conspirators have entered the castle, and upon returning 
to the chamber, he meets De Mauprat, disguised in a suit of armor with his vizor 
down, who seizes him. In vain he calls for his guards I With a vigorous effort he 
releases himself, and in a fine burst of passionate eloquence, he tells him that Rich- 
elieu dies not by the hand of man — that there is no fiend created who would be a 
parricide of his native land by daring, in killing Richelieu, to murder Fi'ance. 

In bitter terms, De Mauprat taunts him with having spared a young soldier, then 
given him a mock pardon— and afterwards an angel for a bride, only to heap upon 
him dishonor and disgrace. No mercy could now be expected — retribution for the 
young soldier must follow, and the avenger was himself — De Mauprat. But the 
grand old Minister is cool and undaunted ; with stern dignity he orders his as- 
sailant to kneel and crawl for pardon ; he tells him that what he had done was to 
save Julie from the King, by giving her a brave and noble husband ; that she had 
been sheltered by him when her husband should have done it, and that she was now 
in the adjoining chamber ; from whence she enters to the amazement of the Cheva- 
lier. 

In a few words the fearful deception is explained, and the treachery of Baradas 
revealed. De Mauprat informs the Cardinal of his danger — that his guards are nut 
his trusty soldiers, but disguised conspirators of whom Huguet is captain. Loud 
shouts of " Death to the Cardinal !" are heard ; quick as lightning, De Mauprat and 
Julie hurry him away, and when Huguet and the other conspirators rush into the 
chamber, De Mauprat reappears from an adjoining room, and guarding the doorway, 
so that none may pass, he points to a couch at the other side of the room, upon 
which the Cardinal is laying apparently dead. He tells them that he strangled him 
BO softly in his sleep, that all the world will say he died a natural death from ex- 



K.CHELIEU. 9 

hausted nature, and he bids them hasten to Paris with the news, whilst he rvrauins 
to lull suspicion and prepare lor the interment. 

The intelligence is swiftly borne to Banidaa— now is the time for him to turn-' 
Julie must be recovered — he has obt;iined another warrant tor the arrest of De 
Mauprat — Miirion de Lorme is in prison— and when Huguet, full of haste, rushes 
in to tell him of ihe murder, he Cidls the guard, and in spite of his struggles, and in 
spite of his attempts to inform him tliat he lias something' of importance to commu- 
nicate — in fact, the missing packet — he is borne away to the Bastile. Francois re- 
lurns to tell of the loss, and from the circumstance of tlie man who took the dis- 
patch, from him being in armor, suspicion at once falls upon De Mauprat, whom 
Baradas tells Frangois to fiud without the least delay. Fortune throws tliem to- 
gether in a remote part of the palace gardens — and Francois making Icnown who he 
is, De Mauprat tells him that whilst watching at the house, thinking lie was a spy, 
he liad seized the packet— and that since then he he liad given it to— Huh net, he 
would have said— but at that moment he catches sight of Baradas' approaching — 
drawing his sword, he rushes to attack him, but is seized by the guards, and pre- 
vented completing his story. But the dead come to life — astonished and amazed, 
they behold Richelieu appear upon the scene. Taking the writ, he appeals to the 
King for clemency, but without success, and De Mauprat is led off, not, however, be- 
fore he tells Frangois that he gave the packet to Huguet. 

In a sjieech of magniticent force and eloquence, Richelieu calls upon the King to 
bear in mind all he has done for him, and lor France — to do him justice — and to 
grant him protection. In vain the appeal ; only when he sees him throw off his 
haughty bearing and kneels at the throne, will the King listen to his entreaties. 

Now is the moment tliat Richelieu feels the bitterness of the struggle — yesterday 
he was the Cardinal King, the lord of life and death — to-day, a very weak old man. 
Only the possession of the dispatch can save him. 

Returning to the palace, the King sends Clermont with an order for Julie to pre- 
sent herself before him, but she refuses to go, and in this Richelieu upliolds her. 
Baradas arrives with a stern and positive command, when in one of the finest and 
most telling speeches in the play, Richelieu hurls defiance at the King, and dares 
him to take her from his protection under the penalty of the curse of Rome. 

The excitement is too much, and the Cardinal sinks exhausted beneath it. 

Baradas believes that De Mauprat has the dispatch, but he does not like to 
have him searched, fearing that if it should be found upon him open, as it undoubt- 
edly would be, the contents would be read and made use of against his party. He 
cannot yet visit him personally, being obliged to keep close to the King night and 
day, to prevent any of the Cardinal's friends approaching him and whispering in 
his ear words which might disturb his influence and thwart liis schemes. He looks 
upon Huguet's story as a mei-e trick to secure a respite, but to make sure, he sends 
De Beringhen to look into the matter. Frangois, too, determined to redeem his 
honor, tries his utmost to obtain admission to Huguet, and for that purpose hovers 
about the prison gates, pretending to be his S(in. Joseph also makes every effort, 
but not even the threats of punishment from the church can move the Governor to 
depart from the rules. " Fortune favors the brave," and so it does in this case — De 
Beringhen arrives with an order to visit the prisoner, and being won over by the 
pathetic appeal of the presumed son, agrees to let him accompany him. Tlirown 
off' his guard by the order, and De Beringhen's entreaties that the boy may have a 
last word with his parent, the Governor tacitly consents, hinting that if when his 
lordship comes out the boy should slip in without his noticing him it is not his 
fault — if he does not see it, he cannot lielp it, and he will therefore go his rounds. 

De Beringhen enters fhe prisoner's cell, and with beating heart, does Francois 
look through the key-hole. He hears high words between De Beringhen and Hu- 
guet — the cell is dimly lighted— they struggle in spite of Huguet's chains — but De 
Beringhen secures the packet. Frangois hides behind the door, and lets him pass 
into the dark corridor when, dagger in hand, he springs upon him, tears the packet 
from his grasp and makes his escape. 



10 



KICHELIEU. 



In the last scene, we find the Court and all the leading conspirators assembled, 
laying plans for future operations. 

The King, thinking she has changed her views, grants an audience to Julie, but 
she comes to appeal for her husband's pardon, wliich she does in exquisitely written, 
eloquent, and fervent language. 

The King is moved, and directs Baradas to speak with her. He does so, and of- 
fers that if she will annul the marriage and become his wife, the same day shall Dj 
Maupratbe free. With scorn and indignation, the chance is rejected, upon which 
he summons the guards and tlieir prisoner, wlio assures Julie that life is short but 
love is immortal. As he is being led off, the Cardinal arrives, supported by Joseph, 
and apparently sinking fast. He appeals to Barad.is in bis present high position, 
to grant him one favor— De Mauprat's life. Bat the stakes are too heavy — "My 
head," replies the Minister, "I cannot lose one trick." 

Seizin'^ the opportunity of the King's return, the Cardinal, to the amazement of 
all assembled,' announces his resignation, and calls upon his under secretaries to 
read tlieir reports. Tliey show such a state of trouble, revolt, and ruin in all the 
surrounding countries, whilst France aloue is firm, made so, by Richelieu's skillful 
liand, that the King shudders to think there is no master mind like his to succeed 
him. 

At this moment, Francois enters, and as he hands the dispatch to Richelieu ob- 
serves lowly, " I have nol tailed." In an instant it is placed in the King's hands. 
With horror and dismay the conspirators hear it read, and their names repeated. 
Tlie hour of triumph is too much for the Cardinal, who sinks exhausted, as a 1 
think, dying. The King i)assionately implores him to live, if not for his sake, for his 
country — for France ! Like a magician's charm does the word fall upon his ears, 
and with a superhuman power, all his latent energies revive. Orders are sent forth 
for the arrest of the Duo de Bouillon at, the head of his army— one by one, the con- 
spirators are dispatched to their doom— the death writ of De Mauprat thrown to the 
■winds — happiness restored — and the C.irdinal Minister, greater than ever, exclaims ; 

" My own dear France— I have thee yet — I have saved thee ! 
I clasp thee still — it was thy voice that call'd me 
Back from the tomb ! What mistress like our country V 



REMARKS. 



The few observations addressed to the reader of the Lady of Lyons (the first of the 
present new series of Bulwer's plays) are sufficient notes of tiie merits and high in- 
tellectual attainments and ability of the distinguished autlior of the two plays. 

So enthusiastically was the Lady of Lyons received, so decided was its success in 
London and the Provinces, as well as in the United States, that he was encouraged 
speedily to attempt another play. Choosing for his theme a broader and a grander 
basis, he selected the History of France at a great and momentous period, to fur- 
nish the requisite materials. 

Within twelve months after the successful launch of the Lady of Lyons, viz: in 
March, 1839, the literary and dramatic world were gratified by the production of one 
of the finest written and most skillfully constructed historical plays at any time 
offered to the public. 

It was produced at the same establishment — the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 
London — and by a comparison of the cast of characters, it will be seen that inany 
of the leading actors in that play appeared in this — in parts, equally, if not more, 
effective; at any rate of a different and more powerful nature, calling forth all their 
energy and ability, and judging from the criticisms of the time, they were not found 
\rtnting. 

In the United States, where it made its appearance very soon afterwards, only om 



RICHELIEU. 



11 



of the actors in the Lady of Lyons appeared iu Richelieu— but he was a liost in 
himself — Edwin Forrest. 

The author's preface to this play is more lengthy than to the former one, and is 
so beautifully and to clearly worded, that it would be the height of presumption to 
attempt to interfere with it. But a succinct account of the events previous to the 
commencement of the play, and the exact position of the chief persons, may prove 
interesting and afEord tlie reader additional means for obtaining a clearer and more 
thorough knowledge of the story, and a keener and higher appreciation of the 
author's powers of dealing with his subject. 

On the 13th of May, 1610, whilst Henry IV., King of France, was proceeding in 
his carriage through the Rue de la Ferroniere, a man named Francois Ravaillac, 
mounted upon the wheel and aimed a deadly blow at his side, a second followed, 
which reached his heart, and he immediately expired. 

Louis XIII., who succeeded, was then nine years of age, and measures were 
instantly taken for placing the Regency in the hands of his mother, Mary De Medi- 
cis. It was not long, however, before matters assumed a very different aspect to 
that which had previously existed.. 

The government of a woman, and that woman a foreigner, could not maintain the 
lofty tone and vigor which had marked the reign of Henry. The Queen was a per- 
son of weak character and narrow understanding, ruled entirely by favorites and 
confidants. The usual consequences ensured — rival factions and internal disorder. 
In 1614, Louis attained his majority, when the body of Deputies and others known 
as the States General were assembled, and as one of the representatives of the 
clergy, then appeared Armand Duplessis de Richelieu, at that time Bishop of 
Lugon. To strengthen the government, it was determined to marry the young 
king to the Infanta Anne of Austria, a measure violently opposed by the Prince of 
Conde, then in great power, but warmly supported by the Queen Mother and 
Richelieu, who was silently, but surely, working his way to power, and by his 
advice, the Court took the bold step of arresting the Prince of Conde, and others 
of the nobility saved themselves by flight ; riots took place in the City, but were 
soon suppressed, and Richelieu, for his good services, was made Secretary of State. 
He was a firm ally of tlie Queen Mother, supporting her strongly against all oppos- 
ing factions. The military successes were great, but notwithstanding this, the Gov- 
ernment fell into a lamentable state of weakness. 

The King's chief advisers all stood in awe of Richelieu, whose commanding genius 
was apparent; but in spite of all opposition, the Queen Mother compelled Louis, in 
1622, to make Richelieu a cardinal. Affairs grew worse and more unsteady, the 
King disliked the Cardinal, but under the importunities of the Queen Mother, he 
summoned him to his Councih He had not been in ofiice six months before his 
supremacy was universally recognized ; the irresistible energy of his character, and 
extraordinary capacity for government, won their way. Attaining this high posi- 
tion, he started principles which he pursued vigorously through life, the annihila- 
tion of the Huguenots as a political party, the complete subjugation of the nobility 
to the royal authority, and the restoration of France to her predominant influence 
throughout Europe. 

The first plot against him was in 1626, by Gaston, the King's only brother, and 
then Duke of Anjou ; but being detected, and being a mixture of weakness, coward- 
ice and baseness, he betrayed his accomplices, for which the King was weak enough 
TO make him Duke of Orleans and give him large revenues. Richelieu had his 
revenge by the execution or banishment of the other conspirators, and the triumph 
over this plot established his supremacy. From step to step he rose to greater fame, 
and notwithstanding bis exalted rank and ecclesiastical character, he personally 
undertook the military operations at the siege of La Rochelle, and proved he pos- 
sessed all the qualities of a great commander. In 1629, he was invested with the 
most extraordinary powers under the title of " Lieutenant General, representing 
the King's person." He assumed the supreme command of the army, and during 
1630 fortress after fortress, in Italy and Savoy, fell liefore the French forces. 



12 KICHELIEtr. 

In 1637 another conspiracy was formed against Lim by the Duke of Orleans, which 
only failed through indecision. Richelieu was ill, a council was held at his resi- 
dence ; unsuspectingly he descended the staircase surrounded by the conspirators, 
and at this moment his fate hung upon a thread. Gaston's nerve failed him, he 
hesitated to give the appointed signal, the others would not strike witliout orders, 
so the Cardinal escaped. Well might the noble author of the play put into the 
mouth of his hero the words : 

" Armand de Richelieu dies not by the hand 
Of man — the stars have said it— and the voice 
Of my own prophetic and oracular soul 
Confirms the shining Sibyls !" 

In the year 1638, Richelieu received a severe blow by the death of his coniidant, 
the Capuchin Joseph du Tremblay, who was a personage scarcely less remarkable 
in his own line, than Richelieu himself. He had been employed in all the most 
difficult and political negotiations of the time, performing his duties with unswerv- 
ing fidelity to his master and the interests of France. 

Ihe King's health, always feeble, was now much impaired, and Richelieu began 
to reckon with certainty upon obtaining the Regency. But another attempt against 
him was to come. He had placed near the King, in the quality of Equerry, a gay 
and brilliant young nobleman, the Marquis of Cinq Mars, who quickly ingratiated 
himself with Louis, so much so, as to force his way into the Council Chamber, from 
which Richelieu at last sternly excluded him. From that moment. Cinq Mars exert- 
ed all his influence to ruin the Cardinal — enlisting all the Minister's ancient ene- 
mies, more or less, in the plot. Louis was attacked with a fit of illness, and to 
strengthen their position, in case of his death, they entered into a treaty with the 
Court of Spain, to assist them with ti'oops and money, in return for which the King 
of Spain was to receive back all the places conquered by France. 

In 1642, Louis and Richelieu, both in feeble health, journeyed towards the army 
of the south, but Richelieu became so unwell that he was compelled to remain at 
Narbonne, while the King went on. But Louis soon tired of command ; he found, 
that in the absence of Richelieu, he could depend upon no one for the conduct of 
affairs, and a messenger was dispatched to the Cardinal, assuring him that he stood 
higher than ever in the King's favor. At this moment, by a singular stroke of 
good fortune, Richelieu received from some unknown hand, a copy of the treaty — it 
was laid before the King — arrests ordered — additional powers given to Richelieu? 
and while Louis returned to Paris, the Cardinal embarked in a magnificent barge 
upon the Rhone, dragging in a boat behind him, Cinq Mars, and Frangois du Thou, 
son of a celebrated historian of the time, and proceeded to Lyons, where they were 
tried and executed, Sept. 12th, 1G42 — the contemptible Duke of Orleans betraying his 
associates as usual, by acknowledging the treaty. He was, however, deprived of his 
dignity and domains, and banished, as was the case also with the Due de Bouillon. 

Everywhere now was Richelieu tiiumphant, but the end came. On returning to 
Paris, the ravages of a mortal disease, from which he had long suffered, reached a 
climax. On his death-bed he called God to witness that he had pursued no other 
object than the welfare of the church and of the kingdom ; and being asked whether 
he forgave his enemies, he replied he never had any except those who were enemies 
of the State. 

He died Dec. 4th, 1642, at 58 years of age, and in May, 1643, Louis XIII. followed 
him. 

Upon these facts (but as the author frankly observes, taking a little liberty with 
dates, etc.), is the play founded — a play, which is replete with action, interest and 
poetry. It is interesting to compare these historical facts with the story of ihe 
play, and see with what skill and ingenuity the author has constructed it. 

Resuming the remarks, all the actors mentioned in the " Remarks" to the Lady 
of Lyons as appearing as Claude Melnotte, followed Macready's steps in this play, 
and it is therefore unnecessary to repeat here tiie observations I'egarding them which 



EICHELIEXJ. 13 

appear in those remarks, as they are equally applicable to their delineation of the 
character of Richelieu. 

It was the same, also, in the United States. The play was produced at "Wallack's 
Old National Theatre, New York, on Sept. 4th, 1839, with the great Edwin Forrest 
as the hero, and his keen appreciation and masterly execution of the telling' beau- 
ties of the character, secured for him a success and fame unprecedented. He was 
followed by many others, well known to fame, and lastly by Mr. E. L. Davenport, 
who must be admitted to be as good a Bichelieu as any on the stage, and probably 
the best in the United States. 

The character of Richelieu, it will be observed upon close scrutiny, requires very 
great ability and power on the part of the actor to portr;iy it with effect. There are 
so many sides of the wily but fearless old Cardinal — craftiness, courage, liumor, in- 
firmities, vanity, and potency of will, even to the \Ay last all these passions require 
clean and delicate handling. There is little doubt that Macready on the English 
and Edwin Forrest on the American boards were two of the finest representatives 
of Richelieu on the stage, and that the present ones are Mr. Phelps (who was the 
original Joseph in the first representation in London) and Mr. E. L. Davenport, 

The part of De Mauprat was originally filled in London by Mr. James Anderson, 
who afterwards rose to be himself a flue delineator of the leading character of the 
play, as well as of a large range of other characters. Indeed, that was the case 
with many others of the actors in the original cast. Then again the elegant and 
accomplished Miss Helen Faucit, who had made such a hit the preceding year as 
Pauline, in the Lady of Lyons, once more established herself as a great favorite in 
the part of Julie de Mortemar. There was probably also never a finer Joseph on 
the stage than Mr. Phelps, now the English father of Tragedians. So it will be 
seen that, as in the Lady of Lyons, not only was the leading character sustained by 
the greatest actor of the day, but he was well and effectively supported in every 
part by persons who must have rendered the characters well, as they afterwards ad- 
vanced to tlie first rank of the profession. 

At the Old National Theatre, Mr. J. W. Wallack, Jr., in the character of De 
Mauprat made a great hit. He was handsome in face and person, like all of the 
family, and capable, like most of his name, of appearing to the best possible ad- 
vantage where 'action, fine and correct attitude and spirited declamation are needed. 
De Mauprat is brave, gay, and spirited — he is prompt to anger, easily aroused when 
he feels his honor at stake, and as easily subdued when convinced that he is in 
error. It is very probable that the stage has never had a finer De Mauprat than 
Mr. J. W. Wallack, Jr. He married a Miss Waring in 1842, visited London in 1851, 
succeeding Mr. Macready at the Haymarket Theatre, and he was afterwards man- 
ager of the Marylebone Theatre there. 

Miss Monier, the original Julie here, was one of the most beautiful and accom- 
plished girls of the period, and the daughter of parents who had been attached to 
the American stage for years. In 183G, after an absence of eight years, she reap- 
peared in New York (where she had previously played as a child), and a more love- 
ly face and form seldom graced the stage. For a short time she was the proprietor 
of a little theatre on Broadway, opposite St. Paul's Church, called " Miss Monier's 
Dramatic Saloon." In 1838 she succeeded Miss E. Wheatley at Wallack's, where 
she remained until its destruction in 1839. She afterwards married Captain Wynne 
of the British Army, appeared at Drury Lane Theatre, London, in July, 184G, as 
Mrs. Haller in "The Stranger," and then retired. So much for the original Julie, 
De Mauprat, and Kichelieu. j, u. e. 



14 EICHELIETJ. 



BILL FOR PR0GBA3IMES. 

The events take place in the city of Pari-<, and the environs, and at the Castle of 
Kuelle, two leagues from Paris. Period, 1642. 

ACT I.— Tbe First Day. 

Scene I.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MARION DE LORME. 

The Meeting of the Conspirators — The Female Spy — The Chevalier de Mau- 

praVs Last Stake — The History of a Court Galla^it A CardinaVs 

Trick — Arrest of the Chevalier — A Rival's Triumph. 

Scene II —A ROOM IN THE CARDINAL'S PALACE. 

Richelieu atul his Priestly Confidant — The Cardinal's Ward— A Story of 
Love — A Lesson to Youth — From an Enemy to a Friend — From, a Lover 
to a Husband. 

ACr II.— Tbe Second Day. 

Scene I.— APARTMENT IN THE CHEVALIER DE MAUPRAT'S 
NEW HOUSE. 

A Bride but no Wife — The Royal Warra7it — The King Loves Julie — The 
Trap Baited for a new Victim — The King Against the Cardinal — A 
Husbands Jealousy — The Compact of Death ! 

Scene II.— A ROOjVI IN THE CARDINAL'S PALACE. 
The First Story of the Conspiracy — Which is to Win? — The Prowess of a 
Youth fil Knight, but now an aged Minister — '' The pen is mightier than 
the sword" — The Story of Marion de Lornie — The Tale of Treachery 
Divulged — The Trusty Messenger shall be the Page Francois — A)i 
Officer and a Traitor — The Prey tipon the Alert. 

ACT III.— The Secoutl Day. Midnigrlit. 

Scene I.— RICHELIEU'S CASTLE AT RUELLE. 

The Story of the Lost Dispatch — Away on the Search — There's no such word 
as "■ Fail'^ — The Story of an Insulted Wife — A Libertine King and a 
False Friend — The Mysterious Visitor — The Story of Vengeance and of 
Death — Discovery of the Snare — Approach of the Conspirators — The 
Flight and Supposed Death of Richelieu. 
Scene II. — Triumph of Baradas — Again the Lost Dispatch — The Chevalier 
de Mauprat Suspected — To-morroiv France is Ours ! 

ACT IV.-Tlie Third Day. 
Scene I.— THE GARDENS OF THE LOUVRE, 

The King and the Conspirator — The Page and the Chevalier — Again the Lost 
Dispatch — The Mystery — The false Friend — Arrest of the Chevalier de 
Mauprat again — The Dead come to Life — The Appeal for Mercy — 
Again the Dispatch — An Appeal for Justice — The Star of Richelieu on 
the Wane — " Yesterday the Cardinal King ; today a very loeak old man." 
— The King's commands to Juliet—The Cardinal' s Holy Shelter — " Power 
is my Stake, thy head is thine " — WJio tvill Win the Trick ? 



EICHELIET7. 



15 



ACT v.— Tlie Fourth Day. 

Scene I.— A CORRIDOR IN THE BASTILE. 
Again the lost Dispatch— Father Joseph's attempt Foiled— A Page's Cunning — 
Filial Affection— A Courtier Snared— The Seizure — The Struggle and the 
Dispatch Secured. 
ScEjTE II.— THE KING'S CLOSET AT THE PALACE OF THE 

LOUVRE. 
Conspiracy in the Ascendant — A Wife's Appeal for Pardon — A Royal Favor- 
He's Offer — The Hand or the Grave — "I or thij Husband ? " — Virtue 
and Firmness — Richelieu to the Rescue — The Resignation — The Sinking 
Minister — '^ All is Safe!'''' — The Conspirators Gain — The Last Moment 
— Arrival of the Page tvith the lost Dispatch — "J have not failed" — 
Denouncement of the Traitors — Pardon of the Chevalier de Mauprat — 
Arrest of the Conspirators and Triumph of the Cardinal 
RICHELIEU. 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



B.SB. 

B.3S. 

/ 



/ 



/ 



SCENE. 



0, 

ATTDIENCE. 



\ 



\ 



I.. 3e. 



\ 



L. 18. 



E.. 0. 



Zi. Left. 

li. c. Left Centre. 

L. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 

Ii. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 

L. 3e. Left Third Entrance. 

L. V. E. Left Upi)er Entrance 

(wherever this Scene may be.) 

S. L. c. Door Left Centre. 



C. Centre. 

B. Bight. 

B. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. 

B. 2 E. Eight Second Entrance. 

B. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance. 

E. V. E. Eight Upper Entrance. 

z>. B. c. Door Bight Centre. 



16 kicui;lii:c. 



AUTHOR'S FREE ACE. 

The administration of Cardinal Richelieu, whom (despite all his darker qualities) 
Vollaire and History justly consider the true architect of the French monarchy, and 
the great parent of French civilization, is characterized by features alike tragic and 
comic. A weak king — an ambitious favorite ; a despicable conspiracy against the 
minister, nearly always associate! with a dangerous treason against the State — 
these, with little variety of names and dates, constitute the eventful cycle through 
which, with a dazzling ease, and an arrogant confidence, the great luminary fulfilled 
its destinies. Blent together, in startling contrast, we see the grandest achieve- 
ments and the pettiest ajjents — the spy — the mistress — the capuchin — the destruc- 
tion of feudalism —the humiliation of Austria— the dismemberment of Spain. 

Richelieu himself is still wliat he was in his own day— a man of two characters. 
If, on the one hand, he is justly represented as inflexible and vindictive, crafty and 
unscrupulous ; so, on the other, it cannot be denied that he was placed in times in 
which the long impunity of every license required steru examples — that he was be- 
set by perils and intrigues, which gave a certain excuse to the subtlest inventions of 
self-defence- that his ambition was inseparably connected with a passionate love for 
the glory of his country -and that, it he was her dictator, he was not less her bene- 
fac'or. It bus been fairly remarked, by the most impartial historians, that he was 
no less generous to merit than severe to crime— that in the vaiious departments of 
the State, the Army, and the Church, he selected ahd distinguished the ablest aspir- 
ants -that the wars which he conducted were, for the most part, essential to the 
preservation of Fr.ance, and Europe itself, from the formidable encroachments of the 
Austrain House— that, in spite of those wars, the people were not oppressed with 
exorbitant imposts— and (l;at he left the kingdom he had governed in a more flour- 
ishing and vigorous state than at any former period of the French history, or at the 
decease of Louis XIV. 

The cabala formed against this great statesman were not carried on by the patriot- 
ism of public virtue, or the emulation of equal talent ; they were but court struggles, 
in which the most worthless agents had recourse to the most desperate means. In 
each, as I have before observed, we see combined the twofold attempt to murder the 
minister and to betray the country. Such, then, are the agents, and such the 
designs, with which truth, in the Drama as in history, requires us to contrast the 
celebrated Cardinal— not disguising his foibles or his vices, but not unjust to the 
grander qualities (especially the love of country), by which they were often dignified, 
and, at times redeemed. 

The historical drama is the concentration of historical events. In the attempt to 
place uxwn the stage the picture of an era, that license with dates and details which 
Poetry permits, and which the highest authorities in the Drama of France herself 
have sanctioned, has been, though not unsparingly, indulged. The conspiracy of the 
Due de Bouillon is, for instance, amalgamated with the denouement of The Day of 
Dupes ; and circumstances connected with the treason of Cinq Mars (whose brilliant 
youth and gloomy catastrophe tend to subvert poetic and historic justice, by seduc- 
ing us to forget his base ingratitude and his perfidious apostasy) are identified with 
the fate of the earlier favorite Baradas, whose sudden rise and as sudden fall passed 
into a proverb. I ought to add, that the noble romance of " Cinq Mars " suggested 
one of the scenes in the fifth act ; and that for the conception of some portion of the 
intrigue connected with De Mauprat and Julie, I am, with great alterations of inci- 
dent, and considerable if not entire reconstruction of character, indebted to an early 
and admirable novel by the author of " Picciola." 

London, March, 1839. 



EICHELIEU ; 

OE, THE COI^i^SPIIlAOT. 



ACT I. 

FIRST DAT. 



SCENE I. — A handsomely furnished room in the house ofMARiON de Lorme ; 
entrance l. c, hwiij with tapestry ; a table r. {tcith wine, fruits, etc.). 
at ivhich are seated Bahadas, l of table, foicr Coxjrtjehs, splendidly 
dre-sed in the costume of 1641-2; the Duke of Orleans seated r. ; 
Makiox de Lormk s anding at the back of his chair, offers him a goblet, 
and then n tires. At another table, L., De Beringhen, De Mauprat, 
playing at dice ; Clermont and other Courtiers looking on. 

Orleans (b. of table, drinking). Here's to our enterprise ! 
Bakadas (l. of table, glancing at Marion). Hush, sir! 

Orleans {asiie). Nay, Count, 

You may trust her ; she doats on me ; no house 

So safe as Marion's. 
Bar. Still, we have a secret. 

And oil and water — woman and a secret — 

Are hostile properties, {noise oj playing at l. table.) 
Orleans. Well — Marion, see 

How the play prospers yonder. 
[.Marion goes to the l. table, looks on for a few moments, then exits, l. c. 
Bab. {producing a parchment). I have now 

All the conditions drawn ; it only needs 

Our signatures ; upon receipt of this 

(Whereto is joined the schedule of our treaty 

With the Count-Duke, the Richelieu of the Escurial) 

Bouillon will join his army with the Spaniard, 

March on to Paris — there dethrone the King ; 

You will be Regent ; I, and ye, my Lords, 

Form the new Council. So much for the core 

Of our great scheme, (noise at l. table.) 
Orleans. But Richelieu is an Argus; 

One of his hundred eyes will light upon us, 

And then — good-bye to life 
Bar. To gain the prize 

We must destroy the Argus. Ay, my Lords, 

The scroll the core, but blood must fill the veins. 

Of our design ; — while this dispatch'd to Bouillon, 

Richelieu dispatch'd to heaven ! The last my charge. 

Meet here to-morrow night. Tou, sir, as first 



1"8 KlCHELIEtr. [act I. 

In honor and in hope, meanwhile select 
Some trusty knave to bear the scroll to Bouillon ; 
Midst Richelieu's foes ru find some desperate hand 
To strike for vengeance, while we stride to power. 
Oeleans. So be it; to-morrow, midnight. — Come my Lords. 

Exeunt Orleans and the Courtiees in h a train, l. c. Those at 'he l. ta- 
ble rise, salute Orleans, and re-seal themselves. • 

De Ber. Double the stakes. « 

De Mau. Done, {throws.^ 

De Ber. Bravo ! faith, it shames me 

To bleed a purse ah-eady at its last gasp. 
De Mad. Nay, as you've had the patient to yourself 

So long, no other doctor shall dispatch it. (De Mauprat f 'trows.) 
Omnes. Lost ! Ha, ha ! — poor De Mauprat ! 
De Ber. One throw more 1 

De Mau. No; I am bankrupt, {pushing gold) There goes all — except 

My honor and my sword, {they iise ; he crosses r. ) 
Cler. Ay, take the .sword 

To Cardinal Richelieu ; he gives gold for steel, 

When worn by brave men. 
De Mau. Richelieu ! 

De Ber. Ho Baradas). At that name 

He changes color, bites his nether lip. 

Even in his brightest moments whisper " Richelieu,' 

And you cloud all his sunshine. 
Bar. I have mark'd it, 

Aivl will learn the wherefore. 
De AIau. {going to table, r. ). The Egyptian 

Dissolved her richest jewel in a draught ; 

Would I could so melt time and all its treasures, 

And drain it thus, {drinking.) 
De Beu. Come, gentlemen, what say ye, 

A walk on the parade V 
Cler. Ay; come, De Mauprat. 

De Mau. Pardon me ; we shall meet again ere night-fall. 
De Ber. Come, Baradas. 

Bar. I'll stay and comfort Mauprat. 

De Ber. - Comfort ! — when 

We gallant fellows have run out a friend, 

There's nothing left — e.Kcept to run him through .' 

There's the last act of friendship. 
De Mau. Let me keep 

That favor in reserve ; in all besides 

Your most obedient servant. [Exeunt De Berixghejj, etc., L. C. 
Bar. (l. c). You have lost — 

Yet are not sad. 
De Mau. Sad ! Life and gold hath wings. 

And must fly one day ; open, then, their cages 

And wish them merry. 
Bar. You're a strange enigma — 

Fiery in war — and yet to glory lukewarm ; 

All mirth in action — in repose all gloom — 

Fortune of late has sever'd us — and led 

Me to th? rjink of Courtier, Count, and Favorite, 

Yon to the titles of the v.ildest gallant 



ACT I.] KICHELIET7. 19 

And bravest knight in France ; are you content ? 
(Mauprat goes up and tits l. of r. table) 

No ; — trust in me — some gloomy secret 

De Mau. Ay — 

A secret that doth haunt me, as, of old, 

Men were possess'd of fiends ! {>-ises) Wiiere'er I turn, 

The grave yawns dark before me ! [crosses l.) I will trust you ; — 

Hating the Cardinal, and beguiled by Orleans, 

You know I joined the Languedoc revolt — 

Was captured — sent to the Bastile 

Bar. But shared 

The general pardon, which the Duke of Orleans 

Won for himself and all in the revolt, 

Who but obey'd his orders. 
De Map. Note the phrase ; — 

" Obeyed his orders." Well, when on my way 

To join the Duke in Languedoc, I (then 

The down upon ray lip — less man than boy) 

Leading young valors — reckless as myself. 

Seized on the town of Faviaux, and displaced 

The Royul baiuiers for the Rebel. Orleans 

(Never too daring), when I reach'd the camp. 

Blamed me for acting — mark — tvithout his orders ; 

Upon this quibble Richelieu razed my name 

Out of the general pardon. 
Bar. Yet released you 

From the Bastile - 

De Mau. To call me to his presence. 

And thus address me — •' You have seized a town 

Of France, without the orders of your leader, 

And for this treason, but one sentence — Death." 
Bar. Death ! 
De Mau. " I have pity on your youth and birth. 

Nor wish to glut the headsman — join your troop, 

Now on the march against the Spaniards — change 

The traitor's scaffold for the soldier's grave — 

Your memory stainless — they who shared your crime 

Exiled or dead — your king shall never learn it." 
Bar. Weill 

De Mau. You heard if I fought bravely. When the Cardinal 

Review'd the troops — his eye met mine — he frown'd, 

Summon'd me forth — " How's this?" quoth he; " you have 
shunn'd 

The sword — beware the axe — 'twill fall one day !" 

He left me tluis — we were recall'd to Paris, 

And — you know all ! 
Bar. And knowing this, why halt you, 

Spell'd by the rattle-snake — while in the breasts 

Of your firm friends beat hearts, that vow the death 

Of your grim tyrant 1 WaUe! Be one of us ; 

The time invites — the King detests the Cardinal, 

Dares not disgrace — but groans to be deliver'd 

Of that too great a t-ubject — .join your friends, 

Free France, and save yourself. 
De Mau. Hush ! Richelieu bears 

A charm'd life — to all, who have braved \\\% power, 

One common end — the block. 



i^O RICHKLILU. [act I. 

Car. Nay, if he live, 

The block your doom ! 

De Mau. Better the victim, Count, 

Than the assassin. France requires a Richelieu, 
But does not need a Mauprat. Truce to this — 
All time one midnight, where my thoughts are spectres. 
What to me fame ? What lovei [crosses gloomily lo n.) 

Bau. Yet dost thou love not ? ■ 

De Ma0. Love ? I am young 

Bae. And Julie fair ! (De Mauprat sinks into a chair, r. Aside) It is so, 
Upon the margin of the grave — his hand 
Would pluck tlie rose that I would win and wear. 

De Mau. {starting up gaylij). Since you have one secret, take the other ; 
Never 
Unbury either ! Come {^crosses L., and takes his hat from table) 

while yet we may, 
We'll bask us in the noon of rosy life — 
Lounge through the gardens — flaunt it in the taverns — 
Laugh —same— drink — feast— if so confined my days. 
Faith, I'll enclose the nights! [goes to Baradas, w/io is r.) Pshaw! 

not so grave ; 
I'm a true Frenchman ! Vive la bagatelle ! 

As they are going out, enter Huguet and four Arqui:busierS, l. c. ; they 
range at the back of the entrance. Huguet enters the cha'nber. 

Huguet. Messire de Muiprat — I arrest you ! Follow 

To the Lord Cardinal. 
De Mau. (r c). You see, my friend, 

I'm out of my suspense — the tiger's play'd 

Long enough with his prey, {gives hisstcordto Huguet) Farewjll ! 
Hereafter 

Siy, when men name me, " Adrien de Mauprat 

Lived without hope, and perished without fear." 

[Exeunt De Mauprat, Huguet, etc., l. c. 
Bar. Farewell — I trust forever ! I desigii'd thee 

For Richelieu's murderer — but, as well his m.irtyr! 

In childhood you the stronger — and I cursed you ! 

In youth the fairer — and I cursed you still ; 

And now my rival! While tiie nani3 of Julio 

Hung on thy lips — I smiled — for then I saw, 

In my mind's eye, the cold and grinning Death 

Hang o'er thy head the pall ! By the King's aid 

I will be Julie's husband ' — in despite 

Of my Lord Cardinal ! — by the King's aid 

I will be Minister of France ! — in spite 

Of my Lord Cardinal ! And then — what then 1 

The King loves Julie — feeble Prince — false master — {producing 
the parchmetit) 

Then, by the aid of Bouillon, and the Spaniard, 

I will dethrone the King ; and all — ha — ha — 

All, in despite of my Lord Cardinal. [Exit, l. 

SCENE II. — A room in thu Palais Cardinal, the walls hung with arras. A 
large screen, r. u. e., a door behind the arras, h u. E. — doors l. h anJ 
R. H. A table covered with books, papers, etc., c A rude clock in a 
recess. Busts, statues, book-cases, weapons of different periods, and ban- 



ACT I.] RICHELIEU, 21 

ne}s suspended over Richelieu's chair. A panoply, a small and a two- 
handed sword, R. 

RiCHELiEP and Joseph, r. d. 

Rich. And so you think this new conspiracy 

The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox 1 — 

Fox ! Well, I like the nickname ! What did Plutarch 

Say of tlie Greek Lysander ? 
Joseph. I forget. 

Rich. That where the Lion's skin fell short, he eked it 

Out with the fox's ! A great statesman, Joseph, 

Tliat same Lysander ! 
Jos. Orleans heads the traitors. 

Rich. A very wooden head then ! Well 1 
Jos. The favorite, 

Count Baradas 

Rich. A weed of hasty growth ; 

First gentleman of the chamber — titles, lands. 

And the King's ear ! It cost nie six long winters 

To mount as high as in six little moons 

This painted lizard But I hold the ladder. 

And when I shake — he falls ! What more 'i 

Jos. Your ward has charmed the King 

Rich. Out on you . 

Have I not, one by one, from such fair shoots 

Pluck'd the insidious ivy of his love ■? 

And shall it creep around my blossoming tree 

Where innocent thoughts, like happy birds, make music 

That spirits in heaven might hear 1 The King must have 

No goddess but the State — the Stale — that's Richelieu ! {crosses 
and sits r. of table.) 
' Jos. (l.). This is not the worst — Louis, in all decorous, 

And deeming you her least compliant guardian. 

Would veil his suit by marriage with his minion, 

Your prosperous foe, Count Baradas ! 
Rich. Ha, ha ! 

I have another bride for Baradas. 
Jos. You, my Lord 1 
Rich. Ay — more faithful than the love 

Of fickle woman — when the head lies lowliest, 

Clasping him fondest. Sorrow never knew 

So sure a soother — and her bed is stainless ! 

Enter Francois, l. d. 

^Fran. Mademoiselle de Mortemar. 
/^>CH. Most opportune — admit her. [Exit, FRAN901S, l d.) In my closet 
You'll find a rosary, Joseph ; ere you tell 
Three hundred beads, i IJ summon you. (Joseph going c. ) Stay, 

Joseph ; — 
I did omit an Ave in my matins — 
A grievous fault ; — atone it for me, Joseph ; 
There is a scourge within ; I am weak, you strong. 
It were but charity to take my sin 
On such broad shoulders. 
Jos. {aside). Troth a pleasant invitation ! 

[Ex'l Joseph, d. l. h. 



22 KICilELlKU. [act I. 

Etiter Julie de Mortema.b, l. d. She goes to Richelieu and sits at his 

feet, B. 

Rich. That's my sweet Julie ! 

Jdlie. Are you gracious 1 

May I say " Father 1 " 
Rich. Now and ever ! 

Julie. Father ! 

A sweet word to au orphan. 
Rich. No ; not orphan 

While Richelieu lives ; thy father loved nie well; 

My friend, ere I had flatterers (now, I'm threat, 

In other phrase, I'm friendless) — he died young 

In years, not service, and bequeath'd thee to rae; 

And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy 

Thy mate amidst the mightiest. Drooping ? — sighs 1 

Art thou not happy at the conrt 1 
Julie. Not often. 

Rich, [aside). Can she love Baradas"? 

{aloud] Thou art admired — art young ; 

Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty — 

Ask thee to sing to him 1 — and swear such sounds 

Had smooth'd the brows of Saul t 
Julie. He's very tiresome. 

Our worthy King. (Richelieu, during this dialogue, is writing.) 
Rich. Fie ! kings are never tiresome, 

Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants 

Charm ladies most 1 — De Sourdiac, Cinq Mars, or 

The favorite, Baradas 1 
Julie. A smileless man — 

I fear and shun him. 
Rich. Yet he courts thee 1 

Julie. Then 

He is more tiresome than his Majesty. 
Rich. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowers 

Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath 

Thy heart hears Summer whisper 1 

Enter Huguet, l. d. 

HuGUET. The Chevalier 

De Mauprat waits below. 
Julie {starting up). De Mauprat ! 

Rich. Hem ! 

He has been tiresome too. Anon. [E.vit Huguet, l. d. 

Judie. What doth he ! — 

I mean — I — Does your Eminence — that is — 

Know you Messire de Mauprat 1 
Rich, {writing). Well! — and you- 

Has he address'd you often ? 
Julie. Often ! — no — 

Nine times — nay, ten ; the last time by the lattice 

Of the great staircase, {in a melancholy tone) The Court sees him 
rarely. 
Rich {icriting). A bold and forward royster 1 
Julie. Se ? — nay, modest, 

Gentle, and sad, methinks. 



ACT I.] KICHELIEU. 23 

Rich, [writing). Wears gold and azure ? 

JcLiE. No; sable. 

Rich. So you note his colors, Julie 1 

Shame on you, child ; look lottier. By the mass, 

I have business with tlii« modest gentleman. 
Julie. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no cause. 
Rich. No cause — you hate my foes 1 
Julie. I do ! 

Rich Hate Mauprat 1 

.luLiE. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father. 
Rich. Adrien! 

Familiar ! Go, child ; (Julie «-o«ses to l.) no — not that way; wait 

In the tapestry chamber ; I will join you — go. 
Julie {crosses to r., then pauses). His brows are knit; I dare not call him 
father ! 

But I must speak — Your Eminence — {approaches him timidly.) 
Rich, (slernhj). Well, girl ! 

Julie (kneels). Nay, 

Smile on rae — one smile more ; there, now I'm happy. 

Do not rank Mauprat with your foes ; he is not, 

I know he is not; he loves France too well. 
Rich. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes 1 So be it. 

I'll blot him from that list. 
Julie. That's my own father. [Uxit, r. d. 

Rich, {ringing a small bell on the table). Huguet ! 

Enter Huguet, l. d. 

De Mauprat struggled not, nor murmured 1 
Huguet. No ; proud and passive. 

Rich. Bid him enter. Hold ; 

Look that he hide no weapon. Humph ! despair 
Makes victims sometimes victors. When he has enter'd 
Glide round unseen — place thyself yonder, {pointing to the screen) 

Watch him ; 
If he shows violence — let me see thy carbine. (Huguet gives it to 

him) 
So, a good weapon — if he play the lion. 
Why — the dog's death, {returning the carbine.) 
Huguet. I never miss my mark. 

Exit Huguet, l. d. ; Richelieu resumes his pen, and sloivly arranges the 
papers before him. Enter Dk Mkvvn&.T, preceded by Huguet, ivho then 
retires behind the screen, u. u. e. 

Rich. Approach, sir. (De Mauprat advances) Can ; call to mind the 
hour, 

Now three years since, when in this room, methinks, 

Your presence honor'd me ? 
De Mau. (l. c). It is, my Lord, 

One of my most 

Rich, {dryly). Delightful recollections. 

Dii Mau. {aside). St. Denis ! doth he make a jest of axe 

And headsman 1 
Rich, (sternly). I did then accord you 

A mercy ill requited — you still live 7 



24 ElCHKLItU. [aCI I. 

De Mau. To meet death face to face at last. 

Rich. Messire de Mauprat, 

Dootn'd to sure death, how hast thou since consumed 
The time allotted thee for serious thought 
And solemn penitence 1 

De Mau. (embarrassed). The time, my lord 1 

Rich. Is not the question plain t I'll answer for thee. 

Thou hast sou<?ht nor priest nor shrine; no sackcloth chafed 

Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and the death's head 

Have not, with pious meditation, purged 

Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou hast nol done 

Brief told; what done, a volume! Wild debauch, 

Turbulent riot — for the morn tlie dice-box — 

Noon claim'd the duel — and the night the wassail ; 

Tliese, your most holy, pure preparatives. 

For death and judgment. Do I wrong you, sir 1 

De Mau. I was not always thus — if changed my nature, 
Blame that which changed my fate. 
Were you accursed with that which you inflicted — 
By bed and board, dogg'd by one ghastly spectre — 
The while within you youth beat high, and life 
Grew lovelier from the neighboring frown of death — 
Were this your fate, perchance, 
You would have err'd like me ! 

Rich. I might, like you, 

Have been a brawler and a reveller ; not. 
Like you, a trickster and a thief. 

De Mau. {advancing threateningly). Lord Cardinal ! 

Unsay those words! (Hugpet deliberately raises the carbine.) 

Rich, [ivaving his hand, aside). Not so quick, friend Huguet ; 
Messire de Mauprat is a patient man. 

And he can wait. (Hugcet recovers, and withdraws behind the screen.) 
[aloud) You have outrun your fortune — 
I blame you not, that you would be a beggar — 
Each to his taste. But I do charge you, sir, 
Thatb?ing beggar'd, you would coin false moneys 
Out of that crucible, called debt. To live 
On means not yours — be brave in silks and laces, 
Gallant in steeds — splendid in banquets — all 
Not yours — given — uninherited — unpaid for ; 
This is to be a trickster ; and to filch 
Men's art and labor, which to them is wealth. 
Life, daily bread — quitting all scores with — " Friend, 
You're troublesome !" Why this, forgive me 
Is what — when done with a less dainty grace — 
Plain folks call " theft .'" You owe eight thousand pistoles 
Minus one crown, two liards ! 

De Mau. {aside). The old conjurer I 

Rich. This is scandalous, shaming your birth and blood. 
I tell you, sir, that you must pay your debts. 

De Mau. {advancing boldly to the table). With all my heart. 
My lord. Where shall I borrow, then, the money 1 

Rich, {aside, and laughing). A humorous dare-devil — the very man 
To suit my purpose — ready, frank, and bold. 
{aloud) Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel — 
I am not — 1 am Just ! I found France rent asunder — 
The rich meu despots, and the poor Ijauditti — 



•] 



EICHELIEU. 25 



Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ; 

Brawls festeiino; to a rebellion ; and weak laws 

Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. 

I have re-created France ; and, from the ashes 

Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, 

Civilization, on her luminous wings, 

Soars, Phoenix-like, to Jove ! What was my art? 

Genius, some say — some, Fortune, Witchcraft some. 

Not so — my art was Justice ! (rises) Force and fraud 

Misname it cruelty — you shall confute them ! 

My champion you ! You met me as your foe ; 

Depart, my friend — you shall not die. France needs you. 

You shall wipe off all stains — be rich, be honor'd, 

Be great ;De Mauprat falls on his knee. Richklieu takes 

his hand.) 

I ask, sir, in return, this hand. 

To gift it with a bride, whose dower shall match. 

Yet not exceed her beauty. (Rich emeu raisrs liini.) 
De Mau. I, my lord ! {hesitating) 

i have no wish to marry. 
Rich. Surely, sir, 

To die were worse, 
De Mau. Scarcely ; the poorest coward 

Must die — but knowingly to march to marriage — 

My Lord, it asks the courage of a lion! 
Rich. Traitor, thou triflest with me! I know all! 

Thou hast dared to love my ward — my charge. 
De Mau. As rivers 

May love the sunlight ! — basking in the beams. 

And hurrying on — 
Rich. Thou hast told her of thy love ? 

De Mau. My Lord, if I had dared to love a maid, 

Lowliest in France, I would not so have wronged her. 

As bid her link rich life and virgin hope 

With one, the deathman's gripe might, from her side, 

Pluck at the nuptial altar. 
Rich. I believe thee, {sits) 

Yet since she knows not of thy love, renounce her — 

Take life and fortune with another I^Silent ? 
De Mau. Your fate has been one triumph — you know not 

How bless'd a thing it was in my dark hour 

To nurse the one sweet thought you bid me banish. 

Love hath no need of words ; nor less within 

That holiest temple — the Heaven-builded soul — 

Breathes the recorded vow. Base knight — false lover 

Were he, who barter'd all that soothe in grief. 

Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. 

Revoke your mercy ; I prefer the fate 

I look'd for ! 
Rich. Huguet! (Huguet cowes /w-M^ar^?, r.) to the tapestry 

chamber 

Conduct your prisoner, (to Mauprat) You will there behold 

The executioner ; — your doom be private — 

And Heaven have mercy on you I 
(De Mauprat crosses sloivly to r. ; pauses ; then goes to Richelieu.) 
De Mau. When I am dead, 

Tell her I loved her. 



26 EICHEIIEU. [aCI I. 

Rich. Keep such follies, sir, 

For fitter ears ; — go 

Dk Map. Does he mock rae ? 

[Uxeunt De Maupkat and Huguet, r. b. 
Rich. Joseph, 

Come forth. 

Huter Joseph, r. c, down l. 

Methinks your cheek hath lost its rubies ; 

I fear you have been too lavish of the flesh ; 

The scourge is heavy. 
Jos. Pray you, change the subject. 

Rich. You good men are so modest ! — Well, to business ! 

Go instantly — deeds — notaries! — bid my stewards 

Arrange my house by the Luxembourg — my house 

No more ! — a bridal present to my ward, 

Who weds to-morrow. 
Jos. Weds, with whom 1 

Rich. De MaUprat, 

Jos. Penniless husband ! 
Rich. Bah ! the mate for beauty 

Should be a man, and not a money-chest! {)-ises) Who else, 

Look you, in all the court — who else so well, 

Brave, or supplant the favorite; — ballc the King — 

Baffle their schemes ; — I have tried him. He has honor 

And courage ; — qualities that eagle-plume 

Men's souls — and fit them for the fiercest sun. 

Which ever raelte 1 the weak waxen minds 

Tiiat flutter in the beams of gaudy Power! 

Besides, he has taste, this Mauprat. Wiien my play 

Was acted to dull tiers of lifeless gapers, 

AVho had no soul for poetry, I saw him 

Applaud in the proper places ; — {crosses l.) trust me, Joseph, 

He is a man of an uncommon promise ! 
Jos. And yet your foe. 
Rich. Have I not foes enow ? 

Great men gain doubly when they make foes friends. 

Remember my prand maxims : — First employ 

All methods to conciliate. 
Jos. Failing these'? 

Rich, {fiercely). All means to crush ; as with the opening, and 

The clenching of tiiis little hand, I will 

Crush the small venom of these stinging courtiers. 

So, so, we've baffled B«radas. 
Jos. _ And when 

Check the conspiracy ? 
Rich. Check, check 1 Full way to it. 

Let it bud, ripen, flaunt i' the day, and burst 

To fruit — the Dead Sea's fruit of ashes ; ashes 

Which I will scatter to the winds, {crosses and sits r. of table', Go, 
Joseph. [Erit Joseph, l. d. 

Enter De Maupkat and Julie, r. d ; they kneel. 

De Mau. Oh, speak, my Lord — I dare not think you mock me. 

And yet 

Rich. How now ! Oh ! sir — you live ! 



ACT II.] EICHELIEtr. 27 

Dp. Map. Why, no, methinks, 

Elysium is not life ! 
Julie. He smiles ! — you smile, 

My father ! From ray heart for ever, now, 

I'll blot the name of orphan ! 
Rich. Rise, my children, 

For ye are mine — mine both ; — and in your sweet 

And young delight — your love — {life's first-born glory) 

My own lost youth breathes musical! {theij rise.) 
De Mau. I'll seek 

Temple and priest henceforward ; — were it but 

To learn Heaven's choicest blessings. 
Rich. Thou shalt seek 

Temple and priest right soon ; the morrow's sun 

Shall see across these barren thresholds pass 

The fairest bride in Paris. Go, my children ; 

Even J loved once ! {ihei/ cross l.) Be lovers while ye may ! 

As f/tei/ are going, Richelieu touches Mauprat oh the right shoulder, and 
beckons him forward. 

How is \l with you, sir ? You bear it bravely , 
You know, it asks the courage of a lion. 

[Exeunt Julie and De Maupkat, l. d. 
Oh, godlike Power ! Woe, Rapture, Penury, Wealth — 
Marriage and Death, for one infirm old man 
Through a great empire to dispense — withhold — 
As the will whispers ! And shall things — like motes 
That live in my daylight — lackeys of court wages, 
Dwarf d starvelings — manikins, upon whose shoulders 
The burthen of a province were a load 
More heavy than the globe on Atlas — cast 
Lots for my robes and sceptre 1 France ! I love thee ! 
All Earth shall never pluck thee from my heart ! 
My mistress France — my wedded wife — sweet France, 
Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ! 

[Exit Richelieu, k. d. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 

SECOND DAT. 

SCENE I. — A splendid apartment in De Mauprat's new house. Casements 
opening to the gardens, beyond ivhich are seen the domes of the Luxem- 
bourg Palace. 

Enter Bauadas, l. n, 

Bak. Mauprat's new home — too splendid for a soldier ! 
But o'er his floors — the while I stalk — methinks 
My shadow spreads gigantic to the gloom 
The old rude towers of the Bastile cast far 
Along the smoothness of the jocund day. 
Well, thou hast 'scaped the fierce caprice of Richeliea ; 
But art thou farther from the beadsman, fool 1 



28 EiciiKLtKU. [act ir. 

Thy secret I have whispei'd to the King — 

Thy marriage makes the King thy foe ! Thou stand'st 

On the abyss — and in the pool below 

I saw a ghastly, headless phantom mirror'd — 

Th}' likeness ere the marriage moon hath waned. 

Meanwhile — meanwhile — ha — ha, if thou art wedded, 

Thou art not wived, {retires, l.) 

Enter De Mauprat, splendidly dressed, r. ; crosses to L., and back to n. 

De Map. Was ever fate like mine 1 

So blest, and yet so wretched ! 
Bar. (comes forward, l ), Joy, De Mauprat — 

Why, what a brow, man, for your wedding day ! 
De JIau. Yon know what chanced between 

The Cardinal and myself 1 
Bah. This morning brouirht 

Your letter — faith, a strange account! 1 laugh'd 

And wept at once for gladness. 
De Ma0. We were wed 

At noon ; the rite perforra'd, came hither — scarce 

Arrived, when 

Bar. Well ? 

De Mac. Wide flew the doors, and lo, 

Messire de Beringhen, and this epistle ! 
Bar. 'Tis the King's hand — the royal seal ! 
De Mau. Read — read — 

Bar. {reading). " Whereas Adrien de Mauprat, Colonel and Chevalier in 
our armies, being already guilty of High Treason, by the seizure of our 
town of Faviaux, has presumed, without our knnwlodge, consent, or sanc- 
tion, to connect himself by marriage with Julio dc Mortemar, a wealthy 
orphan attached to the person of her Majesty — We do hereby proclaim 
and declare the said marriage contrary to law. On penalty of death, 
Aclrien de Mauprat will not communicate with the said Julie de Morte- 
m ir, by word or letter, save in the presence of our faithful servant, the 
Sieur de Beringhen, and then with such respect and decorum as are due 
to a Demoiselle attached to the Court of France, until such time as it 
may suit our royal plea.';ure to confer with the Holy Cliurch on the for- 
mal annulment of the marriage, and with our Council on the punishment 
to be awarded to Messire de Mauprat, who is cautioned for his own sake 
to preserve silence as to our injunction, more especially to Mademoiselle 
de Mortemar. 

" Given under our hand and seal at the Louvre. 

" Louis " 

[returning the letter). Amazement ! Did not Richelieu say the King 

Knew not your crime 1 
De Mau. He said so. 

Bar. Poor De Mauprat ! 

See you the snare, the vengeance worse than death, 

Of which you are the victim 1 
De Mac. Ha ! 

Bar. {aside). It works 1 (aloud) What so clear? 

Richelieu has but two passions 

De Mac. Richelieu ! 

Bab. Yes 1 

Ambition and revenge — in you both blended. 



A.Cr H.] KICHELIECr. 



29 



First for ambition — Julie is his ward, 

Innocent — docile — pliant to his will — 

He placed her at the court— foresaw the rest — 

The King loves Julie ! 
Dr Mau. Merciful Heaven ! The King ! 

Bar. Such Cupids lend new plumes to Richelieu's wings ; 

But the Court etiquette must give such Cupids 

The veil of Hymen— (Hymen but in name). 

He loolied abroad— found you his foe— thus served 

Ambition — by tlie grandeur of his ward, 

And vengeance — by dishonor to his foe ! 
De Mau. Prove this. 
Bar You have the proof— the royal letter — 

Your strange exemption from the general pardon. 

Known but" to me and Richelieu ; can you doubt 

Your friend to acquit your foe "? 
De Map. I see it all! Mock pardon— hurried nuptials- 
False bounty— all— the serpent of that smile ! 

Oh ! it stings home ! (crosses, h.) 
Ba.k. You yet shall crush liis malice ; 

Our plans are sure — Orleans is at our head ; 

We meet to-night ; join us, and with us triumph. 
De Mad. To-night? But the King 1— but Julie 1 
Bab. The King, infirm in health, in mind more feeble. 

Is but the plaything of a minister's will. 

Were Richelieu dead— his power were mine ; and Louis 

Soon should forget his passion and your crime. (Db Mauprat 
goes to t.t 

But whither now ? 
De Ma0. I know not ; I scarce hear thee ; 

A little while for thought ; anon I'll join thee ; 

But now, all air seems tainted, and 1 loathe 

The face of man. [Exit De Mauprat, l. 

Bar. Start from the chase, my prey, 

But as tliou speed'st the hell-hounds of revenge 

P.int in thy track and dog thee down. 

Entn- De Bi;ringhem, r., Ms mouth full, a napJdn in his hand. 

Dm Ber. Chevalier, 

Your cook's a miracle — what, my host gone ? 
Faith, Count, my office is a post of danger — 
A fiery fellow, Mauprat ! touch and go- 
Match and saltpetre— pr-r-r-r— ! 

Bar. You 

Will b3 released ere long. The King resolves 
To call the bride to Court this day. 

DsBiiR. Poor Mauprat! 

Yet since you love the lady, why so careless 
Of the King's suit? 

Is Louis still so chafed against the Fox 
For snatching yon fair dainty from the Lion 1 

Bar. S3 chafed, that Richelieu totters. Yes, the King 
Is half conspirator against the Cardinal. 
Enough of this. I've found the man we wanted — 
The man to head the hands that murder Richelieu — 
The man whose name the synonym for daring. 



30 EICHELIEU. [act II. 

De Ber. {aside).' He must mean me. {aloud) No, Count, I am — I own, 

A valiant dog — but still 

Bar Whom can I mean 

But Mauprat 1 Mark, to-niglit we meet at Marion's, 

There shall we sign ; thence send this scroll, {shoiving it) to 
Bouillon. 

You're in that secret — {affectionately) one of our new Council. 
De Ber. But to admit the Spaniard — France's foe — 

Into the heart of France — dethrone the King — 

It looks like treason, and I smell the headsman. 
Bar. Oh, sir, too late to falter ; when we meet 

We must arrange the separate — coarser scheme, 

For Richelieu's death. Of this dispatch, De Mauprat 

Must nothing learn. He only bites at vengeance, 

And he would start from treason. We must post him 

Without the door at Marion's — ^as a sentry. 

{aside) So. when his head is on the block — his tongue 

Cannot betray our most august designs. 
De Ber. I'll meet you if the King can spare me. (aside) No ! 

I am too old a goose to play with foxes, 

I'll roost at home, {aloud) Meanwhile in the next room 

There's a delicious pat6, let's discuss it. 
Bar. Pshaw ! a man filled with a sublime ambition 

Has no time to discuss your pat6s. 
De Ber. Pshaw! 

And a man filled with as sublime a pat6 

Has no lime to discuss ambition. Gad, 

I have the best of it ! [Exit, e. 

Bar. Now will this fire his fever into madness! 

All is made clear ; Mauprat must murder Richelieu — 

Die for that crime — I shall console his Julie — 

This will reach Bouillon — from the wrecks of France 

I shall carve out— who knows — perchance a throne! 

All in despite of my Lord Cardinal. 

Enter De Mauprat, l. 

De Matt. Speak ! can it ba ? Methought, that from the terrace 

I saw the carriage of the King— and Julie ! 

No ! — no ! my frenzy peoples the void air 

With its own phantoms ! 
Bar. Nay, too true. Alas ! 

Was ever lightning swifter, or more blasting, 

Than Richelieu's forked guile 1 

De Mau. I'll to the Louvre 

Bar. And lose all hope ! The Louvre 1 — the sure gate 

To the Bastile ! 

De Mau. The King 

Bar. Is but the wax, 

Which Richelieu stamps ! Break the malignant seal, 

And I will raze the print. 
De Mau. Ghastly Vengeance ! 

To thee, and thine august and solemn sister. 

The unrelenting Death, I dedicate 

The blood of Armand Richelieu I When Dishonor 

Reaches our hearths Law dies, and Murther takes 

The angel shape of Justice ! {crosses k.) 



11.] 



RICHKLIEU, 31 



Bar. Bravely said ! 

At midnight — Marion's ! — Nay, 1 cannot leave thee 
To thouglits that 

De Mau. S[)eal< not to me ! — I am yours I — 

But speak not! There's a voice within ray soul, 
Whose cry could drown the thunder. Oh ' if men 
Will play dark sorcery with the heart of man, 
Let they, who raise the spell, beware the Fiend ! [Krci/it, r. 

SCENE II — A room in the Palais Cardinal {as in the Firs'. Act . IIiche- 
LIE0 ff?ifi? JosHPu, L. D. FRANgois discovered arranging the J'oo'sioo!. 

Jos. (L.). Yes ! — Huguet, taking his accustom'd round — 

Disguised as some plain burger — heard these rufflers 
Quoting your wiwne ; — he listen'd — ' Pshaw!" said one, 
" We are to seize the Cardinal in his palace 
To-morrow !" — " How ]" the other ask'd. — " You'll hear 
The whole design to-night ; the Duke of 0ilean:3 
And Baradas liave got the map of action 
At their fingers' end." — ' So be it," quoth the other ; 
" I will be there — Marion de Lorme's — at midnight !" 

Rich. I have them, man. — I have them ! 

Jos. So they say 

Of you, ray Lord ; — believe me, that their plans 
Are mightier than you deem. You must employ 
Means no less vast to meet them! 

Rich. Bah ! in policy 

We foil gigantic danger, not by giants. 
But dwarfs. The statues of our stately fortune 
Are sculptured by the chisel — not the axe_! 
Ah ! were I younger — by the knightly heart 
That beats beneath these priestly robes, I would 
Have pastime with these cut-throats ! Yea — as when, 
Lured to the ambusli of the expecting foe — 
I clove my pathway through the plumed sea ! 
Reach me yon falchion, Franqois — not that bauble 
For carpet-warriors, — yonder — such a b'ade 
As old Charles Mnrtel might liave wielded when 
He drove the Saracen from i ranee. (Francois brings him one of 
the long two-handed stvords ivorn in the middle ages) With this 
I, at Rochelle, did hand to hand engage 
The stalwart Englisher — no mongrels, boy, 
Those island mastiffs — mark the notch — a deep one — 
His casque made here, — 1 shore him to the waist ! 
A toy — a feather — then ! (tries to wield, and lets it fall) You see, a 

child could 
Slay Richelieu now. {retires to the table and sits r.) 

Fkan. {his hand on his hilt). But now, at j'our command. 
Are other weapons, my good Lord. 

Rich, (ivho has seated himself as to write, lifts the pen). True — This ! 
IBeneath the rule of men entirely great 
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold 
The arch-enchanter's wand I — itself a nothing I — 
But taking sorcery from the master-hand 
To paralyze the Caesars — and to strike 
The loud earth breathless ! — Take away the sword — 



B2 KicmcLiKiT. [act ir. 

States can be saved without it ! {looking at the clock. Fras^ois re- 

2)lnces the sword) 'Tis the hour — 
Rjtire, sir. 

FftANfois crosses behind and exits, k. d. Three knocks are heard, l. u. e. 
RiCHKLiKU repeats them. A door concealed in the arras is ojicned cau- 
tiously. Enter Marion de Lorme, l. u. e. 

Jos. {amazed). Marion de Lorme ! {she passes behind to the r. of Richelieu.) 
Rich. Hist ! Joseph, 

Keep guard. (Josrph retires, d. r.) My faithful Marion ! 
Mardn (kneeling). Good, my Lord, 

They meet to-night in my poor house. The Duke 

Of Orleans heads them. 
Rich. Yes — go on. 

Mar. His Highness 

Much question'd if I knew some brave, discreet, 

And vigilant man, whose tongue could keep a secret, 

And who had tliose twin qualities for service, 

The love of gold, the hate of Richelieu. 
Rich. You 1— 

Mar Made answer, " Yes —my brother; bold and trusty ; 

Wliose faith my faiih could pledge;'* — the Duke then bade me 

Have him equipp'd and arm'd — well-mounted — ready 

This night 'part for Italy. 
Rich. Aha! — 

His Bouillon loo turn'd traitor? So, methougbt ! — 

What part of Italy 1 
Mar The Piedmont frontier, 

Where Bouillon lies encamij'd. 
Rich. Now there is danger 

Geit danger ! If he tamper with the Spaniard, 

An 1 Louis list not to my counsel, as. 

Without sure proof, he will not — France is lost. 

^\hat more 1 
Mar. Dark hints of some design to seize 

Your person in your palace. Nothing clear — 

His Highness trembled while he spoke — the words 

Did choke each other. 
Rich. So ! — who is the brother 

You recommended to the Duke ? 
Mar. Whoever 

Your Eminence may father ! 
Ricii. Darling Marion ! 

{rises and goes to the tabic, and returns ivith a large purse of gold) 

There — pshaw — a trifle ! (gives thepurse to Marion) 

You are sure they meet % — the hour ? 
Mar. At midnight. 

Rich. And 

You will engage to give the Duke's dispatch 

To whom I send 1 
Mar. Ay, marry ! 

Rich, {aside). Huguet"? No; 

He will be wanted elsewhere — Joseph 1 — zealous, 

But too well known — too much the elder brother! 

Mauprat — alas — it is his wedding day — 

Franqois ? — the man of men 1 — unnoted — young — 



ACT II.] EICHELIEXJ. 33 

Ambitious, {goes to the door) Francois ! 
Enter FuANfOis, B. d. 

Follow this fair lady ; 

(Find him the suiting garments, Marion), take 

My fleetest steed ; arm thyself to the teeth ; 

A packet will be given you — with orders, 

No matter what ! The instant that your hand 

Closes upon it — clutch it, like your honor, 

AVhich Death alone can steal, or ravish — set 

Spurs to your steed — be breathless, till you stand 

Again before me. (Francois is going) Stay, sir! You will find 
me 

Two short leagues hence — at Ruelle, in my castle. 

Young man, be blithe — for — note me — from the hour 

I grasp that packet — think your guiding star 

Rains fortune on you. 

Fran. If I foil 

Rich. Fail— fail ? 

In the lexicon of youth, which Fate reserves 

For a bright manhood, there is no such word 

A^—fail! (You will instruct him further, Marion., 

(Marion crosses behind to l. u. e.) 

Follow her — but at a distance — speak not to her, 

Till you are housed. Farewell, boy ! Never say 

" Fail" again. 
Fran. I vi^ill not ! 

Rich, (patting his locks). There's my young hero ! 

[Exeunt Francois mid Marion, l. u. e. 

So they would seize my person in this palace 1 

I cannot guess their scheme — but my retinue 

Is here too large ! a single traitor could 

Strike impotent the fate of thousands. Joseph, 

Enter Joseph, r. d. 

Art sure of Huguet 1 Think — we hanged his father ! 
Jos. But you have bought the son — heaped favors on iiim ! 
Rich. Tiash! — favors past — that's nothing. {c7-osses, l.) In his hours 

Of confidence with you, has he named the favors 

To come — he counts on 1 
Jos. Yes — a Colonel's rank, 

And letters of nobihty. 

Sere Huguet enters, l. d., as to address the Cardinal, who does not perceive 

him. 

racH. What, Huguet !— 

Huguet {aside). My own name, soft! [retires and listens.) 

Rich. Colonel and nobleman ! 

My bashful Huguet — that can never be ! 

We have him not the less — we'll promise it ! 

And see the King withholds ! Ah, Kings are offc 

A great convenience to a minister ! 

No wrong to Huguet either. Moralists 



34 KICHELIEU. 



[act II. 



Say, Hope is sweeter than possession ! Yes ! 

We'll count on Huguet ! 
HuGUET. Ay, to thy cost, thou tyrant ! [Ent, l. d. 

Rich. You are right ; this treason 

Assumes a fearful aspect — out, once crushed. 

Its very ashes shall manure the soil 

Of i)Ower ; and ripen such full sheaves of greatness, 

That all the summer of my fate shall seem 

Fruitless beside the autumn. 
Jos. The saints grant it ! 

Rich, {sohmidi/) . Yes — for sweet France, Heaven grant it ! my 
country. 

For thee — thee only — though men deem it not — 

Are toil and terror my familiars ! I 

Have made thee great and fair — upon thy brows 

Wrealh'd the old Roman laurel ; at thy feet 

Bovv'd nations down. No pulse in my ambition 

Whose beatings were not measured for thy heart ! 

And while I live — Richelieu and France are one. (crosses to k.) 

Unter Huguet, l d. 

HuGCET. My Lord Cardinal, 

Your Eminence bade me seek you at this hour. 
Rich, (crossing, c). Did I 1 True, Huguet. So you overheard 

Stranoe talk among.st these gallants 1 Snares and traps 

For Richelieu 1 Well — we'll balk them ; let me think — 

The men-at-arms you head — how many 1 
Huguet. Twenty 

My Lord. 
Ricn. All trusty '? 

liuGUKT. Ay, my Lord. 

Rich. Ere the dawn be gray. 

All could be arm'd, assembled, and at Ruelle 

In ray own hall ? 
Huguet. By one hour after midnight. 

Rich. The castle's strong. You know its outlets, Huguet? 

Would twenty men, well posted, keep such guard 

That not one step — (and Murther's step is stealthy) — 

Could glide within — unseen 1 
Huguet. A triple wall — 

A drawbridge and portcullis — twenty men 

Under my lead, a month might hold that castle 

Against a host. 
Rich. They do not strike till morning, 

Yet I will shift the quarter. Bid the grooms 

Prepare the litter — I will hence to Ruelle 

While daylight lasts — and one hour after midnight 

You and your twenty saints sliall seek me ihither ! 

You're made to rise ! You are, sir ; eyes of lynx, 

Eats of the stii2, a footfall like the snow; 

You are a valiant fellow — yea, a trusty. 

Religious, exemplary, incorrupt, 

And i)recious jewel of a fellow, Hugnet! 

If I live long enough — ay, mark my words — 

If I live long enough, you'll be a Colonel — 

Noble, perhaps ! One hour, sir, after midnight. 



ACT III.] KICHKLIEU. i 

HuGUET. You leave me diunb witli gratitmle, my Lord ; 

I'll pick the trustiest — (^ ««/(/<;)— Marion's house can funiisli. 

[Exit HuGUET, L D. 

Rich. Good— all favors, 

If Francois be but bold, and Husuet honest. 
Huguet — 1 half suspect — he bow'd too low — 
'Tis not his way. 

Jos. This is the curse, my Lord, 

Of your high stale— suspicion of all men. 

Rich, (sadli/). True— true— my leeches bribed to poisoners— pages 
To strangle me in sleep. My very Kins 
(This brain the unrestiniz loom, from which was woven 
The purj)le of his greatness) leagued against me. 
Old — childless— friendless — broken — all forsake- 
All— all— but 

Jos. What ? 

Rich. The indomitable heart 

Of Armand Richelieu ! (crosses r.) 

J s And Joseph 

Rich, (after a pause). You 

Yes, I believe you — yes — for all men fear you — 

And the world loves you not. And I, friend Joseph, 

I am the only man who could, my Joseph, 

Make you a Bishop. Come, we'll go to dinner. 

And talk the while of methods to advance 

Our Mother Church. Ah, Jose[)h — Bishop Joseph ! [Exeunt, r. 



ACT in. 

SECOND DAY (MIDNIGHT). 

SCENE I. — Richelieu's Castle at Rudle. A Gothic Ohamher. Moonlight at 
the window, occasionally obscured. Large doors c. ; small doors k. and L. 

Rich, [reading). '• In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels 
That life should soar to nobler ends than Power." 
So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist ! 
! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands 
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell ; 
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd 
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life 
Gives battle to the elements — 

Ye safe and formal men, 
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand 
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great, 
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried ! 
Speak to me, moralist ! — I'll heed thy counsel. " 
Were it not best 

Enter Fr.ANfOiS hastily, and in part disguised, D. L. S. E. 

Rich, [fiinqing aiva>j the hook). Philosophy, thou liest ! 

Quick— the dispatch ! Power— Empire ! Boy— the packet! 




36 EIChtELIEC. [.VCl' 11. 

FiiAN. (kneeling). Kill me, my Lord ! 

Ricu. They knew tl)ee — they suspected— 

They gave it not 

Fran. He gave it — he — the Count 

D3 Baradas — with his own hand he gave it ! • 

Rich. Baradas! Joy! out with it! 
Fran. Listen, 

And then dismiss me to the headsman. 
Rich. Ha! 

Go on. 
Fran. They led me to a chamber — Tliere 

Orleans and Baradas — and some half-score. 

Whom I know not — were met 

Rich. Not more I 

Fran. But from 

Tlie adjoining chamber broke the din of voices. 

The clattering tread of armed men ; at times 

A shriller cry, that yell'd out, " U^ath to Richelieu !" 
Rich. Speak not of me ; thy country is in danger ! 
Fran. Baradas 

Questional me close — demurr'd — until, at last, 

O'erruled by Orleans — gave the packet — told me 

That life and death were in the scroll — this gold — {shoiving purse.) 

Rich. Gold is no proof 

Pa«N. And Orleans promised thousands, 

When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets of Paris 

Rang out shrill answer. Hastening from the house. 

My footstep in the stirruj), Marion stole 

Across the threshold, whispering, " Lose no moment 

Ere Richelieu have the packet ; tell him too — 

Murder is in the winds of Nioht, and Orleans 

Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall be clay," 

She said, and trembling fled within ; when, lo ! 

A hand of iron griped me; thro' the dark 

Gleani'd the dim shadow of an armed man; 

Ere I could draw — the prize was wrested from me, 

And a hoarse voice uasp'd — " Spy, I spare thee, for 

This steel is virgin to thy Lord !" with that 

Hevanish'd Scared and trembling for thy safety, 

I mounted, fled, and kneeling at Ihy feet 

Implore thee to acquit my faith — but not, 

Like him, to spare my life. 
Rich. Who spake of life ? 

I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine Jionor — 

A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives 1 (rises) 

Beione ' — ledeem ihine honor — back to Marion— 

Or Baradas — or Orleans — track the robber — 

Regain the packet — or crawl on to Age — 

Ase and gray hairs like mine — and know, thou hast lost 

That whic!) had made thee great and saved thy country, (crosses, 
r. FitANcois rises) 

See me not till thou'st bought the risht to seek me. 

Away ! — Niv. cheer thee, thou hast not fail'd yet — 

There's no such word as fail ! " 
Fran. Bless you, my Ln-d, 

For that one smile ! [Exit, l. d. 

Rich. He will win it yet. 



[ACI III. EICHELIETT. 37 

FrariQois ' — He's gone. My murder ! Marion's warning ! 

Tiiis bravo's tlireat ! for tlie morrow's dawn ! 

I'll set my spies to work — I'll make all space 

(As does the smi) a Universal Eye — 

Huguet shall track — Joseph confess — ha ! ha ! 

Strange, while I laugh'd I shudder'd — and e'en now 

Thro' the chill air the beating of my heart 

Sounds like a death-waicli by a sick man's pillow ; 

If Huguet could deceive me — hoofs without — 

The gates unclose — steps nearer and nearer ! 

Enter Julie, l. d. s. e. 
Julie. Cardinal ! 

My father! {falls at Ms feet.) 
Rich. Julie at this hour! — and tears I 

What ails thee 1 
JuLiK, I am safe ; I am with thee ! — 

Rich. Safe! 

Julie. That man- 

Why did I love bim 1 — clinging to a breast 
That knows no shelter ? 

Listen — late at noon — 
The marriage-day — e'en then no more a lover — 
He left me coldly— well — I sought my chamber 
To weep and wonder— but to hope and dream. 
Sudden a mandate from the Kincr — to attend 
Forthwith his pleasure at the Louvre. 
Rich. Ha ! 

You did obey the summons ; and the King 
Reproach'd "your hasty nuptials'? 
junj;_ Were that all ! 

He frown'd and chid ; proclaim'd the bond unlawful ; 
Bade me not quit my chamber in the palace, 
And there at night — alone— this nioht — all still — 
He sought my jn-esence — dared — thou read'st the heart, 
Read mine ! I cannot speak it ! 
Rich. He a king— 

You — ^woman ; well — you jielded ! 
Julie. Cardinal- 

Dare you say " yielded V— Humbled and abash'd. 
He from the chamber crept— th ^ mighty Louis ; 
Crept like a baffled felon '—yielded 1 Ah ! 
More royalty in woman's hone.>t heart 
Than dwells within the crowned majesty 
And sceptred anger of a hundred kings! 
Yielded! — Heavens !— yielded ! {aoes -l.) 
Rich. To iny breast. — close — close! (they embrace) 

The world would never need a Richelieu, if 
Men — bearded, mailed men — the Lords of Earth — 
Resisted flattery, falsehood, avarice, pride 
As this poor child witli the dove's innocent scorn 
Her sex's tempters, Vanity and Power ! 
He left you— well 1 
J0LIE. Then came a sharper trial! 

At the King's suit the Count de Baradas 
Sought me to soothe, to fawn, to flatter, while 
On ills smooth lip insult appear'd more hateful. 



'38 KlCHEIilEU. [act III. 

Stung at last 

By my disdain, the dim and glimmering sense 

Of his cioak'd words broke into bolder light, 

And THEN — ah ! then, my haughty spirit fail'd me! 

Then I was weak — wept — oh ! such bitter tears ! 

For (turn thy face aside, and let me whisper 

The horror to thine ear) then did I learn 

That he — that Adrien — my husband — knew 

The King's pollutin:j suit, and deemed it honor ! 

Thm all the terrible and loathesmno truth 

Glared on me ; — coldness, waywardness, reserve — 

Mystery of looks — words — all unravell'd — and 

I saw the impostor, where I had loved the god ! 
Rich. I think thou wrong'st thy husband — but proceed. 
Julie. Did you say '' wrong'd " him ? — Cardinal, my father, 

Did you say " wrong'd 1" Prove it, and life shall grow 

One prayer for thy reward and his forgiveness. 
Rich. Let me know all. 
Julie. To the despair he caused 

The courtier left me; but amid the chaos 

Darted one guiding ray — to 'scape — to fly — 

Reach Adrien, learn the worst — 'twas then near midnight ; 

Trembling I left my chamber — sought the Queen — 

Fell a' her feet — reveal'd the unholy peril — 

Implored her aid to flee our joint disorace. 

Moved, she embraced and soothed me — nay, preserved ; 

Her word suflSced to unlock the palace gates ; 

I hasLen'd home — but home was desolate — 

No Adrien there ! Fearing the woi st, I fled 

To thee, directed hither. As my wheels 

Paused at thy gates — the clang of arms behind — 

The ring of hoofs 

Rich. 'Twas but my guards, fair trembler. 

(So Huguet keeps his word, my omens wrong'd him.) 
Julie. Oh, in one hour what years of anguish crowd I 
Rich. Nay, there's no danger now. Thou needsi rest, {takes a lamp 
from the table, c.) 

Come, thou shalt lodge beside me. Tush ! be cheer'd, 

My rosiest Amazon — thou wrong'st thy Theseus. 

All will be well — yes, yet all well. 

[Exeunt through a side door. k. s. r. 

Enter Huguet — Ds Mauprat, l. d., in complete armor, his vizor down. 
The moonlight obscured at the casement. 

Huguet. Not here ! 

De Mau. Oh, I will find him, fear not. Hence and guard {crosses, r.) 

The galleries where the menials sleep — plant sentries 

At every outlet — Chance should throw no shadow 

Between the vengeance and the victim ! Go — 
Huguet. Will j'ou not want 

A second arm ? 
De Mau. . To slay one weak old man 1 

Away ! No lesser wrongs than mine can make 

This murder lawful. Hence ! 
Huguet. A short farewell ! 

[Exit Huguet, l. d. De Mauprat conceals himself , r. 



ACT III.] lacnKLiEU. 39 

Be-enter Richeliep, )wl i?erceicing De Mauprat, r. d. 

JR.ICH. How lieavy is tlie air ! {goes to the table and puts down the lamp.) 

Tlie vei y darkness lends itself to fear — 

To treason 

De Mau. And to death ! 

Rich. My omens lied not ! 

What art thou, wretch 1 
De Mau. Thy doomsnian ! 

Rich. (De Mauprat seizes him). Ho, my guards ! 

Huguet ! Montbrassil ! Vermont ! 
De Mau. Ay, thy spirits 

Foisake thee, wizard ; thy bold men of mail 

Are mp confederates. Stir not ! but one step, 

And know the next — thy grave ! 
Rich. Thou liest, knave ! 

I am old, infirm — most feeble — but thou liest! (Richelieu throivs 
him off) 

Armand de Richelieu dies not by the hand 

Of man — the stars have said it — and the voice 

Of my own prophetic and oracular soul 

Confirms the shining sibyls ! Call them all — 

Thy brother butchers ! Earth has no such fiend — 

No ! as one parricide of his fatherland, 

Who dares in Richelieu murder France ! {^goes l.) 
De Mau. Thy stars 

Deceive thee, Cardinal ; 

In his hot )'outh, a soldier, urged to crime 

Against the State, placed in your hands his life — 

You did not strike the blow — but o'er his head, 

Upon the gossamer thread of your caprice, 

Hover'd the axe. 

One day you summon'd — mock'd him with smooth pardon — 

Bade an angel's face 

Turn Earth to Paradise 

Rich. Well ! 

De Mau. Was this mercy 1 

A Caesar's generous vengeance ? Cardinal, no ! 

Judas, not Caesar was the model I You 

Saved him from death for shame ; reserved to grow 

The scorn of living men — 

A kind convenience — a Sir Pandarus 

To his own bride, and the august adulterer! 

Then did the first great law of human hearts, 

To which the patriot's, not the rebel's name, 

Crovvn'd the first Brutus, when the Tarquin fell, 

Make Misery royal — raise this desperate wretch 

Into thy destiny ! Expect ho mercy! 

Behold De Mauprat I (lifts his vizor.) 
Rich. To thy knees, and crawl 

For pardon, or, I tell thee, thou shall live 

For such remorse, that, did I hate thee, I 

Would bid thee strike, that I might be avenged ! 

It was to save my .Julie from the King, 

That in thy valor I forgave thy crime ; 

It was, when thou — the rash and ready tool — 

Yea of that shame thou loath'st — didst leave thy hearth 



40 ElCHELItU. [aCI III. 

To the polluter — in these arras thy bride 

Found the protecting shelter thine withheld, {goes to side door, r. ) 

Julie De Mauprat — Julie! (Mauprat crosses <o l. ) 

Enter Julie. 

Lo, my witness ! 
De Mau. (l.). "What marvel's this ] I dream ! my Julie — thou! 
Julie (l.). Henceforih all bond 

Between us twain is broken. Were it not 

For this old man, I might, in truth, have lost 

The right — now mine — to scorn thee ! 
Rich. (,c.). So, you hear her "? 

De Mau. Thou with some slander hast her sense infected ! 
Julie. No, sir ; he did excuse thee. Thy friend — 

Tiiy confidant — familiar — Baradas — 

Himsel'f reveal'd thy baseness ! 
De Mau. Baseness ! 

Rich. Ay ; 

That thou didst court dishonor. 
De Mau. Baradas ! 

Where is thy thunder, Heaven 1 Duped — snared — undone — 
{sheaths his sword) 

Thou — thou couldst not believe him ! Thou dost love me ! 
Julie [asuk). Love him ! Ah ! 

Be still, my heart ! {aloud) Love you I did ! — how fondly 

Woman — if women were my listeners now — 

Alone could tell ! For ever fled my dream ; 

Farewell — all's over ! 
Rich. Nay, my daughter, these 

Are but the blinding mists of daybreak love 

Sprung from its verj'' light, and heralding 

A noon of happy summer. Take her hand 

And speak the truth, with which your heart runs over — 

That this Count Judas — this Incarnate Falsehood — 

Never lied more, tlian when he told thy Julie 

That Adrien loved her not — except, indeed, 

When he told Adrien, Julie could betray him. (Mauprat crosses to 
Julie.) 
Julie (embracing De Mauprat). You love me, then ! — you love me — 

and they wrong'd you ! 
De Mau. Ah ! couldst thou doubt it 1 
Rich. Why, the very mole 

Less blind than thou ! Baradas loves thy wife ! — 

Had hoped her hand — aspired to be that cloak 

To the King's will, which to thy bluntness seems 

The Centaur's poisonous robe — hopes even now 

To make thy corpse his footstool to thy bed ! 

Where was thy wit, man "? — Ho ! these schemes are glass ! 

The very sun shines through them. 
De Mau. 0, my Lord, 

Can you forgive me 1 
Rich. Aj', and save you ! 

De Mau. Save ! — 

Terrible word !— 0, save thyself ; — these halls 

Swarm with thy foes ; already for thy blood 

Pants thirsty Murder! {drams Jus sivord.) 



ACT III.] EICHELIEF, 41 

JtrnE. Murder! 

Rich. Hush ! put by 

The woman. Hush ! a shriek — a cry — a breath 

Too loud, would startle from its horrent, pause 

Tlie swooping Death ! Go to the door, and listen ! 

Now for escape ! {crosses k. Julik kneels at the door listening.) 
De Map. None— none ! Their blades shall pass 

This heart to thine ! 
Rich, [dryly). An honorable outwork, 

But much too near the citadel. I think 

That 1 can trust you now ; [slowly, and gazing on him] yes, I can 
trust you. 

How many of my troop league with you ? 
De Mao. All !— 

We are your troop ! 
Rich. And Huguet ? 

De Mau. Is our captain. 

[ivatches the door and stands prepared for defence.) 
Rich. A retributive Power ! This comes of spies ! 

All % then the lion's skin's too short to-niglit — 

Now for the fox's ! — [murmurs without.) 
Jqlie. a hoarse, gathering murmur ! — 

Hurrrying and heavy footsteps ! 
Rich. Ha ! — the posterns ! 

De Mau. No egress where no sentry ! 
Rich. Follow me — 

I have it ! — to my chamber — quick ! Come, Julie ! 

Hush! Mauprat, come ! 

[Exit Julie, De Mauprat, and Richelieu, c. d. 
murmurs at a distance). Death to the Cardinal! 
Rich, (without). Bloodhounds, I laugh at ye ! — ha ! ha I — we will 

Baffle them yet. Ha ! ha ! 
Huguet (without). This way — this way ! 

Enter Huguet and the Conspikators, l. u. e. 

Huguet. De Mauprat's hand is never slow in battle ; 

Strange, if it falter now ! Ha ! gone ! 
First Con. Perchance 

The fox had crept to rest ; and to his lair 

Death, the dark hunter, tracks him. 

Enter De Mauprat, throwing open the doors of the recess, c, in which there 
is a bed, whereon Richelieu lies extended. 

De Mau. Live the King ; 

Richelieu is dead ! 

Huguet. You have been long. 

De Mau. I watch'd him till he slept. 

Heed me. No trace of blood reveals the deed ; — 
Strangled in sleep. His health hath long been broken — 
Found breathless in his bed. So runs our tale. 
Remember ! Back to Paris — 0. leans gives 
Ten thousand crowns, and Baradas a lordship. 
To him who first gluts vengeance with the news 
That Richelieu is in heaven ! Quick, that all France 
May share your joy ! 



42 KICtfELUEir. [act III. 

HuGUET. And you 1 

Db Mau. Will stay, to crush 

Eager suspicion — to forbid sharp eyes 

To dwell too closely on the clay ; prepare 

The rites, and place him on his bier — this my task. 

I leave to you, sirs, the more grateful lot 

Of wealth and honors. Hence ! 
HcGUET. I shall be noble ! 

De .VIac. Away ! 

First Con. Ten thousand crowns ! 

Omses. To horse ! — to horse ! 

[Exeunt Conspirators, l. s. e. De Macprat stands on guard. 

SCENE II. — A room in the Iwusc of Count de Bauadas. Orleans and 
De Beringhen, e. 

De Ber. I understand. Mauprat kept guard without ; 

Knows naught of the dispatch — but heads the troop 
Whom the poor Cardinal fancies his protectors. 
Save us from such protection ! 

Enter Baradas, r. 

Bar. Julie is fled ; — the King, whom I now left 

To a most thorny pillow, vows revenge 

On her — on Mauprat — and on Richeheu ! Well ; 

We loyal men anticipate his wish 

Upon the last — and as for Mauprat — {showinfi n ■writ.') 
De Ber. Hum ! 

They say the devil invented printing ! FaiUi ! 

He has some hand in writing parchmant — sh, Count 1 

What mischief now 1 
Bar. The King, at Julie's flight 

Enraged, will brook no rival in a subject — 

So on this old offence — the affair of Faviaux — 

Ere Mauprat can tell tales of us, we build 

His bridge between the dungeon and the grave. 

Oh ! by the way — I had forgot your highness, 

Friend Huguet whispered me, " Beware of Marion ; 

I've seen her lurking near the Cardinal's palace." 

Upon that hint, I've found her lodgings elsewhere. 
Orleans. You wrong her, Count. Poor Marion ! she adores me. 
Bar. {apologetically). Forgive me, but 

Enter Page, r. 

Page. My Lord, a rude, strange soldier. 

Breathless with haste, demands an audience. 
Bar. So 1 

The archers 1 
Page. In the ante-room, my Lord, 

As you desired. 
Bar. 'Tis well — admit the soldier. ' \Exit Pags, r. 

Huguet — I bade him seek me here. 

Enter Hpgcet, k. 



[ACr III. mCHELir.TJ. 43 

HtJGUET. My Lords, 

The deed is done. Now, Count, fulfill }-our word, 

And make me noble ! 
Bar. Richelieu dead 1 — art sure 1 

How died he ? 
HotJUET. Strangled in his sleep — no blood. 

No tell-tale violence. 
Bar. Strangled? — monstrous villain I 

Reward for murder! Ho, there I {stamping.) 

Enter Captain ivith Jive Archers, k. 

HuGtJET. No, thou durst not ! 

Bar. Seize on the ruffian — bind him — gag him — {they seize him) Off 

To the Bastlle ! 
HtJGUET. Your word — your plighted faith ! 

Bar. Insolent liar ! — ho, away ! 
HuGUET. Nay, Count ; 

I have that about me which 

Bar. Away with him \ 

[Exeunt Hcguet and Archers, r. 

Now, then, all's safe ; Hiiguet must die in prison, 

So Mauprat — coax or force the meaner crew 

To fly the country. Ha, ha ! thus, your highness. 

Great men make use of little men. 
De Ber. My Lords, 

Since our suspense is ended — you'll excuse me ; 

'Tis late — and entre nous, I have not supp'd 3'et! 

I'm one of the new Council now, remember ; 

I feel the public stirring here already ; 

A very craving monster. Au revoir ! [ExUDk Berixghes, r. 
Orleans. No fear now, Richelieu's dead. 
Bar. And could he come 

To life again, he could not keep life's life — 

His power — nor save De Mauprat from the scaffold — 

Nor Julie from these arms — nor Paris from 

The Spaniard — nor your highness from the throne! 

All ours ! all ours ! in spite of my Lord Cardinal ! 

Enter Page, r. 

Page. A gentleman, my Lord, of better mien 

Than he who last 

Bar. Well, he may enter. [Exit Page, r. 

Orleans. Who 

Can this be ? 
Bar. One of the conspirators ; 

Mauprat himself, perhaps. 

Enter Francois, r. 

Fran. - My Lord 

Bar. Ha, traitor ; 

In Paris still 1 
Frax. The packet — the dispatch — 

Some knave play'd spy without and reft it ivam me, 

Ere I could draw my sword. 



44 liicuELiKu. [act IV. 

Bar. T?]a.yeA STpy without ! 

Did he wear armor ? 
Fran. Ay, from head to heel. 

Orleans. One of our band. Oh, Heavens ! 
Bar. Could it be Mauprat 1 

Kept guard at the door — knew naught of the dispatch— 

How he ? — and yet, who other ? 
Fran. Ha, De Mauprat ! 

The night was dark — his vizor closed. 
Bar. 'Twas he ! 

How could he guess 1 — 'sd.-ath ! if he should betray us. 

His hate to Richelieu dies with Richelieu — and 

He was not great enough for treason. Hence ! 

l<'ind Mauprat — beg, steal, filch, or force it back, 

Or, as I live, the halter 

FuAN. By the morrow 

I will regain it, (aside) and redeem my honor ! [Exit Francois, r. 

Orleans. Oh, we are lost 

Bar. Not so ! But cause on cause 

For Mauprat's seizure — silence — death ! Take courage. 
Orleans. Should it once reach the King, the Cardinal's arm 

Could smite us from the grave. 
Bar. Sir, think it not ! 

I hold De Mauprat in niy grasp. To-morrow, 

And France is ours ! [Exeunt, i. 



ACT IV. 

THIRD DAY. 

SCENE I. — The Gardens of the Louvre. Orleans, Baradas, De Ber- 
iNGHEN, Courtiers, etc., r. s. e. 

Orleans (l. c). How does my brother bear the Cardinal's death ? 

Bar. (r. c. ). With grief, when thinking of the toils of state; 
With joy, when thinking on the eyes of Julie; — 
At times he sighs, "Who now shall govern France T' 
Anon exclaims, " Who shall baffle Louis'!" 

Enter Louis and other Courtiers, r. s. e. {They uncover.) 

Orleans. Now, my liege, now, I can embrace a brother. 
Louis. Dear Gaston, yes. I do believe you love me; — 

Richelieu denied it — sever'd us too long. 

A great man, Gaston ! Who shall govern France ? {crosses L. a>id 
back to c.) 
Bar. Yourself, my liege. That swart and potent star 

Eclipsed your royal orb. He served the country, 

But did he serve, or seek to sway the King ? 
Louis. You're right — he was an able politician — 

Dear Count, this silliest Julie, 

I know not why, she takes my fancy. Many 



ACT IV.] EICHELIEU. 

As fair, and certainly more kind ; but yet 

It is so. 
Bar. Richelieu was most disloyal in that marriage. 

LoQis. {querulously). He knew that Julie pleased me ; a clear proof 

He never loved me ! 
Bar. Oh, most clear 1 — But now 

No bar between your lady and your will ! 

This writ makes all secure ; a week or two 

In the Bastile will sober Mauprat's love. 

And leave him eager to dissolve a hymen 

That brings hina such a home. 
Louis. See to it. Count. 

[Exit Bakadas, r. 

I'll summon Julie back. A word with you. 
[TaJces aside First Courtier and De Beringhen, and exeunt, l. s. e. 

Enter Francois, b. u. e. 

Fran. All search, as yet, in vain for MaupraL ! Not 
At home since yesternoon — a soldier told me 
He saw him pass this way with hasty strides ; 
Should he meet Baradas — they'd rend it from him — 
And then — Oh, sweet fortune, smile upon me — 
I am thy scTn!— if thou desert'st me now, 
Come, Death, and snatch me from disgrace. [Exit, l. 

Enter De Maupkat, r. c. e. 

De Mau. Oh, let me— 

Let me but meet him foot to foot — I'll dig 
The Judas from his heart; — albeit the King 
Should o'er him cast the purple ! 

Ee-enter Francois, l. u. e. 

Fran. Mauprat ! hold ! — 

Where is the 

Dk Mau. Well! What would'st thou 1 

Fran. The dispatch ! 

The packet. Look on me — I serve the Cardinal — 

You know me. Did you not keep guard last night 

By Marion's house 1 
De Mau. I did ; — no matter now ! — 

They told me he was here ! [crosses to l. and up the stage.) 
Fran. joy ! quick — quick — 

The packet thou didst wrest from me 1 
De Mau. The packet !— 

What, art thou he I deemed the Cardinal's spy 1 — 

(Dupe that I was) and overhearing Marion 

Fran. The same — restore it ! — haste ! 

De Mau. I have it not ; — 

Methought it but reveal'd our scheme to Richelieu, 

And, as we mounted, gave it to 

Enter Baradas, r. 

Stand back I 



45 



46 RXCHKLIKU. [ACr IV. 

Now, villain ! now — I have thee ! {to FRAxgois) Hence, sir I — 
Draw ! 
Fran. Art mad 1 — the King's at hand ! leave him to Richelieu ! 

Speak — the dispatch — to whoai 

De Mau. {dashing him aside, mid rushing to Bakadas). Tlioii triple slan- 
derer ! 
I'll set my heel upon thy crest ! (a few passes.) 
Fran. Fly— fly ! 

The King !— 

Enter, L. s. e., Louis, Orleans, De Beringhes, Courtiers, etc. ; Cap- 
tain and Guards hastily, l. u. e. The Captain and Guards ratige 
R., Courtiers l , King l. c, Baradas l. c, De Mauprat r. 

Louis. Swords drawn — before our very palace I — 

Have our laws died with Richelieu ? 
Bar. (r. of the King^. Pardon, Sire, — 

3Iy crime hut self-defence, [aside to King) It is De Mauprat. 
Louis. Dare he thus brave us 1 

(Baradas goes to the Captain, and gives the writ.) 

De Mau. Sire, in the Cardinal's name 

Bar. Seize him — disarm — to the Bastile ! 

De Mavprat resigns his sword. Enter Richelieu ^wr? JosefjI) folloived 
by Arquebusiers, l. u. e. 

Bar. The dead 

Returned to life ! 
Louis (l. c). What ! a mock death ! this tops 

The Infinite of Insult. 
De Mau. (r.). Priest and Hero ! — 

For you are both — protect the truth ! 
Rich, (taking the writ from the Captain). What's this ? 
De Ber. (,l.). Fact in Philosophy. Foxes have got 

Nine lives, as well as cats ! 
Bar. Be firm, my liege. 

Louis. I have assumed the sceptre — I will wield it ! 
Jos. {down R ). The tide runs counter— there'll be shipwreck somewhere. 

Baradas and Orleans keep close to the King, whispering and prompting 
him ivhen Richelieu speaks. 

Rich. High treason ! — Faviaux ! still that stale pretence ! 

My liege, bad men (ay. Count, most knavish men !) 

Abuse your royal goodness. For this soldier, 

France hath none braver — and his youth's folly, 

Misled {to Orleans) — (by whom yo^u- Highness may conjecture !; 

Is long since cancell'd by a loyal manhood. 

I, Sire, have pardon'd him. 
Louis. And we do give 

Your pardon to the winds. Sir, do your duty ! 
Rich. What, Sire ? — you do not know — Oh, pardon me — 

You know not yet, that this brave, honest heart 

Stood between mine and murder ! Sire, for my sake— 

For your old servant's sake — undo this wrong. 

See, let me rend the sentence, 
Louis {taking the paper from him). At your peril ! 



ACT IV.] EICHKLIETJ, -i7 

This is loo much. Again, sir, do your duty ! (Mauprat is about 
io exjjostulatc.) 
Rich. Speak not, but go — I would not see young valor 

So liumbled as gray service. 
Db Mau. Fare you well! {kisses Richelieu's hand) 

Save Julie, and console her. 
FaAN. {aside to Mauprat, as he is being led off). The dispatch ! 

Your fate, foes, life, hang upon a word — to whom ? 
De Mau. To Huguet. [Exeunt De Mauprat and Guard, l. u. e. 

Bar. {aside to 'E&Asqois). Has he the packet "? 
Fran. He will not revea! — 

{aside) Work, brain — beat heart! — '•'■ There' s no such word as fail!" 

[Exit FkAK^.OIS, 1!. u. E. 

{All the Courtiers have closed round the King, shutting Rich !• lieu out.) 
Rich, (fiercely). Room, my Lords, room! The Minister of France 

Can need no intercession with the King, {they fall back.) 
Louis. What means this false report of death, Lord Cardinal^ 
Rich Are you then anger'd. Sire, that I live still ? 

Louis. No ; but such artifice 

Rich. Not mine — look elsewhere ! 

Louis — my castle swarm'd with the assassins. 
Bar. {advancing, ii.). Wo have punished them already. Huguet. now 

In the Bastile. Oh, my Lord, tve were prompt 

To avenge you — ive were 

Rich. WeI Ha! ha! you hear, 

My liege ! What page, man, in the last Court grammar 

Made you a plural 1 Count, you have seized the hireling ; — 

Sire, shall I name the master? 
Louis. Tush ! ray Lord, 

The old contrivance — ever does your wit 

Invent assassin.s — that ambition may 

Slay rivals — (Baradas crosses behind to the King.) 
Rich. Rivals, Sire, in what 1 

Service to France' / have none! Lives the man 

Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems 

Rival to Arraand Richelieu ? 
Louis. What, so haughty ! 

Remember he who made can unmake. 
Rich. N^-ver ! 

Never ! Your anger can recall your trust. 

Annul ray office, spoil me of my lands. 

Rifle my coffers — but my name — my deeds, 

Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre ! 

Pass sentence on me, if you will ; from Kings, 

Lo ! I appeal to Time ' 
Louis {items haughtily io the Cardinal), Enough ! 

Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. 

To your own palace. For our conference, this 

Nor place — nor season. 
Rich. Good, ray liege, for Justice 

All place a temple, and all season, summer ! 

Do you deny me justice ? Saints of Heaven ! 

He turns from me ! I)o you deny me Justice ? 

For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt Empire, 

The humblest craftsman — the obscurest vassal — 

The very leper shrinking from the snn, 

Tho' loathed by charity, might ask for justice ! 



/ 



48 |LICHKHEt7. [act IV. 

Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien 

Of some I see around you — Counts and Princes — 

Kneeling for /«w;'s ; — but, erect and loud, 

As men who ask man's ri^^his ! my liege, my Louis, 

Do you refuse me justice — audience even — 

In the pale presence of tlie baffled Murtherl 
LO01S. Lord Cardinal — one by one you have sever'd from me 

The bonds of human love. All near and dear 

Mark'd out for vengeance — exile or the scaffold. 

You find me now amidst my trustiest friends, 

My closest kindred — you would tear them from me ; 

They murder you, forsooth, since me they love ! 

Eno' of plots and treasons for one reign ! 

Home! — Home! and sleep away these phantoms ! {^Ihe King and 
all the Court cross to r.) 
Rich. Sire! 

I — patience, Heaven ! — sweet Heaven ! — from the foot 

Of that Great Throne, these hands have raised aloft 

On an Olympus, looking down on mortals 

And worshipp'd by their awe — before the foot 

Of that high throne — spurn you the gray-hair'd man, 

Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety 1 
Louis. No ; when we see your Eminence in truth 

At the foot of the throne — we'll listen to you. 

[Exit Louis, E., followed by CouRTiEns. 
Okleans. Saved ! 

Bar. For this, deep thanks to Julie and to Mauprat ! 

[Exeunt Baradas and Orleans, r. 
Ricu. Joseph — did you hear the King 1 

Jos. {dmvnii). I did — there's danger I Had you been less haughty— — 
Rich. And suffer'd slaves to chuckle — " See the Cardinal — 

How meek his Eminence is to-day " — I tell thee 

This is a strife in which the loftiest look 

Is the most subtle armor 

Jos. But 

Rich. No time 

For ifs and huts, I will accuse these traitors ! 

Fran(jois shall witness that De Baradas 

Gave him the secret missive for De Bouillon, 

And told him life and death were in the scroll. 

I will — I will ! {crosses, k ) 
Jos. Tush ! FrauQois is your creature ; 

So they will say. and laua'h at you ! — your witness 

3Iust be that same dispatch ! 
Rich. Away to Marion ! 

Jos. I have been there — she is seized — removed — imprison'd — 

By the Count's orders. 
Rich. Goddess of bright dreams, 

Jly country — shalt thou lose me now, when most 

Thou need'st thy worshipper ? My native land ! 

Let me but ward this dagger from thy heart. 

And die — ^but on thy bosom ! 

Enter Julie, l. s. e. 

Julie. Heaven ! I thank thee 1 

It cannot be, or this all-powerful man 



ACT IV.] EIOHELIEU. 49 

Would uot stand idly thus. 
Rich. What dost ihou here 1 

Home ! 
Julie. Home ! — is Adricn there ? — j' ou're dumb — yet strive 

For words ; I see them tremblins; on your lip, 

But choked by pity. It was truth — all truth ! 

Seized — the Bastiie— and in your presence, too ! 

Cardinal, where is Adricii 1 Think — he saved 

Your life — your name is infamy, if wrong 

Should come to his ! 
Rich, Be sooth'd, child. 

Julie. Child no more. 

I love, and I am woman ! 

Where is Adrien 1 

Let thine eyes meet mine ; 

Answer me but one word — I am a wife — 

I ask thee for my home — my fate — my all ! 

Where is my husband ? 
Rich. You are Richelieu's ward, 

A soldier's bride ; they who insist on trutli 

Must out-face fear — you ask me for your husband 1 

There — wnere the clouds of heaven look darkest, o'er 

The domes of the Bastiie ! 
Julie. 0, mercy, mercy! 

Save him, restore him, father ! Art thou not 

The Cardinal Kinj; ? — tlie Lord of life and death — 

Art thou not Riciielieu ? 
Rich. Yesterday 1 was ! 

To-day, a very weak old man ! To-morrow, 

I know not what, (crosses, l.) 
Julie (to Joseph). Do you conceive his meaning ? 

Alas I cannot. 
Jos. (r). The Kin? is chafed 

Against his servant. Lady, while we speak, 

The lackey of the ante-room is not 

More powerless than the Minister of France. 

Uiiter Clermont, r. 

Cler. Madame de Mauprat ! 

Pardon, your Eminence — even now I seek 

This lady's home — commanded by the King 

To pray her presence. 
Julie {clinging to Richelieuj. Think of my dead father — 

And take me to your breast. 
Rich. To those who sent you — 

And say you found the virtue they would slay 

Here — couch'd upon this heart, as at an altar, 

And shelter'd by the wings of sacred Rome ! 

Begone ! 
Cler. My Lord, I am your friend and servant — 

Misjudge me not ; but never yet was Louis 

So roused against you — shall I take this answer % 

It Avere to be your foe. 
Rich, All time my foe, 

If I, a Priest, could cast this holy sorrow 

Forth from her last asylum ! 



50 RICHELIEU. " [act IV. 

Ci.ER. He is lobt ! [JExit Clermont, r. 

Rich. God help thee, child ! — she lieai'.s not ! Look upon her ! 
The sLotiu, that rends the oak, uproots the flower. 
Her father loved uie so ! and in that a^e 
When friends are brothers 1 She has been to me 
Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears ? 
Oh ! shame, shame ! — dotage ! (places her in the arms 0/ Joseph.) 

Jos. Tears are not for eyes 

That rather need the lightning ! which can pierce 
Through barred gates and triple walls, to smite 
Crime, where it cowers in secret! The dispatch! 
Set every spy to work — the morrow's sun 
Must see that written treason in your hands, 
Or rise upon your ruin. 

Rich, Ay — and close 

Upon my corpse— I am not made to live — 
^ Friends, glory, France, all reft from me — my star 

Like some vain holiday mimicry of flre. 
Piercing imperial heaven, and falling down 
Rayless and blacken'd, to the dust — a thing 
For all men's feet to trample ! Yea ! — to-morrow 
Triumph or death ! Look up; child ! Lead us. Joseph ! 

As they are going up c, enter Baradas unl De Beringhen, r. 

Bar. (r. c). My Lord, the King cannot believe your Eminence 

Sa far forgets your duty, and his greatness, 

As to resist his mandate ! Pray you, madam. 

Obey the King — no cause for fear ! 
JuLiR (l.). My father ! 

Rich. (c). She shall not stir! 
Bar. You are not of her kindred — 

An orphan 

Rich. And her country is her mother. 

Bar. The country is the King. 

Rich. Ay, is it so 1 

Then wakes the power which in the a^e of iron 

Bursts forth to curb the great, and r^iise the low. 

Mark, wiiere she stands — arou'.Kl her form I draw 

The awful circle of our solemn church ! 

Set but a foot within that holy ground 

And on thy liead — yea, though it wore a crown — 

I launch the curse of Rome ! 
Bar. I dare not brave you. 

I do but speak the orders of my King, 

The church, j'our raidc, power, verj'^ word, my Lord, 

Suffice you for resistance — blame yourself, 

If it should cost your power. 
Rich. That mj?/ stake. Ah! 

Dark gamester ! ivhat is thine ? Look to it well — 

Lose not a trick — By this same hour to-morrow 

Thou shalt have France, or I thy liead ! 
Bar. [aside to Dk Beringhen). He cannot 

H ive the dispatch \ 
Jos. [aside, on Richelieu's r.). Patience is your game; 

Reflect, you have not the dispatch ! 
Rich. 0, monk ! 



ACX v.] EICHELIEtr. 51 

Leave patience to tlie saints — for 1 am human ! 

{to Julie) Did not thy father die for France, poor orphan 1 

And now they say thou hast no fatlier ! Fie ! 

Art thou not pure and goodi — if so, thou art 
• A part of that — the Beautiful, tiie sacred — 

Wiiiuli, in al! climes, men tliat have hearts adore, 

By ttie great title of their mother country ! 
Bar. {aside). He wanders ! 
KiCH. So cling close unto my breast. 

Here where thou droop'st lies France ! I am very feeble — 

Of little use it seems to either now. 

Well, well — we will go home, {they go up the stage.) 
Bar. In sooth, my Lord, 

You do need rest — the burthens of the State 

O'ertask your healtli 1 
Rich, {to Joseph, pauses). I'm patient, see ! 
Bar. {aside). His mind 

And life are breaking fast. 
Rich, {overhearing him). Irreverent ribald ! 

If so, beware the falling ruins ! Hark ! 

I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, 

When this snow melteth there shall come a flood ! 

Avaunt ! my name is Richelieu — 1 defy thee! 

Walk blindfold on ; behind thee stalks the headsman. 

Ha ! ha ! — how pale he is. Heaven save my country I {falls hack 

in Joseph s arms. Julie kneels at his side, Baradas aiul De Bl:r- 
i.vGHEN stand r. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT V. 

FOURTH DAY. 

SCENE I. — The Bastile — a corridor ; in the baeJcground the door of one of 
the condemned cells. 

Enter Joseph, ^hc? Jailer, xvith a lamp, r. d. f. 

Jailkr. Stay, father, I will call the governor. [Exit Jailer, l. 

Jos. He has it then — this Huguet — so we learn 

Prom Fraiiqois — Humph ! Now if I can but gain 
One moment's access, all is ours! The Cardinal 
Trembles 'tween life and death. His life is power ; 
Smite one — slay both ! No jEsculapian drugs. 
By learned quacks baptized with Latin jargon, 
E'er bore the healing which that scrap of parchment 
Will medicine to ambition's flagging heart. 
France shall be saved — and Joseph be a bishop. 

Enter Governor and Jailer, l. 

Gov. Father, you wish to see the prisoners Huguet 

And the young knight De Mauprat 1 
Jos. So my office, 

And the Lord Cardinal's order, warrant, son ! 



52 RICHELIEU. [act T. 

Gov. Father, it cannot be ; Count Baradas 

Has sununon'd to the Louvre Sieur de Mauprat. 

Jos. Well, well ! But Huguet 

Gov. Dies at noon. 

Jos. At noon ! 

No moment to delay the pious rites, 

Which fit the soul for death. Quick — quick — admit me ! 
Gov.- You cannot enter, monk ! Such are my oiders. 
Jos. Orders, vain man — the Cardinal still is Minister. 

His orders crush all others. 
Gov. [lifting his hat). Save his King's ! 

See, monk, the royal sign and seal affix'd 

To the Count's mandate. None may have access 

To either prisoner, Huguet or De Mauprat, 

Not even a priest, without the special passport 

Of Count de Baradas. I'll hear no more ! 
•Jos. (ai/(^e) Just Heaven ! and are we baffled thus V Despair! 

[aloud) Think on the Cardinal's power— bewaie his anger. 
Gov. I'll not be menaced, priest. Besides the Cardinal 

Is dying and disgraced — all Paris knows it: 

You hear the prisoner's knell ! {bell tolls, l.) 
Jos. ' I do beseech 3 ou — 

The Cardinal is not dying. But one moment. 

And hist — five thousand pistoles ! 
Gov. How ! a bribe — 

And to a soldier, gray with years of honor ! 

Begone ! 
Jos. Ten thousand — twenty ! 

Gov. Jailer — ])ut 

This n)onk without our walls. 
Jo,«. By those gray hairs — 

Yea, by this badge, [touching the cross of St. Louis, u-oni hy the 
Governor) 

The guerdon of your valor — 

By all your toils — hard days and sleepless nights — 

Borne in your country's service, noble son — 

Let me but see the prisoner ! 
Gov. No ! 

Jos. He hath 

Secrets of State — papers in which 

Gov. {interrupting). I know — 

Such was his message to Count Baradas ; ' 

Doubtless the Count will see to it. 
Jos. [aside). The Count! 

Then not a hope ! [aloud) You shall 

Gov. Betray my trust ! 

Never — not one word more. You heard jjae, jailer ! 
Jos. "What can be done 1 Distraction 1 

Dare you refuse the Church her holiest rights 1 
Gov. I refuse nothing — 1 obey my orders. 
Jos. And sell your country to her parricides ! 

Oh, tremble yet — Richelieu 

Gov. Begone ! 

Jos Undone! [.E'.r/V Joseph, r. d. f. 

Gov. A most audacious shaveling — interdicted 

Above all others by the Count. 
Jailer. Oh, by the way, that troublefomo young fellow, 



jVct v.] men I'XIKit. 53 

Who calls himself the prisoner Hiiguet's son, 
Is here again — implores, weeps, raves to see him. 
Gov. Poor youth, I pity him ! 

Enter De Bertnghen, folloivedby Francois, r. d. f. 

De Ber. (^0 FnANgois). Now, pritliee, friend, 

Let go my cloak ; you really discompose me. 
Fran. (r.). No! they will drive me hence ; my father ! Oil! 

Let me but see him once — but once— one moment ! 
De Ber. (<o Governor). Your servant, Messire; this poor rascal, Huguet, . 

Has sent to see the Count de Baradas, 

Upon State secrets, that afflict his conscience. 

The Count can't leave his Majesty an instant ; 

I am his proxy. 
Gov. (l. c). The Count's word is law. [beckons Jailer to un- 

lock L. D. F. 

Again, young scapegrace ! How com'st thou admitted 1 
De Ber.'{r. c). Oh ! a most filial fellow ; Huguet's son ! 

I found him whimpering in the court below. 

I pray his leave to say good bye to father, 

Before that very long, unpleasant journey, 

Father's about to take. 
Gov. The Count's 

Commands are strict. No one must visit Huguet 

Without his passport. 
De Ber. Here it is ! {shows a paper) Pshaw ! nonsense ! 

I'll be your surety. See, ray Cerberus, 

He is no Hercules ! 
Gov. Well, you're responsible. 

Stand there, friend. If, when you come out, my Lord, 

The youth slip in, 'tis yotir fault. 
De Ber. So it is ! 

[Exit, L. D. F., followed by the Jailer. 
Gov. Be calm, my lad. Don't fret so. I had once 

A father, too ! I'll not be hard upon you. 

And so stand close. I must not see you enter. 

You understand ? * 

Re-enler Jailer, l. d, f. 

Come, we'll go our rounds ; 
I'll give you just one quarter of an hour ; 
And if my lord leave first, make my excuse. 
Yet stay, the gallery's long and dark ; no sentry 
Until we reach the gate below. He'd best 
Wait till I come. If he should lose the way. 
We may not be in call. 
Fran. I'll tell him, sir. 

[Exeunt Governor and Jailer, r. 
He's a wise son that knoweth his own father. 
I've forged a precious one 1 So far, so well ! 
Alas ! what then 1 this wretch hath sent to Baradas — 
Will sell the scroll to ransom life. Oh, Heaven ! 
On what a thread hangs hope ! {listens at door, l.) 

Loud woi'ds — a cry I {looks through 
the key -hole.) 



54 BICHBLIEtr. [ ACT T. 

They struggle ! Ho — tlie packet ! {tries to open the door.) 

Lost ! He has it — 
The Courtier lias it — Huauet, spite his cliains, 
Giapijles ! — well done ! Now — now ! (droivs bade.) 

The gallery's long — 
And this is left us ! {drawing dagger, and standiiig behind R. door.) 

Re-enter De Beringhrn. tvith the packet. 

Victory ! (passes off at k. d. f.) Yield it, robber! [following him) 
Yield it — or die! {a short struggle, without.) 
De Ber. {without.) Off! ho!— there! 

SCENE II. — The King's closet at the Louvre. A suite of rooms in perspec- 
tive at one side. 

Enter Baradas and Orleans, r. c. 

Bar. (r.). All smiles ! the Cardinal's swoon of yesterday 

Heralds his deatli to-day. 

And yet, should this accurs'd De Mauprat 

Have given our pacliet to another — 'Sdeath ! 

I dare not think of it ! 
Orleans (l.). You've sent to search him. 

Bar. Sent, sir, to search 1 — that hireling hands may find 

Upon him, naked, with its broken seal. 

That scroll, whose every word is death ! No — no — 

These hands alone must clutch that awful secret. 

I dare not leave the palace, night or day, 

While Richelieu lives — his minions — creatures — spies — 

Not one must reach the King ! 
Orleans. What hast thou done? 

Bar. Summon'd De Mauprat hither. 
Orlea.n's. Could this Huguet, 

Who pray'd thy presence with so fierce a fervor, 

Have thieved the scroll 7 
Bar. Huguet was housed with us, 

The very moment we dismiss'd the courier. 

It cannot be ! a stale trick for reprieve. 

But, to make sure, I've sent our trustiest friend 

To see and sift him. Hist — here comes the King. 

How fare you, Sire 1 

Enter Lov is, followed by Pages, and Court, l. c. 

Louis. In the same mind. I have 

Decided I Yes, he would forbid your presence, 

My brother — yours, my friend — then Julie, too ! 

Thwarts— braves — defies — [suddenly turning to Baradas We make 
you Minister. 

Gaston, for you — the baton of our armies, 

You love me, do you notl 
Orleans. Oh, love you, Sirel 

[aside) Never so much as now. {retires, l. p. e., Courtiers sur- 
round him.) 
Bar. May I deserve 

Yonr trust (aside) until you sign your abdication. 



ACT V.j 



lilCaF.LIKU, 



{aloud ) Mj' liege, but one way left to daunt de Mauprat, 

And Julie to divorce. We must prepare 

The death-warrant; what, Iho' sign'd and seal'd 1 we can 

Withhold the enforcement. 
Louis. Ah, you may prepare it ; 

We need not urge it to effect. 
Bar. Exactly ! 

No haste, my liege, {looking at his ivatch, and aside) He may live 
one hour longer. 

Enter Page, l. u. e. 

Page. The Lady Julie, Sire, implores an audience. 
Louis. 'Aha! repentant of her folly ! Well, 

Admit her. [Exit, Page, l. u. e. 

Bar. Sire, she comes for Mauprat's pardon. 

And the conditions 

Louis. You are Minister— 

We leave to you our answer. 

As Julie enters l, u. e., the Captain of the Archers enters r. door, and 
whispers Baradas. 

Capt. The Chevaher 

De Mauprat waits below. 
Bar. {aside). Now the dispatch. 

[Exit tcith Officer, r. 
JuLiR (l. c). My liege, you sent for me. I come where grief 

Shotdd come when guiltless, while the name of King 

Is holy on the earth ! Here, at the feet 

Of Power, I kneel for mercy, 
Louis [R. c). Mercy, Julie, 

is an affair of state. The Cardinal should 

In this be your interpreter, 
Julie. * Alas ! 

I know not if that mighty spirit now 

Stoop to the things of earth. Nay, while I speak. 

Perchance he hears the orphan by the throne 

Wiiere Kings themselves need pardon ! 0, my liege, 

Be father to the fatherless ; in you 

Dwells my last hope. 

Enter Baradas, r. 

Bar (aside). He has not the dispatch ; 

Smil'd, while we search'd, and braves me— Oh ! 
Louis ((/entli/). What would'st thou 1 

Julie. A single life. You reign o'er millions. What 

Is one man's life to you 1 — and yet to me 

'Tis France— 'tis earth— 'tis everything— a life— 

A human life— my husband's ! 
Louis [aside). Speak to her, 

I am not marble Give her hope — or — {retires ; speaks to Orleans 
and Courtiers.) 
Bar. ' Madam, 

Vex not your King, whose heart, too soft for justice, 

Leaves to his ministers the solemn charge. 



56 EICHKLIKU. [aCI V. 

Julie. You were bis friend. 

Bar. I teas before I loved thee. 

JuLin;. Loved me! 

Bar. Hnsli, Julie ; could'st thou misinterpret 

My acts, thoughts, motives, nay, my very words, 

Here — in this palace 1 
Julie. Now I know I'm mad ; 

Even that memory fail'd me. 
Bar. I am young. 

Well-born and brave as Mauprat — for thy sake 

I peril what he lias not — fortune — power ; 

All to great souls most dazzling. I alone 

Can save thee from yon tyrant, now my puppet ! 

Be mine ; annul the mockery of this marriage, 

And on the day 1 clasp thee to my breast 

De Mauprat shall be free. 
Julie. Thou durst not speak 

Thus in Jiis ear. ( pointing to Louis) Thou double traitor ! tremble. 

I will unmask thee. 
Bar. I will say thou ravest. 

And see this scroll ! its letters shall be blood ! 

Go to the King, count with me word for word ; 

And while yon pray the life — I write the sentence! 
Julie. Stay, stay ! (j-ushing t) the Kixg) You have a kind and princely 
heart, 

Tho' sometimes it is silent ; you were born 

1^0 poiver — it has not fliish'd you into madness, 

As it doth meaner men. Banish my husband — 

Dissolve our marriage — cast me to that grave 

Of human ties, where hearts congeal to ice, 

In the dark convent's everlasting winter — 

(Surely eno' for justice — hate — revenge) — 

But spare this life, thus lonely, scathed, and bloomless ; 

And when thou stand'st for judgment on thine own. 

The deed shall shine beside thee as an angel. 
Louis {much affected). Go, go, to Baradas ; annul thy marriage. 

And 

Julie {anxiously, and watching his countenance). Be his bride I 
Louis. Yes ! 

Julie. Oh thou sea of shame, 

And not one star ! 

The King goes up the stage, and passes through the suite of rooms at the side, 
in evident emotion. Exeunt King and Court, r. u. e. 

Bab. Well, thy election, Julie ; 

This hand — his grave ? 

Julie. His grave ! and I 

Bar. Can save him; 

Swear to be mine. 
Julie. That were a bitterer death ! 

A vaunt, thou tempter. I did ask his life 

A boon, and not the barter of dishonor. 

The heart can break, and scorn you ; wreck your^malice ; 

Adrien and I will leave you this sad earth. 

And pass together hand in hand to Heaven ! 
Bak. You have decided. 



RICnELIKU. 



57 



Beckons in Captain, ivho enters r.; Baradas tvhispcrs to him and he c/ocs 
off quickly, r. 

Listen to me, Lady ; 
I am no base intriguer. I adored thee 
From the first glance of those inspiring eyes ; 
Willi thee entwined ambition, hope, the future. 
I will not lose thee ! I can place thee nearest — 
Ay, to the throne— nay, on the tlirone, perchance ; 
My star is at its zenith. Look upon me ; 
Hast thou decided 1 
Julie. No, no ; you can see 

How weak I am; be human, sir— one moment. 

Baradas stamps his foot, De Mauprat is brought on guarded, K. ; Guards 

range k. 

Bar. Behold thy husband ! Shall he pass to death, 

And know thou could'st have saved him 1 
Julie, (l.). Adrien, speak, 

But say you wish to live ! if not, your wife. 

Your slave— do with me as you will, {crosses to him.) 
De Mau. (r.'. Oil, tliink> ^W J^^iP. 

Life, at the best, is short — but love immortal ! 

Bar. {taking JvhiE's hand). Ah, loveliest 

Julie. Go, that touch has made me iron. 

JFe have decided (embracing Mauprat) — death ! 
Bar. {to De iMauprat). Now say to whom 

Thou gavest the packet, and thou yet shall live. 
De Mau. I'll tell thee nothing. 
Bar. Hark — the rack ! 

De Mau. Thy penance 

For ever, wretch ! What rack is like the conscience 7 
Bar. {giving the writ to the Officer, ivho is r.c). Hence, to the heads- 
man! {the doors are thrown open, c. The Huissier announces 
" His Eminence the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu.") 

Iltiter Richelieu, r. c, attended hj Pages, etc., pale, feeble, and leaning on 
Joseph, followed by three Secretaries or State, attended by Sub- 
Secretaries ivith papers, etc. 

Julie {rushing to Richelieu). You live — you live — and Adrien shall 

not die ! 
Rich. Not if an old man's prayers, himself near death, 

Can aught avail thee, daughter ! Count, you now 

Hold wliat I held on earth — one boon, ray Lord, 

This soldier's life. 
Bar. The stake— my head— you said it. 

I cannot lose one trick. Remove your prisoner. 
Julie (r. of Richelieu). No ! no ! 

Enter Lovis from r. u. e., attended by Court. 

Rich, (to Officer;. Stay, sir, one moment. My good liege, 

Your worn out servant, willing. Sire, to si)are you 
Some pain of conscience, would forestall your wishes. 



58 BICHELIETJ. [act V. 

I do resign my office. 
Omxes. You ! 

Julie. All's over ! 

Rich. My end draws near. 'I'hese sad ones, Sire, I love them. 

I do not ask liis life ; but suffer justice 

To halt, until I can dismiss his soul, 

Cliarged with an old man's blessing. 
Louis (k. c). Surely ! 

(De Mauprat goes hehind, to the l. of Richelieu., 

Bar. {oh. the r. of the King). Bii'e 

Louis. Silence — small favor to a dying servant. 
Rich, You would consign your armies to the baton 

Oi' your most honored brother. Sire, so be it ! 

Yoiu- Minister, the Count de Baradas ; 

A most sagacious choice ! Your Secretaries 

Of State attend me, Sire, to render up 

The ledgers of a realm. I do beseech you, 

Suffer these noble gentlemen to learn 

The nature of the glorious task that waits them, 

Here, in thy presence. 
Louis. You say well, my Lord. 

Approach, sirs, {to Secretaries, as lie seats himself. Pages place 
a chair for the King, u. c.) 
Rjcn. I — I — faint — air — air! (Joseph and a Gentle- 

man assist him to a chair, placed hj Pages, l. c.) 

I thank you — 

Draw near, my children. 
Bar. (aside). He's too weak to question, 

Nay, scarce to speak ; all's safe. 

Julie kneeling beside the Cardinal ; the Officer op the Guard hehind 
Mauprat. Joseph near Richelieu, tvatching the King. Louis 
seated r. c. Baradas at the back of the King's chair, anxious and 
disturbed. Orleans at a greater distance, careless and triumphant. As 
each. Secretary advances in his turn, he takes the portfolios from the 
Sub-Secretaries. 

First Sec. [kneeling). The affairs of Portugal. 

Most urgent, Sire, (gives a paper) One short month since the Duke 

Braganza was a rebel. 
Louis. And is still ! 

i'lRST Sec. No, Sire, he has succeeded! He is now 

Crown'd King of Portugal — craves instant succor 

Against the arms of Spain. 
Louis. We will not grant it 

Against his lawful King. Eh, Count ? 
Bar. No, Sire. 

First Sec. But Spain's your deadliest foe ; whatever 

Can weaken Spain must strengthen France. The Cardinal 

Would send the succors — (solemnly) — balance, Sire, of Europe ! 
{gives another paper.) 
Louis. The Cardinal — balance ! We'll consider — Eh, Count ? 
Bar. Yes, Sire — fall back. 

First Sec. {rises). But 

Bar. Oh ! fall back sir. (Secuetaky bous 

emd retires.) 
Jos. Humph ! 



A.Cr v.] RICHELIEU. ^ 59 

Second Sec. [advances and kneels). The affairs of England, She, most 
urgent, {ffives paper) Charles 
The First has lost a battle that decides 
One half his realm — craves moneys, Sire, and succor. 

Louis. He shall have both. Eh, Baradas 1 

Bak. Yes, Sire. 

(aside) Oh that dispatch ! — luy veins are fire ! 

KicH. ( feebly, but loith p-eat •distinctness). My liege — 
Forgive me — Charles's cause is lost. A man, 
Named Crom\vel4, risen — a great man — your succor 
Woakl fail — your loans be squander'd 1 Pause— reflect. 

Louis. Reflect. Eh, Baradas "? 

Bar. Reflect, Sire. 

Jos. Humph ! 

Louis (aside). I half repent ! No successor to Richelieu ! 
Round me thrones totter — dynasties dissolve — 
The soil he guards alone escapes the earthquake ! 

Jos. (to RicuELiEu). Our star not yet eclipsed — you mark the King ? 
Oh I had we the dispatcli ! 

Ejiter a Page, l. u. e. 

Rich. Ah !— Joseph !— Child- 

Would I could help thee ! 

[Page ivhispers Joseph, who exits hastilij, l. u. e. 
Bar. (to Secretary). Sir, fall back! 

SiicoND Sec (rises). But 

Bar. Pshaw, sir ! 

[Second Secretary boius and retires, l. c. 
Third Sec. (mi/steriously, kneels). The secret correspondence, Sire, most 
urgent — 
Accounts of spies — deserters — heretics — 

Assassins — poisoners — schemes against yourself! (ffives paper. 
Secretary rises.) 
Louis. Myiielf ! — most urgent! (the Ki.ng seizes that paper and drops the 
others.) 

He-enter Joseph tvith Frak^ ois, tvhose pourpoint is streaked loith blood. 
FRANgois passes behind the Cardinal's Attendants, and, sheltered 
by them from the siglit of Baradas, etc., falls at Richelieu's feet. 

Fran. (l. o/ Richelieu). My Lord! 

I have not fail'd. (gives the packet.) 
Rich. Hush ! (looking at the contents.) 

Third Sec. (to King). Sire, the Spaniards 

Have reinforced their army on the frontiers. 

The Due de Bouillon 

Rich- Hold ! In this department — 

A paper — here, Sire — read yourself — then take 

The Count's advice on't. (the King takes the paper and goes l.) 

Enter De Beringhen, l. u. is.., hastily, and draivs aside Baradas, and 

luhispers. 

Bar. (bursting from De Beringhen). What ! and reft it from thee! 

Ha ! — hold ! [going towards the King). 
Jos. (l. c). Fall back, son, it is your turn now I 



60 EICHELIEC. [act V. 

Louis {reading , pacing the stage from l. to r.). To Bouillon — and signd'd 
Orleans — 

Baradas, too ! — league with our fees of Spain — 

Lead our Italian armies — what ! to Paris ! 

Capture the King — my health requires repose — 

Make me subscribe my proper abdication — 

Orleans, my brother, Regent ! Saints of Heaven ! 

These are the men 1 loved ! (Richelieu falls back.) 
Jos. See to the Cardinal ! 

Bau. (r c.)- He's dying— and I shall yet dupe the King! 
Louis {rushing to RicHiiUEu). Richelieu! — Lord Cardinal ! — 'tis /resign. 

Reign thou ! 
Jos. [behind the chair). Alas! too late — be faints! 
Louis (r. 0/ Richelieu). Reign, Richelieu ! 

Rich {feebly). With absolute power? 

Louis. Most absolute ! Oh ! live ! 

If not for me — for France ! 
Rich France ! 

Louis Oh ! this treason ! 

The array — Orleans — Bouillon — Heavens ! — the Spaniard ! 

Where will they be next week 1 
Ricn. [starting up, seizi?ig the paper and throwing it on the grmmd). Tiiere, 
— at my feet! {to First and SecoiNd Secketaryj 

Ere the clock strike — the Envoys have their answer ! 

{Exit Secretaries, l. u. e. 

{to Third Secretary, with a ring) This to De Chavigny — lie knows 
the rest — 

No need of parchment here — he must not halt 

For sleep — for food — In my name — Mine ! — he will 

Arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head 

Of his array ! {Exit Third Secretary, l. u. e.) Ho, there, Count 
de Baradas, 

Thou liast lost the stake! Awaj^ with him ! [as the Guards open, 
Ji\vikT>k& passes through the line. Exeunt, l ) Ha ! ha ! — 
{snatching Ds Mauprat's death-warrant from the Officer as he passes) 

See liere, De Jlauprat's death-writ, Julie ! 

Parchment for battledores ! Embrace your husband — 

At last the old man blesses you ! 
Julie (l. c). 0, joy ! 

You are saved ; you live — I hold you in these arms. 

De Mau. Never to part 

JcLic. No — never, Adrian — never ! 

Louis, {peevishly, k. c). One moment makes a startling cure, Lord Car- 
dinal. 
Ricu. Ay, Sire, for in one moment there did pass 

Into this wither'd frame the might of France ! — 

ISIy own dear France — I have thee yet — I have saved thee ! 

1 clasp thee still ! — it was thy voice that cali'd me 

Back from the tomb ! — What mistress like our country 1 
Louis. For Mauprat's pardon — well ! But Julie — Richelieu, 

Leave me one thing to love ! 
Rich. A subject's luxury ! 

Yet if you must love something, Sire — love me! 
Louis {smiling in spite of himself ). Fair proxy for a young fresh Demoi- 
selle ! 
Rich. Your heait speaks for my clients. Kneel, my children ; 

Thank your King. (Richelieu ;o«Mes«<^ the stage; Me Court botv.) 



ACT ¥.] KICHKLIEF. €1 

JtJLiE. Ah, tears like these, ipy liege, 

Are dews that mount to Heaven, 
Louis. Rise — rise — be happy, (retires.) 

(RiCHELiEP comes fortvard and beckons to De Bekinghen.) 
De Ber. {falieringly, r.). My Lord — you are — most happily — recover'd 
Rich. But you are pale, dear Beringlien ; — this air 

Suits not your delicate frame — I long have thought so ; — 

Sleep not another night in Paris. Go — 

Or else your precious life may be in danger. 

Leave France; dear Beringhen ! 
De Ber. St. Denis travelled without his head. 

I'm luckier than St. Denis. [Exit De Beringhen, r. 

Ricu, {to Orleans). For you repentance — absence — and confession ! 

[Exit Orleans, r. 
[to FnAN90is, ivho is r. c.) Never say fail again. Brave boy ! (to Joseph, 
crosses to c.) He'll be — 

A Bishop first. 

Jos. (r. c). Ah, Cardinal 

Rich. (c). Ah, Joseph ! [the K^sg advances, r. c.) 

(to Louis, as De Mauprat and Julie converse apart) 

See, my liege — see thro' plots and counterplots — 

Thro' gain and loss — thro' glory and disgace — 

Along the plains, where passionate Discord rears 

Eternal Babel — still the holy stream 

Of human happiness glides on ! 
Louis. And must we 

Thank for that also — our Prime Minister 1 
Rich. No — let us own it : — there is One above 
• Sways the harmonious mystery of the world, 

Even better than prime ministers : — 

Thus ends it. ^, 

Position of the Characters at the fall of the Cm-tdit^^ 
Pages. 



Courtiers. 




Courtiers. 


Louis, 




Richelieu. 


Francois. 


c. 


Julie. 


R. c. 




L. c. 


Joseph. 




Mauprat. 


R. 




L. 



The Characters are supposed to face the Audience. 
CURTAIN. 



^THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 



COPXBIGHT, 1875, BX KOBEIIT JI. De 'WlTT. 



THE IIIGHIFUL HEIU. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Lyceum Theatre. 
London, Oct. 3, 1868. 

Vyvyan (Captain of the Privateer Dreadiuiuglil) Mr. Bandmann. 

Sir Grey de Malpas (the Poor Cousin) Mr. Hermann Vezin. 

Wrecklytfe (.1 Gentleman turned Pirate) Mr. Lawloe. 

Lord Beaufort (Lady Montreville's Son) Mr. Neville. 

Sir Godfrey Seymour (a Magistrate) 

Falkner, ) .,, . t ■ . <. ^ ') '^^^- '^^^ Rayne. 

■^ ,. M Vyvyan s Lieutenants) < ,. . 

Harding, J "■ •' •' ' ( Mr. Anderson. 

Marsden ( Seneschal of the Castle) Mr. Ua vid Evans. 

Alton (a Village Priest) Mr. Bash. Potter. 

Sub-Officer of the Dreadnaught Mr. Everakd. 

Servant to Lady Montreville Mr. W. Templeto»J. 

Lady Montreville (a Widowed Countesp) Mrs. Hermann Vezin, 

Eveline (her Ward) Miss Mii.ly Palmer. 

Halberdiers, Retainers, Sailors, Peasantry, Servants, etc., etc. 



TO ALL FRIENDS AND KINSFOLK 
ly 

THE AMERICAN COMMONWEALTH, 

THIS DRAMA IS DEDICATED, 

WITH AFFECTION AND RESPECT. 

London. Sept. 28, 1868. 



PREFACE. 



Many years ago this Drama was re-written from an earlier play by the same Au- 
thor, called " The Sea Captain.'' the first idea of which was suggested by a striking 
situation in a novel by M. A. Dumas ie Capitaine Paul). The Author withdrew 
" The Sea Captain " from the stage (and even from printed publication), while it had 
not lost such degree of favor as the admirable acting of Mr. Macready chiefly con- 
tributed to obtain for it • intending to replace it before the public with some import- 
ant changes in the histrionic cast, and certain slight alterations in the conduct of 
the story. But the alterations once commenced, became so extensive in character, 
diction and even in revision of plot, that a new play gradually rose from the foun- 
dations of the old one. The task thus undertaken, being delayed by other demands 
upon time and thought, was scarcely completed when Mr. Macready's retirement 
from his profession suspended the Author's literary connection with the stage, and 
" The Rightful Heir " has remained in tranquil seclusion till this year, when he 
submits his appeal to the proper tribunal ; sure, that if he fail of a favorable hear- 
ing, it will not be the fault of the friends who take part in his cause and act in his 
behalf. 



'IHE RIGU FOL HEIK. 

SCENERY. 

ACT I.— Scene I.— Castle Ruins in 4th grooves. 



Wall. 



, — ; Set stones. 



Door. 



Wall. 



Arch door. 



On flat, view of the sea ; l. side, cliffs and castle ; set -wall, ruined, 10 to 12 feet 
high, along 3d grooves and l. 1 and 2 e.; open archway l. 1 e. set ; low set wall b. 2 e.; 
a heap of set stones up c, to aid effect of picture ; a set tree up n. c. ; sky sinks and 
borders ; curtain for covering the change of scene : dark velvet, heavily fringed and 
bordered deeply with gold, in two parts, to draw up and to each side ; with coat of 
arms, royal English white lion and red griffin guarding shield and crown, in tapes- 
try ; over date in old English, 1588. 

Scene II.— Castle gardens in 5th grooves. 



[] F 



Platform. 



Steps. 



Sea. 



Lime- 
light. 



F [] . 
Archway. 



Seat. 



F [] 



On flat foregT-ound, dark blue sea, blending with the canvas down in u. e. ; uppei 
two-thirds light ; bright sky ; l. side, d., set wall of castle in u. e. ; 3 E., set wal 
with open archway ; Ist and 2d grooves wings, walls ; all this side ia dark ; r. side. 



4 THE UIGUTF0L HEIR. 

c , set wall continuing the castle, supposed to be off n. 1 and 2 e.'s ; the set euS wiiii 
a cliff, running down into the sea ; a. 2 and 3 e., set platform, readied by broad steps, 
six feet above stage level ; A, a box, with large box-wood tree, trimmed into fantas- 
tic shape in the fashion of the Elizabethan age ; k. 2 groove wing, tree, run in to 
mask end of platform ; B., a fountain, playing in an oval basin; in front of the 
basin a half-ring of canvas down, covered with flowers and moss; E E, two can- 
vases covered with flowers, for flower-beds ; a garden seat to b. 1 ; F, F, F, F, stat- 
ues three-quarter life size ; the upper pair kneeling satyrs, the front pair nymphs 
erect; limelight l. u. e., lighting up r. side. 

ACT II. — Scene I.— Interior, in 2d grooves; Gothic architecture; r. on f., wide 
hearth, with earl's coronet and shield on the keystone ; r. on f., portrait of man, 
half length, to resemble the personator of Vyvyan in face ; the painting on flat 
makes the stage seem to be part of the chamber thereon represented ; open r. and 
L. ; table and three chairs on at c, table has blue cloth, corded with gold and 
trimmed with red fringe ; chairs have an old English M, surmounted by a coronet, 
in dead gold, on the back, inside. 

Scene II. — Court-yard and Castle. Exterior, in 5th grooves. 



Trap : 
open. : 



Platform. 



Open. 



[] c 



Backing. 

Light, 
I OTien I .". . . 

[ J C arclnvuy. 



Steps. 



Open. 



[] c 
Cresset or beacon-basket on wing. 



Sky on flat ; the lower two-thirds is hidden by the set walls r. in 4th grooves, and 
in 3d grooves, c. to l. ; L. side, 3 e., backing of wall, to large open archway in 3 g. 
set 1 and 2 e. closed in; small open archway in l. 1 e. set; dark, except l. 3 e., 
where there is a light ; r. side 3 and i e., castle wall, ending in cliff over the sea ; open 
trap, for the ditch, between platform (ten feet above stage level) and set wall ; steps 
to platform 2 e. ; wings are walls ; sky sinks and borders ; C, C, C, C, cannon on 
block carriages, the front pair pointed at each other, the upper pair pointed front ; 
tree up r. ef o., reaches to top of walls. 

ACT III.— Scene I.— Eocky hiudscape, sea and cliff, in 2d grooves; flat to roll up ; 
view of sea, l. side ; cliff ranging out over the water; all of 2 e. to sink and carry 
down the set rocks built up on it ; alonar 1st grooves, low flat of rocks, to sink ; sky 
sink and borders ; trees and rocks for wings ; sunset effect by limelight, L. u. e. 

Scene II.— Same as Act II., Scene II. ; sunset effect l. u. e. ^ stage dark. 

ACT IV. Scene I. — Same as Act II., Scene I. ; table and cliairs not on; a chair 

and a settee l. 



THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 



Scene II. — Cliff and Sea, in 4th grooves. 



20 ft. Platform. : 

Steps. : 

15 It. Platform. ': 



Open. 



Profile Kocks 



Platform, 3 feet atove | 1! | 
sta^e level. ^ ' 




Limelight for moonlight, l. tj. e. ; sea on flat, with full moon at c. ; the wing run 
in on 4th groove, e., is a profile edge of cliif ; by having a piece stand out half way 
up its height, the piece wiU seem to be the base of another cliff, still further out in 
the sea ; l. side, rocky cliff, covering in all ; 1 e., set steps, leading from off down 
upon stage; sky wings, except l. 1 g., which is rocks; k. side, a series of rocks, 
forming steps and platforms ; all practicable ; A, a tree on the platform edge, joined 
to a piece facing the platform, so that, on Vtvtan seizing it, his weight brings it 
down, forces it to draw the piece joining it to L., and deposits him. in open trap C, 
in 3 E. ; B, a trap-net used in this scene. 



Tree. 



A First movement ; tree describes segment of circle. 
^ .A 



B The weight brings the cliff-piece forward. 



Cliff- 
piece, 



Sta^e line. 




Second movement ; tree and cliff- 
piece drop VrvYAN into trap. 



6 THE KIGHTFUL HETR. 

ACT v.— Scene I.— Same as Act IV., Scene II. ; Trap B (see Act IV., Scene II.) 
is open ; dark. 

Scene II. — Interior, in 1st grooves ; deep sink, rafters and ceiling ; window r. c. in 
F. open ; two chairs. 

Scene III. -Hall in 5th grooves ; closed in h. and l. ; upper e. gallery to bear 
•weight of spectators; large archway in its front, 4th grooves ; l. 2 e., dais, with can- 
opy over; royal arms behind chair; table l. c. ; arch r. 3 e. ; bannerets hung from 
■wall ; stained glass window in fiat. 



COSTUMES. 



XtlVYas.—AcI I. : Black hard felt hat, four or five inches high in the crown, with a 
white ostrich feather ; steel gorget, polished ; three yards long scarlet sash, 
six inches wide, fringed with gold at the end, from left shoulder to right hip, 
tied behind, with loose ends ; bull leather jerkin, sleeveless : belt around waist ; 
rapier, black and steel sheath, cut steel hilt ; doublet and loose breeches of 
slate blue, striped up and down with black cord on the doublet, striped in 
chevron on the breeches ; buff boots pulled up to above the knee ; small satchel 
of buff leather, hung on right side, with dagger under it ; short curl black wig, 
rather short ; moustache and imperial ; make-up after pictures of Essex, Kal- 
eigh or Drake. Act II. — Scene I. : Gorget and jerkin removed. Scene II. . Red 
scarf; sword like the other, in similar sheath, for throwing aside. Act HI. and 
IV.: Same as last; hat, no sword. Act V. : Half aiTnor : helmet, with vizor 
to close ; white plume ; blue sash ; steel-plated gauntlets, right hand one to be 
thrown on stage ; high russet boots ; thigh armor in plates. 

Gket de Malpas.— Face made up for pale, cold, passionless expression, prematurely 
aged ; moustache and imperial. Act I. : Brown doublet, striped with yellow 
cord; slate-colored tights ; shoes. Scene II. : Same; fur cloak, with hanging 
sleeves ; flat cap ; cane. Act V. : Same as first dress ; cane. 

"Weecklyffe. —Black wig, long loose hair ; moustache, with flowing ends ; chin 
beard ; scar across right eyebrow and cheekbone ; steel cap ; long, narrow 
mantle of dark glazed sea-green water-proof, worn cnrelessly over one arm 
and about the body ; short cutlass ; brace of brass-mounted pistols stuck in 
belt; arms bare to the elbow ; seaman's sleeveless jacket worn loosely over a 
breast-plate, tarnished. 

Godfrey SEYMOUK.-Old man ; white wig and moustache • black velvet skull-cap ; 
red velvet doublet, with hanging sleeves, trimmed with gold lace; slate-col- 
ored tights ; velvet shoes. 

Beaufort.— Jc< I. .• Handsome suit, blue and gold ; sword : blue velvet round cap, 
with white plume russet boots drawn up to above the knee. Act V. : Red 
and black doublet ; red tights ; black velvet shoes ; long dark mantle, with 
sleeves, trimmed deeply with ermine ; face pale. 

Falkner.— Plumed hat ; back and breast-plates sword ; high boots. 

Harding.— Like Falkner, with variation in color of his doublet sleeves, of feather 
of his hat, etc. 

AliTON. — ^Long white beard ; white wig; dark cowl and long gown. Act V. : Skull- 
cap ; staff, 

Marsden.— Long white hair, white moustache and chin beard; handsome laced 
suit ; doublet ; trunk hose ; velvet shoes, slashed and puffed ; long white staff, 
with gilt coronet on top. 



THE lUGHXlCJL illilR. 7 

8ERTANT.-Gray livery, turned up with orange. 

Sailors. - In Guernsey shirts, with belts supporting cutlasses and pistols; hign 
boots ; jackets gathered in at the waist by sashes ; tights and shoes. 

Servants. — Like first servant. 

Clerk to Seymour.— In black. 

Halberdiers. — Steel caps ; back, breast and thigh plates ; boots ; halberds for 
them. 

Villagers.— As usual. 

L^DY MoNTREViLLE. — Fair-haired; make up after portraias of Queen Elizabeth; 
if the ruff does not look becomingly, have a deep ruffled lace collar open in 
front ; jewelled stomacher ; bodice cut square at the bosom ; with lace let in ; 
velvet bo iy and skirt, with deep border jewelled cross to long necklace ; ear- 
rings; wedding-ring; velvet band, with jewelled beading, on the head, just 
behind the front putts of the hair. Jet V.: Dark velvet skirt axid body ; the 
bodice faced in the front with white lace, crossed with violet braid. 

Eveline. —Hair puffed in front, and in loose ringlets in a bunch at back of head ; 
string of pearls three times around the neck, ending in locket and cross ; blue 
body and skirt ; skirt opens in front and shows white under-skirt ; trimmed 
with gold cord. Act V. : White satin dress ; face pale, with the white on the 
• cheeks to come off and show color under, at a touch of hand dampened by a 
breath. 

Village Girls.— As usual. 

Waiting Women fob Ljs.dt Monteeville.— As usuaL 



PROPERTIES, (See Scenery). 

I. —Scene T. : Spade ; coin for Vyvyan ; weapons for sailors. Scene II. : A hand- 
ful of flowers for Eveline to enter with, ready r. 1 e. ; cane for Malpas. 
Act II.— Scene 1. : Table and three chairs ; on table a two-handled silver goblet ; 
cups and plates of fruit for three. /Scene //. : Four cannon in block carriages, 
not to be touched ; a cresset or beacon basket, at end of a rod, hung out from 
K. 1 E. ; sheet of printed paper, foolscap size. Act III — Scetie I.: Staff; roll 
of MSS. tied up, for Alton. Scene II. : Sword hilt in sheath, for Vyvvan to 
throw aside. Act IV.— Scene I. : MSS. roll, as in Act III., Scene I., for Vyv- 
yan to enter with, ready r. Scene II. : Profile miniature ship, to work from 
R. to L. u. E. line. Act V.— Scene I. : Canes, as before, for Malpas and Alton. 
Scene II. • Salver ; gold cup, jewelled ; letter, with sealed silk band, to be 
opened on stage ; handful of flowers for Eveline to enter with, ready r. 
Scene III. Table ; chairs ; quills, inkdishes, paper, books, on table ; halberds 
for Halberdiers. 



TIME OF PLAYING-TWO HOURS AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. 



NOTE 

The few " cuts " are marked by enclosure between q'jotations, a-s ' 



THE laoniFUL HEIU. 



STORY OF TEE FLAY. 

Several years previoug to the opening of the drama, very few of England's proud 
and wealthy nobles could boast of a fairer name, broader lands, or a more ancient 
pedigree than the Earl of Dartford. Left early in years a widower, his entire affec- 
tion was centered upon an only daughter, the Lady Geraldine, for whom he destined 
a brilliant and powerful alliance. It so happened, however, that attached to the 
Earl's household was a young page, who, though his origin was somewhat lowly as 
compared with that of those by whom he was surrounded, could fairly boast of a 
comely form combined with intellect, gentleness, and courage. Despite the differ- 
ence in rank, constant association brought about a unity of sentiment between the 
liandsome page and the fair Geraldine, which speedily ripened into love, and was 
hallowed by a secret marriage. Their meetings remained undetected for some time, 
until one unfortunate evening, when a kinsman of the Earl's tracked the bridegroom 
to the lady's chamber. As ill news speeds apace so sped the kinsman to his noble 
relative witli the fearful intelligence of his child's presumed dishonor. 

With all the direful anger of a ruined house maddening his actions, the Earl, 
seizing his sword, hastened to his daughter's apartment, and forcing the door which 
was barred against his entrance, was prepared to inflict instant death upon the cause 
of his disgrace. But no culprit was there to meet his angry gaze ; no one u^on 
whom he could wreak his deadly vengeance— the only occupant of the chamber was 
his daughter, and she lay senseless upon the floor. But the wide opened casement 
told a tale that could deceive no one. Whoever had been there previously had by 
that means made his escape, hoping to save the lady's honor; only, however, to 
meet a certain death. The chamber was situated in the highest part of the castle, 
overlooking a long and steep descent of rocks, down which it was highly dangerous 
to pass with the best possible assistance— without it, fatal. The morning told the 
tale ; the page's body was discovered at the foot of the rocks, tearfully mangled ; » 
hasty midnight burial soon concealed his shattered remains and hid the bride's 
secret from the outer world. *■ 

After a few days of continued insensibility, a child was born, which was speedily 
removed to the shelter of Alton, the Earl's priest, and who being entirely depen- 
dent upon his noble patron, was easily bound to inviolable secrecy. The only 
wonder is that the infant was not destroyed, and thus all traces of the presumed 
crime obliterated. Fate, however, willed otherwise. The Lady Geraldine recovered' 
and often visited the priest's abode to bless and caress her offspring, and she placed 
in the holy man's keeping every proof that might at some future period be requisite 
to substantiate the infant's claims. But as the progress of time wears off the keen 
edge of sorrow, so fared it with the Lady Geraldine. 

A lordly suitor came — ambition was grafted in her mind and soon brought forth 
its fruits ; and forced by the surrounding circumstances of a haughty and threaten- 
ing father, and the entreaties of a wily kinsman, she stifled a mother's feelings, for- 
sook her child, and became the wife of the Earl of Monlreville. New ties produced 
new affections, and the second nuptials brought another son, for whom the mother's 
love became warmer and more enduring than for her first-born. The poor priest, 
alarmed at the change, and fearing the direst results if his secret was divulged, ob- 
served the strictest silence, and continued for years to rear as one of his own, the 
infant entrusted to his care, until at a youthful age, the boy was enticed on board a 
vessel which happened to t'luch upon the coast, and borne away. This, however, 
was not the work of chance, but was really accomplished by the designs of a poor 
cousin of the family. Sir Grey de Malpas, who hoped some future day to obtain pos- 
session of the title and estates. At his instigation, Wrecklyffe, who had lost the 
fortune and position of a gentleman, and mixed himself up in piratical pursuits, 
sought the hamlet where the priest resided, and by his rough yet gallant bearing) 
so well adapted for winning the admiration of a youth of spirit, and his storiea of 



THE KIGUIFUL HEIK. 9 

danger, enterprise, and wealth soon secured a strong hold over his intended prize, 
and induced him to board his vessel and join in a cruise to the regions of atiluence 
he liad depicted. 

Days afterwards, when far at sea, the true character of the ship was revealed. 
The pirate's flag was hoisted, and the captain in brief words told his captive that 
there was a choice of Hie or death before him— to join the pirate crew, or seek a last 
resting place in the ocean ; confessing that he had been well paid to get him out of 
the way. But the noble spirit of the youth was aroused by the desperate nature of 
the position in which he found himself; it was but the work of an instant to snatch 
a cutlass from the hands of a sailor near him, and in a moment more the pirate lay 
upon the deck weltering in blood. The scowling crew at first cned out for vengeance, 
but Wrecklyfie, who was second in command, was deeply imbued with a supersli- 
tious belief that it was unlucky to shed blood on board a ship unless in actual fight- 
ing, and he therefore managed to restrain their fierce anger, and directed them to 
seize the youth and bind him to a single plank. So soon as tVii; was done he was 
cist over the vessel's side, and thus left to the ra rcy of the elements and God ; all 
s:iil was set, and very soon the little craft, which had promised to be the means of 
conveying him to a haven of happiness and prosperity, was lost to sight. For two 
days and nights was he tossed upon the waves until lie lost all consciousness ; when 
he came to, he found that he had been discovered and rescued by one of the Queen's 
ships on her voyage to meet the Spanish cruisers. 

With health restored, he was installed amongst the crew, and by his gallant and 
courageous bearing soon won a foremost position. During the vessel's cruise, he waa 
instrumental in saving the lives of the Lady Eveline and her father from a band of 
Algerine pirates, and during the time she remained on the ship a mutual attach- 
ment sprung up between them, promising, if fate so willed it, a happy union at some 
future day. Vows of constancy and truth were exchanged when she was trans- 
ferred to a homeward-bound ship. Time worked many changes; the Earl of Dart- 
ford died; the Earl of Montreville also passed away, and the son of the second 
marriage succeeded to the estates, and became Lord Beaufort of Montreville. Eve- 
line's father also was summoned to join his ancestors, and being related to the Mon- 
treville family, she became the ward and companion of the widowed Countess, in 
which position she inspired the young lord with strong feelings of love, though her 
heart remained true to, and silently yearned after, her sailor lover, who, under the 
name of Vy vyan, had risen to the rank of captain in command of the Dreadnaught, 
one of the smartest of the royal privateers. 

Such then is the previous history of the characters who figure at the opening of 
the play. Sir Grey de Malpas has been installed as steward ; still, the chains of 
poverty gall him, but he consoles himself by believing that he shall one day realize 
the ambition of his life, the title and revenues of the earldom, to which he is next 
in the succession upon the failure of the direct issue. But sore troubles are in store 
for him. Whilst working in the castle grounds his reveries are wofully disturbed 
by the sudden appearance of Wrecklyfi'e, whom he at first fails to recognize, and 
from whom he learns, to his dismay, not only that the boy still lives, but that 
Wrecklyfie, whilst secreting himself amongst the rocks that morning, has actually 
seen him approaching the castle. Whilst speaking he perceives Vyvyan approach- 
ing, and, pointing him out to Sir Grey, they withdraw to talk over the past, and 
lay down plans for the future. 

Vyvyan is waiting orders to sail forth to meet the armament which Spain is fitting 
out for an intended attack upon England, and he takes the opportunity of his ship 
being at anchor in an adjacent bay to visit Montreville, and also to seek an inter- 
view with the priest, and endeavor to obtain from him the secret of his birth and 
such proofs as he may possess. With this object he bids Falkner, one of his lieu- 
tenants, seek out Alton, and inform him of his safe arrival and of his intended visit. 
These instructions are overheard by Sir Grey, who determines to prevent the inter- 
view. 

It so nappens that this day is the anniversary of the first son's birth, and a dream 



10 THE RIGHIFUL HEIK. 

which tlie Countess has had calls the circumstance most forcibly to her mind ; but 
the thought that the ocean, in proving to be, as she imagines, his winding sheet, 
has wiped out shame and slander, tends to soothe and soften thoughts that might 
otherwise be distressing. She derives lurther support and joy, however, from the 
pride with which she sees Lord Beaufort increasing day by day in comely looks and 
gallant, prinoely bearing, entertaining for him an almost idolatrous love ; but she is 
vexed at his avowal of liis love for Eveline, having determined he should make a 
far more exalted m itch. Whilst pondering over this obstacle to the fulfillment of 
her designs, Sir Grey seeks an interview, and in bitter and vindictive language con- 
veys to her the startling intelligence that lier first-born lives. With gloating re- 
venge he points out to her how he has suffered the stings of poverty, and pictures 
bow, if the elder son should prove his riahts, Lord Beaufort must descend from hia 
haughty state, and feel some of the pangs and sufi'erings he has himself endured. 
In agonizing terror she offers to give him gold in abundance to aid her in prevent- 
ing this ; but scornfully rejecting it, he tells her how that when young he pined for 
gold, and sought her father's help to wed the ward he loved ; but the only answer he 
received was, 

" Poor cousins should not marry." 

And again, in later years, when seeking to join the company of knights and gen- 
tlemen, her father's reply was, 

" He had need of his poor cousin 
At home, to be his huntsman and his falconer." 

Even now, he reminds her, he is compelled to sit at the second table, bear the jokes 
of the menials, and submit tamely to the whims and caprices of the young lord. 
He consents, however, ultimately, to assist, promising he will only ask for payment 
when the work is done. 

The meeting which now takes place between Vyvyan and Eveline is, as may well 
be imagined, a joyous one, but slightly clouded by the picture Eveline draws of the 
haughty bearing of the Countess. Vyvyan, however, bids her cheer up, and de- 
scribes to her in glowing terms a fanciful home of happiness and bliss that will re- 
pay all their cares and sufleriug, leading her away to dream of every joy, and forget 
for the time that they are orphans. 

Returning from their consultation, .Sir Grey arranges to send a trusty messenger 
to the priest, and force from him whatever proofs he may possess, and he abjures 
Lady Montreville to nerve herself to meet Vyvyan as a perfect stranger, detaining 
him as long as possible. Sir Grey has scarcely departed, when Eveline and Vyvyan 
return, and it requires very powerful efforts on the part of the Countess to meet his 
gaze, and request him to accept the hospitality of the castle. 

During the interview which follows Vyvyan, at the earnest suggestion of Eveline, 
who thinks that the mournful tale of his e aly years will secure him a friend, de- 
scribes the story of his past life, in language and incident well chosen and vigorously 
rendered. His ardor and enthusiasm enchant Eveline, and Lady Montreville, per- 
ceiving how devotedly they are attached to each other, determines to turn it to ad- 
vantage by bringing about a speedy secret marriage, and an immediate departure, 
so as to prevent, or, at least, to delay considerably, Vyvyan's interview with the 
priest. But ere she can thoroughly mould her plans into shape, the pent-up feel- 
ings of a mother struggle to be free, and she hurriedly leaves to shed in solitude bit. 
ter, scalding tears for the child she dare not acknowledge. 

In the course of wandering through the grounds Vyvyan and Eveline are observed 
by Lord Beaufort, to whom no introduction has yet bet'n made. In the angry flash- 
ing of his haughty eye at perceiving a stranger walking with his cousin. Sir Grey 
quickly detects the rousing of jealousy, and determines to take advantage of it, and 
therefore tells him that during his absence the Countess had received the stranger 
as a guest and as a wooer of his cousin, and pretending not to know his name, sug- 
gests that Beaufort should inquire of Eveline herself. Angrily striding up to Vyv- 
yan, he accosts him in haughty, overbearing terms, and when met with a reply as to 
the gallant calling he toUows, he commands him not to presume too much, but to 



TH!': KIGUXFUL UEIR. 11 

seek the steward of the castle, and by him be lodged with those who nro more his 
equals. The iusult thus offered calls forth a bitter reply from Vyvyaii, and aa en- 
counter is only prevented by tlie arrival of Lady Montreville, and even then, when 
leaving, Beaufort whispers threateningly to Vyvyau, "Again, and soon, sir ! " 

Drawinc her guest into conversation. Lady Montreville gleans from him that the 
object of his visit was twofold— to claim Eveline as his bride, and to discover, if 
Heaven so willed, a parent's heart ; but if his country should be in danger, that call 
must be the first obeyed. In the promotion of these intentions the Countess 
warmly acquiesces. She points out the fiery temper of Beaufort, and urges Vyvyan 
to consent to a marriage that very night, promising a handsome dowry, and then to 
sail away at once, thus Jputting miles of distance between himself and bride and his 
jealous rival; and she promises further to use all her power and wealth in tracing 
out his parents. It is a heavy trial, and she almost betrays herself, when Vyvyan 
passionately implores her to find him a mother with eyes like her oft'n, and when 
she kisses him, lie pictures to her an angel's hand lifting up the veil of time, and 
revealing to him a f ice like hers bending over his infant couch. 

Falkner now returns with tidings from the English Admiral Drake that the 
Spanish fleet, known as the Armada, has set sail ; and he also brings word that the 
priest has ample proofs of Vyvyan's birth, and will meet liim with them at St. Kin- 
ian's Cliff— a lone spot in the neighborhood where they are not likely to be observed. 
Vyvyan determines to see Eveline and then the priest, whilst his trusty lieutenant, 
Falkner, calls the crews together, and gets the vessels ready for sea. 

By the activity of Falkner in reaching Alton befor(! Sir Grey's agent, his designs 
to obtain the papers are thwarted, and consequently, at the meeting which takes 
place between Alton and Vyvyan, the latter learns the particulars of his birth, and, 
with a throbbing heart, hastens to seek Lady Montreville, and claim a mother's 
fond embrace. 

In the meantime she makes Sir Grey acquainted with her plans, and she also 
seeks Lord Beaufort to sound him as to his feelings should reverses overtake him. 
Proudly he upbraids her for such fancies, and in glowing terms portrays the high 
position that he holds — the ancient name he bears in trust for sons unborn— and so 
warmly and boldly is the picture drawn, that remorse is stilled within the mother's 
bosom, and she swears to know no other son, closing the gates of feeling against the 
stranger guest. 

Vyvyan makes Eveline acquainted with his sudden departure, and whilst doing so 
is interrupted by the arrival of Lord Beaufort and Sir Grey de Malp.is. The latter 
artfully draws Eveline aside, whilst Beaufort, writhing with anger and jealousy at 
the new proofs of love he has witnessed, demands of Vyvyan to name the spot and 
hour where they shall meet again. To this Vyvyan readily consents, and names 
St.. Kinian's ClifF, determining to go there unarmed, and, after revealing the newly 
discovered secret, to embrace, and not to tight, a brother. 

Sir Grey now sees that he has succeeded in raising a storm, but the ultimate re- 
sult, skillful schemer as lie is, is not quite clear to him ; help, however, is at hand. 
Wrecklyffe has overheard the appointment, and he tells Sir Grey that he will be 
there to have revenge upon Vyvyan, who had caused him to be branded with the 
name of felon. Sir Grey at once perceives a way to work out his schemes ; he be- 
seeches AVreckh ff ; to hold back and let Vyvyan first meet Beaufort, to watch them, 
and it Beaufort should slay Vyvyan, who will be unarmed, not to prevent it nor 
assist. Wrecklyffe sugsiesta that this is murder, which is precisely what Sir Grey 
intends it should be, for then the murderer would die beneath the headsman's axe, 
and, the two lives thus removed, Sir Grey d- Malpas would be Lord of Montreville, 
in which case he promises to make Wrecklyffe the richest squire in all his train. 
The scheme savors well of success to the outcast pirate, but he suggests that Beau- 
fort may fail or relent. For this emergency Sir Grey is prepared. Should such an 
event occur, Wrecklyffe could then gratify his revenge. Vyvyan's corpse would be 
found upon the spot where Beaufort, armed, had arranged to meet him, and suspi- 
cion would fall, with almost unerring certainty, upon Beaufort, when the secret of 



12 THK KIGUirUL HKIIl. 

liis presumed victim's birth and rivalry in love were known. WrecklySe is satis- 
fit'd, and departs with the firm determination that by the hand of himself or Beau- 
tort, that night, the unsuspecting Vyvyan dies. Then, in a well-conceived and 
flaely-expressed soliloquy, Sir Grey pictures his rise from poverty to we.iltb, and as 
he retires, chuckling with delight over his cunning scheme, he observes : 

" Back, conscience, back ! Go scowl on boors and beggars ! 
Koom, smiling flatterers, room tor the new Earl !" 

Before setting out, Vyvyan determines to seek an audience of Lady Montreville, 
and acquaint her with the information he has gained. She nerves herself to the 
trial; vehemently accuses him of being an im poster, nni calls upon her attendants 
to cast him forth, but when they come to do her bidding she falters ; the image of 
her husband stands before her, and she cannot give the order. Left alone, she describes 
in an agony of grief the sufferings she has endured ; her belief in his death, and the 
growth of her strong affection for Beaufort. She pictures the desolation that will 
now be wrought by this sudden rising from the grave, as it were, and proffering him 
wealth in abundance, implores his acceptance, and, blessed with Eveline's love, his 
renunciation of his mother forever. All this he rejects ; he wi 1 never renounce her ; 
but for the papers, the proofs of birth, he will treat them as worthless; no lands and 
noble title did be seek, but the richest prize of all, a parent's love ; and he asks only 
that he may be able to say in years to come that he received a mother's blessing. 
The victory is gained, and with a passionate embrace, the weeping Countess invokes 
the blessing of Heaven upon her first-born. Then shines forth the true nobility of 
Vyvyan's nature ; he stifles his emotion ; a single kiss declares the seal of secrecy 
upon his lips ; that henceforth he will be dead to her, and whilst he receives a fer- 
vent prayer for his welfare, he bids her farewell tor ever. 

Beaufort is punctual in his appointment at St. Kinian's Cliff, though he is very 
nearly forestalled by TVrecklyffe, who conceals himself amongst the rocks as he hears 
the shouts of the approaching Vyvyan. The pent-up anger of Beaufort bursts forth 
upon his arrival, and as he seizes Vyvyan he reminds him that though he may pre- 
sume upon his youthful years, his playmates have been veterans, his toy a sword, 
and his first lesson Valor. 

But Vyvyan is immovable to anger, and bids him strike and then tell his mother 
that he pardoned and pitied him. At this moment the signal guns are heard calling 
all hands to the ships, and pushing him aside, Vyvyan endeavors to force his path 
towards the bay. Exasperated almost to madness, Beaufort with drawn sword im- 
pedes tlie attempt, presses him to the edge of the lofty overhanging cliff, and calls 
upon him to stand or die. It is in vain that Vyvyan urges him to forbear ; every 
vein runs flre ; he is lost to all reason ; he presses still closer, Vyvyan catches hold 
of the bough of a tree for support, and as Beaufort raises his sword to strike, the 
treacherous branch gives way beneath Vyvyan's weight, and he is cast over the edge 
of the precipice. With a cry of horror at the sudden disappearance of his rival, 
Beaufort falls senseless ; at the same moment, Wrecklyffe hurries from his hiding- 
place and hastens down the sides of the cliff, determined to complete the deed should 
any signs of life remain. 

Twelve months elapse, and no tidings have been heard of either Vyvyan or the 
pirate ; people imagine they must have gone off in the ships ; but to Sir Grey their 
disappearance is easily accounted for. Wrecklyffe must have seen, and perhaps as- 
sisted, in the murder of Vyvyan, and then been well paid to depart. Of Beaufort's 
guilt. Sir Grey has no doubt ; he has been seized with a fixed melancholy, lonely, 
wandering habits, and a mind always ill at ease; and the grief and seclusion of 
Lady Montreville confirm Sir Grey's views. But how to prove the fact? Where 
is the evidence to back up the charge ? 

" How cry, ' Lo ! murder !' yet produce no corpse f " 

Whilst thus debating, the priest arrives with the in telligence that Falkner has 
just returned from his voyage, and that Vyvyan did not accompany him. The old 
man's heart is bowed with grief as he hints that murder must have been at work ; 
an idea which Sir Grey repudiates with affected indignation, but suggests that a 



THie KIGHTFUL HK.IK. 13 

careful search should be made and the assistance obtained of Sir Godfrey Seymour, a 
great magistrate of the neighborhood Falkner now arriving with some of lii.-i 
crew, learns the full particulars of the rivalry and challenge of Beaufort. 'I'hi 
Lour, night — the meeting place, the very spot on which he is now standing; crag--, 
caves and chasms below, with gushing streams, and ledges jutting out, forniiiii^ 
Blender and half-hidden resting places ; might not in one of these the bones of Vy. 
vyan rest? Witii the brave ami faithful sailor thought is action, and ere the others 
can surmise liis intention, he disappears from amongst them and attempts the per- 
ilous descent of the cliff, watched, with straining eyeballs, by Sir Grey, who prays 
that some evidence may be found to support the charge he intends to make. 

The grief and agony Lady Montreville endures from the change whicli has taken 
place in Beaufort is almost unbearable ; her heart bleeds as she sees him throw 
aside all the pursuits in which he once so spiritedly indulged; moving about with 
hollow tread and listless gaze, as though life had ceased to possess for him a single 
charm. His reason seems impaired, for wlien she tells him that the Queen has been 
pleased to appoiut him one of her chosen knights, and that the noblest gentleman 
in the land, the Earl of Essex, is on his way from his victory over the Spaniards, 
and intends to pay him a visit, it fails to arouse his wonted ardor and enthusiasm, 
and he coldly and sternly refuses to welcome Essex or to put on his knightly trap- 
pings. The spirit of madness seems to be working through the household, for poor 
Eveline appears stricken down, wandering about the place, singing dolefully : — 

" Blossoms, I weave ye 
To drift on the sea, 
• Say when you find him 

Who sang ' Woe is me !' " 
as she casts the garlands upon the waters without, and watches the waves toss them 
to .and fro, with a sort of childish glee. 

All this, not particularly pleasant domestic felicity, is interrupted by the arrival 
of Sir Godfrey Seymour, who, having been made acquainted with the particulars of 
Vyvyan's disappearance, has summoned a court of justice to be held in the great 
hall of the castle, and commanded the attendance of the persons interested. 

It is pretty certain to all that in this inquiry the truth will be elicited, for Sir 
Godfrey Seymour bears a high repute as being not only a stern but a very shrewd 
judge ; and when the announcement is made that the plume and various gems and 
ornaments known to belong to Vyvyan have been found amongst a heap of human 
bones discovered at the bottom of the precipice, Sir Grey's heart beats with delight 
lit the prospective certainty of success. 

Falkner U a stern accuser, but at the same time is much moved by the deep re- 
morse which Beaufort exhibits, and he makes an earnest appeal to him to confess 
that, in jealous phrenzy, swords were drawn, and they fought as man to man. But 
the young lord is silent, and his mother urges him to remember his birth and rank, 
to remain firm and unmoved, and to confess nothing. The trial proceeds, and It 
seems clear that jealousy was the cause of the quarrel, upon wliich grounds the 
judge appears inclined to deal leniently with the accused, when Sir Grey, seizing 
the opportunity, forces the priest to the witness stand, and the sec:et of Vyvyan's 
birth is revealed. The shock is too great for Beaufort, and, rejecting the accusation 
of assassin, proclaims himself a fratricide. But Eveline, firm in faith of the won- 
drous power which has hitherto preserved Vyvyan, still believes that lie is living, 
whilst the distracted mother endeavors to shield her son by suggesting that the law 
will spare him if it can be sliown that she had urged him to do the deed. It is in 
vain ; Sir Godfrey is inflexible, and, sternly chiding, commits Iier and her son to the 
custody of the future earl. Sir Grey de Malpas, to be held as prisoners for further 
trial. 

The triumph of the arch-schemer, however, is very brief, for, before he can re- 
move the accused, the attendants announce the approach of a knight belonging to 
the cavalcade of the Earl of Essex, then in the vicinity of the castle, and who, hear- 
ing of the proceedings going on, is hastening to the hall, and follows the messenger 



14 THE KlGtlilUIi HllK. 

upon the scene. Fully equipped, uud with liis vizor down, none can recognize the 
new-comer, who, quickly understanding the position oi iiifaiis, throws down his 
gauntlet as a chaKenge to any one who dares assert that B;.'autort and his mother 
are guilty. He then reLites the circumstances of the meeting; the breaking of the 
bough ; that Vyvyan's fall was broken by a hush-grown ledge, upon which he lay 
for. some minutes insensible, and tliat, when recovering, he saw upon a crag near 
him the pirate, Wrecklyffe, with uplifted steel, prepared to slay him ; but at that 
instant the crng gave way, and the would-be assassm fell to the bottom of the abyss. 
As soon as he could gather strength, Vyvyau crawled down the rocks, and reached 
the dying man in sufficiLnt time to receive his confession of the murderous trap 
that had been prepared. Staggered and bewildered at this recital, Sir Grey sum- 
mons up all his couriige, and, drawing his sword, asserts vehemently that Vyvyan 
died by Beaufort's hand, as lie is prepared to prove ; but the kniglit calmly bids 
him write the lie upon the face of truth, and, raising his vizor, gives convincing 
proof of the innocence of the accused by discovering himself as the missing Vyvyan. 
Sinking senseless and defeated into tlie arms of the attendants. Sir Grey de Malpas 
finishes his career of villainy. Vyvyan briefly explains by what means, finding his 
vessel gone, he had joined the army of the E irl of E.-isex, and won his way to fame, 
receiving the honor of knighthood. Then, embracing with joy his faithful Eveline 
and stricken mother, he proclaims his will that his erring brother shall share with 
him his fortune and his parent's love, although to the title and estates of Montre- 
ville he alone becomes Ths Kiohtful Heib. 



RE3IARKS. 



In the year 1839, the noble author of the " Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu " made 
another venture to obtain the favorable applause of the play-going public, by pro- 
ducing a piece called " The Sea Captain," the idea of which had been suggested by a 
striking situation in one of Alexandre Dumas' novels, " Le Capitaine Paul." 

In October of that year, the eminent tragedian, Mr. Macready, resigned his labors 
at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London, and transferred himself to the Thea- 
tre Royal, Haymarket, then under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster, with 
whom he entered into an engagement at a salary of i;iOO per week (about 500 dol* 
l.irs). The mmuscript of the new play was put into his hands for perusal, and 
meeting with his approval, was at once placed in rehearsal, in which the author 
assisted. 

It received, as a matter of course, from an actor and manager of such skill and 
liberality as Mr. Webster, every attention possible as regards mounting it on the 
stage, and it was also well cast. Mr. Macready enacted the part of Norman, a 
character corresponding to that of Vyvyan in the present play, and all the other 
parts were filled by the best available talent of the profession. 

It was produced October 30, 1839, and was received with a very fair degree of en- 
thusiasm, Mr. Macready being honored with a call upon the occasion. The general 
opinion, however, was not a very flattering one, and what favor it did receive was 
solely due to his admirable acting. It was played occasionally afterwards, but only 
for a brief period. 

Following up the plan pursued with the author's previous playp, this one, as with 
them, was very soon transplanted in the United Stales. In the middle uf the fol- 
lowing year, the Sea Captain's flag was hoisted on this side of the Atlantic— the 
play being produced at the Park Theatre, New York, on June 9, 1840, upon the oc- 
casion of Mr. Hield's benefit, when the leading characters were cast as follows: — 

Norman Mr. Ckeswick. 

Lord Ashdale Mr. Wheatley. 

Sir Maurice Beevor Mr. Hi eld. 

Giles Gaussen Mr. Richings. 

Lady Arundel .Miss Cushman. 

Violet -■ Miss S. Cxjshman. 



THE KIGHrFUL HEIU. 15 

The above characters correspoadinjj to those in the present play of Vyvyan, Lord 
Beaufort, Sir Grey de Malpas, Lady Monlrcville, and Eveline. But although, as will 
be seen, it liad the sujiport of some of the best actors and actresses upon the stage, 
it was very tamely received, and, I believe, never acted again. 

As before observed, the excellent acting of Mr. Macready secured for the piece a 
short run, but it was one of such doubtful favor thut the author withdrew the play 
from the stage ( md even from printed publication) intending to replace it before 
the public with some important changes in the histrionic cast, and certain slight 
alterations in the conduct of the story. But tliese alterations became so extensive 
in character, diction, and even in revision of plot, that a new play gradually rose 
from the foundations of the old one. The task thus undertaken was much delayed 
by other demands upon the author's time and thought, and it was scarcely com- 
pleted when Mr. Macready's retirement from liis profession suspended the author's 
literary connection with the stage, and " The llightful Heir " remained in tranquil 
seclusion until 1S68. In that year, the Lyceum Theatre, London, was under the 
management of Mr. E, T, Smith, who had fur many years previously been one of 
the most enterprising and s^lcce^:sf'^ll managers of the Theatre Koyal, Drury 
Lane. Having secured the services of Mr. Bandmann, an actor of much excellence 
and fame, he opened negotiations with the author, which resulted in the production 
of the piece on October 3, 1868. Mr. Bandmann was supported by an excellent and 
good working company, including such well-known talented professionals as Mr. 
Herman Vezin and his wife (formerly a Mrs. Charles Young), Mr. Neville (a most 
panistaking actor, who has since risen to a very high position in Loudon), and Mr, 
Basil Potter, than whom there were few more clever in high class melo-drama, es- 
pecially of the French school. 

lu dia not, however, have a very successful career, and I am not aware of its being 
played afterwards iu England or on the American stage. 

One little gratifying incident in connection with the piece may be mentioned. 
Upon its publication, the author took the opportunity to make known his good feel- 
ing towards the people of the United States, for the appreciation bestowed upon his 
previous productions, and at the commencement of a brief preface he stated that 
he dedicated the drama 

" To all friends and kinsfolk ia the American Commonwealth, with affection and 
respect." 

As the noble author observes that he set to work to alter " The Sea Captain " and 
produced a new play, so might similar labor be bestowed upon the present piece with 
a corresponding result, and by judicious alterations and curtailment of some of the 
lengthy speeches and scenes, with the introduction of a few new incidents, there is 
little doubt an excellent drama could be produced. 

The chief fault is that the plot is too commonplace and of the old melo-dramatio 
type to create any very great interest ; nevertheless it affords scope for some very 
beautiful speeches and sentiments ; as an artist would say, the dressy and showy 
verbiage is hung upon a very weak lay figure. 

The character of Vyvyan is very ably drawn, but his departure after escaping so 
miraculously from death, and being cognizant of his rank and birth, as also passion- 
ately in love, is a very great stretch of dramatic license. 

The character of Lady Montreville is also very admirably drawn. Believing her 
first-born dead, and gradually drifting cut of a state of remorse and suffering into 
one of peace and affection for her second son, it is naturally a fearful struggle for 
her to proclaim to the world her shame, and to disinherit and cast forth as a beggar, 
as it were, the young noble who had been reared with all the care and luxury that 
pride and wealth could bestow. The scene in which this struggle is portrayed (Act 
1, Scene 1) is a very lengthy one, but fur vigorous and appropriate language of the 
finest class, will bear comparison with any of the author's compositions. So also will 
the first scene in the Second Act, where Vyvyan, at the request of Eveline, relates 
to Lady Montreville the story of his early life. The great fault, however, of both 
these scenes is the extreme length ; the idea and language are unexceptionable. 



16 THE EIGHIFUL HEIE. 

Another fine piece of descriptive poetry is the imaginary home for a sailor's bride, 
which Vyvyan pictures to Eveline in the Second Scene of the First Act, and which 
very much resembles, in idea and execution, a similar but grander iiight of poetic 
fancy in the Second Act of the Lady of Lyons. 

The character of Alton, the priest, is very neatly drawn, and his story of Vyvy- 
an'a birth (Act III, Scene 1), couched in easy and appropriate language.' 

Sir Grey de Malpas, the leading villain of the drama, is skillfully depicted ; his 
sarcastic remarks upon the poverty he endures and the insults to which he is sub- 
jected, are pointedly given, and his interview with Lady Montreville and the solilo- 
quy upon his anticipated succession to rank and wealth are finely described. 

Lord Beaufort, proud and impetuous, is also well done, as is the blunt but faitli- 
f ul friend of Vyvyan, Falkner. Eveline is lame ; she is made, for what reason one 
fails to see, a sort of melo-dramatic Ophelia, with nothing of much importance to do 
or say. 

Altogether, however, the play reads well, and though there is the drawback of a 
rather weak, improbable, and commonplace plot, there is much beauty of language 
and many telling points. J. m. k. 



BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, ETC. 

The events of the Play take place at, and in the vicinity of, the Castle of Montre- 
ville, on the coast of England, in the years 1588-9, during the reign of ^iueen 
Elizabeth. 

ACT I. 

Sci-NE I.— RUINS NEAR THE CASTLE OF MONTREVILLE. 
The Poor Cousin— A Strange Wreck from the Sea — Arrival of Captain 
Vyvyan on a Love Cruise — The Secret of Birth — The Hour to Solve the 
Mystery. 

Scene IL— GARDENS OF THE CASTLE. 
A Mother's Love for the Living and the Dead — Eveline^s Song of Woe— In- 
sult to the Poor Cousin — Story of the Missing Heir of Montreville — The 
Proofs Exist — The Compact! — Poetry of Love, and the Bright Home 
for a Sailor's Bride — Dismay of Lady Montreville. 
ACT II. 
Scene I— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. 
The Mother and her First-born— Vyvyan's Vivid Story of His Life — The 
Plot to Destroy him. 

Scene II.— THE CASTLE YARD. 
Interview between Beaufort and Vyvyan — The Sailor and the Gallant — The 
Quarrel — A Rival in Fortune, Name, and Love — A Hasty Marriage and 
a Quiet Departure — The Snake in the Grass — Proclamation of Queen 
Elizabeth against the Invasion by Spain — The Call to Arms — Prepara- 
tions for Battle. 



T5K BIGHTFDt JIEXB- 17 

Acr III. 

Scene I.— ROCKY VIEW ON THE COAST. 
The Priest Reveals to Vyvyan the Secret of his Birth — " The Proofs?" — 
" Are Here ! " — " Noio then to Find and Claim a Mother ! " 

Scene II.— EXTERIOR OF THE CASTLE. 
The Poor Cousin and the Pirate — The Schemers Outioitted — Preparing for 
Defence — Pride and Poverty — The Challenge! — The Lord and the Sai- 
lor — " We meet again, no Living Eye to see us ! " — A Pirate''s Revenge 
— Plotting for Murder. 

ACT IV. 
Scene L— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. 

Postponement of the Wedding — The Lost Soil — Heart-rending Ajipeal to a 
Mother — A ParenVs Agony — Struggle betioeen Pride and Affection — 
Priceless Value of a Mother's Blessing. 
Scene IL— CLIFFS AND ROCKY PASS ON THE COAST. 

The Rival in Love and Fortune — The Pirate on the Watch — The Trap for 

the Unarmed Sailor — The Quarrel — The Pursuit — Life on the Edge of 

a Rock — The Fatal Trap — The Broke7i Bough — Vyvyan is hurled from 

the Cliff! 

Twelve months elapse between these Acts. 

ACT V. 

Scene L— CLIFFS AND ROCKY PASS. 

The Schemer's Success — The Poor Cousin future Lord of Mo7itreville — Vyv- 

yan's Fate — Suspicio7i Points to Beaufort - The Search for the Corpse 

— " Bring up but Bones, and Round the Skull Til Wreath my Coronet ! " 

Scene II.— A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. 

Beaufort's Remorse — A Distressed Mind and a Mother's Grief— ^Dis- 

covery of Proofs of Guilt— The Summons to the Hall of Justice. 
Scene III.— THE GREAT HALL IN THE CASTLE OF MONTRE- 

VILLE. 
The Court Assembled— The Charge of the Poor Cousin — Tlie Accusation 
—Proojs of Murder— The Secret of Birth Revealed- The Suspected 
Fratricide— An Unlooked-for and Mysterious Visitor— The Tables 
Turned—" The Bones are those of Wrecklyffe, the Intended Assas- 
sin, and thou, Sir Grey, the Schemer !"— Confusion of Villainy and 
Triumph of Innocence— Unity of Mother and Brothers— True Love 
Rewarded — Joyous Recognition of Vyvyan as 

THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 



THE RIGHTFUL HEIR 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — Castle Jtuins in Ath grooves. Music. 

Discover Sir Geet, digr/in^, vp c, throws down his spade and comes down c 

Sir Grey. T cannot dig. Fie, what a helpless thing 
Is the white hand of well-born poverty ! 
And yet between tiiis squalor and that pomp {looks up l.) 
Stand but two lives, a woman's and a boy's — 
But two frail lives. I may outlive them both. (r. c.) 

J&iter Wkeckltffe, l. 1 e. 

"Wreck. Ay, that's the house — the same; the master changed, 

But less than I am. Winter creeps on him, 

Lightning hath stricken me. Good-day. 
Sir G. Pass on. 

No spendrift hospitable fool spreads here 

The board for strangers. Pass. 
Wreck. Have years so dimmed 

Eyes once so keen, De Malpas 1 
Sir. G. (after a pause). Ha ! Thy hand. 

What brings thee hither 1 
Wreck. " Brings me 1 " say " hurled back." 

First, yellow pestilence, whose ghastly wings 

Guard, like the fabled griffin, India's gold ; 

Unequal battle next ; then wolfish famine ; 

And lastly storm (rough welcome lo England) 

Swept decks from stern to stem; to shoie was flung 

A lonely pirate on a battered hulk ! 

One wreck rots stranded ; — you behold ihe other. 
Sir G. Penury hath still it's crust and roof-tree — share them. 

Time has dealt hardly with us both, since first 

We two made friendship— ^thou straight-limbed, well-favored. 

Stern-hearted, disinherited dare-devil. 

Wreck. And thou 1 

Sis G. (smiles). A stroke paints me. My lord's poor cousin. 

How strong thou wert, yet I could twist and wind ti.ee 

Round these slight hands ; that is the use of brains. 



20 THU KieHTFUB HEiR. 

Wreck. Still jokes and stings 1 

Sir. G. Still a poor consin's weapons. 

Wreck. Boast brains, yet starve 1 

Sir G. Still a poor cousin s fate, sir. 

Pardon my brains, since oft' lliy boasts lliey paidop.ed ; 
(Sad change since then), when rufHors aped thy swagger. 
And village maidens sighed aiul, w ondering, asked 
Why heaven made men so wicked — and so comely. 

Wreck. (,c/ruffli/). 'Sdeath ! Wilt thou cease 1 

Sir G. That scar upon thy 

Front bespeaks grim service. 

Wbeck, In thy cause, De Malpas ; 

The boy, whom at thine instance I allured 
On board my bark, left me this brand of Cain. 

Sir G. That boy 

Wreck. Is now a man, (Sir Grey starts) and on these shores. 

This morn I peered from yonder rocks that hid me, 
And saw his face. I whetted then this steel : 
Need'st thou his death 1 In me behold Revenge ! 

Sir G. He lives — he lives ! There is a third between 
The beggar and the earldom. 

Wreck, {looks r ). Steps and voices ; 

When shall we meet alone 1 Hush ! it is he. 

Sir G. He with the i)lume 1 

Wrbck. Ay. 

Sir G. Quick ; within. 

AVreck. And thou f 

Sir G. I dig the earth ; see the grave-digser's tool, (ffors up e. c ) 
[Exit Wreckylffe, d tn 3 g., set fiat. 

Enter Harding (tid Sailors, r. 1 e. 

Hard. Surely "twas here the captain bade ns meet him 

AVbile he went forth for news 1 
First Sailor. He comes. 

Bnter Vyvyan, l. 1 e. 

Hard. Well, c.npln.n. 

AViiat tidings of the Spaniard's armament 1 
Vyv. Bad, fo" they say the fighting is put off. 

And storm \\\ Biscay driven back the Dons. 

This is but rumor — we will learn the truth. 

Harding, take horse and bear these lines to Drake— C^riVfs pafir 

If yet our countrv needs stout hearts to guard her, 

He'll not forget the men on board the Dreadnanght. 

Thou canst be back ere sunset with his answer, 

And find me in von towers of Montreville. 

\Exit Harding, r. 1 e. 

Meanwhile make merrv in the hostel, lads, 

And drink me out these ducats in this toast -.—ign-cs coin) 

" 'N'o foe'; be fall enn' to wa-^e the moat 

Which Tirds the fort whose only walls are men 

[Saiiors chrtr, and (zcunt r. 1 E. 
Vyv. (c ^. T never hailed reprieve from war till now. 
Henven srant but time to see mine Eveline, 
And learn mv birth from Alton. 



ACT I. 21 

Enter Falkner, L. 1 E. 

p^LK. Captain, (wff^s Vyvyan, c.) 

y yy_ ' Falkner ! 

So soon returned % Thy smile seems fresh from home. 

All well there 1 
Falk. Just in time to make all well. 

My poor old father !— bailitis at his door ; 

He tiHs another's land, and crops had lulled. 

I poured mine Indian gold into his lap, 

And cried, " father wilt thou now forgive 

The son who went to sea against thy will 1 " 
Vyv. And he forgave.— Now tell me of thy mother; 

I never knew one, but I love to mark 

The quiver of a strong man's bearded lip 

When his voice lingers on the name of mother. 

Thy mother bless'd thee 

p^LK. Yes, T {/filters and turns aside.') 

Pshaw ! methought 

Her joy was weeping on my breast again ! 
Vyv. I envy thee those tears. 
Falk. Enough of me ! 

Now for thyself AVhat news 1 Thy fair betrothed— 

The maid we rescued from the lurband corsair 

With her brave iather in ihe Indian seas — 

Found and still faithful 1 
Vrv. .faithful I will swear it ; 

But not yei foui d. Her sire is dead— the stranger 

Sits at his hearth— and with her next of kin, 

Hard by this spot— yea, in yon sunlit towers {points up l.) 

Mine Eveline dwells. 
Falk. Thy foster father, Alton, 

Hast thou seen him "? 
V^Yv. Not yet. My Falkner, serve me. 

His house is scarce a two hours' journey hence, 

The nearest haiulet will afford a guide ; 

Seek him and break the news of my return, 

Say I shall see him ere the day be sped. 

And, hearken, friend (good men at home are apt 

To judge us sailors harshly), tell him this— 

On the far seas his foster son recalled 

Prayers taught by age to childhood, and implored 

Blessinf^s on that gray head. Farewell! ( Falkner ctj^sr. 1 e.) 
Now. Evehne." [Exit, Vyvyan l. 1 e. 

Sir G. {comes doivn l. c ). Thou seekest those towers— go ! 1 will meet 
thee there. 

He must not see the priest— the hour is come 

Absolving Alton's vow to guard the secret ; 

Since the boy left, two 'scutcheons moulder o'er 

The dust of "tombs from which his rights ascend ; 

He must not see the priest — but how loiestall him 1— 

Within! For there dwells Want, Wit's counsellor, 

Harboring grim Force, which is Ambitions tool. 

[^■jrii Sir Grey, D xnZQ.Jlat 

Drop Curtain for change. Music during/ watt. 



22 



THE KIGHTJFUL BEIK. 



Scene changa^ io 

SCENE II. — Castle Gardens in 5th grooves. 

Enter, r. p. e., Lady Montreville, hy steps to c. 

Lady M. This were his birthday, were he living still ! 
But the wide ocean is his winding sheet, 
And his grave — here ! (hand to heart) I dreamed of him last 

night. 
Peace! with the dead, died shame and glozing slander; 
In the son left me still, 1 clasp a world 
Of blossoming hopes whicli ilower beneath my love, 
And take frank beauty from the flatteiing day. 

And but my Clarence — iu his princely smile 

How the air brightens. 

Enter Lord Beaufort and Marsden, l, 3 E. 

Lord B. (to Marsden). Yes, my gallant roan, 

And stay — be sure the falcon, which my lord 

Of Leicester sent me ; we will try its metal, (goes up R. c.) 
Mars. Your eyes do bless him, madam, so do mine : 

A gracious spring ; Heaven grant we see its summer ! 

Forgive, dear lady, your old servant's freedom. 
Lady M. Who loves him best, with me ranks highest, Marsden. 

[Exit Marsden. l. 2 e. 

Clarence, you see me not. 
Lord B. {comes doun). Dear mother, welcome, (r o/LadtM.^ 

Why do I miss my soft-e)'ed oo\isiii here 1 
Lady M. It doth not please me, son, that thou should'st haunt 

Her steps, and witch with dulcet words her ear. 

Eveline is fair, but not the mate for Beaufort. 
Lord B. Mate! Awful word! Can j'outh not gaze on beauty 

Save by the torch of Hymen 1 To be gallant, 

Melt speech in sighs, or murder sense in sonnets ; 

Veer with each change in F.iucy's April skies, 

And o'er each sun-shower fling its fleeting rainbow. 

All this 

Lady M. (gloomily). Alas, is love. 

Lord B. No ! Love's light prologue, 

The sportive opening to the serious drama ; 

The pastime practice of Don Cupid's bow, 

Against that solemn venture at the butts 

At which fools make so many random shafts, 

And rarely hit the white ! Nay, smile, my mother ; 

How does this plume become me 1 
Lady M. Foolish boy ! 

It sweeps too loosely. 
Lord B. Now-a-days, man's love 

Is worn as loosely as I wear this plume — 

A glancing feather stirred with every wind 

Into new shadows o'er a giddy brain, 

Such as your son's. Let the plume play, sweet mother. 
Lady M. Would I could chide thee ! (to r. c.) 
Lord B. Hark, I hear my steed 



ACT I. 23 

Neighing impatience ; and my falcon frets 
Noon's lazy air with lively silver bells ; 
Now, madam, look to it — no smile from me 
When next we meet, — no kiss of filial duty, 
Unless my fair-faced cousin stand beside yoU; 
Blushing "Peccavi" for all former sins — 
Shy looks, cold words, this last unnntural absence, 
And taught how cousins should belinve to cousins. 

[Exit Lord Beaufort, l. 2 s. 
Ladt M. Trifler ! And yet the faults that quicken fear 

Make us more fond — we parents love to pardon, {^oes up c.) 

Enter Eveiine, e. 1 E., weaving flowers — not seeing Lady Montreville. 

EvEL, {sitigs). Bud from the blossom. 

And leaf from the tree, 
Guess why in weaving 

I sing " Woe is me ! " {goes up c. to wall.) 

'Tis that I weave you 
To drift on the sea, 
And say, when ye find him, 
Who sang " Woe is me ! " 
(^casts garland over wall, blows a kiss, and comes down c.) 

Ladt M. A quaint but mournful rhyme. 

EvEL. You, madam ! — pardon ! 

Lady M. What tells the song 1 

EvEL. A simple village tale 

Of a lost seaman, and a c:azed girl, 
His plighted bride — good Marsden knew her well. 
And oft-times marked her singing on the beach. 
Then launch her flowers, and smile upon the sea. 
1 know not why — both rhyme and tale do haunt me. 

Lady M. Sad thoughts haunt not young hearts, thou senseless child. 

EvKL. Is not the child an orphan 1 (both at c, she r. -/ Lady M.) 

Lady M. In those eyes 

Is there no moisture softer than the tears 
Which mourn a father 1 Roves thy glance for Beaufort ? 
Vain girl, beware ! The flattery of the great 
Is but the eagle's swoop upon the dove, 
And, in descent, destroys 

EvEL. Can you speak thus. 

Yet bid me grieve not that I am an orphan 1 

[Exit, iJioughtfuUy. l. 2 E. 

Lady M. {aside). I have high dreams for Beaufort; bright desires ! 
Son of a race whose lives shine down on Time 
From lofty tombs, like beacon-towers o'er ocean. 
He stands amidst the darkness of my thought, 
Radiant as Hope in some lone captive's cell. 
Far from the gloom around, mme eyes, inspired, 
Pierce to the future, when these bones are dust. 
And see him loftiest of the lordly choirs 
Whose swords and coronals blaze around the throne, 
The guardian stars of the imperial isle — 
Kings .shall revare bis mother. 

{seats htrself in garden sent thought ftdly ) 



2^ IKS, SlGHTFCrii HEIK. 



Unfer, s. 1 E., Sm Grey, apeaJcing to Servant. 

Sir G. What say'st thou 1 

Servant {insolently). Sir Grey — ha ! ha ! — LorJ Beaufort craves j-oiir 
pardon, 

He sliot your hound — its bark disturbed the deer. 
Sir G. Tlie only voice that welcomed me ! A dog — 

Grudges he that 1 (r. c.) 
Servant. Oh, sir, 'twas done in kindness 

To you and him ; the dog was wondrous lean, sir ! 
Sir G. I thank my lord^ [Exit Servant, r. 1 e., laughing. 

So my poor Tray is killed ! 

And yet that dog but barked — can tlris not bite 1 

{approaches Lady jMonteeville, vindictively in a whisper.) 

He lives ! 
Lady M. He ! who "? 

Sir G. The heir of Montreville! 

Another, and an eluer Beaufort, lives ! (Lady M. rises.) 

{Aside.) So — the fang fixes fast — good — good ! (l. c. front.) 
Lady M. Thou saidst 

Ten years ago — " Thy first-born is no more- 
Died in far seas." 
Sir G. So swore my false informant. 

But now, the deep that took the harmless boy 

Casts from its breast the bold-eyed daring man. 
Lady M. Clarence ! My poor proud Clarence ! (c ) 
Sir G. (l. c. front). Ay, poor Clarence ! 

True ; since his father, by his former nuptials, 

Had other sons, if you, too, own an elder, 

Clarence is poor, as poor as his poor cousin, 
njgh ! but the air is keen, and Poverty 
I Is thinly clad ; subject to rheums and agues, {shiver.i) 
\ Asthma and phthisic, {coughs) pains in the loins and limbs, 

And leans upon a crutch, like your poor cousin. 

If Poverty begs. Law sets it in the stocks ; 

If it is ill, the doctors mangle it ; 

If it is dying, the priests scold at it ; 

And, when 'tis dead, rich kinsmen cry, "Thank heaven ! " 

Ah ! If the eider prove his riglits, dear lady. 

Your younger son will know what's poverty ! 
Lady M. Malignant, peace ! why doest thou torture me 1 

The priest who shares alone with us the secret 

Hath sworn to guard it. 
Sir G. Only while thy sire 

And second lord survived. Yet, what avails 

lu law his tale, unbacked by thy confession 1 
Lady M. He hath proofs, clear proofs. Thrice woe to Clarence ! 
Sir G. Proofs — written proofs 1 

Lady M. Of marriage, and the birth ! 

Sir G. Wherefore so long was this concealed from me 1 
Lady M. {haughtily). Thou wert my father's agent, Grey De Malpas, 

Not my familiar. 
Sir G. {proudly). Here, then, ends mine errand, {going u.) 

Lady M. Stay, sir — forgive my rash and eager temper ; 

Stay, stay, and counsel me. What ! sullen stilH 

Needest thou gold 1 befriend, and find me grateful. 



ACT I. 



25 



Sib G. Lady of Montreville, T was once young, 

And pined for gold, to wed the maid I loTsd: 
Your father said, " Poor cousins should not marry," 
And gave that sage advice in lieu of gold. 
A lew years later, and I grew ambitious, 
And longed for wars and fame, and foolisli honors : 
Then I lacked gold, to join the knights, mine equals, 
As might become a Malpas, and your kinsman: 
Your father said he liad need of his poor cousin 
At home to be his huntsman, and his falconer ! 

Lady M. Forgetful! After my first fatal nupt'als 

And their sad fruit, count you as naught 

StR G. My hire ! 

For service and for silence ; not a gift. 

Lady M. And spent in riot, waste, and wild debauch 1 

Sir 6. True ; in the pauper's grand inebriate wish 

To know what wealth is, — tho' but for an hour. 

Lady M. But blame you me or mine, if spendthrift wassail 
Run to the dregs 1 Mine halls stand open to you ; 
My noble Beaufort hath not spurned your converse; 
You have been welcomed 

Sir G. At your second table, 

And as the butt of unchastised lackeys j. 
While your kind son, in pity of my want, 
Hath this day killed the faithful dog that shared it, 
'Tis well ; you need my aid, as did your father, 
And tempt, like him, with gold. I take the service j 
And, when the task is done will talk of payment. 
Hist ! the boughs rustle. Closer space were safer ; 
Vouchsafe your hand, let us confer within. 

Ladt M. Well might I dream last night! A fearful dream. 

[Uxeimt Lady Montreville and Sir Grey, bi/ steps, and q^^. 2. B. 
conveisiiif/. 

Enter Eveline, l. 2 e. 

EvEL. Oh, for some fairy talisman to conjure 

Up to these longing eyes the form they pine for ! 

And yet, in love, there's no such word as absence ; 

The loved one glides beside our steps forever j {seated in garden 

seat.^ 
Its presence gave such beauty to the world. 
That all things beautiful its tokens are, 
And aught in sound most sweet, to sight most fair, 
Breathes with its voice, and haunts us with its aspect. 

Enter Vyvyan, l. 3 e. 

There spoke my fancy, not ray heart ! Where art thou, 

My unforgotten Vyvyan 1 
Vtv. (kneels to her). At thy feet! {pauses and rises') 

Look up — look up ! — these are the arms that sheltered 

When the storm howled around ; and these the lips 

Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kfss 

Of parting lingered, as the fragance teft 

By angels, when they touch the earth and vanish. 
\ Look up ; night never hungered for the sun 
\ As for thine eyes my soul ! 



2(5 I5B Ei&HTFUL nrjTT. 

EvEL. {cmhraccs Yyvyan). Oil ! joy, joy, joy ! 

Vtv. Yet wec-ping still, tho' leaning on my breast! 

My sailor's bride, hast thou no voice but blushes 1 

Nay from those drooping roses let me steal 

The coy reluctant sweetness ! 
EvEL. And, methought 

I had treasured words, 'twould take a life to utter 

When we should meet again ! 
Vtv. Recall them later. 

We shall have time eno', when life with life 

Blends into one ; — (Eveline looks r.) why dost thou start and 
tremble \ 
EvEL. Methouaht I heard her slow and solemn footfall ! {rises.) 
Vyv. Her .' Why, thou speak'st of woman : the meek word 

Which never chimes with terror. 
EvfiL. You know not 

The dame of Montreville. (c.) 
Vtv. (k. 0/ Eveline). Is she so stern 1 

EvEL. Not stern, but haughty ; as if high-born virtue 

Swept o'er the earth to scorn the faults it pardoned. 
Vtv. Haughty to thee 1 
EvEL. To all, e'en when the kindest ; 

Naj , I do wrong her ; never to her son ; 

And when those proud eyes moisten as they hail him, 

Hearts lately stung, yearn to a heart so human ! 

Alas, that parent love ! how in its loss 

All life seems shelterless ! 
Vtv. Like thee, perchance, 

Looking round earth for that same parent shelter, 

1 too may find bnt tombs. So, turn we both. 

Orphans, to that lone parent of the lonely, 

That doth like Sorrow ever upward gaze 

On calm consoling stars ; the raother Sea., 
EvEL. Call not the cruel sea by that mild name. 
Vtv. She is not cruel if her breast swell high 

Against the winds that thwart her loving aim 

To link, by every raft whose eourse she speeds, 

Man's common brotherhood from pole to pole ; 

Grant she hath danger — danger schools the brave, 

And bravery leaves all cruel things to cowards. 

Grant that she harden us to fear, the hearts 

Most proof to fear are easiest moved to love, 

As on the oak whose roots defy the storm, 

All the leaves tremble when the south-wind stirs. 

Yet if the sea dismay thee, {riffht arm around Eveline's waisf) 
on the shores 

Kissed by her waves, and far, as fairy isles 

In poet dreams, from this gray care-worn world. 

Blooms many a bower for the Sea Rover's bride. 

I know a land where feathering palm-trees shade 

To delicate twilight, suns benign as those 

Whose dawning gilded Eden ; Nature, there, 

Like a gay spendthrift in his flush of youth, 

Flings her whole treasure on the lap of Time. 

There, steeped in roseate hues, the lakelike sea- 
Heaves to an air whose breathing is ambrosia ; 

And, all the while, bright-winged and warbling birds. 



ACT I. 27 

Like happy souls released, melodious float 
Thro' blissful light, and teach ihe ravished earth 
How joy finds voice in Heaven. Come, rest we yonder. 
And, side by side, forget that we are orphans ! 

[Vyvyan and Eveline exeunt, l. 1 e-. 

Enter Lady Montreville and Sir Grey, r. 2 e., and down the steps. 

Lady M. Yet still, if Alton sees 

Sib G. AVithout the proofs, 

Why, Alton's story were but idle wind ; 

The man I send is swift and strong, and ere 

This Vyvyan (who would have been here before m© 

But that I took the shorter path) depart 

From your own threshold to the priest's abode, 

Our agent gains the solitary dwelling, 

And 

Lady M. But no violence ! 

Sir G. Nay, none but fear — 

Fear will suffice to force from tiembling age 

Your safety, and preserve your Beaufort's birthright. 
Ladt M. Let me not hear the ignominious means ; 

Gain thou the end ; — quick — quick ! 
Sir G. And if, meanwhile. 

This sailor come, be nerved to meet a stranger ; 

And to detain a guest. 
Lady M. My heart is wax, 

But my will, iron. — Go. (r. c. hj seat.) 
Sir G. (aside.) To fear add force — 

And this hand closes on the proofs, and welds 

That iron to a tool. [Exit Sir Grey, r. I b. 

Enter Vyvyan and Eveline, l. 1 e., up to l. c. 

EvEii. Nay, Vyvyan — nay, 

Your guess can fathom not how proud her temper. 
Vyv. Tut for her pride ! a king upon the deck 

Is every subject's equal in the hall. 

I will advance, (hmzincavcrs.) 
Lady M. [aside). Avenging angels, spare me ! 

{great emotion, unable to look at Vyttttan.] 
Vyv. Pa-don the seeming boldness of my presence. 
EvsL.* Our gallant countryman, of whom my father 

So often spake — who from the Algerine 

Rescued our lives and freedom. 
Lady M. Ah ! Your name, sir-? 

Vyv. The name I bear is Vyvyan, noble lady. 
Lady M. Sir, you are welcome. Walk within, and hold 

Our home your hostel, while it lists you. 
Vtv. Madam, 

I shall be prouder in all after time 

For having been your guest. 
Ladt M How love and dread 



*Lady M. Vyvyan. Evelinb. 

B. qfo. 0. L. o. 



28 



THE EIGHTFUL EEIH. 



Make tempest here ! I pray you follow me, 

[Uxit Lady Montreville, n. 1 s. 
Vyv. a most majestic lady — her lair face 

Made my heart tremble, and called back old dreams : 
Thou saidst she had a son 1 
EvEL. Ah, yes. 

Vyv. In triiili 

A happy man. 
EvEL. Yet he might envy thee : 

Vyv. Most arch reprover, yes. As kings themselves 
r Might envy one whose arm entwines his all. 
t [arm around Eveline, exeunt b. 2 e. Music. 



ACT 11. 

SCENE 1,-^Boom in 2d grooves. 

T^iscover Lady Montketille and Vtvyan seated at table, and EvELiKB 
L. C, front.* 

Vtv. Ha ! ha ! In truth we made a scurvy figure 
After our shipwreck. 

Lady M. You jest merrily 

On your misfortunes. 

Vyv. 'Tis the way with sailors : 

Still in extremes. Ah ! I can be sad sometimes. 

Lady M. That sigh, in truth, speaks sadness. Sir, if I 
In aught could serve you, trust me. 

EvEL. Trust her, Vyvyan. 

Methiuks the mournful tale of thy young years 
Would raise thee up a friend, wherever pity 
liives in the heart of woman. 

Vyv. Gently lady, 

The key of some charmed music in your voice 
Unlocks a haunted chamber in my soul ; 
And — would you listen to an outcast's tale, 
'Tis briefly told. Until my fiftepulh year, 
Beneath the roof of a poor village priest. 
Not far from hence, my childhood wore away ; 
Then stirred within me restless thoughts and deep; 
Throughout the liberal and harmonious nature 
Something seemed absent,— what, I scarcely knew, 
Till one calm night, when over slumbering seas 
Watched the still heaven, and down on every wave 
Looked some soft lulling star — the instinctive want 
Leirned what it pined for ; and I asked the priest 
With a quick sigh — " Why I was motherless 1 " 



Lady M.* : table. : *"Vtvyan. 

*Etelinb. 



ACT II, 29 

Lapt M. And he 1— 

Vtv. Replied that — T was nobly born, 

And that the c'oud wiiich dimmed a dawninjr snn, 

OfL but feretold its splendor at tiie noon. 

As thus be spoke, faint memories struggling came — 

Faint as the things some former life hath known. 
Lady M. Of wliaf? 

Vyv. (^rises, keeps his eyes on Lady M ). A face sweet with a stately 
sorrow, 

And lii)S wiiich breathed the words that mothers murmur. 
Lady M. (^aside). Back, tell-tale tears ! {weeping.) 
Vyv. About that time, a stranger 

Came to our hamlet ; rough, yet, some said, well-born ; 

Roysterer, and comrade, such as youtii delights in. 

Sailor he called himself, and naught belied ■ 

The sailor's metal ringing in his talk 

Of El Dorados, and Enchanted Isles, 

Of iiardy Raleigh, and of dauntless Drake, 

Antl great Columl)us with prophetic eyes 

Fixed on a dawning world. His legends fired me — 

And, from the deep whose billows washed our walls, 

The alluring wave called with a Siren's music. 

And llms I left my home witii that wild seaman. 
Lady M. The priest, consenting, still divulged not more? 
Vyv. No; nor rebuked mine ardor. " Go," he said, 

" The noblest of all nobles are the men 

In whom their country feels herself ennobled." 
Lady M. (aside). I breathe again, (^aloud) Well, thus you left these 

shores 

Vyv. Scarce had the brisker sea-wind filled onr sails, 

When the false traitor who had lured my trust 

Cast me to chains and darkness. Days went by, 

At leng'.h — one belt of de.^olate waters round, 

And on tike decks one scowl of swarthy brows, 

(A hideous crew, the refuse of all shores) — 

Under the flapping of his raven flag 

The pirate stood revealed, and called his captive. 

Grimly he heard my boyish loud ui>braidings, 

And grimly smiled in answering: '• I, like thee, 

Cast off, and disinherited, and desperate, 

Had but one choice, death or the piiate's flag — 

Choose thoii — I am more gracious than thy kindred ; 

I proflfer life; the gold they gave me paid 

Thj' grave in ocean ! " 
Lady M. Hold ! The demon lied ! 

Vyv. Swift, as I answered so, his blade flashed forth ; 

But self-defence is swifter still than slaughter; 

I plucked a sword from one who stood beside me, 

{gesture of parrying a thrust and replying by a doum cut) 

And smote the slanderer to my feet. Then all 

That human hell broke loose; oaths rang, steel lighioned; 
When in the death-swoon of the caitiff chief. 

The pirate next in rank forced back the swarm, 

And — in that superstition of the sea 

Which makes the sole religion of its outlaws — 

Forbade my doom by bloodshed — griped and bound m© 
To a slight plank ; spread to the winds the sail, 



;() THE KIGHTFUL nEiE. 

And left me on tlie waves alone witli Gml. 

ExEh. Pause, {standing beside Vyvyan) Let my hand lake thine — feel 
its warm life, 
And, shuddering less, ihank Him whose e3'e was o"er thee. 

Vvv. That day, and all that niyht, upon the seas 

Tossed the frail harrier hetweeu life and death; 
Heaven lulled the gales ; and when the stars came forth, 
All looked so bland and gentle that I wept. 
Recalled that wretch's words, and murmured, " AH, 
E'en wave and wind, are kinder than my kindred ! " 
But — nay, sweet lady 

Lady M. {sobbing). Heed nie not. {with an effort) Night passed 

Vyv. Day dawned ; and, glittering in the sun, behold 
A sail — a flag ! 

EvEL. Well— wein 

Vyv. Like Hope, it vanished ! 

Noon glaring came — with noon came thirst and famine, 
And with parched lips I called <in death, and sought 
To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnawed 
Into the flesh, and dro[) into the deep: 
And then — the clear wave trembled, and below 
. I saw a dark, swift-moving, shapeless thing. 
With watchful, glassy eyes ; — the ghastly shark 
Swam hungering round its prey — then life once more 
Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze 
And lifted hair I floated on, till sense 
Grew dim, and dimmer ; and a terrible sleep 
(In which still — still those livid eyes met mine) 
Fell on me — and 

EvEL. Quick — quick ! 

Vyv. I woke, and heard 

l\Iy native tongue ! Kind looks were bent upon me. 
I lay on deck — escaped the ravening death — 
For God had watched the sleeper. j 

EvEL. Oh, such memories ( 

Make earth, forever after, nearer heaven ; j 

And each new hour an altar for thanksgiving. 

Lady M. Break not the tale my ear yet strains to listen. 

Vyv. Tiue lion of the ocean was the chief 

Of that good ship. Beneath his fostering eyes, 

Nor all ungraced by Drake's illustrious praise, 

And the frank clasp of Raleigh's kingly hand, 

I fought my way to manhood. At his death 

The veteran left mo a more absolute throne 

Thau Caesar filled — his war-ship; for my realm 

Add to the ocean, hope — and measure it ! 

Nameless, I took his name. My tale is done — 

And each past sorrow, like a wave on shore. 

Dies on this golden hour, {goes l. unth Eveline, tenderly.') 

Lady M. {observing them). He loves my ward. 

Whom Clarence, too — that thought piles fear on fear ; 

Yet, hold — that very rivalship gives safetj' — 

Affords pretext to urge the secret imptials, 

And the prompt parting, ere he meet with Alton. 

1 — but, till Nature sobs itself to peace, 

Here's that which chokes all reason. Will ye not 



ACT ir. Q, 

Taste summer air, couled through j-on shadowy alleys 1 

Anon I'll joiu you. [Krit Lady Montkeville, r. 1 e. 

Vyv. We will wait your leisure. 

A most compassionate and courteous lady — 

How could'st thou call her proud 1 
EvEL. Nay, ever henceforth, 

For the soft pity she has shown to thee, 

I'll love her as a mother. 
Vtv, Thus I thank thee, {kissing her hand.) 

[Exeunt, l. 1 e. 
SCENE II. — Castle yard, in 5th grooves. 

Enter Sir Grey De Malpas, l 2 e, 

Lord B. ^speaking off l. 2 E.). A noble falcon ! Marsden, hood him 
gently. 

Enter Lord Beaufort, d. in 3 g. set. 

Good-day. old knight, thou hast a lowering look, 
As if still ruffled by some dire affray 
With lawless mice, at riot in thy larder. 
Sir G. Mice in my house ! magnificent dreamer, mice! 

The last was found three years ago last Christmas, 

Stretched out beside a bone; so lean and worn 

With pious fast — 'twas piteous to behold it ; 

1 canonized its corpse in spirits of wine. 

And set it in the porch — a solemn warning 

To its poor cousins ! {aside) Shall I be avenged T 

He killed my dog too. 

Enter Vyvyan and Eveline, r. 2 e., remaining up r. on platform. 

LoBD B. (l. c). Knight, look here ! — A stranger, 

And whispering with my cousin. 
SirG. {i.. c. front, aside). Jealous 1 Ha! 

Something should come of this : Hail, green-eyed fiend ! 

{aloud) Let us withdraw — tho' old, I have been young ; 

The whispered talk of lovers should be sacred. 
Lord B. Lovers! 
Sib G. Ah ! true I You know not, in your absence 

Your mother hath received a welcome guest 

In your fair cousin's wooer. Note him well, 

A stalwart, comely gallant. 
Lord B. Art thou serious 1 

A wooer to my cousin — quick, his name ! 
Sib G. His name "? — my memory doth begin to fail me — 

Your mother will recall it. Seek — a.'^k her 

(Vyvyan and Eveline come down r. c.) 
Lord B. {to c). Whom have we here 1 Familiar sir, excuse me, 

I do not see the golden spurs of knighthood. 
Vyv.* Alack, we sailors have not so much gold 

That we should waste it on our heels ! The steeds 

We ride to battle need no spurs. Sir Landsman ; 

♦ Eveline. Vyvyak. Beaufokt. Sib Gbet. 

B. of c. c. L. c. 



32 IPE KIGHTFUL HEIE. 

Lord B. And overleap all laws ; {sneeringly) methinks thou art 
One of those wild Sea Rovers, who 

A^YV. {quickly). Refuse 

To yield to Spain's proud tyranny, her claim 
To ireat as thieves and pirates all who cross 
The line Spain's linger draws across God's ocean. 
We, the Sea Rovers, on our dauntless decks 
Carry our land, its language, laws, and freedom ; 
We wrest from Spain the sceptre of ihe seas, 
And in the New World build ui> a new England. 
For this high task, if we fulfill it duly. 
The Old and New World both shall bless the names 
Of Walter Raleigh and his bold Sea Rovers. 

'Lord B. Of those namea thine is 

"V^Tv. Vyvyan. 

Lord B. Master Vyvyan, 

Our rank scarce fits us for a fair encounter 
With the loud talk of blustering manners. 
We bar you not our liospitality ; 
Our converse, yes. Go ask the Seneschal 
To lodge you with your equals ! 

Vyv. Equals, stripling ! 

Mine equals truly should be bearded men. 
Noble with titles carpet lords should bow to — 
Memories of dangers dared, and service done, 
And scars on bosoms that have bled for England ! 

Sir. G. Nay, coz, he has thee there, {restraining BsAVFOVir fron draw- 
ing sword.) 

Thou sbalt not, Clarence. 
Strike me. Vm weak and safe — but he is dangerous. 

Enter Lady Montreville, r. 1 e., as Lord Beaufort Ireaks from Sir 
Grey and dratcs his sivord. 

EvEL. Protect your guest from your rash son. 

Lady M. Thy sword 

Drawn on thy (c.) Back, boy ! I command thee, back! 

To you, sir guest, have I in aught so failed, 

That in the son you would lebuke the mother 7 
Vyv.* Madam, believe, my sole offence was this, 

That rated as a serf, I spoke as man. 
Lady M. Wherefore, Lord Beaufort, such unseemly humors 1 
Lord B. {drawing her aside). Wherefore ? — and while we speak his 
touch profanes her ! 

Who is this man 1 Dost thou approve his suit 1 

Beware ! 
Lady M. Yon would not threaten Oh, ray Clarence, 

Hear me — you 

Lord B. Learned in childhood from my mother 

To brook no rival — and to curb no passion. 

Aid'st thou yon scatterling against thy son, 

Where most his heart is set ? 
Lady M. Thy heart, perverse one 1 

Thou saidstit was not love. 

* Eveline. Vtvtan. Lady M. Beaufort. Sir Grey. 

B. B. C. C. li. C. L. 



ACT It. 33 

LoKD B. That was before 

A rival made it love — naj-, fear not mother, 

If vou dismiss this insolent; but,, mark me, 

Disuii.-s him .straight, or by mine honor, madam, 

Blood will be shed. 
L^jjY B Thrice miserable boy ! 

Let the heavens hear thee not ! 
L,KV> B {whispering to Vyvyan as he crosses k.) Agam, and soon, sir ! 

[Exit H 1 E. 
L\DY.M. {seeing Sir Grey). Villain !— but no, I dare not yet up- 
brai'l 

{aloud) After him, quick 1 Appease, soothe, hnmor him. 
SiK G. .-Vy, madam, trust to your poor cousin. [Exit k. 1 e 

Lady M. (aside). Eveline, 

Thou lov'st this Vyvyan 1 
EvEL. [aside). Lady— T— he saved 

My lite atid honor. 
Lady JL {aside). Leave ns, sentlo child, 

1 wou'd confer with him. May both be happy ! 
Epel. (^iio Vyvyan). Hush! she consents; well niayst then bid me 

love her. [Exit Eveline, l. 1 e. 

Lady M. Sir, if I gather rightly from your speech. 

You do not mean long sojourn on these shores'? 
Vyv. Lady, in sooth, mine errand here was two-fold. 

First; to behold, and, if I dare assume 

That you will ratify her father's i)romise, 

To claim my long affianced , next to learn 

If Heaven vouchsafe me yet a parent's heart. 

I gained these shores to hear of war and danger — 

The long-suspended thunderbolt of Spain 

Threatenel the air. I have dispatched an envoy 

To mine old leader, Drake, to crave suie tidings; 

I wail reply : If England be in peril, 

Hers my first service ; if, -as rumor runs, 

The cloud already melts without a storm, 

Then, my bride gained, and my birth tracked, I sail 

Back to the Indian seas, whce wild adventiu'e 

Fulfills in life what boyhood dreamed in song. 
Lady M 'Tis frankly spoken — irankly I reply. 

First — England's danger; row. for five slow years 

Have Spams dull trumpets blared their braggart war, 

And Rome's gray monk craft muttered new crusades; 

Well, we live stdl — and all this dehige dies 

In harmless spray ou Eiiijland s scornful cliffs. 

And, trust me, sir, if war beleaguer England, 

Small need of ono man'j valor: lacked she soldiers, 

Methinks a Mars wouul strike in childhood's arm, 

And woman bo Beilona ! 
Vtv. Stately matron, 

So would our mother coimtry speak and look. 

Could she take visible image ! 
Ladt M. Claim thy bride 

Witli my assent, and joyous grauilalion. 

She shall not go undowiied to your arms. 

Nor deem me wanting to herself and yea 

If I adjure prompt nuptials and departure. 

Beaufort — thou seest how fiery is his mood— 



?, {. illK KiUHliUL UETE. 

Ill my ward's lover would avenge a rival : 

Indulge the impatient terrors of a mother, 

And quit these sliores. AVhy not this night? 
Vyv. " This night 1 

With her — my bride 1 
Lady M. So from the nuptial altar 

Pledge thou tliy faith to part — to spread the sail 

And put wide seas between my son and thee. 
Vyv. This night, witii Eveline! — dream of rapture! {changes look from 
joy to pnin) yet — 

My birtii untracked — 
Lady M. Delay not for a doubt 

Bliss when assured And, heed me, I have wealth 

To sharpen law. and power to strengthen justice ; 

I will explore the mazes of this mystery ; 

I — I will tiack your parents. 
Vyv. Blessed lady ; 

My parents ! — Find me one with eyes like thine, 

(Lady M. starts ; 

And we-e she lowliest of Ihe hamlet born, 

I would not change with monarchs. 
Lady M. (r/side). Cnn I hear this 1 

{aloud) Your Eveline well nigh is my daughter ; you 

Her plighted spouse ; pray you this kiss — sweet! 

(Vyvyan sinks on ono knc. as Lady M. kisses his forehead.) 
Vyv. Ah. as I kneel, and as thou bendest o'er me, 

Methinks nn angel's hand lifts up the veil 

Of Time, the great magician and I see 

Above mine infant couch, a face like thine. 
Lady M. Mine, stranger! 
Vyv. (rising). Pardon me ; a vain v/ild thought 

T know it is ; but on my faith, I think 

My mother was like thee. 
Lady ■\I. Peace, peace ! We talk 

And fool grave hours away. Inform thy bride ; 

Then to thy bark, and bid thy crew prepare; 

Meanwhile, I give due orders to my chaplain. 

Beside the altar we shall meet once more , — 
{voice breaks) And then — and then — Heaven's blessing and favewe'l ! 
[Exit Lady Montreville, l. 1 e., ivtldiy. 
Vyv. Most feeling heart ! its softness hath contagion. 

And melts mine own ! Her aspect wears a charm 

That half divides my soul wi!h Eveline's love! 

Strange ! while 1 muse, a chill and ominous awe 

Creeps thro' my veins ! Away, ye vague iorebodings i 

Eveline ! At thy dear name the phantoms vanish, 

And the glad fulure breaks like land on sea. 

When rain-mists melt beneath the golden morn. 

Enter, d. in 3 g. set, Falkner. 

Falk. Ha ! Vvvyan ! 

Yyv. ' Thou! 

Talk. Breathless wiili speed to reach thee, 

1 guessed thee hngering here. Thy foster site 
Hath proofs that clear the shadow from lliy birtti. 
Go — be awaits thee where yon cioudcapt rock 



Acr II. 3- 

Jags air with barbed peaks — St. Kinian's Cliff. 

[S/wHts of L.,ff(inlli/. 
Vtv. My birth ! My parents livel 
Falk. I know no more. 

Enter, D. in 3 a. set, Hakding. 

Hard. Captain, the rumor lied. I brins; sucli news 

As drums and clarions and resounding anvils 

Fasliioning the scythes of reapers into swords, 

Siiall ring from Tliames to Tweed. 
Vyy. The foeman conies ! 

Hard, {gives letter). Tiiese lines will tell thee ; Drake's own hand. 

[Goes up L. c 
Vyv. (reads). " Tlie Armada 

Has left the Groyne, and we are ranging battle. 

Come ! m the van I leave one gap for thee." 

Poor Eveline ' Slinme on such unworthy weakness ! 
Falk. Tmie to see her arid keep thy tryst with Alton 

Leave me to call the crews and arm the decks. 

Not till the moon rise, in the second hour 

After the sunset, will the deerienins tide 

Floa' i;s from harbor — ere that, hour be past 

Our ship Mjnll wait fhee by St. Kinian's ClfF. 

Small need to pray fhee not to miss the moment 

AVhose loss wouhd lose thee honor. 
Vvy. If I come not 

Ere the waves reel to Ihr third .'-irrnal gnu. 

Deem Death alone could so delay from duty, 

And step into my post as o or my corpse, 
Ealk. Justly, my ca^jtain thou rebuk'si my warning. 

And couldsi thou fail us. I would hold the signal 

As if thy funeral knell — crowd every .'•ail, 

And know thy soul 

Vyv. Was with my country still, (shoids ofi.A 

Bnter, t>, m 3 g. set, Sub-officer, Sailors, Retainers, and Villagers, 
eonfitsedii/. 

Sub-officer (with broadsheet). Captain, look here. Just come' 
Vyy. The Queen's Address 

From her own lips to the armed lines at Tilbury. 
Voices. Read it. sir, read it — 
Vyv; Hush then, (reads) " Loving people. 

Let tyrants fear ! I, under Heaven have jilaced 

In loyal hearts my chiefest strength and safeouard, 

Be;: g resolved in the midst and heat of the battle 

To live and die amongst you all , content 

To lay down for my God and for my people 

My life blood even in ;.he dust : I know 

I liave the body of a feeble woman, 

Bui a Ku-.g s heart a Kmn of England's too ; 

And thir.k toul tcorn that Parma, Spain, or Europe, 

Dare lo luvade the borders of my realm ! 

AVhere Er>g!and fights — with coricord in the camp, 

Trust m the chief, and valor m the field, 



THE KIGHTFUL HEIE. 

Swift be her victory over everj- foe 

Tbreatening her crown, her altars, anrl her people." 

The noble Woman King ! These words of fire 

Will send warm blood through all the veins of Freedom' 

Till England is a dream ! Uncover, lads ! 

God and St. George ! Hurrah for England's Queen ! 

{Cheers, all cheer. '^ 

Villagers. ****** Villagers. 
Falkner.* *Vtvyan. * Harding. 

quick curtain. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — RocJnj Landscape in 2d grooves. 
Discover Alton <?»<? Vtvyax, seated c, on loir rocks. 

Alton. And I believed them when they said " He died 
Tn the far seas." Ten years of desolate sorrow 
Passed as one night — Now thy warm hand awakes me. 

Vyv Dear friend, the sun sets fast. 

Alton. Alas ! then listen. 

There was a page, fair, gentle, brave, but low-born — 

And in those years when, to young eyes the world, 

With all the rough disparities of fortune, 

Floits level thro' the morning haze of fancy, 

He loved the heiress of a loidly house : 

She scarce from childhood, listening, loved again. 

And secret nuptials hallowed stolen meetings — 

'Till one — I know not whom (perchance a kinsman. 

Heir to that house — if childless died its daughter) 

Spied — tracked the bridegroom to the bridal bower, 

Aroused the sire, and said, "Thy child's disiionored I " 

Snatching his sword, the father sought the chamber ; 

Burst the closed portal — but his lifted hand 

Escaped the crini". Cold as a fallen statue. 

Cast from its blessed pedestal forever, 

The bride lay senseless on the lonely floor 

By the ope'd casement, from whose leriible height 

The generous boy, to save her life or honor, 

Had plunged into his own sure death below. 

Vyv. a happy death, if it saved her he loved ! 

Alton. A midnight grave concealed the mangled claj'. 
And buried the bride's secret. Few nights after, 
Darkly as life from him had passed away, 
Life dawned on thee — and, from the unconscious mother, 
Stern hands conveyed the pledge of fatal nuptials 
To the poor priest, who to thy loftier kindred 
Owed the mean roof that sheltered thee. 



Aci ixi. ;}.,• 

Vyv. oil, say 

I have a mother Ktill ! 

Alton. Yes ! 

Vyv. {with joy). Oh ! 

Alton. She survived — 

Her vows, thy birtli, hy the blind world unguei^ed; 
And, after years of woe and vain resistance, 
Forced to a loralier husband's arms. 

Vyv. " ^^y soul 

Ofttimes recalls a shadowy mournfulness, 
AVith woman's patient biow, and saddest tears 
Dropped fast from woman's eyes ; — tiiev were my mother's. 

Alton. In stealth a wife — in sieaUli a mother ! yes, 
Then did she love thee, then aspired to own 
In coming times, and bade me hoard these proofs 

(For that blest day.'' Alas! new ties 
Brought new affections — to the secon 1 nuptials 
A second son was born ; she loved him better, 
Better than thee — than her own soul ! 

Vyv. Poor mother ! 

Alton. And haughtier thoughts on riper life arose, 

And worldly greatness feared tlie worKl's dread shame. 
And she forsook her visits to thy pillow. 
And the sire threatened, and the kinsman prayed, 
Till, over-urged by terror for thy safety, 
1 took reluctant vows to nuisk the truth 
And hush thy rights while lived thy mother's sire 
And he, her second unsuspecting lord. 
Thus thy youth, nameless, left my lonely roof. 
The sire and husband died while thou wert absent 
Thou liv'st — thou hast return"d ; mine oath is freed; 
These scrolls attest my tale and prove thy birthright- 
Hail, Lord of Beaufort— Heir of Montreville ! 

Vyv. 'Tis she — 'tis she ! At the first glance I loved her ! 
And when I told my woes, she wept— she wept 1 
This is her writing. Look — look where she calls me 
" Edmond and child." Old man, how thou hast wronged her! 
Juy — joy ! I fly to claim and find a mother ! 

[Exit Vyvyan, l. 1 E. 

Alton. Just power, propitiate Nature to that cry. 

"And from the hardened rock, let living streams 
Gush as in Hi>reb ! Ah, how faintly Hags, 
Strained by imwonted action, weary age! 
I'll seek the neighboring hamlet — rest and pray." 

[Exit Alton, r. 1 b. 

SCENE U.— Castle Exterior as in Scene II., Aet II. Sunset. 

Enter Sir Grey and Wrecklyffe, d. in 3 g. fiat. 

Sir G. The priest has left, bis home 1 

Wreck. The hour I reached it. 

Sir G. 'With but one man ? Did'st thou not hound the foot-track 1 

Wreck. I did. 

Sir G. Thou didst — and yet the prey escaped ! 

T have done. I ga\f^ thee thy soul's wish, levenge, 
Revenge on Vyvyan — and thou leav'st his way 



3S THE KIGHTFUL IIEIE. 

Clear to a height as high from thy revenge 

As is yon watcli-tower from a pirate's gibbet. 

Wreck Silence '. thou 

Sir. G^ {haughtily). Sir! 

Wreck, {subdued and cowed). Along the moors I track'd them. 

But only came in sight and reach of spring 

Just as they gained the broad and thronging road, 

Aloud with eager strides, and clamorous voices — 

A surge of tumult, wave to wave re booming 

How all the might of Parma and of Spain 

Hurried its tliunders on. {ffns gradiicUi/ doivn during this sce7ie.) 
gijj Q Doit, what to us 

Parma and Spain ] The beggar has no country ! 
Wreck. But deeds like tliat wiiich thou dost urge me to 

Are not ri.sked madly in the i)opulous day. 

I come to thy sharp wit for safer orders. 
Sir G. My wit is dulled by tiuir^, and must be ground 

Into an edge by thought. Hist !— the door jars, 
Z' She comes. Skulk yonder — hide thee — but in call ! 
( A moment sometimes makes or marreth foitune, 
\ Just as the fiend Occasion springs to hand — 

Be thon that fiend ! [Wkeckltffe exits vp b. c. 

Enter Lady Montreville, l. 1 e. 

Lady M. Look on me ' What, nor tremble? 

Couldst thou have deemed my father's gold a bribe 

For my son's nmrder 1 Sold to pirates ! Cast 

On the wild seas ! 
gjR (J. How! I knew naught of this. 

If such the truth, peace to thy father's sins, 

For of those sins is this. Let tiie past sleep, 

Meet present ills — the priest hath left his home 

With Vyvyan's comrade, and our scheme is foiled. 
Lady M I will, "myself, see Alton on the morrow — 

Edmond can scarce forestall me ; for this night 

Fear sails with him to the far Indian main. 
Sir G. Let me do homage to thy genius. Sorceress, 

What was thy magic 1 
Lady M. Terror for my Cla'ence, 

And Edmond's love for Eveline. 
Sir G. [aside). I see ! 

Bribed by the prize of which she robs his rival ! 

This night— so soon 1 — this night— 
T ADY M ^ ^^^^ ^^^' Clarence! 

'Till then, keep close, close to his side. Thou hast soothed him 1 
Sir G. Fear not — these sudden tidings of the foe 

With larger fires have paled receding love — 

But where is Vyvyan ? 
Lady M. Doubtless with his crew, 

Preparing for departure. 
Lord B. {withotd). This way, Marsden. 

Enter. L. 2 E., Lord BEArFORT ivith Marsden (7>id armed Attendants. 

Lord B. 'or ' Ilei^air yon broken parapets at dnwn ; 
"Vonaorthe culverins .—delve down more sharply 



ACT ill. 89 

That bank ; —clear out tlie moat. Those trees— eh— Maisden, 

Should fall 1 Tliey'd serve lo screen the foe I {comes to c.) Ah, 
mother, 

Make me a scarf to wear above the armor 

In which thy father, 'mid the shouts of kinss, 

Shivered French lances at the Cloth of Gold. 
Mars. Nay, my young lord, too vast for you that armor. 
Lord B. No ; you forget that the breast swells in danger, 

And honor adds a cubit to the stature. 
Lady -M. Embrace nie, Clarence, I myself will arm thee. 

Look at him, Marsden— yet they say I spoil him ! # 

SiK G. (draws Lady M. to l. c, and whispers). I mark i' the distance 
swift disordered strides. 

And the light bound of an impatient spirit ; 

Vyvyan speeds hither, and the speed seems joy. 

He sought his crew — Alton might there await him. 
Lady M. His speed is to a bride. 
Sir G. Ay, true — old age 

Forgets that Love's as eager as Ambition ; 

Yet hold thyself prepared. 
Lady M. (to herself.) And if it were so ! 

Come, I will sound the depths of Beaufort's heart ! 

And, as that answers, hush or yield to conscience. 

Lead otf these men. 

[Exeunt Sir Grey and Attenda>'ts, d. m 3 G. fist. 

(to Marsden) Go, meet my this day's guest, 

And see he enter through the garden postern. 

[Szit Marsden, l. 1 e. 

Clarence, come back. 
Lord B. (peevishly.) What now? (r.) 
Lady M. Speak kindly, Clarence. 

Alas, thou'lt know not till the grave close o'er me, 

How I did need thy kindness 1 
Lord B. Pardon, mother. 

My blunt speech now, and froward heat this morning. 
Lady M. Be all such follies of the past, as leaves 

Shed from the petals of the bursting flower. 

Think thy soul slept, till honor's sudden dawn 

Flashed, and the soil bloomed with one hero more ! 

Ah, Clarence, had I, too, an elder-born, 

As had thy father by his former nuptials ! — 

Could thy sword carve out fortune 1 
Lord B. Ay, my mother ! 

Lady M. "Well the bold answer rushes from thy lips 1 " 

Yet, tell me frankly, dost thou not, in truth. 

Prize over mucli the outward show of things; 

And couldst thou — rich with valor, health and beauty, 

And hope — the priceless treasure of the young — 

Couldst thou endure descent from that vain height 

Where pride builds towers the heart inhabits not; 

To live less gorgeously, and curb thy wants 

Within the state, not of ths heir to earls. 

But of a simple gentleman 1 
Lore B. If reared to it, 

Perchance contented so ; but now — no, never ! 
Such as I am, thy lofty self hath made me ; 
Ambitious, haughty, prodigal ; and pomp 



40 'iHli Kitii^iFUI. Ulilli. 

A pari of my verj' life. If I could fail 

From my high state, it were as Romans fell, 

On their swords' point ! 
Lady M. {in horror^. Oh ! 

Lord B. Why is vour cheek so bueless i 

Why daunt yourself with airiest fantasies 1 

Wlio can deprive me of mine heritage — 

" The titles borne at, Palestine and Crecy 1 

The seignory, ancient as liie throne it guards," 

That will be mine in trust for sons unborn, 

When time — from tiiis day may the date be far ! — 

Transfers the circlet on thy stately brows 

(Forgive the boast ') to no unwoithy heir. 
Lady M. (aside). My proud soul speaks in his, and stills remorse ; 

I'll know no other son ! {aloud) Now go, Lord Beaufort. 
Lord B. So formal — fie! — lias Clarence then offended? 
Lady M. Offended ] — thou ' Resume thy noble duties, 

Sole heir of Montreville I [E.rit Lord Beadfokt, l. 2 e. 

My choice is miide. 

As one who holds a fortress for his king, 

I guard this heart for Clarence, and I close 

Its gates against the stranger. Let him come. 

[Exit, L. 1. E. 

Enter, d. in 3 G.flat, Vyvyan and EvEtliTE, 

EVEL. I would not bid thee stay, thy country calls thee — 

But thou hast stunned my heart i' the midst of joy 

With this dread sudden word — part — part ! 
Vyv. Live not 

In the brief present. Go forth to the fu uie ! 

Wouldst thou not see me worthier of thy love 1 
EvEL. Thou canst not be so. 
Vyv. Sweet one, I am now 

Obscure and nameless. What if at thy feet 

I could lay rank and fortune 1 
EvEL. These could give 

To me no bliss save as they bless thyself. 

Into the life of him she loves, the life 

Of woman flows, and nevermore reflects 

Sunshine or shadow on a separate wave. 

Be his lot great, for his sake she loves greatness ; 

Humble — a cot with him is Arcady ! 

Thou art ambitious ; thou wouldst arm for fame, 

Fame then fires me too, and without a tear 

I bid thee go where fame is won — as now : 

Win it and I rejoice ; but fail to win, 

Were it not joy to think I could console 1 
Vyv. Oh, that I could give vent to this full heart ! 

Time rushes on, each glimmering star rebukes me — 

Is that the Countess yonder 1 This way — come, {up c.) 

[Mootilight falls on l. side note. 

Entet- Lord Beaufort and Sir Grey, l. 1 e. 

Lord B, Leave England, say'st thou — and with her T 

Sir G. Thou hast wrung 



Acu- iir. dj 

The secret from nie. Mark — I liave iliy promise 

Not to betray me to tli}- molher. 
Lord B. Ah ! 

Thought she to dupe me with that pomp of words, 

And blind ambition while she beggar'd life 1 

No, by yon heavens, she shall not so befool me ! 
Sir G. Be patient. Had I guessed how this had galled, 

I liad been dumb. 
Lord B. Stand from the light ! Distraction ! 

She hangs upon his breast ! {hurries to Vyvyan, ami then vn- 
covering with an attempt at courtesy, draws him to front ) 
Lord B. Sir, one word with you. 

This day such looks and converse passed between us 

As men who wear these vouchers for esteem, 

Cancel with deeds. 
Vyv. (aside). The brave boy ! How I love him ! 

Lord B. What saidst thou, sir 1 
EvEL. {approaching). Oil, Clarence. 

Lord B. Fear not, cousin. 

I do but make excuses for my i udeness 

At noon, to this fair cavaHer. 
Sir G. If so. 

Let us not mar such courteous purpose, lady. 
EvEL. But — 

Sir G. Nay, you are loo timid ! (draivs Eveline t(p l ) 

Lord B. Be we brief, sir. 

You quit these parts lo-niglit. This place beseems not 

The only conference we should hold, I pray you 

Name spot and hour in which to meet again. 

Unwitnessed save by the broad early moon. 
Vyv. Meet thee again — oh, yes ! 
Lord B. There speaks a soldier, 

And now I own an equal. Hour and place ? 

Vyv. Wait here till 1 have 

Lord B. No, sir, on thy road. 

Here we are spied. 
Vtv. So bj it, on my road. 

(aside) [There where I learned that heaven had given a brother. 

There the embrace.] Within the hour I pass 

St. Kinian's Cliff. 
Lord B. Alone 1 

Vyv. Alone. 

Lord B. Farewell! 
Sir. G. {catching at Lord Beaufort as he goes out.) I heard St 

Kinian's Cliff. I'll warn the Countess.* 
Lord B. Do it, and famish ! 

Sir G. Well, thy fence is skillful. 

Lord B. And my hand firm. 
SirG. But when 1 

Lord B. Within the hour ! 

[Exit Lord Beaufort, l. 1 e. 
Evel. I do conjure thee on thine honor, Vyvyan, 

Hath he not — 
Vyv. Whati (r. c.) 

Evel. Forced quarrel on thee 1 (c.) 

Vyv. Quarrel 

That were beyond his power. Upon mine honor, 

No, and thrice no ' 



42 THE lacnTFUL HEIK. 

EvEL I scarce dare yet believe Ihee. 

Vyv. Why then, I thus defj^ thee still to tremble. 

Awa)' this weapon, (throwing swurd off k. 1 E.) If I meet thy 
cousin, 

Both must be safe, for one will be unarmed. 
EvEL, Mine own frank hero-lover, pardon me ; 

Yet need'st thou not 

Vyv. Oh, as against the Spaniard, 

There will be swoids enow in Vyvyiin's war-ship — 

But art thou sure his heart is touched so lightly 1 
EvEL. Jealous, and now ! 
Vyv. No, the fair boy, 'tis pity! 

Enter Marsden, l. 2 e., 

Mars.* My lady, sir, invites you to her presence; 

Pray you this way. 
EvEL. Remember — 0, remember, 

One word again, before we part; but one! 
Vyv. One wo:d. Heaven make it joyous. 
EvEL. Joyous ! 

Vyv. Soft, let me take that echo from thy lips 

As a good omen. How my loud heait beats ! (nside.) 

Friend, to your lady [Exeunt Vyvyan and Mar.sden, l. 1 E. 
EvEL. Gone ! The twilight world 

Hath its stars still — but mine ! Ah, woe is me! 

[Exit Eveline, l. 1 e. 
Sir G. Why take the challenge, yet cast ofiFthe weapon ! 

Perchance, if, gentle, he forbears the boy ; 

" Perchance, if worldly wise, he fears the noble ; 

Or hath he, in his absence, chanced with Alton 1 

It matters not. Like some dark necromancer, 

I raise the storm, then rule it thro' the fiend! 

Whei-e waits this man without a hope 1 
Wreck, (coming down c). Save vengeance ! 

Sir G. Wert thou as near when Beaufort spoke with Vyvyaa 1 
Wreck. Shall I repeat what Vyvyan said to Beaufort 1 

Sir G. Thou know'st • 

Wreck. 1 know, that to St. Kinian's Cliff 

Will come the man whose hand wrote " felon" here. 

(touches face.) 
Sir G. Mark, what I ask is harder than to strike ; 

'Tis to forbear — but 'tis revenge with safety. 

Let Vyvyan first meet Beaufort ; watch what pass, 

And if the boy, whose hand obeys all passion, 

Should slay thy foeman, and forestall thy vengeance, 

Upon thy life (thou know'st, of old, Grey Malpas) 

Prevent not, nor assist. 
Wreck. That boy slay Vyvyan ! 

Sir G. For Vyvyan is imarmed. 

Wreck. Law calls that — murder ! 

Sir G. Which by thy witness, not unbacked by proof. 

Would give the murderer to the headsman's axe, 

And leave Grey Malpas heir of Montreville, 

And thee the richest squire in all his train. 

*Vyvyan. Evel. Marsden. Sib Grey. 

c. L., up. 



Acr IV. 43 

Wreck. I do conceive the scheme. BuL if the 3-outh 

Fail or relent 

Sir G. I balk not thy revenge. 

And, if the corpse of BeauforL's r^val be 

Found on the spot wliere armed Beaufort met liiin, 

To whom would justice track the death blow ? — Beaufort! 
Wreck. No further words. Or his, or mine the liand. 

Count one life less on earth ; and weave thj' scheme — 

As doth the worm its coils — around t!ie dead. 

[L'xi't Wkecklyffe, d. in 3 o. flat. 
Sir G. " One death avails as three, since for the mothrr 

Conscience and shame Avere sharper than the steel." 

So, I o'erleap the gulf, nor gaze below. 

On this side, desolate ruin ; bread begrudged ; 

And ribald scorn on impotent gray hairs ; 

The base poor cousin Boyhood threats with famine — 

Whose very dog is butchered if it bark : — 

On that side bended knees and fawning smi'es. 

Ho ! ho ! there — Room for my lord's knights and pages 1 

Room at the Court — room there, beside the throne! 

Ah, the new Earl of Montreville ! His lands 

Cover two shires. Such man should rule the state — 

A gracious lord — the envious call him old ; 

Not so — the coronet conceals gray hairs. 

He limp'd, they say, when he wore hose of serge. 

Tut, the slow march becomes the robes of ermine. 

Back, conscience, back ! Go scowl on boors and beggars — 

Room, smihng flatterers, room for the new Earl ! 

(j;omes down fr on', proudly, as falls the') 



ACT IV, 

SCENE I.— Same as Scene I., Act 11. 

Discover Lady Montreville, r. Enter Vyvyan, l. 

Lady M. Thou com'st already to demand thy bride 1 
Vyv. Alas ! such nuptials are deferred. This night 

The invader summons me — my sole bride. Honor, 

And my sole altar— England '■ (aside) How to break it 1 
Lady M. My Clarence on the land, and thou on sea, 

Both for their country armed ! Heaven shield ye both ! 
Vyv. Say you that ? Both .?— You who so love your sou 1 
Lady M. Better than hfe, I love him! 
Vyv. (aside). I must rush 

Into the thick. Time goads me ! (aloud) Had you not 

Another sou 'i A first born 1 
Lady M. Sir ! 

Vyv. A son, 

On whom those eyes dwelt first — whose infant cry 

Broke first on that divine and holiest chord 



44. inE l.IGIiTiUI. liEIE, 

In tlie deep heart of woiuaii, wliieli awakes 

All Nature's tendere.st music ] Turn not from me 

I know the mastery of thy mournful life. 

AVill it displease thee — will it — to believe 

That son is living still 1 
Lady M. Sir — sir — such license 

Expels your listener, (turns k.) 
Vy V. No, thou wilt not leave me 1 

I say, thou wilt not leave me — on my knees (kneeling) 

I say, Ihou shalt not leave me ! 
Lady M. Loose thine hold ! 

Vyv. Jam thy son — thine Edniond — thine own child ! 

Saved from the steel, the deep, tlie storm, the battle; 

Rising from death to thee — the source of life ! 

Flung by kind Heaven once more upon thy breast, 

Kissing thy robe, and clinging to thy knees. 

Dost thou reject thy son 1 
Lady M. I liave no son. 

Save Clarence Beaufort. 
Y-;: V, 1*0 not — do not hear her. 

Thou who, enthroned amid the pomp of stars. 

Dost take no holier name than that of Father ! 

Thou hast no other son 1 0, cruel one ! 

Look — look — these letters to the priest who reared him — 

See where thou call'st him " Edniond " — " child " — ''• life's all I " 

Can the words be so fresh on this frail record, 

Yet fade, obliterate from the undying soul 1 

By these — by these — by all the solemn past, 

By thy youth's lover — by his secret grave. 

By every kiss upon thine infant's cheek — 

By every tear that wept his fancied death — 

Grieve not that still a first-born calls thee " mother ! 
Lady M. Rise. If these prove that such a son once lived, 

Where are your proofs that still he lives in you 1 
Vyv. There ! in thine heart ! — thine eyes that dare not face me ! 

Thy trembling limbs, each power, each pulse of being, 

That vibrates at my voice ! Let pride rncase thee 

With nine-fold adamant, it rends asunder 

At the great spell of Nature — Nature calls 

Parent, come forth ! 
Lady M. {aside) Resolve gives way ! Lost Clarence ! (/<f rises) 

What! •' Fall as Romans fell, on their swords' point ? ' 

No, Clarence, no '. {tnriung fercely) Imposter ! If thy craft 

Hath, by suborning most unworthy spies. 

Sought in the ruins of a mourner's life 

Some base whereon to piie this labored falsehood, 

Let law laugh down the fable — Quit my presence. 
Vyv. No. I will not. 
Lady M. Will not ! Ho ! 

Vyv. Call your hirelings. 

And let them hear me. {to r. C ) Lo, beneath thy roof, 

And on the sacred hearth of sires to both, 

Under their 'scutcheon, and before their forms 

Which from the ghostly canvas I invoke 
To hail their son — 1 take my dauntless stand. 
Armed with my rights ; now bid your menials thrust 
From his own hearth the heir of Montreville ! 



A^crr IV. 45 



Enter Servants t. 

Lad7 M. Se'ze on {daspwij her 'lands hefore her fna.^ 

Out — oiU! {aside i IIis father stands before me 

la the son's image No i dare r.ol ' 
First Servant Madam, 

Did you not summon ;i3 < 
Vyv. They wai'. vour mandate, 

Lady of Moatreville. 
Ladt M 1 caiied nrt. Go! 

[Exeunt Servants, l. 

Art thou my son 1 If so, have mercy, Edmond! 

Lei Heaven attest with what remorseful soul 

I yielded to my ruthles.? fathers will, 

And with coid lips profaned a second vow. 

I had a child — I was a parent true ; 

But exiled from the parent s paradise, . 

Not mine the frank joy m the face of day. 

The pride, the boast the triumph, and the rapture; 

Tiiy couch was souoht as with a felon s step, 

And whispering natu'e shuddered at detection. 

Ah, could'st thou puess what hell to loftier minds 

It is to live m one eternal lie 

Yet spite of all, how dear thou wert ' 
Vyv I was 1 

Is the time past forever ? Wliat ray sin 1 
Lady M. I loved thee till another son was born, 

A blossom 'mid the snows Thou wert afar, 

Seen rarely — alien — on a slraigers breast 

LeaninT for life, {with great feding) But this thrice-blessed one 

Smiled in mine eyes took being from my breast, 

Slept in mine arms ; here love asked no concealment — 

Here the tear shamed not — here the kiss was glory — 

Here I put on my royally of woman — 

The guardian, tiie protector ; food, health, life — 

It clung to me for all. Mother and child, 

Each was the all to each. 
Vrv. 0, prodigal, 

Such wealth to him, yet naught to s-pare to me ! 
Lady M. My boy grew up, my Clarence. Looking on him 

Men prized his mother more— so fair and stately, 

And the world deemed to such high state the heir ! 

Years went ; they told me that by Nature's death 

Thou hadst in boyhood passed away to heaven. 

I wept thy fate ; and long ere tears were dried, 

The thought that danger, too, expired for Clarence, 

Did make thy memory gentle. 
Vyv. Do you wish 

That I were still what once you wept to deem me 1 
Lady M. I did rejoice when my lip kissed thy brow ; 

I did rejoice to give thy heart its bride ; 

I would have drained my coffers for her dowry ; 

But wouldst thou ask me if I can rejoice 

That a life rises from the grave abrupt 

To doom the life I cradled, reared, and wrapt 

From evei-y breeze, to desolation 1 — No I 



46 THE lUOiliFLi, ilElK. 

Vyv What would you liave me do 1 

Lady M. Accept the dowrj', 

And. blest with Eveline's love, renounce thy mother 

Vvv Renounce theft ' No — these lips belie not Nature ' 
Never ' 

Lady M. Enough — I can be mean no more, 

E'en in the prayer that asked his life. Go, slay it. 

Vyv. Why must my life slay his 1 

Lady M. Since his was shaped 

To soar to power — n^t grovel lo dependence — 
And I do seal his deaili-\v,ii wlien I say, 
" Down to the dust, Usurper , bow the knee 
And sue for alms to the true Lord of Beaufort.'' 
Those w;>rds shail not be said — 1 11 find some nobler, 
Thy riglils are clear. Tlie law might long defer them— 
I do forestall the law. These lands be thine. 
Wait not my death to lord it in my hall : 
Tlius I say not to Clarence, •' Be dependent'' — 
But I can say, " Share poverty with me," 
I go to seek him; at his side depart; 
He spurns thine alms : I wronged thee — take thy vengeance! 

Vyv. Merciless — hold, and hear me — I — alms ! — vengeance ! — 
True — true, this heart a mother never cradled, 
Or she had known it better. 

Lady M. Edmond ' 

Vyv. Hush ! 

Call me tiiat name no more — it dies forever! 
Nay, I renounce thee not, for that were treason 
On the clrld s lip. Parent, i enounce — thy — child! 
As for tliese nothings, {giving papers) take them ■ if you dread 
To find words, once too fond, they're blurr'd already — 
You'll see but tears : tears of such sweetness, madam. 
I did not think of lands and halls, pale Countess, 
I did but think — tnese arms shall clasp a mother. 
" Now they are worthless — take them. Never guess 
How covetous I was — how hearts, cast oif, 
Pine for their rigiits — rights not of parchment, lady." 
Part we, then, thus 1 No, put tliine arms around me ; 
Let me remember in the years to come. 
That I have lived to say, a mother blessed me ! {kneels.) 

Lady M. Oh, Edmond, Edmond, thou hast conquered ! 

Thy father's voice I— his eyes ! Look down from heaven, 
Bridegroom, and pardon me ; I bless thy child ! 

Vyv. Hark ! she has blessed her son ! It mounts to heaven, 
The blessing of the motlier on her child ! 
Mother, and mother :— how the word thrills thro' me ! 
Mother again, dear mother ! Place thy hand 
Here — on my heart Now thou hast felt it beat, 
Wilt tliou misjudge it more 1 

Lady M. Oh ! 

Vyv. Reooil'st thou still 1 

Lady M {breaking from him). What have I done 1 — betrayed, con- 
demned my Clarence ! {to k., frantic'iUy.) 

Vyv. (c). Condemned thy Clarence ! By thy blessing, No ! 
That blessing was my birthright. I have won 
That which I claimed. Give Clarence all the rest. 
Silent, as sacred, be the memory 



ACT IT. 47 

Of this atoninjT hour. Look, evermore (h'sswc/ Jeer) 
Thus — thus I iseal ihe secret of ihy first-burn ' 
Now, only Clarence Hves ' Heaven guard thy Clarence ' 
Now deem me dead to thee. Farewell, farewell ! 

[Exit Vyvya:*, l. 
Lady M. (rushing after htm). Hold, hold — loo generous, hold ! Cume 
back, my son! \Fxit Lady Montreville, l. 

Scene changes to 
SCENE IL — Sea and Eocls m 4.th grooves. 
Enter Lord Beaufort, l. 1 e. 

Lord B. And still not here ! The hour has long since passed. 
I'll climb yon tallest peak, and strain mine eyes 
Down the sole path between the cliti'and ocean. 

i^gocs up slcps r.., and off b.. 2 E.) 

Enter Wrecklyffb, l. 1 E. 

Wreck. The boors first grinned, then paled, and cre[:ft away ; 

The tavern-keeper slunk, and muttered " Hangdog ! " 

And the she-drudge whose rough hand served the drink, 

Stifled her shriek, and let the tankard fall ! 

It was not so in the old merry days : 

Then the scarred hangdog was " fair gentleman." 

And — but the reckoning waits. Why tarries ho 1 (beat on bass 
drum, with diminuendo beats, for signal gun, and its echoes.) 

A signal ! Ha ! 
Vyv. (off h.) I come, I come! 

NVkeck. (grasping his cutlass, but receding as he sees Beaufort entct 

R. i E.) ^ Hot lordling ! 

1 had well nigh forestalled thee= Patience ! 

{Exit around set rock, l. c. 
Lord B. (u. 2 ^., on platform.) Good! 

From crag to crag he bounds — my doubts belied him ; 

His haste is eager as my own. 

Enter Vyvyan, l. 1 e., crossing and going up r. steps. 

Sir, welcome. 
(both on ^first platform, k. U. E.) 
Vyv. Stay me not, stay me not ! Thou hast all else 
But honor — rob me not of that ! Uiiliand me ! 
Lord B. Unhand thee 1 }'es — to take thy ground and driiw. 
Vyv. Thou know'st not what thou sayest. Let me go ! 
Lord B. Thyself didst name the place and hour : ' 

Vyv. For here 

I thought to clasp — (aside) I have no brother now ! 
Lord B. He thought to clasp his Eveline. Death and madness! 
Vyv. Eveline ! Thou lov'st not Eveline. " Be consoled. 
Thou hast not known affliction— hast not stood 
, Without the porch of the sweet home of men : 
\Thou hast leaned upon no reed that pierced the heart; 
\Thou hast not known what it is, when in the desert 



-tS THK laenrFUL ueir. 

Tlie hopeless find the fountain." Happ.v boy, 
Thou hast not loved Leave love to man and sorrow! 
Lord B. Dost tliou presume upon my years ? Dull scoffer! 
The brave is man betimes — the coward never. 
Boy if I be, my playmates liave been veterans ; 
My toy a sword, and my first lesson valor. 
And, had I taken challenge as thou hast, 
And on the g;ound replied to bold defiance 
With random words implying dastard taunts, 
" With folded arms, pale lip, and haggard brow," 
I'd never live to call myself a man. 
Thus says the boy, since manhood is so sluggard, 
Soldier and captain. Do not let me strike thee I 
Vtv. Do it, — and tell thy mother, when thy hand 

Outraged my cheek, I pardoned thee, and pitied. 
Lord B. Measureless insult! Pitied! {drum for gun as before.) 
Vyv. There again I 

And still so far ! Out of my pnlh, insane one! 
Were there naught else, thy youth, thy mother's love 
Should make thea sacred to a warrior's arm- 
Out of my path. Thus, then, (suddenly lifts, and puts him aside.) 

Oh, England — England ! 
Do not reject me too ! — I come I I come I 

(jcp the steps to upper platform.) 
Lord B. Thrust from his pathway — every vein runs fire ! 
Thou slialt not thus escape me — Stand or die ! 

-{sivord in hand, drives Vyvyan to the edge of the cliff, and he 
grasps, for support, the hough of tree.) 
Vtv. Forbear, forbear ! 

Lord B. Thy blood on thine own head ! {drum for gun 

as before. As Bexufort lifts his sword and strikes, Vyytah 

retreats — the bough breaks, and Vyvyan swings L., and down 

into centre trap.) > 

Wreck, (rises r. c. bg trap). Is the deed done 1 If not, this steel 

completes it. {waves cutlass and exit down trap. Lord 

Beaufort sinks on his knee in horror. Work ship on r. to 

1., across.) 

SLOW CCTRTAIN. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I.— Same as Act IV., Scene IT. 

Enter Sir Grey de Malpas, l., leaning on cane. 

Sir G. A year — and Wrecklyflfe still is mute and absent, 
Even as Vyvyan is ' Most clear ! He saw. 
And haply shared, the murderous deed of Beaufort ; 
And Beaufort's wealth hath bribed him to desert 
Penury and me. That Clarence slew his brother 
I cannot doubt. He shuts me from his presence ; 
But I have watched him, wandering, lone, yet haunted- 



49 



Marked the white lip and glassy eyes of one 

For whom the grave lias giiosts, and silence, horror. 

His mother, on vague pretext of mistrust 

That 1 did sell her tirt.t-born to the pirate. 

Excludes me trom her sight, but sends me alms 

Lest the world cry, '• See, her poor cousin starves ! " 

Can she guess Beaufort's guilt ] Naj' ! For she lives ! 

I know that deed, which, told unto the world. 

Would make me heir of Montreville. 0, mockery I 

For how proceed 1 — no proof ! How charge 1 — no witness ! 

How cry, " Lo ! murder! " yet produce no corpse ! 

Enter Alton, k. 

Alton. Sir Grey de Malpas ! I was on my way 

To j-our own house. 
Sir G. Good Alton — can T serve you 7 

Alton. The boy I took from thee, returned a man 

Twelve months ago: mine oath absolved. 
Sir G. 'Tis true. 

Alton. Here did I hail the rightful lord of Montreville, 

And from these arms he ruslied to claim his birthright. 
Sir G. {aside). She never told me this 
Alton. That night his war-ship 

Sailed to our fleet. I deemed him with the battle. 

Time went ; Heaven's breath had scattered the Armada. 

I sate at my porch to welcome him — he came not 

I said, " His mother has abjured her offspring. 

And law detains him while he arms for justice." 

Hope sustained patience till to-daj'. 
Sir G. To-day 1 

Alton. The very fiiend who had led me to his breast 

Returns and 

Sir G. {soothingly.) Well 1 

Alton. He fought not with his country. 

Sir G. And this cold friend lets question .sleep a year 1 
Alton. His bark too rashly chaised the flying foe ; 

Was wrecked on hostile shores ; and he a prisoner. 
Sir G. Lean on my arm, thou'rt faint. 
Alton. Oh, Grey de Malpas, 

Can men so vanish — save in murderous graves 1 

You turn away. 
Sir G. What murder without motive 1 

And who bad motive here ? 
Alton. Unnatural kindred. 

Sir G. Kindred ! Ensnare me not ! Mine, too, that kindred. 

Old man, beware how thou asperse {pause) Lord Beaufort ! 
Alton. Beaufort I Oh, horror ! How the instinctive truth 

Starts from thy lips ! 
Sir G. From mine 7 

Alton. Yes. Not of man 

Ask pardon, if accomplice 

Sib G. I, accomplice ! 

Nay, since 'tis my good name thou suUiest now— 

This is mine answer : Probe ; examine ; search j 

And call on justice to belie tliy slander. 

Go, seek the aid of stout Sir Godfrey Seymour j 



50 I'HE RlGflTFUL HErE. 

A dauntless magistrate ; strict, upright, honest ; 

(^asidc). At heart a Piiiitan, and hates a Lord, 

With other slides tliat fit iiilo my grooves. 
Alton. He bears with all the righteous name thou giv'<L him, 

Tliy zeal acquits thyself. 
Sir G. And charges none. 

Alton. Heaven reads tlie heart. Man can but track 'lie deed. 

My task is stern. [Suit Alton, l. 

Sir G Scent lies — suspicion dogs, 

And with hot breatli panis on the flight of conscience. 

Ah ! who comes here 1 Sharp wit, round ail occasion I 

Enter Falkner u-ith Sailors, l. 

Falk. Learn all you can — when latest seen, and where — 

Meanwhile I seek yon towers. [Exnmt Sailors, t. 

Sir G. Doubtless, fair sir, 

I speak to Vy vyan's friend. My name is Malpas — 
Can it be true, as Alton doth infoun nie, 
That you suspect your comrade died by murder 1 

Falk. Murder ! 

Si'r G. And by a rival's hand 1 Amazed ! 

Yet ?jirely so I did conceive the priest. 

Falk. Murder! — a rival !— true, he loved a maiden! 

Sir G. In yonder halls ! 

Falk. Despair ! Am I too late 

For nil but vengeance ! Sjieak, sir — who this rival 1 

Sir G. Vengeance ! — fie — seek those towers, and learn cciupassion. 
Sad ciiange indeed, since here, at silent night. 
Your Vyvyan met the challenge of Lord Beaufort. 

Falk. A challenge 1 — here 7 — at night 1 

Sir G. Yes, this the place. 

How sheer the edge ! crag, cave, and chasm below I 
if the foot slipperl^ — nay, let us think slipped heedless, — 
Or some weak wounded man were headlong plunged, 
What burial place more secret 1 

Falk. Hither, look ! 

Look where, far down the horrible descent. 
Through some fresh cleft rush subterranean waves, 
How wheel and circle ghastly swooping wings ! 

Sir G. The sea-gulls ere a storm, 

Falk. No! Heaven is clear I 

The storm Ihey ieW, speeds lightning towards the guilty. 
So have I seen the foul birds in lone creeks 
Sporting around the shipwrecked seaman's bones. 
Guide me, ye spectral harbingers ! {down c trap. Ifusic.) 

Sir G. From boush 

To bough he swings — from peak to slippery peak 
I see him dwindl ng down ; — the loose stones rattle ; 
He falls — he falls — but 'ligbts on yonder ledge. 
And from the glaring sun turns steadfast eyes 
^Where still the sea-gulls wheel ; now crawls, now leaps ; 
Crags close around him — not a glimpse nor sound I 
0, diver for the dead ! (sinks doicn as if watching Falkner 

then rises) Bring up but bones, 
And round the sku'l Fll wreathe my coronet. [Exit, k. 



ACT V. ,")1 



Scene changes to 

SCENE II. — Interior in \st grooves. 

Enter Lady Moxtreville and Marsden, l. 

Lady M. Will he nor liunt nor hawk"? This constant gloom! 

Canst tliou not guess the cause ? He was so joj-ons ! 
Mars. Young plants need air and sun ; man's youth the world. 

Young men should pine for action. Conil'ort, madam, 

The cause is clear, it you recall the date. 
Lady M. Tiiou hast marked the date 1 

Mars. Since that bold seaman's visit. 

Lady M. Thy tongue runs riot, man. How should thai stranger — 

I say a stranger, strike dismay in Beaufort 1 
Mars. Dismay ! Not that, but emulation ! 
Lady M. Ay ! 

You speak my thoughts, and T have i)rayed our Queen 

To rank your young lord with her chivalry; 

This day mine envoy should return. 
Mars. This day 1 

Let me ride forth and meet him I 
Lady M. Go ! [Exit Marsden, l. 

'Tis true ! 

Such was the date. Hath Clarence guessed the secret — 

Guessed that a first-born lives 1 I dread to question! 

Yet sure the wronged was faithful, and the wrong 

Is my heart's canker-woi'm and gnaws unseen. 

Where wanderest thou, sad Edmond 1 Not one word 

To s-iy thou ]iv"st — thy very bride forsaken. 

As if love, frozen at tlie paient well-spring. 

Left every channel dry ! What hollow tread. 

Heavy and weary falls ] Is that the step 

Which touched the mean earth with a lightsome scorn, 

As if the air its element 1 

Enter, Beaufort, r., in mantle. 

Loud B. Cold ! cold ! 

And yet I saw the besgnr doff his frieze, 

Warm in his rags. I shiver under ermine. 

For me 'tis never summer — never — never ! 
Lady M. How fares my precious one 1 
Lord B. Well ; — but so cold. 

Ho ! there ! without ! 

E7iter Servant, l. 

Wine ! wine I [Exit SEBVAifT, L. 

Lady M. Alas ! alas ! 

Why, this is fever — thy hand burns. 
Lord B. That hand ! 

Ay, that hand always burns. 

He-enter Servant, l., with wine in goblet, on salver. 
Look you — the cup 



52 THE HIGHTFUL HEIE. 

The wondrous Tuscan jeweller, Cellini, 

Made for a king ! A king's gift to tliy father ! 

What 1 Serve such gauds to me ! 
Lady M. Thyself so ordered 

In the proud whims thy light heart made so graceful. 
Lord B. Was I proud once 1 Ha ! ha ! wliat's this ?— not wine 1 
Servant. The Malvoisie your lordship's friends, last year. 

Esteemed your rarest. 
Lord B. How one little year 

Hath soured it into nausea ! Faugh — 'tis rank. 
Ladt M. {to Servant). Send for the leech — quick — go. 

[Exit Servant, l. 
Oh, Clarence ! Clarence ! 

Is this the body's sickness, or the soul's I 

Is it life's youngest sorrow, love misplaced 1 

Thou dost not still love Eveline 1 
Lord B. Did I love her 1 

Lady M. Or one whose birth might more offend my pride 1 

Well, I am proud. But I would hail as daughter 

The meanest maiden from whose smile thy lip 

Caught smiles again. Thy smile is day to me. 
Lord B. Poor mother, fear not. Never hermit-monk, 

Gazing on skulls in lone .sepulchral cells, 

Had heart as proof to woman's smile as mine. 
Lady M. The court— the camp — ambition 

Enter Marsden, with a letter, R. 

Mars. From the Queen ! 

{while <Ae Countess 7-eads, Marsden, ^j^nz/wr/ <o Lord Beaupobt) 
My dear young lord, be gay ! The noblest knight, 
In all the land. Lord Essex, on his road 
From conquered Cadiz, '-with the armed suite 
That won his laurels," sends before to greet you. 
And prays you will receive him in your halls. 

Lord B. The flower of England's gentry, spotless Essex ! 
Sully him not, old man, bid him pass on. 

Lady M. Joy, Beaufort, joy ! August Elizabeth 

Owns thee her knight, and bids thee wear her colors, 
And break thy maiden lance for England's lady. 

Lord B. I will not go. Barbed steeds and knightly banners — 
Baubles and gewgaws ! 

Mars. Glorious to the young. 

Lord B. Ay — to the young ! Oh, when did poet dreams 
Ever shape forth such a fairy land as youth ! 
Gossamer hopes, pearled with the dews of morn, 
Gay valor, bounding light on welcome peril, — 
Errors themselves, the sparkling overflow, 
Of life as headlong, but as pure as streams 
That rush from sunniest hill-tops kissing heaven,— 
Lo ! that is youth. Look on my soul, old man, 
Well— is it not more gray than those blanched haira 1 (_jalls m 
seat, c.) 

Lady M. He raves. Heed not his words. Go speed the leech ! 

[Exit Marsden, r., quickly, 
{aside). I know these signs— by mine own soul I know them | 
This is nor love, nor honor's sigh for action, 



ACT V. 53 

Nor Nature's milder suffering. This is guilt ! {sUs, l. c.) 

Clarence — now, side by side, I sit with thee ! 

Put thine arms round me, lean upon my breast — 

It is a motlier s breast. So, that is well ; 

Now — whisper low — what is thy crime ] ^ 

Lord B. {burstmy into tears). Oh, mother I 

Would thou hadst never borne me ! 
Lady M. Ah, ungrateful ! 

Lord B. No— for thy sake I speak. Thou— justly i>roud, 

For thou art pure ; thou, on whose whitest name 

Detraction spies no soil — dost thou say "crime " 

Unto thy son ; and is his answer tears 1 

Enter Eveline, r., weaving flowers as in Act I. 

EvEL. Blossoms, I weave ye 

To diift on the sea, 
Say when ye find him 
Who sang •' Woe is me ! " 
{approaching Beaufort) Have you no news 1 
Lord B. Of whom ] 

EvEL. Of Vyvyan 1 

Lord B. That name ! Her reason wanders ; and oh, mother, 
When that name's uttered — so doth mine — hush, hush it. 

(Eveline goes to tvindow, and throws garland throiigh) 
Lady M. Kill me at once — or when I ask again. 

What is thy crime 1— reply, " No harm to "Vyvyan ! " 
Lord B. {breaking away). Unhand me ! Let me go ! 

[Exit Lord Beaufort, l., wildhj. 
Lady M. This pulse beats still: 

Nature rejects me ! 
EvEL. Come, come — see the garland, 

It dances on the waves so merrily. 

Enter Marsden, r. 

Mars, {drawing aside Lady M.). Forgive this haste. Amid St. Kini- 
an's Cliffs 

Where, once an age, on glassy peaks may glide 

The shadow of a man, a stranger venturing 

Hath found bleached human bones, and to your hall, 

Nearest at hand, and ever famed for justice. 

Leads on the crowd, and saith the dead was Vyvyan. 
EvEL. Ha ! who named Vyvyan 1 Has he then come back 1 
Mars. Fair mistress, no. 
Lady M. If on this terrible earth 

Pity lives still — lead her away. Be tender. 
EvEL, {approaching Lady M.), I promised him to love you as a mo- 
ther. 

Kiss me, and trust in Heaven! He will return * 

\Exeunt Eveline and Marsden, r. 
Lady M. These horrors are unreal. 

Enter Servant, r. 

Servant. Noble mistress. 



54 IHE EIGHIFUL HE IB. 

Sir Godfrey Seymour, summoned here in haste, 

Craves your high presence in tiie Justice Hall. 
Lady M. Mine — mine 1 Wliere goesi thou 1 
Servant. Sir Godfrey bade me 

Seek u^ young lord. 
I (T^y M. Stir not. My son is ill. 

Thyself canst witness how tlie fevei — {^hun-yuig u.) Marsden ! 

Enter Marsden, r. 

My stricken Clarence ! — In his state, a rumor 

Of — of what passes here, might blast life — reason : 

Go, lure him hence — if he resist, use force 

As to a maniac. Ah ! good old man, thou lov'st him ; 

His innocent childhood played around thy knees — 

I know I can trust tliee — Quick — speak not : — Save ! 

[Exit Marsden, l. 
{to Servant) Announce my coming. [Exit Servant, k. 

This day, lii'e to shield 
The living son : — Death, with the dead, to-morrow ! 

[Exit Lady Montreville, r. 

SCENE III.— Castle JlaU, in 5th grooves. 

Discover Sir Godfrey Seymour seated, l. Clerk, at table, employed in 
xoriting. Sir Gkey de Malpas standing up l., near Sir Godfrey. 
Falkner, l. c. Halberdiers, Servants. 

Sir Godf. {to Falkner). Be patient, sir, and give us ampleJ proof 

To deem yon undistinguishable bones 

The relics of your friend. 
Falk. That gentleman 

Can back my oath, that these, the plume, tire gem 

Which Vyvyan wore — I found them on the cliff. 
Sir Godf. Verily, is it so 1 
Sir G. {with assumed re iictance). Silli law compel me — 

Yes, 1 must vouch it. 

E>iter Servant, r. 2 e. 

Servant {plaeing a chair of state). Sir, my lady comes. 

Sir G. And her son, 

Enter, k. 2 e., Lady Montreville, and seiis herself, r. c. 

Sir Godf. You pardon, madam, mine imperious duties, 

And know my dismal task 

Ladt M. Pray you be brief, sir. 

Sir Godp. Was, this time year, the captain of a war-ship, 

Vyvyau his name, your guest 1 
Lady M. But one short day — 

To see my ward, whom he had saved from pirates. 
Sir Godf. I pray you, madam, in his converse with you 

Spoke he of any foe, concealed or ojien. 

Whom he had cause to fear 1 
Lady M. Of none ! 

Sir Godf. Nor know you 

Of any such ] 



ACT V. 55 

Lady M. {after a pause). I do not. 

Sir Godf. {aside to Falknek)- Would you farther 

Question tliis lady, sirl 
Falk. No, she is a woman, 

And mother; let her go. I wait Lord Beaufort. 
SiK Godf. Madam, no longer will we task your p oseaco. 

Enter Lokd Bhaufort, c. d. r., hreah'mg from Marsden, and other At- 
tendants. 

Lord B. Off, dotard, off! Guests in uur halll 

Lady M. He is ill. 

Sore ill — fierce fever — I will lead him forth. 

Come, Clarence ; darling come ! 
Lord B. Who is this man 1 

Falk. The friend of Vyvyan, whose pale bones plead yonder. 
Lord B. I — I will go. L t's steal away, my mother. 
Falk. Lost friend, in war, how oft thy woid was '• Spare." — 

Methiuks I hear thee uow. {draws Lord Beaufort to r. c.) 
Young lord, 1 came 

Into these halls, demanding blood for blood — 

But thy remorse (this is remorse) disarms me. 

Speak ; do but say — (look, I am young myself, 

And know how hot is youih ;) speak — do but saj", 

After warm wo Is, struck out froui jealous frenzy, 

Quick swords weio drawn; Man's open strife with man — 

Passion, not murder : Say this, and may law 

Pardon thee, as a soldier does I 
Sir Grey {to Marsden). Call Eveline, 

She can attest our young lord's innocence, [i'^ri^ Maksden, 
Falk. He will not speak, sir, let my charge proceed. 
Lady M. {aside). Wha e'er the truth — of that — of that hereafter, 

Now but remember, child, thy birth, thy name ; — 

Thy mother's heart, it beats beside thee — take 

Strength from its pulses. 
Lord B. Keep close, and for thy sake 

I will not cry — " 'Twas passion, yet still, murder ! " 
Sir Godf. {ivho has been conversing aside with Sir Grey). Then jealous 
love the motive 1 Likelier that 

Than Alton's wilder story. 

Enter Eveline and Marsdbn, c. d. r. 

Sweet young madam, 

Tf I be blunt, forgive me ; we are met 

On solemn matters which relate to one 

Who, it is said, was your betrothed ; 
EvEL. To Vyvyan ! 

Sir Godf. 'Tis also said, Lord Beaufort crossed his suit, 

Anl your betrother resented. 
EvEL. No ! forgave. 

Sib G. Yes, when you feared some challenge from Lord Beaufort, 

Did Vyvyan not cast down his sword and say, 

" Both will be safe, for one will be unarmed 1 {great sensation 
through the hall.) 
Falkner ««^ Sir Godfrey. Unarmed! 
EvEL. His very words I 



56 XHE lilGUTiUt HEIR. 

Falk. oil, vile assassin ! 

Sir GoDF. Accuser, peace! This is most grave. Lord BeauforL, 
Upon such tokens, with jour owu strange bearing, 
As ask appeal to more august triliunal, 
You stand accused of puiposed felon murder 
On one named Vyvjan, Captain of ihe DnadnaKght — 
" Wouldst tliou say aught against this solemn charge? " 

EvEL. Murdered ! — he — Vyvyan 1 Thou his murderer, Clarence, 

^~ In whose rash heat my hero loved frank valor 1 
/^ Lo ! I, to whom his life is as the sun 

Is to the world — with my calm trust in Heaven 
Mantle thee thus. Now, speak ! 

Lady M. {aside). Be firm — deny, and live. 

Lord B. {attempting to he haughty). You call my bearing " strange 1 " 
— what marvel, sir \ 
Stunned by such charges, of a crime so dread. 
What proof against me ] (Siu Grey meets Alton xip r. and 
keeps him in talk ) 

Lady M. Words deposed by whom'? 

A man unknown ; — a girl's vague fear of quarrel — 
His motive what '? A jealous anger ! Phantoms ! 
Is not my son mine all! And yet this maid 
/plighted to another. Had I done so 
If loved by him, and at the risk of life 1 
Again, I ask all j)resent what tlie motive 1 

Alton, {comes doivn ivith Sir Grey).* Rank, fortune, birthirght. 
Miseiable woman ! 

Lady M. Whence com'st thou, pale accuser? 

Alton. From the dead ! 

Which of ye two will take the ])ost 1 leave 1 
Which of ye two will draw aside that veil, 
Look on the bones behind, and cry, " I'm guiltless 1 " 
Hast thou conspired wiih him to slay thy tirst-born, 
Or knows he not that Vyvyan was his brother 1 (Lady Montr e- 
viLLE swoons. Evelike rushes to Lady Montreville.) 

Lord B. My brother! No, no, no ! {cluteJiing hula vf '&ik G)n-E.^.)Yi\\\&- 
man, he lies ! 

Sir G. Alas! {u. front.) 

Lord B. Wake, mother wake. I ask not speech. 

Lift but thy brow — one flasii of thy proud eye 
Would strike these liars dumb ! 

Alton. Read but those looks 

To learn that thou art 

Lord B. Cain ! {grasping Falkner) Out with thy sword — (l.) 
Hew off this hand. Thou calledsi me " assassin ! " 
Too mild — say "fratricide! " Cain, Cain, thy brother! {falls 
sobbing, c. front) 

EvEL. It cannot be so ! No. Thou wondrous Mercy, 
That, from the pirate's knif.', the funeral seas 
And all their shapes of death, didst save the lone one, 
To prove to earth how vainly man despairs 
While God is in the heavens — I cling to thee, 
As Faith unto its anchor ! {to Sir Grey) Back, false kinsman! 
I tell thee Vyvyan lives— the boy is guiltless! 

*EvEL. Lady M. Beadf. Alton. Sir Orey. Sir Godfrey. 
R- R- c. c. L. c. L. 



Acr V. 57 

" Falk. Poor, noble maid ! How my heart bleeds for her ! " 
Lady M. {^startmg up). iSentence us both! or slay, — would law con- 
deiua 
A child so young, if I had urged him to it 7 
Sir GoDi'. Unnatural motiier, hush ! Sir Grey, to you, 
Perchance ere long, by lives too justly forfeit, 
Raised to this earldom, I entrust these — i)risoners. {motionn to 
Halberdiers, tvho advance to arrest Beaufort, «-Ao ?v'sc*, 
a>id Lady Montreville.) 
Mars. Oh, day of woe ! 
Sir G. Woe— yes ! Make way for us. (trumpet.) 

Enter Servant, c. d, r. 

Sbavant. My lord of Essex just hath passed the gates ; 
But an armed knight who rode beside the Earl, 
After brief question to the crowd without. 
Sprang from bis steed, aud forces here his way ! (trumpet 
flour hh.) 

JEnterYYVYAy, c. d. r., su armor, his vizor three parts doivn, 

Vyv. Forgiveness of all present ! 

Sir Godf. Who art thou 1 

Vyv. a soldier, knighted by the hand of Essex 

Upon the breach of Cadiz. 
Sir GoDF. What thy business ] 

Vyv. To speak the truth. Who is tlie man accused 

Of Vy vyan's murder 1 
Sir G. You behold him yonder. 

Vyv. 'Tis false. 

Sir G. (r. front). His own lips have confessed his crime. 
Vyv. (throwing down his gauntlet, to r.). This to the man whose crush- 
ing lie bows down 

Upon the mother's bosom that young head ! 

Siy you " confess'd! " Oil, tender, tender conscience! 

Vyvyan, rough sailor, galled him and provoked ; 

Ha raised his hand. To (he sharp verge of the cliff ' 

Vyvyan recoiled, backed by an outstretched bough, 

Tlie bough gave way — he fell, but not to perish ; 

Saved by a bush-grown ledge that broke his fall ; 

Long stunned he lay ; wlien opening dizzy eyes, 

On a gray crag between him and the abyss 

He saw the face of an old j)irate foe ; 

Saw the steel lifted, saw it flash and vanish, 

As a dark mass i ushed thro' the moonlit air 

Dumb into deeps below — the indignant soil 

Had slid like glass beneath tlie murderer's feet, 

And his own death-spring whirled him to his doom. 

Then Vyvyan rose, and, crawlins down the rock. 

Stood by the foe, who, stung to late remorse 

By hastening death, gasped forth a dread confession. 

The bones ye find are those of Murder's agent — 

Murder's arch-schemer — Who 1 Ho ! Grey De Malpas, 

Stand forth ! Thou art the man ! 
Sir Grey, {aside, vchemcntlg). Hemm'd round with toils, 



b THE lilGHXi'UL llELi;. 

Soul, crouch no more ! {aloud) B;i?e hireling, doff thy mask, 

And my sword writes Ihe lie upon thy front. 

By Beaufort's hand died Vyvyuu^(rfrt(W5 sword.) 
Yyv. -A-S the spell 

Shatters the sorcerer when his fiends desert him, 

Let thine own words bring doom upon thyself ! 

Now face the front on which to write the lie. {removes heinlet, 
taken nivaij by Pages. Sik Grey drops his sword and staggers 
back into the arms 0/ Marsden and Alton, h. front.) 
EvEL. Thou liv'st, thou liv'st — {^removes white from her cheeks and shows 

the color.) 
Vyv. {kneeling to her, c). Is life worth something still 1 
Sir Gret. Air, air — ray staff — some chord seems broken here, (^press- 
ing his heart.) 

Marsden, your lord shot his poor cousin's dog ; 

In the dog's grave — mark ! — bury the poor cousin, {sinks ex- 
hausted, and is borne out, n. 2 e.) 
Vyv. Mine all on earth, if I may call thee mine. 
Evel, Thine, thine, thro' life, thro' death — one heart, one grave ! 
. - " I knew thou wouldst return, for I have lived 

In thee so utterlj^, thou couldst not die 

And I live still.' — The dial needs the sun ; 

But love reflects the image of the loved, 

Tho' every beam be absent ! — Thine, all thine ! " 
Lady M. My place is forfeit on thy breast, not his. {j^ointing fc 
Beaufort.) 

Clarence, embrace thy brother, and my first-boin. 

His rights are clear — ray love for thee suppressed them — 

He may forgive me yet — wilt thou ? 
Beau. Forgive thee ! 

Oh mother, what is rank to him who hath stood 

Banished from out the social pale of men, 

Bowed like a slave, and trembling as a felon ? 

Heaven gives me back mine ermine, innocence ; 

And my lost dignity of manhood, honor. 

I miss naught else. — Room there for me, my brother ! 
Yyv. Mother, come first ! — love is as large as heaven! 

" Falk. But why so long 

Yyv. AVhat ! could I face tliee, friend, 

Or claim my bride', till I had won back honor 1 

The fleet had sailed — the foeman was defeated — 

And on the earth I laid me down to die. 

The prince of England's youth, frank-hearted Essex, 

Passed by But later I will tell you how 

Pity woke question ; soldier felt for soldier. 

Essex then, nobly envying Drake's renown, 

Conceived a scheme, kept secret till our clai'ions. 

Startling the towers of Spain, told earth and time 

How England answers the invader. Clarence," 

Look brother — I have won the golden spurs of knighthood ! 

For woi'ldly gifts, we'll share them — hush, my brother ; 

Love me, and thy gift is as large as mine. 

Fortune stints gold to some ; impartial Nature 

Shames her in ])roffering more than gold to all — 

Joy in the sunshine, beauty on the earth, 

And love reflected in the glass of conscience; 

Are these so mean ] Place grief and guj t beside them, 



ACT V. 



59 



Decked in a sultan's splendor, and compare ! 

The world's most royal he-itage is his 

Who most enjoys, most loves, and most forgives. 

All form picture. Music. 



a # 



M 



K 



pa * 
W * 



Villagers, Servants. 

Marsden. Sir Godfrey. 

* Vyvyan. Lady M. * 

Alton. * Eveline. * Beaofobt. 

CURTAIN {slow). 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



BCENE. 



\ 



E. 3 B. ' 



•L. 3 E. 



\ 



B. SB. 



B. 13. 



/ 



\ 



/ 



\ 



B. B. d. 


fl. 




1. CJ. I" 


AUDIENCE. 




L. Left. 




0. 


Centre. 


L. 0. Left Centre. 




B. 


Eight. 


L. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 




B. lE. 


Eight First Entrance. 


L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 




E. 2E. 


Eight Second Entrance. 


L. 3 E. Left Third Entrance. 




E. 3E. 


Eight Third Entrance. 


L. u. E. Left Upper Entrance 




E.U. E. 


Eight Upper Entrance. 


(wherever this Scene may be.) 




D. E. C. 


Door Eight Centre. 


\3. L. c. Door Left Centre. 









-WALPOLE. 



Copyright, 1875, bt Robebt M. De "Witt. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Thf Eight Hon. Sir Robkut Walpot.e (Member of the English Parliament, Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer, and Prime Minister to King George the First). 

JoHS Veasey (also a Member of Parliament, and his Confidant). 

Sklden Blodnt (another Member of Parliament, and a very active and powerful 
Leader of a Party in strong opposition to Walpole). 

Sir SiDNRT Bki.lair (another Member of Parliament — a fashionable and wealthy 
young Baronet, and also an opponent toWalpole). 

Lord NiTHSDAi.E (i young Scotch Nobleman — a firm Jacobite Supporter of the 

Pretender). 

First Jacobite Loisd ) ., . i- i. t, . , > 

c T T t (Supporters ot the Pretender). 

Second Jacobite Lord ^ ^ ^^ 

Lucy Wilmot (an Orphan, and the Protege of Selden 'Blount). 

Mrs. Vizard (a widovred matronly Lady, having chai'ge of Lucy, and in the pay ot 

Selden Blount, at the same time not objecting to assist the Jacobite Party). 

Coffee-House Loungers, "Waiters, Footmen, Servants, Newsmen, etc. 



PERIOD— 1717 — the commencement of the reign of Geoi'ge 1., King of England. 



SCENERY {English.) 
ACT I. — Tom's Coffee-House, in, London in 4th grooves. 



Open. 



: Table. 



Table. : Table. : 

I — I • I — I 

I I ; I I ; 

A A 



Door. 



Closed in. ; Table and Chairs. 
Fireplace.^ *^Z1* 



Table and Chairs. 
I — I T? 



Open. 



Open. 



The walls in panelling, dark red oak u tew framed oil paintings, portraits ot Queen 
Anne, Marlborough, Charles L, after Vandyke, the Battle oi --""^l^' -^'^ •';;"' 
uetleot Bacchus, prmt of Sir Walter Raleigh smoking; a framed set ot caiious to- 
bacco-pipes arranged as a trophy; East Indian curiosities; a stulied raccoon a 
handbill on a nail : " Distressed Mother ... .His Majesty's !,ervants. . . .Prices ot the 
Places," a handbill " £2.5 Reward. Whereas certain known tor their excess- 
es !... Mohocks did set upon maltreat.... rolled the said Sarah Frost, in a 

hogshead, down Holborn Hill.... on the night of...," Old muskets and swords 
cro'ssed, over fireplace, under a map. A, A, A, A, partitions of panelled oak, five 
feet high, making small rooms or " boxes," of the space between them, in which is a 
table with a seat running around three sides of each box. C, stairs leading off up troni 
stage. R. u. e., open for Waiters to exit as to kitchen, for coffee, etc. L. 2 e., 
double door. B, a bar, with oyster patties, meat pies, newspapers, books, tobaocr 
jars, red, with gilt Arms of Great Britain on them, and " Tom's " in black letters • 
a public snuff-box, large. E, a cheval glass, on a stand, in which the Loungers looh 
before going off l. d. Curtains to th- boxes, red. 



•\V.V.LPOt.E. 3 

A CT IT.-Sc ,u ..-Room in 21 grooves. Portraits ou Tvall ; rich tables ; ch.ur- ; 
■writing niateruils, etc. 

Scene //.—Room in 2d grooves. 



Window 



Secret Door, 
I Door. I 1 1 : 

*A l_ 

Door. 



A, a clock. Balcony outside of window. 
Hcenc ///.—Outside of a House, court and garden waU in oth grooves. 

3g 

Landscape. \ \ 

Open. ': : Wall. 



■^ "!• ♦ * * * * V * ■'■ ...Tree. -1 



A A : 

Open. 



WaU. 

* : : •••Tree. - — 3 

# : : WaU. 

Door. 
r. ^ : : Tree. 2 

Window. » \ ', 

77 ; : Tree. 1 



On flat, view of housetops, with a park oi trees between. 4th groove Une, a row of 
blue posts, set near enough to prevent a cart passing between them, four feet high. 
L. u. E., Closed m by a garden waU or hedge. L. 1 and 2 e., a garden wall, six feet 
high, with spikes on top, and a creeping plant. R. 3 E., a low wall. K. 1 and 2 ji., 
a set house front, on the ground floor a window, 1 e., and d. 2 e. abo\e it, a practica- 
ble window with balcony. B, iron railing, with posts to the door, with lamps, and 
iron sockets, such as were used as extinguishers for torches. 

ACT m.—ScMC /.—St. James's Park in 1st gi-ooves (or can be painted on canvas 
to roll up) ; two benches to be pushed on k. and l. Sunset effect. Tree wings. Sky 
sink and borders. 

Scene //.—Same as Scene I., Act 11., in 2d grooves. 

Scene ///.-Same as Scene 11., Act II., but set in 3d grooves instead of 2d. 



PROPERTIES. 

ACT 1. : Trays ; plates ; blue china cups and saucers ; chocolate dishes ; eatable ; 
a joint of meat, a ham, some preserves, on bar ; pipes, tobacco, etc. Act II.— 
Scene 1st Writing materials, books and papers on table ; three chairs. Scene 
id : A purse, filled ; poker ; hand-beU. Scene 3d: Pebbles. Act 1 1 1. -Scene \st: 
Note Scene "d ; Note as before candles in candle-sticks ; book on table ; 
hand-beU pocket-book. 5cene 3d; Lamp; miniature for Lucy ; note-book ; 
key. 



C0STU3IES. 

"Walpole.— >fcJ /; Squiire-cut coat and long-flapped waistcoat of dark-colored 
cloth , the cuffs of the coat broad and trimmed with lace ; silk hose drawn up 
high over the knees so as to join the breeches, of a similar material to the coat, 
underneath the waistcoat flaps ; white lace neckclotli with loug ends ; three- 
cornered hat, black, with the sides turned up; long^ curled wig; high-heeled 
shoes, and buckles; fob watch, seals, snuff-box, and court sword. Act II. : A 
rich suit of similar style to the above of dark-blue velvet, embroidered with 
gold ; lace ruSles, etc. ; white silk stockings. Act III. : Same as Act 1, with a 
dark-colored roquelaure to throw over liim. 

Selden Blount. — A similar style of dress to that worn by Walpole, of a claret- 
colored velvet ; black silk stockings ; lace ruSles ; court sword ; high-heeled 
shoes, etc. , rich snuff-box. 

Bellaie. — A rich showy dress of the same style, but of light-blue velvet, with rich 
lace ruflies and lace neckcloth; richly-embroidered waistcoat; light-colored 
wig ; laced hat ; white silk stockings, with breeches of the same material as the 
coat ; high-heeled shoes, and buckles ; handsome court sword, and jewelled 
snuff-box. 

Lord Nithsdale.— Scarlet velvet coat, waistcoat, and breeches ; black silk stock- 
ings ; shoes and buckles ; wig of long black hair like a woman's ; lace ruffles 
and neckcloth j a gray gown with red flowers upon it, and a black cloth mantle, 
trimmed with ermine, for the disguise in Scene 2, Act 2, to be followed by a 
dark gown, and a mantle with a hood to it. 

Veasey.— A similar style of dress to Walpole's dress in Act 1, but of black cloth 
or quiet-colored material, with black silk hose, shoes, buckles, hat, sword, etc. 

Jacobite Lords.— Similar dresses to Lord Nithsdale; short wig; swords; hats, 
and short cloaks of dark velvet to throw over their dresses. 

Loungers in the Coffee House. — Dresses of various materials, but all of a similar 
style, some more showy than others ; wigs, some long and some short ; swords, 
gold-headed canes, etc., so as to give variety to the scene. 

FooTMKN AND SERVANTS. — Silk stockings, shoes, and buckles; black, and blue 
breeches ; claret-colored coats, with silver buttons ; white neckcloths ; short 
wigs. 

Waiters. — Black sleeveless wai.stcoats and knee-breeches, of dark material ; white 
stockings ; shoes and buckles ; long white aprons, ■white neckcloths, and long 
skirts to coats. 

Lucy "Wilmot. — Plain embroidered silk dress of amber color, with looped skirt ; 
white petticoat ; shoes and buckles ; loose sleeves, with lace undersleeves ; hair 
in curls. 

Mrs. Vizard.— a full old-fashioned style of dress, of dark flowered silk ; shoes and 
buckles ; cap trimmed with lace ; small shawl to throw over shoulders ; small 
lace trimming to the sleeves ; a small patch of black court-plaister near the 
mouth and on one cheek ; hair bound up in close curls. In the 3d Act, cloak, 
with hood. 



TIME OF PLAYING— ONE HOUR AND THREE QUARTERS. 



STOMT OF THE PLAT AND REMARKS. 

In the present instance, dealing with an unacted play, it has been thought desir- 
able and advisable to deviate from the plan previously followed of giving the Story 
and Remarks separately, and in this case to amalgamate them as being a course 
more likely to supply a better understanding of the plot of the piece, the characters 
introduced, and the position of affairs at the period selected tor the story of the 
comedy. 

The scene is laid in London in the year 1717, in the third year of the reign of George 
the First. For years the whole country had been put to much trouble by attempts 
made both in Scotland and England, as also in France, to place upon the throne, one 
Charles Stuart, who claimed to be a lineal descendant of James the Second, King of 
England (who abdicated the throne in 1688), and who, as such descendant, considered 
liimself entitled to wear the crown. He was known throughout the country by the 
cngnomen of " The Pretender," and his adherents were denominated " Jacobites," 
from Jacobus, the Latin for James. His claims were supported by numerous pow- 
erful factions both in France and other countries, and by many noblemen and gentle- 
men of wealth and distinction ; but although his cause was honestly and bravely 
advocated, it was compelled to succumb to the sovereign power, and was finally ex- 
tinguished. So far then as is necessary to explain the terms used in the play in con- 
nection with the character of Lord Nithsdale and his confederates ; the next point 
to be touched upon is the political position. 

The legislature of England is divided into two parts : the Hoitse of Lords, com- 
posed of members of the peerage, who are entitled to that position by right of birth, 
royal decree, or from occupying the position of a Bishop or Archbishop of the Pro- 
testant church ; and the House of Commons, which is composed of gentlemen elected 
by the people of the various towns and cities. They amount (at the present time) 
to over 600 in number, and so long as they hold the appointment (to which, it may be 
mentioned, there is no pay attached, the honor of the position and the patronage it 
affords being considered an ample equivalent for the expenses of election and the 
labor attending the performance of the duties belonging to it) they are entitled to put 
the letters M.P. after their name, signifying their position as Members of Parlia- 
ment. The House of Commons has absolute control over the expenditure of the 
funds of the country, the levying of taxes, and the collection of the National Heve- 
nues from all sources; hence it is, no matter which political party is in power, the 
leader of that party is generally appointed to the post of Chancellor of the Exche- 
qupr, or First Lord of the Treasury, and holds the position of Prime Minister, or 
chief adviser to the reigning sovereign. 

After all the elections have been made, the members assemble, and continue sit- 
ting in Parliament for a certain number of years (at the time of the play it was three, 
it is now seven), at the end of which period it is dissolved, and a new election takes 
place all over the country, which is termed a "General Election." This, however, 
only applies to the House of Commons, the members of the House of Lords holding 
their positions for life. But instead of waiting for the natural expiration of the 
term for sitting, the Prime Minister, if he should be defeated upon any important 
question, has the power of causing the House of Commons to be dissolved, and a 
general election to be had before the specified time, in the hopes of turning out some 
of his opponents and bringing in persons who are favorable to him, so that when the 
new Parliament meets, he can be certain of a sufficient number of votes to carry 
any measures he may propose. These explanations are necessary to show the im- 
mense power wielded by Walpole and the meaning of his allusion to a general elec- 
tion in the first scene of the Second Act. 

Again, the members of both Houses of Parliament are divided into different par- 
ties, bearing names identifying the particular principles they advocate. At the 
period in question, tliere were only two classes, known as M'higs and Tories : terms 
which originated in England during the reign of Charles the First or Second. Those 
who supported the king in his high, exacting, and oppressive claims were calledrories. 



tJ WALPOLK, 

and those who sided with the people and were advocates of liberal measures, up- 
holding popular rights, were denominated }Vhigs. Frequent allusion to both will 
be found in the play. 

Of a'l the ministers who had succeeded in wielding unlimited power, and offering 
strong opposition to the adversaries of kingly rule, few surpassed Robert Walpole. 

For many years his family had been staunch whigs, but the change of succession 
to the crown from the Stuart family, of which Queen Anne was the last representa- 
tive in power, to that of the family of the Elector of Hanover, wrought a wonderful 
difference. During her reign the Tories held high oflfioe, but upon her decease the 
tables were turned, and their strong Jacobite likings and prejudices rendered them 
unpopular and unsuited for power. Tlie consequence was, the Whigs came into full 
authority, and Walpole soon worked himself into the foremost position. Out of 
the large family, of which he was the greatest member, one only had deserted their 
principles, a sister, of whom he was passionately fond, who married a Tory and a 
Jacobite, and of whom no tidings hid been heard for years. Could he have traced 
her liusband he vows he would have made him turn "Whig, by giving him something 
worth having, which he had unlimited power to do— for, according to the records of 
the times, he was made Plenipotentiary in regard to the disposal of all offices and 
posts of State. He had absolute sway ; and was perfectly unscrupulous ; no minis- 
ter ever before or since exceeded him in bribery and corruption, and it was by such 
means he constantly managed the Parliaments under his direction. Each man Jiad 
his price,* or his weakness seemed to be so well studied by Walpole, that there was 
always some alluring bait thrown out to catch or gratify him ; buying and selling 
of elections, iniquitous jobs and contracts, inordinate extravagance, but a great 
passion for the fine arts, were the essence of his administration ; his views being to 
make the king absolute, and preserve the power in his own hands. Such is a pic^ 
ture of Sir Robert Walpole, who figures in the play. With this necessary intiodiic- 
tion, we will now proceed with the action of the drama. 

It is Walpole's great aim to retain for a longer term his high position, and to pre- 
vent anything arising that may occasion risk to the crown by a rebellious outbreak 
amongst the partisiansof the Pretender — and the only way by which he can possibly 
succeed in doing this is to get the sitting of Parliament extended from three to sev- 
en years, so that those in ofiice may continue to work harmoniously together, and 
by so doing perfect the plans they have formed for laying down a sound foundation 
for the new dynasty. This is, however, a very difficult task, for Walpole cannot 
reckon with jny certainty upon a majority of votes to support his measures, and the 
ranks of the opposing party are strong, more especially, two portions, one led by 
Sir Sidney Bellair, a young baronet of good family, gay disposition, great wealth 
and brilliant expectations, the other by Selden Blount, a man of more mature years 
and experience, and in every respect a gentleman of birth, education, influence, and 
position, bearing the reputation of a staunch, patriotic member. Walpole calculates 
that these two members control some sixty or seventy votes; if, therefore, by brib- 
ery, or getting them into some dangerous dilemma, he can manage to win them over 
to his side of the house, the votes they would bring would give him a swimming 
majority, and enable him to carry out his plans with a certainty of success. Now 
Walpole applies his principle— that each man has his pric(» — and circumstances 
occur which not only promote his designs and enable him to achieve success, but, 
most unquestionably verify the truth of his axiom. 

It so happens that some time previous to the commencement of the play, Selden 
Blount, in the course of his travels, stopped at an obscure village inn. Amongst 
the inmates were two females, who, although then in most reduced circumstance-^, 
had evidently seen better days. Interest and curiosity were excited in him, but 
although he failed to gratify the latter, he succeeded with the former, and his well- 

* These words which the author makes use of for his second titleare the exact words 
descriptive of Walpole, printed in an old work I have inspected, entitled " Prime 
Ministers in England,'' published at London, in 17G3. 



WALrOLK. 7 

filled purse supplied ample me;iiis ior ligliteniiig the sufferings of the ladies until 
deiitb removed the elder of the two, leaving the younger one alone in the world. It 
was then only thai he gathered troni her the intormalion that her father had heen a 
staunch adherent of the Pretender, and liaJ died in liis c mse ; and that her moth- 
er's death had been occasioned by the suliering and trouble she had undergone. 
Smitten deeply by her aniiability and attractiveness, and his generous sympathy 
excited by l)er piteous story, Selden Blount, under the assumed name of John Jones, 
persuided her to accept his olier of protection, as a father, and journey -with him to 
London, where he promised to place her under the care of a matronly friend with 
wlioin she could improve her educ ition and live in ease and comfort until such time 
as an opportunity presented itself for settling down in life. With gratitude and 
full faith in the integrity of her new-found friend's proposition, Lucy "SVilmot was 
only too glad to accept the offer, and accompanied him accordingly to Loudon, where 
she was committed to the motherly charge of his particular friend and agent, Mrs. 
Vizard. 

Constant visits to Lucy gradually brought about a feeling rather diiferent to that 
of charity and disinterested affection, and when Blount began one day to scrutinize 
himself rather more closely than he had hitherto done, he was compelled to acknow- 
ledge that there was a slight undercurrent of love for his xn-otege running through 
his mind. At first, he was somewhat in doubt, but a circumstance occurred which 
convinced him of the fact, and led to an avowal of liis passion. 

About two weeks before tlie commencement of the play, Mrs. Vizard had relaxed 
soraewhat the strict care with which she had guarded Lucy, and taken her to church 
one evening. On their return, they were interrupted and annoyed by a set of young 
profligates, who made it a practice to roam through the streets after nightfall, in- 
sulting every female who might chance to cross their path unprotected. Lucy's 
cries for assistance when slie found herself and guardian thus surrounded, brought 
to their aid 8ir f^idney Bellair, who happened to be upon his way home from the 
Parliament house, and drawing his sword he soon put the offend<.'rs to flight, and 
escorted the ladies in safety to their dwelling. Struck with the beauly and simple 
grace of Lucy, he made an excuse to call the following day ; but although grateful 
for his timely assistanc-:-, Mrs. Vizard respectfully declined the favor of any further 
visits ; she saw he was young, fascinating and handsome, and she feared that seri- 
ous results might ensue from the meeting of her young charge and the youthful 
baronet, injurious to her own interests and detrimental to those of her patron and 
employer. So thus the matter 8tood. 

Now, Walpole has a firm confidant in Sir John Veasey, a tried member of Parlia- 
ment, and to him he reveals ti-ankly the dilemma in which he finds himself, and dis- 
cusses the chances that appear to offer ot getting safely out of it. Amongst the ar- 
rests he has caused to be made, is that of Lord Nithsdale, a young Scotch nobleman 
just married, and a staunch adherent of the Pretender. Rumor says that Walpole 
has rejected all appeals made to him to spare the young man's life ; but in truth he 
is determined to do so if possible, and only the evening previous to the opening of 
the play, has given his wife an order of admission to the Tower of London, where 
her husband is confined, in the hopes that he may manage to effect his escape ; this 
he accomplishes, and the clemency thus shown by Walpole turns out afterwards to 
be of the gi-eatest benefit to his designs. 

Veasey, however, has great doubts of Walpole being able to win over Blount or 
Bellair ; they are staunch and firm to their party and principles ; nevertheless, 
Walpole asserts his unbounded faith in his favorite theory, that every man has his 
price, and either by money, place, rank, or danger, he is determined to secure his 
men. Bellair arriving, Walpole, with a complimentary remark upon a most effec- 
tive speech he has recently delivered, leaves him to the care of Veasey to sound him 
upon the subject at issue. He does so, and suggests that there is the daughter of a 
Duke who would be a most excellent match, and if he agrees, Walpole, who wishes 
to increase the strength of the House of Lords, will raise him to the peerage; but 
BtUair declines, remarking, sarcas'ically, that he profni-s remaining in the House of 



8 -WALPOLE. 

Commons, where the members have the pleasure occasionally of badgering and bait- 
iug' the Prime Minister. Veasey perceives very plainly there is no chance of winning 
him over in that way, anil retires to consider what other scheme is likely to suit hia 
leader's purpose. 

At an interviewwhich follows, between Bellair and Blount, the former jokes the 
latter upon having seen him tlic previous evening, muffled up in his cloak, hurr.\ing 
up the court leading to Mrs. Vizai-d's house. Blount is astounded at Bellair having 
any knowledge of this person, but the more so when he mentions the name of tl>e 
young lady in her charge, and relates the circumstances under which he became 
acquainted with her, confessing frankly that he is deeply in love with her, and that 
although forbidden the house, lie visits the neighborhood every day and exchanges 
salutations from the window. He begs Blount — wlio admits that he knows the par- 
ties—to make him acquainted with her history; but Blount excuses himself, assur- 
ing Bellair that she is of very humble origin, and vastly beneath him in position. 
But the young baronet is not to be put off so easily ; he asssures Blount that his love 
is genuine and honorable, and he makes him promise to mention the matter to Lucy 
and to plead hia cause 

Walpole's plan for the escape of Nithsdale turns out as he expecteded, and he is 
just in leceipt of the information when Blount calls upon him, and he takes the 
opportunity of sounding him. 

This interview is most admirably described ; in witty, sharp, and well chosen lan- 
guage, Walpole boldly opens up liis plan for saving the nation, offering place and 
patronage in return tor the support of Blount and his party, and pushing pen and 
paper towards him to write his own terms. Blouut does so, and witli a low bow 
hands his reply to Walpole, striding haughtily away. To his chagrin, the minister 
finds written down : 

" 'Mongst the men wlio are bought to save England inscribe me, 
And my bribe is the head of the man who would bribe nie I" 
But Walpole is not to be beaten so easily ; certainly to threaten impeachment 
and desire the forfeit of his head is rather high, and, at the same lime, rather objec" 
tionable ambition, and he observes, facetiously : 

" So he calls himself honest ! What highwayman's worse 
Thus to threaten my life when I offer my purse ? 
Hem ! he can't be in debt, as the common talk runs, 
Por the man who scorns money has never known duns ; 
And yet have him I must ! Shall I force or entice? 
Let me think— let me think ; every man has his price." 

It so happens that Mrs. Vizard's house is not only an asylum for Lucy, but is also 
a meeting place for some of the Jacobite leaders. Accordingly, upon making his 
escape, disguised in his wife's garments,* Nithsdale is conducted there by his con- 
federates, who represent him as the wife of one of their party now in exile, and 
that they are seeking to hide her until sunset, when she will be able to make her 
way down to the river and get on board a vessel bound for France. Mrs. Vizard 
agrees to this, and they ai'range to send a carriage at sunset, when a stone thrown 
up at the window shall be the signal that a trusty messenger is in waiting. 

They are interrupted by a knocking at the door, and effect a hasty retreat by 
a secret passage, as Mrs. Vizard conceals Nithsdale, and calmly receives the un- 
locked for visit of Selden Blount. In a very few words he tells her he has heard of 
the occurrence which took place on the return from church, and directs that Lucy 
shall be sent to him and that they shall be lelt alone. In a very pretty speech, he 
points out to his protetrc the danger of an intimacy with such a gay gallant as Sir Sid- 

* The visit of Lord Nithsdale's wife, as mentioned in the play, is not historically 
correct. He and six other lords were arrested for treason as supporting the rebel- 
lion, all but one pleaded guilty. Nithsdale and two others were ordered for immedi- 
ate execution ; but the night before he had the good fortune to escape in clothes 
which his mnther brought him. The others were beheaded the next morningf. 



"WALPOLr:. 9 

ney Bc-Uair, and pictures to her the joy and happiness of a beautiful cottage and 
gardens where, as soon as lie is daily treed from the toil of business, he can share 
with her love, name and fortune. Completely overcome by this sudden avowal, 
Lucy withdraws to her chamber, whilst Blount considering the matter settled, bids 
Mrs. Vizard prepare for departure, as he is going at once in search of a parson. At 
this moment a newsman passing through the street, calls out the intelligence of the 
escape of Nithsdale, and the offer of on« thousand guineas for his apprehension. As 
she listens to the description of the dress, it strikes Mrs. Vizard that her guest is 
the escaped lorJ, and she determines to lock up both him and Lucy whilst she has- 
tens to give the infoimation and secure the reward. Bit Lucy, overhearing Blount 
tell Mrs. Vizard to lock the door safely, slips out and conceals herself behind the 
window curtains as her guardian cirefully fastens the door of the empty chamber. 
As soon as she is gone, Lucy is alarmed by a violent rapping at the outer door of 
the apartment, and before she can recover from her fright, it is burst open and 
Nithsdale appears. In a few hurried words he excuses his disguise to Lucy, as hi.s 
companions did to Mrs. Vizard, and urges her to furnish him with other clothes ; 
she tells him that her chamber door is fastened, when, with an abruptness which 
startles her, he produces a very effective key in the shape of a poker which has 
already opened one door and now does duty a second time. He obtains a hood, gown, 
and mantle, for which he warmly thanks and kisses Lucy, who, astonished and be- 
wildered at his Amazonian conduct, innocently remarks, 
" What a wonderful girl !" 
Bellair, anxious to know the result of Blount's labors in his behalf, hastens in his 
c.irriage towards Mrs. Vizard's house, and leaving it close by, meets with Blount, who 
is vainly endeavoring to find a parson. Blount assures him that Lucy has rejected his 
off-T and promised her hand to another, and leaving him to reflect upon the intelli- 
gence, goes upon his search. But Bellair determines to know the truth from Lucy's 
own lips, and accordingly, as he perceives some one at the window, throws up a 
pebble. This is the agreed Jacobite signal, so Nithsdale jumps down into the arms 
of Bellair, who, believing it to be Lucy, attempts a kiss, only to receive a smart box 
on thecals. Although somewhat staggered at such a reception, he vows that he 
will not be baffled, and raises the hood ; a struggle follows, and he declares unless an 
explanation is given that he will call for the watch. Nithsdale speaks out boldly, 
and avows that he owes his life to Lucy, imploring him to save or sell him quickly 
Bellair determines to do the former, and though he thus risks his own life by aiding 
the escape of a rebel, the mention of Lucy's name overcomes all scruples ; he escorts 
Nithsdale to the carriage and starts him off to the river side. Returning he meets 
Lucy at the window, and earnestly pleading his love, vowing eternal constancy and 
truth, he gains her promise to elope with him that night. 

Blount succeeds at last in finding a parson, and he determines that after a brief 
honeymoon he will return to his seat in Parliament, and there taunt Walpole with 
the bribes he offered. Whilst thus laying down plans for future action, Bellair, full 
of gayety and delight, happens to meet him and tells him of his plans for running off 
with Lucy, and begs him to attend at his house and give her away, having arranged 
for two of his aunts to be present at the ceremony. At this moment one of the 
Jacobite lords enters, and requesting a few minutes private conversation with Bel- 
lair, hands to him a letter of thanks from Nithsdale. Veasey arriving, observes the 
two in conversation, and knowing the Jacobite, watches them closely. Bellair tells 
Blount, never suspecting him, to beware of Mrs Vizard, as she has attempted to 
surrender Nithsdale, whom he confesses to having assisted in his escape, in proof of 
which he shows the letter just reo-ived. Blount reads it carefully, advises him 
to be cautious in concealing it, and pretending to place the important document in 
Bellaii's pocket, but letting it drop, as the young baronet hurries away, picks 
it up. 

Now then is the time to turn the tables upon his rival ; he informs Veasey of the 
discovery he has made, and it is determined that a warrant shall bo at once issued 
for the arrest of Bellair, which will enable Blount to secure Lucy. 



10 WALPOLE. 

Waipole IS much pleased at the success of his scheme for the escape of Nithsdale, 
any very much mure so at the newa he receives of Bellair's share in the transaction. 
He at once issues a warrant for his detention, and requests Veasey to keep company 
■with the prisoner until se^it for, as he is goinf,' to Mrs. Viz:ird's to make inquiries 
■with respect to a young female ■whom his agent had found confined there upon 
searching lor Nithsdale. Dismissing Veasey, Walpole summons Mrs. Vizird to his 
presence, and learns from hi-r the particulars respecting Selden Ulount and Lucy ; 
and his curiosity and interest are strongly excited when she relates certain things 
■which go far to show that Lucy is most probably the child of his ■wayward sister. 

Arrived at Mrs. Vizard's bouse, an interview, most sweetly and effectively de- 
scribed, coupled with the production of a portrait of the deceased mother, convince 
Walpole that Lucy is his niece. He questions her as to her love for Bellair, and 
when she confesses her intended flight, his anger is aroused, believing that the bar- 
onet intended to play false. Hn dispatches his servant for Iiim and Veasey, deter- 
mining to test the truth of his intentions. At this moment a pebble strikes the 
■window ; looking put, Walpole perceives a rope ladder and the figure of a man. Bid" 
dinijLucy confide in him and her happiness shall yet be secured, he tells her to open 
the ■window and call out that she needs help as she is chained to the floor, and then 
withdraws to ■watch the result. In a few moments Blount appear.-, to Lucy's un- 
feigned surprise, her manner showing she expected some one else. Angry ;ind indig- 
nant at such a reception, he declares that liis affections have been trifled with and 
outraged, and she shall either rem.iin as liis victim or depart as his bride. But the 
liand of Walpole falls heavy upon his shoulder ; discomfited at this iinexpected 
appearance of the minister, Blount endeavors to escape by the window, but Walpole 
is too quick for liim, and pushes away the laddi-r. Sir Sidney Bellair now ari'ives, 
and not noticing Walpole, bitterly upbraid.^ Blouut tor betraying his friendship, and 
for insulting him by bringing him there ; but the minister steps between them, and 
sternly demands to know if his intentions towards Lucy, apparently penniless and 
fo far beneath him, are honorable. B-llair frankly declares th.-it they are, and 
whatever his fate may be, his sentiments are fixed and unchangeable ; upon ■which, 
AValpole makes known that she is his niece, and that he sanctions the union, at the 
same time remarking artfully, that it will never do for the nephew to outvote his 
uncle. Bellair acknowledges that he is vanquishad, and promises his cordial sup- 
port. Following up his success, Walpole appeals to Blouut, suggesting that UU that 
lias happened had better be hushed up, with which proposition his recent opponent 
warmly coincides, and promises his support. So the minister thus gains over his 
two adversaries and their votes, practically demonstrating the truth of his assertion 
— that every man has his price. 

I am not aware that this piece has ever been placed upon the stage ; why, I must 
confess, I am at a loss to conceive. It is a very neatly constructiid comedy, admir- 
ably written ; the rliyme very perfect, and the language flowing, easy, and polished. 
The plot is very well put together ; it does not exceed the bounds of dramatic pro- 
bability, and is interesting and entertaining, when the history of the country where 
the scene is laid, the period chosen for the action, and the position of society at the 
time, are understood. This has been attempted in the early part of these remarks 
and, it is to be hoped, with success. I have no hesitation in saying that with an audi- 
ence por-sessing such knowledge, and with the piece well mounted in the very excel- 
lentstyle for which the managers of this city are so justly celebrated, and acted with 
the judgment, ability, and care exhibited by many members of the profession, possess- 
ing talents admirably suited to the characters or this piece, there are many modem 
comedies that would not afford one-half the entertainment and amusement for a 
couple of hours, as that which might be derived from a fiaished representation of 
Walpole. j. m. k. 



WALPOLE. 11 



BILL FOR PROGRAMMES, ETC. 
ACT I. 

Scene I —INTERIOR OF TOM'S COFFEE-HOUSE IN LONDON. 

The Prime Minister and his Conjidant — Jacobite Plots and Troublesome Times 
— A Scheme of Bribery to support the Crown — Bellair^s Story of the Res- 
cued Anael — Blount's Astonishment — Rivals in Love — News of the Escape 
from the Tower of London of the Jacobite Rebel, Lord Nithsdale — Con- 
sternation ! 

ACT II. 

Scene I.— HANDSOME APARTMENT IN THE MANSION OF SIR 
ROBERT WALPOLE. 

The Minister's Interview with Selden Blount — Attempted Bribery — The Offer 
Rejected — Political Diplomacy in a Fix — A Great Minister never Fails 
for Resources — WalpoWs Resolution to Wtn — Every 3fan lias his Price. 

Scene II.— ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF MRS. VIZARD. 

The Meeting Place of the Conspirators — Lord Nithsdale in Pisyuise — The 
Caged Beauty — Intervieiv of Selden Blount with his Protege, Lucy Wil- 
mot — Declaration of Love, and Proposfd Marriage — News of the Reward 
for Lord NithsdaWs Apprehension— A Woman's Deceit — 3foney Wins — 
Mrs. Vizard Lodes up her Prisoners, and goes for the Reward — A Poker 
for a Key — One Angel aids Another (in belief J — Lord NithsdaWs Second 
Escape. 
Scene III.— THE EXTERIOR OF MRS. VIZARD'S HOUSE. 

Rivals in Love — Another Version of Romeo and Juliet — Amazonian and Un- 
ladylike Descent of Lord Nithsdale from the Balcony — A Lover's Em- 
braces Repulsed — Perplexing Situation — Discovery and Surprise — A True 
Friend in the Kour of Need — Lord Nithsdale' s Third Escape — Bellair 
Declares his Love, and Lucy Consents to Elope with him. 

ACT III. 

Scene T.— A VIEW IN ST. JAMES'S PARK, LONDON. 

Very Aivkward Position of the Rivals in Love — The Expecting Husband asked 
to be the Bride's Father — The Story of Nithsdale' s Escape — The Treason- 
ous Letter — Plot and Counterplot — Falsity of a Friend — The Scheme for 
Arrest. 

Scene II.— APARTMENT IN WALPOLE'S HOUSE. 

The Proof s of Bellair' s Treason — State Warrant for his Arrest — Walpole's 
Story of his Lost Sister — Proposed Journey to Mrs. Vizard's Souse to 
Solve the Mystery. 

Scene III.— APARTMENT IN THE HOUSE OF MRS. VIZARD. 
Lucy Preparing to Elope — An Unexpected Visitor — The Story of Trial and 



12 



WALPOLE. 



Suffering — The Portrait — Joijful Eeiognition of Lucy as the Minister's 
Niece — The Test of Affection and the Trial of Honor — Blounfs Offer of 
Love Befused — Arrival of Bcllair — Explanations and Promises— The 
Reward of Virtue and Faith — Union of Bellair and Lucy — Opj)osition 
Votes Secured — The Struggle for Power Won — And Triumphant Success 

of 

WALPOLE. 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor ia supposed to face the Audience. 



BCENE. 



B.SZ. 



8.2 s. 

/ 



/ 



v 



L. 3e. 



\ 



\ 



I.. 2e. 



L. IE. 



B. 0. 



c. z.. o. 

ATTDIENCE. 



L. Left. 

L. c. Left Centre. 

L. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 

L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 

L. 3 E. Left Third Entrance. 

L. tr. E. Left Upper Entrance 

(wherever this Scene may be.) 

D. L. c. Door Left Centre. 



c. Centre. 

E. Eight. 

n. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. 

R. 2 E. Eight Second Entrance. 

E. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance. 

B. u. E. Eight Upper Entrance, 

P. E. c- Door Eight Centre. 



WALPOLE 



ACT I. 

SCENE.— Tom's Coffee-house, in ith (jrooves — Al back, Gentlemen seated 
in the different " loxes." 

Enter Walpole, L. I^., Mid Veasey, K. 2 e-, down steps, both to c. front. 

Veaset. Ha! good day, my dear patron. 

Walpole. Good day, my dear friend ; 

You can spare me five minutes ? 
Veaset. Five thousand. 

Walpole. Attend ; 

I am just from the kins, and I failed not to preiss him 

To secure to his service John Vea>ey. 
Veaset. God bless him ! 

Walpole. George's reign, just begun, your tried worth will distin- 

^uish. 
Veaset. Oh, a true English king ! 

Walpole. Tho' he cannot spenk English. 

Veaset. You must find that defect a misfortune, I fearl 
Walpole. Tlie leverse; (smiles) for no rivals can pet at his ear. 

It is something to be the one public man pat in 

The new language that now governs England, dog Li'.iii. 
Veaset. Hippy thing for these kingdoms that yon have that gift, 

Or, alas ! on what shoals all our coutisels would drift. 
Walpole. {jauntily). Yes, the change from Queen Anne to King 
George, we must own, 

Renders me and the Wliigs the so'e props of the throne. 

For the Tories their Jacubit.e leanings disgrace, 

And a Wliia is the only sa^e man for a place. 
Veaset. And the Walpoles of Houghton, in aU their relations, 

Have been Wliigs to the backbone for tliiee cenerations. 
Walpole. Ay, my father and mother contrived to produce 

Tiieir eighteen sucking Whigs for the family use. 

Of which number one only, without due reflection, 

Braved th(? wrath of her house by a Tory connection. 

But, by Jove, if her Jacobite husband be living, 

I will make him a Whig. 
Veaset. How ? 

Walpole. By something worth giving ; 

For I loved her in boyhood, that pale pretty sister ; 



u 



"VVALPOIE. 



And in counting the VValpoles still left, I have miss'd her. 

(pauses in emotion, but quickly recovers himself) 
What was it I said ? Oh — the State and the Guelph, 
For their safety, must hencelorth depend on myself. 
The revolt, scarcely quenched, has live spaiks in its ashes ; 
Nay, fresh seeds for combustion were sown by its flashes. 
Each example we make dangerous pity bequeathes ; 
For no Briton likes blood in the air that he breathes. 

Veaset. Yes ; at least there's one lebel whose doom to the block 
Tho' deserved, gives this soft-hearted peojile a shock. 

Walpole. Lord Nithsdale, you mean ; handsome, young, and jusi 
wedded — 
A poor body — 'twould do us much harm if beheaded. 

Veasey. .Yet, they say, you rejected all prayers for his life. 

Walpole. It is true ; but in private I've talked to his wife ; 

She had orders to see him last nigiit in the Tower, 
And 

Yea set. Well ?— 

Walpole {looking at his watch). Wait for the news — 'tis not yet quite 
the hour. 
Ah ! poor England, I fear, at (he General Election, 
Will vole strong in a mad anti-Whigiii'-h direction. 
From a Jacobite Parliament we must defend her, 
Or the King will be Stuart, and Guelph ilie Pretender. 
And I know but one measure to rescue our land 
From the worst of all ills— Civil AVar. 
{solemnly). True ; we si and 

At that dread turning-point in the life of a Stale 
When its free choice would favor what freedom should 
hate ; 

When the popular cause, could we poll ) oi)ulaiion 

Would be found the least popular thirg in the nation. 

Scarce a fourth of this people are sound in their reason 

But we can't hang the other three-fourths for high tieason! 

Tell me, what i.-> the measure your wi.'^dom proposes 1 

In its third year, by law, this Whig Parliament closes. 

But the law ! What's the law in a moment so rriticaH 

Church.and State must be saved from a Htwse Jacobiiical. 

Let this Parliament then, under lavor of Heaven, 

Lengthen out its existence from three yeais to seven. 

Btilliant thought ! could the State keep i sprrsei.t directors 

Unilisturbed for a time by those rowdy e ectors. 

While this new German tree, .just transplanted, takes root, 

Dropping down on the laj) of each fiiend golden fiuit, 

Britain then would be saved from nil chance of reaction 

To the crafr and corrup'ion of Jacobite faction. 

But ah ! think you the Commons would swallow the question ? 

That depends on what pills may assist their digestion. 

I could make — see this list — our majority sure, 

If by buying two men I could sixty secure ; 

For as each of these two is the chief of a section 

That will vote black or white at its leader's direction, 

Let the pipe of the shepherd but lure the bell-wether. 

And he folds the whole flock, wool and cry. altogetlu r. 

Well, the first of these two worthy members you guess. 

Vkasry. Sure, you cannot mean Blount, virtuous Selden Blount 1 

Walpole. Yes. 



Veaset 



Walpole. 

Veaset. 

Walpole. 

Veasey. 

Walpole. 



Veaset. 



Walpole. 



ACT 1. 



15 



X'easev. 
Walpole. 



What! your sternest o;iponent, lialf Cati, lialf Brutus, 
He, who^e vote incoiruptible- 



Veasey. 
Walpole. 



Veasey. 

WALPOIiB 



Just now would suit us ; 
i'ov a patiiot so staunch could with dauntless effrontery — 
Sell hims.'lfl 

Why, of course, for the good of his countr}'. 
True, his price will be hitjli — 'he is woiih foriy votes. 
And his salary must pay for the change in their coats. 
Prithee, has not lis zeal lor his Jatheriand — rather 
Overburthened the lands he received f om his father 1 
Well, 'lis whispered in clubs lh:ithis debts soniovvhat tease l.im. 
Iiudit se>j him in private, and s'udy to ease him. 
Will you kindly arr.mge that lie ciU upon me 
At my home, not my office, to-day— jusl ai three 1 

Not a word that can him of ilie object in view 

Say some {slight pause) bill in the House that concerns him 

and you ; 
And on which, as distinct from all party disputes. 
Members meet wiiliout tearing each other like brutes. 
Lucky thought ! — Blount and I both agree in Coiumitiee 

On a bill for amending the dues of the City 

And the Government wants to enlighten its soul 
On the price which the ))ulil c sliould pay tor its coal. 
We shall have him, this Puritan chief of my foes. 
Now the next, one lo catch is the cli ef of the Bentix ; 
All our young members luimic h:s iiol or his hiuiiii ; 
And if Blount be worth forty votes, he is worth half. 
Eh ! Beljair, whose defence of the Jacobite peers 

Walpole. Thrilled the Hou e ; Mr. Speaker himself was in tears. 
Faith, 1 thought he'd have beat u--. {taking snuff.) 

Tint fieice peroration 

Which compared me to Nero — supeib [^brushing the snti£ 

from his luce lappet) declam ition ! 
Yes ; a very fine speaker. 

Of that there's no doubt 
For he speaks about things he knows nothing about. 

But 1 still to our party intend to unite him 

Secret Service De])artmeiit — Bellair — a small item. 
Nay, you j-'st — for this gay miiiden knlal't in debate. 
To a promise so brilliant adds fortune so great 

Walpole- That he is not a man to be bought by hard cash ; 

But he's vain and conceited, light-hearted and rash. 

Every favorite of fortune hopes still to be greater, 

And a beau rau>t want something to turn a debater. 

Hem ! I know a Duke's daughter, youncr. sprightly and fair ; 

She will wed hs I wi.^h lif r ; hint tha; to Bellair; 

Ay, and if he will i)ut himself under my steerage, 

Say that with the Duke's daughter I throw in the peerage. 

Veasey. {thoughtfully]. Those are baits that a vain man of wit may 
sednc". 

Walpole. Or, if not, his political creed must be loose ; 

To some Jacob te plot he will not be a stranger, 
And to win h.m. securely 

A'easey. We'll get him in danger 

Hist ! 



Veasey. 
Walpole 



Veaset. 



^'EASEY. 

Walpole 

Veasey. 
Walpole 



Veasey. 



Enter Bellair, humming a tune, l. d. 



IG 



Walpole. Good-moiniii<i, Sir Sidney; your speech did you credit; 
And whatever yourpaity, in time you will head it. 
Your attack on myself was excee litmly striking, 
Tliough tlie subject you cho ise was not quite lo my liking. 
Tut ! 1 never bear malice. Yon hunt ? 

Bellair. Yes, of la e 

Walpole. And you ride as you speak 7 

Brlliar. Well, in holh a light weyht. 

Walpole. But light weights liave the odds in tlieir favor, I fear. 

Come and hunt with my harriers at Houghton this year; 
I can show you some ^port. 

Bellair. Sir, there's no doubt of that. 

Walpole. We will turn out a fox. 

Bellair. (aside). As a bait Jor a rat ! 

Walpole. I expect you next autumn ! Aareed then ; good-day. 

[Theif salute ; exit VValti'LE, l. d. 

Bellair. Well, I don't know a pleasanter man in his way ; 

'Tis no wonder his friends are so fond of their chief. 

Veasey. That you are not among them is matter for grief. 
Ah, a man of such stake in the land as yourself. 
Could command any post in the court of the Guelph. 

Bellair. No, no ; I'm appalled. 

Veasey. By the king ? Cnn yon doubt him ? 

Bellair. I'm appalled by those Gorgoiis, the ladie.s about him. 

Veasey. Good! ha, ha! yes, in beauty liis tns:e nmy be wrong, 
But he has what we want, sir, a govenunent strong. 

Bellair. Meanina jjetticoat nrovernraeiit ? Mine loo is such. 
But my rulers don'i frighten the'r subj cts so much. 

Veasey. Nay, your rulers "? Why plural 1 Legitimate sway 
Can admit but one ruler to love 

Bellair. And obey. 

What a wife ! Constitutional monarchy ? Well, 
If I choose my' own sovereign I might not rebel. 

Veasey. You may choose at your will I With your parts, wealth, con- 
dition, 
You iii marriage could link all the ends of ambition 
Theie is a young beauty — the highest in birth 
And her father, tlie Duke 

Bellair. Oh. a Duke I 

Veasey. Knows your worth 

L'sten ; Walpole, desiring to strengthen ihe Lords 
With the very best men whom the country affords, 
H >s implied to his Grace, that his choice should be clear. 

{carelesubj) If you wed the Dukes's daughter, of cour.-e you're a pee/. 

Bellair. With the Lords and the lady would Walpole ally me? 

Veasey. Yes ; and if I were you 

Bellair He would certainly buy me ; 
But I, — being a man (draws himself up haughtily) 

Veasey. No offence. Why that frown ? 

Bri.lair {relapsing mio his habitual ease). Nay, forgive me. Tho' ninn, 
I'm a man about town ; 
And so graceful a compliment could not offend 
Any man about town, from a 3Iinis'er's friend. 
Still, if not from the frailly of mortals exempt. 
Can a mortal be tt'm[)ted where sins do not tempt ? 
Of my rank and my fortune I am so conce led, 
That I don't, with a wife, want those blessings ie[)ea!o;l. 



ACT I. 17 

And llio' flalleied to learn I sliould strengthen the Peer? — 
Give nie still our rough House with its laualiler am! 

clieers. 
Let the Lords have their chamber — I grudsre not its poweis; 
But for bad^^erin^ a Minister nothing lilie ours ! 
Whisper that to tlie Minister ; — sir, your obedient, {itiriis 
atvny,,R. to Gentlemen nt table.) 
Veasey {aside). Humph! 1 see we must hazard the ruder expedimt. 
If some Jacobite pit for his feet we can d'g, 
He shall hang as a Tory, or vote as a Whig. ("Veasey re- 
tires up stage ) 
Brllaib {seating hunulf, r. c. front). Oil, how little these formalist 
middle-aged schemers 
Know of us the bold youngsters, half sages, half dreamers ! 
Sages half? Yes, lecause of the time rushing on, 
Part and parcel are we ; they belong to time gone. 
Dreamers half 1 Yes, because in a woman's fair face 
We imagine the heaven thev find in a place. 
At this moment I, courted by Whig and by Tory, 
For the spanules and tinsel which clothe me with g'oiy. 
Am a monster so callous, I sliould not feel sorrow 
If an earthquake engulfed Whig and Toiy lo-morrow 
" What a heartless asseition ! " tlie aged would say ; 
True, the young have no heart, for they give it away. 
Ah, Hove ! and here — joy ! comes the man who may aid me. 

• Enter Blount, l. d. 

Blount {to Coffee-house loungers, who gather round him as he comes down 
the stage). 

Yes, sir, just from Guildhall, where the City ha.s paid me 

The great honor 1 ne\er can merit enougl). 

Of this box, dedicated to Virtue {Coffee-house lotingers 

gather around) 
Veasey. And snuff. 

Blount. Yes, sir, Higgins the Patriot, who deals in rappee, 

Stored that box with pulvillio, superfluous to me ; 

For a public man gives his whole life to the nation, 

And his nose has n6 time for a vain litillation. 
, Veasey. On the dues upon coal — apropos of the City — 

We agreed 

Blount. And were beat; Walpole bribed the Committee. 

Veasey. You mistake ; he leans tow'rds us, and begs you to call 

At his house — three o'clock. 
Blount {declaiming as if in Parliament), But I say, once for all, 

That the dues 

Veasey. Put the case as you only can do, 

And we carry the question. 
Blount. I'll call, sir, at two. 

Veasey. He said three. 

Blount. I say two, sir ; my honor's at stake. 

To amend every motion that Ministers make. (Veasey retires 
into the background.) 
Blount, {advancing to Bellair). Young debater, your hand. One 
might tear into shreds 

All your plea for not cutting off Jacobite heads ; 

But that burst against Walpole redeemed your whole speech. 



18 



"WAI.rOLE. 



Be but honest, and higli is the f imn you will reach. 
Bklt, viR. (r. c). Blount, your praise would delight, but your cinticn 

offends. 
Bi/iu.N'T (c.i. 'Tis my way — I'm plain spoken to foes and to friend?. 

What, are talents but snares to mislead and pervert you, 

Unless they converge ia one end — Public Virtue ! 

Fine debaters abound ; we applaud and despise tliem ; 

For when the House die rs them the Minister buys tiieiii. 

Gome, be honest, I say, sir — away witli all doul)t ; 

Public Virtuft commands ! Vote the Minister out ! 
Bbllaiu. Public virtue when construed means private ambition. 

Blouxt. This to me — to a Patriot 

Bellair. In fierce opposition ; 

But you ask for my vote. 
Blount. England wants every man. 

Bellaiu. Well, tho' Walpole can't buy me, I think that you can. 

Blount, I saw you last evening cloaked up to your chin, 

But I had not a guess who \ay, perdu, within 

All tliose bales of broadcloth — when a gust of wind rose. 

And uplifting your beaver it let ont your nose. 
Blocnt. {soinewh it confusedly). Yes, I always am cloaked — hnlf disgr.'sed 
when I go 

Certain rounds — reil charity hides ilself so ; 

For one good deed concealed is worth fitly {laraded. 
Bellair. Fii:ely siid Qu f.ing, doubtless, the poor you had aided, 

You sii')t by me before I had time to accost you, 

Down a court which contains but one house ; — there I lost 
you. 
Blount. One house ! 

Bellair. Where a widow named Vizard 

Blount, (aside). 1 tremble. 

Yes 

Bellair. Resides with an angel 

Blount, {aside). 'Twere best to dissemble. 

With an angel ! bah ! say with a girl — what's her nanis? 
Bellair. On this earth Lucy Wilmotl 
Blount. Eh !— Wilmot ? 

Bellair. The same. 

Blount, {nfter a short pnase). And how knew you these ladies'? 
Bellair. Will you be my friend ?• 

Blount. 1 ? of course. Tell me all from beginning to end. 
Bellair. 0.\, my story is short. Just a fortnight ago, 

Cviming home tow'rds the night from my club 

Blount. Drunk ? 

Bellair. So, so. 

" Help me, help !" cries a voice — 'tis a woman's — T run — 

Which may prove I'd drunk less than 1 often have done. 

And I find — but, deir Blount, you have heard the renown 

Of a set callel the Mohawks ? 
Blount. The scourge of the town. 

A lewd band of night savages, scouring the street, 

Sword in hand, — and t!ie terror of all whoju they met't 

N'lt as had as themselves ;—you were safe, sir; proceed. 

Bellair. In the m dst of the Mohawks I saw her and freed 

Blount. You saw Ht — Lucy AV.lmot — at nisht, and alone 1 
Bellair. No, she had a protector — the fac3 of that crone. 
Blount. Mistress Vizard 1 



ACT I. 



19 



Bkllair. 



Blount. 
Bellair. 
Blount. 
Bellaia. 



Blount. 
Bellair. 

Blount. 
Bellair. 



jJlount. 

Bellair. 

Blount. 

Bellair. 



The same, yet, tlio' stranse it appear, 
Wlien llie rogues saw her face they did not fly in fear. 
Brief — I cnme, saw and conquered — but own, on tiie wliole, 
That my conquest was lieli)ed by the City Patrol. 

I escorted ihein home — at tlieir tliresliold we i)art 

And I mourn since tliat niglit for tlie loss of my heart. 
Did you cull the next day to demand back that, treasure ? 
Yes. 
And saw the young lady 7 

I had rot that pleasure; 
I saw the old widow, wlio to'd me politely 
That lier house was too quiet for visits so sprightl}' ; 
That young females brou_!iit up in the school of propriety 
Must reg ird all young males as the pests of society. 
I will spare you her lectures, she showed me tlie door, 
And closed it. 

You've seen Lucy Wilmot no more? 
Pardon, yes — very often ; that is once a day. 

Every hone has its windows 

Ah ! what did you say ? 
Well, by words very little, but much by the eyes. 
Now instruct me in turn, — from wliat [)art of the skies 
Did my angel descend ? What her parents and race ? 
She is well-born, no doubt — one .sees that in her face. 
What to her is Dame Vizard — that awful duenna, 
AVith the look of a griffiness fed upon senna 1 
Tell me all. Ho there ! — drawer, a bottle of clary ! 

[Exit, Waiter, r. u. e. 
Leave in peace the poor girl whom \o\\ never could marrv. 
Why ? 

Her station's too mean. In a small country town 
Her poor mother taught music. 

Her father 1 



Enter Waiter, r. u. e., and places wine and glasses on the table, r. c. 



Blount. 



Bellair. 
Blount. 



Bellair. 
Blount. 



Bellair. 

Blount. 

Bellair. 



Unknown. 
From the mother's deathbed, from tiie evil and danger 
Tliat might threaten her youth, siie was brouglit by a stran- 
ger. 

To the house of the lady who 

Showed me tlie door ? 
Till instructed lo live like her mother before, 
As a teacher of music. My nol)le young Iriend, 
To a match so unmeet you could never descend. 
You assure me, I trust, that all thought is dismi.st 
Of a love so misplaced. 

No — ( filling Blount's glass) — her health ! 

You persist? 
Dare you, sir, to a mt'i of my tenets austere, 
Even to hint your desii^n if your suit persevere 1 
What! — you still would besiege her? 

Of course, if I love. 
I am virtue's defender, sir — there is my' glove, {flings down 

his glove, and rises in angry excitement.) 
Noble heart! 1 esteem you still more for tliis heat, 
In the lis' i-f mv sins there's n > ro^m fo- deceit : 



20 



■WALPOLE. 



And to plot against innocence helpless and weak — 

I'd as soon pick a pocket ! 
Blount. What mean you then ? Spean. 

Bell AIR. Blount, I mean you to grant me the favor I ask, 
Blount. What is that ? 
Bellair. To yourself an agreeable task. 

Since you know this Dame Vizard, you call there to-day, 

And to her and to Lucy say all I would say. 

You attest what I am — fortune, quality, birth. 

Adding all that your friendship allows me of worth. 

Blount, I have not a father; I claim you as one; 

You will plead for my bride as you'-d speak for a son. 

All arranged — to the altar we go in your carriage, 

And I'll vote as you wish the month after my marriage. 
Blount {aside). Can I stifle my fury ? 

Enter Newsman, with papers, l. d. 

Newsman. Great.news! {music, animated, piano.) 

Bellair. Silence ape ! {coffee-house loungers rise and crotcd 

round the Newsman, l. c. — Veaset snatching the paper.) 
Omnes. Read. 

Veaset (^reading through the music). "Lord Nithsdale, the rebel, has 

made his escape. 
His wife, by permission of Walpole, last night, 

Saw her lord in the tower ^'{great sensation.) 

Bellair {to Blount). You will make it all right. 

V^easey {continuing). " And the traitor escaped in her mantle and 

dress." 
Bellair {to Blount). Now my fate's in your hands — I may count on 

you. 
Blount {loudly). Yes. {music forte.) 

QUICK curtain. ' 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — A room in Wapole's house. 
Discover Walpole and Veaset seated at table. 



Walpolb. And so Nithsdale's escaped ! His wife's mantle and gown ; 

Well — ha, ha ! let us hope he's now out of this town, 

And in safer disguise than my lady's attire. 

Gliding fast down the Tiiames— which he'll not set on fire. 
Veaset. All your colleagues are furious. 
Walpole. Ah, yes ; if they catch him, 

Not a hand from the crown of the martyr could snatch him ! 

Of a martyr so pitied the troublesome ghost 

Would do more for his cause than the arms of a host. 

These reports fiom our agents, in boro' and shire. 

Show how slowly the sparks of red embers expire. 

Ah ! what thousands will hail in a general election 

The wild turbulent signal for 

Veaset. Fresh insurrection. 



ACT IT. 



21 



Walople. {gravely). Worse than tlial ; Civil War ! — at all risk, at all cost, 
We must carry this bill, or the nation is lost. 

VnASEY. Will not Tory and Roundhead against it unite ? 

Walpole. Every man has his price ; I must bribe left and rigrht. 
So you've failed with Bellair — a fresh bait we must try. 
As for Blount 



Enter Servant, l. 
Servant. Mr. Blount. 
Walpole. Pray admit him. Good-bye. 



[Exit Veasev r. 



Servant hows in Blount, l. 



Blount. 



Blount. 
Walpole. 



Mr. Walpole, you ask my advice on the dues 

Which the City imposes on coal. 
Walpole. (motions Blodnt to tnke sent, l, c). Su-, excuse 

That pretence for some talk on more weiahty a theme, 

With a man who commands 

Blount, {aside). Forty votes. 

AValpole. My esteem. 

You're a patriot, and therefore I couited this visit. 

Hark ! your country's in danger — great danger, sir. 
Blount {dnly). Is if? 

Walpole. And I ask you to save it from certain perdition. 

Me ! — I am 

Yes, at present in hot opposition. 

But what's party 1 Mere cricket — some out and some in ; 

I have been out myself. At that time I was thin. 

Atrabilious, sir,— jaundiced ; now rosy and stout, 

Nothing pulls down a statesman like long fagging out. 

And to"come to the point, now there's nobody by, 

Be as stout and as rosy, dear Selden, as I. 

What ! when bad nipn conspire, shall not good men combine 1 

There's a place — he Pavmastership— just in your line ; 

I may say that the fees a e ten thousand a year. 

Besides, extras — not mentioned, {aside) The rogue will 
dear. 

What has thnt, sir, to do with the national danger 

To which 

You're too wise to be wholly a stranger. 

Need I name to a man of your Protestant true heart 

All the risks we yet run from the Pope and the Stuart ? 

And the indolent public is so unenlightened 

That'di not to be trusted, and scarce to be frightened. ■ 

When the term of this Parliament draws to its close. 

Should King George call another, 'tis filled with his foes. 

You pay soldiers eno' if the Jac-ibites rise 

But a Jacobite house would soon stop their supplies. 

There's a General on whom you must o.vn on reflection, 

The Pretender relies. 

Who 1 
The General Election. 

That election must come ; you have no jother choice. 

Would you juggle the People and stifle its voice ? 
Walpole. That is just what young men fi'esh from college would say 

And the People's a very aood thing in its way. 

But what is the People ?— ihe more population? 



cost 



Blount. 

Walpole 



Blount. 
Walpole 



Blount. 

Walpole. 

Blount. 



22 



WALPOLE. 



No, the sound-lhinking part of this practical nation, 
Wlio support peace and aider, and steadily all poll 
For llie weal of llie land ! 

Blount {aside). In plain words, for Bob Walpole. 

Walpole. Of a people lilce this I've no doubt, or niislrusiings, 

But I have of ihe tools who vote wrong at the huslings. 
Sir, in short, I am always frank-spoke; i and hear;y, 
England needs all th':' patriots that go with your party. 
We must make the Ihiee years of this Parliament seven, 
And stave off Civil War. You agree 1 

Blount {rises). Gracious heaven ! 

Thus to silence the nation, to baffle its laws. 
And expect Selden Blount to defend such a cause ! 
What could ever atone for so foul a disgrace! 

Walpole. Everlasting renowu — {aside) and the Paymaster's place, 

Blount, Sir, your servant — good day; I am not what you thought; 
I am honesi {going l.) 

Walpole. Who doubts it 1 {rises.) 

Blount. And not to be bought. 

Walpole {stays Blount nt l. c). You are not to be bought, sir — as- 
tonishing man ! 
Let us argue that point, {to c.) If creation you scan. 
You will find that the children of Adam prevail 
O'er the beasts of the field but by barter and sale. 
Talk of coals — if it were not for buying and selling, 
Could you coax from Newcastle a coal to your dwelling ? 
You would be to your own lellow-men good for naught, 
Were it true, as you say, that you're not to be bought. 
If you find men worih nothing — say, don't } ou despise them ? 
And what proves them worth nothing? — why nobody buj-s 

them. 
But a man of such worth as yourself,' nonsense — come, 
Sir, to liu>i!iess ; I want you — I buy you ; the sum 1 

Blount. Is corruption so brazen 1 are nnnners so base 1 

Walpole {aside). Tnat means he don't much like the Paymaster's place. 
{rcith earnestness and dignify ) 
Par Ion, Blount. I spoke lightly ; but do not mistake,— 
On mine honor the peace of the land is at stake. 
Yes, the peace and tl.e freedom ! Wei'e Hampden himself 
Living still, wou d he side with Ihe Stuart or Guelpli ? 
Wh n the Ca?.sars the freedom of Rome overthrew. 
All its forms they maintained — 'twas its spirit they slew ! 
Shall the fie=dom of England go down to liie grave 1 
No ! the forms let us scorn, so the spirit we save. 

Blount*. England's peac^ and her freedom depend on your bill? 

Walpole {seriously). Thou know'st it — and therefore 

Blount. My aid you ask still ! 

Walpole. Nay, no longer J ask, 'tis thy country petitions. 

Blv'^unt. But you talked abmt terms, 

Walpole {pushing pen and paper to him). There, then, write your condi- 
ditions. (Blount ivrites, folds the paper, gives it <o Wal- 
pole, bou's and exit. L. D.) 

Walpole. {reading). " 'Mongst the men who are bought to save Eng- 
land inscribe me, 
And my bribe is the head of the man who would bril e me." 
Eh ! my head ! That's ambtion much too high-reaching ; 
I suspect tliat f.^e cocodile hints at impeaching. 



( 



ACT It. 23 

And lie calls himself iioiipst ! Wliat, liigliwnyman's worse ? 
Tlius to ihieaLen my life wiieii 1 olier my purse. 
Hem! lie can't, ba !ii dibt, as tlie coin.non lalii runs, 
For the man who scorns money has never known duns. 
And yet hm'e him I must ! Shall I force or entice ? 
Let me think — let me think ; eve'y man has his price. 

[Exit Walpole, slowly, r. 

Scene changes to 

SCENE II. — A room i>i Mrs. Vizard's house. 

Enter Mrs. Vizard, k. 

Mrs. Vizard. 'Tistlieday when the Jacohite nobles bespeak 

This .safe room for a chat, on affairs once a-week. {knock wi/h- 

OUt, Jj.) 

Ah, they c.ime. 
Enter, d. f., two Jacobite Lords, end Nitiisdale, disguised as a womnu. 

First Lord. Ma'arn, well knowintr your zeal for onr kingr, 

To your house we iiave ventured this lady to hrinji. 

She will quit you at sunset — nay, haply, much sooner — 

For a voyage to France in some t usiy Duch s-chooner. 

Hist ! — iier husband in exile she 2oes io lejcin, 

And our homes are so .watched 

Mrs. Viz. That she's safer in mine. 

Come with me, my dear lady, I have in my care 

A young ward 

First L. Who must see her nut! Till we prepare 

Her, departure, conceal her from all prunu ryes ; 

She is timid, and looks on new f:ices as spies. 

Sen! your servant on business tiiat keeps her away 

Until nightfall; — her trouble permit me to pay. {giving a 
purse, ) 

Mrs. Viz. Nay, my lord, I don't need 

First L. Quick — your servant release. 

Mrs. Viz. I will send her to Kent with a note to my niece. 

[Exit, Mrs.Vizarp, n. 
First L. (ifo Nithsdale). Here you are safe; still I tremble until xoii 
are freed ; 

Keep sharp watch at the window — the signal's agreed. 

When a pebble's thrown up at the pane, you will know 

'Tis my envoy ; — a carriage will wait you below. 
NiTHSDALE. And, if, ere you can send him, some peril befall ? 
First L. Risk yourfli^lit to the inn near the steps at Blackwall. • 

Re-enter Mrs. Vizard, r. 

Mrs. Viz. She io gone. 

First L. Lead the lady at once to her room. 

Mrs. Viz. {opening l. d.). No man dares enter here. 

Nithsdale {aside). Where she sleeps, 1 presume, 

[Exeunt Mrs. Vizard and Nitiisdale, l. n. 
Second L. You still fii-mly believe, tho' revolt is put d' wn, 
That Ki'g James is as sure to receiver his crown. 



24: WALPOLE. 

First Lord. Yes; but wait till Ibis Parliament's close is decreed, 
A;,d then up witb our banner Irora Thames to tbe Tweed. 

{knock (it back, r. siiW) 
Who luiocks ? !?ome new IVienJ 1 

Enter Mrs. Vizard, l., crosses to k. 

Mrs. \. {looking out of the ivindow, r ). Oh ! quick — quick - do not stay ! 

It is Blount. 
Both Lords. What, the Roundhead ? 

Mrr. V. {opening concealed door, h. in F.). Here— here — the back way. 

[Exit Mrs. Vizard, d. f. 
First L. {as they get to l. d. in ¥.). Hush ! aad wait till lie's safe witliiu 

doors. 
Second L. But our foes 

She admiis ? 
First L. By my sanction — their jilans to disclose. 

Exeunt Jacobite Lords, l. d- in f., just as enter Blount and Mrs. Viz- 
ard, D. F. 

Mrs. Viz. T had sent out my servant; this is not your hour. 

Blod.n't. Mistress Viz ird. 

Mrs Viz. Sweet sir! (rt5ti^«) He looks horridly sour. 

Blount. I enjoined you when trusting my ward to your care 

Mrs. Viz. To conceal from lierself the irue name tliat you bear. 

Blount. And she still has no guess 

Mrs. Viz. That in Jones, christened John, 

'Tis the greit Selden Blount whom she gazes upon. 

Blount. And my second injunction 

Mrs. Viz. Was duly to teach her 

To respect all you say, as if said by a preacher. 
Blount. A preacher ! — not so ; as a m;in she should la'.her 

Confide in, look up to, and love as 

Mrs. Viz. A father. 

B^iOUNT. Hold ! 1 did not say " Father." You might, for you can, 

Call me 

Mrs. Viz. Whatl 

Blount. Hang it, madam, a fine-looking man. 

But at once to the truth whicli your cunning secretes. 

How came Lucy and you, ma'am, at njoht in the streets "? 
Mrs. Viz. I remember. Poor Lucy ^o begged and so cried 

On that day, a year since 

Blount. Well ! 

Mrs. Viz. Her poor mother died ; 

And all her woui'ds opened, recalling that day ; 

She insisted — I had not the heart to say nay — 

On the solace religion alone can bestow ; 

So I led her to church, — does that anger youl 
Blount. No ! 

But at nightfall 

Mrs. Viz. I knew that the church would be dark : 

And thus nobody saw us, not even the clerk.* 
Blount. And returning 

*t'lerk, like " Derby," is often pronounced broadly, as if " Clark " and " Darby," 
throughout England. 



ACT II. tJO 

Mrs. Viz. We fell into terrible danger. 
Sir, tlie Mohawks 

Blount. 1 Unuw ; you were saved by a stranger. 

He escoried you home; caUed the next day, I hear. 

Mrs. Viz. But 1 soon sent h m oft' with a flea in his ear. 

Blount. S uce that day the young villain has seen her. 

Mrs. Viz Oh, no ! 

Blount Yes. 

Mrs. Viz. And where ? 

Blount. At the window. ' 

-ilBS. Viz. You do not say so ! 

Wiiaf deceivers girls are ! how all watch ttiey befool ! 
One .should many them off. ere one bends them to school ! 

Blount. Ay, I think you are right. All oar plans have miscarried. 
Go ; send Lucy to me — it is time siie were married. 

[Hxit Mrs. Vizakd, r. n. 

Blount {alone at c). When I first took this or[ih;ui, foilorn and aloni>, 
From the poor village inn wliere 1 sojourned unknown, 
My compassion no leeling more sensiiive masked. 
Slie was grateful — that please.! me ; was more than I as-ked. 
'Tu'as in kindness I screeneel my.self umiei- false names, 
For she told me iier fatii^'r had fouulit lor King James ; 
And, iiiiiiued in the Jacobite's pestilent ei-ror, 
In a Roundhead she sees but a bu^ibear of le /ro". 
And Irom me, Selden B'ou'it, who invoked our f ee laws 
To behead or to hang all who side with that cause. 
She would start with a shudder ! fool ! how a' ove 
Human weakness I thought mj^self > This, tlien, is love ! 
Ileiveus! lo lose her — resign to anoiiier those cuauns ! 
No, no ! never ! Why yield to such idle alarms .' 
Wlial"s that fop she has seen scarcely once in a way 
To a man like myself, whom she sees every d.iy 't 
Mine she mu'-t be ! but how ! — the world's laugh'er I dread. 
Tut ! the world will not know, if in secret we wed. 



Eiiiei- Lucy, It/ r. d. 

Lucy. Dear si", you look pale. Are you ill ? 

Blount. Ay, w' at then ? 

What am I in your thoughts ? 
Lucy. The most generous of men. 

Can you doubt of the orphan's respectful afiection. 

When she owes even a home to your sainted protection? 
Blount. In that liome I had hoped for your youth to secure 

Safe escape from the perils tliat threaten the pure ; 

But, alas ! where a daughter of Eve is, I fear 

That the serpent will still be found close at her ear. 
Lucy. You alarm me ! 
Blount. I ought. Ah, what danger you ran ! 

You have seen — have conversed with 

Lucy. Well, well. 

Blount (c ). A young m in. 

Lucy 'r. c.) Nav, he is not so frightful, dear, sir, as you deem ; 

If you only but knew him, I'm sure you'd esteem. 

He's so civil — so pleasant — the sole lliiiiii 1 fear 

Is — heigh-ho ! are fine cenilemen aUvax's si:,cei'e ? 
Blount. You are lost if you heed not the words that I say. 



26 



WALPOLE. 



Ah ! young men are not now wiiat tliey were in my day. 

Then their fasiiion was manliKid, tiieii- liuiiuase was inith, 

And llieir love was as liPfcli as a world in ii.s youlh ; 

Now they fawn like a courtier, and lib liuc his fluukeys, 

And their hearts are as old as the laces of monkeys. 

Lucy. Aii ! you know not Sir Sidney 

Blount. Hi, n.uurel do, 

For he owned to my friend his designs upon you. 
LucT. What designs 7 {comes nearer to Blount.) 

Bloukt. Of a naiure too dreadful to name. 

Lucy. How! His words fuil of honor 

Blount. Veiled thoughts full of shame. 

Heard you never of sheep in wolfs clothing ? Why weep ? 
Lucy. Hideed, sir, he don't looli tlie least like a sheep. 

Blount. No, the sheepsliin for clothing m-uch fii.er he trucks; 

Wolves ;ire nowaday clad not as sheep — hut as iucks. 

'Tis a false heart you find where a fine diess you see, 

And a lover sincere is a plain man like me. 

Dismiss, th^n, dear clii d, this young beau from your mind— 

A young beau should be kathed by good young womankind. 

At the best he's a creature accustomed to roam ; 

'Tis at sixty man learns how to value a home. 

Idle fancies throng quick at your credulous age. 

And their cure is companionship, cheerful, but sage. 

So, in fu'ure, I'll give you much more of my own. 

Weeping still ! — I've a lieait, and it is not of stone. 
Lucy. Pardon, sir, these vain tears ; nor believe that I moura 

For a false-hearted 

Blount. Coxcomb, who merits but scorn. 

We must give you some change — purer air, livelier scene — 

And your mind will soon win back its temper serene. 

You must quit this du'l court with its shocking look-out. 

Yes, a cot is the home of coutentujent, no doubt. 

A sweet cot with a garden — waded lound — shall be ours, 

Where our hearts shall unite in the passion — for flowers. 

Ah 1 I know a retreat, from all turmoil remole. 

In the subuib of Lambeth — soon reached by a boat. 

So that every spare moment to business i.ot due 

I can give, my sweet Lucy, to rapture and you. 
Lucy (aside). What means he 7 His words and his looks are alarming; 

{aloud) Mr. Jones, you're too good ! 
Blount. What, to find you so oharmii g 1 

Yes; tho' Fortune has placed my condition above you, 

Yet Love levels all tanks. Be not staitled — I love you. 

From all dreams less exalted yoiu' fancies arouse ; 

The poor orphan I raise to the raidj of my spouse. 
Lucy {aside). Wnat ! His spouse ! Do I dream 1 
Blount. Till that moment arrives, 

Train your mind to reflect on the duty of wives. 

I must see Mistress Vizard, and all things prepare ; 

To secure our retreat shall this day be my care. 

And — despising the wretch who has caused us such sor;ow — 

Our two lives sliall unite in the cottage to-morrow. 

Lucy. Pray excuse me — this talk is so strangely 

Blount. Delightful! 

Lucy {aside), I am faint ; I am all of a tremble ; Low frightful ! 

[Sxit, K. D. 



ACT II. 



27 



Blopnt. 



Blohnt, 



Mrs. Viz, 
Blount. 



Mrs. Viz. 



Blount. 
Mrs. Viz. 
Blount. 



Mrs. Viz. 



Blount. 



Good ; my mind overawes her! From fear love will grow, 
And by this lime lo-morrow a fig for the beau, {calling off, r.) 
Mistress Vizard ! 

Enter Mrs. Vizard, b. d. 

Guard well my dear Lucy to-day, 
For to-morrow I free you, and bear h-r away. 
I agree with yourself — it is time she were married. 
And I only regret that so long I have tarried. 
Euo' ! I've proposed. 

She consented 1 

Of coarse ; 
Must a man like myself get a wife, ma'am, by force 1 {voice 

of Newsman, at back, and the ringing of hmid-bell) 
Great news, {crosses l. to r., ivhile crying out ) 
{rimninj to the tvindow, listening and repeating). VVhat ! "Lord 
Nithsdnle escaped from the Tower." (Nitusdale pee^js 
through l. d. 
" In his wife's clothes disguised ! the gown gray, with red 

flo wer, 
Mantle black, trimmed with ermine " My hearing is hard. 
Mr. Blount, Mr. B ount ! Do yuu hear the reward ? 

Yes ; a thousand 

What ! guineas 1 

Of cour.se ; come away. 
I go now for the parson — do heed what I say. (Nithsdal<* 

shikes his fist at Mrs. Vizafd, and rttreats) 
We shall marry to-morrow — no witne-s but you ; 
For the marriago is private. I'm Jones still. Adieu . 

[Exit Blount, d. f. Lucy peeps out r, d. 
Ha I a thousand good guineas ! {looks l. d.) 

Re-enter Blount, d. f. 



Guard closely my treasure. 
That's her door ; for precaution just lock it. 
Mrs. Viz. With i)leasure. {as she shoivs 

out Blount, d. f., Lucy slips out e. d. and goes up l.) 
Lucy {tries l. d.). Eh ! locked up \ No, I yet may escape if I hide, {gets 
behind the window-curtains, up B.) 

Re-enter Mrs. Vizard, d. f. 

Mrs. Viz. Sliall I act on this news 1 I must quickly decide. 

Surely Nithsdale it is I Gray gown, sprigged with red ; 
Did not walk like a woman — a stride, not a tread {locks r. b ) 
Both my lambs are in fold ; I'll steal out and inquire. 
Robert Walpole might make the rewaid somewhat higher. 

[Exit Mrs, Vizard, d. f. 
Lucy {looking out of window). She has locked the street door. She has 
gone with the key, - 
And the servant is out. No escape ; woe is me ! 
How I love him, and yet I must see him with loi thing. 
Wiiy should wolves be disguised in such beautiful clothing"? 
Nithsdale {knocking violently at l. d ). Let me out. I'll not perish en- 
trapped. Fiom your snare 



28 WALPOLE. 

Tlius I break (bicrs/s open l. d., and comes down brandUhixg 

a ^oAr^-.) Treacherous hag! 
Lucy. 'Tis ihe wolf. Spare me ; spare! {kneeling c, 

and hiding he}- face.') 
NiTUSDALE. She's a wiich, and has changed herself? 
L0CY- Do not come near me. 

NiTHSDALE. Nay, young lady, look up ! 
Lucy. 'Tis a woman ! 

NiTHSDALE. Why fear me *? 

Perchance, like myself, you're a prisoner ? 
Lucy. Ah, yes ! 

NiTHSDALE. And your kinsfolk are Irue to the Stuart, I guess 1 
Lucy. My i^oor father took arms for King James. 

NiTHSDALE. So did I. 

'Lucy. You! — a woman ! How brave. 
NiTHSDALE. For that crime I mast die 

If you will not assist me. 
Lucy. Assist you — how ? Sav. 

NiTHSDALE. That she-Judas will sell me, and "oes to betray. 
Lucy. Fly I Alas ! she has locked the street-door ! 
NiTHSDALE. Lndy fair, 

Does not Love laugh at locksmiths ? Well so does Despair ! 
{(jlnncing at the window) 

Flight is here. But tliis dress my detection ensures. 

If I couUl but exchange hood and mantle for yours ' 

Dare 1 ask you to save me 1 
Lucy. Nay, doubt not my will ; 

But my own door is locked. 
NiTHSDALE (raising the poker). And the key is heresiW]. (bursts r. d. open 

and exits, r. d.) 
Lucy. I have read of the Amazons ; this must be one ! 
NiTHSDALE (entering by r. d., tvith hood, gown, and mantle on /its arm). I 

have found all I nee I for the risk I must run. 
Lucy. Can I help you 1 
NiTHSDALE. Heaven bless thee, sweet Innocence, no. 

Haste, and look if no backway is open below. 

Stay ; your father has served the king over the water ; 

And this locket may please your brave father's true daughter. 

The gray hair of poor Charles, interwined with the pearl. 

Go ; vouchsafe me this kiss, (ki-ises her hand, and exits, l. d.) 
Lucy. What a wonderful girl ! [Exit, r. d. 

Scene changes to 

SCENE III, — Exterior of Mrs. Vizard's house. 

Enter Blount, t. 3 e , to h. c. front. 

Blount. For the curse of celebrity nothing atones. 

The sharp parson I call on as simple John Jones, 

Has no sooner set eyes ou my populai' front, 

Than he cries, " Ha ! the Patriot, the great Selden Blount !" 

Mistress Viznrd mu'-t hunt up some priest just from Cam, 

Who may gaze on tliese features, nor guess who I am. (knocks 

at D. F. in l 2 E. set. ) 
Not at home. Servant out too ! Ah ! gone forth, I guess, 



ACT II. 



£9 



To enchant the young briile \vi:h a new wedding-dress. 
1 must search for a parson myself. 

JEnter Bellaju r v. e., and through posts. 

Bellair. {slapping Blount on the shoulder). Blount, your news "? 

Bloont. You ! and here, sir ! Wiiat means 

Bellaiu. My impatience excuse. 

You have seen her 1 
BiiOUNT. I have. 

BiiLLAiR. And have pleaded mv cause : 

And of course she conseias, for she loves me. You pause. 

Blount. Nay, alas ! my dear friend 

Bkllair. Speak, and tell me my fate. 

Blount. Quick and rasli Ihouah your wooing be, it is too late ; 

She has piomised her hand to another. Bear up. 
Bellair. There 'is many a slip 'twixt tlie hp and the cup. 

Ah ! my rival I'll fight. Say his name if you can. 
Blount. Mr. Jones. I am told he's a fine-looking man. 
Bellair. His address? 
Blount. Wherefore ask 1 You kill her in tliis duel — 

Slay the choice of her lieart ; 
Bellair Of lier heart; you are cruel. 

But if so, why, Heaven bless her ! 
Blount. My arm — come away ! 

Bellair No, my carriage waits yonder. I thank you. Good-day. 

[Exit, L. 3 E. 
Blount. He is gone ; I am safe — (shaking his left hand with his right) 
wish you joy, my dear Jones ! [lixit, r. u. e. 

NiTHSDALE, disguised in Lucy's dress and mantle, opens the upper wihdoiv. 

NiTHSDALE. All is still. How to jump without b' enking my bones "? {try- 
ing to flatten his petticoats, and u'ith one leg over the balcony) 
Curse these petticonts ! Heaven! out of all my lo-t riches, 
Why couldst thou not save me one tliiu pair of breeches I 

Steps ! {gets back — shuts the tvmdow.) 

Re-enter Bellair, l d. 3 e. 

Bellair. But Blount may be wrong. From her own lips alone 
Will I learn, {looking np at the ivindow) I see some one ; I'll 
venture this stone, (picks ut>, and throws a pebble at upper 
window.) 
NiTHSDALE (opening the window). Joy ! —the signal ! 
Bellair. Tis you ; say my friend was deceived. (Nithsdale nods) 
You were snared into 

NiTHPDALE. Hush ! 

Bellair. CouM you guess how I grieved! 

But oh ! fly from this jail ; I'm still full of alarms. 
I've a carriage at hand ; trust yourself to these arms, 

NiTHSDALE tucks up his petticoats, gets doiim the balcony backwards, setting 
his foot on the area rail. 

Bellair. Powers above !— what a leg ! 



80 



WALPOLE. 



Lord Nithsdale turns round on the rail, rejects Bellair's hand and 
Jumps down. 

Bellair. ray cliaimerl one kiss, 

Nithsdale. Are you out of your senses ? 
BiiLLAiR {trying to pull uu her hood). With rapture ! 
NirHSDALE {striking him). Take this. 

Bellaik. What a fist ! If it hits one so hard before marriage, 

What would it do after ? 
Nithsdale. Quick — wliere is the carriage ? 

Now, sir, give me your hand. 
Bellair. I'll be hnnsed if I do 

Till I snatch my fiist kiss ! (lifts the hood and ncoils nstcunded) 
Who the devil are you ? (Nithsdale 
tries to get from him. A struggle. 'Qp.hhMYi prevails.) 
Bellair (c). I will give \-ou in charge, or this mi>nieht confess 

How you pass as my Lucy, and wear her own dress ? 
Nitasdale [aside). What ! His Lucy ? I'm saved. 

To her pity I owe 

This last chance for my life ; would you sell it, sir ] 
Bellair. No. 

But \'our life ! What's your name ? IVFine is Sidney Bellair. 
Nithsdale. Who in ParlianiiMit p'eaded so nobly to spare 

From \\\f> axe 

Bellair. The chiefs donmad in the Jacobite rise 1 

Nithsdale {with digninj). 1 am Nithsdale. — Quick — sell me or free me 

— time tlies. 
Bellair. Come this way. There's my coach, {joints l.) I will take 
you myself 

Where you will ; — ship you off. 
Nithsdale. Do you side with the Guelph ? 

Bellair. Yes. WLat then ? 
Nithsdale. You would risk your own life by his laws 

Did you ship me tu France. They who fight in a cause 

S.iould nione share its perils. Farewell, generous stranger ! 
{goes up.) 
Bellair. Pooh ! no gentleman leitves a young lady in danger ; 

You'd be mobbed ere yon got h ilf a yard tiiroiigh the town ; 

Wiiy tliat stride and that calf — let me set tie your gown. 
{clinging to him and leading him L , and speaking as they 
exeunt l. 3 e. 

No, no ; I will see you at least to my carriage. {oJ'l.) 

To wiial place shall it drive ? 
Nithsdale (ojfL ). To Blackwall. 

Lucy appears at the windotv. 

Ldct. Halefu' marri ige ! 

But Where's that poor lady 1 What ! — gone ? She is free ! 
Could she leap from the window 1 I wish I were she. {retreats.) 

He-enter Bellair, l. 3 e. 

Bellair. Now she's safe in my coach, on condition T own. 
Not flattering, sweet creature, to leave her alone. 
Lucy {peeping). Il is he. 



ACT II. 



31 



Bellair. Ah ! If Lucy would only appear ! {sloops io pick up 

a stone, and in the net to fiing its Locy reappears) 
my Lacy ! — mine an^el ! 
Lucy. Why is he so dear ? 

Bkllair. Is it true ] Fiom tiial lace am I evermore banished? 
la your love was the dream of my lile ! Is it vanished ? 
Have you pledged to another your hand and your heart 1 
Lucy. Not my heart. Oh, not that. 

Bellaiu. Bui j'our hand 1 By what art, 

By what force, are you won heart and hand to dissever, 

And consent to loathed nuptials that part us forever ? 
Lucy. Would tbut pain you so much 1 

JJELLAiR. Canjouask? Oli, believe me. 

You're my all in the world ! 
Lucy. 1 am told you dpceive m^ ; 

That you harbor designs which my lip< dare nd name. 

And your words full of honor veil tlmuahts full of shame 

Ah, sir ! I'm so young and so friendless — so weak ! 

Do not ask for my iieart if you take it to break. 
Bellair. Who cm slander me thus! N.jt myfrieud, I am sure, 
Lucy. His friend ! 

BellaIk. Can my love know one feeling impure 

When I lay at \onr feet all I have in this life 

Wealth and rank name a d honor — and woo you as wife ? 
Lucy. As your wife ! All about you seems so much above 

My mean lot 

Bellair. And so wo:thless compared to your love. 

You rej "Ct, then, this suitor? — my hand yon accept ? 
Lucy. A'l ! but do you not see in what prison I'm kept ? 

And this suitor 

Bellair. You hate him ! 

Lucy. Till this day, say rather 

Bellair. What? 

Lucy. 1 loved him. 

Bellair. You loved! 

LgcY. As I might a grandfather. 

He has shielded the orphan ; — I had not a notion 

That he claimed from me more than a gr.mdcliild's devotion. 

And my heart c^-ased to beat between terror and sorrow 

AVheii he said he would make me his wife and to-morrow. 
Bellair. Fly with me, and at once ! 

Lucy. She has locked the street-door. 

Bellair. And my anael's not made t> jump down from tli;it floor. 

Listen — quick ; I hear voices ; — I save you ; this night 

ni arran.e all we need both f(»r wedlock and flight. 

An what time after dark does your she dragon cose 

Her swi et eyes, and her hou-ehuld consii^n to repose ? 
Lucy. About nine in this season of winter. What then ? 

Bellair. By tlie window keep watch. Wlipn the clock has struck isn 

A slight stone smiles the c.isemcnt ; below I attend. 

You will see a safe lailder; at onci you descend. 

We then reach your new home, priest and friends shall be 
there. 

Proud to bless the young biide of Sir Sidney Bellair. 

Hush ! the step> come this way ; do not tail ! She is won. 

[Exit Bellair, l. d. 
LucT Stay ; — I trembl.' a; guilty. Heavens ! what have I done ? 

CURTAIN. 



WALl'ULE. 



ACT III. 



BOUNT. 



SCENE I.— -S7. James's Park. 

Enter Blount. 

So the parson is found ai.d the coUase is hired — 

Every fear was dispelled when my rival retired. 

Even luy stern mother country must spare from my life, 

A brief moou of that honey one tastes wiih a wife ! 

And llirn strong as a giant, recruiled by sleei>, 

On corruption and Walpole my fury sh 11 sweep, 

'Mid the cheers of the House I will state in my place 

How the bi'ibes that he [irotiered were flant; in his f .ce. 

Men shall class me amid those examples of worth 

Which, alas I beome daily more rare on this earth; {takes 

scat on bench, l.) 
And Posterity, setting its brand on the fiont 
Of a Walpole, select for its homage a Blount. 

Enter Bellair, r , gayly singing. 

Bellair. "The dove builds where the leaves are still g een on the 

tree " 

Blount (rising). Ha ! 

Bellair. " For May and December can never .ngree." 

Blount. I am glad you'\e so quickly got over ihat blow. 

Bellair. Fallala ! 

Blount (asi/e). AVhat this levi'y menus I must know. 

(iiloiid) The friend 1 best loved was your father, Belhiir — 

LeL me hope your strange mirth is no Iriugh of despair. 
Bellair. On the wit of the wisest man it is no siiuma 

Tt' the he wl of a girl is to him an enigma ; 

That my Lucy was lost to my arms you believed — 

Wish me joy, my dear B ount, you were grossly deceived. 

She is mine ! — What on earth are you thinking about ? 

Do you hear ] 
Blount. I am racked ! 

Bellair. What? 

Blount. A twinge of the gout (reseating himself.) 

Pray excuse me. 
Bellair. Nay, rather mj-self I reproach 

For not heeding your p un. Let me cad you a coach. 
Blwunt. Nay, nay, it is gone. I am eager to hear 

How I've been thus dece.ved — make my blunder more cl r.r. 

You have seen her ? 
1ji;llair. Of course. From her own lips I nather 

That your good Mr. Jones might be Lucy's grandfather. 

Childish fear, or of Vizaid — who seems a virago — 

Or the old man himself 

Blount. Oh ! 

r. ellair. You groan ? 

Blount. Tiie lumbago! 

iVkllair. Ah ! they say gout is shifiy — now here and now there. 

Blount. Pooh! — continue. The girl then 



ACT III. 



33 



BeLLAiR. I found in despair. 

But no matter — all's happily settled at last. 
Bt,ouxT. All I elofjed from ihe house ■? 
Bellaih. No, the door was made fast. 

BiU to-night 1 would ask you a favor. 
Blount. What? Say. 

Bellaiu. If your pain should have left you, to give her away. 

For myself it is meet that I take every care 

That my kinsfo k shall liail the new Lady Bellair. 

I've induced my two aunts (who are prudisli) to grace 

With Lheir pre.sence my house, where the rmptials take place. 

And to act as her father there's no man so fit 

As yourself, dear old Blouni, if the gout will perraiit. 

Bloont. 'Tis an honor 

Bellair. Say pleasure. 

Bloukt. Great pleasure ! Proceed. 

How is she, if the door is still fast, to be freed? 

Is the house to be stormed? 
Bellair. Nay; I told you before 

That a house has its windows as well as its door. 

And a stone at the pane for a signal suffices, 

Willie a ladder 

Blount. I see. {aside) What infernal devices 1 

Has she no maiden fear 

Bellair. From the ladder to fall 1 

Ask her that — when we meet at my house in Whitehall. 

Enter First Jacobite Lord, l. 



Lord (giving note to Bellair). If I err not I speak to Sir Sidney Bellair 'J 
Piay vouchsafe me one moment in private, {draivs him aside, l.) 

Bluunt, Despa r ! 

How prevent? — how forestall 7 Could I win but delay, 
I might yet brush this stinging fly out of my way. 

While he speaks, enter Veaset, k. 



Veaset. Ah ! Be'lair whispering close with that Jacobita lord 

Are they hatching some plot 1 (hides between wing and scene, r., 
listening.) 

Bellair (reading). So he's safely on board 

Lord. And sliould Fortune shake out other lots from her urn, 

AVe poor friends of the Strart, might serve you in turn. 
You were talking with Blount — Selden Blount — is he one 
Of your friends 1 

Ay, the truest. 

Then warn him to shun 
That vile Jezabel's man trap — I know he goes there. 
Whom she welcomes she sells. 

I will bid him beware, (shakes hands.) 
[Exit Jacobite Lord, l. 
Bellair (to Bloust). I have just learned a secret, 'tis fit I should tell 
you. 
Go no more to old Vizard's, or know she will sell you. 
Nithsdale hid in her house when the scaffold he fled. 
She received him, and went for the price cvn his head ; 



Bellair. 
Lord. 



Bellair. 



34 



WAL50LE. 



Blodnt. 
Bellair 
Bluu?jt. 
Bellair 
Blount 

Bellair 
Blount. 
Bellair 
Blount. 



Bellair 



Blount. 
Bellair 

Blount 



But — Ihe drollest mistake— of tliat tale by-and-bye — 
He was freed ; is safe now ! 

Wlio delivered liim? 
I. 
Ha ! yon — did ! 

See, he sends me this letter of thanks. 
{reading). W. ich invites you to join witli the Jacobite ranks. 

And when James has \\\= kingdom 

Tnat chance is remote ; 
Hints an earldom for you. 

Bah! 

Take care of this note, {nppenrs 
to thrust it into Bellair's coat-pocket — lets it fall and pats 
his foot on it.) 
Had 1 iiuessed tiiat the hag was so greedy of gold, 
Long ago I liad liouglit Lucy out of her liOld ; 
But to-night tl:e dear child vviil be free from her power. 

Adieu ! I expect, then 

Hold ! at what hour ? 
By the window at ten, self and ladder await her; 
Tlie wedding — e'.even ; you will not be later. [Exit, R. 

{picking up Ihe letter). Nithsdale's letter. Bright thought! — and 
what luck ! 1 see Veasey. 



Me-cnter BeLLAIK, R. 



Bellair. Blount, I say, wll o'd Jones be to-morrow uneasy ? 

Can't you fancy his face "? 
Blount. Yes ; ha ! ha ! 

Bellair. I nm off. [Exit, r. 

Blount. Whit,! slinll I Selden Blount, be a popp'njny's scoff ? 

Mr. Veasey, your servant. 
Veasey. I trust, on the whole. 

That you've settled with Walpole the prices of coal. 
Blount. Coals be — lighted below ! Sir, the c<uinti-y's in danger. 
Veasey, To that fnct Walpole says that no patr ot's a stranger. 
Blount. With the safety of England myself I will task. 

If you hold your^elf licensed to arant what 1 ask. 
Veasey. Whatsoever ihe terms of a patriot so staunch, 

Walpole gives you — I speak as his proxy — carte blanche. 
Blount. If I. break private ties where the Public's at stake. 

Still my friend is my friend ; the condition I make 

Ls to »'^ep him shut up from all shnre in rash strife, 

And secure h:m from danger, to fortune and life. 
Veaset. Blount — agreed. And this friend 1 Scarce a moment ago 

I marked Sidney Bellair in ctose talk with 

Blount. I know. 

There's a plot to be checked ere it start into shape. 

Hark ! Bellair had a hand in Lord Nithsdale's escape ! 
Veasey. Thai's abetment of treason. 

Blount. Read this, and attend, {(jives Niths- 

dale's note to Bellair, u-hich Veasey rends) 

Snares atrocious are si^t lo entrap my poor friend 

In an outbreak to fo'low thai Jacobit 's fl'sht 

Veasey. In an outbreak 1 Where 1— when ? 

Blount. Hush! in Lor don to-night 



ACT nil 



35 



Veaset. 
Blodnt. 
Veasey. 



Blount. 



He is thoughtless and yonng. Act on this informntion. 
Quick, arrest him at once; and watch over the nation. 
No precaution too great agairi-^t men disaffected. 
And the law gives j-ou leave lo confine tlie suspe'cied. 
Ay, this noie will suffice for a warrant. Be sure, 
Ere the clock strike the quarter, your friend is secure. 

[Exit Veaset, r. 
Good ; my rivil to-night will be swept from my way, 
And Johu Jones shall wake easy eno' the next day. 
Do I slid love this girl? No, my liate is so struntr, 
Thitto me, whom she mocks, she alone shall belong. 
1 need trust to tliat saleable Vizird no more. 
Ha ! I stand as Beliair the bride's window before. 
Oh, when love comes so late how it maddens the brain. 
Between shame for our folly, and rage ai our pain ! [Exit, l. 

Scene changes to 

SCENE II. — Room in Walpole's Jiouse. 



Enter Walpole, r. 

Walpole. So Lord Nithsdale's shipped off. There's an end of one 

trouble 
When his head's at Boulogne the reward shall be double 

(seating himself, R. c , takes up a book — glances at it, ai.d 

thi oics it down) 
Stuff! I wonder what lies the Historians will tell 
When they babble of one Robert Walpo'e ! Well, well, 
Let ihera sneer at his iilun leis, declami on his vices. 
Cite the rogues whom he jiurchased, and rail at the prices, 
They shall own that all lust for revenge he withstood ; 
And, if lavish of gold, he was sparing of blood ; 
That when E gland was thveitMipd by France and by Rome, 
He fo:ced peace fiom ahroad and encamped at her home 
And th' Freedom he left rooted firm in mi'd laws, 
May o'eishadow the faults of deeds done in her cause ! 

Enter Veaset, l, 

Veaset {giving note). Famous news ! see, Beliair has delivered himself 
To your hands. He must go heari.and soul wiih the Guelph, 
And vole straight, or he's ruined. 

Walpole {reading). This note makes it clear 

That lie's guilty of Nithsdale's escape. 

Veaset. And I hear 

That to-night he will head some tinnultu"us revolt, 
Unless chained to his stall like a mischevious colt. 

Walpole. Your informant ? 

Veasey. Guess ! Blount ; but on promise to save 

His young friend's life and fortune ! 

Walpole. VVhat Blount says is grave. 

He would never thus speak if not sure of this fact, {signing 

warrant) 
Here, ihen, take my State warrant ; but cautiously act. 
Bid Beliair keep iiis house — forbid exits and entries ; — 
To make sure, at his door place a couple of sentries. 



S6 WALrOLE. 

Say I mean liim no ill ; but th°se times will excuse 
Much less orenlle i)recautii)ns than those which I use. 
Stay, Dune Vizard is waiting without ; to her den 
Nilhsdile fled. She came here to betray liini. 

Veasey. ' What then ? 

Walpole. Why, I kept her, perforce, tiil I sent on ihe sly. 

To prevent her from hearing Lord Nithsdale's good-bye. 
Wiien my agent arrived, I m delighted lo say 
Tliat, the cige-wire> were broken. — tlie bird flown away ; 
But he found one poor captive imprisoned and weeping; 
I rau^t learn how that captive came into such keeping. 
Now, then, off — nay, a moment ; you would not be loth 
Just to stay with Bellair 1—1 may send for you both. 

Veasey. With a host more dehghtful no mortal could sup, 
But a guest so unlooked for 

Walpolb Will cheer the boy up ! 

[Exit Veasey, l. 

Walpole (j-inging hand-bell). 

Enter Servant, l. 

Usher in Mistress Viz ltd. 
[Exit Servant, lolto icshers in Mks. Vizard. — Then exit Servant. 

Walpole. Quite shocked to detain you, 

But I knew a mistake, if there were one, would pain you. 

Mrs. Viz. Sir, mistake there is not ; that vile creature is no man. 

AValpole. But you locked the door 1 

Mrs. Viz. Fast. 

Walpole. Then, no doubt, 'tis a woman, 

For she slipped thro' the window. 

Mrs. Viz. No woman durst ! 

Walpole. Nay. 

Wh-^n did woman want courage to go her own way 1 

JIrs. Viz. Yon je.st, sir. To me 'tis no subject for laughter. 

Walpole. Po not weep. The reward 1 We'll di-cuss that hereafter. 

Mrs. Viz. YouM not wrong a poor widow who brought you such news 1 

Walpole. Wrong a widow ! — there's oil to put i>i her era e. (giving a 
pocket-looJc) 
Meanwhile, the tried agent dispatched to youi- house, 
In that trap found a poor little terrified mouse. 
Which did call itself " Wilmot '' — a name known tome, 
Pray, you. how in your trap did that mouse come to be 1 

Mrs. Viz (^hesitatingly). Si'-, believe me 

AValpole Speak truth — for your own sake you ought. 

Mrs. A''iz By a gentleman, sir, to my hou^e she was brought. 

AValpole. O.i I some Jacobite kinsman perhaps 1 

Mrs. A^iz. Bless you, no ; 

A respectable Roundhead. You frighten me so. 

AValpole. A respectable Roundhead entrust to your care 

A young girl whom you guard as in prison ! — Beware ! 
'Gainst decoy for vile purpose the law is severe. 

Mrs. A'^iz. Fie ! you lihel a saint, sir, of morals austere. 

AValp.>le Do you mean Judith Vizard 1 

Mrs. Viz. I mean Selden Blount. 

Walpole. I'm bewildered ! But why does this saint (no affront) 
To your pious retreat a fair damsel confide I 



ACT III. 37 

Mrs. Viz To protect her as ward till he claims Iier as bride. 
Walpole. Faith, ins saintship does well until tliat day arrive 

'1 o imprison the maid he proposes to wive. 

Bui tliese Roundlieads are wout but with Roundheads to 
wed, 

And the name of tiiis lady is Wilniot, she said. 

Every Wilmot I know of is to the backbone 

A rank Jacobite ; say can that name be her own 1 
Mrs. Viz. Not a doubt ; more than once I have heard the girl say 

That her fatiier had fcm^ht for King James on the day 

When the ranks of the Stuart were crushed at tlie Boyne. 

He escaped from the slaughter, and fled to rejoin 

At the Court of St. Germain's his new-wedded bride. 

LoiiCT their hearth without prattleis ; a year ere he died, 

Lucy came to console her who mourned him, bereft 

Of all else in this world. 
Walpole {eagerly). But the widow he left ; 

She lives still 1 
Mrs. Viz. No ; her child is now motherless. 

Walpole {aside). Fled ! 

-Fled again from us, sister ! How stern are the dead ! 

Their dumb lips have no pardon ' Tut ! shall I build grief 

On a guess that perchance only fools my belief? 

This may not be her child, {rings.) 

Enter Servant, l. 

My coach waits "? 
Servant. At the door. 

Walpole. Come ; your houso teems with secrets I long to explore. 
[Exeunt Walpole and Mas. Vizard, l. — Exit Servant, l. 

Scene changes to 

SCENE III. — Mrs. Vizard's housfi, as before. A lamp on a table, r. c. 

Enter Lpcy, r. d. 

LucT. Mistress Vizard still out ! {looking at the clock) What ! so late 1 

my heart ! — 
How it beats ! Have I promised in stealth to depart 1 
Trust him — yes ! But will he, ah ! long after this night, 
Trust the wife wooed so briefly, and won but by flioht? 
My lostraother ! {takes a miniature from her breast) Oh couldst 

thou yet counsel thy child ! 
No, this lip does not smile as it yesterday smiled. 
From thine heaven can no warning voice come to mine ear; 
Save thy chi'd from herself; — 'tis myself that I fear- 

Enter Walpole and Mrs. Vizard, through the secret door 

Mrs Viz. Lucy, love, in this gentleman (curtsey, my dear) 

See a friend. 
Walpole. Peace, and leave us. [Exit Mrs. Vizard, s. 

Walpole (c). Fair girl, I would hear 

From yourself, if your parents 



38 



WALPOLE. 



Lucy {r. c). , My parents; Oh say 

Did you know them 1 — my moiherl 
Walpole. Tlie years roll away. 

I beliold a gray hall backed by woodlafids of pine ; 
I behold a fair face— eyes and tresses like tbiue — 
By her side a rude boy full of turbulent life, 
All impatient of rest, and all burning for strife — 
They are brother and sister. Unconscious they stand — 
On the spot where their paths shall divide — hand in hand. 
Hush ! a miiment, and lo ! as if lost amid night, 
She is goi.e from his side, she is snatched from his sight. 
Time has fluwed on its course — that wild boy lives in me ; 
But the sister I lost ! Does she bloom back in thee 1 
Speak — the name of thy mother, ere changing her own 
For her lord's — who her parents ? 

LtrcT, I never have known. 

When she married my father, they spurned her, she said, 
Bade her hold herself henceforth to them as the dead ; 
Slandered him in whose honor she gloried as wile, 
Urged aiiaiuL on his n.uiie, plotted snarts for his life ; 
And one day when I asked what her line;;ge, she sigh" d 
'• From {he heart they so tortured their memory has died." 

Walpole Civil war slays all kindred — all mercy, all ruth. 

Lucy. Did you know her 1 — if so, was this like her in youth ? (ffiv- 

ing miniature.) 

Walpole. It is she ; the 1 ps speak ! Oli, I knew it .' — thou art 
My lost sister lestoied ! — to mine ; rnis, to mine heart. 
Tlial wild broliier tiie wrongs (if his lace shnll atone; 
He lias stormed his way up to the foot of the throne. 
Yes ! thy mate thou shalt c'.oose 'mid the chiefs cf the lai.d. 
Dost tliou shrink ? — lieard I right 7 — is it jjromised this hai;d ? 
And lo one, too, of years so unsuited to thine? 

Lucy. Dare I tell you \ 

Walpole. Speak, sure that thy choice shnll be mine. 

Lucy. When ray mother lay slricken in m \A ai,d in frame, 
All our scant savings gone, to onr Mice >v tliere came 
A rich stranger, who lodged nt tl e ii ii wli nee tiiey sought 
To expel us as vagrants. Their mercy I e bought; 
Ever since I was left in the wide wor.d alone, 
1 have owed to his pity this root 

Walpole. Will you own 

What you gave in return 1 

Lucy. Grateful reverence. 

Walpole. And so 

He asked moie ! 

Lucy. Ah ! that more was not mine to bestow. 

Walpole. What ! your heart some one younger already had won. 
Is he handsome ? 

Lucy Oh, yes ! 

"Valp(.i.,.. And a gentleman's son 1 

Lucy. Sir, he looks it. 

■\V^ALPOLE. His name is 

Lucy. Sir Sidney Bellair. 

Walpole. Eii ! that brilliant Lothario ? Dear Lucy, beware ; 

Men of temper so light may nnke love in mere sport. 
Where on earth did vou ni-ei ?- in what teims did l.e court 1 



Acx III. 39 

Why so troubled ? Why turn on Ihe timepiece your eye 1 

Orphan, trust me. 

Lucy. I will. I half promiseil to fly 

Walpole. With Bellair- {osile) He shall answer for this wiih his life. 

Fly to-night as his — what! 
LncY. Turn your face — as his wife. (Luct 

sin^s down, huryinj her face in her hands.) 
Walpole. {going to d. f ) Jasper — ho! 

Enter Servant, d. f., a$ he writes on his tablets. 

Take my coach to Sir Sidney's, Whilehall. 
Mr. Ve isey is there ; give him this — tiial is all. {tearing out 
the leaf from the tablet and folding it up) 

Go out the back way, it, is nearest my carriage.* {opens the 

secret door l. in f , through which exit Servant) 
I shall very soon know if the puppy means marriage. 
LtTCT. Listen ; ah ! that's his signal ! {tap at ivindow-) 

Walpole. A stone at the pane ! 

But it can't be Bellair — he is safe. 
Lucy. There, again ! 

Walpole {peeps out of tvindow). Ho ! — a ladder ! Niece, do as I bid you ; 
confide 
In my word, nnd I promise Sir Sidney his bride ! 
Ope the ^\indovv and whisper, " I'm ciiained to the floor; 
Pr.iy come up and release me." 
Lucy {calls out of window). ' " I'm chained to the floor. 

Pray, come up and release me." 
Walpole. I watch by this door. 

[Exit, K. D., and peeps out. 

Blount enters through window. 

Lucy. Saints in Heaven, Mr. Jones! (l. c) 

Walpole (aside) Seldeu Blount, by old Nick ! 

Blo0nt. WhaL ! you are not then chained ! Must each word be a 
t;ic:c? 
Ah ! you looked for a E^Hant more dainty and trim ; 
He depuies me to say lie abandons his whim ; 
By his special request 1 am here in his place, 
Saving jiim from a criiue and yourself from disgrace. 
Still ungratt-ful, excuse f)r your folly I make — 
Still the p;'iz^ lie di^d .ins to my heart I can take. , 

Fly with me, as with liim you would rashly have fled ; — 
He but sought to degrade you, I seek but to wed. 
Take revenge oa the f ilse he.irt, give bli>s to the true ! 

L-C!7. If he's false to myself, I were falser to you, 

Could I say I forget hhn ? 

Elodnt. You will, when my wife. 

Lucy. That can never be 

liL.iDNT. Never! 

Lucy. One love lasts thro' life ! 

Blount. Traitress ! think not this insult can lamely be borne 



*Tii obeying this insti-iiction, tho servant would not see Uie ladder, -which (as the 
reader will learn by wh^t imuijiiatjly loUows) is placed agaiuit thj ba.cony m the 
front of the house. 



40 WALl'OLE. 

Hearts like mine are too prond for- submission to scorn. 
You are here at my merc\ — ilial mercy has died ; 
You remain as my victim or part as my bride. (Jockx l. d.) 
See, escape is in vain, and ail ollieis desert you ; 
Let tliese arras be your refuge. 
Walpole {lapping him on the shoulder). Well said, Public Virtue ! 

Blount, stupified, drops the key, which Walpole tnkvs up. stepping out into 
the balcony, to return as Blount, recovering himself, m'ikes a rush at 
the window. 

Walpole (stopping him). As you justly observed, '■ See, escape is in 
vain " — 

I have pu-ihed down the ladder. ^ 

Blount {laying his hand on his sivord). 'Sdeath ! draw, si ! 

Walpole, Auauiiu 

From that worst of all blunders, a profitless crime. 

Cut my innocent throat ? Fie 1 one sin at a time. 
Blount. Sir, mocli on, I deserve it ; expose me to shame, 

I've o'erthrown my life's labor, — an honest mau's name. 
Lucy {stealing up to Blount). No ; a moment of madness can not sweep 
away 

All I owed, and — forgive me — have failed to repay, {to AVal- 

POLE ) 

Be that mordent a secret. 
Walpole. If woman can keep one, 

Then a secret's a secret. Gad, Blount, you're a deep one ! 
{knock at D. F — Walpole opens it.) 

Enter, d. f., Bellair ajid Yeasey , followed by Mrs. Vizard. 

Bellair. {not seeing Walpole, ivho is concealed behind the door which he 
opens, and hurrying to Blount). 

Faithless man, canst ihou look on my face undismayed ? 

Nithsda.e's letter disclosed, and my friendship betrayed ! 

What ! and here too ! Why here ? 
Blount {aside). I shall be the town's scoff. 

Walpole {to Bellair and Vraset). Sirs, methinks that you see not 
that lady — iiats off. 

I requested your presence. Sir Sidney Bellair, 

To make known what you owe to ilie liiend who stands there. 
. For that letter disclosed, your liarsh language recant — 

Its condition your pardt-n; — full pardon I grant. 

He is here— you ask why ; 'tis to sr\ve you to-nislit 

From degrading y(mr bride by the scandal of flight, {drawing 
him aside) 

Or — hist ! — did you intend (whisper close in my ear) 

Honest wedlock with one so beneath you I fear ? 

You of lineage so ancient 

Bellair. Must mean wh it I saj*. 

Do their ancestors teach the well-born t > betray 7 
Walpole. Wed her friendless and penniless ] 
Bellair. Ay. 

Walpole. Strange caprice ! 

Deign to ask, then, from Walpole the hand of his niece. 

Should he give his consent, thank the friend you abuse. 



A.CT III. 41 

Bellair {emhrachig Blount). E^st and noblest of men my blind fiirv 
exius'. 

Walpole. H rk ! lie.- lhilir>r's lost lands may yet serve for lier duwer. 

BiiLLAiR. All the eanii li.is no lands worth the bloom ot iliis tlower. 

Lucy. An! too soon fades llie tlower. 

BisLLAiR. True, I alter the name. 

Be my perfect pure chrysolite — erer the same. 

Walpole. Hold ! I know not a chrysolite from a caibuncle, (w«</» i«« 
sinuating hl'indishinetit of voice end look) 
But my nepliew-in-Iaw should not voie out his uncle. 

Bell AIR. Robert Walpol', at last you have bouuhl me, I fear. 

Walpole. Every man li.is his price. My majority's clear. 

If, {crosnng qmcJdy ^oBlodxt] 

Dear Blount, did your goodness not rank with the best, ^ 
Whnt you feel as reprcach, you would treat as a jest. , 

Rnjse your liead — :iiid with me keep a laugh for the ass 
Who has n-^-vpr anne out of his wits for a lass ; 
Liveagiin for your country — reflect on my hill. 

Blottnt {loith emotion, gmsping Walpole's hand). You are generous ; I 
thank yon. Vote with you 1 — I will I 

VicAsi^T. How dispersed are the clojids .^eemins lately so f-inister ! 

Walpole. Yi s, I think that the glass stands at Fair — for the Minister. 

A'f.asey. Ah ! what more couhl you do for the Perople and Throne 1 

\Valpole. Now I'm safe in my office, I'd leave well alone. 

Servants at Back. 

Mrs. Vizard. 

Bellair. Luct. Blount. Veasey. 

Walpole. 

CURTAIN. 



-vNOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 

COPTtBIOHT, 1875, BT EOBEBT M. DE "WiXT. 



NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Burton's Theatre, New, 
York, Aug. 29, 1851. 

The Duke of Middlesex (a p.eer attach- 
ed to the son of James II., com- 
monly called the First Pretender.. Mr. Moorhouse. 

Tlie Edi'l of Loftus (also a peer attached 
to the son of James II 

Lord Wilmot (a young man at the 
head of the Mode more than a cen- 
tury ago, son to Lord Loftus) Mr. Dsott. 

Mr. Shadowly Softhead (a young gen- 
tleman from the city friend and 
double to Lord Wilmot) Mr. Bdrton. 

Hardman (a rising Member of Parlia- 
ment, and adherent of Sir Robert 
Walpole) Mr. Bland. 

Sir Geoffrey Thornside (a gentleman of 
good family and estate) 

Mr. Goodenough Easy (in business, 
highly respectable, and a friend of 
Sir Geoffrey) ,. Mr. J. Dcnn. 

Colonel Flint (a Fire-eater) 

Mr. Jacob Tonson (a Bookseller) 

Smart (Valet to Lord Wilmot) * 

Hodge (Servant to Sir Geoffrey Thorn- 
side) 

Paddy O'SuUivan (Mr. Fallen's Land- 
lord) 

Mr. David Fallen (Grubb Street Au- 
thor and Phamphleteer) Mr. Paedat. 

Fii'st Watchman 

Lucy (Daughter to Sir Geoffrey Thorn- 
side) Miss Weston. 

B.irbara (Daughter to Mr. Easy) Miss M. Barton. 

Lady Ellinor (the Lady of Deadman'a 

Lane) 

Coffee House Loungers, Drawers, Newsmen, Wi 



Theatre Royal, Haymar- 

kel, Lnndon, Feb. 

12, 1853. 



Mr. Stuart. 

Mr. Leigh Murray. 

Mr. Keeley. 

Mr. Barry Sullivan. 

Mr. B. WEBiTER 

Mr. Buckstonk. 



Mr. Howe. 



Miss Rose Bennett. 

Miss Amelia Vim no. 



iitchmen, etc. 



PERIOD— 1720.— REIGN OF GEORGE I. 



SCENE— LONDON. 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS AND A QUARTER. 



The events of the Play are supposed to take pines between the morning of one 
day and the afternoon of the second day following. 



SCENERY. 



ACT I., Scene /.—Lord Wilmot's apartment in St. James's. A handsomely fur- 
nished apartment richly carpeted, closed in, set scene. In 4th grooves the flats rep- 
resent one side with folding doots, c. Gilded panels and large paintings. Doora 



NOT SO BAD AS "\VE SEEM. 



B. 3 E. and l. 3 e. in a slanting direction ; near each of tliem two rich gilt tables 
upon which are books and papers ; on either side of the tables similar kind of chairs 
and also between the doors; the panels on either side are hung with pictures. 
Handbell on table, k. 2 e. Everything betokens a rich and elegantly furnished 
apartment. 

A CT //., Scene /.—Library in the house of Sir Geoffrey Thorkside. Flats in 4th 
grooves represent one side of the apartment with dark and heavy looking oak pan- 
els, partly gilded ; the sides represent the same. At the back, c, a large window 
opening nearly to the ground. Doors i.. 3 e. and r. 3 e. ; the scene beyond the win- 
dow represents a garden wall, with vines, etc., trained up it. Antique tables, with 
books and papers, b. 2 e. and l. 2 e. ; antique high-backed chairs with velvet seats 
on either side of the tables. 

ACT III., Scene 1 —Will's Coffee House. 



I Door. 



Door. 



Box and Table. 



o 

Box and Table. 



: O * Chair. 

Table. 
Box and Table. 

k.'2e. — 



Chair. * 

Table. 



Box and Table. 
L. 2 E. 



R. 1 E.- 



The flats set in the back grooves represent dark oak panelling, decorated with 
paintings. In the centre a doorway, panelling of passage beyond ; on either side 
of the doorway two partitions four or five feet high, forming a sort of open box, 
and between them a table, with a seat running round three sides of the box, leav- 
ing one side open to the audience. Doors 3. u. e. and I., u. E. Nearer the audience 
R. and L., a similar sort of box, with the seat running round two sides only, the 
sides next the centre of the stage and facing the audience being open. Over the 
door in the centre are the gilded arms of England, and on the panels of the room 
are various placards— "Army Increase," "More Treason," " Defeat of the Minis- 
try," "More Jacobite Plots," "One Thousand Guineas Reward," etc. Writing 
materials in the open box, r. Two small round tables and chairs near the open 
boxes, B. and l., with newspapers, etc. 

Scene //.—Library in Sib Geoffrey's house. Flats as in Act 2, Scene 1, but set 
jn 3d grooves. Chair pushed on r. 2 e. 

Scene 211.— An old fashioned street scene set in 4th grooves. The corner of a 
gloomy-looking house, r. 3 e., apparently the beginning of an alley, upon the comer 
of it is inscribed " Deadman's Lane." Belonging to it in a slanting direction is a 
heavy-looking doorway, over which is fixed a massive crown and portcullis. 

ACT /v., Scene /.—Library in Sir Geoffrey's house, as in Act 3, Scene 2, 

Scene 77.- David Fallen's garret. The flats set in the back grooves represent the 
side of a dilapidated garret : a low small casement with broken and patched panes, 
c. A cupboard, r, c. A low bedstead with blanket and scanty bedding, l. u. e. 
Two or three old pictures on the wall. Door e. 3 e. Common table and two chairs 
near the window ; writing materials. 



4 NOT SO BAD AS "WK SEEM. 

Scene ///.—The Mall. The fiats in the 3d grooves represent rows of trees ana 
gravelled w:ilk; the wings to correspond. 

ACT v., Scene /.—Old Mill near the Thames. The flats in the 2d grooves repre- 
sent river banks, with an old mill and outbuildings. 

Scene //— Apartment in the house in Deadman's Lane. The flats set full back 
represent a very old fashioned and sombre-looking room, with heavy tapestry on 
the wall, very much faded. Old style of fire-place, with high lieavy carved mantel- 
piece in the centre, over which is a dingy crown and portcullis. The tapestry, b.^ 
is partially drawn back, and shows a door; a window, l; a roughly carved antique 
table, c, with writing materials upon it ; three chairs near it of a similar style, 
and chairs r. and l. 

Note,— If the Epilogue of "David Fallen is Dead " is given, the scene is set the 
same as Scene 1 in Act 1, with the addition of wine, fruit, etc. 



aOSTTTMFS. 
Compiled from, the works of Planehe, Fairholi, and Martin. 

LOBD WiLMOT.— Square-cut coat and long-fiapped waistcoat, of scarlet cloth or vel- 
vet, with pockets in- them. Broad lappels to the pockets of the coat just below 
the hips, trimmed with gold lace, buttons, and embroidered button holes ; white 
neckcloth, lace, with long ends. Three-cornered hat with the sides turned up. 
Silk hose drawn up over the knee so high that they join the breeches under the 
long waistcoat flaps— the breeches may therefore be of the same or any other 
color, and of silk or velvet. High-heeled shoes and buckles. Large hanging 
cuffs to the coat, with lace ruffles. Very long curled wig. Court sword, id 
Dress : Plain black coat, waistcoat, and trunks of a similar style, without orna- 
ment ; shoes and buckles ; short wig : linen neckcloth, and plain three-cornered 
hat. This is only used when disguised as Curll. 

Habdman.— A similar dress, of blue velvet or cloth, but more quietly ornamented ; 
hat, wig, shoes, buckles, and sword. 

Shadowly Softhead.— Square-cut coat, fancifully embroidered, blue satin waist- 
coat flowered with silk designs ; lace neckcloth and ruffles ; shoes, buckles, 
three-cornered hat and small feather, blue hose and short breeches, as above 
mentioned ; gold-headed cane ; full wig. 

r Precisely similar style of dress and equipments — one being 

Duke of Middlesex, \ ^^ ^ cinnamon or pale brown color, and the other plum 

LordLotfus. ^ ^^,^^gj_ 

Sir Geoffrey Thornside.— Square cut coat of a claret color and waistcoat to 

match, without ornaments ; neckcloth, ruffles, black silk hose, breeches, plain 
■ — three-cornered hat, shoes, buckles, short wig, and sword. 
Mb. Goodbnough Easi.— Plain black suit of a similar shape and make ; black silk 

hose, shoes, buckles, hat, short wig, plain neckcloth ; neither ruffles nor sword. 
Jacob Tonson.— Plain black suit of similar kind. 
Colonel Flint.— Similar style of dress, varied in the colors. 
David Fallen.— 1st Dress: Well worn black coat and waistcoat; breeches and 

hose ; hat, shoes, buckles, linen neckcloth, and long wig. 2d Dress : The- coat 

thrown aside, and waistcoat, shoes, hose, and everything in dishabille. 
Smart. — Silk stockings, shoes, and buckles ; black breeches ; coat of claret-colored 

cloth, with plated buttons ; plain neckcloth ; short wig. 
Hodge. — Similar dress of a cherry color, and a highly figured waistcoat underneath ; 

knee breeches ; cotton hose ; shoes and buckles ; short wig. 
Paddy O'Sullivan. — Plain short coat of rough material ; plain neckcloth ; knee 

breeches, worsted hose, shoes, buckles, and short wig. 
■Watchmen. — Long coats of dark frieze, buttoned up ; worsted hose, breeches, shoes, 

buckles ; rather short wigs ; three-cornered hats. 



NOT SO BAD AS WK SEEM. O 

Lucy. — Full skirt and bodice of silk (any color), with wide open sleeves to the elbow 
trimmed with lace, and lace undersleeves ; a light lace cap over the head fas- 
tened with ribbons; the hair dressed high and thrown back. High-heeled shoe-i 
and buckles ; tan ; a light muslin handkerchief thrown over the shoulders and 
the ends thrust into the bosom ; round low-crowned liat 

Barbara. — A similar kind of dress, but varied in the colors. 

Lady Ellinor. — A similar kind of dress, but concealed during the early scenes of 
the play by the use of a dark mantle, hood, and misk. 

General Dresses.— The loungers about Will's Coffee House are dressed in similar 
style, but of varied quality. The drawers with lon;^ white aprons, black stock- 
ings and breeches ; sleeveless waistcoats and long coats ; short wigs ; shoes, 
buckles, and plain neckcloths. 



PROPERTIES. 

ACT I., Scene 1. — Four gilt tables; eight or ten gilt chairs; paintings ; books ; pa- 
pers ; handbell ; card with address on it ; gold-headed cane. 

ACT II., Scene 1 — Two heavy antique tables, with books and paper's; four antique 
high-backed chairs with velvet seats; bunch of flowers ; sword for Sm Gkof- 
FRivY ; gold snuff-box for Wilmot. 

ACT III., Scene 1. — Two round mahogany tables with newspapers ; newspapers for 
newsman ; decanters and wine glasses ; trays, etc. ; letter ; card with address. 
Scene 2. — Antique chairs. Scene 3 —Pipe for Easy ; rattleS; staves, and lanterns 
for Watchmrn. 

ACT IV., Scene 2. — Old pictures on wall: common table and two chairs; writing 
materials ; handsomely ornamented portfolio with papers and letter ; common 
bedstead with blanket and a few old bed clothes ; canvas bag with coin. Scene 3. 
—Phial for Softhead. 

ACT v.. Scene 1. — Folded paper; address card; pocket tablets for Hardman. 

Scene 2. — Roughly carved table and five chairs ; written paper for Hardman ; 

writing materials ; letter ; portfolio as before, papers and letter: spectacles for 

the Ddke. 

Note. — If the Epilogue is given, the properties are the same as in Scene 1, Act 1, 

■with the addition of wine, decanters, glasses, silver fruit dishes, fruit, etc. 



STORY OF THE PLAY. 

The period chosen for the action of the story is during the reign of the first George, 
king of England, when efforts were still being made to place upon the throne the 
Jacobite son of James the Second, commonly called the First Pretender. The con- 
stant reverses which had hitherto attended his efforts had slightly damped the ardor 
and decreased the number of his adherents ; nevertheless, many of the embers of 
the fire still existed, and his cause found favor and support among several of the 
leading nobility of the period, including therein two, represented in the play as the 
Duke of Middlesex and Lord Loftus, names which, it is hardly necessary to say, are 
created for the occasion. Their connection with the rebel cause is made use of to 
work out the story and bring about a successful and happy conclusion. 

The Duke of Middlesex is represented as being the head of a noble house whose 
fame is so ancient and so great as to form a part of the history of the country— the 
very fountain of truth and honor. But, as then was and even now is the case witli 
many other great families, there was a dark spot on the escutcheon — there was ono 
member who satiated himself with dissipation, whose vanity and pride were of the 
most extensive kind, and who, casting aside the proverbial truth and honor of his 



6 KO'C so BAD AS WE SEEM. 

race, whose word was always consiJereii sacred, did not hesitate to boast openly of 
the female conquests he made, and, if he had been unsuccessful, felt no compunc- 
tion in bringing a lie to his assistance, and asserting, utterly regardless of tlie con- 
sequences, that he had been honored with the lady's tavois. Such was the character 
of the Duke's brother. Lord Henry de Mowbray. 

Amongst the numerous ladies with whom this dangerous nobleman came in con. 
tact few surpassed in personal or mental charms and graces Lady Ellinor, the young 
and idolized wife of a wealthy gentleman, Sir Geotfrey Morland, one of England's 
sterling men, bearing an ancient and spotless mime, and master of large domains. 
For a long time did the unscrupulous seducer exercise his most skillful arts to trap 
his new victim, but in vain ; purity and firmness formed an invulnerable shield. 
Finding himself continuously baffled, and liis vanity and inide of conquest thus 
mortified. Lord Henry resorted to lying to uphold his prestige as a successful liber- 
tine, and by wily artifices and ready tools he soon had it gradually noised abroad 
that the Lady Morland had not been quite so circumspect and guarded in her con- 
duct as to preserve her husband's honor untarnished. And in this diabolical scheme 
he was ranch aided by a letter which she had incautiously written to liim, and the 
language of which he artfully perverted to suit liis purposes. The sparks thus 
thrown about soon produced a flame. An inquiry was inslituted by the di.<tracted 
husband to trace out the origin of the slander, and relying unsuspectingly upon the 
presumed sacred truthfulness of the word of a Mowbray, he banisiied from his 
house the idolized wife of his bosom sliortly after she had given birth to a daughter. 
He then souglit the supposed seducer, forced him to a duel, and wounded him so 
severely that, thinking he had killed him, he fled from men's tongues and the story 
and scene of his d shonor to a distant land, which he did not quit until m my years 
afterwards, wlien, broken down in mind and body, he returned to his native land, 
changing for another the name which De Mowbray had blighted. His only com- 
fort was his daughter, but even with her tliere was a daik side in his thoughts, for 
doubts would sometimes cross his mind as to her true parentage. 

Previous to the duel Lady Morland sought refuge in the house of her father ; but 
sorrows come not singly. The very day she reached there he was compelled to fly 
the country to save his life, liaving been concerned iii a Jacobite plot which had 
just been discovered. Deprived of all other ties, husband, home, and child, she 
accompanied her father into exile — proving herself liis stay, his hope, his all. His 
lands were confiscated; but altliough so highly born and so tenderly reared, she 
worked nobly for his support until his troubles and wants were silenced in the 
grave. She then entered a convent, and prepared to take the noviciate, when she 
learned most unexpectedly that inquiries had been instituted about her in Paris 
and elsewhere by a person who stated that Lord de Mowbray had died recently, and 
upon his death had retracted to the fullest extent possible the foul slander of wliich 
he was the instigator, and that lie had left behind him written ra'moirs, papers, and 
letters acquitting her beyond the shadow of a doubt. The documents were stated 
also to explain clearly tlie circumstances under which he received the letter from 
Lady Morland, and how he made use of it, so that her entire innocence could be 
fully established. The image of her darling child, from whom she had been sepa- 
rated so many years — the liope of once agaiu embracing the husband of her youth, 
urged her to active and energetic exertions, and returning to England, she obtained 
information which enabled her to trace out her husband's dwelling and assumed 
name. A few days before the opening of the play she had taken up her residence 
in an old, gloomy, and hitherto deserted house immediately adjacent to her hus- 
band's mansion, and was at once known as the mysterious masked lady of Dead- 
man's Lane ; he as Sir Geoffrey Thornside, and their child as Lucy Thornside, now 
passing from girlhood into womanhood. Here in disguise and masked would tlie 
mother wander round the premises, stealing cautiously, like a thief, to the window 
to obtain one glance of all that remained in the world to love and live for, waiting 
patiently, full of hope and faith, for time to place within her power the proofs of 
her innocence. So far then as these parties are concerned this is the position of 
affairs at the opening of the play. 



Not so bad as ■vve seem. i 

She has frequently observed I'rom tlie window of Ler lonely house overlookinpr Sir 
GeoliVey's garden a gay young spark of the period, Lord VVi mot, walking there 
with Lucy, and she contrives to obtain an interview witli him, when she learns that 
Lucy very often niounrs with tears in her eyes the want of a mother's love, believ- 
ing that she had died in her infancy. Lady Morland entreats him at the next meet- 
ing to say that he had seen a friend of this mother who had something to impart 
which might probably be to the happiness of both. This he consents to do, and a 
visitor approaching, she gives him her address and appoints a meeting for the even- 
ing. 

Now Lord Wilmot was one of the youthful leaders of the fashionable world, for 
which position a handsome parson, a refined intellect, and polished manners ren- 
dered him well qualified. As is frequently the case, every young man in the posses- 
sion of wealth, but very little else, e^igerly sought his society and struggled desper- 
ately to win the honor of his acquaintance, making him a sort of idolatrous model, 
proud beyond description of his patronage and playful familiarities, and endeavor- 
ing, though with very little success, to imitate him in every possible way. Such a 
one is Mr. Shadowly Softhead, the son of an opulent clothier possessing great weight 
and influence among the city companies, but not much known beyond. Whatever 
Wilmot did, said, or thought. Softhead would try to do, say, and think the same ; in 
fact, he was Wiimot's double, though not one of the most approved description. 
Another friend of Wiimot's, but of a very different sort, is Mr. Hardman. Un- 
known to himself he is the sou of the foster brother of Sir Geoffrey, who i^romised 
his father, in compliance with his dying wish, that the boy should never know the 
favors he intended to bestow uiion him, so that he should not feel the yoke of de- 
pendence; and -ir Geoffrey kept his word. He managed matters so skillfully and 
Secretly that the youth received a good education, wrote w^orks which brought his 
name into high notice and favor (Sir Geoffrey paying the publisher to inoduce 
them), obtained an annuity for some trifling service, and a seat in Parliament with- 
out a shilling of expense, never for one moment doubting that all this he had him- 
self acoouiplislied by energy, persi'veranoe, talent, and application, instead of owing 
it to the watchful care and long purse of Sir Geoffrey Thornside, otherwise Morland. 
At the opening of the play Hardman is in the proud position of a rising member of 
the English Parliament and a strong adherent of the Prime Minister, Sir Bobert 
Walpole.* 

At an interview which takes place between Wilmot and the Duke the former 
alludes to a report wlrch is going through fashioirable circles that Lord Mowbray 
has left behind him certain confessions or memoiis which, from the well known gay 
and dissolute life he pursued, are likely to prove highly rich and interesting in 
their details. This is particularly uupleasant news for the Duke, who views with 
liorror the odium and ridicule that are likely to be cast upon the family by the dis- 
covery and publication of these papers ; and if it be possible by any means whatever 
he entreats Wilmot to obtain possession of them and not let them fall into the 
hands of some greedy publisher. Wilmot promises to do all he possibly can, as he 
considers it the duty of all noble gentlemen to suppress scandal so injurious to their 
class. Plea!?ed with his ready acquiescenci', the Duke reveals to him his connection 
with the Jacobite cause, urging him to join, observing in a magniloquent way, " If 
we succeed, you restore the son of a Stuart ; if we fail, you will go to the scaffold by 
the side of John, Duke of Middlesex !" 

Strange as it may seem, howevc-r, Wilmot cannot see the particular advantage or 
lionor in thus running the risk of putting an end to liis youihful and, at present, 
pleasurable career; consequently I e veiy respectfully declines the offer; but he 
learns enough to lead him to suspect that his father, Lord Loftus, is mixed up in 
the treasonable plot. Unable, however, to obtain further information of the Duke, 
and not being upon friendly terms with his parent, he determines to put Hardman 

* A full description of this eminent statesman will be found in the introductory 
portion of a coniedv in rhyme, by the s.ime author, entitled, " Walpole; or. Every 
Man has his Price." 



O NOT SO BAD AS Wli SEEM. 

on the inquiry, aud to apply to the poor author, D.tvid Fallen, who, it is well known, 
is more or less concerned in all the schemes of the Pretender's parly. Hardman is 
in love with Lucy, aud half suspects that Wilmot is also, and so before he departs 
on the mission he throws out a hint—" One is always safe from a rival, both in love 
and ambition, if one will watch to detect and then scheme to destroy." Wilmot is 
really in love with Lucy, and determines to put Sir Geoiirey on a wrong scent with 
regard to his passion, and therefore he induces Shadowly Softhead, though not with- 
out some difficulty, to make pretended love to her, whilst he will do the same to- 
wards Barb ira Easy, of whom Softhead is deeply enamored, and then when oppor- 
tunity occurs matters can be reversed ; as Wilmot wittily observes, they can 
" change partners, hands across, down the middle, and up again." 

Sir Geoffrey in his retirement has grown suspicious, petu ant, and irritable, and 
this disposition is not improved by the rustic bluntness of his eccentric attendant, 
Hodge, whom he has brought to London from his country house. For some few 
days he has been much annoyed by nosegays being thrown in at the window, in 
which he is convinced there is some attempt upon his life; tlien again, when he 
walks in the garden, he feels sure that some one, or something, is watching from 
the window of the lone house in Deadman's Lane. Another great source of annoy- 
ance is the frequent calling of Wilmot, who, as he says, pretending to have saved 
Lucy from footpads, persists in repeating the calls daily, only an excuse, he is con- 
fident, for makina; love to her, which angers him much, as he has not the slightest 
liking or respect for a lord ; all of which he reveals to Goodeuough Easy. 

The arrival of the young ladies, accompanied by Wilmot and Sctfthead, affords an 
opportunity for some amusing by-play, by means of which Wi.mot skillfully plays 
upon Sir Geoffrey and then upon Easy, so that he induces the latter to take the 
former into an adjoining room to talk over his views with regard to Lucy, thus leav- 
ing Softhead and B.trbara to a battle of love, and giving Wilmot an opportunity to 
make Lucy acquainted with the vi,-it from a friend of her mother's. 

The arrival of Hardman bi-eaks up the meeting, and although partners are 
changed as aiTanged, Hardman is very suspicious, but having ascertained from 
David Fallen that Wilmot's lather reully is mixed up in treasonous plots, he deter- 
mines to use that knowledge as a hold upon the sou, should occasion need. Barbara 
confides to Wilnot her love for Softhead and her father's dislike to him for having 
quitted the sober business city life in which he was reared, to ape and imitate the 
man of fashion and the ways of those fir above him iu rank aud jiosition, for which 
reason their union has been forbidden. But Wilnot cheers her up and promises to 
work a great change in the steady young city nrerchant, and although Barbara de- 
clares that her father is one of the soberest men living, and exceedingly severe 
against a cheerful glass, Wilnot determines to lead him into a tipsy bout and turn 
the incident to advantage. 

At a meeting the same evening, at Will's C"See House, a noted resort for all the 
gay young lords, politicians, authors, and noted men of the day. Easy is induced to 
be a visitor. Hardman is there also, to h ive have a further interview with David 
Fallen ; so also are Lord Loftus and the Duke, who choose the place for meeting as 
from its publicity they are less likely to excite suspicion than in using a more pri. 
vate one. 

Loltus expects a messenger from the Pretender, and leaves it to Fallen to name 
the meeting place and time, which he fixes for the ensuing day at an old secluded 
mill on the banks of the river Thames. As soon as they are gone, he tells Hard- 
man what has taken place, and urges him to save the infatuated noblemen from 
daui^er and not to destroy them, observing, that though he is resigned to the name 
of starving poet and hireling, he is not, and cannot be, to tliat of butcher. In warm 
language he tells how he commenced life in tlevotion to two causes— the tlnone of 
the Stuarts and the glory of Letters. Politicians of both sides served him nliUe ; no 
matter which was in power, he starved ; and he is now in that ijosition ; he is paid 
for information and scurrilous pamphlets, from which source he ekes out a scanty 
subsistence. 



NOT SO Bad as we seem. 9 

Hardman at Ibis moment is very much disposed to throw up his post, for, believ- 
ing- he has a claim upon the prime minister tor past services, he has applied to liim 
for a vacant otHcial appointment, only, however, to meet with a refusal from Wal- 
pole, whicli so angers him that he is almost inclined to forsake his allegiance ; but 
a little redection bids him wait. 

Wilmot now appears upon the scene to put his scheme into operation. Accom- 
panied by his idolizing double. Softhead, he invites the leading members of the com- 
pany to a grand dinner, and artfully contrives that there shall be just one wanting 
to complete the party. Of course his eye drops upon Easy, and in spite of his pro- 
testations that he is unused and objects to such scenes, he is compelled to agree to 
make up the number, which brings forth another side to his character ; with the 
excitement of the scene, he forgets his previous steady going merchant principles 
and speaks boastingly to acquaintances around him of the honor, ability, and pleas- 
antry of his friend, Lord Wilmot. 

Now is the time for looking after the memoirs, so "Wilmot broaches the subject to 
Tonson (a celebrated publisher and an employer of distressed and suffering, but tal- 
ented, authors at starvation prices), and from him he finds that they are in the posses- 
sion of David Fallen, who refuses to part with them, although Tonson has offered the 
maguifioentsum of two hundred guineas. This is good news for Wilmot, who obtains 
the poet's address and determines to visit him at his house, alone. 

Tonson also speaks of the subject to Hardman, expatiating warmly upon the ex- 
treme attractiveness of the papers it they could only be secured for publication ; a 
full account cf the love adventures of Lord Mowbray ; such a confession about the 
beautiful LadyMorland; satires upon the Duke ; Jacobite family secrets ; ever so 
much scandal ; would sell like wildfire ; such glorious nuts for the public to crack ! 
But to all this Hardman turns a deaf ear. 

Now Tonson's great fear is that one Curll, a most unscrupulous publisher, author 
and trafficker in literary matter, should forestall him in the possession of these me- 
moirs and force them upon the market in spite of all the trouble he has taken, and 
he therefore mentions the subject to Wilmot, begging him to be upon his guard and 
not let the secret of the ownership get wind. This gives a new idea to Wilmot ; he 
once dressed like and imitated this Curll so well that the great poet Pope was him- 
self deceived, and ordered him out of the room, so he determines again to adopt this 
disguise to assist him in dealing with Fallen, and not to appear in his proper person. 

Observing Hardman somewhat moody, he learns from him the minister's refusal 
of the sought for place, which if he had secured would have given him courage to 
ask for and obtain the hand of the lady he loves ; and his spirits are by no means 
cheered up when Wilmot avows to him his own love for Lucy. Hardman, however, 
is not to be so easily baffled, the knowledge of the treason of Lord Loftus and the 
Duke is in his keeping, for which he em demand from Wilmot any price he pleases, 
and he determines that such price shall be his resignation of the hand of Lucy. 
With dissembling friendship he bids him adieu : — 

"To-day I'm your envoy; to-morrow your master." 

Now AVilmot is half jesting ; he sees that every man's character has different sides 
to it, and he thinks it too cruel a joke that for want of the official appointment 
Hardman should lose the chance of winning the woman. Wilmot has a very scarce 
and valuable painting by the celebrated artist Murillo ; the weak side of Walpole's 
character was a strong infatuation for paintings. The game is quite clear ; Wilmot 
(vill make him a present of the painting in exchange for the appointment — in fact, 
he will bribe the Prime Minister— Walpole shall have the Murillo, and Hardman 
shall have the place, and the wife, if he can win her. 

In an interview which takes place in Sir Geoffrey's library, Lucy alludes to the 
visits of Wilmot under pretence of loving Barbara, and affectionately urges him to 
forbid them, confessing that they make her too happy, and yet miy grieve him. 
The old baronet is struck with this token of affection ; she must be his child ; how 
to console her ? "By speaking of my mother," timidly suggests Lucy. The fath- 
er's brow darkens as he forbids her ever to mention the name of one who had dis- 



10 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 

honored him. " It is false !" speaks a low voice, and the masked female disappears 
from the wiudow of the apartment where she had been a spectator of the scene. At 
this moment Hardman arrives with the news that Wilmot is not in love with Bar- 
bara, but with Lucy, and whilst the baronet informs him that he already knows it, 
and they agree that the nosegays and the watch kept on the house are evidently 
part of a plan to entrap her, the masked female glides past the window. With a 
startled cry Hardman, who observes the movement, leaps out in pursuit ; carefully 
tracks her to the house in Ueadman's Lane, and determines that the morrow shall 
solve the mystery. 

Wilmot's dinner takes place as arranged, and so skillfully does he carry out his 
plans that he works Easy into a glorious state of jovial exhilaration, in which he 
declares his undying antipathy for lords, and binds himself irrevocably to accept 
Softhead as his son-in-law; thus Wilmot achieves success for his plot number one. 
Scenes of rough play in the streets between young sparks and the night watchmen 
were commoa occurrences at the period of the play ; indeed, it was not considered 
the proper thing to wind up an evening's carousal without something of the kind. 
As a matter of course Wilmot takes care that his party shall be no exception to the 
custom, and he therefore leads his friends into such a scene, as it happens, in the 
vicinity of Deadman's Lane. Goodenough Easy, under the influence of his fre- 
quent draughts, forgets his civic dignity, and bestriding a fallen watchman, affords 
much amusement by fancying himself the chairman of a jovial meeting and the 
watchman's body the table. The arrival of the other members of the watch how- 
ever interrupt his delusion, and he is borne away to the watch-house, still shoutiuij, 
however, the glorious principles of the constitution and the pride he feels at the ex- 
alted position to which he has been raised— the shoulders of the watchmen. Wil- 
mot, having taken Softhead aside, now points out to him the lone house, and so 
works upon his fears by the picture he draws of things within, that when the masked 
lady suddenly appears, he darts away frightened out of his wits. She beckons, and 
AVilmot follows her into the house. 

Hardman now takes an opportunity of an interview with Sir Geoffrey to ask for 
Lucy's hand. He relates in glowing terms his career from boyhood ; his struggles 
lor fortune and fame ; with all of which the barouet is of course acquainted ; but 
when he tells him that not an hour previously he had received the appointment 
■which had been refused, the baronet is sorely puzzled to know who could have done 
that. However, charmed by his frankness, Sir Geoffrey gives his consent, if Lucy 
so inclines, and then tells him that upon examining the nosegays thrown in at the 
window he liuds they are made up in the very form in whicli he used to make up 
those he sent to his wife in the days of their courtship. He tells him also of his 
supposed dishonor, and reveals his true name — llorland — and that of the presumed 
seducer. Tonsou's words about the memoirs flash to Hardman's recollection, and 
he determines to seek an interview with David Fallen. 

Wilmot is not slow on the same track. Disguising himself as Mr. Curll, he visits 
Fallen in his wretched garret, when the forlorn poet is about to pawn the last blan- 
ket he possesses to obtain food for his children. He ofters three hundred guineas 
for the memoirs, but, poor as he is, Fallen refuses ; honor and poverty are still left 
to him. He relates how they were given to him by Lord Mowbray on his death-bed ; 
that they contain a confession as to the lady he once foully injured, which would 
serve to clear the name he himself had aspersed, and that they had been received 
with a promise to seek her and place them in her hinds to enable her to establish 
her innocence. She was of a Jacobite family, and as a Jacobite agent Fallen was 
supposed to have the best chance of tracing her ; he exerted himself to the utmost, 
but only to hear that she had died in France. Having thus failed, he was deter- 
mined that no money should induce him to open up the secrets of homes to public 
scoff and ridicule. For a moment baffled, the prize seems lost, when Wilmot informs 
him he comes from Lord Mowbray's brother, the Duke of Middlesex. This only 
makes matters worse. Fallen relates in bitter words the circumstances under which 
he met the Duke some years previously, when a kind word, a uod of recognition 



NOT SO Bad as wk seem. 11 

■would have made his fortune. He had inscribed to the Duke a new poem, took it to 
his liouse and waited in the hall, when the great min !ipi:)eared and said : " Oh, you 
are the poet? take this," extending his alms as if to a begg.ir. "You look very 
thin, sir; stay and dine with my people." He meant his servants ! Fallen points 
out that these memoir< m ide public, would make the Duke the jeer of his own lac- 
keys; but he will be no tool for working out a deiid brother's revenge, and his pride 
prevents him receiving money. 

Charmed by the nobility of Fallen's conduct, Wilmot tells him who he is, that the 
Duke is his father's friend, and ought to possess the papers as a family secret, iiud 
expresses warmly his admir ition fur one who, in the midst of poverty, cou d spurn 
a bribe to bis honor, but who might now liumble by such a valuable gift, the great 
and hauLfhty noble, who had insulted him by alm-i. Fallen surrenders tlie memoirs, 
and Wilmot departs, promising him for life a yearly sum equal to that which he h;id 
refused as a bribe. 

Hardman arrives only to find the true nature of the documents ; that Lady Mor- 
land's letter was with them, and th it they are now on tlieir way to the Duke. B if- 
fled in this, tliere is left yet the meeting with the Pretender's agent. If he can only 
obtain the trc-asonous dispatch, he will foice the memoirs from the Duke ; the masked 
female must be Lady Morland ; establish her innocence and he wins Lucy. 

Wilmot places the documents in the hands of the Duke, and then sends a letter to 
Lucy to meet and accompany him to the lone house. 

Acling upon his knowledge of the meeting-place and the password, Hardman 
obtains the dispatch, and upon the Duke's arrival he reveals to him his knowledge 
of all that has passed respecting his brother and Lady Morland, and that he knows 
of the papers being in his possession, and the nature of them. H; appeals to him, 
not as a proud peer of England, but as a man, lo surrender the pipers, and by .so 
doing restore a wife to the husband she loves and forgives — to the girl for whom her 
heart yearns. Pride struggles with honor and justice in the breast of the haughty 
nobleman, but the latter triumphs, and he takes bis leave, promising to meet Hard- 
man forthwith and hand over to him the memoirs. 

In a state of the greatest alarm, .Softhead arrives with the information that he has 
seen Lucy and Wilmot enter the lone house atDoadman's Lane. JSuraged at being 
thus forestalled, Hardman gives him a note to the justice to send and post officers 
at the door to await his orders, and also a message to Sir Geoffrey to meet him tliere; 
a;id hastening thither, he arrives shortly after Wilmot has united mother and 
diijghter. In vehement language he reminds him of his love for Lury ; ho tells him 
tliat instead of sounding his father, he has detected him in what history and party 
feeling call zeal, but the law high treason! produping the disptvtch calling for arms 
and money to detlirone the king, signed by the Duke and Lord Loftus. 

Astounded by the intelligence, Wilmot locks the door and attempts to secure the 
paper, but Hardman coolly informs him that officers are waiting below, and the 
effort is futile. He then pictures his love for Lucy, and that he had schemed to save 
his father, not to injure him; had the dispatch fallen into the hands of a spy the 
result would have been very different, and he now only asks thai he may himself 
place it in the hands of Lord Loftus, with such words as will save him and others 
from similar perilous hazards in the future. Wilmot departs therefore to secure 
the presence of his father and the Duke. 

As soon as he is gone, Hardman seeks an interview with Lucy, in which he de- 
clares his love, telling her of her father's wish, and that he will soon dispel all the 
clouds which have darkened his life, and make her mother the pride of their home. 
She blesses him for the promise, but warns him that her heart may not go with her 
hand. He is content ; he will try and win it. Her father is coming full of sus- 
picion ; she must appear as his betrothed and accepted ; he will restore her mother's 
name ; secure her parents' reunion ; her hand the pledge— she gives it. 

Followed by Easy, Softhead, and Barbara, Sir Geoffrey bursts into the room 
in search of Wilmot, by whom he thinks his daughter has been taken off and find- 
ing Hardman there, believes that he has been the means of saving lier from disgrace. 



12 NOT SO BAD AS "WE 3EEM. 

Then comes to light the whole secret of Hardman's past career, of the unknown 
hand that raised him, and, more astounding than all, the fact that he owes his offi- 
cial appointment to Wilmot. He is overwhelmed at such generosity, and informs 
Sir Geoffrey why Lucy was brought there. With indignation at the snare laid to 
bring him and his wife together. Sir Geoffrey is about to depart, when the Duke 
arrives with the memoirs, which he hands over to Hirdman. The inspection of 
them and of the letter convinces Sir Geoffrey of his wife's innocence, and with a burst 
cf joy he receives her in his arms. But Hardman's task is not yet done. He gives 
up the dispatch, with the information that the cause is hopeless, the Pretender hav- 
ing abjured his faith and fled to Rome. He feels that Lucy's heart yearns towards 
■Wilmot, so taking her hand he places it in his, remarking to Sir Geoffrey, " You 
placed her happiness in my charge— here, she loves and is loved." 

The fever is catching, and as Softhead always liked to imitate a lord, he suggests 
being married to Birbara. To this, however, Mr. Goodenough Easy strongly ob- 
jects, but Wilmot slyly reminds him that when he was chairman of the impromptu 
meeting of the previous night he had promised, nayj insisted upon it, that Softhead 
should be his son-in-law, and offers to explain to the company the circumstances. 
This is too much for Goodenougli Easy, so he consents. 

All are made happy — treason is crushed — love is promoted— and the conclusion is 
arrived at by all the party assembled, that, with all their faults, they are not so bad 
as they seem. 



REMARKS. 



" Not so bad as we seem " was written by the author more with a view to its pro- 
duolioa in private on a special occasion than to its representation upon the stage ; 
hence it is that many of the ideas are elaborately worked out, and many of the in- 
cidents, slight in themselves, unduly and needlessly extended. 

The late Duke of Devonshire was, and had been for many years of his life, a warm 
and earnest patron of Literature and the Drama. To all who were connected with 
those professions he ever extended a genial and noble sympathy, and was always 
ready to befriend every member, high or low, of what he was pleased to call his 
" brotherhood." He was also the founder of an institution for rendering assistance 
to any one of the class who should unfortunately, as was too often the case, be in 
need of it. 

Having made aiTangements to give a grand entertainment to Her M;i jesty, Queen 
"Victoria, at his palatial house in London, Bulwet readily entered into his desire to 
make the occasion one worthy of note, and accordingly constructed the present play. 
It was produced in a theatie especially elected for the purpose, fitted up in the 
most complete and costly manner, and was performed before tho Queen and one of 
the most noble and brilliant audiences ever assembled ; all the parts being filled by 
amateur ladies and gentlemen of eminent position and ability. The result may 
well be imagined ; the sparkling wit, refined language and polished manners of all 
the actors naturally met with approval from such a select audience, and it was duly 
announced as being a great and decided success. But when the composition was 
submitted to a public ordeal, and its merits judged by a severer tribunal, the weak 
nature of the plot, the undue extension of the details, and a faulty construction, 
caused it to f;iil in producing a confirmatory verdict. 

The American stage bore off the palm of m.iking the first attempt to test the mer- 
its of the new work by its production in public, bringing it out at Burton's Cham- 
bers Street Theatre on August 29th, 185L It was well mounted, but to no good — 
lack of interest, want of incident, and the absence of effective situations were not to 
be atoned for by fine language and occasionally lon^' speeches ; the consequence was 
an unsatisfactory reception, and an early withdrawal. It should be noted, however, 
that while the cast of the characters embraced the names of several excellent players, 



HOT SO BAD AS "WE SEEM. 13 

scarcely any of them had a part suitable to their peculiar talents. Burton, Dyott, 
Dunn, Bland, and Parday were admirable actors in their respective lines ; but in 
this cast they were singularly out of their proper places. 

Two years afterwards the Loudon stajje made the attempt, by producing it at the 
Theatre Uoyal Haymarket, where it had the advantage of actors in every respect 
admirably adapted to the characters personated, b icked up by the best mounting 
possible. Like the attempt in New York, it met with very little favor, was with- 
drawn after a short run, and has not been produced sin^e. That this was a true test 
of the merits of the play is beyond a doubt ; for all that professional ability could 
do to ensure success was unquestionably done. It is a curious fact that every one 
of the actors engaged, rose afterwards to the top of tlie profession in their several 
branches ; one more especially, Mr. Barry Sullivan, who has attained a most dis- 
tinguished position amongst the many candidates for high histrionic honors. All 
of them too, curiously enough, became lessees and managers of the principal London 
theatres. 

It seems to have been the author's aim to present each of the personages in a par- 
ticular style, and to change him into quite an opposite one. 

In Hardman he represents a young, energetic, and talented man, overcoming 
every obstacle in his path of ambition, and acliievini; all that he desires ; loving 
•warmly, and yet so moved by the generosity of his rival, and a sense of honor, that 
when he becomes aware that the heart of the girl he adores is not liis, though her 
hand may be, for services rendered to her father, he does not hesitate to sacrifice his 
own desires for her happiness, and surrenders lier to Wilmot, knowing their afiic- 
tion to be warm and mutual. Again, he secures the treasonous secret of Lord L'of- 
tus and the Duke to further his designs in winning Lucy, but throws over his in- 
tentions and saves them from an untimely death. 

The Duke of Middlesex is the type of a pioud, haughty, and conceited class, of 
whom, at that period, there were many representatives; but on the other side of his 
character there is a spirit of honor and chivalry in him highly to be commended. 
The production of the Confession and Memoirs of his brother. Lord Mowbray, is 
certain, by the exposure of their loose and s-candalous contents, to bring ridicule 
and shame upon himself and the family name ; his vanity consequently recoils at 
the prospect, but when he learns that a woman's honor is at stake, and the salva- 
tion of a wife and mother is to be achieved, he hesitates no longer ; like a true- 
hearted man and a gentleman he agrees to surrender the document quite regardless 
whether the result be unpleasant to him or not. Thus we see the different sides to 
his character. 

Lord Wilmot is like many young men of that, and even of the present, day- 
wealthy, light-hearted, and gay. His passion for Lucy is of very rapid growth, and 
he is one of those persons who strike quickly. Smitten by her charms, he soon tells 
his love, although aware of the existence of a prior candidate. Yet, in spite of his 
affecti n, there is such a feeling of generosity in him th it he grieves to see his rival 
disappointed in a chance of winning her, so he sets to work and procures for him the 
official appointment he had failed to obtain, although it is likely to raise him consid- 
erably in the eyes of his ladylove, and render him a more formidable opponent. 
Here again we have different sides of another character. 

Mr. Goodenough Easy has but one idea of the proper course of life to pursue— 
trade. He was born and bred in business in the city, and there he must remain and 
die believing that a man has no right to move out of the sphere in which he entered 
life. But even he has to change his character and ideas, and to give way to the in- 
fluence of rank and position, and actually boasts of the pride he feels in the new- 
made friendship of a lord, yielding most amiably to his wishes. 

As for Shadowly Softhead, he represents a class of which we constantly meet speci- 
mens ; but there is nothing particularly new or striking in his character, or in that 
of either of the ladies, to call for any special notice. 
David Fallen, the poor poet, is a prettily conceived character. The description 

of his career in Act IV. is well drawn, and is a Iruthful illustration of the life of 



14 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 

rainy talented men in the last centuiy. Might we not also say in this I Notwith- 
standing all the vicissitudes, tria's, and sulferings thioiigh which he lias passed, 
lionor remains intact. Finding the original purpose for which he was intrusted 
with Lord Mowbray's Memoirs and Confession cannot be carried out, lie does not 
hesitate lo give them up to the Duke, rather than allow the secrets of a higli family 
and a home to be scattered abroad, bringing scandal and disgrace upon all its mem- 
bers. 

Sir Geoffrey Thornside, after all he has endured, is, as we might naturally expect, 
n suspicious, discontented, and irritable old gentleman ; his mind lixed upon one 
point — a firm conviction of his wife's guilt, which nothing can move. But this char- 
acter also his to undergo a change and exhibit another side, so when the time comes 
to make all things clear, the old love comes up as bright as ever, and every trouble 
vanishes. 

There are not many telling situations in the play, nor any particular display of 
tine writing, until towards the end, in the Fourth and Fifth Acts. It bears evident 
signs of hurried composition, and it would be difficult for anyone to believe, by a 
perusal of the work, supposing him, of course, to be ignorant of the fact that it had 
emanated from the same source as Xlichelieu, Money, and the Lady of Lyons. There 
is, however, groundwork for a neat drama by using some little excision and making 
a few alterations in the arrangement of the incidents. The female parts are very 
tame; indeed, there are no very strongly marked and distinctive characters in it, 
drawn in the brilliant colors which distinguish other productions of the noble author. 

The imaginary chairmanship of Easy in the Third Scene of Act III. is ludicrous. 
The interview between Lord Wilmot and David Fallen is very well done, and the 
bitter feelings with which the latter relates the circumstanoe of the insult ".ie re- 
ceived from the Duke are excellently rendered. So also is that portion ot the Tliird 
Scene in Act IV., where Wilmot describes to Softhead his interview with the Prime 
Minister, AVilpole, and how he managed to obtain from him the place for Hardmaa 
in exchange for his Murillo painting. In the hands of an able actor this can cer- 
tainly be made the gem of the play. The language is witty, sharp, and well chosen, 
and if delivered clearly, rapidly, and judiciously, the speech cannot fail to ensure 
applause. But perhaps the neatest portion of the composition is that entitled 
" David Fallen is Dead !'" intended as a sort of key to the play. It was to have been 
spoken at the original amateur performance ; not being ready, however, it did not 
appear until the work was published, when it was introduced as an after scene — a3 
an acted epilogue. The idea is a novel one, and the language well chosen, witty, 
appropriate, and telling. 

At any rate, the design of the play is a good one, and if not carried out so well and 
effectively as it might be, the principle is established that there are " many sides to 
a character," and that all of us are " Not so Bad as we Seem." j. m. k. 



NOr SU B\U AS WE feKLil. 15 

JJILL FOE PROGRAMMES, ETC. 
The events of the Play take pl.tce iu Loudou. Period — 1720. 
ACT I. 
Scene!.— LORD WlLMOl'S APARTMExVT IN ST. JAMES S. 
'I'he Mysterious Lady — The Invitation — An Ambitious Citizen— Hattyhty 
Nobility and an aspiring Youth — A Small Man and a Great Mind - 
Memoirs of a Gay Nobleman — The Jacobite Plot —Treason and its Ad- 
herents — The Compact. 

ACT II. 
Scene I.— LIBRARY IN THE HOUSE OF SIR GEOFFREY 

THORNSIDE 
An Irritable Master and his Country Servant — Suspicions and Fears — The 
Mysterious Nosegay — Poison in Flowers — An exalted Trader — A Ruse 
of Love — A Declaration of Affection — The Rival Lovers — Hardman and 
Wilmot — The Conspiracy. 

ACT III. 
Scene I— WILL'S COFFEE-HOUSE. 
Nobility, Wit, and Learning — Poetry and Wine — Plot and Counterplot — 
The ]\oble Conspirators — A Jacobite Agent — The Secret Dispatch — The 
Meeting Betrayed — A Poet's Story of Politics and Starvation — Confes- 
sions of a Seducer — A Dinner for Six — The Trap Laid. 

Scene II.~LIBRARY IN SIR GEOFFREY'S HOUSE. 
Father and Daughter — A Masked Listener — The Mysterious Voice — The 
Baronet's Suspicions of a Wife's Honor — The Interruption — The Pur- 
suit of the Unknoicn. 
SceneIIL— OLD STREET IN LONDON AND DEADMANS LANE. 
Tracking the Masked Lady — The Result of the Dinner — Wine and its Ef- 
fects — Mr. Goodenough Easy as Chairman — An Election for the City — 
A Living Table — A March to the Watch-house — A Softhead by Name 
and Nature — The Masked Lady again — Wilmot in Pursuit. 
ACT IV. 
Scene I.— LIBRARY IN SIR GEOFFREY S HOUSE. 
Hardman's Story of his Life and Career — Sir Geoffrey Reveals his True 
Name and the Secret of his Dishonor — Hardman on the Track for the 
Memoirs and Confession of the Culprit. 

Scene IL— THE GARRET HOME OF DAVID FALLEN. 
Poetry and Poverty — Milk Scores in Arreai — A Warm-hearted Irishman — 
The Hunt for the Memoirs — The Poet's Story of Indignity and Insult— 
Nobility of Nature — The Bribe Refused — Heroic Example of Generosity 
— Wilmot obtains the Memoirs — Hard)na?i Defeated — " Noiv then for 
the Treasonous Dispatch ! " 

Scene III.— THE MALL. 

37v,; DzJie c.A tho Memo'rs — How Wilmot bribed the Prime Minister — 
Value oof Paintiny—Luy oi t' e tray t > her Mother. 



16 



NOT SO BAD AS WK SEEM. 



ACT V. 

ScKNE I.— OLD MILL ON THE BANKS OF THE THAMES. 

Hardnian secures the Dispatch — Proofs of Treason — The Story of Lady 
Morland's Wrongs— The hijured Wife and a Seducer'' s Confession — A 
Rival in Love — Officers ordered for Deadman^s Lane. 

Scene 11.— APARTMENT IN THE LONE HOUSE IN DEADMAN'S 

LANE. 

The Meeting of Mother and Daughter — Hardman in Pursuit— The Dis 
patch to the Pretender — A Father s Treason and a Son^s Ruin—Jl 
Looers Appeal— Jin Enrage. I Parent— The Story of the Unki.own 
Benefactor— Proofs of Innocence — Riunion of Itusband and Wife 
— A JSToble Sacrifice— Lovers made Happy— Treason Destroyed — AIL 
Prove they are not so Bad as they Seem ! 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



SCENE. 



B. 3 b. 



B. 2 E. 

/ 



v 



L. 3e. 



\ 



\ 



L. 2E. 



L. IE. 



B. 0. 0. l. O. 

ArDIENCE. 



L. Left. 

L. c. Left Centre. 

L. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 

L. 2 E. Left Sccoad Entrance. 

L. 3 E. Left Third Entrance. 

L. V. E. Left Upper Entrr.ncc 

(wherever this Scene raay be.) 

D. L. c. Door Loft Centre. 



c. Centre. 

E. Eight. 

E. 1 E. Eight First Entrance. 

1.. 2 E. Eight Second Entrance. 

E. 3 E. Eight Third Entrance, 

E. u. E. Eight Upper Entrance. 

D. E. c- Door Eight Centre. 



NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM; 
OE, MANY SIDES TO A CHARACTER. 



ACT I 

SCENE I. — Lord Wilmot's apartment in St. James's. 

Enter Smart, c. d. l., sJioiving in Lady Ellinor, masked. 

Smart. My Lord is dressinsf. As you say, madam, it is late. But 
though he never wants sleep more than once a week, yet when he does 
sleep, I am proud to say he sleeps better than any man iu the three 
kingdoms. 

Lady E. I have heard much of Lord Wilmot's eccentricities — hut also 
of his generosity and honor. 

Smart. Yes, madam, nobody like him for speaking ill of himself and 
doing good to another. 

Enter Wilmot, r. d. 

WiLMOT. " And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake." Any duels 
to-day, Smart "? No — I s*^e somelhing more dangerous — a woman, [to 
Smart) Vanish, {exit Smart, c. d. Places a cliair, l. c, /or Lady E. 
She sits and he also, near her) Madiim, have I the honor lo know you 1 
Condescend lo remove your vizard. (Lady E. lifts her mask. Aside) Very 
fine woman, still — decidedly dangerous, [aloud) Madam, allow me one 
precautionary observation — My affections are engaged. 

Lady. So 1 conjectured ; for I have notict^d you from the window of 
my house, walking in the garden of Sir Geoffrey Thornside with his fair 
daushtor; and she seems worthy to fix the affections of the most fickle. 

VViL. My dear madam, do you know Sir Geuffi ey ? Bind me to you for 
life, and say a kind word to him in my favor. 

Lady E. Can you need if? — young, highborn, accomplished 

WiL. Sir GeofFiey's very objections against me. He says I am a fine 
gentleman, and has a vehement aversion to that section of mortals, be- 
cause he implies that a fine gentleman once did him a mortal injury. 
But you seem moved — dear lady, what is your interest in Sir Geoffrey 
or myself? 

Lady E. You shall know later. Tell me, did Lucy Thornside ever 
speak to yoTi of her mother ? 

WiL. Only to regret, with tears in her eyes, that she had never known 
a mother — Uiat lady died, I believe, while Lucy was but an infant. 

LADy E. When you next have occasion to speak to her, say that you 
have seen a friend of her mother, who has something to impart that 
may contribute to her father's happiness and her own. 



18 JSrOT so B,VI> AS AYE SEEM. [aCT I. 

WiL. I will do your bidding this day, and 

Soft, {without). Oli, never luind aiinouucin^ me, Smart. 
Lady E. {starting up). I would not be seen here — I must be gone. 
Call on lue at nine o'clock this evening ; this is my address. 

Softhead, enters c. d. l., as Loud Wilmot is protecting Lady E.'s re- 
treat, and stares aghast. 

WiL. (aside). Do not fear him — best little fellow in the v/oild, ambi- 
tious to be thougjjt good for nothing, and frightened out of his wits at 
the sight of a petticoat, {aloud, as he attends her out) Allow me to escort 
your ladyshi[). [Exits, c d. l., ivith Lady E. 

Soft. Ladyship ! lucky dog. But then he's such a villain ! 

AViL. {returning, and looking at card). Very mysterious visitor — sign of 
Crown and Portcullis, Deadman's Line — a very funereal residence, {ob- 
serving his visitor apparently for the first time) Ha, Softhead ! my Pylades 
— my second self ! Anima 

Soft, {astonished, not understanding Latin). Enemy ! 

WiL. Dimidium mece. 

Soft, {aside). Dimi ! that's the oath last in fashion, I warrant, {aloud, 
ivith a swagger and a slap on Wilmot'.s back) B'midam mccc ! how d'ye do ? 
But what is that lady V — masked loo ■? Oh, Fred, Fred ; you are a mon- 
ster ! 

WiL Monster ! ay, horrible ! That lady may well wear a mask. She 
has poisoned three husbands, 

Sokt. Dimid'im mecB. 

WiL. A mere ha mless gallantry has no longer a charm for me. 

Soft. Nor for me, either ! {as'dc) Never had. 

WiL. Nothing should excite us true men of pleasure but some colos- 
sal atrocity, to bring our necks within an inch of the gallows. 

Soft, {aside). He's a perfect demon ! Alas, I shall njver come up to 
his mark ! 

Re-enter Smart. 

Smart. Mr. Hardman, my Lord. 

WiL. Hush ! Must not shock Mr. Hardman, the most friendly, oblig- 
ing man, and so clever — will be a minister so:ne day. But not of our set. 

Enter Hardman, c d. l. Exit Smakt. 

Hard. And how fares my dear Lord \ 

WiL. (c). Bravely — and you 1 Ah I you men who live for others 
have a hard life of it. Let me present you to ray friend, Mr. Shadowly 
Softhead, {ihey salute each other.) 

Hard. (l. c ) The son of the great clothier who has such weight in 
the Guild 1 1 have heard of j'ou from Mr. Easy and others, thoujih 
never so fortunate as to meet you before, Mr. Softhead. 

Soft {hnving, n. c). Shadowly Softhead — my grandmother was one 
of the Shadowlys — a genteel family that move about court. She inar- 
rieil a Softhead 

WiL. A race much esteemed in the city. 

Hard, [turning aside and glancing at painting, L.). A new picture, my 
Loid 1 I'm no very great judge — but it seems to me quite a master- 
piece 

WiL. I've a passion for art. Sold off my stud to buy that picture. 
{aside) And please my poor father, {aloud) 'Tis a Murillo. 

Hard. A Murillo I you know that Walpole, too, has a passion for 



ACT I.] NOT SO BAD AS WE SKEM. 19 

pictures. In dnspair at this moment that he cun't find a Mm'illo to hang 
up in his gallery. If ever you want to corrupt tlie Prime Minister's vir- 
tue, you have only to say, " I have got a Murillo." 

WiL. Well, if. instead of tiie pictures, he'll just hang up the men he 
has bought, you may tell him he shall have my Murillo for nothing ! 

Hard. Bought? uow really, my Lord, this is so vulgar a scandal 
against Sir Robert. Let me assure your Lordship 

WiL. Lordship ! Plague on these titles among friends. Why, if the 
Duke of Middlesex himself — commonly styled " the Proud Duke " — 
who said to his Duchess, when she astonished his dignity one day with 
a kiss, " Madam, my first wife was a Percy, and she never took such a 
liberty " * 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! well, if " the Proud Duke " 

WiL. Could deign to come here, we would say, " How d'ye do, my 
dear Middlesex!" 

Soft. So we would, Fred ! Middlesex. Sliouldn't you like to know 
a Duke, Mr. Hardman 1 

Hard. I have known one or two — in Ojiposition ; and had rather too 
much of 'em. 

Soft. Too much of a Duke ! La ! I could never have eao' of a 
Duke ! 

Hard. You may live to think otherwise. 

Re-enter Smart. 
Smart. His Grace the Duke of Middlesex. 

Enter Duke, c. d. l. Exit Smart. 

Duke. My Lord Wilmot, your most obedient servant.. 

WiL. [aside). Now then, courage ! {aloud) How d'ye do. my dear Mid- 
dlesex ? 

Duke. "How d'ye do?" "Middlesex!" Gracious Heuveii ; what 
will this aoe come to 1 ^{sits in cJiair, c.) 

Hard, (aside, crossin// over lo Softhead). Well, it inai/ be the fashion, 
— yet I could hardly advise you to adopt it. 

Soft. But if Fred 

Hard. Oh ! certainly Fred is an excellent model 

Soft. Yet there's something very awful in a live Duke. 

Hard. Tut, a mere mortal like ourselves, after all. 

Soft. D'3e really think so 1 — upon your honor 1 

Hard. Sir, I'm sure of it — upon my honor, a mortal ! 

Duke {turning stiffly round, and half rising from his chair in majestic con- 
descension^. Your Lordship's friends? A uood day to you, gentlemen. 

Soft. And a good day to yourself. My Lord Du — I mean, my dear 
boy ' — Middlesex, how d'ye do? 

Duke. '■ Mid !" — " boy '" — " sex !" — " dear !" I must be in a dream. 

AViL. [to Softhead). Apologize to the Duke, {to IIardmax) Then 

* This well-known anecdote of " the Proud Duke " of Somerset, ami some other 
recorded traits of tlie same eminent personage, liave been freely applied to the char- 
acter, intended to illustiate the humur of pnde, in the comedy. None of our Ens- 
lisli memoirs afford, however, instances of that infirmity so extravagant as are to he 
found in the French. Tallamant has an anecdote of the celebrated Duchess de Lon- 
gueville, which enlivens the burlesque by a bull that no Irish imagination ever sur- 
passed. A surgeon having probably saved lier life by bleeding her too suddenly and 
without sufficient ceremonial — the Dacluss said, on recovering herself, that " he was 
an insolent fellow to have bled her — in her presence,'" 



20 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. [aCX I. 

huriy liiin ofTinto the next room, {lothc Duke) Allow me to explain to 
your Grace. 

Soft, {io Hardman). But wliat shall I say 1 

Hard. Anything most civil and servile. 

Soft, (aloud, and crossing over toioard h. c, followed bt/ Hardman). 1 — I 
— my Lord Duke, I really most humbly entreat your Grace's i)ardon, 
I 

Duke. Small man, your pardon is granted, for your existence is ef- 
faced. So far as my lecognition is necessary to your sense of being, 
consider yourself henceforth — annihilated ! 

Soft. (l. c). I humbly thank your Grace! (aside, to Hardman) An- 
nihilated ! what's that 1 

Hard. Duke's English for excused. (Softhead wants io get back io 
the Duke) AVhat ! have not you had enough of the Duke? 

Soft. No, now we've made up. I never bear malice. I should like 
to know more of him; one can't get at a Duke every day. If he did 
call me "small man," he is a DuUe — and such a remarkably fine one ! 

Haud. [draicing him away'). You deserve to be haunted by him ! No 
— no ! Come into the next I'oom. 
[Exeunt through side-door. l. Softhead vert/ reluctant to leave the Duke. 

Duke. There's sometJnng portentous in that small man's audacity. 
Quite an aberration of Nature ! But we are alone now, we two gentle- 
men, (motions to Wilmot to sit near him — he does, so) Your father is my 
friend, and his son must have courage and honor. 

WiL. Faith, I had the courage to say 1 would call your Grace " Mid- 
dlesex," and the honor to keep my word. So I've given good proof 
that I've honor and courage for anything! 

Duke (affect ionately). You're a wild boy. You have levities and fol- 
lies. But alas ! even rank does not exempt its possessor from the faults 
of humanity. Very strange ! My own dead brother — (ivith a look of 
disgust.) 

WiL. Your brother, Lord Henry de Mowbray 1 My dear Duke, pray 
forgive nio ; but I hope there's no truth in what Tonson, the bookseller, 
told me at Will's — that your brother had left behind certain Confessions 
or Memoirs, which are all that might be apprehended from a man of a 
temper so cynical, and whose success in the gay world was so — terrible. 
(aside) Determined seducer and implacable cut-throat! 

Duke. Ha! then those Memoirs exist! My brother kept his profli- 
gate threat. I shall be ridiculed, lampooned. I, the head of the Mow- 
brays ! Powers above, is notiiing on earth then left sacred ! Can you 
learn in whose hands is this scandalous record 1 

WiL. I will try. Lfave it to me. I know Lord Henry bore you a 
grudge for renouncing his connection on account of his faults — of hu- 
manity ! I remember an anecdote, how he fousht with a husband, some 
poor devil named Morland, for a boast in a tavern, which — Oh, but we'll 
not speak of that. We mud get the Memoir. We gentlemen have all 
common cause here. 

Duke [taking his hand). AVorthy son of }'our father. You deserve in- 
deed the trust that I come to conii le to you. Listen. His jMajesty, Kin^ 
James, liaving been deceived by vague promises in the Expedition of 
'Fifteen, has very properly refused to imperil his rights again, unless 
upon the positive pledge of a sufficient number of persons of influence 
to risk life and all in his service. Myself and some others, not wliolly 
unknown to you, propose to join in a pledge which our King with such 
reason exacts. Your assistance, ray Lord, would be valuable, for you 
are the idol of the young. Doubts were entertained of your loyalty. I 
have come to dispel them — a word will suffice. If we succeed, you I'e- 



'A.Cr I.J NOT so BAD AS "WE SEEM. 21 

store the son of a Stuart ; if we fail — you will go to tlie scaffold by the 
side of John, Duke of Middlesex! Cau you hesitate ? or is sileuce as- 
sent ? 

WiL. Aly dear Duke, forgive uie that 1 dismiss with a jest a subject 
so fatal, if grave'y entertained. I have so many other engagements at 
present that, just to recollect them, 1 must keep my head on my shoul- 
ders. Accept ray humblest excuses. 

Duke, Accept mine for mistaking the son of Lord Loftus. {)\'scs and 
goes up to c. D.l 

WiL Lord Loftus again ! [rising) Stay. Your Grace spoke (;f persons 
not M'holly unknown to me. I entreat you to explain. 

DuKK My Lord, I have trusted you with my own life; but to com- 
promise by a word the life of another I — permit me to remind your 
Lordship that I am John, Duke of Middlesex. [Exit, c d. l 

Wii.. Can my father have entangled himself in some Jacobite ph^t ? 
How shall I find out 1 Ha ! Hardman, Hardman, 1 say ! Here's a man 
who finds everything out. 

Re-enter Hardman and Softhead. 

SufLhead, continue annihilated for the next five minutes or so. These 
books will help to the cessation of your existence, mental and bodily. 
Mr. Locke, on the Understanding, will show that you have not an innate 
idea ; and the Essay of Bishop Berkeley will prove you have not an atom 
of matter. 

Soft. But 

WiL. No buts ! — they're the fashion. 

Soft. Oh, if they're the fashion — [seats himself at the table, r. 3 e,, attd 
commences to read vigorously, gradually subsiding into dozing ) 

WiL. (c. — to Hakdmkk, l. c). My dear Hardman, you are the only 
one of'my friends whom, in sjnte of your politics, my high Tory father 
condescends to approve of. Every one knows that his family were stout 
cavalieis attached to the Stuarts. 

Hard, (aside). Ah ! I guess why the Jacobite Duke has been here. I 
must look up David ^ alien ; be is in all the schemes for the Stuarts. 
Well — and 

WiL. And the Jacobites are daring and numerous; and — in short, I 
should just like to know that ray father views things with the eyes of 
our more wise generation. 

Hard. Why not ask him _yourself 1 

WiL. Alas I I'm in disgrace; he even begs me not to corae to his 
house. You see he wants me to marry. 

Hard. But your father bade me tell you he would leave your choice 
to yourself; — would marriage then seem so dreadful a sacrifice 1 

WiL. Sacrifice ! Leave my choice to myself 1 My dear father. 
(^ri)zgs the hand-bell) Smart I ^re-enter Smart) Older my coach. 

[Exd Smart. 

Hard. This impatience looks very like love. 

WiL. Pooh I what do ycu know about lovel — you — who love only am- 
bition ! Solemn old jilt, with whom one's never sale from a rival. 

Hard. Yes; — always safe from a rival, both in love and ambition, if 
one will watch to detect, and then scheme to destroy him. 

WiL. Destroy — ruthless exterminator ! May we never be rivals ! 
Pray keep to ambition. 

Hard. But ambition lures me to love, (aside) This fair Lucy Thorn- 
side, as rich as she's fair ! woe indeed to the man who shall be my rival 
with her. [aloud) I will call there to-day. 



22 NOT so 13.VD AS WE SEEM. [aCT I. 

WiL. Then you'll see my father, aiul sound him 1 

Haud. I will do so. 

WiL. You are Ihe best friend I have. If ever I can serve you in re- 
tarn 

Hard. Tut ! iu serviuir my friends 'tis myself that I serve. 

[Rcil, c. D. h. 

WiL {after a momcnCs thought). Now to Lucy. Ha ! Softhead. 

Soft, {waking up). Heh ! 

VViL. [aside]. 1 must put this suspicious Sir Geuffiey on a wrong 
scent. If Softhead were to make love to the girl — violently — desper- 
ately. 

Soft, (yawning). I would give the world to be tucked up in bed now. 

VViL. I've a project— an intrigue — be all life and all fiie ! Why, you 
tremble 

Soft. With excitement, {rises and advances) Proceed ! 

WiL. There's a certain snarling, suspicious Sir Geoffrey Thornside, 
with a beautiful daughter, to whom he is a sort of a one-sided bear of a 
father — all growl and no bug. 

Soft. I know him! 

AViL You 1 How 1 

Soft. Why, his most intimate friend is Mr. Goodenougb Easy. 

WiL Lucy presented me to a Mistress Barbara Easy. Pretty girL 

Soft. You are not courting her 1 

WiL. Not at present. Are you 1 

Soft. Why, my father wants me to marry her. 

WiL. You refused 1 

Soft. No. I did not. 

WiL. Had she that impertinence 1 

Soft. No ; but her father had. He wished for it once ; but since 
I've become a la mode, and made a sensation at St. James's, he says 
tliat his daughter shall be courted no more by a man of such fashion. 
Oil ! he's low — Mr. Easy ; very good-humored and hearty, but respecta- 
ble, sober, and square-toed; — decidedly low! — City bred ! So I can't 
go much to his house ; but 1 see Barbara sometimes at Sir Geoffrey's. 

WiL Excellent ! Listen. I am bent upon adding Lucy Thornside to 
the list of my conquests. But her churl of a father has already given 
me to understand that he hates a lord 

Soft. Hates a lord ! Can such men be ] 

WiL. And despises a man a la mode. 

Soft. I knew he was eccentric, but this is downright insanity. 

WiL. Brief. I see very well that he'll soon shut his doors in my face, 
unless 1 make him believe that it is not his daughter who attracts me to 
his house ; so I tell you what we will do ; — you shall make love to Lucy 
— violent love, you rogue. 

Soft. But Sir Geoffrey knows I'm in love wich the other. 

WiL. That's over. Father refused you — transter of affection ; natural 
pique and human inconstancy. And, in return, to oblige you, I'll make 
love just as violent to Mistress Barbara Easy. 

Soft. Stop, stop ; I don't see the necessity of that. 

WiL. Pooh ! nothing more clear. Havinj; thu? duped the tsvo look- 
ers-on, we shall have ample opportunity to ciiange partners, and handi 
across, then down the middle, and up again. 

Re-enter Smakt. 

Smart.. Your coach waits, mv Lord. 

WiL. Come along. Fie! that's not the way to conduct a cane, [acts 



Acr n.J NOT so bad as ave seem. 23 

as though he had a cane in his ham!) Has not Mr. Popo, our areat poet of 
fashion, given you the nicesL instructions in that art'/ (Softhead imi- 
tates him with intense admiration.) 

" Sir Plume, of amber pmiff-box justly rain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane." 

The cane does not conduct you ; you conduct the cane. Thus, with a 
dehonnair swing. Now, t'other liand on your hnuncli ; ensy, degagi' — im- 
pudently graceful ; with the air of a gentleman, and the heart of a — 
monster ! Allans ! Vive la joip. 

Soft. Vive la jaw, indeed. I feel as if I were going to be hanged. 
Allans! Vive la Jaw! [Exeunt, c. d. 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. — Lihranj in the house of Sir Geoffrey Tiiornside. 

Enter Sir Geoffrey and B-Odge, l. d. 

Sir Geoffrey. But I say the dog did howl last night, and it is a most 
suspicious circumstance. 

HoDGF,. Fegs. my dear measter, if you'se think that these Lunnon 
thieves have found out that your honor'srents w^ere paid last woili, may- 
hap I'd best sleep here in the loibery. 

Sir Geof. {aside). How does he know I keep my moneys liere ? 

Hodge. Zooks ! I'se the old b.underbuss, and that will boite better 
than any dog, I'se warrant ! 

Sir Geof. (aside). I begin to suspecthim. For ten years have I nursed 
that viper at my heart, and now he wants to sleep in my libraty, with a 
loaded blunderbuss, in case I should come in and detect him. I see 
murder in his very face. How blind I've been ! {aloud) Hodge, you are 
very good — very; come closer, (aside) What a felon step he has ! (aloud', 
But I don't keep ray rents here, they're all gone to the banker's. 

Hodge. Mayhap I'd best go and lock up the plate ; or will you send 
that to the banker's 1 

Sir Grof. (aside). I wonder if he has got an accomplice at the banker's ! 
It looks uncommonly like it. (aloud) No, I'll not send the plate to the 
banker's; I'll — consider. You've lot detected Ihe miscreant who has 
been flinging flowers into the library the last four days? — or observed 
any one watching your master when h.e walks in his garden, from the 
window of tliat ugly old house in Deadman's Lane ? 

HoDGE. With the sign of the Crown and Poor Cully 1 Why, it maun 
be very leately. 'Tint a week ago 'sin it war empty. 

Sir Geop. {aside). How he evades the question — just as they do at the 
Old Bailey, (aloud) Get along with you and feed the house-dog — he's 
honest I 

Hodge. Yes, j'our honor. [Exit, l. d. 

Sir Geof. (c). I'm a very unhappy man, very. Never did harm to 
any one — done good to many. And ever since I was a babe in the 
cradle, all the world have been conspiring and plotting against me. It 
certainly is an exceedingly wicked world ; and what its attraction can 
be to the other worlds, that they should have kept it spinning through 
space for six thousand years, I can't possibly conceive — unless they are 
as bad as itself; I should not w8hder. That new theory of atrraction 
is a very suspicious circumstances against the planet s^-th era's a gang 



24 NOT so BAD AS WK SKEM. [aCT II. 

of 'em ! {a bunch of flowers is Ihrown in at the icinchiv) Heaven defend me ! 
There it is again ! Ttiis is tlie tilth bunch of flou-eis tiiat's been tlirown 
at me tlirough tlie window — what can it possibly mean ? — the most 
alarmins circumstance, [cautiously poking at theflnvers ivith his sword.) 

Mr. Goodenough Easy {without, l.). Yes, Barbara, go and find Mis- 
tress Lucy, (enlcrinff, r. d.) How d'ye do, my hearty ? 

Sir Geof. Uyli ! hearty, indeed ! 

Easy. Why, what's the matter? what are j^ou poking at those flowers 
for 1 — is there a snake in them ? 

Sir Geof. Worse tlian that, I suspect ! Hem ! Goodenough Easy, I 
believe I may trust you 

Easy. You trusted me once with five thousands pounds. 

Sir Gfof. Dear, dear, I forgot that. But you paid me back. Easy 1 

Easy Of course; but tlie loan saved my credit, and made my for- 
tune ; so the favor's the same. 

Sir Geof. Ugh! Don't say tbat; favors and perfidy go together! 
a truth I learned early in life. Wliat favoro I heaped on my foster bro- 
tiier. And did not he conspire with my cousin to set my own father 
against me, and trick me out c f my heritaae 1 

Easy. But you've heaped favors as great on tlie son of that scamp of 
a foster brother ; and he 

Sir Geof. Ay ! but he don't know of tliem. And then there was 
mj' — tluit girl s mother 

Easy. Ah ! that was an affliction which might well turn a man, pre- 
inclined to suspicion, into a thorough self-tormentor for the rest of his 
life. But she loved you dearly once, old friend ; and were slie yet alive, 
an. I could be proved guiltless after all 

Sir Geof. Guiltless! Sirl 

Easy. Wei! — well 1 . we agreed never to talk upon that subject. Come, 
come, what of the nosegay "? 

Sir Geof. Yes, yes, the nosegay! Hark! I suspect some design on 
my life. The dog howled last Tight. When I walk in the garden some- 
Dody or something (can't see what it is) seems at tlie watch at a win- 
dow in Deadman's Lane — pleasant name for a street at the back of one's 
premises ! And what looks blacker than all, for five days running, has 
been thrown in at me, yonder, surreptitiously and anonymously, what 
you call — a nosegay ! 

Easy. Ha, ha! you lucky dog! — you are still not bad-looking. De- 
pend on it the flowers come from a wonian. 

Sir Geop. A woman! — my worst fears are confirmed! In the small 
city of Placentia, in one year, there were no less than seven hundred 
cases of slow poisoning, and all by woman. Flowers v^ere among the 
instruments they employed, steeped in laurel water and other mepliitic 
preparations. Those flowers are poisoned. Not a doubt of it ! — how 
very awful ! 

Easy. But why should any one take the trouble to poison you, 
Geoffrey 1 

Sir Geof. I don't know. But I don't know why seven hundred 
people in one year were poisoned in Placentia. Hodge ! Hodge ! 

Re-enter Hodge. 

Sweep away those flowers — lock 'em tip Mith the rest in the coal-hole. 
Ill examine them all chemically, by and by, with precaution. (Hodg.s 
picks up the bunch offlotvcrs) Don't sm^ at 'em ; and, above all, don't let 
the house dog smell at 'em. [Exit Hodge, l. d. 

Easy. Ha! bai 



Acr ir.] NOT so bad as we seem. 25 

Sir Geof. {aside). Ugh! — that brute's lauahing— no more feeling than 
a brick-bat. [aloud) Guodenough Easy, you are a very hai)py man. 

Easy. Happy, yes. I could be hc^ppy on bread and water. 

Sir Geof. And would toast your bread at a conflagration, and fill 
your jug from a deluge ! Ugh ! I've a trouble you are more liltely to 
feel for, as you've a girl of your own to keep out of mischief. A man 
named Wilmot, and styled "my Lord," has called here a great many 

times ; he pretends he saved nij' ahem ! — tliat is, Lucy, from foot- 

]iads, when she was coming home from your house in a sedan chair. 
And I suspect that man means to make love to her ! — — 

East. Esad ! that's the only likely suspicion yon've hit on this many 
a day. I've heard of Lord. Wilmot. Softhead professes to copy him. 
Softhead, the son of a trader! he be a lounger at White's and Will's, 
and dine with wits and fine gentleman ! He live with lords ! — he 
mimic fashion ! No ! I've respect for even the faults of a man ; but 
I've nom for the tricks of a monkey. 

Sir Geof. Ugli ! you're so savage on Softhead, I suspect 'tis from 
envy. Man and monkey, indeed! If a ribbon is tied to the tail of a 
monkey, it is not the man it enrages; it is some other monkey whose 
tail has no ribbon ! 

Easy [angrily). I disdain your insinuations. Do you mean to imply 
that I am a monkey % I will not praise myself; but at least a more 
steady, respectable, sober 

Sir Geof. Ugh ! sober ! — I suspect you'd get as drimk as a lord, if a 
lord jiassed the bottle. 

Easy. Now, now, now. Take care ; — you'll put me in a passion. 

Sir Grof. There — there — beg pardon. But I fear you've a sneaking 
respect for a lord. 

Easy. Sir, I respect the British Constitution and the House of Peers 
as a part of it ; but as for a h)rd in himself, with a mere handle to his 
name, a paltry title ! That can have no effect on a Briton of indepen- 
dence and sense. And that's just the difFerence between Softhead and 
me. But as you don't like for a son-in-!aw the real fine gentleman, 
pel haps you've a mind to the copy. I am sure you are welcome to 
Softhead. 

Sir Geof. U^h ! I've other designs for the girl. 

Easy. Hr.vo you 1 AVliatl Perhaps your favorite, young Hard- 
man 1 — by the way, I've not met him here lately. 

Enter Lucy and Barbara, r. d. 

LroY. 0, my dear father, forgive me if I disturb you ; but I did so 
long to see you ! 

SirGkof. Whyl 

Lucy. Ah, father, is it so strange that your child 

S:k Geof. {interrupting her). Why '? 

Lucy. Because Hodge told me you'd been alarmed last night — the 
dog howled! But it was full moon last night, and he will howl at the 
moon ! 

Sir Geof. {aside,). How did she knov/ it was full moon 1 I suspect she 
was looking out of the window 

Re-enter Hodge. 

Hodge. Lord -Wilmot and Mr. Shadowly Softhead. [Exit Hodge. 
Sir Geof. {aside). Wilmot! my suspicions are confirmed; she tvaa 



26 NOT so BAD A3 WE SEEM. [aCT II. 

looking oat of the window ! This comes of Slmkespcaro luiviag written 
that infernal incendiary trash about Romeo and Juliei ! 

Enter Wilmot ami Softuead, l. d. 

WiL. Your servant, ladies; — Sir Geoffrey, your servant. I could not 
refuse Mr. Softhead's request to inquire after your health. 

Sir Geof. I thank your Lordship; but when my health wants inquir- 
ing after I send for the doctor. 

WiL. Is it i)ossible you can do anything so dangerous and rash 1 

Sir. Gedf How 1 — how 1. 

WiL. Send for the very man who has an interest in your b^in:^ JH ! 

Sir Geof. {aside). That's very true. I did not think he had so much 
sense in him ! (Sir. Geoffrey «?.v^ Easy retire xip the stage.) 

WiL. I need not inquire how you are, ladies. When Hebe retired 
from the world, she divided her bloom between you. Mistress Barbaia, 
vouchsafe me the lionor a queen accords to the meanest of her gentle- 
men, (kissis Barbara's /lattd, mid leads lur aside^ conversing in dumb show.) 

Soft. Ah, Mistress Lucy, vouchsafe me tiie honor which — [aside) But 
she don't hold her hand in the same position. 

Easy {advancing and patting him on the shoulder). Bravo! — bravo! 
Master Softhead ! — Encore ! 

Soft. Bravo! — Encore! I don't understand you, Mr. Easy. 

Easy. That bow of yours ! Perfect. Plain to see you have not for- 
gotten the old dancing master in Crooked Lane. 

Soft, [aside). I'm not an inconstant man ; but I'll show that city fel- 
low there are other ladies in town besides his daughter, [aloud) Dimi- 
(I'.cm mcce, Iioav i)retty you are, Mistress Lucy ! i walks aside ivith her.) 

Sir Gi'Of. That popinjay of a lord is more attentive to Barbara than 
ever he was to the other. 

Easy. Hey 1 hey ! D'ye think so 1 

Sir Geof. I suspect he has heard how rich you are. (Wilmot a)>d 
Barbara approach.) 

Bar. Papa, Lord Wilmot be^s to be presented to you. (Joics ir.lcr- 
changed. Wilm'^t offers snuff-box. Easy at Jirst declines then accep s — 
sneezes violently ; unused to siniff.) 

Sir Grof He! he! quite clear! titled forlune-hunter. Over head 
and ears in debt, I dare say. [takes Wilmot aside) Prettv girl, Mistress 
Barbara ! Eh ■? 

WiL. Pretty ! Say beautiful ! 

Sir Geof. He! he! Her father will give her fifty thousand pounds 
down on the wedding diiy. 

WiL. I venerate the British merchant who can give his daughter fifty 
thousand pounds 1 What a smile she has ! [hooking his arm into Sir 
Geoffrey's) I say, Sir Geoffrey, you see I'm very shy — bashful, indeed 
— and Mr. Easy is watching every word I say to his daughter; so em- 
barrassing ! Couldn't you get him out of the room 1 

Sir Geof. Mighty bashful, indeed ! Turn the oldest friend I have 
out of my room, in order that you may make love to his daughter I 
(turns away.) 

WiL. (to Easy). I say, Mr. Easy. My double there. Softhead, is so 
shy — bashful, indeed — and that suspicious Sir Geoffrey is watching 
every word he says to Mistress Lucy ; so embarrassing ! Do get your 
friend out of the room, will you 1 

Easy. Ha ! ha I Certainly, my Lord, (aside) I see he wants to be alone 
with ray Barbara. What will they say in Lombard street when she's my 
lady"? Shouldn't wonder if they returned me M.P. for the city, (aloud) 



ACT II.] KOT SO BVD AS WE SKEM. 27 

Come into the next room, Geoffrey, and tell me your designs for 
Lucy. 

Sii{ Geof. Oh, very well ! You wish to encourage that pampered 
young — satraj) ! {aside) How he does love a lord, and how a lord does 
iove fifty thousand pounds ! He ! he ! 

[Exeunt Sir Gkoffrey and Easy. r. n- 

WiL. (running to Lucy and pushing aside Softhead). Return to your 
native alleaiance. Truce with the enemy and excliange of prisoners. 
(leads Lucy aside — she rather grave and reluetant.) 

Bar. So you'll not speak to me, Mr. Softhead ; words are too rare 
with you fine gentlemen to throw away upon old friends. 

Soft. Ahem ! 

Bar. You don't remember the winter evenings you used to pass at 
our fireside 1 nor the mititletoe bough at Christmas'? nor tlie pleasant 
games at Blindman's Bufi' and Hunt the Slipper 1 nor the strong tea I 
made you when you had the migraine 1 Nor how I prevented your 
eating Banbury cake at supper, when you know it always disagrees with 
you 1 But I suppose you are so liardened that you can eat Banbury 
cake every night now ! I'm sure 'tis nothing to me ! 

Soft. Those recollections of one's early innocence are very melting ! 
One renounces a great deal of happiness for renown and ambition. Bar- 
bara ! 

Bar. Shadowly ! 

Soft. However one may rise in life — however the fashion may compel 
one to be a monster 

Bar. a monster ! 

Soft. Yes, Fred and I are both monsters! Still — still — still — 'Ecod, 
I do love you with all my heart, and that's the truth of it. 

WiLMoT and Lucy advancing. 

Lucy. A friend of my lost mother's. Oh ! yes, dear Lord Wilmot, do 
see her again — learn wiiat she has to say. There are times when 1 so 
long to speak of that — my mother ; but my father shuns even to men- 
tion her name. Ah, he must have loved her well I 

WiL AVhat genuine susceptibihty ! I have found what I have sought all 
my life, the union of womanly feeling and childlike innocence, {attempts 
to take hrr hand ; LucY tvithdraws it coyly) Nay, nay, if the renuncialion 
of all youthful levities and follies, if the most steadfast adherence to 
your side — despite all the chances of life, all temptations, all dangers — 
(Hardman's voice without, l.) 

Bar. Hist ! some one coming. 

WiL. Change partners ; hands across. (Wilmot /oms Barbara, Soft- 
head yo2«s Lucy) My angel Barbara ! 

Enter Hardman, l. d. 

Hard, {aside, astonished). Lord Wilmot here ! 

WiL. {aside to Barbara). What! does he know Sir Geoffrey? 

Bar. Oh, yes. Sir Geoffrey thinks there's nob.)dy like him. 

WiL. {aloud). Well met, my dear Hardman. So you are intimate 
here 1 

Hard. Ay ; and you 1 

WiL. An acquaintance in its cradle. Droll man, Sir Geoffrey ; I de- 
light in odd characters. Besides, here are other attractions, {returning 
to Barbara.) 

Hard, {aside). If he be my rival ! Hum! I hear from David Fallen 



28 KOT so BAD AS "WK SEF.M. [aCT III. 

tliat his father's on the brink of high treason ! That secret gives a hold 
on the son. {joins Lucy.) 

WiL. (to Barbara). You understand ; 'tis a compact. You will favor 
my strata sjem ? 

Bar. Yes ; and you'll engage to cure Softhead of his taste for the 
fashion, and send him back to — the city. 

WiL. Since you live in the city, and condescend to regard such a 
monster ! 

Bau. Why, we were brought up together. His health is so delicate; 
I should like to take care of him. Heigho ! I am afraid 'tis too late, 
and papa will never forgive his past follies. 

WiL. Yet papa seems very good-natured. Perhaps there's another 
side to his character ? 

Bar. Oh, yes I He is such a very independent man, n)y papa ! and 
has sttch a contempt for people who go out of their own raidj, and make 
fools of themselves for the sake of example. 

WiL Never fear ; I'll ask him to dine, and open his heart with a 
cheerful glnss. 

Bar. Cheerful glass ! You don't know papa — the soberest man ! If 
there's anything on which he's severe, 'ti.'! a cheerful glass. 

WiL. So so ! does not he ever — get a little excited ? 

Bar. Excited ! Don't think of it ! Besides, he is so in awe of Sir 
Geoffrey, who would teise him out of his life, if he could but hear that 
papi was so inconsistent as to — as to 

WiL. As to get — a little excited 1 {aside) These hints should suffice 
me! 'Gad. if I could make him lipsy for once in a way! I'll try. 
{aloud) Adiea, my sweet Barbara, and rely on the zeal of your faithful 
ally. Stay ! tell Mr. Easy that he must lounge into AVill's. I will look 
out for him there in about a couple ot hours. He'll meet many friends 
from the ciiy, and all the wits and fine gentleiuen. Allans! Vive la 
jo'e ! Softhead, well have a night of it ! 

Soft. Ah ! those were pleasant nights when one went to bed at half 
after ten. Heigho I [an Hardmav hisses Lucy's hand, Wilmot floyly kisses 
Barbara's — Hardman observes him with alittle suspicion — Wilmot returns 
his look liffhilij and carelessly — Lucy and Barbara conscious 



ACT TIL 

SCENE I. — WilVs Coffee Kou'^e ; occiqnjiiiy the depth of the stage. Jacob 
ToNSON and various groups ; some sealed in boars, some standing. In the 
half-open box at the side, r., David Fallen, seated writing. 

Enter Easy, c. d. l., speaking to various acquaintances as he passes round. 

Easy. How d'ye do 1 Have you seen my Lord Wilmot? Good day. 
Yes ; I seldom come here ; bat I've promised to meet an intimate friend 
of mine — Lord Wilmot. Servant, sir !— looking for my friend Wilmot. 
Oh 1 not come yet 1 — hum — ha ! — charming young man, Wilmot ; head 
of the mode; generous, but pruient. 1 know all his affairs, (mixes with 
the groxj}, conversing u-ith Toxso.n, etc.) 

Enter Nkwsmax, c. d., tvith pipers. 

Newsman. Great news 1 great news! Suspected Jacobite Plot ! Fears 



ACr III.j NOT so BAD AS WE SEEM. 29 

of Ministers ! Army to he increased ! Great news! [Cofee-house frequent- 
ers gather round Newsman — take papers — form tkeinselvis into fresh (/roups 
about Ihe stage.) 

Enter Hardman, l. 2 e. 

Hard I have sent off my letter to Sir Robert Walpole. This place, 
hi inu*t give it; the first favor I have asUed. Hope smiles ; lam ar, 
peace wiili all men. Now to save Wilmot's father, {approaches the box 
at whieh David Fallen is writing, and stoops down, as if arranging his 
baelde; to Fallen) Hist ! Whatever the secret, remember, not a word 
.save to me. ( passes up the stage, and is eagerly greeted by various frequenters 
of the Coffee house.) 

Enter Lord Loftup, c. d. l., and advances to the half open box, l. 

Lord Loftus. Drawer, 1 engage this box ; give me the newspaper. 
S > — '• Rumored Jacobite Plot. ' 

The Duke of Middlesex enters, c. d l., and proceeds to join Loftds. 

Duke. My dear Lord, T obey your appointment. But is not tlie place 
you select latlier strange ? 

LoF. Be seated, I pray you. No place so fit for our pui-pose. First, 
because its very publicity prevents ail suspicion. We come to a coffee- 
bouse, where all ranks and all parties assemble, to hear the news, like 
the rest. And, secondly, we could scarcely meet our auent anywhere 
else. He is a Tory pamphleteer ; was imprisoned for our sake in the 
time of William and Mary. If we, so well known to be Tories, are seen 
to confer with him here, 'twill oidy be thought that we are suggesting 
some points in a pamphlet. May I beckon our agent? 

DuKR. Certainly, He risks his life for us ; he shall be duly rewarded. 
Let him sit by our side. (Lord Loftus motions to David Fallen, who 
taJces his pamphlet and approaches open'y) I have certainly seen somewhere 
before that very tliin man. Be seated, sir. Honorable danger makea 
all men equal. 

Fal. No, my Lord Duke. I know you not. It is the Earl I confer 
with, {aside) 1 never stood in liis hall, with lackeys and porters. 

Duke ('o Loftus). Powers above! That scare-crow rejects my ac- 
quaintance! Portentous! {stunned and astonished.) 

LoF. Observe Duke, we speak in a sort of jirgon. Pamphlet means 
messenuei'. {to Fallen aloud) Well, Mr. Fallen, when will the pamph- 
let be ready ? 

Fal. (aloud). To-morrow, my Lord, exact!)' at one o'clock. 

Duke {still bewildered). I don't understand 

LoF. {aside). Hush ! Walpole laughs at pamphlets, but would hang 
messengers, {aloud) To-morrow, not to-day ! Well, UMre time for 

Fal. Subscrihers. Tiiank you, my Lord, {ivhispcring) AVhere shall 
the messenger meet yon 7 

LoF. At the back of the Duke's new house there is a quiet, lone 
place 

Fal. {whispering). By the old mill near the Thames 1 I know it. The 
messenger shall be there. The signal word " Marston Moor." No con- 
versation should pass. But who brings the packet 1 That's the first 
step of danger. 

Duke [suddenly rousing himself, and with dignity). Then 'tis mine, sir, 
in right of my birlh. 

Fal. {aloud). I'll attend, to all your Lordship's f uggrslioiis ; they're 



33' NOT so BAD AS WF; SEEM. [aCT III. 

pxoelleiit, and will startle tliis vile administration. Many thanks to your 
Lordship, (retunts to his tabic and resumes his writing. Groups point and 
Murmur. Jacob Tonson and Easy advance.) 

Easy. Tlnit pestilence scribbler, David Fallen ! Another libellous 
p-amphlet as bitter as the last, i'll swear. 

Tox. Bitter as gall, sir, I am proud to say. Your servant, Jacob 
ToDson, the bookseller — at your service. I advanced a pound upon it. 
{(hey continue talking and mingle with the others.) 

DtiKE (ilo LoFTUs) I will meet you in the Mall to-morrow, a quarter 
f'fcer one precisely. We may go now? (thei/ rise and go towards c. D., 
LoFTUs in front) Powers above — his mind's distracted — he walks out be- 
fore me ! 

LoF. {draiving back at the door). I follow you, Duke. 

Duke. Jly dear friend — if j'ou really insist on it. 

[E.vcunt, c. D. L., bowing. 

Dr.AWEa enters, R. d., tvith wine, etc., which he places on the table, R. 

Hap.d. Let me otTer you a glass of wine, Mr. Fallen, {aside to him) 
Well 1 (sifs near Fallen. Fallen, who has been ivrilmj, pushes the paper 
towards him.) 

Hard, {reading). "At one to-morrow — by the old mill near the 
Thames -MarstoM Moor — the Duke in person." So! We must save 
these men. I will call on you in the morninsr, and concert the means. " 

Fal. Yes; save, not destroy, tiiese enthusiasts. I'm resigned to the 
name of hireling — not to that of a butcher ! 

Hard. You serve both Whig and Jacobite ; do you care then for 
either 1 

Fal. Sneering politician ! what has either cared for me? I entered 
the world, devoted heart and soul to two causes — the throne of the 
Stuart, tiie glory of Letters. I saw them both as a poet. My father 
left me no heritage but loyalty and learning. Charles the Second praised 
my verse, and I starved ; James the Second praised n)y prose, and I 
starved; the reign of King Wdliam — I passed that in prison. 

Hard. But the ministers of Anne were gracious to writers. 

Fal. And offered me a pension to belie my pa«t life, and write Odes 
on the Queen who had dethroned her own father. I was not then dis- 
enchanted — I refused. That's years ago. If I starved, I had fame. 
Now came my worst foes, ray own fellow writers. What is fame but a 
fashion? Ajestupon Grub Street, a rhyme from young Pope, could 
jeer a score of gray laborer.s like me out of their last consolation. Time 
and hunger tame all. 1 could still starve myself; I have six children at 
home — they must live. 

Hard, {aside). This man has genius — he might have been a grace to 
his age. I'm perjilexed. {aloul) Sir Robert 

Fal. Disdains letters — -I've renounced them. He pays services like 
these. Well, I sei ve him. Leave me ; 20 ! 

Hard, {rising, aside). Not so bad as he seems -another side to the 
character. 

Enter Dijai'veb, l. d., ivith a letter to Hardmax. 

Hard, [aside). From Walpole ! Now then I ray fate — my love — my 
fortunes ! 

Easy, (^peeping over Hardman's shoulder). He has got a letter from 
the Prime Minister, marked " private and confidential." {great agitation) 
After all, be is a verj' clever fellow. {Coffee-house frequenters evince the 
readiest assent, and the (iveliesl admiration.) 



AOT III. J KOT SO BAD AS "WE SEEM. 31 

Hakd. {advancing and reading the letter). " My dear Hardnian, — Ex- 
tremely sorry. Place in qiieslion absolutely wanted to conciliate some 
noble family otherwise dangerous.* Another time, more fortunate. 
Fully sensible of your valuable service. — Robert Walpole." — Refused! 
Let him look to himself! I will — I will — alas! he is needed by my 
country ; and I am powerless against him. {seects hiimelf.) 

Enter Wilmot and Softuead, c. d. l. 

WiL. Drawer ! a private room — covers for six — dinner in an hour ! f 
And — drawer ! Tell Mr. Tonsou not to go yet. Softhead, we'll have an 
orgie to-night, worthy the days of King Charles the Second. Softhead, 
let me present you to our boon companions — my friend, Lord Strong- 
bow (hardest in drinker England); Sir John Bruin, best boxer in England 
— threshed Figg ; quarrelsome but pleasant ; Colonel Flint — finest sen- 
tleraan in England and, out and out, the best fencer ; mild as a lamb, 
but can't bear contradiction, and on the point of honor, inexorable. 
Now for the sixth. Ha, Mr. Easy ! (I ask him to serve you) Easy, your 
hand ! So charmed that you've come. You'll dine with us — give up 
five invitations on purpose. Do — sems eeremonie. 

Easy. Why, really, my Lord, a plain, sober man like me would be out 
of ji'ace 

WiL. If that's all, never fear. Live with us, and we'll make another 
man of you, Easy. 

Easy. What captivating familiarity ! Well, I cannot resist your Lord- 
ship, [strutting down the room, and speaking to his acquaintances) Yes, my 
friend Wilmot — Lord Wilmot — will make me dine with him Pleasant 
man, my friend Wilmot. We dine together to-day. (Softhead retires to 
the haclcground ivith the other invited guests ; hut trying hard to escape Sir 
John Bkuin, the boxer, and Colonel Flint, the fencer, fas'ens himself on 
Easy with an air of patronage.) 

WiL. [aside). Now to serve the dear Duke, (aloud) You have not yet 
bought the Memoir of a late Man of Quality. 

Ton. Not yet, my Lord ; just been trying ; hard work, {ivipes his fore- 
head) But the person who has it is luckily very poor ! one of my own 
authors. 

WiL. (aside). His eye turns to that foi'lorn-looking spectre I saw him 
tormenting, {aloud) That must be one of your authors ; he look so lean, 
Mr. Tonson. 

Ton. Hush; that's the man ! made a noise in his day ; David Fallen. 

WiL. David Fallen, whose books, when I was but a schonlboy, made 
me first take to reading — not as task-work, but pleasure. How much I 
do owe him ! (hows very low to Mr. Fallen.) 

Ton. My Lord bows very low ! Oli, if your Lordship knows Mi'. 
Fallen, pray tell him not to sland in liis own light, I would give him a 
vast sum for the memoir — two liundi ed guineas ; on my honor I would I 
{whispering) Scandal, my Lord ; sell like wild-fire. — I say, Mr Hard- 
man, I observed you speak to poor David. Can't you help me here 1 
{whispering) Lord Henry de Mowbray's Private Memoirs! Fallen has 
them, and refuses to sell. Love Adventures; nuts for the public. Only 

* As Walpole was little inclined to make it a part of Ins policy to conciliate those 
whose opposition miiilit be dangerous, while he was so fond of power as to be jeal- 
ous of talent not wholly subservient to him, the reluctance to promote Mr. Hnrd- 
m:in, implied in the insincerity of his excuse, may be supposed to arise from his 
knowledge of that gentleman's restless ambition and determmed self-will. 

t It was not the custom at Will's to serve dinners; and the exception in favor of 
my Lord Wilmot proves his influence as a man d, hi moM, 



32 NOT so BAD A3 AVE SKEII, [aCT III. 

just got a peep mvself. But such a confession about the beautiful Lady 
Mi.i-lau'J. 

Hakd. PIan4 La(l\- Moiliuul ! 

Tun Besides — siiows up his own brother! Jacobite family secrets. 
Such a card for llie VVhi'is ! 

Hard. Confound the VViii^s ! What do I care? 

•ViL I'll see to it, Tonson. Give me Mr. Fallen's ])rivate address. 

Ton. But pray be discreet, my Lord. If that knave Curll should get 
wind of the scent, he'd try lo spoii my market with my own author. 
The villaiii ! 

WiL. {aside). Curll 1 Why, I have mimick'd Curll so exactly tlmt Pope 
himseU' was deceived, and, stifling with raae, ordered me out of tlie 
room [ have it! Mr. Curll shall call upon Fallen the first tiling in 
the morning, and outbid Mr Tonson. (aloud) Thank you, sir. (taking the 
address) Moc>dy, Hardnian 1 tom^ problem in political ethics y You turn 
au'ay — you have a grief you 11 not tell me — why, this morning I asked 
you ;'. favor ; from that moment I had a light to your confidence, for a 
Javo.' de.irades when it does not come from a friend. 

Hard. You charm, you subdue me, and I feel for once how neces- 
sary to a man is the sympathy (f another. Your luind, Wilmot. Thig 
is secret — T, too, then presume to love. One above me in fortune ; it may 
be in bu'tli. But a free state litts those it employs to a par with its 
nobles. A post in the Treasury of such nature is vacant ; 1 have served 
tlie minister, men say, with some credit; and I asked for the gift with- 
out shame — 'twas my due. Walpole needs the office, not for reward to 
the ze dous, but for bribe to the doubtful. Sef, {giving letter) "Noble 
family to conciliate." Ah, the drones have the honey ! 

WiL. (re "ling and returning the letter). And had you this post, you think 
you could gain tlie lady you love 1 

Hakd. At least it would have aiven me courage to ask. Well, well, 
well,— a truce with my egotism, — you at least, my fair Wilmot, fair in 
finni. fair in fortune, you neeil fear no rebuff where you place your 
affections. 

WiL Why, the lady's father sees only demerits in what you think my 
advantages. 

Hard. Y'ou mistake, I know the man much better than you do ; and 
look, even now he is gazing upon you as fondly as if on the coronet that 
shall blazon the coach of my lady, his (laughter. 

Wii,. G.izing on me? — where? 

Hard. Yonder — ?Ia I is it not Mr. Easy, whose 

WiL Mr. Easy ! you too taken in ! Hark, secret for secret — 'tis 
Lucy Tnornside I love, 

Hakd. You — stun mo I 

WiL But what a despot love is, a'lows no thought not its slave ! 
They told me below that my father had been here ; have you seen him ? 

Hakd. Ay. 

WtL. And sounded ? 

Hakd. No — belter than that — 1 have taken precautions. I must leave 
you now ; you shall know the result to-morrow afternoon, (aside) Your 
father's life in these hands — his ransom what I please to demand. — Ah, 
joy ! I am myself once again. Fool to think man could be my friend ! 
Ah, joy ! born but for the strife and the struggle, it is only 'mid foes that 
my invention is quickened! Half-wny to my triumph, now that I know 
the rival to vanquish ! {to Fallen) Engage Iho messenger at one, for- 
get not. Nothing else till I see you (to AVilmot) Y'our hand once 
again. To-day I'm your envoy ; {aside) to-morrow your master. 

[£xit, c. D. L. Fallen folds up i^cpcrs and exits, c. d. l. 



ACr III.] NOT so BAB AS WE SEEST. 33 

WiL. Tlie friendliest man tliat ever lived since the days of Damon and 
Pylliias : I'm a brute if 1 don't serve him in lelurri. To lose the woman 
he loves for want of this pitiful place. Saint Cupid forbid ! Let me 
consider! Many sides to a ch.uacter — I think I could here hittheripht 
one better than" Hardman. Ha! ha! Excellent! My Murillo ! I'll 
not sell myself, but I'll buy llie Prime Minister ! Excuse me, my 
friends; urgent business; 1 shall be back ere the dinner hour; the 
room is prepared. Drawer, show in these gentlemen ; Hardman shall 
have his place and his wife, and I'll bribe the arch-briber! Ho ! my 
lackeys, my coach, (here! Ha, ha ! bribe the Prime Minister ! There 
never was such a fellow as I am for crime and audacity. 

[Exit WiLMOT, c. D. L. 

CoL. Flint. Your arm, Mr. Softhead. 
Soft. And Fred leaves me in the very paws of this tiger! 
[Exeunt, o. d. l., as the scene closes in, the loungers making way for them. 

SCENE II. — The Library in Siti Geoffuey's house. 

Enter Sir Ghoffkey, l. 1 e. 

Sir Geof. I'm followed ! I'm dogged ! I go out for a walk unsuspi- 
ciously ; and behind cieeps a step, pit, pat ; feline and stealthy ; I turn, 
not a soul to be seen — I walk on; pit, pat, stealthy and feline ! turn 
again ; and lo ! a dark form like a ])hantom, muffled and masked — ^just 
seen and jusfgone. Ouf ! The plot thickens around me — I can struggle 
no more, {sinks into seat, r.) 

Enter Lucy, l. 1 e. 

Who is there 1 

Lucy. But your child, my dear father. 

Sill Ge'if. Child, ugh! what do you want 1 

Lucy. Ah, speak to me gently. It is your heart that I want : 

Sir Geof. Heart — I suspect I'm to be coaxed out of something! 
Eh ; e!i ! Why she's Aveeping. What ails thee, poor darling i {rises.) 

Lucy. So kind. Now I have courage to tell you. 1 was sitting alone, 
and I thought to myself — " mv father often doubts of me — doubts of 
all " 

Sir Geof. Ugl; — what now 1 

Lucy. '• Yet his true nature is generous — it could not always have 
been so. Perhaps in old times he has been deceived where he loved. 
Ah, his Lucy, at least, shall never deceive him." So I rose and lis- 
tened for your footstep — I heard it — and I am here — here, on your 
bosom, my o.vn father ! 

Sir Geof. You'll never deceive me — right, right — go on, pretty one, 
go on. {aside) If she should be my child after all ! 

Lucy. There is one who has coma here lately — one who appears to 
displease you — one whom you've been led to believe comes not on my 
account, but my friend's. It is not so, my father ; it is for me that he 
comes. Let him come no more — let me see him no more — for — for — I 
feel that his presence might make me too happy — and that would grieve 
you, my fatlier ! (Lady Ellinor appears at the ivindow u-aiching.) 

Sir Geof. {aside), bhe must be my child! Bless her! [aloud] I'll 
never doubt you again. I'll bite out my tongue if it says a harsh word 
to you. I'm not so bad as I seem. Grieve me • — yes, it would break 
my heart. You don't ki;ow these gay courtiers — I do ! — tut — tut — lut 
— don't cry. How can I console her 1 

Lucy. Shall I say 1 — let me speak to you of my mother. 



34 NOT so BAI> AS WE SEEM. [aCT III. 

Sir Geof. {recoiluig). Ah ! 

Lucy. Would it not soothe you to hear that a friend of hers was in 
London, who 

SiK Geof. {changing in his whole dfporlmeut). I forhid you to speak to 
rae of your mother — she dislionored me 

Lady E. [in a low voice of emotion). It is false ! {she cUsappears, r.) 

Sir Geof. {starting). Did you say "false'?" 

LncY {sobbing). No — no — but my heart said it ! 

Sir Gkof. Strange! or was it but my own fancy 1 

Lucy. Oh, father, father! How I shall pity you if you discover that 
your suspicions erred. And again I say — I feel — feel in my heart of 
woman — that the mother of the child who so loves and honors you was 
innocent. 

Haedman {without, l.). Is Sir Geoffrey at home 1 

Lucy starts up and exits, r. 1 e. Ttvilight ; daring the preceding dialogue 
the stage has gradually darkened. Enter Hardman, l. 1 E. 

Hard. Sir Geoffrey, you were deceived ; Lord Wilmot has no thouglit 
of Mr. Easy's daughter. 

Sir Geof. I know that — Lucy has told me all, and begged me not to 
let him come here again. 

Hard, (joyfully). She has ! Then she does not love this Lord Wil- 
mot 1 But still be on your guard against him. Remember the arts of 
corruption — the emissary— the letter — the oro-between — the spy ! 

Sir Geoff. Arts! Spy! Ha! if Easy was right after all. If those 
flowers thrown in at the window ; the watch from that house in the lane ; 
the masked figure that followed me; ail bode designs but on Lucy 

Hard. Flowers have been thrown in at the window 1 You've been 
watched 1 A masked figure has followed you 7 One question more. 
All this since Lord Wilmot knew Lucy 1 

Sir Geof. Yes, to be sure ; how blind I have been ! (Lady Ellinor 
appears again, r.) 

Hard. Ha! look yonder! Let me track this mystery; {she disap- 
pears, L.) and if it conceal a scheme of Lord Wiln:9t's against your 
daughter's honor, it shall need not your sword to .protect her. 

\Fushes open the toindow, leaps out, and exits, L. 

Sir Geof. What does lie mean ? Not »««/ sword 1 Zounds I he don't 
think of his own ! If he does, I'll discard him. I'm not a coward, to 
let other men risk their lives in my quarrel. Served as a volunteer un- 
der Marlbro', at Blenheim ; and marched on a camion ! Whatever my 
faults, no one can say I'm not brave, (starting) Ha! bless my life! 
What is that 1 I thought I heard something — I'm all on a tremble ! 
Who the deuce can be brave when he's surrounded by poisoners — fol- 
lowed by phantoms, with an ngly black face peering in at his window ? 
Hodge, come and bar up the shutters — lock the door — let out the house- 
dog ! Hodge ! Hodge ! Where on earth is that scoundrel ] 

[Exit, L. 1 E. * 

SCENE III. — The Streets. I/i perspective an alley, inscribed Deadman's 
Lane. A large, old-fashioned, gloomy house in the cn-rner, with the 
door on the stage, above which is impanelled a sign of the Crown, and 
Portcnllis. Lady Ellinor, masked, enters, l. 1 e.— looks round, 
pauses, and enters the door, r. Dark ; lights down. 

Enter Haudman, l. 1 e. 



ACT III.] KOT SO B.VD AS WE SEEM. 35 

Hard. Ha ! entevs Uiat house. 1 have my hand on the clue ! some 
pretext to call on the morrow, and I shall quickly unravel the skein. 

[Exit, R. 2 E. 
GooDENOUGH Easy {si)igii)g tvit/iout, L.) 

" Old King Cole 
Was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he 

Elite's, h o E., ivUh Lord Wilmot and Softhead ; Easy, his dress disor- 
dered, a pipj ill his mouth, in a slate of intoxication, hilarious, musi- 
cal, and oratorical; Softhead m a state of intoxication, abject, re- 
morseful, and lachrymo-^e ; Wilmot sober, but ajjeding inebriety. 

" He ciUed for liis pipe, and he called lor his bowl, 
And lie called for bis fiddlers three." 

Wii,. Ha, ha I I imagine myself like Bacchus hehveen Silenus and 
his — ass ! 

Easy. Wilmot, you're a jolly old soul, and I'll give you my Barbara. 

Soft, blubbering). Hegh ! hegh ! hej>h ! Betrayed in my tenderest 
affecti(jns 

WiL. My dear Mr. Easy, I've told you already that I'm pre-engaged. 

Easy. Pre-engaged ! that's devilish unhandsome ! But now L look 
at you, you do seem double ; and if you're double, you're not single ; 
and if you're not single, why, you can't marry Barbara, for that would 
be bigamy ! But I don't care ; you're a jolly old soul ! 

WiL. Not a bit of it. Quite mistaken, Mr. Easy. But if you want, 
for a son-in-law, a jolly old soul — there he is ! 

Soft, [bursting out afresh). Hegh! hegh! hegh! 

Easy. Hang a lord ! What's a lord ? I'm a respectable, independent 
family Briton ! Softhead, give us your fist ; you're a jolly old soul, and 
you shall have my Barbara ! 

Soft Heiih ! hegh ! I'm not a jolly old soul. I'm a sinful, wicked, 
miserable monster. Hegh ! hogli ! 

Easy. What's a monster? I like a monster! Jly -jirl shan't go a- 
begging any farther. You're a precious good fellow, and your father's 
an alderman, and has got a great many votes, and I'll stand for the 
city ; and vou shall have my Barbara. 

Soft. I don't deserve her, Mr. Easy ; I don't deserve such an angel ! 
I'm not precious good. Lords and tigers have corrupted my innocence. 
Hegh ! hegh ! I'm going to be hanged. 

Watch, {without, l.). Half-past eight o'clock ! 

WiL. Come along, gentlemen ; we shall have the watch on us. 

Easy. — 

" And the biinds that guard the city, 
Cried—' Ilebels, yield or die !'" 

Enter Watchman, with staff, raltleand lantern, l. 3 e. 

Watch. Half-past eight o'clock— move on ! move on ! 

Easy. Order, order! Mr. Vice and gentlemen, here's a stranger dis- 
turbing the harmony of the evening. I knock him down for a song. 
{seizes the Watchman's rattle) Half-past eight, Esq., on his legs ! Sing, 
sir; I knock you down for a song. 

Watch. Help! iielp ! Watch! watch! {cries within, l, "Watch!") 

Soft. Haik ! the officers of justice ! My wicked career is approach- 
ing its close ! 

Easy, {toho has got astride on the Watchman's head, and persuades him- 
self that the rest of the Watchman is the table). Mr. Vice and gentlemen. 



36 NOT so BAD AS "SVK SEKM. [aCT III. 

the toast of the evening — what's the matter with the table 1 'Tis bob- 
bing up and down. The table's drunk ! Order for the chair — you table, 
you! (^thumps the Watchman wilh the rattle) Fill your jflasses — a bump- 
er toast. Prosperity to the city of London — nine times nine — Hip, hip, 
hurrah! {u-oves the rattle over his head; the ratti' springs, lie is amazed) 
Why, the Chairman's hammer is as drunk as the table I 

Enter Watcumen, l. 3 e., ivith staves, sprciujing their rattles. 

WiL. {drawing Softhead off into a corner). Hold your tongue — they'll 
not see us here ! 

Watch, {escaping). Murder! — murder! — this is the fellow — most des- 
perate ruffian. (Easy is upset bg the escape of the Watchman, mid after 
some effort to remove him otherwise, the Guardians of the Night hoist him on 
their shoulders.) 

Easy. I'm being chaired member for the city! Freemen and Elec- 
tor's ! For this elevation to the post of meuiber for your metropolis, I 
return you my heartfelt thanUs ! Steady, there, steady ! The pruu lest 
day of my life. 'Tis the boast of the British Constitution that a ]il.un, 
sober man liUe me may rise to honors the most exalted ! Long live the 
British Conslilulion. Hip — hip — hurrati 1 [is carried off waving the rattle. 
Softhead continues to weep in speechless sorrotv.) 

WiL. [coming forth). Ha! ha I ha! My family Briton being chaired 
for the city ! " So severe on a clieerful glass." Well, he has cliosen a 
son-in-law drunk ; and egad ! he shall keep to him sober I Stand up; 
how do you fee! ? 

Soft. Feel! I'm a ruin! 

WiL. Faith, I never saw a more mournful one ! It must be near Sir 
Geoffrey's! Led them here — on my way to this sepulchral appointment, 
Deadman's Lane. Where the plague can it be 1 Ha ! the very place. 
Looks like it! How get rid of Softhead 1 Ha, ha ! 1 have it. Soft- 
head awake ! the night has begun — the time for monsters and their prey. 
Now will 1 lift the dark veil from the mysteries of London. Behold 
that house, Deadman's Lane I 

Soft. Deadman's Lane ! I'm in a cold prespiration ! 

WiL. In that house — under the antique sign of Crown and Portcullis 
— are such delightful horrors at work as would make the wigs of holy 
men stand on end ! The adventure is dangerous, but deliriously excit- 
ine. Into that abode will we plunge, and gaze, like Macbeth, " on deeds 
without a name." 

'hk'Dy Yi., inaskcd, enters from the door in Deadman's Lane, atid approaches 
WiLMOT, teho has, till now, hold of Softhead. 

Soft. Hegh ! hegh ! hegh ! I won't gaze on deeds without a name ! 
I won't plunge into Deadmen's abodes ! (j)crceiving the figure) Ha ! Look 
there! Dark veil, indeed ! Mysteries of London ! Horrible apparitioi;, 
avaunt! {breaks from Wilmot, who releases him as he sees the figure) Hegh ! 
hegh ! I'll go home to my mother ! [Exit, n. 1 e. 

Lady E. motions fo Wilmot and exits into the house, followed iy Wilmot. 



ACT IV.] Nut so bad as AVE SMil, " 37 

ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — Tltc Librarij in Sin Geoffrey's house. 

Enter Hardmax an:l Sir Geoffrey, l. 1 e. 

Sir Geop. Yes ! I've seen that you're isot indiffei'enL to Lucy. But 
before I approve or discourage, just tell me more of yourself — your 
birlli, your fortune, pasilife. Of course, you are the son of a sentleman 1 
{aside) Now as he speaks truly or falsely I will disoaid him as a liar, or 
reward him witli Lucy's hand. He turns aside. H ^ will lie ! 

Hard. Sir, at the risk of my hopes, I will speak the hard truth. 
" The son of a gentleman!" I think not. My infancy passed in tlie 
house of a farmer ; the children with whom I jdayed told me I was an 
orphan. I was next dropped, liow I know not, in the midst of that 
rouah world called school. "You have talent," said the master; "but; 
you're idle ; you have no right to holidays ; you must force your way 
through life; you are sent here by charity." 

Sir Geof. Charity I Vherc, the old fool was wrong ! 

Hard. My idleness vanished — I became the head of the school. 
Then I re.solved no longer to be the pupil of — charity. At the age of 
sixteen I escaped, and took for ray motto — the words of tlu master: — 
" You must force your way through life." Hope and pride whis[)ered — 
" You shall force it." 

Sir Geof. Poor fellow ! What then ? 

Hard. Eight years of wandering, adventure, hardship, and trial I 
often wanted bread — never courage. At the end of those years I had 
risen — to what 1 A desk at a lawyer's office in Norfolk 

Sir Gehf. [aside). My own lawyer"? where I first caught tiace of 
him again. 

Hard. Party spirit ran high in town. Politics began to bewitch me. 
There was a Speaking Club, and I spoke. My ambition rose higher 
— took the flight of an author. I came up to London with ten pounds ia 
my pocket, and a work on tlie " State of the Nation." It sold well ; 
the j)ublisher brought me four hundred pounds. " Vast fortunes," said 
lie, '• are made in tlie South Sea Scheme. Venture your hundreds,— I'll 
send you a bioker " 

Sir Geof. He ! he ! I hope he was clever, that broker 1 

Hard. Clever indeed ; in a fortnight he said to nie, " Your hundreds 
have swelled into thousands. For this money I can get you an annuity 
on land, just enough for a parliamentary qualification. ' The last hint 
fired me — I bought the annuity. You now know my fortune, and how 
it was made. 

Sir Geof. {aside). He 1 he ! I must tell this to Easy ; how he'll 
enjoy it. 

Hard. Not long after, at a political coffee-iiouse, a man took me 
aside. '■ Sir," said he, " you are Mr. Hcuxlman who wrote tlie famous 
work on ' The State of the Nation.' Will you come into Parliament ] 
We want a man like you for our borough ; we'll return you free of 
expense; not a shilling of bribery." 

Sir Geof. He ! he ! Wonderful! not a shilling ot hiihery. 

Hard. The man kept his word, and I came into Parliament — inex- 
perienced and friendless. I spoke, and was laughed at ; spoke again, 
and was listened to ; failed often; succeeded at last. Here, yesterday, 
in ending my tale I must have said, looking down, " Can you 2ive your 
child to a man of birth more than doubtful, and of fortunes so humble 1 



38 NOT so BAD AS WE SEEM. [aCT IT. 

Yet aspiring even then to the hand of j-our heiress, I wrote to Sir 
Robert for a place just vacated by a man of high rank, who is raised to 
the peerage. He refused. 

Sir Gi:i'F. Of course, {aside) I suspect he's very rash and presuming. 

Hard. To-day the refu.sal is retracted— the office is mine. 

Sin Geof. {■asioiiishccl unci aside). Ha ! 1 liad r.o hand in that ! 

Hard I am now one — if i.ot of Ijje liighest — yet still o' c of that Gov- 
ernment through which the Majesty of Englaiid administers her laws. 
And, with front erect, I fay to you — as I would to Ihe first peer of the 
realm — " I have no charts of broad lands, and no mil of ))roud fathers. 
But alone and unf. iended I have fought my way against Fortune. Did 
your ancestors more] M3' country has tru-iei the new man to her 
councils, and the man whom she honors is the equal of all." 

Sir Geof. Brave fellow, your hand. Win Lucy's consent, and you 
have mine. Hush ! no thanks ! Now listen ; I have told you my dark 
story — these flowers cannot come from Wilmot. I have examined them 
again — they are made up in the very form of the posies i had the folly 
to send, in the days of our courtship, to the wife who afterwards betray- 
ed me 

Hard. Be not so sure that she betrayed. No proof but the boast of a 
profligate. 

Sir Geof. Who had been my intimate friend for years — so that, 
torture! 1 am haunled with the doubt whether mv heire.ss be my own 
child ! — and to whom (by the confession of a servant) she sent a letter in 
secret the very day on which I struck the moc'.dng boast from the vil- 
lain's lips in a pulihc tavern. Ah, he was always a wit and a scoffer — 
periiaps it is from him that these flowers are sent, in token of gibe and 
insult. He Ins discovered the man he dishonored, in spite of the change 
of name 

Ha up You changed your name for an inheritance. You have not 
told mo that which you formerly bore. 

Sir Geof. Muiland. 

Hard. Moi land V Ha — and the seducer's 

Sir Geof. Lord Henry de Mowbray 

Hard. The reprobate brother of the l)uke of Middlesex. He died a 
few months since. 

Sir Geof. (fsiagqerinp) Died too ! Both dead ! 

Hard. [csde). Tonson spoke of Lord Henry's Memoir — Confession 
about Lady Movland in Fallen's hands I will go to Fallen at once. 
{aloud) You have given me a new clue. 1 will follow it up. When can 
I see you again ? 

Sir Geof. I'm going to Easy's — you'll find me there all the morning. 
But don't forget Lucy — we must save her from Wilmot. 

Hard. Fear Wilmot no more. This day he shall abandon his suit. 

[Exit Hardman, l. 1 E. 

Sm Geof. Hodge! Well— well 

Enter Hodge, e. 1 e. 

Hodge, take your hat and your bludgeon — attend me to the city; (aside) ■ 
She'll be happy witii Hardman. Ah ! if she were my own child after 
all I [Exeunt Sir Geoffrry and KoBdE, l. 1 k. 

SCENE 11— David Fallen's Garret. The scc7jc resemhJing that nf Ho- 
garth's " Distrest Poet " Fallen discovered seated at luLlc. 

Fal. [opening llie casement). So, the morning air breathes fresh ! One 



ACT IV. J XOT SJ BA.U AS "TVK SEP;M 39 

inoment's respite from drudgery. Anotlier line to lliis poem, my grand 
bequest to my country! Ah! this description; unfinished; good, 
good. 

" Metliin!<s we wallc in dreams on f liry lan<l, 
"Where— golden ore— lies mix'd with '' * 

Enter Paddy, it. d. 

Paddy. Please, sir, the millj woman's score! 
Fal. Sta}', stay ; — 

" Lies mixed with— common sand ! " 

Eh 1 Milkwomanl She must be paid, or the children — I — I — [fum- 
hling in his pocket, and looking about the table) There's anotlier blanket on 
the bed ; pawn it. 

Paddy. Agh, now, don't be so ungrateful to your ould friend, the 
blanket. When Mr. Tonson, the great bookshiller, touW me, says he, 
" Paddy, I'd give two liunder gould guineas for the papursh Mr. Fallen 
has in his disk I" 

Fal. Go, go ! {knock tvithout, k.) 

Paddy. Agh, murther! Who can that be distarbin' the door at the 
top of the mornin' ? [Exit, r. d. 

Fal. Oh! tliat fatal Memoir! My own labors scarce keep me from 
starving, and this wretched scrawl of a profligate worth what to me 
were Golconda ! Heaven sustain me ! I'm tempted. 

Re-enter Paddy, with Wilmot, disguised as Edmund CiJRLf,. 

Paddy. Stoop your head, sir. 'Tis not a dun, sir; 'tis Mr. Curll ; 
says he's come to outbid Mr. Tonson, sir. 

Fal. Go quick ; pawn the blanket. Let me think my children are 
fed. {exit Padd^y, n. d.) Now, sir, what do you want ? 

WiL. {taking out his handkerchief and whimpering). M}' dear, good Mr. 
Fallen — no offence — I do so feel for the distresses of genius. I am a 
bookseller, but I liave a heart — and I'm come to buy 

Fal. Have youl this poem 1 it is nearly finished — twelve books — 
twenty years' labor — twenty-four thousand lines ! — ten pounds, Mr. 
Curll, ten pounds 1 

WiL. Price of Paradise Lost ! 'Can't expect such prices for poetry 
now-a-days, my dear Mr. Fallen. Nothing takes that is not sharp and 
si)icy. Hum ! I hear you )>aTe ; omo most interesting papers ; pi'ivate 
Memoirs and Confessions of a Man of Quality recently deceased. Nay, 
nay, Mr. Fallen, don't shrink back ; I'm not like tliat shabby dog, Ton- 
son. Three hundred guineas for the Memoir uf Lord Henry de Mow- 
bray. 

Fal. Three hundred guineas for that-garbase ! — not ten for the poem I 
— and — the children ! Well ! {goes to the cupboard and take out the Me- 
moir in a portfolio, splendidly bound, xvith the arms and supporters of the 
Mowbrays blazoned on the sides) Ah ! — but the honor of a woman — the 
secrets of a family — the 

WiL. {graspitig at the portfolio, ivliich Fallen still detains). Nothing sells 
better, my dear, dear Mr. Fallen ! But how, how did you come by these 
treasures, my excellent friend ] 

Fal. Howl Lord Henry gave them to me himself, on his death-bed. 

* As it would be obviously presumptuous to assign to an author so eminent as 
Mr. David Fallen any verses composed by a living writer, the two line.s iu the text 
are taken from Mr. Dryden's Indian Emperor. 



40 ^ NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. [aCT IV. 

WiL. Nay ; what could he give them for but to publish, mj^ sweet 
Mr. Fallen ? no doubt to imrnortalifie all tho ladies who loved him. 

Fal No, sir ; profligate as he was, and vi!e as may be much in this 
Memoir, that was not his dying intention, though it miaht be his first. 
There was a lady he had once foully injured — the sole woman he had 
ever loved eno' for remorse. This "Memoir contains a confession that 
might serve to clear the name he himself had aspersed ; and in the sud- 
den repentance of his last moments, he bade me seek the lady and place 
the whole in her hands, to use as best might serve to establish her inno- 
cence. 

WiL. How could you know the lady, my benevolent friend ? 

Fal. 1 did not; but she was supposed to be abroad with her father — 
a Jacobite exile — and I, then a Jacobite agent, had the best chance to 
trace her. 

WiL. And you did 1 

Fal. But to hear she had died somewhere in France. 

WiL. Then, of course, you may noiv gratify our intelligent public, for 
3'our own personal profit. Clear as day, my maiiminimous friend ! 
Three hundred guineas ! I have 'em here in a bag ! [shoivs it.) 

Fal. Begone I I will not sell a man's hearth to the public. 

WiL. {aside). Noble fellow! (aloud) Gently, gently, ray too warm, but 
hiah-spiriled friend! To say the truth, I don't come (m my own ac- 
count. To whom, my dear sir, since the lady is dead, shoidd be given 
these papers, if unfit for a virtuous, but inquisitive public ? AVhy, surely 
to Lord Henry's nearest relation. I am employed by the rich Duke of 
Middlesex. Name your terms. 

Fal. Ha! ha! Then at last he comes crawling to me. your pioud 
Duke? Sir, years ago, when a kind word from his Grace, a nod of his 
head, a touch of his hand, would have turned my foes into flatterers, I 
had the meanness to name him my patron — inscribed tohira a work, took 
it to his house, and waited in liis hall amon.' porters and lackeys — till, 
sweeping by his carriage, he siiiJ, " Oh, you are the poet 7 take this ; " 
and extending his alms, as if to a beggar. ''You look very thin, sir; 
stay and dine with my people " People— his servants I 

WiL. Calm yourself, my good Mr. Fallen ! 'Tis his Grace's innocent 
way with us all. 

Fal. Go! let him know what these memoirs contain ! They would 
make the Proud Duke the butt of the town — the jeer of the lackeys, 
who jeered at my rags; expose his frailties, his follies, In's personal 
secrets. Tell hini this ; and then say that my poverty shall not be the 
tool of his brother's revenge ; but my pride shall not stoop from its 
pedestal to take money from him. Now, sir, am I right 1 Reply, not 
as tempter to pauper ; but if one spark of manhoovl be in you, as man 
speaks to man. 

WiL. {rcsumbig his own manner). I reply, sir, as man ti> man, and gen- 
tleman to gentleman. I am Frederick, Lord Wilmot. Pardon this im- 
posture. The Duke is my father's friend. I am here to obtain, what it 
is clear that ho alone should possess. Mr. Fallen, your works first raised 
me from the world of the senses, and taught me to believe in such no- 
bleness as I now hope for in you. Give me this record to take to the 
Duke — no j)rice, sir; for such things are priceless — and let me go hence 
with the sight of this poverty before my eyo'^, and on my soul the grand 
picture of the man who has spurned tlin bribe to his honor, and can 
humble by a gift the great prince who insu'ted him by alms. 

Fal. Take it — take it! [r/ivrsihc portfolio) I am save I from tempta- 
tion. God bless you, young man ! 

WiL. Now you indeed make m? twofold your debtor — in y(uir books, 



ACT IV. J KOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 41 

tlie rich thonfiht ; in yourself the heroic example. Accept frotn my 
superfluities, in small part of such debt, a yearly sum equal to that 
which your poverty refused as a biibe from Mr. Tonson. 
Fal. My Lord — my Lord ! {hursts into tears.) 

WiL. Oil, trust me the day shall come, when men will feel that it is not 
charity we owe to the ennoblers of life — it is tribute ! When your 
Order shall rise ivith the civilization it calle^l into bcincr, and shall refer 
its claim to just rank among freemen, to some Queen whom even a Mil- 
ton miaht have sun^, and even a Hampden have died for. 
, Fal. 0, dream of my youth ! My heart swells and chokes me ! 

Enter Hardman, r. d. 

Hard, (aside). What's this 1 Fallen weeping? Ah! is not that the 
tyrannical sneak, Edmund Cuiin 

WiL. \ changing his tone to Fallrn into one of imperiousness). Can't hear 
of the poem, Mr. Fallen. Don't tell me. Ah, Mr. Hanhuan {eoncealintj 
the portfolio), your most humble ! Sir — sir — if you want to publish some- 
thing smtrt and spicy — Secret Anecdotes of Cabinets — Sir Robert Wal- 
pole's Adventures with the La lies — I'll come down as handsomely as 
any man in the Row — smart and spicy 

Hard. Offer to bribe me, you insolent rascal ! 

WiL. Oh, my dear, good Mr. Hardman, I've bribed the Premier him- 
self. Ha! ha I Servant, sir; servant. [Exit, r. u. 

Hard. Loathsome vagabond ! My dear Mr. Fallen, you have the 
manuscript Memoir of Lord Henry de Mowbray. I know its great 
v.ilue. Name your own price to permit me just to inspect it. 

Fal. It is gone; and lothe hands of his biolher, the Duke. 

Hard. Tiie Duke ! This is a thunder-stroke ! Say, sir ; you have 
read this Memoir — does it contain aught respecting a certain Ludy Mor- 
land 1 

Fal. It does. It confesses that Lord Henry slaijder^d her reputation 
as a woman in order to sustain his own as a sedr.cer. That part of the 
Memoir was writ on his death-bed. 

Hard. His boast, then 

Fal. Was caused by the scorn of her letter rejecling his suit. 

Hard. What joy for Sir Geoffrey ! And thatlelter 1 

Fal. Is one of the documents that make up the Memoir. 

Hard. And these documents are now in the hands of the Duke 1 

Fal. Tliey are. For, since Ladv Morland is dead 

Hard. Are you sure she is dead 1 

Fal. i only go by report 

Hard. Report often lies, (ns.'de) Who but Lady Morland can this 
mask bel I will go at once to the house and clear up that doubt my- 
self But the Duke's appointment ! Ah ! that must not be forgotten ; 
my rival must be removed ere Lucy can be won. And what hold on the 
Dnke himself to produce the Memoir, if I get the dispatch, {aloud) Well, 
Air. Fallen, there is no more to ba said as to the Memoir Your messen- 
ger will meet his Grace, as we settled. I shall be closest hand; and 
mark, the messenger must give me the dispatch which is meant for the 
Pretender. [Exit IIardmax, r. d. 

He-enter Paddy. 

Paddy. Plase, sur, an' I've paid the milk score 

Fal. {interrupting him). I'm to be rich— so rich ! 'Tis my turn now. 
I've shared your pittance, you shall share my plenty, {sinks down on 
chair, seizing Paddy's hand and shaking it heartily as the scene closes in.) 



42 NOT so HAD AS wi; si:em. [act it. 



SCENE lU.—T/ie3fall. 

Enter Softhead, l. 3 e., his arms folded, and in deep thought, as though 
forming a virtuous resolution. 

Soft. Little did I foresee, in the days of my innocence, when Mr. Lillo 
read to me his affecting tragedy of George Barnwell,* how I myself was 
to be led on, step by step, to the brink of deeds wiliiout a name. Dead- 
man's Lane — tiiat funereal apparition in black — a warning to startle the 
most obdurate conscience. 

Enter Easy, n. 3 e., rcccntlg dismissed from the Watch-house; slovenly, 
skulking, and crestfallen. 

Easy. Not a coach on the stand ! A pretty pickle I'm in if any one 
sees nie! A sober, respectable man like me, to awake in the watch- 
house, be kept there till noon among thieves and pickpockets, and at 
last to be fined five shillings for drunkenness and disorderly conduct ; 
all fiom dining with a lord who had no thoughts of making Barbara my 
Lady after all ! Deuce take him! [discovering Softhead, aside) Softhead ! 
how shall I escape liim 1 

Soft, {aside, discovering Exsy). Easy! What a fall ! I'll appear not 
to remember. Barbara's father should not feel degraded in the eyes of 
a wretch like myself! (aloud) How d'ye do, Mr. Easy 1 You're out 
early, to-day. 

Easy, [aside). Ha ! He was so drunk himself he has forgotten all 
about it. [aloud] Yes, a headache. You were so pleasant at dinner. I 
wanted the air of the park. 

Soft. Why, you look rather poorly, Mr. Easy ! 

Easy. Indeed, I feel so. A man in business can't afford to be laid 
up — so I thought, before I went home to the city, that I'd just look into 
— Ha, ha ! a seasoned toper like you will laugh when I tell you — I 
thought I'd just look into the 'pothecary's ! 

Soft. Just been there myself, Mr. Easy, {showing a phinl.) 

Easy {rigarding it with mournful disgust). Not taken physic since I 
was a boy ! It looks very nasty ! 

Soft. 'Tis worse than it looks! And this is called Pleasure! Ah, 
Mr. Easy, don't give way to Fred's fascination ; you don't know how it 
ends ! 

Easy. Indeed I do. [aside) It ends in the watch-house, {aloud) And 
I'm shocked to think what will become of yourself, if you are thus 
every night led away by a lord, who 

Soft. Hush ! talk of the devil — look ! he's coming up the Mall ! 
(Softhead retires back.) 

Easy. He is ? then I'm off ; I see a sedan-chair. Chair! chair I stop 
— chair! chair! [Exit, n. 'i v.. 

Enter Wilmot ««f/DuKE tviih jyortfolio, l. 3 e. 

Duke {looking at porifolio). Infamous, indeed ! His own base lie 
against that poor lady, whose husband he wounded. Her very letter 
attaclied to it. Ha! — what is thisl Such ribaldrv on me! Gracious 



* We have only, I fear, Mr. Softhead's authority for supposing George Barnwell 
to be then written ; it wus not acted till some years altervvards. 



ACr IV.] NOT so BAD AS WE SEEM. 43 

Heaven ! My name tluis dragged tliroiiili tiie dii t, and by a koii of my 
own house! Oh ! my Lord, how sliall I thank you 1 

Wjl. Thank not mo ; but tlie poet, wlioni your Grace left in the hall. 

Duke. Name it not — I'll beg his pardon myseli! Adieu; I must go 
home and lock up this scandal till I've leisure to read and destroy it ; 
nevei- again shall it come to the day ! And then, sure that no blot shall 
be f een in my 'scutcheon, I can peril my life without fear in the cause 
of my kins. [Exit Duice, e. 2 e. 

WiL. {chantingi). 

" Gather your rosebuds while you raay. 
For time is still a-flying." 

Since my visit last night to Deadman's Lane, and my hope to give Lu y 
such happiness, I feel as if I trod upon air {discovers Softhead) A'). 
Softhead ! why, you stand there as languid and lifeless as if you were 
capable of — fishing ! 

Soft. I've been thinking — (advances.) 

WiL. Thinking ! you do look fatigued ! AVhat a horrid exertion it 
must have been to you ! 

Soft. Ah ! Fred, Fred, don't be so hardened. What atrocity did you 
perpetrate last night? 

WiL Last niiiht! Oh, at Deadman's Lane; monstrous, indeed. And 
this morning, too, another ! Never had so many atrocities on my bands 
as witliin the last twenty-four hours But they are all nothing to tliat 
which I perpetrated yesterday, just before dinner. Hark ! I bribed 
the Prime Minister. 

Soft. Saints in heaven ! 

WiL. Ha! ha! Hit him plump on the jolly blunt side of his char- 
acter! I must tell you about it. Drove home from Will's; put my 
Murillo in the carriage, and off to Sir Robert's — shown into his office, — 
" Ah! my Lord Wilmot," says he, with that merry roll of his eye ; '-this 
is an honor, what can I do for you ! " — " Sir Robert," says I, '■ we men 
of the world soon come to the point ; 'tis a maxim of yours that ail 
have their price." — " Not quite that," says Sir Robert, " but let us sup- 
pose that it is." Another roll of liis eye, as much as to say, " I shall 
get this rogue a bargain ! " — " So, Sir Robert," quoth I, with a bow, 
" I've come to buy the Prime Minister." — " Buy me," cried Sir Robert, 
and he laughed till I thought he'd have choked ; " my price is rather 
high, I'm afraid." Then I go to the door, bid my lackeys bring in the 
Murillo. " Look at that if you please; about the mark, is it notl " Sir 
Robert runs to the picture, his breast heaves, his eyes sparkle ; " A 
Murillo ! " cries he, " name your price !" — " 1 have named it." Then he 
looks at me so, and I look at him so! — turn out the lackeys, place pen, 
ink and paper before him; "That place in the Trea.sury just vacant, 
and the Murillo is yours." — " For yourself 7 — I am charmed," cried Sir 
Robert. " No, 'tis for a friend of your own, who's in want of it." — 
"Oh, that alters the case; I've so many friends troubled with the sam'" 
sort of want." — " Yes, but the Murillo is ffcimiiic, — pi"ay, what are the 
friends'! " Out laughed Sir Robert, "There's no resisting you and the 
Murillo together! There's the appointment. And now, since your 
Lordship has bought mo, I must insist upon buying your Lordship. 
Fair play is a jewel." Then I take my grand holiday air. " Sir Rob- 
ert," said I, " you've bought me Ions ago. You've given us peace 
where we feared civil war; and a Constitutional King instead of a des- 
pot. And if that's not enough to buy the vote of an Englishman, believe 
me, Sir Robert, he's not worth the buying." Then lie stretched out his 
bluff, hearty band, and I gave it a bluff, hearty shake. He got the Mu- 



44 If or so BAD AS AVK SKKM. [aCT IV. 

rillo — Hardmavi the place. And here stand I, the only man in all Eng- 
land who can boasL that he bought the Prime Minister! Faith, you 
may well call me hardened ; I don't feel the least bit of remorse. 

Soft. Hardman ! you got Ilardman the place 1 

WiL. I did not say Hardman 

Soft. You did say Hardman. But as 'tis a secret that might get you 
into trouble, I'll keep it. Yet, Bimidum mece, that's not behaving much 
like a monster ? 

WiL. Why, it does seem betraying the Good Old Cause — but if there's 
honor among thieves, there is among monsters; and Hardman is in the 
same scrape as ourselves — in love — his place may secure him the hand 
of the lady. But mind — he's not to know I've been meddling with his 
affairs. Hang it ! no one likes that. Not a word then. 

Soft. Not a word. My dear Fred, I'm so glad you're not so bad as 
you seem. I'd half a mind to desert you; but I have not the heart; 
and rU stick by you as long as I live ! 

WiL. {aside). Wliew ! This will never do ! Toor dear little fellow ! 
I'm sorry to lose him ; but my word's passed to Barbara, and 'tis all for 
his good, {aloud) As long as you live! Alas ! that reminds me of your 
little affair. I'm to be your second, you know. 

Soft. Second ! — affair ! 

WiL. With that fierce Colonel Flint. I warned you against him ; but 
you have such a deuce of a spirit. Don't you remember 1 

Soft. No ; wliy, what was it all about 1 

WiL. Let me see — oh, Flint said somethmg insolent about Mistress 
Barbaia. 

Soft. He did 1 Ruffian ! 

WiL. So — you called him out ! But if you'll empower me in your 
name to retract and apologize 

Soft. Not a bit of it. Insolent to Barbara ! Bimidum mne. I'd figlit 
him if he were the first swordsman in England. 

WiL. Why, that's just what he is ! 

Soft. Don't care; I'm his man — though a dead one. 

WiL. {aside). Hang it — he's as brave as niyelf on that side of his 
character. I must turn to another, {aloud) No, Softhead, that was not 
the cause of the quarrel — said it to rouse you, as you seemed rather 
low. The fact is that it was a jest on yourself that you took up rather 
warmly. 

Soft. Was that all — only myself 1 

AViL. No larger subject ; and Flint is such a sood fencer ! 

Soft. My dear Fred, I retract, I apologize; I despise duelling — ab- 
surd and unchristianlike. 

WiL. Leave all to me. Dismiss the subject. I'll settle it ; only. Soft- 
head, you see our set has very stiff rules on such matters. And if you 
apologize to a bravo like Flint; nay, if you don't actually, cheerfully, 
rapturously fight him — though sure to be killed — I fear you must resign 
all ideas of high life ! 

Soft. Bimidum meee, but low life is better than no life at all ! 

WiL. There's no denying that proposition. It will console .you to 
think that Mr. Easy's kind side is Cheapside. And you may get upon 
one if you return to the other. 

Soft. 1 was thinking so when you found me — thinking — [hesitatingly) 
But to leave you 

WiL. Oh, not yet! Retire at least with eclat. Share with me one 
grand, crowning, last, daring, and desperate adventure. 

Soft. Deadman's Lane again, I suppose 1 I thank you for nothing. 
Fred, I have long been your faithful follower, {tvith emotion) Now, my 



ACT V.J KOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 45 

Lord, I'm your Iniinble servant.* {aside) Barbara will comfort me. 
She's perliaps at Sir Geoffrey's. [Exit, r. 1 e. 

WiL. AVoil ! his love will repay him, and the City of London will pre- 
sent me with her freedom, in a s;old box, for restoring her prodigal son 
to her Metropolitan bosom. Deadman's Lane — that was an adventure, 
indeed. Lucy's mother still living — implores me to get her the sight 
of her child. Will Lucy believe mel Will r 

Elder Smart, l. 1 e. 

Ha, Smart ! Well— well 1 You— baffled Sir Geoffrey 1 
Smart. He was out. 

WiL. And you gave the young lady my letter 1 
Smart. Hist ! ray Lord, it so affected her — that — here she comes. 

[Exit Smart, r. 1 e. 
Enter Lucy, l. 1 e. 

Lttct. Oh, my Lord, is this true 1 Can it be 1 A mother lives ! Do 
you wonder that I forget all else 1 — that I am here — and with but one 
prayer, lead me to that mother ! She says, too, she has been slandered 
— blesses me — that my heart defended her, but — but — this is no snare — 
you do not deceive me 1 

WiL. Deceive you ! Oh, Lucy — I have a sister myself at the hearth 
of my father. 

Lucy. Forgive me — lead on — quick, quick — oh, mother, mother ! 

[Exeunt Lucy atid Wilmot, r. 1 e. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I.— Old Mill near the Thames. 

Enter Hardmak, l. 1 e. 

Hard. The dispatch to the Pretender, {opening it) Ho! Wilmot is in 
my power ; here ends his rivalry. The Duke's life, too, in exchange 
for the iSIeraoir ! No! Fear is not his weak point ; but can this haugh- 
tiest of men ever yield such memorials 1 Even admit the base lie of his 
brother 1 Still her story has that which may touch him. Since I have 
seen her, I feel sure of her innocence. The Dnke comes ; now all de- 
pends on my chance to hit the right side of a character. 

Enter Duke of Middlesex, r. 1 e, 

DuKB. Lord Loftus not here yet ! Strange ! 

Hard. My Lord Duke — forgive this intrusion ! 

Duke (aside). T'other man I met at Lord Wilmot's. (aloud) Sir, your 

servant ; I'm somewhat in haste. 

Hard. Still I presume to delay your Grace, for it is on a question of 
honor. 

Duke. Honor ! that goes before all ! Sir, my time is your own. 

Hard Your Grace is the head of a house whose fame is a part of our 

* A play Tipon ■words plagiarised from Farquh:ir. The reader must regret that 
the author had not the courage to plagiarize more from Farquhar. 



4G NOT so iSAD AS ^\i■: sEi;ii. [aci v. 

liistory ; it is therefore tliat I speak to yon boldly, since it may be that 
wronii;s were inflicted by one of its members 

Duke. How, sir ! 

Hard. Assured tliat if so (and should it be still in your power\ your 
Ordce will frankly repair them, as a duty you took with the ermine and 
coronet. 

Duke. You speak well, sir. {asidf) Very uiuch like a gentleman ! 

Hard. Your Grace liad a brother, Lord Henry de Mowbray. 

Duke. Ah ! Sir, to the point. 

Hard. At once, my Lord Duke. Many years ago a duel took place 
between Lord Heniy and Sir Geoffrey Morland — your Grace knows the 
cause. 

Duke. Hem ! yes ; a lady — who — who 

Hard. AVas bani.shed her husband's home and her infant's cradle on 
account of suspicions based, my Lord Duke, on — what your Grace can- 
not, wonder that the husband believed — the word of a Mowbray ! 

Duke (ffs?We). Villain ! {aloud) But what became of the husband, never 
since heard of ? He 

Hard. Fled abroad from men's tongues and dishonor. He did not 
return to his native land till he had changed for another the name that 
a iMowbray had blighted. Unhappy man ! he still lives. 

Duke. And the lady — the lady 

Hap.d. Before the duel had pone to the house of her father, who v>-as^ 
forced that very day to fly Uie country. His life was in danger. 

Duke. How ? 

Hard. He was loyal to the Stuarts, and — a plot was discovered. 

Duke. Brave, noble gentleman ! Go on, sir. 

Hard. Her other ties wrenched from her, his dauahter went with him 
into exile — his stay, his hope, his all. His lands were confiscated. Sho 
was hi2h-born ; she worked for a father's bread. Conceive your.self, 
my Lord Duke, in the place of that father — loyal and penniless ; noble; 
proscribed ; dependent on the toils of a daughter; and that daughter'y 
name sullied by 

Duke A word ? 

Hard. From the son of that house to which all the chivalry of Eng- 
land looked for example. 

Duke, [aside). Oh, Heaven ! can my glory thus be turned to my 
shame .' [aloud) But they said she had died, sir. 

Hard. When her father had gone to the jirave, she herself spread or 
sanctioned that rumor — for she resolved to die to the world. She en- 
tered a convent, prepared to tal<e the noviciate — when she suddenly 
learned that a person had been inquiiing for lier at Paris, who slated 
that Lord Henry de Mowbray had left behind him a Memoir 

Duke. Ah ! 

Hard. Which acquits her. She learned, too, the clue to her husband 
— resolved to come hither — arrived six days since. No proof of her 
innocence save those for which I now appeal to your Giace ! 

Duke {aside). pride, be my succor ! [aloud, han(jhtily) Appeal to me, 
sir — and wherefore '! 

Hard. The sole evidence alleged against this lady are the fact of a 
letter sent from herself to Lord Henry, and the boast of a man now no 
niore. She asserts that that letter would establish her innocence. She 
believes that, on his deathbed, your brother retracted his boast, and 
that the Memoir he left will atte-t to its falsehood. 
Duke. Asserts — believes! — goon — go on. 

Hard. No, my Lord Duke, I have done. 1 know that that letter, 
that Memoir exists ; that they are now in your hands. If her asseition 



ACT Y.") NuT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. 47 

be .also — if tliey prove not lier innocence — a word, nay, a sign, from the 
chief of a lionse so renowned for its honor, suffices. I take my leave, 
and coiulemn her. But if her story be true, you luive lieard the last 
chance of a wife and a mother to be restored to the husband she loves 
and forgives, to Ihe child who has grown into womanhood remote from 
her care ; und these blessings I pledged her by my faith to obtain if 
(hat letter, that Memoir, should prove that the bo.st was 

Duke. A lie, sir, a lie, a black lie ! — the coward's worst crime — a lie 
on the fair name of a woman ! Sir, this heat, perliaps, is unseemly ; 
thus to brand my own brother! But if we, the peers of England, and 
the representatives of lier gentlemen, can hear, can tlnnk, of vile things 
(lone, wlioever the doer, with calm pulse and cold heart — perish our 
titles ; wliere would be the use of a Dulie 1 

Hard, {aside). A very bright side of his character. 

DuKK. Sir, you are right. T;.e Memoir you spealv of is in my liands. 
and with it. Lady Morland's own letter. i\Iucli in that Memoir relates 
to myself; and'so galls all the pride I am said to possess, that not teji 
minutes since metliought I had rather my duchy were forfeit than have 
exposed its contents to tlie pity or laugh of a stranger. I tliink no more 
of myself. A woman has apjiealed for her name to mine honor as a 
man. Now, sir, your commands. 

Hard. No passage is needed, save that which acquits Lady ]\Ior!and. 
Let the Memoir still rest in your hands. Condescend but to bring it 
forthwitli to my liouse ; and may 1 liope that my Lord Loftuy may ac- 
company you — lliere is an affair of moment on which 1 would speak to 
you both. 

Duke. Your address, sir. (llkB.-DUk's gives him card] I will but return 
home for the documents and proceed at once to your house. Hurry 
not; I will wait. Allow me to take your hand, sir. Yon know how to 
speali to the heart of a gentleman. {Exit, r. 1 e. 

Hard. Yet how ignoiant we are of men's hearts till we see them 
lit up by a pas.sion ! This noble has made what is honor so clear to my 
eyes. Let me j)ausc — let me think — let me clioose ! I feel as if I stood 
at the crisis of life. 

Enter Softhead, l. 1 e. 

Soft, {aside). What have I seen? Wheiecol Whom consult 1 {sees 
Hardman) Oh, Mr. Hardman ! You're a friend of Lord Wilmot's, of 
Sir Geofi'rey's, of Lucy's V 

Hard. Speali — quick — to the lutrpose. 

Soft. On my way to Sir GeoflVey's, I passed by a house of llie m"st 
villainous character, [aside) I dare not say how Wilmot himself has de- 
scribed it. {aloud, earnestly) Oh, fir, you know AVilmot ! you know liis 
sentiments on marriage. I saw Wilmot and Lucy Thornside enter that 
infamous house — -Deadman's Lane ! 

Hard, {rsidc). Deadman's Lane y He takes her to the arms of her 
mother! forestalls my own plan, will reap my reward. Have 1 schemed, 
then, for him ? — No, by yon heavens ! 

Soft. 1 ran on to Sir Geoffrey's — he was out. 

Hard, {ivho has been writing in his tablets, tears out a jjage) Take this to 
Justice Kite's, hard by; he v/i'l send two special officers, placed at the 
door, Deadman's Lane, to wait my instructions. They must go instantly 
— arrive as socm as myself Then hasten to Mr. Easy's ; Sir Geoffiey is 
there. Break your news with precaution, and bring him straight to 
that house. Leave the rest to my care. Away with you, quick. 



48 NOT so BAD AS WK SEEM. [aCT V. 

Soft. I know lie will kill lue ! But I'm right. And when I'm right 
— Dimidum mcai! [Exit, r. 1 e. 

Hard. Ho 1 lio ! It is war! My choice is made. I am armed at all 
points, and strike for the victory. [Exit, l. 1 e. 

SCENE II. — Apartment in the house, Beadmcui's Lane. 

Lucy and Lady Ellixor discovered steated r. of table, Wilmot l. 

Lady E. And you believe me? Dear child — this indeed is happiness. 
Ah ! It your cruel father 

Lucy. Hush — he will believe you, too. 

Lady E. No ; I could not venture into his presence without the proof 
that he had wrunired me. 

WiL. {ris'riff). Oil, that I had known before what interest you had in 
this Memoir ! — how can I reCk)ver it from the Duke 7 

Lucy {rising and approacliiiig him). You will -you must — dear — dear 
Lord WiluiOt — you have restored me to my mother; restore ray mother 
to her home, [clasps his hand.) 

WiL. Ah — and this hand — would you withdraw it then 1 

Lucy. Never from him who reunites my parents. 

Lady E. {rising). Ha '— ^a voice without — steps ! 

AViL. If it should bo Sir Geoffrey — in some rash violence he might — 
Retire — quick — quicU. 

[Exeunt Lady Ellixor and Lucy in the inner room. 

Enter Hardmax, l. 3 e. 

Hard. Alone ! Where is Lucy, my Lord ? 

WiL. In the next room with 

Hard. Her mother? 

WiL. What! you know? 

Hard. I know tliat between us two there is a strife, and I am come 
to decide it ; you love Lucy Thornside 

WiL. Well ! I told you so. 

Hard. You told it my Lord, to a rival. Ay, smile. You have 
wealth, rank, fashion, and wit; I have none of Llie.se, and I need them 
not. But I say to you, {taking ont tvatch and looking at it) that eie the 
hand on this dial moves to that near point in time, your love will be 
hopeless and your suit be withdrawn. 

WiL. The man's mad. Uidess, sir, you wish me to believe that my 
life hangs on your sword, I cannot quite comprehend wliy my love 
sliould go by your walcli. 

Haud. 1 command you, Lord Wilmot, to change this tone of levity ; 
I command it in the name of a life nh'.cli, I think, you prize more than 
your own — a life that is now in my hands. You told me to sound your 
fatiier. I have not done so — I have detected 

VViL. Detected! Hold, sir ! that word implies crime 

Hard. Ay, the crime of the great. History calls it Zeal. Law styles 
it High Tkeason. 

WiL. What do I hear 1 Heavens ! — my father ! Sir, your word Is no 
proof 1 

Hard. But this is 1 {producing the Requisition to the Pretender) 'Tis 
high treason, conspiring to levy arms against the Kinti on tlie throne — 
here called the Usur|)er. High tieason to promise to greet with banner 
and trump a pretender — here called Jam?s the Third. Such is the 
purport of the paper I hold — and here is the name of your father. 



ACr V.J NOT so BAD AS WK SEEM. 49 

WiL. {aside). Both are anue-1 and alone, {locks the outer door hy which he 
is standing.) 

HARD.'(«s;rff). So, I guess bis intention, [crosses (o r., and opetis the 
tvindow and looks out) Good, the officers are come. 

WiL. What the law calls high treason I know not; what the honest 
call treason I know. Traitor/thou who hast used the confidence of a 
son against the life of a father, thou shalt not qiiit, these walls with that 
life in" thy grasp — yield tiie proof thou hast plundered or forged, {seizes 
him.) 

Hard. 'St! the officers of justice are below; loose thine hold, or the 
life thou demnndest falls from these hands into theirs. 

WiL. {recoilmg) Foiled ! Foiled ! How act ! what do 1 And thy 
son set yon bloodliound on thy track, my father ! Sir, you are my 
rival ; 1 guess the terms you now come to impose ! 

Hard. I impose no term.?. What needs the demand 1 Have you an 
option 1 I think better of you. We both love the sama woman; I 
have loved her a year, you a week ; you have her fathers dislike, I his 
consent. One must ybld— why should H Rule son of the people 
though I be, why must 1 be thrust from the sunshine because you cross 
my path as the fair and the high-born 1 What have I owed to your or- 
der or you 1 

WiL. To me, sir? Well, if to me you owed some slight favor, I 
should scorn at this moment to speak it. 

Hard 1 owe favor, the slightest, to no man ; 'tis ray boast. Listen 
still, I schemed to save your father, not to injure. Had you rather this 
scroll had fallen into the hands of a spy 1 And now, if I place it in 
yours— save your name from attainder, your fortunes from confiscation, 
your father from the axe of tjie headsman — why should I ask terms'? 
Would it be possible for you lo say, " Sir, 1 thank you; and in return I 
would do my best to rob your life of the woman you love, and whom 1 
have just known a week ?" Could you, peer's son, and gentleman, thus 
leply— when, if I know aught of this e rand people of England, not a 
mechanic who walks thro' yon streets, from the loom to the hovel, but 
what would cry "Sliame!" on such answer 1 

WiL. Sir, I cannot argue with, I cannot rival the man who has my 
father's life at his will, whether to offer it as a barter, or to yield it as a 
boon. Either way. rivalry between us is henceforth impossible. Fear 
mine no more ! Give me the scroll — I depart. 

Haud. {aside). His manliness moves me! (a^Mf^)Nay, let me pray 
your permission to give it myself to your father, and with such words as 
will save him, and others whose names are hereto attached, from such 
perilous hazards in future. 

WiL. In this, too, I fear that you leave me no choice; I must trust as 

I may to your honor ! but heed well if 

Hard. Menace not ; you doubt, then, my honor % 
WiL. {loith suppressed passion). Plainly, 1 do ; our characters differ. I 
had held myself dishonored for ever if our positions had been reversed 

if I had taken such confidence as was placed in you — concealed the 

i-ivalry — prepared the scheme— timed the moment — forced the condition 
in the guise of benefit. No, sir, no; that may be talent, it is not honor. 
Hard, {aside). This stings! scornful fool that he is, not to see that I 
was half relenting. And now I feel but the foe ! How sting asain ? 1 
will summon him" back to witness himself my triumph, {aioud) Stny, my 
Lord ! [writing at the table) You doubt that I should yield up the docu- 
ment to your fithsr? Bring him hither at once! He is now at my 
house with the Duke of Middlesex ; pray them both to come here, and 
give this note to the Duke, {tvith a smile) You will do it, my Lord i 



50 NOT SO BAD AS AVE SEEM. [aCT V. 

WiL. Ay, indeed — and when my father is safe, I will try to think that 
I wronged you. (aside)' A:\d not one partini? word to — to — 'Sdeath — I 
am unmanned. Show such emotion to him — No, no ! And if I cannot 
watch over that gentle life, why, tiie angels will ! {aloud, as he unlocks the 
door) I — I go, sir — fulfill the compact ; 1 have paid the price. 

[Exit, L. D. 

Hard. He loves her more than I thought for. But she 1 Does she 
love him ? {ffoes to the door at back) Mistress Lucy ! {leads forth Lucy, d.f.) 

Lucy. Lord Wilmot gone ! 

Hard. Nay, speak not of him. If ever he hoped that your father 
could have overcome a repugnance to his suit, he is now compelled to 
resign that hope, and for ever. (Lucy turns aside, and weeps quietlij) Let 
us speak of your parents — y<iur mother 

Lucy. •, yes — my dear mother — I so love her already. 

Hard. You have heard her tale ! Would you restore her, no blot on 
her nam.', to the hearth of your father 1 

Lucy. Speak ! — speak ! — can it be so % 

Hard. If it cost you some sacrifice ] 

Lucy. Life has none for an object thus holy. 

Hakd. Hear, and decide. It is the wish of your father that I should 
ask for this hand 

Lucy. No ! — no ! 

Haud. Is the sacrifice so hard ] Wait and lie.ir the atonement. You 
come from the stolen embrace of a mother; I will make that mother 
the pride of your home. You have yearned for the love of a father ; I 
will break down the wall between yourself and his heart — I will dispel 
all the clouds that have darkened his life. 

Lucy. You will ? — you wiily blessiqgs ui)on you. 

Hard. Those blessings tiiis hand can confer ! 

Lucy. Bat — but — the heart— the heart — thatdoQS, not go with the hand. 

Hard. Later it will. I only pray for a trial. I ask but to conquer 
that heart, not to break it. Your father will soon be here — every mo- 
ment I expect him. He comes in the full force of suspicion — deeming 
you lured here by Wilmot — fearing (pardon the vile word) your dis- 
honor. How explain V You ca-inot speak of your mother till I first 
provu> her guiltless. Could they meet till I do, words would pass that 
would make even union hereafter too bitter to hei- pride as a woman. 
Give me the power at once to destroy suspicion, remove fear, delay 
other explanations. Let me speak — let me act as your betrothed, your 
accepted. Hark! voices below — your father comes! I have no time 
' to plead ; excuse what is harsh — seems ungenerous 

Sir Geof. {iviihoul, l.). Out of my way ! — loose my sword ! 

Lucy. Oh, save my mother ! Let him not see my m'>;lier ! 

Hard. Grant me this trial — pledge this hand now — retract hereafter 
if you will. Your mother's name — your parents' reunion ! Ay or no ! 
— will you pledge it ? 

Lucy. Can you doubt their child's answer? I pledge it! 

Enter Sir Geoffrky, l. d., strnjf/liiij from Easy, Softhead, and 
Baudara. 

Sir Geof. Where is he 1 where is this villain 1 let me get at him I 
What, what ! gone 1 {fallinff on UAnmiAn's breast) Oh, Hardman! You 
came, you c.ime ! I dare not look at her yet. Is she saved 1 

Hard. Your daughter is innocent in thought, as in dcd — 1 speak in 
the name of the rights she has given me ; you permitted me to ask for 
her hand, and here she has pledged it ! 



ACT v.] KOT SO B\D AS WE SEEM. 51 

Sir Geof. {embrachig her). ray child ! my child ! I never called you 
that name before. Did I ? Hush 1 I know now Uiat thou art my child 
— know it by my anguish— know it by my joy. Who could wring tVom 
me tears liketheje but a child? 

Easy. But how is it all, Mr. Hardman ? you know everything ! That 
fool Softhead, with his cock-and-bull story, frightened us out of our wits. 

Soft. That's the thanks I get! How is it all, Mr Hardman ? 

Si ft Geof. Ugh, what so clear ? He came here — he saved her! My 
child was grateful. Approach, Hardman, near, near. Forgive me if 
your cliildhood was lonely ; forgive me if you seemed so unfriended. 
Your father made me promise that you should not know the temptations 
that he thought had corrupted himself — should not know of my favors, 
to be galled by what he called my suspicions — should not feel the yoke 
of dependence";— should believe tliat you forced your own way through 
the world — till it was made. Now it is so. Ah, not in vain did I par- 
don him his wrongs aaainst me; not in vain fulfill that sad promise 
which gave a smile to his lips in dying; not in vain have I bestowed 
benefits on you. You have saved— 1 know it — I feel \\. — saved from in- 
famy — my child. 

Lucy. Hush, sir, hush ! {throivs herself into Barbara's cirms.) 

Hard. My father 1 Benefits! You" smiie, Mr. Easy. What means 
he 7 No man on this earth ever bestowed benefits on me I 

Easy. Ha I ha! ha! Nay, excuse me; but when I think that that's 
said by a clever fellow like you — ha! ha ! — ihe jest is too good ; as if 
any one ever drove a coach through this world but what some other one 
built the carriage, or harnessed the horses ! Why, who jiave you the 
education that helped to make you what you are '( Who slyly paid Ton- 
son, the publisher, to bring out the work that first raised you into no- 
tice 'i Who sent you the broker with the tale of the South Sea Scheme .' 
From whose purse came the sum that boujlit your annuity y Whose 
land does the annuity burthen ? Who told Fleece'em, the boroush- 
monger, to offer you a seat in Parliament? Who paid for the election 
that did not cost you a shilling ? — who, but my suspicious, ill-temjiered, 
good-hearced fii^nd there ? And you are the son of his foster-brother, 
tiie man who first wro.iged and betrayed him ! 

Soft. And this is the gentleman who knows evei ybody and evcry- 
thiniz I Did not even know his own father! La! Vv'hy, he's been quite 
a take-in ! Ha ! ha ! 

Easy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hard. And all the while I thought I was standing apart from others 
— needing none ; served by none ; masterina men ; moulding them — 
the man whom my father had wronged went before me with noiseless 
beneficence, and opened my path through the mountain 1 fancied this 
right hand had he.vn ! 

Sir Geof. Tut! I did but level the ground; till you were strong 
eno' to rise of yourself; 1 did not give you the post that you named with 
so manly a i)ride ; / did not raise you to the councils of your country as 
the " equal of all !" 

Soft. No ! for that you'll thank Fred. He bribed the Prime Minister 
with his favorite Murillo. He said you wanted the post to win the Iddy 
you loved. Dimidum mci - I think you might have told him what lady it 
was. 

Hard. So ! Wilmot ! It needed but this ! 

Easy. Pooh, Mr. Softhead ! Sir Geoffrey would never consent to a 
lord. Quite right. Practical, steady fellow is Mr. Hardman ; and as to 
his father, a disreputable connection — quite ri^ht not to know him ! All 
you want, Geoflfrey, i.s to secure Lucy's happiness. 



L. D. 



52 NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM. [aCT T. 

Sir GiiOF. All ! That, now, is his charge. 

Hard. I accept it. But first 1 secure yours, my benefactor ! This 
house, in which you feared to meet infamy, is the home of sorrow and 
virtue ; the home of a wumaii unsullied, but slandered — of her who, lov- 
ing you still, followed your footsteps ; watched you night and day from 
yon windows ; sent you those flowers, the tokens of innocence and 
youth ; in romance, it is true — the romance only known to a woman — the 
romance only known to the pure ! Lord Wilmot is guiltless ! lie led 
your child to the arras of a mother. 

Sir Geof. Silence him! — silence him ! — 'tis a snare! I retract! He 
shall not have this girl ! Her house 1 Do I breathe the same air as the 
woman so loved and so faithless 1 

LacY. Pity, for my mother ! No, no ; justice for her ! Pity for yourself 
and lor me ! 

SiK Geof. Come away, or you shall not be ray child, I'll disown you. 
That man speaks 

Enter Wilmot, Duke, with portfolio eciid papers, and Lord Loftus, 

Hard. I speak, and I prove, {(o the Duke) The Memoirs, {rjlancitig 
over tlieni) Here is the very letter that the menial informed you your 
■wife sent to Lord Henry. Read i(, and judge if such scorn would not 
goad such a man to revenge. What revenge could he wield ] Why, a 
boast ! 

Sir Geof. {reading). The date of the very day that he boasted. Ha, 
brave words ! proud heart! I suspect! — I suspect ! 

H.\RD. Lord Henry's confession. It was writ on his deathbed. 

LoF. 'Tis his hand. I attest it. 

Duke. I, too, John, Duke of Middlesex. 

Sir Geof. (who has been reading the confession^. Heaven forgive me ! 
C,a.nshe? The flowers ; the figures ; the — How blind I've been ! Where 
i-i she'? where is she ? You said she was here ! (Lady 'Ei.^.i'so'b. ajjpvars at 
p. f.) Eliinor ! Ellinor I to ray arms — to my heart — 0, my wife I Par- 
(..on ! Pardon ! {embracing her rapturously.) 

Lady E. Nay, all was forgiven when I once more embraced our child. 

Hard, (to Loftus and Duke). My Lord, destroy this Requisition ! 
When you signed it, you doubtless believed that the Prince you would 
serve was of the Church of your Proiestant fathers'? You are safe 
evermore ; for your honor is freed. Tlie Prince has retired to Rome, 
and abjured your faith. I will convince you of this later. (Duke aiid 
Softhead continue to shun each other with mutual apprehension.) 

Easy (to Wilmot). Glad to find you are not so bad as you seemed, 
my Lord; and now that Lucy is engaged to Mr. Hardman 

iViL. Enaaged already ! {c(side) So ! he asked me here to insult me 
with his triumph ! [aloud) Well ! 

Hard. Lucy, your i)arents are united — my promise fulfilled ; permit 
me — (takes her hand) Sir Geoffrey, the son of him who so wronaed you, 
and whose wrongs you pardoned, now reminds you, that he is entrusted 
with tlie charge to ensure the happiness of your child ! Behold the man 
of her choice, and take from his presence your own cure of distrust. 
With his faults on the surface, and with no fault that is worse than that 
of concealing his virtues; — Here she loves and is loved ! And thus I 
discharge the trust, and ensure the happiness I {ta/as Lucy's hand and 
places it in Wilmot 's.) 

Sir Gkof. How 1 

Lady E. It is true — do you not read in her bUisIi the secret of her 
heart ? 



ACT v.] NOr so BAD AS AVE SEEM. 53 

WiL. How can I nccept at the price of 

Hard. Hush ! For tlie third time to-day, you have but one option. 
You cannot affect to be generous to me at the cost of a heart all your 
own Take your riyht. Come, my Lord, lest 1 tell all the world how 
you bribed the Prime Minister. 

Soft, {who has /alien Easy aside). But, indeed, Mr. Easy, I reform ; 
I repent. Mr. Hardman will have a bride in the country — let me have 
a bride in the city. After ail, 1 was not such a very bad monster. 

Easy. Pooh ! Wou't hear of it ! Want to marry only just to mimic 
my Lord. 

Bar. Dear Lord Wilmi>t; do say a good word for us. 

Easy. No, sir ; no ! Your bead's been turned by a lord. 

WiL. Not the first man whose head has been turned by a lord, with 
the help of the Duke of Burgundy — eh, Mr. Easy 1 111 just appeal to 
Sir Geoffrey. 

Easy. No — no— hold your tongue, my Lord. 

VViL. And y< u insisted upon giving your daughter to Mr. Softhead ; 
forctid Ijer upon him. 

Easy. I — never ! When 1 

WiL. Last Jiialit, when you were chaired member for the City of 
London. I'll just explain the case to Sir Geoffrey 

Easy. Confound it — liold — hold! You like this young reprobate, 
Barbara "? 

Bak. Dear papa, his health is so delicate. I should like to take care 
of him. 

Easy. There go, and take care of each other. Ha ! ha ! I suppose 
it io all for the best. 

DgiCE fakes forth, and puts on, his spectacles ; examines Softhead eurioushj 

— is convinced that he is human, approaches, and offers his hand, which 

Softhead, emboldened by Bakbara, though not without misgivings, 

accepts — the Dukk shakes h's hand — does the same with Barbara, and 

passes to the left tvhere Lord Loftvs Joins him. 

A great deal of dry stuff, called philosophy, is written about life. But 
the grand thing is' to take it coolly, and have a good-humored indul- 
gence 

AViL. For the force of exam[)le, Mr. Easy, {boiving to him.) 

Soft. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

WiL. For the follies of fashion, and the crimes of monsters like my- 
self, and that terrible Softhead! 

SiuGeof. Ha! ha! 

Hard. You see, my dear Wilmot, many sides to a character ! 

WiL. Plague on it, yes ! But get at them all, and we're not so bad 
as we seem ' 

Soft. No, Fred, not quite so bad. 

WiL. Taking us as we stand — Altogether ! 

Position of Characters. 

Wilmot and Lucy. Haedmax. Softhead and Barbara. 

Sir Geoffrey and Lady Ellinor. Easy. Duke and Lord Loftus. 

CURTAm. 



64 ^ NOT so BAD AS WU SEEM. 

"DAVID FALLEN IS DEAD!'' 

OE, A KEr TO THE PLAY. 

(an after scene by way of an epilogue.) 
[Intended to have been spoken by the Original Amateur Performers. 



SCENE. — Wilmot's Apartment. Wilmot, Sir Geoffrey, Softhead, 
. Easy, and Hardman, seated at a table. Wine, fruits, etc. 

WiL. Pass the wine — what's the news 1 

Easy. Funds have risen to-day. 

Sir Geof. I suspect it will rain. 

Easy. Well, I've got in my hay. 

Hakd. David Fallen is dead ! 

Om.xes. David Fallen ! 

WiL. Poor fellow ! 

Sir Geof. I should like to have seen him ! 

Soft. 1 saw him ! So yellow ! 

Hard. Your annuity killed him! 

WiL. How 1 — how ? to the point. 

Hakd. By the shock on his nerves — at the sight of a joint. 

A very great genius 

Easy. I own — now he's dead, 

That a writer more charming 

WiL. Was never worse fed I 

Hai;d. His country was grateful 

Soft, (surprised). He looked very shabby I 

Hard. His bonei 

Soft. You might count them ! 

Hard. Repose in the Abbey! 

Soft, {after a stare of astonishment). So that is the way that a country is 
grateful ! 

Ere his nerves grew so weak — if she'd sent him a plateful. 
Easy (hastily producing a long paper). My Taxes ! 

Your notions are perfectly hateful ! {pause. Evident feeling that 
there's no getting over Mr. Easy's ^(yj«'.) 
WiL Pope's epigram stung him. 

Hard. Yes, Pope has a sting. 

WiL But who writes the epitaph 1 

Hakd. Pope; a sweet thing ! 

WiL. 'Gad, if I were an author, I'd rather, instead, 

Have the epitaph living — the epigram dead. 

If Pope had but just reconsidered that matter, 

Poor David 

Soft. Had gone to the Abbey mucli fatter ! 

Easy. He was rather a scamp ! 

AViL. Put yourself in his place. 



NOT SO Bad as we seem. 



55 



East {^horror-strueh). Heaven forbid ! 

Hard. Let, iis deem him tlie Last of a Race ! 

Sill Geof. But the. race that succeeds maj' have hltle more pelt'. 
Hard. Ay ; and trials as sliarj). I'm an author myself. 

But tlie remedy 1 Wherefore shouhl auihors not buikl 

Easy. An almshouse ? 

Hard. No, merchant, their own nohle guild ! 

Some fortress for youth in the battle for fame ; 

Some shelter that Age is not humbled to claim ; 

Some roof from the storm for the Pilgrim of Knowledge. 
WiL. Not unlike what our ancestors meant by — a College ; 

Where teacher and student alike the subscriber, 

Untaxing the Patron 

Easy. The State ' 

Hard. Or the briber 

WiL. The son of proud Learning shall knock at the door 

And cry This* is rich, and not whine That\ is poor. 
Hard. Oh right ! For these men govern earth from their graves — 

Shall the dead be as kings, and the living as slaves 1 
Easy. It is all their own fault — they so slave one another ; 

Not a son of proud Learning but knocks — down his brother ! 
WiL. Yes ! Other vocations, from Thames to the Border, 

Have some esp7-it de corps, and some pride in their order ; 

Lawj'ers, soldiers, and doctors, if quarrels do pass. 

Still soften their spite from respect to their class ; 

Why should auihors be spitting and scratching like tabbies. 

To leave but dry bones 

Soft. For those grateful cold Abbeys! 

Hard. AVorst side of their character ! 

WiL. True to the letter. 

Are their sides, then, so fat, we can't hit on a better ? 
Hard. Why — the sticks in the fable — ;)ur Guild bo the tether. 
Wifi. Ay; the thorns are rubbed off when the sticks cling together. 
Soft, [musingly). I could he — yes — I could hs a Pilgrim of Knowledge, 

If you'd change Deadman's Lane to a snug little College. 
StR Geof. Ugh ! stuff— it takes money a College to found. 
Easy. 1 will head the subscription myself — with a pound. 
Hard. Quite enough from a friend ; for we authors should feel 

We must put our own shoulders like men to the wheel. 

Be thrifty when thriving — take heed of the morrow 

Easy. And not get in debt 

Sir Geof. Whe:e the deuce could they borrow 1 

Hard. Let us think of a scheme. 

Easy. He is always so knowing. 

WiL. A scheme! 1 have got one ; the wheel's set a-going ! 

A play from one author. 

Hard. With authors for actor.s 

WiL. And some benefit nights 

Both. For the world's benefactors. 

Sir Geof. Who'll give you the play ? it will not be worth giving, 

Authors now are so bad ; always are while they'ie living ! 

Easy. Ah ! if Drivid Fallen, great genius, were he 

Omnss. Great genius! 

Hahd. A man whom all time shall revere ; 

Soft, (impatiently). But he's dead. 

* The head, t The pocket. 



56 NOT so BAD AS WE SEEM. 

Ojines. {luguhriouslij). He is dead ! 

Easy. The true Classical School, sir ! 

Ah ! could he como back ! 
WiL. He'll not be such a fool, sir. {taking 

Hardman aside, whispers.) 

We know of an author. 
Hard. {doubffuUij). Ye — s — s, David was brighter. 

Omnes. But he s dead ! 

Hard. This might do — as a live sort of writer. 

Easy. Alive ! that looks bad. 

Soft. Must we take a live man 1 

WiL. To oblige us he'll be, sir — as dead as he can ! 
Soft. Alive ; and will write, sir ? 
Hard. With pleasure, sir. 

Soft. Pleasure ! 

Hard. With less than your wit, he has more than your leisure. 

Coquettes with the Muse 

Sir Geof. Lucky dog to afford her ! 

WiL. Can we get his good side ? 

Hard. Yes, he's proud of his order. 

WiL. Then he'll do ! 

Sir Geof. As for wit — he has books on his shelves. 

Hard. Now the actors 1 

WiL. By Jove, we'll act it ourselves. (Omnes at first 

surprised into enthusiasm, succeeded by great consternation) 
Sib Geof. Ugh, not I ! 
Soft. ' Lord ha' mercy ! 

East. A plain, sober, steady 

WiL. I'll appeal to Sir Geoffrey. There's one caught already ! 

This suspicious old knight ; to his blind side direct us. 

Hard. Your part is to act 

WiL. True ; and his to suspect us. 

I rely upon you. 
Hard, [looking at his watch). Me ! I have not a minute ! 
WiL. If the play has a plot, he is sure to be in it. 

Come, Softhead I 
Soft. I won't. I'll go home to my mother. 

WiL. Pooh ! monsters like us always help one another. 
Sir Geof. I suspect you will act. 
Soft. Well, I've this consolation — 

Still to imitate one 

Hard. Who defies imitation. 

WiL. Let the public but favor the plan we have hit on, 

And we'll chair through all London — our Family Briton. 

Sir Geof. What i— what 1 Look at Easy I He's drunk, or I dream 

Easy {rising). The toast of the evening— Success to the Scheme. 

CUItTAJN. 



THE 

< DUCHESS DE LA YALLIERE, 



COP-nUGHT, 1875, BY ROBEEX M. De "WlTT. 



2 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Tlieab-p. Roi/al, Cnvent Park Theatre, New 
Garden, Lmithm, York, May 

Jan. 4, 1837. 13, 1837. 

Louis the Pourteenth, King of France . .Mr. Vandenhoff. Mr. Mason. 

The Duke de Lauzun Mr. W. Faeren. Mr. Chippendale. 

The Count de Gramraont Mr. Pkitchakd. Mr. Nixsen. 

The Marquia Alphonso de Bragelone 

(Betrothed to Louiae de la "Valliere)Mr. Maceeady, Mr. Fredericks. 

Bertrand (Armorer to the Marquis) Mr. Tilbury. Mr. Isheewood. 

Gentleman in Attendance Mr. Russell. 

First, Second, and Third Courtiers 

Maria Theresa, Queeon of France Mrs. Archer. 

Louise (afterwards Duchess) de la ValliereMiss Helen Faucit. Miss Ellen Tree. 

Madame de la Valliere (her mother) Mrs. yf. "We^t. Mrs. Wheatleigh. 

Madame de Montespan (Rival of the 

Duchess, and one of the King's 

Mi.stresses Miss Pelham. Mrs. Durie. 

First, Second, and Third Ladies of the 

Court and Maids of Honor to the 

Queen 

The Lady Ahbess (Superioress of the 

Convent of the Carmelites) 

Courtiers, Gentleman of the Chamber, Priests, Nuns, Ladies, Maids of Hoiior, etc. 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS AND THIRTY MINUTES. 



SCENE. — The Chateau de la Valliere some leagues from Paris ; the Palaces of 
Fontainebleau and Versailles ; and the Convent of the Carmelites in the vicinity of 
the Chateau. 



PERIOD— 1672-1674. 



SCENERY. 

ACT I,, Seme /.—The Chateau de la Valliere and Convent of the Carmelites in 
the distance. In a slanting direction, l., the entrance and a part of the buildings 
of an old Chateau ; the back scene represents woods and vineyards, and through the 
openings a river. The turrets of the Carmelite Convent are seen at the back, e., in 
the distance. 

Scen& //.—Armory in the Castle of Bragelone. The flats in the second grooves 
represent heavy grained stone archways and pillars, upon which appear to be hang- 
ing various pieces of armor and different weapons. 

Scene ///.—Antechamber in the Palace of Foutainebleau. The flats in the sec- 
ond grooves represent the interior of a rich apartment. 

Scene /F.— Gardens of the Palace of Fontainebleau. The stage is thrown open to 
the full extent ; the wings represent branches ot trees hung with colored lamps- 
vases of flowers on pedestals are placed, at pleasure, about the stage ; the flats rep- 
resent in perspective a continuation of the gardens, with fountains. In the centre, 
at the upper part of the stage, a large pavilion, with gilded pillars and dome with 
trellis-work. It is made to open out, and when open there is seen inside a figure 
representing the Goddess of Fortune with'an illuminated wheel at her feet— at either 
side of her a gilt vase, over which preside two figures emblematical of Merit and 
Honor. 

ACT 11; Scene /.—Gardens of the Palace of Fontainebleau. The flats in the third 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLll!;RE. o 

grooves represent, in perspective, beautiful gardens, fountains, statuary, etc. The 
wings in the second grooves project some distance on the stage, and are cut repre- 
senting slender trees entwining. A rustic bench in a slanting position, l. 2 e. 

Scene 7/.— Cabinet of the King at Fontainebieau. The flats in the fourth grooves 
represent a richly decorated aparlment. An antique table, c, far back so as to al- 
low of the next scene closing in— papers and writing materials ou the table— chairs 
B. and I . of table. 

Sc'.ne ///.—Cloisters of a Convent. The flats representing heavy stone walls close 
in on the third grooves. Long windows, through which flashes of lightning are 
seen. 

ACT ni, Scene I. — Antechamber in the Palace of the Duchess de la Valliere at 
Versailles. The flats in the second grooves represent the interior of a handsome 
apartment. 

Scene II. — Saloon in the King's Palace. The flats in the fourth grooves represent 
a magnificently decorated room. An arched entrance, c, with rich heavy curtains. 
Doors R. 2 E. and l. 2 e. A richly-gilded table, r., with chess-board and pieces- 
chairs to match n. and l. of table. Another table, l., with writing materials upon 
it, and two chairs. A candelabra lighted upon each table. 

Scene III. — The Gardens of Versailles. The flats as in Act II., Scene I., placed 
in the second grooves. 

/Sc£?ie /r.— Grand Saloon in the Palace of Versailles. The flats in the fourth 
grooves i-epresent a magnificent apartment; a large archway, c, beyond which, rep- 
resented in perspective, a suite of apartments of similar style. 

ACTir., Scene /.—The Gardens at Versailles. The flats, as in Act II., Scene I., 
placed in the second grooves. 

Scene //.—Private apartment in the Palace of the Duchess de la Valliere. A 
richly-decorated saloon ; the flats in the fourth grooves. Folding doors c. Doors 
li. 3 K. and r, 3 e. Small gilt tables and chairs b. and l., opposite the doors. 

ACT v., Scene I. — The Gardens at Versailles. Same as Act IV., Scene I., but in 
the front grooves. 

Scene II. — The old Chateau de la Valliere. The same as Act I., Scene I. 

Scene III. — Exterior of the Convent of the Carmelites. The flats in the second 
grooves represent the Gothic entrance of the Convent. Massive doors, c, partially 
open. AVindows illumined k. and l. 

Scene /F.- Interior of the Chapel of the Carmelite Convent. The whole stage is 
thrown open, and represents the pillared and vaulted aisles of a Gothic chapel. In 
the centre at the back appears the altar, with raised steps approaching to it, fitted 
up in a gorgeous manner with figures, etc., lit up with tapers ; from the arched roof 
hang down lights ; priests and officials walk to and fro swinging censers. 



FROPERTIES. 

ACT I., Scene 1.— Bell to sound for vespers. Scene 2.— 'Long and heavy sword for 
Bertkand ; letter for servant ; bugle. ,Scene 4. —Various jewels and rich orna- 
ments', a heavy diamond bracelet ; vases, flowers, and pedestals ; colored lamps. 

A CT II., Scene 1. — Rustic bench ; miniature handsomely set with jewels. Scene 2. — 
An antique table and two chairs ; papers and writing materials. Folded parch- 
ment for the King. Scene 3.— Tolling bell ; trumpet ; thunder ; lightning. 

ACT III., Scene 1.— Two richly-gilded tables and four chairs; chess-board and 
pieces; two candelabras, lighted ; writing materials; letter. Scene 4,— Folded 
parchment for memorial. 

A CT IV., Scene 1. — Two small gilt tables ; four chairs ; faded scarf for Bbagklone ; 
golden goblet and salver. 

ACT v., Scene 2.— Bell for vespers ; glove for Duchess. Scene 3.— Letter for Lau- 
zus. Scene 4. — Organ ; swinging censers with incense ; lights suspended along 
the aisle, and tapers placed on and about the altar. 



4 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAUGIEKE. 

COSTUMES. 
Compiled expressly -for this Edilion from the best French authorities. 

Loms. — A richly-embroidered purple velvet loose waistcoat, or jacket body without 
sleeves, fastened at the throat and loose downwards ; rich lace collar, lull lawn 
shirt, sleeves puffed with purple ribbons and finished with lace ruffles ; a short 
skirt of purple velvet, with embroidery and lace fringed at the bottom ; full leg- 
gings of black silk ; high-heeled shoes ; bands of purple satin ribbon gartered 
round the knees, with rosettes or drooping ends, and bows or rosettes on shoes. 
Auburn colored hair in long ringlets. A richly-embroidereil sash from the left 
shoulder to below the right hip, from which hangs a rich court sword in an al- 
most horizontal position. Broad hat with feathers on either side. The Order 
of Saint Esprit •on left breast. An embroidered overcloak trimmed with ermine 
in Act 2, Scene 3, and in Act 5. 

Lauzun. — Short velvet coat (any color), with embroidered cuffs, rich lace ruffles and 
collar, with silk bows. Long curl wig. Hat wide, and partially looped up on 
one side, with feathers. A gold embroidered silk sash from the right shoulder 
to low down on the left hip, from which hangs a court sword in an almost hori- 
zontal position. Silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, with large silk bows. An 
overcloak in Act 2, Scene 3, and in Act b, Scene 3 and last Scene. 

De Grammom. — A Similar dress. 

Bbagelone. — Act 1: Suit of plain armor, consisting of coat of mail, with half 
sleeves, thigh pieces, and buff leather arm pieces, and leggings and garters with 
buff leather shoes, and spurs ; steel helmet, with vizor raised ; sword and cross- 
belt. Act 2, Scene 1 : Rich blue velvet coat embroidered with gold both back 
and front and round the cuffs, with large lace ruffles and collar. An under-skirt 
of silk. Full and loose half-breeches of silk, fastened at the knee with garters 
of colored silk and long ends or rosettes. Silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, 
with broad lappets or rosettes of silk. Long curl wig, and hat slightly looped 
up, with feathers. Richly embroidered sash, reaching across to left hip, and 
sword hanging almost horizontally. Act 4 : A monk's long gown of dark serge, 
fastened round the waist with a band of same material ; black stockings and 
sandals ; cowl to gown, and bald wig. 

Bertrand. — Buff leather jerkin and breeches; gaiters and high-heeled shoes, lace 
collar, waist-belt, and short wig. 

Gentleman. — A loose coat of velvet, embroidered, and reaching to the knees, with 
sleeves embroidered and looped with ribbons ; loose and full half-breeches, 
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with lappets or bows ; long curl wig. 

ConnriEBS.— Similar dresses to Lauzun and Bragelone, but not of such rich de- 
scription. The dresses should be varied, liowever, by some of them wearing 
silk tights and large deep lace ruffles round the knees. The hair in curls ; shoes 
and rosettes; swords. 

Priests. — Long and full black gown=, with tight sleeves, over which are suspended 
lawn robes, fastened at the neck, with large sleeves ; some of them we iring 
slightly embroiderpd or ornamental robes ; silk stockings and sandals ; full hair. 

Louise. — Ad 1, Scene 1 : Plain velvet bodice with lace up the front, loose sleeves, 
with muslin under sleeves ; long sweeping skirt. Sleeves and neck trimmed 
with lace; bracelets and necklace; hair in curls; low hat and feathers; rich 
silk scarf. Scene 4: A handsome velvet bodice with gold embroidery, trimmod 
at neck and sleeves with lace and ribbons ; long skirt of blue silk richly orna- 
mented with gold, embroidery and puffings of ribbons ; high-heeled sJioes and 
rosettes ; hair in curls. Act 2, .Scene 3 : A full cloak thrown over dress and fas- 
tened at the neck and waist with silk cords. Act 3, Scene 2 : Rich velvet bodice 
coming down in a peak in front and then sloping off on either side to form a 
train. The skirt portion edged round with puffs of amber silk ; the bodice is 
laced together in front with gold and silver cords ; short sleeves, half way be- 
tween shoulder and elbow, bound round with puffs of ribbon, and continued in 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 5 

loose white under sleeves of liiee, and rows of lace round the neck ; rich satin 
under skirt and train ; high-heeled shoes, and bows ; bracelets and necklace ; 
hair in long- curls ; hat with feather, when needed.* Act 5, S<:e?ie 2 : Similar 
dress to Act 1, Scene 1, with cloak as in Act 2. Scent 3 : Hat and feathers, and 
gloves. Scene 4 : Rich bridal costume of white satin bodice, full sleeves, skirt 
and train, trimmed with wreaths of flowers and rosettes round the head ; under 
skirt of white silk; high-heeled white leather sliots; followed, in the change, 
by a plain black loose robe, with white collar and cuffs, and the hair without 
any ornaments. 

The Queen.— a similar costume to the Ddchess, but varied in the color and ar- 
rangement, and more highly ornamented with a greater display of jewelry ; 
high-heeled shoes ; hair in curls. 

De Moktespan.— a similar costume, but varied during the play in each Act. A 
breast knot of colors in Act 3, and in the last Act a light overcloak, hat and 
feathers ; high-heeled shoes ; hair in curls. 

Madame de la Vallifre.— A full-bodied dark velvet dress, with short sleeves 
trimmed with lace, and lace round the neck ; velvet train, trimmed with rib- 
bons, and under skirt of dark silk ; high-heeled shoos ; fan ; hat and feathers. 

Ladies of the Court and Maids of IIoyoR.— Similar dresses in construction and 
arrangement to those previously described, but not of such rich material or so 
highly ornamented. All the ladies wear long curls, liigh-heeled shoes, and ro- 
settes, and in Act 3 breast-knots. 



STORY OF THE PLAY. 

Some years previous to the commencement of the play, Madame de la Vallidre 
had been left a widow by the untimely death of the Lord de Valliere in one of the 
battles which took place during the campaign between the French and the Dutch. 
One (laughter was the only offspring of the marrijge, and upon her was bestowed all 
that a mother's care and affection could provide. Beautiful, warm-hearted, and 
loving, it may easily be imigined how great was the treasure the widow possessed, 
and with what fear and trembling she received an intimation that the reigning sov- 
ereign, Louis the XIV., desired the presence of her daughter at court. Of the state 
of affairs at the period selected for .the incidents of the play, and of the character of 
Louis, a very good idea may be gathered from the " Remarks " which will be found 
hereafter. 

Occupying a time-honored chateau, Madame and Louise de la Valliere were happy 
and contented; and the latter had the additional happiness of a lover, Alphonse 
Marquis de Bragelone, one of the most noble and gallant knights of the period. 
When quite a stripling, he had bravely won his spurs, by saving De Valliere's stan- 
dard from the grasp of the enemy, and upon another occasion, he threw himself in 
front of the king, and received in liis breast a stab, in spite of his coat of mail, which 
would probably have terminated the monarch's life. Bragelone was one who never 
left debts unpaid, and he discharged this by cleaving in two the head of his assailant. 
His courage and skill gained him the friend-ship of his peers, and combined with his 
handsome and gallant bearing, the love and admiration of the softer sex ; it was 
not long, therefore, before he found great favor in the eyes of the beautiful Louise 
de la Valliere. 

True love, it is known, never runs smooth; the king's wish was law, and Louise 
was bound to go to the court. 

The play opens on the evening previous to her departure, when, accompanied by 
her mother, she is taking a parting view, perhaps forever, of the abode of childhood, 
youth, and innocence— naturally, tfie scene is an affecting and trying one ; the mother 

* The design of this dress is taken from an old painting of the Queen, Maria The- 
resa, but it is thought proper to adapt it to the Duchess, she being the co!;8picuous 
character of the play. 



G THE DXTCHESS DE LA YALLIEKE. 

lias every faith and confidence in ber cliild ; a firm belief, tliat by instinct she Tvill 
shrink from ■wrong; and that the thought of a parent's love, and the voice of a pure 
conscience, will guide I er safely through all temptations, even through those at that 
time existing in the giyest and most profligate court in Europe. Louise bids her 
look well after the jioor peasants, who will miss her in the winter, and hf-r birds, 
and then comes the germs of danger — the story of the visions she has frequently had 
of royalty, love, and ( mpii-e. The mother endeavors to convince her it is mere 
imagination, conjured up by lier father's stories, who, in lier early years, was always 
instilling into her mind the old knightly faith of Prance, " To honor God, and love, 
the king." Louise admits it might bo so, but thinks it strange to have had the dream 
so often. The arrival of her lover, Bragelone, prevents further dis-cussion. He, too, 
has been summoned away ; not to court, but to the wars, and he rejoices that when 
she is gone he will not be left behind, alone to haunt the spots tliey had so often 
sought together, and mourn her absence day after day. In warm language, he 
relates to her the story of liis love and its growth — the idolatry of his passion, and 
points out to her the vast diflierence between his own honest heart, that never 
wronged a friend or shunned a foe, and that of the courtiers she will meet, mere 
minions of the king; proud to the humble, servile to the great. With a strangely 
mingled Jeeling, that she does, and yet .she does not, love Bragelone, she binds her 
scarf across his coat of mail, and bids him farewell. 

In due course, she reaches the court, where her grace and beauty attract the admir- 
ation of all, of the king more especially. A letter from her mother, to Bragelone, 
informs him of all this, and he is so proud of her triumph, that he vows the king, 
tor the favor and praise he h is bestowed upon the idol of his love, shall find in him 
henceforward, a tenfold better soldier. Telling his joys to the old family armorer, 
Bertrand the faithful retainer is proud, indeed, to learn the secret of his master's 
love, and is half wild with glee, at the prospect of a marriage, and nursing upon his 
knee an infant likeness of his young lord. 

Otossip and scandal are not long, however, before they attack Louise. The sub- 
ject of her early visions are formed into reality by the gorgeous scenes surrounding 
her. When first beholding the king's portrait, young, gallant, and handsome as he 
is, a vague feeling of a wild, romantic fancy for him, not yet ripened into actual love, 
steals over her, and the passion becomes stronger when they meet. The courtiers, 
but more especially, the wily Duke de Lauzuu, are pleased with this. According 
to his views, the king must have a mistress, and by that mistress M must mount to 
fame and power. A brilliant fete which takes f lace in the gardens of the Fontaine- 
bleau palace, affords him an excellent opportunity of furthering his projects. In the 
confidence of the king, they converge freely, respecting Louise ; and in honeyed words, 
the Duke tells him of the court gossip. Louibe approaching, they draw aside, and 
overhear her describe to the adies of the court, in the most glowing language, her 
admiration of the king. The ladies retire, to join in the dance, and she is about to 
follow, when he intercepts her, and the Duke judiciously slips away. Thus left 
alone, the king, in passionate language, declares his love. A strong struggle rends her 
heart ; she implores him to unsay his words, and reminding him that she is but a 
poor, simple girl, who, though she loves her king, loves honor more, flies from his 
presence. Her coyness only increases the intensity of his passion, and another oppor- 
tunity is soon afforded him to further show her the ardor of his love. Amongst the 
varied amusements is one, the Temple of Fortune, presided over by Merit and Honor. 
Each person draws a ticket from tlie vase of Merit, and presenting it to Honor, 
receives in return some article of jewelry wliieh is presented to the presumed object 
of affection. The king draws a magnificent diamond bracelet, every eye is upon him, 
each lady hoping tobe the happy recipient of the royal favor ; quickly and gallantly 
he clasps it upon the arm of Louise, and the first step towards the path of sin is 
taken. • 

Strange rumors reach Bragelone, of the sudden advancement of Louise at court ; 
insinuations are strongly uttered that she is the king's chosen favorite, and although 
the young knight cannot bring himself to believe that it is needed, he determines to 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKKE. / 

Beek her; to warn, advise, protect, and, if required, to save lier. Arriving at Fon- 
tainebleau, in strollinsj tliroiigU the gai'dcns, lie encounters Lauzun, who relates to 
hira the gossip of the court, and throws out bro.id hints as to the chastity of Louise. 
The indignation of Bragelouo is aroused ; although a rough, stern soldier, taught 
from youth to maintain his words by his swovd, he restrains himself, and implores 
Lauzun to unsay the story ; meeting with a refusal and a repetition, they fight, and 
though Bragelone disarms him, l.e scorns to take his life. They separate, but Bra- 
gelone, returning to the spot, comes unexpectedly upon Louise, who is gazing with 
admiration upon a portrait of tiie king, and breathing his name in tender accents. 
Bragelone speaks to her with all his fervent love ; ho pictures to her in vivid terms, 
the image of what she was, and wluit he is now led to believe slie is. With true 
indignation, she denies the charge; still he insinuates its truth, telling her how 
deeply and devotedly he loved her, but now that ountidence and hope liave fled, his 
heart is crushed, and life hath charms no more. She beseeches him not to be hasty 
in his judgment; she will fly back to the old chateau and quit the court forever 
Still doubting, he reminds her that even there the king can reach, and that there is 
only one safe place of shelter left — the house of God. In great agony she hall-con- 
sents, but urges that she should see the king once more, to t.ikc a last farewell ; Bra- 
gelone reminds her, most touohingly, of the love of her mother, who is then blessing 
Heaven for her birth, but to-morrow may be wishing she were dead. The scruples 
of Louise are vanquished by this touching appeal, and she flies with Bragelone. 

At an interview between the king and Lauzun, to whom he is giving the lands and 
lordship of one of the French provinces as a token of his gratitude for the zeal with 
which the wily courtier serves him, Louis again tells him of the depth of his love t(u' 
Louise ; during which, nesvs is brought him of her flight. In a torrent of passion, 
he proclaims that she is, to hira, more than his crown, from which not all the arms 
of Europe dare take a single jewel, and that all who stand between him and her are 
traitors to the throne. 

Louise reaches in safety the Convent of the Carmelites ; but she cannot command 
peace of miud or repose. She feels that she loves the king, though it is guilty so t o 
do, and she would not, if she could, be happy and forget him. Sounds of alarm at 
this moment ring through the building, and the king, accompanied by Lauzvm,' 
arrives to claim, if needs be, to compel, the return of Louise. Surrounded by 
affrighted nuns, the Lady Abbess reminds him that the walls of the holy building 
are sacred against the power of the strongest monarch. But Louis is not to be 
thwarted, and notwithstanding the threatened curses of the church of Home, he 
claims the right to converse with Louise alone ; she has not yet taken the vows, she 
is a f itherless child over whom, as one of his court, he lawfully has control, and there- 
fore he commands a private interview. Most reluctantly the Lady Abbess yields, 
and left alone, he appeals passionately to Louise to retrace lier steps. At first she 
firmly resists his importunities, but his solemn declaration of true, undying, and 
enduring love, which he, the proudest and most powerful monarch in Europe, offers 
to her on his knee, are too flattering tributes to her vanity ; she acknowledges her 
love for him and yields, returning to the court to — fall. 

In a brief period, wealth, position, and sijlendor are bestowed upon Louise: but, 
as so frequently the case, they bring neither happiness nor friendship. She is raised 
to the rank of a Duchess and soon finds a powerful rival, in tlie person of Madame 
de Montespan, one of the maids of honor, a wom.in of almost equal beauty, but not 
of such genuine tenderness and devotion as Louise. Madame de Montespan is art- 
ful, intriguing, and ambitious; and she finds a ready helpm;ite in Linzun, who has 
assisted her in her schemes on more than one occasion. He willingly joinshis forces, 
as he has not found in the Duchess the friendship iind support he had been expect- 
ing to receive from lier so soon as she attained a high position. Madame de Mon- 
tespan had once loved Lauzun, she might even love him now, but she loves ambition 
and power more. She needs a guide, but once successful in her schemes, she must 
have no parfner; then, with all his haughty air, she will bind him in her charms — 
she will lead but not be led. 



O THE DUCHESS D3 LA VAIiLIEEE. 

An opportunity too soon occurs to put their scbemes iii motion, and work the 
downfall of the Ducliess. During one of their private hours of enjoyment, over a 
game of chess, the kiujj tells Luuise of sad news he lias received, and that both him- 
self and Frai.ee mourn the loss of one of his bravest subjects, who should have died 
a marshal had not de.ith struck so soon. With true and innocent sympathy she 
inquires his name, that she, too, may mourn his untimely end; and it is in vain she 
endeavors to conceal her emotion, when the answer comes, " Bragelone !" 

The king questions her, and she does not attempt to conceal from him that they 
were betrothed in youth ; then flashes across his mind with all the weight of trutli, 
Lauzuu's assertions, tliat Louise loved another, and that it was not the king who 
had won her virgin heart. Jealousy, disappointed pride, and anger, are alternately 
aroused : he reproaches her bitterly for sorrowing over lost virtue; forgetting that 
she is jilaced next in rank to tliu latest, but not the least, of the great Bourbon race 
of kings, and he sternly commands her to greet him for the future with smiles, and 
not wi.h tears. Dissembling, however, they separate, she in the belief that the 
stonn has blown over — he, to consult his wily favorite, Lauzun, and with the assis- 
tance of bis wit and knavery, endeavor to find some new attraction in the place of 
her whom he had so ardentlysouglit, but of wlio.n he now gi-ows weary. 

At this unfortunate moment for the Duches?, Madame de Montespan arrives, 
and learning that the king has gone off in anger, quickly perceives the value of the 
opportunity fortune has thrown in her way. There is a great fete in preparation, 
and as she serves the queen, and will consequently meet the king before sunset, she 
suggests that Louise should write to him, and promises herself to place the letter in 
his hands. The gentle and unsuspecting Duchess falls into the snare; she tells 
Madame de Montespan of the discovery of her love for Bragelone, and gives her the 
letter to the king, with lieart-ielt joj', at having found in the hour of trouble so true 
a friend. The clue thus found, Madame de Montespan determines to follow up 
until it leads the Duchess to destruction — herself to favor, and, perhaps, the throne. 
During the progress of the lete, the king reveals to Lauzun his fancy for Madame 
de M'mtespan, and the wily courtier perceiving she is approaching, withdraws so as 
to leave them together. AVith well assumed diffidence, and deceptive modesty of 
demeanor, she presents the letter. The king is struck with her beauty, which had 
hitherto escaped his notice ; she perceives the impression she has made, and so art- 
fully constructs her speech, that she rouses an ardent passion within him, which he 
openly declares. Following up the advantage thus gained, she rejects his offers, and 
hurriedly retreats, thus makini; him still more anxious to secure a successor to the 
Duchess. A further opportunity occurs to contribute to her downfall. A courtier, 
believing in her influence and power witli the king, presents a memorial for a vacant 
appointment as colonel in the royal guards. Louise, however, tells him that merit, 
rather than favor, should obtain the post, and declines to interfere ; not so, however, 
with Madame de Montespan who observes the chance, takes the paper and prom- 
ises the king shall see it and grant the request. In an interview that follows, this 
is achieved, even in the presence of Louise, who sees with grief and anguish, the 
mastery that her rival is assuming. And yet another blow falls. A knightly tour- 
nament is to be held, at which each comb.itant is to wear the colors of the lady he 
now chooses. Louise, in her confiding nature, believes that the king will, as hither, o, 
receive hers ; but when she takes the breast-knot from her bosom, and offers it, Ik' 
turns reside, and selects one from Madame de Montespan. The Duchess is crushed, 
but the wi y Lauzun bids her conceal her emotion, and artfully suggests how differ- 
ently he would have acted. 

As quickly as the Duchess rose to wealth and power, so does Madame de Montes- 
pan rise. Now is the time for Lauzun to act; he is very poor, his creditors very 
pressing, the Duchess is rich and a valuable prize— though a blemisli exists, it is 
obscured by her wealth ; why should ho not marry her ? Warily, and cautiously, ho 
mentions tho subject to the king, who at first receives the proposition with anger, 
love still lingering in his breast : but ultimately he gives his approval to the suit. 
Madame De la Vallidre is dead, and the sorrows and sufferings of the Duchess are 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIiUEKfi. 9 

increased by the knowledge thiit she is now alone in the world. A visit from Lau- 
zun gives her a momentary hope of joy ; believing he brings a message from the 
kiti?, but this is soon dispelled ly the proffer of Lauzun^s hand. Bowed down by 
grief and shame, there is still some honesty and virtue left, and learning that the 
king himself has encouraged, even wished for the union, she indignantly rejects the 
offer, and bids him, as the king's friend, depart ; not wishing to see him so debased 
as to be refused by the cast-off mistress of his master. 

Immediately after this interview, Bragelone, whose reported death is untrue, 
arrives in the garb of a Franciscan Friar, and craves an audience of the Duchess. In 
the course of this interview, he acquaints her with the particulars of her lover's 
supposed death— he depicts the fervency of his affection, and the crusliing blow 
that fell upon him when he received the tidings of her fall from virtue. In agony, 
she listens to the story of his sufferings, and he hands her a faded scarf, the one she 
liad twined around his coat of mail. Au inward, undeflned feeling prompts her to 
ask who he is, and he tells her, " Bragelone's brother," upon which she implores him 
to be a friend to the friendless. This he promises, and further informs her, that as 
a priest, he had engaged to wait until her guilty fame was tarnished, then to seek 
her, and lead her to repentance and atonement. In the deepest agony she listens to 
the stoiy of her mother's death, which had been hastened by her shame; that on 
her death-bed, in the once joyous home of honor, peace and purity, the mother was 
about to curse, when Bragelone, who attended her whilst life held out, arrested her 
lips, and her dyii.g breath yielded forth a blessing In frantic anguish, the Duchess 
can bear no more, and rushes madly from the room. Ere Bragelone can depart, the 
king arrives, and the friar boldly reproaches him with his perfidious conduct. He 
pictures his greatness, as viewed in the world, and then paints him as he appears 
before an humble minister of Heaven. 

" You are the king who has betray'd his trust — 
Beggar'd a nation, but to bloat a court. 
Seen in men's lives the pastime to ambition, 
Look'd but on virtue as the toy for vice ; 
And, for the first time, from a subject's lips. 
Now learns the name he leaves to Time and God 1" , 

Angered, as tlie king is, the friar is undaunted ; more powerful, more eloquent and 
more impassioned in his language, he warns him to beware of the consequences of 
his cruelty, voluptuousness, and vice, and leaves him astounded at the truthful, but 
audacious speech. A good draught of wine soon nerves the king for his interview 
with the Duchess, in which he urges the marriage with Lauzun. She tells him of 
the refusal, and that she has made another choice, of which he shall be in due time 
informed ; thus satisfied, he departs. Bragelone returns ; her struggles have been 
great, but the desire tor repentance has triumphed, and she agrees to accompany the 
ftiar to the Convent of the Carmelites. 

The news of the second flight of the Duchess creates much sensation, but Madame 
de Monfespan asserts that a month's fasting and penance will send her back again. 
Matters have not gone on well with the new mistress and Lauzun ; he is chafed at 
her constant allusions to his love for the Duchess, and she, by his retort, that it is 
something to love the only woman whom the king had ever honnred. She threatens 
to exert her influence, and procure his banishment ; and thus forewarned, he deter- 
mines to increase the coldness with which the king has already begun to look upon 
his new mistress, observing, with appropriate sarcasm : 

'• The war's declared— 'tis clear that one must fall, 
I'll be polite— the lady to the wall !" 

Upon leaving the palace, Bragelone, still unknown, conducts the Duchess to the 
old chateau, to take a farewell look of the former abode of childhood, purity, and 
happiness. It is too severe a trial, and she swoons in his arms. As he bends over 
and imprints a kiss upon her lips— 

" A brother's kiss— it has no guilt; 
Kind Heaven, it has no guilt !" 



10 THE DTJCEESS DE LA VAIililKBE. 

he breathes aloud her nnmo. Slowly reviving, she hears and recognizes him ; he 
passionately tells her tliat his last task before death, is to lead her soul to jieace, 
and on the day that she takes the veil, one more, one last meeting, and then — she 
to a convent, he to a hermit's cell ■without. 

The kiMg has undergone another change ; tlie coarseness and artfulness of Madame 
de Montespan, as compared with the gentleness and innocence of the Duches~, have 
displeased him, and he sends a letter to Louise full of his old affection : but it is too 
late, she is firm in her resolution. He is not, however, to be thwarted thus, and ho 
hurries forward to stop the ceremony, and secure, if possible, her return. 

In the meantime, the tables are shifting between Lauzun and Madame de Mon- 
tespan. He exerts his power and influence with success, and at the very moment 
that she is congratulating heiseU' njon her agreeable in-ogress so far, and again 
threatens Lauzun, her fall is coni^ummated by his producing a letter from the king, 
excusing her further attendance at court, and banishing her from Paris. Tlius far 
successful, Lauzun hastens to join the king in his efforts to secure the Duchess. 

Reaching the convent, and forcing their way to the altar, through the crowd 
assembled to witness the imposing ceremony, Bragelone stops the king's advance, 
calling upon the priests of Heaven to complete their task, and invoking tlie cui'se of 
the Church upon him wlio would interfere. Before llie ceremony is over, the king 
obtains an interview with the Duchess ; in the most humble and imploring language, 
he confesses his errors, and beseeches her to return; renewed love, wealth, power, 
rank — all shall be lavished upon her. Too late ! Her rei)ly is : 

" For Louis Heaven was left — and now I leave 
Louis, when tenfold more beloved, for Heaven !" 

The end is reached The church claims as herown, the beautiful mistressof Louis 
the XIV., King of France; and the world, with all its glories, pomp, and vanities, 
are forever shut out from the gaze of — Tlie Duchess da la Valliere 1 



EEMAEKS. 



Pursuing the plan adopted in the historical play of Richelieu, a brief notice of 
the royal personage who ligures so conspicuously in this play, and of the position of 
affairs at the period, will, it is hoped, prove interesting. 

Louis XIII. (who figures in Richelieu), died in 1043, leaving one son, aged five 
years, over whom he appointed a Council of Regency, consisting of his queen, Anne 
of Austria, the Duke of Orleans, Cardinal Mazarin (a staunch disciple of, and suc- 
cessor to, Richelieu), the Prince of Conde, and others. But immediately after his 
death, tlie (iueen took steps to do away with all her deceased husband's arrange- 
ments; slie procured his will to be cancelled by the Parliament, and assumed the 
supreme authority of government, bestowing, to the surprise of all, upon Cardinal 
Mazarin, the faithful adherent and follower of Richelieu, her persevering enemy, 
the office of Prime Minister. 

During this regency, which lasted for a period of nearly eighteen years, there was 
a constant succession of wars, intrigues, and civil dissensions, which were not put an 
end to, and indeed, then only temporarily, until 16G0, when Louis XIV., then twenty- 
two yuars of age, was married to Maria Theresa, the Infanta of Spain ; and imme- 
diately upon the death of Cardinal Mazarin, in the year following, personally 
assumed the supreme direction of affairs. From all accounts, he was well qualified 
for the task. He possessed a sound, though not a bril'iant intellect ; a firm and 
resolute will ; considerable sagacity and penetration; much aptitude for business; 
industry, and perseverance. Mazarin said of him: "There is enough in liim to 
make four kings and one honest man." 

Louis imbibed the most extravagant ideas of the nature and extent of the royal 
prerogative. Regarding his authority as delegated immediately from Heaven, he 
strove to concentrate in himself individually, all the powers and functions of govern- 
ment. According to his view, the sovereign was not only the guardian and dispen- 



THE DUCHESS D2 LA VALLIEKE. 11 

ser, but the fountain and author of all law, imd of all justice. His fixed principle 
was, " The State is myself; " and Ihe peculiiir ijosition in ivhich he found the afifiiira 
of the kingdom, t- iiabled him almost literally to vonfy lliis lofty maxim. Never, in 
the whole history of the world, was there a more complete, iioi- a mure favorable or 
successful specimen of absolute irresponsible monarchy than that which he estab- 
lished. 

During the e:trly yeaisof his rei^n, Louis lived in habits of unrestrained licen- 
tiousness. He formed an attachment for Maria di Manciui, a niece of Cardinal 
Mazariu; but the wily minister had no faith iu the happiness of such a union, 
neither was it suited to liis political intrigues and designs, so the young lady was 
removed from court, and the marriage with the Infanta of Spain brought about* 
This union, however, in no way checked the l.ix principles i f inoraliiy iu Louis ; it 
is doubtful, indeed, if he entertained any re il afT.-ction for liis wife; if he did, he 
did not allow either that feeling, crone of respect even, to prevent his openly indulg- 
ing iu licentious pursuits. It is recorded, on the best authorities, that his first object 
of serious attachment was Louise de la Valliere, the heroiue of this play, who, after 
havvig borne him two children, retired into a convent. This incident the author 
has selected for bis subject, and it will be seen how well and truly he depicts the 
character of the king — strictly in keeping with that derived from the be^st authori- 
ties, as above described. He omits, however, all mention of the children ; and the 
banishment of Madame de Montespan, as stated in the play, is merely a dramatic 
liberty with truth ; the records refer to nothing of the kind ; on the contrary, they 
show that immediately upon the retirement of the Duchess de la Vallieie, Madame 
de Montespan coiiliuued to retain the royal affections and became the mother of 
eight children, who were all declared legitimate and intermarried wUh some of the 
noblest families in the realm. 

In 1678, when forty years of age, L^uis became enamored with Fran^oise D'Au- 
bigne, grand-daughter of the great I'rotestanthistorian, and, who afterwards became 
so celebrated as Madame de Maintenon. She had been recommended to Madame 
de Montespan as governess to her children, in which cap icity the King saw her con- 
stantly, and by degrees she acquired an influence and control over him which lasted 
until his death. Amidst all these licentious intrigues, the queen could not have led 
a very happy life ; however, she does not appear to have taken it very mucli to heart ; 
she lived for twenty-three years after her marriage, and died in 1683. The year fol- 
lowing, the king was secretly married to M.idqme de Maintenon by his confessor, 
La Chaise, in the presence of the Archbishop of I'aiis ; but ihe marriage was never 
acknowledged, in consequence of which, lier position at court was rather anomalous 
and equivocal, but her influence over the royal mind in private was uubouuded, 
extending to all subjects, domestic, political, and religious. 

After a constant succession of intrigues and wars, during which occurred some of 
the greatest and most splendid battles upon record, Louis XIV. c'osed his career in 
171o, having consequently reigned seventy-two years, the longest period of kingly 
rule upon record. 

As a general rule, the first dramatic productions of an author, no matter what Ms 
position in the other varied paths of literature may be, is seldom, or ever, attended 
■with success ; and notwithstanding the liigh intellect, cultivation and ability of the 
eminent writer of the present play, it was no exception to this general rule. In all 
first productions, there is almost invariably found a weakness of plot, and a want of 
consistency in the arrangement and a crulenessof construction, which can only be 
overcome by practice and observation, and the opposite of which cannot be born 
with the genius of the author. 

The story worUed out in the Duchess de la Valiie.e is simple, and although it is 
sufficient for an excellent reading play, it is not sufficiently interesting, nor filled 
enough with good joints and situations, to make it an interesting and attractive 
play in a theatrical sense. That this view is a true one, and that the talented 
author himself so felt, is verified by his oliserv-ations in the preface to the succeeding 
production of his pen, the Lady of Lyons, in which, after admitting the comparative 



12 THE DTJCHESo Di: LA VALLIEKE. 

failure of tlie present piece upon the stage, he states tliat one of his reasons for 
making a seconil attempt, was to see whetlier certain critics had truly declared that 
it was not in his power to attain the art of dramatic construction and theatrical 
effect. He admits that he felt it was in tliis that a writer accustomed to the narra- 
tive class of composition, had much both to learn and wjilearn, and accordingly, ho 
had directed his chief attention to the development and a careful arrangement of the 
incidents, throwing whatever belonged to poetry less into the diction and the "felic- 
ity of words," than into the construction of the story, the creation of the characters, 
and the spirit of the prevadiug sentiment. 

Rut, although thus deficient as a dramatic work, there are unquestionably many 
beauties in the langu.ige of the present play, which, as before observed, render it an 
entertaining work for perusal. For instance, in the opening scene, the conversation 
between mother and daughter; the story of her dreams of ambition, and the inter- 
view between her and her lover, Bragelone, are prettily rendered ; the conversation 
between Bragelone and the armorer, Bertrand, in a subsequent scene, is character- 
istically and well drawn ; and though the part of the armorer is but a small one, it 
is capable of being made a very telling and effective one, and a neat little picture in 
any representation of the play. The meeting of Bragelone and Louise after her arrival 
at court, and his endeavors to got at the truth of the evil rumors he has heard, is 
also well drawn; but more particularly good is his short speech upon the strength 
and purity of his love. Again, also, is this the case, in the third act, when the king 
discovers the love of Louise for Bragelone, and the meeting between her and the 
latter character. 

But probably the finest written and most efi'ectively drawn portion of the whole 
play, is the scene in the fourth act, between the king and Bragelone, in his character 
of the Franciscan friar, in which, in well-chosen, eloquent, and powerful language, 
he vehemently upbraids the king for his base conduct, in having raised a maiden to 
a Duchess, to gratify his desires ; trampled, without thought or regret, upon her 
galhtnt father's memory as a brave and loyal subject; t.irnished her mother's stain- 
less honor as a matron, and rendered her home and expiring life desolate; and 
crushed the hopes and anticipated happiness of her afiiinced luisband, who lind 
served him well, and saved his life. From this subject, Br.igelone dashes fiercely 
and rapidly into a review of the king's priJiciples, and pictures to him the scenes of 
gayety, flattery, and licentiousness then surrounding hira, and which had so long 
existed, and those which may await him — a scuffold where the palace rises — the axe 
— the headsman — and the victim! It is hardly pos.-ible for any writer to tqual, 
much less to surpass the beauty and sarcastic keenness of tlie language here used ; it 
i.", ino!-t undoubtedly, the most brilliant portion of the play, and in the hands of a 
fine actor, must invariably make a hit. Other good portions could be selectid, but 
it is ihe lack of interest and faulty dramatic construction, that mars and iliimitges 
this otherwise fine play. However pleasingly the speeches read, they are too prosy 
for the stage: and we do not meet with the noble and beautiful sentiments expressed 
iu the perfectly eloquent and poetical language which mark the noble author's sub- 
sequent productions. Nothing in tlie play will bear comparison with the love scenes 
in the Lady of Lyons, or the jealousy and indignation of De Manpraf, in Richelieu. 
One great point, however, must not be overlooked. It is not often the case, that in 
selecting a great historical personage like Louis XIV. for one of the printipal char- 
acters in a play, that the author adheres strictly to the authentic recoids of the 
habits, life, and disposition of that person. In the present instance, nothing has 
been omitted, or aught exa'jgerated, and the character of Louis " tlie Great" is as 
finely painted by the pen of the renowned scholar and poet, asit has been portrayed 
by that of the great historians, who were contemporaneous with the king. 

If the play were reduc d to about two-thirds of its present length and sliphtly re- 
arranged, it would make a very fair acting drama ; but I sm not jiware of its ever" 
having been pi lyed in such a way, or in any other shape than in its entirety, as flist 
produced in London, when, althougli it had the grand suppcrt of the emineiit trage- 
dian, Mr. Macready, the beautiful and accomplished Helen Fancit (as to whom, see 
the remarks to the Lady of Lyons), Mr. Vandenhoff. and other excellent actors, it 
tailed to prove a success. This was the case also in New York, upon its production 
at the Park Theatre, in 1837. although it was well mounted and well cast, having 
the great actress. Miss Ellen Tree (afterwards Mrs Charles Kean), in the part of the 
Duchess. It was this want of success, which induced the author to turn liis atten- 
tion directly to a close study of the principles of dramatic construction, and which 
he mastered with progressively, grand, and perfect results, as the undyins repu- 
tation of his subsequent plays, the Lady of Lyons, Uichelieu, and Money will jirove. 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. 13 

BILL FOR I'MOGRAMMES. 
AC r I. 

Scene L— THE CHATEAU DE LA VALLIERE AND CONVENT OF 
THE CARMELITES. 

Mother and Daughter — The Evening of Departure for the Court— Story 
of a Lover — The Scarf of Beauty 

ScEXE IL— ARMORY' IN THE CASTLE OF BRAGELONG. 
A Faithful Servant — Tales of Heroism and Daring —J^ews of Louise de 
la Kalliere^s Arrival at Court — Anticipations of Marriage — An Ar- 
morer s Joy. 
Scene IIL— APARTMENT IN THE PALACE OF FONTAINE- 
BLEAU. 
Gossip of the Court — A Wily Courtier — Wit and Cunning beat Sword 

and Spear — The King inust have a Mistress —It must be Louise. 
Sc m: IV —GARDENS 01^ THE PALACE ILLUMINATED FOR A 

ROVAL FKTE. 
The King and his Courtiers — The Monarch caught by the Maid — Scan- 
dal amongst the Ladies of Honor — Rivalry and Jealousy— The King's 
Declaration of Love — The Wheel of Fortune— Royal Gift to Louise 
— Envy and Consternat'on. 

ACT II. 

Scene I —GARDENS OF THE PALACE OF FONTAINEPLEAU. 
A Lover s Search — The Talc of Scandal — Louise i; t'l: King's Favorite 
— The Quarrel a?id the Duel — 77te Portrait— Unexpected Liter rup- 
tioti — A Lover's Appeal — '^ Fly before you fall ! Mother! Honor.' 
Duty! all call upon thee ere too late"— She yields! — Flight of Louise 
and Brugelonc. 

Scene II.— THE KING'S CABINET AT FONTAINEBLEAU. 
A Nohle Gift to the Wily Courtier, Lauziin — The King reveals his Love — 
Yeivs of Louise'' s Flight — Anye?' of the King, and Orders for Pursuit. 
Scene III —CLOISTERS OF A CONVENT. 
Distress of Louise — The S'gnal of Alarm- -Arrival of the K'ngand Lau- 
zun — The Lady Abbess or the King— Convent or Court— Appeal of 
Love, and Departure for the Palace once more. 
Acr III. 
Scene I.— ANTECHAMBER IN THE PALACE OF THE DUCHESS 

DE TA VALLIERE AT VERSAILLES. 
A Rise in Rank but a Fall from T^irlue— Louise noma Duchess — The 
Conspiracy — The Wily Courtier and Maid of Honor — Woman 
against Woman — 2Tie Compact to the Death ! 

Scene II.— SALOON IN THE KING'S PALACE. 
A Royal Game of Chess — Story of the Djath of f lie Bravest Knight in France^ 
BrageJone — Agitation of Louise — The King^s Suspicions— The Quarrel 
— Disgrace Approaching — A Rival Mistress and a False Friend — The 
Trap laid — An Unsuspecting Victim — The Fatal Letter. 



14 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. 

Scene III.— THE GARDENS OF VERSAILLES. 
A Court Serpent -A False Messenger — The Star of Louise is Fallintj — 'J he 

King finds a neio Mistress. 
ScExVE IV.— GRAND SALOON IN THE PALACE OF VERSA. LLLS. 
A Itoyal Gathering — Jealousy begins the Game — Proposal for a Knightl-ii 

Tottrnament — The Colors of Louise Refused — Triumph of Mad a tna dg 

Montespan, and Betrayal of Louisz. 

Acr IV. 

Scene I.— THE GARDENS AT VERSAILLES. 
Lauzun lays Plans for Marrying the Duchess — She still Loves t?ic King — 

His Victim, not his Mistress. 
Scene II.— PRIVATE APART.MENT IN THE PALACE OF THE 
DUCHESS DE LA VALL'ERE. 

Desolation of Louise— A Mother's Deat'i— Lauzun pleads his Suit^Virtuc 
not yet Dead — A Rejected Lover — Arrival of a Holy Friar — Interview 
with the Duchess — Story of Bragelone's Love and Forgiveness — A Mo- 
ther's last ivords changed from Curses to Blessings — Agony of Louisa — 
Arrival of the King — Anger at a MonJc's Reproac/ies — The Warniag 
Voice of the Church — '' Beware, Proud Kimj ! Bjwara .'"— Louise Con- 

senfs to Wed. 

ACT V. 

Scene I.— THE GARDENS AT VERSAILLES. 
Story of the Flight of the Duchess — Lauzun and, the Kiny''s nexo Mistress — 
Reproaches and Revenge — " Youh^o played the Knave and Throton aioay 
the King.'" 
Scene II.— THE OLD CHATEAU DE LA VALLlflRE AND CON- 
VENT OF THE CARMELITES 
A Last Visit to the Home of Childhood and Virtu:: — The Disclosure — Brag- 
elone still Lives .'--The Priest's Vows — T.'ij World is Lost, bi't the Con- 
vent and the Monastery remain. 
Scene III.— EXTERIOR OF THE CONVENT OF THE CARMEL- 
ITES. 
'^ Ere the Clock strikes Louise takes the Veil!" — Lauzun and Madame dc 
Montespan— Plot against Plot — Banishment of the neic Favorite — A 
Woman's Curse. 
Scene IV.— INTERIOR OF THE CHAPEL OF THE CONVENT. 
Preparation for Taking the Veil — Arrival of the King — A Last Appeal — 
" Thy Rival Banished, no other Love but Thee!'' — Too late! Repent- 
ance Triumphs ! The Life of Sin is Ended! The Passage to the Outer 
WorM forever Closed— A List Farewell, and Heaven claims the Sacri- 
fice of 

THE DUCHESS BE LA VALLIERE. 

[Fur Stage Directions see page 68.] 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. 15 



PROLOGUE. 

To paint the Past, yet in tlie Past portray 
Such shapes as seem dim prophets of lo-clay ; — 
To trace, through all tlie garish streams of art, 
Nature's deep fountain — woman's silent lieart ; — 
On tlie stirr'd surface of the soften'd mind 
To leave the print of holier truths behind ; — 
- And, while through joy or grief — through calm or strife, 
Bound the wild Passions on the course of life. 
To share the race— yet point the pi'oper goal, 
And make the Affections ])reachers to the soal ; — 
Such is the aim with which a gaudier aae 
Now woos the brief revival of the stage ; — 
Such is the moral, though unseen it flows, 
In Lanznn's wiles and soft La Vallcre's woes; 
Sucli the design our Author baldly drew, 
And, losing boldness, now submits to yoi;. 

Not new to climes where dreamy fable dn-ells — 
That magic Prospero of the Isle of Spells — 
Now first the wanderer treads, with anxious fear, 
The fairy land whose flowers allured him here. 
Dread is the court our alien pleads before ; 
Your verdict makes his exile from the shore. 
Yet, e'en if banish'd, let him think, in pride, 
He trod the path with no unhallow'd guide ; 
Chasing the light, whose face, though veil'd and dim. 
Perchance a meteor, seem'd a star to him, 
Hoping the ray might rest where Truth ai)pears 
Beneath her native well — your smiles and tears. 

When a ^^ide waste, to Law itself unknown, 
Lay that fair world the Drama calls its own ; 
When all might riot on the mines of Thought, 
And Genius starved amidst the wealth it wrought ; 
He who now ventures on the haunted soil 
For nobler laborers won the riahts of toil. 
And his the boast — that Fame now rests in. case 



16 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIiLIERE. 

Beneath tlie shade of lier own laurei-trees. 
Yes, if will) all Ihe critic on their brow, 
His clients once have grown his judges now, 
And watch, like spirits on the Eiysian side, 
Tlieir brother ferried o'er the Stygian tide, 
To wl)ere, on souls untried, austerely sit 
(The triple Minos) — Gallery — Coxes — Pit — 
'Twill soothe to tliink, howe'er the verdict end. 
In every rival he hath served a friend. 

But well we know, and, knowing, we rejoice, 
The mightiest Critic is the public Voice. 
Awed, yet resign'd, our novice trusts in you, 
Hard to the practised, gentle to the new. 
Whate'er the anxious strife of hope and fear, 
He asks no favor — let the stage be clear. 
If from the life his shapes the poet draws, 
In man's deep breast lie all the critic's laws ; 
If not, in vain the nicely-poised design. 
Vain the cold music of the labor'd line. 
Before our eyes, behold the living rules ; — 
The soul has instincts wiser than the schools I 
Yours is the great Tribunal of the Heart, 
And touch'd Emotion makes the test of Art. 
Judges august! — the same in every age, 
AVhile Passions weave the sorcery of the Stage — 
While Nature's sympathies are Art's best laws — 
To you a stranger has referr'd his cause ; — 
If the soft tale he woos the soul to hear 
Bequeaths the moral, while it claims the tear, 
Each gentler thought to faults in others shown 
He calls in court — a pleader for his own ! 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — Timr — sunset. On the foreground, L., an old chateau; beyond 
vineyards and voods which present through their openings, vieivs of n 
river, reflecting the sunset. At a distance, r , the turrets of the Convent 
of the Carmelices. 

Madame (.-««? Mademoiselle de la Valliere enter from chateau. 

Mdlle. de la V. 'Tis our last eve, my mother ! 

Mme. de la V. Tliou regrett'st it, 

My own Louise ! albeit tlie court invites thee — 

A court beside whose glories, dull and dim 

The pomp of Eastern kings, by poets told ; 

A court 

Mdlle. De la V. In which I shall not see my mother! 

Nor those old walls, in which, from every stone, 

Childhood s[)eaks eloquent of happy years ; 

Nor vines and woods, which bade me love llie earth, 

Nor yonder spires, which raised that love to God. {the vesper bell 
tolls) 

The vesper bell ! — my mother, when, once more, 

I hear from those gray towers that holy chime, 

May thy child's heart be still as full of lieavpp, 

And callous to all thoughts of earth, save those 

Which mirror Eden in the face, of Home I 
Mme. dh la V. Do I not know thy soul 1 — through every snare 

My gentle dove shall 'scape with spotless plumes. 

Alone in courts, I have no fear for thee ; 

Some natures take from Innocence the lore 

Experience teaches; and their delicate leaves, 

Lilie the soft plant, shut out all wrong, and shrink 

From vice by instinct, as the wise by knowledge ; 

And such is thine I My voice thou wilt not hear, 

But Thought shall whisper where my voice would warn, 
. And Conscience be thy mother and thy guide I 
Mdlle. de la V. Oh, may I merit all thy care, and most 

Thy present trust ! Thou'lt write to me, my mother, 

And tell me of thyself ; amidst the court 

My childhood's imaaes shall rise. Be kind 

To the poor cotters in the wood — alas ! 

They'll miss me in the winter ! — and my birds 1 — 

Thy hand will feed them 1 



18 THE DITCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [aCT I. 

Mme. DE LA V. And that noble lieatt 

That loves thee as my daughter should be loved — 

The gallant Bragelone'?* — should I hear 

Some tidings Fame forgets — if in the din 

Of camps I learn thy image makes his solace, 

Shall I not write of him ? 
Mdlle. DE LA V. {ivith indifference). His name will breathe 

Oi home and friendship — yes ! 
Mme. DE LA V. Of naught! beside 1 

Mdlle de la V. Nay, why so pressing ? — let me change the theme. 

The king — you have seen him — is he, as they say, 

So fair — so stately ? 
Mme. de la V. Ay, in truth, my daugliter, 

A king that wins the a we he might command. 

Splendid in peace, and terrible in war ; 

Wise in council — gentle in the bower. 
Mdll"!. de la V. Strange, that so often through mine early dreams 

A royal vision flitted— a proud form, 

Upon whose brow Nature had written "empire;" 

While, on the lip, — love, smiling, wrapp'd in sunshine 

The charmed world that was its worshipper — 

A form like that which clothed the sods of old, 

Lured from Olympus by some mortal maid — 

Youthful it seemed — but with ambrosial youth ; 

And beautiful — but half as beauty were 

A garb too earthly for a thing divine — 

Was is not strange, my mother ? 
Mme. dk la V. A child's fancy. 

Breathed into life by thy brave father's soul. 

He taught thee, in thy cradle yet, to lisp 

Thy sovereign's name in prayer — and still together, 

In thy first infant c; eed, were link'd the lessons 

" To honor God and love the king ; " it was 

A part of that old knightly faith of France 

Which mnde it half religion to be loyal. 
Mdlle. de la V. It might be so, I have preserved the lesson. 

E'en with too weak a reverence — Yet, 'tis strange ! 

A dream so oft renew'd ! 
Mme. de la. V. Here comes thy lover ! 

Thou wilt not blame him if his lips repeat 

The question mine have asked? 

Bnter Bragelonk, r. 2 e. 

Alphonso, welcome ! 
Braqe. My own Louise ! — ah ! dare I call thee so V 

War never seem'd so welcome ! since we part. 

Since the soft sunshine of thy smiles must fade 

From these dear scenes, it soothes, at least to think 

I shall not linger on the haunted .spot, 

And feel, forlorn amidst the glootn of absence, 

How dark is all once lighted by thine eyes. (Madame de la 
Valliere retires into the chateau.) 
Mdlle. de la V. Can friendship flatter thus — or wouldst thou train 

My ear betimes to learn the courtier's speech 1 



* The author has, throughout this play, availed himself of poetical license to 
give to the n ime of Bragelone the Italian prouuuciatioa, and to accent the final e. 



ftCT 1.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 19 

Brage. Louise! Louise! this is our pattins; hour; 

Me war demands — and thee the court allures. 

In such an hour, the old romance allow'd 

The maid to soften from her coy reserve, 

And her true knight, from some kind words, to take 

Hope's talisman to battle — Dear Louise ! 

Saj', canst thou love me? 
Mdlle. de la V. Sir — I — love — methinks 

It is a word that 

Bhage. Sounds upon thy lips 

Like " land " upon the mariner's, and speaks 

Of home and rest after a stormy sea. 

Sweet girl, my youth has pass'd in camps ; and war 

Hath somewhat scathed my manhood ere my time. 

Our years are scarce well-mated; the soft spring 

Is thine, and o'er my summer's waning noon 

Grave autumn creeps. Thou say'st " I flatter 1" — well 

Love taught me first the golden words in which 

The honest heart still coins its massive ore. 

But fairer words, from falser lips, will soon 

Make my plain courtship rude. Louise ! thy sire 

Bethroth'd us in thy childhood ; I have watch'd thee 

Bud into virgin May, and in thy j'outh 

Have seem'd to hoard my own ! I think of thee ! 

And I am youthful still ! The passionate prayer — 

The wild idolatry — the purple light 

Bathing the cold earth from a Hebe's urn ; 

Yea, all the soul's divine excess which youth 

Claims as its own, came back when first I loved thee ! 

And yet so well I love, that if thy heart 

Recoil from mine — if but one single wish, 

A shade more timid than the fear which ever 

Blends trembling twilight with the starry hope 

Of maiden dreams, would start thee from our union, — 

Speak, and my suit is tongueless ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Oh, my lord! 

If to believe all France's chivalry 

Boasts not a nobler champion — if to feel 

Proud in your friendship, honor'd in your trust — 

If this be love, and I have known no other, 

Why then 

Brage Why then, thou lov'st mel 

Mdlle. de la V. (aside). Shall I say it ? 

I feel 'twere to deceive him. Is it love? 

Love, no, it is not love ! [alotid) My noble lord, 

As yet I know not all mine own weak heart ; 

I would not pain thee, yet would not betray. 

Legend and song have often painted love, 

And my heart whispers not the love which should be 

The answer to thine own — thou hadst best forget me ! 
Brage. Forget ! 

Mdlle. de la V. I am not worthy of thee ! 
Bbage. Hold ! 

My soul is less heroic than I deem'd it. 

Perchance my passion asks too much from thine 

And would forestall the fruit ere yet the blossom 

Blushes from out the coy and maiden leaves. 



20 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAXIilERE. [aCT I. 

No ! let me love ; and say, perchance the lime 
May come whei ihou wilt bid ine not forget thee. 
Absence may plead ray cause ; it hath some magic ; 
I fear not contrast with the courtier herd; 
And thou art not Louise if thou art won 
By a sniootli outside and a honey'd tongue. 
No ! when thou seest these hunters after power, 
These shadows, niinion'd to the royal sun — 
Proud to the humble, servile to the great — 
Perchance thou'lt learn how much one honest heart, 
That never wrong'd a friend or shunn'd a foe — 
How much the old hereditary knighthood, 
Faithful to God, to glory, and to love, 
Outweighs a universe of cringing courtiers ! 
Louise, I ask no more — I bide my time ! 

JRe-enter Madame de hA \ alliere from the cfiaieau. 

Mme. de la V. The twilight darkens. Art thou, now, Alphonso, . 

Co;ivinced her heart is such as thou wouldst have it? 
Braqe.^vJc is a heavenly tablet — but my name 

G 'od angels have not writ there ! 
Mme. de la V. Nay, as yet, 

('Love wears the mask of friendship] she must love thee. 
Brage! (half incredulously) . Think'st thou so "? 
Mme. de la V.. Ay, be sure ! 

Brage. I'll think so too. 

{(urns to Mademoiselle de la Valliere) 

Bright lady of my heart I (aside) By Heaven ! 'tis true ! 

The rose grows riclier on her cheek, like hues 

That in the silence of the virgin dawn, 

Predict, in blushes, light that glads the earth. 

Her motiier spoke aright — ali, yes, she loves me ! 

(aloud) Bright lady of my heart, farewell ! and yet 

Again farewell ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Honor and health be with you ! 

Mme. de la V. Nay, my Louise, when warriors wend to battle, 

Tiie maid they serve grows half a warrior, too ; 

And does not blush to bind on mailed bosoms 

The banner of her colors. 
Braoe. Dare I ask it ? 

Mdlle. de la V. A soldier's child could never blush, my lord. 

To belt so brave a breast; — and yet — well, wear it. (placing her 
scarf around Bragelonk's hauberk.) 
Brage. Ah ! add for thy sake. 
Mdlle. de la V. For the sake of one 

Who honors worth, and ne'er since Bayard fell, 

Have banners flaunted o'er a knight more true 

To France and Fame; 

Braoe. And love ? 

Mdllr. de la V. Nay, hush, my lord; 

I said not tiiat. 
Brage. But France and Fame shall say it! 

Yes, if thou hear'st men speak of Bragelone. 

If proudest ciiiefs confes.s he bore him bravely, 

Come life, come death, his glory shall be thine; 

And all the light it brrowed from thine eyes, 



HCII.] 



THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 21 



Slia]I pilil tliy name. Ah, scorn not (/ten to say, 

" He loved mo well ! " How well 1 God shield and bless thoo ! 

[Exit Bragklone, k. 2 p.. 
Mdlle. de la V. (aside). Most worthy love! whij can I love hira not ? 
JIme. be la V. Peace to his gallant heart! when next we meet, 

May I have gained a son — and thou 

Mdlle. de la V. (qiiickli/). My mother, 

This iiii:ht let every thought be given to thee! 

Beautiful scene, farewell — farewell, my home! 

And thou, gray convent, whose inspiring cliime 

Measures the hours with prayer, that morn and eve 

Life may ascend the ladder of the angels, 

And climb to heaven ! Serene retreats, farewell ! 

And now, my mother — no ! some hours must yet 

Pass ere our parting. 
Mme. de la V. Cheer thee, my Louise! 

And let us now within ; the dews are falling — 
Mdlle. de la V. And I forget how ill thy frame may bear them. 

Pardon ! — within, within ! [stopping short, and gazing fondly vsi 
Madaml; de la Valliere) Your hand, dear mother ! 

\Exeunl into chateau,. 

SCENE IL — An old armory, of the heavy French Architecture precedinj the 
time of Francis the First, in the castle o/Bkagelone. Bertkand, thj 
armorer, employed in polishing a sword, inters, l. 1 e. 

Ber. There now ! I think this blade will scarcely shame 
My gallant master's hand ; it was the weapon, 
So legends say, with which the old Lord Rodolph 
Slew, by the postern gate, his lady's leman ! 
Oh, we're a haughty race — we old French lords; 
Our honor is unrusted as our steel. 
And, when provoked, as ruthless I 

Enter Bragelone, r. 1 e., tcithout sword. 

Brage. Ah, old Bertrand ! 

Why, your brave spirit, 'mid these coats of mail, 

Grows young again. So ! this, then, is the sword 

You'd have me wear. God wot ! a tranchant blade ! 

Not of the modern fashion. 
Ber. My good lord, 

Yourself are scarcely of the modern fashion. 

They tell me, that to serve one's king for nothing. 

To deem one's country worthier than one's self. 

To hold one's honor not a phrase to swear by — 

They tell me now, all this is out of fashion. 

Come, take the sword, my lord ; {offering it) you have your father's 

Stout arm and lordly heart; they're out ot fashion. 

And yet you keep the one — come, take the other. 
BisAGE. Why, you turn satirist! {takes the sword,) 
Ber. Satirist! what is that ? 

Brage. Satirists, my friend, are men who speak the truth 

That courts may say, they do not know the fashion ! 

Satire on Vice is Wit's revenge on fools 

That slander Virtue, {examines sword) How now ! look ye, Bertiand I 

Methinks there is a notch here. 



22 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. [aCT 1. 

Beu. All, my lord ! 

I would not grind it out ; — 'twas here the blade 

Clove through tlie helmet, e'en to the chin, 

Of that irreverent and most scoundrel Dutchman, 

Who stabh'd you through your hauberk-joints — what time 

You placed your breast before the king. 
Br: AGE. Hence, ever 

Be it believed, that, in his hour of need, 

A king's sole safeguard are his subjects' hearts ! 

Ha ! ha ! good sword ! that was a famous stroke ! 

Thou didst brave deeds that day, thou quaint old servant, 

Though now — thou'rt not the fashion, (hands haeJc the sicorcl.) 
Bek. Bless that look, 

And that glad laugh ! they bring me back the day 

When first old Bertrand arm'd you for the wars, — 

A fair-faced stripling ; yet, beshrew ray heart, 

You spurr'd that field before the bearded chins, 

And saved the gallant Lord La Vallifere's standard, 

And yet you were a stripling then . 
BiiAGE. La Valliere ! 

The very name goes dancing through my veins. 

Bertrand, look round tlie armory. Is there naught 

I wore that first campaign 1 Nay, nay ! no matter ! 

I Avear the name within me. Hark ye, Bertrand ! 

We're not so young as then we were ; when next 

We meet, old friend, we both will end our labors, 

And find some nook, amidst yon antique tropies, 

Wherein to hang this idle mail. 
Beu. Huzza! 

The village dames speak truth — my lord will marry ! 

And I shall nurse, in these old wither'd arms, 

Another boy — for France another hero. 

Ha ! ha 1 I am so happy ! 
Bkagr. Good old man ! 

Why this looks like my father's hall — since thus 

My father's servants love me. 
Beb. All must love you ! 

Br.AGB. All — let me think so. {buffle tvithoiit, l.) Hark, the impatient bugle ! 

I hear the neigh of my exultant charger, 

Breathing from far the glorious air of war. 

Give me the sword ! {takes it, and girdles it on.) 

Enter Servant, l. 1 e., xcith a letter, which he hands to Bragelone, a)id 

exits. 

Her mother's hand — " Louise, 
Arrived at court, writes sadly, and amidst 
The splendor pines for home," — I knew she would ! 
My own Louise 1 — " speaks much of the king's goodness ; " 
Goodness to her ! — that thought shall give the king 
A tenfold better soldier ! — " From thy friend, 
Who trusts ere long to hail thee as her son." 
Her son ! — a blessed name. These lines shall be 
My heart's true shield, and ward away each weapon. 
He who shall wed Louise has conquer'd Fate, 
And smiles at earthly foes, {higle without, l.) Again the bugle ! 
Give me your hand, old man. My fiery youth 



ACT I.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIliKE. 23 

Went not to battle with so blithe a soul 

As now burns in me. So ! she pines for home — 

I knew she would — I knew it ! Farewell, Bertrand ! 

[Exit Bkagelo.ne, l. J K. 
Beh. Oh! there'll b3 merry doings in the hall 

When my dear lord returns. A merry wedding ! 
And then — and then — oh, such a merry christening! 
How well I fancy his grave, manly face 
Brightening upon his first born. 

As he is going, re-enter Bragelone. 

BuAGE. Ho, there ! Bertrand ! 

One diarize I had forgut — Be sure they train ' 
The woodbine richly round the western wing — 
My mother's old apartment. Well, man, well ! 
Dj you not hear me V 

Ber. Tou, my lord ! the woodbine 1 

BiiAGE. Yes ; see it duly done. I know she loves it ; 
It clambeis round her lattice. I would not 
Have on 3 thing absent she could miss. Remember. 

[Exit Bijagelone, l 1 k. 

Beb. And this is he whom warriors call " the Stern !" 
Tlie dove's heart beats beneath that lion breast. 
Pray Heaven his lady may deserve him ! Oh, 
What news for my good dame ! — i' faith, I'm glad 
I WIS the first to learn the secret. So, 
Tills year a wife — next year a boy ! I'll teach 
The young rogue how his father clove the Dutchman 
Down to the chin ! {chuckling merrily) Ha, ha ! old Bei trand now 
Will be of u-e again on winter nights — 
I know he'll be the picture of his father. [Exit Bertuand, l. 1 lo. 

SCENE III. — An antechamber in the Palace of Fontainehlcau. 

Enter Lauzun, l. 1 e , and Qrammont, e. 1 e. 

L\D. Ah, Count, good day ! Were you at court last night 1 
Guam. Yes ; and the court has grown the richer by 

A young. new beauty. 
Lau. So ! her name ? 

(iRAM. La Valliere. 

Lau. Ay, I have heard ! a maid of honor 1 
Gram. Yes. 

The women say she's plain. 
Lad. The women? oh, 

Tlie case it is that's plain — she must be lovely. 
(•(AM. The dear, kind gossips of the court declare 

The pretty novice hath conceived a fancy — 

A wild, romantic, innocent, strange fancy — 

For our young king; a girlish love, like that 

Told of in fairy tales ; she saw his picture, 

Sigh'd to the canvas, murmur'd to the colors, 

And fell in love with carmine and gamboue. 
Lac. The simple dreamer I Well, she saw the Idng? 
Gram. And while she saw him, like a ro^e, when May 

Breathes o'er its bending bloom, she seem'd to shrink 



2<t THE DUCHESS CE LA VALLIERE. [aCT I, 

Into lier modest self, and a low sigli 

Shook blushes (sweetest rose-leaves !j frum her beauty. 
LAa. You paint it well. 
Gram. And ever since that hour 

She bears the smiling malice of her comrades 

With an unconscious and an easy sweetness ; 

As if alike her virtue and his oreatness 

Made love impossible ; so down the stream 

Of purest thought, her heart glides on to danger. 
Lau. Did Louis note her % — Has he heard the gossip ? 
Gram Neither, melhinks ; his Majesty is cold. 

The art of pomp, and not the art of love, 

Tutors his skill — Augustus more than Ovid. 
l)A(j. The time will come. The king as yet is young, 

Flush'd with the novelty of sway, and fired 

With the great dream of cutting Dutchmen's throats ; 

A tiresome dream — the poets call it " Glory." 
Guam. So much the better — 'tis one rival less ; 

The handsome king would prove a dangerous suitor. 
Lau. Oh, hang the danger ! He must have a mistress ; 

'Tis an essential to a court ; how many 

Favors, one scarcely likes to ask a king. 

One flatters from a king's inamorata ! 

We courtiei s fatten on the royal vices ; 

And, while the king lives chaste, Le cheats, he robs me 

Of ninety-nine per cent. ! 
Gram. Ha! ha! Well, duke, 

We meet to-night. You join the revels ■* 

Till then, adieu. 
Lau. Adieu, dear count. \Exit Grammost, l. 1 e. 

Tne king 

Must have a mistress; I must lead that mistress. 

The times are changed — 'twas by the sword and spear, 

Our fathers bought ambition — vulaar butchers ! 

But now our wit's our spear — intrigue our armor ; 

The antechamber is our field of battle ; 

And the best hero is — the cleverest rogue ! 

\^Exit Laczun, b. 1 e. 

SCENE IV. — Hight — the garden of the Fontainehleau, brilliantly illuminated 
with colored lamps — Fountains, vases, and statues in perspective* — A 
pavilion in the hackground — to the right, the Palace of Fontainehleau, illu- 
minated. Enter Courtiers, Ladies, etc., l. u. e., and Lauzun, c. A 
dance. 

Enter Louis, r. u. ^., followed hy Courtiers, etc. 

Louis. Fair eve and pleasant revels to you all ! 

Ah, duke — a word with you! (Couktiers give way.) 

Thou hast seen, my Lauzun, 
The new and fairest flowret of our court. 
This youngest of the graces — sweet La Valli^re, 
Blushing beneath the world's admirini eyes ? 
Lau. {aside). So. so ! — he's caught ! (aioitd) Your Majesty speaks 
warmly; 
Your praise is just — and grateful 

Tiie effect of the scene should be principally made by jets-d'eau, waterfalls, etc. 



ACT I.] THE DUCHESS DE LA YATiTJKKE. 25 

LoDis. Grateful ? 

Lap. Ay. 

Know you not, Sire, it is the jest, among 

The pretty prattlers of the royal clianiber. 

That this youna Dian of the woods has found 

Endymion in a king — a summer dream, 

Brigiit, but with vestal fancies ! Scarcely love, 

But that wild interval of hopes and fears 

Through which the child glides, trembling to the woman ? in 
Louis. Blest thought ! Oh, what a picture of delight 

Your words have painted. 
Lao. While we speak, behold, 

Through yonder alleys, with her sister planets, 

Your moonlight beauty gleams. 
Louis. 'Tis she — this shade 

Shall hide us — quick ! {enters one of the bosquets,* l. 2 E.) 
Lau. {following him). I trust my creditors 

Will grow the merrier from this night's adventure. 

Enter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, k. v. e., and Maids of Honor. 
They advance. 

First Maid. How handsome looks the Duke de Guiche, to-night ! 
Second Maid. Well, to my taste, the graceful Grammont bears 

The bell fioin all. 
Third Maid. But, then, that charming Lauzun 

Has so much wit. 
First Maid. And which, of all these gallants, 

May please the fair Valliere most 1 
Mdlle. :^ LA V. In truth, 

I scarcely mark'd them ; when the king is by. 

Who can have eye, or ear, or thought for others'? 
First Maid. You raise your fancies high ! 
SiicoND Maid. And raise them vainly ! 

The king disdains all love ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Who spoke of love 1 

The sunflower, gazing on the Lord of Heaven, 

Asks but its sun to shine ! Who spoUe of love 1 

And who would wish the bright and lofty Louis 

To stoop from glory 1 Love should not confound 

So great a spirit with the herd of men. 

Who spoke of love 

FiusT Maid. My country friend, you talk 

Extremely well ; but some young lord will teach you 

To think of Louis less, and more of love. 
Mdi LE de la V. Nay, e'en the very presence of his greatness 

Exalts the heart from each more low temptation. 

He seems to walk the earth as if to raise 

And purify our wandering thoughts, by fixing 

Thought on himself — and she who thinks on Louis 

Shuts out the world, and scorns the name of love ! 
FiHST Maid. Wait till you're tired, {music) But hark ! the music chides 
us 

For waiting this most heavenly night so idly. 

Come, let us join the dancers ! [Exeunt Maids, l. 2 and 3 E. 

* Bosquet is a small arbor or shady retreat. 



26 THE DUCHESS DE liA VAIililEKE. [aCT I. 

As La Valliere follows, the King steals from the liosquet. and takes her 
hand, while Lauzun retires in the opposite direction. 

Louis. Sweet La Valliere ! 

Mdlle. de la V. Ah ! 

Louis. Nay, fair lady, fly not, ere we welcome 

Her who gives night its beauty ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Sire, permit me ! 

My comrades wait me. 
Louis. W hat ! my loveliest subject 

So soon a rebel ? Silent ! Well, be mute. 

And teach the world the eloquence of blushes. 

Mdlle. de la V. I may not listen 

Louis. What if /had set 

Thyself the example 1 What if / had listen'd, 

Veil'd by yon friendly boughs, and dared to dream 

That one blest word which spoke of Louis absent 

Might charm his presence, and make nature music ? 
Mdlle. de la V. You did not. Sire ! you could not! 
Louis. Could not hear thee ! 

Nor pine for these divine, unwitnes.s'd moments, 

To pray thee, dearest lady, to divorce 

No more the thought of love from him who loves thee. 

And — faithful still to glory — swears thy heart 

Unfolds the fairest world a king can conquer ! 

Hear me, Louise. 
Mdlle de la V. No Sire ; forget those words ! 

I am not what their foolish meaning spoke me, 

But a poor simple girl, who loves her king. 

And honor more. Forget, and do not scorn me ! 

[Exit Mademoiselle de la Vallieke, l. 2 e. 
Louis. Her modest coyness fires me more than all 

Her half unconscious and most virgin love ! 

Unter Courtiers, Maids of Honor, Ladies, Guests, etc., l. c. Lauzun 
advances, Grammont and Montespan enter, b. c. 

Well, would the dancers pause awhile? 
Lau. E'en pleasure 

Wearies at last. 
Louis. We've but to change its aspect 

And it resumes its freshness. Ere the banquet 

Calls us, my friends, we have prepared a game 

To shame the lottery of this life, wherein 

Each prize is neighbor'd by a thousand blanks, 

Methinks it is the duty of a monarch 

To set the balance right, and bid the wheel 

Shower naught but prizes on the hearts he loves. 

What ho, there I with a merry music, raise 

Fortune, to show how Merit conquers Honors ! (music.) 

The pavilion at the back of the stage opens, and discovers the Temple of For- 
tune superbly illuminated. Fortune ; at her feet, a wheel of light ; at 
either hand, a golden vase, over each of which presides a figure — the one 
representing Merit, the other Honor. 

Louis. Approach, fair dames and gallants ! Aye, as now, 



ACT n.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. 27 

Maj' Fortune smile upon tlie friends of Louis! {the Courtiers 
and Ladies group around the vases. From the one over which 
Merit presides they draw lots, and receive in return from Honor, 
various gifts of jetccls, etc.) 

Enter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, at the back of the stage, and advan- 
ces, L. 

Louis {to Mademoiselle de la Vallierej. Nay, if you smile not on 
me, then tlie scene 

Hath lost its charm. 
Mdlle. de la V. Oh, Sire, all eyes are on us ! 
Luuis. All eyes should leain where homage should be render'd. 

Mdlle. de la V. I pray you, Sire 

Lau. Wilt please your Majesty 

To try your fortune ? 
Louis. Fortune ! Sweet La Valliere, 

I only seek my fortune in thine eyes, (music. Louis draws, an i 
receives a diamond bracelet. Ladies crowd round ) 
First Lady. How beautiful ! 

Second Lady. Each gem is worth a ducliy ! 

Third Lady. Oh, happy she upon whose arm the king 

AVill bird the priceless band! 
Louis (ap^proaching Mademoiselle de la Valliere). Permit nie, 

lady ! {clasps the bracelet.) 
Lau. Well done— well play'd ! In that droll game call'd Woman, 

Diamonds are always trumps for hearts. 
First Lady. Her hair's 

Too light ! 
Second Lady. Her walk is so provincial ! 

Third Lady. D'ye think she paints ? 
Lau. Ha, ha ! What envious eyes, 

What fawning smiles await the king's new mistress I 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. — The gardens of the Fontainebleau. 

Enter Bragelone, l. u. e. 

Brage. (advancing). Why did we suffer her to seek the court ? 
It is a soil in which the reptile Slander 
Still coils in slime around the fairest flower. 
Can it be true 1 — Strange rumors pierced my tent 
Coupling her name with — pah — how foul the thought is ! — 
The maid the king loves ! — Fie ! I'll not believe it I 
I left the camp — sped hither ; if she's lost. 
Why then — down — down, base heart ! wouldst thou suspect her 
Thou— yi\\'o shouldst be her shelter from suspicion ? 
But I may warn, advise, protect, and save her — 
Save — 'tis a fearful word ! 

Enter Lauzun, r. u. e. 

Lau. Lord Bragelone 1 



23 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALMERE. [aCT U. 

Methouglit j'our warrior spirit never breatlied 
The air of palaces ! No evil tidings, 
I trust, from Dunkirk 1 
BuAGE. No. The Jleur-de-lis 

Rears her white crest unstain'd. Mine own affairs 
Call me to court. 
Lap. Affairs "? I hate the word ; 

It sounds like debts. 
Brage. (aside). This courtier may instruct me. 

(aloud) Our king — he bears him well ? 
Lau. Oil. bravely, Marquis ; 

Engaged with this new palace of Versailles. 
It costs some forty millions ! 
Bkage Ay, the people 

Groan at the burthen. 
Lau. People — what's the people ? 

I never heard that word at court ! The people ! 
Brage. I doubt not, duke. The people like the air, ■ 

Is rarely heard, save when it speaks in thunder. 
I pray you grace for that old fasbion'd phrase. 
What is the lOitest news ? 
La0. His Majesty 

Dines half an hour before his usual time. 
That's the last news at court ! — it makes sensation ! 
Brage. Is there no weightier news'? I heard at Dunkirk 
How the king loved a— loved a certain maiden — 
The brave La Vallifere's daughter. 
Lau. How, my lord, 

How can you vegelate in such a place ? 
I fancy the next tidings heard at Dunkirk 
Will be that — Adam's dead ! 
Br.AGE. The news is old, then ? 

Lau. News ! news, indeed ! Why, by this time, our lackeys 

Have worn the gossip threadbare. News ! 
Brage. The lady 

(S'.ie is a soldier's child) hath not yet bartered 
Her birthright for ambition 1 She rejects him ? 
Speak !— She rejects him 1 
Lau. Humph ! 

Brage. Oh, duke, I know 

This courtier air — this most significant silence — 
With which your delicate race are wont to lie 
Away all virtue ! Sliame upon your manhood I 
Speak out, and say Louise La Valliere lives 
To prove to courts — that woman can be honest ! 
Lau. Marquis, you're warm. 
Brage. You dare not speak; I knew it! 
Lau. Dare not 1 

Brage. Oh, yes, you dare, with hints and smiles 
To darken' fame — to ruin the defenceless, 
Blight with a gesture — wither with a sneer ! 
Did I say " dare not ?"— No man dares it better ! 
Lau. My lord, these words must pass not ! 
Brage. Duke, forgive me ! 

I am a rough, stern soldier — taught from youth 
To brave offence, and by the sword alone 
Maintain the'license of ray speech. Oh, say — 



ACT n.] THE DLCHESS DE LA. VALLIERE. 29- 

Say but one word— say this poor maid is sinless, 

And, for her father's sake — {her father loved me I) 

I'll kneel to thee for pardon ! 
Lau. Good, my lord, 

I know not your interest in this matter ; 

'Tis said that Louis loves the fair La Vallieve ; 

But what of that — good taste is not a crime ! 

'Tis said La Valliere does not hate the king ; 

But wliatof that — it does but prove her — loyal ! 

1 know no more. I trust you're satisfied ; 

If not 

Bragi;. Thou liest! 

Lau. Nay, then, draw ! {they fight — nfter a few 

passes Lauzdn is d'sanncd.) 
Brage. {piclcing up Lauzun's sivord). There, take 

Thy sword. Alas ! each slanderer wears a weapon 

No honest arm can baffle— i!/N« is edgeless. ( Lauzun receives swm-d.] 

[Exit Bragelone, r. u. e. 
Lap. Pleasant! This comes, now, of one's condescending 

To talk with men who cannot understand 

The tone of good society. Poor fellow ! [Hxit Lauzun, r. u. e. 

Unter Mademoiselle de la Valliere, l. u. e. 

Mdlle. de la V. {advancing to c ). He loves me, then ! He loves me ! 
Love! wild word ! 
Did I say love ? Dishonor, shame, and crime 
Dwell on the thought ! and yet — and yet — he loves me ! 

iie-^M^er Bragelone. Re pauses. iShe takes out the Kisg's picture. 

Mine eariv dreams were prophets ! (Bragelone advances) Steps! 
The king 1 
Bragb. No, lady ; pardon me — a joint mistake ; 

You sought the king — and 1 Louise Li Valliere ! 
Mdlle. de la V. 'You here, my lord ! — 30U here! 
B,j^(jE. There was a maiden 

Fairer than many fair; but sweet and humble. 

And good an I spotless, through the vale of life 

She walk'd, her modest patli with blessings strew'd 

(For all men bless'd her) ; from her crystal name. 

Like the breath i' the mirror, even envy passed ; 

I souiht that maiden at the court ; none knew her. 

May I ask you — where now Louise La A''all:ere ? 
Mdlle. Dh la V. Cruel— unjust ! You were my fiitlier's friend. 

Dare you speak thus to me 1 
Brage. Dare ! dare ! 'Tis well ! 

You have learnt your state betimes 

Mdlle. de la V. My state, my lord 1 

I know not by what right you thus assume 

The privilege of insult ! 
Bkage. Ay, reproach ! 

The harlot's trick — for shame ! Oh, no, your pardon ! 

You are too high for shame ; and so — farewell ! 
Mdlle. de la V. My lord I — my lord, in pity — No— m Justice, 

Leave me not thus ! 
Brage. Louise ! 



30 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAliLIEKE. [aCT U.. 

Mdllb. DE hx V. Have they belied inel 

Speak, my good lord ! What ci ime have I coiumitted 1 
BaAGB. No crime — at courts ! 'Tis only Heaven and Honor 

That deem it aught but — most admired good fortune ! 

Many, wlio sweep in careless piide before 

The shrinking, spotless, timorous L.i Valliere, 

Will now fawn round thee, and with bended knees 

Implore sweet favor of the kin-j's kind mistress. 

Ha ! ha ! this is not crime ! Who calls it crime 1 

Do prudes say " Crime ?" G >, bribe them, and they'll swear 

Its name is greatness. Crime, indeed! — ha, ha ! 
Mdlle. DE LA V. My heart finds words at length ! 'Tis false ! 
Brage. 'Tis fal.p ! 

Why, speak again ! Say once more it is false — 

"i'h false — again His false ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Alas ! I'm wretched ! 

BRAGii. No, lady, no ! not wretched, if not guilty ! (Mademoiselle i>.j 
LA ValliIjre, after walking to and fro in great agi'ation, scii.< 
herself on the bench, L., and covers her face with her hand>-.) 

{aside) Are these the tokens of remorse 1 No matter! 

1 loved her well I And love is pride, not love, 

If it forsaUe e'en guilt amidst its .sorrows ! 

{aloud} Louise ! Louise ! Speak to thy friend, Louise ! 

Thy father's friend — thine own ! 
Mdlle. de la V. This hated court! 

Why came I hither 1 Wherefore have I clusc.l 

My heart against its own most pleading dictates ? 

Why clung to virtue, if the brand of vice 

Sear my good name ] 
Brage. That, when thou pray'st to Heaven, 

Thy soul may ask for comfort — wot forgiveness ! 
Mdlle. de la V. {rising, eagerly). A blessed thought ! 

I thank thee ! 
Bhage. (c). Thou art innocent ! 

Thou hast denied the king 1 
Mdlle. de la V. (l. c ) I have denied him. 

Brage. Curst he the lies that wrong'd thee ! — doubly curst 

The hard, the icy selfishness of soul. 

That, but to pander to an hour's caprice, 

Blasted that flower of life — fair fame ! Accurst 

The king who casts his purple o'er his vices ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Hold ! — thou maUgn'st thy king! 
Brage. He spared not tliee ! 

Mdlle. de la V. The king — Heaven bless him! 

Bragr Wouldst tliou madden me ? 

Thou ! — No — thou lov'st him not ? — thou hid'st not thy face ! 

Woman, tlioii tremblest! Lord of Hosts, for this 

Hast thou preserved me from the foeman's sword, 

And through the incarnadined and raging seas 

Of war upheld me — made both life and soul 

The sleepless priests to that fair idol — Honor 1 

Was it for this ? 1 loved thee not, Louise, 

As gallants love ? Thou wert this life's ideal, 

Breathing through earth the lovely and the holy, 

And clothing Poetry in human beauty ! 

When in tiiis.glooray world tliey spoke of sin, 

I thought of thee, and smiled — for thou wert sinless 1 



ACT n.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE, 31 

And when they told nie of some diviner act 

That made our nature noble, my heart whisper'd — 

" So woLdd have done Louise !" — "i'was thus I loved thee ! 

To lose thee, I can bear it ; but to lose, 

With thee, all hope, all confi lence of viitue — 

This — this is hard ! Oh ! I am sick of earth ! {^jaces to and fro ) 
Mdlle. de la. V. Nay, speak not thus — be gentle with me. Come, 

I am not what thou deem'st me, Bragelone ; 

Woman I am, and weak. Support, advise me ! 

Forget the lover, but be still the friend. 

Do not desert me — thou ! 
Brace, {stopping suddenly). Thou lov'st the king ! 

Mdlle. de LA V. But 1 can fly from love. 

BuAGE. Poor child ! And whither ■? 

Mdlle. de la V. {appealingly, laying her hand upon his arm). Take me to 

'the old castle, to my mother ! 
Bkage. The king can reach thee there ! 
Mdlle. de la V. He'll not attempt it ! 

Alas ! in courts, how quickly men forget ! 
Bkage. Not till their victim hath surrender'd all ! 

Hadst thou but yielded, why thou might'st have lived 

Beside his very threshold, safe, unheeded ; 

But thus, with all thy bloom of heart unrifled — 
• The fortress stonn'd, not conquer'd — why man's pride, 

If not man's lust, would shut thee from escape ! 

Art thou in earnest — wouldst thou truly fily 

From gorgeous infamy to tranquil honor, 

God's house alone may shelter thee! 
Mdlle. dr la V. "The convent ! 

Alas ! alas ! to meet those eyes no more ! 

Never to hear that voice ! 
Brage. ,{cli parting'). Enough ! 

Mdlle. de la V. Yet, stay ! 

I'll see him once ! One last farewell — and then — 

Yes, to the convent ! 
Br&ge. I have done — and yet, 

Ere I depart, {takes off scarf and offers it) take back the scarf thou 
gav'st me. 

Then didst " thou honor worth !" now, gift and giver 

Alike are worthless. 
Mdlle. de la V. Worthless ! Didst thou hear me"? 

Have I not said that 

Brage. Thou wouldst see the king ! 

Vice first, and virtue after ! O'er the marge 

Of the abyss thou tremblest. One step more, 

And from all heaven the angels shall cry, "Zo«</" 

Thou ask'st that single step ! Wouldst thou be saved 1 

Lose not a moment. Come ! 
Mdlle. de la V. {in great agony). Be.side that tree, 

When stars shone soft, he vowed for aye to love me ! 
Bkage. Think of thy mother ! At this very liour 

She blesses Heaven that thou wert born — the last 

Fair scion of a proud and stainless race. 

Tomorrow, and thy shame may cast a shade 

Over a hundred 'scutcheons, and thy mother 

Feel thou wert born that she might long to dje ! 

Come ! 



32 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. [aCT U. 

Mdlle. DE LA V. I am ready — take my hand, {as she puts out her hand, 
her eye falls on the bracelet) Away ! 

This is his gift ! And shall I leave him thus ? 

Not one kind word to break the shock of parting — 
Bra«e. And break a mother's heart! 
Mdlle de la V. Be still ! Thou'rt man ! 

Thou canst not feel as woman feels ! — her weakness 

Thou canst not sound. Louis, Heaven protect thee ! 

May fate look on thee witli La Valliere's eyes ! 

Now [ am ready, sir. Thou'st seen how weak 

Wo.aian is ever where she loves. Now, learn, 

Proportion'd to that weakness is the strength 

With which she conquers love ! Louis ! Louis ! 

QuicU ! take me hence ! {clasping his arm and bendhig down her 
head) 
Brage. [aside). The heart she wrongs hath saved her ! 

And is that all ! — The shelter for mine age — 

The Hope that was the garner for affection — 

The fair and lovely tree, beneath whose shade 

The wearied soldier thought to rest at last, 

And watch life's sun go calm and cloudless down, 

Smiling the day to sleep — all, all lie shatter 'd ! 

No matter, {aloud) I have saved thy soul from sorrow, 

Whose hideous depth thy vision cannot fathom. 

Joy ! — I have saved thee ! 
Mdllk. de la V. ■ Ah I when last we parted 

I toll thee, of thy love I was not worthy. 

Another shall replace rac 1 
Brage. {smiling sadly). Hush ! Another 1 

No ! [replacing scarf) See, I wear thy colors still ! Though Hope 

Wanes from the plate, the dial still remains, 

And takes no light from stars ! I— /am nothing ! 

But thou — Nay, weep not! Yet these tears are honest ; 

Thou hast not lived to make the Past one blot, 

Which life in vain would ^^'eep away ! Poor maiden I 

I could not cheer thee then. Now, joy ! — I've saved thee ! 
[Exeunt Mademoiselle de la Valliere and Bragelone. r. u. e. 

SCENE n. — The Kayo's cabinet at Fontaineblean;* Table c, covered with 
papers, the King seated k. of table, tvriting. 

Enter Lauzun, l. 2 e. 

Louis. Lauzun. I sent for you. Your zeal has seived me, 

And I am grateful. There, this order gives you 

The lands and lordsliip of De Vesci. 
Lau. {advances, kneels and receives the parchment). Sire, 

How shall I thank your goodness 1 
Louis. Hush t — by silence! 

Lau. {rising, aside). A king's forbidden fruit has pretty windfalls ! 
Louis. The beautiful Louise ! I never loved 

Till now. 

* To some it may be interesting to remember that this cabinet, in which the most 
powerful of the Bourbon kings ia represented as rewarding the minister of his pleas- 
ure, is the same as that in •which is yet shown the table upon which Napoleon Bona- 
parte (son of a gentleman of Corsica), signed the abdication of the titles and domin- 
ions of Charlemagne { 



ACT n.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE, 33 

Lap. She yields not yet 1 

Louis. But gives refusal 

A voice that puts e'en passion to the blush 

To own one wish so soft a heart denies it! 
Lau. a woman's No ! is but a crooked path 

Unto a woman's Yes ! Your Majesty 

Saw her to-day 1 
Lopis. No ! — Grammont undertakes 

To bear, in secret, to her hand, some lines 

That pray a meeting. — I await his news, {continues ivriling.) 
Lau. [aside, advancing, l. c). I'll not relate my tilt with Bragelone. 

First, I came oflf the worst. No man of sense 

Ever confesses that ! And, secondly, 

This most officious, curious, hot-brained Quixote 

Might make him jealous ; jealous kings are peevish ; 

And, if he fall to questioning the lady, 

She'll learn who told the tale, and spite the teller. 

Oh ! the great use of logic ! (crosses to r.) 
Louis. 'lis in vain 

I strive by business to beguile impatience ! 

How my heart beats ! — Well, count 1 

Enfer Grammont, l. 2 e. 

Gram. Alas, my liege ? 

Louis. Alas ! Speak out ! 

Gram. The court has lost La Valli^re ! 

Louis [starting up). Ha ! — lost ! ... 

Gram. She has fled, and none guess whither. 

Locis. (advancing quickly to c). Fled ! 

Ml not believe it!— Fled! 
Lau. (r. c). What matters. Sire ? 

No spot is sacred from the king ! 
Louis [passionately, walking to and fro'). By Heaven, 

I am a king ! — Not all the arms of Europe 

Could wrest one jewel from my crown. And she — 

What is my crown to her "? 1 am a king .' 

Who stands between the king and her he loves 

Becomes a traitor — and may find a tryrant ! 

Follow me ! \Exil Louis, l. 1 e. 

Gram. Who e'er heard of Maids of Honor 

Flying from kings 1 
Lac. Ah, had xjon been a maid. 

How kind you would have been, you rogue ! — Come on ! 

\Exet0-it Lauzun and Grammont, l. 1 e. 

SCENE in. — The cloisters of a Convent — Night — Thunder and lightning, the 
latter made visible through the long oriel windotvs. 

Mademoiselle de la Valliere enters, wearily, l 2 e. 

Mdlle. db la V. Darkly the night sweeps on. No thought of sleep 
Steals to my heart. What sleep is to the world 
Prayer is to me — life's balm, and griefs oblivion ! 
Yet, e'en before tlie altar of my God, 
Uiihallow'd fire is raging through my veins — 
Heav'n on my lips, but earth within my heart — 



34 THE DUCHESS T>£ I.A VALLIKRE. [aCT H. 

And while I pray his memory prompts the prayer, 
And all I ask of Hoaven is, '• Guard my Louis ! " 
Forget him — that I dare not pray ! I would not, 
E'en if 1 could, be happy, and forget him ! {thunder) 
Roll on, roll on, dark chariot of the storm, 
Whose wheels are thunder — the rack'd elements 
Can furnish forth no tempest like the war 
Of passion in one weak and erring heart ! {the bell tolls one) 
Hark ! to-night's funeral knell ! How through the roar 
Of winds aind thunder thrills that single sound, 
Solemnly audible ! — the tongne of time, 
In time's most desolate hour-^it bids us muse 
On worlds which love can reach not ! Life runs fast 
To its last sands ! To bed, to bed !— to tears 
And wishes for the grave ! — to bed, to bed! (? trumpet is heard 
without, L.) 

Two or three Nuns enter, h. 2 e., m>d hurry across the stage. 

First Nun. Mcst strange ! 

Second Nun. In such a night, too ! The great gates 

That ne'er unclose save to a royal guest, 

Unbarr'd I (Nuns draw aside towards r. 1 e.) 
Mdlle. de la V. What fear, what hope, by turns distracts me ! {the 

trumpet sounds again.) 
First Nun. Hark ! in the court, the ring of hoofs ! — the door 

Creaks on the sullen hinge ! 
Lau. {ivithoH/), Make way — the king ! 

i:7iter Louis and Lauzun, l. 1 e. 

Mblle. de la V. {rushing forward). Oh, Louis — oh, beloved ! {then paus- 
ing abruptlg) No, touch me not ! 

Leave me ! in pity leave me ! Heavenly Father, 

I fly to thee ! Protect me from his arms — 

Protect me from myself ! 
Louis. Oh bliss ! Louise ! 

£nter Abbess ai^ Nuns, r. 1 e. 
* 
Abbess. Peace, peace ! What clamor desecrates the shrine 

And solitudes of God ? 
Lau. (l. c). Madam, your knee — 

The king ! 
Abbess. The king ! — you mock me, sir ! 

Louis {quitting Mademoiselle de la Valliere). Behold 

Your sovereign, reverend mother ! — We have come 

To thank ycu for your shelter of this lady, 

And to reclaim our charge. 
Abbess. My liege, these walls 

Are sacred even from the purple robe 

And sceptred hand. 
Louis. She hath not ta'en the vow ! 

She's free — we claim her ! — she is of our court I 

Woman, — go to ! 
Abbess. The maiden. Sire, is free ! 

Your royal lips have said it ! — She is free I 



ACT II.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKEE. 35 

Ami if this shrine Iier clioice, whoD'er compels her 

Forth from the refuge, cloth incur the curse 

Tiie Roman Church awards to even kings ! 

Speak, lady — dost thou claim against the court 

The asylum of the cloister "? 
Lauis. Darest thou brave us ? 

Lao. {aside to Locis). Pardon, my liege ! — reflect ! Let not the world 

Say that the king 

Louis {aside to Lavzus). Can break his bonds ! — A.way ! 

I was a man before I was a king! {aloud, ajjproaching Mademoi- 
selle DE LA VALLIERe) 

Lady, we do command your presence ! [lowering his voice) ^wic 1 

Adored Louise ! — if ever to your ear 

My wliispeis spoke in music — if my life 

Be wo; th the saving, do not now desert me ! 
Mdlle. DE LA Y. Let me not hear him. Heaven ! — Strike all my senses I 

Make — make me dumb, deaf, blind — but keep me honest ! 
Abbess. Sire, you have heard her answer ! 

Loots {advancing passionately, pauses, and then with great dignity). Abbess, 
no ! 

This lady was intrusted to our charge — 

A fatherless child ! — The king is now her fatlier ! 

Madam, we would not wrong you ; but we know 

That sometimes most unhaliow'd motives waUe 
' Your zeal for converts ! — This young maid is wealthy. 

And nobly born I — Such proselytes may make 

A convent's pride but oft a convent's victims ! 

No more ! — we claim the right the law awa.di us, 

Free and alone to commune with this maid. 

If then her choice go witli you — be it so ; 

We are no tyrant! Peace! — retire I 
Abbess. My liege ! 

Forgive 

Loots. We do ! Retire I 

[Ladzon, the Abbess, etc., withdraw, r. 1 e. 
Loots (c). We are alone ! 

Mdlle. de la V. Alone ! — No, God is present, and the conscience ! 
Loots. Ah ! fear'st thou, then, that heart that would resign 

E'en love itself to guard one pang from thee 1 
Mdlle. de la V. I must speak ! — Sire, if every drop of blood 

Were in itself a life, I'd shed them all 

For one hour's joy to thee ! But fame and virtue — 

My father's grave — ray mothers lonely age — 

These, these — [thunder) I hear their voice! — the fires of Heaven 

Seem to me like the eyes of angels, and 

Warn me against myself! — Farewell ! 
Loots. Louise, 

I will not hear thee! What! farewell! that word 

Sounds like a knell to all that's worth the living ! 

Farewell ! why, then, farewell all peace to Louis, 

And the poor king is once more but a thing 

Of stale and forms. The impulse and the passion — 

The blessed air of happy human life — 

The all that made him envy not his subjects. 

Dies in that word! Ah, canst thou — dar'st thou say it? 
Mdlle. de la V. Oh, speak not thus ! — Speak harshly ! threat, com- 
mand I — 



36 THE DUQHESS DE LA VALLIERE, [ACT ni. 

Be all the king ! 
Louis {kncelinrji). The king ! he kneels to thee! 

Mdlle. de la V. I'm weak I — be generous 1 Mj' own soul betrays me; 

But thou betray me not ! 
Louis. Nay, hear me, sweet one ! 

Desert me not this once, and I will swear 

To know no guiltier wish — to curb my heart — 

To banish hope from love — and nurse no dream 

Thy spotless soul itself shall blush to cherish ! 

Hear me, Louise — thou lov'st me ] 
Mdlle. dk la V. Love thee, Louis ! 

Louis. Thou lov'st me — then confide ! Who loves trusts ever ! 
Mdlle. de la V. Trust thee! — ah ! dare I ? 
Louis {rising and clasping her in his arms). Ay, till death ! What ho ! 

Lauzun ! I say ! 

Lauzun re-enters quickly, and advances. 

Mdlle. de la V. No, no 1 

Louis. Not trust me, dearest ? 

She falls on his shoulder. The Abbess re-enters followed oy Nuns. 

Abbess. Still firm ! 

Lau. (l.). No, madam ! Way there for the king ! 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — An antechamber in the palace of M.KJiKvmjjk Duchess de la 
Valliere, at Versailles. 

Enter Lauzun, l. 1 e., and Madame de Montespan, r. 1 e. 

Lau. Ha ! my fair friend, well met — ^how fairs Athenfe 1 

Mme de Mon. Weary with too ranch gayety ! Now, tell me ! 
Do you ne'er lire of splendor ? Does this round 
Of gaudy pomps — this glare of glitt'ring nothings — 
Does it ne'er pall upon you ? To my eyes 
'Tis as the earth would be if turfd with scarlet, 
Without one spot of green. 

Lau. We all feel thus 

Until we are used to it. Art has grown my nature, 
And if I see green fields, or ill-dress'd people, 
I cry " How artificial !" With me, " Nature " 
Is " Paris and Versailles." The word, " a man," 
Means something noble, that one sees at court. 
Woman's the thing Heaven made for wearing trinkets 
And talking scandal. That's my state of nature ! 
You'll like it soon ; yon have that temper which 
Makes courts its element. 

Mme. de Mon. And how 1 — define, sir. 

Lau. First, then — but shall I not offend ? 

Mme. de Mon. Be candid. 

I'd know my faults, to make them look like virtues. 

Lau. First, then, Athenfe, you've an outward frankness. 



ACT m.] THK DUCHESS DE LA VALUKKE. 37 

Deceit in j'ou looks lionester tlia'i truth. 

Tliouijhts, at court, like faces on the stage, 

Require some ro^iue. You rogue your thoughts so well, 

That one would deem their only fault, that nature 

Give them too bright a bloom ! 
Mme. de Mon. Proceed ! 

Lau. Your wit 

Is of the true court breed — !t plays with nothings ; 

Just bi ight enough to warm, but never burn — 

Excites the dull, but ne'er offends the vain. 

You have much energy ; it looks like feeling ! 

Your cold ambition seems an easy impulse ; 

Your head most ably counterfeits the heart, 

But never, like tlie heart, betrays itself ! 

Oil ! you'll succeed at court — you see I know j'ou ! 

Not so this new-made duchess — young La Valli6re. 
Mme. de Mon. The weak, fond fool ! 
Lad. Yes, weak — she has a heart ; 

Yet you, too, love the king! 
Mme. i>b Mon. And she does not ! 

She loves but Louis ! — I but love the king ; 

Poinp, riches, state, and power — these, who would love not \ 
Lau. Bravo! well said ! Oh, you'll succeed at court ! 

I knew it well ! it was for this I chose you — 

Induced your sapient lord to waste no more 

Your beauty in the shade— for this prepared 

The duchess to receive you to her bosom. 

Her dearest friend ; for this have duly fed 

The king's ear with your praise, and clear'd your waj' 

To rule a sovereign and to share a throne. 
Mme. de Mon. I know thou hast been my architect of power ; 

And when the pile is built — 
Lap. i^with a smile). Could still o'erlhrow it, 

If thou couldst play the ingrate ! 
Mme. de Mon. I ! — nay ! 

Lau. Hear mo ! 

Each must have need of each. Long live the king ! 

Still let his temples ache beneath the crown. 

But all that kings can give — wealth, rank, and power- 
Must be for us — the king's friend and his favorite. 
Mme. de Mon. Bui is it easy to supplant the duchess 1 

All love La Valliere ! Her meek nature shrinks 

E'en from our homage ; and she wears her state 

As if she pray'd the world to pardon greatness, 
Lau. And thus destroys herself ! "At court, Athend, 

Vice, to win followers, takes the front of virtue, 

And looks the dull plebeian things called moral 
* To scorn, until they blush to be unlike her. 

Why is Di Lauzun not her friend 1 Why plotting 

For a new rival ? Why ? — Because D.^ Lauzun 

Wins not the power he look'd for from her friendship ! 

She keeps not old friends — and she makes no new ones ! 

For who would be a friend to one who deems it 

A crime to ask his Majesty a favor 1 

" Friends^' is a phrase at court that meanfi proimfio)/ .' 
Mme. de Mon. Her folly, I confess, would not be mine. 

But grant her faults — the king still loves the duche>s ! 



38 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAXiLIKKE. [aCT HL 

Lau. Since none are by, I'll venture on a treason, 

And say, the Uin<i's a man — and men will change ! 

1 liave his ear, and you shall win his eye. 

'Gainst a new face, and an experienced courtier, 

What chance hath this poor, lovina, simple woman 1 

Besides, she has too much conscience for a king ! 

He lilies not to look up, and feel how low. 

E'en on the throne that overlooks the world, 

His royal greatness dwarfs beside that heart 

That never stoop'd to sin, save when it loved him ! 
Mme. de Mon. You're eloquent, my lord ! 
JjAu. -A-h ! of such natures 

You and I know but little ! (aside) This must cease, 

Or I shall all disclose my real aims ! 

{aloud) The king is with the duchess 1 
Mme. de Mon. Yes. 

Lau. As yet 

She doth suspect you not 1 
Mmk. de Mon. ' Suspect !— the puppet ! 

No ; but full oft, her head upon my bosom, 

Calls me her truest friend — invites me ever 

To amuse the king with my enlivening sallies — 

x\nd still breaks off, in sighing o'er the past. 

To wish her spirit were as blithe as mine. 

And fears her Louis wearies of her sadness. 
Lau. So, the plot ripens — ere the king came hither, 

I had prepared his royal pride to chafe 

At that sad face, whose honest sorrow wears 

Reproach unconsciously ! You'll hear the issue ! 

Now then, farewell I — We understand each other ! 

[Exit Lauzun, b. 1 B. 
Mme. de Mon. And ones I loved this man — and still might love him. 

But that I love ambition ! Yes, my steps 

Now need a guide ; but once upon the height, 

And I will have no partner ! Thou, lord duke. 

With all thine insolent air of proud protection, 

Thou Shalt wait trembling on my nod, and bind 

Thy fortune to my wheels ! man ! — vain man ! 

Well sung the poet — when this power of beauty 

Heaven gave our sex, it gave the only sceptre 

Which makes the world a slave ! And I will wield it ' — 

[Exit Madame de Montespan, l 1 e. 

SCENE It. — The Scene opens and discovers the King, and the Duch'sSs de 
LA Valliere at chess. 

Louis {m.). But one move more! 

Ditch, de LA V. (li.). Not so ! I check the king. 

Louis- A vain attempt — the king is too well guarded ! 

There, check again ! Your game is lost ! 
DuoH. de LA V. As usual. 

E'en from this mimic stage of war you ri.se 

Ever the victor, {they leave the table and advance.) 
Louis 'Twere a fairer fortune, 

My own Louise, to reconcile the vanquish'd ! 
DucH. DE LA V. {sadly). My best loved Louis ! 
Louis (c). Why so sad a tone 1 



ACT in.j THE DrCHESS DE LA ^ALX-IERE. 39 

Nay, smile, Louise !-^Love tliiiiks himself aggrieved 

If Care casts sliadows o er the heart it seeks/ 

To fill with cloudless sunshine! Smile, Louise ! 

E'en unkind words were kinder than sad looks. 

There — now thou gladd'st me ! 
Dccu. DE LA v. (L. c). Yet, e'en thou, methousrht, 

Didst wear, this morn, a brow on which the light 

Shone less serenely than its wont ! 
Louis. Tliis morn ! 

Ay, it is true! — this morn I heard that France 

Hath lost a subject moiiaichs well might mourn ! 

Oh ! little know the world how much a king, 

Whoste life is past in purchasing devotion, 

Loses in one who merited all favor 

And scorned to ask the least ! A king, Louise, 

Sees but the lackeys of mankind. The true 

Lords of our race — the high chivalric hearts — 

Nature's nobility — alns, are proud, 

And stand aloof, lest slaves should say they Hatter ! 

Of such a mould was he whom France deplores. 
DucH. DE LA V. Tel! me his name, that I, with thee, may mourn him. 
LoDis. A noble name, but a more noble bearer ; 

Not to be made by, but to make, a lineage. 

Once, too, at Dunkirk, 'twix me and the foe, 

He thrust his gallant breast, already seamed 

With warrior woiuid.^, and his blood flow'd for mine. 

Dead — his just merits all unrecompentred ! 

Obscured, like sun-light, by the suppliant clouds ! 

He should have died a marshal I Death did wrong 

To strike so soon ! Alas, brave Bragelone ! 
DccH. DE LA V. [starting). Ha ! — did 1 hear aright, mv liege — my Louis! 

That name — that name ! — thou saidst not " Bragelone ?" 
Loots. Such was his name, not often heard at court. 

Thou didst not know him 1 What I thou art pale ! thou weep'st. 

Thou art ill ! Louise, lock up ! {supporting her.) 
DucH. LE LA V. (aside). Be still, Conscience ! 

I did not slay him ■ [aloud) Died too soon f Alas I 

He slK^uld have died with all his hopes luiblighted. 

Ere I was — what I am ! 
LoDis. What mean these words ? 

Ducn. de'la V. How did death strike him ? What disease % 
Louis. • 1 know not. 

He had retired from service ; and in peace 

Breathed out his soul to some remoter sky ! 

France only guards his fame ! What was he to thee 

That thou shouldst weep for him ? 
DocH. DE L\ V. Hast thou ne'er heard 

We were betrothed in youth ? 
Louis [agitated and aside). Lauzun speaks truth ! 

I'd not her virgin heart — she loved another ! 

\aloud) Betrothed ! You mourn him deeply ! 
Ducu. PE LA V. Sire, I do 

Tiiat broken heart — I was its dream — its idol ' 

And with regret is mingled — what repentance 1 
Louis [coldlg). R'^pentance, madam 1 Well, the word is gracious ! 
DucH. DE LA "V. Pardon ! oh, pardon ! But the blow was sudden ; 

How can the heart play courtier with remorse 1 



40 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIiMEEE. [aCT in. 

Lopis. Remorse I— again. Why be at once all honest, 

And say you love nie not ! 
Ddch. dk. la V. Not love you, Louis ? 

Louis. Nol if you feel repentance to have loved ! 
Ducu. DE LA V. What ! think'st thou, Luuis, I should love thee more 

J)i(I I love virtue less, or less regret it ? 
Louis. I piay you truce with these heroic speeches ; 

They please us in romance — in life they weary. 
Ducn. DE LA V. Louis, do I deserve this 1 
Louis. RatJier, lady, 

Do / deserve the mute reproach of sorrow 1 

Still less these constant, and never-soothed complaints, 

This waiting-woman jargon of " lost virtue.'' 
DucH. DE LA V. Sire, this from you ! 
Louis Why, oft, could others hear thee, 

Well might they deem thee some poor village Phoebe, 

Whom her false Lubin had deceived, and left, 

Robb'd of her only dower ! and not the great 

Duchess La Valliere, in our realm of France, 

Second to none but our anointed race ; 

The envy of the beauty and the birth 

Of Europe's court — our city of the world ! 

Is it so great disgrace, Louise La Vallifere, 

To wear, unrivall'd, in thy breast, the heart 

Of Bourbon's latest, nor her least of kings 1 
DuOH. DE LA V. Sire, when you deigned to love me, I had hoped 

You knew the sunshine of your royal favor 

Had fallen on a lowly flower. Let others 

Deem that the splendor consecrates the sin ! 

I'd love thee with as pure and proud a love, 

If thou hadst beeu the poorest cavalier 

That ever served a king. Thou Know'st it, Louis ! 
Louis. I would not have it so ! my fame, my glory. 

The purple and the orb, are part of me ; 

And thou shouldst love them for my sake, and feel 

I were not Louis were I less the king. 

Still weeping ! Fie ! I tell thee tears freeze back 

The very love 1 still would bear thee ! 
DucH. DE LA V. " Would still .'" — didst thou say " siill ?" 
Louis. Come, lady ! 

Woman, to keep her empire o'er the heart, 

Must learn its nature — mould into its bias — 

And rule by never diftering from our humors. 
DucH. DR LA V. I'll school my features, teach my lips to smile, 

Be all thou wilt ; b it .say not ^' still," dear Louis ! 
Louis. Well, well ! no funli m- words ; let peace be with us. {crosses to l.) 

(aside) By Heaven, siie weeps with yet intenser passion ! 

it must be that she loved this Brageione, 

And mourns the loftier fate that made her mine ! 

{aloud) This gallant soldier, madam, your betrothed. 

Hath some share in your tears 1 
DucH. DE DA V, (it. c). Oh, name him not ; 

My tears are all unworthy dews to fail 

Upon a tomb so honored ! 
Louis. Grant in3 patience ! 

These scenes are very tedious, fair La VaIK6 o. 

In truth, we kings have, in the councii-c'.iamber, 



ACT in.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. 41 

Enough to make us tearful — in the bower 

We would have livelier subjects to divert us. 
DocH. DE LA V. Again forgive me ! I am sick at heart ; 

I pray your pardon ; — these sad news have marr'd 

The music of your presence, and have made me 

Fit but for solitude. I pray you, Sire, 

Let me retire ; and when ayain I greet you, 

I'll wear the mien you'd have me ! 
Louis. Be it so ! 

Let me no more disturb you from your thoughts ; 

They must be sad. So brave — and your betrothed ! 

Your grief becomes you ! 
DucH. DE LA V. You forgive me, Louis 1 

We do not part unkindly ? 
LoDis. Fair one, no ! 

[Hxlt La Vallierk, l. d. 

She was my first love, and my fondest. JFas ! 

Alas, the word must come— I love her yet, 

But love wanes glimmering to that twilight — friendship ! 

Grant that she never loved this IJragelone ; 

Still, tears and sighs make up dull interludes 

In passion's short-lived drama! She is good, 

Gentle, and meek — and I do think she loves me, 

(A truth no king is sure of 1) — But, in fine, 

1 have begun to feel the hours are long 

Pass'd in her presence ! What I hotly sought, 

Coldly I weary of. I'll seek De Lauzun ; 

1 like his wit — I almost like his knavery ; 

It never makes us yawn, like high-flown virtues. 

Thirst, hunger, rest — these are the wants of peasants ; 

A courtier's wants are titles, place, and gold ; 

But a poor king, who has these wants so sated, 

Has only one want left — to be amused ! [Exit Louis, r d. 

Re-enter the Duchess de la Vallieue. 

DucH. DR LA V. Louis ! dear Louis ! Gone ! alas ! and left me 
Half in displeasure — I was wrona, uiethinks, 
To — no ! — I was not wrong to /(?e^ remorse, 
But wrong to give it utterance 1 

Enter Madame db Montespan, c. l. 

Mme. de Mon. {looking round, then advancing). What ! alone, 

Fair friend 1 I thought the king 

BucH DE LA V. Has gone, in anger ; 

Cold, and in anger. 
Mme. de Mon. What, with thee, dear lady ? 

On the smooth surface of that angel meekness 

I should have thought no angry breath could linger. 

But men and kiijgs are 

DocH. de la V. Hush ! I was to blame. 

The king's all goodness. Shall I write to him ? 

Letters have not our looks — and, oh, one look ! 

How many hardest hearts one look hath won, 

A life consumed in words had woo'd in vain ! 



42 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIjLIEEE. [aCT WL 

Mme. dk Mon. To-night there is high revel at the court , 

There you may meet your truant king. 
DccH. DE LA V. To-night ! 

An age ! How many hours to-night 1 
Mme. de Mon. You know 

My office makes my home the royal palace ; 

I serve the queen, and thus shall see your Louis 

Ere the sun set. 
DtJCH. DE LA v. You ! — happy pou ! 

Mme. de Mon. Perchance 

(The king is ever gracious to your friends, 

And knows me of the nearest), I niiu[lit whisper, 

Though with less sweet a tone, your message to him, 

And be your dove, and bear you back the olive I 
DucH. DE LA V. My kind Athene ! 
Mme. de Mon. Nay, 'tis yours the kindness, 

To wear my love so near your heart. But, tell me, 

Since you accept my heraldy, the cause 

Of strife between you in this court of love. 
DucH. DE LA V. Alas ! 1 know not, save that I offended ! 

The wherefore boots the heart that loves to know ? 
Mme. dm Mon. Not much, i own, the poor defendant — woman, 

But much the advocate ; I need the brief. 
DucH. Du LA V. Methinks his kingly nature chafes to see 

It cannot rule the conscience as the heart ; 

But tell him, ever henceforth I will keep 

Sad tlioughts for lonely hours— Athene, tell him, 

That if he smile once more upon Louise, 

The smile shall never pass from that it shines on ; 

S;^y — but I'll write myself, (sits down to table and ivrites.) 
Mme. de Mon. {aside). What need of schemes — 

Lauzun's keen wit — Athene's plotting spirit 1 

She weaves herself the web that shall ensnare her ! 
DuCH. DE LA V. {rises, advances and gives letter). There; back these feeble 
words with all thy beauty. 

Thy conquering eyes, and thy bewitching smile. ' 

Sure never suit can fail with such a pleader ! 

And now a little while to holier sadness, 

And thine accusing memory, Bragelone ! 
Mme. de Mon. Whom speak you of? — the hero of the Fronde 1 

Who seem'd the last of the old Norman race. 

And half preserved to this degenerated age 

The lordly shape the ancient Bayards wore ! 
DucH. DE LA V. You praisc him well ! He was my father's friend, 

And should have been his son. We were affianced, 

And — but no more ! Ah ! cruel, cruel Louis ! 

You mourn'd for him — how much more cause have I ! 
Mme de Mon. {quiclcbj). What ! he is dead ] your grief the king 
resented ? 

Knew he your troth had thus been plighted ? 
DucH. de la V. Yes ; 

And still he seem'd to deem it sin to mourn him I 
Mme. de Mon. (aside). A clue — another clue — that I will fo'low, 

Until it lead me to the throne I (aloud) Well, cheer thee ; 

Trust your true friend ; rely on my persuasion. 

Methinks I never task'd its powers fill now. 

Farewell, and fear not ! Oh ! I'll plead your cause, 



ACT in.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. 43 

As if myself the client, [aside) Thou art sentenced i 

[ExH MADAM15 DE MONTESPAN, K. I). 

Ddch. db la v. 'Tis a sweet solace still to have a friend — 
A friend in ivoman ! Oh, to what a reed 
We bind our destinies, when man we love ! 
Peace, honor, conscience lost — if I lose him, 
What liave 1 left 1 How sinks my heart within me ! 
I'll to my chamber ; there the day of tears 
Lends night its smile ! And Tm the thing they envy ! 

[Exit Duchess de la Valliere, l. d. 

SCENE III.— The gardens of Versailles. 

Lauzun, Grammont, and Courtiers enter, l. 1 e 

Lau. 'Tis now the hour in which our royal naster 

Honors the ground of his rejoicing gardens 

By iiis illustrious footsteps — there, my lords, 

That is the true style-courtier ! 
Guam. Out upon you ! 

Your phrase would suit some little German prince, 

Of fifteen hundred quarterings and five acres, 

And not the world's great Louis ! 'Tis the hour 

When Phoebus shrinks abash'd, and all the stars 

Envy the day that it beholds the king ! 

Enter IjOV\b, r. 1 e. 

Louis. My lords. 

Pray you be cover'd. Hark ye, dear De Lauzun. 

[Exeunt the Courtiers, r. 2 e., as the King takes Lauzun aside. 

The fair De Montespan 1 
Lau. Is worth the loving ; 

And, by mine honor, while we speak she comes ! 

A happy fortune. Sire, may 1 withdraw "? [Exit, r. 2 e. 

E)iter Madame de MoKiESPAiN, r. 1 e. Salutes the King and passes mi. 

Louis. Fair madam, we had hoped you wiih you brought 

Some bi ight excuse to grace our cheerless presence 

With a less short-lived light ! Y"ou dawn upon us 

Only to make us more regret your setting. 
Mmr. de Mon. Sire, if I dared, I would most gladly hail 

A few short moments to arrest your presence, 

And rid me of a soft, yet painful duty. 
Louis. 'Tis the first time, be sure, so sweet a voice 

E'er craved a sanction for delighting silence. 

Speak on, we pray thee ! 
Mme. de Mon. Gracious Sire, the duchess. 

Whom you have lately left, she fears, in anger, 

Besought me to present this letter to you. 
Louis {takes the letter, and aside). She blushes while slie speaks! 'Tis 
passing strange, 

I ne'er reraark'd those darkly-dreaming eyes. 

That melt in their own light ! {reads, and earelashj puts up the let- 
ter) It scarcely suits 

Her dignity, and ours, to choose a witness 



44 THE DUCHESS DE LA. VAMilERE, [aCT HL 

To what hath chanced between us. She is good, 

But her youth, spent in some old country cabtle, 

Knows not the delicate spirit of a court. 
Mme. de Mon. She bade me back her suit. Alas ! my liege, 

Who can succeed, if fair La ValUere fail "? 
Louis. She bade thee ? — she was prudent ! Were I woman. 

And loved, I'd not have chosen such a herald. 
Mme. de M()n. Love varies in its colors with all tempers ; 

The duchess is too proud to fear a rival. 

Too beautiful to find one. May I take 

Some word of comfort back to cheer her sadness, 

Made doubly deep by thoughts of your displeasure, 

And grief for a dear friend 1 
Lours. Ay, that's the sadness ! 

Mme. de Mon. He was a gallant lord, this Bragelone, 

And her betrothed. Perchance in youth she loved him, 

Ere the great sun had quenched the morning star ! 
Louis. She loved him — think'st thou so 1 
Mme. de Mon. {dissimulatiiig). Indeed I know not ; 

But I have heard her eloquent in praise. 

And seen her lost in woe. You will forgive her ? 
Louis Forgive her — there's no cause ! 
Mme. de Mon. Now, bless you, Sire, 

For that one word. My task is done. 
Louis Already 1 

Mmk. de Mon. What can I more ? Oh, let me hasten hack ! 

What rapture must be hers who can but fill 

An atom of the heart of godlike Louis ! 

How much more the whole soul ! — To lose thy love 

Must be, not grief, but some sublime despair. 

Like that the Roman felt who lost a world ! 
Louis [aside). By Heaven, she fires me ! — a brave, royal spirit. 

Worthy to love a king ! 
Mme. de Mon. To know thee hers. 

What pride — what glory ! Though all earth cried " Shame !" 

Eartli. could not still the trumpet at her heart. 

That, with its swelling and exultant voice, 

Told her the earth was but the slave of Louis, 

And she the partner ! And 0, hour of dread ! 

When (for the hour must come), some fairer form 

Shall win thee from her — still, methinks, 'twould be 

A boast to far posterity to point 

To all the trophies piled about thy throne. 

And say — " He loved me once !" — 0, sire, your pardon ; 

I am too bold. 
Louis, (aside). Why, this wei'e love, indeed. 

Could we but hope to win it. And such luve 

Would weave the laurel in its wreaths of myrtle. 

(aloud) Beautiful lady! while thou speak'st I dream 

What love should be — and feel where love is not ! 

Thou com'st the suitor, to remain the judge ; 

And I could kneel to thee for hope and mercy. 
Mmr. de Mon. Ah, no — ah, no — she is my friend. And if 

She loves not as I love — I mean, I might love — 

Still she believes she loves thee. Tempt me not. 

Who could resist thee ! Sire, firevvell ! 

\^Exit Madame dk Moxtespan, r. 1 e. 



ACT ni.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 45 

LoDis. Her voice 

Is hush'd ; but still its queen-like music lingers 
In my rapt ears. I dreamt Louise hail loved me ; 
She who felt love disgrace ! Before the true, 
How the tame counterfeit grows pale and lifeless. 
By the sad brow of yon devout La Valliure 
I feel a man, and fear myself a culprit ! 
But this high spirit wakes in mine the sense 
Of what it is — I am that Louis whom 
The world has called " The Great!" — and in her pride 
Mirror mine own. This jaded life assumes 
The zest, the youth, the glory of excitemetil ! 
To-night we meet again — speed fast, dull hours ! 

[Exit Louis, R. 1 E. 

SCENE IV. — Grand saloon in the Palace of Versailles — in the background the 
suite of apartments is seen in perspective — the Queen, Duohess de la 
Vallieke, and Madame de Montespan are discovered together with 
Courtiers, Ladies, etc. 

First Couk. {approaching the Duchess de la Valliere, as she is advanc- 
ing'). Madam, your goodness is to France a proverb ! 

If I might dare request, this slight memorial 

You would convey to our mo.st gracious master ? 

The ranli of colonel in the royal auard 

Is just now vacant. True, I have not served ; 

But 1 do trust my valor is well-known ; 

I've killed three noted swordsmen in a duel — 

And for the rest, a word from you were more 

Than all the laurels Holland gave to others. 
Ducd. DE LA V. My lord, forgive mc! I might ill-deserve 

The friendship of a monarch, if, forgetting 

That honors are the attributes of merit ; 

And they who sell the service of the public 

For the false coin, soft smiles and honey'd words 

Forged in the antechambers of a palace, 

Defraud a people to dearade a king ! 

If you have merits, let them plead for you ; 

Nor ask in whispers what .vou claim for justice, {retires toward* l.) 
Mme. de Mon. {advancing r , to Couistier, as th'e Duchess de la Val- 
liere turns away). Give me the paper. Husli ! the king 
shall see it ! {takes the paper, places it in her bosom and retires 
towards r. 3lusic.) 

Enter the King, c, with Grammont, Lauzun, and other Courtiers. He 
pauses by the Queen, and accosts her respectfully in dumb show. 

Gram, (l., aside). With what a stately and sublime decorum 

His majesty throws grandeur o'er his foibles ; 

He not disguises vice ; but makes vice kingly — 

Most gorgeous of all sensualists! 
Lau. {aside). How different 

His royal rival in the chase of pleasure. 

The spendthrift, saunterin.i S3cond Charles of England ! 
Gram, {aiide). Aye, Jove to Comus ! 
Lau. {aside). Silence ! Jove approaches ! 



46 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAXiLIERE. [aOT EI. 

The crowd breaks up into groups ; the King passes slowly from each till he 
joins the Duchess de la Valliere ; the Courtiers retire. 

Louis. Why, this is well. I thank you. 

DucH. DE LA V. AikI forgive me 1 

Louis. Foi'sive you ! You mistake me ; wounded feeling 

Is not displeai-ure. Let tiiis pass, Louise. 

Your lovely friend has a most heavetilj" smile ! 
LucH. DE LA V. And a warm lieai c. In truth, my lie^e, I'm glad 

You see her with my eyes. 
Louis. You have no friend 

Whose face it srlads me more to look upon, {aside, and gazing on 
Madame de Montespan) 

What thrilling eyes ! {aloud) My thanks are due to her 

For, with tlie oil of her mellifluoiis voice, 

Smoothiuic the waves the passing breeze had ruffled, (crosses to r , 
joins Madame dr Montrspan, and leads her through t'!:e 
crowd t'l the bach of the stage, where they enter into conversation, 
and afterivards she shoics him the jsaper.) 
Lau. {advances to the Duchess). Your grace resolves no more to be 
content 

Eclipsinor others. You eclipse yourself. 
Duck, de la V. I thought you were a friend, and not a flatterer. 
Lau. Friendship would lose its dearest privilege 

If friendsiiip were forbidden to admire ! 

Why, e'en the king admires your ^race's friend — 

Told me to-day she was the loveliest lady 

The court could boast. Nay, see how, while they speak, 

He gazes on her. How his breathing fans 

The locks that shade the roses of her cheek ! 
Duck, de la V. Ha ! (aside) Nay, be still, my heart 
Lau. It is br.t friendshij) ; 

But it looks wondrous warm ! 
Ducn. DE LA Y. (aside). He cannot mean it ! 

And yet — and yet — he lingers on her hand — 

He whispers ! 
Lau. How the gossips gaze and smile ! 

There'll be much scandal. 
DucH. DE la V. Liuzun — what — thou thinkst not — 

No, no, thou canst not think 

Lau. That courts know treachery, 

That women are ambitious or man false ; 

I will not think it. Pc^haw ! 
Ducn DE LA V. (aside). My brain swims round ! 

Louis, of late, hath been so changed. How fair 

She looks to-night — and oh, she has not fallen ! 

(aloud) He comes — he nears us — he has left her. Fie ! 

My foolish fancies wronged him ! 
Lau. (aside). The spell woiks. 

i\lME. DE MoN. (as the King quits her, to FrRsr Couutier, gir'ng lim. 

back the paper). My lord, your suit is granted. 
FiKST CouR Blessings, madame ! (the other Courtiers come round Uin.) 
Second Cour. Her influence must be great. I know three duiies 

Most pressing for the post. 
Thihd Cour. A risins sun, 

Worthier of worship than that cold La Valliere. 

The king as well, methinks, might have n» mistress, 



ACT in.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKRE. 47 

As one by wlicm no courtier grew the richer, (the CopitTii n^i 
group round Madamh De Montespan ) 
L0U13 {advancing). My lords, you do remember (he bright lists 

Which, in the place termed thenceforth " The Carromd,'' * 

We sometime held 1 — a knightly tournament, 

That brous[lit us back to the age of the First Francis ! 
liivu. Of all your glorious festivals, the greatest ! 

Who but remembers 1 
DucH. DE LA V. (nside). Then he wore ray colors. 

How kind to bring back to my yearning heart 

That golden spring-time of our early loves ? 
Louis. Next week we will revive the heroic pageant. 

Proud plumes shall wave, and levell'd spears be shiver'd ; 

Ourself will take the lists, and do defy 

The chivalry of our renowned France, 

In honor of that lady of our court 

For whom we wear the colors, and the motto 

Which suits her best — " Most bright ivhere all are brilliant .'" 
Gram. Oh, a most kingly notion ! 
Louis. Ere we part, 

Let each knight choose his colors and his lady. 

Ourself have set the example, (the Courtiers mmgle with the 
LadieS: e'c., many Ladies give their colors.) 
DucH. DE LA. V. (timidly). Oh, my Louis ! 

I read thy heart ; thou hast chosen this device 

To learn thy poor La ValliSre to be i)roud. 

Nay, turn not from my blessings. Once before 

You wore my colors, though I gave them not. 

To-night I give them ! — Louis loves me still ! [takes one of the 
knots from her breast, and presents it.) 
Louis. Lady, the noblest hearts in France would beat 

More high beneath your badge. Alas ! my service 

Is vow'd already here, (turning to Madamr de Montespan, aii-l 
placing a knot of her colors over his order of Saint Esprit. ) 
DucH DE LA V. How! How ! [the King converses apart tvith Madame 

DE Mo>TESPA\.) 

Lau. (aside, to the Duchess de la Valliere). Be calm, your grace; a 
thousand eyes 
Are on you. Give the envious crowd no triumph. 
, Ah ! had my fortune won so soft a heart 

I would have 

DucH. LE la V. (aside, to Lauzijn). Peace! — away' Betray'd! Un- 
done ! (sinks almost exhausted, but Lauzun catches and sup- 
ports her.) 

* The Place, du Carrousel was so named from a splendid festival given by Louis. 
On tbe second day, devoted to knightly games, the king, who appeared in the char- 
acter of Roger, carried ofif four prizes. All the crown jewels were prodigalized on 
his arms and the trappings of his horse. 



48 THE BUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [aCT IV. 

ACT IV. 

SCENE \.—The gardens at Versailles. 

Enter Laczctn, r. 1 E. 

Lau. So far, so prosperous. From the breast of Louis, 
Tlie blooming love it bore so long a summer 
Falls like a fruit o'er-ripe ; and, in the court, 
And o'er the king, this glittering Montespan 
Queens it without a rival — awes all foes, 
And therefore makes all friends. State, office, honors, 
Reflect her smile, or fade befo' e her frown. 
So far, so well ! Enough for Montespan. 
Poor Lauzun now — I love this fair La Valliere, 
As well, at least, as woman's worth the loving ; 
And if the jewel has one trifling flaw. 
The gold 'tis ?et in will redeem the blemish. 
The king's no niggard lover ; and her wealth 
Is vast. I have the total in my tablets — 
(Besides estates in Picardy and Provence.) 
I'm very poor — my creditors very pressing. 
I've robb'd the duchess of a faithless lover, 
To give myself a wife, and her a husband. 
Wedlock's a holy thing — and wealth a good one I 

Enter Locis, L. 1 E., and crosses towards r., whilst speakiny. 

Louis. The day is long — I have not seen Athene. 

Pleasure is never stagnant in her presence ; 

But every breeze of woman's changeful skies 

Ripples the stream, and freshens e'en the sunshine. 
Lau. (l. c). 'Tis said, your Majesty, " that contrast's sweet," 

And she you speak of well contrasts another, 

Whom once 

Louis (r. c ). I loved ;• and still devoutly honor. 

This poor La A'^alliere ! — could we will affection, 

I would have never changed. And even now 

I feel Atiiene has but charm'd my senses, 

And my void heart still murmurs for Louise ! 

I would we could be friends, since now not lovers, 

Nor dare be happy while [ know her wretched. 
Lau. Wearies she still your Majesty with prayers. 

Tender laments, and passionate reproaches ] 
Louis. Her love outlives its hopes 
Lau. An irksome task 

To witness tears we cannot kiss away. 

And with cold friendship freeze the ears of love I 
Louis. Most irksQme and most bootless ! 
Lau. Haply, Sire, 

In one so pure, the charm of wedded life 

Might lull keen griefs to rest, and curb the love 

Thou fliest from to the friendship that thou seekest ? 
Louis. I've thought of this. The Duke de Longueville loves her, 

And hath besought before her feet to lay 

His princely fortunes. 



ACT IV.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIURE. 49 

Lau. {quickly). Ha ! — and slie — 

Louis. Rejects him. 

Lau. Sire, if love's sun, once set, bequeaths a tvviliglit, 
'Twould only hover o'er some form whom chance 
Had link'd with Louis— some one (though unworthy) 

Whose presence took a charm from brighter thougliis 

That knit it with the past. 
Louis. Why, how now, duke ! — 

Thou speak'st not of thyself 1 
Lau. 1 dare not, Sire I 

Louis. Ha, ha ! — poor Lauzun — what ! tlie soft La Vallifere 

Transfer her sorrowing heart to thee ! Ha, ha ! 
Lau. My name is not less noble than De Longueville's ; 

My glory greater, since the world has said 

Louis esteems me more. 
Louis. Esteems ! — No — favors ! 

And thou dost think that she, who shrunk fiom love, 

Lest love were vice, would wed the wildest lord 

Tliat ever laugh' d at virtue ? (cmsses.) 
Lau. Sire, you wrong me, 

Or else you (pardon me) condemn yourself. 

Is it too much for one the king calls fr'end 

To aspire to one the king has call'd 

Louis (l. c, sharply). Sir, hold ! 

I never so malign'd that hapless lady 

As to give her the title only due 

To such as Montespan, who glories in it — 

The last my mistress ; but the first my victim ; 

A nice distinction, taught not in your logic, 

Which, but just now, confused esteem and favor. 

Go to ! we kings are not the dupes you deem us. {crosses.) 
Lap. (aside). So high 1 I'll win La Vallifere to avenge me, 

And humble this imperial vanity. 

(alowi) Sire, I offend I Permit me to retire, 

And mourn your anger ; nor presume to guess 

Whence came the cause. And, since it seems yom- favor 

Made me aspire too high, in that I loved 

Where you, Sire, made love noble, and half dream'd 

Might he — nay, am not — wholly there disdain'd — 
Louis. How, duke 1 
Lau. I do renounce at once 

The haugh'y vision. Sire, permit ray absence. 
Louis. Lauzim, thou hintest that, were suit allowd thee. 

La Valliere might not scorn it — is it so ? 
Lau. I crave your pardon, Sire. 
Louis. Must I ask twice ? 

Lau. I do believe, then, Sire, with time and patience. 

The duchess might be won to — not reject me ! 
Louis. Go, then, and prove thy fortune. We permit thee. 

And, if thou prosperest, why then love's a riddle. 

And woman is — no matter ! Go, my lord ! 

We did not mean to wound thee. So, forget it ! 

Woo when thou wilt — and wear what thou canst win. 
Lau. My gracious liese, Lauzun commends him to thee ; 

And if one word, he merit not, may wound him, 

He'll ihnk <>f favors words C3n never cancel. 

Memory shall med'cine to his present pain. 



D ) THE DUCHESS DE LA VALI.It:KE. [ACT IV, 

God save j'ou, Sire — {aside) to be ihe dupe I drcni you ! 

[L'x:t Lauzu.n, l. 1 E. 
Louis. I love her not; and yet metlnnks, am jealous ! 
Laiizun is wise and witty — Icnows the sex ; 
What if slie do 1 No ! I will not believe it. 
And what is slie to me ? — a friend — a friend ! 
And I would have her wed. 'Twere best for both— 
A balm for conscience — an excuse for change ! 
'Twere best — I marvel much if she'll accept him ! 

[Hxit Lopis, R. 1 K. 

SCENE II. — A private apartment in the Palace of the Ducusss de la Vat.- 
LIBRE. The Duchess discovered seated, k. 

DucH. DE LA V. He loves me, then, no longer ! All the words 

Earth knows shape but one thouglit — " He loves no longer !" 

Where shall I turn ] My mother — my poor mother ! 

Sleeps the long sleep ! 'Tis better so ! Her life 

Ran to its lees. I will not mourn for her. 

Bui it is hard to be alone on earth ! 

This love, for which I gave so much, is dead. 

Save in my heart ; and love, surviving love, 

Changes its nature, and becomes despair ! 

Ah, me ! — ah me ! how hateful is this world ! 

E>iter Gentleman of the Chambeu, l. d. 

Gent. The Duke de Lauzun ! 

DucH. DE LA V. {rising). News, sweet news of Louis! 

Exit Gentleman, l. ». 
Enter Lauzun, l. d. 

Lau. Dare I disturb your thoughts ? 

DucH. DE LA V. My lord, you're welcome ! 

Camo you from coxxrt to-diy 7 {thei/ advance.) 
Lau. (l. c). Ileft the king 

I3ul just now, in (he gardens. 
DucH. DE LA V. {eagerly). Well I 

Lau. He bore him 

With his accustom'd health ! 
DucH. DE la V. Proceed. 

Lau Dear lady, 

I have no more to tell. 
DucH. DE LA V. {aside). Alas 1 {aloud) No message .' 
Lau. We did converse, 'tis true, upon a subject 

Most dear to one of us. Your grace divines it ? 
DucH. DE LA V. {joyfully). Was it of me he spoke 7 
Lau. Of you 

I spoke, and he replied. I praised your beauty — 
DucH. DE LA V. You praised ! 

Lau. Your form, your face — that wealth of mind 

Which play'd you not the miser and conceal'd it, 

Would buy up all the coins that pass for wit. 

The king, assenting, wish'd he might behold you 

A i happy — as your virtues should have made you. 
DucH. DE LA V. 'Twas said in mockery ! 
Lau. Lady, no ! — in kindness. 



ACT rV.J THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. 51 

Naj', more (he added), would you yet your will 

Mould to bis wish 

Ddch. de LA V. His wish !— the lighlest ! 

Lau. Ah! 

You know not how my heart throbs while you speak I 

Be not so rash to promise ; or, at least, 

Be faithful to perform ! 
DucH. DE LA V. You spcak in riddles. 

Lau. Of your lone state and beautiful affections, 

Foravd to make Home an Eden, our good king, 

Tenderly mindful, fain would see you link 

Your lot to one whose love might be your shelter. 

He spake, and all mv long-conceal'd emotions 

Gush'd into words, and I confess'd — lady, 

Hear me confess once more — how well I love thee ! 

DucH. DE DA V. You dared ? — and he — the king 

Lau. Upon me smiled, 

And bade me prosper, 
DocH. DE LA V. Ah ! {trembles, and covers her face with hands.] 

Lau. Nay, nay, look up ! 

The heart that could forsake a love like thine 

Doth not deserve regret. Look up, dear lady ! 
DucH. DE LA V. He bade thee prosper ! 
Lau. Pardon ! My wild hope 

Outran disci-etion. 
DucH. DE LA V. Louis bade thee prosper ! 

Lau. Ah, if this thankless — this remorseless love 

Thou couldst forget 1 Oh, give me but thy friendship. 

And take respect, faith, worship, all, in Lauzun ! 
DucH. DE LA V. Consign me to another ! Well, 'tis well ! 

Earth's latest tie is broke — earth's hopes are over I 
Lau. Speak to me, sweet Louise ! 
DucH. DE LA V. So, thou art he 

To whom this shatter'd heart should be surrender'd 1 

And thou, the high-born, glittering, scornful Lauzun 

AVouldst take the cast-off leman of a king, 

Nor think thyself disgraced! Fie! — fie! thou'rt shameless! 
(crosses, in an agony of grief.) 
Lau. (r. c). You were betray'd by love, and not by sin, 

Nor low ambition. Your disgrace is honor 

By the false side of dames the world calls spotless. 
DucH. DE LA V. (L. c). Go, sir, nor make me scorn you. If I've err'd, 

I know, at least, the mnjesty of virtue, 

And feel — what you forget. 
Lau. Yet hear me, niadame ! 

DucH. DE LA V. Go, go ! You are the king's friend — you were mine ; 

I would not have you thus debased — refused 

By. one at once the fallen and forsaken ! 

His friend shall not be shamed so ! 

{Exit the Duchess de la Valliere, e. d. 
Lau. {passing his hand over his eyes). I do swear 

These eyes are moist ! And he who own'd this gem 

Casts it away, and cries "divine " to tinsel ! 

So falls my hope ! My fortunes call me back 

To surer schemes. Before that ray of goodness 

How many plots shrunk, blinded, into shadow ! 

Lauzun forgot himself, and dreamt of virtue ! [Exit Lauzun, i. d. 



52 The DiTCiiEss 1)e la valliere. [act iv. 

Gentleman of the Chamber enters, d. ¥., followed by Bragelone as a 
Franciscan friar, 

Gent. The duchess gone ! I fear me that, to-day, 

You are too late for audience, reverend father. 
Brage. (c). Audience! — a royal phrase ! — it suits the duchess. 

Go, son ; announce me. 
Gent. By what name, my father 1 

Bkage. I've clone with names. Announce a nameless monk, 

Whose prayers have risen o'er some graves she honors. 
Gent, {aside). My lady is too lavish of her bounty 

To these proud shavelings ; yet, methinks, this friar 

Hath less of priest than warrior in his bearing. 

He awes me with his stern and thrillhig voice, 

His stately gesture, and imperious eye. 

And yet, I swear, he comes for alms ! — the varlet ! 

Why should I heed him ] 
Brage. Didst thou hear ? Begone ! 

[Exit Gentleman, r. p. 

Yes, she will know me not. My lealest soldier, 

One who had march'd, bare-breasted, on the steel, 

If I had bid him cast away the treasure 

Of the o'er-valued life; the nurse that rear'd me. 

Or mine own mother, in these shroudlike robes, 

And in the immature and rapid age 

Which, from my numb'd and withering heart, bath crept 

Unto my features, now might gaze upon me. 

And pass the stranger by. Why should she know me. 

If they who loved me know not ] Hark ! I hear her : 

That silver footfall !— still it hath to me 

Its own peculiar and most spiritual music, 

Trem'bling along the pulses of the air, 

And dying on the heart that makes its echo ! 

'Tis she ! How lovely yet ! 

Re-enter the Pctchess de la Valliere. 

OacH. DE la V. {bending). Your blessing, father. 

Brage. Let courts and courtiers bless the favor'd duchess : 

Courts bless the proud; Heaven's ministprs, the liiimble. 
DucH. DE LA V. {aside). He taunts me, this poor friar ! {aloud) Well, in) 
father, 

I have obey'd your summons. Do you seek 

Masses for souls departed ? — or the debt 

The wealthy owe the poor 1 — say on ! 
Brage. [aside). Her heart 

Is not yet harden'd ! {aloud) Daughter, such a mission 

Were sweeter than the task which urged me hither : 

You had a lover once — a plain, bold soldier ; 

He loved you well ! 
DucH. DE LA V. Ah, Heaven I 

Brage. And you forsook him. 

Your choice was natural — some might call it noble ! 

And this blunt soldier pardon'd the desertion, 

But sunk at what his folly term'd dishonor. 
DucH. DE LA V. father, spare me ! — if dishonor were. 

It rested but with me. 



ACT rV.] IHE UUCHESfci r>:a LA VALLiIERE. ^3 

Brage. So deeni'd tlie world, 

Bat not tliat foolish soldier ! — he had learn'd 
To blend his thoiight-s, Ills fame, himself, with tbee; 
Thou weit a purer, a diviner self ; 
He loved thee as a warrior worships glory ; 
He loved thee as a Roman honor'd virtue ; 
^ He loved thee as thy sex adore ambition ; 

And wlien Pollution breathed upon his idol, 
It blasted glory, virtue, and ambition, 
Fill'd up each crevice in the world of thought, 
And poison'd earth with thy contagious shame ! 
DucH. DE LA V. Spare me ! in mercy, spare me ! 
BuAGE. This poor fool, 

This shadow, living only on thy lisht, 
When thou wert darken'd, could but choose to die. 
He left the wars; — no fame, sinca thine was dim ; 
He left his land ; — what home without Louise 1 
It broke — that stubborn, stern, unbending heart — 
It broke ! and, breaking, its last sigh — forgave thee ! 
DacH. DE LA V. And I live on ! 

Brage. One eve, methinks, he told me, 

Thy hand around his hauberk wound a scarf ; 
And thy voice bade him " Wear it for the sake 
Of one who honor'd worth ! " Were those the words ? 
DucH. DE LA V. They were. Alas! alas! 
Brage. He wore it, lady, 

Till memory ceased. It was to him the token 
Of a sweet dream ; and, from his quiet grave. 
He sends it now to thee. ( produces faded scarf from beneath ki^ 
robe) Its hues are faded. 
DucH. DE LA V. Give it me I — let me bathe it with my tears ! 

Memorial of my guilt — 
Brage. {in a soft and tender accent). And his forgiveness ! 
DucH. DE LA V. That tone ! ha ! while thou speakest, in thy voice, 
And in thy presence, there is something kindred 

To him we jointly mourn ; thou art 

Brage. His brother ; 

Of whom, perchance, in ancient years he told thee ; 
Who, early wearied of this garish world, 
Fhd to the convent shade, and found repose. 
DucH. DE LA V. [approaching). Ay, is it so ? — thou'rt Bragelone's brother ? 
\\ by, then, thou art what he would be, if living — 
A friend to one most friendless ! 
BiiAGE. Friendless — Ah, 

Thou hast learnt, betimes, the truth, .that man's wild passion 
Makes but its sport of virtue, peace, affection ; 
And bleaks the plaything when the game is done ! ;■ 
Friendless ! — I pity thee ! 
DucH. DE LA V. {clasping him, appedingly) Oh ! holy father, 
Stay with me ! — succor me ! — reprove, but guide me ; 
Teach me to wean my thoughts from earth to heaven, 
And be what God ordain'd His chosen priests — 
Fi>es to our sin, but friends to our despair. 
Brage. D.iughter, a heavenly and a welcome duty. 
But one most rigid and austere ; tliere is 
No composition with our debts of sin. 
God claims thy soul ; and, lo ! his creature there 1 



54 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [aOT IV. 

Thy choice must be between tliem — God or man, 

Virtue or guilt ; a Louis or 

DucH. LK LA V. A Louis ! 

Not mine the poor atonement of the choice ; 

I am, myself, the Abandon'd One ! 
Bbage. I know it ; 

Therefore my mission and my ministry. 

Wlien lie wlio loved tliee died, he bade me wait 

Tiie season when the sicklied blight of change 

Creeps o'er the bloom of Passion, when the way 

Is half prepared by sorrow to repentance. 

And seek you then — he trusted not, in vain ; 

Perchance an idle hope, but it consoled him. 
DccH. DE LA V. No, no ! — not idle — in mj' happiest hours, 

When the world smiled, a void was in this heart 

The world could never fill ; thy brother knew nie ! . 
Brage. I do believe thee, daughter. Hear me yet ; 

My mission is not ended. When thy mother 

Lay on the bed of death (she went before 

The sterner heart the same blow broke more slowly) — 

As thus she lay, around the swimming walls 

Her dim eyes wander'd, searching through the shadows, 

As if the spirit, half-redeem'd from clay, 

Could force its will to shape, and, from the darkness. 

Body a daughter's image — (nay. be still ') 

Thou wert not there — alas ! thy shame had raurder'd 

Ev€fn the blessed sadness of that duty ! 

But o'er that pillow watch'd a sleepless eye. 

And by that couch moved one untiring step. 

And o'er that sulFering rose a ceaseless prayer ; 

And still thy mother's voice, when'er it call'd 

Upon a daughter — found a son ! 
DtrcH. DE LA V. (overcome with emotion, she buries her face in her hands and 
sinks upon her knees before him). 0, Heaven ! 

Have mercy on me ! 
BiiAGB. Coldly through the lattice 

Gleam'd the slow dawn, and from their latest sleep. 

Woke the sad eyes it was not thine to close ! 

And the thin hairs — grown gray, but not by Time — 

Of that lone watcher — while upon her heart 

Gush'd all the memories of the mighty wrecks 

Thy guilt ]iad made of what were once the shrmes 

For Honor, Peace, and God ! — that aged woman 

(She was a hero's wife) upraised her voice 

To curse her child \ 
DucH. DE LA V. Go on ! — be kind, and kill me ! 

Brage. Then he, whom thoughts of what he tvas to ihee 

Had made her son, arrested on her lips 

The awful doom, and, from the earlier past. 

Invoked a tender spell — a holier image ! 

Painted thy gentle, soft, obedient childhood — 

Thy guileless youth, lone state, and strong temptation ; 

Thy very sin the overflow of thoughts 

From wells whose source was innocence ; and thus 

Sought, with the sunshine of thy maiden spring, 

To melt the ice that lay upon her heart, 

Till all the mother flow'd again ! 



ACS IV. J THE DUCHESS DE LA VALMERE. • 55 

DucH. DE LA V. And she ! 

Brage. Spoke onlj' once again ! — she died — and bless'd thee 

DuoH. DB LA V. {vehementhj, springing up). No moie ! I can no more ! — 

my heart is breaking ! {rushes off, n. d.) 
BnAGE. The angel hath not left her ! — if the plumes 

Have lost the whiteness of their younger glory, 

The wings have still the instinct of the skies, 

And yel shall bear her up ! 
Louis (ivilhout, l ). We need you not, sir ; 

Ourself will seek the duchess ! 
Brage. stakes the stage l.). The kind's voice ! 

How my flesh creeps ! — my foe, and her destroyer ! 

The ruthless, heartless— (/t;s hand seeks rapidly and mechanicallg for 
his sword-hilt) Why, why !— where's my sword 1 

0, Lord I I do forget myself to dotage ; 

The soldier, now, is a poor helpless monk. 

That hath not even curses. Satan, hence ! 

Get thee behind me. Tempter !— there, I'm calm, (crosses to r.) 

Enter Locis, c. d., and advancing. 

Louis. I can no more hold parley with impatience, 

But long to learn how Lauzun's courtship prospers. 

She is not here. At prayers, perhaps. The duchess 

Hath grown devout, {observing Bragelohe) A friar ! — Savo you, 
father ! 
Brage. 1 thank ihee, son. 

Louis {c, aside). He knows me not. (aloud) Well, monk. 

Are you her grace's almoner ? 
Brage. Sire, no ! {the King starts.) 

Louis. So short, yet know us 1 
Brage. {advances to r. c). Siie, I do. You are *" 

The man 

Louis, {indignantly). How, priest ! — ihe man ! 

Brage. The word offends you 1 

The king, who raised a maiden to a duchess. 

That maiden's father was a gallant subject ; 

Kingly reward — you made his daughter duchess. 

That maiden's mother was a stainle.ss matron ; 

Her heart you broke, though mother to a duchess ! 

That maiden \vas affianced from her youth 

To one who served you well — nay, saved your life ; 

His life you robbd of all that gave life value ; 

And yet — you made his fair betroth d a duchess ! 

You are that king. The 'vorld proclaims you " Great ; " 

A million warriors bled to buy your laurels; 

A million peasants starved to build Versailles : 

Your people famish ; but your court is splendid ! 

Priests from the pulpit bless your glorious reign ; 

Poets have sung you greater than Augustus ; 

And painters placed you on immortal canvas, 

Limn'd as the Jove whose thunders awe the world ; 

But to the humble servant of Heaven 

You are the king who has betray'd his trust — 

Beggar'd a nation but U) bloat a court. 

Seen in men's lives the pastime to ambition, 

Look'd but on virtue as the toy for vice ; 



(• I ■ a THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIKKE. [.U'f I/. 

Ami, for the first time, from a subject's lips, 
Now learns the name he leaves to Time and God ! 
Lduis. Add to tlie bead-roll of that king's otiences, 

That when a foul-month'd monk assumed the rebel, 
The monsler-king forgfavo him. Hast tliou done 1 
Brage. Your changing hu^^s belie your royal mien ; 

111 the high monarch veils the trembling man ! 
Louis. Well, you are privilegeil ! It ne'er was said 

The Fourteenth Louis, i.i his proudest hour. 

B >w'd not his sceptre to the Church's crozier. 
Brage. Alas ! the Church! 'Tis true, tiiis garb of serge 

Dares speech tiiat daunts the ermine, and walUs free 
Where stout hearts tremble in the trii)Ie mail. 

But wherefore 7 — Lies the virtue in the robe. 

Which the moth eats 7 or in these senseless beads ? 

Or in the name of Priest 7 The Pharisees 

H id priests that gave their Saviour to the cross ! 

No ! we have high immunity and .sanction, 

Tliat Truth may teach humanity to Power, 

Glide through the dungeon pierce the armed throng, 

Awaken Luxury on her Sybarite coucli, 

And, startling souls that slumber on a throne, 

Bjw kings before that priest of priests— this Conscience! {they 
cross. ) 
Lours (r. c. — aside). An awful man ! — unlike the reverend crew 

Who praise my royal virtues in tlie pulpit, 

And — ask for bishoprics when church is over I 
Brage. (l. c). This makes us sacred. The profane are they 

Honoring the herald while they scorn the mission. 

The king who serve-s the Church, yet clings to Mammon ; 

Who fears the pastor, but forgets the flock ; 

Who bows before the monitor, and yet 

Will ne'er forego the sin, may sink, when age 

Palsies the lust and deadens the temptation, 

To the priest-ridden, not repentant, dotard, — 

For pious hopes hail superstitious terrors, 

An 1 seek so.me sleek Iseariot of the Church, 

To sell salvation for the thirty pieces ! 
Lopis {as'de). He speaks as one inspired ! 
Brage. (crosses). Awake! — awake! 

Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream 

That earth was made for kings—mankind for slaughter — 

AVoman for lust — the people for the i)alace ! 

Dark warnings have gone forth ; alono; the air 

Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne ! 

Behold the young, the fair, the hauahty king ! 

The kneeling courtiers, and the flattering priests ; 

Lo ! where the palace rose, behold the .scaffold — 

The crowd — the axe — the headsmnn— and the victim ! 

Lord of the silver lilies, canst thou tell 

If the same fate await not thy descendant ! 

If some meek son of thine imperial line 

May make no brother to yon headless spectre ! 

And when the sage who saddens o'er the end 

Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest he find 

The seeds, thj' wars, thy poni]>, and thy jirofnsion 

Sow'd in a heartless court and bi'eadlcss i)eople, 



ACT IV. J THE DUCHESS DE IiA VALLIEEE. , 57 

Grew to the tree from which men shaped the scaffold— 

And the long glare of tliy funeral glories 

Light unborn monarclis to a ghaslly grave ! 

Bevvare, proud king ! the Present cries aloud, {moves up the stage 

whilst speaking) 
A prophet to the future ! Wake ! — beware ! 

[i^Ti^ Bragelonr CD 
Louis, {uneasily). Gone ! Most ill-omen'd voice and fearful .shape : 
Scarce seem'd it of the earth ; a thing that breathed 
But to fulfill some dark and dire behest ; 
To appal us, and to vanisli. — The quick blood 
Halts in iny veins. Oh ! never till this horn- 
Heard I the voice that awed the soul of Louis, 
Or met one brow that did not quail before 
My kingly gaze ! ( pacing to and fro) And this unmitred monk ! 
I'm glad that none were by. — II was a dream ; 
So let its memory like a dream depart. 
I am no tyrant — nay, I love my people. 
My wars were made but for the fame of France ; 
My pomp! why, tush ! — what king can play the hermit 1 
My conscience smites me not ; and but last eve 
1 did confess, and was absolved ! A bigot ; 
And half, methinks, a heretic ! I wish 
The Jesuits had the probing of his doctrines. 
Well, well, 'tis o'er ! — What ho, there ! 

Enter Gentleman of the Chamber, l. d. 

Wine ! Apprise 
Once more the duchess of our presence — Stay ! 
Yon monk, what doth he here 1 
Qevt. I know not, Sire, 

Nor saw him till this day. 
Louis. Strange !— Wine ! 

[Exit Gkntleman, r. d. 

Re-enter the Duchess de la Valmere. 

(c.) Well, madam, 

We've tarried long your coming, and meanwhile 
Have found your proxy in a madman mc)nk. 
Whom, for the future, we would pray you spare us. 

Re-enter Gnntleman, with goblet of wine mi salver, the King drinks. ^ 
Ge.ntleman, r. d. 

So, so ! the draught restores us. Fair La Valliere, 

Make not yon holy man your confessor ; 

You'll find small comfort in his lectures. 
Ducii. DE laV. (r. c ). Sire, 

His meaning is more kindly than his manner. 

I pray you, pardon him. 
LoDis. Ay, ay ! No more ; 

Let's think of him no more. You had, this morn, 

A courtlier visitant, methinks — De Lauzun 1 , 
Drcii. DE LA V. Yes, Sire. 

Louis. A smooth and gallant gentleman. 



58 THK DUCHESS DE LA VAIiLIEKE. [aCT IV. 

You're silent. Silence is assent ! 'tis well ! 
DucH. DE LA V. (aside), Down, my full heart ! {aloud) The duke declares 
your wish 

Is that — that I should bind this broken heart 

And — no ! I cannot speak I (with great and sudden energy) Yon 
wish me wed. Sire ? 
Louis. 'Twere best that you should wed ; and yet, De Lauzun 

Is scarce the happiest choice. — But as thou wilt. 
DccH. DE LA V. " 'Twere best that I should wed V — thou saidst it, 
Louis; 

Say it once more I 
Louis. In honesty, I think so. 

DucH. DE LA V. My choice is made, then — I obey the fiat, 

And will become a bride ! 
Louis. The duke has sped ! 

I trust he loves thyself, and nut thy dower. 
DucH DE LA V. The duke ! what, hast thou read so ill this soul 

That thou couldst deem thus meanly of that book 

Whose every page was bared to thee 1 A bitter 

Lot has been mine — and this sums up the measure. 

Go, Louis ! go ! — All glorious as thou art — 

Earth's Agamemnon — the great king of men — 

Thou wert not worthy of this woman's heart ! 
Louis {aside). Her passion moves me ! {aloud) Then your choice has 
fallen , 

Upon a nobler bridegroom 1 
DucH. DE LA V. Sire, it hath ! 

Louis. May I demand that choice. 
DucH. DE LA V. Too soon thou'lt learn it. 

Not yet ! Ah, me ! 
Louis. Nay, sigh not, my sweet duchess. 

Speak not sadly. What though love hath past, 

Friendship remains ; and still my fondest hope 

Is to behold thee happy. Come ! — thy hand ; 

Let us be friends ! We are so ! 
DucH. DE LA V. Friends ! — no more ! 

So it hath come to this! I am contented ! 

Yes — we are friends ! 
Louis. And when your choice is made, 

You will permit your friend to hail your bridals 1 
DucH. DE LA V. Ay, when my choice is made ! 
Louis. This poor de Lauziin 1 

Hath then no chance 1 I'm glad of it, and thus 

Seal our new bond of friendship on your hand, {kisses her hand) 

Adieu ! — and Heaven protect you ! {Exit Louis, l. n. 

DuCH DR LA V. {gazing after him)-. Heaven hath heard thee ; 

And in this last most cruel, but most gracious 

Proof of thy coldness, breaks the lingering chain 

That bound my soul to earth. 

Re-enter Bragelone, c. d. 

0, holy father ! , 

Brother to him whose grave my Huilt prepared, 
Witness my firm resolve, support my struggles, 
And auide me back to Virtue through Repentance ! 
Brage. Pause, ere thou dost decide. 



ACT v.] THE DUCHESS DE LA YALLIKKE. 59 

Ducn. DE LA V. I've paused too long, 

And now, impatient of tliis weary load. 
Sigh for repose. 
Brage. 0, Heaven, receive her back ! 

Tliiough the wide earth, the sorrowing dove hath flown, 
And found no haven ; weary though her wing 
And sullied with the dust of lengtlien'd travail. 
Now let her flee away and be at rest ! 
Tlie peace that man has broken — Thou restore. 
Whose holiest name is Fatheii ! (soft music ) 
DocH. DE LA V. {sinks on her hnee<:, raising her hands in prayer whilst clasp- 
ing Bhagelone's left hand, he standing luith uplifted face, 
and his right hand raised pointing tipwards). 
Hear us, Heaven ! 



ACT V. 

SCENE l.— The Gardens at Versailles. 
J?«<er Madame de Montespan, Grammont, l. 1 e., and Courtiers, k. 1 e. 

Mme. de Mon. So she has fled from court — the saintly duchess; 

A convent's grate must shield this timorous virtue. 

Methinks they're not so many to assail it ! 

A'V^ell, Irust me, one short moon of fast and penance 

Will bring us back the recreant novice 

Gram. And 

End the eventful comedy by marriage. 

Lauzun against the world were even odds ; 

But Lauzun ivith the world — what saint can stand it 1 
Mme. DE Mon. {aside) Lauzun! — the traitor ! What! to give my rival 

The triumph to reject the lawful love 

Of him whose lawless passion first betray'd me! 
Gram. Talk of the devil ! Humph — you know the proverb. 

Enter Lauzun, r. 1 e. 

Lau. Good day, my friends. Your pardon, madame ; I 

Thought 'twas the sun that blinded me. {aside) Athen6, 

Pray you, a word. 
Mme. de Mon. {aloud, and turning away disdainfully). We are not at lei- 
sure, duke. 
Lau. Ha I {aside) Nay, Athenfe, spare your friend these graces. 

Forget your state one moment; have you ask'd 

The king the oflice that you undertook 

To make ray own 1 My creditors are urgent. 
Mme. de Mon. {aloud). No, my lord duke, I liave not ask'd the king ! 

1 grieve to hear your fortunes are so broken, 

And tliat your honor'd and august device, 

To mend them by your marriage, fad'd. 
Gram {aside). She hits him 

Hard on the hip. Ha, ha ! — the poor De Lauzun ! 
Lau. Sir! — Nay, I'm calm ! 
Mme. de Mon Pray, may we dare to ask 

How long you've lovel the duchess ? 



60 THE DUCHESS DE LA VAIJilEBE. [aCT V. 

Lap. Ever since 

You were her friend and confidante. 
Mme. de Mon. You're bitter. 

Perchance you deem your love a thing to boast of. 
Lau. To boast of? — Yes! 'Tis something e'en to love 

The only woman Louis ever honored! 
Mme. de Mon. {layinf/ her hand on Lauzun's arm). Insolent! You shall 
rue this ! If I speak 

Your name to Louis, coupled with a favor, 

The suit shall be your banislmient! 

[Exit Madame de Montespan, r. 1 e. 
First Coue. Let's follow. 

Ha ! ha I — Dear duke, your game, I fear, is lost ! 

You've play'd the knave, and tlirown away the king. 
Courtiers. Ha ! ha ! — Adieu ! [Exeunt, r. 1 e. 

Lau. Ha ! ha !— The devil take you! 

So, she would ruin me ! Fore-arm'd — fore-warn'd ! 

I have the king's ear yet, and know some secrets 

That could destroy her ! Since La Valli^re's flight, 

Louis grows sad and thoughtful, and looks cold 

On her vain rival, who too coarsely shows 

The world the stuff court ladies' hearts are made of. 

She will undo herself— and I will help her. 

Weave on thy web, false Montespan, weave on ; 

The bigger spider shall devour the .>imaller. 

The war's declared — 'tis clear that one must fall ; — 

I'll be polite — the ladi/ to the wall ! [Ex^t Lauzun, l. 1 e. 

SCENE II. — Si<nset — the old Chateau of La Valiiire — the Convent of the 
Carmelites at a distance — same scene as that with which the play opens. 

Enter the Duchess de la Valliere and BRAGELONE/rowt the Chateau. 

DucH. de LA V. Once more, ere yet I take farewell of earth, 

I see mine old, familiar, maiden home! 

All how unchanged ! — The same, the hour, the scene, 

The very season of the year I — the stillness 

Of the smooth wave — the stillness of the trees, 

Wliere the winds sleep like dreams ! and, oh ! the calm 

Of the blue heavens around yon holy spires. 

Pointing, like gospel truths, through calm and storm, 

To man's great home! 
Bbage. (aside). Oh ! how the years recede ! 

Upon this spot I spoke to her of love. 

And dreamt of bliss for earth ! (the vesper bell tolls.) 
Ducn. Dn LA V. Hark ! the deep sound, 

That seems a voice from some invisible spirit. 

Claiming the world for God. — When last I heard it 

Hallow this air, here stood my mother, living ; 

And I — was then a mother's pride ! — and yonder 

Came thy brave brother in his glittering mail ; 

And — ah ! these thoughts are bitter ! — were he living, 

How would he scorn them ! 
Brage. [who has been greatly agitated). No ! — ah, no ! — thou wrong'st him ! 
DucH. DE LA V. Yet, were he living, could I but receive 

From his own lips my pardon, and his blessing. 

My soul would deem one dark memorir.l 'rased 



ACT v.] TEE DirCII-iSS DE LA ViULLIEKE. 61 

Out of the page most blister'd with its tears! 
Beage. Then have thy wish ! and in these wrecks of man 

Worn to decay, and lent by many a storm, 

Survey the worm the world call'd Biaoelone. 
DucH. DE LA V. Avaunt ! — avaunt! — I dream ! — the dead retnrn'd 

To earth to mock me 1 — No ! tliis hand is warm ! 

1 have one nmrther less upon my soul. 

I thank thee, Hfaven ! — {mvoons.) 
Brage. (supporting her). The blow strikes home; and yet 

What is my life to her ? Louise ! — She moves not ! 

She does not breathe; how still she sleeps' I saw her 

Sleep in her mother's arms, and then, in sleep 

She smiled. TJiere's no smile now ! — i)Oor child ! [kissing her) One 
kiss ! 

It is a brother's kiss — it has no guilt ; 

Kind Heaven, it has no guilt. — I have survived 

All earthlier thoughts ; her crime, my vows, effaced them. 

A brother's kiss! — Away ! I'm human still ; 

I thought 1 had been stronger ; God forgive me ! 

Awake, Louise! — awake ! She breathes once more ; 

The spell is broke ; the marble warms to life I 

And I — freeze back to stone ! 
DucH. DE LA V. (reviving). I heard a voice 

That cried "Louise!" — Speak, speak ! — my sense is dim. 

And stru2fg1es darkly with a blessed ray 

That shot from heaven. — My shame hath not destroy'd thee ! 
Bbage. No ! — life might yet serve thee! — and I lived on, 

Dead to all else. I took the vows, and then, 

Ere yet I 'aid me down, and bade the Past 

Fade like a ghost before the dawn of heaven, 
/ One sacred task was left. — If love was dust. 

Love, like ourselves, hath an immortal soul, 

That doth survive whate'er it takes from clay ; 

And that — the holier part of love became 

A thing to watch thy steps — a guardian spirit 

To hover round, disguised, unknown, undream'd of. 

To soothe the sorrow, to redeem the sin. 

And lead thy soul to peace ! 
DtJCH. DE LA V. bright revenge ! 

Love strong as death, and nobler far than woman's ! 
Brage. To j^eaee — ah, let me deem so ! — the mute cloister, 

The spoken ritual, and the solemn veil, 

Are naught themselves — the Huguenot abjures 

The monkish cell, but breathes, perchance the prayer 

That speeds as quick to the Eternal Throne ! 

In our own souls must be the solitude ; 

In our own thoughts the .sanctity ! — 'Tis then 

The feeling that our vows have built the wall 

Passion can storm not, nor temptation sap, , 

Gives calm its charter, roots out wild regret,^ 

And makes the heart the world-disdaining cloister. 

This — this is peace ! but pause ! if in thy breast 

Linger the wish of earth. Alas ! all oaths 

Are vain, if nature shudders to record them — 

The subtle spirit 'scapes the sealed vessel ! 

The false devotion is the true despair ! 
Ducn. DE LA V. Fear not ! — I feel 'tis not the walls of stone, 



G2 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE. [ACT V, 

Told beads, nor niurnmr'd hymns, that bind the heart, 

Or exorcise the world ; the spell's the thought 

Tliat wiiere most weak we've banish'd the temptation, 

And reconciled, what earth would still divide, 

The human memories and the immortal conscience. 
Bkage. Doubt fades before thine accents. On the day 

That gives thee to the veil Ave'll meet once more. 

Let mine be man's last blessing in this world. 

Oh ! tell me then, thou'rt happier than thou hast been ; 

And when we part, I'll seek some hermit cell 

Beside the walls that compass thee, and prayer. 

Morning and night, shall join our souls in heaven. 
Ddch. db la V. Yes, generous spirit I think not that my future 

Shall be repining as the past. Thou livest. 

And conscience smiles again. The shatter'd bark 

Glides to its haven. Joy ! the land is near ! 

[Exit into the chateau, dropping her glove as she goes. 
Brage. So, it is past! — the secret is disclosed ! 

"The hand she did reject on earth has led her 

To holier ties.- I have not lived in vain ! 

Yet who had dream'd, when through the ranks of war 

Went the loud shout of " France and Bragelone !" 

That the monk's cowl would close on all my laurels 1 

A never-heard philosopher is life! 

Our happiest hours are sleep's — and sleep proclaims, 

Did we but listen to its warning voice. 

That rest is earth's elixir. "Why, then, pine 

That, ere our years grow feverish with their toil, 

Too weary-worn to find the rest they sigh for. 

We learn betimes the moral of repose ? 

I will he down, and sleep away this world. 

The pause of care, the slumber of tired passion. 

Why. wdiy defer till night is well-nish spent ? 

Whe'i the brief sun that gilt the landscape sets, 

When o'er the music on the leaves of life 

Chill silence falls, and every fluttering hope 

That voiced the world with song has gone to rest, 

Then let thy soul, from the poor laborer, learn 

" Sleep's sweetest taken soonest !" {as he moves awag^ his ege falh 
upon the glare / he takes it up) 

And this hath touch'd her hand — it were a comfort 

To hoard a single relic ! {kisses the glove, and then suddenly thiait- 
it aioay) No ! — 'Tis sinful! [Exit Bragelone into chaleau. 

SCENE III. — The exterior of the Gothic Convent of the Carmelites — Tlu 
windous illumined — Music heard from within. Enter Courtieup, 
Ladiks, Priests, etc. r. 1 e.. andh. 1 e , and pass through the door of 
the chapel, in the centre of the building. 

Enter Lauzon, l. 1 e., Grammont, r. 1 e. 

Lau. Where hast thou left the king ? 

Gram. Not one league hence. 

Lau. Ere the clock strikes, La Valliere takes the veil. 
Gram. Great Heaven ! — so soon ! — and Louis sent me on 

To leavn how thou hadst prosper'd with the duchess. 

He is so sanguine — this imperious king, 



ACT V.J THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIEKE. 63 

Who never lieard a " No " from living lips ! 

How did she take his letter 1 
Lau. In sad silence ; 

Then mused a little while, and some few tears 

Stole down her cheeks, as, with a trembling hand, 

She gave me back the scroll, 
Gkam. You mean her answer. 

Lau. No ; the king's letter. " Tell him that I thank him ; " 

(Such were her words ; ) " but thai my choice is made ; 

And e'en this last assurance of his love 

I dare not keep ; 'tis only when I pray, 

That I may think of him. This is my answer." 
Gram. No more 1 — no written word 1 
Lau. None, Grammont. Then 

She rose and left me ; and I heard the bell 

Calling the world to see a woman scorn it. 
Gram. The king will never brook it. He will grasp her 

Back from this yawning tomb of living souls. 

The news came on him with such sudden shock; 

The long noviciate thus abridged ! and she — 

Ever so waxen to his wayward will ! — 

She cannot yet be marble. 
Lau. , Wrong'd affection 

Makes many a Niobe from tears. Haste, Grammont, ^ 

Back to the king, and bid him fly to save. 

Or nerve his heart to lose, her. I will follow, — 

My second charge fulfill'd. 
Gkam. And what is that ? 

Lau. Revenge and justice! — Go^I [Exit Grammont, r. 1 e. 

{looking through the doors) I hear her laugh — 

I catch the glitter of her festive robe ! 

Athens comes to triumph — and to tremble ! 

Madame de Montespan and Courtiers cotter, l. 1 e. The Courtiers 

go into the convent. 

Mme. de Mon. {aside). Now for the crowning cup of sparkling fortune ! 

A rarer pearl than Egypt's queen dissolved 

] have immersed in that delicious draught, 

A woman's triumph o'er a fairer rival ! (<« she turns to enter the 
convent she perceives Lauzun) 

What ! you here, duke ! 
Lau. Ay, madame; I've not yet 

To thank you for — my banishment I 
Mme. de Mon. The Ides 

Of March are come — not over ! 
Lau. ■ Are they not? 

For some they may be ! You are here to witness 

Mme. de Mon. My triumph ! 

Lau. And to take a friend's condolence. 

I bear this letter from the king ! ( produces letter.) 
Mme. de Mon. {taking it). The king ! {reads the letter) 

"We do not blame you ; blame belongs to love. 

And love had nausht with you." — What ! what ! I tremble ! 

" The Duke de Lauzun, of these lines the bearer, 

Confirms their purport: from our royal court 

We do excuse your presence," Banish'd, duke ? 



64: THE DUCHESS DE LA VALUKKE. [aCT V. 

Is that the word 1— What, banisli'd ! 
Lau. Hush ! — you mar 

The holy silence of the place. 'Tis true ; 

You read aright. Our gracious king permits you 

To quit Versailles. Versailles is not the world. 
Mme. de Mon. Perdition ! — banish'd ! 
Lau. You can take the veil. 

Meanwhile, enjoy your triumph ! 
Mme. DE Mon. Triumph! — Ah! 

She triumphs o'er me to the last. My soul 

Finds hell on earth — and hers makes earth a heaven ! 
Lau. Hist ! — will you walk within 'i 
Mme. de Mon. 0, hateful world ! 

What ! — hath it come to this "? 
Lau. You spoil your triutnph ! 

Mme. de Mon Lauzun, I thank thee — thank thee — thank — and curse 

thee. [Exit Madame de Montrspan, r. 1 e. 

Lau. {looking after her, with a subdued laugh). Ha, ha !^the broken heart 
can know no pano; 

Like that which racks the bad heart when its sting 

Poisons itself] Now, then, away to Louis. 

The bell still tolls ; there's time. This soft La Valli^re ! 

The only thing that ever baffled Lauzun, 

And felt not his revenge I — revenge, poor soul I 

Revenge upon a dove ! — she shall be saved 

From the pale mummies of yon Memphian vault, 

Or the great Louis will be less than man — 

Or that fond sinner will be more than woman. 

[Exit Lauzun, r. 1 e. 

SCENE IV. — TJie interior of the Chapel of the Carmelite Convent. On the 
foreground, Courtikks, Ladies, etc. {all kneeling except the officials). At 
the back of the stage the altar, only partially seen through the surrounding 
throng. Kneeling at the altar the Duchess de la VaI;LIEre, attended 
by the Lady Abbfss and Sisters, c/c. The officials pass to and fro, 
swinging the censers —The stage darkened — Lights suspended along the 
aisle, and tapers h/ the altar. As the scene opens, solemtt music, to which 
is chaunted the following 

HYMN: 

Come from the world, O weary soul. 
For run the race and near the goal i 
Flee Irom the net, O lonely dove, 
Thy nest is built the clouds above ! 
Turn, wild and worn with panting fear. 
And alake thy thirst, thou wounded deer, 
In Jordan's holy springs I 

Arise ! O fearful soul, nrise I 
For broke the chain and calm the skies I 
As moth fly upwards to the star, 
The light allures thee from afar. 
Thougti earth is lost, and space is wide, 
The smile of God shall be thy guide. 
And Faith and Hope thy wings I 

As the Hymn ends, Braoelone enters, l. u. e., and stands apart in the hack- 
ground. All rise. 

First Cour. Throe minutes more, and earth has lost La Valli^re ! 



ACT v.] THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIICKE. 65 

Second Cour. So young ! — so fair ! 

Third Cour. 'Twas whisper'd that the king 

Would save her yet ! 
FiHST Cour. What ! snatch her from the altar 1 

He durst not, man ! 

Entei- Louis, Grammont, and Lauzun, r. 1 E. 

Louis. Hold ! we forbid the rites ! 

All fall back r. and l. As the King advances hastihj up the aisle, Bbage- 
LONE advances and places himself before him. 

Back, monk ! revere the presence of the king ! 
Brage. And thou the palace of the King of kings ! 
Louis. Dotard ! we claim our subject. 
Brage. She hath pass'd 

The limit of your realm. Ye priests of Heaven, 

Complete your solemn task ! — The church's curse 

Hangs on the air. Descendant of Saint Louis, 

Move — and the avalanche falls ! 

The Duchess de la Valliere, dressed in the bridal and gorgeous attire 
assumed before the taking of the veil, descends from the altar, and 
advances. 

DucH. DE LA V. No, holy friend ! 

I need it not ; my soul is my protector. 

Nay, thou mayst trust me. 
Brage. {after a pause'). Thou art right. — I trust thee ! 
Louis [leading the Duchess de la Valliere to the front of the stage). Thou 
hast not ta'en the veil ! — E'en Time had mercy. 

Thou art saved ! — thou art saved 1 — to love — to life ! 
DucH. de la V. (c). Ah, Sire I 

Louis (l. c). Call me not Sire ! — forget that dreary time 

When thou wert duchess, and myself the king. 

Fly back, fly back, to those delicious hours 

When I was but thy lover and thy Louis ! 

And thou my dream— my bird — my fairy flower — 

My violet, shrinking in the modest shade 

Until transplanted to this breast — to haunt 

The common air with odors ! Oh, Louise ! 

Hear me ! — the fickle lust of change allured me, 

The pride thy virtues wounded arm'd against thee, 

Until I dream'd I loved thyself no longer ; 

But now this dread resolve, this awe of parting, 

He-binds me to thee — bares my soul before me — 

Dispels the lying mists that veil'd thine image. 

And tells me that I never loved but thee ! 
DucH. DE LA V. I am not then despised ! — thou lov'st me still I 

And when I pray for thee, ray heart may feel 

That it hath nothing to forgive ! 
Louis. Louise ! 

Thou dost renounce this gloomy purpose ? 
DucH. DF. LA V. Never I 

It is not gloomy ! — think'st thou it is gloom 

To feel that, as my soul becomes more pure, 



*0() THE DUCHESS DE LA VALUKKE. [ACT V. 

Heaven will more kindly listen to the praj'ers 

Tiuit rise for thee ? — is that thought gloom, my Louis 1 
Louis. Oh ! slay me not with tenderness ! Return ! 

And if thy conscience startle at my love, 

Be still my friend — my angel ! 
DucH. DE LA V. la It weak, 

But in the knowledge of my weakness, strong ! 

I could not breathe llie air that's sweet with thee, 

Nor cease to love ! — in flight my only safety ; 

And were that flight not made by solemn vows 

Eternal, it were bootless; for the wings 

Of my wild soul know but two bournes to speed to — 

Louis and heaven ! And, oh ! in heaven at last 

My soul, uubinnins, may unite with Louis ! 
LutJis. I do implore thee ! 
Ditch, de la V. No ; thou canst not tempt me ! 

My heart already is the nun. 
Louis. Thou know'st not 

I have dismiss'd thy rival from the court. 

Return ! — though mine no more, at least thy Louis 

Shall know no second love I 
Duou. nn: la V. What! wilt thou, Louis, 

Renounce for me eternally my rival, 

And live alone for 

Louis. Thee ! Louise, I swear it ! 

DucH. DE LA V. {raising her arms to heaven). Father ! at length, I dare 
to hope for pardon, 

For now remorse may prove itself sincere ! 

Bear witness, Heaven I 1 never loved this man 

So well as now ! and never seem'd his love 

Built on so sure a rock ! Upon thine altar 

I lay the offering. I revoke the past ; 

For Louis, heaven was left — and now I leave 

Louis, when tenfold more beloved, for heaven ! 

Ah ! pray with me! Be this our latest token — 

This memory of sweet moments — sweet, though sinless 1 

Ah ! pray with me ! that I may hive till death 

The thought — " we pray'd together for forgiveness !" 
Louis. Oh ! wherefore never knew I till this hour 

The treasure I shall lose ! I dare not call thee 

Back from the heaven where thou art half already ! 

Thy soul demands celestial destinies, 

And stoops no more to earth. Be thine the peace, 

And mine the penance ! Yet these awful walls, 

The rigid laws of this severest order. 

Yon spectral shapes, this human sepulchre — 

And thou, the soft, the delicate, the highborn, 

The adored delight of Europe's mightiest king — 

Thou canst not i)ear it ! 
DucH. DE la V. 1 have borne much worse— 

Thy change and thy desertion ! — Let it pass ! 

There is no terror in the things without ; 

Our souls alone the palace or the prison ; 

And the one thought that I have fled from sin 

Will fill the cell with images more glorious, 

And haunt its silence with a mightier music, 

Than ever tbrong'd illumined halls, or broke 



ACT Y.J THE DUUIIESS DE LA VALLIERE. 67 

From harps by mortal strung ! 
Louis. I will not hear thee ! 

I cannot orave these thoughts. Thy angel voice 

But tells me what a sun of heavenly beauty 

Glides from the earth, and leaves my soul to darkness. 

This is my work ! — 'twas I for whom that soul 

Forsook its native element ; for me, 

Sorrow consumed thy j'outh, and conscience gnawed 

That patient, tender, unreproachful heart. 

And now this crowns the whole ! the priest — the altar — 

The sacrifice — the victim ! Touch me not ! 

Speak not! I am unmann'd enough already. 

I — I — I choke ! These tears — let them speak for me. 

Now ! now thy hand — farewell ! farewell, forever ! 

[Exit Louis, r. 1 b. 
DucH. DE liA V. Be firm, my heart, be firm ! \ctfter a pause, turning to 
Bragelone, icho advances, c, with a slight smile) 

'Tis past ! we've conquer'd ! 

Thf Duchess re-ascendsthe altar, Bragelone with head bentdoivn walking 
part of the ivay by her side, then pausing, l. — the crowd close around and 
shut her out; during which she puts on the convent dress. Music. 



Hark ! to the nuptial train are open'd wide 
The Eternal Gates. Hosanna to the bride t 

Gram. She has ta'en the veil — the last dread rite is done. 
Abbsss [frmn the altar). Sister Louise ! before the eternal grate 

Becomes thy barrier from the living world, 

It is allow'd thee once more to behold 

The face of men, and bid farewell to friendship. 
Bra.je. {aside). Wliy do I shuddei' 1 why shrinks back my being 

Prom our last gaze, like Nature from the Grave "? 

One moment, and one look, and o'er her image 

Thick darkness falls, till Death, that morning star, 

Heralds immortal day. I hear her steps 

Treading the mournful silence ; o'er my soul 

Pauses the freezing time. Lord, support me ! 

One effort more — one effort ! — Wake, my soul ! 

Tis thy last trial ; wilt thou play the craven 1 (crosses towards l.) 

The croivd give way; the Duchess de la Valliere, i/i the habit of the 
Carmelite nuns, passes doicn the steps of the altar, led by t)ie Abbess. As 
she pauses to address those whom she recognizes in the crowd, the chorus 
chaunts : — 

Sister, look and speak thy last, 
From the world thou'rt dying last ; 
While iarewell to life thou'rt giving, 
Dead already to the living. 

DucH. DE LA V. [coming to the front of the stage, sees Lauzun, r.). Lauzun ! 
thou serv'st a king, whatever his fault, 
Who merits all thy homaiie ; honor — love him. 
His glory needs no friendship ; but in sickness 
Or sorrow kings need love. Be faithful, Lauzun ! 
And, far from thy loud world, one lowly voice 
Shall not forget thee. 



68 



THE eUOHESS DE LA VALIilEKE. 



[act V. 



Brage. (c. l. — aside). All the strife is hush'd ! 

My heart's wild sea lies mute ! 
DtrcH. DE LA V. (approaching Bragelone, and kneeling to him), Nowl 
friend and father, 

Bless the poor nun ! 
Bragb. As Duchess of La Valliere 

Thou wert not happy ; as the Carmelite Sister,' 

Say — art thou happy 1 
DUCH. DE LA V. Yes ! 

Brage. {lai/inff his hand on her head). Father, bless her! • 

CHORUS. 

Hark ! in heaven is mirth I 

Jubilate ! 
Grief leaves guilt on earth ! 

Jubilate ! 
Joy for sin forgiven ! 

Jubilate ! 
Come, O Bride of Heaven ! 

Jubilate ! 



{Curtain falls slowly.) 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



B. Sx. 



B.3Z. 



B. 13. 



/ 



/ 



6CEKE. 



\ 



L. 3|. 



\ 



\ 



L. 2e, 



\ 



L. 11 



AtTDIENCE. 






L. Left. 


o. 


Centre. 




li. c. Left Centre. 


B. 


Right. 




1. 1 E. Left First Entrance. 


B. 1e. 


Eight First Entrance. 




L. 2 E. Left Second Entrance. 


B. 2e. 


Right Second Entrance. 




L. 3 E. Left Third Entrance. 


B. 3e. 


Right Third Entrance. 




L. xj. E. Left Upper Entrance 


B. TT. E. 


Eight Upper Entrance, 




(wherever this Scene may be.) 


D. B. C- 


Door Eight Centre. 




15. L. c. Door Left Centre. 









LbiVlr^u