'j^M ^S^ ■■V--. V $ » s^ «K* SfiF^ - - ■ - , n*f > DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY treasure %gom THE COLERIDGE COLLECTION ' ' ,■■ ~ ---£-■ _^/ 'r^'-K-m 1 . ".*U- *?/ xs^a J-\MVt\H JJuWCI fcO. KXil/tf Xjtm KT .at Calnewhen he was there in the following year. De Qufmcey's sister Jane writes from Boston (Lincolnshire) on May 6th, 1S13, "I have seen 'Remorse' on the Boston Theatre boards "; and I learn from an unpublished letter of Sir Walter Scott that Terry selected ' Remorse ' for his benefit per- formance at Edinburgh in 1814. I should be glad to hear of other provincial performances in England, Scotland, or Ireland. Is there any record of ' Remorse ' having been played in the United States 1 ^. m-Sea. -e* ^ Au ■ '. 2fj6 The second edition of ' Remorse ' followed very closely on the first, but it contained many- alterations. Both editions appeared while the piece was running on the stage at Drury Lane, so that it is hard to say which (if either) was the one acted ; but there is one speech added to the second edition which we may suppose was not heard on the boards. It opens the third scene of the fourth act : — Tlie mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress. ALn.vi'K.-. Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; The fiower-like woods, most lovely in decay. The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands. Lie in the silent moonshine ; [&e.]. It had been transferred from the fifth act of 'Osorio,'and there the "hanging" woods ap- peared a second time in the third line, in place of "flower-like." My reason for assuming that the speech was dropped out of the acting version and restored J to the printed copy in its second edition is the following passage, printed in the ' Remains ' (ii. 48-9), on "The Drama generally, and Public Taste." Or, is it possible that the passage I am about to quote was inspired, not by fears for the possible reception of the speech, / but by its actual reception on the first night ? We hear, however, of no untoward incident on that or any other night, and I am strongly inclined to believe that the speech was not risked. Coleridge is bemoaning the withering influence on the presentation of tragedy exer- cised by the vulgar public's diseased sense and love of the ludicrous — " an inflammation produced by cold and weakness, which in the boldest bursts of passion will Ho in wait for a jeer at any phrase that may have an accidental coincidence in the mere words with something base and trivial. For id stance, to express woods, not on a plain, but clothing a hill which overlooks a valley, or dell, or river, or the sea— the trees rising one above another, as the spectators in an ancient theatre — I know no other word in our language (bookish and pedantic terms out of the question) but hanging woods, the sylv'/s superim- pendentes of Catullus' ['Epith. Pel. 'et Th.,' 28(5] ; yet let some wit call out in a slang tone,— 'the gallows ! ' and a peal of laughter would damn the play. Hence it is that so many dull pieces have had a decent run, only because nothing unusual above, or absurd below, mediocrity furnished an occasion,— a spark for the explosive material col- lected behind the orchestra." "Behind the orchestra" meant, of course, the pit in those days. It was the critical part of the house, but one would have rather expected a criticism such as Coleridge anticipated to have come from the gallery. The playbill of Drury Lane for Tuesday, January 26th, 1813, an- nounces ' Remorse ' for the " Third Time," and bears the following foot-note : — " The new Tragedy called ' Remorse,' performed for the second time last night before an elegant audience with complete and brilliant success, will be repeated every Evening till further notice." Alhadra's soliloquy about the " hanging woods " is just such a speech as would be cub out by a practical manager as delaying the action. It closes with a series of aspirations self than in h:- 1 uia to Ails, iw were appo&vte which would have been more appropriate in the mouth of Coleridge himself than ui that of any Moreseo on the war-path "Oh! would The raven or the sea-mew were appointed To bring me food ! or rather that ray soul Could drink in life from the universal air '. It were a lot divine in some small Skiff, Along some Ocean's Imundless solitude. To float for ever with a careless course. And think myself the only Being alive ! This passage receives an interesting gloss in a letter written at the time of its composition to Thelwall — Coleridge is bewailing some temporary paralysis of the imagination — "I can contem- plate nothing but parts [of the universe], and parts are all Uttte. My mind feols as if it ached to behold and know something great, something one and indivisible." And adding that it is only in the faith of this that rocks and moun- tains give him any sense of sublimity or majesty, but that so seen all things counterfeit infinity, he quotes ssage from the 'Lime Tree Bower' which Lamb pretended to find an "un- intelligibl ■ -m-fit"—" Struck with the deep calm >y, I st:>nd " Silent with swimming sense ; and gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily, a living thing Which acts upon the mind, and with such hueB As cloath th' Almighty Spirit, when he makes Spiritp perceive his presence. " It is but seldom," Coleridge goes on to say, " that I raise and spiritualize my intellect to this height ; and at other times I adopt the Brahman creed I should much wish like the Indian Vishnu to float about along an infinite Ocean cradled in the flower of the Lotos, and wake once in a million years for a few minutes just to know that I was going to sleep a million years more. I have put this feeling in the mouth of Albadra, my Moorieh woman "; and then he quotes her soliloquy. Thus to play the irresponsible god must have had a fascina- tion for all poets. In ' Sordello,' with the rubric, "Thus then having completed a circle, the poet may pause and breathe, being really in the flesh at Venice," we read : — he decrepit, Btark, Dozes; Yet not so, surely never so ! Only, as good my bouI were suffered go O'er the lagune : forth fare thee, put aBide — Entrance thy synod, as a god may glide Out of the world he fills, and leave it mute For myriad ages as we men compute, Beturning into it without a break O' the consciousness ! They Bleep, and I awake O'er the lagune, being at Venice. There is another passage which had its vicis- situdes before it found a resting-place in the second edition of 'Remorse ': — 'Tis a poor Ideot Boy, Who sits in the Sun, and twirls a Bough about, His weak eyes seeth d in most unmeaning tears. And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head, And staring at his Bough from Morn to Sun-set See-saws his Voice in inarticulate noises. It is not in the only extant manuscript of ' Osorio,' nor in the first edition of ' Remorse,' but it must have been composed in 1797 — pos- sibly for ' Osorio,' possibly for the joint volume of ' Poems ' of 1797. It had been seen by Lamb before his visit to Stowey in June of that year. " Your picture of idiocy," Lamb writes, June 13th, "with the sugar-loaf head is exquisite ; but are you not too severe upon our more favoured brethren in fatuity 1 " And it was probably familiar to Thomas Poole. Coleridge sometimes realized that that true friend possessed the defects of his qualities. His advice was generally invaluable, but sometimes there was too much of it. In October, 1801, one of these periodical overflows occurred, and it was resented first in set terms, and then, rather savagely, by way of apologue : — " This, in this awful tone, I have been powerfully impelled to say ; though in general, I detest any- thing like giving advice. I was with an acquaint- ance lately, and we passed a poor ideot hoy, who exactly answered my description ; he Stood in the sun, rocking his sugar-loaf head, And staring at a bough from morn to sun-set, See-sawed his voice in inarticulate noises. ' I wonder,' says my companion, ' what that ideot means to say 1 ' 'To give advice,' I replied. ' I know not what else an ideot can do, and any ideot can do that.' " Coleridge evidently felt that he was adminis- tering one of the precious balms which break the head, and that another of a healing quality was demanded ; for he adds : — ■ " It is more accordant with my general habits of thinking to resign every man to himself, and to the quiet influences of the Great Being— and in that spirit and with a deep, a very deep affection [the poet's underlining], I now say — God bless you, Poole ! " — ' Thomas Poole and his Friends,' ii. 68. Another instance of the freedom with which Coleridge treated the text of his poems occurs in the ' Biographia Literaria ' in the course of his criticism of Wordsworth's ' Sailor's Mother' (see chap, xviii.). For purposes of illustration he writes these lines : — The simplest, and the most familiar things Gain a strange power of spreading awe around them, and states in a foot-note that they are " altered from the description of Night - Mair in the ' Remorse,' " which description he proceeds to quote as follows : — Oh Heaven ! 'twas frightful ! Now run-down and stared at, By hideous shapes that cannot be remembered ; Now seeing nothing and imaging nothing ; But only being afraid— stilled with fear ! While every goodly or familiar form Had a strange power of spreading ttrror round me.. This text is not to be found in any edition of ' Remorse,' nor in the ' Osorio ' manuscript. The passage was interpolated in the second edition of ' Remorse,' and reprinted without alteration in all the subsequent editions, as follows : — O sleep of horrors ! Now run down and star'd at By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance — Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing, But only being afraid — stilled with Fear ! While every goodly or familiar form Had a strange power of breathing terror round me ! That this picture of the night-mair was drawn from the poet's own multitudinous experience there is too ample evidence both in his poems and his letters. It is painted in more "lurid Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from Duke University Libraries http://archive.org/details/poeticaldramaticOOcole THE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF SAMUEL TAY- LOR COLERIDGE FOUNDED ON THE AUTHOR S LATEST EDITION OF 1834 WITH MANY ADDITIONAL PIECES NOW FIRST INCLUDED AND WITH A COLLEC- TION OF VARIOUS READINGS IN FOUR VOLUMES VOLUME FOUR MACMILLAN AND CO. CONTENTS PAGE Remorse ; A Tragedy . . . . i Zapolya : A Christmas Tale . . .161 A ^^ d%c^a*&C> *J4***&£- ^ ^ ^#^ j^^^, <*~rr*t ^^~^ OnsL4*~^ j&^ e.^^^-^ %P~^ ^^> fs^'/L REMORSE. fifff-fifirfa**** A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS. M. ^yuW <^* s??7 J. '77? " {/yji^c^i^^-^r — \. Remorse - A. Tragedy. In Five Acts. By S. T. Coleridge. jp^aJM-TfcjTC London: Printed for W. Pople, 67, Chancery Lane, 1813. ~^-#- fyfia*. P r ' ce Three Shillings, pp. xn., 72. Considerably altered in l^o^" (c~.*i^ the Second and Third Editions, which appeared in the same £e&4 *%j>cv J *^ L ~' Osorio. A Tragedy, as originally written in 1797 by X*£ /Tft^n%7 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Now first printed from a copy ^^fZ/eA- — '< rt- recently discovered, with the variorum Readings of Remorse, cjrtutj— Jw* e^^and a Monograph on the History of the play in its earlier and jt^j/t&^-wv-*— > plater form, by the Author of Tennysoniana. London: John ?k^ C ^Y^ e *' Pearson, 1873, pp. xxn., 204.] 6r^*!-_ £*-j*9*-*- ?z^*/^ J*s^-/-+?\ 4F-4 . / _c- . . ,, ^U X7F /c^2-^^2^/^-^6-^> '?^>J PREFACE /to the first edition.* J This Tragedy was written in the summer and-autumn of the year 1797, at Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and of the manner in which both the Play and the Author were treated by the recommender, let me be permitted to relatejihat I knew of its having been received only by a third person ; that I could procure neither answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident I should have had no copy of the work itself. That such treatment would damp a young man's exertions may be easily conceived : there was no need of after-mis- representation and calumny, as an additional sedative. *-«Ar"port!oh of *fee Preface prefixed to the play in manu- 9^" r ^>-V trr ^ scriptMinder its originaLjiame of Osorio, has been preserved, and is here given :-C "^J " In this sketch oraTragedy, all is imperfect and much obscure. Among other equally great defects (millstones round the slender neck of its merits) it pre-su pposes a long story ; and this long story, which yet is necessary to the complete understanding of the play, is not halftold. Albert had sent a letteiinforming his family that he should arrive about such a time by ship ; he was shipwrecked ; and wrote a private letter to Osorio, informing him alone of^this accident, that he might not shock Maria. Osorio destroyed the letter and sent assassins to meet Albert . ■ 4L- • Worse than all, the growth of Osorio's character is nowhere explained — and yet I had most clear and psychologically accurate ideas of the whole of £= ^ >J bfo^ Y^^Ou^^f Ks{sv^^' PREFACE. Jtc l« uu * As an amusing anecdote, and in the wish to pre- pare future Authors, as young as I then was and as igno- rant of the world, of the treatment they may meet with, I will add, that the person f who by a twice-conveyed recommendation (in the year 1797) had urged me to write a Tragedy : who on my own objection that I was utterly ignorant of all j^tage- tactics had promised that Jig; would himself make the necessary alterations, if the piece should be at all representable ; who together witfTthe copy of thej^lay (hastened by his means so as to prevent the fuirdevelopmentj of the characters) received a letter from the Author to this purport, fAS 't- T.J. . A man who, from constitutional calmness of appetites is seduced into pride and the love of power, by these into mis- anthroptMHf or rather a contempt for mankind ; and from thence, by the cooperation of envy, and a curiously modified love for a beautiful female (which is nowhere developed in the play), into i most atrocious guilt. A man who is in truth a weak man, yet always duping himself into the belief that he has a soul of iron. Such were some of my leading ideas. " In short, the thing is but an embryo, and whilM.it re- mains in manuscript, which it is destined to do, the critic would judge unjustly who should call it a miscarriage. It furnished me with j t 1 moot important lesson, namelyTuial to have conceived strongly, does not always imply the power of successful execution. S. T. C^ — (Printed in Dr. Clement Carlyon's Early Years and Late Reflections, Lond. 1836, , T". P- I43) v * Tha^vhole of this paragraph of the Preface was omitted in theater editions. — Ed. Richard Brinsley Sheridan. — Ed. I need not say tojiuthors, that as to the essentials of a £pem, little can be superinduced without dissonance, after the first warmth of conception and composition. / 1 1 1. nai nun vi i-ijih- 1 . pi-iuii aiiu luiiiujjiuuii. -d t r b j&^C &- x^-j >d*_ -PS- ?C e^Ti /?y ?a ^ *f-^ '^^^-/^ ZZZ Z'Z^f - Tkn lo • t to the alteration of one ludicrous line ; and finally in the year 1806 amused and delighted (as who was ever in his company, if I may trust the universal report, without being amused and delighted ?) a large com- pany at the house of a highly respectable Member of Parliament, with the ridicule of the Tragedy, as " a fair specimen" of the whole of which he adduced a line : "Drip! drip! drip! there's nothing here but dripping." In the original copy of the Play, in the first Scene of the fourth Act, Isidore had commenced his Soli- loquy in the Cavern with the words, " Drip ! drip ! a ceaseless sound of water-drops," G0 0) 6 PREFACE. as far as I can at present recollect : * for on the pos- sible ludicrous association being pointed out to me, I instantly and thankfully struck out the line. And as to my obstinate tenacity, not only my old acquaintance, but (I dare boldly aver) both the Managers of Drury- Lane Theatre, and every actor and actress, whom I have recently met in the Green-room, will repel the accusation, perhaps not without surprise. I thought it right to record these circumstances; but I turn gladly and with sincere gratitude to the converse . In the close of last year I was advised to present the Tragedy once more to the Theatre. Accordingly having altered the names, I ventured to address a letter to Mr. Whitbread, requesting information as to whom I was to present my Tragedy. My letter was instantly and most kindly answered, and I have now nothing to tell but a tale of _£hanks. I should scarce know where to begin, if the goodness of the Manager, Mr. Arnold, had not called for my first acknowledg- ments. Not merely as an acting- Play, but as a dramatic Poem, the Remorse has been importantly and manifoldly benefited by his suggestions. I can with severest truth say, that every hint he gave me was the ground of some improvement. In the next place it is my duty to mention Mr. Raymond, the Stage Manager. Had the Remorse been his own Play — nay, that is saying too little — had I been his * It now appears that Coleridge's memory or his ingenuous- ness was somewhat at fault here : for the fourth act of the play in its original shape opened with the following lines : — " Drip I drip ! drip ! drip ! — in such a place as this It has nothing else to do but drip I drip I drip I I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch." — Ed. r^^-x^^^^^ fpvijkz oblige . f/*^/~7^ -&%zz /, ^£>^^) <*/~~?* tyXts* ImA- <^tJri *- PREFACE. 7 brother, or his dearest friend, he could not have felt or exerted himself more zealously. As the Piece is now acting, it may be thought pre- sumptuous in me to speak of the Actors : * yet how can I abstain, feeling, as I do, Mrs. Glover's powerful assistance, and knowing the circumstances under which she consented to act Alhadra ? A time will come, when without painfully oppressing her feelings, I may speak of this more fully. To Miss Smith I have an equal, though different acknow- ledgment to make, namely, for her acceptance of a character not fully developed, and quite inadequate to her extraordinary powers. She enlivened and sup- ported many passages, which (though not perhaps, wholly uninteresting in the closet) would but for her have hung heavy on the ears of a theatrical jiudience. And in speaking the Epilogue, a composition which, ^ I fear) my hurry will hardly excuse, she made a sacri- fice, which only her established character with all judges of tragic action, could have rendered com- patible with her duty to herself. To Mr. De Camp's judgment and full conception of Isidore ; to Mr. Pope's accurate representation of the partial, yet honourable Father ; to Mr. Elliston's energy in the character of Alvar, and who in more than one instance gave it beauties and striking points, which not only delighted but surprised me ; and to Mr. Rae, to whose zeal and unwearied study of his part I am not * The original caste was as follows : Marquis Valdez, Mr. Pope ; Don Alvar, Mr. Elliston ; Don Ordonio, Mr. Rae ; Monviedro, Mr, Powell ; Zulimez, Mr. Crooke ; Isidore, Mr. De Camp ; Naomi, Mr. Wallack ; Donna Teresa, Miss Smith ; Alhadra, Mrs. Glover. 8 PREFACE. CO less indebted as a man, than to his impassioned reali- zation of Ordonio, as an autho r ; — — to these, and to all concerned with the bringing out of the Play, I can address but one word — Thanks ! — but that word is uttered sincerely ! and to persons constantly before the eye of the public, a public acknowledgment becomes appropriate, and a duty. I defer all answers to the different criticisms on the Piece to an Essay, which I am about to publish imme- diately, on Dramatic Poetry, relatively to the present state of the Metropolitan Theatres.* From the necessity of hastening the publication I was obliged to send thejrjanuscript intended for the Stage : which is the sole cause of the number of directions printed in italics. >$AWX * This project, like many others announced by Coleridge, was destined never to be executed. — Ed. ^ -*s-^v 7S&~ — f7-t<- • ^Z^^) ti )lvM*^ %*i ■fiebiSc^'^ f 1797. f Velez. . . f Albert . . ' OSORIO . . f Francesco Kf. Maurice . Ferdinand = Naomi DRAMATIS PERSONS. 1813. = MARauis Valdez Father to the two brothers, and t fay*, /fib Dona Teresa's guardian, t ' The eldest son. . - - -^6j-&Z£c«z/*t~ = Don Alvar = Don Ordonio. . The youngest son /^i^^^kj^ = Monviedro . . . A Dominican and inquisitor, ^/^e/t = Zulimez The faithful attendant on Alvar. . - /CMaria . ^Alhadra wife of Fer- Isidore A Moresco chieftain, ostensibly -* - n Christ™,, . . . - <*W -^ VM ■ ^ L ■ ■■* sc. I.] REMORSE. 15 That voice which quell'd me, calm'd me : and I sought The Belgic states ; there join'd the better cause ; And there too fought as one that courted death ! Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying, In death-like trance : a long imprisonment follow'd. The fulness of my anguish by degrees r j) Waned to a meditative melancholy ; And still the more I mused, my soul became More doubtful, more perplex'd ; and still Teresa, Night after night, she visited my sleep ; Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful, Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me ! 6^Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason, I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless ! Hear then my fix'd resolve : I'll linger here In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain. — The Moorish robes ? — ZULIMEZ. All, all are in the sea-cave, Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners Secrete the boat there. ALVAR. Above all, the picture Of the assassination — ZULIMEZ. Be assured That it remains uninjured. ALVAR. Thus disguised (?) 1 6 REMORSE. [act i. I will first seek to meet Ordonio's — wife ! If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk, And this the hour ; her words, her very looks Will acquit her or convict. ZULIMEZ. Will they not know you ? ALVAR. With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly Trust the disguise ; and as to my complexion, My long imprisonment, the scanty food, This scar,— and toil beneath a burning sun, Have done already half the business for us. (I ) Add too my youth ; — since last we saw each other, Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice A hoarser note — Besides, they think me dead ; And what the mind believes impossible The bodily sense is slow to recognize. ZULIMEZ. 'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey. Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock, Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain, ( /2.) I n tne Alpujarras — there where Zagri lived. ALVAR. I know it well : it is the obscurest haunt Of all the mountains — [Both stand listening. Voices at a distance ! Let us away ! [Exeunt. ~zt^ i. ' < C^^ / <^' C^fy sc. 2.] REMORSE. 17 -> ^ * Scene II. ^A^V^ e^O l ^^ -£«^ Teresa arc^ Valdez. . TERESA. fJuL ^ <- &~ /I hold Ordonio dear ; he is your son . rt jt-£ *■, And Alvar's brother"! — OX4f£^M V VALDEZ. VC^-Ji^ Love him for himself, Nor make the living wretched for the dead. TERESA. I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez ; But Heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living. Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves, And could my heart's blood give him back to thee, I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts ! Thy dying father comes upon my soul With that same look with which he gave thee to me ; I held thee in my arms a powerless babe, 9^y)*4syi-X> * While thy poor mother, with a mute entreaty, Fix'd her faint eyes on mine. Ah ! not for this, That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom, And with slow anguish wear away thy life, The victim of a useless constancy. I must not see thee wretched. <^**-X-» I * Here the Tragedy, in its original form, commenced. — Ed. /X VOL. IV. B i8 REMORSE. [act i. TERESA. There are woes 111 barter'd for the garishness of joy ! ffjts*" If it be wretched w ith an untired eye f* To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean ; Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock, My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze, To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again . All past hours of delight ! If it be .w^gbxd. ^* ft f To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there, To go through each minutest circumstance Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them ; j4 (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid Who dress'd her in her buried lover's clothes, And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft Hung with her lute, and play'd the self-same tune (/ ) He used to play, and listen'd to the shadow^ (x) Herself had made) — if this be wretchedness./ f J' Lf% And if indeed it be a wretched thing ^ Y To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine That I had died, died just ere his return ! Then see him listening to my constancy, A . yf Or hover round, as he at midnight oft* V Sits on my grave, and gazes at the moon ; Or haply, in some more fantastic mood, To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers (% ) Build up a bower, where he and I might dwell, And there to wait his coming ! O my sire ! 6 v And hover round as he at midnight ever — 1797. f >i~?~/e}¥) A~r ■*■ jr/fM^^^e^ oZ^ /_ /^^ y^^e^y^ y /~—y / ty^f^ZZ*^ y^^v A/ sc. 2.] REMORSE. 19 My Alvar's sire ! if this be wretchedn ess j%%Lst— p That eats away the life, what were it, thmk you, If in a most assured reality- He should return, and see a brother's infant Smile at him from my arms ? Oh what a thought ! [C/asping her forehead. VALDEZ. A thought ? even so ! mere thought ! an empty thought* J The very week he promised his return — 3 / r Teresa (abruptly). f Was it not then a busy joy ? to see him, After those three years' travels ! we had no fears — The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter, Almost endea^d his absence ! Yet the gladness, The tumult of our joy ! What then if now — t VALDEZ. power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts, * Spite of conviction ! I am old and heartless ! ^i/\A^-^*^t _~_ Yes, I am old — I have no pleasant fancies — c£tjz-0^** t ^ f -/- Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest — O what a thought ! 'Twas horrible ! it pass'd my brain like lightning. VELEZ. ^, 'Twere horrible, if but one doubt remain'd, Sfc. — 1797. LA*&,^~- JZL r Ah, what a busy joy was ours — to see him After his three years' travels ! though that absence His still-expected, never -failing letters «^~— Almost endear'd to me ! Even then what tumult ! — il: <\As*~ 20 REMORSE. [act i. r ti Teresa [with great tenderness). SQ My father ! * VALDEZ. The sober truth is all too much for me ! I see no sail which brings not to my mind The home-bound bark in which my son was cap- tured By the Algerine — to perish with his captors ! TERESA. Oh no ! he did not ! VALDEZ. Captured in sight of land ! ( uCl ^Xi From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch- Xy/ t / M * / tower ^ ■^v* We might have seen — a/f J\ ■v' * The dialogue continues thus in the original draught of (J Y the play : Xufut*^*^, /L*-*-*-*^*- XL 3 VELEZ. Ay, 'twas the morning thou didst try to cheer me With a fond gaiety. My heart was bursting, And yet I could not tell me how my sleep Was throng'd with swarthy faces, and I saw The merchant-ship in which my son was captured — Well, well, enough — captured in sight of land — We might almost have seen it from our house-top ! Maria (abruptly). He did not perish there ! Velez (impatiently). Nay, nay, — how aptly thou forgett'st a tale Thou ne'er didst wish to learn — my brave Osorio Saw them both founder in the storm that parted Him and the pirate : both the vessels founder'd. Gallant Osorio \f~ sc. 2.] REMORSE. 21 TERESA. His capture, not his death. VALDEZ. Alas ! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale Thou ne'er didst wish to learn ! my brave Ordonio Saw both the pirate and his prize go down, In the same storm that baffled his own valour, And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes : Gallant Ord-omoT^Pauses, then tenderly.) O be- loved Teresa, Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar, jfi £* r*?*-*-*^ And most delight his spirit, go, make thou J- 9* ~$£mj /* aJ^~ His brother happy, make his aged father Sink to the grave in joy. Ar^ClCs Cs TERESA. For mercy's sake Press me no more ! I have no power to love him. His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow, Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night: j q My love, a timorous and tender flower, I p^}- P Closes beneath his touch. VALDEZ. You wrong him, maiden ! You wrong him, by my soul ! Nor was it well To character by such unkindly phrases The stir and workings of that love for you Which he has toil'd to smother. 'Twas not well, Nor is it grateful in you to forget REMORSE. [act His wounds and perilous voyages, and how With an heroic fearlessness of danger He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. It was not well — You have moved me even to tears. 0_ *? f~c£^ TERESA - J. , ^> / O pardon me, Lord Valdez ! pardon me ! ' **y / j/^f It was a foolish and ungrateful speech, *■**£» A most ungrateful speech ! But I am hurried i *^vyv /•) Beyond myself, if I but hear of one (/ Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not Born on one day, like twins of the same parent ? Nursed in one cradle ? Pardon me, my father ! A six years' absence is a heavy thing, Yet still the hope survives — * Valdez (looking forwards). Hush ! Tis Monviedro. TERESA. £/) The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of bloodj^ * In the original draught of the play the dialogue continues thus : ty.fc«. < <^ £»,. 2j»-} Velez (looking forwards). Hush — hush ! Maria. MARIA. It is Francesco, our Inquisitor ; That busy man, gross, ignorant, and cruel ! Enter Francesco and Alhadra. Francesco (to Velez). Where is your son, my Lord ? Oh ! here he comes. Enter Osorio. 1797- (2/) Mv^, UL /t^Le /W &~S ^^^^^ &u-^o iH £ ~-H^-^~--?^r-|C^L /"www, Vt-O-'/c^o rv- ^ W -T ' SC. 2.] REMORSE. Enter Monviedro with Alhadra. Monviedro {having first made his obeisance to Valdez and Teresa). Peace and the truth be with you ! Good my Lord, My present need is with your son. [Looking foruiard. We have hit the time. Here comes he ! Yes, 'tis he. Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio. My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you. ORDONIO. Hail, reverend father ! what may be the business ? MONVIEDRO.* My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse WO V FRANCESCO. the old business — a Mohammedan ! The officers are in her husband's house, And would have taken him, but that he mention'd Your name, asserting that you were his friend, Ay, and would warrant him a Catholic. But I know well these children of perdition, And all their idle falsehoods to gain time ; So should have made the officers proceed, But that this woman with most passionate outcries (Kneeling and holding forth her infants to me), So work'd upon me, who (you know, my lord !) Have human frailties, and am tender-hearted, That I came with her. OSORIO. You are merciful. [Looking at^ 1 would that I could sswc you,-jym^/^< ... . ft C 3 *-3 **- ZTZe^- REMORSE. [act I. fc~< To his false creed, so recently abjured, The secret servants of the Inquisition Have seized her husband, and at my command To the supreme tribunal would have led him, But that he made appeal to you, my lord, As surety for his soundness in the faith. (/} Though lesson'd by experience what small trust The asseverations of these Moors deserve, Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name, Nor less the wish to prove with what high honour The holy Church regards her faithful soldiers, Thus far prevail'd with me that — ORDONIO. Reverend father, I am much beholden to your high opinion, Which so o'erprizes my light services. {Then to Alhadra.) I would that I could serve you ; but in truth our face is new to me.* * Thus continued in the original Osorio : — [Alhadra is about to speak, but is interrupted by FRANCESCO. Ay, ay, — I thought so ; And so I said to one of the familiars. A likely story, said I, that Osorio, The gallant nobleman who fought so bravely Some four years past against these rebel Moors ; Working so hard from out the garden of faith To eradicate these weeds detestable ; That he should countenance this vile Moresco, Nay, be his friend — and warrant him, forsooth ! Well, well, my lord ! it is a warning to me ; Now I return. 1 797- \ S-^^: *- r ^' A ^> CO /**- *LSt-asnXJL<^ i ,c c^tA- X tf '^^ SC. 2.] REMORSE. 25 MONVIEDRO. My mind foretold me, i)That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez/ ; 'Twas little probable that Don Ordonio, That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors, Should prove the patron of this infidel ! I The w arranter of a Moresco's faith ! Now I return. ALHADRA. My Lord, my husband's name Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.) — You may remem- ber if! Three years ago, three years this very week, You left him at Almeria, x*-f- G /w-/ w; 3 Monviedro (triumphantly). Palpably false ! This very week, three years ago, my lord, (You needs must recollect it by your wound) You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar !■ [Teresa looks at Monviedro with disgust and horror. Ordonio's appearance to be collected from what follows. What, is he ill, my Lord ? how strange he looks ! [To Valdez and pointing to Ordonio. * You were at sea and fought the Moorish fiends Who took and murder'd your poor brother Albert r tq -^<-^u^ 26 REMORSE. [act I. % ftoAZteL Valdez (angrily). You press'd upon him too- abruptly, father, The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted. Ordonio (starting as in sudden agitation). heavens ! — I d oted? — (Then as if recovering him- self.) Yes ! I doted on him. [Ordonio walks to tlie e nd of the stage, Valdez follows, soothing him. Teresa (her eye following Ordoni o). 1 do not, cannot love him. Is my heart hard ? Is my heart hard ? that even now the thought Should force itself upon me ? — Yet I feel it ! MONVIEDRO. The drops did start and stand upon his forehead ! I will return. In very truth, I grieve To have been the occasion. Ho ! attend me, wo- man ! Alhadra (to Teresa). O gentle lady ! make the father stay Until my lord recover. I am sure That he will say he is my husband's friend. TERESA. Stay, father ! stay, my lord will soon rec over. O 2=_ i ~" Ordonio (as they return, to Valdez » «r«"im-*„„, i -i.^,^. ir '_ . ^— - -" Strange, that this Monviedro Should have the power so to distemper me ! VALDEZ. Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son ! 6?>-0yz*f sc. 2.] REMORSE. 27 MONVIEDRO. My lord, I truly grieve — ORDONIO. Tut ! name it not. A sudden seizure, father ! think not of it. As to this woman's husband, I do know him. I know him well, and that he is a Christian. MONVIEDRO. I hope, my lord, your merely human pity * ^ /^-^t-^i^fc^^L^ . Doth not prevail t — & * your sensibility — 1797. f Here the dialogue thus continues in the original draught of the play : OSORIO. »Nay, nay, you know me better. You hear what I have said. But 'tis a trifle. I had something here of more importance. [Touching his forehead as if in the act of recollection. Ha! The Count Mondejar, our great general, /V. Writes that the bishop we were talking of Has sicken'd dangerously. FRANCESCO. Even so. OSORIO. I must return my answer. FRANCESCO. When, my lord ? OSORIO. To-morrow morning, and shall not forget How bright and strong your zeal for the Catholic faith. oC^-0 28 REMORSE. [act i. ORDONIO. 'Tis certain that he was a catholic ; What changes may have happen'd in three years, I cannot say ; but grant me this, good father : / Myself I'll sift him : if I find him sound, You'll grant me your authority and name To liberate his house. MONVIEDRO. Your zeal, my lord, And your late merits in this holy warfare Would authorize an ampler trust — -you have it. 0) ORDONIO. I will attend you home within an hour. VALDEZ. Meantime return with us, and take refreshment. ALHADRA. Not till my husband's free ! I may not do it. I will stay here. Teresa (aside). Who is this Isidore ? VALDEZ. Daughter ! FRANCESCO. You are too kind, ray lord ! You overwhelm me. OSORIO. Nay, say not so. As for this Ferdinand, 'Tis certain that he was a Catholic, &c. — 1797. ? O \t lo) H \l / ilsV<»s{* *CtA*^ f ^ sc. 2. J REMORSE. 29 TERESA. With your permission, my dear lord, I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea-breeze/ [Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro, and Ordonio. ALHADRA. Hah ! there he goes ! a bitter curse go with him, j & A scathing curse ! _,_, 04&*/' f ' [Then, as if recollecting herself, and with a tirnia\ f) look A ■ ~" — -^ ^ You hate him, don't you, lady? , Teresa {perceiving that Alhadra is conscious j \T"L__ • /*") she has spoken imprudently). ■^^^ r Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for you. ALHADRA. These fell inquisitors ! these sons of blood . J «*. As I came on, his face so madden'd me, That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger And half unsheathed it — TERESA. Be more calm, I pray you. ALHADRA. And as he walk'd along the narrow path * I'll loiter a few minutes, and then join you. — 1 797-— f Thus in Osorio : — »»^ (Alhadra had been betrayed by the warmth of her feelings >, into an imprudence. She checks herself, yet recollecting J Maria's manner towards Francesco, says in a shy and dig*^ ^ "* trustful manner :) — 1797. ir** 30 REMORSE. [act i. C7*- Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager ; , « 'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember j. .^ Lf /That his familiars held my babes and husband. i To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge, And hurl'd him down the ragged precipice, O, it had been most sweet ! TERESA. Hush ! hush, for shame ! Where is your woman's heart ? ALHADRA. O gentle lady ! - r\ You have no skill to guess my many wrongs, b / * f ~&~' Many and strange. Besides, (ironically) I am a Christian, ■ ry— "=- — — ■ £? And Christians never pardon * — 'tis their faith ! y*"P TERESA. Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee ! !%&$* P ALHADRA - I know that man ; 'tis well he knows not me. Five years ago (and he way the prime agent), Five years ago the holy brethren seized me. TERESA. What might your crime be ? ALHADRA. fc^ I was a Moresco ! t (/ IS * And they do never pardon — 1797. t Solely my complexion. — ib. sCm — - * k ^>^^- sc. 2.] REMORSE. 31 They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, Into a dungeon of their prison house ; Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light, No touch, no sound of comfort ! The black air, It was a toil to breathe it ! when the door, ~*l /"^^ *. Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed > vu*— One human countenance, the lamp's red flame \ ,- Cower'd as it enter'd, and at once sank down.* /r ALHADRA. What was it then to suffer ? 'Tis most right * It was a toil to breathe it ! I have seen The gaoler's lamp, the moment that he enter'd, How the flame sunk at once down to the socket — 1797. t counting the clocks — 1797. counting the bell — 18 13. + the blessed sun — 1797-1813. I - - - • JT • " ■ t& - - - 25£i^ 2S£l «) ■A JET Z 32 REMORSE. [act i. That such as you should hear it. — Know you not, ( £./ fO What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal? Great evils ask great passions to redress them, And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence. TERESA. e l t £t A s*j*.t^ You were at length released? * O ALHADRA. , Yes, at length C/ P I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven ! ^m I 'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more — f^^^^ For if I dwell upon that moment, Ladyyv " a L. &**"*** A trance t comes on which makes me o'er again "" ''■'.iw O /2Q1 1 then was — my knees hang loose and drag, A .. And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, /A^ l* That you would start and shudder ! TERESA. But your husband — ALHADRA. A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady. TERESA. Alas, poor man ! ALHADRA. /t*^u- S He hath a lion's courage, G (_ Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance ; % (3 ) * deliver'd — 1797. t A fit — ill. J He hath a lion's courage, But is not stern enough for fortitude — ib. f? &) A. p. f^C ft> tt $ y^7 - ^^ SC. 2.] REMORSE. 33 Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart He worships Nature in the hill and valley, Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all. Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments* TERESA. Know you that stately Moor ? Sh*-*-"* O Jo ALHADRA. But doubt not t he is some Moresco chieftain, Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.i, — TERESA. . " The Alp uj arras ? Does he know his danger, So near this seat ? 0) I know him not : &** 00 * In the original draught of the play, not observing the two interlocutors in the previous dialogue, he soliloquizes Three weeks have I been loitering here, nor ever Have summon'd up my heart to ask one question, Or stop one peasant passing on this way. f Know you that man ? ALHADRA. His person, not his name. I doubt not, S>e. — 1 797. X Alhadba's speech continues in the original draught of the play : — »\ A week has scarcely pass'd since first I saw him ; I / He has new-roof'd the desolate old cottage Where Zagri lived — who dared avow the prophet And died like one of the faithful ! There he lives, And a friend with him. — ih. w o VOL. IV. 34 REMORSE. [act i. ALHADRA. He wears the Moorish robes too, As in defiance of the royal edict. [Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to the back of the stage, near the rocks. Teresa drops her veil. ALHADRA. n^af^^ f Gallant Moresco ! An inquisitor, //^ \^ Monviedro, of known hatred to our race — * ALVAR. You have mistaken me. I am a Christian. ALHADRA. He deems that we are plotting to ensnare him : Speak to him, Lady — none can hear you speak, And not believe you innocent of guile, t TERESA. If aught enforce you to concealment, sir — ALHADRA. He trembles strangely. [Alvar sinks down, and hides his face in his robe. 6) * Gallant Moresco ! you are near the castle Of the Lord Velez, and hard by does dwell A priest, the creature of the Inquisition.— 1797 6 ^/* t (Albert on hearing this, pauses and turns round). — il. / ■?~~ / V^. 3C. 2.] REMORSE. 35 TERESA. See, we have disturb'd him. [approaches nearer to him. I pray you think us friends — uncowl your face, For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing. I pray you, think us friends ! Alvar (raising his head). Calm, very calm ! Tis all too tranquil for reality ! And she spoke to me with her innocent voice, rhat voice, that innocent voice! She is no trai- tress !* TERESA. Let us retire, (haughtily to Alhadra.) [They advance to the front of the stage. Alhadra ( with scorn ). K«r**~- & He is indeed a Christian, t — if & f * The speech thus continues in the original draught of the play:— f) It was a dream, a phantom of my sleep, A lying dream. [He starts up, and abruptly addresses her. Maria, you are not wedded ? — 1797. ALHADRA. He is indeed a Christian. _ (f Some stray Sir Knight, that falls in love of a sudden. fy MARIA. What can this mean ? How should he know my name ? REMORSE. [act i. Alvar (aside). She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning gar- ment. Why should my brother's wife wear mourning garments ? * A- «^ (To Teresa.) Cp^<- ««.«u«J Your pardon, noble dame ! that I disturb'd you : I had just started from a frightful dream, t TERESA. Dreams tell but of the past, and yet 'tis said, They prophesy — ALVAR. The Past lives o'er again In its effects, and to the guilty spirit The ever-frowning Present is its image. It seems all shadowy. ALHADRA. Here he comes again. Alvar (aside). She deems me dead, and yet no mourning garment ! 1797. * Here follows in Osorio : — God of all mercy, make me, make me quiet ! [To Maria. Your pardon, gentle maid ! &c. — ib. t Instead of the three next speeches Alhadra observes, in the original draught of the play : — These renegado Moors — how soon they learn The crimes and follies of their Christian tyrants ! — ib. SC. 2.] REMORSE. 37 o'er- J 6t* f iZ^c P TERESA. Traitress ! {Then aside.) What sudden spell masters me ? Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman ? [Teresa looks round uneasily, but gradually be- comes attentive as Alvar proceeds in the next speech. __ ALVAR. I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I lean'd With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid, Whom I was wont to call not mine, bu t me : For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. This maid so idolized that trusted friend v/ p P Dishonour'd in my absence, soul and body ! / Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, "^ jc^-^L £) And murderers were suborn'd against my life. *_/' i«, &/^u/ But by my looks, and most impassion'd words, I roused the virtues that are dead in no man, Even in the assassins' heartsj they made their terms, \ /) And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder. ALHADRA. You are lost in thought : hear him no more, sweet lady ! TERESA. From morn to night I am myself a dreamer, * And she with him and he with her conspired To have me murder'd in a wood of the mountains : 1797- 38 REMORSE. [act i. And slight things bring on me the idle mood ! f%.) Well, sir, what happen'd then ? ALVAR. On a rude rock, A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs, Whose threaddy leaves to the low-breathing gale Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean, I sta/d, as though the hour of death were pass'd, And I were sitting in the world of spirits — For all things seem'd unreal ! There I sate — The dews fell clammy, and the night descended, Black, sultry, close ! and ere the midnight hour A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear, That woods, and sky, and mountains, seem'd one havock. The second flash of Hghtning showM a tree Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous : My soul work'd high, I bared my head to the storm, And with loud voice and clamorous agony, Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me, Prayd, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts, And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable As the gored lion's bite ! »»_^»_ Q Teresa (shuddering). A fearful curse ! ^^C O Alhadra ( fiercely).^ /But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd /^ Dreamrvoii nf nn revencrp ? ,-» \^> Q DreamFySuof n o revenge? ^^^J^ £.; tfy^ <^y7Z *-*s%*>' *^*^ .--' 0) /& ~/i+*k^ H J /7£ u, SA^' & ORDONIO. In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer. She ha£h no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true ; T rcJLr&t» ^" er l° ver school'd her in some newer nonsense Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her. J7 0**' She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive, ^ ' Shivers, and cannot keep the tears in her eye : An d such do love the marvellous too well £J |/" * Why you can mouth set speeches solemnly — 1797. {,) *» c^-^a^yn * W ^y !■] REMORSE. 45 Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy* With a strange music, that she knows not of — '/ With fumes of frankincense, and mummery/ / Then leave, as one sure token of his death, That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest. A-*^y turftui ISIDORE. Will that be a sure sign ? ORDONIO. Beyond suspicion. Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover, (By some base spell he had bewitch'd her senses) She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth, As made this heart pour gall into my veins. And as she coyly bound it round his neck She made him promise silence ; and now holds The secret of t]jte existence of this portrait Known only to her lover and herself. But I had traced her, stolen unnoticed on them, And unsuspected saw and heard the whole. ISIDORE, ^(u n^Z, But now I should have cursed the man who told l fc /< ^ ■ me V You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse — But this I cannot do. I * Such ones do love the marvellous too well Not to believe it. We will wind her up— 1797. _ *& f 46 REMORSE. [act ii. ORDONIO. Where lies your scrapie ? * Isidore (with stammering). iifit rfr^ Why— why , my lord ! '.., You know you told me that the lady loved you, Had loved you with incautious tenderness ; That if the young man, her betrothed husband, Return'd, yourself, and she, and the honour of both Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples f^A^ u \ Than those which being native to the heart, Than those, my lord, which merely being a man \ — Ordonio (aloud, though to express his contempt he speaks in the third person). This fellow is a man — he kill'd for hire One whom he knew not, yet has ten£ >£/ As he h a d been made of the rock that prop t his ~ 2^ back— /*- >n~» umJ^ Av > J ust as you^looknow— -only less ghastly ! < y At length recovenngTrom his trance, he threw His sword away, and bade us take his life, It was not worth his keeping. ORDONIO. And you kilFd him ? Oh blood-hounds ! may eternal wrath flame round (J j/"" — " He was his Maker's image undefaced ! % / &-A *z^rt - /< d * ^ ^- >, *5*~ ' < 4fe /t8> /(j»-tr-^L ty-v-o*-^ A*~ *^ 9* ■£ A T^X, ^~7 1 ^~ ^-y&^SJ^P^ «y 2.] REMORSE. Form a mock portal with their pointed arch ? Pardon my smiles ! 'Tis a poor idiot boy, Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about, His weak eyes seethed in most unmeaning tears. And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head, And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-set, See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises. ORDONIO. 'Tis well ! and now for this same wizard's lair. ISIDORE. Some three strides * up the hill, a mountain ash Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters O'er the old thatch.t #_«» • . ' A II.-f—The inside of a Cottage, around which 1/ I Scene **z^> flowe f [Bit 'owers and plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar, Zulimez and Alhadra, L, as on the point of leaving. — > ^-, ?N. r77> ALHAVRAHpddressing AlvarW-x^^z^ Farewell then ! and though many thoughts perplex me, * yards — '797-^x t the new thatch. — ib. **> 56 REMORSE. [act II. Aught evil or ignoble never can I Suspect of thee ! If what thou seem'st thou art, The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need Of such a leader. ALVAR. Nobly-minded woman ! Long time against oppression have I fought, And for the native liberty of faith Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain : Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls The volume of concealment. In the Future, As in the optician's glassy cylinder, The indistinguishable blots and colours Of the dim Past collect and shape themselves, Upstarting in their own completed image, To scare or to reward. I sought the guilty, And what I sought I found : but ere the spear Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose To the Avenger I leave vengeance, and depart ! Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid, Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee : For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble. Once more, farewell. [Exit Alhadra. Yes, to the Belgic states We will return. These robes, this stain'd com- plexion, Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit. Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice sc. 2.] REMORSE. 57 Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance Of our past services. ZULIMEZ. And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours, You let a murderer hold ? ALVAR. O faithful Zulimez ! That my return involved Ordonio's death,* I trust, would give me an unmingled pang, Yet bearable : — but when I see my father Strewing his scant gray hairs, e'en on the ground, Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa — Her husband proved a murderer,! and her infants * In the original draught of the play, the scene opens thus : — Albert and Maurice. ALBERT. He doth believe himself an iron soul, And therefore puts he on an iron outward ; And those same mock habiliments of strength Hide his own weakness from himself. MAURICE. His weakness ! Come, come, speak out 1 Your brother is a villain ! Yet all the wealth, power, influence, which is yours You suffer hira,to hold ! ALBERT. Maurice ! dear Maurice ! That my return involved Osorio's death, &c. — 1797. f a monster — ib. / CZJ- 58 REMORSE. [act ii. C His infants — poor Teresa ! — all would perish, All perish — all ! and I (nay bear with me) Could not survive the complicated ruin ! Zulimez (much affected). Nay now ! I have distress'd you — you well know, I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome ! - *You are a painter, one of many fancies ! « S j /&L* * "^ ne f°" ow ' n g lines I have preserved in this place, not so much as explanatory of the picture of the assassination, as (if I may say so without disrespect to the public) to gratify my own feelings, the passage being no mere fancy_portrait ; but a slight, yet not unfaithful, profile of th e late Sir Goorg g- ■ — B68ttmOBt5 % Zulimez (speaking of Alvar in the third person). Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation. He told me, too, how in his early youth, And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance To make long sojourn in sea- wedded Venice ; There won the love of that divine old man, Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian ! Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, By the sweet mystery of lines and colours Changed the blank canvass to a magic mirror, That made the absent present ; and to shadows Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and motion. He loved the old man, and revered his art : And though of noblest birth and ample fortune, The young enthusiast thought it no scorn But an i nalienable ornament, To be his pupil, and with filial zeal By practice to appropriate the sage lessons, 'jU -^C*~*-^l £r~i^fz*-' -~*<-^Y s. sc. 2]. REMORSE. 59 You can call up past deeds, and make them live On the blank canvass ; and each little herb, That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest, You have learnt to name Hark ! heard you not some footsteps ? ALVAR. What if it were my brother coming onwards ? I sent a most mysterious message to him. Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. The art, he honour'd thus, requited him : And in the following and calamitous years Beguiled the hours of his captivity. ALHADRA. And then he framed this picture ? and unaided By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman ! ALVAR. A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! The imperishable memory of the deed, Sustain'd by love, and grief, and indignation 1 So vivid were the forms within his brain, His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them 1 [Note in Appendix to the-tetep editions of Remorse."] J-cc-*- "■ --fru^^i. Ordonio {returning and aloud '). n*^/i*. ' v^ C/ Pluck'd in the moonlight from a ruin'd abbey- Those only, which the pale rays visited ! O the unintelligible power of weeds, % * Groaning aloud. — 1797. f And weep in anguish I — ib. X All very curious ! from a ruin'd abbey Pluck'd in the moonlight. There's a strange power in weeds, &c. — ib. ± 62 REMORSE. [act n. When a few odd prayers have been mutter'd o'er them : Then they work miracles ! I warrant you, There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks *j? V \fr ) Some serviceable imp. There's one of you Hath sent me a strange message. ALVAR. I am he. ORDONIO. With you, then, I am to speak — [Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez. And mark you, alone.* [Exit Zulimez. " He that can bring the dead to life again \" — Such was your message, sir ! You are no dullard, But one that strips the outward rind of things ! ALVAR. 'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds, That are all dust and rottenness within. Would'st thou I should strip such ? ORDONIO. Thou quibbling fool, What dost thou mean ? Think'st thou I joumey'd hither To sport with thee ? ¥> * I will speak with you, and by yourself. — ijg j. '*^ £ U ( »y ..) Qno, my Lord ! to sport Best suits * the gaiety of innocence. ' O what a thing is man ! the wisest heart ' A fool ! a fool that laughs at its own folly, Yet still a fool ! [Looks round the cottage. Jtlfrytn *--You are poor \% ALVAR. What follows thence ? } ORDONIO. That you would fain be richer. The Inquisition, too — You comprehend me ? You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power, § Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty ; And for the boon I ask of you but this, ||)— hv/«*; That you should serve me — once — for a few hours. * Best fits— 1797. C f (Draws back as if stung and embarrassed, then folding his armsj. — ib. { It strikes me you are poor ! — ib. & § That you would fain be richer. Besides, you do not love the rack, perhaps, Nor a black dungeon, nor a fire of faggots. The Inquisition — hey ? You understand me. And you are poor. Now I have wealth and power— +ib. f~~) II And for this service, all I ask you is, S%^ ib. O n s w Ml o 6 4 REMORSE. [act 11. -5* t Alvar {solemnly). Thou art the son of Valdez ! would to Heaven That I could truly and for ever serve thee. ORDONIO. (The slave begins to soften. * [aside. You are my friend, " He that can bring the dead to life again ;" Nay, no defence to me ! The holy brethren Believe these calumnies — I know thee better. {Then with great bitterness.) Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee ! ALVAR jlaside). JtiT^-i^ & Alas ! this hollow mirth — Declare your business. ORDONIO. I love a lady, and she would love me But for an idle and fantastic scruple. Have you no servants here, no listeners ? [Ordonio steps to the door. ALVAR. What, faithless too ? JFalse to his angel wife ? To such a wife ? Well might'st thou look so wan, Ill-starr'd Teresa !— \— Wretch ! my softer soul Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience ! . ORDONIO. [ u^u^i^f^ l In truth this lady loved another man, But he has perish'd. * The canting scoundrel softens. — 1 797 \ I sc. 2.] REMORSE. 67 Alvar {lifting up his head). Well ! and this lady ! ORDONIO. If we could make her certain of his death, She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her, She tied a little portrait round his neck, Entreating him to wear it ! Alvar (sighing). Yes ! he did so ! ORDONIO. Whvno^ he was afraid of accidents, i Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like. £ In secrecy he gave it me to keep, Till his return. ALVAR. What ! he was your friend then ? Ordonio (wounded and embarrassed). I was his friend. — ^ Now that he gave it me, This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard. — Can call the dead man up — he will not come. — He is in heaven thenJ-there you have no influence. Still there are tokens — and your imps may bring you Something he wore about him when he died. And when the smoke of the incense on the altar £v%^c '- Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture. C-cxsn^ jT~ What say you now ? 68 REMORSE. ' [act ii. Alvar (after a pause). Ordonio, Twill do it. ORDONIO. U ^7j^ M C We ' n hazard no delay. Be it to-night,* In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez. y/ ^i I will prepare him. Music too, and incense, / »^p. ^^"C(Po r I have arranged it — music, altar, incense) *fc^ry? ' All shall be ready. Here is this same picture, And here, what you will value more, a purse. ,£# _ s~( Come early for your magic ceremonies.! ALVAR. I will not fail to meet you. Till next we meet, farewell ! ( [Exit Ordonio. ordonio. ^^aJ irewell ! ( \Exit Ordonii n Alvar (aloneAindignantly flings the purse away, *** and teases passionately at the portrait). And I did curse thee ! At midnight ! on my knees ! and I believed Thee perjurer!, thee a traitress ! thee dishonour'd ! J O blind and credulous fool ! O guilt of folly ! Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses, Thy infant loves — should not thy maiden vows Have come upon my heart ? And this sweet image Z*»" * Delays are dangerous. It shall be to-morrow — V&j. •+ t Instead of the last line the speech breaks ' off in the original draught of the play with the words, " Before the dusk."— i£? % Thee perjured, thee polluted, thee a murderess ? — ifc^ 7cu '«*-<- /) iisr£0*^*r**-^f j* sc. 2.] REMORSE. 69 Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment, And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble ! /t *** ' >Wl!l I.U1A. kill. OV-11.11 kUUO WUL, And joins yo u; mi ghty army. } // ) \Her7oehind the scenes a voice sings the three J nBinf/Je " TTen^. eaoiafft cAri~?+ ~~-J u£^ _ t SoitG.yfBehind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Instrument as before. Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, Lest a blacker charm compel ! .^ ^^JtJ^j^ t This song it appears was printed and set to music by Mr. Lm f J/ Carnaby in 1802. (vide supra, p. 5.) — Ed. n ^ ' 74 REMORSE. [act hi. Jt**-*-^- c So shall the midnight breezes swell With thy deep long-lingering knell. And at evening evermore, In a chapel on the shore, ^j/yr^. Shall the chaunters sad and saintly, Yellow tapers burning faintly, Doleful masses chaunt for thee, Miserere Domine ! CO 6) Hark ! the cadence dies away On the quiet moonlight sea : * The boatmen rest their oars and say, Miserere Domine ! [A long pause. ordonio. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, Burst on our sight, a passing visitant ! Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, O, 'twere a joy to me ! ALVAR. A joy to thee ! What if thou heard'st him now ? What if his spirit Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee 9 ^— ^ tsfarrlo JGZZ /r*o~~Z Z*£^_ ^frW^ ^ ■> C*&^ I***) fa~4' rSrt ~jfc*'^ - Int^A ~ /Gi.< fk^K^i &Z&r-L0 c"