 | Alasco |  |
18
SCENE III.
A Room in the House of Col. Walsingham.Enter Walsingham and Baron Hohendahl with a paper in his hand.
WALSINGHAM.
Nay! my good Lord! you carry this too far:
Alasco leader of a band of rebels!
Impossible!
HOHENDAHL.
I have it here in proof:
Rebellion wears his livery, and looks big,
In promise of his aid: his followers
Are seen in midnight muster on our hills,
Rehearsing insurrection, and arrayed
In mimicry of war.
WALSINGHAM.
It cannot be!
By heaven it cannot be!—your spies deceive you.
I know the madness of the time has reached him,
And when the fit is on, like other fools,
He raves of liberty, and public rights:
But he would scorn to lead the low cabals,
Of vassal discontent, and vulgar turbulence.
19
My good old friend! your loyal nature yields
Unwilling credence to such crimes as these;
But I have marked Alasco well, and found,
Beneath the mask of specious seeming, still,
The captious critic of authority;
Ready to clap sedition on the back,
And stir the very dregs, and lees of life,
To foam upon its surface—but I see,
The subject moves you.
WALSINGHAM.
Yes, it does, indeed!
His father was my friend, and fellow soldier;
“Our hearts united by the strong cement,
“Of dangers braved, and hardships borne together.”
A braver spirit never laid his life
Upon his country's altar. At my side
He fell—his wife and son, with his last breath,
Bequeathing to my care—a sacred trust,
Of half its duties speedily curtailed;
For grief soon bowed the widow to her grave.
Sole guardian of Alasco, 'twas my pride,
To form him like his father—and indeed,
So apt, in honor and all worth he grew,
My wishes scarce kept pace with his advancement.
While yet a boy, I led him to the field,
And there, such gallant spirit he displayed,
20
Was startled at his daring—to be brief,—
I loved him as my son, and saw with joy,
His long avowed attachment to my daughter.
HOHENDAHL.
Did she return his love?
WALSINGHAM.
He was her idol,
E'en from her earliest years,—her mother too,
From pious zeal to guard her daughter's faith,
Cherished their mutual passion, and beheld
Amantha's safety in Alasco's love.
But I have resolved, my friend—the loyalty
That e'en suspicion taints, shall find with me
No favour.
HOHENDAHL.
Fair Amantha is a prize
Too rich, to squander on this rash young man.
WALSINGHAM.
“I have already warned her to avoid him.
HOHENDAHL.
“'Tis wisely done. But will the lady yield
“To such constraint?
WALSINGHAM.
“I have ever found her gentle,
“And most dutiful; formed for all excellence,
“On the mild model of her mother's virtues.
21
“That touches me most nearly—one, in which,
“I least can brook resistance to my will.
“The blood of Walsingham has long flowed pure,
“Thro' bosoms firm and loyal in all fortunes;
“And tho' it grieve my heart, and blast at once,
“The dearest hope I have cherished for my child,
“If he have thus defiled his father's name,
“And loyalty, the soldier's honour stained,
“By Heaven! I'll cast him off from me and mine,
“As one infected with foul leprosy,
“And marked by fate, for infamy and ruin.
HOHENDAHL.
“I must applaud your generous indignation,
“His courses are indeed, most dangerous;”
But see, he comes.
Enter Alasco.
WALSINGHAM.
You were our theme, Alasco.
ALASCO.
A subject, Sir, unworthy of discussion,
If slander have not given it a zest.
WALSINGHAM.
Slander, Alasco!
ALASCO.
Aye, Sir, slander's abroad,
And busy, few escape her—she can take
22
Of galled authority, will pour her slime
On all who dare dispute the claims of pride,
Or question the high privilege of oppression.
HOHENDAHL.
Your words seem pointed, Sir; and splenetic.
ALASCO.
They're honest, my Lord, and you well understand them.
WALSINGHAM.
What means this heat, Alasco? Innocence
Can fear no slander, and suspects no foe.
ALASCO.
He's on his guard, who knows his enemy,
And Innocence may safely trust her shield
Against an open foe; but who's so mailed,
That slander shall not reach him?—coward Calumny
Stabs in the dark—but I forget my purpose,
Your presence, Sir, (to Walsingham)
represses all contention.
At some more fitting season, with your leave,
I have a suit that claims your private ear,
And much concerns us both.
WALSINGHAM.
Then speak it boldly;
The baron is my friend— perhaps, I guess
23
ALASCO.
To guess my suit, yet wish it here disclosed,
Is answer unequivocal; and as such,
I take it, for the present, and retire.
[Going.
WALSINGHAM.
Alasco!—Count Alasco!
ALASCO
(returning).
Sir, your pleasure?
WALSINGHAM.
'Tis now methinks, some twenty years, or more,
Since that brave man, your father, and my friend,
While life scarce fluttered on his quivering lips,
Consigned your youthful fortunes to my care.
ALASCO.
And nobly, Sir, your generous spirit stands
Acquitted of that trust.
WALSINGHAM.
'Tis well!—perhaps,
I may assume, I've been Alasco's friend.
ALASCO.
My friend!—my father!—say, my more than father!
And let me still, with love and reverence pay
The duty of a son.
WALSINGHAM.
A son of mine,
Must be the soul of loyalty and honor:
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No factious mouther of imagined wrongs,
To sting and goad the maddening multitude,
And set the monster loose for desolation.
ALASCO.
Is this to me?—has slander gone so far,
As dare to taint the honor of Alasco?
WALSINGHAM.
How suits it with the honor of Alasco,
To plot against his country's peace, and league
With low confederates, for a lawless purpose?
Manœuvring miscreants in the forms of war,
And methodizing tumult?
ALASCO.
Have I done this?
WALSINGHAM.
How must it soothe thy father's hovering shade,
To hear his name, so long to glory dear,
Profaned and sullied in sedition's mouth,
The countersign of turbulence and treason?
ALASCO.
“Shade of my father hear! am I so far
“Degenerate from thy virtues—fallen below
“The standard of thy worth, that I should thus,
“Reproached and rated stand, a mark for scorn!
“Have I in ought, beyond our nature's frailty,
“Disturbed thy hallowed spirit in its bliss,
25
[To Walsingham.
The proud repulse that suits a charge like this,
Preferred by lips less reverenced, I forbear.
WALSINGHAM.
“It was my pride to think thee brave and loyal—
“A cast from honor's ancient mould—a man,
“Made up of all the attributes that mark
“A noble race—that prove a generous blood,
“And justify its privilege.
ALASCO.
“I must grieve,
“That sanguine expectation should so far
“Outrun my feeble virtue—but when tried
“By humbler estimate of worth—when weighed
“In the just balance of all human weakness,
“Where have I failed in aught that honor claims,
“Or candour should require?”
WALSINGHAM.
Are you not stained
With foul disloyalty—a blot indelible?
Have you not practised on the senseless rabble,
Till disaffection breeds in every breast,
And spawns rebellion?
ALASCO.
No! by Heaven, not so!
With most unworthy patience have I borne
26
“Struck down by sceptres—trampled on by kings;
“And fraud and rapine registered in blood,
“As Europe's public law, e'en on th' authority
“Of thrones—this, have I seen—yes, like a slave,
“A coward, have I seen what well might burst
“The patriot's heart, and from its scabbard force
“The feeblest sword that ever slumbered at
“A courtier's side—yet have I never stirred”
My country—never roused her sons to vengeance,
But rather used the sway their love allowed me,
To calm the boiling tumult of their hearts,
Which else had chaf'd and foam'd to desperation.
27
The state is much beholden to Alasco;
And we, her humble instruments, must bow,
And to his interference owe our safety.
ALASCO.
Tyrants, proud Lord, are never safe, nor should be;
The ground is mined beneath them as they tread;
Haunted by plots, cabals, conspiracies,
Their lives are long convulsions, and they shake,
Surrounded by their guards and garrisons.
HOHENDAHL.
Your patriot care, Sir, would redress all wrongs
That spring from harsh restraints of law and justice.
Your virtue prompts you to make war on tyrants,
And like another Brutus free your country.
ALASCO.
Why, if there were some sland'rous tool of state—
Some taunting, dull, unmanner'd deputy—
Some district despot prompt to play the Tarquin,
28
By Heaven! I well could act the Roman part,
And strike the brutal tyrant to the earth,
Although he wore the mask of Hohendahl.
HOHENDAHL.
Ha! dar'st thou thus provoke me, insolent!
[Draws.
WALSINGHAM
(advancing between them.)
Rash boy, forbear! My Lord, you are too hasty.
ALASCO.
This roof is your protection from my arm.
WALSINGHAM.
Methinks, young man, a friend of mine might claim
More reverence at your hands.
ALASCO.
Thy friend! by Heaven!
That sacred title might command my worship;
But cover not with such a shield, his baseness;—
His country's foe can be the friend of no man.
WALSINGHAM.
Alasco, this is wild and mutinous;
An outrage, marking deep and settled spleen
To just authority.
ALASCO.
Authority!
Show me authority in honor's garb,
And I will down upon the humblest knee
29
But shall I reverence pride, and lust, and rapine?
No. When oppression stains the robe of state,
And power's a whip of scorpions in the hands
Of heartless knaves, to lash the o'erburthen'd back
Of honest industry, the loyal blood
Will turn to bitterest gall, and th' o'ercharged heart
Explode in execration.
30
(going to the side-scene.)
My servants, there!
Audacious railer! thou provokest my wrath
Beyond forbearance.
[Two of the Baron's servants enter.
Seize the Count Alasco—
I here proclaim him rebel to the State.
ALASCO
(Drawing, and putting himself on his defence.)
Slaves! at your peril, venture on my sword!
WALSINGHAM.
My Lord! my Lord! this is my house—my castle;
You do not—cannot—mean this violation:
Beneath the sanctuary of a soldier's roof,
His direst foe is safe.
HOHENDAHL.
But not his sovereign's;
You would not screen a traitor from the law?
WALSINGHAM.
Nor yield a victim, Sir, to angry power:
He came in confidence, and shall depart
In safety.—Here, my honor guards him.
HOHENDAHL.
Ha!
Your loyalty, my friend, seems rather nice,
And stands upon punctilio.
WALSINGHAM.
Yes, the loyalty
31
May serve the tool—the slave—the sycophant—
But does not suit the soldier.
HOHENDAHL.
Colonel Walsingham,
My station must prescribe my duty here:—
[To the attendants.
Bear hence your prisoner, and await my orders.
WALSINGHAM
(Drawing and interposing.)
Ha! touch him, ruffians, on your lives! By Heaven!
This arm has not yet lost its vigour.—Hence—
Hence, miscreants, from my presence, lest my rage
Forget that you're unworthy of my sword.
[The Baron motions his attendants to retire.
My Lord, this is an outrage on my honor—
[Enter Amantha, from the opposite door.
AMANTHA.
Have I not heard my father's voice in anger?
O! Heaven! what horrid contest has been here?
Alasco! O! Alasco, sure thou wouldst not—
ALASCO.
No, not for worlds, Amantha; calm thy fears:
E'en with my life would I defend thy father.
WALSINGHAM
(separating ALASCO and AMANTHA—solemnly.)
Alasco, like a father I have loved thee,
And hoped a worn-out soldier might have found
32
Beneath thy sheltering virtues; but no more:—
I have now beheld thee attainted of a crime,
Which blots thy fame and honor in my sight,
Beyond the blackest hue of felon trespass.
You've heard the charge, and as you may, must answer it.
As for my daughter here, 'tis fit you know,
Some fond delusions, born in happier hours,
Have passed away—you'll think of her no more.
ALASCO.
Had conscious wrong drawn down upon my head,
This solemn censure from a friend like thee,
It had been death to hear it: But, thank Heaven!
My soul in honor, as in duty clear,
Indignant triumphs o'er unjust reproach,
And holds her seat unshaken. For this Lord—
This minion of usurped authority,
“Who, shrinking from the vengeance he provokes,
“Would shelter him beneath the cloak of power,”
He knows I hold him less in fear than scorn,
And when, and where he dares, will answer him.
WALSINGHAM.
Till then, 'twere well you bear in mind, though Walsingham
Would jealous guard the privilege of his roof,
He harbours not disloyalty or treason.
33
I understand, and will not tax too far
Your hospitality; but thus repulsed,
Expelled your heart, and e'en your house denied me,
I've yet an interest here, (turning to Amantha)
which I would guard,
E'en as this world's best hope.
AMANTHA.
Support me, Heaven!
WALSINGHAM.
Urge me no more, young man, upon this theme:—
A father's privilege has for ever barred
Your claims upon Amantha.
ALASCO.
Sir, your pardon.—
My claims a parent's privilege cannot bar;
They boast the sanction of a higher power,
And supersede the father—in the husband!
WALSINGHAM.
Husband!
HOHENDAHL.
Death to my hopes!—am I thus baffled!
ALASCO.
By all the rights that sacred bonds bestow,
Here, as my wedded wife, I claim Amantha.
How this should be, yet leave without a stain
Your daughter's duty, and Alasco's honor,
She will explain, and Friar Jerome testify
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But in just confidence, await your pleasure.
[Exit Alasco.
WALSINGHAM
(to AMANTHA.)
Hast thou belied the beauty of thy life,
And dared to disobey me?
AMANTHA.
O no—never!
Never, as Heaven is witness, has this heart
Once fail'd in love or duty to my father.
WALSINGHAM.
Ha! beware! I cannot doubt Alasco.
Thou art his wife!—by Heaven, thou art his wife!—
Deny it not—thy burning cheek betrays thee.
AMANTHA.
Hear me, my father!
WALSINGHAM.
Away! thou hast deceived me!
Thy angel mother's image in thy face,
Has lost its charm, and pleads for thee in vain.
AMANTHA.
Oh! to that much-loved mother's hallowed shade,
I here appeal, to vindicate her child.
It was her living wish—her dying will—
On her death-bed, she join'd our trembling hands—
With her last breath, bestow'd the nuptial blessing.
WALSINGHAM.
Beyond forgiveness blacken not thy fault.
35
She was my soul's sweet refuge from a world
Where I have been hardly used.
AMANTHA.
Then hear, my father!
O! as you prized her virtues—loved her name,—
With patience hear, and judge her blameless child.—
Thou wert far distant—death approach'd so near,
We look'd, aghast and breathless, for the blow.
In that sad hour, when only in her fears,
The mother lived—when anxious for her child,
And trembling for her safety and her faith,
She, in Alasco's tried attachment sought
A shield for both, that she might die in peace.
The cherish'd purpose of thy heart towards him,
She long had known, and scrupled not, what seemed
Anticipation merely of thy will.
WALSINGHAM.
Most true. That thought I nourish'd in my breast,
And like a serpent, now it stings me there.
You may retire, Amantha.—Let the Friar
Be summon'd instantly—I must speak with him.
[Exit Amantha.
My Lord, this unforeseen event defeats
Our purpose.
HOHENDAHL.
If it be true. But you will pardon me,
36
Play'd off by crafty Jerome's enginery,
To bind the fair Amantha to his faith,
And aid Alasco's views.
WALSINGHAM.
I cannot think it.
With all a soldier's prejudice to priests,
I own myself subdued by Jerome's virtues.
HOHENDAHL.
It were a wise precaution, to remove
Your daughter to the castle. There secure,
(As this young man, by force or fraud, I fear,
May seek to gain possession of her person)
You may at leisure meditate, how best
To meet this exigence.
WALSINGHAM.
I apprehend
No danger from Alasco. “Though fallen off,
“I fear, from loyalty, yet in his heart
“The seeds of honor are too deeply sown,
“For sudden extirpation. Vice must wear
“Some specious mask of virtue, to seduce him.”
But we must sift this matter. Walsingham
Will never calmly see the blood he boasts,
Thus mingled with a traitor's.
[Exeunt.
In the stage copy, the following words (here omitted) occur.
“And much affects my interest and my daughter's?This is the passage, as originally composed for this place; and though the author believes that there is not an honest man in the British empire, who will venture to assert that it is an overstrained or unjust reprobation of the event to which it alludes, yet, so desirous was he of avoiding all unnecessary animadversion on the conduct of sovereigns, that he altered the passage of the following lines in the copy, for the stage.
By Heaven, 'tis false,With most unworthy patience have I seen
My country shackled, and her sons oppress'd,
And tho' I've felt their injuries and avow
My ardent hope hereafter to avenge them,
I never stirred, &c.
The author little suspected, that even this would be found too strong for the delicate stomach of the new examiner, and that it would be dashed out from his production, accordingly, as containing doctrines too dangerous to be listened to in a free country!!!
In the new political morality of the Chamberlain's office, the expression of sentiments like these, is considered a capital offence. The sagacious depository of its powers, generously throws his shield over all tyrants, abstract or particular, ancient or modern, living or dead—and will not allow a whisper to their prejudice, or a supposition that they can be insecure.
But shall I reverence pride, and lust, and rapine?
“Yes,” says our new Examiner, (at least, if we may judge by his eager erasure of the negative.) This, it seems, is dangerous doctrine, even in the mouth of a Pole; and our worthy deputy, with an anxious precaution, highly flattering to our domestic authorities, steps forward, to protect them from that loss of respect which, he conceives, must be the inevitable consequence of its adoption in this country. And is it then, in Old England, that we are officially forbidden to utter a sentiment of indignation against “pride, and lust, and rapine!”—that we are no longer to be permitted, even dramatically, to imagine an abuse of power, or comment upon it!—Our tragedies, henceforward, are to be all “couleur de rose,” in the eye of authority: our agents of “pity and terror” must lower their tone, and meddle not with more dignified offences, than those of the “Hue and Cry,” or the “Newgate Calendar.” We may, perhaps, take a hero from the hulks, or the Old Bailey, and sustain the decorum of our stage, by the graceful introduction of petty-larceny rogues, and man-milliner immoralities. How long shall we be allowed to point a shaft at a debauchee, or throw any dramatic discredit on the revels of the bacchanal, or the orgies of the gaming table?
Is this the land
“Where tyrants have been taught to reverence man,” the land, on touching whose shore, (in the eloquent words of Curran) “The slave swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around him, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disinthralled!!!”
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