University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Cave in the Quicksilver Mines of Idra.
Enter EVERARD and FAULKNER—lighted by a SLAVE.
EVERARD.
In all our travels thro' the eastern world,
No sight of greater wonder or dismay
E'er struck our eyes than this of Idra's cave!
Of all whose horrors I'll a picture just
Give to Alberti, near th'imperial throne
The foremost courtier, my much honour'd friend.—
What horrors strike me in this hideous path
That leads directly to the door of death?
My frighted senses have their functions lost!
My eyes, my ears, my feeling, and my judgment,
Are robb'd of their accustomed faculties;
Nay, startled nature knows not here her own
Establish'd laws! a hollow dreadful chaos!

SLAVE.
Ah! Sir, what think you then of us? Condemn'd
For life to groan in these infernal cells,
And never more to see the radiant sun?

EVERARD.
Can human hearts impose on fellow creatures
Such a curse?

SLAVE.
Ah, Sir! you see but little yet of what
We miserable wretches here endure.

FAULKNER.
What, are you here condemn'd to groan out life
For some atrocious crime? If so, sure death
To you and all wou'd be a welcome mercy.

SLAVE.
I ought, alas! but wretched mortals, Sir,
Will cling to nature, tho' she spurn them from her:
For crimes indeed, but disproportion'd crimes
Are many to this horrid cave condemn'd.

EVERARD.
Oh, tyranny! thou horrid, hateful pest!
Who gratifiest thy appetite of death.
With sights like these, and glut'st on misery!
My free-born nature startles at thy shape!
Oh, dear bought precious, precious liberty!
I taste thy heav'n descended cordial now!
Now, now, my happy country's name adore!—
Oh, blissful Britain! little do thy sons
Regard th'inestimable privilege
That they enjoy above the rest of mortals!
Their birthright, Liberty! that glorious claim;
That joy of reason! and that pride of man!

FAULKNER.
Say, finish'd ruin of thy former state,
Oh, say! wou'd not a speedy death be welcome?

SLAVE.
Indeed, good Sir, I felt it so at first,
And often call'd on death to set me free.
But thanks to Heav'n, whose wise, whose gracious ways
To human search are past the finding out.
My better angel, watchful at my side,
Still whisper'd messages of grace and love,
And pull'd my lifted arm with sweet persuasion down.

FAULKNER.
Can then such manly sentiments remain,
Such eloquence within a heart like thine?
My impatient soul with eager longing pants
To hear thy cruel fate! Say whence you came,
Your rank, and what misfortune brought you hither.

(Enter an Officer from the Cave.)
OFFICER.
Get hence unto thy task thou talking loiterer,
Thy time is not thine own, the breath thou draw'st
Belongs not to thyself, but to the Emperor:
Thou canst not long hold out—thy time is near;
Get hence thou slave! and work it to the last.

EVERARD.
Say, wretch, art thou of human clay compos'd?
Has custom turn'd to flint thy harden'd heart?
Forbear thy hateful hand—there's money for thee.

OFFICER.
Oh! Sir, you know, I see, the way to melt me.
Flinty as I am, Sir, this shall soften me.
Preach on, preach on, but make thy sermon short;
I shall not be thy hearer yet a while—

[Exit.
SLAVE.
Such are the hourly insults which we here
Endure; but thanks to Heav'n they'll quickly cease!
I feel my spirits fail, they bring me news
That weary life and I shall quickly part!

FAULKNER.
I pray, good Sir, indulge us with your story:
I long to hear it, and perhaps may serve thee.

SLAVE.

FAULKNER.
Your fault was fashion's crime;—I pity you:
Can nothing, Sir, be thought of for your service?
Have you no friend at court? no int'rest there?

SLAVE.
Alas! my int'rest in this world is vain,
And all redress to me wou'd come too late!

EVERARD.
By Heav'n a happy thought! thou shalt be free!
The manly, brave, the noble Count Alberti
Is my distinguish'd, ever honour'd friend!
Himself a soldier of the first emprize,
The Emperor will never him refuse
A boon like this; then hope, Sir, to be free.
(Enter the OFFICER.)
Get hence thou ugly fiend in human form!
This happy soul shall soon defy thy power,
Thy iron reign o'er him will quickly end!
Few days shall pass 'fore he's from hence releas'd!

OFFICER.
Releas'd! there is but one release from hence,
And death must be the bail! and ev'n then
The body here must rest; this cave his tomb!
You'll, Sir, remember me before you part.

EVERARD.
How vile extortion does itself sustain
In this midway to Tartarus—from thence
It came—and spread its baleful influence
In the world above—how this caitiff vile
This gaoler of a dungeon dark as hell
Holds forth his pitchy palm for venal bribes,
And impudently apes, forsooth, his betters.
Thou man afflicted! I prophetick feel
An impulse in my heart arise, that tells
Thou shalt e'er long be blest with sacred freedom;
Then hope—the Count Alberti is thy friend.

SLAVE.
I fain wou'd purchase yet another lease
Of life, and be at large to pay my thanks—
But hark! our nightly pious exercise
Begins—to hear't may not displeasing prove.
Follow, I'll guide where best you may behold!

THE SOLEMN HYMN.
By the Slaves.
CHORUS.