University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Sea-shore. A violent Storm, with a Vessel at a distance.
Enter Sancho and Teresa.
SANCHO.
Faster, good dame, let's try to gain some shelter;
There's no resisting this tremendous storm.
Enter Pedro.
Pedro! What brings thee here in this foul weather?

PEDRO.
I sought some straggling goats, that from my herd
Had wander'd to the cliffs; but now, by th' mass!
They may return, or stay there as they list.

TERESA.
Saint Bridget save us! How the light'ning flashes!
See there again! Marry, 'tis time to go.

Enter Ferdinand and Roderigo.
FERDINAND.
This way, my Roderigo! See, where stand
The peasants of our hamlet, wonder-stricken,
All gazing on the elemental strife
Which harrows up the ocean.

RODERIGO.
Aye, aye, give 'em
But something new to stare at, they will leave
Their tasks unfinish'd to turn out and wonder.
Why stand ye gaping here, ye idle knaves!
Your daily labours incomplete, your ploughs
Left in the half-till'd fields—

FERDINAND.
Nay, chide them not;
Think not less nobly of their gen'rous feelings
Than of our own.

RODERIGO.
Aye, so you always say—

TERESA.
The poor man's blessing light upon you for it,
And the poor woman's too! You're always kind,
And treat the mean dependents on your bounty
With courtesy, as if they were your equals.

FERDINAND.
And are ye not so? From a peasant's breast
An infant prince may draw his nutriment,
And servile hands may swathe his puny limbs,
And smooth his couch. The proud magnifico,
Who battens on the good things of the world,
Looks to the lab'ring hind who tills his acres
For the foundation of his wealth and state,
While he, his task perform'd, from him in turn
Receives the guerdon which maintains himself.
Thus are our wants and aids reciprocal,
And thus far are we equal.

RODERIGO.
You had best
Not put such fancies in their heads. I know 'em—
They're apt enough to spurn authority,
And do not want your teaching. In my mind,
Some mod'rate censure on their sauciness,
Were more to th' purpose.

FERDINAND.
Talk not thus, I pray,
To one like me, who am myself dependent.
But we lose time. See, where amid the waves
Yon vessel struggles with the tempest's fury.
Now borne aloft, now whelm'd beneath the main,
Her sails all shiver'd, tow'rds the shore she drives.

PEDRO.
Nay, if she drive much farther she must strike.
While thus the tempest rages, she will find
A rough reception on our iron coast.

SANCHO.
Saint Anthony defend us! There's a plunge!
Her masts are all gone by the board!—She strikes!

FERDINAND.
Now, if you've hearts or feelings, follow me
Quick to the strand.

RODERIGO.
You will not be so rash—

FERDINAND.
What! When our fellow-creatures are in peril
To think of our own danger!—Come, my friends!
Shew what ye are. Should the high-mounting surf
Cast any on the beach, we may preserve them!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in De Silva Castle.
Enter Donna Victoria.
VICTORIA.
With what dread majesty the tempest rages,
As if the skies were rending, and the earth
Were hurl'd from its firm base! It is most dreadful!
Yet I can bear it unappall'd, can see
The forked lightning strike yon promontory
Which overhangs the ocean, nor shrink back
T' escape th' impending peril. Can affliction
Thus render us insensible? Alas!
Too surely such our feeble nature is,
The sport of accident, the toy of fortune,
Which takes its tone and colour from events,
And makes us, poor chamelions, vary with them.

Enter Clara.
CLARA.
Oh my dear madam! Are no news arriv'd
Of our rash Ferdinand?

VICTORIA.
Is he gone forth?

CLARA.
An hour ago, as from the western oriel
I gaz'd on the vext sea, I saw him go.

VICTORIA.
You should have urg'd him to return

CLARA.
I call'd to him,
And begg'd him not to go, but all in vain.
He us'd to mind me; but he's grown self-will'd.
When he comes dripping home and chill'd with cold,
He'll think perhaps that I'll take care of him—

VICTORIA.
Peace, foolish girl! When Ferdinand returns,
He'll find you fond as ever. You forget
He now no longer is the trifling boy,
Who shar'd your pastimes, and with eagerness
Partook of all your infantine amusements.
Full sixteen summers are elaps'd, since first
I brought him hither. You was then a babe,
And he a prattling child, blooming and fair,
Who toy'd with you, and taught you first to speak,
At once your play-fellow and best instructor.
But now, the consciousness of manhood stirs him
To new pursuits more worthy of his years:
His enterprizing spirit pants for action—

CLARA.
Why should he wish for change? I could, methinks,
Live here for ever, so he liv'd here too.
You will not let him leave us, madam, will you?
I know how tenderly you love him.

VICTORIA.
Yes!
From the first moment he became the child
Of my adoption, I have never ceas'd
To love him as mine own; and well his duty
Hath all my watchful tenderness repaid.
Poor Ferdinand! thou hast indeed a claim
On my best feelings!

CLARA.
I have oft remark'd
That you will gaze upon him, 'till your eyes
O'erflow with tears, and from your heaving breast
A sigh will burst, as if of stifled sorrow;
And when I ask'd what caus'd you thus to grieve,
You made me no reply, but gave a look
So sad—

VICTORIA.
Ah my lov'd niece! Could I disclose
The secret cause of woe, which, spite of all
My self-command, sometimes o'erpow'rs me,
I should but wring thy feeling heart.

CLARA.
Oh no!
Could I but share your grief, I might relieve it.
But why should Ferdinand thus cause you pain?
He never troubles me, unless when thus
He disregards himself. Do tell me, madam,
What has he ever done to move you so?

VICTORIA.
Alas, my Clara! there's a secret cause,
Which cannot be disclos'd, but which, whene'er
I look upon him, brings to my remembrance
Such mournful images, as time itself
Cannot remove or cure.

CLARA.
Dear lady, weep not.
I'm sure, could our good Ferdinand but know
How for his sake you grieve, he'd chide himself
For causing you disquiet. Never breast
Contain'd a heart more gentle or more brave.
Enter Roderigo.
Oh Roderigo! where is Ferdinand?

RODERIGO.
I left him in Teresa's cottage yonder,
Down by the beach. He bad me hasten hither,
To tell my lady he was safe.

CLARA.
How's that?
To tell he's safe? Has he been then in peril?

RODERIGO.
If, when the sea was raging mountains high,
To plunge head-foremost in the madd'ning surf
To save a drowning wretch, be perilous,
Then hath he been in peril.

VICTORIA.
Prithee tell me,
What cause impell'd him to an enterprize
So hazardous and daring?

RODERIGO.
Truly, lady,
There was a cause, which, to a mind that priz'd
His neighbour's safety higher than his own,
Was strong enough in conscience. For myself,
Though I can find in heart to serve a friend,
My notion is—

CLARA.
Pshaw! What is that to us?

RODERIGO.
Nay, give me leave, I pray. My notion is,
That charity begins at home.

VICTORIA.
Nay, nay,
Tell us at once thy story.

RODERIGO.
When the storm
With tenfold fury rag'd, he drew me forth,
To see, forsooth, whether some luckless bark
Driv'n on the coast might not require our aid:
As if a poor old man, like me, could brave
The tempest which our castle's turrets shook.
Well—he persuaded me—I could not help it.

CLARA.
Don't be so tedious! What of Ferdinand?

RODERIGO.
When to the first o'er-hanging cliff we came,
We saw a vessel driving on the coast.
In shorter time than I can tell the tale,
Headlong she came on a projecting rock,
And down she sank outright.

VICTORIA.
Alas for pity!
Sank do you say? With all her crew aboard?

CLARA.
What became of them?

RODERIGO.
What became of one
I witness'd, and can tell. As the ship founder'd,
I saw him boldly leap into the sea,
And buffet manfully the waves: but soon,
Caught in the surf, he sank.

CLARA.
He perish'd too!

RODERIGO.
He would have perish'd, had not Ferdinand
Rush'd forward to his succour. Swift as thought
He dash'd into the roaring surf, and drew him
Exhausted to the beach. But see—he comes.

Enter Ferdinand.
VICTORIA.
Welcome, my gallant boy!

CLARA.
Oh Ferdinand!
How could you, like a wild thing as you are,
Alarm us so? Had the rude sea o'erwhelm'd you,
You know it would have broke your Clara's heart.

FERDINAND.
My lovely friend, be satisfied. I'm safe,
And, as you know what pow'rful motive led me
To dare the waves, you surely cannot blame me.

CLARA.
In sooth I do not blame you; but remember,
You must not be so rash again.

RODERIGO.
You may
As well exhort him not to eat or sleep.
I verily believe he has no feeling
Of that first principle, self-preservation;
And, what's worse still, he thinks all others should
Be equally fool-hardy as himself.
He wanted me, forsooth, I thank him for it,
To try how I could gambol in the surf,
And fish for dead men's corpses.

FERDINAND.
If I did,
My pains were fruitless. You have liv'd so long,
That you are grown enamour'd of existence,
And, in proportion as your glass runs low,
You prize more highly each remaining sand.

VICTORIA.
But tell us of the man you sav'd from death.
Where left you him?

FERDINAND.
When on the beach I drew him,
He had no signs of life; but we convey'd him
To good Teresa's cottage, where her care
In some degree restor'd his scatter'd senses.

VICTORIA.
Haste, Roderigo, summon Guzman hither,
And Margaretta.
[Exit Roderigo.
Now it is our turn
To perfect the good work which you began.

Enter Margaretta.
MARGARETTA.
What are your ladyship's commands with me?

VICTORIA.
There is a vessel wreck'd upon our coast,
From which, of all the crew, one hapless man
By Ferdinand's exertion has been sav'd.
You must provide wherewith to succour him,
For he is destitute of all—

Enter Guzman.
GUZMAN.
Here I am,
Ever obedient to your la'ship's orders.
What may your ladyship be pleas'd to want?
I'll wager now some case has just occurr'd
Which calls for my assistance.

VICTORIA.
You guess rightly.

GUZMAN.
Has your good ladyship been indispos'd?
There is a flushing in your cheek—your pulse—
With your good leave—

[Attempts to feel her pulse.
VICTORIA.
No, Guzman, you are wrong.

GUZMAN.
That's wonderful!—Oh! then, 'tis the young lady.
(He feels Clara's pulse.
Hey! let me see—Why what's the matter here?
On a full gallop!—One, two, three, four, five—

CLARA.
Let go my arm, I say; I'm well enough,
And do not need your doct'ring.

GUZMAN.
Nay, young lady,
I know what ails you better than yourself.
If Guzman now must learn his trade of you,
'Twould be a pretty world. Not ill indeed!

VICTORIA.
You are again mistaken.

GUZMAN.
How? Oh ho!
'Tis the young gentleman then, after all!

VICTORIA.
His rashness might have thrown him past your help—

GUZMAN.
Aye, that same rashness is the common fault
Of youth. How often have I said, “young man,
“Take my advice; one's never in such danger,
“As when one feels the strongest.” Galen says,
And he says well—

VICTORIA.
Some other time we'll hear him.
You're wrong again. Hs needs not your prescriptions.

GUZMAN.
He not ill neither? That is mighty strange!
If you're all well, why do you summon me?

VICTORIA.
Be silent, and I'll tell you. The late storm
Has wreck'd a vessel on our coast. Of all
On board none 'scap'd—

GUZMAN.
That seems a desp'rate case,
In which my skill can be of little service.

VICTORIA.
If you would talk a little less yourself,
And give more heed to me—

GUZMAN.
I'm all attention.
But surely your good ladyship can't think
That, when a patient once is fairly drown'd—

VICTORIA.
Will you be silent, sir, and hear me out?

GUZMAN.
Close as a well cork'd phial.

VICTORIA.
Of the crew
None 'scap'd, save one, whom Ferdinand preserv'd,
And to Teresa's neighb'ring cot convey'd.
Go there, and do your utmost to restore him.

GUZMAN.
Aye, that's another case. If he be living,
The greater danger he is in the better.
Let but a spark of life remain, we'll see
If death or Guzman shall be conqueror!
[Exit Guzman.

VICTORIA.
Now, Margaretta, we must try to find
What may relieve this hapless stranger's wants.

MARGARETTA.
Of linen and apparel there's enough.
Is there aught else you'd wish me to provide?

VICTORIA.
(To Ferdinand)
—What seem'd the stranger's quality?

FERDINAND.
His garments
Accorded ill with what his mien bespoke:
For, though his cheeks were colourless, his eyes
Half clos'd, and from his floating hair
The briny flood yet dript, methought a ray
Of innate nobleness beam'd forth, which shew'd
He once had known a more propitious fortune;
Like a rich jewel, which, though meanly lodg'd
In a poor casket, still retains it's lustre.
There was a something indescribable,
Which shot across my breast as I look'd on him,
Of mingled pity and respect. Indeed,
His suff'rings to the former gave him claim,
But why I yielded him respect I know not.
Yet so it was.

VICTORIA.
We often see, that nature
Stamps on the outward lineaments the mark
Of the rare qualities which grace the heart.
I too feel interested for the stranger,
Whose mere appearance could impress you thus.
Did he impart his name and his condition?

FERDINAND.
He did not; nor did I importune him
With questions, ill adapted to the state
In which the perils he had pass'd had left him.

CLARA.
Had I been there, I had been less discreet.
There surely is some mystery about him.

FERDINAND.
So I should guess; for, whether it were owing
To the confusion caus'd by his late danger,
Or to some recollections which oppress'd
His lab'ring heart, I know not, but his speech
Appear'd to wander strangely.

VICTORIA.
Did you note
What 'twas he said?

FERDINAND.
One passage seem'd so strange,
I could not but remark it forcibly.
When he recover'd sense enough to know
That to my timely aid he ow'd his life,
He rais'd his languid eyes, and for awhile
Gaz'd on me, while his countenance betray'd
A strange and quick succession of emotions:
Then, cov'ring his pale face with both his hands,
He deeply sigh'd, and with a feeble voice
Exclaim'd—“Is it a phantom that I see,
“Cloath'd in the living semblance of that being”—

VICTORIA.
The living semblance of that being, said he?
Good heav'n!

CLARA.
What ails you, madam? You are ill.
Send some one straightway to bring Guzman back.

VICTORIA.
No, no—remain—'twas nothing (to Margaretta)
—Did you mark
The stranger's words—“cloath'd in the living semblance”
There is but—

MARGARETTA.
Hush! I pray you be compos'd.
There may be nothing in it.

VICTORIA
(to Ferdinand).
Pray go on.
Said he aught else?

FERDINAND.
A sudden burst of tears
Prevented farther speech. He made a sign,
Imploring us to leave him. Though I wish'd
To learn more circumstances of his story,
I felt too strong a rev'rence for his grief
Unduly on his privacy to trespass.

VICTORIA.
You acted well.—He may indeed have cause—
Oh Margaretta!

MARGARETTA.
Why are you thus mov'd?

VICTORIA.
Those strange mysterious words—

MARGARETTA.
No more, I pray.
Let me conduct you to your own apartment.

VICTORIA.
Do so.— (To Clara and Ferdinand)
I would not have you be alarm'd—
I'm sometimes thus—I shall recover soon.

CLARA.
Nay truly you're unwell; your colour changes.
Let me assist you.—So—Go, Margaretta,
See that the chamber be prepar'd.—Now, madam—
[Exit Margaretta.
Come, Ferdinand, and help me to support her.
That's well—now, if you please.

VICTORIA.
Thanks, my kind love!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A High Road near De Silva Castle.
Enter Don Lopez de Gongora and Gomez with a Cloakbag.
LOPEZ.
Plague on those sandy hills, those barren remnants
Of primitive confusion, which reflect
From their loose surface heat enough to melt
A man of less consistence than myself!
And double plagues light on the restive mule,
On which this morn I mounted for my sins!
I would have turn'd her from the narrow path,
Which on the verge of a steep precipice
She had chos'n out; but she, forsooth, preferring
Her wit to mine, demurr'd. I rais'd my staff,
And smote her o'er the ears; she rais'd her heels,
And toss'd me some three yards before her head.
The dogs may feast on her for what I care,
And on me too, if e'er again I mount her.
How far is't, varlet, to De Silva Castle?

GOMEZ.
'Tis somewhat better, sir, than half a mile.
It may be more or less for aught I know.
I'll not be positive.

LOPEZ.
You will be positive,
Nay most superlative, in formal dulness.
Better than half a mile!

GOMEZ.
Aye, I'll be sworn
'Tis that at least. Why, it's a furlong hence—
So said the muleteer—let's see—a furlong
To Pedro's cottage—twice as much to Sancho's—

LOPEZ.
'Tis a day's journey! I shall melt away,
Like a wax image 'fore a witch's fire.
Where is my cloak-bag, mongrel? I shall need
A change of garments, when my journey's ended.

GOMEZ.
Here 'tis, an't please your worship.

LOPEZ.
Take it up—
Why how unhandily you set about it!

GOMEZ.
'Tis passing weighty, sir, for one like me.
I can't—

LOPEZ.
What, mutiny?—Here—take it up.

GOMEZ.
I may as well attempt to move yon cliff
As raise it up. I pray you lend a hand.

LOPEZ.
Marry, that I will straight.

(Strikes Gomez.
GOMEZ.
Nay, an you strike me,
Your fardel may lie here till doomsday, or
You may e'en carry it yourself. I list not.

LOPEZ.
What's that thou say'st?

GOMEZ.
I won't.

LOPEZ.
Thoud'st best take heed.

GOMEZ.
Look you, Don Lopez, or Don Gongora,
I know not if I give you your right titles,
But this I know, I'll be your slave no longer.
Here goes your liv'ry! Some two dozen valets
Have worn't already, and it may fit others.
Pay me my wages! I have serv'd ten weeks
At th' rate of twenty crowns per annum—

LOPEZ.
Phew!
Is the man mad? What ails thee, my good Gomez?
Some gad-fly sure hath stung thee. Leave me, say'st thou?
Thou know'st thy duty better, than to quit me
Here in this desert, all alone and helpless.
Tut! Thou'rt a simpleton. I did but joke.
'Tis a droll way I have.

GOMEZ.
Yes, mighty droll
T'abuse and strike one.

LOPEZ.
'Twas a joke, I tell thee.
Here, take it up, I pray. I'll lend a hand.

GOMEZ.
If 'twere no more than joke—

LOPEZ.
It was no more.

GOMEZ.
Well, I'm an easy fool.—So— (puts on his cloaths)
Raise it now.
Give me my staff.

LOPEZ.
Now onward to the castle.
(Aside)
When we get there, I'll teach thee a new lesson.

[Exeunt.