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Alasco

A Tragedy, In Five Acts
  
  
  
  
  

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SCENE I.
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SCENE I.

The Hall of a Monastery.
Enter Walsingham, Alasco, and Amantha.
WALSINGHAM.
Name him no more, Alasco:—“he's a villain!
“A base, ignoble upstart, who has forged
“The stamp of sterling honor and high birth,
“To set it on a ruffian. By my soul!”
Ere this, my sword had satisfied my wrongs,
But faint with loss of blood, e'en from this scratch,
My worn-out limbs turn'd traitors to my rage,
And left me helpless—But he shall answer me!

AMANTHA.
O! my dear father! use some caution with him;
You know, his wealth and office give him sway,
That makes him dangerous.

WALSINGHAM.
Dangerous, Amantha?
Grant me patience! What! have I held my life
On war's frail tenure, still, and undismay'd,
In every face of danger look'd on death—

65

Now to be scared by this mock majesty!
Am I so lightly held—so low in estimate,
To brook dishonor from a knave in place,
And crouch me, like a pliant underling,
As if a thunder-cloud discharged its wrath,
In his official frown! By Heaven, not so!
The slave shall answer me. I will avenge
This outrage on my child.

ALASCO.
Nay, Sir, that task

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Is mine. You know, I claim a husband's right,
To be Amantha's champion.

WALSINGHAM.
Cease, Alasco!
The soldier's honor, he himself must guard;
That service knows no substitute—the slave!
“'Tis thus the downy pillow'd head of power
“Sleeps on secure, unconscious of the wrong,
“The ministering hands have dared to perpetrate.”
But come, no more of this.
You have saved the father's life—the daughter's honor—
She must pay for both.

[Joining their hands.
AMANTHA.
My dear, dear father!

ALASCO.
O! rich reward, beyond Alasco's worth!
So help me, Heaven! as I shall proudly hang
This jewel at my heart, and wear it there,
Till life's last pulse shall cease, and nature fail me.

WALSINGHAM.
Well, well! I am glad you value her so highly.
To-morrow, in his chapel here, good Jerome,
To mine, shall add Heaven's blessing.

ALASCO.
That high sanction—

WALSINGHAM.
You have received already, you would say.

67

I know it all—the Friar has confirmed it;
But, for my satisfaction—she is my child—
'Tis but a day's delay, and I myself
Would give her, at the altar, to my friend.

ALASCO.
Your pleasure, Sir, must ever be our law.

WALSINGHAM.
Your angel mother's spirit, then, my child!
Will smile on her old soldier; her heart's wish
Will then have been fulfill'd. In creed we differ'd—
It was our only difference, and her zeal
Dreaded a father's influence with Amantha.
But I was never skill'd in controversy;
Fear God, and love the king—the soldier's faith!
Was always my religion, and I know
No heretics, but cowards, knaves, and traitors.
“When I have seen, in the hot hour of war,
“A gallant fellow mount the perilous breach,
“And lay about him bravely, for his country;
“I never question'd him his faith—not I!
“But, by his practice, judged him a good Christian.”
No, no, whate'er the colour of his creed,
The man of honor's orthodox. But now,
[to Amantha.

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Retire, my child, a moment—I would speak
A word or two, in private, with Alasco.
[Exit Amantha.
Alasco! I have given you my child—
Placed in your hands, the treasure of my life—
Loosed the strong chain of nature round my heart,
And made you master of the only link
That binds me to this world.

ALASCO.
Sir, I confess
The gift beyond all price. “To love Amantha,
“From the first dawn of passion in my soul,
“Has been the pleasure of existence to me.
“Not fancy's self e'er feign'd a form of joy,
“But wore her semblance, and assumed her smile.

WALSINGHAM.
“You long have been the son of my adoption;
“You're now my son, as husband to my child.
“I have thus a double interest in your fortunes,

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“And claim a father's privilege, to inquire
“Of what concerns me near.

ALASCO.
“Both filial love
“And grateful reverence prompt my duty to
“My father and my friend.”

WALSINGHAM.
What I have heard
To taint your name, from Hohendahl, I should hold,
But as the slander of a villain's tongue,
To be no more regarded; but I own,
Awaked suspicion strengthens his report,
And makes that look like truth, which first seem'd calumny.—
Why throng these men around you thus, Alasco?
They wear a busy, bold, unquiet look,
That to a soldier's eye speaks mutiny,
And puts authority upon the alert.
“Importance frowns on each plebeian brow,
“As if the weight of some great enterprize
“Hung balanced in their hands.” What common bond
Unites you to such men?

ALASCO.
Their wrongs, my father—
Our common wrongs— our country's wrongs, unite us.

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These men are rough, 'tis true, but they are honest.
We are somewhat, Sir, indebted to their prowess.

WALSINGHAM.
I own the service render'd to Amantha,
And will requite it, when occasion serves;
But, that they've been so prompt in such a service—
So prepared for it—betrays some dark design,
And desperate policy.

ALASCO.
Resentment, Sir,
Will ripen to resistance—long oppression
Will prompt the dullest actor in his part,
And make the slave a Brutus.


71

WALSINGHAM.
Let me be calm!
But if you would not, I should think you all
My fears suggest, use not, this jargon with me.
Brutus!—the name's a watchword for all reprobates;
Th' assassin stabs with it on his tongue—the dark
Conspirator invokes it in his prayers—
The rebel mouths it when he means revolt,
And quotes it as authority for treason.
Alasco! let me warn you, ere too late;—
“Your zeal's romantic, wild, and dangerous;”
When loyalty and honor are our guides,
We make no vain parade of Roman virtue.

ALASCO.
When Roman crimes prevail, methinks 'twere well,
Should Roman virtue still be found to punish them.
May every Tarquin meet a Brutus still,
And every tyrant feel one!

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Amantha, Sir, had found Lucretia's fate,
But for disloyal swords. Just powers of Heaven!
To suffer tamely injuries like these,
Were sure almost as base as to inflict them.

WALSINGHAM.
To suffer tamely, has not been my humour,
Count Alasco!—I feel the Baron's perfidy,
And will avenge it, as becomes a soldier.

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But private injuries must be referred
To honor's high tribunal, or the laws;
Who seeks redress by violence and outrage,
Mars his own cause, commits a public wrong,
And makes himself the offender.

ALASCO.
Sir, what course,
What process or of honor, or of law,
Shall take usurped authority to task,
And bid him answer it? Before what bar,
Shall hapless wretches cite the power that grinds
And crushes them to earth? O! no, no, no!
When tyrants trample on all rights and duties,
And law becomes the accomplice of oppression,
There is but one appeal—

WALSINGHAM.
I understand you!
Your swords—your daggers, whetted for our throats!—
What! 'sdeath, you cannot mean!—you're not so lost—
So past all hope distempered—answer me—
In plain blunt speech, to suit a soldier's ear.
I want no fine harangue—no frothy declamation—
No strut and swell of patriot dignity!
One word will do, to stab me to the heart,
And tell me you're a traitor.

ALASCO.
Ha! a traitor!

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The word is somewhat harsh, Sir,—but from you,
Not easily atoned for—as it is—

WALSINGHAM.
Young man, we know you are brave, and prompt in quarrel;
My blood perhaps, would not become your sword,
But when 'tis reeking from your country's vitals,
The patriot will not shrink from parricide.

ALASCO.
Your justice, in a calmer moment, Sir,
Had spared me that reproach.

WALSINGHAM.
By Heaven, 'tis madness!
What wrongs do you complain of?—what oppression?
Young, rich and noble—warm in fortune's lap—
With all her toys and rattles to amuse you—
What grievance touches you so near—so home—
That you must needs turn patriot in your spleen,
And shame the blood of heroes in sedition?

ALASCO.
Ask you my grievance?—'tis my country's ruin—
What! is't because I live and breathe at large—
Can eat, drink, sleep, and move unmanacled,
That I should calmly view my country's wrongs!
For what are we styled noble, and endowed

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With pomp and privilege! “stationed to look down,
“From lofty pedestals of state, on those,
“By whose hard toil we live in luxury?”
For what, thus raised above our fellow creatures,
And fed like gods on incense, but to shew
Superior worth—pre-eminence of virtue!
To guard with holy zeal the people's rights,
And stand firm bulwarks 'gainst the tide of power,
When rushing to o'erwhelm them.

WALSINGHAM.
Blast to my hopes!

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And is rebellion then the benefit,
Your virtue would confer upon your country?

ALASCO.
'Tis not rebellion to resist oppression;
'Tis virtue to avenge our country's wrongs,
And self-defence to strike at an usurper.

WALSINGHAM.
What blustering school-boy has supplied this theme,
This rant, this rhapsody of dull sedition!
This is the common cant of knaves and hypocrites,
To mask in sounding phrases, monstrous crimes,
Till fools, deluded, fancy they are virtues.

ALASCO.
This topic warms you, Sir—I would not fail
In reverence and respect, and therefore, must
Withdraw from your displeasure.


77

WALSINGHAM.
Stay, rash boy!
I have a right to speak, and you must hear me.
Some privilege, Sir, is due to an old soldier,
Who brooks not easily to see his child,
The last loved scion of a noble stock,
Dishonored by alliance with a traitor.
What! start you at the name! yet shudder not
To be the thing it imports! O! 'tis squeamish in you,
And suits not with the boldness of rebellion!

ALASCO.
Reproach, when privileged, Sir, is not so keen,
But honor in a noble cause may bear it.

WALSINGHAM.
A noble cause!—O! monstrous blasphemy!
The cause of mutiny—of mad revolt!
Convulsion—anarchy! the last resource,
Of bankrupt knaves, and needy profligates!
Wretches, whom envy of all nobleness,
Transforms to fiends, and qualifies for traitors!
“A cause the ruffian flies to, as a sanctuary!
“Where sin and shame find grace and fellowship,
“Where outcast crimes, and unhanged iniquities,
“Are sheltered 'midst the general perfidy,
“And shuffled in the pack!

ALASCO.
Your pardon, Sir,

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If I forbear to plead, and in this cause,
Decline your jurisdiction—“there's a chord,
“That vibrates here, which touches not your breast;”
You're not a native, Sir, nor to the soil
Deep rooted by those fibres of the heart,
That bind us to the magic circle, called
Our country—No! you cannot feel as I do.

WALSINGHAM.
If not a native, I am a subject here—
A soldier, faithful to his king—a citizen,
Who loves the country where he has found a home—
A father, that would guard his hearth from violence,
His child from ruin, and his age from shame.
Gods! is it come to this!—But one word more, Alasco—
I would adjure you, by the name you bear!

ALASCO.
It once belonged to freemen.

WALSINGHAM.
By the blood!
The noble blood that circles in your veins!

ALASCO.
'Tis tainted in the bosom of a slave.

WALSINGHAM.
By your long line of gallant ancestors!

ALASCO.
They rise—they rise before me, and upbraid
Their base descendant, who submits to live

79

In abject servitude. With grief and rage,
They look around, where once an empire stood,
And cry, with indignation, ‘Where's our country?’

WALSINGHAM.
When you have drench'd her deep in civil gore—
“When torn and ravaged by the fangs of war,
“She weeps in blood, and bondage more severe,”
They'll find their hapless country, by her groans,
And shudder in their sepulchres. “What fiend—
“What devil has breathed on earth this patriot pestilence,
“And struck the world with lunacy!” A day—
An hour of mad revolt and anarchy,
Inflicts more ills on a distracted state,
Than could a century of that settled sway,
You slander as misrule and tyranny.

ALASCO.
Had fear, or feeling sway'd against redress
Of public wrong, man never had been free;
The thrones of tyrants had been fix'd as fate,
And slavery seal'd the universal doom.
The heart may weep the wounds of civil strife,
But liberty can heal them.

WALSINGHAM.
Liberty!
By Heaven! the word has been profaned so long,
It shocks an honest ear: 'tis now the cry
Of ruffians, who mean massacre and rapine;

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A spell that's used to conjure up from hell,
The blackest fiends of blood and desolation.
Madman, beware! what would your folly prompt—
Your frenzy perpetrate?

ALASCO.
I would raise up
My prostrate country—bid her breathe again—
Replace her on her pedestal of fame—
Teach her brave sons to spurn a foreign yoke—
To live with liberty, or die with honor.

WALSINGHAM.
Oh! my unhappy child! lost—lost Amantha!
But let me steel my bosom to the task
I have now to execute. The father's heart
May break—the soldier will perform his duty.
True to my king, my honor, and my oath,
Old as I am, you'll find me in the field.
Your patriot sword may there sustain its fame,
And plunge into the loyal breast of Walsingham!

[Exit Walsingham.
ALASCO
(solus.)
He said that I should find him in the field—
And he will keep his word. The thought is dreadful!
Could I distrust my cause, or waver in it,
This were a thing to shake me! Powers divine!
Shall right and wrong shift colours thus, and shew
In such discordant hues to honest optics!

81

“Shall man still war with man, bewilder'd thus,
“'Midst shadows and uncertainties of good,
“In moral anarchy! Mysterious Providence!
“What is it we call virtue! Why is it not
“Clear as the light—as noonday palpable!
“That all, as to the glorious sun, might bow,
“In prompt, unerring homage. Why are we left
“To wander in the puzzling maze of doubt,
“Misled by vain chimeras from our course,
“Or setting up some idol of the mind,
“To triumph in the worship due to truth,
“And rival the divinity of virtue!”
Enter Jerome.
Good father, welcome! You're disturb'd!

JEROME.
My son!
If you would shun destruction, go not home:
A plan is form'd to seize you in your bed,
To burn your ancient dwelling to the ground,
And give a loose to pillage 'mongst your friends.

ALASCO.
I am not wholly unprepared for this:
The rage of Hohendahl, I thought, might prompt
To such result.—“But how were you apprized of it?

JEROME.
“A servant of the Baron's is my penitent—

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“The willing agent once of his misdeeds,
“He now repents him, and would make atonement.

ALASCO.
“Can you rely upon him?

JEROME.
“Perfectly.—
“'Twas he first warn'd me of Amantha's danger,
“And aided my concealment.”—To return,
Were madness.

ALASCO.
Fear it not, my friend;—I'm call'd
By matter of more moment. Yes, good Jerome!
There's now on foot an enterprize, which leaves
No leisure for a thought of private injury;
But to unfold it, were a confidence
Ill suited to thy function.—One request—

JEROME.
My son, I am a minister of peace—
“My age, my office, and my nature, plead
“Good will to all, and general charity:”
But I've a heart, and cannot quite forget,
I had a country.

ALASCO.
When we meet again,
We shall commune more freely.—To your charge,
My reverend friend, I leave a virgin wife;

83

Suspicion has already waked her fears:
I dare not trust me to the scrutiny
Of love alarm'd. Should adverse fate decree
We meet no more, restore her to her father;
Give her this ring—her dying mother's gift,
And tell her, Jerome! in Alasco's heart,
Amantha had no rival but his country!

[Exit Alasco.
JEROME.
Heaven guard thy worth, and aid a righteous cause!

[Exit Jerome.
 
To brook dishonor from a knave in place.

The reader will doubtless, consider the suppression of this disloyal verse, as a peculiarly happy illustration of the spirit in which the licenser has wielded his expurgatory pen through the pages of “Alasco.” This vigorous functionary has taken all knaves in place under his especial patronage, wherever they are found, abroad or at home, in posse or in esse:—with the tender solicitude of office, he graciously extends to them his protection against the saucy sarcasms of unplaced, unpensioned, and unprivileged bards. It is to be regretted, indeed, that this sapient personage did not live and reign in the audacious days of the Beggar's Opera. With what a virtuous indignation he would have dashed his official quill through the following licentious assault on all that is moral, wise, good, and gracious in his estimation:—

“Should you censure the age,
Be cautious and sage,
Lest the courtiers offended should be;
If you mention vice or bribe,
'Tis so pat to all the tribe,
Each cries, ‘That was levell'd at me!’”
Beggars Opera, Act II. Scene 2

This expression may possibly not be considered very immoral, irreligious, or uncharacteristic in the mouth of a brave and honorable soldier. To those, however, who are actively employed in endeavouring to rouse into a flame the dying embers of religious animosity and sectarian persecution, it must be particularly obnoxious;—and we cannot be surprised that a pious public officer should eagerly suppress a sentiment so hostile to those principles of division, and dissension, which there would seem to be now such a disposition to revive. For the sentiment here expressed by Walsingham, the author disdains to make any other defence than in the words of Pope:

“For forms of faith, let angry zealots fight,
“His can't be wrong, whose life is in the right.”
“Our country's wrongs unite us.”

This must be considered as a most alarming principle!—big with the ruin of empires, and subversive of that long established maxim of political morality—“divide et impera,” which has been found so efficacious in all ages.

The worthy licenser has been, hitherto, only skirmishing, as it were, with the out-posts of political delinquency. He now, however, approaches the main body of offence; lays about him lustily; cuts right and left; and with a vigour worthy of the Knight of La Mancha, assails every windmill in his course. The formidable dialogue which follows this passage, is reported to have produced a panic in the Chamberlain's office, quite unparalleled, since the misdeeds of Molière, in his Tartuffe, and Brooke, in his Gustavus Vasa, stirred up to a similar perturbation, the terrified authorities of other days. To one side of the colloquy, indeed, the official critic is supposed to have had no particular objection, and, like the sagacious animal reported in familiar history to have been somewhat perplexed between opposite attractions, he hesitated some time between his two bundles of hay; till at length, his loyal nature took the alarm, and “turned the scale of fate.”

May every Tarquin, &c.
VENICE PRESERVED, ACT II.
“Friends, was not Brutus
(I mean that Brutus, who in open senate
Stabbed the first Cæsar that usurped the world)
A gallant man?”
JULIUS CÆSAR ACT I. SCENE II.
“There was a Brutus once, who would have brooked
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.”
CATO, ACT II. SCENE I.
“Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? [OMITTED]
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
AGAIN.
“O! could my dying hand but lodge a sword
In Cæsar's bosom, and revenge my country,
By Heavens! I could enjoy the pangs of death,
And smile in agony.”

Thus exclaimeth the bard of “Cato,”—uncensured,—unsuppressed. The pious, moral Addison!

“Who taught us how to live; and O! too high
The price of knowledge! taught us how to die!”
Tickell.

“Mais nous avons changé tout cela;”—according to the new code, the Muse of Tragedy must mend her manners, and speak with more respect of those dramatic bluebeards, tyrants and usurpers.

Of the younger Brutus, the author of Alasco has expressed his opinion in another place; but in the character of a patriot, represented as suffering from the most atrocious abuse of power that ever disgraced the records of oppression, he did not consider himself at liberty to introduce his own sentiments.

For what are we styled noble, and endowed, &c.

Although this passage may not square exactly with that “beau idéal” of patrician perfection, which our judicious deputy delights to contemplate, yet, must the author be allowed to doubt, if there can be found, in this great country, one individual, possessing the spirit, or deserving the name of a nobleman, who will declare, that he considers the qualities and duties here ascribed to that character, as inappropriate, or injurious to its just estimation.

“What can ennoble sots, or fools, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards!”

As far as the opinions and principles of Count Alasco are concerned, he will not, I should hope, be considered a discreditable representative of the privileged order to which he belongs;—he will not I trust, be disclaimed by those who would sustain the “Corinthian capital of polished Society,” in unmouldering and unmutilated preservation; by those who, inheriting the high spirit of independence which characterised the ancient Barons of England, remember, with pride, that their ancestors were the first to embody in chartered security, those principles of public right, which at this day, form the best basis for the stability of the throne, and the safety of the people.

'Tis not rebellion, &c. The author would be ashamed, indeed, if, with Englishmen, he could enter into a serious vindication of principles which are bound up and interwoven with their earliest associations;—principles to the adoption and operation of which, they are indebted for every blessing they enjoy. Great must be the degradation of our drama, when, to such a character as Count Alasco, a noble Pole, who has witnessed the desolation of his country, a tragic writer cannot give those sentiments which are suited to his station and his fate, without incurring the censure of authority;—without being considered, as committing an outrage on the interests of a people, amongst whom, the principles here asserted, are still held in such reverence, that even those who would willingly slander and suppress, are yet afraid to disavow them.