University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Walter's Cottage, surrounded by a neat Shrubbery, L.; a table and seats at the door, with fruits and other refreshments prepared for the wedding guests. —View of Lord Raymond's Castle, and surrounding Country, in the background—Little Robinette discovered arranging the collation at the table.
Enter Walter from the cottage, L.
Wal.
(L.)

Come, bustle, bustle, my dear. Our guests
will shortly be here to the wedding. [Regarding the table.]

That's right, you young rogue; I declare you're
a very handy little servant, and so you had need be;
for you mustn't expect any assistance from your sister
Jane. Girls, on their wedding-day, have too much
else to think of, to attend to company.

Rob.
(R.)

Oh, father, I'd give the world if I were but
big enough to be married—I'm so fond of fine clothes
and sweetmeats.

[Retires up to the table.
Wal.

Psha! you little simpleton. When the time
comes, you'll find that there are bitters as well as sweets
in matrimony; though, for my part, I had no reason to
complain; for my poor wife, Margery, who is now gone
to her long home—Heaven's peace be with her! was
one of the best creatures that ever lived. Well, well,
she's better off now, that's one comfort. But what's
this? [Wipes a tear from his eye.]
I'll not grieve—no, I'm
determined I'll not be sorrowful on my dear daughter's
wedding-day. [To Robinette.]
But say, my little darling,
where is Henry?

Rob.
[Coming forward, R.]

Gone to tell the parson to
get ready to marry him; and how he did skip along, to
be sure! I always thought Billy, our goat, could jump
better than anybody else, but he's no match for Henry,
after all. Yet who knows how Master Billy would
skip and jump if it was his wedding-day?

Wal.

Ha! ha! ha!—You little rogue!—Come and
give your old father a kiss.

Enter Jane from the cottage, dressed as a bride.
Jane.
(C.)

Good morrow to my dear father, and my
little darling, Robinette.

[Kisses her sister, who retires up to look out for Henry.
Wal.
(L.)

Heaven bless thee, my child, on this eventful
morning of thy life! 'Tis an important step thou
art about to take.

Jane.

But one which I feel confident I never shall
have reason to repent of.

Wal.

With Heaven's blessing! I know that both
prudence and inclination dictate thy choice; Henry is a
worthy youth, and with him thou wilt be happy.

Jane.
If bounteous Heaven smiles on innocence,—
If duty to our parents can call down
The blessings of that God, who did command
Children to honour those who gave them being,—
I trust your Jane has herein done her duty.

Wal.
Thou art, indeed, my own, my dearest Jane!
Make but thy husband happy as thy father,
And he will never rue the day that bound him
In wedlock's chains: he'll find them cords of love,
Not fetters of restraint.

Jane.
Fear not, my father. Love shall weave his chains
Of softest silk; he shall not feel their weight.

Wal.
Now, my dear girl, take from thy aged father
The wholesome lessons of experience.
Thy future husband is thy lover now:
Be it thy care to keep him still the same
When he's thy husband. Be a thrifty wife;
Make his home comfortable; let him find,
When he returns from labour faint and weary,
A hearty welcome, and a smiling face.
If cares have ruffled him, do thou with love,—
Not curiosity to know the cause,—
Chase trouble from him, like a misty cloud
Before the radiant sun. Ever through life
Mark well my words, and take thy father's counsel
As a rich dowry.

Jane.
Deep in this heart your counsel is engrav'd,
And I will guard it as a sacred treasure.
Yet, should I need a model in my state
Of happy wedlock, where could one be found
More perfect than the parents whom I honour'd?
I need but love my husband as my mother
Lov'd you; and he must be a wretch indeed
Who could requite such love with aught but love.

Rob.
[Runs forward, clapping her hands.]
Father, here's
Henry coming!—He's coming! he's coming!

Enter Henry, dressed as a bridegroom, R. U. E.
Hen.
(L. C.) [Embracing Jane.]
All is in readiness, my dearest Jane;
Our friends assembled, and the priest prepar'd
To call down Heaven's blessing on our loves.

Jane.
(R.)
Why tarry, then, so long, my dearest Henry?

Hen.
I had return'd before, but on my way
I chanc'd to meet an ancient wither'd woman:
The path was narrow, and, as I tripp'd along,
Light as young Cupid on the wings of love,
I struck against the dame, and was the cause
That she did kiss the earth against her will.
Joy and high expectation spurr'd me on,
While charity commanded me to stay,
And help the poor old creature up again.
Returning, I obey'd, and found the beldam
Grinning with spite, and muttering maledictions.
“Your pardon, dame,” quoth I. “Peace, lout!” she cried;
“I know thee well—this is thy wedding-day;
But may it prove to thee a time of sorrow!
May jealousy torment thee day and night!
May thy wife prove a shrew—a thriftless wanton!
Thy children beg of callous hearts their bread
From door to door!—And may thy ev'ry joy
Be blasted ere it reach maturity!”
Thus the hag mutter'd,
While her malicious palsied head kept time
To the terrific music of her tongue.
Her maledictions struck my soul with horror,—
My ear revolted at her hellish prayer!
And, ere the foul fiend seal'd it with her Amen,
I fled from curses to these loving arms,
Where blessings—heavenly blessings, are my lot!

[Embraces Jane.
Jane.
Heed not the powers of darkness, dearest Henry:
'Twere ill with virtue, if her Friend above
Were not more mighty than her enemies.

Wal.
(L.)
Heaven bless you both, my children!
Ha! those sounds
[Rustic music heard without.
Proclaim the coming of our worthy neighbours
To greet the happy pair, and share our joy.

Enter Villagers, dancing to pipes and tabors, led on by young Edwin and Amy, L. U. E.
Wal.
(R.)

Welcome, kind neighbours, all. This is
the happiest day of my life!

[Going to meet the Villagers.
Edw.
(L. C.)

What, happier than your own wedding-day,
father Walter?

Wal.

No, I do not exactly mean that; but—no matter.
So you are going to be married, too, Master Edwin?
Well, I wish you joy with all my heart;—the
more weddings the better.

Amy.
(L.) [Courtesying.]

Yes, neighbour Walter; my
dear Edwin is going to be married to me, and I to him,
if you've no objection.

Edw.

Yes, we're both going to be married together,
if you've no objection.

Wal.

None in the world. [Drinks.]
And here's success
to you, and all of us. Come, Henry and Jane, my
dears, don't let our worthy guests want for refreshments;
hand round the nutbrown ale.

Rob.
(R. C.)

Yes, and I'll wait upon the company, too,
father; because I shall want waiting upon myself one
of these days, when I get married.

Wal.

You get married, indeed, you little gipsy!—
But, Jane, my love, have you seen Lord Raymond
lately?

Jane.
(C.)

Not since the day on which you sent me
with a letter to the castle.

Hen.
(R. C.)
Go not again. Lord Raymond is a man
Whom, of all others, ev'ry honest female
Should shun. He is a lawless libertine.

Wal.

Hush, thoughtless youth, and teach thy tongue
discretion!

Enter Buckram, the village Tailor, in a holyday suit, L. S. E.
Buc.
(C.)

Ah, my honest friend, Walter, how dost do?
Most obedient, neighbours all. Much joy to the happy
couple. Henry, my boy, how d'ye like your wedding
clothes? [Turns him round and round.]
There's a suit for
you!—a dress fit for a lord! Pearl buttons—plush
lining—every stitch sewed with silk, by your most obedient
very humble servant, Billy Buckram, professor of

the noble art of cutting up and contriving, at your service.
Hem! Apropos, have you heard the news?

[Henry, Jane, and Guests, retire to take refreshments.
Wal.
[Aside.]

Mercy on us, what a tongue!

Buc.

Most wonderful news. Do you know they talk
of a war between— [Crosses to R.]
—Your coat, waistcoat,
and small-clothes, do set remarkably well, neighbour
Walter,—another proof of my genius! Apropos, of
course you know what an accident has befallen old
Justice Stubblefield?

Wal.

I think you'd better partake of our hospitality
than waste the precious time in gossipping. Come,
what say you to a cup of ale?—Choice home-brewed
beverage?

Buc.

With all my heart; and, while we quaff the enlivening
potion, I'll tell you all the news.

[They retire to the table.
Hen.
[Coming forward.]
At length the happy hour is arriv'd,—
That blissful hour, which in anticipation
So often prov'd the solace of my soul,
In times of gloom and sadness!
[Glancing at Jane.
How beautiful—how heavenly she looks!
Her eyes do seem to beam ethereal mildness,
Transporting my fond soul, as in a trance,
To realms of bliss too rich for mortal man!
To call an angel mine—for ever mine!
Oh, Henry!—happy Henry!
What is an emperor's bliss compar'd with thine?

Enter Old Francis, R. U. E.
Fra.
(R.)

God save ye, my worthy neighbours all!—
Ah, is that you, young Master Henry? So, I see you
are all merry-making here, and in your best holyday
suits. I say, friend Walter, I've something from Lord
Raymond for your private ear. We must be left alone.

Wal.
(C.)

Welcome, my honest Francis! Henry,
and my friends, retire a moment.

Hen.
(L. C.)
You'll not be long. Perhaps you know not, Francis,
This day will be recorded in my memory
To the last hour of life's eventful scene,
As that on which I sipp'd the sweetest honey
Which ever hung upon a woman's lips.
It is my wedding-day.

Fra.

Is it possible? Ah, you cunning rogue! your's
is the time of life for weddings. I wish you joy with
all my heart! [Aside.]
I thought 'twas rather mysterious,
and I'm glad I've got at the bottom of it.

Jane.
(L.)

Dear father, waste not in business those
precious moments which love claims as its due.

[Exit with Henry and Guests into the cottage.
Buc.
(L.) [To Old Francis.]

Apropos, Master Francis,
I think 'tis almost time you had new liveries at the castle;
this you've got on begins to look rather threadbare.

Fra.

We wish to be alone, good neighbour Buckram.

Buc.

Oh, by all means; but, whenever you've need
of my services, you have only to command me. Any
and every thing, from a court-dress to a smock-frock, is
perfectly in my way. Pearl buttons—plush lining—
every stitch sewed with silk, by your most obedient
very humble servant, Billy Buckram.

[Exit into the cottage, bowing.
Wal.
(L. C.)

That fellow's tongue is a match for all
the old gossips in the village. But what says Lord
Raymond?

Fra.
(R. C.)

He greets you, and expects you at the
castle on business of importance.

Wal.

I pray you, Francis, excuse me to his lordship.

Fra.

Impossible; you know his lordship's violent
temper well. Moreover, recollect you are considerably
in arrears for rent, and therefore in his power; so do
not delay to obey his lordship's summons on the instant.
'Tis a very mysterious affair altogether, if one could but
get at the bottom of it.

Wal.

I am his lordship's debtor, it is true; and
therefore must obey this most unwelcome summons.

Fra.

On the instant, d'ye hear?
[Going, but returning.]
And—What an old headpiece I have got! I had
well nigh forgotten the main point—the very quintescence
of my errand. Your fair daughter Jane, she is
to accompany you. I will report your coming to his
lordship, [Aside]
and then I'll hide me in the closet, and
listen to their discourse; no doubt I shall very soon get
at the bottom of it.

[Exit, R. U. E.
Wal.
My Jane go with me!—This is very strange.
Lord Raymond is so fond of love intrigues,—
I feel alarm'd—yet shall I not be with her?
And who dares offer insult to my darling?

[The village clock strikes twelve.
Enter Jane, Henry, Edwin, Amy, and the Guests, except Buckram, from the cottage.
Hen.
(L. C.)

There, said I not so? 'Tis past twelve
o'clock, nor can we now be married till to-morrow.

Jane.
(L. C.)

This is, indeed, unkind of you, my father.

Edw.
(L.)

Ay, and see what we've got by waiting for
you; I'm disappointed as well.

Amy.
(C.)

Yes, and I too. Oh, I shall cry my eyes
out!

Edw.

No don't, lovey; they are far too pretty for that.

Wal.
(R.)

The fault's not mine, my friends. Lord
Raymond has commanded Jane instantly to repair to
his castle.

Hen.
What! my dear Jane, alone and unprotected?

Wal.
No, my dear boy; her father goes with her.

Hen.
Ay, and I too, by Heaven!
You might as well send a poor innocent lamb
Into the den of a gaunt hungry wolf,
As a young female, lovely and alone,
To this Lord Raymond's castle.

Wal.
Fear not, my boy; we'll stand or fall together.

Jane.
Come, my dear Henry. What need we fear?
Lord Raymond is a great and powerful man;
Yet, should he offer violence, he'll find
That England's laws are mightier far than he.

[Exeunt, R. U. E.

SCENE II.

—Gothic Chamber in Lord Raymond's Castle, with window, L.—Chairs brought on.
Enter Lord Raymond, followed by a Servant, R. D.
Lord R.
(L.)
You say old Francis is not yet returned.

Ser.
(R.)
Not yet, my lord.

Lord R.
When he arrives, fail not to send him hither.
[Servant bows, and exit, L. D.
Rich, noble, powerful, who would refuse
Alliance with Lord Raymond?
My father's death hath freed me from restraint,
And I no longer, like a truant boy,
Need fear the rod of discipline. I now
Will taste the joys of sensuality:
The richest luxuries the earth can yield,
The fairest flowers from beauty's lovely garden,—
The most mellifluent strains of harmony,
Shall court my ev'ry sense with new delights.
I'll quaff the cup of pleasure to the dregs;
Live, like the flutt'ring insect of a day,
Basking in sunshine, reckless of the future,
And die in ecstacy! [Starts.]
No—die—I cannot!
That single word freezes my ardent blood!
What means this palpitation of the heart,—
This ague-fit that seizes on my limbs?
It is that bugbear, Conscience. Hence, intruder!
Go, lecture beardless boys and toothless dotards!
Lord Raymond is a man—he heeds thee not.

Enter Lady Jane Raymond, R. S. E.
Lady J.
(R.)
Good-morrow, my dear brother.

Lord R.
(L.)
Kind thanks, dear Jane; you rose betimes to-day.

Lady J.
The morning was so lovely, that to waste it
In the dull arms of sleep would have been folly.
Besides, to speak the truth, there is a something,
Which, like a load of lead, weighs down my spirits,
And kills my peace of mind.

[Sighs.
Lord R.
The cause, dear Jane; no secrets from your brother.

Lady J.
Reserve were wrong, where confidence is due;
And therefore will I, to a loving brother,
Relate the simple story of my grief.
'Twas but last evening, as I wander'd forth
To view the glories of the setting sun,
Just as I reach'd the borders of the forest,
Two black, determin'd, savage-looking men,
With threat'ning gestures and uplifted daggers,
Appear'd before me.
“Hold!” in a thund'ring voice, one of them cried,
While his companion seiz'd me in his arms.
I scream'd aloud—resistance was in vain.
Attracted by my cries, swift as an arrow
My guardian angel came,—a comely youth,
Who, with the fury of an angry lion,
Rush'd on the villains. One he straight disarm'd,
And with his weapon slew the other ruffian,
Who dared insult an unprotected woman.

Lord R.
He must have been a brave and hardy youth.

Lady J.
Ay, and as lovely, too, as he was brave.
Oh, my dear brother, spite of shame, I own
That he who sav'd my honour won my heart.

Lord R.
Be cautious, Jane. Yet say, who was the youth?

Lady J.
Alas! I know not. As soon as he beheld
Me safe, he fled, light as the sportive fawn,
Across the plain, and scarcely took my thanks.

Lord R.
A strange adventure, this.

Lady J.
Could I but once again behold the youth,
And prove my gratitude by deeds, not words,
I should be happy!
[Crosses to the window, L.
What do I see? 'Tis he!—
My brave deliverer coming up the lawn!
A maiden, too, link'd with him arm-in-arm.
I hope she is his sister: no, she's not!
That look was far too tender—sisters gaze not thus.
Now they advance—he fondly grasps her hand,
And, as they, light as fairies, trip along,
She reads heaven's language in his lovely eyes,
And hears its music flowing from his tongue.
Oh, happy maid! how do I envy thee!

[Sinks on a chair.
Lord R.
Romantic nonsense! [Crossing to the window.]
Why, 'tis young Henry.
Sister, arise, and be not folly's dupe.
You would not surely throw away your hand
Upon a peasant boy?

[He raises her from the chair.
Lady J.
Forgive me, my dear brother;
I feel my error, and will strive to conquer
This ill-judg'd passion.
Yet, should the struggle break this loving heart,
I claim a brother's pity!

[Exit, R.
Lord R.
I cannot pity thee, for pity is
A stranger to my nature. If, good sister,
Thou needs wilt play the fool, do so—I care not;
It concerns not me.

Enter Old Francis, L. D.
Fra.

My lord, your tenant Walter is without.

Lord R.
(R.)

And his fair daughter, Jane, is she with
him?

Fra.

She is, my lord. I found them all merry-making
and right jovially inclined—going to get married, forsooth,
in full gallop, as one might say. It seemed rather
mysterious, but I very soon got at the bottom of it.

Lord R.

Send Walter hither.

Fra.

I will, my gracious lord. [Aside.]
And then for
my hiding-place in the closet; for I'm determined to
get at the bottom of it.

[Exit, L. D.
Lord R.
Why blame my sister? Do I act more wisely?
What is this girl who hath bewitch'd my senses?
A peasant's child—no more. But what of that?
We men may have our follies and amours,
And go unpunish'd by the partial world;
But woman's steps are watch'd with Argus' eyes,
And, if she act imprudently but once,
She forfeits honour, and is lost for ever.

Enter Walter, L. D.
Wal.
(L.)
Obedient to your summons I am come,
To learn your lordship's pleasure.

Lord R.
(R.)
You are aware, no doubt, that there's a debt
Of some five hundred crowns between us, Walter?

Wal.
There is, my lord.

Lord R.
Are you prepar'd to pay it?

Wal.
Not at present.

Lord R.
I'm sorry for it; for I hold it wrong
That those who are in debt should feast and riot
At other people's charge.

Wal.
My lord, we are not given to excess.
This is a joyful day, and I—

Lord R.
I understand—some holyday, perhaps.
You have a daughter.

Wal.
I have, indeed, my lord; a dear good child.

Lord R.
Ay, and as beautiful as she is good.
I've news for thee—such news, my honest graybeard,
As will delight the dull cold ear of age,
And make thy oozing wimpering eyes once more
Sparkle with youthful lustre. Know, then, since
By my late father's death, as well as birthright,
Being now possess'd of power and wealth, I mean
To do you honour, and take your daughter Jane
Under my kind protection.

Wal.
My lord, my daughter Jane needs no protection
While her old father lives, and England's laws
Remain the poor man's shield against oppression.

Lord R.
Old man, you do not seem to understand me.
I love your daughter Jane, and feel inclin'd—

Wal.
To marry her, my lord?

Lord R.
[Smiling.]
No, not exactly that.

Wal.
[Going abruptly.]
Good day, my lord.

Lord R.
[Stamping violently.]
Stay, dotard!—I command thee,
On pain of ling'ring till thou rott'st in gaol!
Yet I'll dissemble with the drivelling fool,
[Aside.
And if, by a mock marriage, I can gain
My ends, and lull his scruples, 'twere as well.
Suppose I were inclin'd to wed your Jane.

[To Walter.
Wal.
My Jane, my lord!—What, a poor peasant girl!

Lord R.
Her beauty is her dowry. If I chuse
To make the girl my wife, who shall gainsay me?

Wal.
No one, most surely. Yet—you'll pardon me,
My Jane is promis'd, and her banns proclaim'd.

Lord R.
Psha! driveller! Is she promis'd to a lord?
Hast thou no feeling of ambition in thee?
Does not the name of honour warm thy heart?

Wal.

Not the mere name of honour, my lord, but the
thing itself; and if your lordship means, by an honourable
heart, an honest one, dam'me but I'd show hearts
with the proudest nobleman in the kingdom!

Lord R.
Thou art a strange old-fashion'd simpleton,
And blind to thine own interest. Where's your daughter?
Think you her love will stand the test of gold?
Go send her hither—you have naught to fear:
I fain would try if I, by a fair offer,
Can win the maiden's heart.

Wal.

My lord, I do obey. Confiding in your honour,
I'll send my darling hither, that she may be in all things
free to act. [Aside—going.]
I know my child too well—
her love is true—gold will not dazzle her.

[Exit, L. D.
Lord R.
'Twere scarcely worth the trouble; had not nature,
In a plebeian mood, to vex the rich,
Sent this poor peasant girl into the world,
Deck'd out with all the mastery of her art,
Lavishing on her such a world of charms,
That men, in gazing on perfection's model,
Forget themselves. It is not love that prompts,—
Her beauty dazzles me; and I will have her,
E'en at the hazard of my soul. She comes.

Enter Jane, L. D.
Jane.
(L.) [Timidly.]
What is your lordship's pleasure?

Lord R.
(R.)
To see thee, Jane, and live but in thy smiles.

Jane.
[Embarrassed.]
My lord!

Lord R.
Nay, be not coy; throw off this cold reserve,
And let those eyes smile on me. It is true,
I have been wont to stray from flow'r to flow'r,
Inconstant as the gaudy butterfly,
But thou hast fix'd my heart to one dear object,—
It is thyself. I mean to wed thee, Jane:
What say you? Wilt thou have me for a husband?

Jane.
My lord, I cannot think you serious;
And yet to jest, where jesting wounds the heart,
Is cruel.

Lord R.
I have been told a love-tale touching you;
Such a romantic ditty as we read of
In books, the offspring of some madman's brain.
Thus ran the story—listen, pretty Jane:
Being poor yourself, you needs must fall in love
With a poor youth, comely and brave, no doubt;
And then you wander through the silent grove,
[Takes her arm.
Thus arm-in-arm, sighing your souls away;
Or sit by moonlight in some fragrant bower,
While the melodious nightingale pours forth
Her dulcet harmony. All this, of course;
'Twere not romantic else.
Now I deal not in fancy's flimsy wares,—
Reality for me. I offer you,
For shadow, substance: what is your reply?

Jane.
My lord, I pray you, seek not to destroy
That humble bliss which is my happy lot,
Yet makes me richer than the proudest monarch.

Lord R.
I'll hold the balance of thy future fortune
Up to thy view. In one scale will I weigh
My own pretensions, whilst thou, in the other,
Mayst throw the merits of this poor peasant, Henry,
Whom thou so dearly lov'st. Now to begin.
Lord Raymond is a rich and powerful nobleman.

[Pointedly.
Jane.
[Quickly responding.]
Henry, a happy and contented peasant.

Lord R.
I keep a stately chariot, to convey me
From place to place.

Jane.
Henry has youth and strength to carry him
Where'er he wants to go.

Lord R.
I possess gold.

Jane.
And Henry, honesty!

[Crosses to R.
Lord R.
Psha!
That's worse than nothing, as the world goes now.
Do you refuse my offer?

Jane.
Nay, good my lord, that were too harsh a term:
I do decline the honour you intend me.

Lord R.
[Aside.]
Perdition on this Henry! [Crosses to R.]
He hath gain'd
Possession of the loveliest heart on earth!
But I will trample on my peasant rival,
And crush the worm to atoms!
Yet shall dissimulation be my mantle,
Until my schemes are ripe. [To Jane.]
I do admire,
Fair maid, the constancy of thy attachment,
And rest thy friend, though not thy loving husband.

Jane.
My lord, your kindness overpowers me.
[Aside, and going.]
Thank heaven, the trial's pass'd, and love has triumph'd!

[Exit, L. D.
Lord R.
Prefer a paltry peasant to Lord Raymond!
This insult calls for deadly, black revenge!
Spirit of darkness, I invoke thy aid!
And, if there be within thy fiery realm
One demon more malicious than the rest,
Send him to take possession of this heart!
Let Nero be to me in cruelty
A very babe!—Let me not shrink to see
The blood of innocence this hand may shed;
And let the cries of widows and of orphans
Be in mine ears the most melodious music!
Success!—My prayer is heard!
[Laying his hand on his heart.
The demon I invok'd is here already!

Enter Old Francis, with a letter, L. D.
Fra.
(L.)

An't please your lordship— [Aside.]
—Mercy
on us! how ghastly he looks!—'Tis vastly strange!—I
should like to get at the bottom of it!

Lord R.
(R.) [Not noticing Old Francis.]

Yes! yes!—
I feel it plainly: the devil's here!

Fra.
[Falling on his knees, and clasping his hands.]

Mercy
on us!—The devil here!—Where—where, my l-o-r-d?

Lord R.

Peace, simpleton! What hast thou in thy hand?

Fra.

Not the de-v-il, my lord, but a letter.

[Rises, and gives the letter.
Lord R.
[Reads.]

“My Lord,—You are hereby directed,
as Lord Lieutenant of the county of Westmoreland, to call out
the armed yeomanry, and instantly march to attack the rebels,
who have crossed the borders.—Harcourt, Secretary of State.”

'Tis well. This letter comes most opportunely:
This privilege to murder is most kind;
For scenes of blood are suited to my mind.

[Exit, R. D.
Fra.

Mysterious—vastly mysterious! What could
his lordship mean by saying, just as I entered the room,
the devil's here? Mercy on us! it makes me tremble
all over! [Looking fearfully around.]
I don't see him any
where, and heaven forbid I should! I trust the saints
will defend us, and keep the devil at home. [Pointing below.]

Ah, that's a place I don't wish to get at the bottom
of.

[Exit, L.
Enter Henry hastily, L. S. E., in search of Jane.
Hen.
Jane—my dear Jane!—where art thou?

Enter Lady Jane, in equal haste, R. S. E., meeting Henry.
Lady J.
(R.)
I am here.

[Recollects herself, and endeavours to conceal her confusion.
Hen.
(L.) [Bowing respectfully.]
My lady, pardon this intrusion. I—
The lady whom I rescued from the robbers!

[Aside.
Lady J.
Young man, I'm under obligations to you,
Which are a burden I would fain discharge.

Hen.
Lady, you owe me nothing: what I did
Was but my duty—there's no merit in it.
That man must be a wretch, unfit to live,
Or bear the human form, who would not gladly
Hazard e'en life itself to save from insult
An unprotected woman.

Lady J.
Generous youth! Is, then, my debt discharg'd?
I would that all who languish now in prison,
The victims of misfortune or oppression,
Had creditors as merciful.

Hen.
Good my lady,
Your approbation is the sole reward
I crave; and so most humbly take my leave.

[Going.
Lady J.
One word yet, gen'rous youth, before we part.
The maiden who accompanied you hither,—
She is your sister, is she not?

Hen.
Not so, my lady. She is—

Lady J.
A cousin, then, perhaps, or—

Hen.
Oh, no, my lady; she is my own dear Jane!
I would not for the world she were my sister,
Or anything but what she soon will be,—
My loving wife! Oh, happy—happy thought!
[Lady Jané reclines on a chair.
My lady, why this tremor? Are you ill?
Shall I go call assistance?

Lady J.
This weakness is unpardonable in me.
[Aside.
'Twas but a faintness—it will soon be over.
Here, generous youth, accept this as a token
Of my esteem.

[Offers a purse.
Hen.
If I decline your offer, 'tis because
I'm young and strong to labour for subsistence;
While there are thousands who are old and feeble,
To whom your charity would give new life.
[Going to the window, L.
'Tis she!—My Jane!—She beckons me to come,
Impatience in her looks! I must away;
'Tis treason, when love calls, to disobey.

[Bows respectfully, and exit, L. D.
Lady J.
[Crossing to window, L.]
Henry has already reach'd the lawn;
His Jane receives him with a fond embrace;
Now, on the wings of love, they fly along!
Oh, happy pair!—May troubles ne'er annoy,
Nor clouds obscure the sunshine of your joy!

[Exit, R.

SCENE III.

—Exterior of Walter's Cottage.
Robinette and Buckram discovered at the table eating and drinking.
Rob.
(R.)

Come, Mr. Buckram, I think you've had
enough now for a tailor.

Buc.
(L.)

Only another cup of ale, my dear, and then
I shall do remarkably well.

Rob.
[Archly.]

About a thimble full, I suppose.

Buc.

A pert young hussy! A thimble full, indeed!

Rob.
[Pours out some ale, offers it to Buckram, but first drinks herself.]

Here's your very good health, Master
Snippy; and I wish you a plentiful crop of cabbage,
with all my heart!

Buc.
[Taking the cup.]

Saucy young minx! Why, my
dear, this cup is not a quarter full.

Rob.

No matter; it's more than enough for the ninth
part of a man. Ha! ha! ha!

[Runs from the table.
Buc.

Pert little devil! [Rises in a pet.]
The ninth
part of a man! 'Tis ridiculous in me to mind such
stuff, but, somehow or other, such insolence always
throws me into a pucker. [Running after Robinette.]
Why,
you audacious little baggage!—you insignificant little
hop-o'-my-thumb!—how dare you call me the ninth
part of a man? If I catch you, I'll—

Enter Walter, Jane, Henry, and Villagers, R. U. E.
Wal.
(C.)

Lord Raymond's proposal really astonished
me. I always thought him partial to my Jane; but
never dreamt that he intended honourable marriage.

Hen.
(L.)
Nor does he—I would stake my life upon it.
'Tis but a scheme to rob me of my happiness.

Wal.

Nay, Henry, judge not rashly. When his lordship
heard Jane's resolve, he proffered her his friendship.

Hen.
That offer fills my mind with apprehensions.

Jane.
(L. C.)
Fear not a lord, my Henry: thou'rt to me
More than an emperor—ay, though he were
The monarch of the world.

Buc.
(R.)

Well, honest Walter, so you're returned
again. What measures have you taken, eh? Any
news stirring at the castle? Do tell us all about it;
hav'nt heard a syllable of news since ten o'clock this
morning.

Wal.
I have no news that's pleasing, neighbour Buckram.
[Trumpet sounds to arms without.
What means that martial sound?

Buc.

A declaration of peace, or a proclamation of
war, I dare say. I long to hear the particulars.

Enter Edwin, running, R. U. E.
Edw.
(C.)

Oh, dear! oh, dear!—Here's a pretty business!
—Instead of our getting married, they're going
to take us all for soldiers.

Buc.

What, tailors and all?

Edw.

Ay, every soul of us. We are all to march directly
to fight the rebels. But here comes Lord Raymond.

[Grand flourish.
Enter Lord Raymond in armour, with troops and attendants, R. U. E.
Lord R.
We march directly: all, without exception,
Who are not aged or infirm, will join
The yeomanry. It is the queen's command.

[Retires up.
Buc.
[Begins coughing violently, and suddenly pretends to be lame.]

I'm one that's not fit for a soldier, however.—
This church-yard cough and poor lame leg of mine will
be the death of me. Good bye, neighbours.

[Hobbles off, R.—Eugene, a yeomanry officer, follows him.
Lord R.
(C.) [Advancing to Jane.]
It grieves me, lovely Jane, that I'm compell'd
To tear your Henry from you. We all go;
And Henry, in the field of bloody strife,
May prove him worthy of so good a wife.

[Trumpets and drums sound to arms.
Hen.
Fear not, my love; though duty calls me hence,
We soon shall meet again.

Jane.
I will go with thee. Though but a weak maiden,
I fear not death. No!—In the battle-field,
This eye shall be thy sword—this heart thy shield!
Away!

[Crossing to R., is met by Lord Raymond.
Lord R.
It cannot be, fair maid; yet, thy dear Henry
Can write thee love-epistles from the camp,
And thus beguile the time till he returns.

Jane.
Kind thanks, my lord; and I've a messenger
To bring the tender tidings. For a moment
I crave your patience.
[Music.—Exit into cottage, then re-enters with a cage, in which are two doves; she takes out one of them, and gives it to Henry.
Here, Henry, is the messenger I spoke of;
And, trust me, he'll not loiter on his way:
For here's his mate. [Pointing to the other dove in the cage.]
They are a loving pair,
And separation would be death to both.
Fate tears him from his love, and thee from me;
In that there's much resemblance between us.
When thou hast written what thy heart dictates,
Then tie thy letter, with a silken cord,
Under his downy pinions, and he'll fly,
Swift as an arrow on the wings of love,
To her his heart holds dear. His tender mate
I'll keep within my bosom; she'll need comfort
Till her true love returns.

Enter Old Francis, L. U. E.
Fra.
(C.)

An't please ye, where is the brave youth
who saved my lady's life? [Seeing Henry.]
Ah, now I
see him. [To Henry.]
Here, young man, her ladyship
greets you, and sends you this picture of herself, in
token of her gratitude.

[Henry kneels—Francis hangs the picture around his neck, where Jane's picture hangs already.
Lord R.
(L.) [Aside.]
Her gratitude! Her love, she should have said.
Ah, sister, thou art caught!

Wal.
Come, Francis, take a cup of ale with us.

Fra.

Ay, marry will I; a cup of good ale is what I
like, and, never fear, I shall very soon get at the bottom
of it.

Lord R.
We can delay no longer; time is precious.

Hen.
Dearest Jane, farewell!

[Embraces.
Jane.
[Sobs.]
Farewell, dear Henry!

Lord R.
[Aside.]
E'en take thy last embrace, fond doting pair!
Henry, thy doom is fix'd!—Be that my care.
March!

[The Yeomanry march off across the hills—Henry, holding up the dove, exchanges love salutations with Jane—Edwin and Amy do the same—Lord Raymond expresses his satisfaction in a demoniac smile—Buckram is dragged on by Eugene, and forced to follow the troops.