University of Virginia Library

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

A Room.
Caroline—To her enter Esther.
Est.
Hah! what's th'ado to-day, that I am teazed
And call'd thus early from my grateful rest?
Where sits the wind o'th'morning? Have you read
The beagle of the air, and noted me
Where points his nose, and bends his golden eye?

Car.
Still at thy old conceits!—though now I should
Be right well versant in quaint similies,
I know not what you mean. What must I read?

Est.
O what a slow-paced intellect!—If thou
Had'st been as apt in mental energies,
And the fine semblances that fancy draws,
As thou art in thy pleasures, thou had'st been
A very phœnix, Caroline—What read!
Go read the vane, dame Light-head, read the vane—
Dost understand me now? and note thou well
The very point to a hairs-breadth which his comb
Patiently points at.

Car.
Pray out with it, Esther;
Or troth your jest will hang so long i'th'wind
'Twill lose its relish—What imports the vane,
Or from what point the breeze o'the morning blows?

Est.
Much it imports to thee, and all the fair
Fond fluttering things that sigh beneath the load
Of maiden fears, tremors, and jealousies.
'Tis to the very home of love he points.
For, trust me, whencesoe'er the wind o'ernight
Has blown on thee, it has been from the land
Where love holds revelry, and keeps his wake
Mid thorns and roses—Nay, his very breath
Hath fann'd thy cheek and flush'd it to a glow.
Thy humid lip, the lustre of thine eye—
That living lustre from the soul that flows,
And turns the dews of heaven to sprinkled dust,
All blab the burning secret ere thy tongue
Has power to utter it.

Car.
Thou guessest shrewdly!

Est.
Ah, my Caroline!
Nor precept nor example will thee stay
From rushing headlong on those flowery toils;
But thou may'st vainly struggle to get free
Once thou art meshed.

Car.
Thou art so pleasant, Esther,
And yet so kind withal, thy accents seem
The very soul's own elixir—I'm indeed
Love's bondmaid—yea, his very slave I am;
And for his sake have done a deed which—

Est.
Caroline!—What hast thou done?
If thou hast done the veriest trifling levity,
Or given up even the least proportion
Of aught distinguishable that becomes
Thy maiden honour, name, and noble lineage,
Give it not utterance, but let me slumber
In happy ignorance, or hopeful doubt.

Car.
Done?—What have I done! Ah, Esther,
Although the time's not long, since I last saw you
Love has done much, but not the thousandth part
Which he has yet to do!—O, I look onwards
To such long years of bliss—of generous rapture,
So pure and unalloy'd, that every sense
Seems framed to feelings all sublimed and new!
You say, if I have given up aught unmeet—
Sooth, Esther, I have given up all that love
Can give or ask—for I have given myself—
I'm wedded.

Est.
May the great God of Heaven forefend!

Car.
Esther!—What mean'st thou? Say not so again.

Est.
Did I hear rightly?—Said'st thou wedded?

Car.
As truly and as solemnly as union
On earth was ever seal'd.

Est.
The die's then cast!
O rash, rash, frantic girl, what hast thou done?
Thou'st struck me to the heart!

Car.
Pray do not plain, nor grieve thyself and me,
For now 'tis past and cannot be undone.
I dreaded to apprize thee, for I knew
Thy anxious fear of all that me concerns;
But now I know thou wilt conform thy love
And care to my most nice and perilous state.

Est.
Yes, thou wert predetermined, and durst not
Trust my remonstrances—thou wert resolved
To have thy lover—Ah! the prospect chills me!
It will not—nay, it cannot come to good.

Car.
'Tis done—'Tis done—Be that your first regard—
Your comments after—Why look you so sad?
'Tis done, I say, and I exult in it.
Would that my case had been a thousand times
More critical. Then had I manifested
Some shadow of the love I bear my husband.
My husband! that's a new and thrilling term!
O, my old Esther, if you knew the half
Of that high love I feel for him, you would not
Thus blame me.

Est.
Ah, too generous Caroline!
Thou art all love and easy tenderness;
But, O fond girl, thou hast done far amiss!
I scarce know what I dread, but the impression
That thy discovery on my mind has made
Is so mishapen and repulsive all,
That I am sure of woeful consequence.
Our day of bliss is past!

Car.
(weeping.)
I see you do not love me;
There is but one in all my father's house
That I dare trust, and she upbraids and blames me.
It is not well.

Est.
The hate, the deadly feud
Between your sires, can never be cancell'd.
No, all the world will never reconcile
The haughty Cecil to Sir Anthony.
O I am sick at heart!—Pardon me, love;
Indeed, I'd not have seen you wed another,
Nor for a nobler husband wish'd, for I
Hold Moore unequall'd—

Car.
Is he not, Esther?—Ha!
Say, is he not unequall'd?—O that was
A word that my ear loved!—Say it again.
Say't often, Esther, for indeed there is
No detriment of truth in't—If I wist
That ever women loved with half the love
I bear Sir Anthony, I would take blame
For that I've done; but all the love e'er sway'd
The female soul must come far short of mine!
O had I more to give, and more to risk!
And more!—and more!—I've read of dames who wept,
And pined, and some who died too for their lords;
But I hold light of these, for I would do them
All every day for brave Sir Anthony.
Speak sometimes of him to me, Esther,
And O let it be kindly—Speak his worth,
And then my ears shall drink the welcome sounds,
And hang upon them with such grateful pause,
As pilgrim on the distant melody,
That wanders from his long and far-sought shrine.

Est.
Think'st thou he will prove true?

Car.
Ah! can you ask
That with a serious eye? Please you refrain
From such insulting question.

Est.
He's noted for a fickle changeful mind.

Car.
But not in love!—O no! they know him not
That would insinuate such sickly stuff.

Est.
You're crazed with love, poor girl, most wofully;
But I'll be plain with you—With all his bravery,
Honour, and virtue, still he somewhat lacks
To make him great—He's easy in th'extreme,
And credulous as a child—he's rather one
To cast a sudden and a dazzling beam,
Than to sit burning with a steady light
I'll lecture you on this.

Car.
Pray not just now,
Or if you lecture, let it be on love.

Est.
It shall—but list, thy brothers are astir.
Come to my chamber, for thou hast much need
Of a sound lesson—I will show thee truly
What love is—and what thou art.
My sweet Cecil!—
Pride of the land! what art thou
More than a tender flower of form and hue
Too delicate and lovely to maintain
It's blossom all unsullied? 'Tis a world
Where every blight hankers round purity!
The dust may fall upon the hyacinth,
The sullied eves-drop on the wall-flower crust,
The stain may fester on the violet,
Yet none of these be mark'd—they blossom on.
But when such light upon the lily's breast,
Or the soft foldings of the virgin rose,
By every eye the blemish is beheld,
And that alone—Thou art such flower,
Which suns have warm'd, and southern breezes fann'd,
Till all the glowing tints of nature burn
Both in thy mind and mein. O, my loved child!
I fear the blossoms of the virgin gem
Are fallen and blighted in untimely day!—
Come with me, my love-blinded Caroline.

SCENE II.

Benendine Castle.
Moore and Collier meeting.
Moore.
Welcome, my gallant friend, Sir Richard Collier,
I joy once more to greet you here at Benendine.
What news from Cumberland?—In one word, say
How our rash sortance there gives countenance,
For I am all impatience.

Col.
All well, my lord;
And to your timeous aid, and most prompt measures,
The land its safety owes.

Moore.
Have you already rid the west of all
The Scots that did infest it?

Col.
Some are gone home to keep their Lent, Sir Anthony—
But more remain in Cumberland.

Moore.
Remain!—How?—Where?
Why have you left the army then?—By heaven,
Had I been there, I'd not have left a man!
No, not a weather-beaten bare-kneed thief,
Should have turn'd up his brown and moor-burnt visage,
Or cock'd his bonnet to an Englishman.

Col.
Patience, good knight—restrain your indignation.
Those that remain in Cumberland will not
Do much mischief.

Moore.
Ha? What?

Col.
One half remain, 'tis true—

Moore.
Remain—

Col.
(Stopping him.)
But there is not
A Scot on this side Solway unsecured
In gaol or cemetery.

Moore.
Ha, ha, ha!—Pardon me, Collier.—
Give me thy hand, brave knight.
Where is our friend, the gallant Faucet?

Col.
I left him on the Border, actively
Viewing the forts, and doubling every post
At ford and causeway. In this business he
Has done most noble service.

Moore.
I know no knight
On English ground that may compare with Faucet.

Col.
He overcame and slew the bloody Gordon
With his own hand. He will be here anon.

Moore.
I'm sick till then. Myself have cleared the Tyne,
And forced the mighty Liddesdale to seek
For shelter in his fens and pathless woods.
I'll warn the king of our unween'd success,
For he is hasting north with all his power.
Give me description of these Galloway warriors;
'Tis said they lack the honour, and the might
Of the staunch Scottish borderer, but that
They fight with hellish ire.

Col.
Yes, when they're hungry they will fight for food;
And when driven desperate they will fight for life,—
Most sternly will they fight! but as for honour,
That's from the question—a most rare conjunction.
O, such a set of raggamuffin thieves
These eyes did never look on—By my troth,
'Tis a rare thought, honour in Galloway!

Moore.
(Laughing.)
Forgive me, Collier, for I needs must laugh
At you and these your western warriors.

Col.
Nay, by the Lord, Sir Anthony, when I
First saw the dogs approaching rank and file
I laugh'd outright, they looked so rascally.
And yet I felt a chillness at the sight
Of human creatures so unflesh'd and gnarl'd.
Seeing their kilted hams and matted locks,
Red-crested flap-caps, brows, and long peel'd jaws,
I deempt them beings of some horrid nature,
Who feasted on old sinewy goats and serpents,
And drank distilled mustard.—I did laugh,
But thought not once of honour! By my knighthood,
Had thought of Galloway and Honour cross'd me,
I had o'erlaugh'd the battle.

Moore.
Out on thee, knight,
This is too much. (Laughing.)
Farewell a while. I'm bound
To secret meeting, which I yearn and pine for.
(Aside.)
(Why should I not acquaint my brother knights
With that concerns me most? Certes I will.—
Sir Richard, knowest thou young Caroline,
The pride of all the Cecils?

Col.
Full well, my lord.

Moore.
She is mine,
My own true wedded spouse, whom I love more
Than all this world beside.

Col.
I give you joy with all my heart and soul,—
She's a most rare and precious jewel.

Moore.
'Tis yet a secret—give't no breath, unless
To our beloved Faucet.—Fare thee well.
(Exit Moore.)

Col.
Married to Caroline!—Allied to Cecil!
I little wot how this will suit the growth
Of our yet thriving scheme of mastership.
It is a mote—a most unseemly speck
In our fair prospect!—Would it were to do!
It should not be consummate else than by
Surmounting high obstruction.—But 'tis done,
And I must wish it thrive, for I do love him
With my whole heart.
Enter Faucet.
Ha! brother captain, do I see you here,
And that so early?

Fau.
I've posted all the way;
For that fierce earl, redoubted Liddesdale,
Is but retired to come again more dreadful.
The Merse and Tiviotdale are up in arms,
And all the dalesmen of the western border;
And from the shelter'd glades, and castled steeps
Of that impervious forest, where the Scotts
Hold ample sway, a thousand warriors come,
Whom fame reports as scarce controllable.
I fear we earn but sere and scanty laurels
From such staunch troopers.—Where is Moore?

Col.
Gone on a fond and foolish expedition.
O, Faucet, our high branching honours must
Soon be cut short and dodder'd to the trunk.

Fau.
How dost thou mean?—I swear it shall not be,
Ere thou go'st farther.—We're in such a way
That honours must accumulate and flow
Upon us still; the current now is such
I scarcely hold it changeable by man.

Col.
Sir Anthony, the very soul and stem
Of our o'erwhelming influence and power,
Guess what the fool hath done?

Fau.
I know not—speak, for thou amazest me.

Col.
Espoused fair Caroline Cecil.

Fau.
Collier!—Dost thou not jest?

Col.
Sooth, not a jot.
I tell you they are wedded; and his love
Seems past definement; all his feelings else
Are swallowed up in that.

Fau.
O fool! fool! Most incongruous fool!
Damn his precipitance!—If I had ween'd
Aught of such paralizing gross effect,
I had roused earth and hell in mix'd array
Against such fatal and abhorr'd conjunction.

Col.
If reconcilement 'twixt their houses should
From this ensue, then—

Fau.
If!—Let me not hear your ifs,
We'll have no ifs in such a case as this.
Collier, dost thou not see all we have done
And brought to bear with so much patient labour,
At peril of our honours and our lives,
Is by this vile collusion frustrated
And levell'd?—scatter'd to the winds at once?

Col.
Certes 'tis most unmeet?

Fau.
'Tis we have given this Moore the precedence,
Unknown even to himself; and now I tell thee,
If ever my name be syllabled between
Their houses in adjustment, all is lost.
And our deep pioneering policy will
Flash on the day at once.—It must not hold—
No, and it shall not hold—this cursed cement.
Men must not fall, and houses must not sink,
That women may be kiss'd.

Col.
Nought can be done.
He's now at Exeter to visit her,
In guise most secret, which besteads him well.

Fau.
But he shall ne'er go back—No, never—
This is the last time he must e'er behold
That witching polish'd play-thing.

Col.
Thy threat's unmeet;
Nought shalt thou do against our noble friend.

Fau.
Nought do!—I'll dizzy them!—Hell, but I will!
Yes, all this golden palace of delight
I'll countermine, and sapping its vile base,
Set it coranting on the eddying air
Till all its corbells and dight garniture
Sink shatter'd in the mud.—
Nought do!—I'll pluck the heart away
From this voluptuous and rank-feeding passion,
And give it to corruption, till it greet
The sicken'd sense with loathing.—See thou to it;
For if thou flinch, thou art the first that fall'st.—
I'll do it, or dishonour blast my name!

SCENE III.

A Hall in a Castle.
Cecil, George.
Cecil.
Come hither, boy.—See'st thou this charge that bears
The royal seal and signature?

Geo.
I do: Pray what imports it?

Cecil.
Imports it, son!
Thou art a fallen, ruin'd, abject slave,
A vagrant on the earth's lean commonage;
Doom'd haply to manure or delve the soil
Thy father call'd his own.—Save this old heritage,
Our broad domains, our honours, and commands,
Are all bestow'd upon that varlet Moore,
That mean, that drivelling, undermining wretch!
I am outwitted, duped, and sore beset.—
But ere I'll stoop to bow the neck to him
And his old dotard sire, I'll brave the worst
That kings, mean parasites, or fiends, can muster.
I'll not be gallow'd by a royal thief,
With all his axes and his scaffoldings,
From most consummate vengeance.—Note me, son:
Small are the bounties I can now bestow;
But go, proclaim it 'mongst my followers,
I'll give my daughter, my loved Caroline,
With half of those poor lands I yet call mine,
To any one, the meanest of them all,
That will bring me the heart of that damn'd cozener,—
That Anthony Moore.

Geo.
The heart of Anthony Moore!—
Oh, honour'd father—

Cecil.
His heart, I say!—Other equivalent
I'll none of—I'll not take head, hand, limb,
Nor any superfice—I'll have his heart!—
I'll have his heart!—
Enter Ralph.
Avaunt, thou dull intruder.
How darest thou rush upon my privacy,
Thus madly staring, without ceremony?
What is't alarms thee now?

Ralph.
O, honour'd sire,
Here do we stand in momentary peril.
Some hellish plot has crept within our walls
And there finds fosterage; for, by this light,
I saw young Moore, the heir of Benendine,
Our most avow'd and mortal enemy,
Steal from our porch in deep disguise, and fly
Like thief across the field.

Cecil.
Hah! He within my walls, and 'scape with life!
Out on thee, craven!—To your arms!—Holloa!—
Get me a steed—Let all the bloodhounds loose—
Ye're traitors all!—Speed the pursuit, I say.

Ralph.
My lord, pursuit is vain; before this time
He's past the bounds of Exeter, and safe.

Cecil.
Ay, ay, I ween'd so—It is always thus.
Each one of you combine to thrall your father,—
To mortify and wound him.—It is well!—
It seems as if the fiends of darkness were
Let loose, and did combine with God and man
To wrack and crush the old grey-headed Cecil.—
He'll brave them all!—Will he not do it?—Yes.
He braves them all!—Ugh!—Do all your worst!

Geo.
O patience, my loved father.

Cecil.
Canting driveller!
Thy soul was motion'd for some crazed monk
That reads dry homilies—Talk to me of patience!
Who late held king and country at my nod,
And now am caged and trampled on by dogs.
Go call up all my slaves—I'll search their souls,
And learn who's in connivance with this Moore.

Ralph.
That thou hast need to do. I'll bring them all.
(Exit Ralph.)

Cec.
To me this stratagem's inexplicable.
'Tis for no good—Here have I taken hold
In my old patrimonial home, and must I
Be ferreted from thence, and hunted down
Upon the open field!—bay'd at by curs!
Enter Ralph, with Male and Female Servants.
George, seek the blockman—See that he be nigh,
Hell's usher with his clinchers and his tools
Yare at a carbonado—Bring the leech,
His is the only antidote for treason.—
Now, my right worthy liegemen, and chaste maidens;
Well tried and trusty gang! Who of you have
Leagued with my foe, that Moore of Benendine,
Against my life?—Declare—for see who comes.

Enter George with the Executioner.
1st Man Ser.
It was nought me, my guod luord, I wote.

2d Man Ser.
Nor me, plaise your guod luordship.

3d Man Ser.
Nor me, &c. &c.

1st Maid Ser.
(Coming forward curtseying.)
Believe me, my good lord, it wes not I.

Cecil.
(Enraged, mimicking.)
—Ah! wes it not, good madam?
None more like—No one more like
Than such as you to league with such a flasher.
(Growls.)
Ugh!—Get thee gone, thou stalk of gilt corruption!
Thou mouse!—thou doll!—thou babyclout!—away
Out of my sight!—So! 'Twas not you?
Nor you?—Nor you?—Nor you?—No, no,
'Twas none of you!—He of himself alone
Got in and out; and with himself held converse
Throughout the night.—'Tis plain 'twas none of you!
—Damn'd knaves! you're guilty all,
I see it in your looks—I'll have you manacled,
Rack'd, and, one after one, your heads chopp'd off
Till you confess your plot.

Omnes Servants.
(Crying aloud.)
Oh!—Oh what shall we do!

Enter Caroline.
Car.
What means this rout?—My father, thou hast been
Doing somewhat in wrath—in blindfold rage,
Which ever and anon thou dost amiss—
Where lies the offence?

Cecil.
O my loved Caroline!
Thou only sweetener of my life—we're sold.
That herd hath leagued with our insatiate foe,
Cursed Moore of Benendine, to slay us all.
Late was he seen among them; meanly skulking
Among that scum, planning our final ruin.
O, I'll have such ripe vengeance on the crew!

Car.
Now, on my life, 'tis wide misprision all.
Are these the looks of guilt?—these guilty things?
Would I were sure of bliss as of their honesty;
They have not so much mind among them all
As fathom plot for robbing of a roost.

Servants.
What madam says is true, good measter.

Car.
Go, go, poor knaves. Dismiss them to their work,
I stand their bail till farther proof appear.

Cecil.
Thou art the only one on earth, my Caroline,
That I think loves me; therefore at thy suit
I free them now, but they shall well be look'd to.
(Exeunt Servants, who bow to Caroline, and kiss her hand or robe as they pass.)
Ah, Caroline! thy heart is blameless pure.
Thou feel'st thou would'st not league against thy father,
Nor with his hated foes hold intercourse
For nought on earth, and thou think'st all are so.
Poor girl! thou little know'st the ways of men,
Their craft and their deceit!—We must beware,
For this intrigue is of no trivial kind.

Enter Servant, giving a letter.
Ser.
My lord, a henchman gave this in great haste,
Then turn'd and rode as it had been for life.

Cecil.
This is a poor device, to turn the blame
On those are innocent, and all suspicion
From the real caitiff—Hear what this informer,
This nameless, foul impostor writes to me.

(Reads.)
—“My Lord,—To crown all the injuries
you have sustained, and as a last and final indignity,
young Moore of Benendine hath seduced
your daughter by means of a sham marriage. While

I write, he is, to my wotting, in her chamber; and,
if my page's steed holds good, this may reach
your hand before he quits it. The power and influence
of Moore are now so rank and unpruned,
I am forced to conceal my name, but am ever

“A Friend to the house of Cecil.”

(Long pause—Caroline trembles and droops.)
Cecil.
How's this, my children?—Say—Ralph, didst thou see him?
Art' sure thou saw'st him steal from hence this morning?
(Ralph bows; and Cecil turns his eyes slowly and fearfully round on Caroline,—then with fury.)
Ha! Dost thou tremble, girl?—
No, no! It is my aching sight—
Thou dost not tremble—but if thou dost, fly, fly, fly.
No, no! I wrong thee much—thou dost not tremble.
Come near me, smile on me, and swear to me,
Swear by all sacred, and last by thyself,
Thou art not wed, nor sawest Moore last night.
How!—What!—Art thou about to kneel?
(Caroline kneels.)
O do not kneel—presume not, for thy soul!—
Art' going to confess?—O God! O God! O God!
(Raising his closed hands and eyes slowly upwards, and repressing his voice.)
I braved you late, but little ween'd the pangs
You had reserved for a weak proud old man!
This is the last shall reach him thus—Son George,
Bring me my sword—Indignity!
Final indignity, the writer term'd it.
'Tis well!—'Tis consummate!—
Did I kiss that polluted thing to-day?—
Did I embrace her?—I have seen the time
That I would shudder if I saw a toad!
I erst have never seen one!—Out on't, boy!
Why bring'st thou not my sword? Can'st thou not see
That some of us are too long here?—A father!
He that to morrow says I am a father!—
Father to what?—Oh! Oh!

(Exit frenzied.—Caroline still kneeling, her Brothers greatly affected.—Scene closes.)