Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. IX The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Alzire, Orestes, Sémiramis, Catiline, Pandora) and Part II (The Scotch Woman, Nanine, The Prude, The Tatler). [1901]

Edition used:

From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. IX The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Alzire, Orestes, Sémiramis, Catiline, Pandora) and Part II (The Scotch Woman, Nanine, The Prude, The Tatler).

Author: Voltaire

Translator: William F. Fleming

About this title:

Volume 9 of the 21 volume 1901 edition of the Complete Works. It contains 9 plays: Alzire, Orestes, Sémiramis, Catiline, Pandora, The Scotch Woman, Nanine, The Prude, The Tatler.

Copyright information:

The text is in the public domain.

Fair use statement:

This material is put online to further the educational goals of Liberty Fund, Inc. Unless otherwise stated in the Copyright Information section above, this material may be used freely for educational and academic purposes. It may not be used in any way for profit.

LIBERTY FUND, INC.

Liberty Fund, Inc. is a private, non-profit, educational foundation established in 1960 by Pierre F. Goodrich to encourage the study of the ideal of a society of free and responsible individuals. The Foundation develops, supervises, and finances its own educational activities to foster thought and encourage discourse on the nature of individual liberty, limited and constitutional government, the free market, and peace. This is done through the implementation of different programs such as:

conducting each year over 150 conferences throughout the United States, Canada, Latin America, and Europe.

publishing about 12 - often classic - books each year. There is an online catalog [external link] where these books can be ordered.

producing video and audio tapes including The Intellectual Portrait Series of videotapes and video DVDs which record conversations with some of the most significant thinkers of our time. The DVDs of this series can be purchased from the online catalog [external link].

hosting websites such as the Library of Economics and Liberty (Econlib) [external link], the Online Library of Liberty (OLL) [external link], and The Library of Law and Liberty [external link].

These programs focus on the place individual liberty has in an intellectual heritage evident from ancient times and continuing through to the present. The programs are intended to enrich understanding and appreciation of the complex nature of a society of free and responsible individuals and to contribute to its preservation.

As a tax-exempt, private operating foundation, Liberty Fund’s purposes are educational. It does not, therefore, engage in political action of any kind. It fulfills its mission by conducting programs, not by awarding grants to outside organizations or individuals.

For more information, please visit Liberty Fund’s main web site at www.libertyfund.org or the Online Library of Liberty at oll.libertyfund.org.

The cuneiform inscription that appears in the logo and serves as a design element in all Liberty Fund books and websites is the earliest-known written appearance of the word “freedom” (amagi), or “liberty.” It is taken from a clay document written about 2300 B.C. in the Sumerian city-state of Lagash.

LIBERTY FUND, INC.
8335 Allison Pointe Trail, Suite 300
Indianapolis, Indiana 46250-1684
U.S.A.
Phone no.: 1.800.955.8335

THE ONLINE LIBRARY OF LIBERTY

The text you are currently reading comes from Liberty Fund's Online Library of Liberty (OLL) oll.libertyfund.org. The OLL was established in 2004 in order to further the educational goals of Liberty Fund, Inc, namely "to encourage study of the ideal of a society of free and responsible individuals". It is a multi-award winning website which makes available at no charge to the public outstanding resources for teaching and learning about the humanities and the social sciences.

The OLL website contains the following material and resources:

AUTHORS

The works of hundreds of authors from Ancient Sumeria to the present are represented. They are organized by author, historical period, and schools of thought. The latter includes the French Enlightenment, the Founding Fathers, 19th century natural rights theorists, the Austrian School of Economics, and many others.

TITLES

The OLL contains over 1,400 volumes in multiple formats which are organized by subject areas, topics, and debates. Highlights include the complete scholarly editions of the works of David Ricardo, J.S. Mill, Frédéric Bastiat; the collected works of Jefferson, Madison, J. Adams, & many others; and over 200 titles published by Liberty Fund.

LIBERTY MATTERS ONLINE FORUM

Every two months the OLL hosts Liberty Matters, an online forum for scholars to discuss the significance of some of the key works in the OLL collection. A lead article on the topic is posted which is followed by 3 or more response essays and then open debate. Topics covered so far include Eric Mack on "John Locke on Property," Geoffrey Brennan on "James Buchanan: An Assessment," and Roderick Long on “Gustave de Molinari’s Legacy for Liberty”.

AUDIO/VIDEO

The OLL contains in mp3 format interviews with 26 scholars from the Intellectual Portrait Series: Conversations with Leading Classical Liberal Figures of Our Time (also available in DVD). These include interviews with leading political theorists and economists such as Armen A. Alchian, James M. Buchanan, Milton Friedman, and Anthony de Jasay. There is also a series of lectures on The Legacy of Friedrich Hayek.

EPUB & KINDLE FORMATS OF OUR TITLES

Most OLL titles are available in ePub and Kindle formats designed to be read on portable reading devices. Two special collections are The Best of Bastiat and The Best of the OLL which are designed for use in the classroom. The latter collection includes classic works by Hume, Mill, Hayek, Mises, Friedman, Kirzner and many others.

SEARCHING

A powerful search engine enables the user to search all books, all works in a given subject area, all the works by a particular author, all the works in a collection, or just one book! Search filters allow you to limit searches by various categories & the results show the full paragraph in which the search term is located. For example, you can search all 32 volumes of the collected works of John Stuart Mill for every occurrence of the phrase “perfect freedom.” [Note: there are 23 occurrences of the phrase.]

RESOURCES FOR TEACHERS

The OLL contains many resources to use in teaching and learning about Liberty, such as biographies, bibliographies, timelines, reading lists, essays, key documents. Most of these can be found in The Forum section of the OLL. Of special note are our collections “The Best of the OLL” and “The Best of Bastiat” which contain chapter length extracts in convenient pamphlet format [PDF, ePub, and Kindle].

QUOTATIONS ABOUT LIBERTY AND POWER

Each week a new quote is added to the front page of the OLL. It highlights a key idea about liberty or power by one of our authors. The collection now totals over 400 quotes which are categorized by topics such as free trade, money, abolition, law, literature, politics, war & peace, despots, etc.

IMAGES OF LIBERTY AND POWER

In this collection of images we explore the sometimes hidden political meanings and references contained in portraits, etchings, caricatures, title pages of books, and other images. We have examined so far a comparison of portraits of George Washington and Napoleon, propaganda of the anti-slavery movement, the etchings made by the Earl of Shaftesbury, James Gillray on war and taxes during the War against Napoleon, and ration books and government propaganda in WW2.

LIBERTY FUND BOOKS

Many of the books published by Liberty Fund are also available online at the OLL website. See a complete selection visit the online book catalogue. [External link]

Awards

The OLL has won a number of international awards for its outstanding collection of online material in the humanities and social sciences. It has been recognised by

the Library of Congress for its Minerva archiving project

the National Endowment for the Humanities

the British Arts and Humanities Research Council, and

the International Political Science Association.

THE PORTABLE LIBRARY OF LIBERTY

The Portable Library of Liberty (PLL) is a data DVD which, in version 7.0 (September 23, 2018), contains 1,088 titles in various E-Book formats (text-based PDF, ePub, and Kindle/Mobi) drawn from Liberty Fund’s web site, The Online Library of Liberty (OLL) . The main Web site [http://oll.libertyfund.org] also has the titles in additional formats, such as a facsimile PDF version so scholars can see what the original looked like, an HTML version for searching and ease of use, and a variety of eBook versions such as text-based PDF, ePub, and Kindle.

The books on the PLL DVD are designed to be read on both computers and handheld reading devices like the iPad, the Nook, or the Kindle. The EBook PDFs can be read within a web browser by using a plugin such as Adobe’s PDF Reader or they can be opened and read in a stand-alone PDF reader such as Adobe’s Acrobat Reader (a free download) or Apple’s Preview. Many handheld devices can also read PDFs (such as the iPad). The ePub and Kindle versions can be read on a variety of devices. The ePub format has been widely adopted by device manufacturers, except for the Kindle which is limited to the Mobi format. Other devices, such as the iPad can also read Kindle formatted texts when a Kindle reader app has been installed.

Liberty Fund encourages the use of these texts for academic and educational purposes as long as due regard is given to the copyright and fair use conditions stated below as well as on the front page of each title, and as long as proper attribution is given to Liberty Fund’s website or DVD as the source of this material when it is cited.

Request a complimentary copy of the Portable Library of Liberty DVD by emailing the editor at [oll@libertyfund.org]. Please include your postal address so the DVD can be shipped to you.

Copyright symbol Copyright and Fair Use Statement

There are four different types of texts which Liberty Fund has put online as part of the Online Library of Liberty:

public domain texts published before 1923. These texts are no longer under copyright and are in the public domain. We have put them online in order to further the educational aims of Liberty Fund.

texts to which the Liberty Fund has electronic rights, such as the books published by Liberty Fund in both print and various electronic formats

other texts to which Liberty Fund has acquired the electronic rights from third parties, such as the journal Literature of Liberty (from the Institute for Humane Studies)

titles which are put online under license from third parties, such as the Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, ed. J.M. Robson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press).

For titles in the first three categories listed above, no special permission from Liberty Fund is required for quoting material in papers and essays, or for limited photocopying and distribution for academic or other educational or non-profit purposes. The only requirements are that you include proper attribution on the first page of the document being distributed - e.g. for John Locke’s The Two Treatises of Government you would say either of the following:

if using the OLL website - "This material originally appeared on the Online Library of Liberty hosted by Liberty Fund, Inc. URL: http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/222 and accessed on 2010-01-22." This information can be found in the "Citation" button on the title’s table of contents page.

or if using the copy on the PLL DVD - "This material originally appeared in the Portable Library of Liberty published by Liberty Fund, Inc. URL: http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/222 and PLL v7.0 (generated September 23, 2013)." This information can be found in the footer of the EBook PDF or the title page of the ePub.

or if using the ePub version on a portable reading device: "This material is part of the collection of ePub titles in the Online Library of Liberty website hosted by Liberty Fund, Inc. Source Text URL http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/222 accessed on 2013-04-20." This information can be found on the "Introduction to the Book" page in this file.

For titles in category two and three, any reprint of material "for profit", such as a chapter or a substantial section of an online book for inclusion in a book or other publication for sale, requires written permission from Liberty Fund.

For titles in the fourth category you must follow the specific requirements of the copyright holder whose work we publish online under license. In the case of the Collected Works of John Stuart Mill published under license from the University of Toronto Press, for reprint or copying permission you need to contact the University of Toronto Press directly. Under our contractual obligations with the University of Toronto Press we have placed the following declaration on the front page of every book and section of the online version of the Collected Works of John Stuart Mill:

The online edition of the Collected Works is published under licence from the copyright holder, The University of Toronto Press. ©2006 The University of Toronto Press. All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced in any form or medium without the permission of The University of Toronto Press.

Thus, for reprint or copying permission you need to contact the University of Toronto Press directly. Liberty Fund cannot grant you this permission because it is not the copyright holder.

Specific copyright information for each title can be found on the information page for that book.

The WORKS of VOLTAIRE

“Between two servants of Humanity, who appeared eighteen hundred years apart, there is a mysterious relation. * * * * Let us say it with a sentiment of profound respect: JESUS WEPT: VOLTAIRE SMILED. Of that divine tear and of that human smile is composed the sweetness of the present civilisation.”

VICTOR HUGO.

THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF VOLTAIRE Vol. IX—Part I

ALZIRE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Don Guzman, Governor of Peru.

DON ALVAREZ,
{ Father of Guzman, and late Governor.

Zamor, Sovereign of a Part of Potosi.

Montezuma, Sovereign of another Part.

Alzire, Daughter of Montezuma.

EMIRA, } | Attendants on Alzire.
CEPHALE. } |

Spanish Officers.

Americans.

Scene, Lima.

In his preface to this play Voltaire says; “This tragedy, the fable of which is invented, and almost of a new species, was written with a view of showing how far superior the spirit of true religion is to the light of nature. The religion of a barbarian consists in offering up to his gods the blood of his enemies; a Christian badly instructed has seldom much more humanity: to be a strict observer of some unnecessary rites and ceremonies, and at the same time deficient in the most essential duties, to say certain prayers at particular times, and carefully to conceal his vices; this is his religion: that of a true Christian is to look upon all mankind as his brethren, to do them all the good in his power and pardon their offences: such is Guzman at the hour of death, and Alvarez during the whole course of his life; such a man was Henry IV., as I have described him, even with all his foibles: in every part of my writings I have endeavored to enforce that humanity which ought to be the distinguishing characteristic of a thinking being: the reader will always find in them (if I may venture to say so much of my own works) a desire to promote the happiness of all men, and an abhorrence of injustice and oppression: it is this, and this alone, which hath hitherto saved them from that obscurity to which their many inperfections would otherwise long since have condemned them.”

ACT I.

SCENE I.

alvarez, guzman.

alvarez.

At length, for so the council hath decreed,

Guzman succeeds Alvarez; long, my son,

Mayest thou preserve for heaven and for thy king

This better half of our new conquered world,

This fertile source of riches and of crimes!

Joyful to thee I yield the post of honor,

That suits but ill with feeble age like mine;

In youth thy father trod the paths of glory;

Alvarez first our winged castles bore

To Mexico’s astonished sons; he led

Spain’s gallant heroes to this golden shore:

After a life spent in my country’s service,

Could I have formed these heroes into men,

Could I have made them virtuous, mild, and good,

I had been amply paid for all my toils:

But who shall stop the haughty conqueror?

Alas! my son, their cruelties obscure

The lustre of their fame; I weep the fate

Of these unhappy victors, raised by heaven

To greatness but to be supremely wicked.

O Guzman, I am verging to the grave,

Let me but live to see thee govern here

As justice shall direct thee, and I die

With pleasure.

guzman.

By thy great example fired,

With thee I fought and conquered for my country;

From thee must learn to rule: it is not mine

To give the wise and good Alvarez laws,

But to receive them from him.

alvarez.

No; my son,

The sovereign power can never be divided:

Worn down with years and labor, I resign

All worldly pomp; it is enough for me

If yet my feeble voice be sometimes heard

To counsel and direct thee; trust me, Guzman,

Men are not creatures one would wish to rule:

To that almighty being, whom too long

I have neglected, would I consecrate

My poor remains of life; one boon alone,

As friend, I ask of thee, as father claim;

To give me up those slaves who by your order

Are here confined; this day, my son, should be

A day of pardon, marked by clemency,

And not by justice.

guzman.

A request from you

Is a command; but think, my lord, I beg,

What dangers may ensue: a savage people,

But half subdued, and to the yoke of slavery

Bending reluctant, ready for revolt,

Should never be familiar with their conquerors,

Or dare to look on those they should be taught

To tremble at: unarmed with power and vengeance

They would despise us: these untutored Indians,

Fiery and bold, ill brook the galling rein

Of servitude, by chastisement alone

Made tame, and humble, pardoned once, they think

You fear them; power, in short, is lost by mildness;

Severity alone insures obedience.

The brave Castilian serves in honor’s cause,

With cheerful resignation, ’tis his pride,

His glory; but inferior nations court

Oppression; force and only force constrains them:

Did not the gods of these barbarians drink

The blood of men, they would not be adored.

alvarez.

And can a Christian, as thou art, approve

These tyrant maxims, the detested offspring

Of narrow policy? are these the means

To win the wild barbarian to our faith?

Thinkest thou to rule them with an iron hand,

And serve a God of peace with war and slaughter?

Braved I for this the burning tropic’s rage,

And all the terrors of a world unknown,

To see our country cursed, our faith disgraced?

God sent us here for other purposes,

Sent us to make his holy name revered,

His sacred laws beloved: whilst we, my son,

Unmindful of that faith which we profess,

The laws we teach, and all the tender ties

Of soft humanity, insatiate still

For blood and gold, instead of winning o’er

These savages by gentle means, destroy them.

All is confusion, death, and horror round us,

And nought have we of heaven but its thunder;

Our name indeed bears terror with it; Spain

Is feared, but hated too: we are the scourge

Of this new world, vain, covetous, unjust;

In short, I blush to own it, we alone

Are the barbarians here: the simple savage,

Though fierce by nature, is in courage equal,

In goodness our superior. O my Guzman,

Had he, like us, been prodigal of blood,

Had he not felt the throbs of tender pity,

Alvarez had not lived to speak his virtues:

Hast thou forgot that day, when by a crowd

Of desperate natives I was circled in

On every side, and all my faithful band

Of followers cut off; alone I stood,

And every moment looked for death, when, lo;

At mention of my name, they dropped their arms;

And straight a young American approached me,

Embraced my knees, and bathed them with his tears;

And “is it you,” he cried, “is it my friend?

Live, good Alvarez, virtue pure as thine

May be most useful to us; be a father

To the unhappy; let thy tyrant nation,

That would enslave us, learn from hence—to pardon,

And own a savage capable of virtue.”

I see you are moved; O hearken to the voice

Of mild humanity, by me she speaks,

By me addresses Guzman; O my son,

Canst thou expect the object of thy wishes,

The fair Alzire ever will crown thy hopes,

If thou art cruel? thinkest thou to cement

The dearest bonds of nature in the blood

Of her loved countrymen, or shall their groans

Be heard, and Guzman soften into mercy?

guzman.

’Tis your command, my lord, and I submit;

They have their freedom, but on this condition,

For so our laws require, they must be Christians:

To quit their idols, and embrace our faith,

Alone can save them; we must bend by force

Their stubborn hearts, and drag them to the altar;

One king must be obeyed, one God adored.

alvarez.

Hear me, my son, I wish, as much as Guzman,

That truth may fix her sacred empire here,

That neither heaven nor Spain henceforth may find

A foe on earth; but know, the heart oppressed

Is never conquered: I force none, yet I

Have conquered many; the true God, my son,

The God of Christians is a God of mercy.

guzman.

You’ve conquered, sir, the father over his son

Is absolute; and you, my lord, would soften

The hardest heart, whilst virtue by Alvarez

In mildest accents pleads her powerful cause:

O since kind heaven to thee hath lent the art

Of soft persuasion, use it for thy son,

On thee alone depends the happiness

Of Guzman’s life: the proud Alzire scorns

My proffered hand: I love her but too well,

Heaven knows how dearly! but I cannot stoop

Meanly to sooth a haughty woman’s pride,

I cannot make myself a poor tame slave

To her imperious will; but thou hast power

O’er the fair tyrant’s father; talk to him

For the last time; let him command his daughter

To take my hand, and make your Guzman happy;

And yet it hurts my soul to think Alvarez

Should stoop so low, and be a suppliant for me.

alvarez.

Already I have spoke, and Montezuma

Hath seen his daughter; she will soon be thine.

I’ve been a friend to his unhappy race,

And soothed the sorrows of captivity:

Already he hath quitted his false gods;

Alzire too, a convert to our faith,

To this new world shines forth a bright example.

She only can unite the jarring nations,

And make us happy; thy long wished-for nuptials

Shall join two distant globes; these fierce barbarians,

Who now detest our laws, when they shall see

The daughter of their king in Guzman’s arms,

Cheerful beneath thy easy yoke shall bend

Their willing hearts, and soon be all our own:

But Montezuma comes; away, my son,

Expect me with Alzire at the altar.

SCENE II.

alvarez, montezuma.

alvarez.

At length, obedient to a father’s will,

Alzire yields, I hope, to thy persuasion.

montezuma.

If yet my daughter trembles at the thought

Of wedding him who has destroyed her race,

Alvarez will forgive a woman’s weakness;

For thou hast been a father to the wretched:

Thy gentle manners teach us to revere

That holy faith from whence they sprung; by thee

The will of heaven to this new world revealed,

Enlightened our dark minds; what mighty Spain

Unconquered left, thy virtue has subdued:

Thy cruel countrymen’s remorseless rage

Had rendered even thy God detestable,

But that in thee His great perfections shine,

His goodness, and His mercy; in thy heart

We trace his image; Montezuma’s thine,

His daughter, and his house; the good Alvarez

Shall have them all: Potosi and Peru,

With my Alzire, shall descend to Guzman:

Prepare the nuptial rites, adorn your temple,

And let your son be ready to receive her:

Methinks it is as if the immortal beings

Had deigned to visit earth, and mix with men.

alvarez.

O Montezuma, let me live to see

This blest event, and I shall die content.

O God, whose gracious hand conducted us

To this new world, enlighten and preserve it;

Propitious smile on these first holy vows

Made at thy altar here! adieu, my friend,

To thee I owe my Guzman’s happiness.

SCENE III.

montezuma.

[Alone.

O thou true God, whose powerful arm destroyed

Those idle deities I once adored,

Watch o’er the poor remains of my sad life,

And sooth my sorrows; I have lost my all,

All but Alzire, O protect her youth,

Watch o’er her steps, and guide her tender heart!

SCENE IV.

montezuma, alzire.

montezuma.

Daughter, the hour is come to make thyself

And the world happy, to command the conqueror,

And make the vanquished smile, restore thy country

To her lost honor, and to regal power

Rise from the bosom of adversity.

Alzire will obey, I know she will;

Dry up thy tears, a father must not see them.

alzire.

I have no will but yours; yet, O my lord,

See my despair, and look into my soul.

montezuma.

No more of that; thy word is passed, Alzire,

And I depend on it.

alzire.

’Twas extorted from me;

The cruel sacrifice: is this a time

To plight my faith, and think of nuptial joy,

This hapless day, when all I held most dear

Was ravished from me, when our wide-stretched empire

And all her hosts, the children of the sun,

Inglorious fell beneath the cruel Guzman?

O ’twas a day marked by the hand of heaven

As most unfortunate.

montezuma.

Our days, Alzire,

Are happy or unhappy from ourselves,

And not from circumstance or accident,

As superstition taught our ancestors

To credit; think no more on it.

alzire.

On this day

My Zamor fell, our country’s great avenger,

My lover, chosen by thee, by thee, my father,

To be Alzire’s husband.

montezuma.

I have paid

The debt of sorrow due to Zamor’s ashes,

And hold his memory dear; but death has cancelled

Your mutual bonds; therefore no longer shed

Those fruitless tears, but carry to the altar

A free and cheerful heart; thy God commands,

He calls thee to him; if thou art a Christian,

Now hear his voice.

alzire.

Alas! my lord, I know

A father’s power, and know my duty to him,

’Tis to obey, to fall a sacrifice

Before him; I have passed the utmost bounds

Which nature ever prescribed; thy will alone

Hath been my law, nor did I ever stain

With disobedience my true faith, for thee

I left my country’s gods, and am a Christian:

Alas! my father, why wouldst thou deceive me,

Why tell me, the new deity I serve

Would bring me peace, that his all-healing power

Would ease my tortured heart? delusive promise!

For O my lord, the deadly poison still

Lurks in my veins, still Zamor’s image dwells

In his Alzire’s heart, nor time nor death

Can e’er efface it: well I know Alvarez

Condemns that passion which he once approved:

But I will make him ample recompense

By my obedience:—wed me to the tyrant,

Give me to Guzman, ’tis a sacrifice

I owe my country; but remember, sir,

How dreadful ’tis, and tremble at the thought

Of such unnatural, such detested bonds,

Thou who condemnest me to these fatal nuptials,

Who bidst Alzire give her hand to Guzman,

And at the altar promise him a heart

Which is not hers to give.

montezuma.

What says my child?

O in the name of every tender tie

That binds thee to me, spare a wretched father!

Pity my age, and do not, by the woes

Which thou alone, Alzire, canst remove,

Let me entreat thee, O embitter not

The sad remainder of Alvarez’s life!

Have I not ever strove to make thee happy,

And wilt thou not return it? O my daughter,

Let virtue guide thy steps in duty’s path,

And lead thee on to bliss! thy country calls,

Wilt thou betray her? learn henceforth, Alzire,

To be the mistress of thyself.

alzire.

And must I

Learn to dissemble then? ungrateful task!

SCENE V.

guzman, alzire.

guzman.

These long delays, Alzire, are unkind,

And, let me add, ungenerous, to the man

Who lives but to oblige you: for thy sake

I stopped the hand of justice; all those captives,

Whose pardon you solicited, are free:

But I should blush to think that Guzman owed

Thy kind compliance to so poor a service;

’Tis on thyself, and thy consenting heart,

He founds his hopes, nor thought I ever till now

My happiness could make Alzire wretched.

alzire.

Wretched indeed! O grant, kind heaven, this day

May not prove fatal to us both! you see

I am abashed, confounded, left a prey

To horror and despair: do not these eyes

Alone betray the anguish of a mind

Oppressed with grief? canst thou not read it there?

I know thou canst: such is my nature, Guzman;

Ne’er did Alzire’s face belie her heart:

Dissimulation and disguise, my lord,

Are European arts, which I abhor.

guzman.

I love thy frankness, but lament the cause;

Zamor is still beloved, his memory lives

Within thy breast, my rival even in death:

This is too much, Alzire; duty, honor,

Virtue forbid it: weep no more, it wounds

My heart, and I am jealous of thy tears.

alzire.

Jealous of him, my lord, who in the grave

Is mouldering now, my loved, lamented Zamor?

For I confess I loved him, we were bound

By mutual vows, and still I weep his fate:

If thou art a friend to constancy and truth,

Thou wilt not blame my passion, but approve it.

By this, and this alone, may Guzman gain

Alzire’s heart.

SCENE VI.

guzman.

[Alone.

Her pride astonishes,

And yet I know not how her freedom charms me:

There is a savage beauty in her heart

That suits the wildness of her native clime;

But softer manners may subdue her mind,

And bind her stubborn fierceness to the yoke

Of duty; Guzman now is lord of all,

And nought remains unconquered but Alzire:

Resolved by force or art to make her mine,

Our hands, if not our hearts, shall be united.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

zamor, americans.

zamor.

My noble friends, and fellow-sufferers,

Whom dangers strengthen, and misfortunes make

But more illustrious, shall we ne’er obtain

Our sweet revenge, or honorable death?

Still must we live unable or to serve

Alzire, or our country; shall we never

Find out the hated Guzman, and destroy

That fell destroyer? O my country’s gods,

Powerless and vain, ye gave up this fair land

Of liberty to hostile deities;

And tamely suffered a few wandering Spaniards

To spoil your altars, lay your temples waste,

And desolate our empire; I have lost

A kingdom and Alzire; all is gone

But shame, and sorrow, and resentment, those

I carried with me to the burning sands

And gloomy deserts; there I cherished long

The secret hopes of vengeance: you, my friends

Revived your drooping Zamor, and inspired

His soul with flattering thoughts of better days:

Deep in the forest’s shade we left a band

Of chosen spirits, resolute and bold,

And hither came, impatient to observe

The walls upraised by our tremendous foe.

They watched, and seized us: in a dungeon long

Confined, at length our tyrant masters grant us

Leave to walk forth, and breathe the wholesome air,

Yet will not deign to let us know our fate:

Can none inform me where we are, who dwells

Within this seat of sorrow? where’s Alzire,

Where’s Montezuma, lives he, is he free,

Or a vile slave like Zamor? say, my friends,

And partners in affliction, know ye not?

an american.

Like you, my lord, in chains, and hither led

By secret paths, we’re ignorant of all:

Great Cacique, worthy of a better fate,

If ’tis decreed that thou must fall, at least

Thou shalt find friends prepared to perish with thee,

And own them not unworthy of their master.

zamor.

After a glorious victory, my friends,

A glorious death is most to be desired;

But O, to die in vile obscurity,

To perish thus in ignominious bondage,

To leave our bleeding country thus enslaved

By European robbers, those assassins

Whose thirst for blood and gold, these proud usurpers,

Who would extort by every cruel art

Of punishment those riches which we hold

More cheap, more worthless than themselves, to leave

My loved Alzire, Zamor’s dearer half,

To their licentious fury, O my friends,

’Tis worse than death: I tremble at the thought.

SCENE II.

alvarez, zamor, americans.

alvarez.

Live, and be free.

zamor.

Good heavens, what do I hear?

O unexpected sound! what God art thou

In human shape? a Spaniard, and forgive!

It cannot be: art thou the ruler here?

alvarez.

No, captive; I am only the protector

Of innocence oppressed.

zamor.

Thou good old man,

What is thy office here?

alvarez.

To aid the wretched.

zamor.

What could inspire thee with a thought so noble?

alvarez.

My gratitude, religion, and my God.

zamor.

God and religion! what! these cruel tyrants,

These ruffians, that still bathed in human blood

Depopulate earth, and change the smiling face

Of nature to a dreary desert, they

Who worship avarice alone! their God

Cannot be thine!

alvarez.

It is the same, my son,

But they offend him, they disgrace his name,

And are indeed more guilty; they abuse

Their new-got power: thou knowest their crime, but know

My duty too: twice hath the travelling sun

Enlightened in his course our world and yours

Since a brave Indian, who he was I know not,

Stepped from amidst his fellow-savages,

And saved me from their fury; from that moment

I felt your sorrows, pitied your misfortunes,

And held you as my brethren and my friends;

Could I but meet my kind deliverer,

That gallant stranger, I should die in peace.

zamor.

His age, his features, his transcendent virtue,

All, all conspire to say it is Alvarez:

Behold, and mark us well, canst thou distinguish

The hand that saved thee?

alvarez.

Gracious heaven! come near.

O Providence! it is, it must be he,

The wished-for object of my gratitude;

He whom these eyes, grown dim with age, have sought

So long in vain; my son, my benefactor,

What shall I do to serve thee? thou shalt live

With old Alvarez; he shall be thy father,

Thy guardian and protector here: kind heaven

In gracious pity hath prolonged my days,

That I might pay the debt I owe to thee.

zamor.

O if thy barbarous nation had possessed

But half the virtues that adorn Alvarez,

Our willing world had bowed submissive down

Before them; but their souls are not like thine,

For they delight in blood, whilst nature’s self

Abhorring shudders at their cruelty;

Death were more welcome far than life with them:

Urge me not therefore, good Alvarez, all

I wish to know is this, have they destroyed

My noble friend, the wretched Montezuma?

Where’s my Alzire’s father? O my lord,

Forgive these tears, the memory of past griefs

Sits heavy on me.

alvarez.

Let them flow my son,

’Tis the best mark of our humanity:

The heart that feels not for another’s woe

Is fit for every crime: thy friend survives,

And full of years and honors lives with us

In happiness and peace.

zamor.

Might I behold him?

alvarez.

Yes; thou shalt see him soon: may his persuasion

Induce thee to think better of us all,

And follow his example!

zamor.

Can he live

With Christians, Montezuma live with Christians?

alvarez.

Have patience, son, and he shall tell thee all,

Touching our union, and the sacred bonds

That soon shall bind in cords of amity

Our world to thine—but I must to my son,

And let him know my happiness; I leave thee

But for a moment; fare thee well.

SCENE III.

zamor, americans.

zamor.

At last

Heaven seems to smile on Zamor; I have found

Amongst these vile barbarians one just man,

Honest and true: Alvarez is a god,

Sent down from heaven to soften this rude world,

And bless mankind: he said he had a son,

That son shall be my brother and my friend,

If he is worthy of his noble father:

O glorious hope! shall I again behold

Great Montezuma after three long years?

Alzire too, my dear, my loved Alzire,

Shall I embrace thee, hast thou kept thy faith,

That first of virtues, to reward thy Zamor?

The heart oppressed is ever diffident:

Another old man comes this way: my soul

It still perplexed.

SCENE IV.

montezuma, zamor, americans.

zamor.

O noble Montezuma,

Do I once more embrace thee? see thy Zamor

Snatched from the jaws of death; he lives to save

And to defend his prince: behold thy friend,

Thy soldier, and thy son: O where’s Alzire?

Be quick, and tell me, let me know her fate,

My life depends on that.

montezuma.

Unhappy Cacique,

With grief sincere we have lamented thee;

Thy fellow-soldiers to thy memory raised

The decent tomb, and every honor paid

Due to thy virtues: but thank heaven! thou livest,

Henceforth may happier days await thee, Zamor!

But say, why camest thou hither?

zamor.

To avenge

My gods, myself, my father and Alzire.

montezuma.

What sayst thou?

zamor.

Call to mind that dreadful day

When the fierce Spaniard, terrible in arms,

Rushed through our powerless hosts, o’erthrew our bulwarks,

And laid our empire waste; his name was Guzman:

That name, thou well rememberest, was the signal

Given for destruction; at that name they snatched

The sweet Alzire, thy loved daughter, from me,

And bore her to captivity with thee

And all thy race; destroyed the holy altar,

Where I had hoped to make Alzire mine,

Then dragged me to the tyrant: shall I tell thee

What cruel torments that insatiate monster

Inflicted on me, to extort confession

Of hidden gold, the Christian’s deity,

Which we despise and trample on? half-dead

They left me and retired: time, Montezuma,

Can never bury injuries like mine;

Thou seest me here, prepared for great revenge:

Some chosen friends, attached to Zamor’s cause,

By equal wrongs provoked, with equal hate

Inspired, await me in the neighboring forest,

Resolved with me to conquer or to die.

montezuma.

O Zamor, whither would thy headlong passion

Transport thee? wherefore wouldst thou thus pursue

That death which seems so willing to avoid thee?

What can thy friends do for thee? their weak arms,

Their fish-bone spears, their sabres made of stone,

Their soldiers naked, and ill-disciplined,

Against these giants armed with mortal steel,

And launching their dread thunder bolts against thee?

Swift as the winds, their fiery coursers bear them

To certain victory; the world is theirs,

And we, my Zamor, must submit.

zamor.

Whilst life

Shall animate these veins, I never will:

No, Montezuma: their destructive thunder,

Their coats of steel, their fiery coursers taught

Like them to fight, and share their master’s glory,

This might affright, and terrify a while

Our gaping savages, but I behold

This pompous scene unruffled: to subdue

Our haughty foe one thing alone’s required,

And that is, not to fear them; novelty,

That conquers cowards, only has enslaved us:

Gold, that pernicious native of our soil,

Draws Europe hither, but defends us not

Against her; niggard nature has denied us

A nobler metal, her all-conquering steel,

And given it to barbarians; but kind heaven,

In lieu of this indulgence, hath bestowed

Virtues on us which Europe never knew.

I come to fight and conquer for Alzire.

montezuma.

Urge it no more, my Zamor, heaven declares

Against us, calm thy rage; the times are changed.

zamor.

Changed, didst thou say, my lord? it cannot be,

If Montezuma’s heart is still the same,

If my Alzire’s faithful, if I live

Still in her memory.—Thou turnest aside

And weepest.

montezuma.

Unhappy Zamor!

zamor.

Am I not

Thy son? our tyrants have not altered thee?

They cannot, sure they cannot have corrupted

An old man’s heart, and made it false as theirs?

montezuma.

I am not guilty, Zamor, nor are all

These conquerors tyrants; some were sent by heaven

To guide our footsteps in the paths of truth,

To teach us arts unknown, immortal secrets,

The knowledge of mankind, the arts, my son,

To speak, to think, to live, and to be happy.

zamor.

O horrid! canst thou praise these ruffians, whilst

Thy daughter, thy Alzire, is their slave?

montezuma.

Zamor, Alzire’s free.

zamor.

Ha! Montezuma,

Alzire free? forgive me, but remember,

She’s mine, my lord, by every solemn tie;

You promised me, before the gods you promised,

To give her to me; they received our vows;

She is not perjured?

montezuma.

Call not on those gods,

For they are vain, and fancied idols all;

I have abjured them, and henceforth must worship

That power supreme which hath subdued them.

zamor.

Ha!

The law of thy forefathers, thy religion,

Is that deserted?

montezuma.

I have found its weakness,

And left its vain chimeras: may the God

Of Gods convert thee, and inspire with truth

Thy unenlightened soul! unhappy Zamor,

Soon mayest thou know that Europe thou condemnest,

Her virtues, and her faith!

zamor.

What mighty virtues

Has she to boast? thou art indeed a slave

If thou hast lost thy gods, thy faith, thy honor,

And broke thy sacred word: Alzire too,

Has she betrayed me? O take heed!

montezuma.

My heart

Reproaches me for nothing: fare thee well!

I bless my own good fate, and weep for thine.

zamor.

If thou art false, thou hast cause to weep indeed:

Pity the torments which I feel for thee,

And for thy guilt; pity a heart distracted

By love and vengeance; let me find out Guzman

Let me behold Alzire, let me fall

Beneath her feet; O do not hide her from me:

Conduct me, urge me not thus to despair,

Put on a human heart, let thy lost virtue—

SCENE V.

montezuma, zamor,Guards.

guard.

[To Montezuma.

The ceremony waits, my lord.

montezuma.

I come.

zamor.

Thou wilt not leave me? tell me, Montezuma,

What ceremony’s this.

montezuma.

No more: away,

And leave this fatal place.

zamor.

Though heaven itself

Forbade me, I would follow thee.

montezuma.

Forgive

My rude denial, Zamor, but you must not,

I say you must not—guards, prevent him—pagans

Must not profane our Christian altars; I

Command not here, but Guzman speaks by me:

You must obey: farewell.

SCENE VI.

zamor, americans.

zamor.

What do I hear?

Guzman? O shameful treason! Montezuma

The slave of Guzman! where is virtue fled?

Alzire too, is my Alzire guilty?

Has she too drank corruption’s poisonous bowl

From these vile Christians?—that destroyer Guzman

Rules here, it seems; what’s to be done?

first american.

Permit me

To counsel you, my lord; the good old man

Who saved thee with his son will soon return,

He can deny you nothing; ask of him

Safe conduct to the city gates; that done,

We may return and join our noble friends

Against the foe: I doubt not of success:

We will not spare a man of them except

Alvarez, and his son: I’ve marked, my lord,

With most observant eye, their fosses, ramparts,

And brazen thunders, European arts

That fright not me: alas! our countrymen

Forge their own shameful chains, and tamely bend

Beneath these sons of pride; but soon, my lord,

When they shall see their great avenger here,

Then will they rise indignant, and destroy

This ignominious work of slavery:

Yes; on the bleeding bodies of our foes

We’ll make a path to glory; on the heads

Of these vile Christians turn the fiery tempest,

And with their own destructive instruments

Of murder shake this all-usurping power,

Founded by pride on ignorance and fear.

zamor.

O how I joy, ye great unfortunate,

To find your kindred breasts thus nobly beat

With sympathetic fury! let us punish

The haughty Guzman, let his blood atone

For our lost country’s: O thou deity

Of injured mortals, sweet revenge, O come,

Assist thy servants, let but Guzman perish

And we are satisfied! but O my friends,

We talk of vengeance, yet are captives still,

Still groan beneath the yoke of shameful bondage:

Deserted by Alvarez, and betrayed

By Montezuma, all I love perhaps

Is in the power of him whom most I hate,

The only comfort left me is—to doubt.

But hark! what noise is that? the torches flame

On every side, and yield a double day:

This barbarous people’s brazen thunder speaks

Some horrid rites, or pompous sacrifice

Preparing: look around, and see if Zamor

Shall save his much-loved friends, or perish with them.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

alzire.

[Alone.

Ye manes of my dear departed Zamor,

Forgive me, O forgive the wife of Guzman!

The holy altar hath received our vows,

And they are sealed in heaven: pursue me not,

Indignant shade! O if Alzire’s tears,

Her bitter anguish, her remorse, the pangs

Of her reluctant soul, can reach the dead,

If in a happier world thou still retainest

Thy generous noble spirit, thou wilt pardon

My weakness; ’twas a father’s cruel will,

A people’s happiness required it of me;

Could I refuse the dreadful sacrifice?

Thou art at peace, my Zamor, do not thus

Distract my soul, but leave me to my fate;

Alas! already it has cost me dear.

SCENE II.

alzire, emira.

alzire.

And shall I not behold my countrymen,

The loved companions of my infant years,

Those wretched captives, may I not enjoy

The mournful privilege to mix with theirs

My friendly tears, and mourn their cruel fate?

emira.

O madam, we have cause indeed to weep,

To dread the wrath of Guzman, to lament

And tremble for our country; for the hour

Of slaughter and destruction is at hand:

Again I saw the bloody flag displayed,

The proud tribunal’s met, and Montezuma

Is summoned to appear: all dreadful omens!

What will become of us?

alzire.

Unpitying heaven!

I’ve been deceived, betrayed:—cruel O Guzman!

Was it for this I gave him at the altar

My long reluctant hand? that fatal bond

I shall repent of to my latest hour:

O under what malignant star, my father,

Madest thou these cruel, these detested nuptials?

SCENE III.

alzire, emira, cephanes.

cephanes.

One of those slaves, whom this propitious day

Restored to freedom, begs admittance to you

In secret.

alzire.

Let him enter; ’twill rejoice

My heart to see him; he and all his friends

Are welcome to Alzire: but why comes he

Alone?

cephanes.

Some secret labors in his breast,

Which you and only you, he says, must know.

’Twas he, it seems, whose heaven-directed arm

Saved the good father of thy valiant lord,

The noble Guzman.

emira.

He has sought you long;

But Montezuma’s private orders were,

He should not see you: melancholy sits

On his dark brow, as if he were intent

On some great purpose.

cephanes.

Grief and anguish seem

To rack his soul: at mention of your name

He sighed, and wept, as if yet ignorant

Of your new honors and the rank you bear.

alzire.

Unworthy rank, and honors I despise!

Perhaps the hero knows my wretched race.

And is no stranger to Alzire’s woes:

Perhaps he knew my Zamor; who can tell

But he might be a witness of his death,

And comes to tell the melancholy tale?

A dreadful duty! that would but renew

A lover’s pangs, and double my distress;

But let him come: I know not why my heart

Should flutter thus; this hateful palace ever

Hath been a scene of sad disquietude

And trouble to me: bid him enter.

SCENE IV.

alzire, zamor, emira.

zamor.

Yes;

It is Alzire: is she then restored?

alzire.

Such were his features, voice, and motion: heaven!

It cannot be: O Zamor!—O support me.

[She faints.

zamor.

’Tis he.

alzire.

Ha! Zamor at Alzire’s feet?

’Tis all delusion.

zamor.

No; I live for thee,

And at thy feet reclaim thy plighted faith;

O my Alzire, idol of my soul,

Wilt thou not hear me? where are all thy vows,

The sacred ties that bound us fast together?

Thou hast not broke them?

alzire.

Thou dear fatal object

Of grief and joy, of rapture and despair,

In what a dreadful moment hast thou chose

To meet Alzire? every word thou utterest

But plunges a new dagger in my heart.

zamor.

Thou weepest, yet lookest on Zamor!

alzire.

’Tis too late:

zamor.

I know you thought me dead: e’er since that hour

Of terror, when those European tyrants

Deprived me of my gods, my throne and thee,

I’ve been a poor unhappy wanderer.

Knowest thou, my love, that savage murderer, Guzman,

With ignominious stripes, and cruel torture,

Insulted me? the husband of thy choice,

Thy once loved happy Zamor, fell a prey

To ruffians:—how it wounds thy tender heart!

Thou burnest with fierce resentment of my wrongs,

And thou wilt join with Zamor to avenge them:

Some guardian god, propitious to our loves,

Saved me from death, that we might meet again

In happiness: I hope Alzire’s true:

Thou hast not left thy gods, betrayed thy country,

Thou art not grown a false perfidious Spaniard?

They tell me I shall meet with Guzman here,

I come to free thee from that proud barbarian:

Thou lovest me, my Alzire, and wilt give

The victim to my wrath.

alzire.

Thou hast been wronged;

Revenge thyself and see thy victim—here.

zamor.

What sayest thou?—ha! thy faith, thy vows—

alzire.

No more,

But strike—I merit not life or thee.

zamor.

O cruel Montezuma! what thou toldest me

Was but too true.

alzire.

And could he tell thee all;

Named he the wretch for whom I quitted Zamor?

zamor.

He did not, durst not name him; that remains

For thee: O speak it: I shall be surprised

At nothing.

alzire.

Hear then all my guilt.

zamor.

Alzire!

alzire.

That Guzman—

zamor.

Gracious heaven!

alzire.

Thy murderer,

Within this hour received my guilty hand;

He is—my husband.

zamor.

Guzman!

alzire.

Montezuma,

Alvarez—they betrayed my easy youth,

And urged me to the deed: the lost Alzire

Did at the Christian altar give up all

That she held dear on earth, her gods, her country,

Her—Zamor: O by those dear injured names

I beg thee, take this hated life.

zamor.

Alzire,

Can it be true? is Guzman then thy husband?

alzire.

To plead a father’s undisputed right,

To say how long I struggled with my duty,

To number o’er the fruitless tears I shed

For three long years lamenting Zamor’s death,

That still I loved thee, that I left in wrath

Those powerless gods that had deserted thee.

And from despair alone became a Christian,

Perhaps might mitigate Alzire’s crime;

But I disdain it, I acknowledge all,

Confess my guilt, and sue for punishment.

Who shall absolve the wretch whom love condemns?

Take then a life that is not worth my care

Without thee; dost thou not abhor me, Zamor?

zamor.

No: if thou lovest me still, thou are not guilty:

May I yet hope that Zamor has a place

In his Alzire’s heart?

alzire.

When old Alvarez

And Montezuma led me to the altar

I thought on Zamor, thought him then no more,

But reverenced, but adored his memory:

Our tyrants, our usurpers know I loved thee;

I told them all, told heaven and earth, nay told

My husband—and O take this last farewell,

I love thee still.

zamor.

Is this then our last hour

Of happiness, and must we part so soon,

So lately met? O if the voice of love—

alzire.

’Tis Guzman and his father.

SCENE V.

alvarez, guzman, zamor, alzire,Attendants.

alvarez.

[To Guzman.

Son, behold

With thy Alzire stands my great preserver,

My benefactor, my deliverer.

[To Zamor.

O noble youth, to thee I owe my life,

Let me embrace thee, be my second son,

And share the pleasures of this happy day

With Guzman and Alvarez.

zamor.

He thy son;

Guzman then thy son, that proud barbarian?

alzire.

Avert the terrors of this dreadful moment,

Indulgent heaven!

alvarez.

In what astonishment—

zamor.

How could a father, brave and good, like thee

Be cursed with such a son?

guzman.

Insulting slave,

Who gave thee license thus to spurn thy master?

Thou knowest not who I am.

zamor.

I know thee well;

And thou among the wretches thou hast made

Perhaps mayest one day meet the injured Zamor.

guzman.

And art thou he?

alvarez.

Ha! Zamor!

zamor.

’Tis the same,

’Tis Zamor, whom thy cruel hand oppressed

With ignominious tortures, he whose eye

Thou darest not meet; thou tyrant ravisher,

Comest thou at last to rob me of my best

And dearest treasure? with thy ruthless sword

Make sure thy vengeance, and prevent the fate

Which thou deservest, ere Zamor, who preserved

The father, shall chastise the guilty son.

alvarez.

[To Guzman.

What sayest thou, Guzman, canst thou answer this?

guzman.

It were beneath me; punishment alone

Should answer insolence, and, but for thee,

Ere this he should have met with it.

[Turning to Alzire.

You, madam,

For your own honor might have more regard,

If not for mine, than thus to parley with

A traitor: come, no more of this, Alzire,

Thy tears offend me: husbands may be jealous;

Remember that and tremble.

alzire.

[To Guzman.

Cruel Guzman!

My kind protector,

[Turning to Alvarez.

Good Alvarez, hear me:

And thou,

[To Zamor.

In better days my dearest hope,

O look with pity on the lost Alzire!

[Pointing to Zamor.

Behold the husband whom my father chose;

Long ere this hapless country bowed the neck

To European tyrants, Zamor fell,

So fame reported, and with him Peru,

Then first subdued: my wretched father, old

And full of sorrows, to the Christian’s God,

Forsaken by his own, indignant fled;

The Christian altar saw Alzire’s hand

Given to her lover’s murderer: thy new faith,

Which yet I know not, may condemn Alzire,

But virtue will forgive me when I add,

That still I love thee, Zamor; but my oath,

My marriage vow, rash fatal marriage! says

I never must be thine—nor can I now

Be Guzman’s—false to both, ye both have cause

To hate me: which of you will kindly end

My wretched being? Guzman’s hand, already

Stained with the blood of my unhappy race,

Were fittest to revenge the injured rights

Of honor and of love; be just for once,

And strike the guilty.

guzman.

Darest thou thus abuse

The goodness thou deservest not? but remember

’Twas thy request; thy punishment is ready:

My rival dies;—away with him.

alvarez.

Inhuman!

O stop, my son, consider what is due

To him who saved thy father—ye are both

My children—let that tender name inspire

Your breasts with pity for an aged father:

At least—

SCENE VI.

alvarez, guzman, alzire, zamor.

don alonzo,a Spanish officer.

alonzo.

My lord, the foe is at our gates;

On every side their brazen bucklers ring

With barbarous dissonance: aloud they cry,

Revenge, and Zamor, whilst with measured steps,

Solemn and slow, the close-wedged phalanx moves,

As if these savages had learned from us

The arts by which we conquered them.

guzman.

Away:

Let us be gone; my presence soon shall teach

These slaves their duty—heroes of Castile,

Ye sons of victory, this new world was made

To wear your chains, to fear, and to obey you.

zamor.

To fear and to obey? ’tis false, proud Guzman;

Ye are but mortals like ourselves, no more.

guzman.

Guards, drag him hence.

zamor.

[To the Spaniards surrounding him.

Ye dare not: are ye gods,

And must we worship deities thus bathed

In our own blood?

guzman.

Obey me, slaves.

alzire.

My lord!

alvarez.

Remember, son, that Zamor saved thy father.

guzman.

My lord, I shall remember your instructions,

You taught me how to conquer, and I fly

Once more to victory: farewell!

SCENE VII.

alvarez, alzire.

alzire.

[Kneeling.

My lord,

Behold me at your feet, accept the homage

Due to thy virtues! Guzman’s injured honor

Calls for revenge, Alzire was to blame;

But I was bound to Zamor by the ties

Of sacred love, long ere I knew thy son;

We cannot give our hearts a second time:

Zamor had mine, and ever must preserve it:

O he is good and virtuous, for he saved

Thy life, Alvarez—O forgive me!

alvarez.

Rise

Alzire, I forgive and pity thee;

Feel as a father and a friend thy sorrows,

Lament thy Zamor’s fate, and will protect him:

But let the solemn vow thou madest to Guzman

Be graved within thy heart; thou are no longer

The mistress of thyself: remember well

Thou art my daughter—Guzman was most cruel,

I know he was, but still he is—thy husband:

Perhaps he may relent; heaven grant he may!

alzire.

Alas! why art not thou my Zamor’s father?

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

alvarez, guzman.

alvarez.

Fortune, my son, has crowned thee with success,

Endeavor to deserve it; do not stain

The laurel wreath with blood, but let fair mercy,

That adds new lustre to the conqueror’s glory,

Inspire thy breast with pity; be a man,

A Christian, and forgive: Alvarez asks thee

To pardon Zamor—shall a father plead

In vain? O Guzman, shall I never soften

Thy savage manners, never teach my son

To conquer hearts?

guzman.

Alvarez has pierced mine

Most deeply; ask my life, and it is yours,

But leave my honor, leave me my revenge;

How can I pardon Zamor, when I know

Alzire loves him?

alvarez.

Therefore he deserves

Thy pity more.

guzman.

O to be pitied thus,

And thus beloved, Guzman would die with pleasure.

alvarez.

With all that fierce resentment, feelest thou too

The pangs of jealousy?

guzman.

And canst thou blame

An injured husband? I have too much cause

For jealousy, and yet thou pitiest not

The unhappy Guzman.

alvarez.

Thou art wild, impetuous,

And bitter in thy wrath; Alzire’s virtues

Deserve a milder treatment; when opposed,

Her open heart, rough as her native soil,

Resists with stubborn firmness, but would yield

To soft persuasion; gentle means, my son,

Are ever the most powerful.

guzman.

Must I soothe

The pride of beauty, wear a brow serene,

And cover my resentment, to expose

My easy heart to new indignities?

I should have thought that, jealous of my honor

You would approve, and not condemn my rage:

Is it not shame enough that I am wedded

To a proud slave who hates me, braves my power,

And owns her heart is given to another?

Whom yet, to make me more accursed, I love.

alvarez.

Why blush at that? it is a lawful passion,

Indulge, but keep it within proper bounds,

For all excess is guilty—only promise

You will determine nothing till I’ve seen her

Once more.

guzman.

A father’s will must be obeyed;

I will suspend my wrath, but urge me, sir,

No further.

alvarez.

All I want is time: farewell.

[Exit.

guzman.

[Alone.

And have I lived to envy Zamor’s fate,

To envy a vile slave, who scarce deserves

The name of man!—What do I see? Alzire!

SCENE II.

guzman, alzire, emira.

alzire.

’Tis I, my lord, ’tis the afflicted wife

Of Guzman; she who honors, who reveres

And yet has injured thee: I come, my lord,

To throw me at your feet, to own my crime,

And beg forgiveness: nought have I disguised,

My open heart confessed its fatal passion

For the unhappy Zamor; if he dies,

He dies because Alzire was sincere;

But I shall more astonish thee, I come

To plead for him: I know that Guzman’s proud,

Resentful, and severe, and yet I hope

He may be generous, ’tis a conqueror’s pride,

His glory to forgive: an act like this

Would gain thee more than conquest can bestow,

Win every heart, perhaps even change Alzire’s.

A fawning Spaniard might have promised more,

Have sighed, and wept, and softened thee with tears,

Which I disdain; the hand of nature formed

My plain untutored heart, if ought can move it,

’Tis generosity: let Guzman try

If it is made of penetrable mould.

guzman.

If you’re so fond of virtue, ’twould become you

To know and practise it, to study, madam,

Those manners you condemn, to learn your duty,

To treat yourself, your honor, and your fame

With more respect; nor dare to name a rival

Whom I abhor, but wait in humble silence

Till I determine what shall be his fate;

It is enough if I forgive Alzire:

This heart is not insensible; but know,

Those who believe shall always find me cruel.

SCENE III.

alzire, emira.

emira.

He loves you still, and yet may be persuaded.

alzire.

Ay, but he’s jealous, that destroys my Zamor,

I lost his life by asking it; but say,

Emira, canst thou save him? shall he live,

Though far from his Alzire? didst thou try

That soldier?

emira.

Yes; the grand corrupter, gold,

Has bought him to our interest; he is ready.

alzire.

Thank heaven, that metal doth not always prove

The instrument of ill: but haste, Emira.

emira.

Is Zamor then devoted to destruction?

Cannot Alvarez save him? have the council—

alzire.

I have a thousand fears for him: alas!

These tyrants think the world was made for them,

That they were born the sovereigns of mankind,

That Zamor is a rebel and a slave:

Barbarians as they are—this cruel council—

But I’ll prevent their murderous purposes:

That soldier, my Emira, how he lingers!

emira.

Be not alarmed; night’s friendly shade protects him,

And he will soon be here with Zamor; sleep

Hath closed the tyrant’s eyes, and we are safe.

alzire.

O let him lead me to the prison gate

That I may set him free.

emira.

Behold, he comes:

But should ye be discovered, foul dishonor,

Disgrace, and infamy—

alzire.

Attend on her

Who would betray the man she loves; this shame

Thou talkest of is a European phantom,

Which fools mistake for virtue! ’tis the love

Of glory not of justice, not the fear

Of vice but of reproach; a shame unknown

In these untutored climes, where honor shines

In its own native light, and scorns the aid

Of such false lustre; honor bids me save

A lover and a hero thus deserted.

SCENE IV.

alzire, zamor, emira,a soldier.

alzire.

O Zamor, all is lost, thy punishment

Already is prepared, and thou art doomed

To instant death; lose not a moment’s time,

But haste away, this soldier will conduct thee:

Alas! thou seest my grief and my despair,

O save my husband from the guilt of murder,

Save thy dear self, and leave me to my fate.

zamor.

Thou bidst me live, I must obey Alzire:

But wilt thou follow the poor friendless Zamor?

A desert and this heart are all I now

Have left to offer; once I had a throne.

alzire.

What were a throne and empire without thee?

Alas! my Zamor, to the gloomy desert

My soul shall follow thee; but I am doomed

To wander here alone, to drag a life

Of bitterness and woe, to spend my hours

In sad reflections on my wretched state,

To be another’s, and yet burn for thee:

I bid farewell to Zamor and to joy;

Away, and leave me to my duty; fain

Would I preserve my honor, and my love,

They both are sacred.

zamor.

What’s this idle honor,

This European phantom, that deludes thee;

This Christian altar, those detested oaths

Extorted from thee, this triumphant God;

What have they done to rob me of Alzire?

alzire.

My sacred promise—

zamor.

’Twas a guilty vow,

And binds thee not; perdition on thy oaths,

And thy false God, whom I abhor! farewell!

alzire.

O stop, my Zamor.

zamor.

Guzman is thy husband.

alzire.

Do not upbraid but pity me.

zamor.

O think

On our past loves.

alzire.

I think but on thy danger.

zamor.

Thou hast betrayed me.

alzire.

No; I love thee still:

If ’tis a crime, I own, nay glory in it;

But hence, and leave me here to die alone;

Some dreadful purpose labors in thy breast:

How thy eyes roll! O Zamor—

zamor.

’Tis resolved.

alzire.

Where art thou going?

zamor.

Glorious liberty,

I’ll use thee nobly.

alzire.

If thou diest remember

I perish with thee.

zamor.

In this hour of terror

Thou talkest to me of love: but time is precious,

Conduct me, soldier; fare thee well.

SCENE V.

alzire.

He’s gone;

But where I know not: dreadful moment! Guzman,

For thee I quitted Zamor: haste, Emira,

Follow him, fly, return, and tell me all.

Thinkest thou that soldier will be faithful to us?

[Exit Emira.

I know not why, but something tells me here,

This day, for me, will be a day of horror.

O God of Christians, thou all-conquering power,

Whom yet I know not, O remove the cloud

From my dark mind; if by my fatal passion

I have offended thee, pour all thy vengeance

On me, but spare my Zamor; O conduct

His wandering footsteps through the dreary desert!

Is Europe only worthy of thy care?

Art thou the partial parent of one world,

And tyrant o’er another? all deserve

Thy equal love, the victor and the vanquished

Are all the work of thy creating hand.

But hark! what dreadful cry is that? methought

They called on Zamor—hark! again that noise!

It comes this way: my Zamor’s lost.

SCENE VI.

alzire, emira.

alzire.

Emira,

I’m glad thou art come: what hast thou seen, what done?

Where is he? speak, and ease my troubled soul.

emira.

O it is past all hope; he cannot live:

Conducted safely by the faithful soldier

He passed the guards, then darting from him rushed

Towards the palace; trembling I pursued him,

Amidst the horrors of the silent night,

Almost to Guzman’s chamber; there he escaped me,

Though oft I called on him, oft looked in vain:

I heard a dreadful shriek, some cried aloud,

He’s dead: the palace is in arms: fly, madam,

And save yourself.

alzire.

Let us begone, and help

My Zamor.

emira.

What can we do for him?

alzire.

Die.

SCENE VII.

alzire, emira, don alonzo,Guards.

alonzo.

I’ve orders, madam, to secure you.

alzire.

Slave,

What meanest thou? where’s my Zamor?

alonzo.

That I know not:

Permit me to conduct you.

alzire.

Cruel fate!

I must not die then? Zamor is no more,

And yet I live, a captive, and in chains:

O ignominious!—dost thou weep, barbarian?

I must indeed be wretched, if my woes

Can touch a heart like thine; I’ll follow thee;

If death awaits me, I obey with pleasure.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

alzire,Guards.

alzire.

Prepare your tortures, you who call yourselves

The judges of mankind; why am I left

In dread suspense, uncertain of my fate?

To live, or die? if I but mention Zamor

The guards around me tremble, and look pale,

His very name affrights them.

SCENE II.

montezuma, alzire.

alzire.

Ha! my father!

montezuma.

O my Alzire, what a scene of woe

Hath thy imprudent fatal passion brought

Among us! we were pleading for thy Zamor,

The good Alvarez had well nigh prevailed,

When on a sudden an armed soldier rushed

With violence in, and bore down all before him;

’Twas Zamor’s self; with fury in his aspect,

And wild distraction, on he sprang to Guzman,

Attacked, and plunged the dagger in his breast:

The blood that issued from your husband’s wound

Gushed on your father: Zamor then resigned,

With calm submission at Alvarez’s feet

Fell humble; “take,” he cried, “this guilty sword,

Stained with thy Guzman’s blood, I am revenged;

Now nature calls on thee to do thy duty,

As I have mine; strike here;” then bared his breast

To the expected blow: the good Alvarez

Sunk breathless in my arms; confusion followed

And cries and horror; Guzman’s friends upraised him,

Bound up his wounds, and tried by every art

Of medicine to preserve his life; the people

Accuse thee as accomplice in the deed,

And call for justice on thee.

alzire.

And couldst thou—

montezuma.

O no; my heart suspects thee not, Alzire,

Thy soul I know is capable of error,

But not of guilt: alas! thou didst not see

The precipice before thee: Guzman dies

By Zamor’s hand, thy husband by thy lover;

They will condemn thee to a shameful death,

But I will try if possible to move

The council in thy favor.

alzire.

Do not sue

For me, my father, of these cruel tyrants,

Let but Alvarez live, and love me still,

I ask no more: Guzman’s untimely fate

I must lament, because ’twas horrible,

Because, more dreadful still, he had deserved it:

Zamor avenged his wrongs, I cannot blame

Nor can I praise him for it; he must die;

Alzire wishes but to follow him.

alvarez.

O heaven, assist me in this work of mercy!

SCENE III.

alzire.

Now end all gracious power, this wretched being!

Alas! Alzire, the new God thou servest

Withholds thy hand, and says thou must not finish

Thy hated life; the deities I left

Denied me not the privilege to die.

Is it a crime to hasten on, perhaps

A few short years, the universal doom

Appointed for us all? and must we drink

The bitter cup of sorrow to the dregs?

In this vile body is there aught so sacred

That the free spirit should not leave at will

Its homely mansion? this all-conquering nation,

Shall they depopulate earth, destroy my race,

Condemn Alzire, and I not be mistress

Of my own life? Barbarians! Zamor then

Must die in tortures.

SCENE IV.

zamorin chains,alzire,Guards.

zamor.

Yes, it is decreed:

We both must die; beneath the specious name

Of justice, the tribunal hath condemned us;

Guzman yet lives, my erring hand had left

Its work unfinished; the barbarian lives

To glut his vengeance with Alzire’s blood,

To taste a tyrant’s savage joy, and see us

Perish together—to pronounce our doom

Alvarez comes: I am the guilty cause;

Thou diest for me, Alzire.

alzire.

Then no more,

For death is welcome if it comes with Zamor:

O bless the happy hour that shall dissolve

My ties to Guzman; I may love thee now

Without a crime, without remorse; receive

The heart that’s due to thee, and thee alone:

Yon dreadful scaffold, for our death prepared,

Shall be the altar of my love; there, Zamor,

I’ll offer up my faith, and expiate there

My crime of infidelity—the worst

Of all our sentence is, that it must come

From good Alvarez.

zamor.

See, he’s here; his cheeks

Are bathed in tears.

alzire.

Alas! who most deserves

Compassion? this will be a dreadful parting.

SCENE V.

alzire, zamor, alvarez,Guards.

zamor.

From you we both expect to hear our fate,

Pronounce it, we are not afraid to die:

Zamor deserves it, he has slain thy son,

The son of good Alvarez, of my friend;

But what, my lord, has this fair innocent,

What has Alzire done? thou art not cruel,

Proud, and revengeful, like thy countrymen,

Distinguished by thy clemency, we loved

Alvarez; wilt thou give up the fair title

Of just and good, and bathe thee in the blood

Of innocence?

alzire.

Avenge thyself, avenge

Thy son; but do not thus condemn the guiltless:

I am the wife of Guzman, that alone

Should tell thee, I would save, and not betray him,

Even though I hated, I respected him,

And swerved not from my faith, thou knowest I did not:

Careless of what the slandering multitude

May think, I rest my character on thee;

Acquitted by Alvarez, for the rest

’Tis equal all: if Zamor dies, Alzire

Must go with him: I pity thee alone.

alvarez.

Amazing scene of tenderness and horror!

That he should be the murderer of my son

Who was my kind deliverer! O Zamor,

To thee I owe a life which I abhor;

It was a fatal gift, and bought too dear:

I am a father, yet I am a man;

Spite of a parent’s grief that cries aloud

For vengeance on thee, gratitude pleads strongly;

She will be heard:—and thou who wert my daughter,

Whom yet I call by that dear tender name;

Think not I joy in the inhuman pleasure

Of fell revenge; I lose a friend, I lose

A daughter, and a son: the council dooms thee

To death, and bids a wretched father pass

The cruel sentence; I could not refuse

The dreadful task, and now am come, my children,

To save you both: it is in Zamor’s power.

zamor.

To save Alzire? say, what’s to be done?

alvarez.

Believe in Him who now inspires Alvarez;

One word will change your fate: the law decrees,

Whoe’er becomes a Christian meets forgiveness,

The God of pardon will himself o’ershade

Thy every crime, and take thee to his mercy;

Spain will protect and love thee as a brother;

Alzire shall be safe, ye both shall live;

I’ll answer for her life as for thy own;

Zamor, to thee I speak; of thee I ask

Another life, I owe thee one already;

A father asks thee only to be happy,

To be a Christian, and to save Alzire.

alzire.

What says my love? say, should we purchase life

So dearly? Shall I quit my gods for Guzman’s,

And be a traitor? tell me, thou sage tyrant,

When I was master of thy fate, wouldst thou,

Had Zamor sued, have quitted thy own gods

For mine?

alvarez.

I should have done as now I do,

Implored the almighty being to enlighten

A heart like thine, and make thee a true Christian.

zamor.

O cruel contest! what am I to choose,

Or life or death, Alzire, or my gods,

Which must I leave? Alzire, ’tis thy cause,

Determine it; I think thou wouldst not bring

Dishonor on thy Zamor.

alzire.

Hear me then:

Thou knowest that, to obey a father’s will,

I gave another what to thee alone

I had devoted; I embraced his faith,

And worshipped Montezuma’s God; perhaps

It was the error of my easy youth,

And thou wilt blame me for it; but methought

The law of Christians was the law of truth,

And therefore only did I make it mine

But to renounce those gods our heart adores;

That is no venial error, but a crime

Of deepest die; it is to give up both,

The God we worship, and the God we leave;

’Tis to be false to heaven, to the world,

And to ourselves: no, Zamor, if thou diest,

Die worthy of Alzire; hear the voice

Of conscience; act as she alone directs thee.

zamor.

Thou hast determined as I thought thou wouldst,

Zamor shall die with honor.

alvarez.

Then ye scorn

Our proffered mercy: hark! those mournful cries—

SCENE VII.

alvarez, guzman, zamor, americans,soldiers.

zamor.

O save Alzire; let me perish.

alzire.

No:

I will be joined to Guzman, and to thee.

alvarez.

My son is in the agonies of death;

O Guzman, hear me.

zamor.

Look on Zamor, learn

Of him to die.

guzman.

[To Zamor.

Perhaps I may teach thee

Another lesson: I have owed the world

A good example long, and now I mean

To pay the debt.

[Turning to Alvarez.

My soul is on the wing,

And ere she takes her flight but waits to see

And imitate Alvarez; O my father,

The mask is off, death has at last unveiled

The hideous scene, and showed me to myself;

New light breaks in on my astonished soul:

O I have been a proud, ungrateful being,

And trampled on my fellow-creatures: heaven

Avenges earth: my life can never atone

For half the blood I’ve shed: prosperity

Had blinded Guzman, death’s benignant hand

Restores my sight; I thank the instrument

Employed by heaven to make me what I am.

A penitent: I yet am master here;

And yet can pardon: Zamor, I forgive thee,

Live and be free; but O remember how

A Christian acted, how a Christian died.

[To Montezuma, who kneels to him.

Thou, Montezuma, and ye hapless victims

Of my ambition, say my clemency

Surpassed my guilt, and let your sovereigns know,

That we were born your conquerors.

[To Zamor.

Observe

The difference, Zamor, ’twixt thy God and mine:

Thine teach thee to revenge an injury,

Mine to forgive and pity thee.

alvarez.

My son,

Thy virtue’s equal to thy courage.

alzire.

Heaven!

How wonderful a change! amazing goodness!

zamor.

Thou wilt oblige me to repent.

guzman.

Yes, Zamor,

I will do more, thou shalt admire and love me:

Guzman too long hath made Alzire wretched,

I’ll make her happy; with my dying hand

I give her to thee, live and hate me not,

Restore your country’s ruined walls, and bless

My memory.

[To Alvarez.

Alvarez, be once more

A father to them, let the light of heaven

Shine forth upon them; Zamor is thy son,

Let him repair my loss.

zamor.

Amazed, confounded,

And motionless I stand; can Christians boast

Of such exalted virtue? ’twas inspired

By heaven; the Christian’s law must be divine:

Friendship, and faith, and constancy I knew

Already; but this soars above them all:

I must indeed admire and love thee, Guzman

[Falls at his feet.

alzire.

My lord, permit me to embrace thy knees:

O I could die for Guzman; will you then

Forgive my weakness?

guzman.

Yes: I pardon all,

I cannot see thee weep and not forgive thee.

Come near, my father, take my last farewell!

[Dies.

alvarez.

[To Montezuma.

I see the hand of God in all our woes,

And humbly bend myself before that power

Who wounds to heal, and strikes but to forgive.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

ORESTES

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Ægisthus.

Orestes, Son of Agamemnon and Clytemnæstra.

ELECTRA, } | Sisters of Orestes.
IPHISA, } |

ClytemnÆstra, Wife of Ægisthus.

Pylades, Friend of Orestes.

Pammenes, an old Man, attached to the Family of Agamemnon.

Dimas, an Officer of the Guards.

Attendants.

Scene, the seashore, a wood, a temple, a palace and a tomb, on one side: on the other, Argos at a distance.

“Orestes” was produced in 1750, an experiment which intensely interested the literary world and the public. In his Dedicatory Letters to the Duchess of Maine, Voltaire has the following passage on the Greek drama:

“We should not, I acknowledge, endeavor to imitate what is weak and defective in the ancients: it is most probable that their faults were well known to their contemporaries. I am satisfied, Madam, that the wits of Athens condemned, as well as you, some of those repetitions, and some declamations with which Sophocles has loaded his “Electra:” they must have observed that he had not dived deep enough into the human heart. I will moreover fairly confess, that there are beauties peculiar not only to the Greek language, but to the climate, to manners and times, which it would be ridiculous to transplant hither. Therefore I have not copied exactly the “Electra” of Sophocles—much more I knew would be necessary; but I have taken, as well as I could, all the spirit and substance of it. The feast celebrated by Ægisthus and Clytemnæstra, which they called the feast of Agamemnon; the arrival of Orestes and Pylades; the urn which was supposed to contain the ashes of Orestes; the ring of Agamemnon; the character of Electra, and that of Iphisa, which is exactly the Chrysothemis of Sophocles; and above all, the remorse of Clytemnæstra; these I have copied from the Greek tragedy. When the messenger, who relates the fictitious story of the death of Orestes, says to Clytemnæstra: ‘I see, Madam, you are deeply affected by his death;’ she replies, ‘I am a mother, and must therefore be unhappy; a mother, though injured, cannot hate her own offspring:’ she even endeavors to justify herself to Electra, with regard to the murder of Agamemnon, and laments her daughter. Euripides has carried Clytemnæstra’s repentance still further. This, Madam, was what gained the applause of the most judicious and sensible people upon earth, and was approved by all good judges in our own nation. No character, in reality, can be more natural than that of a woman, criminal with regard to her husband, yet softened by her children; a woman, whose proud and fiery disposition is still open to pity and compassion, who resumes the fierceness of her character on receiving too severe reproaches, and at last sinks into submission and tears. The seeds of this character were in Sophocles and Euripides, and I have only unfolded them. Nothing but ignorance, and its natural attendant, presumption, can assert that the ancients have nothing worthy of our imitation: there is scarcely one real and essential beauty and perfection, for the foundation of which, at least, we are not indebted to them.

“I have taken particular care not to depart from that simplicity so strongly recommended by the Greeks, and so difficult to attain; the true mark of genius and invention, and the very essence of all theatrical merit. A foreign character, brought into “Œdipus” or “Electra,” who should play a principal part and draw aside the attention of the audience, would be a monster in the eyes of all those who have any knowledge of the ancients, or of that nature which they have so finely painted. Art and genius consist in finding everything within the subject, and never going out of it in search of additional ornaments: but how are we to imitate that truly tragic pomp and magnificence which we find in the verses of Sophocles, that natural elegance and purity of diction, without which the piece, howsoever well conducted in other respects, must after all be but a poor performance!

“I have at least given my countrymen some idea of a tragedy without love, without confidants, and without episodes: the few partisans of good taste acknowledge themselves obliged to me for it, though the rest of the world withhold their approbation for a time, but will come in at last, when the rage of party is over, the injustice of persecution at an end, and the clouds of ignorance dissipated. You, Madam, must preserve among us those glittering sparks of light which the ancients have transmitted to us; we owe everything to them: not an art was born among us: everything was transplanted: but the earth that bears these foreign fruits is worn out, and our ancient barbarism, by the help of false taste, would break out again in spite of all our culture and improvement: and the disciples of Athens and Rome become Goths and Vandals, corrupted with the manners of the Sybarites, without the kind favor and protection of persons of your rank. When nature has given them either genius, or the love of genius, they encourage this nation, which is better able to imitate than to invent; and which always looks up towards the great for those instructions and examples which it perpetually stands in need of. All that I wish for, Madam, is, that some genius may be found to finish what I have but just sketched out; to free the stage from that effeminacy and affectation which it is now sunk into; to render it respectable to the gravest characters; worthy of the few great masterpieces which we already have among us; worthy, in short, the approbation of a mind like yours, and all those who may hereafter endeavor to resemble you.”

ACT I.

SCENE I.

iphisa, pammenes.

iphisa.

Sayest thou, Pammenes? shall these hated walls,

Where I so long have dragged a life of woe,

Afford at least the melancholy comfort

Of mingling sorrow with my dear Electra?

And will Ægisthus bring her to the tomb

Of Agamemnon, bring his daughter here,

To be a witness of the horrid pomp,

The sad solemnity, which on this day

Annual returns, to celebrate their crimes,

And make their guilt immortal?

pammenes.

O Iphisa,

Thou honored daughter of my royal master,

Like thee, confined within these lonely walls,

The secrets of a vile abandoned court

Do seldom reach Pammenes; but, ’tis rumored,

The jealous tyrant brings Electra here,

Fearful lest Argos, by her cries alarmed,

Should rise to vengeance; every heart, he knows,

Feels for the injured princess, therefore much

He dreads her clamors; with a watchful eye

Observes her conduct, treats her as a slave,

And leads the captive to adorn his triumph.

iphisa.

Good heaven! and must Electra be a slave!

Shall Agamemnon’s blood be thus disgraced

By a barbarian? Will her cruel mother,

Will Clytemnæstra bear the vile reproach

That on herself recoils, and all her race?

Perhaps my sister is too fierce of soul,

She mingles too much pride and bitterness

Of keen resentment with her griefs; alas!

Weak are her arms against a tyrant’s power:

What will her anger, what her pride avail her?

They only irritate a haughty foe,

And cannot serve our cause: my fate at least

Is milder, and this solitary state

Shields me from wrongs which must oppress Electra.

Far from my father’s foes, these pious hands

Can pay due offerings to his honored shade:

Far from his murderer, in this sad retreat

Freely I weep in peace, and curse Ægisthus:

I’m not condemned to see the tyrant here,

Save when the Sun unwillingly brings round

The fatal day that knit the dreadful tie,

When that inhuman monster shed the blood

Of Agamemnon, when base Clytemnæstra—

SCENE II.

electra, iphisa, pammenes.

iphisa.

O my Electra! art thou here? my sister—

electra.

The day of horror is returned, Iphisa:

The dreadful rites, the guilty feast prepared,

Have brought me hither; thy Electra comes,

Thy captive sister, comes a wretched slave,

To bear the tidings of their guilty joy.

iphisa.

To see Electra is a blessing still,

It pours some joy into the bitter cup

Of sorrow, thus to mix my tears with thine.

electra.

Tears, my Iphisa! I have shed enough

Of them already: O thou bleeding ghost

Of my dead father, ever-honored shade,

Is that the tribute which I owe to thee?

I owe thee blood, and blood thou hast required;

Amidst the pomp of this dire festival,

Dragged by Ægisthus here, I will collect

My scattered spirits, shake off these vile chains,

And be my own avenger: yes, Iphisa,

This feeble arm shall reach the tyrant’s heart:

Did not the cruel Clytemnæstra shed

A husband’s blood? did I not see her lift

Her barbarous hand against him, and shall we

Suspend the blow, and let a murderer live?

O vengeance, and thou, animating virtue,

That dost inspire me, art thou not as bold

As daring guilt? we must revenge ourselves,

We must, Iphisa: fearest thou then to strike,

Fearest thou to die? shall Clytemnæstra’s daughter,

The blood of Atreus fear? O rather lend

Thy aid, and join the desperate Electra!

iphisa.

My dearest sister, moderate thy rage,

And calm thy troubled mind: against our foes

What can we bring but unavailing tears?

Who will assist us? who will lend us arms?

Or how shall we surprise a watchful king,

For guilt is ever fearful, by his guards

Surrounded? why, Electra, wilt thou court

Perpetual danger? should the tyrant hear

Thy loud complaints, I tremble for thy life.

electra.

Why let him hear them? I would have my grief

Sink to his heart, and poison all his joys:

Yes; I would have my cries ascend to heaven,

And bring the thunder down; would have them raise

A hundred kings, who never yet have dared,

Unworthy cowards as they are, to avenge

Great Agamemnon: but I pardon thee,

And the vain terrors of thy fearful soul,

That shrinks at danger; for he favors you,

I know he does, and only crushes me

Beneath his iron yoke: thou hast not been,

Like me, a wretched persecuted slave;

Thou didst not see the impious parricide,

The horrid feast, the dire solemnity,

When Clytemnæstra—O the dreadful image

Is still before me, in this place, Iphisa,

Where now thou tremblest to declare thy wrongs,

There did these eyes behold our hapless father

Caught in the deadly snare: Pammenes heard

His dying groans, and ran with me to save him:

But when I came, what did I see! my mother

Plunging her ruthless dagger in his breast,

To rob him of the poor remains of life.

[Turning to Pammenes.

Thou sawest me take Orestes in my arms,

My dear Orestes; little knew he then

Of danger, but as near his murdered father

He stood, called out for aid to Clytemnæstra:

She, midst the horrors of the guilty scene,

Stopped for a moment short, and gave us time

Safe to convey the victim from Ægisthus.

Whether the tyrant has completed yet

The imperfect vengeance in Orestes’ blood,

I know not: O my brother, dost thou live,

Or hast thou followed thy unhappy father?

Alas! I weep for him, and fear for thee.

These hands are loaded with inglorious chains,

And these sad eyes, forever bathed in tears,

See naught but guilt, oppression, and despair.

pammenes.

Ye dear remains of Atreus’ honored race,

Whose splendor I have seen, whose woes I feel,

Permit a friend to fill your weeping souls

With cheerful hope, that ever waits propitious

To soothe affliction: call to mind what heaven

Long since hath promised, that its vengeful hand

Should one day lead Orestes to the place

Where we preserved him; that Ægisthus there,

Even at yon tomb, and on the fatal day

Marked for his impious triumph o’er the dead,

Should pay the forfeit of his crime: the Gods

Can ne’er deceive; in darkness still they veil

Their secret purpose from the eyes of men,

And punishment with slow but certain steps,

Still follows guilt.

iphisa.

But wherefore stays so long

Their tardy vengeance? I have languished here

In grief and anguish many a tedious hour;

Electra, still more wretched, is in chains:

Meantime the proud oppressor lives in peace,

And glories in his crimes.

electra.

Thou seest, Pammenes,

Ægisthus still renews his cruel triumph,

And celebrates the fatal nuptials; still

A wretched exile lives my dear Orestes,

Forgetful of his father, and Electra.

pammenes.

But mark the course of time: he touches now

The age when manly strength, with courage joined,

May aid your purpose; hope for his return,

And trust in heaven.

electra.

We will: thou son of wisdom,

Thou good old man, O thou hast darted forth

A ray of hope on my despairing soul!

If with unpitying eye the gods beheld

Our miseries here, and proud oppression, still

Unpunished, trampled on the tender feet

Of innocence, what hand would crown their altars

With incense and oblation! but kind heaven

Will give Orestes to a sister’s arms,

And blast the tyrant: hear my voice, Orestes,

O hear thy country’s, hear the cries of blood,

That call thee forth; come from thy dreary caves,

And pathless deserts, where misfortune long

Hath tried thy courage; leave thy savage prey,

And all the roaming monsters of the forest,

To chase the beasts of Argos, to destroy

The tyrants of the earth, the murderers

Of kings; O haste, and let me guide thy hand

Even to the traitor’s breast.

iphisa.

No more: repress

Thy griefs, Electra; see, thy mother comes.

electra.

And have I yet a mother?

SCENE III.

clytemnæstra, electra, iphisa.

clytemnæstra.

Hence, and leave me;

You may retire, Pammenes; stay, my daughters.

iphisa.

Alas! that sacred name dispels my fears.

electra.

And doubles mine.

clytemnæstra.

Touching your fate, my children,

I came to lay a mother’s heart before you.

Barren, thank heaven, hath been my second bed,

Nor brought a race of jealous foes to sow

Division here. Alas! my little race

Is almost run; the secret grief that long

Hath preyed on my sad heart will finish soon

A life of woe: spite of Ægisthus, still

I love my children; spite of all his rage,

Electra, thou who in thy infant years

So oft hast given me comfort, when the loss

Of Iphigenia, and her cruel father

Oppressed my soul; though now thy pride disdains me,

And braves my power, thou art my daughter still;

Unworthy as thou art, there’s still a place

In Clytemnæstra’s heart for her Electra.

electra.

For me! O heaven, and am I yet beloved;

And dost thou feel for thy unhappy daughter?

O, if thou dost, behold her chains, behold

Yon tomb—

clytemnæstra.

Unkind Electra, thus to wake

The sad remembrance! thou hast plunged a dagger

Into thy mother’s breast; but I deserve it.

electra.

Thou hast disarmed Electra, nature pleads

A mother’s cause; I own myself to blame

For all the bitterness of sorrow poured

In dreadful execrations on thy head.

By thee delivered to the tyrant’s power,

I would have torn thee from him; I lament,

But cannot hate thee. O, if gracious heaven

Hath touched thy soul with wholesome penitence,

Obey its sacred will, and hear the voice

Of conscience, that commands thee to unloose

The horrid ties that bind thee to a wretch

Despised and hated; follow the great God

Who leads thy footsteps to the paths of virtue;

Call back your son, let him return to fill

The throne of his great ancestors, to scourge

A tyrant, to avenge his murdered father,

His sisters, and his mother: haste and send

For my Orestes.

clytemnæstra.

Talk no more of that,

Electra, nor speak thus of my Ægisthus:

I grieve to see thee in these shameful bonds;

But know, a sovereign cannot tamely brook

Repeated insults, or embrace a foe:

You had provoked him to, be cruel; I,

Who am but his first subject, oft have tried

To soothe his anger, but in vain: my words,

Instead of healing, but inflamed the wound:

Electra is indebted to herself

For all her deep-felt injuries; henceforth bend

To thy condition; let thy sister teach thee

That we must yield submissive to our fate,

If e’er we hope to change it. I could wish

To end my days in peace amongst my children;

But if thy rapid and imprudent zeal

Should bring Orestes here before the time,

His life might answer for it, and thy own,

If the king see him: though I pity thee,

Electra, yet I owe a husband more

Than a lost son, whom I have cause to fear.

electra.

O heaven, that monster! he thy husband, he!

And is it thus thou pitiest me? alas,

What will this poor, this light remorse avail thee,

This fleeting sorrow? was thy tenderness

But for a moment, dost thou threaten me,

[To Iphisa.

Is this, Iphisa, this a mother’s love?

[To Clytemnæstra.

It seems thou threatenest my Orestes too;

Thou hast no cause to fear, nor I to hope

For him: alas! perhaps he is no more;

Perhaps Ægisthus, the detested tyrant,

He whom but now thou didst not blush to call

Thy husband, hath in secret ta’en his life.

iphisa.

Believe me, Madam, when I call the gods

To witness, poor Electra and myself

Are strangers to the fate of dear Orestes;

Have pity then on your afflicted daughter,

Pity your helpless son and spare Electra:

She has been wronged; her tears and her reproaches

Suit well her fate, and ought to be forgiven.

electra.

I must not hope it, must not even complain;

And if Orestes lives but in my thoughts

’Tis deemed a crime. I know Ægisthus well,

Know his fierce nature; if he fears my brother,

He’ll soon destroy him.

clytemnæstra.

Know, thy brother lives;

If he’s in danger, ’tis from thy imprudence;

Therefore be humble, moderate thy transports,

Respect thy mother: thinkest thou I come here,

Elate with joy, to lead the splendid triumph?

O no, to me it is a day of sorrow;

Thou weepest in chains, and I upon a throne.

I know the cruel vows thy hatred made

Against me: O, Electra! cease thy prayers,

The gods have heard thee but too well already:

Retire, and leave me.

SCENE IV.

clytemnæstra.

[Alone.

How it shocks my soul

To see my children! O the guilty bed!

My fatal marriage, and long prosperous crimes,

Adultery and murder, horrid bonds!

How ye torment me now! my little dream

Of happiness is o’er, and conscience darts

Its sudden rays on my affrighted soul.

How can Ægisthus live so long in peace!

Fearless he leads me on to share with him

These cruel triumphs; but my spirits fail,

My strength forsakes me, and I tremble now

At every omen; fear my subjects, fear

All Argos, Greece, Electra, and Orestes.

How dreadful ’tis to hate the blood that flowed

Congenial with our own, to dread the names

Which mortals hold so sacred and so dear!

But injured nature, banished from my heart,

Indignant frowns, and to avenge herself

Now bids me tremble at the name of son.

SCENE V.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra.

clytemnæstra.

Cruel Ægisthus, wherefore wouldst thou lead me

To this sad place, the seat of death and horror?

ægisthus.

Is then the solemn pomp, the feast of joy,

The sweet remembrance of our prosperous days,

Grown hateful to thee? is our marriage day

A day of horror?

clytemnæstra.

No: but here, Ægisthus,

There may be danger: my unhappy children

Have filled this heart with anguish: poor Iphisa

Weeps her hard lot; Electra is in chains;

This fatal place reminds me of the blood

We shed, reminds me of my dear Orestes,

Of Agamemnon.

ægisthus.

Let Iphisa weep,

And proud Electra rave; I bore too long

Her bitter taunts, ’tis fit her haughtiness

Should now be humbled; I’ll not suffer her

To stir up foul rebellion in my kingdom,

To tell the factions that Orestes comes,

And call down vengeance on me; every hour

That hated name is echoed in my ear,

I must not bear it.

clytemnæstra.

Ha! what name was that?

Orestes! O, I shudder at the thought

Of his approach: an oracle long since

Declared, that here, even at the fatal tomb

Whither thou leadest, his parricidal hand

Should one day rise vindictive, and destroy us.

Why therefore wouldst thou tempt the gods, why thus

Expose a life so dear to Clytemnæstra?

ægisthus.

Be not alarmed; Orestes ne’er shall hurt thee:

His be the danger; for I have sent forth

Some friends in search of him, and soon I hope

Shall see him in the toils; a wretched exile

From clime to clime he roams, and now it seems

In Epidaurus’ gloomy forest hides

His ignominious head; but there perhaps

We have more friends than Clytemnæstra thinks of;

The king may serve us.

clytemnæstra.

But, my son—

ægisthus.

I know

He’s fierce, implacable, revengeful; stung

By his misfortunes, all the blood of Atreus

Boils in his breast, and animates his rage.

clytemnæstra.

Alas! my lord, his rage is but too just.

ægisthus.

Be it our business then to make it vain;

Thou knowest I’ve sent my Plisthenes in secret

To Epidaurus.

clytemnæstra.

But for what?

ægisthus.

To fix

My throne in safety, and remove thy fears:

Yes, Plisthenes, my son, by thee adopted

Heir to my kingdom, knows too well how much

His interest must depend on the event

E’er to neglect his charge: he is thy son,

Think of no other: had Electra’s heart

Submissive yielded to another’s counsels,

She had been happy in my Plisthenes:

But she shall feel the power which she contemns,

She and her haughty brother, her Orestes,

He may be found perhaps.—You seem disturbed.

clytemnæstra.

Alas! Ægisthus, must we sacrifice

More victims? must I purchase length of days

With added guilt? Thou knowest whose blood we shed—

And must my son too perish, must I pay

So dear a price for life?

ægisthus.

Remember—

clytemnæstra.

No:

First let me ask the sacred oracle—

ægisthus.

What canst thou hope from gods or oracles,

Were they consulted on the blissful day

That gave Ægisthus to his Clytemnæstra?

clytemnæstra.

Thou hast recalled a time when heaven, I fear,

Was much offended: love defies the gods,

But fear adores them; guilt weighs down my soul,

Do not oppress my feeble spirits; time,

That changes all, hath altered this proud heart;

The hand of heaven is on me, and subdues

The haughty rage that once inspired my breast;

Not that my tender friendship for Ægisthus

Can e’er decay, our interests are the same;

But to behold my daughter made a slave,

To think on my poor lost abandoned son,

To think that now, even now, perhaps he dies

By vile assassins, or, if living, lives

My foe, and hates the guilty Clytemnæstra,

Is it not dreadful? pity me, Ægisthus,

I am a mother still.

ægisthus.

Thou art my wife;

Thou art my queen; resume thy wonted courage,

And be thyself again; indulge no more

This foolish fondness for ungrateful children,

Who merit not thy love; consult alone

Ægisthus’ safety, and thy own repose.

clytemnæstra.

Repose! the guilty mind can ne’er enjoy it.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

orestes, pylades.

orestes.

Whither, my Pylades, hath cruel fate

Conducted us? alas! Orestes lives

But to increase the sorrows of his friend:

Our arms, our treasures, and our soldiers lost

In the rude storm; here on this desert coast,

No succor near, deserted and forlorn

We wander on, and naught but hope remains.

Where are we?

pylades.

That I know not; but since fate

Hath led us hither, let us not despair;

It is enough for me, Orestes lives:

Be confident; the barbarous Ægisthus

In vain pursued thy life, which heaven preserved

In Epidaurus, when thy arm subdued

The gallant Plisthenes: let naught alarm

Or terrify thy soul, but boldly urge

Thy way, protected by that guardian God

Who watches o’er the just, the great avenger,

Who hath already to thy valor given

The son, and promised that ere long the father

Shall follow him.

orestes.

Alas, my friend, that God

In anger now withdraws his powerful aid,

And frowns upon us, as thy cruel fate

Too plainly shows; a terrible example!

But say, within the rock didst thou conceal

The urn, which to Mycenæ, horrid seat

Of murder, by the gods command, we bear;

That urn which holds the ashes of my foe,

Of Plisthenes; with that we must deceive

The tyrant.

pylades.

I have done it.

orestes.

Gracious heaven!

When shall we reap the fruits of our obedience?

When will the wished-for day of vengeance come?

Shall I again behold my native soil,

The dear, the dreadful place where first I saw

The light of day? Where, shall I find my sister,

The pride, the glory, of admiring Greece;

That generous maid, whom all unite to praise,

But none will dare to succor? She preserved

My life; and, worthy of her noble father,

Hath never bent beneath the oppressive hand

Of power, but braved the fury of the storm.

How many kings, how many heroes, fought

For Menelaus! Agamemnon dies,

And Greece forgets him, whilst his hapless son,

Deserted, wanders o’er a faithless world,

To seek some blest asylum for repose.

Alas, without thy friendship I had been

The most distressed, most abject of mankind:

But heaven, in pity to my woes, hath sent

My Pylades; it would not let me perish,

But gave me to subdue my hated foe,

And half avenge my father: say, my friend,

What path will lead us to the tyrant’s court?

pylades.

Behold that palace, and the towering height

Of yon proud temple, the dark grove overgrown

With cypress, and the tomb, rich images

Of mournful splendor all: and see! this way

Advancing, comes a venerable sage,

Of mildest aspect, and whose years, no doubt,

Have long experience of calamity;

His soul will melt at thy disastrous fate.

orestes.

Is every mortal born to suffer? hark!

He groans, my Pylades.

SCENE II.

orestes, pylades, pammenes.

pylades.

Whoe’er thou art,

Stop, and inform us: we are strangers here.

Two poor unhappy friends, long time the sport

Of winds and waves, now on this unknown shore

Cast helpless, canst thou tell us if this place

Will be or fatal to us, or propitious?

pammenes.

I am a simple, plain old man, and here

Worship the gods, adore their justice, live

In humble fear of them, and exercise

The sacred rights of hospitality;

Ye both are welcome to my little cottage,

There to despise with me the pride of kings,

Their pomp and riches; come, my friends, for such

I ever hold the wretched.

orestes.

Generous stranger,

May gracious heaven inspire us with the means

To recompense thy goodness! but inform us

What place is this; who is your king?

pammenes.

Ægisthus:

I am his subject.

orestes.

Terrors, crimes, and vengeance!

O heaven, Ægisthus!

pylades.

Soft: do not betray us;

Be careful.

orestes.

Gods, Ægisthus! he who murdered—

pammenes.

The same.

orestes.

And Clytemnæstra, lives she still

After that fatal blow.

pammenes.

She reigns with him;

The rest is known too well.

orestes.

That tomb before us,

And yonder palace—

pammenes.

Is inhabited

Now by Ægisthus; built, I well remember,

By worthier hands, and for a better use.

The tomb thou seest, forgive me if I weep

At the remembrance, is the tomb of him

I loved, my lord, my king—of Agamemnon.

orestes.

O ’tis too much! I sink beneath it.

pylades.

Hide

Thy tears, my friend.

[To Orestes, who turns away from him.

pammenes.

You seem much moved, and fain

Would stop the tide of grief: O give it way,

Indulge thy sorrows, and lament the son

Of gods, the noble conqueror of Troy;

Whilst they insult his sacred memory here,

Strangers shall weep the fate of Agamemnon.

orestes.

A stranger as I am, I cannot look

With cold indifference on the noble race

Of Atreus, ’tis a Grecian’s duty ever

To weep the fate of heroes, and I ought—

But doth Electra live in Argos still?

pammenes.

She doth, she’s here.

orestes.

I run, I fly to meet her.

pylades.

Ha! whither wouldst thou go! What! brave the gods

Hazard thy precious life! forbear, my lord.

[To Pammenes.

O, sir, conduct us to the neighboring temple,

There will we lay our gifts before the altar

In humble duty, and adore that God

Who ruled the waves, and saved us from destruction.

orestes.

Wilt thou conduct us to the sacred tomb

Where lie the ashes of a murdered hero?

There must I offer to his honored shade

A secret sacrifice.

pammenes.

O heavenly justice,

Thou sacrifice to him! amidst his foes!

O noble youth! my master had a son,

Who, in Electra’s arms—but I forbear,

Ægisthus comes: away; I’ll follow you.

orestes.

Ægisthus! ha!

pylades.

We must avoid his presence.

SCENE III.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, pammenes.

ægisthus.

[To Pammenes

Who are those strangers? one of them methought

Seemed, by his stately port and fair demeanor,

Of noble birth, a gloom of melancholy

Hangs on his brow: he struck me as he passed:

Is he our subject? knowest thou whence he came?

pammenes.

I only know they are unfortunate;

Driven by the tempest on those rocks, they came

For shelter here; as strangers I relieved them;

It was my duty: if they tell me truth,

Greece is their country.

ægisthus.

Thou shalt answer for them

On peril of thy life.

clytemnæstra.

Alas! my lord,

Can these poor objects raise suspicion?

ægisthus.

Yes:

The people murmur; everything alarms me.

clytemnæstra.

Such for these fifteen years hath been our fate,

To fear, and to be feared; the bitter poison

To all my happiness.

ægisthus.

Away, Pammenes;

Let me know who and whence they are; why thus

They come so near the palace; from what port

Their vessel sailed, and wherefore on the seas

Where I command: away, and bring me word.

SCENE IV.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra.

ægisthus.

Well, madam, to remove thy idle fears,

The interpreters of heaven it seems at length

Have been consulted; but in vain: their silence

Doubles thy grief, and heightens thy despair;

For to thyself, thy restless spirit ne’er

Will know repose; thou tremblest at the thought

Of thy son’s death, yet fearest his dangerous life:

Consult no more thy doubtful oracles,

And hesitating priests, that brood in secret

O’er the dark bosom of futurity;

But hear Ægisthus, he shall give thee peace,

And satisfy thy soul: this hand determines,

This tongue pronounces Clytemnæstra’s fate:

If thou wouldst live and reign, confide in me,

And me alone, and let me hear no more

Of your unworthy son; but for Electra,

She’s to be feared, and we must think of her:

Perhaps her marriage with my Plisthenes

Might stop the mouth of faction, and appease

The discontented people: thou wouldst wish

To see the deadly hatred, that so long

Hath raged between us, softened into peace;

To see our interests and our hearts united:

Let it be so. Go thou, and talk with her;

But take good heed her pride refuses not

The proffered boon, that were an insult soon

She might repent of; but I hope with you,

That slavery hath bowed down her haughty spirit,

That this unhoped for, unexpected change

From poverty and chains to rank and splendor,

Joined to a mother’s kind authority,

And above all, to Ambition, will persuade her

To seize the golden minutes, and be wise:

But if she spurns the happiness that courts her,

Her insolence shall meet its due reward.

Your foolish fondness, and her father’s name,

Have fed her pride too long; but let her dread,

If she submits not, a severer fate,

Chains heavier far, and endless banishment.

SCENE V.

clytemnæstra, electra.

clytemnæstra.

Come near, my daughter, and with milder looks

Behold thy mother: I have mourned in secret,

And wept with thee thy hard and cruel bondage,

Though not unmerited; for sure thy hatred

Was most unjust, Electra: as a queen,

I was offended; as a mother, grieved;

But I have gained your pardon, and your rights

Are all restored.

electra.

O madam, at your feet—

clytemnæstra.

But I would still do more.

electra.

What more?

clytemnæstra.

Support

Your race, restore the honored name of Pelops,

And re-unite his long-divided children.

electra.

Ha! talkest thou of Orestes? speak, go on.

clytemnæstra.

I speak of thee, and hope at last Electra

Will be Electra’s friend: I know thy soul

Aspires to empire, be thyself again,

And let thy hopes transport thee to the throne

Of Argos and Mycenæ; rise from chains

And ignominious slavery to the throne

Of thy great ancestors: Ægisthus yields

To my entreaties, as a daughter yet

He would embrace thee, to his Plisthenes

Would join Electra; every hour the youth

From Epidaurus is expected here;

When he returns he weds you: look, my daughter,

Towards the bright prospect of thy future glory,

And bury all the past in deep oblivion.

electra.

Can I forget the past, or look with joy

On that which is to come? O cruel fate,

This is the worst indignity that e’er

Electra bore: remember whence I sprang,

Remember, I am Agamemnon’s daughter,

And wouldst thou bind me to his murderer’s son?

Give me my chains again, oppress my soul

With all the horrors of base servitude;

All that the tyrant e’er inflicted on me,

Shame and reproach suit with my sad condition;

I have supported them, and looked on death

Without a fear: a thousand times Ægisthus

Hath threatened me with death, but this is worse;

Thou art more cruel far to ask my vows,

My love, my honor; but I see your aim,

I know your purpose; poor Orestes slain,

His murderer trembles at a sister’s claim,

And dreads my title to a father’s throne:

The tyrant wants my hand to second him,

To seal his poor precarious rights with mine,

And make me an accomplice in his guilt:

O, if I have a right Ægisthus fears,

Let him erase my title in my blood,

And tear it from me: if another arm

Be needful to his purpose, lend him thine;

Strike here, and join Electra to her brother;

Strike here, and I shall know ’tis Clytemnæstra.

clytemnæstra.

It is too much: ungrateful as thou art,

I pitied thee; but all my hopes are past:

What have I done, what would I do, to bend

Thy stubborn heart? tears, menaces, reproaches,

And love and tenderness, the throne itself,

Which but for me thou never couldst have hoped,

Prayers, punishment, and pardon, naught availed,

And now I yield thee to thy fate: farewell!

Thou sayest that thou shalt know me for thy mother,

For Clytemnæstra, by my cruelty:

I am thy mother, and I am thy queen,

Remember that; to Agamemnon’s race

Naught do I owe but hatred and revenge;

I will not warm a serpent in my breast

To sting me: henceforth storm, complain, and weep,

I shall not heed the clamors of a slave:

I loved thee once, with grief I own I loved thee;

But from this hour remember Clytemnæstra

Is not thy mother, but Ægisthus’ wife;

The bonds are broken that united us,

Electra broke them; nature hath disclaimed,

And I abjure them.

SCENE VI.

electra.

[Alone.

Gracious heaven! is this

A mother’s voice? O day the bitterest sure

That ever rose since my dear father’s death!

I fear I said too much, but my full heart,

Spite of myself, would pour its venom forth:

She told me my Orestes was no more;

Could I bear that? O if a cruel mother

Has robbed me of my best, my dearest treasure,

Why should I court my worst of foes, why fawn

And cringe to her, to live a vile dependant

On her precarious bounties; to lift up

These withered hands to unrelenting heaven,

To see my father’s bed and throne usurped

By this base spoiler, this inhuman tyrant,

Who robbed me of a mother’s heart, and now

Hath taken Orestes from me?

SCENE VII.

electra, iphisa.

iphisa.

O Electra,

Complain no more.

electra.

Why not?

iphisa.

Partake my joy.

electra.

Joy is a stranger to this heart, Iphisa,

And ever shall be.

iphisa.

Still there is hope.

electra.

O no,

Still must we weep: for if I may believe

A mother, our dear brother, our Orestes,

Is dead.

iphisa.

And if I may believe these eyes,

He lives, he’s here, Electra.

electra.

Can it be?

Good heaven! O do not trifle with a heart

Like mine: Iphisa, didst thou say Orestes?

iphisa.

I did.

electra.

Thou wouldst not with a flattering dream

Deceive me, my Iphisa—but, go on,

For hope and fear distract me.

iphisa.

O my sister,

Two strangers, cast by some benignant God

On these unhappy coasts, are just arrived,

And hither, by the care of good Pammenes,

Conducted; one of them—

electra.

I faint: die—

Well, one of them—

iphisa.

I saw the noble youth:

O what a lustre sparkled in his eye!

His air, his mien, his every gesture bore

The perfect semblage of a demi-god;

Even as they paint the illustrious Grecian chief,

The conqueror of Troy; such majesty

And sweet deportment ne’er did I behold;

But with Pammenes he retired, and hid

His beauteous form from my desiring eyes:

Struck with the charming image, and amazed,

I ran to seek thee here, beneath the shade

Of this dark grove, to tell the pleasing tale:

But mark what followed—on the sacred tomb,

Where we so oft have mingled our sad tears,

I saw fresh garlands, saw the votive wreath,

The water sprinkled over it, and the hair

Doubtless of those whom I so late had seen,

The illustrious strangers: near to these was laid,

What most confirmed my hopes, a glittering sword,

That spoke methought the day of vengeance near:

Who but a son, a brother, and a hero,

Raised by the gods to save his falling country,

Would dare to brave the tyrant thus? ’Tis he,

Electra, heaven hath sent him to our aid,

The lightning glares upon us, and the thunder

Will soon be heard.

electra.

I must believe Iphisa,

And hope the best; but is it not a snare

Laid by the tyrant? Come: we’ll know the truth,

Let us away—I must be satisfied.

iphisa.

We must not search him in the dark retreat

Where he is hid. Pammenes says, his life

Would answer for it.

electra.

Ha! what dost thou say?

Alas! we are deceived, betrayed, Iphisa,

By cruel heaven: thus, after fifteen years,

Restored, Orestes would have run with joy

To the dear arms that saved him, would have cheered

Electra’s mournful heart, he ne’er had fled

From thee, Iphisa: O that sword thou sawest,

Which raised thy sanguine hope, alarms my fears;

A cruel mother would be well informed,

And in her eyes I read the barbarous joy

She felt within: O dart one ray of hope,

Ye vengeful gods, on my despairing soul!

Will not Pammenes yield to my entreaties?

He will; he must: away, I’ll speak to him.

iphisa.

Do not, Electra; think what cruel eyes

Watch o’er our steps, and mark our every action.

If he is come, we shall discover him

By our fond zeal, and hazard his sweet life:

If we’re deceived, our search but irritates

The tyrant, and endangers good Pammenes;

But let us pay our duty at the tomb,

There we at least may weep without offence.

Who knows, Electra, but the noble stranger

May meet us in that blest asylum; there

That heaven, whose goodness thy impatient rage

Hath called in question, may yet hear my vows,

And give him to our wishes and our tears:

Let us be gone.

electra.

Thou hast revived my hopes:

But O, I die with grief, if thou deceivest me!

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

orestes, pylades, pammenes.

[A slave at the farther end of the stage carrying an urn and a sword.

pammenes.

Blest be the day that to our wishes thus

Restores the long-expected hope of Greece,

My royal master’s son, the minister

Of heaven’s high will, to execute swift vengeance

On Agamemnon’s foes! The tyrant long

Hath dreaded, long foreseen the impending blow;

Conscious of guilt, in every face unknown

Still he beholds his master and his judge,

And still Orestes haunts his troubled soul:

Much he inquires concerning you, and longs

To see you both. I have a thousand fears,

A thousand hopes; heaven grant we may succeed!

Meantime I have obeyed your orders, sounded

The people’s hearts, and strove to animate

Their zeal; inspired them with the distant hope

Of an avenger; soon or late the race

Of rightful kings must prosper: every heart

Glowed with warm transport at Orestes’ name;

Awakened from her slumber, vengeance rises

With double vigor; my few faithful friends,

Who dwell in this lone desert with Pammenes,

Lift up their hands to heaven, and call on thee;

And yet I tremble to behold thee here

Unarmed and unassisted, lest some chance

Discover thee, and blast our hopes: the foe

Is barbarous, active, vigilant, and bold;

One fatal stroke may ruin all; whilst thou,

Against a tyrant seated on his throne,

Bringest nothing but Orestes, and his friend.

pylades.

And are not they sufficient? ’Tis the work

Of heaven that oft fulfils its own designs

By means most wonderful, that in the deep

O’erwhelmed our little all, and here alone

Hath left us to perform the sacrifice.

Sometimes it arms the sovereigns of the earth

With tenfold vengeance; sometimes, in contempt

Of human valor, strikes in awful silence;

Nature and friendship then assert the rights

Of heaven, and vindicate its power divine.

orestes.

Orestes asks no other aid, no arm

But thine, my Pylades.

pylades.

Take heed, my friend,

Quit not the paths of safety pointed out

By the just gods; remember thou art bound

By solemn oath to hide thee from Electra;

Thy peace, thy happiness, thy kingdom, all

Depend upon it: O refrain thy transports,

Dissemble, and obey; ’tis fit Electra

Should be deceived, even more than Clytemnæstra.

pammenes.

Thank heaven, that thus ordained it for thy safety.

Already hath Electra, bathed in tears,

And calling for her great avenger, filled

These solitary mansions with her cries;

Importunate and bold, she sought me out,

And with imprudent warmth, demanded loud,

Where was her brother, where her dear Orestes:

Nature had whispered to her anxious heart

He was not far from his Electra: scarce

Could I withhold her eager steps.

orestes.

Ye gods!

Must I refrain? O insupportable!

pylades.

You hesitate; O think, my dear Orestes,

Think on the menaces of angry heaven,

Think on its goodness that preserved thy life

From every danger; if thou shouldst oppose

Its sacred will, eternal wrath awaits

To blast thy purpose; tremble, son of Atreus

And Tantalus, remember what thy hapless race

Hath suffered, nor expect a milder doom.

orestes.

What power invincible presides unseen

O’er human actions, and directs our fate?

Is it a crime to listen to the voice

Of fond affection? O eternal justice,

Thou deep abyss, unsearchable to man!

Shall not our weakness and our guilt by thee

Be still distinguished? shall the man who wanders

From virtue’s paths unknowing, and who braves

Thy power, shall he who yields to nature’s laws,

And he who breaks them, share an equal fate?

But shall the slave condemn his master? heaven

Gave us our being, and can owe us nothing:

Therefore no more: in silence I obey.

Give me the urn, the ring, and bloody sword,

Which thou hast hither brought, they shall be offered

Far from Electra’s sight: let us be gone;

I’ll see my sister when I have avenged her.

[Turning to Pammenes.

Go thou, Pammenes, and prepare the hearts

Of thy brave followers for the great event

Which Greece awaits, and I must execute:

Deceive Ægisthus, and my guilty mother;

Let them enjoy the transitory bliss,

The short-lived pleasure of Orestes’ death,

If an unnatural mother can behold

With joy the ashes of a murdered son:

Here will I wait, and stop them as they pass.

SCENE II.

electraandiphisaon one side of the stageorestesandpyladeson the other, with a slave carrying an urn and a sword.

electra.

[To Iphisa.

Hope disappointed is the worst of sorrows.

O my Iphisa, all thy flattering dreams

Are vanished, and Pammenes, with a word,

Hath undeceived us; the fair day that shone

So bright is clouded o’er, and darkness spreads

On every side: alas! our wretched life

Is but a round of never-ending woes.

orestes.

[To Pylades.

Two women, and in tears!

pylades.

Alas, my lord,

Beneath a tyrant all things wear the face

Of grief and misery.

orestes.

In Ægisthus’ court

Nothing should reign but sorrow.

iphisa.

[To Electra.

Look, Electra,

The strangers come this way.

electra.

Unhappy omen!

They did pronounce Ægisthus’ hated name.

iphisa.

One is that hero whom I told thee of,

The noble youth—

electra.

[Looking at Orestes.

Alas! I too, like thee,

Have been deceived.

[Turning to Orestes.

Who are ye, wretched strangers;

And what hath led you to this fatal shore?

orestes.

We come to see the king who reigns in Argos,

And take our orders from him.

electra.

Are ye Grecians,

And call ye him a king, the murderer

Of Agamemnon?

orestes.

He is sovereign here,

And heaven commands us to respect his throne,

Not to dispute his title.

electra.

Horrid maxim!

And what have you to ask of this proud king,

This bloody monster here?

orestes.

We come to bring him

Some happy tidings.

electra.

Dreadful then to us

They must be.

iphisa.

[Seeing the Urn.

Ha! an urn! O grief, O horror!

pylades.

Orestes—

electra.

O ye gods! Orestes dead!

I faint, I die.

orestes.

What have we done, my friend!

They could not be mistaken, for their grief

Betrays them: O! my blood runs cold.—Fair princess,

Be comforted, and live.

electra.

Orestes dead?

And can I live? O no, barbarians, here

Complete your cruelty.

iphisa.

Alas! you see

The poor remains of Agamemnon; we

Are his unhappy daughters, the sad sisters

Of lost Orestes.

orestes.

O Electra! O

Iphisa! O where am I? cruel gods!

[To the slave carrying the urn.

Take from their sight those monuments of woe,

That fatal urn, which—

electra.

[Running towards the urn.

Wouldst thou take it from me?

Wouldst thou deprive me of the little all

That’s left Electra by offended heaven?

O give it me.

[She takes the urn, and embraces it.

orestes.

Forbear; what wouldst thou do?

pylades.

Away: Ægisthus only must receive

These precious relics.

electra.

Must I then behold

My brother’s ashes in a tyrant’s hand,

And are Orestes’ murderers before me?

orestes.

Horrid reproach! it shocks my very soul:

I can no longer—

electra.

Yet you weep with me:

O, in the name of the avenging gods,

If ye are guiltless, if your generous hands

Collected his dear ashes—

orestes.

Gracious heaven!

electra.

If ye lament his death, O answer me:

Who told you of his fate: art thou his friend?

Speak, noble youth: both dumb! yet both afflicted:

Even whilst your words plant daggers in my heart,

Ye seem to pity me.

orestes.

It is too much;

The gods have been obeyed enough already.

electra.

What sayest thou?

orestes.

Leave those poor remains.

electra.

O no:

I never will: alas! is every heart

Inflexible? I tell thee, cruel stranger,

I must not, cannot give thee back again

The fatal gift thy pity hath bestowed:

’Tis my Orestes; and I will embrace him:

Behold his dying sister.

orestes.

Cruel gods!

Where are your thunders now? O strike: Electra,

I can no longer—

electra.

Ha!

orestes.

I ought—

pylades.

O heaven!

electra.

Go on—

orestes.

Know then—

SCENE III.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, orestes, pylades, electra, iphisa, pammenes,Guards.

ægisthus.

O glorious spectacle!

Fortune, I thank thee: Can it be, Pammenes?

My rival dead! it is, it must be true,

Electra’s grief confirms it.

electra.

Dreadful hour?

orestes.

To what am I reserved?

ægisthus.

Seize on the urn,

And wrest it from her.

[They take the urn from her.

electra.

O thou hast robbed me of the only good

This life could e’er afford me, barbarous monster!

O take Electra too, tear forth this heart

And join me to Orestes; father, son,

Sister, and brother, all thy wretched victims

Unite to satiate thy revenge: now, tyrant,

Enjoy thy happiness, enjoy thy crimes:

And thou, inhuman mother, look with him

On the delightful spectacle, it suits

Thy nature, and is worthy of you both.

[Iphisa leads her off.

SCENE IV.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, orestes, pylades,Guards.

clytemnæstra.

Must I bear this?

ægisthus.

She shall be punished for it:

Let her complain to heaven, for heaven itself

Will justify Ægisthus; it approves

Where it forbids not; therefore I am guiltless,

And happy too: my throne stands firmly now,

My life’s in safety; but I must reward

The zeal and valor of these noble Grecians.

orestes.

It was our duty, royal sir, to lay

These proofs before you: take this sword, this ring,

You must remember it: ’twas Agamemnon’s.

clytemnæstra.

And was it then by thee Orestes fell?

ægisthus.

If thou hast served me, thine be the reward:

But, say, who art thou, of what race?

orestes.

My name

Must not as yet be known; perhaps hereafter

It may be: in the fields of Troy my father

Distinguished shone amongst the great avengers

Of Menelaus; in those days of glory

He fought, and fell: deserted and forlorn,

Left by a cruel mother, and pursued

By most inhuman foes, this friend alone

Supported me; was fortune, father, all;

With him I still have trod the paths of honor,

With him defied the malice of my fate:

Such is my story.

ægisthus.

But say where thy arm

Avenged me of this hated prince: inform me.

orestes.

’Twas a word that to the temple leads

Of Epidaurus, near Achemor’s tomb.

ægisthus.

The king had set a price upon his head:

How came you not to ask for your reward?

orestes.

Because I hated infamy, and fought

For vengeance, not for hire; I did not mean

To sell his blood; a private motive raised

This arm against him, as my friend well knows,

And I revenged myself without the aid

Of kings, nor shall I boast the victory:

Forgive me, sir: I tremble; for the widow

Of Agamemnon’s here; perhaps I’ve served,

Perhaps offended her; I’ll take my leave.

ægisthus.

Thou shalt not; stay, I charge thee.

clytemnæstra.

Let him go:

That urn, and the sad story he has told,

Have filled my soul with horror: heaven, my lord,

Protects your throne and life, be thankful for it,

And leave a mother to indulge her sorrows.

orestes.

Madam, I thought that Agamemnon’s son

Was hateful to you.

clytemnæstra.

I must own I feared him.

orestes.

Feared him?

clytemnæstra.

I did indeed; for he was born

To be most guilty.

orestes.

Guilty? and to whom?

clytemnæstra.

The wretched wanderer, thou knowest, was doomed

To hate a mother, doomed to shed the blood

From whence he sprang; such was his horrid fate:

Perhaps he had fulfilled—and yet, his death,

I know not why, affrights me, and I tremble

To look on you who saved me from his vengeance.

orestes.

Alas! a son against a mother armed!

O who could loose that sacred tie? perhaps

He wished—

clytemnæstra.

O heaven!

ægisthus.

What sayest thou? didst thou know him?

pylades.

[Aside.

He will discover all.

[To Ægisthus.

He did, my lord,

The wretched soon unite, and soon divide:

At Delphi first we saw him.

orestes.

Yes: I know

His purpose well.

ægisthus.

What was it?

orestes.

To murder thee.

ægisthus.

I’ve seen his malice long, but I despised it.

Meantime Electra used Orestes’ name

To spread division o’er my kingdom; she

Was my worst foe: thou hast avenged me of her,

Take thy reward, I yield her to thy power;

She shall be thine: the haughty maid, who spurned

The great alliance with Ægisthus’ son;

Henceforth she is thy slave: the wretched race

Of Priam long beneath the conqueror’s yoke

Submissive bowed, and dragged the servile chain;

And wherefore should not Agememnon’s blood

Bend in its turn, and share an equal fate?

clytemnæstra.

Would Clytemnæstra suffer that!

ægisthus.

Thou wouldst not

Defend thy worst of foes; proscribe Orestes,

Yet spare Electra.

[To Orestes.

Leave the urn with me.

orestes.

We will, my lord, and shall accept your offer.

clytemnæstra.

That were to carry our resentment further

Than justice warrants: let him hence, and bear

Some other recompense: we too must go:

Let us, my lord, I beg thee, let us quit

These horrid mansions of the dead, where naught

But dreadful images on every side

Surrounds me: O we never can prepare

The bloody feast between the father’s tomb

And the son’s ashes! How shall we invoke

The household gods, whom we have injured; how,

Amidst our cruel sports, give up the blood

Of Clytemnæstra to the murderer

Of her Orestes? O it must not be!

I tremble at the thought: my fears, Ægisthus,

Should waken thine: this stranger rives my heart;

His very sight is deadliest poison to me.

Away, my lord, and let me be concealed

From every eye; would it were possible

To hide me from myself!

[Exit Clytemnæstra.

ægisthus.

[To Orestes.

Stay thou, and wait

Till time befriend thee; nature for a moment

Is clamorous and loud, but soon as reason

Shall reassume its empire, interest then

Must plead thy cause, and she alone be heard.

Meantime remain with us, and celebrate

Our nuptial day:

[To one of his attendants.

Haste you to Epidaurus,

And hither bring my son; let him confirm

The welcome tidings.

SCENE V.

orestes, pylades.

orestes.

Yes, Orestes comes

To join the cruel pomp, and make thy feast

A feast of blood.

pylades.

O how I trembled for thee!

I feared thy love; I feared thy tenderness;

And, more than all, thy honest rage, that burst

In transports forth when thou beheldest the tyrant:

I saw thee ready to insult him; saw

Thy soul take fire at Agamemnon’s name,

And dreaded the sad consequence.

orestes.

My mother,

O, Pylades, my mother pierced my heart.

Didst thou not mark the workings of her soul

Whilst I was speaking? O I felt them all!

Scarce could my voice in faltering accents tell

The melancholy tale, whilst Clytemnæstra

Still gazed, and trembled still: a father’s murder;

A sister unrevenged; a tyrant yet

Unpunished; and a mother to be taught

Her interest and her duty; what a weight

Of secret cares! great heaven complete thy work!

Urge on the lingering moments that retard

My vengeance; O, let me perform the task

Of love, and hatred; let me mix the blood

Of base Ægisthus with the vile remains

Of Plisthenes; let sweet Electra see

The cruel tyrant gasping at my feet,

And know her dear deliverer in Orestes!

SCENE VI.

orestes, pylades, pammenes.

orestes.

What hast thou done, Pammenes, may we hope—

pammenes.

O my dear lord, never, since the fatal day

When Agamemnon fell, did greater perils

Threaten thy precious life.

orestes.

Ha! what hath happened?

pylades.

Still

Must I have cause to tremble for Orestes?

pammenes.

This instant is arrived a messenger

From Epidaurus, and ere this related

The death of Plisthenes.

pylades.

Immortal gods!

orestes.

And knows he that Orestes slew his son?

pammenes.

They speak of nothing but his death; ere long

Fresh tidings are expected; and the news

Meantime concealed from Greece that she has lost

One of her tyrants; the king, still in doubt,

Shuts himself up with Clytemnæstra: this

I learned from one, who, to the royal blood

Still faithful, pines in loathsome servitude

Beneath the proud usurper.

orestes.

I have gathered

At least the first fair fruits of promised vengeance;

Grant me, ye gods, to reap a plenteous harvest!

Thinkest thou, my friend, they would uplift this arm

In vain, and only prosper to deceive me;

To my successful valor give the son,

And after yield me to the father’s power?

Let us away: danger should make us bold;

Who fears not death is master of his foe;

I’ll seize the moment of uncertainty,

Ere the full day of truth glares in upon him,

And points his rage.

pammenes.

Away: you must be known

To those few noble spirits who will die

To serve their prince; this secret place conceals

Some faithful friends, who may be still more useful,

Because unknown.

pylades.

Haste then; and if the tomb

Of thy dear father, if thy honored name

Joined to Electra’s, if the wrath of heaven

Against usurpers, if the gracious gods

Who hither led thee, if they all should fail,

If this detested spot is doomed by fate

To be thy grave, O take a wretched life

To thee devoted, we will die together,

That comfort’s left; for Pylades shall fall

Close by thy side, and worthy of Orestes.

orestes.

Strike me, kind heaven! but O for pity save

His matchless valor, and protect my friend!

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

orestes, pylades.

orestes.

Perhaps the vigilance of good Pammenes

May for awhile remove the king’s suspicions;

And gracious heaven, in pity to our woes,

Deceive Ægisthus to a fond belief,

That the devoted race of Tantalus

Is now no more; but, O my Pylades,

The sword I offered at my father’s tomb

Is stolen by sacrilegious hands, that reach

Even to the sacred mansions of the dead:

If it be carried to the tyrant, all

Will be discovered; let us haste, my friend,

And seize him, ere it be too late.

pylades.

Pammenes

Is watchful o’er our interest: we must wait

For him: when we have gathered the few friends

That mean to serve us, be this tomb the place

Of meeting for us all, Pammenes then

Will join us here.

orestes.

O Pylades, O heaven!

This barbarous law that forces me to wound

A tender heart that lives but for Orestes!

And must I leave Electra to her sorrows?

pylades.

Yes: thou hast sworn it, therefore persevere;

Thou hast more cause to dread Electra now

Than all thy foes; she may destroy, but never

Can serve us, and the tyrant’s eyes may soon

Be opened: O subdue, if possible,

The pangs of nature, and conceal thy love:

We came not here to comfort thy Electra,

But to avenge her.

orestes.

See, my Pylades,

She comes this way, perhaps in search of me.

pylades.

Her every step is watched: you must not see her:

Begone; and doubt not, I’ll observe her well;

The eyes of friendship seldom are deceived.

SCENE II.

electra, iphisa, pylades.

electra.

The villain hath escaped me; he avoids

My hated sight, and leaves me to my fate,

To fruitless rage, and unavailing tears,

Without the hope of vengeance: say, barbarian,

Thou vile accomplice in his crimes, where went

The murderer, my tyrant, my new lord,

(For so it seems Ægisthus has decreed)

Where is he gone?

pylades.

To do the will of heaven,

In dutiful obedience to the gods,

And well would it become the royal maid

To follow his example: fate ofttimes

Deceives the hearts of men, directs in secret,

And guides their wandering steps through paths unknown;

Ofttimes it sinks us in the deep abyss

Of misery, and then raises us to joy;

Binds us in chains, or lifts us to a throne,

And gives us life midst horrors, tombs, and death.

Complain no more, but yield to thy new sorrows;

Be patient, and be happy: fare thee well.

SCENE III.

electra, iphisa.

electra.

He swells my rage to fury and despair:

Thinks he I’ll tamely bear these cruel insults?

Could not a father’s and a brother’s death

Fill up the measure of Electra’s woes;

But she must bend beneath the vile assassin

Of her Orestes; be a common slave

To all the murderers of her hapless race?

Thou dreadful sword, wet with Orestes’ blood,

Exposed in triumph at the sacred tomb,

Thou execrable trophy, for a moment

Thou didst deceive me, but thou hast insulted

The ashes of the dead; I’ll make thee serve

A nobler purpose: though Ægisthus hides

His guilty head, and with the queen in secret

Plans future crimes, and meditates destruction,

Still we may find the murderer of Orestes:

I cannot bathe me in the blood of both

My tyrants, but on one at least my soul

Shall be revenged.

iphisa.

I cannot blame the grief

Which I partake; but hear me, hear the voice

Of reason; every tongue speaks of Orestes;

They say, he lives, and the king’s fears confirm it.

You saw Pammenes talking with this stranger

In secret, saw his ardent zeal to serve

And to attend him: thinkest thou, our best friend,

Our comforter, the good old man, would e’er

Associate with a murderer? never, never,

He could not be so base.

electra.

He may be false,

Or weak; old age is easily deceived:

We are betrayed by all; I know we are:

Did not the cruel stranger boast his deed?

Did not Ægisthus yield me up a victim?

Was not Electra made the price of guilt,

The murderer’s reward? Orestes calls me

To join him in the tomb: now then, my sister,

If e’er thou lovest Electra, pity her

In her last moments; bloody they must be,

And terrible. Away; inform thyself

Touching Pammenes; see if the assassin

Be with the queen: she flatters all my foes;

She heard unmoved the murder of her son,

And seemed, O gods! a mother seemed, to share

The guilty transport with her savage lord.

O that this sword could reach him in her arms,

And pierce the traitor’s heart! I’ll do it.

iphisa.

No more:

Indeed you wrong her; for the sight of him

Offends her: be not thus precipitate

And rash, Electra; I will to Pammenes,

And talk with him: or I am much deceived,

Or by their silence they but mean to hide

Some mystery from us: your imprudent warmth

(Yet who would not forgive it in the wretched?)

Perhaps alarms them, and they would conceal

From you their purpose; what it is, I know not:

Pammenes seems to shun you, let me go

And speak to him; but do not, my Electra,

Hazard a deed thou wilt too late repent of.

SCENE IV.

electra.

The subtle tyrants have gained o’er Pammenes;

Old age is weak and fearful: what can faith

Or friendship do against the hand of power?

Henceforth Electra to herself alone

Shall trust her vengeance: ’tis enough: these hands,

Armed with despair, shall act with double vigor.

Arise ye furies, leave your dark abode

For seats more guilty, and another hell,

Open your dreary caverns, and receive

Your victims: bring your flaming torches here,

Daughters of vengeance, arm yourselves and me;

Approach, with death and terror in your train;

Orestes, Agamemnon, and Electra

Invoke your aid: and lo! they come, I see

Their glittering swords, and unappalled behold them;

They are not half so dreadful as Ægisthus:

The murderer comes; and see, they throng around him;

Hell points him out, and yields him to my vengeance.

SCENE V.

electra.

[At the bottom of the stage.

orestes.

[On the other side at a distance from her.

orestes.

Where am I? hither they directed me:

O my dear country! and thou, fatal spot

That gave me birth, thou great but guilty race

Of Tantalus, for ever shall thy blood

Be wretched? horror here on every side

Surrounds me: wherefore am I punished thus?

What have I done? why must Orestes suffer

For his forefathers’ crimes?

electra.

[Advancing a little from the bottom of the stage.

What power withholds me?

I cannot lift my arm against him; but

I will go on.

orestes.

Methought I heard a voice:

O my dear father, ever-honored shade,

Much injured Agamemnon, didst thou groan?

electra.

Just heaven! durst he pronounce that sacred name?

And see he weeps: can sighs and penitence

Find entrance here? but what is his remorse

To the dire horrors that Electra feels!

[She comes forward.

He is alone; now strike—die, traitor—O

I cannot—

orestes.

Gods! Electra, art thou here,

Furious and trembling?

electra.

Sure thou art some god

Who thus unnervest me—thou has slain my brother:

I would have taken thy life for it, but the sword

Dropped from my hand; thy genius hath prevailed;

I yield to thee, and must betray my brother.

orestes.

Betray him, no! O, why am I restrained?—

electra.

At sight of thee my resolution dies,

And all is changed: could it be thou who filled

My soul with terror?

orestes.

O, I would repay

Thy precious tears with hazard of my life!

electra.

Methought I heard thee speak of Agamemnon.

O gentle youth, deceive me not, but speak:

For I had well nigh done a desperate deed;

O show me all the guilt of it! explain

The mystery; tell me who thou art.

orestes.

O sister

Of dear Orestes, fly from me, avoid me.

electra.

But wherefore? speak.

orestes.

No more—I am—take heed

They see us not together.

electra.

Gracious heaven!

Thou fillest my heart with terror and with joy.

orestes.

O if thou lovest thy brother—

electra.

Love him! yes:

And O in thee I hear a father’s voice,

And see his features; nature hath unveiled

The mystery: O be kind and speak for her,

Do not deny it; say thou art my brother:

Thou art, I know thou art—my dear Orestes;

How could a sister seek thy precious life?

orestes.

[Embracing her.

Heaven threatens in vain, and nature will prevail:

Electra is more powerful than the gods.

electra.

The gods have given a sister to thy vows,

And dost thou fear their wrath?

orestes.

Their cruel orders

Would have deprived me of my dear Electra,

And may perhaps chastise a brother’s weakness.

electra.

Thy weakness there was virtue; O rejoice

With me, Orestes; wherefore wouldst thou force me

To that rash act? it might have cost thee dear.

orestes.

I’ve broken my sacred promise.

electra.

’Twas thy duty.

orestes.

A secret trusted to me by the gods.

electra.

I drew it from thee; I extorted it;

Mine be the guilt; an oath more sacred far

Binds me to vengeance: what hast thou to fear?

orestes.

My destiny, the oracles, the blood

From whence I sprung.

electra.

That blood henceforth shall flow

In purer streams; haste then, and join with me

To scourge the guilty; oracles and gods

Are all propitious to our great design,

And the same power that saved will guide Orestes.

SCENE VI.

electra, orestes, pylades, pammenes.

electra.

Rejoice with me, my friends, for I have found

My dear Orestes.

pylades.

[To Orestes.

Hast thou then revealed

The dangerous secret? Couldst thou think—

orestes.

If heaven

Expects obedience, it must give us laws

We can obey.

electra.

Canst thou reproach him thus

Only for making poor Electra happy?

Wouldst thou adopt the cruel sentiments

Of persecuting foes, and hide Orestes

From my embraces? what unjust decree

What harsh commands—

pylades.

I meant to save him for thee,

That he might live, and be thy great avenger.

pammenes.

Princess, thou knowest, in this detested place

They watch thee nearly; every sigh is heard,

And every motion carefully observed:

Those private friends, whose humble state eludes

The tyrants search, adore this noble youth,

And would have served him; everything’s prepared;

But thy imprudence now will hazard all.

electra.

Did not Ægisthus give me to a hand,

Stained, as he thought, with my Orestes’ blood?

[To Orestes.

Thou art my master; I am bound to serve thee;

I will obey the tyrant; his commands,

For once, are welcome, and the prospect brightens

On every side.

pammenes.

It may be clouded soon,

Ægisthus is alarmed, and we have cause

To tremble; if he but suspects us, death

Must be our portion, therefore let us part.

pylades.

[To Pammenes.

Hence, good Pammenes, bring our friends together,

The hours are precious; haste and finish soon

Thy noble work; ’tis time we should appear,

And—like ourselves.

SCENE VII.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, electra, orestes, pylades,Guards.

ægisthus.

Slaves, execute your office,

And bear these traitors to the dungeon.

orestes.

Once

There ruled o’er Argos those who better knew

The rights of hospitality.

pylades.

Ægisthus,

What is our crime? Inform us, and at least

Respect this noble youth.

ægisthus.

Away with them;

Ye stand aghast, as if ye feared to touch

His sacred person: hence, I say, take heed

Ye disobey me not: guards, drag them off.

electra.

O stay, barbarian, stay; for heaven itself

Pleads for their sacred lives—they tear them from me,

O gods!

ægisthus.

Electra, tremble for thyself,

Perfidious as thou art, and dread my wrath.

SCENE VIII.

electra, clytemnæstra.

electra.

O hear me, if thou art a mother, hear;

Let me recall thy former tenderness,

Forgive my guilty rage, the sad effect

Of unexampled sorrows; to complain,

Is still, the mournful privilege of grief:

Pity these wretched strangers; heaven perhaps,

Whose dreadful vengeance thou so long hast feared,

May for their sakes forgive thy past offences;

The pardon thou bestowest on them may plead

For thee: O save them, save them.

clytemnæstra.

Why shouldst thou

Be thus solicitous? What interest prompts

Thy ardent zeal?

electra.

Thou seest, the gods protect them,

Who saved them from the Ocean’s boisterous rage,

And brought them here: heaven gives them to thy care,

And will require them at thy hands—to one,

O if thou knewest him—but they both are wretched.

Are we in Argos, or at Tauris, where

The cruel priestess bids her altars smoke

With stranger’s blood? What must I do to save him?

Command, and I obey: to Plisthenes

You’d have me wedded; I submit, though death

Were far more welcome; lead me to his bed.

clytemnæstra.

You mean to mock us: knowest thou not, he’s dead?

electra.

Just heaven! and hath Ægisthus lost a son?

clytemnæstra.

I see the joy that sparkles in thy eyes;

Thou art pleased to hear it.

electra.

No: I am too wretched

To be delighted with another’s woe:

I pity the unhappy, nor would shed

The blood of innocence: O save the strangers!

I ask no more.

clytemnæstra.

Away: I understand thee,

And know thee but too well; thou hast confirmed

The king’s suspicions, and revealed the secret:

One of these strangers is—Orestes.

electra.

Well,

Suppose it were; suppose that gracious heaven,

In tender pity, had restored thy son—

clytemnæstra.

O dreadful moment! how am I to act?

electra.

Is it a doubt, and canst thou hesitate?

Thy son! O heaven! think on his past misfortunes,

Think on his merits; but if still thy mind

Is doubtful, all is lost: farewell Orestes.

clytemnæstra.

I’m not in doubt; I am resolved; even thou,

With all thy fury, canst not change the love,

The tenderness I bear him: I will guard,

Save, and protect him—he may punish me,

Perhaps he will; I tremble at his name;

No matter—I’m a mother still, and love

My children; thou mayst yet preserve thy hate.

electra.

No: I will fall submissive at thy feet,

And thank thy bounty: now, indulgent heaven,

Thy mercy shines superior to thy wrath;

For thou hast given a mother to my vows,

Changed her resentful heart, and saved Orestes.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

electra.

I am forbid to enter here; oppressed

With fears, in vain I lift these hands to heaven:

Iphisa comes not; but behold the gates

Are opened: ha! she’s here, I tremble.

SCENE II.

electra, iphisa.

electra.

Say,

My dear Iphisa, what have I to hope,

Will Clytemnæstra dare to be a mother?

Has she the power, has she the will to make us

Some poor amends for all the cruel evils

She has inflicted on us? Could she e’er—

But she’s a slave to guilt, and to Ægisthus:

I am prepared to hear the worst; O speak,

Say, all is past, and we must die.

iphisa.

I hope,

And yet I fear: Ægisthus hath received

Some dark suggestions, but is doubtful still,

Whether Orestes is his prisoner here,

And Clytemnæstra never named her son:

She seems to feel a mother’s fondness for him,

And, pierced with anguish, trembles for his life:

She struggles with herself, and fears alike

To speak or to be silent; strives to soothe

The tyrant’s rage, and save them from his vengeance:

But should Orestes once be known, he dies.

electra.

O cruel thought! perhaps when I implored

My barbarous mother I destroyed Orestes;

Her grief will but enrage the fierce Ægisthus;

Nature is ever fatal here: I dread

Her silence, and yet would not have her speak;

Danger is on every side: but say, Iphisa,

What hath Pammenes done?

iphisa.

His feeble age

Seems strengthened by misfortune, and our dangers

But breathe new spirit o’er his ardent zeal

To serve our cause; he animates our friends

With double vigor; even the servile throng,

That cringe around the tyrant’s throne, begin

To murmur at the name of great Orestes:

Veterans, who served beneath the father, burn

With honest ardor to support the son:

Such power have justice and the sacred laws

O’er mortal minds, howe’er by vice corrupted.

electra.

O that Electra could inflame their souls

With glowing virtue, breathe her own fierce spirit

Into their timid hearts, and animate

Their cold resentment! would I had but known,

Ere he arrived on this detested shore,

That my Orestes lived! or that Pammenes

Had further urged—

SCENE III.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, electra, iphisa,Guards.

ægisthus.

Guards, seize that hoary traitor,

And let him be confronted with those strangers

Whom I have doomed to death; he is their friend,

And confidant, the accomplice in their crimes:

How dreadful was the snare which they had laid!

O, Claytemnæstra, ’tis the cursed Orestes,

It must be he; do not deceive thyself,

Do not defend him: O, I see it all,

It is too plain: alas! this urn contains

The ashes of my son: the murderers brought

This fatal present to his weeping father.

clytemnæstra.

Canst thou believe—

ægisthus.

I can; I must rely

On the sworn hatred ’twixt the unhappy children

Of Atreus and Thyestes; must believe

The time, the place, the rage of fierce Electra,

Iphisa’s tears, your undeserved compassion,

Your ill-timed pity for these base assassins;

Orestes lives, and I have lost my son;

But I have caught him in the toils; whiche’er

It be, for yet I know not, I’ll be just,

I’ll sacrifice the murderer to my son,

And to his mother.

clytemnæstra.

Horrid sacrifice!

I must not see it.

ægisthus.

Horrible to thee?

clytemnæstra.

O yes; already blood enough hath flowed

In this sad scene of slaughter: O ’tis time

To end the woes of Pelops’ hapless race:

If after all it should not be Orestes,

Wouldst thou, on dark suspicion’s vague report,

Murder the innocent? and if it be

Indeed my son, my lord, I must defend him,

Must gain his pardon at thy hands, or perish.

ægisthus.

I cannot, dare not yield to thy request;

For thy own sake I dare not; thy fond pity

May be thy ruin; all that melts thy heart

To soft compassion, sharpens mine to rage

And fierce resentment: one of them I know

Must be Orestes, therefore both shall die;

I ought not even to hesitate a moment:

Guards, do your office.

iphisa.

O, my lord, behold me

Low at your feet; must all our hapless race

Thus humbly bend, thus supplicate in vain?

Electra, kneel with me, embrace his knees,

Thy pride destroys us.

electra.

Can I stoop so low?

Shall I bring foul disgrace on thee, my brother,

And ignominy, and shame? it shocks my soul;

But I will suffer all to save Orestes.

[Turning to Ægisthus.

It thou wilt save him, here I promise thee,

(Not to forget my father’s murder, that

I never can, but) in respectful silence

To pay thee homage, still to live with thee

A willing slave, let but my brother live.

ægisthus.

Thy brother dies, and thou shalt live a slave;

My vengeance is complete: thy pride is humbled,

And sues in vain.

clytemnæstra.

Ægisthus, ’tis too much,

To trample thus on the unhappy race

Of him who was thy master once; away,

Spite of thy rage, I will defend my son;

Deaf as thou art to a fond sister’s prayers,

A mother’s may prevail: O think, my lord,

Think on thy happy state, above the reach

Of adverse fortune no, Orestes ne’er

Can hurt thee, and Electra bends submissive

Beneath thy power, Iphisa at thy feet;

Can nothing move thee? I have gone too far

Already with thee in the paths of guilt,

And offered up a dreadful sacrifice.

Thinkest thou I’ll yield thee up my purest blood

To glut thy rage? Am I forever doomed

To take a murderous husband to my arms?

At Aulis one a lovely daughter slew,

The other threatens to destroy my son

Before my eyes, close to his father’s tomb:

O rather let this fatal diadem,

Hateful to Greece, and to myself a load

Of misery, fall with me, and be no more

Remembered! O Ægisthus, well thou knowest,

I loved thee, ’tis amongst my blackest crimes,

And stands the foremost; but I love my children,

And will defend them; against thy arm upraised

To shed their blood will lift my vengeful hand,

And blast thy purpose: tremble, for thou knowest me:

The bands are sacred that united us,

Thy interest is most dear to Clytemnæstra:

Remember still, Orestes is my son,

And fear his mother.

electra.

You surpass my hopes.

Surely a heart like thine could ne’er be guilty;

Go on, my honored mother, and avenge

Your children, and your husband.

ægisthus.

Slave, thou fillest

The measure of thy crimes: gods! shall Ægisthus

Withhold his vengeance for a woman’s cries,

For Agamemnon’s widow, and her children?

Unhappy queen! say, whom dost thou accuse?

Whom dost thou plead for? hear me and obey.

Away with them to instant death.

SCENE IV.

ægisthus, clytemnæstra, electra, iphisa, dymas.

dymas.

My lord?

ægisthus.

Thou seemest disordered: what has happened? Speak.

dymas.

Orestes is discovered.

iphisa.

Ha! where is he?

clytemnæstra.

My son!

electra.

My brother?

ægisthus.

Have you punished him

As he deserves?

dymas.

My lord, as yet he lives.

ægisthus.

And wherefore were my orders disobeyed?

dymas.

His friend and fellow-captive, Pylades,

Pointed him out, and to the soldiers showed

Great Agamemnon’s son; they seemed much moved;

I dread the consequence.

ægisthus.

I must prevent it,

For they shall die: who dares not to revenge me

Shall feel my justice: Dymas, follow me:

Stay thou and guard his sisters; I defy

The blood of Agamemnon: from the father

Of Plisthenes, and great Thyestes’ son,

What mortal, or what god, shall save Orestes?

SCENE V.

clytemnæstra, electra, iphisa.

iphisa.

Fear not, but follow him; Electra, speak,

Exhort our friends, and animate their zeal.

electra.

[To Clytemnæstra.

O, in the name of powerful nature, now

Complete thy noble work; conduct us, fly—

clytemnæstra.

You must not hence, the guards will not permit it:

Stay here, my children, and rely on me,

On a fond mother, and a tender wife:

I will perform the double task, and take

Orestes and Ægisthus to my care.

SCENE VI.

electra, iphisa.

iphisa.

Alas! the avenging god pursues us still;

Though she defends Orestes, still Ægisthus

Is at her heart; perhaps the tender cries

Of pity and remorse shall naught avail

Against the tyrant; he is proud, revengeful,

Implacable, and furious; who shall save

If he condemns? we must submit, and die.

electra.

O that before my death I had not fallen

So low as to entreat him, to belie

My honest heart, and supplicate the tyrant!

Despair and horror sink me to the tomb

With infamy and shame; my vain endeavors

To save Orestes but urge on his fate.

Where are these boasted friends Pammenes talked of,

Who, with fell rancor, and determined hate,

Pursued Ægisthus? Where those vengeful gods

Who hid Orestes from my sight, upraised

His righteous arm, and promised to support him?

Where are ye now, infernal goddesses,

Daughters of night, ye who so lately shook

Your dreadful torches here? all nature once

United seemed to guard and to protect us,

But all desert us now, all court Ægisthus,

And men and gods, and heaven and hell betray me.

SCENE VII.

electra, pylades, iphisa.

electra.

What sayest thou, Pylades? the deed is done?

pylades.

It is: Electra’s free, and heaven obeyed.

electra.

How?

pylades.

Yes, Orestes reigns: he sent me hither.

iphisa.

Just gods!

electra.

Orestes! is it possible!

I faint, I die with joy.

pylades.

Orestes lives,

And has avenged the blood of innocence.

electra.

What wondrous power hath wrought this strange event.

pylades.

His father’s name, Electra’s, and his own;

His valor, and his virtue; our misfortunes,

Justice, and pity; and the power that pleads

In human hearts for wretchedness like thine.

Pammenes, by the tyrant’s order bound,

Was led with us to death; in weeping crowds

The people followed, and deplored our fate:

I saw their rage was equal to their fears,

But the guards watched them closely: then Orestes

Cried, “Strike, ye slaves, and sacrifice the last

Of Argos’ kings; ye dare not.” When he spoke,

On his fair front such native majesty

And royal lustre shone, we almost thought

Great Agamemnon’s spirit from the tomb

Had risen, and came once more to bless mankind.

I spoke, and friendship’s happy voice prevailed;

The people rose, the soldiers stood aghast,

And dropped the uplifted falchions from their hands;

The crowd encircled us, and desperate love,

With friendship joined, fought nobly for Orestes;

The joyful people bore him off in triumph:

Ægisthus flew to seize his destined prey,

And in the slave he meant to punish, found

A conqueror: pleased I saw his humbled pride;

His friends deserted, and his guards betrayed him:

The insulting people triumphed in his fall.

O glorious day! O all discerning justice!

Ægisthus wears the chains that bound Orestes;

The queen alone attends, protects, and saves him

From the mad crowd, that press tumultuous on,

Big with revenge, and thirsting for his blood;

While Clytemnæstra holds him in her arms,

And shields him from their rage, implores Orestes

To save her husband: he respects her still,

Fulfils the duties of a son and brother:

Safe from the foe you will behold him soon

Triumphant here, a conqueror and a king.

iphisa.

Let us away, to greet the loved Orestes,

And comfort our afflicted mother.

electra.

Gods!

What unexpected bliss! O Pylades,

Thou best of friends, thou kind protector, haste,

Let us begone.

pylades.

[To his attendants.

Take off those shameful bonds;

[They take off her chains.

Fall from her hands, ye chains, for they were made

To wield a sceptre.

SCENE VIII.

electra, iphisa, pylades, pammenes.

electra.

O Pammenes, where,

Where is my Orestes, my deliverer?

Why comes he not?

pammenes.

This is a dreadful moment,

And full of terror, for his father’s spirit

Demands a sacrifice, and justice waits

To pay it, so hath heaven decreed: this tomb

Must be the altar where the victim’s blood

Shall soon be shed; that sacred duty done,

He will attend thee; but thou must not see

A sight so terrible: thou knowest the laws

Of Argos suffer not thy spotless hands

To join with her ere the appointed time.

iphisa.

But say, Pammenes, what of Clytemnæstra,

How acts she in this dreadful crisis?

pammenes.

Vainly

She deprecates the wrath of fierce Orestes,

And strives to save Ægisthus; kneels for pardon,

And craves that boon she never will obtain:

Meantime the furies, deaf to her entreaties,

And thirsting for the cruel murderer’s blood,

Throng round Orestes, and demand his life.

iphisa.

O may this day of terror be a day

Of pardon and forgiveness; may it finish

The cruel woes of our unhappy race!

Hark, Pylades, Electra, heard ye not

A dreadful groan?

electra.

My mother’s sure.

pammenes.

’Tis she.

clytemnæstra.

[Behind the scenes.

O spare me!

iphisa.

Heaven!

clytemnæstra.

[Behind the scenes.

My son!

electra.

He kills Ægisthus.

O hear her not, Orestes, but go on,

Revenge, revenge, dissolve the horrid tie,

And sacrifice the murderer in her arms:

Strike deep.

clytemnæstra.

My son! O, thou hast slain thy mother.

pylades.

O cruel fate!

iphisa.

O guilt!

electra.

O wretched brother!

Crimes punish crimes; forever be this day

Lamented by us!

SCENE IX.

orestes.

[Enters.

Open wide, thou earth,

And swallow me: O Clytemnæstra, Atreus,

And Tantalus, I come, I follow you

To Erebus, a partner in your crimes,

To share your tortures.

electra.

O what hast thou done?

orestes.

She strove to save him, and I smote them both—

I can no more—

electra.

She fell then by thy hand!

O dreadful stroke! and couldst thou—

orestes.

’Twas not I;

’Twas not Orestes; some malignant power

Guided my hand, the hateful instrument

Of heaven’s eternal wrath: Orestes lives

But to be wretched; banished from my country,

When my dear father fell, my mother slain,

And by my hand; an exile from the world,

Bereft of parents, country, fortune, friends,

Now must I wander: all is lost to me:

O thou bright orb, thou ever glorious sun,

Shocked at our crimes, and Atreus’s horried feast,

Thou didst withdraw thy beams, and yet thou shinest

On me! O wherefore in eternal night

Dost thou not bury all? O tyrant gods,

Merciless powers, who punished me for guilt

Yourselves commanded, O for what new crime

Am I reserved? speak—ye pronounce the name

Of Tauris, there I’ll seek the murderous priestess,

Who offers blood alone to the angry gods,

To gods less cruel, less unjust than you.

electra.

Stay, and conjure their justice and their hate.

pylades.

Where’er the gods may lead, thy Pylades

Shall follow still, and friendship triumph o’er

The woes of mortals, and the wrath of heaven.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

SÉMIRAMIS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sémiramis.

Arsaces, or Ninias.

Azema, a Princess of the Family of Belus.

Assur, a Prince of the Family of Belus.

Oroes, High Priest.

Otanes, a Favorite of Semiramis.

Mitranes, Friend of Arsaces.

Cedar, Friend of Assur. Guards, Magi, Slaves, Attendants.

This was produced in 1748 and a burlesque upon it was played at Fontainebleau.

ACT I.

The scene represents a large peristyle, at the bottom of which is the palace of Sémiramis. Gardens with fine hanging terraces, raised above the palace: on the right hand the temple of the magi, and on the left a mausoleum adorned with obelisks.

SCENE I.

arsaces, mitranes.

[Two slaves at a distance carrying a coffer.

arsaces.

Once more, Mitranes, thou beholdest thy friend,

Who, in obedience to the royal mandate

In secret sent, revisits Babylon,

The seat of empire; how Sémiramis

Imprints the image of her own great soul

On every object! these stupendous piles,

These deep enclosures, where Euphrates pours

His tributary waves; the temple’s pride,

The hanging gardens, and the splendid tomb

Of Ninus, wondrous monuments of art!

And only less to be admired than she

Who raised them! here, in all her splendid pomp,

More honored than the monarchs of the East,

Arsaces shall behold this glorious queen.

mitranes.

O my Arsaces, credit not the voice

Of Fame, she is deceitful oft, and vain;

Perhaps hereafter thou mayest weep with me,

And admiration on a nearer view

May turn to pity.

arsaces.

Wherefore?

mitranes.

Sunk in grief,

Sémiramis hath spread o’er every heart

The sorrows which she feels; sometimes she raves,

Filling the air with her distressful cries,

As if some vengeful God pursued her; sits

Silent and sad within these lonely vaults,

Sacred to night, to sorrow, and to death,

Which mortals dare not enter; where the ashes

Of Ninus, our late honored sovereign, lie:

There will she oft fall on her knees and weep:

With slow and fearful steps she glides along,

And beats her breast besprinkled with her tears:

Oft as she treads her solitary round,

Will she repeat the names of son and husband,

And call on heaven, which in its anger seems

To thwart her in the zenith of her glory.

arsaces.

Whence can her sorrow flow?

mitranes.

The effect is dreadful:

The cause unknown.

arsaces.

How long hath she been thus

Oppressed, Mitranes?

mitranes.

From the very time

When first her orders came to bring Arsaces.

arsaces.

Me, saidst thou?

mitranes.

You, my lord: when Babylon

Rejoicing met to celebrate thy conquests,

And saw the banners thy victorious arm

Had wrested from our vanquished foes; when first

Euphrates brought to our delighted shore

The lovely Azema, from Belus sprung,

Whom thou hadst saved from Scythian ravishers,

Even in that hour of triumph and success,

Even in the bosom of prosperity,

The heart of majesty was pierced with grief,

And the throne lost its lustre.

arsaces.

Azema

Was not to blame; she could not be the cause

Of sorrow or distress; one look from her

Would soothe the wrath of gods: but say, my friend,

Sémiramis is still a sovereign here,

Her heart is not forever sunk in grief?

mitranes.

No: when her noble mind shakes off the burden,

Resumes its strength, and shines in native lustre,

Then we behold in her exalted soul

Powers that excel whatever flattery’s self

Hath e’er bestowed on kings; but when she sinks

Beneath this dreadful malady, loose flow

The reins of empire, dropping from her hand;

Then the proud satrap, fiery Assur, guides

The helm and makes the nations groan beneath him:

The fatal secret never yet hath reached

The walls of Babylon: abroad we still

Are envied, but, alas! we mourn at home.

arsaces.

What lessons of instruction to weak mortals,

When happiness is mingled thus with woe!

I, too, am wretched, thus deprived of him

Whose piercing wisdom best could give me council,

And lead me through the mazes of a court.

O I have cause to weep: without a father,

Left as I am to all the dangerous passions

Of heedless youth, without a friendly guide,

What rocks encompass and what shoals affright me!

mitranes.

I weep with thee the loss of him we loved,

The good old man; Phradates was my friend;

Ninus esteemed and gave to him the care

Of Ninias, his dear son, our country’s hope:

But O! one fatal day destroyed them both,

Father and son: to voluntary exile

Devoted, long he lived: his banishment

Was fortunate to thee, and made thee great:

Close by his side, in honor’s glorious field,

Arsaces fought, and conquered for his country:

Now, ranked with princes, thy exalted virtue

Claims its reward by merit all thy own.

arsaces.

I know not what may be my portion here:

Perhaps, distinguished on Arbazan’s plains

With fair success, my name is not unknown:

On Oxus’ banks to great Sémiramis,

When vanquished nations paid the homage due,

From her triumphant cars she dropped a ray

Of her own glory on Arsaces’ head:

But oft the soldier, honored in the field,

In courts neglected lies, and is forgotten.

My father told me in his dying hour

The fortune of Arsaces here depended

Upon the common cause; then gave to me

These precious relics, which from every eye

He had preserved: I must deliver them

To the high priest, for he alone can judge,

And know their value: I must talk with him

In secret, touching my own fate, for he

Can best conduct me to Sémiramis.

mitranes.

He seldom sees the queen: in solitude

Obscure he lives: his holy ministry

Engrosses all his care; without ambition,

Fearless, and void of art: is always seen

Within the temple, never at the court:

Never affects the pride of rank and title,

Nor his tiara near the diadem

Immodest wears: the less he seeks for greatness,

The more is he admired, the more revered:

I have access to every avenue

Of his retirement in this sacred place,

And can this moment talk to him in secret;

Ere day’s too far advanced I’ll bring him hither.

SCENE II.

arsaces.

[Alone.

Immortal gods! for what am I reserved?

Make known your will: why did my dying father

Thus send me to the sanctuary, me

A soldier, bred amidst the din of arms?

A lover, too? How can Arsaces serve

The gods of the Chaldæans?—Ha! what voice

From yonder tomb in plaintive accents strikes

My frighted ear, and makes my hair to stand

On end with horror! Near this place I’ve heard

The spirit of Ninus dwells—again it shrieks—

It shocks my soul—Ye dark and dreary caves,

And thou, the shade of my illustrious master,

Thou voice of heaven, what wouldst thou with Arsaces?

SCENE III.

arsaces, oroes,the high priest, the magi attending him,mitranes.

mitranes.

[Speaking to Oroes.

He’s here, my lord, and waits to give you up

Those precious relics.

arsaces.

Most revered father,

Permit a soldier to approach your presence,

Pleased to fulfil a father’s last command,

One whom you deigned to love; thus at your feet,

Obedient to his will, I here resign them.

oroes.

Welcome! thou brave and noble youth! that God

Who governs all, and not a father’s will,

Guided thee here: Phradates was my friend;

Dear is his memory to me; thou shalt know

Perhaps hereafter how I love his son:

Where are the gifts he sent me?

arsaces.

[The slaves deliver the coffer to two of the magi, who place it on an altar.

Here, my lord.

oroes.

[Opening the coffer, bowing reverentially to it, and seeming greatly affected.

Ye sacred relics! do these eyes at length

Behold you! O, I weep for joy to press

These monuments of woe, whilst tears recall

My solemn oath: Mitranes, let no ear

Profane disturb our holy mystery:

We would be private.

[The magi retire.

Mark this seal, Arsaces:

’Tis that which to the laws of Ninus gave

Their public force, and kept the world in awe:

The letter, too, which with his dying hand

He wrote: Arsaces, view the wreath that crowned

His royal brows, and his victorious sword:

The vanquished Medes and Persians felt its power:

It comes at last to vindicate its master,

And to revenge him; useless instrument

Against base treachery, and destructive poison,

Whose mortal—

arsaces.

Heaven! what sayest thou?

oroes.

The dread secret

Hath long been hid in darkness from the eyes

Of men within the sepulchre; the shade

Of Ninus, and offended heaven, long time

Have raised their voice in vain, and called for vengeance.

arsaces.

It must be as thou sayest: for know, but now,

Even on this spot, I heard most dreadful groans.

oroes.

It was the voice of Ninus.

arsaces.

Twice the noise

Affrighted me.

oroes.

’Twas he: he calls for vengeance.

arsaces.

He has a right to ask it: but on whom?

oroes.

On the vile murderers, whose detested hands

Had of the best of sovereigns robbed mankind;

No tracks are left behind of the base treason,

But all with him lies buried in the tomb:

With ease might they deceive the sons of men,

But not the all-seeing eye of watchful heaven,

Which pierces the deep night of human falsehood.

arsaces.

O would to heaven this feeble hand had power

To punish crimes like these! I know not wherefore,

But when I cast my eyes towards you tomb,

New horrors rise: O might I not consult

That venerable shade, the inhabitant

Of those dark mansions?

oroes.

No; it is forbidden:

An oracle severe long since denounced

The wrath of heaven against whoe’er should press

Into this vale of tears, inhabited

By death and the avenging gods: await

With me, Arsaces, for the day of justice:

Soon will it come, and all shall be accomplished:

I can no more: sequestered from the world,

I pray in secret to offended heaven,

Which, as it wills, commissions me to speak,

Or close my lips in silence: I have said

All that I dare, and all I ought: be careful

Lest in these walls a word, or look, or gesture,

Betray the secret which the god by me

Hath trusted with thee; for on that depends

His glory, Asia’s welfare, and thy life.

Approach, ye magi, hide these sacred relics

Beneath the altar.

[The great gate of the palace opens, Assur appears at a distance, surrounded by attendants and guards on every side.

Ha! the palace opens:

The courtiers crowding to the queen: behold

The haughty Assur with his servile throng

Of flatterers round him! O almighty power!

On whom dost thou bestow thy bounties here?

O monster!

arsaces.

Ha! what meanest thou?

oroes.

Fare thee well:

When night shall cast her sable mantle o’er

These guilty walls, I’ll have more converse with thee,

Before the gods: revere them, my Arsaces,

For know, brave youth, their eyes are fixed on thee.

SCENE IV.

Arsaces, Mitranes,in the front of the stage,Assur, Cedar,with attendants, on one side.

arsaces.

His words are dreadful; they affright my soul:

What horrid crimes! and what a court is here!

How little known! my royal master poisoned,

And Assur, but too well I see, suspected!

mitranes.

Assur is sprung of royal race, and claims

The deference due to his authority:

He is the favorite of Sémiramis,

And thou, without a blush, mayest pay him homage.

arsaces.

Homage to him!

assur.

[To Cedar.

Ha! do my eyes deceive me,

Or is Arsaces here without my order?

Amazing insolence!

arsaces.

What haughtiness!

assur.

[Advancing.

Come hither, youth: what new engagements here

Have brought you from the camp?

arsaces.

My duty, sir,

And the queen’s orders.

assur.

Did the queen send for you?

arsaces.

She did.

assur.

But, know you not, with her commands

You should have asked for mine?

arsaces.

I know not that,

And should have thought the honor of her crown

Debased by such a mean submission to thee:

My lord, you must forgive a soldier’s roughness,

We are bad courtiers: bred up in the plains

Of Arbazan and Scythia, I have served

Your court, but am not much acquainted with it.

assur.

Age, time, and place, perhaps, may teach you, sir.

What would you with the queen? for know, young man,

Assur alone can lead you to her presence.

arsaces.

I come to ask my valor’s best reward,

The honor still to serve her.

assur.

Thou wantest more,

Presumptuous boy! I know thy bold pretences

To Azema, but that thou wouldst conceal.

arsaces.

Yes: I adore that lovely maid: her heart

Would I prefer to empire: my respect,

My tenderest love—

assur.

No more: thou knowest not whom

Thou art insulting thus: what! join the race

Of a Sarmatian to the demigods

Of Tigris and Euphrates! mark me well:

In pity to thy youth I would advise thee

Ne’er, on thy peril, to Sémiramis

Impart thy insolent request; for know,

Rash boy, if thou shouldst dare to violate

The rights of Assur, ’twill not pass unpunished.

arsaces.

I’ll go this instant: thou hast given me courage:

Thus threatenings always terrify Arsaces:

Thou hast no right, whate’er thy power may be,

To affront a soldier who has served his queen,

The state, and thee: perhaps my warmth offends;

But thou art rasher than myself, to think

That I would bend beneath thy servile yoke,

Or tremble at thy power.

assur.

Perhaps thou mayest;

I’ll teach thee what a subject may expect

For insolence like this.

arsaces.

We both may learn it.

SCENE V.

sémiramis,at the farther end of the stage, leaning on her women.

otanes, assur, arsaces, mitranes,in the front.

otanes.

[Advancing.

My lord, the queen at present would be private:

You must retire, and give her sorrows way:

Withdraw, ye gods, the hand of vengeance from her!

arsaces.

How I lament her fate!

assur.

[To one of his attendants.

Let us begone,

And study how we best may turn her griefs

To our advantage.

[Sémiramis comes forward, and is joined by Otanes.

otanes.

My royal mistress, be yourself again,

And wake once more to joy and happiness.

sémiramis.

O death! when wilt thou come with friendly shade

To close these eyes that hate the light of day?

Be shut, ye caves; horrible phantom, hence!

Strike if thou wilt, but threaten me no more.

Otanes, is Arsaces come?

otanes.

Ere morn

Rose on the temple, madam, he was there.

sémiramis.

That dreadful voice, from heaven or hell I know not,

Which in the dead of night so shakes my soul,

Told me, my sorrows, when Arsaces came,

Would soon be o’er.

otanes.

Rely then on the gods,

And let the cheerful ray of hope dispel

This melancholy.

sémiramis.

Is Arsaces here?

Methinks, when I but hear his name, my soul

Is less disturbed, and guilt sits lighter on me!

otanes.

O! quit, forever quit the sad remembrance:

Let the bright days of great Sémiramis,

Replete with glory, blot one moment out

That broke the chain of thy ill-fated nuptials:

Had Ninus driven thee from his throne and bed,

All Babylon with thee had been destroyed;

But happily for us, and for mankind,

That wanted such distinguished virtues, you

Prevented him; and fifteen years of toil,

Spent in the service of thy country, lands

Desert and waste made fertile by thy care,

The savage tamed, and yielding to the laws,

The useful arts, obedient to thy voice,

Uprising still, the glorious monuments

Of wealth and power, the wonder of mankind,

And the loud plaudit of a grateful people,

All plead thy cause before the throne of heaven;

But if impartial justice hold the scale,

If vengeance is required for Ninus’ death,

Why thus should Assur brave the angry gods,

And live in peace? He was more guilty far

Than thou wert, yet the ruthless hand that poured

The fatal draught never shakes with fear: he feels

No stings of conscience, no remorse affrights him.

sémiramis.

Our duties different, different is our fate:

Where ties are sacred, crimes are heavier far:

I was his wife, Otanes, and I stand

Without excuse; my conscience is my judge

And my accuser: but I hoped the gods,

Offended at my crimes, had punished me

Enough, when they deprived me of my child;

Hoped my successful toils, that made the earth

Respect my name, had soothed the wrath of heaven:

But months on months have passed in agony

Since this dire spectre hath appalled my soul:

My eyes forever see him, and my ears

Still hear his cries: I get me to the tomb,

But dare not enter: trembling I revere

His ashes, and invoke his honored shade,

Which only answers me in dismal groans.

Some dread event is nigh: perhaps the time

Is come to expiate the offence.

otanes.

But thinkest thou

The spirit of thy lord hath left indeed

The mansions of the dead, and stalks abroad?

Ofttimes the soul, by powerful fancy led,

Starts at a phantom of its own creation;

Still it beholds the objects it has made,

And everything we fear is present to us.

sémiramis.

O no! it was not the wild dream of fancy

By slumber wrought, I saw him but too well:

The stranger, Sleep, had long withheld from me

His sweet delusions; watchful as I stood,

And mused on my unhappy fate, a voice

Close to my bed, methought, cried out, “Arsaces!”

The name revived me: well thou knowest, long time

Assur has pierced this heart with deadly grief:

I shudder at his presence, and the blushes

That show my guilt increase my punishment,

Hate the reproachful witness of my shame,

And wish I could—but wherefore should I add

To crimes like mine fresh guilt? I sought Arsaces

To punish Assur, and the thought of him

Awhile relieved me! but in the sweet moment

Of consolation, sudden stood before me

That minister of death, all bathed in blood,

And in his hand a falchion: still I see,

Still hear him: comes he to defend, or punish?

’Twas at that very hour Arsaces came.

This day was fixed by heaven to end my sorrows,

But peace is yet a stranger to my soul,

And hope is lost in horror and despair:

The load of life is grown too heavy for me,

My throne is hateful, and my glories past

But add fresh weight to my calamities.

Long time I’ve hid my sorrows from the world

And blushed in secret, fearful to consult

That reverend sage whom Babylon adores:

I would not thus degrade the majesty

Of sovereign power, or let Sémiramis

Betray her fears before a mortal’s eye,

But I have sent to Libya’s sands in secret

There to consult the oracle of Jove:

As if removed from man, the God of truth

Had hid in desert plains his will divine.

Alas! Otanes, that dread power which dwells

Within these lonely walls, hath long received

My fears and adorations; at his altars

My gifts were offered, and my incense rose;

But gifts and incense never can atone

For crimes like mine: to-day I shall receive

Answers from Memphis.

SCENE VI.

sémiramis, otanes, mitranes.

mitranes.

An Egyptian priest

Is at the palace gate, and begs admittance.

sémiramis.

Then will my woes be ended, or complete.

Let us begone, and hide from Babylon

Her queen’s disgraceful sorrows: let Arsaces

Be sent to me: soon may his presence calm

This storm of grief, and soothe my troubled soul!

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

arsaces, azema.

azema.

To thee, Arsaces, this great empire owes

Its lustre, I my liberty and life.

When vanquished Scythia, thirsting for revenge,

From its wild desert rushed indignant forth,

And bore down all before it; when my father,

Oppressed by numbers, fell, and left me there

A hapless slave; then, armed with thunder, thou,

Piercing their dark retreats, didst break my chains,

And give me ample vengeance on my foes.

Thou wert my great deliverer, Arsaces,

And in return I give thee all my heart;

I will be thine, and only thine; but O!

Our fatal passion will destroy us both:

Thy generous heart, too open and sincere,

Believed that gallant deeds, and fair renown

In arms, would gain thee honors in a court;

And, fearless of success, thou bringest with thee

A hero’s fierceness and a lover’s heart.

Assur is incensed: alas! thou dost not know him:

He is too powerful for us; he rules all

At Babylon; and much, I fear, abuses

His fatal influence o’er Sémiramis:

He is thy great inexorable—rival.

arsaces.

Ha! does he love thee?

azema.

No; that savage mind,

Subtle and dark, a foe to every virtue,

Insensible to love and every charm

But those ambition boasts, could never feel

A real passion for me: but he knows

That Azema is descended from the race

Of our Assyrian kings, and soon may claim

My right of empire here, as next the throne;

And therefore means to blend his interest here

With mine, and gain the sceptre for himself:

But if the youth whom Ninus had decreed,

Even from my infant years, to be my husband,

The son of great Sémiramis, and heir

Of Babylon, were living now, and here

Would offer me his heart and half his empire,

By love I swear, and by thy precious self,

Ninias should sue in vain, and see me quit

A throne with him for banishment with thee.

Even Scythia’s bleak inhospitable plains

Would yield a sweet asylum to our love;

For they would echo my Arsaces’ name,

And sound his praise; those barren wilds, where first

Our passion grew, would be to me a court,

Nor should I cast a thought on Babylon.

But much I fear this subtle statesman means

To carry his resentment further still:

I’ve searched his soul, and know the blackness of it:

Or I mistake, or guilt sits lightly on him;

Already he is jealous of thy glory,

He fears, and hates thee.

arsaces.

And I hate him more,

But fear him not, since Azema is mine:

Keep thou thy faith, and I despise his anger.

At least I share with him the royal favor:

I saw the queen, and her humanity

Equalled the pride of Assur: when I fell

Prostrate before her, gently she upraised me,

And called me the support of Babylon:

With pride I heard the flattering voice of her

Whose name contending kings unite to honor:

The distance ’twixt her royal state and mine

Was lessened soon by mildest condescension;

It touched, it melted me; and, after thee,

To me she seemed, of all the human race,

Most nearly to resemble the divine.

azema.

If she protects us, Assur’s threats are vain:

I heed them not.

arsaces.

Inspired by thee, I went,

Fearless and brave, to lay before the feet

Of my great mistress, that aspiring passion

Which Assur dreads, and Azema approves;

When lo, that very moment came a priest

From Egypt with Ammonian Jove’s decree:

Trembling she opened quick the awful scroll,

First fixed her eyes on me, then sudden turned

Her face aside, and wept: stood fixed in grief

Like one distraught, then sighed, and vanished from me.

They tell me, she is fallen into despair,

And hath of late been dreadfully pursued

By some avenging god: I pity her:

’Tis wonderful that after fifteen years,

Heaven, that so long defended, should at last

Oppress her thus: by what hath she offended

The angry gods, and wherefore are they changed?

azema.

We hear of naught but dreadful spectres, omens,

And vengeance from above: the queen of late

Lets loose the reins of empire: we had cause

To fear for Babylon, least subtle Assur,

Who knows her weakness, in this dangerous time,

Should seize the helm, and bury all in ruin;

But the queen came, and all was calm again;

All owned the power of her despotic sway.

If I have any knowledge of the court,

The queen hates Assur, but keeps fair with him,

And watches close; they’re fearful of each other,

Would quarrel soon, but that some secret cause,

Some mutual interest, still prevents a rupture:

I saw her fire indignant at his name;

The blushes on her cheeks betrayed her thoughts,

And her heart seemed to glow with deep resentment:

But sudden changes happen in a court;

Return, and speak to her.

arsaces.

I will; but know not

Whether again I e’er shall gain admittance.

azema.

Thou hast my vows, my wishes, and my prayers

For thy success: I glory in my love,

And in my duty: let Sémiramis

Rule o’er the vanquished East, I envy her

Nor fame nor conquest; let the world be hers,

Arsaces mine: but Assur comes this way.

arsaces.

The traitor! how I shudder at his presence!

My soul abhors him.

SCENE II.

assur, arsaces, azema.

assur.

Your reception, sir,

I find, was noble, such as kings have oft

Solicited in vain: you saw the queen

In secret, did she not reprove a conduct

Injurious to my honor and her own?

Did she not tell thee Azema’s designed

For Assur, not for thee? Long since her hand

To Ninias given was for the blood of kings

Alone reserved; and therefore is my right,

As next to the throne: did she acquaint you, sir,

Into what fatal snares your pride would lead you,

That neither fame nor honors will excuse

Your bold pretensions?

arsaces.

I well know what’s due

To your high birth, and to the rank you bear,

And should have paid it, though you had not thus

Instructed me; but as a master here

I own you not: your royal ancestors,

From Belus sprung, perhaps may give you claim

To Azema; the welfare of the state,

Present and future, all, I own, conspire

To raise your hopes of bliss, and make her yours:

These are your claims, and I acknowledge them:

But I have one that’s worth them all: I love her:

I might have added this, that I avenged

And saved her, gave new lustre to the throne

Which she was born to fill, if I had chosen,

Like thee, to boast of my exploits before her.

But I must leave thee, to perform her orders.

Sémiramis and her I shall obey,

And them alone: a day perhaps may come

When thou shalt be our master: heaven sometimes

In anger sends us kings: but thou art deceived,

At least in one of thy ambitious views,

If amongst thy subjects thou hast ranked Arsaces.

assur.

The measure’s full: thou courtest thy own destruction.

SCENE III.

assur, azema.

assur.

I’ve borne his insolence too long already,

’Tis time we enter on a nobler subject,

And worthier thy attention.

azema.

Can there be one?

But speak.

assur.

Ere long all Asia shall attend

On our resolves, and low concerns like these

Must pass unheeded by: a world demands

Our mutual care: Sémiramis is now

The shadow of herself, her glory’s past,

That star which shone with such transcendent lustre,

Declining now, sends forth a feeble ray;

The people see and wonder at her fall,

Whilst every tongue demands a—successor:

That word sufficeth: you well know my right:

’Tis not for love to deal forth sovereign power,

And point out who shall rule in Babylon;

Not that my soul, to beauty blind, would make

A virtue of insensibility;

But I should blush for thee and for myself,

To see the welfare of a nation thus

Dependent on a sigh: thoughts worthier both

Must guide my fortune, and determine thine:

Our ancestors the same, we should offend

Their venerable shades, and lose the world

By not uniting: I astonish you:

These are harsh words for tender age like thine;

But I address me to the kings and heroes

From whom you sprung, to all those demigods

Whom here you represent: too long trod down

Beneath a woman’s feet their ashes lay,

Their glories she eclipsed, usurped their power,

And fettered vanquished nations with her laws;

But she is gone, and thou must now support

The building she had raised: she had thy beauty,

And thou must have her courage: let not love

Or folly wrest the sceptre from thy hand,

But grasp it close: you will not sacrifice

To a Sarmatian’s idle passion for you

The name you ought to honor, and the throne

You should ascend, of universal empire.

azema.

Let not Arsaces be the theme, my lord,

Of your reproaches, but depend on me

To vindicate the honor of my race,

And to defend, whene’er occasion calls,

The rights of my loved ancestors; I know

Their worth and virtues, but I know not one

Amongst the heroes which Assyria boasts

More great, more virtuous, more beloved, than he,

Than this Sarmatian, whom you thus disdain.

Do justice to his merit: for myself,

When I shall bend to Hymen’s laws, the queen

Must guide my choice, and at her hands alone

Will I receive a master: for the crowd,

The babbling echo of one secret voice,

I heed it not; nor know I if the people

Are tired of their obedience to a woman,

But still I see them bow the knee before her;

And if they murmur, murmur in the dust:

The hand of heaven, they say, is raised against her:

I am a stranger to her guilt, but think

That heaven would never have made choice of thee

To tell its high commands, or minister

Its justice to mankind: Sémiramis

Is still a queen, and you who lord it here

Receive from her the laws which you dispense:

For me, I own her power, and hers alone:

My glory is to obey, be thine the same.

SCENE IV.

assur, cedar.

assur.

Obey! I blush to think how long already

I have obeyed: O insupportable!

But say, hast thou succeeded, are the seeds

Of hatred sown in secret through the realm?

Will they spring up into a fruitful harvest

Of discord, and rebellion?

cedar.

All is well:

The people, long deluded by the arts

And dazzling glory of Sémiramis,

At length have lost their idle veneration:

No longer chained to silence, they demand

A successor: each lover of his country

Calls for a master, and looks up to thee.

assur.

Heart-burning care! and ever-during shame!

Still must my hopes, my fate depend on her?

Was it for this that Ninus and his son

Fell by my hand, that Assur might be still

Only her first of slaves? So near the throne,

To languish in illustrious servitude,

And only be the second of mankind!

The queen was satisfied with Ninus’ death,

But I went further, and pursued my blow:

Ninias, in secret murdered by my order,

Opened my passage to the throne; but she

Denied me entrance.—A long time in vain

I soothed her pride with flattery on her charms;

Still hoped one day to gain upon her youth

That happy influence which assiduous care

And humble adoration seldom fail

To win o’er artless minds that bend with ease:

I little knew the firmness of her soul,

Inflexible, and bold; the world alone

Could satisfy her pride: she seemed indeed

Most worthy of it: spite of my resentment,

I own she was, and yield the praise she merits.

The reins of empire, that flowed loose before,

Strongly she held; appeased the murmuring crowd,

Silenced their plaints, and quashed conspiring rebels;

Fought like a hero, like a monarch ruled:

She led her army and her people captive,

And spite of fame, with more than magic art,

Chained down the minds of men: the universe

Astonished stood, and trembled at her feet.

In short, her beauty, woman’s best support,

Strengthened the laws which power and valor made;

And when I strove to raise conspiracies

My friends stood mute, and only could admire her.

At length the charm is broke: her power decays;

Her genius droops; remorse, and idle fears,

And fond credulity have bound her faith

To lying oracles, which knavish priests

Had taught to speak in Egypt’s barren plain:

She pours her daily incense at their altars,

And wearies heaven with vows: Sémiramis

Creeps on a level now with common mortals,

And condescends to fear: I know her weakness:

Know, till she falls, Assur can never rise:

But I have raised the people’s voice against her,

And she must yield: this blow decides her fate:

If she consents to give me Azema,

She is no longer queen; if she refuses,

The kingdom will revolt: on every side

The snare is laid, and nothing now can save her.

Yet, after all, perhaps I am deceived,

And fortune, so long called for, comes at last

But to betray me.

cedar.

If the queen is forced

To name a successor, and yields the princess

To Assur’s bed, what can he have to fear,

When the divided branch of Asia’s kings

Shall be united? all conspires to pave

Your way to empire.

assur.

Azema is safe;

She must be mine; but wherefore send so far

For this Arsaces? she supports him too;

And when I would chastise his insolence,

Her interposing hand prevents me still:

A minister without the power, a prince

Without a subject, girt around with honors,

And yet a poor dependent, what is Assur?

All, all unite to persecute me now:

A peevish mistress, and a haughty rival,

Consulted priests that teach their gods to speak

Against me; with Sémiramis, who strives

To free herself, yet trembles at my presence:

But we shall see how far this proud ingrate

Will urge an angry rebel who defies her.

SCENE V.

assur, otanes, cedar.

otanes.

My lord, the queen commands you to attend her

In secret, and alone.

assur.

I shall obey

Her sacred orders, and with care perform

My sovereign’s will.

SCENE VI.

assur, cedar.

assur.

Whence springs this sudden change?

These three months past she has avoided me,

Even as the object of her hatred: oft

When she beheld me she would cast her eyes

Down on the earth, as if she loathed the sight:

Whene’er we met, ’twas in a gaping crowd

Of hearers; when she spoke, her sighs and tears

Would interrupt our converse, or perchance

Silence was all the answer she would give me.

What can she want? What can she say to me?

But here she comes: ’tis she—wait you within.

[To Cedar.

SCENE VII.

sémiramis, assur.

sémiramis.

My lord, I come to ease a troubled heart

Of its long hidden woes, and pour it all

Before you: I have ruled o’er Asia long,

And not ingloriously: Babylon perhaps

May pay this tribute to my memory,

And say Sémiramis deserved to rank

Among the greatest of her kings: thy hands

Have helped me to support the weight of empire;

With absolute dominion have I ruled,

Adored by all, and crowned with victory

On every side: intoxicated long

With flattery’s pleasing incense, I forgot

The crimes that raised me to this envied state;

Forgot the justice of high heaven: it comes;

It speaks to me: Sémiramis must yield:

This noble structure, which I fondly thought

Superior to the injuries of time,

Is tottering now, and shakes from its foundation;

Means must be found to strengthen and support it.

assur.

The work is yours, and you must finish it:

Foresee the attacks of time, and stop his rapine:

Who shall obscure the lustre of thy days,

Or wherefore fearest thou heaven whilst earth obeys thee?

sémiramis.

Yonder the ashes of my husband lie;

Canst thou look there, and wonder at my fears?

assur.

I cannot bear to hear the noisy crowd

Still talk of Ninus: wherefore should remembrance

Call back the thoughts of that inglorious reign?

Can they believe, that, after fifteen years,

His angry spirit still calls out for justice?

Ere now he would have taken due vengeance on us,

Had he the power: why from the peaceful realms

Of dark oblivion wouldst thou call the dead,

Or search for truth in lying oracles?

I am astonished too, but ’tis at thee,

And thy vain fears: to make the gods propitious,

We must be resolute: this idle phantom,

At once the child and parent of your fears,

Why should it thus alarm you? Prodigies

Never appear to those who dread them not:

Baits to allure the unthinking multitude,

By knaves invented, and by fools believed;

The great despise them: but if nobler views

Inspire thy soul to immortalize the blood

Of Belus, if the beauteous Azema

Claims her high rank.—

sémiramis.

Assur, on that I came

To speak with thee: our Babylon demands,

For such is Ammon’s will, a successor:

Heaven and my people will be satisfied

When I shall take a partner to my throne:

Thou knowest, my pride could never condescend

To a divided sway; ’twas my resolve

To rule alone, while the impatient world

Urged me in vain; and when the people’s voice,

Which now is echoed by the voice of heaven,

Still presses me, in the bloom of youth, to give

A sovereign to mankind, I still refused:

If I had yielded then to any claim,

It had been thine; you had a right to hope,

And to expect it; but you knew too well,

How much Sémiramis abhorred a master.

Without submitting to a tie so fatal,

I made thee then the second of mankind,

And only not my equal; ’twas enough,

I thought, to satisfy even thy ambition.

At length the gods make known their will divine,

And I obey them: hear the oracle:

“All shall again be well at Babylon,

When Hymen’s torch a second time shall blaze

Propitious; then shalt thou, O cruel wife,

And wretched mother, then shall thou appease

The shade of Ninus.” Thus the voice of heaven

Declares its sacred will: I know thy arts;

Know, thou hast formed a party in the state,

And mean to oppose me with the royal blood

From whence you sprung: from thee and Azema

My successor, it seems, must rise; I know

You look that way, and she perhaps aspires

To equal honors; but, observe me well:

I shall not suffer your united claims

To rob me of my right: remember, sir,

You know my will; ’tis constant, and as fate

Irrevocable: thinkest thou now the God

Whose arm is lifted o’er me hath deprived

My soul of all its wonted strength and spirit,

Or dost thou still behold Sémiramis,

Who can support the honor of her throne?

Know, Babylon ere long shall at my hands

Receive a master: whether the high choice

Shall fall on thee, or be another’s lot,

I’ll take a sovereign as a sovereign ought:

Bring me the magi and the princess here

To join their voices with Sémiramis.

To give away my freedom and my empire

Is the first, greatest act of royal power,

And therefore let it be performed with awe

And silence due to my authority.

Heaven hath appointed this great day to show

Its mercy to me, and the gods at length

Remit their anger; nothing can disarm it

But my repentance; ’tis the only virtue:

Trust me, it is, howe’er you may despise it,

Remaining for the guilty: weak, I know,

And fearful thou esteemest me; but henceforth

Remember, Assur, guilt alone is weakness:

Think not that fear can e’er disgrace a throne,

It has done good to kings, and might to thee;

I tell thee, statesman, to obey the gods,

And tremble at their power, is no abasement.

SCENE VIII.

assur.

[Alone.

Astonishment! such language, such designs!

Or is it artifice, or weakness in her,

Or cowardice or courage? Does she mean,

By yielding thus, to prop her tottering power,

And by our union to defeat my purpose?

I must not think, it seems, of Azema,

Because, perhaps, I’m destined for herself.

It must be so. What all my cares in vain

Solicited, my flattery of her charms,

My deep intrigues, and our united crimes,

With all her fears, could never gain, at length

An idle dream, and a dark oracle

From Egypt have performed. What power unknown

Decrees the fate of mortals? Great events

Hang on the slenderest thread: still I am doubtful:

I’ll see Sémiramis again; she seemed

Too much in haste; such sudden resolutions

Betray an overanxious mind, and those

Who change with ease are either weak, or wicked.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

sémiramis, otanes.

[The scene represents an apartment in the palace.

sémiramis.

Who would have thought, Otanes, that the gods,

Offended as they were, at length should smile

Propitious thus, and threaten but to save!

Should drop the uplifted thunder from their hand,

And pardon me; should send Arsaces hither

To change my fate! for know it is their will

That I should wed, and by a second tie

Expiate the crimes of my first fatal nuptials.

They are the great disposers of our hearts,

And mine with pleasure yields to their decrees:

It even outruns their purposes: Arsaces,

I’m thine; for thou wert born to rule o’er me,

And o’er the world.

otanes.

Arsaces! he!

sémiramis.

Thou knowest,

In Scythia’s plains, when I avenged the Persian,

And conquered Asia, this young hero fought

Beneath his father’s banners, and, surrounded

With captives, brought to me the bloody spoils,

And, blushing, laid his victims at my feet.

When first I saw him, I could feel his heart,

As by some secret power, attracting mine

Insensibly towards him; all mankind,

Besides Arsaces, seemed not worth my notice.

Assur grew jealous of him, and ever since

Has fired with indignation at his name;

Whilst his dear image still employed my thoughts,

Before that voice which guides my every word

And every action named him for my husband,

Before the gods had pointed out Arsaces.

otanes.

It was indeed a noble conquest, thus

To bend that haughty spirit which disdained

The proffered homage of our Eastern monarchs,

Who as her subjects, not as lovers, still

Accepted kings! You who contemned those charms,

That sovereign beauty, which extended wide

Your universal empire; whilst your eyes

Pierced every heart, you scarce would condescend

To mark their power; and dost thou yield at last

To love’s imperious sway; to fears and horror

Succeed the tender passions? Can it be?

sémiramis.

O, no; it is not love: I am not fallen

So much beneath myself, as to bestow

On beauty the reward that’s due to virtue;

I feel a nobler passion in my breast:

Alas! such weakness would but ill become

Sémiramis: unhappy as I am,

For me to think of love, Otanes, how

Couldst thou suppose it? Once I was a mother,

But scarce had studied to deserve the name

By my fond cares, when heaven in anger snatched

My child away, and left me here alone

A prey to anguish. I had nothing near me

That I could love; and, midst my grandeur, felt

An aching void within my soul. I fled

The court, endeavored to avoid myself,

And sought relief in these proud monuments,

Amusing flatterers of a restless heart

That shunned reflection: rest was still a stranger,

And long remained so; but he comes once more,

I feel him now, and wonder at the power

That charmed him hither: ’twas Arsaces; he

Shall hold the place of husband and of son,

A conquered world, and all my glories past.

How much I owe to thee, celestial power,

Who thus propitious leadest me to the altar

So long abhorred; and hast thyself inspired

That passion which alone can make me happy!

otanes.

But what will be the rage and grief of Assur?

Hast thou reflected on it, when he hears

Thy new resolves? He is not without hopes:

The people have already fixed thy choice

On him, and his resentment will not end

In mere complaints.

sémiramis.

I never have deceived,

And therefore fear him not: these fifteen years,

Whate’er his views have been, I’ve taught him still

To rank but with my subjects, though the first

Amongst them; and set bounds to his ambition,

Which he hath never o’erleaped: I reigned alone;

And if this feeble hand so long could guide

The helm of power, and curb his haughtiness,

What can his courage or his cunning do

Against Arsaces and Sémiramis?

Yes: Ninus hath accepted my repentance,

And leaves the mansions of the dead to urge

Our happy union: his illustrious shade

Again would rage to see his murderer seize

His throne and bed: this calls him from the tomb,

And Ammon’s oracles unite with him

To crown my bliss: no more the awful virtue

Of Oroes affrights me; I’ve sent for him

To be a witness of the great event,

And soon expect him here.

otanes.

His honored name

And sacred character may give indeed

A sanction to your choice.

sémiramis.

I know it will,

And establish my resolves.

otanes.

Behold, he comes.

SCENE II.

sémiramis, oroes,

sémiramis.

Great successor of Zoroaster, welcome:

To-day must Babylon receive a king;

Thy office is to crown him; is all ready

For the solemnity?

oroes.

The magi wait

Thy pleasure, and the nobles all attend:

To pay obedience to the sovereign power

Is all my duty, and I shall fulfil it:

I am not to judge kings, for that belongs

To heaven alone.

sémiramis.

By this mysterious language,

It seems you disapprove my purpose.

oroes.

Madam,

I know it not, but wish it fair success.

sémiramis.

Thou canst interpret heaven’s high will: these signs

Which I have seen, can they be fatal to me?

A spectre hath of late, perhaps some god,

Appeared, and in the bosom of the earth

Re-entered soon: what power hath thus broke down

The eternal barrier that divides the light

From darkness? wherefore should a mortal thus

Rise from the tomb to visit me?

oroes.

Know, heaven

Doth oft suspend its own eternal laws

When justice bids, reversing death’s decree;

Thus to chastise the sovereigns of the earth,

And terrify mankind.

sémiramis.

The oracles

Demand a sacrifice.

oroes.

It shall be offered.

sémiramis.

Eternal justice, thou whose piercing eye

Beholdest my naked heart, O fill it not

Again with horror, bury in oblivion

My first unhappy nuptials!

Oroes, stay.

[To Oroes, who is retiring.

oroes.

[Returning.

I thought my presence might disturb you, madam.

sémiramis.

Return, and answer me: this morning, say,

Did not Arsaces offer at your altars

Gifts to the gods?

oroes.

He did; and precious were they:

Arsaces is the favorite of heaven.

sémiramis.

I know he is, and I rejoice to hear it.

Can I be wretched if I trust to him?

oroes.

He is the empire’s best support; the gods

Conducted him; his glory is their care.

sémiramis.

With transport I accept the fair presage,

Whilst hope and peace return to calm my breast.

Away: again let purest incense rise

Before your altars; let your magi come

And sanctify the choice; bring down the smiles

Of the assenting gods, and make us happy.

Henceforth may Babylon with me revive,

And shine amongst the nations of the earth

With double splendor! Go thou, and prepare

The solemn pomp.

SCENE III.

sémiramis, otanes.

sémiramis.

Heaven seconds my design,

And I am only the interpreter

Of its high will, to give the world a master:

Thus to receive a kingdom at my hand

Will strike him with astonishment: even now

How little thinks he of the approaching greatness!

How will proud Assur and his fawning crowd

Be humbled! But a word, and the whole earth

Falls at his feet; and, grateful as he is,

I know he will repay me: I shall wed him,

And for my portion carry him a world;

My glory’s pure, and now I shall enjoy it.

SCENE IV.

sémiramis, otanes, mitranes. an officer of the palace.

otanes.

Arsaces begs admittance to your presence,

To lay his sorrows at your feet.

sémiramis.

Arsaces!

What sorrows can Arsaces feel when I

Am near him, he who thus hath banished mine?

Quick, let him come: he knows not yet his power

O’er the fond heart of his Sémiramis.

O thou dread shade whose voice alarmed my soul,

Whose blood no more calls out for vengeance on me,

And you, the guardian gods of this great empire.

Of the Assyrians, Ninus, and my son,

Unite to bless Arsaces! Ha! the sight

Alarms me; whence can these strange terrors rise?

SCENE V.

sémiramis, arsaces.

arsaces.

O queen, I am devoted to thy service;

My life is thine; and when I shed this blood,

I am rewarded if it flows for thee.

My father had some small renown in arms;

I saw him perish bravely in the field,

And at the head of thy victorious bands;

He left his hapless son a fair example,

Perhaps but ill pursued: I’ll not recall

The memory of my father’s services.

’Twould ill become me; at your royal knees,

Though here I sue for favor and protection:

Pity the rashness of a guilty youth,

Who listened to the dictates of imprudence.

And even in serving feared he might offend you.

sémiramis.

Offend me! thou, Arsaces! fear it not.

arsaces.

To-day you give your kingdom and your hand:

My heart, I know, should on the great event

Keep secret all its fears, and humbly still

In silence, with depending monarchs, wait

To know our master; but this Assur steps

So haughtily, and triumphs in his conquest,

We cannot brook his pride: the people call him

Already their new sovereign; his high blood

And rank support him: may he prove himself

Worthy of both! but I have still a soul

Too proud to bend beneath him, or adore

The power I had defied: his jealous heart

I know detests Arsaces: let me then

Retire in safety, far from him, and thee:

Permit me to revisit the dear climes

Where first I served my royal mistress, there

His tyranny can never reach: perhaps

I may hereafter—

sémiramis.

Wilt thou leave me then,

And fearest thou Assur?

arsaces.

No: Arsaces fears

Naught but the anger of Sémiramis.

Perhaps thou knowest my fond ambition, then

I’ve cause indeed to tremble.

sémiramis.

Hope the best,

And know that Assur ne’er shall be thy master.

arsaces.

I own it shocked my soul to look on him

As Ninus’ successor: but is he then

Designed for Azema? forgive this bold

Presumptuous questioner: long since I know

She was to Ninias given, proud Assur sprung

From the same race, and claims her as his own:

I am but a poor subject, yet I dare—

sémiramis.

Such subjects are my kingdom’s best support;

I know thee well; thy noble soul, superior

To vulgar minds, hath sought Sémiramis,

Not for her fortunes, but herself; thy eyes

Are fixed on her true interest, and on thee

I shall depend: Assur and Azema

Shall never meet; their union would be dangerous:

But their designs are known, and by my care

Will be prevented.

arsaces.

Since my heart at length

Is open to thee, and thou hast discovered—

azema.

[Enters suddenly, and throws herself at the feet of Sémiramis.

O queen, permit me thus—

sémiramis.

Rise, Azema:

Where’er my choice may light, thou mayest depend

On my protection, and shalt find respect

Due to thy birth; for, destined as thou wert

To be the wife of my lamented son,

I look upon thee with a mother’s eye:

[To them both.

Go, place yourselves with those whom I have called

To witness my resolves, and mark my choice.

[To Arsaces.

Be thou, my best protector, near the throne.

SCENE VI.

The apartment of Sémiramis opens into a magnificent saloon richly ornamented; a number of officers in their proper habits on the steps of the throne, which is raised in the middle; the satraps on each side: the high priest enters with the magi, and places himself between Assur and Arsaces: the queen in the midst with Azema, and her attendants: guards at the lower end of the saloon.

oroes.

Ye princes, magi, warriors, the support

Of Babylon, assembled by command

From great Sémiramis, the will of heaven

Soon shall ye know: the gods that guard our empire

Have fixed on this important hour to work

A great and mighty change; whoe’er the queen

Shall here appoint her sovereign and our own

It is our duty to obey; and here

I bring my tribute to the throne, my prayers

And wishes for the glory and the welfare

Of them, and of their kingdom: may these days

Of joy and gladness ne’er be changed to hours

Of grief and sorrow, nor these songs of mirth

To mournful plaints!

azema.

A king, my lords, will soon

Be named; whoe’er he be, the choice will injure

Myself alone; but Azema was born

And must remain a subject; I submit

To the queen’s pleasure, and on her protection

Shall still depend; nor with the dark presage

Of future ills shall interrupt your joy:

But leave you my example of obedience.

assur.

Howe’er the queen may choose, and heaven determine,

We must consult the public good alone;

Let us then swear by this imperial throne,

And great Sémiramis, to yield submissive,

And without murmuring to obey her will.

arsaces.

I swear it; and this arm that fought for her,

This heart obedient ever to her voice,

Which next the voice of heaven I still revered,

This blood which flowed with pleasure for her sake,

Shall be devoted to that royal master

Whom she appoints.

high priest.

I wait the great award

Of heaven and Sémiramis.

sémiramis.

Enough:

Each to his place, and now attend, my people.

[She seats herself on the throne.

[azema, assur, oroes (the high priest) andarsacestake their places, and she proceeds.

If in that hand which custom and the laws

Of an imperious husband had confined

To homely cares, and to a distaff chained,

I bore aloft the sceptre and the sword,

Beyond my subjects’ hope, nor sunk beneath

The weight of empire, let me now extend

To latest times its glory: ’tis my purpose

This day to take a partner in the throne:

The gods must be obeyed, whose dread command

At length subdued my long unconquered heart:

They who deprived me of my son, perhaps

May one day raise an heir to Babylon

Worthy of empire, who shall follow me

Through all the thorny paths that I have trod,

Finish my work, and make my reign immortal.

I might have chosen a sovereign from the kings

That dwell around me, but they are all my foes,

Or tributary slaves: a foreign hand

Shall never wield this sceptre: my own subjects

Are better than the kings which they have conquered:

Belus was born a subject; if he gained

The diadem, he owed it to the people,

And to himself: by rights like his I hold

The power supreme; and, mistress of a kingdom

Larger than his, have bent beneath my yoke

The nations of the East, which Belus ne’er

Had seen or heard of: what he but attempted

Sémiramis performed; for they who found

A kingdom, and they only, can preserve it.

You want a king who may be worthy of you,

Worthy of such an empire, shall I add

Worthy the hand that crowns him, and the heart

Which I shall give: I have consulted heaven,

My country’s weal, the interest of mankind,

And choose a king to make the world more happy.

Adore the hero, see in him revived

The princes of my honored race; observe him,

And know, this king, this hero, is—Arsaces.

[She descends from the throne, and they all rise.

azema.

Arsaces! the perfidious—

assur.

Rage and vengeance!

arsaces.

Believe me, Azema—

oroes.

Just heaven! avert

These omens.

sémiramis.

Thou who sanctifiest my choice,

Confirm it at the altar: see in him

Ninus and Ninias both restored.

[It thunders, and the tomb shakes.

O heaven!

What do I hear?

oroes.

Great gods, protect us now!

sémiramis.

The thunder comes, in anger or in love

I know not: pardon, gracious gods! Arsaces

Must win them to forgiveness. Ha! what voice

Distracts me thus? and see, the tomb is open.

O heaven! I die.

[The ghost of Ninus comes out of the tomb.

assur.

The shade of Ninus’ self.

Gods! is it possible?

arsaces.

What sayest thou? speak,

Thou god of terrors.

assur.

O unfold thy tale.

sémiramis.

Comest thou to pardon, or to punish me?

It is thy sceptre and thy bed which here

I have bestowed: speak, is he worthy of it?

Determine: I obey thee.

the ghost of ninus to arsaces.

Thou shalt reign,

Arsaces, but there are some dreadful crimes

Which thou must expiate: hie thee to the tomb,

And to my ashes offer sacrifice:

Serve me and Ninias: remember well

Thy father: listen to the pontiff.

arsaces.

O!

Thou venerable shade, thou demigod,

Who dwellest within these walls, the sight of thee

Inspires but does not amaze Arsaces:

Yes, I will go, on peril of my life,

And meet thee in the tomb: but tell me, what

Must be the sacrifice? O speak! he’s gone.

[The ghost retires towards the entrance of the mausoleum.

sémiramis.

Thou honored spirit of my lord, permit me

Thus on my knees to pour my sorrows forth,

Permit me in the tomb to—

ghost.

[At the entrance of the tomb.

Stop: no farther:

Respect my ashes: when the time is come

I’ll send for thee.

[The ghost goes into the tomb, and the mausoleum closes.

assur.

Amazing!

sémiramis.

Follow me,

My people, to the temple: be not thus

Dismayed: for know, the gentle shade of Ninus

Is not implacable; it loves your king,

And therefore will it spare Sémiramis:

Heaven that inspired my choice will now support it:

Haste then, and pray for me, and for Arsaces.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Representing the porch of the temple.

arsaces, azema.

arsaces.

Do not oppress me in this hour of grief,

And aggravate my sorrows; I have borne

Enough already: this dread oracle

Affrights me; prodigies on every side

Disturb the course of nature: heaven deprives me

Of all, if Azema is lost.

azema.

No more,

False man, nor to the horrors of this day

Add the remembrance of thy perfidy;

No more the terrors of Sémiramis,

The walking spectre, and the opening grave,

Appal me now; of all the prodigies

Which I have seen, thy base inconstancy

Hath shocked me most: go on, appease the shade

Of Ninus, and begin the sacrifice

With Azema; behold, and strike the victim.

arsaces.

It is too much; my heart was not prepared

Against this cruel stroke: thou knowest, my soul

Prefers thee to the empire of the world:

What was the object of that fame in arms

I held so dear, of all my victories?

All my ambition hoped for was at last

To merit thee: Sémiramis, thou knowest,

Was dear to both; thy tongue unites with mine

To praise her; she was still the guardian god

That cherished and protected us; as such

We both revered her with that pious zeal

And chaste regard which mortals bear to heaven:

Judge of my spotless faith by my surprise

At the queen’s choice, and mark the precipice

It leads us to, thence learn our future fate.

azema.

I know it.

arsaces.

Learn, that neither thou nor empire

Were destined for Arsaces; know, that son

Whom I must serve, the child of Ninus, he

Who must inherit here—

azema.

Well; what of him?

arsaces.

That Ninias, he who from his cradle lit

The torch of Hymen with thee, who was born

My rival and my master—

azema.

Ninias!

arsaces.

Lives;

And will be with us soon.

azema.

Ha! then the queen—

arsaces.

Even to this day deceived, laments his death.

azema.

Ninias alive!

arsaces.

It is a secret yet

Within the temple, and she knows it not.

azema.

But Ninus crowns thee, and his widow’s thine.

arsaces.

Ay, but his son was born for Azema;

He is my king, so says the oracle,

And I must serve him.

azema.

But love claims his own,

And will be heard in spite of all, Arsaces:

His orders are not doubtful, or obscure.

Love is my oracle, and that alone

Shall be obeyed. Ninias, thou sayest, yet lives,

Let him appear, and let Sémiramis

Recall her plighted faith to him; let Ninus

Rise from the tomb, to join the fatal knot

Made in our infant years; let Ninias come,

My king, thy master, and thy rival, fired

With all the love which once Arsaces had

For Azema, then see how I will slight

His proffered vows; then shalt thou see me scorn

The sceptre at my feet, and spurn a crown

Which is my due: where is he now? What secret,

What mystery veils him from us? Let him come;

But know, nor Ninias, nor Sémiramis,

No, nor the sacred spirit of his father

Risen from the tomb, nor all the powers of nature

Thrown in confusion, from my heart would wrest

The image of my perjured dear Arsaces:

Go, ask thy own, if it will dare to act

As mine hath done. What are those dreadful crimes

Which thou must expiate? if thou e’er shouldst break

The sacred tie that binds us, if thou art false,

I know no crime, no treachery like thy own.

I see the sage interpreter of fate

This way advancing, love will never plead

Thy cause with heaven, if thou betrayest me: go,

From Ninus’ hand receive thy doom; remember,

Thy fate depends on heaven, and mine on thee.

[Exit Azema.

arsaces.

Arsaces still is thine: stay, cruel maid:

How mingled is our happiness and woe!

What strange events that contradict each other—

SCENE II.

arsaces, oroes,the magi attending.

oroes.

[To Arsaces.

Let us retire to yonder lonely walk;

I see you are much moved: prepare yourself

For strokes more dreadful.

[To the magi.

Bring the royal wreath.

[The magi bring the coffer.

This letter, and this sacred sword, to thee,

Arsaces, I deliver.

arsaces.

Reverend father,

Wilt thou not save me from the precipice

That gapes before me? wilt thou not at length

Uplift the veil, that from my eyes conceals

My future fate?

oroes.

’Twill be removed, my son;

The hour is come, when in his dreary mansions,

Ninus from thee expects a sacrifice

That shall appease his angry spirit.

arsaces.

What

Can Ninus ask, what sacrifice from me?

Must I be his avenger, when his son

Still lives? Let Ninias come; he is my king,

And I will serve him.

oroes.

’Tis his father’s will,

Thou must obey him: an hour hence, Arsaces,

Be at his tomb, armed with this sacred sword,

And with this wreath adorned, which Ninus wore,

And which thyself did bring to me.

arsaces.

The wreath

Of Ninus!

oroes.

’Tis his royal will that thus

Thou shouldst appear, to offer up the blood

That must be shed; the victim will be there:

Strike thou, and leave the rest to him, and heaven.

arsaces.

If he requires my life, I’ll give it him:

But where is Ninias? thou speakest naught of him:

Thou hast not told me how his father gives

To me his kingdom and his queen.

oroes.

To thee

His queen! O heaven, to thee Sémiramis

Be given! Arsaces, the important hour

Which I had promised thee is come, when thou

Shalt know thy fate, and this abandoned woman.

arsaces.

Great gods!

oroes.

’Twas she who murdered Ninus.

arsaces.

She,

Saidst thou, the queen?

oroes.

Assur, that foul disgrace

Of human nature, Assur gave the poison.

arsaces.

I’m not surprised at Assur’s cruelty,

But that a wife, a queen, and such a queen,

The pride of sovereigns, the delight of nations,

That she should e’er be guilty of a crime

So horrible! it passes all belief.

How can such virtues and such guilt as hers

Subsist together!

oroes.

How indeed! the question

Is worthy of thy noble heart: but now

’Twere needless to dissemble, every moment

Is big with some new secret, horrible

To nature, who already whispers to thee

Her soft complaints; thy generous heart, I see,

Spite of thyself, is shocked, and mourns within thee:

But wonder not that Ninus from the tomb

Indignant rises on this seat of guilt;

He comes to break the horrid nuptial tie,

Woven by the furies, and expose to light

Unpunished crimes; to save his son from incest:

He speaks to, he expects thee: know thy father,

For thou art Ninias, and the queen’s thy mother.

arsaces.

Thou hast o’erpowered me in one dreadful moment

With such repeated wonders, that I stand

Astonished, and the night of death surrounds me.

Am I his son, and can it be?

oroes.

Thou art:

Ninus, the morn before he died, foresaw

His end approaching; knew the deadly draught

Which he had drunk was ministered to thee

By the same hand, and, dying as thou wert,

Withdrew thee from this wicked court: for Assur

Had poisoned thee that he might wed thy mother,

Thought to exterminate the royal race,

And open thus his passage to the throne:

But whilst the kingdom mourned thy loss, Phradates,

Our faithful friend, secreted and preserved thee;

With skilful hand the precious herbs prepared,

O’er Persia spread by her benignant God,

Whose wondrous power drew forth the latent venom

From thy parched limbs: his own son dying, you

Supplied his place, and still wert called Arsaces.

He waited patient for some lucky change,

But the great judge of kings had otherwise

Determined; truth at length descends from heaven,

And vengeance rises from the tomb.

arsaces.

O God!

Enough already hast thou tried thy servant,

Or must I yield that life which you restored?

Yes: I was born midst grandeur, shame, and horror:

My mother—Ninus! O what deadly purpose—

But if the traitor Assur was alone

To blame, if he—

oroes.

[Giving him the letter.

Behold this paper here,

Too faithful witness of her guilt, then say

If yet a doubt remains.

arsaces.

Haste, give it me,

And clear them all.

[He reads.

Ha! “Ninus to Phradates:

I die by poison, guard my Ninias well,

Defend him from his foes: my guilty wife—”

oroes.

Needest thou more proof? this witness came from thee.

He had not finished; death, thou seest, broke off

The imperfect scroll, and stopped his feeble hand;

Phradates hath unfolded all the rest,

Read this, and learn the whole.

[Gives him another paper.

It is enough

That Ninus hath commanded thee, he guides

Thy steps, and leads thee to the throne, but says

He must have blood.

arsaces.

[After reading the paper.

O day of miracles,

And you, ye dreadful oracles from hell,

Dark as the tomb which I must visit, how

Shall I unveil your secret purposes,

When he who is to make the sacrifice

Knows not his victim! Who shall guide my choice?

I tremble at it.

oroes.

Tremble for the guilty.

Amidst the horrors that oppress thy soul,

The gods will guide thee; deem not thou thyself

A common mortal, from the race of men

Thou art distinguished, set apart by heaven,

And noted by its signature divine,

Walk thou secure, though night conceals thy fate,

The gods of thy great ancestors employ thee

But as their instrument. What right hast thou

To litigate their power, and to oppose

Thy masters? Saved from death, as thou hast been,

Be thankful still; complain not, but adore.

SCENE III.

arsaces, mitranes.

arsaces.

I cannot reconcile this strange event:

Sémiramis my mother! can it be?

mitranes.

[Entering in haste.

My lord, the people in this hour of terror

Demand their king: permit me first to hail thee

The husband of Sémiramis, and lord

Of Babylon: the queen is hasting hither

In search of thee; I bless the happy hour

That gave her to thee: ha! not answer me!

Despair is in thy looks, thy lips are closed

In dreadful silence, thou art pale with terror,

And thy whole frame’s disordered: what has passed?

What have they said?

arsaces.

I’ll fly to Azema.

mitranes.

Amazing! can it be Arsaces? fly

A queen’s embraces; scorn her proffered love;

Insult her choice; the royal hand that spurned

Kings for thy sake! thus are her hopes betrayed?

arsaces.

Gods! ’tis Sémiramis herself; O Ninus,

Now let thy tomb in its dark bosom hide

Her crimes, and me!

SCENE IV.

sémiramis, arsaces.

sémiramis.

Arsaces, all is ready,

We want but thee, great master of the world,

Whose fate, like mine, depends on thee; O haste,

And make our bliss complete! with joy I see

Thy brows encircled with that sacred wreath:

The priest, I know, was by the gods commanded

To crown thee with it; heaven and hell at once

Approve my choice, and by these signs confirm it:

Assur’s seditious party, struck with awe

And holy reverence, tremble at my presence;

Ninus, at length propitious, hath required

A sacrifice, O haste, and give it him,

That we may soon be blest: the people’s hearts

Are all with us, and Assur’s threats are vain.

arsaces.

[Walking about with great emotion.

Assur! away! in his perfidious blood

The parricide—we will revenge thee, Ninus.

sémiramis.

What do I hear? just heaven! speakest thou of him,

Of Ninus?

arsaces.

[Wildly.

Saidst thou not, his guilty hand

[Coming to himself.

Had shed—to arm against his queen! the slave,

That was enough to make me hate him.

sémiramis.

Haste then,

Receive my hand, and thus begin thy vengeance.

arsaces.

My father!

sémiramis.

Ha! what looks are those, Arsaces?

Is this the soft submissive tender heart

Which I expected from thee, when I gave

My willing hand? That fearful prodigies,

And spectres rising from their dark domain,

Should leave the marks of horror on thy soul,

Alarms me not, I feel them too, but less

When I behold Arsaces: do not thus

O’erspread this fairest dawn of happiness

With sorrow’s gloomy shade, but still appear

Such as thou wert when trembling at my feet,

Lest Assur e’er should be thy master; fear

Nor him, nor Ninus and his angry shade;

My dear Arsaces, thou art my support,

My lord, my husband.

arsaces.

[Turning aside from her.

’Tis too much, O stop:

Her guilt o’erwhelms me.

sémiramis.

How his soul’s disturbed!

Alas! he wants that peace which he bestowed

On me.

arsaces.

Sémiramis—

sémiramis.

What wouldst thou? speak.

arsaces.

I cannot: leave me, leave me: hence! begone.

sémiramis.

Amazing! leave thee! can I e’er forsake

Arsaces? O explain this mystery to me,

And ease my tortured soul: it makes us both

Unhappy:—ha! despair is in thy aspect;

Thou chillest my veins with horror, and thy eyes

Are dreadful; they affright me more than heaven

And hell united to oppose my vows:

Scarce can my trembling lips pronounce, I love thee:

Some power invisible now leads me on

Towards thee, now withholds me from thy arms,

And mingles, how I know not, tenderest love

With sentiments of horror and despair.

arsaces.

Hate me, abhor me.

sémiramis.

Canst thou bid me hate thee?

Cruel Arsaces, no: I still must trace

Thy footsteps, still my heart must follow thine:

What is that paper which thou lookest on thus

With horror, whilst thy eyes are bathed in tears,

Does that contain a reason for thy coldness?

arsaces.

It does.

sémiramis.

Then give it me.

arsaces.

I must not: darest thou—

sémiramis.

I’ll have it.

arsaces.

Leave to me that dreadful scroll,

To thee ’twere fatal, I have use for it.

sémiramis.

Whence came it?

arsaces.

From the gods.

sémiramis.

And wrote by whom?

arsaces.

Wrote by my father.

sémiramis.

Ha! what sayest thou?

arsaces.

Tremble.

sémiramis.

Give it me, let me know at once my fate.

arsaces.

Urge it no more; there is death in every line.

sémiramis.

No matter: clear my doubts, or I shall think

That thou art guilty.

arsaces.

Ye immortal powers

That guide our steps, it is to your decrees

That I submit.

sémiramis.

For the last time, Arsaces,

I here command thee, listen, and obey.

arsaces.

[Giving her the letter.

O may thy justice, heaven, be satisfied!

And this the only punishment that e’er

Shall be inflicted on her! now ’tis past,

And thou wilt know too much.

[She reads.

sémiramis.

[To Otanes.

What do I read?

Support me, or I die.

[She faints.

arsaces.

She sees it all.

sémiramis.

[Coming to herself, after a long silence.

Delay not, but fulfil thy destiny:

Punish this guilty, this unhappy wretch,

And in my blood wash out the deadly stain.

Nature deceived is horrible to both,

Avenge thy father, strike, and punish me.

arsaces.

No: let the sacred character I bear,

The name of son, preserve me from that crime!

Much rather would I pierce the heart of him

Who still reveres thee, the poor lost Arsaces.

sémiramis.

[Kneeling.

Be cruel as Sémiramis; she felt

No pity, therefore be the son of Ninus,

And take my life: thou wilt not; nay, thy tears

Even mix with mine: O Ninias, ’tis a day

Of horrors, yet there’s pleasure in this pain.

Before thou givest me what I have deserved,

The stroke of death, let nature’s voice be heard:

O let a guilty mother’s tears bedew

That dear, that fatal hand.

arsaces.

I am thy son,

’Tis not for thee, whate’er thy guilt, to fall

Thus at my feet: O rise, thy Ninias begs,

He loves thee still, still vows obedience to thee,

Respect and purest love: consider me

As a new subject, only more submissive,

More humble, than the rest; I hope, more dear.

Heaven that restores thy son is sure appeased:

The gods who pardon thee reserve their vengeance

For Assur; leave him to his fate.

sémiramis.

Receive

My crown and sceptre, I have much disgraced them.

arsaces.

Still, I beseech you, hold me ignorant

Of all, and let me with the world adore you.

sémiramis.

O no: my guilt’s too flagrant.

arsaces.

But repentance

May blot it out.

sémiramis.

Ninus hath given to thee

The reins of empire, thou must not offend

His vengeful spirit.

arsaces.

O it will relent

At thy remorse, and soften at my tears.

Otanes, in the name of heaven, preserve

My mother, and conceal the horrid secret.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

sémiramis, otanes.

otanes.

O ’twas some god that smiled propitious on thee,

Who thus prevented these abhorred nuptials;

Whilst nature shuddered at the approaching danger,

Gave thee a son, and saved thee thus from incest.

The oracles of Ammon, and the voice

From hell, the shades of Ninus, all declared

The day appointed for thy second marriage

Should end thy sorrows, but they never said

That marriage e’er should be accomplished: No:

The nuptials were prepared: thou hast fulfilled

Thy destiny: thy son reveres thee still:

Mild is the justice of offended heaven,

Which only asks a private sacrifice:

This day Sémiramis shall still be happy.

sémiramis.

Alas! there is no happiness for me,

Otanes: Ninias smiles indeed upon me:

A mother’s sorrows for a time will plead

More strongly with him than the blood of Ninus,

And my past crimes; but soon his tenderness

And filial love may change perhaps to wrath

And fierce resentment for a murdered father.

otanes.

What fearest thou from a son? what dire presage—

sémiramis.

Fear is the natural punishment of guilt,

And still attends it: this detested Assur,

Has he attempted aught, say, does he know

What passed of late, and who Arsaces is?

otanes.

The dreadful secret still remains unknown;

The shade of Ninus is by all revered;

But how to comprehend the oracle

They know not; how they must avenge his ashes;

How serve his son—the minds of men are struck

With wild astonishment, in silence now

They wait the hour when the self-opened tomb

Shall banish all their fears, and make them happy.

Meantime the soldiers are in arms, the people

Crowd to the altars; wretched Azema,

Trembling and pale, with terror in her looks,

Walks round the tomb, and lifts her hands to heaven;

Whilst Ninias stands astonished in the temple,

Prepared to strike his victim yet unknown:

The gloomy Assur meditates revenge,

Unites the remnants of his scattered party,

And forms some dark design.

sémiramis.

I have kept fair

Too long already with him: seize the traitor,

Otanes, bear him to my son in chains;

Ninias shall soon appease eternal justice,

At least with Assur’s blood, my vile accomplice.

Ninus, thou seest I am a mother still;

Thou seest my heart, O take it, take it all,

And may it rise a grateful sacrifice!

Ha! who approaches with such hasty steps?

How everything appals my fluttering soul!

SCENE II.

sémiramis, azema, otanes.

azema.

O Queen, forgive me if I come uncalled;

But terrors worse than death have forced me thus

To clasp thy knees, and beg thy royal mercy—

sémiramis.

What wouldst thou, princéss? speak.

azema.

To snatch a hero

From instant danger, stop a traitor’s hand,

And save Arsaces.

sémiramis.

Ha! what hand? Arsaces!

azema.

He is thy husband, Azema’s betrayed,

He lives for you alone; no matter—

sémiramis.

He

My husband! gods!

azema.

The sacred tie that binds you—

sémiramis.

The tie is dreadful, impious, and abhorred:

Arsaces is—but speak, go on; I tremble:

What dangers? haste, and tell me.

azema.

Well thou knowest,

Perhaps this very moment, whilst I ask

Thy aid, perhaps—

sémiramis.

Well, what?

azema.

That demigod

Whom we adore, demands the sacrifice

Within the dreary labyrinths of the tomb:

What are the crimes Arsaces must atone for

I know not.

sémiramis.

Crimes! just heaven!

azema.

But impious Assur

Hath sworn to violate that sacred place

Which mortals dare not enter.

sémiramis.

Ay! indeed!

Hath Assur sworn it?

azema.

In the dead of night

The wily traitor had long since secured

A safe retreat, if e’er occasion called,

Within the secret windings of the tomb,

Where now he means to do the bloody deed,

To brave the powers of hell, and wrath of heaven;

With sacrilegious hand he would destroy

The generous Arsaces.

sémiramis.

Heaven! what sayest thou?

By what detested means?

azema.

Believe a heart

By love enlightened, and by love inspired:

I know the traitor’s rank envenomed hatred,

Marked how the trembling faction by his zeal

Revived; I pried into their secret councils,

Pretended to unite his cause with mine,

And join our interests; I have looked into him,

Have wrested from his heart the fatal secret.

Boldly he marches on, and hopes to pass

Unpunished: well he knows that none dare enter

That holy place, not Oroes himself:

Thither he’s gone: meantime his slaves report

Arsaces is the victim that must die

For Babylon, and Ninus in his blood

Shall satiate his revenge: the nobles meet,

The people murmur; Ninus, Assur, heaven,

Are all incensed: I tremble for Arsaces.

sémiramis.

My dearest Azema, heaven speaks by thee:

It is enough: I see what must be done.

Repose thyself with safety on a mother;

Daughter, our danger is the same; go thou,

Defend thy husband, I will save my son.

azema.

O heaven!

sémiramis.

I meant to wed him, but the gods

In mercy have forbade it: they inspire

A hapless mother now—but time is precious;

Go: leave me here, and in my name command

The nobles, priests, and people, to attend me.

[Azema goes into the porch of the temple, and Sémiramis advances toward the tomb.

Thou shade of Ninus, lo! I fly to avenge thee;

The hour is come when thou didst promise me

Admittance to thy tomb; I have obeyed thee,

Called by thy voice, behold me here to save

My son. Ye guards that wait around my throne

Approach: henceforth Arsaces is your king;

No more obedient to Sémiramis,

Observe his laws, to him the sovereign power

I here resign: be you his subject now,

And his defenders.

[Guards appear, and range themselves on each side at the further part of the stage.

Gracious heaven! protect me.

[She goes into the tomb.

SCENE III.

azema.

[Returning from the porch of the temple to the front of the stage.

What can she purpose? O it is too late

To save him now; I know not what to think:

’Tis wondrous all; O ’tis a dreadful moment,

Arsaces! Ninias! ye immortal powers

Who guide our fate, O say, did you restore

My loved Arsaces but to snatch him from me?

SCENE IV.

azema, ninias.

azema.

Ha! Ninias! can it be? Art thou indeed

Great Ninus’ son, my sovereign, and my husband?

ninias.

O! thou beholdest me, Azema, ashamed

To know myself, sprung from the blood of gods,

And shuddering at the thought: O! Azema,

Remove my terrors, calm my troubled soul,

Strengthen my arm upraised to avenge a father.

azema.

Take heed how thou performest that dreadful office.

ninias.

He hath commanded, and I must obey.

azema.

Ninus would never sacrifice his son:

Impossible!

ninias.

What says my Azema?

azema.

Ne’er shalt thou enter that abhorred place,

For know, a traitor lies in wait for thee.

ninias.

Who shall withhold or terrify Arsaces?

azema.

Thou art the victim to be offered there:

With sacrilegious steps the impious Assur

Profanes the sacred tomb, and rashly dares

To violate its privilege divine:

He waits thee there.

ninias.

Good heaven! then all is plain;

I’m satisfied: the victim is prepared;

My father, poisoned by the wicked Assur,

Demands the traitor’s blood: instructed thus

By Oroes, and conducted by the gods,

Armed by the hand of Ninus’ self, I go

To punish the assassin: thither led

By heaven’s eternal justice, my weak hand

Is but the instrument of power divine:

The gods do all, and my astonished soul

Yields to that voice which must decree my fate:

Spite of ourselves, our ways are noted down,

Marked, and determined: prodigies are spread

Around the throne, and spirits called from hell

To wander here: but fearless I obey.

Believe, and trust in heaven.

azema.

Whate’er the gods

Have done but fills my soul with sad dismay:

Ninus was loved by them; yet Ninus perished.

ninias.

But now they will avenge him: cease thy plaints.

azema.

Oft have they chose the purest victim, oft

Have shed the blood of innocence.

ninias.

No more;

They will defend whom thus they have united:

They by a father’s voice exhorted us,

Gave me a throne, a mother, and a wife.

Soon shalt thou see me sprinkled with the blood

Of the vile murderer; from the tomb those gods

Shall lead me to the altar; I obey;

It is enough: the rest be left to heaven.

SCENE V.

azema.

[Alone.

O guard his footsteps in this fatal tomb!

Ye powers inscrutable, whose blood must flow

This day? I tremble for the event, and dread

The hand of Assur, long inured to slaughter;

Even on his father’s ashes may he shed

The blood of Ninias: O may the dark womb

Of hell receive and swallow up his rage!

Ye lightnings blast him! O illustrious shade

Of Ninus, wherefore wouldst thou not permit

A wretched wife to go with her dear lord?

O guide, support him in this place of darkness!

Did I not hear the voice of Ninias mixed

With deadly groans? O would this sacred tomb,

Which I profane, but open to my wishes

The gate of death!—I will descend:—I go—

Hark! the earth shakes, and dreadful lightnings flash

Athwart the skies: fear, hope, despair—he comes.

SCENE VI.

ninias,a bloody sword in his hand,azema.

ninias.

O heaven! Where am I?

azema.

O! my lord, you’re pale,

And bloody, frozen with horror.

ninias.

’Tis the blood

Of the vile parricide: I wandered down

Even to the bottom of the tomb; my father

Still led me onward through its winding paths,

He walked before, and pointed out the place

Of my revenge: there, by the imperfect light

That glimmered through the dreary vault, I saw,

Or thought I saw, upraised the murderer’s sword:

Methought he trembled; guilt is ever fearful:

Twice did I plunge my sword into his heart,

And with my bloody arm, which rage had strengthened,

Had dragged him in the dust towards the place

Whence the dim rays of light appeared: and yet

I own to thee, his deep heart-rending sighs,

The mournful sounds, imperfect as they were,

That reached my ears, his humble vows to heaven,

With that repentance which in his last hour

Seemed to possess his soul, the hallowed place,

The voice of pity, which, revenge once o’er,

Calls loudly on us, with I know not what

Of dark mysterious terror, shook my soul,

And made me leave the bleeding victim there.

What can this trouble, this strange horror mean

That dwells upon me, Azema? My heart

Is pure, ye gods, my hands are innocent,

Stained only with the blood you bid me shed;

I’ve served the cause of heaven, and yet am wretched.

azema.

The dead are satisfied, and nature too:

Come let us quit this horrid place, and seek

Thy mother, she shall calm thy troubled mind:

Since Assur is no more—

SCENE VII.

ninias, azema, assur.

[Assur appears at a distance with Otanes, surrounded by guards.

azema.

O heaven! he’s there.

ninias.

Assur!

azema.

O haste, ye ministers of heaven,

Ye servants of the king, defend your master.

SCENE VIII.

oroes,the high priest, with the magi and people assembled,otanes, ninias, azema, mitranes, assur.

[Disarmed.

otanes.

They need not: by the queen’s command I’ve seized

The traitor, who attempted to profane

Yon sacred monument, and enter there:

I shall deliver him to thee.

ninias.

Alas!

What victim then hath Ninias sacrificed?

oroes.

Heaven is appeased, and vengeance now complete.

Behold, ye people, your king’s murderer.

[Pointing to Assur.

Behold, ye people, your king’s successor.

[Pointing to Ninias.

’Tis Ninias, Babylon’s lost prince, restored:

He is your sovereign, know him, and obey.

assur.

Thou Ninias!

oroes.

Ay; ’tis he: the guardian god,

Who saved him from thy rage, hath brought him hither;

That god whose vengeance hath o’erthrown thee.

assur.

Ha! did Sémiramis then give thee life?

ninias.

She did, and power withal to punish thee:

Guards take him hence, and rid me of a monster.

He was not worthy of my sword; to fall

By Ninias’ hand had been a death too glorious.

The victim hath escaped me; let him die,

Even as he lived, with infamy: away.

assur.

It is my heaviest punishment to see

Ninias my sovereign: but ’tis pleasure still

To leave thee more unhappy than myself;

[Sémiramis appears at the foot of the tomb, wounded, and almost dead, one of the magi supporting her.

Look yonder, and behold what thou hast done.

[Pointing to Sémiramis.

ninias.

Whom have I slain?

azema.

Fly, my dear Ninias, fly

This fatal place.

mitranes.

What hast thou done?

oroes.

[Placing himself between Ninias and the tomb.

Away;

And cleanse those bloody hands: give me the sword,

That fatal instrument of wrath divine.

ninias.

No: let me plunge it to my heart.

[He attempts to destroy himself, the guards interpose.

oroes.

Disarm him.

sémiramis.

[Brought forward and seated on a sofa.

Revenge me, O my son; some base assassin

Has slain thy mother.

ninias.

O unhappy hour;

Unheard of guilt! for know, that base assassin,

That monster was—thy son: this hand hath pierced

The breast that nourished and supported me:

But soon thou shalt have vengeance, Ninias soon

Shall follow thee.

sémiramis.

I went into the tomb

To save thee, Ninias; thy unhappy mother—

But from thy hands, I have received the fate

I merited.

ninias.

This last, this fatal stroke,

Sinks deep into my soul: but here I call

Those gods to witness who conducted me,

Those who misled my steps—

sémiramis.

No more, my son:

Freely I pardon thee, and only make

This last request, that those dear hands may close

My dying eyes.

[He kneels.

A mother begs it of thee:

Thy heart I know was stranger to the deed:

O would that I had been as innocent

When Ninus died! but I have suffered for it.

Henceforth let mortals know, that there are crimes

Offended heaven never can forgive.

O Ninias, Azema, let your blessed union

Blot out my crimes; come near your dying mother;

Give me your hands; long may ye live and reign

In happiness! that hope still gives me comfort,

And mingles joy even with the pangs of death.

It comes, I feel it. O! my children, think

On your Sémiramis, O do not hate

My memory,—O my son, my son—’tis past.

oroes.

Her eyes are sunk in darkness: help the king

And guard his life. Learn from her sad example,

That heaven is witness to our secret crimes:

The higher is the criminal, remember,

The gods inflict the greater punishment;

Kings, tremble on your thrones, and fear their justice.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

CATILINE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

CICERO, | SEPTIMUS,
CÆSAR, | CRASSUS,
CATILINE, | CLODIUS,
AURELIA, | CETHEGUS,
CATO, | LENTULUS-SURA,
LUCULLUS, | Conspirators,
MARTIAN, | Lictors.

The Scene represents, on one side, the palace of Aurelia; on the other the temple of Tellus, where the senate assembled: At a distance, a gallery communicating to some private passages that lead from the palace of Aurelia to the vestibule of the temple.

In his preface to this play Voltaire says:

“The learned will not here meet with a faithful narrative of Catiline’s conspiracy: a tragedy, they very well know, is not a history, but they will see a true picture of the manners of those times: all that Cicero, Catiline, Cato and Cæsar do in this piece is not true, but their genius and character are faithfully represented: if we do not there discover the eloquence of Cicero, we shall at least find displayed all that courage and virtue which he showed in the hour of danger. In Catiline is described that contrast of fierceness and dissimulation which formed his real character; Cæsar is represented as growing into power, factious, and brave; that Cæsar who was born at once to be the glory and the scourge of Rome.”

ACT I.

SCENE I.

catiline.

[Soldiers at the bottom of the stage.

Yes, thou proud talker, thou vile instrument

Of a deluded people, soon thy power

Shall be no more; and thou whose savage virtue,

Inflexibly severe, destroys the nation

It means to save, imperious Cato, know

Thy doom is passed, thou and the tyrant senate

Must fall together; they who keep the world

In bondage shall themselves be slaves; their chains

Are forged already, and usurping Pompey

Shall pay for dear bought honors with his blood.

Cæsar, his haughty rival, shall oppose him,

His equal Cæsar: he who, like myself,

Was ever factious, shall assist my cause;

The snare is laid, and Cæsar shall prepare

The throne for Catiline; I’ll make them all

Subservient to my purpose: Cicero’s self,

The man whom most I hate, shall be my friend:

My wife too may be useful, and may prove

A step to greatness: fathers, husbands, all

Those empty names mistaken mortals call

Most sacred, hence, I give you to the winds:

Ambition, I am thine.

SCENE II.

catiline, cethegus.

catiline.

Well, my Cethegus,

Whilst Rome and our designs are hid in night,

Say, hast thou called together our brave chiefs?

cethegus.

Even here, my lord, beneath this portico,

Safe from the consul’s prying eyes, and near

That impious scene where our proud tyrants sit,

Thy friends shall meet—already they have signed

The solemn compact, and are sworn to serve thee.

But how stands Cæsar, will he second us?

catiline.

He is a turbulent unruly spirit,

And acts but for himself.

cethegus.

And yet without him

We never shall succeed.

catiline.

I’ve laid a snare

He cannot escape: my soldiers, in his name,

Shall seize Præneste—he’s been long suspected.

This will confirm his guilt—the furious consul

Shall soon accuse him to the senate—Cæsar

Will hazard all to satiate his revenge.

I’ll rouse this sleeping lion from his den,

And make him roar for me.

cethegus.

But Nonnius still

Rules in Præneste; he’s a friend to Rome.

In vain already thou hast tried to tempt

His stubborn virtue—what must be his fate?

catiline.

Thou knowest I love his daughter, though I hate

Her surly father: long he strove in vain

To thwart our mutual passion, and prevent

Our private marriage, which at last the churl

Unwillingly consented to: he feared

To incur his angry party’s high displeasure

And the proud consul’s—but I’ve made his pride

Subservient to our purpose—he is bound

By solemn oaths to keep our marriage still

A secret: Sura only and Cethegus

Are privy to it: this perhaps may serve

More purposes than one: Aurelia’s palace

Conducts us to the temple; there I’ve placed

My instruments of ruin, arms, and firebrands,

To execute our great design: thy zeal

To friendship much I owe, but more to love.

Beneath the senate’s sacred vault, beneath

The roof of Nonnius will we sacrifice

These tyrants—you, my friends, must to Præneste;

You to the capitol; remember whom

You serve, the oath that binds you, and the cause

You are engaged in—thou, my loved Cethegus,

Must watch o’er all, and guide the great machine.

SCENE III.

aurelia, catiline.

aurelia.

O Catiline, my lord, my husband, ease

My troubled heart, remove my doubts, my fears,

My horror, my despair—alas! what means

This dreadful preparation?—every step

I tread alarms me; why these soldiers, why

With arms and torches is my palace filled?

The days of Marius and of Sulla sure

Are now returned, and discord reigns amongst us:

Explain, my lord, this dreadful mystery:

Do not turn from me—by the sacred tie

That joins our hearts, by the dear babe thou lovest,

I talk not to thee of its mother’s danger,

For thee alone I tremble: pity me,

Pity a wretched wife, and tell me all.

catiline.

Know then, my life, my fortune, and my fame,

Thy safety, and my own, the common cause,

Demand a conduct which thy fears condemn:

But if thou lovest me, let whate’er thou seest

Be buried in thy breast: I mean to save

Rome’s better part; the senate and the people

Are disunited—danger threats the state

On every side; I’ve taken the best means

To make all well again.

aurelia.

I hope thou hast;

But can we hide our hearts from those we love?

Canst thou deceive me? yet what thou hast said

Doubles my fears. Alas! thy looks are wild,

And full of horror. What will Nonnius say

When he shall see these dreadful preparations?

The voice of nature, and the tender names

Of father and brother oft have passed

Unheard and unregarded when the cause

Of Rome required it—well thou knowest our marriage

Gave much offence, and when my angry father

Returning, shall behold these sad effects

Of our unhappy union, what, my lord,

Must I expect? O why wilt thou abuse

The power which love has given thee o’er a heart

Devoted to thy service?—thou hast gained

A party, but consider well my father,

Cato, and Cicero, and Rome, and heaven,

Are all thy foes: Nonnius perhaps may come

This very day on purpose to destroy thee.

catiline.

Be not afraid, I know he cannot.

aurelia.

How?

catiline.

Whene’er he comes he must approve our purpose:

I am not left at liberty to tell thee

What we design, suffice it that his interest

And mine are one: I know when he shall find

The fair result, he then will join with me

To pull down the proud tyrants he obeys:

Trust me, Aurelia, what I do shall prove

The fertile spring of everlasting glory

And honor to you both—

aurelia.

Alas! the honor

I fear is doubtful, and the danger certain:

What seekest thou? wherefore wouldst thou urge thy fate?

Is it not enough to rank among the first

Of human kind, and rule the subject world?

Why wouldst thou mount the giddy heights of power,

And court destruction? my foreboding heart

Already sees, and trembles at thy danger.

Are these the promised joys of flattering love?

The peace I hoped for? I have lost it now

For ever: O, my lord, when last these eyes

Were in a short and broken slumber closed,

Methought I saw in flames imperial Rome;

Saw murders, deaths, and rivers stained with blood,

My father massacred in open senate,

And thee, my Catiline, amidst a band

Of vile assassins, breathing forth thy soul

In dreadful agonies: I rose, and fled

From these sad images to find my lord,

My guardian, my protector—thou art here,

And I, alas! am but the more unhappy.

catiline.

Away—thy omens fright not Catiline;

Complain not, but be resolute: I want

Thy courage, not thy tears, when I am serving

Thee and my country.

aurelia.

Is it thus thou meanst

To serve her? O, my lord, I know not what

Thy purpose is, but were it fair and just

Perhaps I might long since have been consulted;

Our mutual interest claimed it from a husband:

If thou dissemblest with me, I have cause

To doubt, and to be wretched—Cicero

Has long suspected thee, and Rome thou knowest

Adores him.

catiline.

Whom? my hated rival?

SCENE IV.

catiline, aurelia, martian.

One of the Conspirators.

martian.

Sir,

The consul comes this way—by his command

The senate meet; he wishes first to see

And speak with you.

aurelia.

I tremble at his name.

catiline.

Why tremble at the name of Cicero?

Let Nonnius fear and reverence him, disgrace

His rank and character by mean submission;

I pity the weak senator, but hoped

To find in thee a noble soul: not thus,

Remember, acted thy brave ancestors:

Gods! that a woman, and a Roman, sprung

From Nero’s blood, should thus be void of pride

Or of ambition! noble minds are ne’er

Without them.

aurelia.

Mine perhaps thou thinkest is mean

And timid; cruelty alone with thee

Is courage; thy reproach is most unkind;

But know me better; know that this fond wife,

Whom thou contemnest, who has not power to change

Or soften thee, has more of Roman in her

Than thou canst boast; and, coward as she is,

Can teach thee how to die.

catiline.

How many cares

At once surround me!—Cicero comes—but him

I fear not: this Aurelia.—

SCENE V.

cicero, catiline,Chief of the Lictors.

cicero.

[To the Chief Lictor.

Do as I

Command you—I’ll try if I can sound

This faithless heart; leave me alone with him:

Sometimes a villain may be wrought by fear

To better counsel, and renounce his purpose.

Who’s there? the proud plebeian, chosen by Rome

To be her master?

[Turns to Cataline.

Ere the senate meet,

Catiline, I come for the last time to hold

The friendly torch, and save thy wandering steps

From the dread precipice of guilt and ruin.

catiline.

Who, thou?

cicero.

Yes, I.

catiline.

And is it thus thy hate

Pursues me?

cicero.

Call it pity—but observe me.

The capitol is weary of thy plaints,

Thy factious cries, and bold impertinence;

Rome, and the senate have, it seems, debased

The consul’s dignity by choosing me:

Thy pride we know expected it, but how

Hadst thou deserved it? was it by the name,

Or family, thy valor, or the pride

Of a loose prodigal in shows and feasts

And idle pomp; could these entitle thee

To such exalted honors? couldst thou hope

To be the great dispenser of the laws,

To guide the mistress of the world who rules

O’er prostrate kings? had Catiline been what

He ought to be, I might perhaps to him

Have yielded the contested palm.—Hereafter

Thou mayest support the state, but to be consul

’Tis fit thou first shouldst be—a citizen.

Thinkest thou by vile reflections on my birth,

My fortune, and my fame, to taint my honor,

Or weaken the firm basis of my power?

In our corrupted days it is not name,

Or family, that Rome has need of: no:

’Tis virtue; and the pride of Cicero

Hath ever been, that he should nothing owe

To his forefathers—my nobility

Springs from myself, and thine may end in thee.

catiline.

It ill becomes a temporary power,

Like thine, to boast of its authority.

cicero.

Had Cicero used that power as thou deservest,

Thou wouldst not have been here to question it:

Thou who hast stained our altars with pollution

And sacrilegious rage, thy days are numbered

But by thy crimes: thy merit is to dare,

To strike at all, dissemble, and betray:

Thou hast abused the precious gifts that heaven

Bestowed on thee for other purposes:

Sense, beauty, courage, and heroic warmth,

All the fair ornaments of human nature,

In thee are but the instruments of ill.

My voice, which still is raised to scourge the wicked,

And plead for the oppressed, hath spared thee yet;

Nor with the odious Verres ranked the name

Of Catiline: but long impunity

Hath made thee shameless, and insensible

Of all reproof—thou hast betrayed the state:

At Rome, and in Etruria all is discord,

And foul confusion; Umbria is revolted;

Præneste staggers in her faith; the soldiers

Of barbarous Sulla, drenched in blood, come forth

From their dark caves prepared for slaughter, armed

By cruel Mallius; all are leagued with thee;

Thy partisans declared, or secret friends,

All are united in one guilty bond,

And sworn to the destruction of their country:

I know thee for their chief, for I have eyes

On every side, and hands too, thou shalt find,

That, spite of thee, shall vindicate the cause

Of injured Rome; thy guilty friends shall feel

My justice too: thou hast beheld me long

But as thy rival, now behold thy judge,

And thy accuser, who will force thee soon

To answer for thy actions by those laws

Which thou so oft hast trampled on unpunished,

Those laws which thou contemnest, and I revenge.

catiline.

I’ve told you, sir, already, that your office

But ill excuses this indecent freedom:

But for that country’s sake, whom both are bound

To serve, I pardon your unjust suspicions;

Nay, I do more, I honor your warm zeal;

Blind though it be, in such a cause ’tis just:

But do not thus reproach me for past errors,

For the wild follies of impetuous youth,

That soon are o’er; your senate is to blame,

I followed their example; pomp and pride,

Excess and luxury, the fruits of conquest,

Are the time’s vices, not the native bent

Of Catiline’s heart: I served the commonweal

In Asia as a soldier, as a judge

In Africa: spite of our domestic feuds,

Did I not make the name of Rome revered

Among the nations? I who have defended

Shall ne’er betray her.

cicero.

Sulla too and Marius

Both served their country well, and then destroyed her.

Tyrants have all some specious show of virtue,

And ere they break their country’s laws support them.

catiline.

If you suspect each brave and gallant soldier,

Let Cæsar, Pompey, Crassus be accused:

Why fix on me amongst so many? why

Am I the only object of your fears?

Have I deserved it?

cicero.

That you best can tell.

But wherefore deign I thus to answer you?

catiline.

The more I plead in my defence, the more

Will Cicero condemn me: if as friend

Thou talkest to me, thou but deceivest thyself,

I am thy foe; if as a citizen,

So too is Catiline; if as a consul,

A consul’s not a master, he presides

But in the senate, I defy him there.

cicero.

Thou durst not; for I there can punish guilt:

If thou art innocent, I will protect thee;

If not, I charge thee, be not seen in Rome.

catiline.

This is too much: I will no longer bear

Thy insults, though I scorn thy vague suspicions:

Yet know I think the worst affront that thou

Couldst put on Catiline, would be to protect him.

cicero.

[Alone.

Insolent traitor! means he thus to prove

His innocence by false affected pride?

Perfidious wretch, I’m not to be deceived,

Nor shalt thou thus escape the watchful eye

Of vengeance.

SCENE VI.

cicero, cato.

cicero.

Well, my friend, hast thou prepared

For Rome’s defence?

cato.

Your orders are obeyed;

I have disposed the chiefs, and all are ready

To march as you direct them; but I fear

The people, nay the senate.

cicero.

Ha! the senate?

cato.

Ay—they are swollen with pride—and foul division

Will soon enslave them.

cicero.

Much indeed I fear

Our vices will avenge the conquered world;

Our liberty and virtue are no more;

But Rome may still have hope whilst Cato lives.

cato.

Alas! who serves his country often serves

A most ungrateful mistress—even thy merit

Offends the senate; with a jealous eye

It views thy greatness.

cicero.

Cato’s approbation

Is recompense enough; thy honest praise

Will more than balance their ingratitude;

On that and on posterity alone

I shall rely; let us perform our duty,

And leave the rest to heaven.

cato.

How shall we stem

The torrent of corruption? when I see,

Even in this sacred temple, raised to virtue,

Infamous treason rise with shameless front:

Can we suppose that Manlius, that proud rebel,

Would dare advance his standard, and blow up

The flames of civil war, if greater powers

Did not support him, if some secret foe

Abetted not their vile conspiracy?

The leaders of the senate may betray us;

From Sulla’s ashes may new tyrants rise:

My just suspicions light on Cæsar.

cicero.

Mine

On Catiline; perfidious, sordid, rash,

And bold; he loves rebellion, and delights

In novelty; more dangerous than Cæsar;

I know him well; even now I parted from him:

What passed between us but confirms me more

In my suspicions; on his face I read

Rage and resentment, the determined pride

Of his fierce spirit, that no longer deigned

To hide its purpose, but stood forth, and owned

Its enmity to Rome.—I must discover

His bold compeers, perhaps I may prevent

His future crimes, and save my falling country.

cato.

Catiline has friends, and much I fear the power

Of these united tyrants may prove fatal:

Our forces are in Asia, and at Rome

We are corrupted; but one upright man

May save the state.

cicero.

If we unite, our country

Has naught to fear—in factions discord soon

Dissolves the tie: Cæsar perhaps may join them;

But, if I know him right, his noble soul

Will never stoop to serve a worthless tyrant;

He loves his country still, and hates a master;

Though soon the time will come when he shall strive

To be one; both are eager for applause,

And both ambitious: both are raised too high

To meet in friendship long; by their division

Rome may be saved; let us not tamely wait

To see our country’s ruin, or behold

In shameful chains the masters of mankind.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

catiline, cethegus.

cethegus.

At length the torch is lit to set on fire

Rome and the subject world; our army’s nigh,

And all is ready for the great event.

Knowest thou meantime, my friend, what passes here?

catiline.

I know the consul’s prudence, so he calls

His cowardice, which deeply ruminates

On future ills: like an unskilful pilot

He sets up every sail for every wind,

But knows not or which way the tempest comes,

Or whither it may drive him—for the senate,

I fear it not; that many-headed monster,

So proud of conquest and nobility,

Looks with an evil eye on Cicero;

I know it hates him, so does Cæsar; Crassus

Would gladly yield him up a sacrifice

To our resentment; on their jealousy

Depend my hopes—he’s like a dying man,

With feeble arm he struggles for a while,

But soon shall sink beneath us and expire.

cethegus.

Envy I know attacks him, but his tongue

Can soften all; he leads the captive senate.

catiline.

I brave him everywhere; despise his clamors,

And smile at his resentment: let him rail

To his last hour, and triumph in the shouts

Of his admirers, I have other cares

That sit more heavy on me.

cethegus.

What should stop

Thy rapid progress in the paths of glory

And happiness? Canst thou have aught to fear?

catiline.

My numerous foes I heed not, ’tis my friends

I have most cause to dread; the jealousy

Of Lentulus, the aspiring soul of Cæsar,

And, above all, my wife.

cethegus.

Shall Catiline

Be frightened at a woman’s tears?—for shame,

Leave her to indulge her visionary fears:

I thought thou lovest her as a master should,

And madest her but the servile instrument

Of thy ambition.

catiline.

’Tis a dangerous one:

Rome and her child divide with me her love.

Curse on the name of Rome, that even beneath

The roof of Catiline those should dwell who love

Their country! But before the important hour

That must decide our fate, she shall be moved,

She and her son—be that thy care, Cethegus:

Our wives and children must not trouble us

In those distressful moments—but for Cæsar—

cethegus.

What’s to be done? if he refuse to join

Our cause, shall we proscribe him; shall the names

Of Cicero and of Cæsar be united?

catiline.

Let me consider—to cut Cæsar off—

That were a dreadful sacrifice; methinks

I cannot but admire him, and revere

In him the honor of the Roman name:

But where is Lentulus?

cethegus.

O fear not him;

His pride we know will prompt him to believe

That thou with him wilt share the sovereign power.

catiline.

Let him believe it still! the credulous fool!

Thou seest, Cethegus, with what sublety

I’m forced to manage these imperious spirits;

Their rage, resentment, pride and jealousy:

Knowest thou he dares even to be Cæsar’s rival?

To keep my friends within the pale of prudence

Will cost me much more trouble than the ruin

Of Cicero and Rome—to guide a party

Is of all tasks the hardest.—

cethegus.

Lentulus

Is here, my lord.

SCENE II.

catiline, cethegus, lentulus-sura.

sura.

In spite of my remonstrance

You will rely on Cæsar, and confide

In him alone; Præneste’s in his power.

And I must yield to him; but know I scorn it,

The blood of Scipio was not made to yield.

catiline.

I’ve joined with Cæsar, but depend not on him;

He may support our cause, or he may hurt it;

I use his name, but ’tis for your advantage.

sura.

And what is there in Cæsar’s name superior

To yours or mine? why must we meanly court

His favor? but because he’s Pompey’s rival

Rome makes a God of him.—I am thy friend;

Sura and Catiline may defy them all,

And without Cæsar make the world their own.

catiline.

We may—thy conduct and approved valor

Have ever been my best and surest hope;

But Cæsar is beloved, respected, feared;

The senate and the people all admire

And court him; statesman, general, magistrate;

In peace revered, and terrible in war;

A thousand ways he charms the multitude;

In short he will be necessary.—

sura.

Say

Destructive rather—if to-day he shines

Our equal, by to-morrow he will prove

Our rival, and ere long perhaps our master;

Trust me, I know him well, and therefore think

Our party has not a more dangerous foe:

Perhaps his haughty soul may yield to thee,

But play the tyrant o’er the rest; for me,

I cannot, will not, brook it—I’ve devoted

My honor and my fortunes to thy service;

But I renounce my plighted faith, renounce

Thee and thy cause, if Cæsar is preferred.

catiline.

And so thou shalt—I’d sacrifice my life

Rather than e’er permit a haughty rival

To soar above us—Cæsar is our tool,

Our instrument; to-day I flatter him,

To-morrow can bring down his pride, perhaps

Do more—thou knowest our mutual happiness

And interest are my first and dearest care.

[To Cethegus.

Away, and let Aurelia be prepared:

Go; or her fond intruding love may ruin

Our deep laid schemes, and mar the great design:

Return some private way and meet me here,

I wait for Cæsar.

sura.

Nothing’s to be done.

I find, without him—but I’ll wait the event.

catiline.

Farewell: remember I rely on thee

More than on Cæsar.—

cethegus.

I shall execute

Your high command, and gather all our friends

Before the standard of great Catiline.

SCENE III.

catiline, cæsar.

catiline.

Hail, godlike Cæsar, thou whom from the days

Of Sulla I have ranked amongst my best

And dearest friends, whose fortunes I foretold:

Born as thou art to be the first of Romans,

How suits it with thy pride to be the slave

Of a plebeian, who forever thwarts

And braves thee to thy face? I know thou hatest him;

Thy piercing eye observes impatient Rome

Contending for her freedom, will not Cæsar

Assist his country to shake off her chains?

The cause is noble, and the fate of millions

Depends on this important crisis; thou

Wilt join us—lookest thou not with jealous eye

On Pompey still? dost thou not still abhor

The surly Cato? canst thou serve the gods

With half thy wonted zeal when the proud consul

Presides at the altar? will thy noble spirit

Bear these imperious rulers; soft Lucullus,

Sunk in the arms of luxury and sloth;

The greedy Crassus, grasping his large heaps

Of ill-got wealth, enough to purchase Rome

And all her venal sons? on every side

Or faction or corruption reigns; the world

Calls out on Cæsar; wilt thou hear her voice?

Wilt thou redress and save thy falling country?

Will Cæsar listen to his friend?

cæsar.

He will;

And if the senate do thee wrong, step forth

To plead thy cause; I never will betray thee;

But ask no more.

catiline.

Are these the utmost bounds

Of Cæsar’s friendship, but to talk for him?

cæsar.

I’ve weighed the projects, and shall not oppose them;

I may approve, but would not execute.

catiline.

I understand you, you are on that side

Which fortune favors, and would stand aloof

To mark the progress of our civil wars,

And raise your fortunes on the common ruin.

cæsar.

No—I have nobler views; my hate of Cato,

My jealousy of Pompey, the renown

Of Cicero, conspire to make me wish

I might surpass them all; fair glory calls,

The banks of Seine, the Tagus, and the Rhine;

I pant for honor, and for victory.

catiline.

If conquest is thy aim, begin with Rome;

To-morrow we may reign the masters of her.

cæsar.

The enterprise is great, perhaps too bold;

But, to be open with thee, though ’tis worthy

Of Catiline, it suits not Cæsar.

catiline.

How!

cæsar.

I do not choose to serve.

catiline.

To share with Cæsar

Were no dishonor to the most ambitious.

cæsar.

But power supreme is not to be divided:

I’ll not be dragged at Catiline’s chariot wheels

To grace his triumph: as a friend I love thee;

But know that friend shall never be—my master:

Even Pompey shall not—Sulla, whom thy valor

Hath nobly followed in the race of glory,

Whose courage I admire, whose lawless rage

I ever shall abhor, enslaved proud Rome:

But he deserved the glorious prize, subdued

The Hellespont, and made Euphrates tremble:

Asia was conquered: Mithridates owned

His martial genius—but what noble deeds

Hast thou to boast? what kings hast thou subdued?

What seas has Catiline passed, what lands explored?

Thou hast the seeds of greatness in thy nature;

But to enslave thy country is above

Thy present powers, above the powers of Cæsar:

We have not strength, authority or name

For such an enterprise. Rome soon must fall:

But ere I will attempt to be her master,

I will extend her empire and her glory;

And if I forge my country’s chains, at least

Will cover them with laurels.

catiline.

Mine, perhaps,

Is, after all, the shortest path to glory:

How did your boasted Sulla rise to empire?

He had an army, so has Catiline;

Raised by myself alone, and not, like his,

The gift of fortune; he observed with care

The favorable hour, and well improved it:

I have done more; have made the times and seasons

Subservient to me. Sulla was a king.

Wouldst thou be one? wilt thou be Cicero’s slave,

Or rule with Catiline?

cæsar.

Neither. To be free,

For I no longer will dissemble with you,

I esteem Cicero; but love him not,

Nor fear him: though I love, I dread not thee.

Divide the senate if thou canst, pull down

The proud oppressors; thou hast my consent;

But hope no more, nor dare to think that Cæsar

Will ever be thy slave: I’ll keep thy secret,

And be thy friend or foe, as thou deservest it.

SCENE IV.

catiline.

If he supports us not, even let him fall

The victim of his folly: Sulla knew

And would have cut him off, but Sulla dared not:

I know he is my secret enemy,

As such I shall beware of him.

SCENE V.

catiline, cethegus, lentulus-sura.

sura.

What says

The mighty Cæsar? is he friend or foe?

catiline.

His barren friendship only offers me

A feeble aid; but we can do without him:

Perhaps he may repent it; and meantime

We’ve better pillars to support the fabric.

Behold, the heroes come.

SCENE VI.

catiline, the conspirators.

catiline.

Hail, bold Statilius,

Valiant Autronius, noble Piso, hail,

Vargontes, and the rest of my brave friends,

The first of men, the conquerors of kings,

The great avengers of a world oppressed,

This seat of empire soon shall be your own:

The vanquished nations, which your valor gained,

Were ravished from you by usurping tyrants;

For the proud senate still your blood hath flowed;

For them Tigranes, Mithridates fell;

For them alone; and all your poor reward

Was but to stand at distance, and adore

Your haughty masters; but at length the hour

Of vengeance is approaching: be prepared

For no inglorious enterprise: I know

Your souls would scorn a victory cheaply bought;

But I will bring you noble conquests, full

Of danger and of glory: seize, my friends,

The golden opportunity: already

I see your foes expiring at your feet.

Rush on your prey, burn, plunder, and destroy;

But, above all, let union guide your counsels:

Even now Præneste falls: the brave remains

Of Sulla’s scattered forces march towards us:

I shall command them, and Rome must be yours

Petreius vanquished, I shall clear my way

Even to the capitol: then you, my friends,

Shall rise to empire, to a throne disgraced

By worthless Romans, and by you restored

To its true lustre: Curius and his band

Will open me the gates; but tell me, friend,

The gladiatorian cohorts, where are they?

Will those brave veterans join our cause?

lentulus-sura.

They will:

Myself shall lead them in the dead of night,

And arm them in this secret place.

catiline.

Mount Cælius—

Is that secured?

statilius.

I’ve bribed the sentinels,

And all is safe.

catiline.

You to mount Aventine

Repair, and soon as Mallius shall display

His colors, light your torches, spread destruction

On every side; let the proscribed perish.

Let Cicero—ye have sworn it—be my first

My darling victim: Cæsar too must die,

And Cato; these removed, the senate soon

Will tremble and obey: already fortune

Declares for us, and blinds them to their ruin:

Within their walls, and almost in their sight

We lay the snares of death, and mark them out

For sacrifice: remember not to take up arms

Before the appointed time: we must surprise

Ere we destroy: let Cicero and Rome

Perish together, and the lightning blast

Before the thunder’s threatening voice alarms them.

Call not this deed a foul conspiracy;

’Tis a just war declared against the foes

Of Rome and all mankind; reclaim your rights,

The empire of the world, which base usurpers

Had ravished from you.

[To Cethegus and Lentulus-Sura.

Haste, ye gallant leaders,

Haste to the senate; see your victims there:

Hear your proud consul roar; ’tis the last time

That he shall triumph there—now, worthy Romans,

Swear by this sword, that with the blood of tyrants

Shall soon be stained, to perish, or to conquer,

With Catiline.

martian.

By thee and by this sword

We swear with thee to perish or to conquer.

another conspirator.

Perish the senate! perish all who serve,

All who defend them! if there be amongst us

A traitor, let him die.

catiline.

Away, this night

Will finish all, and Rome shall be our own.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

catiline, cethegus, martian, septimus.

catiline.

Are all things ready? do our troops advance?

martian.

Even so, my lord; the faithful Mallius comes

Prepared to circle these devoted walls;

Our friends impatient brook not dull delay,

But urge each other to the bloody scene;

We wait but thy command; appoint the hour

When Rome must fall.

catiline.

Soon as I quit the senate

Begin the sacrifice: let this great day

Be sacred to destruction: but meantime

Take special care the consul’s busy friends

Do not observe our motions.

cethegus.

Were it not

Most prudent to destroy him in the senate?

He has alarmed the people, and foresees

Our every action.

catiline.

Knows he the revolt

Of Mallius? knows he Catiline’s deep designs?

Knows he an army is approaching for me?

Fear not, my friends, ours is no common cause,

’Tis fit the means should be proportioned to it:

When vulgar mortals, grovelling and obscure,

Form ill-digested schemes, and idle plans

Of future greatness, if one slender wheel

Is broke, it overthrows the whole machine:

But souls like ours, a firm and chosen band,

Plans deeply laid, the conquerors of kings,

The sons of Mars, united to support

And raise each other, these must be superior

To Cicero’s art, or Cicero’s vigilance:

We’ve naught to fear.

cethegus.

But is Præneste ours

In Cæsar’s name?

catiline.

Ay; that was my first stroke

Of policy: the unsuspecting senate

Will be deceived: I’ve whispered it abroad,

That Nonnius hath conspired against the state,

And half our credulous fools believe the tale.

Ere he can clear his innocence, my army

Will be in Rome, and all secured: away,

Remove Aurelia: let no little cares

Intrude to stop or hurt the great design.

SCENE II.

aurelia, catiline, cethegus, etc.

aurelia.

[A letter in her hand.

There, Catiline, read Aurelia’s fate and thine,

Thy crime and thy just sentence.

catiline.

What rash hand—

Ha! ’tis thy father’s.

aurelia.

Read it.

catiline.

[Reads the letter.

“Death too long

Hath spared me, and the child I loved too well

Must finish my sad days: at length I suffer

For my own follies, and that hapless marriage

Which I consented to; I know the plots

Of thy vile husband: Cæsar has betrayed us,

And would have seized Præneste: thou partakest

The treason: but repent, or perish with them.”

But how could Nonnius e’er discover that

Which even the consul knows not?

cethegus.

This may prove

Our ruin.

catiline.

[To Cethegus.

It may turn to our advantage.

Aurelia, I must tell thee all: this day

The world is armed in Catiline’s defence:

Say, in the hour of danger wilt thou serve

A father or a husband?

aurelia.

To be silent,

And trouble thee no more, were the commands

Which Catiline laid on his neglected wife,

Spite of her fond entreaties, prayers, and tears:

What hast thou further to desire?

catiline.

Away:

This moment, send that letter to the consul;

I have my reasons; I would have him know,

That Cæsar is as much to be suspected

As I am: he’s accused, and Catiline not

So much as named: it is as I could wish.

Take with thee our loved infant, and return not

To bleeding Rome, till I am master there:

Then thou shalt reign with me: our marriage yet

Is kept a secret: I’ll not have it known,

’Till at the head of our victorious army

I shall proclaim it loud to Italy,

And to the world: then shall thy haughty father,

As our first subject, humbly bend before thee,

And sue to be forgiven: begone, Aurelia,

And leave me to my fate. I would not wish

Thou shouldst partake my dangers or my cares:

This night prepare to meet a conqueror.

aurelia.

O Catiline, meanest thou to destroy thy country?

Is this the day appointed for destruction?

catiline.

To-day I purpose to chastise my foes;

All is prepared.

aurelia.

Begin then with Aurelia;

For I had rather perish by thy hand,

Than live to share thy guilt.

catiline.

O let the tie

That binds us—

cethegus.

Drive not thus to desperation

A husband and a friend, who trusts his all

To thee; thou art entered in the paths of glory,

And to retreat were fatal.

aurelia.

Misery

And sure destruction were Aurelia’s fate:

From that unhappy moment, when by thee

And thy vile counsels led, I gave my hand

To Catiline; despised, neglected, long

Have I beheld, with eyes of detestation,

Your horrid plots: spite of myself you made me

A vile accomplice; but you know I loved,

And basely have imposed upon my weakness:

I blush to think how grossly you abused

A woman’s fond credulity; but know

I’ll no longer be guilty of a crime

Which I abhor: no longer serve a tyrant:

No, I renounce my vows, my faith to thee;

These hands shall rise against thee, thou vile traitor:

Henceforth I am thy foe. Strike, Catiline, strike;

Destroy me; carry into burning Rome,

For thy first victim, an expiring wife

Slain by thy hand; destroy the hapless infant,

Sad pledge of our detested nuptials: then,

Barbarian as thou art, complete thy guilt,

And in the blood of millions glut thy vengeance.

catiline.

And is the gentle, kind Aurelia then

Amongst my foes? thus in the noblest war,

That e’er was waged for freedom and for empire,

When Pompey, Cæsar, Cato, are subdued,

My worst of enemies at last are found

In my own house; I am deserted there

For an unworthy father: threatened too.

aurelia.

I threaten guilt, and tremble for—a husband:

Even in my rage thou seest my tenderness;

Abuse it not, it is my only weakness:

But I would have thee fear—

catiline.

That word, Aurelia,

Was never made for Catiline—but hear me:

I love thee; yet presume not on thy power,

Nor think I e’er will sacrifice my friends,

My noble cause, my interest, and my fame,

Glory and empire: no, it is enough

If I forgive and pity thee, but know—

aurelia.

The crown thy pride looks up to I despise:

I should behold it as the shameful mark

Of infamy: thou showest thy love for me

By pity and forgiveness; and I mine,

By holding back, if possible, thy hand

From guilt and error—therefore will I go—

SCENE III.

catiline, cethegus, lentulus-sura, aurelia, etc.

lentulus-sura.

We are discovered, lost, undone; our friends

Betrayed, our plots unravelled all; Præneste

Not yielded to us; Nonnius is in Rome;

One of our spies is seized, and has confessed;

Nonnius in open senate will accuse

His son-in-law; he’s gone to Cicero,

Who knows too much already.

aurelia.

Now behold

The fruits of guilt, and all thy great designs,

Thy boasted fortunes, empire, and the throne,

Which I despised: are thy eyes opened yet?

catiline.

[After a long pause.

This is a blow I thought not of; but say,

Wilt thou betray me?

aurelia.

’Tis what thou deservest:

My country claims, and heaven demands it of me;

But I’ll do more, I’ll save both Rome and thee;

And though I have not all thy rage, may boast

Some of thy courage; love will make me brave:

Long since I saw thy danger, Catiline:

’Tis come, and now I will partake it with thee;

I’ll see my father, and obtain thy life,

Or lose my own; I know he is forgiving,

Gentle, and mild: I know he loves Aurelia,

And will not urge too far a foe like thee,

Desperate and brave; I’ll talk to Cicero

Who fears, and to the senate who adores thee;

They will be glad to think thee innocent;

Those whom we fear we readily forgive:

But let sincerest penitence atone

For thy past crimes: convicted guilt by that,

And that alone, can hope for pardon; though

I know it hurts thy pride, it must be done:

At least I hope I shall procure thee time,

Or to quit Rome, or to defend thyself:

I’ll not reproach thee; even when most guilty

I loved, and in misfortune will not leave thee;

But rather die to save thy life and glory.

Farewell; let Catiline learn henceforth to trust me;

I have deserved it.

catiline.

Sad alternative;

It is most dreadful—but I yield to thee:

Remember that a husband’s plea is stronger,

Much stronger than a father’s: if I err,

The crime is thine.

aurelia.

I’ll take it all upon me;

Nay, even thy hatred, if it must be so;

I act for thee, and I’m satisfied.

Daughter, and wife, and Roman, every duty

Shall be performed; remember thine, and keep

Thy heart as pure and spotless as Aurelia’s.

SCENE IV.

catiline, cethegus, lentulus-sura, freedmen.

lentulus-sura.

Is this the bold and fearless Catiline,

Or Nonnius’ timid son; a woman’s slave;

Appalled by phantoms? how thy great soul shrunk

Soon as Aurelia spoke!

cethegus.

It cannot be;

Catiline will never change; his noble soul

By opposition grows but more resolved:

Præneste lost, the senate our accusers,

We may be conquerors still, and make them tremble

Whilst they condemn us; we have noble friends,

And will deserve them.

lentulus-sura.

Ere the signal’s given

We may be seized; thou knowest at dead of night,

Just as the senate part, we had agreed

To execute our purpose: what, my friends,

Must be resolved on?

cethegus.

[To Catiline.

Catiline, thou art silent,

And tremblest too.

catiline.

I tremble at the blow

Which I shall strike; my fate demands it of me.

lentulus-sura.

I’ve no dependence on Aurelia: all

That we can hope for is to sell our lives

As dearly as we can.

catiline.

I count the moments,

And weigh each circumstance; Aurelia’s tears

And flattery will a while suspend our fate;

Cicero on other business is detained,

And all is safe; let me have arms and men,

No matter who they are, or slaves or free,

Assassins, robbers, if they will but fight,

We’ll have them: thou brave Septimus, and thou

My dearest Martian, whose approved zeal

I shall depend on, must observe Aurelia;

And Nonnius; when they’re parted, talk to him

About his daughter; tell him of her danger,

Draw him by artful means to the dark path

That leads to the Tiber, seize the lucky moment,

And hurl him—ha! who’s this?

SCENE V.

cicero, catiline, cethegus, etc.

cicero.

Audacious traitor,

Where art thou going? speak, Cethegus, who

Assembled you?

catiline.

We’ll tell thee in the senate.

cethegus.

There we shall see if thou art authorized

Thus to pursue us.

lentulus-sura.

Or what right

The son of Tullius has to question us.

cicero.

At least I have a right to ask of these,

Who brought them here: these are not like yourselves,

Of senatorial rank; away with them.

To prison.

catiline.

Darest thou thus on mere suspicion

Confine a Roman; where’s our liberty?

cicero.

They are of thy council, that’s sufficient cause;

Tremble, thyself; lictors, obey.

[The lictors carry off Septimus and Martian.

catiline.

’Tis well:

Go on, proud consul, and abuse thy power,

The time will come when thou shalt answer for it.

cicero.

Instant I will examine them, hereafter

Thus may I treat their masters; Nonnius knows

All thy designs, Præneste’s mine, and Rome

Prepared for her defence; we soon shall see

Which most prevails, or Catiline’s artifice

Or Cicero’s vigilance: I do not preach

Repentance and forgiveness to thee; no,

I talk of punishment, thou mayest expect it:

Come to the senate; follow if thou darest.

SCENE VI.

catiline, cethegus, lentulus-sura.

cethegus.

Must we at last then bend to Cicero,

And own his hated power?

catiline.

To the last hour

I will defy him: still his curious soul

Pries into all, but can discover nothing:

Our friends will only lead him more astray,

By holding out false lights that will misguide

His wandering footsteps: in that fatal scroll

Cæsar’s accused; the senate is divided,

And Manlius with his army’s at the gate:

You think that all is lost, but follow me.

And mark the event; we shall be conquerors still.

lentulus-sura.

Nonnius, I fear, will make it all too plain.

catiline.

But he and Cicero shall never meet;

Depend on that; away, address the senate

With confidence, and leave the rest to me:

But whither am I going?

cethegus.

Ha!

catiline.

Aurelia!

O gods! what shall I do with that proud heart?

Remove her from me: if I see my wife,

Bold as I am, I shall relapse: away.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The Scene represents the place prepared for the reception of the Senate, with part of the gallery leading from Aurelia’s palace to the temple of Tellus; a double row of benches in a circular form, with a raised seat for Cicero in the middle of it.

cethegus, lentulus-sura.

lentulus-sura.

These reverend fathers are exceeding slow,

I thought ere this they would have met; perhaps

Uncertain yet, and trembling for their fate,

They know not how to act.

cethegus.

The oracle

Of Rome, (for so he deems himself,) engaged

In a continued round of toil, is busied

In questioning his prisoner Septimus,

Who will perplex him more; ’tis that retards

Their meeting.

lentulus-sura.

Would to heaven that we already

Had taken up arms! I own I dread the senate.

That reverence and attachment to the state,

That sacred name of country, which awakes

The sense of honor in each patriot breast;

I like it not.

cethegus.

’Tis nothing but a name,

A word without a meaning; in the days

Of our forefathers men respected it.

Save a few stubborn stoics, none retain

The memory of it; Cicero has raised

Suspicions only; Cato’s credit’s lost;

Cæsar is for us, what have we to fear?

Defend yourselves, and Rome will be your own.

lentulus-sura.

But what if Catiline, by an artful wife

Seduced, at last should leave us; we have all

Our weaknesses, and well thou knowest Aurelia

Can lead him as she lists; he loves, esteems,

And may be ruled by her.

cethegus.

His love will yield

To his ambition.

lentulus-sura.

Thou beheldest him tremble.

In short, my friend, when tender ties like these—

cethegus.

[Taking him aside.

Cato approaches, let us listen to him.

[Lentulus-Sura and Cethegus sit down at one corner of the Senate-house.

SCENE II.

catoenters the Senate withlucullus, crassus, favonius, clodius, murena, cæsar, catullus, marcellus, etc.

cato.

[Observing the two conspirators.

Lucullus, mark those dangerous men; behold them

In secret conference; see, the blush of guilt

Glows on their cheeks at sight of me; already

Treason with bold and shameless front stalks forth

Amongst us, and the senate still dissemble

Their knowledge of it; Sulla’s demon sure

Hath breathed its baneful influence o’er the souls

Of our blind rulers.

cethegus.

Cato, thy rash censure

May cost thee dear.

cato.

[Sits down, the other senators take their places.

The gods of Rome sometimes

Permit a traitor’s crimes to pass unpunished;

They crushed our ancestors beneath the yoke

Of cruel tyrants; shall imperial Rome,

The mistress of the world, again submit

To slavery? no: the guilt she spared in Sulla,

In Catiline and Cethegus she may punish.

cæsar.

Cato, what meanest thou? thy outrageous virtue

Can serve no purpose but to make thee foes.

cato.

[To Cæsar.

Cæsar is still the factious leader’s friend,

The patron of corruption, and preserves

A soul unmoved whate’er his country suffers.

cæsar.

When danger calls, my country will not say

I am too calm, therefore complain not, Cato.

cato.

I must complain, must weep the fate of Rome,

Deserted and betrayed: now where is Pompey?

Would he were here to save us!

cæsar.

Why not call

On Cæsar?

cato.

Pompey loves his country.

cæsar.

That

Would I dispute with him.

SCENE III.

cicero.

[Entering with precipitation, the senators rise.

Why waste ye thus in idle altercation,

The precious time when Rome is on the brink

Of ruin, whilst on you she calls for succor,

When the dread signal is already given?

Already is this land of freedom stained

With senatorial blood.

lucullus.

O heavens!

cato.

What sayest thou?

cicero.

The equestrian cohort, formed by my command,

Were posted where they best might quell the foe;

Nonnius, my friend, that generous old man,

Who, amidst the crimes of this degenerate age,

Still uncorrupted, from Præneste came,

To guide us through this labyrinth of treason,

And lead our wandering steps to peace and safety,

When lo! two bloody ruffians rushed upon him,

And plunged their daggers in his faithful heart:

He fell: confusion followed, and wild uproar

Amongst the people: we pursued the traitors,

Spite of the multitude that thronged around them,

And night’s dark shade to favor their escape:

One I have seized, and bound in chains; already

He has confessed that Catiline set him on.

SCENE IV.

catiline.

[Standing up between Cato and Cæsar, Cethegus next to Cæsar, the Senate seated.

Yes, reverend fathers, know, the deed was mine;

I slew your foes; ’twas Catiline who revenged

His injured country, and destroyed a traitor.

cicero.

Barbarian, thou?

cato.

And darest thou boast of it?

cæsar.

Remember, fathers, we’ve no right to punish

Before we hear him.

cethegus.

Speak, defend thyself,

And triumph o’er the malice of thy foes.

cicero.

Romans, where are we?

catiline.

Amidst evil days

And evil men, the horrors of foul discord

And civil war; amidst determined foes,

Whom I alone must conquer; Sulla’s spirit

Inspires once more the haughty sons of Rome:

With grief I see expiring liberty,

With grief behold this reverend senate torn

By discord, horrors spread on every side,

And Cicero pouring in the senate’s ear

Unjust suspicions: Cicero talks for Rome,

But I avenge her: I have shown her cause

Is dearer far to me than e’er it was

To your proud consul. Nonnius was the soul,

The leader of this foul conspiracy:

It was a dangerous crisis; I stepped forth

And saved you all: thus by a soldier fell

The daring Spurius; thus was Gracchus slain

By the brave Scipio: who shall punish me

For acting like a Roman? which of you

Will dare accuse me?

cicero.

I, who know thy crime;

I, who can prove it—bring those freedmen here,

Let them be heard. Fathers, behold the man

Who has destroyed a senator of Rome:

Will ye permit him thus to speak, to boast

Of his foul deed, and call his crime a virtue?

catiline.

And will ye, Romans, let this vile accuser

Thus persecute your fellow-citizens,

Your best, your noblest friends? but know from me

What Cicero could not tell you, and improve

The important secret to your best advantage:

In his own palace, know, this impious man,

This vile betrayer, Nonnius, had concealed

Arms, torches, all the instruments of death

Designed for our destruction: if Rome lives,

She lives by me, and to this arm you owe

Your safety: send and seize them, and then say

What’s due to Catiline from his thankless country.

cicero.

[To the lictors.

Go you to the palace, bring with you the daughter

Of Nonnius—ha! thou tremblest.

catiline.

I? ’tis false:

Know, I despise this mean, this last resource

Of disappointed malice—fathers, say,

Have I not cleared myself? are you convinced!

cicero.

I am, that thou art guilty: can ye think

That good old man was ever capable

Of such detested fraud? it was thy art,

Thy cunning, miscreant, to conceal from me

Thy treachery; therefore didst thou choose the palace

Of Nonnius to secrete thy instruments

Of vengeance; there thou wouldst have hid thy guilt:

Perhaps thou hast seduced his wretched daughter:

Alas! his family is not the first

Where thou hast carried sorrows, crimes, and death;

And now thou wouldst destroy thy country too;

Yet boldly darest, instead of punishment,

To call for approbation and reward.

O thou abandoned traitor, murderer,

Reviler, hypocrite; such titles suit

Thy boasted services. O you, who once

Stood forth the happy patrons of mankind,

The sovereign judges of the world, at length

Will you submit, to let a tyrant hold

Dominion o’er you, will you shut your eyes

And rush into the precipice? awake,

Revenge yourselves, or you partake his guilt:

This day or Rome or Catiline must perish:

Lose not a moment therefore, but determine:

cæsar.

Judgments too quickly made are oft unjust:

This is the cause of Rome, and therefore merits

Our strict attention: when our equals lag

Beneath the stroke of censure, we should act

With caution, and in them respect ourselves:

Too much severity suits none but tyrants.

cato.

Too much indulgence here suits none but traitors.

What! balance ’twixt a murderer and Rome!

Is it not Cicero speaks, and shall we doubt?

cæsar.

These are suspicions only; give us proof:

The arms once found, and Nonnius’ guilt confirmed,

Catiline deserves our praise.

[Turning to Catiline.

Thou knowest I’ll keep

My word with thee in all things.

cicero.

O my country!

O Rome! O gods! thus shall a hero plead

A traitor’s cause; art thou the senate’s friend,

And canst be Catiline’s? henceforth Rome has naught

To fear but from her own ungrateful sons.

clodius.

Rome is in safety; Cæsar loves his country,

And we should think with him.

cicero.

It well becomes

A man like Clodius to unite with those

Who plan destruction, and delight in ruin:

But whereso’er I turn my eyes, they meet

With bold conspirators, or citizens

Cold and inactive in the cause of Rome:

Catiline, without or fear or danger, drives

The storm upon us; he proscribes the senate;

Already reaps in thought the bloody harvest;

Marks out his victims, threatens, and commands;

And when I point out the dread consequence,

Then Cæsar talks of senatorial rights,

And Clodius joins him: Cicero must be dumb:

Catiline has murdered Nonnius; he who takes

Another’s life should lose his own; no rights,

No laws should plead for him: the first great care

Is to defend our country; but, alas!

That country is no more.

SCENE V.

the senate, aurelia.

aurelia.

Ye great avengers

Of innocence oppressed, my only hope,

And thou, O consul, virtue’s kind protector,

To thee my murdered father calls for vengeance:

O let me wash thy feet with tears—assist,

[She falls at Cicero’s feet; he raises her up.

Avenge me: tell me, if thou canst, who slew

My father.

cicero.

There he stands.

[Pointing to Catiline.

aurelia.

O gods!

cicero.

’Twas he

Who did the deed, and boasts of it.

aurelia.

Good heaven!

Can it be Catiline? did I hear aright?

O bloody monster, didst thou murder him?

[The Lictors support her.

catiline.

[Turning to Cethegus, and fainting in his arms.

This is a dreadful sight—support me—this

Is punishment enough.

cethegus.

Why droops my friend?

Aurelia calls for vengeance: but if Catiline

Has served his country, what has he to fear?

catiline.

[Turning to Aurelia.

Aurelia, ’tis too true—my cruel duty—

My country—think me not so base; Aurelia

Thou knowest my love, my tenderness—but ties

Of a more sacred nature, ties—

SCENE VI.

the senate, aurelia, chief of the lictors.

chief of the lictors.

My lord,

We’ve seized these arms.

cicero.

At Nonnius’s?

chief lictor.

His house

Was the receptacle of all: our prisoners

Accuse him as the chief conspirator.

aurelia.

Malice and calumny! the lying slaves

First take his life, and then destroy his fame:

The wretch whose murderous hand—

cicero.

Go on—

aurelia.

Just gods.

For what have ye reserved me?

cicero.

Speak: let truth

In open day appear: but at the sight

Of him you tremble; your dejected eyes,

And sudden silence, show how much you dread

The tyrant.

aurelia.

I have been to blame; Aurelia

Alone is guilty.

catiline.

No; thou art not.

aurelia.

Hence,

Detested monster, I abhor thy pity,

Disclaim all converse, all relation with thee:

Alas! too late, I see my guilt; too late

Confess my crimes; yes, reverend fathers; yes,

Aurelia knew the traitor, and concealed him:

I asked for aid, but merit punishment;

My weakness may be fatal; Rome’s in danger;

The world this day may be subverted: thou,

Thou traitor, ledst me to the dark abyss

Of infamy; thou madest my tenderness

Subservient to thy wicked purposes;

Curse on the guilty hour that gave my heart

To Catiline; to thee I have been faithful,

But false to heaven, and to my country; false

To my unhappy father: I betrayed,

And I destroyed him.

[Whilst Aurelia is speaking, Cicero seems deeply affected.

Ye avenging gods,

Ye sacred walls, and thou much injured spirit

Of my dear father, Romans, senators,

Behold my husband, your inveterate foe.

[Turning to Catiline.

Now, miscreant, mark, and imitate Aurelia.

[Stabs herself.

catiline.

O wretched Catiline!

cato.

O dreadful day!

cicero.

[Rising.

’Tis worthy of this guilty age.

aurelia.

O consul!

There was a letter sent you—murder threatens

On every side—take heed—alas!—I die.

[Aurelia is carried off.

cicero.

Let her have needful succor: Aufidus,

Search for that paper—still are ye in doubt;

Still will ye suffer this vile murderer

To lord it o’er the senate, shall the deaths

Of Nonnius and Aurelia pass unpunished?

catiline.

The guilt was thine: thy rancor and fell hatred

Of Catiline urged him to the deed; ambition

Inspired us both; thy happier fortune soared

Above me, thou hast been the cause of all:

I hate thee, Cicero, hate Rome itself

For loving thee: long have I sought thy ruin,

And I will seek it still: the wrongs I suffer

Shall be revenged on thee; thy blood shall pay

For mine; inconstant Rome, that now adores thee,

Shall one day see with joy the mangled limbs

Of her proud consul scattered o’er the senate:

Remember Catiline has foretold thy fate;

I hasten to accomplish it: farewell.

cicero.

Guards, seize the traitor.

cethegus.

Let them if they dare.

lentulus-sura.

The senate is divided: we defy thee.

catiline.

The war then is declared: friends, follow me,

We must to battle: the uncertain senate

Will think on’t, and determine at their leisure.

[He goes out with some senators of his party.

cicero.

Now, ye illustrious conquerors of the world,

Which will ye choose, or slavery or empire:

Where is the freedom, where the majesty

Of ancient Rome? where is her lustre now?

’Tis faded all: awake, my slumbering country;

Lucullus, Cæsar, and Murena, listen;

O listen to the voice of Rome; she calls

Aloud for help, demands some gallant leader

To fight for her; equality of rank

Must be reserved for happier times, the Gauls

Are here, Camillus must be found, we want

A chief, a warrior, a dictator; now

Name the most worthy, and I’ll follow him.

SCENE VII.

the senate, chief lictor.

chief lictor.

My lord, I found this letter to Aurelia

From Nonnius: all our cares for her were vain.

cicero.

[Reading the letter.

More dangers threatening! “Cæsar, who betrays us,

Would seize Præneste,” ha!

[Turning to Cæsar.

Art thou too, Cæsar,

A vile accomplice? this completes our woes;

And wilt thou bend beneath a tyrant?—read it.

cæsar.

I have: I am a Roman, ruin comes

Upon us, danger is on every side;

’Tis well: I must be gone: you have my answer.

cato.

It was a doubtful one: most certainly

He is their friend.

cicero.

Away: let us defend

The state against them all: O Senators!

If Nonnius’ death, if poor Aurelia’s pangs,

If bleeding Rome, if a subverted world

Have power to stir up your resentment, rise,

Fly to the capitol, defend your gods,

Defend your country, punish Catiline.

I’ll not reproach you; though ’twas most unkind,

To spurn at Cicero, and embrace a villain.

But to avoid a tyrant, name your chief:

You, who are friends to virtue, separate

From traitors.

[The Senators separate themselves from Cethegus and Lentulus-Sura.

Now let us unite, my friends,

Never let quarrels, jealousies, and strife,

Divide us; ’twas by them that Sulla triumphed.

For me, wherever danger calls, I go

Intrepid and inflexible: O gods!

Strengthen this arm, and animate this voice:

O grant me still to save ungrateful Rome!

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

cato,with part of the senate in arms.

clodius.

[To Cato.

What! whilst the senate armed for its own safety

From busy faction’s power can scarce preserve

These sacred walls; thus shall a proud plebeian

Insult us? shall a people, born to freedom,

Be treated like dependent slaves? by him,

Shall Rome’s best friends, the conquerors of the world,

Be put in chains? because he is a consul,

Shall he condemn his masters? Catiline’s self

Were less despotic, and less dangerous:

With you I feel my country’s wretchedness,

And weep her fate; but cannot, will not, see

The senate thus disgraced.

cato.

Disgrace attends

On those alone who merit it—but know,

The blood of nobles, your patrician friends,

Debased by guilt, should rank below the meanest;

Those who betrayed us are condemned to death:

Cicero condemned them; he who saved your country,

The glorious consul, whom ye dare accuse,

Because he loved you but too well: yet fear

And tremble all, ungrateful as ye are

To join with traitors, for an equal fate

Shall soon o’erwhelm you; Catiline’s at our gates.

What Cæsar hath determined yet we know not;

Whether he means to save, or to destroy

His country: Cicero bravely acts alone,

And hazards all for Rome, whilst you despise

Your best of friends, and treat him as a foe.

clodius.

Cato has more severity than courage,

And ever rigorous, hates not guilt so much

As he loves punishment: reproach us not,

Nor act the censor when we want a friend.

Whilst the destructive flames of war surround,

’Tis not a consul’s edict can defend us.

What can your lictor and his fasces do,

Against a band of fierce conspirators?

You talk of dangers, and of Cæsar’s power:

Who does not know that Cæsar is the friend

Of Catiline? you have pointed out the ills

That threaten Rome; it were a nobler task

To show us how we may remove them.

cato.

Yes;

And so I will: I would advise the senate

To be aware of Cæsar, and of—thee;

Nay, more—but see our father comes.

SCENE II.

cicero, cato,part of the senate.

cato.

[To Cicero.

Behold

Great Cicero, the sons of thankless Rome:

Approach and save us; envy’s self shall soon

Fall at thy feet, in humble admiration

Of such transcendent virtue.

cicero.

Friends and Romans,

The love of glory is my ruling passion,

Fame is the fair reward of human toil,

And I would wish to merit it from you:

I have done little yet, perhaps hereafter

I may do more to serve my country: Rome

Was full of open and of secret foes;

Patricians, and plebeians, citizens

And soldiers, all in wild confusion, seemed

To thirst for blood: I saw the gathering storm

That threatened universal ruin; saw

The bold conspirators tumultuous rise,

And bear down all before them: at their head

Were Sura and Cethegus; them I seized,

And gave to justice; but the Hydra faction

Hath many heads which still successive rise,

And mock my labors: Catiline boldly pushed

To the Quirinal gate; by gallant deeds,

Almost incredible, he kept the field,

And forced a passage to his army; Rome

Beheld him with amazement; Antony

In vain opposing Sulla’s hardy veterans,

Was baffled and subdued; Petreius strove

To succor him, but with unequal force

And fruitless valor: thus on every side,

Surrounded by calamities, great Rome,

The mistress of the world, is on the brink

Of ruin; Cicero trembles for her fate.

crassus.

What part hath Cæsar taken?

cicero.

He hath behaved

As Cæsar must, with most undaunted courage,

Yet not as Rome could wish a zealous friend

Would act in her defence. I saw him quell

The rebel foe; yet after that, stir up

Seditious spirits, and by every art

Of smooth insinuation, work himself

Into the people’s hearts. Amidst this scene

Of blood, methought a secret joy o’erspread

His glowing cheek, whilst his all-soothing voice

Courted applause, inviting Rome to be

His slave hereafter.

cato.

I was ever fearful

Of Cæsar’s power; he is not to be trusted.

SCENE III.

the senate, cæsar.

cæsar.

Well: am I still suspected in the senate?

Is Cato’s stubborn virtue still my foe?

Of what does he accuse me?

cato.

As a friend

To Catiline, the sworn enemy of Rome;

You have protected him, and leagued with those

It had become you better to chastise.

cæsar.

I would not stain my laurels with the blood

Of such vile miscreants: Cæsar fights with none

But warriors.

cato.

What are these conspirators?

cæsar.

A dastard crowd, contemptible and vile:

They fled like slaves before me; but the soldiers

Of Sulla are a formidable band,

And boast an able chief; from them indeed

Rome hath some cause to fear; Petreius sinks

Beneath his wounds, and Catiline marches onward;

Our soldiers are alarmed: what says our consul?

And what has he resolved?

cicero.

I’ll tell thee, Cæsar:

Grant, heaven, we may succeed!—thou hast deserved

Suspicion, but I’ll give thee the fair means

To clear thy honor, and avenge thy country.

I know thee well, thy virtues and thy frailty;

Know what thou canst, and what thou darest not do;

Know Cæsar would command, but not betray,

A noble friend, and a most dangerous foe:

Whilst I condemn I cannot but esteem thee.

Away: remember that the eyes of Rome,

And of the world, are on thee: go, support

Petreius, save the empire, and deserve

The love of Cato: we have men, but want

A general to conduct them; Cæsar best

Can lead them, and to him alone we trust

The safety and the glory of mankind.

cæsar.

Cicero on Cæsar safely may depend;

Farewell: I go to conquer or to die.

[Exit.

cato.

You’ve touched him in the tenderest part; ambition

Will urge him on.

cicero.

Great souls must ever thus

Be treated: I have bound him to the state

By this firm confidence; I know his valor

Will now support us: the ambitious still

Should be distinguished from the traitor; I

Shall make him virtuous if he is not so

Already. Courage, as directed, forms

The mighty hero, or the mighty villain;

And he who is renowned for guilt alone,

Had glory fired his breast, to him had been

The incense poured, to him the temple raised

For his exalted merit: Catiline’s self,

By me conducted, had like Scipio shone:

Though many a Sulla is in Cæsar hid,

Yet doubt I not but Rome shall find in him

Her best support.

[Turning to the chief of the Lictors, who enters armed.

Well: these conspirators,

What have they done?

chief lictor.

My lord, they met the fate

They merited, but other foes rise up,

Sprung from their blood; like Ætna’s flames, that burst

From the parched entrails of the burning mount:

Another Hannibal, but far more dreadful,

Because amongst the guilty sons of Rome

He finds his traitorous friends, is at our gates.

A hundred voices roar for Catiline,

Condemn your laws, and curse your tardy senate;

Demand their ancient rights, and cry aloud

For vengeance on the consul.

clodius.

Well indeed

They may, while Cicero tramples on the laws,

And spurns his equals thus; perhaps the senate—

cicero.

Clodius, no more; restrain thy envious tongue,

Nor rashly blame the guiltless; my short power

Will soon be wrested from me; whilst it lasts

It shall not be controlled; you will have time

Enough to vex and persecute hereafter;

But whilst the state’s in danger, Cicero claims

The tribute of respect: I know too well

This fickle world to hope for constancy

And candor from it; foul ingratitude

Is all that I expect; on false surmises

Great Scipio was accused; he thanked the gods,

And quitted Rome: I too will pay my vows

To gracious heaven, but will not leave you; no;

My days are all devoted to my country,

And all shall be expended in her service.

cato.

Suppose I were to show myself in Rome,

Perhaps my presence might disperse the crowd,

And be a check on Cæsar, whom I own

I much suspect: if fortune frowns upon us—

cicero.

We cannot do without you in the senate;

I’ve given my orders; Cæsar’s in the field;

Thy great example may be useful here,

And Rome’s expiring glory be restored

By Cato’s virtue—but behold he comes,

And crowned with victory.

[Cæsar enters; Cicero embraces him.

Most noble Cæsar,

Hast thou preserved the state?—

cæsar.

I hope so: now

The consul will believe me—brave Petreius

Has gained immortal glory: here we fought,

Beneath this sacred rampart, in the sight

Of our domestic gods that fired each soul

With nobler rage: Metellus, and Murena,

With the brave Scipios showed in Rome’s defence

The same exalted courage that subdued

Asia and Carthage; they have merited

Most nobly of their country: touching Cæsar

Let others speak: the desperate remains

Of Sulla’s army seemed to brave their fate,

And in the agonies of death breathed forth

Their curses on us: midst the general slaughter,

The fiery Catiline long undaunted stood,

Fought through a host of circling foes, till spent

With ceaseless toil, and covered o’er with wounds,

Bravely he fell: I must admire the soldier,

Though I detest the rebel: once I loved him,

I own it; but let Cicero judge, if ever

To friendship Cæsar sacrificed his honor.

cicero.

Cæsar is all that Cicero could desire,

All that he wished, and all he hoped to find him:

Go on, brave youth, preserve thy noble spirit,

And be thy country’s friend; may heaven protect

And guard thee: never may thy generous soul

Be stained with vice, nor false ambition urge

Thy spotless youth to quit the paths of virtue!

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

PANDORA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Prometheus, a Son of Heaven and Earth, a Demi-God.

Pandora.

Jupiter.

Mercury.

Nemesis.

Nymphs.

Titans.

Celestial Deities.

Infernal Deities.

ACT I.

The scene represents a fine country, with mountains at a distance.

SCENE I.

prometheus, chorus of nymphs, pandora.

[At the farther end of the stage, lying down in an alcove.

prometheus.

In vain, Pandora, do I call on thee,

My lovely work; alas! thou hearest me not,

All stranger as thou art to thy own charms,

And to Prometheus’ love: the heart I formed

Is still insensible; thy eyes are void

Of motion; still the ruthless power of Jove

Denies thee life, and drives me to despair:

Whilst nature breathes around thee, and the birds

In tender notes express their passion, thou

Art still inanimate; death holds thee still

Beneath his cruel empire.

SCENE II.

prometheus, the titans, enceladus, typhon, etc.

enceladus and typhon.

Child of Earth

And Heaven, thy cries have raised the forest; speak;

Who amongst the gods hath wronged Prometheus?

prometheus.

[Pointing to Pandora.

Jove

Is jealous of my work divine; he fears

That altars will be raised to my Pandora;

He cannot bear to see the earth adorned

With such a peerless object; he denies

To grant her life, and makes my woes eternal.

typhon.

That proud usurper Jove did ne’er create

Our nobler souls; life, and its sacred flame,

Come not from him.

enceladus.

[Pointing to his brother Typhon.

We are the sons of Night

And Tartarus:

To thee, eternal night, we pray,

Thou wert long before the day;

Let then to Janarus Olympus yield.

typhon.

Let the unrelenting Jove

Join the jealous gods above;

Life and all its blessings flow

From hell, and from the gods below.

prometheus and the two titans.

Come from the centre, gods of night profound,

And animate her beauty; let your power

Assist our bold emprize!

prometheus.

Your voice is heard,

The day looks pale, and the astonished earth

Shakes from its deep foundations: Erebus

Appears before us.

[The scene changing represents chaos; all the gods of hell come upon the stage.]

chorus of infernal deities.

Light is hateful to our eyes,

Jove and heaven we despise;

The guilty race, as yet unborn, must go

With us to hell’s profoundest depths below.

nemesis.

The waves of Lethe, and the flames of hell,

Shall ravage all: speak, whom must Janarus

In its dark womb embrace?

prometheus.

I love the earth,

And would not hurt it: to that beauteous object

[Pointing to Pandora

Have I given birth; but Jove denies it power

To breathe, to think, to love, and to be happy.

the three parcæ.

All our glory, and our joy,

Is to hurt, and to destroy;

Heaven alone can give it breath,

We can nought bestow but death.

prometheus.

Away then, ye destroyers, ye are not

The deities Prometheus shall adore;

Hence to your gloomy seats, ye hateful powers,

And leave the world in peace.

nemesis.

Tremble thou, for thou shalt prove

Soon the fatal power of love:

We will unchain the fiends of war,

And death’s destructive gates unbar.

[The infernal deities disappear, and the country resumes its verdure: the nymphs of the woods range themselves on each side of the stage.]

prometheus.

[To the Titans.

Why would ye call forth from their dark abyss

The foes of nature, to obscure the light

Of these fair regions?

From hell Pandora never shall receive

That flame divine which only heaven should give.

enceladus.

Since, good Prometheus, ’tis thy dear delight

To scatter blessings o’er this new abode,

Thou best deservest to be its master: haste

To yon blest regions, and snatch thence the flame

Celestial, form a soul, and be thyself

The great Creator.

prometheus.

Love’s in heaven; he reigns

O’er all the gods: I’ll throw his darts around,

And light up his fierce fires: he is my god,

And will assist Prometheus.

chorus of nymphs.

Fly to the immortal realms above,

And penetrate the throne of Jove;

The world to thee shall altars raise,

And millions celebrate thy praise.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

The scene represents the same country; Pandora inanimate reclining in the alcove; a flaming chariot descends from heaven.

prometheus, pandora, nymphs, titans, etc.

a dryad.

Ye woodland nymphs, rise from your fair abode,

And sing the praises of the demi-god;

Who returns from above

In the chariot of love?

chorus of nymphs.

Ye verdant lawns, and opening flowers,

Ye springs which lavish nature’s powers;

Ye hills that bear the impending sky,

Put on your fairest forms to meet his eye.

prometheus.

[Descending from the chariot, with a torch in his hand.

Ravished from heaven I bring to happier earth

Love’s sacred flame, more brilliant than the light

Of glittering day, and to Jove’s boasted thunder

Superior.

chorus of nymphs.

Go, thou enlivening, animating soul,

Through nature’s every work, pervade the whole;

To earth, to water, and to air impart,

Thy vivid power, and breathe o’er every heart.

prometheus.

[Coming near to Pandora.

And may this precious flame inspire thy frame

With life and motion! earth, assist my purpose!

Rise, beauteous object, love commands thee; haste,

Obey his voice; arise, and bless Prometheus!

[Pandora rises, and comes forward.

chorus.

She breathes, she lives; O love, how great thy power!

pandora.

Whence, and what am I? to what gracious powers

Owe I my life and being?

[A symphony is heard at a distance.

Hark! my ears

Are ravished with enchanting sounds; my eyes

With beauteous objects filled on every side:

What wonders hath my kind creator spread

Around me! O where is he? I have thought

And reason to enlighten me: O earth,

Thou art not my mother; some benignant god

Produced me: yes, I feel him in my heart.

[She sits down by the side of a fountain.

What do I see! myself, in this fair fountain,

That doth reflect the face of heaven? the more

I see this image, sure the more I ought

To thank the gods who made me.

nymphs and titans.

[Dancing round her.

Fair Pandora,

Daughter of heaven, let thy charms inspire

An equal flame, and fan the mutual fire.

pandora.

What lovely object that way draws my eyes?

[To Prometheus.

Of all I see in these delightful mansions,

Nought pleases like thyself; ’twas thou alone

Who gavest me life, and I will live for thee.

prometheus.

Before those lovely eyes could see

Their author, they enchanted me;

Before that tongue could speak, Prometheus loved thee.

pandora.

Thou lovest me then, dear author of my life,

And my heart owns its master; for to thee

It flies with transport: have I said too much,

Or not enough?

prometheus.

O thou canst never say

Too much; thou speakest the language of pure love

And nature: thus may lovers always speak!

duet.

God of my heart, eternal power,

Great love, enliven every hour;

Thy reign begins, and may thy transports prove

The reign of pleasure is the reign of love!

prometheus.

But hark! the thunder rolls; thick clouds of darkness,

As envious of the earth’s new happiness,

Disturb our joys: what horrors throng around me!

Hark! the earth shakes, and angry lightnings pierce

The vault of heaven: what power thus moves the world

From its foundations?

[A car descends, on which are seated Mercury, Discord, Nemesis, etc.]

mercury.

Some rash hand hath stolen

The sacred fire from heaven: to expiate

The dire offence, Pandora, thou must go

Before the high tribunal of the gods.

prometheus.

O cruel tyrant!

pandora.

Dread commands!

mercury.

Obey:

Thou must to heaven.

pandora.

I was in heaven already,

When I beheld the object of my love.

prometheus.

Have pity, cruel gods!

prometheus and pandora.

Barbarians, stay.

mercury.

Haste, offenders, haste away,

Jove commands, you must obey:

Bear her, ye winds, to heaven’s eternal mansions.

[The car mounts and disappears.

prometheus.

The cruel tyrants, jealous of my bliss,

Have torn her from me; she was the lovely work

Of my own hands: I have done more than Jove

Could ever do: Pandora’s charming eyes,

Soon as they opened, told me that she loved:

Thou jealous god! but thou shalt feel my wrath,

And I will brave thy power: for know, usurper,

Less dreadful far will all thy thunders prove,

Than bold Prometheus fired by hopeless love.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

The scene represents the palace of Jupiter.

jupiter, mercury.

jupiter.

O Mercury, I’ve seen this lovely object,

Earth’s fair production; heaven is in her eye,

The graces dwell around her, and my heart

Is sacrificed a victim to her charms.

mercury.

And she shall answer to thy love.

jupiter.

O no:

Terror is mine, and power; I reign supreme

O’er earth, and hell, and heaven; but love alone

Can govern hearts: malicious, cruel fate,

When it divided this fair universe,

Bestowed the better part on mighty love.

mercury.

What fearest thou? fair Pandora scarce hath seen

The light of day; and thinkest thou that she loves?

jupiter.

Love is a passion learned with ease; and what

Cannot Pandora do? she is a woman,

And handsome: but I will retire a moment,

Enchant her eyes, and captivate her heart:

Ye heavens! in vain, alas! ye shine, for nought

Have you so fair, so beauteous as Pandora.

[He retires.

pandora.

Scarce have these eyes beheld the light of day,

Scarce have they looked on him I loved, when lo!

’Tis all snatched from me; death, they say, will come

And take me soon: O I have felt him sure

Already: is not death the sudden loss

Of those we love? O give me back, ye gods,

To earth, to that delightful grove where first

I saw my kind creator, when at once

I breathed and loved: O envied happiness!

[The gods, with their several attributes, come upon the stage.]

chorus of gods.

Let heaven rejoice

At the glad voice

Of heaven’s eternal king.

neptune.

Let the sea’s bosom—

pluto.

And the depths of hell—

chorus of gods.

To distant worlds his endless praises tell.

Let heaven rejoice, etc.

pandora.

How all conspires to threaten and alarm me!

O how I hate and fear this dazzling splendor!

Another’s merit how can I approve,

Or bear the praise of aught but him I love?

the three graces.

Love’s fair daughter, here remain,

Thou in right of him shalt reign;

Heaven thy chosen seat shall be,

Earth in vain shall wish for thee.

pandora.

All affrights me,

Nought delights me,

Alas! a desert had more charms for me.

Hence, ye idle visions; cease,

Discordant sounds,

[A Symphony is heard.

And give me peace.

[Jupiter comes forth out of a cloud.

jupiter.

Thou art the best and fairest charm of nature,

Well worthy of eternity: from earth

Sprang thy weak body; but thy purer soul

Partakes of heaven’s unalterable fire,

And thou wert born for gods alone: with Jove

Taste then the sweets of immortality.

pandora.

I scorn thy gift, and rather would be nothing,

From whence I sprang; thy immortality,

Without the lovely object I adore,

Is but eternal punishment.

jupiter.

Fair creature,

Thou knowest not I am master of the thunder:

Canst thou in heaven look back to earth?

pandora.

That earth

Is my abode; there first I learned to love.

jupiter.

’Twas but the shadow of it, in a world

Unworthy of that noble flame, which here

Alone can burn unquenchable.

pandora.

Great Jove,

Content with glory and with splendor, leave

To earthly lovers happiness and joy:

Thou art a god; O hear my humble prayer!

A gracious god should make his creatures happy.

jupiter.

Thou shalt be happy, and in thee I hope

For bliss supreme: ye powerful pleasures, you

Who dwell around me, now exert your charms,

Deceive her lovely eyes, and win her heart.

[The Pleasures dance around her and sing.

chorus of pleasures.

Thou with us shalt reign and love,

Thou alone art worthy Jove.

a single voice.

Nought has earth but shadows vain,

Of pleasures followed close by pain;

Soon her winged transports fly,

Soon her roses fade and die.

chorus.

Thou with us shalt reign and love,

Thou alone art worthy Jove.

single voice.

Here the brisk and sportive hours

Shall cull thee ever-blooming flowers;

Time has no wings, he cannot fly,

And love is joined to immortality.

chorus.

Thou with us shalt reign and love,

Thou alone art worthy Jove.

pandora.

Ye tender pleasures, ye increase my flame,

And ye increase my pain: if happiness

Is yours to give, O bear it to my love.

jupiter.

Is this the sad effect of all my care,

To make a rival happy?

[Enter Mercury.

mercury.

Assume thy lightnings, Jove, and blast thy foe;

Prometheus is in arms, the Titans rage,

And threaten heaven; mountain on mountain piled,

They scale the skies; already they approach.

jupiter.

Jove has the power to punish; let them come.

pandora.

And wilt thou punish? thou, who art the cause

Of all his miseries; thou art a jealous tyrant:

Go on, and love me; I shall hate thee more;

Be that thy punishment.

jupiter.

I must away:

Rive them, ye thunder-bolts.

pandora.

Have mercy, Jove!

jupiter.

[To Mercury.

Conduct Pandora to a place of safety:

The happy world was wrapped in peace profound,

A beauty comes, and nought is seen but ruin.

[He goes out.

pandora.

[Alone.

O fatal charms! would I had ne’er been born!

Beauty and love, and every gift divine,

But make me wretched: if, all-powerful Love,

Thou didst create me, now relieve my sorrows;

Dry up my tears, bid war and slaughter cease,

And give to heaven and earth eternal peace.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

The scene represents the Titans armed, mountains at a distance, with giants throwing them on each other.

enceladus.

Fear not, Prometheus, nature feels thy wrongs,

And joins with us in just revenge: behold

These pointed rocks, and shaggy mountains; soon

The jealous tyrants all shall sink beneath them.

prometheus.

Now, earth, defend thyself, and combat heaven:

Trumpets and drums, now shall ye first be heard:

March, Titans, follow me: the seat of gods

Is your reward; be fair Pandora mine.

[They march to the sound of trumpets.

chorus of titans.

Arm, ye valiant Titans, arm,

Spread around the dread alarm:

Let proud immortals tremble on their thrones.

prometheus.

Their thunder answers to our trumpets’ voice.

[Thunder is heard; a car descends, bearing the gods towards the mountains: Pandora is seated near Jupiter; Prometheus speaks.]

Jove gives the dreadful signal; haste, begin

The battle.

[The giants rise towards heaven.

chorus of nymphs.

Earth, and hell, and heaven confounded,

All with terrors are surrounded:

Cease, ye gods, and Titans, cease

Your cruel wars, and give us peace.

titans.

Yield, cruel tyrants.

gods.

Rebels, fly.

titans.

Yield, heaven, to earth.

gods.

Die, rebels, die.

pandora.

O heaven! O earth! ye Titans, and ye gods,

O cease your rage, all perish for Pandora:

I have made the world unhappy.

titans.

Draw

Your arrows now.

gods.

Strike, thunders.

titans.

Hurl down heaven.

gods.

Destroy the earth.

both.

Yield, cruel tyrants—rebels fly—

Yield, earth, to heaven—die, rebels, die.

[A dead silence for a time; a bright cloud descends; Destiny appears, seated in the middle of it.]

destiny.

Cease, hostile powers, attend to me,

And hear the will of Destiny.

[Silence ensues.

prometheus.

Unalterable being, power supreme,

Speak thy irrevocable doom; attend,

Ye tyrants, and obey.

chorus.

Speak, the gods must yield to thee;

Speak, immortal Destiny.

destiny.

[In the middle of the gods, who throng round him.

Hear me, ye gods; another world this day

Brings forth: meantime let every gift adorn

Pandora; and you, Titans, who ’gainst heaven

Have raised rebellious war, receive your doom,

Beneath these mountains sunk forever groan.

[The rocks fall upon them; the chariot of the gods descends to earth; Pandora is restored to Prometheus.

jupiter.

O fate, my empire yields to thee,

Jove submits to destiny:

Thou art obeyed; but from this hour let earth

And heaven be disunited: Nemesis,

Come forth.

[Nemesis advances from the bottom of the stage, and Jupiter proceeds.

Nemesis, thy aid impart,

Pierce the cruel beauty’s heart;

My vengeance let Pandora know,

In the gifts that I bestow:

Let heaven and earth henceforth be disunited.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

The scene represents a grove, with the ruins of rocks scattered about it.

prometheus, pandora.

pandora.

[Holding a box in her hand.

And wilt thou leave me then? art thou subdued,

Or art thou conqueror?

prometheus.

Victory is mine:

If yet thou lovest me, love and destiny

Speak for Prometheus.

pandora.

Wilt thou leave me then?

prometheus.

The Titans are subdued: lament their fate:

I must assist them; let us teach mankind

To succor the unhappy.

pandora.

Stay a moment:

Behold thy victory: let us open this,

It was the gift of Jove.

prometheus.

What wouldst thou do?

A rival’s gift is dangerous; ’tis some snare

The gods have laid.

pandora.

Thou canst not think it.

prometheus.

Hear

What I request of thee, and stay at least

Till I return.

pandora.

Thou biddest, and I obey:

I swear by love still to believe Prometheus.

prometheus.

Wilt thou then promise?

pandora.

By thyself I swear:

All are obedient where they love.

prometheus.

Enough:

I’m satisfied: and now, ye woodland nymphs,

Begin your songs; sing earth restored to bliss;

Let all be gay, for all was made for her.

first nymph.

Come, fair Pandora, come and prove

An age of gold, of innocence, and love;

And, like thy parent Nature, be immortal.

second nymph.

No longer now shall earth affrighted mourn,

By cruel war her tender bosom torn:

Pleasures now on pleasures flow,

Happiness succeeds to woe:

The flowers their fragrant odors yield;

Who would wither the fair field?

The blest creation teems with mirth and joy,

And nature’s work what tyrant would destroy?

the chorus.

[Repeats.

Come, fair Pandora, come and prove

An age of gold, etc.

first nymph.

See! to Pandora Mercury appears,

And ratifies great Nature’s kind decree.

[The nymphs retire: Pandora advances with Nemesis, under the figure of Mercury.]

nemesis.

Already I have told thee, base Prometheus

Is jealous of thee, and exerts his power

Like a harsh tyrant.

pandora.

O he is my lord,

My king, my god, my lover, and my husband.

nemesis.

Why then forbid thee to behold the gift

Of generous heaven?

pandora.

His fearful love’s alarmed,

And I would wish to have no will but his.

nemesis.

He asks too much, Pandora, nor hath done

What thou deservest: he might have given thee beauties

Which now thou hast not.

pandora.

He hath formed my heart

Tender and kind; he charms and he adores me;

What could he more?

nemesis.

Thy charms will perish.

pandora.

Ha!

Thou makest me tremble.

nemesis.

This mysterious box

Will make thy charms immortal; thou wilt be

Forever beauteous, and forever happy:

Thy husband shall be subject to thy power,

And thou shalt reign unrivalled in his love.

pandora.

He is my only lord, and I would wish

To be immortal, but for my Prometheus.

nemesis.

Fain would I open thy fair eyes, and bless thee

With every good; would make thee please forever.

pandora.

But dost thou not abuse my innocence?

And canst thou be so cruel?

nemesis.

Who would hurt

Such beauty?

pandora.

I should die with grief, if e’er

I disobliged the sovereign of my heart.

nemesis.

O in the name of Nature, in the name

Of thy dear husband, listen to my voice!

pandora.

That name has conquered, and I will believe thee.

[She opens the box; darkness is spread over the stage, and a voice heard from below.]

Ha! what thick cloud thus o’er my senses spreads

Its fatal darkness? thou deceitful god!

O I am guilty, and I suffer for it.

nemesis.

I must away: Jove is revenged, and now

I will return to hell.

[Nemesis vanishes: Pandora faints away on the grass.]

prometheus.

[Advancing from the farther end of the stage.

O fatal absence! dreadful change! what star

Of evil influence thus deforms the face

Of Nature? where’s my dear Pandora? why

Answers she not to my complaining voice?

O my Pandora! but behold, from hell

Let loose, the monsters rise, and rush upon us.

[Furies and demons running on the stage.

furies.

The time is come when we shall reign:

Fear and grief, remorse and pain,

From this great decisive hour,

O’er the world shall spread their power;

Death shall come, a bitter draught,

By the Furies hither brought.

prometheus.

That cruel guest shall powers infernal bring?

And must the earth lose her eternal spring?

To time, and dire disease, and horrid vice,

Shall mortals fall a helpless sacrifice?

The nymphs lament our fate: Pandora, hear

And answer to my griefs! she comes, but seems

Insensible.

pandora.

I am not worthy of thee:

I have destroyed mankind, deceived my husband,

And am alone the guilty cause of all:

Strike: I deserve it.

prometheus.

Can I punish thee?

pandora.

Strike, and deprive me of that wretched life

Thou didst bestow.

chorus of nymphs.

Tenderest lover, dry her tears,

She is full of lover’s fears;

She is woman, therefore frail,

Let her beauty then prevail.

prometheus.

Hast thou then, spite of all thy solemn vows,

Opened the fatal box?

pandora.

Some cruel god

Betrayed me: fatal curiosity!

The work was thine: O every evil sprung

From that accursed gift: undone Pandora!

love.

[Descending from heaven.

Love still remains, and every good is thine:

[Scene changes, and represents the palace of love.]

[Love proceeds.

For thee will I resist the power of fate;

I gave to mortals being, and they ne’er

Shall be unhappy whilst they worship me.

pandora.

Soul of my soul, thou comforter divine,

O punish Jove; inspire his vengeful heart

With double passion for the blessed Pandora.

prometheus and pandora.

Heaven shall pierce our hearts in vain

With every grief, and every pain;

With thee no pains torment, no pleasures cloy;

With thee to suffer is but to enjoy.

love.

Lovely hope, on mortals wait;

Come, and gild their wretched state;

All thy flattering joys impart.

Haste, and live in every heart;

Howe’er deceitful thou mayest be,

Thou canst grant felicity,

And make them happy in futurity.

pandora.

Fate would make us wretched here,

But hope shall dry up every tear;

In sorrow he shall give us rest,

And make us even in anguish blest:

Love shall preserve us from the paths of vice,

And strew his flowers around the precipice.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF VOLTAIRE

Vol. IX—Part II

THE SCOTCH WOMAN

Represented at Paris in 1760.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Mr. Fabrice, master of a Coffee-house.

Miss Lindon, a Scotchwoman.

Lord Montross, a Scotchman.

Lord Murray.

Polly, maid to Miss Lindon.

Freeport, a Merchant of London.

Wasp, a Writer.

Lady Alton.

Several English Gentlemen frequenting the Coffee-house, Servants, Messengers, &c.

SCENE LONDON.

Voltaire dashed off this comedy in eight days, to ridicule Fréron, who had unfavorably criticised Candide. It was first published as by Hume, or Home, author of the tragedy “Douglas.”

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The scene represents a coffee-house, with apartments on the same floor on each side communicating with it.

wasp.

[At one corner of the room reading the papers. Coffee, pen and ink, etc., on the table before him.]

A plague on this vile news! here are places and pensions given to above twenty people, and nothing for me! a present of a hundred guineas to a subaltern for doing his duty! a great merit indeed! so much to the inventor of a machine to lessen the number of hands; so much to a pilot; so much settled on men of letters, but nothing for me! here’s another pension, and another—but the deuce a farthing for Wasp [he throws down the paper and walks about] and yet I have done the state some service; I have written more than any one man in England; I have raised the price of paper; and yet nothing is done for me: but I will be revenged on all those whom the world calls men of merit: I have got something already by speaking ill of others; and if I can but contrive to do them a real mischief, my fortune is made. I have praised fools, and calumniated every good quality and perfection of human nature, and yet can scarce live by it: in short, to be a great man, you must not be content with slander and destruction, but endeavor to be really hurtful. [To the master of the coffee-house.] Good morrow to you, Mr. Fabrice. Well, Mr. Fabrice, everybody’s affairs, I find, go well but mine; it is intolerable.

fabrice.

Indeed, indeed, Mr. Wasp, you make yourself a great many enemies.

wasp.

I believe I excite a little envy.

fabrice.

On my soul I believe not; but rather a passion of a very different kind: to be free, for I have really a friendship for you, I am extremely concerned to hear people talk of you as they do: how do you contrive to be so universally hated?

wasp.

It is because I have merit, Mr. Fabrice.

fabrice.

That may possibly be; but you are the only person who ever told me so: they say you are a very ignorant fellow: but that is nothing; they say, moreover, that you are ill-natured and malicious; that gives me concern, as it must every honest man.

wasp.

I assure you I have a good and tender heart. I do indeed now and then speak a little freely of the men; but for the women, Mr. Fabrice, I love them all, provided they are handsome. As a proof of it, I must absolutely insist on your introducing me to your amiable lodger, whom I have never yet been able to converse with.

fabrice.

Upon honor, Mr. Wasp, that young lady will never do for you; for she never praises herself, or speaks ill of anybody else.

wasp.

She speaks ill of nobody, because, I suppose, she knows nobody: are you not in love with her, Fabrice?

fabrice.

Not I indeed, sir; she has something in her air so noble, that I dare not think of it—besides, her virtue—

wasp.

[Laughing.

Ha! ha! ha! her virtue indeed!

fabrice.

Why so merry, sir? think you there is no such thing as virtue?—but I hear a coach at the door, and yonder is a livery servant with a portmanteau in his hand; some lord coming to lodge with me, perhaps.

wasp.

Be sure, my dear friend, you recommend me to him as soon as possible.

SCENE II.

lord montross, fabrice, wasp.

montross.

You, sir, I suppose, are Mr. Fabrice.

fabrice.

At your service, sir.

montross.

I shall stay here only a few days. (Protect me, heaven, unhappy as I am!) I am recommended to you, sir, as a worthy honest man.

fabrice.

So, sir, we ought all to be. You will here, sir, I believe, meet with all the conveniences of life; a tolerably good apartment, and my own table, if you choose to do me the honor to dine at it, and the amusement of coffee-house conversation.

montross.

Have you many boarders with you at present?

fabrice.

Only one young lady, sir, very handsome and extremely virtuous.

wasp.

O mighty virtuous, ha! ha!

fabrice.

Who lives quite retired.

montross.

Beauty and youth are not for me. Let me have an apartment, sir, if possible, entirely to myself. (What do I feel!) Have you any remarkable news in London?

fabrice.

This gentleman, sir, can inform you: he talks and writes more than any one man in England, and is extremely useful to foreigners.

montross.

[Walking about.

I have other business.

fabrice.

I’ll step out, sir, and get things ready for you.

[Exit.

wasp.

[Aside.

This gentleman, I suppose, is just arrived in England: he must be some great man, for he seems to care for nobody. [Turning to Montross.] Permit me, my lord, to present to your lordship my respects; my pen and self, my lord, are at your lordship’s service.

montross.

I am no lord, sir: to boast of a title, if we have one, is the part of a fool; and to assume one when we have no right, that of a knave. I am what I am; but pray, sir, what may be your employment in this house?

wasp.

I don’t belong to the house, sir; but I spend most of my time in the coffee-room; write news, politics, and so forth, and am always ready to do an honest gentleman service. If you have any friend you want to have praised, or any enemy to be abused; any author you want to protect or to decry; ’tis but one guinea per paragraph: if you are desirous of cultivating any acquaintance for profit or pleasure, sir, I am your man.

montross.

And have you no other business, friend?

wasp.

O sir, it is a very good one, I assure you.

montross.

And have you never been shown in public with a pretty iron collar about your neck?

wasp.

This fellow has no notion of literature.

SCENE III.

wasp.

[Sitting down to the table] several people walking about the coffee-house; Montross comes forward.

montross.

Will my misfortunes never have an end? proscribed, banished, condemned to lose my head in Scotland; in my dear native country: I have lost my honors, my wife, my son, my whole family; except one unhappy daughter, like myself a miserable wanderer, perhaps dishonored; and must I die without taking revenge on Murray’s barbarous family? I am razed out of the book of life; I am no more; even my name is wrested from me by that cruel decree: I am but a poor departed ghost, that hovers round its tomb.

[One of the gentlemen in the coffee-house slapping Wasp on the shoulder.

Well! you saw the new piece yesterday, it met with great applause; the author is a young fellow of merit, but has no fortune, the public ought to encourage him.

another.

Rot the new piece; public affairs are strangely carried on; stocks rise; the nation’s rich, and I’m ruined, absolutely undone.

wasp.

[Writing.

The piece is good for nothing; the author’s a fool, and so are all those that support him: public affairs are in a wretched condition: the nation’s ruined: I shall prove it in my pamphlet.

another gentleman.

Your pamphlet’s nonsense: philosophy is the most dangerous thing in the world; it was that which lost us the island of Minorca.

montross.

[At a distance from them.

Lord Murray’s son shall pay dearly for it. O that before I die I could avenge the father’s injuries in the son’s blood!

a gentleman.

I thought the comedy last night was an excellent one.

wasp.

Detestable: our taste grows worse and worse.

another gentleman.

Not so bad as your criticisms.

another.

Philosophers sink the public funds: we must send another ambassador to Porte.

wasp.

We should always hiss a successful piece, for fear anything good should appear.

[Four of them talk at once.

first gentleman.

If there was nothing good, you would lose all the pleasure of satirizing it: now I think the fifth act has great beauties.

second gentleman.

I can’t sell any of my goods.

third gentleman.

I am in pain for Jamaica this year: depend on’t, these philosophers will make us lose it.

wasp.

The fourth and fifth acts are both contemptible.

montross.

What a riot is here.

first gentleman.

It is impossible the government can exist as it is.

second gentleman.

If the price of Barbadoes water is not lowered, the nation’s undone.

montross.

How happens it, that in every country when men meet they all talk together, though they are certain of not being heard or attended to!

enter fabrice.

[A napkin in his hand.

Dinner’s on the table, gentlemen; but pray, let us have no disputes there, if you mean to dine with me any more. Sir, [Turning to Montross.] shall we have the honor of your company?

montross.

What, with this tribe? no, friend, let me have something in my own room. Hark’ee, sir, [Whispering to him.] Is my Lord Falbridge in London?

fabrice.

No, sir, but I believe he will be here soon.

montross.

Does he come to your house sometimes? I think I have heard so.

fabrice.

He has done me that honor.—

montross.

Very well. Good morrow to you.—How hateful is life to me!

[Exit.

fabrice.

This man seems lost in grief and thought; I should not be surprised to hear he had made away with himself; ’twould concern me, for he has the appearance of a worthy gentleman.

[The gentlemen leave the coffee-house, and go to dinner; Wasp continues at the table writing: Fabrice knocks at Mrs. Lindon’s door.

SCENE IV.

fabrice, polly, wasp.

fabrice.

Mrs. Polly, Mrs. Polly.

polly.

Who’s there, my landlord?

fabrice.

Will you be so obliging as to favor us with your company to dinner?

polly.

I dare not, my mistress eats nothing. How indeed should we eat! we have too much grief.

fabrice.

O it will give you spirits, and make you cheerful.

polly.

I can’t be cheerful: when my mistress suffers, I must suffer with her.

fabrice.

Then I’ll send you up something privately.

[Exit.

wasp.

[Rising from the table.

I’ll follow you, Mr. Fabrice—well, and so, my dear Polly, you will not introduce me to your mistress—still inflexible?

polly.

’Tis a fine thing for you to pretend to make love to a woman of her condition.

wasp.

Pray what is her condition?

polly.

A respectable one, I assure you, sir. I should think a servant was good enough for you.

wasp.

That is to say, if I were to court you, you would be thankful.

polly.

Not I, indeed.

wasp.

And what, pray, is the reason why your mistress positively refuses to see me, and her waiting-maid treats me so contemptuously?

polly.

We have three reasons for it. First, you are a wit; secondly, you are very tiresome; and thirdly, you are a wicked fellow.

wasp.

And what right has your mistress, pray, who is kept here on charity, to despise me?

polly.

Upon charity? who told you so, sir? my mistress, sir, is very rich: if she is not expensive, it is because she hates pomp: she is plainly clad, out of modesty, and eats little, because temperance is prescribed to her: in short, sir, you are very impertinent.

wasp.

Don’t let her give herself so many airs; we know her conduct, her birth, and her adventures.

polly.

You, sir, who told them you? what do you know?

wasp.

O, I have correspondents in every part of the world.

polly.

[Aside.

O heaven! this man will ruin us.

[Turning to him.

Mr. Wasp, my dear Mr. Wasp, if you know anything, don’t betray us.

wasp.

O ho! there is something then, and now I am dear Mr. Wasp: well, well, I shall say nothing, but you must—

polly.

What?

wasp.

You must love me.

polly.

Fie, fie, sir, that’s impossible.

wasp.

Either love or fear me. You know there is something—

polly.

There is nothing, sir, but that my mistress is as respectable as you are hateful. We are truly easy. We fear nothing, and only laugh at you.

wasp.

They are very easy: from that I conclude they are almost starved: they fear nothing, that is to say, they are afraid of being discovered—I shall get to the bottom of it by and by, or—I shall not. I’ll be revenged on them for their insolence. Despise me!

SCENE V.

Miss Lindon [Coming out of her chamber dressed very plainly.

miss lindon, polly.

miss lindon.

O my dear Polly, you have been with that vile fellow, Wasp; he always makes me uneasy; a destestable character, whose pen, words, and actions are all equally abominable: they tell me he works himself into families to bring in misery where there is none, and to increase it where it is: I had left this house because he frequents it, long since, but for the honesty and good heart of our landlord.

polly.

He absolutely insisted on seeing you, and I would not let him.

miss lindon.

To see me! where is my Lord Murray, he has not been here these two days!

polly.

True, madam, but because he does not come, are we never to dine?

miss lindon.

Remember, Polly, to conceal my misery from him, and from all the world: I am content to live on bread and water: poverty is not intolerable, but contempt is: I am satisfied to be in want, but I would not have it known I am so.

polly.

Alas! my dear mistress, whoever looks at me will easily perceive it: with you it is a different thing; your nobleness of soul supports you, you seem to rejoice in calamities, and only look the handsomer for it: but I grow thinner and thinner, you may see me fall away every minute; I am so altered within this last year that I scarcely know myself.

miss lindon.

We must not part with our courage nor our hopes: I can support my own poverty, but yours indeed affects me. My dear girl, let the labor of my hands relieve you, we will have no obligations to anybody. Go and sell this embroidery which I have done lately. I think I succeed pretty well in this kind of work. You have assisted me, and in return my hands shall feed and clothe you: It is noble to owe our subsistence to nothing but our virtue.

polly.

Let me kiss, let me bathe with my tears the dear hands that have labored in my service O! I had rather die with my dear mistress in poverty, than be servant to a queen. Would I could administer some comfort to you!

miss lindon.

Alas! Lord Murray is not come: he whom I ought to hate, the son of him who was the author of all my misfortunes: alas! the name of Murray will be forever fatal to me: if he comes, as he certainly will, let him not know my country, my condition, or my misfortunes.

polly.

Do you know, that villain, Wasp, pretends to be well acquainted with him?

miss lindon.

How is it possible he should know anything of him, when even you are scarcely acquainted with him? Nobody writes to me, I am locked up in my chamber as closely as if I were in my grave: he only pretends to know something in order to make himself necessary: take care he does not so much as find out the place of my birth. You know, my dear Polly, I am an unfortunate woman whose father was banished in the late troubles, and whose family is ruined: my father is wandering from desert to desert in Scotland. I should have left London to join him in his misfortunes, but that I have still some hopes in Lord Falbridge; he was my father’s friend: our true friends never desert us. He has returned from Spain, and is now at Windsor: I wait but to see him: but alas! Murray comes not. I have opened my heart to thee, remember the most fatal blow thou canst give to it would be the disclosure of my condition.

polly.

To whom should I disclose it; I never go from you; besides that, the world is very indifferent about the poor and unfortunate.

miss lindon.

The world is indifferent, Polly, in this respect; but still it is always inquisitive, and loves to tear open the wounds of the wretched: besides that, the men assume a right over our sex when they are unhappy, and abuse their power. I would make even my miseries respectable: but alas! Lord Murray will not come.

SCENE VI.

miss lindon, polly, fabrice.

fabrice.

Forgive me, madam, I am not acquainted with your name or quality; but I have, I know not why, the greatest respect for you. I have left the company below to wait on you, and know your commands.

miss lindon.

The regard which you express for me, my dear sir, deserves my most grateful acknowledgments: but what are your commands with me?

fabrice.

I came, madam, only to know yours: you had no dinner yesterday.

miss lindon.

I was sick, sir, and could not eat.

fabrice.

You are worse than sick, madam, you are melancholy: you will pardon me, but I cannot help thinking your fortune is not equal to your person and appearance.

miss lindon.

Why should you think so? I never complained of my fortune.

fabrice.

Notwithstanding that, madam, I am sure it is not what you could wish it were.

miss lindon.

What say you?

fabrice.

I say, madam, that the world you seem to shun, admires and pities you. I am but a plain man, madam, but I can see all your merit as well as the finest courtier. Let me entreat you, my dear lady, to take a little refreshment: there is above stairs an elderly gentleman who would be glad to eat with you.

miss lindon.

What, sit down to table with a stranger!

fabrice.

The gentleman, I am sure, would be agreeable to you: you seem afflicted, and so does he. The communication of your grief might, perhaps, give mutual consolation.

miss lindon.

I cannot, will not, see anybody.

fabrice.

At least, madam, permit my wife to pay her respects to you, and keep you company: permit her—

miss lindon.

I return you thanks, sir, but I want nothing.

fabrice.

You will pardon me, madam, but I cannot think you want nothing, when you stand in need even of common necessaries.

miss lindon.

Who could make you believe so? indeed, sir, you are imposed upon.

fabrice.

You will forgive me, madam.

miss lindon.

O Polly, ’tis two o’clock, and Lord Murray not come yet!

fabrice.

That lord you speak of, madam, is one of the best of men; you never received him here but before company. Why would not you permit me to furnish out a little repast for you both? he is, perhaps, a relative of yours.

miss lindon.

My dear sir, you are mistaken.

fabrice.

[Pulling Polly by the sleeve.

Go, child, there is a good dinner for you in the next room. This woman is incomprehensible: but who is yonder lady in the coffee-room with a masculine air? I should have taken her for a man: how wildly she looks!

polly.

O my dear mistress! ’tis Lady Alton, who wanted to marry my lord—I remember I saw her once before this way: ’tis certainly she.

miss lindon.

And my lord not come! then I am undone. Why am I still condemned to live?

[She goes in.

SCENE VII.

lady alton.

[Walking across the stage in a violent passion, and taking Fabrice by the arm.

Follow me, sir, I must talk with you.

fabrice.

With me, madam?

lady alton.

With you, wretch.

fabrice.

What a devil of a woman!

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

lady alton, fabrice.

lady alton.

I don’t believe a word you say, Mr. Coffeeman; you will absolutely drive me out of my senses.

fabrice.

Then pray, madam, get into them again.

lady alton.

You have the impudence to affirm to me, that this fortune-hunter here is a woman of honor, though she has received visits from a nobleman. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

fabrice.

Why so, madam? when my lord came, he never came in privately; she received him publicly, the doors of her apartment were open, and my wife present. You may despise my condition, madam, but you should respect my honesty; and as to the lady you are pleased to call a fortune-hunter, if you knew her, you would esteem her.

lady alton.

Leave me, sir, you grow impertinent.

fabrice.

What a woman!

lady alton.

[Goes to Miss Lindon’s door, and knocks rudely.

Open the door.

SCENE II.

miss lindon, lady alton.

miss lindon.

Who knocks so? what do you want, madam?

lady alton.

Answer me, madam. Does not Lord Murray come here sometimes?

miss lindon.

What’s that to you? what right have you to ask me? am I a criminal, and you my judge?

lady alton.

I am your accuser. If my lord still visits you, if you encourage that wretch’s passion, tremble: renounce him, or you are undone.

miss lindon.

If I had a passion for him, your menaces, madam, would but increase it.

lady alton.

I see you love him; that the perfidious villain has seduced you; he has deceived you, and you brave me: but know, there is no vengeance which I am not capable of executing.

miss lindon.

Then, madam, know, I do love him.

lady alton.

Before I revenge myself I will astonish you. There, know the traitor, look at these letters he wrote to me: there is his picture too which he gave me; but let me have it back, or—

miss lindon.

[Giving her back the picture.

What have I seen? unhappy woman! madam—

lady alton.

Well.

miss lindon.

I no longer love him.

lady alton.

Keep your resolution and your promise; know, he is inconstant, cruel, proud, the worst of characters.

miss lindon.

Stop, madam; if you continue to speak ill of him, I may relapse, and love him again. You are come here on purpose to take away my wretched life: that, madam, will easily be done.—Polly, ’tis all over; come and assist me to conceal this last and worst of all my miseries.

polly.

What is the matter, my dear mistress, where is your courage?

miss lindon.

Against misfortune, injustice, and poverty, there are arms that will defend a noble heart; but there is an arrow that always must be fatal.

[They go out.

SCENE III.

lady alton, wasp.

lady alton.

To be betrayed, abandoned for this worthless little wretch.

[To Wasp.

You, news-writer, have you done what I ordered you? have you employed your engines of intelligence, and found out who this insolent creature is that makes me so completely miserable?

wasp.

I have fulfilled your ladyship’s commands, and have discovered that she is a Scotchwoman, and hides herself from the world.

lady alton.

Prodigious news indeed!

wasp.

I can find out nothing else at present.

lady alton.

What service then have you been of?

wasp.

When we discover a little, we add a little; and one little joined to another, makes a great deal. There’s a hypothesis for you.

lady alton.

How, pedant, a hypothesis!

wasp.

Yes, I suppose she is an enemy to the government.

lady alton.

Certainly, nothing can be worse inclined; for she has robbed me of my lover.

wasp.

You plainly see, therefore, that in troublesome times, a Scotchwoman, who conceals herself, must be an enemy to the state.

lady alton.

I can’t say I see it altogether so clearly, but I heartily wish it were so.

wasp.

I would not lay a wager about it, but I’d swear to it.

lady alton.

And would you venture to affirm this before people of consequence?

wasp.

I have the honor of being related to many persons of the first fashion. I am intimate with the mistress of a valet de chambre to the first secretary of the prime minister: I could even talk with the lackeys of your lover, Lord Murray, and tell them that the father of this young girl has sent her up to London, as a woman ill disposed. Now observe, this might have its consequences, and your rival, for her bad intentions, might be sent to the same prison where I have so often been for my writings.

lady alton.

Good, very good: violent passions must be served by people who have no scruples about them. Let the vessel go with a full sail, or let it go to the bottom. You are certainly right; a Scotchwoman who conceals herself at a time when all the people of her country are suspected, must certainly be an enemy to the state. You are no fool, as you have been represented to me. I thought you had been only a smatterer on paper, but I see you have genius. I have already done something for you; I will do a great deal more. You must let me know everything that passes here.

wasp.

Let me advise you, madam, to make use of everything you know, and of everything you do not know. Truth stands in need of some ornament: downright lies indeed may be vile things, but fiction is beautiful. What after all is truth? a conformity with our own ideas; what one says is always conformable to the idea one has whilst one is talking; therefore, properly speaking, there is no such thing as a lie.

lady alton.

You seem to be an excellent logician, I fancy you studied at St. Omer’s. But go, only tell me whatever you discover, I ask no more of you.

SCENE IV.

lady alton, fabrice.

lady alton.

This is certainly one of the vilest and most impudent scoundrels; dogs bite from an instinct of courage, and this fellow from an instinct of meanness. Methinks, now I am a little cool, his behavior makes me out of love with revenge. I could almost take my rival’s part against him. She has in her low condition a pride that pleases me; she is decent, and I am told, sensible: but she has robbed me of my lover, and that I can never pardon. [To Fabrice, whom she sees in the coffee-room.] Honest man, your servant, you are a good kind of fellow, but you have got a sad rascal in your house.

fabrice.

I have heard, madam, from many, that he is as wicked as Miss Lindon is virtuous and amiable.

lady alton.

Amiable! that wounds my heart.

SCENE V.

fabrice, mr. freeport.

[Dressed plainly, with a large hat.

fabrice.

Heaven be praised, Mr. Freeport, I see you safe returned: how are you since your voyage to Jamaica?

freeport.

Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Fabrice, I have been very successful, but am much fatigued. [To the waiter.] Boy, some chocolate and the papers—one finds it more difficult to amuse oneself than to get rich.

fabrice.

Will you have Wasp’s papers?

freeport.

No: what should I do with such stuff? It is no concern of mine if a spider in the corner of a wall walks over his web to suck the blood of flies. Give me the Gazette! What public news have you?

fabrice.

None at present.

freeport.

So much the better; the less news the less folly. But how go your affairs, my friend? have you a good deal of business? who lodges with you now?

fabrice.

This morning an old gentleman came who won’t see anybody.

freeport.

He’s in the right of it: three parts of the world are good for nothing, either knaves or fools, and as for the fourth, they keep to themselves.

fabrice.

This gentleman has not so much as the curiosity to see a charming young lady who is in the same house with him.

freeport.

There he’s wrong. Who is she, pray?

fabrice.

She is something more singular even than himself: she has now been with me these four months, and has never stirred out of her apartment: she calls herself Lindon, but I believe that is not her real name.

freeport.

I make no doubt but she’s a woman of virtue, or she would not lodge with you.

fabrice.

O she is more than you can conceive; beautiful to the last degree, greatly distressed, and the best of women. Between you and me she is excessively poor, but of a high spirit and very proud.

freeport.

If that be the case she is more to blame even than your old gentleman.

fabrice.

By no means: her pride is an additional virtue. She denies herself common necessaries, and at the same time would let nobody know she does: works with her own hands to get money to pay me; never complains, but hides her tears: it is with the utmost difficulty I can persuade her to expend a little of her money, due for rent, on things she really wants; and am forced to make use of a thousand arts before she will suffer me to assist her. I always reckon what she has at half the price it cost me, and when she finds it out, there is always a quarrel between us, which indeed is the only quarrel we have ever had: in short, sir, she is a miracle of virtue, misfortune, and intrepidity: she frequently draws from me tears of tenderness and admiration.

freeport.

You are naturally tender; I am not. I admire none, though I esteem many: but I will see this woman; I am a little melancholy, and she may divert me.

fabrice.

O sir, she scarcely ever receives any visitors. There is a lord indeed who comes now and then to see her, but she will never speak to him unless before my wife. He has not been here for some time, and now she lives more retired than ever.

freeport.

I love retirement too, and hate a crowd as much as she can: I must see her, where is her apartment?

fabrice.

Yonder: even with the coffee-room.

freeport.

I’ll go in.

fabrice.

You must not.

freeport.

I say I must: why not go into her chamber? bring in my chocolate and the papers. [Pulls out his watch.] I have not much time to lose, for I am engaged at two.

SCENE VI.

miss lindon, [frightened, Polly following her.]

freeport, fabrice.

miss lindon.

My God! who is this? sir, you are extremely rude; I think you might have shown more respect to my sex than thus to intrude on my retirement.

freeport.

You will pardon me, madam, [To Fabrice] bring me the chocolate.

fabrice.

Yes, sir, with the lady’s consent.

freeport.

[Seats himself near a table, reads the newspaper, and looks up to Miss Lindon and Polly, takes off his hat, and puts it on again.

polly.

This gentleman seems pretty familiar.

freeport.

Why won’t you sit down, madam? you see I do.

miss lindon.

Which I think, sir, you ought not to do. I am astonished, sir: I never receive visits from strangers.

freeport.

A stranger, madam! I am very well known; my name’s Freeport, a merchant, and rich: inquire of me on ’Change.

miss lindon.

Sir, I know nobody in this country, I should be obliged to you if you would not intrude on a person to whom you are an utter stranger, and to whom as a woman you should have shown more respect.

freeport.

I don’t mean to incommode you, madam: be at your ease, as I am at mine; you see I am reading the news, take up your tapestry, or drink chocolate with me, or without me, just as you please.

polly.

This is an original!

miss lindon.

Good heaven! what a visit! and my lord not come. This whimsical fellow distracts me, and I don’t know how to get rid of him. How could Fabrice let him in! I must sit down.

[She sits down, and works, chocolate is brought in; Freeport takes a dish without offering her any; he sips, and talks by turns.

freeport

Hark’ee, madam, I hate compliments, I have heard one of the best of characters of you: you are poor and virtuous, but they tell me you are proud; that’s a fault.

polly.

And pray, sir, who told you all this?

freeport.

The master of this house, who is a very honest man, and therefore I believe him.

miss lindon.

O sir, ’tis all a fable; he has deceived you; not indeed with regard to pride, which always accompanies true modesty: nor as to virtue, which is my first duty; but with regard to that poverty of which he suspects me. Those who want nothing can never be poor.

freeport.

You don’t stick to truth, which is even a worse fault than being proud: I know better, I know you are in want of everything, and sometimes deny yourself so much as a dinner.

polly.

That’s by order of the doctor.

freeport.

Hold your tongue, hussy, do you pretend to give yourself airs too?

polly.

What an original!

freeport

In a word, whether you are proud or not, is nothing to me. I have made a voyage to Jamaica that has brought me in five thousand pounds: now, you must know, it is a law with me, and ought to be a law with every good Christian, always to give away a tenth part of what I get: it is a debt which I owe to the unfortunate. You are unhappy, though you won’t acknowledge it. There’s five hundred pounds for you: now, remember, you’re paid: let me have no curtseys, no thanks, keep the money and the secret.

[Throws down a large purse on the table.

polly.

In faith this is more original still.

miss lindon.

[Rising.

I never was so astonished in my life—alas! how everything conspires to humble me! what generosity! and yet what an affront!

freeport.

[Reading the news and drinking his chocolate.

This impertinent writer! a ridiculous fellow to talk such nonsense with an air of consequence—“The king is arrived: he makes a most noble figure, being extremely tall.” The blockhead! what signifies it whether he is tall or short? could not he have told us the plain fact?

miss lindon.

[Coming up to Freeport.

Sir—

freeport.

Well, madam—

miss lindon.

What you have done, sir, surprises me still more than what you said: but I cannot possibly accept the money, as it may not, perhaps, ever be in my power to repay it.

freeport.

Who talks of repaying it?

miss lindon.

I thank you, sir, for your goodness, from the bottom of my heart: you have my sincere acknowledgments, my admiration; I can no more.

polly.

You are more extraordinary than the gentleman himself. Surely, madam, in the condition you are in, deserted by all the world, you must have lost your senses to refuse an unexpected succor, thus offered you by one of the most generous, though whimsical and absurd men I ever met with.

freeport.

What do you mean by that, madam! whimsical and absurd!

polly.

If you won’t accept of it for your own sake, take it for mine. I have served you in your ill-fortune, and have some right to partake of the good: in short, sir, this is no time to dissemble, we are in the utmost distress; and if it had not been for our kind landlord, must have perished with cold and hunger. My mistress concealed her condition from all those who might have been of service to us: you became acquainted with it in spite of her: in spite of herself, therefore, oblige her to accept of that which heaven hath sent her by your generous hand.

miss lindon.

Dear Polly, you will ruin my honor.

polly.

You, my dear mistress, would ruin yourself by your folly.

miss lindon.

If you love me, consider my reputation. I shall die with shame.

freeport.

[Reading.

What are these women prating about?

polly.

And if you love me, madam, don’t oblige me to perish with hunger.

miss lindon.

O Polly, what think you my lord would say, if still he loves me? could he believe me capable of such meanness? I always pretended to him that I wanted nothing; and shall I receive a present from another, from a stranger?

polly.

Your pretence was wrong, and your refusal still more so: as to my lord, he’ll say nothing about it, for he has deserted you.

miss lindon.

My dear Polly, by our sorrows I entreat you, do not let us disgrace ourselves: contrive in some way to excuse me to this strange man, who means well, though he is so rude and unpolished: tell him, when an unmarried woman accepts such presents, the world will always suspect she does it at the expense of her virtue.

freeport.

[Reading.

What does she say?

polly.

[Coming close to him.

O sir, something mighty ridiculous; she talks of the suspicions of the world, and that an unmarried woman—

freeport.

Is she unmarried then?

polly.

Yes, sir, and I too

freeport.

So much the better. So she says that an unmarried woman—

polly.

Cannot take a present from a man—

freeport.

She does not know what she says. Why am I to be suspected of a dishonest purpose, because I do an honest action?

polly.

Do you hear him, madam?

miss lindon.

I hear, and I admire him, but am still resolved not to accept it: they would say I loved him; that villain. Wasp, would certainly report it, and I should be undone.

polly.

[To Freeport.

She is afraid, sir, you are in love with her.

freeport.

In love with her! how can that be, when I know nothing of her? indeed, madam, you may make yourself easy on that head; and if perchance some years hence I should fall in love with you, and you with me, well and good; as you determine, I shall determine also; and if you think no more of it, I shall think no more of it; if you tell me I am disagreeable to you, you will soon be so to me; if you desire not to see me, you shall never see me again; and if you desire me to return, I will.

[Pulls out his watch.

So fare you well. I have a little business at present. Madam, your, servant.

miss lindon.

Your servant, sir, you have my esteem and my gratitude; but take your money with you, and once more spare my blushes.

freeport.

The woman’s a fool.

miss lindon.

Mr. Fabrice, Mr. Fabrice, for heaven’s sake come and assist me.

fabrice.

[Coming in a violent hurry.

What’s the matter, madam?

miss lindon.

[Giving him the purse.

Here, take this purse: the gentleman left it by mistake, give it him again, I charge you; assure him of my esteem, and remember I want no assistance from any one.

fabrice.

[Taking the purse.

O Mr. Freeport, I know you by this generous action; but be assured this lady means to deceive you: she is really in want of this.

miss lindon.

’Tis false: and is it you, Mr. Fabrice, who would betray me?

fabrice.

I will obey you, madam.

[Aside to Freeport.

I will keep this money; it may be of service to her without her knowing it. My heart bleeds to see such virtue joined to such misfortunes.

freeport.

I feel for her too, but she is too haughty: tell her it is not right to be proud. Adieu.

SCENE VII.

miss lindon, polly.

polly.

Well, madam, you have made a fine piece of work of it; heaven graciously offered you assistance, and you resolve to perish in indigence; I too must fall a sacrifice to your virtue, a virtue which is not without its alloy of vanity: that vanity, madam, will destroy us both.

miss lindon.

Death is all I have to wish for: Lord Murray no longer loves me; he has left me these three days; he has loved my proud and cruel rival; perhaps, he loves her still. I was to blame to think of him, but ’tis a crime I shall not long be guilty of.

[She sits down to write.

polly.

She seems in despair, alas! she has but too much reason to be so; her condition is far worse than mine: a servant has always some resource, but a woman like her can have none.

miss lindon.

[Folding up her letter.

’Tis no great sacrifice. There, Polly, when I am no more, carry that letter to him—

polly.

What says my dear mistress?

miss lindon.

To him who is the cause of my death. I have recommended you to him, perhaps he may comply with my last request: go, Polly, [embracing her] and be assured, that amongst all my misfortunes, that of not being able to recompense you as you deserve, is not the least which this wretched heart has experienced.

polly.

O my dear mistress, I cannot refrain from tears, you harrow up my soul: what is your dreadful purpose? what means this letter? God forbid I should ever deliver it! [she tears the letter.] Alas! madam, why would not you open your heart to Lord Murray? perhaps your cold reserve has disgusted him.

miss lindon.

Perhaps so, indeed: my eyes are open now, I must have offended him: but how could I disclose my condition to the son of him who ruined my father and family?

polly.

How, madam! was it my lord’s father who—

miss lindon.

Yes, it was he who persecuted my father, had him condemned to death, deprived us of our nobility, and took away everything from us: left as I am without father, mother, or fortune, I have nothing but my reputation and my fatal love. I ought to detest the son of Murray: misfortune, that still pursues me, brought me acquainted with him. I have loved him, and I ought to suffer for it.

polly.

O madam, you grow pale, your eyes are dim.

miss lindon.

May grief perform that office for me, which sword or poison—

polly.

Help here, Mr. Fabrice, help: my mistress faints.

fabrice.

Help, help here! where are ye all, my wife, my servants, come down: tell the gentlemen above—help here—

[Fabrice’s wife, her maids, and Polly, carry off Miss Lindon into her chamber.

miss lindon.

[As she is going out.

Why will ye bring me back to life again? let me die in peace.

SCENE VIII.

montross, fabrice.

montross.

What’s the matter, landlord?

fabrice.

That beautiful young lady, sir, I told you of, fainted away just now: but it will be over soon.

montross.

O the mere effect of vapors in young girls; they are not dangerous: what service could I be of? why call me down for this? I thought the house must have been on fire.

fabrice.

I had rather it were, than this sweet creature should be hurt. If Scotland has many such beauties as her, it must be a charming country.

montross.

Is she Scotch then?

fabrice.

So it seems; though I knew it but to-day: our news-writer tells me so, and he knows everything.

montross.

And what’s her name?

fabrice.

She calls herself Lindon.

montross.

That’s a name I’m not acquainted with. [He walks about.] The bare mention of my country rives my heart. Was ever man treated with such cruelty and injustice as I have been? Barbarous Murray, thou art dead; but thy son survives: I will have justice or revenge. O my dearest wife, my children, my daughter! I have lost all. This sword had long since ended all my cares, did not the hopes of sweet revenge force me still to bear the detestable load of life.

fabrice.

[Returning.

Thank God! all is well again.

montross.

What sudden change has happened then?

fabrice.

O, sir, she has recovered her senses, and is pretty well; looks still pale, but always beautiful.

montross.

O it’s nothing. I must go out—I must run the hazard—I will.

[Exit.

fabrice.

This man does not trouble himself much about young ladies that faint; but if he had seen Miss Lindon, he would not be so indifferent.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

lady alton, andrew.

lady alton.

Yes: since I can’t see the villain at home, I’ll see him here: he’ll certainly come. This news-writer told me truth, and was in the right of it: a Scotchwoman concealed in these dangerous times! she must be in a conspiracy against the state; she shall be seized; the order is given; at least I am too sure she conspires against me: but here comes Andrew, my lord’s servant; I will know the whole of my misfortune. Andrew, you have got a letter from my lord, have not you?

andrew.

Yes, madam.

lady alton.

For me.

andrew.

No, madam.

lady alton.

How? have not you brought me several from him?

andrew.

Yes, madam: but this is not for you; ’tis for a certain person whom he is most desperately in love with.

lady alton.

Well, and was not he most desperately in love with me when he used to write to me?

andrew.

O no, madam, he loved you calmly and coldly; ’tis quite another thing here; he neither sleeps nor eats, runs about day and night, and does nothing but talk of his dear Lindon. O there’s a great deal of difference, I assure you.

lady alton.

Perfidious wretch! but no matter: I tell you that letter is for me: ’tis without a superscription, is not it?

andrew.

Yes, madam.

lady alton.

Were not all the letters you brought me without a superscription too?

andrew.

Yes, madam; but this I know is for Miss Lindon.

lady alton.

I tell you ’tis for me, and to prove it to you, here are ten guineas for you.

andrew.

Indeed, madam, I begin to think the letter was for you; I was certainly mistaken: but if after all it is not, I hope you will not betray me; you may say you found it at Miss Lindon’s.

lady alton.

O leave that to me.

andrew.

After all, where is the harm in giving a love letter designed for one woman to another? they are all alike; and if Miss Lindon does not receive this letter, she may have twenty others. I have executed my commission, and made a pretty good hand of it too.

lady alton.

[Opens the letter, and reads.

Now for it—“My dear, amiable, and truly virtuous Miss Lindon”—that’s more than ever he said to me—“ ’tis now two days, an age to me, since I had the happiness of seeing you: but I have denied myself that pleasure with the hopes of serving you. I know what you are, and what I owe you. I will change the face of your affairs, or perish in the attempt. My friends are zealous for you. Depend on me as on the most faithful of lovers, and one who will endeavor to prove himself worthy of your affection.”

This is an absolute conspiracy; there can be no doubt of it: she is a Scotchwoman, and her family ill disposed to the government. Murray’s father commanded in Scotland: his friends, he says, are zealous; he runs about day and night: ’tis certainly a conspiracy. Thank God, I am as zealous as he, and if she does not accept my offers, she shall be seized in an hour’s time, before her vile lover comes to her assistance.

SCENE II.

lady alton, miss lindon, polly.

lady alton.

[To Polly, who is passing from her mistress’s apartment towards the coffee-room.

You, madam, go immediately and tell your mistress I must speak with her; she need not be afraid; I shall say nothing to her but what will be agreeable, and concerns her happiness: let her come immediately, immediately, do you hear? she need not be afraid, I say.

polly.

O madam, we are afraid of nothing; but your looks make me tremble.

lady alton.

I’ll see if I can’t persuade this virtuous lady to do as I would have her: I’ll make my proposals, however.

miss lindon.

[Comes in trembling, supported by Polly.

What are your commands with me, madam? are you come again only to insult me in my distress?

lady alton.

No: I come to make you happy. I know you are worth nothing; I am rich; I now make you an offer of one of my seats on the borders of Scotland, with all the lands belonging to it; go and live there, you and your family, if you have any; but you must immediately quit my lord forever, nor must he know of your retreat as long as you live.

miss lindon.

Alas! madam, he has abandoned me: be not jealous of a poor unfortunate: in vain you offer me a retreat; I shall soon find one without you, an eternal one, in a place where I need not blush at my obligations to you.

lady alton.

Rash woman, is this an answer for me?

miss lindon.

Rashness, madam, would ill suit with my condition; firmness and intrepidity will much better become it: my birth, madam, is as good as yours; my heart, perhaps, much better; and as to my fortune, it shall not depend on any one, much less on my rival.

[Goes out.

lady alton.

[Alone.

It shall depend on me. I am sorry she reduces me to this extremity, and am ashamed to make use of this rascal, Wasp; but she obliges me to it. Faithless lover! unhappy passion! O! I am choked with rage.

SCENE III.

freeport and montross [in the coffee-room, with Fabrice’s wife, and servants putting things in order.

fabrice, lady alton.

lady alton.

[To Fabrice.

Mr. Fabrice, you see me here often; but ’tis your own fault.

fabrice.

On the contrary, madam, we could wish—

lady alton.

I am more concerned than you can be; but you shall see me again, I assure you.

[She goes out.

fabrice.

So much the worse. What would she be at now? What a difference there is betwixt her and the beautiful patient Miss Lindon!

freeport.

True; she is, as you say, beautiful and virtuous.

fabrice.

I am sorry this gentleman never saw her; I am sure he would be greatly affected with her behavior.

montross.

[Aside.

Wretch that I am! I have other things to think of.

freeport.

I am always either on’Change or at Jamaica; but one can’t help liking now and then to see a fine woman: she is really a fine creature, a sweet behavior, a charming countenance, and has something noble in her air and demeanor.—I must see her again one day or other. ’Tis pity she’s so proud.

montross.

My landlord here informs me you behaved to her in a most generous manner.

freeport.

Who I? no. Would not you, or any man in my place, have done the same?

montross.

If I had been rich, and she had merit, I believe I might.

freeport.

What is there in it then to be wondered at? [He takes up the papers.] Well, what news have we to-day? How’s this? Lord Falbridge dead!

montross.

Falbridge dead! the only friend I had on earth, or from whom I could expect relief? O fortune, fortune, wilt thou ever persecute me?

freeport.

Was he your friend? I am sorry for you.—“Edinburgh, April 14. Great search is being made after Lord Montross, condemned to lose his head about eleven years ago.”

montross.

Just heaven! what do I hear? What’s that, sir, Lord Montross condemned—

freeport.

Yes, sir, Lord Montross; there, sir, read it yourself.

montross.

[Looking on the paper.

’Tis so indeed. [Aside.] I must get away as fast as I can; this place is too public: sure, earth and hell conspired together never heaped so many misfortunes on one man. [To his servant.] John, let my horses be saddled, perhaps I may be going towards evening—how bad news flies!

freeport.

Bad news, why so? what signifies it whether Lord Montross is beheaded or not? everything passes away—to-day a head is cut off, to-morrow we have it in the newspapers, and next day we talk no more of it. If this Miss Lindon was not so proud, I would go and ask her how she did; she is very handsome, and a very worthy creature.

SCENE IV.

To them a King’s Messenger.

messenger.

Is your name Fabrice, sir?

fabrice.

Yes, sir, your commands with me?

messenger.

You keep a coffee-house, and let lodgings?

fabrice.

I do, sir.

messenger.

You have a young Scotch lady in your house, named Lindon?

fabrice.

I have, sir, and esteem it a great happiness.

freeport.

A most beautiful and virtuous lady; everybody tells me so.

messenger.

I come to seize her by order of the government; there’s my warrant.

fabrice.

Amazing! I shudder at the thought.

montross.

A young Scotchwoman seized on the very day of my arrival! O my unhappy family, my country, what will become of my unfortunate daughter! she is, perhaps, the victim of my misfortunes, languishing in poverty and a prison: why was she ever born?

freeport.

I never heard of young girls being seized by order of the government: I am afraid, Mr. Messenger, you are a rascal.

fabrice.

If she is a fortune-hunter, as Wasp said, it will ruin my house; I am undone: this court lady had some reasons I see plainly—and yet she must be good and virtuous.

messenger.

Let’s have none of your reasons, sir, to prison, or give bail, that’s the rule.

fabrice.

I’ll give you bail, myself, my house, my goods, my person.

messenger.

Your person’s nothing; the house, perhaps, not your own—your goods, where are they? I must have money.

fabrice.

Good Mr. Freeport, shall I give him the five hundred pounds which she so nobly refused, and which are still in my possession?

freeport.

Ay, ay, I’ll give five hundred, a thousand, two thousand; I’ll be answerable for it, my name’s Freeport. I believe the girl’s strictly virtuous; but she should not be so proud.

messenger.

Come, sir, give us your bond.

freeport.

With all my heart.

fabrice.

’Tis not every one employs their money thus.

freeport.

To spend it in doing good is putting it out to the best interest.

[Freeport and the Messenger retire to the corner of the coffee-room to count out the money.

SCENE V.

montross, fabrice.

fabrice.

You are astonished, sir, at Mr. Freeport; but ’tis his constant practice: happy are those whom he takes a fancy to! he is no complimenter, but does a man a service in less time than others spend in making protestations about it.

montross.

[Aside.

There are still in the world some noble souls—what will become of me?

fabrice.

We must take care not to let the poor young lady know anything of the danger she has been in.

montross.

I must be gone this night.

fabrice.

One should never tell people of their danger till it is past.

montross.

The only friend I had in London is dead: what should I do here?

fabrice.

We should make her faint away a second time.

SCENE VI.

montross.

A young Scotchwoman is seized, a person who lives retired, and is suspected by the government. I don’t know why, but this adventure throws me into deep reflections. Everything conspires to awaken the memory of my sorrows, my afflictions, my misfortunes, and my resentment.

SCENE VII.

montross.

[Seeing Polly crossing the stage.

One word with you, madam, are you that pretty amiable young lady, born in Scotland, who—

polly.

Yes, sir—I, I am tolerably young, and a Scotchwoman; and as to pretty they say I am not amiss.

montross.

Have you any news from your own country?

polly.

No, sir, I have left it a long time.

montross.

And what are your relations, pray?

polly.

My father was an excellent baker, as I have heard, and my mother waiting-maid to a woman of quality.

montross.

O, now I understand you. You, I suppose, are servant to that young lady I have heard so much of. I was mistaken.

polly.

O sir, you do me too much honor.

montross.

You know who your mistress is, I suppose?

polly.

Yes, sir, the sweetest and most amiable of her sex, and one too who has the most fortitude in affliction.

montross.

She is in distress then?

polly.

Yes, sir, and so am I: but I had rather serve her in affliction than be ever so happy.

montross.

But don’t you know her family?

polly.

My mistress, sir, desires to remain unknown: she has no family: sir, why do you ask me these questions?

montross.

To remain unknown! say you? O heaven, if I could at last—but ’tis a vain imagination. Tell me, pray, how old is your mistress?

polly.

One may safely tell her age. She is just eighteen.

montross.

Eighteen! the very age of my dear Montross, my lovely infant, the only remaining hope of my unhappy family—eighteen sayest thou?

polly.

Yes, sir, and I am but two and twenty, there’s no great difference between us. I see no reason why you should make so many reflections on her age.

montross.

Eighteen, and born in my country, desires to remain unknown! I cannot contain myself—by your permission I must see and talk to her immediately.

polly.

Telling him of a girl of eighteen has turned this old gentleman’s brain.—You can’t possibly see her at present, sir, she’s in the greatest distress.

montross.

For that very reason I must see her.

polly.

O, sir, fresh griefs and calamities have torn her heart, and deprived her of her senses. She is not one of those I assure you, sire, who faint away for nothing; she is but just now come to herself, and the little rest she now enjoys is mixed with grief and bitterness. Have pity, sir, on her condition.

montross.

All you say but increases my desire. I am her countryman, and partake of her afflictions, perhaps I may be able to lessen them; permit me, I beg you, before I leave this place, to have an interview with her.

polly.

You affect me deeply, sir; stay here a few minutes. It is impossible a young lady, who has just fainted away, should be able to receive visits immediately. I’ll go to her, and come back to you soon.

SCENE VIII.

montross, fabrice.

fabrice.

[Pulling him by the sleeve.

Sir, is there nobody near us?

montross.

With what impatience shall I wait for her return!

fabrice.

Can nobody hear us?

montross.

I can never support this anxiety.

fabrice.

They are in search of you, sir,—

montross.

Who, where, what?

fabrice.

I say, sir, they are in search of you; I cannot help interesting myself in the safety of those who lodge in my house. I don’t know who you are, sir, but I have been asked a thousand questions about you. They have surrounded the house, passing, and repassing, getting all the information they can. In short I shall not be surprised if in a little time they should pay you the same compliment as they did the young lady, who, it seems, is of the same country.

montross.

I must speak with her before I go.

fabrice.

Take my advice, sir, and get away as fast as you can; our friend, Freeport, perhaps might not be in the humor to do as much for you as for a girl of eighteen.

montross.

Pardon me, but I know not where I am; I scarce heard you—what must I do, or where can I go? my dear sir, I cannot go without seeing her: let me talk to you a little in private: I must beg you some how or other to let me have an opportunity of seeing this young lady.

fabrice.

I told you before, you would want to see her. I assure you nothing can be more beautiful, more virtuous, or more agreeable.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

fabrice, wasp.

[At a table in the coffee-room.

freeport

[Smoking a pipe.

fabrice.

I must be so free as to tell you, Mr. Wasp, if I may believe all that is said of you, you would do me a favor by never coming to my house again.

freeport.

All that is said is generally false: what fly has stung you, Mr. Fabrice?

fabrice.

You come, and write your papers here, Mr. Wasp; and my coffee-house will be looked on as a poison shop.

freeport.

[To Fabrice.

This fellow seems to deserve what you say.

fabrice.

[To Wasp.

They say you speak ill of all mankind.

freeport.

Of all mankind! that’s too much indeed.

fabrice.

They begin even to say you are an informer, and a scoundrel, but I am loth to believe them.

freeport.

[To Wasp.

Do you hear, sir? this is past raillery.

wasp.

I am an illustrious writer, sir, a man of taste.

fabrice.

Taste or no taste, sir, I say you have done me an injury.

wasp.

So far from it, sir, that I have helped off your coffee, made it fashionable to come to your house, ’tis my reputation that has brought you custom.

fabrice.

A fine reputation indeed! that of a spy, a bad author, and a worse man!

wasp.

Stop, Mr. Fabrice, if you please. You may attack my morals, but my works—I will never suffer that.

fabrice.

Your writings, sir, are not worth my consideration; but you are suspected of a design against the amiable Miss Lindon.

freeport.

If I thought so, I would drown the dog with my own hands.

fabrice.

’Tis said, you accused her of being Scotch, and the honest gentleman too who lives above stairs.

wasp.

Well, and suppose I had, what harm is there in being of any particular country?

fabrice.

’Tis moreover reported that you have had several conferences with the agents of a certain choleric lady who comes here, and with the servants of a noble lord, who used to frequent this house: that you tell tales, and blow up quarrels.

freeport.

[To Wasp.

Are you really such a rogue? then shall I detest you.

fabrice.

O thank God! here comes my lord, if I am not mistaken.

freeport.

A lord, is it? then your humble servant, I hate a lord, as much as I do a bad writer.

fabrice.

He’s not like other lords, I assure you.

freeport.

Like other lords or not, ’tis no matter. I never love to be disturbed, so fare you well. I don’t know how it is, my friend, but I am always thinking of this young Scotchwoman—I’ll come back presently—immediately. I want to talk seriously to her—your servant. This Scotchwoman is handsome, and a good creature.—Adieu—[returning] tell her, I intend to serve her greatly.

SCENE II.

lord murray.

[Pensive and in great agitation.

wasp.

[Bowing to him, of which he takes no notice.

fabrice.

[At a distance from him.

lord murray.

[To Fabrice.

I’m glad to see you, friend: how is that charming girl you have the pleasure to boast of as your lodger here?

fabrice.

She has been very ill, sir, since she saw you: but I’m sure she will be better now.

lord murray.

Great God, thou protector of innocence, I implore thee for her; O deign to make me an instrument in doing justice to virtue, and sheltering the unfortunate from oppression! Thanks to thy goodness, and my own endeavors, I have hopes of success. Hark’ee, friend, I would talk a little with that man.

[Pointing to Wasp.

wasp.

[To Fabrice.

You see, sir, you were mistaken, and I have some credit still at court.

fabrice.

[Going out.

That’s not quite so clear.

lord murray.

[To Wasp.

Well, my friend—

wasp.

[Bowing.

Permit me, my lord, to dedicate a volume to your lordship—

lord murray.

No, sir, we are not talking about dedications: you are the person that informed my servants of the arrival of the old gentleman just come from Scotland; you described him, and made the same report to the minister of state.

wasp.

My lord, I only did my duty.

lord murray.

[Giving him a purse.

You have done me a service without knowing it: but I don’t consider the intention. Some folks say you meant to hurt, and have done good: there’s something for your service. But if ever from this time forward you so much as pronounce the name of that gentleman, or of Miss Lindon, I’ll throw you out at window,—away, be gone, sir.

wasp.

My lord, I return you thanks; everybody abuses me, and gives me money; I am certainly a cleverer fellow than I thought I was.

SCENE III.

lord murray.

[Alone.

An old gentleman just arrived from Scotland; Miss Lindon born in the same country! alas! if it were possible to repair the cruel injuries my father did—if heaven would graciously permit—but I’ll go in. [To Polly, who comes out of Miss Lindon’s apartment.] Polly, were not you surprised at not seeing me for so long a time? two whole days! I should not have forgiven myself had I not been engaged in my dear Miss Lindon’s service: the ministers of state were at Windsor, and I was obliged to follow them there. Heaven surely inspired thee, when thou toldst me, Polly, the secret of her birth.

polly.

I’m frightened yet, my mistress so often forbade me: were I to give her the least uneasiness I should die with grief. Alas! sir, your absence this very day threw her into a fainting fit, and I believe I should have fainted too, if I had not exerted all my strength to assist her.

lord murray.

There, Polly, there’s something for the fainting fit you had like to have fallen into.

[Gives her money.

polly.

My lord, I thank you; I am not so high spirited as my mistress, who refuses to accept of anything; and pretends to be quite at her ease, when she is absolutely starving.

lord murray.

Good heaven! the daughter of Montross reduced to poverty! how guilty am I! but I will repair everything, her condition shall soon be changed: why would she so long conceal it from me?

polly.

’Tis the only thing in which she deceived you, or I believe ever will.

lord murray.

But let us go in, I long to throw myself at her feet.

polly.

O my lord, not yet; she is now with an old gentleman, a very old gentleman, who is her countryman, and they are saying such tender things.

lord murray.

Who is this old gentleman? methinks I am already interested in his favor.

polly.

I know nothing of him.

lord murray.

Would to God he were the person I wish him to be! and what did they say to each other?

polly.

They began to grow very serious, the gentleman seemed to wish me out of the room, and so I came away.

SCENE IV.

lady alton, lord murray, polly.

lady alton.

So, sir, at last I’ve caught you: thou base perfidious man, now sir, I am convinced of your inconstancy, and my own disgrace.

lord murray.

True, madam, you are so. [Aside.] what an unseasonable intrusion!

lady alton.

Perfidious monster!

lord murray.

A monster I may appear in your eyes, and I am glad of it; but perfidious I never was; ’tis not my character: before I loved another, I frankly told you I had no longer any regard for you.

lady alton.

After a promise of marriage, wretch, after so many protestations of love!

lord murray.

When I made those protestations I loved you, and when I promised to marry you, I meant to do so.

lady alton.

And why then did not you keep your word? what prevented you?

lord murray.

Your character, your fiery temper and disposition: marriage was intended to make us happy, and I saw too plainly we were not made for each other.

lady alton.

And so you have quitted me for a wandering lady errant, a poor fortune-hunter.

lord murray.

No, madam, I leave you for softness and good-nature, for every grace, and every virtue.

lady alton.

But you are not yet possessed of her: know, traitor, I will be revenged, and speedily too.

lord murray.

I know your vindictive temper, know you have more envy than jealousy, more rage than tenderness, but you will be forced to honor and respect the woman I love.

lady alton.

I know the object of your affection, sir, better than you do; know I who she is; I know too who that stranger is, who came hither yesterday: yes sir, I am acquainted with it all, and so are they who have more power and authority than Lord Murray: that unworthy rival, for whom I am despised, shall soon be seized and taken from you.

lord murray.

What says she, Polly? I’m terrified at the thought.

polly.

And so am I. We are undone, sir.

lord murray.

Stay, madam, explain yourself—hear me.

lady alton.

I’ll hear nothing, answer nothing, explain nothing: you are an inconstant, false-hearted, perfidious villain.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

lord murray, polly.

lord murray.

What does this fury mean? her jealousy is terrible: heaven grant I never may be jealous! she talks of having my dear girl seized, and pretends to know this stranger. What would she be at?

polly.

To tell you the truth, my mistress has been taken up by order of the government, and I too, I believe; and if it had not been for an honest fat man, who is goodness itself, and who gave in bail for us, we had both been in prison at this very time. They had made me swear not to tell you anything of it: but how can I conceal it from you?

lord murray.

What do I hear? misfortune on misfortune! your mistress’s very name I find is suspected. Alas! my family was born to be the destruction of hers: heaven, fortune, justice, and love would repair all, but guilt opposes me. It shall not, must not triumph; do not alarm my dear girl. I’ll go myself to the ministry! Try everything, do everything to save her. I’ll deny myself the happiness of seeing her till I can assure her of success. I fly, Polly, to serve her, and will return immediately. Tell her I have left only because I adore her.

[Going out.

polly.

This is a strange adventure. I see this world is nothing but a perpetual contest between the virtuous and the wicked, and we poor girls are always the sufferers.

SCENE VI.

montross, miss lindon.

[Nods to Polly, who goes out.

montross.

Every word you utter pierces my soul: born in Lochaber! persecuted, oppressed, and deserted! a woman with such noble sentiments!

miss lindon.

Those sentiments, sir, perhaps are owing to my misfortunes: had I been brought up in ease and luxury, my soul, which is fortified by adversity, had been weak and vain.

montross.

O thou art worthy of a nobler fate. You acknowledge to me you are sprung from one of the proscribed families, whose blood was shed on a scaffold in our civil wars. But still you conceal from me your name and birth.

miss lindon.

Duty binds me to silence. My father himself was proscribed: they are even now in search of him, and were I to name perhaps I might destroy him. You inspire me, I own, with uncommon tenderness and respect, but I know you not, and I have everything to fear. You see I am myself suspected, and am a prisoner here. One word might ruin me.

montross.

One word perhaps might give me the greatest comfort: but tell me only what age you were of when you parted from your father, who was afterwards so unhappy?

miss lindon.

I was then but five years old.

montross.

Great God, have mercy on me! everything she says contributes to throw new light on my dark paths! O providence, do not withdraw thy goodness from me!

miss lindon.

You weep, sir, alas! nor can I help joining my tears with yours.

montross.

[Wiping his eyes.

Go on, I conjure you: after your father had quitted his family to see it no more, how long did you remain with your mother?

miss lindon.

I was ten years old when she died in my arms, oppressed with grief and misery, and after she had heard that my brother was killed in battle.

montross.

O, I faint; what a dreadful moment! O thou dear, unhappy wife, and thou more fortunate son, to die without seeing so much misery! do you remember this picture?

[Takes a picture out of his pocket.

miss lindon.

What do I see? is this a dream? surely ’tis my mother’s picture.

montross.

It is, it is your mother; and I am that unhappy father who is condemned to death, whose trembling arms now embrace thee.

miss lindon.

Do I live? where am I? O, sir, behold me at your knees: this is the first happy moment of my life: O, my father! alas! how darest you venture hither? I tremble for you, even whilst I am thus happy in your sight.

montross.

My dearest child, you know the misfortunes of our family; you know that the house of Murray, still jealous of ours, plunged us into these calamities. I have lost all: one friend alone remained, who by his interest and power might have restored me, and had promised it; but on my arrival here, I find that friend is dead, that I am searched after in Scotland, and a price put on my head. ’Tis, no doubt, the son of my old enemy who still persecutes me: I will die by his hand, or be revenged on him.

miss lindon.

And come you then with a resolution to kill Lord Murray?

montross.

Yes: I will avenge you and my family, or die. I only hazard a life already devoted to the scaffold.

miss lindon.

O fortune, in what new horrors dost thou involve me! what must I do? O my father!

montross.

My dearest daughter! how cruel is thy fate to be born of such a wretched father!

miss lindon.

O sir, I am much more unhappy than you think me: are you resolved on this fatal enterprise?

montross.

Ay, to death.

miss lindon.

O, my dear father, let me conjure you by that life which you gave me, by your misfortunes, by my own, which are, perhaps, still greater, do not expose me to the dread of losing you; have pity on me, spare your own life, and preserve mine.

montross.

Your voice reaches to my inmost soul: methinks I hear in thee, thy much-loved mother; speak, what would you?

miss lindon.

Do not expose your precious life, but quit this dangerous place, dangerous for us both: yes, I am resolved I will renounce all for my dear father’s sake. I am ready to follow you, I will accompany you, sir, to some far distant island, and there these hands shall labor to support you. It is my duty, and I will perform it: ’tis done, away.

montross.

I must not then avenge you?

miss lindon.

No, sir, that vengeance would destroy me: come, let us be gone.

montross.

Well, I submit. The father’s love prevails over all: since you have the courage to accompany me, I will go: I will prepare everything for our departure from London within this hour: be ready: one more embrace, and farewell.

SCENE VII.

miss lindon, polly.

miss lindon.

’Tis all over, Polly: I shall never see Lord Murray again.

polly.

Indeed, madam, but you will; he’ll be here in a few minutes: he is but just gone from hence.

miss lindon.

Gone from hence! and not see me; this is worse than all. O my unhappy father! why did we not go before?

polly.

If he had not been interrupted by that detestable Lady Alton.

miss lindon.

What! did he meet her here after all to insult me! after leaving me for three days without so much as writing! to affront me so grossly. O if my life were not necessary to my dear father, this moment would I part from it.

polly.

But hear me, madam, I swear to you my lord.—

miss lindon.

Perfidious wretch! but all men are so. O my poor father! hereafter I will think on none but thee.

polly.

On my soul, madam, you are wrong; my lord is not false or perfidious, but one of the best of men: he loves you from his soul, and has given me convincing proofs of it.

miss lindon.

Nature should be superior to love. I know not whither I am going, or what will become of me; but certainly I can never be more miserable than I am at present.

polly.

My dear mistress, you will hear nothing; recover your spirits a little: I tell you, you are beloved.

miss lindon.

O Polly, will you follow me?

polly.

To the end of the world, madam: but hear me; you are beloved, indeed you are.

miss lindon.

Let me alone; talk no more to me of my lord: alas! if he did love me, I must leave him—that gentleman you saw with me—

polly.

Well—

miss lindon.

Come in, and I’ll tell you all: tears and sighs will not let me speak: follow me, and get everything ready for our departure.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

miss lindon, freeport, fabrice.

fabrice.

Polly, I find, is packing up your things; you are going to leave us: you can’t imagine, madam, the concern it gives me.

miss lindon.

My dear landlord, and you, sir, to whom I am so much indebted for your unmerited generosity, I am sorry it is not in my power to return it; but be assured I shall never, whilst I have life, forget you.

freeport.

What is all this, what is all this? if you like us, why do you leave us? you aren’t afraid of anything are you? a girl, like you, can have nothing to fear.

fabrice.

Mr. Freeport, the old gentleman, who it seems is her countryman, is going too. The lady wept, and he wept, at parting; and I am ready to weep too.

freeport.

Ridiculous! I never wept in my life: our eyes were never given us for that purpose: I own I’m sorry. Though she is a little proud, as I told you, yet she is such a good creature, one can’t help being concerned at losing her. If you go, madam, you must write to me; I shall always be glad to do you any service: perhaps we may meet again one day or other, who knows! but be sure you don’t forget to write to me.

miss lindon.

I assure you, sir, I will; and if ever fortune—

freeport.

Fabrice, I’m sure this woman is well-born. I shall expect a letter from you, but don’t put too much wit into it.

fabrice.

You will forgive me, madam, but I really don’t think you are at liberty to go hence, as Mr. Freeport is bail for you, and must lose five hundred pounds if you leave us.

miss lindon.

O heaven! another distress! another humiliation! must I then remain here? and my lord—my father too.—

freeport.

[To Fabrice.

O don’t let that stop her—there is something in her that charms me—but let her go as soon as she pleases: you don’t suppose I value five hundred pounds. Hark’ee, Fabrice, put five hundred more into her portmanteau. I beg, madam, [to Miss Lindon] you will go whenever it is agreeable to you; write to me, and let me see you when you return; for I have really conceived a great esteem and affection for you.

SCENE II.

lord murrayand servants at one part of the stage,miss lindonand the rest at the other.

lord murray.

[To his servants.

Stay you here: and do you run to the court of chancery, and bring me those parchments as soon as they are finished: go you and get things ready at my new house. [Pulls a paper out of his pocket, and reads.] What happiness it will be to make her happy!

miss lindon.

[To Polly.

O Polly, I am distracted at the sight of him.

freeport.

This lord always comes in unseasonably: he is handsome and well-made, and yet I don’t like him: but what’s that to me? I have certainly some regard for her; but I am not in love with her.—Madam, your servant.

miss lindon.

I shall not go, sir, without paying my respects to you.

freeport.

O pray, madam, no ceremony; perhaps it may affect me too much. Don’t think I’m in love with you, madam; but I should be glad to see you once more before you go: I shall be in the house, and must see you set out. Go, Fabrice, and help the good gentleman above. I find I have a prodigious regard for this young lady.

SCENE III.

lord murray, miss lindon.

lord murray.

At length once more I am happy in the sight of all I hold dear on earth. What a house is this for Miss Lindon! but one more worthy of her is prepared: you look down and weep: for heaven’s sake what has happened to you? who was that surly looking fellow talking with you? if he is the cause of your uneasiness, he shall soon repent it.

miss lindon.

Alas! my lord, he is one of the best of men; one who has taken pity on my misfortunes; who has never abandoned, never insulted me; one who never talked to my rival without deigning to look on me; one who, if he had loved me, would not have let three days pass without writing.

lord murray.

Believe me, when I tell you, I had rather die than merit the least of those cruel reproaches. I absented myself but for your sake, thought of nothing but you, and have served you in spite of yourself: if, on my return here, I found that clamorous revengeful woman, could I help it? I went back again immediately to counteract her fatal designs. My God, not write to you!

miss lindon.

No.

lord murray.

I see she has intercepted my letters; her baseness increases, if possible, my passion; may it recall yours! how unkind was it in you to conceal from me your name and condition! a condition so unworthy of you.

miss lindon.

Who disclosed them to you?

lord murray.

[Pointing to Polly.

She, your confederate.

miss lindon.

Did you betray me?

polly.

You betrayed yourself, madam; I served you.

miss lindon.

You know me then; you know what hatred hath always divided our families: your father was the cause of mine being condemned to death; he reduced me to that wretched state which I endeavored to conceal from you; and you, his son, now dare avow a passion for me!

lord murray.

I do; I adore you; ’tis what I owe you: my love shall repair the injuries my father did: ’tis the justice of providence: my heart, my fortune, and my life, are at your disposal: let us unite these hostile names. Here is a contract of marriage; shall I hope to see it executed?

miss lindon.

Alas! my lord, it is impossible; I am going this moment to leave you forever.

lord murray.

Going? to leave me forever? sooner shall you behold me perish at your feet: am I at last rejected then?

polly.

I say, madam, you must not go; you are always making some desperate resolution: but I shall bring you to yourself again. My lord, you must second me.

lord murray.

Who could inspire you with this cruel design to fly from me, to render all my cares abortive?

miss lindon.

My father.

lord murray.

Your father? where is he? what does he mean to do with you? inform me quickly.

miss lindon.

He’s here, and means to carry me away with him; it is resolved.

lord murray.

No: by thy dear self I swear, it must not, shall not be: where is he? conduct me to him.

miss lindon.

My dearest lord, take care; let him not see you: he is come hither to finish his misfortunes by taking away your life, and I have consented to fly with him to divert him from this dreadful resolution.

lord murray.

Yours is more cruel still; but be assured I fear him not, nay hope one day to make him my friend.—This fellow not returned yet! O heaven! how swift is every evil thing, how slow is every good!

miss lindon.

My father comes: if you love me, do not let him see you; spare him the horror of such an interview: for heaven’s sake retire, at least for a while.

lord murray.

’Tis with the utmost regret that I submit; but you command, and I must obey. I will go in, and return with arms that shall make his drop out of his hand.

SCENE IV.

montross, miss lindon.

montross.

Come, my dear daughter, my only comfort and support, let us be gone.

miss lindon.

O thou unhappy father of a more unhappy daughter, never, never will I leave you; but permit me to stay here a little longer.

montross.

What! after your urgent entreaties that I would go immediately; after having promised to follow me to some desert solitude, where I may forget my disgrace! have you changed your design? have you so soon forgot the tender sentiments you so lately expressed?

miss lindon.

Indeed, sir, I am not changed: I am incapable of such baseness; I will follow you: but once more let me entreat you, stay a little while: grant but this favor to her who owes to you a life of sorrows; do not refuse me a few precious moments.

montross.

They are indeed precious, and yet you would lavish them away: consider we are every moment in danger of being discovered, that you have yourself been seized, that they are even now in search of me, and that to-morrow you may see your father given up to an ignominious death.

miss lindon.

Those words are as a clap of thunder to me. I submit, sir: I am ashamed to have stayed so long; but I had a distant hope—no matter; you are my father, and I’ll follow you. O me!

SCENE V.

freeportandfabriceon one side of the Stage,montrossand his daughter on the other.

freeport.

[To Fabrice.

Her servant has carried the portmanteau back to her chamber: they’ll not go yet; I’m glad of that, however. I began to have a sort of liking for her; not that I’m in love with her; but she is so well-bred, there is no parting from her without some uneasiness; a kind of anxiety that I never felt before: there’s something very extraordinary in it.

montross.

[To Freeport.

Sir, your servant; we are just going to set out, with hearts full of gratitude to you for past favors: I assure you I never met with a worthier man than yourself: you almost reconcile me to mankind.

freeport.

You are going then, sir, and this lady I suppose: I’m sorry for it: you should have staid a little longer; indeed you should. I have just now thought of something, that, perhaps, might not be disagreeable to you: pray, stay.

SCENE VI.

lord murray.

[To them, taking a roll of parchment from his servant.

’Tis well: thank heaven! I have at last got the pledge of my future happiness.

freeport.

[Aside.

A plague on this lord, here he is again: I hate him for being so agreeable.

montross.

[To his daughter, while Lord Murray is talking to his servant.

Who is that man, my dear?

miss lindon.

It is, sir—it is—O heaven! have mercy on me!

fabrice.

’Tis my Lord Murray, sir, one of the finest gentlemen in this kingdom, and the most generous.

montross.

Murray! O heaven! my fatal enemy, who comes to insult me, to triumph over my misfortunes [draws his sword] but he shall have my life, or I his.

miss lindon.

O stop, my father, what would you do?

montross.

Cruel daughter! and is it thus you have betrayed me?

fabrice.

[Stepping between them.

No violence, I beg, sir, in my house; you will ruin me.

freeport.

Why should you hinder people from fighting, if they have a mind to it?

lord murray.

[At a distance from Montross.

You are the father of that charming woman?

miss lindon.

O, I die.

montross.

I am, sir; I’ll not deny it. Come then, thou cruel son of a still more cruel father, I know thy purpose; come, and take my life.

fabrice.

Again, sir—

lord murray.

Stop him not: I have that which will disarm him.

[Draws his sword.

miss lindon.

[Sinking into the arms of Polly.

Cruel man! and dare you—

lord murray.

Yes, I dare—I am the son of your inveterate foe; and thus [throwing away his sword] I attack you.

freeport.

Here’s another for you, sir.

lord murray.

Now, sir, with one hand strike this guilty breast, and with the other receive this paper—read, and know me.

montross.

What do I see? my pardon signed, my honors restored, my family re-established! O heaven! and is it to you, to Lord Murray, I owe it all. O! my friend, my benefactor, now you triumph more, much more, than if I had fallen by your sword.

miss lindon.

O unexpected happiness! my lover then is worthy of me.

lord murray.

O my father, permit me to embrace you.

montross.

How shall I repay such generosity?

lord murray.

[Pointing to Miss Lindon.

There, sir, is my reward.

montross.

The father and the daughter are both yours forever.

freeport.

[To Fabrice.

My friend, I was afraid this lady was not made for me: however, she is fallen into good hands, and I am satisfied.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

NANINE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

The Count d’Olban, a nobleman retired into the country.

The Baroness de l’Orme, a relation of the Count’s, a haughty, imperious woman, of a bad temper, and disagreeable to live with.

The Marchioness d’Olban, mother of the Count.

Nanine, a young girl, brought up in the Count’s house.

Philip Hombert, a peasant in the neighborhood.

Blaise, the gardener.

GERMON, } | Servants.
MARIN, } |

Scene, the Count d’Olban’s country seat.

This Comedy is called in the French Nanine, ou le Préjugé Vaincu (Nanine, or Prejudice Overcome). It is written, as we are told in the title-page, in verses of ten syllables. The absurdity of comedies in rhyme I have already remarked. The original begins thus:

Il faut parler, il faut, Monsieur le Comte,

Vous expliquer nettement sur mon Compte.

The reader cannot but observe, what villainous rhymes Comte and Compte are, and perhaps will more readily forgive my reducing this comedy into plain prose. It was produced in 1749.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

the count d’olban, the baroness de l’orme.

baroness.

In short, my lord, it is time to come to an explanation with regard to this affair; we are no children; therefore, let us talk freely: you have been a widower for these two years past, and I, a widow about as long: the lawsuit in which we were unfortunately engaged, and which gave us both so much uneasiness, is at an end; and all our animosities, I hope, now buried with those who were the causes of them.

count.

I am glad of it; for lawsuits were always my aversion.

baroness.

And am not I as hateful as a lawsuit?

count.

You, madam?

baroness.

Yes, I, sir: for these two years past we have lived together, with freedom, as relations and friends; the ties of blood, taste, and interest, seem to unite us, and to point out a more intimate connection.

count.

Interest, madam? make use of some better term, I beseech you.

baroness.

That, sir, I cannot; but with grief I find, your inconstant heart no longer considers me in any other light than as your relative.

count.

I do not wear the appearance, madam, of a trifler.

baroness.

You wear the appearance, sir, of a perjured villain.

count.

[Aside.

Ha! what’s this?

baroness.

Yes, sir: you know the suit my husband began against you, to recover my estate, was, by agreement, to have been terminated by a marriage; a marriage you told me, of choice; you are engaged to me, you know you are; and he who defers the execution of his promise seldom means to perform it.

count.

You know, I wait for my mother’s consent.

baroness.

A doting old woman: well, sir, and what then?

count.

I love and respect her yet.

baroness.

But I do not, sir. Come, come, these are idle, frivolous excuses for your unpardonable falsehood: you wait not for her, or for anybody; perfidious, ungrateful man!

count.

Who told you so, madam, and whence all this violence of passion? who told you so? whence comes your information, madam?

baroness.

Who told me? yourself, yourself. Your words, your manner, your air, your whole behavior, put on on purpose to affront me: it shocks me to see it: act in another manner, or find some better excuses for your conduct: can you think me blind to the shameful, unworthy passion that directs you, a passion for the lowest, meanest object? you have deceived me, sir, basely deceived me.

count.

’Tis false, I cannot deceive; dissimulation is no part of my character. I own to you, there was a time when you were agreeable to me; I admired you, and flattered myself that I should have found in you a treasure to make amends for that which heaven had deprived me of; I hoped in this sweet asylum to have tasted the fruits of a peaceful and happy union: but you have found out the means to destroy your own power. Love, as I told you long since, has two quivers: one filled with darts, tipped with the purest flame, which inspires the soul with tender feelings, refines our taste and sentiments, enlivens our affection, and enhances our pleasures; the other is full of cruel arrows, that wound our hearts with quarrels, jealousy, and suspicion, bring on coldness and indifference, and remove the warmth of passion to make room for disgust and satiety: these, madam, are the darts which you have drawn forth, against us both, and yet you expect that I should love.

baroness.

There, indeed, I own myself in the wrong: I ought not to expect it: it is not in your power: but you are false, and now would reproach me for it, and I must suffer your insults, your fine similes and illustrations: but pray, sir, what is it I have done to lose this mighty treasure? what have you to find fault with?

count.

Your temper, your humors, madam: beauty pleases the eye alone, softness and complacency charm the soul.

baroness.

And have not you your humors, too, sir?

count.

Doubtless, madam; and, for that very reason, would have an indulgent wife; one whose sweet complying goodness would bend a little to my frailties, and condescend to reconcile me to myself, to heal my wounds without burning them, to correct without assuming, to govern without being a tyrant, to insinuate herself by degrees into my heart, as the light of a fine day opens gradually on the weak and delicate eye: he who feels the yoke that is put on him will always murmur at it; and tyrannic love is a deity that I abjure: I would be a lover, but not a slave: your pride, madam, would make me contemptible: I have faults, I own I have; but heaven made woman to correct the leaven of our souls, to soften our afflictions, sweeten our bad humors, soothe our passions, and make us better and happier beings: this was what they were designed for; and, for my part, I would prefer ugliness and affability to beauty with pride and arrogance.

baroness.

Excellently well moralized, indeed; and so when you insult, abuse, and betray me, I in return, with mean complacency, must forgive the shameful extravagance of your passion; and your assumed air of grandeur and magnanimity must be a sufficient excuse to me for all the baseness of your heart.

count.

How, madam?

baroness.

Yes, sir: I know you: it is the young Nanine who has done me this injury; a child, a servant, a field beggar, whom my foolish tenderness nourished and supported; whom your fond, easy mother, touched with false pity, took up out of the bosom of penury and sorrow. O you blush, sir, do you?

count.

I, madam? I wish her well.

baroness.

You love her, sir: I know you do.

count.

Well, madam, and if I did love her, know, I would openly avow it.

baroness.

Nay, I believe you are capable of it.

count.

I am so.

baroness.

And would you break thus through all the bounds of decency, degrade your rank, demean your birth, and, plunged as you are in shame and infamy, laugh at and defy all honor?

count.

Call it prejudice: whatever you, or the world may think, madam, I never mistake vanity for honor and glory: you love pomp and splendor, and place grandeur and nobility in a coat of arms: I look for it in the heart. The man of worth, who has modesty with courage, and the woman who has sense and spirit, though without fortune, rank, or title, are, in my eyes, the first of human kind.

baroness.

But surely they ought to have some rank and condition in life. Would you treat a low-born scholar, or an honest man of the meanest birth, because he had a little virtue, in the same manner and with the same respect as you would a lord?

count.

The virtuous should always have the preference.

baroness.

This extravagant humility is insupportable: do we owe nothing then to our rank?

count.

Yes: to be honest.

baroness.

My noble blood would aspire to a higher character.

count.

That is a high one which defies the vulgar.

baroness.

Thus you degrade all quality.

count.

No: thus I do honor to humanity.

baroness.

Ridiculous! what then becomes of the world? what is fashion?

count.

Fashion, madam, is despised by wisdom: I will obey its ridiculous commands in my dress perhaps, but not in my sentiments: no: it becomes a man to act like a man, to preserve to himself his own taste and his own thoughts: am I ridiculously to ask of others what I am to seek, or to avoid, to praise, or condemn? must the world decide my fate? surely I have my reason, and that should be my guide: apes were made for imitation only, but man should act from his own heart.

baroness.

Why, this, to be sure, is freedom of sentiment, and talking like a philosopher. Go, then, thou noble and sublime soul, go, and fall in love with village damsels, be the happy rival of plowmen and hedgers: go, and support the honor of your race.

count.

Good heaven! what must I do? How am I to act?

SCENE II.

the count, the baroness, blaise.

count.

Well, sir, what do you want?

blaise.

Your poor gardener, sir, humbly beseeches your honor—

count.

My honor! well, Blaise, and what wouldst thou have of my honor?

blaise.

And please, your honor, I would fain—be married and—

count.

With all my heart, Blaise, you have my consent; I like your design, and will assist you. It is well folks should marry. Well, and thy spouse elect, Blaise, what is she? handsome?

blaise.

O yes, sir, a delicate little morsel.

baroness.

And does she like you, Blaise?

blaise.

O yes.

count.

Well, and her name is?

blaise.

Yes, ’tis—

count.

What?

blaise.

The pretty Nanine.

count.

Nanine?

baroness.

Well, very well indeed! I approve of the match extremely.

count.

[Aside.

O heaven! how am I sunk! it cannot, must not be.

blaise.

I’m sure, master will like it.

count.

What! did you say she loved you, rascal?

blaise.

I beg pardon, sir, I—

count.

Did she tell you that she loved you, sir?

blaise.

Why, no, sir, not absolutely, sir; not directly; but she seemed to have a little sort of a sneaking kindness for me, too: a hundred times has she said to me in the prettiest, softest, most familiar tone, “Help me, my dear friend Blaise, to make a fine nosegay for my lord, that best of masters;” then would she make the nosegay with such a pretty air, and look so thoughtful, and so absent, and so confused, and so—O it was plain enough.

count.

[Aside.

Away, Blaise, get thee gone—Oh! and am I agreeable to her then?

blaise.

Nay, master, now don’t put off this little affair of mine.

count.

Ha!

blaise.

You shall see how this little spot of land will thrive under our hands soon: why won’t you answer me, sir? You say nothing.

count.

[Aside.

Oh! my heart is too full: I must retire—madam, your servant.

SCENE III.

the baroness, blaise.

baroness.

[To herself.

He loves her to distraction, of that I’m positive: by what charms, by what happy address, could she thus steal his heart from me? Nanine! good heaven! what a choice! what madness! Nanine! no! I shall burst with disappointment.

blaise.

What did you say, madam, about Nanine?

baroness.

[To herself.

Insolent creature!

blaise.

Is not Nanine a charming girl?

baroness.

No.

blaise.

Well, I say no more; but do speak for me, speak for poor Blaise.

baroness.

What a dreadful stroke is this!

blaise.

I have a little money, madam, a few crowns: my father left me three good acres of land, and they shall be hers; money, and land, everything I have, body and soul, Blaise and all.

baroness.

Believe me, Blaise, I wish you as well as you can wish yourself, and should be glad to serve you: I should be glad to see you married this very night: nay, what’s more, I’ll give her a portion.

blaise.

O good, dear baroness! how I do love you! is it possible you can make me so happy?

baroness.

Alas! Blaise, I am afraid I cannot; we shall never succeed.

blaise.

O but you must, madam.

baroness.

I wish to God she was your wife: wait for my orders.

blaise.

And must I wait? not long I hope.

baroness.

Be gone.

blaise.

Servant, madam: I shall have hear, I shall have her.

SCENE IV.

baroness.

[Alone.

What a strange adventure! could I have received a more cruel injury? a more shameful affront? the Count d’Olban rivalled by a gardener—here, boy, [she calls out to her servant] fetch Nanine to me: since I am so unhappy, I must examine her: where could she have learned this art of flattery? who taught her to gain hearts, and to preserve them, to light up a strong and a lasting flame? where? doubtless, in her eyes, in plain and simple nature: but this shameful and unworthy passion of his is still a secret; it has not dared as yet to appear openly. D’Olban, I see, has his scruples about it: so much the worse; if he had none, I might still have hopes; but he has all the symptoms of true love: O here she comes, the sight of her hurts me; nature is most unjust, to bestow so much beauty on such a creature; ’tis an affront to nobility: come this way, madam.

SCENE V.

the baroness, nanine.

nanine.

Madam.

baroness.

And yet, after all, she is not so very handsome; those great black eyes of hers express nothing; but if they have said, I love; ay, there’s the danger: but I must—come this way, child.

nanine.

I come, madam, as is my duty.

baroness.

Yes: but you make me wait a little for you; prithee, child, step on: how awkwardly she is made! what a mien there is! he was never made for such a creature as you.

nanine.

’Tis very true, madam: I assure you; I have often blushed in secret when I looked on these fine clothes: but they were your first present to me, the effect of that goodness which I shall ever acknowledge, and of that generous care with which you were pleased to honor me: you took a pride in dressing me: O madam, remember how often you have protected me: believe me, madam, I am still the same: why should you wish to humble a submissive heart, which can never forget itself?

baroness.

Bring that couch nearer to me—O I am distracted: whence come you? what have you been about?

nanine.

Reading, madam.

baroness.

Reading what?

nanine.

An English book that was given me.

baroness.

What’s the subject of it?

nanine.

’Tis extremely interesting: the author would have us believe that we are all brethren, all born equal, and on a level with each other; but ’tis an idle chimera, I can’t reconcile myself to his doctrine.

baroness.

[Aside.

She will soon, I suppose—what vanity! [To Nanine] bring me my standish, and pen and ink.

nanine.

Yes, madam.

baroness.

No; stay: give me something to drink.

nanine.

What, madam?

baroness.

Nothing: it’s no matter: take my fan. Go and get my gloves—or—stay—it does not signify, you need not: come hither: I desire you to take care never to think yourself handsome.

nanine.

That, madam, is a lesson you have so often taught me that if I had so much vanity, and self-love had such influence over my foolish heart, you would soon have cured me of it.

baroness.

[Aside.

Where can she have learned all this? how I hate her! beauty and wit together! ’tis intolerable—hark’ee, child, you know the tenderness I had for you in your infancy.

nanine.

Yes, madam, and I hope my youth will be honored with equal goodness from you.

baroness.

Be careful then to deserve it: it is my intention now, this very day, nay, this very hour, to fix and establish your happiness; judge then whether I love you.

nanine.

To fix my happiness?

baroness.

Yes: I will give you a portion: the husband I design for you is well-made, and in every way worthy of you; a proper match for you in every particular, and the only one that at present could suit you: you ought to thank me for the choice: in a word, ’tis Blaise, the gardener.

nanine.

Blaise, madam?

baroness.

Yes: why that simpering? do you hesitate a moment to consent? my offers, madam, I would have you know, are commands; obey, or expect my resentment.

nanine.

But, madam—

baroness.

Let me have no buts; they offend me: a pretty thing indeed, for your impertinence to refuse a husband at my hands! that simple heart of yours is swelled to a fine degree of vanity: but your boldness is a little premature, and your triumph will be of short duration: you take advantage of the capricious fortune of one lucky day, but shall soon see what will be the event. You ungrateful little wretch, have you the insolence to please? you understand me, madam, but I’ll bring you back to that nothingness whence you came, and you shall lament your folly and your pride: I’ll shut you up for the rest of your life in a convent.

nanine.

On my knees I thank you, madam; do shut me up, my fate will be too mild: yes, madam, of all the benefits you have ever bestowed on me, this, which you call a punishment, I shall esteem the greatest favor: shut me up forever in a cloister; there, I will thank you for your goodness, and bless my dear master: there I shall learn to calm those cruel fears, those dreadful alarms, those worst of evils, those passions that are far more dangerous to me even than your resentment, which fill me with terror and astonishment: O madam, by that anger, I entreat you, deliver me, save me, save me, if possible, from myself; this moment I am ready to go.

baroness.

What do I hear? can it be? are you in earnest, Nanine, or mean you to deceive me?

nanine.

No: indeed I do not. O do me this charming, this divine favor; my heart stands too much in need of it.

baroness.

[With transport.

Rise then, and let me embrace you. O happy hour! my dear Nanine, my friend, I’ll go this instant and prepare your sweet retreat; O ’tis a charming thing to live in a convent!

nanine.

’Tis at least a shelter from the world, and all its cares.

baroness.

O my dear, ’tis a delightful situation.

nanine.

Do you think so, madam?

baroness.

This world is a hateful place—jealous—

nanine.

[Sighing.

’Tis so indeed.

baroness.

Foolish, wicked, vain, deceitful, inconstant, and ungrateful: O ’tis a horrid place.

nanine.

Yes, I see it would be fatal to me, I ought to flee from it.

baroness.

You ought indeed: a good convent is the best haven of security. Now, my good lord, I think I shall be beforehand with you.

nanine.

Did you say anything about my master, madam?

baroness.

O Nanine, I love you even to madness: this moment I would, if possible, lock you up never to come out again: but to-night it is too late, we must wait till morning. Hark’ee, child, come to me at midnight to my apartment, and we will set off secretly for the convent: be ready by five at the latest.

SCENE VI.

nanine.

[Alone.

How distressful is my condition! what trouble and uneasiness do I feel! and what various passions rise in my soul! to leave so good, so amiable a master, perhaps to offend him by it: and yet, if I had stayed, this excess of his goodness might have brought on worse calamities, and put his whole family in confusion. The baroness seems apprehensive that he has a particular regard for me: but his heart could never stoop so low; I must not, dare not think of it: and my lady seems desperately angry about it: am I hated then, and should I be afraid of being beloved? O but myself, myself I have most reason to fear, and my foolish heart, that beats so at the thought of him. What will become of me? taken out of my humble state, my notions now are too refined and too exalted: it is a misfortune, nay, and it is a fault, too, to have a mind above one’s condition. I must go: I know it will kill me: but no matter.

SCENE VII.

the count, nanine,a Servant.

count.

Stay at that door there somebody, d’ye hear? bring chairs here, quick, make haste. [He bows to Nanine, who makes him a low courtesy.] Come, sit down.

nanine.

Who, I, sir?

count.

Yes: I will have it so: I mean to pay you, Nanine, that respect which your conduct, your beauty, and merit deserve: shines the diamond with less lustre, or is it less valuable, because found in a desert? What’s the matter? your eyes seem bathed in tears: O I see it but too plainly; our angry baroness, jealous of your charms, has been venting her ill-humors on you, and left my poor girl weeping.

nanine.

No, sir, no: her goodness, I assure you, to me was never greater than at present; but everything here softens and affects me.

count.

I’m glad to hear it; I was afraid it was some of her malice.

nanine.

Why so, sir?

count.

O my dear girl, jealousy reigns in every breast: every man is jealous when he is in love, and every woman even before she is so. A young and beautiful girl, who at the same time is good-natured and sincere, is sure to displease her whole sex: men are more just, and we endeavor as well as we can to revenge ourselves on you for your jealousy: but, with regard to Nanine, I only do her justice, I love that heart which is void of artifice; I admire the display of those extraordinary talents which you have so finely cultivated; and I am both surprised and charmed at the ingenuous simplicity of your manners.

nanine.

O sir, my merit is small indeed; but I have seen you, have heard and been instructed by you: you have raised me too high above my humble birth: I owe you but too much: from you only I have learned to think.

count.

O Nanine, wit and good sense are not to be taught.

nanine.

I think too much, I fear, for one in my station: my fortune designed me for the lowest rank in life.

count.

Your virtues have placed you in the highest: but tell me ingenuously, what effect had that English book I lent you?

nanine.

Not convinced me at all, sir: I am more than ever of opinion, that there are hearts so noble and so generous, that all others must appear mean and vile when put in comparison with them.

count.

True, Nanine, and you are yourself a proof of it: but permit me to raise you for the future to a rank and station here less unworthy of you.

nanine.

My condition, sir, is already too high, and too desirable for me.

count.

No, Nanine, that cannot be: henceforward I shall consider you as one of the family; my mother is coming, she will look on you as her daughter, my esteem, and her tender friendship, will put you on a different footing, and place you in a better rank than you have hitherto held under a proud and imperious woman.

nanine.

[Aside.

She only taught me my duty, sir—and a hard one it is to fulfil.

count.

What duty? yours, Nanine, is only to please, and that you always perform; would I could do so, too! but you should be more at your ease, and appear with more splendor; you are not yet in your proper sphere.

nanine.

I am indeed quite out of it, and it is that which makes me unhappy; ’tis my misfortune, perhaps an irreparable one. [Rising.] O my lord, my master, remove, I beseech you, from me all these vanities: I am confused, overwhelmed with your excess of goodness; let me live unknown and unenvied; heaven formed me for obscurity, and humility has nothing in it that to me is grating or disagreeable: leave me to my retreat; what should I do in the world, what should I wish to see there, after the admiration of your virtues?

count.

[To himself.

It is too much, I can resist no longer.

[To Nanine.

You remain in obscurity? you?

nanine.

Whatever I may do, permit me to ask one favor of you.

count.

What is it? speak.

nanine.

For some time past you have loaded me with presents.

count.

Pardon me, Nanine, I acted but as a tender father who loved his child: I have not the art to set off my presents by flattery, I aim not at gallantry, and only desire to be just: fortune had done you wrong, and I meant to avenge the injury: but nature, in recompense for it, lavished all her bounties on you, and her I strove to imitate.

nanine.

You have done a great deal too much; but I flatter myself I may be permitted, without being thought ungrateful, to dispose of those noble presents, which I shall ever hold dear because they came from you.

count.

You mean to affront me, sure.

SCENE VIII.

the count, nanine, germon.

germon.

My lady wants you; she waits.

count.

Let her wait then: what! can’t I speak a moment to you without being interrupted?

nanine.

It gives me pain to leave you; but you know, sir, she was my mistress.

count.

No: I know it not, nor ever will.

nanine.

She has still a power over me.

count.

No such thing: she shall have none—you sigh, Nanine, there’s something at the bottom of that heart; what’s the matter?

nanine.

I am sorry to leave you, sir—but I must—O heaven, now all is over.

[She goes out.

SCENE IX.

the count, germon.

count.

[To himself.

She wept as she left me; for a long time she has groaned beneath the tyrannical caprice of this peevish baroness, who insults her: and by what right, or what authority? but ’tis an abuse which I will never suffer: this world is nothing but a lottery of wealth, titles, dignities, rights, and privileges, bartered for without legal claim, and scattered without distinction—here, you—

germon.

My lord.

count.

To-morrow morning lay this purse of a hundred louis d’ors on her toilette; be sure you don’t fail; you must then go and see after her servants below, they’ll wait there.

germon.

The baroness shall certainly have them on her toilette according to your orders.

count.

Blockhead, they’re not for her: for Nanine, I tell you.

germon.

O very well, sir, I beg pardon.

count.

Begone, leave me. [Germon goes out.] This tenderness of mine can never be a weakness in me: true, I idolize her; but my heart was not touched by her beauty only, her character is to the last degree amiable: I admire her soul; but then her low condition—it is too high; were she lower, I should love her yet more: but can I marry her? doubtless I may; can one pay too dear for being happy? shall I fear the censure of an idle world, and let pride deprive me of all I wish for? but then custom—a cruel tyrant: nature has a prior right, and should be obeyed: and so I am Blaise’s rival, too; and why not? Blaise is a man; he loves her, and he is in the right of it: she can be but in the possession of one, though the desire of all: gardeners may sigh for her, and so may kings: my happiness will justify my choice.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

the count, marin.

count.

[To himself.

Well; this night is a whole year to me: not once have I closed my eyelids: everybody is asleep but me; Nanine sleeps in peace, a sweet repose refreshes her charms, while I wander from place to place, and can find no rest: I sit down to write, but can’t: then strive to read, but all in vain; I don’t know the words before me while I am looking on them, nor can my mind retain a single idea: methinks, in every page, I see the name of Nanine imprinted by some hand divine—hullo! who’s there? all asleep? German, Marin.

marin.

[Behind the scenes.

Coming, sir.

count.

You idle rascals, make haste, it’s broad daylight; come, come.

marin.

Lord, sir, what spirit has raised you up so early this morning?

count.

Love.

marin.

O ho! my lady will let none of us sleep long in this house; what did you want, sir?

count.

Why, Marin, I must have, let me see, by to-morrow at the latest, six new horses, a new equipage, a clever chambermaid, notable and careful, a valet de chambre, and two footmen, young and well-made, and no libertines; some diamonds, some very fine buckles, some gold trinkets, and some new stuffs; therefore, be gone, ride post to Paris this instant, never mind killing a few horses.

marin.

O ho, I see how it is; you are caught; my lady baroness is to be our mistress to-day, I suppose; you are going to be married to her at last?

count.

Whatever my intention is, go you about your business; fly, and make haste back.

marin.

I’m gone, sir.

SCENE II.

the count, germon.

count.

[To himself.

And shall I then enjoy the sweet pleasure of honoring, of making happy the dear object of my love? The baroness, I know, will be in a rage: with all my heart, let her rave as long as she will; I despise her, and the world, and its opinion; and am afraid of nobody: I will never be the slave of prejudice; it is an enemy whom we ought to subdue, those who make a rational mind more virtuous, and those only are respectable: but hark! what noise is that in the court? a chariot sure: it must be so; yet who could come at this time in the morning? my mother perhaps. Germon—

germon.

Sir.

count.

What is that?

germon.

A chariot, sir.

count.

Whose is it? anybody coming here?

germon.

No, sir, they’re going.

count.

Going? who? where?

germon.

The baroness, sir, going out immediately.

count.

O with all my heart, let her go forever if she pleases!

germon.

Nanine and she are this minute setting out.

count.

O heaven! what sayest thou? Nanine?

germon.

So the maid says, sir.

count.

How is this?

germon.

My lady, sir, is going with her this morning, to put her into a neighboring convent.

count.

Away: fly: let us begone: but what am I about? I am too warm to talk to them: no matter, I’ll go; I ought—but stop, that must not be, I should at once discover all my passion: no—go, Germon, stop them, let everything be fast; bring Nanine to me, or answer it with your life. [Germon goes out.] So they would have carried her off! what a dreadful stroke! ungrateful, cruel, unjust woman! how have I deserved this! what have I done! I only loved and adored her; but never declared my passion; never endeavored to force her inclinations, or to alarm her timid innocence: why should she fly from me? the more I think of it, the more I am astonished.

SCENE III.

the count, nanine.

count.

My sweet girl, is it you? what, run away from me? answer me, explain this mystery to me: terrified, I suppose, with the baroness’s threats, you were willing to escape; and that tender regard which I have long had for your virtues, I know, has quickened her resentment; surely you could not yourself have thought of leaving me, of depriving this place of its fairest ornament: last night, when I saw you in tears, tell me, Nanine, had you any intention of this? answer me, tell me, why would you have wished to leave me?

nanine.

Behold me on my knees, and trembling before you.

count.

[Raising her up.

Rise, Nanine, and tell me—I tremble more myself.

nanine.

My lady, sir—

count.

Well—what of her?

nanine.

That lady, sir, whom I honor and esteem, did not, I assure you, force me to the convent.

count.

And could it then be your own choice? O misery!

nanine.

It was, I own it was: I entreated her to restrain my wandering thoughts—she wanted to marry me.

count.

Indeed? to whom?

nanine.

To your gardener.

count.

O the worthy choice!

nanine.

I, sir, was ashamed, and to the last degree unhappy: I who in vain endeavor to stifle sentiments far above my condition, I whom your bounty had raised too high, must now be punished by the loss of that goodness which I never deserved.

count.

You punish yourself, Nanine, and for what?

nanine.

For having dared to raise the resentment of your relation, sir, who was once my mistress; I know, sir, I am disagreeable to her; the very sight of me disgusts her: she has reason indeed, for when I was near her, I was guilty of a weakness which I shall ever feel; it grows on me every hour: but I would have torn it from my breast; I would have humbled, by the austerities of a convent, this proud heart, exalted by your goodness, and revenged on it the involuntary crime: but the bitterest grief I felt, was my fear of offending you.

count.

[Turning from her, and walking about.

What sentiments! what a noble and ingenuous mind! Can she be prejudiced in my favor? was she afraid of loving me? O exalted virtue!

nanine.

If I have offended you, I beg a thousand pardons; but permit me, sir, in some deep retreat to hide my sorrows, and to reflect in secret on my own duty, and your goodness to me.

count.

No more of that: now, observe me, the baroness is your friend, and out of her generosity has provided you with a servant, a rustic, a boor, for your husband. I know of one who will at least be less unworthy of you: in birth and fortune far superior to Blaise; young, honest, and well provided for: a man, I assure you, of sense and reflection: his character very different from those of the present age: if I am not much mistaken, he’ll make you an excellent husband: is not this better than a convent?

nanine.

No: sir, I own to you, this new favor which you would bestow on me has nothing in it that can give me any real satisfaction: you know my grateful heart, read there my real sentiments, and see why I wish to retreat from the world: a gardener, or the monarch of the whole world, who should offer marriage to me, would be equally displeasing.

count.

You have determined me: and now, Nanine, know the man for whom I have designed you: you already esteem him: he is yours; he adores you: that husband is—myself. I see, you are troubled and surprised: but speak to me; my life depends on you: O recollect yourself, you are strangely agitated.

nanine.

What do I hear? can it be?

count.

It is no more than you deserve.

nanine.

In love with me? O do not think, do not imagine I will ever dare to claim my conquest: no, sir, never will I suffer you to descend thus low for me: such marriages, believe me, sir, are always unhappy: fancy vanishes, and repentance alone remains. No, I will call your ancestors to witness—alas! sir, think not on me: you took pity on my youth: this heart, which you have formed, which is your own work, would be unworthy of your care, if it could accept from you this noblest present. No, sir, I owe you at least this refusal: my heart shall sacrifice itself for your sake.

count.

No more: for I am resolved, and you shall be my wife. Did you not this moment assure me you would refuse every other man, though he were a prince?

nanine.

I did, and repent not of the resolution.

count.

Do you hate me then?

nanine.

Should I have fled, should I have avoided, should I have feared, if I had hated you?

count.

It is enough, and I am fixed.

nanine.

What then have you determined on?

count.

Our marriage.

nanine.

Think, sir.

count.

I have thought of everything.

nanine.

And foreseen too?

count.

I have.

nanine.

If you love me, believe me, sir—

count.

I do believe—that I have resolved on the only means to make myself happy.

nanine.

But you forget—

count.

I have forgotten nothing: everything is ordered, and everything shall be ready.

nanine.

What! in spite of all I say, will your obstinate passion—

count.

Yes, in spite of you, my impatient love must urge the happy moment. I will quit you for a minute, that henceforth we may never part: adieu, my dear Nanine.

SCENE IV.

nanine.

[Alone.

Good heaven! do I dream? or am I indeed arrived at the summit of earthly happiness? ’tis not the honor, great as it is; ’tis not the splendor that dazzles me: no: I despise it all: but to wed the most generous of men, the dear object of all my timid wishes, him whom I was so much afraid of loving, him whom I adore, yet I love him too much to wish he should demean himself for my sake: but it is impossible to avoid it; I cannot now escape him: what can I do? heaven, I trust, will direct me, and support my weakness, perhaps even—but I’ll write to him—and yet how to begin, and what to say—what a surprise! I will write immediately before I enter into this solemn engagement.

SCENE V.

nanine, blaise.

blaise.

O there she is: well, my little maid, my lady has spoken to you in my favor, has she not? ha! she writes on, and takes no notice of me.

nanine.

[Writing on.

O Blaise, good morrow to you.

blaise.

Good morrow is but a cold compliment.

nanine.

[Writing.

Every word I write doubles my distress, and my whole letter is full of doubts and uneasiness.

blaise.

How she writes offhand! O she’s a great genius; and a monstrous wit: I wish I was a wit too, then I’d tell her—

nanine.

Well, sir.

blaise.

Lackaday, she’s so clever, I’m afraid to speak: I shall never be able to break my mind to her—yet I was hot upon’t, and came here o’ purpose; that I did.

nanine.

Dear Blaise, you must do me a piece of service.

blaise.

Marry, two an’ you will.

nanine.

I shall trust to your discretion, to your good heart, Blaise; nay, I do you but justice.

blaise.

O no ceremony; for look you, ma’am, Blaise is ready to serve you, and there’s an end of it. Come, come, make no secret.

nanine.

You often go to the neighboring village, to Remival, the right hand side of the road.

blaise.

Yes, yes.

nanine.

Could you find one Philip Hombert for me there?

blaise.

Philip Hombert? I know nothing of him: what sort of a man is he?

nanine.

He came there, I believe, but yesterday evening; do you look him up, and give him immediately this money, and this letter.

blaise.

Oh, money is it?

nanine.

And at the same time deliver him this packet: go on horse-back that you may return the sooner: away, make haste, and be assured I’ll remember you for it.

blaise.

I would go for you to the world’s end—this Philip Hombert is a happy rogue: the purse is full: all ready rhino. What, is it a debt?

nanine.

Yes: and well proved; nothing can be more sacred, therefore take care of it: hark’ee, Blaise, Hombert may not be known in the village, perhaps he is not yet returned: if you can’t give the letter into his own hands, bring it me back again: my dear friend, remember that.

blaise.

My dear friend!

nanine.

I shall depend on you.

blaise.

Her dear friend! O lud!

nanine.

I rely entirely upon you, and expect everything from your fidelity.

SCENE VI.

the baroness, blaise.

blaise.

What a message! and where the deuce could this money come from? it would have been of service to me in housekeeping: but she has a friendship for me, and that’s better than money, so away we go.

[As he is putting the money and letter into his pocket, he meets the baroness, and runs full against her.

baroness.

How now, booby? a little more and you’d have broken my head.

blaise.

I beg your pardon, madam.

baroness.

Where are you going? have you heard anything of Nanine? what is she about? is the count in a violent passion? what have you got there, a letter?

blaise.

O that’s a secret: poise on her!

baroness.

Let me look at it.

blaise.

Nanine will be angry.

baroness.

Nanine! could she write, and send it by you? give it me this minute, or I’ll break off your match immediately; give it me, I say.

blaise.

[Laughing.

He! he!

baroness.

What do you laugh at?

blaise.

[Still laughing.

Ah! ah!

baroness.

I must know the contents of this;—[Breaks open the letter] if I am not mistaken, they concern me nearly.

blaise.

[Laughing.

Ah! ah! ah! how she is nicked now! she has got nothing there but a scrap of paper: but I shall keep the money, and carry it to Philip Hombert: yes, yes, must obey my mistress. Servant, ma’am.

SCENE VII.

the baroness.

[Alone.

Now let’s see what we have got. [Reads.] “Both my joy and tenderness are unspeakable, as is my happiness also: what a moment was this for you to come in! when I cannot see or hear you, cannot throw myself into your arms: but, I conjure you, take these packets, and accept the contents of them. Know, I have been offered a most noble and truly enviable condition in life, such as I might well be dazzled with the prospect of: but there is nothing which I would not sacrifice to the only one on earth whom my heart ought to love.” Very fine indeed! upon my word, Nanine, an excellent style: how prettily she writes! the innocent orphan: her passion speaks most eloquently: a rare billet this! O thou sly jade: thus you deceived poor Blaise, and thus deprived me of my lover: this going into a convent, I find, was all a feint, a pretence; and the count’s money, it seems, is for Philip Hombert: thou little coquette! but I am glad of it: the count’s perfidiousness to me deserved this return: I thought indeed Nanine’s heart was as mean as her birth, and now I am satisfied of it.

SCENE VIII.

the count, baroness.

baroness.

But here comes the philosopher, the sentimental Count d’Olban, the wise lover, the man above prejudice: your servant, noble count, approach and laugh, my dear lover, at the most ridiculous circumstance: do you know Philip Hombert, of Remival? but, to be sure, you can’t be a stranger to your—rival.

count.

What is all this, pray?

baroness.

This billet perhaps will inform you: this Hombert must be a handsome lad.

count.

You are too late, madam, now with your schemes; my resolution once made, I am not to be shaken: be satisfied, madam, with the shameful trick you wanted to play me this morning.

baroness.

You’ll find this new one worse, I believe: there, read: [Gives him the letter] you’ll like it vastly: you know the hand, and you know the virtue of the dear nymph that has subdued you: [While he is reading it he seems confounded, grows pale and angry] well, sir, what think you of the style?—he sees nothing, says nothing, hears nothing: poor man! but he deserves it.

count.

Did I read aright? it cannot be. I am astonished, thunder-struck; ungrateful sex! perfidious creature!

baroness.

[Aside.

I know his temper well; naturally violent, quick and resolute: he’ll do something immediately.

SCENE IX.

the count, baroness, germon.

germon.

Yonder comes Madam d’Olban: she’s in the avenue already.

baroness.

Is the old woman returned?

germon.

Sir, sir, my lady, your mother, is coming.

baroness.

His anger has taken away his hearing: the letter operates finely.

germon.

[Bawling out to him.

Sir.

count.

Does she think—

germon.

[Aloud.

My lady, sir, your mother.

count.

What is Nanine doing at this instant?

germon.

Writing in her own apartment—but, sir—

count.

[With an air of coolness.

Go, seize her papers; bring me what she writes, and then let her be sent away.

germon.

Who, sir?

count.

Nanine.

germon.

I can never have the heart to do it, sir: O sir, if you knew how she charms us all, so noble, so good!

count.

Do it, sir, or see my face no more.

germon.

I obey, sir.

[He goes out.

SCENE X.

the count, baroness.

baroness.

Now, the day is ours: I give you joy, sir, of your return to reason: now, sir, is it not true as I told you, the low-bred always retain something of their former condition, and persons of family alone have hearts truly noble? Blood, sir, let me tell you, does everything, and meanness of birth will inspire Nanine with sentiments you never suspected her of.

count.

That I don’t believe: but come, we’ll talk no more about it, but endeavor to make amends for past errors: every man has his follies, at some part of his life; we all go wrong; and he is least to blame who repents the soonest.

baroness.

’Tis well observed.

count.

Never mention her to me again: be silent on that head, I entreat you.

baroness.

Most willingly.

count.

I beg this subject of our dispute may be entirely forgotten.

baroness.

But will you remember then your former vows?

count.

Well, well, I understand you, I will.

baroness.

And quickly, too, or you will not repair the injury: our marriage so shamefully deferred is an affront—

count.

That shall be made amends for; but, madam, we must have—

baroness.

Have what? we must have a lawyer.

count.

You know, madam, that—I waited for my mother.

baroness.

And here she comes.

SCENE XI.

the marchioness d’olban, the count, baroness.

count.

[To his mother.

Madam, I should have—[Aside] O Philip Hombert! [To his mother] but you have prevented me: my respect and tenderness—[Aside] with that air of innocence too! perfidious wretch!

marchioness.

Why, you rave, child; I heard indeed, as I passed through Paris, that your head was a little touched, and I find there was some truth in it; how long has this misfortune—

count.

Good heaven! how confused I am!

marchioness.

Does it seize you often?

count.

It never will again, madam.

marchioness.

I should be glad to speak with you alone. [Turns to the baroness and makes her a formal courtesy.] Good morrow, madam.

baroness.

[Aside.

The old fool! [Turning to the Marchioness] Madam, I leave you the pleasure of entertaining the count at your leisure, and retire.

[She goes out.

SCENE XII.

the marchioness, the count.

marchioness.

[Talking very fast, and in the manner of a little prattling old woman.

Well, sir, and so you intend to make the baroness my daughter-in-law: ’twas this, to tell you the truth, that brought me here so soon: she’s a peevish, impertinent, proud, opinionated creature, and one who never had the least regard for me: last year, when I supped with the Marchioness Agard, she said before all the company, I was a babbler. Lord forbid I should ever sup there again: a babbler! besides, I know, between you and me, she is not so rich; and that, let me tell you, son, is a great point, and we ought to be well-informed about it: they tell me that the Château d’Orme did but half of it belong to her husband, and that the other half was disputed by a long lawsuit, that is not finished to this day: that I had from your grandpapa, and he always told the truth: ay, he was a man; there are few such nowadays: there is nothing now at Paris but a set of half-men, vain, foolish, impertinent coxcombs, talking on every subject, and laughing at times past. Oh, their eternal clack distracts me, prating about new kitchens, and new fashions: we hear of nothing now but bankrupts, and distress, and ruin: the wives, in short, are licentious, and the husbands simpletons: everything grows worse and worse.

count.

[Reading the letter over again.

Who could have thought it? this is a desperate stroke indeed. Well, Germon?

SCENE XIII.

the marchioness, the count, germon.

germon.

Here’s your lawyer, sir.

count.

O let him wait.

germon.

And here’s the paper, sir, she sent you.

count.

[Reading.

Give it me—well, let me see: she loves me, she says here, and refuses me out of—respect. Faithless woman! thou hast not told me the true reason of that refusal.

marchioness.

My son’s head is certainly turned: ’tis the baroness’s doing: love has taken away his senses.

count.

[To Germon.

Is Nanine gone! shall I be rid of her?

germon.

Alas! sir, she has already put on her old rustic garb with the greatest modesty, and never murmured or complained.

count.

Very likely so.

germon.

She bore her misfortune with the utmost tranquillity, while everybody about her was in tears.

count.

With tranquillity, sayest thou?

marchioness.

Whom are you talking about?

germon.

O madam, poor Nanine, she is going to be driven away, and everybody laments the loss of her.

marchioness.

To be driven away? how is this? I don’t understand it: what! my little Nanine go! call her back again: my charming orphan! what has she done, pray? why, Nanine was my present to you. O I remember, at ten years of age she delighted everybody that saw her: our baroness took her, and I said then she would be ill-used; I knew it would be so: but you never mind what I say; you will do everything of your own head: but let me tell you, turning Nanine out of doors thus is a very bad action.

count.

Alone, on foot, without money, without assistance!

germon.

O sir, I forgot to tell you: an old man asked after you below, and says he wants to speak to you on an affair of importance, which he can communicate to none but yourself: he wants to throw himself at your feet.

count.

In my present unhappy situation of mind, am I fit to converse with anybody?

marchioness.

You are uneasy enough, I believe, child, and so am I, too, to drive away poor Nanine, and make up a marriage which you knew would be disagreeable to me: come, it was not a wise thing: in three months’ time you will be weary of one another: I’ll tell you what happened exactly like this to my cousin the Marquis of Marmure: his wife was as sour as verjuice, though, by the by, yours is worse; when they married, they thought they loved one another, and in two months after they were parted. My lady went to live with her gallant, a foolish, sharking, extravagant fop; and my lord took a vile, tricking, ridiculous coquette! fine suppers, country houses, horses, clothes, a rascally steward, new trinkets bought on trust, lawyers, contracts, interest-money, all together soon ruined them, and in two years both went together to the hospital. O, and now I think of it, I remember another story, more tragical, and more extraordinary than the other, it was of a—

count.

My dear mother, we must go in to dinner: come—could I ever have suspected such infidelity!

marchioness.

’Tis really dreadful: but I’ll tell it you all at table: in proper time and place, son, it may be of great use to you. Away.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

nanine,clothed as a country girl,germon.

germon.

We are all in tears at the thought of losing you.

nanine.

It is time to go: I’ve staid too long already.

germon.

But you won’t leave us forever, I hope, and in this dress, too?

nanine.

Obscurity was my first condition.

germon.

What a change! and only from this morning: to suffer is nothing, but to be degraded is terrible.

nanine.

No, no, there are a thousand times worse misfortunes.

germon.

I admire your patience and humility; surely my master must have been ill-advised: our baroness has certainly abused her power: she must have done you this injury, the count could never have the heart.

nanine.

I am indebted to him for everything; and, if he thinks fit to banish me, I must submit; his favors are his own, and he has a right to recall them.

germon.

Who would ever have expected such a change? what do you intend to do with yourself?

nanine.

To retire, and repent.

germon.

How we shall all detest the baroness!

nanine.

They have made me miserable, but I forgive them.

germon.

But what shall I tell my master from you when you are gone?

nanine.

Tell him, I thank him for restoring me to my former condition: tell him that, forever sensible of his goodness, I shall forget nothing but his—cruelty.

germon.

You melt my very soul; I could leave this house immediately to go along with you wherever you went: but Blaise is beforehand with us all: he will go and live with you, and we are all ready to follow him.

nanine.

No, Germon, that I’m sure you are not. O Germon, to be driven out in this manner—and by whom?

germon.

The devil is certainly at the bottom of this business: you are leaving us, and my master is going to be married.

nanine.

Married, sayest thou? indeed? nay, then let us be gone: O he was too dangerous for me—farewell.

germon.

Well! after all, my master must have a cruel heart, to banish so sweet a creature: she seems a most amiable girl, but in this world one should swear to nothing.

SCENE II.

the count, germon.

count.

Well, is she gone at last?

germon.

Yes, sir, ’tis done.

count.

I’m glad of it.

germon.

Then, sir, you have a heart of iron.

count.

Did Philip Hombert meet and give her his hand?

germon.

What Philip Hombert, sir? alas! sir, poor Nanine went off without a creature to give her his hand; she would not even accept of mine.

count.

And where is she gone?

germon.

That I know not; most probably to her friends.

count.

Ay, at Remival, I suppose.

germon.

Yes, I believe she went that road.

count.

Go, Germon, immediately, and conduct her to that convent where the baroness was going this morning, I’ll lodge her in that safe retreat: these hundred louis d’ors will secure her reception; carry them to her, but take care she does not know they come from me: tell her ’tis a present from my mother: on no account mention my name to her.

germon.

Very well, sir, I shall obey your orders.

[He goes towards the door.

count.

Germon, you saw her as she went off?

germon.

I did, sir.

count.

Did she seem dejected? did she weep?

germon.

She behaved still better, sir; a few tears dropped from her, but she strove as much as she could to repress them.

count.

Did she let fall anything that betrayed her sentiments? did you remark—

germon.

What, sir?

count.

Did she say anything of me?

germon.

Yes, sir; a great deal.

count.

Tell me, then, rascal, what did she say?

germon.

That you were her master, her best and kindest benefactor; that she shall forget everything—but your cruelty.

count.

Away—be sure you take care she never returns; [Germon going out] and hark’ee, Germon.

germon.

Sir.

count.

One word more: remember, if, by chance, as you are conducting her, one Philip Hombert should follow you, that you treat him in a proper manner.

germon.

O, sir, I’ll use him most politely, and treat him with a good drubbing, that you may depend on: I’ll do the business honestly, I warrant you: young Hombert, you say?

count.

The same.

germon.

Very well: I have not the honor to know him, but the first man I see will I trim most heartily, and afterwards make him tell me his name. [He goes towards the door and comes back.] This young Hombert, I’ll lay my life, is some lover of hers, a beau, a prig, I suppose, the cock of the village. Let me alone to deal with him.

count.

Do as I bid you, and immediately.

germon.

I thought there was some lover in the case—and Blaise, too, puts in his claim, I suppose. Ay: they always love their equals better than their masters.

count.

Begone, I tell you.

SCENE III.

the count.

[Alone.

He’s in the right, and has hit on the true cause of my unhappiness, but I shall myself be the punisher of my own folly. I must now marry the baroness; it is determined, and I can’t avoid it: ’tis dreadful; but I have deserved it; ’twill at least be a convenient match: she’s not very tractable indeed, but every man may rule, if he has a mind to it; and he who has resolution may, at any time, be master in his own house.

SCENE IV.

the count, baroness, marchioness.

marchioness.

Well, son, you are going to marry this lady here?

count.

Yes, madam.

marchioness.

This night she is to be your wife and my daughter-in-law?

baroness.

If you approve of it, madam; I suppose I shall have your consent.

marchioness.

Why, I must give it, I think: but to-morrow I shall take my leave of you.

count.

Your leave, madam, why so?

marchioness.

I shall take my Nanine with me: since you have thought fit to turn her out of doors, I shall take her under my protection: I have a match in my eye for ner: I propose marrying her to the young chief justice, nephew to the attorney-general, Jean Roc Souci; he whose father met with that comical adventure at Corbeil; you must have heard of him: yes, I will take care of this poor child, I’m determined: she is a jewel, and deserves to be well set. I’ll marry her off immediately. Your servant.

count.

My dear mother, don’t be in a passion: leave me to manage my own affairs, and let Nanine go into a convent.

baroness.

Indeed, madam, you may believe us, such a girl as Nanine is not fit to go into a family.

marchioness.

Ha! why, what’s the matter?

baroness.

O a little affair only.

marchioness.

But pray—

baroness.

O nothing at all.

marchioness.

Nothing! a great deal, I’m afraid: I understand you mighty well: some little indiscretion I suppose: nothing more likely, for to be sure, she’s very handsome. Ay, ay, we are all frail; we tempt, and are tempted; the heart has its weakness: young girls are always a little coquettish: but come, it is not so bad as you make it; tell me fairly, what my poor child has done?

count.

I tell you, madam?

marchioness.

You seem, after all, at the bottom to have some regard for the girl, and perhaps you may—

SCENE V.

the count, marchioness, baroness, marin.

[Booted.

marin.

I’ve done it, sir; it’s all agreed for.

marchioness.

What’s agreed for?

baroness.

Ay, what, sir, what?

marin.

Why, sir, I’ve done as you ordered me, spoke to the tradesmen, and you’ll have your equipage tomorrow.

baroness.

What equipage?

marin.

Everything, madam, that your future spouse had ordered; six fine horses, and a charming berlin; I’m sure your ladyship will like it; it’s very fine; the panels all varnished by Martin: the diamonds, too, are brilliant, and well-chosen; and the new stuffs quite in taste.—O nothing comes up to them.

baroness.

[To the count.

And had you ordered all this?

count.

I had—[Aside] but for whom!

marin.

Everything will come to-morrow morning in the coach, and will be ready for your wedding in the evening: O there’s nothing like Paris for getting everything at a minute’s warning, if you have but money. As I came back, I called on the lawyer; he’s just by, finishing your affair.

baroness.

It has hung a long time in suspense.

marchioness.

[Aside.

I wish it would hang these forty years.

marin.

In the hall I met a poor old man, sighing and in tears; he has waited a long time, he says, and begs to speak to you.

baroness.

An impertinent fellow! let him go about his business: he has chosen the wrong time to trouble us now.

marchioness.

Why, so, madam? have a little consideration: son, let me tell you, it’s very wrong to repulse poor people in this manner; I have told you over and over, when you were a child, you ought to treat them with indulgence; hear what they have to say; be courteous, and affable to them: are not they men as well as yourself? we don’t know perhaps whom we affront, and may repent our hardness of heart: the proud never prosper. [To Marin.] Go, see to that old man.

marin.

I will, ma’am. [He goes out.]

count.

Forgive me, madam, my respects are always due to you, and I am ready to see this man, in spite of my present embarrassment.

SCENE VI.

the count, marchioness, baroness, a peasant.

marchioness.

[To the Peasant.

Come, come, speak, don’t be afraid.

peasant.

O my lord, for heaven’s sake, hear me; permit me to fall at your feet, and to give you back—

count.

Rise, friend; I’ll not be knelt to; do not imagine me capable of such pride: you seem to be an honest man, do you want employment in my family? who are you?

marchioness.

Cheer up, man.

peasant.

Alas! sir, I am the father of—Nanine.

count.

You?

baroness.

Your daughter’s a slut.

peasant.

This, sir, is what I feared: this is the cruel stroke that has wounded my poor heart: I thought indeed so much money could not fairly belong to one in her condition: we little folks soon lose our integrity when we come among the great.

baroness.

There he’s right enough: but still he’s a deceiver, for Nanine is not his daughter, she was an orphan.

peasant.

It is too true, she was so: I left her with her poor relatives in her infant years, having lost her mother, with all my fortune; obliged by necessity, I went to serve abroad; and as I would not have her pass for the daughter of a soldier, forbade her ever to mention my name.

marchioness.

Why so? for my part, I respect a soldier: we stand in need of them sometimes.

count.

What is there shameful in the profession?

peasant.

It meets indeed with less honor than it deserves.

count.

The prejudice against them is inexcusable. I own, I esteem an honest soldier, who hazards his life in the defence of his king and country, much more than an important, self-sufficient scoundrel, whose knavish industry sucks up the blood of his fellow subjects.

marchioness.

You must have been in a great many battles: let me have an account of them all; I long to hear it.

peasant.

In my present unhappy condition you must excuse me: let it suffice to inform you, that I received a thousand promises of advancement; but, without friends, how was it possible to rise? thrown amongst the common crowd, all I could do was to distinguish myself, and honor my only reward.

marchioness.

You were then well-born?

baroness.

Fie: how can you think so! well-born indeed!

peasant.

No, madam: but I was born of honest parents, and merited—a better daughter.

marchioness.

Could you have had a better?

count.

Well! go on.

marchioness.

A better than Nanine?

count.

Prithee, go on.

peasant.

My daughter, I understood, was brought up here, and treated in the kindest manner; I thought myself happy, and blessed heaven for your goodness, and paternal care of her; I came to the neighboring village, full of hopes and fears; I own I trembled for her dangerous youth; and, by this lady’s intimation, find I had but too much reason; it has shocked me to the soul; but I thought a hundred louis d’ors, besides diamonds, was a treasure too great to be fairly come by: she could never be mistress of them, but at the expense of her innocence: the bare suspicion makes me shudder; if it be so, I shall die with grief and shame: but I came as soon as possible, to give them you back again: they are yours, therefore, I beseech you, take them: if my daughter is to blame, punish me, but don’t ruin her.

marchioness.

O my dear son, I cannot bear this; it overpowers me.

baroness.

What is all this? a dream? a trick?

count.

O what have I done?

peasant.

[Taking out the purse and the letter.

Here, sir, take them.

count.

I take them! no: they were given to her, and she has made a noble use of them: was it to you, then, the message was delivered? who brought it?

peasant.

Your gardener, sir, in whom Nanine ventured to confide.

count.

Was it directed to you?

peasant.

It was, I own it, sir.

count.

O grief! O tenderness! what excess of virtue in them both! but now your name?—O I am lost, distracted.

marchioness.

Ay, your name. What mystery is this?

peasant.

Philip Hombert de Gatine.

count.

O my father!

baroness.

What does he say?

count.

How day breaks in upon me! I have done wrong, and I must make amends for it: O if you knew how culpable I have been! I have injured the sublimest virtue. [He steps aside, and speaks to one of his servants.] away: fly.

baroness.

What is all this emotion for?

count.

My coach immediately.

marchioness.

Now, madam, you must be her protectress: when we have done such an injury, we should blush at nothing so much as an imperfect repentance; my son often has his whims, which people are too apt to mistake for unpardonable follies; but at bottom he has a generous soul, and is naturally good; I can do what I please with him: you, my daughter-in-law, are not so well-disposed.

baroness.

I shall grow out of all patience: how confused and thoughtful he looks! what strange scheme now is he meditating upon? well, sir, what do you intend to do?

marchioness.

Ay, for Nanine?

baroness.

Make her a handsome present, and satisfy her.

marchioness.

That will be the least we can do.

baroness.

But as to seeing her that I never will: she shall not come nigh the castle: do you hear me?

count.

Yes, I hear you.

marchioness.

[Aside.

What a heart of stone!

baroness.

Don’t give my suspicions cause to break out, sir. Ha! you hesitate.

count.

[After a pause of some time.

No, madam, I am resolved.

baroness.

That respect at least is owing to me; nay, to both of us.

marchioness.

And can you be so cruel, son?

baroness.

What step do you propose to take?

count.

’Tis taken already: you know my heart, madam, and the frankness of it: I must be plain with you: I had promised you my hand; but the design of our marriage was only to put an end to a tedious lawsuit between us, which I will now do immediately, by willingly resigning to you all those rights and pretensions which were the foundation of it: even the interest shall be yours; I give up everything, take, and enjoy it: if we cannot be man and wife, let us at least live as friends and relatives: let everything that gave mutual uneasiness be forgotten; there is no reason why, because we can’t love, we should hate each other.

baroness.

Your falsehood is what I expected: but I renounce your presents, and yourself: yes, traitor, I see now who you mean to live with, and how low your passion sinks you: go, and be a slave to her, I leave you to your unworthy choice.

[She goes out.

SCENE VII.

the count, marchioness, philip hombert.

count.

No, madam, ’tis not unworthy, my soul is not blinded by an idle passion: that virtue which it is my duty to reward ought to melt, but cannot debase me: what they call meanness in this old man constitutes his merit, and makes him truly noble: if I would be so, I must pay the price of it: where souls are thus ennobled by themselves, and distinguished by superior characters, we should pass over common rules: their birth, low as it is, when attended with such virtues, will make my family but more illustrious.

marchioness.

What are you talking about?

SCENE VIII.

the count, marchioness, nanine, philip hombert.

count.

[To his mother.

Look at her, and guess.

marchioness.

[To Nanine.

My dearest child, come to my arms: but she is strangely clothed, and yet how handsome she looks, and modest too!

nanine.

[Pays her respects to the Marchioness, and then runs to her father.

O nature demands my first acknowledgments, my dear father!

philip hombert.

O heaven! my daughter! O sir, you have made me amends for forty years’ afflictions.

count.

Ay, but how must I repair the injury I have done to such exalted virtue! to come back in this dress, how mean it is, but she adorns it; Nanine does honor to everything: speak, my Nanine, can your goodness pardon the affront?

nanine.

Can you, sir, doubt my forgiveness of it? I never thought, after all your bounty to me, you could injure me.

count.

If you have indeed forgotten the wrong I did you, give me a proof of it: once more, and only once, I take upon me to command you; but this once you must swear—to obey me.

philip hombert.

I am sure she owes it to you, and her gratitude—

nanine.

[To her father.

He need not doubt, sir, of my obedience.

count.

I shall depend on it: let me tell you then, that all your duty is not yet paid: I have seen you on your knees to my mother, and to your own father; one thing still remains for you, and that is, now, before them, to embrace—your husband.

nanine.

Who? I?

marchioness.

Are you in earnest? can it be?

philip hombert.

O my child!

count.

[To his mother.

By your permission, madam.

marchioness.

My dear child, the family will be in a strange uproar about it.

count.

O when they see Nanine, they must approve.

philip hombert.

What a stroke of fortune! O sir, I never thought you could descend thus low.

count.

You promised to obey, and I must have it so.

marchioness.

My son.

count.

My happiness, madam, depends on this important moment: interest alone, we know, has made a thousand marriages; we have seen the wisest men consult fortune and character only: her character is irreproachable; and as to fortune, she wants it not: justice and inclination shall do what avarice has so often done before: let me, then, madam, have your consent, and finish all.

nanine.

No, madam, you must not consent; indeed you must not; oppose his passion, oppose mine: let me entreat you, do: love has blinded him, do you, madam, remove the veil: let me live far from him, and at a distance only adore his virtues: you know my condition; you see my father: can I, ought I, ever to wish to call you mother?

marchioness.

Yes; you can, you ought: it is enough: I can hold out no longer: this last generosity has entirely subdued me: it tells me how much I ought to love: it is as singular, as extraordinary, as Nanine herself.

nanine.

Then, madam, I obey; my heart can no longer resist the power of love.

marchioness.

Let this happy day be the worthy recompense of virtue, but let it not be made a precedent.

End of the Third and Last Act.

THE PRUDE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Mme. de Dorfise, a Widow.

Mme. de Burlet, her Cousin.

Collette, Chambermaid to Dorfise.

Blandford, Captain of a Ship.

Darmin, his Friend.

Bartolin, a Cashier.

Mondor, a Coxcomb.

Adine, Niece to Darmin, and disguised like a young Turk.

SCENE Marseilles.

This comedy is partly imitated from an English piece, called the Plain Dealer. It does not suit very well for the French stage; the manners are too rough and bold, though much less so than in the original. The English seem to take too much liberty, and the French too little.

T. S.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

darmin, adine.

adine.

[Dressed like a Turk.

O my dear uncle, what a cruel voyage! what dangers have we run! and then my dress and appearance, too: still must I conceal under this turban my sex, my name, and the secret of my foolish heart.

darmin.

At last we are returned safe: in good truth, niece, I pity you; but, your father dying consul in Greece, both of us left, as we were after his death, without money or friends; your youth, beauty and accomplishments but so many dangerous advantages; and, to crown all our misfortunes, that wicked pasha desperately in love with you; what was to be done? you were obliged to disguise yourself, and make your escape as soon as possible.

adine.

Alas! I have yet other dangers to encounter.

darmin.

Dear girl, be composed, nor blush at what can’t be prevented; embarking with me in such a hurry, and forced to disguise yourself in that manner, you could not with any decency resume your sex on board a ship before a hundred sailors, who were more to be feared than your old debauched pasha; but happily for us, everything has turned out well, and we are safely arrived at Marseilles, out of the reach of amorous pashas, near your friends and relatives, amongst Frenchmen, and good sort of people.

adine.

Blandford is certainly an honest man: but how dearly will his virtues cost me! that I should be forced to return with him!

darmin.

Your deceased father designed you for him: he had set his heart on that match when you were but a child.

adine.

There he was deceived.

darmin.

Blandford, my dear, when he is better acquainted with you, will do justice to your charms: he can never be long attached to a prude, who makes it her perpetual study to deceive and impose upon him.

adine.

They say she is handsome: he is constant in his nature, and will always love her.

darmin.

Constant! who is so, in love, child?

adine.

I am afraid of Dorfise.

darmin.

She has too much intrigue about her: her prudery, they say, has a little too much gallantry in it: her heart is false, and her tongue scandalous; never fear her, my girl, deceit can last only for a time.

adine.

Ay, but that time may be long, very long: the thought makes me miserable: Dorfise deceives him, and Dorfise has found the way to please.

darmin.

But, after all, niece, has Blandford really got so far into your heart?

adine.

He has, indeed; ever since that day, when the two Algerine vessels attacked us with such violence: O how I trembled for him! I think verily I was as much frightened for him as for you; I wished to be a man, indeed, that I might have defended him: don’t you remember, uncle, it was Blandford alone who saved us when our ship was on fire? good heaven! how I admired his courage, and his virtues! they are deeply engraved in my heart, and never to be effaced.

darmin.

A grateful heart cannot but be prejudiced in favor of such distinguished virtue. I don’t so much wonder at your choice: fine eyes, a noble demeanor, a good shape, and scarce thirty years of age, these are great recommendations to his—virtue: but then his strange humor and austerity can surely never be agreeable to you.

adine.

Why not? I am naturally serious myself, and perhaps in him may be fond even of my own faults.

darmin.

He hates the world.

adine.

They say he has reason.

darmin.

His temper is too easy and complying, he relies too much on others, and is too generous; and then his moroseness makes his freedom disagreeable.

adine.

The greatest fault he has, in my opinion, is his passion for Dorfise.

darmin.

That’s too true; why, then, won’t you endeavor to open his eyes, disabuse him, and shine in your true character?

adine.

How is it possible to shine in any character till we are able to please? alas! from the first day he took us both on board, I have been afraid he should discover me, and now I am on shore I have still the same apprehensions.

darmin.

I had intended to discover you to him myself.

adine.

For heaven’s sake, don’t; but join with me in my design upon him: sacrificed as I am to the adored Dorfise, I would wish to remain still unknown to him, and would have him continue a stranger to that victim which he offers up to love.

darmin.

What then is your design?

adine.

This very night to retire to a convent, and avoid the sight of an ungrateful man whom I cannot help loving.

darmin.

Indeed, niece, those who go to a convent in haste, generally live to repent it at leisure: I tell you, child, time will do all things: in the meanwhile, a more dreadful misfortune calls for our attention: the very instant that this new Du-Gué so nobly got off his ship, both his fortune and mine went to the bottom: we are both involved in the same calamity, and have come to Marseilles full of hope, but without a shilling! and must therefore look out for some immediate assistance: love, my dear niece, is not always the only thing to be thought of.

adine.

There, uncle, I differ from you; when you are in love, I think it is.

darmin.

Time will open your eyes: love, my dear, at your age is blind, but not at mine; and where there is no fortune, and nothing but grief and poverty with it, it has very few charms; only the rich and happy should be in love.

adine.

You think, then, my dear uncle, that now you are in distress you can have no mistress; and that your widow Burlet will forsake you as soon as she knows your circumstances.

darmin.

My distress perhaps may serve her for an excuse; such, my dear, is the custom of the world; but I have other cares to afflict me: I want money, and that’s the most pressing calamity.

SCENE II.

blandford, darmin, adine.

blandford.

So! so! in the age we live in everything may be had of everybody but money: what a heap of close embraces, kisses, fulsome compliments, false oaths, joyous welcomes, have I received from this whole city! but no sooner were they acquainted with my distress than every soul forsook me: such is this world.

darmin.

It is indeed a base one: but your friends come in search of you?

blandford.

Friends? know you any such? I have looked for them, and have found a number of scoundrels of every rank and degree: I have found honest men, too, that live in the bosom of indolence and plenty, like their own marbles, hard, polished, and always wrapped up in themselves, and their own interests; but worthy hearts, elevated souls, who were not the slaves of fortune, such as take a generous pleasure in relieving the unhappy, these, Darmin, I have seldom, very seldom met with: there is naught but vice and corruption on every side: Mammon is the god of this world; and I wish with all my heart, that all mankind had sunk with our vessel, and was buried in the waves.

darmin.

Be so good as to except me from your general sentence.

adine.

The world, I do believe, is false: and yet I think there is in it still a heart worthy of you; a heart that can boast of courage with sensibility, and strength with softness; which would resent the unkind treatment you have met with, by loving you, if possible, but the more for it: tender in its vows, and constant in its attachment to you.

blandford.

Invaluable treasure! but where is it to be found?

adine.

In me.

blandford.

In thee! away, deceitful boy, am I in a condition, think you, to listen to such idle tales? prithee, young man, choose a fitter time to jest in: yes, even in this world, I know there are pure and uncorrupted hearts, who will cherish my misfortune, and pity my distress: even in this low condition I have the happiness to reflect, that Dorfise at least knows how to love and to distinguish virtue.

adine.

Dorfise then is the idol of your heart?

blandford.

She is.

adine.

You have tried and proved her then?

blandford.

I have.

darmin.

My late brother, before he went to Greece, if I remember aright, designed my niece for you.

blandford.

Your late brother, my friend, made a bad choice then: I have made a much better: I have determined in favor of that virtue which, banished from the world, hath taken up its residence in the breast of my Dorfise.

adine.

Merit like hers is rare indeed; I am astonished at it, but, great as it is, it cannot equal her happiness.

blandford.

This youth is of a noble nature, and I love him; he takes my part even against you.

darmin.

Not so much perhaps as you think: but pray tell me, how happened it that this Dorfise, with all her attachment and love for you, never wrote to you for a whole year?

blandford.

Would you have had her write to me through the air, or the post travel by sea? I have received large packets from her before now, letters written in such a style too—so much truth, so much good sense, nothing affected, embarrassed, or obscure, no false wit, nothing but the language of nature and the heart; such is the effect of real love.

darmin.

[To Adine.

You turn pale.

blandford.

[Looking earnestly at Adine.

What’s the matter with you?

adine.

With me, sir? O sir, I have got a sad pain at my heart.

blandford.

[To Darmin.

His heart! and what a tone, too! a girl of his age would have more strength and courage: I love the lad, but am astonished at his effeminacy: he was never made for such a voyage; he’s afraid of the sea, the enemy, and every wind that blows: I caught him one day sitting down to a looking-glass: he appears to be cut out for the gay world, to sit in a box at a playhouse and admire his fine form, which he seems to be mightily enamored with: ’tis a very Narcissus.

darmin.

He has beauty.

blandford.

Ay, but he should beware of vanity.

adine.

You need not fear, sir, ’tis not myself that I admire: I am more likely to hate myself, I assure you; I love nothing that resembles me.

blandford.

Dorfise, my friend, is after all the mistress of my fate: convinced as I have long been of her prudence, I gave her a promise of marriage; at parting I left everything I had in her possession: jewels, notes, contracts, ready money, all, thank heaven, have I frankly trusted to my dear Dorfise; and her I consigned to the virtue of my friend, M. Bartolin.

darmin.

What! Bartolin the cashier?

blandford.

The same; a good friend, who esteems me, and whom I love.

darmin.

[In an ironical tone.

To be sure you have made an excellent choice, and are extremely happy in a mistress and a friend: not at all prejudiced.

blandford.

Not in the least: I am impatient at their absence, and long to see them.

adine.

[Aside.

I can bear it no longer: I must go.

blandford.

You seem disordered.

adine.

Everyone has some misfortunes or other; mine are heavy indeed, they overpower me, but they will cease—with Blandford’s.

[She goes out.

blandford.

I know not why, but this grief affects me.

darmin.

’Tis an amiable youth, and seems wonderfully attached to you.

blandford.

Blandford’s heart is not a bad one, and what fortune I have, howsoever small it be, shall be in common with us both; as soon as Dorfise returns me the money I left with her, your young Adine shall have a part of it: I wish his voice was a little more masculine, and his air more easy: but time and care must form the manners of youth: he is modest, sensible, and has just notions of right and wrong. I observed through the whole voyage, that he would blush at any indecent expression which my people made use of on board: I promise you I shall endeavor to be a father to him.

darmin.

That’s not what he wants of you; but come, let us go immediately to Dorfise, at least we shall get your money of her.

blandford.

True; but that unlucky demon which always accompanies me, has contrived to keep her in the country still.

darmin.

Well, but the cashier—

blandford.

The cashier is there, too; but they will both come to town as soon as they know I am here.

darmin.

You are satisfied then that Mme. Dorfise is always devoted to your service.

blandford.

Why should she not be? if I keep my faith to her, surely she may do the same by me; I have not been so foolish, as, like you, to throw away my heart on a gay coquette.

darmin.

It may happen that I shall find myself despised, but that you know every man is liable to; I will own to you, her airy, trifling humor is very different from that of her wise cousin.

blandford.

But what will you do with a heart so—

darmin.

Nothing at all: I shall hold my tongue, till our two fair idols make their appearance at Marseilles: apropos, here comes our friend Mondor.

blandford.

Our friend? said you! he our friend?

darmin.

His head no doubt is a little of the lightest, but at the bottom he is a worthy character.

blandford.

Prithee, undeceive thyself, dear Darmin, and be assured that friendship requires a firmer mind than his; fools are incapable of love.

darmin.

But the wise man, does he love so much then? come, we may reap some advantage from this fool notwithstanding; as the case now stands with us, there will be no harm in borrowing his money.

SCENE III.

blandford, darmin, mondor.

mondor.

Morrow, morrow, my dears; so you are still in the land of the living: I’m glad of it, glad of it, with all my heart: good morrow to you; but pray, who is that pretty boy I saw in t’other room? whence comes he? did he come over with you? what is he, Turk, Greek, your son, your page, what do you do with him? where do you sup to-night, ha? boys, where do you throw your handkerchiefs? what! are you going post to Versailles to give an account of your battles? have you got ever a patron here?

blandford.

No.

mondor.

What, never made your bows at court?

blandford.

No: I made my bows at sea; my services are my patrons; the only artifices I make use of; I never was at court in my life.

mondor.

Then you never got anything.

blandford.

I never asked it; I wait till the master’s eye in its own time shall find me out.

mondor.

Yes: and these fine sentiments will carry you, as they do everybody else, at their own time, to jail.

darmin.

We are pretty near it already, for our honor and glory has not left us a shilling.

mondor.

I am inclined to think so.

darmin.

Dear knight, let us fairly confess to you—

mondor.

In two words I must inform you—

darmin.

That our friend here has had a terrible loss—

mondor.

That I have made, my dear, a discovery—

darmin.

Of all his fortune—

mondor.

Of a famous beauty—

darmin.

Which he was carrying—

mondor.

To whom without vanity—

darmin.

By sea—

mondor.

After a good deal of mysterious conduct—

darmin.

In his ship—

mondor.

I have the happiness to be well with.

darmin.

This, sir, is a misfortune—

mondor.

O ’tis a most enchanting pleasure to conquer these excessive scruples, to get the better of that modesty, that fierce angry preceptor who is always thwarting and scolding at nature: I had once an inclination for Lady Burlet, for her gayety, and those pretty light airs she gives herself; but that was a foolish taste, as foolish as herself.

darmin.

I’m glad to hear it.

mondor.

O no, ’tis the prude I dote on: encouraged by the difficulty, I presented my apple to the beauty.

darmin.

Ay, sir, this prude, who has captivated your heart, this proud beauty is—

mondor.

Dorfise.

blandford.

[Laughing.

Dorfise! is it? O you know, I suppose, whom you are speaking to?

mondor.

To you, my friend.

blandford.

I pity thy folly, young man, and shall take care that, for the future, this lady shall never encourage such sparks as you.

mondor.

Very well, my dear: but let me tell you—your wise woman never complains when she is taken by a fool.

blandford.

Be so kind, however, my friend, as to play the fool no longer with her, for know, her virtues are destined to make me happy; she is mine, and has promised to marry me; she waits with impatience till we are united.

mondor.

[Laughing.

The pretty note that my friend, Blandford, has there! [To Darmin] you say he wants a few more in his distress; here, Darmin.

[He is going to give him a pocketbook.

blandford.

[Stopping Darmin.

Stay, take care, Darmin.

darmin.

Why, you would not—

blandford.

From him I would not—receive anything; when I do any man the favor to borrow of him, it shall be one whom I think worthy of it; it shall be a friend.

mondor.

And am not I your friend?

blandford.

No, sir: a friend indeed? an excellent friend who wants to run away with my wife; a friend who this very night perhaps would entertain twenty coxcombs at my expense: O I know them well; these fashionable friends, these friends of the world.

mondor.

That world, sir, which you grumble at, is better than all your ill-humor. Your servant, sir. I am going this moment to the fair Dorfise, to split my sides with laughing at your folly.

[Is going off.

blandford.

[Stopping him.

What say you, sir? Darmin, how is this? can Dorfise be here?

mondor.

Most assuredly.

blandford.

O heaven!

mondor.

And pray what is there in that so wonderful?

blandford.

In her own house?

mondor.

Yes, I tell you, at Marseilles; I met her just as I came in, returning in a violent hurry from the country.

blandford.

[Aside.

To meet me! thank heaven! now all my sorrows are past: come, I’ll go, and see her.

mondor.

Done: with all my heart: the more fools there are, the more one laughs.

blandford.

[Going to the door.

I’ll rap.

mondor.

Rap away.

collette.

[In the house.

Who’s there?

blandford.

’Tis I.

mondor.

’Tis I myself.

SCENE IV.

blandford, darmin, collette, mondor.

collette.

[Coming out of the house.

Blandford! Darmin! amazing: lord, sir—

blandford.

Collette!

collette.

Bless me, sir, I thought you had been drowned long ago; you’re welcome, sir.

blandford.

No, Collette; just heaven, propitious to my love, preserved me, that I might once more see thy dear mistress.

collette.

She is this moment gone out, sir.

darmin.

And her cousin, too?

collette.

Yes, sir, her cousin has gone along with her.

blandford.

But where, for heaven’s sake, is she gone? where must I find her?

collette.

[Making a prudish curtsy.

At the—assembly.

blandford.

What assembly?

collette.

Lord, sir, you are mighty ignorant: you must know, sir, there are about twenty ladies of fashion most intimately connected to reform the age, to correct our foolish young women, to substitute in the room of that scandal which now prevails a prudent modesty and reserve, and Mme. Dorfise is at the head of the party.

blandford.

[To Darmin.

But how happens it, Darmin, that such a coxcomb as this should be suffered by so rigid, so severe a beauty?

darmin.

O prudes love coxcombs.

blandford.

Where does she go from the assembly?

collette.

That I can’t tell: to do good in secret, I suppose.

blandford.

Secretly! that’s the height of virtue; but when may I, in my turn, speak with her at home?

mondor.

That, sir, you must ask me; and I believe I may venture to grant it you: you may see her, sir, as you used to do.

blandford.

Your business, sir, is to respect her, and take care that you say nothing to her prejudice.

darmin.

And her cousin, too, pray where is she to be found? I was told they lived together.

collette.

They do so: but their tastes are different, and they are seldom together. Mme. de Burlet, with ten or a dozen young fellows, and as many pretty women, entertains herself every day, keeps a plentiful table, and goes forever to the comedy: afterwards they dance, or play; always at her house you will meet with good suppers, new songs, and bonsmots, old wines red and white, ice-cream, liquors, new ribbons, Saxon monkeys, rich bagatelles, invented by Hebert for the use of the fine ladies day and night, pleasures succeeding pleasures; scarce is there a moment left even to scandalize one another.

mondor.

Ay, this, my friend, is the way to live.

darmin.

But whither must I follow her?

collette.

Everywhere; for she runs about from morning to night, and sees everything; plays, balls, music, suppers; she is always employed: perhaps very late in the evening you may meet with her and her joyous companions at home, about supper-time.

blandford.

If, after what I have heard, you are fond of her, my friend, you must have as little understanding as herself; is it possible to love a woman, who has all the follies of her sex put together? to be sure, it will be worth your while to follow her chariot wheels, to dance after a coquette, and sigh and whine for a ridiculous creature who thinks of nothing but her pleasures.

darmin.

I may be mistaken, but I cannot help thinking that a love of pleasure, and the strictest honor, may be consistent with each other; and I am likewise of opinion, with all due deference to you be it spoken, that a prude, with all her severity of virtue, may do a great deal of good in public, and yet in secret is often good for—just nothing.

blandford.

Well, well! we shall be better judges by and by; you shall see my choice, and I yours.

mondor.

Ay, ay, by the time you return, my dears, the place will be taken.

blandford.

By whom, pray?

mondor.

By me.

blandford.

By you?

mondor.

I have made too good use of your absence to be afraid of your presence, I assure you: so fare you well.

SCENE V.

blandford, darmin.

blandford.

Well, what think you? can one be jealous of such a creature?

darmin.

O fools have fortune, you know: nothing more common.

blandford.

You can never imagine, surely—

darmin.

O yes: your sensible women are very fond of fools at times: but I must take my leave, to know my own fate, and see whether I am a happy or a forsaken lover.

[He goes out.

blandford.

[Alone.

Ay, ay, make haste, and get your dismissal: poor fellow! I pity him: how happy am I to have made choice of a woman worthy of my esteem! unfortunate as I have been, I have reason to bless the hour of my return: reason increases my passion: yes: I am resolved; I will leave the world, the whole ungrateful world, for one good and worthy woman. I have had enough of hopes and fears: the port at length appears, and there will I shelter myself: what is all the world to this? a foolish, ridiculous, fatal world! ought I not to detest it? there is not a friend remaining in it; not a creature, who at the bottom really cares a farthing for one: O ’tis a vile world: if there is any love or affection to be expected, it must be from a wife; all the difficulty is how to choose one. A coquette is a monster one would avoid, but a beautiful, a tender, and a sensible woman, is the noblest work of nature.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

dorfise, mme. de burlet, mondor.

dorfise.

I must beg of you, M. Mondor, not to indulge yourself in this excessive familiarity: it is impossible for ears so chaste as mine to suffer such liberties.

mondor.

[Laughing.

And yet you like them: you rate me for my impertinence, but you listen to it: why, my dear, your hair is cut short on purpose, that you may hear the better.

dorfise.

Again?

mme. de burlet.

Indeed I shall take his part: you are too rigid, and affect too much severity: liberty is not always licentiousness; there is nothing indecent, in my opinion, in little sallies of innocent mirth and gayety, which we may choose whether we will understand or not; but your outrageous virtue would shut up our mouths and our ears together.

dorfise.

I would indeed, cousin: and moreover, I would advise you to shut your doors, too, against some visitors whom I frequently see here; I have told you often enough, cousin, it will ruin your reputation: how can you suffer such a libertine crew? Cleon, that pretty fellow, who is very brilliant without a spark of wit, and is always laughing at the good things he would make you believe he has just said; Damon, who for twenty beauties that he is in love with, makes twenty madrigals as insipid as himself; and that Robin, who is always talking of himself, with the old pedant that makes every creature sick of him: then there’s my cousin, too, that—

mondor.

Enough, enough, madam: let everybody speak in his turn; and since your ladyship shows so much good nature in speaking of the world, I will endeavor to convince you I have at least as much charity as yourself, and propose giving you in three words a picture of the whole city: to begin then with—

dorfise.

Stop thy licentious tongue: none should dare to chastise vice but persons of the strictest virtue; I cannot bear to hear libertines satirizing others who are much less culpable than themselves; for my part, what I say is from my regard to the honor of human nature, and disgust of the world, this vile world: how I do hate it!

mme. de burlet.

For all that, cousin, it has some attractions.

dorfise.

For you, I believe it has, and to your ruin.

mme. de burlet.

And has it none for you, cousin? do you really hate the world?

dorfise.

Horribly.

mme. de burlet.

And all the pleasures of it?

dorfise.

Abominably.

mme. de burlet.

Plays? balls?

mondor.

Music, dancing—

dorfise.

O my dear, they are all the devil’s inventions.

mme. de burlet.

But dress and finery? you must acknowledge—

dorfise.

All vanity! O how I regret every minute thrown away at my toilette! I hate to look at myself; and, of all things in nature, detest a looking-glass.

mme. de burlet.

And yet, my dear rigid cousin, you seem tolerably well dressed.

dorfise.

Do I?

mondor.

Extremely well.

dorfise.

Plain, very plain.

mondor.

But with taste.

mme. de burlet.

You may say what you please, but your wise ladyship loves to please.

dorfise.

I love to please? O heaven!

mme. de burlet.

Come, come, be honest; have you not some small inclination to this young rattle? he’s not ill made.

[Pointing to Mondor.

mondor.

O fie!

mme. de burlet.

Young, rich, and handsome.

mondor.

Pooh, prithee.

dorfise.

O abominable! a handsome young man is my aversion; handsome and young! O fie, fie!

mondor.

Upon my soul, madam, I am concerned for both of us; the wicked woman to talk so: but pray, madam, this Blandford, who is come back without his ship, is he so rich, and young, and handsome?

dorfise.

Blandford? why, is he here?

mondor.

Certainly.

collette.

[Entering hastily.

O madam! I come to tell you—

dorfise.

[Whispering to Collette.

Hark’ee.

mme. de burlet.

How’s this?

dorfise.

[To Mondor.

I thought since he took his leave of me he had been cured of all his faults; to tell you the truth, I imagined he was dead long ago.

mondor.

No, madam, he is alive, I assure you: the pirate intends to sink me at once: he pretends to be a favorite of yours.

dorfise.

[Aside to Collette.

O Collette!

collette.

O madam!

dorfise.

[To Mondor.

Dear sir, can’t you find out some means of sending him to sea again?

mondor.

O yes: with all my heart.

mme. de burlet.

Pray, sir, is there any news of his intimate friend and confidant, Darmin? has he arrived?

mondor.

He has, madam: the captain it seems fell in with him at some port or other: they have had a battle at sea, and now are returned home without a stiver; Blandford has brought with him a little Greek, too, the handsomest, genteelest—

dorfise.

O yes: I believe I saw him just by my house: large black eyes?

mondor.

The same.

dorfise.

Penetrating, yet full of softness: rosy cheeks?

mondor.

He has so.

dorfise.

Fine hair, and teeth: something in his air that’s noble and fine?

mondor.

The very paragon of nature.

dorfise.

If his morals are good; if he is well-born and discreet, I’ll see him: you shall bring him to me—though he is young.

mme. de burlet.

I must find out Darmin’s lodging as soon as possible: here, la Fleur, go this minute and carry him these five hundred pounds, [she gives a purse to la Fleur] and tell him I expect Blandford and him to supper with me: our friends have long wished for his return, and none more than myself; never did I know a better creature, more honest, or ingenuous: I admire above all things his amiable complacency, and those social virtues that so strongly recommend him.

dorfise.

Blandford is not of his disposition: he is so serious.

mondor.

So full of spleen!

dorfise.

True, and so jealous!

mondor.

So affronting!

dorfise.

He is—

mondor.

Very true.

dorfise.

Let me speak, sir; I say he is—

mondor.

Yes, madam, I attend to you—he is—

dorfise.

He is in short a dangerous man.

mme. de burlet.

They tell me he has fought nobly for his king and country, and distinguished himself greatly at sea.

dorfise.

That may be, cousin, but by land he is dreadfully troublesome.

mondor.

And besides he is—

dorfise.

True.

mondor.

O those sailors have all of them such horrid principles.

dorfise.

They have so.

mme. de burlet.

But I have heard, cousin, that you formerly gave him some hopes—

dorfise.

Yes: but since that I have taken an antipathy to the whole world, and quitted it: I began with him; ’twas he and the world together that have made me so fearful.

SCENE II.

dorfise, mme. de burlet, mondor, collette.

collette.

Madam!

dorfise.

Well!

collette.

M. Blandford has come.

dorfise.

O heaven!

mme. de burlet.

Is Darmin with him?

collette.

Yes, madam.

mme. de burlet.

I am heartily glad of it.

dorfise.

And I’m heartily sorry; I must retire; I would fly from the whole world.

mondor.

With me, I hope.

dorfise.

No, sir, if you please, without you.

[She goes out.

SCENE III.

mme. de burlet, blandford, darmin, mondor, adine.

darmin.

[To Mme. de Burlet.

Permit me, madam, at length on my knees—

mme. de burlet.

[Running up to Darmin.

O my dear Darmin, come along, I’ve made an engagement for you to go to the ball when the comedy is over: we’ll prate as we go along; my chariot’s below.

[To Blandford.

And you, M. Solemnity, will you come with us?

blandford.

No: I came here, madam, on a serious affair: away, ye train of triflers, go, and pretend to pleasures which you never enjoy; go, and be weary of one another as soon as you can: you and I [turning to Adine] will go in search of Dorfise.

SCENE IV.

blandford, adine, collette.

blandford.

Then we shall see a woman indeed; a woman submitting to every duty of life; a woman who for me has renounced the whole world; and who to her faithful passion joins the most scrupulous and rigid virtue: I hope you will endeavor to recommend yourself to her.

adine.

Of that, sir, you may assure yourself; I shall try to imitate her virtues; her example may be the best instruction to me.

blandford.

I’m glad to hear you think so: I’ll introduce you to her: from this time forward I shall look upon you, Adine, as a son whom fortune has thrown in my way, to make amends for all her past unkindness; it is impossible to know without loving thee; your disposition is only too pliant and flexible; nothing therefore can be of more service to you than to keep company with a prudent and discreet woman, whose acquaintance will improve the goodness of your heart, and confirm you in your honesty, and love of justice, without depriving you at the same time of that sweetness and complacency which I own I find myself deficient in: a woman of sense and beauty, who has nothing trifling or ridiculous in her, is an excellent school for a young fellow at your time of life; it will form your mind, and direct your heart; her house is the temple of honor.

adine.

The sooner we visit it then the better; but her example is so uncommon, I fear I shall never be able to follow it.

blandford.

Why not?

adine.

Because I like yours better: there is something in your virtue, though the external appearance has too much severity in it, that charms me: it must, I am sure, be good at the bottom: you have always been my favorite, but for Dorfise—

blandford.

[Going towards the door of Dorfise’s house.

You must not indeed flatter yourself that you can at once be able to imitate her; but in time you may: however, let me advise you to see Dorfise, and to avoid her cousin.

[He is going in, Collette comes out, stops him, and shuts the door; he knocks at it.

collette.

You must not go in, sir.

blandford.

Not I?

collette.

No, sir.

blandford.

How’s this, Blandford refused admittance?

collette.

My mistress, sir, is retired to her apartment, and would be private.

blandford.

I admire her delicacy, but I must go in.

collette.

Pray hear me, sir.

blandford.

Not I: I will go in, and this minute too.

[He goes in.

collette.

Stay, sir.

adine.

I’ll follow him and see the event of this strange interview.

SCENE V.

collette.

[Alone.

Now will he see her, and discover all: I’m frightened to death about it: ’twill be all over now with my poor mistress: what a foolish woman! to stipulate this secret marriage, and give herself to such a fellow as Bartolin: what will the malicious world say? well; women are strange creatures, that’s the truth of it: nay, and so are the men too: what excessive weakness! to be sure my mistress is a fool; she deceives herself and everybody else; and half her time is employed in finding out artifices to hide her indiscretion, and repair her reputation. She follows her inclination, and then has recourse to intrigue and management, and yet she takes no care of the main point: this is a cursed adventure for us, and a most unfortunate return: how will Blandford take the injury she has done him? here have we no less than three husbands in the house, two of them promised, and the other, I believe, absolutely taken: a woman in such a case must be a little hampered.

SCENE VI.

dorfise, collette.

collette.

O madam, what’s to be done?

dorfise.

Fear nothing; there are ways and means to dazzle people’s eyes, to delay, and put off matters; men are easily managed, their weakness is our strength, and helps our designs against them: I have got myself out of the worst scrape: our disagreeable interview is over—and I have sent the good man—God speed him—into the country to his old crony Bartolin. who may lend him some money; at least I shall gain time by it, and that’s enough.

collette.

But surely, madam, the deuce was in you to sign that plagued contract! what had you to do with Bartolin?

dorfise.

The devil, my dear, is full of spite, that’s certain: that fellow persecuted me so: but we tempt, and are tempted, and the heart easily surrenders: you know we heard that Blandford would never come back again.

collette.

That he was dead.

dorfise.

I was left without any support, money or friends, and weak withal: all owing to the weakness of my sex, Collette; but our stars will prevail: ’tis often the lot of a beauty to marry a scab: my heart was severely attacked.

collette.

There are certain seasons very dangerous to a prude: but if you must sacrifice to love, you should have taken the chevalier, he is handsome.

dorfise.

O but I wanted a bit of intrigue and mystery, besides I am not fond of his character: but he is useful to me: he is my puffer, my emissary: he’s a prate-apace you know, and can scatter reports about town for me that may be serviceable.

collette.

But Bartolin is such a villain.

dorfise.

Yes, but—

collette.

And for his wit, I’m sure there are no charms in that.

dorfise.

No: but—

collette.

But what?

dorfise.

Fate, whim, caprice, my unhappy circumstances, a little avarice withal, and then opportunity—in short, I surrendered, played the fool, and signed the contract. I kept, you know, Blandford’s strong box, and after he was gone, gave away a little of his money for him—out of charity: who would ever have thought, that, after two years, he should be constant to his old flame, and come back again to look for his wife and his strong box?

collette.

Everybody here said he was dead, and now he is not; the fellow’s a fool, and stands in his own light.

dorfise.

[Resuming the Prude.

Well, since the man’s alive, I must give him his jewels back: let him take them: but Bartolin has got them to keep for me; he fancies they are mine, holds them fast, and is fond of them and as jealous as he is of me.

collette.

So I suppose.

dorfise.

Husbands, jewels, virtue, and character, how to reconcile you all, heaven knows!

SCENE VII.

mondor, adine, dorfise.

mondor.

I must drive away this powerful rival, who gives himself such airs, and despises me; positively must.

adine.

[Coming in slowly.

What’s this? I’ll listen a little.

mondor.

In short, I must make myself happy, and punish his insolence: ’tis you, ’tis Dorfise alone whom I adore: let old Darmin enjoy his little coquette, they are not worth our notice: but Blandford, the severe and virtuous Blandford, there I own I could wish to triumph: he thinks you can refuse him nothing, because he is a man of honor and virtue: now to me these are the most disagreeable creatures in the universe; indeed, my queen, you’ll soon be heartily tired of him.

dorfise.

[Prudishly, after looking steadfastly at Adine.

You are mistaken, sir: I have the highest respect and esteem for M. Blandford.

mondor.

There are those, madam, whom one may esteem, and yet laugh at, and make fools of: is it not so?

adine.

[Aside.

Amazing! she is constant and virtuous: doubtless she loves him: I am confounded: who would have thought it?

dorfise.

What is he talking of?

adine.

[Aside.

Dorfise is faithful, and, to complete my misery, she is handsome.

dorfise.

[To Mondor, after looking tenderly at Adine.

He says, I am handsome.

mondor.

There he’s right: but he begins to be troublesome: hark’ee, child, I have something to say to this lady in private.

adine.

I will retire, sir.

dorfise.

[To Mondor.

I say, sir, you are greatly mistaken.

[To Adine.

Stay you here, my dear.

[To Mondor.

How dare you, sir, send him away?

[To Adine.

Come hither, child: he’s almost ready to weep; the sweet boy! he shall stay with me: Blandford brought him to me; and from the first moment I took a fancy to him: I like his disposition.

mondor.

O let his disposition alone, for heaven’s sake, and attend to me: this Blandford, madam, I know you hate him: you have often told me he is brutal, jealous—

dorfise.

[Angrily.

Never, sir.

[To Adine.

What age are you?

adine.

Eighteen, madam.

dorfise.

Such tender youth as thine requires the curb of wisdom to guide and direct it: vice is bewitching, temptations frequent, and example dangerous: a single glance may be your ruin; be upon your guard against women, nay, and against yourself, and dread the poisonous blast that withers the sweet flower of virtue.

mondor.

Prithee, Dorfise, let the boy’s flower alone: what is it to you whether it be withered or not? mind me, my dear.

dorfise.

My God! his innocence is so engaging!

mondor.

’Tis a mere child.

dorfise.

[Coming up to Adine.

What’s your name, my dear, and whence come you?

adine.

My name, madam, is Adine; I was born in Greece: M. Blandford brought me over with Darmin.

dorfise.

’Twas kindly done of him.

mondor.

What a ridiculous curiosity! here I am making strong love to you, and you all the while talking to a child.

dorfise.

[Softly.

Be quiet, you blockhead!

SCENE VIII.

dorfise, mondor, adine, collette.

collette.

Madam.

dorfise.

Well!

collette.

They wait for you at the assembly.

dorfise.

Well: I shall be there presently.

mondor.

Hang your engagement: I tell you what, my dear; you and I will put an end to these prudish meetings, these conspiracies against love, taste, and gayety: upon my word, child, it does not become a beautiful young creature, as you are, to go about declaring against everything that’s joyous, amongst a parcel of toothless old beldames, that meet together in their gloomy vaults to weep over the pleasures of the living: but I’ll go and rout these immortal tattlers, and stop their clack with a hundred bon-mots.

dorfise.

For heaven’s sake, don’t go and expose me there, I desire you: positively you shall not.

mondor.

Positively I will, this minute, and tell them you are coming.

[He goes out.

dorfise.

The wild creature!

[To Adine.

Avoid, my dear, whatever you do, such fools as these: be prudent, and discreet: make my compliments to Blandford—what a piercing eye!

adine.

[Turning back.

Did you speak, madam?

dorfise.

That sweet complexion! that ingenuous look! so charming! so modest!—I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you often.

adine.

I shall pay my respects, madam, with the greatest pleasure: madam, your servant.

dorfise.

Adieu, my dear child.

adine.

I don’t know what to think of it: I can’t discover whether she deceives him or not; all I know is, I love him.

SCENE IX.

dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

[Looking after Adine.

What said he? I love! love whom? perhaps the boy has fallen in love with me; he talks to himself, stops, and looks at me; I have certainly turned his brain.

collette.

He ogles you most wonderfully, and looks with such tenderness.

dorfise.

Is that my fault, Collette? how can I possibly help it?

collette.

Very true, madam: but danger approaches: I am terribly afraid of this Blandford’s coming back again, and dread still more the savage resentment of Bartolin.

dorfise.

[Sighing.

This young Turk’s mighty handsome! do you think he is a Turk? that an infidel can have such softness in his manner, so fine a figure? I fancy I could convert him.

collette.

I’ll tell you what I fancy: that when it is discovered you are married to Bartolin, your reputation will be severely handled: Blandford will storm dreadfully, and your little Turk will be of no great service to you.

dorfise.

Never do you fear.

collette.

I have long, madam, relied on your prudence: but Bartolin is a jealous brute, and what’s worse, he is—your husband: ’tis really a melancholy case, and indeed rather singular: the two rivals, I am afraid, will be very intractable.

dorfise.

O I can avoid them both: peace is the object of my wishes: it is my duty and my interest to foresee and prevent the ill consequences of a discovery; I have friends, men of merit and fortune.

collette.

Take their advice.

dorfise.

I intend to, immediately.

collette.

But whose?

dorfise.

Why, let me see—suppose I ask this stranger—this little—

collette.

Ask his advice? the advice of a beardless boy?

dorfise.

He seems to be very sensible, and if he is, why not consult him? let me tell you, young people are the best counsellors in things of this kind: he might throw some light on my affairs; besides, he is Blandford’s friend, and I must talk with him.

collette.

O to be sure, madam, ’tis quite necessary.

dorfise.

And as one talks over such things better at table, it would not be amiss to ask him to dinner: what think you?

collette.

Softly there, madam: excuse me, but you who are so afraid of scandal—

dorfise.

I am afraid of nothing: I know what I am about: when once a reputation is established, we may be perfectly easy about it: all the party will defend us, and cry out on our side.

collette.

Ay, but the world will talk, madam.

dorfise.

Well! for once we’ll submit to the wicked world: I’ll give up this innocent dinner, and not sharpen their malicious tongues: I’ll talk no more with Adine, never see him again; and yet, after all, what could they say of a child? but to chastity and virtue I will add the appearance of them also; will observe decency and decorum: I’ll do it in my cousin’s name, and beg her—

collette.

An excellent contrivance! a woman of the world has no reputation to lose; one may put her name to ten billets-doux; she may have as many lovers, as many assignations as she pleases: nobody’s offended, nobody blushes, nobody’s surprised: but if, perchance, a lady of honor makes a false step, it must be carefully concealed.

dorfise.

A false step! I make a false step! thank heaven! I have nothing to reproach myself with: to be sure, I have signed, but I am not yet absolute Mme. Bartolin: he has a claim, and that’s all; and perhaps I may find a method to get rid of my master: I have an excellent design in my head: if this handsome Turk has any inclination to me, I am satisfied everything will go well; I am yet mistress of myself, and can terminate all happily: go you, and ask him to dinner: is there any harm in having an agreeable young fellow at one’s table, and one that can give good advice, too?

collette.

O excellent advice! nothing can be more proper: let us immediately set about this charitable work.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

Is it not he? how uneasy I am! hark! somebody knocks; he’s come: Collette, hullo! Collette: ’tis he.

collette.

No, madam, ’tis the chevalier; that impertinent coxcomb, who runs in and out, skips, laughs, prates, and flutters about perpetually; he swears he will have a tête-à-tête with you; and at last, between jest and earnest, I have driven him away.

dorfise.

O send him to my cousin: I hate their insipid parties, their ridiculous prating and nonsense: dear Collette, preserve me from them.

collette.

Hush! hush! I hear somebody coming.

dorfise.

O ’tis my sweet Greek.

collette.

’Tis he, I believe.

SCENE II.

dorfise, adine.

dorfise.

Pray come in: good morrow to you, sir: how I tremble! pray, sir, be seated.

adine.

I’m quite confounded—I beg pardon, madam, I believe, another—

dorfise.

Be not alarmed, sir: I am that other: my cousin dines abroad to-day with Blandford: you must supply his place, and stay with me.

adine.

Supply his place, madam! who can do that? what passion can equal his, or who can exceed him in virtue, honor, and nobleness of soul?

dorfise.

You talk of him with warmth; your friendship has life and spirit in it: I admire you for it.

adine.

’Tis a sincere regard, but an unhappy one.

dorfise.

Tenderness is to the last degree becoming in youth like thine; virtue is nothing, if it is not linked by the sacred bonds of friendship.

adine.

Alas! if a natural sensibility is the infallible mark of virtue, without vanity, I may boast some degree of worth and honesty.

dorfise.

A soul so noble deserves to be cultivated and improved; perhaps I was born to be the happy instrument; many a woman has long wished in vain to find a tender friend, lively, yet discreet, who possessed all the graces of youth without its flighty extravagance; and, if I am not deceived, in thee all those qualities are united: indeed they are: what lucky star conducted thee to Marseilles?

adine.

I was in Greece, and the brave Blandford brought me from thence; I have told you so twice already.

dorfise.

Suppose you have, I could hear it again and again: but tell me, why is that fair forehead wrapped up in a turban? are you really a Turk?

adine.

Greece is my country.

dorfise.

Who would have thought it? Is Greece in Turkey then? O how I should like to talk Greek with you! why you have all the sprightliness, all the natural ease of a true Frenchman: surely nature mistook when she made you a Greek: well, I bless Providence for throwing you thus amongst us.

adine.

Here I am, to my sorrow.

dorfise.

And canst thou be unhappy?

adine.

Indeed I am so: but ’tis the fault of my own heart.

dorfise.

Ay: ’tis the heart that does all the good and all the evil in this world: ’tis that which makes us both miserable: have you any engagement then?

adine.

I have, indeed: a base intriguing woman has betrayed me: her heart, like her face, is painted and disguised: she is bold, haughty, and full of artifice; more dangerous, because she hides her vices beneath the mask of virtue: how cruel is it that so false a heart should govern one who is but too honest!

dorfise.

Some faithless woman! let us be revenged on her: who is she? of what rank? what country? what is her name?

adine.

That I must not tell you.

dorfise.

Why so? I fear you have art, too, the art of concealment: O you have every talent to please and to delight, young and discreet, beautiful and sensible: but I will explain myself: if, to make you amends for all the injuries you have received, you should meet with a woman rich, amiable, admired, and esteemed; one who had a heart constant, firm, and hitherto untouched, such as is seldom to be met with in Turkey, and more seldom perhaps in this country; if such a one could be found, tell me, sweet youth, what think you? what would you say to her?

adine.

I would say—she meant but to deceive me.

dorfise.

Nay, that would be carrying your distrust too far: come, come, be more confident.

adine.

Forgive me, madam; but the unfortunate, you know, are always a little suspicious.

dorfise.

And what, for example, may your suspicions be whilst I am talking to and looking at you?

adine.

My suspicions are that you mean to try me.

dorfise.

O the malicious little rogue! how cunning he is with that air of innocence: ’tis love himself just out of his childhood: get you gone: I am in absolute danger: positively I’ll see you no more.

adine.

Since ’tis your order, madam, I take my leave.

dorfise.

But you need not be in such a hurry to obey: come back, come back, I esteem you too much to be angry with you; but don’t abuse my esteem, my sincere regard.

adine.

But you esteem Blandford: can one esteem two at the same time?

dorfise.

O no, never: the laws of reason and of love allow succession, but not division: you’ll learn a great deal by living with me, child.

adine.

I have learned a great deal by what I see already.

dorfise.

When heaven, my dear, makes a fine woman, it always at the same time forms a man on purpose for her: we go in search of each other for a long time, and make twenty choices before we fix on the right; we are always looking as it were for our counterpart, and seldom, very seldom, meet with it—by a secret instinct we fly after true happiness; and she [looking tenderly at him] who finds you, need look no further.

adine.

If you knew what I really am, you would soon change your opinion of me.

dorfise.

Never.

adine.

If once you knew me, I’m sure you would think me unworthy, of your care: we should both be caught in the same snare.

dorfise.

Caught, my dear, what can you mean? we’re interrupted: O ’tis you, Collette.

SCENE III.

collette, dorfise, adine.

collette.

[In a violent flurry.

Ay, madam, I could not help it; but there’s a more impertinent visitor still coming; M. Bartolin.

dorfise.

Indeed! I did not expect him till to-morrow: the villain has deceived me: returned already!

collette.

Ay, madam, and here’s another unlucky accident: the chevalier, that king of coxcombs, not knowing the master of the house, is disputing with him in the street, and keeps him there in spite of his teeth.

dorfise.

So much the better.

collette.

No, madam, so much the worse: for this blunderer, not knowing whom he is talking to, laughs in his face, insists upon it that nobody shall come in here to-day; that everybody shall be excluded as well as himself; that he’s an impertinent rascal, and that you were engaged in your own apartment in a sober tête-à-tête with a pretty young fellow. Bartolin swears in wrath that he’ll break the door down: Mondor splits his sides with laughing, and the other bursts with spleen.

dorfise.

And I in the meantime am dying with fear. O Collette, what shall I do? at what hole shall we creep out?

adine.

What can this mystery be?

dorfise.

The mystery is, that we are both undone: Collette, where are you going?

adine.

What will become of me?

dorfise.

[To Collette.

Hark’ee: stay: what a time was this for him to return! [to Adine] you must hide yourself for tonight in this closet: you’ll find a black sack there, wrap yourself up in it, and be quiet. My God! it is he, that’s certain.

adine.

[Going into the closet.

O love, what do I suffer for thee!

dorfise.

Poor lad! he’s desperately fond of me.

collette.

Hush! hush! here he comes, your dear spouse.

SCENE IV.

bartolin, dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

[Meeting Bartolin.

My dear sir, heaven be with you! how late you are: you made me so uneasy, I was ready to die with fretting.

bartolin.

Mondor told me quite another story.

dorfise.

It’s all a lie, every syllable he says, a horrid lie: I think I ought to be believed first; you know I’m sincere: the fellow loves me to madness, and is piqued at my refusal of him: his eternal clack teases me to death: I will positively never see him again.

bartolin.

He seemed to me to talk rationally enough.

dorfise.

Don’t believe a word he says.

bartolin.

Well, well, I shan’t mind him: I only came to finish our affairs, and to take some necessaries here out of the closet.

dorfise.

[In a persuasive tone.

What are you doing there now? come, don’t go into a body’s closet.

bartolin.

Why not?

dorfise.

[After pausing a little.

Why, do you know, I had the same thought as you, and have just been putting my papers in order there, so I sent for our old advocate, and we were consulting together, when he was taken with a sudden weakness.

bartolin.

O nothing but old age, he’s very old.

collette.

And so, sir, they took him in there to give him

bartolin.

Ay, I understand you.

dorfise.

He’s retired a little, and has taken a dose of my syrup: I suppose by this time he has gone to sleep.

bartolin.

That he has not, I am sure, for I hear him walking about and coughing.

collette.

And would you go to disturb an advocate in the midst of his cough?

bartolin.

I don’t like this: I’ll go in.

dorfise.

Grant heaven he may find nothing there: hark! what do I hear! he cries out; murder! my poor advocate’s killed to be sure, and I am undone: which way shall I fly? in what convent shall I hide my shame? where shall I drown myself?

bartolin.

[Returning, and holding Adine by the arm.

O ho! my dear spouse that is to be: your advocates are mighty pretty figures: you have made a good choice, picked him out from the whole bar: come, my old practitioner, you must disappear from this court, and harangue out the window: away with you.

dorfise.

My dear husband, do but hear me.

adine.

He her husband!

bartolin.

[To Adine.

Come, rascal! I must begin my revenge upon you, and curry you out of your insolence.

adine.

Alas! sir, on my knees I ask your pardon; indeed I have not merited your resentment: when you know me, you will lament my fate: I am not what I appear to be.

bartolin.

You appear, my friend, to be a scoundrel, a dangerous rival, and shall be punished: come along, sir.

adine.

Help, here, help! for heaven’s sake, sir.

dorfise.

He’s mad with passion: help, neighbors, help!

bartolin.

Hold your tongue.

dorfise, collette, adine.

Help, here, help!

bartolin.

[Thrusting out Adine.

Come, sir, get out of my house.

SCENE V.

dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

What an unfortunate affair this is! he’ll kill the poor boy, and me, too, perhaps.

collette.

To be sure, nothing but the devil could make you sign a contract with such a wretch as this.

dorfise.

The villain! go, Collette, this minute, to a justice, and get a warrant for him: charge him with—

collette.

With what, madam?

dorfise.

With everything.

collette.

Very well, madam: but which way are you going?

dorfise.

That I know not.

SCENE VI.

mme. de burlet, dorfise, collette.

mme. de burlet.

Why, cousin, cousin, what’s the matter?

dorfise.

O cousin!

mme. de burlet.

One would have thought you’d been robbed and murdered, or that your house had been on fire: what a roaring and a noise there is here, my dear!

dorfise.

O cousin, I’ll tell you the affair; but, for heaven’s sake, keep my secret.

mme. de burlet.

I’m no keeper of secrets, cousin; but I can be as discreet as other folks upon occasion: what is this mighty affair of yours?

dorfise.

The affair’s a very bad one, I assure you; in short—I am—

mme. de burlet.

What?

dorfise.

Promised in marriage, cousin.

mme. de burlet.

I know it, my dear—to Blandford: so much the better: I think it’s a good match: I wish you happy, and intend to dance at your wedding.

dorfise.

O my dear, you’re mistaken: Bartolin, who is now swearing below stairs, is the man.

mme. de burlet.

Indeed! so much the worse: I don’t approve of your choice; but if it is done, it can’t be helped: is he absolutely your husband to all intents and purposes?

dorfise.

Not yet: the world is an utter stranger to it; but the contract has been made a great while.

mme. de burlet.

O cancel it by all means.

dorfise.

It will set the wicked world talking: O cousin, I have been sadly treated. This vile man, you must know, found me with a young Turk, who was shut up in my closet; not with any bad design.

mme. de burlet.

O no, to be sure! pray, cousin, is not this a little out of character for a prude?

dorfise.

Not at all: it is a little faux-pas, a small weakness only.

mme. de burlet.

Well, I am glad you own so much: our faults are sometimes useful: this slip may soften your temper; perhaps for the future you will be less severe.

dorfise.

Severe or not, for heaven’s sake, cousin, get me out of this scrape, and save me from the tongue of scandal, and the violence of Bartolin; if possible, deliver the poor lad, who is scarce eighteen. O, here comes my spouse.

SCENE VII.

bartolin, dorfise, mme. de burlet.

mme. de burlet.

What an uproar you are making here for nothing! only on a slight suspicion to put all her friends in such a taking: fie, M. Bartolin.

bartolin.

I ask pardon: indeed, ladies, I am ashamed, and sorry I conceived such suspicions; but appearances were strong against her: how indeed could I ever have imagined that this young fellow, for so I thought him, was only a girl in disguise?

dorfise.

[Aside.

An excellent come-off.

mme. de burlet.

Mighty well indeed! so my lady here took a girl for a boy?

bartolin.

The poor child is in tears still: by my troth, I pitied her: but why could you not have told me who she was? why take a pleasure in trying my temper, and making me angry.

dorfise.

[Aside.

Droll enough this! he has played his part well, however, to persuade Bartolin he is a girl, and get off so well: ’twas a charming contrivance: the dear little rogue! but love is a great wit. [To Bartolin] Now thou abominable jealous wretch, answer me, how dare you thus affront my virtue? the poor little innocent confided in me; my cousin here knows how warmly I espoused her cause, and protected her honor: you ought to have had a loose coquette, a jilt, for your wife; you deserve no better, and I hope you’ll meet with one: I’ll expose you, sir, though I know it will cost me dear, but I am determined at all events to have the contract annulled.

bartolin.

I know upon these occasions women must cry: but prithee, my dear, don’t cry so much: come, let us be friends; and let me desire you, madam, [to Mme.de Burlet] to say nothing about this affair: I have some very good reasons for concealing it.

dorfise.

[To Mme. de Burlet.

Be silent, dear cousin, and save me; on no account mention it to the good M. Blandford.

mme. de burlet.

You may depend on it, I never will.

bartolin.

We shall be greatly obliged to you.

SCENE VIII.

dorfise, mme. de burlet, bartolin, collette.

collette.

M. Blandford is below, madam, and says he must come up.

dorfise.

O dreadful! this is my luck! always crossed—

bartolin.

But after all—

mme. de burlet.

Nay, nay, after what you have seen, and being guilty of so much injustice as you have, you have no business to give yourself airs: try what you can do—to obey.

SCENE IX.

dorfise, mme. de burlet.

mme. de burlet.

I’m glad to see this affair has turned out so well, however: to be sure your intended spouse is rather short-sighted: but between you and me, cousin, it was a strange choice this: and then to take a boy for a girl, at his age: well, husbands will be husbands still I find, always jealous, always laughed at, and led by the nose.

dorfise.

[Prudishly.

I don’t understand this language, madam, nor have I deserved this treatment from you: surely you don’t really believe that a young fellow was locked up in my closet?

mme. de burlet.

Indeed but I do, my dear.

dorfise.

What! when my husband told you to the contrary?

mme. de burlet.

Perhaps your spouse might be mistaken; he may have bad eyes: besides, cousin, did you not tell me yourself here in this very place, that a young fellow—

dorfise.

Ridiculous! what I, child, I tell you so? never: do you think I have lost my senses? indeed, cousin, you should take more care what you say: when once a woman’s tongue has got a habit of talking thus lightly, and spreading scandalous stories, invented merely to calumniate and injure people, there is no end of it, but ’tis a hundred to one that she repents of it sometime in her life.

mme. de burlet.

I calumniate, I scandalize you, cousin?

dorfise.

You, madam: I vow and swear—

mme. de burlet.

Don’t swear, cousin.

dorfise.

But I will.

mme. de burlet.

Fie, my dear, fie: come, come, I shall believe no more of the story than I ought to believe: take a husband, cousin, two if you please; deceive them both as well as you can; make young fellows pass for girls; on the strength of your character govern twenty families, and be called a woman of virtue; with all my heart, it will give me no uneasiness, you are extremely welcome: nay, I admire your management and discretion: ’tis your pride and glory to deceive the world, and mine to divert myself with it, without descending to falsehood: I live for my pleasure: adieu, my dear, my worldly weakness bends in all humility to your profound wisdom: dear cousin, adieu.

SCENE X.

dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

Now will that foolish creature go and pull me to pieces: my honor and my character are gone: the libertines will laugh at my expense: Dorfise will be the common butt of every satirist: my name will be hitched into a hundred rhymes, and furnish matter for every singsong in town: Blandford will believe the scandal, and Bartolin will cry for vengeance: how shall I stop the tongues of calumny? two husbands and a lover in one day! what a deal one has to go through to be a prude! would it not be better after all to fear nothing, to affect nothing, and be a plain woman of honor? well: one day or other I’ll try to be one.

collette.

At least, madam, let us take care to appear as such; when we do all we can, you know, we have done enough; and she is not always a woman of virtue who wishes to be so.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

dorfise, collette.

dorfise.

O Collette, I’m inevitably ruined: would I could see young Adine; he is so kind, and so sensible! he would tell me everything they do and say, and I might take my measures with him accordingly: my affairs would at least be more settled, and I should know what I have to depend on; what shall I do, Collette?

collette.

See him, and talk to him freely.

dorfise.

Right: towards evening: O Collette, if success would but crown this mysterious affair, if I could preserve my reputation, and keep my lover, if I could but keep one of them, I should be happy.

collette.

Ay, ay, one of them is enough, in conscience.

dorfise.

But have you taken care the chevalier shall be here presently; that he shall come privately; and, according to custom, let everybody know it?

collette.

O never fear, he’ll be here I warrant you; he’s always ready, and fancies you’ve a passion for him.

dorfise.

He may be of service: wise men in their designs, the better to compass their ends, always make use of fools.

SCENE II.

dorfise, mondor, collette.

dorfise.

My dear chevalier, come along: I have something to say to you.

mondor.

You know, madam, I am the lowest of your subjects, your humble slave, your chevalier: what must I do? tilt for you? fight for you? die for you? spite of all your cruelty, I am ready: speak, madam, and it is done.

dorfise.

And am I indeed so happy as to have charmed the agreeable Mondor? but do you love me as you ought to love me, with that pure and refined passion?

mondor.

I do; but prithee, my dear, don’t be so formal; beauty is most engaging when it is easy and tractable: the excess of virtue is disgusting: in short, my dear, you want a little of my correction.

dorfise.

What think you of young Adine?

mondor.

Who, I? nothing at all? his figure makes me perfectly easy, I assure you: Mars and Hercules were never jealous of Adonis.

dorfise.

Well: I love your confidence, and shall reward it: the malicious world perhaps will tell you I am secretly engaged; but ’tis false; believe them not: a hundred lovers have ogled, and teased me, but I was born to be subdued by you, and you alone.

mondor.

That’s more indeed than I could flatter myself with the hopes of.

dorfise.

To convince you of it, I promise to marry you as soon as ever you please: be prudent, and be happy.

mondor.

Happiness is enough for me, prudence we’ll leave to another opportunity: but do not, my dear charmer, delay it: time, you know, is precious.

dorfise.

But then one thing I must insist on from you.

mondor.

I am your husband, madam, and you may command me.

dorfise.

You must take care that none of my troublesome visitors intrude on me to-night: the proud, peevish Blandford, my cousin, and her fool Darmin, with all their train of impertinent relations, must go somewhere else, for I positively will not be disturbed by them; then, chevalier, at midnight, and not before, I’ll meet you in the arbor; bring your lawyer with you, and we’ll sign and seal.

mondor.

Transporting thought! how I shall triumph over that fool Blandford! well, I will so laugh at, so ridicule the poor creature.

dorfise.

Be sure you don’t forget to be at my window a little before midnight: away: be discreet.

mondor.

O if Blandford did but know this!

dorfise.

Away, begone, or we shall be surprised.

mondor.

Adieu, my dear wife.

dorfise.

Adieu.

mondor.

I go with rapture, to wait for the dear happy hour when prudery shall be sacrificed to love.

SCENE III.

dorfise, collette.

collette.

Well, if I can guess at your design, hang me: ’tis a riddle to me.

dorfise.

I’ll explain it to you: I’ve made Mondor promise to tell nothing, but I know very well he’ll tell all, that’s enough, his tale will justify me: Blandford will think everything mere calumny, and not know a word of the truth; to-day at least I shall be safe; and after to-morrow, if success crowns my designs, I shall be afraid of nobody.

collette.

Delightful! I’m glad to hear you say so, and yet you put me in a horrid fright: are you sure, ma’am, the plan is well laid? and that you won’t, after all, fall into the snare yourself, which you laid for others? for heaven’s sake, take care what you do.

dorfise.

O Collette, Collette, how strangely one slip brings on another! we are led aside from error to error, and from crime to crime, till our heads turn round, and we fall down the precipice: but I have one string still to my bow; I am sure of young Adine: the chevalier comes at twelve, but my little lover will be beforehand with him: let him be here at nine, Collette, do you hear me?

collette.

I’ll take care of that, madam.

dorfise.

They take him for a girl, by his air, his voice, and his beardless chin; therefore, tell him I would have him dress himself in girl’s clothes.

collette.

An excellent scheme! heaven prosper it!

dorfise.

The boy may serve, you know, to dispel one’s melancholy: but the great point I would bring about is, to throw all the scandal upon my cousin, and to make Blandford believe that Adine came here upon her account: let him fall a dupe to his own credulity.

collette.

The fittest instrument you could have chosen: for he believes everything that’s bad of her, and everything that’s good of you: imagines he sees clearly, and at the same time is stark blind: I have taken care already to confirm him in the opinion that our little coquette is in love with the boy, and not you.

dorfise.

To be sure, lies are bad things; but they are mighty serviceable sometimes, and do a great deal of good.

SCENE IV.

blandford, dorfise.

blandford.

O tempora! O mores! dreadful corruption indeed! to desire him to visit her! the poor, simple, ingenuous youth, she wants to draw him into a passion for her, and employs all the little subtleties, all the snares which love makes use of to catch unwary hearts.

dorfise.

Well, but after all, M. Blandford, she may not have carried it so far as we imagine: I would not do her so much injury as to suppose it: one should not think evil of one’s neighbor: to be sure, things were in a fair way, but you know our French coquettes.

blandford.

Yes, yes, I know them.

dorfise.

The moment a young man appears with an air of innocence and simplicity, they are after him.

blandford.

Yes; yes: vice, above all things, is fond of seducing virtue: but how, Dorfise, can you bear people of such character?

dorfise.

As patiently as I can, sir: but this is not all.

blandford.

Why, what, pray—

dorfise.

O sir, you have another tale to hear: do you know, these excellent contrivers would endeavor to persuade the world truly that the young fellow was brought in for me?

blandford.

For you?

dorfise.

Yes; they say I wanted to seduce him.

blandford.

Well, that to be sure is ridiculous to the last degree: for you!

dorfise.

Ay, for me, and that this pretty youth—

blandford.

That was really a fine invention.

dorfise.

A better than they think for. They have played me a great many such tricks: O M. Blandford, if you knew what I suffer! they’ll tell you, too, I’m to be married to that fool, Mondor, and this very night.

blandford.

O my dear Dorfise! the more thou art wounded by the envenomed darts of slander and calumny, with the warmer zeal shall this heart, that adores thee, defend thy injured and unspotted virtue.

dorfise.

You are deceived, indeed you are.

blandford.

No, Dorfise: I think I know myself a little, and I would have laid my life on it I saw your cousin ogling Adine this very day: let me tell you, it requires sense and understanding to be honest: I never knew a fool with a good heart: virtue itself is nothing but good sense: I am sorry for Darmin, because I really love and esteem him; it was against my advice he ventured to embark in such a leaky vessel.

SCENE V.

blandford, dorfise, darmin, mme. de burlet.

mme. de burlet.

What? always dismal and solemn, full of spleen and rancor, grumbling and growling at all mankind, that either don’t hear you, or if they do, only laugh at your folly? dear virtuous fool, finish thy soliloquies, and come along with me: I have just bought a few trinkets, you shall have some of them: come, we’re going to Mondor’s, he’s to treat us; I have ordered him to get music, to purge your melancholy humors; and after that, my dear, I’ll take you by the hand, and dance with you till to-morrow morning, [to Dorfise] ay, and you shall dance too, Mme. Prim.

dorfise.

Prithee, hair-brains, hold thy tongue: such things would not become me; and besides, madam, you should remember—

mme. de burlet.

None of your “besides” I beg you, madam: every thing is forgotten; my philosophy is, remember nothing.

dorfise.

[To Blandford.

You see now whether I was right or not: your servant, sir: she really grows too scandalous, I must be gone.

blandford.

O stay, madam.

dorfise.

No, sir: ’tis impossible: it hurts my soul, my honor—

mme. de burlet.

My goodness! talk less of honor, madam, and regard it more.

[Dorfise goes out.

darmin.

[To Mme. de Burlet.

She seems out of humor: I fancy my friend, Blandford, begins to find her out.

mme. de burlet.

O all the world must talk of it; but Darmin and I say nothing.

blandford.

I fancy not, indeed: you would hardly confess to me such folly and extravagance.

darmin.

No, sir; we would not make you so unhappy.

mme. de burlet.

We know your humor too well, to make you still more miserable by reproaching you with your misfortunes.

blandford.

Go, go, hide yourselves both, and die with shame.

mme. de burlet.

Why should we disturb at once the quiet of your whole life, by exposing Dorfise, and make you a common laughing-stock? no, sir; I own I am light and airy, free, and familiar, but have yet some goodness in me, and am no busybody: I should see you deceived a thousand times by your friend, and duped by your wife, hear your adventures chanted through every street, nay, sing them myself, before ever you should hear a word from me: to tell you the truth, the two great ends I have in view are peace and pleasure; I love myself, and therefore hate all idle reports and scandalous tales, true or false: live and be happy is my motto: and he, I think, is a great fool who makes himself miserable by the follies of others.

blandford.

Light, unthinking woman! it is not the affairs of others, it is your own, madam, that now call for your attention.

mme. de burlet.

Mine, sir?

blandford.

Yes, madam: ’tis you who are to blame, and highly, too; you who seduced a virtuous youth, and then endeavored to lay the shameful intrigue on the innocent Dorfise.

mme. de burlet.

O the scheme is excellent: it is more than I expected: and so it was I, who sometimes—

blandford.

Yes, madam, you yourself.

mme. de burlet.

With Adine!

blandford.

Yes.

mme. de burlet.

I am in love with him then?

blandford.

Most certainly.

mme. de burlet.

And ’twas I that put him in the closet?

blandford.

It was: the thing was clear enough.

mme. de burlet.

O mighty well! a lucky thought indeed! I admire the contrivance: O my dear madman, what a mixture thou art of honesty and folly! the very model of Don Quixote, brave, sensible, knowing, and virtuous, yet in one point an absolute fool; but for heaven’s sake take care how you recover your senses: believe me, it would be the worst thing you ever did in your life: well, folly has its advantages: adieu: come, Darmin.

SCENE VI.

blandford, darmin.

blandford.

Stay, Darmin, I have your honor and your interest at heart: I am angry, and I have reason to be so; in short, you must quit this artful woman, get out of the snare she has laid for you, despise her, or break with me.

darmin.

The alternative is a cruel one: I own to thee, I love my friend, and I love my mistress: but how can thy hard heart judge so uncharitably of all human kind: can’t you see that this web of perfidy is woven by a base, designing woman? that she deceives you, and would lay the shame and ignominy on another?

blandford.

Dost thou not see, fool as thou art, that a vile, scandalous, abandoned wretch has chosen thee for her tool, her butt, her stalking horse, that, like an idiot, you bite at the hook; and that she is only trying to see how far she can exercise her tyranny over your easy heart?

darmin.

Easy as it is, let me entreat you, ask the only witness who is able to determine it: I have sent for young Adine, he will tell you the whole truth of the affair.

blandford.

O yes: I doubt not but the jade has tutored her young parrot well, and taught him his lesson: but let him come, let him endeavor to deceive me; I shall not believe him: I see your intention, I see plainly enough, you want, by every artifice, to blacken and destroy my dear Dorfise, to draw me off to your niece, whose charms you have so often boasted: but you need not give yourself the trouble, for I shall never think of her.

darmin.

As you please for that: but indeed, Blandford, I pity your folly: to experience the falsehood of a perfidious woman may perhaps be many a poor man’s fate, and must be borne; but really to lose one’s money is a serious affair: this Bartolin, this noble friend of yours, has he refunded?

blandford.

What business is that of yours?

darmin.

I beg pardon, I thought it was; but I am mistaken: here comes Adine: I’ll retire: let me inform you, if you distrust him, you are more in the wrong than you think for: he has a noble heart, and you may one day know he is not what perhaps he might appear to be.

SCENE VII.

blandford, adine.

blandford.

So! I see they are all resolutely bent to lead me by the nose: Dorfise, thank heaven, is of another nature; she says nothing, but submits to her unhappy fate without appearing too deeply affected by it; too confident, or too timid; she avoids me, and hides herself in retirement; such is always the behavior of injured innocence. Now, young man, tell me the truth in every particular with sincerity; nature seems in you pure and uncorrupted; you know I love you; do not abuse my growing inclination to you, but consider that the happiness of my life is concerned in this affair.

adine.

Indeed, sir, I love you too well to abuse or to deceive you.

blandford.

Tell me then everything as it passed.

adine.

First then, I assure you, that Dorfise—

blandford.

Stop there, you mean her cousin, I’m sure you do.

adine.

I don’t indeed, sir.

blandford.

Well, go on.

adine.

Dorfise then, I say, introduced me by a private door to her chamber.

blandford.

She did, but ’twas not for herself.

adine.

It was.

blandford.

No, child; ’twas Mme. de Burlet, you know it was.

adine.

I tell you, sir, Dorfise was positively in love with me.

blandford.

The little rascal!

adine.

The excess of her passion surprised and shocked me: I was far from being pleased with it: nay, I assure you, I was angry at her: I was incensed at her falsehood; and told her, if I had been like her, I should have been more faithful.

blandford.

The villain! how they have prepared him! well, what followed?

adine.

After this she grew loud and vehement, when on a sudden a violent knocking was heard, and who should come in but her husband.

blandford.

Her husband! O very well! what a ridiculous story! the chevalier, I suppose.

adine.

No: a real husband, I assure you; for he was extremely brutal, and extremely jealous: he threatened to murder her, called her false, perfidious, infamous, and abandoned: I expected to have been killed, too, for he was in a dreadful rage with me, though for what reason I know not: I was forced to fall on my knees and entreat him to spare my life; I’m sure I tremble yet at the thoughts of him.

blandford.

The little coward! but this husband, what was his name?

adine.

I don’t know, indeed.

blandford.

A fine trick this!—what sort of a man was he? describe him to me.

adine.

He seemed to me, as far as the horrid fright I was in permitted me to observe him, a fellow of a very disagreeable aspect, fat and short, like a turnspit, flat-nosed, with a large chin, hunch-backed, a yellow-tanned complexion, gray eyebrows, and an eye that looked like—the devil.

blandford.

An excellent picture! how can I recollect him by all this? yellow, you say, tanned, gray, short and fat: who can it be? but you only mean, I see, to laugh at me.

adine.

Try, then, sir, and prove me: to-night, this very night, she has appointed again to meet me.

blandford.

Another appointment with Mme. de Burlet?

adine.

Still, sir, you will mistake the person.

blandford.

Not with Dorfise?

adine.

With her, indeed.

blandford.

With her?

adine.

With her, I tell you.

blandford.

Amazing! you confound me! an assignation with Dorfise this night?

adine.

This very night, sir; if you please, you may see me there: I am to go in girl’s clothes, which she herself sent me; and to go in by a private door to your mistress, sir, your faithful, prudent, discreet mistress.

blandford.

This is too much; I cannot, will not bear it: whichever way I consider it, I fear she is disloyal: may I depend upon you?

adine.

My heart is too deeply concerned for your interest and happiness to be insincere: yours I know is truth itself: indeed, M. Blandford, I love, and am faithful to you.

blandford.

The little flatterer!

adine.

Can you doubt my honor?

blandford.

Away! I—

SCENE VIII.

blandford, adine, mondor.

mondor.

Come, come, you make the guests wait, and stop the course of pleasure: why, you never wanted mirth and good company more in your life: to be sure, your affairs go badly enough; you have lost your mistress, but never mind it: you should not have set up for my rival; I told you I should gain the victory, and so I have.

blandford.

What would you inform me of, friend?

mondor.

Nay, nothing of consequence, only that I’m going to be married to your mistress, that’s all.

blandford.

O very well! I know that already.

mondor.

What! did you know that I was to carry the lawyer with me, and that—

blandford.

Yes, yes, I know it all, your whole plot, and I don’t care a farthing about it: [Aside] This boy has not learned half his lesson; hark’ee, sir, [To Adine] this appointment and yours are a little incompatible: what say you to this, sir? does it strike you? either you endeavor to deceive me, or are deceived yourself: but you are young in the school of vice; a heart like thine, simple and inexperienced, is an excellent instrument in the hands of a villain: alas! thou camest here but to make me miserable.

adine.

This is too much, sir: take care lest your harsh temper, and ill-placed resentment, should destroy that pity which still pleads for you; ’tis that alone which keeps me here: but go, run headlong to your ruin; listen to nobody, suspect your best friend, and believe only those who abuse you; accuse and affront me; but learn to respect a heart that, with regard to you, was never a deceiver, or deceived.

mondor.

Hear you that, sir? but you are choked with spleen; even children laugh at you; prithee, learn to be wiser: come along with me, and drown all your cares in Greek wine: come away, boy.

SCENE IX.

blandford, adine.

blandford.

Stay, Adine: thou hast moved me: thy concern alarms me: you know my humor, my folly, but you know my heart too; ’tis honest, and has only too much sensibility: you see how I am distressed; can you take a cruel pleasure in laughing at my misfortunes? tell me the truth, I conjure thee.

adine.

I know your heart is good, nor is mine less pure: never till this hour did I but once put on disguise; but with regard to Dorfise and yourself I have been honest and sincere: I own I lament in you that fatal passion which has blinded you, but ’tis passion I know that will seduce the wisest of us all; love alone can set everything right; that has taken away your sight, and that should restore it to you.

[She goes out.

blandford.

[Alone.

What can he mean? love alone should restore it; he once put on a disguise, and yet he is sincere! I don’t understand it; certainly ’tis all a trick, a plot only to make a fool of me: Mondor, Darmin, her cousin, Bartolin, Adine, Dorfise, Collette, all the world in short conspires with my own foolish heart to make me miserable and ridiculous: this vile world, which I despise as it deserves, is nothing but a confused heap of folly and wickedness: but if in this tempest of the soul I must say whether I will be knave or fool, my choice is made, and I bless my lot: O heaven! let me be still a dupe, but O preserve my virtue!

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

blandford.

[Alone.

What will become of me? where shall I fly for safety? my misfortunes follow one another without end: I go to sea; a pirate attacks and sinks my vessel: I come to land, and there I am told that an ungrateful woman, whom I adored, is a worse pirate still: a strong box, which I had left behind, is my only resource: a rascal promises to give it me back, and puts me off from time to time, and he perhaps may prove a third corsair: I am waiting for Adine, and he is not come yet; everybody provokes, and everybody avoids me: all perhaps the consequence of my unhappy temper which made me suspicious of every friend, and open to every enemy: if it be so, I am wrong; I own I am, and fortune has a right to sport thus with me: of what service is my melancholy virtue but to make me more sensible to my miseries, and more conscious of having deserved them? this boy, too, not come yet!

SCENE II.

blandford, mme. de burletpassing across the stage.

blandford.

[Stopping her.

Stay, madam, I beseech you stay, and calm, if possible, this tempest of my soul; for heaven’s sake, one word with you: where are you running to?

mme. de burlet.

To supper: to be merry: I’m in haste, sir.

blandford.

I know I affronted you, and you have reason to be angry; but forget and forgive.

mme. de burlet.

[Smiling.

O I have forgiven you a great while ago: I’m not angry, I assure you.

blandford.

You are too good: will your gayety for once deign to interest itself in my distress?

mme. de burlet.

Gay as I am, M. Blandford, I assure you, I have friendship, esteem, and pity for you.

blandford.

You are sorry, then, for my unhappy fate.

mme. de burlet.

Your unhappy fate! yes: but more for your unhappy temper.

blandford.

You are honest, however, and truth you know, has always charms for me: but say, is Darmin a faithful friend, or does he deceive me?

mme. de burlet.

Darmin loves you, and possesses all your virtues with more softness and complacency.

blandford.

And Bartolin?

mme. de burlet.

You want me to answer for Bartolin, too, and for all the world, I suppose: excuse me; Bartolin, for aught I know, is an honest cashier; what reason have you to suspect him? he’s your friend, and the friend of—Dorfise.

blandford.

Of Dorfise? but tell me freely; could Dorfise, could she entertain a passion for a boy, and in so short a time, too? and what is this lawyer that Mondor talks of? public report says he’s to marry her.

mme. de burlet.

Public reports should be despised.

blandford.

I am this moment come from her: she has sworn eternal truth to me: she has wept: love and grief were in her eyes: did they belie her heart? is she false? and is Adine—you laugh at me.

mme. de burlet.

I laugh at your ridiculous figure: come, come, take courage, man: as for the boy, take my word for it, he’ll never forsake you; ’tis impossible.

blandford.

You give me comfort: the coxcomb, Mondor, is not worth my care; Dorfise loves me, and I love her forever.

mme. de burlet.

Forever? that’s too much.

blandford.

Not where one is beloved; but then this Adine must be a base calumniator, must have a bad heart.

mme. de burlet.

O no: be assured, he has a noble mind, candid, honest, and ingenuous, the happy favorite of indulgent nature.

blandford.

You mock me, madam.

mme. de burlet.

Indeed I don’t: ’tis truth.

blandford.

Now am I plunged again in darkness and uncertainty; you sport with my distress, and take pleasure in tormenting me: Dorfise, or he, has deeply injured me: one of them, you must allow, has been a traitor to me; is it not so?

mme. de burlet.

[Laughing.

That may be.

blandford.

If it is, you see what reason I had—

mme. de burlet.

And after all it may not be so: I accuse nobody.

blandford.

I’ll be revenged.

mme. de burlet.

Ridiculous! be less angry and more discreet: come, I’ll tell you what; will you take the only sure method, one that I shall recommend to you?

blandford.

I will.

mme. de burlet.

Then leave this dark mysterious affair to itself; make no bustle about it, but turn everything, as I do, into a jest; take your money from Bartolin, and live along with us without care or solicitude: never go too deeply into things, but float with me upon the surface; you know the world, and bear with it; the only way to enjoy is to skim lightly over it: you look upon me as a giddy creature, and so I am; but let me tell you, the only matter of importance in this life is to enjoy ourselves, and be happy.

SCENE III.

blandford.

[Alone.

To be happy! good! excellent advice! would not one think now it were an easy thing; that one had only to wish for happiness, to possess it? would it were so! and why should it not be? why should I take so much pains to make myself unhappy? shall I suffer this boy, and Darmin, and Mondor to distract me thus? no: I’ll follow this giddy girl’s advice; she’s gay, but honest and sincere: Dorfise loves me, and I am yet secure: for the future, I’ll see nothing, listen to nothing: they wanted to alarm me with this Adine, to hoodwink, and then to lead me where they pleased; but I’m not to be caught in their snares: Darmin is wrapped up in that niece of his, and would fain palm her upon me; but I detest her: ha! what’s this?

[Adine appears in woman’s clothes at the farther end of the stage.

Yonder’s that unhappy youth who has caused me so much uneasiness: he looks exactly like a girl: how genteel his air, and so easy, too, as if the clothes had been made for him! the face is too truly female.

SCENE IV.

blandford, adine.

adine.

Well, sir, you see I’m dressed for my part, and now you will know the truth.

blandford.

I desire to know nothing more about it! I have heard enough; leave me, I beseech you; I have altered my sentiments, and hate this disguise; go, go, put on your own habit, and trouble yourself no more with this affair.

adine.

What say you, sir? at last then I perceive it is not in my power to change your unalterable heart, or to reverse your cruel fate; alas! you know not the weight of grief that hangs upon me, but ere long you will see the fatal effect of it: farewell! I leave you, sir, forever.

blandford.

What can this mean? he weeps! speak, I entreat thee, tell me, what interest hast thou in my happiness or misery?

adine.

My interest, sir, was yours: till this moment never knew I any other: but I have been to blame, I tried to serve you; ’tis not the first time.

blandford.

The innocence of his look, his modest confidence, his voice, his air, his open and ingenuous behavior, still plead for him—but the hour is past when this intrigue you told me of was to have taken place; I was to have been an eye-witness of it.

adine.

Hark! I hear a door opening: this is the place, and this the time, when you shall be convinced who it is that loves you.

blandford.

Just heaven! it is possible?

adine.

It is.

blandford.

Stay you here then: but ’tis all a trick, an artifice: Dorfise! no—

adine.

Hush! I hear a noise: it comes towards us: I’m frightened, ’tis so dark.

blandford.

Fear nothing.

adine.

Be silent: for I hear somebody coming: hush! away.

SCENE V.

adine, blandford,on one side of the stage, which is supposed to be quite dark;dorfiseon the other, on tiptoe.

dorfise.

I thought I heard my charmer’s voice; how punctual he is! the dear boy.

adine.

Hush!

dorfise.

Hush, is it you?

adine.

Yes: ’tis I: still faithful to my love: ’tis I who come here to prove that I have deserved a better return for all my tenderness.

dorfise.

I cannot give thee a better: you must forgive me; I would not have made you wait so long, my dear, but Bartolin, whom I did not expect, is returned: in spite of all my care, he has got a fit of jealousy upon him.

adine.

Perhaps he is afraid of meeting Blandford here: he is a dangerous rival.

dorfise.

Very likely, indeed: O my dear, what with Blandford, and my vile husband, I’m dreadfully hampered: I don’t know which I hate most: in short, I’m sure of nothing, but that I love you.

adine.

You hate Blandford then heartily?

dorfise.

I think I do: fear naturally begets aversion.

adine.

Well, but your other spouse—

dorfise.

O him I never think of.

blandford.

[Aside.

How I could wish now—

adine.

[Softly to Blandford.

Hush! hush!

dorfise.

I have been consulting, my dear, about the contract: it certainly might be set aside: I wish it were, and then I might have hopes of another match.

adine.

What, of marrying me?

dorfise.

I think the best way would be for us to part for a time, to avoid scandal; and then meet, and be united by a sacred and a lasting tie.

adine.

A lasting tie! come then: let us begone: but how are we to live?

dorfise.

Your prudent foresight charms me: I always admired your discretion: you must know, then, the fighting M. Blandford, a hero at sea, but an arrant blockhead at home, when he left Marseilles, to go after the pirates, most cordially and most affectionately consigned to me with his heart, his money and jewels also: as I was, like him, a novice in these affairs, I put them into the hands of my other husband; from him I must endeavor to recover them, and assist Blandford: the poor man is honest and should live: away: let us part immediately, and take care nobody follows us.

adine.

But what will the world say?

dorfise.

O never heed it: I was afraid of its scandal before I loved: but now I despise it: I’ll be a slave to none but thee.

adine.

But me?

dorfise.

I’ll go immediately and get this strong box: that you know will be very necessary to us both: stay here, I’ll be back in an instant.

SCENE VI.

blandford, adine.

adine.

Well, sir, what think you now?

blandford.

Never did I behold such base, such black ingratitude, such infernal falsehood; and yet, Adine, you see the force of powerful virtue, how its lively instinct speaks even in the most corrupted heart.

adine.

How, sir, in what?

blandford.

You see the perfidious wretch dared not rob me of all; she talked of assisting me.

adine.

[Ironically.

O yes, you are mightily obliged to her: have you not another strong box to intrust with this virtuous lady?

blandford.

Nay, do not laugh at me, Adine, nor plant such daggers in my heart.

adine.

I meant to heal and not to wound it: but can you yet admire her?

blandford.

No: she is loathsome: falsehood has robbed her of every charm.

adine.

If, sir, I free you from her snares, may I flatter myself, that while you detest her vices, you will not forget my honest service?

blandford.

No, generous youth! I look on you as my son and my deliverer, the guardian angel, whom heaven hath sent down to preserve me; the half of all I have will be but a poor reward for thy care and fidelity.

adine.

You must not know at present what reward I aspire to: but can your heart refuse the request which Darmin perhaps may ask of you?

blandford.

Ha! thou hast removed the veil: I see, I see it all; but who, what art thou? art thou indeed what thou resemblest?

adine.

[Smiling.

Whatever I am, for heaven’s sake, be silent now: I hear Dorfise coming this way.

dorfise.

[With strong box.

I’ve got the box; propitious love has favored my design: here, my dear, take it: away: let us be gone: have you got it fast?

blandford.

[Taking it from her, and counterfeiting the voice of Adine.

Yes.

dorfise.

Come along then.

SCENE VII.

blandford, dorfise, adine, bartolinwith a sword in his hand, in the dark, he runs up to Adine.

bartolin.

Stop, villain, stop! art thou not satisfied with robbing me of my wife, but must run away with my money, too?

adine.

[To Blandford.

Help! murder! help!

blandford.

[Fighting with one hand, and holding out the box to Adine with the other.

Take the box.

SCENE VIII.

blandford, dorfise, adine, bartolin, darmin, mme. de burlet, collette, mondorwith a napkin and a bottle in his hand. Flambeaux.

mme. de burlet.

What’s the matter here! hui! hui! what! fighting, too?

mondor.

Hold, hold, gentlemen, what is all this noise about?

adine.

[To Blandford.

You’re not wounded, sir, I hope?

dorfise.

[In confusion.

Ha!

mme. de burlet.

What is the cause of this fray, gentlemen? pray inform us.

blandford.

[To Bartolin, after disarming him.

O nothing, madam; only this worthy gentleman, and trusty treasurer, this honest keeper of the strong box, had robbed me of my mistress and my fortune: by the assistance of this amiable youth, I have detected their infamous designs, and recovered my money: go, sir, I leave you to your miserable fate, to this virtuous lady: know, my friends, I have unmasked their treacherous hearts; this villain—

bartolin.

[Going off.

Your servant, sir.

mondor.

A ha! what comes of my assignation now?

blandeord.

O, sir, they made a fool of you.

darmin.

And of you too, I think.

blandford.

They did so, indeed: I feel it yet.

mondor.

Treated you like an idiot.

blandford.

Dreadful, horrible! O prudery, how I detest thee!

mondor.

Well, come, let us think no more of prudes, wives, or women, but go in and drink about; that’s my way of drowning misfortunes: the man that drinks is never melancholy.

mme. de burlet.

I’m really sorry my cousin Dorfise should behave so foolishly: to be sure, it will set the world to talking, but it will be all over soon, and there’s an end of it.

darmin.

Come, Blandford, banish sorrow, and for the future take care of a prude: but do you know this boy, who has restored to you your honor and fortune, and saved you from the dangerous precipice which your blind passion had led you to the brink of?

blandford.

[Looking at Adine.

But—

darmin.

’Tis my niece.

blandford.

O heaven!

darmin.

The very woman whom I so often proposed to my deluded friend; who, deceived by a faithless wretch, despised and hated all but her.

blandford.

How could I injure, by an unkind refusal, so many charms! such beauty and such virtue!

adine.

You never would have known me, if chance and my own constancy had not removed the veil of black ingratitude, and saved you from yourself.

darmin.

You owe everything, your fortune, and your reason to her generous love: what, then, is she to hope for in return? what will you do to make her amends?

blandford.

[Kneeling to Adine.

Adore her!

mondor.

This turn of affairs is as agreeable as it is surprising: we shall all be gainers by the change: away.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

THE TATLER

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Euphemia.

Damis.

Hortensia.

Trasimon.

Clitander.

Nerine.

Pasquin.

Several Footmen belonging to Damis.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

euphemia, damis.

euphemia.

Don’t imagine, my dear, that, by what I’m going to say, I mean to exercise the authority of a mother, always ready as you know I am, to listen in my turn to your reasons when I think them good; my intention is not to lay my commands on you, but to give you my advice; it is my heart which speaks to you, and that experience I have had in the world makes me foresee evils which I would endeavor to prevent: you have been at court, I think, not above two months; believe me, ’tis a dangerous situation: the perfidious group of courtiers always look on a new-comer with an eye of malevolence, and soon find out all his imperfections: from the first moment, they condemn him, without pity or remorse; and, which is still worse, their judgment is irrevocable: be guarded against their malice: on the first step we take in life, the rest of it must in a great measure depend: if you once make yourself ridiculous, the world will think you always so: the impression will remain: it is in vain, as you advance in years, to change your conduct, and assume a more serious behavior: you will suffer a long time from old prejudices: even if we do grow better, we are still suspected; and I have often known men pay dearly in their old age for the errors of their youth: have a little regard therefore to the world, and remember you ought to live now more for that than for yourself.

damis.

Now I cannot conceive what all this long preamble tends to.

euphemia.

I see it appears to you both absurd and unnecessary: you despise those things which may be of the greatest consequence to you; one day or other perhaps you may believe me, when it will be too late: to be plain with you, you are indiscreet: my too long indulgence passed over this fault in your infancy, in your riper years I dread the effects of it: you are not without abilities, a good understanding, and a good heart; but, believe me, in a world so full of injustice, virtue will not make amends for vice; our faults are censured on every occasion, and perhaps the worst we can be guilty of is indiscretion: at court, my dear, the most necessary art is not to talk well, but to know how to hold one’s tongue: this is not the place where society enjoys itself in the freedom of easy conversation; here they generally talk without saying anything, and the most tiresome babblers have the best success: I have been long acquainted with the court, and bad enough it is: but whilst we live there, we ought to conform to it. With regard to the women, you should be remarkably cautious; talk but seldom of them, and still less of yourself; pretend to be ignorant of all they do, and all they say; conceal your opinion, and disguise your sentiments; but, above all, be master of your secrets: he who tells those of another will always be esteemed a villain; and he who tells his own, be assured, will, here at least, be looked on as a fool. What have you to object to this?

damis.

Nothing: I am entirely of your opinion: I abominate the character of a tatler: that is not my foible, I assure you: so far from being guilty of the vice you seem to reproach me with, I now fairly confess to you, madam, that I have a long time concealed a thing from you which I ought to have told you of; but in life, you know, one must sometimes dissemble. I love, and am beloved, by a most charming widow, young, rich, and handsome, as prudent as she is amiable; in a word, it is Hortensia: judge, madam, yourself of my happiness; judge, if it were known, how miserable it would make all our courtiers, who are sighing for her: we have concealed our mutual passion from every one of them: this engagement has been made now for these two whole days past, and you knew nothing of it.

euphemia.

But I have been at Paris all that time.

damis.

O madam, never was man so happy in his choice: the more you approve of it, the more satisfaction shall I feel, and the more pleasure in my pursuit of her.

euphemia.

I am sure, Damis, the confidence you repose in me, is a mark of your friendship, and not of your imprudence.

damis.

I hope you never doubted that.

euphemia.

But seriously, Damis, you should reflect on the prospect of happiness before you: Hortensia, I know, has charms, but, besides that, she is the best match that could have offered itself in all France.

damis.

I know she is.

euphemia.

She is entirely her own mistress, and can choose for herself.

damis.

So much the better.

euphemia.

You must take care how you manage her, mark her inclinations, and flatter them.

damis.

O I can do better: I know how to please her.

euphemia.

Well said, Damis: but remember, she’s not fond of noise and bustle; no blustering or flashy airs will be agreeable to her: she may, like other women, have her foibles, but even in love matters she’ll always act with discretion: above all, let me advise you not to show off in public with her, nor appear at court together, as if on purpose to be stared at, and become the topic of the day: secret and mystery are all her taste.

damis.

And yet the affair must be known at last.

euphemia.

But, pray, what lucky accident introduced you to her? she never admits young men to her toilette; but, like a prudent woman, carefully avoids the crowd of wild sparks that are perpetually after her.

damis.

To tell you the truth, I have never been at her house yet: but I have ogled her a long time, and, thank heaven, with success: at first she sent back my letters unopened, but soon after read them, and now writes to me again: for near two days past I have had strong hopes, and, in a word, intend this very night to have a tête-à-tête with her.

euphemia.

Well: I think I’ll go and see her, too: the mother of a lover who is well received, cannot, I imagine, but be agreeable to her. I may contrive to speak of you, and prevail on her to hasten the match, on which I shall tell her your happiness depends: get her consent, and make her yours as soon as you can; I’ll do my best to assist you: but speak of it to nobody else, I charge you.

damis.

No, madam: never was mother more tender and affectionate, or friendship more sincere; and to please her shall, for the future, be my first ambition.

euphemia.

All that I desire of you is, to be happy.

SCENE II.

damis.

[Alone.

My mother is right: address and cunning are absolutely necessary in this world; there is no succeeding without them. I am resolved to dissemble with the whole court, except ten or a dozen friends, whom I may talk freely with: but first, by way of trial of my prudence, let me tell my secrets to myself a little, and consider, now nobody’s by, what fortune has bestowed on me. I hate vanity, but there’s no harm in knowing one’s self, and doing ourselves justice: I have some wit, am agreeable, well received at court, and thought, I believe, by some, to be admitted to the king’s private hours: then, I am certainly very handsome, can dance, sing, drink, and dissemble with the best of them: made a colonel at thirteen, I have reason to hope for a staff at thirty; happy in what I have, and with a good prospect before me; I’ll keep Julia, and marry Hortensia; when I have possessed her charms, I’ll be guilty every day of a thousand infidelities, but all with prudence and economy, and without ever being suspected as a rambler: in six months’ time I shall make away with half her fortune, and enjoy all the court by turns, without her knowing anything of the matter.

SCENE III.

damis, trasimon.

damis.

Good morrow, governor.

trasimon.

[Aside.

Hang him for coming across me.

damis.

My dear governor, let me embrace thee.

trasimon.

Excuse me, sir, but I really—

damis.

Positively I will: come, come—

trasimon.

Well, what, what do you want?

damis.

Nay, don’t frown so, man, pray thee unbend a little: I am the happiest of mortals.

trasimon.

I came to tell you, sir—

damis.

O by heavens, you kill me with that hard frozen face of yours!

trasimon.

I can’t help it, sir, nor can I smile at present, for, let me tell you, you have got a bad affair upon your hands.

damis.

Not so very bad, surely.

trasimon.

Erminia and Valere exclaim violently against you: you have spoke of them, it seems, too lightly, and old Lord Horace too desired me to tell you—

damis.

O a mighty matter indeed to be uneasy about! Horace, an old lord! an old fool, a proud coxcomb, puffed up with notions of false honor, low enough at court, he puts on an air of importance in the city, and is as ignorant as he would fain seem knowing: as for Madam Erminia, it’s pretty well known I had her, and left her abruptly, an ill-natured busybody; I believe you know a little of her lover, my friend, Valere; did you ever remember such a starched, affected, strained, left-handed understanding? O by the by, I was told yesterday in confidence, that his huge elder brother, that important creature, is well received by Clarice, and the fat countess is bursting with spleen and disappointment. Well but, my old commandant, how go your love-affairs?

trasimon.

You know I don’t trouble myself much about the sex.

damis.

That’s not my case; for I do, and in faith, both in court and city, they keep me pretty well employed: but listen, while I intrust you with a secret, on which the happiness of my life depends.

trasimon.

Can I serve you in it?

damis.

No: not in the least.

trasimon.

Then pray tell me nothing about it.

damis.

O but the rights of friendship—

trasimon.

’Tis that very friendship which makes me shrink from the weight of a secret which is intrusted to me, not out of real regard, but from mere folly and weakness, which anybody else might keep as well as myself; which is generally attended with a thousand suspicions, and may chance to give us both a great deal of uneasiness, me for knowing, and you for saying more than you ought.

damis.

Say what you will about it, captain, I must let you have the pleasure of reading this billet-doux, which this very day—

trasimon.

What a strange humor—

damis.

You’ll say it’s written with a great deal of tenderness.

trasimon.

Well, if you insist upon it—

damis.

’Tis dictated by love itself: you’ll see how fond she is of me: ’tis the hand that wrote it which makes it so valuable: but you shall see it: zounds, I’ve lost it; positively I can’t find it—hullo, la Fleur, la Brie.

SCENE IV.

damis, trasimon,Several Footmen.

footman.

Did you call, sir?

damis.

Step immediately into the gallery, and bring me all the letters I received this morning: go to the old duke, and—O here it is, the blundering rascals had put it there by mistake. [To the footman] you may go. Now, you shall see it; mind now, I beg you’ll attend.

SCENE V.

damis, trasimon, clitander, pasquin.

clitander.

[With a letter in his hand, speaking to Pasquin.

Stay you, Pasquin, in this garden all day; be sure you mark everything that passes; observe Hortensia well; and bring me an account of every step she takes: I shall know then—

SCENE VI.

damis, trasimon, clitander.

damis.

O here comes the marquis: good morrow, marquis.

clitander.

[A letter in his hand.

Morrow to you.

damis.

Why, what’s the matter with you to-day, with that long melancholy face? what the deuce ails you all? every creature I see looks gloomy and dismal to-day, I think; but I suppose—

clitander.

[Aside.

I have but too much reason.

damis.

What are you muttering about?

clitander.

[In a low voice.

What a poor unhappy creature I am!

damis.

Come, to give you both a little spirit, suppose I read you this little billet of mine, ha, marquis?

clitander.

[Aside, looking at the letter.

What letter? can it be? surely ’tis from Hortensia: cruel creature!

damis.

[To Clitander.

’Tis a letter would make a rival hang himself.

clitander.

You are indeed a happy man, if you are beloved.

damis.

That I most assuredly am; but you shall hear; your city ladies don’t write in this style: observe her. [He reads] “At length I yield to the passion which has taken possession of my heart; I would have concealed it, but ’tis impossible: why should I not write what my eyes, no doubt, have a thousand times informed you of? yes, my dearest Damis, I own I love you; the more perhaps because my heart, fearful of your youth, and fearful of itself, for a long time resisted my inclination, and told me I ought not to love you. After the confession of such a weakness, ought I not forever to reproach myself for it? but the more frankly I avow my tenderness for you, with the more care you ought to conceal it.”

trasimon.

You take care, I see, to obey the lady’s commands most punctually: a mighty discreet lover, to be sure!

clitander.

Happy is that man who receives such letters, and never shows them.

damis.

Well, what do you think of it? is it not—

trasimon.

Very strong indeed.

clitander.

Charming.

damis.

And the writer a thousand times more so. O if you did but know her name! but in this wicked world we must have a little discretion.

trasimon.

Well, we don’t desire you to tell us.

clitander.

You and I, Damis, love one another very well, but prudence—

trasimon.

So far from desiring you to acquaint us with particulars, that—

damis.

Come, come, I love you both, too well to dissemble with you: I know, you think, and the whole court has proclaimed it, that I have no affair here with anybody but Julia.

clitander.

Nay, they have it from yourself; but as to us, we do not believe a word of it.

damis.

To be sure, there was something between us, and the affair went on tolerably well till now: we loved one another, and then we parted, and then we met again; all the world knows that.

clitander.

The world, I assure you, knows nothing at all about it.

damis.

You think I’m very fond of her still, but you’re mistaken; upon honor I am not.

trasimon.

’Tis nothing to me, whether you are or are not.

damis.

Julia is handsome, that she is; but then she’s fickle: the other—O the other is the very thing!

clitander.

Well, and this charming woman—

damis.

Come, I see you will know, and I must tell you: my dear friend, look at this picture, only look at it: did you ever see two such eyes? the most charming, most adorable creature; painted by Mace; that you know is saying everything; you know the features, don’t you?

clitander.

O heaven! ’tis Hortensia.

damis.

You seem surprised.

trasimon.

You forget, sir, that Hortensia is my cousin, that she is tender of her honor, and a declaration of this kind—

damis.

O give her up, give her up, man; why, I have six cousins; you shall have them all: make up to them, ogle them, deceive them, desert them, print their love-letters, with all my heart, it will give me no uneasiness: we should have enough to do indeed to be out of humor with one another, to vindicate the honor of our cousins: it’s very well here, if every one can answer for themselves.

trasimon.

But Hortensia, sir—

damis.

Is the woman I adore; and I tell you again, sir, she loves me, and me only; and to make you more angry, I intend to marry her.

clitander.

[Aside.

Could I have been more cruelly injured?

damis.

Our wedding will be no secret, but you shan’t be there—cousin.

trasimon.

A cousin, sir may have some power over her, and that you shall know soon. Your servant, sir.

SCENE VII.

damis, clitander.

damis.

How I detest that fellow! the ridiculous pedant, with his affected airs of romantic virtue; a tedious, heavy, tiresome brute! you seem to be mighty curious about that picture, and examine it closely.

clitander.

[Aside.

I must be master of myself, and dissemble.

damis.

You may observe perhaps, one of the brilliants is missing at the corner there. It was a long chase yesterday, and there was such jostling and pushing one another; you must know I had four pictures loose in my pocket, and this unfortunately met with a mischance; the case broke, and a brilliant dropped out: as you go to town to-morrow, you may call at Frénaye’s, he’s dear, but clever in his way: I wish you’d choose a diamond at his shop, as if it was for yourself; for, between you and me, I owe him a few pounds: here, take the picture, but don’t show it to anybody. Your servant.

clitander.

Aside.

Where am I?

damis.

Well, God be with you, marquis, I shall depend on you. Take care, be discreet now.

clitander.

[Aside.

Can he possibly do it?

damis.

[Returning.

I love a discreet friend: you shall be my confidant: I’ll tell you all my secrets. Is it possible for a man to be happy, to possess everything his heart can wish for, and not tell it to another? where’s the joy of keeping our insipid pleasures to ourselves? one may as well have no friends as not trust them, and happiness uncommunicated is no happiness at all: I have shown you a letter, and a picture, but that’s not all.

clitander.

Why, what else have you?

damis.

Do you know that this very night I am to meet her?

clitander.

[Aside.

O dreadful! horrible!

damis.

To-night, Clitander, before the ball is over, alone and unsuspected, I am to meet her by appointment in this garden.

clitander.

[Aside.

O I am lost, undone: this last cruel stroke—

damis.

Is not that charming, my friend? dost not rejoice with me, boy?

clitander.

And will Hortensia meet you?

damis.

Most certainly; just at dusk I expect her; but the declining sun already gives me notice of my approaching happiness: I must be gone. I’ll go to your lodgings, I think, and dress: let me see, I must have two pounds of powder for my hair, and some of the most exquisite perfume; then will I return in triumph, and finish the affair immediately. Do you, in the meantime, prowl about here, that you may have some share in the happiness of your friend; I shall leave you here as my deputy, to keep off impertinent rivals.

SCENE VIII.

clitander.

[Alone.

How hard a task it was to conceal my grief and my resentment! after a whole year of sincerest passion, when Hortensia’s heart, wearied of resistance, began at length to soften and relent, for Damis thus to come and change her in an instant! one fortunate moment has done what my long and faithful services in vain solicited: nay, she even anticipated his wishes, gave this young coxcomb that picture which I had so much better deserved: she writes to him, too! O that letter would have killed me with ecstasy: and then, to make my misery complete, she has written to me this morning, never to see her more: this hair-brained fellow has got hold of her heart, and will carry her off in triumph: O Hortensia, how cruelly hast thou deceived me!

SCENE IX.

clitander, pasquin.

clitander.

So, Pasquin, I have found out my rival.

pasquin.

Indeed, sir? so much the worse.

clitander.

Yes: she’s in love with that blockhead, Damis.

pasquin.

Who told you so?

clitander.

Himself: the proud coxcomb boasted to me of the treasure he had stolen from me. Here, Pasquin, look at this picture; out of mere vanity he has left it in my hands, only that he may triumph the more. O Hortensia, who could ever have believed that Damis would supplant Clitander!

pasquin.

Damis is a good and pretty fellow.

clitander.

[Collaring him.

Ha! rascal, an impertinent young fool, that—

pasquin.

Very true, sir, and perhaps—but, for heaven’s sake, don’t strangle me, sir: between you and me, sir, he’s nothing but a babbler, a prig—

clitander.

Be he what he will, she prefers him to me, Pasquin; therefore now is the time to exert thy usual skill, and serve me. Hortensia and my rival are to meet this night in the garden, by appointment; find out some method, if possible, to prevent it.

pasquin.

But, sir—

clitander.

Thy brain, I know, is fertile; take money, as much as thou wilt: for heaven’s sake, disappoint my rival: while he is tricking out his insignificant person, we may rob him of the happy moment: since he is a fool, let us take the advantage of his folly, and by some means or other keep him away from this place.

pasquin.

And this you think mighty easy to be done: why, sir, I would sooner engage to stop the course of a river, a stag on a heath, or a bird in the air, a mad poet repeating his own verses, a litigious woman that has a suit in chancery, a parson hunting after a benefice, a high-wind, a tempest, or thunder and lightning, than a young coxcomb going to a rendezvous with his mistress.

clitander.

And will you then abandon me to despair?

pasquin.

Stay: a thought is just come into my head: let me see, Hortensia and Damis have never seen me?

clitander.

Never.

pasquin.

You have got her picture?

clitander.

I have.

pasquin.

Good: and you have got a letter that she wrote you.

clitander.

Ay, and a cruel one it is.

pasquin.

Her ladyship’s orders, I think, to you, never to visit her again.

clitander.

It is so.

pasquin.

The letter is without a direction I think?

clitander.

It is, rascal, and what of that?

pasquin.

Give me the picture and the letter immediately; give them me, I say.

clitander.

Shall I give a picture into other hands that was intrusted to my care?

pasquin.

Come, come, no ceremony: a pretty scruple indeed! give them me.

clitander.

Well, but Pasquin—

pasquin.

Leave everything to me, and rely on my discretion.

clitander.

You want to—

pasquin.

Away, away: here comes Hortensia.

SCENE X.

hortensia, nerine.

hortensia.

What you say, Nerine, is very true; Clitander is a worthy man; I know the warmth of his passion for me, and the sincerity of it: he is sober, sensible, constant, and discreet: I ought to esteem him, and so I do; but Damis is my taste: I find, by the struggles of my own heart, that love is not always the reward of virtue; we are always won by an agreeable outside; and for one who is captivated by the perfections of the soul, a thousand are caught by the eye; I blush at my own inconstancy: but Damis comes no more here, I assure you.

nerine.

What a strange humor this is! how resolute you are!

hortensia.

No: I ought not to be there first, and positively I will not.

nerine.

Are you afraid of the first meeting?

hortensia.

To tell you the truth, Damis takes up all my thoughts: this very day I have had a visit from his mother, who has greatly increased my prejudices in favor of her son: I see she is extremely eager for the match, and presses it in the warmest manner: but I want to see the man himself in private, and sound his real sentiments.

nerine.

You have no doubt of his regard for you?

hortensia.

None: I believe, nay, I know he loves me; but I want to hear him tell me so a thousand and a thousand times over: I want to see if he deserves my love, to know his temper, his character, and his heart: I would not yield blindly to inclination, but judge of him, if I could, without passion or prejudice.

SCENE XI.

hortensia, nerine, pasquin.

pasquin.

Madam, my master Damis has sent me here to acquaint you privately—

hortensia.

Is he not coming himself?

pasquin.

No, madam.

nerine.

The little villain!

hortensia.

Not come to me?

pasquin.

No, madam: but, as in point of honor he thinks himself obliged, he has sent you back this portrait.

hortensia.

My picture!

pasquin.

Please to take it, madam.

hortensia.

Am I awake?

pasquin.

Pray, ma’am, make haste, for I am really in a hurry: I have two more pictures to carry back for my master, and two to receive: and so, madam, till we meet again, I am your most obsequious—

hortensia.

Perfidious wretch! I shall die with grief.

pasquin.

He desired me, moreover, madam, to inform you, that you need not ogle him any more, and that for the future he should be glad if you would find out some other dupe to laugh at besides himself.

SCENE XII.

hortensia, nerine, damis, pasquin.

damis.

[At the farther end of the stage.

Here I am to meet the dear object of my wishes.

pasquin.

Ha! Damis! then I am caught; but I’ll take courage, however, and proceed. [He runs up to Damis and takes him aside.] I belong, sir, to Lady Hortensia, and have the honor to be employed on her little affairs; I have, sir, here a billet-doux for you.

hortensia.

What a change is here! what a reward for my tender passion!

damis.

[Reads.

Let me see, ha! how’s this? “You deserve my regard, I know the esteem that is due to your virtues, but I cannot love you.” Was ever such abominable perfidy? this is what I little expected indeed; but it shall be known; the public shall be acquainted with it: it shall be no secret at court, I can assure her.

hortensia.

[At the other part of the stage.

Could he carry his infamous perfidy so far as this?

damis.

There, madam, you see what value I set on your correspondence.

[He tears the letter.

pasquin.

[Running up to Hortensia.

O madam, I blush for his behavior: you saw him tear the letter, which you condescended to write to the ungrateful man.

hortensia.

He has sent back my picture: perish, thou wretched image of my ineffectual charms!

[She throws down the picture.

pasquin.

[Coming back to Damis.

There, sir, you see how she treats you; she has thrown away your picture, and broken it in pieces.

damis.

There are some ladies in the world who receive the original in a very different manner, I can assure her.

hortensia.

O Nerine, what a regard I had for this ungrateful man! Tell me, fellow, [Speaking to Pasquin, andgiving him money] for whose sake is it I am thus deserted? to what happy object am I sacrificed?

pasquin.

O madam, to five or six beauties, with whom he pretends to be in love, though he cares as little for them as for yourself; but your most dangerous rival is the fair Julia.

damis.

[Coming up to Pasquin.

Here, take this ring, and now tell me honestly, on what impertinent court fool your sweet mistress has fixed her affections.

pasquin.

No one, sir, deserves her so well as yourself; but, to tell you the truth, there is a certain young abbé who ogles her perpetually; not to mention that I frequently help her cousin Trasimon over the garden-wall of an evening.

damis.

I’m glad of it: this is excellent news; I’ll put it into a ballad.

hortensia.

The worst of it is, Nerine, that to make me still more unhappy, this affair will make a noise in the world, and I shall be horribly exposed: come, let us be gone, I will retire, and hide my tears.

pasquin.

[To Hortensia.

You have no more commands for me, madam? [To Damis] Can I be of any further service to you, sir? Heaven preserve you both!

SCENE XIII.

hortensia, damis, nerine.

hortensia.

[Returning.

Why do I stay in this place?

damis.

I ought to be dancing at the ball now.

hortensia.

He seems thoughtful, but ’tis not on my account.

damis.

I am mistaken, or she looks this way; I’ll even make up to her.

hortensia.

I’ll avoid him.

damis.

O stay, Hortensia, can you fly me, can you avoid me? cruel, perfidious woman!

hortensia.

Ungrateful man, leave me to myself, and let me try to hate you.

damis.

That, madam, will be an easy task, thanks to your infidelity.

hortensia.

’Tis what I ought to do: ’tis but my duty now, thanks to your injustice.

damis.

And are we met at last, Hortensia, but to quarrel?

hortensia.

How can Damis talk thus, and at the same time affront me, and love another! O Julia, Julia!

damis.

After your writing me such a letter, madam—

hortensia.

After your sending back my picture, sir—

damis.

Could I send back your picture? cruel woman!

hortensia.

Could I ever write a line to you that was not full of love and tenderness? perfidious man!

damis.

Madam, I will consent to leave the court, to give up the posts I enjoy, and all my hopes of future preferment, to be despised and condemned by the whole world, if ever I sent you back the picture, the precious treasure which love intrusted to my care.

hortensia.

And may I never be loved by the dear charmer of my soul, if I ever sent you that letter! but here, here, ungrateful man, is the picture your insolence returned me, the reward of tender friendship, which you despised; ’tis here, and can you—

damis.

Ha! here comes Clitander.

SCENE XIV.

hortensia, damis, clitander, nerine, pasquin.

damis.

My dear marquis, come here; where are you going? He, madam, will unravel all.

hortensia.

Clitander? why, what does he know of the matter?

damis.

Don’t be alarmed, madam, he is my friend, to whom I have opened my whole heart: he is my confidant, let him be yours too: you must, indeed you must.

hortensia.

Let us be gone this moment, Nerine: O heaven! what a ridiculous creature!

SCENE XV.

damis, clitander, pasquin.

damis.

O marquis, I am the most unhappy of men; let me speak to you; I must follow her: observe me. [To Hortensia] Stay, Hortensia; nay, then I must after her.

SCENE XVI.

clitander, pasquin.

clitander.

I don’t know what to think of it, Pasquin; I understood, by what you told me, that they had quarrelled.

pasquin.

I thought so, too: I’m sure I played my part: most certainly they have cause to hate one another; but, for aught I know, a minute’s time may reconcile them again.

clitander.

Let us observe which way they turn.

pasquin.

Hortensia seems as if she was going to her own house.

clitander.

Damis follows her close: by his being behind, however, it looks as if she shunned him.

pasquin.

She flies but slowly, and the lover pursues.

clitander.

She turns her head back, and Damis talks to her, but to no purpose.

pasquin.

I fancy not, but Damis stops her often.

clitander.

He kneels to her, but she treats him with contempt.

pasquin.

O but observe, now she looks tenderly on him: if so, you’re undone.

clitander.

She is gone into her own house, and has dismissed him: joy and fear, hope and despair, at once surround me; I can’t imagine how it will end.

SCENE XVII.

clitander, damis, pasquin.

damis.

O my dear marquis, I’m glad you’re here; for heaven’s sake, inform me, what can be the meaning that Hortensia forbids my coming nigh her? how happens it that the picture, which I trusted to you, is now in her hands? answer me.

clitander.

You amaze and confound me.

damis.

[To Pasquin.

As for you, sir rascal there, the servant of Hortensia, at least the pretended, one, I’ll make an end of you this moment.

pasquin.

[To Clitander.

Protect me, sir.

clitander.

[To Damis.

Well, sir—

damis.

’Tis in vain—

clitander.

Spare this poor fellow, let me entreat you, do.

damis.

What interest have you in him?

clitander.

I beg of you, and seriously.

damis.

Out of regard to you, I will withhold my resentment; but tell me, scoundrel, the whole black contrivance.

pasquin.

O sir, ’tis a most mysterious affair; but I’ll let you into some surprising secrets, if you’ll promise not to reveal them.

damis.

I’ll promise nothing, and insist on knowing all.

pasquin.

You shall, sir, but Hortensia is coming this way, and will overhear us. [To Clitander] Come, sir, let us to the masquerade, and there I’ll tell you everything.

SCENE XVIII.

trasimon, nerine, hortensiain a domino, with a masque in her hand.

trasimon.

Take my word for it, Hortensia, this young coxcomb will cover us with shame and ignominy, to show your letters and your picture about in this public manner: ’tis intolerable: I saw them myself; but I’ll punish the scoundrel as he deserves.

hortensia.

[To Nerine.

Is Julia then so beautiful in his eyes? do you think he’s really in love with her?

trasimon.

No matter whether he is or no: but, if he dishonors you, it concerns me nearly; I know a relative’s duty, and will perform it.

hortensia.

[To Nerine.

Do you imagine he is engaged to Julia? give me your opinion.

nerine.

One may know that easily enough from himself.

hortensia.

O Nerine, he was excessively indiscreet; I ought to hate, yet perhaps still love him. O how he wept, and swore he loved, that he adored me, and that he would conceal our mutual passion!

trasimon.

There, I’m sure, he promised more than he will perform.

hortensia.

For the last time, however, I mean to try him: he’s gone to the masquerade, there I shall be sure to find him: you must dissemble, Nerine: go and tell him that Julia expects him here with impatience: this masque at least will hide my blushes: the faithless man will take me for Julia: I shall know what he thinks of her, and of myself: on this meeting will depend my choice or my contempt of him. [To Trasimon.] You must not be far off: endeavor if you can, to keep Clitander near you: wait for me here, or hereabouts, and I will call you when there is occasion.

SCENE XIX.

hortensia.

[Alone, in a domino, with a masque in her hand.

At length it is time to fix my wavering affections; under the cover of this masque, and the name of Julia, I shall know whether his indiscretion was owing to excess of love, or vanity; whether I ought to pardon, or to detest him: but here he comes.

SCENE XX.

hortensiamasqued,damis.

damis.

[Not seeing Hortensia.

This seems to be the favorite spot for ladies to make their assignations in: well, I’ll follow the fashion: fashion, in France, determines everything, regulates precedency, honor, good-breeding, merit, wit, and pleasure.

hortensia.

[Aside.

The coxcomb!

damis.

If this affair of mine could but be known, in two years’ time the whole court would run mad for love of me: a good setting out here is everything: then Ægle, and Doris, and—O there’s no counting them, such a group, such a sweet prospect! O the pretty creatures—

hortensia.

[Aside.

Light, vain man!

damis.

O Julia, is it you? I know you in spite of that envious masque: my heart cannot be mistaken; come, come, my dear Julia, take off that cruel veil that hides thy beauties from me; do not, in pity do not, conceal those sweet looks, those tender smiles, that were meant to reward that love which they inspired; thou art the only woman on earth whom I adore.

hortensia.

Let me tell you, Damis, you are a stranger to my humor and disposition; I should despise a heart that never felt for any woman but myself; I like my lovers should be more fashionable; that twenty young flirts should be hunting after him; that his passion for me should draw him away from a hundred contending beauties; I must have some noble sacrifice offered up to me, or I’ll never accept of his services: a lover less esteemed would be of no value, I should despise him.

damis.

I can make you easy on that head, my dear; I have made some pretty good conquests, and perhaps as expeditiously as most men: I believe I can boast of tolerable success that way: many a fine woman has run after me; another man would be vain of it: I could reckon up a few of your nice ladies who are not over-coy with me.

hortensia.

Well, but who, who are they?

damis.

Only give the word, my Julia, and I begin the sacrifice: there is, first, the little Isabel; secondly, the lively, smart Erminia; then there’s Clarice, Ægle, Doris—

hortensia.

Poor, pitiful offerings! I could have a hundred such every day: these will never do: they are loved, and turned off again twenty times in a week: let me have some respectable names, women of character, such as I may triumph over without a blush: if you could reckon among your captives, one, who, before she saw the incomparable Damis, was invulnerable, one who in all actions paid the strictest regard to decency and decorum, some modest, prudent fair, who never felt a weakness but for you, that would be the woman.

damis.

[Sitting down by her.

Now then, observe me: I have a mistress who exactly resembles in every feature the picture you have drawn: but you would not have me be so indiscreet as to—

hortensia.

Not for the world.

damis.

If I were imprudent enough to tell her name, I should call her—Hortensia. Why are you startled at it? I think not of her while my Julia’s here: she is neither young nor handsome when you are by: besides, there is a certain young abbé who is very familiar with her; and, between you and me, her cousin Trasimon is too apt to come to her in an evening over the garden-wall.

hortensia.

[Aside.

To join calumny thus to his infidelity, execrable villain! but I must dissemble: pray, Damis, on what footing are you with Hortensia? does she love you?

damis.

O to distraction, that’s the truth of it.

hortensia.

[Aside.

Impudence and falsehood to the highest degree!

damis.

’Tis even so, I assure you, I would not tell you a lie for the world.

hortensia.

[Aside.

The villain!

damis.

But what signifies thinking about her? we did not meet here to talk of Hortensia: come, let us rather—

hortensia.

I can never believe Hortensia would ever have given herself up so totally to you.

damis.

I tell you, I have it under her own hand.

hortensia.

I don’t believe a word of it.

damis.

’Tis insulting me to doubt it.

hortensia.

Let me see it then.

damis.

You injure me, madam: there, read, perhaps you know her hand.

[Gives her the letter.

hortensia.

[Unmasking.

I do, villain, and know your treachery: at length I have in some measure atoned for my folly, and have luckily recovered both the picture and the letter, which I had ventured to trust in such unworthy hands: ’tis done: now Trasimon and Clitander, appear.

SCENE XXI.

hortensia, damis, trasimon, clitander.

hortensia.

[To Clitander.

If I have not yet offended you beyond a possibility of pardon; if you can still love Hortensia, my hand, my fortune, and my life are yours.

clitander.

O Hortensia, behold at your feet a despairing lover, who receives your kind offer with joy and transport.

trasimon.

[To Damis.

Did I not tell you, sir, I should bring her to a right way of thinking? this marriage, sir, is my making: now, Damis, fare you well, and henceforth, learn to dissemble better or never attempt it more.

damis.

Just heaven! for the future how shall I venture to speak at all?

End.