JOANNA OF MONTFAUCON; A DRAMATIC ROMANCE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY: AS PERFORMED AT THE Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden. FORMED UPON THE PLAN OF THE GERMAN DRAMA OF KOTZEBUE: AND ADAPTED TO THE ENGLISH STAGE BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND.
London: Printed by Luke Hanſard, Great Turnſtile, Lincoln's-Inn Fields, FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, & CO. TEMPLE OF THE MUSES, FINSBURY SQUARE. 1800.
TO THE READER.
[][iii]THE German original of this Play, which its Author ſtiles 'a Dramatic Romance of the fourteenth century,' has not, I believe, as yet been publiſhed. It never came under my inſpection; and, if it had, I could have made no uſe of it, not underſtanding a ſyllable of the language.
The model, upon which I worked was an Engliſh tranſlation, that profeſſed nothing more than fidelity to the words of the author, and this I have no doubt it correctly perform⯑ed. In this copy I diſcovered the frame-work of what might be made a ſplendid ſpectacle; and the known liberality of thoſe, in whom the property and conduct of the Theatre are [iv] veſted, has more than equalled every expecta⯑tion I could ground upon their ſupport. What elſe I diſcovered, except as above ſtated, it may not become me to ſay, for I have no right to pronounce upon an author, who compoſes in a language unknown to me; but certain it is, I ſtand reſponſible to the Public for every ſen⯑tence in this Drama now before them, with the exception of a very few periods indeed, and thoſe of no great importance. Let Kot⯑zebue therefore anſwer for no more than be⯑longs to him—the plot and fabric of JOANNA. Whether I have marred it or mended it in the execution, can only be decided when the Public ſhall be in poſſeſſion of the means for comparing them.
It has ſo rarely been my habit to write upon any plot but of my own fabrication and invention, that what I aſſert in the Prologue is moſt ſtrictly true; viz.
Whether from inaptitude for the taſk, or from whatever other cauſe my embarraſſments have [v] proceeded, ſuch they have been, and ſo many times have I woven and unwoven this Pe⯑nelope's web, that if plays were only to be appreciated by the pains they coſt in compoſing, this of mine would have a merit, which I ſuſpect the world will not be in the humour to attach to it. Then indeed I ſhould have one fair exception to ſet againſt the many in⯑ſtances of precipitation, of which I ſtand ac⯑cuſed, but of which I cannot be duly convicted, till it is known of how many hours my day conſiſts, and what portion of thoſe I devote to my ſtudies.
I have heard ſeveral authors inſtance a diſpatch in compoſition, of which I have no conception; but, with reſpect to the drama now ſubmitted, whether I did or did not write it, ſtans pede in uno, I can only aſſure the Public, I will never ſtand upon German legs any more, but take my chance with my countrymen for ſo much of their favour as my own independant efforts can obtain for me.
I have now been ſo often before the Reader, that I muſt claim the privilege of addreſſing him as a friend, whom I am not to flatter, [vi] and in whoſe company I am not to degrade myſelf by an unmanly ſtile of ſupplication, aſ⯑ſumed for no other purpoſe than to invoke his candour; the which, if he has not, falſe dif⯑fidence will not create, and, if he has, plain ſpeaking will not offend. I therefore ſhall not ſcruple to ſay (ſpeaking under the ſanc⯑tion of age and long experience) that the diction of Joanna is not inferior to that of any of my moſt favoured plays. I know I have outlived the time, when a ſimple and conſiſtent fable, developed in correct and claſſic diction, preſenting characters to be found in nature, and producing incidents not irrecon⯑cileable to probability, can no longer attract: I alſo perceive I have lived to ſee the time, when not content with the eccentricities of our own ſtage, we have gone to that of the Ger⯑mans for freſh ſupplies of what we were over⯑ſtocked with—falſe writing and falſe moral. It is too often that the ſucceſs or failure of a play depends upon the caſt, not upon the com⯑poſition; of courſe the play is written more for the actors behind the curtain, than for the audience before it: this makes Tragedy run [vii] riot, and Comedy play the antick. We have actors, who poſſeſs ſuch irreſiſtible power over the riſibility of the ſpectator, that our writers for the ſtage find their account in availing themſelves of thoſe powers, and produce a ſpe⯑cies of compoſition, which, departing from the character of the legitimate drama, may be ſaid to border very nearly upon farce and mum⯑mery.
Where faſhion points, the ſtage will follow. If, endeavouring to write according to nature and good models, the dramatic author finds himſelf deſerted by the Town, who but will be weary of the attempt? If the public taſte is vitiated, the remedy is not with him: the critic may take up the cauſe; a good dramatic cenſor may do much, but a ſcurrilous one can effect nothing. Are authors only to be laſhed, and their miſleaders to be paſſed over uncor⯑rected? The enlarged expences of our royal theatres do not warrant their proprietors in oppoſing themſelves to the public taſte—how then ſhould authors undertake it?
As I have been uniformly adverſe in my opinion to the introduction of theſe German [viii] dramas on the Engliſh ſtage, it may well be ſuppoſed my reaſons for undertaking to adapt this of Joanna were ſtrong ones, and in yield⯑ing to them, I have only to regret, that my endeavours have not been more ſerviceable to the intereſts of a theatre, to which I have every obligation, not only for the fair and honourable treatment I experienced from the proprietors, but alſo for the warm and cordial ſupport I received from the performers. Mr. Incledon in particular has a claim to my beſt acknowledgments for his very honour⯑able and zealous perſeverance in his duty, under circumſtances of ſuch an afflicting nature, as might have fully juſtified him for declining it.
In the copy now printed, I have not alto⯑gether adhered to the Prompter's book, as it was altered after the firſt night's repreſenta⯑tion. The Reader will obſerve I have re⯑tained the incident of Lazarra's falling by the hand of Joanna; this I have done, becauſe I ſee no particular reaſon for departing ſo entirely from the author's firſt conception, though good reaſon obtained, in point of action, for the altera⯑tion [ix] that was made on the ſecond night. On the German ſtage, Albert, in the combat with his rival, ſtumbles over the root of a tree, and falls to the ground; in this inſtant Joanna ruſhes in accoutred in the complete armour of a warlike knight, and with a huge ſword of two-handed ſway diſpatches Lazarra at a ſtroke. Albert, thus critically reſcued, riſes and requeſts the unknown Knight to put up his viſor, when to his aſtoniſhment he diſ⯑covers his preſerver in the perſon of his wife. How they may manage theſe matters on the German ſtage I cannot pretend to ſay; perhaps their actors may be better duelliſts, and their actreſſes more adroit in warlike operations than ours; but if we found diffi⯑culty in the action, ſimplified as it is, how much more ſhould we have been embarraſſed in point of execution, had we undertaken to perform it in the ſpirit of the original?
In the concluding ſcene of the third act, Wenſel in the original gets drunk upon the ſtage, and the keys are taken out of his cham⯑ber by Philip, whilſt his intoxicated father [x] lies buried in profound ſleep. If what I ſubſtituted in place of this incident is not ſo near to nature as the original, it is certainly leſs offenſive to decorum, and better ſuited to the manners of our Engliſh ſtage. When I am ſpeaking of this ſcene (unqueſtionably the moſt prominent in the play) I cannot paſs it over without acknowledging my obligations to the young and riſing actor, whoſe energetic and impreſſive execution in the character of Philip gave ſuch brilliancy to the repreſen⯑tation, and diſplayed powers, which, when drawn forth by abler authors, and better opportunities, cannot fail to place him in the very higheſt rank of his profeſſion.
The Joanna of Kotzebue is kept out of ſight during the whole time that Lazarra is in poſſeſſion of her caſtle, and of courſe is never before the audience but in the opening and concluſion of the play. It appeared to me expedient to fill up this hiatus, and of courſe her ſcenes in the middle acts are ſupple⯑mentary.
In like manner, Wolf in the original is [xi] merely the ſhadow of a character. The ſup⯑port of ſuch an actor as Mr. Munden, is an object which every author will reach at with avidity. I ſincerely thank him for his cordial aſſiſtance; I wiſh my efforts had been more proportionate to his merit. To the performers, who condeſcended to appear in characters, neither adequate to their merits, nor conſonant with their feelings, I have more to offer than acknowledgments; I muſt beg them to accept my apology.
As there is no muſic in the original, I muſt in juſtice exonerate the author from all reſpon⯑ſibility on the ſcore of the diſcarded Page. When his ſinging ceaſed, his ſervices were no longer wanted; two ſongs were compoſed for this character, though but one was perform⯑ed; theſe exquiſite melodies will, I hope, be publiſhed by the compoſer; and that I may not appear to keep that out of ſight, which will do him ſo much honour to produce, I retain thoſe ſongs in my copy, and of courſe the whole part of Eugene.
The overture, choruſſes, and ſongs, inci⯑dental [xii] to the piece, with four ſymphonies be⯑tween the acts, were all compoſed for the oc⯑caſion by Mr. Thomas Buſby: He alſo, in the run of the piece, ſubſtituted a new Quin⯑tetto inſtead of the Peaſant's chorus in the opening ſcene, and at the ſame time withdrew the finale of Joy, Joy, Joy! and introduced upon the ninth night a ſhorter and moſt bril⯑liant chorus to the following words:
It is matter of the higheſt ſatisfaction to me to find that the Public have done juſtice to his eminent abilities. I ſincerely hope this his firſt eſſay in the dramatic line will encou⯑rage him to employ his talents upon a larger and more ſplendid ſcale. Where genius ſo ſublime is combined with ſcience ſo profound, what is there within the province of his ſtudies, which the world may not expect from Mr. Buſby?
As the oppoſition, which was given to this play upon the firſt evening only of its per⯑formance, has paſſed over me without injury, I ſhould have paſſed over it without a re⯑mark, [xiii] but that I am given to underſtand an opinion was in circulation, that I had vanity enough to conceive I had prepared a ſpec⯑tacle, and compoſed a drama to rival, nay to eclipſe, one that was triumphantly eſtabliſhed on the ſiſter ſtage. As an author, I have never appealed from the deciſions of the theatre: conſcious that nothing can be more perfectly at the mercy of the Public than an author's reputation, when he has committed it to the ſtage, I have never offered a ſingle word in arreſt of judgment, however rigo⯑rous, nor perſiſted to obtrude myſelf, when I had once diſcovered I was no longer welcome. That we had no reaſon to yield the play up upon the partial clamour of the firſt night, the event of the ſecond clearly evinced; not a murmur was heard, and the applauſe was ge⯑neral. If I had been the arrogant man, which it is preſumed I was thought to be by ſome of my opponents, their reſentment would have fallen ſo much more heavily upon the li⯑beral proprietors of the theatre, than upon me individually, that there would have been infinitely more cruelty than juſtice in their [xiv] revenge. But the taſk of adapting this Ger⯑man Drama to our ſtage was no work of my ſeeking, and though I expended more pains upon it than I ever did upon any play in my life, the hopes I formed of its ſucceſs were chiefly grounded on the brilliancy of the ſpec⯑tacle, and the excellence of the muſic: As for Pizarro, I envy not his ſucceſs; I do not aſ⯑pire to rival it, I cannot wiſh to leſſen it; and if any man doubts my ſincerity, let him put himſelf in the predicament of an author, for years held off from receiving the fair and moderate earnings of his productive ſervices; and looking to that very fund for indemnifica⯑tion, then let him aſk his conſcience what he would ſay to ſuch an idle imputation, and his anſwer ſhall be mine.
PROLOGUE.
[]DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
[]- ALBERT, Lord of Thurn
- Mr. Pope.
- Lazarra, a Knight
- Mr. Holman.
- Darbony
- Mr. Incledon.
- Wenſel, Caſtellan of Belmont
- Mr. Waddy.
- Philip, his Son
- Mr. H. Johnſtone.
- Guntram
- Mr. Emery.
- Hermit
- Mr. Murray.
- Wolf, Warden of Thurn Caſtle
- Mr. Munden.
- Romuald
- Mr. Reeve.
- Reinhard
- Mr. Abbot.
- Ulrick
- Mr. King.
- Henry, Son to Albert and Joanna.
- 1ſt Soldier
- M. Klanert.
- 2d Soldier
- Mr. Atkins.
- Lazarra's Servant
- Mr. Curtis.
- Old Peaſant
- Mr. Davenport.
- Shepherd
- Mr. Gardner.
- Mountaineer
- Mr. Claremont.
- JOANNA of Montfaucon
- Mrs. Pope.
- Eloiſa
- Mrs. H. Johnſtone.
- Page
- Miſs Waters.
- Old Woman Peaſant
- Mrs. Whitmore.
- Girl
- Miſs Cox.
CHORUSSES by the Vocal Performers.
Scene SWISSERLAND.
[]JOANNA.
ACT I.
ARE you all ready? That is the window of our noble lady Joanna of Montfaucon. —Who ſets off with the ſerenade?
Silence, children, ſilence! we'll have no ſing⯑ing.
Who ſays no ſinging, when I made the ſong?
I do. 'Tis early morning, and our good lady may not be ſtirring yet.
Never tell me: the ſun is on the hills; ſhe's not in bed.
It has pleas'd heaven to viſit her with illneſs.
Don't ſay ſo: the good lady Joanna is no longer ill.
And hark! there's a proof of it. Our lord is going to the chace. Would he do that, if our dear lady was not well? She is well, ſhe muſt be well, ſhe ſhall be well—therefore let us have our ſong.
Hold, I tell you: wait only till our neigh⯑bour comes back to us: he may perhaps have ſeen her.
How this woman is ador'd!
Look, here our neighbour comes. Well, what news of the lady Joanna?
Have you ſeen her?
Have you ſpoken to her?
Is ſhe quite well?
Have patience. I have ſeen her; ſpoken to her. She bids me greet you all moſt kindly.
Yes, yes, ſhe is always kind.
Wou'd I cou'd ſay ſo? Why, juſt Heaven, with all this charity in ſtore, cou'd ſhe find none for me?
Bleſs you, good people all; your noble Lady greets you with a bleſſing—She'll preſently ap⯑pear; in the mean while ſhe has ſent you a re⯑freſhment.
With heart and ſoul we thank her; but we don't come to drink; we come to pray for her recovery.
Thank Heaven, your prayer is granted.—Pil⯑grim, do you want a draught?
I thirſt indeed, but 'tis not for your wine: I have need of charity, but do not want.
My queſtion was a ſimple one; your anſwer is myſterious.
Stand by, ſtand by!—Our honour'd lady comes.
Hah! 'tis Joanna—beautiful as ever!
Thanks, my good people! Theſe endearing marks of your affection are not loſt upon me. That health, which Heaven in mercy hath reſtor'd, now I perceive how it is priz'd by you, will profit me the more. On my ſick bed, when the chaſtiſing angel ſtruck me down, and the fierce fever ſcorch'd my panting breaſt, not for myſelf, but for this darling child, for my dear huſband, and for you my friends, I humbly pray'd the Lord of life to ſpare me.
The Lord be prais'd for having ſpar'd your life! —But you are faint, and we intrude upon you. We'll bleſs you and depart.
Bleſs you, ſweet Lady, bleſs you!
Oh! my children (for ſuch you are to me) no more of this! Sweet as ſuch bleſſings are, for⯑bear them now. The ſtricken lyre will tremble whilſt it yields exquiſite muſic at the minſtrel's touch, ſo through each fibre, that enfolds my heart, there is a time when even joy gives pain, and to be bleſs'd and prais'd by thoſe I love, ſets every nerve in motion with delight, till the ſenſe akes with tranſport. Therefore, friends, depart and leave me with this ſilent man.
Pilgrim, whence come you?
Laſt from Savoy, Lady.
You have ſome private ſuit.
Simply to bear you the greetings of an anxious abſent friend, the lady Adelaide, abbeſs of Ry⯑berg.
Ah! the good Adelaide, the fair recluſe. The world hath loſt one of it's rareſt graces.
The world indeed hath loſt, but Heaven hath gain'd her. What ſhall I ſay when I return to Ryberg?
Tell my dear Adelaide I'm well and happy.
Muſt I ſay happy?
If you ſay the truth.
It was reported to her, you eſpous'd ALBERT the Lord of THURN by force, not choice.
It was a calumny.
And that your heart inclin'd you to Lazarra.
That is untrue; I never ſaw Lazarra, but at a tournament, and then he wore his vizor down.
But he contended for you with Lord Albert.—
He did, and was defeated.
Do you think ſo?
And languiſh'd long under the cure of wounds inflicted by my huſband's ſword—
Are you quite ſure of that?—Well, happy Lady, I ſhall report you ſuch to Adelaide; and ſo farewell!
Farewell!
May I not pay a pilgrim's homage here?
So! Peace be with you!
Peace!—no peace is with me. Lazarra's heart harbours eternal hatred; and, come this night, Albert ſhall rue my vengeance.
That man has miſchief in his heart; and look! his lips have left a red and angry ſpot upon my hand.—May no ſuch pilgrims ever viſit here! —Hah! my dear lord!
What do I ſee? JOANNA, and abroad? Are you not out too early?
Are you not rather home too ſoon, my Albert, [7] if your field ſports might diſſipate that gloom which for theſe three days paſt, hath hung upon you?
Alas! the field affords no ſport for me: I ſhall not hunt to-day.
Then, for the firſt time, I demand my right; my part in your affliction. Do not tell me that I am weak, a woman—and unfit to be the ſharer of your ſecret thoughts: Am I not Albert's wife; and did the vow he pledg'd me at the altar only make me the fond aſſociate of his happy hours, not of his ſad ones? Oh, my beſt of friends! thou haſt nurs'd me in ſickneſs; may not I cheer thee in ſorrow?
Excellent Joanna! be ſatisfied; I will not keep a worm to gnaw my conſcience; nor hold that back which is another's right.
What is another's right?
Ev'n all you ſee.—This caſtle, at whoſe gate you feed the poor; this rich domain, was raviſh'd from its owner, the baniſh'd Lord of Thurn.
Not by my Albert.
No.—Would to heaven my father had been clear from that reproach as I am! But alas! it was a guilty buſineſs, my Joanna; and tho' in candour I'm not bound to blazon my father's ſhame, in honour I am bound to render juſtice to the Lord of Thurn.
The Lord of Thurn is dead.—He had no ſon.
He had a daughter; and, if ſhe ſurvives, ſhe is the rightful heireſs.
Well, where is ſhe?
That is not known. Her father was attack'd and ſlain by robbers. This daughter, then an infant, was with him; and whether ſhe was carried off alive, or ſhar'd her father's fate, remains in doubt.
Then do we hold this caſtle but in truſt till that doubt is reſolv'd. Let her be found.
And is Joanna then content to loſe what ſhe employs ſo worthily?
To loſe?—How is that loſt which we've no right to keep?
True; but reflect, that when this caſtle's gone, my family eſtate is all that's left me.
Is that all?—No; you have a faithful wife, a lovely hopeful child, a mind at peace, and the pure bliſs which unſtain'd honour gives—enjoyments, Albert, which who hath, is rich in his proud po⯑verty; and who hath not, is beggar'd by his riches.
Glorious woman, come to my arms! This treaſure is my own: Nothing but death can rob me of this wealth.
We will have treaſure where death cannot reach it. When conſcious rectitude hath chac'd the cloud that wrinkles on your brow, and with a ſmile you enter the ſmall cot where I will meet you, cherubs of health and peace ſhall deck the chamber of our repoſe with furniture more rich than kings can purchaſe; the low roof ſhall mount above the pitch of palaces and towers; and when I walk beſide thee, what imports it if leagues or inches limit our poſſeſſions? Thou art my property, thy love my treaſure, thy cou⯑rage my ſtrong caſtle and defence: One robe adorns me, thy untainted honour; one coſtly jewel, my beloved child.
If I intrude, forgive me. I was told you had aſk'd for me.
'Tis true, I did, good Philip; this day com⯑pletes the year that I have held you a hoſtage for the allegiance of your father, my caſtellan of Belmont. Now go in peace, and greet him in my name.
You have forgiv'n him wholly, noble ſir—
'Tis not my practice to forgive by halves.
You've buried in oblivion his offence.—
What I forgive I alſo can forget.
So cannot I your moſt unbounded goodneſs. [10] For life alone I am my father's debtor; for virtue, your's. You taught me how to prize it, and your example train'd me in the practice. My father's failings you have never mention'd in pre⯑ſence of his ſon. For this I thank you—'twas delicate, 'twas noble! But I can no more.— When feelings are ſo ſtrong expreſſion fails.
Farewell, good Philip! Let us often ſee you.
Oh, you are ſo great, ſo rich!—
What's rich and great, that fortune can reverſe? Let us be in your thoughts, as you in our's.
To the laſt breath of life. Heaven and good angels guard you.
Worthy Philip! his heart is full; he never will forget us: and in the day of trouble, of whoſe coming I have an awful warning, I predict that grateful youth will be a friend to ſerve us. Hah! who comes here, with our old Warden, Wolf.
Bring him along.—Worſhipful Lord, I've got him. We ſnapt this ugly fellow in the purlieus.
Why did you ſo?
Look at his coat, I pray you; look at his badge—I wave all comments on his hang-dog [11] face; I only ſay he wears Lazarra's livery; and therefore, catching him in the coat of a ſcoun⯑drel, I humbly apprehend he cannot fail to be of the complexion of a raſcal.
That's but an outſide argument, friend Wolf.
Sir, take which ſide you will of a convicted thief, and you ſhall find him ſtill an arrant knave; for here's the caſe—this fellow lurks about, and hides in the thick woods; why does he ſo? Why but becauſe the gallows ſtands in ſight, and 'tis a pretty eye-trap he has no taſte for, being a two-leg'd building without floors, the which who takes poſſeſſion of is left to dangle and cut capers in the air.—I pray you, Sir, give him a leaſe for life of that ſame airy tenement; that ſky-parlour.
How long has it been my cuſtom to condemn a man unheard? Let him ſpeak for himſelf. Are you in the ſervice of Lazarra?
I am.
Where is your maſter?
That I don't know. I am on furlough.
You lie; you are in limbo.
Old Guntram is my uncle: I came hither to ſee him.
Old Guntram is an old fox, and if you are the child of his ſiſter—(ſaving her ladyſhip's pre⯑ſence)—I take leave to tell you, you are the ſon of a ſtrumpet.
For ſhame! muſt your abuſe ſweep all his kindred?—What has Guntram done to deſerve this of you?
Guntram's a cheat, an old litigious knave; he robb'd your father, and he cribs from you rood after rood, and in the dead of night alters the landmarks.
Come, no more of this!
Nay, Sir, I have not half run out his roll. Guntram's a traitor, harbours rogues and runa⯑gates, javelin companions in Lazarra's pay, who carry within their ſhields wicked deſigns againſt your caſtle's peace.
Lazarra is a knight; there's peace between us. I will not hold his ſervant—Set him free!
Well! if it muſt be ſo—untie him! There, get out! Give him the rope, however, for a keep⯑ſake; he'll find an uſe for it ere long—Now, go your way—be ſure you rob and pillage all you come near; you are turn'd out for that purpoſe and none other. Out! begone!
Ah, my good Maſter, take an old man's word, [13] you have too much of the good thing called Mercy.
Then I've one one failing, Wolf, that thou art free from.
Come, my dear Lord, I'll ſay that for our friend (which is the beſt that can be ſaid for any man) he has an honeſt heart.
Thank you, Madam; you have ſaid it juſt in time, or I muſt elſe have ſaid it for myſelf; and of all the praiſe, that can be given me, I am leaſt flatter'd by my own, and much the moſt by your's.
No Philip, and broad day!—Fie on him, ſlug⯑gard! He, that loves truly, will be at his poſt before the bird of morning gives the alarm. Alas! for me, we only meet to part, and even that laſt comfort he denies me.
No, my ſweet Eloiſe, you do me wrong.
May I do ever wrong when I accuſe you! But why ſo tardy?
I have been taking leave of my good friends at the caſtle—a melancholy duty.
And now of me—a light and eaſy taſk for you perhaps, but agony to me.
Again you wrong me: doubt not my affection. Belmont is near; upon thoſe gliſt'ning cliffs my father's watch-tower ſtands: when the ſun ſets bright o'er the glaſſy lake, I'll take my croſs⯑bow in purſuit of game, and viſit my ſoul's treaſure.
When ſhall that be?
The ſooner for your wiſhes—perhaps to-mor⯑row.
Only perhaps—?
Love muſt not baniſh duty.
When ſhall I dare to ſay your love is duty?
Never: True love knows not the name of duty.
Will you think always ſo?—When I grow old?
Love never can grow old.
Years paſs away.
But Virtue is eternal—and thou art Virtue's ſelf.
You are kind and partial to your Eloiſa; but I well know my father does not pleaſe you.
I muſt confeſs his manners do not pleaſe me. I would to Heaven my Eloiſa were the humbleſt herdſman's daughter rather than Guntram's! Can it be in nature that ſoul like thine ſo tender, heart ſo pure, and manners ſo refin'd and elegant ſhould ſpring from ſuch a ſtock? Is he not ſhun'd by all the neighbours round, a petty ty⯑rant, the oppreſſor of the poor?
This may be true, but I ought not to hear it.
Rich to exceſs, and graſping after more, he would ſell any thing, ev'n thee, for gold. For⯑give me, my ſweet love, I have ſaid too much— but when I know he harbours in his heart a baſe deſign to ſacrifice thy charms to the firſt pander that will pay his price, I can no longer meet him as thy father, but muſt abhor and fly him as a peſt.
Ah! there he paſſes—See, he comes this way— Away, away! this path conceals you from him.
Look, look! His troop of Myrmidons are with him; ev'n now he's plotting—You are here at home—Adieu! This hand—Oh when will it be mine?
Adieu!—He's gone. I hope he has eſcap'd [16] them. Yes, yes; there waves his feather'd hat— I ſee him. Heaven be with you! Heaven and the angel of our love protect you!
I'll ſtorm a caſtle; aye, or ſack a city, but I'll not ſcold a pretty girl as you do.
Whom do I ſcold?
Your daughter Eloiſa; and you muſt know, friend Guntram, it offends me.
Well, if I do give her a word or two now and then a little of the rougheſt—'tis a way I have: She is uſed to it—Soft language would but ſpoil her. Cats and women are of a ſort; careſs them and they'll ſcratch you.
You have a piece of ſpar under your ribs; your heart is petrified.
And if it is, I am the fitter to conſort with you and that bold knight Lazarra, who employs you.
I'm no man's ſervant. I command a legion; and if I fight, I fight for him that pays me with plunder and free quarters.
Aye, marry, you make free enough wherever you find quarters: I wiſh you wou'd ſhift them ſomewhere elſe, my friend. The Lord of Thurn is better ſtock'd than I am: Why don't you pay a viſit to his caſtle?
All in good time—be huſht! Lazarra comes.
It ſhall be ſo! I will poſſeſs Joanna. Albert ſhall not engroſs her to himſelf.—Hah! Darbony, my hero, call your ſoldiers. Give the loud bugle breath; over the lake, acroſs the valley, up the mountain's ſide let echo waft the blaſt, that ſounds to arms.
Sound, Ullo; ſound the bugle—louder yet—a louder blaſt.
Soul of my father, how the ſignal cheers me! —Hence with this pilgrim's cowl! Come forth, my ſword!
Now, war; now, vengeance, I am all thine own! Haſten, bright Sun, and quench thy glowing beams; come, mantled Midnight, cloak the con⯑ſcious ſtars! I have fire enough within my heart to [18] need no other torch but that which rage ſupplies. —Why don't they rouſe?—Why don't they march and muſter?—Where are they?
Hark! I hear them; they are coming. Oh glorious muſic; ſoul-inſpiring ſtrain! It ſwells, it grows, it gathers on my ear—And look! they come.
Soldiers! and you that love a ſoldier's cauſe, valiant adventurers in the field of glory; we go to puniſh the proud Lord of Thurn, who keeps immur'd a fair and noble lady, who by the laws of chivalry is mine. What is more ſacred than a ſoldier's miſtreſs? What ſweeter to a rival than revenge?
Enough, Commander, ſo they do but fight, they are not nice about the cauſe they fight for.
Then are they comrades to my heart's con⯑tent, made to command ſucceſs and rule the world. Call them to arms, and march! Sound in their ears the animating charge, that ſcrews their courage to the true pitch, and ring out Albert's knell!—To arms, to arms!
SONG and CHORUS.
[19]ACT II.
[20]THESE clifts and hollows of the rock beſpeak a country form'd for ambuſh and ſurprize. 'Tis now a truce 'twixt Albert and myſelf; if under this we find his caſtle open, as 'twas this morning, we've an eaſy conqueſt—if not, we muſt ſtrike many a hard blow ere we win it; for, do him juſtice, Albert is a ſoldier. Our ſpies will ſoon be coming—and behold Reinhard and Ulric— Now, Sirs, what report you?
Every thing that can inſure to you an eaſy con⯑queſt. We carried letters to the Lord of Thurn; we found the caſtle barriers open as in time of the profoundeſt peace; the drawbridge down, no warders at their poſts, and none but one old ſervant, Wolf by name, who ſeem'd to entertain the ſlighteſt ſuſpicion of our errand, and leaſt of all the Lord of Thurn himſelf, who greeted us moſt kindly.
Confident dotard! He ſleeps his laſt night in Joanna's arms. The ſun has dropt into the lap of ocean, and enterprizing darkneſs now befriends us—Call up your ſoldiers from their rocky den, and range them for their march; you beſt can tell how to awaken and inſpire their courage.
A plague upon this bridge for lying here at his full length over the ſleepy moat! To my thoughts now it ſeems to cry—"Come, croſs me!" I hope no man leſs honeſt than myſelf may take it at it's word. As times now go, let there be ever betwixt me and danger a good broad ditch, ſay I; but my wiſe maſter ſeems to forget that thirteen centuries are paſt and gone, ſince peace and charity were preach'd on earth. Oh Lord, oh Lord! how does it come to paſs that honeſt men ſhould be ſuch eaſy gulls to live with ſcoundrels and keep open houſe! I'll coaſt about and liſten.—Hark! what's that? 'Tis not a trum⯑pet; no, nor yet a drum; but tis the clank of men that march in armour—Yes, yes, 'tis that— Click, click! juſt ſo my rapier jingles, when dangling in the ſlings it hits my cuiraſs.—Hoa! within there! Warders!—Up with the draw⯑bridge down with the portcullis!—They come, they come! The caſtle is ſurpriz'd—Ring out the alarm-bell, ring!—
Deſtruction ſeize you! Stop that noiſy bell. Charge! charge! my heroes, charge! and ſpare them not.
Cut your way through! On, on, my hearts of gold!
Victoria, Victoria! we have carried it.
Where is Lazarra? Albert calls Lazarra.
Forward, brave Sir! One ſally and we're free.
Come on, my hero! I have hew'd my paſ⯑ſage.
So have not I.—
the ſlipping bridge betrayed me.—If you are ſoldiers, give a ſoldier quarter!
Give him no quarter, comrades! It is Wolf.
Hold! if 'tis Wolf, he's keeper of the treaſure, and knows where it is buried.
That's what I do. Let me get up and ſhew you.—Ah! my friend Reinhard, is it you? That's well. We drank together ſcarce an hour [24] ago. Send off theſe fellows, and you ſhall have all the ranſom to yourſelf.
Well, what do ſtop for? Leave me with my pris'ner. The caſtle is your own—the tap is running; your comrades will have drank up all the liquor.
And are not you dry too? come with me, friend! I'll ſhew you drink in plenty.
Shew me money.
Oh!—very good! You wiſh to touch the treaſure; you'd tap the ſtrong box rather than the barrel. You are a wiſe man.
About it quickly then. There is no time to loſe.
Give me your arm. I am ſomewhat crippled with my unlucky tumble. This way, friend Reinhard. You'll never know what 'tis to want again.—Come o' this ſide. I'll ſhew you ſuch a a mine.—There, there it is.—Up to your chin in plenty!
You've got it, my fine fellow! drink your fill; make yourſelf welcome! Farewell, honeſt Rein⯑hard! —May all the foes of Albert ſo be treated.
Put up your ſword. I greet you Lord of Thurn.
An eaſy victory.—Remove the wounded, and ſecure the priſoners. Go, ſee it done. Then we'll divide the plunder.—That's your object; love and revenge are mine.
Now, now, Joanna, come and crown my triumph!
Lo, here I am! What would you with Joanna?
Your pilgrim is return'd.
Let him avoid me.
Arm'd! for what purpoſe? Is there need of arms, when your bright eyes command?
Let them command you hence.
Is this my welcome? Thus do you pay your champion and avenger?
I pay you all you merit—my averſion.
Come, come, I know you: trifle not with me. I know you are not Albert's wife in heart: 'tis but a compromiſe you make with duty; theſe are but fetters, which your parents forg'd—and thus I ſet you free.
Avaunt, blaſphemer! This dagger ſets me free, if you approach. Have you forgot from whom I am deſcended? Diſhonour cannot taint a Montfaucon. The wife of Albert does not fear to die.
The lover of Joanna does not wiſh it. I come at peril of my life to break thoſe chains, whoſe burden hangs ſo heavy on you; that death is leſs unwelcome than their weight.
'Tis falſe. My huſband is my crown of glory; thron'd in his boſom I defy your threats. Shame on your knighthood! recreant as you are, twice foil'd, twice vanquiſh'd in the liſts by Albert; how like a coward do you now attack him, under the maſk of a perfidious truce, for which his honeſt nature gave you credit; and free to face you as an open foe, made no defence againſt a ſecret robber.
Temper your anger, leſt you call forth mine.
Your anger cannot move even a woman; and is of all the paſſions that belong to you, your love excepted, what I moſt deſpiſe.
Inſulting woman, you'll extort a ſecret which elſe in pity I had kept untold.
In pity!—Tiger, who expects it from you? I ſaw my gallant huſband force the bridge. I have no pity to implore for him; and for myſelf, whilſt I command this weapon, I ſcorn to aſk it.
You ſaw your huſband force the bridge—
I did.—I ſaw your lancemen fall beneath his ſword.
And was that all you ſaw?
What elſe was to be ſeen?
Did Albert ſlay my people, and receive no wounds from them? Is he invulnerable?
Tormenter! Will you tell me he was wounded?
I ſhould ſuppoſe ſo, when he fell.
Fell! no. You torture me with apprehenſion. It was his brave old ſervant, Wolf, that fell.
Wolf fell, and roſe again.—Your huſband never.
Ah!
Monſter, murderer!—Ven⯑geance [28] nerve my arm! This to your heart!
You've miſs'd it.—Ha! ſhe faints!
I've gone too far: She loves him 'tis too plain. What ſhall I do? I dare not ſtir to help her; my very touch would kill her: loſt, abſorb'd, and all her ſenſes gone, ſtill, ſtill ſhe awes me.— 'Tis ſaid, that in the ſpot where ſaints are buried, ſome angel ſtill keeps guard upon their bones; and if the man of blood approach, he dies: I am a man of blood; and tho' the wreck of beauty lies before me, proſtrate, defenceleſs, I've no heart to harm her.—I'll hence, and call for help. Hoa there! Within!
Where am I? Hah! Lazarra has eſcap'd me, and left me here, defenceleſs and unarm'd, robb'd of my laſt, my only ſure reſource!
Oh Albert! Oh my huſband! I had treaſur'd your parting words:— ‘"My wife knows how to die; when all is loſt, that can protect her honour"’ — All now is loſt, for thou art gone for ever.—Ha! here are weapons.—Spirits of the juſt! guardians of virtue, aid me!
Cruel ſword! thou wilt not ſuccour the ſad wretch that needs thee: Thou art no hero's weapon; elſe my hand, weak tho' it is, had brought thee down to ſave me. One effort more.—Now, now, deſpair, aſſiſt me!
— 'Tis done! 'tis done! [29] the angel of my reſcue has nerv'd my arm to pull this trophy down, and offers to my view a choice of deaths.
And here I chuſe. Come forth, thou trenchant blade! bluſh not to prove thyſelf the friend of virtue, tho' in a wo⯑man's graſp. Terrific weapon! whatever maſter own'd thee, I can warrant thou haſt be-widow'd many a wretched wife; now vindicate the honour of a widow, and ſend her hence, to be a wife in Heaven. Now, Albert! now I come!
Turn, deſperate mother! turn, and ſave thy ſon!
My ſon! my ſon!—I live for thee, my ſon!
I'm wearied, and my armour weighs upon me heavier and heavier every ſtep I take: my limbs too, ſtiffen, and my bruiſes throb. If I could reach thoſe herdſmen on the mountain, I'd ſooner truſt my life with them than Wenſel; tho' gratitude and duty both conſpire to bind him to my ſervice.—Hah! he comes.
Who art thou, ſtranger?
Doſt thou not know me, Wenſel?
Albert! my Lord!—What brings my Lord alone, at this late hour, ſo far from his own caſtle?
Wenſel! 'tis now no time to feign ſurprize. Let us deal honeſtly, as man to man.
Honeſtly, my Lord?
Aye, ſir, even ſo; ſincerely.—When you had need of me, I was your friend; now I have need of you, will you be mine?
Why am I doubted?
You have fail'd me once.—
You kept my ſon in pledge a twelvemonth for it.
I ſent him home to you.
You did.
Where is he?
At home; if ſo, I may preſume to ſpeak of Belmont, which is your's.
If mine it is, let Belmont give protection to it's owner; for tho' you aſk me why ſo far from Thurn, I muſt believe you know that Thurn is loſt, my wife a priſoner, my ſon a ſlave, myſelf a fugitive, the earth my bed, Heaven's canopy my roof. This if you knew, why have you not aſ⯑ſembled your retainers to reſcue thoſe dear pledges from their danger? But if you knew it not, I tell you now, Lazarra is the villain who has robb'd me.
All this, my Lord, I do confeſs I knew, and had a prudent foreſight of your ruin, as you ſhall ſee—Hoa! Forreſters come forth.
How's this? In ambuſh, Wenſel? What in⯑tend you?
There, my good Lord, you ſee we have not ſlept: we are not improvident, but meet the times, as the times ſhould be met, forewarn'd, forearm'd.
Is Philip amongſt theſe? Set him before me; then I ſhall know you are with me true and loyal.
You was pleas'd to ſay but now, I had fail'd you once: I neither fail'd you once, nor ever will. I then was, what conſiſtently I ſtill am, and ever will be, your determin'd foe.
Wenſel, remember I forgave you.
Yes; your vanity forgave me, but your pride ſhew'd to the world that you had power to puniſh; and that my ſpirit never will forgive. You made my ſon your hoſtage, haughty Lord; now you are mine—arreſt him!
Oh! thou villain!
Yes, you may call me villain; I'll not ſtop the clamour of your tongue, becauſe your railing ſhews me how very far you are debas'd from every manly character; begone! I am aſham'd of you. Take him away.
Methought I heard the buzzing ſound of voices.—No, 'tis a vile inhoſpitable deſert. If I cou'd jump now on a ſnug warm cottage, a meſs of milk and a clean truſs of ſtraw, 't would be a bleſſed chance; but no, no, no: Theſe mountaineers would break my neck to catch 'em, and when I've caught 'em, they'll not break my faſt.—There's Wenſel's watch tower! The devil watch him. I have too much reſpect for this old carcaſe, tho' bruis'd and batter'd by Lazarra's cut-throats, to truſt it in his keeping, ugly thief! —If my poor maſter falls into his hands, he might [33] as well have fallen in the moat.—Good night to him.—Holla! By'r Lady, who is this old fellow? —Your bleſſing, father!
Heaven's grace be with you!
Amen to your grace! Now if you'll ſerve up ſupper, and ſay, "Sit down with me!" I am your man.
Who and what are you?
Not a ſwallow, friend, to feed on flies; nor a cameleon to live on air; but a poor hungry man, infinite weary, and tolerably honeſt—therefore do you ſee, if your pot boils and you're in haſte for ſupper, ſooner than let it cool, I'll make one with you.
My cell is poorly furniſh'd for the hungry; yet is the ſtranger welcome—Heaven forbid, I, that am fed by charity, ſhould lack the thing I live by!
Right! you take it rightly: you read your bible with a proper comment, and are a very ſen⯑ſible old gentleman—I wiſh your table may be as well provided as your underſtanding.
My fare is like my fortune, poor and humble.
Heaven mend your fortune, and fortune mend [34] your fare! I now perceive, grave Sir, you are the Hermit ſo famous in theſe parts for your piety and learning: I will not trouble you on theſe points at preſent, being juſt now in greater need of food and reſt than hymns and homilies.
Firſt tell me, are you not of Wenſel's company?
Indeed I am not: 'Tis the laſt company I would wiſh to be in.
Do you belong to Guntram or Lazarra?
If I belong'd to either you ſhou'd hang me. I belong to Albert, Lord of Thurn—Wolf at your ſervice—ſo I am call'd by name; I am not ſuch by nature.
Your name I have often heard; and ever grac'd with commendations of your character: Your maſter I am a ſtranger to.
Indeed! Where have you liv'd? His chari⯑ties are pretty well known.
I have heard of them; they are gone to Heaven before him.
Truly I fear he'll ſhortly follow them, for when we parted he was on his way, and had but barely got the ſtart of death: As for my part, I was thrown out of the race, being down in battle, [35] with half a ſcore of rapiers at my throat, expect⯑ing every moment my quietus; but this, good fa⯑ther, is a ſoldier's ſtory, and only ſhould be told over a can.
Come on then, you ſhall have the can, my friend, and I the ſtory; for I love a ſoldier. I dwell no further off than in that rock, and have employ'd no architect but nature—So we poor hermits are content to live.
I know what ſort of tenements your's are, and how you live ſcot-free, under the wind, and pay no rent except to Providence, on whoſe account you garniſh out your lodgings with mementoes, that mark the tenure under which you hold: But all your ſkulls and bones won't break my reſt; Death is to me no ſtranger; I've ſeen him in all ſhapes; in all his terrors; and know his face too well to fear his picture.
ACT III.
[36]WENSEL, your caſtellan of Belmont, waits.
Admit him.—Wenſel is an uſeful villain.
Joy to the brave Lazarra! On my knee I pay my homage to the Lord of Thurn.
I ſcarce can ſay if I am Lord of Thurn, till Albert's taken. He, that tells me that, will be indeed a friend.
That friend am I; I have him in ſafe hold.
Off with his head! So all is ſafe, and you are Lord of Belmont.—You and your heirs for ever.
I take you at a word,—He dies this night.
And I am in Joanna's arms to-morrow—ſo goes he to his Heaven, and I to mine.
You'll have ſome ſtruggles to encounter firſt.
And who has not that has to do with wo⯑man?—Have you aught elſe; for time is precious with me?
No more but to remind you of your promiſe.
That's ſacred—ſo let your engagement be.— But to remove all ſcruples,—on my ſword ſwear you will ſend me Albert's head to-morrow.
I ſwear, and with a kiſs confirm my oath.
And if you keep it not, you kiſs your death.
Father, I thank you: I have eat, and drank, and ſlept away my cares beneath your roof. You've made your houſe of rock, but not your heart; and if I live to ſee the happy day, when Thurn ſhall welcome her true Lord again, your ſcrip ſhall never want a hermit's dole.
If ever that day comes, I ſhall not aſk it.
In truth you need not, for my noble maſter hath too much of the virtue of benevolence in himſelf, not to acknowledge it in other people.
I've ſimply done my duty; that's no praiſe.
In a degenerate world it is ſome praiſe. There are, who have abundance, and yet want; you live in poverty, and have to ſpare. Now, father, fare thee well! I'll to the hills, and ſee what metal hearts are made of there: If this Lazarra, and his foreign cut-throats, are to inſult our na⯑tion, ſeize our caſtles, and live at large upon us, farewell, freedom! I'll rather fly my country, and turn Jew, than be a Swiſs and own myſelf a ſlave.
Oh! lov'd Helvetia, Oh my native country! How long, ye ſons of freedom, will ye ſuffer theſe foreign hypocrites to dwell amongſt you? When they affect to embrace you as their brethren, they meditate to throw their chains▪ about you, and make you bondſmen; under the pretence of moderation, they would fain conceal monſtrous ambition, Iuſt inſatiable of univerſal power, and pride ſo vaſt, that having vow'd eternal enmity to earthly kings, they impiouſly aſſail the throne of Heaven, and rather than confeſs a greater than themſelves, deny their GOD.
Father!
My Child!
Are you not angry with me for tarrying ſo long? I ran to you at laſt and brought you ſome⯑thing. Are you not hungry, poor old man?
Not ſo: thy charity foreſtalls my wants.
I ſhou'd have been with you an hour ago, for that's the hour my father takes his nap.
Dares beneficence then only wake when Gun⯑tram is ſleeping?
Alas-a-day, there is ſad news abroad. Have you not heard the doings at Thurn Caſtle?
I have, my child.
That vile Lazarra is the worſt of men, and ſo is Darbony, and ſo is Wenſel—aye, and ſome others, but I name no names. All hearts bleed for the good Lady Joanna; and as for Lord Al⯑bert, he's the beſt of men.
I do not know Lord Albert.
That is much. All poor men know him, for he loves the poor.
The Lord reward him!
He gave to thoſe that hunger'd: he himſelf hungers in chains. Alas! I pity him.
Yes, human ſufferings ſtrike our hearts with pity; and oft we wonder at the ways of Providence, that thus permits good men to be oppreſs'd; but whilſt we only reaſon from effects, Heaven acts from cauſes unreveal'd to us.
Ah, father! theſe are things above my reach: I have not underſtanding of theſe matters; but believe it all becauſe you ſay it. You may have known variety of fortune; I've no experience of that ſort: my life has been a ſcene of uniform depreſſion. I've often aſk'd the hiſtory of your days, but you've no confidence in me to tell it.
'T will give you pain; why ſhould you wiſh to hear it?
The tender pain that pity gives, is pleaſing.
I have ſeen better days, been rich and noble; and all the ſoft affinities, ſo dear to human nature, I have fondly cheriſh'd! Heaven's mercy gave them; cruel man deſtroy'd them!
Ah, poor unfortunate! you've been a fa⯑ther—
I have; and when you call me by that name, the recollection that I had a daughter, who might have been the bleſſing of my age; this, this, my child, pulls at my heart-ſtrings!—and when I wou'd ſpeak, at thy deſire, I cannot— I am ſtifled!
Then I will never aſk it more.—And now be⯑hold my father, and that odious Darbony.—Re⯑tire into that grotto, good old man! and take your baſket with you: harbour there till they are gone.—I would not have them ſee you.
There, there ſhe is! Now you ſhall hear me ſpeak as ſoftly to her as the zephyr blows: Child, this is Darbony, a wealthy knight; a gentleman of Florence: one whoſe ſword has carv'd him out a fortune by the wars, that well may warrant him to ſay, to any the beſt and proudeſt ſpinſter in the land—"Come Yorth, and be my bride!"
Well, let him ſay it to any; ſo it is not to me.
How now! do you rebel? Do you murmur, ſaucy chit? I've ſaid the word; the bond is ſign'd and ſeal'd: you marry him this night. You ſee I am calm; you ſee I take a gentle courſe of perſuaſion with you: but have a care how you chafe me; take heed how you anger [42] me! By all that's terrible, if you hold off, I'll have you dragg'd to the altar.
Softly, friend Guntram! there you go too faſt. You are old and harſh; your daughter's young and gentle.
Aye, tell her ſo! You are a notable lover; and ſhe 'll tell you ſhe is too young to marry you. She'd not ſay that to me, if I propos'd Philip of Belmont, neighbour Wenſel's ſon: not ſhe, not ſhe; ſhe'd jump into his arms.—But ſhe ſhall know theſe ſhuffling pleas won't paſs: ſhe's your's this very night.—Hav'nt I ſaid the word?
Yes, you have ſaid the word; but when the theme is love, we hold it as the better way to ſing it:
There, there, you lucky girl! you've got a huſband, whoſe very voice is harmony itſelf.
Oh! if, unſeen, my guardian Genius hears, [43] and pities my diſtreſs, to Belmont let him fly, and tell my Philip—without his inſtant reſcue I am loſt.
What's that you mutter? Get you home; be gone! and, ſon in law, you wait upon your bride.—I'll follow in the rear. Unruly brat!
Father of Eloiſa, turn, and hear me!
Now, what's the matter? Do you come to beg?
To beg indeed—to implore, for pity's ſake—
Well; come to-morrow; there 'll be ſcraps in plenty to fill your wallet, if you come to⯑morrow.
'Tis not for ſcraps; tis mercy, and not meat, for which I hunger.—Oh, for Heaven's ſweet ſake, recal the cruel ſentence you have paſs'd, and do not force this marriage on your daughter.
Pooh! you to talk! a hermit! —Get you gone! You're craz'd; you're fooliſh: go about your buſineſs.
Perſuaſion's loſt upon him, ſordid wretch!— "To Belmont let him fly"—thoſe were her [44] words—"And tell my Philip"—there is all her hope. Wou'd I could execute her ſwift com⯑mand, and fly to ſave her! but though ſlow with age, I will be quick in zeal, and never part with Philip till I bring him to her reſcue.
Why do you fly the company?
The company, my father!—the aſſaſſins.
Inſolent boy!
Will you betray your friend, and after mur⯑der him? Oh conſcience, conſcience! ſpeak to the heart of this unhappy man in the ſtill voice of pity.
Canting pedant, chill not the noble ardour of my ſoul, when the wine revels in my kindling veins, and my heart bounds with joy.
Wine may confound and ſuffocate the feelings for a while; but when the mad deluſive dream is paſt, and reaſon ſhows you where ſuch dreams muſt end, then will your cry be turn'd aſide from Heaven, and like the unhallow'd ſacrifice of Cain, prophetic of your doom, ſink down abhorr'd, rejected, and accurſt.
No more of this! be dumb!
Forbid me not. Silence will come too ſoon: Old age hangs over you, and the dark hour of death approaches—
If death is near, beware how you provoke it. Hence, be gone!
Can nothing make you tremble?
Yes, my anger.
Why do you bear this enmity to Albert? Why, but becauſe he ſpar'd you, he forgave you, ſent back your ſon, and truſted to your honour?
The more fool he, who firſt forgives a foe, and after truſts him.
Ah, if ſuch are fools, woe to your wiſdom!
Woe to thee, thou inſolent, who dar'ſt to hold this language to thy father!
My father! No, if you embrue your hands in Albert's blood, I will not call you father; I will not meet the curſe that is entail'd upon the ſon of ſuch an impious father.
Give me a ſword! This is too much to bear— My ſword, my ſword!
Behold, here comes the man, in whoſe accuſ⯑ing preſence when you ſtand at the great day, nor ſword nor ſhield ſhall ſave you, nor darkneſs cover you, nor caverns hide.—Ah, noble Sir!
Why do you look at me? Take off your eyes.
Oh conſcience, conſcience, how thou art abaſh'd! Never did mine produce, or mortal forge, weapon ſo ſharp as the ſoul-ſearching eye of ſcornful virtue fixt on its oppreſſor.
What do you mean by this contemptuous ſilence? The axe is ſharpen'd, and the hand is ready, that ſevers your proud head this very night.
Then hear, oh hear me, thou avenging Power! If any lift his hand againſt the life of that juſt man, whoſe virtues have betray'd him, Guardian of innocence, with inſtant death ſtrike, ſtrike the murderer, whoe'er he be!
Stop, parricide! the death you call is preſent.— Albert, you die this night—few hours are left you. Lazarra dooms your death—Take him away!
Hold, for a moment hold!—Look to my fa⯑ther—He faints! ſupport him! See, the hand of Heaven is viſibly upon him—bear him off; I'll follow to his chamber.
When you behold this judgment, can you doubt if Heaven forbids you to attempt the life of that good man? Guards, ſet your priſoner free!
Miſtake us not, young Sir! Your father's fit don't fright us from our duty; we ſhall hold him with double diligence now, as we muſt an⯑ſwer it with our lives to Lazarra.
Philip, 'tis all in vain. We part for ever.
I cannot part from you; we'll die together.
No, Philip; if Joanna yet ſurvives, live for her ſake; live for my infant ſon. Tell my ſad widow that I left this world convinc'd of her fidelity, and died beſeeching Heaven to bleſs her, pouring out with my laſt breath my thanks for all the hours of my paſt happineſs by her be⯑ſtow'd—Tell her, the hope ſhe cheriſh'd in her ſickneſs, ſupported me in the laſt pangs of death— the pious hope that in a better world the reno⯑vation of our faithful love, made pure and per⯑fect, will compoſe a part of that beatitude, which heart of man cannot conceive, and only Heaven can give.—My laſt farewel, and bleſſing to my ſon!—He is too young to know—but time may [48] come, when you ſhall tell him—Ah! I can no more—
Hark! hark! a groan, and from my father's chamber. By the great Power that made me, I will bury this dagger in his heart that ſtops my paſſage, or dares to follow me.
Philip, beware! Remember 'tis your father.
Keep faſt the priſoner! I command you hold him, as you ſhall anſwer it to our Lord La⯑zarra.
Fear not a reſcue; we've no arms to force you; nor have you hearts that can be touch'd by pity. My fears were for my friend, leſt in the tyrant he forgot a father.
We are not careful what becomes of Wenſel; we are Lazarra's ſervants; and for Philip, let him look to himſelf; we think not of him.
You talk and act exactly as they ſhou'd, who ſerve a maſter brutal as Lazarra.
Oh! Philip, Philip, if you've rais'd your hand againſt your father's life—
Nature forbid paternal blood ſhou'd ever ſtain this hand. My father lives, but death's precurſor ſleep falls deep and heavy on his mor⯑bid ſenſe.
Come, Sir, you muſt to priſon.
Aye, aye, to priſon in the weſtern tower.
No, in the eaſtern tower, where the chain of rocks begins.
You're right, you're right; 'tis from the eaſtern tower the chain of rocks begins.—And how long is it to his execution?
From this to midnight.
That will ſoon be here:—It is but right he had an hour for prayer.
What do you mean? I do not underſtand you.
Alone, alone—that cannot be denied you.
If the Lord Albert wiſhes to be left to his de⯑votions, I can have no objection to his praying, my only buſineſs is to prevent him from eſ⯑caping.
Then go, Lord Albert, go to your priſon.
Will you part without taking a laſt farewell of me?
I'll ſee you again.
In Heaven!—Farewell.
Now, Albert, I am arm'd for thy deliverance. Theſe keys command the paſſes of the caſtle— And if it be thy will, O Providence, to appoint me to this work, and render theſe thy imple⯑ments of mercy, let thy ſleep ſeal up the ſenſes of my wretched father, till I have done the deed. Hah! who art thou?
What do you want, old man! no one comes here: go, go, begone! my father is aſleep.
I do not want your father: If you are Philip, my buſineſs is with you.
I am Philip, but I can't hear your buſineſs— you muſt defer your buſineſs till to-morrow.
Impoſſible. To-morrow it wou'd be too late.
No matter. I'm in haſte, in preſſing haſte.
So am I.
What then; what then? Life hangs upon my haſte.
So does it upon mine; an innocent life, a life more dear to Philip than his own—Your Eloiſa—
Heaven preſerve my ſenſes!
Is loſt to you for ever—ſold, ſurrendered, and ſacrific'd this night by her unnatural father—
How! to whom?
To Darbony.
The monſter! will he devote his daughter to that daemon—that Moloch bath'd in blood.
Too ſure he will. The father and the fiend will drag their beauteous victim to the altar ere mid⯑night bell is toll'd.—Poor Eloiſa reſts her laſt hope on thee.
On me!
On thee ſhe calls—to thee ſhe turns for help —ſhe ſummons thee to ſave her; 'tis from her, a weak but willing meſſenger, I come.—In her [52] deſpair ſhe cried, "Go tell my Philip, without his inſtant reſcue I am loſt."
What does that action mean? Why do you tarry? Are you not Philip, or am I miſtruſted?
You are not miſtruſted, and I—I am Philip.
Then follow me at once; it is high time.
Yes, 'tis high time.
And we have far to go.
Oh! choice of horrors! Turn my heart, juſt Heaven, where honour, truth, and virtue ſhou'd direct it! load not thy feeble creature paſt his bearing, but by my weakneſs meaſure thy temp⯑tation.
What is the matter? Whence is your diſtreſs?
Thou art the meſſenger of Eloiſa, therefore I tell thee, that within this caſtle the noble Albert languiſhes in chains. He is my benefactor, my inſtructor, my firſt, my beſt of friends, my more [53] than father. Here in my hand is liberty for Albert; a ſecret paſſage, which theſe keys com⯑mand, leads him to ſafety—if I loſe one hour, 'twill be too late; at midnight he muſt die; in the ſame moment, when the cruel father of Eloiſa ſacrifices her, my father murders him. Can I deſert him? No, no, I cannot. Let me do this deed to make me worthy Eloiſa's love, then I will ſet her free, or die in the attempt. Go, go; I cannot follow thee; depart! Heaven at this trying criſis will ſend forth its angel to protect her—I cannot; love wou'd make me a murderer if I did.
ACT IV.
[54]NOW Providence inſpire me to redeem this victim of a mercenary father! Helpleſs my⯑ſelf, and diſappointed of Philip's help, I muſt proceed by ſtratagem, and leave the cauſe to ſanctify the means—Hah, here he comes. Save you, Sir!
That is as much as to ſay, 'Give me a hand⯑ſel for my benediction.'—I ſee, in ſpite of the advice you gave me, you are coming to the wed⯑ding.
Pardon me, Sir! I'm going to the burial.
What do you mean? Do you ſuppoſe I'm dying.
No, but Lord Albert is—covered with wounds, he is dying in my cell.
Don't talk of wounds: I hate to hear of them. What is all this to me?
As you ſhall make it—every thing, or nothing. He calls for you moſt eagerly.
He may call long enough before I'll come.
I told him ſo; but nothing cou'd appeaſe him —See you he muſt; and were you not a man to ſpurn at money, 'twou'd be worth your while.
Who ſays I ſpurn at money? I love money.
Jewels are money's-worth, and theſe Lord Al⯑bert has brought off in plenty: they're very rich, and knowing you a ſafe and prudent man, he wiſhes to entruſt them to your keeping.
Aye! who believes you? let me ſee the jewels.
Here is a ſample. Look upon this ring.
By'r lady, a rich gem, a peerleſs ruby; but this I never ſaw upon his finger.
You know the bearings of the houſe of Thurn. What did Lord Albert wear upon his banner?
A crowned lion.
Right! 'Tis a crowned lion—Turn the ſtone, and there you ſee it—Now will you believe it is the ſignet of the Lord of Thurn?
I do believe it.
Make haſte then, and attend him in my cell.
Where is your cell?
Lo, where it hangs upon the craggy peak of yonder mountain, like an eagle's aerie.
Yes, but I am no eagle to fly to it.
Then ſend a nimbler meſſenger—your daugh⯑ter—Whom can you truſt ſo well?
You're craz'd, methinks—My daughter is upon the point of marriage.
And Albert on the point of death!—Conſider, your daughter may return before ſhe's called for, and theſe jewels will be a rich depoſit in your hands.
That's true, that's true. Why did'nt you bring 'em with you?
I have brought one; the reſt he would not truſt in any hands but your's or Eloiſa's.
I rather wonder he ſhould fix on me.
Oh, Sir, your character—
Yes, yes; my character, I grant you, ſtands ſtrong in affairs of truſt; but then I doubted if Albert ſaw it in the light that you do.
Correctly in the ſame. Come, where's your daughter? Time flies, and Albert languiſhes the whilſt.
Hoa! Eloiſa! Eloiſa! you are wanted.
What is your pleaſure?
Take my ebony box, and follow this good hermit to his cell; he'll tell you of the buſineſs by the way—Make haſte; diſpatch!
Inform me! What is this?
Huſh! aſk no queſtions—inſtantly obey!
Implicitly—thou art my guardian angel.
Come in! A cup of rheniſh will recruit you.
Now, Fortune ſpeed us! Avarice, for once thou haſt befriended virtue—and I thank thee.
What a change is here in one night's time from happy to unhappy! Never again ſhall I ſee ſuch a day as yeſterday. If, as 'tis ſaid, my noble maſter's kill'd, alas for my poor lady! What will become of her? And when ſhe's loſt, all's loſt to me; I have no friend but her—
Eugene!
My Lady!
That's a mournful-ſong.
Aye, Madam, and a melancholy ſongſter.
You are young, and will forget your ſorrows.
If Providence ſhall take my ſenſes from me before it takes my life, I may forget them; not elſe.
Then how ſhou'd I?
Lady, I went up to the tower this morning by the firſt peep of day, and I do think I ſpied our brave old warden, Wolf, under the walls.
Child, 'tis impoſſible; I ſaw him fall. Wolf died, as I ſhall die, for his dear lord.
Indeed, indeed! I cou'd not be deceiv'd. Methought he ſaw me too, and made a ſign, as if to call me down.
You are miſtaken. Wolf, by a noble death, has finiſh'd a long courſe of faithful ſervice. Now go and aſk permiſſion for my child to viſit his ſad mother—Hah! the tyrant.
May I approach? and will Joanna deign to ſay what homage her true knight can pay to re⯑commend his ſuit? What will ſhe aſk?
Favours from you, the murderer of my huſ⯑band, I never thought to aſk—Yet there is one.
Name it; command it.
It is only one. Let there be dug a grave where Albert fell, and in the ſpot, made ſacred by his blood, let me be buried.
Was there but one man in the peopled earth, for whom Joanna will conſent to live? I'll hope there is—I truſt ſhe will prefer life in the con⯑queror's arms, to a cold grave with a dead corpſe beſide her.
Break, break, my heart!
Nay, if you weep, it will not: The heart that melts in tears will never break.
This raillery ſhows a nature ſo debas'd, that ev'n your cruelty has not one caſt of manlineſs about it, but aſpires to nothing more than to in⯑ſult a woman, and make a widow's agonies your jeſt.
Be pacified! This caſtle ſtill is your's; it has but chang'd its maſter: all is your's—all that is mine, and all that has been Albert's.
Away! I would prefer the vileſt dungeon, whoſe peſtilential vapour, fraught with death, [61] ſhould be ſo fatal that you dare not enter, to freedom, where I muſt inhale the air that you have breath'd.
You've ſaid enough. Tis done. I ſhall not meet averſion ſo decided, like a tame lover—I will be your maſter.
Take hence that brat! He ſhall not enter here.
May I not ſee my child?
No, you may not. Becauſe you tauntingly pronounce my ſight ſo hateful, that the blaſt of death wou'd be more welcome, I'll henceforth provide, that if you ever let the light of Heaven viſit your eyes, you ſhall behold Lazarra. I'll have a ſcore of painters ſet to work, and hang my portrait up in every chamber through which you paſs, 'till the deteſted image of him whoſe preſence taints the genial air ſhall be ſo ever⯑laſtingly impreſs'd on your mind's eye, in dark⯑neſs you ſhall ſee it; in ſolitude, in ſleep, I ſtill will haunt you, nor ſhall the grave itſelf con⯑ceal me from you.—Now follow me, proud dame! Do you rebel?—Move, or my guards ſhall drag you—Hah! 'tis well! I will not quit you. Tho' my paſſing ſhadow, where it fell on you, bliſter'd your fair fleſh, I will not bait one atom of your penance.
Hear me, my good men of the mountains; hearken! A long ſtory I ſhall not tell you, for I am not fond of talking; and becauſe I hate ly⯑ing I will tell you no ſtory at all.—This ſame La⯑zarra is a foreign ſcoundrel, a ſtranger to our na⯑tion, and no Swiſs. He has no buſineſs here: What does he come for? I'll tell you what—for plunder—to drive you out of your cabins, as he has drove the worthy Lord of Thurn out of his caſtle—Will you ſuffer it?
No, no, we will not—we'll revenge Lord Albert.
I knew you wou'd; I knew you were true Swiſs, and wou'd not let thoſe villainous inter⯑lopers tread in your lovely ſnows, and track your pleaſant mountains, where nothing grows but icicles and liberty.—Lord love you, you remem⯑ber poor old Wolf; you have the ſteam of the caſtle kitchen ſtill in your noſtrils, and know I was not the Wolf at the door to keep you out, but to invite you in—You bear all this in mind; I know you do.
We do, my maſter, therefore ſay no more, but march!
Oh yes; I'll march—Lazarra pays the piper, ſo ſtrike up! We hav'nt got the true ſtep, but no matter: We'll trot, and our enemies ſhall gallop.
My Lord, my Lord, where are you? reach your hand; I've found the paſſage; the freſh air ſalutes us, and the bright moon ſubſcribes her friendly beam.—Welcome to liberty.
My brave deliverer, come to my heart.
It is the proudeſt aim of my ambition to be near your heart. But you are faint, the ſubter⯑ranean damps hang on you ſtill. Within this [64] cave you'll find repoſe and ſhelter; enter it, my Lord. I will aſcend the heighths, kindle a fire, and bring the mountaineers to your aſſiſtance.
Thanks, gallant youth! a faintneſs ſteals upon me; I muſt confeſs to you I need repoſe.—Ah, Philip, to be torn from thoſe we love dearer than life, and in the hour of danger, by ſtrong neceſ⯑ſity driven to deſert them, judge how it wrings my heart!
I do—I judge, I feel it by my own.—No more, but enter.
Oh Eloiſa; 'tis thy cauſe no leſs than Albert's, that gives wings to my impatience.
Here is my cell. We'll take a ſhort repoſe, and then reſume our flight.
And wilt thou ſuffer all this for me? Wilt thou for me exhauſt the ſmall remains of ſtrength that age has left thee; thou pure benevolence, thou more than parent to poor deſerted Eloiſa?
I'll not permit thee to deſpond, my child. There is a Providence, that bear me up above my body's ſtrength in thy protection. I feel as if I were again a father, and my loſt daughter liv'd again in thee: fear nothing then: within this peaceful cell thou wilt find viands of your own beſtowing.—Enter!—What ails thee?— There is nothing there; no dying man to fright thee.
Ah, he's there! the very man. I ſee him there— Lord Albert, ſtretcht on the floor, and dying, as it ſeems.
Merciful Heaven defend us! who is this?
Be not thus caſt in wonder. I am Albert, not dying, as ſhe thinks, but ſav'd from death, if you betray me not.
If we betray you! we are not thoſe that wou'd betray the wretch that fled from juſtice to invoke protection; how then ſhou'd we betray the good Lord Albert, the patron of the needy and oppreſt, the orphan's father and the widow's friend? Bleſt be the hand that reſcued thee from death! Say who it was, that I may pray for him.
Philip of Belmont.
Oh approving Heaven, crown him, reward him for the glorious deed. My Philip has preſerv'd you; I acquit him. I was in like extremity with you at the ſame hour; I call'd him to my reſcue in vain; his virtue triumph'd o'er his love. He turn'd from me and ſav'd his benefactor. I praiſe him, I applaud him for the choice: you had a huſband's and a father's claim; for you the hearts of thouſands wou'd have bled; for me none other than his own.
And mine.
Ah, father, if you knew the Lord of Thurn.
I hope he has been taught to know himſelf in his adverſity.—I knew his father.
I'm ſorry for it, if you knew him rightly; for then you know what cauſe I have to bluſh, when I am falſely ſtil'd the Lord of Thurn.
That to confeſs beſpeaks a candid mind; for that I honour you; but Thurn is loſt. What then remains?
Before to-morrow's dawn either to ſee Lazarra at my feet, or ſee the light no more: if on the walls my banner flies, it flies not for myſelf, but for the daughter of that rightful Lord, who in his baniſhment was baſely murder'd.
Alas, that daughter never will be found, nor was that father murder'd; he yet lives, and I am he. Yes, Albert, I, I am that wretched father; degraded, exil'd, and at once bereft of wife, ſon, daughter; outcaſt of the world; no home, no country, not one friend on earth, ſave this ſweet innocent, the feeble ſtaff of an old beggar totter⯑ing to his grave.
Oh heavenly juſtice, how did I eſcape, whilſt you was begging at that caſtle's gate, which I, unconſcious of your right, uſurp'd?
That I am Theodore, the baniſht Lord of Thurn and its domain, I had in proof to ſhew one relick, which the robbers miſs'd, my creſt (a crowned lion) cut in ruby; but this laſt pledge I left in Guntram's hands for purpoſes, which this dear child can witneſs.
There needs no witneſs to the truth you utter; and here, in preſence of high Heaven, I ſwear to pay you homage, and reſtore your right.
No, no, your virtues have aton'd to juſtice; you, Albert, have the bleſſings of the poor: Had I poſſeſſion, what cou'd I have more? I have no daughter; the inhuman villains, that robb'd and left me dying, kill'd my child. Within that cell I have preſerv'd one relick, one mournful relick. —You ſhall ſee my ſtore.
I ſaw no relick. What does he allude to?
Alas! I know not. My heart melts with pity.
This mourful ſtory is not new to you.
My Lord, I've often aſk'd, but never heard it: he always put me by when I made ſuit to ſhare his ſorrows—but behold he comes.
This, this is all that's left me of my daughter; [68] this garment purpled as you ſee with blood.— Here ſtream'd that life-blood than my own more dear; and tho' my tears have almoſt blanch'd the ſpots, they cannot waſh away the deep re⯑membrance of my afflicting loſs.
Oh agonizing ſight!
Unhappy father, what can I do for thee?
Nothing for me: childleſs and old, forgetting this vain world, and by the world forgotten, for myſelf I only aſk a grave—but for this innocent whom I have ſnatcht from miſery, and who clings, as if by nature's charter, to my heart—for her I make appeal to your protection, and as in honour you ſhall deal with her, ſo may Heaven deal for⯑giveneſs to your father.
She is my care henceforth; and would to Heaven, when thus I take her hand in pledge of faith, 'twas in my power to ſay—Behold your daughter.
That is the damſel; ſeize and take her hence.
Heaven! ſhew thy mercy!
Villains! looſe your hold!
Shall I not take my own? She is my wife: Away with her!—Lord Albert, ſtand aſide; I've [69] done you more than wrong enough already: be⯑ſides, you are unarm'd.
Philip! Philip!
Stop! ſtop! A reſcue!
Stop thy clamorous tongue, grey-headed hy⯑pocrite. March on, my hearts!
Philip! Philip!
'Tis Eloiſa's voice! Friends! brethren! fol⯑low.
Follow! the vengeance! I have burſt my heart with following; and that madcap, Philip, leads them off at ſcore. Holloa! who's that? My noble maſter living! Here! here's a ſword; carve for yourſelf, and ſpare not: firſt come, firſt ſerv'd; no ceremony at this ſport.
There, there they go! and now the wood conceals them: now they come out; ſee! ſee! they're cloſe upon them! they meet! they fight! Philip has conquer'd! Hark! our people ſhout: the coward miſcreants throw away their arms, and beg for mercy. Hah! ſhe lives! ſhe lives!
Joy! triumph! victory! Eloiſa's ſav'd!
My child! my child! Oh, welcome to my ſight! My old heart bounds with tranſport to behold thee.
Bring in your priſoner; we have got their leader.
Let me come to him; I've had a taſte of his ſword, now he ſhall have a belly full of mine.
Hold! hold! 'tis Darbony; he ſpar'd my life: I'll not take his.
But I will for you; that will do as well.
Forbear! thou art too bloody.
You ſee I am: he has drawn my blood; why ſhould not I open a vein for him?
Stand off, and quit him! What is your pre⯑tence for ſeizing this young woman?
If I had ſeiz'd her, and ſecur'd my prize, I ſhould have had a title, Lord of Thurn, ſuperior to your own.
What do you mean? Is ſhe not Guntram's daughter?
I am your priſoner; you have ſav'd my life: therefore I tell you fairly, not one drop of Guntram's blood runs in thoſe noble veins: I would not treat with him till he confeſs'd it. I marry Guntram's daughter!—no! He ſtole her, like a thief: ſhe is the daughter of Theodore, the ancient Lord of Thurn; and had I married her—
Break off! the father, the father ſtands before you!
Oh! my daughter!
Philip, ſupport me! bear me to his feet, that I may kneel.—Oh! tell me, tell me truly, if it was nature's inſtinct that inſpir'd me to love thee, honour thee, and call thee father?
Oh Heaven! how wonderful art thou in mercy! I'm loſt: the bleſſing is too vaſt for me; my weak frame totters: lead me to my cell.
How's this, old friend? A tear on that rough cheek?
Yes, a rough tear; not one of your ſoft drops, that whimpering pity ſheds: I never weep, except for joy that honeſt men are happy. Come, ſignor Darbony, enter the cell: you are not overburden'd with humanity; a few more leſſons of this ſort won't hurt you.
ACT V.
[73]NOW, Comrades, mark where the declining moon, propitious to our enterprize, withdraws her fading creſcent! The dark hour comes on, and warns us to the charge!
We are all ready: our mountaineers are am⯑buſh'd within call. Where ſhall we ſtorm?
Upon the weſtern flank: the moat is ford⯑able, and the wall weakeſt there: he has ſe⯑cured the bridge.
I wiſh we had done as much before he paſs'd it; but rogues are wiſer in their generation than we dull downright fellows are in ours.
Ah, Philip, my whole heart is ſick with dread of what has paſs'd within the caſtle.
We ſhall ſoon have the caſtle.
Shall we have the lives within it? Shall I greet my wife? Shall I embrace my ſon?
Diſmiſs theſe terrors, and repoſe your hope where you have lodged your faith. Draw forth your ſword! We cannot fail to conquer when thoſe we combat are the foes of Heaven!
'Tis done. Now, heroes, follow to the charge!
A moment's patience. Where ſhall we be⯑ſtow this aged father, and his defenceleſs daugh⯑ter?
Wolf, you are wounded; you ſhall ſtay be⯑hind: there lives not one more worthy of that truſt.
There lives not one leſs likely to perform it; for though I have a reverence for old age, and a ſoft ſide towards innocence and beauty, yet if I hear the claſh of ſwords in battle, I muſt, per⯑force, turn out and make one with them: there⯑fore let me be foremoſt in the onſet, and laſt in the retreat—there is my poſt.
I will not hold one hero from his duty; and, [75] though I can no longer wield a ſword, behold I have a weapon—
. This, and the darkneſs of the night, will guard us, there⯑fore, go forth, and conquer.
There is an arbour (Philip knows the ſpot) of nature's making, in the cheſnut grove, beſide the weſtern tower; there we may paſs the anxious minutes, and put up our prayers for your ſucceſs.
Eſcort them to the place! We, the mean while, will martial our brave band, and for our wives, our children, and our altars, aſſur'd of conqueſt, we ruſh upon the foe!
The monſter will not let me ſee my child— Well! Heaven's high will be done—There was a time when my afflicted ſpirit was prepar'd to die with Albert! But laſt night in ſilence I com⯑mun'd with my heart, and heard a voice that ſeem'd to cry within me— ‘"Hold thine hand, creature of God! thy life is not thine own, and none but he that gave can take away"’— I ſtarted; left my couch; my lamp was burning; the book of life was open on my table; I read; the text was—patience—and the word of in⯑ſpiration ſunk into my heart with influence ſo perſuaſive, ſo ſerene, that as I read, I reaſoned, and perceived when Heaven is pleaſed to puniſh, [76] 'tis our part to ſuffer and ſubmit.—Eugene, ap⯑proach!
Is there not ſomething ſtirring in the caſtle that occupies my tyrant, and reprieves me from his deteſted preſence?
I think there is—Scouts are for ever paſſing, that ſcour the country round; the walls are manned; in all the watch towers centinels are poſted, and by what is going forward, I ſhould ſuppoſe he looks to be attack'd.
Alas! what can my helpleſs people do, when their brave leader's loſt, and Wolf is killed, and Philip is far off?
Of Philip I know nothing; but for Wolf, I muſt believe he lives, and that I ſaw him.
Boy, you're deceived; let me not hear of hope, ſave what the cheering recollection gives, that all the ſufferings of this tranſient life muſt have a ſpeedy end: of this aſſur'd, I am prepar'd, for conſcience ſake, to brave all that Lazarra's fury can inflict to ſhake my honour, or ſubdue my ſpirit; for 'tis no queſtion with me whom to fear—him, a contemptible and ſhort-liv'd ty⯑rant, that only can afflict me for awhile, or that tremendous judge whoſe juſt award is happineſs or miſery without end.
She's gone, and knows not yet the full extent of her affliction—When ſhe ſhall be told, Lord Albert fell not in the field of battle, but but⯑chered by aſſaſſins in the dungeon of his own Belmont, what will then ſupport her? Will ſighs and tears relieve her ſad deſpair? Oh they wou'd! I'd weep my eyes to water.
Albert, ere this, is dead! Where is Joanna? The ſpark of pity that was quick within me, her inſolent defiance has extinguiſhed; my temper and my time are both exhauſted; let her be ſummoned, and at once determine for life or death, my victim or my bride!—Do you hear me, ſluggards? Which of you has charge upon the weſtern flank?
I have, an' pleaſe you.
It does not pleaſe me, ſir—the wall is open. Why is the breach not ſtopt, as I directed?
We had no hands to ſpare from other duty.
No, they were all employ'd upon your trenchers; you are greedy feeders all, but lazy workers. Why did you not ſet the priſoners upon it?
The moat is fordable; we dare not truſt them.
If the moat 's fordable, where's our defence, the wall being left in breach? 'Tis well for us that Albert is not living.—Now, what news?
My lord, 'tis ſaid that Darbony is taken.
Who ſays it? Who has taken him?
The fellow that was in the fight reports, Lord Albert took him priſoner.
That is a lie as deep as to the center—Albert is dead; here's one that will confirm it: You come from Wenſel?
I do, my lord, from Belmont; I am ſent with humble greetings to you from my maſter.
Does Wenſel ſend me Albert's head withal? If he does that, his greeting will be welcome.
Alas, my lord, I am compell'd to ſay that Albert has eſcap'd.
Infamous traitor! Wenſel ſhall feel my ven⯑geance! Sound to arms! Albert eſcap'd; and Darbony a priſoner! Call out the garriſon, and man the ramparts! I'll have the priſoners put to inſtant death!
Arm! arm, my lord! The caſtle is aſſaulted! Your people fly! —Arm, arm, or all is loſt!
Where 's the aſſault?
Upon the weſtern flank:—they have paſs'd the moat!—they are within the walls!
Well, ſally from the bridge, and cut them [80] off! Sound, ſound a charge! and follow to the bridge!
Horror! Confuſion! Whither ſhall I fly?
Fly! Never think of flying, noble lady:— Your huſband lives! he fights! he conquers!
Lives! Does my Albert live! May I believe thee?
To be ſure you may; Lazarra flies before him! The caſtle is our own! The priſoners are ſet free!
All gracious Heaven! what thanks ſhall I repay thee?
As many as you will hereafter; the fewer the better juſt at preſent; follow me, and ſhew your⯑ſelf to your defenders; they'll fight like devils when they are led on by you. Come on! a Montfaucon is born to conquer!
And I will conquer, or expire with Albert!
You may come forth, my child, the ſtorm is over.
Look, father, look; the clouds, that threaten'd us with burſts of thunder, now have roll'd away; and the ſun riſes red upon the mountains, a ray⯑leſs ball of fire!
So gleam'd his orb on that diſaſtrous morn, when waking from my trance I gaz'd around with wild amaze in ſearch of thee, and found thy bloody garment by the robbers left—Source of unnumber'd ſorrows — Yet, behold, Heaven ſmiles upon the evening of my days—So, when this fearful conflict ſhall be over, the ſetting ſun may beam ſerene on thee, and Philip cloſe his triumphs in thy arms.
Ah, my dear father, what is that I ſee?—Turn, turn your eyes, and tell me who are thoſe that iſſue from the caſtle, and now they paſs the bridge, and now they fight!
By all that's terrible it is Lazarra! He ſallies on the aſſailants— Heaven and earth! can thoſe be Swiſs that fly? Are thoſe my countrymen [82] that turn their backs upon a foreign foe? Fly to your covert! Fly, my ſweet child! The bat⯑tle gathers towards you!
I'll follow you, my father, but my heart is in the fight with Philip—Heaven protect him!
Once more, my gallant countrymen, once more charge, and you conquer! See, their bat⯑tle 's broke; they reel, they ſtagger—Victory invites you. Philip of Belmont leads you to the charge.
Oh! ſave me, Philip, ſave me, or I periſh!
Stop thy avenging hand, heroic chief, nor through my filial boſom paſs thy ſword—Re⯑member Belmont, and for my ſake ſpare him —He is my father.
I'll not kill thy father—Live, wretch, but never let me ſee thee more:—Fly to the rocks, and bid them cover thee, for the ſun ſickens to behold thy ſhame.
[83] Now, Philip, forward! Lo, where brave old Wolf comes pouring down from his embattled heights to ſnatch the victory from us—Forward! forward!
Well done, my cat-o'-mountains, never ſpare 'em; out with your claws, and briſtle up your backs; the raſcals dare not look upon your eyes, they glare ſo terribly; tear 'em and eat 'em. What between Wolf and Cat they 've had a bar⯑gain; I 've ſet my fangs in ſome of them with a vengeance.
What ſculker have we here? Come out—Thou villain! thou cutpurſe! who made thee a ſol⯑dier, ſirrah? Nature intended thee for an attor⯑ney—Come, bruſh your memory up, mumble a prayer, and be quick! Thou 'rt hardly worth the time 'twill take to kill thee.
Spare me, brave Wolf! Behold, here is a ring, the ſignet of Lord Albert, for my ſafeguard— Examine it, I pray thee.
Raſcal, thou lieſt, thou pettifogging knave; this is not Albert's ſignet—thou haſt ſtolen it.
Hah! gone, abſconded, taken a French leave! The devil follow him! he's not worth the catch⯑ing [84] —I'll kill the next I meet inſtead of him.
I'll fly no further. Here I fix my foot, and if my ſoldiers will deſert their leader, I've nothing but my ſingle life to fight for, and that I'll ſell as dearly as I may to him that bids for it— Albert!—
Lazarra! I've ſought you.
You have found me.
Twice conquer'd, you have forfeited your title to the fair treatment of a loyal knight, for you have broke the truce you ſwore to, and, like a robber in the dead of night, forc'd my unguarded caſtle; conquer'd now, and all retreat cut off, you're at my mercy—Deliver up your ſword, and aſk your life.
To me theſe terms! You little know Lazarra. I forc'd your caſtle—true; for in your caſtle there dwelt a lady, whom you dar'd to marry in violation of the laws of honour.
Honour! You ought not to pronounce the name.
What was your honour when you fled your caſtle, and left Joanna in your rival's power?
Joanna's purity defies your power.
I ſuffer none to live that dare defy it. One triumph I have had, one yet remains—to van⯑quiſh thee, and perfect my revenge.
Demon incarnate! to your native hell thus I devote you. Do you feel me now?
As the chaf'd lion does, to rage the fiercer—
There, there! bleſt fortune!—thy ſtar falls to earth, mine keeps its ſphere.—Now thou art at my mercy.
I ſcorn your mercy. Strike!
Expect it; but firſt take this truth from me— Joanna lives; you, the mean time, a ſolitary ghoſt, muſt wait her coming in thoſe gloomy ſhades to which I now diſmiſs thee.
Ah, thou murderer! Hence to thoſe ſhades thyſelf! Behold, 'tis done—He faints, he falls, he dies—Save me, ſupport me! Oh Philip, tell me, does my Albert live?
He lives, he lives, he claſps thee to his heart; thou angel of his reſcue.
Yes, 'twas a timely reſcue o' my conſcience— How came you, Sir, to fall under his ſword?
The ground deceiv'd me as I gave back from him.
Aye, that fame giving back is a bad practice; but he has got his paſſport; he is off.
Look, look! he dies; convulſion ſhakes his frame; he gaſps, he writhes in anguiſh, he ex⯑pires!
Judge of all hearts, oh take him to thy mercy! He dies without a pray'r.—Horrible ſight!—What Heaven inſpir'd me with the ſtrength to do, now, having done, I tremble to behold.
Take hence the body! Sound a retreat, and call in the purſuers! Now to the caſtle—'Tis Joanna's triumph, and we will grace it with our beſt diſplay. To all my friends and brave de⯑fenders, thanks! Actions muſt ſpeak my feel⯑ings; [87] time muſt ſhew what my full heart con⯑ceives, for language cannot. Philip, behold our venerable Hermit; and in his hand, like Truth led on by Time, thy deſtin'd bride approaches.
Albert, if every conqueror had a cauſe worthy as your's, we ſhou'd rejoice in conqueſts; but in this world, for reaſons only known to Heaven, bad men will triumph for a time, and be the lords and arbiters of fortune. You are both good and proſperous, and your candour in owning me the rightful Lord of Thurn, cancels your father's wrongs; but what you riſqu'd your life to gain for life you ſhall poſſeſs. Give Philip Belmont, and I'll give him her, that wou'd convert a cot⯑tage to a palace—Take her, brave youth, ſhe's your's!
With heart and ſoul grateful to Heaven and you, I ſeal my thanks upon this beauteous hand, and greet my bleſſing.
May years of happineſs attend you both!
Hence may the raſh invaders of our land learn to revere the valour that defends it! Now let our gallant warriors raiſe their voices in celebra⯑tion of this joyful day!
CHORUS.
[88]Appendix A
Printed by Luke Hanſard, Great Turnſtile, Lincoln's-Inn Fields.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4285 Joanna of Montfaucon a dramatic romance of the fourteenth century as performed at the Theatre Royal Covent Garden Formed upon the plan of the German drama of Kotzebue and adapted to the English s. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-60DA-2