Ant. Pray tell me where this happened.

Bep. 'Twas in the garden near our house, under the chestnut trees, deep in the shade. The full moon could not pierce the closely woven foliage. All her beams were caught on the topmost boughs which waved in silver. A lovely night to stain with murder! Oh me! I see them now.

Ant. Proceed, good Beppa, I'm eager to know all.

Bep. Their forms were not distinct, yet could we perceive their gleaming swords darting like fiery serpents; 'twas horrible. At last one fell; it proved to be Don Gaspar.

Ant. Indeed! you're sure there's no mistake?

Bep. I saw the body borne away. My mistress weeps and tears her hair, nor deems that he was false. I must to the church, but will return again immediately. [Exit.

Ant. Now could I weep, and tear my hair, like Donna Serafina. My secret is worth nothing. 'Tis strange, too, that he should be o'ermatched by Don Perez, whose sword he so despised; I cannot yet believe it; and yet, she saw the body, and her mistress weeps. What can she gain by this, if 'twere deceit? Nothing. Why, then, 'tis plain Don Gaspar's dead. His foot slipped, I suppose, and thus the vaunted skill of years will often fail through accident. What's to be done now? I'm executor of course. Here comes Don Felix.

Enter Don Felix.

Felix. Art thou the lacquey of Don Gaspar?

Ant. (pulling out his handkerchief, and putting it to his eyes). I was, most noble sir.

Felix. You've left him then?

Ant. He hath left me. Last night he fell, in combat with Don Perez.

Felix. 'Tis false. He hath slain my friend, whose body now lies in my house.

Ant. Indeed, sir! may I credit this?

Felix. I tell you it is true. Where can a message find your master?

Ant. Wherever he may be, sir.

Felix. And where is that? Trifle not with me, knave, or you'll repent it sorely.

Ant. I do not trifle, sir. Don Gaspar's motions are unknown to me. Give me your message; when he re-appears I will deliver it.

Felix. Then tell him he's a villain of no parentage; a vile impostor whom I mean to punish;—that if there's manhood in him he will appoint a time and place where we may meet.

Ant. You seek his life then?

Felix. You may so construe by the message.

Ant. Pardon me, sir; but will you risk your noble person against one but too well practised in the sword? Excuse me, sir, you're hasty: there are other means more fitting for your purpose. I have his secret; one that will administer to your revenge, and win a triumph far greater than your sword.

Felix. Tell me this secret.

Ant. Why should I sacrifice a liberal master, whom, just now, you saw me weep for? and that to one to whom I have no obligation?

Felix. I understand thee, knave! Thou'lt sell it me? (Takes out a purse.)

Ant. Softly, Don Felix! it bears no common price, nor can I tell it here. I've paid most dearly for it, and from distress alone am now obliged to sell it.

Felix. And I will buy it dearly. In half an hour come to my house; there will I exchange a heavy purse for what you may confide to me, if, as you say, it leads to his perdition. [Exit Felix.

Ant. So, this works well; and yet my conscience smites me! Why does it smite me? Because 'tis heavily laden. With what? This secret. Then must I unburthen myself of it; and as, till lately, I have confessed to one Don Gaspar, I will now confess to one Don Felix. The former refused me absolution—the latter offers me a purse. I was right when I gave warning to my old confessor; the new one is more suited to me. Here come my ten plagues of Egypt in one.

Enter Beppa.

Bep. Well, Antonio, you have lost no time, I hope. What have you collected? You often quote the proverb, "Service is no inheritance."

Ant. Service is no inheritance; yet you would that I constituted myself my master's heir. I cannot do it, Beppa—I dare not! There's something tells me it is wrong to rob so good a master; I am more honest than you take me to be.

Bep. Then is the devil turned saint! Think not that you deceive me. There's nought but cowardice that will prevent your knavery. Now tell me, how long have you been thus scrupulous?

Ant. Ever since I found out that my master was not dead.

Bep. Not dead?

Ant. Don Perez 'twas who fell.

Bep. A holy friar who shrived the dying man told me the name of him who fell was Gaspar.

Ant. He was a holy friar, said you? I see it all (aside).

Bep. He said he had a scarf to give to Donna Serafina, at the request of him who died.

Ant. Hath he delivered it?

Bep. No; and Donna Serafina in frantic grief awaits his coming.

Ant. (aside). She'll wait till doomsday; I understand it all. (Aloud.) Beppa! Don Gaspar now will soon be here; go and console your mistress.

Bep. Then it must have been a plan of Don Gaspar's to rid himself of my mistress. I do not understand it, but believe you do. When master and man are so much alike, they cannot deceive each other. I'll to Donna Serafina, and tell her of this base stratagem, which, with his wooing of another, will make her cease to grieve for the treacherous villain, and turn her ardent love to deadly hate. [Exit Beppa.

Ant. As I have mine for you, I was about to say; only I do not recollect that I ever loved you. I think I married her to keep myself from starving: but I forget why exactly, 'tis so long ago. What a fool is a man who marries—but a double fool is he who, like me, am doubly——I can't bear to mention it. [Exit Antonio.

Scene II.

Donna Serafina's Chamber.—Donna Serafina discovered.

Ser. They tell me I am fair: yet what avails This gift of nature? Could those who envy me but see my heart— My bleeding, lacerated, breaking heart! How would their bitter nature change to pity! I did require but him in this wide world; My beauty valued, but to gain his love! My wealth rejoiced in, but to share with him! He was my all! and every other 'vantage Was but of value as subservient to him. As is the gold of costly workmanship Round the fair gem imbedded in the centre. Oh! Gaspar, were I sure I could o'ertake Thy spirit, soaring up in its young flight, This little steel should free my anxious soul, To join thine in the high empyrean, And, fondly link'd, in joy ascend to Heaven. Why waits the friar? Some idle mummery, To him more sacred than my Gaspar's relic, From his dull memory hath chased his promise. Why waits my woman, whom I have despatch'd To learn the history of my Gaspar's death? Alas! alas! they know not love.

Enter Beppa.

Bep. Madam, I've news for you; but news so strange That I can scarce impart it. Dry your tears, Nor more lament Don Gaspar,—for he lives!

Ser. He lives? say that again! You said he lived— Did you not, Beppa? Then may Heav'n reward you For those blissful words!—He lives!—support me— (Faints in Beppa's arms.)

Bep. I should have first inform'd her he was false. Now will the shock be greater.—Dear lady—(Serafina recovering gradually).

Ser. (faintly). Now do I feel like some poor criminal, Who, having closed his eyes, to look no more Upon the world he is about to leave, With curdling blood, and faint and flutt'ring pulse, Waits for the last terrific moment When the sharp axe shall free his trembling soul. So wakes he at the distant shouts of men, Rolling the waves of sound until they dash Against his worn-out sense the glad reprieve. Don Gaspar lives! Oh Heav'n, I thank thee!

Bep. At the cup's brim the sweets have kiss'd your lips. But, madam, like some weak, distemper'd child, You've yet to taste the nauseous dreaded draught Which is to cure you.

Ser. What mean you? Cure me!

Bep. 'Tis true Don Gaspar lives—as true he's false.

Ser. False! Beppa—false?

Bep. Most false and treacherous! He loves another.

Ser. (after a pause). Did I hear rightly? Impossible! It was but three days gone, He swore such oaths, if true, as Heav'n would register— Should they prove false, as hell might chuckle at.

Bep. And yet it is so, I am most assured.

Ser. If it be true, then everything is false. It cannot, cannot be. Have I not lavish'd All I could bestow, myself and mine, Rejected all, to live within his arms, To breathe one breath with him, and dwell in ecstasy Upon his words. Oh no! he is not false You must belie him.

Bep. Nay, I would I did: I wonder not your doting heart rejects Such monstrous treachery. Yet it is true, And true as curs'd. The Donna Isidora By her charms has won him; and his feign'd death Was but a stratagem to shake you off. As you last night asserted, Perez fell; Don Felix, swearing vengeance, seeks Don Gaspar.

Ser. (after a pause). Who is this Isidora?

Bep. A lovely creature in her early bloom, The noble blood of Guzman in her veins, A rival worthy of your beauty, madam, And therefore one most dangerous.

Ser. Would that I had her here. My heart is now So full of anger, malice, and fierce hate, With all those direful and envenom'd passions By which the breasts of demons are infected; If I but even look'd upon her face, My scorching breath would wither up her charms Like adder's poison. Would I had her here!

Bep. Yet blame her not. She's good and beautiful: Report doth much commend her early worth And ever active charity.

Ser. Were she not so, I yet might have retain'd My truant love. Each virtue that she hath With me's a vice—each charm, deformity. They are my foes, array'd against my power, And I must hate them, as they've vanquish'd me.

Bep. But my hate should fall on Gaspar, lady.

Ser. That's not so easy; the strong tide of love, Though check'd, still flows against the adverse hate. In their opposing strife, my troubled breast Heaves as the elements in wild commotion.

Bep. It must not last. I've much to tell you yet Of this base man. When you have heard it all, A rapid flood of rage shall sweep its course, Lash'd by the storm raised in your much-wrong'd soul, O'erwhelming all remorse, to Gaspar's ruin.

Ser. Direct me, Heav'n! Come to my chamber, Beppa, I must unrobe me. When my swollen heart Can throb more freely, I will hear your tale. Come on, good Beppa. [Exeunt.

Scene III.

Street in Seville.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. This is a strange world! What a simpleton is this Don Felix! First he buys my secret at a heavy price, and then, after two minutes' deliberation, declares that he will make no use of it, but that I must deliver the message that he gave me. I've no objection. I like to see my betters dismiss each other to the next world;—the more room for those who remain behind, and poor rogues like me are not so much jostled. This world is certainly much too full for comfort. Ah! here comes one that stands a chance of going out of it.

Enter Don Gaspar.

Gasp. Antonio, I must for a time remain concealed. Don Perez is no more, and in this friar's gown, which I put on to elude the bravos, I have convinced the Donna Serafina of my death. Thus do I rid myself of her unwelcome love. Remember, should you meet your wife, I don't know which of them, you will keep my secret. You will remain here in charge till I return.

Ant. Most certainly, sir. But I had almost forgotten; I have a message which may interfere with your departure.

Gasp. From whom?

Ant. Don Felix, sir. The friend of him you slew last night.

Gasp. Well, what is this message?

Ant. One, sir, that will demand a life—or yours or his. It is so coarsely worded that I dare not give it. It will too much provoke you.

Gasp. Give it me straight, and let me have it word for word.

Ant. He told me first, sir, that you were—a villain.

Gasp. (catching Antonio by the throat). How, sirrah?

Ant. It was not I who said so—'twas Don Felix.

Gasp. True. I was hasty. Now proceed.

Ant. A villain—of no parentage.

Gasp. What? scoundrel!

Ant. I have said too much, sir.—You'll excuse the rest.

Gasp. (much irritated). No, no, no—go on; leave out a word and I will murder you.

Ant. (aside). Then I stand a bad chance either way, not so amusing as I thought. (Aloud.) He did say something else, but 'twas of no moment—

Gasp. (putting his hand to his sword). Your message, to the letter.

Ant. A vile impostor.

Gasp. (striking him). How?

Ant. Oh, mercy, sir! you take me for Don Felix.

Gasp. I am wrong. (Throws his purse to Antonio.) You said a villain—of no parentage—a vile impostor—ha! was there any more?

Ant. Yes, sir; and which I think I may deliver without farther danger to myself. He added, "If there's manhood in him, he will appoint a time and place, when and where I may meet him."

Gasp. I ask no better. Tell him, this evening, at the copse of trees where Perez fell, he may expect me. Take my answer straight.

Ant. Shall I go now?

Gasp. Yes; fly to his house. Tell him from me—no, no—tell him no more than I have said already, I'll wait for your return. Haste, haste. [Exit Antonio.

A villain of no parentage!—Impostor! A vile impostor!—He but states the truth, Yet will I crush him, that he hath stumbled On that truth. Yes! of no parentage!—Why— Why is this constant pining of the heart, As if it felt itself defrauded still Of rights inherent? If I'm basely born Why do I spurn the common herd of men? The eaglet that regains its liberty, Soars to the sun at once—it is its nature: While meaner birds would hop from spray to spray. Oh! would I had ne'er been born.— To-morrow I intend to leave for ever Her whom I love—the sacred walls I hate, In some far distant land to die unheeded. My Isidora has desired my presence, And strange, admits me in the open day. Within an hour of this she will receive me, Then must I falter out my last adieu. This evening also I must meet Don Felix.—

Re-enter Antonio.

So soon return'd! Hast thou then seen him?

Ant. I have, sir; I met him as I gained the door, and your message was duly delivered. He answered, that he would not fail, and that he trusted his sword would not fail either.

Gasp. Should his sword fail, I must not return for many days; should it not fail, I return no more.

But having balanced thus my brief account Of love and hate, I'll quit fair Spain for ever. [Exit.

Ant. (taking out a purse). This purse is a heavy one, but not so heavy as the one I received from Don Felix. I hardly dared deliver the message, but there's seldom profit without danger. I will say this for my master, that he knows the salve for every wound. Let me see—one purse for my intelligence, or rather for keeping my master's secret, and another from Don Felix for betraying it—and a third for a blow. Ah! here comes Beppa. (Puts up purse hastily.)

Enter Beppa.

Bep. What's that you've put into your pocket?

Ant. Only an empty purse.

Bep. It appeared to me well filled.

Ant. Appearances are very deceitful. How is your mistress?

Bep. Alas! she has watched all night—now the tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst heavy sobs hindered all utterance, and then would she turn to rage, and pace her chamber with frantic gestures. Oh! what a wretch is this Don Gaspar!

Ant. He fights this evening.

Bep. With whom?

Ant. Don Felix—a better match for him than Perez.

Bep. They say the former's skilled in fence. Heaven grant his sword may prove the master! Where do they meet?

Ant. Nay, that's a secret.

Bep. Tell me, Antonio. Should Don Felix not prevail, a woman's vengeance yet may reach Don Gaspar. Antonio, do tell me where they meet.

Ant. It is a secret.

Bep. But I must know. There is nothing I would not give to win this secret from you. Antonio, you must tell me.

Ant. That I cannot, I made a promise. (Puts his hand to his heart.)

Bep. (scornfully.) You made a promise. I know your promises too well. What will you sell this secret for?

Ant. My purse of ten moidores!

Bep. Then you shall have it. But will you tell it truly?

Ant. Honour! when I have the money.

Bep. (Takes out purse and throws it at him.) Then, there it is. I believe that you will keep a roguish contract, although no other.

Ant. You're right. They meet at sunset under the copse of trees where Perez fell.

Bep. The copse of trees where Perez fell! Does he not fear his ghost? No, he fears nothing. Breaking the hearts of women, and piercing those of men, is all the same to this fell Gaspar. Well, I have bought your secret, and will make good use of it.

Ant. Had you not known that it was a marketable commodity, you never had purchased it. You'll turn a penny, never fear. I must unto my master's lodgings. [Exit.

Bep. Yes, to follow thy old trade of pilfering. I must unto my lady, and bear her this intelligence. Thus will I rouse the woman in her, and urge her to revenge. [Exit.

Scene IV.

A Room in the Guzman Palace.

Enter Nina, ushering in Don Gaspar.

Stay here, senor. You'll not be long alone. [Exit Nina.

Gasp. Thus am I hurried, by resistless love, To follow that I never can obtain. I love thee, Isidora, dote upon thee, There's not a boiling drop within these veins I'd not pour out, could it but make thee happy. And yet I 'gainst my better reason plunge, Dragging thee with me deep into perdition. A monk, and marry! 'Tis impossible! Each time I quit her, then do I resolve Never to see her more; yet one hour's absence Kills my resolution, and each moment Seems an eternity, till in her presence Vows I repeat, that vows alone make false. 'Tis not in human nature to withstand Against such strong temptation,— To fold her in my arms—inhale her breath, Kiss tears away, neither of grief nor joy, But from both fountains equally o'erflowing— Oh! 'tis a bliss indeed, to gain which Angels might leave their bright cerulean home, And barter their eternal heaven of joy.

Enter Donna Inez. Gaspar advances quickly to her, thinking it is Isidora, but finding his mistake stops abruptly, and bows to Donna Inez.

Inez. Don Gaspar—for 'tis so I hear you're styled— Hither you came in ardent expectation Of meeting one more suited to your age, My beauteous niece, the Donna Isidora. Now would I have some conference with one Who by insidious means hath gain'd her heart, Yet shrouds himself in mystery: she has placed Her fortunes in my hands—she resigns her all, To me confiding to unlock your secret. When once you're manifest and fully known, A task which must precede, senor, it will decide Whether I join your hands and bless your union, Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you!

Gasp. Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly. But I'm so overcome with wretchedness, Your kindness must bear with me. You ask me who I am—a question fair, As fairly answer'd now—I cannot tell.

Inez. Is it you know not, or you will not tell?

Gasp. I do not know—and therefore cannot tell— Though from this hour I date my misery, I am resign'd. You may dismiss me With stern remonstrance at my daring love— Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken— Who have no parents—owing to the state A nurture most unkind—a foundling child.

Inez. A foundling child? (Aside.) His voice—his presence— And those words make my heart leap in agony.

Gasp. Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me. Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being, But in her turn shame triumph'd over love, And I was left to destiny.— The bloody tigress parts not with her young:— Her cruel nature, never known to pity, Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness. The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation, Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs. But cruel man, unruly passion sated, Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt. I have no more to say. Dismiss me now, And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption, Consider the perfection that has caused it. I oft have made the healthy resolution To quit for ever her whom I adore. Take my farewell to her—your lovely niece, Although I'm friendless, she will pity me.

Inez. (aside). How strange it is I feel not anger'd! Strange indeed, there is a pulse Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love. [Gaspar is going. (Aloud.) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age?

Gasp. 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital, And now have been for ten a wanderer.

Inez. (aside). The age exact. O Heav'n! let not these hopes For ever springing, be for ever wither'd! (Aloud.) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought, Might lend a clue to your discovery?

Gasp. I have; they who deserted me, if ever Their intention to reclaim my person, May safely challenge me among ten thousand. (Baring his wrist.) 'Tis here—a ruby band upon my wrist.

[Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes on the wrist intently without speaking.

What can this mean? oh, speak, dear lady, speak!

Inez. (throwing herself into his arms). My child, my child!

Gasp. I, I your child! almighty Heaven, I thank thee! My heart is bursting in its wild emotion, Till all be understood. Oh, speak again!

Inez. Thou art my son—he whom I've mourn'd so long, So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy, Which in the memory of all save her, Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away.

Gasp. Who was my father?

Inez. One of most ancient name, Don Felipo.

Gasp. Then I am noble?

Inez. And by each descent.

Gasp. Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager To know this fact, than render unto you My love and duty.—From the world's scorn I've suffer'd much; and my unbending pride Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt, Than find a parentage which was obscure. Now all is perfect, and to you I tender (Kneeling) My truth and love, still in their infancy, And therefore may they seem to you but feeble. (Rises.) Yet blame me not: this sudden change of state Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know Myself, or what I feel; like to the eyes Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun, At length admitted, pours at once a flood Of glorious light—so are my senses dazzled.

Inez. And I am faint with gratitude and love. Come in with me. Then shall you learn The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling, And I, the bounteous, blessed providence, That led you to my arms. [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

A chamber in the Guzman Palace.

Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior.

Sup. Save thee, good lady! I have stolen an hour From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd, To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue Against the errors of an impious son; To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace, The insult offer'd to our brotherhood, With the atonement you would make to Heav'n.

Inez. And you are merciful!

Sup. Lady, there is nought Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege; 'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins. The fire of hell can purge away all crimes, Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death, To life eternal, if not here atoned for By a surrender of all earthly goods.

Inez. All, father!

Sup. All!

Inez. Father, this cannot be. Surely there is In our extensive wealth enough for both— To satisfy the holy church, yet leave Withal to grace his rank and dignity.

Sup. He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege Should live for nought except to make his peace. Your son must straight renew his broken vows, With tears and penance must wash out his sin— His life, however long, too short to plead For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth, However great, too small to make atonement.

Inez. Father, this cannot be.

Sup. It shall be so.

Inez. Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king, And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans Have too well served him, not to gain his help In this their need. If we must pay a price, The bargain shall be made with Rome herself, Who will be less exacting.

Sup. (aside). I must not grasp too much, or I lose all. (Aloud) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not blame you. You are divided, as frail mortals are In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth, Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal; Now would I know the course that you would steer Between the two. We can arrange this point. The church is generous, and she oft resigns That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady, What do you proffer?

Inez. There is a fair domain of great extent Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave, Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land. Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains, And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil, Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n.

Sup. I know the land, and will accept the gift:— But to it must be added sums of gold To pay for holy rites to be perform'd For years, to purify our monastery Which has been desecrated.

Inez. That will I give, and freely. Now, good father, Remember, in exchange for these you promise To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome A dispensation to my truant child.

Sup. I do!

Inez. Father, I'll send him to you. You'll Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul Is with his new found prospects all on fire. [Exit Inez.

Sup. Now will our convent be the best endow'd Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite, Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted My pious longing. More by the sins of men Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper. [Enter Anselmo in cavalier's dress. What do I see? One, that's in sanctity, Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n, In this attire. Heaven is most patient!

Ans. It is, good father, or this world of guilt Had long been wither'd with the threaten'd fire. My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one Of many millions, erring as myself. 'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted, Alone can poise the even scale of justice. If I'm to blame, good father, are not you?

Sup. How?

Ans. I had it from my mother, she reveal'd To you her history, and did make known The mark by which I might be recognised— That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder In the convent. Before I took my vows You therefore must have known my station, The rank I held by birthright, and the name Which I inherited. Why did you press me then To take those vows? It was a rank injustice.

Sup. (aside). He argues boldly. (Aloud) 'Twere as well to say, It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n— I put you in the right path.

Ans. One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled.

Sup. You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been To your perdition.

Ans. I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, I cannot cavil at the deeds of men. Yet are we blind alike. You did intend To serve me, and I thank you.

Sup. I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night A message shall be forwarded to Rome. Before a month is past you'll be absolved. Till then return unto the monastery, Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly. A month will soon be o'er.

Ans. To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age; Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you With all humility.

Sup. 'Tis well, my son. Your follies are unknown but to ourselves. I shall expect you ere the night be past. [Exit Superior.

Ans. "Stretch'd forth her hand to save me!" Well I trow, Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd. I've bought my freedom at no trifling price. Most potent gold! all that the earth can offer, Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still— Since it appears that holy men for thee Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good. Yet must I first behold my Isidora: Whose startled innocence, like to a rose When charged with dew and rudely shaken, Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt Hath shock'd her purity—now, she rejects The love of one who has been false to Heav'n. She refused to see me; but I have gain'd, By intercession of my doting mother, One meeting, to decide if my estate Shall be more wretched than it was before. If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be A wild career most perilous to the soul,— That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain And prowling through the world in search of prey. [Exit.

Scene II.

Isidora's Room in the Guzman Palace.

Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises.

Isid. Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought Of vows made light—nay, mock'd by him, the guide, Th' elected star of my too trusting soul, Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration. And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail Of broken-hearted love. Love—and for whom!— How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid, Thus to embark my heart, my happiness, So inconsiderate—now the barque sinks, And, with its freight, is left to widely toss In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair. Oh! Isidora, is thy virgin heart Thus mated to a wild apostate monk? The midnight reveller, and morning priest, At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl; The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal, The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied. To love this man, I surely have become That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be. Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin? Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel, Nor rise till I be freed of love and him.

(Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds.)

Anselmo—Virgin holy, will no name But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r? Then let me bind myself by sacred vows: Record it, Heav'n!—Thus do I renounce——

Enter Anselmo.

Ans.——All sorrow, my beloved; for grief no more Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss.

(Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly.)

Isid. Nay, touch me not—approach me not, Anselmo.

Ans. (looking earnestly at her). Isidora!

Isid. Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength In this my hour of peril. Anselmo, That look has reft a heart too fondly thine— But only thine, henceforth, in holy love.

Ans. And is not all love holy? that the holiest, Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart; So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast Shall shortly be as snow.

Isid. Hear me, Anselmo: It is ordain'd we meet no more.

Ans. And canst thou say those words? (Kneels.) See, on the earth I grovelling kneel—my straining eyes seek thine: Turn, turn to me; say not those words again; Thou canst not, dearest.

Isid. (her eyes still averted). We must meet no more.

Ans. I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now One steady, one unflinching glance, and then If thou'lt repeat those words—I must believe. (Pause.) Averted still!—Oh, Isidora, who, Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast? Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest, Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?— It was—that start declares it.—Curse him, curse him. (Rises.)

Isid. (coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo.) Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest. [Anselmo covers his face with his hand.] My better angel hath my mind illumed— Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins, In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes; That silent voice, which every bosom sways, Hath spoken deeply—bidden me abjure Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said, That of us twain, immortal bliss alone Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd, Must on this earth be won by penance strict, Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows. Is it not well, Anselmo——

Ans. Isidora, Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins, Until they shrivel, well? And is it well To find the angel, who hath borne your soul Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd, Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink To everlasting torments?—In bitter truth, These are but nought compared to the fell pangs Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast.

Isid. Anselmo, hear me!

Ans. Hear me now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must not part! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too: Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates: Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine: But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head.

Isid. Oh! horrible, Anselmo—horrible!

Ans. Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance?

Isid. The violated vow——

Ans. Was made long ere I Knew its power or meaning, and was forced By those who thrust it on me in deceit; For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright. 'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample To unloose, than monks to bind—thou'rt answer'd.

Isid. Answer'd, but not content—if false to vows More sacred far;—yet surely not more sacred,— For what should be more sacred than the vows Which link the happiness of two in one Till death dissolves the union?—If false To Heav'n, Anselmo——

Ans. Who made me false, then?

Isid. Touch not that chord—treat me not as woman, Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms: You know me not, Anselmo; but till late I scarcely knew myself. Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent: Can man absolve from compact made with God?

Ans. Isidora, it is now my duty T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty, May haply slide. A maiden in her pride, But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head Of our religion; and what, for ages, Holy men have reverenced and believed, Hath been by her denounced as not her creed.

Isid. 'Tis true—'tis true. The sin of unbelief, 'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself, Swayed by my foolish pride. (Turns to Anselmo.) But still, as yet Thou'rt bound, Anselmo—e'en this discourse, Methinks, is sacrilege.

Ans. Nay, Isidora, Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss? And is the tender sanction of that saint, Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,— And now I scarce am one,—it would seem I am an object of your utter hate.

Isid. Not hate, Anselmo—'tis a bitter word; Say rather fear—of what belongs to Heav'n. Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st, Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart? What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft?

Ans. Not words, but deeds, my Isidora, Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure: The first are due to God. This very night With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul; Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff; Then——

Isid. And then—dear, dear Anselmo.

Ans. And then Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed, The monk parades it boldly, and the bride Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord? No, no; they never shall, my Isidora. Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel: Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field, A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain; I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth, But at thy portal light from battle steed. Spain hath around and that within, shall make The monk—a hero. Dost thou not think The plumed helm will better fit this head, Than the dull friar's cowl? My Isidora, Now for a space—a brief one, fare thee well! Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee, As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd Some token that shall cheer me in the fight. I must be worthy of you.

Isid. Thou art so. (Embrace.) Anselmo, fare thee well! may Heav'n bless thee! [Exit.

Ans. All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes; Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path Where peace and happiness attend my steps! Now must I to the monast'ry repair, There to remain until I'm freed;—but then, To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix: I had forgotten it. Most willingly Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute; And yet I must not. When I was friendless, Reckless of life,—a life not worth preserving,— I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. [Exit.

Scene III.

A Part of Garden of Serafina's House.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. This friar's gown, which I have borrowed from my master, has proved most valuable. I never could have reached this spot, if I had not been thus disguised. (Opens his gown, and shows his face and clothes smeared with blood.) Here's blood enough. Noble, for all I know. I begged it from the barber. Thank Heaven, 'tis not mine own. Sancho will never know me. I see them coming in the distance. (Takes off the gown, and puts it behind the trees, and then lies down.) Now for self-murder. Lopez is no more.

Enter Sancho and Nina.

San. 'Tis here that we fought, and hereabouts should be the body.

Nina. (fearfully pointing to the body.) What's that? Sancho, it is—it is my husband! (Bursts into tears.)

San. Why do you grieve? Did you not wish him dead?

Nina. Alas! we often wish what we do not really want, prompted by the anger of the moment. What, in our selfish views, seems nothing at the time, becomes most horrible in the reality. Alas, poor Lopez! (Weeps.)

San. Why, Nina, did he not basely leave you? Forgot his vow to love and cherish you? Holy Saint Petronila! why, then, do you love and cherish him? Come, dry your eyes, Nina; he's not worth a tear. (Kisses her hand.)

Nina. From no one, I will grant, except from me. But there's a feeling in the heart of woman, you cannot comprehend. Even when it is breaking from ill-treatment, it yearns towards her husband. I must go away, Sancho; I cannot bear to see him—nor you; for you did slay him.

San. Where are you going?

Nina. I'll meet you in the further walk. [Exit Nina, sobbing.

San. Here's a pretty mess! Women are never of one mind: change, and change, and change for ever. This rascal deserted her at Toledo, took all her money, and her very clothes—and yet she grieves for him. I should not wonder if she rejected me now, believing that I killed him. (Going up to Antonio.) How bloody he is! Thou filthy carcase of a filthy knave! I've a great mind to have a thrust at thee, that I may swear my sword went through thy body. Saint Petronila bless the idea! (Half drawing his sword.) There's some one coming; and if I am found here, with my naked sword, near this bloody corpse, I shall be apprehended for his murder. [Exit hastily.

(Antonio looks up and then lies down.)

Enter Beppa.

Bep. I cannot find my mistress. She came with me into the garden, worked up to desperation against Don Gaspar, and earnest for his death. Alas! the tide is turned, and now, in some sequestered spot, she weeps his falsehood. I must go seek her, and steel her heart by praising Isidora. What's here? the body of a man (going to Antonio). Why! 'tis Antonio, my worthless husband; alas! and called away without repentance, full of misdeeds and roguery. Heaven pardon him! Whose deed was this? that villain Garcias'?—if so, he hath but gained the sin; for I would sooner hug an adder, than listen to his wooing. I must seek my mistress; then will I return to give him honest burial, and pay for masses for his guilty soul. [Exit.

[Antonio rises slowly, resumes his friar's dress, and comes forward.]

Ant. That cowardly rascal, Sancho, had nearly brought me to life again, instead of having killed me, as he said he had. Pitiful scoundrel, to thrust at a dead man! He'll never kill one living. Nina, I respect thee; yet must we part, for 'tis evident thou lov'st another. I'll meet them in this grove, and persuade them to marry. As for Beppa, if I am missing, 'tis clear she'll never look for me. [Exit.

Scene IV.

Another Part of the Garden.

Enter Nina and Sancho.

Nina. Nay, no more, Sancho. To me there's something dreadful in such a hasty fresh espousal. My husband's body yet uninterred, still would you have me enter into fresh bonds.

San. He was no husband to you, Nina, but a worthless wretch, who deceived you. Remember, it is for years that I have loved you. Saint Petronila be my witness.

Nina. I know it, Sancho, and wish I had never married Lopez. Why did you leave me?

San. I could but leave you, when I followed my master: but remember, when we parted, I offered you my troth. You have been unjust to me, and owe some reparation; by Saint Petronila, you do!

Nina. And in good time I'll make it, Sancho.

San. The present is good time; now we are together, and my master is no more. Come, Nina, keep your promise, and the Saint will reward you.

Nina. Nay, Sancho, do not thus persuade me. Were I to yield to your wish, you would hate me after we were married.

San. Never; by this kiss (kisses her), I swear. I have you now, and will not part with you.

[Nina throws herself into his arms.

Enter Antonio in friar's gown and hood.

Ant. (in a feigned voice). Good hugging people, are you man and wife?

San. We are not yet, but soon we hope to be.

Ant. The sooner it were better, for this dalliance In the ev'ning, in a sequester'd grove, Is most unseemly, if not dangerous. Woman, lovest thou this man?—

Nina. I do, most holy father.

Ant. And I must tell thee, maiden, it were better That you delay no longer. I have witness'd Your stolen embraces; and, by Holy Church! I think it right that you be married straight, Ere vice usurps the throne that should be held By virtue only. Children, not far from hence There is a chapel, where attending priests Chant holy masses for a soul's repose. There may you join your hands, and there receive The nuptial benediction.

San. Nina, you must obey this holy friar, and make me happy; Saint Petronila sent him.

Nina. It is against my wish that I consent; yet, father, you know best, although you know not all.

Ant. (aside). Indeed I do! (Aloud) Come with me, my children, I'll point you out the path, to where you may, By holy rites pronounced, become one flesh. [Exeunt.

Enter Serafina and Beppa.

Ser. My distracted mind, like some wild spendthrift, Has drawn upon my heart till it is bankrupt. God, how my soul is weary! I fear the sword Of that Don Felix may prevail against him. He is a man well knit in sinewy strength; Gaspar a boy. O spare him, gracious Heaven!

Bep. To wed with Isidora, and with gibes Mock at the tears of Donna Serafina! Madam, you've not the lofty soul of woman, Or you would act, and not thus vainly talk. He's lost to you for ever! I've discover'd, That since this noon he hath not left her house, And all's in preparation for their union.

Ser. Have they been left together? Then, perchance, She hath been foolish too, and much too fond. Then will he quit her soon. Truant Gaspar, These arms shall win thee back!

Bep. Oh, no! She is too wise, too prudent, and too good. Such charms of mind and body she possesses, That all do worship her; but not as one Of us mere mortals. He dare not think of it. She is too perfect. Gaspar is hers alone, And you—are thrown aside for ever!

Ser. Is it so? Don Gaspar hers! Never, never! by Heav'n, If I lose him, he shall be lost to her! If I must weep, her tears shall fall with mine! If my heart breaks, hers shall be riven too! If I must die,—and that I shall, I feel, Loves she as I do, they may dig her grave. Don Felix, may thy practised sword prove true!— And it will save me from a deed of horror.

Bep. Now do you speak as a wrong'd woman should. Keep up this spirit—you will be avenged. We must retire; for soon they will appear. [Exeunt.

Scene V.

Another part of the Garden attached to the House of Donna Serafina.

Enter Anselmo.

I would that it were o'er! A heavy gloom Hangs on my spirits, like some threat'ning cloud O'erspreading the wide firmament, without One speck of blue, like hope, to cheer th' horizon. Yet, from what cause it springs, I cannot tell. His sword I fear not. It is mine estate, So promising. He that hath nought to lose, Is spurr'd to action with the hope of gain. He that is wealthy, and 'gainst fortune plays, Is like the gambler, who will risk his means With those who nothing have.

Enter Felix.

Felix. If you have waited for me long, Don Gaspar, It was against my will. I'm most impatient To bring this meeting to a speedy issue.

Ans. At your request, Don Felix, I am here; And if you please there should be strife between us, You'll find me not unnerved. To be sincere,— I do not wish this needless controversy. Recall your words, offensive, as untrue, And take my proffer'd hand. Then will I prove, And not till then, how greatly you have wrong'd me.

Felix. That which is said, is said. I'll not retract. But were it false, which I cannot believe, You've slain my bosom friend, the brave Don Perez.

Ans. He wrong'd me much. Upon my soul he did. I must not prove it now.

Felix. Then prove yourself, and draw. For see, the sun is down, and daylight flies; We have no time for parley. (Draws.)

[Beppa and Serafina pass behind from r. to l.

Ans. (drawing). Then, whether you or I, Don Felix, live To hail that glorious orb, must now be tried. Don Felix, to your guard. Whate'er the issue, You will repent this most ungovern'd haste.

[They fight. Don Felix is disarmed and he falls. Anselmo stands over him with his sword pointed to his breast.]

Ans. You question'd if I'd manhood in my frame; Allow, Don Felix, that the question's answer'd. You call'd me an impostor,—name for those Who clothe themselves in borrow'd plumes, t'appear Greater, not less, than what they are. Then know, He you upbraided as of no parentage, Whose sword, impatient, waits its master's bidding, T'avenge the affront, is heir to Guzman's house, To which, in ancestry, thine own is nothing. This truth, Don Felix, I could not reveal,

[Serafina and Beppa appear behind in the wood.]

Till we had measured swords. Honour forbade it. Now manifest. I give you life, and proffer, If that you please, my hand in amity.

[Felix rising, Anselmo presents him his sword.]

Felix. Your actions prove that you are truly noble. I do regret the language which I used, And cheerfully retract what proves so false. Don Gaspar, are you satisfied? (offering hand).

Ans. (taking Don Felix's hand). And happy. Now, Isidora, thou art surely mine; Vistas of bliss are opening to my view; My heart expands with gratitude to Heav'n, And tears would flow of penitence and joy, That one so little worthy, thus is bless'd. O, may my life be long, that I may prove To gracious Heav'n, I'm worthy Isidora. Joy! joy! with lightning's speed, I fly——

[Serafina, who has advanced, stabs Anselmo in the back.]

Ser. To death! (Then wishing to rush to him, she holds out her arms and exclaims) Gaspar! Gaspar!

[Serafina is borne off fainting by Beppa and Garcias, who have entered. Anselmo leans against Don Felix, who supports him, and then gradually sinks out of his arms to the ground.]

Ans. I felt the blow would come. From whom, or where, Was hid in the obscure. 'Twas Serafina! I knew the voice, the knell——

Felix. Where are you hurt?

Ans. Don Felix, by that friendship we have pledged So newly, one kind office I request.

Felix. Curs'd be the infuriate jealous wretch, That one so noble should so basely fall!

Ans. Nay, curse her not, she is too curs'd already. Her future life will be a constant shower Of curses on herself. I do forgive her. And yet to die so young, and late so happy. More painful still to part from Isidora. Would she were here, that I might comfort her! My mother, too! O God! 'twill break her heart!

Enter Superior, Inez, Isidora, Nina, and Sancho. Inez and Isidora run to Anselmo and kneel down by him.

Inez. (to Felix). Wretch! that hath done this bloody, hateful deed, Receive a frantic mother's bitter curse!

Ans. You are deceived, my mother; 'twas not he Who dealt the fatal blow. It was a woman.

Inez. A woman! say you; Who was this treach'rous woman? Let me know her, That I may work on her a woman's vengeance.

Isid. I ne'er have learn'd to curse—I wish I had: I can but weep. Look, mother, at his blood! Oh, staunch it, or he'll bleed to death.

Inez. Are you much hurt, Anselmo?

Ans. Mother, to death. 'Tis useless to deceive you. You scarcely found me But I am lost again: 'twill soon be over. (Faintly) E'en now the blood's collecting in my heart For its last rally;—Isidora, I would tell thee What pain it is to part, but my strength fails, And my parch'd tongue cannot perform its duty.

Isid. To part, Anselmo? Dost thou say to part? No, no; thou shalt not die,—we must not part. What false, already! How could'st thou utter That which, to me, must be the knell of death?

(Bursts into tears and embraces him.)

Ans. Would that your gentle power o'er me was the same In death, as life: then should I live for ever. But—mother—fare you well—farewell—my Isidora.

[Groans and falls dead. Donna Inez faints, and is supported by Don Felix and Nina. Isidora, whose face was hidden in Anselmo's breast, lifts up her head and looks wildly at the body.

Isid. Anselmo! (More loudly) Anselmo! (Shrieks. Throws herself on the body. The rest of the characters group round the body, and the curtain falls.)



THE GIPSY;

OR,

"WHOSE SON AM I?"

A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Men.

SIR GILBERT ETHERIDGE, An old Admiral.

CAPTAIN ETHERIDGE, His son; grave.

CAPTAIN MERTOUN; gay.

OLD BARGROVE.

YOUNG PETER BARGROVE, His son.

WILLIAM, The Admiral's sailor-footman.

BILL,} } Gipsies. DICK,}

Women.

LADY ETHERIDGE, The Admiral's wife.

AGNES, Her daughter.

LUCY, The daughter of Bargrove.

MRS BARGROVE.

NELLY, The gipsy.



The Gipsy

Scene.—The Hall, the residence of Sir Gilbert, and the vicinity. Time that of acting.



Act I. Scene I.

A Room in a respectable country inn.—Enter Captain Etheridge and Captain Mertoun, ushered in by the Landlord.

Land. Will you be pleased to take anything, gentlemen?

Capt. Eth. I can answer for myself, nothing.

Capt. Mer. I agree, and disagree, with you; that is, I coincide with you in—nothing.

Capt. Eth. Then I trust, Mr Harness, that you will coincide with us in expediting the greasing of that radical wheel as soon as possible, and let us know when the horses are put to.

Land. Most certainly, Captain Etheridge; I will superintend it myself. [Exit Landlord.

Capt. Eth. An old butler of my father's, who set up many years ago with a few hundred pounds, and the Etheridge Arms as a sign. He has done well.

Capt. Mer. That is to say, the Etheridge Arms have put him on his legs, and drawing corks for your father has enabled him to draw beer for himself and his customers. Of course he married the lady's maid.

Capt. Eth. No, he did more wisely; he married the cook.

Capt. Mer. With a good fat portion of kitchen stuff, and a life interest of culinary knowledge. I have no doubt but that he had a further benefit from your liberal father and mother.

Capt. Eth. By-the-bye, I have spoken to you of my father repeatedly, Edward; but you have not yet heard any remarks relative to my mother.

Capt. Mer. I take it for granted, from your report of your father, and my knowledge (bowing) of the offspring, that she must be equally amiable.

Capt. Eth. Had she been so, I should not have been silent; but as I have no secrets from you, I must say, she is not the—the very paragon of perfection.

Capt. Mer. I am sorry for it.

Capt. Eth. My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps that were set for the post-captain, and baronet of ten thousand a year, resolved, as he imagined wisely, to marry a woman in inferior life; who, having no pretensions of her own, would be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daughters, who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of the cat conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes of his expectations.

Capt. Mer. Hum!

Capt. Eth. Without any advantages, excepting her alliance with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg—insults her equals, tramples on her inferiors, and—what is worse than all—treats my father very ill.

Capt. Mer. Treats him ill! what! he that was such a martinet, such a disciplinarian on board! She does not beat him?

Capt. Eth. No, not exactly; but so completely has she gained the upper hand, that the Admiral is as subdued as a dancing bear, obeying her orders with a growl, but still obeying them. At her command he goads himself into a passion with whomsoever she may point as the object of his violence.

Capt. Mer. How completely she must have mastered him! How can he submit to it?

Capt. Eth. Habit, my dear Mertoun, reconciles us too much; and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled, is now afraid to meet the eye of a woman. To avoid anger with her, he affects anger with every one else. This I mention to you, that you may guide your conduct towards her. Aware of your partiality to my sister, it may be as well——

Capt. Mer. To hold the candle to the devil, you mean. Your pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the proverb.

Capt. Eth. No apology, my dear fellow. Hold the candle when you will, it will not burn before a saint, and that's the truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an appearance.

Capt. Mer. Why, I never knew that you were stricken.

Capt. Eth. The fact is, that I am not satisfied with myself; and when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive her from my memory. By change of scene, absence, and occupation, I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this, I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now been three years in this way; but the moment I find myself within two miles of my fair one, as the towers of my home rise upon my sight, so rises the passion in my bosom; and what I supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarfish penchant, becomes at once a mighty sentiment.

Capt. Mer. That looks very like attachment. Three years, did you say? My dear brother in affliction, make me your confident.

Capt. Eth. I intended to do so, or I should not have originated the subject. My father brought up the daughter of our steward, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have therefore known Lucy from her infancy; and ought I to be ashamed to say, how much I am in love with her?

Capt. Mer. Etheridge, this is a point on which, I am afraid, my advice would not be well received.

Capt. Eth. Of course you would imply that she must be renounced.

Capt. Mer. Most assuredly; that is my opinion on a prima facie view of the case. You have your father's example.

Capt. Eth. I have, but still there are many points in my favour. Bargrove is of a very old, though decayed family. Indeed, much more ancient than our own.

Capt. Mer. I grant you, there is one difficulty removed. But still your relative position. He is now your father's steward.

Capt. Eth. That is certainly a great obstacle; but on the other hand, she has been really well educated.

Capt. Mer. Another point in your favour, I grant.

Capt. Eth. With respect to Lucy herself, she is——

Capt. Mer. As your father thought your mother—perfection. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons.

Capt. Eth. Judge for yourself when you see and converse with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind. At all events, I have decided upon nothing; and have neither, by word or deed, allowed her to suppose an attachment on my part: still it is a source of great anxiety. I almost wish that she were happily married. By-the-bye, my mother hates her.

Capt. Mer. That's not in your favour, though it is in hers.

Capt. Eth. And my father doats upon her.

Capt. Mer. That's in favour of you both.

Capt. Eth. Now, you have the whole story, you may advise me as you please: but remember, I still preserve my veto.

Capt. Mer. My dear Etheridge, with your permission, I will not advise at all. Your father tried in the same lottery and drew a blank; you may gain the highest prize; but my hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my opinion. Your own sense must guide you.

Capt. Eth. Unfortunately it often happens, that when a man takes his feelings for a guide, he walks too fast for good sense to keep pace with him.

Capt. Mer. At all events, be not precipitate; and do not advance one step, which, as a man of honour, you may not retrace.

Capt. Eth. I will not, if I can help it. But here comes Mr Harness.

Enter Landlord.

Land. The horses are to, Captain Etheridge, and the wheel is in order.

Capt. Eth. Come then, Edward, we shall not be long getting over these last eight miles. The boys know me well.

Capt. Mer. (Going out). Yes, and the length of your purse, I suspect, my dear fellow. (Exeunt ambo.)

Scene II.

A Wood in the back-ground, Gipsies' tents, etc. Gipsies come forward, group themselves, and sing.

The king will have his tax, Tithes to parsons fall, For rent the landlord racks, The tenant cheats them all; But the gipsy's claim'd right is more ancient yet, And that right he still gains by the help of his wit.

Chorus (joining hands).

Then your hands right and left, see saw,

(All turn.)

Turn your backs on the church and the law; Search all the world through, From the king on his throne, To the beggar—you'll own There are none like the gipsy crew. Wherever we rove, We're sure to find home; In field, lane, or grove, Then roam, boys, roam! 'Tis only when walls his poor body surround, That homeless a free roving gipsy is found.

(Chorus as before.)

[Exeunt all the gipsies except Nelly, who, with Bill, comes forward; Bill, with a bundle on a pitchfork, over his shoulder. Throws down the bundle, and takes out a turkey.

Nelly. Is that all that thou hast gathered?

Bill. All! Enough too, did ye know the sarcumstances. Travelled last night good twelve miles before I could light on this here cretur. Never seed such a scarcity o' fowl. Farmers above tending sich like things now-a-days, dom pride! says I.

Nelly. But what kept ye out till morning?

Bill. 'Cause why I was kept in. Lock'd up, by gosh! Why, arter dark, I'd just nabbed this here, when out pops on me the farmer's wife; and so she twists her scraggy neck round like a weathercock in a whirlwind, till at last she hears where Master Redcap wor a gobbling. I'd just time to creep under a cart, when up she comes; so down goes I on all fours and growls like a strange dog.

Nelly. And one day thou wilt be hung like one.

Bill. Every one gets his promotion in time. In goes the woman and calls her husband; and though on all fours, I warn't a match for two; so I slinks into a barn and twists the neck of the hanimal, that a might not peach. Well; farmer comes out, and seeing nought but barn door open, curses his man for a lazy hound and locks it, then walks home, leaving I fixed. Warn't that a good un?

Nelly. How did'st thou contrive to escape?

Bill. I burrowed into the back of the wheat. Two jockies came in at daylight to thrash——

Nelly. And they would have done well to have begun upon the rogue in grain.

Bill. Thank ye, mistress. But, howsomdever, the farmer came wi 'um, and a waundy big dog that stagged me, and barked like fury. "There be summut there," says farmer; so I squealed like a dozen rats in the wheat. "Rats agen," says he. "Tummus, go fetch the ferrets; and Bob, be you arter the terriers. I'll go get my breakfast, and then we'll rout un out. Come, Bully." But Bully wouldn't, till farmer gave un a kick that set un howling; and then out they all went, and about a minute arter I makes a bolt. Terrible fuss about a turkey; warn't it, Nell?

Nelly. Hast thou seen Richard?

Bill. Never put eyes on him since we parted last night; but, as his tongue is as well hung as he will be himself, he'll gie ye a triple bob major, for here he comes.

Enter Dick, pulls out two geese, and flings them down.

Dick. Ah, missus, I sha'n't last long. I shall soon be scragged. I'm growing honest. Out of a flock of forty, I've only prigged two. To make amends, I did gnaw off the heads of two more, and so the foxes will have the credit of the job.

Bill. That was well thought of, my pal.

Dick. May I one day grow honest, if I don't make up for last night's paltry prig. Come, let's have one roasted, missus—I prefers roast goose. Honest hanimal! only fit to be plucked and eaten. I say, missus, I stumbled on a cove this morning, that I thinks will prove a bleeding cull,—honest hanimal, only fit to be plucked——

Bill. And eaten, Dick?

Dick. Yes, with your dom'd jaw, and so cly it. This here cove sits him down under a tree, with his head a-one side, like a fowl with the pip, and, with a book in his hand talks a mortal deal of stuff about shaking spears and the moon. So, when I had spied enow, I gets up and walks straight to him, and axes him, could he tell where the great fortin-telling woman were to be found in the wood; she as knew the past, the present, and the future. Laid a coil for him, my girl. He be the son of the great Squire's steward, that lives at the Hall, and he says that he be mightily anxious to have his fortin told. He seems to be mortal simple.

Nelly. What didst thou hear him mouth about?

Dick. May I grow honest if I bees able to tell, 'twere sich outlandish gibberish. What have the rest done, missus?

Nelly. Why, like you, Richard, they're growing honest.

Dick. Ah! ware o' that. My grandam, who was the real seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, said of I, in my cradle, "The moment this here child grows honest, he'll be hung." I've done my best, all my life, to keep my neck out of the halter.

Nelly. So you have, Richard. I went up to the Hall to beg for the fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge—I love it!

Bill. That you do, missus; I'll answer for you there. If you be affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot. Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of mischief. (Dick and Bill retire with the poultry.)

Nelly (assuming a more elevated manner). Heigho! how many things, long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot! Hard by I was brought up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought! The steward's son—it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his sister, who was nursed at this breast; and how I yearned to press her to it! Pretty creature, how she hath grown! Little did my lady think, when she drove me away, that I was the Nelly who used to be so much at the Hall, nursing Lucy, whilst Mrs Bargrove gave her breast to Miss Agnes. Little did Lucy, when she loaded my wallet with victuals, think that she had so long lain in these arms. Heigho! bye-gone is bye-gone! What a haughty woman is that Lady Etheridge! And yet, she was once a farmer's daughter, but little better than myself. Could I be revenged on her! Ah! I may; I know every particular connected with the family; but here comes the lad. [Nelly retires

Enter Peter Bargrove, book in his hand.

Peter. O solitude—solitude! what a quiet thing is solitude! especially when you hold your tongue. I only wish that I had a dozen of my old schoolfellows here to enjoy it with me, for, as this divine Shakespeare says, it is so sweet to be alone. I wonder whether, if I were to take to study, if I could not in time write a Shakespeare myself? I'm blessed if I couldn't! How proud father ought to be of such a son! But father wouldn't care if I did: he thinks of nothing but the harvest: what a difference there is between father and me! I can't account for it. O, here comes the woman of fate. What a gaunt-looking body! What eyes! She can see through a post! Her looks go through me already.

Nelly (advancing). There is a bright leaf in the book of your fate, young sir, that waits only for my finger to turn it.

Peter. Then wet your thumb, good woman, and let's have the news in a twinkling.

Nelly. Not so fast, thou youth of lustrous fortunes! The time is not yet come. Time was, time is, and time shall be!

Peter. Bless me! how very prophetical!

Nelly. Meet me here, three hours hence; I shall then have communed with the astral influences!

Peter. Astral influences! I know of no such people hereabouts.

Nelly. The stars—the noonday stars!

Peter. The noonday stars! who can see the stars at noonday?

Nelly. The gifted.

Peter (looking up). Well, then, I ar'n't one of the gifted.

Nelly. Yes; but you might be, if you had but faith.

Peter. Well, I'm sure I've got plenty—try it.

Nelly. Very well; stand thus. Now wave your hands thus high in the air, then shade the sight, and close the left eye; look up, and tell me what thou seest there.

Peter. Three carrion crows.

Nelly. Nought else?

Peter. No.

Nelly. Not all the heavenly hosts?

Peter. Not a star as big as a sparkle from a red-hot horse-shoe.

Nelly (pointing up). Seest thou not those two bright stars, Castor and Pollux?

Peter. No, I can't, upon my honour.

Nelly. Not Copernicus, so fiery red? not the Great Bear?

Peter. Why, I don't know; I really think I do see something. No I don't, after all.

Nelly. Ah! then you want faith—you want faith. I, who see them all, must read them for you. Away; in three hours hence, you'll meet me here. (Turns away.)

Peter. Well, you might at least be civil; but that's not the custom of great people. What a wonderful woman, to see the stars at noonday! Well, I'll put my faith in her, at all events.

(Exit Peter. Dick and Bill come forward with the poultry picked.)

Dick. Well, missus, ban't he a soft cove?

Nelly. I have not done with him yet.

Bill. Now let's get our dinner ready. The fowls be a axing for the pot.

Dick. And goose to be roasted.

Bill. No, I say; they'd smell us a mile. Your liquorice chops will transport you yet.

Dick. Tell ye, Bill, goose shall be roasted. May I grow honest, but it shall. I'll give up a pint—I'll sacrifice sage and innions. Eh, missus?

Nelly. The sooner they are out of sight the better. [They retire; the scene closes.

Scene III.

A Drawing-Room in the Hall.

Enter Admiral and Lady Etheridge.

Lady Eth. Indeed, Admiral, I insist upon it, that you give the brutal seaman warning; or, to avoid such a plebeian mode of expression, advertise him to depart.

Adm. My dear, old Barnstaple has served me afloat and ashore these four-and-twenty years, and he's a little the worse for wear and tear. In a cutting-out affair his sword warded off the blow that would have sacrificed my life. We must overlook a little——

Lady Eth. Yes, that's always your way; always excusing. A serving man to appear fuddled in the presence of Lady Etheridge! faugh! And yet, not immediately to have his coat stripped off his back, and be kicked out of doors; or, to avoid the plebeian, expatriated from the portals.

Adm. Expatriated!

Lady Eth. How you take one up, Admiral. You know I meant to say expatiated.

Adm. Ah! that is mending the phrase, indeed. I grant that he was a little so so; but then, recollect, it was I who gave them the ale.

Lady Eth. Yes, that's your way, Sir Gilbert; you spoil them all. I shall never get a servant to show me proper respect. I may scold, scold, scold; or, to speak more aristocratically, vituperate, from morning till night.

Adm. Well, then, my dear, why trouble yourself to vituperate at all, as you call it? Keep them at a distance, and leave scolding to the housekeeper.

Lady Eth. Housekeeper, indeed! No, Sir Gilbert; she's just as bad as the rest. Once give her way, and she would treat me with disrespect, and cheat you in the bargain; or, less plebeianly, nefariously depropriate——

Adm. Appropriate, you mean, my dear.

Lady Eth. And appropriate I said, Admiral, did I not?

Adm. Why, really——

Lady Eth. (raising her voice). Did I not, Sir Gilbert?

Adm. Why, my dear, I suppose it was a mistake of mine. Well, my love, let them appropriate a little—I can afford it.

Lady Eth. You can't afford it, Sir Gilbert.

Adm. My dear Lady Etheridge, money can but buy us luxuries; and as I don't know a greater luxury than quiet, I am very willing to pay for it.

Lady Eth. You may be so, Admiral, but my duty as a wife will not permit me to suffer you to squander away your money so foolishly. Buy quiet, indeed! I would have you to know, Sir Gilbert, you must first consult your wife before you can make a purchase.

Adm. Yes, my lady, it is a fatal necessity.

Lady Eth. Fatal fal, lal. But, Sir Gilbert, you were always a spendthrift; witness the bringing up of the steward's children with your own, mixing the aristocratic streams with plebeian dregs! Sir Gilbert, the Bargroves are constantly intruding in our house, and Agnes will be no gainer by keeping such company.

Adm. Whose company, my dear? Do you mean Lucy Bargrove's? I wish all our fashionable acquaintance were only half so modest and so well-informed. She is a sweet girl, and an ornament to any society.

Lady Eth. Indeed, Sir Gilbert! Perhaps you intend to wear the ornament yourself. A second Lady Etheridge,—he, he, he! When you have vexed me to death, or, to speak more like a lady, when you have inurned my mortal remains.

Adm. Indeed, my lady, I have no idea of the kind. I don't want to break the fixed resolution that I have long since made, never to marry a second wife.

Lady Eth. I presume you mean to imply that you have had sufficient torment in the first?

Adm. I said not so, my dear; I only meant to remark, that I should not again venture on matrimony.

Lady Eth. I can take a hint, Sir Gilbert, though I don't believe you. All husbands tell their wives they'll never marry again; but, as dead men tell no tales, so dead wives——

Adm. (Aside). Don't scold.

Lady Eth. What's that, Sir Gilbert?

Adm. Nothing—not worth repeating. But to revert to the Bargroves; I think, my dear, when you consider their father's long and faithful services, some gratitude on my part——

Lady Eth. Which they may live not to thank you for.

Adm. Recollect, my dear, that the Bargroves are a very old, though decayed family. One half of this estate was, at one time, the property of their ancestors. It was lost by a suit in chancery.

Lady Eth. Then it never was rightfully theirs.

Adm. I beg your pardon there, my dear; chancery will as often take the property from, as give it to, the rightful owner. Bargrove is of a good old family, and has some money to leave to his children.

Lady Eth. Out of your pocket, Sir Gilbert.

Adm. Not so; Bargrove has a property of his own, nearly three hundred acres, which has been in the family for many years.

Lady Eth. Ever since you afforded him the means of purchasing it.

Adm. I said many years, long before my name was added to the baronetage.

Lady Eth. Well, Admiral, it may be the case; but still there is no excuse for your folly: and mark me, Sir Gilbert, I will not have that pert minx, Lucy Bargrove, closeted with my daughter Agnes. As to the boy, it is a downright puppy and fool, or, to speak less plebeianly, is a non composite mentus.

Adm. Peter is not clever, but, without education, he would have been worse. It is not our fault if we are not blessed with talent. Lucy has wit enough for both.

Lady Eth. Lucy again! I declare, Admiral, my nerves are lacerated; or, to descend to your meanness of expression, it is quite shocking in a person of your age to become so infatuated with an artful hussy. Now, Sir Gilbert, am I to be protected, or am I to submit to insult? Is that sea-brute to remain, or am I to quit the house?

Adm. (Aside.) I should prefer the latter. (Aloud.) Why, my lady, if he must go——

Lady Eth. Must go? (rings the bell). Yes, Sir Gilbert, and with a proper lecture from you.

Enter William; Lady Etheridge sits down with a wave of her hand.

Lady Eth. Now, Admiral.

Adm. William, you—you ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting half-seas over, and behaving in that manner—but—to be sure, I sent you the ale.

Will. Yes, your honour, famous stuff it was!

Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert!

Adm. And that's no excuse. I did not tell you to get drunk, and the consequence is, that that, without a proper apology——

Will. Beg your pardon, Admiral, and yours too, my lady.

Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert!

Adm. The fact is, that without the apology, in one word, you, you (looking round at Lady Etheridge) must take warning, sir, you leave this house, sir.

Will. Leave, yer honour, arter twenty-five years' sarvitude!

Lady Eth. Sir Gilbert!

Adm. Yes, sir, leave the house—damme!

Will. If yer honour hadn't given the ale, I shouldn't have got into trouble.

Lady Eth. (Rising, and as she is leaving the room). Sir Gilbert, I am glad to perceive that you have a proper respect for me and for yourself. [Exit.

Adm. William, William, you must be aware that I cannot permit you to remain, when Lady Etheridge is displeased with you.

Will. First offence, yer honour.

Adm. But, however, I'll try and get you another place, as your general conduct has been correct.

Will. Thank you. I little thought, that after twenty-five years' sarvitude (wipes his eyes). I can always get a ship, Admiral.

Adm. Why, yes, and I only wish that I had one, in which to give you a good rating, my good fellow; but William, you must be aware——

Will. Yes, yer honour, I see how the cat jumps.

Adm. What do you mean?

Will. I sees that yer honour is no longer in command of your own ship.

Adm. You scoundrel! What do you mean?

Will. Lord, Sir Gilbert, we all knows how the matter be, and as how you can't call your soul your own. It warn't so in the Menelaus, when your little finger was enough to make every man jump out of his shoes. You were a bit of a tartar, that's sartin,—and, now you've cotched a tartar.

Adm. You insolent scoundrel!

Will. Your honour arn't angry, I hope, but we all pities ye, we do indeed!

Adm. Unbearable!

Will. And we says in the servants' hall—and we be all agreed there—that you be the kindest master in the world—but, that as for my lady——

Adm. Silence, sir; what insolence is this? Out of the room immediately; now, if I had you on board, you scoundrel, I'd give you as good a four dozen as ever a fellow had in his life. I was just going to pension the blackguard, now I'll see him hanged first.

(The Admiral walks up and down the room in a rage, William still remains behind.)

Well, well, even my servants laugh at, pity me. Here I am, cooled down into the quietest man in the world, yet obliged to put myself in a passion whenever my wife pleases. It is very hard to lose my temper and my character at her bidding; but if I don't she would put herself into such a rage with me, that I should be even worse off;—of the two evils I must choose the least; but in falling in love, I was a great fool, and that's the truth.

Will. So you was, Admiral, that's sartin.

[The Admiral runs at him with a stick. William runs off.

Adm. Scoundrel! Well, it is the truth.

Enter Lady Etheridge, O.P.

Lady Eth. What is the truth, Sir Gilbert?

Adm. Truth, my lady? why, that when a man's intoxicated, he commits great folly.

Lady Eth. Yes, and ought to be punished for it.

Adm. (Aside.) I am sure that I have been.

Enter Agnes, who runs up and kisses her father.

Adm. Well, Agnes, my little clipper, where are you going this morning?

Agnes. Down to the homestead, papa, with Lucy Bargrove.

Lady Eth. I must request, Miss Etheridge, that you will be more select in your company. A steward's daughter is not the proper companion for the house of Etheridge.

Agnes. Indeed, mamma, the society of Lucy Bargrove will never be prejudicial to me. I wish you knew what an unassuming girl she is, and yet so clever and well informed. Besides, mamma, have we not been playmates since we have been children? It would be cruel to break with her now, even if we felt so inclined. I could not do it.

Lady Eth. There, Admiral, you feel the effect of your want of prudence, of your ridiculous good-nature. An unequal friendship insisted upon, and a mother treated with disrespect.

Agnes. Indeed, mamma, I had no such intention. I only pleaded my own cause. If my father and you insist upon it, much as I regret it, it will be my duty to obey you.

Lady Eth. Miss Etheridge, we insist upon it.

Adm. Nay, Lady Etheridge, I do not,—that is exactly—(Lady Etheridge looks astonished and bounces out of the room.) My dearest Agnes, I must defend poor Lucy against the prejudices of your mother, if I can; but I'm afraid,—very much afraid. Your mother is an excellent woman, but her over anxiety for your welfare——

Agnes. There was no occasion to remind me of my mother's kindness. When a daughter looks into a parent's heart through the medium of her duty, she should see there no error, and believe no wrong.

Adm. That's a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before dinner.

Agnes. Shall I ask mamma to accompany us?

Adm. No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. [Exeunt ambo.

Scene IV.

The Hall of an old-fashioned farming house.

Old Bar. (outside.) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out again in ten minutes.

(Enter Bargrove.) Poof—this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest. We can't cut fast enough—and such crops! (Seats himself.) My dear, where are you?

Mrs Bar. (outside.) I'm coming. [Enters.

Bar. Is dinner ready? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles off; the people will have dined before I'm back.

Mrs Bar. Lord bless you, Bargrove! don't fuss—can't they go on without you?

Bar. Yes, my dear, they can; but the question is, if they will. This fine weather mustn't be lost.

Mrs Bar. Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes.

Bar. Well, well,—where's Lucy?

Mrs Bar. Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady.

Bar. Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered.

Mrs Bar. That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but from me.

Bar. From you?

Mrs Bar. Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward? 'Tis the milk makes the nature.

Bar. Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman, Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing of Peter, dame.

Mrs Bar. Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him. Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in the boy.

Bar. No harm—heh?

Mrs Bar. All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does not appear so very bad in one's own child.

Bar. He's his mother's child, that's plain; but I say (striking his stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrateful, wicked boy.

Mrs Bar. Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish, I grant, but then he's young; and, by-and-bye, he'll grow tired of being idle.

Bar. That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses. Where is he now?

Mrs Bar. Heaven knows! He was up very early for him this morning, and took a book with him, so you see there are some signs of amendment.

Bar. Well, well,—we shall see. But I think dinner must be ready by this time. Come, my dear, time's precious.

[Exeunt ambo.

Enter Agnes, in a walking dress, with Lucy.

Agnes. Now, Lucy dear, I will stay no longer, for your dinner is ready.

Lucy. Indeed, Miss Agnes, I beg that you will not go so soon. Of what consequence is it when I dine? I dine every day, but every day I am not honoured with your company.

Agnes. Nonsense——honoured. How you have altered in your behaviour to me lately—so formal, and so stiff, now, I quite hate you.

Lucy. Indeed my heart is neither formal nor stiff; but when I was familiar with you, I was young, and knew not the difference of our situations. I do now, and only pay respect to whom respect is due.

Agnes. Then you have become very stupid, and I shall detest you. That's all your knowledge will have gained you, Miss Lucy; nay more, I will not come here so often if you do not treat me as you used to do, and call me Agnes.

Lucy. Rather than that you should stay away, I will obey you, but I still think that it is not right. Consider, when we used to learn and play together, I called your brother "Edward," but how improper it would be if I were to call him so now.

Agnes. I don't think that his objections would be very decided, Lucy, as you happen to be such a pretty girl: however, I'll ask him, when he comes home to-day.

Lucy. Ah, Miss Agnes, pray, pray, don't mention it.

Agnes. Well, you are pretty enough without blushing so much. I'll let you off, provided you speak to me as I wish. But now, Miss Gravity, I've a secret to tell you.

Lucy. A secret?

Agnes. I have found out that there's a gang of gipsies in the wood.

Lucy. Is that your secret? Then dame Fowler was let into it last night, for she lost her best turkey, and she frets about it very much. It was the one that she intended to send to the Hall on Christmas Day.

Agnes. But that is not the secret, Lucy. The real secret is—that I wish to have my fortune told; and you must contrive with me how to manage it.

Lucy. Shall I send the woman up to the Hall; she was here yesterday.

Agnes. No, no, you stupid thing. Lady Etheridge hates the very name of a gipsy. One was at the Hall yesterday, and she threatened her with Bridewell.

Lucy. Well then, shall I find out where they are? and we can go together.

Agnes. That's exactly what I wish, Lucy; but it must be soon, as we expect my brother and his friend belonging to the same regiment, and I must not be out of the way when they arrive.

Lucy. Who is this friend?

Agnes. A Captain Mertoun. (Sighs.) I have seen him before.

Lucy. He is then acquainted with your family?

Agnes. Not with my father and mother. When I was at Cheltenham with my aunt, I met him very often. There is a little secret there, too, Lucy.

Lucy. Another?

Agnes. Yes, another. Don't you long to hear it?

Lucy. (Smiling). If you long to tell it?

Agnes. How provoking you are! You know I do. Well, then, this Captain Mertoun is—a very handsome man.

Lucy. Is that all?

Agnes. No; but it's something to the point, because he says he is very much in love with me.

Lucy. I'll believe that. Who is not?

Agnes. Don't be silly, Lucy; but the last part of the secret is the most important. I think, Lucy, that I like him—that is—a little—a very little. Now, since my father has told me he was coming down with my brother, I've been in a perfect fever, I don't know why—and so—and so—that is the reason why I wish to have my fortune told. I know that it's very silly, and all nonsense; but still nonsense is very agreeable sometimes.

Lucy. But you will not believe a word that you are told.

Agnes. No, not one word, unless it happens to meet with my own wishes; and then you know.—But I really must be gone. Good-bye, Lucy. Remember our meeting in the wood. [Exit Agnes.

Lucy. God bless thee, dearest Agnes; yet would that I had never seen either you or your brother! What is intended in kindness is, too often, cruelty. The kiss of affection that is implanted on the lips, may take so deep a root, as to entwine the heart. Heigho! What an elegant young man is Captain Etheridge! I recollect, when we used to romp, and quarrel, and kiss; then, I had no fear of him: and now, if he but speaks to me, I tremble, and feel my face burn with blushes. Heigho!—this world demands more philosophy than is usually possessed by a girl of nineteen.

Scene V.

The Gipsy encampment.—Enter Nelly.

Nelly. I have been plotting my revenge on Lady Etheridge; and I have a scheme which may succeed. I must, however, be guided by circumstances; yet, by the means of this senseless fool, I hope to make much mischief. O, here he comes.

Enter Peter.

Good day, again. I have been waiting for you. The stars are in the ascendant.

Peter. I thought they were up in the sky.

Nelly. Exactly. Now let me read the lines on your face. The finest gentleman in the land would give half his fortune for those lines.

Peter. Then pray, what is my fortune, good woman?

Nelly. One that requires gold, with which to cross my hand; and then it would be too cheap.

Peter. Gold! Won't a shilling do?

Nelly. I wish you good-day, Sir; I thought you were a gentleman.

Peter. Well, so I am; but gentlemen are not always very flush of guineas. However, I have one here, and it shall go for my fortune. [Gives money.

Nelly. The planet, Georgium Sidum, says, that you are the son of the steward, and your name is Bargrove.

Peter. Now, that is surprising!

Nelly. But Georgium Sidum tells not the truth.

Peter. Do the stars ever lie?

Nelly. O, the new ones do. They have not been long in the business. But the old ones never fail.

Peter. Astonishing! and only supposed to be Bargrove's son. Go on, good woman, go on. What do the old planets say?

Nelly. Nay, I must stop a little. That is all I can see just now; but more will be revealed to me by-and-bye. What does Artemidorus say in his ninety-ninth chapter, written in double Chaldean before letters were invented?

Peter. I don't know. What does he say?

Nelly. That you must gain great truths by little ones. So you must tell me all you know about yourself, and I shall be able to find out more.

Peter. I was educated with Mr Edward Etheridge; and, when our education was completed, he went into the army and I was sent home to my father's—that is—to Mr Bargrove's.

Nelly. I understand.

Peter. This Mr Bargrove proposed that I should accompany him every day to obtain a knowledge of agriculture, and employ my evenings in keeping the accounts, that I might be able to succeed him in his office of steward.

Nelly. Exactly—but the stars tell me that you did not like it.

Peter. Couldn't bear it. Why, my boots, which I am so particular in having well polished, were so loaded with clay the very first time, that I could hardly lift my legs, and I stumbled into a ditch filled with stinging nettles; so I gave it up, and the old gentleman constantly swears that I am no son of his.

Nelly. Did not I, the priestess of the stars, tell you so?

Peter. But if I am no son of his, the question is, "Whose son am I?"

Nelly. A gentleman's son, no doubt. But I shall discover more when I consult the stars anon. You must return.

Peter. That I surely will. Consult the old stars, if you please.

Nelly. I always do, sir; no dependence upon the others. In fact, we've quarrelled. I am hardly on speaking terms with them.

Peter. Speaking terms with the stars! How intimate you must be!

Nelly. You'll have to cross my hand again. Golden truths will not come out without gold.

Peter. What! gold again?

Nelly. Yes, another guinea. One for telling you who you are not, and another for telling you who you are. Don't you see?

Peter. One for telling me who I am not. Yes, that's told; I am not my father's son. They say it's a wise man who knows his own father.