I am, Mr. Editor, your humble servant,

DOMESTICUS.

* * * * *

FRENCH DRAMATIC ANECDOTES.

A French actor, accustomed to perform the part of Achilles, wished to have his portrait taken, and desired it might be in that character, stipulating to give the painter forty crowns for his work. This son of Melpomene had been a journeyman carpenter, and the painter, who was informed that he was a bad paymaster, thought proper to devise a mode of being revenged should Achilles play him any trick; he therefore painted the figure in oil, the shield excepted, which was in distemper. The likeness was acknowledged to be great; but the actor, that he might pay as little as possible, pretended to find many faults, and declared 'he would only pay half the sum agreed upon. "Well," replied the painter, "I must be content; however, I will give you a secret for making the colours more brilliant. Take a sponge, dip it in vinegar, and pass it over the picture several times." The actor thanked him for this advice, applied the sponge, washed away the shield of Achilles, and, instead of that hero, beheld a carpenter holding a saw.

The famous Baron was both an author and an actor: he wrote a comedy in five acts called Les Adelphes, taken from the Adelphi of Terence; and a few days before it was performed the duke de Roquelaure, addressing him, said, "Will you show me your piece, Baron? You know I am a connoisseur. I have promised three women of wit, who are to dine with me, the feast of hearing it; come and dine with us: bring it in your pocket, and read it yourself. I am desirous to know whether you are less dull than Terence." Baron accepted the invitation, and found two countesses and a marchioness at table, who testified the most impatient desire to hear the piece. They were, however, in no haste to rise from table, and, when their long repast was ended, instead of thinking of Baron, they called for cards. "Cards?" cried the duke. "Surely, ladies, you have no such intention? You forget that Baron is here to read you his new comedy?" 'Oh, no; we have not forgotten that,' replied one of them, 'he may read while we are at play, and we shall have two pleasures instead of one.' Baron immediately rose, walked to the door, and, with great indignation, replied, his comedy should not be read to card-players. This incident was brought on the stage by Poincinet, in his comedy of the Cercle.

* * * * *

Boyer, a French dramatic author, had been fifty years writing and never successfully. That he might prove whether his condemnation might not be imputed to the prejudice of the pit, he gave it to be understood that the new tragedy of Agamemnon was the production of Pader D'Assezan, a young man newly arrived at Paris. The piece was received with general applause, and Racine himself, the great scourge of Boyer, declared in favour of the new author. "And yet it is by Boyer, Mons. de Racine" exclaimed Boyer himself, from the pit. Imprudent man! The next day the tragedy was hissed.

When Dancourt gave a new piece, if it were unsuccessful, to console himself he was accustomed to go and sup with two or three of his friends, at the sign of the Bagpipes kept by Cheret. One morning, after the rehearsal of his comedy called the Agioteurs, or Stock-brokers, which was to be performed, for the first time, that evening, he asked one of his daughters, not ten years of age, how she liked the piece? "Ah, papa," said the girl, "you'll go tonight and sup at the sign of the Bagpipes."

* * * * *

It is a common practice in Paris, to read new theatrical pieces in private assemblies, where they are supposed to undergo a kind of primary ordeal, and over each of which a lady always presides. A tragedy called Alzaide by Linant, had been read at one of those societies, and obtained great praise; however, it had no success on the stage, which greatly afflicted this previous tribunal. Being assembled the day after its performance, there was a general silence; but the lady, who had first given her favourable suffrage, spoke at length and said—"The piece, however, was not hissed." "How the deuce could it?" replied a stranger, who happened to be present; "people cannot gape and hiss both at once."

* * * * *

A bad French actor, having taken disgust at the reception he had met with and quitted the stage, being soon afterward at Versailles, was met by some young noblemen, who knew him, and who asked him what good news he brought from Paris? "None," replied he, "for my part, I have taken leave of the public. I am now no longer an actor." "Oh," said they, "that is very good news indeed."

* * * * *

Dufresny, a French author, having written L'Amant masque in three acts, had it reduced to one act by the performers; and his comedies of five acts were also generally reduced to three. "What," said he, excessively piqued, "shall I never get a five act piece on the stage?" 'Oh, yes,' answered the Abbe Pellegrin, "you have only to write a comedy in eleven acts; six of which will be retrenched by the comedians."

In France the comedians are their own managers; except so far as government interferes.

* * * * *

The lively device upon Mrs. Clarke's seal, which tickled the fancy of the gallant Colonel Mac Mahon, was a worn out Jack Ass, mounted by a Cupid, prodding the sides of the animal with an arrow, and the following motto, Tels sont mes sujets—"Such are my subjects."

* * * * *

Gluttony.—A few days since, a flint-digger, on the new Brighton road, undertook, for a trifling wager, to devour four pounds of beef and a sixpenny loaf, and wash all down with two quarts of beer, within half an hour; and this task he actually completed in ten minutes and three seconds, little more than a third of the time allowed!

* * * * *

During the inquiry into the conduct of the commander in chief, Mr. Wilberforce said, that the courtly rebuke of the duke of York, by the chancellor of the exchequer, reminded him of an anecdote of the reign of Charles the second. When that monarch had been guilty of some gross breach of decorum and decency with a loose woman, which attracted the notice of the clergy, it was resolved to reprove him for his incontinence and public transgression. The body of the clergy came to the bottom of the audience room; one of them, of the name of Douglass, persuaded the others to let him go up singly to his majesty, in order that he might rebuke him with greater asperity. He accordingly walked up to the king, but instead of the expected admonition, gravely, and in a low tone of voice, advised his majesty, when he did such a bad thing again, to be sure and close the shutters!

As the public frequently enjoys a laugh at the expense of an Irish jury, it is but fair to allow a little retaliation in the case of a Yorkshire jury, who at the last assizes brought in a verdict of manslaughter, although the person so slaughtered was alive; and when recommended to reconsider their verdict, they mended it by pronouncing the prisoner not guilty.

* * * * *

The influence of Bacon and Cabbage.

During the administration of Cardinal Richlieu, a set of strolling players at Paris had such success in low farce, that the other companies became jealous, and wished to have them suppressed. They complained to the cardinal. He, fond of every thing dramatic, sent for them to perform before him in the Palais Royal; and the piece they selected shows that the Cardinal could sometimes be amused with one of the coarsest descriptions of life and manners.

Gros Guillaume, or Fat Will, was a principal droll in the exhibition before the Cardinal. Fat Will is represented as thick as he was long, and often by means of a dress with hoops stretched across, formed himself into the figure of a hogshead. In this farce, he was supposed to be the wife of Turlupin, who, jealous of Garguilla, is going to cut off her head; infuriated with this idea, he seizes her by the hair, with a drawn sabre in his hand, while she, upon her knees, conjures him by every thing that is tender to abate his anger.

She first reminds him of their past loves and courtships—how she rubbed his back when he had the rheumatism, and his stomach when he had the cholic, and how particularly charmed she was with him when he wore his dear little flannel night cap—but all in vain. "Will nothing move thee?" cries this amiable fair one, in a fit of the last despair—"Then O! thou barbarian, think of the bacon and cabbage I fried for thy supper yesterday evening." "Oh, the sorceress!" cried Turlupin—"I can't resist her—she knows how to take me by my foible; the bacon, the bacon, quite unmans me, and the very fat is now rising in my stomach. Live on then thou charmer—fry cabbage, and be dutiful."

* * * * *

A circumstance has occurred in the neighbourhood of a large town in Hampshire, which has occasioned much amusing conversation. A young lady, 23 years of age, who will inherit a great property at her father's death, was recently discovered by him to be in the family way; and on the enraged parent's demanding who had been her seducer, she, to his utter astonishment, replied it was her maid Harriet. On Harriet's being called before him, an explanation took place, when it appeared the young lady, during a visit last June at a friend's house near town, became acquainted with a handsome youth, who was shop-lad at a circulating library, of whom she became enamoured, and a secret marriage was the consequence; but fearing her father's anger at such an unequal match (the youth being poor) and the idea of being obliged to part with him, gave birth to the following stratagem. The youth assumed the female habit, and accompanied the fair bride to her father's house, where he has until this fortnight figured away as her maid. The old gentleman, however, is now reconciled to the loving couple, and Harry (alias Harriet) is as happy as beauty and money can make him.

* * * * *

An Irish officer of the name of Foster, (now lieut. col. of the 6th West India regiment) of the uncommon stature of six foot eight, made his appearance at the rooms at Bath, when the late haughty princess Amelia was present, she was led from his extraordinary appearance, to inquire his name, family, and pursuits: she received information amongst the answers to her inquiries, that he had been originally intended for the church. "Rather for the steeple," replied the royal humourist.

* * * * *

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.

The ancient seat of Sir William Musgrave, in Cumberland.

In an excursion to the North of England, I was easily prevailed upon, to see the Luck of Edenhall, celebrated in an ancient ballad, now exceedingly scarce—the only description I can give you of it is, a very thin bell-mouthed beaker glass, very deep and narrow, ornamented on the outside with fancy work of coloured glass, and may hold something more than a pint. Tradition says that a party of fairies were drinking and making merry round a well near the hall, called St. Cuthbert's Well, but being interrupted by the intrusion of some curious people, they were frightened, and made a hasty retreat, and left the cup in question, one of the last of the fairies screaming out,

"If this cup should break or fall, Farewell the Luck of Edenhall."

The ballad above alluded to, is here inserted. It was written by the duke of Wharton, and is called "The Earl's Defeat," to the tune of Chevy Chace.

"On both sides slaughter and gigantic deeds."

GOD prosper long from being broke, The Luck of Edenhall; A doleful drinking bout I sing, There lately did befall.

To chase the spleen with cup and can, Duke Philip took his way; Babes yet unborn shall never see The like of such a day.

The stout and ever thirsty duke A vow to God did make, His pleasure within Cumberland, Three live long nights to take.

Sir Musgrave, too, of Martindale, A true and worthy knight, Eftsoons with him a bargain made, In drinking to delight.

The bumpers swiftly pass'd about, Six in a hand went round, And, with their calling for more wine They made the hall resound.

Now when these merry tidings reach'd The Earl of Harold's ears, "And am I (quoth he, with an oath) Thus slighted by my peers.

"Saddle my steed, bring forth my boots, I'll be with them and quick; And, master Sheriff, come you too; We'll know this scurvy trick,"

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Harold come!" Did one at table say. "'Tis well," replied the mettled duke; "How will he get away?"

When thus the Earl began, "Great duke, I'll know how this did chance, Without inviting me! sure this You did not learn in France.

"One of us two for this offence Under the board shall lie; I know thee well, a duke thou art, So, some years hence shall I.

"But trust me, Wharton, pity 'twere So much good wine to spill, As these companions here may drink, Ere they have had their fill.

"Let thou and I, in bumpers full, This grand affair decide"— "Accursed be he," duke Wharton said, "By whom it is denied."

To Andrews, and to Hotham fair, Many a pint went round, And many a gallant gentleman Lay sick upon the ground.

When, at the last, the duke espied He had the earl secure, He plied him with a full pint glass, Which laid him on the floor.

Who never spoke more words than these After he downward sunk, "My worthy friends, revenge my fall, Duke Wharton sees me drunk."

Then, with a groan, duke Philip took The sick man by the joint, And said, "Earl Harold, 'stead of thee, Would I had drank the pint!

"Alack! my very heart doth bleed, And doth within me sink For surely a more sober earl Did never swallow drink."

With that the Sheriff, in a rage, To see the earl so smit, Vowed to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renown'd Sir Kit.

Then stepp'd a gallant 'squire forth, Of visage thin and pale; Lloyd was his name, and of Gang-hall, Fast by the river Swale.

Who said he would not have it told, Where Eden river ran, That unconcern'd he should sit by— "So, Sheriff, I'm your man."

Now when these tidings reach'd the room Where the duke lay in bed, How that the squire suddenly Upon the floor was laid—

"O, heavy tidings!" quoth the duke, "Cumberland witness be, I have not any toper more, Of such account as he."

Like tidings to Earl Thanet came, Within as short a space, How that the under sheriff too, Was fallen from his place.

"Now God be with him," said the earl, "Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my town, As drunken knights as he."

Of all the number that was there, Sir Bains he scorn'd to yield, But, with a bumper in his hand, He staggered o'er the field.

Thus did this dire contention end, And each man of the slain Was quickly carried off to bed, His senses to regain.

God bless the king, the duchess fat, And keep the land in peace! And grant that drunkenness henceforth, 'Mong noblemen may cease.

And likewise bless our royal prince, The nation's other hope, And give us grace for to defy The devil and the pope.

* * * * *

"Cooke's unparalled Excellence!"

"In characters new, and in characters old, Cooke must be allow'd a matchless fine fellow; For, act what he will, we are constantly told, That in every part he is perfectly mellow!"

* * * * *

Ambrose and his Dog.

BY W. HOLLOWAY.

The clock had struck the midnight hour, And all the village slept, Save Julia, listening to the shower She, lonely, watch'd and wept.

For, ere the sun peep'd o'er the hill, To town her Ambrose went; And sure some unexpected ill Must his return prevent!

What, though the wood he pass'd beside, He needed nothing fear, For honest Dobbin was his guide And faithful Tray was there.

The heath was wild! the roads were bad; 'Twas dark and dreary too; 'Twas cold, but he was doubly clad, And well the way he knew.

Thus while she ponder'd clamorous came Poor Tray, with scratch and whine, The mistress rose, and much to blame His rudeness did incline.

As gladly she the door unbarr'd, Her weary man to greet, The generous dog, with kind regard, Rush'd fondling round her feet.

He moaned, he howl'd, he seized her gown, And drew her gently forth; She follow'd him across the down, For she had prov'd his worth.

Beside the road the quarries lay, Capacious, dark, and deep; The steed had swerv'd one step astray, And tumbled down the steep.

There lay poor Ambrose, stunn'd and pale, Unhurt, his beast stands by; And thither Tray, with frisking tail, Attracts his mistress' eye.

Nor would he quit his master's side, Such sympathy he found—— He lick'd his pallid cheek, and tried To raise him from the ground.

Heaven, and her friends, their aid afford To Julia's tears and vows, And soon to life and love restor'd Her much lamented spouse.

On wintry nights, when beats the storm, And howling winds prevail, The children round the brick hearth warm, Repeat th' affecting tale.

While Tray, outstretch'd, the fire enjoys, And rests his long white chin On their soft laps who speak his praise, And pat his downy skin.

O happy dog! no faithless man, With prouder gifts endu'd, Shall ever, share with thee, or scan The joys of gratitude.

* * * * *

The following fragment of an elegant little ode to music will interest the reader of taste, not only on account of the sweetness of its numbers, diction, and sentiment, but also for that melancholy but sublime anticipation of an affecting truth, that he was not made for a long continuance in this world, which caused him to contemplate the future with heightened satisfaction.

By Henry Kirk White.

TO MUSIC.

O give me music; for my soul doth faint. I'm sick of noise and care: and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint That may the spirit from it's cell unsphere.

Hark, how it falls?—And now it steals along, Like distant bells upon the lake at eve When all is still—and now it grows more strong, As when the choral train their dirges weave,

Mellow and many voic'd—where every close O'er the old minister-roof in wavy echoes flows, O, I am rapt aloft!—My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind!

Lo, angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell, base earth farewell.—My soul is freed: Far from its clayey cell it springs—where music dwells indeed.

* * * * *

Little things are Best.

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Addressed to Miss C—— a little, short lady.

Satis parva res est. Amphitrion, Act 2, Sce. 2.

When any thing abounds, we find That nobody will have it, But when there's little of the kind, Don't all the people crave it?

If wives are evils, as 'tis known And woefully confess'd The man who's wise will surely own A little one is best.[I]

The god of love's a little wight, But beautiful as thought; Thou too art little, fair as light, And every thing—in short![J]

O, happy girl! I think thee so, For mark the poets'[K] song— "Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long!"

* * * * *

From Poetical Tales, founded on facts.

On yon tall rock's projecting side, See where the stripling bends his way, To hang with rapture o'er the tide, And tune a sweetly rustic lay.

Say what in sportive youth can move To dwell on nature's varied hue? What bids his bosom glow with love And bathes his azure eye in dew?

What bids him hail the matin strain, As morn's first blush illumes the vale; And wake at midnight hour again, To listen to the nightingale?

O Genius! 'twas thy strong control, As o'er his cradle, from on high, Thou way'd thy magnet o'er his soul, And on his lips breath'd harmony.

Thy magic touch bade fancy rove, As mind its early charms display'd; Bade Shakspeare every passion move, And Homer on his pillow laid.

Thou gav'st that fine perceptive sense, Which throws o'er ev'ry scene its charm; To joy will brighter joy dispense, To grief more exquisite alarm.

Ah! dangerous gift, where bliss appears But as the morn's first vivid ray, And grief her mournful aspect rears Through the long, lingering, weary day!

Yet siren Genius! still to thee Thy captive pours the grateful strain, To thee he bends the willing knee, With all thy joys, with all thy pain.

Would Alwin that pure sense forego, In tranquil apathy to rove? 'Ah! no,' he cries, 'with all thy woe O stay and charm me with thy love!'

* * * * *

THE PARSON AND THE NOSE.

'Twas on a shining Summer's day, As stories quite old fashion'd say, A sleepy set of sinners— To church agreed that they would go, Their zealous piety to show, When they had ate their dinners.

Scarce had the parson ta'en his text, When he felt most confounded vext To see his neighbours nod; Proceeding with religious lore, He quickly heard the sleepers snore, Forgetting him and God.

When lo! descending from his seat, The parson, full of holy heat, At losing thus his labour, Tweak'd one's stout nose, then graceful bow'd, And said, "good sir, you snore so loud, I fear you'll wake your neighbour."

J. M. L.

* * * * *

The advantages of solitude for Study.

My garden neat, Has got a seat Hid from ev'ry eye sir; There day and night, I read and write, And nobody's the wiser.

* * * * *

Favourite divertissements in Spain.

The theatres of this country, since the landing of the English, have, among other dramas, called mysteries, frequently represented one entitled Las profecias des Daniel (prophecies of Daniel). No subject can be better adapted than this, for combining a splendid variety of pageantry in one oratorio, or sacred opera. The jubilee of adoration to the golden colossus of Bel, the flaming auto-de-fe for the refractory holy children; the voluptuous dance exhibited during the meal of Belshazzar; the sacrilegious use of the chalices of Jerusalem; the sudden wrath of Heaven; the gloom of the thunder; the shadowy hand writing on the wall, in characters of lurid fire; and the armed irruption of the besiegers to renew a scene of purer triumph; all these form a series of picturesque magnificence, which, says our correspondent, you would enjoy to see some Sunday evening, at Drury-lane. The popularity of this play may be ascribed to the continual allusions of the Spanish patriotic writers to the seizure and supposed profanation of sacramental vessels by the French.

Another new and very singular drama opens with Bonaparte, who soliloquizes about Spain. Allegorical demons stand watching around, and when he has confessed the whole atrocity of his purposes, they seize and carry him off in a fiery car to the place of torment. Next appears Ferdinand VII. a ballet of angels listen to his promises of virtuous sway, and crown him during the dance with wreaths of victory. Finally appears king George the third, who declares his horror for the tyrant, his affection to the virtuous and native monarch; and who is entertained by St. Iago and the virgin Mary, or by figures representing the genius of Spain, and that of Christianity, with a performance in full chorus of "God save the king."

* * * * *

Longevity.

An extraordinary instance of longevity lately occurred in the island of Jamaica in the person of Joseph Ram, a black man, belonging to Maurice Hall estate, and who died at the advanced age of 140 years. He perfectly remembered the earl of Albemarle who succeeded to the government of the island in 1687. His daughter Grace Martin, an inhabitant of Spanish-town and upwards of 85 years of age, says he had a complete set of new teeth about twenty years ago, which remained sound to the day of his death. His hair had turned quite gray. He retained his sight and memory well, and had all his senses perfect, except that of smelling. He was stout and inclined to corpulence, was never sick but once, and all the physic he ever took in his life was one dose of nut oil. He had twenty-six children by different women. His appetite was always good, and a few days previous to his death, he walked a distance of four miles. His dissolution was gradual, and unattended by pain or sickness: It seemed indeed, to be the mere decay of nature.

* * * * *

"The first step is the only difficulty," is an old proverb. Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute, said the old facetious duchesse de Rambouillet, when touching on certain extravagancies of a young female. It was oddly enough applied lately by a lady, who hearing a clergyman declare, "That St. Piat, after his head was cut off, walked two entire miles with it under his arm en chapeau bras, yes madam, two miles positively." "I do not doubt it" the lady quietly replied: "On such occasions, the first step is the only difficulty."

* * * * *

A specimen of the antiquity of Irish Bulls!!!

A wealthy lord of Ireland, had a goodly faire house new-built but the broken bricks, tiles, sand, lime, &c. &c. lay confused in heapes about the building; the lord demanded of his surveyor, wherefore the rubbish was not carried away; the surveyor said he proposed to hyre an hundred carts for the purpose. The lord replied, that the charge of carts might be saved; for a pit might be dug in the ground and bury it. My lord, said the surveyor, I pray you what will wee doe with the earth, which we digge out of the pit? Why you whore-son coxcombe, said the lord, canst thou not dig the pit deepe enough and bury all together?

* * * * *

Theatre, Ambleside, Winandermere.

Such an incident as the comedy of "The Poor Gentleman" having been represented by four persons, we should imagine not to be paralleled, had we not before our eyes the advertisement of a farce in no better a situation. What such exhibitions are, they only who have witnessed them are able to inform us. The bill is certainly a curiosity, and as you pay particular attention to the theatricals, I am induced to present you with it, for the entertainment of your readers.

T. A. S.

THEATRE.

White Lion, Ambleside.

On Wednesday evening, September 18.

Will be presented the much admired new comedy of

THE POOR GENTLEMAN,

Or the Love of Argument.

Lieut Worthington, } Mr. Weile. Humphrey Dobbins, }

Sir Robert Bramble, } Corporal Ross, } Mr. Deans. Ollapod the Apothecary, }

Stephen Harroby, } Sir Charles Cropland, } Mr. Johnston. Frederick Bramble, }

Miss Lucretia Mac Tab, } Miss Emily Worthington, } Mrs. Deans.

After the play the following Songs, &c.

My Mary's true by Mrs. Deans.

Knowing Joe among the show folks, by Mr. Johnston.

Comic Songs, by Mr. Weile.

Hipsley's drunken man, by Mr. Johnston.

To conclude with the laughable farce of

BARNABY BRITTLE,

Or, a Wife at her wits' End.

Barnaby Brittle, Mr. Deans.

Sir Peter Pride, } Mr. Weile. Clodpole, }

Lovemore, } Mr. Johnston. Jeremy, }

Mrs. Brittle, } Damaras, } Mrs. Deans.

Tickets of admission to be had at the principals inns. Front seat, 1s, back, 6d, to begin at 8 o'clock.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu.

[I] See Josephus de Uxoribus—a very ancient and a very serious jest.

[J] Nulla Voluptas longa est. Seneca.

[K] Drs. Goldsmith and Young.



SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

THE SOLDIER TO HIS HORSE.

Allusive to a military order for the destruction of the British cavalry horses, during the late retreat in Spain.

The word is giv'n—my officers command, Fond partner of my danger and my toil, That thou should'st die by this now trembling hand, And prostrate lie upon a foreign soil.

Thy ample back in confidence I've strode, Depended on thee in the hour of flight, And oft thy wanton tricks of fondness show'd, Thy master's prowess was thy chief delight.

Urg'd by my will, amidst the hostile ranks, Hast thou sustained me, in each desperate fray, And is it thus, my gratitude and thanks, Thy nobly daring service shall repay.

Brute as thou art, 'tis not for thee to trace, The cause whence flows the rugged soldier's tear; And yet thou know's it flows not from disgrace, For, thou hast borne me thro' the war's career.

When my bright scabbard bounded by thy side, And shouts of victory our toils repaid, The stately curvet, and the pacing stride, None of our troops so gracefully displayed.

When charg'd by treble numbers we have fled, Oppress'd, and spent, the glance of thy quick eye Has cheer'd my drooping soul, as if it said, We'll live together, or together die.

And once (the time to memory is dear) Plung'd from thy back in the contentious strife, No brother comrade to assist me near Thy friendship, brutal friendship, saved my life.

Keen was the frost, the drifting snow fell thick Upon the plain, where late the battle rag'd. Benumb'd with cold, my heart was deathly sick, When my pale looks thy fostering care engag'd,

Thy body thou didst gently bend to earth, And pressing to my breast its glowing heat. I felt the vital current gain new birth— I felt the chilly hand of death retreat.

The memory of that unnerves my hand; 'Tis that enforces the unmanly tear! To singly charge the foe be their command, I know a soldier's duty to revere.

If on the "hope forlorn" I am doom'd to go, Still 'tis my duty, and I'll not repine! But I must perish, ere forget to know, Thy body fed the vital spark in mine.

* * * * *

Colonel O'Kelly's famous horse Dungannon.

This celebrated racer is the sire of many famous horses; he is the son of the famous Eclipse, was foaled in 1780, and bred by colonel O'Kelly himself.

The exploits of this famous racer are still fresh in the memory of all frequenters of the turf; and that his figure may survive with his fame, a most spirited print of him is published in England, in which he is drawn accompanied by a sheep. A story attaches to this curious coalescence, which we think worth relating to our readers.

As a drover was passing by colonel O'Kelly's on his way with a flock of sheep for Smithfield market, one of them became so lame and sore-footed, that it could travel no further. The man wishing to get rid of the impediment, took up the distressed animal, and dropped it over the pales of a paddock belonging to Mr. O'Kelly, where the race-horse was then grazing, and pursued his journey, intending to call for the sheep, upon his return back to the farmer who had employed him, believing the creature after a little rest, would quickly recover. This was the case, and an attachment between the two rangers of the little paddock presently took place, almost to surpass probability. It is related by evidence indisputable, that such was the affection of DUNGANNON for the sheep, that besides sporting with it in various ways, he would sometimes take it in his mouth by the neck with great tenderness, and lift it into the crib where the groom deposited his fodder, as much as to say, though you are not able to reach it, I will help you to the banquet. Besides this, the horse would on all occasions defend his new friend, and suffered no one to offer him the least molestation.

Mr. O'Kelly being made acquainted with these circumstances, resolved to make the sheep his own, bought him of the farmer, and marked the wool with his own initials, D. O'K. and left the two friends in peaceable possession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter.

Mr. Stubbs the painter, being acquainted with these facts when he requested leave to paint Dungannon, also introduced the portrait of the sheep, as a lasting memento of the unusual affection that subsisted between two creatures, so dissimilar in appearances, and so opposite in their pursuits.

* * * * *

On Friday the 10th of April a very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between Cambridge and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the former place, had betted a considerable sum of money, that he would go a yard from the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles within the space of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed, except merely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another; and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at the second mile-stone from Cambridge on the Huntingford road, to go 6 miles out and 6 miles in: the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the whole in three hours and fifty three minutes, having thirty-seven minutes to spare beyond the time allowed him; he appeared a good deal fatigued, and his hands, we understand, were much blistered from the continual pressure upon one part. This, we believe, is the first performance of the kind ever attempted; but as novelty appears to attract, as well as direct, the manners of the age, stilting may possibly become as fashionable in these, as tilting formerly was in better times.



DRAMATICUS.

No. II.

Edward and Eleonora.

This excellent and interesting tragedy, the production of the admired author of the Seasons, was, for some reason not easily discoverable, prohibited from representation by the Lord Chamberlain,[L] with whose dictatorial power over dramatic performances the world is well acquainted. Many of the scenes are most exquisitely tender and pathetic, and for the effects they produce on hearts of sensibility, are equal (with due deference be it said) to any in the English or perhaps any other language.

* * * * *

SOUTHERN.

Previous to the era of Southern's writing for the stage, the authors of dramatic pieces had only the emoluments of the third night of representation[M]. He deserves the gratitude of all succeeding dramatists, for successfully contending with the managers, for the proceeds of every third night of the run of a new play. The vast increase of advantage from a very successful drama, produced by this arrangement, holds out a great additional inducement to the exertions of the talents of dramatists. Southern cleared, according to Baker, seven hundred pounds sterling by one play—which, I presume, must have been Oronoko.

* * * * *

OTWAY.

The manner of this unfortunate writer's death is variously stated by various writers. I wish some of the correspondents of the Dramatic Censor would elucidate this point. I hope the general opinion is not true, that, being almost famished, he began so ravenously to devour a loaf which was given him for charity, that the first mouthful choaked him, and put a period to his existence.

Few dramatic performances require the pruning knife so much, and would so amply repay the trouble, as some of those of Otway. In the Orphan there are some passages as gross and offensive as are to be found, probably in any tragedy whatever. There is moreover too much of horror in it. The stage, it has been justly remarked, is made a mere slaughter-house. These objections, both of which are very strong, might be easily removed—and if they were, the tragedy would be excellent. After writing these lines I have doubted whether I should not erase them. The incestuous connexion of Polydore and Monimia, on which the chief interest of the performance turns, is revolting, and incapable of being eradicated without destroying the piece.

The error of judgment in Venice Preserved is equally conspicuous. Less alteration would be necessary to render this tragedy, which is now to the last degree exceptionable, a chef d'oeuvre. Had the tyranny and oppression of the senators been made prominent and conspicuous—had the conspirators been animated with the glorious spirit that fired a Bruce, a Wallace, a Gustavus Vasa, a Hampden, a Sydney, a William Tell, or a Washington—then angels might have bowed down to hear the language of a Pierre deploring the miseries of his oppressed countrymen. But when, instead of glorying in the risk they ran, and the sacrifice they made for their country, their whole object clearly appears to be rapine and murder, the liberal mind turns with horror from such a prostitution of the writer's talents, which, had they been under the government of a sound judgment and correct principles, would have reflected high honour on the age and country in which they flourished.

* * * * *

Candour and Modesty.

Henry Metayer, author of a tragedy called the Perfidious Brother, committed it to Theobald, of Dunciad memory, for examination and correction. The latter had the monstrous effrontery, after having made a few verbal alterations in it, to have it acted and printed as his own.[N] Metayer, incensed at this piratical proceeding, appealed to the public, and had his own work printed. The literary thief excited the contempt and detestation such a base procedure merited.

* * * * *

Charles Macklin.

This actor has the credit of having checked a nefarious practice, which has prevailed to a certain degree in almost every theatre, and of which Philadelphia and New-York have exhibited some striking instances. I mean the practice of certain meanspirited wretches, who bear malice towards particular performers, and make parties to hiss them off the stage. It is not easy to conceive of a greater degree of baseness, turpitude, and cowardice, than is manifested by this conduct. The object of their malice is unable to defend himself from their attacks. This, to a generous mind, would be an aegis, and protect the person who could make such a plea, as completely as her sex protects a woman. But with the persons here contemplated, the impunity they expect is the very incitement to their inglorious warfare.

Some of these ruffians having in this mode assailed Macklin, he singled out as many of them as he could identify by the deposition of competent witnesses. Against these offenders he commenced a prosecution[O] in which they were found guilty, and exemplarily punished. The salutary effects of this spirited procedure, I am informed, are still perceptible in the London theatres.

* * * * *

Richard Fullerton.

While I am writing on this topic, I may be allowed to drop a tear to the memory of this unfortunate victim to the brutal system I have referred to in the preceding paragraphs. That he was hunted to suicide, I could, if necessary, establish by indisputable testimony. A very worthy man, of the most strict veracity, now residing in Baltimore, informed me that he was in a corner of the green-room, in the theatre of this city one night when Fullerton was actually hissed off the stage. When the poor persecuted actor came into the green-room, he did not perceive the gentleman, and clenching his fists, struck his forehead, and swore with a most desperate oath, that the ruffians would be the death of him. His sensibility to outrage and insult overpowered and unmanned him. A few days afterwards he consigned himself to the waves of the Delaware, to escape from the fury of his remorseless persecutors.

What is here stated, was asserted in a cotemporaneous pamphlet, published in this city on the occasion. The New-York reviewers, grossly violating every principle of decency, propriety and justice, assailed the writer, as if he had been guilty of a base fabrication, and had invented this hideous charge, to dishonour the Philadelphia audience. Without any fair opportunity of investigating the facts, they had the decency and modesty to pronounce sentence with an assumption of oracular infallibility. Probably the annals of literature can hardly produce a more unfair attack upon any writer than the review to which I here allude.

* * * * *

A Dramatic Bull.

In a sorry tragedy, called the Fall of Tarquin, written by one Hunt, there is a description of a forest, in which the author has this ludicrous line—

And the tall trees stood circling in a row.[P]

* * * * *

She would and she would not—or the kind Impostor.

The humour of this comedy, in many of the scenes, has hardly ever been exceeded by any writer in any language. The dialogue between Don Manuel and Don Philip, in which the former undertakes to "bamboozle" the son of his friend, whom he conceives to be an arrant impostor, is absolutely a masterpiece of humour. There are several other scenes of nearly equal merit. It is difficult even at this day, to form a correct judgement of Cibber—as the disgrace attached to him by Pope in the Dunciad excited against him a prejudice which at this distance of time continues to operate on the mind of the reader.

* * * * *

High life below Stairs.

It is generally known, I believe, that the livery servants, a very numerous and formidable body, formed a combination to suppress this elegant and humorous satire on their vices and follies, the first night it was performed. But fortunately for good taste and good sense, these heroes of the epaulette were suppressed, and the piece had much more success than it probably would have had, but for this ill-judged attempt.

It is not, however, so generally known that this after piece owes its origin to one of the papers in the Spectator, in which a number of servants of the nobility are introduced, aping the manners, the airs, and graces of their masters. The perusal of this essay suggested the idea which has been so felicitously expanded in High life below Stairs.

* * * * *

A hard fought theatrical battle.

No person in the smallest degree acquainted with theatrical affairs, can be ignorant of the strong spirit of rivalship that exists between Drury Lane and Covent Garden, and that has prevailed since the first establishment of those theatres. The anecdote I am going to relate, affords probably the strongest instance of this spirit that is on record.

When Garrick's celebrity was at its highest pinnacle of glory, Rich, the manager of Covent Garden, engaged Barry and Mrs. Cibber, performers of very great talents, and high reputation, and entered the lists with Garrick in the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Barry performed the young Montague, and Mrs. Cibber the delicate and elegant Juliet. Garrick produced the celebrated, but frail and unfortunate Mrs. Bellamy in Juliet, while he played Romeo. Every exertion within the compass of human powers was made by both parties, and the public opinion was held for a time divided between the rivals. The warfare was continued for twenty nights successively. At length Rich, growing tired of the contest, abandoned Romeo and Juliet; and Garrick in triumph had it represented one night more. The constant repetition of the same play disgusted the public, and gave rise to the following epigram, which was published in the papers of the day—

"What play tonight?" says angry Ned, As from his bed he rouses. "Romeo again!" he shakes his head— "A pox on both your houses."[Q]

* * * * *

What is it about?

However incredible the following story may appear, it stands on the very respectable authority of Arthur Murphy[R] and David Erskine Baker[S]. A tragedy, called Zingis, written by Alexander Dow, was so totally unintelligible that the audience were continually asking each other—What is it about? What is it about?—That such nonsense should be written is not so very marvellous, as that the miserable farrago should have had a run of nine nights, which has been frequently denied to works of first rate merit.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1.

[M] Idem, 426.

[N] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1. 312.

[O] Idem, 292.

[P] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol 1. p. 250.

[Q] Murphy's life of Garrick, Dublin Edition, p 125.

[R] Idem, page 294.

[S] Play-house Companion, Vol. 2. p. 417.



LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

SHAW'S POEMS.

"... Not unknown to me the glow, The warmth divine that poets know."

Shaw's M.S.

We find that proposals have been issued for publishing by subscription the Poems of the late Doctor John Shaw of Baltimore. This is one of the few occasions on which every man who pretends to revere virtue and personal excellence, to admire talents, and to respect erudition, will, feel himself imperiously urged to step forward with something more than empty professions, and by practically interesting himself in the advancement of this subscription, to pay a posthumous tribute to the memory, and as the editor of the proposed work elegantly expresses it, "the living remains" of a gentleman in whom those qualities were conspicuously united. The pleasure we have often received from the writings of Doctor Shaw—the high and ample space he filled in the opinion of the country, particularly of those who best knew him, and the honourable testimony which one of the most enlightened personages who in this age have done honour to the peerage of Great Britain (lord Selkirk) has borne to his talents and virtues, would prompt us to enlarge upon this theme, if we did not feel that it would be injuring the matter to take it out of the hands of the editor, J. E. Hall, Esq. whose words, as being much preferable to any thing we could offer, we take the liberty of transcribing.

"The Poems which are now offered to the patronage of the public, were composed by a gentleman whose extensive endowments and excellent qualities commanded the respect, and won the esteem of all who knew him. Those who remember the communications of ITHACUS, in the earlier volumes of the Port Folio, will not condemn the taste which deems them worthy of republication in the form that is now proposed: and the many who lament the untimely blow which deprived them of a friend, and society of a useful and brilliant ornament, will liberally aid an attempt to give "a local habitation" to the memorials of his genius.

"Some months previous to his demise, Dr. Shaw communicated to a friend his intention of publishing a volume of poetry, and they devoted several evenings to the task of preparing them for the press. But the idea of establishing a Medical College, in this city, which he conceived about that time, and the cares of an increasing family, so much engrossed his attention, that his literary project was abandoned for more important pursuits.

"For most of the pieces therefore, which shall appear in the proposed collection, the editor may plead the sanction of their author: and, in the choice of others, he will not neglect the duty that is due to the fame of his deceased friend.

"It is the intention of the Editor to prefix some account of the life of Mr. Shaw. From his letters and memoranda written during his residence on the coast of Barbary, his probationary studies at Edinburgh, and his wanderings with Lord Selkirk in Upper Canada, it is probable that something may be gleaned to interest a reader. It is proper, however, not to excite any extravagant expectations, as the Editor may not be successful in the collection of sufficient materials for the execution of so pleasing a duty.

"It is deemed not improper to intimate, that this publication is undertaken as well to preserve the memory of the deceased, as to promote the comfort of his "living remains." Thus, while an opportunity is offered for the gratification of the taste of some, the virtue of all may be rewarded by those sensations which arise from the performance of a benevolent action."

From every circumstance that now appears, we augur the success of the work, and a brimming subscription for it. The promised sketch of Dr. Shaw's life ought of itself to ensure the publisher abundant support. Of the execution of that part it may be sufficient to state that it comes from the author of "The Life of Anacreon," and other compositions which have enriched the pages of the Port Folio: and who is he so dull, for whom biography has not charms?—On this last topic we beg leave to borrow, for this once, the expressions of a writer, whose delicacy we should offend, by speaking of him as we think, and to whom the taste and literature of this country are more indebted than any but the wise and learned are competent to understand, or any but the honest and generous are willing to confess.

"In the harmonious family of literature," says Dennie, "History and Biography are sisters. They are twins: and both are beautiful. The port of the one is stately and martial, but the air of the other, if less dignified, is more alluring. One generally commands us to repair to the cabinet or the camp, while the other beckons us to the bower. History has respectful and stanch friends, but Biography has passionate lovers. There are some who are indifferent to the charms of the first, but there are none who do not admire the winning grace and sensible conversation of the latter."[T]

DR. SHAW'S POEMS are to be published by Coale and Thomas of Baltimore, who receive subscriptions for the work.

FOOTNOTES:

[T] See Preface to the American edition of the Life of Pitt.



THE FREE KNIGHTS, OR THE EDICT OF CHARLEMAGNE:

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS,

INTERSPERSED WITH SONGS.

BY FREDERICK REYNOLDS.

PHILADELPHIA:

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP; INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON.

Smith & M'Kenzie, printers. 1810.



THE FREE KNIGHTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Prince Palatine, The Abbot of Corbey, Baron Ravensburg, Count Roland, Ravensburg, Prisoner, Bernardo, St. Clair, Everard, Zastrow, Walbourg, Christopher, Oliver, First Falconer, Second Falconer, Free knights, Crusaders, Soldiers, Falconers.

Countess Roland, Ulrica, Agnes.

Dancers, Attendants.

Scene—Westphalia.



ACT I.

SCENE I.—A spacious cavern, veined with ore, marking the remains of a sulphur mine. In the back a sheet of water, with a lamp hanging over it; and cells with iron grating before them. At the right wing a large brazen door, at the left wing another with steps leading up to it. Everard discovered—knocking and trumpets.

Ever. Hark! another victim. [Unbars the door. Enter Zastrow, leading in a prisoner, whose eyes are bandaged.

Pri. Whither, Oh, whither would ye lead me? To pass apparently o'er rugged rocks, ascend high mountains, and descend to vaults; hear the close baying of the forest wolf, and the loud cataract's terrific roar; and now, e'en now, perhaps, to stand upon the verge of some stupendous precipice——

Zastrow (removing the prisoner's veil) Behold! behold the precincts of that famed tribunal that renders justice to the Christian cause, and strikes dismay throughout the Christian world.

Pris. Merciful Heaven! if justice be the boast of your tribunal, why all this dark, mysterious—

Zas. How! dare but to whisper one invidious word against an institution that's upheld by——

Pris. (crossing to Everard) To you, who seem to wear a human form, to you I make appeal. Some three months past my interest called me from my native land here to Westphalia; and but last night, when all around was calm and still as my own thoughts, a loud terrific knocking at the portal convulsed my habitation. I rushed to know the cause, and, by the moon's pale beam, read, on a banner fixed into the earth, this awful summons: "Appear, Augustus Montfort, before the free knights! traitor appear." How, how was I to act? A stranger to their hidden mystic forms, I sought my neighbours for inquiry, when, sad reverse! I, who before was welcomed with their smiles, met now such fearful and contemptuous looks, that but for conscious and inherent pride, I had been then your victim.

Zas. Ay, none, none dare notice the accused.

Pris. None, save a monk, who, far less worldly than the rest, stopt, and warned me to obey this their first summons, or soon a second and a third would follow; and, on my then not answering, not only would my sentence be proclaimed, but my best friend, ay, my own son, were he a member of this dread tribunal, would, by a solemn oath, be bound to plunge his dagger into his father's heart. Such are free knights! Such the famed members of this lauded court! And having further learnt, that on the tolling of the midnight bell at my own gate, or at the citadel, a chosen minister of vengeance passed to pilot the accused, I went, and you, through paths most dangerous and inscrutable, have brought me to the spot where justice reigns; if so, give the first proof of justice, trial. By that I am prepared to stand or fall.

Ever. Trial! alas! it may be years——

Pri. Years! I'll not believe it. Where are my judges?

Zas. There (pointing to the door) in full council, electing a free knight. And till that awful ceremony's past, they must not be disturbed, nor then but by their chief, Prince Palatine, who, on returning from the holy wars, comes to consult them on affairs of state. [Music.] Hark! he approaches. This way to your dungeon. [Prisoner appeals.] Nay, no parleying. You have to cope with those who'll teach you patience and submission.

Music. Prisoner is led into his cell, and Zastrow bars the gate, Everard showing compassion. Zastrow opens the door, and the prince and Walbourg enter.

Prin. So, after an interval of ten long years, again I view and welcome the tribunal. Ay, Walbourg, welcome it. For though dark traitors, plotting against a state, may oft elude the common vigilance which broad and open justice takes, yet can they escape the penetrating eye of this deep-searching and all-powerful court? No. Unseen it sees, and unknown pries into such hidden guilt, that the detected villain, awe-struck, cries, "this is not man's but Heaven's unerring vengeance."

Zas. And, once detected, shall free knights forgive! Be death the doom of all the prince's foes.

Prin. (after a short pause) Ay, death: for long inured to daring and to desperate deeds, still deeper must I plunge. But Oh, my friend! in the bright morn of life—(aside to Walbourg.)

Trumpets within. The prince shows surprise.

Zas. The council are electing a free knight: the gallant Ravensburg.

Prin. Ravensburg! the brave heroic youth, who on the plains of Palestine first stamped the glory of the Christian arms! I guess his honest, loyal motive. He has heard rumours of conspiracy, and here, as in the field, would die to serve his prince.

Ever. So he avowed, my liege; and also that his father, the baron Ravensburg, had urged him, and though he started when he entered, and wondered much why all our actions should be thus involved in dark obscurity, yet loyal and parental love prevailed, and he rushed into add one more to the ennobled list that graces the tribunal.

Prin. Exalted Ravensburg! Let all who would uphold their prince's cause like thee, uphold this hallowed institution.

Enter Ravensburg, hastily.

Rav. In storm, in battle, in the hour of malady, I can brave danger with heroic firmness; but here I own and feel myself so much a coward, that not for worlds would I return and face that scene of unexampled horror. Back with me as I came; and, do I live to utter it? your arm. I sicken, faint with apprehension.

Prin. Why, Ravensburg! The motive, loyal and parental love, and yet dare hesitate! Return—perform the solemn rites—

Rav. What! swear I will pursue all doomed by this despotic court, and, swifter than the lightning, strike a deadly weapon e'en in a parent's breast! Never!

Prin. Never!

Ravens. My liege, error, perhaps, misleads me; but, trained in camps and the rough school of war, though I ne'er felt that superstitious zeal which founded and supports these unknown judges, yet an enthusiast in the Christian cause, I would maintain it as the cause deserves, by open vindication of its rights, and not by such mysterious arts as truth and justice must disdain to practise.

Prin. Mysterious arts!

Ravens. Ay. Why else at dead of night, with shrouded sight, was I conducted to this drear abyss, through ways apparently unknown to man? And next immured in a long vaulted cell, where, as I gazed upon devices framed to heighten my alarm, two ghastly figures, wrapt in mortuary veils, rushed forth, and laying bare my breast, with a new-slaughtered captive's blood, there marked a crucifix, and then descending to a deeper cell, where, in full council, round an altar formed of human skeletons, the secret knights appeared; and, whilst the cavern rung with the loud shrieks of burning and of tortured victims, they proffered me their oath—that oath which bound me to destroy friend, father, mistress! Mighty Heaven! let bigots reconcile and court these scenes. I have the common feelings Nature prompts, and fly from such barbarity. [Going.

Prin. Hold! By this desperate, this outrageous act, you have incurred and well deserved our vengeance. And who is Ravensburg, that thus condemns what laws, what monarchs, and what pontiffs sanction; and which to loyal and obedient minds is now the rallying beacon of their hopes; for who, but this all-seeing court, can save your sovereign and friend, father, mistress, from a conspiracy, perhaps as fatal as that by which the princess, young Theresa fell?

Rav. How!

Prin. Hear me. Some fourteen tedious years are past since on my loved, lamented brother's death, this infant, only child, became the victim of that curst Italian fiend, the count Manfredi's treachery, and I, against my will, was hailed prince palatine. Manfredi perished not as he merited. He died a natural death, and with him treason seemingly extinct, I, like the rest of Europe's zealous champions, joined the crusaders in the Holy Land. You followed, and you fought so nobly, I confess I little thought that Ravensburg would join with new Manfredis to overthrow his prince.

Rav. That I! lives there the slanderous and calumnious wretch who dare——

[Drawing his sabre.

Prin. (holding his arm) The man who will not court the certain means by which foul treason may be traced and crushed, so far encourages and aids the crime, that he is himself a traitor. And now, when journeying from my capital, I hither come for counsel and redress—Shame! Oh, shame! if feeling for your prince have no effect, think of an absent father's claims, who, to the loss of a son's valued life, may add his own and others of his race. (Ravensburg shows alarm: takes him aside.) Ay, the tribunal once offended, will mark and watch with such suspicious eyes, e'en your most distant kindred, that danger, great as your offence, hangs o'er them.

Rav. They cannot—will not——

Prin. They will. And picture the reverse: by linking with this formidable chain, which, though invisible encircles all, you may watch o'er your house's safety. (Noise without of unbarring gates.) They come—from every quarter come—to execute your sentence! You've no alternative—escape you cannot. In church, in palace shall the free knight strike; therefore instantly complete the forms, and aid your country's and your prince's cause; or, like a base detested parricide, involve an aged parent's life—

Rav. Hold! hold! A parent's claims are ever paramount; and Heaven, that witnesses my motive, will pardon my consenting.

Two free knights appear at each door, and are advancing with uplifted daggers.

Prin. Forbear! He is a convert. He will unite with us in tracing and o'erthrowing new conspiracy. Come, you're my friend again (taking Rosenburg's hand.) And whilst Westphalia's my abode, I will sojourn me in your father's house, and witness, as I'm told, another ceremony; the happy celebration of your nuptials.

Rav. My nuptials happy! Well! well! lead on. Be this my first, my lesser sacrifice.

Music.—A party of free knights enter at one door, carrying a banner, on which is painted the cross, an olive branch, and a poniard. A party likewise enter at the other door, carrying a banner on which is painted an eye, surrounded by clouds, and radiated like the sun. Prince, Ravensburg, and train exeunt, free knights following.

SCENE II.—An open country, Corbey Abbey in the distance. At the right wing the gates of the town of Corbey; at the left wing the chateau of baron Ravensburg.

Enter countess Roland and Ulrica, from the chateau.

Countess. So, this is grateful; this is graceful. Answer me. Who has maintained you? who has educated you? and from whom did you get these fine clothes and fine manners? From me! you took your manners from me!

Ulrica. Took your manners! Lord, aunt! and yet you call me ungrateful!

Coun. And last summer, who took a fine house for you at Aix-la-Chapelle? and, starting you on a matrimonial speculation, so dazzled and decoyed old baron Ravensburg, that he not only invited us to his chateau here, but selected you to be his son's wife, the wife to the hero of Palestine. And yet, though I told you, modern friends followed new houses as naturally as rats run from old ones, you were for my laying out my last florin on a cottage, a cheap paltry cottage.

Ul. And why, aunt? Because I thought we should both most like what we were most used to.

Coun. Most used to!

Ul. To be sure. Till a few years ago, when you went to live at Roland castle, did'nt you keep such a snug little cot in Franconia, that you might have packed it up and taken it with you?

Coun. My Franconia cottage! mercy on me!

Ul. Yes. Don't I still wish myself in that cot? I do, I do: for it's all very well if a person have the misfortune to be born a fine lady—but to be made one; to be taught to talk without thinking, stare without looking, and be red without blushing! Lord, who'd go and waste money at fairs and carnivals, when they might see curiosities in every great house for nothing!

Coun. If you dare hint to baron Ravensburg—

Ul. Not I! I dare no more tell baron Ravensburg what you once were, than I dare tell your rural relations what you now are: for if he knew you were once Winifred Winbuttle, and they knew—Lord! Lord! if those I so long lived with, if aunt Alice, and her son Christopher—dear darling cousin Christopher!

Countess (who has been walking about in a rage). Jade! Jezabel! how often must I remind you, that I no longer acknowledge this Franconia relationship? That I am, and have been, since last winter, of pure, noble, Norman extraction, and widow of the great count Roland, madam, who, struck with my charms, soon married me, madam, and being married, soon died, madam.

Ulrica. Very, very soon. And you may well take it to heart; for, alas! his estate went with his title—went to his nephew, young count Roland, who, after an absence of many years, returned from his travels on that most melancholy day. (half crying.)

Countess (weeping.) He did; and grief, grief prevented my seeing him; but you saw him Ulrica, and by what I heard of the tender interview, if the count hadn't been suddenly called away again——Oh! 'tis a sweet estate? one third of it would be consolation for any loss.

Ulrica. There! You think I'm to exterminate the whole German nobility, whilst I think there are even doubts about the young baron Ravensburg. Again, from my window this morning, again I saw him in close conversation with the sweet interesting Agnes—and if he love an humble orphan, and I love the humble Christopher—Now, do, aunt, do let me tell him, and every body, you're become a fine lady: if I don't, they'll never find it out, aunt.

Countess. Talks of your cousin, Christopher! whom I hav'n't seen for years, and never mean to see again! Peace, I insist! And for Ravensburg—your betroth'd's—loving Agnes, the Baron's dread of that marriage will hasten yours; or if it don't, and this string snaps, in young count Roland we've perhaps a better. But see—our host—hush! for your life not one word of Franconia.

Baron (speaks without.) Now, prepare yourselves to receive our illustrious visiter with the honour due to his rank.

Enters.

Why countess, I've been looking for you every where. What do you think? The prince Palatine means to copy your example; like you, he means to be a visiter at my chateau, and be present at the celebration of my son's nuptials. His train has already pass'd the aqueduct. (A strain of music.) Hark! he approaches. (Calls on the servants.) Come along all of you, and make your best bows and curtsies.

The procession enters.

(After procession.) Now, Ulrica, as I am not one of your silver-toned orators, do you give to the warriors from the holy land a most harmonious greeting.

RECITATIVE—Ulrica.

With well-earn'd laurels in the Christian cause, Receive, great chief, your native land's applause.

AIR.

Fam'd crusaders! just as brave, Form'd a nation's right to save! Now repose on tranquil plains, Listen to our dulcet strains. Peace inviting, Joy exciting, 'Till the foe again assail, Then the glorious contest hail.

Prince. Delightful! exquisite! (To Ravensburg who looks dejected.) Nay, Ravensburg, the die is cast, the solemn oath is sworn, and should your altered looks create the least suspicion of what's past, beware! beware! for 'tis a secret that was ne'er divulged—not e'en your chosen partner must suspect that you're invested with a free knight's rank.

Rav. 'Tis sworn—'tis secret.

Baron (advancing with all respect towards the prince). My liege, this honour to a poor old simple baron——

Prince. Sir, you've a title that surpasses pedigree. You are the father of the gallant Ravensburg; and since he comes to claim the soldier's brightest, best reward, fair woman's love, I trust to find you have selected one who richly merits such an envied prize.

Baron (introducing Ulrica.) This is the lady, your highness; and she not only boasts great rank, and, as you see great beauty; but she has nothing of what destroyed my matrimonial happiness—no distant relations, no poor cousins, nephews, nieces, and grandchildren, who, on a rich man marrying into a family, actually treat him as private property, and go on getting more cousins.

Prince (to Ravensburg.) She seems as artless as if trained in humble unsophisticated life; and I prognosticate, will yield that calm content which I, alas! can never hope to taste—never!—Come let us in, and on tomorrow be the nuptials solemnized. (Ravensburg appeals.)

Enter Agnes.

Agnes. Madam—the——(countess stops her.)

Prince. Ay, Ravensburg, tomorrow; for, harassed as we are by foul conspiracy, our stay's precarious; and 'till we're summon'd to the scene of danger, let loud festivity and outward show dismiss our inward grief.

Ravens. My liege, may I suggest——

Baron. Suggest nothing—'tis all settled—the prince has said it. I've said it; and tomorrow the priest, shall say it. Lead on—away—and yet, bless me, how rude I am. I have introduced your highness only to Ulrica. That, entering the chateau, is her aunt, the countess Roland. (Countess curtsies to the prince, and exit). That next to her is Agnes, the poor orphan Agnes.

Ravens. The poor! My liege, though rank nor fortune smil'd upon her birth, she is so rich in more substantial charms, that you, her sovereign, might be proud to boast a daughter of such peerless worth.

Prince (starting, and gazing on Agnes with great emotion.) That form, those eyes! that mark'd, majestic, ne'er to be forgotten mien! (Agnes curtsies, and exit.) Merciful powers! Whence came she, Ravensburg? Fly, swift recall her! yet hold! for if it prove——Impossible, it cannot be!—and the dread vision past, we are ourselves, and hail the festive scene.

[Music. Exeunt into the chateau; the baron and Oliver remaining to usher the party in. The baron is following; Oliver stops him.

Oliver. One word, only one word from your faithful old Oliver, who can't help reminding you, that he became your servant this day thirty years.

Baron. I know you can't. You are always reminding me; and if you go on presuming upon long service, and making honesty so very troublesome—give me a civil downright rascal! And so follow, and assist in preparing for the glorious union of the Rolands and the Ravensburgs—of two families who boast pedigrees.

Oliver. Granted: but I've seen what you might, have seen. Your son don't love Ulrica: he loves my poor dear Agnes!

Baron. Granted. Thanks to the countess, I've seen it ever since he came from the wars; and if Agnes had seen it, she had never seen my house again; but as she chose to be discreet, she shall now see an union that will blazon our family hall with Norman, Saxon, Spanish, Danish—in short, with heraldry never yet seen or heard of.

Oliver. Stop—one word. (Baron breaks from him, and exit.) So this is love of pedigree: this is because he reckons by titles, not by character. And if a certain lady, whose name I won't mention, were not countess Roland, he'd see she was no more than a deep, decoying, match-making——Plague on't! I hope she won't next hook him into the noose; for if she had a husband every morning, my life on't, she'd be a widow before night. Oh lord! poor Agnes, poor young master, and poor old Oliver. (Remains in a thoughtful posture.)

Enter Christopher through the gates.

Chris. (looking round.) Dear, dear, what a nice, sweet, pretty place! Well, I declare when travellers used to talk of their fine sights, I used to wink and nod, as much as to say, I believe it's all bounce. But when I go back, and describe that object (pointing to the abbey in the distance) and this object (turning round, and running against Oliver)—Sir, I beg pardon for calling you an object. But you see I am just come from the woods, Sir—from the woods about six leagues off, Sir, where I was hawking with my lord, when he—he—he—od'rabbit it!—Hit or miss, it will be rare sport.

Oliver. What sport? And who are you? (angrily.)

Chris. Why, that's it. I want to know who I am; and perhaps you can tell me. (Gets close to him.) Little Solomon, you see, one of our under falconers, and who has seen all my relations, come t'other day to this town for a basket of provisions for my lord and his hawking-party; and as he was staring about, who shou'd he see ushered into a fine house, and hear being call'd by a fine name, but my aunt Winifred—old Winifred Winbuttle, the housekeeper! Very well—I cou'dn't say or unsay this, you know; so I directly gets leave of my lord to come myself, and stare about; for thinks I, if I am made a fool of, I'm only where I was, you know. (With affected simplicity.)

Oliver. Certainly, or worse; for to suppose I'll stay chattering here about Solomon and Winifred, proves, if not quite, that you are very near an idiot! (going.)

Chris. (taking his arm.) Very—I'm very near an idiot! And yet, do you know, upon my honour, Solomon described every thing!—from aunt Winifred, and her great title, down to the Gothic latch'd gate, and the little twaddling old butler who open'd it: he did—and if I could but once—(looking about)—only just once—(seeing the chateau)—Why that's it! by Solomon's description, that must be the very house, that the gate, and you—he! he! he!—Come, I'm no fool now! Icod, I see who you are.

Oliver (standing before the door.) Dolt, booby! I leave you to your folly! But I would have you know, there are none in this house, none but the marchioness Alberti, the countess of Roland—

Chris. Who?

Oliver. The countess of Roland, and her niece Ulrica; so that's your final answer from the little twaddling old butler. [Exit into the chateau.

Chris. (strutting, &c.) 'Tis she!—Aunt Winifred, by law, takes a countess's title; and I—pshaw! I'm like other great people, I'll take any thing!—Not so—some three score hungry, ragged relations, they'll take possession of that beautiful tenement (pointing to the chateau) and Ulrica—sweet Ulrica—will take possession of this beautiful tenement (himself.) And then—Oh, my dear Christopher! how you do long for the wedding day!

SONG—Christopher.

I.

I'll tap at her door when the morning shall break, And with the first lark I'll be singing; I'll whisper quite soft, "Now, my dear love, awake, For the church bells are merrily ringing. The bridegroom, impatient, no longer can rest: The bridemen and bridemaids quite smartly are drest; The drums and the fifes so cheerily play, The shepherds all chant a gay roundelay; With garlands of roses fair damsels advance, The young and the old partake in the dance; Such mirth and such rapture never were known; I'm surpris'd that so long you will tarry: I prithee, Ulrica—prithee, come down; For the sport of all sports is—to marry."

II

When home we return, we'll sit down to feast, Our friends shall behold us with pleasure; She'll sip with my lord—I'll drink with the priest, We'll laugh and we'll quaff without measure. The toast and the joke shall go joyfully round, With love and good humour the room shall resound. The slipper be hid—the stocking let fall, And rare blindman's-buff shall keep up the ball; Whilst the merry spinette, and the sweet tambourine, Shall heighten and perfect the gay festive scene. Such mirth and such rapture never were known, I'm surprised that so long you will tarry; I prithee, Ulrica—prithee, come down; For the sport of all sports is—to marry.

[Exit into the chateau.

SCENE III.—A splendid gothic hall in the baron's chateau. Large folding doors in the centre. Two state chairs are brought on by two of the baron's servants.

Enter Ravensburg.

Ravens. Today, to swear the dire terrific oath, "and on tomorrow be the nuptials solemnized." In all—in all—must Ravensburg be sacrificed?—He must—his father has committed him! pledged by his promise to accept the fair Ulrica s hand, shall I, perchance, destroy her prospects and her hopes, by basely now retracting! No—though love for Agnes occupies my breast, still is there room for honourable feeling! and be the conflict great as was the last, that feeling shall prevail! This hand shall be Ulrica's—unless—there, there's my hope! Now, at the banquet, she besought a private interview; and whilst the festive scene engages all, I've stolen forth to give her here the meeting. What, what would she impart?—And why delay? Oh, were her tidings welcome, she would not thus withhold them.

Enter Agnes, hastily, not seeing Ravensburg.

Agnes. I cannot comprehend! the prince to gaze on me with such emotion! wildly exclaim, "the sight of her is hateful!" and, with the baron, leave the banquet, to be told the whole of my sad history—'Tis well! I shall not suffer by the truth; for, as I guess, mine, is a story to excite more of compassion than resentment.

Ravens. Agnes! speak—what of the Prince?

Agnes. Nothing, my lord; he would know my story, would be told that I, an infant, friendless, fatherless, was nursed and cherished by the baron Ravensburg, who, like the rest, of late has met me with such altered looks!—but 'tis of late!—for years he called me his adopted child; and you, my benefactor's son, bear witness, I banish from my mind the present change, and dwell with gratitude on past affection.

Rav. 'Tis his new friend, this artful, envious countess! 'Till she became your foe—

Ag. I know: and how have I offended? Still I've endeavour'd to obey and please her, and her niece, the fair, the happy—Sir, I forget—I came by her desire—the countess having heard of her intention, will not allow of any private interviews, and therefore 'tis Ulrica's wish, that, as tomorrow is the nuptial day, the day which blesses her, but which—(bursts into tears)—I can no more—Spare! spare! and pity me!

Rav. Proceed! for, if I know Ulrica's heart, you are not messenger of any tidings ungracious to yourself.

Ag. Indeed, I know not—She was, as she has ever been, most kind and most compassionate; but to her wish—she begs you will comply with what is here requested—Take it—(giving him a letter)—and the hard office o'er, farewell until tomorrow! And then, no sister's prayers did e'er more pure and fervent flow than mine shall then for yours and your Ulrica's happiness.

Rav. (having opened the letter.) Stay! (reading.) "Shall I accept his hand, whose heart I perceive to be another's? And can I wish him to accept mine, who, from early education, am better suited to a far more humble sphere! No, generous Ravensburg! Remonstrate with your father, and increase the esteem of Ulrica, by wiping away tears, which flow from silent, genuine passion! Hearts such as yours and Agnes's can best reward each other," Exalted woman! I will remonstrate with my father—now, instantly, and come what will, no nuptials shall be solemnized, but those which love shall crown—(taking her hand)—if you refute not what Ulrica writes.

Ag. My lord, 'twere affectation to deny what this our mutual and unequall'd friend has now revealed; but for the rest! if I am worthy of the son's affection, remember, that I owe it to the father; and great, however great the sacrifice, still would I rather meet that son's displeasure, than plant a sting in the protecting breast that warm'd and nourished a forsaken orphan.

Rav. My father will relent! Hark! he comes! the banquet o'er, new revelry succeeds, and now I can partake its joys. Come, the hope that dawns shall lead to lasting sunshine.

Enter the baron's train, and the prince's train.

The prince and baron last, and together.

Prin. (aside to the baron.) That is her history? You have imparted all?

Bar. That—that is Agnes Lindorf's story.

Prin. And none—none know it!

Bar. None—I've kept it secret, even from herself; because, at first the circumstance exciting interest, I fear'd to lose what might supply a daughter's loss; and, since not wishing to increase an orphan's suffering—

Prin. (starting, on seeing Agnes.) Behold again! again it flashes on my mind full confirmation. Take, take her from my sight! Yet, no—that may create suspicion, and Walbourg! Walbourg will, ere long, return. Oh! were he come! for every moment is an age, till I'm secure! [half aside.

Bar. Walbourg! gone! where my liege?

Prin. (angrily.) No matter, Sir—let the dread interval be filled with these your care-destroying sports. Come, strike!

[Prince and baron seat themselves, and the other characters are ranged on each side the stage.

Dance.

In the midst of which a loud knocking is heard, accompanied by trumpets without. All show alarm, except the prince, who expresses secret satisfaction. [Music changes.

Folding doors are thrown open by Walbourg, who enters, and points to a black banner, fixed into the ground, on which is written, in golden letters,

"AGNES LINDORF! APPEAR BEFORE THE FREE KNIGHTS!"

[Agnes stands motionless with terror, then runs wildly about, appealing to the different characters. The prince menaces—all point to the banner, turn away, and exeunt, except Ravensburg, who is following, when Agnes clings to him, and detains him.]

Ag. You! you will not forsake me! Grant, grant me but a look!

Rav. Avoid me! shun me!

Ag. I swear by Him, to whom all crimes are known. I know no more of what I am accused, than does the new born babe! But think, oh think! I am accused by those, whose names strike terror through the world, and who, by solemn and terrific oaths, are bound to execute such dreadful deeds, (Ravensburg trembles violently) that you, whose nature must revolt at such barbarity! you, my kind, only friend! [falling on his shoulder.

Rav. Fly! swift—escape? (passing her across him.) Where? (stopping her.) Whither! who can elude the penetrating eye of their deep-searching vengeance? And if you answer not that awful mandate? All gracious powers! (turning from her)—I am forbidden to advise, nay, even converse with the accus'd! And yet, Agnes! (turning towards her) though my whole heart be with thee—Farewell! farewell! [embracing her.

Enter, immediately, prince Palatine.

Prin. False, perjur'd Ravensburg! (parting them.) Away! and, but that consciousness of guilt prevails, why, traitress? why this coward fear? Tried and aquitted by this high tribunal, your friends shall welcome you with added honour! But if you shall rashly disobey the summons, your death is certain, and you doom those friends—mark that—you doom, perhaps, your dearest friends, to turn assassins, and destroy that life, which, but for selfish and for dastard terror, had been preserved to bless them.

[Agnes eagerly regarding Ravensburg, who shows extreme agitation.]

Ag. I see! it breaks! it bursts upon my mind! and though none know where the free knights meet, all are acquainted with their dreaded forms; and soon, and soon will a minister of vengeance come—(crosses to Ravensburg)—to summon the accused. (Trumpets.) My lord—take courage! I'm no more a coward. (She takes Ravensburg's hand.) Feel—do I tremble? Am I by selfish terror influenced? No, mighty Sir, (to the prince) behold what conscious innocence effects! And see, where sympathy and pity prompts, a woman's spirit emulates your own, (embracing Ravensburg.) Farewell, kind, generous friend! Now, Heaven protect, and guard me!

[Music.—Ravensburg would detain Agnes. The prince prevents him. A free knight appears on the terrace. Agnes, all animation, points to the free knight—also blesses Ravensburg. Ravensburg implores heaven in her favour. Agnes exit rapidly, and Ravensburg is partly persuaded, and partly forced off, by the prince Palatine.

End of Act I.



ACT II.

SCENE I.—An apartment in the baron's chateau. A door in the back scene, leading to a chamber.

Enter Christopher, hastily, through the stage door.

Chris. Not here either!—no where to be met with! Bless my soul? now I am in the house, I might as well be out of it; for I can't find aunt or cousin; and the fine company here seem all out of their senses. One pushes me, and t'other pushes me, and till I'm sure I'm fine company myself, it wont do for me to push again. Countess?—where are you, aunt countess? Do come, and make me fine company! Oh lord! I'll try this door (door in the back scene) and I should be half afraid she kept out of the way because she was asham'd of me, only I know aunt has no pride—not a bit of the gentlewoman about her.

[Exit affectedly into the chamber.

Enter countess Roland, leading in Ulrica through the stage door.

Coun. There! and now, whilst I return, and consult with the baron, I'll take care nobody consults with you. [Taking the key out of the stage door.

Ul. Heavens! what have I done, aunt?

Coun. What have you not done? And till you're wife to Ravensburg this and the adjoining chamber shall be your prison—it shall! for even if the great young count Roland were to offer marriage, who knows but you might write to him about "humble sphere," and "early education." Write! nonsense! Why here I am who never wrote a letter in my life.

Ul. This my prison! Aunt, my dear aunt, if I have long sickened at this scene of splendid misery, and sighed for your sister's calm cottage in Franconia, what must I now, when poor Agnes, and this frightful tribunal——

Coun. My sister's cottage!

Ul. And my cousin Christopher——

Coun. How's again! again insult me with this low relationship! I'm gone, madam (Christopher re-enters behind, smiles, rubs his hands, and stops at the door, and listens)—gone to prepare for your marriage with a man of my own rank, madam. And once more take notice, I disclaim, I disown the whole Franconia family; and if any poor cousin, niece, or nephew attempt to hang on me, depend on't they shall hang on something more substantial. Oh! by way of example, only let me catch one of them—just that this frightful tribunal may catch, rack, and torture him into confession of his own and your presumption. [Exit at the stage door, banging and locking it after her.

Chris. (groaning loudly) Oh! h! h!

Ul. (half turning round.) A man! a strange—help!

Chris. (advancing and trying to stop her mouth) Don't!

Ul. (breaking from him without seeing his face) Aunt! come back, aunt!

Coun. (without) Not I, I promise you.

Chris. Thank ye, thank ye kindly, aunt! (fanning himself with his hat)—and if this be your style of providing for your family, thank you also for disowning the relationship; but you, cousin, though you are going to be married to a man of rank, won't you take pity on your old play-fellow, Christopher, who having heard of aunt's promotion, came, in hopes of getting into high life; and who certainly will get into high life (pulling up his collar) if you don't keep him from being caught, racked, and tortured by——Oh! Lord!

Ul. Christopher! cousin, Christopher! and come to see his aunt, the countess! Very well, sir; you didn't come to see Ulrica, then!

Chris. Eh!

Ul. You didn't come to see her who is already caught, locked up, because she don't choose an unequal marriage; and who, notwithstanding her dress and appearance, is the same simple-hearted creature you left her, sir; but since you're altered, sir, since you forgot your former humble——

Chris. (half crying) I don't—I'm as simple as ever. And if I thought you were not joking—but you are—(looking close in her face)—yes—no—(Ulrica smiles)—she's the same kind-hearted—

Ul. I am; and were we but in our native village, Christopher——

Chris. We'd send for a priest, buy a little land, make money, make love, and have such a happy fire-side!

DUET—Christopher, Ulrica.

Chris. When a little farm we keep, And have little girls and boys, With little pigs and sheep, To make a little noise—— Oh! what happy, merry days we'll see!

Ul. Then we'll keep a little maid, And a little man beside; And a little horse and pad, To take a little ride, With the children sitting on our knee.

Chris. The boys I'll conduct,

Ul. The girls I'll instruct;

Chris. In reading I'll engage, Each son is not deficient;

Ul. In music I presage, Each girl is a proficient.

Chris. Now, boy, your A, B, C!

Ul. Now, girl, your solfa!

[Ulrica is supposed to teach a girl to sing, and Christopher to teach a boy to read.]

Both. When a little farm we keep, &c.

Chris. Charming! delightful!

Ul. Very! only you forget one thing: you forget we are both locked up; and if aunt finds us together, it will make bad so much worse. Mercy on me! how could you get in here?

Chris. Mercy on me! how am I to get out here? and my time's up with the count!

Ul. What count?

Chris. Why, mother, who formerly got this ungrateful aunt made housekeeper to old count Roland, you know, has lately got me into the young count's retinue; and he is killing game in the neighbouring woods, and I'm (noise of unlocking the door) killed myself! Oh, Lord! there's only one chance: aunt cant know me—she has'nt seen me since I became a man; but then, you, cousin! if I am a man! shall I, like a base selfish—No—it mounts!—the Roland blood mounts high within me. [Noise.

Ul. Hush! I rely on him they select to be my husband. His heart's elsewhere; and by securing your own escape now, you may hereafter effect mine. [Stage door opens.] The baron! our enraged host! Now! what's to be done now? [Christopher retires up the stage.

Enter Baron Ravensburg and Oliver.

Oliver. I tell you, my lord, I'm sure Agnes will be found innocent—but I'm silent.

Baron. Be silent, then. And for you, madam, I came to tell you that the priest is sent for, and my son is sent for; and I shan't stir out of this room till I witness the glorious union of the Rolands and the Ravensburgs.

Ul. (archly.) Your son! your son is absent, then!

Bar. He is: but the countess has undertaken to see him brought home; and I don't know who she alludes to, but it seems she talks of catching more troublesome people. [Here Ulrica makes signs to Christopher to be gone, and he steals towards the stage door, behind the baron and Oliver] And so, Oliver, bring me a chair, old Oliver; [Oliver gives him one] for here I'll sit.—[Christopher opens the door, and is going, when the baron hears him.]—Why, what's that? [In his agitation Christopher turns sharply round, and faces the baron, holding the door wide open in his hand.] Zounds! where do you come from?

Chris. Come! I come from—— [Amazed.

Bar. Ay, what brings you, sir? And don't—don't stand staring there with the door open. Either (beating his cane violently against the floor) either come in or go out.

Chris. Out, if you please, sir. [Exit.

Bar. (pulling him back) Stop; this won't do. How came you in my house?

Chris. (confused) Came! why I came from young count Roland, sir.

Bar. Oh! you want to see the countess, then.

Chris. Thank ye, I have seen her; and as her answer isn't at all satisfactory, I hope shortly to return, and take something much more satisfactory. Looking significantly at Ulrica, and going, Ulrica nods in return.

Ol. (coming between him and the door.) I dare say you do; but—he! he! he! the little old butler will prevent you. My lord, just now, instead of a message from count Roland, this fellow talk'd of your keeping low company.—(Christopher shakes his head to stop him.) You did! you actually hinted, that one of our fine ladies was no better than old Winifred Winbuttle, a housekeeper—

Bar. Dolt! blockhead! (to Christopher) when, except this untitled girl, there is not one plain lady, no, nor one real gentlewoman in the whole party; and she, as heiress and sole relation of the high-born countess Roland——

Chris. The sole relation of who?

Bar. The high-born countess Roland!

Chris. (eagerly.) What! you havn't heard—the heiress dare not even hint—Oh ho! (looking at Ulrica, who beckons him to go.) But I won't stay, else I could tell you, that if you and your son had purses as long as the dead pedigree of the Ravensburgs, they wouldn't be half long enough for the live pedigree of the high-born countess Roland! and as her relations will shortly be yours, I'll send express for some few dozens from Franconia who'll now have two strings to their bow; for if cousin Winifred Winbuttle don't keep open house for them, ecod! cousin baron Ravensburg must. And so, yours my lord, yours madam: and there—(whispering Oliver)—there's a Roland for your Oliver, my little twaddling old butler. [Exit.

Bar. Send express for a few dozens! Without there! Stop that scoundrel! Ulrica, what is all this? Speak, I insist on an explanation.

Ul. So do I, Sir—I insist upon an explanation, and I will have one, if I follow that impudent fellow to the world's end.

Bar. Stay where you are. In, in, if you please.

Ul. (trying to pass him.) Out, out, if you please. (mimicking Christopher.)

Bar. Oliver, be you her guard, whilst I pursue this false, this infamous——

Ul. (getting between him and the door.) Stay.

SONG—Ulrica.

I.

Sure woman's to be pitied Whenever she's committed, For being fond and gay; And those who cry out "shame!" Are very much to blame— That's all I say.

II.

I never could discover Why list'ning to a lover Throughout the live-long day, Should be miscall'd offence. It is not common sense— That's all I say.

III.

But though the old and haughty Pretend 'tis very naughty, They think a different way; For this, I know, is true, They do as others do— That's all I say.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A vaulted cavern belonging to the free knights—nearly in the centre a large brazen door, in the archway a practicable parapet, and occasional apertures in the broken fragments of the rock.

Enter Everard, hastily through the doorway.

Ever. This, this the far-fam'd court so long extolled for fair investigation? Poor Agnes Lindorf! unheard thou art condemned, prejudged, thy judges will decree thee guilty, and this, thy trial, is no more than the mere mockery of justice! But I've held converse with the young lord Ravensburg, and if he follow an old soldier's counsel, there may be still some hope, that the accused shall vanquish the accuser.