THE NOBLE PEASANT, A COMIC OPERA, IN THREE ACTS; AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN THE HAYMARKET.
BY THOMAS HOLCROFT.
DUBLIN: Printed by J. EXSHAW, for the COMPANY of BOOKSELLERS.
M DCC LXXXIV.
ADVERTISEMENT.
FOR the ease and convenience of the Provincial Theatres, as well as to gratify the Curiosity of the Reader, those Passages and Songs, which were omitted in the Representation, are put between inverted Commas. Scenes, which often are tedious in the Theatre, amuse in the Closet; and it would, perhaps, be an experiment not much to the advantage of most Theatrical Productions, to restore, on any Stage, Passages which, without great Experience, it would be difficult to give a reason, why they should not be restored.
The Fable relates to Times so remote, that the task of supporting dialogue, in which Wit is necessary, and yet of not offending the manners of those Times, is no easy one. Glory is often acquired in proportion as impediments are overcome: Far be it, however, from the Author to insinuate in what degree he is intitled to this kind of praise; that Decision rests with the Public, and it cannot be in hands more equitable.
Ambitious of deriving Fame from a source whence Fame has so often flowed, from Poetry, the Author has paid an attention to the Songs, which he hopes the Lovers of Poetry will approve. Should they really possess Excellence, it is still to be expected it must oftcn remain unnoticed. The Poetical Beauties of the Songs in the Duenna are frequently overlooked, but they are not therefore the less beautiful. In some instances Poetry has here been obliged to give place to Situation and other Accidents, and pretends to no Charms.
To Mr. Shield, the Author of the Music, every Praise, every Respect is due! The universal Admiration he has received on this, as well as on various former occasions, must give Pleasure to every ingenuous mind: For who can forbear being happy at the prosperity of a Man, whose Head and whose Heart are equally superior? The NOBLE PEASANT owes much, very much of its success to the Genius of the Musician. The Airs not only possess Sweetness and Originality, but they are learned likewise; and, what is far to be preferred, they have Passion and Enthusiasm: The very Accompaniments are full of these inestimable Qualities. If Friendship be not more than partial, the first Song in the third Act is, in particular, in all its Parts, worthy of the greatest Master Harmony ever inspired: and yet, to single out this Song, only, is doing great injustice to the rest. There is little danger, indeed, in declaring such Opinions, for every one declares the same.
To all those whose Talents have contributed to the success of this Opera, from the greatest to the least, the Author returns his Thanks. He forbears to recite Names, because distinctions are difficult; and because he cannot, without an appearance of seeking to flatter, mention them with all the Respect he wishes, should he mention them at all.
UPPER MARY-LE-BONE-STREET,
AUGUST 14, 1784.
[The Words of the Glees are Parodies, as are those of Song
IX,
Act
II.
The Name of the Musical Composer is printed at the Beginning of each Song.]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
LEONARD,
Mr. PALMER.
EARL WALTER,
Mr. AICKIN.
EARL EGBERT,
Mr. PARSONS.
ANLAFF,
Mr. GARDENER.
HAROLD,
Mr. RILEY.
ADAM BELL,
Mr. BANNISTER.
CLYM O' THE CLOUGH,
Mr. BRETT.
WILL CLOUDESLEE,
Mr. DAVIES.
DWARF,
Miss BRETT.
FOOL,
Mr. EDWIN.
KNIGHTS, WARRIORS, ARCHERS, MESSENGERS, SERVANTS, HERALD.
EDWITHA,
Mrs. BANNISTER.
ADELA,
Miss GEORGE.
ALICE,
Miss MORRIS.
The Scene is the Castle of Earl Walter, the adjacent Forest and the Valley. The time is somewhat less than two days.
THE NOBLE PEASANT, A COMIC OPERA.
ACT I.
OVERTURE. SHIELD.
SCENE I.
The Scene is a Forest—Deer seen at a distance—The Archers are hid beneath a very thick foliage—They are heard singing a glee, and, after singing a part of it, appear and finish it.
Enter
Adam Bell, Will Cloudeslee, Clym o' the Clough,
&c. dressed in the old
English
fashion, with their bows and arrows, swords, &c.
GLEE.
SMITH.
COME, my good fellows, and quit the bower,
The Sun no longer seems to lour;
Your arrows bring, your bows of yew,
With silver tips and silken clue;
And let the lusty bugle horn
Tell of the death of deer forlorn:
With fatal note resounding,
What tho' he be swift and bounding,
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Shall tell the death of deer forlorn.
Well said, and well sung, my merry hearts. But where's Leonard? Where's the valiant Stripling?—Does he not draw a good bow, Will? What think'st thou, Clym, isn't he a child of valour?
By my faith, he's no Flincher.
It must be a hard crown that the Youngster can't crack.
How furiously the rascal laid about him in the battle.
I tell thee what, Clym,—mercy forsake me if I would not rather encounter the sheriff and all his men, than be obliged, hand to hand, to fight this Leonard.
By the Lord, he has an arm like the claws of a Lion.
Ay, boy, and he has a Lion's heart too. Did you see in the fight how he brought down that termagant Dane, that man of might, that Alric—he that seemed determined to kill every body himself? How he died, grinding the dust, and cursing his heathen Gods, to be so baffled by a Boy.
Yes, and, as if Leonard car'd little for such a victory, he left another to take the spoil.
Ay, prithee, Will, who was that Knight that was so nimble at running away with the slain Alric's arms? I had not seen him before in the battle.
Seen him!—No no—he'll take care nobody shall see him in any danger;—catch him there if you can—'Twas Earl Egbert.
Oh! what the foolish Braggart, that we have played pranks with him and his purse so often?
Ay; he.—I saw his beaver up—I could not mistake his unleavened face.
But hark ye me, boys, tell me, you that can, what was the cause of this fray? for tho' I have been fighting, I hardly know what about.
About?—About a pair of blue eyes, two rosy cheeks, some certain
of ivory teeth, with various
items
and &
ceteras,
all summed up in the word Woman.
Explain, explain.
Why thus—Anlaff, the Dane, meets, upon a certain day, with Edwitha, the daughter of Earl Walter and is amazed at her beauty—Well, Sir, finding▪ himself attacked by a terrible disease, called sighing, with dangerous symptoms, he demands me this same Lady fair in marriage, that he may be able to eat his beef as heretofore. Earl Walter, however, did not chuse his daughter should be the Dane's doctor in this case.
Why so?
Why so?—Zounds, Clym, hast no religion?—Dost not know that these Red-heads, these Carroty-poles,are Pagans?
Damn it, I had forgot that.
My freckle-faced gentleman takes this denial in dudgeon; and turning on his heel, vows vengeance.—Now neither Earl Walter, nor his son Harold, are of the cuckow breed; they won't be pecked at—so the issue of this no marriage was the battle in question.
And Anlaff, instead of gaining a wise, has lost his brother Alric.
Ay, and some few more—we left some on their backs, that wont't be in a hurry to get up.
Well, well, they may call us Outlaws if they please, but I say we are brave fellows; and if not the most honourable, we are at least as merry as our neighbours.
SONG.
WILL CLOUDESLEE.
SHIELD.
I.
Beneath the worn rock, or upon the shorn grass,
Where pipes the blythe Lad, or where trips the sweet Lass;
By hawthorns that bloom or that bear the red berry,
In hail, rain, or sunshine, we are happy and merry.
II.
When clouds ride the mountains, and winds rend the vales,
When murrains and mildews the Shepherd bewails;
If scanty our store let us share it with pleasure,
The heart of the Brave is the chest of his treasure.
But let me tell you, my Hearts, Harold may thank US for the victory: That Anlaff, and his Redheads, and especially that Alric, with his two-handed sword, bestirred themselves so stoutly, that by the Lord, Lads, Harold's men were little better than Run-aways, when we came to the field.
Well then—our assistance gained the battle—what now shall be our reward?
Hanging on the next tree, if Earl Walter could catch us.
Why truly, my boys, there are dangerous complaints gone abroad against us; your fat Monks, and your lean Usurers, have taken exception at us Forresters, and called us Free-booters—for which reason the King's pardon would be a good thing.
But how are we to get it?
Why, I have a project.
Ay—What is it?
I will go to the castle, disguised like a Friar—There I shall learn what they say about the battle; and whether they will be ready to thank us for the service we did them.
Thank us! why zounds they did not know it was us. Did not we all go disguised?
But we have tongues, and they understand English—Earl Walter is a great man at court.
But hark ye me, Adam; suppose you should be discovered, and there should be any foul play?
There is no danger; I have a friend there in a corner—Besides I know how to a
my part; I will sing them jovial songs, tell them merry tales, and forgive them all their sins, and I warrant I shall be a favourite in the family.
Nay, I don't fear thee, for thou art thoroughly instructed in the art and mystery of eating, drinking, and wenching, and that is the trade of a Friar.
However, I intend to go armed,
and sling my bugle horn across my shoulder: do you watch round the skirts of the forest, and in case of any accident, I will wind the signal of good or ill success.
—But let Leonard know the scheme as soon as you see him—he has a true heart, and will never forsake a good cause.
Why to be sure he'll fight—but he has one bad fault.
Ay!—What is that?
Too scrupulous—"too conscientious"—he would not let me rob the old miserly Abbot of Whitby the other day—we almost quarrelled about it.
Oh! he has not been long among us, you know:—he'll mend.
Well, success to your scheme.
Ay—ay—success to Friar Adam.
SONG.
ADAM BELL.
SHIELD.
I.
We are Archers so stout and so good,
With hearts unacquainted with fear;
We live in the merry green wood,
And feed on the King's fallow deer.
We feed on the King's fallow deer
In spite of the Sheriff and law;
We ne'er from the Poor draw a tear.
But keep Monks and fat Abbots in awe.
CHORUS.
And so merry, so merry live we,
With hearts light as air,
We are strangers to care,
All under the green wood tree.
II.
For Archery England is fam'd,
Expert are her sons at the bow;
Their broad arrows often have tam'd
The rude insults and vaunts of the Foe.
But England itself can't excel,
For valour and good archery,
Bold Clym o' the Clough, Adam Bell,
And William of Cloudeslee.
CHORUS.
And so merry, so merry live we,
With hearts light as air,
We are strangers to care,
All under the green wood tree.
SCENE II.
Changes to a beautiful valley, with the prospect of a superb castle, in the Gothic stile.
Edwitha
and
Adela.
Truly, Adela, I would be chearful, but memory will not let me.—
I know as well as thou dost, that sorrow will not cure a wound; but knowing myself the cause of this unhappy broil, the chearful spirits which health and active youth bestow, are all dispersed by Fear and froward Apprehension.
I am like a respited Criminal, that every moment dreads a confirmation of his sentence.
Pshaw, Edwitha, I declare you don't deserve your happiness. There are hundreds of Ladies in little England, that would give their brightest eye thus to have the gauntlet thrown, and see themselves the happy subject of contention,
when young and valiant Knights mount neighing Steeds, and ride in bright and burnished armour to the field!—To hear the winding of the Bugle-horn, the clattering of the Horses' hoofs, and the prophetic buz of victory among the Warriors!
Oh! were I the beauteous Dame that could inspire such glorious strife, I should
think of nothing but roses and lilies, Venus and the Graces—talk of nothing but Helen and Hector, Greeks and Trojans
—read nothing but ballads of beauteous Ladies and valorous Knights, and sing 'em in my sleep—should—Lord, I should be so transported I don't know what I should do.
This, good cousin, is said to divert me—but I know your heart, Adela—you do not envy, you pity me—Oh! Harold! Oh my brother! would I were assured of thy safety!
[Edwitha
begins to sing.]
[Responses are heard from the wood.]
Ye rocks and caves, with deep resounding voice,
With deep resounding voice.
[Edwitha
and
Adela
are surprised.]
Did you hear, Adela?
Yes, yes; I heard.
Once more.
SONG.
EDWITHA.
SHIELD.
Ye rocks and caves with deep resounding voice,
With deep resounding voice.
Bid Echo, who, your haunts among,
Can mimic well the Shepherd's song,
Or Herdsman's hoarser throat;
Or Herdsman's hoarser throat.
Or with the festive Villager rejoice,
Can chirp to all the winged throng;
Can oft repeat the jolly Plough-boy's song;
Bid gentle Echo ease my grief,
Ease your grief.
And tell me is my Harold safe.
Harold's safe.
This is enchantment, Adela? 'Tis sure some kind Spirit sent to comfort me.
I can't tell how kind he may be, but I have discovered the Spirit. Come, come from your hiding place, Mr.—, and let us know what and who you are.
[Adela
goes toward a tuft of trees, from whence]
SCENE III.
Enter
Leonard
with his flute.
Was it you, young Swain, that with such respondent sweetness echoed me?
[Bows.]
Ha! That's as much as to say, yes.
[Mimics his modest bow.]
Such delightful melody in a poor Peasant is surely wonderful.
[Bows again, and shakes his head.]
Oh! ho!—That's as much as to say—No.
[Mimicking.]
Come, come, young man, don't be over modest—If heaven has given you good gifts, hold up your head and own it.
But tell me truly—Do you know any thing of my brother's fate?—Is he—is he safe?
He is.
[Bows.]
Then I am happy.
There!—there now!—Didn't I tell you so?
And is he victorious? Is Anlaff vanquished?
He is.
[Edwitha
turns away, as if to suppress the joy that overpowers her.]
There! there!—Didn't I tell you that too? Didn't I bid you dance, and sing, and—Here, young man—here is something for your good news.
[Offers him money.]
[Bows and refuses it.]
Thank you, Lady, I am over-paid already.
Gad-a-mercy! Aye. indeed! How so?
By being a welcome messenger to such fair and gentle Ladies.
Hey-day!—A Peasant too!—Do you mind this, Edwitha? This silly fellow refuses money, and talks—I don't know how.
Tell me, young Swain, where you learnt these happy tidings. I
it from report you speak, or were you at the battle?
I was at the battle.
Were you? Oh! for heaven's sake give us a description of it.
How shall a simple Peasant, Lady, speak of such high deeds? Besides, I saw but little of the combat.
Perhaps you joined the Combatants and fought.
[Bows.]
Upon my word, Mr. Young man, you are a very extraordinary kind of a person—What is your name?
Leonard.
And—how many Danes might you kill yourself?
To speak of my own exploits were to undo with my tongue what I had atchieved with my arm. I and my companions came not to the field till it was late; the battle was hot, and then I fought among the rest.
Companions! And did you go to fight for Harold and Edwitha?
For Harold and Edwitha.
[Bows.]
"What shall I say?" How shall I thank you? But come, come young Swain, to the castle; and my father, Earl Walter, shall bestow rewards, equal I hope to your deserts.
The rewards I sought are already bestowed—Harold is victorious, and Edwitha condescends to approve.
[Sighs.]
A sigh, too! Observe his eyes, Edwitha.—
If you give him any further encouragement he'll make love to you.
—Well, really he is a very likely fellow. What a pity it is he is a Peasant, Edwitha!
It is, indeed, Adela.
[Sighs.]
It is, indeed, Adela.
[Mimicks her.]
So so; sigh for sigh.—
Why, Don Cupid seems disposed to make a pretty piece of work here.
[Aside.]
Come, Edwitha, it is time to be gone, I see.—Will you walk?—Fare you well, young man, fare you well.—Edwitha is very much obliged to you—She seems inclined to like the colour of your hair too—but that the Fates and Destinies forbid.
[significantly.]
And so you—you must return home again, and comfort pretty Nancy or pretty Peggy, or—some other neat little linsey-woolsey lass—and you'll sing, and play, and tell 'em a pretty tale—I warrant they'll listen.—And, do you hear, don't—don't you be silly, and dream either of Paradise or Purgatory; but eat your curds and cream, and honour your father and mother after your old fashion.—You understand me—Content is better than a down-bed, and the stars will be obeyed.
—There is many a precious stone trod under foot.—Every Hero can't be Alexander—but these things can't be helped.—So, farewell to you.—Come, come, Edwitha.
Take this ring, young Swain; wear it in remembrance of Edwitha.—Come, Adela.—Heaven protect you, Sir, and make you victorious in battle, and fortunate in love.
Thanks, gentle Lady, sweet Lady; from my heart, dear Lady, I thank you—And while one drop of blood shall cherish this poor bosom, will wear, with thankfulness, your favour—and so farewell.
[Exit
Leonard.]
SCENE IV.
Adela
and
Edwitha.
Well, really there is something very uncommon about this young man—A rustic dignity—a conscious kind of humble superiority—a firm step—a steady eye—a bold front—Yes, the Warrior's character is absolutely stampt upon his forehead.
And that is surely magnanimity.
So have I been told, girl.
RONDEAU.
ADELA.
SHIELD.
The Hero, conscious of his worth,
Amid tumultuous war sedate,
Arms Rage and Danger, sends them forth,
And seems to give decrees to Fate.
When Trumpets in the deafen'd ear,
With brazen throat and warlike breath,
Would drown the trembling voice of Fear,
And bid the Coward look on death;
The Hero, conscious of his worth,
Amid tumultuous war sedate,
Arms Rage and Danger, sends them forth,
And seems to give decrees to Fate.
Oh, Leonard! Wherefore should such a mind be called ignoble!—Ungenerous and unjust!
But how now, Edwitha! Why surely, girl, you have more wit, more pride, than positively to love this Peasant! I can see the fellow has a handsome leg as well as you—can read the modest pre-eminence of his eye as quick—
can construe all his latent virtues as truly
—What of that?—I cannot purchase every trinket I see; and there are many that, if I had them, I could not wear, because—they are
unfashionable.
More is the pity that modesty, courage, and virtue should be out of fashion.
Very true;
but this has been a pitiable subject ever since Adam wore a beard.—Consider, Edwitha, the respect due to yourself, your father, and your—
Nay, Adela, prithee do not mistake me so widely.—Though I can see, and cannot but admire in a poor Peasant, those exalted virtues which first made men noble, yet I know my duty; I must worship nobility in its titles, and its outward honours; for so the free-judging world, and the haughty pride of lineal dignity, demand—and I obey.—Though my heart may lament its destiny, it never shall reproach me.
"Why, that's my brave girl!"—And yet, methinks, there is something exceedingly remantic in this sudden way of falling in love at first sight.
Nay, Adela, if it even were love, it is not at first sight.
No, indeed!—Aha! What, you are old acquaintances then!
We never spoke till now; but lately he hath often crossed my way, run before me to "open gates," chace the browzing ox, and remove the straggling bramble from my path, seeking to be noticed, yet avoiding to be thanked. Once, too, he hung a garland on a stile over which I was to pass.
Audacity!—"An enterprizing Gentleman, truly!"—But you did not touch his garland?
No—I turned suddenly back to the castle.
You did right—Come, come, think of these things but as a dream; remember the victory of your brother, and smile at trifles.
DUET.
EDWITHA
and
ADELA.
RAUZZINI.
Virtue bids us conquer passion,
Hard the victory we obtain;
Hard to vanquish inclination,
But the pleasure pays the pain.
If a moment Virtue waver,
She, restor'd to former peace,
Proud that Vice could not enslave her,
Feels her energy increase.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V.
changes to the inside of the Castle.
Enter
Adam Bell
in a Friar's habit, followed by the
Fool, Servants,
&c.
SONG.
ADAM BELL.
(The Seasons.)
SHIELD.
WINTER. I.
Ere the beard of thistle sails;
Ere the tadpoles wag their tales▪
When the maids with milking-pails
Doff their mits and blow their nails;
When the cottage chimney smokes,
And waggish letchers crack their jok es
By the glowing ember's light,
And fright the girls, with tale of Sprite,
Then will we, o'er ale and cakes,
Brag of feats at Autumn wakes.
SPRING. II.
When the swallows twittering sing
Of the lovely birth of Spring;
When Bridegrooms make our three bells ring,
Ding dong ding—ding dong ding;
When the Valley's face is seen
Veil'd in many a shade of green;
When girls of husbands nightly dream,
And jolly swains get clouted cream;
Then we, upon sweet primrose beds,
Will rant our glees and rest our heads.
SUMMER. III.
When the young frog sears the rook;
When the kine stand in the brook;
When sleepy louts lose many a crook,
And codlings drop when trees are shook;
When salt mushrooms nightly spring,
And martins dip the dappled wing;
When the sun with strait-down beam
Lathers well the lusty team;
Then beneath new hay-ricks we
Will sing with might and merry glee.
AUTUMN. IV.
When the sickle and the scythe
Make the ruddy Farmer blythe;
When Hodge the bulky sheaf doth writhe,
And the fat Vicar claims his tythe;
When Autumn yields her golden store,
Till well-fill'd barns can hold no more;
When ripe fruits press the plenteous board,
And old wives cull their wintry hoard;
Then will we, when labour's o'er,
At harvest-home our catches roar.
Though a Friar, wenches, this is my maxim—summer or winter, spring or fall, I am always merry.
Why then, master Friar, you and I compleat the proverb,
Be merry and wise:
for you are merry, and I am wise.—And let me tell you, I am not the only wise Fool in the world.
May be so—But pray you, now expel some of your wisdom upon me, and tell me how Earl Walter bears this dangerous absence of his son.
Oh, Sir, with that gravity of deportment as should seem to say—
I defy Fate—if Misfortune come, I am no flincher
—And then, Sir, he strokes his beard, and endeavours to put a good face on the matter.—But I know him—he has it here—sick of the father—Sir, between ourselves—he has been—as melancholy!—as a Fiddle with one string—as restless as a Cat in a cage—and as solemn as a blind Baboon on Good Friday.
But is he naturally thus grave and serious?
Oh, no, the old gentleman is a—very good sort of an old gentleman—when he is pleased—a sociable conversable comprehensible kind of an old lord enough—likes to have his own way—as most of your great lords do, I observe.
Ay, and little lords too.
Why, yes, yes—I myself, simple as I stand here, should like exceedingly to cast this Fool's skin, and deck myself in the garment of Authority. To see underlings tremble, if I should stamp; and look pale, if I had the tooth-ach—As to
a
l Walter, Sir, if young Harold should return safe and sound, in health and honour, you shall see him a—a very different man—Lively and alert as an Owl at midnight—Happy as a Lawyer in Term time, or a Physician in November.
But what if he were vanquished? How then?
Then—Why then, Sir, the old gentleman would sit you down as mute and as motionless as a bell without a clapper—as silent—as a bagpipe without wind, and as sedately dismal as a death's head upon a tomb-stone.
You abound in comparisons, Master Motley.
Yes—they are part of my stock in trade, and I love to keep a good assortment.—Can you tell why the world is like a Fair?
No—
No!—Your finger to your lip then—listen and learn.—The world is like a Fair, because—basta—I'll turn my simile into a song.
SONG.
FOOL.
SHIELD.
I.
This world is a Fair, where the croud is bent wholly
On gew-gaws and rattles, noise, nonsense and folly;
Where higledy piggle, pell-mell and confusion,
We're born, take a peep, die, and lose the illusion.
And there we see whirligigs, roundabouts,
Ups and Downs, Ins and Outs,
Fal lals, drums, trumpets, globes, sceptres, and crowns;
Hot spiced gingerbread, and merry-go-rounds;
With wonders! wonders! and wonders! enough to make a blind man stare!
Oh! don't you think it a wonderful Fair?
II.
Here are all sorts of toys for all ranks and gradations;
Gilt ribbands for ladies! for lords—installations;
Wigs first worn at Westminster, after on May-days,
On Judge's and Chimney-sweep's high days and play-days.
And there you shall see mask'd faces, false noses, castenets and saltboxes▪
Jack-puddings with gridirons, dukes, devils, and doxies;
With a strange medley of tythe-pigs and bishops, lawyers, bailiff, and prisons▪
Fanatic Craw-thumpers, who have many more words than reasons,
Wise dogs, learned horses, illiterate asses, and many other strange beasts there.
Oh! don't you think it a wonderful Fair?
III.
In this Fair you will find, Sir, the worst wares are vending;
Here Knav'ry is hoarding what Folly is spending;
Here titles and honours are trades most prolific,
And gold is the one universal specific.
And here you hear many fine promises in many fine speeches;
But if you love liberty and property beware of such leeches;
With their legerdemain tricks, Hey! Presto! fly quick, and be gone,
They are here, there, and every where, on all sides, and on none;
Then they squeeze their hats, beat their breasts, rave, rant, cant, stamp, and stare.
Oh! don't you think it a wonderful Fair?
IV.
Here puppet-show Patriots their booths have erected,
To tell how the rights of mankind they've protected;
When in hopes to be brib'd, Sir, each man with his fellow,
Of brib'ry and slav'ry will bluster and bellow.
Then it is that you see these Whirligigs, Roundabouts, Ups and Downs, Ins and Outs,
Scrambling for fal-lals, drums, trumpets, globes, sceptres, and crowns,
Swords, maces, and woolsacks, and scarlet furr'd gowns.
Such wonders, wonders, and wonders, are enough to make a blind man stare!
Oh! don't you think it a wonderful Fair?
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Changes to an area within the castle walls. A march is played. Enter first the warriors, all in martial order, and in armour; then
Earl Egbert,
followed by a
Dwarf
bearing a huge sword and shield; next
Harold,
who is met and embraced by
Earl Walter
and
Edwitha;
then
Adam Bell
and the
Fool,
and lastly,
Adela,
with a laurel crown, followed by Virgins.—She crowns
Harold,
as do the Virgins
Egbert,
and the rest of the Knights.—Then the following Chorus, &c.
ODE.
SHIELD.
EDWITHA, ADELA, ADAM BELL, &c. &c.
Behold the conqu'ring Hero's meed,
Behold his rich reward;
Who, nobly valiant, dares to bleed,
His native rights to guard.
For him the loveliest Virgin's hand shall pluck
The freshest laurel to adorn his brow;
For him the sweetest, loudest chords are struck,
Heroic verse and harmony bestow.
With rapid finger, firm and deep,
The harp, sonorous, boldly sweep;
Now touch the am'rous love-sick lute,
And gently swell the breathing flute;
With melting airs and soothing strains
Relieve the weary Soldier's pains.
Hither smiling Virgins bring
The fragrant rose, the lily sweet,
Gather'd from the lap of Spring,
To strew beneath the Warrior's feet.
Nor yet forget to drop a pitying tear,
To grace the ever-honour'd bier
Of those brave Warriors who remain
Lifeless, entomb'd upon the bloody plain.
Oh welcome, welcome my Harold, welcome noble Earl Egbert! How shall I speak my joy? To see you thus return in safety and in honour, is the supreme of happiness.
And to be thus received at our return, is the best, the mostglorious reward—
None but a soldier can imagine the strong throbbings of the soldier's heart, when those his arm has fought for, fly to his embraces, and pour the grateful balm of a thousand welcomes in his wounds.
Oh my brother! my joys overcome me—they are excessive as my fears have been.—From this moment may the sword sleep in honour; or if fate will again call thee to the horrors of inexorable war, may'st thou find another, and a worthier subject!
A worthier, my Edwitha? the world contains not a worthier!
No—The world contains not a worthier; and that
I
will prove against Dane or Devil.
Will
you,
my lord?
I—
I—He that denies it, lies and dies—
he must digest steel.
Bless me!
I'd fight with Charlemagne and all his host! ay, and conquer too, in such a cause.
How childish, then, have been our fears, Edwitha.—This must have been an easy victory to such a champion.
Easy lady!—Pardon me!—We have been in horrible danger, that's the truth.
There is no danger to the brave, for he thinks of none.
True Harold, when danger is present, the brave think only of opposing danger; but when it is over, 'tis their delight to recollect each perilous circumstance.
"To be sure—to be sure"—I shall never look on that sword and shield again, but I shall remember the grim visage of that terrible Alric.
[Points to the sword and shield borne by the
Dwarf.]
What is Alric slain?
The vile Pagan is dead.
And fell by your hand, Earl Egbert?
By mine—This right arm did the deed.
Here's a cowardly lying slave.
[Aside.]
This good sword—was the lancet
at let him blood—this gave vent to his foul humours—this cut his pack thread.
Put it up my Lord—it has carved you more honour than you will digest in a twelvemonth.
It is too valiant for women to look at without danger of hysterics.
Sweet Dove of peace, at your intreaty my sword shall hide its honourable face.
Let it; lest it should blush to hear its own praise.
[Half aside.]
For your sake, bright Pearl of Britain, was it drawn.
I am sorry for the occasion, my Lord.
Ha!—See how a man may be mistaken—I should sooner have expected to have heard of the
being run thro' with a knitting needle, or
own with the butt-end of a thread-paper.
Sirrah—you know your privilege.
Yes, we Fools have a licence.
Dwarf.
My Honourable Lord.
Watch me that Fool's mouth—if he dare utter any more malice bestow the bastinado—liberally—afflict him with a cudgel—grievously.
What, must the honest mouth of Plaindealing be gagg'd by a broomstick?
But how went the battle, Harold? was it a hard fought field?
It was my Lord; and heaven only knows what would have been the fortune of the day had not some fresh and unknown friends arrived just as the hand of the soldier, weary with slaughter, began almost to tire, and his heart to droop before the unremitting fury of the numerous Dane.
Thanks for that brave Harold.
[Aside.]
Unknown friends, say you?
Yes my Lord—they appeared to be Peasants, but they foug
like Heroes.
Do you hear this, Adela?
[Aside to Adela.]
You
do I perceive, Edwitha.
Yes—yes—the—the Boors played their part. But what of that? It all availed nothing till that Alric was demolished.
Was he so desperate?
He was indeed irresistible—His brother Anlasf, alone, of all the Danes, was deem'd his equal.
You may guess at a workman by his tools! Dwarf.
My Honourable Lord.
Advance me that shield above your head, and hold me out the sword at arm's length.
I can't, my Honourable Lord.
Can't—no—nor such another Dwarf
help thee
—But I laid him low—I gave him a sleeping powder.
Alas—I am sorry to find this bad world so given to falshood.
False! What's false? thou general collector of crimes and Peter-pence—Thou ear of Iniquity—"Thou common sewer of sin," what's false? Did I not kill Alric? Did I not vanquish the Dane?
Who dare doubt it, my Lord! It were a meanness beyond contempt for one of your dignity to speak an untruth; and it would still be more vile, more despicable to assume a valour which you durst not maintain.
What dost thou mean, Friar?
Your pardon, my Lord, "without offence to Earl Egbert," I intended to tell your Lordship that a Peasant, whom I shrived this very morning, did enumerate, among other sins that hung upon his soul, the death of Alric the Dane, whom
he
said he had slain in battle.
A Peasant?
What was this Peasant's name?
Leonard.
My Lord, it was this Peasant of whom I spoke to you before, who first informed Adela and me of my brother's victory!—He was one of those to whom, it seems, the victory was greatly owing.
A Peasant! 'Tis some mistake. Earl Egbert, receive my best, my warmest thanks.—I understand the service you have done my house, and will remember it to my utmost power.
Nay, but it seems—the Friar has been Confessor to the man in the moon, and I did not kill Alric—Let it pass—The fire of Etna will have vent—Melted pitch may boil over—Henceforth, I will travel into the land of the Cyclops, and exterminate Giants.—Dwarf.
My Honourable Lord.
Speak—Valour must be tongue-tied—relate,—and strike Detraction dumb—utter, and seal up the mouth of Envy—Whose sword and shield are those?
Your's my Honourable Lord.
Whose were they, Imp? whose were they, Wren?
Alric, the Dane's.
And by what means do they appertain to me? which way do I inherit?
You took them perforce from Alric.
You inherit illegally, if you take a man's property perforce—Your master has robb'd the Dane, Dwarf, and you are an accomplice. He is a great man, and may escape, but you are pigmy villain, and must be hanged, Dwarf.
'Tis a pleasant conceit Fool—Ha!—ha!—It doth abate my bile—I feel my conflux of choler evaporate.
Come Harold—come Earl Egbert; within we will question you further on the fortune of the field—it is our duty to give the brave an opportunity of relating their Exploits.
FINALE.
SHIELD.
From the clangor of arms to the banquet repair,
Where Plenty and Pleasure combine;
On the bosom of Peace court the smiles of the Fair.
'Twill give the true zest to your wine.
While around the jocund Table,
Each brave Warrior takes his seat,
The Bard shall chaunt some ancient fable,
To th' attentive Soldier sweet.
Father Friar, you'll come and say grace,
With your fat and pontifical face?
Ay, ay, never fear,
Find a Friar good cheer,
And he'll find himself a good place.
The Dwarf and the Fool
Shall sit both on one stool,
And their gibes shall afford you some sport;
In the hall they shall sing,
Till they make the roof ring,
While the morris-men dance in the court.
CHORUS.
Soon among the motley croud,
Festive Mirth and Laughter loud;
Convivial Frolic, blithe and jolly,
Whose antics give a grace to Folly;
Sportive trick and merry tale
Shall many a happy Guest regale.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Earl Walter
and
Edwitha.
THE active spirit of your brother, Edwitha, cannot loiter in indolence. Harold and his companions are going for some few days to hunt on Cheviot hills. War and the chace are his delight.
Earl Egbert, I hear, remains at home, my Lord.
He does; detained by respect—by love for thee.
Love, my Lord!
Ay, love, Edwitha.
I am sorry for it.
How, girl! sorry.
It is impossible I ever should return his love.
Edwitha!—
Who am I!
My ever honoured father.
And is this the duty, this the reverence a father claims!—Indeed!—so prompt at disobedience.
Dear my Lord.
"Peace"—thou hast almost angered me—
What! a father, who, with such anxious love and tenderness, for unremitting years, had cherished thee in his bosom, so slightly thought of, and so lightly answered!
Pardon me, dearest father, perhaps I am to blame.
The reasons for this union are many and weighty; Earl Egbert is powerful in friends and vassals; my enemies are numerous and revengeful; my obligations too are great, and gratitude demands—
Do not, dear Sir, think I speak with a disobedient spirit,
but surely Earl Egbert has—
Peculiarities perhaps; say foibles; but his courage, and his virtues, are not the less estimable—Beware, Edwitha, of a refiactory and pertinacious will; cherish no unduteous thoughts, or unjust prejudices; and dread to provoke parental wrath.
Heaven forbid
—No, let me suffer any misfortune, any torment, rather than a dear father's displeasure—Only let me intreat you farther to examine the real character of Earl Egbert; to give me time, and not precipitate me in the most important action of my life.
Well, my child, so far thy wishes shall be granted, but remember the reasons I have urged, harbour no disgust against Earl Egbert; or if thou hast, erase every unjust prejudice from thy thoughts, by henceforth considering him as thy intended husband, which will teach thee to hold him in due esteem.
[Exit
E.
Wal.
My husband! Earl Egbert! Let me not think, lest I should find reason to be convinced disobedience here were virtue—Oh Leonard!—Alas!—it cannot—must not be.
SONG.
EDWITHA.
SHIELD.
The northern Blast, that bleakly blows
Adown the mountain's snowy side,
The tendril bites and blights the rose,
And withers all the valley's pride.
More fatal bites not, through the grove,
The Winter's sharp and canker'd tooth,
Than doth the Blight of hopeless Love
The tender Bud of hapless Youth.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
The
Dwarf
and the
Fool.
Verily, Dwarf, thou art but a pitiful Pigmy.
How so, Fool?
First, in that thou art a Dwarf, and cannot hang thy hat upon a peg without borrowing assistance from a wooden stool.
That is a blessing, Fool; the exercise is good for my health, and▪ will make me long-lived.
Next, because thou art a holder of bridles; one that waits cap in hand while my Lord takes leave of my Lady—during which thou art obliged to stand bare-headed to a horse!
These are proofs of my humility and good manners, Fool.
A very crouching spaniel, that yelps at the jingle of a bell, and the crack of a whip, would not submit to thy office.
Why, Fool!
Why?—Oh shallow interrogation!—Would a spaniel, thinkest thou, pull off a Lord's boot because he was bid? Or ride before him on a palsrey, to open gates, and turn pack-horses out of the road? Would a spaniel doff his bonnet, scrape his foot, kiss his fingers, and deliver a message from Sir to Madam?—The horsewhip would not make him.—
This is still more to my praise, Fool, since it proves me more obedient and docile even than a spaniel.
Nay then thou wilt pick praise out of the seven deadly sins; but come, disclose—tell me wherefore you, and your
honourable
Lord, did not go with young Harold this morning to hunt on Cheviot Hills?
Because
one
of us stays at home to make love to Edwitha.
And, like young hounds, you only hunt in couples. Verily, Dwarf, you are but an empty Pair.
Why look thee, Fool, I am somewhat of a Philosopher, and am resolved not to let thy railing make me think the worse of my own good parts. A man who is not a yard high can see the sun as distinctly as a Giant—A good Lacquey is better than a bad Lord—I am contented with my lot—Were all the world of my mind, there would be no Madmen, sew Fools, and the Hangman would starve for want of employment.
SONG.
DWARF.
DUNY.
Ah! tell me why should silly man
Thus misapply his short sojourn.
Thus waste the life that's but a span▪
The minutes that shall ne'er return!
If he with thankful lip would taste
The pleasures which around him play▪
No gloomy cloud should overcast,
But sunshine deck his happy day.
II.
'Tis not the biting wint'ry blast;
'Tis not the scorching summer sky▪
'Tis not the coast on which he's cast,
Or where he's born, or where shall die▪
No, independent quite of these,
The joys or anguish he must find,
No sun can scorch, no frost can freeze
The joys of a contented mind.
Ha! Very wise, and full of most sublime sentiment—Now I'll sing you the second part—It is as new and as true as your's, and as full of logic—Open your eyes and listen.
SONG.
FOOL.
SHIELD.
I.
When swallows lay their eggs in snow,
And geese in wheat-ears build their nests;
When roasted crabs a hunting go,
And cats can laugh at gossip's jests;
When law and conscience are a-kin,
And pigs are learnt by note to squeak;
Your worship then shall stroke your chin,
And teach an owl to whistle Greek.
Till when let your wisdom be dumb;
For say, man of Gotham,
What is this world?
A Tetotum,
By the finger of Folly twirl'd;
With a hey-go-up, and about we come;
While the sun a good post-horse is found,
So merrily we'll run round.
II.
When frost, and snow, and hail, and rain,
Are guided by the Almanack;
When Lapland wizards can explain
How many stars will fill a sack;
When courtiers hate to be preferr'd,
And pearls are made of whitings' eyes;
Instructed by your worship's beard,
The world shall merry be, and wise.
Till when let your wisdom be dumb;
For say, man of Gotham,
What is this world?
A Tetotum,
By the finger of Folly twirl'd;
With a hey-go-up, and about we come;
While the sun a good post-horse is found,
So merrily we'll run round.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Changes to the skirts of the Forest, a dark umbrageous▪ foliage, in the back ground.
Adela
and
Edwitha.
Prithee, Edwitha, do not look and speak with such a dismal gravity of countenance.
Mercy on me! Thou wilt be fit company for nobody shortly but Sextons and Parish-Clerks.
Before I would mope in this manner, I would live on the east side of a yew tree, sleep in a cemetry, and wrap myself in a shroud.
What would'st thou have of me, girl? When contending passions disturb the mind, and occupy the heart, the tongue in vain endeavours to trifle, and the lips to smile.
SONG.
EDWITHA.
SHIELD.
I.
Love leads us to lab' rinths of woe;
Though roses spontaneous invite,
Though Pleasure seems prompt to bestow
Each moment some new-sprung delight,
Should the Virgin be tempted to taste
The fruit that so blooming appears,
Her sweets, by Imprudence debas'd▪
All melt in Contrition and Tears.
II.
The bosom where Purity reigns
The breath of Detraction can't taint:
But she who not wholly abstains,
Shall utter in vain her complaint:
Like the Lily unable to rise,
That's wounded and droops to its bed,
Untimely she withers and dies,
And the Cypress springs over her head.
Pshaw! Tell me not of drooping lilies and cypress shades—Laughter and light heels are certain antidotes to sorrow.
Thou art a mad girl, Adela.
A merry girl, you mean—Mad I shall never be, unless I were to fancy myself a fiddle, and go mad because I could get nobody to dancy to me.
What could'st thou be merry, if, like me, thou wert going to be married to a Fool!
Ay by my conscience could I.—Married to a Fool! Marry amen, and with all my heart, and the sooner the better—Your Fool is the only manageable beast among a herd of husbands.
When you are angry you may vent your spleen in metaphor, talk treason in simile, and abuse him by irony and allegory, and he shall kiss you for being so kind—The greater my husband's folly, the more apparent would my wit be.—I could mould him, lik a piece of unbaked dough, into any form.
—A Fool, like a Watchman, walks always in the dark, and his wife is the lanthern by whose light he finds his way. Lord, girl, I could give thee my apron full of reasons, and a handful over, why a woman should marry a Fool.
I thought men of wit and understanding were always thy favourites.
As gallants, but not as husbands. Give 'em a little love, and a little hope before marriage, and they will see good sense in every sentence, wit in every antic, and Cupids hanging in clusters at every ringlet; but the honey moon over, and all the little Loves drop as dead as suffocated Bees—vanish like Ghosts when a candle enters.
After this, my Lord becomes so full of wisdom and observation, that one must set Discretion with a pair of scales at the door of one's mouth, to weigh Words, and detect Levities, or else expect to have 'em entered in a memorandum-book, and read every Sunday after sermon.
By way of reproof and edification, hey girl!
Yes.—And then Sir Gravity seats himself in his Elbow-chair, and with all the conscious dignity of Wisdom rubs his shins, hems thrice, and begins.—Hem!—my dear—hem—my dear—Pshaw, zounds! leave playing with the cat's tail, and listen to me.—My dear—how often must I remind you of the necessity of being circumspect in your words and actions!—Last Sunday was a se'nnight, after vespers, being in company with the parson of the parish, you asked if Aristotle could talk French; and soon after wanted to know what was Latin for a bag-pudding.—I have told you a thousand times, my dear, that your tongue is so flippant, you prattle so fast, and your discourse is such a mixture of sense and nonsense, that it is like reading the Proverbs of Solomon, interlined with the merry exploits of Jack the Giant-killer.
Ha, ha, ha.
So proceeds he—reproving me for not paring my nails properly—reading me wise documents concerning the milk-fever, the danger of cutting eyeteeth, and sipping hot soup; together with the indecency of clambering over stiles, sleeping in church, and wearing short petticoats
And what would'st thou do, hadst thou one of these circumspect, learned, fault-finding husbands?
Do?—Why I would make mince-meat of Aristotle, put Epictetus in a pie, and serve up Seneca in a sack-posset, that he might be choaked with his own wisdom.
RONDEAU.
ADELA.
SHIELD.
Give me the man of simple soul,
Not prone to proud o'erweening,
Whose open eye can vacant roll,
And ne'er betray a meaning.
No solemn Sir, within whose looks
Live nought but wrinkles and rebukes.
Give me the man, &c.
No spoilt child of wit,
Every ready to spit
The spleen of his brain at who stands in his way,
Finding fault, when you're silent, with what you don't say.
May the Fates rather send me a fool,
Whom the genius of woman may rule;
Whom her rattle and tattle, caprices or kisses, can't teaze;
Whom the jig of a fiddle, or wit of a riddle, can please.
Give me the man, &c.
Here comes one will never die of too much wisdom.
SCENE IV.
Enter
Earl Egbert
and
Fool.
Ladies, the blessings of sun-shine be upon you.
What are these, Sir, beside ripe fruit and thunder-showers?
What are those?—Why they are—umph—they are—what are they, Fool?
The Fool can't tell.
Do you walk for contemplation, Sir, or health?
Umph!—Marry, to say the truth, neither—Not but that I am somewhat addicted to contemplation.—But then I am apt to think about so many things, that at last I can't tell what I am thinking about.
That's strange.
At other times I am so full of meditation!—that I fall fast asleep!—To say the truth, ladies, I came, seeing you approach so near the skirts of the forest, to give you protection back to the castle.
We are obliged to your courage, Sir, but there is no danger.
Pardon me, bright Constellation, I have heard to the contrary.
Yes truly, and so have I.
Have you?—Have
you
heard that these woods are dangerous?
Exceedingly.
How?—how?—where?—In what manner.
This forest is at present the shelter of a daring band of outlaws.
Come, ladies—come, let us return.
No, I shall walk a little farther; there is nothing to fear in the day-time.
No! Let us walk a little farther then.
Indeed, Edwitha, you are mistaken.—If Earl Egbert were not with us, I would not proceed a hundred paces farther for a king's ransom.
Nay, we are all safe enough, Adela, for heaven protects the Fool and the Innocent, and the Valiant protect themselves.
[A cry is heard without of "The wolf! the wolf!" they are all alarmed.]
Mercy!—What cry is that?
["The wolf! the wolf!"]
Heaven defend us!
[Exeunt
Adela
and
Edwitha.]
Enter
Peasants,
crying "the wolf!" &c.
Where?—which way?
There, there—run, run.
[Exeunt
Peasants.]
O Lord!—which way shall I run?—what will become of me?—
[A shriek of women and children.]
Oh mercy!
He's coming, he's coming—draw your sword, my lord.—
I'm a deadman!—
[Stands a moment confused, then runs behind the trees]
[Another shriek]
Oh my lady! my lady! oh my poor lady! she'll be devoured!—
[Shout.]
Ha! well said, well said, my brave fellow! well said, my sturdy rascal—have a care—now—now—there—there— again—there was a home-stroke—well said, my boy—aha, Mr. Wolf—Huzzah! huzzah! he's dead! he's gone! it's all over with him! he's defunct! there he lies! huzzah!
[Peeping.]
Fool!
My Lord.
He lies very still.
Yes—he's out of breath.—But come, come—will your valiant lordship please to have a nearer peep at the savage monster?
Are you sure he's dead?—quite dead?
Nay, if ever he taste mutton more, call me Sheep.
Why then—But Fool—you shall go first, and see if he breathes still; for though he seem dead, he grins horribly.
I'll sell you his teeth for six-pence a dozen.
[Exit
Fool.]
A bargain, Fool.—But don't be rash—don't be too venturesome—take care—go softly—
[Keeps following, and peeping with the utmost caution, step by step.]
[Exit.]
SCENE V.
Enter
Leonard,
with his sword bloody, supporting
Edwitha,
How are you, gentle Lady?
Sase, Sir; thanks to "your generous, to" your noble valour.—Are you wounded, Sir?
Not at all, Lady,
Do you know where is my cousin Adela?—Is she out of danger?
Entirely.—I saw her enter a cottage a little to the left.
You are born, Sir, to be my Desender.
Would I were.
"Heaven reward your magnanimity."—I was too much your debtor, Sir, before.—
Say not so, dear Lady;—
you
are not, 'tis
I
am the debtor! To be permitted to converse with you! To touch your beauteous hand! To hear you acknowledge you are obliged to me!—To me!—A poor and humble Peasant!
How might I hope such abundant happiness?
Oh that I had been born a Prince, that I might have been some way worthy of you!
You speak, Sir, with passion.
Pardon me, gentle Lady—I had almost forgot myself.—
[Sighs.]
I rate your virtues highly, Sir.
Tell me, Lady, what would he deserve, who, sunk like me, in indigence and obscurity, should dare, by loving you, to make himself your Equal?
"If, Sir, he had your virtues," he would deserve more than I durst grant.
Generous Lady! But when I suffer a word, a wish to escape, offensive to that purity I adore in you, may you and heaven detest me!
I find, Sir, you are truly noble.
Tell me, then, how does it become the daughter of an ancient house, proud of its alliances, and jealous of its honours,
to behave?
Equal to its dignities and expectations, and consistent with her own worth: and
he who, under the mask of love, tempts Innocence to betray her duty, and wound her honour, is unworthy the least regard of Beauty or of Virtue.
SCENE VI.
Enter
Adela.
Mercy on me, Edwitha, what a terrible affair this had like to have proved.—We jested about wolves with that Fool to some purpose.—So, young man—what, are you here again?
Yes, Adela, and to him we owe our present safety; he killed the horrid savage.
He!—Well, I declare if ever I write a romance, I'll call my hero Leonard.—
But come, come▪ let us get away from this frightful forest—I shall dream of wolves for this twelvemonth.—Young man, will you see us safe out of these territories of teeth and claws?
[Bows.]
Well, well, give me your arm then.—Edwitha, I have left a wing for you.—Though stay, stay.—What is your name?
Leonard.
You must know, Leonard—I have a very great esteem for you—I think myself very much obliged to you; and though somewhat flippant, perhaps, as I know myself to be a very prudent sensible girl, I would fain give you a little advice, because I—see how it is with you.—But—no—I can't speak it—so I 'll turn it into a song.
SONG.
ADELA.
HAYDN.
He who loves his mistress truly,
Ever anxious for her fame,
Scorns to let a thought unruly
Taint his ardent gen'rous flame:
Sooner far would hopeless perish,
Than indulge impure desires,
Tho' thro' life he'll constant cherish
Gentle hopes and holy fires.
If the Lover doth not so,
Virgins mark him for your foe.
Ever faithful, ever tender,
Ever watchful for the day,
When his valour may defend her,
Not his cunning may betray.
Selfish snares so much detesting,
If unequal love denies,
(Pity's tear alone requesting)
He a willing martyr dies.
If the Lover doth not so,
Virgins mark him for your foe.
[Exeunt
Edwitha
and
Adela.]
Oh fortunate day! Unhop'd for happiness▪ Angelic Edwitha! And have I!—have I rescued thee from death!—But who can tell what farther danger may yet occur?—I 'll follow, and while my ravished eyes can trace the celestial Vision, will still be ready to defend her from harm.
[Exit.]
SCENE VII.
Changes to the Castle.
Enter
Adam Bell
and
Alice.
I wish, Master Friar, you would not keep teizing me, and following me up and down, in and out, backward and forward, into every room of the house, a this'n.—I tell you, I don't want to have any thing to say to you—I don't like you.
Nay, but hear ye me, Alice, I 'll confess you your sins, Alice, and enjoin you the sweetest penance, Alice.
You!—sweet!—An old fusty Friar.—There is nothing sweet about you.
Oh, yes, Alice, I have a sweet breath, as you shall taste, Alice.
[Kisses her, she struggles.]
If you touch me again I—I 'll raise the house about your ears—an ugly, old monster.—I declare thère is no living for these wicked old Friars.
What then—all Friars are—hey, Alice—
All Friars are—
[mimicks him]
—Yes—all Friars arè—"hey, Alice." And so, if you offer to lay a finger on me again—"look you—here are my nails."
But hear you me, Mrs. Alice—you are not so furiously virtuous when you meet Adam Bell at the dark cave in the forest, Mrs. Alice.
Hey!
[frightened.]
Do you remember, the last time you saw him, which is now three weeks since, and two days, how lovingly you clasped him round the neck, and called him your dear Adam, and your sweet Adam; and how you persuaded him to swear he would marry you at Easter—Hey, Alice!
Lord a' mercy!—why sartinly you deal with Old Nick.
I can conjure a little, Mrs. Alice.—
If I pleased I could show you Adam Bell standing here in this very spot in less than half a minute.
Nay, don't, don't—for goodness sake, don't—For I have heard say, as how, when the Old One carries any body through the air, a' that'n, he always raises a whirlwind; and that they are sometimes miserably dashed in pieces against a chimney or a church steeple.
What—then you—you really—love Adam Bell—Hey, Alice?
Aye, do I, from the very bottom of my heart—My mother has found it out, and—
I know what you are going to say—You are going to inform me how she scolds you, and tells you Adam is an outlaw, and will come to be hang'd.
As I hope to be saved and so she does.—Moreover, she says as how he does not care for me; and that he's only leading me into a fool's Paradise, and when he has got me there, there he'll leave me.
And then, instead of Paradise, you'll awake in Purgatory—Hey, Mrs. Alice.
So she says.—However, I have a good heart on't.—She does not know my Adam.
SONG.
ALICE.
SHIELD.
I.
Oh my bonny, bonny Adam Bell,
With thee I'd traverse hill and dale;
All the day I would follow whatever befell,
To listen at night to the tale
Of my bonny, bonny Adam Bell.
II.
O'er sea or land, by night or day,
With a light heart and undaunted,
I'd trip o'er the hills and far away,
While merrily I chaunted,
Of my bonny, bonny Adam Bell,
With whom I'd traverse hill and dale;
All the day would I follow whatever befell,
To listen at night to the tale
Of my bonny, bonny Adam Bell.
III.
Tho' my bed were of the grass so green,
And a cold stone were my pillow,
I'd brave the blast that bites so keen,
Nor fear the foaming billow;
But with my bonny, bonny Adam Bell,
I'd jocund traverse hill and dale;
All the day would I follow whatever befell,
To listen at night to the tale
Of my bonny, bonny Adam Bell.
Well, but now—hark ye me, Mrs. Alice—you perceive I know your pranks, and so—you—you
Keep your hands to yourself—what do you know?
—I am sure if you were the devil himself in the shape of a friar,
which, for aught I can tell, you may be,
you know no harm of me, except that I love Adam Bell.
And that is harm enough, Alice.—He is a wicked fellow, and, as your mother says, may come to be hanged; though I have the christian charity to hope he will not.—But you must not be coy to me, Alice—consider, I can tell tales, Alice.
Well then, you may tell.—To be sure you may get me turn'd away from my place, may hap, and I should be very sorry for that—But I would sooner lose fifty places, than be false-hearted to Adam Bell.
[Very much pleased.]
Ha, ha—well—ha, well—ha, well—ha—I—I find you—you are a true-hearted lass, Alice, and I partly commend you, Alice.—But hark ye me, Alice—If ever you play Adam a trick with any body else, Alice, I'll—I'll be revenged on you for this—I'll surely tell him the instant I know it.
You'll stay till you know before you tell, won't you?
Yes, yes, Alice, yes—
When then I defy both you and your grandfather, old Nick.
Well, Alice, since it is so, say your prayers night and morning, and continue to love Adam Bell.—"
a great friendship for him."—He is a very worthy clever fellow.
Yes, so he is; a much cleverer than ever stood on the shanks of a friar.
[Exit.]
SCENE VIII.
Adam
alone.
Well said, my bonny lass;—and when I forsake thee, or use thee unkindly, may I never taste the blessings which love and a true-hearted woman can bestow.
SONG.
ADAM BELL.
SHIELD.
Woman! charming lovely woman,
Thy gentle smiles shall ever be
Ador'd by me,
Oh lovely woman!
For what would all the bounteous stores
Which Nature from her bosom pours,
Of rich and rare,
Of good, and sweet, and fair;—
What would they be,
Depriv'd of thee,
Oh lovely, kind, enchanting woman!
Ah! who could hear the Linnet sing,
Or see the beauteous tints of Spring;
Ah! who could hear, or see, or taste,
If thou beyond the reach of man wert plac'd?
Oh woman! charming, lovely woman!
Thy gentle smiles shall ever be
Ador'd by me,
Oh lovely woman!
[Exit.]
SCENE IX.
Enter
Earl Egbert
with the wolf's head, his sword drawn, and the
Fool
following him.
What a horrible monster it is, Fool!—What tusks!
And what do you intend to do with it,
now you have been valiant enough to cut off the head of a dead Wolf?
Preserve it as a trophy to tell posterity,
How courageously you ran away.
Fool,—dost see▪ this purse of gold?
Yes—but tactus—feeling is the best of the five senses.
I—did not run away from the wolf, Fool.
Oh, oh!
[aside.]
—Yes—yes, you did.
I tell you, Fool, I did not—nay more—I kill'd the wolf with my own right arm.—Did—I not?
[Tosses the purse about.]
No.
Yes I did—and you saw me—
you were a spectator of the terrible combat.
No—no—no.
No!
[Plays with the purse.]
No.
Well, well—then I did not—
[Puts the purse in his pocket.]
Hey!—egad—now I recollect—I—I believe you did, but the proof lies in the purse, and the purse lies in your pocket.
—There—take it—and shew your wisdom, Fool, by praising my valor.
Valor!
[examining the contents of the purse]
three, six, nine, twelve,—by the sting in the dragon's tail St. George was a coward to you—eighteen, twenty, one, two, three—a Welshman on St. David's▪ day was never half so full of wrath.
Now answer me—How, when the wolf approached—how did I look?
Look!—terrible!—as nine taylors at one cucumber! I remember a song about a Knight almost as couragious as yourself: you shall hear.
SONG.
FOOL.
SHIELD.
I.
Sir Eglamore was a valiant knight,
Fa, la, lankey down dilly.
He call'd for his sword, and went forth to fight,
Fa, la, lankey down dilly.
He went forth to fight, as I've heard say▪
And when he came there he ran away. Fa, la, &c.
II.
A hungry wolf did tow'rd him leap, Fa, la, &c.
But he'd rather have met with a score of sheep;
Fa, la, &c.
Then he ran so fast that his sword did drop▪
And he scorn'd to turn back to pick it up. Fa, la, &c.
III.
Then there came whistling down the plain Fa, la, &c.
A surly, sturdy, dauntless swain: Fa, la, &c.
Mean while the knight ran up a tree,
That if they should fight, he the combat might see.
Fa, la, &c.
IV.
Oh then began a bloody fray, Fa, la, &c.
As the knight durst not fight, he resolv'd to pray;
Fa, la, &c.
But had you beheld Sir Eglamore,
When as he heard the savage roar! Fa, la, &c.
V.
This Peasant did his ribs so roast, Fa, la, &c.
That Mr. Wolf gave up the ghost: Fa, la, &c.
So when the knight saw the Monster dead,
His courage return'd, and he cut off his head.
Fa, la, &c.
Hark ye, Fool—this is no jesting matter—It is not convenient that Earl Walter should know the truth—
Besides—I say, Fool, I am valorous—set that down in your creed—believe and report it, and gold shall jingle in your purse.
Oh, I am a very Pagan Priest for that—I will believe any thing, and report any thing for Gold.—But Edwitha, and that wasp, Adela, will tell a different tale.
Nay, now I find you are a dull Fool.—Let it be granted, which, considering their fright, is very unlikely, that they saw somebody else attack the wolf—he fell—What of that?—He was only stunned—he got up again—more enraged than ever—upon which I—seeing him make towards Edwitha—drew my sword, set myself in his path, and with a single stroke cut off his head.
You had better do it at two—double your stroke—it will sound better.
"No matter;"—follow my directions, and your fortune is made▪ Fool.
Ha—so shall the proverb, That Fools have fortune, be verified.—Well—so be it.
SCENE X.
To them
Earl Walter.
My Lord—I—have—here brought—a trifling gift for your Lordship.
For me, my Lord?
[coldly]
Um—a—kind of—
present nothing
—tho' not long since—a
terrible reality.
—But thus do circumstances change the properties of things; and thus was the sword a circumstance that changed these fangs to the mere images of Anger and Destruction.
Ay, my Lord—but whose sword?
Mine—
Your's!
Mine—a—matter—of—small moment—yet—something.—
The labours of Hercules were not all equally dangerous.—Let these poor doings be construed in their plain sense, and Courage shall sleep contented.
Let me understand you, Earl Egbert.—Was it you who fought with the Wolf?
I.
And killed him?
And killed him.—"The deed is recent and notorious."—Women, boys, and cowards did speculate.—The Fool likewise beheld; let
him
impart,—"To the act of Valour let him give the garb of Truth."
Is it possible?
Am I doubted?—
Why then, let Virtue be extinct from this vile world, and only let Fear and Falshood flourish.
Amen.—So shall our cause thrive.
[Aside.]
Pardon me, Earl Egbert, but I had been told—
That new moons are made of old Almanacs, perhaps. And that royal Arthur's knights were taylor's 'prentices—I claim day-light, and fifty pair of eyes, for my testimonies—they saw, and they shall announce.
Saw you! you yourself vanquish the wolf!
Me—Me myself they saw, from the loopholes of hedges, and the tops of trees—The act was visible.—The sun was not in eclipse, nor hid behind a wooden trencher—What! is the blood not moist, and smoking still upon my sword?
Forgive me, noble Egbert.—The account I had heard from Adela was very different.—
Let the Fool speak; he saw the combat.
Yes, yes, the Fool saw it—the Fool was wise and ran away.
Ay—The Fool ran away.—For▪ my own part—I—I retreated a few paces, 'tis true, but it was only to draw my sword.
And put himself in a posture of offence—and defence.—Had you beheld how he look'd—
[bursts inton laugh.]
—you would have died with laughing.
With laughing!
How!
Ay—to see what a silly figure he cut—
[Laughs excessively.]
Silly figure! who? what?
[Angrily, but striking his pocket as to give the Fool hints of future reward.]
Why—
[laughs; then stops suddenly]
the wolf without his head to be sure.
But pray was there not a Peasant, who—
Oh, yes—yes—There was a sturdy Hind who gave him the first blow.
And to say the truth, a devilish hard knock it was—I thought Mr. Wolf had been dead and gone—quite deceased, till Earl Egbert shewed me to the contrary.—But he was only stunned.—
This accounts for the mistake.
He got up again—more enraged than ever—upon which, the valiant Earl seeing him make towards Edwitha, drew his sword, set himself in his path, and with a single stroke—humph—hold—I forget—was it one or two strokes?
Two—two strokes.
Oh—ah—and with two single strokes cut off his head.
Leave your fooling, sirrah—Earl Egbert, I know not how to thank you.—Twice has my daughter owed her safety to your arm.—But she shall acknowledge, she shall reward your services.
Why that is sufficient, Earl Walter.—
Good deeds and valiant, I find, are liable to misconstructions.—Envy is the shadow of Merit—Let it pass.
—
SCENE XI.
Enter a Messenger.
My Lord, Anlaff, the Dane, with a strong band, is approaching fast to assault the castle, informed, as Rumour says, of the absence of young Harold and your friends.
Anlaff! The devil he is.
[Aside.]
Anlaff! Oh my prophetic spirit!—How far are they hence?
Some three hours march, as 'tis said, my lord.
Fly, friend, take the swiftest horse, and use thy utmost diligence to Cheviot Hills, to inform my son—Relate our danger, bid him make what speed he may, and we; in the mean time, will do all that desperate men can do to repel the enemy.
[Exit Messenger.]
—Oh Earl Egbert, we now shall have occasion for all our courage.
I wish I was at sea in a cockle shell, with all my soul.
[Aside]
SCENE XII.
Enter
Edwitha
and
Adela.
My Father!
Edwitha!—hast thou heard?
I have.
Oh my child, I tremble for thee.
Fear not for me, my father; my heart tells me you never shall behold Edwitha in any state unworthy of yourself—you may see me die, but never debased.
I foresaw the probability of this—I warned thy brother, but he, rash and unthinking, contemned my fears.—But wherefore do I waste that time in complaint which might be so much better employed? Come, Earl Egbert, let us think about defence and dying properly.
[Exit Earl
Walter.]
SCENE XIII.
Dying properly—a very happy subject for contemplation truly.
[Aside.]
Take comfort, rely on the care of heaven, my Edwitha.
On that alone I depend for support and preservation.
FINALE.
SHIELD.
To man the future's unsoreseen;
'Tis then his duty to await
The various turns of wayward sate,
With mind unaw'd and thought serene.
Tho' present tempeste cloud the fky,
Around the livid lightnings blaze,
Sweet innocence can yet supply
The soul resign'd,
The constant mind,
Whose power supreme the raging storm obeys.
[EDWITHA
and
ADELA
walk up the stage.]
I find my sears increase apace,
Oh, would I were in any other place.
Did you e'er see a Taylor, Sir, handle his sheers?
How he'll snip,
And he'll clip,
And his fury to quell,
In buckram make terrible slaughter;
Oft sending vast remnants to hell!
Like him the fierce Dane gives no quarter,
But with blood and with battle
Will make the walls rattle
About your ears;
Would I were hid in some old well.
Enter
ADAM BELL.
Where is Earl Walter, who can tell?
He went good Friar hence, e'en now,
With heavy heart and clouded brow.
Enter
ALICE
frightened.
Ah me! where shall we women run!
Oh, Lady, we are all undone!
Ay, ay, alack, we're all undone!
Hence with your dastard doubts and fears.
Alice chear your heart, and dry your tears.
Hence, then, with dastard doubts and fears
We'll chear our hearts, and dry our tears.
CHORUS.
Who knows but heaven may on high,
Behold a speedy succour nigh.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Earl
Walter,
and afterwards
Adam Bell.
[Shouts are heard.
THIS generous alacrity, this grateful courage, infuses fresh vigour into my old arm, and almost makes me young again—almost teaches me to hope impossibilities.—Alas it is in vain! The revengeful Dane will soon arrive, and satiate himself with slaughter.
[Enter
Adam Bell.]
What here still, holy Friar? Why dost thou not fly this place of death?
No, my Lord, I mean to stay with you.
To stay with me?
Ay, my Lord; to fight with you, to die with you, should it be necessary, but I have better hopes.
Whence? How, good Friar?
My Lord, you heard the testimony your son gave to the valour of certain Peasants, by whose assistance the late battle was turned against the Dane.
Ay, I heard it with surprise.
Those Peasants might again do you good service, if—
If what? Who are they? what are they? where are they?
They are men who have greater cause to live in fear than expectation from the house of Earl Walter.
Fear! you speak in riddles—explain yourself.
They are the Outlaws whom you have so often threatened to pursue to death and ignominy, but who wish to obtain your savour, and by your means the pardon of offended Majesty.
And do they intend to reform?
They are stedfast in that purpose.
But who shall tell them of my distress?
I will my Lord, and quickly.
Will you, Friar?
I will, my good Lord, tho' no Friar.
How?
But one of the chief of those bold Outlaws—Adam Bell—
[Throws off his disguise, and appears armed.
Adam Bell! And where—where are your associates?
Waiting within the sound of this
[Points to his bugle born]
This shall presently collect a set of brave fellows, who at least will do something toward protecting the castle from the Dane till the arrival of your son.
Miraculous! unhoped relief!—Come then—draw your companions hither—believe me you will not find me forgetful of a service like this.
My Lord, We neither doubt your honour nor your generosity: use us but according to the nobleness of your own nature, and our zeal in your defence, and we shall be sully satisfied.
[Exit
E.
W.
SCENE II.
Enter
Alice.
Dear Adam, I never was so rejoiced to see thee in all my life.—Are your friends all safe within the castle?
All—and all are yet too few—The Dane is arrived flush of men, and boiling with revenge for the loss of his brother.
Well, I don't fear 'em now Adam—you shall be our Hector to fight the Trojans.
The Trojans, Alice! What dost thou know about the Trojans?
Know!—why a great deal—My grandfather used to tell me endless stories about the Trojan Greeks.
Indeed.
Oh yes—It was all his delight—and so of a night he would sit and reharse such things—About the rape of Troy, and the destruction of the Greeks,
and the burning of Fair Helen—and about Nestor, that had seventy sons—and how fifty men crept into a horse's belly.
Surely!
And then he said there was such terrible battles between Hector and Alexander, and Killies and Hecuba.
Well, well, Alice, we'll fight like Greeks and Trojans true I warrant.
Yes, I have a good heart on't now, Adam—There be you and your companions, and Earl Egbert, and—
Earl Egbert, Alice! Earl Egbert is a Braggart, a Coward—
A Coward!
Ay, Alice—A false lying Coward—that would run from his own shadow, if on lifting his arm it appeared in a threatening posture.
Mercy! Why he talks as if he could live upon Lion's hearts, and broil them himself.
Yes he has talked too much—he will repent his talking ere long. But come Alice, this is no time for talking with me—I must give thee a kiss for comfort, and then to the battle.
SONG.
ADAM BELL.
SHIELD.
Inur'd to wars and rude alarms,
Unshaken amid the din of arms,
We startle not at Terror's dismal yells:
The shouts and clangors of the foe,
The horrors Death and Danger know,
But animate the heart where Courage dwells.
[Exit
Adam,
manet
Alice.
Heaven be with thee, Adam—I love thee, and in spite of all my mother can say against thee, ever shall love thee.
SONG.
ALICE.
SHIELD.
I.
How can my mother chide my love?
How can she frown and scold me?
How can she say he'll faithless prove,
As she has often told me!
II.
Ah! did she know his winning wiles!
Ah! could she taste such blisses!
And heard his oaths, and saw his smiles,
And felt his precious kisses!
She would not surely chide my love,
She would not frown and scold me;
She would not say he'll faithless prove,
As she has often told me.
III.
His lips are like the sugar-pea,
His tongue is dipt in honey;
His words are dearer far to me
Than waggon loads of money!
Then do not, mother, chide my love,
Then do not frown and scold me;
Then do not say he'll faithless prove,
As you have often told me.
[Exit.]
SCENE III.
Continues.
Earl
Egbert
and
Fool.
Prithee, Fool, good Fool, afford me consolation—give me comfort, most sage Fool.
I can't—cannot—unless I could give you wings—There is no escaping—bolts and bars forbid—stone walls are not to be moved with fine speeches—
Rhetoric is lost—eloquence thrown away upon 'em—a key is your only Counsellor in this case.
Is it not very strange, Fool, that I should be as valiant as Alexander at some moments, and at others have no propensity to molest even a mouse?
No man in England is at this instant less inclined to mischief, murder, and bloodshed, than I am.
Then you have no inclination to die like a Hero, that you may live for ever?
Not the least
in the world as I hope for mercy—my thoughts are all turned to tranquillity
—Peace—peace and quietness is my wish—
and, when one considers, that—that now is really a most virtuous disposition
—Why should I cut any man's throat? Or why should any man cut mine?
How will Anlaff understand that logic▪ when he finds that you are the person who kill'd his brother Alric?
I didn't, Fool, I didn't.
No.
No—
Thank heaven I have not that sin to answer for
—I kill'd nobody—"Nay more"—I never kill'd a man in my life.
Never kill'd a man in your life!
No.
Zounds, what a shame that is!
And I shall think it exceedingly hard if any body kills me. Oh Lord! What is that!
[Shouts, and founding of the bugle born is heard.
Yes, yes, it is the Danes—What shall I do? I tremble all over—shale like a cobweb in a high wind—my imagination is haunted by ten thousand furious figures of bloody-minded Danes▪ I shall certainly be murdered if I don't keep out of the way,
[looks]
Hark!
[Noise again and born]
They are entered!
[Noise]
Aye, aye, they are at it—I'll hide myself in this corner till their first fury is abated
[Gets beneath the armour]
Oh that I could go to sleep!
SCENE IV.
Enter
Leonard.
Where can this vaunting coward▪ this ignominious Earl have hid himself?—Hark you, sirrah, do you know any thing of! all Egbert?
I know Earl Egbert, Sir!
Do you know any thing of him, sirrah?
Yes, Sir, many things—
I perceive by your countenance and equivocation you know where he is, and if you won't tell me peaceably, I will take you by the heels, and shake the secret out of you, sirrah.
[Leonard
lays hold of the
Fool,
who immediately points to the place where
E. Egbert
is concealed]
Sir—if you were to shake my soul out of me, I would not say a word.—Nay—kill me if you please—separate me like an opened oyster, but I won't speak.
[The
Fool
keeps pointing till
Leonard
goes and overturns the armour, and discovers
Earl Egbert.]
Be gone, sirrah.
[Exit
Fool.]
SCENE V.
Thou shameless Lord! thou disgrace to honour—But I have no Time to waste with a Thing so bale and insignificant.—Rise—listen and obey.
I will, good Sir, I will—what would you please to have me do?
Anlaff, the Dane, has sent a Herald with a challenge.
Oh Lord! a challenge! To whom, pray'
To the man who vanquished his brother Al
the conditions
, Anlaff will give hostag
s that i
he be conquered, the Danes immediately shall quit the castle; but if he conquer, the life of his enemy shall remain in his power, and Edwitha be given for his Bride.
Lord Sir! what's all this to me? You know I never killed Alric his brother, and you or he are very welcome to the lady.
Hear me, wretch!
I do, Sir.
Go to Earl Walter—and with your yesterday's confidence profess yourself the Vanquisher of Alric, and the Foe of Anlaff—Then send your own armour hither by your Dwarf, together with the sword and shield you so valiantly took from the dead Alric; and after that, go hide—hang yourself—only be sure to keep out of sight.
That, Sir, at least you may depend upon.
Away then—You are safe, therefore swell, and look important.—Dare not to fail—observe me—on your life dare not to fail.
I will endeavour, Sir, to obey.
[Exit Earl
Egbert.]
SCENE VI.
Leonard,
and afterwards
Adam Bell.
This Reptile almost makes me forget, respect, and assume a chacter I detest.
Enter
Adam Bell.
What are you determined, Leonard, to fight the Dane?
I am.
But wherefore do you take the disguise of that cowardly Earl?
Why ask you that?—you know it is a condition in the challenge of the haughty Anlaff, that he will not debase himself to fight any whose birth and origin are obscure or mean.—"Besides—I—but 'tis no matter.
Well Leonard, there is not an arm on earth I would more gladly commit the protection of every thing most dear to, than to thine.—And yet—I am not without fear—The Dane is a bold, and almost matchless Warriour—Never yer equalled by his most renowned or desperate Foe.
"Aye!"—But I have a cause would nerve an Infant!—Edwitha! Love! and Edwitha!
Love and Edwitha! you rave, Leonard—And yet impossible as it is that love like this should be successful, I almost rejoice at it.
Aye, 'tis a noble passion, that adds strength and dignity to courage, gives magnanimity to the lover's enthusiasm, and makes the young Hero more than mortal.—But we talk too long—Have you informed and cautioned our companions?
I have—their hearts and prayers are with you.
Away then, good Adam, watch the behaviour of that foolish Earl, and confirm him, if you should perceive him faultering.—Hole—take this Letter, and find some private way of conveying is to Edwitha, before we enter the lists.
Well, Leonard—
e firm—be resolute—be—yourself—Farewell.—
Farewell!—I go, determined, to a glorious Victory!—or a glorious Fa
!
[Exit
Leonard.]
SCENE VII.
Enter
Clym o' the Clough,
and
Will. Cloudeslee.
Welcome, my friends, every thing conspires to procure our pardon. We have only to sight bravely, and ply our bows as formerly, and we shall become sons of grace and favor.
Why look you, Adam, you know me—I am no Flincher—I conquer, or—or there's an end of me—that's all
And a dead man, Clym, don't value an angry King.
Right, lad.—He that fights and wins, may sup in peace.
And he that fights and dies, don't want any supper.
We shall have warm work.
It's not the first time I have been in danger.
He that never was in danger, never knew the sweets of safety.
SONG.
CLYM O' THE CLOUGH.
EZIO.
When, o'er the World, the playful Lamb
Hath, till the dusky twilight, stray'd,
His tender plaints cry
Here I am
Of night and solitude afraid.
But if, far off, his Dam he hears,
Echoing oft the mournful bleat,
He runs, and stops, and hopes, and sears,
And bounds with pleasure when they meet.
Well, my lads, since reformation's the word, why I 'll reform; we have spent many a merry day together, but if they pardon an treat us like men, why so—if not—
If not, Will, I am an outlaw again.
And I▪ by this right hand.
And I—But sear it not—they are noble, and we are brave.
ANCIENT GLEE, composed in the year 1500.
I.
We three Archers be,
Rangers that rove through the North Country,
Lovers of ven'fon and liberty,
That value not honours or money.
II.
We three good follows be,
That never yet ran from three times three,
Quarter-staff, broad-sword, or bow-manry,
But give us fair play for our money.
III.
We three merry men be,
At a lass or a glass under green wood tree;
Jocundly chaunting our auncient Glee,
Though we have not a penny of money.
[Exit.]
SCENE VIII.
Changes to the Court-yard of the Castle.
Enter Earl
Walter,
Earl
Egbert, Dwarf, Saxon Herald, Edwitha, Adela,
and
Adam Bell.
You have heard, brave Egbert, the challenge of the imperious Anlaff, and the threat of instant saccage, if refused. You see the almost impossibility of our making a stand against his multitudes, and you know the personal prowess of the Dane. Put therefore all consideration of the particular safety of me or mine aside.—Consult your own feelings, and let them alone direct you.
Heavens! How I tremble.—He surely will not dare to accept the challenge.—
[Aside to
Adela.]
Will he drink boiling Lead dost think? or stand a tiptoe on a church Steeple?
You know your lesson; speak confidently.
[Aside to
Egbert.]
My Lord—hem—I—Are you sure the youth dare fight this Anlast?
[Aside to
Adam Bell.]
Yes—And I am sure the youth dare cut your throat if you don't leave your quaking▪
and speak in your other voice.—Come Sir,—mouth a little.—Utter your big breath.
[Aside to
Egbert.]
Hem! My Lord—hem—deeds done in open day—must see the light.—That I have done the deed which doth stir the gall of the angry Dane is notorious and past recall.
Dost hear Adela? He is going to pronounce my condemnation.
[Aside]
Pooh—silly—dost thou not know him? 'Tis all flourish.—One bright blaze, and the snuff is out.
Alric is dead.—Swelling renown sits perched upon my Crest.—Anlaff would pluck it thence and transplant it to his own.—
Anlaff—is mighty in strength—in bone—in ligament and sinew awful!—I am—but as other men.
Ay—Think of that, good Earl Egbert, remember that.
I—I do—I do.—Were I to compare myself to the Dane,—my wrist to his,—my leg,—or estimate success, by breadth of back—
And how else, would you estimate my Lord? you have no charm, to make yourself invulnerable.—Blows—wounds,—and death—must determine the fearful Conflict—If you once pronounce the dreadful
yes,
fight you must—there is no retreating—and die you must, unless you conquer.—Anlaff will never forgive his brother's death.
Thanks dear girl.
Fear nothing—observe his lip; that proclaims his thought.
Why—these—these—a—'tis true—are circumstances, that will obtrude upon the fancy in Valor's spight—and therefore—it will argue prudence in me to decline the combat.
[During the next side speeches, Earl
Walter
seems engaged in speaking to the
Herald,
and
Adela
and
Edwitha
with each other.]
S'death! what do you mean? accept the challenge instantly—Shake off your fears, and appear confirmed, or by heaven I 'll stab you—What sheep you are not to fight.
[Aside.]
I had forgot—I will, I will
[Aside.]
—I say
My Lord.—Or I meant to say,—These circumstances weighed might induce, a—a cautious man to turn recreant, and decline the desperate contest—but no—
How!
I am lost.
No, no, no!—I am fixed—immoveable—determined.
Well said, Sir—proceed.
Away Herald, and hurl defiance forth.—Tell the mighty Anlaff, that Egbert the Valiant, who slew Alric the Cruel, will meet him instantly.
[Exit
Herald,
Earl
Egbert,
and
Adam Bell.]
Why then the die is cast,—and I am the devoted victim.
SCENE IX.
Patience! Is it possible! It cannot be that he dare meet Anlaff! "the Daemon of temerity possesses him"—My Lord you will be shamed, disgraced for ever—my cousin ruined—
You are mistaken, Niece.
No, Uncle—'Tis you are mistaken—That braggart, that bubble will burst, and leave an everlasting stain upon your house, your happiness, and honour.
I confess I have my doubts: I did not like his behaviour, and desperate as our condition is, I even hoped he would refuse, but I could not honourably controul his choice.
SCENE X.
Enter a
Messenger.
My Lord, your son young Harold, and all his Knights, are hastening to your relief.
My brother! Is he arrived?
Half an hour will bring him to the lists.
Happy tidings! Delay the fatal trial my Lord, and save my Edwitha!
Oh! that I had the power—But—it must not be—my honour is pledged—the combat
must
proceed—Would he had arrived but one short hour sooner!
[Exeunt Earl
Walter
and
Messenger.
SCENE XI.
Why this is madness!—My poor Edwitha!—surely men have conspired thy destruction!—
This Coward! this Thing! this Egbert!—But it cannot be!—What, a fellow that faints if he cuts his thumb—that
i
s trembling at an old woman's tale of a ghost—that dare not sleep in the dark—and that would run away from a coat and a hat hung upon a broom-stick to scare crows! He fight Anlaff!
he!—Why didst not see how he shook!
It is i
ed most unaccountable. The fear of reproach may, perhaps, for a moment have overcome his other fears: Be it as it will, there is now no hope for me, and I have only to prepare, and meet my fate becomingly.
SONG.
EDWITHA.
SACCHINI.
The rill that from the steep ascent
The mountain pebble washes white,
Mournfully murmuring, as 'tis bent
In search of rest, with anxious flight:
That rill, e'er to the ocean borne,
Shall sooner from its motion cease,
Than my poor heart shall cease to mourn,
Than my poor heart regain its peace.
I apprehend the worst, and go with a mind calmly fortified, and a patient resignation to my fate
An arrow drops at the feet of
Edwitha
with a letter.
What is this, Adela? An arrow and a letter?
[reads.]
To the fairest of Earthly beauties the Lady
Edwitha.
[Opens the letter greatly agitated.]
Gentle Saint, Let your holy wishes and fervent prayers be offered to the giver of victories, for—Leonard the Peasant!
—
[Edwitha
looks up at
Adela
almost overpowered, but with great expression—reads again]
Who is soon to be engaged in all the hazard os mortal strife, for the most virtuous, worthy, and accomplished lady of the World.
[After a long sigh]
Oh my poor heart!
[With her eyes fixed]
Why what is this! What aenigma!
A Miracle! A Man! A Hero! A Demigod! Had heaven granted me a Wish, this should have been the first! That he may be victorious is the second.
[With great fervour.]
Oh, Adela! But now I was acquiescent in the worst of fortunes; had forbad my heart to flutter, reasoned irregularity from my beating pulse, and soothed my troubled passions into apathy—And
now
—in an instant, with increasing violence, they are all returned, and overwhelm me with a rushing tide of fears.
Fears! Hopes! Extacies! Unexpected Raptures!—Why girl, thou art as one suddenly cast from a precipice, whom a protecting Angel hath caught falling, and winged to Heaven.
[Trumpet sounds,
Anlaff
crosses the stage]
Why look thee, Adela—behold the good proportion, the big stature and haughty confidence of the Dane.—Is he not an enemy to be feared?
He may be matched.—
[Trumpet again.]
Yonder is one coming, will teach him humility.
Nay, but is not that Earl Egbert's armour, Adela?
Yes, the case is his—
[Leonard
enters, the Ladies are on the farther side from his entrance]
—but observe the step—the gesture, and the form—look at the modest manly air with which it moves; then tell me, though it be the Shell of Egbert, is it animated by the Soul of Egbert, think'st thou?
[
Leonard
bows with a modest respect as he passes, then turns with an attitude of hope and admiration, and goes off to the combat.]
Oh brave, brave youth!
The smiles of Heaven, and the strength of Lions go with him!
SONG.
ADELA.
SHIELD.
I.
When Scorching Suns the thirsty Earth
Of all her treasures drain,
The Rose, of Summer's loveliest birth,
Droops on the languid plain.
II.
But when refreshing rains descend
Again the Verdure shoots;
Again reviving Nature sends
Her gifts of flowers and fruits.
III.
The heart exhausted thus, depress'd,
A prey to ardent Woe,
Revives and smiles, when Joys so blest
Once more unhoped for flow.
[Exeunt
Edwitha
and
Adela.
SCENE XII.
Changes to the Hall.
Enter
"Dwarf
and"
Fool.
So, Dwarf, I would advise you to pack—I would counsel you to be gone—you and your thrice valorous Lord—steal off—now, while the hubbub of Contention shall cover your retreat—or you will both die by the dishonourable distaff—Be advised, I say, and run—scud—scamper—skulk.
Think you my honourable Lord will take a Fool's advice?
No—he never takes your's—But go—tread, trainple, traverse, trot, travel, trundel, trip, troop, trudge, I say, with trepidation.
[Exit
Dwarf.
Manet
Fool.
The combat is going to begin, and we shall have hopes and fears, and aching hearts, and streaming eyes, and ahs! and ohs! and hurra's! in plenty—It's a great happiness I am a Fool, otherwise these things would make me melancholy—But singing and joking is a merry trade, and I should be a Fool, indeed, to forego the best perquisite of my place—No—let them them fight that will—I'll look on.
SONG. FRENCH AIR.
I.
For were a man melancholy
At proofs of others folly,
His days would be wasted wholly
In moaning out oh, oh:
His cares each moment heaping,
His nights all spent in weeping,
He'd want time to eat or to sleep in,
For his tears should eternally flow.
II.
Then let 'em fight and quarrel
For Wealth, or Wench, or Laurel,
Pretending they abhor ill,
Yet I'll laugh out ah, ah!
He that wears the longest rapier
Let him make his enemy caper,
And his soul fiz forth like a vapour,
My trade shall be still ha, ha!
SCENE XIII. and last.
The Lists,
Danish
Knights, &c. arranged on one side, and Archers on the other. Earl
Walter, Edwitha
and
Adela
seated on a kind of throne, as near the front as may be.
Leonard
and
Anlaff
armed with sword and target. Two Heralds, one
Saxon,
the other
Danish.
Trumpeters.
[Trumpet sounds.]
Mighty Anlaff, let me demand on the part of your antagonist, what is your cause of quarrel, and the motive of your present challenge?
Revenge for a dear brother, basely slain, and reparation for a rude denial to an honourable proposition.—Briefly, I seek to win Edwitha, whom I vehemently love, and punish Earl Egbert, whom I as deadly hate.
I demand to know the challenger's source of enmity to Earl Egbert.
[Earl
Walter
is surprized to hear it is not Earl
Egbert
who speaks.]
Insolent Lord, I
have
said—thy proclaimed death of Alric.
Then is thy enmity misplaced—For not Earl Egbert,
[lifts up his beaver]
but I, Leoline, the Briton, slew thy brother.
Leoline!
[amazed.]
Prince of the Britons!
In defence of that most chaste and beauteous Lady, I slew him; and again, in her defence, here do I stand in thy defiance, proud Dane; nay further do proclaim my Love for her with a tongue as loud as thine, but with a heart, I hope, less arrogant.—Now, if thou hast a soul worthy of such most matchless Excellence, let it rouse up every latent faculty, and fill thee with the divine furor of courageous Love.—Behold—look upon that lovely, that inestimable Prize, and be thou equal to a contention so exalted—Come—
[The trumpets sound the charge.—The combat:—during which,
Edwitha
and
Adela
are greatly agitated. Several turns in which the Cambatants are each in danger, at last
Leoline
falls on his knee,
Anlaff
runs furiously at him, he springs on one side, averts the blow, and suddenly disarms the Dane. Shout.]
There, Sir, are your arms.—Agreeably to your own condition, your life is in my power—but I do not thirst for blood.—To repel lawless force, and redress the Injured, is the extent of my ambition.
Astonishment, noble youth, and joy almost deny my tongue the utterance of my full heart's gratude—speak—speak—Edwitha.
I cannot, Sir.
Beauteous Edwitha, why I have appeared in a shape and character so ambiguous shall be the question, I hope, of many a happy hour.—It was indeed to gain your true affection—not as a Prince, who could confer, but as a Suppliant who besought your favour,—and such let me ever continue.
Why am I silent?—Oh my heart!
I could not come, my Lord, proud of my birth, and heralding, my titles, to claim a jewel so inestimable, so much above the price of Kings, or Kingdoms.—No, Edwitha, though I love you to distraction, could I not first have won your heart, I never would have asked your hand.—
My fixed passion, would have descended with me to the grave, but never should have troubled your repose.
You tell us, my Lord, how much you are in love, but not how you became so.
The fame of Edwitha's beauties, her virtues, and the rare endowments of her mind, of these I had often heard. At last a Knight, who had met courteous entertainment, from my Lord her father here, described her wit, her gentleness, and charms, with such enraptured words, I could no longer resist the secret wish to behold her, which from the moment when first I heard her praise, I had ever cherished.—That my love has been successful, is the happiness and glory of my life.
Do not, generous youth, thus over-rate what you so kindly think valuable,
left hereafter you should find me far—far less deserving, and I should lose your Love.
No, Edwitha—you have a native dignity of mind incapable of degradation or alloy.
Well, my Lord, I will at least endeavour to
be
what you kindly think I
am.
My honour'd Lord, and Father, as I hope.
Willingly, my Lord—you have given me life and honour.
Adam, and my brave Associates, now no longer Outlaws, you shall be my Soldiers, and become true men as well as valiant.
Thanks noble Prince.
Sir, we will ever love and serve you faithfully—Alice, Thou art a true-hearted Lass, and shalt listen at night to the tale of thy bonny Adam Bell.
Then I shall be the happiest Lass in England.
FINALE. GLEE.
DOCTOR COOKE.
Come, come with songs of mirth and joy,
Let's celebrate the day;
Sing sweetly to the am'rous boy
A dulcet Roundelay.
And you who hope such bliss to prove
Our moral make your care,
Nor till your hearts are worthy love
For love's Delights prepare.
END.