THE

Mysterious Mother.

A

TRAGEDY.

ACT the FIRST.

SCENE I.

A Platform before the Castle:

FLORIAN.

WHAT awful silence! How these antique towers
And vacant courts chill the suspended soul,
Till expectation wears the cast of fear;
And fear, half-ready to become devotion,
Mumbles a kind of mental orison,
It knows not wherefore. What a kind of being
Is circumstance!
I am a soldier, and were yonder battlements

B

Garnish'd

Countefs.

partly on a
a Garden

2 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Garnish'd with combatants, and cannon-mounted,
My daring breast would bound with exultation,
And glorious hopes enliven this drear scene.

*Now* dare not I scarce tread to my own hearing,
Left echo borrow superftition's tongue,
And seem to answer me, like one departed.

I met a peafant, and enquir'd my way :

The carle, not rude of speech, but like the tenant
Of some night-haunted ruin, bore an aspect
Of horror, worn to habitude. He bade

God blefs me; and pafs'd on. I urg'd him farther :
Good mafter, cried he, go not to the caftle ;
There forrow ever dwells and moping misery.

I prefs'd him yet.—None there, said he, are welcome,

But now and then a mafs-prieft, and the poor;
To whom the pious Countefs deals her alms,
On covenant, that each revolving night

They beg of heav'n the health of her fon's foul
And of her own: but often as returns

The twentieth of September, they are bound
Faft from the midnight watch to pray till morn.—
More would he not difcloſe, or knew not more.

—What precious mummery! Her ſon in exile,
She waſtes on monks and beggars his inheritance,
For his ſoul's health! I never knew a woman,

But

A TRAGEDY.

3

But lov'd our bodies or our fouls too well.
Each mafter whim maintains its hour of empire,
And obftinately faithfull to its dictates,
With equal ardour, equal importunity,
They teaze us to be damn'd or to be fav'd.
I hate to love or pray too long.

## SCENE II.

PORTER of the caſtle, FLORIAN.

PORTER.

Methought
I heard a ſtranger's voice—What lack you, fir ?

FLORIAN.

Good fellow, who inhabits here ?

PORTER.

I do.

FLORIAN.

Belike this caſtle is not thine.

PORTER.

Belike so :
But be it whole it may, this is no haunt
For revellers and gallants—pafs your way.

FLORIAN.

Thou churl ! Is this your Gallic hofpitality ?

B 2

Thy

4 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely
Chide from her preference a bewilder'd knight.

PORTER.

Thou know'st my lady then!—Thou know'st her
not.

Canst thou in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs ?

Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble,
In meditation pafs the livelong night?

Canst mortify that flesh, my rosy minion,
And bid thy rebel appetite refrain

From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands ?

These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw
down

My lady's ever-heav'n-directed eye.

FLORIAN.

In footh, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd

In voluntary rigours—I can faft,

March fupperlefs, and make cold earth my pillow,
When my companions know no choicer fare.

But seldom roof in churches, or reject

The ready banquet, or a willing fair one.

PORTER.

Angels defend us! what a reprobate!

Yon mould'ring porch for sixteen years and more

Has

A TRAGEDY.

5

Has not been struck with such unhallow'd founds.
Hence to thy lewd companions !

FLORIAN.

Father greybeard,
I cry you mercy; nor was't my intention
To wound your reverence's faint-like organs.
But come, thou haſt known other days—canſt tell
Of banquettings and dancings—'twas not always
thus.

PORTER.

No, no—time was—my lord, the Count of Nar-
bonne,
A profane gentleman, were he alive,
We should not know these moping melancholies.
Heav'n reft his foul! I marvel not my lady
Cherishes his remembrance, for he was
Comely to fight, and wondrous goodly built.
They fay, his fon, Count Edmund's mainly like
him.
Would these old arms, that serv'd his grandfather,
Could once enfold him! I should part in peace.

FLORIAN.

What, if I bring thee tidings of Count Edmund !

PORTER.

Mercy befall me!—now my dream is out.

Laft

R.
ely
et.

w'ft her
limbs ?
marble,

nds ?
ſt draw

ſchool'd
pillow,
re.

d more
Has

## 6 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Laft night the raven croak'd, and from the bars
Of our lodge-fire flitted a meffenger.—
I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tid-
ings,
Sir gentleman ?

### FLORIAN.

(This is a solemn fool, [aside.
Or solemn knave) shouldst thou indeed rejoice
To see Count Edmund ? Would thy noble miftres
Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son ?

### PORTER.

Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas!
He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger,
I prithee fay, does my old mafter's heir
Still breathe this vital air! Is he in France ?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty ? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kif's his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.

[weeps.]

### FLORIAN.

Thou good old man, forgive a foldier's mirth.
But fay, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's
lands
Is banifh'd, driven by a ruthleſs mother ?

### PORTER.

A TRAGEDY.

7

PORTER.

Ah! fir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother;
Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund—but he was indeed a ftripling,
A very lad—it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our fins, or we have had;
Yet still no pardon—Thinkft thou not my lord,
My late kind mafter, e'er he knew my lady,
Wifh not what woman was?—I warrant him—
But fo—Count Edmund being not fixteen,
A lufty youth, his father's very image—
Oh! he has play'd me many a trick—good fir,
Does my young mafter ever name old Peter!
Well!—but I prate—you muft forgive my age;
I come to th' point—Her name was Beatrice;
A roguifh eye—She ne'er would look on me,
Or we had fav'd full many a woefull day!
Mark you me well?

FLORIAN.

I do.

PORTER.

This Beatrice—

But hark! my lady comes—retire a while
Beyond thofe yews—anon I'll tell you more.

FLORIAN.

R.

bars

ill tid-

[afide.

ice

miftrels

?

as !

ranger,

?

nbs,

ce him.

[weeps.

irth.

arbonne's

RTER.

8 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

FLORIAN.

May I not greet her ?

PORTER.

For my office, no :

'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley

With one of near thy years. [FLORIAN withdraws.

[The COUNTESS in weeds, with a crucifix in her hand, iffues from the castle, accompanied by two maidens, and paffes over the flage. When she is gone, FLORIAN returns.]

'Tis ever thus.

At break of morn she hies to yonder abbey,

And proftrate o'er some monumental stone,

Seems more to wait her doom, than afk to fhun it.

The day is pafs'd in miniftring to wants

Of health or means ; the cloſing eve beholds

New tears, new pray'rs, or haggard meditation.

But if cold moonſhine, deepning ev'ry frown

Of theſe impending towers, invite her ſteps,

She iffues forth.---Beftrew me, but I tremble,

When my own keys diſcharge the drawbridge
chains,

And rattle thro' the caſtle's farmoſt vaults.

Then have I seen this fad, this ſober mourner,

With

A TRAGEDY. 9

With frantic geſture and diſorder'd ſtep---
But hufh---who moves up yonder avenue?
It is---no---ſtay---iſaith ! but it is he,
My lady's confefſor, with friar Martin---
Quick hie thee hence---ſhould that fame medling
monk
Obſerve our conf'rence, there were fine work
toward.

FLORIAN.

You will not leave your tale unfiniſhed?

PORTER.

Mafs ! but I will---a tale will pay no ſtipend.
Theseſe fifty winters have I borne this ſtaff,
And will not loſe my porridge for my prating.

FLORIAN.

Well! but Count Edmund---wo't not hear of him?

PORTER.

Aye, bleſs his name! at any leifure hour.
This ev'ning, e'er the ſhutting of the gates,
Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee.
So now, begone---away.

[exeunt ſeverally.

C SCENE.

R.

thdraws.
x in her
l by two
en ſhe is

o ſhun it.

lds
tation.
wn
ps,
ble,
rawbridge

urner,
With

10 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

## SCENE III.

### BENEDICT, MARTIN.

#### BENEDICT.

Ay! fift her, fift her--

As if I had not prob'd her very foul,

And wound me round her heart---I tell thee, brother,

This woman was not caft in human mould :

Ten fuch would foil a council, would unbuild

Our Roman church---In her, devotion's real :

Our beads, our hymns, our faints, amufe her not :

Nay, not confeffion, not repeating o'er

Her darling fins, has any charms for her.

I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring
thought

Seems to fteal meaning from her words.---She prays

Because she feels, and feels, because a finner.

#### MARTIN.

What is this fecret fin ; this untold tale,

That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanſe ?

Loſs of a hufband, ſixteen years enjoy'd,

And dead as many, could not ſtamp ſuch ſorrow.

Nor could ſhe be his death's artificer,

And

A TRAGEDY.

ii

And now affect to weep it.—I have heard,
That chafing as he homeward rode, a ftag,
Chaf'd by the hounds, with sudden onset flew
Th' adventurous Count.

BENEDICT.

'Twas so; and yet, my brother,
My mind has more than once imputed blood
To this inceffant mourner. Beatrice,
The damsel for whose fake she holds in exile
Her only son, has never, since the night
Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of.

MARTIN.

'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue
Accuse its owner.

BENEDICT.

Judge not rashly, brother.
I oft have shifted my discourse to murder:
She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place,
Nor discompos'd, nor firm'd to steadineſs.
No sudden flushing, and no falt'ring lip:
Nor, tho' she pities, lifts she to her eyes
Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not.—I fix'd on love,

C 2

The

her—
e, bro-
ild
al :
er not:

nd'ring
ne prays
r.

e ?
row.

And

12 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

The failure of the sex, and aptest caufe
Of each attendant crime---

MARTIN.

Ay, brother, there
We mafter all their craft. Touch but that string---

BENEDICT.

Still, brother, do you err. She own'd to me,
That, tho' of nature warm, the passion love
Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The Count,
Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites
Had with the fting of pleasure taught her passion.
This, with such modeft truth, and that truth
heighten'd
By conscious fense, that holds deceit a weakneſs,
She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit
On her veracity.

MARTIN.

Then whither turn
To worm her ſecret out ?

BENEDICT.

I know not that.
She will be ſilent, but ſhe ſcorns a falſhood.
And thus while frank on all things, but her ſecret,
I know, I know it not.

MARTIN.

A TRAGEDY.

13

MARTIN.

Till she discloſe it,
Deny her abſolution.

BENEDICT.

She will take none :
Offer'd, ſhe ſcoſſs it; and withheld, demands not.
Nay, vows ſhe will not load her ſinking ſoul
With incantations.

MARTIN.

This is hereſy ;
Rank hereſy ; and holy church ſhould note it.

BENEDICT.

Be patient, brother---Tho' of adamant
Her reaſon, charity diſſolves that rock,
---And ſurely we have taſted of the ſtream.
Nay, one unguarded moment may diſcloſe
This myſtic tale---then, brother, what a harveſt,
When maſters of her boſom-guilt !---Age too
May numb her faculties.---Or ſoon, or late,
A praying woman muſt become our ſpoil.

MARTIN.

Her zeal may falter.

BENEDICT.

Not in ſolitude.

I

14 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants
To fancy vifions, phantoms; and report them.
She mocks their fond credulity---but truſt me,
Her memory retains the colouring :
Oft times it paints her dreams; and ebon night
Is no logician. I have known her call
For lights, e'er ſhe could combat its impreſſions.
I too, tho' often ſcorn'd, relate my dreams,
And wond'rous voices heard; that ſhe may think me
At leaſt an honeſt bigot; nor remember
I tried to practice on her fears, and foil'd,
Give o'er my purpofe.

MARTIN.

This is maſterly.

BENEDICT.

Poor maſtery! When I am more in awe
Of my own penitent, than ſhe of me.
My genius is command; art, but a tool
My groveling fortune forces me to uſe.
Oh! were I ſeated high as my ambition,
I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs,
And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh
at.

MARTIN.

By humbler arts our mighty fabric roſe.

Win

A TRAGEDY.

15

Win pow'r by craft ; wear it with oftentation ;
For confidence is half-security.

Deluded men think boldneſs, conſcious ſtrength;
And grow the ſlaves of their own want of doubt.

Gain to the Holy See this fair domain ;

A crimſon bonnet may reward your toils,

And the rich harveſt prove at laſt your own.

BENEDICT.

Never, while Edmund lives. This ſteady woman
Can ne'er be pious with ſo many virtues.

Juſtice is interwoven in her frame ;

Nor will ſhe wrong the ſon ſhe will not fee.

She loves him not ; yet miſtrefs of his fortunes,
His ample exhibition ſpeaks her bounty.

She deſtines him whate'er his father's love

Gave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities,

Uſurp'd from her own wants, ſhe fets apart

A ſcanty portion only for her ward,

Young Adeliza.

MARTIN.

Say her ſon were dead,
And Adeliza veil'd---

BENEDICT.

I preſs the latter
With fruitleſs ardour. Often as I urge it,

Win

She

16 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

She pleads the maiden's flushing cheek, and nature,
That speaks in characters of glowing rose
Its modeft appetites and timid wishes.

Her sex, she says, when gratified, are frail;
When check'd, a hurricane of boundleſs paffions.

Then, with ſweet irony and ſad, ſhe wills me
Ask my own breast, if cowls and ſcapularies
Are charms all powerfull to ſubdue defire?

MARTIN.

'Twere wiser ſchool the maiden: lead the train
Of young ideas to a fancied object.

A mental ſpouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts,
And bar their fixing on some earthly lover.

BENEDICT.

This is already done---but Edmund's death
Were hopes more ſolid---

MARTIN.

Firſt report him dead :

His letters intercepted---

BENEDICT.

Greatly thought !

Thou true ſon of the church !---and lo! where
comes

Our patronefs---leave me; I will not loſe

An

A TRAGEDY.

17

An instant. I will found her inmost soul,
And mould it to the moment of projection.

[Exit MARTIN.]

[BENEDICT retires within the castle.]

SCENE IV.

COUNTESS, Two MAIDENS.

COUNTESS.

Hasteth thee, Maria, to the western tower,
And learn if th' aged pilgrim dozes yet.
You, Elinor, attend my little orphans,
And when their task is done, prepare their breakfast.
But scant th' allowance of the red-hair'd urchin,
That maim'd the poor man's cur---Ah! happy me!

[The damsels go in.]

If sentiment, untutor'd by affliction,
Had taught my temperate blood to feel for others,
E'er pity, perching on my mangled bosom,
Like flies on wounded flesh, had made me shrink
More with compunction than with sympathy!
Alas! must guilt then ground our very virtues!
Grow they on sin alone, and not on grace?
While Narbonne liv'd, my fully-fated soul
Thought none unhappy---for it did not think!

D

In

HER.

and nature,
ofe

frail;

s passions.

vills me

laries

ire?

the train

thoughts,

lover.

death

him dead :

ought !

and lo! where

ot lofe

An

18 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

In pleasures roll'd whole summer funs away;
And if a penfulve visage crofs'd my path,
I deem'd the wearer envious or ill-natur'd.
What anguifh had I bleffedly redrefs'd,
But that I was too blefs'd !---Well! peace is fled,
Ne'er to return! nor dare I ſnap the thread
Of life, while misery may want a friend.
Defpair and Hell muſt wait, while pity needs
My miniftry---Eternity has ſcope
Enough to puniſh me, tho' I ſhould borrow
A few ſhort hours to ſacrifice to charity.

## SCENE V.

### BENEDICT, COUNTESS.

BENEDICT.

I fought you, lady.

COUNTESS.

Happily I'm found.
Who needs the widow's mite?

BENEDICT.

None ask your aid.
Your gracious foresfight ſtill prevents occafion :
And your poor beadsman joys to meet your pre-
ſence,

Uncumber'd

A TRAGEDY. 19

Uncumber'd with a fuit. It pains my foul,
Oft as I tax your bounty, left I seem
A craving or immodeft almoner.

COUNTESS.

No more of this, good father. I suspect not
One of your holy order of diffembling:
Suspect not me of loving flattery.
Paſs a few years, and I ſhall be a corpſe---
Will flattery then new cloath my ſkeleton,
Fill out theſe hollow jaws? Will't give me virtues?
Or at the ſolemn audit paſs for truth,
And varnifh o'er my ſtains?

BENEDICT.

The church could feal
Your pardon---but you ſcorn it. In your pride
Confifts your danger. Yours are Pagan virtues:
As ſuch I praisſe them---but as ſuch, condemn
them.

COUNTESS.

Father, my crimes are Pagan; my belief
Too orthodox to truſt to erring man.
What! ſhall I, foul with guilt, and ſelf-condemn'd,
Prefume to kneel, where angels kneel appal'd,
And plead a prieſt's certificate for pardon ?
While he, perchance, before my blaſted eyes

D 2

Shall

20 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Shall fink to woes, endleſs, unutterable,
For having fool'd me into that prefumption.

BENEDICT.

Is he to blame, truſting to what he grants ?

COUNTESS.

Am I to blame, not truſting what he grants ?

BENEDICT.

Yet faith---

COUNTESS.

I have it not---why ſhakes my ſoul
With nightly terrors ? Courage ſuch as mine
Would ſtart at nought but guilt. 'Tis from within
I tremble. Death would be felicity,
Were there no retroſpect. What joys have I ?
What pleasure ſoftens, or what friendſhip ſooths
My aching bosom ?---I have loft my hufband :
My own decree has banisht my own ſon.

BENEDICT.

Laſt night I dreamt your ſon was with the bleſſed.

COUNTESS.

Would heav'n he were !

BENEDICT.

Do you then wifh his death ?

COUNTESS.

A TRAGEDY.

21

COUNTESS.

Should I not with him bled?

BENEDICT.

Belike he is:

I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.

COUNTESS.

Nor I knew superftition in the right.

BENEDICT.

Madam, I must no longer hear this language.
You do abuse my patience. I have borne,
For your soul's health, and hoping your conversion,
Opinions most deprav'd. It ill becometh
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach even me---I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! My prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentence'd race---your son is dead!

COUNTESS.

Father, we no prophetic daemon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has
spoken
Words more tremendous than this acted zeal,
This

22 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

This poetry of fond enthusiasm
Can conjure up. It is the still small voice
That breathes conviction. 'Tis that voice has
told me,
'Twas my son's birth, not his mortality,
Muft drown my soul in woe.---Thofe tears are
shed.

BENEDICT.

Unjuft, uncharitable as your words,
I pardon them. Illy of me you deem ;
I know it, lady. 'Tis humiliation :
As fuch I bow to it---yet dear I tender
Your peace of mind. Difmifs your worthleſs ſervant
His pray'rs ſhall ſtill be yours.

COUNTESS.

Forgive me, father :
Difcretion does not guide my words. I meant
No infult on your holy character.

BENEDICT.

No, lady; chuse ſome other monitor,
Whofe virtues may command your eſtimation.
Your useleſs beadsman ſhall behold with joy
A worthier man mediate your peace with heav'n.

COUNTESS.

Alas ! till reconcil'd with my own breast,
What peace is there for me !

BENEDICT.

A TRAGEDY.

23

BENEDICT.

In th' neighb'ring distric
There lives a holy man, whose fanctity,
Is mark'd with wond'rous gifts. Grace smiles upon
him;
Conversion tracks his footsteps: miracles
Spring from his touch: his sacred cauiftry
Pours balm into defpair. Confult with him.
Unfold th' impenetrable mystery,
That flets your foul and you at endlefs discord.

COUNTESS.

Confult a holy man ! Inquire of him !
---Good father, wherefore ? What should I in-
quire ? *
Muſt I be taught of him, that guilt is woe ?
That innocence alone is happineſs ?
That martyrdom itſelf ſhall leave the villain
The villain that it found him ? Muſt I learn
That minutes ſtamp'd with crimes are paſt recall ?
That joys are momentary; and remorſe
Eternal ? Shall he teach me charms and ſpells,
To make my ſenſe believe againſt my ſenſe ?
Shall I think practices and penances

Will,

* Imitated from Cato's ſpeech in Lucan, beginning,
Quid quæri, Labiene, jubes ?

MOTHER.

In small voice
This that voice has
nortality,
—Thofe tears are

CT.
Words,
I deem;
ation:
I tender
our worthleſs ſervant:

ESS.
Forgive me, father:
words. I meant
after.

ICT.
monitor,
I your effimation.
behold with joy
our peace with heav'n.

ESS.
y own breast,
BENEDICT.

24 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Will, if he say so, give the health of virtue
To gnawing self-reproach ?---I know they cannot.
Nor could one risen from the dead proclaim
This truth in deeper founds to my conviction.
We want no preacher to distinguish vice
From virtue. At our birth the god reveal'd
All conscience needs to know. No codicil
To duty's rubric here and there was plac'd
In some faint's causal cuning. Weak minds
Want their foul's fortune told by oracles
And holy juglers. Me, nor oracles,
Nor prophets, Death alone can certify,
Whether, when justice's full dues exacted,
Mercy shall grant one drop to flake my torment.
---Here, father, break we off; you to your calling,
I to my tears and mournfull occupation.
[exeunt]

End of the first act.

ACT

A TRAGEDY.

25

ACT the SECOND.

*The SCENE continues.*

Count EDMUND, FLORIAN.

EDMUND.

Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hardships, war,
Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloom
Of ruddy comelines, and stamp'd this face
With harsher lineaments, that well may mock
The prying of a mother's eye---a mother,
Thro' whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's flood
Ne'er guft'd with eager eloquence, to tell her,
This is your son! your heart's own voice proclaims him.

FLORIAN.

If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred.
Thofe jarring passions spring from the same source:
Hate is distemper'd love.

E EDMUND

ACT

26 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

## EDMUND.

Why should she hate me?

For that my opening passion's swelling ardour
Prompted congenial necessary joy,
Was that a cause?---Nor was she then so rigid.
No fanatically diffembler had poisons'd
Her scared imagination, teaching her,
That holiness begins, where nature ends.
No, Florian, she herself was woman then;
A female woman. Nor fatiety,
Sickness and age and virtue's frowardness,
Had so obliterated pleasure's delight---
She might have pardon'd what she felt so well.

## FLORIAN.

Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I preach,
If I, God wot, of morals loose enough,
Seem to condemn you. You have often told me,
The night, the very night that to your arms
Gave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties,
Was the same night on which your father died.

## EDMUND.

'Tis true---and thou, age monitor, doft thou
Hold love a crime so irremissible?
Wouldft thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl,
To fang a requiem to thy father's soul?

I thought

A TRAGEDY.

27

I thought my mother buſed with her tears,
Her faintings, and her maffes, while I ſtole
To Beatrice's chamber.—How my mother
Became appriz'd, I know not: but her heart,
Never too partial to me, grew eſtrang'd.
Eſtrang'd!—averſion in its ſelleſt mood
Scowl'd from her eye, and drove me from her fight.
She call'd me impious: nam'd my honeſt lewdneſs,
A prophanation of my father's aſhes.
I knelt and wept, and, like a puling boy,
For now my blood was cool, believ'd, confefs'd
My father's hov'ring ſpirit incens'd againſt me.
This weak conſeſſion but inflam'd her wrath;
And when I would have bath'd her hand with tears,
She ſnatch'd it back with horror.

FLORIAN.

'Twas the trick
Of over-acted ſorrow. Grief fatigues;
And each collateral circumſtance is ſeiz'd
To cheat th' uneaſy feeling. Sable chambers,
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,
Are but a ſpecious theatre, on which
Th' inconſtant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's ſhade devotes the ſon?

[ironically].

E 2

EDMUND.

S MOTHER.

N. D.

My ſhould ſhe hate me?
's ſwelling ardour
My joy,
As ſhe then ſo rigid.

poſſeſs'd
ching her,
e nature ends.
s woman then ;

iety,
s ſrowardneſs,
s reliſh—
hat ſhe felt ſo well.

I A N.

y, nor think I preach,
loofe enough,
you have often told me,
that to your arms
ing beauties,
ch your father died.

U N D.

e monitor, doſt thou
nſible ?
thee from a willing girl,
father's ſoul?

I thought

28 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

EDMUND.

Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,
Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentles.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Choose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or luft of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native foil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters.

FLORIAN.

Why let them on the hazard then, when she,
Who deals them, may revoke? Your absence hence
The sole condition.

EDMUND.

I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour

To

A TRAGEDY.

To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own ?
To ftain my fword with random blood !—I fought
At Buda 'gainft the Turk—a holy war,
So was it deem'd—I smote the turban'd race :
Did zeal, or did ambition nerve my blow !
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the creſcent or the croſs prevail'd ?
Mean time on alien climes I diffipated
Wealth from my ſubjects wrung, the peafant's
tribute,
Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid
My mouldring caſtles.—Yes, ye moſs-grown walls !
Ye tow'rs defenceleſs !—I reviſit ye
Shame-ſtricken.—Where are all your trophies now ?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That ſpoke the grandeur of my houſe, the homage
Of neighb'ring barons ? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,
Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,
Creep like a ſpy, and watch to thrid your gates
Unnotic'd ? No; with martial attributes,
With waving banners and enlivening fifes
They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,
And welcome them and triumph.

FLORIAN.

True, my lord:
They reign'd the monarchs of a ſcore of miles ;
Imperial

MOTHER.

D.
Some myſtery,
e,
entleſs.
ps, caſtles,
h'd my mother.
of her bed,
a begging faints
it were proof
ne
her hand
old. I tell thee,
ſoil,
y mine,
th of charters.

N.
en, when ſhe,
Your abſence hence

D.
ry, Florian,
it me,
Narbonne's prince,
yed valour

To

30 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage
Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds
For obsolete offences, now array'd
Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal
On open vallies and unguarded herds,
On helplefs virgins and unweapon'd boors,
The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they
dar'd
To fcowl defiance to the diffant throne,
Imprifon'd, canton'd inacceffibly
In their own rock-built dungeons—Are thefe glo-
ries
My Edmund's foul ambitions to revive ?
Thus would he blefs his vaffals !

EDMUND.

Thy reproof,
My friend, is juſt. But had I not a caufe,
A tender caufe, that prompted my return ?
This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,
Whofe harſhneſs I reſent, whoſe woes I pity,
Has won my love, by winning my reſpect.
Her letters ! Florian; ſuch unſtudied ſtrains
Of virtuous eloquence ! She bids me, yes,
This praying Magdalen enjoins my courage
To emulate my great forefather's deeds.
Tells me, that ſhame and guilt alone are mortal ;
That

A TRAGEDY. 31

That death but bars the poſsibility
Of frailty, and embalms untainted honour.
Then blots and tears efface some half-told woe
Lab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'd
In one her bleſſing granted, and eras'd.
And yet what follow'd, mark'd anxiety
For my ſoul's welfare. I muſt know this riddle.
I muſt, will comfort her. She cannot ſurely,
After ſuch perils, wounds by her command
Encounter'd, after fixteen exil'd years
Spurn me, when kneeling—Think'ft thou, 'tis poſ-
ſible?

FLORIAN.

I would not think it; but a hoſt of prieſts
Surround her. They, good men, are ſeldom found
To plead the cauſe of pity. Self-denial,
Whole diffonance from nature's kinderſt laws
By contradicting, wins on our perverſenefs,
Is rank fanaticiſm's belov'd machine.
Oh! 'twill be heroiſm, a ſacrifice,
To curb the torrent of maternal ſondneſs!
You ſhall be beggar'd, that the faint your mother
May, by cowl'd ſycophants and canting juglers,
Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Terera.
Pray be not ſeen here: let's again to th' wars.

EDMUND.

MOTHER.

A g cottage

Deadly feuds
y'd
to deal
herds,
on'd boors,

Sometimes they
a throne,

—Are these glo-
revive ?

D.

Thy reproof,
ot a cauſe,
y return ?
and mourn,
woes I pity,
y respect.
died ſtrains
me, yes,
my courage
deeds.
alone are mortal;
That

32 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

EDMUND.

No, Florian, my dull'd foul is sick of riot:
Sick of the thoughtlefs jollity of camps,
Where revelry subfifts on desolation,
And fhouts of joy contend with dying groans.
Our ſports are fleeting; ſnatch'd, perhaps, not
granted.

'Tis time to bid adieu to vagrant pleafure,
And fix the wanderer love. Domeſtic blifs—

FLORIAN.

Yes, your fair penſioner, young Adeliza,
Has ſober'd your inconſtancy. Her ſmiles
Were exquiſite—to rule a family! [ironically.
So matron-like an air—She muſt be fruitfull.

EDMUND.

Paſs we this levity—'Tis true, the maiden
Is beauty's type renew'd. Like blooming Eve
In nature's young ſimplicity, and bluſhing
With wonder at creation's opening glow,
She charms, unknowing what it is to charm.

FLORIAN.

This is a lover's language—Is ſhe kind ?

EDMUND.

Cold as the metal bars that part her from me;
She

A TRAGEDY.

33

She liftens, but replies not to my purpose.

FLORIAN.

How gain'd you then admittance ?

EDMUND.

This whole month,
While waiting your arrival, I have haunted
Her convent's parlour. 'Tis my mother's wish
To match her nobly. Hence her guardian abbe
Admits such visitors as claim her notice
By worthy bearing, and convenient splendor.
O Florian, union with that favour'd maiden
Might reconcile my mother—hark ! what found—

[A chapel bell rings.]

FLORIAN.

A fummons to some office of devotion.
My lord, weigh well what you project—

[Singing within.]

EDMUND.

I hear
Voices that seem approaching—hush ! they sing.
Listen !

FLORIAN.

No; let us hence: you will be known.

EDMUND.

They cannot know me—see !

F

SCENE.

MOTHER.

ND.

It is sick of riot:
by of camps,
foliation,
with dying groans,
match'd, perhaps, not

grant pleasure,
Domestic blifs—

AN.

ing Adeliza,
Her smiles

mily! [ironically,
heft be fruitfull.

ND.

the maiden
like blooming Eve
and blushing
ening glow,
it is to charm.

AN.

the kind?

ND.

art her from me;

She

34 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

## SCENE II.

FLORIAN, EDMUND, MARTIN, ORPHANS.

[A procession of children of both sexes, neatly cloathed in a white and blue uniform, issue from the castle, followed by friar MARTIN, and advance towards the stage-door. They stop, and the children repeat the following hymn, part of which they should have sung within the castle.]

### I.

Throne of Justice ! lo ! we bend.
Thither dare our hopes ascend,
Where seraphs, wrapt in light'ning rays,
Diffolve in mercy's tender blaze ?

### II.

Hear us ! harmlefs orphans hear !
For her who dries our falling tear.
Hush her sorrows ; calm her breast :
Give her, what she gives us, rest.

### III.

Guard our spotlefsSouls from sin !
Grant us virtue's palm to win !
Cloath the penitent with grace ;
And guilt's foul spots efface ! efface !

EDMUND.

A TRAGEDY.

35

EDMUND.

I'll speak to them.

Sweet children---or thou sanctified conductor,
Give me to know what solemn pilgrimage,
What expiation of offences past,
Thus fadly ye perform ? In whose behoof
To win a blessing, raise these little suppliants
Their artless hands to heav'n ? Pray pardon too
A soldier's curiosity.

MARTIN.

The dew

Of grace and peace attend your steps. You seem
A stranger, or you could but know, sir knight,
That Narbonne's pious Countess dwells within :
A lady most disconsolate. Her lord,
Her best-beloved, by untimely fate
Was snatch'd away in lofty life's full vantage---
But no account made up ! no absolution !
Hence scant the distance of a mile he fell.
His weeping reliet o'er his spot of doom
A goodly cross erected. Thither we,
At his year's mind, in fad and solemn guise,
Proceed to chant our holy dirge, and offer
Due intercession for his soul's repose.

F 2

EDMUND.

MOTHER.

II.

MARTIN, ORPHANS,

fates, neatly cloathed
fue from the castle,
and advance towards
the children repeat
ich they should have

we bend.
ascend,
in light'ning rays,
her blaze?

ans hear!
alling tear.
her breast :
s us, rest.

from fin !
win !
grace;
ace! efface!

EDMUND.

36 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

EDMUND.

'Tis fitly done. And dar'd a voice profane
Join in the chorus of your holy office,
Myself would kneel for Narbonne's peace.

MARTIN.

Young fir,
It glads my foul to hear such pious breathings
From one, whose occupation rarely scans
The diffance 'twixt enjoyment and the tomb.
Say, didft thou know the Count ?

EDMUND.

I knew his fon.

MARTIN.

Count Edmund ? Where fojourns he ?

EDMUND.

In the grave.

MARTIN.

Is Edmund dead ? Say, how ?

EDMUND.

He fell at Buda :
And not to his difhonour.

MARTIN.

(Welcome founds! [afide.
I muſt know more of this)---proceed my children;
Short

A TRAGEDY.

Short of the crofs I'll overtake your fteps.

ORPHAN GIRL.

Oh! father, but I dare not pafs without you
By the church-porch. They fay the Count fites
there,
With clotted locks, and eyes like burning ftars.
Indeed I dare not go.

Other CHILDREN.

Nor I, Nor I.

MARTIN.

My loves, he will not harm fuch innocents.
But wait me at the bridge: I'll ftrait be with ye.

*[Children go out reluctantly.]*

FLORIAN.

I marvel, father, gravity like yours
Should yield affent to tales of fuch complexion;
Permitting them in baby fantafy
To fstrike their dangerous root.

MARTIN.

I marvel not,
That levity like yours, unhallow'd boy,
Should fpend its idle fhaft on ferious things.
Your comrade's bearing warrants no fuch licence.

FLORIAN.

A TRAGEDY.

39

Condemn impoſture !

EDMUND.

Here end your dispute.

The ſtorm comes on.

MARTIN.

Yes, you do well to check

Your comrade's profanation, left ſwift justice

O'ertake his guilt, and ſtamp his doom in thunder.

FLORIAN.

Father, art thou ſo read in languages

Thou canſt interpret th' inarticulate

And quarrelling elements ? What ſays the ſtorm ?

Pronounces it for thee or me ? Do none

Dispute within the compaſs of its bolt

But we ? Is the fame loud-voic'd oracle

Definitive for fifty various brawls ?

Or but a ſhock of clouds to all but us ?

" What if two drunkards at this inſtant hour

" Contend for preference of taſte, one ranking

" The vines of Burgundy before the juice

" That dances in a foam of brilliant bubbles

" From Champagne's berries, thinkſt thou thunder

" ſpeaks

" In favour of the white or ruby grape ?"

MARTIN.

MOTHER.

N.
end with humble

grip's dream,
turn

? Thinkſt thou a

us braggart?

e ?

hinniſence

tion's tongue

heav'n's ſervants.

never came from
under and lightening.

here's the golſip's

eav'n's own voice

own voice

Condemn

40 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

MARTIN.

What mockery! ---I resign thee to thy fate---

[Going.]

[The ORPHAN-CHILDREN run in terrified.]

First ORPHAN.

O father, fave us! fave us! holy father.

MARTIN.

What means this panic?

First ORPHAN.

Oh! a storm so dreadfull!
Some demon rides in th' air.

MARTIN.

Undoubtedly.

Could ye distinguish ought?

First ORPHAN.

I fell to earth,
And said the pray'r you taught me against spectres.

MARTIN.

Twas well---but none of you, had none the
courage
To face the fiend?

Second ORPHAN.

I wink'd, and saw the light'ning

Burft

A TRAGEDY. 41

Burft on the monument. The shield of arms
Shiver'd to splinters. E'er I could repeat
An Ave-Mary, down with hideous craft
The crofs came tumbling---then I fled---

MARTIN.

Retire;
This is unholy ground. Acquaint the Countefs.
I will not tarry long. [ex. *Children*] Thou mouth
accurft,
*[to FLORIAN.]*
Repent, and tremble! Wherefore haft thou drawn
On Narbonne's plains, already visited
By long calamity, new storms of horror?
The feafons change their course; th' afflicted hind
Bewails his blafted harveft. Meteors ride
The troubled sky, and chafe the darken'd fun.
Heav'n vindicates its altars: tongues licentious
Have fcoff'd our holy rites, and hidden fins
Have forc'd th' offended elements to borrow
Tremendous organs! Sixteen fatal years
Has Narbonne's province groan'd beneath the hand
Of defolation---for what crimes we know not!
To edge fuspended vengeance art thou come?

EDMUND, preventing FLORIAN.
My friend, reply not---Father, I lament
This cafual jarring---let us crave your pardon.

G

I feel

42 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

I feel your country's woes: I lov'd Count Edmund:
Revere his father's afhes. I will vifit
'The ruin'd monument---and at your leifure
Could wifh fome conf'rence with you.

MARTIN.

(This is well: [afide.
I almoſt had forgotten)---be it ſo.
Where is your haunt ?

EDMUND.

A mile without the town;
Hard by St. Bridget's nunnery.

MARTIN.

There expect me.
*Aſide.*] (I muſt to Benedict)---heav'n's peace be
with you.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

COUNTESS, PORTER.

PORTER.

Return, my gracious lady. Tho' the ſtorm
Abates its clamours, yonder angry clouds
Are big with ſpouting fires---do not go forth.

COUNTESS.

Wretches like me, good Peter, dread no ſtorms.

'Tis

A TRAGEDY. 43

'Tis delicate Felicity that shrinks,
When rocking winds are loud, and wraps itself
Insultingly in comfortable furs,
Thinking how many naked objects want
Like shelter and security. Do thou
Return; I'll seek the monument alone.

PORTER.

No, my good lady, never be it said
That faithfull Peter his dear miftres left
Expos'd to tempefts. These thin-fsprinkled hairs
Cannot hold long. If in your service fhed,
'Twere a juſt debt---hark! ſure I heard a groan!
Pray let us in again---

COUNTESS.

My honest ſervant,
Thy fear o'er-pow'rs thy love. I heard no groan;
Nor could it ſcape a ſense ſo quick as mine
At catching miſery's expreſſive note :
'Tis my ſoul's proper language.---Injur'd ſhade!
Shade of my Narbonne! if thy ſcornfull ſpirit
Rode in yon whirlwind, and impell'd its bolt
Implacable! indignant! 'gainſt the croſs
Rais'd by thy wretched wife---behold ſhe comes
A voluntary victim! Re-aſſemble
Thy lightnings, and accept her deſtin'd head.

G 2

PORTER.

44 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

PORTER.

For pity, gracious dame! what words are these!
In any mouth les! holy they would seem
A magic incantation. Goblins rife
At founds les pow'rfull. Last year's 'clipse fell out,
Because your maidens crofs'd a gipfy's palm
To know what was become of Beatrice.

COUNTESS.

And didst thou dare inform them where she dwells?

PORTER.

No, on my duty---true; they think I know;
And so thinks Benedict, your confessor.
He says, she could not pafs the castle-gates
Without my privity---Well! I had a task
To fay him nay. The honour of my keys,
My office was at stake. No, father, said I,
None pafs the drawbridge without Peter's know-
ledge.

How then to beat him from his point?---I had it---
Who knows, quoth I, but sudden malady
Took off the damsel? She might, or might not
Have sepulture within the castle-walls---

COUNTESS.

Peace, fool---and thus thy shrewd equivocation

Has

A TRAGEDY.

45

Has stain'd my name with murder's foul suspicion !
---O peace of virtue ! thy true votaries
Quail not with ev'ry blast ! I cloak my guilt !
Things foreign rife and load me with their black-
nefs.

Erroneous imputation must be borne;
Left, while unravelling the knotty web,
I lend a clue may vibrate to my heart.

---But who comes here? ---retire we and observe.

[They withdraw.]

SCENE IV.

FLORIAN, COUNTESS, PORTER.

FLORIAN.

'Tis not far off the time the Porter will'd me
Expect him here. My friend, indulging grief,
Choose no companion of his penfive walk.
Yes, I must serve thee. May my profane words care
Reftore thee to thy state, and aid thy love
To make the blooming Adeliza thine!

COUNTESS, *apart to the* PORTER.

Methought he spoke of love and Adeliza.
Who may it be ?

PORTER.

MOTHER.

words are thele !
I would seem
a rife
ear's 'clipfe fell out,
gipfy's palm
Beatrice.

S. S.
where she dwells?

think I know;
confessor.
castle-gates
had a task
of my keys,
other, said I,
out Peter's know-
point? ---I had it---
den malady
or might not
walls---

S. S.
equitation
Has

46 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

PORTER.

I never heard his name.

COUNTESS, *approaching*.

Stranger, did chance or purpose guide thy steps
To this lone dwelling ?

[PORTER makes signs to FLORIAN not to discover their former interview.]

FLORIAN.

Pardon, gentle lady,
If curious to behold the pious matron
Whom Narbonne's plains obey, I fought this caftle,
And deem my wish indulg'd in viewing thee.

COUNTESS.

Me! stranger. Is affliction then so rare
It occupies the babler Fame ?---Oh ! no.
My sorrows are not new. Außerities
And rigid penance tempt no curious eyes.
Nor speaks your air desire of searching out
The house of mourning. Rather should you seek
Some unfunn'd beauty, some unpractic'd fair one,
Who thinks the first soft founds she hears, are love.
There may be such at Narbonne: none dwell here,
But melancholy, sorrow, and contrition.

FLORIAN.

A TRAGEDY.

47

FLORIAN.

Pleasure has charms; but so has virtue too.
One skims the surface, like the swallow's wing,
And scuds away unnotic'd. T'other nymph,
Like spotlets swans in solemn majesty,
Breafts the full surge, and leaves long light behind.

COUNTESS.

Your courtly phrase, young knight, bespeaks a
birth
Above the vulgar. May I ask, how old
Your residence in Narbonne? Whence your race?

FLORIAN.

In Brabant was I born: my father's name,
The Baron of St. Orme. I wait at Narbonne
My letters of exchange, while pafling homewards
To gather my late fire's no mean succeflion.

COUNTESS.

Dead is your father! and unwet your cheek!
Truft me, young fir, a father's guardian arm
Were well worth all the treasures it witheld.
A mother might be fpar'd.

FLORIAN.

Mothers, like thee,

Were blessings.

COUNTESS.

US MOTHER.

ER.

ard his name.

approaching,
fole guide thy steps

ORIAN not to defcaver
terviews.]

A N.

gentle lady,

matron

ry, I fought this caffle,
in viewing thee.

E S S.

them so rare

---Oh! no.

spherities

urious eyes.

searching out

her fshould you feef

mpractic'd fair one,

s the bears, are love.

ne: none dwell here,
contribution.

FLORIAN.

A TRAGEDY. 49

Nor wears her eye the fawcy superiority
Of bigot pride. Who knows but she may with
To shake the tramels of enthufiasm off,
And reconcile herself to easier paths
Of simple goodneſs ? Women oft wear the mask
Of piety to draw reſpect, or hide
The loſs of it. When age diſpells the train
That waits on beauty, then religion blows
Her trumpet, and invites another circle ;
Who, full as false as the preceding crew,
Flatter her problematic mental charms :
While ſnuffing incenſe, and devoutly wanton,
The Pagan goddeſs grows a Chriſtian faint,
And keeps her patent of divinity.
Well ! Edmund, whatſoe'er thy mother be,
I'll put her virtue or hypocrify
To the ſevereſt teſt. Counteſs, expect me !

[Exit.]

End of the ſecond act.

H ACT

ER.

our
e ll?

theſe walls
our purpose

our paſtine,
with thee.

ard thee !
PORTER.

elpoke her.

Nor

50 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

ACT the THIRD.

SCENE I.

A small garden within the castle, terminated by
a long cloyster, beyond which appear some
towers.

COUNTESS, alone.

THE monument destroy'd!—Well! what of
that!
Were ev'ry thunderbolt addreſs'd to me,
Not one would miſs me. Fate's unerring hand
Darts not at random. Nor, as fractious children
Are chid by proxy, does it deal its wrath
On flocks and flocks to frighten, not chaſtife us.
Omens and prodigies are but begotten
By guilt on pride. We know the doom we merit;
And ſelf-importance makes us think all nature
Bustied to warn us when that doom approaches.
Fie! fie! I bluſh to recollect my weakneſs.
My Edmund may be dead: the houſe of Narbonne

May

A TRAGEDY.

51

May perish from this earth: poor Adeliza
May tafe the cup of woe that I have drug'd:
But lightnings play not to announce our fate:
No whirlwinds rife to prophecy to mites:
Nor, like inquifitors, does heav'n drefs up
In flames the victims it intends to punifh;
Making a holiday for greater finners.
—Greater! oh! impious! Were the faggots plac'd
Around me, and the fatal torch applied,
What wretch could view the dreadfull apparatus,
And be a blacker criminal than I am?
—Perhaps my virtues but enhance my guilt.
Penance attracts respect, and not reproach.
How dare I be eſteem'd? Be known my crimes!
Let ſhame anticipate the woes to come!
—Hah! monſter! wouldſt diſcloſe the frightfull
ſcene?
Wouldſt teach the vicious world unheard-of fins,
And be a new apoſtle of perdition?
—My Edmund too! has not a mother's hand
Afflicted him enough? Shall this curs'd tongue
Brand him with ſhame indelible, and ſting
His honeſt boſom with his mother's ſcorpions?
Shall Adeliza hear the laſt of horrors,
E'er her pure breaſt, that ſighs for fins it knows
not,

H 2

Has

A TRAGEDY.

The pious matron meets him like a friend
Expected long. And if a tender tear,
At leaving your poor ward, melts in her eye,
And downward sinks it's fervent ecftacy;
Still does impatience to be gone, betray
Her inward satisfaction. Yesternight,
As weeping, praying, by her couch I knelt,
Behold, my Adeliza, mark, she said,
How happy the death-bed of innocence !
Oh ! lady, how those sounds affected me !
I wifh'd to die with her—and oh ! forgive me,
If in that moment I forgot my patronefs !

COUNTESS.

It was a wifh devout. Can that want pardon ?
But to confef's it, ſpeaks thy native candour.
Thy virtuous, thy ingenuous truth diſdains
To hide a thought—

ADELIZA, falling at her feet.

Oh ! can I hear this praeife,
And not expire in bluſhes at thy feet ?

COUNTESS.

What means this paſſion ?

ADELIZA.

Ah! recall thy words :
Thy Adeliza merits no encomium.

COUNTESS.

54 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

COUNTESS.

Thou art too modeſt. Praife is due to truth.
Thou ſhouldſt not ſeek it; nor ſhould I withhold it.

ADELIZA.

For pity, ſpare me.—No, my honour'd miſtrefs,
I merit not—oh ! no, my guilty heart
Deserves thy frowns—I cannot ſpeak—

COUNTESS.

Be calm :
Thou know'ſt no guilt. Unfold thy lab'ring breast.
Say, am not I thy friend ? Me canſt thou fear ?

ADELIZA.

Can I fear ought befide ? Fear ought but goodneſs ?
Has not thy lavifh bounty cloath'd me, fed me ?
Haſt thou not taught me virtue ? Whom on earth,
But ſuch a benefactrefs, ſuch a friend,
Can Adeliza fear ? Alas ! ſhe knows
No other friend ! and chriftian fortitude
Dreads not a ſoc. Methinks I would have faid
That chriftian innocence—but ſhame reſtrain'd
My confcious tongue—I am *not* innocent !

COUNTESS.

Thou deareſt orphan, to my boſom come,
And vent thy little ſorrows. Purity

Like

A TRAGEDY.

Like thine affrights itfelf with fancied guilt.
I'll be thy confessor; and truſt me, love,
Thy penance will be light.

ADELIZA.

In vain you chear me.
Say, what is guilt, but to have known a thought
I bluſh'd to tell thee ? To have lent mine ear,
For three long weeks, to ſounds I did not wifh
My patronefs ſhould hear ! Ah ! when till now
Have I not hoped thy prefence, thought it long,
If two whole days detain'd thee from our mafs ?
When have I wept, but when thou haſt refus'd
To let thy Adeliza call thee mother ?

I know I was not worthy of ſuch honour,
Too ſplendid for a child of charity.

I now am moſt unworthy ! I, undone,
Have not defir'd thy prefence; have not thought it
Long, if two days thou haſt declin'd our mafs.
Other diſcourſe than thine has charm'd mine ear;
Nor dare I now prefume to call thee mother!

COUNTESS.

My lovely innocence, refrain thy tears.
I know thy ſecret; know, why beats and throbs
Thy little heart with unaccuſtom'd tumult.

ADELIZA.

ER.

uth.

ithhold it.

niftrefſs,

calm :

ing breaſt.

fear ?

goodneſs ?

d me ?

on earth,

e ſaid
ain'd

Like

["56 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.", "ADELIZA.", "Impossible. —Oh! let me tell thee all—", "COUNTESS.", "No; I will tell it thee. Thou haſt convers'd\nWith a young knight—", "ADELIZA.", "Amazement! Who inform'd\nthee?\nPent in her chamber, fickneſs has detain'd\nOur Abbefs from the parlour. There I ſaw him,\nOft as he came, alone.", "COUNTESS.", "He talk'd of love;\nAnd woo'd thee for his bride.", "ADELIZA.", "He did.", "COUNTESS.", {"bbox": [306, 948, 819, 1080], "category": "Text", "text":": (’Tis well: [aside.\nThis is the ſtranger I beheld this morning.)\nHis father dead, he haſtes to take poſſeffion\nOf his paternal fortunes—is’t not so ?", "ADELIZA.", "He forrows for a father—something too", "He"]

A TRAGEDY.

He utter'd of a large inheritance
That ſhould be his---in truth I mark'd it not.

COUNTESS.

But when he ſpoke of love, thy very ſoul
Hung on his lips. Say, canſt thou not repeat
Each word, each ſyllable ? His accent too
Thou notedſt: ſtill it rings upon thine ear.
And then his eyes—they look'd ſuch wondrous
truth;
Art thou not ſure he cannot have deceiv'd thee ?

ADELIZA.

Alas ! my noble miſtrefs, thou doſt mock
Poor Adeliza—what can I reply !

COUNTESS.

The truth. Thy words have ever held its lan-
guage.
Say, doſt thou love this ſtranger? Haſt thou pledg'd
Thy faith to him ?

ADELIZA.

Angels forbid ! What faith have I to give ?
Can I diſpofe of ought without thy leave ?

COUNTESS.

Inſinuating ſoftneſs !—ſtill thou turneſt
Aſide my queſtion. Thou doſt love this ſtranger.

I

ADELIZA.

58 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

ADELIZA.

Yes, with such love as that I feel for thee.
His virtues I revere: his earneſt words
Sound like the precepts of a tender parent :
And, next to thee, methinks I could obey him.

COUNTESS.

Ay, as his wife.

ADELIZA.

Oh! never. What, to lose him,
As thou thy Narbonne !

COUNTESS.

Check not, Adeliza,
Thy undevelop'd paſſion. Should this ſtranger
Prove what my wiſh has form'd, and what his
words
Report him, it would bleſs my woſull days
To fee thee plac'd above the reach of want,
And diſtant from this reſidence of ſorrow.

ADELIZA.

What! wouldſt thou ſend me from thee! oh! for
pity!
I cannot, will not leave thee. If thy goodneſs
Withdraw its bounty, at thy caſtle-gate

I'll

A TRAGEDY.

I'll wait and beg those alms thy gracious hand
To none refuses. I shall see thee pafs,
And, pafs'd, will kifs thy footsteps—wil't thou
spurn me?
Well then, I'll die and blefs thee—Oh! this
stranger!
'Tis he has done this; he has drawn thy anger
On thy poor ward!—I'll never see him more.

COUNTESS.

Be calm, my lovely orphan; hush thy fears.
Heav'n knows how fondly, anxiously I love thee!
The stranger's not to blame. Myself will task
him,
And know if he deferves thee. Now retire,
Nor slack thy duty to th' expiring Saint.
A lover must not weigh against a friend.

[Ex. ADELIZA.]

And lo! where comes the friar. 'Were not fit
He knew my purpose. Benedict, I fear,
Has views on this side heav'n.

SCENE III.

COUNTESS, BENEDICT.

BENEDICT.

The dew of grace

Rest on this dwelling!

12

COUNTESS.

60 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

COUNTESS.

Thanks, my ghastly friend,
But sure, or I mistake, in your fad eye
I spell affliction's signature. What woes
Call for the scanty balm this hand can pour ?

BENEDICT.

You, lady, and you only need that balm.

COUNTESS.

To tutor my unapt and ill-school'd nature
You come then---good my confessor, a truce
With doctrines and authority. If ought
Can medicate a soul unfound like mine,
Good deeds must operate the healthfull change,
And penance cleanse it to receive the blessing.
Shall I, for faith, shall I, for but believing
What 'tis my int'rest to believe, efface
The stains, which, tho' believing, I contracted ?

BENEDICT.

Lady, your subtle wit, like daring infants,
Sports with a weight will crush it---but no more.
It is not mine to argue, but pronounce.
The church, on rock of adamant establish'd,
Now inch by inch disputes not its domain.
Heav'n's law promulg'd, it refts obedience follow.
And when supreme It taxes that obedience,

Not

A TRAGEDY. 61

Not at impracticable, vain perfection,
But rates its prodigality of bleffings
At the flight credence of its pow'r to grant them;
Shall man with ftoic pride reject the boon,
And cry, we will do more, we will deferve it?

COUNTESS.

Deſerve it !---oh ! have all your fainted hoſts,
Your choirs of martyrs, or your clouds of che-
rubim,
Deſerv'd to feel the transport but of hope ?
Away ; nor tell me of this holy juggle
'Twixt faith and confcience. Shall the latter roam,
Waſting and ſpoiling with a ruffian hand,
While her accomplice faith, wrapt up at home
In proud ſecurity of ſelf-existence,
Thinks that exiſtence ſhall abſolve them both ?

BENEDICT.

'Twas not to war with words, so heav'n's my judge,
That your poor rated ſervant ſought your preſence.
I came with charitable friendly purpofe
To ſooth---but wherefore mitigate your grieſs ?
You mock my friendſhip, and miſcall my zeal.
Since then to council, comfort, and reproof
Obdurate---learn the meaſure of your woes.
Learn, if the mother's fortitude can brave
The bolt the woman's arrogance deſied.

COUNTESS.

HER.

hoſtly friend.

es
pour ?

Im.

ture
a truce
ht
, ch
ange,
leſſing.
ving

contracted ?

ants,
ut no more.

bliſh'd,
ain.

en follow.
ence,

Not

62 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

COUNTESS.

The mother ! faidft thou ?

BENEDICT.

Yes, imperious dame.
Yes, 'twas no vision rais'd by dreams and fumes,
Begot 'twixt nightly fear and indigestion :
Nor was it artifice and pious fraud,
When but this morning I announc'd thy Edmund
Was number'd with the dead---

COUNTESS.

Prieft, mock me not !
Nor dally with a mother's apprehension.
Lives, or lives not my son ?

BENEDICT.

Woman, heav'n mocks thee !
On Buda's plain thy slaughter'd Edmund lies.
An unbeliever's weapon cleft his heart;
But 'twas thy unbelief that pois'd the shaft,
And fped its aim.

COUNTESS.

To heav'n's high will I bow me.
Oh ! may its joys be open to his foul,
Tho' clos'd to mine for ever !

BENEDICT.

A TRAGEDY. 63

BENEDICT.

Then you lov'd him !

COUNTESS.

Lov'd him !---oh ! nature, bleeding at my heart,
Hearest thou this ? Lov'd him !---ha ! whither !---
rage,
Be dumb---Now listen, monk, nor dare reply
Beyond my purpose. In the grave, thou layst,
My Edmund sleeps---how didst thou learn his fate ?

BENEDICT.

No angel whisper'd it; no daemon spoke it.
Thou, by the self-fame means I learn'd, may'ft
learn it.

COUNTESS.

Be brief.

BENEDICT.

Then---but what boots his life or death
To a poor taunted friar---Benedict,
Leave this proud miftres of the fleeting hour,
E'er the deftroying angel's kindling brand
Smoaks in the tow'rs of Narbonne---

COUNTESS.

Hold! prefumptuous!

I am thy miftres yet: nor will I brook
Such infolent reproof. Produce thy warrant,

Affure

## 64 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Affure my Edmund's death—or dread his vengeance!

Severely shall he question ev'ry throb

His agonizing mother now endures.

## BENEDICT.

My warrant is at hand—

[Goes out and returns with EDMUND.

This gentleman

Beheld thy Edmund breathless on the ground.

## COUNTESS.

Hah! is this forcery? or is't my husband? [Swoons.

### EDMUND.

Stand off, and let me clasp her in my arms!

'The flame of filial fondness shall revive

'The lamp of life, repay the breath she gave,

And waken all the mother in her soul.

## BENEDICT.

Hah! who art thou then?

### EDMUND.

Do not my fears tell thee!

Look up! O ever dear! behold thy son!

It is thy Edmund's voice; blest, if thy eyes

Awake to blefs him—soft! her pulse returns;

She

A TRAGEDY.

65

She breathes---oh! speak. Dear parent, mother,
hear!

'Tis Edmund—Friar, wherefore is this horror ?

Am I then deadly to her eyes ?---Dumb still !

Speak, tho' it be to curse me—I have kill'd her !

My brain grows hot---

BENEDICT.

My lord, restrain your passion ;

See! she revives---

EDMUND.

Oh! if these lips, that quiver
With dread of thy disdain, have force to move thee
With nature's, duty's, or affection's voice,
Feel how I print thy hand with burning zeal,
Tho' tortur'd at this awful interval!
Art thou, or not, a mother?

COUNTESS.

Ha! where am I?
Why do you hold me? Was it not my Narbonne?
I saw him---on my foul I did---

EDMUND.

Alas!
She raves---recall thy wand'ring apprehension---
It was no phantom: at thy feet behold---

K COUNTESS.

66 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

COUNTESS.

Hah! whom! quick, anfwer---Narbonne, doft thou
live?

Or comeſt to tranſport me to perdition ?

BENEDICT.

Madam, behold your ſon: he kneels for pardon.

And I, I innocent, I ignorant

Of what he was, implore it too---

COUNTESS.

Diftraction !

What means this complicated ſcene of horrors ?

Why thus affail my ſplitting brain ?---be quick---

Art thou my hufband wing'd from other orbs

To taunt my ſoul? What is this dubious form,

Imprefs'd with ev'ry feature I adore,

And ev'ry lineament I dread to look on !

Art thou my dead or living ſon ?

EDMUND.

I am

Thy living Edmund. Let theſe ſcalding tears

Atteſt th' exiſtence of thy ſuff'ring ſon.

COUNTESS.

Ah! touch me not---

EDMUND.

A TRAGEDY. 67

EDMUND.

How !---in that cruel breast
Revive then all senfations, but affection ?
Why so ador'd the memory of the father,
And so abhor'd the prefence of the son ?
But now, and to thy eyes I seem'd my father---
At least for that reſemblance-fake embrace me.

COUNTESS.

Horror on horror! Blaſted be thy tongue!
What founds are thofe!

BENEDICT.

Lady, tho' I excufe not
This young lord's disobedience, his contrition
Belpeaks no rebel principle. I doubt not,
Your bleſſing firſt obtain'd and gracious pardon,
But ſoon as morning ſtreaks the ruddy Eaſt,
He will obey your pleafure, and return
To ſtranger climes---

EDMUND.

'Tis falſe; I will not hence.
I have been fool'd too long, too long been patient.
Nor are my years ſo green as to endure
The manacles of prieſts and nurſeries.
Am I not Narbonne's prince ? who ſhall rule here
But Narbonne ? Have I ſapp'd my country's laws,

K 2

Or

## 68 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Or play'd the tyrant ? Who shall banish me ?
Am I a recreant knight ? has cowardice
Difgrac'd the line of heroes I am sprung from ?
Shall I then skulk, hide my inglorious head ?
Or does it please your worship's gravity
Dispatch me on some sleevelefs pilgrimage,
Like other noble fools, to win you empires,
While you at home mock our credulity,
The mafters of our wealth, our states, and wives ?

## COUNTESS.

*Afide.*] (Brave youth ! there spoke his fire. How
my foul yearns
To own its genuine offspring !)--Edmund, hear
me !
Thou art my son, and I will prove a mother.
But I'm thy sovereign too. This state is mine.
Learn to command, by learning to obey.
Tho' frail my sex, I have a foul as masculine
As any of thy race. This very monk,
Lord as thou thinkest of my ductile conscience,
Quails---look if 'tis not true---when I command.
Retire thee to the village. 'Tis not ripe
As yet my purpose---Benedict, attend me.
To-morrow, Edmund, shall thou learn my pleasure.
[Ex. COUNTESS and BENEDICT.

EDMUND.

A TRAGEDY.

EDMUND, alone.

Why, this is majesty. Sounds of such accent
Ne'er ftruck mine ear till now. Commanding sex !
Strength, courage, all our boafted attributes,
Want estimation; ev'n the preheminence
We vaunt in wisdom, feems a borrow'd ray,
When virtue deigns to fpeak with female organs.
Yes, O my mother, I will learn t' obey :
I will believe, that, harfh as thy decrees,
They wear the warrant of benign intention.
Make but the blooming Adeliza mine,
And bear, of me unqueftion'd, Narbonne's fceptre;
Till life's expiring lamp by intervals
Throws but a fainter and a fainter flash,
And then relumes its wafted oil no more.

[Exit.]

End of the third act.

ACT

70 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

ACT the FOURTH.

The SCENE continues.

BENEDICT, MARTIN.

MARTIN.

I Know thy spirit well; know how it labours,
When curb'd, and driv'n to wear the mask of art.
But till this hour I have not seen thy passions
Boil o'er the bounds of prudence. So impetuous,
And so reserv'd!

BENEDICT.

Mistake me not, good brother:
I want no confidence: I know thy faith.
But can I to thy naked eye unfold,
What I dare scarce reveal to my own bosom?
I would not know one half that I suspect,
Till I have acted as if not suspecting.

MARTIN.

How, brother! thou a cauift! and apply

To

A TRAGEDY.

To thy own breast those damning subtleties,
Which cowards with half-winking consciences
Purchase of us, when they would sin secure,
And hope the penalty will all be ours !

BENEDICT.

Brother, this moment is too big with action
To waste on bootlefs curiosty.
When I try fins upon the touchstone conscience,
It is for others use, not for my own.
'Tis time enough to make up our account,
When we confess and kneel for absolution.

MARTIN.

Still does thy genius stoar above mankind !
How many fathers of our holy church
In Benedict I view !

BENEDICT.

No flattery, brother.
'Tis true the church owes Benedict some thanks.
For her, I have forgot I am a man.
For her, each virtue from my breast I banish.
No laws I know but her prosperity;
No country, but her boundles acquisitions.
Who dares be true to country, king, or friend,
If enemies to Rome, are Benedict's foes.

MARTIN.

72 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

MARTIN.

Has it then gone so far? does she speak out?
Is Edmund too infected with like errors?

BENEDICT.

Both, brother, both are thinking heretics.
I could forgive them, did some upstart fect
With sharper rigours charm their headlong zeal.
But they, in footh, must reafon---curfes light
On the proud talent! 'twill at laft undo us.
When men are gorged with each abfurdity
Their subtle wits can frame, or we adopt;
For very novelty they will fly to ſenſe,
And we ſhall fall before that idol, fashion.

MARTIN.

Fear not a reign so tranſient. Statesmen too
Will join to ſtem the torrent: or new follies
Replace the old. Each chieftain that attacks us
Muſt grow the pope of his own hereſy.
E'en ſtern philofophy, if once triumphant,
Shall frame ſome jargon, and exact obedience
To metaphyſic nonſenſe worſe than ours.
The church is but a ſpecious name for empire,
And will exiſt where ever fools have fears.
Rome is no city; 'tis the human heart;
And there ſuffice it if we plant our banners.

Each

A TRAGEDY.

Each priest cannot command—and thence comes
fects.

Obdurate Zeno and our great Ignatius
Are of one faith, and differ but for power.

BENEDICT.

So be it—therefore interest bids us crush
This cockatrice and her egg: or we shall see
The finging faints of Savoy's neighb'ring vale
Fly to the covert of her shadowy wings,
And foil us at our own dexterity.

Already to those vagrants she inclines;
As if the rogues, that preach reform to others,
Like idiots, minded to reform themselves.

MARTIN.

Be cautious, brother: you may lose the lady.

BENEDICT.

She is already lost—or ne'er was ours.
I cannot dupe, and therefore must destroy her:
Involve her house in ruin so prodigious,
That neither she nor Edmund may survive it.

MARTIN.

How may this be accomplished?

BENEDICT.

Ask me not.

L

From

74 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

From hints long-treasure'd up, from broken phrase
In frenzy dropp'd, but vibrating from truth;
Nay, from her caution to explain away
What the late tempest of her soul had utter'd,
I guesst her fatal secret—or, no matter—
Say, I do not—by what she has forbidden,
I know what should be done—then hasteth thee,
brother;
Facilitate Count Edmund's interview
With Adeliza; nourish their young passion—
Curse them—and if you can—why—join their
hands.

MARTIN.

I tremble!

BENEDICT.

Daftard, tremble, if we fail.
What can we fear, when we have ruined them?

(A deep-toned Voice is heard.)

Forbear!

BENEDICT.

Ha! whence that found!

(Voice again.) Forbear!

BENEDICT.

Comes it from heav'n or hell!

Again!

(Voice)

76 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

MARTIN.

Who trembled first? It was thy guilty conscience
That gave th' alarm to mine.

BENEDICT.

Peace, dotard, peace!
Nor when the lamb is nigh, must eagles wrangle.

[To ADELIZA.]

Fair Saint, give us to know why flow these tears;
Why fights that gentle bofom? and why chant ye
That heav'n-invoking foul-dissolving dirge?

ADELIZA.

Ah! holy father, art thou then to learn
The pious Abbefs is at peace? We go
To bear her parting blessing to the Countefs.

BENEDICT.

It must not be. Occasions of much import
Engrofs her faculties. By me she wills you
Restrain your steps within the cloysters pale,
Nor grant accefs but to one stranger knight.

ADELIZA.

Is't possible? Can my dear miftrels bar
Her faithfull handmaid from her gracious prefence ?
Shall I not pour my forrows in her bofom,
And moiften it with grief and gratitude ?

Two

A TRAGEDY.

Two friends were all poor Adeliza's wealth.
Lo! one is gone to plead the orphan's cause.
My patroness, like Tobit's guardian spirit,
Confirms my steps, and points to realms of glory.
She will not quit me in this vale of bondage;
She must be good, who teaches what is goodneſs.

BENEDICT.

(Indeed ! my pretty pratler !—then am I
As found a faint as e'er the rubric boafed.
—Ha! 'tis the Counteſs—now for my obedience.)

[To ADELIZA.]

Young lady, much I marvel at these murmurs.
Juſt ſenſe and ſober piety ſtill dictate
The Counteſs's commands. With truth I ſay it,
My fins diminifh, as I copy her.

SCENE III.

COUNTESS, ADELIZA, BENEDICT,
MARTIN.

COUNTESS.

What voices heard I? Does my rebel ſon
Attempt againſt my peace?—Hah! Adeliza!
I charg'd thee guard thy convent—wherefore then
This diſobedience?

BENEDICT.

78 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

BENEDICT.

Madam, I was urging
The fitness of your orders ; but vain youth
Scoff'd my importunate rebuke---

ADELIZA.

Oh! no.
I am the thing you made me. Crush me, spurn me,
I will not murmur. Should you bid me die,
I know 'twere meant in kindfalls.

COUNTESS.

Bid thee die!
My own detested life but lingers round thee!
Ha! what a glance was there! it spoke resemblance
To all I hate, adore—My child, retire:
I am much discompos'd—the good old Abbefs
Claims thy attendance.

ADELIZA.

Mercy crown her foul!
She needs no duty we can pay her now !

COUNTESS.

How! art thou desolate! not a friend left
To guard thy innocence?—oh! wretched maid !
Muſt thou be left to spoilers ? or worse, worse,
To

To

A TRAGEDY.

To the fierce onset of thy own dire passions ?
Oh ! is it come to this ?

ADELIZA.

My noble miſtrefs,
Can Adeliza want a miniftring angel,
When ſhelter'd by thy wing ?---yet Benedict
Says, I muſt ſhun this hofpitable roof.
Indeed I thought it hard.

COUNTESS.

Did Benedict,
Did he audacious dare forbid my child,
My little orphan to embrace her---curſes
Swell in my throat---hence---or they fall on thee.

ADELIZA.

Alas ! for pity ! how have I offended ?

BENEDICT.

Madam, it is the pupil of your care,
Your favour'd child---

COUNTESS.

Who told thee so ? Be dumb
For ever !---what, art thou combin'd with Edmund,
To daſh me down the precipice ? Churchman, I
tell thee,

I view

So The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

I view it with impatience. I could leap
And meet the furies---but must she fall with me!

BENEDICT.

A/side.] (Yes, and thy Edmund too)---be patient,
lady:

This fair domain, thou know'st, acknowledges
The sovereignty of the church. Thy rebel son
Dares not attempt---

COUNTESS.

Again I bid thee peace.

There is no question of lord Edmund. Leave us:
I have to talk with her alone.

BENEDICT. [a/side to MARTIN.

(Now tremble)

At voices supernatural; and forfeit
The spoils the tempest throws into our lap.)

[Ex. BENEDICT and MARTIN.

SCENE IV.

COUNTESS, ADELIZA.

COUNTESS.

Now, Adeliza, summon all thy courage.
Retrace my precepts past: nor let a tear

Profane

A TRAGEDY.

81

Profane a moment that's worth martyrdom.
Remember patience is the Christian's courage.
Stoics have bled, and demigods have died.
A Christian's task is harder—'tis to suffer.

ADELIZA.

Alas! have I not learnt the bitter leffon ?
Have I not borne thy woes ? What is to come
Can tax my patience with a ruder trial ?

COUNTESS.

Oh! yes, thou muſt do more. Adverſity
Has various arrows. When the foul is ſteel'd
By meditation to encounter ſorrow,
The foe of man ſhifts his artillery,
And drowns in luxury and careleſs ſoftneſs
The breaſt he could not ſtorm. Canſt thou bear
wealth,
And pleaſure's melting couch ? Thou haſt known
virtue
But at a ſcanty board. She has awak'd thee
To chilling vapours in the midnight vault,
And beckon'd thee to hardſhips, tears, and penance.
Wilt thou acknowledge the divine inſtructrefs,
When fyren pleaſures lap thee in delights ?

ADELIZA.

If such the witchery that waits on guilt,
M

Why

82 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Why should I seek th' enchantress and her wiles ?
The virgin veil shall guard my spotless hours,
Affure my peace, and faint me for hereafter.

COUNTESS.

It cannot be—

To Narbonne thou must bid a last adieu !
And with the stranger knight depart a bride.

ADELIZA.

Unhappy me ! too sure I have o'erburthen'd
Thy charity, if thou wouldst drive me from thee.
Retrain thy alms, dear lady. I have learnt
From our kind sister-hood the needle's art.
My needle and thy smiles will life support.
Pray let me bring my last embroidery ;
'Tis all by my own hand. Indeed I meant it
For my kind lady's festival.

COUNTESS.

Great justice !

Does this stroke pierce not deep enough? These
tears,
Wung from my vital fondness, scald they not
Worse than the living coal that fears the limbs?

ADELIZA.

Alas ! thou hearest not ! what grief o'erwhelms
thee?

Why

A TRAGEDY.

Why darts thy eye into my inmost soul ?
Then vacant, motionleſs, arreſts its courſe,
And ſeems not to perceive what it reads there ?
My much-lov'd patroneſs !

COUNTESS.

O Adeliza,

Thy words now ſlake, and now augment my fever !
But oh ! e'er reaſon quits this lab'ring frame,
While I dare weep theſe tears of anguſh o'er thee,
Unutterable, petrifying anguſh !
Hear my laſt breath. Avoid the ſcorpion pleaſure.
Death lurks beneath the velvet of his lip,
And but to think him over, is perdition !
—O retroſpect of horror !—to the altar !
Hastè, Adeliza,—vow thou wilt be wretched !

ADELIZA.

Doſt thou then doom me to eternal ſorrows ?
Haſt thou deceiv'd me ? is not virtue, happineſs ?

COUNTESS.

I know not that. I know that guilt is torture !

ADELIZA.

Sure peſtilence has flapp'd his balefull wing,
And ſhed its poſſon o'er thy faintlike reaſon !
When thou ſo patient, holy, ſo reſign'd,
Doubteſt of virtue's health, of virtue's peace.

M 2

83

But

84 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

—But 'tis to try me—look upon this relick :
'Twas the good Abbots's bequeft. 'Twill chafe
The fiend that walks at twilight.

COUNTESS.

How she melts me !

What have I faid—my lovely innocence,
Thou art my only thought—oh ! waft thou form'd
The child of fin ?—and dare I not embrace thee ?
Muſt I with eager ecſtacy gaze on thee,
Yet curſe the hour that ſtamp'd thee with a being !

ADELIZA.

Alas ! was I then born the child of fin !
Who were my parents ? I will pray for them.

COUNTESS.

Oh ! if the bolt muſt come, here let it ſtrike me !

*[Flinging herself on the ground.*

Nature ! these feelings were thy gift. Thou knowest
How ill I can refift thy forcefull impulse.
If these emotions are imputed to me,
I have one fin I cannot yet repent of !

ADELIZA.

Oh ! raſe thee from the earth. Shall I behold thee
Proftrate, embracing an unfriended beggar ?
Or doſt thou mock me ſtill ? What is my lot ?

Wilt

A TRAGEDY.

Wilt thou yet cherish me ? Or do the great
Exalt us but in sport, lend us a tafte,
A vision of enjoyment, and then dash us
To poverty, more poignant by comparifon ?
Sure I could never wanton with afflietion !

COUNTESS.

Ah ! canst thou doubt this conflict of the foul !
Mock thee ! ---oh ! yes, there are such savage na-
tures,
That will deride thy woes ---and thou muft bear
it ---
With foul reproach will gall thy spotles ſoul,
And taunt thee with a crime paft thy conceiving.
Oh ! 'tis to ſhield thee from this world of forrows,
That thou muſt fly, muſt wed, muſt never view
The tow'rs of Narbonne more ; muſt never know
The doom referv'd for thy ſad patronefs !

ADELIZA.

Who threatens thy dear life ! recall thy ſon.
His valiant arm will item a hoſt of foes,
Replace thy lord, and woo thee to be happy.

COUNTESS.

Hah ! little imp of darkneſs ! doſt thou wear
That angel form to gird me with upbraidings !
Fly, e'er my rage forget diffintion, nature,

And

A TRAGEDY.

87

Supereminent ?---'tis conscience !---phrenzy, shield
me !

I know the foe---fee! fee! he points his lance !

He plunges it all flaming in my foul,

And down I sink, loft in eternal anguish! [runs out.

SCENE IV.

BENEDICT, ADELIZA.

ADELIZA.

She is not here. Shall we not follow her ?

Such agonies of passion ! sure some daemon

Affaults her. Thou fhalt pray by her. Indeed

I tremble for her life.

BENEDICT.

'Thou know'ft her not.

Her transport is fictitious. 'Tis the coinage

Of avarice and caprice. Doft thou not fee

Her bounty wearies ? While thy babbling years

Wore the trick of novelty, thou waſt her plaything.

The charity of the great muſt be amus'd.

Mere merit ſurfeits it; affliction kills it.

The ſick muſt jeſt and gambol to attract

Their pity---come, I'll warrant, thou haſt wept,

And told her heav'n would regifter each ducat

Her

## 88 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER,

Her piety had spars'd to cloathe and feed thee.
Go to; thou haft estrang'd her; and she means
To drive thee hence, left thou upbraid her change.

### ADELIZA.

Upbraid my patroness! I! I upbraid her,
Who see her now the angel that she will be!
How knew I virtue, goodness, but from her!
Her lessons taught me heav'n; her life reveal'd it.
The wings of gratitude must bear me thither,
Or I deserve not Paradise.

### BENEDICT.

Thou art young.
Thy novice ear imbibes each silver sound,
And deems the music warbled all by truth.
Grey hairs are not fool'd thus. I know this
Countess:
An errant heretic. She scoffs at the church.
When did her piety adorn our altars?
What holy garments glitzen with her gifts?
The fabric of our convent threatens ruin---
Does she repair it?---no. On lazy lepers,
On soldiers maim'd and swearing from the wars
She lavishes her wealth---but note it, young one;
Her days are number'd; and thou fhalt do wisely
To quit her e'er the measure is compleat.

ADELIZA.

A TRAGEDY. 89

ADELIZA.

Alas! she bids me go. She bids me wed
The stranger knight that woo'd me at our parlour.

BENEDICT.

And thou shalt take her at her word. Myself
Will join your hands---and lo! in happy hour
Who comes to meet her boon.

SCENE V.

EDMUND, BENEDICT, ADELIZA.

EDMUND.

In tears!---that cowl
Shall not protect th' injurious tongue, that dares
Infult thy innocence---for sure, thou dear one,
Thou haft no fins to weep.

BENEDICT.

My gracious lord,
Yourself and virgin coyness must be chidden,
If my fair scholar wears the mein of sadnefs.
'Tis but a blush that melts in modeft showers.

EDMUND.

Unriddle, prieſt. My foul is too impatient,
To wait th' impertinence of flow'ry dialect.

N BENEDICT.

90 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

BENEDICT.

Then briefly thus. The Counteſs wills me join
Your hand with this fair maiden's---now, my lord,
Is my poor language naufeous ?

EDMUND.

Is it poſſible ?

Doſt thou conſent, ſweet paſſion of my ſoul ?
May I then clasp thee to my heart ?

ADELIZA.

Forbear !

It muſt not be.---Thou ſhalt not wed a beggar.

EDMUND.

A beggar ! Thou art riches, opulence.
The flaming ruby and the dazling di'mond,
Set in the world's firſt diadem, could not add
A ray to thy leaſt charm !---for pity, grant me
To breathe my warmth into this marble hand.

ADELIZA.

Never !---this orphan, this abandon'd wanderer,
Taunted with poverty, with ſhamefull origine,
Dower'd with no lot but ſcorn, ſhall ne'er beſtow
That, her ſole portion, on a lordly huſband.

BENEDICT.

My lord, the Counteſs is my gracious miſtrefſs :

My

A TRAGEDY. 91

My duty bade me to report her words.
It seems her charities circumscribe her wishes.
This goodly maiden has full long experience'd
Her amplest bounty. Other piteous objects
Call for her large矣. Lovely Adeliza
Plac'd in your arms can never feel affliction.
This the good Counte矣 knows---

EDMUND.

By my fire's soul
I will not thank her. Has she dar'd to fcorn thee,
'Thou beauteous excellence ?---then from this hour
Thou art her equal. In her very preſence
I will eſpouse thee. Let us feek the proud one !
---Nay, no reſiftance, love !

BENEDICT.

(By heav'n all's loft, [aſide.
Should they meet now)---my lord, a word. The
maiden [aſide to EDMUND.
Is tutor'd to ſuch awe, ſhe ne'er will yield
Conſent, ſhould but a frown dart from the Counteſs.
But now, and ſhe enjoin'd your marriage. Better
Profit of that beheſt---

EDMUND.

I tell thee, monk,
My haughty ſoul will not---

N 2

BENEDICT.

92 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

BENEDICT. [in a low voice.

Pray be advis'd.

Heav'n knows how dear I tender your felicity.
The chapel is few paces hence---nay, lead her
With gentle wooing, nor alarm her fears :
Arriv'd there, I will speedily pronounce
The solemn words---

EDMUND.

Well, be it so. My fair one,
This holy man advices well. To heaven
We will addrefs our vows, and ask its pleafure.
Come, come; I will not be refus'd---

ADELIZA.

Yes, heav'n!
To thee I fly; thou art my only refuge.

[Exeunt.

End of the fourth act.

ACT

A TRAGEDY.

ACT the FIFTH.

*The SCENE continues.*

*Enter BENEDICT.*

THE busines is dispatch'd. Their hands are
join'd.

The puling moppet struggled with her wishes;

Invok'd each faint to witneſs her reſuſal :

Nor heeded, tho' I ſwore their golden harps

Were tun'd to greet her hymeneal hour.

Th' impetuous Count, fir'd with th' impure fug-
geſtion,

As if descending clouds had ſpread their pillows

To meet the preſsure of his eager transports,

Would have forerun the rites. The maid affrighted

At ſuch tumultuous unaccuſtom'd onſet,

Sunk lifeleſs on the pavement. Haſtily

I mumbled o'er the ſpell that binds them faſt,

Like an invenom'd robe, to ſcorch each other

With mutual ruin—thus am I reveng'd.

Proud

94 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Proud dame of Narbonne, lo! a bare-foot monk
Thus pays thy scorn, thus vindicates his altars.
Nor while this woolen frock shall wrap our order,
Shall e'en the lillied monarchs of our realm
Be plac'd so high, but a poor friar's knife
Shall fell their tow'ring grandeur to the earth,
Oft as they scant obedience to the church.

## SCENE II.

### BENEDICT, PORTER.

#### PORTER.

Ah! woe of woes! good father, hafte thee in,
And speak sweet words of comfort to our miftres.
Her brain is much difturb'd---I fear fome ſpell,
Or naughty bev'rage---will you not in and pray
by her?
Infooth ſhe needs your pray'rs.

#### BENEDICT.

She ſcorns my pray'rs. [coldly].

#### PORTER.

Oh! no; but now ſhe call'd for you. Pray seek
her.

#### BENEDICT.

A TRAGEDY.

95

BENEDICT.

I can administer no comfort to her.

PORTER.

Yes, yes, you can. They say the foul fiend dreads
A scholar---Tut, your holy wit can poze him,
Or bind him to the red waves of the ocean.
Oh! he afflicts her gentle spirit, and vomits
Strange menaces and terrible from her mouth !
Then he is fullen; gags her lab'ring lips,
And she replies not---

BENEDICT.

Goodman exorcist,
Thy pains are unavailing. Her fins preys her.
Guilt has unhing'd her reafon.

PORTER.

Befrew thy heart,
Thou doft afperſe her. I know thofe are paid
For being ſaints that---

BENEDICT.

Stop that tongue profane!
Thou art infected with her hereſies.
“ Judgments already have o'erta'en thy miſtrefs.
“ Thou at thy peril leave her to her fate.

PORTER.

96 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

PORTER.

" Father, belike there is a different heaven
" For learned clerks and such poor men as I am.
" Me it behoves to have such humble virtues
" As fuit my fimple calling. To my masters
" For raiment, food, for salary, and protection
" My honest heart owes gratitude. They took me
" From drudgery to guard their honour'd persons.
" Why am I call'd a man of worfhip? Why,
" As up the chancel I precede my lady,
" Do th' vaffals of the caftle, rang'd in rows,
" Bow e'en to Peter---why? but, by the rood,
" Because she plac'd this filver-garnifh'd ftaff
" In Peter's hand. Why, but because this robe,
" Floating with feemly tufts, was her gift too.
" For honours of such note owe I not thanks?
" Were my life much to sacrifce for hers?

BENEDICT.

" Peace with thy fawcy lecture, or harangue
" Thy maudling fellows o'er the hall's dull embers
" With this thy goſſiping morality"---
Now anſwer---mentions ſhe her ſon ?

PORTER.

Ah me!
I had forgotten---this old brain---'tis true,

'Tis

A TRAGEDY.

Tis very true---she raves upon her son,
And thinks he came in vifion.

BENEDICT.

'Twas no vifion.

PORTER.

How!—heav'nly fathers !

BENEDICT.

He has spoken with her.

PORTER.

And I not see him!—go to; it could not be.
How did he pafs the gate?

BENEDICT.

I tell thee, Edmund,
Thy quondam mafter's fon, has feen his mother;
Is but few paces hence.

PORTER.

Oh ! joyous founds !

Where is my noble lord ?

BENEDICT.

Here—and undone.

O

SCENE.

98 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

## SCENE III.

FLORIAN, BENEDICT, PORTER.

### FLORIAN.

Sure the foul fogs, that hang in lazy clouds
O'er yonder moat, infect the moping air,
And fteam with phrenzy's melancholy fumes.
But now and I met Edmund—with a voice
Appall'd and hollow like a parricide's,
He told me he was wedded. When I asked
To see his bride, he groan'd, and said his joys
Were blafted e'er accomplish'd. As he urg'd
His fuit, the maiden's tears and fhrieks had ftruck
On his sick fancy like his mother's cries!
Th' idea writhing from his brain, had won
His eye-balls, and he thought he saw his mother!
—This ague of contagious bigotry
Has gain'd almost on me. Methinks yon monk
Might fell me with a chaplet—Edmund left me
Abruptly—I must learn this mystery.

[To BENEDICT.]

[To PETER.]

Health to your rev'rence—hah! my new acquaint-
ance!

In tears, my good old friend! What has the cricket

Chirp'd

A TRAGEDY.

99

Chirp'd ominouſly—come, away with ſorrow:
Joy marks this day its own.

PORTER.

A joyfull day !
The twentieth of September !—note it, fir,
Note it for th' uglieſt of the calendar.
'Twas on this day—ay, this day fixteen years
The noble Count came to his death !

FLORIAN.

No matter.

Th' arrival of a nobler younger Count
Shall mock prognostics paſt, and paint the year
With ſmiling white, fair fortune's fav'rite livery.

[To BENEDICT.]

But tell me, father, tell me, has the Countefs
Pardon'd her ſon's return ? has ſhe receiv'd him
With th' overflowings of a mother's joy ?
Smiles ſhe upon his wisheſ—as I enter'd
Methought I heard an hymeneal accent.
And yet, it ſeems, the favour of your countenance
Wears not the benediction of rejoicing.

BENEDICT.

The Countefs muſt unfold her book of fate.
I am not ſkill'd to read so dark a volume.

O 2

FLORIAN.

100 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

FLORIAN.

Oracular as the Delphic god !—good Peter,
Thy wit and mine are more upon a level.
Refolve me, has the Countefs feen lord Edmund ?
Say, did she frown and chide ? or bathe his cheek
With tears as warm as leaping blood ?

PORTER:

Ah ! mafter,

You seem too good to mock our misery.
A foldier caufes woe, but seldom jeers it.
Or know'ft thou not—and fure 'twill pity thee !
The gracious Countefs, our kind lady—indeed
I truft they will return—is ftrangely chang'd !

FLORIAN.

By my good ſword, thou ſhalt unriddle, prieſt.
What means this tale ? what mintage is at work
To coin delufion, that this fair domain
May become holy patrimony ? Thus
Teach you our matrons to defraud their iſſue
By artificial ſits and acted ravings ?
I have beheld your juggles, heard your dreams.
Th' impoſture ſhall be known. Thefe ſixteen years
Has my friend Edmund pin'd in baniſhment :
While maſſes, mummings, goblins and proceſſions
Uſurp'd his heritage, and made of Narbonne

A

A TRAGEDY.

101

A theatre of holy interludes
And fainted frauds. But day darts on your spells.
Th' enlighten'd age eschews your vile deceits,
And truth shall do mankind and Edmund justice.

BENEDICT.

Unhallow'd boy, I fcorn thy contumely.
In camps and trenches vent thy lewd reproaches,
Blaſpheming while ye tremble. Heav'n's true
soldiers,
Endu'd with more than mortal courage, defy
Hoſts numerous as the Pagan chivalry
Pour'd forth to crush the church's riling glories.
---But this is an enlighten'd age !---behold
The triumphs of your ſea! to yonder plains
Bend thy illumin'd eye ! The Vaudois there,
Writhing in flames, and quiv'ring at th' approach
Of Rome's impending knife, atteſt the bleſſings
Conferr'd on their inſtruſted ignorance !

FLORIAN.

Monſtrous! unparallel'd! Are cries and groans
Of butcher'd conſcientious men the hymns
With which you chant the vicſories of the church?
Do you afflict and laugh? ſtab and huzza?
---But I am dallying with my own impatience---
Where is this mother? I will tent her ſoul;

And

THER.

Peter,
vel.

d Edmund?
ne his cheek

Ah! maſter,
ry.
s it.

pity thee!
y---indee
chang'd!

dle, prieſt.
e is at work
in
their iſſue

ur dreams.
ſe fixteen years
ihment :
and proceſſions
arbonne

A

102 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

And warn thee, if I find suggestion's whisper
Has practic'd to the detriment of my friend,
Thy caitiff life shall answer to my sword,
Tho' shrink'd within the pillars of the Vatican.

BENEDICT.

Judge heaven betwixt us!
If, e'er the dews of night shall fall, thou seemest not
The cup of wrath pour'd out, and triple woes
O'ertake unheard-of crimes; call me false prophet,
Renounce my gods and join thee to the impious!
Thou in thy turn, if truth lives on my lips,
Tremble! repent!---behold! the hour approaches!

SCENE IV.

COUNTESS, FLORIAN, BENEDICT,
PORTER.

COUNTESS.

I dare not shoot the gulf---ha! Benedict!
Thou art a priest, thy mission should be holy,
If thou believest not heav'n---quick, do thy work!
If there is power in pray'r, teach me some sounds
To charm myenses, left my coward flesh
Recoil, and win the mastery o'er my will.
---'Tis not the wound; it is the consequence!

See,

A TRAGEDY.

103

See, see! my Narbonne stands upon the brink,
And snatches from the readied fury there
A blazing torch! he whirls it round my head,
And asks, where are my children!

PORTER.

Split, my heart,

At this sad fight!

FLORIAN.

Stand off! thou'rt an accomplice---
Madam, it was your morning's gracious pleasure
I should attend you. May I hope your pardon,
If I anticipate---

COUNTESS.

Ha! Who art thou?

FLORIAN.

Have you forgot me, lady?

COUNTESS.

Memory

Is full. A head distract as mine can hold
Two only objects, guilt and eternity!

FLORIAN.

No more of this. Time has abundant hours
For holy meditation. Nor have years

Trac'd

104 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Trac'd such deep admonitions on your cheek,
As call for sudden preparation---

COUNTESS. [wildly.]

Prayer

Can do no more: its efficacy's loft---

What must be, must be soon---He will return.

FLORIAN.

He is return'd, your fon---have you not seen him ?

COUNTESS.

Would I had never !

FLORIAN.

Come, this is too much.

This villainous monk has step'd 'twixt you and
nature;

And misreported of the noblest gentleman

That treads on chridtian ground---are you a mo-
ther ?

Are legends dearer to you than your fon ?

Think you 'tis piety to gorge these miscreants,

And drive your child from your embrace---

COUNTESS.

Ye faints !

This was the daemon prompted it---avaunt !

He beckons me---I will not---lies my lord

Not

106 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Beats not its wonted tempeſt---in the grave
There is peace then !

FLORIAN.

Her agony abates.
Look up and view your friends.

COUNTESS.

Alas ! I fear me,
This is life ſtill !---am I not in my caſtle ?
Sure I ſhould know this garden---good old Peter !
My honeſt ſervant, thou I see wilt never
Quit thy poor miſtrefſs !---kind old man, he weeps !

PORTER.

Indeed it is for joy---how fares my lady ?

COUNTESS.

Exhausted, Peter, that I have not ſtrength
To be diſtraſted---hah ! your looks betray
Tremendous innuendoes !---gracious heaven !
Have I ſaid ought---has wildneſs---truſt me, ſirs,
In theſe ſad fits my unhing'd fancy wanders
Beyond the compaſs of things poſſible.
Sometimes an angel of excelling brightneſs
I ſeem to whirl the orbs and launch the comet.
Then hideous wings with forked points array me,
Then

A TRAGEDY. 107

And I fudgeft ſtrange crimes to ſhuddering ma-
trons---

Sick fancy muſt be pardon'd.

BENEDICT.

(Artfull woman! [afide.

Thou ſubtle emblem of thy ſex, compos'd

Of madneſs and deceit---but ſince thy brain

Has loft its poize, I will ſend thofe ſhall ſhake it

Beyond recovery of its reeling bias)

[Exit.

[COUNTESS makes a ſign to PETER to retire.

SCENE V.

COUNTESS, FLORIAN.

COUNTESS.

This interval is well---'tis thy laſt boon,

'Tremendous Providence ! and I will uſe it

As 'twere th' elixir of deſcending mercy :

Not a drop ſhall be waſte---accept my thanks !

Preſerve my reaſon ! and preſerve my child !

[To FLORIAN.]

---Stranger, thy years are green; perhaps may mock

A woman's words, a mother's woe !---but honour,

If I believe this garb, is thy proſeſſion.

P 2

Haſt

108 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Haft thou not dealt in blood ?---then thou haft
heard

The dying groan, and sin's defpairing accent.

Struck it not on thy foul? Recall it, sir!

What then was thy senfation, feel for me !

FLORIAN.

I fhudder! liften, pity, and respect thee !

COUNTESS.

Refolve my anxious heart. Tho' vagrant pleafure,
Th' ebriety of youth, and worfe than paflion,
Example, lead thee to the ftrumpet vice ;
Say, if beneath the waves of diffipation,
The germ of virtue bloffoms in thy foul.

FLORIAN.

A soldier's honour is his virtue. Gownmen
Wear it for show, and barter it for gold,
And have it ſtill. A soldier and his honour
Exift together, and together perifh.

COUNTESS.

I do believe thee. Thus my Narbonne thought.
Then hear me, child of honour! canſt thou cheriſh
Unblemiſh'd innocence! wilt thou proteſt it ?
Wilt thou obſerve its wand'ring's? call it back,
Confine it to the path that leads to happineſs ?

Haſt

A TRAGEDY.

109

Haſt thou that genuine heroſm of foul
To hug the little fondling ſufferer,
When neſtling in thy bosom, drown'd in bluſhes,
Nor caſt her from thee, while a grinning world
Reviles her with a mother's foul mifdeeds ?

FLORIAN.

My arm is ſworn to innocence diſtreſt ;
Point out the lovely mourner.

COUNTESS.

'Tis enough.

Nor ſuffer th' ebbing moments more enquiry.
My orphan ſhall be thine---nay, ſtart not, ſir,
Your loves are known to me. Wealth paſt th'
ambition
Of Gallia's proudeſt baron ſhall endow her.
Within this caſket is a monarch's ransom.
Ten thouſand ducats more are lodg'd within.
All this is thine with Adeliza's hand.

FLORIAN.

With Adeliza !

COUNTESS.

Ha ! doſt thou recoil ?

Doſt thou not love her ?

FLORIAN.

110 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

FLORIAN.

I love Adeliza !
Lady, recall thy wand'ring memory.

COUNTESS.

Doft thou reject her ? and has hope beguil'd me
In this fad only moment ? Haft thou dar'd
With ruffian infolence gaze on her fweetneſs,
And mark it for an hour of wanton dalliance?
Oh ! I will guard my child, tho' gaping dæmons
Howl with impatience !

FLORIAN.

Moſt rever'd of matrons,
Tho' youth and rofy joy flush on my cheek,
Tho' the licentious camp and rapine's holiday
Have been my ſchool; deem not so reprobate
My morals, that my eye would note no diſtance
Between the harlot's glance and my friend's bride.

COUNTESS.

Thy friend! what friend?

FLORIAN.

Lord Edmund---

COUNTESS.

What of him?

FLORIAN.

A TRAGEDY.

313

FLORIAN.

Is Adeliza's lord; her wedded bridegroom.

COUNTESS.

Confusion! phrenzy! blaft me, all ye furies!
Edmund and Adeliza! when! where! how!
Edmund wed Adeliza! quick, unfay
The monſt'rous tale---oh! prodigy of ruin!
Does my own ſon then boil with fiercer fires
Than ſcorch'd his impious mother's madding veins!
Did reaſon reaſume its ſhatter'd throne,
But as ſpectatrels of this laſt of horrors?
Oh! let my dagger drink my heart's black blood,
And then preſent my hell-born progeny
With drops of kindred ſin!---that were a torch
Fit to light up ſuch loves! and fit to quench them!

FLORIAN.

What means this agony? didſt thou not grant
The maiden to his wishes?

COUNTESS.

Did I not couple
Distinſtions horrible! plan unnatural rites
To grace my funeral pile, and meet the furies
More innocent than thofe I leave behind me!

FLORIAN.

112 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

FLORIAN.

Amazement! ---I will haften---grant, ye pow'rs!
My speed be not too late!

[Exit.]

COUNTESS.

Globe of the world,
If thy frame fplit not with fuch crimes as theſe,
It is immortal!

SCENE VI.

COUNTESS, EDMUND, ADELIZA.

[EDMUND and ADELIZA enter at the oppofite door
from which FLORIAN went out. They kneel to
the COUNTESS.]

EDMUND.

Dear parent, look on us, and bleſs your children!

COUNTESS.

My children; horror! horror! yes, too ſure
Ye are my children! ---Edmund, loofe that hand;
'Tis poſon to thy ſoul! ---hell has no venom
Like a child's touch---oh! agonizing thought!
---Who made this marriage? whole unhallow'd
breath
Pronounc'd the inceſtuous ſounds?

EDMUND.

A TRAGEDY.

113

EDMUND.

Inceſt ! good heavens !

COUNTESS.

Yes, thou devoted victim ! let thy blood
Curdle to ſtone ! perdition circumvents thee !
Lo ! where this monster ſtands ! thy mother ! miſ-
trels !
The mother of thy daughter, ſister, wife !
The pillar of accumulated horrors !
Hear ! tremble ! ---and then marry, if thou dareſt !

EDMUND.

Yes, I do tremble, tho' thy words are phrenzy.
So black muſt be the paſſions that inſpir'd it,
I ſhudder for thee ! pitying duty ſhudders !

COUNTESS.

For me ! ---O Edmund, I have burſt the bond
Of every tie ---when thou ſhalt know the crimes,
In which this fury did involve thy youth,
It will ſeem piety to curſe me, Edmund !
Oh ! impious night ! ---hah ! is not that my lord ?
He ſhakes the curtains of the nuptial couch, [wildly.
And ſtarts to find a ſon there !

EDMUND.

Gracious heaven !
Grant that these shocking images be raving !

Q

ADELIZA.

ER.

ow'rs !
[Exit.

world,
heſe,

LIZA.

oſite door
y kneel to

children !

ſure
at hand;
nom
ought !
unhallow'd

DMUND.

114 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

ADELIZA.

Sweet lady, be compos'd---indeed I thought
This marriage was thy will---but we will break
it---
Benedict shall discharge us from our vows.

COUNTESS.

Thou gentle lamb, from a fell tyger sprung!
Unknowing half the miseries that await thee!
---Oh! they are innocent---Almighty Pow'r !---

[Kneels, but rifles again hastily.

Hah! dare I pray! for others intercede!
I pray for them, the cause of all their woe!
---But for a moment give me leave, despair!
For a short interval lend me that reason
Thou gavest, heav'n, in vain!---it must be known
The fullness of my crime; or innocent these
May plunge them in new horrors. Not a word
Can 'scape me, but will do the work of thunder,
And blast those moments I regain from miseries!

Ye know how fondly my luxurious fancy
Doated upon my lord. For eighteen months
An embassier detain'd him from my bed.
A harbinger announc'd his near return.
Love dres'd his image to my longing thoughts
In all its warmest colours---but the morn,

In

116 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

Rais'd fuch a tumult in my madding blood,
I took the damfel's place; and while thy arms
Twin'd, to thy thinking, round another's waift,
Hear, hell, and tremble! ---thou didft clasp thy
mother!

EDMUND.

Oh! execrable!

[ADELIZA faints.]

COUNTESS.

Be that fwoon eternal!

Nor let her know the reſt---ſhe is thy daughter,
Fruit of that monſt'rous night!

EDMUND.

Infernal woman!

[Draws his dagger.]

My dagger muſt repay a tale like this!

Blood fo diſtemper'd---no---I muſt not ſtrike---

I dare not puniſh what you dar'd commit.

COUNTESS. [ſeizing his dagger.

Give me the ſeel---my arm will not recoil.

Thus, Edmund, I revenge thee!

[Stabs herself.]

EDMUND.

Help! hoa! help!

For both I tremble, dare not ſuccour either!

COUNTESS.

118 The MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

BENEDICT.

Bethink thee, Iady---

COUNTESS.

Thought ebbs apace---O Edmund, could a blessing
Part from my lips, and not become a curfe,
I would---poor Adeliza---'tis accomplifh'd! [dies.

BENEDICT.

My lord, explain these horrors. Wherefore fell
Your mother? and why faints your wife?

EDMUND.

My wife !

Thou damning prieſt! I have no wife---thou
know'ſt it---

Thou gaveſt me indeed---no---rot my tongue

E'er the dread found eſcape it!---bear away

That hatefull monk---

BENEDICT. [as he goes out to FLORIAN.

Who was the prophet now?

Remember me!

EDMUND.

O Florian, we muſt haſte

To where fell war affumes its uglieſt form :

I burn to ruff on death !

FLORIAN.

A TRAGEDY.

119

FLORIAN.

I dare not ask;
But stiffen'd with amazement I deplore---

EDMUND.

O tender friend! I must not violate
Thy guiltless ear---ha! 'tis my father calls! [wildly.
I dare not see him!

FLORIAN.

Be compos'd, my lord.
We are all your friends---

EDMUND.

Have I no kindred here?
They will confound all friendship! interweave
Such monst'rous union---

FLORIAN.

Good my lord, resume
Your wonted reason. Let us in and comfort
Your gentle bride---

EDMUND.

Forbid it, all ye pow'rs!
O Florian, bear her to the holy fifters.

Say,

POSTSCRIPT.

FROM the time that I first undertook the foregoing scenes, I never flattered myself that they would be proper to appear on the stage. The subject is so horrid, that I thought it would shock, rather than give satisfaction to an audience. Still I found it so truly tragic in the two essential springs of terror and pity, that I could not resist the impulse of adapting it to the scene, though it should never be practicable to produce it there. I saw too that it would admit of great situations, of lofty characters, and of those sudden and unforeseen strokes, which have singular effect in operating a revolution in the passions, and in interesting the spectator. It was capable of furnishing, not only a contrast of characters, but a contrast of vice and virtue in the same character: and by laying the scene in what age and country I pleased, pictures of ancient manners might be drawn, and many allusions to historic events introduced to bring the action nearer to the imagination of the spectator. The moral resulting from the calamities attendant

R

on

2

POSTSCRIPT.

on unbounded passion, even to the destruction of
the criminal person's race, was obviously suited to
the purpose and object of tragedy.

The subject is more truly horrid than even that
of Œdipus; and yet I do not doubt but a Grecian
poet would have made no scruple of exhibiting it
on the theatre. Revolting as it is, a son affaffinat-
ing his mother, as Oreste does, exceeds the guilt
that appears in the foregoing scenes. As murder is
the highest crime that man can commit against his
fellow beings, parricide is the deepest degree of
murder. No age but has suffered such guilt to be
represented on the stage. And yet I feel the dif-
guish that must arise at the catastrophe of this piece;
so much is our delicacy more apt to be shocked
than our good-nature. Nor will it be an excuse
that I thought the story founded on an event in
real life.

I had heard, when very young, that a gentle-
woman, under uncommon agonies of mind, had
waited on archbishop Tillotson, and besought his
counsel. A damsel that served her had, many
years before, acquainted her that she was impor-
tuned by the gentlewoman's son to grant him a pri-
vate meeting. The mother ordered the maiden to
make

POSTSCRIPT. 3

make the affignation, when, she said, she would
discover herself, and reprimand him for his crimi-
nal passion: but being hurried away by a much
more criminal passion herself, she kept the affigna-
tion without discovering herself. The fruit of this
horrid artifice was a daughter, whom the gentle-
woman cauſed to be educated very privately in the
country: but proving very lovely, and being acci-
dentally met by her father-brother, who had never
had the flighteſt suspicion of the truth, he had
fallen in love with and actually married her. The
wretched guilty mother, learning what had hap-
pened, and diſtracted with the conſequence of her
crime, had now reforted to the archbifhop to know
in what manner she ſhould act. The prelate
charged her never to let her ſon and daughter know
what had paffed, as they were innocent of any cri-
minal intention. For herself, he bade her almoſt
deffair.

Some time after I had finifhed the play on this
ground-work, a gentleman to whom I had com-
municated it, accidentally discovered the origine of
the tradition in the novels of the queen of Navarre,
vol. 1. nov. 30. and to my great surprize I found a
ſtrange concurrence of circumftances between the
ſtory as there related, and as I had adapted it to

R 2

my

4 POSTSCRIPT.

my piece: for though I believed it to have hap-
pened in the reign of king William, I had, for a
purpose mentioned below, thrown it back to the
eve of the reformation; and the queen, it appears,
dates the event in the reign of Louis XII. I had
chosen Narbonne for the scene; the queen places
it in Languedoc. These rencounters are of little
importance; and perhaps curious to nobody but
the author.

In order to make use of a canvas so shocking, it
was necessary as much as possible to palliate the
crime, and raise the character of the criminal. To
attain the former end, I imagined the moment
in which she had lost a beloved husband, when
grief, disappointment and a conflict of passions
might be supposed to have thrown her reason off
its guard, and exposed her to the danger under
which she fell. Strange as the moment may seem
for vice to have seized her, still it makes her less
hatefull, than if she had coolly meditated so foul a
crime. I have endeavoured to make her very fond-
ness for her husband in some measure the cause of
her guilt.

But as that guilt could not be lessened without
destroying the subject itself, I thought that her
immediate

POSTSCRIPT. 5

immediate horror and consequential repentance were
effential towards effectuating her being suffered on
the stage. Still more was necessary: the audience
must be prejudiced in her favour; or an uniform
sentiment of difguft would have been raised against
the whole piece. For this reason I suppressed the
story till the last scene; and beftowed every orna-
ment of fenfe, unbigotted piety, and interesting
contrition, on the character that was at last to raife
universal indignation; in hopes that some degree of
pity would linger in the breasts of the audience; and
that a whole life of virtue and penance might in
some measure atone for a moment, though a moſt
odious moment, of a depraved imagination.

Some of my friends have thought that I have
pushed the sublimity of fenfe and reafon, in the
character of the Conntefs, to too great a height,
confidering the dark and Superſtitious age in which
he lived. They are of opinion that the exceſs of
her repentance would have been more likely to
have thrown her into the arms of enthufiaſm. Per-
haps it might—but I was willing to infinuate that
virtue could and ought to leave more laſting ſtings
in a mind conscious of having fallen; and that
weak minds alone believe or feel that confidence is
to be lulled aſleep by the incantations of bigotry.

However

## 6 POSTSCRIPT.

However, to reconcile even the seeming inconsistency objected to, I have placed my fable at the dawn of the reformation: consequently the strength of mind in the Countefs may be supposed to have borrowed aid from other sources, besides those she found in her own understanding.

Her character is certainly new, and the cast of the whole play unlike any other that I am acquainted with. The incidents seem to me to flow naturally from the situation; and with all the defects in the writing, of many of which I am conscious, and many more no doubt will be discovered, still I think, as a tragedy, its greatest fault is the horror which it must occasion in the audience; particularly in the fairer, more tender, and less criminal part of it.

It will be observed that, after the discovery of her son, the Countefs is for some moments in every scene disordered in her understanding by the violent impression of that interview, and from the guilt that is ever uppermost in her mind. Yet she is never quite mad—still less does she talk like Belvidera of

Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber;
which is not being mad, but light-headed. When
madness has taken possession of a person, such cha-
racter

POSTSCRIPT. 7

racter ceafes to be fit for the ftage; or at least ftiould
appear there but for a fhort time; it being the bufi-
neſs of the theatre to exhibit paſſions, not diſtempers.
The fineſt picture ever drawn of a head diſcompoſed
by misfortune is that of king Lear. His thoughts
dwell on the ingratitude of his daughters, and every
ſentence that falls from his wildneſs excites reflection
and pity. Had phrenzy entirely ſeized him, our
compaſſion would abate: we ſhould conclude that
he no longer felt unhappineſs. Shakespeare wrote
as a philofopher, Otway as a poet.

The villany of Benedict was planned to divide
the indignation of the audience, and to intercept
fome of it from the Counteſs. Nor will the black-
neſs of his character appear extravagant, if we call
to mind the crimes committed by catholic church-
men, when the reformation not only provoked
their rage, but threatened them with total ruin.

I have ſaid that terror and pity naturally aroſe
from the ſubject, and that the moral is juſt. These
are the merits of the ſtory, not of the author. It
is true alſo, that the rules laid down by the critics
are ſtrictly inherent in the piece—remark, I do not
ſay, obſerved; for I had written above three acts
before I had thought of, or ſet myself to obſerve
thoſe

8 POSTSCRIPT.

those rules; and consequently it is no vanity to
say that the three unities reign throughout the
whole play. The time necessary is not above two
or three hours longer than that of the representa-
tion; and at most does not require half of the
four-and-twenty hours granted to poets by those
their masters. The unity of place is but once
shifted, and that merely from the platform without
the castle to the garden within it, so that a single
wall is the sole infringement of the second law—
and for the third, unity of action, it is so entire,
that not the smallest episode intervenes. Every
scene tends to bring on the catastrophe, and the
story is never interrupted or diverted from its course.
The return of Edmund and his marriage necessarily
produce the denouement.

If the critics are pleased with this conformity to
their laws, I shall be glad they have that satisfac-
tion. For my own part, I fet little value on such
merit, which was accidental, and is at best mecha-
nic, and of a subordinate kind; and more apt to
produce improbable situations than to remove them.

I wish I had no more to answer for in the faults
of the piece, than I have merit to boast in the
mechanism. I was defirous of striking a little out
of

POSTSCRIPT. 9

of the common road, and to introduce some novelty
on our stage. Our genius and caft of thinking are
very different from the French; and yet our thea-
tre, which should represent manners, depends al-
most entirely at present on translations and copies
from our neighbours. Enflaved as they are to rules
and modes, still I do not doubt, but many both of
their tragic and comic authors would be glad
they dared to use the liberties that are secured to
our stage. They are so cramped by the rigorous
forms of composition, that they would think them-
felves greatly indemnified by an ampler latitude of
thought. I have chalked out some paths that may
be happily improved by better poets and men of
more genius than I possess; and which may be in-
troduced in subjects better calculated for action
than the story I have chosen.

The excellence of our dramatic writers is by no
means equal in number to the great men that we
have produced in other walks. Theatric genius
lay dormant after Shakespeare; waked with some
bold and glorious, but irregular, and often ridicu-
lous flights in Dryden; revived in Otway; main-
tained a placid pleasing kind of dignity in Rowe,
and even fhone in his Jane Shore. It trod in sub-
lime and classic fetters in Cato, but void of nature,

S

of

10 POSTSCRIPT.

or the power of affecting the passions. In Southern
it seemed a genuine ray of nature and Shakespeare;
but falling on an age still more Hottentot, was
stifled in those gross and barbarous productions,
tragicomedies. It turned to tunefull nonсенse in
the Mourning Bride; grew stark mad in Lee;
whose cloak, a little the worse for wear, fell on
Young; yet in both was still a poet's cloak. It
recovered its senses in Hughes and Fenton, who
were afraid it should relapse, and accordingly kept
it down with a timid, but amiable hand—and then
it languished. We have not mounted again above
the two last.