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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:00:42 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/45057-0.txt b/45057-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..10954ea --- /dev/null +++ b/45057-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2828 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ambrose Gwinett, by Douglas William Jerrold, +Edited by George Daniel + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Ambrose Gwinett + or, a sea-side story : a melo-drama, in three acts + + +Author: Douglas William Jerrold + +Editor: George Daniel + +Release Date: March 4, 2014 [eBook #45057] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMBROSE GWINETT*** + + +Transcribed from the [1828] John Cumberland edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org Many thanks to John Hentges for finding this, providing +a copy for the transcription, and doing the background research. + + [Picture: Gwinett. Wretch! heartless ruffian!—Act II. Scene 3] + + * * * * * + + + + + + AMBROSE GWINETT; + OR, A SEA-SIDE STORY: + + + A MELO-DRAMA, + + In Three Acts, + + BY D. W. JERROLD, + + _Author of The Mutiny at the Nore_, _John Overy_, _The Devil’s Ducat_, + _Golden Calf_, + _Bride of Ludgate_, _&c._ + + * * * * * + + PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY, WITH REMARKS, + BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, BY D—G. + + To which are added, + + A DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME,—CAST OF THE CHARACTERS, + ENTRANCES AND EXITS,—RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE + PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE,—AND THE WHOLE OF + THE STAGE BUSINESS, + + As now performed at the + + METROPOLITAN MINOR THEATRES. + + * * * * * + + EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE ENGRAVING. + + * * * * * + + LONDON: + + JOHN CUMBERLAND, 2, CUMBERLAND TERRACE, + CAMDEN NEW TOWN. + + + + +REMARKS. +Ambrose Gwinett. + + +HYPERCRITICISM has presumed to find fault with this drama, which a better +taste has denominated “_the serious domestic historical_,” because, +forsooth, it smacks of the Old Bailey!—and, when justification has been +pleaded by citing _George Barnwell_, we have received the retort +courteous, in the story of the witling who affected to wear glasses +because Pope was near-sighted. But a much better plea may be urged than +the example of a bard so moderately gifted as Lillo! “The Ravens of +Orleans,” “Dog of Montargis,” “Family of Anglade,” and numerous other +public favourites, speak daggers to such hypercriticism.—Ambrose Gwinett +is a strange tale and a true one; and a tale both strange and true what +playwright can afford to let slip through his fingers? A murder or so +may be prudently relinquished, for the season will come round again; but +he cannot expect to see a man hanged and resuscitated for his especial +accommodation every day in the week. + +Ambrose Gwinett favoured the world with his autobiography at a period +when autobiography was a rarity. He is unquestionably the only historian +who has written his life after being gibbetted—drawn and quartered we +leave to the autobiographers and dramatists of another generation! +Egotism under such extraordinary circumstances may surely be pardoned; +and if honest Ambrose dwell somewhat complacently on certain events of +deep interest and wonder, he may plead a much better excuse than our +modern autobiographers, who invent much and reveal little but a tedious +catalogue of fictions and vanities; a charge that applies not to the +startling narrative of the poor sweeper of the once insignificant village +of Charing. + +The story, which occurred in the reign of Queen Anne, is simple and well +told. Ambrose had a tale to tell—(what autobiographer would not be half +hanged to be entitled to tell a similar one?)—passing strange and +pitiful; therefore, like a skilful dramatist, who depends solely on his +plot, he affected no pomp of speech: of tropes and figures he knew +nothing; but he knew full well that he had been hanged without a trope, +and his figure brought to life again! + +“I was born,” says he, “of respectable parents in the city of Canterbury, +where my father dealt in slops. He had but two children, a daughter and +myself; and, having given me a school education, at the age of sixteen he +bound me apprentice to Mr. George Roberts, an attorney in the same town, +with whom I stayed four years and three quarters, to his great content +and my own satisfaction. + +“My sister, having come to woman’s estate, had now been married something +more than a twelvemonth to one Sawyer, a seafaring man, who, having got +considerable prizes, my father also giving him 200_l._ with my sister, +quitted his profession, and set up a public-house near the place of his +nativity, which was Deal, in the county of Kent. I had frequent +invitations to pass a short time with them; and, in the autumn of 1709, +having obtained my master’s consent for that purpose, I left the city of +Canterbury on foot, on Wednesday morning, being the 17th day of +September; but, through some unavoidable delays on the road, the evening +was considerably advanced before I reached Deal; and so tired was I, +being unused to that way of travelling, that, had my life depended on it, +I could not have gone so far as my sister’s that night. At this time +there were many of her majesty, Queen Anne’s ships lying in the harbour, +the English being then at war with the French and Spaniards; besides +which, I found this was the day for holding the yearly fair, so that the +town was filled to that degree, that not a bed was to be gotten for love +nor money. I went seeking a lodging from house to house to no purpose; +till, being quite spent, I returned to the public-house, where I had +first made inquiry, desiring leave to sit by their kitchen-fire to rest +myself till morning. + +“The publican and his wife where I put up happened, unfortunately for me, +to be acquainted with my brother and sister; and finding by the discourse +that I was a relation of theirs, and going to visit them, the landlady +presently said she would endeavour to get me a bed; and, going out of the +kitchen, she quickly called me into a parlour that led from it. Here I +saw, sitting by the fire, a middle-aged man, in a nightgown and cap, who +was reckoning money at a table. ‘Uncle,’ said the woman, as soon as I +entered, ‘this is a brother of our friend, Mrs. Sawyer; he cannot get a +bed anywhere, and is tired after his journey. You are the only one that +lies in this house alone: will you give him a part of your’s?’ To this +the man answered, that she knew he had been out of order,—that he was +blooded that day, and consequently a bedfellow could not be very +agreeable. ‘However,’ said he, ‘rather than the young man shall sit up, +he is welcome to sleep with me.’ After this, we sat some time together; +when, having put his money in a canvas bag into the pocket of his +nightgown, he took the candle, and I followed him up to bed.” + +Having occasion to visit the garden during the night, the landlord lent +him his pen-knife, that he might more easily open the door, the latch +being broken. From this knife a piece of money falls, which Gwinett +pockets. Returning to his room, he finds, to his great surprize, that +his companion is absent. At six o’clock he rises, dresses himself +hastily, and, impatient to see his sister (the reckoning being paid +overnight), lets himself out at the street door. + +He has not been above an hour or two with his relations, before three +horsemen arrive, arrest him for robbery and murder, and he is carried +back to Deal, to be dealt with accordingly. + +He is taken with the knife in his possession, tried, condemned, and +executed: yet, strange to say, the man yet lived; his groans were heard +from the gibbet, and he was rescued from his frightful situation by his +master’s dairymaid. He took ship, went abroad, and encountered Collins, +the supposed victim, who, it appeared, had been forced from his home by a +press-gang. After enduring many perils, he returned to his native land, +crippled and poor, and subsequently became sweeper of the road at Charing +Cross. + +Mr. Jerrold has heightened the interest of his drama by superadding the +passions of love and jealousy. We have no objection to fiction when it +conduces to effect; and three rounds of applause are sufficient to +justify any interpolation. This piece was well acted, and brought ample +receipts to the treasury of the Coburg. + + D—G. + + + + +Costume. + + +AMBROSE GWINETT.—_First dress_—Short brown tunic and vest, with full +trunks—hose and half boots.—_Second dress_—Tunic and long cloak—hat and +feathers. + +NED GRAYLING.—_First dress_—That of a Blacksmith.—_Second dress_—A short +plain tunic—full trunks—hose, and a small round hat.—_Third dress_—that +of a mere mendicant. + +GILBERT.—_First dress_—A short close tunic—shoes and stockings.—_Second +dress_—Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer. + +COLLINS.—_First dress_—Short tunic.—_Second dress_—A morning gown. + +LABEL.—Barber’s dress—three cornered hat and cane. + +WILL ASH and BLACKTHORN.—Short tunics, &c. + +GEORGE.—Sailor’s dress. + +BOLT.—Dark tunic, &c. + +OFFICER.—The usual costume. + +REEF.—Blue jacket—white trowsers—straw hat. + +LUCY FAIRLOVE.—_First dress_—Plain bodied gown—straw hat.—_Second +dress_—A black open gown with train. + +JENNY.—_First dress_—That of a peasant girl.—_Second dress_—Gown—cap—and +apron. + +MARY.—Peasant’s dress. + + _Villagers_, _Peasants_, _&c. in the usual costume_. + + * * * * * + + + + +Cast of the Characters + + + _As sustained at the Coburg Theatre_. + +Ambrose Gwinett Mr. Cobham. +Ned Grayling (_The Prison Smith_.) Mr. Davidge. +Gilbert (_Waiter at the Blake’s Head_.) Mr. Sloman. +Collins (_Landlord of the Blake’s Mr. Mortimer. +Head_.) +Label (_an Itinerant Barber Surgeon_.) Mr. E. L. Lewis. +George (_a Smuggler condemned to Die_.) Mr. Gale. +Blackthorn Mr. H. George. +Will Ash Mr. Gann. +Bolt (_a Gaoler_.) Mr. Porteus. +1_st_ Villager Mr. J. George. +2_nd_ Ditto Mr. Waters. +Officer Mr. Worrell. +Reef Mr. Elsgood. +1_st_ Sailor Mr. Saunders. +Lucy Fairlove Miss Watson. +Jenny Mrs. Congreve. +Mary Miss Boden. +Child Master Meyers. + + _A Lapse of Eighteen Years is supposed to have taken Place between_ + _the Second and Third Acts_. + + + + +ACT. I. + + +SCENE I.—_View of the Country_. + + + _Enter_ GRAYLING _and_ COLLINS. R. + +_Gray_. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet, +man. + +_Col_. To be thrown from a horse after my experience— + +_Gray_. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too; +but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, Ned +Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss +with his irons—but that couldn’t be. + +_Col_. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a +word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit +in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy. + +_Gray_. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I +could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would +but smile, when— + +_Col_. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you more +than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you. + +_Gray_. How do you know that? + +_Col_. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but +truth? + +_Gray_. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t. I tell you, +master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know +the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will +become an outcast and a vagabond. + +_Col_. This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer. + +_Gray_. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts +will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master +Collins, my heart is set upon the girl. + +_Col_. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so +easy. + +_Gray_. There are some matters very, _very_ easy. It is easy for you, a +man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world +looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man +like me, “You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on +a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on +the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this +is easy—“nothing so easy.” + +_Col_. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you. If +you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for +its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. If, however, +the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is scarcely a +more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the +woman who despises him. + + [_Exit_ L. + +_Gray_. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met +her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they +flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm. + + _Enter_ GILBERT R. (_singing_.) “_A merry little plough Boy_.” + +_Gil_. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see +my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always +work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one +another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; +and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight, +if it wasn’t for Lucy. + +_Gray_. (_starting_.) Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy? + +_Gil_. I did! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in +it. + +_Gray_. No, no, but you startled me. + +_Gil_. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I +say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of +your wife. + +_Gray_. Lucy my wife, no, no. + +_Gil_. No, I should think not indeed. + +_Gray_. And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so +passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert. + +_Gil_. A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a +dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing +of it, good Gilbert. + +_Gray_. I confess I am very foolish. + +_Gil_. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves. + +_Gray_. (_aside_.) I am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will. + +_Gil_. Why, what’s the matter? you are looking at me as if, like a +highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money in. + +_Gray_. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss Lucy has +any admirers? + +_Gil_. Admirers! to be sure she has. + +_Gray_. She has! + +_Gil_. Hundreds—don’t the whole town admire her? don’t all our customers +say pretty things to her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you +looking at her? + +_Gray_. Looking at her!—how? + +_Gil_. How, why like a dog that had once been well kicked, and was +afraid of being known a second time. + +_Gray_. Villain! do you make mirth of my sufferings? am I sport for +fools? answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell +me— + +_Gil_. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he’d have +kept his tail. + +_Gray_. What mean you? + +_Gil_. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your +temper. + +_Gray_. Answer— + +_Gil_. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask questions, a little +farther on there’s a finger post—when you have read one side, you know +you can walk round to the other. + +_Gray_. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never till +this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse man, stand +no longer like a coward, eying the game, but take the dice, and at one +bold throw, decide your fate. + + [_Exit_ L. + +_Gil_. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; Lucy Fairlove is no match +for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced young +man has been asking if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but +mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! dear me, I’ve been loitering +so long, and have so much to say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the +Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the prison—and +then there’s—but stop, whilst I am running to Jenny, I can think of these +matters by the way. + + [_Exit_ L. + + + +SCENE II.—_Wood_. + + + _Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT. (_running_.) L. + +_Gwin_. I’ve distanced them—but i’faith I’ve had to run for it.—No, no, +fair gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore—high winds, +roaring seas, and the middle-watch have no relish for Gwinett—make a +sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy Fairlove?—I’ve hurt my wrist in the +struggle with one of the gang—(_takes his handkerchief_, _which is +stained with blood_, _from around his arm_.) It is but a scratch—if I +bind it up again it may excite the alarm of Lucy—no, Time is the best +surgeon, and to him I trust it. (_puts the handkerchief in his pocket_.) +Eh! who have we here? by all my hopes, Lucy herself. + + _Enter_ LUCY FAIRLOVE. R. + +_Lucy_. Ambrose. + +_Gwin_. Come, this is kind of you—nay, it is more than I deserve. + +_Lucy_. What is kind or more than you deserve? + +_Gwin_. Why coming to meet me through this lone road! + +_Lucy_. Meet you—what vanity—not I indeed, I was merely taking my +morning’s walk, thinking of—of— + +_Gwin_. Come, come, confess it. + +_Lucy_. Well then I do confess, I wished to meet you, to tell you that— + +_Gwin_. You have spoken to your uncle? + +_Lucy_. On the contrary—to desire you to defer— + +_Gwin_. Why, do you fear a refusal? Why should he refuse—have I not +every prospect—will not my character— + +_Lucy_. Yes, more than satisfy him, but— + +_Gwin_. Or perhaps Lucy there is another whom you would prefer to make +this proposal. + +_Lucy_. This is unkind—you do not believe so. + +_Gwin_. Well, be it as you will: I believe nought but truth, but +innocence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this kiss— + + GRAYLING _looking from wing_. R. + +_Gray_. Hem! holloa! there. + +_Gwin_. How now—what want you? + +_Gray_. Want! (_aside_.) Oh! Lucy, Lucy! nothing. + +_Gwin_. Then wherefore did you call? + +_Gray_. Because it pleased me: a man may use his own lungs I trow. + +_Lucy_. (_aside_.) Alas! I fear some violence. + +_Gwin_. Aye and his own legs, they cannot do him better service than by +removing him from where he is not wanted. + +_Gray_. (_Coming between them_, _folding his arms_, _and looking +doggedly at Gwinett_.) Now I sha’n’t go. + +_Gwin_. Would you quarrel, fellow? + +_Gray_. Aye—yes—come will you fight with me? + +_Lucy_. (Interposing.) For heaven’s sake! subdue this +rashness—Gwinett—Grayling—good kind Master Grayling— + +_Gray_. Good kind Master Grayling—you speak falsely Lucy Fairlove— + +_Gwin_. Falsely? + +_Gray_. Aye, Falsely! she thinks me neither good nor kind—but I see how +it is—I have thought so a long time, (_after eying Gwinett and Lucy with +extreme malice_.) I see how it is—ha! ha! ha! (_Laughing +sarcastically_.) + +_Gwin_. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice but give your venom +utterance. + +_Gray_. Venom—aye—the right word, venom,—and yet who’d have thought we +should have found it where all looked so purely. + +_Gwin_. Wretch! would you say— + +_Gray_. Nothing—nothing—where we have facts what need of words? the +artless timid Lucy, she who moves about the town with closed lips and +downcast eyes—who flutters and blushes at a stranger’s look—can steal +into a wood—oh! shame—shame. + +_Gwin_. Shame! villain! but no, to infamy so black as this, the best +return is the silent loathing of contempt. + +_Gray_. What! would you go with him, Lucy? + +_Lucy_. Grayling, never again, in town or field, under my uncle’s roof, +or beneath the open sky, that you have so lately made a witness to your +infamy, dare to pronounce my name; there is a poison festering in your +lips, and all that passes through is tainting—your words fall like a +blight upon the best and purest—to be named by you, is to be +scandalised—once whilst I turned from, I pitied you—you are now become +the lowest, the most abject of created things—the libeller, the hateful +heartless libeller of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can never more +be happy, at least strive to be good. + + [_Exit with Gwinett_. L. + +_Gray_. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees—I meant not what I said—’twas +passion—madness—eh, what—now she takes him by the arm—they’re gone—I feel +as I had drank a draught of poison—never sound her name again? yes, and I +deserve it—I am a wretch!—a ruffian,—to breathe a blight over so fair a +flower. I feel as if all the world,—the sky, the fields, the bright sun +were passing from me, and I stood fettered in a dark and loathsome den—my +heart is numbed, and my brain palsied. + + _Enter_ REEF _and_ SAILORS. R. + +_Reef_. A plague take these woods, I see no good in ’em—there’s no +looking out a head the length of a bow sprit; I know he run down here. + +1 _Sail_. That’s what I said at first, and if you had taken my advice we +should have come here without staying beating about the bushes like a +parcel of harriers. + +_Reef_. He was a smart clean fellow, and would have done credit to the +captain’s gig.—Eh! who have we here?—come, one man is as good as another, +and this fellow seems a strong one. + +_Gray_. How now!—what would you? + +_Reef_. What would we?—why, what do you think of topping your +boom—pulling your halyards taut, and turning sailor? + +_Gray_. Sailor! + +_Reef_. Aye—why you look as surprised as if we wanted to make you port +admiral at once. + +_Gray_. Turn sailor? + +_Reef_. Sailor—what’s the use of turning the word over so with your +tongue—I said sailor—it’s a useless gentility with us to ask you—because +if you don’t like us, I can tell you we have taken a very great liking to +you. + +_Gray_. With all my heart—Lucy is gone for ever—this place is hateful to +me—amid the perils of the ocean, I may find my best relief—come. + +_Reef_. That’s right my hearty—come, scud away—eh, what have you brought +yourself up with a round turn for? + +_Gray_. Then I leave my rival to the undisturbed possession of—oh, the +thought is withering—no, no, I cannot. + +_Reef_. Cannot! we’re not to be put off, and by a landsman—so come, +there’s one fellow already has outsailed us, piloting among these +breakers,—one follow this morning— + +_Gray_. This morning—what kind of man? + +_Reef_. Why, to say the truth, messmate, he was a trim taut-rigged +craft, and a devilish deal better looking than you are. + +_Gray_. And he escaped from you? + +_Reef_. Yes, but that’s more than we intend to let you do, so come. + +_Gray_. Oh it will be a sweet revenge—one moment—how stands your pocket? + +_Reef_. Why not a shot in the locker. + +_Gray_. Here. (_takes out a purse_.) + +_Reef_. Eh! how did you come by all that? you hav’nt run a pistol +against a traveller’s head, eh? + +_Gray_. These are the savings of a life of toil—I had hoarded them up +for a far different purpose—but so that they buy me revenge— + +_Reef_. Aye, that’s a bad commodity; for when people are inclined to +purchase, they’ll do it at any rate; but I say, no foul tricks you know. + +_Gray_. You say one man escaped you this morning, now I’ll lead you to +him; moreover, if you secure him, this purse shall be your reward. + +_Reef_. Shall it! we are the boys; and what’s more, we don’t mind giving +you your discharge into the bargain. + +_Gray_. Come on then; follow me into the town, and when the night comes +on, I’ll find means to throw your victim into your hands; bear him away +with as little noise as possible. + +_Reef_. Oh, never fear—if he attempts to hallo, we’ll put a stopper in +his mouth to spoil his music. + +_Gray_. ’Tis well—thus I shall be revenged—Lucy, if you are resolved to +hate, at least you shall have ample reason for it. + + [_Exit with Sailors_. L. + + + +SCENE III.—_A Room in the Blake’s Head_. + + + _Enter_ LABEL. L. + +_Label_. Well, now let me see, where’s my next point of destination? ah, +Dover. Thus I go through the country, and by both my trades of barber +and doctor, contrive to look at the bright side of life, and lay by a +little for the snows of old age. Had bad business here at Deal: all the +people so plaguily healthy—not a tooth to be drawn—not a vein to be +opened; the landlord here, master Collins, has been my only customer—the +only man for whom I have had occasion to draw lancet. Now it’s very odd +why he should be so secret about it—all to prevent alarming his wife he +says,—good tender man. + + _Enter_ GILBERT. R. + +_Gil_. What, master Label, ah! bad work for you—all hearty as oaks—not a +pulse to be felt in all Deal. + +_Label_. Ah, I can’t think how that is. + +_Gil_. Can’t you? I’ll tell you—we’ve no doctors with us; no body but +you, and you’ll never do any harm, because— + +_Label_. Because—because what? + +_Gil_. Why we all know you, and there’s few will give you the chance; +who do you think would employ a doctor who goes about calling at peoples’ +houses to mend their constitutions, as tinkers call for old kettles. + +_Label_. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may trudge its shoes off, and never +finger a fee, whilst swaggering impudence bounces out of a carriage, and +all he touches turns to gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, farewell—I’m off +for Dover. + +_Gil_. What! to night? + +_Label_. Yes, directly. + +_Gil_. Why you must pass through the church-yard. + +_Label_. What of that? + +_Gil_. Nothing, only if ever you had any patients, I thought you might +have felt some qualms in taking that road. + +_Label_. Ever had any patients, I’ll whisper a secret in your ear; I’ve +had one in this house! Now what do you think of that? What follows now? + +_Gil_. What follows now? why the grave-digger, I’m afraid; I say, I +wonder you didn’t add the trade of undertaker to that of doctor. + +_Label_. Why? + +_Gil_. Why! how nicely you could make one business play into the other: +when called in to a patient, as soon as you had prescribed for him, you +know, you might have begun to measure him for his coffin. + +_Label_. Ah, you’re a droll fellow, but we won’t quarrel; I dare say you +think me very dull now, but bless you I’m not, when I’m roused I can be +devilish droll—very witty indeed. + +_Gil_. Aye, your wit is, I suppose, like your medicine—it must be well +shaken before it’s fit to be administered; now how many of your jokes +generally go to a dose? + +_Label_. No, no, it won’t do, I’m not to be drawn out now—I’ve no time +to be comical, I must away for Dover this instant. + +_Gil_. A word with you, the sharks are out to-night. + +_Label_. The sharks? + +_Gil_. Aye, the blue-jackets, the press-gang—now you’d be invaluable to +them; take my word, if they see you, you are a lost man. + +_Label_. Never fear me, the blue-jackets, bless you, if they were to +catch hold of me, I should run off and leave a can of flip in their +hands; now what do you think of that? + +_Gil_. Why I think of the two, the flip would be far the most desirable; +but if you will go, why, a good night to you, and a happy escape. + +_Label_. All the same thanks to you for your intelligence; press me, +bless you they’d sooner take my physic than me; no, no, I’m a privileged +man—good-night, good-night. + + [_Exit_ R. + +_Gil_. That fellow has killed more people than ever I saw; how he looks +his trade, whenever I behold him, he appears to me like a long-necked +pint bottle of rheubarb, to be taken at three draughts; but I must put +all thing, to rights—here’s my master and Miss Lucy will be here in a +minute; the house is full of customers, and it threatens to be a +boisterous night. + + _Enter_ REEF, _disguised in a large great coat_. L. + +_Reef_. I say young man, (_Gilbert starts_.) why what are you starting +at? + +_Gil_. Nothing—only at first I didn’t know whether it was a man or a +bear. + +_Reef_. Indeed—and which do you think it is now? + +_Gil_. Why, upon my word, it’s a very nice distinction: I can’t judge +very well, so I’ll take you at your own word. + +_Reef_. I’ve a little business here with a gentleman: do you know one +Mr. Gwinett? + +_Gil_. Gwinett! what, Ambrose Gwinett? + +_Reef_. The same. + +_Gil_. Know him!—I believe I do—a very fine, noble spirited,— + +_Reef_. Aye, that’s enough; I want to see him—he’s in he house. + +_Gil_. No, indeed. + +_Reef_. Would you tell me a lie now? + +_Gil_. Yes I would, if I thought it would answer any right purpose; I +tell you he’s not in the house—and pray who are you? + +_Reef_. Who am I? why—I’m—I’m—an honest man. + +_Gil_. Aye, that’s so general a character; couldn’t you descend a little +to particulars? + +_Reef_. I’ve a letter to Mr. Gwinett—it’s of great consequence. + +_Gil_. Who does it come from? + +_Reef_. The writer! + +_Gil_. Now it strikes me that this letter contains some mischief. + +_Reef_. Why? + +_Gil_. Because it’s brought by so black-looking a postman. + +_Reef_. Will you deliver it? if as you say he’s not here when he comes? + +_Gil_. Deliver it? why I don’t mind, but if you’ve any tricks you know. + +_Reef_. Tricks, you lubber, give him the letter, and no more palaver. +(_going_.) + +_Gil_. Here—(_Reef returns_.) No—no matter—I thought you had left your +civility behind you. + +_Reef_. Umph! + + [_Exit_. R. + +_Gil_. I warrant me, that’s a fellow that never passes a rope maker’s +shop without feeling a crick in the neck. + + _Enter_ LUCY. L. + +_Lucy_. Oh, Gilbert! + +_Gil_. How now, Miss Lucy, you seem a little frightened or so? + +_Lucy_. Oh, no—not frightened, only hurried a little—is my uncle in the +house? + +_Gil_. Oh, yes—and has been asking for you these dozen times,—here +by-the-by is a letter for—but mum—here comes master. + + _Enter_ MR. COLLINS. L. + +_Col_. Well, Lucy child, where hast been all day, I havn’t caught a +glance of you since last night—what have you got there, Gilbert? + +_Gil_. Where, sir? + +_Col_. Why, there in your hand—that letter. + +_Gil_. Oh—aye—it is a letter. + +_Col_. For me? + +_Gil_. No, sir—it’s for master Ambrose Gwinett. + +_Col_. Give it to me—I expect him here to-night. + +_Lucy_. Expect master Ambrose here to-night, uncle? + +_Col_. Aye, standing at the door just now, his uncle told me that he +expected him at Deal to-day, but being compelled to be from home until +to-morrow, he had left word that master Ambrose should put up here, and +asked me to make room for him. + +_Gil_. What here, master? why there’s not a corner—not a single corner +to receive the visit of a cat—the house is full to the very chimney pots. + +_Col_. Aye, as it is but for once, we must contrive—let me see—as we +have no other room, master Ambrose can take part of mine—so bustle +Gilbert, bustle, and see to it. + +_Gil_. Yes, sir, yes.—(_Aside_.) I’m sorry master’s got that letter +though; it was an ugly postman that brought it, and it can’t be good. + + [_Exit_. L. + +_Col_. Now, Lucy, that we are together, I would wish to have some talk +with you. You know, girl, I love you, as though you were my own, and +were sorrow or mischance to light upon you, I think ’twould go nigh to +break my heart. Now answer me with candour—you know Grayling—honest Ned +Grayling? why, what do you turn so pale at? + +_Lucy_. Oh! uncle, I beseech you, name him not. + +_Col_. Tut—tut—this is all idle and girlish—the man loves you, Lucy. + +_Lucy_. Loves me! + +_Col_. Aye; Ned is not so sprightly and trim a lad as many, but he hath +that which makes all in a husband, girl—he has a sound heart and a noble +spirit. + +_Lucy_. Possibly—I do not know. + +_Col_. But you do know, and so does all the town know; come, be just to +him if you cannot love him; but for my part, I see not what should +prevent you becoming his wife. + +_Lucy_. His wife? oh, uncle, if you have the least love—the least regard +for me, speak no more upon this theme—at least for the present. I will +explain all to-morrow, will prove to you that my aversion is not the +result of idle caprice, but of feelings which you yourself must sanction. +In the mean while be assured I would rather go down into my grave, than +wed with such a man as Grayling. + +_Col_. Eh! why—what’s all this?—Grayling has not—if he has— + +_Lucy_. No, no, it is I who am to blame, for speaking thus +strongly—wait, dearest uncle—wait till to-morrow. + +_Col_. Well, as it is not long, and the time will be slept out, I +will,—but take heed, Lucy, and let not a foolish distaste prejudice you +against a worthy and honourable man. + + _Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT _and_ GILBERT. L. + +_Gwin_. Your servant, master Collins—I must I find be your tenant for +the night. + +_Col_. And shall be welcome, sir; come, Lucy, Gilbert, stir, and prepare +supper; there’s a rough night coming on I fear, and you might fare worse, +master Ambrose, than as guest at the Blake’s Head—here, by the way, is a +letter for you. + +[_Whilst Gwinett is reading the letter_, _the supper-table is arranged_, +_and Collins sits down and begins counting some money_. + +_Gwin_. This is a most mysterious assignation. (_Reads_.) “If you are +a man, you will not fail to give me a meeting at twelve outside the +house, I have to unfold a plot to you which concerns not you +alone.—Your’s, a Friend.” (_Whilst Gilbert and Lucy are off for +provisions_.) Master Collins, I may rise to-morrow morning ’ere any of +your good people are stirring, you will therefore not be surprised to +find me gone. + +_Col_. But why so early? + +_Gwin_. A little appointment—I shall return to breakfast. + +_Col_. Then go out by the back gate; but stop, as the latch is broken in +the inside, you had better take this knife (_giving Gwinett a +clasp-knife_.) to lift it; we shall wait breakfast until your return. + +[_Collins_, _Gwinett_, _and Lucy_, _seat themselves at table_.—_Grayling +enters_, _takes a chair_, _and placing it between Lucy and Gwinett_, +_sits down_. + +_Col_. How now, master Grayling, you have mistaken the room. + +_Gray_. Mistaken—how so? isn’t this the Blake’s Head? + +_Col_. That may be; but this is my private apartment. + +_Gray_. Private! than what does he here—Gilbert, some ale. + +_Gwin_. (_aside_.) The very ruffian I encountered in the wood. + +_Gray_. (_to Gwinett_.) What are you looking at man? I shall pay my +score—aye, every farthing o’t, though I may not dress so trimly as some +folks. + +_Col_. Grayling, will you quit the room? + +_Gray_. No! + +_Col_. Then expect to lose— + +_Gray_. Lose! and what can I lose? hasn’t he all that I could lose? + +_Col_. What do you mean? + +_Gray_. Ask Lucy—the wood, Lucy, the wood. + +_Gwin_. Wretch! dare you beneath her uncle’s roof— + +_Gray_. Dare I? you have among you awakened the wolf within my heart, +and beware how it snaps. + +_Col_. This is needless; good Grayling leave us. + +_Gray_. Good, and you think I am to be hushed with fair words like a +child, whilst he, that thief, for he has stolen from me all that made +life happy, whilst he bears away Lucy and leaves and broken hearted. + +_Col_. He bear away Lucy—you are deceived. + +_Gray_. No, you are deceived, old man—you are deceived; but let +to-morrow shew, I’ll not ’cumber your room, master Collins; I leave it to +more gay visitors than Ned Grayling; I leave it till +to-morrow—good-night—good-night, gay master Gwinett,—a pleasant night’s +rest—ha! ha! ha! + + [_Exit_ L. + +_Lucy_. Dear uncle, is not this sufficient excuse for my aversion. + +_Col_. No matter, we’ll talk more of this to-morrow. Go to your +chamber, girl. (_Music_.—_Lucy goes off_. R.) and now, sir, we will to +ours. + + [_Music_.—_Exeunt_ R. + + + +SCENE IV.—_Another Room in the Blake’s Head_. + + + _Enter_ GILBERT, _with lamp_. R. + +_Gil_. Well, I’ve looked all through the house, fastened the doors, hung +up the keys, and now have nothing to do but to go and sleep until called +up by the cock. Well I never saw love make so much alteration in any +poor mortal as in master Grayling—he used to be a quiet, plain spoken +civil fellow—but now he comes into a house like a hurricane. I wonder +what that letter was about, it bothers me strangely—well, no matter—I’ll +now go to bed—I’ll go across the stable yard to my loft, and sleep so +fast that I’ll get ten hours into six. + + [_Exit_ L. + + _Enter_ COLLINS _from_ C.D. _in flat_. + +_Col_. A plague take that doctor, he has bound my arm up rarely—scarcely +had I got into bed, than the bandage falling off, the blood gushed +freshly from the wound; if I can reach Gilbert, he will assist me to stop +it—or stay, had I not better return to master Gwinett, who as yet knows +nothing of the matter? no, I’ll even make my way to Gilbert, and then to +bed again. + + [_Exit_ L. + + _Enter_ GWINETT, _from door in flat_. + +_Gwin_. I have armed myself—and am determined to meet the appointment; +if there be any foul play intended, they will find me prepared, if not, +the precaution is still a reasonable one—the latch is broken, said the +landlord, the knife however will stead me. + + [_Exit_ R. + +[_Collins cries without_, “_Murder_! _murder_! _within_—_Lucy_! +_Gilbert_! _murder_! _murder_!”—_Lucy screams without_, _and rushes +through door in flat_, _then runs on exclaiming_ + +_Lucy_. Oh, heaven! my uncle’s murdered! + + _Servants and others run on_. R. + +_Omnes_. What say you, murdered! where?—how?— + +_Lucy_. I know not—hearing his cries, I rushed into his room—he was not +there, but his bed was steeped in blood. + + _Enter_ GRAYLING _and_ GILBERT. L. + +_Gray_. What cries are these? master Collins murdered! where is Gwinett? + +_Lucy_. Alas! oh, heaven—he is— + +_Gray_. Ah! let search be made. + + _Enter_ GWINETT. R. + +_Gray_. He is the assassin. + +_Gwin_. Villain! (_rushes at Grayling_—_they struggle_; _Grayling +wrenches a knife from Gwinett’s grasp_; _his coat files open_, _and the +handkerchief stained with blood_, _falls out_.) + +_Gray_. Ah! this knife— + +_Lucy_. It is my uncle’s— + +_Gray_. Your uncle’s—behold the murderer! + +[_Gwinett stands petrified with horror_, _Lucy shrieks and turns away +from him_; _Gilbert picks up the handkerchief stained with blood_, _and +holds it at one side of Gwinett_, _whilst Grayling on the other_, _points +to the knife with looks of mingled detestation and revenge_.—_Characters +form themselves at back_, _&c._—_End of Act I_. + + + + +ACT II. + + +SCENE I.—_Outside view of the Sessions’ House_. + + + _Enter_ GILBERT _and_ JENNY. L. + +_Gil_. Come along, Jenny, come along; it will be all over in a few +minutes. + +_Jenny_. Oh what a shocking thing! Master Gwinett tried for murder—I’d +lay my life he’s innocent. + +_Gil_. Why I don’t know what to think: matters stand very strong against +him—but then he looks as freshly, and speaks as calmly—no he can’t be +guilty—and yet the knife—and my master’s bed filled with blood—and then +where is my poor master—every search has been made for the body, and all +in vain—if Gwinett be guilty— + + _Enter_ GRAYLING _from Sessions’ House_. L. + +_Gray_. If he be guilty—who can doubt his guilt? + +_Gil_. Those, master Grayling, who do not let their hate stand in the +light of their clear judgment. This is, I warrant me, a rare day of +triumph for you. + +_Gray_. Aye, and ought to be to every honest man! ’tis for rogues to be +sad, when rogues are caught. + +_Gil_. I dare say now you think this will serve your turn with Miss +Lucy. + +_Gray_. Perhaps I do, and what then? + +_Gil_. What then! why then you overcount your profits: take my simple +word for it, she hates you! hates you as much as she loves— + +_Gray_. Her uncle’s murderer, eh? are not those the words? with all my +heart, I would rather have the deadly hate of Lucy Fairlove, than the +softest pity of Lucy Gwinett. Oh! I thought there was a world of +mischief under the smooth face of the assassin—had he struck for a deep +revenge I could have pardoned him, for it might have been my own fate—but +to murder a man for gold! for a few pieces of shining dross—’tis a crime +to feel one touch of pity for so base a miscreant. + +_Gil_. Bless me—’tis all like a dream—’twas but yesterday, and we were +all as happy as the best. + +_Gray_. Aye, it was but yesterday when the gay trim master Ambrose +scorned and contemned me! but yesterday, and Lucy hung upon his arm! and +to-day—ha! ha! ha!—I stood against him at the fatal bar; as I passed, his +brow blackened, and his lips worked—his eyes shot the lightnings of hate +upon me—at that moment my heart beat with a wild delight, and I smiled to +see how the criminal shrunk as I told the tale that damn’d him—to see him +recoil as though every word I uttered fell like a withering fire upon his +guilty heart. (_A scream is heard from the Sessions’ House_.) Ah! the +trial is ended. (_A neighbour comes from Sessions’ House_, _Grayling +runs to him_.) say—the prisoner— + +_Neigh_. Guilty. + +_Gray_. And no hopes of mercy? + +_Neigh_. None. + +_Gray_. Ha! ha! ha! + + _Music_.—_Enter Neighbours from the Court with Officers guarding_ + GWINETT. L. + +_Gwin_. Good people, there are I see many among you whose tears bespeak +that you think me guiltless—may my soul never reach yon happy sphere, if +by the remotest thought it ever yearned for blood:—circumstances—damning +circumstances have betrayed me:—I condemn not my judges—farewell, for the +few hours I dwell among men, let me have your prayers; and when no more, +let me, I pray, live in your charitable thoughts. When time (for I feel +it one day will) shall reveal my innocence—should ought remain of this +poor frame, let it I beseech you, lie next my mother’s grave, and in my +epitaph cleanse my memory from the festering stain of +blood-farewell,—Lucy! + +_Lucy_. (_rushing on & falling into his arms_.) Ambrose— + +_Offi_. (_aside to Grayling_.) Grayling, you, as smith for the prison, +must measure the culprit for his fetters. + +_Gray_. Measure? + +_Offi_. Aye! it is the sentence of the court that the prisoner be hung +in chains. + +_Gray_. Indeed! + +_Offi_. The office is doubtless an ungrateful one; being a fellow +townsman you needs must feel for him. + +_Gray_. No—no—yes—yes—but duty you know, Sir, (_seeing Lucy still in +Gwinett’s arms_.) but if they stand leave-taking all day, I shall have no +time to finish the work. (_Officer motions Gwinett_.) + +_Gwin_. I attend you, Sir, farewell Lucy—heaven bless and protect you. +(_Rushes off followed by officers_, _&c._ P. S.) + +_Lucy_. Gone, to prison—death—no they cannot, dare not fulfil the +dreadful sentence—he is innocent! innocent as the speechless babe—the +whole town believes him guiltless—they will petition for him, and if +there be mercy upon earth he must yet be saved—(_seeing +Grayling_.)—Grayling! oh Grayling—your evidence has betrayed him—but for +you he had escaped—whilst you spoke—whilst at every word you uttered my +blood ran cold as ice, I prayed (heaven pardon me) prayed that you might +be stricken dumb; but he, even he who stood pale and withered at the bar +must have felt far above you as man above a worm. + +_Gray_. I spoke the truth, the truth of facts. + +_Lucy_. Yes, but urged with malice, wholly devilish—but oh Grayling—all +shall be forgiven—all forgotten—strive but with me to awaken mercy in the +hearts of his judges—strive but—ah no—I see in that stone-like eye and +sullen lip, that the corse of Ambrose (his corse! my heart will burst) +that to you his death knell would be music, for then you would no longer +fear his marriage chimes. + +_Gray_. I meddle not with the course of law, Lucy Fairlove. + +_Lucy_. Hard-hearted man—but you carry with you your own torment, a +blighted conscience—alas, why do I stand raving to this heartless +being—the time wears on—to-morrow—oh! what a world of agony is in that +word, let me still pronounce it, that I may ceaselessly labour in the +cause of misery—but if relentless law demands its victim, the grave! the +grave! be then my place of rest. + + [_Exit_. R. + +_Gray_. Oh Lucy!—what a wretch am I, to stand like a heartless monster +unmoved by every touch of pity—it was not once so—once—but my nature’s +changed, all feelings, save one, are withered; love has turned to hate, a +deep and settled hate, I feel it craving for its prey! now to let it feed +and triumph on my rival’s pains! + + [_Exit_. R. + + + +SCENE II.—_A view of the country_. + + + _Enter_ LABEL. L. + +_Label_. So far safe; egad Gilbert’s advice was not altogether +unnecessary, for I’ve had to keep up a running account for these five +miles—eh—what a crowd of people are coming here. + + _Enter_ 1_st._ VILLAGER. R. + +why my friend, you seem in haste. + +1_st._ _Vil_. Haste! yes, I would’n’t lose the sight for the world. + +_Label_. Sight! what sight? + +1_st._ _Vil_. What, don’t you know? (_looks at him contemptuously_,) +then my service to you. + + [_Exit_. L. + +_Label_. This is highway politeness, and to a man of my +profession—eh!—thank heaven, here comes one of the other sex—it’s hard if +I don’t get an answer now. + + _Enter_ MARY ROSELY. R. + +Well my pretty maid, are you going to see the sight? + +_Mary_. The sight! oh bless you, Sir,—no, not for the world. + +_Label_. What then you have no curiosity? + +_Mary_. Curiosity, Sir,—do you know what sight it is? + +_Label_. No, will you tell me? + +_Mary_. Why, Sir; it’s—it’s—it’s (_sobbing_.) oh such a good young man. + +_Label_. A good young man, is that such a sight among you? + +_Mary_. Oh no Sir—not that—and yet there was nobody but loved him. + +_Label_. Nobody but loved him—i’faith if they’ve all such pretty faces +as you, he must have had a fine time of it—but what’s the matter with +him—is he going to be married—is he dying—or dead? + +_Mary_. No, Sir, not yet. + +_Label_. Well, then, never take on so—he’ll get over it. + +_Mary_. Oh no, Sir, he’s sure to die—the judges have said so. + +_Label_. The judges—what the doctors! ah my dear, I know, by myself, +that the doctors are frequently no great judges—what’s his complaint? + +_Mary_. Complaint, Sir, why they say he’s murdered a man. + +_Label_. Murdered a man! that’s a fatal disease with a vengeance. + +_Mary_. But it’s false, Sir, a wicked falsehood—he murder—why, Sir, he +was the best, the kindest young man in all these parts—there was nobody +but loved poor Ambrose— + +_Label_. Ambrose! why you don’t mean Ambrose Gwinett? + +_Mary_. Oh yes, Sir, that’s his name. + +_Label_. And who do they say he’s murdered? + +_Mary_. Master Collins. + +_Label_. Collins! (_aside_.) the devil; there may be some of my marks +found upon him—and—and what have they done with the body? + +_Mary_. That can’t be found any where: it’s supposed that Ambrose—no, +no, not Ambrose, but the villains that did the horrid act, threw the body +into the sea. + +_Label_. Ah! very likely—I begin to feel very uncomfortable—well go +home, my good girl, go home. + +_Mary_. Home! no that I won’t; I’ll go and see if I can’t comfort poor +Miss Lucy. + + [_Exit_. L. + +_Label_. I’m puzzled, the body not to be found; if I go and tell all +that I know—inform the judges that I bled master Collins, perhaps they +may secure me, and by some little trick of the law, make me accompany +master Gwinett—again, allowing I should get clear off, the tale might +occasion some doubt of my skill, and so my trade would be cut up that +way—no no, better as it is, let the guilty suffer, and no more said about +it—it will all blow over in a week or two. That same Gwinett, for all he +used to laugh and joke so gaily, had I now begin to remember a kind of +hanging look—he had a strange, suspicious—but bless me when a man falls +into trouble, how soon we begin to recollect all his bad qualities. I +declare the whole country seems in a bustle—in the confusion I may get +off without notice—’tis the wisest course, and when wisdom comes +hand-in-hand with profit, he’s a fool indeed that turns his back upon +her. + + [_Exit_. R. + + _Enter_ BLACKTHORN _and_ WILL ASH. L. + +_Black_. Tut tut—all trifling I tell you—all the fears of a foolish +girl—come, come, Will Ash, be a man. + +_Ash_. That’s what I would be, master Blackthorn, but you will not let +me—I would be a man, and return this same bag of money. + +_Black_. And get a prison for your pains. + +_Ash_. But the truth— + +_Black_. The truth! it is too dangerous a commodity for us to deal in at +present—we know we picked it up a few paces from the Blake’s Head, +doubtless dropped from Collins in his struggle with the murderers—but how +are we to make that appear—our characters, Will Ash, are not altogether +as clear as yonder white cloud, they are blackened a little ever since +that affair with the Revenue Officers—you know we are marked men. + +_Ash_. Yes, but unjustly so; I am conscious of my innocence. + +_Black_. Yes, and a man may be hanged in that consciousness—be hanged as +I say, and leave the consciousness of his innocence, as food and raiment +for his helpless family. + +_Ash_. Oh!— + +_Black_. You are in no situation, Will Ash, to study niceties—when your +children shriek “Bread” within your ears, is it a time for a man to be +splitting hairs, and weighing grains of sand? + +_Ash_. Do not, Blackthorn, do not speak thus; for in such a case it is +not reason, but madness that decides. + +_Black_. Even as you will, I speak for your own good. + +_Ash_. I am assured of it, and could I satisfy myself— + +_Black_. Satisfy! why you may be satisfied—the men who killed Collins, +doubtless did it for his gold—they were disappointed, and instead of the +money going to villains and blood-shedders, it has fallen into the hands +of honest men. + +_Ash_. Honest—aye if we return it. + +_Black_. No, then it would be fools, upon whom fortune had thrown away +her favours—Collins is dead! mountains of gold could not put life—no, not +even into his little finger—what good then can come of returning the bag, +and what harm to the dead or to the world, by our keeping it? + +_Ash_. You speak rightly, a little reasoning— + +_Black_. Aye, a little reasoning as you say, does much in such matters. + +_Ash_. And yet the greatest rogues may commit crimes with as fair a shew +of necessity—’tis not Blackthorn—’tis not in the nature of guilt to want +an excuse. + +_Black_. Away with all this—will you be a man? + +_Ash_. (_after a moment’s struggle_.) I will—come what will, I’ll +return the gold—farewell—(_Is going off_, _when child runs in_. R.) + +_Child_. Oh father! father, all is lost + +_Ash_. Lost? + +_Child_. Yes, our cruel landlord has seized on every thing, mother and +my little sisters, Jane and Ann, all driven out, must have slept in the +fields, if farmer— + +_Ash_. Oh, heavens! my wife and children homeless, starving outcasts—and +I no help— + +_Black_. No help! yes the bag—the gold! + +_Ash_. Ah!—yes!—it must, it shall be done! the husband and the parent’s +tugging at my heart—oh! be witness heaven! and pardon, pardon the +frailties of the man in the agony of the father—come, child, your mother +and your sisters, though the trial be a hard one, yet shall smile upon +the oppressor. + + [_Exeunt_. R. + + + +SCENE III.—_Inside of Prison_. + + + _Enter_ GRAYLING: _he has with him an iron rod_. + +_Gray_. So now for my task; this is a day of triumph for me; I could +have dressed myself as for a holyday; this Gwinett once dead who knows +how time may work upon Lucy; perhaps I had rather the gang had seized and +torn the lad away—but they deceived me—they took my money for the +service, and have never since shewn themselves; after all it may be +better as it is—Gwinett might have regained his liberty—have +returned—there’s no marrying with the dead—no, ’tis best—much the best.— + + _Enter_ BOLT, _the Gaoler_. L. + +A good-day to you, master Bolt. + +_Bolt_. A good-day—you are late, master Grayling—you will have scarcely +sufficient time to perform your task. + +_Gray_. Oh, plenty—I have an old set of chains in hand; an hour’s work +will make them fit for any body—so let me at once measure the prisoner. + +_Bolt_. The prisoner! do you not know that there are two to suffer? + +_Gray_. Two! + +_Bolt_. Aye; we have to day received an order that “mad George,” as he +is called, who was last Sessions convicted for shooting an Exciseman, is +to suffer with poor Ambrose Gwinett. + +_Gray_. Poor Ambrose Gwinett—you are mightily compassionate, master +Bolt. + +_Bolt_. Why, for the matter of that, if a man’s a gaoler, I see no +reason why his heart should be of a piece with the prison wall. + +_Gray_. But is he not an assassin?—a midnight murderer? + +_Bolt_. True; and yet I cannot but doubt—I do not think a man with blood +upon his head, could sleep so soundly and smile so in his slumbers, as +does master Gwinett; the whole country feels for him. + +_Gray_. Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days—let a knave only rob an +orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at for a villain—let him spill blood, +and it’s marvellous the compassion that awaits him. + +_Bolt_. Why, how now, master Grayling? once you would not have talked in +this manner—you had one time a heart as tender as a girl’s—I have seen +you drop a tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you have fitted the iron +upon it. Methinks you are strangely changed of late. + +_Gray_. I am—no matter for that—let me to my work, for time speeds on. + +_Bolt_. Well, you can first begin with mad George. + +_Gray_. And why not with Gwinett?—with Gwinett, I say, the murderer? + +_Bolt_. He’s engaged, at present, taking leave of poor Lucy Fairlove; +eh! why what’s the matter with you? why you start and shake as though it +was you that was going to suffer. + +_Gray_. Well, well, delay no longer. + +_Bolt_. (_calls without_.) Holloa! Tom, bring poor George hither. Poor +fellow, he had begun to hope for pardon just as the warrant came down. + + _Enter_ GEORGE _and_ TURNKEY. R. + +_Geo_. Now, what further, good master Bolt? + +_Bolt_. Why, there is another little ceremony—you know the sentence is— + +_Geo_. Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow to my brother +smugglers,—well, no matter, they’ll let me, I hope, hang over the beach +with the salt spray sometimes dashing upon me, and the sea-gull screaming +around. + +_Gray_. Give me your hand, friend; so, (_shakes hands_.) this is an ugly +task of mine, but you bear no malice? + +_Geo_. I never knew it when I was a free and happy man, and should never +feel it in my dying hour—and to prove to you that the fear of death has +not wasted my powers,—there, bend that arm before you measure it—stronger +men than you, I take it, have tried in vain.—(_Grayling takes hold of +George’s arm_, _and with a slight effort_, _bends it_.) Ah! there was +but one man who could do this—he who did it when a boy—surely you are +not—yes, it is—Grayling! + +_Gray_. Eh! George—George Wildrove—my earliest, my best of friends, +(_they embrace_.) Oh! and to meet you now, and in such a place—and I—the +wretch employed to— + +_Geo_. Nay, Grayling, this is weak—your task is not a free one, ’tis, I +know, imposed upon you—to the work, and whilst you measure the limbs of +mad George, the felon, think not, for I would not think of him—think not +of George Wildrove, the school-boy. + +[_Music_.—_Grayling_, _after a struggle_, _advances to George_—_he turns +up one of his sleeves_, _and is about to measure the arm_, _when his eye +falls upon George’s wrist_. _Grayling_, _starting back with horror_.] + +No, no, not if these prison walls were turned to gold, and I by +fulfilling this hateful task, might become the whole possessor, I would +not do it—as I have a soul, I would not. + +_Geo_. What new alarm? What holds you now? + +_Gray_. Your wrist, George. + +_Geo_. Well— + +_Gray_. Do you not see? + +_Geo_. What? + +_Gray_. That scar—in that scar I read the preservation of my life—alas! +now worthless—can I forget that the knife aimed at my heart, struck +there—there— + +_Geo_. Oh, a schoolboy frolic, go on, good Ned. + +_Gray_. Never! Oh, George, I am a wretch, a poor forlorn discarded +wretch—the earth has lost its sweetness to me—I am hopeless, aimless—I +had thought my heart was wholly changed to stone—I find there is one—one +pulse left, that beats with gratitude, with more than early friendship. + +_Bolt_. Come, master Grayling, you know there is another prisoner. + +_Gray_. Ah! I had forgotten—gaoler, chains for this man, to be made an +Emperor, I could not forge—if you will, say so to the governor: for the +other prisoner, I’ll work—oh, how I’ll toil—but come a moment, George—let +my heart give a short time to friendship, ’ere again ’tis yielded up to +hate. + + [_Exeunt Grayling and George_. L. + + _Enter_ AMBROSE GWINETT. R. + +_Gwin_. I feel as if within these two days, infirm old age had crept +upon me—my blood is chilled, and courses through my veins with lazy +coldness—my brain is stunned—my eyes discern not clearly—my very hair +feels grey and blasted; alas! ’tis no wonder, I have within these few +hours been hurled from a throne of earthly happiness—snatched from the +regions of ideal bliss—and cast, bound, and fettered within a prison’s +walls—and my name—my innocent name, stamped in the book of infamy—oh! was +man to contemplate at one view the evil he’s to suffer, madness would +seize on half his kind—but misery, day by day works on, laying at +intervals such weights upon us, which, if placed at once would crush us +out of life.—Ah! the gaoler! + +_Bolt_. A good-day to you, master Ambrose. + +_Gwin_. “Good-day” friend! let good days pass between those happy men, +who freely may exchange them beneath the eye of heaven.—“Good-day” to a +wretch like me! it has a sound of mockery. + +_Bolt_. And yet believe me, Sir, I meant not so. + +_Gwin_. I am sure you did not. It was my own waywardness that +misconstrued you—I am sorry—pardon me, good man—and if you would yield a +favour to a hapless creature, now standing on the brink of the grave, +leave me—I fain would strive to look with calmness into that wormy bed +wherein I soon must lie. + +_Bolt_. Poor fellow, he forgets—but good master Gwinett— + +_Gwin_. Well—be quick—for my minutes are counted—I must play the miser +with them. + +_Bolt_. Do you not remember the sentence? + +_Gwin_. Remember? + +_Bolt_. But the whole of it? + +_Gwin_. The—oh, heavens, the thoughts like fire flash into my brain.—I +had forgotten—there is no—no grave for me. + +_Bolt_. Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at him. + +_Gwin_. Well, what does it matter; it is but in imagination—nothing +more. + +_Bolt_. That’s right—come, look boldly on it. + +_Gwin_. Where is the place, that—my heart swells as it would burst its +prison—the—you understand. + +_Bolt_. Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by One-Tree Farm. + +_Gwin_. (_with great passion_.) What!—at—oh!—if there be one touch of +mercy in my judges’ hearts, I beseech (_throws himself at Bolt’s feet_.) +I implore you—any other spot—but there—there— + +_Bolt_. And why not there, master Ambrose? + +_Gwin_. Why not!—the cottage wherein I was born looks out on the +place—many a summer’s day, when a child, a little happy child, close by +my mother’s side, my hand in her’s, I have wandered there picking the +wild flowers springing up around us—oh! what a multitude of recollections +crowd upon me—that meadow!—many a summer’s night have I with my little +sisters, sat waiting my father’s coming—and when he turned that hedge, to +see his eyes, how they kindled up, when the happy shout burst from his +children’s lips—ah! his eyes are now fixed closely on me—and that shout +is ringing in my ears! + +_Bolt_. Come, come, be more composed. + +_Gwin_. There I cannot die in peace: in one brief minute I should see +all the actions of my infant life, as in a glass—there, there, I cannot +die—is there no help? + +_Bolt_. I’m afraid, Sir, none: the judges have quitted the town—but +banish these thoughts from your mind—here comes one that needs support +even whilst she strives to comfort others. + + _Enter_ LUCY. R. + +_Lucy_. Oh! dearest Ambrose—is there no hope? + +_Gwin_. Hope, Lucy, none—my hour is at hand, and the once happy and +respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset die the death of a felon! a murderer! +a murderer!—Oh, heavens! to be pointed, gazed at, executed as the +inhuman, heartless assassin—the midnight bloodshedder! + +_Lucy_. Bloodshedder! oh, Gwinett. + +_Gwin_. But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my fellow townsmen of the +hapless Ambrose; do they all, all believe me guilty? + +_Lucy_. Ob, no—some there are who, when your name is mentioned, sigh and +breathe a prayer for your deliverance,—and some— + +_Gwin_. Aye, there it is, they class me with those desperate wretches, +who—oh, would the hour were come—I shall go mad—become a raving maniac: +what a life had my imagination pictured: blessed with thee Lucy, I had +hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, an old grey headed happy +man, and now, the scaffold—the executioner—can I think upon them, and not +feel my heart grow palsied, my sinews fall away, and my life’s breath +ebb—but no, I think, and still I live to suffer. + +_Lucy_. There yet remains a hope—your judges are petitioned, they may +relent—then years of happiness may yet be ours. + +_Gwin_. Happiness—alas, no; my very dreams are but a counterpart of my +waking horrors.—Last night, harassed, I threw me down to rest—a leaden +slumber fell upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that thou and I had at the +altar sworn a lasting faith. + +_Lucy_. Did you so? Ambrose, did you so?—Oh! ’tis a happy presage: the +dream was sent from heaven to bid you not despair. + +_Gwin_. It was, indeed, a warning dream: hear the end. We were at the +altar’s foot, girt round by happy friends, and thou smilest—oh, my heart +beat quickly with transporting joy, as with one hand clasping thine, I +strove to place the ring upon thy finger—it fell—and ringing on the holy +floor, shivered like glass into a thousand atoms—astonished, I gazed a +moment on the glittering fragments,—but when I raised my head, thou wert +not to be found—the place had changed—the bridal train had vanished, and +in its stead, I saw surrounding thousands, who, with upturned eyes, gazed +like spectres on me—I looked for the priest, and in his place stood +glaring at me with a savage joy, the executioner—I strove to burst +away—my arms were bound—I cast my eyes imploringly to heaven—and there +above me was the beam—the fatal beam—I felt my spirit strangling in my +throat, ’twas but a moment—all was dark. + +_Lucy_. Oh! heavens. + +_Gwin_. Such was the forerunner of the coming horror—so will ten +thousand glut their eyes upon my misery—and then the hangman— + +[_Lucy_, _who during the former and present speech of Gwinett_, _has been +growing gradually insensible_; _here shrieks out_, _and rushes to him_. + +_Lucy_. Oh! speak it not—think it not—my heart is broken. (_falls into +his arms_.) + +_Gwin_. Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in my miseries to torture +this sweet sufferer. + +_Lucy_. (_recovering_.) There is then no hope—no, think not to deceive +me, the terrible certainty frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades +beneath the gloom! I shall not long survive you—a short time to waste +myself in tears upon your grave. + +_Gwin_. (_aside_.) My grave!—oh madness! even this last solace is +deprived me—she’ll never weep o’er me—never pluck the weeds from off my +tomb—but if she’d seek the corse of Gwinett—there! hung round with +rattling chains, and shaking in the wind, a loathsome spectacle to all +men—there she must, shuddering, say her fitful prayer.—Oh! I’m phrenzied, +mad,—Lucy thus distracted, locked in each others arms, we’ll seek for +death. (_they embrace_.) + +[_Music_.—_Enter_ BOLT _and_ GRAYLING. R.; _Grayling on seeing Gwinett +and Lucy_, _is about to rush down upon them_, _when he is held back by +Bolt_: _he at length approaches Gwinett_, _who_, _on beholding him_, +_staggers back with horror_—_Grayling folds his arms and looks at Gwinett +with an eye of malice_. + +_Gwin_. Wretch! monster! what do you here? come you to glut your +vengeance on my dying pangs? + +_Gray_. Were there no wretches—no monsters—no bloodsuckers, look you, +there need no prison smiths: chains and fetters are not made for honest +men. + +_Lucy_. Grayling, if e’er you felt one touch of pity, in mercy leave us, +cheat me not of one moment, with—(_Lucy lifts her hands imploringly to +Grayling_—_his eye rests upon the ring on her finger_.) + +_Gray_. (_passionately_.) Thy husband? + +_Lucy_. Aye, my husband, I swore to be his and none but his—my oath was +taken when the world looked brightly on us both—the world changed, but my +oath remained; and here, but an hour since, within a prison’s walls, with +none but hard-faced pitiless gaolers to behold our wretched nuptials; +here I kept my vow—here I gave my hand to the chained, the despised, the +dying Gwinett; and whilst I gave it, whilst I swore to love and honour +the outcast wretched felon, I felt a stronger pride than if I’d wedded +with an ermined king. (_embracing Gwinett_; _Grayling_, _who_, _during +this speech_, _is become quite overpowered_—_by an effort rouses +himself_, _exclaiming wildly_— + +_Gray_. Tear them apart, gaoler, tear them apart, I say. + +_Bolt_. For shame! for shame, master Grayling, have you no pity? + +_Gray_. (_incoherently_.) Pity—havn’t I to do my work—havn’t I to +measure the culprit—havn’t I to— + +_Gwin_. Hold! hold! she knows not—spare her. + +_Gray_. Spare! and why should I spare? Hasn’t she wirled, despised me? +isn’t she Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, the wife of the murderer, Gwinett? hasn’t +she spoken words that pierced me through and through? and why should I +spare?—Felon, you know your sentence; come, let me measure you for the +irons, that— + +_Gwin_. Wretch! heartless ruffian! + +[_As Grayling approaches Gwinett_, _he seizes the rod of iron held by +Grayling_, _and they struggle_—_Gwinett throws Grayling down_, _and is +about to strike him with the iron_, _when the prison bell tolls_, +_Gwinett’s arm falls paralyzed_; _Grayling looks at him with malicious +joy_; _Lucy sinks on her knees_, _raising her hands to heaven_. _At this +moment_, _a cry is set up without_, “_a reprieve_! _a +reprieve_!”—_Officer_, _and neighbours enter_. L. _Grayling springing +on his feet_, _tears the paper from the Officer’s hand_, _Lucy at the +same time exclaims_, “_A reprieve_! _say_—_for Ambrose_!” + +_Offi_. No; for mad George! + +_Gray_. (_eagerly_.) The murderer’s fate is— + +_Offi_. Death! + +[_The prison bell again tolls_, _Lucy falls to the earth_, _Gwinett sinks +into a state of stupifaction_, _Grayling looks at him with an air of +triumph_; _characters at the back lift their hands imploringly to +heaven_, _and the Scene closes_.—_End of Act II_. + + + + +ACT III. + + +SCENE I.—_The Blake’s Head_. + + + _Enter_ GILBERT _and_ JENNY, _as landlord and landlady_. L. + +_Gil_. I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; ever as this day comes +round, I’m melancholy, spite of reasoning. + +_Jenny_. Well, well; but it’s so long ago. + +_Gil_. But not the less to be remembered—it is now eighteen years this +very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett died the death of a murderer!—I’m +sure he was innocent—I’d lay my life on it. + +_Jenny_. But there’s no occasion to be so violent. + +_Gil_. I tell you I can’t think with calmness and speak on it. A fine +open hearted youth, and see the end of it. Not one of his accusers but +is come to shame. Look at Grayling—Ned Grayling the smith—don’t good +folks shake the head, and the little children point at him as he goes +by—and then those two churls who scoffed at him, as he was on the road to +death—has either of them had a good crop since?—havn’t their cattle +died?—their haystacks took fire—with all kinds of mischief falling on +them? + +_Jenny_. Yes, and poor Lucy. + +_Gil_. And there again; Lucy, Gwinett’s widow, though almost broken +hearted—doesn’t she keep a cheerful face, and look smilingly—whilst her +husband’s accusers are ashamed to shew their heads—I say again, I know he +was innocent. I know the true murderers will some day be brought to +light. + +_Jenny_. I’m sure I hope they will; but in the mean time, we musn’t +stand talking about it, or no one will come to the Blake’s Head. + +_Gil_. Well, well; I leave it all to you to day, Jenny: I’m not fit to +attend to the customers. Ah! good fortune has been showered upon +us—little did we think of seeing ourselves owners of this house; but I’m +sure I’d walk out of it with a light heart, if it’s old owner, poor +Robert Collins, could but come back to take possession of it—but that’s +impossible, so we’ll talk no more of it. + +_Jenny_. Well I declare this is all waste of time—we’ve the house full +of customers, and here we’re standing talking as— + +_Gil_. You know we used to do Jenny, some eighteen years ago; then I was +waiter and ostler here, and you were dairy maid at squire— + +_Jenny_. Well that’s all past, where is the use of looking back. + +_Gil_. A great deal: when a man gets to the top of the hill by honest +industry, I say he deserves to be taken by the neck and hurled down +again, if he’s ashamed to turn about and look at the lowly road along +which he once travelled. + +_Jenny_. Well, I didn’t mean that. + +_Gil_. No no, I know you meant no harm, Jenny—but you will talk—well I +shall go and take a round. + +_Jenny_. You’re going to the meadow, at One-Tree-Farm to mope yourself +to death. + +_Gil_. Why perhaps I may take a turn that way—but I shall be back +soon—eh! who’s this? + +_Jenny_. Why it’s the servant of the rich old gentleman, from the +Indies. + +_Gil_. Oh!—what he in the Dolphin? + + _Enter_ LABEL, _dressed as servant_. L. _Jenny curtseys and Exit_. L. + +_Label_. Servant, Sir,—you are the landlord. + +_Gil_. Yes—hope your master slept well—I wasn’t at home last night when +you put up, or I should have paid my respects:—he’s from India I hear. + +_Label_. From India!—and as rich, and as liberal as an emperor. + +_Gil_. You’ve been some time in his service, I suppose? + +_Label_. Some twelve years. + +_Gil_. Has he any friends in these parts? + +_Label_. He had when he left, or rather when he was dragged from this +country, some eighteen years ago. + +_Gil_. Dragged from the country! + +_Label_. Yes pressed—he was taken on board ship at dead of night; the +vessel weighed anchor at daybreak—started for India—and there my master, +what with one and another piece of luck, got his discharge: but I believe +he wishes to see you. + +_Gil_. I’ll attend him directly—and then I’ll go and take my melancholy +round. + + [_Exit_. R. + +_Label_. Nobody knows me—no one sees the valet in the steward, the late +Label, barber and doctor—and only think that I should meet with Master +Collins—a man who was thought murdered—alive and flourishing in +India—poor Gwinett—poor Ambrose—I have never had the courage to tell my +master that sad story—he little thinks that an innocent man has been +hanged on his account—somehow I wish I had told him—and yet what would +have been the use; he couldn’t have brought the dead man alive again, and +it would only have made him miserable. But now he can’t long escape +hearing the whole tale, and then what will become of me—no matter; I must +put a bright face upon the business, and trust to chances. + + [_Exit_. R. + + + +SCENE II.—_View of Deal—the Sea_. + + + _Enter_ GWINETT. L.—GRAYLING _following_, _carrying portmanteau_. + +_Gwin_. Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must be our path. + +_Gray_. That would have been the road once—but ’tis many years since +that was blocked up. + +_Gwin_. I thought I could not be deceived. + +_Gray_. You are no stranger then to the town? + +_Gwin_. No; it is my native place—that is, I lived in it some years +ago.—Have you been long here? + +_Gray_. Ever since I was born. + +_Gwin_. And are doubtless well acquainted with the history of most of +its inhabitants. + +_Gray_. Aye, history, yes, I have seen proud knaves grovelling in the +dust, and poor industry raised to wealth. + +_Gwin_. You, my friend, do not seem to have belonged to the fortunate +class. + +_Gray_. No matter for that; but, Sir, take my word, you had better not +put up at the Blake’s Head. + +_Gwin_. And why not? + +_Gray_. ’Tis full of company. The judges are now in the town to try the +prisoners. + +_Gwin_. Prisoners! you have, I trust, but few convictions—at least, for +very great offences—for murder now, or— + +_Gray_. Murder!—no—’tis now eighteen years—eighteen years this very day +since— + +_Gwin_. (abstractedly.) Eighteen years—it is—it is the day. + +_Gray_. Oh you remember it then. + +_Gwin_. No, no; to your story. + +_Gray_. I was about to say it was eighteen years since the last +execution for murder happened in these parts. + +_Gwin_. And the culprit’s name was— + +_Gray_. (_fiercely_.) Gwinett—Ambrose Gwinett—ha! ha! + +_Gwin_. Were there not, if I remember rightly, some doubts of Gwinett’s +guilt? + +_Gray_. Doubts!—There might have been among those who are touched with a +demure look; but no, he was guilty—guilty of the murder—and I saw him die +the death of an assassin. + +_Gwin_. Pray was not part of his sentence by some means evaded? + +_Gray_. It was. + +_Gwin_. I have heard but a confused account of the transaction. + +_Gray_. (_eagerly_.) I can tell you the whole—every word of it. He was +sentenced to be hung in chains—another that was to suffer with him, was +pardoned; so the murderer died alone. Never shall I forget the +morning.—Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh in my memory as +though it was the work of yesterday: I saw the last convulsive struggle +of the murderer—nay, I assisted in rivetting the irons on the corse—’twas +hung at the destined spot; but, when the morning came, the body was not +there. + +_Gwin_. Was no enquiry instituted? + +_Gray_. Yes; it was supposed the relations of the murderer had stolen +the body to give it burial: the murderer’s uncle, and wife were +examined—but after a time, no further stir was made.—Curse upon the +trick, it cost me my bread. + +_Gwin_. How so? + +_Gray_. Why I was the prison-smith—had the irons fitted the corse, it +must have been cut to pieces, ’ere it could have been removed. + +_Gwin_. Gracious heavens! your name is— + +_Gray_. Grayling—Ned Grayling—once a sound hearted happy man, but +now—come, Sir, all the inns will be full. + +_Gwin_. (_snatching the portmanteau from him_.) Wretch! begone—you +serve me not. + +_Gray_. Wretch! well, granted—it is true: I am a houseless, pennyless, +broken-hearted wretch! I have seen every earthly happiness snatched from +me—I have sunk little by little, from an honest industrious man, to the +poor crawling, famishing, drunkard—I am become hateful to the +world—loathsome even to myself. You will not then suffer me to be your +porter? + +_Gwin_. No! begone. + +_Gray_. Well, ’tis all one; yet you might, I think, let a starving +fellow creature earn a trifle. + +_Gwin_. Starving! + +_Gray_. I have scarcely broken bread these two days. + +_Gwin_. Unhappy creature—here—(_gives money_—_Grayling offers to take +portmanteau_.) no, I will not trouble you. Go, get food, and reform your +way of life. + + [_Exit_. L. + +_Gray_. Reform! too late—too late. Had I the will time would not let +me; a few months—nay, weeks, days—and the passenger may pause at the +lifeless corse of Grayling stretched in the highway. Every eye looks +scorn upon me—every hand shrinks at my touch—every head’s averted from +me, as though a pestilence were in my glance.—Intemperance and fierce +passion have brought upon me premature old age—my limbs are palsied, and +my eyesight fails.—What’s this, alms—alms—won by wretched supplication? +well, ’twill buy me a short forgetfulness—oblivion is now my only +happiness. + + [_Exit_. L. + + _Enter_ BLACKTHORN _and_ WILL ASH. R. + +_Black_. You were wrong to let him pass you: had you but watched my +motions, he could not have escaped. + +_Ash_. But in the day time? + +_Black_. Day time! day is night if no one sees. He’s gone to the +Blake’s Head. + +_Ash_. Aye, I never pass the door, but my heart beats and my knees +tremble. + +_Black_. What! hav’n’t eighteen years cured you of that trick? + +_Ash_. Cured me—that bag of money—that bag—’twas the first thing that +turned me from the paths of honesty and grievously have I wandered since. + +_Black_. Still whining, still complaining, what good could the money do +to the dead? + +_Ash_. And what good has it done us? but let’s not talk about it. + +_Black_. That’s right, and now listen to me. We must have a peep into +that portmanteau. + +_Ash_. Impossible! + +_Black_. Not so, we’ll to the Inn: where can Grayling be? + +_Ash_. Not far off I warrant. + +_Black_. Well, no matter, we can even do this job without him; but one +lucky hit and we are made men. + +_Ash_. Aye, this has been your cry year after year—luck! I think I see +our luck in every tree, and in every rope. + +_Black_. Well, farewell, for the present, but meet me round the lane, +leading to the back part of the house. + +_Ash_. Round by the lane—no, that I can’t do: I must pass my wife and +children’s graves—I have not dared to look upon them this many a day. + +_Black_. You refuse then? + +_Ash_. No; I’ll meet you, but for the path, that I’ll chuse myself. + + [_Exeunt_ R. + + + +SCENE III.—_Interior of the Blake’s Head_. + + + _Enter_ LUCY _and_ GILBERT. L. + +_Gil_. Nay, but you must see him; I promised you should. + +_Lucy_. You were wrong, good Gilbert, I cannot see him. + +_Gil_. No, ’tis you are wrong, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, how do you know but he +may bring you good news? + +_Lucy_. Can he make the dead live again? Good news! + +_Gil_. Well, now for my sake, see the gentleman. + +_Lucy_. I cannot refuse you. Heaven knows what would have been my fate, +had I not found a friend—a protector in you. + +_Gil_. You’ll see him then? Ah I knew you’d think better of it. He’s a +very pleasant kind of gentleman; and asked after you so earnestly, that +I’m sure he cannot mean but kind. + + _Enter_ GRAYLING, (_abruptly_.) L. + +Well, and what do you want? + +_Gray_. Aye, it’s ever thus.—Do you think I bring the plague into your +house, that you look so fiercely at me? + +_Gil_. I don’t know, but you do!—Is there nobody here that you are +ashamed to gaze upon? + +_Gray_. No; I see nobody but you and Mrs. Lucy—I beg her pardon, Mrs. +Lucy Gwinett. + +_Gil_. Villain! + +_Gray_. Thou liest—stop—there was a time, when at such a word, I’d seen +thee sprawling at my feet; but now, I can’t tell how it is—I cannot +strike thee. + +_Gil_. But I’ll tell you how it is—the title’s a just one—you feel it +sink into your heart—and your arm is palsied; once more, leave my house. + +_Gray_. And why is my money not as good as a finer customer’s? why can’t +you take my money? + +[_During this scene_, _Blackthorn and Ash enter behind_ P. S. _and exeunt + through door in flat_. R. + +_Gil_. Why, in truth, Grayling, I’m afraid ’tis gained by too foul a +business. + +_Gray_. Ha! ha! the conscience of an innkeeper. + +_Gil_. Grayling, leave the house; at any time I’d sooner look upon a +field of blighted corn, than see you cross my threshold; but on this day, +beyond all— + +_Gray_. This day,—and why (_sarcastically_, _and looking at Lucy_.) oh, +I had forgotten; yes, it is the very day— + +_Lucy_. Oh! good Gilbert. + +_Gil_. Stay but one moment longer, and as I am a man, I’ll send thee +headforemost into the street. + +_Gray_. Fine words! + +_Gil_. We’ll try then. + +(_Gilbert is rushing at Grayling_, _when Lucy comes between them_, +_Gwinett enters hastily at this moment_, _and starts on beholding Lucy_; +_Grayling sees Gwinett_, _exchanges a look of defiance with Gilbert and +Lucy_, _and goes sullenly off_. P. S.) + +_Gwin_. (_aside_.) ’Tis she! oh, heavens! all my dangers are repaid. + +_Gil_. An unruly customer, Sir, that’s all—I’ll take care he does not +disturb you. (_To Lucy_.) This is the gentleman who would speak to you. + +_Lucy_. Do not leave me. + +_Gil_. Nay, he has something he says to tell thee privately—I’ll be +within call. + + [_Exit_ R. + +_Gwin_. (_aside_.) Let me be calm, lest too suddenly the secret burst +upon her—she knows me not—time and peril have wrought this change. + +_Lucy_. You would speak to me, Sir? + +_Gwin_. I would, Madam; is there no one within hearing? + +_Lucy_. No one—but why such caution? + +_Gwin_. ’Tis necessary for the memory of one you once loved. + +_Lucy_. Whom mean you? + +_Gwin_. Ambrose! + +_Lucy_. Oh! in mercy speak not that name—I dare not breathe it to +myself; once loved—oh! this agony—you probe into a breaking heart. + +_Gwin_. But not recklessly believe me. + +_Lucy_. Alas, what avails this now—let the dead rest unspoken of—break +not the silence of my Gwinett’s grave. + +_Gwin_. His grave! + +_Lucy_. Oh! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul; he has no grave; +they stole him from me—they robbed the widow of her last bitter +consolation. + +_Gwin_. Perhaps it was the deed of friends. + +_Lucy_. Friends!—But to your errand, Sir, what would you say? speak it +quickly, lest my reason desert me, and you talk to madness:—I was told +you brought me comfort, I smiled at the word; it seems my unbelief was +right. + +_Gwin_. I do bring you comfort—News of your husband. + +_Lucy_. Ah! perhaps, yes, I see it—you can tell me where they laid his +cold remains—can lead me to his grave, where I may find a refuge too.—You +weep, nay then I know your mission is one of kindness—of charily to the +widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died a felon’s death on yonder +hill. + +_Gwin_. I would speak of Ambrose—but, start not—he died not at the hour +men think. + +_Lucy_. Died not? + +_Gwin_. As you loved your husband living, and weep him dead, I charge +you conjure up all the firmness springing from woman’s love, nor let one +sound or breath escape you to publish the sad history I’m about to tell. + +_Lucy_. I’m fixed as stone—should my husband rise before me, my heart +might burst, but not a cry should escape me. + +_Gwin_. Many years after, the whole world believed him dead—your husband +lived. (_Lucy by a violent effort maintains her silence_.) You know +’twas thought the body had been stolen for interment.—Listen, I knew your +husband—met him abroad: to me, he confided the secret of his escape; to +me, he described the frightful scene—the thronging multitude—the agonies +of death! The dreadful ordeal past, the ministers of justice executed +the remaining part of the sentence—the body was suspended in chains. +Whether it was from the inexperience of the executioner, or the hurried +manner in which the sad tragedy was performed, I know not,—but your +husband still lived—the fresh airs of night blew upon him, and he +revived—revived and found himself hanging.—Oh! my blood thickens as I +think upon the torture that was his—fortunately, the irons that supported +him, hung loosely about him; by a slight effort he freed his limbs, and +dropping to the earth, hastened with all speed, to another part of the +coast, took ship and quitted England. + +_Lucy_. (_incoherently_.) And I!—I not to know of this—unkind. + +_Gwin_. Often he strove to inform you—often wrote, but ne’er received an +answer,—twelve years ago he set out, resolved to dare all hazards and +seek you, when he was taken by the Moors and sold for a slave—I knew him +whilst a captive. + +_Lucy_. And did he die in slavery—oh, your looks declare it—unhappy +wretched Gwinett,—but no, happy, thrice happy, he died not on a scaffold. +Did he hope you would ever see his miserable widow? + +_Gwin_. He did, and gave me this locket—it contains your hair. + +_Lucy_. Oh, give it me—oh, well do I remember when I saw it last, +Gwinett was gazing at it with tearful eyes, when the prison bell—oh, that +sound! ’tis here still—I’m sick at heart. (_Falls on Gwinett’s +shoulder_.) + +_Gwin_. Still she knows me not—how to discover myself!—oh Lucy, what a +ruin has sorrow made of thee. + +_Lucy_. (_reviving_.) Ah!—what was that?—no no, I wander—yes, it +is—(_recognizing him_.) oh heavens it is my husband! (_falls into his +arms_.) + +_Gwin_. Within there— + + _Enter_ JENNY. R. + +assist me to remove her—she will recover shortly—come, madam. + + [_Exeunt_. R. + + _Enter_ GRAYLING _cautiously_. R. + +_Gray_. So! no one here—I can see nothing of Blackthorn or Will +Ash—well, all the better, I may be spared some mischief—and then how to +live?—live, can I call this life—a dreadful respite from day to +day—hunger and disgrace dogging my steps—what do I here?—there is a charm +that holds me to this spot, and spite of the taunts, the rebukes that’s +showered upon me, I cannot quit it, nor ever whilst Lucy is—eh! who have +we here? + + _Enter_ BLACKTHORN _and_ WILL ASH _cautiously from door in flat with + Gwinett’s portmanteau_. + +Blackthorn!—Ash! + +_Black_. (_whispering_.) Hush—not a word. + +_Gray_. What have you there? + +_Black_. Plunder, and good booty too I take it. + +_Gray_. And what would you do with it? + +_Black_. What!—that question from Grayling?—come let’s away. + +_Ash_. We cannot—the portmanteau will be missed, and we instantly +pursued. + +_Black_. Stay—is there no surer way—I have it—we’ll even shake its +contents a bit, and leave the trunk here—what say you, Grayling? + +_Gray_. As you will—I’m fit for any work. + +_Black_. Come then and assist—(_puts portmanteau on table and opens +it_.) eh—he’s well provided—(_takes out a pair of pistols and puts them +on table_.) ah!—here’s gold—(_takes out purse_.) Dos’t hear it +chink?—Grayling, come and assist, man. + +_Gray_. (_approaching the table_, _and recognising portmanteau_.) Hold +for your lives—you must not, shall not, touch this. + +_Black_. Eh!—how does the wind blow now?—and why not I pray? + +_Gray_. Anything but this—the owner this morning relieved my +necessities—hundreds passed and heeded not the outcast, famishing, +Grayling—he who claims this gave me alms, and bade me repent—I am a +wretch, a poor houseless, despised wretch—yet villain as I am, there is +some touch of feeling left—my hand would fall withered did I attempt to +touch it. + +_Black_. Ah, this may be all very well. + +_Gray_. Blackthorn—Ash—dare but to lay a robber’s hand on a single doit, +and I’ll alarm the house. + +_Black_. Tush. + +_Gray_. To the trial then. + +(_Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the contents of +the portmanteau from the hand of Blackthorn_—_they struggle_—_Blackthorn +regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue him_, _when his eye +falls upon a packet of letters that still remains in his hand_—_he stands +petrified_—_Blackthorn and Ash are about to go of at the opposite wings_, +_when Label and Gilbert come in from behind_, _and each taking a pistol +from table_, _come down and prevent the escape of the robbers_—_Grayling +in a state of agitation unmindful of every thing but the papers_, _which +he hastily looks over_.) + +_Gil_. So my brave fellows, here you are—three knaves between a +parenthesis of bullets. + +_Black_. Why what’s the matter? it’s all a mistake. + +_Gil_. A mistake—yes, I suppose you intended to be a very honest fellow, +but by accident are become a convicted scoundrel. + +_Black_. Well,—there’s the money—now we’re clear. + +_Gil_. Clear!—and you, Grayling, are you not ashamed?—do you not fear +the gallows? + +_Gray_. (_madly_.) Gallows!—no, all was lost—good +name—hopes—happiness—but yet I had revenge—I hugged it to my heart—’tis +gone, and Grayling has nought to live for. + +_Gil_. Give me those papers. + +_Gray_. Did I say revenge was gone?—no, it rages again with redoubled +fury—he shall not foil me—this time his death is sure. + +_Gil_. Unhappy wretch—give me those papers. + +_Gray_. Millions should not buy them, till they had served my +purpose—oh, it all bursts on my maddened brain—relieved—pitied by him!— + +_Gil_. Grayling—yield ere your fate is certain. + +_Gray_. Never! + +_Gil_. Call in assistance. (_Label goes up stage and beckons on +neighbours_, _&c._ _Gwinett and Lucy come on_. L.) + +There, secure the prisoner. + +_Gray_. Aye—secure the prisoner. + +_Offi_. Which is he? + +_Gil_. There—Grayling the robber. + +_Gray_. No—not Grayling the robber—but, there, Gwinett the convicted +murderer. + +_Omnes_. Gwinett? + +_Gil_. Gwinett!—Ambrose Gwinett!—it can’t be. + +_Gwin_. It is even so, good Gilbert—though wonderful ’tis true. + +_Gil_. He’s innocent—I knew he was innocent—good friends—kind +neighbours—let not this be spoken of—heaven has by a miracle preserved a +guiltless man—you will all be secret—no one here will tell the tale. + +_Gray_. Yes—here is one. + +_Gil_. You will not be that wretch. + +_Lucy_. (_falling at Grayling’s feet_.) Mercy! mercy! + +_Gray_. Are you there, Lucy Gwinett—think of my agonies—my hopes all +blighted—my affections spurned—think of my sufferings for eighteen +years—look at me—can you kneel before the ruin which your scorn has +made—but now, new I triumph—seize upon the murderer. (_all indicate +unwillingness_.) Nay then, I will proclaim the tale throughout the town. +(_Is rushing up stage_, _when Gilbert seizes him by the throat_.) + +_Gil_. You stir not a foot—if a murderer must be hanged, it shall be for +strangling such a serpent. + +_Grayling and Gilbert struggle_, _Grayling throws Gilbert from him_, _and +with the rest of the characters following_, _rushes up the stage_. _As +he is about to exit at back_, _the folding doors fly open_, _and +Collins_, _an old grey-headed man_, _presents himself at the entrance_; +_a general exclamation of_ “_Collins_” _from all the characters who +recoil in amazement_. + +_Gray_. See—his ghost, the ghost of the victim rises from the grave to +claim the murderer—I am revenged—I triumph—ha! ha! ha! + + (_falls exhausted_.) + +_Col_. My friends. Lucy. + +_Lucy_. My uncle! + +_Gwin_. He lives! he lives! the world beholds me innocent! beholds me +free from the stain of blood! + +_Gil_. Master—oh! day of wonders!—the dead come back. + +_Col_. Wonders, indeed! Gwinett, ’tis but within this past half hour, I +have heard the story of your sufferings. + +_Gil_. But tell me, master, how is this? dead! and not dead, and— + +_Col_. Another time; it is a tedious story, the night you thought me +killed, I had left my chamber to procure assistance to staunch a +wound—scarcely had I crossed the threshold, than I was seized by a +press-gang, and hurried—but see to yon unhappy man. + +(_They raise Grayling_, _who is dying_; _his face is pale_, _his eyes +set_, _and his lips and hands stained as though he had burst a +blood-vessel_.) + +_Gray_. (_seeing Collins_.) There still—not gone yet? + +_Col_. How fares it now, Grayling? + +_Gray_. And speaks—lives—then Gwinett, Gwinett the husband of Lucy—my +Lucy, for I loved her first—is no murderer. + +_Lucy_. Grayling. + +_Gray_. Oh! Lucy, that voice, my heart leaps to it—leaps to it as it +did—but all’s past; Lucy, you will not curse me when I’m dead—there are +those who will—but let them—you will not: the earth is sliding from +beneath my feet—my eyes are dark—what are these?—tears—Lucy’s tears!—I am +happy. + + [_Sinks backward_. + + + + +DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN. + + Neighbours. Collins. Label. +Blackthorn. Lucy. Grayling. Gilbert. Gwinett. Ash. +R.] [L. + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMBROSE GWINETT*** + + +******* This file should be named 45057-0.txt or 45057-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/5/0/5/45057 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Ambrose Gwinett + or, a sea-side story : a melo-drama, in three acts + + +Author: Douglas William Jerrold + +Editor: George Daniel + +Release Date: March 4, 2014 [eBook #45057] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMBROSE GWINETT*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the [1828] John Cumberland edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org Many thanks to John Hentges +for finding this, providing a copy for the transcription, and +doing the background research.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Gwinett. Wretch! heartless ruffian!—Act II. Scene 3" +title= +"Gwinett. Wretch! heartless ruffian!—Act II. Scene 3" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<h1>AMBROSE GWINETT;<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, A SEA-SIDE STORY:</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center">A <b>MELO-DRAMA</b>,</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>In Three Acts,</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>BY D. W. JERROLD,</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Author of The Mutiny at the +Nore</i>, <i>John Overy</i>, <i>The Devil’s Ducat</i>, +<i>Golden Calf</i>,<br /> +<i>Bride of Ludgate</i>, <i>&c.</i></p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED FROM +THE ACTING COPY, WITH REMARKS,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, BY +D—G.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">To which are added,</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A +DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME,—CAST OF THE +CHARACTERS,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ENTRANCES AND EXITS,—RELATIVE +POSITIONS OF THE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE,—AND THE +WHOLE OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE STAGE BUSINESS,</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">As now performed at the</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>METROPOLITAN MINOR +THEATRES.</b></p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall"><b>EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE +ENGRAVING.</b></span></p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>LONDON:</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center">JOHN CUMBERLAND, 2, CUMBERLAND +TERRACE,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CAMDEN NEW TOWN.</span></p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>REMARKS.<br /> +Ambrose Gwinett.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Hypercriticism</span> has presumed to find +fault with this drama, which a better taste has denominated +“<i>the serious domestic historical</i>,” because, +forsooth, it smacks of the Old Bailey!—and, when +justification has been pleaded by citing <i>George Barnwell</i>, +we have received the retort courteous, in the story of the +witling who affected to wear glasses because Pope was +near-sighted. But a much better plea may be urged than the +example of a bard so moderately gifted as Lillo! “The +Ravens of Orleans,” “Dog of Montargis,” +“Family of Anglade,” and numerous other public +favourites, speak daggers to such hypercriticism.—Ambrose +Gwinett is a strange tale and a true one; and a tale both strange +and true what playwright can afford to let slip through his +fingers? A murder or so may be prudently relinquished, for +the season will come round again; but he cannot expect to see a +man hanged and resuscitated for his especial accommodation every +day in the week.</p> +<p>Ambrose Gwinett favoured the world with his autobiography at a +period when autobiography was a rarity. He is +unquestionably the only historian who has written his life after +being gibbetted—drawn and quartered we leave to the +autobiographers and dramatists of another generation! +Egotism under such extraordinary circumstances may surely be +pardoned; and if honest Ambrose dwell somewhat complacently on +certain events of deep interest and wonder, he may plead a much +better excuse than our modern autobiographers, who invent much +and reveal little but a tedious catalogue of fictions and +vanities; a charge that applies not to the startling narrative of +the poor sweeper of the once insignificant village of +Charing.</p> +<p>The story, which occurred in the reign of Queen Anne, is +simple and well told. Ambrose had a tale to +tell—(what autobiographer would not be half hanged to be +entitled to tell a similar one?)—passing strange and +pitiful; therefore, like a skilful dramatist, who depends solely +on his plot, he affected no pomp of speech: of tropes and figures +he knew nothing; but he knew full well that he had been hanged +without a trope, and his figure brought to life again!</p> +<p><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>“I +was born,” says he, “of respectable parents in the +city of Canterbury, where my father dealt in slops. He had +but two children, a daughter and myself; and, having given me a +school education, at the age of sixteen he bound me apprentice to +Mr. George Roberts, an attorney in the same town, with whom I +stayed four years and three quarters, to his great content and my +own satisfaction.</p> +<p>“My sister, having come to woman’s estate, had now +been married something more than a twelvemonth to one Sawyer, a +seafaring man, who, having got considerable prizes, my father +also giving him 200<i>l.</i> with my sister, quitted his +profession, and set up a public-house near the place of his +nativity, which was Deal, in the county of Kent. I had +frequent invitations to pass a short time with them; and, in the +autumn of 1709, having obtained my master’s consent for +that purpose, I left the city of Canterbury on foot, on Wednesday +morning, being the 17th day of September; but, through some +unavoidable delays on the road, the evening was considerably +advanced before I reached Deal; and so tired was I, being unused +to that way of travelling, that, had my life depended on it, I +could not have gone so far as my sister’s that night. +At this time there were many of her majesty, Queen Anne’s +ships lying in the harbour, the English being then at war with +the French and Spaniards; besides which, I found this was the day +for holding the yearly fair, so that the town was filled to that +degree, that not a bed was to be gotten for love nor money. +I went seeking a lodging from house to house to no purpose; till, +being quite spent, I returned to the public-house, where I had +first made inquiry, desiring leave to sit by their kitchen-fire +to rest myself till morning.</p> +<p>“The publican and his wife where I put up happened, +unfortunately for me, to be acquainted with my brother and +sister; and finding by the discourse that I was a relation of +theirs, and going to visit them, the landlady presently said she +would endeavour to get me a bed; and, going out of the kitchen, +she quickly called me into a parlour that led from it. Here +I saw, sitting by the fire, a middle-aged man, in a nightgown and +cap, who was reckoning money at a table. +‘Uncle,’ said the woman, as soon as I entered, +‘this is a brother of our friend, Mrs. Sawyer; he cannot +get a bed anywhere, and is tired after his journey. You are +the only one that lies in this house alone: will you give him a +part of your’s?’ To this the man answered, that +she knew he had been out of order,—that he was blooded that +day, <a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>and +consequently a bedfellow could not be very agreeable. +‘However,’ said he, ‘rather than the young man +shall sit up, he is welcome to sleep with me.’ After +this, we sat some time together; when, having put his money in a +canvas bag into the pocket of his nightgown, he took the candle, +and I followed him up to bed.”</p> +<p>Having occasion to visit the garden during the night, the +landlord lent him his pen-knife, that he might more easily open +the door, the latch being broken. From this knife a piece +of money falls, which Gwinett pockets. Returning to his +room, he finds, to his great surprize, that his companion is +absent. At six o’clock he rises, dresses himself +hastily, and, impatient to see his sister (the reckoning being +paid overnight), lets himself out at the street door.</p> +<p>He has not been above an hour or two with his relations, +before three horsemen arrive, arrest him for robbery and murder, +and he is carried back to Deal, to be dealt with accordingly.</p> +<p>He is taken with the knife in his possession, tried, +condemned, and executed: yet, strange to say, the man yet lived; +his groans were heard from the gibbet, and he was rescued from +his frightful situation by his master’s dairymaid. He +took ship, went abroad, and encountered Collins, the supposed +victim, who, it appeared, had been forced from his home by a +press-gang. After enduring many perils, he returned to his +native land, crippled and poor, and subsequently became sweeper +of the road at Charing Cross.</p> +<p>Mr. Jerrold has heightened the interest of his drama by +superadding the passions of love and jealousy. We have no +objection to fiction when it conduces to effect; and three rounds +of applause are sufficient to justify any interpolation. +This piece was well acted, and brought ample receipts to the +treasury of the Coburg.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">D—G.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>Costume.</h2> +<p>AMBROSE GWINETT.—<i>First dress</i>—Short brown +tunic and vest, with full trunks—hose and half +boots.—<i>Second dress</i>—Tunic and long +cloak—hat and feathers.</p> +<p>NED GRAYLING.—<i>First dress</i>—That of a +Blacksmith.—<i>Second dress</i>—A short plain +tunic—full trunks—hose, and a small round +hat.—<i>Third dress</i>—that of a mere mendicant.</p> +<p>GILBERT.—<i>First dress</i>—A short close +tunic—shoes and stockings.—<i>Second +dress</i>—Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer.</p> +<p>COLLINS.—<i>First dress</i>—Short +tunic.—<i>Second dress</i>—A morning gown.</p> +<p>LABEL.—Barber’s dress—three cornered hat and +cane.</p> +<p>WILL ASH and BLACKTHORN.—Short tunics, &c.</p> +<p>GEORGE.—Sailor’s dress.</p> +<p>BOLT.—Dark tunic, &c.</p> +<p>OFFICER.—The usual costume.</p> +<p>REEF.—Blue jacket—white trowsers—straw +hat.</p> +<p>LUCY FAIRLOVE.—<i>First dress</i>—Plain bodied +gown—straw hat.—<i>Second dress</i>—A black +open gown with train.</p> +<p>JENNY.—<i>First dress</i>—That of a peasant +girl.—<i>Second dress</i>—Gown—cap—and +apron.</p> +<p>MARY.—Peasant’s dress.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Villagers</i>, <i>Peasants</i>, +<i>&c. in the usual costume</i>.</p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<h2>Cast of the Characters</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>As sustained at the Coburg +Theatre</i>.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Ambrose Gwinett</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Cobham.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ned Grayling (<i>The Prison Smith</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Davidge.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Gilbert (<i>Waiter at the Blake’s Head</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Sloman.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Collins (<i>Landlord of the Blake’s Head</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Mortimer.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Label (<i>an Itinerant Barber Surgeon</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. E. L. Lewis.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>George (<i>a Smuggler condemned to Die</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Gale.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Blackthorn</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. H. George.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Will Ash</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Gann.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Bolt (<i>a Gaoler</i>.)</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Porteus.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>1<i>st</i> Villager</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. J. George.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>2<i>nd</i> Ditto</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Waters.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Officer</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Worrell.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reef</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Elsgood.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>1<i>st</i> Sailor</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Saunders.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lucy Fairlove</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss Watson.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Jenny</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mrs. Congreve.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Mary</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss Boden.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Child</p> +</td> +<td><p>Master Meyers.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>A Lapse of Eighteen Years is +supposed to have taken Place between</i><br /> +<i>the Second and Third Acts</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>ACT. I.</h2> +<h3>SCENE I.—<i>View of the Country</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Collins</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, +there is life in you yet, man.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. To be thrown from a horse after my +experience—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the +best horse throw too; but come, you have no bones broken. +Had any man but myself, Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should +have said something had been amiss with his irons—but that +couldn’t be.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: +but, hark’ye, not a word about this accident, not a +syllable, or I shall never be able to sit in a saddle again, +without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a +tender heart I warrant—I could work at my forge all day in +the hottest June, so that Lucy would but smile, when—</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. There must be no more of this. You +know I have told you more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot +love you.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. How do you know that?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. She has said so, and do you suppose she +would speak any thing but truth?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she +wouldn’t. I tell you, master Collins, my +heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why +I know the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and +industrious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. This is all folly—a stout able fellow +turning whimperer.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be +so again; but thoughts will sometimes come across me, and I +feel—I tell you once more, master Collins, my heart is set +upon the girl.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. You’ll get the better of this, think +no more of her: nothing so easy.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. There are some matters very, <i>very</i> +easy. It is easy for you, a man well in trade, with +children flourishing about you, and all the world looking with a +sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man like +me, <a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>“You are poor and friendless—you have placed +your affections on a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your +lot, to cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can +never be yours—think no more of her,” this is +easy—“nothing so easy.”</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult +or offend you. If you can obtain my niece’s consent, +why, to prove that I love honesty, for its own sake, I’ll +give you whatever help my means afford. If, however, the +girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is +scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with +spaniel-like humility, the woman who despises him.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! +no! she couldn’t, yet when I met her last, though she +uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they flashed +upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span> <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span> (<i>singing</i>.) +“<i>A merry little plough Boy</i>.”</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I +have a little time to see my Jenny—master and mistress have +no compassion for us lovers—always work, work; they think +once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one another, and +unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; and +being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a +fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>starting</i>.) Lucy! who said any +thing about Lucy?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I did! It’s a good Christian +name, isn’t it? and no treason in it.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No, no, but you startled me.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I should like to know what right a man has +to be startled when I say Lucy—why one would think you were +married, and it was the name of your wife.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Lucy my wife, no, no.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. No, I should think not indeed.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And why should you think? but I’m +wrong to be so passionate—think no more of it, good +Gilbert.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. A cool way of settling matters: you first +fly at a man like a dragon—make his heart jump like a +tennis ball—and then say, think nothing of it, good +Gilbert.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I confess I am very foolish.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge +for themselves.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) I am almost ashamed +to do it, yet I will.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why, what’s the matter? you are +looking at <a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>me as if, like a highwayman, you were considering which +pocket I carried my money in.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know +whether Miss Lucy has any admirers?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Admirers! to be sure she has.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. She has!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Hundreds—don’t the whole town +admire her? don’t all our customers say pretty things to +her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you +looking at her?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Looking at her!—how?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. How, why like a dog that had once been well +kicked, and was afraid of being known a second time.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Villain! do you make mirth of my +sufferings? am I sport for fools? answer my question, or +I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell +me—</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. If the fox had never ventured where he had +no business, he’d have kept his tail.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. What mean you?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. If you had minded your own affairs, +you’d not have lost your temper.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Answer—</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask +questions, a little farther on there’s a finger +post—when you have read one side, you know you can walk +round to the other.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I shall but make my agitation the more +apparent. Never till this moment did I feel the fulness of +my passion. Come, rouse man, stand no longer like a coward, +eying the game, but take the dice, and at one bold throw, decide +your fate.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; +Lucy Fairlove is no match for you. No, no, if I mistake not +there’s another, smoother faced young man has been asking +if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but +mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! +dear me, I’ve been loitering so long, and have so much to +say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the +Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the +prison—and then there’s—but stop, whilst I am +running to Jenny, I can think of these matters by the way.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE II.—<i>Wood</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Ambrose Gwinett</span>. (<i>running</i>.) +<span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I’ve distanced them—but +i’faith I’ve had to run for it.—No, no, fair +gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore—high +winds, roaring seas, and <a name="page18"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 18</span>the middle-watch have no relish for +Gwinett—make a sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy +Fairlove?—I’ve hurt my wrist in the struggle with one +of the gang—(<i>takes his handkerchief</i>, <i>which is +stained with blood</i>, <i>from around his arm</i>.) It is +but a scratch—if I bind it up again it may excite the alarm +of Lucy—no, Time is the best surgeon, and to him I trust +it. (<i>puts the handkerchief in his pocket</i>.) Eh! +who have we here? by all my hopes, Lucy herself.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Lucy Fairlove</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Ambrose.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Come, this is kind of you—nay, it is +more than I deserve.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. What is kind or more than you deserve?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Why coming to meet me through this lone +road!</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Meet you—what vanity—not I +indeed, I was merely taking my morning’s walk, thinking +of—of—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Come, come, confess it.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Well then I do confess, I wished to meet +you, to tell you that—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. You have spoken to your uncle?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. On the contrary—to desire you to +defer—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Why, do you fear a refusal? Why +should he refuse—have I not every prospect—will not +my character—</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Yes, more than satisfy him, but—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Or perhaps Lucy there is another whom you +would prefer to make this proposal.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. This is unkind—you do not believe +so.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Well, be it as you will: I believe nought +but truth, but innocence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this +kiss—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Grayling</span> +<i>looking from wing</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Hem! holloa! there.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. How now—what want you?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Want! (<i>aside</i>.) Oh! Lucy, +Lucy! nothing.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Then wherefore did you call?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Because it pleased me: a man may use his +own lungs I trow.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) Alas! I fear +some violence.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Aye and his own legs, they cannot do him +better service than by removing him from where he is not +wanted.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>Coming between them</i>, <i>folding his +arms</i>, <i>and looking doggedly at Gwinett</i>.) Now I +sha’n’t go.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Would you quarrel, fellow?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye—yes—come will you fight +with me?</p> +<p><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span><i>Lucy</i>. (Interposing.) For heaven’s +sake! subdue this +rashness—Gwinett—Grayling—good kind Master +Grayling—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Good kind Master Grayling—you speak +falsely Lucy Fairlove—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Falsely?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye, Falsely! she thinks me neither good +nor kind—but I see how it is—I have thought so a long +time, (<i>after eying Gwinett and Lucy with extreme +malice</i>.) I see how it is—ha! ha! ha! +(<i>Laughing sarcastically</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice +but give your venom utterance.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Venom—aye—the right word, +venom,—and yet who’d have thought we should have +found it where all looked so purely.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Wretch! would you say—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Nothing—nothing—where we have +facts what need of words? the artless timid Lucy, she who moves +about the town with closed lips and downcast eyes—who +flutters and blushes at a stranger’s look—can steal +into a wood—oh! shame—shame.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Shame! villain! but no, to infamy so black +as this, the best return is the silent loathing of contempt.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. What! would you go with him, Lucy?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Grayling, never again, in town or field, +under my uncle’s roof, or beneath the open sky, that you +have so lately made a witness to your infamy, dare to pronounce +my name; there is a poison festering in your lips, and all that +passes through is tainting—your words fall like a blight +upon the best and purest—to be named by you, is to be +scandalised—once whilst I turned from, I pitied +you—you are now become the lowest, the most abject of +created things—the libeller, the hateful heartless libeller +of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can never more be +happy, at least strive to be good.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit with Gwinett</i>. +<span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees—I meant not +what I said—’twas passion—madness—eh, +what—now she takes him by the arm—they’re +gone—I feel as I had drank a draught of poison—never +sound her name again? yes, and I deserve it—I am a +wretch!—a ruffian,—to breathe a blight over so fair a +flower. I feel as if all the world,—the sky, the +fields, the bright sun were passing from me, and I stood fettered +in a dark and loathsome den—my heart is numbed, and my +brain palsied.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page20"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 20</span><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Reef</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Sailors</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. A plague take these woods, I see no good in +’em—there’s no looking out a head the length of +a bow sprit; I know he run down here.</p> +<p>1 <i>Sail</i>. That’s what I said at first, and if +you had taken my advice we should have come here without staying +beating about the bushes like a parcel of harriers.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. He was a smart clean fellow, and would have +done credit to the captain’s gig.—Eh! who have we +here?—come, one man is as good as another, and this fellow +seems a strong one.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. How now!—what would you?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. What would we?—why, what do you think +of topping your boom—pulling your halyards taut, and +turning sailor?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Sailor!</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Aye—why you look as surprised as if +we wanted to make you port admiral at once.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Turn sailor?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Sailor—what’s the use of +turning the word over so with your tongue—I said +sailor—it’s a useless gentility with us to ask +you—because if you don’t like us, I can tell you we +have taken a very great liking to you.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. With all my heart—Lucy is gone for +ever—this place is hateful to me—amid the perils of +the ocean, I may find my best relief—come.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. That’s right my hearty—come, +scud away—eh, what have you brought yourself up with a +round turn for?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Then I leave my rival to the undisturbed +possession of—oh, the thought is withering—no, no, I +cannot.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Cannot! we’re not to be put off, and +by a landsman—so come, there’s one fellow already has +outsailed us, piloting among these breakers,—one follow +this morning—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. This morning—what kind of man?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Why, to say the truth, messmate, he was a +trim taut-rigged craft, and a devilish deal better looking than +you are.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And he escaped from you?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Yes, but that’s more than we intend +to let you do, so come.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh it will be a sweet revenge—one +moment—how stands your pocket?</p> +<p><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span><i>Reef</i>. Why not a shot in the locker.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Here. (<i>takes out a purse</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Eh! how did you come by all that? you +hav’nt run a pistol against a traveller’s head, +eh?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. These are the savings of a life of +toil—I had hoarded them up for a far different +purpose—but so that they buy me revenge—</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Aye, that’s a bad commodity; for when +people are inclined to purchase, they’ll do it at any rate; +but I say, no foul tricks you know.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. You say one man escaped you this morning, +now I’ll lead you to him; moreover, if you secure him, this +purse shall be your reward.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Shall it! we are the boys; and what’s +more, we don’t mind giving you your discharge into the +bargain.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Come on then; follow me into the town, and +when the night comes on, I’ll find means to throw your +victim into your hands; bear him away with as little noise as +possible.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Oh, never fear—if he attempts to +hallo, we’ll put a stopper in his mouth to spoil his +music.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. ’Tis well—thus I shall be +revenged—Lucy, if you are resolved to hate, at least you +shall have ample reason for it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit with Sailors</i>. +<span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE III.—<i>A Room in the Blake’s +Head</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Label</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Well, now let me see, where’s my +next point of destination? ah, Dover. Thus I go through the +country, and by both my trades of barber and doctor, contrive to +look at the bright side of life, and lay by a little for the +snows of old age. Had bad business here at Deal: all the +people so plaguily healthy—not a tooth to be +drawn—not a vein to be opened; the landlord here, master +Collins, has been my only customer—the only man for whom I +have had occasion to draw lancet. Now it’s very odd +why he should be so secret about it—all to prevent alarming +his wife he says,—good tender man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. What, master Label, ah! bad work for +you—all hearty as oaks—not a pulse to be felt in all +Deal.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ah, I can’t think how that is.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Can’t you? I’ll tell +you—we’ve no doctors with us; no body but you, and +you’ll never do any harm, because—</p> +<p><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span><i>Label</i>. Because—because what?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why we all know you, and there’s few +will give you the chance; who do you think would employ a doctor +who goes about calling at peoples’ houses to mend their +constitutions, as tinkers call for old kettles.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may +trudge its shoes off, and never finger a fee, whilst swaggering +impudence bounces out of a carriage, and all he touches turns to +gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, farewell—I’m off +for Dover.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. What! to night?</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Yes, directly.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why you must pass through the +church-yard.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. What of that?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Nothing, only if ever you had any patients, +I thought you might have felt some qualms in taking that +road.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ever had any patients, I’ll whisper +a secret in your ear; I’ve had one in this house! Now +what do you think of that? What follows now?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. What follows now? why the grave-digger, +I’m afraid; I say, I wonder you didn’t add the trade +of undertaker to that of doctor.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Why?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why! how nicely you could make one business +play into the other: when called in to a patient, as soon as you +had prescribed for him, you know, you might have begun to measure +him for his coffin.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ah, you’re a droll fellow, but we +won’t quarrel; I dare say you think me very dull now, but +bless you I’m not, when I’m roused I can be devilish +droll—very witty indeed.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Aye, your wit is, I suppose, like your +medicine—it must be well shaken before it’s fit to be +administered; now how many of your jokes generally go to a +dose?</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. No, no, it won’t do, I’m not +to be drawn out now—I’ve no time to be comical, I +must away for Dover this instant.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. A word with you, the sharks are out +to-night.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. The sharks?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Aye, the blue-jackets, the +press-gang—now you’d be invaluable to them; take my +word, if they see you, you are a lost man.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Never fear me, the blue-jackets, bless +you, if they were to catch hold of me, I should run off and leave +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>a can of +flip in their hands; now what do you think of that?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why I think of the two, the flip would be +far the most desirable; but if you will go, why, a good night to +you, and a happy escape.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. All the same thanks to you for your +intelligence; press me, bless you they’d sooner take my +physic than me; no, no, I’m a privileged +man—good-night, good-night.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. That fellow has killed more people than ever +I saw; how he looks his trade, whenever I behold him, he appears +to me like a long-necked pint bottle of rheubarb, to be taken at +three draughts; but I must put all thing, to +rights—here’s my master and Miss Lucy will be here in +a minute; the house is full of customers, and it threatens to be +a boisterous night.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Reef</span>, <i>disguised in a large great +coat</i>. <span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. I say young man, (<i>Gilbert starts</i>.) +why what are you starting at?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Nothing—only at first I didn’t +know whether it was a man or a bear.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Indeed—and which do you think it is +now?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why, upon my word, it’s a very nice +distinction: I can’t judge very well, so I’ll take +you at your own word.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. I’ve a little business here with a +gentleman: do you know one Mr. Gwinett?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Gwinett! what, Ambrose Gwinett?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. The same.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Know him!—I believe I do—a very +fine, noble spirited,—</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Aye, that’s enough; I want to see +him—he’s in he house.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. No, indeed.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Would you tell me a lie now?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Yes I would, if I thought it would answer +any right purpose; I tell you he’s not in the +house—and pray who are you?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Who am I? +why—I’m—I’m—an honest man.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Aye, that’s so general a character; +couldn’t you descend a little to particulars?</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. I’ve a letter to Mr. +Gwinett—it’s of great consequence.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Who does it come from?</p> +<p><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span><i>Reef</i>. The writer!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Now it strikes me that this letter contains +some mischief.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Why?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Because it’s brought by so +black-looking a postman.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Will you deliver it? if as you say +he’s not here when he comes?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Deliver it? why I don’t mind, but if +you’ve any tricks you know.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Tricks, you lubber, give him the letter, +and no more palaver. (<i>going</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Here—(<i>Reef returns</i>.) +No—no matter—I thought you had left your civility +behind you.</p> +<p><i>Reef</i>. Umph!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I warrant me, that’s a fellow that +never passes a rope maker’s shop without feeling a crick in +the neck.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Lucy</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh, Gilbert!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. How now, Miss Lucy, you seem a little +frightened or so?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh, no—not frightened, only hurried a +little—is my uncle in the house?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Oh, yes—and has been asking for you +these dozen times,—here by-the-by is a letter for—but +mum—here comes master.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Mr. Collins</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Well, Lucy child, where hast been all day, I +havn’t caught a glance of you since last night—what +have you got there, Gilbert?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Where, sir?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Why, there in your hand—that +letter.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Oh—aye—it is a letter.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. For me?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. No, sir—it’s for master Ambrose +Gwinett.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Give it to me—I expect him here +to-night.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Expect master Ambrose here to-night, +uncle?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Aye, standing at the door just now, his +uncle told me that he expected him at Deal to-day, but being +compelled to be from home until to-morrow, he had left word that +master Ambrose should put up here, and asked me to make room for +him.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. What here, master? why there’s not a +corner—not a single corner to receive the visit of a +cat—the house is full to the very chimney pots.</p> +<p><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span><i>Col</i>. Aye, as it is but for once, we must +contrive—let me see—as we have no other room, master +Ambrose can take part of mine—so bustle Gilbert, bustle, +and see to it.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Yes, sir, yes.—(<i>Aside</i>.) +I’m sorry master’s got that letter though; it was an +ugly postman that brought it, and it can’t be good.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Now, Lucy, that we are together, I would +wish to have some talk with you. You know, girl, I love +you, as though you were my own, and were sorrow or mischance to +light upon you, I think ’twould go nigh to break my +heart. Now answer me with candour—you know +Grayling—honest Ned Grayling? why, what do you turn so pale +at?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! uncle, I beseech you, name him not.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Tut—tut—this is all idle and +girlish—the man loves you, Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Loves me!</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Aye; Ned is not so sprightly and trim a lad +as many, but he hath that which makes all in a husband, +girl—he has a sound heart and a noble spirit.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Possibly—I do not know.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. But you do know, and so does all the town +know; come, be just to him if you cannot love him; but for my +part, I see not what should prevent you becoming his wife.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. His wife? oh, uncle, if you have the least +love—the least regard for me, speak no more upon this +theme—at least for the present. I will explain all +to-morrow, will prove to you that my aversion is not the result +of idle caprice, but of feelings which you yourself must +sanction. In the mean while be assured I would rather go +down into my grave, than wed with such a man as Grayling.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Eh! why—what’s all +this?—Grayling has not—if he has—</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. No, no, it is I who am to blame, for +speaking thus strongly—wait, dearest uncle—wait till +to-morrow.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Well, as it is not long, and the time will +be slept out, I will,—but take heed, Lucy, and let not a +foolish distaste prejudice you against a worthy and honourable +man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Ambrose Gwinett</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Your servant, master Collins—I must I +find be your tenant for the night.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. And shall be welcome, sir; come, Lucy, +Gilbert, <a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>stir, and prepare supper; there’s a rough night +coming on I fear, and you might fare worse, master Ambrose, than +as guest at the Blake’s Head—here, by the way, is a +letter for you.</p> +<p>[<i>Whilst Gwinett is reading the letter</i>, <i>the +supper-table is arranged</i>, <i>and Collins sits down and begins +counting some money</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. This is a most mysterious +assignation. (<i>Reads</i>.) “If you are a man, +you will not fail to give me a meeting at twelve outside the +house, I have to unfold a plot to you which concerns not you +alone.—Your’s, a Friend.” (<i>Whilst +Gilbert and Lucy are off for provisions</i>.) Master +Collins, I may rise to-morrow morning ’ere any of your good +people are stirring, you will therefore not be surprised to find +me gone.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. But why so early?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. A little appointment—I shall return +to breakfast.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Then go out by the back gate; but stop, as +the latch is broken in the inside, you had better take this knife +(<i>giving Gwinett a clasp-knife</i>.) to lift it; we shall wait +breakfast until your return.</p> +<p>[<i>Collins</i>, <i>Gwinett</i>, <i>and Lucy</i>, <i>seat +themselves at table</i>.—<i>Grayling enters</i>, <i>takes a +chair</i>, <i>and placing it between Lucy and Gwinett</i>, +<i>sits down</i>.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. How now, master Grayling, you have mistaken +the room.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Mistaken—how so? isn’t this the +Blake’s Head?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. That may be; but this is my private +apartment.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Private! than what does he +here—Gilbert, some ale.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) The very ruffian I +encountered in the wood.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>to Gwinett</i>.) What are you +looking at man? I shall pay my score—aye, every +farthing o’t, though I may not dress so trimly as some +folks.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Grayling, will you quit the room?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No!</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Then expect to lose—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Lose! and what can I lose? hasn’t he +all that I could lose?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. What do you mean?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ask Lucy—the wood, Lucy, the +wood.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Wretch! dare you beneath her uncle’s +roof—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Dare I? you have among you awakened the +wolf within my heart, and beware how it snaps.</p> +<p><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span><i>Col</i>. This is needless; good Grayling leave +us.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Good, and you think I am to be hushed with +fair words like a child, whilst he, that thief, for he has stolen +from me all that made life happy, whilst he bears away Lucy and +leaves and broken hearted.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. He bear away Lucy—you are +deceived.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No, you are deceived, old man—you are +deceived; but let to-morrow shew, I’ll not ’cumber +your room, master Collins; I leave it to more gay visitors than +Ned Grayling; I leave it till +to-morrow—good-night—good-night, gay master +Gwinett,—a pleasant night’s rest—ha! ha! +ha!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Dear uncle, is not this sufficient excuse +for my aversion.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. No matter, we’ll talk more of this +to-morrow. Go to your chamber, girl. +(<i>Music</i>.—<i>Lucy goes off</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span>) and now, sir, we will to ours.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Music</i>.—<i>Exeunt</i> +<span class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE IV.—<i>Another Room in the Blake’s +Head</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span>, <i>with lamp</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Well, I’ve looked all through the +house, fastened the doors, hung up the keys, and now have nothing +to do but to go and sleep until called up by the cock. Well +I never saw love make so much alteration in any poor mortal as in +master Grayling—he used to be a quiet, plain spoken civil +fellow—but now he comes into a house like a +hurricane. I wonder what that letter was about, it bothers +me strangely—well, no matter—I’ll now go to +bed—I’ll go across the stable yard to my loft, and +sleep so fast that I’ll get ten hours into six.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Collins</span> <i>from</i> <span +class="GutSmall">C.D.</span> <i>in flat</i>.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. A plague take that doctor, he has bound my +arm up rarely—scarcely had I got into bed, than the bandage +falling off, the blood gushed freshly from the wound; if I can +reach Gilbert, he will assist me to stop it—or stay, had I +not better return to master Gwinett, who as yet knows nothing of +the matter? no, I’ll even make my way to Gilbert, and then +to bed again.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gwinett</span>, <i>from door in flat</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I have armed myself—and am determined +to meet the appointment; if there be any foul play intended, they +will find me prepared, if not, the precaution is still a +reasonable one—the latch is broken, said the landlord, the +knife however will stead me.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>[<i>Collins cries without</i>, “<i>Murder</i>! +<i>murder</i>! <i>within</i>—<i>Lucy</i>! <i>Gilbert</i>! +<i>murder</i>! <i>murder</i>!”—<i>Lucy screams +without</i>, <i>and rushes through door in flat</i>, <i>then runs +on exclaiming</i></p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh, heaven! my uncle’s murdered!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Servants and others run +on</i>. <span class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. What say you, murdered! +where?—how?—</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. I know not—hearing his cries, I +rushed into his room—he was not there, but his bed was +steeped in blood.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. What cries are these? master Collins +murdered! where is Gwinett?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Alas! oh, heaven—he is—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ah! let search be made.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gwinett</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. He is the assassin.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Villain! (<i>rushes at +Grayling</i>—<i>they struggle</i>; <i>Grayling wrenches a +knife from Gwinett’s grasp</i>; <i>his coat files open</i>, +<i>and the handkerchief stained with blood</i>, <i>falls +out</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ah! this knife—</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. It is my uncle’s—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Your uncle’s—behold the +murderer!</p> +<p>[<i>Gwinett stands petrified with horror</i>, <i>Lucy shrieks +and turns away from him</i>; <i>Gilbert picks up the handkerchief +stained with blood</i>, <i>and holds it at one side of +Gwinett</i>, <i>whilst Grayling on the other</i>, <i>points to +the knife with looks of mingled detestation and +revenge</i>.—<i>Characters form themselves at back</i>, +<i>&c.</i>—<i>End of Act I</i>.</p> +<h2>ACT II.</h2> +<h3>SCENE I.—<i>Outside view of the Sessions’ +House</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jenny</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Come along, Jenny, come along; it will be +all over in a few minutes.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Oh what a shocking thing! Master +Gwinett tried for murder—I’d lay my life he’s +innocent.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why I don’t know what to think: +matters stand very strong against him—but then he looks as +freshly, and speaks as calmly—no he can’t be +guilty—and yet the knife—and my master’s bed +filled with blood—<a name="page29"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 29</span>and then where is my poor +master—every search has been made for the body, and all in +vain—if Gwinett be guilty—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span> <i>from Sessions’ +House</i>. <span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. If he be guilty—who can doubt his +guilt?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Those, master Grayling, who do not let their +hate stand in the light of their clear judgment. This is, I +warrant me, a rare day of triumph for you.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye, and ought to be to every honest man! +’tis for rogues to be sad, when rogues are caught.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I dare say now you think this will serve +your turn with Miss Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Perhaps I do, and what then?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. What then! why then you overcount your +profits: take my simple word for it, she hates you! hates you as +much as she loves—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Her uncle’s murderer, eh? are not +those the words? with all my heart, I would rather have the +deadly hate of Lucy Fairlove, than the softest pity of Lucy +Gwinett. Oh! I thought there was a world of mischief under +the smooth face of the assassin—had he struck for a deep +revenge I could have pardoned him, for it might have been my own +fate—but to murder a man for gold! for a few pieces of +shining dross—’tis a crime to feel one touch of pity +for so base a miscreant.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Bless me—’tis all like a +dream—’twas but yesterday, and we were all as happy +as the best.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye, it was but yesterday when the gay trim +master Ambrose scorned and contemned me! but yesterday, and Lucy +hung upon his arm! and to-day—ha! ha! ha!—I stood +against him at the fatal bar; as I passed, his brow blackened, +and his lips worked—his eyes shot the lightnings of hate +upon me—at that moment my heart beat with a wild delight, +and I smiled to see how the criminal shrunk as I told the tale +that damn’d him—to see him recoil as though every +word I uttered fell like a withering fire upon his guilty +heart. (<i>A scream is heard from the Sessions’ +House</i>.) Ah! the trial is ended. (<i>A neighbour +comes from Sessions’ House</i>, <i>Grayling runs to +him</i>.) say—the prisoner—</p> +<p><i>Neigh</i>. Guilty.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And no hopes of mercy?</p> +<p><i>Neigh</i>. None.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ha! ha! ha!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page30"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 30</span><i>Music</i>.—<i>Enter +Neighbours from the Court with Officers guarding</i> <span +class="smcap">Gwinett</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Good people, there are I see many among you +whose tears bespeak that you think me guiltless—may my soul +never reach yon happy sphere, if by the remotest thought it ever +yearned for blood:—circumstances—damning +circumstances have betrayed me:—I condemn not my +judges—farewell, for the few hours I dwell among men, let +me have your prayers; and when no more, let me, I pray, live in +your charitable thoughts. When time (for I feel it one day +will) shall reveal my innocence—should ought remain of this +poor frame, let it I beseech you, lie next my mother’s +grave, and in my epitaph cleanse my memory from the festering +stain of blood-farewell,—Lucy!</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>rushing on & falling into his +arms</i>.) Ambrose—</p> +<p><i>Offi</i>. (<i>aside to Grayling</i>.) Grayling, +you, as smith for the prison, must measure the culprit for his +fetters.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Measure?</p> +<p><i>Offi</i>. Aye! it is the sentence of the court that +the prisoner be hung in chains.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Indeed!</p> +<p><i>Offi</i>. The office is doubtless an ungrateful one; +being a fellow townsman you needs must feel for him.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No—no—yes—yes—but +duty you know, Sir, (<i>seeing Lucy still in Gwinett’s +arms</i>.) but if they stand leave-taking all day, I shall have +no time to finish the work. (<i>Officer motions +Gwinett</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I attend you, Sir, farewell +Lucy—heaven bless and protect you. (<i>Rushes off +followed by officers</i>, <i>&c.</i> <span +class="GutSmall">P. S.</span>)</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Gone, to prison—death—no they +cannot, dare not fulfil the dreadful sentence—he is +innocent! innocent as the speechless babe—the whole town +believes him guiltless—they will petition for him, and if +there be mercy upon earth he must yet be saved—(<i>seeing +Grayling</i>.)—Grayling! oh Grayling—your evidence +has betrayed him—but for you he had escaped—whilst +you spoke—whilst at every word you uttered my blood ran +cold as ice, I prayed (heaven pardon me) prayed that you might be +stricken dumb; but he, even he who stood pale and withered at the +bar must have felt far above you as man above a worm.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I spoke the truth, the truth of facts.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Yes, but urged with malice, wholly +devilish—but oh Grayling—all shall be +forgiven—all forgotten—<a name="page31"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 31</span>strive but with me to awaken mercy in +the hearts of his judges—strive but—ah no—I see +in that stone-like eye and sullen lip, that the corse of Ambrose +(his corse! my heart will burst) that to you his death knell +would be music, for then you would no longer fear his marriage +chimes.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I meddle not with the course of law, Lucy +Fairlove.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Hard-hearted man—but you carry with +you your own torment, a blighted conscience—alas, why do I +stand raving to this heartless being—the time wears +on—to-morrow—oh! what a world of agony is in that +word, let me still pronounce it, that I may ceaselessly labour in +the cause of misery—but if relentless law demands its +victim, the grave! the grave! be then my place of rest.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh Lucy!—what a wretch am I, to stand +like a heartless monster unmoved by every touch of pity—it +was not once so—once—but my nature’s changed, +all feelings, save one, are withered; love has turned to hate, a +deep and settled hate, I feel it craving for its prey! now to let +it feed and triumph on my rival’s pains!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE II.—<i>A view of the country</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Label</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. So far safe; egad Gilbert’s advice +was not altogether unnecessary, for I’ve had to keep up a +running account for these five miles—eh—what a crowd +of people are coming here.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> 1<i>st.</i> <span +class="smcap">Villager</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p>why my friend, you seem in haste.</p> +<p>1<i>st.</i> <i>Vil</i>. Haste! yes, I +would’n’t lose the sight for the world.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Sight! what sight?</p> +<p>1<i>st.</i> <i>Vil</i>. What, don’t you know? +(<i>looks at him contemptuously</i>,) then my service to you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. This is highway politeness, and to a man +of my profession—eh!—thank heaven, here comes one of +the other sex—it’s hard if I don’t get an +answer now.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary Rosely</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p>Well my pretty maid, are you going to see the sight?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. The sight! oh bless you, Sir,—no, not +for the world.</p> +<p><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span><i>Label</i>. What then you have no curiosity?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Curiosity, Sir,—do you know what +sight it is?</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. No, will you tell me?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Why, Sir; +it’s—it’s—it’s (<i>sobbing</i>.) oh +such a good young man.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. A good young man, is that such a sight +among you?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Oh no Sir—not that—and yet +there was nobody but loved him.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Nobody but loved him—i’faith +if they’ve all such pretty faces as you, he must have had a +fine time of it—but what’s the matter with +him—is he going to be married—is he dying—or +dead?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. No, Sir, not yet.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Well, then, never take on +so—he’ll get over it.</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Oh no, Sir, he’s sure to +die—the judges have said so.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. The judges—what the doctors! ah my +dear, I know, by myself, that the doctors are frequently no great +judges—what’s his complaint?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Complaint, Sir, why they say he’s +murdered a man.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Murdered a man! that’s a fatal +disease with a vengeance.</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. But it’s false, Sir, a wicked +falsehood—he murder—why, Sir, he was the best, the +kindest young man in all these parts—there was nobody but +loved poor Ambrose—</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ambrose! why you don’t mean Ambrose +Gwinett?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Oh yes, Sir, that’s his name.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. And who do they say he’s +murdered?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Master Collins.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Collins! (<i>aside</i>.) the devil; there +may be some of my marks found upon him—and—and what +have they done with the body?</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. That can’t be found any where: +it’s supposed that Ambrose—no, no, not Ambrose, but +the villains that did the horrid act, threw the body into the +sea.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Ah! very likely—I begin to feel very +uncomfortable—well go home, my good girl, go home.</p> +<p><i>Mary</i>. Home! no that I won’t; I’ll go +and see if I can’t comfort poor Miss Lucy.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. I’m puzzled, the body not to be +found; if I go and tell all that I know—inform the judges +that I bled <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>master Collins, perhaps they may secure me, and by some +little trick of the law, make me accompany master +Gwinett—again, allowing I should get clear off, the tale +might occasion some doubt of my skill, and so my trade would be +cut up that way—no no, better as it is, let the guilty +suffer, and no more said about it—it will all blow over in +a week or two. That same Gwinett, for all he used to laugh +and joke so gaily, had I now begin to remember a kind of hanging +look—he had a strange, suspicious—but bless me when a +man falls into trouble, how soon we begin to recollect all his +bad qualities. I declare the whole country seems in a +bustle—in the confusion I may get off without +notice—’tis the wisest course, and when wisdom comes +hand-in-hand with profit, he’s a fool indeed that turns his +back upon her.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Blackthorn</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Will Ash</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Tut tut—all trifling I tell +you—all the fears of a foolish girl—come, come, Will +Ash, be a man.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. That’s what I would be, master +Blackthorn, but you will not let me—I would be a man, and +return this same bag of money.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. And get a prison for your pains.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. But the truth—</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. The truth! it is too dangerous a commodity +for us to deal in at present—we know we picked it up a few +paces from the Blake’s Head, doubtless dropped from Collins +in his struggle with the murderers—but how are we to make +that appear—our characters, Will Ash, are not altogether as +clear as yonder white cloud, they are blackened a little ever +since that affair with the Revenue Officers—you know we are +marked men.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Yes, but unjustly so; I am conscious of my +innocence.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Yes, and a man may be hanged in that +consciousness—be hanged as I say, and leave the +consciousness of his innocence, as food and raiment for his +helpless family.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Oh!—</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. You are in no situation, Will Ash, to +study niceties—when your children shriek +“Bread” within your ears, is it a time for a man to +be splitting hairs, and weighing grains of sand?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Do not, Blackthorn, do not speak thus; for +in such a case it is not reason, but madness that decides.</p> +<p><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span><i>Black</i>. Even as you will, I speak for your +own good.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. I am assured of it, and could I satisfy +myself—</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Satisfy! why you may be +satisfied—the men who killed Collins, doubtless did it for +his gold—they were disappointed, and instead of the money +going to villains and blood-shedders, it has fallen into the +hands of honest men.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Honest—aye if we return it.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. No, then it would be fools, upon whom +fortune had thrown away her favours—Collins is dead! +mountains of gold could not put life—no, not even into his +little finger—what good then can come of returning the bag, +and what harm to the dead or to the world, by our keeping it?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. You speak rightly, a little +reasoning—</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Aye, a little reasoning as you say, does +much in such matters.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. And yet the greatest rogues may commit +crimes with as fair a shew of necessity—’tis not +Blackthorn—’tis not in the nature of guilt to want an +excuse.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Away with all this—will you be a +man?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. (<i>after a moment’s +struggle</i>.) I will—come what will, I’ll +return the gold—farewell—(<i>Is going off</i>, +<i>when child runs in</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span>)</p> +<p><i>Child</i>. Oh father! father, all is lost</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Lost?</p> +<p><i>Child</i>. Yes, our cruel landlord has seized on +every thing, mother and my little sisters, Jane and Ann, all +driven out, must have slept in the fields, if farmer—</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Oh, heavens! my wife and children homeless, +starving outcasts—and I no help—</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. No help! yes the bag—the gold!</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Ah!—yes!—it must, it shall be +done! the husband and the parent’s tugging at my +heart—oh! be witness heaven! and pardon, pardon the +frailties of the man in the agony of the father—come, +child, your mother and your sisters, though the trial be a hard +one, yet shall smile upon the oppressor.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exeunt</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE III.—<i>Inside of Prison</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span>: <i>he has with him an iron +rod</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. So now for my task; this is a day of +triumph for me; I could have dressed myself as for a holyday; +this Gwinett once dead who knows how time may work upon Lucy; +perhaps I had rather the gang had seized and <a +name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>torn the lad +away—but they deceived me—they took my money for the +service, and have never since shewn themselves; after all it may +be better as it is—Gwinett might have regained his +liberty—have returned—there’s no marrying with +the dead—no, ’tis best—much the +best.—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Bolt</span>, <i>the Gaoler</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p>A good-day to you, master Bolt.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. A good-day—you are late, master +Grayling—you will have scarcely sufficient time to perform +your task.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh, plenty—I have an old set of +chains in hand; an hour’s work will make them fit for any +body—so let me at once measure the prisoner.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. The prisoner! do you not know that there +are two to suffer?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Two!</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Aye; we have to day received an order that +“mad George,” as he is called, who was last Sessions +convicted for shooting an Exciseman, is to suffer with poor +Ambrose Gwinett.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Poor Ambrose Gwinett—you are mightily +compassionate, master Bolt.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Why, for the matter of that, if a +man’s a gaoler, I see no reason why his heart should be of +a piece with the prison wall.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. But is he not an assassin?—a midnight +murderer?</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. True; and yet I cannot but doubt—I do +not think a man with blood upon his head, could sleep so soundly +and smile so in his slumbers, as does master Gwinett; the whole +country feels for him.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days—let +a knave only rob an orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at +for a villain—let him spill blood, and it’s +marvellous the compassion that awaits him.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Why, how now, master Grayling? once you +would not have talked in this manner—you had one time a +heart as tender as a girl’s—I have seen you drop a +tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you have fitted the iron +upon it. Methinks you are strangely changed of late.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I am—no matter for that—let me +to my work, for time speeds on.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Well, you can first begin with mad +George.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And why not with Gwinett?—with +Gwinett, I say, the murderer?</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. He’s engaged, at present, taking +leave of poor <a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Lucy Fairlove; eh! why what’s the matter with you? +why you start and shake as though it was you that was going to +suffer.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Well, well, delay no longer.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. (<i>calls without</i>.) Holloa! Tom, +bring poor George hither. Poor fellow, he had begun to hope +for pardon just as the warrant came down.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Turnkey</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. Now, what further, good master Bolt?</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Why, there is another little +ceremony—you know the sentence is—</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow +to my brother smugglers,—well, no matter, they’ll let +me, I hope, hang over the beach with the salt spray sometimes +dashing upon me, and the sea-gull screaming around.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Give me your hand, friend; so, (<i>shakes +hands</i>.) this is an ugly task of mine, but you bear no +malice?</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. I never knew it when I was a free and happy +man, and should never feel it in my dying hour—and to prove +to you that the fear of death has not wasted my +powers,—there, bend that arm before you measure +it—stronger men than you, I take it, have tried in +vain.—(<i>Grayling takes hold of George’s arm</i>, +<i>and with a slight effort</i>, <i>bends it</i>.) Ah! +there was but one man who could do this—he who did it when +a boy—surely you are not—yes, it +is—Grayling!</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Eh! George—George Wildrove—my +earliest, my best of friends, (<i>they embrace</i>.) Oh! +and to meet you now, and in such a place—and I—the +wretch employed to—</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. Nay, Grayling, this is weak—your task +is not a free one, ’tis, I know, imposed upon you—to +the work, and whilst you measure the limbs of mad George, the +felon, think not, for I would not think of him—think not of +George Wildrove, the school-boy.</p> +<p>[<i>Music</i>.—<i>Grayling</i>, <i>after a struggle</i>, +<i>advances to George</i>—<i>he turns up one of his +sleeves</i>, <i>and is about to measure the arm</i>, <i>when his +eye falls upon George’s wrist</i>. <i>Grayling</i>, +<i>starting back with horror</i>.]</p> +<p>No, no, not if these prison walls were turned to gold, and I +by fulfilling this hateful task, might become the whole +possessor, I would not do it—as I have a soul, I would +not.</p> +<p><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span><i>Geo</i>. What new alarm? What holds you +now?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Your wrist, George.</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. Well—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Do you not see?</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. What?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. That scar—in that scar I read the +preservation of my life—alas! now worthless—can I +forget that the knife aimed at my heart, struck +there—there—</p> +<p><i>Geo</i>. Oh, a schoolboy frolic, go on, good Ned.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Never! Oh, George, I am a wretch, a +poor forlorn discarded wretch—the earth has lost its +sweetness to me—I am hopeless, aimless—I had thought +my heart was wholly changed to stone—I find there is +one—one pulse left, that beats with gratitude, with more +than early friendship.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Come, master Grayling, you know there is +another prisoner.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ah! I had forgotten—gaoler, chains +for this man, to be made an Emperor, I could not forge—if +you will, say so to the governor: for the other prisoner, +I’ll work—oh, how I’ll toil—but come a +moment, George—let my heart give a short time to +friendship, ’ere again ’tis yielded up to hate.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exeunt Grayling and +George</i>. <span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Ambrose Gwinett</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I feel as if within these two days, infirm +old age had crept upon me—my blood is chilled, and courses +through my veins with lazy coldness—my brain is +stunned—my eyes discern not clearly—my very hair +feels grey and blasted; alas! ’tis no wonder, I have within +these few hours been hurled from a throne of earthly +happiness—snatched from the regions of ideal +bliss—and cast, bound, and fettered within a prison’s +walls—and my name—my innocent name, stamped in the +book of infamy—oh! was man to contemplate at one view the +evil he’s to suffer, madness would seize on half his +kind—but misery, day by day works on, laying at intervals +such weights upon us, which, if placed at once would crush us out +of life.—Ah! the gaoler!</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. A good-day to you, master Ambrose.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. “Good-day” friend! let good +days pass between those happy men, who freely may exchange them +beneath the eye of heaven.—“Good-day” to a +wretch like me! it has a sound of mockery.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. And yet believe me, Sir, I meant not +so.</p> +<p><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span><i>Gwin</i>. I am sure you did not. It was +my own waywardness that misconstrued you—I am +sorry—pardon me, good man—and if you would yield a +favour to a hapless creature, now standing on the brink of the +grave, leave me—I fain would strive to look with calmness +into that wormy bed wherein I soon must lie.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Poor fellow, he forgets—but good +master Gwinett—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Well—be quick—for my minutes +are counted—I must play the miser with them.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Do you not remember the sentence?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Remember?</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. But the whole of it?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. The—oh, heavens, the thoughts like +fire flash into my brain.—I had forgotten—there is +no—no grave for me.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at +him.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Well, what does it matter; it is but in +imagination—nothing more.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. That’s right—come, look boldly +on it.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Where is the place, that—my heart +swells as it would burst its prison—the—you +understand.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by +One-Tree Farm.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>with great passion</i>.) +What!—at—oh!—if there be one touch of mercy in +my judges’ hearts, I beseech (<i>throws himself at +Bolt’s feet</i>.) I implore you—any other +spot—but there—there—</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. And why not there, master Ambrose?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Why not!—the cottage wherein I was +born looks out on the place—many a summer’s day, when +a child, a little happy child, close by my mother’s side, +my hand in her’s, I have wandered there picking the wild +flowers springing up around us—oh! what a multitude of +recollections crowd upon me—that meadow!—many a +summer’s night have I with my little sisters, sat waiting +my father’s coming—and when he turned that hedge, to +see his eyes, how they kindled up, when the happy shout burst +from his children’s lips—ah! his eyes are now fixed +closely on me—and that shout is ringing in my ears!</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. Come, come, be more composed.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. There I cannot die in peace: in one brief +minute I should see all the actions of my infant life, as in a +glass—there, there, I cannot die—is there no +help?</p> +<p><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span><i>Bolt</i>. I’m afraid, Sir, none: the +judges have quitted the town—but banish these thoughts from +your mind—here comes one that needs support even whilst she +strives to comfort others.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Lucy</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! dearest Ambrose—is there no +hope?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Hope, Lucy, none—my hour is at hand, +and the once happy and respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset +die the death of a felon! a murderer! a murderer!—Oh, +heavens! to be pointed, gazed at, executed as the inhuman, +heartless assassin—the midnight bloodshedder!</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Bloodshedder! oh, Gwinett.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my +fellow townsmen of the hapless Ambrose; do they all, all believe +me guilty?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Ob, no—some there are who, when your +name is mentioned, sigh and breathe a prayer for your +deliverance,—and some—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Aye, there it is, they class me with those +desperate wretches, who—oh, would the hour were +come—I shall go mad—become a raving maniac: what a +life had my imagination pictured: blessed with thee Lucy, I had +hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, an old grey headed +happy man, and now, the scaffold—the executioner—can +I think upon them, and not feel my heart grow palsied, my sinews +fall away, and my life’s breath ebb—but no, I think, +and still I live to suffer.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. There yet remains a hope—your judges +are petitioned, they may relent—then years of happiness may +yet be ours.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Happiness—alas, no; my very dreams +are but a counterpart of my waking horrors.—Last night, +harassed, I threw me down to rest—a leaden slumber fell +upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that thou and I had at the +altar sworn a lasting faith.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Did you so? Ambrose, did you +so?—Oh! ’tis a happy presage: the dream was sent from +heaven to bid you not despair.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. It was, indeed, a warning dream: hear the +end. We were at the altar’s foot, girt round by happy +friends, and thou smilest—oh, my heart beat quickly with +transporting joy, as with one hand clasping thine, I strove to +place the ring upon thy finger—it fell—and ringing on +the holy floor, shivered like glass into a thousand +atoms—astonished, I gazed a moment on the glittering <a +name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>fragments,—but when I raised my head, thou wert +not to be found—the place had changed—the bridal +train had vanished, and in its stead, I saw surrounding +thousands, who, with upturned eyes, gazed like spectres on +me—I looked for the priest, and in his place stood glaring +at me with a savage joy, the executioner—I strove to burst +away—my arms were bound—I cast my eyes imploringly to +heaven—and there above me was the beam—the fatal +beam—I felt my spirit strangling in my throat, ’twas +but a moment—all was dark.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! heavens.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Such was the forerunner of the coming +horror—so will ten thousand glut their eyes upon my +misery—and then the hangman—</p> +<p>[<i>Lucy</i>, <i>who during the former and present speech of +Gwinett</i>, <i>has been growing gradually insensible</i>; +<i>here shrieks out</i>, <i>and rushes to him</i>.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! speak it not—think it +not—my heart is broken. (<i>falls into his +arms</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in +my miseries to torture this sweet sufferer.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>recovering</i>.) There is then no +hope—no, think not to deceive me, the terrible certainty +frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades beneath the +gloom! I shall not long survive you—a short time to +waste myself in tears upon your grave.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) My grave!—oh +madness! even this last solace is deprived me—she’ll +never weep o’er me—never pluck the weeds from off my +tomb—but if she’d seek the corse of +Gwinett—there! hung round with rattling chains, and shaking +in the wind, a loathsome spectacle to all men—there she +must, shuddering, say her fitful prayer.—Oh! I’m +phrenzied, mad,—Lucy thus distracted, locked in each others +arms, we’ll seek for death. (<i>they +embrace</i>.)</p> +<p>[<i>Music</i>.—<i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Bolt</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span>; <i>Grayling on seeing Gwinett and +Lucy</i>, <i>is about to rush down upon them</i>, <i>when he is +held back by Bolt</i>: <i>he at length approaches Gwinett</i>, +<i>who</i>, <i>on beholding him</i>, <i>staggers back with +horror</i>—<i>Grayling folds his arms and looks at Gwinett +with an eye of malice</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Wretch! monster! what do you here? come you +to glut your vengeance on my dying pangs?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Were there no wretches—no +monsters—no <a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>bloodsuckers, look you, there need no prison smiths: +chains and fetters are not made for honest men.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Grayling, if e’er you felt one touch +of pity, in mercy leave us, cheat me not of one moment, +with—(<i>Lucy lifts her hands imploringly to +Grayling</i>—<i>his eye rests upon the ring on her +finger</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>passionately</i>.) Thy +husband?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Aye, my husband, I swore to be his and none +but his—my oath was taken when the world looked brightly on +us both—the world changed, but my oath remained; and here, +but an hour since, within a prison’s walls, with none but +hard-faced pitiless gaolers to behold our wretched nuptials; here +I kept my vow—here I gave my hand to the chained, the +despised, the dying Gwinett; and whilst I gave it, whilst I swore +to love and honour the outcast wretched felon, I felt a stronger +pride than if I’d wedded with an ermined king. +(<i>embracing Gwinett</i>; <i>Grayling</i>, <i>who</i>, <i>during +this speech</i>, <i>is become quite overpowered</i>—<i>by +an effort rouses himself</i>, <i>exclaiming wildly</i>—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Tear them apart, gaoler, tear them apart, I +say.</p> +<p><i>Bolt</i>. For shame! for shame, master Grayling, have +you no pity?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>incoherently</i>.) +Pity—havn’t I to do my work—havn’t I to +measure the culprit—havn’t I to—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Hold! hold! she knows not—spare +her.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Spare! and why should I spare? +Hasn’t she wirled, despised me? isn’t she Mrs. Lucy +Gwinett, the wife of the murderer, Gwinett? hasn’t she +spoken words that pierced me through and through? and why should +I spare?—Felon, you know your sentence; come, let me +measure you for the irons, that—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Wretch! heartless ruffian!</p> +<p>[<i>As Grayling approaches Gwinett</i>, <i>he seizes the rod +of iron held by Grayling</i>, <i>and they +struggle</i>—<i>Gwinett throws Grayling down</i>, <i>and is +about to strike him with the iron</i>, <i>when the prison bell +tolls</i>, <i>Gwinett’s arm falls paralyzed</i>; +<i>Grayling looks at him with malicious joy</i>; <i>Lucy sinks on +her knees</i>, <i>raising her hands to heaven</i>. <i>At +this moment</i>, <i>a cry is set up without</i>, “<i>a +reprieve</i>! <i>a reprieve</i>!”—<i>Officer</i>, +<i>and neighbours enter</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span> <i>Grayling springing on his +feet</i>, <i>tears the paper from the Officer’s hand</i>, +<i>Lucy at the same time exclaims</i>, “<i>A reprieve</i>! +<i>say</i>—<i>for Ambrose</i>!”</p> +<p><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span><i>Offi</i>. No; for mad George!</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>eagerly</i>.) The +murderer’s fate is—</p> +<p><i>Offi</i>. Death!</p> +<p>[<i>The prison bell again tolls</i>, <i>Lucy falls to the +earth</i>, <i>Gwinett sinks into a state of stupifaction</i>, +<i>Grayling looks at him with an air of triumph</i>; +<i>characters at the back lift their hands imploringly to +heaven</i>, <i>and the Scene closes</i>.—<i>End of Act +II</i>.</p> +<h2>ACT III.</h2> +<h3>SCENE I.—<i>The Blake’s Head</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Jenny</span>, <i>as landlord and +landlady</i>. <span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; +ever as this day comes round, I’m melancholy, spite of +reasoning.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Well, well; but it’s so long +ago.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. But not the less to be remembered—it +is now eighteen years this very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett +died the death of a murderer!—I’m sure he was +innocent—I’d lay my life on it.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. But there’s no occasion to be so +violent.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I tell you I can’t think with calmness +and speak on it. A fine open hearted youth, and see the end +of it. Not one of his accusers but is come to shame. +Look at Grayling—Ned Grayling the smith—don’t +good folks shake the head, and the little children point at him +as he goes by—and then those two churls who scoffed at him, +as he was on the road to death—has either of them had a +good crop since?—havn’t their cattle +died?—their haystacks took fire—with all kinds of +mischief falling on them?</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Yes, and poor Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. And there again; Lucy, Gwinett’s +widow, though almost broken hearted—doesn’t she keep +a cheerful face, and look smilingly—whilst her +husband’s accusers are ashamed to shew their heads—I +say again, I know he was innocent. I know the true +murderers will some day be brought to light.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. I’m sure I hope they will; but in +the mean time, we musn’t stand talking about it, or no one +will come to the Blake’s Head.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Well, well; I leave it all to you to day, +Jenny: I’m not fit to attend to the customers. Ah! +good fortune <a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>has been showered upon us—little did we think of +seeing ourselves owners of this house; but I’m sure +I’d walk out of it with a light heart, if it’s old +owner, poor Robert Collins, could but come back to take +possession of it—but that’s impossible, so +we’ll talk no more of it.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Well I declare this is all waste of +time—we’ve the house full of customers, and here +we’re standing talking as—</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. You know we used to do Jenny, some eighteen +years ago; then I was waiter and ostler here, and you were dairy +maid at squire—</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Well that’s all past, where is the +use of looking back.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. A great deal: when a man gets to the top of +the hill by honest industry, I say he deserves to be taken by the +neck and hurled down again, if he’s ashamed to turn about +and look at the lowly road along which he once travelled.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Well, I didn’t mean that.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. No no, I know you meant no harm, +Jenny—but you will talk—well I shall go and take a +round.</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. You’re going to the meadow, at +One-Tree-Farm to mope yourself to death.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why perhaps I may take a turn that +way—but I shall be back soon—eh! who’s +this?</p> +<p><i>Jenny</i>. Why it’s the servant of the rich old +gentleman, from the Indies.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Oh!—what he in the Dolphin?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Label</span>, <i>dressed as servant</i>. +<span class="GutSmall">L.</span> <i>Jenny curtseys and +Exit</i>. <span class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Servant, Sir,—you are the +landlord.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Yes—hope your master slept +well—I wasn’t at home last night when you put up, or +I should have paid my respects:—he’s from India I +hear.</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. From India!—and as rich, and as +liberal as an emperor.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. You’ve been some time in his service, +I suppose?</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Some twelve years.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Has he any friends in these parts?</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. He had when he left, or rather when he was +dragged from this country, some eighteen years ago.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Dragged from the country!</p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Yes pressed—he was taken on board +ship at dead of night; the vessel weighed anchor at +daybreak—<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>started for India—and there my master, what with +one and another piece of luck, got his discharge: but I believe +he wishes to see you.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I’ll attend him directly—and +then I’ll go and take my melancholy round.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Label</i>. Nobody knows me—no one sees the +valet in the steward, the late Label, barber and doctor—and +only think that I should meet with Master Collins—a man who +was thought murdered—alive and flourishing in +India—poor Gwinett—poor Ambrose—I have never +had the courage to tell my master that sad story—he little +thinks that an innocent man has been hanged on his +account—somehow I wish I had told him—and yet what +would have been the use; he couldn’t have brought the dead +man alive again, and it would only have made him miserable. +But now he can’t long escape hearing the whole tale, and +then what will become of me—no matter; I must put a bright +face upon the business, and trust to chances.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE II.—<i>View of Deal—the Sea</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Gwinett</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span>—<span +class="smcap">Grayling</span> <i>following</i>, <i>carrying +portmanteau</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must +be our path.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. That would have been the road +once—but ’tis many years since that was blocked +up.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I thought I could not be deceived.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. You are no stranger then to the town?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. No; it is my native place—that is, I +lived in it some years ago.—Have you been long here?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ever since I was born.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. And are doubtless well acquainted with the +history of most of its inhabitants.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Aye, history, yes, I have seen proud knaves +grovelling in the dust, and poor industry raised to wealth.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. You, my friend, do not seem to have +belonged to the fortunate class.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No matter for that; but, Sir, take my word, +you had better not put up at the Blake’s Head.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. And why not?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. ’Tis full of company. The +judges are now in the town to try the prisoners.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Prisoners! you have, I trust, but few +convictions—<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>at least, for very great offences—for murder now, +or—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Murder!—no—’tis now +eighteen years—eighteen years this very day +since—</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (abstractedly.) Eighteen +years—it is—it is the day.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh you remember it then.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. No, no; to your story.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I was about to say it was eighteen years +since the last execution for murder happened in these parts.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. And the culprit’s name was—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>fiercely</i>.) +Gwinett—Ambrose Gwinett—ha! ha!</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Were there not, if I remember rightly, some +doubts of Gwinett’s guilt?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Doubts!—There might have been among +those who are touched with a demure look; but no, he was +guilty—guilty of the murder—and I saw him die the +death of an assassin.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Pray was not part of his sentence by some +means evaded?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. It was.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I have heard but a confused account of the +transaction.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>eagerly</i>.) I can tell you the +whole—every word of it. He was sentenced to be hung +in chains—another that was to suffer with him, was +pardoned; so the murderer died alone. Never shall I forget +the morning.—Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh +in my memory as though it was the work of yesterday: I saw the +last convulsive struggle of the murderer—nay, I assisted in +rivetting the irons on the corse—’twas hung at the +destined spot; but, when the morning came, the body was not +there.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Was no enquiry instituted?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Yes; it was supposed the relations of the +murderer had stolen the body to give it burial: the +murderer’s uncle, and wife were examined—but after a +time, no further stir was made.—Curse upon the trick, it +cost me my bread.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. How so?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Why I was the prison-smith—had the +irons fitted the corse, it must have been cut to pieces, +’ere it could have been removed.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Gracious heavens! your name is—</p> +<p><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span><i>Gray</i>. Grayling—Ned +Grayling—once a sound hearted happy man, but +now—come, Sir, all the inns will be full.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>snatching the portmanteau from +him</i>.) Wretch! begone—you serve me not.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Wretch! well, granted—it is true: I +am a houseless, pennyless, broken-hearted wretch! I have +seen every earthly happiness snatched from me—I have sunk +little by little, from an honest industrious man, to the poor +crawling, famishing, drunkard—I am become hateful to the +world—loathsome even to myself. You will not then +suffer me to be your porter?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. No! begone.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Well, ’tis all one; yet you might, I +think, let a starving fellow creature earn a trifle.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Starving!</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. I have scarcely broken bread these two +days.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Unhappy creature—here—(<i>gives +money</i>—<i>Grayling offers to take portmanteau</i>.) no, +I will not trouble you. Go, get food, and reform your way +of life.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Reform! too late—too late. Had +I the will time would not let me; a few months—nay, weeks, +days—and the passenger may pause at the lifeless corse of +Grayling stretched in the highway. Every eye looks scorn +upon me—every hand shrinks at my touch—every +head’s averted from me, as though a pestilence were in my +glance.—Intemperance and fierce passion have brought upon +me premature old age—my limbs are palsied, and my eyesight +fails.—What’s this, alms—alms—won by +wretched supplication? well, ’twill buy me a short +forgetfulness—oblivion is now my only happiness.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Blackthorn</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Will Ash</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Black</i>. You were wrong to let him pass you: had +you but watched my motions, he could not have escaped.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. But in the day time?</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Day time! day is night if no one +sees. He’s gone to the Blake’s Head.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Aye, I never pass the door, but my heart +beats and my knees tremble.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. What! hav’n’t eighteen years +cured you of that trick?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Cured me—that bag of money—that +bag—’twas <a name="page47"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 47</span>the first thing that turned me from +the paths of honesty and grievously have I wandered since.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Still whining, still complaining, what +good could the money do to the dead?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. And what good has it done us? but +let’s not talk about it.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. That’s right, and now listen to +me. We must have a peep into that portmanteau.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Impossible!</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Not so, we’ll to the Inn: where can +Grayling be?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Not far off I warrant.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Well, no matter, we can even do this job +without him; but one lucky hit and we are made men.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Aye, this has been your cry year after +year—luck! I think I see our luck in every tree, and +in every rope.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Well, farewell, for the present, but meet +me round the lane, leading to the back part of the house.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. Round by the lane—no, that I +can’t do: I must pass my wife and children’s +graves—I have not dared to look upon them this many a +day.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. You refuse then?</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. No; I’ll meet you, but for the path, +that I’ll chuse myself.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exeunt</i> <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<h3>SCENE III.—<i>Interior of the Blake’s +Head</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Lucy</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Gilbert</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Nay, but you must see him; I promised you +should.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. You were wrong, good Gilbert, I cannot see +him.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. No, ’tis you are wrong, Mrs. Lucy +Gwinett, how do you know but he may bring you good news?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Can he make the dead live again? Good +news!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Well, now for my sake, see the +gentleman.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. I cannot refuse you. Heaven knows +what would have been my fate, had I not found a friend—a +protector in you.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. You’ll see him then? Ah I knew +you’d think better of it. He’s a very pleasant +kind of gentleman; and asked after you so earnestly, that +I’m sure he cannot mean but kind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span>, (<i>abruptly</i>.) <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +<p>Well, and what do you want?</p> +<p><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span><i>Gray</i>. Aye, it’s ever thus.—Do +you think I bring the plague into your house, that you look so +fiercely at me?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. I don’t know, but you do!—Is +there nobody here that you are ashamed to gaze upon?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No; I see nobody but you and Mrs. +Lucy—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Villain!</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Thou liest—stop—there was a +time, when at such a word, I’d seen thee sprawling at my +feet; but now, I can’t tell how it is—I cannot strike +thee.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. But I’ll tell you how it is—the +title’s a just one—you feel it sink into your +heart—and your arm is palsied; once more, leave my +house.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And why is my money not as good as a finer +customer’s? why can’t you take my money?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>During this scene</i>, +<i>Blackthorn and Ash enter behind</i> <span class="GutSmall">P. +S.</span> <i>and exeunt through door in flat</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Why, in truth, Grayling, I’m afraid +’tis gained by too foul a business.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Ha! ha! the conscience of an innkeeper.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Grayling, leave the house; at any time +I’d sooner look upon a field of blighted corn, than see you +cross my threshold; but on this day, beyond all—</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. This day,—and why +(<i>sarcastically</i>, <i>and looking at Lucy</i>.) oh, I had +forgotten; yes, it is the very day—</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! good Gilbert.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Stay but one moment longer, and as I am a +man, I’ll send thee headforemost into the street.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Fine words!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. We’ll try then.</p> +<p>(<i>Gilbert is rushing at Grayling</i>, <i>when Lucy comes +between them</i>, <i>Gwinett enters hastily at this moment</i>, +<i>and starts on beholding Lucy</i>; <i>Grayling sees +Gwinett</i>, <i>exchanges a look of defiance with Gilbert and +Lucy</i>, <i>and goes sullenly off</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">P. S.</span>)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) ’Tis she! oh, +heavens! all my dangers are repaid.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. An unruly customer, Sir, that’s +all—I’ll take care he does not disturb you. +(<i>To Lucy</i>.) This is the gentleman who would speak to +you.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Do not leave me.</p> +<p><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span><i>Gil</i>. Nay, he has something he says to tell +thee privately—I’ll be within call.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. (<i>aside</i>.) Let me be calm, lest +too suddenly the secret burst upon her—she knows me +not—time and peril have wrought this change.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. You would speak to me, Sir?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I would, Madam; is there no one within +hearing?</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. No one—but why such caution?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. ’Tis necessary for the memory of one +you once loved.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Whom mean you?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Ambrose!</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! in mercy speak not that name—I +dare not breathe it to myself; once loved—oh! this +agony—you probe into a breaking heart.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. But not recklessly believe me.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Alas, what avails this now—let the +dead rest unspoken of—break not the silence of my +Gwinett’s grave.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. His grave!</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul; +he has no grave; they stole him from me—they robbed the +widow of her last bitter consolation.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Perhaps it was the deed of friends.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Friends!—But to your errand, Sir, +what would you say? speak it quickly, lest my reason desert me, +and you talk to madness:—I was told you brought me comfort, +I smiled at the word; it seems my unbelief was right.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I do bring you comfort—News of your +husband.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Ah! perhaps, yes, I see it—you can +tell me where they laid his cold remains—can lead me to his +grave, where I may find a refuge too.—You weep, nay then I +know your mission is one of kindness—of charily to the +widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died a felon’s +death on yonder hill.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. I would speak of Ambrose—but, start +not—he died not at the hour men think.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Died not?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. As you loved your husband living, and weep +him dead, I charge you conjure up all the firmness springing from +woman’s love, nor let one sound or breath escape you to +publish the sad history I’m about to tell.</p> +<p><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span><i>Lucy</i>. I’m fixed as stone—should +my husband rise before me, my heart might burst, but not a cry +should escape me.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Many years after, the whole world believed +him dead—your husband lived. (<i>Lucy by a violent +effort maintains her silence</i>.) You know ’twas +thought the body had been stolen for interment.—Listen, I +knew your husband—met him abroad: to me, he confided the +secret of his escape; to me, he described the frightful +scene—the thronging multitude—the agonies of +death! The dreadful ordeal past, the ministers of justice +executed the remaining part of the sentence—the body was +suspended in chains. Whether it was from the inexperience +of the executioner, or the hurried manner in which the sad +tragedy was performed, I know not,—but your husband still +lived—the fresh airs of night blew upon him, and he +revived—revived and found himself hanging.—Oh! my +blood thickens as I think upon the torture that was +his—fortunately, the irons that supported him, hung loosely +about him; by a slight effort he freed his limbs, and dropping to +the earth, hastened with all speed, to another part of the coast, +took ship and quitted England.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>incoherently</i>.) And I!—I +not to know of this—unkind.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Often he strove to inform you—often +wrote, but ne’er received an answer,—twelve years ago +he set out, resolved to dare all hazards and seek you, when he +was taken by the Moors and sold for a slave—I knew him +whilst a captive.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. And did he die in slavery—oh, your +looks declare it—unhappy wretched Gwinett,—but no, +happy, thrice happy, he died not on a scaffold. Did he hope +you would ever see his miserable widow?</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. He did, and gave me this locket—it +contains your hair.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Oh, give it me—oh, well do I remember +when I saw it last, Gwinett was gazing at it with tearful eyes, +when the prison bell—oh, that sound! ’tis here +still—I’m sick at heart. (<i>Falls on +Gwinett’s shoulder</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Still she knows me not—how to +discover myself!—oh Lucy, what a ruin has sorrow made of +thee.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>reviving</i>.) Ah!—what was +that?—no no, I wander—yes, it +is—(<i>recognizing him</i>.) oh heavens it is my husband! +(<i>falls into his arms</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. Within there—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page51"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 51</span><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Jenny</span>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p>assist me to remove her—she will recover +shortly—come, madam.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exeunt</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Grayling</span> <i>cautiously</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">R.</span></p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. So! no one here—I can see nothing of +Blackthorn or Will Ash—well, all the better, I may be +spared some mischief—and then how to live?—live, can +I call this life—a dreadful respite from day to +day—hunger and disgrace dogging my steps—what do I +here?—there is a charm that holds me to this spot, and +spite of the taunts, the rebukes that’s showered upon me, I +cannot quit it, nor ever whilst Lucy is—eh! who have we +here?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Blackthorn</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Will Ash</span> <i>cautiously from door in flat +with Gwinett’s portmanteau</i>.</p> +<p>Blackthorn!—Ash!</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. (<i>whispering</i>.) Hush—not +a word.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. What have you there?</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Plunder, and good booty too I take it.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And what would you do with it?</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. What!—that question from +Grayling?—come let’s away.</p> +<p><i>Ash</i>. We cannot—the portmanteau will be +missed, and we instantly pursued.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Stay—is there no surer way—I +have it—we’ll even shake its contents a bit, and +leave the trunk here—what say you, Grayling?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. As you will—I’m fit for any +work.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Come then and assist—(<i>puts +portmanteau on table and opens it</i>.) eh—he’s well +provided—(<i>takes out a pair of pistols and puts them on +table</i>.) ah!—here’s gold—(<i>takes out +purse</i>.) Dos’t hear it chink?—Grayling, come +and assist, man.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>approaching the table</i>, <i>and +recognising portmanteau</i>.) Hold for your lives—you +must not, shall not, touch this.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Eh!—how does the wind blow +now?—and why not I pray?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Anything but this—the owner this +morning relieved my necessities—hundreds passed and heeded +not the outcast, famishing, Grayling—he who claims this +gave me alms, and bade me repent—I am a wretch, a poor +houseless, despised wretch—yet villain as I am, <a +name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>there is some +touch of feeling left—my hand would fall withered did I +attempt to touch it.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Ah, this may be all very well.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Blackthorn—Ash—dare but to lay +a robber’s hand on a single doit, and I’ll alarm the +house.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Tush.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. To the trial then.</p> +<p>(<i>Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the +contents of the portmanteau from the hand of +Blackthorn</i>—<i>they struggle</i>—<i>Blackthorn +regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue him</i>, +<i>when his eye falls upon a packet of letters that still remains +in his hand</i>—<i>he stands +petrified</i>—<i>Blackthorn and Ash are about to go of at +the opposite wings</i>, <i>when Label and Gilbert come in from +behind</i>, <i>and each taking a pistol from table</i>, <i>come +down and prevent the escape of the robbers</i>—<i>Grayling +in a state of agitation unmindful of every thing but the +papers</i>, <i>which he hastily looks over</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. So my brave fellows, here you +are—three knaves between a parenthesis of bullets.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Why what’s the matter? it’s +all a mistake.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. A mistake—yes, I suppose you intended +to be a very honest fellow, but by accident are become a +convicted scoundrel.</p> +<p><i>Black</i>. Well,—there’s the +money—now we’re clear.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Clear!—and you, Grayling, are you not +ashamed?—do you not fear the gallows?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>madly</i>.) Gallows!—no, +all was lost—good +name—hopes—happiness—but yet I had +revenge—I hugged it to my heart—’tis gone, and +Grayling has nought to live for.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Give me those papers.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Did I say revenge was gone?—no, it +rages again with redoubled fury—he shall not foil +me—this time his death is sure.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Unhappy wretch—give me those +papers.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Millions should not buy them, till they had +served my purpose—oh, it all bursts on my maddened +brain—relieved—pitied by him!—</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Grayling—yield ere your fate is +certain.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Never!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Call in assistance. (<i>Label goes up +stage and beckons on neighbours</i>, <i>&c.</i> +<i>Gwinett and Lucy come on</i>. <span +class="GutSmall">L.</span>)</p> +<p>There, secure the prisoner.</p> +<p><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span><i>Gray</i>. Aye—secure the prisoner.</p> +<p><i>Offi</i>. Which is he?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. There—Grayling the robber.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. No—not Grayling the robber—but, +there, Gwinett the convicted murderer.</p> +<p><i>Omnes</i>. Gwinett?</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Gwinett!—Ambrose Gwinett!—it +can’t be.</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. It is even so, good Gilbert—though +wonderful ’tis true.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. He’s innocent—I knew he was +innocent—good friends—kind neighbours—let not +this be spoken of—heaven has by a miracle preserved a +guiltless man—you will all be secret—no one here will +tell the tale.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Yes—here is one.</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. You will not be that wretch.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. (<i>falling at Grayling’s +feet</i>.) Mercy! mercy!</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Are you there, Lucy Gwinett—think of +my agonies—my hopes all blighted—my affections +spurned—think of my sufferings for eighteen +years—look at me—can you kneel before the ruin which +your scorn has made—but now, new I triumph—seize upon +the murderer. (<i>all indicate unwillingness</i>.) +Nay then, I will proclaim the tale throughout the town. +(<i>Is rushing up stage</i>, <i>when Gilbert seizes him by the +throat</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. You stir not a foot—if a murderer must +be hanged, it shall be for strangling such a serpent.</p> +<p><i>Grayling and Gilbert struggle</i>, <i>Grayling throws +Gilbert from him</i>, <i>and with the rest of the characters +following</i>, <i>rushes up the stage</i>. <i>As he is +about to exit at back</i>, <i>the folding doors fly open</i>, +<i>and Collins</i>, <i>an old grey-headed man</i>, <i>presents +himself at the entrance</i>; <i>a general exclamation of</i> +“<i>Collins</i>” <i>from all the characters who +recoil in amazement</i>.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. See—his ghost, the ghost of the +victim rises from the grave to claim the murderer—I am +revenged—I triumph—ha! ha! ha!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>falls exhausted</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. My friends. Lucy.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. My uncle!</p> +<p><i>Gwin</i>. He lives! he lives! the world beholds me +innocent! beholds me free from the stain of blood!</p> +<p><i>Gil</i>. Master—oh! day of wonders!—the +dead come back.</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Wonders, indeed! Gwinett, ’tis but +within this past half hour, I have heard the story of your +sufferings.</p> +<p><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span><i>Gil</i>. But tell me, master, how is this? +dead! and not dead, and—</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. Another time; it is a tedious story, the +night you thought me killed, I had left my chamber to procure +assistance to staunch a wound—scarcely had I crossed the +threshold, than I was seized by a press-gang, and +hurried—but see to yon unhappy man.</p> +<p>(<i>They raise Grayling</i>, <i>who is dying</i>; <i>his face +is pale</i>, <i>his eyes set</i>, <i>and his lips and hands +stained as though he had burst a blood-vessel</i>.)</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. (<i>seeing Collins</i>.) There +still—not gone yet?</p> +<p><i>Col</i>. How fares it now, Grayling?</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. And speaks—lives—then Gwinett, +Gwinett the husband of Lucy—my Lucy, for I loved her +first—is no murderer.</p> +<p><i>Lucy</i>. Grayling.</p> +<p><i>Gray</i>. Oh! Lucy, that voice, my heart leaps +to it—leaps to it as it did—but all’s past; +Lucy, you will not curse me when I’m dead—there are +those who will—but let them—you will not: the earth +is sliding from beneath my feet—my eyes are dark—what +are these?—tears—Lucy’s tears!—I am +happy.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Sinks backward</i>.</p> +<h2>DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE +CURTAIN.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">Neighbours.</p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">Collins.</p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Label.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Blackthorn.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Lucy.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Grayling.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Gilbert.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Gwinett.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Ash.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="GutSmall">R.</span>]</p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: right">[<span +class="GutSmall">L.</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMBROSE GWINETT***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 45057-h.htm or 45057-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/5/0/5/45057 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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