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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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