Britain's historical drama; a second series of national tragedies, intended to illustrate the manners, customs, and religious institutions of different eras in Britain

Front matter

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BRITAIN'S HISTORICAL DRAMA;

Introduction

IF, in this enlightened age, there still exist any lingering prejudice against Dramatic Poems, it arises, no doubt, from their supposed connexion with the Stage ; and if such moral and philosophic writers as Milton, Thomson, Mason, Milman, Graham, and Mrs. Joanna Baillie, have not yet been able wholly to eradicate all groundless objections, it would be unavailing for us to argue against them. The best confutation we can advance, must be found in the innocence, morality, and usefulness of the Historical Dramas themselves, which we submit to the judgment of the Public. We will, however, quote a noble defence in favour of ancient and modern fiction, written by that learned and pious historian, Mr. Sharon Turner.

" Fictitious compositions are so many concentrations of the scattered virtues of life ; so many personifications of whatever is amiable and admirable in the manners or conceptions of the day We may, indeed, say that most

of the romances of our forefathers were advantageous, in some respect or other, to the progress of their social life. In every one some vice is made revolting, and some virtue

interesting It is probable that our best romances and

tales have been, on the whole, nearly as efficacious in their moral operations as our sermons and our ethics. They have, at least, been great auxiliaries : society would not have been what it is without them. . . It is the fault of

INTRODUCTION.

the artist, not of his art, if his fictions be either unuseful

or pernicious Fictitious narratives have been highly

useful, and may be more so. We all need tuition as much as we dislike it ; it may therefore be welcomed from every quarter, and particularly when it comes accompanied by harmless emotion and intellectual delight. Let us only urge our minstrels and fableurs to make their own ideal beauty as excellent as they can, before they embody it to our sight. . . A From the natural desire of reputation, every man performs the task which he allots to himself as ably as he can ; and as the great preponderance of nature is always to good, society has been, on the whole, perpetually a gainer by the romances, tales, poetry, and dramas of its authors, notwithstanding the alloy of some individual eccentricities."*

The flattering and cheering manner in which the First Series of this National Work was received by a certain portion of the Public, has been one great stimulus to our exertions in the production of a second volume ; and we trust that, in its execution, it will not be found that we have merited less forbearance, kindness, and encouragement, than have been shown to our first attempt ; particularly when we state that it has been accomplished under domestic afflictions unusually severe and trying.

* History of the Middle Ages.

THE ENGLISH SLAVE;

OR,

THE EVE OF ST. BRICE.

A TRAGEDY.

" Thy castle yet,

Sweet Lyd, remains, of all the dwellings fair That clustered once upon thy marge. Alas ! Profoundest silence reigns where rolled the voice Of business on the fitful wind. No more The crowded mart, the echoing street, where flowed The human stream along. —

The grave has closed

Upon thy myriads, Lydford : nought remains Of thee and thine but that frail lonely pile, Sole relic of thy ancient glory, where Proud floating o'er the battlements, thy sons Once gave the banner to the breeze."

CAKRINGTON'S DARTMOOR.

DRAMATIS PERSONS

SAXONS.

GONDABERT, Earl of Devon.

LORD EDGAR, his Son.

ALBERT, the Slave.

HAROLD, Seneschal of the Household.

OTHMAR, Captain of the Retainers and Guards.

ELFILIA, a supposed Bondmaid.

EDITHA, a Neif, or Bondwoman.

BRITONS.

DUKE OP CORNWALL.

RODERICK, Captain of the Banditti. 1st Robher. 2nd Robber.

DANES.

ROGVALLA, a Sea-king or Pirate.

CATHIMAR, i IVOR, > Danish Chiefs.

FROTHO, )

EVANDA, i

T> f Captives to Gondabert.

Saxon and Danish Soldiers, Peasants, Robbers, and Attendants.

THE ENGLISH SLAVE.

SCENE I.— The Interior of a miserable Cottage. Enter Editha and Albert. EDITHA

ST. Cuthbert save us ! what can ail thee, boy, To be so testy, wayward, cross, and peevish ? Some fearful spirit of the stormy moor, Which thou dost ever haunt, hath on thee cast An evil eye ; or the night-roaming hag, Crossing thy path, bewitched thee !

ALBERT.

Mother, no—

I love to wander when the tempest howls O'er Dartmoor's lonely wilds, for then I seem To breathe the mountain air of liberty : I the fierce stag love to companion where The herds in freedom rove, for then I seem To be as free as they : I love to climb The eagle's granite throne, and see him wave His broad wings to the wind, for then I feel As if I from my limbs had dashed the chains Of loathsome bondage, and, like that proud bird, Were master of myself.

EDITHA.

Now goodness keep me !

Why, Albert, should thine ever-restless mind Indulge such vain desires ? Win thou content, And in thy humble lot, though hard it be, Thou 'It tind some happiness.

ALBERT.

None, never, none,

While I behold the stern usurping Thane, In splendour clad, tread like a god the earth, (x) And frown me into nothing ! Why should he Have all things at command, while I must wear These sordid weeds, and toil, yoked to the plough, (2) For food his dogs would scorn ?

EDITHA.

The saints assoil thee !

Why, Albert, where hast thou picked up such treason Against thy high-born betters ?

ALBERT.

Why my betters ? —

In what are they my betters ? True, they feed From trenchers loaded with the daintiest cheer The garden, forest, flood, and harvest yield ; (3) Furred robes they wear, bedizened o'er with gold (4) And dazzling pebbles, bought with blood of slaves ; Curb fiery steeds, in costly trappings decked; Grasp in their hands a spear, the sign of freedom, (5) And on their ring-bound fingers bear a hawk, None daring to command them ; — but are they In aught else, mother, better than myself?

EDITHA.

Why should that bosom harbour such proud thoughts, So ill-beseeming thy low state in life ?

Scene I.J THE ENGLISH SLAVE.

ALBERT.

Has not this bosom passions like to theirs ?

Have I not speech like them ? Was I not born

A man, an Englishman, and hath not God

As brightly on my forehead stamped his image,

As on the proudest Thane's ? And yet for me

To touch the tuneful harp, to grasp a spear,

And in the forest with a falcon sport,

Are crimes deemed worthy stripes and banishment. (6)

O, I could curse the day that gave me birth !

EDITHA.

Nay, good my child

ALBERT.

Why didst thou bring me forth To be a slave ? Why was thy womb not barren ? Why died I not before I saw the light ? Thyself a bond-slave, thou shouldst, knowing all The miseries of a state so vilely base, Have strangled me, even in the porch of life ; Or, wanting strength, have bade my father dash My brains out on his threshold. That had been Paternal kindness to me.

EDITHA.

Blessed Virgin !

Art thou distraught with passion ? O, what strange And fearful beings hast thou on the moor Held parley with ?

ALBERT.

Those, mother, who amid Its stony caves and fairy-haunted woods Dwell free as the wild bull, making the great ones To their dominion crouch : and if ere long

THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act T

I gain not freedom, man's eternal birthright, 111 join the gallant band, and then shall I

EDITHA.

Mercy forbid ! Thy father was a slave, So was his sire before him : they both lived And died in honest bondage, and in peace.

ALBERT.

And / will die in freedom ! from these limbs

Bravely the fetters of bond- service fling,

And cast off slavery's badge ! No peace for me

Till this great work is done, till I can feel

I have a title to be ranked with men,

And wear its honest dignity with honour.

The lord of Lydford, Devon's high potent Earl, (7)

After long years of absence, to yon towers

This day returns, and with him Cornwall's Duke;

Whose daughter, as I hear, will be the bride

Of Edgar, Devon's brave son. Mother, farewell ;

I'll to the castle — I must be among them.

I will do something there shall make strange stir —

I know not what -But from this doughty Earl

I'll win my freedom, or a hated life Fling reckless to the winds !

EDITHA.

Stay, Albert, stay.

Thou art become so headstrong, fierce, and wild-

ALBERT.

What ! wouldst thou have me tamely bear these wrongs ?

Slavery and age have blunted all thy feelings,

And thou canst smile in chains ; but my young blood

Is all on fire t' achieve that sacred birthright,

That noble gift which Heaven on all bestows

But impious man denies

Scene I.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE. 9

I may be torn to-morrow from thine arms. And in the market sold to some new lord ; Or, by men-stealers borne beyond the seas, Pine in far-distant lands. (8)

EDITHA.

O, it would break My heart, wert thou sold from me.

ALBERT.

Ay, and now

Another passion stirs within this bosom. Where is Elfilia?

EDITHA.

In the forest, boy, Keeping our herd of swine.

ALBERT.

O, how I love —

No words can tell how much I love that maid, Who to our cottage came one stormy night, And craved to share with us a home of bondage. Her eye, when on its lashes hangs a tear, Is like the azure violet, full of dew.

Her beauty Pshaw ! I'm barren of all words

When I would praise her. Soon I'll make her mine.

A powerful spur is that to urge me on

To freedom's happy goal ; for while a slave

Were she my wife, this Earl might tear her from me,

And sell her to some merchant, — cursed thought !

Mother adieu ! Til to thine arms return,

And thou no more shalt call thy son a slave.

I will be free — free from this galling badge,

Or we, dear mother, ne'er shall meet again. [Exit.

EDITHA.

Ah, I do love him e'en as if he were

Mine own begotten one. 'Tis twenty years —

More, by St. Cuthbert — since that boy was placed,

A little changeling, in my husband's arms

(As o'er our evening fire we sat) by some

Dark-visaged chief, who made us, trembling, swear

The boy should be as ours ; and ne'er to blab

In mortal ear the tale, till he again

Appeared to claim him. A foul-featured deed,

I ween, done in some quarter, save that he

Were a sweet child brought out of fairy-land.

No tidings since have come from that wild chief.

'Tis time this secret should be sent abroad :

How I have kept it here so long locked up,

I know not. But where stays the fair Elfilia ?

She is another mystery ! O, I'd give —

What would I not give, could I now but reach

The bottom of these secrets ! [Exit.

SCENE II. — A magnificent Hall in the Castle of Lydford, hung with rich tapestry. (9) Enter Evanda and Bertha

EVANDA.

Stars of my destiny, when will ye cease To pour your wrathful vials on my head ! How fatal was that battle-hour to me, When on the southern coast of this great isle, Which long hath trembled at the Northman's power, The stalwart Earl of Devon, at midnight watch, Assailed our slumbering camp, and to his ships Rogvalla, Prince of Danish warriors, drove, While I was sent a captive to these towers !

Scene II.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE.

BERTHA.

Rather would I be in these splendid halls, Than tossing to and fro wild on the deep, The sport of storms and waves.

EVANDA.

Rather than sit

A pining slave within these Saxon walls, I would be rushing in Rogvalla's barque, Though mastless and unhelmed, o'er those dark seas That round the northern cape, involved in storms, Dash their broad-sheeted billows. [Music within.

BERTHA.

Hark ! heard you not Those sweet sounds, lady, of a plaintive harp ?

EVANDA.

'Tis Edgar, son of Devon's stern-minded Earl, Who waits his father's coming. Day and night He, like a love-sick dreamer, to his harp Is sighing tristful ditties.

BERTHA.

His soft strains

Perhaps are kindly, lady, meant to soothe Your dull captivity.

EVANDA.

They soothe not me.

I'd rather hear the breakers' wolfish howl Round the steep rocks of some deserted isle, Or the wild shrieks of that fierce hag who rides The midnight tempest, leading in her train The witches and dark spirits of the north, (10) Than sweetest music in the stranger halls.

BERTHA.

How bright the morning shines. Will you not walk,

And breathe the freshness of the violet air In yonder castle gardens ?

EVANDA.

No ; I hate

The very soil on which these Saxqns tread. More pleasant than this prison's garden bowers Would be to me that island of the north, (n) Where Nature silent lies in death-like sleep, Mid horrors wonderful.

BERTHA.

Gods, keep me from them !

EVANDA.

Dark isle of storms, I loved at eve to stand

Amid thy desert vales and naked rocks,

And view the dreadful mountain heights around,

Crimsoning the skies with fire, while down their sides

Rivers of burning, smoking sulphur rolled ;

To gaze upon thy fountains, as they flung

Their boiling columns far into the heavens,

Circled with clouds, while their deep spirit-voices

Filled all the dreary solitude with sounds

As of a thousand thunders ! — calling forth

The long-departed forms of warrior hosts

O'er the red firmament, bright in their pomp,

With gorgeous banners rustling to the blast,

And fearful din of arms \ (12)

BERTHA.

O, may I, lady, Ne'er look upon so terrible a sight.

EVANDA.

Great Odin, king of spells, hast thou decreed That I shall my Rogvalla meet no more ? If not on earth, triumphant shall we meet

Scene II.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE. *3

In thy proud halls of glory. Ere this Earl Shall to the altar lead me as his bride, I'll set my spirit free, and by that act Obtain a throne among our warrior gods.

BERTHA.

What though Rogvalla, overwhelmed by numbers, Fled to his ships, doubt not of his return.

EVANDA.

When, my brave sea-king, shall I hear thy horn Wail out its battle-summons round these towers ! When shall I see thy brand with Saxon blood Red to the hilt, and in blest freedom roam With thee again the bright and boundless deep !

[ Martial flourish .

What sounds are those ? "Tis not the Danish horn.

Enter Harold.

HAROLD.

Lady, I come with tidings which, I ween, Thou with no welcome wilt from me receive. The Earl of Devon approaches.

EVANDA.

As I feared.

HAROLD.

He and his warmen from their steeds alight Without the castle gates. There also come The British Duke of Cornwall and his daughter, With many Danes, the captives of my lord.

EVANDA.

The purple plague come with him, and a curse To blight his fondest hopes ! — But there is peace.

HAROLD.

Lady, I wait to lead you to his presence

THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act I.

EVANDA.

Lead me where hungry wolves at midnight gather,

And howl for blood ; or in some darksome cave,

Where hideous reptiles o'er the slimy bones

Of the dead murderer crawl, let me be hid

For ever from the cheerful light of day,

Rather than at the bridal shrine become

The wife of Gondabert. — Be still, my heart,

There is a path to peace, though dark the way ;

And when the solemn hour of trial comes,

Odin shall nerve this arm to strike the blow

That ends all mortal suffering, and translates

My spirit to Valhalla's golden halls. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.— The Outside of Lydford Castle

Enter a procession of Saxon soldiers bearing banners and trophies of war, then a train of Danish captives in chains. Enter, from the castle, maidens strewing flowers and bearing garlands; then Edgar and Harold, leading Evanda, followed by Bertha and numerous domestic slaves of both sexes. Enter Gondabert, leading the Princess of Cornwall, followed by the Duke, with hnights and guards. Gondabert presents the Princess to Edgar, who receives her with a respectful but melancholy air, and takes himself the hand of Evanda, whom he presents to the Duke, and then leads her forward, martial music playing the whole time.

GONDABERT.

When I behold thy beauty, I forget

The injuries and the sufferings of my country,

And with my laurel-garlands would entwine

Scene III.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE.

The fairest rose of Denmark. 'Tis not meet That sadness o'er thy brow of sunny beauty Should fling one passing cloud, when I, returned Triumphant to these towers, with eager hope Claim the glad spousal rites. What cause for grief ?

EVANDA.

Canst thou, proud victor, question me the cause Of this deep sadness ? Know, then, 'tis thyself ! Thou art the cause of all this heart endures, And must endure long as thou keep'st me here. I am a woman, and the sacred laws Of honour and of knighthood bid thee yield (13) Evanda to her country, home, and friends. Think of my sufferings, and from hence permit Thy captive to go free. Saxon renowned, Act still the hero, still be nobly great In mercy as in arms, and thou shalt win A brighter wreath than garlands dyed in blood.

GONDABERT.

That night which on Devonians southern coast

The Saxon arms with glorious conquest crowned,

I waded deep in streams of Danish blood,

And hewed a passage through the pagan ranks

To where thou mid the war's harsh thunder stood'st,

Like a bright sunbeam on the stormy sea.

And shall I yield my sword-won captive up,

When love imperiously demands her stay ?

No, this strong arm, which thro' that death-strewed field

Unfearingly o'er chiefs and ocean-kings,

Rolled in their blood, did bear thee, shall ere long,

Beloved Evanda, lead thee to the altar.

EVANDA.

Saxon, forbear ! Though now on fortune's sea

Thy barque in triumph rides, and all thy sails

With the pride-soothing breath of fame are filled,

And green the laurels on thy lofty brow,

Yet, if thou play the tyrant, soon will come

The fearful tempest in its darkness forth :

Then shalt thou perish, and thy storm-rent wreaths

Oblivion on the rushing blast shall hurl.

GONDABERT.

Maid of the north, thy prophecies I fling All to the winds — I was not born to fear.

EVAN DA.

That brow of stern disdain shall yet wax pale. Proud Thane, there is an arm that o'er thee hangs — I see it in the heavens, 'tis red with vengeance. Ha ! dost thou quail beneath my searching eye ? My mother knew the deep thoughts of the heart, And her prophetic spirit is upon me. — (14) That arm shall smite thee ! Yes, the time draws near, The hour of awful j udgment is at hand For some dark, secret crime

GONDABERT.

Sound, sound the warlike trump, And let the thunder of the full-braced drum, With harp and pipe, the martial chorus swell : Then strike the bridal notes of joy, and wide The portals of my castle fling, to welcome Our regal guests of Cornwall. Warriors, on !

CHORUS.

Hail, warriors, whose victorious brands Have routed Denmark's savage bands, And driven her few remaining slaves Across the ocean's storm-dashed waves.

Scene III. J THE ENGLISH SLAVE.

Ye Virgins, swell the choral lay, Strew garlands bright in the conqueror's way ; Loose on the winds your banners fling, Strike, strike the harp's triumphant string ;

And to these scenes of festive joy, Where pleasure and mirth the hours employ,

Welcome, welcome beauty bright, True Valour's just reward, young Love's delight.

[Gondabert leads the Cornish Princess into the castle, the Duke takes the hand of Evanda. — All the characters follow, except Harold and Edgar ; the latter stands in a thoughtful and despairing attitude.

EDGAR.

Marry this British princess ? Rather let me Be wedded to despair, and madness seize On all my faculties ! The ducal crown May from her brows flash forth its diamond fires, As through the frosty night the clustered stars Shine out resplendently ; but this firm heart They cannot warm to love. A brighter eye Than hers hath on me sweetly beamed, and here Lit love's eternal flame.

HAROLD.

Ha ! youthful lord, Art thou already stricken with this Duchess ?

EDGAR — (not heeding him.) Yet, Elfilia,

Thou art — O, that accursed, horrid word Dies on my lips ! — a slave ! — a peasant slave ! If ever I become the Thane of Devon, She on my vassals freedom shall bestow. (15)

c

I'll have no slaves to till my fields, and make

Them barren with their curses.-— But, loved maid,

How to secure thee from my father's wrath ? —

Ah, Harold ! Thou art more my friend than servant —

O, I am greatly troubled.

HAROLD.

Good my lord, I thought you were the happiest of the happy.

EDGAR.

No, the most wretched living. Come thou near.

This is no longer any place for me ;

I must depart, fly hence this very night,

To some far-distant country.

HAROLD.

Nay, my lord, Are you beside yourself?

EDGAR.

Well nigh, good Harold.

HAROLD.

Fly hence, when on the eve of bridal joy ? When you should wed a lady, whose fair hand Will on her bridegroom place the starry robe Of sovereignty and power ?

EDGAR.

I'd rather wear

The savage clothing of the new-slain wolf, And in the cavern of some desert live. Whose sands the foot of man hath never trod, Than in Dunheved's princely palace dwell With Cornwall's daughter.

HAROLD.

Thou dost much amaze me.

Scene III.] THE ENGLISH SLAVE. 19

EDGAR.

Thy truth IVe proved — then aid me to escape.

I know the lofty spirit of my father,

His fierce ambition, which would sacrifice

The young affections of this ardent heart ;

His stern relentless curses they will fall,

When I am gone, on my devoted head ;

Yet Fll endure all miseries, — all but one,

The loss of her I love. Come in with me —

I'll call thee friend and brother. Farewell pomp !

To pathless wilds and deserts must I fly :

If here I tarry, madness is my doom ! £ Exeunt.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

Act II

SCENE I. — A pleasant Valley on the borders of the Forest of Dartmoor ; lofty and barren Mountains in the back ground.

Enter Elfilia.

ELFILIA.

How am I changed ! Ere while in splendid robes, Mid bannered halls and gorgeous pomp, I moved Gaily and proudly ; while the air I breathed Was rich with odours and harmonious sounds Of harps and viols. Now, in these coarse weeds, I am the slave of slaves. Yet have I pomp ; The golden skies of morn are o'er these vales That shelter me outspread, where every grove Is filled with melodies, and soft the winds Breathe of the rose and violet. More than all, Peace in yon humble cottage with me dwells, And love makes blessed this delightful valley. Then why should I regret my once proud home, From which a father's sternness drove me forth To shun the bridal bed of one I hated, Though round his princely brows flashed ducal wreaths.

[Music at a distance.

It is my Wilford's harp. Enchanting sounds ! Yet is he lowly born, while boast my veins The noblest blood in England ; but with him, Caverns would be to me as kingly halls.