THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

ACT II.

Scene, a Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar—Puddingfield and Beefington discovered sitting at a small deal table, and playing at All-fours—Young Pottingen, at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the firmament—at the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber—the pipe falls from his hand, and is broken.

Beef. I beg.

Pudd. [Deals three cards to Beefington.] Are you satisfied?

Beef. Enough; what have you?

Pudd. High, low, and the game.

Beef. D——n! ’Tis my deal. [Deals; turns up a knave.] One for his heels!

[Triumphantly.

Pudd. Is king highest?

Beef. No. [Sternly] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.

Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous?

Beef. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies[[276]] to them.

Pudd. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.

Beef. England! my native land! when shall I revisit thee?

[During this time Puddingfield deals, and begins to arrange his hand.

Beef. [Continues.] Phoo, hang All-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, my Puddingfield! thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—

[Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young Pottingen, awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards Beefington and Puddingfield. The former begins to recover.

Y. Pot. What is the matter, comrades,[[277]] you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?

Beef. Lost! I have lost my country.

Y. Pot. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.

Beef. O, England!

Y. Pot. O, Matilda!

Beef. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.

Y. Pot. Oppressed by the tyranny of an Abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a Count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity; her lover is fled no one knows whither, and I, her brother, am torn from my parental roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel. My search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! what am I to do? In yonder Abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends, there lies Rogero—there Matilda’s heart.

SCENE II.

Enter Waiter.

Waiter. Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you.

Beef. [Goes to the door and returns with a letter, which he opens. On perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously.] Ah, my friend, what joy!

[Turning to Puddingfield.

Pudd. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it.

Beef. See here.

[Produces a printed paper.

Pudd. What?

[With impatience.

Beef. [In a significant tone.] A newspaper!

Pudd. Ah, what sayst thou?—A newspaper!

Beef. Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [shows it partially], from England.

Pudd. [With extreme earnestness.] Its name?

Beef. The Daily Advertiser.

Pudd. Oh, ecstasy!

Beef. [With a dignified severity.] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man.

Pudd. [After a pause, with suppressed emotion.] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?

Beef. Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield—the Barons are victorious—King John has been defeated—Magna Charta, that venerable immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July, Old Style.

Pudd. I can scarce believe my ears—but let me satisfy my eyes—show me the paragraph.

Beef. Here it is, just above the advertisements.

Pudd. [Reads.] “The great demand for Packwood’s Razor Straps”—

Beef. Pshaw!—what, ever blundering!—you drive me from my patience. See here, at the head of the column.

Pudd. [Reads.]

“A hireling print, devoted to the court,

Has dared to question our veracity

Respecting the events of yesterday;

But by to-day’s accounts, our information

Appears to have been perfectly correct.

The Charter of our Liberties received

The royal signature at five o’clock,

When messengers were instantly dispatched

To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties,

After partaking of a cold collation,

Returned to Windsor.”—I am satisfied.

Beef. Yet here again—there are some further particulars [turns to another part of the paper]. “Extract of a letter from Egham—My dear friend, we are all here in high spirits—the interesting event which took place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town”—

Pudd. Ah, Runnymede! enough—no more—my doubts are vanished—then are we free indeed!

Beef. I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed!—What says my friend—shall we return by the next packet?

Pudd. Instantly, instantly!

Both. Liberty! Adelaide! revenge!

[Exeunt—Young Pottingen following and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed.

Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey.—A Summer’s Evening; Moonlight.

Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years War.—Shouts and martial music.

The Abbey Gates are opened; the Monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head; the choir is heard chanting vespers.—After which a pause; then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper; soon after, a noise of singing and jollity.

Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm; Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the Female Minstrel.

Fem. Min. Trust me, Gieronimo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak?

Trou. Pshaw! women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing thee a song, and the subject of it shall be the question—“What have I got under my cloak?” It is a riddle, Margaret—I learnt it of an almanac-maker at Gotha—if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me—and, d’ye mark! twirl thy thingumbob while I sing.

Fem. Min. ’Tis a pretty tune, and hums dolefully.

[Plays on her balalaika.

Trou.

I bear a secret comfort here,[[278]]

[Putting his hand on the bundle.

A joy I’ll ne’er impart;

It is not wine, it is not beer,

But it consoles my heart.

Fem. Min. [Interrupting him.] I’ll be hang’d if you don’t mean the bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the abbey cellar.

Trou. I mean!—Peace, wench; thou disturbest the current of my feelings—

[Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold on the bottle; Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.

This cherry-bounce, this loved noyau,

My drink for ever be;

But, sweet my love, thy wish forego;

I’ll give no drop to thee!

[Both together.]

Trou.{ This }cherry-bounce{ this }loved noyau,
F. M.{ That }{ that }
Trou.{ My }drink for ever be;
F. M.{ Thy }
Trou. }But, sweet my love,{ thy wish forgo!
F. M. }{ one drop bestow,
Trou.{ I }keep it all for{ me!
F. M.{ Nor }{ thee!

[Exeunt struggling for the bottle, but without anger or animosity, the Fem. Min. appearing by degrees to obtain a superiority in the contest.

END OF ACT II.

Act the Third—contains the éclaircissements and final arrangement between Casimere, Matilda, and Cecilia; which so nearly resemble the concluding act of Stella, that we forbear to lay it before our readers.

ACT IV.

Scene, the Inn door; Diligence drawn up.—Casimere appears superintending the package of his portmanteaus, and giving directions to the Porters.

Enter Beefington and Puddingfield.

Pudd. Well, Coachey, have you got two inside places?

Coach. Yes, your Honour.

Pudd. [seems to be struck with Casimere’s appearance. He surveys him earnestly without paying any attention to the Coachman, then doubtingly pronounces] Casimere!

Cas. [turning round rapidly, recognizes Puddingfield, and embraces him.] My Puddingfield!

Pudd. My Casimere!

Cas. What, Beefington too! [discovering him]—then is my joy complete.

Beef. Our fellow-traveller, as it seems!

Cas. Yes, Beefington—but wherefore to Hamburgh?

Beef. Oh, Casimere[[279]]—to fly—to fly—to return—England—our country—Magna Charta—it is liberated—a new æra—House of Commons—Crown and Anchor—Opposition—

Cas. What a contrast! you are flying to liberty and your home—I, driven from my home by tyranny, and exposed to domestic slavery in a foreign country.

Beef. How domestic slavery?

Cas. Too true—two wives—[slowly, and with a dejected air—then after a pause]—you knew my Cecilia?

Pudd. Yes, five years ago.

Cas. Soon after that period I went upon a visit to a lady in Wetteravia—my Matilda was under her protection. Alighting at a peasant’s cabin, I saw her on a charitable visit, spreading bread-and-butter for the children, in a light-blue riding-habit. The simplicity of her appearance—the fineness of the weather—all conspired to interest me—my heart moved to hers—as if by magnetic sympathy. We wept, embraced, and went home together: she became the mother of my Pantalowsky. But five years of enjoyment have not stifled the reproaches of my conscience—her Rogero is languishing in captivity—if I could restore her to him!

Beef. Let us rescue him.

Cas. Will without power[[280]] is like children playing at soldiers.

Beef. Courage without power[[281]] is like a consumptive running footman.

Cas. Courage without power is a contradiction.[[282]] Ten brave men might set all Quedlinburgh at defiance.

Beef. Ten brave men—but where are they to be found?

Cas. I will tell you—marked you the waiter?

Beef. The waiter?

[doubtingly.

Cas. [in a confidential tone]. No waiter, but a Knight Templar. Returning from the Crusade, he found his Order dissolved, and his person proscribed. He dissembled his rank, and embraced the profession of a waiter. I have made sure of him already. There are, besides, an Austrian, and a Prussian grenadier. I have made them abjure their national enmity, and they have sworn to fight henceforth in the cause of freedom. These with young Pottingen, the waiter, and ourselves, make seven—the Troubadour, with his two attendant minstrels, will complete the ten.

Beef. Now then for the execution.

[With enthusiasm.

Pudd. Yes, my boys—for the execution.

[Clapping them on the back.

Waiter. But hist! we are observed.

Trou. Let us by a song conceal our purposes.

RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.[[283]]

Cas. Hist! hist! nor let the airs that blow

From night’s cold lungs our purpose know!

Pudd. Let Silence, mother of the dumb,

Beef. Press on each lip her palsied thumb!

Wait. Let Privacy, allied to sin,

That loves to haunt the tranquil inn—

Gren. } And Conscience start, when she shall view

Thou. } The mighty deed we mean to do!

GENERAL CHORUS—Con spirito.

Then friendship swear, ye faithful bands,

Swear to save a shackled hero!

See where yon abbey frowning stands!

Rescue, rescue, brave Rogero!

Cas. Thrall’d in a monkish tyrant’s fetters

Shall great Rogero hopeless lie?

Y. Pot. In my pocket I have letters,

Saying, “Help me, or I die!”

Allegro Allegretto.

Cas. Beef. Pudd. Gren. Trou. Waiter, and Pot. with enthusiasm.} Let us fly, let us fly,
} Let us help, ere he die!

[Exeunt omnes, waving their hats.

Scene, the Abbey Gate, with Ditches, Drawbridges, and Spikes; Time, about an hour before Sunrise.—The conspirators appear as if in ambuscade, whispering and consulting together, in expectation of the signal for attack.—The Waiter is habited as a Knight Templar, in the dress of his Order, with the Cross on his breast, and the scallop on his shoulder.—Puddingfield and Beefington armed with blunderbusses and pocket-pistols; the Grenadiers in their proper uniforms.—The Troubadour with his attendant minstrels bring up the rear; martial music: the conspirators come forward, and present themselves before the Gate of the Abbey.—Alarum; firing of pistols; the Convent appear in Arms upon the Walls; the Drawbridge is let down; a body of choristers and lay-brothers attempt a sally, but are beaten back, and the Verger killed.—The besieged attempt to raise the Drawbridge; Puddingfield and Beefington press forward with alacrity, throw themselves upon the Drawbridge, and by the exertion of their weight preserve it in a state of depression; the other besiegers join them, and attempt to force the entrance, but without effect.—Puddingfield makes the signal for the battering-ram.—Enter Quintus Curtius and Marcus Curius Dentatus in their military habits, preceded by the Roman Eagle; the rest of their Legion are employed in bringing forward a battering-ram, which plays for a few minutes to slow time, till the entrance is forced.—After a short resistance, the besiegers rush in with shouts of Victory.

Scene changes to the interior of the Abbey.—The inhabitants of the Convent are seen flying in all directions.

The Count of Weimar and the Prior, who had been found feasting in the Refectory, are brought in manacled. The Count appears transported with rage, and gnaws his chains.—The Prior remains insensible, as if stupefied with grief.—Beefington takes the keys of the Dungeon, which are hanging at the Prior’s girdle, and makes a sign for them both to be led away into confinement.—Exeunt Prior and Count, properly guarded.—The rest of the conspirators disperse in search of the Dungeon where Rogero is confined.

END OF ACT THE FOURTH.