THE
CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA;
A COMIC OPERA,
IN THREE ACTS;

By JOHN O'KEEFFE, Esq.

AS PERFORMED AT THE
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.

PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS
FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.

WITH REMARKS
BY MRS. INCHBALD.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.

Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

REMARKS.

A reader must be acquainted with O'Keeffe on the stage to admire him in the closet. Yet he is entitled to more praise, in being the original author of a certain species of drama, made up of whim and frolic than numberless retailers of wit and sentiment with whom that class of readers are charmed, who are not in the habit of detecting plagiarism.

From Operas, since the Beggar's Opera, little has been required by the town except music and broad humour. The first delights the elegant, the second the inelegant part of an audience; by which means all parties are gratified.

Had O'Keeffe written less, his reputation would have stood higher with the public; and so would that of many an author beside himself: but when a man makes writing his only profession—industry, and prudent forecast for the morrow, will often stimulate him to produce, with heavy heart, that composition which his own judgment condemns. Yet is he compelled to bear the critic's censure, as one whom vanity has incited to send forth crude thoughts with his entire good will, and perfect security as to the high value they will have with the world.

Let it be known to the world, that more than half the authors who come before them thus apparently bold and self-approved, are perhaps sinking under the shame of their puerile works, and discerning in them more faults, from closer attention and laudable timidity, than the most severe of their censurers can point out.

These observations might be some apology for this Opera, if it required any. But it has pleased so well in representation, that its deserts as an exhibition are acknowledged; and if in reading there should appear something of too much intricacy in the plot, or of improbability in the events, the author must be supposed to have seen those faults himself; though want of time, or, most likely, greater reliance upon the power of music than upon his own labour, impelled him gladly to spare the one, in reverence to the other.

The songs have great comic effect on the stage; particularly those by some of the male characters: and the mistakes which arise from the impositions of Spado are highly risible.

As the reader, to form a just judgment on "The Castle of Andalusia," should see it acted; so the auditor, to be equally just, must read it.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE,—Spain.

THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

A Cavern with winding Stairs, and recesses cut in the Rock; a large Lamp hanging in the Centre; a Table, Wine, Fruits, &c. in disorder.—At the Head Don Cæsar; on each Side Spado, Sanguino, Rapino, and others of the Banditti.

AIR I. AND CHORUS.

Don Cæsar. Here we sons of freedom dwell,

In our friendly, rock-hewn cell;

Pleasure's dictates we obey,

Nature points us out the way,

Ever social, great and free,

Valour guards our liberty.

AIR.

Don Cæsar. Of severe and partial laws,

Venal judges, Alguazils;

Dreary dungeons' iron jaws,

Oar and gibbet—whips or wheels,

Let's never think

While thus me drink

Sweet Muscadine!

O life divine!

Chorus.—Here we sons of freedom dwell, &c.

Don Cæsar. Come, cavaliers, our carbines are loaded, our hearts are light: charge your glasses, Bacchus gives the word, and a volley makes us immortal as the rosy god.—Fire!

Spado. Ay, captain, this is noble firing—Oh, I love a volley of grape-shot.—Are we to have any sky-light in our cave?

[Looking at Sanguino's Glass.

Don Cæsar. Oh, no! a brimmer round.—Come, a good booty to us to-night.

[All drink.

Spado. Booty! Oh, I love to rob a fat priest.—Stand, says I, and then I knock him down.

Sang. My nose bleeds. [Looks at his Handkerchief.] I wonder what colour is a coward's blood?

Spado. Don't you see it's red?

Sang. Ha! call me coward, [Rises in fury.] sirrah? Captain! cavaliers!—But this scar on my forehead contradicts the miscreant.

Spado. Scar on your forehead!—Ay, you will look behind you, when you run away.

Sang. I'll stab the villain—[Draws Stilletto.]—I will, by Heaven.

Don Cæsar. Pho, Sanguino! you know when a jest offers, Spado regards neither time, place, nor person.

All. [Interposing.] Don't hurt little Spado.

Spado. [Hiding behind.] No, don't hurt little Spado.

Sang. Run away! Armies have confessed my valour: the time has been—but no matter.

[Sits.

Don Cæsar. Come, away with reflection on the past, or care for the future; the present is the golden moment of possession.—Let us enjoy it.

All. Ay, ay, let us enjoy it.

Don Cæsar. You know, cavaliers, when I entered into this noble fraternity, I boasted only of a little courage sharpened by necessity, the result of my youthful follies, a father's severity, and the malice of a good-natured dame.

Spado. Captain, here's a speedy walk-off to old women.

All. [Drink] Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Don Cæsar. When you did me the honour to elect me your captain, two conditions I stipulated:——Though at war with the world abroad, unity and social mirth should preside over our little commonwealth at home.

Spado. Yes, but Sanguino's for no head—he'll have ours a commonwealth of fists and elbows.

Don Cæsar. The other, unless to preserve your own lives, never commit a murder.

Spado. I murdered since that——a bishop's coach-horse.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

Don Cæsar. Hand me that red wine.

AIR II.—DON CÆSAR.

Flow, thou regal purple stream,

Tinctur'd by the solar beam,

In my goblet sparkling rise,

Cheer my heart and glad my eyes.

My brain ascend on fancy's wing,

'Noint me, wine, a jovial king.

While I live, I'll lave my clay,

When I'm dead and gone away,

Let my thirsty subjects say,

A month he reign'd, but that was May.

[Thunder.]

Don Cæsar. Hark, how distinct we hear the thunder through this vast body of earth and rock.—Rapino, is Calvette above, upon his post?

Rap. Yes.

Don Cæsar. Spado, 'tis your business to relieve the centinel.

Spado. Relieve! what's the matter with him?

Don Cæsar. Come, come, no jesting with duty—'tis your watch.

Spado. Let the wolves watch for me—my duty is to get supper ready.—[Thunder.]—Go up! Od's fire, do you think I'm a Salamander?—D'ye hear?

Sang. No sport, I fear.

Don Cæsar. Then call Calvette, lock down the trap-door, and get us some more wine from the cistern.

Spado. Wine! Ay, captain; and this being a night of peace, we'll have a dish of olives.

Sang. No, peace! we'll up and scour the forest presently. But well thought on; a rich old fellow, one Don Scipio, has lately come to reside in the castle on the skirts of the forest—what say you to plunder there?

Don Cæsar. Not to-night—I know my time—I have my reasons—I shall give command on that business. But where's the stranger we brought in at our last excursion?

Rap. He reposes in yonder recess.

Spado. Ay, egad, there he lies, with a face as innocent—[Aside.]—If my fellow-rooks would but fly off, I'd have the pigeon here within all to myself.

Cal. [Appears at the Top of the winding Stairs, with a Lanthorn.] A booty.

Sang. Good news, cavaliers; here comes Calvette.

Cal. A booty!

Sang. What! where?

Cal. Soft—but one man!

Sang. But one man! Is he alone?

Cal. Quite.

Spado. One man, and alone—that's odd!

Cal. He seems in years, but his habit, as well as I could distinguish, speaks him noble.

[Descends.

Don Cæsar. Then he'll fight.—My arms!

Spado. Oh, he'll fight—get my arms; no, my legs will do for me.

[Aside.

Sang. Come, my carbine—quick!

Don Cæsar. To the attack of one man—paltry! Only you, Calvette, Sanguino, Rapino, and Spado go; the rest prepare for our general excursion.

Spado. Captain, don't send me; indeed I'm too rash!

Don Cæsar. Come, come, leave buffoonery, and to your duty.

[Calvette and Rapino ascend; the rest go in at several Recesses; Spado, the last, ascends up slowly.

Enter Don Alphonso.

Don Alph. I find myself somewhat refreshed by my slumber; at such a time to fall into the hands of these ruffians, how unlucky! I'm pent up here; my rival, Fernando, once my friend, reaches Don Scipio's castle, weds my charming Victoria, and I lose her for ever; but if I could secure an interview, love should plead my cause.

AIR III.—DON ALPHONSO.

The hardy sailor braves the ocean,

Fearless of the roaring wind;

Yet his heart, with soft emotion,

Throbs to leave his love behind.

To dread of foreign foes a stranger,

Tho' the youth can dauntless roam,

Alarming fears paint every danger

In a rival, left at home.

Spado returns down the Stairs.

Spado. [Aside.] Now for some talk with our prisoner here—Stay, are they all out of ear-shot? How the poor bird sings in its cage! I know more of his affairs than he thinks of, by overhearing his conversation at the inn at Lorca.

Don Alph. How shall I escape from these rascals? Oh, here is one of the gentlemen. Pray, sir, may I take the liberty—

Spado. No liberty for you.—Yet upon certain conditions, indeed—give me your hand.

Don Alph. [Aside.] Impudent scoundrel!

Spado. Signor, I wish to serve you—and serve you I will; but I must know the channel, before I make for the coast; therefore, to examine you with the pious severity of an holy inquisitor, who the devil are you?

Don Alph. A pious adjuration truly!—[Aside.]—Sir, my name is Alphonso, and I am son of a banker at Madrid.

Spado. Banker! Oh! I thought he sung like a young goldfinch.

Don Alph. Perhaps, by trusting this fellow, I may make my escape.

[Aside.

Spado. I'll convince him I know his secrets, and then I hold his purse-strings.

Don Alph. You won't betray me?

Spado. Honour among thieves.

Don Alph. Then you must know, when your gang attacked me yesterday evening—

Spado. You were posting full gallop to Don Scipio's castle, on the confines of the forest here.

Don Alph. Hey! then perhaps you know my passion for—

Spado. Donna Victoria, his daughter.

Don Alph. Then you know that she's contracted—

Spado. To your friend Don Fernando de Zelva, who is now on his journey to the castle, and, to the destruction of your hopes, weds the lady on his arrival.

Don Alph. True, while I am pent up in this cursed cavern; but how you got my story, I——

Spado. No matter! I could let you out of this cursed cavern.

Don Alph. And will you?

Spado. Ah, our trap-door above requires a golden key.

Don Alph. Your comrades have not left me a piastre.

Spado. Will you give me an order on your father's bank for fifty pieces, and I'll let you out?

Don Alph. You shall have it.

Spado. A bargain. I'll secure your escape.

Enter Don Cæsar, behind.

Don Cæsar. How's this?

Spado. Zounds, the captain Ramirez! [Aside.]—Ay, you dog, I'll secure you for an escape! Do you think I'd set you at liberty without the captain's orders? Betray my trust for a bribe! What the devil do you take me for? [In a seeming rage.] Oh, captain, I did not see you.

Don Cæsar. What's the matter?

Spado. Nothing, only our prisoner here was mistaken in his man—that's all. Let you escape, indeed!

Don Alph. Here's a rascal!

Spado. Rascal! D'ye hear him? He has been abusing me this half hour, because I would not convey him out without your knowledge. Oh, what offers he did make me! but my integrity is proof against Gallions, Escurials, Perus, and Mexicos.

Don Cæsar. Begone instantly to your comrades. [Spado ascends.] Signor, no occasion to tamper with my companions; you shall owe your liberty to none but me. I'll convey you to the cottage of the vines, belonging to the peasant Philippo, not far from Don Scipio's castle; there you may rest in safety to-night, and—

Don Alph. Ah, captain! no rest for me.

Don Cæsar. Look ye, signor, I am a ruffian, perhaps worse, but venture to trust me.—A picklock may be used to get to a treasure—don't wish to know more of me than I now chuse to tell you; but, if your mistress loves you as well as you seem to love her, to-morrow night she's yours.

Don Alph. My good friend!

Don Cæsar. Now for Philippo—I don't suppose you wish to see any of our work above—ha! ha! ha!—Well, well, I was once a lover, but now—

AIR IV.—DON CÆSAR.

On by the spur of valour goaded,

Pistols primed, and carbines loaded,

Courage strikes on hearts of steel;

While each spark,

Through the dark

Gloom of night,

Lends a clear and cheering light,

Who a fear or doubt can feel?

Like serpents now, through thickets creeping,

Then on our prey, like lions, leaping!

Calvette to the onset leads us,

Let the wand'ring trav'ler dread us!

Struck with terror and amaze,

While our swords with lightning blaze.

[Thunder.

Thunder to our carbines roaring,

Bursting clouds in torrents pouring,

Each a free and roving blade,

Ours a free and roving trade,

To the onset let's away,

Valour calls, and we obey.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Forest.

A stormy Night.

Enter Don Fernando.

Don Fer. Pedrillo! [Calling.] What a dreadful night, and horrid place to be benighted! Pedrillo!—I fear I've lost my servant; but by the pace I rode since I left Ecceija, Don Scipio's castle can't be very far distant: this was to have been my wedding night, if I arrived there. Pedrillo! Pedrillo!

[Calling.

Ped. [Within] Sir!

Don Fer. Where are you, sirrah?

Ped. Quite astray, sir.

Don Fer. This way.

Enter Pedrillo, groping his way.

Ped. Any body's way, for I have lost my own.—Do you see me, sir?

Don Fer. No indeed, Pedrillo!

[Lightning.

Ped. You saw me then, sir. [Thunder.] Ah, this must frighten the mules, they'll break their bridles; I tied the poor beasts to a tree.

Don Fer. Well, we may find them in the morning, if they escape the banditti, which I am told infests this forest.

Ped. Banditti! [A shot without.] Ah! we are dead men.

Don Fer. Somebody in trouble!

Ped. No, somebody's troubles are over.

Don Fer. Draw and follow me, Pedrillo.

Ped. Lord, sir! ha'n't we troubles enough of our own?

Don Fer. Follow! Who can deny assistance to his fellow creature in distress?

[Draws.—Exit.

Ped. What fine creatures these gentlemen are!—But for me, I am a poor, mean, rascally servant—so I'll even take my chance with the mules.

AIR V.—PEDRILLO.

A master I have, and I am his man,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

And he'll get a wife as fast as he can,

With a haily, gaily, gambo raily,

Giggling, niggling,

Galloping galloway, draggle tail, dreary dun.

I saddled his steed so fine and so gay,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

I mounted my mule, and we rode away,

With our haily, &c.

We canter'd along until it grew dark,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

The nightingale sung instead of the lark,

With her, &c.

We met with a friar, and ask'd him our way,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

By the Lord, says the friar, you're both gone astray,

With your, &c.

Our journey, I fear, will do us no good,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

We wander alone, like the babes in the wood,

With our, &c.

My master is fighting, and I'll take a peep,

Galloping, dreary, dun,

But now I think better, I'd better go sleep,

With my, &c.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A thicker Part of the Forest.—Large Tree and Stone Cross.

Enter Don Scipio, attacked by Sanguino, Rapino, and Calvette.

Sang. Now, Rapino, lop off his sword-arm.

Don Scipio. Forbear! there's my purse, you rascals!

[Throws it down.

Sang. Fire!

Spado. [Peeping from the large Tree.] No, don't fire.

Sang. I am wounded—hew him to pieces.

[As Don Scipio is nearly overpowered,

Enter Don Fernando.

Don Fer. Ha! what murderous ruffians!

[Engages the Banditti, who precipitately disperse several ways.

Spado. Holloa! the forest is surrounded with inquisitors, alguazils, corrigidores, and holy fathers.

Don Scipio. Oh, I hav'n't fought so much these twenty years!

Spado. Eh, we have lost the field, cursed dark; though I think I could perceive but one man come to the relief of our old Don here.

Don Scipio. But where are you, signor? Approach, my brave deliverer.

Spado. So, here's a victory, and nobody to claim it! I think I'll go down and pick up the laurel. [Descends from the Tree.] I'll take the merit of this exploit, I may get something by it.

Don Scipio. I long to thank, embrace, worship this generous stranger, as my guardian angel.

Spado. [Aside.] I may pass for this angel in the dark—Villains! scoundrels! robbers! to attack an honest old gentleman on the king's highway!—but I made the dogs scamper!

[Vapouring about.

Don Scipio. Oh dear! this is my preserver!

Spado. Who's there! Oh, you are the worthy old gentleman I rescued from these rascal banditti.

Don Scipio. Noble, valiant stranger—I—

Spado. No thanks, signor; I have saved your life; and a good action rewards itself.

Don Scipio. A gallant fellow, 'faith—Eh, as well as I could distinguish in the dark, you looked much taller just now.

[Looking close at him.

Spado. When I was fighting? true, anger raises me—I always appear six foot in a passion: besides, my hat and plume added to my height.

Don Scipio. [By Accident treading on the Purse.] Hey, the rogues have run off without my purse too.

Spado. O, ho! [Aside.]—What, I have saved your purse, as well as your precious life! Well, of a poor fellow, I am the luckiest dog in all Spain.

Don Scipio. Poor! Good friend, accept this purse, as a small token of my gratitude.

Spado. Nay, dear sir!

Don Scipio. You shall take it.

Spado. Lord, I am so awkward at taking a purse.

[Takes it.

Don Scipio. Hey, if I could find my cane too;—I dropped it somewhere hereabouts, when I drew to defend myself.

[Looking about.

Spado. Zounds! I fancy here comes the real conqueror—no matter—I've got the spoils of the field.

[Aside—Chinks the Purse, and retires.

Don Scipio. Ah, my amber-headed cane!

[Still looking about.

Enter Don Fernando.

Don Fer. The villains!

Don Scipio. Ay, you made them fly like pigeons, my little game-cock!

Don Fer. Oh, I fancy this is the gentleman that was attacked. Not hurt, I hope, sir?

Don Scipio. No, I'm a tough old blade—Oh, gadso, well thought on—feel if there's a ring in the purse, it's a relic of my deceased lady, it's with some regret I ask you to return it.

Don Fer. Return what, sir?

Don Scipio. A ring you'll find in the purse.

Don Fer. Ring and purse! really, sir, I don't understand you.

Don Scipio. Well, well, no matter—A mercenary fellow!

[Aside.

Don Fer. The old gentleman has been robbed, and is willing that I should reimburse his losses.

[Aside.

Don Scipio. It grows lighter: I think I can distinguish the path I lost—follow me, my hero, and [As going, suddenly turns, and looks steadfastly at Don Fernando.] Zounds, signor, I hope you are not in a passion, but I think you look six feet high again.

Don Fer. A strange, mad old fellow this!

[Aside.

Don Scipio. These rascals may rally, so come along to my castle, and my daughter Victoria shall welcome the preserver of her father.

Don Fer. Your daughter Victoria! Then, perhaps, sir, you are Don Scipio, my intended father-in-law?

Don Scipio. Eh! why, zounds! is it possible that you can be my expected son, Fernando?

Don Fer. The same, sir; and was on my journey to your castle, when benighted in the forest here.

Don Scipio. Oh, my dear boy! [Embraces him.] Damned mean of him to take my purse though—[Aside.] Ah, Fernando, you were resolved to touch some of your wife's fortune before-hand.

Don Fer. Sir—I—

Don Scipio. Hush! You have the money, and keep it—ay, and the ring too; I'm glad it's not gone out of the family—Hey, it grows lighter—Come—

Don Fer. My rascal Pedrillo is fallen asleep somewhere.

Don Scipio. No, we are not safe here—Come then, my dear—brave, valiant—Cursed paltry to take my purse though.

[Aside.—Exeunt.

Spado. [Who had been listening, advances.] So, then, our old gentleman is father to Victoria, my young banker Alphonso's mistress, and the other is Fernando, his dreaded rival—this is the first time they ever saw each other too—He has a servant too, and his name Pedrillo—a thought strikes me; if I could, by cross paths, but get to the castle before them, I'll raise a most delicious commotion—In troubled waters I throw my fishing-hook—[Whistle without.]—Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm engaged.

[Exit—A distant Whistle heard without.

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in Scipio's Castle.

Enter Victoria and Catilina.

Catil. Nay, dear madam, do not submit to go into the nunnery.

Vic. Yes, Catilina, my father desires I shall take the veil, and a parent's voice is the call of Heaven!

Catil. Heaven! Well, though the fellows swear I'm an angel, this world is good enough for me—Dear ma'am, I wish I could but once see you in love.

Vic. Heigho! Catilina, I wonder what sort of gentleman this Don Fernando is, who is contracted to me, and hourly expected at the castle.

Catil. A beautiful man, I warrant—But, ma'am, you're not to have him. Hush! Dame Isabel, not content with making your father, by slights and ill usage, force your brother, poor Don Cæsar, to run about the world, in the Lord knows what wild courses, but she now has persuaded the old gentleman to pass her daughter on Don Fernando, for you—There, yonder she is, flaunting, so be-jewelled and be-plumed—Well, if I was you, they might take my birthright—but my husband—take my man—the deuce shall take them first! Ah, no! if ever I do go to heaven, I'll have a smart lad in my company.—Send you to a nunnery!

Vic. Was my fond mother alive!—Catilina, my father will certainly marry this Dame Isabel; I'm now an alien to his affections, bereft of every joy and every hope, I shall quit the world without a sigh.

AIR V.—VICTORIA.

Ah, solitude, take my distress,

My griefs I'll unbosom to thee,

Each sigh thou canst gently repress,

Thy silence is music to me.

Yet peace from my sonnet may spring,

For peace let me fly the gay throng,

To soften my sorrows I sing,

Yet sorrow's the theme of my song.

[Exit Victoria.

Catil. I quit this castle as soon as ever Donna Victoria enters a nunnery—Shall I go with her? No, I was never made for a nun—Ay, I'll back to the vineyard, and if my sweetheart, Philippo, is as fond as ever, who knows—I was his queen of all the girls, though the charming youth was the guitar, flute, fiddle, and hautboy of our village.

AIR VI.—CATILINA.

Like my dear swain, no youth you'd see

So blithe, so gay, so full of glee,

In all our village, who but he

To foot it up so featly—

His lute to hear,

From far and near,

Each female came,

Both girl and dame,

And all his boon

For every tune,

To kiss 'em round so sweetly.

While round him in the jocund ring,

We nimbly danced, he'd play or sing,

Of May the youth was chosen king,

He caught our ears so neatly.

Such music rare

In his guitar,

But touch his flute

The crowd was mute,

His only boon,

For every tune,

To kiss us round so sweetly.

[Exit.

Enter Vasquez, introducing Spado.

Vas. I'll inform Dame Isabel, sir—please to wait a moment.

[Exit Vasquez.

Spado. Sir!—This Dame Isabel is, it seems, a widow-gentlewoman, whom Don Scipio has retained ever since the death of his lady, as supreme directress over his family, has such an ascendancy, prevailed on him even to drive his own son out of his house, and, ha! ha! ha! is now drawing the old don into a matrimonial noose, ha! ha! ha! Egad, I am told, rules the roast here in the castle—Yes, yes, she's my mark—Hem! Now for my story, but my scheme is up, if I tell her a single truth—Ah, no fear of that.—Oh, this way she moves—

Enter Dame Isabel and Vasquez.

Isab. Don Scipio not returned! a foolish old man, rambling about at this time of night! Stay, Vasquez, where's this strange, ugly little fellow you said wanted to speak with me?

Vas. [Confused.] Madam, I did not say—

Spado. No matter, young man—Hem!

[Exit Vasquez.

Isab. Well, sir, pray who are you?

Spado. [Bowing obsequiously.] Madam, I have the honour to be confidential servant and secretary to Don Juan, father to Don Fernando de Zelva.

Isab. Don Fernando! Heavens! is he arrived? Here, Vasquez, Lopez, Diego!

[Calling.

Spado. Hold, madam! he's not arrived: Most sagacious lady, please to lend your attention for a few moments to an affair of the highest importance to Don Scipio's family. My young master is coming—

Isab. Well, sir!

Spado. Incog.

Isab. Incog!

Spado. Madam, you shall hear—[Aside.]—Now for a lie worth twenty pistoles—The morning before his departure, Don Fernando calls me into his closet, and shutting the door, "Spado," says he, "you know this obstinate father of mine has engaged me to marry a lady I have never seen, and to-morrow, by his order, I set out for Don Scipio, her father's castle, for that purpose; but," says he, striking his breast with one hand, twisting his mustaches with the other, and turning up his eyes—"if, when I see her, she don't hit my fancy, I'll not marry her, by the——"—I sha'n't mention his oath before you, madam.

Isab. No, pray don't, sir.

Spado. "Therefore," says he, "I design to dress Pedrillo, my arch dog of a valet, in a suit of my clothes, and he shall personate me at Don Scipio's castle, while I, in a livery, pass for him—If I like the lady, I resume my own character, and take her hand; if not, the deceit continues, and Pedrillo weds Donna Victoria, just to warn parental tyranny how it dares to clap up marriage, without consulting our inclinations."

Isab. Here's a discovery! so then, it's my poor child that must have fallen into this snare—[Aside.] Well, good sir.

Spado. "And, (continued he) Spado, I appoint you my trusty spy in this Don Scipio's family; to cover our designs, let it be a secret that you belong to me, and I sha'n't seem even to know you—You'll easily get a footing in the family (says he) by imposing some lie or other upon a foolish woman, I'm told, is in the castle. Dame Isabel I think they call her."

Isab. He shall find I am not so easily imposed upon.

Spado. I said so, madam; says I, a lady of Dame Isabel's wisdom must soon find me out, was I to tell her a lie.

Isab. Ay, that I should, sir.

Enter Vasquez.

Vas. Oh, madam! my master is returned, and Don Fernando de Zelva with him.

[Exit Vasquez.

Isab. Don Fernando! Oh, then, this is the rascally valet, but I'll give him a welcome with a vengeance!

Spado. Hold, madam! Suppose, for a little sport, you seem to humour the deceit, only to see how the fellow acts his part; he'll play the gentleman very well, I'll warrant; the dog is an excellent mimic; for, you must know, ma'am, this Pedrillo's mother was a gipsy, his father a merry andrew to a mountebank, and he himself five years trumpeter to a company of strolling players.

Isab. So, I was likely to have a hopeful son-in-law! Good sir, we are eternally indebted to you for this timely notice of the imposition.

Spado. Madam, I've done the common duties of an honest man—I have been long in the family, and can't see my master making such a fool of himself, without endeavouring to prevent any mischance in consequence.

Isab. Dear sir, I beseech you be at home under this roof; pray be free, and want for nothing the house affords.

Spado. [Bows.] Good madam! I'll want for nothing I can lay my fingers on. [Aside.]

[Exit Spado.

Isab. Heavens! what an honest soul it is! what a lucky discovery! Oh, here comes my darling girl!

Enter Lorenza, magnificently dressed.

Lor. Oh, cara Madre! See, behold!—Can I fail of captivating Don Fernando? Don't I look charming?

Isab. Why, Lorenza, I must say the toilet has done its duty; I'm glad to see you in such spirits, my dear child!

Lor. Spirits! ever gay, ever sprightly, cheerful as a lark—but how shall I forget my Florence lover, my dear Ramirez?

Isab. I request, my dear, you'll not think of this Ramirez—even from your own account of him, he must be a person of most dissolute principles—fortunately he knows you only by your name of Lorenza. I hope he won't find you out here.

Lor. Then farewell, beloved Ramirez! In obedience to your commands, madam, I shall accept of this Don Fernando; and as a husband, I will love him if I can—

AIR VII.—LORENZA.

Love! gay illusion!

Pleasing delusion,

With sweet intrusion,

Possesses the mind.

Love with love meeting,

Passion is fleeting;

Vows in repeating

We trust to the wind.

Faith to faith plighted,

Love may be blighted;

Hearts often slighted

Will cease to be kind.

Enter Vasquez.

Vas. Madam—my master and Don Fernando.

Isab. Has Don Fernando a servant with him?

Vas. No, madam.

Isab. Oh, when he comes, take notice of him.

Enter Don Scipio and Fernando.

Don Scipio. Oh, my darling dame, and my delicate daughter, bless your stars that you see poor old Scipio alive again—Behold my son-in-law and the preserver of my life—Don Fernando, there's your spouse, and this is Donna Isabella, a lady of vast merit, of which my heart is sensible.

Don Fer. Madam!

[Salutes.

Isab. What an impudent fellow!

[Aside.

Don Scipio. Dear Fernando, you are as welcome to this castle as flattery to a lady, but there she is—bill and coo—embrace—caress her.

[Fernando salutes Lorenza.

Lor. If I had never seen Ramirez, I should think the man tolerable enough!

[Aside.

Don Scipio. Ha! ha! this shall be the happy night—Eh, Dame Isabel, by our agreement, before the lark sings, I take possession of this noble tenement.

Don Fer. Don Scipio, I hoped to have the honour of seeing your son.

Don Scipio. My son! Who, Cæsar? Oh, lord! He's—He was a—turned out a profligate—Sent him to Italy—got into bad company—don't know what's become of him—My dear friend, if you would not offend me, never mention Don Cæsar in my hearing. Egad—Eh, my dainty dame, is not Don Fernando a fine fellow?

Isab. Yes, he's well enough for a trumpeter.

Don Scipio. Trumpeter! [With surprise.] what the devil do you mean by that? Oh, because I sound his praise; but, madam, he's a cavalier of noble birth, title, fortune, and valour—

Isab. Don Scipio, a word if you please.

[Takes him aside.

Lor. [To Fernando.] Si—Signor, our castle here is rather a gloomy mansion, when compared to the beautiful cassinos on the banks of the Arno.

Don Fer. Arno! true, Don Scipio said in his letter, that his daughter had been bred at Florence.

Lor. You have had an unpleasant journey, signor?

Don Fer. I have encountered some difficulties by the way, it is true, madam; but am amply repaid by the honour and happiness I now enjoy.

[Bows.

Lor. Sir!—I swear he's a polite cavalier! [Aside.] Won't you please to sit, sir? I fancy you must be somewhat weary.

[Sits.

Don Scipio. What the devil! Eh, sure—what this fellow only Don Fernando's footman! how! it can't be!

Isab. A fact; and presently you'll see Don Fernando himself in livery.

Don Scipio. Look at the impudent son of a gipsy—Sat himself down—Zounds! I'll—

Isab. Hold! let him play off a few of his airs.

Don Scipio. A footman! Ay, this accounts for his behaviour in the forest—Don Fernando would never have accepted my purse—[Taps his Shoulder.]—Hey, what, you've got there!

Don Fer. Will you please to sit, sir?

[Rises.

Don Scipio. Yes, he looks like a trumpeter. [Aside.] You may sit down, friend.

[With contempt.

Don Fer. A strange old gentleman!

Enter Vasquez.

Vas. Sir, your servant Pedrillo is arrived.

[Exit Vasquez.

Isab. Servant Pedrillo! Ay, this is Fernando himself.

[Apart, joyfully to Scipio.

Don Fer. Oh, then the fellow has found his way at last. Don Scipio—Ladies—excuse me a moment.

[Exit Fernando.

Lor. What a charming fellow!

Don Scipio. What an impudent rascal!

Ped. [Without.] Is my master this way?

Don Scipio. Master! ay, this is Fernando.

Enter Pedrillo, with a Portmanteau.

Ped. Oh dear! I've got among the gentlefolks—I ask pardon.

Isab. How well he does look and act the servant!

Don Scipio. Admirable; yet I perceive the grandee under the livery.

Isab. Please to sit, sir.

[With great respect.

Lor. A livery servant sit down by me!

Don Scipio. Pray sit down, sir.

[Ceremoniously.

Ped. Sit down! [Sits.] Oh, these must be the upper servants of the family—her ladyship here is the housekeeper, I suppose—the young tawdry tit, lady's maid—(Hey, her mistress throws off good clothes,) and Old Whiskers, Don Scipio's butler.

[Aside.

Enter Don Fernando.

Don Fer. Pedrillo! how! seated! what means this disrespect?

Ped. Sir, [Rises to him.] Old Whiskers, the butler there, asked me to sit down by Signora the waiting-maid here.

Don Fer. Sirrah!

Ped. Yes, sir.

Don Scipio. Sir and sirrah! how rarely they act their parts! I'll give them an item, though, that I understand the plot of their comedy.

[Aside.

AIR VIII.—QUINTETTO.

D. Scipio.

Signor! [To Pedrillo.]

Your wits must be keener,

Our prudence to elude,

Your fine plot,

Tho' so pat,

Will do you little good.

Ped.

My fine plot!

I'm a sot,

If I know what

These gentlefolks are at.

Fer.

Past the perils of the night,

Tempests, darkness, rude alarms;

Phœbus rises clear and bright,

In the lustre of your charms.

Lor.

O, charming, I declare,

So polite a cavalier!

He understands the duty

And homage due to beauty.

D. Scipio.

Bravo! O bravissimo!

Lor.

Caro! O carissimo!

How sweet his honey words,

How noble is his mien!

D. Scipio.

Fine feathers make fine birds,

The footman's to be seen.

But both deserve a basting!

Ped.

Since morning I've been fasting.

D. Scipio.

Yet I could laugh for anger.

Ped.

Oh, I could cry for hunger.

D. Scipio.

I could laugh.

Ped.

I could cry.

D. Scipio.

I could quaff.

Ped.

So could I.

D. Scipio.

Ha! ha! ha! I'm in a fit.

Ped.

Oh, I could pick a little bit.

D. Scipio.

Ha! ha! ha!

Ped.

Oh! oh! oh!

Lor.

A very pleasant party!

D. Fer.

A whimsical reception!

D. Scipio.

A whimsical deception!

But master and man, accept a welcome hearty.

D. Fer.Ped.^}

Accept our thanks sincere, for such a welcome hearty.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

An antique Apartment in the Castle.

Enter Don Cæsar, with Precaution.

Don Cæsar. Thus far I've got into the castle unperceived—I'm certain Sanguino means the old gentleman a mischief, which nature bids me endeavour to prevent. I saw the rascal slip in at the postern below; but where can he have got to! [A sliding Panel opens in the Wainscot, and Sanguino comes out.] Yes, yonder he issues, like a rat or a spider.—How now, Sanguino!

Sang. Captain Ramirez!

Don Cæsar. On enterprize without my knowledge! What's your business here?

Sang. Revenge! Look—[Shows a Stilletto.] if I meet Don Scipio—

Don Cæsar. A stilletto! I command you to quit your purpose.

Sang. What, no satisfaction for my wound last night, and lose my booty too!

Don Cæsar. Your wound was chance—Put up—We shall have noble booty here, and that's our business—But you seem to know your ground here, Sanguino?

Sang. I was formerly master of the horse to Count D'Olivi, the last resident here, so am well acquainted with the galleries, lobbies, windings, turnings, and every secret lurking place in the castle.

Don Cæsar. I missed Spado at the muster this morning—did he quit the cave with you?

Spado. [Without.] As sure as I'm alive, it's fact, sir.—

Don Cæsar. Isn't that Spado's voice?

Sang. Impossible!

Don Cæsar. Hush!

[They retire.

Enter Don Scipio and Spado.

Don Scipio. Yes, I've heard of such places; but you say you have been in the cave where these ruffian banditti live?

Spado. Most certainly, sir: for, after having robbed me of five hundred doubloons, the wicked rogues barbarously stripped, and tied me neck and heels, threw me across a mule, like a sack of corn, and led me blindfold to their cursed cavern.

Don Scipio. Ah, poor fellow!

Spado. There, sir, in this sculking hole the villains live in all manner of debauchery, and dart out upon the innocent traveller, like beasts of prey.

Don Scipio. Oh, the tigers! just so they fastened upon me last night, but your sham Fernando, and I, made them run like hares; I gave him my purse for his trouble.

Spado. And he took it! what a mean fellow!—you ought not to have ventured out unarmed—I always take a blunderbuss when I go upon the road—the rascal banditti are most infernal cowards.

Don Scipio. What a glorious thing to deliver these reprobates into the hands of justice!

Spado. Ah, sir, 'twould be a blessed affair—Oh, I'd hang them up like mad dogs!

Don Scipio. Well, you say you know the cave?

Spado. Yes, yes, I slipped the handkerchief from my eyes and took a peep, made particular observations of the spot; so get a strong guard, and I'll lead you to the very trap-door of their den.

Don Scipio. 'Egad, then we'll surprise them, and you'll have the prayers of the whole country, my honest friend.

Spado. Heaven knows, sir, I have no motives for this discovery but the public good, so I expect the country will order me a hundred pistoles, as a reward for my honesty.

Don Cæsar. Here's a pretty dog!

[Apart.

Sang. Ay, ay, he ha'n't long to live.

[Apart.

Don Scipio. An hundred pistoles!

Spado. Sir, have an eye upon their captain, as they call him, he's the most abandoned, impudent profligate—[Suddenly turning sees Cæsar, who shows a Pistol.] Captain did I say? [Terrified.] Oh, no; the captain's a very worthy good-natured fellow—I meant a scoundrel, who thinks he ought to be captain, one Sanguino, the most daring, wicked, and bloody villain that—[Turning the other may, perceives Sanguino with a Pistol.] but indeed, I found Sanguino an honest, good-natured fellow too—

[With increased terror.

Don Scipio. Hey, a bloody, wicked, honest, good-natured fellow! what is all this?

Spado. Yes; then, sir, I thought I saw these two gentlemen, and at that instant, I thought they looked so terrible, that with the fright I awoke.

Don Scipio. Awoke! what the devil then, is all this but a dream you have been telling me?

Spado. Ay, sir, and the most frightful dream I ever had in my life. I'm at this instant frightened out of my wits.

Don Scipio. You do look frightened indeed—poor man! I thought this cave was—

Spado. Don't mention cave, or I faint—heigho!

Enter Vasquez.

Vas. Dame Isabel wants to speak with you, sir.

Don Scipio. I'll wait on her.

Spado. Yes, I'll wait on her.

[Going hastily.

Don Scipio. You! she don't want you.

Spado. Dear sir, she can't do without me at this time. [Exit Scipio.] I come.

[Going.

Don Cæsar. No, you stay.—

[Pulls him back.

Spado. Ah, my dear captain. [Affecting surprise and joy.] What, and my little Sanguino too! Who could have thought of your finding me out here?

Don Cæsar. Yes, you are found out.

[Significantly.

Spado. Such discoveries as I have made in the castle!—

Don Cæsar. You're to make discoveries in the forest too.

Sang. Our cave!

Spado. Oh, you overheard that! Didn't I hum the old fellow finely? Ha! ha! ha!

Sang. And for your reward, traitor, take this to your heart.

[Offers to stab him.

Don Cæsar. Hold, Sanguino.

Spado. Nay, my dear Sanguino, stay! What the devil—So here I can't run a jest upon a silly old man, but I must be run through with a stilletto!

Don Cæsar. Come, Spado, confess what really brought you here.

Spado. Business, my dear sir, business; all in our own way too, for I designed to let every man of you into the castle this very night, when all the family are in bed, and plunder's the word—Oh, such a delicious booty! pyramids of plate, bags of gold, and little chests of diamonds!

Sang. Indeed!

Spado. Sanguino, look at the closet.

Sang. Well!

Spado. A glorious prize!

Sang. Indeed!

Spado. Six chests of massy plate! Look, only look into the closet; wait here a moment, and I'll fetch a master key that shall open every one of them.

Don Cæsar. Hey! Let's see those chests.

Sang. Massy plate! Quick, quick, the master key.

Spado. I'll fetch it.

Sang. Do but make haste, Spado.

Spado. I will, my dear boy.

[Exeunt Sanguino and Don Cæsar.

My good—honest—Oh, you two thieves!

[Aside.

Enter Don Scipio.

Don Scipio. Now, Spado, I—hey, where is my little dreamer? but why is this door open? this closet contains many valuables—Why will they leave it open? Let's see—

[Goes into the Closet.

Enter Spado with a Portmanteau.

Spado. [As entering.] I have no key—However, I have stolen Don Fernando's portmanteau as a peace-offering for these two rascals! Are you there? What a pity the coming of my fellow-rogues! I should have had the whole castle to myself—Oh, what a charming seat of work for a man of my industry—[Speaking at Closet Door.] You find the chests there—you may convey them out at night, and as for cutting Don Scipio's throat—that I leave to—

Enter Don Scipio.

Don Scipio. Cut my throat!—What, are you at your dreams again?

Spado. [Aside.] Oh, zounds!—Yes, sir, as I was telling you.

Don Scipio. Of a little fellow you have the worst dreams I ever heard.

Spado. Shocking, sir—then I thought—

Don Scipio. Hold, hold, let me hear no more of your curst dreams.

Spado. I've got off, thanks to his credulity.

[Aside.

Don Scipio. What portmanteau's that?

Spado. 'Sdeath, I'm on again!

[Aside.

Don Scipio. Fernando's, I think.

Spado. [Affecting surprise.] What, my master's?—'egad so it is—But I wonder who could have brought it here.—Ay, ay, my fellow servant Pedrillo is now too grand to mind his business;—and my master, I find, though he has taken the habit, scorns the office of a servant—So I must look after the things myself.

Don Scipio. Ay, ay, take care of them.

Spado. Yes, sir, I'll take care of them!

Don Scipio. Ha! ha! ha! what a strange whimsical fellow this master of yours! with his plots and disguises.—Think to impose upon me too.—But I think I'm far from a fool.

Spado. [Looking archly at him.] That's more than I am.

Don Scipio. So he pretends not to know you, though he has sent you here as a spy, to see what you can pick up?

Spado. Yes, sir, I came here to see what I can pick up.

[Takes up the Portmanteau.

Don Scipio. What an honest servant!—he has an eye to every thing!

[Exit Don Scipio.

Spado. But before I turn honest, I must get somewhat to keep me so.

AIR X.—SPADO.

In the forest here hard by,

A bold robber late was I,

Sword and blunderbuss in hand,

When I bid a trav'ler stand;

Zounds, deliver up your cash,

Or straight I'll pop and slash,

All among the leaves so green-o!

Damme, sir,

If you stir,

Sluice your veins,

Blow your brains,

Hey down,

Ho down,

Derry, derry down,

All amongst the leaves so green-o.

II.

Soon I'll quit the roving trade,

When a gentleman I'm made;

Then so spruce and debonnaire,

'Gad, I'll court a lady fair;

How I'll prattle, tattle, chat,

How I'll kiss her, and all that,

All amongst the leaves so green-o!

How d'ye do?

How are you?

Why so coy?

Let us toy,

Hey down,

Ho down,

Derry, derry down,

All amongst the leaves so green-o.

III.

But ere old, and grey my pate,

I'll scrape up a snug estate:

With my nimbleness of thumbs,

I'll soon butter all my crumbs.

When I'm justice of the peace,

Then I'll master many a lease,

All amongst the leaves so green-o.

Wig profound,

Belly round,

Sit at ease,

Snatch the fees,

Hey down,

Ho down,

Derry, derry down,

All amongst the leaves so green-o.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An Apartment.

Enter Don Fernando.

Don Fer. A wild scheme of my father's, to think of an alliance with this mad family; yes, Don Scipio's brain is certainly touched beyond cure, his daughter, my cara sposa of Italy, don't suit my idea of what a wife should be—no, the lovely novice, this poor relation of Dame Isabel, has caught my heart. I'm told to-morrow she's to be immured in a convent; what if I ask Dame Isabel, if—but she, and indeed Don Scipio, carry themselves very strangely towards me—I can't imagine what's become of my rascal Pedrillo.

Enter Pedrillo, in an elegant Morning Gown, Cap and Slippers.

Ped. Strange, the respect I meet in this family. I hope we don't take horse after my master's wedding. I should like to marry here myself,—before I unrobe I'll attack one of the maids!—Faith, a very modish dress to go courting in,—hide my livery, and I am quite gallant.

Don Fer. Oh here's a gentleman I ha'n't seen before!

Ped. Tol de rol!

Don Fer. Pray, sir, may I—Pedrillo, [Surprised.] where have you—hey! what, ha! ha! ha! what's the matter with you?

Ped. Matter!—Why, sir, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other last night, I happened to sit down to a supper of only twelve covers, cracked two bottles of choice wine, slept in an embroider'd bed, where I sunk in down, and lay till this morning like a diamond in cotton.—So, indeed, sir, I don't know what's the matter with me.

Don Fer. I can't imagine how, or what it all means.

Ped. Why, sir, Don Scipio, being a gentleman of discernment, perceives my worth, and values it.

Don Fer. Then, sir, if you are a gentleman of such prodigious merit, be so obliging, with submission to your cap and gown, as to—pull off my boots.

Enter Vasquez.

Vas. Sir, the ladies wait breakfast for you.

[To Pedrillo, with great respect.

Don Fer. My respects, I attend them.

Vas. You! I mean his honour here.

Ped. Oh, you mean my honour here.

Don Fer. Well, but perhaps, my good friend, I may like a dish of chocolate as well as his honour here.

Vas. Chocolate, ha! ha! ha!

[With a sneer.

Fed. Chocolate, ha! ha! ha!

Don Fer. I'll teach you to laugh, sirrah!

[Beats Pedrillo.

Ped. Teach me to laugh! you may be a good master, but you've a very bad method—But, hey for chocolate and the ladies.

[Exeunt Pedrillo and Vasquez.

Don Fer. Don Scipio shall render me an account for this treatment; bear his contempt, and become the butt for the jests of his insolent servants! As I don't like his daughter, I have now a fair excuse, and indeed a just cause, to break my contract, and quit his castle; but then, I leave behind the mistress of my soul—Suppose I make her a tender of my heart—but that might offend, as she must know my hand is engaged to another—When I looked, she turned her lovely eyes averted—Doom'd to a nunnery!

AIR XI.—FERNANDO.

My fair one, like the blushing rose,

Can sweets to every sense disclose:

Those sweets I'd gather, but her scorn

Then wounds me like the sharpest thorn.

With sighs each grace and charm I see

Thus doom'd to wither on the tree,

Till age shall chide the thoughtless maid,

When all those blooming beauties fade.

Hey, who comes here? this is the smart little girl who seems so much attached to the beautiful novice—No harm to speak with her—

Enter Catilina.

So my pretty primrose!

Catil. How do you do, Mr—[Pert and familiar.] I don't know your name.

Don Fer. Not know my name! You must know who I am though, and my business here, child?

Catil. Lord, man, what signifies your going about to sift me, when the whole family knows you're Don Fernando's footman.

Don Fer. Am I faith? Ha! ha! ha! I'll humour this—Well then, my dear, you know that I am only Don Fernando's footman?

Catil. Yes, yes, we know that, notwithstanding your fine clothes.

Don Fer. But where's my master?

Catil. Don Fernando! he's parading the gallery yonder, in his sham livery and morning gown.

Don Fer. Oh, this accounts for twelve covers at supper and the embroider'd bed; but who could have set such a jest going? I'll carry it on though—[Aside.] So then after all I am known here?

Catil. Ay, and if all the impostors in the castle were as well known, we shou'd have no wedding to-morrow night.

Don Fer. Something else will out—I'll seem to be in the secret, and perhaps may come at it—[Aside.] Ay, ay, that piece of deceit is much worse than ours.

Catil. That! what, then you know that this Italian lady is not Don Scipio's daughter, but Dame Isabel's, and her true name Lorenza?

Don Fer. Here's a discovery! [Aside.] O yes, I know that.

Catil. You do! Perhaps you know too, that the young lady you saw me speak with just now is the real Donna Victoria?

Don Fer. Is it possible! Here's a piece of villany! [Aside.] Charming! let me kiss you, my dear girl.

[Kisses her.

Catil. Lord! he's a delightful man!

Don Fer. My little angel, a thousand thanks for this precious discovery.

Catil. Discovery!—Well, if you did not know it before, marry hang your assurance, I say—but I must about my business, can't play the lady as you played the gentleman, I've something else to do; so I desire you won't keep kissing me here all day.

[Exit.

Don Fer. Why what a villain is this Don Scipio! ungrateful to—but I scorn to think of the services I rendered him last night in the forest; a false friend to my father, an unnatural parent to his amiable daughter! here my charmer comes.

[Retires.

Enter Victoria.

Vict. Yes, Catilina must be mistaken, it is impossible he can be the servant,—no, no; that dignity of deportment, and native elegance of manner, can never be assumed; yonder he walks, and my fluttering heart tells me this is really the amiable Fernando, that I must resign to Dame Isabel's daughter.

Don Fer. Stay, lovely Victoria!

Vict. Did you call me, sir?—Heavens, what have I said! [Confused.] I mean, signor, would you wish to speak with Donna Victoria? I'll inform her, sir.

[Going.

Don Fer. Oh, I could speak to her for ever, for ever gaze upon her charms, thus transfixed with wonder and delight.

Vict. Pray, signor, suffer me to withdraw.

Don Fer. For worlds I would not offend! but think not, lady, 'tis the knowledge of your quality that attracts my admiration.

Vict. Nay, signor.

Don Fer. I know you to be Don Scipio's daughter, the innocent victim of injustice and oppression; therefore I acknowledge to you, and you alone, that, whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I really am Fernando de Zelva.

Vict. Signor, how you became acquainted with the secret of my birth I know not; but, from an acquaintance so recent, your compliment I receive as a mode of polite gallantry without a purpose.

Don Fer. What your modesty regards as cold compliments, are sentiments warm with the dearest purpose; I came hither to ratify a contract with Don Scipio's daughter; you are she, the beautiful Victoria, destined for the happy Fernando.

Vict. Pray rise, signor:—My father perhaps, even to himself, cannot justify his conduct to me: But to censure that, or to pervert his intentions, would, in me, be a breach of filial duty.

AIR XII.—VICTORIA.

By woes thus surrounded, how vain the gay smile

Of the little blind archer, those woes to beguile!

Though skilful, he misses, his aim it is cross'd,

His quiver exhausted, his arrows are lost.

Your love, though sincere, on the object you lose,

[Aside] How sweet is the passion! Ah, must I refuse?

If filial affection that passion should sway,

Then love's gentle dictates I cannot obey.

Don Fer. And do you, can you, wish me to espouse Donna Lorenza, Isabella's daughter?—Say, you do not, do but satisfy me so far.

Vict. Signor, do not despise me if I own, that, before I saw in you the husband of Don Scipio's daughter, I did not once regret that I had lost that title.

Don Fer. A thousand thanks for this generous, this amiable condescension.—Oh, my Victoria! if fortune but favours my design, you shall yet triumph over the malice of your enemies.

Vict. Yonder is Dame Isabel, if she sees you speaking to me, she'll be early to frustrate whatever you may purpose for my advantage. Signor, farewell!

Don Fer. My life, my love, adieu!

AIR XIII. DUET.—Victoria and Fernando.

Don Fer.

So faithful to my fair I'll prove,

Vict.

So kind and constant to my love,

Don Fer.

I'd never range,

Vict.

I'd never change,

Both.

Nor time, nor chance, my faith shall move.

Vict.

No ruby clusters grace the vine,

Don Fer.

Ye sparkling stars forget to shine,

Vict.

Sweet flowers to spring,

Don Fer.

Gay birds to sing,

Both.

Those hearts then part that love shall join.

[Exeunt.

Enter Fernando.

Don Fer. This is fortunate; the whole family, except Victoria, are firmly possessed with the idea that I am but the servant.—Well, since they will have me an impostor, they shall find me one: In Heaven's name, let them continue in their mistake, and bestow their mock Victoria upon my sham Fernando. I shall have a pleasant and just revenge for their perfidy; and, perhaps, obtain Don Scipio's real, lovely daughter, the sum of my wishes.—Here comes Don Scipio—Now to begin my operations.

Enter Don Scipio.

[As wishing Don Scipio to overhear him.] I'm quite weary of playing the gentleman, I long to get into my livery again.

Don Scipio. Get into his livery!

[Aside.

Don Fer. These clothes fall to my share, however; my master will never wear them after me.

Don Scipio. His master! ay, ay.

[Aside.

Don Fer. I wish he'd own himself, for I'm certain Don Scipio suspects who I am.

Don Scipio. Suspect? I know who you are, [Advancing to him.] so get into your livery again as fast as you can.

Don Fer. Ha, my dear friend, Don Scipio, I was—

Don Scipio. Friend! you impudent rascal! I'll break your head, if you make so free with me. None of your swaggering, sirrah—How the fellow acts! it wasn't for nothing he was among the strolling players; but, hark ye, my lad, be quiet, for you're blown here, without the help of your trumpet.

Don Fer. Lord, your honour, how came you to know that I am Pedrillo?

Don Scipio. Why, I was told of it by your fellow—hold, I must not betray my little dreamer though—[Aside.]—No matter who told me; I—but here comes your master.

Don Fer. Pedrillo! The fellow will spoil all; I wish I had given him his lesson before I began with Don Scipio.

[Aside.

Don Scipio. I hope he'll now have done with his gambols.

Don Fer. Sir, my master is such an obstinate gentleman, as sure as you stand here, he'll still deny himself to be Don Fernando.

Don Scipio. Will he? then I'll write his father an account of his vagaries.

Enter Pedrillo.

Ped. Master, shall I shave you this morning?

Don Scipio. Shave! Oh, my dear sir, time to give over your tricks and fancies.

Ped. [Surprised.] My tricks and fancies!

Don Fer. Yes, sir, you are found out.

Ped. I am found out!

Don Scipio. So you may as well confess.

Ped. What the devil shall I confess?

Don Scipio. He still persists! Hark ye, young gentleman, I'll send your father an account of your pranks, and he'll trim your jacket for you.

Ped. Nay, sir, for the matter of that, my father could trim your jacket for you.

Don Scipio. Trim my jacket, young gentleman!

Ped. Why, he's the best tailor in Cordova.

Don Scipio. His father's a tailor in Cordova!

Don Fer. Ay, he'll ruin all—[Aside.]—Let me speak to him. Tell Don Scipio you are the master.

[Apart to Pedrillo.

Ped. I will, sir—Don Scipio, you are the master.

Don Scipio. What!

Don Fer. Stupid dog!—[Apart to Pedrillo.]—Say you are Fernando, and I am Pedrillo.

Ped. I will—Sir, you are Fernando, and I am Pedrillo.

Don Fer. Dull rogue! [Aside.] I told you, sir, he'd persist in it.

[Apart to Don Scipio.

Don Scipio. Yes, I see it; but I tell you what, Don Fernando.—[Lorenza sings without.] My daughter! Zounds! don't let your mistress see you any more in this cursed livery.—Look at the gentleman, hold up your head—egad, Pedrillo's acting was better than your natural manner.

Don Fer. Ah, sir, if you were to see my master dressed—the livery makes such an alteration!

Don Scipio. True! curse the livery.

Ped. It's bad enough; but my master gives new liveries on his marriage.

Don Fer. An insensible scoundrel!

[Aside.

Enter Lorenza.

Lor. Oh, caro, signor, every body says that you are [To Don Fernando.] not Don Fernando.

Don Scipio. Every body's right, for here he stands like a young tailor of Cordova.

[To Pedrillo.

Lor. Oh, what? then this is Pedrillo?

[To Fernando.

Don Fer. At your service, ma'am.

[Bowing.

Ped. That Pedrillo! then, who the devil am I?

Don Fer. Here, rogue, this purse is yours—say you are Don Fernando.

[Apart to Pedrillo.

Ped. Oh, sir—now I understand you.—True, Don Scipio, I am all that he says.

Don Scipio. Hey! Now that's right and sensible, and like yourself; but I'll go bustle about our business, for we'll have all our love affairs settled this evening.

[Exeunt Don Scipio and Fernando.

Lor. So, then, you're to be my husband, ha! ha! ha!

Ped. Eh!

Lor. Well, if not, I can be as cold as you are indifferent.

AIR XIV.—LORENZA.

If I my heart surrender,

Be ever fond and tender,

And sweet connubial joys shall crown

Each soft rosy hour:

In pure delight each heart shall own

Love's triumphant pow'r.

See brilliant belles admiring,

See splendid beaux desiring,

All for a smile expiring,

Where'er Lorenza moves.

To balls and routs resorting,

O bliss supreme, transporting!

Yet ogling, flirting, courting,

'Tis you alone that loves.

If I my heart surrender, &c.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

A Grand Saloon.

Enter Don Scipio and Vasquez.

Don Scipio. D'ye hear, Vasquez? run to Father Benedick, tell him to wipe his chin, go up to the chapel, put on his spectacles, open his breviary,—find out matrimony, and wait till we come to him.—[Exit Vasquez.] Then, hey, for a brace of weddings!

AIR XV.—DON SCIPIO.

Then hey for a lass and a bottle to cheer,

And a thumping bantling every year!

With skin as white as snow,

And hair as brown as a berry!

With eyes as black as a sloe,

And lips as red as a cherry;

Sing rory tory,

Dancing, prancing,

Laugh and lie down is the play,

We'll fondle together,

In spite of the weather,

And kiss the cold winter away.

Laugh while you live,

For as life is a jest,

Who laughs the most,

Is sure to live best.

When I was not so old,

I frolick'd among the misses;

And when they thought me too bold,

I stopped their mouths with kisses.

Sing rory, tory, &c.

I wonder, is Don Fernando drest—Oh, here comes the servant, in his proper habiliments!

Enter Don Fernando, in a Livery.

Ay, now, my lad, you look something like.

Don Fer. Yes, your honour, I was quite sick of my grandeur—My passing so well in this disguise gives me a very humble opinion of myself.

[Aside.

Don Scipio. But, Pedrillo, is your master equipped? 'faith, I long to see him in his proper garb.

Don Fer. Why, no, sir, we're a little behind hand with our finery, on account of a portmanteau of clothes that's mislaid somewhere or other.

Don Scipio. Portmanteau! Oh, it's safe enough—Your fellow servant has it.

Don Fer. Fellow servant?

Don Scipio. Ay, the little spy has taken it in charge—Oh, here comes the very beagle.

Enter Spado.

Well, my little dreamer, look; Pedrillo has got into his own clothes again.

Spado. [Surprised and aside.] Don Fernando in a livery! or is this really a servant? Zounds! sure I ha'n't been telling truth all this while!—We must face it though—Ah, my dear old friend!—Glad to see you yourself again.

[Shakes Hands.

Don Fer. My dear boy, I thank you—[Aside.]—So, here's an old friend I never saw before.

Don Scipio. Tell Pedrillo where you have left your master's portmanteau. While I go lead him in triumph to his bride.

[Exit.

Don Fer. Pray, my good, new, old friend, where has your care deposited this portmanteau?

Spado. Gone!

[Looking after Don Scipio.

Don Fer. The portmanteau gone!

Spado. Ay, his senses are quite gone.

Don Fer. Where's the portmanteau that Don Scipio says you took charge of?

Spado. Portmanteau! Ah, the dear gentleman! Portmanteau did he say? yes, yes, all's over with his poor brain; yesterday his head run upon purses, and trumpeters, and the lord knows what; and to-day he talks of dreamers, spies, and portmanteaus.—Yes, yes, his wits are going.

Don Fer. It must be so; he talked to me last night and to-day of I know not what, in a strange incoherent style.

Spado. Grief—all grief.

Don Fer. If so, this whim of my being Pedrillo is, perhaps, the creation of his own brain,—but then, how could it have run through the whole family?—This is the first time I ever heard Don Scipio was disordered in his mind.

Spado. Ay, we'd all wish to conceal it from your master, lest it might induce him to break off the match, for I don't suppose he'd be very ready to marry into a mad family.

Don Fer. And pray, what are you, sir, in this mad family?

Spado. Don Scipio's own gentleman, these ten years—Yet, you heard him just now call me your fellow servant.—How you did stare when I accosted you as an old acquaintance!—But we always humour him—I should not have contradicted him, if he had said I was the pope's nuncio.

Don Fer. [Aside.] Oh, then I don't wonder at Dame Isabel taking advantage of his weakness.

Spado. Another new whim of his,—he has taken a fancy, that every body has got a ring from him, which, he imagines, belonged to his deceased lady.

Don Fer. True, he asked me something about a ring.

Don Scipio. [Without.] I'll wait on you presently.

Enter Don Scipio.

Don Scipio. Ha, Pedrillo, now your disguises are over, return me the ring.

Spado. [Apart to Fernando.] You see he's at the ring again.

Don Scipio. Come, let me have it, lad; I'll give you a better thing, but that ring belonged to my deceased lady.

Spado. [To Fernando.] His deceased lady!—Ay, there's the touch.

Don Fer. Poor gentleman!

[Aside.

Don Scipio. Do let me have it—Zounds, here's five pistoles, and the gold of the ring is not worth a dollar.

Spado. We always humour him; give him this ring, and take the money.

[Apart.—Gives Fernando a Ring.

Don Fer. [Presents it to Don Scipio.] There, sir.

Don Scipio [Gives Money.] And there, sir—Oh, you mercenary rascal! [Aside.] I knew 'twas in the purse I gave you last night in the forest.