THE
COUNT OF NARBONNE;
A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS;

By ROBERT JEPHSON, 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, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER ROW.

WILLIAM SAVAGE, PRINTER
LONDON.

REMARKS.

This tragedy was brought upon the stage in 1780; it was extremely admired, and exceedingly attractive.

Neither "The Winter's Tale", nor "Henry VIII" by Shakspeare, were at that time performed at either of the theatres; and the town had no immediate comparison to draw between the conjugal incidents in "The Count of Narbonne," and those which occur in these two very superior dramas.

The Cardinal Wolsey of Shakspeare, is, by Jephson, changed into a holy and virtuous priest; but his importance is, perhaps, somewhat diminished by a discovery, which was intended to heighten the interest of his character; but which is introduced in too sudden, and romantic a manner, to produce the desired consequence upon a well-judging auditor.

One of the greatest faults, by which a dramatist can disappoint and fret his auditor, is also to be met with in this play.—Infinite discourse is exchanged, numberless plans formed, and variety of passions agitated, concerning a person, who is never brought upon the stage—Such is the personal nonentity of Isabel, in this tragedy, and yet the fable could not proceed without her.—Alphonso, so much talked of, yet never seen, is an allowable absentee, having departed to another world; and yet, whether such invisible personages be described as alive, or dead, that play is the most interesting, which makes mention of no one character, but those which are introduced to the sight of the audience.

The lover of romances, whose happy memory, unclouded by more weighty recollections, has retained a wonderful story, by the late Lord Orford, called, "The Castle of Otranto," will here, it is said, find a resemblance of plot and incidents, the acknowledged effect of close imitation.

Lord Orford, (at that time Mr. Horace Walpole,) attended some rehearsals of this tragedy, upon the very account, that himself was the founder of the fabric.

The author was of no mean reputation in the literary world, for he had already produced several successful dramas. "The Count of Narbonne" proved to be his last, and his best composition.——Terror is here ably excited by descriptions of the preternatural—Horror, by the portraiture of guilt; and compassion, by the view of suffering innocence.—These are three passions, which, divided, might each constitute a tragedy; and all these powerful engines of the mind and heart, are here, most happily combined to produce that end,—and each forms a lesson of morality.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE.—Narbonne Castle, and the Monastery of St. Nicholas, adjoining to the Castle.

THE COUNT OF NARBONNE.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

A Hall.

Enter the Count, speaking to an Officer; Fabian following.

Count. Not to be found! is this your faithful service?

How could she pass unseen? By hell, 'tis false!

Thou hast betray'd me.

Offi. Noble sir! my duty——

Count. Your fraud, your negligence—away, reply not.

Find her within this hour; else, by my life,

The gates of Narbonne shall be clos'd against thee;

Then make the world thy country.

[Exit Officer.

Fabian, stay!

Misfortunes fall so thick upon my head,

They will not give me time to think—to breathe.

Fab. Heaven knows, I wish your peace; but am to learn,

What grief more fresh than my young lord's decease,

A sorrow but of three days past, can move you.

Count. O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!

The pillar of my house, my only son!

Fab. 'Twas terrible indeed.

Count. Ay, was it not?

And then the manner of it! think on that!

Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons,

Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them;

I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd

To see them dying, bore to see them dead:

But, Oh my Edmund!—Thou remember'st, Fabian,

How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport!

Fab. 'Would I could not remember!

Count. That cursed barb,

(My fatal gift) that dash'd him down the cliff,

Seem'd proud of his gay burden.—Breathless, mangled,

They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hoped

This day, this happy match with Isabel

Had made our line perpetual; and, this day,

The unfruitful grave receives him. Yes, 'tis fate!

That dreadful denunciation 'gainst my house,

No prudence can avert, nor prayers can soften.

Fab. Think not on that; some visionary's dream.

What house, what family could e'er know peace,

If such enthusiast's ravings were believ'd,

And phrensy deem'd an insight of the future?

But may I dare to ask, is it of moment

To stir your anger thus, that Isabel

Has left the castle?

Count. Of the deepest moment:

My best hope hangs on her; some future time,

I may instruct thee why.—These cares unhinge me:

Just now, a herald from her angry father

Left me this dire election—to resign

My titles, and this ample signory,

(Worthy a monarch's envy) or to meet him,

And try my right by arms. But pr'ythee tell,

(Nor let a fear to wound thy master's pride

Restrain thy licens'd speech) hast thou e'er heard

My father Raymond——(cast not down thine eye)

By any indirect or bloody means,

Procur'd that instrument, Alphonso's will,

That made him heir to Narbonne?

Fab. My best lord,

At all times would I fain withhold from you,

Intelligence unwelcome, but most now.

At seasons such as this, a friendly tongue

Should utter words like balm; but what you ask—

Count. I ask, to be inform'd of. Hast thou known me

From childhood, up to man, and canst thou fear

I am so weak of soul, like a thin reed,

To bend and stagger at such puny blast?

No; when the tempest rages round my head,

I give my branches wider to the air,

And strike my root more deeply.—To thy tale:

Away with palliatives and compliments;—

Speak plainly.

Fab. Plainly, then, my lord, I have heard

What, for the little breath, I have to draw,

I would not, to the black extent of rumour,

Give credit to.—But you command me speak—

Count. Thy pauses torture me.—Can I hear worse

Than this black scroll contains? this challenge here,

From Isabella's father, haughty Godfrey?

In broad, and unambiguous words, he tells me,

My father was a murderer, and forg'd

Alphonso's testament.

Fab. From Palestine,

That tale crept hither; where, foul slander says,

The good Alphonso, not, as we believe,

Died of a fever, but a venom'd draught,

Your father, his companion of the cross,

Did with his own hand mingle; his hand too,

Assisted by some cunning practisers,

Model'd that deed, which, barring Godfrey's right,

And other claims from kindred, nam'd Count Raymond

Lord of these fair possessions.

Count. Ha! I have it;

'Tis Godfrey's calumny; he has coin'd this lie;

And his late visit to the Holy Land,

No doubt, has furnish'd likelihood of proof,

To give his fiction colour.

Fab. Sure, 'tis so.

Count. He, too, has forg'd this idle prophecy,

(To shake me with false terrors) this prediction,

Which, but to think of, us'd to freeze my veins;

"That no descendant from my father's loins,

Should live to see a grandson; nor Heaven's wrath

Cease to afflict us, till Alphonso's heir

Succeeded to his just inheritance."

Hence superstition mines my tottering state,

Loosens my vassals' faith, and turns their tears,

Which else would fall for my calamities,

To gloomy pause, and gaping reverence:

While all my woes, to their perverted sense,

Seem but the marvellous accomplishment

Of revelation, out of nature's course.

Fab. Reason must so interpret. Good my lord,

What answer was return'd to Godfrey's challenge?

Count. Defiance.

Fab. Heaven defend you!

Count. Heaven defend me!

I hope it will, and this right arm to boot.

But, hark! I hear a noise.—Perhaps my people

Have found the fugitive.—Haste! bid them enter.

[Exit Fabian.

She eyed me with abhorrence; at the sound

Of love—of marriage, fled indignant from me.

Yet must I win her: should she meet my wish,

Godfrey would prop the right he strives to shake,

Securing thus to his fair daughter's issue,

All that now hangs on the sword's doubtful point.

Enter Officer.

Now, what tidings?

Where is the lady?

Offi. We have search'd in vain

The castle round; left not an aisle, or vault,

Unvisited.

Count. Damnation!

Offi. Near the cloister,

From whence, by the flat door's descent, a passage

Beneath the ground leads onward to the convent,

We heard the echo of a falling weight,

And sought it by the sound.

Count. Well, and what then?

Offi. The unsettled dust left us no room to doubt

The door had just been rais'd.

Count. She has escap'd,

And by confed'racy: to force that bar,

Without more aid, had baffled twice her strength.

Go on.

Offi. We enter'd; with resistance bold.

Theodore brought in by Fabian and Attendants.

This peasant push'd us backward from the spot.

My arm was rais'd to smite him, but respect

For something in his aspect, check'd the blow.

He, chiding, parleying by turns, gave time

For whosoever had descended there

(The lady doubtless) to elude our search:

The rest, himself will tell.

Count. [To Theodore.] Ha! what art thou?

Theodore. It seems, thy prisoner: disengage me first

From their rude grasp, and I may tell thee more.

Count. Unhand him. I should know thee; I have seen

Features like thine. Answer me, wert thou found

As these men say?

Theod. I was.

Count. And what thy purpose?

Theod. Chance brought me there.

Count. And did chance lead thee, too,

To aid a fugitive?

Theod. They saw not that.

Count. They saw it not! How! could her delicate hands,

Weak, soft, and yielding to the gentlest touch,

Sustain that pond'rous mass? No; those tough arms,

Thy force, assisted; else, thou young dissembler——

Theod. She had been seiz'd, and by compulsion brought

Where I stand now.

Count. Thou dost avow it then,

Boast it even to my face, audacious stripling!

Such insolence, and these coarse rustic weeds

Are contradictions. Answer me, who art thou?

Theod. Less than I should be; more than what I seem.

Count. Hence with this saucy ambiguity.

What is thy name, thy country? That mean habit,

Which should teach humbleness, speaks thy condition.

Theod. My name is Theodore, my country, France,

My habit little suited to my mind,

Less to my birth, yet fit for my condition.

Count. O, thou art then, some young adventurer,

Some roving knight, a hero in disguise,

Who, scorning forms of vulgar ceremony,

No leave obtain'd, waiting no invitation,

Enters our castles, wanders o'er our halls,

To succour dames distress'd, or pilfer gold.

Theod. There is a source of reverence for thee here,

Forbids me, though provok'd, retort thy taunts.

Count. If I endure this more, I shall grow vile

Even to my hinds——

Theod. Hold, let me stop thy wrath.

I see thy quivering lip, thy fiery eye,

Forerun a storm of passion. To prevent thee

From terms too harsh, perhaps, for thee to offer,

Or me to hear (poor as I seem) with honour,

I will cut short thy interrogatories,

And on this theme give thee the full extent

Of all I know, or thou canst wish to learn.

Count. Do it.

Theod. Without a view to thwart thy purpose.

(Be what it might), was I within thy walls.

In a dim passage of the castle-aisles,

Musing alone, I heard a hasty tread,

And breath drawn short, like one in fear of peril.

A lady enter'd, fair she seem'd, and young,

Guiding her timorous footsteps by a lamp;

"The lord, the tyrant of this place, (she cried)

For a detested purpose, follows me;

Aid me, good youth:" then pointing to the ground,

"That door," she added, "leads to sanctuary."

I seiz'd an iron hold, and, while I tugg'd

To heave the unwilling weight, I learn'd her title.

Count. The Lady Isabel?

Theod. The same. A gleam,

Shot from their torches, who pursued her track,

Prevented more; she hasten'd to the cave,

And vanish'd from my sight.

Count. And did no awe,

No fear of him, she call'd this castle's lord,

Its tyrant, chill thee?

Theod. Awe, nor fear, I know not,

And trust, shall never; for I know not guilt.

Count. Then thou, it seems, art master here, not I;

Thou canst control my projects, blast my schemes,

And turn to empty air my power in Narbonne.

Nay, should my daughter chuse to fly my castle,

Against my bidding, guards and bolts were vain:

This frize-clad champion, gallant Theodore,

Would lend his ready arm, and mock my caution.

Theod. Thy daughter! O, I were, indeed, too bless'd,

Could I but live to render her a service!

Count. My daughter, would, I hope, disdain thy service.

Theod. Wherefore am I to blame? What I have done,

Were it to do again, again I'd do it.

And may this arm drop palsied by my side,

When its cold sinews shrink to aid affliction!

Count. Indeed!

Theod. Indeed. Frown on.—Ask thy own heart,—

Did innocence and beauty bend before thee,

Hunted, and trembling, wouldst thou tamely pause,

Scanning pale counsel from deliberate fear,

And weigh each possibility of danger?

No; the instinctive nobleness of blood

Would start beyond the reach of such cold scruples,

And instant gratify its generous ardour.

Count. [Aside.] I must know more of this. His phrase, his look,

His steady countenance, raise something here,

Bids me beware of him.—I have no time

To bandy idle words, with slaves like thee.

I doubt not thy intent was mischievous;

Booty perhaps, or blood. Till more inquiry

Clear, or condemn him, hold him in your guard.

Give none admittance—Take him from my sight.

Theod. Secure in her integrity, my soul

Casts back thy mean suspicions, and forgives thee.

[Theodore is led out by Attendants.

Count. Away with him!—What means this heaviness?

My heart, that, like a well trimm'd, gallant bark,