Auchindrane:

OR,

THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.

ACT I.-SCENE I.

A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in Ayrshire, not far from the Point of Turnberry. The Sea comes in upon a bold rocky Shore. The remains of a small halfruined Tower are seen on the right hand, overhanging the Sea. There is a Vessel at a distance in the offing. A Boat at the bottom of the Stage lands eight or ten Persons, dressed like disbanded, and in one or two cases like disabled Soldiers. They come straggling forward with their knapsacks and bundles. HILDEBRAND, the Sergeant, belonging to the Party, a stout elderly man, stands by the boat, as if superintending the disembarkation. QUENTIN remains apart.

ABRAHAM. Farewell, the flats of Holland, and right
welcome

The cliffs of Scotland! Fare thee well, black beer
And Schiedam gin! and welcome twopenny,
Oatcakes, and usquebaugh!

WILLIAMS (who wants an arm.) Farewell, the gal-
lant field, and "Forward, pikemen !"
For the bridge-end, the suburb, and the lane;
And," Bless your honour, noble gentleman,
Remember a poor soldier!"

ABR. My tongue shall never need to smooth itself
To such poor sounds, while it can boldly say,
"Stand and deliver!"

WIL. Hush, the sergeant hears you!

ABR. And let him hear; he makes a bustle yonder,
And dreams of his authority, forgetting
We are disbanded men, o'er whom his halberd
Has not such influence as the beadle's baton.
We are no soldiers now, but

The lord of his own person.

every one

ABR. And this is all that thou canst do, gay Quen-
tin?

Cut cheese or dibble onions with thy poniard,
To swagger o'er a herd of parish brats,
And turn the sheath into a ferula?

QUE. I am the prodigal in holy writ;

I cannot work,-to beg I am ashamed.
Besides, good mates, I care not who may know it,

WIL. A wretched lordship-and our freedom such I'm e'en as fairly tired of this same fighting,

As that of the old cart-horse, when the owner
Turns him upon the common. I for one

Will still continue to respect the sergeant,
And the comptroller, too,—while the cash lasts.

ABR. I scorn them both. I am too stout a Scotsman

To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer
Than discipline obliges; and for Quentin,
Quentin the quillman, Quentin the comptroller,
We have no regiment now; or, if we had,
Quentin 's no longer clerk to it.

WIL. For shame! for shame! What, shall old com-
rades jar thus,

And on the verge of parting, and for ever?—
Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham, though a bad one.-
Good Master Quentin, let thy song last night
Give us once more our welcome to old Scotland.

As the poor cur that 's worried in the shambles
By all the mastiff dogs of all the butchers;
Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard, petronel,
And welcome poverty and peaceful labour.

ABR. Clerk Quentin, if of fighting thou art tired,
By my good word, thou 'rt quickly satisfied,
For thou 'st seen but little on 't.

WIL. Thou dost belie him—I have seen him fight
Bravely enough for one in his condition.

ABR. What he? that counter-casting, smock-face
boy?

What was he but the colonel's scribbling drudge,
With men of straw to stuff the regiment roll;
With cipherings unjust to cheat his comrades,

1 MS.--"I've done with counting dollars," &c.

And cloak false musters for our noble captain?
He bid farewell to sword and petronel!

He should have said, farewell my pen and standish.
These, with the rosin used to hide erasures,
Were the best friends he left in camp behind him.
QUE. The sword you scoff at is not far, but scorns
The threats of an unmanner'd mutineer.

SER. (interposes.) We'll have no brawling-Shall it
e'er be said,

That being comrades six long years together,
While gulping down the frowsy fogs of Holland,
We tilted at each other's throats so soon

As the first draught of native air refresh'd them?
No! by Saint Dunstan, I forbid the combat.
You all, methinks, do know this trusty halberd;
For I opine, that every back amongst you
Hath felt the weight of the tough ashen staff,
Endlong or overthwart. Who is it wishes
A remembrancer now?

ABR.

[Raises his halberd. Comrades, have you ears

To hear the old man bully? Eyes to see

His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as o'er the hounds

The huntsman cracks his whip?

If you have any left, to the same tune,
And we may find a chorus for it still.
ABR. We lose our time.-Tell us at once, old man
If thou wilt march with us, or stay with Quentin ?
SER. Out, mutineers! Dishonour dog your heels!
ABR. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, stout Hil-
debrand!

[The Soldiers go off laughing, and taking leave,

with mockery, of the SERGEANT and QUENTIN, who remain on the Stage.

SER. (after a pause.) Fly you not with the rest?—
fail you to follow

Yon goodly fellowship and fair example?
Come, take your wild-goose flight. I know you Scots,
Like your own sea-fowl, seek your course together.
QUE. Faith, a poor heron I, who wing my flight
In loneliness, or with a single partner;
And right it is that I should seek for solitude,
Bringing but evil luck on them I herd with.
SER. Thou 'rt thankless. Had we landed on the
coast,

Where our course bore us, thou wert far from home;
But the fierce wind that drove us round the island,

WIL. Well said-stout Abraham has the right Barring each port and inlet that we aim'd at,
on 't.-

I tell thee, sergeant, we do reverence thee,

And pardon the rash humours thou hast caught,
Like wiser men, from thy authority.

'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and we'll not suffer
A word of sergeantry, or halberd-staff,
Nor the most petty threat of discipline.
If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of office,
And drop thy wont of swaggering and commanding,
Thou art our comrade still for good or evil.

Else take thy course apart, or with the clerk there-
A sergeant thou, and he being all thy regiment.
SER. Is 't come to this, false knaves? And think
you not,

That if you bear a name o'er other soldiers,
It was because you follow'd to the charge
One that had zeal and skill enough to lead you
Where fame was won by danger?

WIL. We grant thy skill in leading, noble sergeant;
Witness some empty boots and sleeves amongst us,
Which else had still been tenanted with limbs
In the full quantity; and for the arguments
With which you used to back our resolution,
Our shoulders do record them. At a word,
Will you conform, or must we part our company?
SER. Conform to you? Base dogs! I would not

lead you

A bolt-flight farther to be made a general.
Mean mutineers! when you swill'd off the dregs
Of my poor sea-stores, it was, "Noble Sergeant-
Heaven bless old Hildebrand-we 'll follow him,
At least, until we safely see him lodged
Within the merry bounds of his own England!"
WIL. Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the ale was mighty,
And the Geneva potent. Such stout liquor
Makes violent protestations. Skink it round,

Hath wafted thee to harbour; for I judge
This is thy native land we disembark on.

QUE. True, worthy friend. Each rock, each stream
I look on,

Each bosky wood, and every frowning tower,
Awakens some young dream of infancy.
Yet such is my hard hap, I might more safely
Have look'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's desert,
Than on my native shores. I'm like a babe,
Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's bosom.
SER. Thou dream'st, young man. Unreal terrors
haunt,

As I have noted, giddy brains like thine-
Flighty, poetic, and imaginative—

To whom a minstrel whim gives idle rapture,
And, when it fades, fantastic misery.

QUE. But mine is not fantastic. I can tell thee,
Since I have known thee still my faithful friend,
In part at least the dangerous plight I stand in.

SER. And I will hear thee willingly, the rather
That I would let these vagabonds march on,
Nor join their troop again. Besides, good sooth,
I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday,
And revel of last night.-And I may aid thee,
Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and perchance
Thou mayst advantage me.

QUE. May it prove well for both!-But note, my
friend,

I can but intimate my mystic story.

Some of it lies so secret, even the winds
That whistle round us must not know the whole-
An oath an oath !-

But nonest in its poverty. A lord,
The master of the soil for many a mile,
Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly charge
For my advance in letters, and the qualities
Of the poor orphan lad drew some applause.
The knight was proud of me, and, in his halls,
I had such kind of welcome as the great
Give to the humble, whom they love to point to
As objects not unworthy their protection,
Whose progress is some honour to their patron-
A cure was spoken of, which I might serve,
My manners, doctrine, and acquirements fitting.
SER. Hitherto thy luck

Was of the best, good friend. Few lords had cared
If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy psalter.
Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour a harness,
And dress a steed distinctly.

QUE.

My old master

Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd so-
But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud-
And here my tale grows mystic. I became,
Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary
Of a dread secret, and the knowledge on 't
Has wreck'd my peace for ever. It became
My patron's will, that I, as one who knew
More than I should, must leave the realm of Scotland,
And live or die within a distant land.'

Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate service,
Which should most likely end thee.

QUE. Bore I such letters ?-Surely, comrade, no.
Full deeply was the writer bound to aid me.
Perchance he only meant to prove my mettle;
And it was but a trick of my bad fortune
That gave his letters ill interpretation.

SER. Ay, but thy better angel wrought for good,
Whatever ill thy evil fate designed thee.
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy service
In the rough field for labour in the tent,
More fit for thy green years and peaceful habits.
QUE. Even there his well-meant kindness injured

me.

My comrades hated, undervalued me,
And whatsoe'er of service I could do them,
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and envy-
Such my strange doom, that if I serve a man
At deepest risk, he is my foe for ever!

SER. Hast thou worse fate than others if it were so?
Worse even than me, thy friend, thine officer,
Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd ashore,
As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the beach,
And left him here, as if he had the pest

Or leprosy, and death were in his company?

QUE. They think at least you have the worst of plagues,

SER. Ah! thou hast done a fault in some wild raid, The worst of leprosies, they think you poor. As you wild Scotsmen call them.

Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by chance.
I must not tell you more. Enough, my presence
Brought danger to my benefactor's house.
Tower after tower conceal'd me, willing still

To hide my ill-omen'd face with owls and ravens,2
And let my patron's safety be the purchase
Of my severe and desolate captivity.

So thought I, when dark Arran, with its walls
Of native rock, enclosed me. There I lurk'd,
A peaceful stranger amid armed clans,
Without a friend to love or to defend me,
Where all beside were link'd by close alliances.
At length I made my option to take service
In that same legion of auxiliaries

In which we lately served the Belgian.
Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath been kind
Through full six years of warfare, and assign'd me
More peaceful tasks than the rough front of war,
For which my education little suited me.

SER. Ay, therein was Montgomery kind indeed;
Nay, kinder than you think, my simple Quentin.
The letters which you brought to the Montgomery,

SER. They think like lying villains then, I'm rich,
And they too might have felt it. I've a thought—
But stay-what plans your wisdom for yourself?
QUE. My thoughts are wellnigh desperate. But

I purpose

Return to my stern patron-there to tell him
That wars, and winds, and waves, have cross'd his

pleasure,

And cast me on the shore from whence he banish'd

me.

Then let him do his will, and destine for me
A dungeon or a grave.

SER. Now, by the rood, thou art a simple fool!
I can do better for thee. Mark me, Quentin.
I took my license from the noble regiment,
Partly that I was worn with age and warfare,
Partly that an estate of yeomanry,

Of no great purchase, but enough to live on,
Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's death.
It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the wealth.
of fold and furrow, proper to Old England,
Stretches by streams which walk no sluggish pace,
But dance as light as yours. Now, good friend Quen-
tin,

1 MS.-" Quentin. My short tale

Grows mystic now. Among the deadly feuds
Which curse our country, something once it chanced
That I unwilling and unwitting, witness'd;
And it became my benefactor's will,

That I should breathe the air of other climes."

2 The MS. here adds:

clefts

"And then wild Arran, with its darksome walls

Of naked rock received me; till at last

I yielded to take service in the legion

Which lately has discharged us. Stout Montgomery, Our colonel, hath been kind through five years' war. fare."

This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates,
And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son?

QUE. Nay, you can only jest, my worthy friend!
What claim have I to be a burden to you?

SER. The claim of him that wants, and is in danger,
On him that has, and can afford protection:
Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my cottage,
Where a stout mastiff slumber'd on the hearth,
And this good halberd hung above the chimney?
But come-1 have it-thou shalt earn thy bread
Duly, and honourably, and usefully.

Our village schoolmaster hath left the parish,
Forsook the ancient schoolhouse with its yew-trees,
That lurk'd beside a church two centuries older,-
So long devotion took the lead of knowledge;
And since his little flock are shepherdless,
"Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room;
And rather than thou wantest scholars, man,
Myself will enter pupil. Better late,
Our proverb says, than never to do well.
And look you, on the holydays I'd tell

To all the wondering boors and gaping children,
Strange tales of what the regiment did in Flanders,
And thou shouldst say Amen, and be my warrant,
That I speak truth to them.

QUE. Would I might take thy offer! But, alas!
Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pilgrim,
In name of Heaven and heavenly charity,

To share his roof and meal, but found too late
That he had drawn a curse on him and his,
By sheltering a wretch foredoom'd of heaven!
SER. Thou talk'st in riddles to me.
QUE.

"Tis that I am a riddle to myself.

If I do,

Thou know'st I am by nature born a friend
To glee and merriment; can make wild verses;
The jest or laugh has never stopp'd with me,
When once 'twas set a rolling.

SER.

SER. Faith, thou hast borne it bravely out.
Had I been ask'd to name the merriest fellow
Of all our muster-roll-that man wert thou.
QUE. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook dance down
the valley,

And sing blithe carols over broken rock

And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub
And each gay flower it nurses in its passage,-
Where, think'st thou, is its source, the bonny brook ?——
It flows from forth a cavern, black and gloomy,
Sullen and sunless, like this heart of mine,
Which others see in a false glare of gaiety,
Which I have laid before you in its sadness.

SER. If such wild fancies dog thee, wherefore leave
The trade where thou wert safe 'midst others' dangers,
And venture to thy native land, where fate
Lies on the watch for thee? Had old Montgomery
Been with the regiment, thou hadst had no congé.
QUE. No, 'tis most likely-But I had a hope,
A poor vain hope, that I might live obscurely
In some far corner of my native Scotland,
Which, of all others, splinter'd into districts,
Differing in manners, families, even language,
Seem'd a safe refuge for the humble wretch,
Whose highest hope was to remain unheard of.
But fate has baffled me-the winds and waves,
With force resistless, have impell'd me hither

Have driven me to the clime most dang'rous to
me;

And I obey the call, like the burt deer,

Which seeks instinctively his native lair,
Though his heart tells him it is but to die there.
SER. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young man! This same
despair,

Though showing resignation in its banner,

Is but a kind of covert cowardice.

Wise men have said, that though our stars incline,
They cannot force us-Wisdom is the pilot,

I have known thee And if he cannot cross, he may evade them.

A blithe companion still, and wonder now
Thou shouldst become thus crest-fallen.

You lend an ear to idle auguries,

The fruits of our last revels-still most sad

QUE. Does the lark sing her descant when the Under the gloom that follows boisterous mirth,

falcon

Scales the blue vault with bolder wing than hers,
And meditates a stoop? The mirth thou 'st noted
Was all deception, fraud-Hated enough
For other causes, I did veil my feelings

As earth looks blackest after brilliant sunshine.
QUE. No, by my honest word. I join'd the revel,
And aided it with laugh, and song, and shout,
But my heart revell'd not; and, when the mirth
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow

Beneath the mask of mirth,-laugh'd, sung, and I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the land,

caroll'd,

To gain some interest in my comrades' bosoms,
Although mine own was bursting.

SER.

Of a new order.

My native land-each cape and cliff I knew.
"Behold me now," I said, "your destined victim!"
So greets the sentenced criminal the headsman,

Thou 'rt a hypocrite Who slow approaches with his lifted axe.

QUE. But harmless as the innoxious snake,
Which bears the adder's form, lurks in his haunts,
Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his poison.
Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem merry,
Lest other men should, tiring of my sadness,
Expel me from them, as the hunted wether
Is driven from the flock.

"Hither I come," I said, "ye kindred hills,
Whose darksome outline in a distant land
Haunted my slumbers; here I stand, thou ocean,
Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my dreams, re-

quired me ;

See me now here, ye winds, whose plaintive wail,
On yonder distant shores, appear'd to call me-
Summon'd, behold me." And the winds and waves,

And the deep echoes of the distant mountain,
Made answer "Come, and die!"

SER. Fantastic all! Poor boy, thou art distracted
With the vain terrors of some feudal tyrant,
Whose frown hath been from infancy thy bugbear.
Why seek his presence?

QUE.

Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel,
I would help Honesty to pick his bones,

| And share his straw, far rather than I'd sup

On jolly fare with these base varlets!

QUE. We'll manage better; for our Scottish dogs, Though stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed'

Wherefore does the moth In hospitable rights.-Here is a maiden,

Fly to the scorching taper? Why the bird,
Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the net?
Why does the prey, which feels the fascination
Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in his jaws?
SER. Such wild examples but refute themselves.
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's prey,
Resist the fascination and be safe.
Thou goest not near this Baron-if thou goest,
I will go with thee. Known in many a field,
Which he in a whole life of petty feud
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the knight
To rule him in this matter-be thy warrant,
That far from him, and from his petty lordship,
You shall henceforth tread English land, and never
Thy presence shall alarm his conscience more.

A little maid, will tell us of the country,
And sorely it is changed since I have left it,
If we should fail to find a harbourage.

Enter ISABEL MACLELLAN, a girl of about six years old, bearing a milk-pail on her head; she stops on seeing the SERGEANT and QUENTIN.

QUE. There's something in her look that doth re-
mind me

But 'tis not wonder I find recollections
In all that here I look on.-Pretty maid-

SER. You're slow, and hesitate. I will be spokes

man.

Good even, my pretty maiden-canst thou tell us,
Is there a Christian house would render strangers,

QUE. 'Twere desperate risk for both. I will far For love or guerdon, a night's meal and lodging?

rather

Hastily guide thee through this dangerous province, And seek thy school, thy yew-trees, and thy churchyard;

The last, perchance, will be the first I find.

SER. I would rather face him,

Like a bold Englishman that knows his right,
And will stand by his friend. And yet 'tis folly-
Fancies like these are not to be resisted;
"Tis better to escape them. Many a presage,
Too rashly braved, becomes its own accomplishment.
Then let us go-but whither? My old head
As little knows where it shall lie to-night,
As yonder mutineers that left their officer,

As reckless of his quarters as these billows,

That leave the withered sea-weed on the beach,
And care not where they pile it.

ISA. Full surely, sir; we dwell in yon old house
Upon the cliff-they call it Chapeldonan.

[Points to the building.
Our house is large enough, and if our supper
Chance to be scant, you shall have half of mine,
For, as I think, sir, you have been a soldier.
Up yonder lies our house; I'll trip before,
And tell my mother she has guests a-coming;
The path is something steep, but you shall see
I'll be there first. I must chain up the dogs, too;
Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to strangers,
But gentle when you know them.

QUE. Think not for that, good friend. We are in On one too young for cunning and for selfishness.—

Scotland,

And if it is not varied from its wont,

Each cot, that sends a curl of smoke to heaven,
Will yield a stranger quarters for the night,
Simply because he needs them.

SER. But are there none within an easy walk
Give lodgings here for hire? for I have left
Some of the Don's piastres, (though I kept
The secret from yon gulls,) and I had rather
Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford,
And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd cumber
Some poor man's roof with me and all my wants,
And tax his charity beyond discretion.

He's in a reverie-a deep one sure,

Since the gibe on his country wakes him not.-
Bestir thee, Quentin !

QUE.
"Twas a wondrous likeness.
SER. Likeness! of whom? I'll warrant thee of one
Whom thou hast loved and lost. Such fantasies
Live long in brains like thine, which fashion visions
Of woe and death when they are cross'd in love,
As most men are or have been.

QUE. Thy guess hath touch'd me, though it is but
slightly,

'Mongst other woes: I knew, in former days,

A maid that view'd me with some glance of favour;

QUE. Some six miles hence there is a town and But my fate carried me to other shores,

hostelry

But you are wayworn, and it is most likely

Our comrades must have fill'd it.

And she has since been wedded. I did think on 't
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'd;

SER.
Out upon them!—
Were there a friendly mastiff who would lend me

1 MS.

"Gallant and grim, may be but ill-instructed."