That slaying thee were but a double guilt
In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom ever
Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with his bride,
More joyfully than I, young man, would rush

To meet thy challenge.

LIN. Take worse and blacker.-Murderer, adult

erer!

Art thou not moved yet?

BER.

weapon,

wrongs;

But ask not me to tell them, while the villain, Who wrought them, stands and listens with a smile.

NIN. It is said

Since you refer us thus to general fame

That Berkeley slew thy brother, the Lord Louis, In his own halls at Edzell

LIN. Ay, in his halls

In his own halls, good father, that's the word.
In his own halls he slew him, while the wine
Pass'd on the board between! The gallant Thane,
Who wreak'd Macbeth's inhospitable murder,
Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction deeds like these.
BER. Thou say'st I came a guest!-I came a
victim,

A destined victim, train'd on to the doom

His frantic jealousy prepared for me.
He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought.
Can I forget the form that came between us,
And perish'd by his sword? 'Twas then I fought
For vengeance,-until then I guarded life,
But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd.

LIN. Wretch! thou didst first dishonor to thy victim,

And then didst slay him!

BER. There is a busy fiend tugs at my heart,
But I will struggle with it!--Youthful knight,
My heart is sick of war, my hand of slaughter;
I come not to my lordships, or my land,
But just to seek a spot in some cold cloister,
Which I may kneel on living, and, when dead,
Which may suffice to cover me.

Forgive me that I caused your brother's death;
And I forgive thee the injurious terms
With which thou taxest me.

Most true thy brother perish'd by my hand,
And if you term it murder-I must bear it.
Thus far my patience can; but if thou brand
The purity of yonder martyr'd saint,
Whom then my sword but poorly did avenge,
With one injurious word, come to the valley,
And I will show thee how it shall be answer'd!
NIN. This heat, Lord Berkeley, doth but ill ac
cord

With thy late pious patience.

BER. Father, forgive, and let me stand excused To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks no more, I loved this lady fondly-truly lovedLoved her, and was beloved, ere yet her father Conferr'd her on another. While she lived, Each thought of her was to my soul as hallow'd As those I send to Heaven; and on her grave, Her bloody, early grave, while this poor hand Can hold a sword, shall no one cast a scorn.

LIN. Follow me. Thou shalt hear me call the adulteress

By her right name.-I'm glad there's yet a spur Can rouse thy sluggard mettle.

BER. Make then obeisance to the blessed Cross For it shall be on earth thy last devotion.

[They are going off.

WAL. (rushing forward.) Madmen, stand!

| Stay but one second-answer but one question.--
There, Maurice Berkeley, canst thou look upon
That blessed sign, and swear thou'st spoken truth?
BER. I swear by Heaven,

And by the memory of that murder'd innocent,
Each seeming charge against her was as false
As our bless'd Lady's spotless. Hear, each saint!
Hear me, thou holy rood! hear me from heaven,
Thou martyr'd excellence!--Hear me from penal
fire

(For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated) !
Stern ghost of her destroyer!-

WAL. (throws back his cowl.) He hears! he hears! Thy spell hath raised the dead. LIN. My brother! and alive!

WAL. Alive, but yet, my Richard, dead to
thee,

No tie of kindred binds me to the world;
All were renounced, when, with reviving life,
Came the desire to seek the sacred cloister.
Alas, in vain! for to that last retreat,
Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full chase,
My passion and my wrongs have follow'd me,
Wrath and remorse-and, to fill up the cry,
Thou hast brought vengeance hither.

LIN.

I but sought To do the act and duty of a brother.

WAL. I ceased to be so when I left the world. But if he can forgive as I forgive,

God sends me here a brother in mine enemy,
To pray for me and with me. If thou canst,
De Berkeley, give thine hand.—

BER. (gives his hand.)

It is the will

Of Heaven, made manifest in thy preservation,
To inhibit farther bloodshed; for De Berkeley,
The votary Maurice lays the title down.

Go to his halls, Lord Richard, where a maiden,
Kin to his blood, and daughter in affection,

Heirs his broad lands;-If thou canst love her
Lindesay,

Woo her, and be successful.

PREFACE

THE first of these dramatic pieces' was long since written, for the purpose of obliging the late Mr. Terry, then Manager of the Adelphi Theatre, for whom the Author had a particular regard. The manner in which the mimic goblins of Devorgoil are intermixed with the supernatural machinery, was found to be objectionable, and the production had other faults, which rendered it unfit for representation.2 I have called the piece a Melodrama, for want of a better name; but, as I learn from the unquestionable authority of Mr. Colman's Random Records, that one species of the drama is termed an extravaganza, I am sorry I was not sooner aware of a more appropriate name than that which I had selected for Devorgoil.

The Author's Publishers thought it desirable, that the scenes, long condemned to oblivion, should be united to similar attempts of the same kind; and as he felt indifferent on the subject, they are printed in the same volume with Halidon Hill and MacDuff's Cross, and thrown off in a separate form, for the convenience of those who possess former editions of the Author's Poetical Works.

The general story of the Doom of Devorgoil is founded on an old Scottish tradition, the scene of which lies in Galloway. The crime supposed to have occasioned the misfortunes of this devoted house, is similar to that of a Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle, who is the principal personage of Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe's interesting ballad, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. iv. p. 307. In remorse for his crime, he built the singular monument called the Tower of Repentance. In many cases the Scottish superstitions allude to the fairies, or those who, for

1 "The Doom of Devorgoil," and "Auchindrane," were published together in an octavo volume, in the spring of 1830. For the origin and progress of the first, see Life of Scott, vol. pp. 297-994, 285-6.

Mr Daniel Terry, the comedian, distinguished for a very

sins of a milder description, are permitted to wander with the "rout that never rest," as they were termed by Dr. Leyden. They imitate human labor and human amusements, but their toil is useless, and without any advantageous result; and their gayety is unsubstantial and hollow. The phantom of Lord Erick is supposed to be a spectre of this character.

The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in many countries; but the best narrative founded on the passage, is the tale called Stumme Liebe, among the legends of Musæus. I think it has been introduced upon the English stage in some pantomime, which was one objection to bringing it upon the scene a second time.

ABBOTSFORD, April, 1830.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

OSWALD OF DEVORGOIL, a decayed Scottish Baron.
LEONARD, a Ranger.
DURWARD, a Palmer.
LANCELOT BLACKTHORN, a Companion of Leonard,

in love with Katleen.

GULLCRAMMER, a conceited Student.
OWLSPIEGLE and ) Maskers, represented by Black
COCKLEDEMOY, S thorn and Katleen.
SPIRIT OF LORD ERICK OF DEVORGOIL.
Peasants, Shepherds, and Vassals of inferior rank.

ELEANOR, Wife of Oswald, descended of obscure
Parentage.

FLORA, Daughter of Oswald.
KATLEEN, Niece of Eleanor.

peculiar style of humor on the stage, and, moreover, by personal accomplishments of various sorts not generally shared by members of his profession, was, during many years, on terms of intimacy with Sir Walter Scott. He died 22d Juno 1829.

The Doom of Devorgoil.

ACT I-SCENE L

The Scene represents a wild and hilly, but not a mountainous Country, in a frontier District of Sotland. The flat Scene exhibits the Castle of Devorgoil, decayed, and partly ruinous, situated upon a Lake, and connected with the Land by a Drawbridge, which is lowered. Time-Sunset.

To tempt their rovers back-the lady's bower,
The shepherdess's hut, the wild swan's couch
Among the rushes, even the lark's low nest,
Has that of promise which lures home a lover,—
But we have naught of this.

FLO. How call you, then, this castle of my sire, The towers of Devorgoil?

KAT. Dungeons for men, and palaces for owls; Yet no wise owl would change a farmer's barn For yonder hungry hall-our latest mouse, Our last of mice, I tell you, has been found

He is not here-those pleasures are not ours Which placid evening brings to all things else.

SONG.1

The sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care

From home and love divide,

In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high,

Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armor bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow,
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart,

And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side,
Twitters his closing song-
All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long.

[KATLEEN has come out of the Castle while FLORA was singing, and speaks when the Song is ended.

KAT. Ah, my dear coz!-if that your mother's

niece

May so presume to call your father's daughterAll these fond things have got some home of comfort

1 The author thought of omitting this song, which was, in fact, abridged into one in “Quentin Durward," termed County Guy. [See ante, page 709.] It seemed, however, neces

Sole living tenant of the Baron's hails,

Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole summer
Upon a single fly, he's fami-h'd too;

The cat is in the kitchen-chimney seated
Upon our last of fagots, destined soon
To dress our last of suppers, and, poor soul,

Is starved with cold, and mewling mad with hunger
FLO. D'ye mock our misery, Katleen!
KAT. No, but I am hysteric on the subject,
So I must laugh or cry, and laughing's lightest.
FLO. Why stay you with us, then, my merry

cousin?

From you my sire can ask no filial duty.

KAT. No, thanks to Heaven!

No noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor,
Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood
That dances in my veins; and I might wed
A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing
The wrath of high-born kindred, and far less
That the dry bones of lead-lapp'd ancestors
Would clatter in their cerements at the tidings

FLO. My mother, too,would gladly see you places Beyond the verge of our unhappiness,

Which, like a witch's circle, blights and taints
Whatever comes within it.

KAT.

Ah! my good aunt! She is a careful kinswoman and prudent, In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, When she could take her choice of honest yeomen · And now, to balance this ambitious error, She presses on her daughter's love the suit Of one, who hath no touch of nobleness, In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend him,Sage Master Gullcrammer, the new-dubb'd preacher.

FLO. Do not name him, Katleen!

KAT. Ay, but I must, and with some gratitude. I said but now, I saw our last of fagots Destined to dress our last of meals, but said not That the repast consisted of choice dainties, Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, The kind Melchisedek.

sary to the sense, that the original stanzas should be retained here.

2 MS.-"Beyond the circle of our wretchedness.”

FLO.

And that is all I care for-(some shouts are heard.) Hark! they're at it.

sires!

My cottage wisdom ought to echo back,—
O the snug parsonage the well-paid stipend!
The yew-hedged garden! beehives, pigs, and poul-
try!

But, to speak honestly, the peasant Katleen,
Valuing these good things justly, still would scorn
To wed, for such, the paltry Gullerammer,
As much as Lady Flora.

FLO. Mock me not with a title, gentle cousin, Which poverty has made ridiculous.—

[Trumpets far off. Hark! they have broken up the weapon-shawing; The vassals are dismiss'd, and marching homeward. KAT. Comes your sire back to-night?

FLO. He did purpose To tarry for the banquet. This day only, Summon'd as a king's tenant, he resumes The right of rank his birth assigns to him, And mingles with the proudest.

KAT.

To return
To his domestic wretchedness to-morrow-
I envy not the privilege. Let us go

To yonder height, and see the marksmen practise:
They shoot their match down in the dale beyond,
Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest district,
By ancient custom, for a tun of wine.
Let us go see which wins.

FLO.
That were too forward.
KAT. Why, you may drop the screen before
your face,

Which some chance breeze may haply blow aside
Just when a youth of special note takes aim.
It chanced even so that memorable morning,
When, nutting in the woods, we met young Leon-

ard;

FLO.

Leave not here
The produce of your hunting.
BLA.
But I must, though.
This is his lair to-night, for Leonard Dacre
Charged me to leave the stag at Devorgoil;
Then show me quickly where to stow the quarry,
And let me to the sports-(more shots.) Come,
hasten, damsels !

FLO. It is impossible-we dare not take it.
BLA. There let it lie, then, and I'll wind my

bugle,

That all within these tottering walls may know That here lies venison, whoso likes to lift it.

[About to blow. KAT. (to FLO.) He will alarm your mother; and,

besides, Our Forest proverb teaches, that no question Should ask where venison comes from. Your careful mother, with her wonted prudence, Will hold its presence plead its own apology.Come, Blackthorn, I will show you where to stow it. [Exeunt KATLEEN and BLACKTHORN into the Castle more shooting—then a distant shout-Stragglers, armed in different ways, pass over the Stage, as if from the Weaponshaw.

FLO. The prize is won; that general shout proclaim'd it.

The marksmen and the vassals are dispersing. [She draws back. FIRST VASSAL (a peasant.) Ay, ay,-'tis lost and won, the Forest have it. "Tis they have all the luck on't. SECOND VAS. (a shepherd.) Luck, sayst thou, man? 'Tis practice, skill, and cunning. THIRD VAS. 'Tis no such thing.-I had hit the mark precisely,

But for this cursed flint; and, as I fired,

A swallow cross'd mine eye too-Will you tell me
That that was but a chance, mine honest shepherd?
FIRST VAS. Ay, and last year, when Lancelot
Blackthorn won it,

Because my powder happen'd to be damp,
Was there no luck in that?—The worse luck mine.
SECOND VAS. Still I say 'twas not chance; it