The Doom of Devorgoil.

ACT I-SCENE I

The Scene represents a wild and hilly, but not a mountainous Country, in a frontier District of Scotland. 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

FLORA enters from the Castle, looks timidly around, Starved in the pantry; and the reverend spider, then comes forward and speaks.

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.

Sole living tenant of the Baron's halls,

Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole summer
Upon a single fly, he's famish'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 place
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.

KAT. Ah, my dear coz!—if that your mother's I said but now, I saw our last of fagots

niece

May so presume to call your father's daughterAll these fond things have got some home of com-, fort

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

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.”

SHEP. That have they not. I've heard my fa- Then close your ranks, comrades, the bands that

THIRD VAS. A mighty triumph! What is't, af- Is too consumptive for another bleeding.

ter all,

Except the driving of a piece of lead,—
As learned Master Gullcrammer defined it,-
Just through the middle of a painted board.

BLACK. And if he so define it, by your leave,
Your learned Master Gullcrammer's an ass.
THIRD VAS. (angrily.) He is a preacher, hunts-
man, under favor.

SECOND VAS. No quarrelling, neighbors—you
may both be right.

Enter a FOURTH VASSAL, with a gallon stoup of wine.
FOURTH VAS. Why stand you brawling here?
• Young Leonard Dacre

Has set abroach the tun of wine he gain'd,
That all may drink who list. Blackthorn, I sought

you;

Your comrade prays you will bestow this flagon
Where you have left the deer you kill'd this morn-

ing.

BLACK. And that I will; but first we will take toll

To see if it's worth carriage. Shepherd, thy
horn.

There must be due allowance made for leakage,
And that will come about a draught apiece.
Skink it about, and, when our throats are liquor'd,
We'll merrily trowl our song of weaponshaw.

[They drink about out of the SHEPHERD'S
horn, and then sing.

SONG.

SHEP. I must to my fold.
THIRD VAS.

I'll to the butt of wine,
And see if that has given up the ghost yet.
FIRST VAS. Have with you, neighbor.
[BLACKTHORN enters the Castle, the rest ex-

eunt severally. MELCHISEDEK GULLCRAM-
MER watches them off the stage, and then
enters from a side-scene. His costume is
a Geneva cloak and band, with a high-
crowned hat; the rest of his dress in the
fashion of James the First's time. He
looks to the windows of the Castle, then
draws back as if to escape observation,
while he brushes his cloak, drives the
white threads from his waistcoat with his
wetted thumb, and dusts his shoes, all
with the air of one who would not will-
ingly be observed engaged in these offices.

He then adjusts his collar and band, comes forward and speaks.

GULL. Right comely is thy garb, Melchisedek; As well beseemeth one, whom good Saint Mungo, The patron of our land and university,

Hath graced with license both to teach and
preach-

Who dare opine thou hither plod'st on foot!
Trim sits thy cloak, unruffled is thy band,
And not a speck upon thine outward man,
Bewrays the labors of thy weary sole.

[Touches his shoe, and smiles complacently. Quaint was that jest and pleasant!--Now will I Approach and hail the dwellers of this fort;

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil,

Master of Arts, by grace of good Saint Andrew,

Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar,
Old Bauldie Durward! Would I were well past Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk,
him!
Endow'd with ten score Scottish pounds per an-

palmer, partly in that of an old Scottish Being eight pounds seventeen eight in sterling
mendicant, having coarse blue cloak and
badge, white beard, &c.

DUR. The blessing of the evening on your wor-
ship,

And on your taff'ty doublet. Much I marvel Your wisdom chooseth such trim garb,' when tempests

Are gathering to the bursting.

coin

Well, then, I say, may this Melchisedek,
Thus highly graced by fortune-and by nature
E'en gifted as thou seest-aspire to woo
The daughter of the beggar'd Devorgoil.

DUR Credit an old man's word, kind Master
Gullcrammer,

You will not find it so.-Come, sir, I've known

GULLCRAMMER (looks to his dress, and then to the The hospitality of Mucklewhame;

sky, with some apprehension.)

Surely, Bauldie,

It reach'd not to profuseness—yet, in gratitude
For the pure water of its living well,
And for the barley loaves of its fair fields,
Wherein chopp'd straw contended with the grain

Thou dost belie the evening-in the west
The light sinks down as lovely as this band
Drops o'er this mantle-Tush, man! 'twill be Which best should satisfy the appetite,
fair.

DUR. Ay, but the storm I bode is big with blows,
Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for thunderbolts;
And for the wailing of the midnight wind,
The unpitied howling of a cudgell'd coxcomb.
Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair Flora Devor-
goil.

GUL. And if I did, I do the damsel grace.
Her mother thinks so, and she has accepted
At these poor hands gifts of some consequence,
And curious dainties for the evening cheer,
To which I am invited-She respects me.

I would not see the hopeful heir of Mucklewhame
Thus fling himself on danger.

GUL. Danger! what danger?-Know'st thou not,
old Oswald

This day attends the muster of the shire,
Where the crown-vassals meet to show their arms,
And their best horse of service?-'Twas good

sport

(And if a man had dared but laugh at it)
To see old Oswald with his rusty morion,
And huge two-handed sword, that might have

seen

DUR. But not so doth her father, haughty Os- The field of Bannockburn or Chevy-Chase,

Without a squire or vassal, page or groom,
Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels,
Mix with the proudest nobles of the county,
And claim precedence for his tatter'd person
O'er armors double gilt and ostrich plumage.
DUR. Ay! 'twas the jest at which fools laugh
the loudest,

The downfall of our old nobility

Which may forerun the ruin of a kingdom.
I've seen an idiot clap his hands, and shout

Three scores of sheep, three cows, with each her To see a tower like yon (points to a part of the

follower,

A female palfrey eke-I will be candid,
She is of that meek tribe whom, in derision,
Our wealthy southern neighbors nickname don-
keys

DUR. She hath her follower too,-when thou art
there.

GUL. I say to thee, these crofts of Mucklewhame,
In the mere tything of their stock and produce,
Outvie whatever patch of land remains
To this old rugged castle and its owner.
Well, therefore, may Melchisedek Gullcrammer,
Younger of Mucklewhame, for such I write me,

1 MS. That you should walk in such trim guise."

Castle) stoop to its base

In headlong ruin; while the wise look'd round,
And fearful sought a distant stance to watch
What fragment of the fabric next should follow;
For when the turrets fall, the walls are tottering.
GUL. (after pondering.) If that means aught, it
means thou saw'st old Oswald
Expell'd from the assembly.
DUR.
Thy sharp wit
Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh the truth.
Expell'd he was not, but, his claim denied
At some contested point of ceremony,
He left the weaponshaw in high displeasure,
And hither comes-his wonted bitter temper
Scarce sweeten'd by the chances of the day.

Twere much like rashness should you wait his
And thither tends my counsel.
[coming,

GUL. And I'll take it;

Good Bauldie Durward, I will take thy counsel,
And will requite it with this minted farthing,
That bears our sovereign's head in purest copper.
DUR. Thanks to thy bounty-Haste thee, good

young master;

Oswald, besides the old two-handed sword,
Bears in his hand a staff of potency,
To charm intruders from his castle purlieus.
GUL. I do abhor all charms, nor will abide
To hear or see, far less to feel their use.
Behold, I have departed.

Manent DURWARD.

My brief delay then do not blame,
Nor deem your swain untrue;
My form but linger'd at the game,
My soul was still with you.

She hears not!

DUR. But a friend hath heard-Leonard, I pity thee.

LEON. (starts, but recovers himself.) Pity, good father, is for those in want,

In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind,

Or agony of body. I'm in health

Can match my limbs against the stag in chase,
Have means enough to meet my simple wants,
[Exit hastily. And am so free of soul that I can carol
To woodland and to wild in notes as lively
As are my jolly bugle's.

DUR. Thus do I play the idle part of one
Who seeks to save the moth from scorching him
In the bright taper's flame-And Flora's beauty'
Must, not unlike that taper, waste away,
Gilding the rugged walls that saw it kindled.
This was a shard-born beetle, heavy, drossy,"
Though boasting his dull drone and gilded wing.
Here comes a flutterer of another stamp,
Whom the same ray is charming to his ruin.

DUR. Even thereforĉ dost thou need my pity,
Leonard,

And therefore I bestow it, paying thee,
Before thou feel'st the need, my mite of pity.
Leonard, thou lovest; and in that little word
There lies enough to claim the sympathy
Of men who wear such hoary locks as mine,
And know what misplaced love is sure to end in.
LEON. Good father, thou art old, and even thy

youth,

As thou hast told me, spent in cloister'd cells,
Fits thee but ill to judge the passions,
Which are the joy and charm of social life.
Press me no farther, then, nor waste those moments
Whose worth thou canst not estimate.

[As turning from him.

DUR. (detains him.) Stay, young man!
'Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt;
Yet I bethink me of a gay young stripling,
That owes to these white locks and hoary beard
Something of reverence and of gratitude
More than he wills to pay.

LEON. Forgive me, father. Often hast thou told

me,

That in the ruin of my father's house
You saved the orphan Leonard in his cradle;
And well I know, that to thy care alone-
Care seconded by means beyond thy seeming→
I owe whate'er of nurture I can boast,
DUR. Then for thy life preserved,

Illumes the cloud of night-if I seek these,
Are they not all with Flora? Number me
The list of female virtues one by one,
And I will answer all with Flora Devorgoil.
"Dur. This is the wonted pitch of youthful passion;
And every woman who hath had a lover,
However now deem'd crabbed, cross, and canker'd,
And crooked both in temper and in shape,
Has in her day been thought the purest, wisest,
Gentlest, and best condition'd-and o'er all
Fairest and liveliest of Eve's numerous daughters.
"Leonard. Good father, thou art old," &e.