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in by the prisoner for his own turn, since he sent me packing when he had served his own end of me. Blood can give you a more clear evidence. Clerk. Blood, stand up. What canst thou say for the king against the prisoner at the bar?

Blood. My lord, I shall cry continually against this cursed horse-leech, that hath gorged himself with me so full, that he hath spewed me up again, till the earth hath been made as drunk with me as the sword, from the blood of Strafford to the blood of 100,000 innocents, Canterbury, Tomkins, Challenor, Burley the king's messenger, the Surrey men, and an infinite many more, that have been barbarously and inhumanely slain for their allegiance and fidelity to their royal sovereign; nay, my lord, they are so insatiate, that nothing can quench their thirsts, but royal blood, the blood of the king, and all his royal progeny, in which he would wash his hands, if possibly he could attain to his ends; so that the whole earth is filled with blood and violence, father against son, brother against brother, and one friend against another. Though cursed is he that shall slay an innocent person, and all the people shall say Amen,' Deut. xxix. 25. The land that sheddeth

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against him; that is all I could do, or can say.

Clerk. Publick Faith, stand up. What canst thou say for the king against the prisoner at the bar?

Publ. Faith. My lord, he hath been the confusion of me; I could recount innumerable tricks to drain the people, and to milk their purses of their money, as the free loans and contributions upon poor Publick Faith, amounting to vast and incredible sums, money, plate, horses and arms, bodkins, thimbles, wedding-rings, &c. and a thousand more that he hath used to enslave the people.

Clerk. Soldiers Conscience, stand up, and give evidence for the king against the prisoner at the bar.

Cryer. Call Soldiers Conscience.

Cryer. Soldiers Conscience, Soldiers Conscience, come into the court, and give evidence for the king against the prisoner at the bar, or else you forfeit your recognizance.

Clerk. My lord, he is slipt away, being afraid to appear in the face of the court; 'tis likely he is a party with the prisoner.

[To be concluded in our next.]

innocent blood, innocent blood shall THE SECRET CHAMBER; OT, THE

be upon it,' Deut. xix. 10. And, NOBLE PEASANT. An original

Innocent blood the Lord will not

pardon, 2 Kin. xxiv. 4.

Yet, my

Drama, in Three Acts.

ford, this traitor hath made a trade of To the Editor of the Universal Mag. shedding innocent blood, and doth still to this day.

Clerk. Widows Sighs, stand up. What can you say for the king against the prisoner at the bar?

Wid. Sighs. My lord, my heart and a thousand more are so broke with weeping for the death of our husbands and dear children, whose lives this traitor hath taken away, that we cannot speak more for weeping, but still cry out for vengeance against this parricide, this bloody murderer.

Clerk. Orphans Tears, stand up. What canst thou say for the king against the prisoner at the bar?

Orp. Tears. My lord, I lost my father by this cruel traitor, and so have many thousands of us, and have

SIR,

Tunacted drama is offered to you HE following unpublished and for insertion if you approve of it. I will not conceal that it has been rejected by the managers of Covent Garden Theatre: but you will, perhaps, think that no proof of its demerit. It is something more than mere excellence that can ensure success to the modern candidate for dramatic fame.

Such as it is, however, you are wel come to make what use you please of! it, and I remain, Sir,

Your obedient servant,

cried unto heaven for vengeance London, Nov. 12, 1810.

W.

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1.

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JOSEPH,

AMBROSE,

Servants.

sheets, and saucer eyes.-Odsblood! I' suppose the next thing will be that pobody will come near the castle, for fear of being whisked into the east wing, or shook into hysterics by a figure as tall as the west turret. What a God's name, can't you mind your own business?

Ambrose. Well, Mr. Joseph, but I was only going to say as how, that as

WITLOCK, the supposed Father of Ed- Gregory and I were coming home

ward.

Women.

t'other night, and, as I said before, the moon was shining main bright, and

ADELAIDE, Daughter to the Baron, and Gregory was whistling all the way to

in love with Edward.

LEONORA, her Servant.

Servants, Tenantry, &c.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Gothic Apartment in the Castle. Enter JOSEPH and AMBROSE. Joseph. Well, I say it is true, and you may depend upon it too, that Edward is to sleep this very night in that apartment.

Ambrose. What! sleep in the haunted room! Lord, have mercy upon him the ghost will certainly run away with him! Do you know, Joseph, that as I was walking yesterday in the great gallery of the eastern apartments, I heard-Oh Lord, I heard such a great, long, deep groan, that I verily thought

Joseph. Pooh! pooh! you are always hearing or seeing something. It's very odd now that the peace of the family must for ever be disturbed by your nonsensical phantasies. Get away with thee do!

keep his courage up, and so, as we
were walking close by the old barn,
Gregory said, says he, "Ambrose, be-
tween you and I, it is marvellous
strange, that these noises and sights
should happen so in the old castle;
Tdon't like to meddle with other folks'
business, but I could say something-"
Joseph. Could say something-and
what could he say?
Ambrose. Why, as how it was very
much talked of in the village, that the
late
Lord Ray-Ray-What's his
name.

pray

Joseph. What, Lord Raymond?

they say that he did not come fairly Ambrose. Aye, you're right. Well, by his end, and that our good master, the Baron, knew more of the matter than people thought for. And there's old Witlock the woodman,

Joseph, (cagerly). Ah! what of bim?

Ambrose. Ile you know is Edward's father

Joseph, with repressed sensation). Aye, so it is thought! Poor youth, but no matter-go on. he does not himself believe it, nor

Ambrose. Well, he was heard to say, one night over a mug of ale, that he could tell such things about it, as would make one's hair stand on end, and one's knees shake to and fro, like -like-aye, like the old cock's tail in. a gale of wind.

Ambrose. Well, Mr. Joseph, I don't want to make you believe it, but as sure as I am a Christian variet, Gregory the gard'ner and myself were coming home t'other night across Farmer Goodacre's field, just by the old barn house, the moon was shining main bright to be sure, and every thing was so still and so melancholy, that I thought as how my very footsteps was a ghost patting behind me,— Joseph. Aye, indeed! that's saying Joseph. There now, a ghost again! a great deal; but pray did he tell this I do verily believe thy addle wonderful story? is so pate full of ghosts, that you will fancy a shoulder of mutton a ghost next. Ambrose, Ambrose, do keep that silly tongue of thine quiet, and not set the whole village in an uproar, with your spirits, and hobgoblins, and white

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Ambrose, (with importance). Yes he did, and told it to Gregory last Michaelmas eve, and Gregory told it me.

Joseph, (aside). So so; I must sift this fellow; as it may be of importance to know what he has heard,

that I may communicate it to Edward. he sat down again-but suppose we sit Well, and what was it? eh? down ourselves, for it's a long story.

Ambrose. Ah! Mr. Joseph. Secrets you know should not be told, and I promised Gregory, upon my honor's word, that I would not convulge to any breathing body, and so then upon that he told me all about it. To be sure as one might say it would be nothing to tell you, because I am very certain you're a concrete old man, and would not exclose any thing which you 'don't know.

Joseph. Oh no! certainly not. Ambrose. No that you wouldn't, and so Mr. Joseph as I was saving-but before I begin, I have a bit of a bequest to make, as a body might say. He! he! he!

Joseph. A bequest to make! and what is it?

Ambrose, (simpering). Why, he he! be! I want just to ask-that is to observe-that- mean to say thatthis is main cold weather. Whu! and-whu!-how I shiver-and that I was thinking a drop of carraway-of carraway, Mr. Joseph, might not burt us, as you have got a bottie by you. He! he he! excuse my being jocuhe! he he!

lar;

Joseph. Well, well, you shall have a glass anon-means while proceed with thy story.

Oh!

Ambrose. Shall I then I'll tell you all about it. So to begin. Humph! let me see where did I leave off. Witlock the woodman! aye! humph! Well, Witlock the woodman told Gregory the gardner last Michaelmas eve, and Gregory the gardner told me, and

Joseph, (impatiently. You'll tell me I hope in time.

Ambrose, (with great importance). Yes, I'll tell you. Now to begin.

Gregory you see had hold of my arm, as we were walking along, and so he said, says he, I was drinking a jug of mum with old Witlock, when he asked me, how things went on in the castle. Tolerable, says I.-That is, Gregory you know said tolerable, not I myself. -Ah Gregory! says Witlock, I could tell you something about that castle, that would make your teeth chatter like bones shook in a bag! So Gregory drew closer to Witlock, and Witlock looked about bim with main fear, and got up and shut the door, When

Joseph. With all my heart. (They

sit.)

Ambrose. Well, when he sat down again, he began as follows. It's now one and twenty years since, on a stormy night, I heard-(a knocking heard at the door.) Eh! what the devil! Oh Lord! the ghost as sure as I live! Oh that I had never said a word about him!

Joseph. Silence, you chattering fearful knave. Let me see who's at the

door. (Going to open it). But I say, let me hear the end of your story and bye, if we should be interrupted now. (knocking again).

Ambrose. Oh mercy forgive me! I'm so all of a twitter, that-that-I' run under the table till you have par leyed with the ghost. Oh this tongue of mine! (Creeps under the table.— Joseph opens the door, and Edward er ters).

Edward. Why, my good Ambrose, was I kept so long without Methought I heard some one talking with you: was it not so?

Ambrose, (creeping out). Oh yes, Sir, 'twas I. He! he! he! 'twas LHow do ye do, Mr. Edward, I'm main glad to see you. I hope, however, as how, that you be not going to sleep with the glost to night.

Edward. Who I shall sleep with! cannot tell, but it is certain I shail pass this night in the eastern apart ment; such is the Baron's peculiar wish. Heigho! I have been thinking, Joseph, that should I fail to slumber, how heavily the time will pass with

me.

condition!

Joseph. Ah Sir, and I'm much afraid you will find the apartments in a sad Ah! it's a many years now since they have had day-light admitted. I wonder in what condition the bed is: I dare say all worm eaten, and not a bit but what is mouldering away! It was a merry day when the late Lord. Raymond was married. That was the very bed they slept in, now, some two and twenty years ago.

Ambrose. Aye, marry two and twen ty years that's a long while. I marvel much, Sir, why the ghost has always kept to that chamber.

Edward. Nonsense! Such idle tales

are fit only for grandames to tell their children on a winter's evening. Ambrose. Ecod! you're right, Sir; for by the mass I do now remember, that my old granny (poor old soul, she died of the colic, from eating too many raw codlings) was wont to tell me a most dreadful melancholy story about the ghost of Goody Dump, who was hung for a witch, and

Joseph. I say, Ambrose, meet we anon in the pantry will you? Remember, the carraway.

Ambrose. The pantry-Oh that has a savoury sound; and the carraway is such a pretty word. Certainly: I will not fail to wait upon you, and then you shall know more about Witlock's ghost. Your servant, Mr. Edward. Oh the pantry-the carraway-the carraway! the pantry! Exit.)

Edward. Pr'ythee, Joseph, tell me: think you that the Baron has the smallest faith in the absurd opinions which have gained belief, respecting the castle's being haunted?

Joseph. Why, Sir, I can hardly tell. It has been prevalent ever since he first came in possession of the castle; and then he strictly forbade us, even at the peril of our lives, to mention a word of it. As for my own part, I think them all nonsense. Ghosts, faith! they are marvellous civil ghosts, for they never interrupt me.

Edward. You were about to tell me, last night, in what manner the present Baron de Clifford became the master of this noble mansion. We were interrupted then, therefore I pray thee proceed with it now.

Joseph. All I know, Sir, is this: that on the death of the late Earl Raymond and his lady, the present Earl lived here; but after a while, 'tis said he could not sleep o'nights, and there were strange noises heard as it is reported, and so my Lord sold the estate to his kinsman the Baron, with this injunction, that the eastern apart ment should never be unlocked.

Edward. Should never be unlocked! how is it then, that I am this very night to sleep there?

Joseph. Why the Baron, I suppose, wishes to quiet the minds of his family and tenantry; but as I was saying, upon these conditions, the estate was transferred to the Baron, and the key of the said apartment delivered to him, with

the most dreadful imprecations if ever the compact should be violated.

Edward. You confound me! There must be some concealed mystery here! some dreadful catastrophe to unfold! and I, perhaps, am marked ont by heaven to accomplish its purpose. But

Joseph. Hush! hush! we may be overheard. You must be cautious, for you have many enemies here.

Edward Alas! I know I have, and thank thee for thy care, old man. Believe me, it shall not pass unrewarded. But, pray where did Earl Raymond go to, on quitting this castle?

Joseph. He went to reside in Nor thumberland, and has never visited here since; and that is now twenty years ago.

Edward. What think you, would he not feel himself highly injured, did he know it, by the circumstance which will take place to night?

Joseph. Aye, marry, would he! An he be not cooled by age, there is not such a fiery spirit in the whole country as my Lord. Why, he once cuffed a noble gentleman soundly, who only ventured to observe something darkly respecting his kinsman's death. I warrant ye, he would call my master out, and tilt him for it, if he knew it.

Edward. Surely there must be some more cogent reasons, for this event, than those which you suggest. I never can believe that a man, so nicely sensible of honour as is the Baron, would violate a solemn compact, merely to gratify idle curiosity, or to destroy vague and groundless reports.

Joseph. Aye, there now: you've just met my very thoughts, and I said as much to Gregory the gard'ner. But then you know, Sir, 'tis not for servants to pry into their master's actions. God knows I think as fairly of the Baron as even I do of you, and that's main high I assure you.

Edward. Oh my good fellow, you've little cause for it.

Joseph. Ah Sir! you always laugh at me when I tell you: but as sure as I am an honest man, and a godly man, you will, one day, be something great. I know it, and I'll tell you why now I'm in for it.

Edward. But see! 'tis my dear Albert approaches. That youth loves me with a brother's fondness, and I,

him, with not one jot less of kind

ness.

Joseph. I'll take my leave, Sir.(Exit). Edward, (manet). I would this night were passed! A busy something, I know not what, weighs upon my heart, and almost shakes the firmness of my bosomi I am not given to woman's fears, nor submit myself to be the slave of childish fancies; but, if future events were c'er manifested by the inward workings of the soul, surely some portentous events hover o'er this castle. I dreamt last night, that I was led through dreary chambers by a pale and death-like figure, yet of comely port; his limbs encased in steel, glimmered with the sullen flame of a lamp which he held in his right hand, while his left grasped a massy key. Sometimes he bent his look upon me, as I followed trembling in his steps; and then methought a gleam of conscious hope beamed from his sunken eye at length, he stopped opposite a picture, which presented the semblance of a woman in the bloom of youth and loveliness! My awful, solemn conductor placed himself before it, gazed on its features, and with a sigh hurried forward, till a door intercepted our progress; he paused, and, turning slowly round, encountered me with a look of dreadful sternness : I shrunk with terror from his gaze, which immediately melted into a benign and heavenly aspect. "Edward," methought he exclaimed in a hollow faltering voice, "this room was witness to deeds of foulest darkness-'tis your's, to wash away the dreadful recollection, and give repose to the troubled ashes of thy-" More he would have spoken, but at this instant I awoke. I know not how it is, but never before did á bare dream, a saucy coinage of the perturbed brain so sorely oppress my heart!

Enter ALBERT.

Albert. Edward, I joy to meet you. But why this sullen discontent upon thy brow? Has ought occurred to thwart thy wish? Pr'ythee make my bosom the depository of thy secret.

Edward. Oh my dear Albert, a thousand years of active gratitude and duty would ill repay thy generous love and confidence. While I am the

guileless cause of envy and of hatred in thy kinsman, you generously despise the vulgar insinuations of groveling malice, and own me for thy friend. Me! a poor peasant boy! a hapless outcast of fortune! (Dejectedly).

Albert. I pray thee do not wound my feelings thus. I know thy worth: I have long known it: nor shall you ever lose the place which, in my heart, you hold, from the dark and base suggestions of malice.

Edward. How have I deserved such goodness! My humble fate will not, alas! allow me to make a just return. Albert. Give me but your heart, and I ask no more. Curse on the mas whose sordid soul thinks nought is virtue but what is gilded o'er with the pomp of wealth and fame. But come, I am commissioned to conduct thee to my father, who awaits thy presence in the library.

Edward. Your father!

Albert. Yes; he wishes, I believe, to talk with you about your new lod ging.-Ifaith, Edward, I would not like to share your bed to night.

Edward. Pshaw! I care not. Come, I'll attend you. (Exeunt).

A Room.

SCENE II.

Enter ADELAIDE and
LEONORA.

Leonora. Now, my dear good lady, pray take my advice. Lord, lord, I'd no more fret and fume about that great surly fellow's looks, than I'd care for his smiles, not I indeed. Now I say

Adelaide. Ah girl! thou knowest not what it is to fear a father's frowns. Oh pride! what a foe to happiness art thou!

Leonora. Pride, indeed! I say pride too; and pray, if Mr. Edward loves you, why should you not love him. I see no reason why not, for my part.

Adelaide. And pray, Leonora, if a man loved you, would you be certaia to love him in return?

Leonora. Aye, that I would. I'd love him till-till-I couldn't love him any longer.

Adelaide. And how long might that

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