AUCHINDRANE, OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. JOHN MURE OF AUCHINDRANE, an Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the Regent, Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, and unscrupulous disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life and doctrine, which, however, never influence his conduct. He is in danger from the law, owing to his having been formerly active in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. PHILIP MURE, his son, a wild, debauched Profligate, professing and practising a contempt for his Father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself. GIFFORD, their Relation, a Courtier. QUENTIN BLANE, a Youth, educated for a Clergyman, but sent by AUCHINDRANE to serve in a Band of Auxiliaries in the Wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk or Comptroller to the Regiment-Disbanded, however, and on his return to his native Country. He is of a mild, gentle, and rather feeble character, liable to be influenced by any person of stronger mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is somewhat of a nervous temperament, varying from sad 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 half-ruined 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. 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. WILLIAMS. For shame! for shame! What, shall old comrades jar thus, And of the verge of parting, and for ever!- ABRAHAM. Ay, they sing light whose task is telling money, When dollars clink for chorus. QUENTIN. I've done with counting silver,* honest Abraham, * [MS.-"I've done with counting dollars," &c.] As thou, I fear, with pouching thy small share on't. | Nor the most petty threat of discipline. Our banners waved victorious. If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of office, [He sings, and the rest bear chorus. A sergeant thou, and he being all thy regiment. SONG. Hither we come, Once slaves to the drum, But no longer we list to its rattle; Adieu to the wars, With their slashes and scars, The march, and the storm, and the battle. There are some of us maim'd, And some of old aches are complaining; 'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning. Dick Hathorn doth vow To return to the plough, Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer; The weaver shall find room At the wight-wapping loom, And your clerk shall teach writing and grammar The sword you scoff at is not far, but scorns SERGEANT (interposes.) We'll have no brawling-Shall it e'er be said, Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the ale was mighty, ABRAHAM. We lose our time.-Tell us at once, old man, SERGEANT. Out, mutineers! Dishonour dog your heels: ABRAHAM. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, stout Hildebrand! SERGEANT (after a pause.) QUENTIN. Faith, a poor heron I, who wing my flight True, worthy friend. Each rock, each stream 1 Each bosky wood, and every frowning tower, SERGEANT. Thou dreamest, young man. Unreal terrors haunt, QUENTIN. But mine is not fantastic. I can tell thee, SERGEANT. And I will hear thee willingly, the rather QUENTIN. I was an orphan boy, and first saw light Not far from where we stand-my lineage low, But honest 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 kinght 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 patronA cure was spoken of, which I might serve, My manners, doctrine, and acquirements fitting. Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd so- It became Even there his well-meant kindness injured me. SERGEANT. 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 Of leprosy, and death were in his company? QUENTIN. The worst of leprosies,-they think you poor. They think at least you have the worst of plagues, SERGEANT. They think like lying villains then. I'm rich, And cast me on the shore from whence he banish'd me. My patron's will, that I, as one who knew More than I should, must leave the realm of Scot- Then let him do his will, and destine for me land, Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by chance. So thought I, when dark Arran, with its walls In that same legion of auxiliaries In which we lately served the Belgian. * [MS.-Quentin. "My short tale Grows mystic now. A dungeon or a grave. SERGEANT. 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 But dance as light as yours. Now, good friend Duly, and honourably, and usefully. To all the wondering boors and gaping children, QUENTIN. QUENTIN. No, 'tis most likely-But I had a hope, QUENTIN. No, by my honest word. I join'd the revel, See me now here, ye winds, whose plaintive wail Such wild examples but refute themselves. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook dance down the Which he in a whole life of petty feud valley, And sing blithe carcls over broken rock And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub And each gay flower it nurses in its passage,- 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 gayety, Which I have laid before you in its sadness. Has never dream'd of, I will teach the knight |