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!-
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.

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.]

SERGEANT.

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-
My old master
But he was mix'd in many a deadly fend-
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

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!

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 they too might have felt it. I've a thought-
But stay-what plans your wisdom for yourself?

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

me.

Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by chance.
Comrade, nay;
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,†
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.

* [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.
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 should'st say Amen, and be my warrant,
That I speak truth to them.

QUENTIN.

QUENTIN.

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 hurt deer,
Which seeks instinctively his native lair,
Though his heart tells him it is but to die there.

QUENTIN.

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
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the land,
My native land-each cape and cliff I knew.
"Behold me now," I said, "your destined victim!"
So greets the sentenced criminal the headsman,
Who slow approaches with his lifted axe.
"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!"

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,

valley,

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
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.