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Scene changes to the Street before the Court-Martial Room.

Enter HALBERT, aud Drummer, with LoveLACE as a prisoner, Guard, &c. Hal. I never felt my heart relax for a comrade before, when he had committed a capital offence; but there is something about thee that moves the hardness of my disposition, because I fear there is no hope of saving thee. Thine is the supreme crime in the army.

Love. Your concern for me betrays the humanity of your heart. I thank you for your affection, but dean is more welcome to me than life.

Drum. It would be a long time before I could persuade myself to think so; but I fear there's no more chance for thee than for the head of my drum against the point of a sharp knife. Mutiny to an officer is a deadly stroke, I remember I received 400 lashes once for a sort of speech I made on a march. Hal. How so, Drummer?

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Drum. We were padding the hoof, all over dirt and sweat, at the Retreat at St. Cas, where a good pair of heels was of vast service to a man: so says a comrade to me, seeing the officers ride 'Let's pull them off their horses. Zounds! shall they ride and we walk?" Be quiet," replies I; "if they don't ride horses, they'll ride us.' Egad! as soon as we had escaped the bayonet, they tickled my back with the hands of two brother drums-400-and laid it in as close as wax.

Lov. Thou'rt a cheerful, happy lad, and may prosper. I am pleased with my condition--nor do I repine at the expected fate.

Air.-(LOVELACE.)

The world hath lost its charms for me;

Beauty like Truth's no more;

My mirth is changed for misery-
She's false whom I adore.

Angels are not more fair above,

In each exterior part;

But angels are inore true in love,
And wear a purer heart.

Drum. Zounds! my brave fellow, don't let the idea of a bullet kill thee before thou'rt shot. If this breath of life is so irksome, the sooner it's let out the better. Come! come, I hate to see a fine fellow chap-fallen. Brace

up, my buck! there's good sound in thee yet.

Air (DRUMMER) "There was a Mouse lived in a Mill.”

(Kettledrums and Flutes.)

We've bright blue eyes about the town,

Whose rigdum will decoy ye;

And buxom damsels, fair and brown,

With a rigdum-bonny blue-decoy me!

Decoy me, Mary-decoy me, Jenny-decoy me, Sarah- decoy me!
Hum-strum, kettle-drum-rum-dum-beauty decoy me!

[Exeunt.

Scene opens and discovers a regimental Court-Martial.-JUDGE, ADVOCATE, CLERK, MAJOR APTJONES, LOTHIAN, BLOOMER, and other Officers.

Loth. Come, Mr. Judge, let us proceed to business.

Clerk. Gentlemen of the court, by virtue of a warrant signed by his Excel

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lency the Governor, you are to inform yourselves of all complaints and misdemeanors that may be brought before you, and upon evidence and confession of the criminal party, you are to proceed in judgment, according to the established Articles of War and the custom of the Army. Being sworn, gentlemen, you may open the court.

Maj. Well, let hur call in the parties.

Judge. Call in the prisoner, and the witnesses against him.

[Enter LOVELACE, VIOLETA, JESSE, HALBERT, and DRUMMER. Judge (to VIOLETA). Stand where you are, sir. What have you to advance against the prisoner?

Viol. I was exercising my party early in the morning, and this recruit being more awkward than the rest, I corrected him for it, when he called me rascal, and endeavoured to stab me with his bayonet, which he certainly had effected, but the sergeant prevented

Hal. It is certainly true as my officer reports.

Loth. Such a bliudy dog should have been cut to mince-collops on the spot! Maj. Hur is a clouded knave, nor has the fear of Cot before hur eyes. Hur shall be advanced to a gibbet.

Bloom. Yes, he should hang in the wind to cool his fiery spirit.

Drum. (to LOVELACE). Ah! comrade, I thought that you would be no more in their hands than a drumstick in mine.

Lov. Gentlemen, I know your power, and submit to my sentence. Life has long been a burden to me. I had rather have paid the debt in the field, but I die contented. A blow is what I never received before, and what my pride will never suffer me to bear.

Bloom. 'Tis an insolent dog, to resent a stroke from an officer. I always think I do a fellow an honour when I cane him.

Lov. But, permit me to inform this honourable court, before I die, that I am a gentleman of fortune of the county of York, but, being cruelly treated by the woman I adored, I sought death in battle to relieve my woes, and as a soldier left my country. Now lead me to my fate. Ah, ungrateful Violeta. (Turning as to go off.)

Viol. Oh, save me, Heaven! (Fainting in HALBERT's arms. JESSE runs to her.)

Jesse. Oh, help! help! Oh, save my mistress !

Lov. Mistress !

Bloom. What! does our fighting spark faint at the name of death?

Viol. (recovering). Hold-hold-hold! Ah, injured Lovelace! wretched Violeta !

Lov. Ah, ye protecting powers! I know that tuneful voice. She lives! she lives! the dear deluding Violeta.

Bloom. 'Tis a woman, egad! I must make a pretty figure here to have set my wits to a woman.

Loth. Zounds! if women begin to turn soldiers, and only ladylike officers get promotion, 'tis time I was hame in quarters for life. The best act, Maister Bloomer, ye can do is to skep awa' for the Governor, and let him

[A break occurs here in the manuscript-the last leaf of which gives the following as the rough draft of a conclusion]:-

FINALE.

MRS. LAPELLE.

It should be the study of mistress and wife

To smooth by her smiles the rough journey of life,

For happiness truly the fair must attend

Who makes virtue her guide, and her husband her friend.

LOVELACE.

All heroes of arms, since the day of old Troy,

Have been scratched more or less with the dart of the Boy
It is Beauty the standard that bears to the field,
And to Beauty alone 'tis that Englishmen yield.

CAROLINE.

The fop may reform, and the rake may repent ;
For vice, when corrected, brings pleasing content;
And every fair maiden's so vain of her charms,
That she thinks reformation's restricted to arms.

VIOLETA.

The spirit I've shown I hope will inspire
Our ladylike soldiers with courage and fire
He cannot wear scarlet, or fight with the French,
Who won't surpass me for the love of his wench.

HALBERT and CHORUS.

'Tis Valour's the star which irradiates earth,

Not titles and strings-the mere fungus of birth;

By courage our fathers defended this isle,

And her sons ne'er retreat, while her daughters but smile!

CHORUS.

"Tis Valour's the star which irradiates earth, &c.

Tales.

Rosamund Gray.

[Originally published in 1798, by Lee and Hurst, at 32, Paternoster Row, in a halfcrown duodecimo of 134 pages, under the title of "A Tale of Rosamund Gray, and Old Blind Margaret.' The root-idea of this charming narrative is traceable to the antique ballad of "The Old Woman clothed in Gray." The little volume in its original issue was inscribed in friendship to Marmaduke Thompson, of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge.]

CHAPTER I.

It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat spinning in a little arbour at the door of her cottage. She was blind; and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.

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Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was a passage she could not let pass without a comment. 'The moral she drew from it was not very new, to be sure. The girl had heard it a hundred times before -and a hundred times more she could have heard it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her grandmother.

The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing. Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only her left in the world. They two lived together.

They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents, their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time. Our tale hath grief enough in it.

It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father-just after the mother had died of a broken heart; for her husband had fled his country to hide his shame in a foreign land. At that period the old lady retired to a small cottage, in the village of Widford, in Hertfordshire.

Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without fortune or friends; she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had served her faithfully and lovingly.

Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes, and could see. The neighbours said, they had been dimmed by weeping: be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. "God is very good to us, child; I can feel you yet." This she would sometimes say; and we need not wonder to hear, that Rosamund clave unto her grandmother.

Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a principle within, which it seemed as if no outward circumstances could reach. It was a religious principle, and she had taught it to Rosamund; for the girl had mostly resided with her grandmother from her earliest years. Indeed she had taught her all that she knew herself; and the old lady's knowledge did not extend a vast way.

Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a little positive; but Rosamund never argued with her grandmother.

Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with notes and expositions by various learned expositors from Bishop Jewell downwards.

This might never be suffered to lie about like other books--but was kept constantly wrapped up in a handsome case of green velvet, with gold tassels -the only relic of departed grandeur they had brought with them to the cottage-everything else of value had been sold off for the purpose abovementioned.

This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom. Margaret had parted with none of her authority; indeed it was never exerted with much harshness; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown, when she could obtain leave to read her Bible. It was a treasure too valuable for an indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to her granddaughter where to read.

Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation," with cuts-"Pilgrim's Progress,' the first part-a "Cookery Book," with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck here and there between the leaves (I suppose, to point to some of the old lady's most favourite receipts) and there wasWither's Emblems," an old book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.

Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they had been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as old friends, that she had long known. I know not, whether the peculiar cast of her mind might not be traced. in part, to a tincture she had received, in early life, from Walton, and Wither, from John Bunyan, and her Bible.

Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what passes usually for clever or acute. From a child she was remarkably shy and thoughtfulthis was taken for stupidity and want of feeling; and the child has been sometimes whipped for being a stubborn thing, when her little heart was almost bursting with affection.

Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about good humour and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a crying herself, to the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared her the more to Rosamund.

Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are only remembering your poor dear father and mother-I would have you think about them sometimes-it would be strange if you did not-but I fear, Rosamund, I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about your own situation and poor prospects in life. When you do so, you do wrong-remember the naughty man in [the] parable. He never had any good thoughts about God, and his religion and that might have been your case."

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Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her she was not in the habit of arguing with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on these occasions --or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind. But she had never been used to make excuses, when the old

lady said she was doing wrong.

The neighbours were all very kind to them.

The veriest rustics never

passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat-some show of courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate-with a "good morrow, madam," or "young madam," as it might happen.

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