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pated the fumes of the wine, and the I said to them, and strew them on my phantoms of night, and I questioned bed; sprinkle my head with liquid myself on the deeds of the preceeding amber; and let the lyre, the flute, day, I could not recal to myself the and the harp, with their enchanting source of the joy which I had expe- sounds, dispose the heart to love and rienced, nor the circumstances which you. Beautiful maid, approach, whose had excited it. I immediately consi- angelic form, and beautiful face, prodered that the pleasantries which cure for your master, that happiness charm the convivial guests, and excite which he has so long coveted." Thus their immoderate laughter, have their speaking, I descended from my throne foundation in nonsense, in an equi- of gold, and approaching her with a voque, a play of words, or obscene tender and respectful air, I placed a songs. Perhaps the source of this crown of flowers on her head. Refalse gaiety gives birth to the follies ceive, I said, the honours which naof the one and the wickedness of the ture owes you, and which love accords. other; and it is at the best but a fleet- Elevated above your companions, it ing enjoyment, and is founded on the will now be their duty to obey you. ruin and dishonour of other people. Come, charming maid, follow my Unhappy man!-whom grief and despair yield alternately to different torments-who, in the flowing glass, seeks only the forgetfulness of himself, and who sees not that sickness, alienation of mind, loss of memory, and misery are concealed in the treacherous draught.

steps. Alas! what pain and grief lacerated my heart, when, with a modest disdain, she returned me my crown of flowers, and sunk into the deepest grief. I concealed my chagrin, and my eunuchs were commanded to conduct this youthful beauty to an apartment prepared for Is there not any thing remaining my pleasures. Desire and inquietude wherewith the languor of the soul can made me hasten after her. I apbe cured, and peace restored to the proached her, I solicited the favour mind-does not love offer a certain of being heard; I painted the ardour remedy? Deliver thyself up, my of my passion, but I received every soul, to its agreeable delight, and moment a fresh assurance of my dis burn with its delicious fires. Why grace. By turns I was a slave and a shouldst thou hesitate? Why retard tyrant. Imenaced and I implored; at the moment of thy happiness? Fiy, last, transported with love and rage, I my favourite, spare not any thing to offered her the choice of a mutual love, give satisfaction to your master. Let or an instant death. Sensible of the all my women, and my concubines, passion and the menaces of her king, superbly adorned, appear this night she retired a few paces, and directing at my royal table. Let the women of towards me a look, mixed of sorIsrael, the beauties of foreign coun- row and indignation, she spoke. tries, the presents of princes, or the What does king Solomon suppose? slaves of my court, present them. My feeble body trembles before you, selves before their monarch, and the and that is the only advantage your most worthy of them shall obtain his power gives you. There it finds its favours. I spoke, and was obeyed- limits. My mind is free above your the most beautiful women of the uni- controul, and fears neither the rage verse passed before me. One, of the conqueror, nor the weight of amongst the rest, attracted my atten- his chains. They tell me, Prophet tion. I was struck with her superior supreme! that you can argue of the charms. Alas! my soul now recals the angels of men, and the brutes-that first moment of an unhappy and un- you can reason elegantly on the folly fortunate attachment. This virgin of the passions and the empire of was an Egyptian-the graces had reason that you know to discover to formed her shape; her countenance the attentive tribes, the cause of evil was open, her air commanding, her and the source of good-and that your jetty locks floated on a bosom whiter wisdom is only equalled by your powthan the snow on the mountain. I er. Where then is now that wisdom? invited my friends to contribute to the or is it blinded by love? O judge of happiness of their king. Bring roses, Israel, what art thou at this moment? UNIVERSAL MAG, VOL. XIV.

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shall a slave, a peasant-boy, a lacquey, a mere creature of my will, thus dare to cross me even in my very love? Albert Yet hear me.

Gorbac. (In a contemptuous wanner). But, forsooth, you are his friend, the chosen object of his esteem, his bosom friend; and I can well anticipate the fond excuses you would make.

Albert. No, Gorbuc! I am no mean defender of baseness and ingratitude. Prove to me that Edward is the wretch you think him, and—

Will the son of David receive, in the first nuptial bed of the universe, a stranger, a peasant, a slave? If your passion suffer you not to attend to these odious nanes, and if love, like death, absorbs every distinction, are you therefore ignorant, that it belongs to me to satisfy your tenderness. Employ, cruel king, your useless force. Give no rein to your fury, and without knowing real pleasure, obtain that which can delight your tyranny-on my heart it has no effect. Know, Solomon, how much your power is limited. You can, with a threatening look make Israel tremble. It is tenderness alone which gives birth to love, but in this instant it has no influence on me. I am destined for another, beyond the limits of your empire, in my own country. I have pledged my faith to my equal. He received my first sigh, and the first expression of my love: the God above has heard them, and death alone can alter them. Plunge your poinard in my breast, deprive me of a life which I now disdain. Since I am in your Albert. Be not too rash. In our power, let your brutality be extin- judgment of things, we should forbear guished in my blood; but whilst it a too hasty decision from external circulates in my veins, and whilst it is permitted me to respire, I here attest before the Gods of Egypt, that hatred of thee shall be my lot: may despair, barbarous king, be thine. Strike, continued the beautiful tive, uncovering her bosom, and let it be written in the annals of Juda, that the son of David, inflamed by an impious passion, immolated his slave, and massacred the object of his love.

[To be continued.]

cap

R. H.

THE SECRET CHAMBER; or, THE
NOBLE PEASANT. An original
Drama, in Three Acts.

[Continued from p. 370.]

A Gothic Chamber. Enter GORBUC and ALBERT. Albert.

TAY, I pray thee, gentle consin, do not start away so, and give the rein thus to thy passion. I tell thee

Gorbue. And I tell thee-that it is false false as Hell. These eyes beheld him on his knees before herthese ears heard his vile tales leath,

Gorbue. (Suceringly). I understand you-but-Bell and damnation, the very thought is madness. I tell thee, young man, I saw him. What, would you have me doubt ny eyes, my ears, and all my senses? I saw him-curses light on his young body. would my sword had, in the same instant, sought his perfidious heart. And she, too, the faithless Adelaideshe-your sister-she, could stoop so low, as to listen to the vows of a vile peasant!

appearances. I dare swear you'll find, ere long, that you have greatly wrong. ed them both. Nay, as to Adelaide, ! never can believe her half so vile—and

Edward

Gorbuc. Is a villain! I proclaim it loudly. A base, cringing, cowardly villain! A mere slave, a pander; a wretch who bears about him a foul and frontless conscience.

Albert. Pooh! you're too warm. I cannot keep pace with the violence of your passion.

Gorbuc. No, Sir, your ill-timed friendship can brook a thousand insults which my honour burns to casti gate. Yet listen: I will tell the bew, the very place, and time I caught them in the shameless fact. Twas yester-evening, when, walking in the garden, musing on the various turns of life, I saw your sister cross the path in which I was. She seemed m haste, and as I bent my nimble steps to follow her, lo! I beheld young Edward issue from an adjoining walk. A thought, like lighting, flashed across my mind: e'en now it scorches my very brain, and makes me wild. Oh! that at that moment the winged

thunder of Heaven had blasted his youthful form, and stretched him, at iny feet, a lifeless corse!

Albert. I pray thee be calm.

Gorbuc. Calm! Bid the raging sea smooth its ruffled surface when furious whirlwinds rush along-bid the tortured wretch smile in convulsive agonies or bid the blood-stained villain, whose soul is deep in guilt, smile with hope and resignation in the hour of death! Albert. thy tale.

Well, but proceed with

Gorbuc. It is short, for-would you thirk it? as I followed close behind, I saw your sister stop- he beckoned Edward to approach-he sprang towards her and they turned into another avenue. But I was not to be deceived-faithful to the damning agonies which then tore my bosom, I still kept up the chace till, at last, I saw them seated in the arbor, that scene of all their guilt.

Albert. Guilt! You alarm me! What, he did not-but no-'tis impossible-speak on, I pr'ythee, for my soul is on the rack.

Gorbuc. Silently I crept along beneath the umbrageous foliage, till at length my ears were curst with the maddening sound of love!

Albert. Love!

Gorbuc. Aye, love! 'twas a tale of love. I heard the villain sighing at her feet, dissolved in amorous fires! God! why did I not then stab him to the heart?

Albert. Well, but what said my sister? Surely she reproved his boldness; her pride, her wounded pride, must at once have crushed his arro

gance.

Gorbuc. No: there it was. She, perfidious woman, heard, with fond delight, his insidious vows; encou raged his hopes; soothed his fears; calmed his apprehensions; kissed caressed-and-damnation !---Albert. Oh! stop. Let me not hear the dreadful truth. Oh, unhappy girl, what hast thou done? The hotour of thy house is stained, and thy name become the mark of every vul gar jest. Well do I foresce the fatal consequences of thy heinous crime. Gorbue. What whining cant is this? What childish, weak, effeminate regret: flow, shall we then, like gran

dames, sit us down and cry? weep like a love-sick girl, and play the fool with our own eyes? No: rather let us seek revenge.

Albert. Revenge! What revenge?
What would thy headstrong fury do?
Gorbuc. Murder.

Albert. Murder! who? what?
Gorbuc. Fool!

Albert. I do confess my soul shrinks with horror from the thought of blood. Nay, more: I would not, for the worth of worlds, injure my sister: for her guilt must be more strongly, more indubitably placed before my eyes, ere I can give it credence.

Gorbuc. So then, it seems you doubt my word. Ha! is it so: by Hell, young man, if thou dar'st say as much, I would have thee look to thyself. I am not used to be insulted thus.

Albert. Nor I to be bravadoed! Gorbuc, your temper is intolerably overbearing, though for wisest reasons, I have hitherto chosen to endure it. Learn, however, that the blood of a noble ancestry circulates within this bosom, and will warmly rouse itself to repress an insulting boaster!

Gorbac. How! boaster.

Albert. Aye, boaster! I repeat it. If thou like it not, act as thou wilt.

Gorbuc. Thy father's name protects thee, stripling, or, by yon Heaven, my sword should soon chastise thy insolence.

Albert. Why, look ye, Gorbuc, I can, if there be need, as stoutly stand to't as any man in England; and, I believe, even you would find ine somewhat tough. But domestic peace has ever been my aim; nor do I wish, at this unsettled moment, to embroil, by any act of mine, a father's happiness. I do, however, pledge my honour, that if young Edward prove so base, so vile as you report; and if my sister be that worthless thing you think her, I will make you ample amends for any unbecoming doubts I may have expressed.

Gorbuc. Then be it so; meanwhile I will to the baron, for I have business with him. [Exit.

Albert. I am almost distracted. If what Gorbuc tell me, be true, the honour of my family demands that I should chastise, with my sword, the villainy of Edward-of Edward-my friend!--is it possible!-can he be

false?-can he be ungrateful-and my to abuse thine ear with foul tales of sister too, can she have stained her vilest infamy, is it for thee so name by so foul an act! Oh, Ade- readily to eredit the undoing of thy laide, Adelaide, if thou hast done so- sister? Enter ADELAIDE.

Hast done what my brother! What have I committed that should make thee thus, in anguish, call upon my name? (He turns from her). Nay, for Heaven's sake, do not turn from me. If I have ever, even in thought, done ought that can raise a blush upon thy check, oh! drive me, spurn, me from thy presence. But no! I am innocent. Do not, then, so cruelly wring my heart.

Albert. Adelaide! for I know not whether I dare call thee by the name of sister, I have heard such tidings of thee, as, till I am satisfied as to their truth or falsehood, forbid me to explain myself.

Adelaide. Explain thyself! Oh, Albert! look at me, does the blush of guilt distain my cheek? Feel this hand! does it tremble? My heartdoes it beat with quicker pulsation than when I saw you last? Believe me, however false reports may have reached thine ear, I am as truly and as worthily thy sister as ever.

Albert. Pardon me. My information comes from unquestionable authority; and, perhaps, recollection may awaken to a thousand thoughts, when I pronounce the name of-Gor.

buc.

Adelaide. Ha! Gorbuc! My heart sickens at the sound.

Albert. Ha! do you start! Oh, guilt, guilt, have I caught you. Nay then, this instant will I seck young Edward, and reach his perfidious heart. (Going).

Adelaide. Oh, stop my brother! I will explain myself, and clear up all your doubts. I will lay my bosom open to you, and you shall read its inmost thoughts. I have never wronged

you.

Albert. Mark me, Adelaide! I have ever loved thee with a brother's warmth; have felt the same hopes, the same joys, the same fears, and knew no bliss but what I shared with thee. Nay, even now, would die, to shelter thee from harm. Yet, if what I've heard be true,

Adelaide. Oh, tell me-tell me all that I may prove how false it it? cannot bear to stand accused before thee, even in thought.

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Albert. Do you remember yester night.

Adelaide. What of it?
Albert. The garden.
Adelaide. Where?

Albert. Young Edward-the arbour -yows of love. Hah! does it not strike upon your soul, like lightning, and rouse a thousand fiends? What! not change colour! Oh, hardened in your guilt.

Adelaide. Hear me Albert.
Albert. No.

Adelaide. For Heaven's sake do not refuse me. Lo! on my knees I beg it! Albert. Rise, I pray thee. I wish no humiliation.

Adelaide. Never will I quit this pos ture till I have compelled you to give me justice. Thus will I hold you! and with tears exclaim, “I am innocent!" (Albert struggling to go). Nay, you shall not quit me; I will be satisfied.

Albert. Foolish girl! This contumacy rather confirms suspicion, and seems as though you'd compel me into a disbelief. Loose me I say, or thus, thus, I tear me from you. (Rushes out, dragging Adelaide after him). End of Act I.

Albert. Not wronged me! Have The you not stained the honour of your family? Have you not become the pander of your own infamy-the base slave of your paramour ?—'sdeath, not wronged me?

Adelaide. Oh Heaven! oh earth! bear witness when I say-I am innoIf Gorbuc, (how my soul shudders at the name), has meanly sought

cent.

ACT. II. SCENE I.

A

The Library.
Baron discovered reading.
knocking at the door heard.
Baron. Come in. (Enter Edward).
Welcome my young friend. I sent for
you Edward, to have a little conversa-
tion ere you proceed to your night's
repose, in your new apartinent.

Edward. It will ever be my pride
to listen to your words, and to obey
your dictates.

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Baron. I belive you, my boy, and never fight with those they could not I'm glad to see it. I do remember, see. when first I took you to my house, a little chubby rogue, there was a gentle mildness in thy manners that won my esteem? and I did then predict you would not wrong my kindness.

Edward. Oh, sir, if ever this heart could cease to honour and to love you, then may it instantly cease to beat. I was a poor, friendless child, exposed to all the storms of poverty, when, in your bountiful mercy, you snatched me from penury, and raised me into affluence. My life, 'tis all I have, shall ever be at your service; and surely I can never forget to die in your behalf.

Baron. Come, come, I did not mean this; but now let us proceed to the immediate object of this visit. Sit you down. (They seat themselves). Edward, you have doubtless noted that foolish idea which prevails among my servants, and I believe through the whole village, of the eastern apartments being haunted.

Edward. I have, and oft have sought to quell such childish apprehensions by the force of ridicule, but they are so deeply rooted, and seem to have been so long believed, that I fear it is impossible to eradicate them.

Baron. Pooh! pooh! I dont depair of driving all these hobgoblins into the Red Sea, with thy aid alone. Edward. Command me and I shall obey.

Baron. Now I wish you, this night, at a test of its fallacy, to sleep in that apartment. I dare venture to say you

are not afraid.

Edward. I afraid! The innocent never fear.

Edward. Why there was something like courage in that to be sure; however, I will venture unarmed to meet this formidable sprite, and doubt not I shall be able to render a good account of him to-morrow.

Baron. Hark'ee Edward, I intend to-morrow morning to summon all there you shall relate, if any thing my household into the great hall, and wards, in order that every atom of disoccurs during the night; and aftertrust may be destroyed, they shall convinced from occular demonstraaccompany you thither, and thus be

tion.

if I can in any manner be instrumenEdward. Be it so. I shall be happy tal in restoring peace to a family to which I owe so much.

Baron. Aye, aye, you were always a grateful youth; and yet methinks you have been but poorly treated. Gorbuc does not appear to hold you much in his esteem. How is it? have you had any rupture with him?

Edward. None, my lord. Whatever man shares your good opinion commands my respect, and compels me, from motives of honour, to stifle dawning resentment.

Baron. I do not understand you. Believe me, you mistake me much, if you think I would designedly misplace my regard. Know you ought of Gorbue, that can in any manner taint his fair character? By my soul an ye do, and refuse to disclose it, you act not fairly by me.

Edward. Indeed, my lord, I have never observed any thing but an overbearing arrogance, and a studied insolence to those whom he deems his inferiors. I am free in my observation, but it is the language of my beart.

Baron. Yes, yes, but they do some times. I do not imagine that my servants are very far from being inno. cent, that is to say, their consciences are untouched, yet, I'm sure, they would sooner swallow poison, or-or Baron Trust me, I fear it is the -be married, than pass five minutes language of resentment, and you seek in that apartment alone. To be sure to injure Gorbue in my opinion they did once offer to go all in a body, merely becausearmed with pokers, shovels, brooms, Edward. Because what, my lord? saucepans, gridirons, and the whole Baron. Oh! nothing, nothing at all. kitchen artillery, with old Ambrose. It was a mere trifle; and, in fact, 'I for their colonel; but in consequence did not pay much attention to his of one of their fellows affirming that tale, though I observed he was deeply old saucer eyes fights invisibly, they stung; and then he talked of dismissall ran back, swearing they would ing the peasant boy from my protec

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