TO THE QUEEN DOWAGER.

Madam,

When I first requested permission to dedicate this humble effort to your Majesty, I felt—a feeling I confess which I had no right to indulge—that I should be much disappointed if you were pleased to refuse me; but now that you have graciously condescended to honour me by granting it, a fear of the unworthiness of my offering diminishes the gratification I should otherwise experience, and makes me almost envious of talents which might better have justified your patronage. Let others, however, excel me as much as they may in those endowments which are supposed to constitute genius, I have at least the comfort of reflecting that none can excel me in dutiful affection to your Royal Person, in profound reverence for your character, and in respectful admiration of those virtues which have long endeared you to all British hearts, and will remain a monument of your goodness when you shall have exchanged time for eternity.

More than this I dare not say, lest it should be imputed to a want of delicacy: less than this I will not say, certain that it would be considered as an omission of duty.

I remain, With the highest respect, Madam, Your Majesty's most dutiful, most humble, And most devoted Servant,

J. A. SARGANT.

PREFACE.

In laying this Play before the public some apology is perhaps due. Sensible that it cannot compete with many of the productions of the present day, the author yet pleads for such exemption only from severe criticism, as true humility, and a respect for the opinions of an enlightened and intellectual age, may entitle her to. She has not aimed at any display of originality, nor has she been deceived by a presumptuous estimation of her powers, to attempt that which she may not have more ability than leisure and opportunity to accomplish. Unlike those who write for amusement, or by profession, or in the consciousness of their talents, to gain for themselves competence or fame, her pen is exercised only to soothe anxiety, to refresh exhausted energy, and to vary the monotony of seclusion. She would not, however, be thought indifferent to the praise or censure of her contemporaries. Far from it. No exertion, compatible with higher duties, would be thought too severe to obtain the former, nor any degree of patient labour too lengthened to avoid the latter. She

is, however, so circumstanced as to preclude such a dedication of her time, and therefore is it that she ventures to ask for that indulgence which, in another case, she would have deemed it unjustifiable to claim or to expect.

But whilst all attempt at originality is disclaimed, imitation of any one, or assistance from any one is equally disavowed. This play was written before the late productions, which bear the same title, made their appearance. Its defects therefore are its own; its merits—if happily it possess any—are its own also; and standing thus entirely upon its native ground, it is respectfully submitted to the judgment of the public.

J. A. S.

Clapton Square, May, 1840.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN.

WOMEN.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Chinon.

Alençon. Xaintrailles.

Alençon. Welcome again to freedom! France may rejoice, since thou in arms once more Art seen for her.

Xaint. In arms to little purpose. Our cause is lost, my lord. Orleans, our best, Last hope, must fall, and shortly. But I have sought thee, Eager to know, to learn,—

Alen. What wouldst thou know?

Xaint. This strange report! this damsel, who, 'tis said, Is hither come to work such wondrous feats— Whence doth she spring?

Alen. From Domremie; her birth Not less obscure than this her native village.

Xaint. How introduced?

Alen. She first besought from Baudricour An escort to the Dauphin; but in vain. At length, her suit oft urged, fair character, And lofty words prevailed with him.

Xaint. The prince Will ne'er demean himself to listen to her?

Alen. A drowning man will catch, and eagerly, At weeds uprooted by the storm that wrecked him. She comes to-day, by order from himself, Before the council.

Xaint. Hast seen her?

Alen. I have.

Xaint. Describe her: is she young?

Alen. Of that sweet age When girlish smiles assume the dignity Which conscious womanhood doth first confer: The rose just blushing to the full.

Xaint. Rustic, No doubt, and ignorant.

Alen. Her soul hath stamped her manner Simple, yet dignified—lofty, yet meek.

Xaint. Ta'en captive—grown poetic.

Alen. Age like mine Has little thought of love or poesy; But yet there is a charm where loveliness Meets virtue, which it were a shame to slight. The snow which crowns the old man's head should make His reason cool, yet need not chill his heart. But come—the council must be now assembled.

Xaint. One question more—is Richemont here?

Alen. Not he, Nor e'en desired. The hate the Dauphin bears him Continues undiminished.

Xaint. Yet the world Believes them cordial friends; that with the rank He craved, the constable of France has lost All that disgust the Earl of Richemont felt.

Alen. Charles never will forgive the insult shown To them he valued most. Du Châtel first, Then Louvel he required should be dismissed His service and the council—price of friendship. The first his interest in his master's sank, But Louvel's firm adherence to his post, Bringing Camouse's death.

Xaint. Camouse's death!

Alen. Ay, 'twas a bloody deed: but more anon, This maid absorbs all thought.

Xaint. Let's hasten then: My curiosity is all awake— And more, I bear an answer from the regent, Which to the prince and council I must show.

Scene II.—Council.

Charles, Louvel, Valancour, &c.

Cha. We'll hear no more. Whilst one poor hope remained We would have hazarded our chance; but now Tis madness to resist.

Enter Xaintrailles and Alençon.

Returned! How met The haughty occupant of our own place The offer tendered him?

Xaint. As one who holds The game already in his hands may hear His adversary's scheme to share the stake. "I am not one," he said, "to beat the bush That others may secure the birds. Ere Orleans Can be sequestered, we must see good title To execute the deed; Bedford, not Burgundy, Must hold that city for his liege and lord."

Cha. Fool that we were to court such insolence! But yet perhaps 'tis only what ourselves Had, in like circumstances, said more rudely.

Alen. Will not your grace resent the indignity?

Cha. But how? words are but poor revenge; And words are all we boast. We will retire To Dauphiné.

Omnes. To Dauphiné!

Alen. You jest. You cannot mean—

Cha. We've said, and mean it too. Fear not, my friends, we'll lead a joyous life. War we will have, as dappled deer shall find, A court midst sylvan shades, not lacking beauty, Though of but rural kind, to cheer our toils.

Alen. (aside. Will nought correct this levity of speech? Xaintrailles himself, though not a whit more staid, Is by his thoughtless master shamed to gravity.) Your grace forgets the maid from Domremie Doth wait an audience.

Cha. We much regret, My lord, our weak compliance with such folly.

Alen. The royal word is pledged.

Cha. We'll not retract it. It may at least afford us novelty. Let her appear.

Xaint. Why not devise some plan To prove her truth, or to detect the fraud?

Cha. Well thought—but how?

Xaint. To thee she bears this message. If Heaven, as she asserts, has sent her hither, He will not fail, by certain proof, to mark The mission his. Amongst ourselves then mingle, And let another represent thee.

Cha. Good. No better representative than thou; In truth we do but play the part of king, And thou as aptly as ourself may act it.

[They exchange places.

Enter Joan.

Xaint. Thou hast an audience asked: thy suit thus granted, We bid thee fearlessly declare thy will.

Joan. I seek the royal ear: this is my prince! And thus with veneration deep—

[Kneels to Charles.

Cha. Not so. No female at my feet may kneel thus lowly. Maiden! I own no earthly state which claims Such reverence; but simply as a man I stand midst men, protector of thy sex, Admirer of thy charms!

Joan. Just is the homage— But now (rises) I stand the delegate of heav'n, And thus declare my mission. "Go!" said the Mighty, "Go! tell thy prince deliverance is nigh: And thine the hand to rid him of his foes! Thou shalt raise the siege of Orleans!"

Cha. Indeed! Strong arms, and steeled, have not availed to raise it, And shall a hand more fitting for the dance—

Joan. Beware of such a sneer. The mountain lily Would crush the mountain if 'twere bid to do it; And midst the mighty ruin it had wrought Itself would smile in safety. This I pledge thee! The foe shall fly, the land once more be free, The sceptre to thy line shall be confirmed, And holy hands at Rheims shall crown thee.

Cha. Thy bearing Forbids all thought of fraud, and proves that thou And falsehood have no fellowship: thou art Thyself deceived.

Joan. I know that I may seem A mere enthusiast, a frail, weak woman: None think more meanly of me than myself: But sense of weakness proves me not deceived. Then scorn me not; if mercy once be spurned, Indignant Heaven in frowns may hide his face, And change the dew of blessing to a curse.

Cha. We have declared our will, but even now, To pass to Dauphiné.

Joan. Fly from the foe! Leave thy inheritance! forfeit thy birthright! Desert the post consigned to thee! the shepherd Throw thus aside his crook, mean safety seeking, And leave the hapless flock the fell wolf's prey! O! France! poor land! then art thou lost indeed, Though not by Heaven cast off. Thy prince deserts thee— In evil hour betrays himself and thee. These are my country's tears; and mark me, prince, Such tears as these shall, in a sea of woe, In judgment's awful hour, submerge thy soul.

Alen. The prince is moved.

Cha. We'll think upon this matter. Meanwhile thou mayst retire.

[They withdraw.

Joan. Yet dost thou doubt me?

Cha. And now, sweet maid, we must evince Our sense of kindness such—(takes her hand.)

Joan. Thou dost mistake me.

Cha. (aside, Oh! majesty of virtue! I stand abashed Before the simple form thou hast assumed, Still lower than the lowly who reproves me.) Forgive the offence.

Joan. It is forgotten; Thou hast not injured me.

Cha. Thou sayst aright. The assailer not assailed sustains the injury, When vice would sully purity. Speak thy wishes.

Joan. I dare not trust the air with such a secret As that which trembles here. (Approaches and whispers.)

Cha. Who told thee this? Can Death then ope his mouldy jaws, and speak Without a tongue?

Joan. Wouldst thou hear more?

Cha. Forbear!

Joan. The sword, which in the keeping of that church Has since remained, must to my hand be given, And thou must claim it.

Cha. Approach! (To the court.)

Omnes. Is there hope?

Cha. Reason and hope are yet at variance; But instantly to Fierbois we will send, And prove the truth of words declared to us. Valancour, the embassy is thine. Haste thee, Thy failure or success decides our movements. Louvel protect the maid.—On his return We will again assemble.

Scene III.—Church of St. Catherine de Fierbois.—Midnight.

Abbot and Father Austin.

Aus. Nay, rest awhile, my lord.

Abb. It may not be, A secret presses here, which ere my soul Can quit in peace its tenement of clay, Must be discharged; and on no other spot May I divulge that secret.

Aus. Aid me then. Here divers tombs of knights attract my eyes, But none with such device as thou hast said.

Abb. Look where the eastern window proudly throws A stream of crimson light, when ev'ning's gloom Enshrouds all else—in token of respect To him who sleeps below. Did not the chill Of age, perhaps of death, benumb my limbs, My watchful feet, accustomed to the path, Had led me to the spot.

Aus. 'Tis here.

Abb. Alas! There then at rest lies he, the brave, the young, And oh! for kingly shame, for kingly woe, The murdered, the betrayed.

Aus. Compose thyself. Here on this mutilated effigy, (Stern lesson of rebuke for haughty pride,) By warrior felt, rest thee.

Abb. What sound was that?

Aus. Nought save the wind, which tired of being pent Within these cloistered aisles, and heavy made By penitential sighs, doth sullen moan For liberty, and free access to heaven.

Abb. 'Tis hushed, whate'er it was. Now listen, Austin:— When 'gainst the legions of the Saracen The hearts of knights with holy ardour burned, And kings and nobles left their native land, The young Montalbert, fav'rite of his prince, Joined those heroic ranks.

Aus. Montalbert! he Of whom tradition speaks a royal damsel Viewed with eyes of love?

Abb. Alas! here secretly Their marriage vows were pledged.

Aus. He fell in fight.

Abb. Oh! would that it were so. Come nigher, Austin. That marriage was discovered to the monarch, And pride, primeval sin of men and angels, Betrayed the kingly mind, and he—

Aus. Why pause?

Abb. It is a dreadful thing, my son, to drag Forgotten crime to light, and turn aside The veil which time hath drawn o'er guilt in pity. Montalbert secretly was sent to France On private embassy.—He sought his bride! His steps were tracked—beneath these walls he fell, Here breathed his parting groan.

Aus. Hark! midnight strikes!

Abb. Beneath this stone his cold remains were laid, In stately armour clad, as he desired, That he might lie, as warrior ought to lie, Prepared at once to start again to life, When the last trump shall sound. All save his sword, All in this grave, name, honours, wrongs, revenge, Were buried deep.

Aus. Why not his sword?

Abb. The screen Which darkens life ofttimes unveils futurity; And simple dying men have proved true prophets. "This sword," he cried, to our good, weeping father, "First won from holiest tomb in Palestine, Hath earnest reaped of glorious deeds to come. Darkness shall cover France: in that her hour Of utmost peril, blood of mine shall claim it, And with it work deliverance. Where it lies Let none ere know, save those who shall succeed thee." His wish has been obeyed.

Aus. How of his race?

Abb. He left a babe—its fate unknown to me.

Aus. What greater need than that which now afflicts us?

Abb. I have not laid me down to rest, for months, Without impatient hope I might be called, Before night visited again these walls, To yield the sacred weapon.

[Knocking.

Aus. Hark! that tumult!

Abb. May righteous Heaven forfend no danger nigh. Let us withdraw behind this massy pillar, Lest we create suspicion.

Enter Valancour, and Monks.

Val. To the abbot!— We have an embassy to him, on which The fate of France may rest.

Abb. Dost hear? Release me.[Advances. Who thus disturbs the peaceful hours of night, And what thy purpose?

Val. This: in the king's name, We here demand a sword which in the keeping Of this house has long been held.

Abb. Wherefore claimed?

Val. In faith of one, a wondrous maid, who says She is decreed to save the country.

Abb. What proof Produced of such a mission?

Val. This with others— She has in private told the prince a fact, Known to himself alone, and challenges Production of this sword, as pledge and proof Of her authority.

Abb. Of noble birth The maid?

Val. Most humble.

Aus. Crushed the rising hope Of near deliverance.

Abb. And why? Faint heart, Why doubt that noble blood doth show itself, Though severed from its fount by laspe of years? Hast thou ne'er marked the far and devious course Of proudest rivers, borne from highest mountain, Now lost midst rocks; now over beds impure, Slow, sluggish seen; now hidden from all sight, And only heard in murmurs low beneath The shade of dark, impervious boughs; and now So shallow found, that urchin foot dare tempt Its depth, and laughing overleap its banks; Then sudden bursting forth, and scorning bounds, It pours its sparkling waters in a flood, Spreads its wide bosom to the smiling sun, The pride and wonder of the land it feeds?

Val. We wait impatient thy reply, good father. Is there such weapon in these walls?

Abb. There is:— And knowledge of the fact attests the mission Heaven's work. See where the holy weapon lies, Beneath yon massy stone.

Chorus of Monks.

Spring from thy resting-place, sword of the brave! Arm the deliv'rer's hand, destined to save— France calls on thee.

Chorus of Soldiers.

Give it rejoicing light—see! it is ours.— Now we defy the foe—England's great pow'rs!— France shall be free.

Scene IV.—Chinon.

Joan. Bertha.

Joan. Alas! not yet returned?

Ber. The way is far.

Joan. What, if too careful of his charge, the abbot Coldly deny his suit, some fraud suspecting? Wouldst know the heaviest ill mortality Can bear? 'Tis this—suspense. Suspense dries up The fertile mind, holds captive ev'ry nerve, The spirit sinks, impedes swift Time's career, And stays the golden chariot of the sky; Clothes noon's resplendent face with heavy clouds, Makes peaceful night laborious, watchful day. Ill, and its train of ills, may all be borne; But dire suspense, that canker of the soul, Like a fell blight encrusts each energy Of mind and frame, and with unnatural heat Consumes the oil of life.

Ber. Let's cheat the hours With converse of the past. Sit on this turf, And here recount the story of thy days. Sure thou wert deemed, from reason's dawn, a treasure.

Joan. E'en from my childhood I was never like Those whom my childhood shared. To be alone My joy, thoughts undefined my fancy filling. Sometimes my heart would throb, my young eye swim With sudden tears; but why I could not tell. I seemed, e'en then, cast from some other sphere, Of which sufficient memory was left To link me closer to a former state! And make me feel an exile.

Ber. Would I'd known thee! How sweet to mark developement of mind Pregnant as thine!

Joan. Thou might'st have been as others. I was not loved. I was not understood. Some deemed me void of Nature's kindly gifts, In intellect deficient, and in heart Most cold. Oh! how they wronged that heart! I loved Too keen, alas! yet had but few to love, And fewer still to answer to my love.

Ber. I pain thee now.

Joan. Regret it not; the heart, Like the swelled ocean, must exceed its bounds, And find departed calm best in exhaustion. 'Tis past, and I can smile again, dear Bertha. It was a bitter time, and I, perhaps, Had been a ruined child, when Heaven first sent A holy man to shelter in our village. A warrior he had been, but heavy woes Had made him change the helmet for the cowl. In hist'ry's page he deep was skilled. I heard, And stole beside him. He did not notice me. Then afterwards he marked my kindling eye, And soon, amazed, I found myself his favourite. A new bright world was opened to my view. He told of ages past, of heroes bold, Of women too, who, for their country's weal, Had nobly died. No longer now alone, I dwelt where mighty spirits dwelt. I heard Their lofty thoughts, their sentiments sublime, And lived but in the glorious creation My fancy had called forth. Had I a sorrow? 'Twas, how mean myself. Had I a hope? It was that I might emulate their deeds, And prove as great as them whom thus I honoured.

Ber. Strange tissue of events, which Heaven delights Ofttimes to weave, making the link which seems Meanest to our poor, erring comprehension, The chief on which the chain of life depends.

Joan. Now could I feel the smart of England's yoke, And now one burning wish my heart consumed— To save my country and my prince. Day-dreams Or nightly visions had one single theme. Whole nights I wept, whole nights I prayed. One day, Upon a gentle slope I stood. Beneath me Lay the smiling plain in vernal beauty. Thence I beheld (how swells my heart e'en now!) A squadron of the foe passing triumphant. The trumpet's voice I heard, and the loud laugh Alternate rang in echoes through the woods. I gazed; a madd'ning fire, a deadly chill Seized on my frame. I fled the sound, nor paused Till at the altar's foot I threw myself, In agony and spent. Words issued not— I raised my supplicating hands on high: Then sank into a trance, as since I find.

Ber. Scarce have I drawn my breath, lest one brief word Should 'scape my ear; and now I gaze on thee Almost with awe, temp'ring my fond affection. What followed?