The Battle of Hexham.

by George Colman.

REMARKS.

Mr. Colman acquaints his readers, in his Preface to this play, dated 1808, that it was written near twenty years ago: then, stating, as an apology to his jocose accusers, this reason for having made Shakespeare the model for his dialogue--that plays, which exhibit incidents of former ages, should have the language of the characters conform to their dress--he adds--"To copy Shakspeare, in the general _tournure_ of his phraseology, is a mechanical task, which may be accomplished with a common share of industry and observation:--and this I have attempted (for the reason a.s.signed); endeavouring, at the same time, to avoid a servile quaintness, which would disgust. To aspire to a resemblance of his boundless powers, would have been the labour of a c.o.xcomb;--and had I been vain enough to have essayed it, I should have placed myself in a situation similar to that of the strolling actor, who advertised his performance of a part"--"In imitation of the inimitable Garrick."

"The Battle of Hexham" has been one of the author's most popular works; and has, perhaps, to charge its present loss of influence with the public, to those historical events of modern times, which have steeled the heart against all minor scenes of woe, and deprived of their wonted interest the sorrows of Queen Margaret and her child.

There is a short, but well known narrative, written by one Clery, an humble valet de chambre--which, for pathetic claims, in behalf of suffering majesty and infant royalty, may bid defiance to all that history has before recorded, or poets feigned, to melt the soul to sympathy.

Nor can anxiety be now awakened in consequence of a past battle at Hexham, between a few thousand men, merely disputing which of two cousins should be their king, when, at this present period, hundreds of thousands yearly combat and die, in a cause of far less doubtful importance.

The loyal speeches of Gondibert, in this play, his zeal in the cause of his sovereign, every reader will admire--yet one difficulty occurs to abate this admiration--Did Gondibert know who his sovereign _was_? This question seems to be involved in that same degree of darkness, in which half the destructive battles which ever took place have been fought.

The adverse parties at Hexham had each a sovereign. Edward the Fourth was the lawful king of the York adherents, as Henry the Sixth was of those of Lancaster; and Edward had at least birthright on his side, being the lineal descendant of the elder brother of Henry the Fourth, and, as such, next heir to Richard the Second, setting aside the usurper.--But, possibly, the degraded state of Henry the Sixth was the strongest tie, which bound this valiant soldier to his supposed allegiance;--for there are politicians so compa.s.sionate towards the afflicted, or so envious of the prosperous, they will not cordially acknowledge a monarch until he is dethroned.--Even the people of England never would allow the Bourbon family to be the lawful kings of France, till within these last fifteen years[1].

The youthful reader will delight in the conjugal ardour of Adeline; whilst the prudent matron will conceive--that, had she loved her blooming offspring, as she professes, it had been better to have remained at home for their protection, than to have wandered in camps and forests, dressed in vile disguise, solely for the joy of seeing their father.--But prudence is a virtue, which would destroy the best heroine that ever was invented. A mediocrity of discretion even, dispersed among certain characters of a drama, might cast a gloom over the whole fable, divest every incident of its power to surprise, take all point from the catastrophe, and, finally, draw upon the entire composition, the just sentence of condemnation.

[Footnote 1: It was since the French Revolution that the crown of England relinquished its t.i.tle and claim to the kingdom of France.]

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

_An open Country, near Hexham, in Northumberland; with a distant View of HENRY THE SIXTH'S Camp. Time Day-break._

_Enter ADELINE, in Man's Habit and Accoutrements._

_Adeline._ Heigho! Six dark and weary miles, and not yet at the camp.

How tediously affliction paces!--Come, Gregory! come on. Why, how you lag behind!--Poor simple soul! what cares has he to weigh him down? Oh, yes,--he has served me from my cradle; and his plain honest heart feels for his mistress's fallen fortunes, and is heavy.--Come, my good fellow, come!

_Enter GREGORY._

_Gregory._ Mercy on us, how my poor legs do ache!

_Adeline._ What, with only six miles this morning?--Fie!

_Gregory._ Six!--sixteen, if we've gone an inch; my feet are cut to pieces. A man may as well do penance, with pease in his shoes, as trudge over these confounded roads in Northumberland. I used to wonder, when we were at home, in the south, where it is as smooth as a bowling-green, what the labourers did with all the loose stones they carried off the highways; but now, I find, they come and shoot their rubbish in the northern counties. I wish we had never come into them, with all my heart!

_Adeline._ Then, you are weary of my service--you wish you had not followed me.

_Gregory._ Who I? Heaven forbid!--I'd follow you to the end of the world:--nay, for that matter, I believe I shall follow you there; for I have tramped after you a deuced long way, without knowing where we are going. But I'd live, ay, and die for you too.

_Adeline._ Well, well; we must to the wars, my good fellow.

_Gregory._ The wars! O lud! that's taking me at my word with a vengeance! I never could abide fighting--there's something so plaguy quarrelsome in it.

_Adeline._ Then you had best return. We now, Gregory, are approaching King Henry's camp.

_Gregory._ Are we? Oh dear, oh dear! Pray, then, let us wheel about as fast as we can.

_Adeline._ Don't you observe the light breaking through the tents yonder?

_Gregory._ Mercy on me! they are tents, sure enough! Come, madam, let's be going, if you please.

_Adeline._ Why, whither should I go, poor simpleton? My home is wretchedness. The wars I seek have made it so; they have robbed me of my husband; comfort now is lost to me. Oh! Gondibert, too faithful to a weak cause, our ruin is involved with our betters!

_Gregory._ Oh, rot the cause, say I! Plague on the House of Lancaster!

it has been many a n.o.ble gentleman's undoing. The white and red roses have caused more eyes to water in England, than if we had planted the whole island with onions. Such a coil kept up with their two houses!--one's so old and t'other's so old!--they ought both to be pulled down, for a couple of nuisances to the nation.

_Adeline._ Peace! peace, man!--half such a word, spoken at random, might cost your life. The times, Gregory, are dangerous.

_Gregory._ Very true, indeed, madam. Death has no modesty in him now-a-days; he stares every body full in the face. I wish we had kept quiet at home, out of his way. Who knows but my master, Lord Gondibert, might have returned to us, unexpectedly; I'm sure he left us unexpectedly enough; for the deuce a bit of any notice did he give us of his going.

_Adeline._ Ay, Gregory; was it not unkind? And yet I will not call him so--the times are cruel--not my husband.--His affection had too much thought in it to change. His regular love, corrected by the steady vigour of his mind, knew not the turbulence of boyish raptures; but, like a sober river in its banks, flowed with a sweet and equal current.

Oh! it was such a placid stream of tenderness!--How long is it since your master left us, Gregory?

_Gregory._ Six months come to-morrow, madam. I caught a violent cold the very same day: it has settled in my eyes, I believe, for they have been troublesome to me ever since. Ah! I shall never forget that morning; when the spies of the House of York, that's got upon the throne, surrounded him for being an old friend to the Lancasters. Egad, he laid about him like a lion!--Out whips his broad-sword; whack he comes me one over the sconce; pat he goes me another on the cheek; and, after putting them all out of breath, about he wheels his horse, and we have never seen nor heard of him since.

_Adeline._ And, from that day to this, I have in vain cherished hopes of his return.--Fearful, no doubt, of being surprised, he keeps concealed.--Thus is he torn from me--torn from his children--poor tender blossoms! too weak to be exposed to the rude tempest of the times, and leaves their innocence unsheltered!

_Gregory._ Yes, and mine among the rest. But what is it you mean to do, madam?

_Adeline._ To seek him in the camp. The Lancasters again are making head, here, in the north. If he have had an opportunity of joining them, 'tis more than probable he is in their army. Thither will we;--and for this purpose have I doff'd my woman's habit; leaving my house to the care of a trusty friend: and, thus accoutred, have led you, Gregory, the faithful follower of my sorrows, a weary journey half over England.

_Gregory._ Weary! oh dear, no--not at all--I could turn about again directly, and walk back, brisker by half than I came.

_Adeline._ What, man, afraid! Come, come; we run but little risk.

Example, too, will animate us. The very air of the camp, Gregory, will brace your courage to the true pitch.

_Gregory._ That may be, madam; and yet, for a bracing air, people are apt to die in it, sooner than in any other place.

_Adeline._ Pshaw! pr'ythee, man, put but a confident look on the matter, and we shall do, I warrant. A bluff and bl.u.s.tering outside often conceals a chicken heart. Mine aches, I am sure! but I will hide my grief under the veil of airy carelessness.--Down, sorrow! I'll be all bustle, like the occasion. Come, Gregory! Mark your mistress, man, and learn: see how she'll play the pert young soldier.

SONG.--ADELINE.

_The mincing step, the woman's air,_ _The tender sigh, the soften'd note,_ _Poor Adeline must now forswear,_ _Nor think upon the petticoat._