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There's but one fire from which this smoke may grow,
Look savouring of immodesty. The result is, that for precaution's sake, and to put rumour to silence, the old man exacts from his son a promise, that he will henceforth abstain from his visits. Dalavall thus obtains his end, and in time insinuates himself into the wife's affections, and completes his own villany, and her disgrace.
Old Wincott being ignorant of the cause of young Geraldine's absence, soon becomes uneasy and surprised, and of course Dalavall never hints at the real reason. The old man's conduct and uneasiness are thus described :
The good old man doth never sit to meat,
To them so dearly welcome. After some time, Wincott dispatches a letter to young Geraldine, inviting him to renew his visits, and the latter in consequence appoints a meeting with bim secretly, by night, in order that his father may not know of it. At the appointed time he proceeds to Wincott's house, where the old man receives him alone most joyfully. The scene of their meeting is an extremely beautiful one, but too long for us to extract. The honesty-the kind heartedness—the devoted and trusty friendship of the old man, and the openness, candour, and truth of young Geraldine, are pourtrayed most naturally. The latter explains the cause of his absence without concealment or evasion, and the old man protests the most thorough conviction of the honesty of his friend, and the truth of his wife. At parting, he exclaims :
So now good night, sweet friend. The old man has scarcely departed, when Geraldine over hears the wife and Dalavall in conversation; he approaches, and the fatal secret is disclosed; their conversation is of such a character, as to leave no doubt of the nature of their intimacy. He immediately quits
the house, and stung to the heart by the falsehood and guilt of his two friends, determines to resume his travels, and hide his inquietude in foreign countries. Old Wincott, who is extremely grieved at his departure, but remains ignorant of the cause, gives him a farewell entertainment, at which he of course meets the wife, and as soon as they are alone, the following scene takes place between them :
Wife. You are sad, sir.
Wife. Then can I show you some :
Y. GER. Now your tongue speaks oracles;
WIFE. So I thought :
Y. GER. (Aside.) Shall my oppressed sufferance yet break forth
Wife. But since by no persuasion, no entreats,
Y. GER. (Aside.) I had thought
WIFE. What, no answer ?
Y. GER. Yes, thou hast spoke to me in showers,
Wife. To whom speaks the man ?
Y. GER, To thee,
It doth not quake and treinble ? Search thy conscience,
Wife. Save from your's,
Y. GER. I will play the doctor,
Y. GER. Would'st thou the place know? Thy polluted chamber,
Midnight the hour!
Wife. And yet my glass, till now, ne'er told me so:
Y. Ger. Only He
Wife. I am undone !
Y. GER. But think what thou hast lost
Wife. Which begins
Y. GER. Tush! bow to heaven,
Both from my friends and country. This powerful appeal produces an instant effect-she swoons and dies heart broken-confessing her guilt to her husband. Dalavall absconds; young Geraldine consents to remain at home; and the play thus ends. To this plot is superadded one which well deserves detail, had we space to give to it; it relates to the riotous behaviour of young Lionel, who takes advantage of his father's absence to lead a life of the most excessive disorder; the father returns suddenly, and then ensues a variety of stratagems on the part of Reignald, the servant of the young man, in order to deceive the father, and keep him in ignorance of his son's excesses. This Reignald is, indeed, a most admirable“ Lying Valet,” and the whole affair is extremely well managed. In this play is to be found the passage which gave Cowley his idea of the “naufragium joculare;” it is too long for extract, although richly meriting notice. The following, which relates to the second plot, and with which we shall conclude, is very much in the style of Shakspeare; it is put into the mouth of an honest old servant of Lionel.
Prank it, do ;
FROM THE GERMAN.
The night was one of great inclemency-it snowed and blew violently, when Hans Kirkenbeck departed homewards. His horse stood at the door, and in spite of the entreaties of bis friends that he would partake of one goblet more, he disengaged himself from them, and rushed forth into the street. At that moment, a woman was passing -a tall, bony, wrinkled, grizzled, hag, enveloped in a cloak, the bood of which she had drawn over her head. As Hans passed out at the door, he pushed against her: “Out of the way, Hoodekin * !” he exclaimed. She, quickly turning, echoed his words angrily, “ Hoodekin! Hoodekin! a merry night to you, Hans Kirkenbeck! the day will come when it would please you mightily to have a hood to cover your aching brow."--" Away with you, hag!” interrupted Hans; and at the same moment, Jacob Geuldtstein, one of his companions, came out from the house, and he also bade her depart in words of no pleasant sound. The woman then became very wroth, and said, “You are well spoken, gentlemen, both of you, and merry, I make no doubt; for you, Jacob, you have a wife, and for her sake, I forgive you; but hark you, Hans Kirkenbeck!” she exclaimed, at the same time extending both her arms within her cloak, “ for you! even as I shake off the snow from my withered limbs, Aake by flake, even so shall you fall to the earth piece by piece !" Then Hans and his friend became
• This is the name of a familiar spirit, a sort of Puck, so called, because a hoodekin, or little hood, was a part of his usual covering.
more angry with the woman, and drove her away with blows. And Hans mounted his horse, and prepared to depart; but his friend stayed him, insisting that he should at least partake of the stirrupcup, without which, it would be unfriendly to depart. Hans assented, and Jacob returned to the house to obtain it for him. In a few moments, the cup was presented; Hans seized it quickly, and as quickly drained it at a draught. An open hand waited to receive the goblet from him, he returned it, and was about to put spurs to his steed, when Jacob, issuing from the house, exclaimed to him loudly to stay. “Would you depart with a broken troth? I have brought you the cup," at the same time giving it to him. “I have already tasted it,” said Hans, putting it by with his hand.
“ Nay," replied Geuldtstein, “ that cannot be ; did you not see me come from the house this instant ?”
“ I swear to you, man,” rejoined Hans, “ that I have ta’en of a cup which even now warmeth me, and whose taste is like bitter almonds."
“Tush," answered Jacob, shaking off the snow which had fallen upon his hair, “this is no night to listen to your jokes, will you pledge me? Aye, or no?
“ To thy health, man!” answered Hans; and the next moment the cup was returned, and Hans was on his road.
The snow had fallen so deep, that the streets resounded not to the tread of his horse, and oftentimes his progress was impeded by ledges, raised by the drifting wind; at length, however, he passed the barrier, and reached the open plain. The snow still fell heavily: the country, as well as he could see, appeared one huge whitened plain, and the line of road could only be discovered by here and There a well-known baiting house, an old cottage, or the bare arms of some long-remembered tree. For several miles his horse went forwards merrily, as if aware that his route was towards home; but the continued beating of the snow, and its great depth, began to exhaust the animal's strength, and somewhat impeded his progress. Hans, however, whom the coldness of the night affected, kept him to his utmost speed by frequent applications of the spur; nor was it the cold alone that rendered Hans uncomfortable, the cups which his companions had pressed upon him began to produce their effect, and he often found himself much mistaken as to the nature of the objects before him. His thoughts 100 were confused, and the old woman, whom he had treated so scornfully, was ever uppermost in his mind-her maledictions hung upon his memory, nor could he forget that he had tasted of two stirrup-cups;“ but that,” thought he,“must have been a trick of Jacob Geuldtstein, and yet I saw him come out of the house. Still he went onwards, but his condition became continually worse-racking pains shot across his brow, and the increase of snow, and his own incapacity, rendered it more and more difficult to keep his horse in the right track. The animal had, indeed, often travelled that road before, and Hans depended much upon that circumstance; " he," said Hans, thinking aloud,“ he did