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[Illustration: COUNT OF NARBONNE
  THEODORE--SHE HASTENED TO THE CAVE AND VANISHED FROM MY SIGHT
  ACT I SCENE I
  PAINTED BY COOK  PUBLISH'D BY LONGMAN & CO.  ENGRAV'D BY ENGLEHEART
  1807]






THE COUNT OF NARBONNE; A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS;

By ROBERT JEPHSON, Esq.

AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.

  PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS
  FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.

WITH REMARKS BY Mrs. INCHBALD.

  LONDON:
  PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER ROW.


  WILLIAM SAVAGE, PRINTER
  LONDON.




REMARKS.


This tragedy was brought upon the stage in 1780; it was extremely
admired, and exceedingly attractive.

Neither "The Winter's Tale", nor "Henry VIII" by Shakspeare, were at
that time performed at either of the theatres; and the town had no
immediate comparison to draw between the conjugal incidents in "The
Count of Narbonne," and those which occur in these two very superior
dramas.

The Cardinal Wolsey of Shakspeare, is, by Jephson, changed into a holy
and virtuous priest; but his importance is, perhaps, somewhat diminished
by a discovery, which was intended to heighten the interest of his
character; but which is introduced in too sudden, and romantic a manner,
to produce the desired consequence upon a well-judging auditor.

One of the greatest faults, by which a dramatist can disappoint and
fret his auditor, is also to be met with in this play.--Infinite
discourse is exchanged, numberless plans formed, and variety of
passions agitated, concerning a person, who is never brought upon the
stage--Such is the personal nonentity of Isabel, in this tragedy, and
yet the fable could not proceed without her.--Alphonso, so much talked
of, yet never seen, is an allowable absentee, having departed to another
world; and yet, whether such invisible personages be described as
alive, or dead, that play is the most interesting, which makes mention
of no one character, but those which are introduced to the sight of the
audience.

The lover of romances, whose happy memory, unclouded by more weighty
recollections, has retained a wonderful story, by the late Lord Orford,
called, "The Castle of Otranto," will here, it is said, find a resemblance
of plot and incidents, the acknowledged effect of close imitation.

Lord Orford, (at that time Mr. Horace Walpole,) attended some rehearsals
of this tragedy, upon the very account, that himself was the founder of
the fabric.

The author was of no mean reputation in the literary world, for he had
already produced several successful dramas. "The Count of Narbonne"
proved to be his last, and his best composition.----Terror is here ably
excited by descriptions of the preternatural--Horror, by the portraiture
of guilt; and compassion, by the view of suffering innocence.--These are
three passions, which, divided, might each constitute a tragedy; and all
these powerful engines of the mind and heart, are here, most happily
combined to produce that end,--and each forms a lesson of morality.




DRAMATIS PERSONAE.


  AUSTIN          _Mr. Harley._
  THEODORE        _Mr. Bloomfield._
  FABIAN          _Mr. Thompson._
  OFFICERS      { _Mr. Powell._
                         { _Mr. Evatt._
  THE COUNT       _Mr. Farren._
  ADELAIDE        _Mrs. Merry._
  JAQUELINE       _Mrs. Platt._
  COUNTESS        _Mrs. Pope._

  OFFICERS, ATTENDANTS, &c.


    _SCENE.--Narbonne Castle, and the Monastery of St. Nicholas,
    adjoining to the Castle._




THE COUNT OF NARBONNE.

       *       *       *       *       *




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I.

    _A Hall._

_Enter the COUNT, speaking to an OFFICER; FABIAN following._

  _Count._ Not to be found! is this your faithful service?
  How could she pass unseen? By hell, 'tis false!
  Thou hast betray'd me.

  _Offi._ Noble sir! my duty----

  _Count._ Your fraud, your negligence--away, reply not.
  Find her within this hour; else, by my life,
  The gates of Narbonne shall be clos'd against thee;
  Then make the world thy country.

                                                       [_Exit OFFICER._

  Fabian, stay!
  Misfortunes fall so thick upon my head,
  They will not give me time to think--to breathe.

  _Fab._ Heaven knows, I wish your peace; but am to learn,
  What grief more fresh than my young lord's decease,
  A sorrow but of three days past, can move you.

  _Count._ O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!
  The pillar of my house, my only son!

  _Fab._ 'Twas terrible indeed.

  _Count._ Ay, was it not?
  And then the manner of it! think on that!
  Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons,
  Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them;
  I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd
  To see them dying, bore to see them dead:
  But, Oh my Edmund!--Thou remember'st, Fabian,
  How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport!

  _Fab._ 'Would I