 | The Beggar of Bethnal Green |  |
SCENE III.
—An Apartment in Albert's House.Enter Albert and Emma.
Emma.
Why sigh'st thou, Albert?
Al.
This has troubled me.
On Thursday, saidst thou?
Emma.
Yes.
Al.
I recollect!
I recollect!—Was't not on Ludgate Hill?
Emma.
On Ludgate Hill.
Al.
It was. I recollect!
She grasp'd my arms, as with the start, methought,
Of sudden fear, which I accounted for,
As at the self-same moment heard I near
The furious prancing of a fiery steed!
Rode he a steed?
Emma.
He did.
Al.
Then 'twas for him!
The image, say'st thou, of my likeness, which,
Before that field, which robb'd me of my sight,
I gave to thee?
Emma.
So said our child.
Al.
Where is
That likeness?
Emma.
In her custody. 'Twas that
Betray'd to me the secret of her heart.
She pray'd it from me. Of its costly case
Despoil'd, I gave it her—and wonder'd soon
To find her, when she thought she was alone,
All lost in gazing on't, with signs that spoke
Affection more than filial, getting vent
In very tears, which, as they fell, her breast
Uneasy heaving, seem'd with sighs to number!
Al.
Such things I've heard.
Emma.
What, Albert?
Al.
I have heard
That subtle passion from a glance hath sprung,
And in a moment e'en struck root so deep,
No art could pluck it out—So! Mark'd she how
He was attired?
Emma.
He seem'd a yeoman.
Al.
So!
That hope is quench'd:—of prouder state, this thing
That seems a weed, had haply proved a flower!
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I prithee, Albert, how?
Al.
That brother, who,
Unnatural, my lands confiscate seized,
'Tis said is father to a goodly son,
The very image of his uncle, dead,
As they believe me. Hope just kindled up,
The youth, she saw, might prove that very son.
He seem'd a yeoman? For this malady
We have, perhaps, a medicine—the knowledge of
What she is, which still we've hidden from her.
That she shall know to-morrow.
Emma.
Tell it her,
And quit this wayward life. Thou'st laid by store
Enough. Forsake the land which thee forsakes;
Another one makes thee a franchised man,
Far from the ban of this! There mayst thou take
Thy title, in thy own land forfeited,
And for our fair child find befitting mate.
Al.
I will not—cannot quit my native land!
Bann'd as I am, 'tis precious to me still!
It is my father's land—'tis loved for that!
'Tis thine—thy child's—it should be loved for you!
It should be loved, if only for itself!
'Tis free, it hath no despot, but its laws!
'Tis independent; it can stand alone!
'Tis mighty 'gainst its enemies—'tis one!
Where can I find the land the like of it?
Its son, though under ban and forfeiture,
Is envied. He's the brother of the free!
No! no! I cannot quit my native land.
For sight of other land I would not give
The feeling of its breath—the wall of him
That does not forfeit it, which none may scale,
However proud, unscathed, to do him wrong!
I cannot—will not—quit my native land!
Emma.
Then let us seek some quiet corner on't;
Nor spend on thriftless hope, what, husbanded
By wise content, would keep us more than rich.
Al.
Nor can I that. Who sees his house pull'd down,
And does not strive to build it up again?
Who sees his vessel sunk, and does not look
For other hull to plough the waves anew?
I cannot do't! I've lived on the high seas
Of restless life; I would be on them still!
Say I'm unfit for't—I'd be near them still!
The sailor, maim'd or superannuate,
Seeks not an inland home; but near some cliff
His hammock slings, in hearing of the surge
He wont to cleave of yore! Come, lead me forth.
Where's Bess?
Emma.
On errand gone to Aldersgate.
Al.
I would again she went not forth alone!
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Bold men infest our streets, who would not stop,
By force to take what right refuses them;
Like him who late, with his pernicious suit,
Wounded her tender ear.
Strap
[without].
What, hoa!
Al.
Come in,
Whose challenge sounds unwelcome, yet a friend's.
Is it not honest Master Strap?
Enter Strap (intoxicated).
Strap.
The same,
Master of cobbling, as thy shoes allow,
Which seek his lapstone old, and leave it new—
But to the matter, as they say.
Al.
What is't?
Strap.
Why, this it is—a truth as old as time—
Grief hath this soother, 'tis not solitary,
But, if 'twill look for't, finds its fellow grief.
So does the wise man teach. Thou know'st I lost
My daughter, Sunday week—she did not die.
Romances drove the giddy vixen mad,
And she eloped from me. For loss of her,
I have ne'er been sober since! No comforter
Like ale—save sack; but sack's for rich men's cares.—
Your friends!—Says one, “It might have fallen out worse;”
One, that it might be evil, sent for good;
One, that the plague itself will have an end;
And some will pity; some will scold; and some
Will try to laugh me out of sorrowing.
As twenty ways there are to mend a shoe
Besides the soling, heeling, welting on't!
Al.
But what is this to us?
Strap.
Philosophy!
If not philosophy, a moral, then—
And if not that, why, then, a hint that thou
Hast lost thy daughter, just as I lost mine.
Emma.
Have lost our daughter!
Strap.
With a difference, though—
Al.
Nay—
Emma.
Prithee, Albert, give him his own way;
He's sure, at last, to take it; so we lose
Our time, persuading him to progress ours.—
Well?
Strap.
Well, I said there was a difference,
But what of that? This road and that road meet—
Take which you will, you come to the same end.
It matters not, my daughter, with her will,
Thine against hers, is gone; since both alike
Are lost.
Al.
How?—Where?—Who forced our child away?
Strap.
A gallant, who behemm'd her in the street,
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Flush'd swaggerers, that seem'd of no account
To reckon lawless deeds! I heard a rout,
And left my stall. There was she in the midst!
Some following with outcry 'gainst the deed,
But none with hand that dared to question it.
Upon my child I thought, at sight of thine—
Thought of thy loss mine own brought home to me—
My brain was swimming, and I rush'd on him
That held her—but a fillip laid me down!
Yet, brief as was the scuffle, and the end
Untoward; profit came of it. This ring
He wore, though how he left it in my hand
I know not!
Al.
Give it me!—A jewel hath it?
Yes! 'Tis no common ring. Perhaps a clue
To trace the ravisher? Give me a sword,
Get me a knife—a dagger!—anything,
So that it be a weapon! Wretchéd man!
Why don't I ask you first to get me eyes!
Thought of my heavy wrong, put out the thought
Of what must help me to revenge my wrong!
Oh, heavy loss! To have a father's heart—
To have a father's arm to second it,—
And both be useless for the lack of sight!
The queen! The queen!
Strap.
Wouldst see the queen? Then straight
Repair to Temple Bar; to-day begins
Her Royal Progress; there she's sure to wait,
The mayor and citizens give her greeting there.
Al.
Lead on! My child!—My child!—Whate'er betide,
This hour will I unfold myself, and find,
One way or other, period to my cares.
Knows't thou where dwells a notary on the way?
Conduct me to him!—On!—We'll meet our death
Or find our child.—On!—On!—Our child!—Our child!
[They go out.
| The Beggar of Bethnal Green | |