University of Virginia Library

DRAMATIC SCENES.

SCENE I.st

A Bedroom; Storm heard without. Edward, the Gambler, lyeing on the Bed, on which he has thrown himself after Midnight, in a state of halfdrunkenness, to which he is accustomed in order to drown his Thoughts; starts up, halfasleep, at the Thunderclap.
EDWARD.
O God! Hell; furies; help, or — oh! oh! oh!
(He sees himself in a glass, by the lightningsflash and starts back aghast).
'Tis there, there still, with fixed and glassy Eye,
Looking damnation, as it meant to say,
Down, down to Hell— ha, ha, ha, (hysterically)
fool, idiot, 'twas but
An idle Dream — an idle dream! e'en so;
And yet so like the life that I could swear
It real; methought I was annihilated, and
The warm, fresh, current of the blood within
My Heart was froze — that fearful thunderclap!
Plunging so madly thro' the womb of Night,
As it would rend the thickest veil of crime
And mystery, that with a blacker Night,
Hideth Man's Heart, in vain —
Methought the Voice of the Eternal God
(Shuddering and glancing fearfully round.)
Awoke my Soul, as from the cold, cold Grave,
And the vast fabric of this mighty Globe,
Like to a toppling Tower, o'erpoisëd by
The weight of boundless guilt, was swept away
Into th' abyss of dread Eternity,
And sounds as of the damned rang in my Ears!
Ha, ha, (hysteric Laugh, and echo):
the voice of the Eternal God!
Ha, ha; who laughs?— Methinks the very walls
Jabber in mockery; fool, fool, 'twas but
The echo of thy Voice, that thus unmans
Thy Cowardspirit like a sickly Girl
O'ermastered by her fears —
I ne'er believed in God, and will not now
When I've outgrown these cradlefancies, and
Know myself Man. I trembled not, nor shrank
At my own shadow, when I did it, no!
My Heart beat true, and my firm Hand was prompt
To second Head and Heart: for what then now
Should I prove false unto myself, when nought
Is near to harm?— a Thunderclap forsooth,
A little Stir up in the Air, that long
Ago has melted into Emptiness,
And a wild dream? am I not still myself?
Do I not love myself? are Head and Heart
Forsooth turned traitors to a common cause,
And to themselves? pah! mere fooleries and fumes
Of th' o'ernight's supper— and yet 'tis most strange,
I seem no longer Master of myself,
But in myself a mightier than myself,
Seems in my own despite, as tho'I were
A struggling Infant in a Giant's grasp,
To force me on unto the very face
And front of my offending, and to strip
The veil from off my Eyes, bidding me see
And loathe myself— Oh Conscience! Conscience!
There is more in that word than meets the Ear.
The grinning Devil, Sophistry, can dupe
Full well th'Intention, but when once 'tis done,
The veil is rent, and naked stands the Truth;
Before the deed Temptation's magic touch
Can gild the leaden hue of blackest crime,
And clothe the withered skeleton of cold,
Heartsickening disappointment with the shape
And form of ripe fruition — Fool, fool, fool,
The sport of idle thoughts, that bubblelike,
Toss thee upon a sea of doubt, despair:
The sickly hue of fancy, long indulged,
Will change Man's resolution to a dream.
There is no God; and guilt is but the name
With which the coward speciously conceals
His lack of Soul; or if there be a God
That thus o'erlooks the World, and guilt be guilt,
Why has the Thunderclap that's spent in air,
Not crushed me with his vengeance, as it should,
If he were provident of Right or Wrong,
And not all impotent to punish? fool!
I laugh to think how great a fool I've been
For nothing; but I'm now myself again.
Yet would I sleep no more— how a mere nought
Can all unhinge the firmset mind of Man,
And fling him from his centre, like a star
Cast from its orbit, in an airy maze
Of baseless and unending doubts! enough,
Would it were day; and yet the Day is scarce
More sweet to me than Night; for then, methinks,
The prying Eye of every idiot can
Unlock my Heart, and every casual word
That folly utters seems to point the way
To that which I would wrap in utter Night.
My fellowmen are prying fiends, and hate
Doth seem to dog my steps where'er I turn,
While sleep is but another name for Hell!
Oh I could wish a wish, and I would give
(breaks short)
What? fool, idiot! once more a greater fool
Than ever, 'tis too late! who says so? who?
The fiend, the fiend, there, there he stands for aye
Grinning damnation; ha, ha, ha;—
O God! footsteps— discovered— curse on't, who comes?

(Gasping and leaning on a chair; enters his sister with a light, who has heard him paceing up and down, she appears in Undress.)
SISTER
SPEAKS.
Dear brother! at this hour, and dressed? your looks
Are haggard and distracted— oh what ails you?
Come tell me— let us have no secrets now
I pray; you know I love you, do I not?

EDWARD
SPEAKS.
Yes, sister, and such love as yours might well
Demand a greater sacrifice; but still
Another time, dear, we will talk of that
Which now disturbs my Mind. I came to rest,
Overfatiguëd with a Day of toil,
And layd me down undressed; but the worn Mind,
When o'erexcited by its fretting thoughts,
Rests not itself, nor lets the body rest.
This, with the jarring storm, has quite untuned
My Spirit's harmony, of which the strings
Are rudely fingered by a thousand wild,
Discordant fancies, and no less a hand
Than thine can set it right again.

(He walks away from her, and speaks apart, muttering to himself.)
EDWARD
SPEAKS.
(He draws near, takes her hand, and speaks aloud.)
Sister, how fair this hand,
From Spot or Speck quite free! look now at this.
Seest thou nought on it?— 'tis no more the same
As that, with which in early Infancy
I culled for thee the Flowers that we loved!
(He shrinks from her touch, and lets her hand drop. Then starts aside and speaks apart, while she leans on a Chair and watches him in Astonishment.)
Avaunt, thou Fiend of lieing memory!
Why wilt thou rack my Heart beyond all Power
Of Man's Endurance? I was innocent,
As the unborn babe, and now black, black as Hell!
My life has but two epochs, two dread points
Of dire collision, and my heart between
Is ground to dust with agony; I am;
I was — but there is still a dread, to be,
From which my glance shrinks withered up, as tho'
The nerve were firetouched: the Hell to come,
Tho' blacker than the hell of now 'tis not,
Is yet more dread in apprehension; thus
E'en in this life our crimes themselves do scourge,
And in the next vengeance exacts her due.
Thus the foul fiend doth mould us to his will,
Making us tools unto ourselves and him,
And is the first to turn and taunt us with
The crime he prompted to! as if 'twere not
Enough to sin, but we must foolëd be,
E'en in the depth of our most boasted lore,
Like shallow novices, and bear the scorn
Of sneering fiends; and last, yet worst of all,
Feel that we've laid the snare for our own feet,
And own it just; while yet we curse the chance,
The chance! my heart belies the empty word:
There's more of Providence in this same chance;
Than my fears dare to credit: if 'twere chance,
And Guilt were but an idle name, why then
To kill a cat should wake as much remorse,
As to outrage in Man the Deity
Who stamped him in his Image! oh that thought
Should ever thus be at the Heels of action,
Damning with Afteradmonition still,
Like sickness after surfeit! But enough;
Peace for the present thou most fearful voice,
That ringest like a sentence in my ear,
And leave me master of myself once more.
Avaunt! (Aloud, and rousing himself at last as his Sister, who has been watching him at a distance in wonder and terror, and has in vain accosted him several times, ultimately succeeds in calling his attention.)
— His Sister clasping him.
Speak, speak, my dearest Edward, speak,
Say but one word, to break this dreadful, deep,
Inexplicable mystery, which weighs
Like death upon one.

EDWARD.
—Nay, my dearest Girl,
Be but a moment calm, and all is well;
I did but wander. I felt ill: sick, sick,
Here at the heart— But now 'tis gone, 'tis gone,
And I am still thine own, own Edward; too,
Too happy in so kind a Sister.

SISTER.
Oh Edward,
Your words have more than meet the Ear, and like
Some straynote of a broken tune, they wake
In the stirred heart a throng of blended thoughts,
Wild and confused, yet meaning much, and full
Of feelings which we cannot body forth,
Whose vagueness tortures the racked breast the more.
For the last moment I have watched thy face,
(While thy Lips moved, and muttered broken words)
Varying each instant, like a cloudy Day,
Now dark, now still, now allobscured, now wrung
And writhing, as each separate Sinew had
An individual Life— while from thine eye
Thoughts flashed, like lightninggleams, which vaguely hint
At the fierce elements within, that will
Not vent themselves, yet cannot allconceal
Their wild intensity— nay dearest, nay
Such griefs as these do weigh too heavy for
A single Breast, let me but share a part,
And we shall both be happier.—

EDWARD.
It may
Not be; thou know'st not what thou ask'st, yet still
I'll think upon it, and meanwhile, adieu,
I am too worn for further converse, and
Would fain repose awhile — once more farewell.
(She departs, and he looks after her.)
She's gone! the Past, the innocent Past, awhile
Like a sweet vision, rose before my eyes,
As she stood by me; but dread solitude,
Like a chill deathshroud, wraps my soul once more.
My Heart is stirred: the thoughts of early days
Are on me, and I fain would pray — «O God» —
(Kneels, then breaks short.)
I cannot; how should I extend to Him,
These bloodstained hands in prayer? where find
The words of Grace, when Hell is in my breast?
If I should say, «our Father which art in Heaven,»
I call down Vengeance on myself; if thus,
«Do unto others as thou wouldst be done
Unto.» I do pronounce on mine own head,
Damnation everlasting: in mine ear
A voice is ringing like a damnëd knell,
And it saith «Blood doth cry up unto Heaven,»
«It will not sink into the Earth.» But hark!
My God! what noise is that upon the stairs?
'Tis as of many feet! if it should be?
The— the— my Heart misgives me sadly; is
There no escape? this Window is too high.
(goes to the Window.)
A hand is on the Doorlock! God in Heaven!
'Tis they! a Deathdamp gathers on my brow;
Oh that I could now shrink up into nought.

(Leans on a Chairback, looking in terrorstruck Expectation at the Door, which opens, and four Policeofficers armed, enter.)
FIRST POLICEOFFICER.
Look to the Door that he escapes not.

SECOND POLICEOFFICER,
DRAWING OUT A POLICEWARRANT.
You are my Prisoner, Sir.

EDWARD.
Upon what charge?

(violently agitated.)
SECOND POLICEOFFICER.
Neither more nor less than: Murder!

(Edward sinks into a chair, while the Officers handcuff him, without resistance, he being quite stupified; his Mother and Sister rush into the room only halfdressed, it being very early morning.)
THE MOTHER.
Almighty God! what do I see with these
Old, feeble Eyes? am I reserved for this?
What has he done; how called down on his Head
The vengeance of the Laws? a playdebt, some
Unhappy brawl, or public Misdemeanour?
Speak, say what he has done, thus to disgrace
My grey old Hairs? speak, gentlemen, I pray ye;

EDWARD
(whispering in agony.)
Say debt— brawl — anything, but that one word.
For her sake then, if not for mine.

THIRD OFFICER.
Madam, we
Do but our Duty, tho' unwillingly.

MOTHER.
But, but, kind gentlemen, in mercy speak;
Break not my Heart, I will pay all I have
To bail him, are ye sure that there is no
Mistake? let pity for these old grey Hairs
Move ye—ye too have Mothers! ye have sons!
Feel for them then in me!

(all keep a dead silence.)
MOTHER.
— Will no one speak?

SECOND POLICEOFFICER.
(His sister hearing this, faints, remenbering her conversation just before with him, and feeling all her suspicions confirmed. In the confusion, while two of the Officers raise her into a Chair, and the two others hold the Prisoner, his Mother seizes the Warrant on the Table, and with a Horrorshriek, reads

And drops senseless: various domesticks make their appearance, and as the scene drops, he is led out.)

SCENE the SECOND.

EDWARD
waking on his Strawpallet in a Prisoncell— alone.
I have no rest, no peace by Day or Night;
Dream crowds on dream, thought presses upon thought,
Urging each others heels to madness— why
Then do I drag this everlengthening Chain
Of Misery, to which each passing Day,
Cursëd Artificer! adds one more link,
Till it will crush me down into the grave.
The Grave! Death has no terrors; and the Grave
Is but a quiet pillow, soft as Down,
Compared with this: why then not go to rest,
And end this struggle, tentimes worse than Death?
Death's but a painted scarecrow, a bugbear,
Coined from old Nursestales, and childhood's fears,
That babies most of us to our last day.
A dartarmed Skeleton weak Fancy sees,
Yet all this melts in Air, into thin Air,
At the bold glance of calm Philosophy.
Is there no more then than a Jugglery
Of vain imagination? nothing more
Beyond the Grave? that makes so many shrink
With one foot in it, from the deed half done?
Better to plunge at once and not think on it.
Thought gets beyond his depth, and in his fear.
Catches at any straw to keep himself
Afloat, and get to shore again: I have strange Doubts:
These Prisonwalls are little fitted to
Add force to Sophistries.

CLERGYMAN
ENTERS.
My Friend, I come
To offer Consolation, and to mix
My Tears with yours— this aweful trial has
Opened, I trust, thy Heart? The seed that's sown
In the deep Furrow of real Misery
Is likeliest to grow—

PRISONER.
— it is too deep,
'Tis choked beneath the weight: your Pains are vain;
And yet I thank thee, I have need of Solace,
If such deep anguish can admit of it.

CLERGYMAN.
Sincere Repentance, though it be delayd
Too long, must ever be acceptable
To God, and where that is, is ever Hope.

PRISONER.
Think you so?— no, it cannot be— too great,
Too long, have been my Sins; I dare not hope,
I dare not think — to think is Madness — Fiends
Laugh in my Ear, and glare upon my Sight!
And with his stony Eye fixed on me, with
(The Clergyman looks in awestruck Silence)
His icelike Glance, so stirless, look! 'tis He!
Dost thou not see him? where are then thine Eyes?
He comes towards me— Save me— save me—

(The prisoner sinks on his Strawbed, and covers his eyes).
CLERGYMAN.
—Strange
((apart)
How the Mind can subdue the Sense, made thus
Obedient to its will, and people space
With the dread Image of the haunted Soul!
My Friend! (aloud)
that which thou seest exists alone
In thy own Mind, which casts the Shadow of
Its Thought on outward things: that must be cleansed,
Ere this dread Spectre can be layd: then seek
For Consolation, where alone 'tis found,
In Penitence and Prayer.

PRISONER.
— 'tis gone: 'tis gone.
And yet'twas no vain Dream: alas! too real.
What matters whether it were seen with, or
Without, the Body's Eye, if it be seen?
'Tis horrible —

CLERGYMAN.
— Come kneel we down, and pray
To him, who can alone from such Dreams free
The waking Soul.

PRISONER.
I cannot, dare not pray,
Methinks some Devil laughs into my Ear
And jabbers o'er the words with me, until
They lose all meaning— leave me for awhile,
Perhaps I may be in a fitter Mood.

CLERGYMAN.
Beware of rash delay — the Time is short,
And a few moments now are worth long years:
Cast them then not away

PRISONER.
— thou speakëst well.
This hour còmments shrewdly many a Page,
Which at the first Perusal seemed to bear
Far other meaning— our Booktheories
Are not worth one halfhour of real Life;
They do well for the Closet and the Lamp,
Where the Philosopher pens down what Facts
He pleases, and curtails the Life of Man
In the Straightwaistcoat of a Syllogism;
I will repent me; I will learn to pray
But leave me, I must with my Thoughts awhile
Wage war.

CLERGYMAN.
— Do so, but seek that better Light,
Without which they must lead thee still astray.
I leave thee to his mercy, who knows far,
Far better even than ourselves, what 'tis
We do and suffer — fare thee well awhile,
And may he lead thy Thoughts to good Result.

PRISONER
alone, looking round till his Eye rests on a Spidersweb.
How busyly yon spider on the wall
Spins his frail web! I never thought till now
That the Philosopher might learn from him!
What a vile Masquerade is life! a Man
Scarce knows himself, till Time lifts up the veil,
And shows him in Truth's glass the very face
And feature of his Being— what a game
Of dull Crossquestions are we ever at!
Fools of Halfinsight, and of Halfresolve!
And when the Play is up, the most surprised
Of all who took a part in it, is he,
Who, in his spiderwisdom, thought to hold
Each Thread and Line securely in his hand,
Flattering himself that thro' the mighty web
Of causes and effects, his eye could trace
Unto its destination each least thread!
That he could guide them all, and at his will,
Immesh his Enemies, secure himself.
But this Foxcunning's a depravëd thing,
And oft outwits itself; it grasps too much.
The indirect effects, that multiply
Beyond all calculation, these lie not
Within man's feeble foresight — thus the web
He spins so cunningly, is rounded and
Embraced still by the workings of a Power,
Which some call Chance and others Providence,
That turns into a certain Instrument
Of retribution some uncared for thread,
Whose manywinding course the planner's eye
Has followed not aright; transforming it
Into the mainefficient cause to bring
His schemes to nought! now will I pray awhile.

(kneels) (The Jailor enters, and he starts up).
JAILOR.
I meant not to intrude. I knew not that—

(breaks short)
PRISONER
apart.
I like not these coarse Natures to behold
The Struggles of my Soul — what would'st thou, Man?

(aloud)
JAILOR.
The news I bring you is not of the best,
I love not these same Errands, tho' they be
All in the way of Trade: this Paper here
Will spare my Telling.

PRISONER
takes the Paper, and reads.
—then the Day is fixed!
(pauses and goes on)
Tomorrow, the last Morrow of them all!
It sounds just like the Rest, as if it were
But an unmeaning Fellow to them; so,
The Play is out!— but when that Morrow is
A Yesterday! what then? Tomorrow, and
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, thus we live,
And with one Foot already in the Grave,
Talk of Tomorrow as a thing of Course,
And Yesterday was a Tomorrow too,
Tho' now as flat and stale as yon' hard Bread.
And that same aweful Morrow, that is made
But by a Yesterday!

JAILOR
— Wish you aught else?

PRISONER
I had a wish: but let it go: 'tis not
The Time or Place for Wishing— these four walls,
And this same Paper cripple both Hope's wings.

JAILOR
Farewell, I pity thee!

PRISONER
—And this Pang too
Must be endured: the Pity of such Men!
The veriest wretch must point his finger at,
And say, «he pities me»

LAST SCENE.

PRISONER
(alone.)
—a prison is a wondrous School!
A world apart! and in brief space of time
Twill teach the wisest much that he ne'er knew,
Or dreamt of in his Airphilosophizings,
And sober down his Bubblefancies to
The shape of stern reality: it makes
A Jack-of-all-trades in a few short hours!
A Man can turn his hand to anything,
From picking locks to true Philosophy
And problems in Selfknowledge! aye, e'en so!
Into how few short moments Thought can crowd
The actions of a life! oh cursed Thought,
That in thy vicelike grasp canst crush the Heart;
To thee all Time's the same: by thee the grave
And cradle touch — the Past and Future are
As one, and in thine Immortality,
Man feels his deep damnation, and is his
Own Hell already: aye! a prison can
Force cold conviction down the throat of Guilt,
Tho' it be hard as iron to digest,
And ask an Ostrichstomach: here I am,
Self left with Self, a deadly Pair of Foes,
When not the best of Friends: no specious tongue
To cozen conscience with its gilded baits,
No merry Booncompanions still to chase
Unpleasant thoughts, and snatch me from myself.
My scornings and my mockeries of God
Now turn like trodden Asps to sting me, but
With tenfold hate; and every scoffing word
Returns like a vile vomit to my Lips.
Not one good deed to sweeten memory,
To stay the avenging hand of God, or give
The slightest hope that late repentance may
Atone sins past! Hell gapes for me: oh God!
Have mercy on my Soul — help, help, help

(falls senseless)
(Enter the Jailor and assistant.)
JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Poor wretch! tho' I am little wont to weep
O'er vulgar Sorrows, yet such misery
As this might stir a Heart of Stone to tears,
This trance, death's shadowy Type, that seals awhile
The sense of woe, were better lost in Death:
For Life is but poor boon to such as he!

ASSISTANT
SPEAKS.
Aye, aye, poor Devil he were better dead,
Than thus to die by Inches, and to be
Hanged after all: such griefs as this, methinks,
Might split the stoutest Heart, tho' 'twere of Oak.
(The Jailor throws water from the prisoner's Jug on his face, and he comes to: the Jailor speaks.)
Yet in the course and usage of my trade
I have oft marked that grievous Ills have power
To counteract our nature, and preserve
The life which we would cast away: but hush!
He moves. —
(The prisoner, half lying and supported by the Jailor.)
—'tis cold; my Heart is very cold,
As if an icy hand had clutched it, and
Outsqueezd the Lifesblood: where am I? oh where,
Speak, say, in Hell? or does this hated Life
Still cling unto me, like a curse: avaunt!
Ye Hellfiends! I am not yet yours — not yet,
No, no, not yet, not yet! Oh, oh: oh.
(shuddering.)
Who says I murdered him?— thou! thou! that stand'st
Staring upon me with thy glazëd Eyes,
Thou art long since but Dust and Rottenness,
And canst not rise up from thy bloody Grave
To witness 'gainst me! down, down, down into
Thy Coffin; ha: ha: ha: 'tis gone.

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Pray calm yourself, poor soul, there is none here
To harm or torture you: the fiend himself
Might pity your condition, were he here;
But your poor, old, heartbroken Mother waits,
And fain would see her son once more.

PRISONER
SPEAKS.
— The fiend!
Yes, yes, he's here, he burns within my breast
Like Hellfire!

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
— Nay, nay now your fancy roves
Downright; I said your Mother waited here
And fain would see you once more — ere —

(breaks short.)
PRISONER
SPEAKS.
— My Mother!—

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Yes, your own old Mother?

PRISONER.
My Mother?

JAILOR.
Why! have you no Mother?

PRISONER,
(shuddering.)
Have I no Mother!
Mother! Mother! Mother! what means that word?
Is it a spell, that like the Lightningsflash
Through the dark Shroud of Night, it thus calls up
The spirit of departed years, each trace,
However faint, of Evildeeds, whose stain
Has dyed my Heart until each rising thought
Is hued, as though 'twere dipped in Blood, in spite
Of all I do to shape it otherwise:
As to the Infant's gaze each object takes
The colour of its fears: my Mother — aye!
I had a Mother too— she'd sing to me,
And take me on her knee, a little Boy,
A little happy Boy — her Hair is gray!
What saydst thou, man, of her? my Mother, she
Who gave me Life: oh cursëd Life: thricecurs'd,
And now once more bestows the hated Boon
Of Life and Consciousness. Oh God! Oh God!
Why wilt thou not reduce me unto dust?
I cannot look on her: it is too much:
And yet my Heart would fain break on the Heart
That bade it beat, and ask her blessing once —
(breaks short and shudders.)
Her Blessing, whom I've cursed! oh Mockery!

(Bursts into Tears and falls, supported by the Jailor: his Mother enters, flying towards him, and violently agitated; the Clergyman follows.)
PRISONER.
— Oh Christ! 'tis her!

MOTHER
SPEAKS.
My Son, my Son; have mercy on him, God!
Oh give him Breath that he may hear my Blessing,
And then receive us both into thy peace.

(falls on his Neck.)
SON
SPEAKS.
And can you bless me, Mother, whose gray Hairs
I have brought down in sorrow to the Grave?
And in whose Deathbedpillow I thus plant
The Thorns that wound thy anguishstricken Head?

MOTHER
SPEAKS.
I can forgive thee all — thou art my Child,
I feel but this, and may God pardon thee,
As now I do!

SON
SPEAKS.
Oh sweet drop in this Cup of Bitterness!

(Prisonbell rings: his Mother faints at it.)
SON
SPEAKS.
Mother, what ails you? help, my God! she dies.
And I have murdered her too. help, some water.

(They throw some of the Prisoner's drinkingwater in her face, but in vain.)
CLERGYMAN SPEAKS,
(while he supports the Mother.)
My Son, be patient, God is merciful;
He gives and takes away in his good time,
And Death is a benificent angel,
The sole Peacebringer to such grief as this:
He seals the Eye and Ear, when every sense
Is but a varied Inlet to new shapes
Of Agony; and she, be thou assured,
Is even now among the blessed, where
This mortal Coil oppresses her no more!
She hath drank off the cup of bitterness
E'en to the Dregs, and by this suffering
Is purified unto salvation: Oh!
My Son, think that thou seest her kneeling by
The Mercyseat and praying unto God
To pardon thee, and take thee to his Peace.
Come join thy Prayer with hers, that Mercy's ear
The readier may incline; a broken and
A contrite Heart the Lord will not despise!
He himself bids thee hope, then be assured:
But yet a little while 't will all be o'er.
(The Prisoner who has been looking intently in his Mother's Face and lost to everything else, now clasps her in his arms and breaks out.)
Oh God! my Mother, speak to me, one word!
You shall not die; you shall not leave me thus.
Give me a Glass —
(a Glass is brought, which he holds up to her Mouth).
Oh God! dead, dead, stonedead!
(flings himself on the Ground).
Would that I were but such a Clod as this,
Feeling and knowing nought for evermore,
A little worthless Dust, no more nor less,
Which the winds scatter, and the rain doth wet.

CLERGYMAN.
Oh Heavenly Father, look thou down on these
Poor Sinners; by thy secret Agency
Accomplish thou what we frail Beings here
Cannot effect, and unto my weak words
Impart that balm which is not in themselves.
Speak by my Lip— my Son, look up to Heaven,
Whence comfort only comes, not down on this
Sad token of the Past— forward alone
Is Peace, behind thee all is Doubt and Fear!

PRISONER,
(hanging over his Mother's Body).
Oh God! and is it come to this— have these
Dear Lips not one, one word for me— where then
Is Comfort, if that Heart which beat for me,
Be cold, cold as a stone—Mother! Mother!
(shaking the Body)
Wake from this Sleep; 'tis cruel thus to sleep.
What sayst thou? that I made thee sleep? God, God,
'Tis true: but thou sleep'st well— no frightful Dreams
Vex thy calm Rest, nor Hope nor Terror stretch
Thee on their Rack, like me.

CLERGYMAN.
— come, come, enough:
Tis idle thus to add fresh Bitterness
Unto the Cup of Sorrow—

PRISONER.
— Man, begone!
Thou know'st not what it is to suffer; look,
Look on these poor gray Hairs— they are a Mother's,
And I have— murdered her— dost understand?—
No, no, ye cannot.— I, I only can.

CLERGYMAN.
Poor Soul, I feel for you indeed, but calm
Yourself a little; the worst Pain is o'er,
Methinks, and that to come will scarce be felt.

PRISONER.
Yes, yes, I feel that this Deathagony,
((staring at his mother's Body which is being carried out).
Could not endure much longer, though I were
Not doomed to die that horridest of Deaths,
To dangle in the Air before the gaze—
(breaks short)
Let me not think on that, it makes my flesh
Creep, and my Hair to rise; Death is dreadful,
When sweetened with kind looks and loving words,
When all good wishes do attend us on
Our journey to that bourne whence none return;
Aweful in its obscurity and gloom
E'en to the best, who trust there to receive
The due reward for what they suffer here,
For fortune's buffets, the oppressor's scorn,
For unrequited good, repaid with Ill,
For sufferings where no guilt hath drawn them down
On th' unoffending Head, while Crime hardby
Thriving and bold, treads with his insolent foot
Poor patient Merit down into the dirt.
What is it then to me, if I receive
According to my deeds? and where, oh where,
Is this dread Journey, on whose aweful brink
I stand, to end? the leap is into Hell!

CLERGYMAN
SPEAKS.
My Son, thou'rt overcurious; to doubt,
Is now perdition: If there be no trust,
How shall the Lord accept thine offering?
That Bourne, which thou so fearëst, cannot be
Beyond his Mercy, be it where it may;
Yea, in the bottomest pit of Hell He's there:
The Dread lies in the apprehension more
Than in the fact, and busy fancy fills
The void with her own fears; come conquer her,
See with the Eye of Faith, and all that's dark,
With her celestial light she will make clear,
And thou shalt stumble not; 'twill soon be o'er.—

PRISONER
SPEAKS.
Yes, yes, 'twill soon be o'er! 'tis brief indeed —
(mastering his emotion.)
But terrible!— a moment's suffering,
Where every second is split up into
A separate Agony, boundless, infinite;
For it is not by time we measure pain.
The Twitching of some Muscle, the hard Gasp
Of the stopp'd Breath! and then— Oh God! Oh God!
I shall be where!— in —
(shudders, and recovers himself, then resumes, as the Deathofficers come to lead him off, and the Deathbell rings again)
Headache or Heartache, 'twill be soon all one!
Lead on, I am myself again, the worst
Is over; God have mercy on my Soul!

CLERGYMAN.
Amen—(all)
Amen —

(Scene drops)