University of Virginia Library

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»