University of Virginia Library

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)