University of Virginia Library

THE PHANTOM:

A MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Dunarden, Highland chief.
• Malcolm, his son.
• The Provost of Glasgow.
• Claude, his son.
• Crawford, friend of Claude.
• Graham.
• Allen, Culloch, and other Highlanders.
• Sexton, servants, and other inhabitants of Glasgow.

WOMEN

• Alice, daughter of the Provost of Glasgow.
• Marian, daughter of Dunarden.
• Jessie, attending on Marian.
• Bride, bridemaids, housekeeper, &c.

Scene, in the Western Highlands of Scotland, and afterwards in the city of Glasgow.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A green lawn, surrounded with rocks, and mountains seen in the distance. An assembly of Highlanders are discovered, holding bridal revelry: bagpipes playing, and a noise of voices heard, as the curtain draws up.
Enter Allen.
1st high.
Welcome, brave Allen! we began to fear
The water-kelpy, with her swathing arms,
Had drown'd thee at the ford.

2d high.
Faith did we, man! thee and thy shelty too.

Allen.
Am I so late? There's time enough, I hope,
To foot a measure with the bonnie bride,
And maidens too.—'Tis well I'm come at all:
I met the ill-eyed carline on my way.

1st high.
And suffer'd scath by her?

Allen.
Ay, scath enough:
My shelty, in the twinkling of an eye,
Became so restive, neither switch nor heel
Could move him one step further.

2d high.
And so you were obliged to come on foot.

Allen.
What could I do? It was not with the beast
I held contention, but the evil spell
Of that untoward witch.—Ay, but for that,
I would defy the wildest four-legg'd thing
In all Lochaber so to master me!

1st high.
Well, well; the pipes are playing merrily,—
Make up lost time as fleetly as thou canst.

Allen.
And so I will; for here are rosy partners,
Ribbon'd and cockernonied, by my faith!
Like very queens. They make, here as I stand,
Each garter'd leg to thrill, and toes to tickle.
[Seizing one of a group of girls, advancing from the dancers at the bottom of the stage.
Come, winsome Jean! I'll have a reel with thee.
Look not so coy: where did I meet thee last?
We have not had a merry-making here
Since Duncan Mory's latewake.

Jean.
Say nought of latewakes here, I warn you well:
Wot ye who is the bridesmaid?

Allen.
Some gentle dame, belike.

Jean.
Some gentle dame!
Dumbarton Mary, with her Lowland airs.

Allen.
Ay! she that look'd so stern, and said it was
A savage thing, or some such word as that,
To dance at old Glenlyon's funeral.—
But, could the laird himself have raised his head,
He with his ivory stick had rapp'd her pate
For marring with her mincing gentleness
The decent bravery of his last rouse.—
Come, let us have a merry reel together.

[They mix with dancers, who now advance to the front, where a bumpkin, or dance of many interwoven reels, is performed; after which the bride is led to a seat, and some of her maidens sit by her.
Bridegroom.
Now, while the bride and bonnie maidens all
Take needful rest, we'll pass the cheering cup.
And, Rory of Glenoruch, clear thy throat,
And sing some merry song, meet for a wedding,
Where all are boon and gay.

Bride.
O, never mind for that! give us the song
Which thou wast wont on Clachen braes to sing,
And we to praise. Thou knowst the song I mean.

Rory.
On bridal day the bride must be obey'd:
But 'tis a song devised for gentle-folks,
Made by the youthful laird of Ballamorin,
And not for common clansfolk like ourselves.

Bride.
But let us have it ne'ertheless, good Rory;
It shows how sweetly thwarted lovers meet
O' moonlight nights, and talk of happy times
Which fortune has in store for faithful hearts:
The silliest moorland herd can follow that.

Rory.
Then be it as you please: I'll do my best.

Enter Culloch.
Allen.
Ha! our young chief must be return'd, for here
Comes Culloch, with his staring freckled face.

Omnes
(gathering round Culloch).
Well, man, what are thy news? where hast thou been?

Cul.
We've been at Glasgow.

1st high.
Glasgow! Save us all!

Allen
(half aside to 1st high.).
I doubt it not: his master, I hear say,
Goes oftener there than his good father wots of;
Ay, or his sister either. I suspect
There is some dainty lady—

1st high.
Hush! say nothing.

Allen.
And so, brave Culloch, thou hast travell'd far:
And what is Glasgow like?

Cul.
Like all Drumleary craigs set up in rows,
And chimneys smoking on the top of them.
It is an awful sight!

1st high.
And what sawst thou besides the craigs and chimneys?

Cul.
There be six kirks,—I told them on my fingers;
And, rising from the slates of every kirk,
There is a tower, where great bells ring so loud,
That you might hear them, standing on this sward,
Were they on great Benlawers.

1st high.
Tut! tut! thy ears are better than thy wits.

Bride.
And sawst thou any silken ladies there,
With all their bravery on?

Cul.
Ay, ladies, gentlemen, and red-coat soldiers,
And plaided drovers, standing at the cross,
As close as heather stalks on Hurroch moss.
Ah! well I trow it is an awful place!

Allen
(aside as before).
And well I trow the chief has business there
He wishes no observer to discover,
When he, of all the idle household loons,
Took such an oaf as Culloch to attend him.
But I'll e'en go, before he join the dance,
And have a private word of him, to favour
My poor old mother in her ruin'd cot.
I know full well he will not say me nay,
Though the old laird himself be cold and close.

1st high.
Go, then, and speed thee well!

[Exit Allen.
Bridegroom.
Hear, bonnie lassies! the young laird himself
Will soon be here, and foot it with you featly.

Old woman.
O, bless his comely face! among you all
There is not one that foots the floor like him,—
With such a merry glee and manly grace!

Bridegroom.
We'll have no further dancing till he come.
Meantime, good Rory, sing another song;
Both bride and maidens like thy chanting well:
And those who list may join the chorus rhyme.

Re-enter Allen, snapping his fingers, and footing the ground, as he speaks.
Allen.
I've seen him, sirs; I have had words of him.

1st high.
Had words of whom?

Allen.
Of the young laird himself.

Omnes.
Hast thou? and is he coming to the green?

Allen.
He bade me say he'll join you in the evening.

Omnes.
And not till then?

Allen.
Some strangers have arrived.
And I have seen them too: the lady's mounted
Upon a milk-white nag; and o'er her saddle
A scarlet cloth is spread, both deep and wide,
With bobs and fringes deck'd right gallantly;
And in her riding gear she sits with grace
That might become the daughter of a chief,
Ay, or the king himself.

1st high.
Perhaps it is the Glasgow provost's daughter,
Who is, as they have said, the very match
That our old laird is planning for his son.

Allen.
Ay, he may plan, but love will have its way,—
Free, fitful love thinks scorn of prudent planning.
No, young Dunarden went not to the town
With simple Culloch for his sole attendant,
To see the provost's daughter.

Bride
(to Allen).
And so he will not join us till the evening?

Allen.
No, damsels; but here are ribands for the bride,
And for you all, which he has sent by me.
Now they who have the nimblest hands among you,
Will catch their favourite colours as they fly. [Pulls out ribands from his pouch, and dances about in a whirling figure to the bottom of the stage, strewing about pieces of ribands, while the girls follow, to catch them as they fall.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The hall in the tower of Dunarden.
Enter Dunarden and Marian.
Dun.
(speaking as they enter).
In sooth, she well may grace a noble mansion,
Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince,
Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood.
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him,
He must be ill to win. And by my faith!
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady,
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits,
So frequent and so long, have been devoted.

Marian.
Ah, no! I fear another has his heart,—
His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.

Dun.
And if it should be so, will nothing please him
But the top-flower of beauty and perfection?
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,
Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well.
Why dost thou shake thy head?

Marian.
What might be, and what is, stand far apart,
When age and youth on the same objects look.

Dun.
Was I not young, when, of thy grandsire's daughters,
I chose the fairest, and was plainly told
Her heart and hand were promised to another?
But did I then perversely mope and pine?
No, I trow not: I clear'd my cloudy brow,
And woo'd the second fairest, thy poor mother.

Marian.
So will not he.

Dun.
Why so: belike he will not,
If thou abet his folly, as, methinks,
Thou art inclined to do.

Marian.
No, father; not inclined: I shall regret
As much as you, if any prepossession
Prevent him from approving this fair maid,
Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging.

Dun.
Out on thy prepossessions! Younger sons,
Who may be soldiers, sailors, drovers, ay,
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city,
To scour the world. But for the elder born,
Who must uphold the honours of the race,—
His ancient race,—he is not thus at liberty
To please a youthful fancy.

Marian.
But yet, dear sir, you may be ignorant—

Dun.
What! am I ignorant? Do I not know
The world sufficiently to guide and counsel
Those through whose body my own blood is flowing?
Not many men have had more opportunity
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it
To some account; at least I fain would think so.
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest,
In London once, in Glasgow many times;
And I, forsooth, am ignorant!

Marian.
Dear father!
You would not hear me out: I did not mean
That you were ignorant of aught belonging
To worldly wisdom; but his secret heart,
As I have said before, his prepossessions—

Dun.
And what has he to do with prepossessions?
He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth,
Since he, with his unceasing liberalities,
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies,
But he must have appointed for his widow
A house, with right of browsing for her goats,
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge.
The bedrid carlines, too, and orphan brats,
Come all on me, through his petitioning;
And I, God help me! have been weak enough
To grant such suits too often.

Marian.
You will not say so on your dying day.

Dun.
For that, indeed, it may be well enough;
But for our living days, I needs must say,
It doth not suit at all.—If he were frugal,
And would with care lay up what is our own,
Having some hoarded store, he might more reasonably
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it.

Marian.
Nay, be not angry with him.

Dun.
Angry with him!
Such want of reason would provoke a saint!
Is he to spend the rents with open hand,
Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask;
And please himself besides, by an alliance
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and bloom
To pay the yearly charges of her state?

Marian.
We do not know her yet, and cannot say
That she is poor.

Dun.
But we may shrewdly guess.
Else why those stealthy visits,—this concealment?
Oh, 'tis provoking! This, our Provost's daughter,
Is just the match that would have suited us,—
That would support our house, and clear our lands,
And he, forsooth!—I'll cast him from my favour!

Marian.
I know you will not.

Dun.
Lady Achinmore,
If he persist, I'll say and do it too.
His prepossessions truly! mighty plea!
Supported, too, by Lady Achinmore.

[Walking in wrath to the other end of the hall.
Marian
(aside).
I'll hold my tongue, and let the storm subside;
For when he calls me Lady Achinmore,
Reply is worse than useless.

Dun.
(returning).
Methinks the lady tarries in her chamber.

Marian.
To lay aside her travelling attire,
And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on,
Requires some time.

Dun.
And where is Malcolm? Surely he should be
In readiness, for very decency,
To bid a stranger lady welcome here.

Marian.
He will appear ere long, and is, perhaps,
Attending on her brother.

Dun.
No, he is not.
I saw young Denison walk forth alone,
As if to look for him.

Marian.
Here comes the lady.

Enter Alice.
Dun.
Ah, gentle lady! were I half the man That once I was how many years gone by We shall not say), you should to this poor hold,—
To these old walls which your fair presence brightens,
A rousing welcome have. But times are changed,
And fashion now makes all things dull and spiritless.

Alice.
My welcome, as it is, gives me such pleasure,
I will not think of what it might have been.
Your daughter has received me with a kindness
That has already freed me from restraint,
And given me courage to express my pleasure.

Marian
(to her).
Thanks to thee, gentle friend!
so may I call thee,
Knowing so well thy worth. Might we retain thee
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim.

Dun.
Some weeks! We'll try to turn those weeks to months,
And then, who knows but that our mountain soil
May e'en prove warm enough for Lowland flow'r
Therein to flourish sweetly.

Alice.
Thanks, noble sir; but we must go tomorrow.

Dun.
So soon! the daughter of my early friend
Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp,
Glancing and vanishing! It must not be.
Were I but half the man that once I was,
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand,
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer,
Or leave his charge behind him.

Alice.
Nay, blame him not: it was his own good will
That made him from our nearest homeward route,
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside,
To pay his father's friend a passing visit;
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow,
So rumour said.

Dun.
I thank his courtesy;
But, if my name be Fergus of Dunarden,
Neither the morrow, nor next morrow's morrow
Shall see thee quit my tow'r. I'll go and find him,
And tell him thou thyself art captive here,
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty,
And shalt not be released.

[Exit.
Marian.
Thou seest how gallantly old hearts will warm
At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee:
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty,
Where I would rather yield a sister's love.

Alice.
These words of kindness! Oh, you will undo me
With so much kindness!

[Bursts into tears.
Marian.
Dear, gentle creature! Have I given thee pain?
I have unwittingly—

Alice.
Done nought amiss.
I have a silly weakness in my nature:
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect,
But kindness makes me weep.

Marian.
And can it be that coldness or neglect
Should e'er be thine to bear?

Alice.
Better than I have borne it.

Marian.
Better than thou! In all your stately city,
Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

Alice.
Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature
Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.

Marian.
And if there be, conceit will mar it all;
For too much homage, like the mid-day sun,
Withers the flower it brightens.

Alice.
It may be so with others, not with her.

Marian.
Thou lovest her, then?

Alice.
O, yes! I love her dearly;
And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!

Marian
(taking her hands affectionately).
Sweet Alice! why so moved?

Alice.
'Tis my infirmity: I am a fool,
And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

Marian
(embracing her).
Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed
That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

Alice.
Thy brother?

Marian.
No; thine own,—thy brother Claude.
Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.
Mal.
Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains!
Which, as your brother tells me, you admire,
In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

Alice.
He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,
With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd,
Have less variety than their bare sides.

Mal.
Yes, when fleet shadows of the summer clouds,
Like stag-hounds on the chase, each other follow
Along their purple slopes; or when soft haze
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly grey,
Through the slight rents of which the sunshine steals,
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones,
Like spots of polish'd beauty,—they appear
Objects of varied vision most attractive.

Alice.
Then, to behold them in their winter guise,
As I have never done!

Mal.
You might then see their forms enlarged and dark,
Through the dim drapery of drifted rain,
Like grim gigantic chieftains in array,
Bidding defiance to approaching host;
Or lifting their black shoulders o'er the mass
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base,
Which seem like islands raised above the earth
In purer regions of the firmament.

Alice.
And then how sweet the bushy glens between them,
Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks, and streams
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!

Mal.
Where low-roof'd cots, with curling smoke are seen,
Each with its little stack of winter fuel,
And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near;
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will,
Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting
Among the yellow broom.

Claude.
Pray thee have done, good Malcolm; thou wilt fill
This girl's fancy with romantic visions,
Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields
Of her own country seem insipid things.

Marian
(to Claude).
One thing, you would observe, he hasomitted
In the description of his bonnie glen,—
The cottage matron, with her cumbrous spade,
Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door,
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.

Mal.
Well, freely I confess our mountain matrons
In useful virtues do excel their mates;
And in what earthly region is it otherwise?

Claude.
I dare not contradict thee, and be deem'd
Ungallant for my pains.

Enter a Servant, who delivers a packet to Claude.
Alice.
Is it from Glasgow?
Is there within the cover aught for me?

Claude.
There is a letter with thy name upon it.

[Malcolm withdraws some paces from her.
Alice.
Which, ne'ertheless, thou keepest to thyself,
With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing.
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknown?

Claude
(giving the letter).
No, not unknown.

Alice.
It is from Emma Graham (to Marian)
, and with your leave,
I'll read it by this window.

[Turns round, and starts upon finding Malcolm close to her.
Marian.
Why do you start?

Alice.
I knew not he was near me.

Mal.
(in confusion).
I crave your pardon: 'twas unwittingly;
I scarcely know myself why I return'd.

[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as she reads it to herself.
Mal.
(to Alice, who seems to have come to the conclusion).
Your friends are well, I hope; all's well in Glasgow?

Alice.
She says a deadly fever rages there,
And nought is seen along their dismal streets
But funeral processions; nothing heard
But death-bells tolling, and the hammer's sound
Nailing in haste the corse's narrow house.

Mal.
(agitated).
And she herself amidst this wreck of life!

Alice.
She is, ere this, removed from the contagion;
For these concluding lines inform me plainly,
That she and all her family were prepared
To leave the town upon the following day
To that on which her letter has its date.

Mal.
(eagerly).
I thank thee, Alice.

Claude
(peevishly).
Wherefore dost thou thank her?

Mal.
(haughtily).
Whate'er thou hast a right to ask of me
Shall have its answer.

Marian
(to Claude).
When Highland pride is touch'd, some lack of courtesy
Must be excused. You have not from this window
Admired the falling of our mountain stream.

[Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains him there in apparent conversation.
Mal.
(in a softened voice).
So, gentle Alice, thou'rt in friendship knit
With Emma Graham! and meet companions are ye!
[Looking closer to the letter, which she still holds open in her hand.
Forgive me; Lowland ladies far surpass,
As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids:
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited.

Alice
(putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then recovering herself.)
No; why should I withhold it from thine eye;
For still the sweet expressions from her pen
Excel the beauty of its characters.
[Gives it to him.
Peruse it then (aside, as she turns from him)
while I peruse myself.

Mal.
(returning the letter, after having read it).
Thou art in tears, sweet Alice; has thy mind
Some boding apprehensions for her safety?

Alice.
No, God forbid! I have a feeble body,
The worn-out case of a more feeble mind,
And oft will weep for nothing. Heed me not

Mal.
No, say not so: thy mind and body both
Are lovely yoke-fellows, and will together—
God grant it be so!—hold their prosp'rous course
For many years.
(Seeing her endeavours to speak.)
Strive not to answer me;
This wish, though most sincere, deserves no thanks.

Enter Dunarden, followed by Servants, carrying dishes of meat, &c.
Dun.
Come, honour'd guests, the first dish of our meal,
Poor though it be, is passing to the board;
Shall we not follow it? Although, in verity,
I am ashamed that such a poor reception
Is offer'd to such friends.

Marian.
Dear sir, they will forgive what things are lacking,
The heart's kind cheer not being of the number.

Dun.
(to Alice).
Had I had timely notice of your coming,
I had sent messengers for thirty miles,
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours;
And tables had been cover'd in this hall,
Round which we should have held a merry feast.
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan:
So that our wings are clipt on every side.

Alice.
Your courtesy is great: but surely, sir,
A merry wedding well may make amends
For a lost feast, e'en in Dunarden hall.

Dun.
And so it shall, fair Alice.—Pardon me
That I should be so bold to name you thus!
At fall of eve we'll join their merriment;
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance.
[Taking her hand gallantly.
I'll have thee all and solely to myself;
Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail,
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander
[Pointing to Malcolm.
To be my substitute.—Come, gentles all!
By this soft lily hand let me conduct
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend;
My trysted partner too. Aha! aha! [Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A lobby or entrance-room, with fire-arms, swords, and fishing-tackle hung on the walls. Servants are seen passing to and fro with plaids and bundles of heath in their hands.
Enter Housekeeper.
House.
Make all the speed ye may: in the long chamber
There must be twenty bed-frames quickly set,
And stuff'd with heather for the tacksmen; ay,
And for their women, in the further room,
Fourteen besides, with plaidings for them all.
The wedding folks have broken up their sport,
And will be here before we are prepared.

Enter the Butler.
Butler.
And what are twenty beds, when all the drovers,
And all the shieling herdsmen from Bengorach,
Must have a lair provided for the night.

House.
And who says so?

Butler.
E'en the young laird himself.

House.
'Tis always so; Dunarden's courtesy,
With all his honied words, costs far less trouble
Than young Dunarden's thoughtless kindness doth.
The foul fiend take them all! Have we got plaids
For loons like them!

Butler.
Faith, we at least must try to find them bedding.

House.
Let each of them find on the green hill sward
The breadth of his own back, and that, I trow,
Is bed enough for them. Herdsmen, indeed!
[Several servants coming all about together.
More plaids! more plaids! we have not yet enow.

Another servant.
An Elspy says the gentlefolks must have
Pillows and other gear.

House.
Out on you! clamouring round me with your wants,
Like daws about the ruin'd turret! think ye
That I—I am distracted with you all!

Butler
(aside).
And with some cups of good Ferntosh besides.

House.
Howe'er the shieling herdsmen may be lodged,
I have provided for the Lowland strangers
Right handsomely.

Butler.
The bed of state, no doubt, is for the lady,
And for the gentleman the arras chamber.

House.
Thou art all wrong: the arras is so ragged,
And bat holes in the cornice are so rife,
That Lady Achinmore bade me prepare
His lodging in the north side of the tower,
Beside Dunarden's chamber.

Butler.
They leave the house to-morrow, waiting only
To take a social breakfast. My best wine
And good Ferntosh must be upon the table,
To which the beef, and fish, and old ewe cheese
Will give a relish. And your pretty playthings
Of china saucers, with their fairy cups,
In which a wren could scarcely lay her egg,—
Your tea-pot, pouring from its slender beak
Hot water, as it were some precious drug,
Must be, for fashion's sake, set in array
To please the Lowland lady.

House.
Mind thy concerns, and I will look to mine.
My pretty playthings are in daily use,
As I hear say, in the great town of Edinburgh;
And 'tis a delicate and wholesome beverage
Which they are filled withal. I like, myself,
To sip a little of it.

Butler.
Dainty dear!
No doubt thou dost; aught stronger would offend thee.
Thou wouldst, I think, call rue or wormwood sweet,
Were it the fashion in your town of Edinburgh.
But, hark! the bridal folks are at the door;
We must not parley longer.
[Music without.
I hear their piper playing the “Good-night.”

Enter Allen.
Butler.
They are at hand, I hear: and have ye had
A merry evening, Allen?

Allen.
That we have.
Dunarden danced with that sweet Lowland lady,
As though it made him twenty years the younger.

House.
Dunarden! Danced she not with young Dunarden,
Who is, so says report, her destined husband?

Allen.
Yes; at the end, for one dull reel or two
They footed it together. But, believe me,
If this rich Provost's daughter be not satisfied
With being woo'd by substitute, which homage
The old laird offers her abundantly,
She'll ne'er be lady of this mansion; no,
Nor of her many, many thousand marks,
One golden piece enrich Dunarden's house.

House.
Woe's me! our Malcolm is a wilful youth!
And Lady Achinmore would dance with Claude?

Allen.
She danced with him, and with the bridegroom also.

House.
That, too, would be a match of furtherance
To the prosperity of our old house.

Butler.
But that she is a widow, and, I reckon,
Some years his elder, it might likely be.

House.
And why should that be such a mighty hindrance?

Allen.
Fie, butler! dost thou utter, in such presence,
Disqualifying words of age and widowhood?

House.
You are mislearn'd and saucy, both of you.—
But now they are at hand.

SONG without, of several voices.
House.
We've listened here too long: go all of you
And get the rooms prepared! My head's distracted!

[Exeunt all, different ways.

SCENE IV.

A bed-chamber.
Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before them, carrying lights.
Marian.
You must be tired with all this noisy merriment
So closely following a lengthen'd journey.

Alice.
To be among the happy and the kind
Keeps weariness at bay; and yet I own
I shall be glad to rest.

Marian.
And may you find it, sound and undisturb'd!
There is among our household damsels here,
A humble friend of yours, the child of one
Who was your father's servant.

Alice.
Ha! little Jessie, once my playfellow,
And since well known to me, as the attendant
Of a relation, in whose house I found her,
Some two years past: a gentle, faithful creature.

Marian.
The same, she will attend upon you gladly,
And do what you require. See, here she is.

Enter Jessie.
Alice.
Jessie, my old acquaintance! I am glad
To find thee thus, domesticated happily
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well,
Since I last met with thee.

Jessie.
I thank you, madam;
I am right well; and, were I otherwise,
To see you here would make me well again,

Marian
(to Alice).
The greatest kindness I can show thee now
Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare
For what thou needst so much.
[Kissing her.
May sweet sound sleep refresh thee! Oh! it grieves me
To think that we must part with thee so soon;
And that ye are determined to return
To that infected city.

Alice.
Be not afraid for us. We shall pass through it,
And only tarry for an hour or two.
Good night, and thanks for all your gentle kindness!
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart!
[Exit Marian.
And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad,—
Right glad to see thee; but I'm tired and spent,
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak
As I was wont to do.

[Throws herself into a chair, whilst Jessie begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the ornaments.
Jessie.
I will prepare you for your bed, dear madam,
As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning
Your strength and spirits too will be restored.

Alice.
Thou'rt a good creature. Dost thou still remember
The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly?

SONG. Jessie (singing gaily).
Alice.
I thank thee: that was once a favourite song.
I know not how it was; I liked it then
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune.
But there is one which I remember well,
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing;
Let me have that, I pray thee.

Alice.
Thou singest sweetly, ay, and sadly too,
Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie.

Jessie
(after having entirely undone her hair, and taken the fastenings from other parts of her dress).
Now, madam, let me fetch your gown and coif.

Alice.
I want no further service, my good Jessie,
I'll do the rest myself: and so, good night;
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks.

Jessie.
Not yet good night; I will return again,
And take away the light.

Alice.
Well; as thou wilt: but leave me for a while.
[Exit Jessie.
This day, with all its trials, is at length
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart!
How is it with thee now? Thy fond delusions
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set.
We look upon them glowing in his blaze,
And sloping wood, and purple promontory,
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye:
What now remains but a few streaky fragments
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless?
[After a thoughtful pause.
There's rest when hope is gone—there should be rest.
And when I think of her who is the cause,
Should I complain? To be preferr'd to her!
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself
Cannot behold but with an admiration
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy
Goes hand in hand with every gentle virtue
That woman may possess or man desire!—
The thought was childish imbecility.
Away, away! I will not weep for this.
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover
From this sad state of weakness. If she love him,
She'll make him happier far than I could do;
And if she love him not, there is good cause
That I should pity him; not selfishly
On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be;
But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears!

[Covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself back in her chair, in a state of abandonment.
Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the phantom of a beautiful young woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.
Alice
(raising her face).
Who's there?—Is there true vision in mine eyes?
[Rising quickly, and going with open arms towards the phantom.
Dear Emma! dear, dear Emma! how is this,
That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour,
So many miles from home? Alas! that face
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look
Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly;
I dare approach no nearer, till I hear
Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?

Phantom.
A term, short as the passing of a thought,
Hath brought me from the chamber where my friends
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body.

Alice.
And 'tis thy spirit which before mine eyes
Thy body's semblance wears: and thou art nothing
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle!
O look not on me with that fixed look!
Thou lovest me still, else thou hadst not been here,
And yet I fear thee.

Phantom.
Fear me not, dear Alice!
I yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass
That gulf which parts the living from the dead:
And I have words to utter which thine ear
Must listen to, thy mind retain distinctly.

Alice.
Say what thou wilt; thou art a blessed spirit.
And canst not do me harm.—
I know it well: but let thy words be few;
The fears of nature are increasing on me.
[Bending one knee to the ground.
O God! Lord of all beings, dead and living!
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour!

Phantom.
And to thy fervent prayer I say, Amen.
Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures
Invest us now, we are the children still
Of one great Parent; thou in mortal weeds
Of flesh and blood; I in a state inexplicable
To human comprehension.—Hear my words.

Alice.
I listen most intently.

Phantom.
The room in which I died, hath a recess
Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused
And now forgotten; in it stands a casket,
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it;
Open, and read the paper therein lodged.
When my poor body is to earth committed,
Do this without delay. And now, farewell!
I must depart.

Alice.
Ah! whither, dearest Emma? Will a moment
Transport thee to heaven's court of blessedness,
To ecstasy and glory?

Phantom.
These are presumptuous words. My place, appointed
In mercy to a weak and sinful creature,
I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet,
From sin, and fear, and doubt, released for ever!

[Exit.
[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the phantom disappears, and then falls on the ground in a swoon. Presently re-enter Jessie.
Jessie.
Mercy upon us! lying on the ground!
Life is not gone; God grant it be not so!
Lady, dear lady! No; she does not hear.

[Endeavours in vain to raise her, then runs off in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking and calling at the door of another chamber.
(Without.)
Open the door! Rise, Lady Achinmore.
Marian
(without).
I am not yet undress'd: what is the matter?

Jessie
(without).
Come to the lady's chamber: follow me.

Mal.
(without, opening the door of his apartment).
What has befallen? Is any one unwell?

Re-enter Jessie, followed by Marian, who both run to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one supporting her head, while the other chafes her temples and the palms of her hands, &c.
Marian.
Support her drooping head, while from my closet
I fetch some water, and restoring drugs,
Whose potent smell revives suspended life.

Mal.
(looking in upon them from the door).
O leave her not! I'll find whate'er is wanting.

[Exit.
Marian.
There is a little motion of her lip;
Her bosom heaves: thank God! life is not fled.
How long hadst thou been absent from the room?

Jessie.
Some little time; and thought, on my return,
To find her gone to bed.

Marian.
How was she when thou leftst her?

Jessie.
She was well then.

Marian.
It hath been very sudden.

Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, &c.
Mal.
(applying herbs to her nostrils, while Marian pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her temples and hands).
Life is returning; she is laid uneasily;
Let me support her on a stronger arm.
[Taking her from Marian, and supporting her.
There's motion on her lips, and on her eyelids.
Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes,
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core,
As the warm air of day by slow degrees
The closed leaves gently severs.—Yes; she moves.
How art thou now, sweet Alice?

Marian.
See, she looks up, and gazes on us too;
But, oh, how strangely!

Mal.
Why do her eyes thus wander round the chamber?
(To Alice.)
Whom dost thou seek for, Alice?

Alice.
She's gone; I need not look; a mortal eye
Shall never, never look on her again.
[A peal of thunder heard.
Hear ye that sound? She is upon her way.

Marian.
What does she mean? It was a sultry night,
And threaten'd storm and lightning.

Mal.
(to Alice).
Thou'st been asleep, and scarcely yet art waking,
Thy fancy is still busied with its dream.

Alice
(raising herself more, and looking towards the place where the phantom disappeared).
It was no dream: upon that spot it stood;
I saw it,—saw it for a lengthen'd time,—
Saw it distinctively.

Mal.
Whom didst thou see?
No living creature could have enter'd here.

Alice.
O would that it had been a living creature!
Her beauty was the beauty of a corse
Newly composed in death; yet her dark eyes
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me.

Mal.
(hastily withdrawing his arms from her, and clasping his hands together in agony).
Thou hast seen Emma Graham!

Alice
(rousing herself).
Is Malcolm here? I am confused,—bewilder'd;
I know not what I've seen, or what I've said:
Perhaps it was a dream.

Mal.
It was no dream;
Or if it was, 'twas one of sad import.
Oh, if it be!—there is distraction in it.

[Tossing his arms, &c.
Marian.
Dear brother! such wild gestures of despair
For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!

Mal.
It was not sleep from which we have revived her.

Marian.
And grant it were not, swooning, I've been told,
Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.

Alice.
I was not well; I have been long unwell;
Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain;
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon.
Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm!
O that this vision did foretell my death,
If she were well and happy!

Mal.
Forgive me, dearest Alice! O, forgive me!
When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself.

[Taking both her hands, which he presses to his lips.
Marian.
Leave us, dear brother! go to thine apartment.

Mal.
I'll go where yearning nature urges me.
[Going, then returning again to Alice.
And didst thou hear her voice?

Enter Claude.
Claude.
Is Alice well? I heard a busy noise.
How art thou, sister?

Alice.
I have had a swoon,
But am recover'd from it. Go to rest.
[Aside to Marian and Malcolm.
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent!

Mal.
(aside to himself, as he goes off).
Is he so much concern'd? No, no, he is not:
He does not,—cannot feel what tortures me.

Claude.
Dost thou avoid me, Malcolm? Dost thou think
That kindness to my sister can offend me?

Mal.
I've other thoughts, which do no wrong to thee,
And owe thee no account.

[Exit.
Claude
(aside).
He is offended.
(Aloud to Marian.)
Thanks to you, dear madam!
For your kind care of Alice. Rest, I hope,
Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue
Of her long journey, and the evening pastime
Has been too much for one so delicate.
(To Alice.)
Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd creature!
I trust to-morrow thou wilt wake refresh'd.

Alice.
I hope so too, dear Claude; and so good night.
Remain no longer here. (Exit Claude.)
I'm glad he's gone.
[Apeal of thunder as before.
That awful sound again! she's on her way:
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm
To disembodied spirits.

Marian.
I may not leave thee here, my gentle friend;
In my apartment thou shalt pass the night.
Come then with me: I dare not leave thee here,
Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received
Some painful shock—Rise: lean upon my arm.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A rudely paved court, with a low building in front. The stage perfectly dark, and thunder heard at a distance.
Enter Malcolm, who goes to the door of the building, and knocks.
Mal.
Ho! Culloch! art thou waking? Rouse thee, Culloch!
I hear him snoring in his heavy sleep,
Press'd with the glutton feasting of the day.
[Knocking louder than before.
Canst thou not hear? Holla! ho! rouse thee, Culloch!
The heavy sluggard! Ha! he's stirring now.

[Laying his ear close to the door.
Cul.
(within).
Who's there?

Mal.
It is thy master.

Cul.
What is wanted?
It is not morning yet.

Mal.
That drawling voice!
He is not yet awake. Very loud.)
Rise, man, immediately:
Open the door, and do what I desire thee.
[To himself, after a short pause.
Six hours upon my gallant steed will end
This agony of doubt.—I'll know my fate—
Joy or despair.—He is asleep again.
[Knocking as before.
Make haste, make haste, I say! inert and sluggish!
O that, like spirits, on the tempest borne,
The transit could be made! Alas! alas!
If what I fear hath happen'd, speed or stillness,
Or day or midnight,—every circumstance
Of mortal being will to me be nothing.
Not ready yet!—Ha! now I see the light.
[Light seen from the window.
Six hours of my brave steed, and if my fears
Are then confirm'd—forgive me, noble creature!
We'll lay our burdens down and die together. Enter Culloch slowly from the building, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a candle in the other.

Haste, tardy creature! art thou sleeping still?

Cul.
What is your honour's will? O hone! O hone!
It is a murky night.

Mal.
I know it is.
Unlock the stable door, and saddle quickly
My gallant Oscar.

[Thunder again.
Cul.
Does your honour hear it?

Mal.
Hear what?

Cul.
The thunder growling o'er Benmore:
And that was lightning too that flared so fleetly:
The welkin's black as pitch.

Mal.
And let it growl; and be the welkin pall'd
In sackcloth! To the spot where I am going
We'll find the way by instinct.—Linger not:
Do what I have desired thee instantly.

Cul.
Ay, ay! the saddle upon Oscar's back.
The bran new saddle would your honour have?

Mal.
Yes, fool, and set about it instantly.
[Exit Culloch.
These dark and heavy bodings of my mind
Come from no natural bent of apprehension.
It must be so. Yet, be it dream or vision,
Unmeaning chance, or preternatural notice,
As oft hath been vouchsafed, if living seers
Or old tradition lie not,—this uncertainty
Ere morning dawn would drive my brain distracted,
Were I inactively to wait for day;
Therefore, to horse!
[Thunder louder than before.
That sound is in accordance with the storm
In this perturbed breast. Is it not ominous
Of that which soon shall strike me to the dust,
A blasted lonely remnant?—
Methinks he should ere this—time flies apace;
The listless sluggard must be urged to hasten
His so unwilling task.

[Exit hastily.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The cross of Glasgow. A great crowd of people are discovered, and bells heard tolling occasionally from the neighbouring churches.
1st crowd.
Ah! woe is me! so bonnie and so young!
Of all that death hath ta'en in this fell ravage,
None hath he ta'en that seem'd so ill to suit
The coffin and the mould. Ah! woe is me!

2d crowd.
Ay, neighbour, she was one mark'd from them all.
Though we have many fair and gracious ladies,
We had not one who could be pair'd with her:
The bonniest lass in all the west of Scotland.

1st crowd.
Ay, thou mayst say, the bonniest and the best.

3d crowd.
Nay, softly, David! for the point of goodness,
That is a matter, on her burial day,
We may not question; yet, if it be true—

1st crowd.
If it be true! It is not: nought is true
That can throw speck or spot upon her virtue.

1st crowd woman
(to 1st crowd).
Be not so angry, man; my husband means
Against her maiden virtue no reproach,
E'en if her faith was papishly inclined.

1st crowd.
She was no Papish; I'll take oath upon it.
The cloven foot of Satan in my shoe
Is at this point of time as surely buckled,
As that she was aught but a pure believer—
A good and godly lady.

1st crowd woman.
That gentleman, so brave and soldierly,
Who lately has return'd from foreign wars,
Is a rank Romanist, and has been oft
Received by her. But, Lord preserve us all!
We, by God's grace, may sit by Satan's side,—
Ay, on the self-same settle, yet the while,
Be ne'er one whit the worse.

3d crowd.
And I should guess—

2d crowd.
Hist, hist! the funeral's coming:
I hear the heavy wheels, and o'er the top
Of all those cluster'd heads I see the feathers,—
The snow-white feathers of the high-coped hearse
Move slowly. Woe the day! oh, woe the day!
How changed her state! She was on milk-white steed
Mounted right gallantly, with cap and plume,
When I beheld her last.

Voice
(without).
Make way, good folks, and let the ladies pass.

2d crowd
(to him without).
None can pass here on horseback.

Voice
(without).
It is the Provost's family: make way.

2d crowd
(as before).
An 'twere the king's, they must dismount, I trow,
Or wait till the procession be gone by.

Enter Alice, Marian, and Claude.
Claude
(to crowd).
What makes so great a concourse; and those bells
To toll so dismally? Whose funeral
Are ye convened to see?

1st crowd.
Ah, sir! the fairest lady of the place.
I warrant you have seen her many a time;
They call'd her Emma Graham.

Claude.
It cannot be! What didst thou call her? Speak;
Repeat her name.

1st crowd.
Her name is Emma Graham; her father is—

Claude.
No more! no more! too well I comprehend it.
And death hath dealt his blow on what was life's
Completest, dearest, best.

[Covers his face with his cloak.
Marian
(turning to Alice, and supporting her).
Dear Alice, thou art pale, and faint, and ill;
Lean upon me, my friend.

Alice.
Think not of me: poor Claude! my heart-struck brother!
His wound is deep and sudden: for this stroke
I was prepared.

Voices
(without).
Stand back; stand closer: it is now at hand.

[A funeral procession crosses the stage: the mourners following the hearse on foot.
1st crowd.
Ah! never corse was follow'd to the grave
With deeper sorrow!

1st crowd woman.
Ay, tears are following tears down manly cheeks,
As gouts fall in Saint Mungo's dripping aisle,
Near which the grave is dug that shall receive her.

1st crowd.
That is her grey-hair'd father, so bow'd down;
And those her brothers walking by his side.

2d crowd.
Then all the kindred walking, two and two.

3d crowd.
But who is he that follows after all,
In mourner's cloak so muffled to the eyes?
He walks alone, not mated like the rest;
And yet, methinks, his gait and motion say
The greatest weight of grief falls to his share.

Claude.
God knows who hath the greatest share! Not he.

[Pushing eagerly through the crowd.
Alice.
Where goest thou, Claude?

[Endeavouring to hold him.
Claude.
Prevent me not. Shall mourning weeds alone
Have privilege, and sorrow be debarr'd.

[Exit hastily after the funeral, and the crowd disperses different ways, Alice, Marian, and their servants alone occupying the front of the stage.
Marian.
Dear Alice! how thou tremblest every limb,
As in an ague fit!

Alice.
It was no dream;
It was no strong delusion of the fancy.

Marian.
This is indeed an awful confirmation.
But stay no longer here: go to thy home;
Thou hast great need of rest.

Alice.
I have more need,
Within my closet, on my bended knees,
To pray for mercy on my sinful self,
And those to me most dear,—poor sinners all.
This is a sad and awful visitation.

Marian.
But didst thou not expect to find it so?
I thought thou wast prepared.

Alice.
I thought so too;
But certainty makes previous expectation
Seem, by comparison, a state of hope.

Marian.
We now are free to hold upon our way.
Let us proceed: come on with me, dear Alice!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The house of the provost, and the apartment of Claude, who enters, followed by Crawford, and throws himself back into a chair with the action of deep distress.
Claude.
Follow me not, my friend; it is in vain
That friendly soothing would assuage my grief.

Craw.
Grieve not for that which is, indeed, most grievous,
Beyond all measure.

Claude.
Can we measure grief,
And say, so much of it shall be my portion,
And only this? A prudent, lesson'd sorrow,
Usurps the name it bears.—She was the light
That brighten'd every object; made this world
A place worth living in. This beauteous flame
Hath in the socket sunk: I am in darkness,
And no returning ray shall cheer my sight.
This earth, and every thing that it contains,
Is a dull blank around me.

Craw.
Say not so!
It grieves my heart to hear thee. Say not so.

Claude.
I will not grieve thee then; I'll hold my tongue;
But shall I feel the less?—Oh, had she lived!

Craw.
Perhaps she had but caused thee greater sorrow;
For how wouldst thou have brook'd to see her hand,
Had it so been, bestow'd upon another?

Claude.
Why should I entertain a thought so painful?
[Raising his head proudly, after a thoughtful pause.
Yes, I can entertain it, and believe
That, even as another's, it were happiness
To see her yet alive; to see her still
Looking as never eyes but hers did look;
Speaking such words as she alone could speak,
Whose soften'd sounds thrill'd through the nerves, and dwelt,
When heard no more, on the delighted fancy,
Like chanted sweetness!—All is now extinct!—
Like some base thing, unmeet for mortal eye,
The sod hath cover'd all.
[After a thoughtful pause.
Hath cover'd all!

Craw.
Dear Claude! why wilt thou dwell on things so dismal?
Let me read to thee from some pious book;
Wilt thou permit me?
[He remains silent and thoughtful.
Dost thou hear me, Claude?

Claude
(muttering to himself, without attending to Crawford).
The sexton has the key; and if he had not,
The wall may yet be clear'd.—
The banded mourners scatter to their homes,
Where kinsfolk meet, and social hearths blaze bright,
And leave the grave in midnight loneliness!
But should it be?

Craw.
(listening to him).
I understand these words.
But if he go, he shall not go alone.

Enter a Servant.
Claude
(impatiently).
What brings thee here?

Serv.
A gentleman desires to see you, sir.

Claude.
Tell him I am gone forth.—Such ill-timed visits!
Is the sore heart a sear'd and harden'd thing
For every fool to handle?

[Exit.
Craw.
I'll follow him: he should not be alone.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A large room, with rich furniture, and the walls hung with pictures.
Enter the Provost and Marian, by different doors.
Provost.
How is poor Alice?

Marian.
She is more composed;
For tears have flow'd uncheck'd, and have relieved her.
I have persuaded her to take an hour
Of needful rest upon her bed; and Jessie,
That kindly creature, watches her the while.

Provost.
Ay, that is right. And now, my right good lady,
Let me in plain but grateful words repeat,
That your great kindness, leaving thus your home,
And taking such a journey for the comfort
Of my poor child, is felt by me most truly,
As it deserves. May God reward you for it!

Marian.
I will not, sir, receive such thanks unqualified;
They are not due to me. Regard for Alice,—
And who that knows her feels not such regard,—
Was closely blended with another motive,
When I determined on this sudden journey.

Provost.
Another motive!

Marian.
Has not Claude inform'd you
That Malcolm left Dunarden secretly,
The night before we did ourselves set forth?

Provost.
He has not. Ha! and wot you where he went?

Marian.
I wot not, but I guess: and it was he,
As I am almost confident, who walk'd
The last of all the mourners, by himself,
In this day's sad procession.

Provost
(pulling a letter hastily from his pocket).
Madam, sit down; I'll cast mine eyes again
O'er this your father's letter. Pray sit down!
I may not see you thus.
[Setting a chair with much courtesy, and obliging her to sit, whilst he goes aside and reads a letter earnestly. He then returns to her.
My friend has many words of courtesy;
It is his habit; but subtracting from them
The plain unvarnish'd sense, and thereto adding
What, from this secret journey of your brother,
May be inferr'd,—the real truth is this—
At least it so appears to my poor reason—
[Preventing her as she rises from her seat.
Nay, sit, I pray you, Lady Achinmore;
We'll talk this matter over thoroughly,
And leave no bashful doubts hid in a corner,
For lack of honest courage to produce them.

[Sits down by her.
Marian.
Proceed, good sir, I listen earnestly.

Provost.
As it appears to me, the truth is this,
That Malcolm, whom your father doth admit,
Albeit a great admirer of my daughter,
To be at present somewhat disinclined
To give up youthful liberty so early,
As he from more acquaintance with her virtues
Ere long will of his own accord desire,—
(Pointing to the letter)
—so he expresses it.

Marian.
And with sincerity.

Provost.
Well, grant it, lady!
The truth doth ne'ertheless appear to be,
That this young gallant, Malcolm of Dunarden,
With all her virtues, loves not Alice Denison,
And loves another.

Marian.
Rather say, hath loved.

Provost.
I'll not unsay my words. His heart is with her,
Low as she lies: and she who won his heart
From such a maid as Alice Denison,
Will keep it too, e'en in her shroud. No, no!
We've spread our vaunting sails against the wind,
And cannot reach our port but with such peril
As will o'ermatch the vantage.

Marian.
Say not so.
Time will make all things as we wish to have them.

Provost.
Time works rare changes, which they may abide
Who are intent upon them. Shall I carry
My vessel where her cargo is not wanted?—
Tobacco to th' Antipodes, and wait
Till they have learn'd to use and relish it?—
Shall I do this, when other marts are near
With open harbours ready to receive her?

Marian.
Dear sir, you must not think I will assent
To what would mar the long and cherish'd wish
Of me and mine. And we had fondly hoped
That you had been desirous of this union
Between our families.

Provost.
Your father won my friendship years ago,
When with his goodly mien and belted plaid,
His merry courtesy and stately step,
He moved amongst our burghers at the Cross,
As though he had been chieftain o'er us all;
And I have since enjoy'd his hospitality,
In his proud mountain hold.

Marian.
I recollect it: proud and glad he was
Of such a guest.

Provost.
Dost thou? Ay, then it was,
That, seeing his fair stripling by his side—
A graceful creature, full of honest sense
And manly courage—I did like the notion,
That Alice, then a little skipping child,
With years before her still to play about me,
Should in some future time become the lady
Of that young Highland chief. But years bring thoughts
Of a more sober and domestic hue.
Why should I covet distant vanities,
And banish from my sight its dearest object?
(Rising from his chair.)
Have you observed those pictures?

Marian
(rising also).
I have. They are the portraits of your parents:
Their features bear resemblance to your own.

Provost.
My mother's do: and look at her, dear madam!
With all the bravery of that satin dress
Clasp'd up with jewels, and those roses stuck
Amongst her braided hair, she was the daughter
And sober heiress of a saving burgher,
Whose hoarded pelf in my brave father's hands
Raised such industrious stir in this good city,
As changed her from a haunt of listless sluggards
To the fair town she is. What need have I
To eke my consequence with foreign matches?
Alice shall wed, I hope, some prosperous merchant,
And live contentedly, my next door neighbour,
With all her imps about her.

Marian.
Wed whom she may, I hope she will be happy.

Provost.
I do believe that is your hearty wish:
And having plainly told you what I think
Of this projected match, as it concerns
My daughter and myself,—I will proceed
To that which may concern my ancient friend.
Should any mortgage press on his estate,
Or any purchase of adjoining lands
Make money a desired object with him,
He need but speak the word; at easy int'rest
He shall receive what sums he may require,
And need not fear that I shall e'er distress him
With hard ill-timed demands. In faith, he need not!

Marian.
Dear sir, he knows full well your gen'rous heart
Hath for its minister a liberal hand:
In truth, he would not fear to be your debtor.

Provost.
Not all the rum and sugar of Jamaica,
In one huge warehouse stored, should make me press him,
Though apt occasion offer'd e'er so temptingly.
Then why should Malcolm bend his youthful neck
To wedlock's yoke for sordid purposes?
The boy shall be my friend; and when his mind
Is free to think upon another love,
I'll guide him to a very comely lady—
Yea, more than one, that he may have a choice—
Who may prove both a match of love and profit;
But hear you plainly, not to Alice Denison.

Marian.
Oh, you are kind and noble! but my father—

Provost.
Say nought for him; he'll answer for himself:
And through his maze of friendly compliments,
I'll trace at last his veritable thoughts.
[Taking her hand kindly.
Now, having thus so plainly told my mind,
Look on me as a man to whom again
You may as freely speak.

Marian.
And so I will:
The happiness of one, dear to us both,
Requires that I should do it.

Provost
(surprised).
How so? is it of Alice you would speak?

Marian.
Yes, but another time; for here comes Jessie. Enter Jessie.
(To Jessie.)
How is she now? I hope she is asleep.

Jessie.
She has not slept, but lies composed and easy,
And wishes now to see you.

[Exit Marian.
Provost.
How art thou, Jessie?

Jessie.
Well, an' please your honour.

Provost.
I hear thou hast become a Highland lass;
But, if thou really like the Lowlands better,
Thy native country, tell me honestly:
I'll make thy husband, whomsoe'er thou choose,
A freeman of this town. If he have brains,
And some few marks beside, he'll thrive upon it.

Jessie.
I thank you, sir: his marks are few indeed.

Provost.
Well, never mind; let us but have the brains,
And we will make the best of it.—Poor Jessie!
I well remember thee a barefoot girl,
With all thy yellow hair bound in a snood:
Thy father too.

Jessie.
Do you remember him?

Provost.
Yes, Saunders Fairlie. Better man than Saunders
In factory or warehouse never bustled.

Enter Servant.
Provost.
What is the matter, Archy? On thy face
Thou wearst a curious grin: what is the matter?

Serv.
The baillie bid me to inform your honour,
The country hucksters and the market wives
Have quarrell'd, and are now at deadly strife,
With all the brats and schoolboys of the town
Shouting and bawling round them.

Provost.
Good sooth! whene'er those wives with hands and tongue
Join in the fray, the matter must be look'd to.
I will be with them soon.
[Exit servant.
To think now of those creatures!
E'en at the time when death is in the city
Doing his awful work, and our sad streets
Blacken'd with funerals, that they must quarrel
About their worldly fractions! Woe is me!
For all our preachings and our Sabbath worship,
We are, I fear, but an ungodly race. Enter another Servant.

And what has brought thee, too?

Serv.
There is a woman come from Anderston,
Whose neighbour, on pretence of some false debt,
Has pounded her milch cow,—her only cow.

Provost.
Is that a case to occupy my time?
Let her go with it to the younger baillie.

Serv.
I told her so, your honour, but she weeps,
And says the younger baillie is so proud,
She dare not speak to him.

Provost.
Poor simpleton! Well, then, I needs must see her. Re-enter 1st Servant.

Tut! here again! What is the matter now?

1st serv.
A servant all cross'd o'er wi' livery lace,
As proud and grand as any trumpeter,
Is straight from Blantyre come, and says, my lord
Would greatly be obliged, if that your honour
Would put off hearing of that suit to-morrow,
As he must go to Edinburgh.

Provost.
Tell the messenger
To give my humble service to his lordship,
And say, I could not, but with great injustice
To the complaining party, grant delay,
Who, being poor, should not be further burden'd
With more attendance; I will therefore hear
The cause to-morrow, at the hour appointed. Exit 1st, and re-enter 2d Servant.

Still more demands! For what foul sin of mine
Was I promoted to this dignity?
From morn till eve, there is no peace for me.

[Exit Provost, speaking to the servants as they go out.

SCENE IV.

Before the walls of a churchyard, a narrow iron gate at the bottom of the stage, behind which the gleaming of a torch is faintly seen; the front of the stage entirely dark. Solemn music is heard, as the scene opens.
Enter a Sexton, with keys, followed by Claude and Crawford.
Claude.
Music! and from the spot! what may it be?

Sexton.
Leave was requested that a solemn dirge
Should be this night sung by some grave; but whose,
Or e'en by whom requested, I am ignorant.
Some Papist, like enough: but what of that?

Craw.
(to sexton).
How many graves thou'st made in one short week!
Thou hast been busy in thy sad vocation.

Sexton.
I have, good sooth, and knew it would be so,
A month before the fell disease began.

Craw.
How knew it?

Sexton.
He, the sighted man from Skye,
Was in the town; and, at the crowded cross,
Fell into strong convulsions, at the sight
Which there appear'd to him.

Craw.
What did he see?

Sexton.
Merchants, and lairds, and deacons, making bargains,
And setting trystes, and joking carelessly,
Swathed in their shrouds; some to the very chin,
Some breast-high, others only to the loins.
It was a dismal, an appalling sight;
And when I heard of it, I knew right well
My busy time was coming.

Claude
(to sexton, impatiently).
Didst thou say
That leave has been requested for a dirge
To be this night sung by some Papist's grave?

Sexton.
Papist or not I cannot surely say,
I ask'd no questions.

Craw.
Having cause, no doubt,
To be well satisfied no harm would ensue.

Sexton.
No harm. In this retired nook it cannot
Annoy the living; and for the departed,
Nought can disturb their rest.

Craw.
Hast thou not heard of restless souls returning?
Perhaps thou'st seen it, during thirty years
In which thou hast been sexton of this parish.

Sexton.
In all that time I ne'er could say with certainty
That aught of such a nature pass'd before me;
But I have seen uncertain shadows move
As 'twere confusedly, and heard strange sounds,—
Stranger than wind or natural cause could utter.

Craw.
And thou wast sure they were unnatural sounds?
And hast thou heard them often?

Sexton.
Many times:
But that was in the first years of mine office.
I am not now alarm'd: use makes me feel
As if no harm could e'er befall the sexton:
And e'en my wife will in dark winter nights
Enter the church alone and toll the bell.

Craw.
And ne'er has been alarm'd by any sight
Of apparition or unearthly thing?

Sexton.
Yes; she was once alarm'd.

Craw.
(eagerly).
And what appear'd?

Sexton.
It was, as nearly as I can remember,
Upon a Friday night—

Craw.
(quickly).
Ne'er mind the night: what was it that she saw?

Sexton.
Nay, she herself saw nothing; but the dog
That follow'd her bark'd briskly, then stopp'd short,
And, with a kind of stifled choking howl,
Look'd in her face, then cower'd by her side,
Trembling for fear; and then right well she knew
Some elrich thing was near her, though its form
Was only visible to the poor brute.

Craw.
You think the dog saw something.

Sexton.
Certes did he!
And had he not been dumb, he could, no doubt,
Have told a tale to set our hair on end.

Claude
(who, during their discourse, has been pacing to and fro impatiently, to sexton).
You know not who it was?

Sexton.
The Lord preserve us, sir! for she saw nothing.

Claude.
What dost thou mean? Couldst thou not guess, at least,
Who 'twas who made request to chant the dirge?

Sexton.
Ay, ay! the dirge. In truth I cannot say.
It was a man I never saw before.

Claude
(eagerly).
Stately, and of a stature somewhat taller
Than middle size, of countenance somewhat younger
Than middle age?

Sexton.
No; short, and grave, and ancient, like a priest
From foreign parts.

[Music sounds again.
Craw.
Be still and hear the dirge.

DIRGE sung by several voices without.
Claude
(seeing the light disappear).
They are all gone at last: unlock the gate.
[The sexton applies the key, but in vain.
Canst thou not open it? what is the matter?

Sexton.
I've brought a key made for another gate;
Woe worth my stupid head!

Claude.
I'll climb the wall.

Sexton.
Be not so very hasty, please your honour.
This key unlocks the southern gate: I pray you
To follow me, and you will soon have entrance.
Woe worth my stupid head!

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The churchyard, near the walls of St. Mungo's church, which occupies the bottom of the stage. A newly covered grave is dimly seen near the front; the stage darkened, but not entirely so; a degree of light, as from a new-risen moon in a cloudy night, showing objects imperfectly.
Enter Malcolm, who bends over the grave for some time in silence.
Mal.
And here beneath this trampled sod she lies,
Stiffen'd and cold, and swathed in coffin-weeds,
Who, short while since, moved like a gleam of brightness,
Lighting each face, and cheering every heart.
Oh, Emma, Emma Graham, is this thy place?
Dearer than thou a lover's soul ne'er worshipp'd;
Fairer than thou a virgin's robe ne'er wrapt;
Better than thou a parent's tongue ne'er bless'd.
Oh, Emma Graham, the dearest, fairest, best!
Pair'd with thee in the dance, this hand in thine,
I've led thee through the whirl of mazy transport,
And o'er thy chair have hung with wistful ear,
Catching thy words like strains of melody,
To be with fancy's treasures stored for ever.
I've waited near thy portal many an hour,
To see thy hasty transit from its steps
To the grim gaping coach, that seem'd to swallow,
Like a leviathan, its beauteous prey.
And now alas! I come to seek thee here!
I come to seek thee here, but not to find.
This heart, which yearns through its ribb'd fence to break
Into the darken'd cell where thou art laid
In Nature's thraldom, is from thee divided
As by a gulf impassable. Oh, oh!
So short a time! such fearful, sad transition!
My day is turn'd to night; my youth to age;
May life to death be the next welcome change!
[Throws himself on the grave in a burst of sorrow.
Sweet love, who sleepst beneath, canst thou not hear me?
Oh, if thou couldst! Alas! alas! thou canst not!
[After a pause, and half-raising himself from the grave.
But is it well, and is it holy, thus,
On such a sacred spot, to mourn the dead,
As lost and perish'd treasure? God forgive me!
The silver lamp, with all its rich embossments
Of beauteous workmanship, is struck and broken,
But is the flame extinguish'd? God forgive me!
Forgive a wretched and distracted man,
And grant me better thoughts!—The unclothed spirit
In blessed purity hath still existence.
Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious
Of what remains behind; perhaps, beholds
The very spot. Oh, if she does! her pity—
Her pity, yea, her love now rests upon me.
Her spirit, from the body newly freed,
Was in my father's house, ere it departed
To its celestial home; was it not sympathy?
O! Emma, Emma! could I surely know
That I was dear to thee, a word,—a token
Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession,
Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for
On their embattled fields.—Ha! who approaches? Enter Claude.

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot.

[Springing up from the ground.
Claude.
A sacred spot, indeed! but yet to all
Who loved in life the dead whom it contains,
Free as the house of God.

Mal.
I say it is not.
In this, her first night of the grave, the man
Who loved her best when living, claims a right
To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside.

Claude.
Then yield to me that right, for it is mine;
For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.

Mal.
'Tis not the date, but potency of love
Which bears account: I say, approach no nearer.

Claude.
Must I endure such passion? Frantic man!
Are we not both in grief smitten to the earth?
May we not both weep o'er this sacred spot,
Partners in wretchedness?

Mal.
Away, away! I own no partnership;
He who hath spok'n such word hath thereby proved
The poorness of his love. Approach no nearer.
I'll yield my heart's blood rather than resign
This my sad eminence in widow'd sorrow.

Claude.
Dar'st thou to hinder me?

Mal.
I dare and will.

[They grapple fiercely.
Enter Crawford.
Craw.
(separating them.)
For shame! for shame! to hold contention here!
Mutual affliction should make friends of foes,
Not foes of friends. The grave of one beloved
Should be respected e'en as holy ground,—
Should have a charm to smother all resentment.

Mal.
And so it should, and shall.—Forgive me, Claude;
I have been froward in my wretchedness.

Claude.
And I, dear Malcolm, was to blame, so suddenly
To break upon thy sorrow.

Craw.
The provost hath despatch'd a messenger
Upon our track, who found me out e'en now,
Requesting both of you to give your presence
On an occasion solemn and important.

Claude.
What may it be?

Craw.
Within the late apartment of the dead,
Your sister has a duty to perform,
Enjoin'd her by the dead. And 'tis her wish
That ye should both be present.

Claude and Mal.
(together).
We will obey her shortly. Go before us.

[Exeunt Crawford and Malcolm; and Claude, after bending in silence for a few moments over the grave, follows them.

SCENE VI.

An apartment, the walls of which are lined with oak, and partly hung with arras.
Enter a Maid Servant, carrying a lamp and a basket, &c.
Maid
(speaking as she enters).
I trow, when we have burnt this second parcel,
The sickly air must needs be purified.
But what does all this fuming signify,
Since we must die at our appointed time?
What dost thou think—
(looking round and seeming alarmed)
—She has not follow'd me.
I thought she was behind me. Lord preserve us!
Here in this ghastly chamber all alone!
[Going to the door and calling.
Art thou not coming. Marjory? Where art thou?
I say, where art thou? I have need of thee.

Enter a 2d Maid.
2d maid.
Why didst thou call so loud? What is the matter?

1st maid.
I thought thou wast behind me: merey on us!
A kind of qualm came o'er me, when I look'd
On all within this silent dismal room,
And to that corner where the death-bed stood,—
A sudden qualm came o'er me.

2d maid.
Let us be busy—there's no time to lose;
The provost and his daughter will be here
Ere we have done our work.

[They take gums and dried herbs from the basket, which they set fire to by the lamp, and fumigate the chamber, speaking the while occasionally.
1st maid.
The Lord preserve us! 'tis an awful thing.

2d maid.
It was a sudden call: so young,—so good!

1st maid.
Ay, many a sore heart thinks of her this night.

2d maid.
And he, the most of all, that noble gentleman:
Lord pardon him for being what he is!

1st maid.
And what is that?

2d maid.
A rank and Roman papist.

1st maid.
The Lord forgive him that, if it be so!—
And quickly, too; for this same deadly fever,
As I hear say, has seized upon him also.

Enter Provost.
Provost.
That's well, good damsels; you have done your task
Right thoroughly: a whelesome, fragrant smell
Is floating all about. Where is your master?

1st maid.
In his own chamber. When he knows your honour
Is in the house, he will attend you presently.

2d maid.
And it will do him good to see your honour.

Provost.
I fear, my joe, the good that I can do him,
Or e'en the minister, if he were here,
Would be but little. Grief must have its time.
Some opiate drug would be to him, I reckon,
Worth all my company, and something more.
Howbeit, I'll go to him. My good old friend!
My heart bleeds for him.—Ye have done enough;
The ladies are at hand.

[Exit by the opposite side.
Enter Alice and Marian.
Marian.
Take hold of me; thy summon'd strength, I fear,
Forsakes thee now.
[She supports Alice, and they walk slowly to the middle of the room.
Ay, thou lookst round, as if in search of something?

Alice.
They have removed it.

Marian.
What have they removed?

Alice.
The bed on which she lay. Oh, woe is me!
The last time I was in this chamber, Marian,
Becoming suddenly, from some slight cause,
A passing sufferer, she laid my head
On her own pillow, and her own soft hand
Press'd me so gently; I was then the patient,
And she the tender nurse. I little thought
So short a time—Alas! my dear, dear friend!

Marian.
Short time indeed for such a dismal change:
I may not chide thy tears.

Alice.
Here are the virginals on which she play'd;
And here's her musie, too.
[Taking up a book from the virginals, and opening it.
Ah, woe is me!
The very tune which last she play'd to me
Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves
The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her!

Marian.
'Tis sweet to find it so.

Alice.
But, oh! how sad!
She was—she was—
[Bursting into tears.
Well may I weep for her!

Marian.
Be comforted, dear Alice! she is gone
Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more.

Alice.
I know—I know it well: but she is gone!
She who was fair, and gifted, and beloved:
And so beloved!—Had it been heaven's blest will
To take me in her stead, tears had been shed,
But what had been their woe, compared to this?

Marian.
Whose woe, dear Alice?

Alice.
His woe—their woe; poor Claude's, and Malcolm's too.
Death seizes on the dearest and the best!

Marian
(embracing her).
I will not hear thee say so, gentle Alice.
A dearer and a better than thyself
'Twere hard to find. No; nor do I believe
That she whom thou lamentest did surpass thee.

Alice.
Hush! say it not!—I pray thee, say not so:
In pitying me thou must not rob the dead.
That he preferr'd a creature of such excellence,
Took from the wound its sting and bitterness.
Thou mayst not wrong the dead!

Marian.
I will not, then,

Alice
(looking round).
There is the arras that conceals the place:
Her awful words are sounding in my ears,
Which bade me search. I feel a secret awe!
But that her spirit from the earth has ta'en—
As I am well assured—its final leave,
I could believe that she is near me still,
To see the very act!

[Looking round her fearfully.
Marian.
Nay, check thy ardent fancy: 'tis not good
To let such dismal notions haunt thee so—
Thy father comes, with his afflicted friend.

Enter Provost, leading Graham by the hand.
[Alice advances affectionately to Graham, who opens his arms to receive her, and she weeps upon his neck, without speaking. She then leads him to a chair, and seats herself upon a stool at his feet, taking his hand in hers, and bending over it, while the Provost and Marian remain in the front.
Provost
(looking at them).
That poor old man! he utters not a word
Of sorrow or complaint; and all the more
I grieve for him. God help him! in whose hands
The hearts of men are kept.

Marian.
And he is help'd, for he is weeping now.

Provost.
He did not weep when we for him were weeping,
And he will weep when all our tears are dried.
—Our two young men, methinks, are long of coming.

Marian.
But are you sure your messenger hath found them?

Provost.
I scarcely doubt it. I have those in pay,
But little better than the prey they follow,
Who are expert in dogging stealthy rogues;
And it were strange indeed if artless men
Should foil their skill.—
And I am right—I hear their coming steps!

Enter Malcolm and Claude.
Mal.
(after doing silent obeisance to the Provost and Graham, who, with Alice, come forward to meet them, speaks in a low voice to Claude).
And here, night after night, in all her beauty,
She took her curtain'd rest, and here she died!
But that which I expected is not here:
Is this the very chamber?

Alice
(overhearing him, and in a low voice).
It is: but what thou lookst for is removed.
(Pointing.)
Upon that spot it stood.

Mal.
Yes, thou hast read my thought, most gentle Alice!

[Goes to the spot, where he remains in silence, covering his face with his hands.
Provost.
Shall we not now proceed upon the business
For which we are convened?
(To Graham.)
To you, my ancient friend, I have explain'd it.
Malcolm and Claude, know ye why in this chamber
Your presence has been solemnly requested.

Claude.
I guess it well. My sister has inform'd me
Of Emma's last request; and I to Malcolm,
As we came hither, have repeated it.

Provost
(to Alice).
Now, dearest child! it is for thee to act.

[Leads Alice to the bottom of the stage, where, taking aside the arras which covers the wall, a small door is discovered.
Claude
(to Malcolm, seeing him take a book from a book-case).
Why dost thou snatch that book so eagerly?

Malcolm.
It is the book I praised to her so much
A short while since; and see, she has procured it!

Claude.
Ah! thou mayst well be proud. But how is this?
Thy countenance all o' the sudden changed!
[Malcolm lets the book drop from his hand, and Claude takes it up eagerly, and opens it, reading.
“The gift of one most dear.”—Of one most dear!
Thou didst not give it to her?

Mal.
No; nor thou!

Marian.
Hush, hush! words of ungentle rivalry
Do ill become this solemn place. Be calm.
See! Alice in the cabinet hath found
That which the vision'd form so earnestly
Directed her to search for.

[Alice, returning to the front with a small box in her hands, places it on a table, the rest gathering eagerly round her, and endeavours to open it.
Alice.
I know this box: alas! I know it well,
And many a time have open'd it; but now—

Provost.
Thy hands have lost all power, thou tremblest so.
[Taking it from her and from Graham, who attempts to assist her.
Nay, friend, thou tremblest also: I will do it.

[Opens the box, and takes out a written paper.
Omnes.
What is it?

Provost.
Give me time to look upon it.

Gra.
Some deed or testament. Alas, poor child!
Had she prepared for such an early death?

Provost.
It is no testament.

Mal.
(impatiently).
What is it then?

Claude.
Nay, father, do not keep us in suspense!

Provost.
It is a formal contract of betrothment;
Vows sworn between herself and Basil Gordon.

Gra.
That popish cadet of a hostile house
To me and mine!—Let mine own eyes examine it.
Contracted secretly! to him contracted!
But she is in her grave, and I—O God!
Grant me with patience to endure Thy chastening!
Contracted! married!

Provost.
Not married; no,—a mutual solemn promise,
Made to each other in the sight of heav'n.
Thus run the words:—
(Reads.)
“I, Basil Gordon, will no woman wed
But Emma Graham.”—Then follows her engagement:—
“I, Emma Graham, will wed no other man
Than Basil Gordon: yet will never marry
But with consent of my much honour'd father,
When he, less prejudiced, shall know and own
The worth of him I love.”
[Spreading out the paper.
This is her writing, as you plainly see;
And this is Gordon's, for I know it well.

Gra.
(beating his breast).
This blow! this blow! a Gordon and a papist!

Provost.
True, he is both: the last, I must confess,
No trivial fault. Howbeit he is, in truth,
A brave and noble gentleman.

Alice.
Indeed he is, dear sir. Your gentle Emma
Could love no other. Valiant in the field,
As frequent foreign records have attested:
In private conduct good and honourable;
And loving her he loved, as he has done,
With ardent, tender constancy—

Mal.
Hold! hold!
He loved her not—by heav'n he loved her not!
When all who ever knew her, drown'd in sorrow,
Follow'd her hearse, he—he alone was absent.
Where was he then, I pray?

Provost.
I'll tell thee where:
Stretch'd on a sick-bed—smitten by the same
Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress.

Mal.
Ha! is it so!
(Turning to Claude.)
Then we must hold our peace.

Claude.
And with each other be at peace, dear Malcolm:
What is there now of rivalry between us?

Mal.
Speak not so gently to me, noble Claude!
I've been to thee so wayward and unjust,
Thy kindness wrings the heart which it should soften.
(After a pause.)
And all our fond delusion ends in this!
We've tack'd our shallow barks for the same course!
And the fair mimie isle, like Paradise,
Which seem'd to beckon us, was but a bank
Of ocean's fog, now into air dissolved!

Alice.
No; say not beckon'd. She was honourable
As she was fair: no wily woman's art
Did e'er disgrace her worth:—believe me, Malcolm.

Mal.
Yes; I believe thee, and I bless thee too,
Thou best and loveliest friend of one so lovely!
Pardon me, dearest Alice! generous Alice!
Pardon the hasty error of a word
Which had no meaning—no intended meaning
To cast one shade of blame on thy dear friend;
For henceforth by no other appellation
But thy dear friend shall she be named by me.
[Turning to Graham.
And you, dear sir! look not so sternly sad.
Her love outran her duty one short step,
But would no farther go, though happiness
Was thereby peril'd. Though his house and yours,
His creed and yours, were so at variance, still,
She might expect his noble qualities
Would in the end subdue a father's heart,
Who did so fondly love her.

Gra.
Cease! I am weak, bereft, and desolate,—
A poor old man, my pride of wisdom sear'd
And ground to dust: what power have I to judge?
May God forgive me if I did amiss!

Claude
(to Provost).
Did Gordon see her ere she breathed her last?

Provost.
He did. The nurse, who was her close attendant,
Says, that he came by stealth into her chamber,
And with her words and looks of tenderness
Exchanged, though near her last extremity.
And there he caught the fatal malady.

Claude.
A happy end for him, if it should prove so.

Enter a Servant, who draws the Provost aside.
Provost
(aside to servant).
Thou hast a woeful face! what has befallen?

[Servant speaks to him in a whisper.
Marian
(to Alice).
Thy father has received some woeful tidings.

Alice.
I fear he has; he stands in thoughtful silence.
Father, how is't? your thoughts are very sad.

Provost.
Ay; were this span of earthly being all,
'Twere sad to think how wealth and domination,
Man's valour, landed pride, and woman's beauty,
When over them the blighting wind hath pass'd,
Are turned to vanity, and known no more!

[The bell of a neighbouring church tolls five times.
Mal.
What bell is that?

Claude.
Some spirit is released from mortal thraldom.

Alice.
And passing on its way, we humbly hope,
To endless happiness.

Provost.
I trust it is, though stern divines may doubt:
'Tis Basil Gordon's knell!

[The bell tolls again at measured intervals, and, after a solemn pause, the curtain drops.