 | Glencoe |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
The Hall in the House of Mac Ian in Glencoe.Midnight.—A turf fire burning.—Storm heard without.— John Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table; Alaster pacing the room.
JOHN.
Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep;
Three nights of feverish waking, at your age,
May spoil you for a watchman; for your nerves,
Undisciplined by care, throb many hours,
While those of elder and sedater spirits,
Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs
On yonder couch of heather;—I would pledge
My word to rouse you at the first faint tread
Which may announce your father; but 'twere needless;
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And rouse you to his arms.
ALASTER.
How can I sleep?
How can you wish that I should sleep, when night
Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind,
Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us,
As if in scorn of Highlanders, content
To yield the fastnesses in which it held
Joint empire with our sires; and still the fear
That it hath dealt its vengeance on the head
We love increases,—with the time o'erpast
For sad and shameful travel?
JOHN.
Alaster,
I must not hear you blend those words with aught
Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war
Of fierce emotions that, within his frame
Unshaken, raged, as time brought nigh the hour
When he must plight his faith to England's King,
Or to the power of unrelenting foes
Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear,
With wavering purpose he inclined to wait
His doom at home; but when the snow-storm hurl'd
Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes
Of roofless desolation all would share
Shriek'd at his heart, and peril lent a show
Of honour to the journey, which had else
Seem'd shameful;—so he girt him to the task
As to a doom'd man's office. If we lose
All else, we will preserve our household laws;
Nor let the licence of these fickle times
Subvert the holy shelter which command
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Rear'd for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep
The province of a Highland chieftain's son;
You must not judge your father.
ALASTER.
It is true,
And I submit me to your chiding: still
'Tis hard to own new tyranny; to shrink
Before its threats; to feel the Highland heart
Shrivel and die within its case, nor strike
One blow for ancient sovereignty and honour.
JOHN.
I grant that it is hard; but if the blow
Be without hope, 'tis nobler to forbear,
Nor buy a glorious moment with the blood
Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue
Endurance may possess, when action fails,
Look at our cousin Halbert!—To your eye,
Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood,
He seems distinguish'd only by that charm
Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds
Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave
Which these huge rocks impress upon the port
Of him who loves them. You have often seen
Our father to his greeting make return
Of gibe or withering silence, which he bears
In gentlest mood;—yet once his soul was passion'd
With wilder rage than even your ardent youth
Can guess; but I err now; for I o'erstep
An old injunction not to tell his story,
Till manhood fitted you to hear it.
ALASTER.
Manhood!
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I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years,
Though few, have been instructed by distress,
And I admit your title to the cares
And knowledge happier fortunes had deferr'd.
Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father long
With ours contested who might claim descent
From eldest line of ancestry, and right
To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held
The claim in doubt, till old Macdonald fell
Stricken for death;—then, conscious that his sons,
Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age,
And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve,
Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect
Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest
Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand
In peace,—with offer to resign his claims:
So that the blacken'd tower in which he lay,
Its ruin'd chapel, the small niche of rock
In which they are embraced as in a chasm
Rent 'neath our loftiest peak by ancient storm,
And some scant pastures on Loch Leven's side,
Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact
I was a witness, and the scene lives now
Before me.—In a room where flickering light
Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls,
On a low couch, Macdonald's massive form
Lay stretch'd;—with folded arms my father stood
Awed by the weakness of the foe so late
His equal; the expiring warrior raised
His head, and catching from the eager looks
Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew
Of anguish from his forehead, argument
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The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored
Halbert to keep them.
ALASTER.
So he yielded?
JOHN.
No;
One flush of crimson from the hair which curl'd
Crisply around his brows, suffused his face
And throat outspread with rage;—he slowly raised
His dirk; and, though the agony which swell'd
His heaving breast prevented speech, we read
In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd
With fire that answer'd to the uplifted steel,
And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove
In vain to reach their avenue, a vow
Of never-resting warfare;—so he stood
Rigid as marble, of his mother's face
Turn'd on him from her knees—of the wild fear
Which struck his gamesome brother sad,—of all
Unconscious. While we waited for his words,
Another voice, from the deep shade that gloom'd
Beyond the death-bed, came;—and midst it, stood
The squalid figure of a woman, wrought
Beyond the natural stature as she stretch'd
Her wither'd finger towards the youth, and spoke—
“Halbert, obey! The hour which sees thee rule
O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall bring
Terror and death.”—Then glided from the room.
He did not start, but as his ears drank in
The sounds, his colour vanish'd from his face;
The light forsook his eyes; his nerveless hand
Released the dirk; he sank on trembling knees,
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Said, “I obey”—and bow'd his head to take
His father's blessing, who fell back and died
When he had murmur'd it. The youth arose
Sedate, and turning to his mother, said,
“I live for you.” Since then he has remain'd
What you have known him.
ALASTER.
What was she who wrought
This awful change?
JOHN.
Have you not heard of Moina?
Although she has not since that day been seen
Within our vale, her awful figure glared
On the remotest infancy of men
Who now are reckon'd old. Her age alone
Would make the obscurest thread of human life
Drawn out, though many births and deaths of Hope,
A thing to tremble at;—'tis said she gazed
On that best piece of heavenly workmanship—
Our Mary's beauty, when the shrivell'd Queen
Of England foully shatter'd it; some crime
Or mighty sorrow now forgotten drew
Her steps into deep solitude. Preserved
By her majestic bearing from the grasp
Of law, she owns the power to pierce the veil
Of mortal vision;—the sole tie she knows
To this world is a kindred with our race,
From which she sprung;—yet only giant griefs
Borne or foreshadow'd have the power to stir
Her dull affections, or to invite her steps
From the rude hovel where she dwells alone
Far on the mountain plain, within the round
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O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest thought
And long communion with the hills whose moan
Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break
The bondage of the Present, or worse aid
Hath given her might, I cannot tell; pray Heaven
That you may never cross her!
ALASTER.
Her strange words
Fell lightly on the younger son, whose acts
Of boyish prowess wrought in frolic mood
I once admired;—has anything been heard
Of that gay scapegrace?
JOHN.
No;—he could not brook
The dulness of his home, though not uncheer'd
By female grace; for there the lovely child
Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom Macdonald loved,
Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan,
Has, from the opening of her youth's first blossom
Found shelter;—and no fairer Scotland boasts
Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives,
Be sure you'll find him on the sunny side
Of Fortune's favour.—Hark! The Cona's roar!
It bursts the icy chains which long have held it,
And riots in its freedom.
ALASTER.
'Twill destroy
The slender bridge below us. Should our Father
Approach that way!—I will not linger thus.
JOHN.
He bade me wait him here. Ho! Kenneth! (calling.)
Run
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Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save
Your chief.
[Exit Kenneth.
His journey will not lie that way,
Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar
Methinks I hear a step—it comes—alas!
'Tis not Mac Ian's.
Enter Halbert Macdonald.
Halbert, I have scarce
The power to bid you welcome as I ought;
We are sad watchers for our sire's return,
And almost blame the footsteps of a friend
Which might be his.
HALBERT.
I came to ask of him;—
For having cross'd him on Loch Leven's shore
Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard
With wonder the report which found its way
To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still
He was abroad.
ALASTER.
Are you assured 'twas he?
Did he address you?
HALBERT.
Alaster, you know
How rarely he will grace me with a word;
But this is not a season for a thought,
Save of his peril. I had made my way,
Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead
Our herd to shelter ere the night should add
Dark terrors to the storm: in blackening mist
I saw a mantle flicker; then the hairs
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Of flying vapour; swift I ran to aid
Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud.
He fled before me, till my fleeter limbs
O'ertook him; then he faced me;—'twas your father!
A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn,
He fix'd upon me; waved his arm aloft,
In action that forbade pursuit, and took
The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed
He wish'd but to avoid me, and that done,
He would turn homeward.
ALASTER.
If indeed 'twas he
And not a dreadful shadow of his mould,
He fears to meet the faces of his friends
After his oath to William.
HALBERT.
If he lives,
That oath is past; and being past, dear cousin,
Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs
To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn
I'll search each cavern'd nook within our glen,
Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill
Has hollow'd, unexplored. I know them well:
So haply I may find the reverend chief
Crouch'd in some narrow cave,—his stately head
In resignation bow'd upon his staff,
And waiting, without struggle, the last chill
Of slowly freezing death;—may lead him home,
And win one cordial pressure of his hand,
To speak he owns me true.
JOHN.
A footstep!—hush!
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JOHN.
Angus at such an hour!
ANGUS.
A fearful summons
From a shrill voice, between the tempest's gusts,
Call'd me to meet my chief.
JOHN.
Would he were here!
He comes even now (listening)
. No.
Enter Donald.
JOHN.
This is terrible!
DONALD.
Is not Mac Ian here? I came to meet him;
Roused from my bed by such a piercing cry
As rarely syllables a human name!
JOHN.
You hear!
Other old Clansmen enter.
JOHN.
I ask not why you come: I know
Some mortal tidings linger on the storm,
And ye are here to share them. Let them come:
We can but die!
HALBERT.
Heaven fit us to endure!
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Another step; I know it well!—'tis his!
Pray you withdraw awhile; but go not hence.
[Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end of the Room.
Enter Mac Ian.
MAC IAN.
Still watching?—you too, Alaster? What care
My absence must have brought you! My dear sons,
Do not despise your father, who returns
The subject of King William.
JOHN.
All you do
Must have our reverence. Let me bring you wine.
MAC IAN.
No; it would choke me. I must drain no more
The goblet to assuage the patriot glow
Of love and pride; I may not drink to Him
Whose ancestry my own revered; and wine
Were poison to me now.
ALASTER.
Is all then past?
MAC IAN.
It is; and sad as was the task, the way
Was worthy of its end. When through deep snow
I reach'd Fort-William, nerved to take the oath
Before the General,—I was told his office
Did not allow him to record it: thence
I was compell'd to struggle through the storm
To Inverary, where the Sheriff deign'd,
Although beyond the appointed time, to seal
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Within two miles of this beloved home,
And dared not turn to it.
HALBERT
—(speaking to Angus behind).
'Twas there I met him.
MAC IAN.
Who spoke? Is he who track'd me in the storm
Come as a spy, upon my sad return,
To gaze upon my sorrow? Let him face me!
HALBERT
—(coming forward).
I came not to offend you.
JOHN.
No;—he came
In terror for your safety.
MAC IAN.
Said he so?
Nay, Halbert, look yourself; scant powers are left
To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son
Shall fill it after me. Declare your wish
To rend it from us;—'twere a nobler course
Than that you follow.
HALBERT.
Sir, you do me wrong;
I boast no virtue when I claim content
With that which you have left me;—would not change
My naked turret, in its mountain hold,
Reach'd by the path along whose rugged steeps
Discord and envy climb not, for the fields
Rich Inverary in its scornful groves
Embosoms; and to me the mouldering walls
Of its small chapel wear the glory yet
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Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms
Have drench'd and shaken them. Forgive me, sir:
I have a patrimony which forbids
Envy of yours.
MAC IAN.
You hear—he taunts me now;—
Do you believe that show of meekness cheats
A soldier's eye?—that we esteem your thoughts
Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life,
And all the passion and the pride of youth
In these o'ercome?
HALBERT.
I strive to conquer them,
And not in vain. You think that strange. If day
Illumed the glen, I'd show you, from your door,
A shapeless rock, which, thence observed, presents
No mark to give it preference o'er the mass
Of mountain ruin;—yet from upward gaze
Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps
Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge,
Above with all its buttresses; its lake,
Black with huge shadows; and its jagged heights,
Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track
To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace
Of Heaven, each common object we regard
With steadiness, can veil the dark abodes
Of terrible Remembrance at whose side
Fierce Passions slumber, and supply to Hope
The place of airiest pinnacles it shades.
Thus, sir, it is with me.
JOHN.
Believe it, father;
Indeed 'tis true.
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Perhaps I do you wrong;
We'll speak of this to-morrow, when I meet
The eldest clansmen, and with shame, enforce
Their new allegiance.
JOHN.
They await you now.
MAC IAN.
Here?—I must face them;—tell them to approach.
[Mac Ian takes his seat;—John beckons the old Clansmen, who surround it.
MAC IAN.
I have cold welcome for you, friends; you come
To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I,
The most unhappy of the race, have been
To make the final sacrifice. I felt
Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate
Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold;
And I have sworn—relate it for me, John,
I cannot tell it!
JOHN.
To secure your lives
My father perill'd his;—and yesternight,
At Inverary, pledged our faith to William.
Enter Kenneth wildly.
KENNETH.
Too late! too late!
HALBERT.
What mean those awful words?
Is all his anguish vain?
KENNETH
(seeing MAC IAN).
No, he is safe!
Why start ye?—though the bridge is swept away,
Our chief's unharm'd.
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And thus you welcome him,
With words which freeze the soul! You meant no ill;
Yet death is in your words.
KENNETH
(kneeling to MAC IAN).
Forgive me.
MAC IAN.
Rise;
I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall
On these, my life's last comforts.
[Looking on John and Alaster.
HALBERT.
Sir, farewell!
When peril comes—as come it will—regard
The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his
Whose loyalty you wrong.
[Exit Halbert.
MAC IAN
(to the Clansmen).
Good night, my friends.
[Exeunt Kenneth and Clansmen.
Come near me, children;—I can scarcely bear
To look into your faces. You forgive me?
JOHN.
Forgive! We honour and revere you. Bless us!
[John and Alaster kneel, one on each side of Mac Ian's chair. He lays his hands on their heads.
MAC IAN.
There;—we are knotted now to live or die.
[The Drop Scene falls.
END OF ACT I.
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