University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Shore on the Coast of Cornwall.
Enter Philip, Ambrose, and others.
Phil.
Our craft is scandalized! We strip the dead!
But what of that? The dead but want a grave!
We give it them. We take what they can spare.

Amb.
You're right; we do no more!

Phil.
As to the rights
Of the living, whom they leave behind, let men
Look to their own! If not, why let it go!
Is it for us to stand the drenching rain!
Wade to our necks into the sea! perhaps
Take boat and pull among the breakers, at
The peril, every moment, of our lives,
For their behoof, while they lie snug in bed,
Loll o'er their fires, or sit around their feasts?
Methinks there's reason in the wrecker's trade!

Amb.
There is. He risks, and toils, for what he gets.

Phil.
But then he does no mischief to the dead,
More than the waves have done!—and if there be
Among us, one that does, he's not of us.
Those marks of violence, which hands alone,
Not rocks, and waves, that have not hands, can leave,
Are scandal to our name!

Amb.
'Tis clear, foul play
Hast oft of late been done, and chiefly there
Enter Norris.
Where Norris takes his stand! What right has he
To make that reef his own?

Nor.
Who talks of me?
What of Black Norris?—Humph!—You envy him!
“What right has he to make that reef his own?”
The right you all would stand on, if you could—
The right of might!

Phil.
Who thought of seeing him?
Who dream'd that he was near?

Nor.
I am a dark
And surly man!—Am I the worse for that?
May not the heart that's here, be soft as yours?
The man that's ever smiling, still speaks soft—
And no one here would pass for such a man—
I'd never trust! He'll prove a hypocrite!
The sky doth change its 'haviour—'tis no rogue;
And why not man that lives beneath the sky,
If he be honest? Marks of violence
On bodies wash'd ashore! You want to know
How they came there? I'll tell you—Why, by hands!
Is not that frank?—I'll tell you something more—
'Twas not by mine. It follows not, because
The hair is rough, the dog's a savage one!

Amb.
'Tis true.

Nor.
Come, come, hang no man for his looks!
The thing 's disgrace! Let's put a stop to it;
And each man do his best, to find him out,
That brings the shame upon us—be it me,
Or you, or him, or whomsoe'er it may;
And hunt him not by looks! Such hounds—you know
What hounds are, I suppose—are oft at fault!
Sleek looks may be companions to rough hearts!
I have found it many a time! As for the reef
You say I make my own—you're welcome to it!
But take it if you dare.

[Aside—goes out.
Amb.
We've done him wrong.

Phil.
I know not.

Amb.
Think the best! Come; in the end
It may be as he says. Whate'er we've thought,
No guilt has been brought home to him—although
His father is no better than he should be,
And sees far lands, by favour of the law.
Let's keep awake! Each think the watch his own!
Whispers grow loud, and we must silence them,
Else we'll be look'd to, and our trade at end!

[They go out on different sides.

SCENE II.

—Cliffs—with the Shore in the Distance—A Ship in the Offing.
Enter Edward and Marian, hand in hand.
Edw.
Look blithe, my pretty Marian! The true heart
Should ne'er be a misgiving one!—My girl,
My gentle girl, look blithe—Didst ever see
So fair a day?—There's scarce a cloud in sight!
The breeze is just the one our vessel likes;
Jib, spanker, all will draw! Tight-water boat,
Stanch crew, bold captain,—Marian, what's to fear?

Mari.
Absence, that gives to lovers taste of death,
And long protracted makes them wish for death,
So wearisome to bear! When last you left,
So long you stay'd,—life, from a precious gift,
Became a load, methought I could lay down,
Nor deem it loss, but gain!—my constant thought,
How time still broke his promise, day by day,
To bring thee back to me. Oh! of the sighs
I have heaved in an hour I could have found a wind,
Had I the cunning to make store of them,
Would cause thy ship to heel! There have I sat,
From coming in to going out of light,
Perch'd, like a lonely beacon, on the cliff,
Watching for thee;—and if I saw a speck,
I thought thee there; and, when it pass'd away,
I felt the pangs of parting o'er again!—
How long wilt be away?

Edw.
A month.

Mari.
Say two!
I'll make my mind up to two months—and then,
If thou return'st before the time, thou know'st
It will be usury of happiness!
Thou'lt stay two months!—Two months is a long time!

Edw.
I tell thee but a month!

Mari.
I'll not believe it;
For, if I should, and thou beyond shouldst stay,
Each hour beyond will be another month!
So, for my two months, I may pine two-score!
Nay, for two months I will not look for thee!

Edw.
And then we marry!

Mari.
So my father says.

Edw.
O Marian, when thou'rt mine!

Mari.
Thou wilt not go
Again to sea.

Edw.
No, girl!—Another trip,
We are rich enough! How love hath made us wise!
When boy and girl, we talk'd as man and wife;
And 'gan to hoard 'gainst days of housekeeping.
Our first small venture—what a heap it brought!
Its value more than ten times doubled! 'Twas
That Heaven did bless it!—Marian, that's the luck!
And since that lucky day, whate'er we've tried
Has thriven with us still.

Mari.
Thank Heaven, it has.

Edw.
Ay!—And the saint who taught me, on her knee,
“No life so happy as an honest one!”—
Thy mother!—Thy dear mother, Marian.—

Mari.
She loved thee!

Edw.
Yes!—What were a wrecker's gains
Compared to ours? To think that they're our own!
None to dispute them with us!—No, not e'en
A dead man's bones! I have kept my watch, on deck,
In a gale, the billows higher than our cliffs;
That, looking from their tops, you wonder'd how
The vessel could go down, and rise again;
While, as she heel'd until her yard-arms duck'd.
You thought each moment shrowd and brace would crack,
And every mast at once go overboard!—
Thus have I kept my watch; and then I've found
The best of treasures was a conscience, clear!
And with my venture in my chest below,
Would not have changed that slanting, creaking deck,
To take the wrecker's station on the shore,
With wind and wave at work, and breaking up
A fast and rich galleon! Marian,
Why dost thou hang thy head?

Mari.
My father is
A wrecker.

Edw.
So was mine, my Marian.
What then? We're not the children of their trade!
Pass but another month—Well, I'll say two—
And change of state shall bring us change of scene!
We'll quit these haunts, and ply some inland calling!
Why turn'st thou pale, my girl? What frightens thee?
I only see Black Norris—Fear'st thou him?

Mari.
Yes!—No!—I fear, yet know not cause to fear—
No just cause!—Yet—Thank Heaven he's gone again!

Edw.
He dared offend thee once, but paid the forfeit;
And durst not offer wrong to thee again!
Hast other cause to fear him, Marian?

Mari.
When last you were at sea, the weary nights
Thy mother and thy Marian beguiled,
As ever in thy absence they were wont,
With talk of thee; and growing sad with that,
Old tales of marvel, from her ample store,
The kindly dame would tell—Peace to her spirit!—
I shall not have her now to comfort me!

Edw.
Don't speak of that! Go on.

Mari.
One dreary night,
A wrecker was the story—banish'd son,
And worse than banish'd father! that watching was
A vessel fast upon the Goodwin Sands—

Edw.
I know!—The body of a man was wash'd
Ashore. The wrecker fell to rifling it,
But life was in the body.

Mari.
That's the tale.
The wrecker heard him groan—so, conscience-wrung,
The wretch confess'd—and to secure his prey,
Destroy'd what Heaven had bade the tempest spare;
Stopp'd with his hands the holy breath of life,
And watching, for assurance that the work
Of foulest sin was done, by the wild glare
Of the lightning, which, that moment, rent the clouds,
And lighted up the ghastly scene of blood,
Beheld the feature of his banish'd boy,
On his own beach, by his own father murder'd.

Edw.
But what hath this to do with him, the sight
Of whom recall'd the tale?

Mari.
His father is
A convict, serving in a distant land.
His term of shame, almost expired; for crime
Done on the storm-strewn shore.

Edw.
I know he is.

Mari.
I mused on them, as by thy mother's hearth
I sat; which soon, methought, began to spread
Into our bay—a furious tempest on,—
Men, women, children watching here and there,
On the look-out for some unlucky barque,
Its wrath might catch, and strand upon the shore!
There was the lightning, and the thunder, and
The rain and wind, and rattling shingles, as
The billows, mountain high, came tumbling in,
And there stood Norris, on that reef of his.

Edw.
Go on, as 'twere a real tale thou told'st,
Thou fixest me, with eagerness to hear.

Mari.
Then came a vessel—a huge hulk—without
A single mast left standing!—Such a one
Was wreck'd upon the coast three winters gone,
When thou wast far at sea—I witness'd it.

Edw.
Well; but the ship you fancied?

Mari.
Long she heaved,
And sank, and reel'd, until at last she struck
Right on the wrecker's reef; where soon she went
To pieces.—Then, the body of a man
Was wash'd on shore, and Norris sprang upon it;
But life, as in the story I had heard,
Was in it still; and Norris took that life!
He stabb'd the shipwreck'd man—and lo! it was
His father!—In my sleep I dream'd, that night
The self-same thing. And often, since, in sleep,
Ay, and in waking too, have seen't again—
Have seen the bay, the tempest, and the ship
The body floating in, and Norris there,
Rifling it of its life—the body of
His father! Strange things have been thought of him;
And never look I on that scowling man,
But with the thought, I see a murderer!—
But thou art going, and I talk of him!
I know not wherefore, but I never felt
So sad before at parting!

Edw.
Fear'st for me?

Mari.
No!—Thou art good—Hast trust in Heaven—implorest
Its mercy night and morn! 'Twill show it thee!
Thou'lt find it 'mid the tempest—near the shoal
Off the lee-shore!—or, if thy vessel strike,
Or founder, surer than the sea-bird's wing,
The sea-bird, it will float thee 'bove the wave,
And bear thee to thy native cliff again!
I have no fears for thee!—I think—I know
Thou wilt come back to me! Thou hast no fears?

Edw.
None, Marian!

Mari.
But thou hast!—I'm sure thou hast!
I see a trouble in thy face!—I do!
Thou fear'st for something!—What is it?

Edw.
I would
Thou hadst not told me of Black Norris.

Mari.
Why?
See'st aught in what I told thee?—Dost thou think
My dream bodes ill?—that something's sure to come?
Think'st thou there's aught in dreams? Don't answer me!
I don't believe there is!

Edw.
There is not, girl!

Mari.
Why wish, then, what thou didst?

Edw.
He gives thee pain.

Mari.
I will not see him again! I nothing see
When thou'rt away. The sun, the earth, the sea—
All things without are gone—I have no eye,
No ear—except within—within, where, only,
Then, can I see and hear thee!—where I'm with thee
At sea—ashore—and oft in hardest strait
Of peril—where I'm always close to thee,
With superhuman power to bear thee through,
In spite of wildest danger! There's the gun!

Edw.
Farewell!—

Mari.
I'll see thee to the beach!—I will—
Ay, to the water's edge! That I could go
Along with thee!—The waves might rise and roar,
I would not hear or see them!—Come!

Edw.
Nay, here
We'll part—my messmates, girl, will laugh at thee.

Mari.
Let them! What! lose a minute—with an age
To come, of absence—I, that would brave the sea
To go with thee, heed those its surges toss!
I'll go with thee e'en to the water's edge!
And then mine eyes shall go along with thee!
And when thou leavest them, and they give o'er,
My thoughts—my heart—my soul—which water, land,
Air, nothing 'neath the sun can tear thee from!

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—The inside of Robert's Cottage. Robert seated in the centre, occupied in splicing an oar.
Enter Stephen—a lad.
Rob.
Well, Stephen! what of the ship?

Ste.
She's under way
With every yard of canvas spread.

Rob.
The wind
Is fair?

Ste.
A point, or more, abaft the beam;
A gentle breeze, and steady.

Rob.
So it seems.
'Twill change ere night!

Ste.
I see no signs of it.

Rob.
You do not know them when you see them, Stephen!
Though a good sailor, you're a young one yet!
But I'm an old acquaintance of the weather.
“A point,” you say, “or more, abaft the beam?”
Then is the vane north-west. Ne'er heed the vane,
Look ever to the cloud, the weathercock
Behoves the shipman heed, which tells what wind
Will come. How steers the cloud?

Ste.
North-west.

Rob.
That's right
Against the ship which now sails with the wind!
Now mark my words! Ere night the wind will take
Her merry sails aback, and talk to her!
And bid her clew her gay topgallants up!
There will be call for reefs, and work for sheets
And halyards! “Fore-sheet, fore-top-bowling!”
Will keep throughout the night a busy watch!
But she'll have sea-room, and no gull more safe
Sitteth the wave than she. Here! Lend a hand.
[Stephen goes to Robert and assists him.
Where's Marian?

Ste.
I left her on the beach
Following the 'parting ship with all her eyes!
I call'd to her—The sands on which she stood
Had ears as much as she!—She heard me not.
I turn'd to note if she were following me—
As well expect the sea!—It moved, but she
Stood still, in plight as sad, as barque that's driven
Upon a quicksand, settling fast, and sure
Never to come away!

Rob.
Her mother's vein
Is in the girl!—So fond a wife was she,
That marriage, which with most is end of love,
With me was only the beginning on't!—
She had been early sent to school—remain'd there
Till she could teach where first she had been taught.
You see the girl she made my Marian!
She made me good, for she was goodness' self;
Reclaim'd me from a wrecker, for a time;
But evil habits, Stephen, like old sores,
Are seldom safe from breaking out again!
One night arose the cry “A ship on shore!”
I had been out carousing at a wedding—
The love of my old trade came strong upon me—
Down to the beach I slew, and fell to work,
Unconscious that she follow'd! Three whole hours
Remain'd she standing in the pelting storm!
I found her with the blood wash'd out of her,
White as our cliff—cold, stiff, and motionless!
My ill-got spoil I soon exchanged for her,
Nor set her down till in our bed I laid her—
But Heaven well knew she was too good for me;
For from that bed she never rose again!
[Turns from Stephen.
What of the ship?—Go to the door and see!

Ste.
She's hull down.

Rob.
Any other sail in sight?

Ste.
Three to the westward.

Rob.
Up or down channel?—which?

Ste.
Up channel do they bear.

Rob.
One of the three
May come ashore to-night.

Ste.
The ship has changed
Her course!

Rob.
The wind has changed!—'Tis right ahead!
She's on the larboard tack—Is it not so?

Ste.
It is.

Rob.
It looks thick weather round the ship,
Does n't it?

Ste.
Yes.

Rob.
And 'twill grow thicker! Storm
Is in the air, though here 'tis sunshine still.
I feel it! It will blow great guns to-night!
The scud will gallop and the waves will leap!
A cloud has just come o'er the sun. What kind
Of cloud?

Ste.
A streaky one, and black and low,
Stretching from east to west, and in its wake
A fleet of others.

Rob.
To be sure!—I know it,
As well as you that see it.—Get my axe,
Boat-hook, and grapple—Lay them here beside me.
[Stephen goes out and returns with the things.
A storm is coming on from the south-east,
Right from the sea—full on the shore! The ship
Is lost that keeps not a good offing, for
The sea, in such a wind as cometh on,
Rolls in like a spring tide, and surely sweeps
Into our bay the unwary barque, that hugs
This iron-bound inhospitable shore!
What offing keep the ships?

Ste.
Two miles, the first,
And more.

Rob.
She's safe. The second?

Ste.
Scarce a mile.

Rob.
She'll have her work to do, to clear the bay?
Behoves her to sail well upon a wind!
Lie high! be lively in her stays! The third?

Ste.
Not half a mile. The first ship is about!

Rob.
The wind has come to her! That's the new wind
I told you of!—the wind that brings the storm!
Will make the tackle sing! the bulkheads creak!
Try braces, shrowds and all! The very wind
For the wrecker! I could tell 't at one o'clock!

Ste.
The second ship is now about.

Rob.
She is?

Ste.
And bearing from the land. The third ship—

Rob.
Ay?
Well, what of her?—Is she about too?

Ste.
No,
She misses stays! They ware her!

Rob.
Is she deep?

Ste.
She is.

Rob.
Within the head?

Ste.
Within the head.

Rob.
How far?

Ste.
A quarter of a mile,

Rob.
A wreck!
Sure as she's now afloat!

Ste.
Here's Marian.

Enter Marian, abstracted.
Rob.
My Marian! My child! Her thoughts are still
Upon her lover's ship. How does my girl?

Mari.
[Coming to herself, and running to Robert.]
Well, father, well!—What have you there? Your axe,
Boat-hook, and grapple! Ah!—a storm is coming!
You're for the shore again!—the heartless shore,
That spares nor ship nor shipman!

Rob.
Did it lighten?

Ste.
It did.

[Robert rises and takes up his wrecker's implement
Mari.
Stay, father, stay! Sit down again
And listen to me.

Rob.
[Resuming his seat.]
Well?

Mari.
How canst thou bear
To strip the seaman, whom the winds may strip—
The waves—the rocks—which know not what they do;
But thou dost know, and ought'st to feel! To live
Upon the plunder of the elements!
The havoc of whose fury it should be
Thy labour to repair! The drowning man
Forgot, to get possession of the mite
For which he bides the perils of the sea!
And, if he sinks, is not his bubbling breath—
That calls upon the friends he leaves behind—
A testament, more strong than pen can write,
To make assurance unto those he loves
Of aught the billows spare? Thy boat-hook drops—
Give me thy axe.

Ste.
The storm is on! It thunders!

Mari.
It is the voice of Heaven in anger!—calls
On men for pity to each other—each
Alike in peril placed!—Let go thy axe!
Think of the axe that's lifted now above
And falling fast!—might it not light on thee?
Let go thy axe.—O the poor ship—poor crew!
That hear the thunder which the ship hears not!
O their poor wives! poor children! and poor friends!
That pray this hour some help may be at hand!
Hear me, my father! Have not you a child?
Were you at sea!—were you within that ship!
Give me your axe—and now that coil of rope—
Your grapple—give it me!

Ste.
A gun!

Rob.
It is
The signal of distress.

Mari.
Thy grapple, father!

Rob.
I tell thee, Marian, not a soul can live
In such a sea as boils within our bay.

Mari.
And shouldst thou therefore strip the drownéd man?
O! at his death-bed, by the side of which
No friend can stand, there is a solitude
Which makes the grave itself society!—
Helplessness, in comparison with which
An ordinary death is kin to life!
And silence, which the bosom could fill up
With thoughts more aching, sad, and desolate
Than ever utter'd wailing tongues of friends
Collected round the bier of one beloved!—
To rifle him! purloin his little stock
Of gold, or jewels, or apparel!—take
And use it as thine own!—thou!—thou! whom Heaven
Permits to see the sun that's set to him;
And treasure ten times dearer than the sun,
Which he shall never see!—O touch it not!
Or if thou touch it—drop it, and fall down
Upon thy knees, at thought of what he was,
And thou, through grace, art still!

Rob.
Her mother's voice!
Her mother's words!—Here, take the coil!—Put by
My boat-hook and my axe!—My Marian,
I'll not go to the beach!

Mari.
[Having laid the things by.]
Heaven guard his ship!

Rob.
Thy lover's?—Fear not! She has sea-room!—She's
A bird upon the sea!

Mari.
I am weary, father!

Rob.
Go to thy bed—Thou art mind and body-worn!

Mari.
I will! You'll mind!

Rob.
I will, my Marian.

[Marian goes out.
Ste.
Another gun!

Rob.
And nearer than the first!
She's driving in apace!—Who pass'd the door?

Ste.
Black Norris.

Rob.
He will make a mint to-night!

Ste.
She takes the ground!—Her masts are overboard!

[Runs out.
Rob.
Black Norris will not spare, and why should I?
The waves won't spare, and why should he or I?
Chests, bales will come ashore!—cordage and spars,
Hatchets will go to work!—No one will spare,
And why should I?—Not I!—I'll have my share!

[Takes up the boat-hook, &c.
Mari.
[Rushing in.]
Father!

Rob.
My child, go in!

Mari.
Thou go'st not forth!

Rob.
I must!

Mari.
O father! 'tis unhallow'd work!

Rob.
Go thou to rest!

Mari.
And thou at work like that?
How wouldst thou sleep if I were doing wrong?
I will not let thee forth!

Rob.
Come from the door!

Mari.
Father!—when Heaven commands me shut the door?

Rob.
Command who may, I'll open it!—Give way!

[Forces her from it—she falls. Robert and Stephen go out.
Mari.
Father!—I'm stunn'd! He's gone! How could he go!
O vice that's early planted!—Hard to weed it!
Plant virtue early!—Give the flower the chance
You suffer to the weed!—To hope success
Where my poor mother sail'd!—Heaven pity him!
Heaven pity him—and I, his child, on earth,
And not attempt to save him!—Father!—Father!—

[Rushes out.