University of Virginia Library

THE GARDEN.
Margaret on Faustus's arm, Martha with Mephistopheles. —Walking loiteringly up and down.
Margaret.
You do but play with my simplicity,
And put me to the blush. A traveller
Learns such good nature—is so pleased with all things
And every body:—my poor talk, I know,
Has no attraction, that could for a moment
Engage the attention of a man, who has
Seen so much of the world—

Faustus.
One glance—one word—
One little word from thee, I value more
Than all the wisdom of th' world's wisest ones.

[Kisses her hand.
Margaret.
How could you think of it? How could you kiss it?
It is so coarse—so hard—is spoiled with all work
On every day—how could it but be coarse?
My mother's habits are too close—my tasks
Are too severe.

[They pass on.
Martha.
And are you—are you always travelling thus?

Mephistopheles.
Alas! that claims of business and of duty
Should force me to it. We feel pangs at parting
From many a spot where yet we may not loiter.

Martha.
In youth's wild days, it cannot but be pleasant
This idle roaming round and round the world,
With wildfire spirits, and heart disengaged:
But soon comes age and sorrow; and to drag,
Through the last years of life, down to the grave
A solitary creature—like the wretch,
Who moves from prison on to execution—
This must be bad for body and for soul.

Mephistopheles.
You make me shudder at the dreary prospect.

Martha.
Be wise—secure yourself in time.

[They pass on.
Margaret.
Yes!—out of sight, soon out of mind.
I feel this courtesy is kind;—
That you, who must have many a friend
Highly informed, should condescend
To speak with one in my poor station.
Of such neglected education,
—In every thing so unimproved—

Faustus.
Believe me, dearest, best beloved,
That, which the world calls information,
Is often but the glitter chilling
Of vanity and want of feeling.

Margaret.
How?

Faustus.
Ah! that—singleness of heart,
And absence of all artifice,
—Gifts, as they are, above all price,
Heaven's holiest blessing—should be thus
Of their own worth unconscious!
That—meekness, gentleness, the treasure
Which Nature, who doth still impart
To all in love, and lavish measure,
Gives to the child, whom she loves dearest,—
Should—

Margaret.
Think of me when you are gone,
A moment now and then—of you
I shall have time enough to think.

Faustus.
Your time is passed, then, much alone?

Margaret.
Why, yes; and then our house affairs,
Poor though they be, bring many cares.
We have no servant maid, and I
Must cook, knit, sew, must wash and dry;
Run far and near—rise ere the light,
And not lie down till late at night.
And then my mother's temper's such,
In every thing she asks so much;
Of saving has so strict a sense,
And is so fearful of expense;
So anxious, so particular:
—Not that our circumstances are
So limited, as not to give
The means like other folk to live.
The property my father had,
And died possessed of, was not bad:
A house, and garden here, that yields
Something worth while, and some town fields,
Just at the gates. My days, somehow,
Are tolerably quiet now—
My brother earns a soldier's bread
Abroad;—my little sister's dead.
Trouble enough I had with her,
Yet cheerfully would I incur
Ten times the toil—so dear was she.

Faustus.
A very angel, if like thee!

Margaret.
Even from its birth, the child I nurst—
And so it loved me from the first.
Born to distress—its father torn
Away by death, ere it was born.
My mother, worn out with disease—
We long had given her up for gone—
Recovering faintly by degrees,
Came slowly, very slowly on.
She had no strength—she could not think
Of nursing it—and so, poor thing,
I reared it; for its natural drink,
With bread and water tried to bring
The creature on—and thus my own
It seemed to be, and mine alone—
Lay on my arm, and on my breast
Would play and nestle, and was blest.

Faustus.
This must have been the purest joy.

Margaret.
Yet were there hours of great annoy—
Its cradle was by my bedside:
It kept me half the night awake,
To make it quiet when I tried.—
At times must I get up, to take
The little urchin into bed;
This would not do—then must I rise,
Walk up and down with measured tread,
And seek with songs to hush its cries.
Then daylight brought its tasks to me:
Ere dawn must I at washing be—
Go to the market—light the fire;
And if I felt the trouble tire
On one day, 'twas the same the next.
I felt dispirited, and vext
At times; but I was wrong in this;
For, after all, his labour is
What gives a poor man's food its zest,
And makes his bed a bed of rest.

[They pass on.
Martha.
We women are the sufferers: who can make
Any thing of a dissolute old rake?

Mephistopheles.
Yet have I perfect faith in woman's skill;
You may, for instance, make me what you will.

Martha.
But tell me plainly, have you never met
One whom you loved?—thought you of marriage yet?

Mephistopheles.
A blessed state—in Proverbs we are told,
A good wife better is than pearls or gold.

Martha.
But is there none with preference you would name?

Mephistopheles.
All are polite and every where the same.

Martha.
Have you no one in seriousness addressed?

Mephistopheles.
With ladies can you think that I would jest?

Martha.
You still mistake me.

Mephistopheles.
I regret to find
How slow I am; but one thing to my mind
Is clear, that you are very, very kind.

[They pass on.
Faustus.
And so thou didst, my angel—didst thou not?—
The moment that I came into the garden,
Remember me again, upon the spot?

Margaret.
Did you not see it?—I held down my eyes.

Faustus.
And thou dost,—dost thou not?—the freedom pardon
Which, as you passed from the Cathedral home,
I rashly took?

Margaret.
I felt so much surprise,
And was, I scarce can tell you, so confused,
And trembled like a guilty thing accused.
“Into his head could such a thought have come?—
What must he think of thee?—there must have been
Something improper in thy walk or mien;
Something that gave this gentleman to see,
Here is a girl with whom you may make free.”
Yet must I own I did not then detect
How my heart pleaded for thee, nor suspect
I with myself was angry, that, with thee,
As angry, as I ought, I could not be.

Faustus.
Sweet love!

Margaret.
One moment wait.

[She plucks a star-flower, and picks off the leaves one after another.
Faustus.
Why pluck the star-flower?
—Do you wish a bunch of flowers?

Margaret.
No, I just fancied
Trying a little game of chance.

Faustus.
What mean you?

Margaret.
You will laugh at me.

[She plucks off the leaves, and murmurs to herself.
Faustus.
What are you murmuring?

Margaret
(half aloud).
He loves me—loves me not.

Faustus.
Angelic creature!

Margaret.
[As she plucks off the last leaf with eager delight.
He loves me!

Faustus.
Yes, my child, deem this language of the flower
The answer of an oracle—“He loves thee!”
Dost thou know all the meaning of “He loves thee?”

[Holds both her hands.
Margaret.
I am all over trembling.

Faustus.
Tremble not!
Oh, let this look, this pressure of the hands,
Say, to thee, what no words can say: henceforth
Be our whole being lost in one another
In overflowing joy—that lives and lives
For ever and for ever! could it end,
It were—but no, it cannot, cannot end!

[Margaret presses his hands; disengages herself from him, and runs away. He stands for a moment, thoughtful, and follows her.
Martha.
The night is coming on.

Mephistopheles.
We should be going.

Martha.
I would invite you to stay longer, but
We live in a censorious neighbourhood.
They seem to have nothing to think of or to do
But watch the doors, and who go in and out:
Do what you will, your doings will be misconstrued:
But our young couple—saw you them?

Mephistopheles.
They've flown
Up yonder walk—gay butterflies—

Martha.
He seems
Caught.

Mephistopheles.
And she too. 'Tis the way of the world