University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene, the door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; Idonea and the Host among them.
Host.
Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent
As I have told you: He left us yesterday
With two Companions; one of them, as seemed,
His most familiar Friend. (Going.)
There was a letter
Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy
Has been forgotten.

Idon.
(to Host).
Farewell!

Host.
Gentle pilgrims,
St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand.

[Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims.
Scene, a desolate Moor.
Oswald (alone).
Osw.
Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp.
Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then,
That half a word should blow it to the winds!
This last device must end my work.—Methinks
It were a pleasant pastime to construct
A scale and table of belief—as thus—
Two columns, one for passion, one for proof;
Each rises as the other falls: and first,
Passion a unit and against us—proof—
Nay, we must travel in another path,
Or we 're stuck fast for ever;—passion, then,
Shall be a unit for us; proof—no, passion!
We'll not insult thy majesty by time,
Person, and place—the where, the when, the how,
And all particulars that dull brains require
To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact,
They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration.
A whipping to the Moralists who preach
That misery is a sacred thing: for me,
I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man,
Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind
Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface;
And, in the storm and anguish of the heart,
He talks of a transition in his Soul,
And dreams that he is happy. We dissect
The senseless body, and why not the mind?—
These are strange sights—the mind of man, upturned,
Is in all natures a strange spectacle;
In some a hideous one—hem! shall I stop?
No.—Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then
They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes,
And something shall be done which Memory
May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work.

Enter Marmaduke, from behind.
Osw.
(turning to meet him).
But listen, for my peace—

Mar.
Why, I believe you.

Osw.
But hear the proofs—

Mar.
Ay, prove that when two peas
Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then
Be larger than the peas—prove this—'twere matter
Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream
It ever could be otherwise!

Osw.
Last night
When I returned with water from the brook,
I overheard the Villains—every word
Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart.
Said one, “It is agreed on. The blind Man
Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl,
Who on her journey must proceed alone,
Under pretence of violence, be seized.
She is,” continued the detested Slave,
“She is right willing—strange if she were not!—
They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man;
But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic,
Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp,
There's witchery in 't. I never knew a maid
That could withstand it. True,” continued he,
“When we arranged the affair, she wept a little
(Not the less welcome to my Lord for that)
And said, ‘My Father he will have it so.’”

Mar.
I am your hearer.

Osw.
This I caught, and more
That may not be retold to any ear.
The obstinate bolt of a small iron door
Detained them near the gateway of the Castle.
By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths
Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed
For festive decoration; and they said,
With brutal laughter and most foul allusion,
That they should share the banquet with their Lord
And his new Favorite.

Mar.
Misery!—

Osw.
I knew
How you would be disturbed by this dire news,
And therefore chose this solitary Moor,
Here to impart the tale, of which, last night,
I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades,
Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us.

Mar.
Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel,
I did believe all things were shadows—yea,
Living or dead all things were bodiless,
Or but the mutual mockeries of body,
Till that same star summoned me back again.
Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh Fool!
To let a creed, built in the heart of things,
Dissolve before a twinkling atom!—Oswald,
I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools
Than you have entered, were it worth the pains.
Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher,
And you should see how deeply I could reason
Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends;
Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects;
Of actions, and their laws and tendencies.

Osw.
You take it as it merits—

Mar.
One a King,
General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor,
Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground
With carcases, in lineament and shape
And substance, nothing differing from his own,
But that they cannot stand up of themselves;
Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour
Floats kingcups in the brook—a Hero one
We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift;
But have they not a world of common ground
To occupy—both fools, or wise alike,
Each in his way?

Osw.
Troth, I begin to think so.

Mar.
Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy:
I would not give a denier for the man
Who, on such provocation as this earth
Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin,
And send it with a fillip to its grave.

Osw.
Nay, you leave me behind.

Mar.
That such a One,
So pious in demeanour! in his look
So saintly and so pure!—Hark'ee, my Friend,
I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle,
A surly mastiff kennels at the gate,
And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley
Most tunable.

Osw.
In faith, a pleasant scheme;
But take your sword along with you, for that
Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.—
But first, how wash our hands of this old Man?

Mar.
Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path;
Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten.

Osw.
You know we left him sitting—see him yonder.

Mar.
Ha! ha!—

Osw.
As 'twill be but a moment's work,
I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance—Herbert is discovered seated on a stone.
Her.
A sound of laughter, too!—'tis well—I feared,
The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow
Pressing upon his solitary heart.
Hush!—'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind
That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather.
Alas! 'tis cold—I shiver in the sunshine—
What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks
Of God's parental mercies—with Idonea
I used to sing it.—Listen!—what foot is there?

Enter Marmaduke.
Mar.
(aside—looking at Herbert).
And I have loved this Man! and she hath loved him!
And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford!
And there it ends;—if this be not enough
To make mankind merry for evermore,
Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made
For a wise purpose—verily to weep with!
[Looking round.
A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece
Of Nature, finished with most curious skill!
(To Herbert).
Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage?
Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre?

Her.
How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not
Wherein I have offended you;—last night
I found in you the kindest of Protectors;
This morning, when I spoke of weariness,
You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it
About your own; but for these two hours past
Once only have you spoken, when the lark
Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet,
And I, no coward in my better days,
Was almost terrified.

Mar.
That's excellent!—
So, you bethought you of the many ways
In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes
Have roused all Nature up against him—pshaw!—

Her.
For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight?
No traveller, peasant, herdsman?

Mar.
Not a soul:
Here is a tree, raggèd, and bent, and bare,
That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss
From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind;
This have we, but no other company:
Commend me to the place. If a man should die
And leave his body here, it were all one
As he were twenty fathoms underground.

Her.
Where is our common Friend?

Mar.
A ghost, methinks—
The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance—
Might have fine room to ramble about here,
A grand domain to squeak and gibber in.

Her.
Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt
Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour
Of visitation—

Mar.
A bold word from you!

Her.
Restore him, Heaven!

Mar.
The desperate Wretch!—A Flower,
Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now
They have snapped her from the stem—Poh! let her lie
Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail
Feed on her leaves. You knew her well—ay, there,
Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew
The worm was in her—

Her.
Mercy! Sir, what mean you?

Mar.
You have a Daughter!

Her.
Oh that she were here!—
She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts,
And if I have in aught offended you,
Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us.

Mar.
(aside).
I do believe he weeps—I could weep too—
There is a vein of her voice that runs through his:
Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth
From the first moment that I loved the Maid;
And for his sake I loved her more: these tears—
I did not think that aught was left in me
Of what I have been—yes, I thank thee, Heaven!
One happy thought has passed across my mind.
—It may not be—I am cut off from man;
No more shall I be man—no more shall I
Have human feelings!— (To Herbert)
—Now, for a little more
About your Daughter!

Her.
Troops of armed men,
Met in the roads, would bless us; little children,
Rushing along in the full tide of play,
Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard
The boisterous carman, in the miry road,
Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice,
And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts.

Mar.
And whither were you going?

Her.
Learn, young Man,—
To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery,
Whether too much for patience, or, like mine,
Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy.

Mar.
Now, this is as it should be!

Her.
I am weak!—
My Daughter does not know how weak I am;
And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven
Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness,
By the good God, our common Father, doomed!—
But I had once a spirit and an arm—

Mar.
Now, for a word about your Barony:
I fancy when you left the Holy Land,
And came to—what's your title—eh? your claims
Were undisputed!

Her.
Like a mendicant,
Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;—
I murmured—but, remembering Him who feeds
The pelican and ostrich of the desert,
From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven
And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope.
So, from the court I passed, and down the brook,
Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak
I came; and when I felt its cooling shade,
I sate me down, and cannot but believe—
While in my lap I held my little Babe
And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached
More with delight than grief—I heard a voice
Such as by Cherith on Elijah called;
It said, “I will be with thee.” A little boy,
A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone,
Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven,
And said, with tears, that he would be our guide:
I had a better guide—that innocent Babe—
Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm,
From cold, from hunger, penury, and death;
To whom I owe the best of all the good
I have, or wish for, upon earth—and more
And higher far than lies within earth's bounds:
Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man,
I bless her with sad spirit,—when of God,
I bless her in the fulness of my joy!

Mar.
The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays!
With nerves so steady, that the very flies
Sit unmolested on his staff.—Innocent!—
If he were innocent—then he would tremble
And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.)
I have read
In Story, what men now alive have witnessed,
How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt,
Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused
With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares.
Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared
For a like trial, but more merciful.
Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste?
Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute
Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea.
Here will I leave him—here—All-seeing God!
Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am,
I will commit him to this final Ordeal!—
He heard a voice—a shepherd-lad came to him
And was his guide; if once, why not again,
And in this desert? If never—then the whole
Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is,
Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here
To cold and hunger!—Pain is of the heart,
And what are a few throes of bodily suffering
If they can waken one pang of remorse?
[Goes up to Herbert.
Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out,
It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here
Led by my hand to save thee from perdition;
Thou wilt have time to breathe and think—

Her.
Oh, Mercy!

Mar.
I know the need that all men have of mercy,
And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment.

Her.
My Child, my blessèd Child!

Mar.
No more of that;
Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent;
Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth,
That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee.
[He pauses and looks at Herbert's staff.
Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand!
[Reads upon the staff.
“I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord.
He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!”
Yes, be it so;—repent and be forgiven—
God and that staff are now thy only guides.

[He leaves Herbert on the Moor.
Scene, an eminence, a Beacon on the summit.
Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c. &c.
Several of the Band
(confusedly).
But patience!

One of the Band.
Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!—
Our Captain made a prey to foul device!—

Len.
(to Wallace).
His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night
A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt,
Knowing what otherwise we know too well,
That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now;
For rather would I have a nest of vipers
Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make
Oswald my special enemy, if you
Deny me your support.

Lacy.
We have been fooled—
But for the motive?

Wal.
Natures such as his
Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy!
I learn'd this when I was a Confessor.
I know him well; there needs no other motive
Than that most strange incontinence in crime
Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him
And breath and being; where he cannot govern,
He will destroy.

Lacy.
To have been trapped like moles!—
Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives:
There is no crime from which this man would shrink;
He recks not human law; and I have noticed
That often when the name of God is uttered,
A sudden blankness overspreads his face.

Len.
Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built
Some uncouth superstition of its own.

Wal.
I have seen traces of it.

Len.
Once he headed
A band of Pirates in the Norway seas;
And when the King of Denmark summoned him
To the oath of fealty, I well remember,
'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said,
“I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven.”

Lacy.
He is no madman.

Wal.
A most subtle doctor
Were that man, who could draw the line that parts
Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness,
That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds,
Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men
No heart that loves them, none that they can love,
Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy
In dim relation to imagined Beings.

One of the Band.
What if he mean to offer up our Captain
An expiation and a sacrifice
To those infernal fiends!

Wal.
Now, if the event
Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear,
My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds
As there are daggers here.

Lacy.
What need of swearing!

One of the Band.
Let us away!

Another.
Away!

A third.
Hark! how the horns
Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale.

Lacy.
Stay you behind; and when the sun is down,
Light up this beacon.

One of the Band.
You shall be obeyed.

[They go out together.
Scene, the Wood on the edge of the Moor.
Marmaduke (alone).
Mar.
Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought,
Yet calm.—I could believe, that there was here
The only quiet heart on earth. In terror,
Remembered terror, there is peace and rest.

Enter Oswald.
Osw.
Ha! my dear Captain.

Mar.
A later meeting, Oswald,
Would have been better timed.

Osw.
Alone, I see;
You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now
I feel that you will justify.

Mar.
I had fears,
From which I have freed myself—but 'tis my wish
To be alone, and therefore we must part.

Osw.
Nay, then—I am mistaken. There's a weakness
About you still; you talk of solitude—
I am your friend.

Mar.
What need of this assurance
At any time? and why given now?

Osw.
Because
You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me
What there is not another living man
Had strength to teach;—and therefore gratitude
Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise.

Mar.
Wherefore press this on me?

Osw.
Because I feel
That you have shown, and by a signal instance,
How they who would be just must seek the rule
By diving for it into their own bosoms.
To-day you have thrown off a tyranny
That lives but in the torpid acquiescence
Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny
Of the world's masters, with the musty rules
By which they uphold their craft from age to age:
You have obeyed the only law that sense
Submits to recognise; the immediate law,
From the clear light of circumstances, flashed
Upon an independent Intellect.
Henceforth new prospects open on your path;
Your faculties should grow with the demand;
I still will be your friend, will cleave to you
Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn,
Oft as they dare to follow on your steps.

Mar.
I would be left alone.

Osw.
(exultingly).
I know your motives!
I am not of the world's presumptuous judges,
Who damn where they can neither see nor feel,
With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles
I witness'd, and now hail your victory.

Mar.
Spare me awhile that greeting.

Osw.
It may be,
That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards,
Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer,
And you will walk in solitude among them.
A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!—
Join twenty tapers of unequal height
And light them joined, and you will see the less
How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all
Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!—
The Eagle lives in Solitude!

Mar.
Even so,
The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I,
The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved
To abide the issue of my act, alone.

Osw.
Now would you? and for ever?—My young Friend,
As time advances either we become
The prey or masters of our own past deeds.
Fellowship we must have, willing or no;
And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty,
Substitutes, turn our faces where we may,
Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear
Ill names, can render no ill services,
In recompense for what themselves required.
So meet extremes in this mysterious world,
And opposites thus melt into each other.

Mar.
Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved
With such a weight upon his wings as now;
But they will soon be lightened.

Osw.
Ay, look up—
Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn
Fortitude is the child of Enterprise:
Great actions move our admiration, chiefly
Because they carry in themselves an earnest
That we can suffer greatly.

Mar.
Very true.

Osw.
Action is transitory—a step, a blow,
The motion of a muscle—this way or that—
'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And shares the nature of infinity.

Mar.
Truth—and I feel it.

Osw.
What! if you had bid
Eternal farewell to unmingled joy
And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart;
It is the toy of fools, and little fit
For such a world as this. The wise abjure
All thoughts whose idle composition lives
In the entire forgetfulness of pain.
—I see I have disturbed you.

Mar.
By no means.

Osw.
Compassion!—pity!—pride can do without them;
And what if you should never know them more!—
He is a puny soul who, feeling pain,
Finds ease because another feels it too.
If e'er I open out this heart of mine
It shall be for a nobler end—to teach
And not to purchase puling sympathy.
—Nay, you are pale.

Mar.
It may be so.

Osw.
Remorse—
It cannot live with thought; think on, think on,
And it will die. What! in this universe,
Where the least things control the greatest, where
The faintest breath that breathes can move a world;
What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed,
A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been
Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals.

Mar.
Now, whither are you wandering? That a man
So used to suit his language to the time,
Should thus so widely differ from himself—
It is most strange.

Osw.
Murder!—what's in the word!—
I have no cases by me ready made
To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!—
A shallow project;—you of late have seen
More deeply, taught us that the institutes
Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation
Banished from human intercourse, exist
Only in our relations to the brutes
That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake
Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask
A license to destroy him: our good governors
Hedge in the life of every pest and plague
That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose,
But to protect themselves from extirpation?—
This flimsy barrier you have overleaped.

Mar.
My Office is fulfilled—the Man is now
Delivered to the Judge of all things.

Osw.
Dead!

Mar.
I have borne my burthen to its destined end.

Osw.
This instant we'll return to our Companions—
Oh how I long to see their faces again!

Enter Idonea with Pilgrims who continue their journey.
Idon.
(after some time).
What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever.
And Oswald, too! (To Marmaduke.)
On will we to my Father
With the glad tidings which this day hath brought;
We 'll go together, and, such proof received
Of his own rights restored, his gratitude
To God above will make him feel for ours.

Osw.
I interrupt you?

Idon.
Think not so.

Mar.
Idonea,
That I should ever live to see this moment!

Idon.
Forgive me.—Oswald knows it all—he knows,
Each word of that unhappy letter fell
As a blood drop from my heart.

Osw.
'Twas even so.

Mar.
I have much to say, but for whose ear?—not thine.

Idon.
(To Marmaduke).

[Hides her face.
Mar.
Patience—Heaven grant me patience!—
She weeps, she weeps—my brain shall burn for hours
Ere I can shed a tear.

Idon.
I was a woman;
And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest
To womankind with duty to my Father,
I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought
On earth could else have wrested from me;—if erring,
Oh let me be forgiven!

Mar.
I do forgive thee.

Idon.
But take me to your arms—this breast, alas!
It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it.

Mar.
(exultingly).
She is innocent.

[He embraces her.
Osw.
(aside).
[Addressing them.

[Exit Oswald.
Idon.
Marmaduke,
This is a happy day. My Father soon
Shall sun himself before his native doors;
The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there.
No more shall he complain of wasted strength,
Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart;
His good works will be balm and life to him.

Mar.
This is most strange!—I know not what it was,
But there was something which most plainly said,
That thou wert innocent.

Idon.
How innocent!—
Oh heavens! you 've been deceived.

Mar.
Thou art a Woman,
To bring perdition on the universe.

Idon.
[Smiling affectionately.

[Pointing to the belt on which was suspended Herbert's scrip.
Mar.
Mercy of Heaven!

[Sinks.
Idon.
What ails you!

[Distractedly.
Mar.
The scrip that held his food, and I forgot
To give it back again!

Idon.
What mean your words?

Mar.
I know not what I said—all may be well.

Idon.
That smile hath life in it!

Mar.
This road is perilous;
I will attend you to a Hut that stands
Near the wood's edge—rest there to-night, I pray you:
For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald,
But will return to you by break of day.

[Exeunt.