University of Virginia Library

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.

Inside of a Cottage.
Grimald and Nora, two weird women.
Nora.
Sister, we thrive.

Grim.
We'll mounch belyve;
For the maidens long, and the witlings wive.

Nora.
To every link I have added seven;
I bode of luck ere the hour eleven;
The spirits are come, and the sign's in heaven.

Grim.
We'll thrive!—thrive!
But never to shrive!
Till the dew fall red and Moules arrive.
Sister, sing to that. (They sing wildly.)
We'll thrive, &c.

Nora.
Sister, sister—achieve! achieve!
Steep the weft, and the searcloth weave!
We may thrive and fear, and fear and thrive,
But we'll never be safe while Gemel's alive.

Grim.
I fear him less than he fears me,
For all his jargon and mockery.
I have wrought well for Gemel's cross,
I have earned him sorrow and loss,—
I have earned him trouble and pain.

Nora.
Sister, curse him once again.

Grim.
Hear me—hear me, mighty Moules!
When the bristle-cock sleeps, and the martin prowls,
May all thy fays that rock in the tree,
And all thy elves that hide on the lea,—
That peep o'er the green leaf quaking high,
Or out of the blue-bell wound with the eye,
Prick and pierce him in nerve and spleen,
By the arrows felt, but never seen;
Then by flame unbodied burn him;
Then on racking windlass turn him,
Till his temples quiver and ache anew,
And the cold sweat bell like drops of dew.
Toil him and moil him, again and again!
Sicken his heart, and sear his brain;
Wear him away, and then!—and then!
We'll thrive!—thrive!
But never to shrive!
Till the dew fall red and Moules arrive!
(They sing wildly.)
We'll thrive, &c.

Enter Hutchon.
Hut.
We'll brook your mirth, good women—warble on,
Regard not me.

Nora.
Hutchon, I ween?—How camest thou by our cot?
You are most welcome to our poor abode.

Hut.
I came to ask your counsel—nay, and more,
If you judge meet, to crave your kind assistance.
My lord, whom I esteem, again is seized
With that wild raving ardency of feeling
Which erst assailed him, and which drives him on
Close to the verge of dark insanity.
The cause at this time is a beauteous maid,
Hight Gelon Græme—a most bewitching thing,
Simple as weaned child.—I know full well
Your power, and what effect your bodings have
Among the rath young votaries to love,
Who will be borrowing of futurity
Shadows and counterfeits, which they must pay
In different coinage.

Grim.
Speak thy mission, carl,
And spare thy bald and sickening sophistry.

Hut.
This maiden shuns him, and rejects his suit.
It seems she is betroth'd to that young hind,
Who boasts such numerous flocks and herds, and has
The hearts of all the maidens.—If she wed,
No anodyne will stay Lord Hindlee's mind
From straying into pathless vacancy.

Grim.
What must we do?—name thy request and go.

Hut.
Could'st thou pronounce some high decree of fate,—
Somewhat foretel to discompose the current,
And mar the onward flow of these events,
O it might save a noble mind from ruin,
And thy reward thou only hast to name.
Each word and token that have past between,
I will supply withal, to give thy bodings
Semblance of verity.

Nora.
(Aside.)
Say nought of that
Before our sister—You and I must fit
Things to a natural channel; but with her
All earthly help is scorned—No hint of it,—
Come to the festival at Isabel's.
This night is Hallow-Eve—I will be there.—
Sister, wilt thou?

Grim.

SCENE II.

Enter Hutchon, listening.
Hut.
Beshrew my heart, if't does not palpitate
And tremble at the figures and the looks
Of these unnatural beings. They are crazed;
Or else, indeed, they are two hags of hell.
'Tis plain old Grimald weens it so; she has
So long imposed on others, it has grown
Upon her own belief, till, by degrees,
Her slender shreds of reason are o'erborne,
And she imposes broadly on herself.
Hark! how they chaunt their wild unholy rites
To some dark power, framed by their fantasy!
'Tis said that oft the lated traveller hears
These howls at midnight rising on the gale,
And, mixing with the rushing sound that bursts
From out the linn, makes most unearthly music.
'Tis imposition all! and yet I wot not
How it should hap—but they have chilled my blood,
And I shall see their faces in my sleep.

SCENE III.

A Room in a Country house.
Isabel, Gelon.
Isa.
Now, my loved Gelon, if Lord Hindlee come,
And join our sports to-night, as is most like,
Use him respectfully. Why should you fly,
And shun the noble youth who loves you thus?

Gel.
Good mother, I love too; and women's love,
Certes, ought to be much as men's respected.
What boots Lord Hindlee's love to one like me?
It cannot lead to good, and never shall
From me have countenance.

Enter Gemel, Maldie, Ben, and other Shepherds and Shepherdesses, all of the higher order.
Isa.
You're welcome, Gemel—You are welcome all.
We longed much for you.—Give us all your hands.
My Gelon here has been at pains to cull
Each herb and flower of potent witchery,
To lend variety unto your sports,
And settle every wedding—every kiss
That is to hap within our valley's bound
For one full year at least; and I have bid
The women of the Linn, that they may read
Each fair fulfilment properly and plain.

Gem.
Fie on th'imposing hags!—Ere I beheld
Their hateful forms, I'd rather look upon
A toad, or any thing more loath'd by man.

Isa.
Ah! Gemel, Gemel! you will nought believe
Of their malicious and most powerful spells!
I needs must humour them, and pay them too,
Else I would dearly buy it—Yet I fear
This is a sin in me; although, God wot,
I dare not discontinue't. This same night,
Had they not been invited, your gay sports
Would all have ended in some rueful way.

Gem.
Oh shame! how can'st thou say so?

Isa.
You'll not believe; but sad experience
Hath proved the truth to me.

Gem.
Come, let us have some music or a song
Until the rest arrive—What say you to
A song from Maiden Maldie?

Omnes.
(Clapping their hands).
A song! a song!
A song from Maldie, &c.

(Maldie sings.)

(During the Song Lord Hindlee and Hutchon enter softly.)
Hind.
Bless the sweet singer!—peace to this fair group.—
Maid, thou hast pierced my heart, for I have seen
Thy Mona's very antitype. I had
A sister once!—Dame, you have seen my sister?

Isa.
Ah, yes! poor injured spirit! well I knew her!
Heaven give her rest in its most happy home!

Hind.
I was but young then—But her mein and air,
When her pure, fervent mind, began to waver
And combat with distraction, never shall
From my remembrance part!—I know I shall
Sometime be in such erring state myself!—
Dame, note me:—My poor sister's not in heaven!
She's still on earth; for I have seen her here
Walk by my side, and look me in the face,
Half-smiling; but a shade of woe, even then,
Rests on her pallid cheek. 'Twas but last night!
List to me, dame, I'll tell you what I saw.

Gel.
Oh, do not tell it now!—prithee, not now;
'Twill spoil our sports, my lord,—we must be gay,
And you shall join us.

Hind.
Say'st thou so, fair Gelon?
Then since thou dost, I will join in them all.
Sure he who would not join such purity,
Deserves no happiness in this bad world,
Nor in a better one.

Gel.
Hush, hush, my lord!
You're sad, but yet you flatter.—Oh, I fear
You think not well of me—'tis said the great
Speak seldom as they think.—I know full well
You think not as you say of me, my lord!

Hind.
O could I speak but one half that I think
Of thy unequall'd beauty, and thy goodness!

Enter Nora.
Nora.
Blithe be your sports; but you are laggards all—
Bustle! Be yare! you lose the best o'the night.
The spirits are abroad, and tiptoe stand
Listening your talk, and looking in your eyes
To mark the currents of your inclinations,
And how your fancies lie.—They wait but word
To answer you, or take the forms you like.

Gemel.
Thou old impostor! thou art ignorant
As brutal instinct!—As the shelled worm,
Or grovelling mole that never sees the sun!

Nora.
Nay, now boy Gemel, thou know'st otherwise;
Or, if thou dost not, shall—take note of that.

Gel.
Gemel, thou'rt much mistaken.—She knows more
Than thou art ware of—join us this one night
And thou shalt hear her tell such things!

Gemel.
My Gelon, 'tis a grievous fault in thee,
Thy constant trucking with these foolish hags.

Gel.
Join us to-night, I ask it as a favour.

Gem.
At your request, I will; but it shall be
T'expose, and hold their skill up to contempt.

Gel.
First then, dear comrades, ere our darkling sports
In barn-yard, and in kiln commence, old Nora here
Shall read our fortunes round—she'll tell us more
Than colwort, hemp-seed, and all freaks beside.

Omnes.
Yes, yes; our fortunes! our fortunes!
Mine, wife—Good Nora, mine—
Mine first, if you please.

(They push their hands before one another.)
Gem.
Hold: let us try this mighty skill of hers.
Our hands are much alike—go we all in,
And one by one return, wrapt from her view;
The palms alone be seen—I'll bet she gives
Good, rich, and loving husbands to some men,
And wives to women.

Hut.
'Tis well conceived.
As my best days are bye, I will attend
And witness her mistakes.

Omnes.
Aye, aye, Hutchon shall witness.

Hut.
(Aside to Nora.)
Fear not, thou shalt know all,
And all of them; pray give it home to some.

(Exeunt all but Nora. Hutchon stops and makes signs, to which she assents.)
Nora.
(Chaunts aloud.)
Moules, be nigh!
Be yare!—be sly!
Tickle the ear and itch the eye;
And O, the trembling heart-strings ply,
Till the little toiler torpid lie
In the sickening wave of mystery.
Re-enter Maldie wrapped in gown and hood, led by Hutchon, who makes signs to Nora.
Ah, what a pretty palm!—How white it is,
And warm and moist!—not over hard with work.
Ah me! what's this I see!—O fie! O fie!
(Maldie pulls in her hand.)
Nay, show it me—I will say nothing out
That is unmeet, but only in your ear.
Oh, aye! Here's something of a Sunday eve,
And of a braken bush, I see!—A ring!
(She offers to pull away her hand.)
A snood, a kerchief, garters fringed with gold!
And oaths of love!—I see well how it is!
A W and a B!—Who can it be?
I would give much to know who owns this hand.
The business rests not here—nor half—nor tenth:
One—Two—Three—Four! O love
Bestow not all thy bounty upon one!

(She pulls away her hand and whispers Hutchon aside.)
Hut.
She bids me ask if all of these are husbands?

Nora.
Would'st thou wish it truly?—lovers, lovers!
Fear not, poor chuck, there is a husband here;
A quiet man, I wot—Sad doings though!
But all's full close—It is a right fair fortune—
Let me see—Boys—Four—Girls—Gramercy!

Hut.
What? what?

Nora.
Children—children—brats.

Hut.
All to one husband?

Nora.
Oh! Ah! Must I tell all? Eh?
Maldie runs off—Enter Gelon masked—Hutchon makes signs.
Whom have we here?—A boy or girl is it?
A very maid forsooth!—Who could have trowed?
And such a fortune—Ah?—I like it not!
A first love broken off, just at the time
When hope was high—I am fully sorry for it;
But it is inevitably fixed—good sooth!—
Oh there has been some ribbons gifted here!
A gown of silk refused!—A diamond ring!—
There must be some mistake. I'll say no more;
Only, I see the present lover's cast.
I'm sorry for him, though he has play'd false.
Could I but learn whose was this hand, I might
Name the new lover—I have etchings here,
But 'tis so strange I dare not give it breath.

(Gelon and Hutchon whisper.)
Hut.
She begs that you will tell her more of this.

Nora.
I dare not, 'tis so far beyond belief.

Hut.
She says she'll die if you tell her no more.
Who is to be her husband? Who play'd false?

Nora.
She will not credit me—go, go away,
Haply we'll find it out before the morrow.
(Exeunt Gelon and Hutchon—Re-enter Hutchon and Gemel masked.)
Here is an honest hand— (pause)
—Ah! what do I see?
(Screams.)
Ah!—Oh! Oh!—I'll look no more.
O such a sight!—bring me some water, Hutchon.
Why do you take me unawares, and force me
To look on things enough to blench the sight
Of vision'd eye for ever?—Tell me not,
Nor ever let me know whose is that hand.

Hut.
Its owner begs you'll only mention that
You deem'd you saw—nor farther makes request.

Nora.
I saw no bride-bed but a winding-sheet;
I saw a coffin with a fringed lid;
I read it: It was Aged 23.
Oh, I am sick!—I must into my cot.
Good sport, and fair fore-tokens to you all.
(Exit Nora.)

Hut.
Such uncompounded stuff! Out on the hag!
If I not tremble at her.

Gem.
(Much troubled.)
Not I: I heed her not;—but such a rede!

Hut.
Be not cast down; 'tis sheer imposture all.

Gem.
I know it—I know it—stuff, stuff.

(The rest enter.)
Hut.
Our oracle is gone—we were too hard
For her familiar.

Omnes.
Oh, what a loss! I am miss'd; and I, &c.

Hut.
Now may I tell the fortunes she has given.
First, to Dame Maldie—

Mal.
(Stopping him.)
Ah, Hutchon, for thy life!
No word of mine: I would not for the world.
Ah! I shall ne'er forget!—We little know
What is laid before us: some have much to do!
And much to bear!—Who will go home with me?
I shall not go alone to-night!

Ben.
Thou well know'st who will.

Mal.
Think'st thou I'll go with thee?

Hut.
Then to our Gelon she foretold—

Gel.
(Stopping him).
Hold, Hutchon! for my sake, oh, do forbear!
I canot suffer it. But tell us Gemel's.—
So, Master Gemel, you have play'd me false;
But you'll be paid in kind!

Gem.
Me?

Gel.
Aye, me! Why else does me look so pale?
Ah! I have found you out! Does Nora now
Know nought that is to be, or that has been?

Gem.
I need not care.

Gel.
And think you I do?—sooth!

Mal.
She knows each thing we do: she told me all
I ever did; and much that no one knows
But I alone.

Hut.
Yes; another.

Mal.
No other living.

Hut.
What? Of the ring, you know? and braken bush?
And Sunday evening too?

Mal.
Oh, these were lies—all lies.

Hut.
What part then was the truth, I wonder much?

Mal.
She is an odd woman!

Gel.
A most wonderful woman!

Mal.
Her foresight reaches far far onward.

Gel.
Her sister's wisdom soars a thousand times
Higher than her's, beyond the stars and moon;
But she is strange, mysterious, and reserved.
Come to our sports—we lose our time—away!

(Exeunt all but Isabel and Hindlee.)
Hind.
Dame, I am ill at ease—make my excuse
To these fair maidens. That which should me move
To gaiety and mirth outdoes itself;
Winds up the chords of feeling till they rack
To listless apathy; and all within
Becomes a reeling dizzy wilderness.
Oh, 'tis unbrookable, that cumbrous growth!
That giant of the mind, that heaves and swells,
Till scarce a form of nature can be traced
Within its dark and hideous magnitude.
Adieu, good dame, commend me to your daughter.

Isa.
I often have done so; but you have never
Made proffer that a mother may commend.

Hind.
I love her as I love myself, good dame,
And much, much better!

Isa.
Sure you would never wish possess my child
But by the privilege of holy wedlock?

Hind.
I would not sully such a gem for worlds;
And wed with her, I dare not—Oh! No, no!
My heart is torn!—Dost thou believe in visions?

Isa.
Ay, that I do, as truly as I credit
Aught that I see or hear.

Hind.
When thou wert young,
If one thou knew'st in life had come again
From out the grave, and stood up by thy side,
And smiled on thee, and told thee thou should'st live
To kill thy husband, would'st thou have believed it?

Isa.
O never, never!—that was not in nature.
I would have view'd it as it was—A plot
Of man's great enemy to thwart the right,
To maze my mind and lead me into error.

Hind.
I bless thee for that thought—Dame, thou art wise,
Upright, and shrewd: I honour thee for this.
O thou hast taken a weight from off my heart
That did oppress me.—I will wed thy daughter
Next month—next week—to-morrow if you will:
This and my love to her.—Adieu, good dame.