| 1836 | |
|
1798 |
Yet commanding, 1798-1805.
The Ferry on Windermere.—Ed.
The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably
due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the
loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive,"
he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798,
or that of 1815, is the better.—Ed.
An emendation by S. T. C.—Ed.
The Borderers
A Tragedy.
Composed 1795-6.—Published 1842
Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten linesA, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.
February 28, 1842B.
This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of 'The Borderers' was composedC.
Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's History of the Borders, but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of Remorse; and it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently motiveless actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.—I. F.
The Play
Dramatis Personæ:
| Marmaduke... | |
| Oswald... | |
| Wallace... | ...all of the Band of Borderers |
| Lacy... | |
| Lennox... | |
| Herbert... | |
| Wilfred | Servant To Marmaduke |
| Host | |
| Forester | |
| Eldred | A Peasant |
| Idonea | |
| Female Beggar | |
| Eleanor | Wife To Eldred |
| Peasant, Pilgrims, etc. |
Scene: Borders of England and Scotland
Time: The Reign of Henry III.
Time: The Reign of Henry III.
Act I
Scene: Road in a Wood
.
Wallace and Lacy..
.
| Lacy | The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. —-Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service. |
| Wallace | Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. |
| Lacy | True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain. |
| Wallace | I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him—then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine? |
| Lacy | Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled. |
| Exeunt | |
| Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred | |
| Wilfred | Be cautious, my dear Master! |
| Marmaduke | I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. |
| Wilfred | Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is— |
| Marmaduke | Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? |
| Wilfred | You know that you have saved his life. |
| Marmaduke | I know it. |
| Wilfred | And that he hates you!—Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. |
| Marmaduke | Fy! no more of it. |
| Wilfred | Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him. |
| Marmaduke | I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest. |
| Wilfred | Oh, Sir! |
| Marmaduke | Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. |
| Wilfred | May He whose eye is over all protect you! |
| Exir | |
| Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand) | |
| Oswald | This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. |
| Marmaduke | (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald? |
| Oswald | That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal— (Looking forward) Not yet in sight!—We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. |
| Marmaduke |
(a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it? |
| Oswald | And saw the tears with which she blotted it. |
| Marmaduke | And nothing less would satisfy him? |
| Oswald | No less; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent—he calls us "Outlaws"; And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. |
| Marmaduke | Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. |
| Oswald | Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. |
| Marmaduke | This day will suffice To end her wrongs. |
| Oswald | But if the blind Man's tale Should yet be true? |
| Marmaduke | Would it were possible! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus? |
| Oswald | Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before: in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor— |
| Marmaduke | Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken. |
| Oswald | See, they come, Two Travellers! |
| Marmaduke | (points) The woman1 is Idonea. |
| Oswald | And leading Herbert. |
| Marmaduke | We must let them pass— This thicket will conceal us. |
| [They step aside.] | |
| [Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind.] | |
| Idonea | Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled. |
| Herbert | Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. |
| Idonea | That dismal Moor— In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!— I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods— A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,— That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength;—come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There—indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank. |
| [He sits down.] | |
| Herbert | (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. |
| Idonea | Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeballs dark—dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give. |
| Herbert | Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate—my grave, And thee, my Child! |
| Idonea | Believe me, honoured Sire! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature— |
| Herbert | I comprehend thee—I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.—The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone? |
| Idonea | Is he not strong? Is he not valiant? |
| Herbert | Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed— This Marmaduke— |
| Idonea | O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. |
| Herbert | Unhappy Woman! |
| Idonea | Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget— Dear Father! how could I forget and live— You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. |
| Herbert | Thy Mother too!—scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face—a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. |
| Idonea | Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. |
| Herbert | Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time— For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,—there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home—and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.—For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both. |
| Idonea | Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. |
| [Enter a Peasant] | |
| Peasant | Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you! |
| Idonea | My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome. |
| Peasant | Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel—shall I support you? |
| Herbert | I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you. |
| Peasant | God speed you both. |
| [Exit Peasant.] | |
| Herbert | Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed— 'Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me. |
| Idonea | That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached. |
| [Exit Herbert supported by Idonea.] | |
| [Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald] | |
| Marmaduke | This instant will we stop him— |
| Oswald | Be not hasty, For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, He tempted me to think the Story true; 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared the genuine colour of his soul— Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death. |
| Marmaduke | I have been much deceived. |
| Oswald | But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions!—death— There must be truth in this. |
| Marmaduke | Truth in his story! He must have felt it then, known what it was, And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty. |
| Oswald | Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity! I'd wager on his life for twenty years. |
| Marmaduke | We will not waste an hour in such a cause. |
| Oswald | Why, this is noble! shake her off at once. |
| Marmaduke | Her virtues are his instruments.—A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child—what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver?—no—no—no— 'Tis but a word and then— |
| Oswald | Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear—you have had enemies. |
| Marmaduke | Enemies!—of his own coinage. |
| Oswald | That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.— I am perplexed. |
| Marmaduke | No—no—the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear;—for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be— |
| Oswald | What cannot be? |
| Marmaduke | Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child— |
| Oswald | Heaven forbid!— There was a circumstance, trifling indeed— It struck me at the time—yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. |
| Marmaduke | What is your meaning? |
| Oswald | Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest. |
| Marmaduke | Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door— It could not be. |
| Oswald | And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me. |
| Marmaduke | No—it cannot be— I dare not trust myself with such a thought— Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures— |
| Oswald | If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully. |
| [Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald.] |
Scene—The door of the Hostel
Herbert, Idonea, and Host
| Herbert | (seated) As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request. |
| Idonea | You know me, Sire; farewell! |
| Herbert | And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part,—I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest,—and now I will not play the sluggard. |
| Idonea | Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host.] Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, [Looking at the dog.] We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!—Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well. |
| Host | Fear not, I will obey you;—but One so young, And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady!— I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. |
| Idonea | You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am When you are by my side. |
| Herbert | Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears. |
| Idonea | No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back—protect him, Saints—farewell! |
| [Exit Idonea.] | |
| Host | 'Tis never drought with us—St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; She could not, Sir, have failed of company. |
| Herbert | Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. |
| Host | (calling) Holla! |
| Herbert | No, no, the business must be done.— What means this riotous noise? |
| Host | The villagers Are flocking in—a wedding festival— That's all—God save you, Sir. |
| [Enter Oswald] | |
| Oswald | Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert. |
| Host | Mercy, the Baron Herbert! |
| Oswald | So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you? |
| Herbert | Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir? |
| Oswald | I do not see Idonea. |
| Herbert | Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither? |
| Oswald | A slight affair, That will be soon despatched. |
| Herbert | Did Marmaduke Receive that letter? |
| Oswald | Be at peace.—The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him. |
| Herbert | This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!— That noise!—would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King;—the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter—he's a dangerous Man.—That noise!— 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me,—the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back. |
| Oswald | You are most lucky; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion—here he comes; our journey [Enter Marmaduke] Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides. |
| Herbert | Alas! I creep so slowly. |
| Oswald | Never fear; We'll not complain of that. |
| Herbert | My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? |
| Oswald | Most willingly!—Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. |
| [Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit Marmaduke.] [Enter Villagers] |
|
| Oswald | (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) I have prepared a most apt Instrument— The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires. |
| [Exit Oswald.] [Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them] |
|
| Host | (to them) Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish. |
Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—
[
Marmaduke and Oswald entering]
| Marmaduke | I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how. |
| Oswald | To-day will clear up all.—You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work: She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one— She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep— Ah2! what is here? |
| [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep— a Child in her arms.] | |
| Beggar | O Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.—My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die. |
| Marmaduke | We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.] |
| Beggar | The Saints reward you For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream. |
| Oswald | When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover. |
| Beggar | Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary-worn.—You gentlefolk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am.—But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me—wind and rain Beat hard upon my head—and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven.— You must forgive me. |
| Oswald | Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint—no matter—this good day Has made amends. |
| Beggar | Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. |
| Marmaduke | This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes? |
| Beggar | Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one—it cuts me to the heart— Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face— But you, Sir, should be kinder. |
| Marmaduke | Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch! |
| Beggar | Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now—but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better!—Charity! If you can melt a rock, he is your man; But I'll be even with him—here again Have I been waiting for him. |
| Oswald | Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you? |
| Beggar | Mark you me; I'll point him out;—a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit. |
| Marmaduke | As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other! |
| Beggar | 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age—yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven. |
| Oswald | But why so violent Against this venerable Man? |
| Beggar | I'll tell you: He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. |
| Marmaduke | But to your story. |
| Beggar | I was saying, Sir— Well!—he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all;—at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I—I'll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him. |
| Oswald | I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door. |
| Beggar | Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there. |
| Oswald | I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry. |
| Beggar | Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.—Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now.—That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half. |
| Oswald | What's this?—I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent. |
| Beggar | And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. |
| Oswald | How say you? in disguise?— |
| Marmaduke | But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter? |
| Beggar | Daughter! truly— But how's the day?—I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go.] |
| Marmaduke | I must have more of this;—you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert? |
| Beggar | You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir! |
| Marmaduke | No trifling, Woman!— |
| Oswald | You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak. |
| Marmaduke | Speak! |
| Beggar | He is a most hard-hearted Man. |
| Marmaduke | Your life is at my mercy. |
| Beggar | Do not harm me, And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor. |
| Oswald | Speak out. |
| Beggar | Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. |
| Oswald | Nay, but speak out! |
| Beggar | He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child. |
| Marmaduke | Parted with whom3? |
| Beggar | Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine. |
| Marmaduke | Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife? |
| Beggar | Wife, Sir! his wife—not I; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald—many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! He has been two years in his grave. |
| Marmaduke | Enough. |
| Oswald | We've solved the riddle—Miscreant! |
| Marmaduke | Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice. |
| Oswald | A lucky woman!—go, you have done good service.[Aside.] |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) Eternal praises on the power that saved her!— |
| Oswald | (gives her money) Here's for your little boy—and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather. |
| Beggar | O Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me.—These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for you— God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. |
| [Exit Beggar.] | |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) The cruel Viper!—Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee. |
| Oswald | I am thunderstruck. |
| Marmaduke | Where is she—holla! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] You are Idonea's Mother?— Nay, be not terrified—it does me good To look upon you. |
| Oswald | (interrupting) In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it? |
| Beggar | Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more. |
| Oswald | Lord Clifford? |
| Beggar | What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. |
| Oswald | Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert? |
| Beggar | Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak At Herbert's door—and when he stood beside The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it. |
| Oswald | Enough! you may depart. |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) Father!—to God himself we cannot give A holier name; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!— Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries— Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin. |