The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Philip Freneau (Volume II).

Aide D. C. Sir, I am sent by our renowned general
To let you know that in his best opinion
Five hundred men in reason are too few
To man the works of this important post.
Three thousand, he informs, are at your service,
Lying at camp, with stores and baggage ready,
Whene'er you send a requisition for them.

Arnold. Five hundred are too few! Why, sir, what means he?
I do assert, and do insist upon it,
That with the aid of scant two hundred men
I could defend this fort and all its outworks
(Its strength is so prodigious in defence)
Against ten legions of the boldest Britons,
With Clinton at the head to lead them on,
Whether he choose to come by sea or land.

Aide D. C. Well be it so. I have discharged my duty
In bringing you our noble general's message.
Pray, sir, have you commands to send from hence?
My time to stay is short; I must be going.

Arnold. Tho' I am steady to my sentiment,
That these five hundred men are full sufficient,
Yet, to comply with the spirit of his meaning,
You may inform the general, two hours' warning
Will bring me in four thousand of militia.
They are as rugged and as hardy fellows,
As bold and desperate in the works of war,
As skilled to hit the mark or push the bagnet,
As any of the choicest continentals.
Pray tell the general this, and I am sure,
I'm satisfied, he'll be of my opinion. [Exit Aide D. C.

Arnold (solus). This is the time for dark and dangerous action;
This is the time that thieves and murderers choose
To execute their desperate designs.
But art thou, Arnold, less than murderer,
Who thus prepare to stab thy bleeding country?
And can I then descend to be a traitor!
By honest toils a name have I acquired,
Great and unequalled in the rolls of fame;
And shall that name to infamy be doomed
By one base act that mars and cankers all?
For this have I in winter's joyless reign
Explored the naked wilds of northern clime,
When mid the snows and frosts and chilling winds
Cold earth has been my bed. Ambition, rise
And fire my soul to nobler purposes.
To-morrow Major André comes to meet me,
And I am to consult on ways and means
To give this fort up to my country's foes.
Shall I repent of my unjust proceedings,
Admit this daring Briton to my portal,
And say I did thus to entrap the man
Who is grand vizar to Sir Henry Clinton?
Whose scheming head doth hurt our country more
Than all their host beside?
But that would be ungenerous—more than that,
Ten thousand guineas are the offered price
Of my desertion—more than that, perhaps
I shall henceforward be caressed by kings
And bear a generalship that may reduce
These states revolted back to Britain's sway.
* * * * * For now I do imagine
They have no rights, no claims to independence.
Born were we all, subjected to a king,
And that subjection must return again.
The people are not dull republicans,
By nature they incline to monarchy.
How glorious should I be to have a share
In bringing back my country to allegiance.
Can France uphold them in their proud demand,
That race of puny, base, perfidious dogs?
Sooner shall all the house of Bourbon sink
Their Rochambault, D'Estang and La Fayette,
And Spain confederate cease to be a nation,
And all their allies dwindle into atoms,
Ere Britain will withdraw her righteous claim
Or yield a jot of her dominion here
To any people living. Then, André, come,
The sooner Britain gains this fort the better.

Maj. André. I cannot leave this city, sweet Lucinda, without imparting to you that I am going a little way toward the American lines, at the request of his Excellency, upon some business of importance. I am come to chat a little with you ere I go. It may be some days before you see me again.

Lucinda. If it be not too great a presumption in me, my dear Major, I would beg to know whether you depart on a peaceable or hostile errand. You must pardon a woman's curiosity. I had a frightful dream about you a few nights ago, which I cannot banish from my mind ever since.

Maj. André. I am happy, madam, in being the subject of your dreams. But dreams are delusions of the mind, mere vagaries and whimsies not to be attended to. You may remember that, prior to our Charlestown expedition, you discouraged me a good deal with a vision you had of a vessel shipwrecked, and myself with the other passengers drowned, and yet little or nothing was intimated thereby. We made our passage safe, conquered the place, and returned with victory and honor.

Lucinda. True. But your fleet endured a terrible hurricane, in which many perished.

Lucinda. This last was represented to my mind in quite a different manner, in such lively colours that I cannot help thinking some evil is foreboded to you.

Maj. André. Poh! Let's hear the extraordinary dream, then, that we may laugh a little at it.

Lucinda. I imagined myself in a country where the skies were forever cloudy and gloomy, with frequent bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning. Among many other objects, all of which seemed disconsolate and melancholy, I saw you endeavouring to reach the summit of a sharp, craggy precipice. You leaped with surprising agility over dark gulfs and apertures therein, which no other man would have thought of passing. The spectators admired your activity and daring spirit. The continual obstacles in your way seemed nothing to you, and at length you bid fair to gain the summit, when, catching hold of a shrub, which was but slightly rooted in one of the crevices of the rock, it instantly gave way, and you tumbled to the bottom, dashed to pieces on the pointed crags and torn in a shocking manner. I shrieked out and waked.

Maj. André. Your dream was frightful indeed; but still it was nothing but a dream. Why, I have imagined before now in my sleep that I have tumbled down ten thousand fathoms in a perpendicular line; but all this was owing to mere mechanical causes, the motion of the animal spirits or the veins being rather too replete with blood.

Lucinda. Well, be it so. I hope my dream may be the forerunner of no mischief. But are you going out on a fighting expedition, sir, if I may be so bold to ask the question?

Maj. André. My dearest love, I will conceal nothing from you. I know you are the girl of a thousand for keeping a secret. It must not take air. I have corrupted General Arnold. He is to sell West Point fort to me, and this evening I am to set out and consult with him upon the fittest means to blind the eyes of the Samson and deliver up the place to Sir Henry without danger of failure.

Lucinda. But could not some person be deputized for this purpose whose life is not of such value to Britain as yours? You are a proud soul to Sir Henry Clinton. He enterprises nothing without first having your advice and direction. If you should be intercepted in your way by the Americans, would it not endanger your life, my dear André, to be found without some mission or any plausible excuse for being within an enemy's lines?

Maj. André. You are too timorous, Lucinda. I shall go and come by water in an armed ship. I may perhaps just venture on shore in a ——[34] of time, but shall take care not to expose myself to any danger. I well know how far to venture, but if the worst come to the worst, I can tell them I have deserted from the British. Then I shall be caressed among them till such times as I can find an opportunity to escape and join my countrymen.

Maj. André. Yes; but chiefly to serve my country. Had I a thousand lives, I would lay them all down for Britain and my king. But I must go. You deject my spirits, my girl. A woman is destructive to the spirit of enterprise in a man. Poh! I am growing melancholy too. You must cheer my drooping soul, Lucinda. I heard you humming a little song the other day. Do let's have it. I think it begins thus: "My native shades delight no more."

Lucinda. Although I am in no humour for music, you shall hear it, my love. I suppose it was made by some British officer on his setting out for America, who was as great an idolater to his king and country as most English gentlemen.

My native shades delight no more,[35]
I haste to meet the ocean's roar,
I seek a wild inclement shore
Beyond the Atlantic main:
'Tis virtue calls!—I must away!—
Nor care nor pleasure tempts my stay,
Nor all that love himself can say,
A moment shall detain.

To meet those hosts who dare disown
Allegiance to Britannia's throne,
I draw the sword that pities none,
I draw their rebel blood;
Amazement shall their troops confound,
When hackt and prostrate on the ground;
My blade shall drink from every wound
A life-restoring flood!

The swarthy Indian, yet unbroke,
Shall bind his neck to Britain's yoke,
Or flee from her avenging stroke
To deserts all unknown;
The southern isles shall own her sway,
Peru and Mexico obey,
And those who yet to Satan pray
Beyond the southern zone.

For George the Third I dare to fall,
Since he to me is all in all;
May he subdue this earthly ball
And nations tribute bring.
Yon western states shall wear his chain,
Where traitors now with tyrants reign,
And subject shall be all the main
To George, our potent king.

When honour calls to guard his throne,
My life I dare not call my own;
My life I yield without a groan
For him whom I adore.
In lasting glory shall he reign,
'Tis he shall conquer France and Spain,
Tho' I perhaps may ne'er again
Behold my native shore.

Maj. André. You sing charmingly, Lucinda. The poor fellow's resolution pleases me. He engages to give his life, if necessary, for his king and country, and yet perhaps he feels the ingratitude of both every hour in the day. It must, however, be so. Nature has formed us with a principle of love to our native land. What say you, Lucinda?

Lucinda. It may be so, sir; and yet that love need not carry us to such an idolatrous extravagance as is manifested in the little stanzas I had the pleasure of singing to you.

Lucinda. I have sung to please you, my love; now, if you have leisure, I would beg your attention a moment to a little ditty that pleases myself.

Maj. André. Most gladly, my angel; I can prolong half an hour yet in your agreeable company.

You chide me and tell me I must not complain
To part a few days from my favourite swain.
He is gone to the battle and leaves me to mourn,
And say what you please, he will never return.

When he left me he kissed me, and said, my sweet dear,
In less than a month I again will be here;
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept, being sure he would never return.

I said, my dear creature, I beg you would stay,
But he with his soldiers went strutting away.
Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn,
For I know in my heart he will never return.

Whenever there's danger he loves to be there,
He fights like a hero when others despair.
In this expedition he goes to his urn;
You call me a fool if he ever return.

Maj. André. The application of this I must take to myself, I suppose. Fie upon you, lady; you need to divert me with merry jokes and a strain of wit peculiar to yourself. You now are pensive, demure, and melancholy. You make me so, too.

Lucinda. Yonder comes Sir Henry. I suppose he has some private business with you. I must retire.

Sir Henry. Till you return from this important errand
I am a slave to impatience, Major André.
I beg you would this night equip with speed,
And on an eagle's wings to Arnold haste.
The frigate lies at single anchor ready,
And winds propitious to our purpose blow.
But hark ye, friend, and tell the general then
That if he can by any means at all,
On any artful, plausible pretence,
So manage matters and with such address
As to entice the great Americ chief,
At that same hour the fort is yielded to us,
There to be present on some feigned business,
That so we may be master of his person,
Tell him if he does this his pay is double.
Besides ten thousand guineas we have promised,
Ten thousand more with gratitude I'll pay,
And think him cheaply bought. He is the soul,
The great upholder of this long contention.
I dread his prudence and his courage more
Than all the armies that the Congress raise,
Than all the troops or all the ships of France.

Maj. André. Well thought! I shall obey your Excellency.
It is a bold and dangerous undertaking,
'Tis hazardous, but not impossible.
To win on this great chief—'tis a bright thought.
He'll think himself as safe at West Point Fort
As in the bosom of his spacious camp,
And therefore will not hesitate to come
Only attended by a score of guards.
The same attempt may seize the fort and him.

Sir Henry. And be precise to fix the time, when we
Must take possession of the citadel.
Against the hour that I expect you back
Five thousand troops shall be embarked and ready
To execute whatever plan you fix on.

Maj. André. The time is come that is appointed for my departure. It is impossible that even beauty or wit or tears can now withhold me from my purpose. I have promised his Excellency and now to hesitate would prove me to be a coward, one altogether unworthy to be trusted with any business that requires wit and dexterity.

Lucinda. Your resolution is fixed, and I do not desire you to fall from it; only if heaven should so order that any fatal accident befall you, remember the unfortunate Lucinda. She sends her good wishes along with you, and prays for all imaginable prosperity on every undertaking in which Major André bears a part.

Maj. André. My thanks to you, my dearest. If a heart so good as thine petition heaven for my safety, I have nothing to fear. Thy prayers are my guardian angels, and will protect me in every danger. My honour calls me and I must go. Give me a parting kiss, my dear. Adieu, adieu.

Now native courage warm my wavering breast,
And fires of resolution blaze within me,
For I must on a dangerous errand go,
With secret cunning to deceive the foe,
Whose active souls in dire connections meet,
Where one false step my ruin makes complete.
Ye guardian powers that still protect the brave,
Some pity on distressed Britain have.
By me she seeks some portion to regain
Of her lost empire, tried so oft in vain.
But dreadful scenes before my eyes appear,
And dangers thicken as they draw more near.
But soft—no dangers can my heart appal,
I have a soul that can despise them all.
More than an equal chance for life I see,
But life and death must be the same to me. [Exit

Act III.

Pasquin. Stormy, sir; very stormy; it blows terrifically and there is heavy rain.

Arnold. Tell the sentries upon duty to-night that I expect a gentleman of my acquaintance here about ten o'clock. When he comes to the outer gate, bid one of them conduct him to my apartment.

Arnold (solus). Peace to this gloomy grove that sees me acting
What open daylight would disdain to own.
Ye wood, be witness of my dark designs,
And shade me o'er, ye lofty eminences;
Tremendous gloom, encompass me around
In clouds that wing from Greenland's foggy caves,
Plutonian darkness on your pinions bring,
Conceal my base intent from human view,
And be the daylight still a stranger to it.
Storm on, ye wind, the tempest that ye make
In the broad regions of the troubled ether
Is quiet to the tumult of my soul!
Departing honour,—take thy last adieu,
'Tis this night's deed that stamps me for a villain.
Who comes there?

Pasquin. Sir, there is a traveller just alighted at Sergeant Jones's quarters, who desires to know whether he can have a little private conference with you, and asked me whether you were alone or no.

Pasquin. He has on a plain suit of blue clothes, a cocked beaver hat and draw boots. He rides a common bay horse, and by his general appearance one would suppose him to be a commissary, or perhaps a quarter-master.

Arnold. How came you to know all these particulars; the night being so dark and stormy?

Pasquin. I had a glimpse of him by means of a lanthorn we carried out when he got off his horse. Over all, I forgot to mention, he had a fear-naught riding coat.

Pasquin. As handsome a man, please your honour, as ever the sun shone upon. It did me good to look upon him.

Arnold (aside). This must be him. [To Pasquin] Bid the sergeant show him the way to me immediately, and put up his horse in my own stable. He is from Philadelphia, a friend and relative of mine.

Arnold (solus). This is Major André, indeed. We have agreed in our correspondence that he shall pass here under the name of Captain Ashton, to prevent suspicion.

Arnold. Captain Ashton, my friend, how are you? Please to draw near the fire and sit. How do our friends at Philadelphia? [Exit sergeant] The booby is now gone, and we may talk freely without suspicion.

Maj. André. I am happy at length to see General Arnold, with whom I have corresponded so long at a distance. I hope, my dear general, you are ready to perform your promise.

Arnold. Undoubtedly the fort shall be yours within three days, upon the conditions I mentioned to you in my last letter. I hope you have apprised Sir Henry of them.

Maj. André. Yes, sir. He is satisfied, and thinks your demand really moderate; but now let us to the point. We must fall upon some plan by which we must act without much danger of miscarriage. Would it not be best that our troops should seem to take the fort by surprise, and thus prevent the world from having any suspicion of treachery in the case?

Arnold. I have had the same thought, my dear sir. Besides, if we can make this pass, I shall become a prisoner of war to you in appearance, be exchanged after a little time, and so be in a capacity to serve you again; or, pretending the fort not tenable, I may make my escape during your attack, and all this without any suspicion on the part of the Americans.

Arnold. Now hear what I have to propose further. When you are embarked with your army, suppose one or two thousand men or more sail up the river as far as you safely can, short of the fort, and endeavour to make the country believe you are on a plundering expedition. I shall have companies out who will give me notice of all your movements. Then land your men, march up to the fort, demand a surrender, which I will absolutely refuse. Upon which hang out your bloody flag and fire against the walls point blank, without mercy. In that part of the fortress where I shall be, you will see a small white flag flying. Do not fire to that quarter. The garrison shall discharge the artillery three times over your heads, after which I will surrender and open the gates to you. Then, by not putting one of the garrison to death, which would be your right, you having stormed it, you will have an excellent opportunity of giving the world a new instance of British humanity. Then you may pour your troops into the fort, take possession of it, and hoist the British flag. The prisoners may immediately be sent to the shipping and ordered to New York before the Continental forces will have a chance of hindering the embarkation. What say you?

Maj. André. Excellently well imagined. I hope it may succeed. The money shall be paid you on your arrival at York; but there is another service Sir Henry would fain hope you could indulge him in, and your reward shall be double.

Maj. André. He is eager to be possessed of your Commander-in-Chief. Could you contrive no way to get him into our hands? He is the soul of this obstinate rebellion. Were he a prisoner to us, America would soon be ours again.

Arnold (pausing). Why, true, it would greatly facilitate the recovery of the colonies. Let me see. I will endeavour to prevail upon him to spend a day or two at Robinson's home. Nay, I am sure he will be here next Monday, and the garrison. There are a number of disaffected people not far from hence, whom I can engage to secure his person and convey him on board the Vulture ship of war.

Maj. André. If we become by your means possessed of these two jewels, General Washington and this important fort, we shall never think the obligation sufficiently acknowledged. You will become the greatest man in the world. Britain will adore you. She will kiss the very ground you tread upon, besides lavishing wealth upon you by millions.

Arnold. She is heartily welcome to such poor services as I can render her. What I do is from principle, from the consciousness of a rectitude of heart and love to my country.

Maj. André. Sir, you were born to be a great man. Now, if you will be pleased to deliver me the plan of the fort, signals of recognizance and other papers of consequence in this affair, I will be going. I do not think myself safe till such times as I get within the British lines again.

Arnold. The danger is trifling. With a passport from me, you may go anywhere in these colonies.

Arnold. I will write it immediately. There, sir; and here is the packet. I will not detain you, because I know the business requires dispatch. You will, however, sup with me, and take a glass of wine before you go.

Arnold. Walk with me into this other apartment; we soldiers do not stand upon ceremony. But how do you carry these papers so as to conceal them in case you meet with any over-curious persons?

Maj. André. I have an expedient. I can carry them in the foot of my boot. Do you see how snug they lie?

Arnold. Aye, faith, that was well thought of; but do not put the passport in your boot.

Scene II.—An ancient stone building in the Dutch taste. Three officers, Vincent, Ambrose, Asmith. Vincent and Asmith entering.

Am. Well are we met in these sequestered wilds;
Whence come ye, brothers, at so late an hour?

Vin. From scouring all the country up and down,
To seize, if fortune please, illicit traders,
Who are so bold and unscrupulous grown
That oft in open day, as well as night,
They bear large cargoes of provision down
To yonder ships that still infest our river.
How I detest these underhanded scoundrels,
Who, hungry as the grave for British gold,
Feed the vile foe that lurks within our harbours.

Am. Gods! Can they be so base,—but there are they
Who sell their country for a mess of pottage,—
A servile, scheming race whose god is gain,
Who for a little gold would stab their fathers
And plunder life from her who gave them life.
These are not true Americans. They are
A spurious race—scum, dregs, and bastards all.
They are not true Americans, I say.

As. They cannot be, they help toward our ruin.
But, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I think;
We have so many lurking foes within,
And such a potent enemy without,
That I almost despair, I must confess,
That ever we shall rend these thirteen States
From persevering Britain, and compel
Acknowledgment of independence here.

Vin. Say not so.
The rights of humanity, 'tis these we fight for,
And not to carry ruin round the globe.
Appearances are so much in our favour
That he who doubts that this event shall be,
Must be as blind as he whose useless orbs
Have never drank the radiated light.
Nay, he who doubts of this, who dares to doubt
(If nature be not ——[37] to miracles
And devils rule with delegated sway)
Deserves not nor is worthy to enjoy
The paradise we look for.

Amb. Be it so.
But let us leave the great event to fate,
Who soon or late will bring to light its purpose;
Our duty to our country must be done,
And in so doing we its freedom hasten.
But, friends, why stay we here? By yonder stars
That still revolving point toward the pole,
I find it must be midnight.

Vin. I do expect a score of peasants here,
A set of hardy, bold, and faithful fellows,
Whom I can trust in all emergencies.
In different parties I shall these despatch
Toward the hostile lines, for I suspect
That intercourse too often doth subsist
Between our disaffected and the foe.

Amb. And are these peasants armed?

Vin. Armed with a musquet and a bayonet;
A true and desperate soldier wants no more.

As. And thirty cartridges to every man,
With three days' victuals in their knapsacks stored.

Amb. It is enough. I hope they will not tarry.

2nd P. God bless you. Why do you ask such a question? It is not for us to know where we are going. We shall know bye and bye, I warrant you, after we have marched two or three score of miles.

Ours not to sleep in shady bowers,[38]
When frosts are chilling all the plain,
And nights are cold and long the hours
To check the ardor of the swain,
Who parting from his cheerful fire
All comforts doth forego,
And here and there
And everywhere
Pursues the prowling foe.

3rd P. O, very well. I love to hear anything that touches upon the hardships of a soldier's life.

But we must sleep in frost and snows,
No season shuts up our campaign;
Hard as the oaks, we dare oppose
The autumn's or the winter's reign.
Alike to us the winds that blow
In summer's season gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave
And drift his ice away.

For Liberty, celestial maid,
With joy all hardships we endure.
In her blest smiles we are repaid,
In her protection are secure.
Then rise superior to the foe,
Ye freeborn souls of fire;
Respect these arms,
'Tis freedom warms,
To noble deeds aspire.

Winter and death may change the scene,
The cold may freeze, the ball may kill,
And dire misfortunes intervene;
But freedom shall be potent still
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who, cruel and unkind,
With slavish chain
Attempt in vain
Our freeborn limbs to bind.

Pasq. O, excellent—"Our freeborn limbs to bind"—by my soul, they never shall bind mine. Harry, give us another song on our affairs and then we'll be ready.

2nd P. I have not many by heart. I do recollect one at present, but it was made at the beginning of the war.

The cohorts of Britain are now all complete,
She has brushed up her soldiers and manned out her fleet;
The lion has roared whose trade is to kill,
And we are the victims whose blood he must spill.

But ere I am slaughtered and wrapped in a shroud
I must tell you the motive that makes him so proud.
The monkeys and puppies that bow to his rule
Have told him a lie and deceived the old fool.

They say we are cowards, not dressed in red coats,
That he without danger may cut all our throats;
If we see but a Briton, confounded with fear,
We'll throw down our muskets and run like a deer.

That one thousand men with a captain would dare
To march from New Hampshire to Georgia, they swear.
But here lies the trick of these wonderful men,
They tell us they'll do it, but do not say when.

Such a motive to fight would you ever conceive,
Yet such is the motive that makes him so brave.
On such a presumption, in hopes of applause,
He whets up his grinders and sharpens his claws.

But hark, Mr. Lion, and be not so stout,
In fancy alone you have put us to rout.
To show you how little your threat'nings avail,
Here's a kick at your breech and a clip at your tail.[39]

* * * * * * *

But everything seems poisoned where I tread,
And I am tortured to perfection.

Aide. General Arnold here?

Jeff. Two hours have hardly yet elapsed since he
Across the river to the garrison
On some important business went in haste,
So as I told to his attendant here.
For since the general parted I arrived.
Is he, then, at the garrison? by heaven,
We'll have him in a trice.

Aide. You'll have him in a trice. Pray, what means that?

Jeff. I see your ignorance, my honest friend.
Why such a damned, unnatural plot has happened
That when I mention it, if you have feeling,
At the first word your blood must chill with horror
And admiration shake your very soul.
This traitor Arnold, this vile, abandoned traitor,
This monster of ingratitude unequalled,
Has been conspiring with an English spy
To render tip the fort to General Clinton.

Aide. What fort? the fort at West Point, mean you?

Jeff. The fort at West Point, on my sacred honour,
The garrison, dependencies, and stores,
And, what is more, the person of our leader.
Five thousand troops at York are now embarked,
And even wait this night to take possession.

Aide. Is this reality; sure you are jesting.
And yet you serious seem to be of countenance.
Lips that quiver, eyes that glow with passion,
Tempt me to think your story may be true.
And yet I doubt it. Came you here to seize him?

Jeff. Nay, doubt it not. I have the papers with me
That at a glance betray this horrid treason.

Aide. For what could he do this?
Was it Resentment, Avarice, Ambition
That prompted him to act the traitor's part?
And yet I'm sure it never could be avarice.
His country lavishes her wealth upon him;
He has the income of a little king,
And perquisites that by a hundred ways
Not only the base wants of life supply,
But deck him out in elegance and grandeur.
Perhaps, indeed, he has ambitious views:
He aims to make his court to Britain's king,
And rise upon the ruins of his country.
Perhaps it is resentment and disgust,
For many hate him, and have often said
He fattens on the plunder of the public.

Jeff. 'Tis avarice, sir, that base, unmanly motive.
The glare of British gold has captivated
This hero, as we thought him. What a curse,
That human souls can of such stuff be moulded,
That they, foregoing fame and character,
E'en for the sake of what is despicable,
Be foe to virtue and to virtue's friend.
But such are to be found, and every age has seen 'em,
Who, for the sake of mere external show,
Some qualities that seemed to them attractive——[40]