The Borderers (continued 2)

Marmaduke Quick—to the point—if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory.

Oswald Patience, hear me further!— One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man, Nor any living thing whose lot of life Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the Captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one: There I reproached him with his treachery. Imperious at all times, his temper rose; He struck me; and that instant had I killed him, And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades Rushed in between us: then did I insist (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive!—we did so.

Marmaduke And he was famished?

Oswald Naked was the spot; Methinks I see it now—how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield; And in that miserable place we left him, Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive, Or mourn him dead.

Marmaduke A man by men cast off, Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying, But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy; and—even so— He was forsaken?

Oswald There is a power in sounds: The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water—

Marmaduke You returned Upon that dismal hearing—did you not?

Oswald Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us.

Marmaduke We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain!

Oswald 'Twas an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished; but the calm, The same dead calm, continued many days.

Marmaduke But his own crime had brought on him this doom, His wickedness prepared it; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault.

Oswald The man was famished, and was innocent!

Marmaduke Impossible!

Oswald The man had never wronged me.

Marmaduke Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked—these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are baffled.

Oswald I had been deceived.

Marmaduke And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard of?

Oswald I had been betrayed.

Marmaduke And he found no deliverance!

Oswald The Crew Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage: when we landed, The tale was spread abroad; my power at once Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes— All vanished. I gave way—do you attend?

Marmaduke The Crew deceived you?

Oswald Nay, command yourself.

Marmaduke It is a dismal night—how the wind howls!

Oswald I hid my head within a Convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me—I was o'erthrown But not destroyed.

Marmaduke The proofs—you ought to have seen The guilt—have touched it—felt it at your heart— As I have done.

Oswald A fresh tide of Crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way; And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me—I was comforted; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good—I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. [Marking Marmaduke's countenance.] Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested—without meat or drink Have I lived many days—my sleep was bound To purposes of reason—not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give.

Marmaduke O wretched Human-kind!—Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors?

Oswald Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp, When all that multitude of hearts was still, And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams; Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: In these my lonely wanderings I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. —So much for my remorse!

Marmaduke Unhappy Man!

Oswald When from these forms I turned to contemplate The World's opinions and her usages, I seemed a Being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity, Whose natural element was freedom—

Marmaduke Stop— I may not, cannot, follow thee.

Oswald You must. I had been nourished by the sickly food Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show, We must become obnoxious to its hate, Or fear disguised in simulated scorn.

Marmaduke I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches— That monstrous perfidy!

Oswald Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me—'twas in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, And in that dream had left my native land, One of Love's simple bondsmen—the soft chain Was off for ever; and the men, from whom This liberation came, you would destroy: Join me in thanks for their blind services.

Marmaduke 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot.—You have betrayed me—I have done— I am content—I know that he is guiltless— That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man! And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!—Together [Turning to Oswald.] We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both.

Oswald Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge Man's intellectual empire. We subsist In slavery; all is slavery; we receive Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come; We need an inward sting to goad us on.

Marmaduke Have you betrayed me? Speak to that.

Oswald The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off.—Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self; I would have made us equal once again, But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live: Now you are suffering—for the future day, 'Tis his who will command it.—Think of my story— Herbert is innocent.

Marmaduke (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) You do but echo My own wild words?

Oswald Young Man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest; 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert is innocent.

Marmaduke What fiend could prompt This action? Innocent!—oh, breaking heart!— Alive or dead, I'll find him. [Exit.]

Oswald Alive—perdition! [Exit.]

Scene—The inside of a poor Cottage Eleanor and Idonea seated

.

Idonea The storm beats hard—Mercy for poor or rich, Whose heads are shelterless in such a night!

A Voice Without Holla! to bed, good Folks, within!

Eleanor O save us!

Idonea What can this mean?

Eleanor Alas, for my poor husband!— We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers [The voices die away in the distance.] Returning from their Feast—my heart beats so— A noise at midnight does so frighten me.

Idonea Hush! [Listening.]

Eleanor They are gone. On such a night, my husband, Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs— Not even in theirs—whose brutal violence So dealt with him.

Idonea I have a noble Friend First among youths of knightly breeding, One Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again! [Listening.]

Eleanor 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he'll never be The man he was.

Idonea I will retire;—good night! [She goes within.]

[Enter Eldred (hides a bundle)]

Eldred Not yet in bed, Eleanor!—there are stains in that frock which must be washed out.

Eleanor What has befallen you?

Eldred I am belated, and you must know the cause— (speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy Man.

Eleanor Oh! we are undone for ever.

Eldred Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it.

Eleanor Where, where is he?

Eldred I have done him no harm, but——it will be forgiven me; it would not have been so once.

Eleanor You have not buried anything? You are no richer than when you left me?

Eldred Be at peace; I am innocent.

Eleanor Then God be thanked— [A short pause; she falls upon his neck.]

Eldred Tonight I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the ground—a sad spectacle: I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him.

Eleanor (as if ready to run) Where is he? You were not able to bring him all the way with you; let us return, I can help you.

[Eldred shakes his head.]

Eldred He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes—he waved his hand, as if it were all useless; and I let him sink again to the ground.

Eleanor Oh that I had been by your side!

Eldred I tell you his hands and his body were cold—how could I disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep.

Eleanor But, for the stains of blood—

Eldred He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I think his malady was cold and hunger.

Eleanor Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble.

Eldred Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my comfort!

Eleanor But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease?

Eldred I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering something about his Child—his Daughter—(starting as if he heard a noise). What is that?

Eleanor Eldred, you are a father.

Eldred God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake.

Eleanor But you prayed by him? you waited the hour of his release?

Eldred The night was wasting fast; I have no friend; I am spited by the world—his wound terrified me—if I had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms!——I am sure I heard something breathing—and this chair!

Eleanor Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes—no hand to grasp your dying hand—I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all.

Eldred Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon?

Eleanor And you left him alive?

Eldred Alive!—the damps of death were upon him—he could not have survived an hour.

Eleanor In the cold, cold night.

Eldred (in a savage tone) Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it.—You will never rest till I am brought to a felon's end.

Eleanor Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent?

Eldred Ay, and say at once that I murdered him!

Eleanor Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the Waste; let us take heart; this Man may be rich; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us.

Eldred 'Tis all in vain.

Eleanor But let us make the attempt. This old Man may have a wife, and he may have children—let us return to the spot; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him.

Eldred He will never open them more; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind.

Idonea (rushing out) It is, it is, my Father—

Eldred We are betrayed (looking at Idonea).

Eleanor His Daughter!—God have mercy! (turning to Idonea)

Idonea (sinking down) Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place. You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you.

Eleanor This Lady is his Daughter.

Eldred (moved) I'll lead you to the spot.

Idonea (springing up) Alive!—you heard him breathe? quick, quick—

[Exeunt.]

Act V

Scene—A wood on the edge of the Waste Enter Oswald and a Forester.

Forester He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, And down into the bottom cast his eye, That fastened there, as it would check the current.

Oswald He listened too; did you not say he listened?

Forester As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights.

Oswald But did he utter nothing?

Forester See him there!

[Marmaduke appearing.]

Marmaduke Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters; That is no substance which ye settle on!

Forester His senses play him false; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!— Some terrible phantom I believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man Who has been guilty of some horrid crime.

[Marmaduke disappears.]

Oswald The game is up!—

Forester If it be needful, Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him.

Oswald No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business— 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, Who has a trick of straying from his keepers; We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. [Exit Forester.] If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; The goal is reached. My Master shall become A shadow of myself—made by myself.

Scene—The edge of the Moor. Marmaduke and Eldred enter from opposite sides.

Marmaduke (raising his eyes and perceiving Eldred) In any corner of this savage Waste, Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man?

Eldred I heard—

Marmaduke You heard him, where? when heard him?

Eldred As you know The first hours of last night were rough with storm: I had been out in search of a stray heifer; Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged Man, and such as you describe.

Marmaduke You heard!—he called you to him? Of all men The best and kindest!—but where is he? guide me, That I may see him.

Eldred On a ridge of rocks A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: The bell is left, which no one dares remove; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice, To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; But he had failed through weakness. From his hand His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise.

Marmaduke Well, well, he lives, And all is safe: what said he?

Eldred But few words: He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, Who, so he feared, would never see him more; And of a Stranger to him, One by whom He had been sore misused; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled— Perhaps you are his son?

Marmaduke The All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living Child.— But whither did you carry him?

Eldred He was torn, His head was bruised, and there was blood about him—

Marmaduke That was no work of mine.

Eldred Nor was it mine.

Marmaduke But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him A thousand miles.

Eldred I am in poverty, And know how busy are the tongues of men; My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him.

Marmaduke I believe that there are phantoms, That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress—and thou art one of them! But things substantial have so pressed on me—

Eldred My wife and children came into my mind.

Marmaduke Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us, And we shall howl together. [After a pause and in a feeble voice.] I am deserted At my worst need, my crimes have in a net (Pointing to Eldred) Entangled this poor man.— Where was it? where? [Dragging him along.]

Eldred 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter—

Marmaduke Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: This old man had a Daughter.

Eldred To the spot I hurried back with her.—Oh save me, Sir, From such a journey!—there was a black tree, A single tree; she thought it was her Father.— Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now— Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it— As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot;—the Daughter clapped her hands, And then I heard a shriek so terrible [Marmaduke shrinks back.] The startled bird quivered upon the wing.

Marmaduke Dead, dead!—

Eldred (after a pause) A dismal matter, Sir, for me, And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish, I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best That she should be prepared; I'll go before.

Marmaduke There will be need of preparation.

[Eldred goes off.]

Eleanor (enters) Master! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?

Marmaduke (taking her arm) Woman, I've lent my body to the service Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.

Eleanor Oh, why have I to do with things like these?

[Exeunt.]

Scene changes to the door of ELDRED'S cottage— Idonea seated—enter Eldred.

Eldred Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, And you remember such was my report: From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst.

Idonea My Father is dead; Why dost thou come to me with words like these?

Eldred A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.

Idonea Thou seest me what I am.

Eldred It was most heinous, And doth call out for vengeance.

Idonea Do not add, I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already.

Eldred Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him.

Idonea I have nothing To do with others; help me to my Father— [She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor—throws herself upon his neck, and after some time,] In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; And thus we meet again; one human stay Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.

Marmaduke In such a wilderness—to see no thing, No, not the pitying moon!

Idonea And perish so.

Marmaduke Without a dog to moan for him.

Idonea Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.

Marmaduke Tranquil—why not?

Idonea Oh, peace!

Marmaduke He is at peace; His body is at rest: there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man: It took effect—and yet I baffled it, In some degree.

Idonea Between us stood, I thought, A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it?—Beloved Marmaduke!

Marmaduke Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude: all things but man, All die in solitude. [Moving towards the cottage door.] Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it!—

Idonea Alas! the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow.

Eldred Lady! You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering, The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand—that would be evidence.

Eleanor Shame! Eldred, shame!

Marmaduke (both returning) The dead have but one face. (To himself.) And such a Man—so meek and unoffending— Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, By obvious signal to the world's protection, Solemnly dedicated—to decoy him!—

Idonea Oh, had you seen him living!—

Marmaduke I (so filled With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains: Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! I have the proofs!—

Idonea O miserable Father! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind; Nor to this moment, have I ever wished Evil to any living thing; but hear me, Hear me, ye Heavens!—(kneeling)—may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder: let him live And move in terror of the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees, If e'er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head; And let him, when he would lie down at night, Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!

Marmaduke My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.

Idonea (leaning on Marmaduke) Left to the mercy of that savage Man! How could he call upon his Child!—O Friend! [Turns to Marmaduke.] My faithful true and only Comforter.

Marmaduke Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) (To Eldred.) Yes, Varlet, look, The devils at such sights do clap their hands. [Eldred retires alarmed.]

Idonea Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; Hast thou pursued the monster?

Marmaduke I have found him.— Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!

Idonea Here art thou, then can I be desolate?—

Marmaduke There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.

Idonea Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine For closer care;—here, is no malady. [Taking his arm.]

Marmaduke There, is a malady— (Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, A mortal malady.—I am accurst: All nature curses me, and in my heart Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. I am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, Thy Father perished.

Idonea Perished—by what mischance?

Marmaduke Belovèd!—if I dared, so would I call thee— Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. [He gives her a letter.]

Idonea (reads) "Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is now with me, as his signature will shew: abstain from conjecture till you see me. "Herbert. "Marmaduke." The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's: (Looks steadily at the paper.) And here is yours,—or do my eyes deceive me? You have then seen my Father?

Marmaduke He has leaned Upon this arm.

Idonea You led him towards the Convent?

Marmaduke That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection.

Idonea Miserable Woman, Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence, With the disastrous issue of last night, Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee!

Marmaduke Oswald—

Idonea Name him not.

[Enter Female Beggar.]

Beggar And he is dead!—that Moor—how shall I cross it? By night, by day, never shall I be able To travel half a mile alone.—Good Lady! Forgive me!—Saints forgive me. Had I thought It would have come to this!—

Idonea What brings you hither? speak!

Beggar (pointing to Marmaduke) This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him Such tales of your dead Father!—God is my judge, I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man, He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy! I said I know not what—oh pity me— I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter— Pity me, I am haunted;—thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

Idonea (to Marmaduke) Was it my Father?—no, no, no, for he Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life —But hear me. For one question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

Marmaduke No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process: Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks, His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal Of the bleak Waste—left him—and so he died!— [Idonea sinks senseless; Beggar, Eleanor, etc., crowd round, and bear her off.] Why may we speak these things, and do no more; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, And words that tell these things be heard in vain? She is not dead. Why!—if I loved this Woman, I would take care she never woke again; But she will wake, and she will weep for me, And say, no blame was mine—and so, poor fool, Will waste her curses on another name. [He walks about distractedly.] [Enter Oswald.]

Oswald (to himself) Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. [To Marmaduke.] The starts and sallies of our last encounter Were natural enough; but that, I trust, Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind— Delivered heart and head! Let us to Palestine; This is a paltry field for enterprise.

Marmaduke Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue— 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!— Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically) Start not!—Here is another face hard by; Come, let us take a peep at both together, And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, Resound the praise of your morality— Of this too much. [Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage—stops short at the door.] Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought, A deed that I would shrink from;—but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine: Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us— The wider space the better—we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy, An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices—several of the Band enter—rush upon Oswald and seize him.]

One of Them I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell—

Oswald Ha! is it so!—That vagrant Hag!—this comes Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.]

Several Voices Despatch him!

Oswald If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish! [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke.]

Wallace 'Tis done! (Stabs him.)

One of the Band The ruthless traitor!

Marmaduke A rash deed!— With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud.

Wilfred (approaching Marmaduke) O my poor Master!

Marmaduke Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here? [Turning to Wallace.] Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms! Raise on that dreary Waste a monument That may record my story: nor let words— Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself—be there withheld from Her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By One who would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her In all things worthier of that noble birth, Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve Of restoration: with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray—sustain her—

Several of the Band (eagerly) Captain!

Marmaduke No more of that; in silence hear my doom: A hermitage has furnished fit relief To some offenders; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. They had their choice: a wanderer must I go, The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on— A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life—till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:

"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four times in the Robbers of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W. there are no inequalities."

On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:

"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards, August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection that somebody, I think you, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess, is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off, with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."—Ed.

Variant 1:

1845

... female ... 1842

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Variant 2:

1845

Ha! ... 1842

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Variant 3:

1849

With whom you parted? 1842

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Variant 4:

1845

... o'er ... 1842

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Footnote A:

He doubtless refers to the lines (Act iii. l. 405) "Action is transitory—a step, a blow," etc., which followed the Dedication of

The White Doe of Rylstone

in the edition of 1836.—Ed.

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Footnote B:

Note prefixed to the edition of 1842.—Ed.

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Footnote C:

Note appended to the edition of 1842.—Ed.

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