# Dramas (Baillie)/The Phantom/Act 1

THE PHANTOM.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A green Lawn, surrounded with Rocks, and Mountains seen in the distance. An assembly of Highlanders are discovered, holding bridal revelry; Bagpipes playing, and a noise of Voices heard, as the Curtain draws up.
Enter Allen.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
The water-kelpy, with her swathing arms,
Had drowned thee at the ford.
SECOND HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN.
To foot a measure with the bonnie bride,
And maidens too.—'T is well I'm come at all:
I met the ill-eyed carlin on my way.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN.
My shelty, in the twinkling of an eye,
Became so restive, neither switch nor heel
Could move him one step further.
SECOND HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN.
I held contention, but the evil spell
Of that untoward witch.—Ay, but for that,
I would defy the wildest four-legg'd thing
In all Lochaber so to master me!
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
Make up lost time as fleetly as thou canst.
ALLEN.
Ribbon'd and cockernonied*, by my faith!
Like very queens. They make, here as I stand,
Each garter'd leg to thrill, and toes to tickle.
(Seizing one of a group of Girls, advancing from the Dancers on the bottom of the Stage.)
Look not so coy: where did I meet thee last?
We have not had a merry-making here
Since Duncan Mory's latewake.*
JEAN.
Wot ye who is the bridesmaid?
ALLEN.
JEAN.
Dumbarton Mary, with her Lowland airs.
ALLEN.
A savage thing, or some such word as that,
To dance at old Glen Lyon's funeral.—
But, could the laird himself have raised his head,
He with his ivory stick had rapp'd her pate
For marring with her mincing gentleness
The decent bravery of his last rouse.—
Come, let us have a merry reel together.
[They mix with Dancers, who now advance to the front, where a bumpkin, or dance of many interwoven reels, is performed; after which the Bride is led to a seat, and some of her Maidens sit by her.]
BRIDEGROOM.
Take needful rest, we'll pass the cheering cup.
And, Rory of Glenoruch, clear thy throat,
And sing some merry song, meet for a wedding,
Where all are boon and gay.
BRIDE.
Which thou wert wont on Clachen braes to sing,
And we to praise. Thou know'st the song I mean.
RORY.
But 'tis a song devised for gentle folks,
Made by the youthful laird of Ballamorin,
And not for common clansfolk like ourselves.
BRIDE.
It shows how sweetly thwarted lovers meet
O' moonlight nights, and talk of happy times
Which fortune has in store for faithful hearts
The silliest moorland herd can follow that.
RORY.
SONG.
I've seen the moon gleam through the cave,
 And minute drops like diamonds glancing;
I've seen, upon a heaving wave,
 The tressy-headed mermaid dancing:
But ne'er was seen, in summer night,  Beneath the moon, in brightness riding,
A moving thing, to charm the sight, Like Flora to her Malcolm gliding.
I've heard a pibroch, through the wind,  As absent chief his home was nearing;
A half-stripp'd infant, sweetly kind,  With mimic words its mother cheering:
But ne'er were evening sounds so sweet,  As, near the spot of promise stealing, The quick, soft tread of Flora's feet,
 Then whisper'd words, herself revealing.
My boat I've fastened to the stake,
 And on the shelly beach am pacing,
While she is passing moor and brake,
 On heather braes her shadow tracing;
And here we'll pass a happy hour,
 For hours and years of bliss preparing,
When we shall grace our girdled tower,
 Lands, life, and love together sharing.
Enter Culloch.
ALLEN.
Comes Culloch, with his staring freckled face.
OMNES (gathering round Culloch).
CULLOCH.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN (half aside to First Highlander).
Goes oftener there than his good father wots of;
Ay, or his sister either. I suspect
There is some dainty lady——
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN.
And what is Glasgow like?
CULLOCH.
And chimneys smoking on the top of them.
It is an awful sight!
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
CULLOCH.
And, rising from the slates of every kirk,
There is a tower, where great bells ring so loud,
That you might hear them, standing on this sward,
Were they on great Benlawers.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
BRIDE.
With all their bravery on?
CULLOCH.
And plaided drovers, standing at the cross, As close as heather stalks on Hurroch moss.
Ah! well I trow it is an awful place!
ALLEN (aside as before).
He wishes no observer to discover,
When he, of all the idle household loons, Took such an oaf as Culloch to attend him.
But I'll e'en go, before he join the dance, And have a private word of him, to favour
My poor old mother in her ruin'd cot.
I know full well he will not say me nay,
Though the old laird himself be cold and close.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
[Exit Allen.
BRIDEGROOM.
Will soon be here, and foot it with you featly.
OLD WOMAN.
There is not one that foots the floor like him,—
With such a merry glee and manly grace!
BRIDEGROOM.
Meantime, good Rory, sing another song;
Both bride and maidens like thy chanting well:
And those who list may join the chorus rhyme.
SONG.
Upon her saddle's quilted seat,
 High sat the bonnie Lowland bride;
Squires rode before, and maidens sweet
 Were gently ambling by her side.
What makes her look so pale and wan?—
She's parted from her Highlandman.
 What makes her look, &c.
Where'er they pass'd, at every door
 Stood maids and wives the sight to see;
Curs bark'd, and bairnies by the score
 Ran bawling loud and merrily.
But still the bride looks dull and wan;
 She's thinking of her Highlandman.
 But still the bride, &c.
The Lowland laird, in bridegroom's gear,
 Prick'd forth to meet the fair array;
His eye was bright, his voice was clear,
 And every word was boon and gay.
Ah! little did he reckon then
Of bold and burly Highlandmen.
 Ah! little did he reckon, &c.
The bride she raised her drooping brow,
 And red as crimson turn'd her cheek.—
What sound is that? The war-pipe now
 Descending from yon broomy peak.
It sounds like marching of a clan;
O can it be her Highlandman!
 It sounds like, &c.
Their bonnets deck'd with heather green,
 Their shoulders broad with tartans bound,
Their checker'd hose were plainly seen
 Right fleetly moving to the sound.
Quick beat her heart, within a ken, To see the valiant Highlandmen.
 Quick beat her heart, &c.
Now challenge-shout is heard, and soon
 The bare claymores are flashing bright;
And off scour'd many a Lowland loon, Who ill could brook the fearful sight.
"The fiend," quoth they, "from cave and glen
Has pour'd those stalwart Highlandmen.
 "The fiend," quoth they, &c.
Then pistols from their holsters sprang,
 Then wax'd the skirmish fierce and hot,
Blades clashing fell, and harness rang,
 And loudly bluster'd fire and shot;
For, sooth to say, the bridegroom then
Full bravely meet the Highlandmen.
 For, sooth to say, &c.
And so did all his near o' kin,  As Lowland race such stour may bide:
But sank, at last, the mingled din,  And where was then the bonnie bride?
Ay, ask at those who answer can;
Ask at the cunning Highlandman.
 Ay, ask at those, &c.
The bridegroom, in a woeful plight,  Back to his furnish'd hall has gone,
Where, spread on boards so gaily dight,
 Cold has the wedding banquet grown.
How changed since break of morning, when
He thought not of the Highlandmen!
 How changed since, &c.
And who, upon Benledi's side,
 Beneath his shieling blest and gay,
Is sitting by that bonnie bride,
 While round them moves the light strathspey?
It is the flower of all his clan,—
It is her gallant Highlandman.
 It is the flower, &c.
Re-enter Allen, snapping his fingers, and footing the ground, as he speaks.
ALLEN.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
ALLEN.
OMNES.
ALLEN.
OMNES.
ALLEN.
And I have seen them too: the lady's mounted
Upon a milk-white nag; and o'er her saddle
A scarlet cloth is spread, both deep and wide,
With bobs and fringes deck'd right gallantly;
And in her riding gear she sits with grace
That might become the daughter of a chief,
Ay, or the king himself.
FIRST HIGHLANDER.
Who is, as they have said, the very match
Which our old laird is planning for his son.
ALLEN.
Free, fitful love thinks scorn of prudent planning.
No, young Dunarden went not to the town,
With simple Culloch for his sole attendant,
To see the provost's daughter.
BRIDE (to Allen).
ALLEN.
And for ye all, which he has sent by me.
Now they who have the nimblest hands amongst ye,
Will catch their favourite colours as they fly.
(Pulls out ribands from his pouch, and dances about in a whirling figure to the bottom of the Stage, strewing about pieces of ribands, while the Girls follow, to catch them as they fall.)
SCENE II.
The Hall in the Tower of Dunarden.
Enter Dunarden and Marian.
DUNARDEN (Speaking as they enter).
Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince,
Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood.
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him,
He must be ill to win. And by my faith!
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady,
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits, So frequent and so long, have been devoted.
MARIAN.
His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.
DUNARDEN.
But the top-flower of beauty and perfection?
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,
Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well.
Why dost thou shake thy head?
MARIAN.
When age and youth on the same objects look.
DUNARDEN.
I chose the fairest, and was plainly told
Her heart and hand were promised to another?
But did I then perversely mope and pine?
No, I trow not: I cleared my cloudy brow,
And wooed the second fairest, thy poor mother.
MARIAN.
DUNARDEN.
If thou abet his folly, as, methinks,
Thou art inclined to do.
MARIAN.
As much as you, if any prepossession
Prevent him from approving this fair maid, Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging.
DUNARDEN.
Who may be soldiers, sailors, drovers, ay,
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city,
To scour the world. But for the elder born,
Who must uphold the honours of the race,—
His ancient race,—he is not thus at liberty
To please a youthful fancy.
MARIAN.
DUNARDEN.
The world sufficiently to guide and counsel
Those through whose body my own blood is flowing?
Not many men have had more opportunity
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it
To some account; at least I fain would think so.
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest,
In Glasgow many times, in London once;
And I, forsooth, am ignorant!
MARIAN.
You would not hear me out: I did not mean
That you were ignorant of aught belonging
To worldly wisdom; but his secret heart,
As I have said before, his prepossessions——
DUNARDEN.
He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth, Since he, with his unceasing liberalities,
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies,
But he must have appointed for his widow
A house, with right of browsing for her goats,
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge.
The bedrid carlins, too, and orphan brats,
Come all on me, through his petitioning;
And I, God help me! have been weak enough
To grant such suits too often.
MARIAN.
DUNARDEN.
But for our living days, I needs must say,
It doth not suit at all.—If he were frugal,
And would with care lay up what is our own;
Having some hoarded store, he might more reasonably
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it.
MARIAN.
DUNARDEN.
Such want of reason would provoke a saint!
Is he to spend the rents with open hand,
Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask;
And please himself besides, by an alliance
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and bloom
To pay the yearly charges of her state?
MARIAN.
That she is poor.
DUNARDEN.
Else why those stealthy visits,—this concealment?
Oh, 't is provoking! This, our Provost's daughter
Is just the match that would have suited us,—
That would support our house, and clear our lands,
And he, forsooth! I'll cast him from my favour!
MARIAN.
DUNARDEN.
If he persist I'll say and do it too.
His prepossessions truly! mighty plea!
MARIAN (aside).
For when he calls me Lady Achinmore,
Reply is worse than useless.
DUNARDEN (returning).
MARIAN.
And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on, Requires some time.
DUNARDEN.
In readiness, for very decency,
To bid a stranger lady welcome here.
MARIAN.
Attending on her brother.
DUNARDEN.
I saw young Denison walk forth alone,
As if to look for him.
MARIAN.
Enter Alice.
DUNARDEN.
That once I was, (how many years gone by
We shall not say,) you should to this poor hold,—
To these old walls which your fair presence brightens,
A rousing welcome have. But times are changed,
And fashion now makes all things dull and spiritless.
ALICE.
I will not think of what it might have been.
Your daughter has received me with a kindness
Which has already freed me from restraint,
And given me courage to express my pleasure.
MARIAN (to her).
Knowing so well thy worth. Might we retain thee
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim.
DUNARDEN.
And then, who knows but that our mountain soil
May ev'n prove warm enough for Lowland flower
Therein to flourish sweetly.
ALICE.
DUNARDEN.
Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp,
Glancing and vanishing! It must not be.
Were I but half the man that once I was,
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand.
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer, Or leave his charge behind him.
ALICE.
Which made him from our nearest homeward route,
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside,
To pay his father's friend a passing visit;
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow,
So rumour said.
DUNARDEN.
But, if my name be Fergus of Dunarden,
Neither the morrow, nor next morrow's morrow
Shall see thee quit my tower. I'll go and find him,
And tell him thou thyself art captive here,
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty,
And shalt not be released. [Exit.
MARIAN.
At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee:
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty, Where I would rather yield a sister's love.
ALICE.
With so much kindness! (Bursts into tears.)
MARIAN.
I have unwittingly——
ALICE.
I have a silly weakness in my nature;
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect, But kindness makes me weep.
MARIAN.
Should e'er be thine to bear?
ALICE.
MARIAN.
Is there a lady fairer than thyself?
ALICE.
Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.
MARIAN.
For too much homage, like the mid-day sun, Withers the flower it brightens.
ALICE.
MARIAN.
ALICE.
And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep, In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!
MARIAN (taking her hands affectionately).
ALICE.
And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.
MARIAN (embracing her).
That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.
ALICE.
MARIAN.
Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.
Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.
MALCOLM.
Which, as your brother tells me, you admire, In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.
ALICE.
With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd,
Have less variety than their bare sides.
MALCOLM.
Like staghounds on the chase, each other follow
Along their purple slopes; or when soft haze
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly grey,
Through the slight rents of which the sunshine steals,
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones,
Like spots of polish'd beauty,—they appear
Objects of varied vision most attractive.
ALICE.
As I have never done!
MALCOLM.
Through the dim drapery of drifted rain,
Like grim gigantic chieftains in array,
Bidding defiance to approaching host;
Or lifting their black shoulders o'er the mass
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base,
Which seem like islands raised above the earth
In purer regions of the firmament.
ALICE.
Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks and streams,
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!
MALCOLM.
Each with its little stack of winter fuel, And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near;
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will, Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting
Amongst the yellow broom.
CLAUDE.
This girl's fancy with romantic visions, Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields
Of her own country seem insipid things.
MARIAN (to Claude).
In the description of his bonnie glen,—
The cottage matron, with her cumb'rous spade,
Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door,
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.
MALCOLM.
In useful virtues do excel their mates;
And in what earthly region is it otherwise?
CLAUDE.
Ungallant for my pains.
Enters a Servant, and delivers a packet to Claude.
ALICE.
Is there within the cover aught for me?
CLAUDE.
(Malcolm withdraws some paces from her.)
ALICE.
With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing.
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknown?
CLAUDE (giving the letter).
ALICE.
MARIAN.
ALICE.
MALCOLM (in confusion).
I scarcely know myself why I returned.
[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as she reads it to herself.]
MALCOLM (to Alice, who seems to have come to the conclusion).
ALICE.
And nought is seen along their dismal streets
But funeral processions; nothing heard
But death-bells tolling, and the hammer's sound
Nailing in haste the corse's narrow house.
MALCOLM (agitated).
ALICE.
For these concluding lines inform me plainly,
That she and all her family were prepared
To leave the town upon the following day
To that on which her letter has its date.
MALCOLM (eagerly).
CLAUDE (peevishly).
MALCOLM (haughtily).
Shall have its answer.
MARIAN (to Claude).
Must be excused. You have not from this window
Admired the falling of our mountain stream.
(Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains him there in apparent conversation.)
MALCOLM (in a softened voice).
As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids:
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited.
ALICE (putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then recovering herself).
For still the sweet expressions from her pen
Excel the beauty of its characters.
(Gives it to him.)
MALCOLM (returning the letter, after having read it).
Some boding apprehensions for her safety?
ALICE.
The worn-out case of a more feeble mind,
And oft will weep for nothing. Heed me not.
MALCOLM.
Are lovely yoke-fellows, and will together—
God grant it be so! hold their prosperous course
For many years. (Seeing her endeavours to speak.)
Strive not to answer me;
This wish, though most sincere, deserves no thanks.
Enter Dunarden, followed by Servants, carrying dishes of meat, &c.
DUNARDEN.
Poor though it be, is passing to the board;
Shall we not follow it? Although, in verity,
I am ashamed that such a poor reception
Is offered to such friends.
MARIAN.
The heart's kind cheer not being of the number.
DUNARDEN (to Alice).
I had sent messengers for thirty miles,
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours;
And tables had been cover'd in this hall, Round which we should have held a merry feast.
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan:
So that our wings are clipt on every side.
ALICE.
A merry wedding well may make amends
For a lost feast, ev'n in Dunarden hall.
DUNARDEN.
That I should be so bold to name you thus!
At fall of eve we'll join their merriment;
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance.
(Taking her hand gallantly.)
I'll have thee all and solely to myself;
Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail,
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander
(Pointing to Malcolm)
To be my substitute.—Come, gentles all!
By this soft lily hand let me conduct
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend;
My trysted partner too. Aha! aha!
(Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step.) [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Lobby or Entrance-room, with fire-arms, swords, and fishing tackle hung on the walls. Servants are seen passing to and fro with plaids and bundles of heath in their hands.
Enter Housekeeper.
HOUSEKEEPER.
There must be twenty bed-frames quickly set,
And stuff'd with heather for the tacksmen; ay,
And for their women, in the further room,
Fourteen besides, with plaidings for them all.
The wedding folks have broken up their sport,
And will be here before we are prepared.
Enter the Butler.
BUTLER.
And all the shieling herdsmen from Bengorach,
Must have a lair provided for the night.
HOUSEKEEPER.
BUTLER.
HOUSEKEEPER.
With all his honied words, cost far less trouble
Than young Dunarden's thoughtless kindness doth.
The foul fiend take them all! Have we got plaids
For loons like them!
BUTLER.
HOUSEKEEPER.
The breadth of his own back, and that, I trow,
Is bed enough for them. Herdsmen, indeed!
(Several Servants coming all about together.)
More plaids! more plaids! we have not yet enow.
Another Servant.
Pillows and other gear.
HOUSEKEEPER.
Like daws about the ruined turret! think ye
That I——I am distracted with you all!
BUTLER (aside).
HOUSEKEEPER.
I have provided for the Lowland strangers
Right handsomely.
BUTLER.
And for the gentleman the arras chamber.
HOUSEKEEPER.
And bat holes in the cornice are so rife,
That Lady Achinmore bade me prepare
His lodging in the north side of the tower,
Beside Dunarden's chamber.
BUTLER.
To take a social breakfast. My best wine
And good Ferntosh must be upon the table, To which the beef and fish, and old ewe cheese
Will give a relish. And your pretty playthings
Of china saucers, with their fairy cups,
In which a wren could scarcely lay her egg,—
Your tea-pot, pouring from its slender beak
Hot water, as it were some precious drug,
Must be, for fashion's sake, set in array
To please the Lowland lady.
HOUSEKEEPER.
My pretty playthings are in daily use,
As I hear say, in the great town of Edinburgh;
And 'tis a delicate and wholesome beverage
Which they are filled withal. I like, myself.
To sip a little of it.
BUTLER.
No doubt thou dost; aught stronger would offend thee.
Thou would'st, I think, call rue or wormwood sweet,
Were it the fashion in your town of Edinburgh.
But, hark! the bridal folks are at the door;
We must not parley longer. [Music without.]
I hear their piper playing the "Good-night."
Enter Allen.
BUTLER.
A merry evening, Allen?
ALLEN.
Dunarden danced with that sweet Lowland lady,
As though it made him twenty years the younger.
HOUSEKEEPER.
Who is, so says report, her destined husband?
ALLEN.
They footed it together. But, believe me,
If this rich Provost's daughter be not satisfied
With being wooed by substitute, which homage
The old laird offers her abundantly,
She'll ne'er be lady of this mansion; no,
Nor of her many, many thousand marks,
One golden piece enrich Dunarden's house.
HOUSEKEEPER.
And Lady Achinmore would dance with Claude?
ALLEN.
HOUSEKEEPER.
To the prosperity of our old house.
BUTLER.
Some years his elder, it might likely be.
HOUSEKEEPER.
ALLEN.
Disqualifying words of age and widowhood?
HOUSEKEEPER.
But now they are at hand.
Song without, of several Voices.
The sun is down, and time gone by,
The stars are twinkling in the sky,
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out a blythe but stinted day;
The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight,
We needs must part: good night, good night!
The bride unto her bower is sent, And ribald song and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing floor is silent quite,
No foot bounds there: good night, good night!
The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansmen in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hopes of days as bright
As this gone by: good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We'll have our pleasure o'er again,
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! good night, good night!
HOUSEKEEPER.
SCENE IV.
A Bed-chamber.
Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before them, carrying lights.
MARIAN.
So closely following a lengthen'd journey,
ALICE.
Keeps weariness at bay; and yet I own
I shall be glad to rest.
MARIAN.
There is among our household damsels here,
A humble friend of yours, the child of one
Who was your father's servant.
ALICE.
And since well known to me, as the attendant
Of a relation, in whose house I found her,
Some two years past: a gentle, faithful creature.
MARIAN.
And do what you require.—See, here she is.
Enter Jessie.
ALICE.
To find thee thus, domesticated happily
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well,
Since I last met with thee.
JESSIE.
I am right well; and, were I otherwise, To see you here would make me well again.
MARIAN (to Alice).
Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare
For what thou need'st so much. (Kissing her.)
May sweet sound sleep refresh thee! Oh! it grieves me
To think that we must part with thee so soon;
And that ye are determined to return
To that infected city.
ALICE.
And only tarry for an hour or two.
Good night, and thanks for all your gentle kindness!
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart.
[Exit Marian.
And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad,—
Right glad to see thee; but I'm tired and spent,
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak
As I was wont to do.
(Throws herself into a chairs whilst Jessie begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the ornaments.)
JESSIE.
As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning
Your strength and spirits too will be restored.
ALICE.
The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly?
SONG.
JESSIE (singing gaily).
My heart is light, my limbs are light,
 My purse is light, my dear;
Yet follow me, my maiden bright,
 In faith! thou need'st not fear.
The wallet on a rover's back
 Is scanty dower for thee.
But we shall have what lordies lack
 For all their golden fee.
The plume upon my bonnet bound,
 And broadsword by my side,
We'll follow to the war-pipe's sound,  With fortune for our guide.
Light are my limbs, my purse, my heart,
 Yet follow me, my dear;
Bid Care good-bye, with kinsfolk part;
 In faith! thou need'st not fear.
ALICE.
I know not how it was; I liked it then
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune.
But there is one which I remember well,
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing;
Let me have that, I pray thee.
SONG.
They who may tell love's wistful tale,
 Of half its cares are lighten'd;
Their bark is tacking to the gale,
 The sever'd cloud is brighten'd.
Love like the silent stream is found
 Beneath the willows lurking,
The deeper, that it hath no sound
 To tell its ceaseless working.
Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast,
 I feel its inward token;
I feel this mis'ry will not last,
 Yet last till thou art broken.
ALICE.
Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie.
JESSIE (after having entirely undone her hair, and taken the fastenings from other parts of her dress).
ALICE.
I'll do the rest myself: and so, good night;
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks!
JESSIE.
And take away the light.
ALICE.
[Exit Jessie.
This day, with all its trials, is at length
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart!
How is it with thee now? Thy fond delusions
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set.
We look upon them glowing in his blaze,
And sloping wood, and purple promontory,
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye:
What now remains but a few streaky fragments
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless?
(After a thoughtful pause.)
There's rest when hope is gone—there should
be rest.
And when I think of her who is the cause,
Should I complain? To be preferred to her!
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself
Cannot behold but with an admiration
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy
Goes hand in hand with every gentle virtue
That woman may possess or man desire!—
The thought was childish imbecility.
Away, away! I will not weep for this.
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover
From this sad state of weakness. If she love him,
She'll make him happier far than I could do;
And if she love him not, there is good cause
That I should pity him; not selfishly
On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be;
But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears!
(Covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself back in her chair, in a state of abandonment).
Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the Phantom of a beautiful young Woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.
ALICE (raising her face).
That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour,
So many miles from home? Alas! that face
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look
Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly;
I dare approach no nearer, till I hear
Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?
PHANTOM.
Hath brought me from the chamber where my friends
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body,
ALICE.
Thy body's semblance wears: and thou art nothing
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle!
O look not on me with that fixed look!
Thou lov'st me still, else thou hadst not been here,
And yet I fear thee.
PHANTOM.
I yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass
That gulf which parts the living from the dead:
And I have words to utter which thine ear
Must listen to, thy mind retain distinctly.
ALICE.
And cannot do me harm.—
I know it well; but let thy words be few;
The fears of nature are increasing on me.
(Bending one knee to the ground.)
O God! Lord of all beings, dead and living!
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour!
PHANTOM.
Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures
Invest us now, we are the children still
Of one great Parent; thou in mortal weeds
Of flesh and blood; I in a state inexplicable
To human comprehension.—Hear my words.
ALICE.
PHANTOM.
Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused
And now forgotten; in it stands a casket,
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it;
Open, and read the paper therein lodged. When my poor body is to earth committed,
Do this without delay. And now, farewell!
I must depart.
ALICE.
Transport thee to Heaven's court of blessedness,
To extasy and glory?
PHANTOM.
In mercy to a weak and sinful creature,
I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet,
From sin, and fear, and doubt released for ever! [Exit.
[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the Phantom disappears, and then falls on the ground in a swoon. Presently re-enter Jessie.]
JESSIE.
Life is not gone; God grant it be not so!
Lady, dear lady! No; she does not hear.
(Endeavours in vain to raise her, then runs off in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking and calling at the door of another chamber.)
MARIAN (without).
JESSIE (without).
MALCOLM (without, opening the door of his apartment).
Re-enter Jessie, followed by Marian, who both run to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one supporting her head, while the other chafes her temples and the palms of her hands, &c.
MARIAN.
I fetch some water, and restoring drugs, Whose potent smell revives suspended life.
MALCOLM (looking in upon them from the door).
[Exit.
MARIAN.
Her bosom heaves: thank God! life is not fled.
How long hadst thou been absent from the room?
JESSIE.
To find her gone to bed.
MARIAN.
JESSIE.
MARIAN.
Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, &c.
MALCOLM (applying herbs to her nostrils, while Marian pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her temples and hands).
Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes,
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core,
As the warm air of day by slow degrees
The closed leaves gently sever.—Yes; she moves.
How art thou now, sweet Alice?
MARIAN.
But, oh, how strangely!
MALCOLM.
(To Alice.) Whom dost thou seek for, Alice?
ALICE.
Shall never, never look on her again.
[A peal of thunder heard.]
Hear ye that sound? She is upon her way.
MARIAN.
And threaten'd storm and lightning.
MALCOLM (to Alice).
Thy fancy is still busied with its dream.
ALICE (raising herself more, and looking towards the place where the Phantom disappeared).
I saw it,—saw it for a lengthen'd time,—
Saw it distinctively.
MALCOLM.
No living creature could have enter'd here.
ALICE.
Her beauty was the beauty of a corse
Newly composed in death; yet her dark eyes
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me.
MALCOLM (hastily withdrawing his arms from her, and clasping his hands together in agony).
ALICE (rousing herself).
I know not what I've seen, or what I've said:
Perhaps it was a dream.
MALCOLM.
Or if it was, 't was one of sad import.
Oh, if it be!——there is distraction in it.
(Tossing his arms, &c.)
MARIAN.
For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!
MALCOLM.
MARIAN.
Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.
ALICE.
Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain;
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon.
Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm!
O that this vision did foretell my death,
If she were well and happy!
MALCOLM.
When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself.
(Taking both her hands, which he presses to his lips.)
MARIAN.
MALCOLM.
(Going, then returning again to Alice.)
And didst thou hear her voice?
Enter Claude.
CLAUDE.
How art thou, sister?
ALICE.
But am recover'd from it. Go to rest.
(Aside to Marian and Malcolm.)
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent!
MALCOLM (aside, to himself, as he goes off).
He does not,—cannot feel what tortures me.
CLAUDE.
That kindness to my sister can offend me?
MALCOLM.
And owe thee no account.[Exit.
CLAUDE (aside).
Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue
Of her long journey, and the evening pastime
Has been too much for one so delicate.
(To Alice.)
Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd creature!
I trust to-morrow thou wilt wake refresh'd.
ALICE.
Remain no longer here. [Exit Claude.] I'm glad he's gone.
[A peal of thunder as before.]
That awful sound again! she's on her way:
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm
To disembodied spirits.
MARIAN.
In my apartment thou shalt pass the night.
Come then with me: I dare not leave thee here, Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received
Some painful shock.—Rise: lean upon my arm.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A rudely paved Court, with a low Building in front. The Stage perfectly dark, and thunder heard at a distance.
Enter Malcolm, who goes to the door of the building, and knocks.
MALCOLM.
I hear him snoring in his heavy sleep,
Press'd with the glutton feasting of the day.
(Knocking louder than before.)
Canst thou not hear? Holla! ho! rouse thee, Culloch!
The heavy sluggard!—Ha! he's stirring now.
(Laying his ear close to the door.)
CULLOCH (within).
MALCOLM.
CULLOCH.
It is not morning yet.
MALCOLM.
He is not yet awake. (Very loud.) Rise, man, immediately:
Open the door, and do what I desire thee.
(To himself after a short pause.)
Six hours upon my gallant steed will end
This agony of doubt.—I'll know my fate—
Joy or despair.——He is asleep again.
(Knocking as before.)
Make haste, make haste, I say! inert and sluggish!
O that, like spirits, on the tempest borne, The transit could be made! Alas! alas!
If what I fear hath happen'd, speed or stillness,
Or day or midnight,—every circumstance
Of mortal being will to me be nothing.
Not ready yet!—Ha! now I see the light.
(Light seen from the window.)
Six hours of my brave steed, and if my fears
Are then confirm'd—forgive me, noble creature!
We'll lay our burdens down and die together.
(Enter Culloch slowly from the building, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a candle in the other.)
CULLOCH.
It is a murky night.
MALCOLM.
Unlock the stable door, and saddle quickly
My gallant Oscar. (Thunder again.)
CULLOCH.
MALCOLM.
CULLOCH.
And that was lightning too that flared so fleetly:
The welkin's black as pitch.
MALCOLM.
In sackcloth! To the spot where I am going
We'll find the way by instinct.—Linger not:
Do what I have desired thee instantly.
CULLOCH.
The bran new saddle would your honour have?
MALCOLM.
[Exit Culloch.
These dark and heavy bodings of my mind
Come from no natural bent of apprehension.
It must be so. Yet, be it dream or vision,
Unmeaning chance, or preternatural notice,
As oft hath been vouchsafed, if living seers
Or old tradition lie not,—this uncertainty
Ere morning dawn would drive my brain distracted,
Were I inactively to wait for day;
Therefore, to horse!
(Thunder louder than before.)
That sound is in accordance with the storm
In this perturbed breast. Is it not ominous
Of that which soon shall strike me to the dust,
A blasted lonely remnant?—
Methinks he should ere this—time flies apace;
The listless sluggard must be urged to hasten
His so unwilling task.[Exit hastily.
* ↑ * Coil of hair on the top of the head.
* ↑ * The watching of a corpse.