# Representative American Plays/André

André was performed at the Park Theatre, New York, March 30, 1798. The present text is based on the edition of 1798.—From the editor's introduction, below.
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ANDRÉ
BY
William Dunlap
ANDRÉ
André represents the tragedy of American history. It was not the first historical tragedy, but its predecessors were either school pieces like Breckenridge's Battle of Bunker Hill or else, like John Burk's dramatization of the same conflict, were of little worth.
William Dunlap was born February 19, 1766, at Perth Amboy, New Jersey. He grew up with a fondness for the theatre, and saw many of the productions of the British soldiers in New York City during the Revolution. From 1784 to 1787, he spent in England and there saw the best actors of that period. Returning to New York, he was inspired by the success of The Contrast to write plays. His first play to be performed, The Father or American Shandyism, was played by the American Company at the John Street Theatre, New York, September 7, 1789, and was a comedy of manners. His career as a playwright, which lasted until 1828, his activity as the manager of the American Company from 1796 to 1805, and his invaluable History of the American Theatre, make him the most important figure in our early dramatic history. He was connected with the theatre again from 1810 to 1811, but his most important work was done before 1805. He became Assistant Paymaster General of New York State from 1813 to 1816. Dunlap died in 1839.
Dunlap wrote or adapted more than sixty plays. Of the various fields in which he worked, the most significant were first, his plays based on native material, and second, his adaptations from the German and from the French. To the first group belong beside The Father, Darty's Return, played November 24, 1789, and printed in 1789, interesting on account of its association with Washington; André; The Glory of Columbia; and Yankee Chronology, an account of the fight between the Constitution and the Guerrière, played September 9, 1812, nine days after the battle, and printed in the same year. His last play, A Trip to Niagara, performed November 28, 1828, and printed in 1830, was upon a native theme.
The Stranger, his first adaptation from the German of Kotzebue, was played December 10, 1798. It was made from an English version, but its success encouraged him to study German, and he adapted at least thirteen plays of Kotzebue, the best being False Shame, or the American Orphan in Germany, a domestic comedy played December 11, 1799, and printed in 1800; The Virgin of the Sun, a play laid in Peru, performed March 12, 1800, and printed the same year, and Fraternal Discord, a domestic drama, played October 24, 1800, ​and printed in 1809. He also adapted Abaellino the Great Bandit, from the German of Zehokke, performed February 11, 1801, and printed in 1802, while from a French source he produced The Voice of Nature, played February 4, 1803, and published in the same year.
One of the best of his plays, printed in 1807 as Leicester and played April 24, 1794, as The Fatal Deception, is a verse tragedy laid in Elizabethan England.
André was performed at the Park Theatre, New York, March 30, 1798, It was received, Dunlap tells us, with warm applause, until Cooper, who acted "Bland," in pleading for André's life, tore the American cockade from his casque and threw it from him. The incident was hissed, but the play proceeded and a change in the lines was made on the second night, which removed the cause of the trouble. The new lines have been inserted in their proper places in this edition.
On July 4, 1803, Dunlap produced a version of André, much changed, called The Glory of Columbia. The first Act deals with André's capture, and the last Act occurs at Yorktown. Washington is introduced with his officers and then André's captors come in and there is a general glorification of the American arms. André was more of a unit than The Glory of Columbia and the dramatic action was more intelligible. The Glory of Columbia, however, was printed in 1817 and held the stage as late as 1847.
Dunlap's plays must be read usually in the early editions, difficult now to obtain. The proposed Collected Edition in ten volumes seems to have been carried only to three; Vol. I, Philadelphia, 1806 and Vols. 2 and 3, New York, 1816.
Darby's Return has been reprinted in an appendix to Washington and the Theatre, by Paul Leicester Ford, Dunlap Society Reprint. New York, 1899. André was reprinted by the Dunlap Society with a very interesting introduction by Brander Matthews, New York, 1887. The Father was reprinted by the Dunlap Society with an introduction by T. J. McKee, New York, 1887. Dunlap's History of the American Theatre, New York, 1832, or in better form, London, 1833, should be consulted for his life and for a description of his plays. For a complete bibliography of his plays prepared by the present editor, see the Cambridge History of American Literature (Vol. I, pp. 496–499).
The present text is based on the edition of 1798. With the permission of the editor of the Dunlap Society Reprint, Professor Brander Matthews, that text has also been used in the preparation of this volume.
Note to Revised Edition.
A scholarly biography, William Dunlap, a Study of His Life and Works, by Oral S. Coad, was published in 1917. A complete Bibliography is included.
ANDRÉ;
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS:
AS PERFORMED BY THE OLD AMERICAN COMPANY, NEW-YORK, MARCH 30, 1798.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS
RESPECTING
MAJOR ANDRÉ;
CONSISTING OF
LETTERS to Miss SEWARD,
THE
COW CHACE,
PROCEEDINGS OF THE COURT MARTIAL, &c.
COPY RIGHT SECURED.
NEW-YORK:
Printed by T. & J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-street.
—1798.—
PROLOGUE
Spoken by Mr. Martin.
A Native Bard, a native scene displays, And claims your candour for his daring lays: Daring, so soon, in mimic scenes to shew, What each remembers as a real woe. Who has forgot when gallant André died? A name by Fate to Sorrow's self allied. Who has forgot, when o'er the untimely bier, Contending armies paus'd, to drop a tear.
Our Poet builds upon a fact to-night; Yet claims, in building, every Poet's right; To choose, embellish, lop, or add, or blend, Fiction with truth, as best may suit his end; Which, he avows, is pleasure to impart, And move the passions but to mend the heart.
O, may no party spirit blast his views, Or turn to ill the meanings of the Muse; She sings of wrongs long past, Men as they were, To instruct, without reproach, the Men that are; Then judge the Story by the genius shown, And praise, or damn for its worth alone.
CHARACTERS
American Officers and Soldiers, &c.
Scene, the Village of Tappan, Encampment, and adjoining country. Time, ten hours.
ANDRÉ
ACT FIRST.
Scene 1. A Wood seen by star-light; an Encampment at a distance appearing between the trees.
(Enter Melville.)
Melville. The solemn hour, "when night and morning meet," Mysterious time, to superstition dear, And superstition's guides, now passes by; Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels, In drowsy tones, from post to post send on The signal of the passing hour. "All's well," Sounds through the camp. Alas, all is not well; Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of man. At midnight's depth, deck'd in this murderous guise. The habiliment of death, the badge of dire Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well. —In vain the enlighten'd friends of suffering man Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and madness. Still, age succeeds to age, and war to war; And man, the murderer, marshals out in hosts In all the gaiety of festive pomp. To spread around him death and desolation. How long! how long!— —Methinks I hear the tread of feet this way. My meditating mood may work me woe. (Draws.) Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. Who's there?
(Enter Bland.)
Bland. A friend.
Melville. Advance and give the countersign.
Bland. Hudson.
Melville. What, Bland!
Bland. Melville, my friend, you here?
Melville. And well, my brave young friend. But why do you. At this dead hour of night, approach the camp On foot, and thus alone?
Bland. I have but now Dismounted, and from yon sequester'd cot, Whose lonely taper through the crannied wall Sheds its faint beams and twinkles midst the trees. Have I, adventurous, grop'd my darksome way. My servant and my horses, spent with toil, There wait till morn.
Melville. Why waited not yourself?
Bland. Anxious to know the truth of those reports Which, from the many mouths of busy fame, Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my ear, Each making th' other void. Nor does delay The color of my hasteful business suit. I bring dispatches for our great Commander; And hasted hither with design to wait His rising, or awake him with the sun.
Melville. You will not need the last, for the blest sun Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn We see him mounted gaily in the field, Or find him wrapt in meditation deep, Planning the welfare of our war-worn land.
Bland. Prosper, kind Heaven, and recompense his cares.
Melville. You're from the South, if I presume aright?
Bland. I am; and, Melville, I am fraught with news. The South teems with events—convulsing ones. The Briton, there, plays at no mimic war; ​With gallant face be moves, and gallantly is met. Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng our camp; The hardy hunter, skil'd to fell the deer, Or start the sluggish bear from covert rude; And not a clown that comes, but from his youth Is trained to pour from far the leaden death, To climb the steep, to struggle with the stream, To labor firmly under scorching skies, And bear, unshrinking, winter's roughest blast. This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusiasm Which ever animates the patriot's breast, Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline.
Melville. Justice is ours; what shall prevail against her?
Bland. But as I pass'd along, many strange tales And monstrous rumors have my ears assail'd: That Arnold had prov'd false; but he was ta'en And hung, or to be hung—I know not what. Another told that all our army, with their Much-lov'd Chief, sold and betray'd, were captur'd. But as I nearer drew, at yonder cot 'T was said that Arnold, traitor like, had fled; And that a Briton, tried and prov'd a spy, Was, on this day, as such, to suffer death.
Melville. As you drew near, plain truth advanced to meet you. 'T is even as you heard, my brave young friend. Never had people on a single throw More interest at stake; when he who held For us the die prov'd false and play'd us foul. But for a circumstance of that nice kind, Of cause so microscopic that the tongues Of inattentive men call it the effect Of chance, we must have lost the glorious game.
Bland. Blest, blest be heaven! whatever was the cause!
Melville. The blow ere this had fallen that would have bruis'd The tender plant which we have striven to rear, Crush'd to the dust, no more to bless this soil.
Bland. What warded off the blow?
Melville. The brave young man, who this day dies, was seiz'd Within our bounds, in rustic garb disguis'd. He offer'd bribes to tempt the band that seiz'd him; But the rough farmer, for his country arm'd, That soil defending which his ploughshare turn'd, Those laws his father chose and he approv'd, Cannot, as mercenary soldiers may, Be brib'd to sell the public weal for gold.
Bland. 'T is well. Just Heaven! O grant that thus may fall All those who seek to bring this land to woe, All those, who, or by open force, or dark And secret machinations, seek to shake The Tree of Liberty, or stop its growth, In any soil where thou hast pleased to plant it.
Melville. Yet not a heart but pities and would save him; For all confirm that he is brave and virtuous; Known, but till now, the darling child of Honor.
Bland. (Contemptuously.) And how is call'd this—honorable spy?
Melville. André 's his name.
Bland. (Much agitated.) André!
Melville. Aye! Major André.
Bland. André!—O no, my friend, you 're, sure deceiv'd— I'll pawn my life, my ever sacred fame, My General's favor, or a soldier's honor, That gallant André never yet put on The guise of falsehood. O, it cannot be!
Melville. How might I be deceiv'd? I 've heard him, seen him, And what I tell, I tell from well-prov'd knowledge; No second tale-bearer who heard the news.
Bland. Pardon me, Melville. O, that well-known name, So link'd with circumstances infamous! My friend must pardon me. Thou wilt not blame When I shall tell what cause I have to love him; ​What cause to think him nothing more the pupil Of Honor stern, than sweet Humanity. Rememberest thou, when cover'd o'er with wounds And left upon the field, I fell the prey Of Britain? To a loathsome prison-ship Confin'd, soon had I sunk, victim of death, A death of aggravated miseries; But, by benevolence urg'd, this best of men, This gallant youth, then favor'd, high in power, Sought out the pit obscene of foul disease, Where I and many a suffering soldier lay, And, like an angel, seeking good for man, Restor'd us light and partial liberty. Me he mark'd out his own. He nurst and cur'd, He lov'd and made his friend. I liv'd by him, And in my heart he liv'd, till, when exchang'd, Duty and honor call'd me from my friend. Judge how my heart is tortur'd.—Gracious Heaven, Thus, thus to meet him on the brink of death— A death so infamous. Heav'n grant my prayer. (Kneels.) That I may save him, O inspire my heart With thoughts, my tongue with words that move to pity. (Rises.) Quick, Melville, show me where my André lies.
Melville. Good wishes go with you.
Bland. I 'll save my friend. (Exeunt.)
Scene, the Encampment by star-light.
(Enter the General, M'Donald, and Seward.)
General. 'T is well. Each sentinel upon his post Stands firm, and meets me at the bayonet's point; While in his tent the weary soldier lies, The sweet reward of wholesome toil enjoying; Resting secure as erst within his cot He careless slept, his rural labor o'er; Ere Britons dar'd to violate those laws, Those boasted laws by which themselves are govern'd. And strove to make their fellow-subjects slaves.
Seward. They know to whom they owe their present safety.
General. I hope they know that to themselves they owe it; To that good discipline which they observe, The discipline of men to order train'd Who know its value, and in whom 't is virtue; To that prompt hardihood with which they meet Or toil or danger, poverty or death. Mankind who know not whence that spirit springs, Which holds at bay all Britain's boasted power, Gaze on their deeds astonish'd. See the youth Start from his plough and straightway play the hero; Unmurmuring bear such toils as veterans shun; Rest all content upon the dampsome earth; Follow undaunted to the deathful charge; Or, when occasion asks, lead to the breach, Fearless of all the unusual din of war, His former peaceful mates. O patriotism! Thou wondrous principle of godlike action. Wherever liberty is found, there reigns The love of country. Now the self-same spirit Which fill'd the breast of great Leonidas Swells in the hearts of thousands on these plains, Thousands who never heard the hero's tale. 'T is this alone which saves thee, O my country! And, till that spirit flies these western shores, No power on earth shall crush thee.
Seward. 'T is wondrous! The men of other climes from this shall see How easy 't is to shake oppression off; How all-resistless is a union'd people; And hence, from our success (which, by my soul, I feel as much secur'd as though our foes ​Were now within their floating prisons hous'd, And their proud prows all pointing to the east), Shall other nations break their galling fetters, And re-assume the dignity of man.
M'Donald. Are other nations in that happy state, That, having broke Coercion's iron yoke, They can submit to Order's gentle voice, And walk on earth self-ruled? I much do fear it. As to ourselves, in truth, I nothing see, In all the wondrous deeds which we perform, But plain effects from causes full as plain. Rises not man forever 'gainst oppression? It is the law of life; he can't avoid it. But when the love of property unites With sense of injuries past and dread of future, Is it then wonderful that he should brave A lesser evil to avoid a greater?
General. (Sportively.) 'T is hard, quite hard, we may not please ourselves, By our great deeds ascribing to our virtue.
Seward. M'Donald never spares to lash our pride.
M'Donald. In truth I know of naught to make you proud. I think there 's none within the camp that draws With better will his sword than does M'Donald. I have a home to guard. My son is—butcher'd—
Seward. Hast thou no nobler motives for thy arms Than love of property and thirst for vengeance?
M'Donald. Yes, my good Seward, and yet nothing wondrous. I love this country for the sake of man. My parents, and I thank them, cross'd the seas, And made me native of fair Nature's world, With room to grow and thrive in. I have thriven; And feel my mind unshackled, free, expanding, Grasping with ken unbounded mighty thoughts, At which, if chance my mother had, good dame, In Scotia, our revered parent soil, Given me to see the day, I should have shrunk Affrighted. Now, I see in this new world A resting spot for man, if he can stand Firm in his place, while Europe howls around him, And all unsettled as the thoughts of vice, Each nation in its turn threats him with feeble malice. One trial, now, we prove; and I have met it.
General. And met it like a man, my brave M'Donald.
M'Donald. I hope so; and I hope my every act Has been the offspring of deliberate judgment; Yet feeling seconds reason's cool resolves. O! I could hate, if I did not more pity These bands of mercenary Europeans, So wanting in the common sense of nature, As, without shame, to sell themselves for pelf To aid the cause of darkness; murder man— Without inquiry murder, and yet call Their trade the trade of honor—high-soul'd honor— Yet honor shall accord in act with falsehood. O! that proud man should e'er descend to play The tempter's part, and lure men to their ruin! Deceit and honor badly pair together.
Seward. You have much shew of reason; yet, methinks What you suggest of one, whom fickle Fortune, In her changeling mood, hath hurl'd, unpitying, From her topmost height to lowest misery, Tastes not of charity. André, I mean.
M'Donald. I mean him, too; sunk by misdeed, not fortune. Fortune and chance, O, most convenient words! Man runs the wild career of blind ambition, Plunges in vice, takes falsehood for his buoy, And when he feels the waves of ruin o'er him, Curses, "in good set terms," poor Lady Fortune.
​General. (Sportively to Seward.) His mood is all untoward; let us leave him. Tho' he may think that he is bound to rail, We are not bound to hear him. (To M'Donald.) Grant you that?
M'Donald. O, freely, freely! You I never rail on.
General. No thanks for that; you 've courtesy for office.
M'Donald. You slander me.
General. Slander that would not wound. Worthy M'Donald, though it suits full well The virtuous man to frown on all misdeeds, Yet ever keep in mind that man is frail; His tide of passion struggling still with Reason's Fair and favorable gale, and adverse Driving his unstable Bark upon the Rocks of error. Should he sink thus shipwreck'd, Sure, it is not Virtue's voice that triumphs In his ruin. I must seek rest. Adieu!
(Exeunt General and Seward.)
M'Donald. Both good and great thou art; first among men; By nature, or by early habit, grac'd With that blest quality which gives due force To every faculty, and keeps the mind In healthful equipoise, ready for action; Invaluable temperance—by all To be acquired, yet scarcely known to any. (Exit.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT SECOND.
Scene, a Prison. André discovered, in a pensive posture, sitting at a table; a book by him and candles; his dress neglected, his hair dishevelled; he rises and comes forward.
André. Kind Heaven be thank'd for that I stand alone In this sad hour of life's brief pilgrimage! Single in misery; no one else involving. In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my comfort. Thou, my thrice honor'd sire, in peace went'st down Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor knew A pang for me. And thou, revered matron, Could'st bless thy child, and yield thy breath in peace! No wife shall weep, no child lament my loss. Thus may I consolation find in what Was once my woe. I little thought to joy In not possessing, as I erst possest, Thy love, Honora! André's death, perhaps, May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely face; The pearly tear may steal from either eye; For thou mayest feel a transient pang, nor wrong A husband's rights: more than a transient pang O mayest thou never feel! The mom draws nigh To light me to my shame. Frail nature shrinks— And is death then so fearful? I have brav'd Him, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my breast Against his thousand horrors; but his cool, His sure approach, requires a fortitude Which naught but conscious rectitude can give.
(Retires, and sits leaning.)
(Enter Bland, unperceived by André.)
Bland. And is that André? O, how changed! Alas! Where is that martial fire, that generous warmth, Which glow'd his manly countenance throughout, And gave to every look, to every act, The tone of high chivalrous animation? André, my friend, look up!
André. Who calls me friend?
Bland. Young Arthur Bland.
André. (Rising.) That name sounds like a friend's. (With emotion.) I have inquired for thee—wish'd much to see thee— I prythee take no note of these fool's tears— My heart was full—and seeing thee—
Bland. (Embracing him.) André! I have but now arrived from the South— ​Nor heard—till now—of this—I cannot speak. Is this a place?—O, thus to find my friend!
André. Still dost thou call me friend? I, who dared act Against my reason, my declared opinion; Against my conscience and a soldier's fame? Oft in the generous heat of glowing youth, Oft have I said how fully I despis'd All bribery base, all treacherous tricks in war: Rather my blood should bathe these hostile shores, And have it said, "he died a gallant soldier," Than with my country's gold encourage treason, And thereby purchase gratitude and fame.
Bland. Still mayest thou say it, for thy heart 's the same.
André. Still is my heart the same, still may I say it; But now my deeds will rise against my words; And should I dare to talk of honest truth, Frank undissembling probity and faith, Memory would crimson o'er my burning cheek, And actions retrospected choak the tale. Still is my heart the same. But there has past A day, an hour, which ne'er can be recall'd. Unhappy man! Tho' all thy life pass pure; Mark'd by benevolence thy every deed; The out-spread map, which shows the way thou 'st trod, Without one devious track or doubtful line; It all avails thee naught, if in one hour, One hapless hour, thy feet are led astray;— Thy happy deeds all blotted from remembrance; Cancel'd the record of thy former good. Is it not hard, my friend? Is 't not unjust?
Bland. Not every record cancel'd.—O, there are hearts Where Virtue's image, when 't is once engraved. Can never know erasure.
André. Generous Bland! (Takes his hand.) The hour draws nigh which ends my life's sad story. I should be firm—
Bland. By heaven, thou shalt not die! Thou dost not sure deserve it. Betray'd, perhaps— Condemn'd without due circumstance made known? Thou didst not mean to tempt our officers? Betray our yeoman soldiers to destruction? Silent! Nay, then 't was from a duteous wish To serve the cause thou wast in honor bound.—
André. Kind is my Bland, who to his generous heart Still finds excuses for his erring friend. Attentive hear and judge me.— Pleas'd with the honors daily shower'd upon me, I glow'd with martial heat my name to raise Above the vulgar herd, who live to die, And die to be forgotten. Thus I stood, When avarice or ambition Arnold tempted, His country, fame, and honor to betray, Linking his name to infamy eternal. In confidence it was to me propos'd To plan with him the means which should ensure Thy country's downfall. Nothing then I saw But confidential favor in the service, My country's glory, and my mounting fame; Forgot my former purity of thought, And high-ton'd honor's scruples disregarded.
Bland. It was thy duty so to serve thy country.
André. Nay, nay; be cautious ever to admit That duty can beget dissimulation. On ground, unoccupied by either part, Neutral esteem'd, I landed, and was met. But ere my conference was with Arnold clos'd, The day began to dawn; I then was told That till the night I must my safety seek In close concealment. Within your posts convey'd, I found myself involved in unthought dangers. Night came. I sought the vessel which had borne Me to the fatal spot; but she was gone. ​Retreat that way cut off, again I sought Concealment with the traitors of your army. Arnold now granted passes, and I doff'd My martial garb, and put on curs'd disguise. Thus in a peasant's form I pass'd your posts; And when, as I conceiv'd, my danger o'er, Was stopt and seiz'd by some returning scouts. So did ambition lead me, step by step, To treat with traitors, and encourage treason; And then, bewilder'd in the guilty scene, To quit my martial designating badges, Deny my name, and sink into the spy.
Bland. Thou didst no more than was a soldier's duty, To serve the part on which he drew his sword. Thou shalt not die for this. Straight will I fly— I surely shall prevail—
André. It is in vain. All has been tried. Each friendly argument—
Bland. All has not yet been tried. The powerful voice Of friendship in thy cause has not been heard. My General favors me, and loves my father— My gallant father! would that he were here! But he, perhaps, now wants an André's care, To cheer his hours—perhaps now languishes Amidst those horrors whence thou sav'd'st his son. The present moment claims my thought. André, I fly to save thee!
André. Bland, it is in vain. But, hold—there is a service thou may'st do me.
Bland. Speak it.
André. O, think, and as a soldier think, How I must die—the manner of my death— Like the base ruffian, or the midnight thief, Ta'en in the act of stealing from the poor, To be turn'd off the felon's—murderers cart, A mid-air spectacle to gaping clowns;— To run a short, an envied course of glory, And end it on a gibbet.—
Bland. Damnation!
André. Such is my doom. O, have the manner changed, And of mere death I 'll think not. Dost thou think—? Perhaps thou canst gain that—?
Bland. (Almost in a phrenzy.) Thou shalt not die.
André. Let me, O, let me die a soldier's death, While friendly clouds of smoke shroud from all eyes My last convulsive pangs, and I 'm content.
Bland. (With increasing emotion.) Thou shalt not die! Curse on the laws of war! If worth like thine must thus be sacrificed To policy so cruel and unjust, I will forswear my country and her service; I 'll hie me to the Briton, and with fire, And sword, and every instrument of death Or devastation, join in the work of war! What! shall worth weigh for nought? I will avenge thee!
André. Hold, hold, my friend; thy country's woes are full. What! wouldst thou make me cause another traitor? No more of this; and, if I die, believe me. Thy country for my death incurs no blame. Restrain thy ardor—but ceaselessly entreat That André may at least die as he lived, A soldier.
Bland. By heaven thou shalt not die!
(Bland rushes off; André looks after him with an expression of love and gratitude, then retires up the stage. Scene closes.)
Scene, the General's Quarters.
(Enter M'Donald and Seward, in conversation.)
M'Donald. (Coming forward.) Three thousand miles the Atlantic wave rolls on, ​Which bathed Columbia's shores, ere, on the strand Of Europe, or of Africa, their continents, Or sea-girt isles, it chafes.
Seward. O, would to heaven That in midway between these sever'd worlds Rose barriers, all impassable to man, Cutting off intercourse, till either side Had lost all memory of the other!
M'Donald. What spur now goads thy warm imagination?
Seward. Then might, perhaps, one land on earth be found, Free from th' extremes of poverty and riches; Where ne'er a scepter'd tyrant should be known, Or tyrant lordling, curses of creation;— Where the faint shrieks of woe-exhausted age, Raving, in feeble madness, o'er the corse Of a polluted daughter, stained by lust Of viand-pampered luxury, might ne'er be heard; Where the blasted form of much abused Beauty, by villany seduced, by knowledge All unguarded, might ne'er be viewed, flitting Obscene, 'tween lamp and lamp, i' th' midnight street Of all-defiling city; where the child—
M'Donald. Hold! Shroud thy raven imagination. Torture not me with images so curst!
Seward. Soon shall our foes, inglorious, fly these shores. Peace shall again return. Then Europe's ports Shall pour a herd upon us, far more fell Than those, her mercenary sons, who now Threaten our sore chastisement.
M'Donald. Prophet of ill, From Europe shall enriching commerce flow, And many an ill attendant; but from thence Shall likewise flow blest science. Europe's knowledge, By sharp experience bought, we should appropriate; Striving thus to leap from that simplicity, With ignorance curst, to that simplicity, By knowledge blest; unknown the gulf between.
Seward. Mere theoretic dreaming.
M'Donald. Blest wisdom Seems, from out the chaos of the social world, Where good and ill in strange commixture float, To rise, by strong necessity impell'd; Starting, like Love divine, from womb of Night, Illuming all, to order all reducing; And showing by its bright and noontide blaze That happiness alone proceeds from justice.
Seward. Dreams, dreams! Man can know naught but ill on earth.
M'Donald. I 'll to my bed, for I have watch'd all night; And may my sleep give pleasing repetition Of these my waking dreams! Virtue's incentives.
(Exit.)
Seward. Folly's chimeras rather: guides to error.
(Enter Bland, preceded by a Sergeant.)
Sergeant. Pacquets for the General.
(Exit.)
Bland. Seward, my friend!
Seward. Captain, I 'm glad to see the hue of health Sit on a visage from the sallow south.
Bland. The lustihood of youth hath yet defied The parching sun, and chilling dew of even. The General— Seward—?
Seward. I will lead you to him.
Bland. Seward, I must make bold. Leave us together, When occasion offers. 'T will be friendly.
Seward. I will not cross your purpose.
(Exeunt.)
Scene, a Chamber.
(Enter Mrs. Bland.)
Mrs. Bland. Yes, ever be this day a festival In my domestic calendar. This morn Will see my husband free. Even now, perhaps, Ere yet Aurora flies the eastern hills, Shunning the sultry sun, my Bland embarks. Already, on the Hudson's dancing wave, He chides the sluggish rowers, or supplicates ​For gales propitious; that his eager arms May clasp his wife, may bless his little ones. O, bow the tide of joy makes my heart bound, Glowing with high and ardent expectation!
(Enter two Children.)
First Child. Here we are, Mamma, up, and dress'd already.
Mrs. Bland. And why were ye so early?
First Child. Why, did not you tell us that Papa was to be home to-day?
Mrs. Bland. I said, perhaps.
Second Child. (Disappointed.) Perhaps!
First Child. I don't like perhaps's.
Second Child. No, nor I neither; nor "may-be-so's."
Mrs. Bland. We make not certainties, my pretty loves; I do not like "perhaps's" more than you do.
Second Child. O, don't say so. Mama! for I 'm sure I hardly ever ask you anything but you answer me with "may be so,"—"perhaps,"—or "very likely." "Mamma, shall I go to the camp to-morrow, and see the General?" "May be so, my dear." Hang "may be so," say I!
Mrs. Bland. Well said, Sir Pertness!
First Child. But I am sure, Mama, you said, that, to-day. Papa would have his liberty.
Mrs. Bland. So your dear father, by his letters, told me.
Second Child. Why, then, I am sure he will be here to-day. When he can come to us, I 'm sure he will not stay among those strange Englishmen and Hessians. I often wish'd that I had wings to fly, for then I would soon be with him.
Mrs. Bland. Dear boy!
(Enter Servant, and gives a letter to Mrs. Bland.)
Servant. An express. Madam, from New York to Head-quarters, in passing, delivered this.
Second Child. Papa 's coming home to-day, John.
(Exeunt Servant and Children.)
Mrs. Bland. What fears assail me! O, I did not want A letter now!
(She reads in great agitation, exclaiming, while her eyes are fixed on the paper:)
My husband! doomed to die! Retaliation!
(She looks forward with wildness, consternation, and horror.)
To die, if André dies! He dies to-day! My husband to be murdered! And to-day! To-day, if André dies! Retaliation! O curst contrivance! Madness relieve me! Burst, burst, my brain! Yet—André is not dead; My husband lives. (Looks at the letter.) "One man has power." I fly to save the father of my children!
(Rushes out.)
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT THIRD.
Scene, the General's quarters. The General and Bland come forward.}}
General. (Papers in his hand.) Captain, you are noted here with honorable Praises. Depend upon that countenance From me, which you have prov'd yourself so richly Meriting. Both for your father's virtues And your own, your country owes you honor— The sole return the poor can make for service.
Bland. If from my country ought I 've merited, Or gain'd the approbation of her champion, At any other time I should not dare, Presumptuously, to show my sense of it; But now my tongue, all shameless, dares to name The boon, the precious recompense, I wish, Which, granted, pays all service, past or future, O'erpays the utmost I can e'er achieve.
General. Brief, my young friend, briefly, your purpose.
Bland. If I have done my duty as a soldier; If I have brav'd all dangers for my country; If my brave father has deserved aught; Call all to mind—and cancel all—but grant My one request—mine, and humanity's.
​General. Be less profuse of words, and name your wish; If fit, its fitness is the best assurance That not in vain you sue; but, if unjust, Thy merits, nor the merits of thy race, Cannot its nature alter, nor my mind, From its determined opposition change.
Bland. You hold the fate of my most lov'd of friends; As gallant soldier as e'er fac'd a foe, Bless'd with each polish'd gift of social life, And every virtue of humanity. To me, a savior from the pit of death, To me, and many more, my countrymen. Oh, could my words pourtray him what he is! Bring to your mind the blessings of his deeds, While thro' the fever-heated, loathsome holds Of floating hulks, dungeons obscene, where ne'er The dewy breeze of morn, or evening's coolness, Breath'd on our parching skins, he pass'd along, Diffusing blessings; still his power exerting, To alleviate the woes which ruthless war, Perhaps thro' dire necessity, heap'd on us; Surely the scene would move you to forget His late intent—(tho' only serving then As duty prompted)—and turn the rigor Of War's iron law from him, the best of men, Meant only for the worst.
General. Captain, no more.
Bland. If André lives, the prisoner finds a friend; Else helpless and forlorn— All men will bless the act, and bless thee for it.
General. Think'st thou thy country would not curse the man Who, by a clemency ill-tim'd, ill-judg'd, Encourag'd treason? That pride encourag'd. Which, by denying us the rights of nations, Hath caus'd those ills which thou hast now pourtray'd? Our prisoners, brave and generous peasantry, As rebels have been treated, not as men. 'T is mine, brave yeomen, to assert your rights; 'T is mine to teach the foe, that, though array'd In rude simplicity, ye yet are men, And rank among the foremost. Oft their scouts, The very refuse of the English arms, Unquestion'd, have our countrymen consign'd To death, when captur'd, mocking their agonies.
Bland. Curse them! (Checking himself.) Yet, let not censure fall on André. O, there are Englishmen as brave, as good, As ever land on earth might call its own; And gallant André is among the best!
General. Since they have hurl'd war on us, we must show That by the laws of war we will abide; And have the power to bring their acts for trial To that tribunal, eminent 'mongst men, Erected by the policy of nations, To stem the flood of ills, which else fell war Would pour, uncheck'd, upon the sickening world, Sweeping away all trace of civil life.
Bland. To pardon him would not encourage ill. His case is singular; his station high; His qualities admir'd; his virtues lov'd.
General. No more, my good young friend: it is in vain. The men entrusted with thy country's rights Have weigh'd, attentive, every circumstance. An individual's virtue is by them As highly prized as it can be by thee. I know the virtues of this man and love them, But the destiny of millions, millions Yet unborn, depends upon the rigor Of this moment. The haughty Briton laughs To scorn our armies and our councils. Mercy, Humanity, call loudly, that we make Our now despised power be felt, vindictive. Millions demand the death of this young man. My injur'd country, he his forfeit life Must yield, to shield thy lacerated breast From torture. (To Bland.) Thy merits are not overlook'd. Promotion shall immediately attend thee.
Bland. (With contemptuous irony.) Par​don me, sir, I never shall deserve it. (With increasing heat.) The country that forgets to reverence virtue; That makes no difference 'twixt the sordid wretch Who, for reward, risks treason's penalty, And him unfortunate, whose duteous service Is, by mere accident, so chang'd in form As to assume guilt's semblance, I serve not: Scorn to serve. I have a soldier's honor, But 't is in union with a freeman's judgment, And when I act, both prompt. Thus from my helm I tear what once I proudly thought, the badge Of virtuous fellowship. (Tears the cockade from his helmet.) My sword I keep. (Puts on his helmet.) Would, André, thou hadst never put thine off. Then hadst thou through opposers' hearts made way To liberty, or bravely pierc'd thine own!
(Exit.)
General. Rash, headstrong, maddening boy! Had not this action past without a witness, Duty would ask that thou shouldst rue thy folly— But, for the motive, be the deed forgotten.
(Exit.)
Scene, a Village. At a distance some tents. In front muskets, drums, and other indications of soldiers' quarters.
(Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, attended by Melville.)
Melville. The General's doors to you are ever open. But why, mv worthy friend, this agitation? Our colonel, your husband—
Mrs. Bland. (In tears, gives him the letter.) Read, Melville.
First Child. Do not cry, Mama, for I 'm sure if Papa said he would come home to-day, he will come yet; for he always does what he says he will.
Mrs. Bland. He cannot come, dear love; they will not let him.
Second Child. Why, then, they told him lies. O, fye upon them!
Melville. (Returning the letter.) Fear nothing, Madam, 't is an empty threat: A trick of policy. They dare not do it.
Mrs. Bland. Alas, alas! what dares not power to do? What art of reasoning, or what magic words, Can still the storm of fears these lines have raised? The wife's, the mother's fears? Ye innocents, Unconscious on the brink of what a perilous Precipice ye stand, unknowing that to-day Ye are cast down the gulph, poor babes, ye weep From sympathy. Children of sorrow, nurst, Nurtur'd, 'midst camps and arms; unknowing man, But as man's fell destroyer; must ye now, To crown your piteous fate, be fatherless? O, lead me, lead me to him! Let me kneel, Let these, my children, kneel, till André, pardon'd, Ensures to me a husband, them a father.
Melville. Madam, duty forbids further attendance. I am on guard to-day. But see your son; To him I leave your guidance. Good wishes Prosper you. (Exit Melville.)
(Enter Bland.)
Mrs. Bland. My Arthur, O my Arthur!
Bland. My mother! (Embracing her.)
Mrs. Bland. My son, I have been wishing For you—
(Bursts into tears, unable to proceed.)
Bland. But whence this grief, these tears, my mother? Why are these little cheeks bedew'd with sorrow? (He kisses the children, who exclaim, Brother, brother!) Have I done aught to cause a mother's sadness?
Mrs. Bland. No, my brave boy! I oft have fear'd, but never Sorrow'd for thee.
Bland. High praise! Then bless me, Madam; ​For I have pass'd through many a bustling scene Since I have seen a father or a mother.
Mrs. Bland. Bless thee, my boy! O, bless him, bless him, Heaven! Render him worthy to support these babes, So soon, perhaps, all fatherless—dependant.
Bland. What mean'st thou, Madam? Why these tears?
Mrs. Bland. Thy father—
Bland. A prisoner of war—I long have known it— But made so without blemish to his honor, And soon exchang'd, returns unto his friends, To guard these little ones, and point and lead To virtue and to glory.
Mrs. Bland. Never, never! His life, a sacrifice to André's manes, Must soon be offer'd. Even now, endungeon'd, Like a vile felon on the earth he lies, His death expecting. André's execution Gives signal for the murder of thy father— André now dies!
Bland. (Despairingly.) My father and my friend!
Mrs. Bland. There is but one on earth can save my husband— But one can pardon André.
Bland. Haste, my mother! Thou wilt prevail. Take with thee in each hand An unoffending child of him thou weep'st. Save—save them both! This way—haste—lean on me.
(Exeunt.)
Scene, the General's Quarters.
(Enter the General and M'Donald.)
General. Here have I intimation from the foe, That still they deem the spy we have condemn'd, Merely a captive; by the laws of arms From death protected; and retaliation, As they term it, threaten, if we our purpose hold. Bland is the victim they have singled out, Hoping his threaten'd death will André save.
M'Donald. If I were Bland I boldly might advise My General how to act. Free, and in safety, I will now suppose my counsel needless.
(Enter an American Officer.)
Officer. Another flag hath from the foe arrived, And craves admittance.
General. Conduct it hither. (Exit Officer.) Let us, unwearied hear, unbias'd judge, Whate'er against our martial court's decision, Our enemies can bring.
(Enter British Officer, conducted by the American Officer.)
General. You are welcome, sir. What further says Sir Henry?
British Officer. This from him. He calls on you to think what weighty woes You now are busy bringing on your country. He bids me say, that if your sentence reach The prisoner's life (prisoner of arms he deems him, And no spy) on him alone it falls not. He bids me loud proclaim it: and declare, If this brave officer, by cruel mockery Of war's stem law, and justice' feign'd pretence. Be murder'd; the sequel of our strife, bloody, Unsparing and remorseless, you will make. Think of the many captives in our power. Already one is mark'd; for André mark'd;— And when his death, unparallel'd in war, The signal gives, then Colonel Bland must die.
General. 'T is well, sir; bear this message in return. Sir Henry Clinton knows the laws of arms: He is a soldier, and, I think, a brave one. The prisoners he retains he must account for. Perhaps the reckoning 's near. I, likewise, am A soldier; entrusted by my country. What I shall judge most for that country's good, ​That shall I do. When doubtful, I consult My country's friends; never her enemies. In André's case there are no doubts; 't is clear: Sir Henry Clinton knows it.
British Officer. Weigh consequences.
General. In strict regard to consequence I act; And much should doubt to call that action right, Howe'er specious, whose apparent end Was misery to man. That brave officer Whose death you threaten, for himself drew not His sword—his country's wrongs arous'd his mind; Her good alone his aim; and if his fall Can further fire that country to resistance, He will, with smiles, yield up his glorious life, And count his death a gain; and tho' Columbians Will lament his fall, they will lament in blood.
(General walks up the stage.)
M'Donald. Hear this, hear this, mankind!
British Officer. Thus am I answered?
(Enter a Sergeant with a letter.)
Sergeant. Express from Colonel Bland.
(Delivers it and exit.)
General. With your permission.
(Opens it.)
British Officer. Your pleasure, sir. It may my mission further.
M'Donald. O Bland, my countryman, surely I know thee!
General. 'T is short; I will put form aside, and read it.
(Reads.) "Excuse me, my Commander, for having a moment doubted your virtue; but you love me. If you waver, let this confirm you. My wife and children,to you and my country. Do your duty." Report this to your General.
British Officer. I shall, sir.
(Bows, and exit with American Officer.)
General. O Bland, my countryman!
(Exit, with emotion.)
M'Donald. Triumph of virtue! Like him and thee, still be Americans. Then, tho' all-powerful Europe league against us, And pour in arms her legions on our shores; Who is so dull would doubt their shameful flight? Who doubt our safety, and our glorious triumph?
Scene, the Prison.
(Enter Bland.)
Bland. Lingering, I come to crush the bud of hope My breath has, flattering, to existence warmed. Hard is the task to friendship! hard to say To the lov'd object, there remains no hope, No consolation for thee; thou must die The worst of deaths, no circumstance abated.
(Enter André, in his uniform and dress' d.)
André. Is there that state on earth which friendship cannot cheer?
Bland. Little I bring to cheer thee, André.
André. I understand. 'T is well. 'T will soon be past. Yet, 't was not much I asked. A soldier's death, A trifling change of form.
Bland. Of that I spoke not. By vehemence of passion hurried on, I pleaded for thy precious life alone; The which denied, my indignation barr'd All further parley. But strong solicitation Now is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favor.
André. What is 't o'clock?
Bland. 'T is past the stroke of nine.
André. Why, then, 't is almost o'er. But to be hung— Is there no way to escape that infamy? What then is infamy?—no matter—no matter.
Bland. Our General hath received another flag.
André. Soliciting for me?
Bland. On thy behalf.
André. I have been ever favor'd.
Bland. Threat'nings, now; No more solicitations. Harsh, indeed, The import of the message; harsh, indeed.
André. I am sorry for it. Would that I were dead, ​And all was well with those I leave behind.
Bland. Such a threat! Is it not enough, just Heaven, That I must lose this man? Yet there was left One for my soul to rest on. But, to know That tlie same blow deprives them both of life—
André. What mean'st thou, Bland? Surely my General Threats not retaliation. In vengeance Dooms not some better man to die for me?
Bland. The best of men.
André. Thou hast a father, captive— I dare not ask—
Bland. That father dies for thee.
André. Gracious Heaven, how woes are heap'd upon me! What! cannot one, so trifling in life's scene, Fall, without drawing such a ponderous ruin? Leave me, my friend, awhile—I yet have life— A little space of life—let me exert it To prevent injustice.—From death to save Thy father, thee to save from utter desolation.
Bland. What mean'st thou, André?
André. Seek thou the messenger Who brought this threat. I will my last entreaty Send by him. My General, sure, will grant it.
Bland. To the last thyself! (Exit.)
André. If, at this moment, When the pangs of death already touch me, Firmly my mind against injustice strives, And the last impulse to my vital powers Is given by anxious wishes to redeem My fellow-men from pain; surely my end, Howe'er accomplish'd, is not infamous.
(Exit.)
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT FOURTH.
Scene, the Encampment.
(Enter M'Donald and Bland.)
Bland. It doth in truth appear, that as a—spy— Detested word!—brave André must be view'd. His sentence he confesses strictly just. Yet sure, a deed of mercy from thy hand, Could never lead to ill. By such an act, The stern and blood-stain'd brow of War Would be disarm'd of half its gorgon horrors; More humanized customs be induced; And all the race of civilized man Yet sure, a deed of mercy, from thy suit; 'T will well become thy character and station.
M'Donald. Trust me, young friend, I am alone the judge Of wiiat becomes my character and station; And having judg'd that this young Briton's death, Even 'though attended by thy father's murder, Is necessary, in these times accurs'd, When every thought of man is ting'd with blood, I will not stir my finger to redeem them. Nay, much I wonder, Bland, having so oft The reasons for this necessary rigor Enforced upon thee, thou wilt still persist In vain solicitations. Imitate Thy father!
Bland. My father knew not André. I know his value; owe to him my life; And gratitude, that first, that best of virtues,— Without the which man sinks beneath the brute,— Binds me in ties indissoluble to him.
M'Donald. That man-created virtue blinds thy reason. Man owes to man all love; when exercised, He does no more than duty. Gratitude, That selfish rule of action, which commands That we our preference make of men, Not for their worth, but that they did us service, Misleading reason, casting in the way Of justice stumbling-blocks, cannot be virtue.
Bland. Detested sophistry! 'T was André sav'd me.
M'Donald. He sav'd thy life, and thou art grateful for it. ​How self intrudes, delusive, on man's thoughts. He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy country; Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's yoke; The best and foremost in the cause of virtue To death, by sword, by prison, or the halter; His sacrifice now stands the only bar Between the wanton cruelties of war And our much-suffering soldiers; yet when weigh'd With gratitude, for that he sav'd thy life, These things prove gossamer, and balance air;— Perversion monstrous of man's moral sense!
Bland. Rather perversion monstrous of all good Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion. Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, would blast All warm affection; asunder sever Every social tie of humanized man. Curst be thy sophisms, cunningly contriv'd The callous coldness of thy heart to cover, And screen thee from the brave man's detestation!
M'Donald. Boy, boy!
Bland. Thou knowest that André 's not a spy.
M'Donald. I know him one. Thou hast acknowledg'd it.
Bland. Thou liest!
M'Donald. Shame on thy ruffian tongue! How passion Mars thee! I pity thee. Thou canst not harm, By words intemperate, a virtuous man. I pity thee; for passion sometimes sways My older frame, through former uncheck'd habit; But when I see the havoc which it makes In others, I can shun the snare accurst, And nothing feel but pity.
Bland. (Indignantly.) Pity me! (Approaches him, and speaks in an under voice.) Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion sways thee. Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is a passion. Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee liar!
M'Donald. If thou could'st make me one, I then might grieve.
Bland. Thy coolness goes to freezing; thou 'rt a coward!
M'Donald. Thou knowest thou tell'st a falsehood.
Bland. Thou shalt know None with impunity speaks thus of me. That to rouse thy courage! (Touches him gently with his open hand, in crossing him. M'Donald looks at him unmoved.) Dost thou not yet feel?
M'Donald. For thee I feel. And, tho' another's acts Cast no dishonor on the worthy man, I still feel for thy father. Yet, remember, I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded; I may not always the distinction make, However just, between the blow intended To provoke, and one that 's meant to injure.
Bland. Hast thou no sense of honor?
M'Donald. Truly, yes: For I am honor's votary. Honor, with me, Is worth; 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a thing So high preeminent, that a boy's breath, Or brute's, or madman's blow can never reach it. My honor is so much, so truly mine. That none hath power to wound it, save myself.
Bland. I will proclaim thee through the camp a coward.
M'Donald. Think better of it. Proclaim not thine own shame.
Bland. I 'll brand thee,—damnation!
(Exit.)
M'Donald. O passion, passion! A man who values fame far more than life; A brave young man; in many things a good; Utters vile falsehoods; adds injury to insult; Striving with blood to seal such foul injustice; And all from impulse of unbridled feeling. (Pause.) Here comes the mother of this head-strong boy. Severely rack'd. What shall allay her torture? For common consolation, here, is insult.
(Enter Mrs. Bland and Children.)
Mrs. Bland. O my good friend!
M'Donald. (Taking her hand.) I know thy cause of sorrow. Art thou now from our Commander?
Mrs. Bland. (Drying her tears and assuming dignity.) I am. But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'd He hears my words, he sees my desperate sorrow. Fain would I blame his conduct,—but I cannot. Strictly examin'd, with intent to mark The error which so fatal proves to me, My scrutiny but ends in admiration. Thus when the prophet from the hills of Moab, Look'd down upon the chosen race of Heaven, With fell intent to curse, ere yet he spake, Truth all resistless, emanation bright From great Adonai, fill'd his froward mind, And chang'd the curses of his heart to blessings.
M'Donald. Thou payest high praise to virtue. Whither now?
Mrs. Bland. I still must hover round this spot until My doom is known.
M'Donald. Then to my quarters, lady; There shall my mate give comfort and refreshment: One of your sex can best your sorrows soothe.
(Exeunt.)
Scene, the prison.
(Enter Bland.)
Bland. Where'er I look, cold desolation meets me. My father—André—and self-condemnation. Why seek I André now? Am I a man To soothe the sorrows of a suffering friend? The weather-cock of passion! fool inebriate! Who could with ruffian hand strive to provoke Hoar wisdom to intemperance! who could lie! Aye, swagger, lie, and brag!—Liar! Damnation! O, let me steal away and hide my head, Nor view a man, condemned to harshest death, Whose words and actions, when by mine compar'd. Show white as innocence and bright as truth. I now would shun him, but that his shorten'd Thread of life gives me no line to play with. He comes with smiles, and all the air of triumph. While I am sinking with remorse and shame; Yet he is doom'd to death, and I am free.
(Enter André.)
André. Welcome, my Bland! Cheerly, a welcome hither! I feel assurance that my last request Will not be slighted. Safely thy father Shall return to thee. (Holding out a paper.) See what employment For a dying man. Take thou these verses; And, after my decease, send them to her Whose name is woven in them; whose image Hath controul'd my destiny. Such tokens Are rather out of date. Fashions There are in love as in all else; they change As variously. A gallant knight, erewhile, Of Cœur de Lion's day, would, dying, send His heart home to its mistress; degenerate Soldier, I send but some blotted paper.
Bland. If 't would not damp thy present cheerfulness, I would require the meaning of thy words. I ne'er till now did hear of André's mistress.
André. Mine is a story of that common kind, So often told, with scanty variation, That the pall'd ear loaths the repeated tale. Each young romancer chuses for his theme The woes of youthful hearts, by the cold hand Of frosty age, arm'd with parental power, Asunder torn. But I long since have ceas'd To mourn; well satisfied that she I love, ​Happy in holy union with another, Shares not my wayward fortunes. Nor would I Now these tokens send, remembrance to awaken, But that I know her happy; and the happy Can think on misery and share it not.
Bland. (Agitated.) Some one approaches.
André. Why, 't is near the time! But tell me, Bland, say,—is the manner chang'd?
Bland. I hope it, but I yet have no assurance.
André. Well, well!
Honora. (Without.) I must see him.
André. Whose voice was that? My senses!—Do I dream? (Leans on Bland.)
(Enter Honora.)
Honora. Where is he?
André. 'T is she!
(Starts from Bland and advances towards Honora; she rushes into his arms.)
Honora. It is enough! He lives, and I shall save him.
(She faints in the arms of André.)
André. She sinks—assist me, Bland! O, save her, save her! (Places her in a chair and looks tenderly on her.) Yet, why should she awake from that sweet sleep? Why should she ope her eyes—(wildly)—to see me hung! What does she here? Stand off—(tenderly)—and let her die. How pale she looks! How worn that tender frame!— She has known sorrow! Who could injure her?
Bland. She revives—André—soft, bend her forward.
(André kneels and supports her.)
Honora. André!—
André. Lov'd excellence!
Honora. Yes, it is André! (Rises and looks at him.) No more deceived by visionary forms, By him supported—(Leans on him.)
André. Why is this? Thou dost look pale, Honora—sick and wan— Languid thy fainting limbs—
Honora. All will be well. But was it kind to leave me as thou did'st? So rashly to desert thy vow-link'd wife?
André. When made another's both by vows and laws—
Honora. (Quitting his support.) What meanest thou?
André. Did'st thou not marry him?
Honora. Marry!
André. Did'st thou not give thy hand away From me?
Honora. O, never, never.
André. Not married?
Honora. To none but thee, and but in will to thee.
André. O blind, blind wretch!—Thy father told me—
Honora. Thou wast deceived. They hurried me away, Spreading false rumors to remove thy love— (Tenderly.) Thou did'st too soon believe them.
André. Thy father— How could I but believe Honora's father? And he did tell me so. I reverenc'd age, Yet knew age was not virtue. I believed His snowy locks, and yet they did deceive me! I have destroy'd myself and thee!—Alas, Ill-fated maid, why did'st thou not forget me? Hast thou rude seas and hostile shores explor'd For this? To see my death? Witness my shame?
Honora. I come to bless thee, André, and shall do it. I bear such offers from thy kind Commander As must prevail to save thee. Thus the daughter May repair the ills her cruel sire inflicted. My father, dying, gave me cause to think That arts were us'd to drive thee from thy home; But what those arts I knew not. An heiress left, Of years mature, with power and liberty, I straight resolv'd to seek thee o'er the seas. A long-known friend, who came to join her lord, ​Yielded protection and lov'd fellowship.— Indeed, when I did hear of thy estate, It almost kill'd me;—I was weak before—
André. 'T is I have murder'd thee!
Honora. All shall be well. Thy General heard of me, and instant form'd The plan of this my visit. I am strong, Compar'd with what I was. Hope strengthens me; Nay, even solicitude supports me now; And when thou shalt be safe, thou wilt support me.
André. Support thee!—O Heaven! What!— and must I die? Die!—and leave her thus—suffering—unprotected!
(Enter Melville and Guard.)
Melville. I am sorry that my duty should require Service, at which my heart revolts; but, sir, Our soldiers wait in arms. All is prepar'd—
Honora. To death! Impossible! Has my delay, Then, murder'd him? A momentary respite—
Melville. Lady, I have no power.
Bland. Melville, my friend, This lady bears dispatches of high import, Touching this business;—should they arrive too late—
Honora. For pity's sake, and heaven's, conduct me to him; And wait the issue of our conference. O, 't would be murder of the blackest dye. Sin execrable, not to break thy orders— Inhuman, thou art not.
Melville. Lady, thou say'st true; For rather would I lose my rank in arms, And stand cashier'd for lack of discipline, Than gain 'mongst military men all praise, Wanting the touch of sweet humanity.
Honora. Thou grantest my request?
Melville. Lady, I do. Retire! (Soldiers go out.)
Bland. I know not what excuse, to martial men, Thou canst advance for this; but to thy heart Thou wilt need none, good Melville.
André. O Honora!
Honora. Cheer up, I feel assur'd. Hope wings my flight, To bring thee tidings of much joy to come.
(Exit Honora, with Bland and Melville. )
André. Eternal blessings on thee, matchless woman!— If Death now comes, he finds the veriest coward That e'er he dealt withal. I cannot think Of dying. Void of fortitude, each thought Clings to the world—the world that holds Honora! (Exit.)
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT FIFTH.
Scene, the Encampment.
(Enter Bland.)
Bland. Suspence—uncertainty—man's bane and solace! How racking now to me! My mother comes. Forgive me, O my father, if in this war, This wasting conflict of my 'wildering passions, Memory of thee holds here a second place! M'Donald comes with her. I would not meet him; Yet I will do it. Summon up some courage— Confess my fault, and gain, if not his love, At least the approbation of my judgment.
(Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, with M'Donald.)
Bland. Say, Madam, is there no change of counsel, Or new determination?
Mrs, Bland. Nought new, my son. The tale of misery is told unheard. The widow's and the orphans' sighs Fly up, unnoted by the eye of man, And mingle, undistinguish'd, with the winds. My friend (to M'Donald), attend thy duties. I must away.
Second Child. You need not cry, Mama, the General will do it, I am sure, for I saw him cry. He turn'd away his head from you, but I saw it.
​Mrs. Bland. Poor thing! Come, let us home and weep. Alas! I can no more, for war hath made men rocks.
(Exeunt Mrs. Bland and Children.)
Bland. Colonel, I used thee ill this morning.
M'Donald. No! Thyself thou used'st most vilely, I remember.
Bland. Myself sustained the injury, most true; But the intent of what I said and did Was ill to thee alone; I 'm sorry for it. See'st thou these blushes? They proceed from warmth As honest as the heart of man e'er felt; But not with shame unmingled, while I force This tongue, debased, to own it slander'd thee, And utter'd—I could curse it—utter'd falsehood. Howe'er misled by passion, still my mind Retains that sense of honest rectitude Which makes the memory of an evil deed A troublesome companion. I was wrong.
M'Donald. Why, now, this glads me; for thou now art right. O, may thy tongue, henceforward, utter naught
$^1$ The lines marked <> were omitted after the first night and the following were inserted. (See Introduction.)
Bland. Noble M'Donald, truth and honor's champion! Yet think not strange that my intemperance wrong'd thee: Good as thou art! for, would'st thou, can'st thou, think it? My tongue unbridled, hath the same offence, With action violent, and boisterous tone, Hurl'd on that glorious man, whose pious labors Shield from every ill his grateful country. That man, whom friends to adoration love, And enemies revere. Yes, M'Donald, Even in the presence of the first of men Did I abjure the service of my country, And reft my helmet of that glorious badge Which graces even the brow of Washington. How shall I see him more? But Truth's sweet precepts, in fair Virtue's cause! Give me thy hand. (Takes his hand.) Ne'er may it grasp a sword But in defence of justice.
Bland. Yet, erewhile, A few short hours scarce past, when this vile hand Attempted on thee insult; and was raised Against thy honor; ready to be raised Against thy life. If this my deep remorse—
M'Donald. No more, no more! 'T is past. Remember it But as thou would'st the action of another, By thy enlighten'd judgment much condemn'd; And serving as a beacon in the storms Thy passions yet may raise. Remorse is vice; Guard thee against its influence debasing. Say to thyself: "I am not what I was; I am not now the instrument of vice; I 'm changed; I am a man; Virtue's firm friend; Sever'd forever from my former self; No link, but in remembrance salutary."
< Bland. How all men tower above me!
M'Donald. Nay, not so.
M'Donald. Alive himself to every generous impulse, He hath excused the impetuous warmth of youth, In expectation that thy fiery soul, Chasten'd by time and reason, will receive The stamp indelible of godlike virtue. To me, in trust, he gave this badge disclaim'd, With power, when thou should'st see thy wrongful error, From him, to reinstate it in thy helm, And thee in his high favor.
(Gives the cockade.)
Bland. (Takes the cockade and replaces it.) Shall I speak my thoughts of thee and him? No! let my actions henceforth show what thou And he have made me. Ne'er shall my helmet Lack again its proudest, noblest ornament, Until my country knows the rest of peace, Or Bland the peace of death. (Exit.) ​Above what once thou wast, some few do rise; None above what thou art.
Bland. It shall be so.
M'Donald. It is so.
Bland. Then to prove it. For I must yet a trial undergo, That will require a consciousness of virtue. (Exit.)
M'Donald. O, what a temper doth in man reside! How capable of yet unthought perfection!
(Exit.) >
Scene, the General's quarters.
(Enter General and Seward.)
General. Ask her, my friend, to send by thee her pacquets. (Exit Seward.) O, what keen struggles must I undergo! Unbless'd estate! to have the power to pardon; The court's stern sentence to remit;—give life;— Feel the strong wish to use such blessed power; Yet know that circumstances strong as fate Forbid to obey the impulse. O, I feel That man should never shed the blood of man!
(Enter Seward.)
Seward. Naught can the lovely suitor satisfy, But conference with thee, and much I fear Refusal would cause madness.
General. Yet to admit, To hear, be tortur'd, and refuse at last—
Seward. Sure never man such spectacle of sorrow Saw before. Motionless the rough-hewn soldiers Silent view her, or walk aside and weep.
General. (After a pause.) Admit her. (Seward goes out.) O, for the art, the precious art, To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows!
(Honora rushes in, and throws herself wildly on her knees before him; he endeavors to raise her.)
Honora. Nay, nay, here is my place, or here, or lower, Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms away! Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to thee— I am his wife—'t is I have ruin'd him— O, save him! Give him to me! Let us cross The mighty seas, far, far—ne'er to offend again—
(The General turns away, and hides his eyes with his hand.)
(Enter Seward and an Officer.)
General. Seward, support her; my heart is torn in twain.
(Honora, as if exhausted, suffers herself to be raised, and leans on Seward.)
Officer. This moment, sir, a messenger arrived With well confirm'd and mournful information, That gallant Hastings, by the lawless scouts Of Britain taken, after cruel mockery With show of trial and of condemnation, On the next tree was hung.
Honora. (Wildly.) O, it is false.
General. Why, why, my country, did I hesitate? (Exit.)
(Honora sinks, faints, and is borne off by Seward and Officer.)
Scene, the Prison.
(André meeting Bland.)
André. How speeds Honora? (Pause.) Art thou silent, Bland? Why, then, I know my task. The mind of man, If not by vice debas'd, debilitated, Or by disease of body quite unton'd, Hath o'er its thoughts a power—energy divine. Of fortitude the source and every virtue— A godlike power, which e'en o'er circumstance Its sov'reignty exerts. Now from my thoughts, Honora! Yet she is left alone—expos'd—
Bland. O, André, spurn me, strike me to the earth; For what a wretch am I in André's mind. That he can think he leaves his love alone, And I retaining life!
André. Forgive me. Bland. ​My thoughts glanc'd not on thee. Imagination Pictur'd only, then, her orphan state, helpless; Her weak and grief-exhausted frame. Alas! This blow will kill her.
Bland. (Kneeling.) Here, do I myself Devote, my fortune consecrate, to thee, To thy remembrance, and Honora's service.
André. Enough! Let me not see her more—nor think of her— Farewell, farewell, sweet image! Now for death.
Bland. Yet that thou should'st the felon's fate fulfil— Damnation! My blood boils. Indignation Makes the current of my life course wildly Through its round and maddens each emotion.
André. Come, come, it matters not.
Bland. I do remember, When a boy at school, in our allotted tasks, We, by our puny acts, strove to pourtray The giant thoughts of Otway. I was Pierre. O, thou art Pierre's reality—a soldier, On whose manly brow sits fortitude enamor'd; A Mars, abhorring vice, yet doom'd to die A death of infamy; thy corse expos'd To vulgar gaze—halter'd—distorted—oh— (Pauses, and then adds in a low hollow voice:) Pierre had a friend to save him from such shame— And so hast thou.
André. No more, as thou dost love me.
Bland. I have a sword, and arm, that never fail'd me.
André. Bland, such an act would justly thee involve, And leave that helpless one thou sworest to guard Expos'd to every ill. O, think not of it!
Bland. If thou wilt not my aid—take it thyself.
(Draws and offers his sword.)
André. No, men will say that cowardice did urge me. In my mind's weakness, I did wish to shun That mode of death which error represented Infamous: now let me rise superior; And with a fortitude too true to start From mere appearances, show your country That she, in me, destroys a man who might Have liv'd to virtue.
Bland. (Sheathing his sword.) I will not think more of it; I was again the sport of erring passion.
André. Go thou and guide Honora from this spot.
Honora. (Entering.) Who shall oppose his wife? I will have way! They, cruel, would have kept me from thee, André. Say, am I not thy wife? Wilt thou deny me? Indeed I am not dress'd in bridal trim. But I have travelled far:—rough was the road— Rugged and rough—that must excuse my dress. (Seeing André's distress.) Thou art not glad to see me.
André. Break my heart!
Honora. Indeed, I feel not much in spirits. I wept but now.
(Enter Melville and Guard.)
Bland. (To Melville.) Say nothing.
André. I am ready.
Honora. (Seeing the Guard.) Are they here? Here again—the same—but they shall not harm me. I am with thee, my André—I am safe— And thou art safe with me. Is it not so?
(Clinging to him.)
(Enter Mrs. Bland.)
Mrs. Bland. Where is this lovely victim?
Bland. Thanks, my mother.
Mrs. Bland. M'Donald sent me hither. My woes are past. Thy father, by the foe released, already Is in safety. This be forgotten now; And every thought be turn'd to this sad scene. Come, lady, home with me.
Honora. Go home with thee? Art thou my André's mother? We will home And rest, for thou art weary—very weary.
(Leans on Mrs. Bland.)
(André retires to the Guard, and goes off with them, looking on her to the ​last, and with an action of extreme tenderness takes leave of her. Melville and Bland accompany him.)
Honora. Now we will go. Come, love! Where is he? All gone!—I do remember—I awake— They have him. Murder! Help! O, save him! save him!
(Honora attempts to follow, hut falls. Mrs. Bland kneels to assist her. Scene closes.)
Scene, the Encampment.
(Procession to the execution of André. First enter Pioneers—Detachment of Infantry—Military Band of Music—Infantry. The Music having passed off, enter André between Melville and American Officer; they sorrowful, he cheerfully conversing as he passes over the stage.)
André. It may in me be merely prejudice, The effect of young opinion deep engraved Upon the tender mind by care parental; But I must think your country has mistook Her interests. Believe me, but for this I should Not willingly have drawn a sword against her. (They how their heads in silence.) Opinion must, nay, ought to sway our actions; Therefore—
(Having crossed the stage, he goes out as still conversing with them. Another detachment of Infantry, with muffled and craped drums, closes the procession; as soon as they are off—
Scene.
draws and discovers the distant view of the encampment.)
(Procession enters in same order as before, proceeds up the stage, and goes off the opposite side.)
(Enter M'Donald, leading Bland, who looks wildly back.)
Bland. I dare not thee resist. Yet why, O why Thus hurry me away?—
M'Donald. Would'st thou behold—
Bland. O, name it not!
M'Donald. Or would'st thou, by thy looks And gestures wild, o'erthrow that manly calmness Which, or assumed or felt, so well becomes thy friend?
Bland. What means that cannon's sound?
M'Donald. (After a pause.) Signal of death Appointed. André, thy friend, is now no more.
Bland. Farewell, farewell, brave spirit! O! let my countrymen, Henceforward when the cruelties of war Arise in their remembrance; when their ready Speech would pour forth torrents in their foe's dispraise, Think on this act accurst, and lock complaint in silence.
(Bland throws himself on the earth.)
M'Donald. Such are the dictates of the heart, not head. O, may the children of Columbia still Be taught by every teacher of mankind, Each circumstance of calculative gain, Or wounded pride, which prompted our oppressors; May every child be taught to lisp the tale; And may, in times to come, no foreign force, No European influence, tempt to mis-state, Or awe the tongue of eloquence to silence. Still may our children's children deep abhor The motives, doubly deep detest the actors; Ever remembering that the race who plann'd, Who acquiesced, or did the deeds abhor'd, Has pass'd from off the earth; and, in its stead, Stand men who challenge love or detestation But from their proper, individual deeds Never let memory of the sire's offence Descend upon the son.
CURTAIN DROPS.