André

M'Donald

 
In truth I know of nought 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 of vengeance?
 

M'Donald

 
Yes, my good Seward, and yet nothing wond'rous.
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 second's reason's cool resolves.
Oh! 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 honour – high-soul'd honour —
Yet honour shall accord in act with falsehood.
Oh, that proud man should e'er descend to play
The tempter's part, and lure men to their ruin!
Deceit and honour 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, Oh, 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

 
Oh, 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 favourable 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 II

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 honour'd sire, in peace went'st down
Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor knew
A pang for me! And thou, revered matron,
Couldst 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 morn 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 nought but conscious rectitude can give.
 

[Retires, and sits leaning.

Enter Bland unperceived by André

Bland

 
And is that André! Oh, how chang'd! 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 inquir'd for thee – wish'd much to see thee —
I prithee take no note of these fool's tears —
My heart was full – and seeing thee —
 

Bland [embracing him]

 
O André! —
I have but now arrived from the south —
Nor heard – till now – of this – I cannot speak.
Is this a place? – Oh, 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 choke 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 shews the way thou'st trod,
Without one devious track, or doubtful line;
It all avails thee nought, 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 – Oh, there are hearts,
Where Virtue's image, when 't is once engrav'd,
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 honour 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 honours 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 honour to betray;
Linking his name to infamy eternal.
In confidence it was to be propos'd,
To plan with him the means which should ensure
Thy country's downfall. Nothing then I saw
But confidential favour in the service,
My country's glory, and my mounting fame;
Forgot my former purity of thought,
And high-ton'd honour'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 involv'd 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 favours 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

 
Oh, 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 – murderer's 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. Oh! have the manner changed,
And of mere death I'll think not. Dost thou think – ?
Perhaps thou canst gain that– ?
 

Bland [almost in a frenzy]

 
Thou shalt not die!
 

André

 
Let me, Oh! 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 ardour – but ceaselessly intreat,
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 Afric, their continents,
Or sea-girt isles, it chafes. —
 

Seward

 
Oh! would to heaven
That in mid-way 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-pamper'd luxury, might ne'er be heard; —
Where the blasted form of much abused
Beauty, by villainy seduced, by knowledge
All unguarded, might ne'er be view'd, 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 shewing, by its bright and noontide blaze,
That happiness alone proceeds from justice.
 

Seward

 
Dreams, dreams! Man can know nought 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.
Oh! how the tide of joy makes my heart bound,
Glowing with high and ardent expectation!
 

Enter two Children

1st Child

 
Here we are, Mama, up, and dress'd already.
 

Mrs. Bland

 
And why were ye so early?
 

1st Child

 
Why, did not you tell us that Papa was to be home to-day?
 

Mrs. Bland

 
I said, perhaps.
 

2nd Child [disappointed]

 
Perhaps!
 

1st Child

 
I don't like perhaps's.
 

2nd 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.
 

2nd Child

 
Oh! 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." "Mama, 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.
 

1st 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.
 

2nd 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 Headquarters, in passing, delivered this.
 

2nd Child

 
Papa's coming home to-day, John.
 

[Exeunt Servant and Children.

Mrs. Bland

 
What fears assail me! Oh! I did not want
A letter now! [She reads in great agitation, exclaiming, while her eyes are fixed on the paper.]
My husband! doom'd 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