Superstition (Acting American Theatre edition)/Act 1
SUPERSTITION.
ACT I.
Enter from the Cottage, Mary and Alice, L. H.
Mary. Nay, come away dear Alice, every moment
Of your brief visit must be wholly mine;
Let's leave our fathers to their grave discourse
Of witch and wizard, ere we laugh outright.
Alice. It is a subject that the country round
Deems a most solemn one.
Mary. True but to me,
'Tis not the less absurd on that account.
Alice. This levity 's misplac'd your father claims
Your love and reverence
Mary. And I do revere him,
And love him dearly, Alice; do I not?
How often have I striven to melt his sternness;
And, when my heart was sick of its own cares,
Lock'd up my selfish sorrows from his view,
And tried, by every filial endearment,
To win his smiles. E'en when his brow was darkest;
I've brav'd it's terrors; hung upon his neck,
And spoken of my mother O how sweet
It were methought, even to weep with him.
Alice. You're an enthusiast, Mary. Ah, beware,
Lest this impetuous current of your feeling
Urge you, one day, against the perilous rock.
Mary. I'm young, and youth is ardent, and should be
Cheerful, and full of bright and sunny thoughts;
I would be if I dared. You too are young.
Yet may be happy; for you have a parent
Who, tho' he guide you safely down the stream,
Does not, like angry pilots, chide, e'en louder
Than the loud storm.
Alice. His high and holy office
May, haply give to your good father's manner,
A grave solemnity, perhaps, a harshness
Mary. And why a harshness? Sure, ah sure, Religion
Descends not like the vulture in its wrath;
But rather like the mild and gentle dove,
Emblem of peace and harbinger of joy.
Love in its' eye and healing on its' wing;
With pure and snowy plumage, downy soft,
To nestle in the bosom of its votaries.
Alice. I cannot argue; I'm content to follow
Where e'er our fathers lead. For you, I fear
You've learn'd too much from this mysterious stranger.
Mary. O Alice, join not you with the slanderous crowd.
Against a noble lady, whom you know not.
For me, be satisfied I never more
Perhaps, shall see her: I've obeyed my father;
And must, tho' it should break my heart: tho, Charles (Pauses, crosses to L. H.)
Alice. And what of Charles ?
Mary. Her son—
Alice. I know, her son,
And what of him?
Mary.This very day, 'tis said
He will be here—
Alice. Expell'd, they say, from college.
Mary. Disgraced—'Tis false: Charles cannot be disgraced;
If envy, persecution, drive him thence,
They but disgrace themselves, and not poor Charles.
Alice. Mary?
Mary. Yes; take my secret; take it quickly,
Or it will burst my heart.
Alice. Nay, but be calm.
Mary. You shall know all—surely you'll pity, Alice,
And perhaps, pardon me. Three years ago
When Charles's mother first came here to live;
From England, was it not: The village then
Had scarce begun to hate her, for as yet
She had not lavish'd charities abroad.
To purchase up ingratitude and envy.
Being her nearest neighbour, (my dear mother
Was then alive,) there rose at once between us
That intercourse which neighbourhood compels
At times, e'en with the most reserved. The lady
I know not why, unless out of her goodness.
Graced me with her regard, and when my mother
Died, she took the desolate child to her bosom.
Alice. 'Twas kindly done.
Mary. O she was goodness all.
Her words so sweet and soothing; as she spoke,
Alice, methought I saw my sainted mother
Lean o'er the bright edge of a silvery cloud
And smile upon her happy orphan girl,—
And there was Charles, so busy still around me.
Exhausting all his boyish gallantries.
With brotherly affection.—
Alice. Charles, still Charles?
Mary. Can I forget it!—
Alice. Nay, go on.
Mary. The winter
Soon pass'd away, and then the spring came on
With all its flowers, and still the earliest blossom
Was cuU'd for me. O, we were then so happy—
I always lov'd the spring. Young nature then
Came to me like a play-mate. Ere the snows
Had left the hills, I've often wander'd forth,
And, all impatient for the verdure, clear'd
A patch of infant green; or even turn'd
With mighty effort, some recumbent stone,
To find the fresh grass under it.
Alice. This is childish.
Mary. I was a child, then,—would I were e'en now,
As then I was—my life, I fear will prove
A wintry waste with no green spot to cheer it;
Alice. More visionary still.
Mary. Well, to my story:—
My father took me home, I think it was
About the time you came into the village,
Fell superstition now had spread around.
Reports—I scarce know what they meant—arose
Concerning Isabella; and my father
Made gloomier by my mother's death, and yielding
His strong mind to the doctrine of the times,
Grew daily still more stern, until at length,
At peril of his curse, he bade me never
To hold communion with that family.
Alice. And you obeyed?
Mary. All that I could, I did.
But O the tales they tell—the horrid stones—
Her very virtues they distort to crimes.
And for poor Charles, his manliness and spirit,
The gayety of youth and innocence.
In him are vices. Could I help defending,
Knowing them as I did:—all others hating.
Could I help loving!—
Alice. Loving, Mary?
Mary. Ay; Most deeply, strongly loving Charles and his mother.
Alice. But sure you have not seen this Charles?
Mary. Not often.—
Nay frown not friend, for how could I avoid it,
When chance insisted on an interview ?
Alice. Have ye met lately?
Mary. Yes.
Alice. What pass'd between you?
Mary. A plight of faith: A vow to live or die,
Each for the other.
Alice. Lost, lost girl.
Mary. Why, ay,
It may be so; if so, 'tis Heaven's will.
You have my secret Alice.
Enter from the House, Ravensworth and Walford, l. h.
Alice. Peace; our fathers.
(They retire into house, l. h.)
Rav. No, Walford, no: I have no charity
For what you term the weakness of our nature.
The soul should rise above it. It was this
That made the fathers of this land prevail,
When man and the elements opposed, and win
Their heritage from the heathen.
Walf. True; the times
Impos'd a virtue, almost superhuman.
But surely, the necessity is pass'd
For trampling on our nature.
Rave. We have grown
Luke-warm in zeal, degenerate in spirit;—
I would root out with an unsparing hand
The weeds that choke the soil;—pride and rank luxury
Spring up around us;—alien sectaries,
Spite of the whip and axe, infest our limits;
Bold infidelity, dark sorcery—
Walf. Nay,
Nay, Ravensworth—
Rave. I tell thee Walford, yea:
The powers of darkness are at work among us.
Not distant we have seen the fagot blaze,
And soon the stake may ask its victim here.
Walf. What victim point you at?
Rave. Turn your eye—thither
Upon you haughty mansion—you have heard?—
Walf. Much idle rumour.
Rave. Do you deem it so.
Whence then, and who is this imperious dame,
That holds herself above her fellow creatures,
And scorns our church's discipline: her means—
Her business here?
Walf. The ignorant and envious
May find, in her superior intellect—
E'en in her ample wealth and proud reserve
Food for their hate, and therefore their suspicion;
But for us, Ravensworth—
Rave. No more, ere long,
These questions must be answer'd.
Walf. Be it so;
I shall be ready in all lawful ways
To seek the truth.
Rave. 'Tis well, we soon may need you.
What public tidings hear you?
Walf. That King Philip
Our savage foe, after his late defeat,
Has gained his rocky hold, where he now lies,
With scarce a fragment of his former force.
Rave. Where are our troops?
Walf. They watch the enemy.
Rave. They should have followed up their victory.
To the extermination of the heathen.—
Has there aught chanc'd in the village?
Walf. There have arrived
Two persons from the court of Charles.
Rave. More vanity!
What do they here?
Walf. The elder, it is said,
Brings letters to the government.
(Crosses to l. h.)
Rave. Charles Stuart,
Is growing much concern'd about the people
His family have scourged, hunted and driven
From shed and shelter in their native land.
We needs must thank that most paternal care,
That, when the expos'd infant climbs to manhood
Comes for the first time, then, to claim his service.
Walf. You broach a startling topic—But the day wears—
Fare thee well Ravensworth.
Rave. Farewell, farewell. {{float right|(Exit Walford, l.h.)
Timid, weak minded man.
Enter Mary, from House, l. h.
Come hither, daughter
Mary. Father! (running to him.)
Rave. What mean these tears?
Mary. I cannot check them.
Rave. They do displease me, tears can only flow
From frailty or from folly, dry them straight,
And listen to me. I have heard, the son
Of this strange woman is returning home,
And will again pollute our neighbourhood;
Remember my command, and shun his presence
As you would shun the adder. If report
Err not, his course of boyhood has been run
Without one gleam of virtue to redeem
The darkness of his vices.
Mary. I'll obey—
To the utmost of my power.—But, my dear father,
May not report err sometimes? You were wont
To instruct me never to withhold the truth;
And fearlessly to speak in their defence,
Whom I could vindicate from calumny;
That to protect the innocent, the absent—
Rave. How's this! the innocent—and calumny?
And whence do you presume to throw discredit
On general report—What can you know?
Mary. Not much perhaps, of late: while I remain'd
At his mother's—he was in his boyhood then;
I knew him well; and there's one incident
Much dwelt on to his prejudice, that I
Was witness to—if you would bid me tell it.
Rave. O, by all means, come, your romance.
Mary. 'Tis truth.
It was a wintry day, the snow was deep,
And the chill rain had fallen and was frozen,
That all the surface was a glittering crust.—
We were all gather'd in the lady's hall,
That overlook'd the lawn; a poor stray fawn
Came limping toward us. It had lost, perhaps,
It's dam, and chas'd by cruel hunters, came
To seek a refuge with us. Every bound
The forlorn creature made, its little feet
Broke through the crust, and we could mark that one
Of its delicate limbs was broken. A rude boy
Follow'd it fast, as it would seem, to kill it;
I could not choose but wish its life were sav'd,
And at the word Charles ran and took it up,
And gave it to me, and I cherish'd it
And bound its broken limb up; and it liv'd
And seem'd to thank me for my care of it.
Rave. But was this all? Was not the village lad assailed and beaten?
Mary. He was rude and churlish,
And would have forc'd the animal from Charles.
And tho' 'twas on his mothers' grounds, Charles proffer'd him
The price of the fawn; But nothing would content him,
And he struck Charles; he was a larger boy,
But did not prove the stronger—so he went
And made the village all believe his story,
That Charles had robb'd and beaten him, for Charles
Had none to speak for him.
Rave. No more of this—
And never let me hear the name you've utter'd
Pass from your lips again. It is enough
I know this youth for a lewd libertine;
The woman, for a scoffer at things sacred,
At me, and at my functions—and perhaps,
Given to practices, that yet may need
A dreadful expiation. Get you gone,
And on your knees petition that you may not
Deserve my malediction.
Mary. I obey. (Exit Mary, into cottage, l. h. followed by Ravensworth.)
Enter George Egerton, followed by Sir Reginald, both in shooting dresses, r. h. u. e.
Geo. By Heaven a lovely creature!
Sir R. Softly George,
Is this the game you point at? Have a care,
You're not in London now, where our gay monarch
Sets such a fine example, in these matters.
They'll have no poaching here, that I can tell you.
Among their wives and daughters. These same roundheads.
That crop their hair so short—a plague upon 'em—
Will cut your ears as close, if you're caught meddling. [to.
George. Why what a heathen region have we come
What a deuce, uncle, did you bring me here for?
To shoot at bears and panthers; pleasant sport;
No women: zounds; I'll back to court again—
No women! (Crosses to r. h.)
Sir R. None: the old they burn for witches,
The young they keep clos'd up,(like flies in amber)
In adamantine ice.—
George. They should be hang'd
For treason against nature. Let the old ones
Freeze, 'tis their charter; but youth should have fire.
Sir R. They've good laws here for gallants—t'other day
They put a man i' the stocks because he kiss'd
His wife o' Sunday.
George. They were in the right.
Kiss his own wife! it is a work-day business;
Play-days and holy-days, are made for lovers.
Sir R. To lay hands on a maid here's present
death.
George. It might be so in London, and no lives
lost:
The law were a dead letter there—
Sir R. And widows
May not be spoken to, under the pain
Of fine and pillory.
George. Uncle, let's embark,
Tho' for the north pole; this clime is too cold—
Or to some catholic country, where a man
May have flesh sometimes: here 'tis always lent.
Sir R. No: you must stay, your stomach must
endure it.
George. I'faith, dear uncle, being a cavalier,
A gentleman of honour and of breeding,
I marvel much you could come hither ; but
The greater wonder is, you'd have me with you,
Knowing my humour.
Sir R. Troth, my gentle nephew.
Knowing your humour, I could do no better
Than take you from the sphere of Charles's court;
From Rochester, and his dissolute companions,
To cool your blood here in the wilderness.
George. Well! there may come a time.
Sir R. As for my voyage.
Perhaps it was a royal jest: or, haply
My clothes had grown too rusty for the court.
Or Charles was tired of the old cavalier.
Who had fought some battles for him, and consum'd
Some certain paltry acres — all he had —
And having left no vacant place at court,
He sent me here Ambassador.
George. But uncle,
Is that your character?
Sir R. Much the same thing,
In christian countries, nephew; I'm a spy.
George. The devil!
Sir R. Yes: we read in ancient history,
Of Kings and Emperors, who have kept the men
Who help'd them to the Throne, (by simply putting
Their fathers out o'the way)—about their persons,
As their prime friends. But Charles, being advis'd
That this was in bad taste, and took place only
In semi-barbarous courts, finds it decorous
To grow a little angry with the persons
That kill'd his father. And being told, besides,
That his most loving and beloved subjects
This side the water—who, by the way, he never
Thought of before—had given food and shelter
To certain of the regicides, he sends me
To
George. Well Sir?
Sir R. Nothing. Come, 'tis growing late
(Crosses to l. h.)
We must regain our cottage. In the morning,
We leave the village.
George. 'Gad, with all my soul—
And so to England?
Sir R. Not so fast, good Springal,
We must have patience yet. Come, let's begone.
George. I'll see her in the morning, tho' they
hang me.
(Exeunt, l. h. George looking back.)
end of act i.