A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Two/Ethwald - Part Second Act 2
ACT II.
SCENE I. A small cavern, in which is discovered a Wizard, sitting by a fire of embers, baking his scanty meal of parched corn, and counting out some money from a bag; a book and other things belonging to his art are strewed near him on the ground.
Wiz. (alone.) Thanks to the restless soul of Mollo's son!
Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoarded coin
Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate
Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel
Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve,
With muffled face, to learn her warriour's doom.
Lie in strange fellowship; so doth misfortune
Make strange acquaintance meet.
Enter a Scout.
Scout. Put up thy book, and bag, and wizard's wand,
This is no time for witchery and wiles.
Thy cave, I trow, will soon be fill'd with those,
Who are by present ills too roughly shent
To look thro' vision'd spells on those to come.
Wiz. What thou would'st tell me, tell me in plain words.
Scout. Well, plainly then, Ethwald, who thought full surely
The British, in their weak divided state,
To the first onset of his arms would yield
Their ill defended towers, has found them strengthen'd
With aid from Wessex, and unwillingly
Led back with cautious skill the Mercian troops;
Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought,
To follow him into our open plains,
Where they must needs with least advantage fight.
Wiz. Who told thee this?
Scout. Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely three miles off,
The armies, at this moment, are engaged
In bloody battle. On my way I met
A crowd of helpless women, from their homes
Who fly with terror, each upon her back
Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece
Of household goods, snatch'd up in haste. I hear
Their crowding steps e'en now within your cave:
They follow close behind.
(Enter a crowd of Women, young and old; some leading children and carrying infants on their backs or in their arms, others carrying bundles and pieces of household stuff.)
Wiz. Who are ye, wretched women,
Who, all so pale and haggard, bear along
Those helpless infants, and those seeming wrecks,
From desolation saved? What do you want?
First Wom. Nought but the friendly shelter of your cave,
For now or house, or home, or blazing hearth.
Good Wizard, we have none.
Wiz. And are the armies then so near your dwellings?
First Wom. Ay, round them, in them the loud battle clangs,
Within our very walls fierce spearmen push,
And weapon'd warriours cross their clashing blades.
Sec. Wom. Ay, woe is me! our warm and cheerful hearths,
And rushed floors whereon our children play'd,
Are now the bloody lair of dying men.
Old Wom. Ah woe is me! those yellow thatched roofs,
Which I have seen these sixty years and ten,
Smoking so sweetly 'midst our tufted thorns,
And the turf'd graves wherein our fathers sleep!
Young Wom. Ah woe is me! my little helpless babes!
Now must some mossy rock or shading tree
Be your cold home, and the wild haws your food.
No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot
Shall now, returning from his daily toil,
Your father cheer; if that, if that indeed
Ye have a father still (bursting into tears.)
Third Wom. Alack, alack! of all my goodly stuff
I've saved but only this! my winter's webs
And all the stores that I so dearly saved!
I thought to have them to my dying day!
Enter a Young Man leading in an Ideot.
Young Wom. (running up to him.)
Ah, my dear Swithick! art thou safe indeed?
Why didst thou leave me?
Young Man. To save our ideot brother, see'st thou here?
I could not leave him in that pityless broil.
Young Wom. Well hast thou done! poor helpless Balderkin!
We've fed thee long, unweeting of our care,
And in our little dwelling still thou'st held
The warmest nook; and, wheresoe'er we be,
So shalt thou still, albeit thou know'st it not.
Enter Man carrying an Old Man on his back.
Young Man. And see here, too, our neighbour Edwin comes,
Bearing his bed-rid father on his back.
Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged neighbour?
Cheer up again! thou shalt be shelter'd still;
The Wizard has receiv'd us.
Wiz. True, good folks;
I wish my means were better for your sakes.
But we are crowded here; that winding passage
Leads us into an inner cave full wide,
Where we may take our room and freely breathe;
Come let us enter there.
(Exeunt, all following the Wizard into the inner cave.)
SCENE II. A field of battle strewed with slain, and some people seen upon the back ground searching amongst the dead bodies. Enter Hereulf and Ethelbert.
Her. (stopping short and holding up his hands.)
Good mercy! see at what a bloody price
Ethwald this doubtful victory has purchased,
That in the lofty height to which he climbs
Will be a slight step of but small advantage.
Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on
With ail the vigour, and capacity,
And comeliness of strong and youthful men.
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane,
With grizzled pates, from mates, whose wither'd hands
For some good thirty years had smooth'd your couch:
Alas! and ye whose fair and early growth
Did give you the similitude of men
Ere your fond mothers ceas'd to tend you still,
As nurselings of their care, ye lie together!
Alas, alas! and many now there be,
Smiling and crowing on their mother's breast,
Twining, with all their little infant ways,
Around her hopeful heart, who shall, like these,
Be laid i' the dust.
Her. Ay, so it needs must be, since Mollo's son
Thinks Mercia all too strait for his proud sway.
But here come those who search amongst the dead
For their lost friends; retire, and let us mark them.
(they withdraw to one side.)
Enter Two Cairls, meeting a Third, who enter by the opposite side.
First Cairl. (to Third.) Thou hast been o'er the field?
Third Cairl. I have, good friend.
Sec. Cairl. Thou'st seen a rueful sight.
Third Cairl. Yes, I have seen that which no other sight
Can from my fancy wear. Oh! there be some
Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the strength
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you,
With their dead eyes half open'd.
And there be some, stuck thro' with bristling darts,
Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up;
Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand.
Nay, some I've seen among those bloody heaps,
Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men,
Who in convulsive motion yet retain
Some shreds of life more horrible than death:
I've heard their groans, oh, oh!
(A voice from the ground.) Baldwick!
Third Cairl. What voice is that? it comes from some one near.
First Cairl. See, yon stretch'd body moves its bloody hand:
It must be him.
(Voice again.) Baldwick!
Voice. Ah, but thou dost! I have sat by thy fire,
And heard thy merry tales, and shar'd thy meal.
Third Cairl. Good holy saints! and art thou Athelbald?
Woe! woe is me to see thee in such case!
What shall I do for thee?
Voice. If thou hast any love of mercy in thee,
Turn me upon my face that I may die;
For lying thus, see'st thou this flooded gash?
The glutting blood so bolsters up my life
I cannot die.
Third Cairl. I will, good Athelbald. Alack the day!
That I should do for thee so sad a service!
(turns the soldier on his face.)
Voice. I thank thee, friend, farewel! (dies.)
Third Cairl. Farewel! farewel! a merry soul thou wert,
And sweet thy ploughman's whistle in our fields.
Sec. Cairl. (starting with horrour.) Good heaven forefend! it moves!
First Cairl. What dost thou see?
Sec. Cairl. Look on that bloody corse, so smear'd and mangled,
That it has lost all form of what it was;
It moves! it moves! there is life in it still.
First Cairl. Methought it spoke, but faint and low the sound.
Third Cairl. Ha! didst thou hear a voice? we'll go to it.
(pulling out a band or 'kerchief from his breast.)
It is some maiden's pledge.
Fallen Warriour. (making signs.) Upon mine arm, I pray thee, on mine arm.
Third Cairl. I'll do it, but thy wounds are past all binding.
Warriour. She who will search for me doth know this sign.
Third Cairl. Alack, alack! he thinks of some sad maid!
A rueful sight she'll see! He moves again:
Heaven grant him peace! I'd give a goodly sum
To see thee dead, poor wretch!
(Enter a Woman wailing and wringing her hands.)
Sec. Cairl. Ha! who comes wailing here?
Third Cairl. Some wretched mother who has lost her son:
I met her searching 'midst the farther dead,
And heard her piteous moan.
Mother. I rear'd him like a little playful kid,
And ever by my side, where'er I went,
He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween,
His little arms did strain their growing strength
To bear my burden. Ay, and long before
He had unto a stripling's height attain'd,
He ever would my widow's cause maintain
With all the steady boldness of a man.
I was no widow then.
Sec. Cairl. Be comforted, good mother.
Mother. What say'st thou to me? know'st thou where he lies?
If thou hast kindness in thee tell me truly;
For dead or living still he is mine all,
And let me have him.
Like a fell'd sapling; lead her from the field.
(Exeunt Mother and Sec. Cairl.)
First Cairl. But who comes now, with such distracted gait,
Tossing her snowy arms unto the wind,
And gazing wildly o'er each mangled corse?
(Enter a Young Woman searching distractedly amongst the dead.)
Young Wom. No, no! thou art not here! thou art not here!
Yet if thou be like these I shall not know thee.
Oh! if they have so gash'd thee o'er with wounds
And marr'd thy comely form! I'll not believe it.
Until these very eyes have seen thee dead,
These very hands have press'd on thy cold heart,
I'll not believe it.
Third Cairl. Ah, gentle maiden! many a maiden's love,
And many a goodly man lies on this field.
Young Wom. I know, too true it is, but none like him.
Liest thou, indeed, amongst those grisly heaps?
O thou who ever wert of all most fair!
If heaven hath suffer'd this, amen, amen!
Whilst I have strength to crawl upon the earth
I'll search thee out, and be where'er thou art,
Thy mated love, e'en with the grisly dead.
(Searching again amongst the dead she perceives the band round the arm of the fallen Warriour, and uttering a loud shriek falls senseless upon the ground. The Cairls run to her assistance, with Ethelbert and Hereulf, who come forward from the place they had withdrawn to; Hereulf clenching his hand and muttering curses upon Mollo's son, as he crosses the stage. The scene closes.)
SCENE III. A castle not far from the field of battle. Enter Ethwald and Alwy, talking as they enter.
Ethw. (calling angrily to some one off the stage.)
And see they do not linger on the road,
With laggard steps; I will brook no delay.
(to Alwy.) Why, even my very messengers, of late,
Slothful and sleepy footed have become;
Alwy. Your highness seems disturb'd.
What tho' your arms, amidst those British hills,
Have not, as they were wont, victorious prov'd,
And home retreating, even on your own soil,
You've fought a doubtful battle: luckless turns
Will often cross the lot of greatest kings;
Let it not so o'ercome your noble spirit.
Ethw. Thinkest thou it o'ercomes me?
(rising up proudly.)
Thou judgest poorly. I am form'd to yield
To no opposed pressure, nor my purpose
With crossing chance or circumstance to change.
I, in my march to this attained height,
Have moved still with an advancing step
Direct and onward.
But, now the mountain's side more rugged grows,
And he, who would the cloudy summit gain,
Must oft into its cragged rents descend
The higher but to mount.
Alwy. Or rather say, my Lord, that having gain'd
Its cloudy summit, there you must contend
With the rude tempests that do beat upon it.
Ethw. (smiling contemptuously.)
Is this thy fancy? are thy thoughts of Ethwald
So poorly limited, that thou dost think
He has attained to his grandeur's height?
Know that the lofty point which oft appears,
To him who stands beneath, the mountain's top,
Is, to the daring climber who hath reach'd it,
Only a breathing place, from whence he sees
Its real summit, bright and heaven illum'd.
Towering majestic, grand, above him far
As is the lofty spot on which he stands
To the dull plain below.
The British once subdued, Northumberland,
Thou seest well, could not withstand our arms.
It too must fall; and with such added strength,
What might not be achiev'd? Ay, by this arm!
All that the mind suggests, even England's crown,
United and entire. Thou gazest on me.
I know full well the state is much exhausted
Of men and means; and those curs'd Mercian women
To cross my purposes, with hag-like spite,
Do nought but females bear. But I will onward.
Still, conscious of its lofty destination,
My spirit swells and will not be subdued.
Alwy. I, chidden, bow, and yield with admiration
Unto the noble grandeur of your thoughts.
But lowering clouds arise; events are adverse;
Crush thy leagued secret enemies at home,
And reign securely o'er the ample realm
You have so bravely won.
Ethw. What, have I thro' the iron fields of war,
Proudly before th' admiring gaze of men,
Unto this point with giant steps held on,
Now to become a dwarf? Have I this crown
In bloody battles won, mocking at death,
To wear it now as those to whom it comes
By dull and leaden paced inheritance?
As the dead shepherd's scrip and knotted crook
Go to his milk-fed son? Like those dull images,
On whose calm, tamed brows the faint impression
Of far preceding heroes faintly rests,
As the weak colours of a fading rainbow
On a spent cloud?
I'd rather in the centre of the earth
Inclosed be to dig my upward way
To the far distant light, than stay me thus,
And, looking round upon my bounded state,
Say, this is all. No; lowr it as it may,
I'll to the bold aspirings of my mind
Still steady prove, whilst that around my standard
Harness doth clatter, or a falchion gleam.
Alwy. What boot the bold aspirings of the great,
When secret foes beneath his footsteps work
Their treach'rous mine?
Ethw. Ay, thou before hast hinted of such foes.
Alwy. Fear for your safety, king, may make me err:
But these combined chiefs, it is full plain,
Under the mask of zeal for public good,
Do court with many wiles your people's hearts;
Breathing into their ears the praise of peace,
Yea, and of peaceful kings. The thralled Edward,
Whose prison-tower stands distant from this castle
But scarce a league
Ethw. (starting.) Is it so near us?
Alwy. It is, my Lord.
Nor is he so forgotten in the land,
But that he still serves their dark purpose well.
An easy gentle prince—so brave yet peaceful—
With such impressions clogg'd your soldiers fight,
And therefore 'tis that with a feeble foe
Ethwald fights doubtful battles.
Ethw. Thou art convinced of this?
Alwy. Most perfectly.
Ethw. I too have had such thoughts, and have repress'd them.
Alwy. Did not those base petitioners for peace
Withhold their gather'd forces, till beset
On ev'ry side they saw your little army,
Already much diminish'd? then came they,
Like heaven commission'd saviours, to your aid,
And drew unto themselves the praise of all.
This plainly speaks, your glory with disgrace
They fain would dash to set their idol up;
For well they think, beneath the gentle Edward
To lord it proudly, and his gen'rous nature
Has won their love and pity. Ethelbert,
Now that such fair occasion offers to them,
May well the prisoner's escape effect:
He lacks not means.
Ethw. (after a thoughtful pause.)
Didst thou not say that castle's foggy air,
And walls with dampness coated, to young blood
Are hostile and creative of disease?
In close confinement he has been full long;
Is there no change upon him?
Alwy. Some hardy natures will resist all change,
(A long pause, in which Ethwald seems thoughtful and disturbed.)
Ethw. (abruptly.)
Once in the roving fantasies of night
Methought I slew him.
Alwy. Dreams, as some think, oft shew us things to come.
(Another long pause, in which Ethwald seems greatly disturbed, and stands fixed to one spot, till catching Alwy's eye fastened stedfastly upon his, he turns from him abruptly, and walks to the bottom of the stage with hasty strides. Going afterwards to the door, he turns suddenly round to Alwy just as he is about to go out.)
Ethw. What Thane was he, who in a cavern'd vault,
His next of kin so long imprison'd kept,
Whilst on his lands he lived?
Alwy. Yes, Ruthal's Thane he was; but dearly he
The dark contrivance rued; fortune at last
The weary thrall reliev'd, and ruin'd him.
Ethw. (agitated.) Go where thy duty calls thee: I will in:
My head feels strangely; I have need of rest.
(Exit.
Alwy. (Looking after him with a malicious satisfaction.)
Ay, dark perturbed thoughts will be thy rest,
I see the busy workings of thy mind.
The gentle Edward has not long to mourn
His earthly thraldom. I have done my task,
And soon shall be secure; for whilst he lives,
And Ethelbert, who hates my artful rise,
I live in jeopardy. (Exit.
SCENE IV. A small dark passage, enter Ethwald with a lamp in his hand; enter at the same time, by the opposite side, a domestic Officer; they both start back upon seeing one another.
Ethw. Who art thou?
Offi. Baldwin, my Lord. But mercy on my sight!
Your face is strangely alter'd. At this hour
Awake, and wand'ring thus.—Have you seen aught?
Ethw. No, nothing. Know'st thou which is Alwy's chamber?
I would not wake my grooms.
Offi. It is that farther door; I'll lead you to it.
(pointing off the stage.)
Ethw. No, friend. I'll go myself. Good rest to thee. (Exeunt.
SCENE V. A small dark chamber, with a low couch near the front of the stage, on which Alwy is discovered asleep. Enter Ethwald with a haggard countenance, bearing a lamp.
Ethw. He sleeps—I hear him breathe—he soundly sleeps.
Seems not this circumstance to check my purpose,
And bid me still to pause? (setting down the lamp.)
But wherefore pause?
This deed must be, or, like a scared thief
Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store
At ev'ry breezy whisper of the night,
I now must wear this crown, which I have bought
With brave men's blood, in fields of battle shed.
Ah! would that all it cost had there been shed!
This deed must be; for like a haggard ghost
His image haunts me wheresoe'er I move,
And will not let me rest.
His love hath been to me my bosom's sting;
His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a worm.
Oh would a sweltring snake had wreath'd my neck
When first his arms embraced me!
He is by fortune made my bane, my curse,
And, were he gentle as the breast of love,
I needs must crush him.
Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives one
Whom Ethwaid fears. Alas! this thing must be,
From th' imaged form of which I still have shrunk,
And started back as from my fancy's fiend.
The dark and silent cope of night is o'er us,
When vision'd horrours, thro' perturbed sleep,
Harden to deeds of blood the dreamer's breast;
When from the nether world fell demons rise
To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's way:
I'll wake him now; should morning dawn upon me
My soul again might from its purpose swerve.
(in a loud energetic voice.)
Alwy, awake! Sleepest thou? sleepest thou, Alwy?
(Alwy wakes.) Nay, rouse thyself, and be thou fully waking.
What I would say must have thy mind's full bent;
Must not be spoken to a drowsy ear.
Alwy. (rising quickly.) I fully am awake; I hear, I see,
As in the noon of day.
Ethw. Nay, but thou dost not,
Thy gairish eye looks wildly on the light,
Like a strange visitor.
Alwy. So do the eyes of one pent in the dark,
When sudden light breaks on them, tho' he slept not.
But why, my Lord, at this untimely hour
Are you awake, and come to seek me here?
Ethw. Alwy, I cannot sleep: my mind is toss'd
With many warring thoughts. I am push'd on
To do the very act from which my soul
Has still held back; fate doth compel me to it.
Alwy. Being your fate, who may its power resist?
Ethw. E'en call it so, for it, in truth, must be.
Know'st thou one who would do a ruthless deed,
And do it pitifully?
Alwy. He who will do it surest does it best;
And he who surely strikes, strikes quickly too,
And therefore pitifully strikes. I know
A brawny ruffian, whose firm clenched gripe
No struggles can unlock, whose lifted dagger,
True to its aim, gives not a second stroke!
Ethw. (covering his face hastily.) Oh! must it needs be so!
(catching Alwy eagerly by the arm.) But hark thee well;
I will have no foul butch'ry done upon him.
Alwy. It shall be done, e'en to the smallest tittle,
As you yourself shall order.
Ethw. Nay, nay! do thou contrive the fashion of it,
I've done enough.
Alwy. But good, my Lord! cast it not from you thus:
There must be warrant and authority
For such a deed, and strong protection too.
Ethw. Well, well, thou hast it all; thou hast my word.
Alwy. Ay, but the murder'd corse must be inspected,
That no deceit be fear'd, nor after doubts;
Nor bold impostors rising in the North,
Protected by your treach'rous Thanes, and plum'd,
To scare you afterwards with Edward's name.
Ethw. Have not thine eyes on bloody death oft look'd?
Do it thy self.
Alwy. If you, my Lord, will put this trust in me,
Swear that when after-rumours shall arise,
As like there may, your faith will be unshaken.
I will trust no man's vision but mine own.
Is the moon dark to night?
Alwy. It is an please you.
Ethw. And will be so to-morrow?
Alwy. Yes, my Lord.
Ethw. When all is still'd in sleepI hear a noise.
Alwy. Regard it not, it is the whisp'ring winds
Along those pillar'd walls.
Ethw. It is a strange sound, tho'. Come to my chamber,
I will not here remain: Come to my chamber,
And do not leave me till the morning break.
I am a wretched man!
(Exeunt.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.