Dramas (Baillie)/The Phantom/Act 1

by Joanna Baillie

THE PHANTOM.

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ACT I.

SCENE I.—A green Lawn, surrounded with Rocks, and Mountains seen in the distance. An assembly of Highlanders are discovered, holding bridal revelry; Bagpipes playing, and a noise of Voices heard, as the Curtain draws up.

Enter Allen.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Welcome, brave Allen! we began to fear

The water-kelpy, with her swathing arms,
Had drowned thee at the ford.

SECOND HIGHLANDER.

Faith did we, man! thee and thy shelty too.

ALLEN.

Am I so late? There's time enough, I hope,

To foot a measure with the bonnie bride,

And maidens too.—'T is well I'm come at all:
I met the ill-eyed carlin on my way.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

And suffered scathe by her?

ALLEN.

⁠Ay, scathe enough;

My shelty, in the twinkling of an eye,
Became so restive, neither switch nor heel
Could move him one step further.

SECOND HIGHLANDER.

And so you were obliged to come on foot?

ALLEN.

What could I do? It was not with the beast

I held contention, but the evil spell
Of that untoward witch.—Ay, but for that,
I would defy the wildest four-legg'd thing
In all Lochaber so to master me!

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Well, well; the pipes are playing merrily,—

Make up lost time as fleetly as thou canst.

ALLEN.

And so I will; for here are rosy partners,

Ribbon'd and cockernonied*^[1], by my faith!

Like very queens. They make, here as I stand,
Each garter'd leg to thrill, and toes to tickle.

(Seizing one of a group of Girls, advancing from the Dancers on the bottom of the Stage.)

Come, winsome Jean! I'll have a reel with thee.

Look not so coy: where did I meet thee last?
We have not had a merry-making here
Since Duncan Mory's latewake.*^[2]

JEAN.

Say nought of latewakes here, I warn ye well:

Wot ye who is the bridesmaid?

ALLEN.

Some gentle dame, belike.

JEAN.

⁠Some gentle dame!

Dumbarton Mary, with her Lowland airs.

ALLEN.

Ay! she that look'd so stern, and said it was

A savage thing, or some such word as that,
To dance at old Glen Lyon's funeral.—
But, could the laird himself have raised his head,
He with his ivory stick had rapp'd her pate
For marring with her mincing gentleness

The decent bravery of his last rouse.—
Come, let us have a merry reel together.

[They mix with Dancers, who now advance to the front, where a bumpkin, or dance of many interwoven reels, is performed; after which the Bride is led to a seat, and some of her Maidens sit by her.]

BRIDEGROOM.

Now, while the bride and bonnie maidens all

Take needful rest, we'll pass the cheering cup.
And, Rory of Glenoruch, clear thy throat,
And sing some merry song, meet for a wedding,
Where all are boon and gay.

BRIDE.

O, never mind for that! give us the song

Which thou wert wont on Clachen braes to sing,
And we to praise. Thou know'st the song I mean.

RORY.

On bridal day the bride must be obey'd:

But 'tis a song devised for gentle folks,
Made by the youthful laird of Ballamorin,
And not for common clansfolk like ourselves.

BRIDE.

But let us have it, ne'ertheless, good Rory;

It shows how sweetly thwarted lovers meet
O' moonlight nights, and talk of happy times

Which fortune has in store for faithful hearts
The silliest moorland herd can follow that.

RORY.

Then be it as you please; I'll do my best.

SONG.

I've seen the moon gleam through the cave,
    And minute drops like diamonds glancing;
I've seen, upon a heaving wave,
    The tressy-headed mermaid dancing:
But ne'er was seen, in summer night,
    Beneath the moon, in brightness riding,
A moving thing, to charm the sight,
Like Flora to her Malcolm gliding.

I've heard a pibroch, through the wind,
    As absent chief his home was nearing;
A half-stripp'd infant, sweetly kind,
    With mimic words its mother cheering:
But ne'er were evening sounds so sweet,
    As, near the spot of promise stealing,
The quick, soft tread of Flora's feet,
    Then whisper'd words, herself revealing.

My boat I've fastened to the stake,
    And on the shelly beach am pacing,
While she is passing moor and brake,
    On heather braes her shadow tracing;
And here we'll pass a happy hour,
    For hours and years of bliss preparing,
When we shall grace our girdled tower,
    Lands, life, and love together sharing.

Enter Culloch.

ALLEN.

Ha! our young chief must be return'd, for here

Comes Culloch, with his staring freckled face.

OMNES (gathering round Culloch).

Well, man; what are thy news? where hast thou been?

CULLOCH.

We've been at Glasgow.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

⁠Glasgow! Save us all!

ALLEN (half aside to First Highlander).

I doubt it not: his master, I hear say,

Goes oftener there than his good father wots of;
Ay, or his sister either. I suspect
There is some dainty lady——

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

⁠Hush! say nothing.

ALLEN.

And so, brave Culloch, thou hast travell'd far:

And what is Glasgow like?

CULLOCH.

Like all Drumleary craigs set up in rows,

And chimneys smoking on the top of them.
It is an awful sight!

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

And what saw'st thou besides the craigs and chimneys?

CULLOCH.

There be six kirks,—I told them on my fingers;

And, rising from the slates of every kirk,
There is a tower, where great bells ring so loud,
That you might hear them, standing on this sward,
Were they on great Benlawers.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Tut! tut! thy ears are better than thy wits.

BRIDE.

And saw'st thou any silken ladies there,

With all their bravery on?

CULLOCH.

Ay, ladies, gentlemen, and red-coat soldiers,

And plaided drovers, standing at the cross,
As close as heather stalks on Hurroch moss.
Ah! well I trow it is an awful place!

ALLEN (aside as before).

And well I trow the chief has business there

He wishes no observer to discover,
When he, of all the idle household loons,
Took such an oaf as Culloch to attend him.
But I'll e'en go, before he join the dance,
And have a private word of him, to favour
My poor old mother in her ruin'd cot.

I know full well he will not say me nay,
Though the old laird himself be cold and close.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Go, then, and speed thee well!

⁠[Exit Allen.

BRIDEGROOM.

Hear, bonnie lassies! the young laird himself

Will soon be here, and foot it with you featly.

OLD WOMAN.

O, bless his comely face! among ye all

There is not one that foots the floor like him,—
With such a merry glee and manly grace!

BRIDEGROOM.

We'll have no further dancing till he come.

Meantime, good Rory, sing another song;
Both bride and maidens like thy chanting well:
And those who list may join the chorus rhyme.

SONG.

Upon her saddle's quilted seat,
    High sat the bonnie Lowland bride;
Squires rode before, and maidens sweet
    Were gently ambling by her side.
What makes her look so pale and wan?—
She's parted from her Highlandman.
        What makes her look, &c.

Where'er they pass'd, at every door
    Stood maids and wives the sight to see;
Curs bark'd, and bairnies by the score
    Ran bawling loud and merrily.
But still the bride looks dull and wan;
    She's thinking of her Highlandman.
        But still the bride, &c.

The Lowland laird, in bridegroom's gear,
    Prick'd forth to meet the fair array;
His eye was bright, his voice was clear,
    And every word was boon and gay.
Ah! little did he reckon then
Of bold and burly Highlandmen.
        Ah! little did he reckon, &c.

The bride she raised her drooping brow,
    And red as crimson turn'd her cheek.—
What sound is that? The war-pipe now
    Descending from yon broomy peak.
It sounds like marching of a clan;
O can it be her Highlandman!
        It sounds like, &c.

Their bonnets deck'd with heather green,
    Their shoulders broad with tartans bound,
Their checker'd hose were plainly seen
    Right fleetly moving to the sound.
Quick beat her heart, within a ken,
To see the valiant Highlandmen.
        Quick beat her heart, &c.

Now challenge-shout is heard, and soon
    The bare claymores are flashing bright;
And off scour'd many a Lowland loon,
Who ill could brook the fearful sight.

"The fiend," quoth they, "from cave and glen
Has pour'd those stalwart Highlandmen.
        "The fiend," quoth they, &c.

Then pistols from their holsters sprang,
    Then wax'd the skirmish fierce and hot,
Blades clashing fell, and harness rang,
    And loudly bluster'd fire and shot;
For, sooth to say, the bridegroom then
Full bravely meet the Highlandmen.
        For, sooth to say, &c.

And so did all his near o' kin,
    As Lowland race such stour may bide:
But sank, at last, the mingled din,
    And where was then the bonnie bride?
Ay, ask at those who answer can;
Ask at the cunning Highlandman.
        Ay, ask at those, &c.

The bridegroom, in a woeful plight,
    Back to his furnish'd hall has gone,
Where, spread on boards so gaily dight,
    Cold has the wedding banquet grown.
How changed since break of morning, when
He thought not of the Highlandmen!
        How changed since, &c.

And who, upon Benledi's side,
    Beneath his shieling blest and gay,
Is sitting by that bonnie bride,
    While round them moves the light strathspey?
It is the flower of all his clan,—
It is her gallant Highlandman.
        It is the flower, &c.

Re-enter Allen, snapping his fingers, and footing the ground, as he speaks.

ALLEN.

I've seen him, Sirs; I have had words of him.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Had words of whom?

ALLEN.

⁠Of the young laird himself.

OMNES.

Hast thou? and is he coming to the green?

ALLEN.

He bade me say he'll join you in the evening.

OMNES.

And not till then?

ALLEN.

⁠Some strangers have arrived.

And I have seen them too: the lady's mounted
Upon a milk-white nag; and o'er her saddle
A scarlet cloth is spread, both deep and wide,
With bobs and fringes deck'd right gallantly;
And in her riding gear she sits with grace
That might become the daughter of a chief,
Ay, or the king himself.

FIRST HIGHLANDER.

Perhaps it is the Glasgow provost's daughter,

Who is, as they have said, the very match
Which our old laird is planning for his son.

ALLEN.

Ay, he may plan, but love will have its way,—

Free, fitful love thinks scorn of prudent planning.
No, young Dunarden went not to the town,
With simple Culloch for his sole attendant,
To see the provost's daughter.

BRIDE (to Allen).

And so he will not join us till the evening?

ALLEN.

No, damsels; but here's ribands for the bride,

And for ye all, which he has sent by me.
Now they who have the nimblest hands amongst ye,
Will catch their favourite colours as they fly.

(Pulls out ribands from his pouch, and dances about in a whirling figure to the bottom of the Stage, strewing about pieces of ribands, while the Girls follow, to catch them as they fall.)

⁠[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Hall in the Tower of Dunarden.

Enter Dunarden and Marian.

DUNARDEN (Speaking as they enter).

In sooth, she well may grace a noble mansion,

Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince,
Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood.
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him,
He must be ill to win. And by my faith!
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady,
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits,
So frequent and so long, have been devoted.

MARIAN.

Ah, no! I fear another has his heart,—

His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.

DUNARDEN.

And if it should be so, will nothing please him

But the top-flower of beauty and perfection?
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,

Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well.
Why dost thou shake thy head?

MARIAN.

What might be, and what is, stand far apart,

When age and youth on the same objects look.

DUNARDEN.

Was I not young, when, of thy grandsire's daughters,

I chose the fairest, and was plainly told
Her heart and hand were promised to another?
But did I then perversely mope and pine?
No, I trow not: I cleared my cloudy brow,
And wooed the second fairest, thy poor mother.

MARIAN.

So will not he.

DUNARDEN.

⁠Why so: belike he will not,

If thou abet his folly, as, methinks,
Thou art inclined to do.

MARIAN.

No, father; not inclined: I shall regret

As much as you, if any prepossession
Prevent him from approving this fair maid,
Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging.

DUNARDEN.

Out on thy prepossessions! Younger sons,

Who may be soldiers, sailors, drovers, ay,
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city,
To scour the world. But for the elder born,
Who must uphold the honours of the race,—
His ancient race,—he is not thus at liberty
To please a youthful fancy.

MARIAN.

But yet, dear Sir, you may be ignorant——

DUNARDEN.

What! am I ignorant? Do I not know

The world sufficiently to guide and counsel
Those through whose body my own blood is flowing?
Not many men have had more opportunity
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it
To some account; at least I fain would think so.
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest,
In Glasgow many times, in London once;
And I, forsooth, am ignorant!

MARIAN.

⁠Dear father!

You would not hear me out: I did not mean
That you were ignorant of aught belonging
To worldly wisdom; but his secret heart,
As I have said before, his prepossessions——

DUNARDEN.

And what has he to do with prepossessions?

He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth,
Since he, with his unceasing liberalities,
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies,
But he must have appointed for his widow
A house, with right of browsing for her goats,
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge.
The bedrid carlins, too, and orphan brats,
Come all on me, through his petitioning;
And I, God help me! have been weak enough
To grant such suits too often.

MARIAN.

You will not say so on your dying day,

DUNARDEN.

For that, indeed, it may be well enough;

But for our living days, I needs must say,
It doth not suit at all.—If he were frugal,
And would with care lay up what is our own;
Having some hoarded store, he might more reasonably
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it.

MARIAN.

Nay, be not angry with him.

DUNARDEN.

⁠Angry with him!

Such want of reason would provoke a saint!
Is he to spend the rents with open hand,

Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask;
And please himself besides, by an alliance
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and bloom
To pay the yearly charges of her state?

MARIAN.

We do not know her yet, and cannot say

That she is poor.

DUNARDEN.

⁠But we may shrewdly guess.

Else why those stealthy visits,—this concealment?
Oh, 't is provoking! This, our Provost's daughter
Is just the match that would have suited us,—
That would support our house, and clear our lands,
And he, forsooth! I'll cast him from my favour!

MARIAN.

I know you will not.

DUNARDEN.

⁠Lady Achinmore,

If he persist I'll say and do it too.
His prepossessions truly! mighty plea!

Supported, too, by Lady Achinmore. (Walking in wrath to the other end of the hall.)

MARIAN (aside).

I'll hold my tongue, and let the storm subside;

For when he calls me Lady Achinmore,
Reply is worse than useless.

DUNARDEN (returning).

Methinks the lady tarries in her chamber.

MARIAN.

To lay aside her travelling attire,

And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on,
Requires some time.

DUNARDEN.

And where is Malcolm? Surely he should be

In readiness, for very decency,
To bid a stranger lady welcome here.

MARIAN.

He will appear ere long, and is, perhaps,

Attending on her brother.

DUNARDEN.

⁠No, he is not.

I saw young Denison walk forth alone,
As if to look for him.

MARIAN.

⁠Here comes the lady.

Enter Alice.

DUNARDEN.

Ah, gentle lady! were I half the man

That once I was, (how many years gone by
We shall not say,) you should to this poor hold,—
To these old walls which your fair presence brightens,
A rousing welcome have. But times are changed,
And fashion now makes all things dull and spiritless.

ALICE.

My welcome, as it is, gives me such pleasure,

I will not think of what it might have been.
Your daughter has received me with a kindness
Which has already freed me from restraint,
And given me courage to express my pleasure.

MARIAN (to her).

Thanks to thee, gentle friend! so may I call thee,

Knowing so well thy worth. Might we retain thee
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim.

DUNARDEN.

Some weeks! We'll try to turn those weeks to months,

And then, who knows but that our mountain soil

May ev'n prove warm enough for Lowland flower
Therein to flourish sweetly.

ALICE.

Thanks, noble Sir; but we must go to-morrow.

DUNARDEN.

So soon! the daughter of my early friend

Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp,
Glancing and vanishing! It must not be.
Were I but half the man that once I was,
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand.
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer,
Or leave his charge behind him.

ALICE.

Nay, blame him not: it was his own good will

Which made him from our nearest homeward route,
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside,
To pay his father's friend a passing visit;
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow,
So rumour said.

DUNARDEN.

⁠I thank his courtesy;

But, if my name be Fergus of Dunarden,
Neither the morrow, nor next morrow's morrow
Shall see thee quit my tower. I'll go and find him,

And tell him thou thyself art captive here,
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty,
And shalt not be released.⁠ [Exit.

MARIAN.

Thou seest how gallantly old hearts will warm

At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee:
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty,
Where I would rather yield a sister's love.

ALICE.

These words of kindness! Oh, you will undo me

With so much kindness! (Bursts into tears.)

MARIAN.

Dear, gentle creature! Have I given thee pain?

I have unwittingly——

ALICE.

⁠——Done nought amiss.

I have a silly weakness in my nature;
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect,
But kindness makes me weep.

MARIAN.

And can it be that coldness or neglect

Should e'er be thine to bear?

ALICE.

Better than me have borne it.

MARIAN.

Better than thou! In all your stately city,

Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

ALICE.

Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature,

Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.

MARIAN.

And if there be, conceit will mar it all:

For too much homage, like the mid-day sun,
Withers the flower it brightens.

ALICE.

It may be so with others, not with her.

MARIAN.

Thou lovest her then?

ALICE.

⁠O, yes! I love her dearly;

And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep,
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!

MARIAN (taking her hands affectionately).

⁠Sweet Alice! why so moved?

ALICE.

'T is my infirmity: I am a fool,

And should not go from home, so to expose
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

MARIAN (embracing her).

Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed

That which the more endears thee to my heart;
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less.
But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

ALICE.

Thy brother?

MARIAN.

⁠No; thine own,—thy brother Claude.

Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice composes herself, and endeavours to look cheerful.

MALCOLM.

Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains!

Which, as your brother tells me, you admire,
In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

ALICE.

He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,

With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd,
Have less variety than their bare sides.

MALCOLM.

Yes, when fleet shadows of the summer clouds,

Like staghounds on the chase, each other follow
Along their purple slopes; or when soft haze
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly grey,
Through the slight rents of which the sunshine steals,
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones,
Like spots of polish'd beauty,—they appear
Objects of varied vision most attractive.

ALICE.

Then, to behold them in their winter guise,

As I have never done!

MALCOLM.

You might then see their forms enlarged and dark,

Through the dim drapery of drifted rain,
Like grim gigantic chieftains in array,
Bidding defiance to approaching host;
Or lifting their black shoulders o'er the mass
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base,
Which seem like islands raised above the earth
In purer regions of the firmament.

ALICE.

And then how sweet the bushy glens between them,

Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks and streams,
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!

MALCOLM.

Where low-roof'd cots, with curling smoke are seen,

Each with its little stack of winter fuel,
And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near;
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will,
Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting
Amongst the yellow broom.

CLAUDE.

Pray thee have done, good Malcolm; thou wilt fill

This girl's fancy with romantic visions,
Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields
Of her own country seem insipid things.

MARIAN (to Claude).

One thing, you would observe, he has omitted

In the description of his bonnie glen,—
The cottage matron, with her cumb'rous spade,
Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door,
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.

MALCOLM.

Well, freely I confess our mountain matrons

In useful virtues do excel their mates;
And in what earthly region is it otherwise?

CLAUDE.

I dare not contradict thee, and be deemed

Ungallant for my pains.

Enters a Servant, and delivers a packet to Claude.

ALICE.

⁠Is it from Glasgow?

Is there within the cover aught for me?

CLAUDE.

There is a letter with thy name upon it.

⁠(Malcolm withdraws some paces from her.)
 

ALICE.

Which, ne'ertheless, thou keepest to thyself

With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing.
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknown?

CLAUDE (giving the letter).

No, not unknown.

ALICE.

It is from Emma Graham (to Marian), and with your leave,

I'll read it by this window. (Turns rounds and starts upon finding Malcolm close to her.)

MARIAN.

Why do you start?

ALICE.

⁠I knew not he was near me.

MALCOLM (in confusion).

I crave your pardon: 't was unwittingly;

I scarcely know myself why I returned.

[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as she reads it to herself.]

MALCOLM (to Alice, who seems to have come to the conclusion).

Your friends are well, I hope; all's well in Glasgow?

ALICE.

She says a deadly fever rages there,

And nought is seen along their dismal streets
But funeral processions; nothing heard
But death-bells tolling, and the hammer's sound
Nailing in haste the corse's narrow house.

MALCOLM (agitated).

And she herself amidst this wreck of life!

ALICE.

She is, ere this, removed from the contagion;

For these concluding lines inform me plainly,
That she and all her family were prepared

To leave the town upon the following day
To that on which her letter has its date.

MALCOLM (eagerly).

I thank thee, Alice.

CLAUDE (peevishly).

Wherefore dost thou thank her?

MALCOLM (haughtily).

Whatever thou hast a right to ask of me

Shall have its answer.

MARIAN (to Claude).

When Highland pride is touch'd, some lack of courtesy

Must be excused. You have not from this window
Admired the falling of our mountain stream.

(Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains him there in apparent conversation.)

MALCOLM (in a softened voice).

So, gentle Alice, thou'rt in friendship knit

With Emma Graham! and meet companions are ye! (Looking closer to the letter, which she still holds open in her hand.)

Forgive me; Lowland ladies far surpass,

As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids:
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited.

ALICE (putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then recovering herself).

No; why should I withhold it from thine eye;

For still the sweet expressions from her pen
Excel the beauty of its characters.
⁠(Gives it to him.)

Peruse it then, (aside, as she turns from him) while I peruse myself.

MALCOLM (returning the letter, after having read it).

Thou art in tears, sweet Alice; has thy mind

Some boding apprehensions for her safety?

ALICE.

No, God forbid! I have a feeble body,

The worn-out case of a more feeble mind,
And oft will weep for nothing. Heed me not.

MALCOLM.

No, say not so: thy mind and body both

Are lovely yoke-fellows, and will together—
God grant it be so! hold their prosperous course
For many years. (Seeing her endeavours to speak.)
⁠Strive not to answer me;
This wish, though most sincere, deserves no thanks.

Enter Dunarden, followed by Servants, carrying dishes of meat, &c.

DUNARDEN.

Come, honour'd guests, the first dish of our meal,

Poor though it be, is passing to the board;
Shall we not follow it? Although, in verity,
I am ashamed that such a poor reception
Is offered to such friends.

MARIAN.

Dear Sir, they will forgive what things are lacking,

The heart's kind cheer not being of the number.

DUNARDEN (to Alice).

Had I had timely notice of your coming,

I had sent messengers for thirty miles,
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours;
And tables had been cover'd in this hall,
Round which we should have held a merry feast.
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan:
So that our wings are clipt on every side.

ALICE.

Your courtesy is great: but surely, Sir,

A merry wedding well may make amends
For a lost feast, ev'n in Dunarden hall.

DUNARDEN.

And so it shall, fair Alice.—Pardon me

That I should be so bold to name you thus!
At fall of eve we'll join their merriment;
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance.
⁠(Taking her hand gallantly.)
I'll have thee all and solely to myself;

Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail,
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander
⁠(Pointing to Malcolm)
To be my substitute.—Come, gentles all!
By this soft lily hand let me conduct
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend;
My trysted partner too. Aha! aha!
⁠(Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step.)
⁠ [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Lobby or Entrance-room, with fire-arms, swords, and fishing tackle hung on the walls. Servants are seen passing to and fro with plaids and bundles of heath in their hands.

Enter Housekeeper.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Make all the speed ye may: in the long chamber

There must be twenty bed-frames quickly set,
And stuff'd with heather for the tacksmen; ay,
And for their women, in the further room,
Fourteen besides, with plaidings for them all.
The wedding folks have broken up their sport,
And will be here before we are prepared.

Enter the Butler.

BUTLER.

And what are twenty beds, when all the drovers,

And all the shieling herdsmen from Bengorach,
Must have a lair provided for the night.

HOUSEKEEPER.

And who says so?

BUTLER.

⁠E'en the young Laird himself.

HOUSEKEEPER.

'Tis always so; Dunarden's courtesy,

With all his honied words, cost far less trouble
Than young Dunarden's thoughtless kindness doth.
The foul fiend take them all! Have we got plaids
For loons like them!

BUTLER.

Faith, we at least must try to find them bedding.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Let each of them find on the green hill sward

The breadth of his own back, and that, I trow,
Is bed enough for them. Herdsmen, indeed!

⁠(Several Servants coming all about together.)
More plaids! more plaids! we have not yet enow.

Another Servant.

And Elspy says the gentle folks must have

Pillows and other gear.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Out on ye! clamouring round me with your wants,

Like daws about the ruined turret! think ye
That I——I am distracted with you all!

BUTLER (aside).

And with some cups of good Ferntosh besides.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Howe'er the shieling herdsmen may be lodged,

I have provided for the Lowland strangers
Right handsomely.

BUTLER.

The bed of state, no doubt, is for the lady,

And for the gentleman the arras chamber.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Thou art all wrong: the arras is so ragged,

And bat holes in the cornice are so rife,
That Lady Achinmore bade me prepare
His lodging in the north side of the tower,
Beside Dunarden's chamber.

BUTLER.

They leave the house to-morrow, waiting only

To take a social breakfast. My best wine
And good Ferntosh must be upon the table,
To which the beef and fish, and old ewe cheese
Will give a relish. And your pretty playthings
Of china saucers, with their fairy cups,

In which a wren could scarcely lay her egg,—
Your tea-pot, pouring from its slender beak
Hot water, as it were some precious drug,
Must be, for fashion's sake, set in array
To please the Lowland lady.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Mind thy concerns, and I will look to mine.

My pretty playthings are in daily use,
As I hear say, in the great town of Edinburgh;
And 'tis a delicate and wholesome beverage
Which they are filled withal. I like, myself.
To sip a little of it.

BUTLER.

⁠Dainty dear!

No doubt thou dost; aught stronger would offend thee.
Thou would'st, I think, call rue or wormwood sweet,
Were it the fashion in your town of Edinburgh.
But, hark! the bridal folks are at the door;
We must not parley longer. [Music without.]
I hear their piper playing the "Good-night."

Enter Allen.

BUTLER.

They are at hand, I hear: and have ye had

A merry evening, Allen?

ALLEN.

⁠That we have.

Dunarden danced with that sweet Lowland lady,
As though it made him twenty years the younger.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Dunarden! Danced she not with young Dunarden,

Who is, so says report, her destined husband?

ALLEN.

Yes; at the end, for one dull reel or two

They footed it together. But, believe me,
If this rich Provost's daughter be not satisfied
With being wooed by substitute, which homage
The old laird offers her abundantly,
She'll ne'er be lady of this mansion; no,
Nor of her many, many thousand marks,
One golden piece enrich Dunarden's house.

HOUSEKEEPER.

Woe's me! our Malcolm is a wilful youth!

And Lady Achinmore would dance with Claude?

ALLEN.

She danced with him, and with the bridegroom also.

HOUSEKEEPER.

That, too, would be a match of furtherance

To the prosperity of our old house.

BUTLER.

But that she is a widow, and, I reckon,

Some years his elder, it might likely be.

HOUSEKEEPER.

And why should that be such a mighty hindrance?

ALLEN.

Fie, Butler! dost thou utter, in such presence,

Disqualifying words of age and widowhood?

HOUSEKEEPER.

You are mislearn'd and saucy, both of you.—

But now they are at hand.

Song without, of several Voices.

The sun is down, and time gone by,
The stars are twinkling in the sky,
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out a blythe but stinted day;
The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight,
We needs must part: good night, good night!

The bride unto her bower is sent,
And ribald song and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing floor is silent quite,
No foot bounds there: good night, good night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansmen in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hopes of days as bright
As this gone by: good night, good night!

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We'll have our pleasure o'er again,
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! good night, good night!

HOUSEKEEPER.

We've listened here too long: go all of you

And get the rooms prepared. My head's distracted!⁠[Exeunt all, different ways.

SCENE IV.

A Bed-chamber.

Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before them, carrying lights.

MARIAN.

You must be tired with all this noisy merriment

So closely following a lengthen'd journey,

ALICE.

To be amongst the happy and the kind

Keeps weariness at bay; and yet I own
I shall be glad to rest.

MARIAN.

And may you find it, sound and undisturb'd!

There is among our household damsels here,

A humble friend of yours, the child of one
Who was your father's servant.

ALICE.

Ha! little Jessie, once my playfellow,

And since well known to me, as the attendant
Of a relation, in whose house I found her,
Some two years past: a gentle, faithful creature.

MARIAN.

The same. She will attend upon you gladly,

And do what you require.—See, here she is.

Enter Jessie.

ALICE.

Jessie, my old acquaintance! I am glad

To find thee thus, domesticated happily
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well,
Since I last met with thee.

JESSIE.

⁠I thank you. Madam;

I am right well; and, were I otherwise,
To see you here would make me well again.

MARIAN (to Alice).

The greatest kindness I can show thee now,

Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare
For what thou need'st so much. (Kissing her.)
May sweet sound sleep refresh thee! Oh! it grieves me

To think that we must part with thee so soon;
And that ye are determined to return
To that infected city.

ALICE.

Be not afraid for us. We shall pass through it,

And only tarry for an hour or two.
Good night, and thanks for all your gentle kindness!
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart.
⁠[Exit Marian.
And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad,—
Right glad to see thee; but I'm tired and spent,
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak
As I was wont to do.

(Throws herself into a chairs whilst Jessie begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the ornaments.)

JESSIE.

I will prepare you for your bed, dear Madam,

As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning
Your strength and spirits too will be restored.

ALICE.

Thou'rt a good creature. Dost thou still remember

The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly?

SONG.

JESSIE (singing gaily).

My heart is light, my limbs are light,
    My purse is light, my dear;
Yet follow me, my maiden bright,
    In faith! thou need'st not fear.

The wallet on a rover's back
    Is scanty dower for thee.
But we shall have what lordies lack
    For all their golden fee.

The plume upon my bonnet bound,
    And broadsword by my side,
We'll follow to the war-pipe's sound,
    With fortune for our guide.

Light are my limbs, my purse, my heart,
    Yet follow me, my dear;
Bid Care good-bye, with kinsfolk part;
    In faith! thou need'st not fear.

ALICE.

I thank thee: that was once a favourite song.

I know not how it was; I liked it then
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune.
But there is one which I remember well,
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing;
Let me have that, I pray thee.

SONG.

They who may tell love's wistful tale,
    Of half its cares are lighten'd;
Their bark is tacking to the gale,
    The sever'd cloud is brighten'd.

Love like the silent stream is found
    Beneath the willows lurking,
The deeper, that it hath no sound
    To tell its ceaseless working.

Submit, my heart; thy lot is cast,
    I feel its inward token;
I feel this mis'ry will not last,
    Yet last till thou art broken.

ALICE.

Thou singest sweetly, ay, and sadly too,

Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie.

JESSIE (after having entirely undone her hair, and taken the fastenings from other parts of her dress).

Now, Madam, let me fetch your gown and coif.

ALICE.

I want no further service, my good Jessie,

I'll do the rest myself: and so, good night;
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks!

JESSIE.

Not yet good night; I will return again,

And take away the light.

ALICE.

Well; as thou wilt: but leave me for a while.

⁠[Exit Jessie.
This day, with all its trials, is at length
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart!
How is it with thee now? Thy fond delusions
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set.
We look upon them glowing in his blaze,
And sloping wood, and purple promontory,
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye:
What now remains but a few streaky fragments
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless?
⁠(After a thoughtful pause.)
There's rest when hope is gone—there should
be rest.
And when I think of her who is the cause,
Should I complain? To be preferred to her!
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself
Cannot behold but with an admiration
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy
Goes hand in hand with every gentle virtue
That woman may possess or man desire!—
The thought was childish imbecility.
Away, away! I will not weep for this.
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover

From this sad state of weakness. If she love him,
She'll make him happier far than I could do;
And if she love him not, there is good cause
That I should pity him; not selfishly
On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be;
But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears!

(Covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself back in her chair, in a state of abandonment).

Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the Phantom of a beautiful young Woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.

ALICE (raising her face).

Who's there?—Is there true vision in mine eyes? (Rising quickly, and going with open arms towards the Phantom.)

Dear Emma! dear, dear Emma! how is this,

That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour,
So many miles from home? Alas! that face
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look
Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly;
I dare approach no nearer, till I hear
Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?

PHANTOM.

A term, short as the passing of a thought,

Hath brought me from the chamber where my friends
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body,

ALICE.

And 'tis thy spirit which before mine eyes

Thy body's semblance wears: and thou art nothing
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle!
O look not on me with that fixed look!
Thou lov'st me still, else thou hadst not been here,
And yet I fear thee.

PHANTOM.

⁠Fear me not, dear Alice!

I yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass
That gulf which parts the living from the dead:
And I have words to utter which thine ear
Must listen to, thy mind retain distinctly.

ALICE.

Say what thou wilt; thou art a blessed spirit,

And cannot do me harm.—
I know it well; but let thy words be few;
The fears of nature are increasing on me.
⁠(Bending one knee to the ground.)
O God! Lord of all beings, dead and living!
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour!

PHANTOM.

And to thy fervent prayer I say, Amen.

Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures
Invest us now, we are the children still
Of one great Parent; thou in mortal weeds
Of flesh and blood; I in a state inexplicable
To human comprehension.—Hear my words.

ALICE.

I listen most intently.

PHANTOM.

The room in which I died, hath a recess

Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused
And now forgotten; in it stands a casket,
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it;
Open, and read the paper therein lodged.
When my poor body is to earth committed,
Do this without delay. And now, farewell!
I must depart.

ALICE.

Ah! whither, dearest Emma? Will a moment

Transport thee to Heaven's court of blessedness,
To extasy and glory?

PHANTOM.

These are presumptuous words. My place, appointed

In mercy to a weak and sinful creature,

I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet,
From sin, and fear, and doubt released for ever!
⁠[Exit.

[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the Phantom disappears, and then falls on the ground in a swoon. Presently re-enter Jessie.]

JESSIE.

Mercy upon us! lying on the ground!

Life is not gone; God grant it be not so!
Lady, dear lady! No; she does not hear.

(Endeavours in vain to raise her, then runs off in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking and calling at the door of another chamber.)

(Without.) Open the door! Rise, Lady Achinmore.

MARIAN (without).

I am not yet undress'd: what is the matter?

JESSIE (without).

Come to the lady's chamber: follow me.

MALCOLM (without, opening the door of his apartment).

What has befallen? Is any one unwell?

Re-enter Jessie, followed by Marian, who both run to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one supporting her head, while the other chafes her temples and the palms of her hands, &c.

MARIAN.

Support her drooping head, whilst from my closet

I fetch some water, and restoring drugs,
Whose potent smell revives suspended life.

MALCOLM (looking in upon them from the door).

O leave her not! I'll find whatever is wanting.

⁠[Exit.

MARIAN.

There is a little motion of her lip;

Her bosom heaves: thank God! life is not fled.
How long hadst thou been absent from the room?

JESSIE.

Some little time; and thought, on my return,

To find her gone to bed.

MARIAN.

How was she when thou left'st her?

JESSIE.

She was well then.

MARIAN.

⁠It hath been very sudden.

Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, &c.

MALCOLM (applying herbs to her nostrils, while Marian pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her temples and hands).

Life is returning; she is laid uneasily;

Let me support her on a stronger arm. (Taking her from Marian, and supporting her.)

There's motion on her lips, and on her eyelids.

Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes,
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core,
As the warm air of day by slow degrees
The closed leaves gently sever.—Yes; she moves.
How art thou now, sweet Alice?

MARIAN.

See, she looks up, and gazes on us too;

But, oh, how strangely!

MALCOLM.

Why do her eyes thus wander round the chamber?

(To Alice.) Whom dost thou seek for, Alice?

ALICE.

She's gone; I need not look; a mortal eye

Shall never, never look on her again.
⁠[A peal of thunder heard.]
Hear ye that sound? She is upon her way.

MARIAN.

What does she mean? It was a sultry night,

And threaten'd storm and lightning.

MALCOLM (to Alice).

Thou'st been asleep, and scarcely yet art waking,

Thy fancy is still busied with its dream.

ALICE (raising herself more, and looking towards the place where the Phantom disappeared).

It was no dream: upon that spot it stood;

I saw it,—saw it for a lengthen'd time,—
Saw it distinctively.

MALCOLM.

⁠Whom didst thou see?

No living creature could have enter'd here.

ALICE.

O would that it had been a living creature!

Her beauty was the beauty of a corse
Newly composed in death; yet her dark eyes
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me.

MALCOLM (hastily withdrawing his arms from her, and clasping his hands together in agony).

Thou hast seen Emma Graham!

ALICE (rousing herself).

Is Malcolm here? I am confused,—bewilder'd;

I know not what I've seen, or what I've said:
Perhaps it was a dream.

MALCOLM.

⁠It was no dream;

Or if it was, 't was one of sad import.
Oh, if it be!——there is distraction in it.
⁠(Tossing his arms, &c.)

MARIAN.

Dear brother! such wild gestures of despair,

For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!

MALCOLM.

It was not sleep from which we have revived her.

MARIAN.

And grant it were not, swooning, I've been told,

Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.

ALICE.

I was not well; I have been long unwell;

Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain;
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon.
Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm!
O that this vision did foretell my death,
If she were well and happy!

MALCOLM.

Forgive me, dearest Alice! O, forgive me!

When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself.

(Taking both her hands, which he presses to his lips.)

MARIAN.

Leave us, dear brother! go to thine apartment.

MALCOLM.

I'll go where yearning nature urges me.

⁠(Going, then returning again to Alice.)
And didst thou hear her voice?

Enter Claude.

CLAUDE.

Is Alice well? I heard a busy noise.

How art thou, sister?

ALICE.

⁠I have had a swoon,

But am recover'd from it. Go to rest.
⁠(Aside to Marian and Malcolm.)
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent!

MALCOLM (aside, to himself, as he goes off).

Is he so much concern'd? No, no, he is not:

He does not,—cannot feel what tortures me.

CLAUDE.

Dost thou avoid me, Malcolm? Dost thou think

That kindness to my sister can offend me?

MALCOLM.

I've other thoughts, which do no wrong to thee.

And owe thee no account.⁠[Exit.

CLAUDE (aside).

He is offended. (Aloud to Marian.) Thanks to you, dear madam!

For your kind care of Alice. Rest, I hope,

Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue
Of her long journey, and the evening pastime
Has been too much for one so delicate.
⁠(To Alice.)
Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd creature!
I trust to-morrow thou wilt wake refresh'd.

ALICE.

I hope so too, dear Claude; and so good night.

Remain no longer here. [Exit Claude.] I'm glad he's gone.
⁠[A peal of thunder as before.]
That awful sound again! she's on her way:
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm
To disembodied spirits.

MARIAN.

I may not leave thee here, my gentle friend;

In my apartment thou shalt pass the night.
Come then with me: I dare not leave thee here,
Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received
Some painful shock.—Rise: lean upon my arm.
⁠[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A rudely paved Court, with a low Building in front. The Stage perfectly dark, and thunder heard at a distance.

Enter Malcolm, who goes to the door of the building, and knocks.

MALCOLM.

Ho! Culloch! art thou waking? Rouse thee, Culloch!

I hear him snoring in his heavy sleep,

Press'd with the glutton feasting of the day.
⁠(Knocking louder than before.)
Canst thou not hear? Holla! ho! rouse thee, Culloch!
The heavy sluggard!—Ha! he's stirring now.
⁠(Laying his ear close to the door.)

CULLOCH (within).

Who's there?

MALCOLM.

⁠It is thy master?

CULLOCH.

⁠What is wanted?

It is not morning yet.

MALCOLM.

⁠That drawling voice!

He is not yet awake. (Very loud.) Rise, man, immediately:
Open the door, and do what I desire thee.
⁠(To himself after a short pause.)
Six hours upon my gallant steed will end
This agony of doubt.—I'll know my fate—
Joy or despair.——He is asleep again.
⁠(Knocking as before.)
Make haste, make haste, I say! inert and sluggish!
O that, like spirits, on the tempest borne,
The transit could be made! Alas! alas!
If what I fear hath happen'd, speed or stillness,

Or day or midnight,—every circumstance
Of mortal being will to me be nothing.
Not ready yet!—Ha! now I see the light.
⁠(Light seen from the window.)
Six hours of my brave steed, and if my fears
Are then confirm'd—forgive me, noble creature!
We'll lay our burdens down and die together.

(Enter Culloch slowly from the building, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a candle in the other.)

Haste, tardy creature! art thou sleeping still?

CULLOCH.

What is your honour's will? O hone! O hone!

It is a murky night.

MALCOLM.

⁠I know it is.

Unlock the stable door, and saddle quickly
My gallant Oscar. (Thunder again.)

CULLOCH.

⁠Does your honour hear it?

MALCOLM.

Hear what?

CULLOCH.

⁠The thunder growling o'er Benmore:

And that was lightning too that flared so fleetly:
The welkin's black as pitch.

MALCOLM.

And let it growl; and be the welkin pall'd

In sackcloth! To the spot where I am going
We'll find the way by instinct.—Linger not:
Do what I have desired thee instantly.

CULLOCH.

Ay, ay! the saddle upon Oscar's back.

The bran new saddle would your honour have?

MALCOLM.

Yes, fool, and set about it instantly.

⁠[Exit Culloch.
These dark and heavy bodings of my mind
Come from no natural bent of apprehension.
It must be so. Yet, be it dream or vision,
Unmeaning chance, or preternatural notice,
As oft hath been vouchsafed, if living seers
Or old tradition lie not,—this uncertainty
Ere morning dawn would drive my brain distracted,
Were I inactively to wait for day;
Therefore, to horse!
⁠(Thunder louder than before.)
That sound is in accordance with the storm
In this perturbed breast. Is it not ominous
Of that which soon shall strike me to the dust,
A blasted lonely remnant?—
Methinks he should ere this—time flies apace;
The listless sluggard must be urged to hasten
His so unwilling task.⁠[Exit hastily.

1. * Coil of hair on the top of the head.
2. * The watching of a corpse.