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TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES
This e-book contains the text of _Andre_, extracted from Representative
Plays by American Dramatists: Vol 1, 1765-1819. Comments and background to
all the plays and the other plays are available at Project Gutenberg.
Spelling as in the original has been preserved.
ANDRE
_By_
WILLIAM DUNLAP
[Illustration: WILLIAM DUNLAP]
WILLIAM DUNLAP:
FATHER OF THE AMERICAN THEATRE
(1766-1839)
The life of William Dunlap is full of colour and variety. Upon his
shoulders very largely rests the responsibility for whatever knowledge we
have of the atmosphere of the early theatre in America, and of the
personalities of the players. For, as a boy, his father being a Loyalist,
there is no doubt that young William used to frequent the play-house of
the Red Coats, and we would like to believe actually saw some of the
performances with which Major Andre was connected.
He was born at Perth Amboy, then the seat of government for the Province
of New Jersey, on February 19, 1766 (where he died September 28, 1839),
and, therefore, as an historian of the theatre, he was able to glean his
information from first hand sources. Yet, his monumental work on the
"History of the American Theatre" was written in late years, when memory
was beginning to be overclouded, and, in recent times, it has been shown
that Dunlap was not always careful in his dates or in his statements.
George Seilhamer, whose three volumes, dealing with the American Theatre
before the year 1800, are invaluable, is particularly acrimonious in his
strictures against Dunlap. Nevertheless, he has to confess his
indebtedness to the Father of the American Theatre.
Dunlap was many-sided in his tastes and activities. There is small reason
to doubt that from his earliest years the theatre proved his most
attractive pleasure. But, when he was scarcely in the flush of youth, he
went to Europe, and studied art under Benjamin West. Throughout his life
he was ever producing canvases, and designing, and his interest in the art
activity of the country, which connects his name with the establishment of
the New York Academy of Design, together with his writing on the subject,
make him an important figure in that line of work.
On his return from Europe, as we have already noted, he was fired to write
plays through the success of Royall Tyler, and he began his long career as
dramatist, which threw him upon his own inventive resourcefulness, and so
closely identified him with the name of the German, Kotzebue, whose plays
he used to translate and adapt by the wholesale, as did also Charles
Smith.
The pictures of William Dunlap are very careful to indicate in realistic
fashion the fact that he had but one eye. When a boy, one of his playmates
at school threw a stone, which hit his right eye. But though he was thus
early made single-visioned, he saw more than his contemporaries; for he
was a man who mingled much in the social life of the time, and he had a
variety of friends, among them Charles Brockden Brown, the novelist, and
George Frederick Cooke, the tragedian. He was the biographer for both of
them, and these volumes are filled with anecdote, which throws light, not
only on the subjects, but upon the observational taste of the writer.
There are those who claim that he was unjust to Cooke, making him more of
a drunkard than he really was. And the effect the book had on some of its
readers may excellently well be seen by Lord Byron's exclamation, after
having finished it. As quoted by Miss Crawford, in her "Romance of the
American Theatre," he said: "Such a book! I believe, since 'Drunken
Barnaby's Journal,' nothing like it has drenched the press. All green-room
and tap-room, drams and the drama. Brandy, whiskey-punch, and, latterly,
toddy, overflow every page. Two things are rather marvelous; first, that a
man should live so long drunk, and next that he should have found a sober
biographer."
Dunlap's first play was called "The Modest Soldier; or, Love in New York"
(1787). We shall let him be his own chronicler:
As a medium of communication between the playwriter and the
manager, a man was pointed out, who had for a time been of some
consequence on the London boards, and now resided under another
name in New York. This was the Dubellamy of the English stage, a
first singer and _walking-gentleman_. He was now past his
meridian, but still a handsome man, and was found sufficiently
easy of access and full of the courtesy of the old school. A
meeting was arranged at the City Tavern, and a bottle of Madeira
discussed with the merits of this first-born of a would-be
author. The wine was praised, and the play was praised--the
first, perhaps, made the second tolerable--that must be good
which can repay a man of the world for listening to an author
who reads his own play.
In due course of time, the youthful playwright reached the presence of the
then all-powerful actors, Hallam and Henry, and, after some conference
with them, the play was accepted. But though accepted, it was not
produced, that auspicious occasion being deferred whenever the subject was
broached. At this time, young Dunlap was introduced to the stony paths of
playwriting. He had to alter his manuscript in many ways, only to see it
laid upon the shelf until some future occasion. And, according to his
confession, the reason the piece did not receive immediate production was
because there was no part which Henry, the six-foot, handsome idol of the
day, could see himself in to his own satisfaction.
Dunlap's next play was "The Father; or, American Shandy-ism,"[1] which was
produced on September 7, 1789. It was published almost immediately, and
was later reprinted, under the title of "The Father of an Only Child."
Most historians call attention to the fact that to Dunlap belongs the
credit of having first introduced to the American stage the German dialect
of the later Comedian. Even as we look to Tyler's "The Contrast" for the
first Yankee, to Samuel Low's "Politician Out-witted" for an early example
of Negro dialect, so may we trace other veins of American characteristics
as they appeared in early American dramas.
But it is to "Darby's Return,"[2] the musical piece, that our interest
points, because it was produced for the benefit of Thomas Wignell, at the
New-York Theatre (November 24, 1789), and probably boasted among its
first-nighters George Washington. Writes Dunlap:
The eyes of the audience were frequently bent on his
countenance, and to watch the emotions produced by any
particular passage upon him was the simultaneous employment of
all. When Wignell, as _Darby_, recounts what had befallen him in
America, in New York, at the adoption of the Federal
Constitution, and the inauguration of the President, the
interest expressed by the audience in the looks and the changes
of countenance of this great man became intense.
And then there follows an indication by Dunlap of where Washington smiled,
and where he showed displeasure. And, altogether, there was much
perturbation of mind over every quiver of his eye-lash. The fact of the
matter is, as a playgoer, the Father of our Country figured quite as
constantly as the Father of our Theatre. When the seat of Government
changed from New York to Philadelphia, President Washington's love of the
theatre prompted many theatrical enterprises to follow in his wake, and we
have an interesting picture, painted in words by Seilhamer (ii, 316), of
the scene at the old Southwark on such an occasion. He says:
[The President] frequently occupied the east stage-box, which
was fitted up expressly for his reception. Over the front of the
box was the United States coat-of-arms and the interior was
gracefully festooned with red drapery. The front of the box and
the seats were cushioned. According to John [_sic_] Durang,
Washington's reception at the theatre was always exceedingly
formal and ceremonious. A soldier was generally posted at each
stage-door; four soldiers were placed in the gallery; a military
guard attended. Mr. Wignell, in a full dress of black, with his
hair elaborately powdered in the fashion of the time, and
holding two wax candles in silver candle-sticks, was accustomed
to receive the President at the box-door and conduct Washington
and his party to their seats. Even the newspapers began to take
notice of the President's contemplated visits to the theatre.
This is the atmosphere which must have attended the performance of
Dunlap's "Darby's Return."
The play which probably is best known to-day, as by William Dunlap, is his
"Andre,"[3] in which Washington figures as the General, later to appear
under his full name, when Dunlap utilized the old drama in a manuscript
libretto, entitled "The Glory of Columbia--Her Yeomanry" (1817). The play
was produced on March 30, 1798, after Dunlap had become manager of the New
Park Theatre, within whose proscenium it was given. Professor Matthews,
editing the piece for the Dunlap Society (No. 4, 1887), claims that this
was the first drama acted in the United States during Washington's life,
in which he was made to appear on the stage of a theatre. But it must not
be forgotten that in "The Fall of British Tyranny," written in 1776, by
Leacock, Washington appears for the first time in any piece of American
fiction. Dunlap writes of the performance (American Theatre, ii, 20):
The receipts were 817 dollars, a temporary relief. The play was
received with warm applause, until Mr. Cooper, in the character
of a young American officer, who had been treated as a brother
by Andre when a prisoner with the British, in his zeal and
gratitude, having pleaded for the life of the spy in vain, tears
the American cockade from his casque, and throws it from him.
This was not, perhaps could not be, understood by a mixed
assembly; they thought the country and its defenders insulted,
and a hiss ensued--it was soon quieted, and the play ended with
applause. But the feeling excited by the incident was propagated
out of doors. Cooper's friends wished the play withdrawn, on his
account, fearing for his popularity. However, the author made an
alteration in the incident, and subsequently all went on to the
end with applause.
A scene from the last act of "Andre"[4] was produced at an American Drama
Matinee, under the auspices of the American Drama Committee of the Drama
League of America, New York Centre, on January 22nd and 23rd, 1917. There
are many Arnold and Andre plays, some of which have been noted by
Professor Matthews.[5] Another interesting historical study is the stage
popularity of Nathan Hale.
We might go on indefinitely, narrating incidents connected with Dunlap as
citizen, painter, playwright, author, and theatrical manager, for within a
very short time he managed the John Street and New Park Theatres, retiring
for a while in 1805.
But this is sufficient to illustrate the pioneer character of his work and
influence. Inaccurate he may have been in his "History of the American
Theatre," but the atmosphere is there, and he never failed to recognize
merit, and to give touches of character to the actors, without which our
impression of the early theatre in this country would be the poorer. The
name of William Dunlap is intimately associated with the beginnings of
American painting, American literary life and the American Theatre. It is
for these he will ever remain distinguished.
As a playwright, he wrote so rapidly, and so constantly utilized over and
over again, not only his own material, but the materials of others, that
it is not surprising to find him often in dispute with dramatic authors
of the time. A typical disagreement occurred in the case of the actor John
Hodgkinson (1767-1805), whose drama, "The Man of Fortitude; or, the
Knight's Adventure," given at the John Street Theatre, on June 7, 1797,
was, according to Dunlap, based on his own one-act verse play, "The
Knight's Adventure," submitted to the actor some years before.
Only the play, based on the 1798 edition, is here reproduced. The
authentic documents are omitted.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The/Father;/or,/American Shandy-ism./A Comedy,/As performed at the
New-York Theatre,/By the/Old American Company./Written in the year
1788./With what fond hope, through many a blissful hour,/We give the soul
to Fancy's pleasing pow'r./Conquest of Canaan./New-York:/Printed by Hodge,
Allen & Campbell./ M, DCC, LXXXIX./
[2] Darby's Return:/A Comic Sketch,/As Performed at the New-York Theatre,/
November 24, 1789,/For the Benefit of Mr. Wignell. Written by William
Dunlap./ New-York:/Printed by Hodge, Allen and Campbell./And Sold at their
respective Bookstores,/and by Berry and Rogers./M, DCC, LXXXIX./
[3] Andre;/A Tragedy, in Five Acts:/As Performed by the Old American
Company,/ New-York, March 30, 1798./To which are added,/Authentic
Documents/respecting/ Major Andre;/Consisting of/Letters to Miss
Seward,/The/Cow Chace,/Proceedings of the Court Martial, &c./Copy Right
Secured./New-York:/Printed by T. & J. Swords, No. 99 Pearl-street./1798./
[4] One of Dunlap's best-known tragedies was "Leicester," published by
David Longworth in 1807.
[5] Freneau began a play, "The Spy" (Pattee, "Poems of Philip Freneau"),
in which Andre was a character.
[Illustration:
ANDRE;
A _TRAGEDY_, IN FIVE ACTS:
AS PERFORMED BY THE OLD AMERICAN COMPANY, NEW-YORK, MARCH 30, 1798.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS
RESPECTING
_MAJOR ANDRE;_
CONSISTING OF
LETTERS TO MISS SEWARD,
THE
COW CHACE,
PROCEEDINGS OF THE COURT MARTIAL, &c.
_COPY RIGHT SECURED._
NEW-YORK:
Printed by T. & J. SWORDS. No. 99 Pearl-street.
--1798.--
FAC-SIMILE TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST EDITION]
PREFACE
More than nine years ago the Author made choice of the death of Major
Andre as the Subject of a Tragedy, and part of what is now offered to the
public was written at that time. Many circumstances discouraged him from
finishing his Play, and among them must be reckoned a prevailing opinion
that recent events are unfit subjects for tragedy. These discouragements
have at length all given way to his desire of bringing a story on the
Stage so eminently fitted, in his opinion, to excite interest in the
breasts of an American audience.
In exhibiting a stage representation of a real transaction, the
particulars of which are fresh in the minds of many of the audience, an
author has this peculiar difficulty to struggle with, that those who know
the events expect to see them _all_ recorded; and any deviation from what
they remember to be fact, appears to them as a fault in the poet; they are
disappointed, their expectations are not fulfilled, and the writer is more
or less condemned, not considering the difference between the poet and the
historian, or not knowing that what is intended to be exhibited is a free
poetical picture, not an exact historical portrait.
Still further difficulties has the Tragedy of Andre to surmount,
difficulties independent of its own demerits, in its way to public favour.
The subject necessarily involves political questions; but the Author
presumes that he owes no apology to any one for having shewn himself an
American. The friends of Major Andre (and it appears that all who knew him
were his friends) will look with a jealous eye on the Poem, whose
principal incident is the sad catastrophe which his misconduct, in
submitting to be an instrument in a transaction of treachery and deceit,
justly brought upon him: but these friends have no cause of offence; the
Author has adorned the poetical character of Andre with every virtue; he
has made him his Hero; to do which, he was under the necessity of making
him condemn his own conduct, in the one dreadfully unfortunate action of
his life. To shew the effects which Major Andre's excellent qualities had
upon the minds of men, the Author has drawn a generous and amiable youth,
so blinded by his love for the accomplished Briton, as to consider his
country, and the great commander of her armies, as in the commission of
such horrid injustice, that he, in the anguish of his soul, disclaims the
service. In this it appears, since the first representation, that the
Author has gone near to offend the veterans of the American army who were
present on the first night, and who not knowing the sequel of the action,
felt much disposed to condemn him: but surely they must remember the
diversity of opinion which agitated the minds of men at that time, on the
question of the propriety of putting Andre to death; and when they add the
circumstances of Andre's having saved the life of this youth, and gained
his ardent friendship, they will be inclined to mingle with their
disapprobation, a sentiment of pity, and excuse, perhaps commend the Poet,
who has represented the action without sanctioning it by his approbation.
As a sequel to the affair of the cockade, the Author has added the
following lines, which the reader is requested to insert, page 55, between
the 5th and 15th lines, instead of the lines he will find there, which
were printed before the piece was represented.[6]--
BLAND.
Noble M'Donald, truth and honour's champion!
Yet think not strange that my intemperance wrong'd thee:
Good as thou art! for, would'st thou, canst thou, think it?
My tongue, unbridled, hath the same offence,
With action violent, and boisterous tone,
Hurl'd on that glorious man, whose pious labours
Shield from every ill his grateful country!
That man, whom friends to adoration love,
And enemies revere.--Yes, M'Donald,
Even in the presence of the first of men
Did I abjure the service of my country,
And reft my helmet of that glorious badge
Which graces even the brow of Washington.
How shall I see him more!--
M'DONALD.
Alive himself to every generous impulse,
He hath excus'd the impetuous warmth of youth,
In expectation that thy fiery soul,
Chasten'd by time and reason, will receive
The stamp indelible of godlike virtue.
To me, in trust, he gave this badge disclaim'd,
With power, when thou shouldst see thy wrongful error,
From him, to reinstate it in thy helm,
And thee in his high favour. [_Gives the cockade._
BLAND [_takes the cockade and replaces it_].
Shall I speak my thoughts of thee and him?
No:--let my actions henceforth shew what thou
And he have made me. Ne'er shall my helmet
Lack again its proudest, noblest ornament,
Until my country knows the rest of peace,
Or Bland the peace of death! [_Exit._
This alteration, as well as the whole performance, on the second night,
met the warm approbation of the audience.
To the performers the Author takes this opportunity of returning his
thanks for their exertions in his behalf; perfectly convinced, that on
this, as on former occasions, the members of the Old American Company have
anxiously striven to oblige him.
If this Play is successful, it will be a proof that recent events may be
so managed in tragedy as to command popular attention; if it is
unsuccessful, the question must remain undetermined until some more
powerful writer shall again make the experiment. The Poem is now submitted
to the ordeal of closet examination, with the Author's respectful
assurance to every reader, that as it is not his interest, so it has not
been his intention, to offend any; but, on the contrary, to impress,
through the medium of a pleasing stage exhibition, the sublime lessons of
Truth and Justice upon the minds of his countrymen.
W. DUNLAP.
_New-York, April 4th, 1798._
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. MARTIN.
A native Bard, a native scene displays,
And claims your candour for his daring lays:
Daring, so soon, in mimic scenes to shew,
What each remembers as a real woe.
Who has forgot when gallant ANDRE died?
A name by Fate to Sorrow's self allied.
Who has forgot, when o'er the untimely bier,
Contending armies paus'd, to drop a tear.
Our Poet builds upon a fact tonight;
Yet claims, in building, every Poet's right;
To choose, embellish, lop, or add, or blend,
Fiction with truth, as best may suit his end;
Which, he avows, is pleasure to impart,
And move the passions but to mend the heart.
Oh, may no party-spirit blast his views,
Or turn to ill the meanings of the Muse:
She sings of wrongs long past, Men as they were,
To instruct, without reproach, the Men that are;
Then judge the Story by the genius shewn,
And praise, or damn, it, for its worth alone.
CHARACTERS
GENERAL, _dress, American staff uniform, blue, faced with
buff, large gold epaulets, cocked hat, with the black and
white cockade, indicating the union with France, buff
waistcoat and breeches, boots,_ Mr. Hallam.
M'DONALD, _a man of forty years of age, uniform nearly the
same of the first,_ Mr. Tyler.
SEWARD, _a man of thirty years of age, staff uniform,_ Mr. Martin.
ANDRE, _a man of twenty-nine years of age, full British
uniform after the first scene,_ Mr. Hodgkinson.
BLAND, _a youthful but military figure, in the uniform of
a Captain of horse--dress, a short blue coat, faced with
red, and trimmed with gold lace, two small epaulets, a
white waistcoat, leather breeches, boots and spurs; over
the coat, crossing the chest from the right shoulder, a
broad buff belt, to which is suspended a manageable hussar
sword; a horseman's helmet on the head, decorated as
usual, and the union cockade affixed,_ Mr. Cooper.
MELVILLE, _a man of middle age, and grave deportment; his
dress a Captain's uniform when on duty; a blue coat, with
red facings, gold epaulet, white waistcoat and breeches,
boots and cocked hat, with the union cockade,_ Mr. Williamson.
BRITISH OFFICER, Mr. Hogg.
AMERICAN OFFICER, Mr. Miller.
CHILDREN, Master Stockwell and Miss Hogg.
AMERICAN SERGEANT, Mr. Seymour.
AMERICAN OFFICERS AND SOLDIERS, &c.
MRS. BLAND, Mrs. Melmoth.
HONORA, Mrs. Johnson.
SCENE, the Village of Tappan, Encampment, and adjoining Country. Time, ten
hours.
ANDRE
ACT I.
SCENE I. _A Wood seen by starlight; an Encampment at a distance appearing
between the trees._
_Enter MELVILLE._
MELVILLE.
The solemn hour, "when night and morning meet,"
Mysterious time, to superstition dear,
And superstition's guides, now passes by;
Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels,
In drowsy tones, from post to post, send on
The signal of the passing hour. "All's well,"
Sounds through the camp. Alas! all is not well;
Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of man,
At midnight's depth, deck'd in this murderous guise,
The habiliment of death, the badge of dire,
Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well.
--In vain the enlighten'd friends of suffering man
Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and madness.
Still, age succeeds to age, and war to war;
And man, the murderer, marshalls out his hosts
In all the gaiety of festive pomp,
To spread around him death and desolation.
How long! how long!----
--Methinks I hear the tread of feet this way.
My meditating mood may work me woe. [_Draws._
Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. Who's there?
_Enter BLAND._
BLAND.
A friend.
MELVILLE.
Advance and give the countersign.
BLAND.
Hudson.
MELVILLE.
What, Bland!
BLAND.
Melville, my friend, you _here_?
MELVILLE.
And _well_, my brave young friend. But why do you,
At this dead hour of night, approach the camp,
On foot, and thus alone?
BLAND.
I have but now
Dismounted; and, from yon sequester'd cot,
Whose lonely taper through the crannied wall
Sheds its faint beams, and twinkles midst the trees,
Have I, adventurous, grop'd my darksome way.
My servant, and my horses, spent with toil,
There wait till morn.
MELVILLE.
Why waited not yourself?
BLAND.
Anxious to know the truth of those reports
Which, from the many mouths of busy Fame,
Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my ear,
Each making th' other void. Nor does delay
The colour of my hasteful business suit.
I bring dispatches for our great Commander;
And hasted hither with design to wait
His rising, or awake him with the sun.
MELVILLE.
You will not need the last, for the blest sun
Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn
We see him mounted gaily in the field,
Or find him wrapt in meditation deep,
Planning the welfare of our war-worn land.
BLAND.
Prosper, kind heaven! and recompense his cares.
MELVILLE.
You're from the South, if I presume aright?
BLAND.
I am; and, Melville, I am fraught with news?
The South teems with events; convulsing ones:
The Briton, there, plays at no mimic war;
With gallant face he moves, and gallantly is met.
Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng our camp;
The hardy hunter, skill'd to fell the deer,
Or start the sluggish bear from covert rude;
And not a clown that comes, but from his youth
Is trained to pour from far the leaden death,
To climb the steep, to struggle with the stream,
To labour firmly under scorching skies,
And bear, unshrinking, winter's roughest blast.
This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusiasm
Which ever animates the patriot's breast,
Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline.
MELVILLE.
Justice is ours; what shall prevail against her?
BLAND.
But as I past along, many strange tales,
And monstrous rumours, have my ears assail'd:
That Arnold had prov'd false; but he was ta'en,
And hung, or to be hung--I know not what.
Another told, that all our army, with their
Much lov'd Chief, sold and betray'd, were captur'd.
But, as I nearer drew, at yonder cot,
'T was said, that Arnold, traitor like, had fled;
And that a Briton, tried and prov'd a spy,
Was, on this day, as such, to suffer death.
MELVILLE.
As you drew near, plain truth advanced to meet you.
'T is even as you heard, my brave young friend.
Never had people on a single throw
More interest at stake; when he, who held
For us the die, prov'd false, and play'd us foul.
But for a circumstance of that nice kind,
Of cause so microscopic, that the tongues
Of inattentive men call it the effect
Of chance, we must have lost the glorious game.
BLAND.
Blest, blest be heaven! whatever was the cause!
MELVILLE.
The blow ere this had fallen that would have bruis'd
The tender plant which we have striven to rear,
Crush'd to the dust, no more to bless this soil.
BLAND.
What warded off the blow?
MELVILLE.
The brave young man, who this day dies, was seiz'd
Within our bounds, in rustic garb disguis'd.
He offer'd bribes to tempt the band that seiz'd him;
But the rough farmer, for his country arm'd,
That soil defending which his ploughshare turn'd,
Those laws, his father chose, and he approv'd,
Cannot, as mercenary soldiers may,
Be brib'd to sell the public-weal for gold.
BLAND.
'T is well. Just heaven! O, grant that thus may fall
All those who seek to bring this land to woe!
All those, who, or by open force, or dark
And secret machinations, seek to shake
The Tree of Liberty, or stop its growth,
In any soil where thou hast pleas'd to plant it.
MELVILLE.
Yet not a heart but pities and would save him;
For all confirm that he is brave and virtuous;
Known, but till now, the darling child of Honour.
BLAND [_contemptuously_].
And how is call'd this--honourable spy?
MELVILLE.
Andre's his name.
BLAND [_much agitated_].
Andre!
MELVILLE.
Aye, Major Andre.
BLAND.
Andre! Oh no, my friend, you're sure deceiv'd--
I'll pawn my life, my ever sacred fame,
My General's favour, or a soldier's honour,
That gallant Andre never yet put on
The guise of falsehood. Oh, it cannot be!
MELVILLE.
How might I be deceiv'd? I've heard him, seen him,
And what I tell, I tell from well-prov'd knowledge;
No second tale-bearer, who heard the news.
BLAND.
Pardon me, Melville. Oh, that well-known name,
So link'd with circumstances infamous!--
My friend must pardon me. Thou wilt not blame
When I shall tell what cause I have to love him:
What cause to think him nothing more the pupil
Of Honour stern, than sweet Humanity.
Rememberest thou, when cover'd o'er with wounds,
And left upon the field, I fell the prey
Of Britain? To a loathsome prison-ship
Confin'd, soon had I sunk, victim of death,
A death of aggravated miseries;
But, by benevolence urg'd, this best of men,
This gallant youth, then favour'd, high in power,
Sought out the pit obscene of foul disease,
Where I, and many a suffering soldier lay,
And, like an angel, seeking good for man,
Restor'd us light, and partial liberty.
Me he mark'd out his own. He nurst and cur'd,
He lov'd and made his friend. I liv'd by him,
And in my heart he liv'd, till, when exchang'd,
Duty and honour call'd me from my friend.--
Judge how my heart is tortur'd.--Gracious heaven!
Thus, thus to meet him on the brink of death--
A death so infamous! Heav'n grant my prayer. [_Kneels._
That I may save him, O, inspire my heart
With thoughts, my tongue with words that move to pity! [_Rises._
Quick, Melville, shew me where my Andre lies.
MELVILLE.
Good wishes go with you.
BLAND.
I'll save my friend. [_Exeunt._
SCENE, _the Encampment, by starlight._
_Enter the GENERAL, M'DONALD and SEWARD._
GENERAL.
'T is well. Each sentinel upon his post
Stands firm, and meets me at the bayonet's point;
While in his tent the weary soldier lies,
The sweet reward of wholesome toil enjoying;
Resting secure as erst within his cot
He careless slept, his rural labour o'er;
Ere Britons dar'd to violate those laws,
Those boasted laws by which themselves are govern'd,
And strove to make their fellow-subjects slaves.
SEWARD.
They know to whom they owe their present safety.
GENERAL.
I hope they know that to themselves they owe it:
To that good discipline which they observe,
The discipline of men to order train'd,
Who know its value, and in whom 't is virtue:
To that prompt hardihood with which they meet
Or toil or danger, poverty or death.
Mankind who know not whence that spirit springs,
Which holds at bay all Britain's boasted power,
Gaze on their deeds astonish'd. See the youth
Start from his plough, and straightway play the hero;
Unmurmuring bear such toils as veterans shun;
Rest all content upon the dampsome earth;
Follow undaunted to the deathful charge;
Or, when occasion asks, lead to the breach,
Fearless of all the unusual din of war,
His former peaceful mates. O patriotism!
Thou wond'rous principle of god-like action!
Wherever liberty is found, there reigns
The love of country. Now the self-same spirit
Which fill'd the breast of great Leonidas,
Swells in the hearts of thousands on these plains,
Thousands who never heard the hero's tale.
'T is this alone which saves thee, O my country!
And, till that spirit flies these western shores,
No power on earth shall crush thee!
SEWARD.
'T is wond'rous!
The men of other climes from this shall see
How easy 't is to shake oppression off;
How all resistless is an union'd people:
And hence, from our success (which, by my soul,
I feel as much secur'd, as though our foes
Were now within their floating prisons hous'd,
And their proud prows all pointing to the east),
Shall other nations break their galling fetters,
And re-assume the dignity of man.
M'DONALD.
Are other nations in that happy state,
That, having broke Coercion's iron yoke,
They can submit to Order's gentle voice,
And walk on earth self-ruled? I much do fear it.
As to ourselves, in truth, I nothing see,
In all the wond'rous deeds which we perform,
But plain effects from causes full as plain.
Rises not man for ever 'gainst oppression?
It is the law of life; he can't avoid it.
But when the love of property unites
With sense of injuries past, and dread of future.
Is it then wonderful, that he should brave
A lesser evil to avoid a greater?
GENERAL [_sportively_].
'T is hard, quite hard, we may not please ourselves,
By our great deeds ascribing to our virtue.
SEWARD.
M'Donald never spares to lash our pride.
M'DONALD.
In truth I know of 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. Andre, 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._