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_ ACT II
SCENE, a Prison.
ANDRE, discovered in a pensive posture, sitting at a table; a book by
him and candles: his dress neglected, his hair dishevelled: he rises
and comes forward.
ANDRE.
Kind heaven be thank'd for that I stand alone
In this sad hour of life's brief pilgrimage!
Single in misery; no one else involving,
In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my comfort.
Thou, my thrice honour'd sire, in peace went'st down
Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor knew
A pang for me! And thou, revered matron,
Couldst bless thy child, and yield thy breath in peace!
No wife shall weep, no child lament, my loss.
Thus may I consolation find in what
Was once my woe. I little thought to joy
In not possessing, as I erst possest,
Thy love, Honora! Andre's death, perhaps,
May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely face;
The pearly tear may steal from either eye;
For thou mayest feel a transient pang, nor wrong
A husband's rights: more than a transient pang
O mayest thou never feel! The morn draws nigh
To light me to my shame. Frail nature shrinks.--
And is death then so fearful? I have brav'd
Him, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my breast
Against his thousand horrors; but his cool,
His sure approach, requires a fortitude
Which nought but conscious rectitude can give.
[Retires, and sits leaning.]
[Enter BLAND unperceived by ANDRE.]
BLAND.
And is that Andre! Oh, how chang'd! Alas!
Where is that martial fire, that generous warmth,
Which glow'd his manly countenance throughout,
And gave to every look, to every act,
The tone of high chivalrous animation?--
Andre, my friend! look up.
ANDRE.
Who calls me friend?
BLAND.
Young Arthur Bland.
ANDRE
[rising].
That name sounds like a friend's.
[With emotion.]
I have inquir'd for thee--wish'd much to see thee--
I prithee take no note of these fool's tears--
My heart was full--and seeing thee--
BLAND
[embracing him].
O Andre!--
I have but now arrived from the south--
Nor heard--till now--of this--I cannot speak.
Is this a place?--Oh, thus to find my friend!
ANDRE.
Still dost thou call me friend? I, who dared act
Against my reason, my declared opinion;
Against my conscience, and a soldier's fame?
Oft in the generous heat of glowing youth,
Oft have I said how fully I despis'd
All bribery base, all treacherous tricks in war:
Rather my blood should bathe these hostile shores,
And have it said, "he died a gallant soldier,"
Than with my country's gold encourage treason,
And thereby purchase gratitude and fame.
BLAND.
Still mayest thou say it, for thy heart's the same.
ANDRE.
Still is my heart the same: still may I say it:
But now my deeds will rise against my words;
And should I dare to talk of honest truth,
Frank undissembling probity and faith,
Memory would crimson o'er my burning cheek,
And actions retrospected choke the tale.
Still is my heart the same. But there has past
A day, an hour--which ne'er can be recall'd!
Unhappy man! tho' all thy life pass pure;
Mark'd by benevolence thy every deed;
The out-spread map, which shews the way thou'st trod,
Without one devious track, or doubtful line;
It all avails thee nought, if in one hour,
One hapless hour, thy feet are led astray;--
Thy happy deeds, all blotted from remembrance;
Cancel'd the record of thy former good.
Is it not hard, my friend? Is 't not unjust?
BLAND.
Not every record cancel'd--Oh, there are hearts,
Where Virtue's image, when 't is once engrav'd,
Can never know erasure.
ANDRE.
Generous Bland!
[Takes his hand.]
The hour draws nigh which ends my life's sad story.
I should be firm--
BLAND.
By heaven thou shalt not die!
Thou dost not sure deserve it. Betray'd, perhaps--
Condemn'd without due circumstance made known?
Thou didst not mean to tempt our officers?
Betray our yeoman soldiers to destruction?
Silent. Nay, then 't was from a duteous wish
To serve the cause thou wast in honour bound--
ANDRE.
Kind is my Bland, who to his generous heart,
Still finds excuses for his erring friend.
Attentive hear and judge me.--
Pleas'd with the honours daily shower'd upon me,
I glow'd with martial heat, my name to raise
Above the vulgar herd, who live to die,
And die to be forgotten. Thus I stood,
When, avarice or ambition Arnold tempted,
His country, fame, and honour to betray;
Linking his name to infamy eternal.
In confidence it was to be propos'd,
To plan with him the means which should ensure
Thy country's downfall. Nothing then I saw
But confidential favour in the service,
My country's glory, and my mounting fame;
Forgot my former purity of thought,
And high-ton'd honour's scruples disregarded.
BLAND.
It was thy duty so to serve thy country.
ANDRE.
Nay, nay; be cautious ever to admit
That duty can beget dissimulation.
On ground, unoccupied by either part,
Neutral esteem'd, I landed, and was met.
But ere my conference was with Arnold clos'd,
The day began to dawn: I then was told
That till the night I must my safety seek
In close concealment. Within your posts convey'd,
I found myself involv'd in unthought dangers.
Night came. I sought the vessel which had borne
Me to the fatal spot; but she was gone.
Retreat that way cut off, again I sought
Concealment with the traitors of your army.
Arnold now granted passes, and I doff'd
My martial garb, and put on curs'd disguise!
Thus in a peasant's form I pass'd your posts;
And when, as I conceiv'd, my danger o'er,
Was stopt and seiz'd by some returning scouts.
So did ambition lead me, step by step,
To treat with traitors, and encourage treason;
And then, bewilder'd in the guilty scene,
To quit my martial designating badges,
Deny my name, and sink into the spy.
BLAND.
Thou didst no more than was a soldier's duty,
To serve the part on which he drew his sword.
Thou shalt not die for this. Straight will I fly--
I surely shall prevail--
ANDRE.
It is in vain.
All has been tried. Each friendly argument--
BLAND.
All has not yet been tried. The powerful voice
Of friendship in thy cause, has not been heard.
My General favours me, and loves my father--
My gallant father! would that he were here!
But he, perhaps, now wants an Andre's care,
To cheer his hours--perhaps, now languishes
Amidst those horrors whence thou sav'd'st his son!
The present moment claims my thought. Andre--
I fly to save thee!--
ANDRE.
Bland, it is in vain.
But, hold--there is a service thou may'st do me.
BLAND.
Speak it.
ANDRE.
Oh, think, and as a soldier think,
How I must die--The manner of my death--
Like the base ruffian, or the midnight thief,
Ta'en in the act of stealing from the poor,
To be turn'd off the felon's--murderer's cart,
A mid-air spectacle to gaping clowns:--
To run a short, an envied course of glory,
And end it on a gibbet.----
BLAND.
Damnation!!
ANDRE.
Such is my doom. Oh! have the manner changed,
And of mere death I'll think not. Dost thou think--?
Perhaps thou canst gain that----?
BLAND [almost in a frenzy].
Thou shalt not die!
ANDRE.
Let me, Oh! let me die a soldier's death,
While friendly clouds of smoke shroud from all eyes
My last convulsive pangs, and I'm content.
BLAND
[with increasing emotion].
Thou shalt not die! Curse on the laws of war!--
If worth like thine must thus be sacrificed,
To policy so cruel and unjust,
I will forswear my country and her service:
I'll hie me to the Briton, and with fire,
And sword, and every instrument of death
Or devastation, join in the work of war!
What, shall worth weigh for nought? I will avenge thee!
ANDRE.
Hold, hold, my friend; thy country's woes are full.
What! wouldst thou make me cause another traitor?
No more of this; and, if I die, believe me,
Thy country for my death incurs no blame.
Restrain thy ardour--but ceaselessly intreat,
That Andre may at least die as he lived,
A soldier.
BLAND.
By heaven thou shalt not die!--
[BLAND rushes off: ANDRE looks after him with an expression of love
and gratitude, then retires up the stage. Scene closes.]
SCENE, the GENERAL'S Quarters.
Enter M'DONALD and SEWARD, in conversation.
M'DONALD
[coming forward].
Three thousand miles the Atlantic wave rolls on,
Which bathed Columbia's shores, ere, on the strand
Of Europe, or of Afric, their continents,
Or sea-girt isles, it chafes.--
SEWARD.
Oh! would to heaven
That in mid-way between these sever'd worlds,
Rose barriers, all impassable to man,
Cutting off intercourse, till either side
Had lost all memory of the other!
M'DONALD.
What spur now goads thy warm imagination?
SEWARD.
Then might, perhaps, one land on earth be found,
Free from th' extremes of poverty and riches;
Where ne'er a scepter'd tyrant should be known,
Or tyrant lordling, curses of creation;--
Where the faint shrieks of woe-exhausted age,
Raving, in feeble madness, o'er the corse
Of a polluted daughter, stained by lust
Of viand-pamper'd luxury, might ne'er be heard;--
Where the blasted form of much abused
Beauty, by villainy seduced, by knowledge
All unguarded, might ne'er be view'd, flitting
Obscene, 'tween lamp and lamp, i' th' midnight street
Of all defiling city; where the child----
M'DONALD.
Hold! Shroud thy raven imagination!
Torture not me with images so curst!
SEWARD.
Soon shall our foes, inglorious, fly these shores.
Peace shall again return. Then Europe's ports
Shall pour a herd upon us, far more fell
Than those, her mercenary sons, who, now,
Threaten our sore chastisement.
M'DONALD.
Prophet of ill,
From Europe shall enriching commerce flow,
And many an ill attendant; but from thence
Shall likewise flow blest Science. Europe's knowledge,
By sharp experience bought, we should appropriate;
Striving thus to leap from that simplicity,
With ignorance curst, to that simplicity,
By knowledge blest; unknown the gulf between.
SEWARD.
Mere theoretic dreaming!
M'DONALD.
Blest wisdom
Seems, from out the chaos of the social world,
Where good and ill, in strange commixture, float,
To rise, by strong necessity, impell'd;
Starting, like Love divine, from womb of Night,
Illuming all, to order all reducing;
And shewing, by its bright and noontide blaze,
That happiness alone proceeds from justice.
SEWARD.
Dreams, dreams! Man can know nought but ill on earth.
M'DONALD.
I'll to my bed, for I have watch'd all night;
And may my sleep give pleasing repetition
Of these my waking dreams! Virtue's incentives.
[Exit.]
SEWARD.
Folly's chimeras rather: guides to error.
[Enter BLAND, preceded by a SERGEANT.]
SERGEANT.
Pacquets for the General.
[Exit.]
BLAND.
Seward, my friend!
SEWARD.
Captain! I'm glad to see the hue of health
Sit on a visage from the sallow south.
BLAND.
The lustihood of youth hath yet defied
The parching sun, and chilling dew of even.
The General--Seward--?
SEWARD.
I will lead you to him.
BLAND.
Seward, I must make bold. Leave us together,
When occasion offers. 'T will be friendly.
SEWARD.
I will not cross your purpose.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE, A Chamber.
[Enter MRS. BLAND.]
MRS. BLAND.
Yes, ever be this day a festival
In my domestic calendar. This morn
Will see my husband free. Even now, perhaps,
Ere yet Aurora flies the eastern hills,
Shunning the sultry sun, my Bland embarks.
Already, on the Hudson's dancing wave,
He chides the sluggish rowers, or supplicates
For gales propitious; that his eager arms
May clasp his wife, may bless his little ones.
Oh! how the tide of joy makes my heart bound,
Glowing with high and ardent expectation!
Enter two CHILDREN.
1st CHILD.
Here we are, Mama, up, and dress'd already.
MRS. BLAND.
And why were ye so early?
1st CHILD.
Why, did not you tell us that Papa was to be home to-day?
MRS. BLAND.
I said, perhaps.
2nd CHILD
[disappointed].
Perhaps!
1st CHILD.
I don't like perhaps's.
2nd CHILD.
No, nor I neither; nor "may be so's."
MRS. BLAND.
We make not certainties, my pretty loves;
I do not like "perhaps's" more than you do.
2nd CHILD.
Oh! don't say so, Mama! for I'm sure I hardly ever ask you anything but
you answer me with "may be so," "perhaps,"--or "very likely." "Mama, shall
I go to the camp to-morrow, and see the General?" "May be so, my dear."
Hang "may be so," say I.
MRS. BLAND.
Well said, Sir Pertness.
1st CHILD.
But I am sure, Mama, you said, that, to-day, Papa would have his liberty.
MRS. BLAND.
So, your dear father, by his letters, told me.
2nd CHILD.
Why, then, I am sure he will be here to-day. When he can come to us,
I'm sure he will not stay among those strange Englishmen and Hessians. I
often wish'd that I had wings to fly, for then I would soon be with him.
MRS. BLAND.
Dear boy!
[Enter SERVANT. and gives a letter to MRS. BLAND.]
SERVANT.
An express, madam, from New-York to Headquarters, in passing, delivered this.
2nd CHILD.
Papa's coming home to-day, John.
[Exeunt SERVANT and CHILDREN.
MRS. BLAND.
What fears assail me! Oh! I did not want
A letter now!
[She reads in great agitation, exclaiming,
while her eyes are fixed on the paper.]
My husband! doom'd to die! Retaliation!
[She looks forward with wildness, consternation and horror.]
To die, if Andre dies! He dies to-day!--
My husband to be murdered! And to-day!
To-day, if Andre dies! Retaliation!
O curst contrivance!--Madness relieve me!
Burst, burst, my brain!--Yet--Andre is not dead:
My husband lives.
[Looks at the letter.]
"One man has power."
I fly to save the father of my children!
[Rushes out.] _
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