Superstition — Act 1

Mary. Nay, come away dear Alice, every momentOf your brief visit must be wholly mine;Let's leave our fathers to their grave discourseOf witch and wizard, ere we laugh outright.Alice. It is a subject that the country roundDeems a most solemn one.Mary. True but to me,'Tis not the less absurd on that account.Alice. This levity 's misplac'd your father claimsYour love and reverence——Mary. And I do revere him,And love him dearly, Alice; do I not?How often have I striven to melt his sternness;And, when my heart was sick of its own cares,Lock'd up my selfish sorrows from his view,And tried, by every filial endearment,To win his smiles. E'en when his brow was darkest;I've brav'd it's terrors; hung upon his neck,And spoken of my mother O how sweetIt were methought, even to weep with him.Alice. You're an enthusiast, Mary. Ah, beware,Lest this impetuous current of your feelingUrge you, one day, against the perilous rock.

Mary. I'm young, and youth is ardent, and should beCheerful, and full of bright and sunny thoughts;I would be if I dared. You too are young.Yet may be happy; for you have a parentWho, tho' he guide you safely down the stream,Does not, like angry pilots, chide, e'en louderThan the loud storm.Alice. His high and holy officeMay, haply give to your good father's manner,A grave solemnity, perhaps, a harshness——Mary. And why a harshness? Sure, ah sure, ReligionDescends not like the vulture in its wrath;But rather like the mild and gentle dove,Emblem of peace and harbinger of joy.Love in its' eye and healing on its' wing;With pure and snowy plumage, downy soft,To nestle in the bosom of its votaries.Alice. I cannot argue; I'm content to followWhere e'er our fathers lead. For you, I fearYou've learn'd too much from this mysterious stranger.Mary. O Alice, join not you with the slanderous crowd.Against a noble lady, whom you know not.For me, be satisfied I never morePerhaps, shall see her: I've obeyed my father;And must, tho' it should break my heart: tho, Charles—— (Pauses, crosses to L. H.)Alice. And what of Charles ?Mary. Her son—Alice. I know, her son,And what of him?Mary.This very day, 'tis saidHe will be here—Alice. Expell'd, they say, from college.Mary. Disgraced—'Tis false: Charles cannot be disgraced;

If envy, persecution, drive him thence,They but disgrace themselves, and not poor Charles.Alice. Mary?Mary. Yes; take my secret; take it quickly,Or it will burst my heart.Alice. Nay, but be calm.Mary. You shall know all—surely you'll pity, Alice,And perhaps, pardon me. Three years agoWhen Charles's mother first came here to live;From England, was it not: The village thenHad scarce begun to hate her, for as yetShe had not lavish'd charities abroad.To purchase up ingratitude and envy.Being her nearest neighbour, (my dear motherWas then alive,) there rose at once between usThat intercourse which neighbourhood compelsAt times, e'en with the most reserved. The ladyI know not why, unless out of her goodness.Graced me with her regard, and when my motherDied, she took the desolate child to her bosom.Alice. 'Twas kindly done.Mary. O she was goodness all.Her words so sweet and soothing; as she spoke,Alice, methought I saw my sainted motherLean o'er the bright edge of a silvery cloudAnd smile upon her happy orphan girl,—And there was Charles, so busy still around me.Exhausting all his boyish gallantries.With brotherly affection.—Alice. Charles, still Charles?Mary. Can I forget it!—Alice. Nay, go on.Mary. The winterSoon pass'd away, and then the spring came onWith all its flowers, and still the earliest blossomWas cuU'd for me. O, we were then so happy—I always lov'd the spring. Young nature thenCame to me like a play-mate. Ere the snows

Had left the hills, I've often wander'd forth,And, all impatient for the verdure, clear'dA patch of infant green; or even turn'dWith mighty effort, some recumbent stone,To find the fresh grass under it.Alice. This is childish.Mary. I was a child, then,—would I were e'en now,As then I was—my life, I fear will proveA wintry waste with no green spot to cheer it;Alice. More visionary still.Mary. Well, to my story:—My father took me home, I think it wasAbout the time you came into the village,Fell superstition now had spread around.Reports—I scarce know what they meant—aroseConcerning Isabella; and my fatherMade gloomier by my mother's death, and yieldingHis strong mind to the doctrine of the times,Grew daily still more stern, until at length,At peril of his curse, he bade me neverTo hold communion with that family.Alice. And you obeyed?Mary. All that I could, I did.But O the tales they tell—the horrid stones—Her very virtues they distort to crimes.And for poor Charles, his manliness and spirit,The gayety of youth and innocence.In him are vices. Could I help defending,Knowing them as I did:—all others hating.Could I help loving!—Alice. Loving, Mary?Mary. Ay; Most deeply, strongly loving Charles and his mother.Alice. But sure you have not seen this Charles?Mary. Not often.—Nay frown not friend, for how could I avoid it,When chance insisted on an interview ?Alice. Have ye met lately?

Mary. Yes.Alice. What pass'd between you?Mary. A plight of faith: A vow to live or die,Each for the other.Alice. Lost, lost girl.Mary. Why, ay,It may be so; if so, 'tis Heaven's will.You have my secret Alice.

Enter from the House, Ravensworth and Walford, l. h.

Alice. Peace; our fathers.(They retire into house, l. h.)Rav. No, Walford, no: I have no charityFor what you term the weakness of our nature.The soul should rise above it. It was thisThat made the fathers of this land prevail,When man and the elements opposed, and winTheir heritage from the heathen.Walf. True; the timesImpos'd a virtue, almost superhuman.But surely, the necessity is pass'dFor trampling on our nature.Rave. We have grownLuke-warm in zeal, degenerate in spirit;—I would root out with an unsparing handThe weeds that choke the soil;—pride and rank luxurySpring up around us;—alien sectaries,Spite of the whip and axe, infest our limits;Bold infidelity, dark sorcery—Walf. Nay,Nay, Ravensworth—Rave. I tell thee Walford, yea:The powers of darkness are at work among us.Not distant we have seen the fagot blaze,And soon the stake may ask its victim here.Walf. What victim point you at?

Rave. Turn your eye—thitherUpon you haughty mansion—you have heard?—Walf. Much idle rumour.Rave. Do you deem it so.Whence then, and who is this imperious dame,That holds herself above her fellow creatures,And scorns our church's discipline: her means—Her business here?Walf. The ignorant and enviousMay find, in her superior intellect—E'en in her ample wealth and proud reserveFood for their hate, and therefore their suspicion;But for us, Ravensworth—Rave. No more, ere long,These questions must be answer'd.Walf. Be it so;I shall be ready in all lawful waysTo seek the truth.Rave. 'Tis well, we soon may need you.What public tidings hear you?Walf. That King PhilipOur savage foe, after his late defeat,Has gained his rocky hold, where he now lies,With scarce a fragment of his former force.Rave. Where are our troops?Walf. They watch the enemy.Rave. They should have followed up their victory.To the extermination of the heathen.—Has there aught chanc'd in the village?Walf. There have arrivedTwo persons from the court of Charles.Rave. More vanity!What do they here?Walf. The elder, it is said,Brings letters to the government.(Crosses to l. h.)Rave. Charles Stuart,Is growing much concern'd about the people

His family have scourged, hunted and drivenFrom shed and shelter in their native land.We needs must thank that most paternal care,That, when the expos'd infant climbs to manhoodComes for the first time, then, to claim his service.Walf. You broach a startling topic—But the day wears—Fare thee well Ravensworth.Rave. Farewell, farewell. {{float right|(Exit Walford, l.h.)Timid, weak minded man.

Enter Mary, from House, l. h.

Come hither, daughterMary. Father! (running to him.)Rave. What mean these tears?Mary. I cannot check them.Rave. They do displease me, tears can only flowFrom frailty or from folly, dry them straight,And listen to me. I have heard, the sonOf this strange woman is returning home,And will again pollute our neighbourhood;Remember my command, and shun his presenceAs you would shun the adder. If reportErr not, his course of boyhood has been runWithout one gleam of virtue to redeemThe darkness of his vices.Mary. I'll obey—To the utmost of my power.—But, my dear father,May not report err sometimes? You were wontTo instruct me never to withhold the truth;And fearlessly to speak in their defence,Whom I could vindicate from calumny;That to protect the innocent, the absent—Rave. How's this! the innocent—and calumny?And whence do you presume to throw discreditOn general report—What can you know?Mary. Not much perhaps, of late: while I remain'dAt his mother's—he was in his boyhood then;

I knew him well; and there's one incidentMuch dwelt on to his prejudice, that IWas witness to—if you would bid me tell it.Rave. O, by all means, come, your romance.Mary. 'Tis truth.It was a wintry day, the snow was deep,And the chill rain had fallen and was frozen,That all the surface was a glittering crust.—We were all gather'd in the lady's hall,That overlook'd the lawn; a poor stray fawnCame limping toward us. It had lost, perhaps,It's dam, and chas'd by cruel hunters, cameTo seek a refuge with us. Every boundThe forlorn creature made, its little feetBroke through the crust, and we could mark that oneOf its delicate limbs was broken. A rude boyFollow'd it fast, as it would seem, to kill it;I could not choose but wish its life were sav'd,And at the word Charles ran and took it up,And gave it to me, and I cherish'd itAnd bound its broken limb up; and it liv'dAnd seem'd to thank me for my care of it.Rave. But was this all? Was not the village lad assailed and beaten?Mary. He was rude and churlish,And would have forc'd the animal from Charles.And tho' 'twas on his mothers' grounds, Charles proffer'd himThe price of the fawn; But nothing would content him,And he struck Charles; he was a larger boy,But did not prove the stronger—so he wentAnd made the village all believe his story,That Charles had robb'd and beaten him, for CharlesHad none to speak for him.Rave. No more of this—And never let me hear the name you've utter'dPass from your lips again. It is enough

I know this youth for a lewd libertine;The woman, for a scoffer at things sacred,At me, and at my functions—and perhaps,Given to practices, that yet may needA dreadful expiation. Get you gone,And on your knees petition that you may notDeserve my malediction.Mary. I obey. (Exit Mary, into cottage, l. h. followed by Ravensworth.)

Enter George Egerton, followed by Sir Reginald, both in shooting dresses, r. h. u. e.

Geo. By Heaven a lovely creature!Sir R. Softly George,Is this the game you point at? Have a care,You're not in London now, where our gay monarchSets such a fine example, in these matters.They'll have no poaching here, that I can tell you.Among their wives and daughters. These same roundheads.That crop their hair so short—a plague upon 'em—Will cut your ears as close, if you're caught meddling. [to.George. Why what a heathen region have we comeWhat a deuce, uncle, did you bring me here for?To shoot at bears and panthers; pleasant sport;No women: zounds; I'll back to court again—No women! (Crosses to r. h.)Sir R. None: the old they burn for witches,The young they keep clos'd up,(like flies in amber)In adamantine ice.—George. They should be hang'dFor treason against nature. Let the old onesFreeze, 'tis their charter; but youth should have fire.Sir R. They've good laws here for gallants—t'other dayThey put a man i' the stocks because he kiss'dHis wife o' Sunday.

George. They were in the right.Kiss his own wife! it is a work-day business;Play-days and holy-days, are made for lovers.Sir R. To lay hands on a maid here's presentdeath.George. It might be so in London, and no liveslost:The law were a dead letter there—Sir R. And widowsMay not be spoken to, under the painOf fine and pillory.George. Uncle, let's embark,Tho' for the north pole; this clime is too cold—Or to some catholic country, where a manMay have flesh sometimes: here 'tis always lent.Sir R. No: you must stay, your stomach mustendure it.George. I'faith, dear uncle, being a cavalier,A gentleman of honour and of breeding,I marvel much you could come hither ; butThe greater wonder is, you'd have me with you,Knowing my humour.Sir R. Troth, my gentle nephew.Knowing your humour, I could do no betterThan take you from the sphere of Charles's court;From Rochester, and his dissolute companions,To cool your blood here in the wilderness.George. Well! there may come a time.Sir R. As for my voyage.Perhaps it was a royal jest: or, haplyMy clothes had grown too rusty for the court.Or Charles was tired of the old cavalier.Who had fought some battles for him, and consum'dSome certain paltry acres — all he had —And having left no vacant place at court,He sent me here Ambassador.George. But uncle,Is that your character?

Sir R. Much the same thing,In christian countries, nephew; I'm a spy.George. The devil!Sir R. Yes: we read in ancient history,Of Kings and Emperors, who have kept the menWho help'd them to the Throne, (by simply puttingTheir fathers out o'the way)—about their persons,As their prime friends. But Charles, being advis'dThat this was in bad taste, and took place onlyIn semi-barbarous courts, finds it decorousTo grow a little angry with the personsThat kill'd his father. And being told, besides,That his most loving and beloved subjectsThis side the water—who, by the way, he neverThought of before—had given food and shelterTo certain of the regicides, he sends meTo——George. Well Sir?Sir R. Nothing. Come, 'tis growing late(Crosses to l. h.)

We must regain our cottage. In the morning,We leave the village.George. 'Gad, with all my soul—And so to England?Sir R. Not so fast, good Springal,We must have patience yet. Come, let's begone.George. I'll see her in the morning, tho' theyhang me.(Exeunt, l. h. George looking back.)