As Performed at the Royal Surrey Theatre (under the management of Mr. Davidge), September, 1835. The celebrated Nautical Drama, (founded on a popular Song of the renowned Naval Poet, Charles Dibdin,)
The Medley Overture and the Music selected from the popular Naval Airs of the celebrated Author of the Song on which the Piece is founded, by Mr. Jolly. The Scenery entirely new, and taken from ACTUAL VIEWS ABOVE BRIDGE, &c., by Mr. Phillips and Assistants. The Machinery by Mr. T. Hagley. The Dresses, with a strict attention to actual Costume of the period, by Messrs. Asbury &Brown and Mrs. Walker. The Decorations by Mr. Eallett.
Four Years are supposed to elapse between the 1st and 2nd Acts, and Six Months between the 2nd and 3rd Acts.
View of the Hard or Landing Place, and of the opposite Shore.
INTERIOR OF SCULLER'S HOUSE.
The Maid of Allwork—Industry and expectation—The Sunday Wherry and every-day Boat—Joe's present—The Frog and the Shark—How to pay a Friend's Debt—Honesty against Knavery—I never forgive an Insult—The promised Wedding.
EXTERIOR of HARRY'S HOUSE, with GARDEN, and VIEW of the OPPOSITE SHORE.
A DOUBLE ROWING HORNPIPE,
By Mr. T. P. Cooke and Miss Macarthy, in lieu of the Flag Hornpipe in the Third Act.
Act II.- Quarter-Deck of the Polyphemus - Open Sea,.
A Reprimand for doing too much—No right to do good against orders—Sail a-head.
BETWEEN DECKS OF A SLAVE SHIP.
STRONGHOLD OF THE SLAVERS! THE SEA FAR BELOW!
TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION!
Interior of the “Seaman's Friend” Inn, Portsmouth.
The Docks, &c.—Ships' Company paid off—Bum-boats ahoy!—Hay bags aboard—Fiddlers and Frying Pans—The Warrant Officer—Poll's letter—A Sailor's love—Home, Home, sweet Home—The Legacy—The stock of Leather and Wax—Off for London—My Mother—my Poll—my partner Joe!
INTERIOR OF JOE'S HOUSE.
Banks of the Thames—Exterior of Joe's House, and of Dame Hallyard's—the Sailor's Return— the Dead Light—the Secret—the Recognition.
INTERIOR OF MARY'S HOUSE.
The proof in print—A Seaman's Log of his hopes, fears, joys, and agonies—A false one's excuses—Is she true—is he honest—my Mother's Will!
DEATH!—I,—MY POLL AND—
NATIONALITY becomes a virtue when it springs from feelings inspired by the
land of our birth. “The man that don't like England," exclaimed honest
Jack Fuller, in the heat of parliamentary debate, "damn him, let him leave
it !"
In turning over the page of history, we contemplate with enthusiasm the martial prowess of our ancestors, who were called to defend not only their own liberties, but those of mankind. Britain has maintained her proud supremacy among nations through a long series of ages; trampled down stern oppression , that threatened , and (with her own glorious exception) had well nigh spread abroad, universal anarchy; and crowned the august work by giving peace to the world, and freedom to the slave.
Whatever brings to our recollection the triumphs of the past deserves our gratitude; but when genius applies itself to the task, how truly it commands our admiration! The deeds of heroes were the favourite theme of the poets of old, and their noblest strains were devoted to immortalise patriotism and valour.
Blessings on the memory of the bard, “and palms eternal flourish round his urn," who first struck his lyre to celebrate the wooden walls, , and the brave, generous, Jack Tars of unconquered and unconquerable Old England ! If earth hide him, light be the green turf on his breast; if ocean cover him, calm be the wave on its surface! - May his spirit find rest where souls are blessed , and his body be shrined in the holiest cave of the deep and silent sea!
Among the naval lyrics that roused and kept alive the ardent spirit of our seamen is “My Poll and my Partner Joe." We remember when every manly heart beat to this national melody; but other tastes (“the fruits of calm times and a long peace" ) are come upon us ; we have little sympathy for past glories. “Ye Mariners of England, ” and “Here, a sheer Hulk , lies poor Tom Bowling," are lost in (“Most Forcible Feeble!”) “Oh, no, we never mention her, " and “I'd be a Butterfly." .
“ My Poll and my Partner Joe, " once so sweetly vocal, is now in strumental in filling many bright eyes with tears, and the manager's purse with money. This English song has suggested to Mr. Haines a drama as truly English, and that promises to rival it in popularity.
In Harry Hallyard we behold a British tar, bold as Mars, brawny as Hercules,
and comely as Adonis ; in Joe Tiller, his friend and partner in a trim-built
wherry, a lad with a soul equally fiery, but a body of less herculean
dimensions. If Harry' s prose is of greater unction, Joe' s
verse is more than a match for it; for Joe builds the lofty rhyme where
the sea-mew does its nest, mounted aloft on the top-mast head. Among the
sailor's many virtues, prudence and worldly wisdom are not generally the most
shining; yet Hal is an exception; for, though deeply enamoured of his pretty
Poll, he resolves not to marry until industry has put him in possession of some
ready coin ; and that golden wish being now realised, the nuptials are at Honner
(too good an actor to be thus prematurely cut off dies not with him.
It is pleasant to behold an audience crammed to the roof expressing their
sympathy with the scene by silence and tears, and shouting their emulation of
fun and drollery with uproarious delight; — it is pleasant to behold our happy
countrymen, with their sweethearts and wives leaving the pandemoniums of treason
to their buffoon mendicants and enjoying a few hours of rational entertainment.
Who cares for Tom Duncombe, when he can see (a much better actor!)
Tom Cooke? — Or Partner Joe (of Middlesex!) when he can make merry
with the Bishop of Battersea? The Church in danger! By the rubicund
proboscis of the right reverend Hierach ! we would pull the caitiff by the nose
(as the devil's chaplain did Carlisle and Saint Dunstan did the devil!) who
should raise such a false alarm! The Bishop in his pulpit was hailed by a full
pit and both sees was look down upon
his master!
We are not in love with sentimentality (like virtue!) for itself alone. No
man likes mustard per se. In this drama our sympathies are awakened by
justice and humanity, and tis highly seasoned with a plentiful infusion of fun.
By virtue of the latter commodity, we are reconciled to Mr Sam Snatchem and
swallow with epicurean greediness his rich morsels of equivoque and pun. His
delicate appreciation of Poll's pretty foot ("'Tis not like a pickaxe —
as much behind as before!") redeemed his queer obliquity of vision and unique
breeches and top boots. This prime buffoon, in the person of Mr Asbury, was
sui generis. — The law of arrest loses its terrors in such a scarecrow
representative: were Sam to pop his head among his old acquaintances in the
house when the motion is discussed the bill would be lost!
Great praise is due to Mr T.P. Cooke, Miss Macarthy, and our pious friend
the bishop, Mr W. Smith. We were much amused with the nimble-tongued loquacity
of (Miss Martin) a west-end milliner and cher ami of the prelate's! The house
rang with her orthographical variations that would have puzzled
Walker and given old Tom Sheridan a fit of the cholic and
contributed some new readings to the excellent work now in progress of the
venerable father Sheridan Knowles.
Mr Haines has chosen a happy subject and treated it happily and Mr Davidge
by its adoption, deserves the unprecedented success that has attended its
production. Let the public be won by patriotic spectacles and we shall not have
cause to lament that our national character among the humbler orders of society
is degenerated into apathetic, not say brutal, indifference. Though now
dwelling in peace, the trumpet of war may ere long startle from our pleasant
dream of security and to whom shall we then look for protection? Not
the mischievous brawlers in high life and low— for base poltroons they are, and
timid as treacherous — but the brave spirits who have done us good service in
the hour of peril, and whose glorious example has inspired a succession of
youthful heroes to conquer or die for their country ! It is wise to infuse the
amor patriæ into popular amusements: national songs work wonders among
the million. In Little Russia, no sooner are postillions mounted for a journey,
than they begin hum a patriotic air which they often continue for hours without
intermission. The soldiers sing during a long and fatiguing march; the peasant
lightens his labour in the same manner; and in a still evening, the air vibrates
with the cheerful songs of surrounding villages.
Peace to the souls of the heroes whose bones lie mouldering in the battle-field! On England's glory — now nerveless cold and (thanks to the barking, foul-mouthed curs of democracy!) almost dead, — England's glory shall the brave long-tried patriot inscribe "RESURGAM!" — for Wellington has not conquered nor Nelson died in vain !
D. G.
—Naval uniforms.
.—1st dress: Long pea coat, red waistcoat, rough blue cloth trousers, glazed hat, shoes and buckles. 2nd dress: blue jacket, petticoat trousers, check shirt, leather belt and buckle.
—1st dress: Waterman's scarlet jacket, &c. 2nd dress: Sailor's nankeen suit. 3rd dress: Sailor's blue suit.
.—1st dress: Blue brummagem, with a fireman's badge, blue breeches, white hose, shoes and buckles. 2nd dress: brummagem, white jacket, low-crowned hat, with crape band.
—Old green brummagem, red waistcoat, plush trousers, shoes and buckles, low-crowned hat.
—1st dress: Red waistcoat, with sleeves, black breeches, with red and black patches on the seat, red hose and nightcap, shoes and buckles. 2nd dress: Brown coat, glazed hat, black neckerchief, leather apron, &c. 3rd dress: Sailor's jacket bound with canvas, very large blue trousers, check shirt, tremendous whiskers, long pig-tail, with blue ribbon at the end, high straw hat, with blue ribbons.
—Waterman's old suit.
—Shabby green coat, queer top-boots, white hat.
—Sailor's blue suit.
.—White trunks and shirt, black arms and leggings, black belt and buckle.
—1st dress: Old-fashioned light chintz gown, with the tail drawn up, red skirt, straw hat and ribbons, muslin apron, &c. 2nd dress: half-mourning cotton gown, white neckerchief, black mittens.
—1st dress: Chintz gown, drawn up, scarlet skirt, straw hat, &c. 2nd dress: Handsome yellow sarcenet pelisse, crimson sarcenet gown, straw bonnet, with large white veil, and ostrich feathers.
—Old fashioned dark chintz gown, black mittens, mob cap, white apron.
—White frock, mob cap, red shoes.
You may laugh, you profane scoffers; but I stick like wax to my religious spirit.
That you do, Master Waxend, and to my full proof spirit, too!
You're all going by steam to the diabolical oven— drinking and sotting from
morning till night!
Your beer, Master Watchful. Money!
Oh, stick it up.
Harry Hallyard not here yet!
Ah, Master Joe, you're a poet; why don't you turn your thoughts to holy subjects? Why don't you do as somebody did—write a legacy in a country churchyard?
An elegy, you mean.
Well, I know; some people call 'em t'other way.
So much the better for you cobblers.
Bravo! capital, Joe! hurra!
That would make a capital psalm. I'll uplift my voice.
Hold your tongue, Master Waxend. I've got athwart of the account of the great battle of late; here's a full list of the killed and wounded.
Oh, let us hear—let us hear.
Is Dan Deadeye there?
No.
Or Sam Scupper? or Charley Coil? or Mike Marline?
No, no!
I'm glad of that—they left a long score unpaid. Now, I shouldn't mind if Ben Binnacle was popped off; he was the only as one paid his shot afore he sailed; and I've got his shore togs in keeping.
What's this? Harry Heartly dead! Harry! Poor fellow! poor fellow!
What! Harry that you were bound for?—That's bad news, Master Sculler; he'll never come back to pay his debt.
No, Joe; and if they come upon the poor old waterman, why, they must e'en sell his boat, and make a beggar of him at once.
That'll be hard; let's hope better: no one would be Philistine enough to rob a poor white-headed old man of his last crust.
Philistine!—Ha! the Philistines were common robbers—all Dick Turpins, every one of them!
You're too learned for us, Master Watchful; but I will say, it's a hard law:
Capital! capital!
Bravo, Master Joe! Why, you're quite the Byron of Battersea!
I does a little poetical poetry; it comes natural to me.
Yes, the spirit naturally gets over us. Hear me preach.
No, no! no preaching.
Come, don't be cast down, Master Sculler. Where's Harry Hallyard? I've got a little present for him—something as I've been writing about his pretty Poll—his Poll. Well, he desarves her, for a better lad with a truer heart never feathered an oar.
Right, lad; Harry's the pride of the Hard, and Mary's the prettiest, aye, and
the most industrious wench on either side of the river. It's a pleasure to see
her little fingers go—stitch, hem, hem, from morning till night. She's been a
daughter to me, since her father died. Poor fellow, his was a brave end. Well as
I was saying, she's looked up to me because I was his friend; and a neater cabin
than old Sam Sculler's ain't to be found near the Thames—all her work. And now,
if these harpies come for poor Heartly's debt, they'll sell up all the sticks,
and leave the old man without a rag of canvas to weather out his days.
But they won't do that, Master Sculler; come, come, keep a good heart. But as I was telling you, I've written a something about Mary.
Let us hear.
Here it is. I—
Them charity schools is a good thing.
Ah, laugh away—they are a good thing. How many children they save from depravity! how many do they teach the difference between a brute and a man! I learnt in one; and I should think I was unworthy the charity shewn to me, if I ever stooped to deny it: for, mark ye, my lads,—
Good lad! good lad!
“When them mountains so “high”—common time—“when—”
Silence! silence!—Let's hear Joe's verses.
Now, lads.
Oh, stop! stop!—I've heard something like that in a hymn—long metre.
Oh, fie! oh!
Well, I'll never write no more. I'm no pirate—I never steals another man's ideas; at all events, you can never be robbed.
This is the Crown and Crozier?
It is, sir; the best house above bridge for comfort and respectable company.
So I perceive. Bring me some rum; I have business in this neighbourhood
Can I assist you in—
You can—bring the rum, and be hanged to you!
Sir, were you ever among the niggers?
Why do you ask?
You'd make a capital slave-driver.
Dare you insult me?
Don't wax wrath, or I shall bristle up myself—Hear me preach!
Psha! fool!
Come, come, sir; you are forgetting yourself, and insulting the clergy. This is the Bishop of Battersea; and—
Am I among madmen here? Oh, here's the rum.
My name's Sculler—Old Sam Sculler.
You had a friend named Heartly?
Ah, poor fellow!—I have just read of his death.
Then you must be aware he can't pay a certain debt he owed, and that you are bound for it—here's the agreement, and so old gentleman, hand over the rhino.
Great Heaven! I'm a ruined man!
This rum's not so bad.
You will give me time to look about me.
I want the money!
There's your prisoner!
Oh, my lapstone! what a gentleman! Baalam and his ass! Oh, ye captivators of corpusses! hear my voice.
Silence! or I'll spoil your voice for a month to come.
If you insist on your demand, I am a beggar.
Away with him!
You see, my old cove, here's the parchment—no gammon about it—all reg'lar. So you'd better out with the yellow 'uns, and stash all patter.
I must sell my boat.
To be sure; you must put up the floater. Take my advice; I'm the honestest chap as is—has a feeling for the misfortunate: never resist the law; if a man claims your vestcoat, let him have it, or you'll lose your kicksies in trying the argument.
Away with him!
This is too bad. What, lads, will you see Old Sam Sculler, a man whose hairs
are grown white in honesty and industry, dragged like a dog to a gaol?
Don't resist the law. Take my advice: if a man kicks you, rub the place; for if you strike agin, ten to one if you has witnesses as to who was the degressor.
Down with them! down with them!
Look to your prisoner. Stand back, I say!
I'm a man of peace—hear me preach!
Quick! quick! away!
Ahoy! what boats are foul here? An old wherry run down by a coal-barge! Damme! stand back!
Who the devil are you, that board strangers like a red squall, without leave or notice!
Who am I? I'm the happiest dog on the Thames;
Don't resist the law—take my adwice.
So I will, lad.
Don't, lads, don't! Hark ye, Harry; you are a fine fellow, and I know will listen to reason. This is Harry Heartly's debt; he, poor fellow! is dead, and—
Harry dead!—Poor Harry! Well, but who's this gentleman that's come to shoot us all?
I demand payment of the debt.
When the devil demands his due, then look out: you'll be saying you knew me, but I'll send notice that I never kept such company.
A truce to this foolery! Am I to be paid, or must the man go to prison?
Why, look ye, sir: if your demand be a just one, it would be folly to resist.
That's right—take my adwice!—
It would be vain to resist, as I've said; but you would never be so stone-hearted as to strip an old man of the hard earnings of sixty years of weary toil, and that, too, for a debt not his own. To pay your demand, he must sell his boat; then what remains for him? He must go to the workhouse; the winter of his days must be passed at the fireless hearth of charity, after having honestly toiled away his summer to build himself a home of independence. You wouldn't break the old man's heart?—Or, if you would, your own must be of stone so hard, that all the paviours of London couldn't break it up to macadamize one foot of road to the poorhouse, the last resting place you would send him to.
All the preaching in the world won't talk me out of my debt: my money, or a prison for him.
Shame! shame!
Hold, friends! Here, I will be bail for him, and Will Wall-it, here, will be bound with me.
That I will!
Thank you, lads, thank you!
And, do you hear? do you and your devil's imp beat down to the old man's
house in half an hour; and if my Poll is what I think her, we'll board you in
the smoke of a salute you little expect. Lead the way, landlord.
Hurrah! hurra!
And so, seeing you at work, you see, ma'am, I thought I'd make bold to ask you.
Well, but my good girl, London is a large place, and the industrious never need starve in it. What trade are you?
I'm a shoe-binder, ma'am, from Bullock Smithy. I'm a girl of moral perpensities, can sing a psalm, or beat a carpet; and, as for turning a corner in the binding-way, leave me alone for neatness.
But what made you come away from your own town?
There it is: one of my moral perpensities got the better of me—I fell in love.
And not being able to meet a return, you ran away from the object?
No, I runned after the object: he was obliged to emigrate through a misfortune—a wicked hussy swore a filiation to him.
Then you should endeavour to forget him.
I can't forget him; and I thought it was best to come away, for fear they should swear something of that sort to me.
I am sorry I cannot serve you; I am an orphan, and obliged to work for every meal. I am content to do so, because I think, somehow, that the bread we have earned must eat the sweeter. I am a stranger, too, to London; I never travel farther from Putney than just down the river in Harry's boat to Westminster Bridge—yes, once I made a voyage to Hungerford Market. So, you see, my good girl, I could direct you but badly; but if you had written to this lover of yours—
I did, bless you!
Then you know his direction?
Oh, yes: the girl at the huckster's shop wrote three times for me, and I saw the letters carefully directed, “Mr. Watchful Waxend, London.”
So, so, Mr. Watchful!
I'm much obliged to you. Be so good as to say that I can turn my hand to anything: I can hem and seam, and trundle a mop; nurse the baby, or turn a mangle; I can bind shoes, and make hay; milk a cow, or sing a psalm; and don't forget to say, that I'm a girl of strong moral perpensities.
So, so; here's a discovery for the Bishop of Battersea! as my Harry calls Waxend. Oh, dear! I wish our marriage was over!—And yet, I'm sure, if Harry was to ask me, I should put it off for another year. Harry's to row for another wherry in a month. La! if he was to win that, as he did the last!—that might alter affairs. Mr. and Mrs. Hallyard, with two boats of their own!—I'd have one, with a white awning all fringed round, and a flag at the stern, for Richmond parties, and t'other for every-day work—Joe should row that. I like Joe, because he's Harry's friend, and he's so good-natured and poetical, and because he's so kind to me;—yes, he should row the every-day one, and my Harry should sit like a king in the other; and then, when there happened to be no company, he should just pull me and the little ones down to—La! what am I thinking of? We've neither got the boat nor the little ones yet.
Ah, my pretty Mary! I've been longing all the day to have a peep at your blue eyes. Why, what's the matter?
I don't like your singing about Poll this, and Poll that. My name's Mary.
I mean no disrespect, Mary; but ar'n't you called Pretty Poll of Putney?
Oh, yes; and there's a parrot at the public-house —she calls herself Pretty Poll of the King's Arms.
Well, well, forgive me.
Well, I'm sure I don't frown—I'm not angry, Joe; only, you see, Harry is in a fair way to be a most respectable proprietor of boats; and he wouldn't like his wife to be called Poll Hallyard this, and Poll Hallyard that. Decent people must have decent comportment.
Very true, Mary; every word you say is wisdom:
But here, Mary, I've brought you a present.
Yes, Joe, I know you do; and I'll wear your ring, and dance with you at our wedding.
Will you, though?
Yo ho! the pretty Mary, there!
Oh, here he comes!
Yo ho!—Now, a long pull, old one!
I forgot to tell you—don't be alarmed—Harry sent me forward that you mightn't be alarmed,—but poor old Sculler—
What—what of the old man?
Is going—to—to prison.
To prison!
Oh, Harry! the old man—my dear Harry—
Come, cheer up, lass!—Why, you're as troubled as Chelsea Reach in a gale. Only shipped a little of the bilge water of misfortune: you and I must lend him a hand to bale him dry. Hark ye, lass—come here.
She's a pretty little 'un, an't she?
Silence!
Got a nice little vaist, and a neat article of a foot; not like a pick-axe—as much behind as before.
Fool! hold your tongue!
Go and fetch it, then,
Who am I? I am one who thinks the frog of the river looks well when he questions the shark of the sea.
That observation's true in your log—shark, indeed; but when we get the shark in the shallows; let him look out.
The frog would look pretty in the Atlantic.—I never forget an insult.
Tell us how I may insult a callous heart like yours, and I'll do it, that
your memory may last for ever.
Harry—Harry! remember—
I must talk to 'em, lass; and just now my heart feels like a member of
Parliament—it could speechify till a dissolution; but, hang it, girl. I hope to
more purpose.
Stay, Harry, stay! It were a pity a humble and honest man should ever foul
his hands by a contest with either a tyrant or a rogue. I don't mean to say,
sir, you are the one or the other; but there's another pound, earned by honest
labour: take your full demand, and quit the house before this gallant spirit
This is all I want; you can talk about honesty when I'm gone; it's not a
saleable commodity, and I know nothing about it. But hark you, sir,
She's a werry pretty one, for all that, though there is a bit of the brimstone, too.
Why, old man, the tears are in your eyes; give us your hand; Poll and I have only to wait another year or two, and you are happy.
But I have prevented your being so.
Pshaw, never mind that; Harry, you're a noble fellow— Mary, you're a queen. I'll help you, I'll never go to the Crown and Crozier; but every farthing I can save, you shall have; we'll soon have the thirty pounds.
What a happy man I am, old heart, though the shark has sheered off with the gold. Hang the mopusses!— what care I for the world's ups and downs, while I've my Poll and my partner Joe?
You were made for each other, and I am the cause of a continued separation.
Not so; the money we have paid was Harry's, my earnings were trifling; and I
love him more for sacrificing the means of our marriage, than I did for earning
them; for that sacrifice was for you, my second father.
Eh, what, mine— to-morrow—my dear Mary; run, Joe, run down to Tommy Teazepsalm, the parish clerk; tell him I'm to be married to-morrow —run, old man, run to Will Wallit, tell him to send me in a store of grog, we'll be merry to-night, my dear Mary; bless that fellow's black-looking ugly mug, if he hadn't come I shouldn't—oh, my eyes, married to-morrow; Mary mine— what will old dame say; married to-morrow; cut and run; my dear Mary—bear a hand, bear a hand.
And so Harry said I was to welcome some friends.
Yea, welcome them with a joyous spirit.
You shall have it, though you're rather shaky now.
The struggling of the spirit is mighty within me; I want to preach, and I can't till I've finished my pipe.
And so, my boy—bless him—is going to have a merry-making; well, well, I suppose Mary and he have made up the match: some mothers wouldn't like a young wife coming home, and turning them out of office, but I know the wench—a better doesn't breathe by the old river.
Ah, women are troublesome spirits.
What do you mean? you never suffered by them.
Haven't I, though; their love has been my ruin; I looked too much after the flesh; I worked very hard at my trade; but I couldn't help leaving a few Waxends about.
Pooh, you should have got married, as my Harry means to do: there's every thing ready for him; there's his pipe, and Mary's favourite mug, and old Sam Sculler's backey-box. Oh, what a happy old woman I am to have two such children.
Mother—Dame Hallyard—hoy, there!
Here they come.
That we will, old lass; ah, you don't know.
Why, what's the matter?
Come here.
Well, Mary, here's the Bishop all ready to marry us. How does your reverence
feel to day? Is the
Thanks to your good mother, it's pretty strong; I had it waxed a little more.
Master Watchful, were you ever in love.
Twenty-seven times.
Oh, shameful.
Do you know a place called Bullock Smithy?
I've heard of it.
Were you ever in love there?
The spirit was strong.
Did a girl ever swear—
Don't mention it.
A girl from Bullock Smithy is here.
Here—then I must fly.
But she will see you.
She shan't—it's not mine; mine are like wax-dolls, with hair like bristles,
and eyes as sharp as an awl. I'll fly— I'll not be made a victim; one more sup
Boy, you've done a noble action; hang the pence, Mary and I will soon save it up again; there's a grunter yet in the stye; the wherry's tight and light; you are strong and willing, and Mary's active and industrious. As for me, I shan't, I suppose, be able to reckon much on myself after a little time. Baby's clothes are tedious things for an old woman—Eh, boy; eh, Mary.
Come, let us be merry; take a seat, dad.
Fill, fill—I'll drink that—I'll drink that.
Those are the men—fine young fellows.
Aye, Aye.
You must come with me.
Who are you?
The king wants men.
What do you mean?
You'll make a devilish good sailor, and must serve him.
Pressed!
Pressed!—Oh! no, no!
He'll come back an officer, my girl; and he'll have his friend with him.
No, you're out of your reckoning there.
All's right—you're safe.
And must he go! oh, sir, for pity—
Pity ar'n't among the articles of the press service, my pretty dear.
Right. Fiends incapable of pity first gave birth to the idea, and by fiends only is it advocated. What! force a man from his happy home, to defend a country whose laws deprive him of his liberty? But I must submit; yet, oh, proud lordlings and rulers of the land! do ye think my arm will fall as heavily on the foe as though I were a volunteer? No!—I shall strike for the hearts I leave weeping for my absence, without one thought of the green hills or the flowing rivers of a country that treats me as a slave!
Duty is duty, and must be done.
Come, Mary, lass,
You must, boy. I know you will do your duty as a man; but for the sake of the young lass, and for the old lass, too, don't be rash, my Harry: be a hero—I know you will—bless you, my son— bless you!
Dear mother!—Mary, bid me good bye—a kiss, lass!—You will be true to me?
You have.
Farewell!—Mother—Mary. Heaven bless you all!
Seize him!
Ah, villain! art thou here?
Gentlemen, the duty, for the performance of which we are assembled, though a painful, is an imperative one. To preserve the necessary discipline, we are compelled to reprimand a brave man for an act that confers honour on the British flag; yet, while obliged to condemn, we shall applaud and honour in our hearts, one of the best seamen that ever trod a plank—one of the most fearless spirits that ever handled a cutlass: his very courage must be restricted with severity, or his example and extraordinary success will banish subordination from the fleet.
You have been four years aboard the Polyphemus?
Ay, your honour.
You were a volunteer?
No, your honour; I was a pressed man, pressed on the day before I was to be
married to the prettiest and best lass in the world.
You are a brave fellow, Hallyard?
Thank your honour: there's no scarcity of 'em aboard this craft.
Right: I am proud of my crew, but brave men should never forget obedience to
their superiors. You have forgotten your duty; you have been promoted since you
came on board;
Oh, your honour! don't say that—it cuts me to the soul! Do you think I can ever forget that Mr. Manly did all that he could to get me my pretty Poll's letter that was lying for me at Trieste, when we were up the Mediterranean? and he would have got it, too, but sudden orders came for us to join the fleet in the West Ingees.—My log wouldn't be worth keeping, if I hadn't got that in large letters. And then your honour's been so kind to me since I've been aboard, that you've almost made me forget the cruel law that took me from a young bride: so, what with your goodness, and the ship (bless her!) being called the Polly—Polyphemus, keeping me always in mind of somebody at home: I've begun to be almost happy.—Ingratitude! May I spring a leak, and go down in the black sea of contempt, if ever I take such a villanous cargo on board!
And yet, Hallyard, you have dared to disobey orders. Mr Manly, state your charges against him.
I must first preface, that, in thus complaining of him, I am performing an imperative duty, with which no private feeling dare to interfere. He will respect me the more for a conscientious discharge of it, when I publicly avow that he has twice saved my life.
Oh, your honour! say no more of that. I'd have done it even for sulky Sam, the cook's mate, though he is the most disagreeable swab in the whole crew.
Proceed, Manly, with your charges.
After orders had been passed to lie close, (we, having in the night crept in, and anchored under the enemy's guns), he secretly persuaded twelve of the crew to a breach of discipline. They lowered themselves over the side into the ship's boat, and, at the imminent hazard of the lives of all, and the destruction of the commodore's plans, they attempted the cutting out of an armed store-ship, loaded with ammunition and supplies.
Avast there, your honour! There's a bit of an error in your charge. We did cut her out, and brought her clear off, in spite of the fire of all their batteries, and the bellowing and blazing of their flotilla to boot; and if your honour only remembers the prisoners we brought in—there were just two to a man—six-and-twenty Spaniards, and we without a scratch, excepting Georgy Gunnel, who would be so venturesome as to fight six—
Still you were wrong.
Wrong! your honour. Begging your honour's pardon, a great deal of it was your own fault.
Mine?
Aye, your honour, with respect be it spoken.—Don't you remember when you had me on the quarter, to give me a little jobation, because, in the action of the day before, I took the trouble to go and fetch the enemy's flag, to tie round Mr. Manly's wound—don't you remember that, as I was standing by, you pointed out where the store-ship lay, and said it would be a glorious thing to disappoint the enemy of all the powder and stores on board? Ah, I see your honour recollects; and you said, too, it was an impossibility. Now comes my fault. Says I, to myself, I don't think so; I knows about a dozen as would do it, and, as our chaplain says, “damme!” if I don't try. And so I axed 'em, and they said “yes;” and we tried it, and we did it; and that's all I can say about it, your honour.
Now, mark what might have been the consequences had you failed. We were in the presence of an enemy of superior strength; the policy of the commodore was to hem them with their heavy vessels in shore; day by day we had been creeping on them, till, on the night in question, we had taken up a position, which with, every advantage on our side, must have brought them to a battle. Now, as I before observed, had you failed, our resources and position would have been known, and the prospects of the war totally destroyed in consequence.
But as it was, your honour, they thought the devil was among them, and, standing at all hazards out to sea, dropped like pigeons into the commodore's hands.—Your honour will admit that, although you punish the cause—
Sail on the larboard quarter, your honour.
What is she?
Can't yet make her out.
Jump aloft, Hallyard; take my glass; you've a quick eye—report her build.
I'm a prisoner, your honour.
We'll take your parole for the present.
Thank your honour.
Gentlemen, each to his quarters; we will resume when this business is over.
Hallyard reports a brig, armed—black hull—a good sailer—no colours.
My life on it, he is right. Be brisk, gentlemen; we
Curses on her! she walks the water like a witch! Are all the black cattle safe aboard.
Ay, ay.
Where in the name of the fiend is Bowse? She keeps the weather gage in spite
of us? and yet the Black Bet is no skulker on a wind. Hark ye, ye nigger
animals, if I hear the least noise, or see the least sign of grumbling among ye,
I'll make sharks' meat of every devil of you!—
I would ask mercy, master; poor Zinga begs his wife.
(R.)
Your wife, fool!—She's in my cabin; had she been kinder, you might now have had your arms and legs at liberty.
I'll wear your fetters, master; see—they eat into my flesh; yet I will be happy; let me have my wife—my Zamba!
You thought to escape me, did you?
I followed but the impulses of nature. Three years ago you tore me from my country,—from the presence of my parents, and the arms of the maid, who is now my wife; regardless of my shrieks and cries, you dragged me away to slavery; my heart was broken; and, if I murmured, the lash was my only answer. Yet, master, I did not seek revenge; I could have had it. Yes, one night, when you were sleeping, my knife was at your throat; but I thought of the words the good white man said to me at my own home, when he taught us his religion, and I conquered the temptation. Well, I served you faithfully; you again sought my country to make more slaves; I fled to join my Zamba. Was it a crime? Oh! give her to me, and I will be your slave for ever! In pity to my agony, spare her! give her to my arms unharmed!
Back, beast!
Stop!—If we throw him overboard his carcase may betray us to those bull-dogs. Give him the whip, and keep an eye upon him. Let us get clear of this hell-cat in chase, and his hours are numbered.
What news?
I've made her out, though her hull isn't above the water, for I know the cut of her jib. 'Tis the Polyphemus sloop; she that I was boatswain of, and deserted from, when I fell in with you. We must make more way than we do now, or she'll walk over us; 'tis the fastest craft in the service.
She's a flying devil!
It'll be all of no use, Master Brandon.
Oh, lord! oh, lord! I wish I was at Battersea! I'd better have fathered all the children of Bullock-Smithy, than been kidnapped here, and treated like a white nigger; and now I shall be shot at like a piece of wax stuck in the middle of a target!
There goes Black Tommy overboard.
Oh, Lord! they'll be coming down for some of your black Tommies soon.
There goes his brother Bill.
My spirit sinks; when they've settled all the bills they will dot and carry one with me. Oh, Mr. Bowse, who is it they are throwing overboard—how many is there before it comes to my turn.
Pshaw, fool! it's the two guns, our heavy thirty-two
Very right, I'll lose anything rather than my life.
She nears us fast; will it never be night; curses on her. I've ordered Rasper to cut eight inches into her ribs; let her shake a bit, so that we can run under the rock of Martinique—damn the repairs.
Oh! if he was to cut eight inches into my ribs!
Bravo, Bet! she'll bother them yet.
What now?
They've carried away the quarter bulwarks—shall we heave to?
The first man that speaks of surrender, I'll scatter his brains about the deck.
I'll hide myself, for I'm sure to speak of it.
Stay, a thought strikes me; it's getting dark, pick me out one of those niggers—we'll give him a floating-bath; if they shorten sail to pick him up, we gain time; if they don't, the sharks will get him.
Oh, Lord! they'll be mistaking me for a nigger.
Bowse, I have it; bring me the woman from my cabin.
Master, you will give me my wife—oh, master, mercy, master!
Ay, ay!
Master, good master!
Tear them asunder!
No, no; you mistake: master captain has given me my dear wife, my own Zamba; master will make Zinga happy.
Tie her in an empty hogshead; let her gently over the side; they'll hear her shrieks.
You are a white man, can your own God forgive you.
'Tis done.
'Tis a bad act.
'Tis good policy; see, they shorten sail to pick her up. Now's our time; one or two more, and we defy them. Are all the papers there?
They are.
We gain upon them; yes, they are changing their course to snap at my black bait: I'll upon deck; have the husband ready for the gudgeons, and, d'ye hear, if it comes to the worst, you know what to do with the papers.
Ay, ay.
Ha, she is there! I see her arms raised for help, and as the wind comes I
hear her wild shrieks—my brain will burst. Ha! the ship is shortening
sail—they put out a boat—they near her—one moment more and—oh, misery! the cask
is filling—they will be too late—my eyes will start—she sinks— she is lost!—no,
no; a sailor plunges into the waves; I cannot see them now; yes, he rises; she
is in his arms; they take her into the boat.
The game's up; they've shot away her mast.
Oh, lord, how hot I am! my flesh melteth and my spirit waxeth faint. They've
shot away the mast; I wish they had shot away the master.
—don't mention Battersea, I'm likely to be battered at sea, here.
It's all over; another minute, and they'll board us.
Now, then, to live like a man.
Missed, you black looking piratical robber! you'll swing for this.
Let the hold be searched, and the manacles struck off these poor creatures.
There's a ball of wax for you, my boy.
It's all over—run down at last by a Peter-boat!—Well, well! no hanging this time!—Hallyard, you don't recollect me; but I remember you! I never forget an insult!
I recollect that voice—those words!
Ay, ay; I did a good thing in getting you pressed —made a neat rod for my own
hide. Well, it's all over—the Black Bet and her captain will go to Davy Jones
together. Put me over to the sharks—Ha! ha!—I never forget an insult!
Let the ship be cleared of the dead—turn all hands upon deck.
But the poor woman, your honour, that we picked up, she may have a friend or a brother among these ebony gentlemen.
Right: pass the word for the negro woman.
Zamba! my wife!
Your wife?
Lord love my eyes, the poor creeturs are lovyers— she's the Poll of his heart; tip us your black fin, my honest fellow; there's one at home I'd give the world to hug in my arms as you do your brown fair one here.—Here's a bit of her silky hair—it's my breast-plate in the day of battle, and my library of comfort in the dark hours of the night-watch.
Hallyard, I shall leave you as prize-master while I return to report to the
captain.
Ay, ay, your honour.
Now, my lad, who are you?—you saved my life and I thank you; I'll do the same for you another time; but—why, there's something about the build of your figure-head as strikes me—did you ever cross my latitude afore?
I don't know what you mean by your latitude,
Why, surely, no—it cant be the Bishop—what Master Watchful Waxend turned pioneer and slaver!
I was a slave myself—they made a white nigger of me; I was kidnapped on board one night when the spirit had mastered me, and I fell asleep at Wapping, and I've had nothing but wopping ever since.
Give us your hand, it does one's heart good to see any one from the dear home. Well, and how was my Poll, pretty and constant, eh? and the old lass, old mother, and Joe, eh? how are they? speak lad, speak.
So I—I—I will when you've done joggling so.
Why don't you give fire, then? my heart's up in my mouth. My dear Mary!
I can't tell you, I've been away these three years.
Oh, lord! oh, lord! no news any way; not one letter have I had, and I've wrote a dozen.
Oh, yes, stop a bit; I've got one for you.
Eh, from Mary? where is it, lad, where is it? How did you get it?
Why she gave it to me to take to the Admiralty the night before I was
kidnapped; and I popped it into my portmantle, and stuck it in with a ball of
wax, and so I've kept it ever since.
Bless her little fingers! How it smells of cobbler's wax!—never mind—let's
see what she says.
Why, Harry, Harry.
Oh, I arn't ashamed of these drops; when the heart's brim full of love and happiness, it must run over somewhere, and where and why shouldn't it at the eyes?—I don't think a man has less fire and courage in him for having a little of the water of affection.
Here's something may serve to brighten you up a bit; may serve, as I say, to put a little more wax on the thread.
Where! eh! what! correspondence with the enemy!—Umph—map of a secret cove or harbour beneath the Rock of Martinique,— plan of the communication with the fort—list of pirate signals —all's right.
It was you, sir, who saved my Zamba's life; I owe you my gratitude. The object dearest to your heart is glory—I can put the pirate's horde into your hands; I have been his messenger to the rock for near two years: do you prepare a strong cable by which you can ascend; put me ashore; I will enter the fort as if from him; I will lower a rope from above, and—you understand?
I do, my brave fellow; the rock's ours; you shall be made a general for
this, and
The Black Bet has taken a long sweep this time; it's my turn for a cruise
next—better than being cooped up in this dog-hole. I thought I made her out this
afternoon; if so, she'll be for running under the rock to-night. Let me see,
this is four hundred feet above the sea, yet I can almost fancy
Oh, it's you, Master Nigger, is it; well, what luck this trip?
Good, Master Beargruel, good. Here,
I was glad to see that light below as if I'd had a fortune aboard.
'Tis a fearful height.
It is.
Hark how the wind howls.
Here's your bottle—yaw, aw.
No, keep it till my return.
Yaw—right.
The opiate in the brandy has taken effect; now to my task.
No, no, the poor fellow sleeps; all fair and above board.
Hollo! who the devil are you?
Silence; I am from Brandon.
Oh, good; I'll inform Sebastian and the rest.
Do so.
What does this mean?
That you are in our power; one word, and you die.
I don't fear death.
Yes, my loves, to be sure you shall have as much grog as you can swim in; but
as for the rings and things you want, I'll give you them the next time we come
to Portsmouth.
Bravo! Bishop of Batterseea!
Come, strike up a tune, old Rosin! give me a hornpipe—common time.
Yo! ho!
Yo! ho! lads!—Here I find you. Rather queerish anchorage, though,
—lots of rocks
I've seen two or three London-looking chaps about here; and so I—
Eh?—Did you ask 'em about Mary, and Joe, and the old house?
I was just going to do it, when one of 'em says to the other,
Well, well—have you made soundings about the coach?
Ay, ay.
And secured the berths?
Ay.
Then I'll only just beat about here till the captain bears down with a few gimcracks, that want stowage, and then crowd all sail for London. What's the name of the craft we're to go by?
The Nonpareil.
The Nonpareil! I wish it had been the Polly, or the Polly-phemus; but never mind, the Nonpareil will answer for my Mary. So, do you hear? heave a head, and just make a minute of the exact time they say they'll weigh anchor.
To be sure I will, and ask all about her rate of sailing: there's a fair wind—we shall soon be at Battersea.
I'm there now: I can see the old mother, with the bellows in her lap, listening to Mary, as she reads my last letter about coming home; I can see the tears standing in the wrinkles of her dear old cheeks; and I can hear Mary's voice quivering a bit, as she comes to the part where I tell her that I love her more than ever;—Joe, in the corner, with his pipe, fancying he's shaking hands with his old friend, Harry, and puffing out the smoke to hide his quivering lips;—I can see 'em all three, and the old wherry, and Sculler, picking gooseberries in the garden, and the old clock behind the door, ticking louder as if to welcome me; I can see 'em—I can hear 'em! What a fool I am! I'm crying like a boy!
Von't you puy noting for de pretty tears?
No, I'll buy nothing; I'll take her home no wishey-washey trinkum-trankums, no base metal covered with a little finery, like the ugly figure-head of the Saracen's phisog with a gold beard, but I'll take her the pure coin of an unaltered affection, and the hard earnings of five years of toil and glory.
Very nice, put you'd petter take dem de earrings or de shoe puckles, ma tear.
Mary would give all the finery in the world for one word of love. My eyes! I'm so happy! my heart is as merry as a newly-made middy, and I feel running before the wind of joy with all the sails of content filled to bursting.
All right! in half an hour they'll take the peg out of the last! Pooh! I mean to say, weigh anchor, or, vulgarly speaking, be ready to start in that time.
Hurrah! eh—here, shipmates.
Thanks, my brave fellows; I'll give you a toast anon. Hallyard.
Your honour.
I shall see you in London soon; if you call at my bankers you will find that your friend, Lieutenant Manly, has made you his heir; you saved his life twice, Harry! but your arm couldn't save him from the grim tyrant in the last action, and as he had no relatives, you will now come into possession of three hundred a year.
Oh, gemini! three hundred a year! was there ever such a sum?
Don't let wealth spoil you and your pretty Poll, but tell her that your captain, who admires your honest integrity, will be her father on the day of marriage, and give her, too, the best protection—a good husband.
Oh, your honour, I'm all over gratitude! Won't
Come, my lads! fill me a glass of punch!
Oh, thank your honour.
Here's our country, and may she always have sons as brave in battle, and as humane in victory, as the lads of the Polyphemus.
And so we are to pull the gentleman down to the wharf, eh?
Ay, and we must make haste, too; he said he would be ready in a few minutes, so come along.
No, I can't go out without seeing Mary; there's no persuading her out of her melancholy—
I'll be bound, now, she's gone down to the church-yard to sit by the side of old Dame Hallyard's grave; she's almost always there, and as for a smile on her face—
Ah, the old dame was a mother to her; and how she
Yes; and Mary got as pale as a winding-sheet: bless her, I must see her for a moment, then I'll go to work; work's my comfort. I don't know how it is, but I feel a sort of a something hanging over me—it's very foolish, I know, but—
Well, then, run down to the church-yard and look for her; I'll go to the Hard and prepare the boat.
Agreed.
Did you want me, Joseph?
I was just waiting to say a word to you before I went down to the Hard; you are still fretting; you shouldn't take on so, Mary, it's breaking my heart.
I won't then, Joe, for you're very kind to me; I will endeavour to be
cheerful, it is my duty to be so; but I've had a dream, and I've been down to
mother's grave, and I couldn't look upon the blue flowers I've planted there
without crying a little—they seemed so like her own dear bright old eyes!
Besides, there's a strange flower grown up among them —I didn't put it there, it
came up of itself, like a message from the dead! It's a—yes, Joe, it's a
Forget-me-Not!
Well, well, we never can forget her.
Oh, never! I hope it will not die; pretty bud, to come of itself! I'll water it every day. Do you know, as I looked at it, I heard her dead voice say the words as sure as I stand here, so you must forgive me for being a little melancholy.
Yes, Mary, I'm rather low myself to-day; I had a dream—I thought my boat was run down, and I had a narrow escape of my life.
Heaven forbid! you are my last friend.
I was a fool to let it annoy me—
There's one thing I'm dreaming
Right;
I don't know when I shall be home, Mary, but Sculler will come with me. Come, cheer up a bit? go out and buy a few trinkums; call on Mrs. Strop, the barber's wife; she'll talk you into spirits. God bless you!
Good bye, Mary! good bye!
I have called on Mrs. Strop already, and I have seen a newspaper: the ship of
my poor Harry has come home; but, ah? where is he?
Just comed up to Battersea for a breath of hair; Lunnun is so smoky! We who
gets our livelihood in the fashionable quarters, to be sure, is better off than
them as vegetates in the purloins of the Mansion House; but to me, a native of
the delightful city of Bullock-Smithy, it's all very condense and mistificatory.
So I took advantage of having to measure Mrs. Fubsey, the great maltster's wife,
(who lives within a short distance) for a new Parisian corset, to rustificate
for a day, or, rather, half a day; for I've got to take home Miss Jemima
Jumper's, the dancing-master's daughter's new yeller silk frock, and there a'n't
a stitch done; but I would come to see you, for, you know, you first recommended
me, and though my own talons have exasperated me into a first-rate Magazin des
Modes, I never forgets that to
I am not well.
Do you like this dress?—Pretty taste, isn't it?—You can't think how the fellers did stare at me! one sailor-gentleman, in particular: it struck me I'd seen his face afore;—at first I thought it was your Harry, but—
Oh, do not—do not!—This is cruel!
I beg your pardon—I didn't think—But I must go to Mrs. Fubsey's: la! she is
such a perdigious size round! Oh, now I think of it, there was somebody with the
sailor-gentleman very like Watchful Waxend; but I was on the coach, and it
couldn't be he.
The sailor-gentleman she saw!—That's like my dream. In my sleep I thought
Harry had come back; there he was with his manly face tanned by the sun, but
looking better than ever; and his mother was crying with joy; and he was dressed
like an officer, and opened his arms to me; and I tried and tried, but I
couldn't move near him; yet I saw him, and I heard him speak my name, and I felt
sure that he loved me;—and this was dreaming! Oh! I wish the sleep had lasted!
yes—how I wish I could have died in that dream!—But I awoke, and
I—
Well, this is all very odd!—I've been “round the house, and round the house,”
as the riddle says; but every window is as close as a clicker's seam, and Harry
is waiting for me all this while in the road: he wouldn't come for fear of
frightening the old dame and
Avast, lad!—Why didn't you come?—You don't know how my heart has been keeping
reckoning of all the time you've stayed. Have you seen 'em? may I go in?—
The house is shut up!
I see—I see!
I've been round it, and can't find a hole to peep in at.
Well—well!
So I conclude—
What—what?
That Joe's giving 'em a bit of a nautical discursion on the river.
Right, lad! that's it!—My heart was up in my throat!—There's no harm happened to the old craft, that the young one has been obliged to sail from her moorings? No! no!—Joe would take care of that—I know him.—Joe's a true heart!—It's hard, though, within sight of port, to be blown out to sea again in this fashion. What's to be done?
I know what I shall do: I shall bear down to the “Crown and Crozier,” and old Sculler's.
Good—they'll spin you a yarn. Crowd all sail! while I tack about these
latitudes.—I can't leave the old spot.
I'll be back before you can wax a thread
Ay! ay!
no mother—no friend! Well, well! they didn't expect me. My eyes! how glad
they will be to see me when they do come!—What a fool I am!
Was it you that knocked at our—
Ha! that voice!
Alive!
Gently, my little tender one! But I hardly know myself whether my senses
won't desert the flag.—Lord love her pretty pale face!—Joy's colours I see are
white.
I thought that—
—Mary!
—'Tis he!—'Tis so, then; my dear Harry, you are alive, and—
What does this mean?
Oh, for mercy's sake! unhand me! you must not come near me! I am—I cannot
speak the word! Let go—let go!
When I know all! What all? Is this my fond Mary, that—Oh, I'm dreaming!
Avast heaving, old man! A word or two with you.
Don't stay me: I'm on business of life and death!
Your answer is life or death to me. Don't you know me, old boy? Why, you ar'n't altered a bit.
Why, no!—What! can it be Harry Hallyard?
It is.
We thought you dead.
Why's the old house shut up? Where's my mother?—Why does Mary fly from me?—Tell me quick, old man: my brain's on fire!
Oh, unhappy business! when he knows all—
When I know all!—What is there for me to know? Out with the worst. My mother—
Lies in yonder churchyard.
Dead!—Poor old mother! and I not here to close her eyes!
Mary is—I—I can't tell you.
Oh, do, old man! if you have any mercy—if you have any recollection of your green days, when your heart loved, and—speak! speak!
It must be told. Mary is—Mary is married!
God! married? Mary, that I have loved so truly, married! Oh!
Her husband. Joe—your partner Joe.
Oh, is—is this—
My poor noble Harry! I won't attempt to comfort you—words would be in vain! but they were not to blame—I am their witness.
Not to blame?—Oh, no! falsehood isn't a fault, treachery isn't a crime. I
have been five years away, but I have never for a moment forgotten her; I have
worn this lock of hair upon my heart day and night, in the battle, the storm,
and the calm, ever since, and her name, my old mother's, and his, have been
oftener on my lips than my prayers, and dearer to me than the life I ventured.
Well,
Stay, you shall see Joe; I have just come from him, poor fellow! he was well an hour ago, but he has little life in him now—I am going to tell Mary—they are bringing him here.
Why, what's the matter?
In helping to unload a barge, the crane-chain snapped, it fell on him, and he is all but dead.
Um—hark ye: break it to her gently—she'll suffer much; she'll be able to
guess what my heart feels; tell her gently, and quickly, too.
I can't see, my eyes flash fire—I wish that I could cry! I did see it
here—no, no!
Poor broken-hearted girl! she breathes!
No, no, let her lie still; I hear a noise of voices—they are bringing him—she must be told first.
Right!
There she lies in her pale beauty, like a moon-beam on the stilled waters of
the ocean! What a pity she should be as cold as the one and as fickle as the
other! All my world is on that little spot of earth! Oh! if she could conceive
how I love her! even her changing heart would weep for me; but she can't—no, no!
she knows nothing of the holy hopes and the sweet longings of of a real
love—even now false to me—another's! My soul is pouring out of my eyes in
adoration! I will raise her off the ground, 'tis a coarse bed for so tender a
flower.
I don't see them yet; has she recovered?
I think her recollection's heaving to. Here, take her, old man, take her.
It is true! he is dead, and—mother, don't cry so! I—oh, my brain!
'Tis the paper with the account of your death.
What of that? had she loved, she would have hoped it was false, she would have gone down to—to her grave as—
Would to heaven I had, Harry! How did I prove my love? though 'tis sin in me
to speak of it now. Two, three, four years elapsed, and no letters from you, but
I never doubted—I tried to prove my love for you by performing all the duties of
a daughter to your mother; still time went on; at last the news came that you
were killed— we saw it in the newspaper—Joe got the list from the
Admiralty—there we saw it again—I won't say how my heart was bleeding as I
watched your poor old mother dying with the news—she and I wept together, and
prayed for the Peace;
I do! I do! but can't believe that you—no—I have stayed to tell you that there is money—I have earned it for your sake, and if you wish to—not quite to kill me, you will use it.
No, oh, no!
You will, Mary!
Oh, spare me!
You will obey me, if you wish me to forget— forget! oh! that's as impossible
as that I should ever cease to love. But you may have need of it; the shoals of
adversity arn't always to be avoided; even now you are among the breakers. There
it is.
Oh, pity!
I do! I do! and do you pity me?
Bless you, Mary! I hoped to see you again, for—I—I had heard of Harry's return, and I wished to say something before I died, to prove that you were innocent of falsehood to him.
Don't speak—you are bleeding.
I am; but I must speak. Harry thinks I am a villain, but do explain. I'm faint!
I have told him—I—
And is he convinced?
Joe, I grieve to see you thus; but unless my mother's voice from the grave assured me of—
Hold; here—here—here's your mother's will, where she leaves the sticks in the cottage, and the wherry, and all to me, to marry Mary. You'll see how she urges it for your sake. Read, Harry, read!—That is her voice from the grave!
Poor old mother!
Do you forgive her—forgive Mary?
I do.
And Joe?
Yes, yes!
Then I'm happy.—I'm dying! Harry! Mary!
He is dead!—Mary!
Harry! Harry!