André

ACT IV

Scene, the Encampment Enter M'Donald and BlandBlandIt doth in truth appear, that as a – spy —Detested word! – brave André must be view'd.His sentence he confesses strictly just.Yet sure a deed of mercy, from thy hand,Could never lead to ill. By such an act,The stern and blood-stain'd brow of WarWould be disarm'd of half its gorgon horrors;More humanized customs be induced;And all the race of civilized manBe blest in the example. Be it thy suit:'T will well become thy character and station.M'DonaldTrust me, young friend, I am alone the judgeOf what becomes my character and station:And having judg'd that this young Briton's death,Even 'though attended by thy father's murder,Is necessary, in these times accurs'd,When every thought of man is ting'd with blood,I will not stir my finger to redeem them.Nay, much I wonder, Bland, having so oftThe reasons for this necessary rigourEnforced upon thee, thou wilt still persistIn vain solicitations. ImitateThy father!BlandMy father knew not André.I know his value; owe to him my life;And, gratitude, that first, that best of virtues, —Without the which man sinks beneath the brute, —Binds me in ties indissoluble to him.M'DonaldThat man-created virtue blinds thy reason.Man owes to man all love; when exercised,He does no more than duty. Gratitude,That selfish rule of action, which commandsThat we our preference make of men,Not for their worth, but that they did us service,Misleading reason, casting in the wayOf justice stumbling-blocks, cannot be virtue.BlandDetested sophistry! – 'T was André sav'd me!M'DonaldHe sav'd thy life, and thou art grateful for it.How self intrudes, delusive, on man's thoughts!He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy country;Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's yoke;The best, and foremost in the cause of virtue,To death, by sword, by prison, or the halter:His sacrifice now stands the only barBetween the wanton cruelties of war,And our much-suffering soldiers: yet, when weigh'dWith gratitude, for that he sav'd thy life,These things prove gossamer, and balance air: —Perversion monstrous of man's moral sense!BlandRather perversion monstrous of all good,Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion.Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, would blastAll warm affection; asunder severEvery social tie of humanized man.Curst be thy sophisms! cunningly contriv'dThe callous coldness of thy heart to cover,And screen thee from the brave man's detestation.M'DonaldBoy, boy!BlandThou knowest that André's not a spy.M'DonaldI know him one. Thou hast acknowledg'd it.BlandThou liest!M'DonaldShame on thy ruffian tongue! how passionMars thee! I pity thee! Thou canst not harm,By words intemperate, a virtuous man.I pity thee! for passion sometimes swaysMy older frame, through former uncheck'd habit:But when I see the havoc which it makesIn others, I can shun the snare accurst,And nothing feel but pity.Bland [indignantly]Pity me![Approaches him, and speaks in an under voice.Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion sways thee.Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is a passion.Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee liar!M'DonaldIf thou could'st make me one, I then might grieve.BlandThy coolness goes to freezing: thou'rt a coward.M'DonaldThou knowest thou tell'st a falsehood.BlandThou shalt knowNone with impunity speaks thus of me.That to rouse thy courage. [Touches him gently, with his open hand, in crossing him. M'Donald looks at him unmoved.] Dost thou not yet feel?M'DonaldFor thee I feel. And tho' another's actsCast no dishonour on the worthy man,I still feel for thy father. Yet, remember,I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded;I may not always the distinction make.However just, between the blow intendedTo provoke, and one that's meant to injure.BlandHast thou no sense of honour?M'DonaldTruly, yes:For I am honour's votary. Honour, with me,Is worth: 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a thing,So high pre-eminent, that a boy's breath,Or brute's, or madman's blow, can never reach it.My honour is so much, so truly mine,That none hath power to wound it, save myself.BlandI will proclaim thee through the camp a coward.M'DonaldThink better of it! Proclaim not thine own shame.BlandI'll brand thee – Damnation![Exit.M'DonaldO, passion, passion!A man who values fame, far more than life;A brave young man; in many things a good;Utters vile falsehood; adds injury to insult;Striving with blood to seal such foul injustice;And all from impulse of unbridled feeling. —[Pause.Here comes the mother of this headstrong boy,Severely rack'd – What shall allay her torture?For common consolation, here, is insult. Enter Mrs. Bland and ChildrenMrs. BlandO my good friend!M'Donald [taking her hand]I know thy cause of sorrow.Art thou now from our Commander?Mrs. Bland [drying her tears, and assuming dignity]I am.But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'dHe hears my words, he sees my desperate sorrow.Fain would I blame his conduct – but I cannot.Strictly examin'd, with intent to markThe error which so fatal proves to me,My scrutiny but ends in admiration.Thus when the prophet from the Hills of Moab,Look'd down upon the chosen race of heaven,With fell intent to curse; ere yet he spake,Truth all resistless, emanation brightFrom great Adonai, fill'd his froward mind,And chang'd the curses of his heart to blessings.M'DonaldThou payest high praise to virtue. Whither now? —Mrs. BlandI still must hover round this spot untilMy doom is known.M'DonaldThen to my quarters, lady,There shall my mate give comfort and refreshment:One of your sex can best your sorrows soothe.[Exeunt.Scene, the Prison Enter BlandBlandWhere'er I look cold desolation meets me.My father – André – and self-condemnation!Why seek I André now? Am I a man,To soothe the sorrows of a suffering friend?The weather-cock of passion! fool inebriate!Who could with ruffian hand strive to provokeHoar wisdom to intemperance! who could lie!Aye, swagger, lie, and brag! – Liar! Damnation!!O, let me steal away and hide my head,Nor view a man, condemn'd to harshest death,Whose words and actions, when by mine compar'd,Shew white as innocence, and bright as truth.I now would shun him; but that his shorten'dThread of life, gives me no line to play with.He comes, with smiles, and all the air of triumph;While I am sinking with remorse and shame:Yet he is doom'd to death, and I am free! Enter AndréAndréWelcome, my Bland! Cheerly, a welcome hither!I feel assurance that my last requestWill not be slighted. Safely thy fatherShall return to thee. [Holding out a paper.] See what employmentFor a dying man. Take thou these verses;And, after my decease, send them to herWhose name is woven in them; whose imageHath controul'd my destiny. Such tokensAre rather out of date. FashionsThere are in love as in all else; they changeAs variously. A gallant Knight, erewhile,Of Cœur de Lion's day, would, dying, sendHis heart home to its mistress; degenerateSoldier I, send but some blotted paper.BlandIf 't would not damp thy present cheerfulness,I would require the meaning of thy words.I ne'er till now did hear of André's mistress.AndréMine is a story of that common kind,So often told, with scanty variation,That the pall'd ear loaths the repeated tale.Each young romancer chooses for his themeThe woes of youthful hearts, by the cold handOf frosty Age, arm'd with parental power,Asunder torn. But I long since have ceas'dTo mourn; well satisfied that she I love,Happy in holy union with another,Shares not my wayward fortunes. Nor would INow these tokens send, remembrance to awaken,But that I know her happy: and the happyCan think on misery and share it not.Bland [agitated]Some one approaches.AndréWhy, 't is near the time.But tell me, Bland, say – is the manner chang'd?BlandI hope it – but I yet have no assurance.AndréWell, well!Honora [without]I must see him.AndréWhose voice was that?My senses! – Do I dream – ?[Leans on Bland. Enter HonoraHonoraWhere is he?André'T is she!![Starts from Bland and advances towards Honora; she rushes into his arms.]HonoraIt is enough! He lives, and I shall save him.[She faints in the arms of André.AndréShe sinks – assist me, Bland! O, save her, save her![Places her in a chair, and looks tenderly on her.Yet, why should she awake from that sweet sleep!Why should she open her eyes – [Wildly.] – to see me hung!What does she here? Stand off – [Tenderly.] – and let her die.How pale she looks! how worn that tender frame! —She has known sorrow! Who could injure her?BlandShe revives – André – soft, bend her forward.[André kneels and supports her.HonoraAndré – !AndréLov'd excellence!HonoraYes, it is André![Rises and looks at him.No more deceived by visionary forms,By him supported —[Leans on him.AndréWhy is this?Thou dost look pale, Honora – sick and wan —Languid thy fainting limbs —HonoraAll will be well.But was it kind to leave me as thou didst – ?So rashly to desert thy vow-link'd wife? —AndréWhen made another's both by vows and laws —Honora [quitting his support]What meanest thou?AndréDidst thou not marry him?HonoraMarry!AndréDidst thou not give thy hand awayFrom me?HonoraO, never, never!AndréNot married?HonoraTo none but thee, and but in will to thee.AndréO blind, blind wretch! – Thy father told me —HonoraThou wast deceived. They hurried me away,Spreading false rumours to remove thy love —[Tenderly.] Thou didst too soon believe them.AndréThy father —How could I but believe Honora's father?And he did tell me so. I reverenced age,Yet knew, age was not virtue. I believedHis snowy locks, and yet they did deceive me!I have destroy'd myself and thee! – Alas!Ill-fated maid! why didst thou not forget me?Hast thou rude seas and hostile shores explor'dFor this? To see my death? Witness my shame?HonoraI come to bless thee, André; and shall do it.I bear such offers from thy kind Commander,As must prevail to save thee. Thus the daughterMay repair the ills her cruel sire inflicted.My father, dying, gave me cause to thinkThat arts were us'd to drive thee from thy home;But what those arts I knew not. An heiress left,Of years mature, with power and liberty,I straight resolv'd to seek thee o'er the seas.A long-known friend who came to join her lord,Yielded protection and lov'd fellowship. —Indeed, when I did hear of thy estateIt almost kill'd me: – I was weak before —André'T is I have murder'd thee! —HonoraAll shall be well.Thy General heard of me, and instant form'dThe plan of this my visit. I am strong,Compar'd with what I was. Hope strengthens me;Nay, even solicitude supports me now;And when thou shalt be safe, thou wilt support me.AndréSupport thee! – O heaven! What! – And must I die?Die! – and leave her thus– suffering – unprotected! — Enter Melville and GuardMelvilleI am sorry that my duty should requireService, at which my heart revolts; but, sir,Our soldiers wait in arms. All is prepar'd —HonoraTo death! – Impossible! Has my delay,Then, murder'd him? – A momentary respite —MelvilleLady, I have no power.BlandMelville, my friend,This lady bears dispatches of high import,Touching this business: – should they arrive too late —HonoraFor pity's sake, and heaven's, conduct me to him;And wait the issue of our conference.Oh, 't would be murder of the blackest dye,Sin execrable, not to break thy orders —Inhuman, thou art not.MelvilleLady, thou say'st true;For rather would I lose my rank in arms,And stand cashier'd for lack of discipline,Than, gain 'mongst military men all praise,Wanting the touch of sweet humanity.HonoraThou grantest my request?MelvilleLady, I do.Retire![Soldiers go out.BlandI know not what excuse, to martial men,Thou canst advance for this; but to thy heartThou wilt need none, good Melville.AndréO, Honora!HonoraCheer up, I feel assur'd. Hope wings my flight,To bring thee tidings of much joy to come.[Exit Honora, with Bland and Melville.AndréEternal blessings on thee, matchless woman! —If death now comes, he finds the veriest cowardThat e'er he dealt withal. I cannot thinkOf dying. Void of fortitude, each thoughtClings to the world – the world that holds Honora![Exit.End of the Fourth Act

ACT V

Scene, the Encampment Enter BlandBlandSuspense – uncertainty – man's bane and solace!How racking now to me! My mother comes.Forgive me, O my father! if in this war,This wasting conflict of my wildering passions,Memory of thee holds here a second place!M'Donald comes with her. I would not meet him:Yet I will do it. Summon up some courage —Confess my fault, and gain, if not his love,At least the approbation of my judgment. Enter Mrs. Bland and Children with M'DonaldBlandSay, madam, is there no change of counsel,Or new determination?Mrs. BlandNought new, my son.The tale of misery is told unheard.The widow's and the orphans' sighsFly up, unnoted by the eye of man,And mingle, undistinguish'd, with the winds.My friend [To M'Donald.], attend thy duties. I must away.2nd ChildYou need not cry, Mama, the General will do it, I am sure; for I saw him cry. He turn'd away his head from you, but I saw it.Mrs. BlandPoor thing! come let us home and weep. Alas!I can no more, for war hath made men rocks.[Exeunt Mrs. Bland and Children.BlandColonel, I used thee ill this morning.M'DonaldNo!Thyself thou used'st most vilely, I remember.BlandMyself sustained the injury, most true;But the intent of what I said and didWas ill to thee alone: I'm sorry for it.Seest thou these blushes? They proceed from warmthAs honest as the heart of man e'er felt; —But not with shame unmingled, while I forceThis tongue, debased, to own, it slander'd thee,And utter'd – I could curse it – utter'd falsehood.Howe'er misled by passion, still my mindRetains that sense of honest rectitudeWhich makes the memory of an evil deedA troublesome companion. I was wrong.M'DonaldWhy, now this glads me; for thou now art right.Oh, may thy tongue, henceforward, utter noughtBut Truth's sweet precepts, in fair Virtue's cause!Give me thy hand. [Takes his hand.] Ne'er may it grasp a swordBut in defense of justice.BlandYet, erewhile,A few short hours scarce past, when this vile handAttempted on thee insult; and was raisedAgainst thy honour; ready to be raisedAgainst thy life. If this my deep remorse —M'DonaldNo more, no more. 'T is past. Remember itBut as thou would'st the action of another,By thy enlighten'd judgment much condemn'd;And serving as a beacon in the stormsThy passions yet may raise. Remorse is vice:Guard thee against its influence debasing.Say to thyself, "I am not what I was;I am not now the instrument of vice;I'm changed; I am a man; Virtue's firm friend;Sever'd for ever from my former self;No link, but in remembrance salutary."Bland[How8 all men tower above me!M'DonaldNay, not so.Above what once thou wast, some few do rise;None above what thou art.BlandIt shall be so.M'DonaldIt is so.BlandThen to prove it.For I must yet a trial undergo,That will require a consciousness of virtue.[Exit.M'DonaldOh, what a temper doth in man reside!How capable of yet unthought perfection!][Exit.Scene, the General's Quarters Enter General and SewardGeneralAsk her, my friend, to send by thee her pacquets.[Exit Seward.Oh, what keen struggles must I undergo!Unbless'd estate! to have the power to pardon;The court's stern sentence to remit; – give life; —Feel the strong wish to use such blessed power;Yet know that circumstances strong as fateForbid to obey the impulse. Oh, I feelThat man should never shed the blood of man! Enter SewardSewardNought can the lovely suitor satisfy,But conference with thee, and much I fearRefusal would cause madness.GeneralYet to admit,To hear, be tortur'd, and refuse at last —SewardSure never man such spectacle of sorrowSaw before. Motionless the rough-hewn soldiersSilent view her, or walk aside and weep.General [after a pause]Admit her. [Seward goes out.] Oh, for the art, the precious art,To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows![Honora rushes in, and throws herself wildly on her knees before him; he endeavours to raise her.HonoraNay, nay, here is my place, or here, or lower,Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms away!Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to thee. —I am his wife – 'tis I have ruin'd him —Oh, save him! Give him to me! Let us crossThe mighty seas, far, far – ne'er to offend again. —[The General turns away, and hides his eyes with his hand. Enter Seward and an OfficerGeneralSeward, support her – my heart is torn in twain.[Honora as if exhausted, suffers herself to be raised, and leans on Seward.OfficerThis moment, sir, a messenger arrivedWith well confirm'd and mournful information,That gallant Hastings, by the lawless scoutsOf Britain taken, after cruel mockeryWith shew of trial and condemnation,On the next tree was hung.Honora [wildly]Oh, it is false!GeneralWhy, why, my country, did I hesitate?[Exit.[Honora sinks, faints, and is borne off by Seward and Officer.Scene, the PrisonAndré meeting BlandAndréHow speeds Honora? [Pause.] Art thou silent, Bland?Why, then I know my task. The mind of man,If not by vice debas'd, debilitated,Or by disease of body quite unton'd,Hath o'er its thoughts a power – energy divine!Of fortitude the source and every virtue —A godlike power, which e'en o'er circumstanceIts sov'reignty exerts. Now, from my thoughts,Honora! Yet she is left alone – expos'd —BlandO, André, spurn me, strike me to the earth;For what a wretch am I, in André's mind,That he can think he leaves his love alone,And I retaining life!AndréForgive me, Bland,My thoughts glanc'd not on thee. ImaginationPictur'd only, then, her orphan state, helpless;Her weak and grief-exhausted frame. Alas!This blow will kill her!Bland [kneeling]Here do I myselfDevote, my fortune consecrate, to thee,To thy remembrance, and Honora's service! —AndréEnough! Let me not see her more – nor think of her —Farewell! farewell, sweet image! Now for death.BlandYet that you shouldst the felon's fate fulfill —Damnation! my blood boils. IndignationMakes the current of my life course wildlyThrough its round, and maddens each emotion.AndréCome, come, it matters not.BlandI do remember,When a boy, at school, in our allotted tasks,We, by our puny acts, strove to portrayThe giant thoughts of Otway. I was Pierre. —O, thou art Pierre's reality! a soldier,On whose manly brow sits fortitude enamour'd!A Mars, abhorring vice, yet doom'd to dieA death of infamy; thy corse expos'dTo vulgar gaze – halter'd – distorted – Oh!![Pauses, and then adds in a low, hollow voice.Pierre had a friend to save him from such shame —And so hast thou.AndréNo more, as thou dost love me.BlandI have a sword, and arm, that never fail'd me.AndréBland, such an act would justly thee involve,And leave that helpless one thou sworest to guard,Expos'd to every ill. Oh! think not of it.BlandIf thou wilt not my aid – take it thyself.[Draws and offers his sword.AndréNo, men will say that cowardice did urge me.In my mind's weakness, I did wish to shunThat mode of death which error representedInfamous: Now let me rise superior;And with a fortitude too true to startFrom mere appearances, shew your country,That she, in me, destroys a man who mightHave liv'd to virtue.Bland [sheathing his sword]I will not think more of it;I was again the sport of erring passion.AndréGo thou and guide Honora from this spot.Honora [entering]Who shall oppose his wife? I will have way!They, cruel, would have kept me from thee, André.Say, am I not thy wife? Wilt thou deny me?Indeed I am not dress'd in bridal trim.But I have travel'd far: – rough was the road —Rugged and rough – that must excuse my dress.[Seeing André's distress.] Thou art not glad to see me.AndréBreak my heart!HonoraIndeed, I feel not much in spirits. I wept but now. Enter Melville and GuardBland [to Melville]Say nothing.AndréI am ready.Honora [seeing the Guard]Are they here?Here again! – The same– but they shall not harm me —I am with thee, my André – I am safe —And thou art safe with me. Is it not so?[Clinging to him. Enter Mrs. BlandMrs. BlandWhere is this lovely victim?BlandThanks, my mother.Mrs. BlandM'Donald sent me hither. My woes are past.Thy father, by the foe releas'd, alreadyIs in safety. This be forgotten now;And every thought be turn'd to this sad scene.Come, lady, home with me.HonoraGo home with thee?Art thou my André's mother? We will homeAnd rest, for thou art weary – very weary.[Leans on Mrs. Bland.[André retires to the Guard, and goes off with them, looking on her to the last, and with an action of extreme tenderness takes leave of her. Melville and Bland accompany him.HonoraNow we will go. Come, love! Where is he?All gone! – I do remember – I awake —They have him. Murder! Help! Oh, save him! save him![Honora attempts to follow, but falls. Mrs. Bland kneels to assist her. Scene closes.Scene, the Encampment Procession to the execution of André. First enter Pioneers – Detachment of Infantry – Military Band of Music – Infantry. The Music having passed off, enter André between Melville and American Officer; they sorrowful, he cheerfully conversing as he passes over the stageAndréIt may in me be merely prejudice,The effect of young-opinion deep engravedUpon the tender mind by care parental;But I must think your country has mistookHer interests. Believe me, but for this I shouldNot willingly have drawn a sword against her.[They bow their heads in silence.Opinion must, nay ought, to sway our actions;Therefore —Having crossed the stage, he goes out as still conversing with them. Another detachment of Infantry, with muffled and craped drums, close the procession: as soon as they are off —Scene draws and discovers the distant view of the EncampmentProcession enters in same order as before, proceeds up the stage, and goes off on the opposite side Enter M'Donald, leading Bland, who looks wildly backBlandI dare not thee resist. Yet why, O, whyThus hurry me away – ? —M'DonaldWould'st thou behold —BlandOh, name it not!M'DonaldOr would'st thou, by thy looksAnd gestures wild, o'erthrow that manly calmnessWhich, or assum'd or felt, so well becomes thy friend?BlandWhat means that cannon's sound?M'Donald [after a pause]Signal of deathAppointed. André, thy friend, is now no more!BlandFarewell, farewell, brave spirit! O, let my countrymen,Henceforward, when the cruelties of warArise in their remembrance; when their readySpeech would pour forth torrents in their foe's dispraise,Think on this act accurst, and lock complaint in silence.[Bland throws himself on the earth.M'DonaldSuch are the dictates of the heart, not head.Oh, may the children of Columbia stillBe taught by every teacher of mankind,Each circumstance of calculative gain,Or wounded pride, which prompted our oppressors:May every child be taught to lisp the tale:And may, in times to come, no foreign force,No European influence, tempt to misstate,Or awe the tongue of eloquence to silence.Still may our children's children deep abhorThe motives, doubly deep detest the actors;Ever remembering, that the race who plan'd,Who acquiesced, or did the deeds abhor'd,Has pass'd from off the earth; and, in its stead,Stand men who challenge love or detestationBut from their proper, individual deeds.Never let memory of the sire's offenceDescend upon the son.Curtain drops

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

André;/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 André;/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./