And were my heart strings fasten'd to the spot,
I 'd with you, tho' they sunder'd. But you spoke
A moment since, of some discovery
You were near making: what discovery *? ISA. It was an inadvertence — Charles. Must I never
Hope to enjoy your confidence'? ISA. Not now —
Another time, my son. Charles. Another time —
'T is ever thus you put my questions by.
Rather forbid me e'er again to ask
Of what so much concerns me, and I promise
However hard the task, I will obey you.
I trust you have ne'er found me disobedi- ent! ISA. You have been all a mother's heart could wish.
You ask but what you have a right to ask,
And I have always purposed a fit time —
When that your age were ripe enough — Charles. Well, mother,
Has not that time arrived? ISA. Your age, dear Charles,
Has scarce reach'd manhood yet. 'T is true, your courage,
Your conduct amidst danger — manly vir- tues, —
Are well approv'd. Your judgment too — so much,
A mother may believe and say — is far
Beyond the years you count. But there 's a quality;
A virtue it may be, which is the growth
Only of minds well disciplin'd; which looks
On human actions with a liberal eye.
That knows the weakness of the human heart.
Because it feels it; and will not con- demn
In others, what itself is conscious of —
That will not with the tyrant prejudice.
Without allowance or extenuation,
Yea, without hearing pass its dreadful sentence. Charles. And am I such a one'?^ thanks to my nature.
Which I feel is not quite so vile. My breeding,
1 This passage is confused. It should probably read: Thanks to my nature,
Which I feel is not so vile, and to my breeding Which has been liberal, nay, thanks to those Who daily here exhibit its deformity, I scorn this monster prejudice.
Which has been liberal. Nay thanks to
those Who daily here exhibit its deformity, I scorn this monster prejudice. ISA. And yet—
Should you — I could not live if you
should hate me. Charles. Hate you, my mother'? Had
not all your actions Been, as I 've seen them, noble ; all your
precepts As I have ever found them, full of good- ness. Could I recall the tenderness you 've
shewn Towards me, and cease to love you. —
Never, never! All crimes however great, dwindle to
atoms Near filial ingratitude; the heart That is that monster's throne, ne'er knew
a virtue. IsA. Ah! how shall I commence! — What
would you know. Charles. Why you left England? Why
in this wilderness. Amidst a race that scorn, that shun and
loathe us,
You linger mother ;
Who is my father"? ISA. Ah !
Charles.
out existence "? Chiefly,
{Taking her hand.)
{Turning awag.)
In our own England,
At school, among my frank and laugh- ing mates.
When they have put this question, it was done
In merry mood, and I could bear it — well —
Although I could not answer it ; but here,
mother — to these cold and selfish be- ings,
Their smooth tongues dipp'd in bitter- ness, their eyes
Scowling suspicion — what can I reply? IsA. Poor boy, poor boy! Well, Charles, the time is come
And if my spirits fail not — you shall know all.
Your father — but I cannot, no, I cannot
Commence my story there. — I was left, Charles,
W^ithout a parent's care, just at that age
That needs it most. I had ne'er known my mother.
And was scarce fifteen when my father's fate
Forc'd him to abandon child and home and country;
