The Project Gutenberg eBook ofChattertonThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: ChattertonAuthor: Ernest LacyRelease date: September 28, 2020 [eBook #63327]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Jessica Hope*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHATTERTON ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: ChattertonAuthor: Ernest LacyRelease date: September 28, 2020 [eBook #63327]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Jessica Hope
Title: Chatterton
Author: Ernest Lacy
Author: Ernest Lacy
Release date: September 28, 2020 [eBook #63327]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Jessica Hope
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHATTERTON ***
byErnest Lacy
by
Ernest Lacy
DRAMATIS PERSONÆThomas Chatterton, "the marvelous boy"Henry Burgum, a rich Bristol pewtererBertha Burgum, his daughterMrs. Angell, keeper of the lodging houseTwo Ribalds, man and woman
CHATTERTON.
—A Garret in Brooke Street, London. Casement at back C. opening on the street; door, L. 3. E.; rough bedstead R. of window; rude chairs and table, with candle, manuscripts, and writing materials on it, L. C.; old washstand, on which are a glass, a basin, and a broken jug of water, R. 2. E. The Garret is in the house of Mrs. Angell, and is the lodging of the Poet Chatterton. It is the night of August 24th, 1770. Music on rise of curtain. A distant bell is heard tolling the hour.
Mrs. Angell. [Knocking from without.] Mr. Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr. Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr. Chatterton!
EnterMrs. Angellwith lamp. Lights up.
Mr. Chatterton, a gentleman—[Looking around.] Alack! the boy is out. [Places lamp on table, and goes back to door.] Come in, sir.
EnterBurgumandBertha.
Mr. Chatterton is not in. Will you wait, Mr.—, Mr.—
Burgum. [Pompously.] Mr. de Burgum, Madam. I trust that I shall have a more honorable title soon;—eh, daughter?
Bertha. There is no more honorable title, father.
Burgum. Bah! romantic.
Mrs. Angell. He surely will return soon: he is seldom out in the evening.
Burgum. I'll await his coming. I must see him on a matter connected with the de Burgum Pedigree, which he was fortunate enough to discover. I say "fortunate enough," since otherwise some one else would have discovered it—birth, like murder, will out.
Mrs. Angell. Pray be seated, sir. [BurgumsitsR.of table;Bertha, L.]
Burgum. [Looking around the room.] The rewards of poetry, my dear.
Bertha. The rewards of poetry, father, only poets know.
Burgum. Another romantic speech! If you must worship a poet, worship my collateral ancestor, Master John de Bergham, a Cistercian monk, one of the greatest ornaments of his age—so the Pedigree reads—and a translator of the Iliad. This boy never can be a poet: he knows no Latin and Greek.
Bertha. He is not writing Latin and Greek.
Burgum. I regret that I permitted you to come. You are a sentimental girl likely to fall in love with such a vagabond as Chatterton.
Bertha. Do not call him a vagabond, father: you owe so much to him.
Burgum. For what?
Bertha. Your Pedigree.
Burgum. He has been paid.
Bertha. Yes—a crown.
Burgum. Hem! He shall have more after the College of Heralds has passed upon my claims—not before.
Bertha. In the meantime he may starve.
Mrs. Angell. Indeed, lady, he is starving now.
Burgum. Nonsense! One-half the troubles in life are due to gorging. Besides, I heard before we left Bristol that he had sent his mother some china and dress patterns—even British herb-tobacco and a pipe for his grandmother. Starving?—nonsense!
Mrs. Angell. That was over a month ago, sir. Then he always was telling of what he was going to do for his mother; but now he seems so hopeless, and still he writes so hopefully to her. I do not believe he has had a morsel of food these two days. He is too proud to take anything from me. He says he is not hungry, and yet he looks almost famished.
Bertha. Poor Chatterton!
Burgum. Why does he not work?
Mrs. Angell. He does work, sir—all night sometimes—writing, writing, writing.
Burgum. I mean at something profitable—looking up pedigrees, for instance,—the boy has a genius for pedigrees.
Mrs. Angell. I believe he is trying to get an appointment as a surgeon's mate. My husband, good man, offered to secure him a place as a compter; but Mr. Chatterton stormed about the house.
Burgum. A poet's gratitude.
Bertha. A poet's indignation 'gainst a clown.
Mrs. Angell. My husband is no clown, lady.
Bertha. I beg your pardon, Madam.
Burgum. [ToMrs. Angell.] Pay no attention to her: she is as crazy as Chatterton.
Bertha. I would I were.
Burgum. Bah! You are half in love with the beggar already.
Mrs. Angell. If he had a chance, sir, I think he would make something great.
Bertha. I am sure of it!
Burgum. You never met him.
Bertha. But I have seen him, and have read his poems.
Burgum. That doggerel in the "Town and County"? [Taking a paper from table.] Here is more of it. [Glances at paper.] What's this? [Reads.]
"Gods! what would Burgum give to get a nameAnd snatch his blundering dialect from shame?"
"Gods! what would Burgum give to get a nameAnd snatch his blundering dialect from shame?"
The ingrate!
"What would he give to hand his memory downTo time's remotest boundary—a crown.Would you ask more, his swelling face looks blue;Futurity he rates at two pounds two."
"What would he give to hand his memory downTo time's remotest boundary—a crown.Would you ask more, his swelling face looks blue;Futurity he rates at two pounds two."
Zounds! this of a de Burgum—a descendant of Simon de Seyncte Lyze, a companion of William the Conqueror!
Mrs. Angell. Be not angry with him, sir; he is not like one of us.
EnterChatterton,who pauses near doorway.
Burgum. Thank heaven for that! I will not longer brookThe impudence of this ungrateful boy,Who mutters, rants, and doth himself opineOne of the brooding darlings of the world.By what right is he moody and revengeful?
Bertha. He is as nature made him: full of prideAnd fierce resentment 'gainst a callous race.Give him but patience to endure neglect—Quell his rebellious spirit, and you takeFrom his tossed soul God's gift of poesy.
Chatterton. [Coming forward.]Lady, were I the poet of my dreams,Instead of Chatterton, I could not wordMy gratitude to you.
Bertha.'Tis Chatterton!
Chatterton. Well, Burgum, what's the news?
Burgum. [Aside.]Impertinence!
Mrs. Angell. [ToChatterton.]Be seated, sir; you must be very tired;You have not been at home since ten o'clock.The day—
Chatterton. [Sinking upon a chair.]Clouds, sunshine, rain—I'll sleep to-night.
Mrs. Angell. Is there not something I can get you, sir?
Chatterton. Ah, yes: go purchase me another heart;The world has worn this out—'tis like my shoes.
Mrs. Angell. When through with business you must dine with us:I have some sheep tongues I would have you try.
Chatterton. What use are sheep tongues when I needs must roar?I'd eat a lion's litter.
Bertha. [Aside.]O, how strange!
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy talks very wildly.
Chatterton. [Impatiently.]Madam, go!You'd make a helpless invalid of me. [ExitMrs. Angell.]She is a noble woman and a bore.Now, Norman blood, what's wrong in Bristol thatBrings you to town?
Burgum.Let us be serious, sir.
Chatterton. First let me borrow Lord North's goggle eyes,And have the modish stare: my fiery orbDisquiets men of birth. Go on, go on.
Burgum. My pedigree—
Chatterton.Should antedate the flood:I'll read your partner's brother's silly bookOn the Noachian Deluge, and reportWhat I can glean.
Burgum. [Aside.]Did I not need his help,I'd cane the rogue. [To him.] I've brought my quarteringsAnd pedigree that you did kindly traceTo be examined and attested byThe Herald's College.
Chatterton. [Aside.]George!He'll find 'tis all a hoax!
Burgum.They have them now.I must solicit you to go with me,And answer certain questions. I'll pay you well.
Chatterton. Not for the wealth of Soho Square, my lord.I am the Duke de Garret: they must comeTo interview me here.
Burgum.Impossible!
Chatterton. Then let them nose among their dusty tomesTo solve the riddles.
Burgum. [Indignantly.] 'Tis an outrage, sir!I am a lineal descendant from—
Chatterton. [Laughing.] I copied that, and know it all by rote.Your ancestor, in reign of Henry Sixth,Obtained a royal patent to transmuteAll the inferior metals into gold;And now, while George the Fat squats on the throne,You, by that charter, deal in pewter, sir.From gold to pewter—'tis a fearful fall;And yet you glory in it. O for shame!
Burgum. Remember that my daughter's here.
Chatterton.Forgive me.If I could aid you, I do vow I would,But 'tis beyond my power. [Aside.] I do regret,For her sweet sake, I played the prank.
Burgum.Well, well;I fear your going would not further me.
Chatterton. [Aside.] You'll learn that soon enough.
Burgum. [Taking coin from purse.]Here is a shilling;Your landlady asserts you are in need.
Chatterton. [In anger.] 'Tis false!—a lie.
Burgum.Well, Bertha, was I right?And, Chatterton, I'll give you this advice.You eat too much or too irregular.A much disordered stomach is a rotFrom which young imps, bred like to maggots, rise,And pester sore the brain. Could I destroyThe miseries by bad digestion blown,I'd be the benefactor of the age—Yea! of all time. The world is gone astray:Your melancholy bard o'erloads his paunch,And thinks it is poetic pregnancy.
Chatterton. Few poets have a chance to overfeed.
EnterMrs. Angell.
Bertha. O father, you are cruel.
Mrs. Angell. [ToBurgum.]Pardon, sir.There is a gentleman below, who saysHe must see you at once. Shall he come up?
Burgum. No, no: I'll go to him.
Mrs. Angell.I'll tell him so.[ExitMrs. Angell.]
Burgum. He may bring news about the Pedigree.[ToBertha.] Wait here; I shall return. [ExitBurgum.]
Chatterton. [Going to table.]Fair advocate,For your defence my thanks must be the fee.You come from Bristol—is my mother well?
Bertha. I really do not know.
Chatterton.No, no, of course:My head is heavy.
Bertha.O, you do need aid!
Chatterton. Perhaps; yet more I need another mindThat turns not giddy on this whirling sphere.But that is naught to any one save me—Who cares for Chatterton?
Bertha.There's one at least:One who beheld him roam the Bristol streetsBeset by dangers of a forward youth—Misunderstood, unhappy; one who knowsAll that he must have suffered here from want,From loneliness, and hopes unrealized;One who for him will offer up her prayers.
Chatterton. Have mercy, lady, do not make me weep.You do not know me: I am harsh indeed.I have a most unlucky way of raillery,And when the fit of satire is upon me,I spare not friend nor foe. Your father's duped.
Bertha. Why then we shall be happier; so 'tis well.
Chatterton. Part of this wretchedness that seethes withinIs due to damned, unconquerable pride,And part from hot imagination flows.—My brain's afire.
Bertha.I pity you the more:Imaginary woes are real to himWhom they oppress, and hardest to dispel;And if you truly do deserve your fate,Then have you more to bear.
Chatterton.You came in time;To-morrow—to-morrow might have been too late.
Bertha. My father soon will come, and I would ask—
Chatterton. My life, and it is yours.
Bertha.No, not your life;But that you nobly live.
Chatterton.I'll try, I'll try.
Bertha. Give me some token; let it be a verseIn your own hand.
Chatterton.I have none worthy you.
Bertha. Have you not one among your papers there?I know 'tis much to ask.
Chatterton.No: it is yours.[Taking up a sheet of paper.]On melancholy—that will scarcely do.
Bertha. Read it to me, and I shall be the judge.
Chatterton. [Reads.]
When silent are the chambers of the mindTo rippling laughter and to whispering love,When Hope hath whirred away, a mourning dove,And bats dart in and out, and moans the wind,Then Melancholy comes, to night consigned,And haunts the moonlit windows. Perhaps above,Not on this earth, can shadowy thoughts that roveLike troubled ghosts a sweet oblivion find.O like some cindered orb that shineth not,Yet holdeth still its planets as a sun,Is one burnt out by sorrow and o'erfraughtWith that mute anguish of a life undone—That sinking of the heart, that deadly thoughtThat all is lost and would be worthless won.
When silent are the chambers of the mindTo rippling laughter and to whispering love,When Hope hath whirred away, a mourning dove,And bats dart in and out, and moans the wind,Then Melancholy comes, to night consigned,And haunts the moonlit windows. Perhaps above,Not on this earth, can shadowy thoughts that roveLike troubled ghosts a sweet oblivion find.
O like some cindered orb that shineth not,Yet holdeth still its planets as a sun,Is one burnt out by sorrow and o'erfraughtWith that mute anguish of a life undone—That sinking of the heart, that deadly thoughtThat all is lost and would be worthless won.
[Handing paper to her.] I would that it were better.
Bertha.'Tis so sad.
Chatterton. I wrote it on the midnight of the dayI fell into a new-made grave.
Bertha.O, sir,Yield not to gloom; for you are rich in mind.Of all the boons the Fates propitious grantI'd choose the golden branch of poesy.
Chatterton. Each man doth pay a price for what he has.The very qualities of mind and heartThat make a poet make a sufferer.The keenness of perception, which unfoldsA realm of beauty hid to other eyes,Unmasks the world: shows him indifferenceBehind the flimsy guise of courtesy,The shallowness of friendship, the alloyOf self, debasing charity to trade.The vividness of his imagination,Which, in a garret, gives him trees and flowers,The cool salt sea and heaven's blue expanse,Enlarges troubles, and creates such fearsHe trembles at the possible in life.The sensibility, which treasures upEach word or look of kindness as a gem,Makes bitterer the haughtiness of birth,The vulgar swelling of a pompous purse,The slur, the slight, the mockery of fools.Beyond he sees a spiritual sphere,Where, by unselfishness, the terribleBecomes a valued teacher—where the powerTo wound through self is lost; yet cannot reach it.He is a medium through which all things speak:The human passions wrack his nervous frame;Each thing in nature makes his heart its pulse.Who would aspire to wear the laurel crown?—It is a crown of thorns! [Sinks back upon chair.]
Bertha. O you are faint from hunger!
Chatterton.'Tis not so:A giddiness—be not afraid—'t will pass— [Faints.]
Bertha. [Going to him and raising his head.]O Chatterton, look up! He's dead! He's dead!O world, behold your deed! His eyelids move!
Chatterton. [Recovering.]'Tis gone. O I would die to wake like this.
Bertha. I'll get a glass of water.[Goes to washstand and brings water back.]Here, drink this.
Chatterton. [After drinking.]I have these spells—they are not serious.
Bertha. You are not well, you are not well.[An increasing noise outside is heard.]
EnterMrs. Angellin great excitement.
Mrs. Angell. Fly, Chatterton, fly! fly!
Chatterton.Have you gone mad?
Mrs. Angell. Fly! Mr. Burgum swears he'll murder you—He is enraged.
Chatterton.I would fly only oneWho had the power to extend my lease of life:I am aweary of the premises.
Mrs. Angell. He's foaming at the mouth.
Chatterton.Then let him foam.Each petty wave upon the mighty seaFoams at its pleasure—why not he? I sayThen let him foam.
EnterBurgumin a fury.
Burgum. [Waving his cane.] I'll murder him!
Bertha. [Interposing.] You shall not harm him, father.
Mrs. Angell. [ToChatterton.]Come away!
Chatterton. Nay; he is harmless as a bottled bee:He can but buzz.
Bertha. [ToBurgum.] What is the matter, sir?
Burgum. That knave! that knave!—the pedigree is false!What can you say, you villain?
Bertha.He is ill.
Burgum. I care not for his illness, let him speak!—You swindler, speak!
Bertha.You gave him but a crown.
Burgum. Peace, peace; or I shall drive you from the room.[ToChatterton.] Now answer me!
Chatterton. [Rising.]Were it not for your ageAnd for your daughter whom I do respect,I'd answer not in words.
Bertha.O Chatterton!
Mrs. Angell. O gentlemen, I beg you both forbear.
Chatterton. [ToBertha.]Have no fear, lady; did he bear a knifeTo stab me here, I would not parry it,If by such action I should frighten you.Stand not between.
Burgum.In King's Bench you shall lodge!
Chatterton. Then I shall fatten at the town's expense.Now, look you, Burgum, I'll no more of this,Unless the lady bid me, so take heed.This room doth show my poverty and needs,Yet 'tis my castle, sir!
Burgum.I am undone;And Bristol will clap hands upon her sidesAnd roar with mirth. Why did you dupe me so?—'Twas not for money, for 'twas but a crown.
Chatterton. 'Twas not for money, or you should have paidA thousand crowns. You will remember, sir,That when a pupil at the Bluecoat School,Poor, lonely, friendless, with a thirst for lore,I came to ask of you the loan of books,You mocked my poverty, jeered at my verse,And sneering bade me learn the cobbler's trade.I knew your passion was for gold and birth;And gold you had. In bitter sportI wrote your pedigree, scarce thinking itWould be received with credence; yet it was.I should have told you then, but you did swellAnd treat me with disdain. I tell you nowThat, since you are the father of this girl,I'd give my life to undo what is done;Yet, were you not her father, I do swearI'd give my life to do it o'er again.I made a fool of gold, for it had madeA fool of me so long.
Burgum.The whole is false:My ancestor was not of Norman blood,And John de Bergham never lived at all.
Chatterton. He habited a world within a world—This globe of fancy, where strange creatures live,And all the business of existence movesUnrecked of, as though on some distant orb.—Thank heaven! that, being a poet, he dwelt not here.
Burgum. [Despairingly.] What shall I do?
Bertha. [ToChatterton.]Can nothing be contrivedBy which my father may derision 'scape?
Chatterton. [ToBurgum,after a thoughtful pause.]You are not known in London; what is doneWill ne'er to Bristol come: you can give out,Anent the pedigree, 'twas all your joke.Play your cards slowly, and with that same tactWith which you bargain for your tin and lead;And, sir, the game is yours.
Burgum. [Chuckling.]To turn the laughUpon the laughers—good—that is the trick.Come, daughter, come.
Mrs. Angell.'Tis dark: I'll go before.[ExitMrs. Angellfollowed byBurgum.]
Bertha. Good-by.
Chatterton.O lady, when I said good-byTo my dear mother on the cloudy nightI took the coach for London, I did feelAs though that word were fully charged with grief;But 'twas not so.
Bertha.O, sir, do not despair;And should we never meet again, believeMy thoughts will ever wander back to you.
Chatterton. We shall not meet again.
Burgum. [Calling from without.]Come, Bertha.
Bertha. [ToBurgum.]Yes![ToChatterton.] Why so?
Chatterton.If Barrett recommend me strong,I sail for Africa as surgeon's mate.
Bertha. Indeed!—but then you will return.
Chatterton.Perhaps.
Bertha. I will not say good-by—good-night.
Chatterton. [Kissing her hand.]Farewell.
[Chattertonsinks upon chair, his elbows resting on table, his face upon his hands.Berthapauses at doorway, looks back pityingly, and then goes out.]
[Chattertonsinks upon chair, his elbows resting on table, his face upon his hands.Berthapauses at doorway, looks back pityingly, and then goes out.]
Chatterton. [Raising his head.]Alone, again alone, yet more aloneThan e'er I was before. [After a pause.] The hope is vain.O there is consolation in the thoughtThat though a puppet in the hands of fateA man is born and lives—made now a king,And now, the sport for mocking enemies,He has the power when evils hedge him round,And joy and love and hope have fled for aye,To laugh! ring down the drop, and end the play.
EnterMrs. Angell.
Mrs. Angell. Here is a letter, sir, that came to-day.[Hands letter toChatterton.]
Chatterton. [To himself.]This is in Barrett's hand: it seals my doom.[Opens letter and reads to himself.]I cannot recommend you for the placeOf surgeon's mate—you know too little physic.[Tears up letter and throws pieces on floor.]
Mrs. Angell. Bad news?
Chatterton.Good news—a warrant for my death.
Mrs. Angell. How pale you look! but I have that will bringThe color to your cheek. The lady begsThat you accept this as a loan. [Gives a purse toChatterton.]
Chatterton.She's kind.Heaven grant her happiness. [Throwing up purse.]This yellow godDistributes favors with a curious hand.The kings of his creation are so lowOf forehead that their crowns sit on their eyebrows.They have, for motley fools, wise men—so called(Not wise enough to live within their age),Who feed upon the bones their masters throwBeneath the table. 'Tis the voice of fate,Exclusion's cruel law, that he who carriesIn the clouds his head shall stumble on the earth.Here, take the trash—I am no pauper yet. [Gives purse to her.]
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy is surely crazed.
Chatterton.There, go at once.I cannot, with these artificial words,Show the brain busy, and keep out the thoughtsThat knock to be admitted. No more—go!
Mrs. Angell. [With emotion.] I meant not to offend.
Chatterton.I am too rude.I needs must take a tenderer farewell.
Mrs. Angell. Farewell? Why how you talk! You will not leave?
Chatterton. I may, perhaps.
Mrs. Angell.Where are you going, sir?
Chatterton. To sea; but vex me not at present, please;And, should my mother come to you, tell herHow hard I worked; but 'twas of no use—no use.Good-by, dear Mrs. Angell. [Kisses her.]
Mrs. Angell.I'll leave the lamp.
Chatterton. No: take it—'tis too brilliant.[Lights candle and hands lamp to her.]
Mrs. Angell.You will feelMuch better in the morning.
Chatterton.Pray I may.
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] I'll ask my husband what is best to do.[ExitMrs. Angellwith lamp. Lights lowered.]
Chatterton. And should I reach ambition's goal at last—My brain would not hold out. Why, even nowI feel rebellion 'gainst the reason strongAnd frenzy coming on. No, not that fate—Confined within a mad-house! there to sit,Perchance for years—long years—with vacant stareAnd slabber dripping from the fallen lip;Or with a maniac's eye to see such thingsAs hell doth not contain; to hear loud shrieksAnd clanking chains—O God, not that, not that![After a pause.] I'll do it, and to-night.[Goes to door and locks it. The click of the lock is heard.]There Hope, stay out:Come not to me when life is past recall.[Comes back to table.]They shall not have the poems which they spurned,But Rowley shall with Chatterton expire.[Draws out box from under table, and takes out manuscripts.]O how these papers plead with me for life!All my young thoughts and all my early dreams—I cannot do it! O I cannot do it![Weeping, he lets his head fall upon his arm.][After a pause.] Here fools may thrive; and I—why I lack bread.[Firmly.] It must be thus.[Tears up papers, and throws pieces fluttering into the air.]O turn to white-winged gulls, and fly away:This is no place for you. And now the end.[Takes a vial from his pocket.]I feel much calmer. [Looking at vial.] It is better thus:A bullet tearing through my fevered brainSeems so abhorrent to me. Yet 'tis sadTo send this ghostly messenger to bidMy troubled heart be still—and then these hands,These faithful, willing hands that even nowObey me to the death.[Coarse laughter of a man and woman far off in the street is heard.]What noise is that?[Theribaldscome nearer and nearer, singing the following song, with occasional bursts of mirth.Chattertongoes to window, throws open casement. The moonlight streams in.]
Voices. [From street.]
Say'st thou it is a lawless loveThat lusts within mine eye?Know thou there is no lawless loveBeneath the love-lit sky.
Say'st thou it is a lawless loveThat lusts within mine eye?Know thou there is no lawless loveBeneath the love-lit sky.
Female Voice. I'm out of tune; give me another drink.[Laughter.]
Both Voices. [Singing.]
Man maketh law, but Nature, love;And in the court aboveLove's cast for only fickleness—But then it is not love.
Man maketh law, but Nature, love;And in the court aboveLove's cast for only fickleness—But then it is not love.
[Laughter and singing die away in the distance.Chattertoncomes from window, laughs wildly, and then suddenly checks his mirth.]
[Laughter and singing die away in the distance.Chattertoncomes from window, laughs wildly, and then suddenly checks his mirth.]
Chatterton. O, what an unction for the closing eye,And what a chant to fill the parting ear![A distant clock again strikes the hour.]A signal! be it so. [Drinks poison.] The deed is done.O, my poor mother!—peace, my anguished soul.Have mercy, heaven, when I cease to be,And this last act of wretchedness forgive.[A look of agony passes over his face; he staggers to the bed and sinks upon his knees; then he rises and speaks deliriously.]The coach!—The coach is coming! I can hear its wheels!Good-by, my friends; and mother, have no fear:I shall succeed. I'll write you all from London!
[Falls in the moonlight upon the pieces of his manuscripts, and dies. Slow curtain. Curtain rises. Lights up. It is morning.Chattertonis discovered lying on the floor as before. A discussion among voices is heard without. Loud knocking.]
[Falls in the moonlight upon the pieces of his manuscripts, and dies. Slow curtain. Curtain rises. Lights up. It is morning.Chattertonis discovered lying on the floor as before. A discussion among voices is heard without. Loud knocking.]
Mrs. Angell. [From without.] Mr. Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr. Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr. Chatterton!
CURTAIN.