University of Virginia Library

ACT. II.

SCENE I.

An ancient Apartment.
Judge and Magistrate.
Mag.
Full nineteen years have pass'd since it was done,
And till to-day suspicion never glanc'd
On any one in all the town.—

Jud.
'Tis strange!
'Tis very strange! The man, you say, enjoys
A blameless life and honorable name.

Mag.
He is, my Lord, a man of excellent worth,
A magistrate, with ev'ry virtue grac'd,
That can the magisterial state adorn.
Goodness presides with him, Wisdom directs,
And, hand in hand, Justice and Clemency
Have ever brought Content with his award.

Jud.
What was his youthful character? I mean,
Did he partake the revels of the gay;
Or was he always, as you now describe,
Sedate in pleasure and in action wise?

Mag.
In that my recollection does not serve;
But I have heard that some time in his youth,
As wilfulness betrays the sprightly young,
He did with wild companions waste the night,
And play'd rash pranks, as youth will ever do;
But still as oft in penitence contrite,
He like the ruing prodigal reclaim'd,
And grew in time, what he has now become,
A mirror and example to us all.

Jud.
Is he religious, pious in his humor,
Or but like others, temper'd by the times?
Gives he habitual tendance on the church,
More for the usage than in holy zeal?

Mag.
In charity, my Lord, how may I answer?
Who dare assign a motive to the mind,
That is not seen in the fair aim of action?

Jud.
True, Sir. But that which I aspire to know,
Is all within the scope of our discernment.
I do but ask if in his piety
He moves by stated and habitual rule,
Or hath repute, as many others have,
For earnest fits of high enthusiasm,
With listless intervals of faded passion.

Mag.
'Tis said, my Lord, if true or false, I know not,
That he is prone to mystical devotion;
And certain 'tis, he oft frequents the haunts
Of those who let their wand'ring fancies range
Amidst the darkness of prophetic dreams.—

Jud.
Th'accuser is the widow of the dead?

Mag.
She is, my Lord.

Jud.
And never once before
Made this unhappy accusation?

Mag.
Never.

Jud.
Nor any other at a former time?

Mag.
It is to me a half-forgotten tale,
For ever since I could remember aught,
The wretched woman has been counted craz'd,
And touch'd with arrogant fanaticism.
All day she sits, muttering an uncouth plaint,
Close to the spot whereon the blood was seen,
And yearly as the fatal day returns,
Though storm and terror ride the flying air,
She, in her gown's effectless cov'ring wrapp'd,
Stands at the gate, and with a ghost-like wail,
Cries “blood has voice and Heaven heard Abel's cry.”

Jud.
A terrible conceit!

Mag.
What shall be done?

Jud.
He must be tried.

Mag.
My Lord!

Jud.
A charge is given.

Mag.
But on conceit.—It is phantastic all.

Jud.
I hope it is, still on a charge like this,
The law speaks out decisively.

Mag.
There is no evidence. So many years
Have pass'd oblivious since the deed was done,
That but for her delirious wretchedness,
All trace and circumstance had been forgotten.
'Tis sad to think that Glanville's honor'd name
Should be so sullied by a maniac's fancy.

Jud.
But simple often are the oracles
Which the Great Wise doth sometimes deign to use,
And in long hidden mysteries of blood,
As dim a light has shown as dark a horror.
The trial must proceed. But first desire
The different parties to attend me here.
I would converse awhile with them apart.

SCENE II.

The gate of the town, as in the first scene of the first act.
Isbel and Ariette.
Ariet.
Lo, there the haggard Beldam moody sits,
Gather'd with thought, as 'twere, into a knot;
Her visage pressing on her clench'd right hand,
While with the left she draws the elbow in,
Nor rests it on her cross'd and cramped knee.
There's no remorse in that grim attitude.
But I will speak to her. How my heart fails!
She hath a look so witchlike and so wild,
That I would shun the glimpsing of her eyes
With fears I know not wherefore. Hapless wretch.
How strangely hideous, o'er that dark attire,
Her loose grey hair in snaky wreathes descends,
Veiling her breast, whose dried and wither'd lean
Contains no fostering for tender pity.

Isb.
Who, or what art thou, that, so lovely pale,
Dost wear the garb and semblance of the earth,
With such a mild and heavenly gracious mien?
Draw near sweet thing—Why dost thou shrink away?
Give me thy hand, and let me see thy face—
Ha! Glanville's daughter! Wherefore comes she here?
Would'st thou entreat me? Art thou not indeed
The tempting devil, and hath ta'en the form
Of that fair maid, to mar the work of Heaven,
That I am call'd to do? away, avaunt.
Justice, Justice! Look up! Seest thou nought there?

Ariet.
The sun is there.

Isb.
It is the eye of God.
Would'st thou seduce me in his orbed sight?
Get thee far from me. I defy thy wiles.

Ariet.
O thou most cruel, thou ill-minded woman,
Surely some demon, hatch'd by an eclipse
Of ev'ry blessing and benignant star,
Hath turn'd thy thoughts to mischief and to sin,
That thou dost think so wickedly of me.
What direful Incubus, averse to truth,
Hath gain'd possession of thy hideous self?
For madness never, in its desp'rate dreams,
Thought aught so monstrous and fantastical,
As that of which thou hast accus'd my father;
And now thou 'dst do another bolder sin,
Aghast recoiling with well feign'd affright,
To doom me innocent to stake and flame.

Isb.
What would'st thou here, if thou art as thou sayest?
Ha! thou incarnated, what would'st thou here?

Ariet.
O look not on me with such eyes of dread.
Stand not avaunt, nor with such horrent stare,
Believe thou gazest on the sire of sin.
Alas, I am indeed, that Glanville's child,
Whom the foul imps, that prompt malicious thoughts,
Have made thee in thine anger charge with murder.

Isb.
Be she the Ill, she hath no power on me;
I am a tried and chosen instrument
To work high purposes of Providence.
As righteous Job was tried, I have been tried,
And patient all the sore probation stood:
I was a wife, a fondly cherish'd wife,
I was a mother, and my smiling babes
Hung like a garland wreathing me around:
The birds sung merrily, my heart was glad,
And glow'd to heav'n with silent thankfulness;
When suddenly in that most happy hour,
The solemn angel of destruction pass'd,
And from the winnowing of his dreadful wings
Blighting disease fell upon all my plants,
And laid them in the dust. My eyes would weep,
But the Lord gives and the Lord takes away:
I knelt and prais'd his name. Then, even then,
Did the dark Glanville strike the secret blow,
That left me here a lonely childless widow,—
But he that gives may freely take away:
Blest be his awful name. Year after year,
On this selected day, new sorrow came,
Till all forsook me, and I found myself
Brought to the last, the utmost verge of want.
Think'st thou that this was but in casualty?
And Heaven was studious to assay me so,
Without some holy purpose?

Ariet.
Heav'n forbid.
But why, O why dost thou so wildly think
That purpose should be to destroy my father?
A man the most unlike, yea most unfit,
To do a deed so terrible as murder?

Isb.
I hold no questioning with Providence,
In whose eternal universe of things,
All ill is but th'unseemly root of good.
Yes: that which to our narrow mortal scan
Appears so shapeless, knotty, and obscene,
With writhing worms and crawling grubs astir,
Is the life's treasury of some fair tree,
Whose fragrant boughs give shade and sheltering,
Off'ring obsequiously their beauteous fruit.

Ariet.
What good can spring from my dear father's woe?
Ah me, what bounty from my breaking heart?
Is he not innocent? Thou know'st he is,—
And but in anger made the accusation.
O haste, recall the ill which thou hast said.

Isb.
It is a bloodhound that hath waited long
Scenting its prey, and will not be recall'd.

Ariet.
What proof, what witness hast thou to adduce?

Isb.
He that commission'd through the gloomy void,
The glorious angel, from whose wings of flame
Were shook the stars that light the universe,
Will send a witness to avouch the truth.
Hear me, and then away. At ev'ry crime,
Heaven hath two witnesses.

Ariet.
Ah, what are they?

Isb.
The injur'd and the guilty. Bloody here,
Aghast with death, and looking up to Heaven,
Lay the informing witness of the crime:
The other is the murderer himself;
And he will verify the dead man's charge.
But see, they beckon me to the tribunal.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An apartment, the same as in the first scene of the second act.
Judge.
The thoughtful mind, reflecting on the past,
Sees in the various issue of events,
A latent justice working straight from Heaven.—
Whate'er affects us, sleeping or awake,
Compels some current in the sea of thought,
That moves us on to action.—By what chance
Could this mysterious supposition rise,
After the lapse of nineteen silent years?

[Enter Isbel.]
Isb.
Justice, my Lord. In the Almighty name
Of him that heard the blood of Abel cry,
I make the dread demand.—

Jud.
Be calm, 'tis granted,
The writ is issued, and without delay
The trial shall proceed. But, Isbel, think,
There is no witness, proof, or evidence.

Isb.
Ha! and has he who orders all things right,
Born witness to me nineteen times in vain?
—The voice and testimony of mankind,
With time, and place, and circumstances clear,
Could not so prove the bloody Glanville's guilt,
As my great demonstration.

Jud.
What is it?
What nineteen times of witness do you speak?

Isb.
The anniversaries of that dire day
On which my husband was so foully murder'd.

Jud.
Alas, poor wretch! What is that evidence?

Isb.
Give me the hearing, calmly, as befits
Your high vice-gerency, and justly due
To my distress and widowhood forlorn.
I am, my Lord, an old woe-stricken hag,
Whose grey hairs flutter in the winter's wind:
And I am poor—a mendicant, my Lord,
In the obscenest rags of poverty.
Shrunk age, lean want, and slow-consuming sorrow,
Have made me all so hideous to the sight,
That the spare alms which but provoke my need,
Are less in piteous charity bestow'd,
Than in the sad surprisal to behold,
A thing so miserable human still.
I have outliv'd compassion, and to fee
The advocacy that my state requires,
Have only these salt tears. But yet, my Lord,
I claim the rites due to the race of man.
The mighty maker of all things that are,
Judges, and kings, and laws, made me himself:
Yea, from as old a date as he contriv'd
The glory of the sun, he destin'd me,
And I demand my just equalities.

Jud.
Alas, good Isbel, this is ravel'd speech.
Thou art assur'd the trial shall proceed.

Isb.
Who is the judge?

Jud.
I am.

Isb.
My Lord!

Jud.
I am!
Why shak'st thou so thy head, and wav'st thy hand?

Isb.
My Lord, my Lord, deal equally with both.
This is a cause in which dread Providence
Appears a witness. If you are the judge,
Why am I question'd here,—in secret here?

Jud.
She has rebuk'd me well.—You may withdraw,
Till the appointed time of trial come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Room in Glanville's house.
Ariette and Reginald.
Ariet.
Alas, dear brother, you persuade in vain.
There's not a truth in holy writ more sure
Than that around us, in continual strife,
The ministers of good and ill contend.
Oft have I seen in the calm summer noon,
When silent butterflies, like silvery blossoms,
Floated in sunshine, and the golden bee
Sung as he woo'd the blooming yellow broom,
Angelic wings gleam o'er the sleeping lawn;
I too have noted at the close of day,
When the bright sun has set in amber clouds,
Tracks straightway to him, from all points of Heaven,
Of airy agents, doubtless then recall'd;
And while alone, late in my chamber, sitting,
When all was dark without, within all still,
Save that at times I heard the deathwatch tick,
I have been conscious of some evil thing
Hov'ring behind me.—Brother, Reginald—
O what may chance, if Isbel's charge be true,
And in the court a flaming witness come.

Reg.
Thou can'st not, Ariette, believe it true.

Ariet.
Is it not in the sacred volume told,
That Moses' visage once so brightly shone
With the reflected glory he had seen,
That none could look on him till he was veil'd?
And he was but a mortal man of clay.—
How shall we then endure the burning frown,
Of one commission'd from the Heaven of Heavens,
For an Apocalypse?

Reg.
What dost thou mean?

Ariet.
Methinks I see him!

Reg.
Whom?

Ariet.
He's in the midst.

Reg.
Sweet Ariette, sister, hear me. O forbear,
Nor gaze with such distraction in thine eyes.

Ariet.
See how around the startled crowd recoil,
With glowing faces and uplifted hands,
As if retiring from a rising flame.

Reg.
There's nothing here. It is but thy conceit,
That fills with prodigies the empty air,
Come, take thy hand, sweet sister, from thine eyes,
And by their faculty aright exerted,
This strange phantasma of unreal fear,
Will vanish from thy mind, as dismal shadows
Thrown in the sun's eclipse, fly at his clearing.

Ariet.
O would I were a flower that weeps but dew,
Weeps without woe, and blushes without shame.

Reg.
O do not raise and drop thy clasped hands,
With such a mindless gaze of deadly sorrow—
Speak to me, Ariette,—Hear me, O cease!

Ariet.
What if the dead man's ghost itself appear,
And with its clotted locks and gashy head,
Glare horrible conviction?

Reg.
O help! help! help?

[Enter Glanville.]
Glan.
What means this cry? O Ariette, my child!
My gentle Ariette.—What has she heard?
Inform me, Reginald.

Ariet.
Confess, confess,
And save the world from such a visitation.

Glan.
Is there contagion in the maniac's madness?
What is the visitation that she dreads?

Ariet.
If you are guilty, it will surely come.

Glan.
Come! what will come?

Ariet.
The witness.

Glan.
Who?

Reg.
'Tis there—

Ariet.
Where, Reginald, where, where?

Reg.
O it is this,
This dread of vision, supernatural,
That scatters all her tossing thoughts adrift.

Ariet.
Did you, my father, murder Isbel's husband?
Nay do not start, but answer if you did.
Far, better far, it were at once to tell,
Than dare the grim confronting of his ghost.
Confess, confess, for lo! the officers,
Come to conduct you to the fatal bar.

[Enter Officers.]
Glan.
Had I not lost the sense of sorrow quite,
My heart would swell, but it lies still and dead.
Take her away—and get her opiates.

[Exit Glanville with Officers.
Ariet.
I will not go. I will attend on him—
Unhand me, Reginald, detain me not,
Though I may perish like a film in fire,
Before some gorgeous angel, bright from Heaven,
I will the fate of this probation see.