University of Virginia Library

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.