University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An apartment in the house of Norman Maurice. He appears seated at a table with books and papers before him. After a pause, he closes his books, folds and ties the papers in a bundle, pushes them from before him and rises.
Maurice,
[solus.]
It is the curse of insecurity,
That cruel doubt that hangs upon possession
Glides with the midnight to the sleepless pillow,
And, with the laurel wreath that crowns the triumph,
Sows thick the thorns that make the brow to ache!
Did the endowment not imply the service,
Were we not each enjoin'd with a commission,
The task decreed, the struggle thrust upon us,
Making it manhood to comply with duty;
How better far—the treasure in our keeping,
Love at our bosom, peace upon our threshold,
When bliss can never hope increase of rapture,
And fear begins to dream of unknown danger,—
To fly the world—the conflict,—nay, the triumph,
And, bearing off the trophy we have won,
Hush the ambitious spirit in our hearts
That whispers, “Life hath more!” Have I won nothing,
That I should toil, as unrequited Labor
Still hoping yet to win? Am I a beggar,
Who, perilling nothing in each fearful venture,
Stakes all his hopes on change? With goods so precious,
Should I still venture in the common market,
Where Malice stands, with gibe of cruel slander,
And Envy lurks in readiness to steal?—
When the still shelter of the wilderness,
The depth of shadow, the great solitudes,
Beckon the heart with promise of their own,
Still singing, “Here is refuge!”
Wretched folly!—
As if the serpent could not find the garden;
As if the malicious Hate, by hell engendered,
Had not an equal instinct, how to fathom
The secret haunt where rapture hopes to hide!
Hate bears a will as resolute as love,
A wing as swift, an eye as vigilant,
And instincts, that, as still they keep it sleepless,
Prompt the keen search when Rapture stops for rest!
A sad presentiment of coming evil
Stifles each generous impulse at my heart,
That ever spoke in confidence. This Warren
Is here for mischief; with what hope to prosper—
That single proof destroy'd—I now divine not.
This woman, coming close upon his footsteps,
Confirms my apprehensions. They are allies—
She false as he, but feeble—his mere creature,
To beat the bush, while he secures the game!
Well! I must watch them with a vigilance
Due to the precious treasure in my trust;
And, swift as justice in avenging mission,
With the first show of evil in their purpose,
Crush them to earth, and—Well?

[Enter servant.
Servant.
Major Savage, sir.

Maurice.
Show him in.

[Enter Savage.
Savage.
Your name is Maurice?

Maurice.
'Tis sir. Yours?

Savage.
Mine is Joe Savage,—Major of militia.
You got a letter, sir, a week ago,
From Colonel Blasinghame.

Maurice.
And answer'd it!

Savage.
That answer did not please him, Blasinghame.

Maurice.
I'm sorry for it, sir; but you'll believe me,
When I assure you, that, in penning it,
I never once conceived it necessary
To ask what were his tastes.

Savage.
Eh, sir: you did not!
Well, let me tell you, those who know him better,
Are something curious never to offend him.
But you, sir, are a stranger—do not know him
So well as others, born here in Missouri—
And so, he sends me to enlighten you.

Maurice.
I thank him, sir.

Savage.
Well, you have need to do so;
He does not use such courtesy in common,
But usually the blow before the word!

Maurice.
I'm lucky in his new-born courtesy.

Savage.
You are, sir! He's a rough colt, Blasinghame.

Maurice.
Kicks, does he?

Savage.
Kicks, sir! Why do you say kicks?

Maurice.
Surely, no act more proper to a colt.

Savage.
You are something literal, sir. I'm glad of it,
Since 'twill be easier to be understood!
Well, sir, I come to you from Blasinghame.
You know not, sir, in taking up this case
Of mother Pressley's, sir, that you are doing
That which, until your coming, not a lawyer
Had done here in Missouri.

Maurice.
Shame upon them!

Savage.
Shame, say you? Wherefore, when the right of it
Is all with Blasinghame!

Maurice.
Or with his cudgel!

Savage,
[laughs.]
Something in that, too. Well, sir,—I say!—

Maurice.
Well, sir!

Savage.
Now, as you something seem to know already
Of my friend's mode of managing his case,
I need not dwell upon the policy
Of stopping all proceedings ere the trial;—
In which event I'm authorized to tell you
That Blasinghame forgives your insolent letter,
And spares you as a stranger.

Maurice.
Merciful,
As he is powerful! But what if—having
No such afflicting terror of this person,
So terrible to his neighbors, in mine eyes—
I do reject this liberal grant of mercy.

Savage.
Then, sir, I bear his peremptory challenge,
Which leaves you, sir, without alternative,
Takes no apology, no explanation,
And only seeks atonement in your blood.

[Gives challenge.
Maurice.
Or his!

Savage.
Or his! But that's no easy matter, sir;
He's fought some thirty duels in his time,
Wing'd nineteen combatants, and slew the rest,
Nor had a scratch himself.

Maurice.
Why, we may say,
As Thumb, in the great tragedy—“Enter Thumb,
And slays them all!”

Savage.
You mock, sir!—

Maurice.
Not a bit, sir!
I marvel only, after hearing you,
That still I have the courage to resist.

Savage.
You will not, sir?

Maurice.
I fear me that I shall!

Savage.
What! you accept the challenge, then?

Maurice.
I'll keep it, sir, until this trial's over.

Savage.
Beware, sir, of evasion.

Maurice.
You, in turn, sir,
Beware of insolence. You have my answer;
When I have gain'd this suit of Widow Pressley,
I'll see to that of Colonel Blasinghame.

Savage.
I must have your answer now, or—

Maurice.
The door, sir,—
Unless, indeed, you should prefer the window.

Savage.
Well! You're a man, that's certain! Give us hand.
I'm a rough beast, and like you not the less,
Because you keep a muzzle for the bear;
I feel that you will meet with Blasinghame,
And I shall see it.

[Shakes hands.
Maurice.
Very like you will!
[Exit Savage.
The game becomes of interest!
[tap within.
Clarice!

[Opens to her, she enters.
Clarice.
Art busy, Norman?

Maurice.
Have been. But,—this lady?—

Clarice.
Will you not see her?

Maurice.
Not if I can help it.

Clarice.
She is my only kinswoman, my husband—
You will not drive her from me?

Maurice.
Your only!—
You were my only, Clarice—I your only,
Until her coming! Only to each other,
Was the o'erprecious bond that most endear'd you
To my affections, wife. I cannot suffer
That she should pass between your heart and mine—
She who loves neither.

Clarice.
Nay, Norman!

Maurice.
Nay, Clarice!
This cold, coarse, selfish, this dishonest woman,
Who strove to keep us separate—

Clarice.
Her error,
She pleads, was but, in a mistaken fondness,
To find a suitor, for her favorite niece,
With better hope of fortune than yourself.

Maurice.
Who broke the sacred seal upon our letters,
Mine read,—yours hurried to the flames, unsent—
And would have sold you to this Robert Warren,
My enemy—

Clarice.
She confesses all, and weeps!

Maurice.
Tears of the crocodile! Believe them not.
Plead for her nothing more! I tell you, Clarice,
I cannot hold my table sure and sacred,
With one so false beside me at the board!—
I cannot yield my home, now pure and peaceful,
To such a treacherous heart as that she carries.
My home is not my home, when doubts of safety
Haunt still my thoughts by day, my dreams by night.
She must go hence!

Clarice.
Oh! husband, pardon her!
She urges abject poverty!

Maurice.
More falsehood still!
But we'll provide her;—she shall never suffer,
From cold, or thirst, or hunger, my Clarice.
I will to-day seek lodgings in St. Louis;
To-morrow—

Clarice.
But, should her pride?—

Maurice.
She has no right
To nurse her pride at peril of our peace!
No more! I will not mock her poverty,
Offend her pride, reproach her evil doing—
Will speak her kindly, and will care for her,
So long as I have strength for any care;—
But will not suffer, for a single moment,
Her shadow on the sunshine of my house.
[Knock without.
Come in!
Enter Cols. Mercer and Brooks.
Friends, welcome!

[Clarice curtsies as they bow, and is about to retire.
Mercer.
If we be welcome,
Your lady need not leave us.

Brooks.
That which brings us,
Is business of your own, no less than ours,—
A grateful business still, we trust, to you—
Which, doing honor to your worth and virtue,
It may be grateful to your wife to hear.

Clarice.
If such its burden, I were glad to linger.

Maurice.
Do so, Clarice!—we, gentlemen, are one!
Marriage, with us, fulfils its ample mission,
Making a mutual need for both our hearts;
Whose sweet dependence knows no other refuge,
Than that which each bestows. It is our fortune,
To have no kindred which may pass between us,
To take from either heart the sweet possession
We hold in one another. But, be seated.

Mercer.
Court now in session, sir, your time is precious,
And this great case of yours, 'gainst Blasinghame,
Comes on to-day?

Maurice.
It does.

Mercer.
A moment then?
Our friends, sir, conscious of your great endowment,
Assured of your just principles and conduct,
Your sense of public trust and public duty,
Have, with unanimous voice, in a full caucus,
Deputed us to bear you their request,
That you will be our candidate for Senator,
In the next Congress.

Brooks.
And we now entreat you,
Suffer this nomination.

Maurice.
Friends, believe me,
I feel with proper sense, this compliment;
And, if my own desire, my young ambition,
Were the sole arbiter to shape my conduct,
Then would I say to you, with hearty frankness,
My wing and eye are set upon the station,
To which your accents now implore my flight.
But, though 'twould give me pride to serve our people,
In any station where their rights are vested,
I have some scruples—

Mercer.
Pray deliver them.

Maurice.
To be a candidate in common usage,
To take the field and canvass with the voter,
To use or sanction fraud—to buy with money,
Or other bribe, the suffrage of the people—
Is to dishonor them—degrade myself!

Brooks.
We ask not this.

Mercer.
It needs not.

Maurice.
Hear me, sirs.
Our liberties are in the popular vote,
Their best security, the popular heart,
Their noblest triumph in the popular will,—
And this can never be expressed with safety,
Until the unbias'd voice of public judgment,
Flinging aside each intermediate agent,
Rises, with proper knowledge of its person,
And cries—“Behold our man!”

Mercer.
You are our man!
Such is already what is spoken loudly
By thousands in Missouri.

Maurice.
I'll not deny it—
If I had one ambition o'er another,
One passion, prompting still a search for power,
'Twas for a station such as this you show me,
Where, standing on the platform of the nation,
I might stand up for man! And so, my studies,
The books I read, the maxims I examined,—
The laws I conn'd—the models set before me,—
All had some eminence like this in view,
That, with my training, should the occasion offer,
I might be ready still! But, in my progress,—
The better knowledge I have learn'd from men—
My doubts increase—my scruples grow—and now,
A sense of duty prompts me to declare,
Though each fond idol of the ambitious nature,
Be, from its pedestal, forever thrown,
I will not seek for office on conditions
Adverse to right and manhood. I will never
Become the creature of a selfish party—
Never use wealth or fraud to rise to power,—
Never use power itself to keep in power,
Nor see in him who favor'd my ascent,
A virtue not his own! Nor can I offer
One tribute to the vulgar vanity!
I will not bow, nor smile, nor deference yield,
Where justice still withholds acknowledgment.

Mercer.
We feel the justice of your sentiments.

Brooks.
They're needful to us now, when all's corruption.
Oh! could we but inform the popular mind.

Maurice.
This can be done where virtue is the teacher,
No students learn so quickly as the people.
They have no cliques to foster—no professions,
Whose narrow boundaries, and scholastic rules,
Frown on each novel truth and principle,
And, where they can, still hunt them down to ruin.
They take a truth in secret to their hearts,
And nurse it, till it rises to a law,
Thenceforth to live forever!

Brooks.
We are agreed—
The people must be taught—what should we teach them?

Maurice.
In politics, to know the proper value
Of the high trusts, the sacred privileges,
They do confide their statesmen. Show to them,
On these depend their liberties and lives,
The safety of their children, and the future!
To yield such trusts to smiling sycophants,
Who flatter still the voter's vanity,
At the expense of his most precious fortunes,
Is to betray the land's security;
To sell the wealth most precious in our keeping,
And, for the thing most worthless, yield to fortune,
What fortune cannot purchase! We must teach,
That he who cringes meanly for the station,
Will meanly hold him in the nation's eye;
That he who buys the vote will sell his own;—
That he, alone, is worthy of the trust,
Who, with the faculty to use it nobly,
Will never sacrifice his manhood for it.
If, with these principles and these resolves,
Thus freely shown you, and invincible,
Our people, through their representatives,
Demand my poor abilities,—'twill glad me,
To yield me at their summons. This implies not
One effort of my own. You, sirs, may make me
A Senator, but not a Candidate.

Mercer.
This suits us well. On your own terms we take you;
We feel with you, a stern necessity
To check the abuse of the elective franchise!

Brooks.
But should we call a meeting to enlighten
The people, in respect to public measures
You'll not refuse to meet them?

Maurice.
No, sir, surely!
I still have done so, upon all occasions,
Whene'er a novel principle demanded
Discussion.

Mercer.
Thanks, sir! There will be to-morrow
A general meeting at the Capitol,
Without respect to party.

Maurice.
I will be there!

Brooks.
Our quest is satisfied to our desire.

Mercer.
We will no longer trespass. Farewell, madam,
Farewell, sir. We shall meet again at court.

[Exeunt Mercer and Brooks.
Clarice,
[embracing him.]
Husband, you triumph! There should be no care
Upon your forehead now! Last night, you slept not.

Maurice.
And now, you dream! But clouds will come, Clarice,
Still, with the morrow! Care that flies the forehead,
Still finds a secret shelter in the heart!—
That timid knock!

[Knock without.
Clarice.
It is the widow Pressley.

Maurice,
[opening.]
Come in, madam!

Enter Widow Pressley and Kate.
Widow.
Oh! sir, the day has come!

Maurice.
That brings you back your property, I trust.

Widow.
Alas! sir! You encourage me to hope,—
And yet I fear!

Maurice.
It is that we are liable to fear,
That we must hope. If judgment be not erring
No less than justice, madam, mine's a hope
That grows the bolder with each hour of thought.
Be of good heart, dear madam. Check these sorrows,
That wear such needless furrows in your cheeks.

Widow.
They're old ones, sir, plough'd twenty years ago.

Maurice.
Renew them not!

Widow.
And yet, if what I hear!—
Oh, sir! they tell me that this cruel man
Hath sworn a horrible oath against your life,
If he should lose his case.

Maurice.
Ah! swears he then!
That looks as if he felt some cause of fear!

Widow.
Do not make light of it, I do entreat you!
He's a most desperate ruffian when he's thwarted,
And has the blood of many on his hands!
'Twas said he left the army for his murders,
And in his duels—

Maurice.
Let me see,—“of thirty,
Wing'd nineteen combatants, and slew the rest!”

Clarice.
Oh! horrible! How can you jest upon it?

Maurice.
I jest!

Clarice.
In truth, you smile not!

Maurice.
Do not fear!
I do not think that he will murder me.

Clarice.
Yet be not rash, my husband; take precautions,
This weapon—

[hands him a small dagger.
Maurice.
What! your dagger, my Clarice,
This pretty Turkish trifle from your bodice,
The blade mosaic—handle wrought in pearl—
The sheath of exquisite morocco, dropp'd
In gold and green! This ornament for masking,
Were a frail weapon for a man's defence!
Nay, keep your dagger, child, I shall not need it.

Clarice.
Be not so confident.

Maurice.
Be not so timid!
Who looks for danger surely happens on it!
My papers there! You go with me, dear madam.

[To widow.
Widow.
Thanks, sir!
There was a time I kept my carriage!

Maurice.
Be hopeful: you shall keep it once a[illeg.]
[Aside to Clarice.]
I feed this hapless woman with
Such as it glads me to indulge myself,—
Yet, should I err in judgment!

Clarice,
[aside.]
Oh! should you fail!
'Twould break her heart.

Maurice.
'Twere something worse than death!
[Aside to Clarice.
But we'll not fail! [aloud.]
The courage born of virtue
Hath still a holy sanction for its hope;
And he who strives with justice on his side,
May boldly challenge fortune for success,
If he be true himself!—We will not fail!
The carriage there! Come, madam—for the Court-house!

[Exeunt.