University of Virginia Library

NORMAN MAURICE;

OR, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Norman Maurice.
• Robert Warren, his kinsman and enemy.
• Richard Osborne, an attorney and creature of Warren.
• Harry Matthews, a friend of Warren.
• Col. Blasinghame, a fire-eater.
• Ben Ferguson, a leading politician.
• Col. Mercer, Politician of opposite party.
• Col. Brooks, Politician of opposite party.
• Major Savage, a friend of Blasinghame.
• Capt. Catesby, U. S. A., friend of Maurice.
• Citizens, Lawyers, &c.
• Mrs. Jervas, a widow.
• Clarice Delancy, her niece, afterwards wife to Maurice.
• Widow Pressley, a client of Maurice
• Kate Pressley, her grand-daughter.
• Biddy, a servant girl.

Scene—First, in Philadelphia; afterwards, in Missouri.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A parlor in the house of Mrs. Jervas, in Walnut-street, Philadelphia. Mrs. Jervas and Robert Warren discovered—the latter entering hastily and with discomposure.
Mrs. Jervas,
[eagerly.]
Well?

Warren.
It is not well! 'Tis ill! She has refused me!

Mrs. J.
Has she then dared?

Warren.
Ay, has she! Something farther—
She does not scruple to avow her passion
For my most worthy cousin, Norman Maurice.

Mrs. J.
She shall repent it—she shall disavow it,
Or she shall know!—I'll teach her!—

Warren.
She's a pupil
With will enough of her own to vex a master!

Mrs. J.
I have a will too, which shall master her!
Is she not mine?—my sister's child?—a beggar,
That breathes but by my charity! I'll teach her,
And she shall learn the lesson set for her,
Or I will turn her naked into the streets,
As pennyless as she came. But, wait and see,—
You shall behold—

Warren.
Nay, wait till I am gone,
Then use your best severity. She needs it—
Has no sufficient notion of her duty,
And—

Mrs. J.
No, indeed!

Warren.
But you must make her wiser.

Mrs. J.
I will!
I've treated her too tenderly!

Warren.
But show her
Some little glimpse of the danger in her path,—
Shame and starvation—

Mrs. J.
She deserves them both.

Warren.
And keep my worthy cousin from her presence.

Mrs. J.
He darks these doors no more! The girl, already,
Has orders to deny him.

Warren.
You've done wisely.
A little time,—but keep them separate,—
And we shall conquer her;—ay, conquer him too,
For I've a little snare within whose meshes
His feet are sure to fall.

Mrs. J.
What snare?

Warren.
No matter!
Be ignorant of the mischief till it's over,
And we enjoy its fruits! Meanwhile, be busy,—
Pursue the plan you purpose, and to-morrow,
We shall know farther. I shall use the moments,
'Twixt this and then, in labors which must profit,
Or fortune grows perverse. See you to her,
While I take care of him.

Mrs. J.
Oh, never fear me—
I'll summon her the moment you are gone,
And she shall know—

Warren.
That you may summon her—
For we must lose no time—I take my leave.

[Ex. Warren.
Mrs. J.
The pert and insolent baggage! But I'll teach her!
I'll let her know from whose benevolent hand
She eats the bread of charity—whose mercy
It is, that clothes her nakedness with warmth.
[Rings. Enter Biddy.
Go, Biddy!—send my niece to me. [Ex. Biddy.]
A beggar,
That fain would be a chooser!—So, Miss!

Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Dear Aunt!

Mrs. J.
Ay, you would dare me in another fashion,
But you have met your match; and now I tell you,
Clarice Delancy, 'tis in vain you struggle—

Clarice.
What have I done?

Mrs. J.
Oh! you are ignorant,
And innocent seeming as the babe unborn,
If tongue and face could speak for secret conscience,
That harbors what it should not. So, you dare
Avow a passion for that beggarly Maurice,
Whom I've forbid the house!

Clarice.
Forbidden Maurice!

Mrs. J.
Ay, indeed! forbid!

Clarice.
In what has he offended?

Mrs. J.
His poverty offends me—his presumption.

Clarice.
Presumption!

Mrs. J.
He has the audacity to think of you
In marriage—he would heir my property;—
The miserable beggar! who, but lately—

Clarice.
And, if the humble Clarice might presume,
There were no fitter husband! From the Fates
I do entreat no happier destiny
Than but to share, o'er all that wealth may proffer,
The beggary that he brings!

Mrs. J.
But you shall never!
I am your guardian, in the place of mother,
And I will turn you naked from these doors
If you but dare—

Clarice.
Ah! that were guardianship,
Becoming the dear sister of a mother,
Who, when she left her hapless child to earth,
Ne'er dream'd of such remembrance, in the future,
Of what beseem'd the past. I've anger'd you,
But cannot chide myself, because my nature
Does not revolt at homage of a being
In whom no virtue starves. Suppose him poor!
Wealth makes no certain happiness to hope,
Nor poverty its loss. In Norman Maurice
I see a nobleness that still atones for
The lowly fortunes that offend your pride.
None richer lives in rarest qualities,—
More precious to the soul that feeds on worth,
Than all your city glitter. Do you think
To win me from a feast of such delights,
To the poor fare on common things that make
The wealth of Robert Warren? Madam—my aunt,—
I thank you for the bounty you have shown me!
It had been precious o'er most earthly things,
But that it hath its price, at perilous cost
To things more precious still. Your charity,
That found a shelter for this humble person,
Were all too costly, if it claims in turn
This poor heart's sacrifice. I cannot make it!
I will not wed this Warren,—for I know him—
And, if it be that I shall ever wed,
Will wed with Norman Maurice—as a man,
Whom most it glads me that I also know.

Mrs. J.
Never shall you wed with him while I have power
To keep you from such folly. You're an infant,
That knows not what is needful for your safety,
Or precious for your heart. Be ruled by me,
Or forth you pack. I cut you off forever,
From fortune as from favor.

Clarice.
Welcome death,
Sooner than bonds like these!

Mrs. J.
Ungrateful girl!
And this is the return for all my bounty?
But you shall not achieve your own destruction,
If I can help it. This Maurice never darkens
My dwelling with his shadow. He hath made you
Perverse and disobedient—but he shall not
Thrive by your ruin. See that you prepare
To marry Robert Warren.

Clarice.
With the grave first!—
Its cold and silence, and its crawling things,
Loathsome, that make us shudder but to think on,
Sooner than he!—a base, unworthy creature,
Who steals between his kinsman and the friend,
That gave him highest trust and held him faithful,
To rob him of the treasure he most values.
The reptile that keeps empire in the grave
Sooner than he, shall glide into this bosom,
And make it all his own.

Mrs. J.
Silence, I say!—
Before I madden with your insolence,
And lose the memory of that sainted sister
That left you in my trust.

Clarice.
My poor, dear mother!
She never dream'd of this, in that dark hour
That lost me to her own!

Mrs. J.
I'm in her place,
To sway your foolish fancies with a prudence
You will not know yourself. Once more I tell you,
You wed with Warren—Robert Warren, only!
This Maurice— [noise without]
Ha! That noise?—

Maurice.
[in the hall without.]
I must, my girl!

Clarice.
'Tis Maurice now.

Mrs. J.
The insolent! will he dare!

Biddy.
[in the hall without.]
Mrs. Jervas says, sir—

Maurice.
[without.]
Ay! ay! she says!—
But when a lady means civilities,
'Tis still my custom to do justice to her,
By seeking them in person. There, my girl,
You've done your duty as you should. Now, please you,
I will do mine. [Entering the room.]
Madam—

Mrs. J.
Was ever insolence—

Biddy.
[entering.]
Mr. Maurice would, ma'am.

Mrs. J.
This conduct, sir—

Maurice.
Would be without its plea at common seasons,—
And he whose purpose was a morning visit,
The simply social object of the idler,
Who finds in his own time and company
The very worst offence, could offer nothing,
To plead for his intrusion on that presence,
Which, so politely, shuts the door against him.

Mrs. J.
Well, sir?

Maurice.
But I am none of these.

Mrs. J.
What plea, sir?—

Maurice.
Some natures have their privilege—some passions
Demand a hearing. There are rights of feeling,
That art can never stifle—griefs, affections,
That never hear the civil “Not at home!”
When home itself is perill'd by submission.
He's but a haggard that obeys the check,
When all that's precious to his stake of life
Is fasten'd on the string. Necessity
Makes bold to ope the door which fashion's portress
Would bolt and bar against him. 'Tis my fate,
That prompts me to a rudeness, which my nurture
Would else have shrunk from. But that I have rights
Which move me to defiance of all custom,
I had not vex'd your presence.

Mrs. J.
Rights, sir—rights?

Maurice.
Ay, madam, the most precious to the mortal!
Rights of the heart, which make the heart immortal
In those affections which still show to earth,
The only glimpses we have left of Eden.
Behold in her, [pointing to Clarice,]
my best apology—
One, whom to gaze on silences complaint,
And justifies the audacity that proves
Its manhood in its error. Clarice, my love,
Is there from any corner of your heart
An echo to the will that says to Maurice,
Your presence here is hateful?

[Takes her hand.]
Clarice.
Can you ask?

Maurice.
Enough!—

Mrs. J.
Too much, I say. Let go her hand,
And leave this dwelling, sir! I'm mistress here;
And shall take measures for security
Against this lawless insolence.

Maurice.
Awhile! awhile!
You are the mistress here;—I will obey you;—
Will leave your presence, madam, never more
To trouble you with mine. You now deny me
The privilege, that never act of mine
Hath properly made forfeit. You behold me
The suitor to your niece. You hear her language,—
How different from your own—that, with its bounty
Makes rich my heart with all the gifts in hers!
Sternly, you wrest authority from judgment,
To exercise a will that puts to scorn
Her hopes no less than mine! I would have pleaded
Your calm return to judgment;—would entreat you
To thoughts of better favor, that might sanction,
With the sweet blessing of maternal love,
The mutual passion living in our hearts;
But that I know how profitless the pleading,
Which, in the ear of prejudice, would soften
The incorrigible wax that deafens pride.
I plead not for indulgence—will not argue
The cruelty that finds in charity
Commission for that matchless tyranny
That claims the right to break the orphan's heart
Because it finds her bread.

Clarice,
[aside to Norman.]
Spare her, Norman.

Maurice,
[aside to Clarice.]
Oh! will I not! Yet wherefore need I spare,
When, if the Holy Law be not a mock,
The justice which must break this heart of stone,
Will send her howling through eternity.
'Twere mercy, which in season speaks the truth,
That, in the foretaste of sure penalties,
May terrify the offender from his path,
And send him to his knees.

Clarice,
[aside to Maurice.]
For my sake, Norman.

Maurice,
[to Mrs. J.]
Yet, madam, in this freest use of power,
Which drives me hence, be merciful awhile,
And, if this heart, so dearly link'd with mine,
Through love and faith unperishing, must turn
Its fountains from that precious overflow
That kept my flowers in bloom—yet, ere the word,
That leaves me sterile ever thence, be said,
Suffer us, apart awhile, to speak of parting!
Words of such import still ask fewest ears,
And words of grief and hopelessness like ours,
Must needs have utterance in such lowly tones,
As best declare the condition of the heart,
That's muffled for despair. But a few moments
We'll walk apart together.

Mrs. J.
It is useless!
What needs—

Maurice.
What need of sorrow ever! Could earth speak,
Prescribing laws to that Divinity,
That still smites rock to water, we should hear,
The universal voice of that one plea,
That claims for man immunity from troubles
Which make proud eyes o'erflow. Who should persuade
His fellow to opinion of the uses
That follow from his tears? What school, or teacher,
Would seek to show that chemistry had art,
To fix and harden the dilating drops
To brilliants as they fall,—such as no crown
In Europe might affect? One finds no succor,
Sovereign to break the chain about his wrist,
From all the fountains that o'ersluice the heart;
Yet will he weep, though useless. He who stands,
Waiting upon the scaffold for the signal,
That flings him down the abyss, still hoards each minute
That niggard fate allows. That single minute
Still shrines a hope;—if not a hope, a feeling,
That finds a something precious even in pain,
And will not lose the anxiety that racks him,
Lest he make forfeit of a something better
Which yet he cannot name. And, at the last,
I, whom you doom to loss of more than life,
May well implore the respite of a moment,
If but to suffer me to count once more,
The treasure that I lose. A moment, madam?

Mrs. J.
[walks up the stage.]
A single moment, then.

Maurice.
Oh! you are gracious!
A single moment is a boundless blessing
To him you rob of time! Clarice, my love.

Clarice.
My Norman!

Maurice.
Oh! is it thus, my Clarice—is it thus?

Clarice.
We have been children, Norman, in our dreams
We are the sport of fate!

Maurice.
And shall be ever,
If that there be no courage in our hearts
To shape the fates to favor by our will.

Clarice.
What mean you, Norman

Maurice.
What should Norman mean,
But, if he can, to grapple with his fortune,
And, like a sturdy wrestler in the ring,
Throw heart and hope into the perilous struggle?
What should I mean but happiness for thee,—
Thou willing, as myself? Who strives with fate,
Must still, like him, the mighty Macedonian,
Seize the coy priestess by the wrist, and lead her
Where yet she would not go! Suppose me faithful
To the sweet passion I have tender'd you,
And what remains in this necessity,
But that, made resolute by grim denial,
I challenge from your love sufficient courage,
To take the risks of mine!

Clarice.
Within your eye
A meaning more significant than your words,
Would teach me still to tremble. That I love you,
You doubt not, Norman! That my heart hath courage
To match the love it feels for you—

Maurice.
It hath—it hath!
If that the love be there, as I believe it,
That love will bring, to nourish needful strength,
A virtue that makes love a thing of soul,
And arms its will with wings. Oh! read you not,
My meaning—

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moment is a long one, sir.

Maurice.
Ah, madam!
Who chides the executioner when he suffers
The victim his last words—though still he lingers
Ere he would reach the last? But a few moments,
And I have spoken all that my full heart
Might not contain with safety.

Mrs. J.
[retiring up the stage.]
Be it so, sir.

Maurice.
You hear, my Clarice. We've another moment:
But one, it seems, unless your resolution
Takes its complexion from the fate that threatens
And shows an equal will. If then, in truth,
You love me—

Clarice.
Oh! look not thus!

Maurice.
I doubt not;—
And yet, dear Clarice, if indeed you love me,
The single moment that this woman gives us,
Becomes a life;—to me, of happiness,—
To thee, as full of happiness as thou
Might hope to gain from me. She would deny us,—
Would wed thee to that subtle Robert Warren—

Clarice.
I'll perish first!

Maurice.
No need of perishing
When I can bring thee to security.
I knew thy straits—the tyranny which thou suffer'st
Because of thy dependence; and my struggle,
Since this conviction reached me—day and night—
Was, that I might from this condition snatch thee,
And, in thy happier fortunes, find mine own!
I have prepared for this.

Clarice.
What would'st thou, Norman!

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Your moments fly.

Maurice.
I soon shall follow them.

Mrs. J.
[retiring again.]
The sooner, sir, the better.

Maurice.
She would spare me,
The argument which shows thee what is needful.

Clarice.
Speak! I have courage equal to my love!

Maurice.
I try thee though I doubt not! If thou lov'st me
Thou'lt yield, without a question, to my purpose,
And give me all thy trust.

Clarice.
Will I not, Norman?

Maurice.
Then, with the night, I make thee mine, Clarice!
Steal forth at evening. There shall be a carriage,
And my good hostess, whom thou know'st, in waiting.
Our future home is ready.

Clarice.
Let me think, Norman.

Maurice.
That's as your excellent aunt, who now approaches
May please:—but, surely, when to my fond pleading
You sweetly vow'd yourself as mine alone,
The proper thought that sanctions my entreaty
Was all complete and perfect.

Clarice.
But Norman, how—
How should I, in your poverty, encumber
Your cares with a new burden?

Maurice.
There is no poverty,
Which the true courage, and the bold endeavor,
The honest purpose, the enduring heart,
Crowned with a love that blesses while it burdens,
May not defy in such a land as ours!
We'll have but few wants having one another!—
And for these wants, some dawning smiles of fortune
Already have prepared me. Trust me, Clarice,
I will not take thee to a worse condition,
In one whose charities shall never peril
The affections they should foster.

Mrs. J.
[approaching.]
Sir,—again!

Maurice.
Yes, yes—most excellent madam—yes—again!
There's but a single syllable between us,
Your niece hath left unspoken.—My Clarice!

Clarice.
I'm thine!

Maurice.
'Tis spoken!
And now I live again!

Mrs. J.
Well, sir—art done at last?

Maurice.
Done! Ay, madam—done!
You've held me narrowly to a strict account—
And yet, I thank you. You've been merciful
After a fashion which invokes no justice,
And yet may find it, madam. Yet—I thank you!
The word is said that's needful to our parting;
And that I do not in despair depart,
Is due to these last moments. Fare you well!
Be you as safe, henceforth, from all intrusion,
As you shall be from mine. Clarice—farewell!

Clarice.
Norman.

Maurice.
[embracing her.]
But one embrace!

Mrs. J.
Away, sir.

Maurice.
In earnest of those pleasant bonds hereafter,
That none shall dare gainsay. Clarice—Remember!
[Exit Maurice.

Clarice.
Go, Norman, and believe me.

Mrs. J.
Get you in!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Lawyer's office in Philadelphia. Richard Osborne at a desk writing.
Enter Robert Warren.
Warren,
[eagerly.]
Hast drawn the paper, Osborne?

Osborne.
It is here.

Warren.
The copy this?—

Osborne.
And this the original.

Warren,
[examining papers.]
'Tis very like! You've done it famously:
One knows not which is which; and Norman Maurice,
Himself, would struggle vainly to discover
The difference 'twixt the words himself hath written,
And these your skill hath copied to a hair.
We shall deceive him.

Osborne.
Why would you deceive him?

Warren.
Eh! Why? It is my instinct! Are you answer'd?
I hate him! Would you have a better answer?

Osborne.
Why hate him when his kindness still have served you?
This very obligation which hath bound him,
And given us cruel power o'er his fortunes,—
His purse—perhaps his honor—

Warren.
Why, perhaps?
Is it doubtful, think you, that this fatal writing,
Made public,—will disgrace him?

Osborne.
An error only,—
The thoughtless sport of boyhood—wholly guiltless
Of all dishonest purpose. We have used it,—
You rather—and the profit has been ours!—
Why, if he pays the money as he proffers,
Why treasure still this paper? More—why hate him?

Warren.
Let it suffice you that I have my reasons!—
And let me tell you, Osborne, that I love not
This sympathy which you show for Norman Maurice.
Beware! who goes not with me is against me!

Osborne.
I'm in your power, I know—

Warren.
Then let your wisdom
Abate its fond pretension as my teacher!
I'm better pleased with service than tuition;
Will hold you as my ally, not my master!
I have remarked, of late, that you discover
Rare virtues in my cousin! He hath fee'd you;
Employed you as attorney in his cases—

Osborne.
Not more than other counsellors.

Warren.
No matter!
It is enough that you are mine!

Osborne.
This jealousy—

Warren.
Is only vigilance! Each look of favor,
Bestow'd on him I loathe, is disaffection
In him that's bound to me.

Osborne.
This document?—

Warren.
The real one,—the original—is mine;
The copy you will yield him when he pays you;—
That he will do so, now, I make no question,
Though where his money comes from is my wonder.

Osborne.
The case of Jones & Peters, just determined,
Brings him large fees. Another action,
The insurance case of Ferguson & Brooks,
Secures him handsome profits. Other cases,
Have lately brought him, with new reputation,
Liberal returns of money.

Warren.
We'll have all!
See that you pile the costs—crowd interest—
Expense of service; tax to the uttermost
The value of your silence and forbearance—
Leave nothing you have done without full charges,
While, what has been forborne, more highly rated,
Shall sweep the remaining eagles from his purse.

Osborne.
What bitterness is yours!

Warren.
Oh! quite ungracious,
Contrasted with the sweetness of your moods!
Once more, beware! Do as I bid you, Osborne,
Or you shall feel me. Yield him up this copy,
Which we shall see him, with delirious rapture,
Thrust in the blazing furnace,—little dreaming,
That still the damning scrawl that blasts his honor,
Lies here, in the possession of his foe!

Osborne.
Will nothing move you, Warren?

Warren.
His funeral only,—
To follow—while above his burial place,
I show this fatal paper,—still lamenting
That one with so much talent should have falter'd,
When virtue cried “Be firm!”—Oh! I will sorrow,
So deeply o'er his sad infirmity,
That they who come to weep above his grave,
Will turn from it in scorn. But, get you ready;—
You'll sup with me; and afterwards we'll seek him.
We must look smiling then as summer flowers,
Nor show the serpent crouching in the leaves.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Evening: Chestnut-street. Enter Maurice with Clarice.
Maurice.
Thou'rt mine, my Clarice.

Clarice.
Wholly thine, my husband.

Maurice.
Now let the furies clamor as they may,
That the capricious fortune which had mock'd
Our blessings with denial, has been baffled
By the true nobleness of that human will,
Which, when the grim necessity looks worst,
Can fearlessly resolve to brave its fate.
Thou'rt mine, and all grows suppliant in my path
That lately looked defiance. We are one!—
This is our dwelling, Clarice:—let us in.

[They enter the house of Maurice.

SCENE IV.

The parlor of a dwelling in the residence of Maurice, handsomely and newly furnished. Enter Warren and Osborne.
Warren.
I am amazed.

Osborne.
'Tis certainly a change
From his old lodging-house in Cedar-street.

Warren.
His run of luck hath crazed him, and he fancies
The world is in his string.

Osborne.
He's not far wrong!
His arguments have made a great impression;
Their subtlety and closeness, and the power
Of clear and forcible development,
Which seems most native to his faculty!
He was born an orator! With such a person—
A voice to glide from thunder into music,
A form and face so full of majesty,
Yet, with such frankness and simplicity,—
So much to please, and so commanding—

Warren.
Pshaw!—
You prate as do the newspapers, with a jargon
Of wretched common-place, bestuffed with phrases,
That, weighed against the ballad of an idiot,
Would show less burden and significance.
We'll spoil his fortune—

Osborne.
Hark! He comes.

Warren.
Be firm now!
See that you do it manfully—no halting.—

Osborne.
You still persist, then?

Warren.
Ay! when I have him here. [touching his breast.]


Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Be seated, sirs.
You bring with you the paper?

[To Osborne.
Osborne.
It is here, sir.
[Giving copy of document.
And here the separate claim—the costs and charges.

Maurice.
'Tis well! This first!—I pay this money, sir,
In liquidation of this wretched paper,
To which my hand appears, and, for which writing,
The world, unconscious of the facts, might hold me
A most unhappy criminal. Your knowledge
Includes this person's agency—my cousin—
As still, in moments of insidious fondness,
It is his wont to call me.

Warren.
Norman, nay!

Maurice,
[impatiently to Warren.]
Awhile, awhile, sir! we shall deal directly!—
I said [to Osborne,]
your knowledge of this boyish error,
Betrayed the agency of Robert Warren,
Which does not here appear. He made that guilty
Which in itself was innocent. These moneys,
Procured by him upon this document,
Were all by him consumed. You were his agent,
Perhaps as ignorant of his vicious deed,
As I, who am its victim. Was it so, sir?

Osborne.
I sold for him the bill, sir, knowing nothing,
And still believed it genuine.

Maurice.
He will tell you,
That, what I utter of his agency,
In this insane and inconsiderate act,
Is true as Holy Writ! Speak, Robert Warren!

Warren.
I have admitted it already, Norman.

Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Be you the witness of his words hereafter.
Here is your money,—and I take this paper,
The proof of boyish error and misfortune,
But not of crime, in me. Thus, let it perish,
With that confiding and believing nature,
Which gave me to the power of one so base!

[putting it in the fire, and placing his foot on it while it burns.
Warren.
Norman! Cousin!

Maurice.
You cozen me no more!
And if your agent has the wit to gather
A lesson from your faithlessness to me,
You will not cozen him. Take counsel, sir,
And never trust this man!

[To Osborne.
Warren.
Norman Maurice!

Maurice.
[To Osborne.]
Our business ends! Will it please you, leave us now!

[Exit Osborne: Warren is about to follow when Maurice lays his hand on his shoulder.
Maurice.
Stay you! There must be other words before we part,
Not many, but most needful.

Warren.
Let me pray you,
To fashion them in less offensive spirit.

Maurice.
Why, so I should, could I suppose one virtue,
A life to leaven a dense mass of vices,
Remain'd within your bosom. You shall listen
Though every syllable should be a sting!
'Twould not offend me greatly, Robert Warren,
If, as I brand thy baseness on thy forehead,
Thy heart, with courage born of just resentment,
Should move thee to defiance! It would glad me,
In sudden strife, to put a proper finish
To thy deep, secret, foul, hostility.

Warren.
You have no reason for this cruel language.

Maurice.
Look on me as thou say'st the monstrous falsehood;
But lift thine eye to mine—and, if thy glance
Can brazen out the loathing in mine own,
I will forgive thee all! Thou dar'st not do it!
No reason, say'st thou?—Thou, whose arrant cunning,
Hath taken the profits of three toilsome years
To pay thy wage of sin,—and smutch'd my garments,
That else had known no stain!

Warren.
Have I not
Confess'd that wrong and folly?—

Maurice.
Wert repentant,
When making thy confession—

Warren.
So I am!

Maurice.
Traitor! I know thee better! Thy confession
But followed on detection! While thou mad'st it,
The busy devil, dwelling in thy heart,
Was framing other schemes of crime and hatred,
Outbraving all the past. Ev'n while my pity
Was taking thee to mercy, thou wast planning
New evil to my fortunes!

Warren.
Never, Norman!
By heaven! you do me wrong.

Maurice.
Pure Innocent,
The very angels look on thee with sorrow,
To see such virtue suffer such injustice!—
But hearken, while I paint another picture:
The fiends exulting in thy ready service,
A voluntary minister of evil,
As, with a spirit born of hell and hatred,
Thou pluck'st the flower of hope from happiness,
To plant the thorn instead.

Warren.
What crime is this?

Maurice.
I heard thy plea for mercy! I believed thee,
And, as thou wert the child of that dear woman
Who called my mother, sister, I forgave thee,
Most glad to listen to thy deep assurance
Of shame for each sad error. So, I took thee,
Once more, to confidence—my bosom open'd,
And show'd thee, shrined within its holiest chamber,
The image of the being that I loved!—
I led thee to her—taught her to behold thee,
My friend and kinsman; and, misdoubting never,
Still saw thee bend thy footsteps to her dwelling,
Nor dream'd that to the flowers that made my Eden,
Myself had brought the serpent!

Warren.
What means this?

Maurice.
What! Thou know'st nothing? Thou hast no conjecture
Of what the serpent sought within the garden!
Why, man, he whispered in Eve's innocent ears,
The oiliest nothings,—mingled with such slander
Of him who sought to make himself her Adam,
That—

Warren.
'Tis false!—I swear! I never did this mischief!

Maurice.
Liar! The oath thou tak'st is thy perdition!
Behold the evidence that proves thy blackness,
In contrast with its purity and truth!
Clarice! Come forth! My wife, sir!

Enter Clarice from within.
Warren.
Damnation!

[Warren rushes out.
Maurice.
Thus fled the fiend, touch'd by Ithuriel's spear,
Even from the reptile rising to the fiend,
And speeding from the Eden that his presence
Shall never trouble more. Henceforth, dear wife,
Our paradise shall still be free from taint;
A realm of sweetness unobscured by shadow,
And freshening still with flow'rs that take their beauty,
As favor'd still by thine. From this blest moment,
Our peace shall be secure!

Clarice.
And yet I fear,
This bold, bad man.

Maurice.
Bad, but not bold! Fear nothing!
I've pluck'd his sting! Thou know'st the cruel story;
I told thee all,—suppressed no syllable—
Of his perversion of a simple paper,
Wherein, in vain display of penmanship,
I gave him power for practice which he seized on,
Exposing me to ruin. In those embers,
The fatal proof lies buried. I am free;—
And in the freedom I have won from him,
And in the bondage I have sworn to thee,
I write the record of my happiness!
This day I feel triumphant as the hunter,
Who, on the wild steed that his skill hath captured,
Rifle in grasp, and bridle rein flung loose,
Darts forth upon the prairie's waste of empire,
And feels it all his own!

Clarice.
I share thy triumph—
Would share that waste with thee and feel no sorrow,
For all that love foregoes.

Maurice.
I take thy promise—
Will try thy strength, thy courage and thy heart,
As little thou hast fancied! Clarice, dear wife,
With dawn we leave this city.

Clarice.
How! to-morrow?
And leave this city, Norman?

Maurice.
Dost thou fail me?

Clarice.
No! I am thine! My world is in thy love;
I wish no dearer dwelling-place—would ask
No sweeter realm of home! Go, where thou wilt,
I cling to thee as did the Hebrew woman
To him who had his empire in her heart.

Maurice.
I bless thee for this proof of thy affection!
This is the city of thy birth and mine,
But that's our native land alone which suffers
That we take root and flourish;—those alone,
Our kindred, who will gladden in our growth,
And succor till we triumph. Here, it may be,
That, after weary toil, and matchless struggle,
When strength subsides in age, they will acknowledge,
That I am worthy of my bread,—may bid me,
Look up and be an alderman or mayor!—
And this were of their favor. The near neighbors,
Who grew with us, and saw our gradual progress,
Who knew the boy, and all his sports and follies,
Have seldom faith that he will grow the man
To cast them into shadow. We'll go hence!—

Clarice.
Whither, dear Norman?

Maurice.
Whither! Dost thou ask?
Both in God's keeping, Clarice—thou in mine!
I'll tender thee as the most precious treasure,
That city ever yielded wilderness.

Clarice.
I know thou wilt;—but what thy means, my husband
Thou told'st me thou wast poor.

Maurice.
Means! I have manhood!
Youth, strength, and men say, intellect—

Clarice.
You have! You have!

Maurice.
A heart at ease, secure in its affections
And still the soul to seek each manly struggle!
Wide is the world before me—a great people,
Spread o'er a realm, along whose verdant meadows
The sun can never set. I know this people—
Love them—would make them mine! I have ambition
To serve them in high places, and do battle
With the arch-tyrannies, in various guises,
That still from freedom pluck its panoply,
Degrade its precious rites, and, with vain shadows,
Mock the fond hopes that fasten on their words.

Clarice.
Could you not serve them here?

Maurice.
No! No!

Clarice.
Wherefore not?—
And oh! they need some saviour here, methinks!

Maurice.
Ay! They do need! But I am one of them,—
Sprung from themselves—have neither friends nor fortune,
And will not stoop, entreating as for favor,
When I would serve to save! They lack all faith
In him who scorns to flatter their delusions,
And lie them to self-worship. In the West,
There is a simpler and a hardier nature,
That proves men's values, not by wealth and title,
But mind and manhood. There, no ancient stocks,
Claim power from precedence. Patrician people,
That boast of virtues in their grandmothers,
Are challenged for their own. With them it answers,
If each man founds his family, and stands
The father of a race of future men!
Mere parchment, and the vain parade of title,
Lift no man into stature. Such a region
Yields all that I demand—an open field,
And freedom to all comers. So, the virtues
Flourish according to their proper nature;
And each man, as he works with will and courage,
Reaps the good fruitage proper to his claim;—
Thither, dear wife!

Clarice.
I'm thine!

Maurice.
Thy ready answer,
Completes my triumph! Wings are at my shoulders,
And more than eagle empires woo my flight!
Yet, do I something fear,—Clarice—

Clarice.
What fear?

Maurice.
Thou'rt not ambitious.

Clarice.
But for thee, Norman;
If that, in service at thy shrine of glory,
Thou dost not lose the love—

Maurice.
Be satisfied
That, when my state is proudest, thou shalt be
The one, whom, most of all, these eyes shall look for,
This heart still follow with devoted service.
But, to thy preparations: I will follow;—
Before the dawn we shall have left this city.
[Clarice going.
That reptile— [musingly.]


Clarice.
[returning.]
Norman!

Maurice.
My Clarice!
[embracing her.
[Exit Clarice.
His fangs are drawn!—
Yet, somehow, he is present to my thoughts,
As if he still had power. But, let him dare,
Once more to cross my path, and he shall feel
His serpent head grow flat beneath my heel.

[Exit within.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Scene: Missouri. A room in the cottage of Norman Maurice.
Enter Maurice and Clarice.
Clarice.
Oh! Norman, this is happiness.

Maurice.
'Tis more,—
Security in happiness. Our blossoms
Fear not the spoiler. On your cheek the roses
Declare a joyous presence in the heart,
That makes our cottage bloom.

Clarice.
You triumph too,
In favor as in fortune. On all sides
I hear your name reëchoed with a plaudit,
That fills my bosom with exulting raptures
I never knew before.

Maurice.
Ah! this is nothing,
Dear heart, to the sweet peace that crowns our dwelling,
And tells us, though the tempest growls afar,
Its thunders strike not here. The fame I covet
Is still in tribute subject to your joys;
And, these secure—you, happy in my bosom—
My pride forgets its aim! Ambition slumbers
Nor makes me once forgetful of the rapture,
That follows your embrace.

[Knock without.
Clarice.
The widow Pressley.

Maurice.
Quick, welcome her.—Poor woman, we will save her.

Clarice.
I joy to hear you say so.—Come in, madam.

Enter Widow Pressley and Kate.
Maurice.
Welcome, dear madam; you must needs be anxious;
But still be hopeful. I have brought the action,
And doubt not, from my study of your case,
That we shall gain it—put the usurper out,
And win you back some portion of your wealth.
The truth is on our side,—the evidence
Sustains your claim most amply. We shall gain it!

Widow.
Alas! sir, but the power of this bad man—

Maurice.
Need not be powerful here.

Widow.
You know it not;—
His wealth, his violence—

Maurice.
Will scarce prevail.

Widow.
He buys or bullies justice at his pleasure;
No lawyer here would undertake my case
Lest he should lose a friend or make a foe;
And thus, for fifteen years—

Maurice.
He buys not me,
And scarce will profit by an insolence,
That hopes to bully here.

Widow.
Oh! sir, I tremble,
And cannot help but doubt. I know your talents;
All people speak of them,—and yet I fear!
With hopes so often lifted and defeated,
How should I dream of better fortune now?
The widow and the orphan find small favor,
In struggle with the strong and selfish man;
And this success you promise—

Maurice.
None may take
The sovereign accent from the lip of Fate
And say—this thing is written certainly—
But, if I err not, madam, better promise,
Of the clear dawn and the unclouded sunshine,
Ne'er waited on the night. I trust the Jury.
They have no fears to nurse, and seek no favors,
As do that class of men, the mean ambitious,
Who, for the lowly greed of appetite,
Or hungering for a state they never merit,
Cringe with a servile zeal to wealth and numbers,
And nothing show but baseness when they rise.
My faith is in the people.

Widow.
Mine in you, sir.

Maurice.
I will deserve your confidence. This person,
Who robb'd you of your fortune, would but vainly
Attempt to bully me. I am no bully,
But something have I in my soul which strengthens
Its courage, when the insolent would dare
Usurp the rights that I am set to guard.
Be hopeful, madam. Take no care for the morrow,
Though, with the morrow, our great trial comes!
God and his angels keep the innocent,
And, in his own good season, will redress
Their many wrongs with triumph.

Widow.
Sir, I thank you;—
And this poor child, the child of bitterness,
If not of wrath, shall bless you in her prayers,
That nightly seek her mother in the heavens!

Maurice.
[kissing the child.]
Your name is Kate, they tell me—a sweet name!
You'll pray for us to-night, Kate. With the morrow,
If my heart's hope do not deceive my heart,
Your prayers shall all be answer'd.—I'll think of her,
And of her sweet and innocent face to-morrow,
When striving with her enemy.

Kate.
I'll pray, sir,
As if you were my father.

Widow.
She has none, sir.

Maurice.
Losing or winning, daughter, still in me,
Look for a father who will cherish you.

Widow.
Farewell, good sir, I have not words to thank you.

Maurice.
You have a heart that overflows with speech,
And swells into your eyes! No more, dear madam:
Be hopeful and be happy.
[Exeunt widow and child.
We must gain it.
The proofs are clear—I cannot doubt the issue,—
And still a prescient something at my heart,
Awakes its triumph with assuring accents
That never spoke in vain. But, who are these?
[Enter Col. Mercer and Brooks.
Welcome, gentlemen.

Mercer.
We trust, sir, that you see in us your friends.

Maurice.
Such, since our brief acquaintance, you have seemed, sir,
And mine's a heart preferring to confide;
That still would rather suffer wrong of faith,
Than not believe in man.

Mercer.
You'll find us true;—
And thus it is, that, sure of our good purpose,
We come to counsel with you as a friend.

Maurice.
As friends, I welcome you. Be seated, sirs.

Brooks.
We do regard you, sir, as one to help us,—
In public matters. From our knowledge of you,
We've said among our friends, this is our man;
And, looking still to you to serve our people,
We hear with grief that you are in a peril
Whose straits, perchance, you know not.

Maurice.
Peril, sir?

Brooks.
You have brought action for the widow Pressley,
For the recovery of a large possession,
Withheld by Colonel Blasinghame—

Maurice.
'Tis true, sir,

Mercer.
You do not know this man.

Maurice.
I've heard of him.

Mercer.
But not that he is one whom men find prudent
To pass with civil aspect, nor confront
With wrath or opposition. He has power,
Such as few men possess, or dare contend with—
Has wealth in great abundance—is a person,
Most fearless and most desperate in battle,
Who better loves the conflict with his fellow
Than any gifts that peaceful life can bring;
Endow'd with giant strength and resolution,
And such a shot, from five to fifteen paces,
As still to shatter, wavering in the wind,
The slenderest wand of willow.

Maurice.
Famous shooting!

Brooks.
It were not wise to wake his enmity!
We look to you to serve our cause in Congress—
Make him your foe, and he opposes you;
His wealth—his popularity—the terrors,
His very name provokes,—all leagued against you—
You still a stranger.

Maurice.
Patiently, I hear;
And though I feel not like solicitude
With that you show for me, am grateful for it!
And now, sirs, let us understand each other.
I am a man who, in pursuit of duty,
Will hold no parley with that week day prudence
Which teaches still how much a virtue costs.
Of this man, Blasinghame, I've heard already,—
Even as you both describe him. It would seem,
Lest I should fail in utter ignorance,
He took a patient trouble on himself,
To school me in his virtues. Read this letter.

[gives letter.
Mercer., Brooks.
His hand!—his signature!

[they read.
Maurice.
Well, gentlemen, you see it written there,
What are my dangers if I dare to venture
This widow's cause against him. Favor me,
And read the answer which has just been written.

Mercer.
[reads aloud.]

Sir:—The suit of Pressley vs. Blasinghame will be prosecuted to conclusion, without regard to consequences, with the best strength and abilities of

Norman Maurice.

Maurice.
It is brief, sir.

Brooks.
'Tis a defiance, Maurice!

Maurice.
'Twas meant so, gentlemen. I am a man,
Or I am nothing! This poor widow's cause,
The very insolence of this Blasinghame,
Hath made my own! I'll die for it if need be.

Mercer.
Art principled 'gainst the duel?

Maurice.
Rather ask,
If, when my enemy takes me by the throat,
I do oppose him with an homily.
No man shall drive me from society!—
I take the laws I find of force, and use them,
For my protection and defence, as others
Employ them for assault.

Mercer.
You've practised then?

Maurice.
Never shot pistol.

Brooks.
Nor rifle?

Maurice.
Scarcely!

Mercer.
You are very rash, sir!

Maurice.
Ay! but rashness, sir,
Becomes a virtue in a case like this;
And the brave heart, untaught in human practice,
Finds good assurance from another source
That prompts its action right. This letter's written,
And goes within the hour. Let Blasinghame
Chafe as he may, and thunder to the terror,
Of those who have no manhood in themselves;—
He thunders at these portals still in vain!
To-morrow comes the trial—after that!—
But let the future wear what look it may,
I'll find the heart to meet it—as a man!

Mercer.
Then you are firm?

Maurice.
As are the rocks,
In conflict with the sea.

Mercer.
We joy to find you thus!
We'll stand by you through danger to the last.

Brooks.
Ay, Maurice, we are with you.

Maurice.
Friends, your hands!—
I am not used to friendship, but I love it,
As still a precious gift, vouchsafed by heaven,
Next best to love of woman! For this danger,—
Fear nothing! we shall 'scape it! Nay, 'twill give us,
Or truth is not of God, new plumes for triumph!

SCENE II.

The law office of Richard Osborne. Osborne discovered writing.
Enter Warren.
Warren.
We're on the track at last, Look at that letter;
It comes from our old comrade, Harry Matthews,
And tells us miracles of Norman Maurice!—
Our worthy cousin has the run of fortune;—
She seems to crown him with her richest favors,
As some old bawd, grown hackney'd in the market,
Adopts a virgin passion in her dotage,
And yields to her late folly, all the profits
That follow'd the old vice. He's growing finely;
But I shall dock his feathers.

Osborne.
[reading.]
In Missouri.

Warren.
Ay, in St. Louis, that great western city,
Our worthy cousin, Norman, has grown famous!
You read what Matthews writes. In one short twelvemonth
He springs above all shoulders.

Osborne.
I look'd for it!
He's not the man whom fortune can keep under.

Warren.
What! you forget our precious document?

Osborne.
You will not use it now?

Warren.
Ah, will I not then?
If ever useful, now's the right time for it!
See you not that he rises like an eagle,
Already is in practice with the ablest,
Wins popular favor without working for it,
And stands i' the way of better politicians?
They fit his name to music for bad singers,
To whom none listen save at suffrage time.—
We'll spoil the song for him.

Osborne.
What would you do?

Warren.
You are dull, Dick Osborne! Have I yet to tell you
That, over all, conspicuous in my hate,
This minion of Fortune stands. His better luck
Hath robb'd me of the prize which most I treasured—
His better genius trampled mine to dust,—
Humbled my pride when at its height, and crush'd me,
Until I learn'd to loathe myself, as being
So feeble in his grasp.

Osborne.
He crushes you no longer!

Warren.
Can I forget the past? This memory
Becomes a part of the nature o' the man,
And of his future makes a fearful aspect,
Unless he cures its hurts. My path is where
My enemy treads in triumph! I shall seek it,
And 'twill be hard if hate, well leagued with cunning,
Is baffled of his toil. I seek St. Louis!

Osborne.
Beware! You'll make him desperate!

Warren.
I hope so!

Osborne.
It brings its perils with it! Norman Maurice
Will rend his hunter!—

Warren.
If he be not wary!
But, fear you nothing. You shall go with me,
And see how deftly, with what happy art,
I shall prepare the meshes for my captive.

Osborne.
Me! go with you?—and wherefore?

Warren.
A small matter!—
While I shall drive the nail, you'll clinch the rivet.
I'd have you there to prove this document!

Osborne.
Spare me this, Warren!

Warren.
I can spare you nothing.

Osborne.
I do not hate this man! He hath not wrong'd me,
Cross'd not my path, nor, with a better fortune,
Won from me aught I cherish'd.

Warren.
Enough! Enough!—
Me hath he robb'd and wrong'd—me hath he cross'd—
His better fortune still a fate to mine!—
My injury is yours! You love me, Osborne,—
Will do the thing that I regard as needful,
The more especially as you have secrets,
No less than Norman Maurice. We shall go,
Together, as I fancy, to St. Louis!

Osborne.
This is mere tyranny, Warren.

Warren.
Very like it!
Guilt ever finds its tyrant in its secret,
And, twinn'd with every crime, the accuser stands,
Its own grim shadow, with the scourge and torture.

Osborne.
A dark and damnable truth! Would I had perish'd
Ere I had fallen, and follow'd, as you bade me!

Warren.
Spare the vain toil to cheat a troubled conscience,
And to your preparations. By the morrow,
We'll be upon the road.

Osborne.
But, for these papers?

Warren.
Confound the papers! They will wait for us,
But opportunity never! Get you ready,
And hush all vain excuses. If my sway
Be somewhat tyrannous, still it hath its profits:—
Be you but true, and from the Egyptian spoil,
There shall be still sufficient for your toil.
[Exit Warren.

Osborne.
I'm chain'd to the stake! He hath me in his power!—
How truly hath he pictured my estate!—
Thus he who doth a deed of ill in youth,
Raises a ghost no seventy years can lay!
I must submit; yet, following still his lead,
Pray Providence for rescue, ere too late:—
'Tis Providence, alone, may baffle Fate!
[Exit Osborne.

SCENE III.

The house of Mrs. Jervas in Walnut-street. Enter Mrs. J. and Robert Warren.
Mrs. J.
Art sure of what you tell me?

Warren.
Never doubt it!—
Matthews, who writes me, is an ancient friend
Who knows this Maurice well. He sees him often,
Though it would seem that Maurice knows not him.
His rising fortunes favor you! 'Twere well
You sought your niece. You are her kinswoman,—
The nearest,—and the loss of all your fortune,
By failure of the bank—

Mrs. J.
But Maurice likes me not!

Warren.
Natural enough! You still opposed his passion;
But things are alter'd now. You've but to show him
'Twas for your niece's good, in your best judgment,
That you denied his suit. But, go to her;—
He's doing well—is popular—grows wealthy;
And now that Fortune looks with smiles on him,
He well may smile on you! You'll live with them,
And we shall meet there.

Mrs. J.
We? Meet?

Warren.
Did I not love her?

Mrs. J.
Ah!—

Warren.
And should he die?—Should accident, or—

Mrs. J.
I see! I see!

Warren.
You are my friend, and you will show her—

Mrs. J.
Ah! trust me, Robert Warren—

Warren.
That's enough!
We understand each other. You will go,—
Her only kinswoman—to seek her out.
You have but her in the world! Say you have err'd;
It was because you loved her that you strove,
'Gainst one, who, whatsoe'er his worth and talent,
Was not o'erbless'd by Fortune! He may frown,
But cannot well deny you; and, for Clarice—
She will not, sure, repel her mother's sister.

Mrs. J.
I'll go! I need the succor of my kindred.

Warren.
We'll meet then; but you must not know me there!
'Tis not my policy to vex my rival,
Provoke suspicion, move his jealousy,
Or startle her by any bold renewal,
Of pleadings late denied. Should you discover
That he who, in their presence, stands before you,
Is other than he seems, you will know nothing;
Since that may spoil your game as well as mine.

Mrs. J.
You are a deep one!

Warren.
When I have your counsel!
This Maurice thought but humbly of your judgment.
He knew you not as I do. He was blinded
By his own proud conceit and arrogance,
And held himself an oracle. 'Twere wise
If still you suffer'd him to fancy thus—
Check'd him in nothing—never counsell'd him—
For still I know he holds your wisdom cheaply,
And scorns the experience which might rise against
His own assured opinion. Such a person
Needs but sufficient cord—

Mrs. J.
And he shall have it!

Warren.
I'll seek your counsel soon, and you shall teach me
What is our proper action. You will find me
More ready to confide in your experience,
Than him whose cunning seem'd to baffle it.
Farewell then, madam, till we meet again.
[Exit Warren.

Mrs. J.
Farewell, sir! A most excellent young man!
This Maurice shall not carry it at will,—
He scorns me,—does he? He shall feel me still!

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

The hall in the cottage of Norman Maurice. Time—midnight. Enter Maurice in night-gown, as just started from his couch. His hair dishevelled—his manner wild and agitated—his whole appearance that of a man painfully excited and distressed.
Maurice.
That I should be unmann'd! That a mere dream,
The blear and frightful aspects of a vision,
Should rouse me to such terror,—shake my soul
From the strong moorings of a steadfast will,
And drive it, a mere wreck, upon the seas,
No hand upon the helm! Ah! my Clarice.

[Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
My husband—

Maurice.
I would thou had'st not seen me thus, Clarice.

Clarice.
What means this terror—wherefore did you cry?

Maurice.
Surely I did not.

Clarice.
Yes, a terrible shriek,
As one who rushes desperate on his foe!

Maurice.
No mortal foe has ever from my lips,
Sleeping or waking, forced acknowledgment,
That humbles me like this—

Clarice.
What dost thou mean?
What fear?

Maurice.
What answer shall I make to thee?—
How tell thee, my Clarice, 'twas a mere dream,
That filled me with that agonizing fear,
Whose shriek thou heard'st. Yet, such a dream, my wife,
As still pursues me with its hideous forms,
And shakes me yet with terror. That a man,
Conscious of strength and will, with conscience free,
Should, in a mere disorder of his blood,
In midnight sleep, feel all his soul unsinew'd,
And sink into the coward!

Clarice.
Thou art none!

Maurice.
Yet such a vision—and methinks I see!—
Hist,—is there nothing crawling by the hearth,
Crouching and winding, and with serpent folds,
Preparing its dread venom?

Clarice.
There is nothing, husband—
The hearth holds only the small jar of flowers.

Maurice.
The reptile ever seeks such crouching place,
And garbs his spotty hide with heedless blossoms,
That know not what they harbor. Fling it hence!
'Twas on the hearth it crouch'd. But, hear me, wife;
That dream! 'Twas of a serpent on our hearth,
Thou heedless, with thy hand upon the flowers,
Disposing them for show. Unseen and soft—
It wound about thee its insidious coil,
And, at the moment when I first beheld,
Its brazen head was lifted, its sharp fang
Was darting at thy heart! 'Twas then I shriek'd
And rush'd upon the monster thus, and smote!—
[Dashing the vase to pieces.
Heedless of every sting, I trampled it;
But, even as it writhed beneath my heel,
Methought, it lifted up a human face
That look'd like Robert Warren!

Clarice.
What a dream!

Maurice.
I cannot shake it off. Did'st hear a sound
Most like a hiss?

Clarice.
Nay, nay! 'twas but a dream!
Come—come to bed.

Maurice.
Why should I dream of him?

Clarice.
You think of him, perchance.

Maurice.
And, as a reptile!
The terrible image still before me crawls—
Oh! that I might, with but a bound and struggle,
Though still at life's worst peril, trample him!

Clarice.
Yet wherefore?

Maurice.
There are instincts of the soul,
That have a deep and true significance,
And, though no more in danger from his malice,
I feel within me that he works unsleeping,
In venomous toils against me.

Clarice.
But, in vain.
Come, Norman, come to bed. You frighten me.

Maurice.
Forgive me! There! I have thee at my lips,
I strain thee to my bosom with a joy
That leaves no rapture wanting—yet, methinks,
I hear a sound of hissing, and still see
Glimpses of folding serpents that, behind,
Crawl after us—

Clarice.
My Norman!

Maurice.
I grieve thee!
I will forget this vision in the blessing
This grasp makes real to rapture. Let us in.

[He folds his arm about her, and they leave the apartment, he still looking behind him suspiciously—she looking up to him.

SCENE V.

The edge of a wood. A cottage in the distance. Enter Robert Warren, Osborne, and Harry Matthews. The former disguised with false hair, whiskers, &c.
Matthews.
[pointing to cottage.]
Look!—you may see it now!

Warren.
There, then, he harbors?
A goodly cottage—he's a man of taste,
Not yet too old for sentiment, it seems;
Loves flowers and shade trees, and around his porches
I fancy that we see some gadding tendrils,
That wanton, with full censers, in his homage!
He should be happy there!

Matthews.
Why, so he is.

Warren.
You think so?

Matthews.
There's every thing to make him so. He's young—
Is on the road to fortune and to fame,
And has a handsome wife.

Warren.
The landscape's fair,—
Looks bright beneath the sunshine and exhales
A thousand delicate odors rich in life;
But, sometimes, there's a tempest in the night,
And where's your landscape then?

Matthews.
Be this his case,
It shall not cost me one poor hour of sleep,
For all the coil it makes. This man's our foe,—
Goes with our enemies in politics,
And will, though now he knows it not himself,
Be run, against our crack man, for the Senate.

Warren.
Who's he?

Matthews.
Ben Ferguson.

Warren.
Plain Ben?

Matthews.
Colonel Ben!
'Tis only when the man's a favorite,
We take the formal handle from his name
And sing it short for sweetness.

Warren.
Is he able?

Matthews.
We thought him so till this your Maurice came;—
Since then our favorite loses in the race.
Ben is a lawyer in first practice here
And had the field to himself since I have known him,
Till now—

Osborne.
Maurice and he have grappled then?

Matthews.
To Ferguson's defeat.

Osborne.
Before the jury?

Matthews.
Ay, every way—before the judge and jury,—
In court and out of court. At public meetings
They were in opposite ranks, and, with each issue,
Maurice hath risen still in popular favor,
While Ferguson declines. It will rejoice us,
If, as you say, you have some history
To floor this powerful foe!

Warren.
You need not doubt it.
But who are friends to Maurice, here,—the people?

Matthews.
Were it the people only, it were nothing.
They have not yet arisen to self-esteem,
And, kept full fed on vanity, are heedless,
Hugging their shadows, how they lose the substance.
Here, all their sympathies are held by others;
Men of much wealth and some ability,
Who, gladly, in this Maurice find an ally,
And join with him to use him. There's a party
Who long have lacked a leader. Norman Maurice
Brings them the head they seek. He guides their councils,
And, with such prudent skill and policy,
That still they fancy he is but their mouth-piece,
Even while he gives the breath of life to them.
I know that they will run him for the Senate.

Warren.
Can they elect him?

Matthews.
It is somewhat doubtful.
They never yet succeeded with their man,
Not having had the man to make success.
What they can do for him is not the question,
So much as what he may achieve for them.
I tell you, though not fearful for the issue,
It makes us something anxious. Now,—this secret—
If it be true, indeed, that,—

Warren.
Be you ready;—
I'll see your friends to-morrow. We'll sleep on it.
To-night, I'll fathom Maurice if I can,
And see how he enjoys his Western life.
Enough! I have him in my power! To-morrow!—

Matthews.
But what's the secret?

Warren.
It will keep till then.
Be sure, that when your game is to be play'd—
When Norman Maurice, at the height of favor,
Waits but the will to rise up Senator—
A single word shall damn him down to ruin,
And stifle every voice that shouts his name.

Osborne.
Yet, once more, Warren, ere it be too late,
Let me entreat and counsel—

Warren.
You are doting!
Go you with Matthews, and, should I be missing,
You both can tell whither my steps were bent,
And what my power upon him.

Osborne.
[aside to W.]
Why incur
This danger,—for you too must see the danger,—
To feed this foolish malice?

Warren.
[aside to O.]
Is it foolish?—
Not when the profit's yours, the pleasure mine;—
And I, if fortune mocks me not with fancies,
Shall find a pleasure in the game I play at,
That you may never dream of! Be you easy—
There's little danger! I've securities
'Gainst him in you, and in his secret fears,
Not less than in the policy I use;
Besides, my habit, does it not disguise me?

Osborne.
He has the eye of an eagle!

Warren.
Pshaw!

Osborne.
Beware!—
His genius—you yourself confess it, Warren—
Hath always, when the final issue came,
Soar'd over you triumphant!

Warren.
Oh! Good night.
We'll meet again to-morrow!
[Exit Warren.

Osborne.
He'll pay for it!
He runs on ruin!

Matthews.
Not his own, methinks!

Osborne.
His own, though now it seems not. I've an instinct
That tells me Maurice cannot be o'erthrown.
Baffled he may be;—you may torture him—
Deny him his just place and high position,
One or more seasons; but he'll rise at last,
So firmly, that the very hands that struggle
To tear him from his throne, will help to build it.
There are some men to whom the fates decree
Performance,—and this man is one of them!
What was his prospect when I knew him first?
He had no friends,—he had no fellowships,
No heedful care of parents—no tuition;—
He stood alone i' the world—unknown, unhonor'd—
Nay, something hated, as I hap to know,
For that he had some innate qualities,
Of pride, of strength, of soul and character,
That would not let him stoop! In spite of all,
He hath struggled through the strife and the obstruction;
Won friends; won homage; high position won;
And still hath grown, the more erect and noble,
At each assault upon his pride and fortune!
I feel that he must triumph!

Matthews.
You speak well,
The promise of our enemy! You differ,
Somewhat, from Robert Warren; yet, you know
This secret.

Osborne.
Ay—as Warren's; and I know,
The rise of Maurice is his overthrow!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The interior of the cottage of Norman Maurice. A table spread as if supper were just concluded. Maurice and Clarice discovered seated. Maurice balances a spoon upon the cup. Clarice watches him.
Clarice.
You muse, my husband.

Maurice,
[pushing away the cup.]
'Tis with happiness!
Know you, Clarice, that fifteen months have pass'd
Since we were married?

Clarice.
Is it possible!
I had not thought it!

Maurice.
Time is wing'd with pleasure,
When that the heart, reposing where it loves,
Finds strength for fresher love in faith secure!
The world would seem to smile on me at last!
'Till we were wedded, such had been my fortune,
I question'd still the sunshine when it came;
And, in its sudden and capricious beauty,
Still dreaded something sinister and hostile.
But now I feel secure! With you beside me,
A fair, free world before me, and employment,
Grateful at once to intellect and feeling,
Affording thought due exercise for triumph,
Methinks, I have from fate a guaranty,
That she foregoes at last her ancient grudges;
And, it may be, despising our ambition,
Thus easily satisfied with love and quiet,
Turns her sharp arrows on some nobler victim,
Whose young audacity offends her pride!
Sure, Clarice, this is happiness.

Clarice.
It is more!
Such happiness as well might task the fancy,
To wing with words of sweetest poesy.

Maurice.
Then sing for me. I'm in the mood for music;
My heart is glad; my thoughts would wander freely;
Commercing with the indistinct, but sweet.

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, nay: I'm selfish in my gladness;
You sing not; but a something more than music
Swells in the verse that gathers on your lips;—
And this reminds me of the little ballad
You promised me,—once half recited me,
And fain would have me think your heart conceived it
When first it grew to mine!

Maurice.
And I said truly!
Thoughts passing fair had floated through my fancy—
Thoughts born of warmest tastes and pure affections,
Which yet had found no name! I had strange visions
Of grace and feminine beauty, such as never
The world had shown me living. Then I met thee,
And, on the instant, did they take thy image;—
And thus I first knew how, and whom, to love!
These fancies did I body forth in verses,
As one records a vision of the midnight,
That fills his soul with marvels; and the hour,
That brought me first acquainted with thy beauties,
Taught me what name to write above my record,
Which, until then, had none.

Clarice.
Norman—was it mine?

Maurice.
Thine, only, my beloved one!

Clarice.
Now, the verses,
In thy best manner, Norman.

Maurice.
What! repeat them?—
Wouldst ruin me, Clarice, in public favor;
Sap my distinction, lose me my profession,
Draw down the vulgar laughter on my head,
And make grave senators and learned statesmen
Shake reverend brows in sorrow at my folly?

Clarice.
Nay, you mock me now?

Maurice.
Wouldst have a lawyer,—
Subtle, and stern, and disputatious, still,—
Full of retorts and strange philosophies;
Whose dreams by night are of the close encounter
With rival wits and wary adversaries,—
Whose thoughts by day are still upon indictments,
Flaws, fees, exceptions, old authorities,
And worldly arguments, and stubborn juries,—
And all the thousand small details that gather,
Like strings about the giant Gulliver,
Dragging and fettering down to lowly earth
The upsoaring mind that else might scale the heavens!—
Wouldst have him in the vagrancy of fancy,
Possess his soul with spells of poesy;
Having no fear that, lurking at his threshold,
His neighbor Jones or Jenkins, Smith or Thompson,
Some round and fat, but most suspicious client,
Bringing great fees,—his heart upon his action,—
Seeking the sourest aspect in his lawyer,—
Stands, rooted, with strange horror, as he listens
To most ridiculous rhymes, and talk of flowers,
Moonbeams, and zephyrs—all that staple sweetness,
That makes the fancies of young thoughtless bosoms;—
When most he hoped to hear of Chose in action,
Trespass, assumpsit, action on the case,
And other phrases, silly as the rhymester's,—
But that they sound in money, not in music!
No! No!—no poesy! 'Twere loss of client!

Clarice.
Nay, Norman, but you jest now! Speak the verses,
If need be, in low accents.

Maurice.
Lest Jones or Jenkins
Should turn about, possess'd with holy horror,
And seek some other lawyer! You shall have them!
They are yours, Clarice, for, truly, they embody
What still meseem'd the virtues of your nature;—
Tastes, sweet and delicate as evening glories
That tend upon the passage of the day,
And, twinn'd with gleam and shadows, through the twilight,
Betoken, as it were, the unknown beauties,
That make a happier future in the far.

Clarice.
You describe the verses!

Maurice.
It needs I should!
They take a mystic tone and character,
And ask the key-note. You will hardly like them:
Thoughtful, not lyrical, nor passionate,
They need that you should pause upon each accent,
Or they will lose their due significance!
But, next to the grave folly of such doing,
Is the grave preface that still pleads for it.
You lead me erring, Clarice, to these trifles—
You, and the exulting feeling at my heart,
That deems this happiness sure!—Ha! That knock!
[Knock at the door—he starts.
Methinks it hath a meaning! A sharp instinct
Tells me that evil at our threshold lurks.

[Whispers.
Clarice.
Evil, my husband! Let me open it!

[Goes toward the door.
Maurice,
[interposing.]
You, Clarice! You mistake me.—There's an instinct,
That, though it speaks of evil, hath no fear!—
Who's there? [Aloud.]


Voice without.
A friend!

Maurice,
[throwing open the door.]
Enter, friend!

Enter Robert Warren as before, with valise in his hand.
Warren.
Pardon me this intrusion, but I'm wearied,—
I've travell'd far,—the last seven miles afoot,
Having lost my horse by the way.

Maurice.
You're welcome, sir,
To our poor fare, and shelter of our dwelling
'Till you recover. Clarice, see to it.

[Maurice points her to the supper table. She turns and leaves the room,—Warren follows her with his eye, while that of Maurice observes him.
Warren.
I thank you, sir.

Maurice.
Meanwhile, sit down and rest.
Give me your burden. 'Twill require some minutes
To get your supper, make your chamber ready;
'Till then, forget your travel.

Warren.
You are kind!
How far, sir, are we from St. Louis, here?

Maurice.
Four miles only.

Warren.
You, perhaps, can tell me
Something of persons living in St. Louis;
I'm a collector from an Eastern city,
And have a claim upon one Harry Matthews.

Maurice.
[His brow slightly contracts.]
Harry Matthews!

Warren.
Or Henry Matthews: is he good, sir?

Maurice,
[coldly.]
It may be, sir; I know not!

Warren.
You know the man?

Maurice.
I have seen him often, sir, but know him [illeg.]

Warren.
The house I represent has had suspicions;—
A Philadelphia house.

Maurice.
Of Philadelphia!

Warren.
A famous city, sir; but you have seen it?

Maurice.
I know it well, sir.

[Catches the eye of Warren, which suddenly drops at the encounter.
Warren.
Ah! you've travell'd thither?

Maurice.
Have lived there, sir; and, now I think of it,
It may be you can answer me of persons,
Whom once I knew there;—there was Mrs. Jervas—

Warren.
A widow, sir, who lived in Walnut-street?

Maurice.
The same!—

Warren.
I've heard of her. She lost her fortune lately
By failure of the bank.

Maurice.
Indeed!

Warren.
And has left the city,
'Twas said, to seek her kindred in the West.

Maurice.
[To Clarice, who reënters.]
Hear you that, Clarice?

Clarice.
Is it possible?
It cannot be she means—

Maurice.
Perhaps. 'Tis like.

Warren.
She has a niece and nephew in the West—
'Twas so reported—who have sent for her,
They being very wealthy, she in want.

Maurice,
[with a smile.]
Indeed!

Clarice.
She has no nephew living, sir.

Warren.
[smiles.]
Ah! you know her, then?

Maurice.
She is this lady's aunt, sir;
And, it may be, this excellent Mrs. Jervas
Comes hither to her niece, who is my wife, sir.
I suppose, that, as the husband of the one,
I may be held a nephew to the other;
And loving, too, makes kindred. Well, Clarice,
You'll make the good lady welcome if she comes,
Which, now, I scarcely question.—Tell me, sir,
Of other persons in that goodly city;—
There was a mute, I knew, one Nicholas Foster,
Whom much I fancied—

Warren.
A rare machinist,
Though few conceived his talent.

Maurice,
[aside.]
Yet, you knew it!

Warren.
He's well as ever.

Maurice.
Sully, the master-painter,
A pure, good man, whose exquisite art endows
The beauty with a charm beyond her own,
Caught from his delicate fancy.

Warren.
He's still famous.

Maurice.
I would you could say fortunate as famous,
As still his art deserves.—I know not why,
But these inquiries sadden me, and yet—
There was one Richard Osborne—

Warren.
An attorney—

Maurice.
A most obscure one, though of certain merits,
Who might have been distinguish'd, having powers
To raise him into something high and worthy,
But for his evil genius—

Warren,
[quickly.]
Ah! sir! He?—

Maurice.
Were you a student—an anatomist
Of character—instead of a collector;—
But—

Warren.
Yet would I hear, sir.

Maurice.
He, sir, I mean,
Were one whom it were well to analyze,
Did one design a new philosophy,
And sought in strange anomalies to embrace
The opposite things in nature. Fancy a creature,
Having the external attributes of man,—
The capacious brow—the clear, transparent eye—
The form erect—the voice most musical—
Quick talent, ready art, and specious language,
And something winning in his natural manner,
Beguiling still the unwary to belief—
Yet, as if made in mock of heaven's own purpose,
Having, in place of heart, a nest of vipers;
Whose secret venom, mastering all his powers,
Taints ever his performance—makes his doings,
When most they favor virtue, tend to vice—
Corrupts the word he utters, makes him false,
When most the truth should be his policy,—
And keeps him ever lothely in pursuit
Of purposes most loathsome. Know you, sir,
One Robert Warren?

[Laying his hand on Warren's shoulder, and eyeing him closely.
Warren,
[shrinking and stammering.]
Me, sir—Warren? No!

Maurice,
[flinging him away and rising.]
Liar and reptile, as thou still hast been,
'Twere thousand times more hopeful to endow
The serpent with the nature of the dove,
To graft the fruit of Eden on the tree,
That, with its bitter, blights the Dead Sea shore—
Appease the tiger's thirst—the leopard's spots
Pluck from his side, and bind him with a straw—
Than change the designing devil at thy heart!

Warren.
What mean you, sir?

Clarice,
[seizing his arm.]
Oh! Norman, wherefore this?

Maurice.
What! See you not? Hath sense of happiness
So totally obscured the sense of wrong,
That memory lacks each faculty, and nature,
Losing the subtle instinct which still counsels
The innocent of his peril, stoops to wanton
With the fang'd viper in his villainous coil.
The dream! the dream! my Clarice. Get thee hence!
Leave me to deal with him. Away!

Clarice.
What's he?

Maurice.
What! do his looks not answer as the reptile's,
That speak his subtle snare and silent venom!
Doth not his coward crouching show his nature,
As now I stretch the arm of vengeance o'er him?
Must I confer a name upon the victim,
Even in the moment when I strike the blow,
Lest, in their ignorant blindness, men should fancy
This were a kinsman whom in wrath I slew!

Warren.
Beware!—this violence!

[Snatches a knife from the table.
Maurice.
Is justice only—

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Husband!

Maurice.
What! See'st not still!

Clarice.
I see! I know!—and yet—

Maurice.
And yet, and yet, and yet! is the child's wisdom!
Shall we not be secure—never find refuge!
Shall hate pursue, and vengeance turn not on him!
Must we be driven from each world of peace,
To burrow with the hill fox and the wolf,
When but a stroke is needful—

Clarice.
Oh! thou must not:
He shares our hospitality—our shelter!

Maurice,
[hurling the table over.]
He hath not touch'd the bread and sacred salt,
He shall not claim the Arab's privilege,—
He dies!—

Clarice.
For my sake, Norman, spare him!
Let him go hence; the past is over now.

Warren.
She counsels wisely, Norman. Lift no hand
Against me, for I come to you in peace.

Maurice.
In peace! In peace! And wherefore this disguise?
Thy fraudulent tale of travel—this false semblance,
False hair, false speech—unless with heart and purpose
False as of old! Didst think, that I, who knew thee,
By such damn'd treachery as thou still hast shown me,
Could be deceived by wretched arts like these?—
My blindness and my confidence so perfect,
That I should sleep and dream, while at my pillow
Thou crep'st at midnight, from the hearth that warm'd thee,
To fasten on my heart! Thou com'st, an outlaw!—
What hinders that I slay thee?—that I take thee,
Thus, by the throat, and, stifling fear and feeling,
Slaughter thee, as a bullock at the altar,
Thy blood would still profane!

Clarice,
[interposing.]
Norman! Norman!
Oh! must thy Clarice plead to thee in vain?
Spare him, if but in gratitude to heaven,
For that we prosper in his hate's despite.

Maurice.
'Tis for that very reason I should slay him!
He comes to blight our brief prosperity,
To compass all our sunshine with his cloud,
And taint our flowers with poison.

Warren.
Yet, beware!
She counsels thee with wisdom, Norman Maurice;
I am not friendless here. Did aught befall me,
Here, in thy dwelling, to my mortal hurt,
'Tis known that I came hither—'tis known farther,
That I have that to speak against thy fame,
Shall blacken it forever.

Maurice.
Ha, say'st thou that!
Well thou wouldst something more!

Warren.
Only a word—
And lest thy prudence should not check thy passion,
My providence— [showing pistol.]


Maurice.
What! thou hast weapons then!
Now, by my hopes—if it were possible,
To find thee but one moment flush with manhood!—
Look on me, villain, as I now confront thee,
But, lift thine eye to mine, and let thy aim
Be deadly as thy malice! Wretched coward—
Thus do I mock thy impotence.

[Rushes upon him and wrests the weapon from his hand.
Warren.
Spare me, Norman!

Clarice.
Husband, let him live!

Maurice.
Outlaw! that masks him with deliberate purpose—

[Takes Warren by the throat.
Warren.
Mercy, Norman!

Maurice.
That seeks by night my dwelling with a lie!—

Clarice.
Husband—dear husband!

Maurice.
That lifts his deadly weapon 'gainst my bosom—

Warren.
Thou stranglest me!

Clarice.
Have pity, Norman!

Maurice.
For thy sake, I spare him!—

Warren.
Thanks—oh, thanks!

Maurice.
Yet feel how better 'twere to crush him now,
Than suffer him—

Warren.
I swear!

Maurice.
Oh!—if thou durst
Take name of God in vain to do hell service,—
I'll slay thee with a certainty of vengeance
That leaves no limb unhurt. For well I know
Thy heart is never then less free from malice,
Than when thy lips declare thy innocence.
Hence, ere I change my purpose. I will spare thee,
And fling thee from my threshold, but to show thee
How much I still forbear.

[Hurls him out headlong.
Clarice.
Oh, how I thank thee!

Maurice.
If evil follows on this mercy, Clarice,
Thine is the fault.

Clarice.
Oh, Norman, this man's hate—

Maurice.
While we can tear the falsehood from his brow
Is nothing, but—

Clarice.
Why should he follow us?

Maurice.
Oh! for some hellish purpose. But go in;
Leave me awhile.

Clarice.
Wilt thou not close the door?

Maurice.
Let it stay wide all night.

Clarice.
You go not forth?

Maurice.
One sleeps not when the wolf is in his close,
Lest that his howl should scare his infant's sleep—
And when I doubt if ill is at my threshold,
'Twere base to sleep upon the pillow of doubt.
But, go you in, dear wife!—you must not hear
The voice in anger you have heard in love.
Leave me awhile. This thing still troubles me,
But should not trouble you. Go to your prayers,
And leave the watches of the night to me.
God still presides o'er all. I see not yet,
The evil that this evil spirit brings,
But trust that we shall lack no help of angel,
Whene'er the struggle comes.

Clarice.
Norman.

Maurice.
Dear wife!

Clarice.
Forget not that my life is in thy hands.
Oh, do not rashly purpose.

Maurice.
Never fear!

[Embrace. Ex. Clarice within.
Maurice.
What can he mean! That paper is destroy'd;—
Why should I fear his malice? Yet, so truly,
I know his equal baseness and design,
I feel that he hath purposes of mischief,
Which, if he lack'd the agencies of evil,
He ne'er had underta'en. No sleep for me,
When that the dark suspicions in my soul,
Engender still the foe. I must go forth!—
[Looks out.
Oh! God, how beautiful the calm o'er earth,—
How soft the night, that, with a veil of brightness
Wraps all the subject creatures—peace and sleep,
Sharing the dreamy blessing, as if evil,
Sped not malignant spirits through the air,
And never flower of earth had cover'd reptile!

[Goes forth.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A chamber in the dwelling of Harry Matthews, in St. Louis. Robert Warren and Richard Osborne discovered.
Osborne.
I warn'd you of the peril.

Warren.
Yet your wisdom
Had scarcely fancied that his glance could fathom
Disguise so good as mine!

Osborne.
I said his eye
Was like an eagle's. It were hard to say,
What, with his mind once roused into suspicion,
It could not penetrate.

Warren.
'Twould better please me,
If one, who should be in my service only,
Could find my foe less perfect.

Osborne.
And, to do so,
Should prove himself less true.

Warren.
Oh! your truth,
Were better shown in service than opinion!
My habit was good; and I had been secure,
But that, to sound him, I unseal'd myself;
And, like a witling, answered all his questions,
Of persons whom we once had known together.

Osborne.
Be sure, he first suspected ere he question'd.

Warren.
'Tis like enough! At all events he floor'd n[illeg.]
Disgraced me as he still hath done before
In frequent strife. The mask is thrown aside;
He knows me, here, his enemy; and now—
The open conflict!

Osborne.
What is now the game?
The open conflict he would never shrink from!
Why, when his hand was fix'd upon your throat,
Did you forbear the weapon?

Warren.
Ask me rather,
Why one is still superior to his fellow;
Why one is brave, another impotent;
Why I am feeble just where he is strong;—
And why, with will to compass his destruction,
My heart still fails me in the final effort!
Such still hath been the sequel of our issues!
He still hath master'd me with such a will,
My spirit droops before him, and I shudder,
To feel, that, with a hate so fix'd and fearful,
I lack the heart to drive the weapon home!—
But I shall do it yet!

Osborne.
And why the conflict,
Thus ever urged with fate so full of peril?
Now, while you may forbear, and pause in safety,
Forego the struggle, which hath still been hopeless;
Give him repose, and leave yourself at peace.

Warren.
Peace! with these passions!

Osborne.
They will wreck your own!
A something tells me such must be the issue,
In any strife with Maurice.

Warren.
Vain the counsel—
I cannot leave the conflict!

Osborne.
Why?

Warren.
Will not do so!
While still my hate must go unsatisfied—
My pride,—to say no more of other passions.

Osborne.
This woman—

Warren.
Not a word of her!

Osborne.
Smiles she,
That still you prosecute this doubtful struggle?

Warren.
She may, perchance, when she is duly tutor'd,
That, on my whisper, hangs her husband's honor.

Osborne.
This is your purpose, then?

Warren.
You do not like it?

Osborne.
I am your slave,—the creature of your mood,
More at your mercy far than Norman Maurice,
Since he is innocent and I am guilty;—
What matter what I like?

Warren.
Why, that's well said!—
Enough for you I must pursue my victims,
While hate conceives a hell for him, or passion
Dreams still of heaven from her! This day, when Maurice
Leaves for the city, I shall seek his dwelling.

Osborne.
Again! untaught by late experience!
You seek his wife then?

Warren.
Why, not exactly.—
Perhaps you do not know that Mrs. Jervas
Arrived last night at midnight.

Osborne.
How can she
Assist you in this mad pursuit? You tell me
That Maurice still suspects her.

Warren.
Never matter—
She is my ally;—but, here's Harry Matthews:
He comes to take me to the secret council,
Where other plans mature against our foeman.

Osborne.
You will not breathe this secret to these people?

Warren.
I will but breathe it.

Osborne.
And withhold the proof?

Warren.
As suits my purpose. It is very likely,
I shall not call on you till the last hour,
When all is ready for his overthrow!
Of this be sure, Dick Osborne: I will pamper
My several passions as I can, and stint them,
In nothing, that may gratify their rage.

Enter Harry Matthews.
Matthews.
Art ready, Warren?

Warren.
Will be in a moment!

Matthews,
[to Osborne.]
You'll go with us?

Osborne.
Excuse me.

Warren,
[aside to Osborne.]
Why not go?

Osborne,
[aside to W.]
Sufficient, as they tell us, for the day
Its evil; when I can no longer 'scape it,
I'll mix in this conspiracy;—till then,
Let me go idle.

Warren,
[aside to Osborne.]
Hark you, Richard Osborne,
No faltering when the moment comes to speak;
The rod that does not yield to me, I break!

[Ex. Matthews and Warren.
Osborne.
And no escape! I dare not run on ruin,
And face the shame with which he threatens me;
Yet, with a tyranny so terrible,
That plies me with its torture night and day,
'Twere better throw increase of weight on conscience,
And, by embrace with deeds of deadlier aspect,
At least secure escape from sway like this!
Had I the heart for it! Could I find the courage!
'Twere but a blow!—a blow! I'll ponder it.

[Ex. Osborne.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the house of Col. Ferguson. Ferguson, Blasinghame, Matthews, Warren, and other persons discovered.
Blasinghame.
The matter then resolves itself to this—
We know for certain, now, that this man, Maurice,
Will be the opposition candidate:—
Ben Ferguson is ours.

Ferguson.
And why not you?

Blasinghame.
For the best reasons. No! my private business
Needs careful nursing now. This woman, Pressley,
Is like to give me trouble.

Matthews.
Her new lawyer
Is stubborn, then?

Blasinghame.
He seems to be a man;
And we shall suffer him to prove his manhood!
I wrote him of the merits of my case,
Concluding, with a civil exhortation,
As he was young, and but a stranger here,
That he should spare his teeth, nor peril them,
On nuts too hard to crack.

Matthews.
What said he then?

Blasinghame.
Oh! with an answer bold enough, I warrant.

Matthews.
He did not know his customer, I fancy.

Blasinghame.
I think not; and to lesson him a little,
One of my lambs was sent to him this morning—
Joe Savage!

Ferguson.
Joe's a rough teacher, colonel.

Blasinghame.
As God has made him, Joe. He'll do our business
As tenderly as if it were his own.

Ferguson.
But was there not some whisper of a secret
Touching this Norman Maurice, which, if true,
Would render any messages of honor,
Impossible, to him!

Blasinghame.
I did not hear;—
Unfold your budget.

Ferguson.
Harry Matthews, there,
Speaks of a secret in his friend's possession,
That's fatal to this man!

Blasinghame.
Ha! out with it!
'Twill save a monstrous trouble in our wigwam;
For, to say truth, this man is popular,
Grows every day in strength in the assembly,
And, I confess to you, I have my fears,
Touching the game before us. Our new members
Are not what I would have them; and old Mercer,
Catesby and Brooks, gain daily influence,
Under the cunning counsel of this Maurice.
If we can crush this fellow, who has talent,
And shows more stubbornness than I can relish,
'Twere better done before we lose our headway.
This man disposed of, they can find no other
To take the field with Ferguson.

Matthews.
Speak, Warren!

Warren.
There is a secret, gentlemen; a dark one
Which, told, were fatal to this Norman Maurice!
I will not tell it now; but wait the moment,
When, over all, conspicuous most, he stands,
With triumph in his prospect, and his spirit,
Exulting in the state he deems secure!
Then will I come between his hope and triumph;
Then show the guilty secret that degrades him,
Confound him with the proofs which now are ready,
And hurl him down to ruin, the more fatal,
For that I suffer'd him to rise so high.

Blasinghame.
But why not now? The man is high enough!

Warren.
The secret's mine, sir. When I'm done with it,
I'll bury it as did the Phrygian barber,
Where every reed that whistles in the wind
Shall make it into music for his ear.
Be sure of this, I'll yield it you in season,
Ere Maurice sits a Senator in Congress!

Matthews.
Well—that's sufficient!

Blasinghame.
Yes! Let him do that!
Meanwhile, there is a way to save himself.
This Maurice has my message—

Matthews.
He'll not fight!

Blasinghame.
If he would—

Matthews.
His honor would be rescued by his death?

Warren.
Scarcely; since 'tis for me to keep the secret,
Or free it, if I please! But, let me tell you,
That Maurice will not shrink from any combat!
I know him well. He is mine enemy,
But let me do him justice. He will fight,
Though all the devils of hell stood up against him.
Look to it, sir; [to Blasing.,]
your reputation's great,
But Maurice is no common opponent;
And you will need your utmost excellence,
To conquer him when once he takes the field!

Blasinghame.
Well! that's good news! My lamb is with him now;
We'll hear from him by noon.

Ferguson.
Before we part,
'Tis understood we put our troops in motion;
The strife will be a close one! Blasinghame
Hath truly spoken of this new assembly;
It puzzles me to fathom it. This Maurice,
Is, questionless, a man of wondrous power;
And, though I much prefer that we should beat him,
In a fair wrestle, with the usual agents,
Yet this is not so certainly our prospect,
As that we should forego this fatal secret,
That makes our game secure.

Warren.
You shall have it.

Blasinghame.
We meet to-night at Baylor's.

Matthews,
[to Warren.]
You'll be with us?
It may be that your fruit will then be ripe.

Blasinghame.
Ay, come, sir, with your friend.

Warren,
[to Matthews.]
Perhaps! We'll see;—
There may be other fruits upon that tree.

[Exeunt several ways.

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.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A garden in the rear of the house of Norman Maurice. Walk through a thick shrubbery. Enter Robert Warren and Mrs. Jervas.
Warren.
So! So! You heard it all, then?

Mrs. J.
Every syllable.

Warren.
Glorious! But how did you conceal yourself?

Mrs. J.
An ante-room conducts us to the hall
Where they were secretly at conference;
Thither, when she descended from my chamber,
I softly follow'd. The convenient key-hole
Gave me the means, at once to hear and see them.

Warren.
Your foresight shames my thought! And so, this Maurice,
Denies that you shall harbor in his dwelling?
But this you must do! Your security
Lies in his household only! He might promise you
Your lodging in St. Louis,—board and clothing—
Ample provision for your state in future—
But once you free his household of your presence,
He whistles you down the wind. No obligation
Would bind him to the care of you hereafter!

Mrs. J.
What then? He's very stubborn in his spirit!

Warren.
Why, to be sure! The very thing, dear madam—
Your sickness will not suffer your removal:
Fatigue of travel, grief, anxiety,
Will have their penalties; and your prostration
Is such, that all the world would say 'twas monstrous
To drive you,—you, a stranger in the country,—
The home of the one kinswoman that's left you!
Your notion is a good one! Norman Maurice
Is not the man to urge the matter on you—
An invalid,—with feeble frame,—hot fever—
Confined to bed,—mind somewhat wandering!—
You're right! Methinks you need no counsel, madam.

Mrs. J.
I see! 'Twill do!

Warren.
'Tis excellent! So, Maurice
Accepts the Senatorial nomination,
Though still his pride revolts at working for it.
Well! He's not Senator yet. The widow's case
Will bring its perils too; and, at the finish,
I'll interpose to blight his growing glories,
And show him—Hark! a footstep—

Mrs. J.
Here she comes!

Warren.
Auspicious! Here, away; and, while you leave us, open a brief conference with her.
Meanwhile, 'tis well you put your scheme in progress;
Take to your bed, and get your nostrums ready;
Spare not your groans and sighs—a little faintness
Might well arrest you suddenly in your speech!
And—but enough. The thicket! Here, away!

[They retire behind the copse.
Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Now all my sorrows sink into the sea,
Since Norman rises to such noble height,
The first in his desert and his desire!
Methinks, till now, I doubted of his fortune,
Nor ever felt secure from sad mischance;
The gibe of envious tongues, the jeer of malice,
The snares of bitter foes, and those dark meshes,
That still the treacherous hands of Warren spread!
These do not fright me now, and, though his presence,
So apt with coming hither of my aunt,
Would seem to shadow forth some evil purpose,
Yet can I not esteem it cause of fear,
Since it were vain for such as he to struggle
Against the noble fortunes of my husband.

Warren,
[coming out behind her.]
Indeed! and yet the shaft that slew the lion,
Was but a reed beside the sedgy stream!

Clarice,
[seeing him and starting.]
Ah!

Warren.
The little scorpion issuing from the rock,
First slew the steed whose skull he 'habited.

Clarice.
Thou here again!

Warren.
If but to teach thee in philosophy!—
A pebble in the hand of shepherd slinger,
Smote, so we learn from Sacred History,
The proudest giant in Philistia's ranks.

Clarice.
And he whose presence still offends a woman,
But little dreams what champion she may call.

Warren.
I knew your champion absent ere I ventured.
Your highest pitch of voice, and greatest need,
Would never bring him timely to your succor.

Clarice.
What means this threat?

Warren.
It is no threat, Clarice;—
You will not need a champion when I'm near you.

Clarice.
And if I did, methinks, in Robert Warren
I should be loth to seek one! Why come hither,
My husband's foe, pursuing still his fortunes,
And mine, with bitter malice!

Warren.
Thee with love!

Clarice.
Who wrongs the husband, cannot love the wife!

Warren.
Clarice, 'twas in my passionate love for thee,
First grew the passionate hate I bear thy husband!
'Till thou, with fatal beauty, came between us,
He was the twin companion of my pleasures.—
My first associate in each boyish frolic,
We still together went, by hill and valley,
Beside the stream, and through th' untrodden forest,
Having no faith but in our youthful friendship,
No joy, but in the practice shared together.
'Twas thou that changed my kinsman to a rival—
'Twas thou that changed our friendship into hate;
We fell apart, suspecting both, and loathing,
When first our mutual hearts inclined to thee!

Clarice.
He did not hate thee—had no jealousy,
But still confided to thee, even his passion;
And thou—alas! audacious that thou art,
How canst thou still forget that I too know thee,
A traitor to his trust!

Warren.
Have I denied it?
I would have won thee from my dearest kinsman.
My treachery to him was truth to thee!

Clarice.
And yet 'twas fruitless! Was it not enough
That thou shouldst fail? Why now—

Warren.
Enough!
Was every passion to be wreck'd forever,
In that which had denial in thy scorn?
With love denied, was vengeance—

Clarice.
Vengeance! Ha!
Is it his life thou aim'st at now, or mine?

Warren.
Neither!

Clarice.
What then? We're separate forever,—
Our lots are cast apart,—our lives divided,—
Why, when no profit comes to thee—no pleasure,
To us, at this dark crossing of our footsteps—
Why art thou here?—Why vex us with thy presence,
To thy own deep defeat?

Warren.
In your own thoughts,
Look for the answer to this teeming question.
You know me well—enough of me to know,
Whate'er my vices or deficiencies,
I am no simpleton, but have a cunning
That scarce would keep me profitlessly working,
Still drawing fruitless waters in a sieve!
That I should press upon your husband's footsteps,
Would prove I still had hope of my revenge!
That I should seek thee in thy secret bower,
Would show me still not hopeless of thy love!

Clarice.
Oh! vain and insolent man!

Warren.
Hold, a little!
If hopeful still of you, 'tis through the prospect
Of vengeance on your husband.

Clarice.
Face him then!

Warren.
You but increase my eager thirst for vengeance,
When you remind me of the frequent struggle,
Which ended in my overthrow and shame.

Clarice.
Is't not enough, thus baffled and defeated?—
Why thus encounter still the shame and danger?

Warren.
And if my hope lay only in my fortune—
If still my triumph waited on my strength,
And, to the skill and vigor of mine arm,
I looked to win the vengeance that I covet—
I should forego the conflict, as you counsel,
And leave your world in peace, concealing mine!

Clarice.
Well, sir—you pause!

Warren.
I would have had your thought
Supply the words of mine; but, as it does not—
Know that I look to other means of vengeance;
Not through my strength, but in his feebleness—
Not in my virtue, but your husband's vices!

Clarice.
Oh! hence!

Warren.
Yet, hear me! at this very moment
Your husband seeks the pinnacle of power;
He stands conspicuous in the public eye;
The highest place awaits him in the state—
The highest in the nation! At a word,
I can o'erthrow him from his eminence,
Can make his name a by-word and a mock,
Degrade him from his rank, and, with a secret—

Clarice.
Shallow and impotent, as base and worthless!—
Hence with your secret! Me can you delude not,
Though you delude yourself. I know this secret!

Warren.
What! Your husband's forgery?

Clarice.
Your forgery?
Think not to cheat me with your foul contrivance.
You prated of his skill in penmanship—
Defied it,—placed examples in his eye—
And he, confiding—dreaming not that one,
The kinsman who had shared his home and bosom,
Could meditate a falsehood or a crime—
Wrote, at your bidding, sundry names of persons;
And, with these names, without his privity,
Your hand devised the drafts which got the money—
Your hand expended what your guilt procured,
On your own pleasures, in his grievous wrong—
And he hath paid the debt. The fatal papers,
Which might have been a means of his undoing,
Were burned before mine eyes!

Warren.
Your eyes deceived you.
I'll not deny your story of the fraud;
But, for the papers—let me whisper you—
They were not burn'd—they live for evidence—
Are now in my possession—damning proofs,
For the conviction still of Norman Maurice.

Clarice.
Oh, false as hell! These eyes beheld them burning.

Warren.
Hark, in your ear! What you beheld destroyed,
Were but the copies of originals,
The neatly written forgeries of forgeries:
The originals are mine!

Clarice.
Have mercy, heaven!
What will you do with them?

Warren.
What you determine.

Clarice.
What mean you?

Warren.
What! can you not conjecture?

Clarice.
No, as I live!

Warren.
What should I do with them?
Appease my hatred, pacify my vengeance,—
Wait till this still triumphant enemy
Puts foot upon the topmost ring of the ladder,
Then cut away the lofty props that raise him,
And let him down to scorn and infamy.
Another day would make him senator,
But that I step between, and show these papers,
And then the thousand voices in his honor,
Pursue him with their hiss!

Clarice.
Hellish malice!
Oh, if there be a human nature in thee,
Forbear this vengeance.

Warren.
If it pleases thee!

Clarice.
How, if it pleases me?

Warren.
See you not yet?
The alternative is yours to let him perish,
Or win the eminence that still he seeks.

Clarice.
Tell me!

Warren.
Be mine!

Clarice,
[recoiling.]
Thine!

Warren.
Ay! for nothing less
Than the sweet honey dew that lines thy lips,
The heaven that heaves in thy embracing bosom,
Will I forego this vengeance.

Clarice.
God have mercy!
Yet no! I'll not believe this cruel story;
Thou hast no papers! I must see—

Warren.
Thou shalt!
Meet me, Clarice, at sunset, in yon thicket.

Clarice.
I dare not. In yon thicket—

Warren.
Dare you, then,
Behold your husband perish?

Clarice.
You but mock.

Warren.
Wilt have me swear?

Clarice.
What oath would bind a wretch
So profligate in sin? I will not come!
My husband's honor still defies your arts,
And mine defies your passion.

Warren.
You have doom'd him!

Clarice.
Oh, say not so! You would not have me madden.

Warren.
I swear it! what I tell you is the truth.—
I have these papers, own this fearful power
Upon his fame and fortune, and will use it—

Clarice.
And—if I come?

[Looking vacantly.
Warren.
And yield you to my passion,
The papers, with the fatal evidence,
Shall all be yours.

Clarice,
[aside.]
Be resolute, my soul!
Heaven help me in this strait and give me courage.
[Aloud.]
Bring you the papers, Robert Warren; and—

Warren,
[eagerly.]
You'll come?

Clarice.
If I have strength and courage, I will come.

[Exit Clarice, slowly.
Warren.
Then mine's a double triumph! Fool!—these papers
Shall serve a twofold purpose: win the treasure,
And yet confound the keeper when he wakes!
[Exit Warren.

SCENE II.

The porch of the Court-house of St. Louis. Norman Maurice about to enter, accompanied by the Widow Pressley and Kate, is detained by Mercer upon the threshold.
Mercer.
A word with you, if you please.

Maurice.
Go in, madam,
And find yourself a seat until I come:
I'll follow soon.

[Widow and child enter.
Mercer.
This case will keep you late,
And we this evening hold a conference,
Touching the course of the debate to-morrow;—
Were it not better you took bed with us,
And, in the mean while, lest your wife grows anxious,
Advise her, by a billet, of your purpose?

Maurice.
Well thought of. I will do so.

[going.
Mercer.
Something farther:
Catesby here tells me—but he comes: here, Catesby.
What's this of Savage?

[Enter Catesby.
Catesby,
[to Maurice.]
You've won the Savage heart.
It seems that Blasinghame misdoubts your courage,
And, as you gave no reference on his challenge,
Inclines to violence; and has bid his lambs
Gather about him to behold the sport.

Maurice.
Ah, sport!

Catesby.
And this in utter scorn of Savage,
Who counsell'd patience till the time is over,
Fix'd by you for your answer. Blasinghame
Growls sullen, and shows Savage a cold shoulder:
'Twas he himself advised that you be watchful.

Maurice.
I thank him, and feel grateful to the Savage.
As for this Blasinghame, he'll have need to growl,
When we have done with him. But farther—Catesby—
Be you convenient, and, when court is over,
Meet us at Mercer's.

Catesby.
I shall stay the trial.

Maurice.
Good. Let us in then.

[Exeunt within.
Enter Blasinghame, Savage, and others.
Blasinghame.
That's enough, Joe Savage.

Savage.
Ay, if it answers.

Blasinghame.
Answers or not, I tell you, still enough.
Your counsel's something quite unlike yourself.

Savage.
And, for that very reason, may be wisdom.

Blasinghame.
Perhaps!—but I'm not used to sudden changes.
I will take farther counsel with myself.

Savage.
Doubtless, to find the way to wise conclusions.
I wash my hands of the business.

Blasinghame.
Pray do so!
But, see you Ferguson?

Savage.
He follows us,
Yonder, with Matthews and the stranger, Warren.

Blasinghame.
Well, if all fails to bring this Maurice down,
That fellow hath a secret.

Savage.
What is it?

Blasinghame.
Why, something that should please you,—quite pacific—
For final overthrow of this man, Maurice;
But let us in. I should be rather anxious,
Having at stake a fortune on this trial.

[Exeunt within.
Enter Ferguson with books and papers, accompanied by Warren.
Warren.
You have it all, sir. At the public meeting
You boldly challenge him with forgery,
Call on me to produce the fatal papers,
And summon Richard Osborne to confirm them.

Ferguson.
We'll crush him at a blow.

Warren.
'Till then, nothing!
The shame must be complete, beyond recovery.
Let him stretch forth his hand to gain the station,
In sight of all, then, in remediless ruin,
Hurl him down headlong.

Ferguson.
You are sure of him—
Your facts—your proofs, your persons?

Warren.
Sure as fate!

Ferguson.
You will not fail us?

Warren.
Would you have me swear?
Have I been wrong'd, and do I hate this Maurice?
Will hate forego the prospect of revenge?
Revenge reject the draught that quenches thirst,
And he who long has dream'd of hidden treasure,
Turn from the golden prize, at last his own?
Not, if the hell that feeds this passion fiercely,
Bestow the needful resolution for it!

Ferguson.
And this man, Osborne?

Warren.
He has had his lesson—
He'll answer when you call him.

Ferguson.
All then is true?

Warren.
As true as need be for a lawyer's purpose,
As for a foe's.

Ferguson.
'Tis very pitiful—
For, though I like him not, this Norman Maurice
Is still a man of wondrous qualities;—
But for this lapse from virtue he had been
Most perfect.

Warren.
It is well he is not perfect,
Or he had put humanity to the blush,
By showing, in rough contrast, to her shame,
The meaner value of the coin she carries.

Ferguson.
I do not like this business, but our need
Will not permit that we discuss its merits;—
We'll see you with the morrow.

Warren.
With the hour,
That hears your accusation!

Ferguson.
Good!

[Exit Ferguson within.
Warren.
Ay, good!
It could not well be better for our purpose.
The mine is sprung, the victim still approaches,
Unconscious, and my hand must fire the train!
But here comes Osborne. I must speak him sternly;
He cannot silence me with womanish scruples,—
He shall not!—Well, our scheme works famously.

Enter Osborne.
Osborne.
Your scheme; not mine!

Warren.
When will your wisdom, Osborne,
Conceive that scheme of mine is scheme of yours,—
Or should be? Now, then, hear our present purpose.
Ferguson brings the charge!

Osborne.
What! you have told it?

Warren.
Only to him; and he will keep it safely,
'Till comes the proper moment for explosion.
When our young senator, in public meeting,
Rises to answer to the public summons,
And take the coveted laurel to his brow,
Then will we loose our thunderbolt, whose bursting
Tears him to atoms.

Osborne.
What am I to do, then?
What wretched part must I play in this business?

Warren.
A minor one, 'tis true, but quite important.
You'll be my echo. When I give the signal,
Confirm my statement and complete our proofs.

Osborne.
Are you not under pledges to his wife,
To yield her up these proofs?

Warren.
Ay, on conditions.

Osborne.
Well!

Warren.
What of that? Another means of vengeance!
See you not that I strike him, through her virtue,
But not the less denounce him to the public.
I'll wheedle her with a promise to my arms,
Then mock the easy confidence that listen'd
To one she dared despise.

Osborne.
Oh, Warren! Warren!
Whither would you carry me—where go yourself?

Warren.
To hell, if need be, so I gain my object!—
Achieve the conquest that to me is heaven,
Comprising, as it must, in equal measure,
At once the joys of passion and of hate!
For you—remember, Osborne—no more scruples!
You are mine—soul, body, thought and feeling, mine—
And these shall ply as still my passions counsel,
Or woe betide the rebel.

Osborne.
Better slay me!

Warren.
Nay, you're not fit to die yet; nor could serve me
Hereafter, half so usefully as now.
At dusk, I keep the meeting with our beauty,
And thence with Matthews to a secret meeting.
Look for me home at midnight; and to-morrow—
Remember! no evasion. Fix'd as fatal,
My will nor brooks dissuasion nor defeat.
[Exit Warren.

Osborne.
Had I the heart to perish, 'twere less pain,
Than bend beneath this scourge and bear this chain.

[Scene closes.

SCENE III.

An apartment in the dwelling of Norman Maurice. Enter Clarice, reading a note.
Clarice.
Not with me till to-morrow! 'Tis an age!
The first night separate since we were married.
Yet better thus. How could I meet my Norman,
Having this deep concealment in my heart,
Nor shudder with a weight of shame, whose crimson
Would set my cheeks on flame! How stifle feeling,
To cling in fondness to his manly bosom,
Nor speak the terrible purpose in my heart,
That said, would stifle his! 'Tis better thus!
Enough, that when I meet him—meet him—yes!—
When his dear voice is sounding in mine ears,
Full of the conscious triumphs that await him,
I then may fling myself upon his breast,
And show the dire necessity that made me
The thing I dare not name,—and plead with him,
For each prompt sacrifice of feminine feeling;
The nerve that rose above the woman weakness,
As still the tribute to his fame and safety.
He will forgive—will bless;—and if he does not!—
Should he recoil from my embrace, and show me
The crimson proof of shame upon my garments,
And cry, “thy hands, that once were white and spotless,
Are red with guilt:”—but no—I dare not think it.
Let me not look that way. Impossible!
Shall I not, while they threaten, steel my heart,
Against this dread necessity, nor tremble,
Though on the altars of his fame and glory,
I bathe this white and innocent hand in crime!
I shudder, yet I shrink not. Give the power,
God, to this heart, against the coming hour!

SCENE IV.

Open space before the Court-house of St. Louis. Groups of Lawyers and Citizens.
1st Lawyer.
Didst hear the speech of Maurice in this case?

2d Lawyer.
'Twas terrible!

1st Lawyer.
I never heard the like!
And when he did discourse of Blasinghame,—
His first wrong to the widow—his denial
Of the poor orphan's right—his violence
To those who strove to serve her interests—
The picture that he painted was so monstrous,
That every heart grew cold.

3d Lawyer.
And Blasinghame,
Himself—didst note him?

2d Lawyer.
'Twas another picture!

1st Lawyer.
He sat a spectacle of ghastly fury,
That had moved pity, could we have forgotten
His looks at the beginning of the case.
At first, how bold he seem'd—with what defiance;
Next, with what doubt; then follow'd his dismay—
And last, his fury; while, with impotent rage,
And something, as it seem'd, of shame and horror,
In his own spite at what the other drew,
He crouch'd at last beneath the terrible scourging,
And half escaped from sight.

2d Lawyer.
I saw him clutching
The panel that he lean'd on, as for help,
While, beaded on his forehead, the big sweat
Still gather'd as it fell; and, on his lips
The stain of red that mingled with the foam,
Show'd how he had even bitten through his lips,
In his great agony, and knew it not.

1st Lawyer.
The judge has charged the jury!

2d Lawyer.
He was charging
Just when I left. I could not stand it longer—
As much exhausted at the stern excitement,
As Blasinghame himself.

1st Lawyer.
For Ferguson,
The up-hill work was pitiful. To follow,
With such a case, a speaker such as Maurice,
Was quite as killing to himself as client.
Nobody heard, or cared to hear, his pleading—
Not even the jury.

2d Lawyer.
What will be the verdict?

1st Lawyer.
Why, who can doubt? The insuppressible groan,
That broke from every breast—the gaze of fury
That blazed in every eye, when, pointing slowly,
And shaking with such dire significance,
The hand of Maurice fix'd on Blasinghame,
As still, with holy horror in his accents,
He spoke his wonder, that, with guilt so hideous,
He still could brave the gaze of man and justice!—
That groan and glance declared the popular judgment,
And such will be the verdict.

2d Lawyer.
Hark! that cry—

1st Lawyer.
Declares it.

[Shouts in the porch as the people rush out of the Court-house.]
1st Citizen.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

2d Citizen.
The widow's friend!

3d Citizen.
The people's man forever!

2d Lawyer.
There speaks the popular heart.

1st Lawyer.
A glorious voice,
That makes him senator.

2d Lawyer.
Hark! he comes forth.

Enter Maurice, with widow Pressley and Kate, followed by Mercer Brooks, Catesby, and others. Shouts.
Widow.
Ah! sir. God's blessing on you,—make us happy,
And take the half of all you've got for us!

Maurice.
Not for the world, dear madam! I'll not forfeit
The pure delight I feel in serving virtue
For its won sake! In lifting the down-trodden,
For sake of wrong'd humanity! No more.

[People shout.
1st Voice.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

2d Voice.
The widow's friend!

3d Voice.
The people's man forever!

Maurice
, [to Mercer.]
Let us get hence.
Dear madam, take my carriage,
And bear the grateful tidings to my wife;
Remain with her to-day while I am absent;—
To-night, as still it's like, I shall be absent,
Rejoice her with our triumph. She expects you!

Widow.
I have no thanks—no words,—my tongue is frozen.

Maurice.
'Tis that the thaw is wholly at your heart!
Go hence. Escort her, Mercer, to the carriage.

[Exeunt Widow, Kate, and Mercer.
Catesby,
[whispering to Maurice.]
Look to it, Maurice—here comes Blasinghame!

Enter Blasinghame with others.
Blasinghame.
Where is he! Let me see! Ha, give me way!
[Forces through the crowd, rushes upon Maurice, striking him with a stick.
Villain, my blows make answer to thy speech!

Maurice.
A blow—and I no weapon! But it needs none—
When, with such powerful passions in my heart,
I feel my sinews fortified with strength,
To drag a thousand tigers to my feet.
Thus, monster, that hast trampled on a people,
Defied their virtues—at their sufferings mock'd—
Thus, with my foot upon thy stubborn neck,
I trample—I degrade thee to the dust!

[Seizes Blasinghame by the throat, hurls him to the ground, and stands upon his neck. Shouts of the people.
1st Citizen.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

2d Citizen.
The people's friend!

3d Citizen.
The champion of the widow!

Catesby,
[interposing.]
Enough, sir. Let him rise. I'll whisper him
Where he can find us.

Maurice.
Now, within the hour!

[Catesby and Savage lift Blasinghame.
Catesby.
Colonel Blasinghame!

Blasinghame.
Where is he? Give me way!

Maurice,
[confronting him.]
Here!

Savage,
[interposing.]
Enough of this!
I see! You'll be at Mercer's. [To M.]


Maurice.
Ay, now!

Savage.
No more! Come, Blasinghame.

Blasinghame.
You, Joe!
Well, you are true, boy, and I did you wrong.
Forgive me! You will see to this. This man
Hath had his cursed foot upon my neck!
You saw it!—ha! You saw it!

Savage.
He will meet you!

Blasinghame.
Ha, Joe! Your hand. But when?

Savage.
Within the hour!

Blasinghame.
Good! See to it. Ha, ha. Methinks—

Savage.
No more!—
Away with me at once; you must not linger.

Blasinghame.
Methinks I could drink blood. I'm very thirsty.

[Exeunt Blasinghame and Savage.
Catesby.
Come, let us get in trim. Are you a shot?

Maurice.
No!

Catesby.
Ah! that's unfortunate!

Maurice.
You think so?—
Never you matter, Catesby: I will kill him!

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A chamber in the house of Col. Mercer. Norman Maurice and Catesby discovered.
Catesby.
The challenge comes from Blasinghame. This gives us
Advantages, which we should rightly use,
'Gainst one so old in practice.

Maurice.
We shall use them:—
The weapon for example. Mine's the small sword.

Catesby.
The small sword! Blasinghame expects the pistol.

Maurice.
We have the right in this and other matters;—
I waive the rest; but this we must insist on.
'Twas still my fancy, upward from my boyhood,
That, next to lance and spear, the proper weapon
For honorable combat is the sword;—
Admitting grace of movement and decision,
Allowing still discretion to the champion,—
Obeying all the changes of his temper,
And, as the enemy betrayed his purpose,
Giving him power to spare or slay at pleasure,
Or simply to draw blood and to disarm.

Catesby.
You've learn'd to use the weapon!

Maurice.
But a little!
Some confidence, at least, in eye and motion,
Grew from my youthful practice; and a passage,
With the bright rapiers flashing in the sunlight,
Was ever such a pleasure to my spirit,
That I am half content to risk the duel,
For the excitement of the keen dispute!
'Tis long since I have exercised, but nature
Hath so endow'd me, that a play acquired,
I never yet have lost. 'Tis fortunate,
That I have made provision for this practice,
And have with me two reeds of Milan steel,
In all respects so equal, that a swordsman
Would linger long to choose.—But here comes Savage!

Enter Savage.
Savage.
Save you, gentlemen.

Maurice.
Your hand, sir. We are ready:
We know your business. Here is Captain Catesby,
Who will discuss with you the needful matters.

Catesby.
Our policy demands the immediate issue,
Lest friends or officers should interpose.
Within the hour,—or, at the least, by sunset,
This meeting should be had.

Savage.
You cannot have it
Too soon for Blasinghame. You know the man!
Well! what the weapon?

Catesby.
We shall choose the small sword.

Savage.
The small sword! Why—'tis not the usual weapon.

Maurice.
As much as any other. France and Poland—
Indeed, most countries of the continent,
Where'er society allows the duel,—
Employ it—

Catesby.
And, you know, in Louisiana?—

Savage.
The pistol's the more equal.

Catesby.
Were Blasinghame,
Or Maurice, feeble, and the other strong,
That were, perhaps, an argument, but—

Maurice.
And, if the question's courage, Major Savage,
As I am told your friend is pleased to make it,
Somewhat at my expense, then, let me tell you,
Cold steel will better try the manly bosom,
Than any decent distance with the pop-gun.
If I remember, Colonel Blasinghame
Hath served in the army, worn the soldier's weapon,
And will not scruple at its use in season.

Savage.
Your words decide it:
You have the right—the small sword be it then.

Maurice,
[giving swords.]
Here are two noble weapons—better never
Play'd in the spiral and conflicting circle,
Above the head whose life was made the forfeit
In the delirious conflict. Take them with you;
Your friend can choose from them, or note the measure
Of that which I employ.

Savage.
At sunset, then.

Catesby.
The place?—

Maurice.
If you will suffer me—there is,
By Baynton's meadow, a sweet bit of copse,
East of it, through which runs an Indian trail:—
It leads us to a patch of open lawn,
Level, and smooth, and grassy—a fit place
For one to fight, or sleep on!

Savage.
Be it there, then.
And now I leave you, gentlemen: an hour
Remains for preparation ere we meet!
[Exit Savage.

Catesby.
You are the coolest person—for a person
That never was in combat. You will kill him!

Maurice.
Not if I'm cool enough! I fain would spare him,
Now, that I see him not. But when before me,
And I behold in him the insulting tyrant,
That robs the feeble and defies the strong
I feel a passionate anger in my heart,
That makes me long to trample him to dust!

Catesby.
What more, but seek the surgeon and the carriage!

Maurice.
I'm ready when you please.

Catesby.
Within the hour!
[Exit Catesby.

Maurice.
My poor Clarice! she sits beside the window,
And with a vacant spirit still looks forth,
Unthinking, yet still dreaming that I come.
What a long night to both—and that to-morrow!
Well! it will chide her tears, and soothe my sorrow.

[Scene closes.

SCENE II.

The entrance of a thick wood near the dwelling of Norman Maurice. Sunset. Robert Warren discovered.
Warren.
The sun is at its set, and yet she comes not.
Can she have faltered—what doth she suspect,—
What fear! It sinks, and hark—her footstep.
Now comes our triumph—now!

[Retires into the wood.
Enter Clarice.
Clarice.
Oh, if I err,
I that am feeble, and though feeble, loving,—
Devoted, where the sacrifice is needful,—
Willing to die for him whose dear devotion,
Hath made it my religion still to love him—
Oh, God have mercy on the hapless error,
That grows from love's necessities alone!
If in my death his triumph may be certain,
My breast is ready for the knife. I need
No prayer, no prompting to the sacrifice,
That saves him from the wreck of all his hopes,
And honor with them. Let me now not falter!
Forgive me, Heaven, in pity to the weakness
That knows not how to 'scape. If it be crime,—
The deed, which I have brooded o'er, until
My shuddering fancy almost deems it done—
By which I do avoid the loathlier crime;
Let not the guilt lie heavy on my soul,
As solemnly I do profess myself,
Most free from evil purpose, and most hating
That which meseems the dread necessity
That shadows all my fortune! God have pity,
And show the way, that still unseen before me,
Lies open for my rescue! Ha, 'tis he!

Warren,
[reënters.]
Methinks, Clarice, you come reluctantly.
Your husband's fate—the dangers that await him,
That do appear so terrible to me,
Would seem to touch you not.

Clarice.
I'll not believe it!
I tell you I must see these fatal papers—
Must feel them—spell and weigh each syllable,
Ere I believe you!

Warren.
Said I not you should?

Clarice.
Show me them. I'm here.

Warren.
Come hither, then.

Clarice.
What! in the deeper darkness of the wood?
No! Here!

Warren.
What! dost forget my recompense?
Wouldst thou the naked heaven behold our pleasures?

Clarice.
Oh, Heaven! sustain me! Let me not go mad;
That I may hear unmoved this foul assailant,
Nor show, to baffling of my hope and purpose,
The loathing that I feel!

[Aside.
Warren.
The proof is ready—
Wherefore dost thou linger?

Clarice,
[eagerly.]
Ha! then thou hast it—
Here, in thy bosom—here, in yonder wood.

Warren.
Even as thou sayest—here, within my bosom;
But 'tis in yonder wood that thou shalt see it.
Behold!

[Takes the papers from his bosom and waves her to the wood.
Clarice.
Give me to see them.

Warren.
Yes!

Clarice.
But here!

Warren.
No—there!

[Waving papers and retiring.
Clarice.
Show me! I come!

[Following.
Warren.
Yet farther. Follow me!
By yon red oak, where the dark thicket spreads,
Where silence, and her twin, security,
Brood ever, and declare for loving hearts
Their meet protection in this lonely shade.—
Thither, Clarice!

[Retires from sight, beckoning with the papers.
Clarice.
Thither, then; I follow thee!
Thou dost implore thy fate! I follow thee
Where shadow and silence both invoke with speech,
Too potent for my feeble prayer and plaint,
A shadow and a silence yet more deep!
They awfully declare a hideous worship
Where Horror sits supreme, and summons me
To make befitting sacrifice. My soul,
Be firm of purpose now. Nerves, do not falter,
When that I do demand your resolute office.
I dare not call on Heaven to help my weakness,
But from the indulgent mercy, born of Heaven,
Implore the saving grace I may not merit.

Warren,
[within.]
Clarice!

Clarice.
Ha, then, I come to thee.
Fool! thou entreat'st a Fury to thy arms,
And not a woman. Thou wouldst have my love—
Partake of my embrace—my kiss—thou shalt!
My husband—'tis for thee!

Warren,
[within.]
Clarice!

Clarice.
He calls me!
I do but answer to his summons! Ha!
Another voice is sounding in mine ears,—
And many voices! One of them is Norman's,—
He calls!—he, too, implores me to the wood!
There will he meet with Warren. If he meets him,
I know what then must happen. I must thither.
His voice again. It sinks into a murmur—
Mix'd murmurs follow of a crowd! What is it,
That rolls so dully in my brain, and makes me
Uncertain of my footstep? Oh! the horror
Of this strange weakness! Ha!

Warren,
[within the wood.]
Clarice!

Clarice.
He calls!
Thrice! Thrice! It is decreed. I come—I come!

[Exit within: a moment after a cry of agony, and then a sound as of a falling body. Reënter Clarice with papers in her hand, and garments all bloody.
Clarice.
Ha, ha, I have them! I could laugh! Ha! ha!—
But for this horrible silence. Yet, I have them!
He would have kept them from me—he. Ha, ha!
But would I suffer him when he threaten'd Norman,
My husband, with dishonor—my brave husband,
That even now is rising in the nation,
Among the great, in the high places of power,
Rank'd with the men most eminent. Dear Norman!
Ha!—ha! I'm very happy now. I have the papers,
The proof, and Norman is made Senator,
Spite of this wretched liar! He'll lie no more.
He wish'd for my embrace, and sure he had it!
Such close embrace, so sharp, so sudden, sweet,
It made him shriek and shrink with such a pleasure,
As men endure not twice.
[Groan within.
God! what is that!
A footstep! He pursues me for the papers.
[Thrusts them into her bosom.
He shall not have them. No—I have no papers.
He comes! Home—Norman—Home! Home! Home! my Norman!

[Exit wildly, looking behind her as she departs.

SCENE III.

The wood behind Baynton's meadow. Enter from opposite sides, Norman Maurice, Catesby, Surgeon; and Colonel Blasinghame Savage, Surgeon.
Savage.
Can nothing reconcile our parties, Catesby?

Catesby.
The invitation to the field is yours:
Yours still must be each overture for peace.

Savage.
What will content you, Blasinghame?

Blasinghame.
His blood!

Savage,
[to Catesby.]
I'm sorry, but you hear?

Catesby.
To business, then!
Maurice is at his post; so, place your man.

[Maurice and Blasinghame confront each other.
Maurice.
Art ready, sir?

Blasinghame.
For vengeance! You have foil'd me—
Disgraced me in the eyes of all our people,
So, look to it, for by the God that made me,
I'll write my living tortures on your heart!

Maurice.
Your blood upon your head!

[They fight. Maurice disarms him.
Blasinghame.
Curse on the weapon!

Maurice.
Curse not the weapon!—curse the hand, the heart—
The cause,—which have betrayed you;—not the weapon!
Your life is at my mercy!

Blasinghame,
[folding his arms.]
Take it, then!
I would not live dishonor'd. You may slay me,
But cannot conquer me.—My breast is open!

Maurice.
I will not slay you. I will conquer you.
Your life is mine. I give it you. Live on,
A wiser and a better man hereafter.

Blasinghame,
[tottering and turning away.]
My strength is gone from me; my heart is crush'd.
Look, Savage,—these are tears, and not of blood.
Come with me, for I falter.

[Going.
Savage,
[to Maurice.]
You're a man
Among ten thousand, Maurice. Now, forgive him.
He weeps. The strong man weeps.—I must go with him,
But know me for your friend.

[Exit Savage following Blasinghame.
Catesby.
'Twas nobly done.
When I consider Blasinghame's career,
His brutal murders, his long tyrannies,
The provocation you have had to slay him—
I marvel that you spared him. Sir, your triumph
Is now without alloy.

Maurice.
I'm glad you think so,
Yet deem the merit of forbearance small.
Had he been bolder, I had never spared him;
But could not strike him when, with folded arms,
He stood to meet the stroke. But—let's to Mercer.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The chamber of Richard Osborne. Enter to him Harry Matthews.
Matthews.
Where's Warren?

Osborne.
I've not seen him.

Matthews.
Not since when?

Osborne.
Noon yesterday.

Matthews.
Indeed. 'Twas then we parted.
He promised to meet with me last night at Baylor's.

Osborne.
And came not?

Matthews.
No. 'Twas probable his business—
For you must know his hands are full at present—
Was quite too grateful and too full of profit,
To make him leave it soon. I marvell'd not
That he should fail us then; but now, this morning,
When, by agreement, he should breakfast with us—
And here's the hour—that he should still be absent,
Seems something strange. He must be at the meeting,
Or we are done forever.

Osborne.
What's the meeting?

Matthews.
One of both parties, meant for caucussing,
Popular wholly in its character,
Whose temper will determine our Assembly
As to its choice of Senator in Congress.

Osborne.
Ay,—indeed.

Matthews.
You'll be there?

Osborne.
Yes; I promised him.

Matthews.
Who? Warren?

Osborne.
Yes.

Matthews.
I must go look for him.
We must not risk our fortunes by delay.
His voice may help to make our Senator.
[Exit Matt.

Osborne.
Would he were dumb or I! Alas! these murmurs,
How feeble—since the fetters are about me,
And but one way remains—to curse and perish.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

The open street. Ferguson and Matthews.
Ferguson.
What quest was that, I pray?

Matthews,
[smiling.]
I must not tell it—
A lady's in the secret.

Ferguson.
Keep it then.
But give yourself no farther care for Warren.
His last words, when we parted yesterday,
Implied his absence till the latest moment.
He'll be with us to-day, when we are ready.

Matthews.
'Twill do no harm at least to hurry him.

Ferguson.
Have you seen Blasinghame?

Matthews.
This morning? No.

Ferguson.
You know not he and Maurice fought at sunset?

Matthews.
Indeed! How did they fight?

Ferguson.
With swords.

Matthews.
What then?

Ferguson.
Why, Maurice had him at his mercy!

Matthews.
And spared his life?

Ferguson.
He did, but had been much more merciful
To have taken it,—for he has crush'd the other!

Matthews.
How! Blasinghame!

Ferguson.
Has wither'd in a night.

Matthews.
Good Heaven! Impossible! What! Imbecile!

Ferguson.
He stares in vacancy—his hair's grown white,—
He trembles as with palsy, and he weeps,
Even as an infant!

Matthews.
What a change is this!

Ferguson.
He's useless to us now; and Savage grows
More friendly now to Maurice than to me.

Matthews.
This Maurice wrecks us all.

Ferguson.
But, in an hour,—
Let Warren be but faithful to his pledges,
And we shall see his vessel in a tempest,
Such as no bark can weather.

Matthews.
Be it so—
My breath shall not be wanting to the blow!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The interior of the City Hall of St. Louis. A raised platform in the centre. Citizens crowding about it. Chairman presiding and seated with other distinguished men. On one hand, Ferguson and others—opposite, Norman Maurice, Mercer, Brooks, &c. Norman Maurice discovered speaking.
Maurice.
Thus have we, sir, discuss'd the several questions
Involved in this upon the Constitution—
I trust that, on this instrument, I speak
The doctrines of Missouri. I would have it
A ligament of fix'd, unchanging value,
Maintain'd by strict construction,—neither warp'd,
Nor stretch'd, nor lopt of its now fair proportions,
By the ambitious demagogue or statesman,
Who, with the baits of station in their eyes,
Still sacrifice the State! Our policy,
Should hold ours as a linkéd realm of nations
Where each one sits secure, however feeble,
And, pointing to the sacred written record,
Finds in it her Palladium. Government,
We hold to be the creature of our need,
Having no power but where necessity,
Still under guidance of the Charter, gives it.
Our taxes raised to meet our exigence,
And not for waste or favorites—our people
Left free to share the commerce of the world,
Without one needless barrier on their prows!
Our industry at liberty for venture,
Neither abridged, nor pamper'd; and no calling
Preferr'd before another, to the ruin,
Or wrong of either. These, sir, are my doctrines!
They are the only doctrines which shall keep us
From anarchy, and that worst peril yet,
That threatens to dissever, in the tempest,
That married harmony of hope with power,
Which keeps our starry Union o'er the storm,
And, in the sacred bond that links our fortunes,
Makes us defy its thunders!—Thus, in one,—
The foreign despot threatens us in vain.
Guizot and Palmerston may fret to see us
Grasping the empires which they vainly covet,
And stretching forth our trident o'er the seas,
In rivalry with Britain. They may chafe,
But cannot chain us. Balances of power,
Framed by corrupt and cunning monarchists,
Weigh none of our possessions; and the seasons
That mark our mighty progress, East and West,
Show Europe's struggling millions, fondly seeking,
The better shores and shelters that are ours.
Enough, sir—I have yielded my opinions,
Freely deliver'd, frankly argued, fairly,
With deference to the learning and the wisdom,
Shown by my opponent! The rest is yours.

Chairman.
You have heard, citizens; what farther order
Is it your pleasure, that we—

Mercer.
Sir, it needs not!—
The ample range that this debate hath taken,
The spacious grasp of argument upon it—
How well discuss'd the questions—how complete
And clear, the several reasons which concluded,—
Leave none in doubt of what should be our judgment.
Methinks there's but one matter now before us,
And this decided, stays the whole discussion,—
By showing, in our preference for the man,
What still hath been our thoughts upon his measures.
Well have the advocates on both sides spoken,
Not equally, but well! For Ferguson,
His eloquence honors his experience past,
And ancient reputation;—but, methinks,
That none who listen'd to the speech of Maurice,
But must have yielded to his clear opinions;—
Enforced by illustrations near and foreign,
Such full analysis, such profound research—
Statements so fairly made,—objections battled
So fearlessly—and arguments sustain'd
With so much equal truth and eloquence!
His views are mine—are those of this assembly!
Nay more—I boldly challenge in their favor
The voices of Missouri! What remains—
But that we speak to her assembled wisdom?
This day they choose a Senator in Congress—
Whom shall we name to them of all our people?

1st Voice.
Why, Norman Maurice!

2d Voice.
Who but Norman Maurice?

3d Voice.
The widow's friend—the champion of the people!

Brooks.
Such is the popular will!

Ferguson.
A moment, sir!
If eloquence and talent, just opinion,
Were the sole requisite, for this high station,
I should be silent here, or probably,
Join with you in the shout for Norman Maurice.
But truth and virtue claim a place with talent,
And he who serves, our Senator in Congress,
Must know no smutch of shame upon his garments.

Maurice.
Ha! shame, sir?

Ferguson.
That was the word, sir.

Maurice.
Shame of mine?

Ferguson.
Of thine!

Maurice.
Speak, sir; I listen.

Ferguson.
It is charged, sir,
That Norman Maurice, ere he sought St. Louis,
Was once a resident of Philadelphia;
That there he forged a paper on a merchant,
Well known, by which he gain'd two thousand dollars!

Maurice.
A falsehood! false as hell! As God's in heaven,
I never did this thing!

Ferguson.
The proof is here!

Maurice.
The proof! What proof?

Ferguson.
Know you one Robert Warren?
Ha! you are silent, sir—you start, you redden!—

Maurice.
With scorn and indignation, not with terror!
I do know Robert Warren; that base reptile
Whom thrice I spared the scourge. Set him before me,
And you shall see whose tremors speak the guilty,
And whose the innocent, aroused to vengeance!

Ferguson.
Have then your wish! Accuser! Robert Warren!
Stand forth and answer!

[Pause.
Maurice.
He dare not!

Ferguson.
He will!

Maurice.
Shout for your man again. Set him before me.

Ferguson.
Call at the door, there—call for Robert Warren.

Voice without.
Ho! Robert Warren, Robert Warren! Ho!

Enter Harry Matthews hastily, and in great agitation.
Matthews.
Who calls for Robert Warren? He is murder'd,—
Stabb'd with a dagger, and was found a corse,
Within the wood behind the house of Maurice.
Here is the dagger, found upon the body,
And crusted with his blood.

[Showing dagger.
Maurice.
Murder'd! Give it me!
[Seizes the dagger, looks at and drops it.
Great God! 'tis hers! [Aside.]


Matthews.
Behold the murderer!
He staggers! It is he hath done the deed!

Ferguson.
Ay, truly,—who so like to do the deed,
As one who needs to silence such a witness.

Maurice.
Thy bitter jealousy and hate delude thee,
And make thee but a liar. I convict thee,
Out of the mouths of thine own witnesses.—
When saw you Warren last? [To Matthews.]


Matthews.
Noon yesterday:
He left me then to seek your house.

Maurice.
My house!
What would he at my house?

Matthews.
I do not know.
But know that from that hour until the present,
When now we find him by your house a corse,
He has no more been seen.

Maurice.
'Tis fortunate,
That we may get the truth from fraud and cunning,
Even when it makes against them. Noon yesterday
Found me in public court-house, on a trial,
Before a thousand eyes, till four o'clock!

Ferguson.
But after that?

Maurice.
My witness here is Mercer.

Mercer.
From that hour
Till sunset, he continued at my house,
Then left with Captain Catesby, to return
With dark, and to remain with us all night,
Most part in consultation with our friends,
Who did not separate until near the dawn.

Ferguson.
Then, till this hour?

Catesby.
With me! We slept together!

Maurice.
Man of a bitter malice, art thou answer'd?

Ferguson.
Thou 'scapest the murder, not the forgery.
Warren was not the only evidence;
Where's Richard Osborne?

Osborne,
[coming forward.]
Here!

Ferguson.
All do not fail us!
Your name is Richard Osborne! You know Maurice,
And know the crime which Warren charged upon him?
He named you as his witness.

Osborne.
He did wrong, then!
I know of no offence of Norman Maurice—
Yet know him well, and all I know of him,
Hath still approved him, to my sense and judgment,
The noblest, as he is the first of men!

1. People shout.
Hurrah for that!

2. People shout.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

Ferguson.
Confusion!

Matthews.
I'm off.

[Exeunt Matthews and Ferguson.
People,
[with cries and hisses.]
Away with Ferguson[illeg.]

Mercer,
[to Maurice.]
Your triumph is complete!

Brooks.
All's well!

Maurice.
Tell me that!—
All's well!—You spoke! Did you not say, my wife?
What of her—speak!

Mercer.
You're ill! Your lips are very pale!
But courage, all your trial's over now.

Maurice.
Art sure of that? Let me but understand it!—

Mercer.
'Twould seem so!—What a foul conspiracy,
So fatally arrested. For this murder—

Maurice.
What of it?

Mercer.
'Tis very strange!

Maurice.
Very strange indeed!

Mercer.
But stranger still the audacious charge against you.
Who was this Warren?

Maurice,
[with an effort.]
Who? but here is one,
To put you in possession of the story.
He knows how dexterously a lie was founded,
Most monstrous, on the basis of a truth,
By this same Warren, to my injury.
[Osborne comes forward.
Osborne, I thank you for your ready answer,
And good opinion.

Osborne.
It was but your right.

Maurice.
What is that cry? my fears—

[Noise without.
Enter Kate, followed by Mrs. Jervas.
Kate.
Oh! Sir! Your wife!

Maurice.
My wife! Be still my heart. What of my wife?

Kate.
She's sick! Oh! very sick!

Mrs. Jervas.
She's broke blood-vessel!

Maurice,
[with a cry.]
God! thou hast sent
This Terror, like a fate into my house,
And wreck'd the hope that nestled there in peace!—
Hence, woman, from my sight!
My wife! My wife!

[Rushes out.
Mercer,
[to Catesby.]
Follow him with a surgeon.

Brooks.
What a day's history of storm and sorrow!
There is some cruel mystery in these doings,
Which we must fathom! This conspiracy,
For such it clearly shows, makes for our party;
Let's hasten to the use of it. They'll never
Hold up their heads again. The people's with us,
The assembly waits us and will crown our triumph!

SCENE VII.

A chamber in the house of Norman Maurice. Clarice reclines upon a couch. The widow Pressley stands at a little distance watching her.
Widow.
Dear lady, you will die.

Clarice.
Do not come near me!

Widow.
You bleed! You suffocate!

Clarice.
And still he comes not.
You promised me to send for him. Oh, God—
Should they behold these papers. Ha! I hear him.
Do you hear nothing?

Widow.
Nothing!

Clarice.
I hear! 'Tis he!

Maurice,
[without.]
Clarice! my wife!

Enter Norman Maurice.
Maurice.
Speak! Tell me! Where!—Clarice.

[Seeing her.
Clarice.
Oh! now you come! Heaven bless! I'm dying, Norman!

[Raises herself feebly to his arms.
Maurice.
Dying!

Clarice.
I feel it; but—

Maurice.
The surgeon! God of heaven!—

Clarice.
He cannot help me now. Too late! no succor,—
I've but the words for blessing and farewell!—
I'm sinking;—but you're safe! Safe! Oh! the rapture,
To know it, and to whisper in your ears,
With the last loving words. He would have crush'd you—
Made infamous your name, my noble husband;
But stoop,—your ear—he'll trouble us no more.
He's silent—and I have the fatal papers;—
No copies—all the originals.—Ha! Ha!—
They're here—now take me,—closer—to your heart;
I leave you—lose you—Norman. Ah! your lips,—
How cold, but sweet, my Norman—cold—sweet—Norman!

[Dies.
Maurice.
Now sink my soul!—since the bright star is gone,
That made thy life and glory from the heavens—
That stored thee with all blessings. I am crush'd!
Ha! what are these!
(lays her down gently—the papers fall from her bosom.
Oh, God! I see it all.
Oh, bloody wretch, whose nature was a lie,
This was thy work,—not hers. 'Tis plain before me.
My poor Clarice! how faithful unto death,
Shielding me at the peril of thyself,
And, in the seeming dread necessity,
Doing the deed that from its delicate props,
Shook the fair fabric of thy innocent life!
My wife! My wife!

[Sinks down.
[Noise and voices without.]
People.
Hurrah for Norman Maurice!

Enter Mercer, Brooks, and others.
Mercer.
Maurice, my friend, we triumph. You are Senator
For the next term, in Congress, from Missouri.

Maurice.
Couldst wake her with thy tidings!

Mercer.
God! This is death!

Maurice.
It lies upon her silent lips like snow.
Oh! do not speak—she hears not! why should I?
Nor sorrow, nor joy shall fill these frozen eyes,
That see not me. She would have listen'd once,
How gladly,—and found music in the triumph,
That now can bring me none. My wife! My wife!