University of Virginia Library

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.