University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An ancient Apartment, the same as in the first scene of the second Act.
Judge and Advocate.
Jud.
I have convers'd with her.

Adv.
Is she insane?

Jud.
Her mind is heated and fanatical,
Wand'ring, but not astray.

Adv.
How tend her thoughts?

Jud.
Religion, justice, and enthusiasm,
So mingle and amalgamate her fancies,
That the effect is stronger on the heart,
Than eloquence with reason will compact.

Adv.
What are her nineteen signs of evidence,
That testimony borne by heaven itself?
For Glanville still hath been a man esteem'd,
Never suspected, but in all his life,
Sustain'd with constancy a blameless name.

Jud.
But there are times, when the dire fiend of ill,
Obtains sad homage from the wisest men.

(Enter Magistrate and Glanville.)
Mag.
My Lord, the Prisoner.

Jud.
It wrings my heart
That one so just, so prosperous, so honour'd,
Should in the evening cool of a fair life;—
All business finish'd, and enjoyment found,
Be thus molested by so strange a charge.

Glan.
Alas! my Lord, such is the fate of man!
When we have gain'd the resting time of life,
And think ourselves from accident secure,—
Save in the pastime of some evening game,
Whose sober chances suit the pulse of age,—
A daughter's frailty, or a son's dishonour;
The spite of foes, or worse, ingratitude;
Breaks on our quiet, like the whirling storm
That lifts the sheltering thatch-roof from the hind,
Quenching the desolated hearth within.
And yet prosperity hath evils too:
The constant smile of fortune on the great
Destroys the sense and faculty of joy,
Like the unclouded sunshine, that consumes
The germs of verdure from the mountain's brow,
And makes it bald and barren as the stone
That wastes beneath the fetter'd convinct's tread.
They little know the wayward heart of man,
Who think enjoyment makes him loath to die.
The luscious bowl Voluptuousness prepares,
Is mingled with a fell and drowsy charm;
And Pleasure's smiling blandishments are felt
Like the caresses of a tender nurse,
That fondly lulls her weary babe to sleep.

Adv.
This accusation troubles you too much.

Jud.
You look on life, Sir, too despondingly.
There is no cause, I trust, for this dejection?

Glan.
I cannot choose, my Lord, but to be sad.
My daughter, touch'd by this afflicting chance,
Strays in her mind, and, as a blossom blighted,
A sudden withering o'er her reason spreads.

Jud.
Does she too think the accusation true?

Glan.
She has been always, from her tend'rest years,
Enchanted by the spells of mystic lore,
And goblin tales of boding apparitions;
Which in the grief of this unhallow'd day
Have rous'd her fears to dread expectancies
Of ghostly evidence and spectral proof.

Jud.
And if such awful things should be—

Glan.
My Lord

Jud.
All times have heard, and piety believes,
That there are agents in the world unseen,
Who by some sympathetic power extract
The deepest secrets of the closest breast.
The fiery visage and the burning heart
Of guilt conceal'd, are kindled by their touch;
And we have heard how strangers from afar,
Inform'd by spirits at the dead of night,
Have told the names of secret'st men of blood.
It is a fearful, strange coincidence,
That your fair daughter should so wildly dread,
In this terrific and mysterious cause,
The hideous proof of visionary forms.

Glan.
Give you, my Lord, too, credit to the thought?—
Think you that Isbel's phantasy is true?
And must I cavil with a mad conceit,
Bred in the chaos of a maniac's brain,
Like a most strange creation?

Jud.
How?

Glan.
The thought
To fix on me this ignominious charge,
Hath sprung engender'd as by miracle.

Jud.
Have you, at any time, unheeding heard
Her pray'r for alms, slighted her helplessness,
Or chided at her importunity?

Glan.
Never, never! This gentleman can witness,
That more than all the general town beside,
Has been my constant and unwearied kindness.

Mag.
Nature, my Lord, in this has gone awry,
And by a wonderful and dire perversion,
Turn'd all the wonted sweet of gratitude,
Into most bitter and injurious wrong.

Glan.
As stated as the dismal day return'd
It still has been my custom to bestow,
How ill-requited! on the poor insane
Some gift of pity and of charity.

Jud.
Why kept you the remembrance of that day?

Glan.
My Lord! I had no cause, but my compassion.

Jud.
Doubtless you knew the widow's husband well.

Glan.
I did my Lord, a man of honest worth,
But somewhat churlish in his speech, and prone
To swell to insolence in argument.

Jud.
A man like many that we all have met,
Whom one might fall in sudden quarrel with?

Glan.
He was indeed, my Lord.

Jud.
Do you remember
His figure, and the manner of his garb?

Glan.
To every point of the last suit he wore.

[The Judge motions Glanville to retire]
Jud.
Has the accuser come?

Mag.
Not yet, my Lord.

Jud.
[apart]
It is a case that doth perplex me much.
Why should he hold this faithful memory?
All others, save the miserable widow,
Have almost lost remembrance of the fact,
But he retains the image of the man
Fresh and unfaded!—

[Enter Isbel.]
Mag.
Isbel comes, my Lord.

Isb.
Justice, my Lord! I will not be seduc'd:
Tremendous and almighty Providence
Makes me in this an honor'd instrument
And dare I falter in my awful function?
Methinks I see God's bright and lidless eye
Beaming intensely on us where we stand.
Justice, my Lord, I dare but ask for Justice.

Jud.
Patience, good Isbel, moderate thy thoughts:
I do entreat thee but one word apart.
Do you, distinctly, in all points of dress,
Retain remembrance of your murder'd husband?

Isb.
Alas! my Lord, he ever stands before me.
I see him now as he went forth to walk
On that dire morning when his life was ta'en,
—His plumed cap is gayly worn askance,
His coal-black hair, in affluent descent,
Flows o'er his purple cloak.—A primer man,
With frank and ruddy honesty of face,
Treads not the carpets of the regal dome.

Jud.
His hair was black?

Isb.
Yes, like the winter's cloud
That rests upon a mountain, white with snow.

Jud.
His cap, you say, he gaily wore askance?

Isb.
With a free boldness, not in vanity.

Jud.
His cloke was purple?

Isb.
Why is it, my Lord,
That thus with trifles so impertinent,
You sting my heart to the full sense of suffering?
Ascend your seat and call me to accuse.

Jud.
'Tis well. Come, gentlemen, let's to the hall.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A room in Glanville's house.
Reginald and Ariette.
Reg.
Refrain, dear sister, from this eager suit;
A few short minutes, and all will be done.
Rest where you are, and when the trial ends,
I will a speedy messenger dispatch,
To bless you with the tidings of acquittal.

Ariet.
I will not stay,—I cannot rest behind.
I burn impatient to behold the scene;
And if I see it not, my fearful heart
Will surely flutter from its mansion here.

Reg.
Alas! dear Ariette, so wildly wan
You will but there the gazing crowd surprise.
O try your native meekness to renew,
Be in our father's virtue confident,
Nor fear of prodigy will then alarm.

Ariet.
I can but only think of what may come,
And the pent spirit in my heart dilating,
Feels clung by agony, while we stay here.
Haste, brother, haste.—Let us together go.
Why thus detain me by the wrist so firm?
O Reginald, thou false unfilial son,
Wilt thou stay here while thy dear father stands,
Upon the edge, the pinnacle of shame?
All eyes that see him, look expecting thee.
I am his daughter, and I will go there.
The laws of man may other ties divide,
But cannot part the chain of destiny,
Which links the parent and the child for ever.
I tell thee, Reginald, that I will go.
Take off thy hands. Release me. Why is this?
You think me mad, your eyes betray you do.
Injurious thought, when I can be so calm.
Nay, I will promise not to think of it.—
No witness apparitional will come,
They that expect such sights amaze themselves,
With conjurations of their own conceit.
Come, brother, come. Ah me, why do you weep?
Believ'st thou, that our father did the deed,
And that some hideous evidence will come?
O Reginald! But let me dry these tears,
Which so unseemly stand upon thy cheek?
Sweet brother, do?—Hence!—

Reg.
Stay, unhappy, stay.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Hall of Justice.
The Judge, Magistrate, Advocate, Glanville, Isbel, and Spectators.
Jud.
With calmness now set forth the accusation.

Isb.
Nineteen long years ago—and on this day,
The very birth and change-day of the moon,
A day on which as you came here to-day,
The King Justiciary open'd the assize;
That hollow man of undiscover'd crimes,
Did with an impious, destructive hand,
Make me a widow—ruin'd all my life,
Pluck'd every pleasure of the Earth away,
And left me withering, shelterless, and wild,
As the bare tree which Heaven's afflicting flash,
Has made so hideous and fantastical,
That twilight travellers, as they pass it by,
Are seiz'd with fear, and think unhallow'd things.

Jud.
What proof, what witnesses support this charge?

Isb.
Proofs sent from Heaven, and Providence itself.
Every sad morning since the deed was done
I've ta'en my seat, near where the trodden grass,
With crimson blush reveal'd the secret sin;
And annual as the dismal day came round,
That pensive man, in seeming kind concern,
Did visit me, and minister'd soft words,
With frequent gifts, my sorrow to appease.
Why is't, my Lord, that he was thus so kind,
So punctual in his pity?

Jud.
To the point.

Isb.
And ever still, as regularly true,
As the great Sun adorn'd that morning's sky,
His life was mark'd by some high-priz'd advantage,
Some valued fruitage of prosperity.
But yet, while all his house resounded joy,
Still would he from the festal throng retire,
And come in contrite charity to me.
Was it not strange that he did so, my Lord?

Jud.
Be circumstantial.

Adv.
Is this evidence!

Isb.
And still as often as his fortune florish'd,
Some new deficiency in life I found.

Adv.
Alas! my Lord, how she perverts the signs,
That Heaven itself gives of his innocence.

Jud.
She builds her accusation on the proof
Of providential circumstance, and he
Must meet the charge by similar appeal.

Adv.
It is insane conceit.

Jud.
Let her proceed.

Isb.
Yes, the just Heavens by order'd circumstance,
Since human demonstration there was none,
Have turn'd the issue of his Fortune still,
To draw all eyes to this mysterious day—
—Once on the anniversary of guilt,
That fatal day, a son was born to him,
Yet while the mother weak in anguish lay,
He left her, babe, and garr'lous gossips all,
Rememb'ring me the wretch he made forlorn.
Another time a kinsman proudly rich,
Whose haughty and unrecognizing eye,
Had never glanc'd on him or his, deceas'd,
And made him heir to treasures passing name.
Again upon that day, sequence to wealth,
Came great emblazon'd honors from the King.
—Each chance of prosp'rous fortune that he found,
Still on that day befell.

Jud.
Then, wherefore, Isbel,
Did you not sooner make this solemn charge?

Isb.
In that, my Lord, behold how Providence
Doth work its purpose to the destin'd end.
Still, though by custom, I was wont to look
With thankful expectation for his coming,
No thought of wrong, not one suspicious thought
Arose within me 'till this day of Justice.
As I was sitting at the city gate,
When he with all the honor'd of the town,
Came forth, as ancient custom did require,
To bring you, as the King's vice-gerent, in;—
This day, the only day he e'er neglected
To bring his customary gift and pity;—
I, wond'ring at his absence, as he came
And greeted you with courteous salutation,
Regarded him, I know not how, reproachful,
At which, methought, pale terror blanch'd his face:
He look'd at me, and then anon at you,
And dread and trouble thicken'd in his eye;—
Then did the proof of all that I have told;
The nineteen annual visits; each success
That crown'd his feature, and made fair his lot,
Rise, like the first creation of the light,
Surprising me with most entire conviction.

Adv.
Surely, my Lord, this is but as a dream,
The empty vapor of a brain diseas'd—
We but offend the gravity of Justice
In giving 'tendance to a tale like this.

[Enter Ariette and Reginald,] [and remain on one side]
Ariet.
All is yet well, and nothing yet hath come,
But, wherefore is this pause—Why do they wait?
Do they expect?—Ah, what do they expect?

Reg.
Hush, sister, hush, let us stand back, apart,
See, the judge rises, do not so obtrude.—

Jud.
The proof, so far, by the accuser given,
Is not sufficient.

Adv.
Proof, my Lord! what proof?
Witness or evidence, there has been none:
Therefore, I claim the prisoner's acquittal.

Jud.
But he is tried upon the ancient law,
And may not claim release, till he has pass'd
The solemn ordeal therein prescribed.

Glan.
What is it, Sir?

Adv.
Stand forth, and face the Judge.

Reg.
My dearest Ariette, in mercy rest,
Press not so eagerly, nor look so wild.

Jud.
The charge against you, Glanville, you have heard,
'Tis built on circumstances, so obscure,
That but for old traditionary wont,
I should pronounce you free to leave the bar:
But this the charter of the town forbids,
Till you have here, in open court, requir'd
High Heaven to verify the accusation,
Or scaithless, suffer you to quit the Hall.
Say, will you make this terrible appeal?

Glan.
If 'tis so ordered, I must submit.

Jud.
Kneel.

Glan.
Must I kneel?

Isb.
How pale he looks?

Glan.
What more?

Jud.
Make the demand?

Ariet.
No, father, father, no!—

Glan.
Alas, my child!

Jud.
Remove that gentle maid—
Sir, we attend: will you make the appeal?

Adv.
How full of horror is this solemn pause!

Glan.
If Heaven accuses me before this court,
Send forth its witness, or let me retire.

Adv.
No witness comes.

Jud.
Who then is that?

Ariet.
Who? Where?

Jud.
Stand back, divide, and give him room to enter.

Adv.
Who is't, my Lord, who? where? what witness? which?

Jud.
Yon black-hair'd man who wears his plumed cap
On his left temple—Give him room to come.

Adv.
I am amaz'd, my Lord, I see none such.

Jud.
Him in the purple cloak, you ruddy man.

Isb.
It is, it is my husband that appears!

Glan.
O God, O God, and doth his ghost arrive?

Reg.
My sister, O my sister.

Adv.
She is dead!
The vital cord, with dreadful expectation
Strain'd beyond suff'ring, suddenly hath snapp'd.

Glan.
—My long deep-hidden misery of heart,
Is by the heralding of Heaven proclaim'd
In this stern visitation.—O my child,
My gentle, innocent, sweet Ariette,
But thou art blest, why should I mourn for thee?
You, dearest Reginald, my blazon'd shame
Will, like the taint of an infectious pest,
From all esteem'd society exclude—
Yet wilt thou never, if preserv'd from guilt
In that exclusion, half the anguish suffer,
Which, ever torturing, gnaw'd thy father's heart:
For let polemics to the end debate,
When bliss or punishment results to man,
Though safe from human law, the guilty feel,
With the first crime the pains of Hell begin—
Pronounce the sentence, I await my doom.