Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. I. I. Norman Maurice, a Tragedy; II. Atalantis, a Tale of the Sea; III. Tales and Traditions of the South; IV. The City of the Silent: Electronic Edition.

]> Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. I. I. Norman Maurice, a Tragedy; II. Atalantis, a Tale of the Sea; III. Tales and Traditions of the South; IV. The City of the Silent: Electronic Edition. Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 Funding from the University of North Carolina Library supported the electronic publication of this title. Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc. Images scanned by Brian Dietz Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., Brian Dietz, and Sarah Ficke First edition, 2006 ca. 620K University Library, UNC-Chapel Hill University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2006.

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Poems: Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary and Contemplative, by William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In Two Volumes: Vol. I. I. Norman Maurice, a Tragedy; II. Atalantis, a Tale of the Sea; III. Tales and Traditions of the South; IV. The City of the Silent Simms' Poetical Works Vol. I William Gilmore Simms, Esq. [1], 348 p., ill. Charleston, S.C. John Russell 1853 Call number PS2845 .P6 (Rare Book Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

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POEMS DESCRIPTIVE, DRAMATIC, LEGENDARY AND CONTEMPLATIVEBYWILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. I. NORMAN MAURICE, A TRAGEDY II. ATALANTIS, A TALE OF THE SEA III. TALES AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH IV. THE CITY OF THE SILENT CHARLESTON, S. C. PUBLISHED BY JOHN RUSSELL 1853 ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, By W. GILMORE SIMMS. in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 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, Politicians of opposite party. COL. BROOKS, 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. NORMAN MAURICE. ACT I.—SCENE 1. 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 m 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 instrusion, 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 pure. 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. END OF ACT FIRST. 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 polities, 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,</